Too Much For Too Old

When I was a kid I occasionally mustered up enough money for a rock concert to attend.  Rock concerts featured musicians with loud guitars, amplifiers, drums, and vocalists. 

Not to be confused with rap, whose venue includes gaily prancing about a stage with a microphone inside their mouths, facial scowls, while reciting bad poetry, rock was very entertaining.

Many years ago, one of the themes of rock was corporate America and the hold it had on the poor.

Songs about the Vietnam War, homeless people, drugs, making love, and overthrowing everyone in a blue corporate suit, were making the rounds.  And those blue corporate suits were referred to as “da man.”

We, as a young people with vision, were expected to join together to protest anything and everything our parents held dear.

My parents worked, and worked hard, for what we had.  My Dad toiled in a hot factory in order to put food on our kitchen table and a roof over our heads.  My Mother worked outside the home, too.

To figuratively spit in their eyes because some musician suggested we do so would have been counterproductive for me, to say the least. 

Antique show

One of these popular bands spouting hate for da man was The Eagles.  They had such great insight into America accompanied by mellow lyrics set to appropriately catchy tunes.

They often talked about da man and how he had too much money, too much power, too much control, and something needed to be done.  Now.

Just as most of my generation did, they grew up, kind of.  A few years ago, these geriatrics – just as the Blues Brothers did – “got the band back together.”  They found new musicians to fill the voids left by old members who were unfortunately incarcerated or deceased.

This newly reformed bunch of has-beens felt compelled to hit the road and do a tour for all their deserving fans.

They were ready to perform their noted works about not enough money for the working man and how everyone should be able to use drugs-of-choice with impunity.

Their venue was near Manassas, Virginia, and my sainted wife felt it would be nice to see them perform live.

She is a huge Neil Diamond fan – another one of those ‘60’s musical greats.  She searched for tickets, only to discover the cheap seats were reasonably priced at a mere $195.

Approaching the arm-and-leg price of an artificial heart transplant, we both decided it was a bit much for poor people like us to pay to listen to these relics carp about da man making too much money.

We opted for a rental VHS movie, cheap wine, and a bowl of popcorn.

Maybe, just maybe, The Eagles should have saved and invested their money for their twilight years rather than gouging poor folks like me.

I’ll wager da man could’ve helped them with financial advice.

Too Convoluted

Some years ago, while traveling on business with several colleagues, our group voted to head out for some morning coffee.

Because I enjoy my coffee just like my women – hot, black, strong, and bitter – I am not very particular from whence it comes.

This overpaid entourage decided their coffee-shop-of-choice would be some little java joint called Starbucks.

At this point in the era of fashionable coffee beverages, Starbucks was competing with Peet’s, San Francisco Coffee, and Dunkin Donuts, to be the number one vendor of coffee in America.

I’m sure my group decided on Starbucks because they were selling a $1.50-cup of coffee for $4.50.  And this group was not the most frugal; they were exceptionally trendy, though.

Upon arrival, we were met with a long line extending outside their forest green doors.  Cell phones were relatively new so, the majority of potential patrons were carrying, and pretending to read – the latest novels.

While waiting to enter to give my simple order to the coffee girl, I was appropriately informed they were referred to as baristas.  Because I never made it through the “A’s” in the dictionary, I looked up the word “barista” and discovered it was a word for someone who dispenses coffee in a coffee shop.  By the way, I’m currently making my way through the “C’s”.

This is not any different than airlines calling their airplane staff “stewardesses,” rather than the appropriate “flying waitresses.”

The line inched forward permitting ample time to read the overhead menu.  This giant board offered more new words, giving me the impression I had re-entered sixth grade.

Items listed for sale were latte, espresso, ristretto, cascara, macchiato, and frappucino, all listed as legitimate drinks.  Sure.

To clarify things, I grew up in a Polish household where we ate things called gołąbki, pierogi, bigos, and pączki.  Yes. I know these are spelled correctly because I studied Polish for eight years.

And in living in this Polish home, I had a simple personal rule: ‘Never put anything in your mouth that you cannot spell.’

As an aside, I could always spell hamburgers, hot dogs, and French fries, with aplomb.  But I digress.

In any case, my position in the Starbucks line was the number three position.  The number one yuppie demanded some sort of blonde latte mascara decathlon.  Then the next person in the cue asked for a frappucino with a double shot of licenzo camellia.

As I was nearly at-bat, I carefully listened to the patron directly ahead of me.  This guy didn’t even have to think about his order of Cinnamon Dolce Latte.  I craned my neck to see what this foreign drink was, with little luck.

My colleagues were well off to the side, sipping their overly complicated concoctions, patiently waiting my return.

It was my turn when the barista looked into my bespectacled eyes and, without saying a word, asked me what I wanted.

“A cup of black coffee, please,” was what I ordered.

She shook her bleach blond hair and looked-for a clarification.

“Black coffee, please,” was that clarification.

I realized I had finally stumped this barista who would likely be demoted to coffee server status.

After a small Starbuck barista huddle, a few nods and furtive glances proved successful. 

My coffee arrived just like my women – except expensive.