Holy crap! I feel like I’m suddenly back again. And ergo I must totally blame
Ms. Joey and
Pat Contreras. Since my earlier semi-hiatus, I’ve felt like a total hack. And a big part of that was the usual Summeritis. The need to completely fuck off from the period of June through September. But after a wild boozer night of soul searching. somehow we’re finally home, tossed and have a keyboard back in front of us! So let’s type our sweet bodacious ass right the hell off!
Ok, that previous paragraph sounded way better in my head, but rant on we must, with a final beer left in the fridge and a jaundiced eye staring at the Alscacian Riesling I found at the Grocery Outlet. Nummy though it sounds, I must ferry on to post something of worth. Ok, on to ranting about something I saw tonight while getting tossed.
Bartender Challenge! This marks the first time that I have stepped foot onto the hallowed grounds of the original Java Café in over half of my lifetime. (To you young’uns, that’s pretty much from birth until your junior year) And oh how the old girl has changed! But before all of that, let’s talk about charity. The pimping part of the Bartender Challenge is that it takes local celebrities who’ll still work for free and pits them against each other to see who can make the most amount of tips. All of which go to the Creative Fresno mural fund, which gives badass painter types brushes and colored goo to make the Downtown look more prettier!
Tonight it was violin virtuoso Patrick Contreras (the scary guy on the inaugural ‘Notown Magazine cover) and la chica mas bonita Ms. Joey slinging drinks and laying down the smack for local artistic painterography. And much style and flair was applied! Mr. Contreras had a steady $5 for a personal violin solo tip tub working. However, Joey girl with the hand of granite and the friends of steel simply could not be stopped. Backed up by the
War Angels stopping in to count coup on the bar and all of her fans as co-host of the Central Valley Buzz, she charitably smashed the cat-gutter at a ratio of 3-1 for a grand totalish of around $400 towards smashing a little more beauty into our storied downtown.
Ok, back to my sweet Java. First off…the men’s room no longer smells like a rabbit hutch! I have no idea how they imported the odor, but I swear to you on whatever icon will make you believe me, it smelled like a soft mixture of rabbit food and what rabbit food becomes. Now, it smells like a room. And that disturbs me. Not quite as much as the old coffee pump alley now being MILF row, but it’s a damn near thing. To the patio!
Dear fucking god. It hasn’t changed! For all of the extra faux wall ruination of my childhood architecture, my beloved patio is nigh untouched! Short of the original furniture going the way of Bowie 45’s, is completely as I remember it, only 15 years older, plus a shoddy fountain lacking water hookups. But being a Fresnan, I simply find it refreshing that there isn’t a desiccated turd aerating itself in a rarely seen corner. Nevermind the most banal conversation by privileged Caucasian women, discussing how Fresno needs a relevant weekly paper, and what will make it fly. Not knowing that the advertising required to float a new publication anywhere near success would require “let’s make a new dam” money, because as a local socioeconomic group, we’re the most skeptical and yet the most susceptible to “buzz” of any market on the west coast. We love it like an unstained stuffed animal, then tag it up, cover it in gasoline and burn it to the ground for the insurance. And that’s why we can have Krispy Kremes no more. Or Cabo Wabo’s.
All that aside, I was sitting through the night with a semi-chubby at finally getting to sit in the back of the old Java with a properly purchased and allowable boozey beverage, and get to sit back in my delightful adultyness and knock back a few on my old kiddy cocktail stomping grounds. Where I discovered that 6 mocha java shakes, did really give you the shakes. And a bit of lactose poisoning. And that 15 year old kidneys can process gallons and gallons of coffee while you’re ditching school and hiding from your folks in the absolute LAST place on earth they ever would have looked for you. Except for that time you had to call your Mom for your spare car key, because you locked yours inside and you need to be there for 5th period for a test. Uncaring steward of the sky-cake, how I miss those days…but at the very least I can wander out into the most awesome and thankfully underutilized space in the most sacred land in this burg of hidey holes and “Walt Sent Me”’s.
-Pook
