 Delicious VHS Cake  Grape Cola Stone-Fruit Wheat Bright Sweet Caramel Cacao Cherry Grassy Flannel Lilac Toasted Bourbon Cream-Soda Lactic Floral Dish-Soap Anger Panic Rage... It would seem that everyone is adding "Tasting Notes" to each & every otherwise ordinary experience I may have today. This I dare say will only set me up for disappointment. Wine Store People seem to be retired Blockbuster Video clerks, who in truth were working at Comic Book stores in the 80's, and later graduated to Record Sales (c.1992) -- In each of these hallowed spaces, their vaunted careers issued them carte' blanche to berate clientele for not having refined enough tastes in Graphic Novels, Music, and in Film. So what was obviously going to happen at some point, was (is) that 'they' (my friend Nathan for short) now work at the local liquor store in the wine department, (As In they get to place their name like so): "Nathan's Favorite Pizza-Wine Value" 92 pts". Under which the subtext reads: "If you have only Twelve Dollars, and need something for a friend's Pizza and a Movie Party, you could do far worse than to pick this Nebbiolo". But our boy "Nathan" has far larger plans for your Movie Night... Doesn't he? Way Back when records were cool the first time around, (an era which lasted nearly half a century) we will recall this same guy, (our archetypal) "Nathan" raising his voice at a supplicant man-child for selecting "the wrong fucking" pressing of, or "the wrong blasted" issue of: Maus, X-Men, Replacements, Metallica, Husker Du, and cetera. Now I'm pretty sure "Nathan" works at my local Coffee Shop, projecting heirs like he owns the whole Fair-trade roasting cartel, and "Nathan" wants to set us up with Coffee, whilst using the same Bullshit Confusing linguistic circus he'd applied in his last four Big-Top Careers: Comics, Records, Video Cassettes, and Wine. We all know the collective "Nathan" and yet "Nathan" will never learn your name, and so... he'll call you Dude, Bro, and Dude-Man... Or just Man-man, hey! It was Nathan's Idea anyway, (wasn't it) to highlight his favorite Picks in each genre, whether it be: Amazing Spider-Man #14 (The First Green Goblin mag), or The 1957 Classic "The Throne of Blood". Back then, "Nathan" may have thought Kurosawa was a God, but We, (the lay public), may have thought 'Kurosawa' was a HiFi Stereo brand -- And Nathan a dick. Thankfully, Today The collective "Nathan" has brought us a whole new linguistic apparatus called "Tasting Notes", and thank god we have them so we know how to feel in advance of every experience. This week I discovered Nathan meddling in my Bot generated A.I. Movie Pix, e.g. "We think you may like", or Because you Watched..." whereby we would have formerly relied upon a small laminated card below the tattered stack of VHS Cassettes at the Family Video -- Herein Nathan states with a flourish of fine point sharpie, that, "Reservoir Dogs is a decent violent 1992 plagiarism of the Hong Kong Action Flick, "City On Fire", but it's entertaining and has a fun, if loathsome soundtrack, and some wry humor by Stephen Wright. If you'd bothered to ask Nathan, he'd confirm [that], "basically every Tarantino Film is blatant plagiarism." Today, (meaning actually today), I discovered that the Bot we now Call Netflix, which replaced "Nathan" professionally during the pandemic, (handing him payroll protection funds, and then and sending him packing into a career spiral), is also using succinct if wholly exaggerated single word adjectives such as: Witty | Irreverent | Dramedy | Parenthood | Danish -- Or: Ominous | Suspenseful | Thriller | Slow-Burn | Ensemble. Taking queues from 'The Sommelier Nathan' which my Netflix AI is certainly not, (nor is Nathan for than matter)... We should not let it pass without scrutiny that "Dramedy" is NOT a camel Like Mammal with a Hump to store reserve liquids, Nor is that Camel "Danish"... But you may find the need for subtitles, which is basically what this charade is promising, along with some "Slow-Burn", and some other bull shit tasting notes. I know now that IF, I pick-up a bottle of White Bordeaux I can expect, "Freshly Cut lawn-grass, Honey, Minerality, Spice and Butterscotch" -- Just before selecting a film to watch, (Deadpan, Offbeat, Thriller, Addictive, Anthology). In selecting early, let's say round 12:15pm, I may still be sipping from a Pink Bourbon Single Origin, Shade Grown, Fair-Trade, Light-Roasted, 1300m ASL, Washed, and Fermented on raised beds Columbian Pour-over, with a tasting profile as follows: Tangerine, Caramel, Blueberry, Fruity, Acidic, White peach, and Lavender. Or just plain Caramel, Bread Yeast, and Raisin, if it be over-roasted, (frowny face).  Ultimately Nathan is now hard at work again in the shadows of my A.I. lifestyle, to bring me a pre-conscious agenda and the sophomoric tools with which to converse loosely about Coffee, Wine, and Film like a total twat, at any given event. Nathan, (my personal A.I, formerly my roommate) who never washed dishes nor his clothes; Is now successful in setting me up for both failure, and disappointment. Almost suddenly, (as in, a moment) after taking a spot in queue to order a simple pastry from this profanely overpriced local take-out Bakery window, I'd realized that this was perhaps the wrong way to waste 18-22 minutes of mid-morning. Masked Gen-ZZZ's sleep-walked forwards, strolling prams, and ill-behaved pandemic puppies, tethered by Burberry leads, muzzled mouths recited news feeds. Our cherished post modern posers posted profanely about their dinner and drinks the evening prior. Personal shopping A.I.'s plague their giant iPhone margins with banners waving suggestions for scandalously banal precious things they'd "for sure need to be buying" today... Murmured masked dialog seemed inescapably blasé, if churchlike. Amateur parents inched the line forward with infantile conversations, about the re-release of some new retro trainers, from a resuscitated brand. Conceit, & consumerism have replaced our ability to choose, and we are lost without banner ads, & the fucking tasting notes. In our digital temple God will deliver us the curated post which tells us how to behave. followers pass the basket whilst buying all the same shit as that other fuck-wit beside you. Yelp is your north star. Unmoored and inauthentic. It's not that I'd have made better use of this time, per se', nor made a better breakfast -- But I did know what the fuck I wanted to order in advance of arriving at the head of the line. Today, It would seem that every other person, had no fucking clue, and so the line's pace was how I'd imagine early Scuba Divers walked along the bottom of the sea, in Metal and Tarred Cotton apparatus. So, I kept my money out in my hand, in the chance the next person may say, "Go ahead, we haven't decided yet" . A smarter me, the one I was now cursing to in my inner dialog, may have at least spared himself the embarrassment of spending (was it) Sixteen dollars, and twice as many minutes, lined up for a slice of quiche. Blissful baby steps like a Tiny Tim Conway moving forward beside people I cannot stand. Yes, I'd just spent that much on a slice of quiche...? It's Eggs right? Quiche IS EGGS after-all, right? Right.   So the day didn't begin here, but it seems like this day could now stray from comfortably numb -- to wondering what else may piss me off. It wasn't the money thing -- Nor the smug fucking glances through throw-back dorky RayBans. I'd endured far worse, but today it felt raw... like I was being led into a gas chamber where my final moments would be endured beside adult children, who were themselves still nursing pacifiers, but somehow drove Range Rovers the three blocks to disembark with strollers, blankets, leash the dog, and then stand in line for hipster abuse, before reversing the process back home to have a nosh. Today felt like Tailgating sober, waiting for Morrissey to show up, only to find he never boarded his plane at Heathrow. Just before the Gas valves would be opened, I'd have to watch politely while people in full view of all these delicious offerings, "decided" like chess-masters whether to have the Bialy, or the Fucking Brioche. (because they couldn't make this check-mate move until the cashier actually greeted them). Alas we peel away another adult child from the line as prickly venom from a smug-fuck cashier flips the iPad back from it's default opportunity to add 28% to an already scandalous tab. Tasting Notes... Perhaps this line would move if they'd only had some tasting notes to tell them what emotions were packed into their sticky-buns. Tongs, waxed paper, and a bag... Exotic Tools which required very little of this staff member's post-baccalaureate, in "Communications". Yet, adoring fans lavish praise, voting "Yes", "Smiley-Face" and "Thumbs-UP" adding gobs of gratuity with their chip cards, Instagramming that shit, while biting into the other CCP mind-suck tik tok charade. Todays Tasting Notes... (sigh) Somehow this line felt engineered by the same "Childish Consultant" who brought us the toothpaste aisle where every last tube is locked behind a Lexan vault, beside a "press for help" button that simply chimes an alarm sound until pissed-off yawning staff come to douse the fucking racket just before blowing their brains out. ...And please don't get me started with Deodorant.  In My Dystopian Bakery Line wearing Chanel's Authentic Bagel Bag What if you'd just wanted a bagel, or a slice of Quiche?, Is it mandatory to suffer so? Then, there is the cost for this ride; Roughly Twenty-Four Bucks for a bagel and such. No foamy hot beverage, just a biscuit in a fucking brown bag. I wonder if the Bagel, and the Bag have their own clever tasting notes, or if the Bagel may actually use the tasting note: "Brown-Bag" as an adjective. Money is pretend anyway, so why not pay the employees directly for this food and the tasting notes they bring?.., this way the company doesn't have to pay them. My inner dialog with the rational me, recites the job interview: "...Um-like, the tips are pooled, and everybody gets some, Also you get to eat anything that falls, or is broken", "And you get free coffee, and this cool selvage blue apron ...here" -- "Oh, But.., um like, we don't actually pay wages or anything, and so, here is a 1099." What I'd realized in that line was that whether it be Larry, or Nathan who'd be judging me today at the check-out line, chiding me for not quite getting the most out of what was on offer, It was perhaps their moral duty to assist by being a bit less judgmental, and a bit more authentic. I'm not saying that Tasting Notes should (necessarily) be ascribed to each and every pastry, (Leeky | Cheesy | Flavorful | Fucking Good) but, perhaps if "we" were to exchange the tasting note-card for an authentic interaction, I'd like that. Today I pull away from a sneering purse-lipped flaming gender-ambivalent person, whom we'd all knew as Larry. Now perhaps pejoratively "Lipstick Larry" or more fondly "Lonna"... But 'they' (Larry) are nevertheless not flattered by crimson lips and purple eyeshadow. It's really still just Larry, so we all go along with the transformation each morning. And so, I am straddling my bike, awaiting my brown-bag flavored breakfast. Combined in said sack, is a smashed quiche, and basic bagel for ~$24 dollars with tax. It was now 8:04 AM, and the day was well underway. I'd soon need coffee to come to grips with my reality. This morning's routine flatland half-century took me barely two and a quarter hours, to earn the bonus bagel. Head now cleared by a few hundred thousand breaths, unrelenting runny nose, chapped lips, freezing toes..., and a long humiliating line devoid of tasting notes, I'd head home to grind the beans & make my own fucking coffee. (as if people still did that). In my fridge were of course some fresh eggs, butter, ham, cheese, shallot, garlic, assorted micro-greens, and even crème-fraiche, but the fridge seemed to lack the motivation to make it's own fucking quiche, so I'd have to warm the oven for this brown-bag breakfast, and it's accompaniment, the bagel. But why the bagel? Did I even want one? I'd burnt about a billion calories, and grabbed that on Impulse -- like one may grab the Inquirer, chap-stick, condoms. Perhaps never to read nor enjoy. Comfort often arrives through trivial shit, so I'd had it with lines and bought the bagel too. But bagels are all beige and empty, and acting as metaphor for my morning. Bagels are the Dockers of the breakfast world. Maybe there is a balance between the beige inauthenticity of this line I'd escaped from, and the eccentricity of Nathan, or Larry for that matter. They were all just lined up there were they not?. But in spite of the saturation of my own saltiness, Nathan and Even Larry were somewhat authentic, because they had their own opinions. And there is noting beige about glittery teal eyeshadow. Nobody really pushes the bagel, right? -- And perhaps they are the last to sell out because of their beige nature. Nobody publishes the price for these. (nor anything for that matter) Quick maths, prove the bagel to have cost roughly two-seventy-five. As I recall, the slice of quiche was delicious, The Bagel, completely inauthentic -- but the Beige-Bagel, while disingenuous was as close as I'd come that day to pulling on a pair of dockers, and using those condoms with a long lost "MPLS Friend". Dare I say that the Bagel may just as well have tasted like 'Nathan'.  Alas the Quiche sans Tasting Notes.
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