CoffeeHouseBlog

Here’s a reason for a new post: Just discovered Starbucks paper cups with burn when put into a microwave. Check it out - burn marks at bottom of cup inside the bottom rim and on the outside. Photos to come. Have you seen this happen?

Blog Entry #2, Continued (Part 1 is here)(Part 2 is here)(Part 3 is here)
Starbucks, 12824 Ventura Blvd., Studio City, CA 91604
10:41 pm

As the white woman rifles through the Times, I skip town - over to the counter for a soy chai latte.

When I sit back down and begin trying to reconstruct the evening so far, my ears detect a language with an interesting accent. Two young men - one sitting in the other Comfy Chair - are discussing something. It’s a serious discussion or something of substance. I can’t understand what’s being said, but you know the measured and complete sentence construction and response as more than talking about girls or cars or sports. Hmmm. Not necessarily. Two guys can have a very weighty conversation about, say, the NFL draft or whether Brett Favre is being reasonable in insisting on making Randy Moss his new appendage down field. Something like that.

I listen for the name Favre, or Fantasy Hoops or Robinson or Ripken, but hear nothing of the news of sports. What I do hear is a heavy accent of the Middle East. I’ve already admitted a shortcoming in the brain cells that distinguish origins of accent, so I can only attribute this language to Hebrew. Those throat-clearing consonants spoken as vowels are what clued me in. Okay, so that’s it - a couple of earnest young Jewish men.

I glance at the two once more for my own confirmation and the man in the Comfy Chair notices me looking and listening.

“You’re probably noticing our accent?” he says to me. Caught! off guard by his perceptivity and his willingness to approach.

“Yes, is it Hebrew?” I ask, believing I already know.
“No, it is Aramaic - it is the original language of the indigenous Aramaic-speaking descendants of the ancient Assyrian people,” he informs. “I am Assyrian.”

His American English is almost perfect, but there’s still a hint of vocal maneuvering from converting the Aramaic to English. As I have read about Assyria in the Bible, I am vaguely familiar with the designation and so I nod. The young man begins to explain, in a practiced and compelling way, the history of the Assyrian language and the people and history of Assyria as the birthplace of Christianity as a religion.

“There are only about 1 million Assyrians left.” He introduces his friend, Michael, as Assyrian, also, and they both explain to me about how the entire country of Assyria converted ‘voluntarily ‘ to Christianity after Christ’s death and resurrection and then over time was almost wiped out by Muslim invaders in a series of massacres and atrocities, the last major genocide being in the early 1900’s.

It‘s a very interesting conversation to me and we continue for a while. But I was not getting any writing done at the time. These two young men were very knowledgeable, friendly, and articulate, so it was very stimulating to talk to them. I found out that Jozef, the more talkative of the two, has been in local community service and politics. I can imagine that he will go far in the political service of his choosing.

“I hate the Bible!”

Well, if that’s not a show-stopper, I don’t know what is! The white woman has had enough of being ignored and of having to listen to talk of Christianity, its history, and of faith.

I’m determined to be a spectator at this point - I keep my mouth shut. But Jozef jumps right in, non-confrontational, and engages that woman with discourse that had her asking questions and calming down again, legs up and folded underneath her and turned fully toward Jozef in the other Comfy Chair. She hasn’t read the Bible. But she hates it. Jozef listened patiently and then artfully led her into a discussion that lasted nearly fifteen minutes.

I wouldn’t have given her and me two minutes. While they talked, I listened to Michael’s testimony of trouble resolving in his returning to his ancestral faith in a very strong and convincing way. I liked him, too. Very sincere.

Okay, it was getting late and Gilbert the Barista came over to us to let us know we had to vacate. By this time I had unplugged, shut down, and packed up my laptop so I was ready to leave. Jozef gave me his card. Two cards on the night. Pretty good.

What an evening! From the girls and boys, to Gilbert, to the women, to the men, I had taken quite a journey - equipped with coffee and chai purveyed by Starbucks. It had driven my mind around the track a few laps, through hairpin turns of opinion and perception until I came to the finish - a ride worthy (at least to me) of a four-parter.

You may have surmised that there’s no way I could write all of this there at the coffeehouse. True. In fact, usually I will write the gist - and the bulk - of the story at the coffeehouse and then finish it up at home. As they say, most of writing’s in the editing and so mine is, too. Even at that, I continually find typos and overlooked wrong words - a product of a little dyslexia, I admit.

But finishing this at home provides me with a proper ending to this night.

It turns out my block was still without power and was completely darkened. Only 100 feet away across the street were homes and apartments with Jay Leno on, late-night popcorn popping, and couples dancing in the dark anyway, the only light coming from the glowing lights of electronics.

I pull into the night-quiet of the parking carports and shut off my lights, then my engine. As I step out into the open air on my way to my apartment door, I look up. The moon is a sliver way off to the west, following the earlier sun and there are stars. Stars! A rare thing to experience as a resident of the Los Angeles electric grid.

There is a warm breeze and it rustles through the palm fronds that tower above the complex, leaning toward the ocean over the Hollywood hills. It’s all I can hear. No hum and rumble of air conditioning; no televisions; no cars - either everyone’s staying home or staying away elsewhere.

I whisper, “Thank you, God” as I stand there on the open asphalt, looking up and around, that relative silence carrying me across the peppered sky with the brush of breeze across my face. It washes me, clears my mind and I stand there a long time.

Being powerless can be a beautiful thing.

I AM the CoffeeHouse Blogger. Hear me type!

ABOUT THIS COFFEE SHOP:
Okay, this coffeehouse gets two thumbs up if, for nothing else, the TWO sets of Comfy Chairs. Not only does this soothe me to see, but it also indicates this Starbucks’ willingness to accommodate people who might sit, sip, and savor for a while.

For a Starbucks, this is a long, skinny coffeehouse layout, with parking out back. There were meters on the boulevard, too, and open spots were plentiful. You could even take a chance and park at the supermarket. It’s located on a busy stretch of Ventura Boulevard that is on a curve, next to a big Petco, and with a supermarket across the way. Not a hub of pedestrian traffic at all. That makes it a determined destination for most who go there, in my opinion, which can be a good thing.

The coffee was standard, but fresh, and I’m sure it was because of Gilbert’s attentiveness. When you ask for Gilbert, don’t mention what he told me, even though he made it public. But do ask him to tell you a joke and we’ll be able to assess his progress from that.

It’s an eclectic crowd, as you can tell, with many internationals that turned out to be friendly and normal. Even the DC was really okay.

Go to this Starbucks if you want to be off the beaten path while still being on the beaten path.

Starbucks, 12824 Ventura Blvd., Studio City, CA 91604

Dear Members of the Armed Services,

We share your frustration with the MSM’s portrayal of both the fight and the fighters for our freedom there in the Middle East - Iraq and Afghanistan. If we could only organize concentrated, consolidated marches or other visible signs of support for you, I would be there.

I try to read as many books as I can like No True Glory and read as many articles (Michael Yon) as I have time to be up-to-speed with what you are going through over there. I tell you, if I were younger, I would join you! Thank God for Michelle Malkin and so many others who are champions for you back here at home.

As it is, I pray with my church and on my own for your safety and commend you to our loving Father as often as I can. When I was in the airport a couple of years ago, I had the waitress bring the check over to me for me to pay for a group of about 7 soldiers on their way over there. It’s nothing, though. I wish so much to do more, and I will as I’m able.

And I will defend your valor, honor, and courage to anyone who speaks a word against you and what you are doing for us.

God Bless you and your family in the highest way,

Love,

the Coffeehouse Blogger

Stolen from Michelle Malkin’s website:

Milblogger project: Send an e-mail of support

Blog Entry #2, Continued (Part 1 is here)(Part 2 is here)
Starbucks, 12824 Ventura Blvd., Studio City, CA 91604
10:00 pm

As I’m writing down my faulty thoughts and recollections of my conversation with Ava, surrounded by power outages all over “the Valley“ here, the rabid white woman leans toward me and addresses me.

Oh. No.

But, in the time that the rabid white woman has been left with herself after Ava got up from the Comfy Chair next to her, the rabid woman’s attention has wandered into her mind’s kitchen, poured herself another cup, and has now calmed down a bit. So she turns to me and asks me if I would like a magazine on art auctions that she is not going to read. It’s got nice pictures of art and stuff, she explains, flipping through the pages to show me. That’s a nice gesture. I’m grateful that she is not full-time rabid.

Thanks, but no, I say to her and so she continues after she pauses to judge my answer.

“I’m an actress,” she says. “I’m emotional, okay? I need my emotions. My emotions are required as part of my business, to be emotional, you know?” I am able to track that she’s referring to/explaining her interaction with the black woman.

I think I will not encourage her in a discussion of whether being run by your emotions is necessary or even advisable out in the real world. Even though she is coherent and conversational, and I could easily engage her in the particulars of the use of emotions and ’sense memory” as utilized in the Strasberg’s Method acting technique, I refrain.

When I first arrived in Los Angeles from the deep Midwest, in the first three months, in this order, I got signed with a talent manager as an actor; got put into one of Hollywood’s top acting schools; landed a featured role in an independent feature film; and got a call from Danny DeVito himself. Bet you’d like to know more about this, but you’ll have to wait for that blog entry…

Gilbert the barista comes over to check on me and see if I got plugged in okay and asks if I want a refill. I don’t and he says that it’s been unusually busy tonight because of the power outages.

The woman then apologizes to Gilbert about not giving up her seat to me earlier, when Gilbert actually took me over to the Comfy Chairs and asked the white woman if she would mind giving up her seat so I could have access to the power outlet. I wouldn’t have any part of that, as nice as it was for Gilbert to ask for me, and besides, the white woman hedged at that. She now apologizes to Gilbert that she was deeply involved in her conversation with the black woman. She understands now, what Gilbert’s request for the chair was about.

After Gilbert goes back behind the counter, the rabid woman who is not rabid anymore continues to talk to me and makes a joke. It’s actually funny and I laugh and she is surprised at herself, saying that she’s not very often funny or witty. I can believe that. I choose to compliment her on her being witty, though.

“But the people at this Starbucks are very funny,” she says.
“You mean the people who come in here?” I ask.
“No, the staff here”.
“Gilbert?” I ask. “Is he funny?”
“No, not Gilbert”.
“Not Gilbert?” I ask.
“No, the others.”

Now, this is interesting because earlier I had gone up to the counter to ask Gilbert a question - I didn’t have any idea of what I was going to ask him, though. I had to make something up because I wanted to have something interesting for the About This Coffeehouse section of the post. So on the spot when Gilbert came to me, I asked him what was something that no one knew about him that he thought people would want to know, that he would want others to know. It kind of puts a person on the spot, but I’m not one much for small talk. How would you react to someone asking you something like that?

Here’s how Gilbert reacted, though:

“Wow,” he said, reflecting on the question. “No one’s ever asked me anything like that.”
“Really?” I ask.
Gilbert is a little stunned by the question.
“Is it alright that I ask that of you?”
He thinks again, then says yes, sure. So I repeat the question.
He says, “Well, a while back I was really depressed. No one knows that about me.”
“You mean you were clinically depressed?”
“Yeah.”
“Why would you want others to know that about you?” I ask.
“Because I got over it.”

God bless him. Gilbert wants to let people know that you can get over depression. He wants people know that he got over depression. What a genuine person.

Then I ask, “How did you get over it?”
“I went through lots of good counseling, was put on some antidepressants, and just took some time.”
“Are you still on the drugs?”
“Oh, no. I’m all done with that.”
“And you’re okay now?”
“Yeah, I’m doing really well.”

I really get it that he’s doing well and I tell him how impressed I am with him and his answering that question. He says to me that he really appreciates me asking. He’s really kind of stunned that someone - a stranger, even - would ask him something like that and asks why I would ask him that. I tell him the truth; that I don’t know why; I was just moved to ask him that question. I felt somehow he needed to be asked that. Is that the Holy Spirit working through us? I believe so. I believe I’ve experienced Him working this way at other times. Is this a common thing? What’s your experience with this?

NOTE: Someday someone’s going to actually offer an answer to the questions I ask in these posts. I look forward to that. END NOTE.

Gilbert smiles broadly. That he’s come through something like that shows in his kindness and friendliness. Maybe it’s still too soon for him to be funny, though. I could understand that.

The white woman looks through a newspaper. I’m hoping there’s nothing in there that will set her off so I can get some writing done, but since it’s the Los Angeles Times, I’m not hopeful.

I AM the CoffeeHouse Blogger. Hear me type!

Continued in Part 4:
Coffeehouse discussions in the ancient Assyrian language; Being powerless can be a beautiful thing.

About This CoffeeHouse at the end of Part 4

Blog Entry #2, Continued (Part 1 is here)

Starbucks, 12824 Ventura Blvd., Studio City, CA 91604

9:12 pm

Giggly girls speaking in tongues and I can no longer write coherently.

So I move to a different table up near the two – count ‘em, TWO sets of overstuffed chairs that give me comfort just to see. I don’t usually sit in them anymore; I just like to see them there. Because they are comfy, I am comforted – something like that.

A white woman and a black woman are sitting in one set of the comfy chairs discussing Don Imus. If I were a reporter or a journalist, this might look like a newsworthy trinket wrapped up and bow-tied. But instead, I look at my own usage of the terms “white” and “black” and I’m irritated I have to use those terms at all.

What could be more perpetually polarizing than using opposite terms of color to describe ourselves – or more pointedly, to describe others? I’m not white, and my friend Johnny is not black. While he a very dark-skinned person, he is not black. If he were black, that would be a very curious thing. Even someone designated as an “albino” is not white, in any literal or even empirical sense. I want to use what a young boy named Brendan taught me to use if designation of racial, ethnic, or cultural distinction is necessary – “light-skinned” or “dark-skinned”. Or usually I prefer the designation of Caucasian (for myself), Asian, or … Here’s another problem, though: are African Americans really such if they are not directly from Africa? It seems not, in a literal sense, and yet I realize we cannot go back to the 19th century term Negroid, and Caucasoid. The Oxford Dictionary cautions against using those designations, so that’s out. If “African American” is a valid term, then I would be a European American, but we don’t use that designation, do we? The dark-skinned people with ancestral origins in Africa that I know prefer the term “black,” so I’m afraid we may be stuck with these very inadequate and divisive terms. Please, within these considerations, what do we do about this?

Now, here’s something – the white woman is rabid about the Don Imus thing. She has apparently accosted the black woman, a stranger, by claiming that, “You’re African American, so let me ask you…” Her voice rises, and I notice Gilbert the barista keeping an eye on her. The white woman is cussing up a storm, F—- this and S— to that. She wears black-rimmed glasses and carries with her a stack of magazines and writings and looks as though she’s used to claiming space here at this Starbucks. Could she be the DC here? I try not to make eye contact with her for fear of her latching onto me in one-sided conversation like many DC’s seem to do, but my fascination with the black woman and her reaction to the rabid woman keeps my eyes climbing over my laptop screen.

NOTE: Later the black woman explains to me that she told the white woman that she was NOT African American and that she is Black, and doesn’t allow others to call her African American when she is not. END NOTE.

Here’s, essentially, what the black woman says to the white woman’s rage against Imus and those she lumps with him – she says, “I have life to live, I’ve got work to do. I don’t have time to spend on insignificant stuff like that.” I’m pleasantly floored. She notices my eyes pop and smiles at me, and I smile back. I like her.

As I’m writing all this up, their discussion goes back and forth between the rabid woman’s incredulity with the black woman not agreeing with her. But the black woman is unfazed; is actually enjoying the debate, I think, and I like her even more. Plus, she has a nice voice.

Finally, the black woman has had enough and gets up to go, first coming over to me to talk, because I’m smiling at her. We share a compatriot’s grin, and she explains that she’s from Tennessee. She tells me about her mother and how, when she came home in tears one day after her first encounter with cruel prejudice in someone calling her a Nigg–, her mother’s response was to ask her if she was one. She replied ‘No‘ and so her mother simply said to get on with her life.

“Jesse and Al aren’t always going to be there when there’s an offense because they aren’t accessible to your average person. And your character is built by how you respond when there is no Jesse or Al”, she says to me.

I tell her about all of my summers spent in Memphis and my experience around my relatives which are on the opposite side of her experience. More blog entries…

Then, something happens that gives me a real chuckle and a lift. Three people enter the coffeehouse that the black woman recognizes. The man is Spanish-speaking, and he is with his wife and her friend. They all say their hellos and the two women go to order. The man and the black woman begin mentioning old times. It’s apparent they have not seen each other in a long time. In an affectionately moving gesture, the man opens his coat and rubs his protruding belly. The black woman responds by taking her hat off to elicit his surprise at her very close-cropped hair, as testament to the time and changes that have passed through their lives. As I sit here, I am thankful for this joyful and truthful honesty.

Ava is her name, as I finally find out after the man goes to order. She is a singer and composer. She writes children’s music. How nice! She uses music to insert English lessons in songs for young students. Her friend is in the same business, apparently, but produces his work in Spanish. Ava says that the man also translates Ava’s songs into Spanish for her. Ava is very outgoing and friendly. She explains that out of nine brothers and sisters, all but one have advanced degrees. She believes in living through example and being a testament to one’s ideologies, rather than spouting them off. And here I am, spouting off …

She asks me what column I’m writing for and I tell her, playing as though this blog is established, credited, something of substance. Well, I’m thinking in future tense, here, okay? Ava has a column in an LA jazz magazine, and she hands me her card. I have one of my freshly minted, Avery-perforated CoffeeHouseBlog cards and I hand it to her before she leaves to go sit with her friends. Would one of you reading this remind me to keep in touch with Ava? I know how leaky my mind is.

It’s interesting (at least to me!). Writing this, I’m witnessing first hand how a journalist must work around remembrance of details of conversations and observations. I am naturally embellishing and sometimes creating certain aspects of what I’m writing about. Is that ethical? I don’t know, but that’s how it’s working for me as I try to keep up with the input, lagging behind and having to fill in the blanks of my perceptions, hearing, and memory. I hope Ava forgives me for my inadequate retelling of the encounter. For that matter, I hope the rabid woman forgives me, too. More on that…

It’s a lively night, this night without power. The rabid woman now turns her attention toward me…

I AM the CoffeeHouse Blogger. Hear me type!

Continued in Part 3:
The Rabid Woman; Coffeehouse discussions in the ancient Assyrian language; Gilbert answers a very personal question.

About This CoffeeHouse at the end of Part 4