Friday, October 07, 2005
Not My Fault
Parents are supposed to be nurturing and supportive. I say supposed to be because some of the things mine did were suspect. Take, for example, what became known in my family as "the paper route incident."
I grew up in a lower middle class family. Hence, we had very little extra money. This means that an allowance was not a part of my childhood. When I was 13, I brought up the subject. That was the only time I brought it up. My mom began "ranting" about how she and my step dad "allowed" me to eat, "allowed" me to have clothes to wear, and "allowed" me to have a place to sleep. I knew then that there was no reasoning with her when she was on one of her tangents and that if I wanted any spending money I'd have to earn it myself.
Besides mowing lawns, a paper route was the only job available for boys my age. I spoke with my folks about it. They said they thought it was a good idea. A paper route would teach me responsibility. Leave it to parents to take the fun out of everything. Before they let me get the route, however, I would have to agree to several things: I had to keep my grades up, to handle the money I collected responsibly (yes, the news paper actually allowed 13 year olds to collect money from customers. Of course, the news paper also expected their paper carriers to pay for the papers they delivered), to maintain my own bike, and to wake up all by myself for my morning route. They claim that I agreed to the stipulations, but I really don't remember. At the time, visions of dollar bills danced in my head, so I can't be sure exactly what the terms were or what I agreed to. But I got my route.
Needless to say (why do people say that when they're just going to go ahead and say it any way?) I fell short in all the areas, especially collections. You see, growing up poor and suddenly having money is a hard thing to deal with. Money has a way of burning holes your pockets if you're not used to having it. Fortunately I had good friends to help combat this.
After my first month on my route, I set out to collect what my customers owed me. I employed a method that made sense to me. I was a thinker of sorts and figured that it wouldn't be smart to carry large amounts of money around for long periods of time. My solution involved collecting from a house or two and then pedaling to the nearest video game arcade to make a deposit. My friends were always glad to see me. They would gather around me offer to challenge me to a game (so I would get better, of course).
My plan was working fine until the newspaper company called my parents and asked when I was going to pay on my account. I made up a lame excuse about not being able to catch people at home. My mom offered to come with me and help me collect, but I quickly reminded her that she had said that I was responsible for collecting and headed back out to collect. After catching a few more customers at home, I would meet up with my friends at the arcade and buy another round of sodas, candy, and games.
I followed this routine for about a week without incident, except being asked occasionally by my folks about how the collections were going. However, one day, upon exiting the arcade, I discovered that my bike was missing. I walked about a mile and a half home, rehearsing my explanation (lie) about what happened. When I got home, I told them, in great detail and with much emotion, how a couple of thugs had forced me to hand over my bike and (since I had blown a sizeable portion of my collections at the arcade) how they took my money too. I gave the performance of my lifetime.
Unfortunately, they knew I was lying. How? Did I let something slip? Did my story sound implausible? Nope. They knew because they had followed me to the arcade. They had taken my bike. Needless to say (here I go again), I was very disappointed in my parents for forcing me to lie like that. As I said, parents are supposed to be nurturing and supportive.
I grew up in a lower middle class family. Hence, we had very little extra money. This means that an allowance was not a part of my childhood. When I was 13, I brought up the subject. That was the only time I brought it up. My mom began "ranting" about how she and my step dad "allowed" me to eat, "allowed" me to have clothes to wear, and "allowed" me to have a place to sleep. I knew then that there was no reasoning with her when she was on one of her tangents and that if I wanted any spending money I'd have to earn it myself.
Besides mowing lawns, a paper route was the only job available for boys my age. I spoke with my folks about it. They said they thought it was a good idea. A paper route would teach me responsibility. Leave it to parents to take the fun out of everything. Before they let me get the route, however, I would have to agree to several things: I had to keep my grades up, to handle the money I collected responsibly (yes, the news paper actually allowed 13 year olds to collect money from customers. Of course, the news paper also expected their paper carriers to pay for the papers they delivered), to maintain my own bike, and to wake up all by myself for my morning route. They claim that I agreed to the stipulations, but I really don't remember. At the time, visions of dollar bills danced in my head, so I can't be sure exactly what the terms were or what I agreed to. But I got my route.
Needless to say (why do people say that when they're just going to go ahead and say it any way?) I fell short in all the areas, especially collections. You see, growing up poor and suddenly having money is a hard thing to deal with. Money has a way of burning holes your pockets if you're not used to having it. Fortunately I had good friends to help combat this.
After my first month on my route, I set out to collect what my customers owed me. I employed a method that made sense to me. I was a thinker of sorts and figured that it wouldn't be smart to carry large amounts of money around for long periods of time. My solution involved collecting from a house or two and then pedaling to the nearest video game arcade to make a deposit. My friends were always glad to see me. They would gather around me offer to challenge me to a game (so I would get better, of course).
My plan was working fine until the newspaper company called my parents and asked when I was going to pay on my account. I made up a lame excuse about not being able to catch people at home. My mom offered to come with me and help me collect, but I quickly reminded her that she had said that I was responsible for collecting and headed back out to collect. After catching a few more customers at home, I would meet up with my friends at the arcade and buy another round of sodas, candy, and games.
I followed this routine for about a week without incident, except being asked occasionally by my folks about how the collections were going. However, one day, upon exiting the arcade, I discovered that my bike was missing. I walked about a mile and a half home, rehearsing my explanation (lie) about what happened. When I got home, I told them, in great detail and with much emotion, how a couple of thugs had forced me to hand over my bike and (since I had blown a sizeable portion of my collections at the arcade) how they took my money too. I gave the performance of my lifetime.
Unfortunately, they knew I was lying. How? Did I let something slip? Did my story sound implausible? Nope. They knew because they had followed me to the arcade. They had taken my bike. Needless to say (here I go again), I was very disappointed in my parents for forcing me to lie like that. As I said, parents are supposed to be nurturing and supportive.
Labels: lie, newspaper route, not my fault, parenting
Thursday, October 06, 2005
Appearances
Human behavior fascinates me. We are the most intelligent creatures on this planet, but we behave in some very irrational ways. Perhaps the most obvious area we can see this in is that of appearance. In the animal kingdom, animals are the way they are. Regardless of gender, animals rarely ever put on make up, curl their hair, suck their stomachs in when a female walks by, or resort to a comb-over or a toupe to hide hair loss. And you'll never hear even domesticated animals say, "Do you think this collar makes my neck look fat?" Animals may care what a potential mate looks like, but they really don't take steps to get themselves gussied up. This, of course, is not the case with people.
The human female is obsessed with looking young. Yes, it's in great part to how the male of the species reacts, but regardless, women are obsessed. They tease, they cinch, they paint themselves. All to make themselves beautiful for men. This obsession is so strong that someone actually thought, "You know, if I sucked some of the fat from my rear, I could inject it into my face and get rid of some of my wrinkles." And not only did this individual think about and do it, he/she convinced others that it was a good idea! But, before we come down too hard on women, we should look at men.
Men aren't any better. Especially older men. Older men actually believe that younger women are interested in them. Men buy sports cars, get plugs, and behave differently whenever younger women are around. Mature (old) men, whenever a young-looking woman (who has, perhaps, just had her fat stores rearranged) walks by, will puff out their chests and begin to engage in activities they no longer have any business participating in: football, skateboarding, parasailing--all in an effort to impress these women who aren't remotely impressed by sweaty, sore old guys. Any woman will tell you that what an older man needs to impress a younger woman is not youthful behavior or good looks, but plenty of money. Exhibit #1: Donald Trump.
But perhaps the human behavior that especially fascinates me in the area of appearance is when people intentionally fail to let others know they look bad. This lesson was brought home for me when I discovered hair growing out of my ears shortly after my 32nd birthday. The hairs were thin and blond, but they were aproximately half an inch long by the time I noticed them; and there were quite a few of them! Now, I know my hair doesn't grow fast enough for these sprouts to have shot up over night, but what I don't know is how I failed to see them until I did. I mean, other people had to have noticed these things. Surely they must've been wondering, "how in the world can this guy stand to have a shrub growing out of his ear?" But, of course, no one said anything. Like school picture day in the third grade when you had broccoli stuck in your teeth. Or that time you accidently tucked your dark shirt into the back of your underwear and the waistband of your Fruit of the Loom's stuck out above your pants for half a day which just so happened to be the day of your dream job interview.
I suspect that not letting someone know they've got the back of their dress caught in the waistband of their pantyhose (no, this has never happened to me) is a person's way of making themselves look better by comparison. Unless the other person has a fantastic-looking butt (either after suction or before).
The human female is obsessed with looking young. Yes, it's in great part to how the male of the species reacts, but regardless, women are obsessed. They tease, they cinch, they paint themselves. All to make themselves beautiful for men. This obsession is so strong that someone actually thought, "You know, if I sucked some of the fat from my rear, I could inject it into my face and get rid of some of my wrinkles." And not only did this individual think about and do it, he/she convinced others that it was a good idea! But, before we come down too hard on women, we should look at men.
Men aren't any better. Especially older men. Older men actually believe that younger women are interested in them. Men buy sports cars, get plugs, and behave differently whenever younger women are around. Mature (old) men, whenever a young-looking woman (who has, perhaps, just had her fat stores rearranged) walks by, will puff out their chests and begin to engage in activities they no longer have any business participating in: football, skateboarding, parasailing--all in an effort to impress these women who aren't remotely impressed by sweaty, sore old guys. Any woman will tell you that what an older man needs to impress a younger woman is not youthful behavior or good looks, but plenty of money. Exhibit #1: Donald Trump.
But perhaps the human behavior that especially fascinates me in the area of appearance is when people intentionally fail to let others know they look bad. This lesson was brought home for me when I discovered hair growing out of my ears shortly after my 32nd birthday. The hairs were thin and blond, but they were aproximately half an inch long by the time I noticed them; and there were quite a few of them! Now, I know my hair doesn't grow fast enough for these sprouts to have shot up over night, but what I don't know is how I failed to see them until I did. I mean, other people had to have noticed these things. Surely they must've been wondering, "how in the world can this guy stand to have a shrub growing out of his ear?" But, of course, no one said anything. Like school picture day in the third grade when you had broccoli stuck in your teeth. Or that time you accidently tucked your dark shirt into the back of your underwear and the waistband of your Fruit of the Loom's stuck out above your pants for half a day which just so happened to be the day of your dream job interview.
I suspect that not letting someone know they've got the back of their dress caught in the waistband of their pantyhose (no, this has never happened to me) is a person's way of making themselves look better by comparison. Unless the other person has a fantastic-looking butt (either after suction or before).
Labels: appearances
Tuesday, October 04, 2005
Buy Now, Pay... Forever
I used to think of myself as smart. Not a genius, mind you, but smart. I could operate an electric can opener by the time I was eight (I don't mean to brag), answer at least four questions each night on Jeopardy, and, if I could keep him from cheating, beat my dog at chess three games out of four. Yes, with--or should I say in--my mind, I was not one to be taken lightly.
But something happened to me after graduation. I must've been overly confident when I finished high school with my C average because I never saw it coming. "It" was credit.
My first foray into credit was at a furniture store. I needed a new couch and love seat. I wanted a new couch because the one I had was lumpy and worn and had perverted springs that always seemed to find their way into places a nice spring would never go. And I needed a love seat because I intended to have a girlfriend someday and would need a place to sit with her.
I drove by a furniture store one day and noticed a huge sign in the window. I circled the block, pulled into the parking lot, and read their sign a couple of times to make sure I was seeing what I thought I saw. Their sign said, "Buy Now, Pay Later!" Now, I had always been kind to those who were less fortunate than myself, especially in the area of intelligence, but business was business. If a business wants to let me have something now and isn't going to expect me to pay for it until later they deserve to be taken advantage of. Their lack of forsight would be my gain.
Inside the store, I was overwhelmed by the selection. There were all sorts of couches in varying styles, colors, and sizes, most of which had floral patterns. Of course, being a single guy, there was no way I was going to buy anything with flowers, not bed sheets (mine had cowboys and indians), not paper towels, not deodorant (at least not again)*. So I asked the saleswoman to see the men's couches. I don't know where they got this particular salesperson. I suspect she was a hearing impared, high school dropout relative of the store owner because she asked me to repeat myself and then stared at me blankly when I asked where the couches were with rocket, sports paraphinalia, or race car patterns. She assured me that they didn't have any like that, but that she was sure she could find something I'd like.
She showed me all around the showroom, making comments about the style, pattern, and fabric of assorted living room sets. We finally ended up at an expensive, overstuffed, white leather couch and love seat set at the center of the showroom floor. I had already picked out a nice orange couch with a paisley print (since they didn't have rockets and such), but when she told me that this set was her favorite, and the favorite of most of the women who bought furniture there, I reconsidered. I watched her as she sank deep into the couch with a sigh. Then she patted the seat next to her and invited me to try it out. It was at this point that I realized that she was flirting with me.
It was also at this point that my logic began to kick in. Sure the couch was expensive, but women liked it. And she liked it. For a hearing impaired, high school dropout, the salesgirl was cute. I reasoned (smart guy that I was) that if I had this couch, I could ask her out, and, as my girlfriend, she could sit on the couch whenever she wanted. Besides, if I didn't have to pay for it right away, how could I lose?
I sat on the couch next to her and it was like sitting on a cloud. I had never sat on a cloud before. I told her I'd take it.
The contract I signed indicated that I wouldn't have to make my first payment until six months later, and then, at the payments I could afford, I'd be through paying for it in five years. I wanted to stretch it to 20, but she said the store couldn't carry the contract that long. But it was worth it. As I signed the contract, I invited her to my place for dinner once the couch, love seat, automan, and end tables arrived. Since I didn't have to start paying on the couch and love seat for another six months, I figured I could afford to have her over for pizza. She said that dating clients was against company policy and then said something under her breath that sounded something like, "Thank goodness," although I'm sure that wasn't it. You know how large showrooms distort sounds.
Anyway, I did get a new couch and the love seat I "needed." Unfortunately, I also got introduced to the slick world of credit. And I've never come out on top when I've entered into a "Buy Now, Pay Later" deal. Like I said, "I used to think of myself as smart."
*Note: Just because they say it's strong enough for a man doesn't mean it's actually made for men.
But something happened to me after graduation. I must've been overly confident when I finished high school with my C average because I never saw it coming. "It" was credit.
My first foray into credit was at a furniture store. I needed a new couch and love seat. I wanted a new couch because the one I had was lumpy and worn and had perverted springs that always seemed to find their way into places a nice spring would never go. And I needed a love seat because I intended to have a girlfriend someday and would need a place to sit with her.
I drove by a furniture store one day and noticed a huge sign in the window. I circled the block, pulled into the parking lot, and read their sign a couple of times to make sure I was seeing what I thought I saw. Their sign said, "Buy Now, Pay Later!" Now, I had always been kind to those who were less fortunate than myself, especially in the area of intelligence, but business was business. If a business wants to let me have something now and isn't going to expect me to pay for it until later they deserve to be taken advantage of. Their lack of forsight would be my gain.
Inside the store, I was overwhelmed by the selection. There were all sorts of couches in varying styles, colors, and sizes, most of which had floral patterns. Of course, being a single guy, there was no way I was going to buy anything with flowers, not bed sheets (mine had cowboys and indians), not paper towels, not deodorant (at least not again)*. So I asked the saleswoman to see the men's couches. I don't know where they got this particular salesperson. I suspect she was a hearing impared, high school dropout relative of the store owner because she asked me to repeat myself and then stared at me blankly when I asked where the couches were with rocket, sports paraphinalia, or race car patterns. She assured me that they didn't have any like that, but that she was sure she could find something I'd like.
She showed me all around the showroom, making comments about the style, pattern, and fabric of assorted living room sets. We finally ended up at an expensive, overstuffed, white leather couch and love seat set at the center of the showroom floor. I had already picked out a nice orange couch with a paisley print (since they didn't have rockets and such), but when she told me that this set was her favorite, and the favorite of most of the women who bought furniture there, I reconsidered. I watched her as she sank deep into the couch with a sigh. Then she patted the seat next to her and invited me to try it out. It was at this point that I realized that she was flirting with me.
It was also at this point that my logic began to kick in. Sure the couch was expensive, but women liked it. And she liked it. For a hearing impaired, high school dropout, the salesgirl was cute. I reasoned (smart guy that I was) that if I had this couch, I could ask her out, and, as my girlfriend, she could sit on the couch whenever she wanted. Besides, if I didn't have to pay for it right away, how could I lose?
I sat on the couch next to her and it was like sitting on a cloud. I had never sat on a cloud before. I told her I'd take it.
The contract I signed indicated that I wouldn't have to make my first payment until six months later, and then, at the payments I could afford, I'd be through paying for it in five years. I wanted to stretch it to 20, but she said the store couldn't carry the contract that long. But it was worth it. As I signed the contract, I invited her to my place for dinner once the couch, love seat, automan, and end tables arrived. Since I didn't have to start paying on the couch and love seat for another six months, I figured I could afford to have her over for pizza. She said that dating clients was against company policy and then said something under her breath that sounded something like, "Thank goodness," although I'm sure that wasn't it. You know how large showrooms distort sounds.
Anyway, I did get a new couch and the love seat I "needed." Unfortunately, I also got introduced to the slick world of credit. And I've never come out on top when I've entered into a "Buy Now, Pay Later" deal. Like I said, "I used to think of myself as smart."
*Note: Just because they say it's strong enough for a man doesn't mean it's actually made for men.
Labels: credit
Monday, October 03, 2005
Sunday, October 02, 2005
Ventriloquism Ministry
I’m almost done working on my latest full-length ventriloquism program. This one centers on David and Goliath and explores the certainty that with God we can overcome any obstacle. Naturally, I’ll be using Rusty for this program; he’s got the most personality. For those of you who don’t know Rusty, he’s a little boy with a great big mouth. I call him my ADHD puppet. I suppose I could use one of my other friends, but Rusty can get away with so much more than any of the others that I feel compelled to use him most. Of course, this means I’m going to have to write other programs featuring somebody else—Rusty gets absolutely insufferable when he gets the spotlight more than anyone else.
I’m going to be mailing out postcards to all the churches in the Port Angeles, Sequim, and Port Townsend (Washington) areas soon. These post cards will let the churches know about my ministry. Please pray that God will bless my efforts. I am stepping out in faith that this is what God wants me to do.
Meanwhile, I practice and continue to tell stories on the third Sabbath (Saturday) of each month at church and at a nursing home during our singing visits. God continues to give me stories to tell, so, as long as He sees fit to do so, I’ll keep on telling ‘em.
God bless you all, and a great big “hello” from the gang. Keep the faith.
I’m going to be mailing out postcards to all the churches in the Port Angeles, Sequim, and Port Townsend (Washington) areas soon. These post cards will let the churches know about my ministry. Please pray that God will bless my efforts. I am stepping out in faith that this is what God wants me to do.
Meanwhile, I practice and continue to tell stories on the third Sabbath (Saturday) of each month at church and at a nursing home during our singing visits. God continues to give me stories to tell, so, as long as He sees fit to do so, I’ll keep on telling ‘em.
God bless you all, and a great big “hello” from the gang. Keep the faith.
Labels: daryl, ventriloquism, ventriloquism ministry, ventriloquist
The History of Coffee
Nearly five centuries ago, a group of explorers came to the Americas searching for riches. They landed in Central America and began to interact with the indigenous people in hopes of learning where the riches of the land might be found. What they didn’t know was that the natives of the land were pranksters. These fun loving people filled the explorers minds with stories of golden cities and fountains of youth and introduced them to the coffee bean.
Here’s how it happened. One day, an advisor to the chief said to the portly ruler, “Hey, Chief, you know those beans growing on the mountainside? You know, the really bitter ones? I bet these idiots would eat them if we told them they were food.” After a good laugh, the chief agreed to the plan. Sure enough, the greedy visitors, wanting to appear gracious so the natives would open up to them about where the cities of gold were, ate the bitter bean and, through contorted faces, smiled. The natives, of course thought this was hilarious.
The next day, the advisor approached the chief again. “I’ll bet,” he said, “if we ground those beans up and put some in water, the idiots would drink it.” The chief, thinking that no one would be that stupid, bet his favorite ceremonial mask that they wouldn’t. The chief lost.
How the explorers failed to realize that coffee was a joke, especially after they failed to locate the mythological treasures the natives told them about, escapes me, but they did. As a result, the explorers brought coffee back to Europe where it rotted teeth, ate the lining of the stomach, and kept people awake at night. And thus began the infatuation with the drink known as coffee.
You may be wondering how such a bitter drink managed to last so long especially when tea was perfectly palatable. And if you weren’t wondering before you read that last sentence, you probably are now. The only logical answer is peer pressure.
Social acceptance is a powerful force. Every day, kids are prompted to do things they think will gain them acceptance by their peers. Thus the term peer pressure. Peer pressure works two ways: directly and indirectly. If a group of “cool” boys has done something, they may pressure another to do it also, implying or stating straight out that if the new boy does it he’ll be accepted into the group and if he doesn’t, he won’t be. Indirect peer pressure works a little differently, but is peer pressure just the same. If a boy knows that the “cool” guys do something, he may decide to do the same thing in hopes that the guys will notice and include him. Notice that the boy took it upon himself in this case; there was no direct pressure brought to bear, but social acceptance led to the indirect peer pressure. (Also notice that I used boys in the above descriptions. This is not to imply that girls are immune. Rather, it is because boys are more prone to doing what they think will impress others: urinating on an electric fence, being a matador, etc.)
So the explorers, upon returning from their journey, had become somewhat accustomed to the taste of coffee as long as copious amounts of sugar and milk were available. Not wanting to have their entire endeavor seen as a failure, they began boasting about the wonderful beans they found. They drank their drink (by now they were able to do so with straight faces and without the involuntary neck twitches) and offered it to others. Now, these were rugged men, men who had braved two ocean voyages. If they drank coffee, every man would want to drink it. Initially, of course, women were smart enough to avoid it.
Soon, men were drinking it straight as a testament to their manhood. The stronger the brew, the stronger the man, they reasoned. This remained the norm for quite some time until someone decided to decaffeinate the popular drink. Evidently, this individual decided that, while an awful taste, rotten teeth, and a ruined stomach were okay, sleeplessness was not an option. I guess drinking something else wasn’t an option either.
But this wasn’t the only change to come to coffee. The French, who to this day still think they’re better than everyone else on the face of the earth, decided that they didn’t want to drink the same drink everyone else was drinking. So they began experimenting with coffee. They put different flavors in it, whipped it into a froth, and gave it fancy sounding names (well, the names sounded fancy to the rest of Europe; to the French they were regular sounding names). They changed coffee so much that one wonders why they just didn’t make a new drink that wasn’t coffee-based? But we all know that, had they gone that route, they wouldn’t have been able to be as snooty about their accomplishment then, would they?
The Irish also changed coffee, but at least their change was practical. Irishmen, frustrated that their wives were complaining about their drinking, decided to add whiskey to their brew in an effort to fool them. It worked for a while. By the time their wives discovered what they were doing, the men were all too drunk to care about the screaming. Incidently, the Irish method revealed that, not only didn't whiskey make the coffee taste any worse, the coffee didn't make the whiskey taste any worse either.
Today, in addition to the home brewed caffeinated and decaffeinated varieties, we have all the fancy coffee drinks we could ever want: the cappuccino, the late’, the frappe’, the mocha. And we’ve got them with nutmeg, peppermint, cinnamon, or essence of old hiking boot, whatever you want. Me? If you haven’t guessed it yet, I’m not much of a coffee drinker. I prefer something with a little more kick. Would anyone like to join me for a nice, tall glass of (twitch) sauerkraut juice?
Here’s how it happened. One day, an advisor to the chief said to the portly ruler, “Hey, Chief, you know those beans growing on the mountainside? You know, the really bitter ones? I bet these idiots would eat them if we told them they were food.” After a good laugh, the chief agreed to the plan. Sure enough, the greedy visitors, wanting to appear gracious so the natives would open up to them about where the cities of gold were, ate the bitter bean and, through contorted faces, smiled. The natives, of course thought this was hilarious.
The next day, the advisor approached the chief again. “I’ll bet,” he said, “if we ground those beans up and put some in water, the idiots would drink it.” The chief, thinking that no one would be that stupid, bet his favorite ceremonial mask that they wouldn’t. The chief lost.
How the explorers failed to realize that coffee was a joke, especially after they failed to locate the mythological treasures the natives told them about, escapes me, but they did. As a result, the explorers brought coffee back to Europe where it rotted teeth, ate the lining of the stomach, and kept people awake at night. And thus began the infatuation with the drink known as coffee.
You may be wondering how such a bitter drink managed to last so long especially when tea was perfectly palatable. And if you weren’t wondering before you read that last sentence, you probably are now. The only logical answer is peer pressure.
Social acceptance is a powerful force. Every day, kids are prompted to do things they think will gain them acceptance by their peers. Thus the term peer pressure. Peer pressure works two ways: directly and indirectly. If a group of “cool” boys has done something, they may pressure another to do it also, implying or stating straight out that if the new boy does it he’ll be accepted into the group and if he doesn’t, he won’t be. Indirect peer pressure works a little differently, but is peer pressure just the same. If a boy knows that the “cool” guys do something, he may decide to do the same thing in hopes that the guys will notice and include him. Notice that the boy took it upon himself in this case; there was no direct pressure brought to bear, but social acceptance led to the indirect peer pressure. (Also notice that I used boys in the above descriptions. This is not to imply that girls are immune. Rather, it is because boys are more prone to doing what they think will impress others: urinating on an electric fence, being a matador, etc.)
So the explorers, upon returning from their journey, had become somewhat accustomed to the taste of coffee as long as copious amounts of sugar and milk were available. Not wanting to have their entire endeavor seen as a failure, they began boasting about the wonderful beans they found. They drank their drink (by now they were able to do so with straight faces and without the involuntary neck twitches) and offered it to others. Now, these were rugged men, men who had braved two ocean voyages. If they drank coffee, every man would want to drink it. Initially, of course, women were smart enough to avoid it.
Soon, men were drinking it straight as a testament to their manhood. The stronger the brew, the stronger the man, they reasoned. This remained the norm for quite some time until someone decided to decaffeinate the popular drink. Evidently, this individual decided that, while an awful taste, rotten teeth, and a ruined stomach were okay, sleeplessness was not an option. I guess drinking something else wasn’t an option either.
But this wasn’t the only change to come to coffee. The French, who to this day still think they’re better than everyone else on the face of the earth, decided that they didn’t want to drink the same drink everyone else was drinking. So they began experimenting with coffee. They put different flavors in it, whipped it into a froth, and gave it fancy sounding names (well, the names sounded fancy to the rest of Europe; to the French they were regular sounding names). They changed coffee so much that one wonders why they just didn’t make a new drink that wasn’t coffee-based? But we all know that, had they gone that route, they wouldn’t have been able to be as snooty about their accomplishment then, would they?
The Irish also changed coffee, but at least their change was practical. Irishmen, frustrated that their wives were complaining about their drinking, decided to add whiskey to their brew in an effort to fool them. It worked for a while. By the time their wives discovered what they were doing, the men were all too drunk to care about the screaming. Incidently, the Irish method revealed that, not only didn't whiskey make the coffee taste any worse, the coffee didn't make the whiskey taste any worse either.
Today, in addition to the home brewed caffeinated and decaffeinated varieties, we have all the fancy coffee drinks we could ever want: the cappuccino, the late’, the frappe’, the mocha. And we’ve got them with nutmeg, peppermint, cinnamon, or essence of old hiking boot, whatever you want. Me? If you haven’t guessed it yet, I’m not much of a coffee drinker. I prefer something with a little more kick. Would anyone like to join me for a nice, tall glass of (twitch) sauerkraut juice?
Labels: coffee, history coffee
