Café Bustelo Espresso is some damned good coffee!

Ever since I got one of those Keurig K-cup, single serving coffee machines, I’ve been on a coffee drinking kick. I used to hate brewing coffee in a traditional coffee machine, I always made too much or too little coffee. You know how that goes, you brew a whole pot of coffee and you only end up drinking half of it. You then feel guilty about throwing it away. I guess you could save it for ice coffee, but I don’t drink ice coffee, so there you go.

Anyhow, the Keurig Elite Brewing System has been a real sweet ride, and it got even better after I splurged and bought the My K-Cup Reusable Filter. No longer was I dependent on Keurig and their partners for my pre-packaged coffee needs.

Today, Sharkette sent me to Kroger’s to buy some more butter. As I went by the coffee aisle a bright yellow coffee can caught my eye. Café Bustelo Espresso!

Intrigued by the Spanish I decided to stop and take a look. Reading the side of the can, I was impressed at my Spanish comprehension. I guess I did learn some Spanish during my freshman year at high school after all. Of course the fact that the English translation was right next to the Spanish had nothing to do with my language prowess. Ha ha ha…

Okay, so I picked up the can and took it home. I put a couple of scoops into the reusable filter and got my brew on. A few seconds later I had a steaming hot cup of Joe at my disposal. The aroma itself was enough to launch me into the stratosphere. I’ve never had my taste buds tingle for coffee before, but there’s a first time for everything I guess. Boy, were they tingling, I was salivating like the dog in that dog food commercial screaming, “bacon, bacon, BACON!”

That Café Bustelo Espresso is good coffee is an understatement. This is fucking great coffee. The best coffee I’ve ever had in fact, and I’ve had some damned good coffee in my time. I spent a year in Paris drinking espresso at local bistros, and this coffee definitely took me back in time. Do yourself a favor, mi amigo, get in your car, get on your bike, take the bus, or just plain run to your local store and pick up a can of this dope. You will not be disappointed sipping this sweet elixir in the morning, and that’s no bullshit!

Danes in Afghanistan

When I first read that there were Danish soldiers fighting in Afghanistan I imagined them looking like the toy soldiers at Tivoli Gardens in Copenhagen. At first I didn’t believe that Denmark would send soldiers to Afghanistan, partly because Afghanistan is far away from Denmark, and secondly, what does Afghanistan have to do with Denmark? I can understand the United States involvement in Afghanistan to a certain degree, with Osama bin Laden hanging out with the Taliban, the U.S. did have a hand to play at that table, but Denmark?

Maybe it’s the fact that I grew up in Skåne, Sweden, and often visited Denmark as a child, that I have some affinity for the Danish people and culture. Skåne actually used to be part of Denmark at one time, and with the Øresund Bridge now linking Denmark with Sweden, the region and people are closer than ever. It’s actually neat to see Danes speaking Danish with Swedes and Swedes speaking Swedish with Danes and both sets of people understanding each other. My appreciation for Danish people is why I am so concerned with their involvement in Afghanistan. I recognize that their membership in NATO means that they might feel an obligation to do their part for the treaty organization, but in the past such things usually meant a field hospital or a tent or two, not a contingent of combat troops fighting a grueling and exhausting ground campaign.

I first stumbled across this film when I read about it winning the grand prize at the Cannes’ International Critics Week. Just like Sebastian Junger and Tim Hetherington’s documentary Restrepo, Janus Metz’s film Armadillo will leave you breathless, bruised and battered. Armadillo “… follows a platoon of Danish soldiers on a six-month tour of Afghanistan in 2009. An intimate, visually stunning account of both the horror and growing cynicism of modern warfare, the film premiered at the top of the box office in Denmark, provoking a national debate over government policy and the rules of engagement.” I highly suggest you see the movie for yourself.

…high on life

How many of us have watched people drunk blog? Or read drunken writing? How about reading something written by a woman stoned out of her gourd on paint fumes?

So Jose and his get-fresh-crew (really…his name is Jose. If your dark mind is going to that place where it makes some sort of stereotypical comment, leave the room now. I do not want to hear your voice. Lalalalalalalalalala.) is in the hallway and the living room transforming dull suburban to less dull suburban. It’s a rip roarin’ good time for them. They’re getting paid. For me, trapped in my bedroom without food – not so much. Particularly when you factor in my stupid dog’s incessant barking from below. Makes you want to take off his tags and open the fence gate, I tell you.

Where was I? Oh. Right. Stoned on paint fumes. :inhales deeply and twirls herself around the bedpost: Strong aromas and I do not get along. Perfumes and colognes make me blind with rage. Cleaning supplies make me cry like a little girl. The only strong aromas I like are gasoline, skunk and certain foods. Don’t you want to take me on a date, now?

As if life weren’t freaking enjoyable enough with the hell that is known as spring in The South, I’m no longer safe in my own home. To facilitate the drying process, I have turned down the AC to a brisk 68 degrees and we have opened the windows. Paint and pollen! OH. BOY! Wasting electricity! Bonus!!!

My head is spinning, my nose is starting to run, my eyes are weeping and puffy, thoughts are not jelling in my head. I feel itchy. My mouth feels furry. There is nothing to slap. Even if I wanted to hurl a small, annoying animal across the room – I couldn’t. I cannot see straight.

Even worse. I have to watch CNN.

Earlier, I was thinking about writing some sincerely sappy piece about being able to get in your time machine and have a do-over. Not a do-over to change the course of your life but a simple do-over so you don’t end up treating really nice people in a less than nice sort of way. Then the paint high settled in and I find myself feeling unusually not-wistful. As a matter of fact, I’m feeling quite evil. Fortunately, the paint has rendered my mind to gelatinous goo so I’m fairly harmless. For now.

Yay! The painter just opened the door to the bedroom. My bedroom. My bedroom where I’m swinging from the bedposts, pecking out this post with my toes. My bedroom where clothes, books, magazines, pillows and various electronic devices (not those, you dirty boy) are strewn everywhere. I’m really hoping the nice gentleman doesn’t peek around the corner and see Mount Laundry in the bathroom. It’s hungry, too.

The meows (as my son calls them) sought shelter in my closet. Serves me right for leaving the door open. Now my clothes will be covered in pollen and cat and stink of paint. The only things that will draw the kitties out of hiding are a sack of french fries and the promise that I will send the dog to live on a farm.

So there you have it. Nonsensical, quasi-intoxicated ramblings assembled with the greatest amount of care for your reading pleasure. Wishing I would just go back into my head and overthink the ever loving shit out of something, are you?