Shelli’s ex-husband, Jim Russell, did a fine job of pinch-hitting for her column, and therefore was asked to do so occasionally.
Coffee Shops: You Meet the Most Interesting People
Ronald Reagan had a unique way of judging a man’s inner qualities. Reagan, a jelly bean fanatic, often passed around a jar of the candy treats–Jelly Belly’s were his favorite–before White House meetings. “You can tell a lot about a fella’s character by whether he picks out all of one color or just grabs a handful.” (It’s worth noting that he never actually specified exactly what the jelly bean choice revealed about the chooser’s character, but he was twice elected President of the United States so I guess it worked for him… somehow. One can only assume it was an integral part of the vetting process for White House jobs, which might explain the dubious selections of Ed Meese and Oliver North). However, with all due respect to President Reagan, I have my own method for cracking open the window to the soul: coffee shop conversations.
I love coffee shops. Coffee shops are the perfect place for a person like me who loves to meet strangers, and, frankly, the stranger they are, the better. Under the right circumstances, you can meet, or at least eavesdrop on, the most interesting people.
Saline County really only has two main choices for coffee: Hastings and Starbucks. (Personal aside: RIP, Jupiter Java and Woodside Cafe. We hardly knew ye.) As far as a head-to-head competition between the drinks, which are the ostensible reason people go to coffee shops, there isn’t one: Starbucks wins this one by a country mile. Better coffee, more tasty pastries, and excellent music; that’s just my opinion.
On the other hand, the contest winner of which store has the most interesting patrons is also crystal clear: Hastings in a walk. I believe it all comes down to what sort of social experience you want to have while sipping on a $5.00 cup of caffeine. Starbucks is great for the times you want to check your email and finish that TPS Report for your boss. The last time I was there, I chatted with a vivacious librarian who recited to me anecdotes from a book she was reading about silly court cases. Unfortunately, she also felt the need to explain all of the anecdotes, most of which were already painfully obvious. That’s the Starbucks crowd: smart but a little dry. For my money, Hastings is where it’s at for the human entertainment.
Hastings kind of reminds me of the bar in “Cheers”. It has regulars who are there nearly every time I come in. My favorites are the pure rednecks who are full of opinions about life, politics, the economy, music and professional wrestling. Once, while illegally downloading a few albums, er, I mean, working on my graduate thesis, I listened in on a nearly hour-long, wildly entertaining conversation about who should have won the most recent World Wrestling Entertainment heavyweight title. The participants managed to recite a list of wrestlers going back to the 1950s. It was an stunningly encyclopedic display of useless knowledge.
Redneck music aficionados also abound at Hastings cafe՛. Recently, I eavesdropped on a fascinating debate over the merits of various hard rock drummers. Being a drummer myself, I knew all the musicians they were talking about and it was killing me not to interject myself into their conversation. I burned to tell them the original drummer for Guns-n-Roses was Stephen Adler, not Duff McKagan. (Duh.) Also, surprisingly, Phil Collins, of “Sussudio” and “Groovy Kind of Love” fame, is much admired and respected in metal circles, or at least in this small circle. Who knew?
My favorite comment: “A lot of those guys are really into jazz. You gotta know a lot of jazz to play that death metal.” (I swear I am neither making this up nor exaggerating.) My second-favorite remarks:
(First guy) “Cradle of Filth.”
(Second and Third guys simultaneously) “YEAH! Cradle of Filth!”
I don’t even know what that means but it seemed to hold much import to this crew.
Twenty minutes of their lives were devoted to an in-depth review of Motley Crue’s “Shout at the Devil” tour in 1984. These guys are all way too old for this. They’re going to want that twenty minutes back someday and it won’t be there for them. They start rattling off the names of some of their heroes: Alice Cooper, Marilyn Manson, Chaos, Licorice. (Did I just hear that right? There’s a metal band called Licorice??? Wait a minute… I just realized that this was twenty minutes of my life that were also sucked away in a vortex of boredom). One of the hardcore metal lovers’ cellphone rings. One would expect the ringtone to be something hardcore and metallic. Nope, it’s the Georgia Satellites doing “Keep Yo’ Hands to Yo’self.” Am I the only one who sees the inconsistency here?
I’ve never been much of a joke-teller. I’m more of the snarky kid who sits in the back of class making mean comments about the teacher’s denim pant suit. However, I have tremendous respect for people that are funny. The thing I don’t get is what gives one person the ability to say something that gets a big laugh while if I said the exact same thing, people would pelt me with eggs. One of the Hastings regulars made a joke that got a huge laugh. Huge. “I haven’t seen you in a coon’s age! A coooooon’s age!” His listeners roared. I am both repulsed by the stupidity of the joke and simultaneously completely envious of the guffaws it produced. How does he do that? I’m baffled but riveted.
Their tractor beam of redneckery has me firmly in its sweaty, inescapable grasp. Another big laugh-getter, this time by the Georgia Satellites dude: “You are just a huckleberry! A huckleberry!” Is repeating the second line of a joke some rule of comedy of which I am unaware? I am in awe. This is what it would have been like if Dorothy Parker’s roundtable had been hosted by Jeff Foxworthy. Stumped, I close my laptop and go home.
One of these days I need to screw up my courage and dive in to one of these conversations. These guys are cool and they won’t mind letting a geek like me into their circle. I don’t know squat about pro wrestling and I can’t crack a joke to save my life, but I am a drummer who enjoys the occasional Motley Crue crankfest in my car. And I do love me some coffee. I might even bring some jelly beans, just in case.
This column originally published in The Benton Courier on April 18, 2010.
See the archive of Shelli’s Columns at https://www.mysaline.com/notes/Courier_Columns