A rose by any other name would smoke as sweet.

So we went to the big city for an Ob/Gyn thing for the twins, got an ultrasound, and found out everybody was healthy and great. I have another blog for that. On there, I wax poetic and gleefully report the minutiae of every trip to the doctor. I also keep it at least PG-rated, since like, normal people read it.
This is not that blog.
So we had a good time, went to drive home, and I wanted to stop somewhere and buy coffee. We stopped at a gas station in a sort of seedy area. I went in, crawled thru the store getting a cup of coffee, and a coke for Rebecca. While waiting in line I saw, in the case where they keep the trucker's speed, some "glass roses". I thought "hey, neat! a tiny rose in glass!" I have a thing about buying Rebecca roses in every variation that exists. If I see a rose made from a twisted-up coke can or something, I'll buy it. So I bought it. I get out to the car and shuck the box so I can present her with it. I pull it out and my thought process goes like this: "that's kinda pretty. Hey - why is there a hole up here by the head of the rose? Why is this hole in... this crack pipe?" This is when I suddenly realized that
I accidentally bought my pregnant wife a crack pipe.
It was a rose, alright - a little cheap one so they could sell crack pipes in gas stations. You're supposed to throw the rose away and place drugs in where the head of the flower was. I thought I was doing something nice. I thought I would surprise her with a little gift. Instead
I accidentally bought my pregnant wife a crack pipe.
I don't know how to describe the feeling I got. I really don't. I wonder if hallmark has a card for that? "To my understanding wife: I'm sorry I accidentally bought you a crack pipe. Had I known it was drug paraphernalia, You have to know I would have gone for the pencil holder instead." Other than that, and the baby stuff, it was a pretty uneventful trip. We went to the city, got an ultrasound, talked to the doctor, got soft pretzels, didn't see a *$, and oh yeah
I accidentally bought my pregnant wife a crack pipe.
Sorry, baby.

...and Jim Morrison's corpse hits 180 rpm.

I just Piratized© a copy of Ministry's latest (and apparently last) album, titled "The Last Sucker". It's got a cover of "Roadhouse Blues" by the doors on it. A hardcore industrial thrash cover of a doors classic. My brain is afraid and trying to escape my skull.

BUZZ!

(note that I use the symbol *$ a few times. The first part is a star. figure it out.)
I don't know if you personally (by you I mean you, the reader - not you, the baby hedgehog or you the surrealist purple floating firetruck-headed bride) have ever had espresso, but I have, many times, and I feel I need to discuss them here. What are you gonna do about it? Huh? You gonna try and stop me? Yeah... I didn't think so. You keep walking, punk.

Anyway.

First things first:
THERE IS NO X IN THE WORD. STOP SAYING IT THAT WAY.
I don't mind so much when Mr. John D. Maxwell House says "expresso", but when the dude at *$ says it... shameful. And you call yourself a barista. The hell you are, sir. Now pull me a doppio ristretto, and no, I don't need a lid.
Moving on.
The espresso is perhaps the perfect coffee beverage. It is the essence of coffee, stripped of all the accoutrements that usually accompany coffeehouse drinks. No sugary syrup, no milk, no nutmeg sprinkles, no leaf drawn in the foam - just the coffee, the cup, and you. In Italy, when an Italian orders a caffe, they get espresso. When an American orders one, they get an Americano, which is an espresso cut with an equal amount of hot water, because Americans are coffee wusses. I've had chicory-laced bilious swill made in a tin pot on a campfire, and I've had a caffe macchiato pulled by an expert at a college town coffee house. I bought a meat thermometer for the sole purpose of getting my steamed milk to 165 degrees Fahrenheit to achieve the optimal sweetness inherent in steamed milk. I aspire to home-roast green coffee beans. I'd say I am somewhat of a coffee aficionado. Thru my travels in the wild world of coffee, I'd have to say that the espresso, above all others, is as close to coffee perfection as one can get. Even the way the espresso is made is perfection. Take finely ground coffee, force steam thru it under pressure. Longer extraction time produces the lungo, which has more volume, but less strength. Less extraction time produces the ristretto, which is the perfect shot, with the most perfect essence of the coffee bean in a cup. I say all this because I just got back from *$ with an espresso and a drip-brewed coffee. They were beverages born of the same beans, but the espresso just embraced the qualities of the coffee. the espresso is making love to the coffee bean, while the drip-brew is merely having some cheap fun with it. On a side note - those percolators? Coffee bean rapists. They leave the bean feeling used, violated, and alone. And the poor souls who drink it are worse off.
In any case. If you like coffee and have never had the pleasure of a real espresso - go get one. If you can't drink coffee without french vanilla creamer and 8 sugars and a cinnamon sprinkle and a peppermint stick, or if you don't enjoy coffee, but rather view it as a tool to help you wake up in the morning - don't go get an espresso, because it will taste like boiled ass.

By God...

If I hear one more song about how far away Nashville is with a guitar on your back - I'm gonna burn the damn thing down.