Mariachi for all!
I am in a silly good mood this morning. That's usually how it goes on sunny weekend mornings. Aided by a few gallons of coffee and good music, I feel as if the world is mine...all mine.
Cleaning the house together before I came to the shop (place of employment #2--See Below), Hunter and I listened to the music of this band of his youth: Trite lyrics yet really catchy riff-y-ness that encapsulated that early-90s Neil-Young influenced alt-country-rock bidness.

As he swept and I did dishes, I felt clever for correctly guessing lyrics. Here, let's give you a try:
"I wanna be a star/
Every night down at the ____"

Brilliant, you are!

Now at work, I've managed to hook up my minidisc player to the receiver, freeing myself from our satellite music service and having to choose between the "Folk Rock" channel and "New Wave Flashback." My favorite is actually the Mariachi channel, but even those tunes are becoming a little too familiar. So this morning, I am Musical Dictator of the gift shop: You there, lady! The one sniffing every single incense stick! It's Calexico for you!

Alice, why the freaky dictatorial spirit today?
Glad you asked.
You know, it's a very good thing I've never experienced cocaine, because I'm certain I would never be able to give it up. I'm not kidding--I love everything about coffee: the flavor, the ceremony of brewing it and pouring it and holding the warm little ceramic cup between my hands in the wintertime--the smell sometimes takes me back to my grandmother's kitchen when I was small.

But really, it's the caffeine, mang. It electrifies me, inspires me so hard that I sometimes begin to feel downright hypergraphic. It's the best feeling in the world. And, compared to the energy-crash that inevitably follows, the caffeine-high seems very nearly spiritual in nature. At three or four p.m. on a caffeine-drenched Sunday, when the very pressure of gravity has abruptly skyrocketed to the point where I can move my unwieldy limbs from the couch only with the greatest exertion, my gaze drifts over to the urgent spree of words I've written earlier with complete lack of recognition.
What was this creature which went on at such bizarre length about...alt-country rock from the early-90s? Who cares about music? Who cares about anything, when there's sleep, glorious sleep?

Gives it to us!
I have actually stopped pimping the beeswax lotion-bar to customers I don't like. Not that we're supposed to actually sell anything in the store, but when customers come by the register and say, "Oh! Something smells good," one's natural inclination might be to tell said-customer what that something is.

But if I deem the individual to be rude, obnoxious or otherwise unworthy, I will not expose my sweet beeswax sample-bar to them. Neigh, you may not go home smelling like the very Nectar. It is not for you , Frappucino-toting loud-mouthed one.

You, nice sympathetic lady, I may invite to touch of its honeyed surface. But know: It is a rare honor.