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Act I: The Philosophy

Fat ass old village stove top aluminum machines double packed with Medaglia D’Oro nastiness at 9AM. This is how my uptown dial bean fix introduces itself to my head en route to waste the last vestiges of morning coma. Slacking-instant-coffee-pond-water-rinse-drinking-fucks get to the back of the line…espresso styles put the boots on all mundane routines of ingesting that brown North American freeze dried, and paper filtered swill. Working an espresso places your ass firmly in the realm of a ritual which requires you to fully master its preparation, in order to not only suck maximum grats out of the bean, but also, to prevent manifestations of offensiveness. Indeed, anyone who takes their espresso seriously, knows that it is easier to forget a freak who slags your family, than to forgive a fuck who makes you a bad espresso. This then is both a tribute and guide to a tradition which not only allows you to clean out the haze you earned working the Jack and the bong the night before, but also pushes your creative head to kick full on when intrusive thoughts of moving to aWest Coast beach begin to fuck up your urban expression.

Act II: The Process

So, here are the tools you’ll need for the gig: an old village (vechia paease) stove top espresso machine (which you can steal for about twenty bones), a can of fine ground Medaglia D’Oro espresso, cold water, a heat source, an espresso cup, sugar, a spoon, and a strong brand of cigarettes. When you’ve got this shit together, unscrew the espresso machine and familiarize thyself with its mighty components–the espresso reservoir lid, the filter and the water reservoir bottom. This sacred trinity must be handled as gently as you would wish your cojones to be worked. Never fuck with machines that give you sustenance and never allow people who listen to shit like the Spin Doctors to touch your unit. This may seriously undermine the spiritual quality of you ‘spress, and give you irrational ideas like visualizing yourself as a guest star on the next Tony Little infomerciall. If some totally wack white-ponce-boy, wearing a pair of Dockers and a Gap shirt checks out your machine–say , at a party where you and your crew are too fired to work the door, thus letting some English/Psychology double majors sneak by–immediately lose the unit. I’m totally serious about this spiritual purity scene. Would you let Rush Limbaugh ride your board? See what I’m kickin’ at? [I’d burn the fat fuck, and the board.]

Nonetheless, with spiritual quality intact, the first step is to rinse off the three components with a baptism of cold water, in order to ensure that the brew is clean. Next, fill the water reservoir bottom with cold water, up to the brass button. Never use hot water because, as every man knows, impatience and short-cuts are symptomatic of irresponsibility, which, in turn, always fucks things up [remember that ‘O’-ring shit when the space shuttle got pasted?-same principle]. With the cold water on stand-by in the reservoir bottom, take the filter and pack it to the rim with Medaglia D’Oro. REMEMBER, the tighter you pack the load, the stronger the fix. Next place the filter into the bottom reservoir with the bozack end pointing down. Finally, and firmly, screw the espresso reservoir lid to the bottom reservoir and you’re ready for flame baby!! Science is gonna make the water pass up through the filter and fill the top reservoir with that sweet Euro-juice. Work the high heat and, after a couple minutes of jones-ing, you’ll hear that sweet Roman sound of percolation, at which point you’ll turn off the heat and let the gold sit for a minute. Into the cup with the 2 ounces of the load, double the sugar, light the smoke and hit twice. Two times. Half a glass of ice water, [or cognac, if it’s past 6pm] shut the scene down.

Epilogue: Junkie Prevention OR How to Avoid Becoming Snaky

Espresso abuse is a growing problem among unemployed Europeans and young North American trendoid types who try too hard to shed their lameness in a quest to be noticed. Never, and I mean never, hit more than 4 ‘spresses per day [and rarely hit 4], or you’ll find yourself trippin’ over nonsensical shit like being out of frozen waffles, arguing with our friends about what the Statue of Liberty’s snoopy looks like under her big ass cloak, or trying to make sense out of how exactly it was that English orthopaedic factory boots made some white imperialist doctor’s estate really rich during the 1980s and 90s.

The espresso junkie exhibits more hardcore symptoms of abuse: endlessly yippin’ and yappin’ about shit you know nothing about; folding and refolding the cuffs on your jeans, and playing “Spoonman” on your empty ‘spress cups are all dead giveaways of over indulgence. If you bury too many hits of the bean, dilute your guts with ice water–and I mean seriously work that water. Nobody wants to listen to a snakey espresso freak…so, love your bean, worship the tools, and don’t let anybody poison your rush and creativity with bad vibes. If somebody does, just work it like the Romans did: “Via, via, brute!” [Go away ugly!]. Groove.

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