Monday, December 27, 2010

My Coffee House: A reveiw.

For those of you who know me, which is everyone now reading this, in all likelyhood, you know exactly what coffee house I'm talking about.

Sizizis coffee and tea house in downtown Olympia plays host to the weird, wild, and wacky patrons that the rest of the town's coffee houses seem not to be able to attract. At least, that's the way that it seems to me, and various friends of mine.

Among other things, it's the only 24-hour anything in town. This coffee house, with woodwork rescued from who knows where (one rumour says that the bar façade was rescued from the first legal bar in Seattle), antique tables and chairs, and doorknobs on the ceiling (no seriously), has saved more grades in Evergreen than just about any other restaurant I can think of. Just a month or so ago I found myself sitting in the table by the door from two in the afternoon until seven in the morning completely rewriting a research paper after a blackout corrupted the half-finished file.

It boils down to this, I think: The place is almost always invitingly warm, except in the summer, when it becomes enticingly cool. The atmosphere is easy on the eyes (it's only when you come here in the morning that you realize just how dim the lights in here actually are.), the décor is easily described as "Steamgoth" (dark wood, antique tables and chairs, doorknobs and mirrored portholes on the ceiling, interesting lamps, and, at the moment, lighted, decorated tree branches mounted to the ceiling.), the door, with "Door to remain unlocked during business hours" painted in an elegant hand above it, not only swings both ways, but does not, in fact, have a latch, and the menu is incredible. There are upwards of eighty varieties of teas and infusions, along with the usual assortment of coffee products and coffee substitutes. They also have an unmatched syrup list, using syrups without corn syrup, which is rather important. I cannot think of any other coffee house... well, anywhere... where I can walk in and order a latté with anise syrup in it. They have a variety of baked goodies, pot pie, and soup. Something that makes me very, very happy about the above is that a good portion of the baked goodies, and most of the soups thusfar, are wheat- and corn-free. Considering I'm wildly allergic to both of those...

On top of the visual elements, the music that the baristas play makes the ethnomusicologist in me go "Squee". Right now, for instance, there is... something middle-eastern... starting up in the speakers, making me wish that the syrup list included cardamom, and I could create a faux-Turkish coffee. Top this off with a rotating local art show, and this combines into an especially pleasing caffeination experience.

And for my next wandering ramble, new boots, and what they symbolize.

Sunday, December 19, 2010

On Rights of Passage.

Last night, I assisted in giving my roommate's stepdaughter Devon her first tattoo. We packed up a mobile tattoo kit, went to the home of Tamia, who is my roommate Leslie's ex wife and Devon's mother, and I was put to the task of making a sanitary environment. When all was set up and everyone was more or less prepared, Leslie went to work on giving Devon her first tattoo.

There were two things that contributed to the rest of the night: Devon had chosen a gigantic design for her first tattoo ever, and had chosen to put it in one of the most painful places on the body to get one. Where is this place, you ask? The chest? The face? The lower back? Unspeakable places?

Nope. The ankle. Right along the nerve going up the leg.

Two and a half hours of screaming, cussing, crying, and trying to break my hand later, Devon had a tattoo of a very pretty, very powerful dragon, and everyone in the room had undergone a transformation. Devon now knew that she could survive anything, the worried mother and stepdad knew that their little baby girl was all grown up, and I was very acutely aware of just how strong the canvas for this bit of art was.

It had been a right of passage. Rather than weaving ants into mittens and making the prospective adult dance for hours with the ant-mits on, or walk over hot coals, or something of that nature, miss Devon has a new bit of skin-art to show off to anyone who is interested.

I have been witness to quite a few first tattoos. Usually the victim -- I mean, client -- chooses something small, puts it somewhere easy to conceal, and worried incessantly over whether it's going to hurt or not.

My own first tattoo I rather calmly read through most of it. My Zoie's first tattoo, which I inflicted upon her, was five and a half hours of sobbing, and an awesome octopus.

The first tattoo I did on myself was a memorial to the cat that had just died. Now she will forever be twining herself between my ankles, attempting to trip me on the stairs.

Hopefully in the next two weeks, I'll be putting an anti-shark charm on Zoie.

Friday, December 17, 2010

On Coffee, Family, and Names.

Here I am, sitting in my favourite coffee shop, across an antique table from my roommate and T-Sister, Leslie. I met her here this afternoon after work. We had both racked up a full punchcard, and felt like indulging in a nice, free, latte. In this case, an Anise Latté with my sister was just what I needed. 

I don't like coffee. At least, not just plain coffee. Coffee, too me, is just the canvas. A bitter, caustic, canvas. It needs layers to make it enjoyable.


A friend of mine once said, working on art at this same table, "This would be a whole lot easier if the table wasn't breathing..." I first met this friend about two years ago under the name "Persephone". She had been on oestrogen for about three months when I met her, and was a shy, demure girl of six feet two inches and size thirteen shoes. She wore a beret and covered her shoulders with a shawl and smiled in an odd way. She was the first tranny I had met, and I found her beautiful and fascinating. At this point, I still had no idea that I myself was Trans. Exposure to miss Persephone would change my life. 


In the time that I have known her, she has changed her name two more times. From Persephone, given because she failed to eat a whole pomegranate and left the remainder in her fridge for a month, she became Elissa, (Or perhaps Elyssa, or Elysa, I never was clear on the spelling), and from there became Layla. Right now, living in India, she is going by Leila, mostly because "Layla" is a Muslem name, which might garner the wrong type of attention. 


The spring of the year that I met her, we both found ourselves in visual arts classes. She elected to work in Printmaking, specifically engraving, while I ended up starting work on a comic. We foudn ourselves spending most of our money on art supplies, and the remainder on coffee at Olympia's only 24-hour coffee shop. It has an unpronounceable name, a gothic atmosphere, doorknobs on the ceiling, and plants that try to eat your hair. We would sit at the table in the corner, often till two or three in the morning on weekends, sipping flavoured coffee, eating penny candy, and working feverishly on art. My frantic erasure one night prompted her to accuse me of making the table breathe. Without fail, she would order a flower-flavoured latté, often jasmine or rose, while I would elect for anise. We were so regular that the barista would get down the syrops and the right size cups when we walked in the door. 


And then, one afternoon, I walked in without her. 


"Oh hi. Where's your girlfriend?" asked Inga the barista, pulling down the Anise and hovering over the rose.


All I could do was blink. It took me a minute to kick my brain back in gear and answer that we weren't dating, just good friends. Two days later, when we were back to work together at the table in the corner, under the plant that was trying to eat her hair, we giggled over that, and I drew an explanatory picture, intending to put it into the guestbook. Of course, it never made it, and I ended up with it tucked into my notebook, on our way back to the late night bus, with another page of comic book drawn. 


It's been a year and a half. My friend became my sister one evening, after making me laugh so hard I peed my pants. No one is allowed to do that but my little sisters, therefore, she must be so. 


I am only child. I was raised alone, wishing I wasn't. My father has three older daughters, but they all lived hundreds of miles away, and their mother prevented contact. Not only that, but I was home-schooled, which made the loneliness all the more acute. I had friends on and off, but few of them stuck around. That is, until I was fourteen, and was dragged by my father to the eleventh birthday party of one of his best friend's grandaughters. It was there that I met the girl in question, Zoie, and her cousin, Camie. We hated each other. Absolutely hated. I was crazy, manish, and arrogant, they were childish, girly, and stupid, and to this day I have met no one who could rival Camie in a Battle of the Pink. 


With so much hatred on all fronts, it took only until the end of the summer and my fifteenth birthday party to cement a friendship that has lasted beyond maturity, differing interests, moving away, and going away to college. As of right now, the Pagan Trinity are spread in a lovely triangle over two states. Camie and I live on opposite sides of Washington, while Zoie is in Oregon. However, when the three of us come together, civilisations fall and warlords quake in their furry studded boots. Me and my Little Sisters wreak havoc on the physics of those around us, and evil plots abound. 


It should be fear inspiring that this event will probably occur right after Christmas.  


Which brings me back around to Leslie, who is sitting across from me, having finished her Anise Latté, glaring at her own blog. There is nothing quite like a middle-aged tattoo artist going back to school and realizing that he is, in fact, a she...

Who am I?

My name is Rori. Rather, that's the Anglicization of the Gaelicization of a shortened form of my given name. The full form of my preferred name is Ruaridh, a Gaelophone name which translates to "Red King". As a readheaded transboi, this fits me perfectly. I am twenty two years old, and a senior at the Evergreen State College. I have been dressing as a man since I was sixteen and convinced my mother that boy's clothes hold up better than girl's clothes do.

My passion: Music. My other ten million passions: Everything else.

Most notably, however, I am a cyclist and a visual artist, manifesting in the hobby of being a webcomicer.

I am currently finishing up my BA, and will be shooting for a PhD in Ethnomusicology. My roommates, classmates, and friends have called me a "Mini Sean Williams". This is the teacher with whom I have studied the most over the past three years, and whom I idolize in no small way. More will come on Ethnomusicology, and Sean, in a later post.

I am slowly working on three webcomics, juggling them around school and what passes for a social life. Mostly, this is done in fits and spurts, when I have time. For instance, in the past week, I have completed about five pages of one, which is created entirely by hand, save for the lettering.

Before I turn thirty, I intend to complete the Great Divide Bicycle Race, which is requires over a hundred miles of bicycle travel a day, from Canada to Mexico, along the Great Divide.

Also before my thirtieth birthday, I intend to complete my Transition.

As a friend of mine once said, "So there's a shoe, some asparagus, and a tuna, but it's not worth mentioning that they are all deep blue, huh? Nice." What this boils down to is that I am obsessed with the sea, and all things nautical, particularly Tall Ships. The above quote was in answer to me filling out one of those "All about Me" surveys, and leaving out the nautical obsession.


And That, I believe, is the end of this introduction.