…into a nightclub, it is permanently disco

I’m hanging out in short-term parking at the Detroit Metro airport and listening to Coverville (something Noel’s been posting about) and talking to Danny on GAIM. That I had the necessary bits and pieces with me to get online where otherwise I could not, makes me feel horribly geeky.

Regardless, I’m here because Tara is on her way back from Connecticut. Her flight was delayed just over two hours because another flight was late, or at least that’s what I’ve heard about it. Tara thought she was getting on the plane so I left, then got another message saying they didn’t actually let them on then but ‘now they were.’ So here I sit waiting for my six-week-along wife.

It was actually a really quick drive into Detroit and I made a stop at exit 153 (kensington) because there’s a Mobil station I used to stop at often that has a superior coffee selection. Don’t get me wrong, these aren’t exactly the premium blends you would expect at say, your local Starbucks or Beaners, but they’re better than most gas station coffees. That having been said, it is important to note that as I started filling a cup with “cappuccino” the attendant pipes up with “that’s out of order.”

Sure enough the machine next to the one I was using did indeed say “Out of Order, flushing pipes.”

I didn’t know what that meant, but it sounded bad, so I disposed of my mostly empty styrofoam cup. Another attendant (who for some reason assumed my name was Mike) informed me that the other coffee should be OK so I moved to the ‘real’ coffee selections. No French Roast. 100% Columbian, luckily, was in stock. As I came up to the counter the attendant dismissively mutters, “I’m not making you pay for that.”

“Why?” says I.

“It’ll make you sick”

“But the other guy said…” and I trailed off.

“Alright, dollar twenty-five”

The conversation continued and I ended up getting the coffee, but upon my first careful sip I was disappointed because, of course, I had originally wanted something with taste and I ended up with Mobil station “columbian?” coffee.
So, here I sit, being deceived by the smell of coffee that cannot reasonably be consumed.

Tara ought to be landing soon.