Perhaps I should start with the scenery, which really wasn’t too bad. This coffee shop is positioned in an old strip-mall, next to a health food store, record store, and various ethnic restaurants. I guess overall it’s a pretty standard looking coffee shop–not too great, not too terrible looking either. Just an eclectic mix of couches, tables, and chairs. Baristas all looked like either “princess punks” or adolescent hippy girls that used to ride horses in their girlhood.

The awkwardness began upon entry, in which I saw one of my old bosses that I used to work with at the abortion clinic. I will give her the name Pat as a pseudonym, just in case she happens to look at this. Well, ol’ Pat, geez oh man, what a fucking thorn in my side she was. She was always talking down to me, or catastrophizing a very minor situation. One day I was walking a patient into the procedure room, and she stopped me to ask me why the volume on the t.v. in the waiting room was so loud. So I’m standing with this patient, who is all drugged up on Xanax, as well as practically butt-ass naked, and she wants to ask me about the volume? I asked her if we could talk about this matter later, and she proceeded to get in my face and ask me why she had offended me–wanted to “process” this matter immediately. She wouldn’t get out of my face, so eventually I just told her that I thought she was passive-aggressive. She took the opportunity to tell me that I really didn’t know what that meant, and that I had a deficient vocabulary. Well, maybe I do, but I know a crazy bitch when I see one–whatever you want to call it. Anyhow, on with the story. . .she was sitting right there when I walked in. Neither one of us acknowledged the other, although I’m sure she saw me. My significant other conveniently requested that we sit on a couch opposite of her. I kept trying occasionally to just catch her eye and put an end to the awkwardness, but she was taking the game of avoidance more seriously than I. Finally she left. . .

So we sat and drank our lattes, which were terrible by the way, enjoying the chit-chat of two lovers in love. After 15 minutes my old boss comes back in to pop a squat and leaves again. Suddenly, punk barista girl shouts across the cafe condescendingly, “hi guys, we’re closed”–out of no where, just like that. Everyone just stops in the middle of whatever they are doing, without any kind of warning, and are booted out the door. They hadn’t even begun cleaning the place, and it was only 9 p.m. I really just don’t know what to say about this. . .I’m just so baffled that a place of business would treat it’s consumers that way. Don’t get me wrong, I realize this girl probably just likes the power trip and everything–probably the only way she feels in control of her life or some psycho-babble like that, but come on. . .9 p.m. and that rude! This is an ongoing thing with Atlanta. I’m just continually disappointed with the ‘tude and the fact that coffee shops close so early here. What the fuck is wrong with Atlanta.

I hate this place–very much, and I would recommend that no one visit it ever again. You are only wasting your hard-earned money so that some stay-at-home graphic designer can wake up at 11 a.m., stroll in and enjoy a cup of Sumatra. It serves no purpose for the rest of us, and is simply taking up space for hair-braiding shops and Mrs. Winners–something that has true value to our society.

It is strange being at Java Monkey in the middle of the day. I usually frequent this coffee shop in the evenings, where the sounds of live music and poetry slams resonate through the cafe. Instead, Interpol or some other band is playing on the stereo system overhead. Java Monkey is by far my favorite coffee shop. The atmosphere is cozy, and it is decorated with second-hand furniture. The dim lighting and style of furniture gives this place the feel of a library/study. They sell wine and many different kinds of micro-brewery beer, so if you don’t want to get jacked up on caffeine in the evenings, or at all, you can choose among various depressant substances. For those who are interested, Java Monkey participates in fair trade, and prides itself on this code of ethics, indicated by the standards of fair trade listed on a wall. There are several different rooms in this cafe. The room in which you enter is occupied by tables, chairs, couches, as well as the registers. Turning left into the other room you will find yourself in the bar. There are two different patios, one which is covered and has a wood burning stove for those cool evenings, and the other is an uncovered, gated patio.

In the evenings you see great diversity in the clientele. . .students, professors, church goers, and others who are just trying to find enjoyable ways to occupy their time. There are only a few people here right now and they are scattered throughout the building. Today, I have the torn, red vinyl couch by the window all to myself. I don’t have to worry aobut sharing the space, or people looking over my shoulder to see what I am writing.

I guess what I’m most concerned about is how this cafe is making me feel presently. Like I said, in the evenings there is a high volume of cafe-goers, but today the scarcity just makes me feel like something is off, and being here is a surreal experience. Perhaps it is the dim lighting on a sunny day combined with a melodious droning noise coming from the speakers. Hanging out in coffee shops in the middle of the day just brings me back to my college years, smoking cigarettes and sipping espresso in the basement of some coffee shop while studying. It gives me a sort of eerie nostalgia. At this point in my life, coffee just feels like more of a night time thing.

I think part of what I’m feeling is the awkwardness of being here alone in the middle of the day. I usually don’t hang out by myself in coffee shops. I always have coffee at home, and I just think what’s the point unless you are using the cafe as a place to socialize. Funny how we feel the need to go somewhere with others, rather than just inviting someone over to drink coffee. Do people ever do that I wonder?

There is the faint smell of puke or some soured substance wafting from a corner. Ugh. So much for me not having to share my space with anyone. Just now this friend of a friend sat down across from me. This makes me feel awkward. I only met him once, and I really don’t feel like chit-chatting. I hate these situations. Do I keep my head down and avoid eye-contact, or do I just bite the bullet and say hello to just get the whole thing out of the way. He’s distracted me and now I can’t figure where I’m going with this.

The friend of a friend just reintroduced himself and we chatted for a few minutes about experimental poetry and Gertrude Stein. He means well, but sometimes these discussions just make me want to roll my eyes. Now there is this strange reverb music playing overhead and now I’m ready to leave. I love java monkey, but it just doesn’t do it for me during the day.

Although I would never go out of my way to get a beverage here, I have a nostalgic memory that still provides me with some humor. Two of my friends have gotten fired from Jittery Joes, and I actually had the uncomfortable pleasure of seeing my friend Cara get fired after she indulged in a wild night of magic mushrooms. Apparently, that following morning she came into work at around 6 a.m., still tripping and making frequent visits to vomit in the bathroom. Unable to hide her obvious intoxication, she told her co-worker Rachel, who was therein referred to as a mega-bitch. Some background information is needed on the Cara/Rachel relationship. Cara described Rachel as an overweight eat-beast, who was jealous of her because she attracted the affections of some regular smarmy European men. According to Cara’s sensibilities, Rachel’s malicious jealousy was the motivation to rat her out to the boss-man Mark, Mike, or something.

Cara was going to cut my hair one day (think Frenchie. . .beauty school drop-out), and before doing so we went to get coffee. As we were leaving, boss-hog came up to her and asked if he could speak to her. They walked over to one of those concrete tables, and not knowing what to do with myself, I was left to just stand there. He must have looked in my direction, because Cara said, “Oh, anything you have to say to me, she can hear too.” Although I would have preferred to withstand the sweltering heat inside the car, I awkardly sat down and heard a “Cara, you really need to shape up” speech. In an effort to defend herself, she explained that Rachel was just jealous of her, and that she had alcohol poisoning after having a couple of shots of tequila around 7 p.m. the previous evening. She was officially fired two days later.

When freely associating, the name Stumptown reminded me of the devoted self-sacrificing tree in “The Giving Tree.” By name only, I expected this cafe to be a sort of dive, where old grizzly Portlanders would frequent in the mornings before continuing with the daily grind. I pictured ratty sofas, paint chipping off of second-hand tables and chairs. To my surprise, Stumptown was Hipster paradise. Inside, one might say that the atmosphere was sterile and antiseptic, despite being in a brick building. The cafe was sparsely decorated with IKEA-like furniture, and on the coffee tables lay a wide assortment of hipster mags (adbusters, dwell, wallpaper). The dichotomy between building and furniture did not feel interesting or unique, but egregious to the extent that it lacked any personality. The burnt sienna coffee mugs were perfectly coordinated with the light pine buffet, in which sat the usual coffee accompaniments. Everything about this place was coordinated–clientele, furniture, employees.

On a more positive note, the coffee was good and I discovered one of the most amazing pastries I’ve ever been privileged to eat called a gibassier. A gibassier is an orange-anise flavored doughnut type thing, covered in granulated sugar. It was delectable. There is also patio seating outside, but make sure the person before you has left–it is a fierce competition to get a table, and apparently some people think that an empty coffee cup is sufficient to stake a claim.

Overall, this is not a place that gives you the warm fuzzies on a hard winter’s night, or any other day for that matter. I was too distracted by watching other people watch other people. If you are like me and enjoy an eclectic mix of people and an inviting ambience, then this may not be the place for you. However, you may have a different set of criteria for which you judge coffee shops and may enjoy the atmosphere–to each his own.