This will probably be a negative review. If so, it will not be necessarily Java Lords’s fault. The coming of the new year has this tableauxist reflecting on the last 12 months, which have contained some of his life’s most abysmal moments since 2004. The upcoming months look to be no less of a test. From all accounts in the mass media, 2008 is the worst year in decades by numerous metrics, and far worse is yet to come – and that is the optimistic view. Thus, the typically discounted misanthrope finds himself surrounded by similarly sour minds.

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poured in: Atlanta, Georgia

Aurora would probably be the coffeeshop I ended up making a pilgrimage to on my visit to Atlanta if I were a wayward anti-tourist from Marked Tree, Arkansas or Searchlight, Nevada. It is a safe place that has a patina of freshness to it, it is in an area where one could easily spend an afternoon wandering, buying records, looking in a used bookstore, loitering, or eating some vegetarian indian food. It alone is not a destination, it is in support of a greater destination, its presence completes the entirety of a district that is found in every somewhat major city, the ‘funky shopping district,’ where you can buy patent leather outfits, stupid graffiti inspired toys, or jack kerouac texts, all while flexing your independence for the 4 hours that mom has allotted you to pretend you are a street-urchin. But as I said, this would typically be a destination for me as a wanderer. But for me as a resident, it merely exists as another place in the city that has worn out its welcome to me and teems with the archetypes of human annoyance.

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poured in: Atlanta, Georgia

As Tilt Coffeeshop was visited by two (2) Cafe Tableauxists simultaneously, we decided to post dueling tableaux, as a sort of ‘He said, he said’ experiment - a look at the divergent, opposing, and/or confluent views of a shared experience:

This was the first shop I had visited with Thos. since Mani’s Santa Monica in the fall of 1998, about 9.5 years ago, that neither of us had previously visited. This experience was pretty much the same as that one, although fleshed out a bit more by 10 additional years of repertoire rehearsal. We bickered and picked the place apart while trash-talking about people like Grace Lau, who, I would imagine, we would have just begun complaining about 10 years ago at Mani’s. It doesn’t really bother me that so little has changed. It is pleasant in a way that there is a constancy in the personality of the independent coffeeshop, even the new ones that keep stacking up on top of each other in the gentrifying corners of the country, that refreshes my spirit like bullshitting with an old friend.

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poured in: Atlanta, Georgia

Oh the new shop. Actually I don’t know how new. Thos. has been asking me to go here for some time I believe, and I have finally made it, on a rather non-descript early fall evening. With the new shop and the fresh I night I ventured to revisit an old piece of writing that has been on the shelf since spring awaiting my completion of another thing, but it doesn’t mind, it has been languishing for 6 years now, most of it in a completely unassembled state, and for the past 2 years, in a 1/3 complete state. My feelings for the shop, as is the focus of this site, were in turn corrupted by my attempts to reattach myself to this tired old text. The pattern of writing has seemed to be, write non-stop mess against a slightly linear outline, assemble into digestable paragraph blocks of similar length, blend edges of paragraphs, draw out major lines of imagery and action, write another sequence, etc. This revisitation finds me in the middle of a train of thought which I had closed the book on in the blink of an eye, all the direction left unzipped, and unresolved. So, diving into it in a new place made me feel doubly alien.

Luckily, I was not in such an unfamiliar place. Within the canon of coffeeshops, there is a limited palette of styles and atmospheres. What I found at Octane was comforting enough on two fronts to allow me to sink into the worn armchair (armchairs at a small circular table! genius, the table is for beverages only of course, composition is done on the lap) and sew up my memory. Two fronts: the aesthetic and the social. Octane is in the school of Portland’s Stumptown and Atlanta’s own Inman Perk (although not quite as designed). It is an intensely volumetric space, the lighting has sparkle, the surfaces are used and abused, but tempered with slick cold treatments in bars and furniture, and new storefront glass, in short, everything feels like it is reflective, even when it is dull and decrepit. But perhaps more soothing to me was the clientele. I don’t know if it was that night in particular, but the place was filled with geeky looking folks wearing ironic t-shirts touting that “as a matter of fact, the earth does revolve around me,” girls with greasy ponytails, and professional student types sporting those yellowy clear braces that are clearly braces although they look more like placque and the person still looks like they have an orange rind in their mouth when it is closed. This is comforting because these people are clearly from my alma mater, Georgia Institute of Technology, and although I never spent time with their ilk during my matriculation, their presence puts me in the old psychology building studying for an history test while listening to Tiamat on my Walkman, or falling asleep in a chair on the top floor of the library, that big modernist womb.

It is strange to look at them from outside of the situation they are in, and I was once in, and strange to look at myself in a new coffeeshop, dozens of which seem to be springing up all over the city, to both my delight and chagrin, for I have undertaken the responsibility to haunt them all, when I would much prefer to go to Octane, or Inman Perk, or Joe’s, or Java Monkey. I still haven’t been to Maasty. I did not ever really enter back into the text. I’m not sure I really even entered into the stream of Octane either. There were too many associations abuzz, too many loose ends that were tickling my neck mutely. As with all of these places, it is not their fault, and I appreciate them for being little incubators that somehow rouse in me this nostalgia. Perhaps though, it is the beverage. I am reminded of the quote that periodically pops up on the front page: “As soon as coffee is in your stomach, there is a general commotion. Ideas begin to move…similes arise, the paper is covered. Coffee is your ally and writing ceases to be a struggle.” Lucky putain! Octane, I will figure you out!!!

poured in: Atlanta, Georgia

I’ve actually visited this coffeehouse (honestly I had just had a cuppa at Joe’s and was driving around and decided I had to use their restroom) So I bought a Cafe Latte for myself and Cafe Mocha for my mother while waiting for a our drinks to be prepared and after “my relief” I stood around with my hands in my pockets circling the whole room with my eyes. This place felt more like a futuristic Arcade than a coffeehouse. Neon Blues, Oranges, and Greens was the theme that was reflected throughout the space with the furniture. When you approach the counter, there’s this huge negative space between the furniture and the counter. So it’s feels like I stepped on stage to order a drink. There’s all this space they could’ve added way more furniture (not to mention serve more customers) to give it a more “cozy” effect. The soft-spoken mono-syllabic barista mumbled a “hi” and stood there waiting as if I was a regular and already knew what I wanted to order. I didn’t feel like she was willing to be helpful whatsoever. I looked up at the menu and noticed the very limited menu. No wonder she just stood there. Not much to offer! I tried to create convo by saying “So.. who’s your roaster ?” No answer. “Is it Batdorf or Intelligentsia or something?” mumbles with a shoulder shrug “Umm ok…. well cool ” Its not like divulging that information is the equivalent of a McDonald’s French Fry trade secret. But I get the feeling she had no clue as to what I was referring to.

As my mother and I got in the car , in unison , we took sips from our drinks and exchanged disgusted looks as if we ourselves made the drinks for each other. It was absolutely horrible !

So the ambiance was horrible along with its coffee. I hope they catch these issues in time because they have a pretty cool location and a lot of potential in a space like that. Ambiance and product quality are the most important factors here.

poured in: Atlanta, Georgia

On my return trip to Sweet Java Brown the place was called Gathering Grounds. They appeared to have the same operating hours, but, as I have been privately insulted for making an issue out of coffee shops that close absurdly early, I will not rail too much on the fact that Gathering Grounds closes at 8PM on weekdays. I managed to roll in on a Sunday at about 11AM on my way to work. The hours of the beleaguered black collar slob begin to run together, it takes a force to pry oneself free from the trajectory to the office, even on a Sunday, yet I did. What takes even more effort is to scoop out of one’s day the mental space to enjoy such a deviation.

I wrote that first portion about three weeks ago on an airplane flying to Texas. I had to stop because I grew afraid that we were about to fall out of the sky.

Revisiting now my feelings about the place I find more tenderness in my views. I let the hours slip from my radar and see a well put together little shop with pockets of space called into being by furniture arrangements and taller elements (which might be shelves, yes, in my mind’s eye they are shelves) that remind me of what Mani’s Santa Monica would have been if the furniture store and the coffee shop that occupied a 5000sf space were drawn down to a more cozy 900sf. There was one strange detail that I did not care for. Instead of a wainscot or chair rail, there was a fairly heavy steel angle bolted to the wall at precisely the height that my ear would fall sitting in a seat close to the edge of the space. Although I am not so rude as to presume that it would be acceptable to lean my greasy head against the wall, it stirred discomfort in me just by making me picture how frustrating it would be to want to lean against the wall and find a cold unfinished piece of steel against that bony protuberance behind and slightly behind my ear.

There was one reason why I could not stay long that was not related to my desire to get to work. The clientele that was in the space with me was a bit too ‘regular’ for my taste. I like regulars. I have even been one for short periods of time. But there is a character within the pool of regulars who I find intolerable: the regular who wants everyone to know how regular they are. They force the barista to recognize it, to tout it for them. “You know Marcus needs space in his cappuccino for honey, right?” “Oh yes, I always forget that.” Or, “Do you remember that dog that was hanging around in the lot across the street?” “Yes.” “Janine finally caught it. She is taking care of it until she can find someone to adopt it.” “Here is Janine’s hazelnut steamer.” There is also the aspiring regular, who sits near the bar and attempts to insinuate theirself into conversations with other regulars, or to distract and garner the attention of the barista by starting catchy conversations. What is most painful, and what drove me to the door, is the failure of such aspirations, most notably, a baited prompt that began, “I saw Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young last night, they played for 3 hours.” “How was that?” “It was intense.”

poured in: Atlanta, Georgia

As an ‘architect’ I regularly struggle with my fluctuating attention to the specificity of designed environments. I realize that every manmade condition is ‘designed,’ and so are many so-called natural settings. The way in which my attentions shift are as follows. Certain conditions exist in such a way that they trumpet the human ingenuity that wrought them, materials are used in new ways, environments are tailored toward specific atmospheric effects, furniture, colours, and fixtures are composed with the space toward a tableaux that begins to have a voice, a recognizable, if not understandable, enunciation. These are self-conscious designed conditions, and as they beckon appreciation from the world-at-large, they invite scrutiny from me.

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poured in: Atlanta, Georgia

Some things that are commonplace, and often visually associated with banal and infuriatingly mundane errands for those who do their jobs near it, are capable of arousing delight and mystery in others through their covert locations. It is very easy to be covert in Atlanta. Rule number 1: Locate where you are not visible from an automobile. ‹end rules section›

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poured in: Atlanta, Georgia

a creation scene painted on the ceiling. he (adam, joe?) reaches out languidly, recumbent on a flocculent drift of brushstrokes that blow toward the restrooms as if by force of the godhead and the divine finger, er, finger looped through a coffeemug handle. his finger is as limp as the miniscule penis he is rendered to have. his body is doughy in the fashion of a shaven adult baby. he regards the divine coffee indifferently, although the tempestuous glare of the godhead indicates that this is no trifling gift. does he ever grasp the mug, drink of it, stand up from his cloud, stand up to be a man like the men who made him, or does he recline eternally languishing, flaking, falling into mugs of coffee and being fished out in fragments that patrons flick from their scalded fingertips onto the massive leathery couch, or the rigid wooden chairs, or the dining tables in line as though a sequence of kitchen stage flats were lifted into the flyloft and forgotten. he has been there this long, since this place was called sacred grounds.

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poured in: Atlanta, Georgia

Every so often you encounter a place, that, late in your life, aligns with a place that you have been enjoying in your mind’s restful hours for many years. At this stage you cannot divorce the physical place from the one you believe you had remembered. Were you indeed remembering it, somehow traced past in your travels, peering through plateglass windows as a child, caught for moments in a film of warm nighttown, or was it a place that had grown out of the dissatisfaction with all of these fragmented moments, grown together to form one subtle impression, sketched in the meagre spaces of what you felt the world “should not be”, a place that was constructed by you as what you thought all of these things “should have been.”

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poured in: Atlanta, Georgia