Chemically Imbalanced (espresso-jogged screeds)

SERBC: your stark-raving apology, right here

there’s crow. and then there’s your large-breasted, turkey-sized raven, fluffed to the size of nick cho’s hair, embalmed with liquified mr. crow, marinated in compote de crow-chick and basted in its own nest. i’ll take a full helping of the latter, with some jus de crow as a digestif.

because despite the automotive work, serial chest-thumping, 6 a.m. departure, nine hours of total driving, the infinite patience of this blog’s family and close to 10 cans of off-brand energy syrup, we have no video of today’s serbc. none. nary a flicker.

the Shameful Fiasco of Shame-Faced Shame went something like this: test the camera outdoors on the blogchildren, as a super-anal precautionary measure. it works! walk inside, push record, and track every momentous flick of the wrist for each of six solid finalists. no worky. it’s as if the device’s cyclops eye lapsed into a coma, and banished what it saw to a section of the brain where pictures are irretrievable. this blog, mind you, has a very familiar knowledge of this camera. the light was red. the beeps all beeped just right. the battery even ran out at one point (so we plugged it in). and yet, all i got on my digital tape is matt riddle putting fig on a sig. how does a camera run out of juice by not recording?!

at this very moment, this blog’s stat counter is racking up hits from all the usual watering holes, where dan kehn has promised … video! moving pictures, of baristi doing innovative things! yes, well. hullo. i can, uh, paint you word pictures … i’m a writer! nick’s shirt was pink, see? pink as his pink … uh, tie. nick was pink!

you. will see no valiant attempt by defending champ lem butler to stave off his challengers, at least two of whom surely had more money, access and time with which to train for his unseating. no lena abed, keeping a steely composure as nick cho, who was warming up nearby, flipped a hopper of beans onto the floor with a crash, then proceeded to walk all over them in his hard-soled shoes. no cho, burbling his test shots in his mouth in the peculiar manner of a blowfish or telling the story of coffee farmer ada — who was sitting in the stands. no judge marcus, with an expression that seemed to say, “keep it together. he’s just another competitor. you don’t know him, marcus.” no michelle bradicich, effervescing endearingly all over the place. no ryan goodrow, conscientiously going over time because he loved his espresso so much, he just had to redo two of the shots.

in the stands, lena must have kindly ducked under the NON-RECORDING RETROMINGENT STUPID CARPING RATSBANE CROW-HUFFING camera five different times — for naught. all that product in cho’s hair — for what? lem used the words “sexy foam” and “vortex” in the same sentence — but how will you know? the seed-to-cup imagery. the homemade candied pumpkin rind. the “secret sauce.”

*sigh* we will now weep gargantuan rock-salt tear-chunks. we will also wait to type a more coherent recap of the finalists and their drinks tomorrow, when the bile has receded from this blog’s trachea. that is, we’ll type what we can. the notes, they’re less than copious. we were manning the camera.

there is a proper way, i’m sure, to break this news to blogwife, who roused the midgets in the wee hours, fed them and changed them in skanky rest stops, whisked them out of the competition theater before they could disrupt, waited in the lobby two hours past lunch and soothed the crotchedy rascals all the way home. and it’s not, “hey! the, uh, camera didn’t work.”