The Best of South Durham

If you want a great cup of brew-haha in the South Durham district, you go to Bean Traders in Homestead Market. BT's is one of those places that help you remember the smell of coffee in the morning when you first learned to love coffee. 

Have you ever had the experience of wanting something so badly, that you got out of bed, got dressed, and drove through the night looking for that something? That's Bean Traders. Casual coffee imbibers beware. Once you've had Bean Traders Bijou or Bodhi blend, you will not condone anything else.

Bean Traders is so good that when Starbucks launched its assault on the SoDu coffee market, it lasted three years right across the street from Bean Traders--you could see the front door of each establishment from the front door of the other. In the end, Starbucks surrendered, closed its doors, and begged the Village at Bean Traders to forgive them for their inconsiderate behavior. They forgave. The Village is like that. Their loyalty is fierce and they show no mercy but they hold no grudges.

If you want the best cajun food and zydeco, blues, and Nawlen's jazz, you go to Papa Mojo's Roadhouse in Greenwood Commons. Have you ever sucked crawfish heads? You will if you frequent PM's Roadhouse. Have you ever eaten gator tail? You will do that too. Have you ever danced in the parking lot under a full moon and not cared who your dance partner was? You will if you attend the open mic night on Wednesday evenings. Laissez les bon temps rouler? Yeah, baby, heaped up, pressed down, and running over.

And where do you find hot, fierce, intentional living? Where do you find examples of people living fully as human beings, without restriction and limitation? That would be Native Grounds. Many have moved on to other chapters and they are sorely missed by the remnant but, on any given morning you will still find Island Irv, the Enforcer, the Duck Man, Inspector Rivera, the Genome, Amy Normal, and the rest of the cast, enjoying the good stuff and doing the best they can to ignore the bad.

Not everyone wants to ride the wild wind and dance with the devil on Saturday night. Some just want a little garden to bloom and fruit in season. That's cool. But for me, sometimes the best I can do is stay tethered and wait for the wind to settle. What would I do without the SoDu? I do hope it survives the current infestation of vampire kittens.

Witch of Woodcroft

The Native Grounds Cafe sits just off Fayetteville Road in the Southpoint District of Durham and I had just opened the door to enter when I heard a familiar voice say, "So kindly don't speak rot to me." I was amazed to hear this voice because I'd not enjoyed the company of the Emperor of South Durham since before the holiday apocalypse. He spotted me as I entered and waved a patronizing hand.

"Ah, Genome, so here your are," he said.

I thought about denying it but couldn't think of a substantial argument.

"Come in and have a crumpet," he said.

"Thanks," I said but then immediately shook the bean for the barista who is fairly new and probably not yet fully cognizant of the Emperor's style.

"Did you bring that bag?"

"No, sorry, I forgot," I said.

"Well of all the muddle-headed asses," he said adding something about 'Others abide our question, thou are free,' or something like that. Meant nothing to me but perhaps you are familiar with the gag. Then he dismissed me with a weary gesture and called for another Earl Grey before turning back to his waiting audience.

I sat at a table with the Enforcer and Island Irv, as is my custom, and enjoyed a cup of the hot and strengthening until the Duck Man came in strewing the flu like tattered remnants of a bad dream. I decided it was time to head for the horizon and was in the middle of see-you-latering when I heard that familiar voice again.

"Pushing off?"

"I thought I would," I said.

"Can I rely on you not to bungle that job?" he demanded and I nodded in reply. I'm sure you know how it is when the circs demand tactful surrender.

"Tell me in your own words what you're to do," he said.

"Go the the sporting goods store--"

"--on Chapel Hill Road," he said.

"Right, on Chapel Hill Road," I said.

"--and get the large duffle bag. Now buzz off. The door is behind you. Grasp the handle and push."

Weaker men, no doubt, would have been sickened by having their morning cut into like this but there is a tough, bulldog strain in the Genomes that has often caused comment. I stood firm, took three qigong breaths, and walked out into the morning with a light heart, happy to have it in me to perform this little act of duty. Then something buzzed in my pocket causing me to retrieve my personal communication device and look at the screen.

I don't know if you were one of the gang that followed the most recent tale of high suspense and international intrigue involving the adjacent kingdom of the United States but, if you were, then you may recall that the events began with a tsunami of text messages.

At first glance, my phone now had about two dozen of the things waiting for me but closer inspection revealed only three. They all bore the same signature--Gladys, Witch of Woodcroft.

The first read:
'Come at once. Serious rift in fabric of universe.'

The second:
'Received no reply to msg come at once. Come at once. Reply.'

The third:
'What the hell! Why no answer. Must I cast a spell? What is wrong with people these days? Have all the decent men been caught up in the Mayan Rapture? Come at once.'

Again, I remained calm. Three deep qigong breaths and I was centered and ready for all that life might send my way.

I typed a reply and hit the send button:
'Sorry. Static and whatnot. Did you say whiskey or whiskers? Reply.'