My Co-pilot's a Coffee Cup...no, really.

There is a 3-foot tall coffee cup in my car.

I'm sure this is a hazard of the trade - of working in the coffee industry.  I've already had a few hundred bags of coffee in my car (the best air fresheners around - oh, new tagline!), so it was only natural that a giant mug would find a place as my co-pilot one day.

Hm, maybe "natural" isn't the right word.

Nonetheless, I do admit that it strikes me as odd that not 10-minutes before this entry, my lovely coffee cup was sitting in the front seat of my car, soliciting stares, jutted fingers (not the middle one, to my knowledge), and "...do you see what I see?" connversations from Best Buy shoppers and their small children (AKA soon-to-be Best Buy shoppers).

It makes me rather happy, to be frank.

Truth: There aren't enough oddities in life.  Sure, if you drive down Route 66 you'll see more than a few cockroach farms, large balls of string, and the world's smelliest block of Limburger (which, in itself, says something), but in your hometown?  The odd is missing.  And I like the odd.  I like it a lot.  I like seeing the unexpected, the unusual, and the downright rubber-neck worthy, stop-dead-in-your-tracks, call-all-your-friends-to-tell-them-about-it kind of displays of not-so ordinary life.

Like the 3-foot tall coffee cup in the front seat of my car.

For those who would like an explanation of the mug of a co-pilot, you'll have to do the following:

1. Go to Burlington, Vermont today, Saturday, October 17
   
2. A little before 4:30 PM go into City Hall and then Contois Auditorium
3. Enjoy the Fair Trade Celebration - and look for a very large, walking mug of (Fair Trade) coffee.  Can't miss it - especially since it'll be giving away Fair Trade coffee samples.  And by "it," there is a very high probability I mean "me."

Oddities: I'm one of them.

Who needs Horror - I have the Internet!

There are certain unfinished blog entries that I stare at for days. Truth be told, I'm sure I have more entries in the cue than I've submitted. There's an apprehension around posting them - a sense of unease around the content or merely the (un)polished nature of the piece. And so, entries sit in the cue as a draft, oozing with potential but lacking follow-through.

But why?

You see, the Internet is scary. We hear this from the lips of many, mostly aimed toward children and the college-aged crowd (which, admittedly, can often be one in the same): "Don't tell anyone where you live, Marvin - it's not safe." "You don't know who's looking at your pictures, Jethro - be careful." "Don't write about your wild party, Gertie - you never know if it'll get around."

[And before you ask: Yes, Marvin, Jethro, and Gertie could very well be children's names - no judging.]

The Internet is all potential - potential for good, bad, and in-between. It's a giant web of points of connectivity and, as such, it allows for infinite interaction: education, laughter, release, pain, distraction, conversation, agony, joy. In one word: sharing.

Ah, sharing. Now we're getting to the scary part, folks.

What to share? Share a new job? Share a new recipe? Share your divorce? What about your traffic accident? Or that mysterious lump under your left arm? One way or another, it's all up for debate because what you share on the Internet defines you in a single click. There are no take-backs - this one's for life, kiddo.

I've been told this over and over again, as I'm sure most of us have. I know the power of Google to ruin...well, everything. Or rather to direct others to one's ruin. Either way, ruin lays ahead if you post the wrong thing.

Yes, the "wrong thing." In that mindset, is it foolish to ask, "What's the right thing?"

So, back to my cued entries. Some are rotting; some hidden gems. Some personal; some occupational. Some one sentence; some a manifesto. And yet, all wait for my courage, my willingness to say, "Forget what others think - full steam ahead!"

But for now, I remember that the Internet is a scary place and retreat back to the comfort of my unplugged life. A place where a mob of dismissed blog copy can't find me.

At least, for now.