Ode to The Doughnut Shop

Given the infestation of corporate coffee shops, the browbeaten drifters have begrudgingly relocated.

Sickened by the whine of the latest pop culture commodities, and spooked by the mechanical scripts of corporate serfs, we yearn for the aging coffee shacks of yore, the ones that were only grotesque in their literality.

Of course, the sterilized designer dens bred by the relentless creep of gentrification provide no relief for those with conscience and minimal means. An attempt to assimilate within the grips of such high brow hipsterism would likely only mean sweaty pits and a broke bank. So where’s a scummy cynic to rot?

Like a scorned lover, I turned towards the unfamiliar arms of another: The Doughnut Shop.

Ferrell’s Donuts in Santa Cruz, CA. Where it all began.

Once an affair I had engaged in only in passing, The Doughnut Shop became my primary refuge. I was enamored. The listless air. The piss-colored plastic seating. The aimless collection of disgruntled ghouls. The fly-encircled dough rings, speckled with sprinkles, cream, and the gleam of glaze. In short, the integrity of filth!

Behold the display. (Photo courtesy Pixabay)

I was relieved to find that I was not regarded as a ‘valued customer,’ nor the Other to be served, but rather a fellow dame with dark under-eye circles and a waning will to operate as prescribed, a partner in general wariness and shallow pockets.

Just as the most righteous of lovers are willing to rendezvous at all hours, The Doughnut Shop was open day and night, a stoic witness of social castaways seeking warmth. Hence, I dunked my woes in dough and drifted, sifted, and pored over the purpled prison of a solitude in flux.

I marveled at the mysterious stains on the ceiling, imagining an epic brawl involving infidelity and an airborne coffeepot, flung in fury. I smirked at this conjured scene. Thought: “I am familiar with deception.”

I am familiar with deception. Deception in love, sure, but also at large. Which brings me back to the dwindling vitality of our local coffee haunts, reduced to mirth by the monied swipes of the merciless, seeking to sanitize, dignify…

Huh.

Well, I say: Fuck that.

Resist their corporate gloss, their dollar dew. Worship the crust of a deep fried doughnut, the silt of a watery cup of joe. Ditch the plasticized preening of pretty uniformity in favor of loners, of losers.

And remember, Starbucks is not your home.