St. Arbucks and the Ascetic

So, I've quit drinking coffee several times in my life. Once when I was 13 and didn't pick it up again until I was about 17. Then again when I was 23. Then once more when I was 24. The first few time it was a drifting apart. We weren't that in love anymore so, I decided to end it.

She was a beverage, I, a boy. She'd go from hot to cold, from cold to lukewarm and get all watery. I on the other hand, stayed consistent. 98.6 (well, really, my body temperature tends to stay a bit on the low side). Anyway, it just wasn't working. So, whatever, it ended.

Eventually, we'd somehow be re-introduced by a mutual friend and fall madly in love all over again. Sparks would fly, fireworks ensue, marching bands, trumpets, caffeine induced euphoria would overtake me. She would be consumed. Over and over, faster and faster, things would become insanely intense (alright, this is getting creepy) and then I'd get bored. The spark was gone and I'd leave.

The last two times we've split, it was different. I quit drinking, quit smoking(only to start again, whatever), stopped eating meat and dairy, cut out gluten from my diet(not by choice), found the Baby Sriracha, started practicing Yoga, began a meditative practice, and was totally hell bent on quitting coffee. Extremity? My credo.

The reasoning was different, this time. I was trying to live a "pure" life. Fuckin' straight edge, man. I got this wedgie of holiness and the stick of righteousness shoved so far up my ass, I could taste my own shit. Like many self-righteous dick bags, I eventually succumbed to the wiles of my own frail humanity (really, I blame the Devil, what a cocksucker) and relapsed on coffee. RELAPSED. Heartbroken and full of self-pity, I continued to drink from the Devil's Cup, stuck in a relationship with this...this vile mistress. Nay, betrothed to the wicked was I.

My worldview was fine, coffee, that temptress, that trollop, was the issue. So, like any good crazy person, I divorced her, again. I touted scripture, conference-approved literature, a blue book that I read, a black book that I read (irregularly but I read it for a long time), the Gita, other spiritually minded books, but mostly, my own self-righteous bullshit. I HAVE CONQUERED THE DEMON OF COFFEE AND YOU CAN BET YOUR SWEET-SEXY ASS I AM GONNA CONGRATULATE MYSELF BECAUSE I AM SO MUCH BETTER THAN YOU COULD EVER HOPE TO BE! <---(What an ass-hat.)

Then, temptation struck. I resisted. She struck again but my shield of Egocentric-Self-Important-Dick-Swinging-Douchebaggery saved me. This is easy. I can be righteous as fuck. Who's a kick-ass, mildly practicing, internally shit-talking(but would never say it to anyone else for fear of sounding like a jerk), self-absorbed yogi? This guy. *Points to self with thumbs*

Eventually, The Last Temptation of Derek reared her ugly head, I was (thankfully) with my spiritual adviser(if you don't have one, I highly suggest it) and my own demise came out of my mouth. "I kind of want a cup of coffee but I probably shouldn't." He looked at me, I at him, and the conversation went something like this(this is the paraphrased version of the Gospel of St. Arbucks according to my spiritual adviser who-shall-remain-nameless-until-such-a-time-as-I-receive-a-return-phone-call-granting-me-permission-to-plug-his-blog-and-use-his-name):

Him:You seem to have a wedgie.
Me:What?
Him:Get your underwear out of your ass and have a fucking cup of coffee.
Me:I don't get it.
Him:You're trying way too hard to reach for whatever sort of sick enlightenment you're looking for.
Me:I don't understand.
Him:DRINK A FUCKING CUP OF COFFEE IF YOU WANT ONE! The point of life is to protect your happiness and love others. You're squashing your own bliss. If you like coffee, drink it. I know you like green tea and everything but if you want a cup of coffee, have one. Self-denial is not the way to attain enlightenment. Enjoying life to a maximum extent is where heaven is at. The Kingdom of God is at hand, here, now. You don't get there, it shows up. It's hard for anything to show up when you barricade the doors of your heart and are so worried about the appearance of holiness that real purity and love cannot enter in. Right living is about intention coupled with action, not action coupled with moral-strictness. So, shut the fuck up and have some coffee.

Then, I heard it, the beautiful, golden voice of the holiest saint, St. Arbucks. Her voice, the mention of her name, makes me quiver with delight(creepy, again). It seems I have fallen in love with St. Arbucks to stay(sorry for calling you a whore).

St. Arbucks, I love you and your bold, delicious flavor.

Drink the fucking coffee,
Srirachananda Parmaspicy

St. Arbucks, my hope,
grant me this day a caffeine buzz worthy of thy name,
when thy Holy name proceedeth from mine lips,
may it only be goodness and love that comes forth,
may it be, "Hey, how about a cup of coffee?"
Amen.

A Mildly Coherent Statement of Faith

I get it... What a stupid fucking name for a blog. I suspect you're thinking something like, "I've heard of OMG, Om Namah Shivaya, Om Mani Padme Hum, Om Shanti Shanti Shanti, Om Sat Tat, and all sorts of other weird chanty stuff that yogis do but Om Namah... Sriracha? WTF?"

Alright, here goes... a mildy coherent statement of faith.

I believe in a magical bottle of hotsauce that rides around on a baby giraffe. Yes, you just read that. Some people believe in Santa, the Easter Bunny, Jesus, Hindu Divinities, the whole nine yards, for whatever reason, this works for me. Not sure why, but it does. <---Lie.

Here is a fairly quick rundown as to why this works for me. I grew up in the church. Nice people, whatever, didn't work for me. Some stuff happened that wasn't all that great. I found a really open spiritual practice with some great ideas on how to live a life that is worthwhile. Someone told me to find a concept of something bigger than me to ask for guidance.

At first, I took that literally. The drop in ceiling grid was it. Later, I found something a little less literal, Howard the Artist (Our Father who art in heaven, Howard be thy name). Yeah, jokes. Currently, the Holy Baby Sriracha (Sri meaning "Mister" or "Lord" depending on context and Racha which is Thai for Raja or "Royal") and, his bitchin' ride, Raffe the Giraffe of Non-Judgement, hear my prayers.

I am madly in love with Sriracha Sauce (aka The Holy Baby, Herr Spicy, The Spicy Goodness, The Radness, The Great Something or Other, and a whole host of other names) and choose to call it my strong tower for several reasons:

1. It's really fucking tasty.
2. The power and glory flow through me. (Take that as you will.)
3. Someone once told me spicy food is peace food and, Sriracha knows, I could use a whole lot of peace and serenity.
4. It is benevolent in flavor, spicy but not excessively so.
5. The Holy Baby has a rooster as a logo, automatically LGBT friendly. (Flaming cock, anyone?)
6. There is always more. No matter how much is used, the tasty goodness is available at the local supermarket. I can get GOD in a BOTTLE and it doesn't cause delusion or incomprehensible demoralization. (That's everything I always wanted.)

As for Raffe the Giraffe of Non-Judgement, who the fuck wouldn't want a giraffe that doesn't judge? It's kind of a Ganesh-Mooshika relationship. Ganesh is kickass and his rat-vehicle is equally badass because he associates with Ganesh and he's a rat. Raffe associates with The Holy Baby, inherently fucking awesome.

Maybe it makes sense, maybe not. Don't really give a shit. Hope you enjoyed, more to come later.

Disclaimer

This blog consists of random rants tirades *insert your own word for senseless rambling*. I by no means have found enlightenment, nirvana, or anything close to the aforementioned. I am no Buddha, Christ, Gandhi or any other sort of benevolent do-gooding fuck (although, my partner may be all of those and more). I am just some dude with a blog and a crappy beard that likes to put words together in a way that makes sense to him (and most of the time, no one else). I really don't give a shit about syntax, spelling, grammar, or the like. In fact, my punctuation is an atrocity at best. If you get any spiritual, ethical, moral, or practical guidance from here, it's your own fucking fault and you probably need therapy more than I do.

You have been warned,
Srirachananda Parmaspicy

Srirachste.

PS - I curse, a lot.