The Pioneer Newsletter #17

Tuesday, Febuary 20th

Introduction Paragraph(s)

What’s the closest you’ve come to losing your damn mind in public?

I came pretty close.

It happened at Starbucks. This particular Starbucks was inside of a Ralph’s. And just to really set the scene, this Starbucks inside of a Ralph’s was across the street from another Starbucks that ironically sits perpendicular to a rivaling Von’s. Appropriate for true public meltdown, I was deep within a Russian doll of late-stage capitalism. So that Sunday afternoon, after a five-block stroll through my neighborhood - I arrived at the Starbucks within a Ralph’s, across the street from another Starbucks, that sits perpendicular to a Vons. I ordered myself a medium cold brew…light ice. But as I went to my pocket for payment, I realized I had forgotten my wallet. Y’all got Apple Pay? I do now. But this was then. This was nearly 20 minutes before I almost lost my damn mind. The “barista”, Chet (just assuming his name is Chet), could not have cared less. He shrugged and waited for me to leave so he could return to his staring contest with the hot bar.

I power-walked the five blocks back to my apartment, unsure if I’d return. It seemed like I should just call it quits. Move on with my day. Maybe make some pour-over on the stove. But, across the room, that wallet called to me like a beacon of hope - or at least like a beacon of chilled Joe. So I walked right back out that door to finish what I started. I marched through the parking lot, into the Ralph’s, and up to the Starbucks. I tried to politely smile at Chet as to say Hey…it’s me again. But upon reflection, I believe my smile was far more manic and probably gave off something like, REMEMBER ME, MOTHERFUCKER? Regardless, Chet could not have cared less. He had as much personality as the automated check-out machine that will inevitably replace him. Unshaken, I ordered another medium cold brew…light ice, and WITH PRIDE, tapped my plastic on the card reader. Stepping away from the counter, I felt a pre-Joe jolt of energy. Similar to when I butter my station wagon into a tight parallel on Sepulveda or fire through a world geography category on Double Jeopardy, I felt a skosh of accomplishment rewarded by my small amount of determination.

I slid over to the pickup station and observed Chet as he prepared my order. A medium cold brew…light ice should be simple. Such as a gin and tonic, the ingredients are conveniently stated within its name. A medium cold brew…light ice should be the easiest beverage Chet gets to make all day. All he has to do is pour the already-made cold brew from a plastic pitcher into a plastic cup and fill said cup with slightly less ice than he usually does. Chet almost did this. He came so close. He filled the cup with a light amount of ice but then poured just half a cup of cold brew. What followed was a car crash in slow motion.

I watched Chet bring my drink over to the - sink - and top it off with lukewarm tap water.

“For The Pioneer?” Chet then mumbled. I grabbed the beverage in disbelief. I had already ordered it twice. I didn’t have the will to order the beverage once more. I stepped away from the Starbucks, out of the Ralphs, and into the parking lot both shocked and confused. Did Chet just not want to make another batch before his shift ended? Does Starbucks HQ have specific bylaws that pertain to the rationing of cold brew upon requests for…light ice? Regardless of his reasoning, Chet knew the odyssey I had gone on to buy his coffee. Chet knew just how badly I wanted it. So my befuddlement quickly turned to rage. A wildfire burned inside of me. I felt like an unmasked patriot on a Jet Blue flight or a dad with polarized Oakleys nailed to his forehead, ready to unleash hell on a fifth-grade basketball referee. I wanted so badly… to lose my damn mind. This is how it starts, I imagined. I pictured it all right there. I’d hurl my coffee at the automatic doors. I’d storm back into the Ralph’s and up to the Starbucks. I’d confront Chet and show the world, or at least this Starbucks within a Ralphs, just how egregiously I was wronged. For a moment, pure animalistic rage was my answer to injustice. But I imagined it all once more. This time with a comments section and a share button in the bottom right corner. I remembered exactly what I thought of those individuals who’d reached their breaking point. Whether or not they had a point, losing their damn mind in public played out more like guerrilla theater tactics rather than justice. So I took a deep breath, turned around, and headed home. This Russian doll of late-stage capitalism and its hired gun, Chet, got $4.95 as well as the best of me. I’d have to suck it up. Both metaphorically and physically - as I began struggling through my watered-down, lukewarm coffee.

I really almost lost my damn mind, everyone. I was almost, that guy. I stormed up to the cliff of rage and looked over the edge. But I resisted the crushing constraints of our modern existence - in this case, rationing of cold brew - and instead fell back in line. Maybe one day I’ll rage against the machine. Maybe one day, I’ll lose my damn mind in public. But until then, I’d like to ask you once more…

How close have you come?

Callum Turner: The Patron Saint of Long Sleeves

You may know Callum Turner as Dua Lipa’s new boyfriend. That’s fair. It’s hard to miss them galavanting around Los Angeles and London - making out as they wait for the crosswalk or making out as they wait for the driver or making out as they wait for just about any telephoto lens to spot them through shrubbery. You may also know Turner from his recent double down in Boomer-core film and television as both a 1936 Olympic rower in The Boys in the Boat or World War II bomber pilot in Masters of the Air. But I bet you have no idea that Callum Turner is also the patron saint of long sleeves.

Long…sleeves? Trust me, I know what you’re thinking. Whether in the form of a flannel, henley, or sweater - wearing sleeves is not a style but rather just a state of being. So how does 34-year-old British actor, Callum Turner, make wearing long sleeves a statement? I do not know. I really don’t. What I do know for certain is that he’s really really good at it and he wouldn’t be caught dead with his forearms exposed.

Turner first popped onto my radar in the 2017 flick The Only Living Boy in New York. The movie is quite forgettable but Turner’s layering of multiple long-sleeved shirts was not. I count three right here. On most, it would look almost disheveled or indecisive but Turner instead gave the look a real sense of individuality.

I then caught Turner in Emma, a slept-on 2020 Jane Austen adaptation. This still comes from an on-set interview, where Turner’s commitment to long sleeves really begins to gain momentum.

Turner then fell off my radar for a few years as he cashed checks in a Harry Potter spinoff series that I believe is titled Fantastic Intellectual Property and Where to Find It. But thankfully, the patron saint of long sleeves has risen once again. He’s getting serious with Dua. He’s hitting red carpets with Austin Butler. Callum Turner is here not only to be a movie star, but more importantly to make us feel bad about our long-sleeved shirts. Because when we put them on, we’re just mere morals. But when Turner steps out with his forearms covered, he becomes Callum Turner…

The Patron Saint of Long Sleeves.

I’d like to imagine he lent AB that sweater from his private collection

Recs

Mr. and Mrs. Smith (TV Show) - Sort of like Ocean’s Twelve, Marriage Story, and the original Mr.and Mrs. Smith all wrapped together. Surprisingly, my least favorite part is the espionage - I’ve got issues with its logic sometimes. It instead thrives in its quieter moments. Maya Erksine and Glover are trying something different and TVs better for it.

The Age of Innocence (FILM) - Scorcese took a detour with this one and GOD BLESS HIM. Starts out slow but Daniel Day Louie, Pheifer, and Wynona Ryder really start cooking with gas midway through. What’d y’all do Saturday night?

white noise (SOUND) - Just starting to unlock the final 90% of my brain function as I cook through work with the soothing cerebral sounds of white noise coursing through my ears.

---

Conclusion Paragraph

I have two heroes this week. I hate that I love them. I hate that I can’t quit them. But once I put them in my ears again, it felt like they never left. I caved, everyone. I bought a fresh pair of airpods. If you’re wondering just how many pairs I’ve lost previously, my phone reminded me immediately once I connected them as this pair was giveth the name Pioneer’s AirPods #5. A storied lineage of flushing $90 down the toilet each year. If you’re questioning that price, I buy the cheapest ones. You can still find them at Target. And guess what? These airpods are now vintage. Just as film cameras were pushed aside for digital point-and-shoots, I’m predicting the wired buds fad will soon make way for a vintage airpods craze. So if you catch Kristen Stewart moping around Eagle Rock with some first-gens…don’t be too surprised. Head to Target while they last.