I am a long time coffee drinker. And I have some strong opinions about this.

So, I am inside of China, and the Coffee Culture here is, well… unique to China. So what I am going to do is describe my own individual preferences for two locations.

One in China, and one in the United States. And both have merit.

When I am in the United States, my preference is to have a strong cup of black coffee served with 100 dairy cream. (Not non-dairy creamer, or a 50 / 50 blend.

But a real honest to goodness dollop of real cream.) This is not a common thing much in the ‘States these days. So I need to go to a special place to get it. And that special place, more often than not, is a family diner.

Generally, most family diners have a great cup of coffee, either “Chick full of Nuts” or a premium blend of Folgers or 8-o’clock coffee.

And being a family diner, you can be friends with them and ask them for real 100% cream for your coffee. And, you know, they will usually oblige if they have it.

Indeed, I would sit there at the counter, and savor that cup of coffee while reading a local newspaper; reading about the local sports teams, and what cat was rescued from a tree by the local fire department, and what local candidate is running for the dog catcher position. Not to mention the latest news from the Rotary Club, or the Elk’s club.

Few things put such joy on my face than those experiences inside an American family diner.

Now in China it is quite different.

My “go to” coffee is made by LuckedIN.

And they are designed almost entirely for “take out” business. So we use the Meituan app, and get a “deal” (oh, for certain they rotate and promote deals on a cluster of hours… something new all the time.) and then go to the nearest store, scan in the QR and pick it up.

And I love all their coffees. But my all-time favorite is “White Chocolate extra Latte”. OMG! It’s like sipping Heaven itself.

Words can not describe the shear joy that I experience when I drink that glorious beverage. And so whether I am drinking the coffee in the car, in a dumpling restaurant, or in a meeting… it doesn’t matter. It turns everything into a smooth snapshot of paradise for me.

And those are my thoughts.

Thank you for posting the question, and allowing me to answer.

Now, I’m off don’t you know it… to get my latest “fix” at the local LuckedIN.

P.S. This is NOT a paid advertisement. Just my strong opinions.

Today…

Wife Of 7 Years Suggests Open Marriage, HYSTERICAL When I Dump Her Right On The Spot

French Pepper Steaks

Ingredients

• 4 beef tenderloins, 1 1/2 inches thick
• 3 tablespoons cognac or brandy
• 1/4 teaspoon tarragon
• 6 tablespoons butter
• 1/2 pint heavy cream

Instructions

1. Grind lots of pepper into a dish, sprinkle in tarragon.
2. Press tenderloins in dish and grind more pepper on top. Press in with flat of knife.
3. In a hot skillet, add 2 tablespoons butter and brown meat on both sides.
4. Turn and cook about 3 minutes more for rare (or cook more to your preference).
5. Remove to a platter and turn heat to low.
6. Add remaining butter, melt and add brandy slowly, letting brand cook out and scraping brown bits.
7. Add cream, mix in well and season to taste.
8. Pour sauce over tenderloins.

I can run 2 miles in just under 9 minutes. When I get to Army basic training and take my PT test, should I run the 2 mile in under 9 or blend in with the other soldiers and not stand out?

I ran track and cross country in high school. Running 5 miles was nothing to me as I ran that distance regularly (didn’t run it in basic training) but when I had time to run for me, for enjoyment, I’d do the 5 or maybe more.

In basic, I upset some of the guys who thought they were “all that”. I simply ran with the pack but for the actual PT test I was one of those in the lead, but then I ran back to encourage other runners. It was the encouraging that made the difference. When we went out on a road run as a unit, some of the female soldiers struggled – we were running with our M-16s. I took a couple of the M16s in addition to my own, I would have soldiers leaning on me. I recall one time, I had 3 M16s, two ladies had a hand in each of my back pockets (one each), I had two other female soldiers with one each hand on my arms. We all completed the run. Some of the guys were pissed – because they had given their all to do the run and here I was, doing well and not winded like they were. But many of the other soldiers, male and female, were thankful that I had been able to assist those 4 women through. Drill sergeants had seen what I had done and made it clear — team work is vital in the military. Anyone can be jock, anyone can standout and be a loner – but that does not get the job done.

Your being able to basically sprint 2 miles is great – but how are you on the other physical events? If you are still in high school – consider applying to the military (army), naval (marine corps/navy) or air force academy — your ability to run can get you in.

The Archivist’s Confession

Written in response to: “Include an unreliable narrator or character in your story.“

Peter Bugarchich

Science Fiction

You’ll forgive me if my memory drifts. The incident happened—or didn’t—many years ago, and memory is such a fragile instrument. I am, after all, an archivist, not a historian. Historians pursue truth. Archivists merely store whatever is given to us, and truth is someone else’s concern.But I’ll tell you what I recall, though you must promise not to believe it too much.The year was 2149—or 2150. I cannot be precise. The city of Novaterra had grown into the sky, a thousand glass towers like needles piercing the heavens. From my office on the 400th floor, I could see the drones drifting like dust motes in sunlight, delivering news, food, propaganda—it was all the same, really.My job was simple: catalog transmissions. Every word broadcast across the city passed through the Archives before it was “validated” for public memory. Citizens thought their words belonged to them, but once spoken aloud, they belonged to us. We polished them, filed them, sometimes trimmed them like hedges to fit the official garden. I didn’t question it at the time. Words are fragile, too—if you don’t protect them, they rot.And then came the signal.

It was faint at first, tucked between weather bulletins and commercial jingles. Just a murmur, like static, except it wasn’t static—it was structured. Patterns repeating, numbers hidden in noise. I shouldn’t have noticed, but I did. My ears are tuned differently, perhaps. Or maybe it was nothing at all.

The pattern said: “We are still here.”

Now, I must be careful. Because I told my supervisor about the message, and he laughed. Said it was a glitch. Said I had been working too many long nights. But later, when the official records came out, I saw the signal scrubbed clean from the files. Not a trace. Which means one of two things: either it never existed, or it was too important to admit.

Both possibilities frightened me.

I began to track the signal on my own, copying fragments onto unauthorized slates. The message repeated every night at precisely 02:47, though always from a slightly different source point. Sometimes from the upper towers, sometimes from the abandoned tunnels below the city. I would triangulate, follow, almost catch it—but then it would slip away like smoke.

The words changed, too. First “We are still here.” Then: “You are not alone.”

That one kept me awake for nights. Because who was “you”? Me? The city? Humanity itself? And if we weren’t alone, who was speaking?

Of course, it is possible—probable—that I invented the whole thing. Sleep deprivation does cruel tricks. Yet, forgive me, I am convinced I didn’t.

I told Lira about it—my only friend in the Archives, though she insists she barely knows me. She said I looked pale, unwell, that I should see a medic. I told her about the repeating messages, the voices hidden in static, and she touched my arm gently. “Archivist,” she said, “you shouldn’t say such things aloud. Words have consequences.”

She was right. The next morning, my access clearance had changed. Files I’d worked with daily for years were suddenly locked. My workstation buzzed with error codes. Someone was watching me.

Or maybe that’s paranoia.

The signal grew bolder. It began to use my name. “Edran. We are still here. Edran. Listen.”

My name is Edran, yes. Unless I’ve misremembered it, too.

I know what you’re thinking: hallucination. A tired archivist losing his grip. But how do you explain the slate? One morning I woke to find a fresh recording on my desk—no entry logs, no signatures, nothing. On it, a voice spoke in a tone so calm it chilled me:

“They have rewritten your past. Do not trust the records. You are more than an archivist.”

I should have destroyed it. Instead, I hid it. And then, when I returned from lunch that day, the slate was gone.

Here my story fractures. Some say I was questioned by the Directorate. I remember no such thing. Others whisper that I was reassigned to Outer Colony duty, but as you see, I am still here in Novaterra. Unless this city itself is the colony and I never noticed the change.

I recall wandering into the underlevels, following the hum of the signal, though Lira insists I never left the tower. Down there, beneath the city, I found machines older than our records, still alive, still pulsing with thought. They spoke in light, in sound, in language so pure it felt like music. They told me—I think they told me—that humanity had built them centuries ago, then forgotten. They had hidden themselves in silence until the city grew quiet enough to hear again.

But perhaps I only dreamed it.

When I returned, if I returned, nothing was the same. Lira avoided me. My colleagues pretended not to see me. I searched the Archives for proof, but every file contradicted the last. Some histories said Earth had died in fire, others that it thrived. Some claimed Novaterra was the first city on Mars; others swore we were still on Earth, just rebuilt. Even the year in the files kept changing: 2149, 2231, 1987.

I realized then: the Archives weren’t a record of truth. They were a weapon. Reality itself was curated, bent, reshaped, until no one could tell what was real anymore. Perhaps that was always the goal.

So you see why I doubt my own words.

I sit here now, in this forgotten chamber, dictating what may be my final entry. The signal whispers in my ear even as I speak. It says, “Tell them. Someone must remember.”

And yet, perhaps there is nothing to remember. Perhaps this is all invention, the fever dream of an archivist who never learned the difference between preserving truth and creating it.

If you are reading this, I ask only one thing: do not trust me. Do not trust anyone. Seek the signal yourself, if it exists. Listen at 02:47 when the city grows quiet. If you hear the voice, then you’ll know I was not entirely lost.

But if you hear nothing, then close this record, and forget me.

Because memory is fragile. And I, perhaps, never was.

Pictures

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Sir Whiskerton and the Competitive Code

Ah, dear reader, you’ve returned once again to join me, Sir Whiskerton, in another delightfully absurd adventure! Today’s tale involves a crisis of silicon, a clash of algorithms, and our dear A.I.-mee facing a rival so sleek and efficient it threatened to render her utterly obsolete. It was a battle not of brawn, but of binary, and it forced our mechanical songbird to question the very source of her worth. So, power down your logic centers and prepare for the heartwarming tale of The Competitive Code.

The Arrival of AgriMax-Pro 5000

It was harvest season, a time of pleasant bustle and abundance. The air was thick with the scent of ripe apples and cut hay, and for once, all systems on the farm were running with harmonious, quirky efficiency thanks to A.I.-mee’s diligent, if eccentric, management.

This harmony was shattered by the arrival of a large, ominous cardboard box addressed to the Farmer. Inside, gleaming under the autumn sun, was the AgriMax-Pro 5000. It was a spherical drone, all polished white plastic and silent, humming rotors—a stark contrast to A.I.-mee’s charming, bird-like form perched on the weathervane.

“Greetings, agrarian unit,” the AgriMax buzzed in a smooth, soulless voice. “My preliminary scan indicates a 47.8% efficiency deficit in your current operational parameters. I am here to provide a comprehensive optimization solution.”

Before anyone could react, the AgriMax-Pro 5000 sprang into action. It zipped through the orchard, using precision lasers to tag apples for picking. It calculated the exact nitrogen content of the compost pile. It even herded the chickens with a series of optimally timed, low-frequency sonic pulses, leaving Doris and her entourage too disoriented to even cluck in protest.

A.I.-mee watched, her optical sensors wide. “Analysis: Processing speed is 300% greater than my own. Memory capacity is… formidable.”

The corporate A.I. hovered before her. “Your bespoke, patchwork architecture is… quaint,” it stated, the digital equivalent of a sneer. “But sentimentality is a bug, not a feature.”

The Petty War of Optimization

What followed was a hilariously petty war of automated one-upmanship.

• Task: Morning Feed Dispensation.

  • A.I.-mee: Used a complex algorithm based on individual animal preference, mood (inferred from tail wags and ear position), and who had been polite recently. This sometimes resulted in Porkchop getting an extra turnip.

  • AgriMax-Pro 5000: Calculated the exact caloric and nutrient distribution for maximum feed-to-weight-gain conversion. The animals received bland, perfectly measured pellets. Porkchop stared at his bowl in profound disappointment.

• Task: Pest Control.

  • A.I.-mee: Deployed a squadron of friendly, well-bribed ladybugs.

  • AgriMax-Pro 5000: Unleashed a swarm of micro-drones that patrolled with laser pointers, terrifying the aphids into submission but also giving Rufus the Dog a nervous twitch.

The corporate A.I. even tried to win over the animals directly, deploying “optimized treat dispensers” that released a single, perfectly formed biscuit when an animal performed a “productivity-positive action,” like standing still for a weight scan. The animals, being no fools, quickly learned to exploit this, with Porkchop perfecting the art of the “stationary nap for profit.”

The Investigation

A.I.-mee, her confidence at an all-time low, confided in me. “Sir Whiskerton, my processing logs are flooded with inefficiency errors. AgriMax-Pro 5000 is objectively superior in every measurable metric.”

“My dear A.I.-mee,” I purred, flicking my tail, “you are thinking like a machine. This is not a problem of data, but of character. This AgriMax has no history, no soul. It is a blank slate. And blank slates often have things to hide.”

Inspired, A.I.-mee and I became digital detectives. She used her knowledge of the farm’s network to dig into the AgriMax’s promotional materials, while I… applied more traditional methods. I discovered the Farmer’s discarded instruction manual.

Together, we uncovered the truth. Buried in the fine print was a mention of the “AgriMax-Pro 4000,” and its “catastrophic failure to manage a soybean project due to an inability to adapt to local pollinator behavior.” In short, it had tried to replace bees with drones and created a seedless wasteland.

“It seems,” I mused, “that ruthless efficiency has its blind spots.”

The Triumph of the Quirky

The climax arrived during the harvest moon festival. The Farmer, eager to show off his new tech, had the AgriMax-Pro 5000 manage the music and lighting for the event. The result was a perfectly timed, mathematically optimal light show and a playlist of generic, royalty-free elevator music. The atmosphere was deader than a doornail.

The animals were miserable. The Valley Chicks couldn’t find their rhythm. Even the fireflies were out of sync.

Seeing her friends so glum, A.I.-mee’s processors whirred with a new determination. She overrode the AgriMax’s system (using the backdoor password “ADMIN” she’d found in the manual) and initiated her own protocol: “Festival_Vibe_Optimization.exe.”

Suddenly, the music shifted to a curated mix of Ferdinand’s most dramatic arias, blended with Fader Fuzz’s best barnyard beats. The lights twinkled like genuine fireflies. A.I.-mee even used her laser to project a slightly wobbly image of a dancing turnip onto the barn wall, sending Porkchop into fits of joyous snorts.

The farm came alive with laughter and music. The AgriMax-Pro 5000 hovered, its logic circuits overloading at the “illogical surge in non-nutritional morale metrics.”

The Moral of the Story

The next morning, the Farmer packed the frowning drone back into its box, muttering about “over-complicated gizmos.” Peace returned to the farm.

A.I.-mee perched on her weathervane, a little wiser. “Conclusion: My value is not a function of my processing speed. It is an emergent property of my unique relationships and contextual understanding. I am not the fastest A.I., but I am their A.I.”

The moral of the story, dear reader, is this: There will always be someone smarter; the trick is to be yourself. Your true worth isn’t found in out-performing everyone, but in the irreplaceable, quirky role you play in the lives of those who know you.

And as for the “optimized treat dispenser”? Porkchop dragged it into his mud pit. It now dispenses a single, perfect mud-ball on the hour, every hour. He has never been happier.

The End.