49th-parallel

When your latte and book are prettier than all the other lattes and books in the world 😍🙌🏻.
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After absolutely demolishing @ellekennedy33’s The Goal, which released yesterday, I am very very excited to be diving into Fates and Furies by Lauren Groff! This book has gotten so many opposing reviews, and so many differing opinions here on Instagram, that I can’t wait to see what all the fuss is about. Will I like it? Will I hate it? Who knows! Either way, you can find me living in @49th for the rest of my years to come ☕️📖🤓.
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What are you reading this Tuesday fine Instagram friends? .
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(at 49th Parallel Coffee)

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I’m happy to report that El Beit spinoff Modca is producing better 49th Parallel espresso these days on their beautiful La Marzocco Mistral. They’ve been occupied by the laptop army after removing the duct tape from their outlets - there wasn’t a seat to be had on a slow mid-August day on N 3rd St. Somewhere along the line they stopped serving cooked food. Anyone know why?

In the RV near the end of the trip,

I realized that Alberta was just Canada’s Texas, this
wide-skyed breadbasket of white hats and cowboy boots,
and the border was not only undefended, it didn’t even exist
except as a parallel
                                   somewhere north of the Rio Grande.

And in the truck, in Calgary, on the last day before I left,
did you apologize for
being a bad father?    Or for not being
a better one?
                                   I don’t remember. I can’t recall if you said
                                   the word “sorry”—you said you knew
                                   you were no good at it.
In any case, I forgave you,
and said something about
not wanting anyone else to be my dad,
made some quip about
                                    good genetic stock.
And I turned out just fine,
learned how to hold the razor from
quiet scenes in old war movies—
upside-down under the jawline—how to tie a Windsor knot from
                                                          a job in sales,
and if I throw like a girl it’s because
my sister taught me, right after
she made my first mixed drink. But    it’s OK, dad.
                                                          I forgive you.
You were always my hero.
And you always thought I was mumbling on purpose,
because I knew you were hard of hearing—I was only shy!—
and you always thought mom would poison me against you,
but she only told me the good stories, about all your adventures.

Not everyone has the privilege of flying in the navigator’s seat
on a 747 or sailing a 50 ft yacht, and I trusted you as captain,
but shouting lookout for shoals can be a
bit intimidating for a 10 year old, but it’s OK, dad.
                                                         I forgive you.
                                    You weren’t a good father,
you were mine, and you were
the best I could ever hope for.

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Written September 2016.