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Over a year ago I sat down with an old friend at Ching Ching Cha Teahouse in Georgetown. This teahouse was recommended by someone who told me I had to try their artisan tea which blooms like a flower inside your cup. My flower was bright pink in color. It reminded me of those novelty pills that expand to form dinosaur shaped sponges when you drop them in water.

Our table did not have sugar so I asked the waitress if she can bring some. She said, “The owner thinks the teas taste best without sugar, so we do not have any.” Oh really?

Many of you are reading this through my RSS feed. It puts out full text of my posts so you can read at sites like Bloglines and Google Reader, or in an aggregator blog that mashes my feed with a bunch of others. If I operated this site like I did the owners of the teahouse, I would not serve an RSS feed—I would force you to come here and read my writing on my own terms.

This is like how, until recently, the music companies only wanted you to listen to music through shiny plastic discs. Their sales numbers show that control doesn’t work. Treating people like children and limiting their options without good reason doesn’t work. People want to choose how ideas or services are delivered to them, or they will vote with their legs and go elsewhere. Not only have I never been back to that teahouse, I have not recommended it to anyone.

I was out writing when a guy and girl sat near me. The girl was a Brazilian bombshell, maybe 18 years old with a curvy thin body and wavy hair. With her was a black guy, maybe as young as 16, who had a generic urban style topped off with a skullcap.

Her personality was fun—she was laughing at him and teasing and cursing. I like girls full of life with a little bit of drama and she had all the exaggerated looks and movements. I made the assumption that he was banging her after she started touching his hands and calling him baby.

Most average guys would immediately hate on the guy—or attribute his ability to get her on things other than his game—but other than those very obvious cases where the girl is after some guy for money or status, the answer is game when she’s hot and he’s not.

So I observed them. He had an iPod headphone in one ear and was listening to her with the other. He would space out and look elsewhere when she was talking to him where she would have to say “Over here!” She was initiating all the conversation and doing more than 70% of the talking. He was sitting back, relaxing, and letting her do all the work. She complained to him about many things, such as his “disgusting” smoking habit and his attention span problems. At the end they got in a mini fight and she made a dramatic body turn away from him. Then he just pushed her head with his hand and said, “Come on let’s go.” And off they went.

I’m sure guys treat this girl like a princess, but here you have an average guy who treats her average and she is all over him. Guys only hurt themselves when they hate on another guy because there is always one thing he does which you don’t do, or don’t do enough of. Observe and watch before you go negative. This particular gentleman had access to her, took advantage of an opportunity, and served the right game that works well. And that I respect.

I tried out Love Cafe after a reader recommended it. It’s about the size of your average coffee shop with a little nest towards the back that you can hide out in for 8 hours or so without having to buy too much.

The coffee was good—the baristas did a little foam swirl which was a nice touch, but the reason people come here is for the cake. A single slice costs up to $7. They can get 10 slices out of one cake so I can only imagine the profit margin out of something that probably costs two bucks to make. And people were lining up to pay for this luxury cake. They were in their twenties and dressed and acted like me and my friends.

I’m convinced you can take any product, triple the price, and sell it to yuppies who feel special for spending their money. They already do it with tap water, ice cream, coffee, and smoothies. I’m going to do it to steak and cheese sandwiches. I’m going to charge you $20 for one sandwich that has locally raised produce and meat. And you are going to fucking love it and come back for more because it makes you feel nouveau rich. I will have free wireless internet too.

At Love Cafe cake temperature is so important that they have laminated informational cards to tell you when you can eat your cake. If you don’t wait 15 minutes until your cake warms up, an employee takes your slice away and asks you to leave. My slice of New German Chocolate cake was very nice and I’ll be back because I fit the targeted audience for luxury cake and espresso beverages.

Consumer Reports has deemed McDonalds coffee better than Starbucks.

The magazine reportedly says McDonald’s Premium Roast Coffee has “no flaws,” labeling it “decent and moderately strong.” The java from Starbucks, meanwhile, was determined to be “strong, but burnt and bitter enough to make your eyes water instead of open.”

Starbucks is good for espresso and pretending you have a life outside the house. 7-11 has the best coffee.

I was sitting in Starbucks when two older white women sat down with three girls. Two of the girls were about 10 years old and the third one was around 18. The 18 year old was complaining about the aloof behavior of a gentleman who owned a pick-up truck. Everyone in the store became very familiar with this young man in a short amount of time.

Later, she started singing Akon’s single I Wanna Fuck You (she did use “love” instead of “fuck”). Then the two older women started singing along and encouraged the two young girls — who were probably their daughters — to sing along as well. The little girls sang the chorus.

I see you windin n grindin up on that pole,
I know u see me lookin’ at you and you already kno
I wanna love you, you already know

After the little girls were done, the teenager and the two mothers gave them a round of applause.

I can barely tolerate the suburban mom on her cell phone chatting away with a Louis Vuitton diaper bag draped over her shoulder, extolling the benefits of “me-time” while reminding everyone within earshot how little Madison is smarter than her playmates — but I much rather deal with that then have to watch adult women train little girls how to be dirty whores. If my parents pushed me to sing songs about fucking strippers when I was little, I guarantee you I would be feeding mouths instead of blogging, wondering when the fire sensation in my crotch area will go away. Remember: all you need to create life is a functioning genital organ.