Mug Shot

It's no secret that I drink coffee. I don't think I'm at risk of challenging for the world championship of coffee consumption, but I drink it fairly consistently. I have addressed this in the past, but something has escaped notice in the process: the mug. For some people, it may not matter much. To them, the paper cup is as good as anything else. Some heathens may even have some misguided devotion to the paper cup that comes from coffee shops. I wonder how that can be. The paper cup is ephemeral. You receive it with coffee in it already, and it exits your life once that coffee is gone. You share one moment with it, and no more. It knows you only as you are at that moment, in that emotional and mental state. If you are unwell, it will never see you get better. Who could be attached to it, since it's just one cup in a long, endless string of identical ones?

It's not so with a good, real mug. People usually have several, and I do as well, but there's really only one among them for me. I bought it at a thrift store in North Hollywood. It's not easy to say what drew me to it. There are so many there, and a lot of them bring me to the brink of making a purchase, but don't compel me to pull the trigger. This one did. Its design is an interesting variation on the American flag. The chief difference is that it bears the colors red, blue and gray. It doesn't to me look like a professionally designed and manufactured mug. It could well be the product of a gifted shop class student's labors. Washing it is a slight challenge, as its interior has difficult areas to reach. Clearly all of this feeds into a theme. The mug is unique and discarded. In some ways, I identify with it. It's the coffee receptacle for me, and I am the coffee drinker for it. I always use it except when it is utterly unavailable. I wash it no matter how I feel instead of using another, already clean mug.

It knows me. As I said, paper cups aren't around long enough to get to know you, or for you to get attached to. My mug has been there for all manner of good and bad times, and I have had it for perhaps a year or two. It's seen me happy and sad, defeated and triumphant. It has nursed me in illness, and provided preventative care in good health. The comfort it has offered in all conditions cannot be overstated. It hasn't done it alone. For each drink there is a container. Hot beverages demand that mug. Cold ones demand a basic, humble plastic cup I have. It's a red one of modest size. There are undoubtedly millions just like it. I can't account for why I love it so, but it's the only one I want for water, juice or anything of the like.

I've moved around some recently. Where I was for the past two months, the mug and cup were with me, and are with me still. I nonetheless feel great anguish, as they are trapped in boxes now. I feel so very sorrowful that I should have done them so wrong after their faithful service. In there place is a tall mug who they may be assured will not be replacing either of them, and which shall not be sticking around. I shall shortly be moving into a permanent domicile, and once there, my mug and cup will be restored to their respected positions. I understand there may be some issues to work through, but I am prepared to do so, because I love them both more dearly than almost any objects I've possessed.