A day at Starbucks...

Every so often I treat myself to Starbucks. Now for me, it's not really for the coffee since i don't partake. My crack rock is not a little brown bean, but instead steeping in Boston Harbor almost 200 years before i was born. In all honesty I fucking hate coffee, but I love people watching. Starbucks is a great place to people watch, and for some, to enjoy a cup of TAZO with some much needed downtime. Starbucks is the second best place to teabag a hot cup of H2O, while being entertained by the caffeine junkies that venture into the corporate franchise without a wicked jump shot(I miss you, B.I.G.). Today I paid extra close attention to the customers. I named each species…


Tricera-Teens – Teenage females, Always in 3's, 2 on their cell phones and 1 texting or, vice versa, 1 on their cell phone and 2 texting. Top of the juvenile food chain for popularity (Probably all named Heather). Speaking fluent Starbucks like it was their first language, since their second language consists of electronic LOL's and BRB's. Dictating coffee orders quickly, and they exit the same way. A new trio every 15 minutes.

Uber Goober – Always male, Calvin Klein wannabe. Acting just butch enough to stay off everyone's gaydar. Like Dieter from "Sprockets", waiting for him to ask, if anyone "Wanted to touch his monkey" (SNL reference). Gestalt coffee ordering standards. Very impatient, because he needs his caffeine for a steady hand prior to punishing himself to gay Hitler porn, aiming for the center of the swastika.

Hairy Carrie – Always female, Reincarnated 60's hippie chick, but the SUV she drove up in shows it's just style not politics. Whiplash attitude, as she removes one Ipod earbud to place her coffee order. She continues to explain to the barista that August 5th 1993 was the worst day of her life, when Natalie Merchant left the 10,000 Maniacs. According to my algebra that would have made her 7 years old. She dances while waiting for her cup...like a 7 year old.

Starborgs – Male or Female, Utlra busy, acting more important than they really are. Cybernetic bluetooth ear piece surgically attached to the aural canal. Always in an obligatory conversation from the minute they walk in, until the time they leave, only stopping to order their coffee. During their call the word "Corporate" is mentioned at least 11 times. If it wasn't for their look of professionalism you'd almost believe they were robots, or maybe they are???

Why?-Fi'ers – Male or Female, Apple or PC. The stench of free wi-fi and coffee grounds attracts like a techno-savvy pheromone. They spend their time surfing random websites, checking email, writing their thesis, WOOO-ing (working out of office), or downloading MP3's illegally. Although they seem productive these laptop dogs are basically just licking their virtual genitalia. They never surf for porn at Starbucks, but at home???

Adam, or Eve - Male or female, If they didn't have a cup of coffee in their hand you'd wonder what the fuck they were doing there. Neither sex has yet to realize that it's a coffee shop, not a singles bar. A sip of joe, a wink a smile a head nod, uneventful pick up lines, and flirting summarize their attempts at a successful Rom-Com. For some reason, "How about we get a cup of coffee sometime" doesn't seem to close the deal.

Coffee People – Any race, creed, color, national origin, sex, political affiliation, or beliefs. Not only was this one of Starbucks competitors (Coffee People in Oregon, and thus bought out by Starbucks) but it's the most common patron. From the soccer mom running her kids to school, to the construction worker who forgot his thermos. These are the run-of-the-mill coffee guzzlers. They are not texting with their girlfriends 6 feet away. They are not dancing on SNL. They are not worried about style or music. They are not acting way to important. They are not using free internet. They are not courting their future ex wife/husband. They are just there for the daily octane boost to get through the day.

And last, but not least...

Aspiring Writer – Me sitting in the corner, with pen and notebook, sipping my tea, observing and writing.

Goldilocks and the 3 Bars

So I frequent these 3 bars...and just like goldilocks, there's always one that's just right...


1st – The meat market dance club with overly exited hormones far louder than the beat trance techno, that can only be tolerated when my undiagnosed, unmedicated, bipolar is in it's upswing. Zippity fuckin' do da.


2nd – The middle of the road cheers, where everybody knows your name (and place of residence in some cases) and you can pass out on the floor in the fetal position earning a free ride home without ridicule cause everyone has "been there at one point in time"


And 3rd – The black and white rainbow with a pile of shit at the end, and if checked, the beginning too. Where you stare into your empty drink attempting to fill it with dry tears instead of jagermeister just hoping that fuckin' leprechaun will stop pointing and giggling.


98% of the time I choose door number 2, Bob...because with it's comfy chair's, unlimited supply of porridge, and the possibility of ending up in bed with goldilocks, It's just right.


...But nothing could have topped the last visit to the black and white rainbow (not the real name for those of you that are googling).


So there I sat battling some low self esteem, dealing with things way beyond my maturity level, taking on duties above my pay scale so my boss could take the credit, and in drunk math, figuring out how many packages of top ramen I need to make it to next payday (in which half will go to my ex wife, the paycheck, not the top ramen). I wanted to order another drink but Mr. X (The bartender, obviously a pseudonym) sat among the worker bees (as he always did) trying diligently to suck the hive empty from the queen bee we call the Oregon Lottery Video Poker. Which is really not my bag, i'm more of the barfly on the wall hallucinating swatters out my peripherals, when in full self loathing mode. Up until this night, the most excitement this bar had seen was when Mr. X went home sick at 10pm and asked us to lock up at 2am. Oddly enough everyone stayed honest, and elected a vice-bartender democratically (As a side note she's now on the payroll as relief bartender). Anyhow back to the story...


At this point, Mr. X was up about $80 dollars (but still down $20 net) so I knew I wasn't getting a drink anytime soon. I decided it was time to go, but before I could get up from my duct taped barstool, a suspicious man walked in waving a gun, as if he had Parkinson's. It was obvious this man had never popped his robbery cherry, or even seen the pictures in the kama sutra of theft. Even with his lack of experience, he learned 3 very good lessons that night


1.Don't rob a bar full of people, who in their current state, really don't give a shit
2.Drunken depression trumps fear
3.And make sure there's someone working the register of the place your robbing


Since it happened so quickly i'll give you the abridged police report that was never filed...


Suspicious man enters bar with non loaded gun.

Suspicious man says "Nobody move this is a fucking robbery"

Patron 1 says "Dude, that gun isn't even loaded"

Suspicious man says "Fuck you, Where's the bartender?"

Mr. X says (while playing video poker) "The bartender went home for the night"

Suspicious man says "Fuck you, Where's the bartender?"

Patron 2 – Female with maternal instincts says "Come on, just turn around, walk out that door, go home, tomorrow is a new day, get up early, go job hunting, and find something real to support your family"

Suspicious man says "Shut The Fuck Up, Where is the bartender?"

All patrons ignore suspicious man, and continue to ignore him

Suspicious man freaks out, yelling multiple profanities, and flees the scene

All patrons laugh...Just Right

Spitwads, Strawberry Pluckers, and Avoided Ass-Whoopin's

You know how some things can trigger a repressed memory. Or in some cases, just revisit one…

Queue the strawberry…Now I'm not a big fan of the red, cone-shaped berry but I will partake on occasion. Such as today. I held the single ripe berry and admired the lush green stem. Whiplash flashback…

…I'm sitting in the back of class, right in between X and Z (Not going to use names), 10 minutes before recess. Mrs. K was the only teacher who placed her desk in the back of the classroom to squash the mischief of 6th grade boys. She was straight out of the new Van Halen video "Hot for Teacher" and we wished she would keep us after class one day and turn the classroom into an MTV video(ya know when they actually played videos). We figured the odds were in our favor, since we spent a lot of time in after-class detention. But it had been awhile, because the new spitwad bandits, had yet to be caught. Each morning we would pick a target, and see how many times we could hit it in a day. But we had a pact; don't chance getting caught, even if it meant winning for the day. We spent some days without a shot, just serious stare downs like "The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly". That same morning, that we chose our target, and Z mentioned he had something for recess. Meet in the usual spot.

Mrs. K had been extremely aware in the last week, since finding evidence throughout the classroom. Which had put us in a slump. We needed something else. As the recess bell rang, all three of us tucked our single shooter, augmented, Bic cannons in our desks unfired. Damn, not today. So we jetted to the playground and met at our usual spot, the teeter-totters. With patrols on the rise in the classroom, there was still lack of supervision on the playground. Grandma Dynamite was the recess monitor, the name says it all. Because of her age, you could get away with just about anything. But the minute someone ratted (or lit the fuse, to complete the metaphor) you were in "The Hurt Locker" so to speak. As the lowest on the pecking order of the three playground pimps, I was usually the decoy, but not always. Grandma D still hadn't figured that out.

Okay, so rewind to the previous night. Z's mom was a Tupperware representative. A very good one at that, seeing how I never saw a kitchen item in their house made out of anything but plastic. At one point she donated everything to goodwill that wasn't plastic, but I digress. That night she threw a party to reveal Tupperware's new spring line.

Back to the playground, or more geographically correct, the teeter-totters. As I said before Z had brought something for recess. We all met as planned and Z reached inside his pocket. As his closed fist exited his pocket, everything went into slow motion. A long, constant note from a church organ sounded as a single beam of sunlight hit his uncurling fingers. And there they were…3…red…something. X spoke before me. "What are those?" They looked like 3, short, stubby, wide, sets of plastic tweezers. "What the fuck?" (And yes I was dropping F-bombs at age 12). Z explained, "I stole these from my mom's party last night. Your suppose to use these to pluck the stems out of strawberries. But I thought we could use them to pinch girl's butts on recess." It seemed like a great idea at the time.

Z was brilliant, and he was always the catalyst of our mischief. X grabbed a plucker and began his campaign. A soldier, the doer and not the thinker. Z handed me mine. I was frozen. The analyzer, running scenarios through my head. Z spoke, "If you're not going to do it, at least keep Grandma D busy."

We spent the whole recess indulging our new found toys. I spent most of the time as a decoy, but was not completely innocent. There were many small screams and dirty looks flashed, but we steered clear of Grandma D. When recess was over, we agreed that this was a one time deal. We went back to class like nothing happened, and switched loyalties back to the spitwad bandits.

The next day, 10 minutes before recess, I had already hit today's target. I knew I was going to win because Mrs. K was teaching about 2 feet away from it. And there was no way X or Z would chance it. At least I thought. X was locked and loaded. Was he crazy? Mrs. K started to turn, but before X could get the shot off, we all heard a voice over the intercom system. It was Principal Mr. S "Mrs. K, I need to see X, Z, and yours truly, in my office. Please send them up immediately." Oh shit, the spitwad bandits were busted. How did he know about the spitwads? We had been so careful, even under the watch of Mrs. K

Now, we had many trips to Mr. S's office, it was nothing new. I was actually getting used to it, in a way. But nothing could have prepared me for this time.

When we arrived he ushered us into his office and slammed the door behind us. Mr. S looked more pissed off than usual. I focused my eyes on the same thing I always did. The picture hanging on the wall of his blue Porsche with the cheetah. (Some picture from some promotional thing where he raced a cheetah in his Porsche. It was his prize possession and we took every opportunity to unlevel it, every time we visited.) He starred us down and didn't say a word. This was the first moment in my life where I had to make a choice, a choice where neither outcome would be favorable. And it had nothing to do with spitwads.

"You boys have to make a choice. You can call your parents and tell them what you did yesterday on recess. Or you can call the parents of the girls, and apologize. You all have to agree, and you have 5 minutes to decide. And DON'T touch my picture." He walked out and slammed the door. X and I knew there was only one option, call the girls parents. Z didn't need another ass whoopin', and we could already see the fear in his eyes.

We spent that afternoon making multiple phone calls without dignity, with true apologies, and a tad bit of self preservation.


***To wrap this all up... When we graduated the 6th grade, and moved on to the 7th and 8th grade, or junior high as most would call it, guess who got a promotion to the new junior high principal. And luckily, before my freshman year, he was let go for fraud and racketeering. I wish I could have been there to give him the choice to tell the school board what he had done, or call all the tax payers in the school district and apologize. Oh, let me straighten that picture for ya…