"Anything from the specialty bar, sir?"
I looked around. I was pretty sure I was in a Starbucks, looking for coffee. The "specialty bar"? Maybe I was wrong. But no, the ubiquitous green and white stripes...the glass case full of carefully over-priced confections, the annoying choice of talle, grande and venti...it was all there.
So what in the name of God is a "specialty bar", and why would I want anything from there?
"No, thanks," I said.
"No PROBLEM- EXCELLENT!!" replied the barista, as she fixed her eyes on the next customer "The usual?", she perked.
The woman in the sensible power suit behind me stepped up to the plate, drew a deep breath, and took a mighty swing. "Not today, thanks. Today I want....okay, I'll have a grande...no a venti...a venti half-caff...Himilayan...soy...extra hot...no whip, no lid."
There was a slight pause. Tiny beads of perspiration appeared on the customer's upper lip. Had she hit it over the fence, or was this a swing and a miss?
"EXCELLENT!!" smiled the barista, as she leaped into action. "I need a personal venti half-caff Himalayan soy extra hot no whip no lid!!" she shouted to the person standing approximately right next to her. The instructions were repeated back with the precision of a submarine fire control officer preparing to launch a volley of Polaris missiles. Large, highly pressurised pieces of coffee-making machinery were pressed into service. Hisses issued forth. Gauges fluttered, buttons were pushed.
Power Suit Lady relaxed, smiled. She headed for the Special Section reserved for those who order "Personal Beverages".
Meanwhile I ordered a large coffee, dark roast. No special section for me. Naturally I had to have the mandatory "I'm sorry sir - I don't understand "LARGE" " conversation, which resulted in me (as always) pointing dumbly to the middle-sized cup on the Starbuck's cup decoder display. Then I forked over my $2.05, dumped in a load of half-and-half, twiddled it all with a wooden stir stick, and found the correct cup lid.
With a firm grasp on my coffee cup I headed for the door, stepping carefully around the area inside the velvet rope where Personal Coffees are prepared, checked, and ceremoniously delivered. Power Suit Lady was pacing nervously. "Would they get the "hot" right? Was the "no whip" a mistake? Could she get retroactive "whip"? How would her personally designed coffee beverage go down with the baristae? Had she checked her bank balance? Is "Himalayan a no-no...or was that Tibetan...or Ethiopian? DAMN! She forgot to say "fair trade!" DAMN, damn, damn....
As I reached the exit, the personal coffee exchanged hands, its arrival signalled by a loud "I have a personal venti half-caff Himalayan extra hot no whip no lid here..."
I looked back. Power Suit Lady had pulled it off. Her beverage - her personal beverage - had been prepared to order, following her instructions. She glowed. She looked ready to strut. And then....it came apart.
"Will there be anything from the personal accompaniments bar, perhaps?"
Power Suit Lady was stuck. She hadn't prepared. Hadn't scrutinized the offerings. Hadn't done ANY sort of beverage/accompaniment matching. She took a shot.
"A no-wheat no-egg yolk thigh pressed steel-cut oatmeal kamut hotcake?"
A hand snaked across the counter, snatching back the personal beverage and disdainfully flinging $7.38 in loose change in one practiced motion.
"Perhaps madam would be more comfortable at Second Cup? I hear they offer free coffee at the "Y" - just down the street...it comes with a cookie."
Monday, June 29, 2009
Friday, June 26, 2009
In Three's
What just happened? One minute I was vaguely worried about the situation in Iran, but that was pretty much eclipsed by worrying over the fact that I can't find time to strip the old wallpaper off the walls of my new old house.
Then Ed McMahon died.
I never really watched Johnny Carson, and McMahon was in his 80's. I was mildly sorry that he had lived out his last years fighting to keep his own home. For all the escapist amusement that he has provided for millions of TV viewers, one would have thought that the President could have absolved him of his financial sins. But Ed McMahon didn't touch my life, and I went back to worrying about wallpaper.
Then Farrah Fawcett died.
Farrah Fawcett was the big-haired, tight-bodied, gleaming-toothed poster girl of my early university years - until she was replaced by a scantily clothed Cheryl Tiegs. Farrah went on to amuse us as one of Charlie's Angels, although in that role she was stacked up against Jaclyn Smith and Kate Jackson - both of whom held more appeal for me than Farrah and her big hair. Not that I ever watched "Charlie's Angels" - I think I avoided it with the same degree of disdain that made me perhaps the only person in the Western Hemisphere who has never seen a single episode of "The Love Boat." Farrah Fawcett was a very ill woman when she died. She had struggled privately and ultimately in public with a rare form of cancer. Somehow she largely avoided the ghoulish tabloid death-watch to which most stricken public figures are subjected. Her death was untimely and sad, but not unexpected. Farrah Fawcett had not touched my life in any meaningful way. I shrugged it off and went back to thinking about Iran.
Then Michael Jackson died.
Michael Jackson died.
He died.
Michael Jackson - the frenetic, Afro-headed micro-star of late nights with Ed Sullivan, when I was so glad that, tonight, it was the Jackson 5 and NOT the dweebish Osmond Brothers. Michael Jackson, who roared into our 20-something lives with "Thriller" - an album that changed everything about pop music, and made modern pop culture what it has become, set a standard for sheer innovation and excitement that every "So You Think You Can Dance" hopeful, every "American Idol" aspirant, every performer on the stage of popular culture only dreams about meeting.
Michael Jackson - the admirer and confidante of Elizabeth Taylor, the increasingly weird, shape-shifting hob-goblin in his oxygen chamber, a real-life Peter Pan surrounded and consumed by ghosts and demons, always trying to fly, sometimes succeeding - that guy. He died.
I didn't think that it would matter. At least, not to me. Why should it? His music was great when it was good, but it was never more than a diversion for me. I didn't watch him on television unless he happened to be on. I didn't intentionally follow his press - although at times it was hard not to. At most I occasionally shook my head in response to some news article, some photo of the King of Pop looking more like the Invisible Man in his surgical mask and fedora, or, mostly, I looked on in wonder as the star-maker machinery dissected the man before our eyes, as the smug entertainment media hypocrites who really run all things mainstream decided that Jackson was now a road-side attraction to be treated as such.
It was the newspaper covers that got to me.
Michael Jackson - 1958-2009.
Michael Jackson was a month younger than me.
Thanks for doing something with you life, Mr. Jackson. It was by turns weird and wonderful, disgraceful and uplifting, bewildering and enlightening - but at least it was something.
Then Ed McMahon died.
I never really watched Johnny Carson, and McMahon was in his 80's. I was mildly sorry that he had lived out his last years fighting to keep his own home. For all the escapist amusement that he has provided for millions of TV viewers, one would have thought that the President could have absolved him of his financial sins. But Ed McMahon didn't touch my life, and I went back to worrying about wallpaper.
Then Farrah Fawcett died.
Farrah Fawcett was the big-haired, tight-bodied, gleaming-toothed poster girl of my early university years - until she was replaced by a scantily clothed Cheryl Tiegs. Farrah went on to amuse us as one of Charlie's Angels, although in that role she was stacked up against Jaclyn Smith and Kate Jackson - both of whom held more appeal for me than Farrah and her big hair. Not that I ever watched "Charlie's Angels" - I think I avoided it with the same degree of disdain that made me perhaps the only person in the Western Hemisphere who has never seen a single episode of "The Love Boat." Farrah Fawcett was a very ill woman when she died. She had struggled privately and ultimately in public with a rare form of cancer. Somehow she largely avoided the ghoulish tabloid death-watch to which most stricken public figures are subjected. Her death was untimely and sad, but not unexpected. Farrah Fawcett had not touched my life in any meaningful way. I shrugged it off and went back to thinking about Iran.
Then Michael Jackson died.
Michael Jackson died.
He died.
Michael Jackson - the frenetic, Afro-headed micro-star of late nights with Ed Sullivan, when I was so glad that, tonight, it was the Jackson 5 and NOT the dweebish Osmond Brothers. Michael Jackson, who roared into our 20-something lives with "Thriller" - an album that changed everything about pop music, and made modern pop culture what it has become, set a standard for sheer innovation and excitement that every "So You Think You Can Dance" hopeful, every "American Idol" aspirant, every performer on the stage of popular culture only dreams about meeting.
Michael Jackson - the admirer and confidante of Elizabeth Taylor, the increasingly weird, shape-shifting hob-goblin in his oxygen chamber, a real-life Peter Pan surrounded and consumed by ghosts and demons, always trying to fly, sometimes succeeding - that guy. He died.
I didn't think that it would matter. At least, not to me. Why should it? His music was great when it was good, but it was never more than a diversion for me. I didn't watch him on television unless he happened to be on. I didn't intentionally follow his press - although at times it was hard not to. At most I occasionally shook my head in response to some news article, some photo of the King of Pop looking more like the Invisible Man in his surgical mask and fedora, or, mostly, I looked on in wonder as the star-maker machinery dissected the man before our eyes, as the smug entertainment media hypocrites who really run all things mainstream decided that Jackson was now a road-side attraction to be treated as such.
It was the newspaper covers that got to me.
Michael Jackson - 1958-2009.
Michael Jackson was a month younger than me.
Thanks for doing something with you life, Mr. Jackson. It was by turns weird and wonderful, disgraceful and uplifting, bewildering and enlightening - but at least it was something.
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