Starbucks #infinity, 12:42 p.m. - My terrible coffee, let me show you it

Well, giving a brand-new Starbucks an (espresso) shot is always a gamble. This time I lost. When it takes them forever to make the drink – and they can't even get the lid on the coffee without managing to spill foam and mess up the whipped cream.

The first sip is a disaster. THIS IS QUITE POSSIBLY THE WORST CUP OF COFFEE I HAVE EVER TASTED – and I've had Starbucks coffee at airports, bookstores, kiosks and everything in between. The shot is weak – I can't even tell that there is any coffee in there in fact. It tastes like I'm drinking milk flavored with white mocha and a raspberry shot.

Anyway. It's my birthday weekend and I'm on the road. I'm way north of my usual hangouts and decided to check to see if this new Starbucks was open. It was – much to my chagrin.

My friends shocked me at work today – they came in to my office – the office that I hate – and decorated it overnight. When I came in to work I had balloons, streamers, banners, GLITTER and all sorts of decorations. And a Starbucks gift card. I love my friends. It was the best thing that's happened to me in a long time and I was so happy.

There's a Quiznos right next to the Starbucks – and there's a gas station 40 yards down with a Subway inside. Somebody in the sandwich game is going down. All we need is a Blimpie up in here and it would be a sub brawl!

It's cold today. I'm sitting outside because it is sunny and I love the weather and the breeze – but the wind has a bite to it. Still, I'm glad that I'm not in some godforsaken place like Wisconsin or Minnesota – with minus two degrees and snowdrifts and icy sidewalks and all that mess. I would just die – either in an accident or of the cold. Plus, the cold weather plays hell with delicate skin.

Speaking of near death experiences, I had one in the Interstate on-ramp coming here. I was sitting in the turn lane, listening to Chopin (because all of you hate Cher so much) and about to pull forward. This black SUV darts forward across a lane of traffic and cuts in front of me – literally INCHES from my front right bumper.

I slam the brake so hard that I can hear the tires squeal. I know I laid more rubber than a room full of porn stars. I was praying that there was no one behind me about to slam into the back bumper and put my car into the shop for unable-to-be-paid-for repairs.

I look up and the couple in the black SUV have pulled forward and are not even apologetic. I give them the universal one-finger salute. They return it.

I mutter a few lines of a Zen koan and try to regain my composure. And not 90 seconds later – the black SUV – which ZOMG – HAD TO EFFING GET INTO THE TURN LANE TO GET ONTO THE INTERSTATE – peels back out in front of traffic and tears back of down the access road.

Tourists. Virginia tourists. I hope they all die in a fire.

OK. Peace, love, understanding.

Thank you so much to the nice old lady who stopped to chat just as I was shutting down. You totally made my day by commenting on what a nice afternoon it was, how nice the weather was and how much you looked forward to an afternoon at the flea market.

I know that I rag on old people all the time, but you were just sweet and happy and genuine - and you made my day.

Cubicle farm, 4:49 p.m. - My noisy new office, let me show you it

So last Friday word came down from on high that it was official, I have to move from my cushy decorated digs to another cubicle farm 17 miles northward in another office. I had hoped to avoid this - and voiced my opinion many, many, many times that I did not want to take part in the move.

That 17 miles translates into about 45 minutes if traffic is good – over an hour if traffic is bad. I got stuck in construction on Monday and spent 20 minutes staring at the back end of a delivery truck loaded with canisters of CO2 and praying that no one decide to recreate a scene from a Bruckheimer movie.

It is horrible. I hate traffic. I hate being in traffic. There's not a convenient Starbucks. This current office park is bland – pretty and heavily landscaped with flowers and fountains and palm trees – but with zero personality. Plus I have to take my life into my own hands and turn across three lanes of highway traffic without a stop light every night when I want to go home.

There are three Starbucks within three miles – but they're all on the wrong side of the road if I'm coming here – and none of them have traffic signals or turn lanes – all require U-turns or complicated mall parking lots. Getting back to Starbucks after getting TO the office requires the aforementioned deathtrap turn across three lanes of oncoming cars – without a suicide lane in the middle. I could kill the idiot that designed this office park.

I don't know how much longer I'm going to last at this job. I feel under-appreciated and very much under-challenged. There's just not much else out there right now that I feel like I want to do – unless someone wants to pay me to bum around the world writing travel guide articles while staying at four-star hotels and flying first class.

This is the crux of my problem – I like creature comforts too much to learn to do without them. I like digital cable and air conditioning and takeout food and bottled water and clean sheets and automatic transmissions and health insurance and regular prescriptions and "Project Runway" and TiVo and private bathrooms and toilet paper and triple venti raspberry white chocolate mochas with whole milk and sprinkles. I LIKE ALL THAT OK.

That does not make me a bad person. It just makes me ill-suited for becoming a digital Bedouin who could travel the globe, living off the local economy for a few weeks at a time before decamping for a new place.

Maybe I need to radically re-adjust my thinking. I'm got to break out of this rut that I'm in or I'm just going to wake up in 20 years and think "What the hell happened to my life?" Shit. I might just wake up tomorrow and decide to take a handful of pills and stick my head in a plastic bag. I think I've forgotten how to feel anything anymore.

I need new thought patterns. I need a boyfriend. I need some new music. I need a haircut. I need new clothes. I need new shoes. So help me Buddha, I need a whole new life.

Blarf. I'm a depressed as the stock market during a Bush presidency. Anyway. My week has been absolutely craptastic. I haven't been able to find the time or a place to write all week – and the one night I tried to land at Starbucks #2 – they gave me a free frappuccino but said they were closing early and kicked me out. I gave up and went home and went to bed because I couldn't take it any more.

Thank you for caring. Or not. Internet trolls clean public toilets with their tongues anyway.

Starbucks #798, 7:35 p.m. – My new computer, let me show you it

I GOT MY NEW MACBOOK TODAY.

Praise Allah. Praise Kali. Praise Buddha. Praise Shiva. Praise Cthulu. Braise a howler monkey and pass the barbecue sauce. I GOT MY NEW MACBOOK TODAY!

Now that I've got that out of my system … I'm about 35 miles north of my normal haunts hanging out at a brand new Starbucks. This is the first Starbucks I've ever seen that is laid out in a near-perfect square. The dining room is a rectangle. The barista bar is another skinny rectangle – and the drive-thru is a third skinny rectangle on the back of that.

It's very, very strange – because the design is open – and it means that every single bit of noise that comes from the espresso bar is amplified and echoes out into the customer area.

This is another one of those - "no-merchandise" Starbucks - so there's lots of seating and hangout space. It is just noisy as hell. No one in their right mind would want to make this their "third space." Counting me, there are only three customers here. I can't hear myself think over the noise of dishes, the sink and the blender. If this place were full of customers, I'd run screaming for the hills trailing coffee beans behind me like a shitty baby with a diaper full of poo toddling down the aisle of a Wal-Mart!

One of the baristas was just making a frappuccino – and I swear to Kali it sounded like she was blending a concrete block inside a cement mixer. It doesn't help that they've turned up the Juanes in this joint to a level 11 and beyond. I'm down with Juanes. Just not a level that will vibrate the hairs right off Frida Kahlo's upper lip.

The baristas are a triple set of teenage tramplets that belong in a Pussycat Dolls video. Or in the Pussycat Dolls. Whichever comes first.

This is the dialogue from the last thirty seconds. "OH MY GOD. I'M TOTALLY IGNORING YOU. LIKE, IT WAS BLENDING SO LOUD. LIKE, WHAT'S THE EASIEST WAY TO MAKE A CHAI LATTE? JUST, LIKE, PUT SOME MILK IN THERE. OH MY GOD. DOLCE. I'M SO STOKED."

Blarf. There were a couple of foreign tourists in front of me at the register.

POR LO MANO DE CHRISTO. THE NOISE FROM THE DISHES IS KILLING ME.

Anyway. These tourists. They couldn't figure out what they wanted. They finally managed to get two coffees.

CANNOT HEAR SELF THINK FOR NOISE OF BLENDER. WHOEVER ORDERED THAT FRAPPUCCINO I HOPE YOU GET THE RUNS RIGHT IN THE MIDDLE OF THE TOLL BRIDGE AND DIE!

Foreign tourists. Two coffees and two coffee cakes. Then they ask the girl at the register for sugar and cream – because they're obviously from some Third World slumhole country that has not yet been cursed blessed with the beneficent majesty of the Green Apron goodness. Anyway.

MY GOD I CAN LITERALLY HEAR THE SCRUB BRUSH GOING IN AND OUT OF THE DISHES OVER THERE.

Anyway. Register monkey is helping me and asks another girl to direct the tourists to the cream and sugar on the condiment bar. The other girl – who has ratty hair that looks like a beaver made a nest, died, willed the nest to another beaver, then that beaver made and nest and raised a family of six and then died – she leans over the espresso machine and yells at the top of her lungs ITS OVER THERE! And she points at the condiment bar.

Because she obviously knows how to give the legendary green apron customer service.

Ok. The noise here is just too much. I feel a migraine. Either that or I am way, way, constipated and need to take a serious dump.

I love you all.

But I love my new computer more.

Starbucks #1, 9:09 p.m. - I'll have a tall latte and a quick blowjob

The alternate title was "Alas, pour your drink, I knew him Fellatio."

Yeah, I know. I'm predictable. I like comfort food though, and I really do buy into that whole 'third place' bullshit that Starbucks pumps out. Plus, there are cute boys.

Like the one that just walked through the door. Uhhhhhh. Strike that. He has an asthmatic cough. He has on an orange Texas Longhorns T-shirt and red and black athletic shorts. He's got on sandals and crusty toes. He has big ears too. His haircut is not doing him any favors, but he is nicely formed. The register girl is flirting fit to beat the band.

He apparently has a $5 Starbucks gift card and wants to use it. His bill comes out to $4.22 and he's crushed that he can't spend it all at once. So he decides to flirt with the barista some more. She simpers. He smiles. I gag. "Is it possible that I can use 78 cents the next time?" No mother-f*****. Because that is not your money. She simpers. He smiles. I gag. "Of course," the barista answers, "that's your money." That's right dumb-ass. Seriously. Maybe he really DID go to a Big 12 school.

Anyway. He gets his coffee and leaves. She sighs. He stalks. I gag.

Where were we? Oh. Yeah. Cute boys. Diamond Studs, the ghetto-fied white-boy high-schooler is working tonight. He has a big hickey high up on his neck. Too high for a turtleneck to cover up - even if it made any sense at all to wear a turtleneck in Florida.

I'm sitting outside now. They cranked the radio up in there while they're cleaning and I just can't concentrate. The traffic noise is loud but oddly calming. Whoosh. Zoom. Whoosh. Zoom. Thank you Mr. Motorcycle.

Apparently, and I'm getting this second-hand from a chatty barista, I just missed a rather long philosophical debate about the best way to perform fellatio on a male. The three female baristas were tormenting poor Diamond Studs with this as he's trying to clean the espresso machine.

Are we interested in the techniques that were being espoused? I know that I'm always down for a good discusson on the techniques of fellatio. I'm not sure how experienced a couple of these girls were - one looks like an old pro - but two of them look like they're still in high school. Looks can be deceiving - and who knows - maybe they're earning tuition in the back seat of the bus on the way home each afternoon.

Anyway. The blonde girl was apparently asking questions about the whole "Pop Rocks" theory - which is how the debate got started. Seriously. That's how blonde jokes got started.

The brunette said that you've got to use plenty of hand - and juggle the jewels while you're at it. The old hand - the manageress, just smiled and nodded wisely and said that if you manage to finger the culo, that's even better.

Methinks she's given a few in her lifetime. Anyway. Poor Diamond Studs just blushed red, made my drink and clocked out. He shoved his green apron in his back pocket and stomped out the door just a minute later.

After he left, one of the baristas confided in me that "his girlfriend won't do it for him. And she cheated on him over Christmas." Well, hell. Poor Diamond Studs. I guess I need to tip him good tomorrow. Maybe a five with my phone number written on it in Sharpie.

The SBUX is dead tonight. I guess everyone is indoors watching the LSU-OSU game. Whatever. Who would have thought that OSU would score first? I saw that much before I left the office. Even the traffic is dead here.

Oh. Man. I don't know what the hell I ate, but it is killing me in the digestion department. Maybe it was that IHOP last night. I dunno.

OK. Drivers are stupid. This white Toyota 4Runner just turned out in front of a Mustang. So the Mustang slams on the horn. The 4Runner blows the horn back, then guns it. I can hear the Mustang gun it too. All this not five blocks from downtown and another stoplight and tons of police. Effing brilliant.

Huh. I just caught three stop lights in different stages. Yellow. Red. Green.

I love the different colors of light. Wow. I'm back on light. I can see blue, white and yellow from here too. Ohhhhhh. Pretty.

Traffic noise. I can haz it. It's funny, but when the light goes green or yellow, I'll hear a sudden deeper THRUMMMMMM of the engines as the drivers either accelerate or try to make the light.

OK. I'm done. I need to do my laundry.

Peace. Love. Thank Mr. Corvette. You really had to peel out there. Understanding.

Starbucks #1, 7:10 p.m. - My breast tattoo, let me show you it

Damn. I need that triple venti raspberry white chocolate mocha. I have been caffeine deprived all day because I refuse to buy soda for my apartment. I think soda is bad for the body - but I can't break my caffeine addiction. I try to fight this by not buying soda - or buying it only in the 16 oz. bottles. Therefore, I always have a limited supply on hand and getting more requires me to actually lever myself up off the couch, go downstairs and make my way to the 7-Eleven.

OK. Mega strangeness. An old dude decked out in runner duds just came in, did an about-face, then went right back out, crossed four lanes of traffic and disappeared into the distance. He crossed the opposite corner too. I can see him walking through the parking lot of the Mobil station across the corner.

Ha. I bet he thought the coffee prices were too expensive. DUDE. It is a fricking Starbucks. You are paying for a decade of marketing and the mythical "third place" experience. Also, he's in for a helluva shock when he goes into that Mobil station. It's one of the Mobil "On the Run" cafe stations. They serve gourmet coffee and at one point actually had a small cafe in the back - like a Subway with a person making fresh sandwiches for you.

There is an extremely tall woman wearing a Marimekko-esque print shirt and Ugly Betty style glasses that is accompanying an old dude with a goatee and one of those tragea piercings in his right ear. Well, he's not THAT old, but he's got a good fifteen years on her. She looks like she ought to be vamping it up on Nikki Beach or something - not hanging around coffee shops with grizzled old wannabe-hot-stuff Cuban dudes who are trying to work the Picard look. OH MY GOD. He just told her to go fetch their drinks. Servile much? Girlfriend, you need to dump this dude. No amount of clothes and jewelry is worth your self respect.

Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. Midwestern tourists in tha hiz-ouse. She's wearing white pants with cute little tassels on the bottom cuffs and a gigantic black fisherman's sweater. He's got on the latest from the Tommy Bahama line - ugly yellow and tropical flower print shirt, khakis, hat and boat shoes. Her cankles threaten to overwhelm the one and a half-inch black jeweled heels she's trying to work like a rock star. Sister-girl, please, listen to mama. That day has passed.

OH MY GOD. I just got a frontal of the Cuban girl in the Marimekko outfit. She has a huge tattoo of hearts and flowers and scrollwork splashed across her collarbones and extending down to a point right above her breasts. Very eye-catching. And they just got into their huge black Ford Excursion, drove over the curb and through a red light. Nice. Really nice.

Wow. This is just the best cup of coffee that I have had in like two weeks. This is the one barista that I discreetly "complained" about too. I guess they went back and re-trained her, because her work has been spot-on here lately. I mean, this is an EXCELLENT cup of coffee.

I love the city at night. From where I'm sitting, I can see one of the really big intersections in town and the ebb and flow of traffic and traffic lights. It has a very peaceful and at the same time frenetic beauty. The movement of the light is so hypnotic.

It brings to mind one of my favorite old "Northern Exposure" episodes. Anyone else love that show? Anyway. The episode was called "Aurora Borealis, or Fairy Tales for Big People." I think that was what it was called anyway. The episode ended with the John Corbett character unveiling this huge light sculpture in the town square and the Enya song "Ebudae" playing over the end credits. It was fantastically wonderful and beautiful and soulful and spiritually powerful. Dunno. Maybe I just loved "Northern Exposure."

Anyway. There's a yuppie here who either has an internal modem or who doesn't mind paying the exorbitant price for Starbucks Internet access. He's been surfing on this laptop the whole time I've come in, snagged THA BEST COFFEE EVAR, decided that I wanted a meal, eaten some tuna salad, chatted with one of the baristas about the unfortunate demise of my MacBook and why she should avoid the Mac Mini and just get a laptop, and then write this post. Whoops. He's leaving now.

Wait. My time is up. So am I. They're grinding coffee beans now. The noise is terrific. The smell is intoxicating, but the constant whirr-whirr-whirr is going to give me a headache in short order.

Peace. Love. Understanding.

Starbucks #1, 4:21 p.m. - Crazy art woman and even crazier return lady

Obviously, this is from yesterday. My backup computer has now died. The power cord is faulty and I had to wait and seize the opportunity to steal another one from a spare computer at work today. SOMEONE HATES ME.

It is crazy insane busy in here. You would think it is New York up in here, at the height of tourist season, at midnight on New Year's Eve the way people are stacked up like cordwood and the line is humongous.

To top everything else off, there is a crazy artist woman replacing the art on the walls here right above my head. Why she picked right now - at the height of the afternoon rush - to be doing this - is beyond all reason and beyond me. Right now, she's trying to unscrew the box that held her business cards under her $800 photographs. She kept sighing and pouting and then I noticed that she was actually screwing the box INTO the wall.

I looked up and said "You're doing it wrong. Lefty loosey, righty tighty." She was like "Oh. I'm doing it wrong." One would think she might have noticed that after 20 minutes of screwing and not being able to get the box off the wall. Le sigh. Artistic types. Her photographs were really nice, but not for the outrageous price she was charging.

I told her to just leave it for the next artist. She told me "I paid good money for that. I'm not going to leave it. It's mine." Okay then. Go right on with your bad penny-pinching self. She took the photos, the hooks that they were hung on the shelves with and the box her business cards were in. It looks like a denuded apartment up in here.

Ladies. Let me offer some random fashion advice. If you have a size 24 behind, that's all cool. The Goddess loves everyone - all shapes, sizes, colors, etc. HOWEVER. You really, really, need to think about the possible ramifications of going out in public with roses hand-stitched over your back pockets. I realize that you might be wanting to serve as a walking billboard for Sophie's Sewing Shoppe, but all you're really doing is making a rose look like a red cabbage. And it looks like you enjoy getting your buttocks spanked in some odd sort of flower fetish foreplay. Please do not be wearing gigantic embroidery if you have loins the size of water buffaloes. Kthnxbai.

Snakeskin appears to be back in this year. There's a woman with a fire-engine-red snakeskin coat prancing impatiently waiting for her drink. And yes, I did hear her order a peppermint hot chocolate with soy. Ewwwwwwwwwwww.

There's a scary WOACA in line now. She's got on light gray slacks and a regular white tunic. The kicker? She's got on silver snakeskin shoes. All this is accessorized with a Tiffany-ish powder blue handbag. I'm not sure of what kind of looks she's going for. OH MY GOD. I think ... I think. Actually, I'm sure (ewww, she's getting a soy caramel macchiatto) that she's got a pack of cigarettes jammed up under her shirt. No. It can't be. It has to be a nicotine patch. Although I don't know why she would have that floating around down near her muffin top.

Hello. Old dude. Christmas sweaters are officially out of style on Dec. 27. You MIGHT be able to get away with it on Boxing Day, but not on January 2. Please exit the building and get thee to a Macy's, pronto.

The baristas are arguing about the schedule.

And there is some RETURN DRAMA. There's a woman with OH MY GOD - a STACK of Starbucks receipts. She's got a Christmas gift bag and she's pulling out pounds of coffee, coffee grinders, some mugs -- all sorts of shit and she's holding up the line tremendously. Worse, she's dressed in an odd black and green jogging suit combination. She's old and white - but she has one leg of the jogging suit pulled up over her knee in ghetto style while the other one is down near her ankle. She's hollering at the assistant manager on duty about return a pound of ground coffee that she apparently bought back in early December but she claims tasted bad. Uh. Uh. Uh. I see a potential scam here.

Buy the $16 a pound coffee, fill the bag with Folgers and return. Wash rinse repeat.

They're still arguing. The girl at the register is holding up one finger to the customers getting increasingly impatient behind her - "One moment. One moment." And she points at the black sweatsuit woman. If this woman keeps this up - denying these poor people their triple mocha latte fix, there might me a venti-sized riot up in here.

Finally, she'd done. THEY ARE GIVING HER MONEY BACK FOR ALL THOSE POUNDS OF COFFEE. Damn. I need to get up on this.

Ok. We're going to depart with one bit of fashion advice that we should all take to heart. Ladies - and gentlemen - when you bleach your hair in order to go fashionably blonde - YOU NEED TO PUT SOME CONDITIONER UP IN THAT MESS. Otherwise, it do be looking like straw up on your head. And I will clown you ferociously.

Starbucks #1, 7:25 p.m. - Screw this laptop and this one heffa is hella noisy

Let's try this again. I just kicked the cord and lost the first nine minutes. I burst out with a "What the fuck" and caused everyone at Starbucks to stare at me. Must needs remember that I'm not always in private. Lovely. Just effing lovely.

I have GOT to get a better computer. The MacBook that I killed was posted off to Apple by the tech support folks at my real job - Apple sent back a repair estimate that would cover the price of one of the baby iBooks. So for the time being, I'm not portable except for this janky Dell with the non-existent battery and now complete with a shitty power cord. Merry effing Christmas.

Anyway. Where was I? Oh. It's another Starbucks on another night and I'm working on another iced mocha. The workers here have those dead looks that say "I've worked too much over the past few days and not spent enough time with my family. I will serve you your coffee, but I will not smile at you and I will hate you for even expecting me to be friendly when I really want to be at home on the couch chomping on Cheetos and sucking down a fifth of Jim Beam."

OH MY GOD. The barista working the espresso bar just announced "VENTI CARAMEL CRAPPUCCINO." The recipient of said "crappuccino" eyeballed her and said "What was that?" The barista apologized and assured him that it was a frappuccino. And then announced to no one in particular that it has been a long four days.

It has been a long four days. When the power on my computer died, this dude behind me asked "Did you lose your data?" No. I was just screaming at random.

I do realize that this is a Starbucks - people might holler and scream on a regular basis, but I do try to keep my stuff under control. This is a man that comes in around 7 p.m. every night with takeout from a different restaurant, sits in one of the comfortable recliners and proceeds to feast for the next 45 minutes. I've never seen him actually order anything FROM Starbucks - just take up their space and use their napkins, forks and toilet paper.

There's a girl making really loud social plans off to my one o'clock. GIRL, WHERE YOU AT? I'M ABOUT TO HEAD OUT TO THE HIP-HOP FEST AND I THINKS ALL OF YA'LL SHOULD BE JOINING ME. I NEEDS MY PEEPS. YOU FEELS ME? YOU KNOW WHAT MY FRIEND DID? SHE WENT TO THE DOCTOR AND SAID HER SHOULDER HURT AND SHE GOT ALL KIND OF PILLS AND THEY WERE SO STRONG AND SHE SOLD THAT SHIT. SHE TOOK HALF AND SOLD HALF AND PAID FOR HER KIDS CHRISTMAS.

Damn. I never knew. That's how you make money up in here. Lie, cheat and sell.

The cacophony of noise up in here is terrible.

The girl on the phone is getting louder, if that were possible. IS JESSICA GOING? I CAN'T BE BY MYSELF. SHE NEED TO PICK UP THE PHONE WHEN I CALL. I KNOW SHE BE UP IN THE HOUSE. WHERE SHE BE AT? I NEED MY GIRL. GIRL, LET ME TELL YOU, SHE DON'T PICK UP THE PHONE FOR NOBODY.

Now this girl is wandering around the Starbucks, screaming into the phone and picking her thong out of the backside of her skirt. It REALLY is an attractive picture. She has on a black skirt and white flip flops.

Which is a step up from what just walked in - two kids where one of them doesn't even have shoes on at all - and they are certainly old enough to know better. Either twins or brothers. I'm trying to figure these pants out. I think one of them has on khakis with the back split halfway and denim sewed into the gap to create two-toned flares. It is the strangest thing. The one without shoes has on shorts. Homeless or European? Obviously not homeless because the both just whipped out cell phones.

Two well-dressed middle-agers just walked in. The woman has on what I refer to as a peppermint shirt - it looks just like one of those candy mints in a million different shades of red and pink and is all stripey. It is very cute.

The cell phone girl is still screaming. GIRL, I DON'T REMEMBER ANYTHING FROM THAT PARTY. ALL I REMEMBER IS THE SHIMMY SHIMMY AND FALLING INTO THE CHRISTMAS TREE AND THEN SOMEONE HAD TO REMIND ME OF IT. SOMEONE WILL SAY SOMETHING LIKE THAT HAPPENED AND I WILL BE LIKE "I WASN'T EVEN THERE" AND SOMEONE HAS TO BE LIKE 'YES YOU WERE." She sure sounds like she has a fascinating party-filled life - falling over into Christmas trees and all.

One final note. Pink polo shirts are a no-no unless you have enough money to buy and sell small islands. They just look funny on anyone else. Thank you old man - your touristy ways made me laugh - especially because that shade of pink made you look like someone dunked you in a bottle of milk of magnesia!

Starbucks at the Mall, 6:54 p.m. - It is really noisy in here

Yeah. It is super noisy in here and there are a lot of people. There is a woman trying to maneuver a gigantic baby buggy - the kind with a car seat on top - and stacked with packages out from the restroom.

She obviously has no sense of space or proportion. None of dress either - or she wouldn't be wearing enough make-up to plaster a three-bedroom house and an extension and have some left over.

These teenagers over to the right of me are very annoying. One has bleached blonde hair and the other has hair dyed black as night. Ten to one their natural colors are the exact opposite. I can't make out the conversation over the annoying as hell music up in this Starbucks - but it seems to revolve around some boy, a class or some ginormous trouble that surely isn't.

God. I never knew that jazz music could be so annoying. And here come the howler monkeys. There's a young mother with an awful haircut with two howlers and an aged mother in tow. ARE YOU GONNA GO WITH GRANDMA? OK. LET GO. LET GO. GO WITH GRANDMA. Damn bitch. Kick it in the ass and send it across the floor if it won't let go. Grandma yanks the howler back toward the bathroom and mommy proceeds to order even more sugar for her hopped up little heathens.

The kids are now describing some "throw-down party." HEY, HERE'S THE CAMEL LIGHTS. I LOVE HASH. THAT'S WHAT I SAID. None of them look old enough to be in college, much less smoking hash. Kids today.

There must be a sale at the Victoria's Secret - because every third woman in here has had a Vicky's bag. Old women, young women, fat women, skinny beyotches - they've all had Vicky's bags. Here is my question - WHAT THE HELL IS VICTORIA'S SECRET? I'm dying to know. Is it locked in a vault at the back of the store somewhere or what?

There is a woman in a horribly ugly green and brown shirt and a cutoff denim skirt that has additional rips in it at the counter now.

Ma'am. I'm going to give you some free advice. If a skirt is short enough that you have to slide out of car seats so as not to flash the planet, you DO NOT need to put further slits in the sides or front. NOT NECESSARY. The population of suburban south Florida is certainly not your gynechiatrist!

The woman with the howler monkeys is walking by me. I think her mother is trying to shoplift. The staff here is so slammed with customers that they would never notice some ugly Christmas merchandise walking right out the door. I mean really - why is small and easily pocketed merchandise located right by the entrance.

The woman right now is practicing a classic grifter move. Put the drink down. Put the purse down. Adjust the purse. Wrap napkin around drink. Examine Starbucks Christmas ornaments. Think about it. Think about it. Think about it. She sees me looking right at her. She leaves. Damn. I deserve a free venti iced mocha for stopping this shoplifter.

Ladies. Unless you are doing some en pointe work, you do not need to be wearing ballet flats. Especially if you are tipping the scales at several multiples of a hundred. It don't be working for fashion. Please. Spare us all. Unless you're going to be doing the dancing hippos from "Fantasia" routine. Then, I'll sell tickets, popcorn and gladly watch.

Here's another question. When did tights - and nothing else - just tights and a T-shirt become acceptable outerwear? I know this is South Florida and the temperature - even in December - never goes below 70 - but no one needs to see your butt cheeks hanging out.

This Starbucks is apparently so busy that they have had to implement rudimentary crowd control measures - by which I mean they actually have LINES roped off for people stand in. The way these yuppies are reacting you'd think the concept of LINE never crossed their caffeine-addled brains. Sir, I need you move over here. SIR. SIR. CAN YOU MOVE OVER HERE PLEASE!

OK. The teenagers just got up to leave and I swear to Kali one of those girls had on flowered pants that were barely enough to cover her copious buttocks. More underwear as outwear. Flower garden as pants. I have seen it all.

OK. My head hurts like MF-er and I feel like crap. Peace, love and and coffee grounds.

Starbucks #1, 5:42 p.m. - Ironic camouflage is still ugly

There is a woman wearing ironic camouflage that has a worn patch around her buttocks standing at the register right now. She has a zebra pocketbook and combat boots. The only saving grace of this entire outfit is the white tunic. Bizarre, or European tourist? You never, ever know. She also has a gigantic - and by gigantic I mean that this thing could double as a dog toy or a necklate choker - pink plastic keyring in the shape of a diamond ring dangling from her belt loops. It is easily one of the most outre things I've seen in days - and I've been reading Go Fug Yourself and run across Bai Ling more than once.

You know, the more I look, the more I wonder if those pants really ARE camouflage. If might be some poorly thought out homage to Monet, using green and gray pigments with occasional splashes of blue and orange. She's sitting not five feet from me right now and I'm positive that those pants are actually meant to look like a artist's palette after painting a tropical forest at 11 p.m. No matter if it is ironic camouflage or Monet-inspired fashion - it is still as ugly as homemade sin.

The more I look, the more I think this is a European tourist - one here for the holidays. As if the strangely interesting fashion weren't enough, the stitching on her shirt is odd. It doesn't look like anything made in the sweatshops of China for knockoff American designers. I can't read the label, but it just has that "foreign" look to it. The pattern for the shoulder comes all the way back to the middle of her shoulder bone, where a small square comes down from the neck to join the two together. It looks sort of like this: ______|__|_____ The seam for most American garments runs right across the top of the arm. She's gone now.

My favorite Starbucks re-arranged the furniture. They moved the condiment bar and broke up the comfy grouping of lounge chairs. I like it, except that by doing so they managed to reduce the number of tables for laptop users by two. Two of the remaining spaces are right by the doors - where you'll be bothered by constant traffic. I wonder if it was a deliberate move.

Oh. Cute boy alert. Tall, MORE camouflage pants, pasty white so he's obviously a tourist, and carrying a super-thin laptop. It's a tiny, tiny, ultrathin Dell laptop. On second thought, I think I'll pass. He's got a hat with a glittered tiger on it. He is also wearing a giant square gold ring with an onyx square on it on the index finger of his left hand. It's just too much.

Damn. Hot Latin Boy alert. One just rolled in as part of a family on holiday. He's got a muscles and he knows it. He's cut the sleeves off a brown shirt and is just smoking hot. Hello Mr. Bicep. What are the odds I can unwrap you later tonight? There's skin tone the color of a really light cafe mocha, with a head full of tousled curls. His skanky girlfriend is wearing what looks like a pleat of denim over her much-abused lady parts and a top that barely covers her surgically enhanced mammaries. She can't be a day over 20 and she's had more work done than most Palm Beach doyennes.

Apparently Starbucks is going to close at 7 p.m. tonight. The baristas are desperate to have this crew clear out - but apparently everyone is just like me and has nowhere else to go on Christmas Eve. It could be worse - they could be going to the Wal-Mart - where there won't be a holiday at all.

OK. Now Mr. Biceps is sipping a coffee and rubbing his abs. I have to leave. The choices are leave or rip the weave off his girlfriends head and use it to tie his wrists and ankles together and drag him home with me.

MERRY CHRISTMAS EVERYONE!

Books-A-Million, 6:37 p.m. – My smoking hot barista, let me show you him

Remember way back in the dawn of antiquity, when 21 Minutes started, and I came to Books-A-Million? There was a hot, hot barista working here. I’ve been back a few times and never seen him, so I figured he’d moved on.

Not so. Not so. He’s right here now, pacing back and forth in front of me in his little indie musician black hair shag and wearing his thrift store-best shirt and green pants. That three-day-old beard looks incredibly hot. And he’s wearing that indie-rock slash skaterboi standby – a pair of Vans. A bit corporate indie rock, but cute nonetheless.

Plus, I’m just a sucker for a man with a tattoo, and he’s got one down the entirety of his right arm. There’s a very graphic pattern with swirls and loops and stylized flowers. He’s also got what looks like a bright red sunburst around his elbow. That must have hurt.

OH MY GOD. Howler monkeys. Excessively loud ones. Really people. Please do not be shopping with your howlers. Leave them at home – preferably in the care of Sweeney Todd or something. Anywhere but in my immediate vicinity.

There’s a decrepit old wreck of a man wearing a pink shirt slumped at a table in the Joe Muggs café. I think he’s reading, but he could just be mumbling to himself as he’s turning pages.

Oh. Hot Barista boy is just trying to start something here. He’s gnawing on a straw and bounding up and down on his heels. One does not need that particular imagery at this moment.

Oh my Kali. There’s a chunky suburban mother with hundred-pound brat in tow. The child has on a camouflage hoodie, bright green boxer shorts – like what boxers wear into the ring – and flip flops. And it’s about fifty degrees outside. Bad fashion begins at home.

In the past two minutes, I’ve seen two guys give each other the eye and then head into the bathroom. Now I remember why we always used to call Books-A-Million “tricks-a-million.” Every bookstore in America is a pick-up joint for gay men.

I would like to comment again on the disservice that Books-A-Million does toward laptop users. Just like the Barnes & Noble, there is only one plug-in in the entire café area – at the bar facing a giant cooler.

I’m fighting for counter space with a stack of board games, a cake stand and a box of plastic wrap. Apparently, the comfortable chairs are reserved for patrons who aren’t planning to sit for a while. Why bother to create an inviting space for laptop users if you don’t want them to stay awhile?

I love indie rock boys. This one is very pretty. He smiles my way every so often. I wonder if he’s taken? I’m too chicken to actually ask him out, but it’s still nice to imagine.

Anyway. This freezer that I’m staring at is hella noisy. It’s like bomb – thrum, thrum, thrum, thrum. I can’t even hear the generic Christmas carols playing on the store PA system.

More bad fashion approacheth. There’s a really old man in blue jeans and a blue denim shirt that wants to buy something from the café register, but Indie Boy Barista is MIA. Whoops. He’s back. Maybe HE had a quickie in the men’s room.

OK. On that note, I’m off. I can’t deal with the rejection any more.

Starbucks #2, 10:17 p.m. – Two new baristas and a borrowed computer do not a fun time make

I have done a terrible thing. My MacBook is no more. It died in the tragic Dr. Pepper incident of 2008. I’m writing from a borrowed computer. I can barely fight back the tears. The frappuccino fails to comfort me.

In short, my advice to you is to never put a bottle of Dr. Pepper in your laptop bag, carry it around an outdoor art fair for two hours, then attempt to open said bottle of Dr. Pepper in the general vicinity of your laptop. BAD, BAD, BAD PLAN. In the legion of bad plans, this is right up there with having children, mixing plaid and stripes, voting Republican and admitting that you “smoked but didn’t inhale.” BAD, BAD PLAN!

I’m sitting inside Starbucks #2. There were some new baristas tonight, including two aged crones with zero customer service skills. Older women are usually the friendliest cashiers on record. Maybe they have corns. Maybe they have bunions. Maybe they just have a really tight thong that’s riding up in their old-lady cracks.

I don’t really care if you have a face fit to frighten fish out of water, but I would like for you to be able to take my order without asking me to repeat it five times and then actually use my Duetto card as a DUETTO card, not a credit card. That’s why I have it – to get the three percent back. Know your product heifers. I might not be able to make a half-caff, three-Splenda, no-foam triple espresso, but I CAN run a register, smile and tender a transaction with all due dispatch. The coffee part can be LEARNED!

Anyway. The experienced barista – a strung-out heroin addict by the looks of it – made made an excellent white chocolate frappuccino. Truly excellent. “Hark the Herald Angels Sing” is playing on the stereo and I’m trying to drown my sorrows. It is not working.

I love Christmas carols, but they sound so sad when you’re sad on the inside. Oh my Shiva. Bing Crosby and “Winter Wonderland.” I really, really don’t think I can deal.

This place is dead tonight. Like really dead. There’s a yuppie sipping green tea over in the corner. Hi Mr. Yuppie.

I’m kind of sick of this Starbucks Christmas CD. And if you value your life, please Kali remind me to avoid the Chili Chili Cheesburger at Red Robin the next time I go.

I scarfed one of those and most of a basket of fries before going to see “The Golden Compass.” I am paying the price in spades today.

The gastro-intestinal distress is killing me, not to mention that the inevitable social consequences of eating a large load of bean-laden chili cannot be measured in dollars and cents. It would be OK if I work with people I hate, but I don’t. I don’t love my co-workers, but I don’t hate them either, and I’ve been delivering some lethal not-so-silent but still very-deadlies all day. Avoid the beans. Avoid the beans.

YuppieBoy is playing with his BlackBerry. I’d like one of those (the BlackBerry people, the BlackBerry), just for the email – but I hate the keyboard. What I really need is one of those Asus EEE PC’s. Anyone out there with deep pockets? Anyone care to console a starving writer? Anyone? Bueller? Bueller?

There are religious carols playing now. “Hallelujah, hallelujah ….” This is very pretty, but it sounds like a combination folk song and hymn.

I’m just not inspired tonight. I’m sorry. I can’t really write. Four more minutes.

The workers here are making a tremendous amount of noise. Surely cleaning in an empty restaurant does not require enough noise to wake the dead. Surely they must know that my laptop has died an untimely death. Candles should be lit in its honor, memory chips set afloat onto the seas of the Interweb and memorial Web sites created …. le sigh.

O-kaaaaaaay. Now the baristas are expounding on the allegedly poor design of this Starbucks. “The bathroom should be over here. The sink should be over here.” Come to think of it, I’ve never seen any two Starbucks designed the same way. Ever. Ever. Hmmmmmm. It’s not like a cookie-cutter McDonalds. Things that make you think.

OK. Peace out. I’m going to find a bottle of Scotch.

Starbucks #1, 6:29 a.m. – It is morning at Starbucks and nobody is happy

The very-early-morning crowd at Starbucks is completely different than the early morning crowd, the morning crowd, the mid-morning crowd or the late morning-not-quite lunch crowd. How, you ask?

Easy. Nobody is awake, nobody is communicative and everyone speaks in grunts and vocalizations that would serve as Oscar-winning dialogue in “Clan of the Cave Bear.” Daryl Hannah would be so proud.

Right now I’m looking at a man in white short and a gray shirt make the largest production out of getting cream and sugar into a cup that I’ve seen this side of a white-tablecloth coffee service. I don’t believe that starched-apron maids make this big a deal out of precise amounts of cream, sugar and sprinkles of cinnamon.

And then there are the early risers, the go-get-em’s, who are delineated by their brisk walk and the pep in their step. They want to talk to the baristas, who are more than likely as not as sacked out as their customers. After all, they don’t just open they store at 6 a.m. – they have to show up earlier to brew coffee, set out pastries, etc.

A lovely couple just waltzed in. Real estate types by the look of things. She’s got a casual but dressy black sweater ensemble tossed over her shoulders and is moving in pert and precise steps. Her companion – in khaki slacks and a white cotton shirt with creases so straight you could slice cheese with it – orders and sits down to read the paper. It’s up to her to pay and fetch the brews.

Some schlubby-looking Indian - (the subcontinent, not the tribe) - businessmen in the house now. They are dressing very fashion forward – even if everything is wrinkled. One has a purple pinstripe shirt and a dark purple tie; the other has a white button-down and a flashy lime-green thing around his neck. Maybe they watched this week’s “Project Runway?” Maybe they’re just clueless. You decide.

There’s a contingent from the large downtown hospital here. And a skinny woman with the most awkward-looking broken-arm sling known to man. If I ever broke my arm, I really do not know what I’d do. My life is lived at a computer. I’d have to get a direct neural hookup or something.

Sling lady is a fashion disaster. Ballet flats, fried perm, at least a dozen cheap gold bangle bracelets and an ugly sweater vest that is not the same color as her ballet flats.

The Indian dudes are lingering for some reason – although they don’t seem to be able to cotton on to the fact that there are tables available. They’re wandering around. They look like they have cell phone plus some other data devices hooked to their belts. The one in the lime green tie is making sure that everyone in the Starbucks knows that he left “MY IPHONE AT YOUR APARTMENT LAST NIGHT.” Seriously dude. Glad you got a hookup. Nobody cares. I’d throw you back. Even if you have an iPhone.

There’s a semi-cute boy wearing a pair of clamdiggers looking at the outrageously expensive $600 coffeemaker Starbucks is selling for Christmas. He would be cute if the would not be trying to grow the mustache. Clamdiggers – unless you are within 10 yards of sand – do not look right on men, especially when paired with black athletic sandals. These are the rules of fashion by which we must all abide.

There’s a traffic jam at the condiment bar. Three old men wearing, in order, a peach polo shirt, a white polo shirt and a navy polo shirt. They are polite, but I sense they are about to start measuring the unmentionalbles in order to get at the pitcher of half-and-half. The morning coffee is serious business with this crowd.

Some man just came in and asked for his 7-11 cup to be refilled with coffee. He’s wearing a NASCAR hat and shiny metallic shorts that do nothing for his enormous rear and I just saw him pour half a pitcher of milk into the cup. I guess I just witnessed a ghetto latte. Stay classy NASCAR man, stay classy.

Meh. I have to go to work in a few minutes. Peace, love and understanding.

Starbucks #2, 10:28 p.m. - The kids are DEFINITELY not alright

When I rolled up, I nearly creamed what looked to be the cast of “High School Musical,” only dressed as preppy goths.

Turns out there was some high school event tonight – and the resulting crowd flocked over to Starbucks for tall chocolate chip frappuccinos. As a result of all their giggling and general space-hogging antics, I scored a free venti coffee from one of the baristas.

He was in a very bad mood. “We made like fifteen frappuccinos – and they all wanted them LIKE NOW! It was insane.”

Now the kids are singing lyrics to something. They are badly out of tune, but it sounds like something from the stage version of “Wicked.” I can distinctly make out the words “bring her dooooooooowwwwwwnnnnn.” O-kaaaaaay.

I guess my plans for a little quiet contemplation and some writing just went out the window.

Two old WOACAs just came in and perched on the only two vacant chairs left in the Starbucks – said chairs which happen to be far too close to the bratty kids for these over-dressed and under-sexed ladies’s tastes. These old birds are giving the teen-agers some nasty looks. Think “I found six and a half roaches in my sandwich” nasty looks. That kind of nasty.

The baristas are doing some heavy duty flirting – with me and with each other. I guess cleaning is kind of moot since there are currently twenty-plus kids up in here shouting the place down.

The kids are screaming so loud the departing manager can’t even get her staff to hear her orders. “Clean up outside.” Louder. “Clean up OUTSIDE.” PRACTICALLY SCREAMING. “CLEAN UP OUTSIDE!” It is insane. These kids seriously need to leave. Leave or learn how to act in public.

Appropos of nothing, I love red. It is my new favorite color.

OK. One of these heifers is doing a full-blast old school Montell Jordan up in here “This Is How We Do It.” Really? I could totally believe you act like this all the time.

More tragic? I just noticed that half of them have their cell phones out and are yakking away at the top of their lungs or are text messaging. It is the ultimate in friendship. Let’s meet up and text message. What happened to just hanging out?

Kali bless me for not smashing someone. The timer on one of these pots of coffee is gong off and the baristas can’t get free to shut it off. BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP. It’s like the freaking roadrunner of coffee timers.

I wonder if I could call in an anonymous noise complaint on these kids? Hello, police, there is a disturbance at the Starbucks on First Street. Can you send a paddy wagon?

My free coffee is not that good. I know, I know – never look a gift coffee in the mouth, but still. I would have paid for it to be acceptable.

Oh. From where I’m sitting I can see the “Green Apron Traits” message board. These baristas are supposed to be suggesting the Christmas blend and trying to get some extra add-on sales by pushing pounds of coffee to customers by telling them they make excellent Christmas gifts. Let me know how that goes.

Score. Free pastry because they’re marking them out and will just throw them away. I asked if they donate them. They said they do – but the food pantry doesn’t come pick them up regularly. That’s just sad.

OK. The kids have moved outside to wait on their mothers. They all have the cell phones out trying to locate the she-beasts who squatted in a rice paddy and squirted them out. Most of them should have been strangled at birth. Or drowned. I’m an equal-opportunity teen howler-monkey life-ender.

I’m just in a crappy mood tonight.

Drink my coffee. Eat my free chocolate mint cookie. Flirt with barista. Leave.

Just a note, the Starbucks I write from most often will be Starbucks #1. This one will be #2. There's a third one I visit, but haven't written from yet. That one will be #3.

Bad Ass Coffee, 7:02 p.m. – It’s deader than the Giuliani campaign

Unless these people dramatically improve their barista skills, I predict that the end is nigh for Bad Ass Coffee.

After three post-midnight exits from my office this week, I left early and came downtown to cadge a coffee and write. The downtown area is flooded with holiday shoppers, tourists and diners. If you look out the plate glass window in the front of the store here – you’d think it was New York on Labor Day weekend. Ghost town.

There is a tiny trickle of customers – but certainly not what you’d expect of a coffee shop in the downtown district – and CERTAINLY not what you’d think they’d expect from the hue and cry raised over their name.

Business must be hurting already. There is only one young barista here – nose piercing and all – and the owner. He’s out and about – pressing the flesh and greeting for all he’s worth. The personal touch is nice, but it does reek of desperation. Also, it took eight minutes for me to get my fruit smoothie. I can get a triple venti raspberry white chocolate mocha in under 90 seconds at the Starbucks. Speed of service is another strike.

There’s an argument at the register over decaf tea vs. regular tea. People. Please. It is a leaf. Camellia sinensis. Deal.

These two middle-aged tourists – WOACA & MOACA – dressed in slacks and black-white-stripes (an homage to Marcel Marceau?) are still arguing about tea. They are debating the benefits of caffeine with the owner.

WOACA is expounding on how she quit caffeine “cold turkey.” It would be more interesting if it were you know, actually interesting.

There is some sort of odd tropical jazz playing here. I can’t tell if it is tribal fusion, tropical fusion, Hawaiian fusion or what. There’s a samey-ness quality to it that sounds sort of like Hawaiian tropical elevator music.

MSNBC is playing video of the GOP debate. Does anyone really care? All I see is a bunch of white guys standing at podiums, expounding on social policies that more than half of America doesn’t agree with. They’re also doing this little “Does America HEART Huckabee” with a little heart symbol – a take-off of the “I Heart Huckabee’s” movie. Cute. Reducing the race for leader of the free world to Hollywood drivel.

Now MOACA & WOACA are regaling the owner with tales of hot chocolate in New Jersey or some other Yankee state. They’re telling him how to run his business. It was 89 degrees here today. Somehow, I really don’t see people running to line up for hot chocolate.

There’s a group of old people wandering by outside. They stop and peer in. They see people. They read the name “BAD ASS COFFEE.” The old people move on.

The pseudo-barista finally remembered that I ordered a snack to go with my fruit smoothie. Eighteen minutes after I placed the order, I get my cardboard chocolate cake.

This place has a gimmicky name, free WiFi, some interesting ambiance and very little else.

The staff just ordered Chinese takeout. I wonder if they’re paying for it out of the register?

There is a no-lyrics jazz version of “Jingle Bells” playing now. I almost didn’t recognize it. Very nice. Very peppy. I love Christmas music.

Play me out! Wait. Not before we get a jazz riff on “Here Comes Santa Claus!”

Starbucks, 8:52 a.m. – Morning fashion is no better than evening fashion

Yes. I struggled up from my crypt in time to give you kids a morning edition today. Just don’t get used to it. If I had my way, I’d work from 3 p.m. to midnight every day.

Oh, yeah. I’m at the Starbucks. It is old man central up in here. Six, no, wait NINE – counting the ones outside – old men sipping lattes and reading the newspaper. I guess this is what retirement is like. Someone shoot me now. I hope my retirement involves a yacht and Brazilian boy named Paulo or Santiago or something.

Anyway. Aside from the Metamucil Literary Brigade, the action here is slim. I cannot bring myself to describe nine individual old men slugging down coffee and reading the paper.

We’re right at the 9 a.m. hour though, so things may start to heat up.

And they just did. Some self-entitled a-hole of a customer just walked in and GRUNTED at the barista. I know you’re a regular and all – but at least make the effort.

There’s a woman here with an iPhone. She’s the chunky “I work in an office” type that doesn’t really need an iPhone, but really wants to show up her friend Janice. Anyway.

She is in line, but still wearing her knockoff Ray-Ban fashion shades that she got at the Old Navy, some Rack Room shoes, faded blue jeans and the ugliest leopard print top this side of the Atlantic. Real leopards would die in shame if this print ever showed up on one of their kin.

But this woman has one of those fancy leather iPhone cases that she’s hung off her right pants pocket – not the hip – the pocket – just so that everyone can gasp in awe that OMG THAT WOMAN HAS AN IPHONE!

Her drink is insanely complicated too. Three people went through the other register while she was ordering.

Ladies, if your “girls” are one of your assets, more power to you. However, you probably need to restrain them somewhat, either with a brassiere, a sports bra or clothing that fits properly. Really, the last thing I need at 9 a.m. is a gigantic pair of bouncy balls doing the rumba in my face.

Mr. Chocolate Chip Frappuccino is here. Every morning that I’m here, he’s here, ordering a grande chocolate chip frappuccino. And wearing the same clothes – complete with black baseball cap. I’m dying to know his story.

Mon dieu. A horde of tourists and the place is crowded all of a sudden. One of these women is wearing black velvet tights, a black velvet tunic and a burgundy velvet cape. She’s got a full head of blonde hair, which she’s chosen to pin back with a black sun visor. Yow.

And the exercise crowd. Ma’am. We all know you work out. We can smell you. However, we do NOT need to see your buns hanging out the back of your gray bicycle pants and your boobs hanging out the front of your blue sports bra. And really, is coffee all that good for any exercise regimen?

Men should not wear Crocs. Ever.

There is a grandma here with her granddaughter – they’re trying to find a place to sit down – and granny is giving the old man brigade the look of death because all the tables are taken with the old men reading the paper. The kid is clutching a book like her life depends on it.

Gun alert. Sheriff’s deputies make me nervous. Not that I’ve done anything wrong, but that we’re only one crazy person away from something really going wrong. And they get free coffee too. This one got a free pastry as well.

Exercise chick is looking severely unhappy. She must not be a yoga practitioner.

I just saw an old man with a Dali T-shirt. I love Dali. The world needs more surrealism.

And now a woman is complaining that the girl on the register slammed the cash drawer “too hard.” They have to explain to her that the drawer sticks and sometimes they have to slam it to close it. It was not a statement on her being difficult.

Bad Ass Coffee, 3:48 p.m. – Oh baby, bat those eyelashes in my direction!

We’re coming at you live – well, semi-live from downtown’s hot new controversy – Bad Ass Coffee.

Named for the “mythical beasts of burden” – the donkeys that hauled heavy loads of coffee beans down the mountains of Hawaii – Bad Ass Coffee purports to brew the finest cup of coffee this side of the Kona Highlands.

Whatever.

This bunch of high-school-age brats doesn’t know an espresso shot from a tequila shot.

My iced mocha tastes like a cup of decaf that someone dumped some chocolate into, squirted some whipped cream on top and shoved it over the bar. For this and a muffin, I paid the princely sum of $8.

On the other hand, the WiFi is free. So I suppose I’ll be down here a lot – especially since I’ve nearly arrived at the decision to abandon the cold bed of Comcast for warmer pastures elsewhere.

Anyway. This is basically a Starbucks without the intense Starbucks-themed branding campaign. Instead, I’m being treated to a theme similar to what you’d imagine if a pair of Hawaiian shorts mated with a Starbucks.

There are life-size fake palm trees, a grouping hideously ugly rattan furniture with ghastly tropical palm cushions and posters all over the place screaming TROPICS TROPICS TROPICS. Get real people. It's a coffee shop with a cute name! Not the second coming of the Godchild!

There is a sad old granola WOACA in here, out for her daily bike ride or something. She’s got on an urban camo top in gray and yellow and black cargo shorts that are splattered with paint. Her hair is twisted up on top of her head in that careless “I’m worth more than you’ll ever make” way. And she’s sweaty as all get out and pawing through the T-shirts and tumblers like no one’s business. “WHAT A COOL PLACE!” she announces to the room at large. NEWSFLASH! We don’t really care.

Bored teenage tourists are the same the world over. A pack of Dutch tourists just walked in. Either Dutch or Swedish. The mother is yelling into a super-modern cellphone at the top of her lungs in some language and the Dad is digging money out of his fanny pack.

Swedish I think. Their clothes have a certain Ikea-ish style and their hair is kind of blonde and blocky. But the teenager with them just looks so perpetually bored by his parents that I truly do feel for them. His poor father is trying to engage him in conversation and the kid is just leaning against the condiment bar and twirling his sunglasses. They’re gone now.

There is a summit meeting happening over to my right. There’s an older bald man and his twenty-something girlfriend. They just wanted to sit on the rattan “couch” and catch their breath. Then this idiot in cutoff khakis and a sleeveless cutoff tee plopped himself down and started a discourse based on the headlines flashing by on CNN Headline News. “Bush is innocent in the Valerie Plame thing! It is all a Democrat smear job.”

They don’t really want to talk to him, but I guess they think it would be rude to just get up and walk away. They’re both giving one-word answers and hope he will shut up, but he’s leaning back (oh my Kali, a forest of armpit hair) and settling in for a debate.

Cute boy alert. He must work in one of the shops or offices around here. Grey pants and a red shirt. Hair cut very short. Hmm. His ears are kind of big though. He’s very polite to the “baristas.” (Are they called baristas anywhere but at Starbucks?) And he pays with cash. I need a man with cash. And he has pretty eyelashes. Sigh

This man talking about Barack Obama and how he’s an idiot who doesn’t know anything about politics needs to shut up. I personally don’t plan to vote for Obama, but Obama did change the game as far as online political organizing goes.

Tourists. Swimsuits and flip-flops belong at the beach. Please, please, please put some clothes on your child before you bring them into an eating establishment. In fact, put some clothes on YOURSELF. Some sand crabs might drop out or something.

OMG. OMG. OMG. PrettyEyelashes just sat down at the table right across from me. He’s checking his text messages.

Look at me bitch. I’m smiling at you.

Seriously dude. This man yakking on and on and on about politics NEEDS to go die in a fire. Now he’s quoting Ann Coulter. Seriously. Ann Coulter.

PrettyEyelashes kind of looks like Orlando Bloom – although his eyeBROWS need a serious plucking. Caterpillars come to mind. And he’s totally not looking in my direction anymore. You little shit. Am I not cute enough for you?

And he’s leaving. Well. On that note, I guess I better pack up my stuff and go stalk him.

If there’s no update tomorrow, send bail money.

Starbucks, 5:43 p.m. - LoudLucy laughs it up at the NA meeting

The store that I think of as “my Starbucks” has added a new Christmas touch today – little glass vases with sprigs of fake holly and mistletoe and silver and gold sparkly things.

Seeing as how it is November 20, I personally think it is terribly premature – but I like it anyway.

OH MY SWEET JESUS MARY AND JOSEPH. It’s not a WOACA. It’s not a fried perm. It is just a fashion disaster in the flesh.

This woman just came in. She’s wearing those unfortunate culottes that catch her lower legs about eight inches above the ankle. No black could be that slimming. Her hair honestly looks like something nested in it, left to go south for the winter, then came back and nested in it again. She’s with a guy in a fairly normal plaid shirt and blue jeans.

They walked up to the counter, asked questions about the “free” coffee being dispensed, got a sample, refilled that, refilled that, then refilled THAT. Now they are walking around, sipping the fourth refill and browsing the art on the walls of this Starbucks.

They’re behind me, but I got a good look at this woman’s eyes as she came in. Completely dead. And her skin is in horrible condition. You know, I bet she’s a drug addict or something – and the guy is her sponsor. I know there’s an AA meeting place around here. I bet NA would use the same space.

Cute Boy Alert! Green cargo shorts and a gray T-shirt. Shaved head though. Points for the Celtic tattoo on the ankle. Caramel soy macchiato. And he delicately adds a sprinkle. Wait. No. Not so delicate. He DUMPS cinnamon on there.

The loud barista who always screams and tries to leave early just came in. “IS THE SCHEDULE UP?”

She’s browsing the merchandise – the Starbucks merchandise – and offering her unsolicited opinion on the advent calendars, the plush toys and the CDs. “I LOVE THIS BEAR. I SAW IT LAST NIGHT AND I AM SO GETTING ONE.”

The rest of the baristas are just working around her. She is obviously bored with nowhere to go, but doesn’t realize that no one wants to talk to her while THEY HAVE WORK TO DO!

One barista is trying to re-stock the water & sandwich case – a task made all the more difficult by the fact that LoudLucy is standing there fingering stuffed animals and exclaiming how tasty the cookie displays look.

Now she’s flirting with Diamond Studs. I swear to Kali, the sexual tension in a Starbucks could power a city block if harnessed properly.

There is a Hanson holiday remix on the radio right now. I think it is “Little Saint Nick.” Whatever it is, it is an abomination. A complete and total abomination.

I see that Starbucks is selling the soundtrack to the Charlie Brown Christmas special. I adored that show as a child. It was almost a requirement for Christmas – along with the Rudolph & Frosty specials.

Old people suck. There’s one old man sitting behind me TRYING to read a newspaper. This other old man just came in and ordered a coffee. For whatever reason, he feels the need to SCREAM across the Starbucks at this other old man ‘HOW ARE YOU TODAY? JUST BEING PEACEFUL? WHAT’S GOING ON WITH YOU?” Well, it was peaceful before you started yelling up in here!

Another fashion tragedy approacheth. For one, she has what looks like a blonde mop on her head – one that has seen far too many Sally Beauty Supply bleach kits.

Then there’s this odd heart-print top with a keyhole in the back that exposes her bra. I really don’t get it. Black shorts and gray flip-flops. Her male companion is wearing slate-gray shorts and an orange shirt. Maybe they’re just color blind?

And they’re ordering a set of frappuccinos. What they need to be ordering is green tea. Or a coffee enema.

There’s a hot guy coming in wearing a T-shirt advertising ALWAYS AVAILABLE PLUMBING. I wonder if he is truly “always available.” I need to write that number down!

OK. I’m out. I’m going to eat my peppermint cookie and go home.

Starbucks, 6:24 – Psst. I’ve got some oceanfront property in Arizona…

I’m sitting here staring at a woman with the most atrocious fried perm in the entire world. If she entered this perm as a concoction in the Texas State Fair, it would beat out Fried Coke, Fried Hot Dogs and Fried Twinkies as the top fried item. That’s how fried it is. Ladies, your hair-stylist IS YOUR FRIEND. Home perms will save you money but not your reputation.

She’s got the full “I’m studying for finals” regalia out. There’s a rolling backpack with a tin of tea, a separate thermos for coffee, a stack of books with names like “Quantum Healing: Exploring the Frontiers of Mind/Body Medicine” and a lunchbox.

She’s wearing blue jeans and a much-washed pink tunic. What’s worse is that she’s not studying. She’s downloading music files on her laptop over the Starbucks WiFi. I can see the BitTorrent client from my chair.

She wouldn’t be able to concentrate anyway. Two old real estate queens are working over some deal with all the concentration that Dick Cheney would have given to trying to solve the thorny issue of an opposition party.

I love old real estate queens. One is wearing a pink and white striped shirt and slacks and these delicate gold glasses. He’s got silver bracelets on BOTH hands and is punctuating his declarations with jabs from a black Bic pen.

And he’s wearing sandals with jewels on them. Pinky’s little friend is dressed in a black crewneck pullover that’s unbuttoned down to the last button – showing a decent amount of tanned hairy chest. He’s rocking the shaved head and stubble look. Workout queen. His neck tendons stand out in ropey cords and make him look like the result of a vulture mating with a Cardassian.

Black Crewneck has what looks to be a MontBlanc pen but is really just a cheap knockoff. He keeps drawing diagrams on a pad. I think he’s trying to get Pinky to invest in some scheme.

The table and two extra chairs are littered with the detritus of this conversation. I can see an iced coffee cup, a Super Big Gulp cup, three sacks from Starbucks To-Go cookies, napkins, a pile of folders, four notepads, two clipboards and a couple binders.

No. I got it wrong. Pinky is trying to close a deal. “I hear what you’re saying but you just need to listen.” Pinky is starting to get touchy-feely. Now he’s slapping one hand into the other and enumerating his points.

I’m being blinded. Some dude in a gigantic white GMC pickup just rolled up. PLEASE DIM YOUR LIGHTS IF YOU FEEL THE NEED TO USE THE ON-STREET PARKING! There are people inside. He need to wash his truck too!

StudyGirl just got up to swipe about five little paper cups of the free cookies the Starbucks has on the counter. What if I wanted that cookie?

Now StudyGirl has a supportive friend. A big fat old WOACA with major fashion issues. This woman is wearing what looks like a pair of Hefty bags that have been sewn into pants. They stop at that awkward point about six inches up from her ankles – where only people with thin legs should have pants stop. She’s topped off the black trash bags with a turquoise top a size too small.

I can clearly see the underwire of her bra straining to poke out the back, sides and FRONT. They long to escape the turquoise confinement. Her hair is fried too – although this is clearly a case of too much bleach. She’s probably a granola WOACA – because she’s wearing some kind of awful thongish sandal that make her feet look huge. She’s toting a giant black purse that looks like it could hold a baby inside.

She’s leaving. Now I’m being blinded by the headlights of her black VW bug. I wonder why she bought such a small car for such a large person? Hrmmmmm.

There’s a weird girl wandering around now. She’s got on high-waisted shorts and a black pullover – and orange shoes. It gives the impression that her crotch is somewhere up around her boobs. She’s super-skinny and looks like one of those poseable figures with the wires that you can make into all sorts of crazy shapes. She’s getting a coffee, a sandwich and a cookie. That’s right girl. YOU NEED TO EAT!

I guess the milk steamer is going to play me out tonight.

I could barely hear the in-store music over the deal-making from Pinky and Black CrewNeck and the constant chair-scratching from StudyGirl. Peace. Later. Bye.

Starbucks, 7:27 p.m. - Flashcard boy fails at studying

Bing Crosby is wailing out “White Christmas.” I’m sipping a delicious super-extra-special chocolate deluxe café mocha and nibbling a peppermint cookie and it’s beginning to feel a lot like Christmas.

The unseasonable cold snap that has Florida in its grasp has finally dug in its claws enough to force people to dig out the sweaters and jackets and boots and put a chill in the air. I hate Christmas creep, but the season is jolly tonight.

Shockingly, no one else around me seems to share the glee. There is one poor dude in here trying valiantly to study. He has homemade flashcards, a backpack and a stack of books with imposing-looking titles about anatomy. No, wait Spanish. Ay, papi. Habla conmigo, por favor. Dime muchos besos!

He is wearing blue jeans, a knitted navy-blue sweater thing that is looking more and more like flannel underwear the longer I stare at it and black Nikes. He’s trying so hard to concentrate and failing miserably.

The noise in here is terrific tonight. There’s a jazz riff on “The Christmas Song” playing, the dishwasher and a coffee-bean grinder going – in short there’s lots of noise. Someone also just ordered a frappuccino. Blender. Slish, into the cup. Splash of water as the barista rinses the blender.

There’s also a barista trying really hard to leave half an hour early because her friend just came in and invited her to a party. “Can I leave half an hour early? Please? Do I have to work tomorrow? You’d be surprised how hard I work.” I bet I would be!

Mr. Flashcards is so not succeeding. He’s shuffling the cards around, but he’s not really studying. I can see it in the way he’s holding himself.

I barely recognized this song just now as a funk-a-riffic version of “Winter Wonderland.” Wow. It is amazing what some jazz and blues can do to a classic.

“Do you see what I see? / A star, a star / Dancing in the night,”

There’s a diva that’s got hold of this one. She’s pumping it out at the top of her lungs. And we’ve got a dancing patron. Another diva's got hold of it!

Skinny guy, either Hispanic or Middle Eastern. He’s wearing jeans and a very tight black knit pullover. There’s barely enough room for his little chicken-breast pecs, the pullover is so tight.

He’s got a goatee and a thick gold chain. He’s dancing in between the tables, touching first one table top, then the other.

During the riffs in the song, he’s waving his hands in the air as if he is literally balancing the notes inside his head and in the air. It’s a beautiful image of someone so free, so happy as to break into movement in public. In some states, it would likely get him killed.

Alicia Keyes is hitting some notes now. I think this is her new single “No one.” I can hear the guy sitting behind me saying “Alicia Keyes. Now this is what I bump to.” Thank you so much. So, so much.

Mr. Flashcard is still trying to study and there are all these conversations around him. He’s making an effort now. His lips are moving as he makes an effort to imprint the words on the flash cards into his brain.

The baristas are re-stocking the shelves not three feet from him with coffee and merchandise. They’re also all arguing about who is going to work tomorrow, where the phone list is so the one skiving off work can get coverage and generally being noisy. Either Mr. Flashcard has tremendous powers of concentration or else he just totally fails as a student.

WOACA alert. There’s always a WOACA. She’s the tall, artistic type. This one is wearing brown – not khaki – brown slacks and a white shell tunic. She’s gone dramatic with the huge black floor-length knitted osweater-coat that she’s sweeping around. If she’s cold enough to be wearing such a thing – she ought t be wearing socks – or at least some stockings – with her shoes.

Mr. Flashcard finally gave up and picked up his cell phone. Too bad no one has called him. He’s having to send out a text message. PLEASE HELP ME. I FAIL AT STUDYING!

My time is up. Thank you.

Starbucks, 4:33 p.m. --- Cold weather brings out the frappuccino addicts

I’m at a new Starbucks – one I don’t normally go to – because I’m in a new city. This one looks like it has been converted out of a McDonald’s or a KFC – because it is much, much larger than a typical Starbucks. Plus, it is completely standalone – not joined to any other retail space.

Right now, I think I’m sitting in what used to be the drinks station. I’m in a tiny nook off to the right of the Starbucks kitchen. There is a really nice table where I’ve plopped open my computer and these fantastic slipper chairs. This Starbucks also retained the old coffee bean and tropical flower wallpaper.

Moreover, they have not gone overboard with the Christmas décor. There are only a couple of wreaths and the usual red Christmas merchandise – which manages to coordinate nicely with the fire extinguisher.

I can hear all the action at the coffee bar, but I can’t actually see the baristas. The blender for the frappuccinos is whirring, but I don’t know who ordered it or why. I really don’t know WHY anyone would order a frozen drink in 45 degree weather …

There is a woman in a fur coat saying “That just makes my heart so heavy …” Well, sucking down those frappes is what makes your hips so heavy.

Oh. They’re talking about snow. My god. She’s getting MULTIPLE FRAPPUCCINOS.

Old dude comes in limping. He’s wearing a black pullover with a Ford logo. His hair is as white as snow.

Howler monkey alert. It is a young mother with a tiny, tiny child. She is literally dragging it across the threshold of the door. The child clearly does not want to partake of the delicious coffee beverages in the Starbucks. This baby is smacking on a pacifier for all it is worth.

Now the child has pulled loose of its maternal unit’s grasp. DO NOT WANT. She’s feeling its bottom. Now we’re going to the bathroom. Stinky baby.

WOACA alert. There’s a middle-aged woman giving me a dirty look because I’m sitting at the handicapped table typing. She’s carrying a coffee and a slice of cake, not to mention a few extra pounds. She looks into the nook I’m sitting in, sniffs, as if in disapproval of my occupying HER table, then wanders out into the rest of the Starbucks.

Now she’s not even eating the cake; she’s checking her voice mail and blathering into her phone. She’s one of those precious types who thinks a blonde pageboy is the latest in de rigeur hairstyle conventions.

I’m at least twenty feet away and I can hear her conversation. “HEY BARBARA THIS IS SYLVIA. I WAS AT THE HOSPITAL BUT I JUST GOT OUT. OH ABSOLUTELY. GIVE ME JUST A FEW MINUTES. I HAVE TIME. I SHOULD PROBABLY BE AT MY OFFICE. OH ALLRIGHT THANK YOU.”

She’s wearing a leather jacket and blue jeans. All of this is spoiled by the fact that now she’s shoveling cake into her mouth like a demented pot fiend. And she’s still not put the phone down.

It is about 50 degrees out – and a man just walked past wearing shorts and sipping on a frappuccino. Hmmmm. Clearly Yankees have thicker blood than I’m used too. He’s a skinny thing too.

Blonde Pageboy is slamming the buttons on her phone again. She’s done with the cake. That was fast. And she’s giving me another dirty look. Devour the power of the MacBook and laugh. I bet she’s a Realtor or something.

OH MY GOD. They’re making another frappuccino. I seriously do not understand it. The people coming through the drive-through must have a serious, serious sugar addiction.

KALI FORGIVE ME JESUS THEY ARE MAKING ANOTHER ONE. I really do not get it. I love me some frappuccino – but this is just too much.


The entire time I have been here, the drive-through at this Starbucks has been bumping like the tenth hour of an all-night rave. It is crazy-busy.

The woman with the howler monkey is out of the bathroom. And the howler monkey is letting loose. Shrieks of joy I guess. And dearest Mumsy is getting – you guessed it – a frappuccino.

Seriously. What is it with the population here?

My time is up. Thank you.