Starbucks, 11:07 p.m. - Drawing boy is drawing

Somebody – definitely NOT Lauryn Hill – is wailing out “everything is everything” over the speakers at the Starbucks. They have it cranked up too.

It is a nice contrast to the Christmas carols that have been playing at the Starbucks the past few days. I wonder if there were “complaints” to corporate or if this store just has a manager with a different bent? This is also allegedly a “no-merchandise” store, so maybe it gets “special” choices.

The barista who took my order and made my drink totally flirted with me. “What are you doing tonight?” There was more small talk than was strictly necessary. Maybe I’ll hang out.

There is action. There are four teenage boys hanging out practically in each other’s laps in a totally non-ironic way. If they were any closer, I would be staring Siamese twins with eight arms and legs. And these are boys. They are totally oblivious to the homoeroticism going on. They are comparing their cell phones with all the glee of teen-age girls comparing boys, purses and slam books.

The barista cleaning the trash outside just leaned in and yelled “One of your mommys is here to pick you up.” HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

Dearest Mumsicle is rocking it in a silver Land Rover. The children depart. I’m alone.

I lied. There is a guy in the back with a huge – at least 3x3 sketch pad drawing something – presumably life art – although who really knows. It could be naked LOLcats or the aforementioned teen boys dressed a Avril Lavigne. I’m not asking.

There is something that sounds suspiciously like Sade on the radio – although I’m not positive of that.

“I used to move to / Create change / Realized and rearranged.”

Hmm. Turns out it is this band called SOULSTICE and the song is called “Illusion.” What the hell are the baristas up to?

I like that song though. Someone needs to buy me that.

There are four baristas here at this hour. What are they all doing? Not much as far as I can tell. There’s no cleaning going on, although that one dude did bag up the trash outside.

Speaking of the outside area – the concrete in front of this Starbucks needs a mop in the way that Bush needs Cheney – DESPERATELY.

The barista that flirted with me has now gotten a carpet sweeper and is moving it around in my general vicinity. He’s thrusting his behind out and then standing with his hand on his radio as if to impress me with the fact that he is important enough to work the drive-thru. OK. Whatever.

I’m not saying I would throw it back – but really, I’m hoping that I could do better in the fashion sense department. He is wearing black shoes. Stand on your feet all day or not – those clodhoppers are as ugly as sin. Worse, MUCH worse, he made me a shitty cup of coffee. That is the one unforgivable sin.

Oh. They are brewing that Italian Roast coffee again. I don’t know what for – unless it is corporate policy to always have a fresh pot made up and they just ran out. It is only 40 minutes to close – but I’m not complaining – I love the smell of that Italian Roast.

Drawing guy is still drawing. Hmmm. I caught him looking at something, then sketching again. He’s not looking at ME – so obviously not something on this end of the Starbucks is out.

I can’t see whatever it is he’s looking at because there is a stupid Starbucks music display in the way. Damn. I thought this was a “no merchandise” Starbucks – and here goes some stupid CDs that NOBODY wants getting all up in my business.

I can’t be nosy without being obvious. That doesn’t bother me, but as there are only two patrons and four baristas, it will be many levels beyond completely obvious.

I just realized that this Starbucks is not decorated for Christmas yet – or if it is – it is a severely toned down version. There is only one wreath on the door and a hideous “Pass the Cheer” banner with advertising for the eggnog latte, gingerbread latte and peppermint mocha. I also see some of the Christmas blend coffee and they are for sure using the Christmas cups. All of this on November 10, I might add. Christmas creep is alive and well in the year 2007!

There is a sheriff’s deputy in the hizouse. He gave me a dirty look when he walked in. Yes, I am typing about you. You are overweight and your buzz cut does nothing for you. Happy now?

Oh. They gave him a receipt. I always thought cops got free coffee. I guess not.

Oh Kali no. The painting crew that is working on building the Sprint store next door just rolled in – it is suddenly all tore up in here with a whole crowd of greasy white men with stringy hair, dirty clothes and all wearing kneepads.

The cop is looking askance at these dudes, even though they greeted him too.

I’m leaving before there is a rumble.

Minute 22: I had to ask. Drawing boy is the assistant manager – and he is drawing penguins wearing Santa suits and holding cups of peppermint mocha. OK? OK.

Starbucks, 8:36 p.m. – Yuppie tourists are creepy!

My Starbucks decorated for Christmas! November the 9th and the red and silver is out. Wreaths, trees, trim – the works. It’s not Christmas creep – it a Christmas Invasion.

Another thing they’re doing which slightly annoys me is the Christmas carols on the in-store channel on the Starbucks channel on XM Radio. I mean, I really do NOT feel like listening to every jazz chanteuse on the planet re-interpret “Jingle Bells” for the next two months. Please go back to the regular jazz, blues and funk until after Thanksgiving.

Other than me, the SBUX is dead tonight. Deader than the McCain candidacy, deader than the Kucinich candidacy, and surely deader than Obama-as-a-friend-of-the-gays candidacy.

Red goes well with Starbucks – at least this particular Starbucks – which has a lot of the older fixtures – including lighter-colored wood tables and shelves, cream paint and a pale floor tile that looks most closely resembles a well-made mocha.

The barista population outnumbers me three to one. Diamond Studs is here – surely cursing at having to work on a Friday night. I must say – the new red holiday shirts fit him well – although I do believe he purposefully choose shirts a size too small!

Another barista is moving along in a desultory fashion, dumping the trash inside and out, cleaning the condiment station, restocking. She’s always been polite to me, but she makes a terrible cup of coffee. I wonder if she’ll last at the SBUX?

The baristas are brewing new coffee and grinding the beans for tomorrow. I can hear the constant grind * grind * grind and the tamp * tamp * tamp as they fill containers and prepare for the next day’s shift.

BadCoffee is fluffing out trash bags. Whirr * tamp * crackle.

Oh Shiva. Entitled yuppies at two o’clock. They aren’t even interested in buying coffee. They’re here to browse the merchandise.

“Oh, look at the advent calendars? It’s glass! Will the cat break it?”

Now they are “browsing” the pastries. Seriously. It doesn’t take skill to pick a muffin.

I just caught a look at their footwear. He’s wearing a long-sleeve black pullover, black athletic pants and black flip-flops – SO HELP ME GOD. She has on zip-up athletic pants that are unzipped up to her knees, a black tee and a blue-jean jacket and some pert little running shoes. She also has a Celebrity Cruises fanny pack and a purse that looks more like a parachute. Tourists are the bane of my existence.

Really, I though Celebrity was the “exclusive” cruise line. Someone please correct me if I’m wrong.

Now they’re demanding wrapping paper and a bag to protect their precious Starbucks advent calendar. Really. Wrapping paper. To protect it in the twenty feet back out to your car. I swear to Kali I saw the barista roll her eyes.

The dude just walked right by me with his flip-flops. He seriously, seriously, seriously needs to cut his toenails. Ugh. I am so creeped out right now.

The baristas are re-filling the ice freezer. I love the sound of ice as it hits the freezer. Slish. Slish. Slish.

The smell of the coffee brewing is just intoxicating. It's that Italian Roast. Think all those cartoon images where the scent just tickles your nose and leads you on a chase through the entire house. That’s what it is like right now. Lovely and deep and fresh and delicious.

OH. WOW. Cute boy alert. We’ll be going into overtime for this one. Minute 22 starting right now.

And OT is ovah. He was only cute from the back. From the front, he’s damn near 40. Needs a shave and few hair plugs. Don’t you just hate those?

On that note, I’m out. Peace. Later. Bye.

Beach park, 5:38 p.m. – Tourist season is here and I'm cold

November marks the official start of tourist season in my neck of the woods – and you can surely tell the difference in the number of people crowding the beach for sunset.

The cars are pouring into the parking lot and lumpy Yankees and Midwestern tourists are slamming car doors and running – literally RUNNING to the beach desperate to get a glimpse of the sun as the molten ball of lava descends into the ocean.

I just saw a fat and frumpy middle-aged Midwestern housefrau nearly trip over the sidewalk in her haste to get out of her minivan and get over the grassy verge and onto the sand.

The air has a distinct and pronounced chill tonight. The breeze is blowing something fierce – like the tongue lash of a harangued fishwife, it is whipping the hair and coats of all present.

The sun sank remarkably fast – within a matter of minutes. From the time I started writing until now. Sink. Sinking. Gone.

Show is over now. The crowds are leaving. It is like a tourist attraction. The herd comes into the museum room – stares at the pretty painting, then dutifully troops back out behind the matron. I expect to hear the screech of tires and see the mangled bumpers any time now. Yankees have an inability to drive outside their native habitat.

Four minutes after sunset and the beach is nearly deserted. There is only one slightly odd family still out there. They look to be taking vacation pictures for a family album.

The woman taking pictures is hardcore. She has a serious camera, ginormous lens, flash – the whole package. The family hardly paid attention to the sunset, they were so busy posing. First, they laid in the sand. Then, they laid on top of each other in the sand. Then, the photographer laid in the sand and the family jumped in unison.

With the sun down, the air is even more chill.

WOACA bad fashion alert. There’s a group coming up to meet someone at the pavilion here – one of them has on those new high-waisted jeans – which is fine, except they are white – and she has on a lime-green button-down shirt. Picture all this on a super-skinny fifty-year-old woman and you have what appears to be a blank page from a coloring book with the crown of a tree colored green. Don’t forget the bleached blonde pageboy on top. Hrrrrm. Hrrrrrm. I'm reaching for a comparison and I can't get there, it is just so odd.

The seagulls have complete ownership of the beach. There is a HUGE crowd of them out there on the sand. Jonathan Livingston would be so proud. They’re just sitting out there, chilling out. Not doing much of anything. Actually, I wonder what the hell they ARE doing. I usually despise the seagulls when I come to the beach because of all the noise and the inevitable byproducts of seagulls, namely seagull poo.

Damn. I’m cold. I never thought I would turn into one of “those people,” but it is seriously freaking chilly to me.

The parking lot that ten minutes ago looked like the the mall on a Saturday afternoon now looks like the mall at midnight on Sunday. As empty as the George W. Bush mind.

Damn. I’m cold. And there’s a woman running around with shorts and a sweatshirt. I never understood that particular fashion “statement.”

The seagulls are gone. Didn’t even hear them take off over this freaking wind. It is a blowing, that is for sure.

Some guy just swept by on the beach with a metal detector. That must be a good life – just metal detecting all day. I wonder how much stuff they find? Is it worth it to walk, walk, walk, out in the sun all day? But I bet you find some cool stuff.

The best thing I ever found on the beach was a bra. My friend and I came out to the beach early one morning to take pictures to send to our families and we found the remnants of someone’s VERY good time. Playtex crossed and uncrossed her heart that night.

Aw. Old people. Old man and old woman. He’s wearing khaki shorts and a bright yellow fleece jacket. She’s got on a black pencil skirt and a white long-sleeve top. She’s got a camera but missed the sunset by at least fifteen minutes. The only thing you’re gonna get now is clouds sister. Hang on to your man and tell him to drive faster next time.

Damn. I’m cold.

Even the crazy ducks that usually hang around the park are gone. I swear that my fingers have a chill. Of course, this venti iced white chocolate mocha that I had to stop off and have isn’t helping. The one time I should have stopped and gotten HOT coffee ….

The ocean looks so angry. The whitecaps are rolling in and crashing on the beach. The smell isn’t pleasant and sandy and serene and beautiful – just harsh and violent and stormy. The air sings a song of power and rain and violence and hints of barely contained fury. I am starting to enjoy this weather, although I am damn cold.

I love the feel of the wind and the air and the cold. It reminds me that I’m alive.

I love the taste of the salt air.

OK. My time is up. I can’t feel my fingers.

Sonic, 10:15 p.m. – Sonic mayhem at the Sonic

OK. I’m going to try to break out of my love affair with coffee shops and bookstores and try some other place to spend 21 minutes.

Tonight my trusty MacBook and I at the Sonic. I’m not getting out of my car just yet – because I’m not entirely sure of the crowd in this neighborhood – and I can’t risk my work laptop. Sorry, no can do. I’ve killed it once already this year and I don’t think they’d replace it again.

Still, as an experiment, it is this is starting off on a good note, at least so far as it proves that I can write in my car and not be too slow in the process.

Just got my food – a Route 44 vanilla Coke and those new fried mac & cheese things. Yum. Fried mac & cheese is the bi-zomb.

The guy who delivered the food gave me the strangest look. One of those “what the hell are you doing typing in the car while at the Sonic?” looks. Well dude. I pay you to cook and deliver the food. If I want to do cosplay, role-play or track a Yeti with it – that’s my business!

Let me just take a moment to strike a blow against holiday creep. Two thousand and seven in the year of our Lord anno domini is going to go down as the year that America just said “Eff the Pilgrims. Screw Thanksgiving. We’re going straight from Halloween to Christmas.”

I’m sitting here at the Sonic and they are already promoting the Sonic Card as “the perfect gift for people who eat.” Complete with red and green decorations and stickers that go above the payment area AND a special sticker promoting the $25,000 contest for the Sonic card at Sonic’s Web site – also in Christmas trim and colors.

Consumerism. I reject thee. I cast off thy shackles and reject thy greed. Get thee behind me wrapping paper.

Anywhoo.

Other than some intermittent drive-thru traffic, there’s not much going on here.

The music on the in-store speaker system is something I don’t recognize. It is usually a mix of country, pop and top 40 – but tonight it sounds like cats being anally raped by an electric toothbrush. Lots of yowling. Must be emo metal. Or the White Stripes. Same difference.

I can see the Sonic manager through the window. He’s yelling at someone. Somehow, authority doesn’t really translate when you’ve got a baseball hat and a greasy ponytail and you’re standing inside a fast food joint. I mean, he’s always been the very model of a modern major fast food worker whenever he’s delivered my food, but screaming orders just isn’t going to get anything done.

You know what I don’t like about this Sonic? It is RIGHT by the highway. I understand they’re all about customer traffic and all, but still. The constant drone, drone, drone of cars as you’re trying to eat is annoying. I can even hear the gunning of motors as I have my window up. More better landscaping please.

Now Jackie DeShannon is wailing “Put A Little Love In Your Heart.”

And now a word from our sponsors: You too can own Sonic’s extra-long coney & tots for just $2.99. Here’s a tip. Don’t get it. It’s a lousy hot dog. If you want a good dog – go to Checkers. Much better food.

There is a beat-up black Pontiac Sunbird convertible in the parking space next to me. The cloth top is ripped, the paint is stripped like a hooker in the last hour of a eight-hour shift and if anything inside works, I’d be shocked. It is always parked there. I bet the speaker in that particular stall is broken and they just don’t fix it.

What does that say about this particular Sonic’s business? Do they just not care or do they simply not need the stall? Maybe the door locks don’t work and Mr. Greasy Ponytail wants to park his pride and joy where he can keep a close eye on it.

Anywhoo.

I just realized that from this particular stall I can see the clock that tells workers how long they are taking on a particular order. This silver Mustang at the drive-thru is already clocking in at over 2:20.

Aren’t drive-thru orders supposed to come in under two minutes. I remember reading something on Digg or Slashdot that two minutes was an industry standard. Maybe that was Starbucks. At 2:30, the screen went red – I guess 2:30 is Sonic’s GET ‘ER DUN mark.

Then again, it is 10:30 p.m. at night. How much food could they reasonably have made up ahead of time? I think everything after 10 p.m. is made to order. At least, I hope it is. The silver Mustang’s final wait time clocks in at 5:34.

Speaking of time, my own time is up. Thank you and good night!

Starbucks, 9:32 p.m. – The ‘Anti-Kitty-Committee’ is out in force tonight

I’m trying out a new Starbucks tonight. I like the chairs. I mean, I REALLY like the chairs.

This is one of those Starbucks decorated in the retro-mod style, with the earth tones and the cocoa-colored stools and the raspberry faux-leather high-backed stools that spin around and the big chocolate leather easy chairs. YUMMALICIOUS!

It is also apparently a “no-merchandise” Starbucks, as I learned on my last visit – so there is only one stand of coffee, a tiny basket of the coffee of the week and a wall of ground coffee. No mugs, no huge racks of CDs, no screaming promos for the iTunes single of the week. No. Not even the free iTunes single giveaways. I’m almost crushed.

This Starbucks also stays open until 11 p.m. on weeknights, later than any other one in the city – and midnight on weekends – a fortuitous circumstance I am sure is owed to the near proximity to the nearby movie theater. If only it were not so crowded with screaming teen brats wearing next to nothing.

Do they really let kids out of the house wearing so little nowadays? I just saw more of a teen girl’s ass than I ever wanted to. She was wearing short-shorts that would have made Catherine Bach run for a cover-up and a shirt that read “Anti-Kitty-Committee.” Pair this with knee-high black socks and plaid Vans and you have quite the ironic hipster bad-fashion statement.

The bratty children have gone now. They’ve swept up their tall chocolate chip frappucinnos and flapped out the door – taking their proto-homosexual floppy-haired blonde emo boy toy with them. Fashion-forward that one was – kept pushing up the sleeves on his brown American Eagle sweater and trying to toss the locks out of his face.

The baristas are not even making an effort to look busy. There are five of them and they are lolling about by the drive-thru window just chatting it up. Yakkety-yakkety-yakkety.

I can’t hear them over this crappy mid-tempo something, although every now and again the occasional snappy phrase floats through. “What did I do Danny?” Um, not your job, obviously.

We have a customer now. Our winner is a bored-looking twenty-something in blue jeans and a white windbreaker from some tourist trap. She’s got a fake Coach purse slung on her shoulder and a nasty scowl planted across her lips.

I wonder what crawled up in her and died. Maybe it is her pancake makeup causing facial freeze. Yeesh. You’d think as much as she spends at a makeup counter someone would show her how to apply it correctly.

Oh. It gets better. The boyfriend is here. He’s in plain faded blue jeans and a gray tee. They both have worn-out tennis shoes on. They both look so “average.”

Just got a good look at the jacket. I pegged the tourist trap correctly. Like I said – Cancun. Ok. If you really are a ‘world traveler,’ you don’t have to advertise that you went to the Mexican version of Branson. Capische?

Grande white mocha and grande no whip latte. Predictable and boring. I bet they do it in the missionary position. Actually, I take that back. She looks like a total hooker. I bet she puts on a pair of cowboy boots and some spurs, mounts up in reverse cowgirl and goes to town.

Anywhoo. They’re gone.

It just hit me that this is the largest Starbucks I’ve ever been in. I don’t know if that is because it is minus all the crap that is normally in a Starbucks or if it is just physically larger. Either way, it is a nice change. It feels … spacious … and light and airy and open.

OK. This place is really dead. One of the baristas has taken off his apron. He’s just slumped in one of the easy chairs in the back, staring off into space. He’s already smoke two ciggies in the last ten minutes. I wonder if Seattle corporate knows about this?

Finally some good tunes going on the radio. A tinkling jazz piano riff. This, I can rock out with. There’s also a fresh pot of coffee brewing. I guess they have to do a pot on the hour, every hour. Whatever today’s blend is, it sure smells good. That’s the timer.

I just asked. Tonight’s blend is Italian roast.

My time is up. Thank you.