Room for Cream

I'm usually a fairly boring sleeper. I toss and turn, hear pagers real and imaginary, and get the occasional drink of water. I almost never remember dreams, even if I wake up with a start -- or near a finish. I also rarely have true "fantasies". Sure, I have my canned response if asked: "Getting caught in a rundown between Alex Rodriguez and Derek Jeter", but I don't actually sit around thinking about it and drooling.
I just think they're both gorgeous, and someone in Erie recently told me that he has it on good authority (friend of a friend) that Derek is Bi. It's also ripe for double entendre -- sliding into second, A-ROD, etc.

Since I had to think about dead puppies for a few minutes this morning before I could take a whiz (or tee-tee as they say over at Stop Touching My Food), I thought I'd share. We can argue as to whether I can tell a good story, but I'm sure we'll agree that I can't tell a short one. So here's the backgroud.

I work every other weekend at the hospital. Since I can park in the neighborhood, I give myself the small pleasure of taking the Mustang to work and stopping for coffee (photo from Chad Fox's blog -- he's the best photographer I know). I used to go to the Starbucks on Fillmore and Sacramento, but they tried to ruin my life briefly by ceasing to serve the lemon scone. Having already survived the death of the cinnamon chip scone, this was almost more than I could bear. Fortunately my colleague told me that "her" Starbucks, at Union and Laguna, still made it. On my first trip there, I saw the World's Cutest Barista. 6'3" +, tanned skin, gorgeous black hair (sort of preppie at first, now cut close on the back and sides with a faux/mo hawk on top) and a perfect smile.

He got the 'hawk between my first and second visits (obviously, I went back for the SCONE), and I told him it was cute. We have flirted shamelessly since then. I don't order espresso drinks, so he had to ask my name for no real reason, and then gave me his (but we'll call him WCB for now). This past Saturday, the door was open and I went in, but I was told they weren't serving because of remodelling. I turned to go when I heard "Joel" yelled across the room. He came running up to say "Hi", and we chatted a bit. The next morning he wasn't there, but the other guy (good smile, but not as cute) said "You're Joel, right? I heard [him] yell your name yesterday." A better man would have been embarrassed. I was psyched.

Which brings us to this morning. I arose (so to speak) before my alarm with that haze that seems to be half dreaming and half thinking. I went to Starbucks, saw WCB, and ordered my coffee. Then, and I don't think I was plotting anything, I had to go to the bathroom. So I went in, put my coffee down, and unzipped. Then someone (even I knew who it was going to be) knocked on the door and said my name softly. I opened the door and...

...I woke up. Then the dead puppy thoughts. Then a cold shower and off to work.

It's not quite the mile high club, but I really like the idea of people (especially me and WCB) f***ing in Starbucks' bathrooms. Why? Because Starbucks is how the yuppies gentrified the coffee shop. (Did you get the title yet? I kill me:) And now, on to the rant.

I remember going to coffee shops in Fells Point (Baltimore) 12 years ago. It's where the fun and freaky were. Mohawks. Piercings. Performance art and poetry night (sometimes both at once). Dirty bathrooms. Board games to borrow. White people with afros who smelled like they hadn't showered in a month who turned out to be PhDs. Thanks to the Starbucks model, they've all had to clean up so that soccer moms can bring 3 year olds in to get hot chocolate. A few analogies from your SAT days:

Coffee Shop is to Starbucks as:
A) Rap is to Vanilla Ice
B) Bar is to TGIFridays
C) Country Music is to Shania Twain
D) Pride is to Love Fest

The answer, of course, is all of the above. Entrepeneurs always have to take something edgy, tone it down, and make suitable for the masses. In general, the original edgy places have to tone down to compete. In the end, we have contruction workers grabbing a latte while listening to Vanilla Ice on their way to TGIFridays to grab a virgin daquiri and flat iron steak before hitting the Love Fest -- which they leave early because it's too loud. It's not wrong, but sometimes worthwhile things get squeezed out. And the people who don't fit in loose the place they did.

Let's face it -- pop music is lost, and TGIFriday's is here to stay. Is there a chance to send the gentrified coffee shop the way of Vanilla Ice? Maybe. Could we do it by f***ing in Starbucks bathrooms? Loudly? If it didn't work, at least we'd all have a good time.

IOFD (see last post) I feel a little guilty at Starbucks -- but it's convenient and I like the lemon scone. For those of you who really want to know, the best coffee in town is at Philz on 24th street in the Mission (he hand brews every cup) and the best coffee/atmosphere combo is at Spike's on 19th by Castro. I don't go there much since I moved to North Beach, but the owner still knows me and calls me Doc. They have a fresh raspberry scone that knocks the shit out of the lemon scone, but it's too far to go before work. And they some beautiful ladies behind the counter, but they don't have WCB.