I've been going to a new Starbucks - the one with the head barista that I christened Vintage Billy Idol. He's very glam rock, with the mega-bleached white hair, guy-liner and cute little faux-hawk. Not quite my type, because he tends to shriek, but I did get a free lemon pound cake the other night. I didn't complain.
But I seriously have to wonder about just what sort of hiring process goes on in Starbucks these days. Or if they alert the kids that they're being recorded.
Because despite my complaints, there was quite a bit of drama in the span of about 15 minutes in the Starbucks.
First, there was a tennis match between Vintage Billy Idol and the other barista, who could double for the Unabomber, easy.
I'm sitting there, moping, wondering if anyone had posted the results of "Project Runway" on the Internet yet, when I hear this thumping coming from behind the counter. Thump. Thump. Thump. Like that rabbit from Bambi. Or your annoying frat-rat wall-mates in college, who had different girls EVERY. SINGLE. NIGHT. and couldn't understand that they needed to move the bed another six inches away from the wall.
I look up and out of nowhere there's a tennis ball. Vintage Billy Idol squeals with delight and runs up to caress it. "Where did you get that?" Seriously, sugar-plum, they sell them three to a can at the gas station. But I've been known to get excited over all sorts of things - including corn muffins, so I'm not going to be too cranky.
It is what HAPPENED with the tennis ball that is so riveting. They decide that they're going to do their best Steffi Graf and Andre Agassi impression - right there - behind the counter - in front of God, the customers, coffee beans and frappuccinos.
The Unabomber backs up all the way to the coffee bar where I'm sitting, while Vintage Billy Idol goes about ten feet away toward the office.
And they start throwing the ball back and forth. The rules are apparently that it can only bounce once, but it can't be a *low* bounce or a too-high bounce or a too-short bounce.
Bounce. Bounce. Bounce. Bounce. This goes on for a few minutes before they get bored and decide to make it *interesting* and start bouncing the thing off the cabinets and the pastry case.
I'm sitting there, rolling my eyes at this one. I'm praying that a customer walks up or something and a stray bounce will take out the pastry case, causing it to explode in a cloud of razor-sharp muffin-shards. Sugar crystals will impale the blasted yakking old woman in the ugly leopard print while bran muffins will pummel the tourists in the black socks. I'll use my ninja skills to dodge straws and kick slices of pound cake into next Thursday.
Alas, nothing. Although one bounce does hit the ceiling. And another ricochets off the sink, hits a cabinet door and when the Unabomber goes to pick it up he cracks his head on the open cabinet door. No blood. Not even a trickle.
BUT THAT ISN'T EVEN THE BEST PART.
Somehow, somehow - and please don't ask me because I wasn't paying attention, tennis "ball" led to a discussion of, of all things, Ron Jeremy.
YES. Noooooooo. YES.
I'm checking my email and all of a sudden I hear the Unabomber talking to me - "You know who Ron Jeremy is, right?"
I look up and he's staring at me, as is Vintage Billy Idol and two apparent coffee-shop habitués who'd been on the corner barstools as long as I'd been there, yammering away to Unabomber about somebody's boyfriend and how they didn't like their "open relationship." No, it really WASN'T that interesting.
Anyway, I'm like "Uh. Yeah." And then Vintage Billy Idol goes "Well, I don't know who he is, and I don't know what that has to do with anything."
The Unabomber starts twirling the tennis ball around and lecturing the other three "He is famous. Like really famous. I can't believe you don't know who he is. Everyone does." Well, to get technical, only 40% of the population of that corner of the room knew, at that point. No matter how you slice that, even with George W. Bush math, that ain't "everyone."
They look back at me, as if expecting enlightenment, and I hold up my hands and go "nuh-uh." I wanted no part of that one. I don't know how the conversation got to porn - but I'm really not surprised that none of them knew who the heck a straight porn actor was. Although the Unabomber looked like he knew ALL about porn.
So, now that I refused to enlighten the trio, the Unabomber decides to take it upon himself to "describe" Ron Jeremy's attributes. Vividly. As if he were a fisherman describing his catch.
The things you see and hear in a Starbucks. I don't know why they charge for the WiFi - they should just charge for the entertainment!
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