Third place is the second loser! One night at Starbucks ...

Starbucks prides itself on the "third place" mentality - not home, not the office, the mythical "third place," where people will want to come in, drop their loads (and cash) and spend some time and money.

So why, in Cthulhu's name, does this Starbucks feel so uncomfortable? I have never been in a coffee shop that has felt more - "unwelcome" - I guess, to start.

It is large - the floor space is easily as large as any of my normal haunts. But it looks like this was carved out of a pre-existing retail shop, so it is basically a  huge square room with a kitchen on one side. And there is enough furniture in that square to seat half of Hannibal's army before he crossed the Alps. And an elephant or two.

Thirty-three seats, with ELEVEN of them those chocolate-box leather couch/lounger things Starbucks uses arranged in a "conversation pit" grouping around the middle of the floor. Somehow, despite the huge floor space, it looks crowded and unfriendly.

And don't forget the merchandise. This, unfortunately, isn't a no-merchandise store. Enter the door and you're hit with a stand of coffee beans and tumblers. And to get to the register, you have to run a gauntlet - LITERALLY - a narrow passage arranged to funnel customers between the shelf of coffee beans and stuff on the wall and a rack of clearance merchandise and leftover Christmas tumblers on the floor butting up to the conversation pit. It just feels to ... "unfriendly."

There's also the noise. Either by hook or by crook, every single noise seems to be amplified. I blame the high ceiling.

Tonight's customers are an interesting bunch.

Directly in front of me are two men, burly enough to be linebackers, but very much *into* each other. The one on the left, wearing blue jeans, running shoes without socks and a zip-up windbreaker, is talking a blue streak about people, places and acquaintances. The one on the right, in blue jeans, hiking boots and a gray T-shirt with a tattoo poking out on the left bicep, could probably put my laptop through the floor and me after it. He doesn't say much, but he's leaning farther and farther forward. He's the Ennis del Mar, the other one is the Jack Twist.

Over to my left are the married yuppies, who came in, desultorily picked over the Christmas tumblers, ordered a pair of tall coffees and immediately sat down and looked at their BlackBerries for half an hour before deigning to talk to each other. He's got on blue jeans and a pullover, she's got on a ill-fitting pair of black slacks, a royal blue blouse and a cute-ish tweed blazer. Someone should tell her to stop trying to bleach her hair at home despite the recession.

Farther over, and completely into each other, although I'm not exactly sure in what fashion, are two skinny twenty-something girls. They're in black from head to toe and have matching jackets with faux-fur lining around the hoods. One looks like she might be a dancer - she has that lithe looks and sits in the chair with an uncommon pale grace - like a tree bare of leaves nestled lightly on a snow-covered field. She seems to inhabit this world but be not quite in it. The other one, a pale child of Asian descent, looks around with a constant grim cast to her features. I hate that she's starting a brand new year (to us, anyway) with such morbid thoughts.

Behind me are two obviously jolly women who are slugging down frappuccinos and a four-pack of those delicious vanilla bean cupcakes. One has a front-end that would make a battleship blush. This girl *must* have the world's best underwire bras - that, or some guide-wires or something. Her companion has a loud, fake Burberry purse - although she looks entirely happy with it. They are guffawing with glee over something and spewing cupcake crumbs all over the place.

One further table down - and this one just walked on - is probably our town's version of Belle du Jour. She clicked in with black tights, a long maroon sweater, a tight black jacket and a skinny boots that went up past her matchstick knees. Hollywood starlets would kill to be this thin. Even the "boys" sitting across from me turned to stare, although they probably just coveted the boots. Then they went back to making faces at each other. Then, Princess Stork Legs had to go up to the coffee bar and get a barista TO COME WIPE DOWN HER DIRTY TABLE. She still hasn't bought anything yet.  Maybe she's waiting on a client.

That would make this some kind of a "third place."