Bill DeMarco Rates the Top 50 Starbucks in LA: This Week: #17
#17: the Starbucks at 7th and Figueroa
I been away a while folks. I know, I know. Don’t worry about it. Just as long as you’re taking care of yourself. Well I haven’t. And I’ve got the feathered hair to prove it. What drove me to this state? Choosing the seventeenth best Starbucks in LA that’s what. In many cultures seventeen is an unlucky number. Cursed. It is said in regions of outer Mongolia if a woman gives birth to a 17th child he will be forced to wear acid-wash jean shorts. Needless to say I better be careful. I needed help. I needed guidance.
Enter James Two Hawks. Jim’s saved my ass more times than I can remember. And I needed him again. One more time. Finding him was another matter. Jim moved liked the wind. Through the spaces and shadows most of us are too busy downloading ringtones to see. Getting your hands on him was like trying to catch moonbeams in a jack-o’-lantern.
But fate can be crazy. I’m standing in line at a Koo-Koo-Roo in Brentwood when I feel someone poke my shoulder. “Hey Bill, it’s me Jim Two Hawks. What’s up man?”
I take off my sunglasses and start to cry.
***
Half an hour later I calm down enough to talk.
“My spirit is out of balance, Jim. I dont know if I’m sinking or swimming.”
“You’re swimming”
I start to cry again.
“Thank you Jim.”
He eats a fork full of black beans.
“I need help. I need guid–”
“7th and Figueroa”
He munches two more times and walks out.
Damn. It was staring me right in the face.
***
The Starbucks at 7th and Fig is a little hideaway like a coyote den. There’s another Starbucks half a block up but that one is an absolute fucking dump. I wouldn’t sell knock-off Chinese dildoes in that place. But this store, the one across the street, this place is really good. They’ve got a great array of breads and cheese-plates and the double-shots are lined up real nice. They permanently locked the bathroom because of the bums but otherwise a top notch store.
And don’t let me forget the patio. It’s got some kind of crazy aerodynamic design, maybe some of my readers over at JPL can clue me in, but there’s this whirlwind always blowin’. And if you get there at just the right time, when smoggy sunlight fades behind the freeway and buses slog through rush hour like dying mastodons, a mild counter-clockwise wind can blow a lot of things your way. Hot dog wrappers. Lids. Piss. And maybe an old friend.
So basically like 5:30, sixish.
[...] I’m going to go against losanjealous company policy here and recommend a coffe shop that is not one of the top 20 Starbucks. Sure sure, it may cost me my job. We’ve been trying to win that account for half a year now. The siren of the sea awards its lucrative online banner business to only a handful of smart-assed blogs per year, a scant few and why not this one…hell, why not, that’s what we said. We went to far as to bring in some new writers speficially tailored to the task. Pros. Ringers. Damn fine writers if I do say so and yet that siren continues to play coy. Toys with us. Makes us guess. [...]
In defense of the “dump” up the street, it is mostly for business people who take it to-go back to their offices. While not good for lounging, the staff understands this and does a good job catering to their regular customers!
[...] It’s Jim Two Hawks! . . .standing on the head of a giant eagle! . . .and he’s playing the greatest guitar solo in the history of the universe!!! The tones, where to begin, a profusion of the sweetest, most yearning, triumphant, articulate, cacophonous, euphonious, supernal sparks of divinity to emanate from man or dream. He plays ever faster, dizzyingly, searingly, ironically for a bar or two, then back to searingly. My astral self flaps like a banner in the soundstorm as coronas of gold and tea-rose magnify his silhouette. Something is rising behind him. The solo scorches furiously, the melodic strands flowing ineffably toward what is sure to be a sublime coda. . . . [...]
[...] #17 Figueroa is A street downtown. I went to A Starbucks on it. [...]
[...] Whirrings of gear-clusters accompany the relocation of quarter-panels into new configurations. The cabin collapses around me, forms a protective carapace. Load-bearing assemblies contract, elongate, fold shut, radially expand, shift position, interlock, and seal. Those words Jim Two Hawks said to me years ago—“one day your car will transform itself into a suit of robotic battle armorâ€â€”while enigmatic at the time seem to make sense now. I peer through a truncated pyramid assembled from windshields and windows. I grip a throttle and actuate my arms, swing my newfound saber/former dented fender. Like I said. . .it’s a one way trick so I better make this count. [...]