Bill DeMarco Rates the Top 50 Starbucks in LA: This Week: #9

#9: the Starbucks at Robertson and Third

Beverly Hills. Dazzling. Where the women are women and men look like prunes brought to life by necromancers. A fella could get lost in this place. There was a legend that some rednecks came out here and struck it rich. After literally striking it rich. Literally. For propriety’s sake and legal reasons I shall refer to them as “The Larchmont Mountain-Williams.” But money didn’t mend their ways and though they were rich for a while they never took showers or stopped shooting at parking cops. Doesn’t anyone raise their eyebrows at this point? Our family here doesn’t work. And they’re fictional???

That’s the story the Networks wanted you to believe.

The reality was much darker.

They were real.

And they ate each other.

I also heard the guy who played Jeb was Eichmann’s son. Another little tid-bit you didn’t hear on the Johnny Carson. But that’s our world for you, would you like a scone with that? Christ. It’s these fickle fiascos I ponder whilst gazing out the prow-shaped storefront of the ninth best Starbucks in LA at the corner of Robertson and Third. Who was this Mr. Robertson by the way? And who Mr. Third? Excuse me, Ms. Third. Don’t want to upset the lesbians, natch. But really I mean who–

I barely reach mid-“ooo” when in walks the most unbelievable piece of ass I have ever seen. She’s about 5’10”, wears these incredible goggle-like glasses that wrap completely around her eyes, cork-soled pumps, a tattered gypsy dress, and a bunch of bracelets. She reminds me of that asshole fortune teller, but there’s a difference. This girl has mind-blowing breast implants. And. . . .she’s Asian. Let me practice my Japanese: YOWZA!

It’s love. I’ve been all over the world and’ve known a lot of women. Known in the Biblical sense. As in, Thrice the cock crows thou shalt renounce me. So I have known my women. But she’s it. I gotta find out her name. I go up to the sweetmeat display case like any normal man who’s been sitting in a coffee shop for three hours. Her hotness oozes all over me. A bracelet jangles once. I can taste my teeth. She actually is looking at pastries. That’s so hot. She wants to talk. She wants to vibe. I move within the six inch perimeter of a woman that indicates I have intoxicating confidence.

“What’s your name?” I say looking at the pastries.
“Excuse me?” answers a voice steeped in whiskey and Carlton 120’s.
“What’s your name?” I say again, slowly turning my head to lock with her obscured eyes.
She laughs.
“You got pizzazz. I’m Chantal.” She extends a slender brown hand. Her fingernails look like cream stilletoes.
“Chantal,” I repeat as I hold her hand caressingly for a fifth of a second longer than the usual.

“Yeaaaaah,” she says with a rising inflection, nodding her head.

Her glasses block all qi. Her breasts look like they’re going to pop off. Is it getting hot in here? Her Sidekick rings. That J-Lo song with the snakecharmer flute. Catchy and old. The perfect ringtone. For the perfect lady. She takes her hand from mine with a fluttering motion. She says “uh huh” into the mouthpiece. Then she says “yeah yeah yeah yeah” shuffling her feet and backing out the door, recovered coffee and device in hand. I give her one last look, one last shrug, the one that says “here I am. . .for now.” She wrinkles her nose and opens her mouth in a crazy scream/smile. The one that says “You and I both rock!”

So here’s to you, Mrs. Robertson, Starbucks loves you more than De-Mar-co. Wo wo wo.

Wo wo wo.

(The above described Starbucks is actually to be found at the corner of Robertson & Beverly. Losanjealous apologizes for any confusion–ed.)
[Once again this 'editor's note' was not written by the editor--ed.]
{Neither of these notes was written by the editor. Nor this one neither–ed.}