Bill DeMarco’s missing but his archives aren’t.

Each week (Come on.–Ed.) Losanjealous will present works formerly in progress from the coffee maven unpadded and unbowdlerized. Presented in an easy-to-read format and accompanied by Bill’s own comments (grey script).

Join us won’t you as we look inside the mind behind the man.

Slow down!!! We have to catch our breath!!!

We asked you, citizens of Losanjealous, how you felt about Bill DeMarco. . .and you responded.

Boy did you ever!

Our team of researchers at Enterprise Square (Wait, what?–Ed.) have been furiously tallying your answers. . .but they’re a little overwhelmed! We knew that Bill DeMarco was a smash hit that crossed income brackets. . .

. . .but nothing could have prepared us for your responses! Did we mention your responses? They were titanic! The amount that is! You’re not going to believe what we learned about you. . .and about Bill. (Memo to Brooks Brothers: order extra inseam stitching!)

There’s only one problem: we still don’t know where in the world Bill DeMarco is! That’s where you come in. . .just kidding. We know where he is. Just kidding. We don’t care where he is!

What???

Before Bill was sucked into space, he gave us “eyes only” clearance to enter his vault and show you, the readers of Losanjealous, glimpses of some of the stuff he was working on before he disappeared/died/got fired/is hiding.

Wait a second. . .did you say “From the Vaults of Bill DeMarco???“

Basically!

What kind of stuff?

Screenplays, acrostics, haiku, you name it. Don’t believe us? Try this on for size. . .
»continue reading Your Opinion Still Matters!

That’s what we want to know.

He might be dead. He might be alive. One thing’s for sure: your opinion matters to us!

In our effort to bring you the most interesting possible content, Losanjealous scientists have composed this survey/aptitude test. Your responses will determine whether we continue bringing you the delightful adventures of Bill DeMarco. . .or can him. He wouldn’t have it any other way probably!

So take two minutes to complete the survey and answer the questions as if someone was pointing a gun at you on a ski-lift.

Call it homage. Call it democracy. Just don’t call it late for brunch!

Bon appetit!

»continue reading Where in the World is Bill DeMarco???

“Hey, Phil” says an unearthily familiar voice.

I’m stuck facing the pavement so all I can see is a brushed suede stilletto heel spike the mud in front of me. Chantal! She got my name wrong again but she was closer this time. I twiddle a couple of dials and raise the suit to its knees. She looks sensational as always in a shrink-wrapped neoprene catsuit with what I will call a keyhole boob-window cut in functionally on her cleavage. Am I glad to see her. Am I glad to see her? And isn’t suede a poor choice for this kind of weather?

“Am I glad to see you!” I say through a speaker. “How did you—“

She puts a raised finger to my hood.

“I thought you might need this.”

She unclasps an anvil case and reveals a pristine five-string fretless bass. Good Christ. The workmanship is exquisite. Lathed. Artisanal. If you could carve a cup of coffee, or froth aged cherrywood, this is what it would look like.

“What am I supposed to do with this?” I ask genuinely.
»continue reading Bill DeMarco Rates the Top 50 Starbucks in LA: This Week: #1 (concluded)

. . .then the ground rumbles. That’s L.A. for you. Then it rumbles again. Shit. Flotillas of pigeons fly off the rooftops. Even the attorneys are looking around. More rumbling. The jets in the fountain shut off. There are bad signs and there are bad signs. And I don’t mean bad as in, you’ll show me how to pick up girls if I help you pass the SAT. This feels in the lowest parts of my intestinal system just short of the sphincter, quite bad. There’s a bubbling in the middle of the fountain, seemingly independent of technological explanation. Shit shit. The bubbling spreads to the entire pool. Three shits. Most of the lawyers are rolling their boxes away.

Instantaneously, the surface of the water bows outward like a house-sized balloon. Two concentric crowns of spume puncture it from within. Layers of chlorinated water slap me to the ground. White-collar types flee in complete panic mode. A figure takes shape through all the commotion. Something colossal. It rises far above the surrounding buildings, higher than the Ahmanson across the street. I think people are screaming but it’s a notion. My eyes are blurry windshields. There’s something spreading away from the hulking mass. Arms? Oh damn. And tails. Tails? And a canopy of hair. And boobs, what???
»continue reading Bill DeMarco Rates the Top 50 Starbucks in LA: This Week: #1 (cont’d.)

#1:???????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????

The Fairmont coasts to a stop. I set the brake. After all these months (years—ed.) my journey has come to an end. I put seven quarters in the meter and walk solemnly up the steps to the courtyard of the Kenneth Hahn Hall of Administration, there to meet with the #1 Starbucks in Los Angeles.

Yes. It’s a kiosk. Mea culpa. Can we get past this? Coffee isn’t about site. It isn’t about locale. Coffee is about spirit. And another thing: I don’t rate the Starbucks’s, I rank them. If I gotta explain it you then maybe you’re reading the wrong blog. Maybe I’m writing the wrong blog. Maybe all blogs are wrong. Wrong blog along, say that ten times fast. And as to the nattering question of why: I don’t choose them. They choose me. ‘Nuff said. Wrong blog along.

Positioned in the center of as cool and peaceful a cement-paved municipal plaza as you’ll find, this little shack recalls the pueblos that dotted the untamed thickets of what was to become downtown. The poblaneros might have felt not out of place here ordering a frothy macchiato after a hard day of grinding masa and bundling fajinas (”faggots”–ed.) I smile fondly to myself thinking such thoughts as I order a soy Americano and hand the cashier my credit card.
»continue reading Bill DeMarco Rates the Top 50 Starbucks in LA: This Week: #1

Casagrande’s putt went so far right of the Executive Putting Green that he might as well have kicked it.

“I think you’re getting too much cross-breeze from your Ionic Air Purifier,” I quipped.

He spoke into his wireless headset ignoring me. “I don’t know Cowboy, I’d say put a raw steak on it, see if that does anything—hold on, DeMarco’s here. I’ll call you back.” Casagrande collapsed his golf club like a telescope and dropped a few balls in a wicker basket. He sat down in his Executive Massage Chair, turned on a pair of contrasting modes, put his hands behind his head and with a self-satisfied sigh finally made eye contact.

“Before you write up the #1 Starbucks I want you to do some kind of review. To get people up to speed,” he said.

I flung my valise of notes on the ground, my passions getting the better of me.

“Okay I was out of control for a second. I’m cool. What did you have in mind?”

“I don’t know. Something original and different, but not new per se.”

“Okay,” I said attempting to redirect the locomotive heading down the cliff-face. “How about. . .’Bill DeMarco’s Haiku Review?’ I revisit each Starbucks and summarize the review in the form of a haiku.”

He was lost in thought for a second.

“But what if—“
»continue reading Bill DeMarco’s Haiku Review

#2: the Starbucks at Sunset and La Brea

Your Ladyships, make way for His Royal Twojesty, Thee Second Most Reverend Starbucks in All Yee Los Anjealous Dominion, Thee Shoppe in Thine Strippe Maull at Yee Olde Sonsett Y La Brea Blvrds, Starbucks the Penultimate, Arch-Ducke of Holywoode and Other Thynges &c.

We’re getting close. We’re getting damn close. Damn damn damn close. To the number one Starbucks in LosAnjealous. Am I on the edge? Why don’t you ask the edge, which is sweating and turning blue in the face because I’m on it. Yes I’m on the edge. Come from the edge from way back. My coat-of-arms is a coffee bean balanced on an axe. Against a Field Argent, with a Coronet Gules. Bordered by two Ducks Rampant—yes in fact it is quite an interesting coat-of-arms, see the story goes one of my ancestors had fallen in battle when Louis IX—

“I know you.”
»continue reading Bill DeMarco Rates the Top 50 Starbucks in LA: This Week: #2

#3: the Starbucks at the corner of Hawthorne and Palos Verdes Blvd.

I’m getting my bass fixed. Okay, re-fretted. I didn’t want to sound pompous. Sometime in the afternoon. The son hangs in mid lurch. I scoop the last few drizzles of salsa verde out of a corrugated pie pan. This was supposed to be ‘for here.’ A girl busses dishes. She’s 17 maybe. I think she’s trying not to look at me. But she might be just not looking at me. If her pants hung any lower you could see New Jersey. Why do they do that?

Phone rings. It’s Ken from Ken’s Basses. He’s gonna need another two hours. Something about “not quite ultimate tone”.

“Hey Bill,” he says.

“Yeah.”

“The tone is pretty good but not quite ultimate.”

I shake my head but not like an asshole.

“Make it ultimate.”

This time I do sound like an asshole. I clap shut my phone and sigh passive-aggressively. The deal is I don’t like to be away from my bass. Now what. The girl is still bussing dishes. Hunh. All I’m saying is there weren’t that many dishes in the restaurant. Definite vibes.

“Hey waitress,” I interject. “Do you know if there’s a Starbucks around here?”
»continue reading Bill DeMarco Rates the Top 50 Starbucks in LA: This Week: #3

#4: the Starbucks at the corner of San Vicente and La Brea

It’s 153°. Lightning flickers like frames of a silent movie. Elevators of thunder ascend cloud apartments.

How I missed this Starbucks baffles me. And I’m not easily baffled. Bamboozled, sure, but I’ve been to every single one around it. This Starbucks is the house on the police map that doesn’t have a thumbtack. The one equidistant from all the chalk silhouettes. The one where the murderer arranges his syringes.

Then I think, of course I missed it. It’s at the freakin’ corner of La Brea and San Vick (San Vicente for you tourists.) If this city’s streets are a game of Chutes and Ladders then you’ve just been dropped down two slides where the birthday cake got burnt and the orange cat gouged your eyes out. Spin another 3 and you’ll be raking leaves in Inglewood. I think it used to be an outpost where the pony express didn’t feel like picking up mail.

I’m working on my latest screenplay, Mexican Cheerleader (”She doesn’t belong”). I’ve written three pages. A picket fence of lightning skirts the city. This heat. My mind woozes. Am I in Miracle Mile east. . .or south Mid-City? I couldn’t even tell you. Shit’s gettin’ twisty. My mind’s is playin’ tricks on me. Then this guy walks in. Wears a cowboy hat and a combat boot, with some crazy stuff in between. Man there are homeless dudes and there are homeless dudes. And this dude is homeless. But he’s also cool. But he’s also homeless. But he’s also cool. Which is it, DeMarco, cool or homeless?

“Hey man, are you cool or are you homeless?”
»continue reading Bill DeMarco Rates the Top 50 Starbucks in LA: This Week: #4

The Subways played a sold-out show at the Troubadour on August 9. We sent two writers and a photographer to keep an eye on them both and make sure they didn’t fuck anything up this time.

Bill’s Take

Casagrande was pissed. Not in the British sense meaning drunk. Which is important and foreshadowing. I was in his office downtown - a liver-shaped coffeetable in the middle of four unprimed slabs of drywall. With a view of Macarthur Park. Empty light sockets stuck out like disoriented periscopes. He was relocating.

“You’re three weeks late on your Starbucks review,” he says programming his phone.

“Coffee takes time,” I say.

“And you’re $15,000 over budget.”

“And money.”

He doesn’t look up. “You’re going to review a band at the Troubadour. I’m going to send the Cowboy with you to make sure you don’t fuck it up.”

“Or what?”

“Or we take your parking space,” he coolly responds clapping his phone shut and then using it to cut his sandwich in half.

* * * * *

I respected the Cowboy. In the same way you respect a guy who knows a guy who knows how to take a boot off your car. He made things happen. He was the backbone. He grew up in a haystack listening to rock and roll. He ate pig colons and drank Japanese beer. I called it “crazy.” He called it “a profession.”

We met at Dan Tana’s. He was already blitzed. A sixty year-old woman had her hand on his thigh. This was nothing new for the Cowboy.
»continue reading The Subways: The Losanjealous Review

#5: the Starbucks in the Commerce Citadel Shopping Center and Casino.

Gotta get my head straight. It’s one of those things where. . .I ordered this hat and these garage door clickers. I ordered them in March. They got here yesterday. So I’m not cheerfully disposed. I put on the hat. It says Ottawa Rough Riders so that turned out ok. But the clickers were fucked. They only had four dipswitches. I need sixteen. Not good. What am I supposed to do, use four clickers at once? Time my jumps? Break into my own parking garage? Those days are over thank you very much.

Gotta get my head straight. And find the fifth best Starbucks in LA. I get in the Fairmont and head out on the. . .5? . . .10? . . .210? What about the 56,000? Can we get a freeway with five decimal places? I think this would put California on a level no one could reach. “Yeah you wanna take the 56,000 to Santa Ana and get off at the Slauson exit.” There would be those kinds of exchanges in our salons and civic meeting places.

I’m feeling pretty positive this can happen and have basically forgotten about the clickers when this weird feeling/weather passes through where I’m driving. All of a sudden everything wasn’t quite as stucco-looking but more adobe. I think also the temperature dropped from 86 to 83. There was a definite weirdness passing through/by me/Commerce. And then I look up and see these. . .man-bulls. They have wings and beards. They top the walls of the Commerce Citadel. If Franco Harris had grown his beard out he would have looked like them. They look ominous and portentous and looming, gazing out across the horizon toward—what?

I try to shake it off but can’t. That’s when the Starbucks finds me and saves me—salves me—with a drip coffee. A big one. I think they served it in an upside-down parking cone. That’s a lot of coffee. It’s barely enough. The man-bulls plague me. Why here? The citadel sure, I get it, ancient Los Angeles had a lot of enemies back then, these outlet stores commemorate that time. But bull-men with wings??? What is that? That’s. . .ancient Babylon? I drain my 256-oz coffee and head to the casino.

Gotta get my head together. Gotta take my head apart. The room hums. Tables as far as the nearsighted can see. Like putting greens without the fairway. A lot of Vietnamese dudes not that it matters. The three twenties in my wallet ache to be rid of me. My body rides an outboard motor of caffeine. Why winged man-bulls. An answer begins to reveal itself to me. . .when I see her.

»continue reading Bill DeMarco Rates the Top 50 Starbucks in LA: This Week: #5

#6: the Starbucks at Compton and Gage.

Compton. What. Compton. What. C-C-Compton. WHAT.

I went to a Starbucks in Compton and ordered a Blackberry Green Tea Latté.

What?

I did. And you know it’s um. It’s not bad. It’s. Um. It’s got its own thing going on. You know, some people would say that if paint could throw up this drink is what it would taste like. But I’m not one of them. Unless someone paid me to say it. Or I paid someone.

At which point a discordant jangling fills the room. Is that clavier music? A bolt of something snaps the cup from my hand and impales it against the wall. That could have been me, that monstrous locust shell dripping seafoam blood. I’m thirsty.

“Coo Coo! You there! You look out of place!”

I look out of place says a guy dressed in breeches lowering his crossbow.

“I was saving you from a fate worse than whist. My name’s Geoffrey, like my toy?”
He raises his crossbow and turns it back and forth. “Where are my manners–I mean do you like me? What’s your name?”

I answer him.

“Ah the warm south. But I must say Mr. DeMarco you have a wan look for a paisano. Are you from Napoli?”

Yeah. You hit it on the nose. I’m from Napoli. Who is this guy?

“You’re not from Napoli but no matter. I must look the figure: hair in ruins, buttons unpolished, something impersonating a cravat round my throat. I’m not given to excuse-making but I had a catastrophic night at the tables and this time I really am done for. Say can I make up for my feat of daring and buy you something less mithridatic? An arrack-punch frappuccino peradventure?”

I tell him he can buy me an Americano.

“The genius of the Starbucks company is that they know their audience. Hence the Americano. You are what you eat. . .and drink.”

OK. A wise guy. But how wise. Time to rev-up Professor DeMarco’s Bullshit Detector.

“If you are from England. . .” I preface.
“Kent but who am I to quibble.”
“OK, Kent for the sake of argument. Do you play soccer?”
“I’ve bludgeoned the odd bladder.
“OK, if you really are from England. . .then. . .what’s it like?”
“Not to be borne. That’s why I prefer it here.”
He took a sip of his arrack-punch frappuccino.
“Reminds me of home.”

He’s got me on the ropes. Fuckin’ shit Demarco, say something witty.

“What’s your deal? Are you from here, are you from England, what?”

“You know, when the driver said this bus goes to Compton, I expected shire churches and wistaria. This is quite different. But not any less idyllic for all that.”

“But why are you here if you’re so English?

“To see a girl of course.”

He pointed his unloaded crossbow out the window at an idling MTA bus. There was only one person on it, a girl wearing a tiara.

“Signore, it’s been memorable. But now I take my leave. And I lied. . .whist is a gas. COO COO! You’ll never know! Ha ha ha!!!”

Just like that he breezed by me and hopped on the bus. Was he English? Maybe. Am I Italian? You make the call. My drink tasted like shit, I’ll give him that. Did he need to shoot it out of my hand? History will judge. Nice clothes. Bad attitude.

And I get the last laugh, Geoff: That’s the 202 to Carson. Good luck finding a game of whist.

#7: the Starbucks at Colorado and Eagle Rock, Eagle Rock.

Sleep. Twisted sheets. Cups.

Behind my eyes, beyond my bed, a shape takes shape.

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. . . .

When I wake up. 4:23. Moonlight. I’m sweating harder than Sydney Greenstreet wearing a chinchilla coat blow-drying his hair in a humidor. What was that song? I grab my bass from the closet and gingerly pick out the notes. B flat? Yes. F. No. F#. Yes. What next what next. J? Is that a note? That’s not a note. Yes it is. Question mark? Christ. Don’t fade away don’t fade away. G flat. Now we’re talking. These fireflies scatter into darkness and I chase them with salad tongs. I need a drink. Focus DeMarco. Four notes, c’mon. E? Maybe. Nah. Try it. Yes. I pluck the fat unamplified strings. What is this song? I pluck some more. So achingly close, almost there, what is it what is it???

It’s The Pink Panther. Christ.

For reasons totally arbitrary I seek out the seventh best Starbucks in Los Angeles at Colorado and something in uh. . .I forget. When I get there they’re (their? their’re?) serving this new kind of mocha drink. It looks like a cross between a coffee and a coffee shake, leaning toward a coffee. The white beret of foam has stretch marks. Not unlike Sydney Greenstreet. This means something. Two gentlemen at the next table conduct a business deal in Spanish. One hands the other a sandwich of what look like Chester Arthur $1,500 bills. Did the Treasury get my e-mail?

Somebody sneezes. It’s Jim. I’m no longer surprised.

“Jim. I had a dream about you.”
“I’m listening.”
“You were playing guitar on the head of a giant eagle.”
“Are you sure it wasn’t a saxophone?”
I thought long.
“No, it was an eagle.”

Jim nodded and sipped his coffee.

“The 134. Westbound.”

And just like that he leaves. Westbound. I don’t get it. Does Jim even play guitar? He didn’t answer my question. Didn’t I see one in his apartment? What am I talking about he lives in a condo in Highland Park. Or does he? I’m contemplating mortgage payments when something lacerates my attention. Due north. It’s a rock. . .shaped like an eagle. And? That’s it! This is Jim’s inimitable talent for visual punning! Eagle + Rock=a 1979 bootleg of the Eagles live at Three Rivers Stadium that I borrowed from him a couple months ago. He must want it back. Shit, Jim, why’n't you say so? This is all kind of I mean forgive me pretty fuckin’ passive-aggressive.

I shake my head and drive on, the beaked boulder in my rearview mirror framed by a twilight of pink and gold.

#8: the Starbucks in the Brentwood Village Court

INTRO—EXT. DAY: a CRUISE MISSILE skims the earth sinisterly toward its target. CUT TO—Control Room: SOLDIERS with head sets, faces underlit by radar screens. CUT TO—lone helmeted FIGURE standing atop HOOVER DAM swathed in black neoprene. CUT TO—data, numbers, sine waves, math. Are we looking through the eyes of the FIGURE. . .or through the eyes of the CRUISE MISSILE? CUT TO—Control Room:

GENERAL leans forward, his face underlit by radar screens. CUT TO—CRUISE MISSILE, we track it from behind closing in on dam, blue iris of thrust digitally blazes in foreground.

MISSILE draws within mere yards. FIGURE leaps into the air and in swift roundhouse motion kicks MISSILE. The warhead snaps off and hurtles tumbling flaming into lake, detonates underwater. Scalding mist abounds. Fuselage flies onward and smashes explosively into mountain side. FIGURE falls back to earth. CUT TO—Control Room. SOLDIER removes headset and looks uneasily at GENERAL.

There is MUFFLED cheering in background. CUT TO—FIGURE on top of dam standing in “iron panther”. A little the worse for wear. Looks at glove. It’s burnt-off at the tips, revealing a set of long fingernails. . .painted white.

CUT TO–Bill DeMarco sitting alone in a Starbucks.

It’s a rainy night in the Brentwood Village Court. I think this strip mall used to be a brewery. Ye Olde Brentwoode Brewerye I believe. The German settlers of West LA brought their work ethic but they also brought their traditions. That’s why you can’t walk a block in this part of town without running into a bratwurst stand. Or waltz music blaring out of pickup trucks. I turn on my cell phone. A cube revolves slowly and trisects itself. No messages.

What are you going to do? What am I going to do? Nothing. A box of PerfectSmart cards are burning a hole in my trunk and no one has the “time” to write some ockcscuknig anagrams. No anagrams, no cards. No cards, no points. No points, no dice. No dice, no anagrams. And forget about the scripts. Great scripts, a tantalizing smattering of which same above reads.

A man offers something. What is it that he offers? He offers something of himself. He offers nothing whatever. He has scripts. He says, They are of a quality. Do you wish to see the scripts? Do you wish it? A man says, Rewrite something I wrote using the same letters with which I wrote it. That is all. It is the same. It is different. A man does or does not do it. He does or does not. Bill DeMarco gives the man a draft of a screenplay called “BurgerTime.” What is a thing?

I walk outside. The rain’s stopped. Brentwood Village Court, huh. And where are the courtiers? Procuring foxes for the royal hunt no doubt. Gimme a barbican, something. I’d light a cigarette but I don’t have a lighter and I don’t smoke. At that moment something not quite flickers in the corner of my eye. It is a gossamer leaf of iceberg lettuce, borne aloft by desultory gusts. It lands on my head. Well there’s news. And then something solider, spongy brushes my ear before splatting on the wet street. It’s a hamburger bun. In Brentwood?

Wait a second.

CUT TO–Bill DeMarco runs back inside Starbucks, whips out pad of legal paper and starts writing furiously.

#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.}