#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.}

At first everything happens slow. Angry arms uncoil like ferns in a rain-spattered forest. Mine among them. I’m in a hallway of people who are either trying to punch me or avoid being punched by someone trying to punch me. Some of the latter are unsuccessful at not being punched and retaliate–and miss. And hit somebody else. I think this is how fission works.

Then someone clicks “8x” on the options menu and things happen choppy fast. The girl bassist screeches unholy oaths but her complaint has been lost in the heat of the melee. Here’s my foot in someone’s groin. Here’s my neck on someone’s elbow. My hand clutches a tweed lapel and I find my head peering out of the back side of a headlock, as though through a submarine porthole, at an ecology of mayhem: shoves, hair-grabs, palm chops, quadruple clutches. There are yelled petitions of near-logic (”Whatareyoudoingmanwhatareyoudoing whatareyoudoing?!?!?!”) as roundhouse punches either land on nothing or someone’s shoulder blades. Everyone is as pumped as racing tires with adrenalin but that doesn’t help accuracy. It gives me a new appreciation for biathlon.

A fresh wave of mass pushing synchronized with a well-timed taint-punch frees me from my assailant. We both tumble toward the floor but I use my momentum to stay on my feet and squeeze around a guy wearing a pea coat who must be like 7′8″. I think it’s Captain Ahab. I use him as a blast shield to escape to the auditorium whence comes more violence-minded rubberneckers. A pocket opens in the onrushing maelstrom and I stand my ground for a moment, turn back to the center of the fighting and scream in a furious falsetto “You are the Dicks of Coffee! You are the Dicks of Coffee!” turn again to the doors, duck around a security guard who looks like a wrecking ball in a windbreaker, slip with my socked foot on a totebag (natch), rack my knee against a door, and make it outside.

Twelve blocks later, somewhere at the foot of the Hollywood Hills, I reach my car. Battered, sweaty, freezing, heaving, I take stock of the damage. Widespread abrasions, scratches, torn clothing, and humiliation. In other words the ushz. A voice calls out in the darkness.

“Hey man!”
This phrase never sat well with me.
“You nailed that chick.”
I can’t assess his seriousness.
“Yeah well I was trying to hit the lead singer guy,” I say between heaves, not proud of this explanation either.
“All I’m saying is nice aim man, that girl was a fuckin’ whore”
He proffers his hand in a high-five to which I meekly acquiesce, walks on into the night toward who knows what illegally parked Volkswagen. What kind of. Ah never mind. Just never never never never mind. I reach into my pocket for my car keys. Then I reach into my other pocket. They’re both empty. And my wallet’s gone too. Nothing but a ticket stub. Casagrande’s going to hit the roof.

I collapse against my cornflower Ford Fairmont and cry laughing, snot-infused, androgynous tears.

Next week: Bill reviews the ninth best Starbucks in Los Angeles.

“You guys are fucking faggots,” I say, my trapezius muscles tightening into thick knots.

The response is immediate. “Faggotsss?” answers the lead singer with an accentuated lisp. “Did you call us faggotssss?” The girl bassist laughs. “You are a faggot,” she says to him. “Yeah you’re a big fuckin’ faggot,” says the guitar player who grabs the lead singer by his hair and French kisses him. “Get a room you fucking faggots,” says the girl bassist as she roughly pushes them. They stumble backwards but continue to make out, pawing at each other’s clothes.

Scorned! My rank provocation has become a license for whimsy. I should be defiant in the face of such insolence but Casagrande’s instructions dissolve my self-respect. And I’ve got a dental bill to pay for. “Hey guys if you could just sign a tote bag, it’d be really cool.”

“Dude, fuck off,” comes the response from the lead singer who has finished kissing his guitar player.

A cold impulse freezes my nerves. Reason halts. The same Olympian faculties that had discerned with savvy countless bags of coffee and taxonomized the flavor of same finds itself powerless to resist a reptilian twitch that drives my hand downward to cradle a weathered white loafer, slip it off my foot, and fling it with all my might at the moist sneering arrogance that slouches before me.

I miss. It hits the girl bassist right literally on the nose. She yelps as tears flash-flood her face. At this moment I have a number of sensations simultaneously, among them my shittiness, my rage, my terror, and the overwhelming one that if these fuckfaces had just signed some fucking totebags we wouldn’t be in this predicament.

Actually that I wouldn’t be in this predicament.

Then people start attacking me. . . .

If you think Bill gets his ass worked, text or e-mail “Continuation A”

If you think Bill narrowly escapes getting his ass worked, text or e-mail “Continuation B”

If you think everybody comes to their senses, makes apologies all around, and goes as a group to the theater bar and buys $9 Coronas, text or e-mail “Continuation C”

So amazingly I find myself heading to the bar and ordering a Corona. Between zero and zero I had to round up and arrived at “Ending B.” I personally think my make-up looks lousy but that’s the internet for you. Not lousy, just non-committal. Nah, lousy. Not the internet, my make-up. Wait.

I’ve distracted myself dangerously from my own androgynous boredom. Gotta get back on track. Lawyers Who Use to Be In Rock Bands take the stage. They do ‘80’s covers. The Kajagoogoo sounds relevant, Dire Straits sexy. I’m waiting for my mark. I order another Corona and doodle script ideas on a napkin: eight sexy twenty-somethings plan to have the “ultimate weekend” on a party boat when they’re attacked by a genetically engineered shark that can read minds. The shark turns them against each other, they hallucinate, don’t believe the shark exists, jump into the water, shark eats them. But there’s a twist: The military wants the shark back.

Plot complications start crowding my napkin when I realize The Cups of Coffee are already playing. I sweep my hair out of my eyes and try to listen objectively. It takes about two seconds. Casagrande, Casagrande. This is your great product tie-in? They’re not even bad. They’re just. . . everybody. Everybody is them. Same clothes, same hair, same white loafers. Chapter and worse. On the periodic table of rock clichés they are hydrogen. And they look like they’re off balance. Like they’re going to trip or fall over or slip. When did that become fashionable? I don’t get it. They’re singing this song, it goes like “drop a dime drop a dime drop a dime. . .” Two-fifths of the crowd is singing along and jumping around. They start falling over, the band, exactly as if they were off balance, or say standing on bowling pins. They play like three songs and finish. I roll up my tote bags and think of what bullshit I’m going to say.

I almost intercept them on the way backstage. It’s three guys and a girl. “Hey you guys rocked” I say loudly. No one looks at me. Plus Minus Equals roadies are setting up mikes. “Hey you guys rocked” I say loudly again. In my peripheral vision I see the whites of rolling eyes. One of the guys in the band makes a “rock and roll” hand symbol over his head without turning around. I’m pretty sure he’s being an asshole. It pains me but I need their attention, in the way you need a dog to stop biting your crotch. If I don’t get Casagrande those autographed tote bags my credibility’s shot. Think DeMarco. I get an idea. “Hey, Cups of Coffee, you guys rocked”. There are half a dozen bodies between me and them. Someone either in the band or out of it says “Awesome dude buy some CDs.” A guy and a girl laugh. This doesn’t sit well with me. I’m sitting on a pair of deuces but decide now’s the time to go all in.

“You guys are fuckin’faggots,” I say, my trapezius muscles tightening into thick knots. . . .

If you think Bill gets in a fight, text or e-mail “Continuation A”

If you think The Cups of Coffee defuse the situation with a light-hearted joke and invite Bill into their dressing room to exchange pleasantries and sign tote bags, text or e-mail “Continuation B”

If you think nothing happens and Bill orders another Corona, text or e-mail “Continuation C”

My editor calls me into his office. I’m unfazed.

“Reynaldo Casagrande, as I live and breathe.”

“That’s not my name and you have a new assignment.”

“Don’t tell me, I’m getting too close again? Too personal? Too involved?”

“Wrong. You’re not getting close enough.” He hands me a post-it. “We’ve got a great product tie-in and it involves you reviewing these bands next Wednesday night:”

Plus Minus Equals

The Cups of Coffee

Lawyers Who Used to Be in Rock Bands

“OK. What’s my angle.”

“You will see these bands at the Avalon and you will give them glowing reviews and then you will go backstage and interview The Cups of Coffee. You will tell them how much you liked their set, who are their musical influences, and will they sign some shirts and tote bags.”

“What’s in it for me?”

“Are you still here?”

I don’t usually cotton to impudence but chief give running brave fine sachem so I do what the man says.

AVALON THEATER
Wednesday, January 18th
9:11 pm

I’m not old enough to be getting too old for this shit. Then it hits me. The Cups of Coffee. I get it. What better guy to interview a band called The Cups of Coffee. Casagrande you jerkoff… How tantalizingly simple-minded. Okay. Okay. I’ll play your game bigshot. I go into the bathroom and rock myself out: tear off the sleeves, cut the tie in half, turn my socks into forearm gauntlets, ring my eyes with eyeliner I steal from this guy’s purse, flip my windbreaker inside out. I am rockness. I make my way to the auditorium. . . .

If you think Bill is actually able to find The Cups and interview them,
text or e-mail “Ending A”

If you think Bill is dissatisfied with his look and goes back to the bathroom to apply New Wave-style war paint, text or e-mail “Ending C“

#10: the Starbucks at 1999 Avenue of the Stars and Constellation—Century City

I know, I know. Have you ever seen anything so arrogantly futuristic? 1999 Avenue of the Stars and Constellation. Century City, no less. Why stop there? How about Millenium Village? Why not Epochtown? I mean like is this where Captain Kirk gets his phaser latté after playing twister with a detachment of Tholian spice-harvesters? The fuck it is. Paging Martin Landau, you’re wanted in the teleporter room to mindmeld with some space hamsters. I mean get real. Such an artificial use of science-fictiony numberese often leaves me clammy.

Often. Then there was the tenth best Starbucks in Los Angeles. Imagine a medieval tavern where robots could meet and discuss the day’s news. A pile of dial-up modems crackling in the fireplace. Or imagine an aircraft carrier with cellulite. These imaginings will get you closer to what this Starbucks looks like—and yet not so close. Where to begin? Ah well, begin I have, but as the proverb goes, the journey of a thousand missteps begins with a stop at Kinko’s. If you’ve ever crossed several same-looking streets, and loped through the shadows of office buildings that look from above like the evolutions of a giant pancake in flight, and you still don’t know where the new AMC theaters are and why, then you might have missed this Starbucks by a few paces. I sure did. But a junkie knows a fix when it’s round the corner. So I ask this junkie if there’s a Starbucks nearby and he says Yeah round the corner.

I give the man 62 cents and go inside. No robots or fireplaces or fat cells, but lots of corporate types. Wait no, there’s something more sophisticated about this bunch, more, dare I say it, corporate than corporate? Yes. They’re dancers. Holiday dancers. Festively dressed holiday dancers on a coffee break. And damn they look festive, with their tuxedoes and gowns and nine layers of make-up. Or maybe they’re going to sing somewhere, wish a happy holiday and raise flutes of pH 5 champagne and appear on internet greetings.

Or maybe what, DeMarco? Maybe they’re pirates. Or spies! Maybe they’re regular people who like to wear rental tuxedoes, wear nine layers of make-up and sing Christmas carols in open-air shopping malls in West LA. Who doesn’t? And here I go, what do I know? I’m wearing a Seahawks jersey. Does that make me a Seahawk? Maybe. It doesn’t make me a dancer, and it doesn’t get the taste of this fantastic hazelnut latté out of my mouth. Christ I almost forgot what I was doing here. It’s about the coffee man, pull it together! Getting off is fine folks but getting off on a tangent can be deadly. Recap: dancers, coffee, stars and more stars, round concrete table and concentric ring of stone benches next to store wherein to drink coffee/convene characters from The Dark Crystal—check,check,check,check. Enjoy impressively brewed specialty drink not to be found outside North America—double check. Name of new drink to recommend to Starbucks company—Checkuccino. OK. We’re done. Hold the phone: OKccino!

Did I give that junkie my parking validation?

I look in my coffee and what do I see, I see double-0-5 tryin’ to piss on me. Not a great year for me folks. Lots of setbacks. A lot. My landlord gives me a cease and desist. No bass playing after five. We have a few “words.” My Christmas stocking includes a fax of a dental bill. Ho ho ho. ‘005 was full of crap like this. Made me feel like a real Persona Non Grata (trans: “Person Without Cheese”)

Anyway, I bring up all this negativity because it’s by concentrating on the negative that hope brightens things that much less faintly. You, the readers of Losanjealous, gave us a very special gift. You voted us World’s Best Gay Blog. For that we thank you. I know we had stiff competition (ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha). I personally try to reach out to everyone, but if in so doing some read my writing as gay, or homoerotic, or camp, or in some way expressing a discretely different wavelength, flickering in the crease of the cocktail napkin, the spring up the escalator, or in the semaphore of books stacked too neatly at the corner of the library table (Castles of Scotland, a mylar-bound People from 1998, etc.), then I say what the hell, thank you. I mean we all have something to hide right? I don’t even like coffee. So thank you. All fifteen of you. (Just kidding. I do like coffee. . .but I have been known to drink tea ;P)

And we (?????–ed.) at Losanjealous want to reward you. I Bill DeMarco do hereby establish the Bill DeMarco PerfectSmart card. What does it do? It gives you options. Perfect. Smart. The PerfectSmart card. How do you get one? Simply find your favorite Bill DeMarco’s Los Angeles column and write an anagram of it. The whole thing. And no duplication of words from original to adaptation. (i.e. none of the entries will have the word “coffee” in them, or “the” for example) One entry might start “Llib DeMacro’s Log Asneles” for example. Easy.

What can you get with the PerfectSmart card? Access. Access to a world of options. I write a lot. A lot of great stuff. Most of what I write is treatments and screenplays. Collect PerfectSmart points and you can win and read Bill DeMarco treatments and screenplays before anyone else does. . .and see what everybody’s talking about!

Here are some thumbnails of what I’m working on. Some network, some cable, some just in a frame above a urinal. I don’t discriminate. Neither should you (yeah I can see how I do sound gay, that was totally natural for me). Interested? You should be. You know where you are. You know what you’re doing. Time to live a little. Can you say hungry? Bill DeMarco can. Here’s what you can look forward to:

500 Points:

To Protect and Serve–Officer Sam Martinez must balance being a cop and a sexy lady. Episodic.

Habeas Corpus–lawyers use forensic science to win cases. Episodic.

Lips Together, Teeth Apart–picks up where characters in play left off. Episodic.

300 Points:

Packed to the McGills–Mike McGill has 138 adopted kids and one big problem: he’s single. Episodic.

Texting Stacey–teenage prodigy Stacey Martinez navigates the stormy worlds of high school and online dating. Episodic.

100 Points:

Here Goes Nothing–TBA. Episodic.

Double Dribble–retired basketball star raises twins. Episodic. (not my most inspired work–DeM.)

Present Company Excepted–five sarcastic roommates cope with each other and the suicide of a friend. Episodic.

Never Mind!–two hot music execs use forensic science to sign bands. Episodic.

50 Points:

Off The Deep End–programming for children. Instructional.

Gay Cops: Gay cops. Episodic.

These are just a few of the rare birds to be found in my zoo of hits. And there are oh so many more of those where those came from. And just as well written, with just as much buzz. Sneak a peak before. . .it’s. . .uh. . .um. . .

As you can see it pays to read Bill DeMarco. Welcome to the first year of the rest of your life.

Nappy Yew Hear Form Lonsajeulaos.cmo!!!

#11: the Starbucks at Pico and Robertson

Faithful readers. I write you from the abyss. Correct. Pico and Robertson. A sensational Starbucks with an arcing window gleams on the intersection like the smile of an oil baron. Everyone is vivid today. It looks as if scissors had cut people from the sidewalk. These machines streak the streets and strange wheels twist the arms of the people inside. I bought a magazine called Life that had an article on jazz.

I know I sound high but I assure you it’s the goldenrod aura of this coffee, found at the 11th best Starbucks in LA, found at the junction of said streets. I sip again. A quadrille of xanthines gambols in my mouth accompanied by a manic trio (Miles, Brubeck, Neil Peart). Caffeine canters in my gut as the switchboard of my nervous system lights up like Menorahs. So impressed am I by this brew, the nuancing of acid and oil, the encounter-group back-and-forth of aromatics, I master my nascent shyness and approach the barista to ask him what the secret is.

“Cedric, what accounts for the spectacular flavor of the coffee at this Starbucks?”
Cedric pushed his hat back and looked down thoughtfully, careful to choose his words. “Imagine the field of all possible coffee flavor emanating across two-dimensional space, one axis representing ‘taste’ and the other ‘satisfaction,’” he said.

“The Z-axis being coffee,” I interject in an attempt to clarify.

“Exactly. So imagine a coffee bean traversing this matrix. When the flavor achieves critical intensity, the taste-satisfaction continuum warps to such a degree that the coffee bean is sucked in. . .”

“. . .emerging on the other side as a Mocha Valencia,” I say completing his line of logic.

“Precisely. In years past this effect was thought to be due to variances in the propagation of taste-waves through a hypothetical substance called flavonium.”

“Which was proven in the early 70’s not to exist,” I interject again, helpfully, albeit pedantically, somewhat hastily, but not at all impertinently.

Cedric shaped his hand into a gun and made a ‘click’ noise in the back of his mouth.

“All right Cedric, you got it,” I say emptying another bag of Equal in my to-go cup. I looked cool on the outside but a million questions raced through my mind. Was he giving me the blow-off? The existence of flavonium has never been disproven. That was a red herring with non-fat whip. And what do you mean “the flavor”? Which flavor? Bad science. Any barista worth his smock wouldn’t try to peddle that on dexadrine addicts. He was hiding something. And I intend to find out what. Probably. Great coffee. . .but secretiveness, shitty parking and high rankings do not mix.

Next Week: Bill DeMarco sneaks into the Top 10

#12: the Starbucks at Glendale and Fletcher

The 110 can be a demanding mistress. I know what makes her nipples hard. I tickle the carpool lane at 68 knots. A balloon with a wig on it floats in the passenger seat. Every so often I turn and move my lips. Works like Alka-Seltzer. Some play baccarat. My poison is California’s carpool lanes. Saturday on the freeway to Burbank and points north—I’m in heaven.

Or purgatory. I didn’t notice the Vanagon until it sliced in front of me for the third time. Stupid. Some people wouldn’t know a carpool lane from a glass of Mondavi Shiraz. This guy for instance. You play the carpools you’re going to get moist. He cuts me off a fourth time when I see what I’m up against—his vanity plates say VANAGON. Of course. Car: Vanagon. Plates: Vanagon. Who’s driving? A Vanagon probably. The game is joined my friend.

First things first. I pull off the highway and into the #12th best Starbucks in LA at Glendale and Fletcher. I don’t usually cotton to Starbucks in strip malls (?????—ed.) but this one gets on my good side. Good coffee. And nothing washes down a good cup of coffee like a bowl of shrimp tempura. I go in search of it. Nada. What kind of strip mall is this? I get a haircut instead. That calms my nerves.

But not for long. VANAGON is back. What does he want? Real estate? I’m giving him three car lengths, any more we’d still be in escrow. His windows are tinted. His soul is tinted. I inch closer. He jams on the brakes. I swerve right. He swerves with me. Not on a first date, buddy. We parry and thrust for a quarter-mile. Then a tire blows. I skid over the shoulder and fly off the road into a zoo. My cornflower Ford Fairmont comes to rest in a field of squawking peacocks, baboons, and leopards. Of the 610,000 miles we’ve shared together this one is the most embarrassing. My “service engine” light blinks. My shades are askew. My pulse cracked 90. I can’t feel my left arm but that’ll pass. How did I let him get the drop on me? Viel Glück, Vanagon. You’re gonna need it next time.

The animals are goin’nuts. I need something. I take my wallet out and find a dog-eared business card: “Farzad Mohamzadeh—Chiropractor” My head bobbles like one of those dolls whose heads bobble. I flip the card over, forgetting what I’m looking for. In blue ball-point pen are written two words: “Never Think.”

Now I tell me.

#13: the Starbucks at Main near Ocean Park—Venice

Venice! Home of muscles and sea smells. Where the streets are so narrow you have to double-park your tricycle. A guy once came up to me and said “Hey man do you have stigmata?!” and I said “No, I just walked down an alley in Venice.” We both laughed. But seriously Venice is the kind of place where you can get a tan, a turban, three t-shirts, and mugged. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .while getting a henna tattoo!!!

No, seriously, seriously this time, Venice is an eclectic community which has as much to offer the first time tourist as it does the city’s most jaded denizens. I was wandering through this place that sold paintings and posters. I come across this, like, large framed photo, it’s hard to describe, it was entitled “Mouse to Mouse Resucitation” and it was, I don’t know, I can’t even describe it. All I could think was, How did they get that life preserver on that mouse? And who has the patience? No wonder it was $49. (Memo to me: get into art) I sleuthed a little further and found this awesome oil painting which showed Marilyn Monroe, Elvis Presley, Malcolm X, and R2-D2 having coffee at a diner. It was called “Legends.” I didn’t buy it but it made me think. They probably waited for hours. And R2-D2 hadn’t touched his baked potato. Interesting.

Speaking of baked potatoes, don’t think I’m not going to talk about coffee. Because I’m not not. The Starbucks on Main near Ocean Park reminds me of one of those old Victorian framehouses. You know with the clapboard siding and little dormer windows. This store has neither but you can imagine some dessicated, unmarriageable aunt sitting up there with her needlework. Pining, sighing, withering. I think of her when I order a caramel macchiato. I hate these drinks but they made it really well. Thus a #13 rating.

I walk out onto Main street and fill my lungs with a brackish breeze. I can almost hear the digital tick of the parking meters. There’s a humdrum sound whispering something as if simultaneous with it being handed to me in a folded note: It ain’t that bad. It ain’t that bad. Maybe this jaded denizen and that dying spinster can throw each other a life preserver. Call it a little mouse to mouse.

DeMarco say peace.

#14: The Starbucks in the strip mall at Los Feliz & Seneca

November makes me horny. I don’t think it’s the turkey. (Unless you’re talking about yourself—ed.) There’s something in the air, it’s the smell of bread and asparagus and pine cones. It’s the smell of Los Feliz. And Los Feliz is as Los Angeles as you can be without getting points on your record. The Angels, meet the Happinesses. And while you’re at it have a rich Los Feliz cup of Rubiaceae Coffea Robusta, in the Latin of Seneca.

You may by now find yourself asking, So Bill you spend so much time at Starbucks what are you doing there? Other than the Lord’s Work you mean? I’m analyzing coffee man! Between the tasting and flushing of my mouth with a native mixture of herbs and incense, I barely have time to masturbate. This isn’t summer camp folks. You don’t like how I rate Starbucks coffee then you do it.

I lost my cool. I’m sorry. I’m not that busy. Let’s just say I’m working on some stuff. A lot of stuff, all very different. Some seasonal, some long-term. One of my ideas is I want to make a toy—I know I know, St. Patrick’s Day is the new Christmas, get a clue, I’m wasting my time, invent a new beer. Wrongo cynics. Christmas is here to stay. Thus spake DeMarcothustra. My idea is micro-something. This is what I’ve come up with so far: micro-chicks, micro-chimps, micro-chunks, micro-hotties, micro-babes, micro-hotties, micro-morphs, micro-fruit, micro-golf, micro-studs, micro-dudes, micro-guys, micro-hunks, micro-crunks, micro-cholos, micro-nerds, micro-knights, micro-creeps, micro-hawks, micro-stars, micro-crabs, micro-paint, and micro-guns. Something like that. I especially like micro-fruit. Again these are just sketches but I figure I have like two months to get from sketchpad to store shelves. No sweat. I’m dreaming of a green Christmas. . . .

Hope you’ve ordered your cranberry stuffing and have a happy second week of November!

(the above “editorial comment” was written by Mr. DeMarco—ed.)

#15: The Starbucks at Hollywood & McCadden

I hate Halloween. It’s totally commercial now. It’s like the middle of April and you’re already seeing ads for Halloween. I’m sick of it.

I’m joking!!! I love Halloween!!! But I’m having trouble putting the finishing touches on my costume. Take a serious guess what I’m going to be for Halloween. Seriously. You’ll never guess. Don’t guess. Okay guess. . .I’m going to be a pimp!!! Whassup y’all, I am a pimp. Better pay me my money bitch or I am going to kick you in the pussy! Man, pimps are all that. Now. . .where to find some shitty looking sunglasses and shitty terrycloth bellbottoms and anything else that’s shitty and will break after eight minutes or leave purple stains on my skin and underpants. . . .

While I’m thinking of an answer to that question I have a cup of coffee at the 15th best Starbucks in Los Angeles at Hollywood and McCadden. A few of you (let’s be honest more than a few) will object to the proximity of this store to the one at Hollywood and Highland. The last time I checked this is America. And this store while blocks away has a uniqueness unusual in these parts. A certain je ne say quoi. I will be brief: Good banana bread.

Hollywood never ceases to amaze me when it comes to Halloween. It should be called the land of Halloween. Or Hollowoond. It makes me grow nostalgic. I think of junior high school. I had only two things on my mind back then. Basketball and Halloween. I once drew a picture of the grim reaper dunking a guy’s head through a basketball hoop made of bones. He was sneering as if to say “HA HA HA I’m dunking you and on you” His scythe was drawn with good glare. I was pleased.

OK. I’ve got 10 hours to put together a pimp costume on Hollywood Boulevard. Pray for me. And Happy Halloween.

#16: the Starbucks at the Torrance Crossroads

Before I launch feet-first into a review that should dazzle and bewilder all my readers and fans, I need to address some issues from a few people who—while they may be readers—are definitely not fans. Unless you mean ceiling fans, because they seek to blow their hot convective current of opinion on my articles from above. (Nice one DeMarco. Thanks DeMarco.) These self-appointed geographammarians have pointed out that the picture accompanying the column“isn’t a picture of LA. If you’re going to write a column called Bill DeMarco’s LA then why are you using a [expletive] picture of New York?”

Whooooooooa! Hope nobody had a seizure. Christ. I’m a passionate guy and sometimes my lust for perfectly roasted beans gets in the way of what are called facts. That said—and if my guy in the arts department was able to put down his Red Bull and bourbon for two seconds—you logic-hounds will find that the new picture is indeed Los Angeles. Can we get on with our lives? (As long as I’m venting you know what phrase I can’t stand? “At the behest of”)

Where was I? Right. Torrance. That’s spelled with a “T” and that rhymes with “B” and that stands for “Beans.” Right here in Torrance city. But the difference is there’s going to be trouble if I DON’T get any coffee right? That’s why it’s different from pool. I’m the coffee man. Not the music man. Fortunately this Starbucks nestled deep in the mesa-style Torrance Crossroads makes some of the finest coffee south-west of Sepulveda Boulevard. The espresso hits you like a scorching poker chip and their seasonal pumpkin latte shows no signs of novelty affectation. (I might recommend that they give the drink a more memorable name like ‘Pumpin’ Pumpkin’)

And I begin to wonder about the crossroads, where they used to hang thieves, queens, and in-betweens. Where a crazy old kraut found the devil himself and asked him for the hand of a lady. Me? I’ve had as many ladies as lattes so if I gamble with Old Scratch, it’ll be penny bets. I’d look him in that red ol’ eye of his and say, I’ve had this notion in the back of my head and I wonder if you’d oblige. I take out my fiddle, tighten my bow, put it to my chin and ask him:

“Pimpin’ Pumpkin. Do you think it’s viable?”

#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.

So I got into it with my editor—he said he wanted me to stop reviewing Starbucks for a while. He said I was getting “too close.” I said, “What are you talking about?” not realizing I was holding a French press in one hand and a slice of zucchini bread in the other. He said he was re-assigning me until I “cooled off.” He told me to go review a band called Hegemonic Oracles of Annihilation. Sometimes you gotta go away someplace to find out where you are.

Hegemonic Oracles of Annihilation @ the Troubadour
with
Yellowtail
Alexis Leone

I get there around 5:45. If I’m going to do this I’m going to do it the right way. It’s been a long time since I’ve been to the Troubadour. Feels the same. Small. Two levels. A stage. Never been gone. It’s like getting your first parking ticket. 6:45. I’m still the only one here. I’m just that much more prepared. I check out the CD. Oracles, huh? Oracles of hope? Of depression. . . . ?

SIDE A
Operation: Suicide
Mental Enslavement
Destroyed
Question the Questioners
Mindf***
Internet Junkie

SIDE B
Destroyed II
Guns of Hollywood
F***ed Up
Oracles of Depression
Terrified
B.E.G.I.N.N.E.R.

Well that answers that. I’m parked in a loading zone. 7:27. There are four people here now. Time for my second beer. It’s still light outside. Who is Alexis Leone? Who is Yellowtail? . I’ve got questions, and they’re only going to get answered when someone takes the stage. . .or when I read my press kit. I’m already bored

Next Week: More Starbucks Reviews

#18: the Starbucks in the shopping center at Hollywood & Highland

I actually don’t even like this store very much. But the Hollywood & Highland center holds a lot of memories for me. Some of them latté, some of them dark roast. I was here in ’85 when they were filming a scene for Airwolf. ’85 was a good year for three things: wine, baseball, and movies.

But back to the story. Like I was saying this Starbucks isn’t very good. It’s cramped. It’s like trying to drink coffee in an elevator. Worse. It’s like trying to buy coffee in an elevator. What saves it is the view. You look north, sprightly Highland Avenue. To the south, Sunset Boulevard. No introduction necessary. From left to right: Hollywood hills, wall, Crocodile Dundee impersonator. A perfect vista to compliment the drinking of exceptional coffee.

But this day I have an unexpected visitor. As I’m sipping my java chip frappuccino, a guy yells across the atrium, “Hey DeMarco.” He recognizes me from the column. I try to ignore him. He’s wearing hiking boots. No one said fame was going to be easy. “Hey, DeMarco.” I give in. “Yeah,” I say. “What?”

“I see you’re drinking coffee.”

I let him toy with me. Lull him into a false sense of confidence.

“Yeah.”

“A cup of Starbucks coffee.”

“Uh-huh.”

“What’s your deal with Starbucks? Why don’t you have coffee somewhere else? Like the Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf?”

You mean the Coffee Bean & Tea Queef. Why don’t I just get estrogen supplements? This guy’s a moron. Hi, can I have a lobster trap with my coffee? Coffee Bean. Jesus. Why Starbucks instead of Coffee Bean? Because horsepower instead of milliwatts. Because whole hog instead of cold turkey. Because bottom of the 7th, 2 out, bases empty. Dig? As John Tesh once said, if you have to ask, man, then you’ll never know.

“Dude, why don’t you ever go to the Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf?” he says again.

I sneer and don’t answer him.