The Art of Espresso

We’re taking the time to perfect the art of espresso. Great espresso requires practice. That’s why we’re dedicating ourselves to honing our craft. We’re always striving for perfection and look forward to serving you a truly exceptional espresso beverage.
We will be closed from 5:30-9:15 pm for training.
-Sign posted at Union Square West Starbucks

On Tuesday, February 26, 2008, Starbucks stores across the globe closed their doors for three hours at 5:30pm local time to conduct “Art of Espresso Training”. This unprecedented and historic closing graced the screens of local and national news channels and was written up in a range of newspapers from The New York Post to the New York Times (I’m located in New York).

Upon hearing of this unimaginable event, I decided to conduct the following experiment:

Disguised as a bystander, I will station myself outside Starbucks on the west side of Union Square in Manhattan from the hours of 18:45-19:00. I will tally numbers of customers, note responses, and intervene only when necessary.

As any trained scientist would do I wrote a hypothesis:

Public displays of upper middle class rage and violence triggered by Starbucks withdrawal provoke widespread urban chaos rivaling events such as Rodney King, 9/11 and Katrina. Subsequently, looters take to the streets within a three block radius of every store (coverage of the entire developed world), stock markets around the globe crash, and Obama, unable to quell the calamity, drops out of the presidential race, catalyzing recession, depression and inevitably, the apocalypse.

Upon arrival, I note a very dimly lit and empty storefront. The 8.5 X 11 sign (containing aforementioned corporate quote) is taped on the inside of the door directly above the handle. I take cover from the rain, stand inconspicuously in the corner, covertly clutch my Moleskine and wait. It is exactly 18:45 hours.

My observations are as follows:

• Exactly 20 customers stop and attempt entry in 15 minutes. Countless others glance in but do not pause. Exactly 14 of 20 tug multiple times on the locked door.

• Racial break up of these 20 customers is roughly equal to that of a latte: 1 part Caucasian, 1 part African American and 1 part Asian.

• I am compelled to inform 5 customers of the international closures

• 7 customers reacted verbally to the sign and/or information I provided

• “Strange”

• “Ugh”

• “Hmmph” (smile and shrug)

• “Damn” (smile and shrug)

• “It’s just coffee, do they need to perfect it?”

• Woman to man: “Oh, let’s go”. Man to woman “Where?” Woman to man “I don’t know”. They walk away slowly in the rain.

• "Apparently they are working on the originality of Starbucks coffee”.

On the L-train home, I take note of the exhaustive list of variables that could have altered my findings.

• Rain (While a few freezing sprinkles would never deter a die-hard Starbucks addict from quenching her thirst on an hot acidic beverage, rain might prevent an amateur from venturing out during unfavorable environmental conditions).

• Time (While lacking quantitative evidence, logic tells me that most Americans do not need to quell the their caffeine addiction at 7pm as they would at 7am).

• Lack of control group is irrelevant because my work is, and always will be, flawless.

I arrive home and start to analyze my findings. God, I could really, really use some coffee.

DATA ANALYSIS:

I am pleasantly surprised to have witnessed such calm and restrained reactions to the Starbucks store closures. The exhibition of such widespread nonchalance, quite frankly, restored my faith in humanity and gave me hope for the lives of my unborn children. The closest I got to violence was the shrug of a few pairs of indifferent shoulders, and the closest I got to verbal assault was a chipper “damn”.

I’ve seen more harrowing behavior in a PG-13 movie.

I was also happy to learn that Starbucks patronage is not limited to white people. Apparently, people of all colors enjoy half-caf venti soy mochas too.

In conducting such a sociological experiment on such short notice, it was difficult to ditch my bias and submerge my own personal feelings about Starbucks. While I’d be lying if I said that I had never graced my “local” Starbucks with my presence, or that I didn’t have a personal drink preference, (tall skinny latte--see, I even speak Starbuck!), I’d rather support my local hipster coffee house. I’d rather gamble on the taste of a potentially inconsistent coffee and support the little guy (or the surly half-Asian girl sporting skinny jeans and side pony tail as is the case in Williamsburg) in their fight against the big guns. While sometimes it feels futile, at the end of the day, “supporting my local business” gives me the feeling that I’m doing my bit and helps me to sleep at night.

Whilst I am so inclined to blame Starbucks and like corporations for taking a big steaming dump on the underdog and for the degeneration of, um, the world, I guess the evidence of my airtight experiment proves that the Starbucks of the world are really only a symptom of a larger problem.

Americans can’t read.

I bore witness to scores of New Yorkers, who, upon arriving to a dimly lit and deserted storefront displaying a sign that clearly explained the closure, yanked violently at the door as if trying to free their first-born child from under the wheels of their Honda Pilot. These college educated consumers looked to me, the sly fauxciologist cowering in the corner, for help. “There’s no such thing as an innocent bystander” they silently scowled at me. As if I was single-handedly accountable for the closure of roughly 7200 Starbucks branches spanning the globe. I quietly intervene to verbalize what is actually clearly articulated on the door.

The joke is all too blatant: to simply place an order at Starbucks one must essentially learn a new language. Tall, Grande, Venti, Skinny etc. Starbucks forever altered the linguistic landscape of consumerism, and as a result, their branding became visual, palatable and now audible. It’s quite brilliant actually.

What is problematic, however, is that while New Yorkers clearly excel at commercial literacy (i.e. the capacity to quickly order a complicated beverage) our resulting inextirpable addiction to caffeine only exacerbates our collective inability to read [insert cliché ‘hooked on phonics’ infomercial here]. But we have convinced ourselves as Pavlov did his dogs that our mental capacity hinges on our scoring a quick fix of joe. It’s quite a vicious cycle that makes us I can’t reed good.

With Starbucks temporarily eclipsed from the picture, the American public almost had enough time to go cold turkey: to suffer the withdrawal symptoms (the headaches, the shakes, the temptation to switch to booze), to overcome our addiction and to address the larger problem at hand.

But alas, at this very moment, Dunkin' Donuts (conveniently located half a block from every Starbucks in 38 States) sweeps in, capitalizes on our vulnerabilities and offers us 99-cent lattes.

Hmmm…I wonder if they have the new Bob Dylan.

-Queen Vagine (and her off-shore editorial staff)

Dear John

"So what does that patch on your jacket mean?" I wore the patchwork-y jacket, the one i bought in Georgetown. The cashier of Commander Salamander had both a lip ring, lisp caused by said lip ring, and a burning teenage desire to cut a demo album. I love that store.

"It means I'm a hipster piece-of-shit."

He is amused.

We choose his place. Plus, I'm in a take-me-home sort of mood. This is unusual for me, but it's been a weird night. Early in the evening I'd nearly been arrested for sassing a police officer after blatantly (but skillfully) jaywalking outside the spice girls concert in dc. Perhaps it was the coquettish disco numbers that had emboldened me. Or the artfully lit stage show. Or maybe it was the shots of Gray Goose a cheerful Verizon center employee has sold my best friend and I from the back of a recently converted hotdog cart.

The alcohol allowed me to more privately define my own mental metaverse. Crowds of people become only chunks of urban noise. Moving cars become only challenges in my pedestrian olypmic tryout. And police who try to shake me down for jaywalking become nazi officers.

I am piece-of-shitshow spice. And i am on a reunion tour of one.

Confidential to officer rent-a-cop: Sorry i tried to bite you. That was not classy. At the moment, i didn't realize who you were. i've been a little on edge regarding people who grab me from behind since my recent mugging/assault. That being said, go after an actual crime, douchenozzle. Seriously... probable cause based on jaywalking 5th street? i would have kicked the charge faster than an on-stage costume change.

------------------------

John, trendy jacket aficionado and fellow intoxicee, doesn't know any of this about me. i choose to vacation in his drunken concept of me; the cute, quirky bar pick-up. Perhaps I'm amorous rather than drunk. Perhaps I'm eccentric rather than unstable. Perhaps I'm coy rather than cold. And besides, his neck smells nice.

We're now at his place. I steady myself on the granite counter as he opens two beers. Beer is a superb come down drink.

Clothes are flung, rather than tossed. We're both in an aggressive mood. This proves hazardous. The intricately faux hand crafted West Elm headboard is not suited for use as a prop or counterbalance, despite my best intentions.

We attempt what we refer to in the lesser regions of Brooklyn as "big boy sex". (Gentle hetero readers: That's the standard issue gay kind. Hint: It involves the pooper.)

To a culture that had never witnessed modern coitus, it would appear that we were performing some sort of party trick gone horribly awry. Rather than a drunken, post-Reagan administration session of gay lovemaking, it could have been construed that my penis was attemping to create a ballon animal. Perhaps a galloping albino giraffe or a fanciful swan. No less than five condoms were lost in the process. Only four were found. Dot dot dot.

In the end, we gave up and passed out.

----------------------

I wake up around 9 am. He's asleep, therefore, there's still time to escape. Socks and dignity are somewhere in the messy room. I can find neither.

And then he wakes too. He puts his arm around me. It's a nice arm. All of him is nice, actually. Naked and dazed, I realize that I have decent taste.

"So what's your story?", he says affectionately. The question is not rude. The moment is missing only a handshake.

We do a make-shift how-do-you-do conversation. He mentions that he works for the government, though does not specify the job. This is well known code in DC. It means that he either works for an agency secretive enough to give John Grisham a literary woody, or does something completely lucrative that's too boring to mention. We are making small talk. And small talk is not acceptable to me if one is doing so while able to see the other person's balls. We are beyond a point at which subtlety is comfortable.

I wonder where my pants are.

I say something awkward about last night's penile balloon animal debacle, feeling a slight need to apologize. He is cheerful, and with me on looking at the humor of situation. I suddenly like him much better. He seems to notice this, and pulls himself closer to me. He nuzzles me in a way one doesn't nuzzle a stranger. And I've nuzzled strangers.

We begin to have a real conversation. We talk DC, quirks and predilections of people we know and love, with the occasional mild declarations about who we actually are. He's charming and quip-pish .

I begin to look at him again, only this time examining is face. He's beautiful. Not just a shirtless, overprocessed phone sex ad aesthetic beautiful, but a real beautiful. Green eyes and tan skin and tousled hair. The boyscout and trickster character all in one, with magazine cheekbones. I photograph him with my mind.

He mulls the idea of taking the day off of work. Though I realize this may be a hangover related move, I'm flattered by the idea that he doesn't want to kick me out at the appropriate mid morning hour.

Between kisses he gets up to rehydrate, and I vomit in his roommate's bathroom. I conceal the noise, so as not to seem unsexy. We fool around again. Successfully. Very successfully.

We watch a fluff action movie in bed. We talk most of the way through it, each of us still having plenty to say. We're on to the less usual getting-to-know-you questions.

"When gay marriage is legalized, which nation do you think would have the best mail order husbands?"

He's funny, and well informed about fallen eastern block heroin chic. He is subtle and has real undertext. I tell him that his screen name for ordering gay male order husbands should be Johnorreah. At this point, I'm taking the day off too.

We sit across from each other on the sofa, eating take out noodles.

Unexpectedly, the "Why are you single?" question arises.

I am a fucked up, valuable piece of post-modern art, I tell him. I am giant red cube or bright pink nude. But I am well constructed, genuinely thought out, and fun in a way that's outside one's usual elements. Someone will take me home, and add me to their life. They'll enjoy me in the living room, but soon realize that I clash with everything. All the things you already have and love there won't match, and I'll only crowd the space. Rather than throw out the rest of the room to match, I'll end up having to go. And so I'll leave.

He gets up and walks across the room and hugs me. This is a not the weak, pacify-your-sadness hug that I've felt before. Nor is it the lame generic sympathy hug. He wraps all of himself around me, and we fold into each other on the modern green angular sofa. This is the hug that seems to say, "I have room for you". It's more connection than intimacy, but feels amazing in a way that I hadn't realized I missed until now.

I spend the next night with him as well. But not the two-night stand. I hope there will be other nights too.

- Twink Puppet

One (wo)Man's Treasure

Dearest Twink Puppet,

I think you lost something. Perhaps you didn't even know it was gone. I found it though, and kept it for you because I love you. You left your used green floss in between the cushions of our couch and it got stuck on my foot (see left). Thanks, I'm gonna thread my eyebrows with it.

Schmooches,

Queen Vagine

Crop Dusting my Crop Circle

Dearest Twink Puppet,

I need to talk to you. And by talk to you I mean write a passive aggressive blog entry in honor of you.

As the T-shirt says, I heart you. I really do. From the second time I met you on the 4th car of the L train, for that short little ride between Montrose and Bedford, I hearted you. I didn't really care for you the first time I met you cause it was my birthday, and as a result, I was way more into me than you, or anyone else for that matter. But it could have been as close to gay/straight love at first sight as a gay man and a straight woman can get.

Let me tell you why I heart you so much...

I love that you think three month old vodka sauce tastes tangier and subsequently better than a freshly opened jar of Trader Giotto's. And I love that you once made and ate a blue cheese quesadilla without realizing that it was actually moldy Monterrey Jack.

I miss seeing you in your child-sized clothes. I miss your awkward noises (how do I spell "oup"?). I love that you love the Spice Girls because they are the soundtrack to your childhood and that you were in 1st period on 9/11. I love that you strategically crop dust semi-desolate subway trains and walk away to revel in the accusatory and gaseous glances of fellow passengers. I love that your definition of alone time is actually big boy sex with strangers. And I love that it was your idea to give the menorah a blow job, and take pictures.

You are truly precious, like a precious little baby and I have become your Queen (vag) Mother. But like any mother, there comes a time when one must be a parent rather than a friend.

My things are your things. I am honored to have you squat our squalid Bushwick apartment in your time of Brooklyn despair. You can use as much of my hair product, Paul Newman's, and vicodin (ok, maybe not) as you want. And surely, you are a testament to the fact that your stuff is my stuff. You've lent me toothpaste (maybe without knowing) and offered me the use of your frozen masturbatory accoutrement as well. And I love you for this.

But dearest Twink Puppet, a line must be drawn.

And I am going to draw that line in the form of a thick crop circle around the mismatched pair of your dirty socks which I found in my clean sheets last night. Having your soiled black sock stroke my inner thigh while the white one snaked around my bony knee was just too much.

I've never had an STD and I don't want my first one to be Athlete's foot of the Vag or a labial corn.

So my love, I miss you and am desperate without you. I might be ready to utter those three little words to you. But for now, I'll leave you with thishwords "keep your f-ing socks out of my bed".

Love you mean it,

Your Queen Mother Vag

get out the moleskine!

i am sorry, dear reader, that you could not partake in the shitshow that occured between the hours of 8p and 2a in the avenue of puerto rico domicile we call "home." (with quotes, we do)

valentine is a wretched saint that brings about temper and plague every year it comes.

there was yelling, there was some yelling, and we all survived, and we made it through, but i am telling you, dear reader, that if we hadn't eaten a spinach salad with avo and sprouts and some organic balsamic paul newman spittle, but rather had had beefburgers with heinz and yellow mustard, that we wouldn't have ended so civilly.

we're okay. we're going to all get through it. and we plan to have a great time this potus w/e, dear reader, and we hope you can join us. look for the dancing white people at dc9 on sunday. you'll have a drink in each hand and we'll be the ones in the moose costumes.

V-Day at our virtual boozenest, the IntraWeb.

Greetings from Twinkpuppet.

QV: Brown and blue is totally cute: Especially if they're argyle. I can't stress the argyle enough. Argyle knee highs are fucking precious.

Analyst: Don't fly to DC! How bougeious. Caulk and float, bitch! The bus isn't much slower than flying, if you count the all the boarding crap. Plus you can take all of the liquids you want. I'm buying a gallon of contact solution. Why? Because this is America.

Everybody: Tonight? Singles awareness late night dinner anyone? Even if it's just a salad cook-off in Brooklyn? (Is that too Cathy cartoon?) I'd be into watching The Wire tonight. Nothing will improve my singledom valentines day outlook like poor black people.

v-day

in the world of the single mo (and single vagine), fuzzy mimosa doesn't celebrate the valentine.

we celebrate vadim day!
happy birthday vadim!