The Trouble With Starbucks

The problem with Starbuck's is that back in the day they revolutionized the coffee industry. Suddenly coffee wasn't just this thing you drank in the morning; it was an all day long occurrence. Coffee wasn't just caffeine made bearable with sugar or half and half; it was a dessert, a breakfast, an event with flavor and sugar and whipped cream piled on top. Coffee was any way you liked it and coffee shops had an unthreatening, trendy edge. They were no longer places for Goth looking college students draped in black and dropping obscure references about post-modern existentialism; they were a place for businessmen and yuppies to sip their highly fashionable coffee concoction and discuss whatever industry they were taking over that week. Yes, Starbuck's brought coffee to the masses. And just like most things brought to the masses, they managed to fuck it up.

The people who originally worked at Starbuck's were the vampy, pierced up punks who used to hang out in coffee shops in the first place. They knew the difference between Venezuelan and Colombian beans. They would talk down to you and repeat whatever you ordered in fancy coffee shop lingo, so when you asked for “um a large decaf espresso with skim milk and, um some vanilla flavor,” they would twist their lips in disgust and say, “So you want a grande nonfat decaf vanilla latte? That'll be $7.” And you'd leave Starbuck's feeling a little dumber, but in awe of the magic. Unfortunately, like all good things, midnight struck, and the magic had to end. As Starbuck's spread, the Goth kids who worked there realized they had been tricked into working for the man, and cut out. The next thing you knew perky, peppy, cheerleader types and middle-aged men were working behind the counter. They offered you a dark roast, when what you really wanted was something light. They didn’t add enough foam to the top of your drink. And worst of all, the complicated coffee speak lingo Starbuck’s had created came back to bite them in the ass. The consumers learned it so they wouldn't feel talked down to, but once the coffee kids were gone, no one who worked there understood it anymore. It was like learning Spanish to move to Spain, getting there, and discovering that everyone speaks French and has no clue what you mean when you say, “¿Baño, por favor?” The native language was dead. There’s now only a fifty-percent chance of getting what you want if you order in coffee-speak. For instance, yesterday when I said I wanted an iced, grande, nonfat, decaf vanilla latte, I received a viente (super huge), caffeinated, nonfat latte with no vanilla. Starbuck's rocked our world, then turned around and dicked us. It's like a supermodel that gets fat after getting married. All the husband can think is, “What the hell? Where’s the chick that I married and learned Spanish for?”

Even worse, Starbuck's put all the other coffee places out of business so all that's left is a few obscure, creepy places where the Goths have retreated to plot their revolution. And take X. These are the places that you have to have an invitation to find, and when you do, it's in a low slung, unmarked building at the back of an alley. When you park your car in the unlit, gravel parking lot, and manage to make your way to what you think is the front door, you notice there's no windows in the entire place, and you start to feel even more nervous than you did when you realized the directions you had been given were to a place on the outskirts/bad part of town. You push open the door and are greeted with lighting that makes everyone inside look dead or demonic...which is the point. But you figure you're already there, so you head straight for the counter, and shout to the guy behind it like you're in a bar and not a coffee shop. The reason you have to shout is because there's weird Trans music playing, with screams and chainsaw sounds floating in and out of the steady beat. You manage to get the guy's attention, and you smile bravely before asking if you can have in a to-go cup...but he stops you before you can get any further, the collection of rings and chains in his nose jingling as his nostrils flare. His eyes narrow, the cat shaped contacts almost invisible under pierced brows and lids. He glares you down. “We don't believe in killing the earth,” he growls, and the strobe light flashes just then. You wet your pants a little. You try smiling again, but only manage a grimace. “Well can I just get a nonfat doubleshot caramel latte?” He looks down his nose at you and sneers, “You mean an anorexic, super peppy Hispanic cheerleader? Sure. That'll be $7.” Before you can reach for your wallet, you're bombarded with the image of places like this on every corner of every city, yuppie businessmen sunk down in the black suede coaches sipping “iced, fatass white bread losers” out of black and red ceramic mugs, as high schoolers hum along to chainsaw revs while waiting in line. All the blood in your body rushes away from your head and you become the palest person in the place, (which is quite a feat) and the guy behind the counter loses his superior look and actually appears to be concerned. “Dude? Dude, are you all right?” You want to tell him you're not a dude, you're a girl, and that he would realize that if there were some freakin’ lights in the place, and oh God, you can't breathe, and no one should have to go through this much trouble for some fucking coffee and that if only you could make it out of this alive, you would totally just buy one of those Senseo things or start drinking tea or something, and then you think to yourself that it's a damn shame that the last thing you'll see before you die is some pierced up, punk freak with red lights dancing across his face and glinting off the piercings that his mom doesn’t know he has...and then nothing.

I hate Starbuck's.