It’s embarrassing to admit, but I have a…how shall we say this…Starbucks addiction.
Every day, at around the same time, I go to my local Starbucks and I purchase a Venti or Trenta iced black coffee, unsweetened, light ice.
The unsweetened is so they don’t put that ungodly, sickly syrup in the drink that ruins it.
The light ice is so they don’t cheat me on the amount of actual coffee that goes into my cup (Alfred Coffee has caught onto this and charges $0.50 more for light ice, so they’re dead to me).
The black coffee is because I enjoy the taste of stale liquid cigarettes.
And Starbucks is because it used to be my daily workspace but is close to a very pleasant neighborhood hike I take every morning.
Now that I’ve justified my existence, I’m going to head-off/anticipate some questions here:
Q: Why don’t you just make iced coffee / cold brew / liquid meth at home?
A: Like farting in an empty Target aisle: I have before and I will again. I like the ritual of getting my morning coffee.
Q: Aren’t you worried about all those plastic cups?!
A: No. I burn them afterwards so they don’t get end up in the Pacific Garbage Patch (one of the worse 90s one hit wonder bands)
Q: Why don’t you just get the Starbucks Iced Coffee at the grocery store?
A: It’s not the same. Plus the baristas will probably think I’m dead.
The last answer is important – over the past decade or so, I’ve built up a rapport with the local baristas who see me LITERALLY every day. I give them a heads up if I’m going out of town because I forgot to mention to them when I spent a week in New York last year and I’m they were just about ready to call in a wellness check.
It’s nice to have strong neighborhood bonds with people who you don’t share a wall with.
I lucked out that my local Starbucks also happens to be close to a studio, so there’s a wide variety of celebrities and notables who come through every morning like me – beleaguered, bleary-eyed, avoiding the paparazzi.
The most recent visitor was Jeff Probst – the Survivor Guy.
I’ve seen him around a few times, and he’s apparently quite nice.
And I’m sure he’s pelted by thousands of people who ask him to vote them off the island.
He chilled in the corner in a “notice me but don’t notice me” kind of way. It’s a common vibe and probably unavoidable if you’ve been on America’s TV screens since before they were flat.
Meanwhile, I was loudly bantering with my merry band of baristas, and Jeff looked at me like he’d wandered onto an island where I hosted Survivor and he was the busboy on The Island’s craft services table after filming.
In that brief, shining moment, I felt what it was to be an A-lister, at a Starbucks on Ventura Boulevard *tom petty voice*
And then the next morning I came in, a violent homeless dude was throwing trash cans, the following day I spilled my reservoir of iced coffee while trying to get a straw, and I was freefallin to the realization I’m just any old average Joe.
