So Sunday morning the wife persuades me to drive over to Starbuck's. Not the nearby one, the one the next town over that has their new hot sandwiches. The sandwiches are actually pretty good, and the kids are driving me crazy anyway, so I agree and jump in the car.
Apparently Starbuck's on Sunday is some sort of nut magnet. First there's the homeless guy sitting outside. His hairstyle is Sanjaya-inspired, and he's got the longest fingernails I've ever seen outside a Guiness book. The fingernails are dreadfully dirty — they start toasty golden brown near his fingers and turn, by degrees, black as a Goth chick's. He's muttering something rhythmic to himself.
Inside I step into line and two guys step before me. Guy number one is a faux-hipser, guy number two is disheveled and agitated. Guy number two picks up the Times and starts looking at the picture of the Virginia Tech shooter on the cover and starts talking agitatedly to guy number one. "Didja see this guy on TV? Didja? Didja?" Hipster guy number one raises his nose in the air and says, with the air of someone asked whether he prefers sodomizing preschoolers or firstgraders, "I don't WATCH TELEVISION." Agitated guy gets more agitated and flails around looking for someone to emote to. I stare straight ahead and try to go to my happy place.
Ten minutes later my sandwiches are ready. Hipster guy has had words with the poor barrista ("No, I want the LOS ANGELES TIMES, because I DO NOT LIVE IN NEW YORK, you see") and agitated guy is reading about mass shootings aloud and spouting little humms and haws and clicks and moans about it.
The sandwiches were worth it. Barely.
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