issue 254

Starbucks is like the Disney World of coffee houses. I once knew a girl who got a job with Starbucks. On her first day, they instructed her on how to be Starbucks friendly and how to adopt their Starbucks way of life. But their employees are like robots, constantly productive. You will never find a dirty Starbucks, a chair out of place, a disheveled shelf of overpriced coffee mugs. They made my friend show up for work at five in the morning every day to open the store. She was once five minutes late, coming in at 5:05 AM, and they fired her. They must have thought that she didn’t care about the Starbucks way. Her hair was too cool, and she probably wore too much black, but nonetheless, she was furious to have spent any amount of time there.

I have heard that every Starbucks store has a voice. Much like a Starbucks overlord, an invisible deity that looms over the little workers to make sure they are keeping in line. I can see little cameras now, which would be assumed to be security cameras, but you never really know. I’ve read accounts of this voice suddenly booming over the loudspeaker, “Now Tiffany, why aren’t the chocolate biscottis splayed in a perfect bouquet fashion?” So, ever the Starbucks disciple, Tiffany straightens the little bustle, sweating profusely, suddenly aware that every action is being watched. “Did they see me pick my nose last week? God, I hope not.”

It’s also been rumored that Starbucks employees are instructed to mix up the word arrangement when passing on an order from clerk to barista. Somehow this is intended to keep the customer out of the loop. Whatever loop that could be, I am not sure. I know what I ordered, how could I get in on some covert operation by rehearing what I’ve ordered? It’s probably to make their employees seem smart and make the whole coffee experience somewhat mysterious. People always love a mystery, after all.

Some Starbucks workers have attempted to unionize, fighting for their rights against this Starbucks man that promises them benefits, but schedules them for 19 hours a week, just shy of the twenty needed to qualify. The guy who started the union was eventually fired, as well as other union workers, and little by little, one by one, Starbucks monsters crept out of the underground to conquer the proletariat. The union is not backing down, but Starbucks will basically blacklist anyone who joins. One union member got fired for six dollars that mysteriously went missing from her drawer overnight. She claims she was set up.

But, still, despite knowing all of these scary, somewhat freakish Big Brother aspects of this company, I still come here. Despite the fact that they promise free Internet, which isn’t really free. Despite the fact that their coffee probably contains addictive additives that keep me coming again and again (because really this coffee is not that good). Despite the creepy grins that employees give off, their wholesome goodness looks bought instead of intrinsic.

I like the coffee. I like the atmosphere. And I love how reliable it is. It was obvious Jacksonville had finally arrived when Starbuck’s moved into downtown. I could probably even move to Kenya and find a Starbucks. “I would like one grande non-fat iced vanilla latte, please,” I would say. And they would scream, possibly some clucking involved, “One latte iced non-fat vanilla grande!” Then tell me that would cost me two baby goats.

Out in Oakland, everyone drank Pete’s coffee. It was like the stronger, darker, more serious version of Starbucks. People out there hated Starbucks. They even bought billboards with inappropriate puns on them to dissuade people from going there. Apparently the people who started Starbucks originally worked for Pete’s and then broke off to start their own company, only to have Starbucks completely trample any hopes Pete’s might have had of becoming a corporate giant.

I tried, on random occasions, to get behind the Pete’s coffee. A few days after getting out to Oakland, while living with my wonderfully intellectual aunt and uncle who served Pete’s coffee at home, I had a cup in the morning with my scone. Then, a few hours later, we stopped by a Pete’s coffee shop on the way to a Wells Fargo Company Picnic. My aunt, a Pete’s aficionado, ordered a half caff.

“What the hell is a half caff?” I wondered to myself. I ordered one regular coffee, and we were on our way. Thirty minutes later, with the Bay Area’s Fog Monster sweeping through our pleasant picnic, my world started to spin around me. My skin started to feel a little different, and it seemed like everyone was moving really, really slowly. I started shaking.

“What’s happening to me?” I asked my aunt. She laughed at me and told me to drink a beer. Apparently half caff means you won’t have a near panic attack from drinking Pete’s coffee. I was experiencing a coffee overdose. I had to go home and spend the rest of the day in bed.

No, I am fine with my Starbucks. I finally found a few within walking distance of my life in Oakland, and that was the end of Pete’s for me. And, though I have always enjoyed local coffee shops, you never know where one might be. Starbucks is guaranteed to be a few blocks away, no matter where you are. Even in the woods, I’m sure those little deer make a daily Starbucks run as well. America’s life juice, it keeps us thriving. Visit starbucksunion.org to learn more.

issue 253

My best friend from basically birth is on the up and up. She lives in New York City. She’s a beautiful young fashion designer who helps head up the powerful duo Love Brigade. And their namesake is sweeping the nation, little by little.

Ever since we were very small, my friend has had what some might call a unique sense of fashion, what others might call (or have called) crazy, but everyone has always agreed that she is the only person who could pull off her look. One day in middle school I saw her walking through the hall wearing plum colored tights, a plum skirt and a plum velour turtle-neck with her hair divided into five braids of various sizes. I remember thinking how crazy she looked, how I would never be caught dead wearing an outfit like that, but she had somehow made it work. And had also somehow sidestepped the colossal humiliation that middle-school seemed to represent all because she was sure of herself.

When we were in college she would layer shirts upon shirts, wear lime green and leopard print together, and cut holes in her pants and shirts in ways I would have never imagined. She wore outfits I still wouldn’t be caught dead in, but she never cared and always looked good. Just very bold.

I’d seen her participate in a few fashion shows while we were in college, but that was the last of my involvement. Most of Love Brigade’s success began to occur while I was out in Oakland, so all I experienced of her new fashion line were the phone calls and the occasional photo, which was very occasional because she doesn’t even own a camera.

Needless to say, I was excited to attend Love Brigade’s fashion show for the Up and Cummer’s Fashion Forward event. However, no phone conversation or photograph could have prepared me for what I was going to see. What used to be a girl with a dream was suddenly a girl with a career. She was really a designer. It was dazzling, to put it simply.

As soon as we walked in for the interview (I was also covering the event) I saw her walking through the hall, a string of beautiful models following behind her.

“I’m going to show them the walk,” she said, quickly hugging me. Her outfit was still outrageous, but this time it was chic and smart and made so much sense. This time, I wanted to take the clothes right off her back and go change my outfit.

“You look so great,” I said. Her black and white striped dress hung effortlessly on her now much thinner frame. She had it pinned in the back with a few funky broaches. Her boots crumpled around her calf. It all looked so easy on her.

“Oh thanks,” she said, shrugging it off. “But this isn’t what I’m wearing tonight.” You can imagine my surprise.

Later, I went backstage to a room full of models getting sequins glued on their faces, hair was being sprayed to stick straight up into the air. There were people sorting through racks of clothing, half eaten sandwiches sitting on sad paper plates and miniature bottles of water strewn about the room. Everyone looked great. I felt what might have been imagined eyes of wonder on me as I hung out with her and the other Love Brigade crew. I was on the inside of a very elite club. How wonderful.

My friend changed into her new outfit, another Love Brigade creation. She wore an amazing pair of pants that looked straight out of a space station. Her dream was fully realized and it all worked.

Hundreds of people had shown up for the event. A few members of Red Jumpsuit Apparatus were there, looking very rock and roll. Everyone in attendance had at least made an attempt at being fashionable, which is more than can be said for a lot of events in Jacksonville. One woman even wore a dress so short that even crossed legs couldn’t hide an indecent snapshot of what was underneath. Perhaps Perez Hilton would take note.

Finally, Love Brigade’s models started walking down the runway. Their models were serious and very professional. They knew how to pose for the camera without making it seem like they were posing for the camera.

And the clothes were stunning. It was seriously more amazing than I could have imagined. I wanted to buy everything I saw, if I could actually afford to. I recognized bits of my friend’s style in every single piece, and I knew that these were clothes she had been designing for years in her head. It had just taken that long for the rest of the world to catch up, me included.

I feel proud anytime something great comes out of this city, because I think this city is great and I feel like the world should know it. I never dreamt one of those things would come out of my best friend, practically my sister, but it has. She is off showing the world how fashionable Jacksonville can be by being her same old fashionable self.