I'm here in San Diego, where we are temporarily staying at the Hard Rock Hotel. I love the whole concept of the Hard Rock: the art is great, the decor is wonderful. It has that mini-suite feature that I admire for business digs, wherein there is a physical separation between the bedroom and the front room, so if you do run across a long-lost half brother from near Baljennie, or if your convention is maxed out, it is still vaguely possible for 2-3 pepole to share a room. Very efficient.

The Hard Rock does not have what I consider the minimum requirements for a place to sleep: it doe not sport free wi-fi, so I don't know if I'd come here if I were on my own dime. It is obnoxious enough when they charge a girl for water. But when they charge me for an internet connection, I start to feel that civilization is crumbling around me, and I ought to watch Escape from New York for tips on how to handle the coming catastrophe.

Here is my other issue with the Hard Rock Hotel, and you are going to laugh: it's noisy. I mean, one can turn off the music in the rooms and so forth, but in the lobby, and in the restaurants and bars, there is all kinds of . . . well, . . . music playing.

Terrific photos from the rock 'n' roll greats. But, in the background, while one is tying to talk . . . all kinds of noise.

Which leads me to the conclusion that when I argue with my nieces and nephews about the music versus noise issue, and maintain that the stuff they listen to is noise, whereas my favorites constitute music, I'm skating on paper-thin ice, logically speaking.

Of course, most of what I'm worried about right now has to do with the fact that we don't have anything appropriate to wear here: I do not possess Vulcan ears, or a Klingon costume. I will be running around San Diego in shorts and a T-Shirt. This gives me pause, under the circumstances.

But, here I am. tomorrow will be consumed with an attempt to figure out and document what the worker bees are up to; over the weekend, we shall probably party a bit.

And, if we're smart, figure out how to make a bit of money.

After all, next time I stay in the Gas Lamp District of San Diego, I'd like it to be on my own dime. Just to say I did it once.

The murder mystery-graphic novel/cartoon contest continues in my household. If I'm the next person around my condo to get a film option, that's really good: after all, it means I won. Winning is excellent, because it can be exchanged for dinner out and sexual favors from my husband. This leads to happiness and shit like that.

Posted by: Attila Girl at 01:15 AM | Comments (3) | Add Comment
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Are you kidding me? Does no one remember what life was like before Starbucks popularized the idea of an American Coffee House (which, until then, had been a contradiction in terms?)

The problem went far beyond the crappiness of American coffee, though that wasn't insignificant. What changed was the idea that it was okay to hang out in an establishment for a little while. One could talk, read, study, write, without having the coffee-shop waitresses giving one dirty looks and rapidly calculating how much money one was losing them because they weren't "turning their tables over" quickly enough.

When I was a young teen I got 86'd from the Tiny Naylor's on Wilshire and Westwood for hanging out with a crowd of people who just went there too much, and stayed too long. That was in Westwood Village. We staggered it out after that, hanging out alternately at The Criterion Cafe (no longer there, and long-since replaced by a shopping center); Ship's (same); and Lum's restaurant, both in Westwood and Santa Monica (same; same). Sometimes we went to the Taco Bell in Westwood Village, because it was okay for us to stay there for a while.

Point is, before Starbucks brought that cool aspect of Euro-culture to the U.S., it just wasn't okay to hang out in restaurants, and therefore if you weren't old enough to go to bars (or not rich enough, or didn't care for the idea of being around drunks) there was noplace to go.

I mean, I survived by completely changing social crowds, and starting to socialize with teenagers whose family dysfunctionalities were further beneath the surface, so we could actually exist in their homes for long periods of time without being hassled by whatever parents lurked on the premises.

But not everyone's that lucky, and Starbuck wins big points in some quarters just for de-crapifying the coffee-drinking experience, which is achievement enough.

A common meme is this idea that Starbucks is a hotbed of elitism in the bosom of no-nonsense, egalitarian America, as opposed to good ol' Dunkin Donuts. This is a lie. Maybe people who live in La Jolla or Coral Gables get sick of elitism, but for the vast majority of us who live out in the great long tail of American mediocrity, a place that has pretensions to upper-middle-class culture, however transparently self-serving and delusional, is more than welcome.

The Starbucks I go to is next to a Burger King, a muffler shop, a Chaldean hooka joint, a dirt-cheap barber shop you could clear out instantly by shouting "La Migra!" and some sort of store front holy-rolling student ministry. On a typical 102-in-the-shade summer day, with the 18-wheelers rolling by on their way to El Cajon, I can do with the AC blasting and some gal crooning about whatever is troubling her sensitive soul at that moment.

It may not be America. I live in America and I want a place I can get away from it for 45 minutes and pretend I'm in Portland or wherever. Dunkin' Donuts is just more of the same. You go into Starbucks, buy The New York Times, listen to jazz, drink your latte, and for a little while, you experience a kind of relief. If you are worried that it's not authentic, then you really do have a problem.

So lay off Starbucks. America needs a big phony retreat from reality into a smug liberal fantasyland, where everything is hip and cool and the coffee is not OMG can-you-taste-the nuttiness-in-the-finish, but not half-bad, which is a lot better than most places can manage. A place where nobody knows your name.

A least, a "third place" wherein one isn't getting molested up in the bushes near UCLA by a 17-year-old of negligible intelligence.

Save Our Starbucks, indeed—though I think I might see a market opportunity for Seattle's Best, here.

Via Insty.

Posted by: Attila Girl at 10:13 PM | Comments (3) | Add Comment
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