These are freaking candy apples.
Sunday December 7, 2008
10am I was out the hotel door ready for a day of Vancouver-walking. Ipod and camera charged, coffee in hand, map in pocket and destination in mind (farmer's market across the bridge a few blocks away from my hotel.
It rained on my head 10 minutes later.
I saw a guy hail a cab, which reminded me of the existence of cabs, and got my own. Five bucks, two blocks and, I kid you not, a high school marching band later, I was let off under the front awning of my hotel and sulking back up to my room to bang on my computer and wait for the rain to die.
The high school marching band was staying at my hotel and was, in full red-coat band costume regalia, boarding buses in costume to perform in a 1pm parade that day as my cab tried to let me out. This was the last time I had a run-in with them. The first time was the prior night...
The night prior:
The show was over, we'd returned to the hotel, and as we walked in, 20 of these band students ran past me up the main flight of stairs all a-giggle. Knowing there were adults somewhere not watching after these kids and probably drinking got my fritters in a stew. At the last hotel, I was sitting at a table in the lobby at 1am that got reprimanded for being too loud when it was actually the table next to us of four drunk parents of 8 year old hockey kids.
As the band children scampered past me as if in some Goonies adventure, I turned into that retard-monster with the deformed head and crap-eye who was friends with "Chunk" and who got dropped by the "Throw Mamma From the Chain" hag (she was so hideous), and asked them to stop running. They ignored me. I knew what the situation called for.
I repeated my complain-tainment in my most popular character voices, changing the message to consecutively more annoying spiels. One girl acknowledged my plea for attention (which is what it was because the entire cast was downstairs and could hear the Baratelli floor show from above) with a sarcastic "Ha" in my direction. I felt old.
Hideous poster for regional production of "The Drowsy Chaperone"
Starbucks, fire him.
I have dealt with New York Starbucks employees, who you'd expect to be complete assholes, but nothing prepared me for this guy behind the counter yesterday morning at the Starbucks across the street from my hotel. He hated me before I came in and no amount obnoxious indifference, misplaced comedy performance or indignant pretend-I'm-a-rich-guy retort would shake his hatred of me or my discomfort caused by him.
He stared at me with not even a corporate-scripted greeting. Then the barista came up. They both stared at me. Neither offered a single word. Just eyeballs and judgment. You ever see those monkeys in science experiments raised by mommy dolls who are easily confused when two mommy dolls are placed in their cage? That was me. I didn't know who to order from.
My eyes moved back and forth to each of them, hoping one of them would offer a sign that they understood my monkey confusion. No deal. The barista went to the person behind me, so I spoke up and gave him my order, which confused him, the person behind me and me. He left to make my order. The dick behind the register made me repeat my order to him, then shouted the order to the barista.
I knew how I'd get my revenge on this beacon of evil. When he handed me my receipt, I didn't gingerly take it and offer a sincere thanks.
I yanked that bitch so hard he looked at me for an explanation.
I turned and marched to the waiting area like a proud plumed horse pulling the calliope in that sad Orlando Gay Pride parade.
Woo! Yes! High-yo Marko! Take that, coffee bitch! Take that, band children! Take that, drunk hockey and band parents! Take that, rain!
I popped a sleeping pill, drank my Americano and walked off dizzily into the Vancouver afternoon.
This is magic.