The LA Plane People and the Pods

Air travel has become so expensive, constricting, conflicting, rule ridden, paranoid, orthopedically torturous, fraught with pre- TSA Line Anxiety (will my bags be thrown around again, bunged casually out of sight , as they wand me, scan me, pan me, raise my taxes, reduce my benefits, repress my free speech, try to rob or ban me?). It’s like life. One definitely needs distractions. And flying is not nearly as daunting as watching the news these days. I very much needed to get away from all the election craziness.

So what better distraction while waiting to be squeezed into a seat for half a dozen hours than zooming in on your fellow passengers who are lolling around the seating area waiting to board? This activity also distracts somewhat from the ubiquitous, giant cadre of inescapable screens now menacing everywhere in the airport and blasting the entire space with the latest election happenings and “results” in those chirpy, slightly hysterical media voices.  I was not counting on this noise when I bought my ticket to the west coast and planned to leave it all behind, already having endured acute attacks of news nausea. I needed to clear my head and not think about politics.

Which brings me to the LA Plane People; any resemblance to the Pod People of the classic sci-fi thriller is purely intentional.

The LA Plane People for the most part are amazingly fit, and to put it quite simply, ready! They are not just waiting to take a plane, they are going places! They are a cross section of absolutely nowhere in the population and not your average voting shlameel - meticulously turned out, there’s not a boxy Hillary pants suit among them! Not a one was even slightly overweight, talked with a Brooklyn accent nor was there a Kasich cowlick, a skewed tie or an ill fitting jacket to be seen.

At 7:00 a.m before daylight savings it’s only minutes after sunrise. This means anyone already in that chilly, lonely, vast American Airlines lounge somehow has managed to slip out of bed in the darkness possibly 3 or 4 hours earlier, haul themselves to the airport, get wanded, patted, swatted, blotted and stay awake through it all. Yet the LA Plane People did not look unhappy; nor did they seem annoyed or disheveled. Not a one was sweating like Rubio or cursing like Christie. I on the other hand, despite having managed to wash my hair before dawn, already was feeling ticked off, dazed, hopelessly frumpy. I felt the election and the country would not go well and could not dispel these horrible thoughts. Some neighbors and friends already had lost their minds, were heaping strange praise and had succumbed to the body snatchers. And so I continued to try and clear my mind of anything political and simply observe those around me.

The LA Plane People are a hardy and merciless bunch, with a rather vague, distant air almost reminiscent of well dressed aliens from a fifties sci fi movie, yet they have no wish to inhabit your mind, and certainly not your body, unless, that is, your body happens to be even more perfectly constructed, sculpted and renovated than theirs- very unlikely, and something more along the lines of our possible new First Lady if the shifty real estate developer with political ambitions gets his way (no, I say to myself, this will not happen! The Pods will not rule!!!). I’ve seen chins, noses, eyes, calves, tummy & tushy tucks while waiting to fly to LAX that no one ever was meant to be born with. Some are like museum statuary that arose from a half shell at the gym.

All in all, not a terribly cuddly bunch, but in a strange and admirable way evocative of regular humans, though not quite. The LA Plane People are not like New Yorkers or mid-westerners, or even their neighbors up north, those laid back San Francisco dreamers- ebullient, young, mainly under thirty (the required age for self deportation from that city on the bay)- but more hard edged and somewhat older yet striving to appear forever young. The energy is boundless, scary. If I didn’t know better or read the LA Times I would swear they were all voting for You-Know-Who as they do not appear to take prisoners. Two hours into the miserable flight while I waited desperately for someone to offer a drop of water or maybe some seltzer to soothe the parched throat and dehydrated body systems, they were still tapping intently away on their laptops, possibly reading scripts or contracts, maybe just shopping happily online.

The LA Plane People have either made it big, often think about making it big, will never make it big or once knew someone who knew someone who made it big, but there is nothing small about them. Hair is big too, not literally, but you know, big. The leading GOP candidate has nothing on them. If I didn’t know better from the media, I would swear they are all republicans at heart, and maybe in reality. Even the LA based flight attendants have been touched by the stardust. Ours wears her own tresses in a style recently favored at the Oscars that must have taken her considerable care and time to effect, even though she is grossly underpaid- a severe center part augmented by a kind of weird flatness on the top of her head with a long pony tail at the back- an interesting combo of Jane Austen and prison matron with a smattering of Star Wars. The plane was aglitter with starlight!

The real high point came right before Boarding when I saw a passenger at the gate whose expensively cut bob was black on one side, platinum on the other, like one of Captain Kirk's alien "Lokai" people, or perhaps just a fantastical representation of a two faced politician. She steadily sipped her caf- through the lid- but in tiny, compulsive, staccato and focused little gulps in preparation for whatever event it was that she had to be ready. Maybe she just couldn’t decide who to vote for. Apparently anything is possible these days, even in a blue state.

And context is truly amazing. I now understand how people’s minds can be completely taken over. The intense LA aura created a tacit understanding between a gum cracking, street smart, slightly disheveled, out-of-shape and perennially weary reluctant flier from the east coast, and the tightly netted and fitted, caffeine-infused lady in perfect jeans and a crazy, two toned skull straight from a battle with the Starship Enterprise (who curiously gave the impression of being no nonsense rather than extremely silly). It was like getting caught up at a Trump rally, or “feeling the Bern” in a slightly drugged state. I was starting to see her hair style as normal. Does the setting influence point of view? Was there no escape from the bad political dreams that nightly haunted my sleep. . . .

For one mad moment I saw nothing culturally bizarre or weird about the general tenor or style of the black and white coiffure and began to accept it, to think it actually might catch on. Really. I admit, it was kind of early in the morning and I was fighting to stay awake, but the LA vibe was so convincing that this absurd hairdo seemed comfortable, even attractive. Given this way of thinking, what could be the effect of too much screen time on your ability to see the issues? Are viewpoints influenced by when, with whom, and where we are at any moment? Is a brightly colored orange comb-over embellished with a stream of adolescent taunts and threats of rioting really not that strange when associated with a president, and are we that malleable? Is everything theater, not just Hollywood? I comforted myself with the thought that while concentrating on the LA Plane People at least I had gained a brief reprieve from cable news. This surely means that I had not been entirely taken over and all I had to do was try to stay awake.  But what about the others. . . .

No metaphor here. Really. Just close your eyes and tap your heels. . . . There is nothing strange about our country these days. Really. The election soon will be over. Wait. . . did I really just say that??? I take it back! It must be jet lag. Whatever happens, do not close your eyes and please try your darmdest to stay awake.

Starbucks Series Part Two: The Outer Boroughs

Outerborough Starbucks

This Bronx Starbucks is a neighborhood joint, no other way to describe it. There are walk-able shops in the vicinity, a supermarket, shoe repair, hardware store, tax preparer, optometrists, pharmacists, lawyers, dentists and other real services. If need be, you could survive in the area without a car by just doing everything on foot. But it might also mean using iceberg lettuce in your salad on occasion.

Cooking at home however is not the only option. The neighborhood has a slew of restaurants, none of them great, but often this is just how it goes. At least four varieties of Asian in addition to Mexican, Spanish, Greek, Italian, Irish, real pizza, a couple of kosher eateries, diners, two soft serve yogurts, and a Jewish delicatessen- one of the last in the city. The pizza is pretty good.

And except for the Starbucks, they all deliver.

Minutes from the glamour and lure of “downtown”, which is how we refer to Manhattan from the Bronx, this outer borough Starbucks is having none of that. To begin with, although it sits on a sunny corner, the windows are always noticeably dirty, which doesn’t make the afternoon pick-me-up of a double shot of whipped grande mocha seem so very appealing. It is not trendy. And yet people go in.

Once inside, the smell of the signature, acrid brew tells you that the familiar, bitter caffeine of the brand lives here and decaf too. This is not the Upper West Side. The demographic is relaxed, no Manhattan Masters & Mistresses of the Universe. You don't feel like you're interviewing for a job when you order your coffee. Exceptionally weird characters are at a minimum. There usually is at least a little bit of a line and a bunch of students, retirees, a few baby carriages and one or two roaming toddlers doing their cute toddling thing and telling their mommies what they want to order, but clearly this is neighborhood all the way. After three the teachers come in.

Not a destination Starbucks, many of the customers are scruffy and shlump around in sneakers and old sweat pants. The barristas are just kids working after school. There is not a whole lot of cache or élan. It is not always sunny. Outside  a couple of benches might be taken up at a certain time of day by health aides and their charges, the aides screaming into their phones as seen through the large windows. Occasionally, like very rarely and usually in the summer, a couple of tourists will have made their way uptown to this most northern reach of the boroughs and are huddling close together at the window, intently poking at their GPS and wondering how they got there.

This is dangerously starting to sound like a somewhat suspect riff on “Our Town,” Bronx style, but please rest assured the neighborhood is really quite urban, very real and gritty, people tend to look gritty, urban and real, it's exceptionally diverse in population yet like Grovers Corners, friendly for the most part. There are smart phones and laptops everywhere, not enough free time, no one marries the boy next door, and subways, buses,highways and large public schools nearby. 

To the best of my knowledge I have never seen anyone produce a little gold rimmed compact to powder their nose then smooth their perfectly ironed blond hair in this particular Starbucks, though I am not saying this couldn’t happen- I’ve lived long enough to know anything is possible. Surprisingly though, dirty windows and smudged counters and all, the coffee is damned good! Once in a while there can be an aberration of course and you could wind up with some truly sad, tepid, watery swill, because as we all know, stuff happens.

So please keep this information to yourself- the place does not wish to be discovered. Then again, would anyone really want to venture up to this northern tip of the city to chance a lukewarm, thin cappuccino? Go Tell whomever you want. No problem.  It’s the Bronx. 

Starbucks Series: Southern California

Starbucks I’ve Known: Orange County

The Starbucks in parts of southern California are in a completely differently galaxy from those on the east coast. In truth, the whole area near the southern border seems to comprise an alternate, somewhat distant corner of the Milky Way.

There is a strangeness to the southern California landscape, and by extension, to its everyday living. Most businesses are located in one of a zillion malls that dot the desert- some of which are themed like tacky Disney parks. But once in a while you may happen upon the remnants of a faux western town, a place that actually served as a sort of outpost for the no-there-there crowd, but has long since been converted into a strip of souvenir shops. The shops feature random “antiques” sitting in the windows, like an old Schwinn bike, or a typewriter, perhaps a jar of Ovaltine, all intended to lure you into buying some jelly beans, a funny greeting card, who knows what.

In such a town you cannot purchase groceries but there are a couple of sidewalks, a few restaurants, and also several pizza places- usually part of a chain- that specialize in tasteless, cardboard crust and a variety of unlikely toppings that really do not go with pizza, even fake pizza; and yet these places always seem insanely busy and crowded. In addition, there will be a simulacrum of an “old fashioned ice cream parlor” with cracked, red vinyl booths, possibly a juke box and/or a gum ball machine. There could very well be a college nearby and of course a Starbucks; sometimes you will find even two within the few blocks that comprise “the town.”

The plastic, shrink wrapped Starbucks brownies turn out to be ambrosia of the gods next to the stale little hunks of concrete in the old fashioned ice cream parlor. The Starbucks is not the only place to get coffee. The other lone option is an egregiously pretentiousoverly overpriced, teeny-tiny, hole in the wall of a trendy, gourmet coffee shop, with hand polished beans that promise brewed nirvana straight from the jungles of Coffee Exotica Heaven and can deliver this.  But there is no place for you to sit and quietly drink your mocha latte Americano- only a couple of uncomfortable, rock hard bench-like things, though I did have an unbelievable thing called "flat brown." So the Starbucks is where many people go.

And it is there, in one of those two somewhat disparate representatives of the chain- though each with the comforting familiarity and aroma of hot, bitter coffee wafting through the place- that you just may find yourself rubbing elbows with tourists, retired locals and the occasional homeless person, or, depending on which place you choose, Young Republicans.

You know they exist, sometimes In profusion out there, although many of them, being young,  are not yet completely cognizant of their assigned place in the universe of realpolitik; they would prefer to perceive themselves as cool millennials. They also tend to lean toward the candy store Starbucks.

So having tried the more “traditional” Starbucks in town, the one so cleverly embedded in the lobby of the old bank building and peopled mainly by local semi-retirees and tourists, I finally opted for the smaller, more kitschy café, the one that is brighter and feels like a candy store. Actually, it is quite near to the more serious bank Starbucks, but I did not feel like crossing the street as I had finally succumbed to the lethargy of way too much happy ultra violet and was in dire need of a cappuccino with a double shot of espresso. And maybe some irony too. 

It’s usually quite warm or incredibly hot in southern California, so it was no surprise to find the only other customer a student from the nearby college who seemed to be channeling mid-century modern in some way. She was wearing pink California-colored shorts and a school t-shirt. From the little, rather tres chic bag on her shoulder, a beaded accessory in a style a tad formal and incongruous to the casual beach attire- as if she couldn’t decide whether she was a student or a debutante- she proceeded to extract a small, gold rimmed compact- yes, a compact with a powder puff, a la the 1940’s.   She then did what one would expect with a little gold compact (even if you have only seen this in the movies)-  she dabbed her face in the little mirror, checked her lipstick and fluffed out her blond hair. 

This happened in a Starbucks in southern California. She snapped the compact shut and neatly replaced it in the little bag before digging into the grande-mocha-double-frappucino-lattecino with a sprinkle of M&Ms, lots of froth and a few generous dollops of mindless optimism.

(Next week, The Outer Borough Starbucks. . . .)