The Latte Manifesto

Several years ago I met and became friends with a nice young lady. Let’s call her Carrie. The friendship ran an average course; we had a few dinners, yakked on the phone, stripped down to panties and had tickle fights (that last one only in my then-boyfriend’s imagination). We didn’t have quite enough of a bond to sustain a longer-term friendship, and eventually we lost touch. But, even after our friendship had long faded, every few months I’d get a little “Carrie update”, via an e-mail sent to a large group. This didn’t bother me at all — seems reasonable to alert friends and family to certain interesting personal accomplishments, and I assumed my inclusion on Carrie’s mailing list was a harmless oversight. A few months ago, this infrequent and innocuous correspondence took what I considered to be a rather unpleasant turn. Carrie began sending mass e-mails on more frequent basis, regarding her status as a published author. The publication which had deemed her writing so worthy was in fact a website. Let’s call the site “Misty Christy”. Misty Christy was not a site I’d heard of, and further investigation led me to discover that anyone can join their “vibrant community of genuine, interesting women” with “reasons to connect.” They invite contributions that are “inspiring or silly. Around here, anything goes.” (Oh, Web 2.0 exuberance, is there any business model you can’t rationalize?) Carrie was soon bestowing upon her entire address book a stream of breathlessly excited e-mail communiqués about her Misty Christy articles, how to find them, corrections to previous instructions about how to find the articles, apologies for all the e-mails, and oh my god are you fucking kidding me with all these e-mails? WE HAVEN’T SPOKEN IN YEARS, LADY. Around the same time, my friend Mark was published in the UK edition of Conde Nast Traveler. He announced it in the following manner:

From: Mark Subject: My article about SF in UK Conde Nast Traveler April 2007 UK edition is out here, so keep an eye on your local international newsstand! xo Mark

Shortly after receiving Mark’s e-mail, I dashed off a mental note to Carrie:

Dear Carrie, My friend Mark has written an article that will be published in the April 2007 UK edition of Conde Nast. He announced this via a single, one-sentence e-mail to friends and family. It was simple and humble. Why can’t you be like that? Hugs, L.

Whatever relief I gave myself via this self-contained chuckle was short-lived. A few days later, the e-mails from Carrie turned into e-mails from lettersatmistychristy.com, big ol’ HTML e-mails with lots of images and lots of links to all sorts of Misty Christy things, each one beginning with the warm salutation: “Hi, youremailaddress, Carrie has written something for Misty Christy and wants you to know about it.” I wasn’t sure just what Carrie had signed me up for — was I now on some Misty Christy marketing mailing list? Were they going to hound me for my “inspiring or silly” stories? I imagined a stream of notices … Hi, youremailaddress, Carrie has changed the category tags on an article for Misty Christy and wants you to know about it … Carrie has done her laundry and wants you to know about it … Carrie has suppressed a fart and wants you to know about it … I went to the Misty Christy site and searched in vain for some mechanism that would allow me to unsubscribe. Being under the impression that if a website gives its members the ability to subscribe others to unsolicited marketing e-mails, they are obligated to give those others the ability to unsubscribe themselves from the unsolicited marketing e-mails. I was honestly surprised to discover Misty Christy has no opt-out. And then, I was honestly royally pissed off. Of course, I got right on the highest horse I could find and wrote a couple of extremely uppity, hotheaded e-mails to Misty Christy. Now, I should have seen this next bit coming … Misty Christy not only denied all responsibility for giving Carrie the ability to spam me, they also TOLD CARRIE THAT I WAS MAD ABOUT GETTING HER ALERTS. Well played, Misty Christy. I was properly humbled. It’s not often that an entire “community of genuine, interesting women” calls me on my misplaced anger. The next day I got a personal e-mail from Carrie (note the sig file):

From: Carrie Subject: sorry Hi L., I got the message from my editor that you wanted to be taken off my email list for Misty Christy. No problem. I thought this might be a fun way to reconnect – sorry. Hope you’re well! Carrie Carrie BoBarrie Freelance Writer for www.MistyChristy.com – “search” my name

Did she really say “fun way to reconnect”?!??! Newly inspired, I fantasized about sending the following reply:

Dear Carrie, How thickheaded of me to not realize that a series of promotional e-mails sent to dozens of people was actually a fun way for you and I, specifically, to reconnect. It’s probably an age thing — I’m still stuck on that old-fashioned custom of sending a personal message, with an inquiry as to the recipient’s well being, and inviting a response in kind. Maybe if I spend more time on the Internets, surfing the various tubes and what-not, I will better understand that “shamelessly spamming everyone I’ve ever met” is the new, fun way to reconnect. So, when you start getting daily e-mails promoting the sites on which MY musings will be published (of course, only if I can pass the stringent, almost impossibly high editorial standards set by most online publications) … well, please just know that’s my way of saying “Hey, long time no see! I hope you’re well. Let’s get some coffee and catch up!” Fondly, L. L. Arbiter Freelance Writer for lattemanifesto.casablog.com – “kiss” my ass

SO. After months of visualization I decided that today will be the day I put on something other than pajamas. I will go run an errand. Outside. Around people. I grabbed a large bulletin board and bag of books that needed to go live in Portland. I tromped off to the Mailboxes Etc. across the street. Which apparently no longer exists. But I was all excited about Being! Outside! (it’s gorgeous out again) and I gamely decided to hike me, my ass, a 2×3 foot chunk of particleboard and 25 lbs. of oversized reading material to the UPS Store. You may be wondering why I would walk all the way the UPS Store when, on the way, I passed several other suitable shipping outlets. Let me tell you. This particular UPS Store has a unusual and quite wonderful hiring procedure. The job application consists of only one question: Are you a 20-year-old male uberhottie with bedroom eyes, a certain Goth/Glam sensibility, snarky sense of humor, and insatiable desire to flirt with dorky, married female customers in their late 30′s? Answer: Yes. You’re HIRED! However, there is the trek there and back, through clouds of cig smoke and dodging trails of my god I hope it’s not human poop and Berkeley High brats and street kids dealing drugs and crazy, sad, crazy homeless people and the obligatory crappy street performers. Ugh. I also stopped at Planet Smoothie for a True Blueberry with a Mood Boost (apparently has yet to take effect). Delicious. Insanely. Leaving the house = good. But. It took two people 10 minutes to get their trip together enough to spend the 30 seconds required to actually MAKE the smoothie, because the other 9 minutes and 30 seconds were spent discussing what to do about being out of peanut butter. (Answer: Pretend that Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups are, and always have been, identical to peanut butter.) It went something like this:

Smoothie Moron #1: (takes Other Customer’s order and begins to assemble ingredients) Smoothie Moron #2: (takes my order and begins to assemble ingredients) Smoothie Morons #1 and #2: (engage in 7 minutes of barely audible conversation about ingredients for Other Customer’s smoothie.) Smoothie Moron #1: (hauls out a giant bag of Reese’s Peanut Butter cups) Smoothie Moron #2: (stands there holding blender full of my not-yet-smoothified items) Other Customer: Oh, I don’t want Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups in my smoothie. Don’t you have peanut butter? Smoothie Moron #1: These are exactly the same as peanut butter. Smoothie Moron #2: (totally incapacitated by this rapture-inducing debate) Other Customer: No, I don’t want those. If you don’t have peanut butter I’ll just order something else. It’s no problem. Smoothie Moron #1: These are what we always put in that smoothie. Smoothie Moron #2: (immobilized) Other Customer: I’ll just order something else. Smoothie Moron #1: These taste exactly the same as peanut butter. Other Customer: No, that’s OK. I’ll just order something else. Smoothie Moron #2: (slips into coma) Smoothie Moron #1: Ok, what would you like instead? Other Customer I’ll have the Chocolate Peanut Butter smoothie instead. Me: (brain melts)

OK, at this point in my trip, the leaving the house question is a wash. UPS Store = 1 point for; travel to/from the UPS Store = 1 point against. Planet Smoothie product = 1 point for; Planet Smoothie employees = 1 point against. And then. A little backstory on the tie breaking event. I am among the many fans of Overheard in New York. Over the weekend, my friend Eve and I decided that if a similar site existed for Berkeley, every overheard conversation would be about weed. “You could put your weed in that!” “Hey, where’d you get the weed?” “Where ya going? Oh, to get some weed.” We found this notion hilarious. And so, I’m now walking back toward home, sucking down the life-affirmingly good smoothie, being asked “Spare some change?” every five seconds, and I pass a group of exceptionally grimy looking white-with-dreadlocks pseudo-homeless kids slouched against the wall of a bookstore. Without missing a beat, one of the kids looks me right in the eye and says: “Spare a bowl?” I leave it to you, gentle reader, to decide which side scored the final point.

Evidenced by a mounting frustration and general lack of patience, fringing on a barely suppressed desire to poink people in the head with a fork. Not deep enough to cause excessive bleeding or permanent damage, but deep enough to stick out and be a little funny, in a slapstick kind of way, and it should also hurt a bit. Let’s just say the amount and duration of extra-skull pain generated by the fork should be directly in proportion to the intra-skull pain generated by the forkee’s personality. To wit: There is a somewhat new restaurant around the corner called Café Gratitude. Signs that this restaurant might be annoying: 1: It is in Berkeley. 2: It is vegan. 3: Seating is community style, big tables. You eat with strangers, and presumably have a conversation about how colon cleansing in India changed your life, or, chew quietly and hold your tablemates’ spirits in a loving, grateful presence. 4: Menu items are titled as affirmations. For example, if you want to order the stuffed avocado, you must say “I Am Generous”. For tea: “I Am Vibrant”. I Am Mystified. The waitress informs me that the question of the day is, “Who are you grateful for in your life?” A better question: Will I be able to hold down food in this environment? (Answer: Yes. I did it. And the food was pretty great.) I still wanted to catch the next JetBlue to Manhattan, where I am certain that anyone who even thought about opening a Cafe Gratitude would be, under pain of torture (this torture somehow involving a turkey baster and soup cooked above 118 degrees thereby destroying its nutritional, and let’s be honest, spiritual, potential), forced to stand in front of a McDonald’s and scream “Namaste, motherf*cker!” at all passerby. And now I have to talk about the Lesbians-On-E. Maybe this happens at other restaurants, but it happened to me at Cafe Gratitude, so they will be held partially accountable. A hipsterish young couple was seated next to me. They were high on something that made them giddy and spastic to an extent not normally associated merely with the rush that comes from eating live! raw! vegan! food! I wanted to knock their heads together, just hard enough so they would be dazed and stop skipping around the tables and giving me that presumptious glare that says “you’re looking at us because we’re lesbians”, when in fact I don’t give a crap about your orientation, I am looking at you because you’re freaking grownups playing hide-and-seek in the middle of a restaurant, and I just want to eat my goddamn stuffed avocado. I mean, I AM GENEROUS. You see, it’s these kinds of slightly violent thoughts that lead me to believe that a vacation might be in order.