Honest Stuff I Make Up · · Tucson

Aged in Burnt Oak

At Starbucks I notice I am talking to myself. My tongue hits the back of my teeth and my jaw moves and I am practicing my excuses for being at Starbucks should I run into anyone I know there. Which is just silly because I for one love Starbucks and, of course, what are they doing there? I hope it is not for the coffee, which if it were a wine would certainly carry the words "aged in burnt oak" on the label. Perhaps it is for the creamy espresso drinks that are impressively unpleasant due to their excess sweetness. That would at least not make sense.

No, I love Starbucks because it is clean and overpriced. What more could anyone ask for?

Anyhow, my excuse is the truth, so my mumbling goes something like this: "I am here for the sale on Swing Out Sister, Matt Bianco and Basia compilations that will so pleasantly complement the mood of an upcoming To The Stormy Weather party at the Manor."

These parties are something some of the more socially conscious houses in the area host throughout the summer to raise money to buy kites for the at-risk youth often found in our balmy city's many beautiful parks. Granted, it is the smallest of gestures and I think if one is to be honest, the partygoers get more enjoyment and satisfaction out of the process in the end than the teens. For these kids I think it is, more than anything, a valuable educational experience since the kites are distributed in mid-August when this region is in the throes of monsoon season. But enough. Who am I to judge which is more enjoyable — an open bar or first hand knowledge of the often fatal dangers of lightning?

I find only one compact disc, which is mostly Enya. It costs only $7.99 though, so I figure why not? At the counter I order a capuccino and a biscotti and pay my $29.76. While I am sprinkling nutmeg on it, the counter person says, "Hey, look at me, I'm a mime." Then I watch as she points to the pale head of foam, circles a finger above the sparse sprinkling of brown spice atop the the beverage, cocks her head, opens her eyes widely behind her black plastic eyeglasses, points at me and hisses like Donald Sutherland at the end of Invasion of the Body Snatchers.

It is odd behavior. What does it mean? I know only that if she were a mime, I would not tip her. Then again, I do not ever tip her as a counter person either.

Who can understand why people do the things they do?

I find a table out on the patio and am pleasantly surprised to see that just beyond the tiny stucco wall separating the shopping plaza from Tucson's forbidden zone or "sidewalk" as most locals refer to it, is Van Dale and his paints. "Van Dale!" I shout. He gives me his trademark thumbs up and I try to admire his work. Not that it is an effort to admire his work so long as you are not paying the deductible, but it is a blustery day and the excess spray paint is blowing all over the place. Some poor schmuck's Lexus.

I look closer and in spite of the distraction of the very loud and very academic conversation nearby,  the volume of which shakes the very foundation of the franchise with what I garner are the tenets of a discipline I imagine is called Empowerment Studies, I am able to see that what Van Dale has painted is a beautiful rendition of the forty-four First Ladies of the United States of America.

Proudly realizing that this is also the nation I am enjoying my coffee and cookie in, I feel a sudden rush of clarity and giggle. Hillary and Barbara. I remember the refreshing details and laughter of the morning's pillow talk with the Puerto Rican who had never heard of Gilda Radner, much less Rosanne Rosannadanna. Nancy and Rosalynn. At last, focus! I stare even deeper into the spray of colors and nod my head to the rhythmic clack of the ball in the can of paint. The tempo practically breaks my neck! I squint a bit and suddenly I swear I am looking at a hologram of dolphins and Jesus. There you are, Betty.

Life is good. But only for a minute because reviewing my shopping list, I have no idea what "tahini bikini" could mean.

Musical selections for today's Panchesario courtesy Bertelsmann Paint & Hardware.