Just When You Thought Starbucks WASN'T the Devil...

When we're not stumping for the indie cofffee shops in town, Ann and I occcasionally frequent the Starbucks in Squirrel Hill (Forbes & Shady). She likes the drinks, I like the atmosphere. One thing Starbucks tends to do well is create an inviting atmosphere that encourages a wandering mind, and the related inspirations that come with dark wood, cushy chairs and smooth jazz.

After today, I believe I'll be choosing a new Starbucks outpost.

Why? One word: baristas.

There were two girls working at this location (actually three, but one seemed to be out of the loop most of the time), and they had nary a positive word to say about anything. Normally I can handle a healthy dose of cynicism -- hello, mirror -- but only when it's directed at people's own woebegone lives, or politics, or theology, or anything else worth bitching about.

Not at the customers.

Ladies, here's an open letter: I know your job sucks. You know your job sucks. It's a job; by definition, it almost always sucks.

What I, one of many customers, does not need to hear while sitting in your establishment is what you snidely have to say about nearly every other customer who walks out the door. I'm well aware that people can be ignorant; I worked in retail for too many years myself. But insulting people based upon mental illness, race, nationality, speech impediments, or forgetting to turn your goddamn chairs around when they leave does nothing to endear you to me as benevolent arbiters of multicultural celebration.

It makes you look small-minded and ignorant, and reminds me that I can probably find more tolerance, better conversation and a mocha that doesn't taste like chalk at the independent cafe down the street.

Dark wood and smooth jazz be damned.