sendai77 - blog

I’m a quirky consumer.

If I didn’t have to be a consumer, I’d be quirky, period. If I wasn’t quirky, I’d be a plain old consumer.

I know. Self-fulfilling truisms. But they’ve been banging around in my head for a few weeks, and it all came tumbling out for me when I read an article in the Metro about Starbucks. Actually, it was a transcript of what Jim Cramer had to say about SBUX, or so I glean after attempting to summit the highly-unreadable www.thestreet.com. (Note to theStreet: just because you cover finance doesn’t mean you can’t use plain English - and don’t get me started on the evils of linkfarming…)

I digress. The gist of the article is that SBUX is in the middle of a hard business turn-around, similar to what McDonalds has just gone through. Starbucky’s suffered from too rapid expansion, too many outlets in the wrong places, filthy stores, stale menus, disgruntled staff, the whole shebang. Enter Howard Schultz, who is going to turn the ship around and right the course.

Back to me, the quirky consumer. I’ve noticed the changes down here at street level. After all, by my reckoning, SBUX gets between $15 to $20 out of me per week. Maybe that’s about average - I’m guessing it’s a little low for the typical weekly SBUX addict. I usually just get coffee and a reduced fat coffee cake in the morning. I don’t often go for the 3:30 latte or whatever. The quirky bit: I just ask for a simple, dark roast coffee. I’m generally not interested in espresso drinks, unless I’m craving a straight-up shot. But I am interested in their brand, and I study it while listening to smooth jazz-folk and watching privileged people ordering complex beverages. There’s not much else to do.

OK, blindfold test: When I say “Starbucks”, you think of….

Coffee, right?

Right. Because they’ve gone to much trouble to build their brand on “Starbucks Coffee”. It’s on their sign. It’s on their cups. The lattes and cappucinos (and all their variations and descendants) are variations of the key word “coffee”. They are made of coffee. The brand isn’t “Starbucks Cappucino”. It’s “Starbucks Coffee”.

Which brings me to change number one. They’ve decided to standardize on one flavor of urn roast called “Pike’s Place”, which they go to great pains to tell you is roasted monthly in some place like Latrobe, PA. It took a few moments of brand education, but I (who have never been to Seattle) came to discover that there’s a Place in Seattle called Pike. Oh. I get it.

Of course, my poor old eyes deceived me one day early in this new change, and it looked as if the staff had written “Puke Decaf” on the board. Astigmatism is hell.

Let me tell you, to an urn coffee connoisseur like myself, Pike Place is awful. So, I continue to order the “dark roast”, whatever it happens to be that day. I do so at the peril of getting really tired, burnt, grounds-filled coffee, but hey, I’m quirky that way. I want my dark roast coffee.

Which brings me to change number two: Vivanno.

OK, blindfold test number two: when I say, “Vivanno”, you think of….

Nothing?

Right you are, unless you’ve had one, or at least paid attention in your local SBUX store. Vivanno is their new line of Left Coast smoothie-style drinks.

Is that a good reaction? Nothing? Obviously not, from a brand positioning point of view.

Well, what do you expect? Nobody knows what a Vivanno is yet. It’s not a household word. (One will get you ten it never will be.)

Let’s look at this new brand for a sec.

Viv - anno. Year of life, or something like that, in some sort of Latinate kind of way. Or so I would guess. Seems to me that the marketing types sat around the table and threw a bunch of important and European-sounding syllables around until they came up with the right word that satisfied their particular criteria for creating this new product. Viv, as in “filled with life”. Anno, as in “it was invented in Rome!” Cue the orchestra: Viiiii-vanno! Oh-oh-oh-oh!

But this is a “Kleenex-before-it-was-Kleenex” situation here, folks. It’s a smoothie by a smooth name, is all. And there’s nothing inherently “smoothie” about the word “Vivanno”. You’re right though - there’s nothing inherently “tissue” about “Kleenex”, except the phoneme “Kleen” as its root word. You could even argue that “nex” is descended from “nez”, which is “nose” in French, so you’ve got… Clean Nose…

Remember the Nova? No va. “Doesn’t go.”

Vivan no. It won’t live.

My message to Howard Schultz: if you really want to get back to basics and turn your stores around, it’s the coffee, stupid. It’s really awful to stand in line for fifteen minutes at a cramped and understaffed store, watching the bored and overworked baristas go through acrobatics filling complicated menu orders for picky clients, just to get sub par dark roast coffee. Make good coffee, and do something to cheer up the future actors and rock stars that are pouring for you. You’ll go farther and get better results. Just a thought.

Especially since it was that yummy, aromatic dark roast coffee that got me to walk in to the store for the first time, oh those many years ago…

Usually, NPR stimulates my ears in the morning in order to get me up and out the door for work. Often, it also stimulates my brain and I dash out thinking, “I should write about that”. No time, gotta catch that train.

The case today is one such moment. I heard the NPR film critic review today’s release of “The Chronicles Of Narnia: Prince Caspian”. The sound bites were filled with the predictable, horn-heavy sword battle type of film score and clashes of metal on metal. Ever notice the choir of women singing indistinct syllables in the background of these scores? They must be the heavenly host, bearing the fallen warriors off to Valhalla or Burbank or someplace.

The reviewer then mentioned that this is all PG fun, and that not a drop of blood was shed.

Excuse me?

I guess that when you’re run through with a sword and die but you don’t bleed, that’s PG fun. But if you’re run through with a sword and blood spatters all over the screen, that’s another story.

Take for example another film I haven’t seen, “The 300″. I’m pretty sure that’s not “PG fun”, and I’m pretty sure my man Mr. Rodriguez didn’t spare the buckets of gore. I’ve seen “Sin City” and “Planet Terror”, so I know what to expect when I’m going to sit down in front of one of Bobby’s films.

But I did see all three “Pirates of the Caribbean” films, and there are hangings, shootings, swordings (?), broken-bottles-over-the-head, cannibals, and a gargantuan, hungry squid. And a frightening monkey. We laugh and squirm as Ragetti can’t keep his eyeball in his head, a schtick that got tired in the first one. Okay, so it’s PG-13, but still, the idea is fun. Death is a fun loving guy.

Disney has built its empire on scenes of violence without consequence. In every animated feature the Magic Kingdom has ever produced, there’s always been scenes of gratuitous, Punch-and-Judy slapstick between two supporting characters, usually one tall and skinny, the other shorter and plumper, both without the wits to extinguish a candle. The formula extends to the live-action films. It’s a staple, like Cheerios in the kitchen.

We’ve been brought up with this stereotype branded into our thought, the idea of violence without blood or consequence. At least Indiana Jones gets all sweaty, bloody and painful when he gets in a brawl. So, as with the last one, I’ll give this trip to Narnia a skip this time. Kill a few bad guys for me, Peter. In the name of Aslan.

Here’s what my day was like yesterday:

Viv and I hop out of bed around 5:45 am-ish. Viv hops in her car and heads west to get her boys and bring them home, ahead of the massive snowstorm bearing down on New England.

I prepare my things carefully, grab my laptop and bass guitar, and head on down to South Station, where I grab some brekkie and jump on the 8:20 Amtrak regional to NYC.

On the train, I get a port side window and an outlet. I con call in to work for an hour, and spend the rest of the ride writing and testing little code widgets that’ll come in useful real soon. I’ve been building these little ditties for weeks now, and the rubber’s hitting the road right about yesterday, at this rate. The blizzard is breathtaking as we whiz through it, each time I look out the window.

I haul in to Penn Station, grab a number 2 to Times Square, change to the N-R-W heading downtown, and find my way to 23 and Broadway. Sleety rain. Gigundo puddles. After a salad and a coffee, I head up to the 18th floor of 11 Madison Ave. and dig in and work some more. Look Dad, I made it to Madison Avenue. Hum. He sneers from beyond this world.

5:15 I hit the street and grab a number 6 to Bleeker Street, change to the F train, which takes me to the Lower East Side. It’s a little warmer for some reason, and New York is coated with slush. The older subway stations are dipping and dank. I’m still carting the laptop and the bass, my shoulders are hurting.

I find the club and join Chris W. at the bar. 5:50 - I’m 10 minutes early for sound check. No sign of Tom.

The club is not bad, in a post-surf-decor kind of way. Young trendy kids are drinking it up at happy hour, which I guess is still allowed in NY, happy hour being banned in Boston. Come on, none of these kids have cars in the city anyway. The room we’re playing in is actually kind of sonically sealed off from the front room, and it’s got a stage with good monitors and a kickass sound system. Our sound guy is named Ofer (hope I’m spelling it right) and he know his shit (as we say in the biz).

The band before us is finishing up their check, and as they’re leaving the stage the drummer tells me they’ve flown in from California just to do this show. He makes a point of introducing himself to us as “Country Bumpkin”. We immediately call him “C.B.” to his face, and he nicely asks us to stick around and hear their set, it’s unique and kind of unusual. They’re from “the high desert town of Joshua Tree”. OK. They all head back to their hotel to prepare for their hour of NYC stage time.

Our check goes well. The bass sounds good. I’m thinking of Tony Maimone and my pal Tom Sheehan who left us two years ago, making NYC that much emptier for me. I’m sure he would have made it down to see me, and maybe even heckle me for trying to play bass. I know that in his last few years in the city, he told me he was starting to play again in clubs, but then he got real sick, and I’m pretty sure he checked out without getting to play out much more.

We go hang out front while the opening act (Wounded Buffalo Theory) sets up to check and be ready to open. We’re number 2 in line, wheels up at 9 pm. The Buffalos’ lead player introduces himself to me as Lucas and we chat about guitarists, saxophone giants, and academia.

8 pm sharp, the Theory goes live, and man they are loud. I watch them for about half an hour, then my medulla needs a break, and I want to psych up for Rotary, so I bail to the front. The Buffaloes conclude, pack up and leave, and take their crowd with them. We’re now playing for maybe 12 people. But hey, Limey G and The Boy are in town, and they made it out to hear us. I’m thrilled! I brought some peeps!

Well, I manage to have my grisly moment pretty early on, playing a very convincing C# where a B was clearly required at the beginning of a new phrase. Tom just shook his head and gave me That Look. But hey, better get my clam out of the way up front, then relax and play the rest of the show. It went really well, but I would argue that Tom made a few ducks and turns that weren’t on the rehearsal mp3s.

Next up: Gram Rabbit, our pals from the high desert town of Joshua Tree. They’re all dressed up in outrageous costumes, kind of like the Village People performing a magic act in the High Chaparral quarter of Outer Space. Jess, their lead singer is wearing a very cute little white top hat ribboned on to her noggin at a cocky angle. They had a number of technical difficulties. Between the Korg Triton sending out digital barfing sounds at an SPL of 120 dB and their laptops firing off the wrong songs, they were fighting electronic chimera all night. But they didn’t let it rattle their studied cool. Except when the drummer jumped out of his seat and lunged at the bass player. We thought there would be blows. No such luck.

If you can imagine my pals Count Zero fronted by a Deadpan Cowgirl From Venus, that’s sort of what it was like. They had a song about being ready to die in the desert that made me really sad. I can’t find it online, but here’s one in the big old key of E. They were really loud too, but to Ofer’s credit, I could hear everything and understand the words and everything. The Rabbits had a VJ that sprayed them with ponderous images that coordinated with the songs. Quite an operation. They played - of course - White Rabbit for an encore. Jess, here’s my suggestion, should you ever see it: ditch the keyboard. The lines you’re playing don’t contribute that much. You’re trapped behind it. Get out there and front this band, dammit, and hire an old sod (like me) to play key lines in the back, if you really miss them. You’re trapped behind that keyboard. Free yourself.

Well, the Rotary posse split after the Rabbits, and we all went to a really trendy pizza place on Allen Street, where we dissected the show, the Rabbits, New York real estate, and about six pizzas. After that, Chris, Shannan and I chilled at Wee Molly’s over on Eighth Ave for an hour, watching rugby.

I made my way to Penn Station and caught the 3:15 (yes, AM) train to Boston. It was packed. I found a seat and fell asleep before I could give my ticket to the conductor. I managed to snooze all the way to Kingston RI.

I got home - laptop, bass and all - at 8:15, exactly 25 hours and fifteen minutes after I had left. That was my day yesterday. Today I have rock-lag. My meal schedule is off, the room feels kind of floaty to me, and my eyes hurt. I have wounded feelings about growing old in this young rock culture, but the feelings pass and are replaced with optimism.

Rock until you die.

Last night, New England watched in horror as Eli Manning executed a once-in-a-lifetime, win-one-for-the-Gipper comeback touchdown series to beat the invincible New England Patriots 17-14. For those watching, it was truly football history in the making.

Mind you, I was sitting on the Patriots side of the ball, eating my guts out, along with all of my friends and neighbors. The last series before The Downfall, Tom “Achilles” Brady finally began to look like his old self. He figured out the right rhythm: go for short yardage, unload the ball fast, and don’t even think of the run. It’s a pity it took him three quarters of the game to finally get his sea legs, but that last full-on possession, the Pats started behaving like the Pats once again.

Two problems though: despite cramming the Giants deep in to their own territory on the last Patriot kickoff of the night, there was an eternity left on the clock. And second: in one of the most amazing feats of skill and daring, Eli managed to avoid getting sacked in a blur of tug-on-the-jersey evasion and fancy footwork. You could hear all Massachusetts (and Rhode Island and New Hampshire, for that matter) screaming “SIT ON THAT GUY! DO HIM LIKE WAS DONE TO BRADY!” But no. Manning managed to fire off a completion to the 13 yard line that spelled doom for the Bluecoats.

All the palaver on the radio this morning restated the obvious: the Giants knew that the key to winning was to go after Tom Brady, and to go after Tom Brady, and when that was done, to still go after Tom Brady. Mr. Brady was looking haunted and desperate by the third quarter, and only after the Giants went ahead 10-7 he finally managed to settle in to his zone and marched the Pats upfield and down like the scoring machine they had been all year. If only he had shaved another minute off the clock…

If. If. Well, he didn’t and the two minutes and thirty game clock seconds that followed stunned New England into silence and, for the first time this season, humility. Despite the defeat, though, you have to admit: it was one hell of a football game. History in the making. Yeah. All that.

For your viewing and listening pleasure:

Dear Quentin Tarantino,

I recently saw your latest locally available DVD, “Death Proof”. I missed it in the theaters. Hey, for the price of admission, I can own it forever. Or at least for the next few years, until on-demand or BlueRay kill the DVD format for good. Lucky me.

My reaction to your film: you’ve jumped the shark, man. You’re now making parodies of yourself. I bet it’s fun, lots of laughs, yuk yuk. Wish I was on your crew, bet it’s a blast. (I’m a hard worker, I’d give it my all. And I’m clean. Go on, make me an offer.)

Please make another “Jackie Brown”. The world needs it.

Your pal,

J.