Copy House

This is not a Starbucks, but if you’ve been to a Starbucks you can imagine where I am right now. Earth tone leather chairs, a frescoed Billie Holliday on the wall and brushed metal polygons smartly backing the tracklit menu. It’s a local California chain, and locals prefer it over the identical Starbucks- an absurd notion predicated on the supposition that things taste better if people in Iowa haven’t heard of them. The soundtrack isn’t the first thing you notice, but sit here long enough and it becomes the predominant aspect of the atmosphere. It’s not saccharine to the point of being nauseating, but it has a very filtered quality; Singer-songwriters spinning up-tempo acoustic soul, but never really saying anything of substance. There’s also Sinatra for the sake of Sinatra, because- even after all this time- there is something that feels hip about mouthing the words to “Fly Me to the Moon.” I’m not unimpressed, but I do wonder when WiFi Hotspots that serve Blended Ice Mochas and Scones became an American institution. I’ve been in the other kind of coffee shop, the originals that birthed these comfortable cookie-cutter curios. My favorite was in upstate Michigan… it isn’t a chain. They played obnoxiously avant-garde World Music, the place smelled like dreadlocks and espresso, and they sold homemade vegan soup. A coffee bar with the balls to be a coffee bar. Sitting in one, thinking about the other, it is easy to imagine the word “chains” taking on a more concrete meaning. So says the guy who just finished his Brazilian Berry Smoothie. So sue me. I’m thirsty, and Michigan is very far away.