Driving the Lamborghini to Starbucks

Oh, how the neighborhood changes when the trustafarians return for fall semester. Like the swallows back to Capistrano, like the buzzards back to Hinckley, Ohio--Generation Obnoxioso flaps in, lands and starts to shit all over everything. And it's hell.

You cause complete gridlock at Old Town Shopping Center. The entry and egress there is tricky, kids. You have to fucking YIELD to other cars, not just plow in from Greenville Avenue, expecting us to get out of your way. You can't roll through the stop sign by Panda Express or drive 50 mph up the side by the wings joint. Well, you can and you do. Because you're special, I know.

At the nail place, which over the summer enjoys a Zen-like calm, the twit level suddenly goes Def-Con 5. No more dozing quietly in the recliners as our nails are soaked and buffed. No, now we have to listen to the sorority blisters gabbing at top volume on cell phones, saying nothing abso-fucking-lutely important about abso-fucking-anything. Do you not realize that you're TOO LOUD? That you're being RUDE when you carry on a phone conversation while the sweet little Cambodian lady is trying to ask you what polish you want?

At Central Market. Oh. Dear. God. The pushiness. The standing-in-the-aisles of the bulk-bins doing nothing-ness, the clogging-the-checkout-ness, the paying-with-credit-card-ness for a single muffin.

Up on Hillcrest at Daniel Street. Jesus. Red means don't walk. I understand that you rule the universe with your riches and your prettiness, but that doesn't mean your guts aren't impenetrable with the front end of my 8-year-old Toyota. If you weren't talking on the goddamn phone while you wisped along in your tiny Juicy shorts and your teeny Bateau baby tee, maybe you would see that it wasn't your turn on the crosswalk. Stop. Look both ways. Didn't nanny teach you that? Or are you just so used to being led around by your pert little nose that you don't realize you're jaywalking?

At my Starbucks. Shit, I surrender. It's where I write my column on Sundays--or was--because it's blessedly quiet and just a/c'd enough to keep me alert. My baristas, Alan and Aileen, greet me nicely and froth me up a hot nonfat latte that helps me put words on the screen. But now that you all are back from your yachts and your country clubs and your mansions in Republicanistan, I can't stand the place. This past Sunday I listened to a Chi-O (she was wearing the shirt) talk at the top of her squeaky voice on her phone for 30 minutes, giving directions to someone who perhaps suffers early onset Alzheimer's or is just too damn stupid to follow simple instructions. "You know where Old Town is?" she said in a drippy drawl. "Green-veel Ay-vay-nyew. Naw, the uth-errr wayeee." She talked her friend in on instruments, repeating the same directions about 48 times.

The friend arrived. It was a college guy. He was driving a tangerine-colored Lamborghini.

A little bit of latte vomited up into my throat.