In translating Starbucks Speak, “Marionberry” means “Death”


There’s a Starbucks on the way to work (which isn’t saying anything truly revolutionary in this neighborhood; the real surprise is that there is only one). It’s inconvenient enough when you’re driving that it doesn’t distract much, but as a walker, I have to be careful to cross the street further up the block or the damn place can suck me in. Here in the PacNo, the seduction comes from the Top Pot Donuts. Most of the Top Pot line isn’t very good — heavy on the frosting, equally heavy on the grease — but their apple fritters are as divinely light and fluffy as their cake donuts are grease bombs. In the past, they’ve been easy to dodge — there have been only three or four places to get Top Pot. Oh no, not anymore. Every Starbucks in the land carries them now.

Though, this morning when I asked for an apple fritter, the perky counter girl said. “They’re marionberry.” Why does Starbucks have to fuck up every good thing? Coffee is fine; it doesn’t need to be a twisted mochachino venti almond butter nougat latte. And an apple fritter is perfectly fine without being subjected to strange berry substitutions.

This is what I get for not crossing the street earlier. And, not surprisingly, marionberries are apparently filled with so much sugar that I’m bound to be catatonic most of the day. I’ve got a bit of CSS code to stare at again today that I couldn’t get working yesterday (fucking IE and its idiosyncrasies) and with the dull synaptic connections I’ve got going on right now, it’s going to be a long day of banging keys and getting nowhere.

Though I did get an email from Kris at Scribe this morning say he had sent off press releases to Locus, Publisher’s Weekly and SF Age announcing my signing on with them. It’s not the sort of news that is going to make anyone at those places leap out of their chairs and shout, “Holy Shit! They signed him!” Still, it’s a nice sentence that I don’t get to say very often.