Every few months, I treat myself to a Broadway show. Being a gay man (practically), and living in Manhattan, it’s kind of a civic duty of mine to support musical theatre. My dad’s one of the top plastic surgeons in the city, so naturally he has box seats to just about every show. Fortunately for me, Dad doesn’t care too much for live theatre, unless it’s a Knicks game – which, sidebar, might as well be billed as A Chorus Line, with all of that choreography and unnecessary sweating. So I usually wind up with the tickets.
Broadway isn’t just about seeing a show. Oh sure, it’s inevitably a Who’s-Who in gay culture, but it’s so much more than that. It’s about being immersed completely in fictitious peoples’ lives and being shown a new way of seeing the world (am I published yet?).
I saw a show back in 2006 with my gay bestie Dylan from LA. He was in town visiting for the weekend, trying to land a modeling gig and I thought a good way to show him around would be to take him to a show. Now, normally, I wouldn’t even entertain the idea of seeing a musical named after one of the most horrendous, useless, anti-green, hair destroying bullshit products on the market, but Hairspray was actually a show worth seeing. Too, I loved the fact that Ricki Lake was the original Tracy Turnblad back in ’88.
I always make it a point to show up to these events wearing something a little, shall we say, avant garde. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not going to show up to a Broadway performance wearing a meat dress or some fucked up version of a broken disco ball – get your life right, Gaga – but I will wear something that will get me noticed. Because, at the end of the day, I need to draw the attention of the three straight men at any Broadway theater. Even if the show sucks major dick, either literally or figuratively, I figure the night shouldn’t be a total waste. On this night in particular, I showed up wearing a traditional early 1800s opera gown with a mask and a really elaborate up-do. In addition to being a model, Dylan’s pretty handy with a curling iron.
The first number had me lowering my mask. It was that good. I don’t know what it was. Maybe it was the bright colors, or the pleasantly plump actress with a killer voice, or the 2/3 of a Xanax and double vodka tonic I had downed in the limo. Or maybe it was a combination of all three. This show was fucking awesome.
The reason I bring all of this up is because I got off the phone with Dylan earlier this evening. He calls from time to time to make sure I’m alive and check on the writing (he’s the only person in the world who knows that I write about Starbucks and I’m the only person who knows about his tiny coke habit and rendezvous with a former male politician. We’re great friends like that). We got to talking about Hairspray and it really made me think about the opening number, “Good Morning, Baltimore.”
First of all, why the fuck would anyone be saying “good morning” to a shithole like Baltimore? It’s smelly, loud, and really REALLY unchic. And then it hit me. Starbucks is Baltimore. And so, loyal readers/musical theatre patrons/gays, I give you “Good Morning, Starbucks,” in the style of Hairspray.
KALDI:
Whoa oh oh woke up today feeling the way I always do…
Oh oh oh, hungry for something that I can’t eat when I hear that beat.
That rhythm of town starts calling me down,
It’s like a message from Hell below.
Oh oh oh, pulling me out to the freaks and the bitches, I know.
Good morning, Starbucks!
Every day’s full of mindless fucks!
Every night is a headache!
Every drink order seals my fate!
Good morning, Starbucks!
And some day when I lose all control, the world’s gonna wake up and see…
Starbucks killed Kaldi….
Oh oh oh, look at my hair! This shit’s not fair. Can I go home?
Oh oh oh, I’ve got my apron and bullshit shoes. Dear God let me move!
The rats on the street, all dance ’round my feet.
They seem to say “Kaldi, your job sure sucks!”
So oh oh, don’t make me late, cuz I need to get down to Starbucks!
Good morning, Starbucks!
There’s the lady who gets “frappes!”
There’s the bum who knows my name!
I’m really nice, but they still complain!
Good morning, Starbucks!
And someday when I just can’t go on, the world’s gonna wake up and see…
Starbucks killed Kaldi!
I know every drink. I know every song.
I know there’s a place where I belong.
I know there are better jobs out there, I’ll bet!
So someone please take be before I drop dead!!!
Oh oh oh give me a chance! Because when I start to dance, Mila Kunis will cry!
Oh oh oh something inside of me starts to snap, when you order “fraps.”
My lead tells me “no,” but fashion says “GO!”
This bullshit apron has got to go…
So oh oh don’t make me wait one more moment for you to decide
(Good morning… good morning…. bitch needs to order right now)!!
I hate you, Starbucks!
Every shift seems like I get fucked!
Every night is a nightmare! I need a raise but you just don’t care!
And I promise, Starbucks,
That someday when I get out of here, the world’s gonna wake up and see…
Gonna wake up and see….
You did not kill me.
You did not kill me. (Yes more or less we are the free)
You will not kill me!!!
*headset dings* Welcome to Starbucks, my name is Kaldi. What can I get started for you?
XOXO
Kaldi
thebitchingbarista 