Something Rich and Strange

So I’m in my local Starbucks (more accurately, the Starbucks that is geographically closest to me, as about 137 would qualify as “local”), a line to the door and intricate orders being proudly shouted-out (i.e., quad split-shot Grande in a Venti cup, one pump mocha, one pump sugar-free vanilla, non fat, with whip and mocha drizzle) when I learn that our seemingly unfettered access to Starbucks coffee anywhere at any time has apparently been an illusion. Hence, the introduction of VIA “ready brew.” Or, for those of us who can fondly remember the serialized “Taster’s Choice” commercials of yore, “instant” coffee. That’s right, my friends. The company that has singlehandedly made us unflinchingly shell out upwards of four bucks for a painstakingly freshly-brewed “premium” cup of coffee prepared by a “barista,” has introduced its antithesis: the addition of a coffee-derived powder to hot water and prepared by, well, you.

And where would we be so bereft of access to Starbucks coffee, or one of its imitators, that we would welcome a packet of VIA? This was a question posed to the gentleman conducting the in-store taste tests of VIA as compared to traditionally brewed Starbucks coffee. He cheerfully answered, “when you’re on an airplane.” Not the best answer, as a customer pointed out, since one major airline already serves Starbucks as part of its meager nod to in-flight passenger “service.” And I challenge you to name an airport without a Starbucks or its ilk.

But while waiting for my comparatively pedestrian order of a Grande vanilla latte, I thought of the perfect place for VIA, where it could be enjoyed by those without access to freshly brewed coffee (or “fresh” anything, for that matter): outer space. What coffee-loving astronaut stuck in orbit wouldn’t welcome it? Just think: VIA could do for coffee what Tang has done for orange juice. Now that’s progress.

Having just returned from almost a week away from home on business, and still battling the last vestiges of what surely must have been the H1N1 virus (when I get sick, no run of the mill illness for me), the last thing I want to do is housework. Well, the truth is that housework is always the last thing I want to do, regardless of health or other circumstances. So when confronted with dust bunnies the size of tumbleweeds and an accumulation of cat hair on upholstered surfaces that gives them the appearance of being made of mohair, there is only one thing I can do: watch “Clean House.” For those of you not familiar with this fine program, it is basically an hour-long intervention for those with chronic hoarding syndrome. So rooms that are no longer navigable due to piles of assorted dust-gathering treasures that their owners can’t bear to part with (from a closet full of Sour Patch kids sure to be worth a fortune someday to multiple non-functioning appliances and everything in between) are excavated and transformed into spruced-up models of functionality and style. And lest you think I’m being too hard on these folks, keep in mind that they unashamedly nominate themselves for having the “messiest house in America.”

But today I had an epiphany about why I turn to “Clean House” instead of the Dyson. It’s not really for inspiration, as I’ve been telling myself. It’s the Schadenfreude. Because no matter how neglected my apartment is, with a week’s worth of the Washington Post piled by the door, an overflowing laundry hamper or an entire month of Horchow catalogues cluttering my coffee table (typically, 50+), it’s nothing that can’t be rectified with a couple hours of elbow grease and a Swiffer or two. No team of hazmat clad cleaning pros is necessary. Just willpower to stop blogging about it get to work. Scrubbing Bubbles, anyone?

So I get back from Spain to a boatload of catalogues and magazines and find that the remainder of my subscription to the much-adored late, great design magazine Domino has been replaced with – Architectural Digest?!? (Click here for the back story.) Really, Conde Nast? This seems like an odd choice,

kind of like replacing a Maxim subscription with Vogue; both offer ample photos of nubile young women, but with a very different editorial focus.

But I guess I should cut Conde Nast some slack. AD has been around since 1920, so the publishers must have some understanding of what its demographic is. And maybe AD will cull some new followers from the ranks of Domino’s devotees. But positioning of both publications aside, Domino and AD were at two opposite poles when it came to one thing: accessibility. Not in grasping arcane design concepts, but, to paraphrase DeToqueville, on what makes America great, the ability to acquire the goods and services to live the life we want.

Yes, both publications would highlight celebrity digs. But the difference was that the fabulous chest you saw depicted in a photo spread of so-and-sos' living room in AD would most likely be accessible only to “the trade,” in essence requiring an interior design intermediary to score it for you. That is, if you could afford its nearly $13,000 price tag and said designer’s fee.

In contrast, Domino might feature certain items that were either one-of-a-kind or perhaps prohibitively expensive (for most of us) and would suggest affordable alternatives and where they could be had. The rooms depicted in Domino were always accompanied by detailed information about where the items populating them, down to the paint color on the walls, could be purchased. Thus, while few of us are Masters of the Universe looking for creative ways to spend that multi-million dollar bonus, creating the kind of chichi abode once only available to the super rich, albeit on a smaller scale, was within reach to readers of Domino.

Ironically, a magazine like Domino, according to the publisher could not be sustained in these difficult economic times. But in flipping through AD and looking at a 32-acre spread with a “compound” of 12,000 square feet of buildings, I wonder how it will survive as disconnected as it is from most of America. Being the chronicler of the building and decoration of homes that cost 10s of millions of dollars seems editorially tone deaf to what most of us are experiencing. But we’ll see.