Let me set the scene, it will only take a sentence. Brisk winter day, Dallas Texas, sun out, my new jacket on, someone already accused of being the unabomber and a terrorist, thank you thank you leave me be, nip in the air, wanted a coffee, time for Starbucks, time to people watch.
It was a packed house inside Starbsies. Every seat filled with a business man pretending to do work on their laptop. 'Ahh, the reports must be filed to the agency by noon central, or was that eastern, hum de doo dah.'
Yea, I know what you're doing on that laptop, suited gent, you don't fool me.
I walk in. Their eyes dart up from their facebook stalking. All dudes are so excited when that door opens at Starbsies.
Hoping upon hope it's 'hot babe in tights.'
It's not, guys. It's 'bearded dude in jacket.' They all look back down. Well, not all, but that's another story.
So I get the drip and look for a seat. Only open one is next to a large man. That should suffice. I Usher slide over to the open spot and upon nearing, I realize the man has chaps on. Chaps. This should be good. I immediately wish I had the video camera with me cause this will be gold, I'm sure of it. More sure than the time I picked the Cowboys to win the Supe Bowl 2011. Ahem. Moving on. I sit down, take out the ipad, feign typing, but only really listening to the gentleman as he talks to a woman across from him.
The woman has the 'I'll humor you for a minute but you need to stop talking' face on.
You know the one. Her answers are short, giving him nothing to work with. She fiddle faddles with a pen and paper.
Who has pen and paper at starbucks? Lois Lane, star reporter for The Daily Planet?
On an exclusive sit-down interview with Fat Cowboy Superman?
I'm late into the game on this conversation, but I'm a helluva deducer. In fact, I never watch the first season of anything on TV. I just pick up with the finale and deduce it all from that. Like the show LOST, the one about the polar bear smoke? Only watched the finale. I deduced the rest. Back stories are for wikkipedia. I only work in front stories.
And then he says it. He says IT. He says what he does for a living.
Biker Realty. The woman nods. Smiling, taking in his latest revelation as nicely as she can without bursting into guffaws. Lois Lane sure is faddling with that pen a bunch. Hmm.
Biker Realty. He's a realtor who sells from his bike or to bikers. I'm sure more details would come. And they did. He sells to bikers. I guess if you're not a biker, he won't deal. And he's a biker, so they trust him. It's all a bit discriminatory, I'm thinking.
What's next? Hooligan Day Care? Idiot Personal Shopper? Queer Eye for the Straight Guy?
And the man didn't care. Why should he? He's got chaps on. In Starbucks. If I had Chaps on in Starbucks, I wouldn't give a shit about anything either. I'd give people latte facials, throw apple fritters, laptop tossing parties. I'd just throw a lot of things. It's therapeutic. Throwing parties is great, why not throw a pastry.
Which leaves me with this nugget.
If you're going to do something, really do it.
Don't half-ass it, fer cryssakes.
Know your market, target your market, be your market.
Put those chaps on.