The boyfriend wanted to go for a run; the kid wanted to go skateboarding. All I wanted to do was get out of the house. The kid's at the skatepark, the boyfriend is trotting around Greenlake, and I've been deposited at this here Starbucks for the duration. And after ten minutes I'm ready to pull a gun and order the baristas to turn off the Christmas carols—or else. The baristas, I expect, would cooperate cheerfully; they might not even call the police. I mean, if this ear-splitting Santa-Rudolph-Silver-Snowman tape loop is punishing anyone, it's punishing the poor baristas.