Twenty years ago, a decent cup of European-style coffee came at a steep price: You had to venture into shabby bohemian dens of free inquiry to get one, and you had to endure dissident cranks debating, oh, the dialectics of postcolonial identity formation. Then, Starbucks realized that to millions of Americans, $3 lattes would seem like a bargain in comparison, as long as they could savor them amid the ambience of a modestly upscale shoe store.
This insight made Starbucks billions—but for some reason, the company has never been satisfied with its success. Or, more specifically, it has never been satisfied with its customers. For years, it has tried to convince them that they are brainy public philosophers, the kind of people who, ironically, Starbucks customers go to Starbucks to avoid.
In the mind of Starbucks CEO Howard Schultz, however, his baby is heir to the great coffeehouse tradition of 18th-century Europe, when latte-sippers helped foment the French Revolution in Parisian cafes and Isaac Newton dissected a dolphin in a London coffeehouse. Thus, Starbucks' 1996 attempt to sell the paper version of Michael Kinsley's wonky paperless magazine, Slate.com. And its 1997 attempt to sell Oprah's Book Club selections.
Both efforts bombed—Starbucks might've had more success selling dolphin frappuccinos. Even so, it remained convinced its customers were latent bibliophiles, and in 1999 it introduced Joe magazine, which emphasized ideas and fine writing over trends and celebrity profiles.
"Starbucks customers are ... a perfect audience for a magazine that explores the important, the beautiful, the funny and the provocative," said Managing Editor Scott Mowbray at Joe's launch, but as it turned out, Starbucks customers were interested in exploring the important, the beautiful, the funny and the provocative via Starbucks-branded stuffed animals. Joe lasted three issues. Starbucks' Bearista Bears, a line of plush toys, have been released in more than 60 versions since 1997.
This year, however, Starbucks finally found the perfect literary medium for its audience—the coffee cup. In January it introduced "The Way I See It," a series of original quotes from famous and sort-of-famous Americans expressing thoughts that—PR team do your stuff—"do not necessarily reflect the views of Starbucks."
Stylistically, the quotes are the literary equivalent of Bearista Bears: sentimental, squooshy, with no aphoristic bite. "What a privilege to be here on the planet to contribute your unique donation to humankind," muses singer Shelby Lynne. "Each face in the rainbow of colors that populate our world is precious and special," observes civil rights leader Morris Dees. OK, strike that—even the Bears could do better.
Still, Starbucks' customers are reading the cups, and in the great coffeehouse tradition of conversation and debate, threatening boycotts. In August, a cup featuring novelist Armistead Maupin's reflection that his "only regret about being gay is that [he] repressed it for so long" drew the wrath of the Concerned Women For America. Because the cup was too nice to gay people, the group suggested, it was offensive to conservatives and people of faith. Later, employees at a Starbucks at Baylor University, a predominantly Baptist school, purged hundreds of the cups.
But why boycott when you can integrate? In October, Starbucks confirmed that Rick Warren, author of The Purpose-Driven Life, will join the coffee-cup sages with this: "You were made by God and for God, and until you understand that, life will never make sense. ..."
Call it a craven attempt to mollify miffed Christians if you will, but since Starbucks' 33 million weekly customers include plenty of knuckle-dragging evolutionists too, it's also a bold, self-destructive move. Indeed, what happens when people who have no interest whatsoever in what Jesus would brew get a shot of Warren's deep-roasted evangelism in their morning lattes?
Starbucks will no doubt plead objective neutrality: It doesn't believe in God any more than it believes in happy gay men—it just wants to carry on the great coffeehouse tradition of (inoffensive, conflict-free) conversation and debate.
But, of course, it's not that easy anymore. In these extremely partisan times, objective neutrality simply means that, eventually, everyone ends up hating you. Except the dissident cranks, that is. Oh, what they would give to be able to alienate so many people at once!
Greg Beato has written for Spin, Reason and The San Francisco Chronicle.