My neighborhood is at war. Those of us who live here have each chosen a side. However, on most corners, our individual loyalties are not discernable. It is only at the front – where Main Street divides 14th Avenue – that the division may become obvious.
On the east edge of Main, each of us displays our coat of arms on the façade of our respective bastion. Theirs stands on the north side of 14th, a semi-translucent, green and white plastic banner, illuminated by fluorescent lights. The image of their god-queen, typically aloof, is at the center. She gazes not at, but over us, and onto the ground she would claim as her own. Our flag, on the south side, in black and red, is simply carved into the wood veneer of our rampart. We do not have an emblem or icon, just our name impressed into the wall.
They call us savages because our machinery is old and heavy. Handles fashioned from oak, joints reinforced with steel and iron at the core. And of course, this is the core of our dispute. They would have us swap out our souls for alloy composite counterparts. They would insist that all our products be uniform, and that the manufacturing of those products be accomplished uniformly, and that the manufacturing facilities themselves be endlessly reproduced and adhere to a standard of uniformity.
We subscribe to the principle of obtaining results through a proven and honourable process. We value craftsmanship over conformism and excellence over efficiency. We believe that the quality of their products suffers as a result of their technological evolution; that the quality of their products lies in inverse proportion to their innovation. On our side, we understand that they are the savages.
For some, choosing sides was difficult. For me, choosing was simply a matter of openly displaying the contempt that was already entrenched in me. I go to the front each day and face my enemy: Starbucks. And each day it is the same. They act as if they do not notice me. They pretend to enjoy the steaming rancid filth in their giant mugs, the sugar-flavoured blubber they extract through green straws. But I do not pretend. I fix my gaze upon them and let the hate, like the proper cup of coffee I sip, soothe me.
– A. Vice
