Drive down DeAnza Boulevard in Cupertino, California and you’re struck by two things:
First, this is the one place on earth where you don’t feel ostentatious walking around with an iPhone. They’re everywhere here–you almost expect to see them floating in the gutters like leaves, their glass screens glinting in the sunlight and making the street appear to be lined by diamonds. Get stopped at the corner of Mariani and DeAnza during a lunch break and try to keep count of how many iPhones walk by you. A baker’s dozen over the course of a single walk signal? Easily. And not a single hip-holster among them. Good job, fashionable Apple employees!
Second, this is the last place on earth you’d expect to find a restaurant named after a sex act. Yet there it is, taunting you in all its libidinal glory: BJ’s. Really! It’s so out of place here, in this canyon of tasteful corporate architecture (which, when you search deep down in your soul you have to admit you expected to be cooler), yet there it is, its neon signage undulating in the California sun. You have to wonder how Steve Jobs feels driving past it every day (Wozniak, no doubt, thinks its hilarious). Every hair on his neck must stand up as he grips the wheel of his Mercedes just a little bit tighter. It’s such a gaudy affront to his very being–ignoring the prurient aspect for a moment, the man’s practically a vegan so he’s not pulling in for a “Sweet Pig” pizza–and yet there it stands as the gateway into the company that popularized the personal computer, the graphical user interface, the MP3 player, desktop publishing, and much more: BJ’s–home, no joke, of the Pizookie (a cookie covered in, well, cream). I suppose it could be worse. It could be a pasta place called Cunnilinguini’s.