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Bikini baristas and the sin over skin | Federal Way letters
You can’t possibly know how relieved I am that our local bureaucrats are further defining and refining our public decency laws to protect our gentle citizenry from the moral turpitude of the skin latte trade. That our brave men and women in blue will be stepping up to crack down on this illicit java delivery conspiracy heartens me greatly.
("Oops, I did it again") I imagine, for a brief moment, the abject horror of being exposed to such prurient parades of flesh. Stop it! I’m trying to be. Imagine for a Norman Rockwell moment (or Monet if you will), that you are driving down one of the town’s many bucolic tree-lined boulevards. Suddenly your idyllic drive and quiet solitude is shattered, for out of the corner of your eye — if you squint real hard, crane your neck to the left and stop quite suddenly — your vehicle shuddering and convulsing beneath you as you bring it to a sudden and deliberate climactic stop just short of the hydrant on the curb, you see her! There she is in all her glory. There is the barista of your dreams, the fruit of your sick and twisted imagination.
What is that impossible outfit she is wearing, all of that glorious skin? Pasties with a mesh bikini top? You shudder to think of what she might be wearing beyond your view and under the counter. The name of the establishment is splashed across the top of the structure: The Pink Spot. The deliberate and provocative entendre of the name does not escape you, nor by brief stretch, the potential double entendre. For in the mind of the perpetually adolescent male, hope springs eternal. The warm pink slush of your quiet and very personal reverie is shattered by the violent and inconsiderate honking of the long line of vehicles stuck behind you.
Motor now racing, you stomp on the accelerator, a guilty heat creeping up your neck. Why, there ought to be a law against that, as a self-righteous flush splashes across your face. Did anyone recognize me, did anyone see me looking, you worry. Crash, whoosh! There goes the hydrant. You see, I told you so. Naughty baristas are clearly a safety hazard.
"Sex sells" is more than just a trite adage. Yet clearly the city is overreacting to a simple marketing gimmick. Existing state laws are more than adequate to protect the virtues and innocence of the citizen of our fair city. When city bureaucrats knee-jerk react and invent new code to “protect” us from the evils of the flesh, they risk making fools out of all of us.
Further, they might easily impinge upon protected activities and expose the taxpayers to serious financial liability. Consider for a moment that I have personally witnessed Superior Court judges dismiss charges of indecent exposure against women who were arrested for going topless. Further, if these girls are creative enough, they will brew their coffee and deliver it to their customers with a dance step, a few bars from the Knack’s “Good Girls Don’t” or perhaps “My Sharona," or even recite a few lines from a Longfellow poem. All of which will lead them in to the heavily protected realm of artistic expression. Meaning to say that the city could quickly end up on the losing end of a federal lawsuit with its overreaching municipal code.
Bottom line, the city should back off and wait until there is a real problem to solve.
David Koenig, Federal Way