This woman has whipped out her big fat tit and is breast-feeding! I know, breast-feeding is a beautiful thing, and blah, blah, fucking blah. But her giant tit is resting on my arm, and that is not okay. It's wrong. I'm sorry. It is just . . . plain . . . wrong. And I don't care how hungry little Henry is. Can't he wait two hours to eat? No, of course he can't. What-wait to eat? That's a concept that his mother certainly never seems to have wrapped her head around. Fuck. My eyes are squeezed so tight that I'm giving myself a headache. And it's not like if I don't look at it, it's going to go away. It's on me. Her bare boob is touching me. I feel it. Something must be done. I take off my iPod and look at her, hoping she'll notice that we are in a bit of a situation here.

"You like that? You like it?" she is saying to baby Henry, and it's almost obscene. She's got nipples the size of kneecaps and she's cooing and oohing while Henry is feeding from her massive breast. It's making my stomach turn.

Forget the fat penalty or the stink penalty . . . there should definitely be a penalty for this shit. And she ought to fucking pay me!

Brady.

By the time we land, I'm so happy to get off the plane that I jump up, grab my bag from the overhead bin, and grab Heaven's, too-because the faster we're out of here, the sooner I can put this flight out of my mind forever.

I think I get a hernia lifting Heaven's bag.

"What the hell?" I groan. "Why is your bag like eighty times heavier than it was in L.A.?"

"Oh . . . I packed some Jolt-for you."

"Did you pack all of it?"

"No, just a few six-packs."

"Thank you," I reluctantly say.

"You're welcome," she says, completely oblivious to how heavy her bag is. No wonder the flight attendant seemed a little put off helping her get it up there. Luckily it's on wheels, so we can get it out of there without too much effort. We get Strummer from the cargo, and I think both Heaven and I envy whatever circumstances he flew under. That's probably a first. But it couldn't have been worse than what we endured.

When we get outside we make a pact not to switch seats like that ever again. Heaven even offers to take the window seat from Seattle back to New York. As long as I don't mention plane crashes, natural disasters, or for some reason the words moist and panties. I ask her why, and she just shudders and says she hates those words. A few seconds later she adds enthused to the list.

We get our rental car at the airport, and the first thing I do is transfer the Jolt cans from Heaven's bag into the trunk of the car so I don't have to lift that bag ever again. They gave us a white Ford Focus, which is certainly an improvement from the hideous gold one we had in Los Angeles. And what's with the Ford Focus? It seems to have the market cornered on rental cars for people who can't afford rental cars.

We're in Seattle. It's sixty-two degrees and sunny. This is not the rainy Seattle that I've heard about. We're staying at the Ramada Inn downtown. It's conveniently located seven blocks from the Convention Center, seven blocks from Pike's Market, and seven blocks from the Space Needle. I'm also fairly certain that it's near the Starbucks corporate office-which I will find.

Heaven and I check in, and the clerk at the front desk is abnormally cheery. I know it's part of customer service to act friendly, but this woman is borderline psycho. You know those commercials for the antidepressant Zoloft? With the happy little bouncing-ball character? She's like that ball in human form. Times a thousand. Her name is Annie, she's originally from Ohio, and she'll be happy to help us with anything we should need.

"I'll be right here, manning the decks. So if you need something . . . you just pick up that phone, and guess who's gonna be there to help?" Annie says.

"You are?" I say, playing along.

"Exactly," she says with this confusing conspiratorial nod. Like she'll be there always-day or night. I pick up the phone . . . she's gonna answer. She doesn't sleep . . . she doesn't eat. She's happy Annie and she's here to help. She's starting to really freak me out, so I tug on Heaven's sleeve and we go upstairs to check out our room.

Our room is average. Twin beds, like at the Hyatt, but no restaurant/bar downstairs. Well, there is one, but it's not exactly the same as the one under the Riot House. No celebrity sightings here. But that doesn't matter. Because Howard Schultz is in Seattle. And I am going to become a rich man, very soon.

The phone rings, and Heaven picks it up. It's Annie.

"Hi, Annie," she says and gives me a look. "No, so far we've found everything okay. Okay . . . thanks a lot." Heaven hangs up the phone. "That woman sure likes her job."

Heaven and I are unpacking, and all of a sudden she pulls out a picture of Kurt Cobain and one of those big white candles like you see in church. She props the picture up next to the candle and then lights it. This is new. She didn't do this in L.A.

"Um . . ." I say. "What do we have here? A little altar?"

"You could say that."

"What's goin' on?"

"You don't know what tomorrow is?" she asks with wide eyes.

"Monday?"

"April 5, 2004."

"Should this mean something to me?"

"It's ten years to the day since Kurt Cobain killed himself," she says.

"Wow. I can't believe it's actually been ten years."

"I know . . ." she says and she looks really sad.

"Not to be morbid, but weren't there a few days that went by before he was actually . . . found?"

"Yes," she says.

"So is tomorrow-"

"April 5, tomorrow, is the day that he killed himself. April 8 is the day that Gary Smith, that electrician, found his body."

"Ah," I say. I know this is a big deal to her-and frankly, it's kind of a big deal to me, too. I mean, I've never thought I'll end up dead at twenty-seven like she does, but Kurt's death really bummed me out. Like Elvis or the Beatles . . . when Nirvana came onto the scene, they pretty much saved music. And sadly, I think that for a number of years now everyone's been waiting for someone else to come along and do it again. Don't get me wrong, there's some really good stuff going on in music lately. In fact, I'm more excited about music right now than I have been for years. But still, Kurt . . . he was something special.

"There's going to be a vigil to mark the ten-year anniversary of his death."

"Really? Did you know this ahead of time?"

"Uh-huh," she says.

"So were you going to come out to Seattle anyway?"

"No, probably not. I would have had my own little ceremony at home. But it just worked out perfectly. Plus, maybe Dave Grohl will be there and propose to me.

"He's married," I remind her. "Where is it?"

"The original one was at the Seattle Center, so I'm thinking probably there," she says with astonishing authority. "But some people will probably go to the Young Street Bridge, or to the benches at Viretta Park near his house, where some of his ashes are scattered. So sad . . ."

"I know," I say empathetically. She gets quiet and looks at her picture of Kurt. Strummer can sense her sadness, so he walks over and rests his head on Heaven's knee.

Every morning when I wake up I am humbled by the realization that I am not a rock star or an astronaut or a fighter pilot/international spy/gladiator/wealthy jet-setting playboy et cetera. I'm just an average guy who has to get up and drag his ass to work-and is way too dependent on coffee. That said, I do understand that my average life is still far less mundane than the suit-and-tie guys that push paper all day long.

But this morning is different. I wake up and practically jump out of the bed. And as far as my dependence on coffee? Well, that can only serve me well today because I don't care if I have to hit every Starbucks in Seattle to find him . . . Howard Schultz and I are going to have a sit-down.

This sounds ill conceived, I know. But it's really more a case of wanting the whole experience to happen naturally . . . magically . . . without too much forethought or calculation. Cinnamilk is a long shot, albeit an inspired one. And my business plan makes a pretty good case for it. But if it's going to be part of standard fare at Starbucks the world over, I'm gonna need a lot of luck. So my plan all along? Don't plan too much.

I look in the yellow pages for the corporate headquarters. But there's no listing. I try calling information again, and I even call the 1-800 number again and try to trick them into giving me the address-but no dice.

Heaven is still asleep and I don't want to wake her, so I tiptoe around the room and get dressed. I watch her sleep for a minute, and I'm struck by how beautiful she really is. It's not even a matter of opinion. She's lovely. She stirs in her sleep and stretches. She opens her eyes, yawns with her delicate hand covering her mouth, and then rubs her chin for a minute.

"Morning," I say.

"I think there's a hair growing out of my chin," she says.

Heaven.

Waking up in hotel rooms is always awkward. For starters, sometimes you don't know where the hell you are. And even once it kicks in, there's still no real comfort in that . . . no familiarity. That said, I love hotels. I love them. I don't love that the bottom sheet is never fitted, or that they tightly wrap that filthy blanket in between the sheets instead of washing it, but I do love that they make no apologies for it. Some people get pissed that there's a price tag on everything from the minibar to a toll-free number . . . but you have to-at least-respect the earnestness and lack of pretense that comes when everything within view is striving to hoover out your wallet.

I wake up in our room at the Ramada, and Brady's at the little desk, presiding over a bowl with a spoon-like a wizard-waving around his magic wand. He's got quite a little mess going. I walk over and peer over his shoulder. At the bottom of the bowl is a shallow puddle of milky liquid in an uncertain color.

"You're up already?" I say.

"I'm not just up. I've been to the store, bought the necessary ingredients, whipped up a batch of Cinnamilk, packaged it-"

I look across the desk. "In baby bottles?"

"It's all I could find with a seal," he says.

"And who doesn't love babies?"

"Here," he says, offering me the bowl. "Taste it."

I accept. And feeling a little like I'm seven years old again having just finished a ginormous bowl of Lucky Charms, I tilt the bowl toward my face and drink the leftover milk. Brady's watching me with expectant eyes, and when I emerge from the bowl with Cinnamilk on both of my cheeks, I don't say a thing. It's mean, I know, but I just want to watch him squirm-plus, it's good practice for when he's in the room with Schultz.

"Well?" he screams. "C'mon . . . what do you think?"

I can't hold it any longer. I break out into an embarrassingly huge smile and tell him, "It's awesome. Seriously. I can't believe it's not already shoulder to shoulder with the two-percent and one-percent and no-percent milks of this world. Anyone who could market this would be a fool not to hand you a check right now."

"Really?" he says, more vulnerable than I've ever seen him. "You're not just trying to make me feel good? Not that you'd ever do that intentionally."

"Nope. Totally legit. It's a hit," I say, and Brady instantly picks me up into a giant bear hug. I squeeze back, and then he quickly sets me down, stepping back awkwardly.

"Anyway, it's game day," he says. "This is why we're here."

"So . . . what's the plan?"

"Finding Howard Schultz . . . making him see the beauty of Cinnamilk."

"Right," I say. "But how are we going to find him?"

"We?"

"Yes, we. I'm gonna help."

"I don't know . . ." he says.

"Well, I do. I'm coming," I say as I walk into the bathroom. "Why don't you take Strummer out for a walk while I shower? By the time you get back, I'll be ready to rumble."

I turn the water on and quickly get in so he doesn't have time to argue.

The first Starbucks we hit is on Fifth Avenue. Brady orders a latte while I case the joint. I see an unsuspecting barista refilling the milk containers, so I sidle up to him and turn on the charm.

"Hi," I say with this wide smile that's usually reserved for traffic cops.

"Good morning," he says.

"How many times a day do you have to refill these things?"

"Oh . . . you know. As many times as they get empty."

"Huh," I say. And I think about what to say next because I hadn't exactly planned this out. "So, isn't the corporate office right around here?"

"Um . . . yeah. Sort of," he says. And leaves it at that.

"Yeah, I thought so. What is it, five blocks from here?"

"No. It's . . . well, yeah, there's a few blocks, but it's only one avenue over."

"Right. So it's on . . . Fourth? No . . . Sixth?"

"No, you were right the first time. It's on Fourth," he says and goes back behind the counter. I catch up with Brady, who hands me a latte.

"Thank you."

"Anything?"

"Yup. It's on Fourth Avenue. That's one street over."

"Nice work." We clink our paper coffee cups and walk out the door. We drive over to Fourth Avenue, and when we get there we come across another Starbucks. Why shouldn't there be another Starbucks here? If they're on every other corner in every other city, then I'd imagine the founding city would just be one huge Starbucks. In fact, I'm surprised they didn't hand us a Frappuccino when we walked off the plane.

Brady walks in, and I follow. He orders another latte, and I begin to wonder if he's going to get a cup of coffee at every Starbucks we hit on the way to finding Mr. Schultz, which would probably not be the best idea.

He talks to the barista at the counter and comes back looking sideways at me.

"What?" I say defensively.