Monday, February 4, 2013

In today's I Am Morphing Into a Los Angeles Writer Hipster Douche

Today, I decided I needed to go to a coffee shop to write.  Why?  
I think the question is Why Not?
It’s what all the cool writers do.  They write.  In coffee shops.  And I, I have decided, shall be cool.
I also needed some tough love to turn off the Netflix.  Holy smokes!  Do you have any idea how many shows they have?  A lot.  They have a lot of shows and I can watch them all in my bed with my family sized bag of Doritos from Costco with no one around to give me disapproving stares or wonder how I smuggled it past the ticket takers in the lobby.  A word of advice?  No one will ask you if you’re really pregnant.  Unless you’re a dude.  In which case, tell them you have a belly goiter.
About a half hour in and my second bowl of coffee, I suddenly REALLY looked around the coffee shop.  It had crystal chandeliers and black upholstered wing back chairs and they got some artist to come in and write the menu on a 20x30 foot blackboard wall with hand lettering that would make Platt Rogers Spenser cry.  There were handmade pastries with crystallized sugar and rustic bread made with the tears of a widowed farm woman. And sitting at all the marble topped tables with their iron work legs?  
A row of us asshole writers who looked like we had rolled out of bed and decided pajamas were good enough.  
What a wonderful world we live in that I can eat a scone beneath an $800 chandelier on a Monday morning.  Next week, I’ll brush my hair.  Maybe.

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