Whoever Isn't Holding A Camera Will Do.

The morning route to a decent cup of coffee has become circuitous and somewhat bewildering. The Starcocks in the Water Court whose ice arrives a few hours after they open is a no, and the one in the building I work that cleans their machines a few hours after they open is gross. The coffee bean across the street, the one whose cashier asked if I wanted to donate money to our troops, and I asked 'Which ones, the one's that pissed on corpses, burned Korans, or plotted to assasinate the Head of State?" is a big all kinds of no.

So I arrive to work first, get a little bit of work done, plug in all my junk, check out all my internet stuff, do my rantings, and then break for coffee a couple blocks away where they have never actually messed up my espresso, but they can be mobbed by midwesterners staying in the Biltmore in town for the filming of some show. These people wear shorts. Miles and miles from the beach. Right in front of God and everybody. So it really does pay to get their early. Before they've had the opportunity to decide on what I suppose they like to call an outfit. So I'm off.