Hip Stir

I’m gonna put on my wrinkled cargo pants (hanging low on my ass so you can see the Japanese symbol “tatt”), a tank top, slip my feet into flipflops, tie a sweatshirt around my hips, and shuffle over to an “indie” coffee house in Chelsea, where I’ll slouch in a chair that has curious stains ground into its worn fabric upholstery and sip swill that tastes like it’s been made by pouring tepid water over coffee grounds from earlier this morning. I’ll alternately read my dog-eared, yellow-edged paperback that I picked up at a used book store and the coffee-stained newspaper that a previous sloucher discarded. I’ll pretend I’m really into what’s going on in the world while blocking it all out with whatever I’m embedding in my brain via my iPod. I’ll regret not having brought my laptop.