Ten or so Latino guys – all in traditional costumes and carrying musical instruments – just came into the coffeehouse (which is attached to a theater) and one of the brighter bulbs here just asked: “You a mariachi band?” … Well, duh! They’re not a rock band, Einstein.
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Here I am minding my own business with my friend Brenda when the first photographic attack is launched. (Photo by Craig Sanders)
There I was minding my own business when there was a commotion and camera flashes started going off in my face.
“Great!” I immediately thought to myself. “The paparazzi have tracked me down to my coffeehouse, my sanctuary! This is all I freakin’ need!”
OK, perhaps paparazzi never follow me around. I have no fame, no fortune, so why would paparazzi follow lil’ ol’ me around?
They wouldn’t.
As it turned out, the so-called commotion – which was not a commotion at all – was due to the arrival of former co-workers, Record reporter Jennifer Torres and Record photo editor Craig Sanders. They were in the coffeehouse to meet the subject of a feature story that Jennifer was writing.
So, while Jennifer chatted with the feature subject, Craig and I chatted and he snapped a couple of shots. And, of course, I mugged for the camera.
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Here I am launching my counter offensive. (Photo by Craig Sanders)
And here I am launching my last-ditch effort to fight back the paparazzi horde. (Photo by Craig Sanders)
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If only coffee made us as smart as beer makes us dumb.
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Nice surprise earlier today – lunch delivered to me at the coffeehouse. Chicken Greek wrap, fresh fruit and some Kettle chips. It was perfect.
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The quiet sanctuary of the coffeehouse was disturbed the other evening when a local paranormal society parked itself in the seats next to mine. The only ghosts I want in my coffeehouse are those of my most recent coffee. … And why do they call going around in the dark “investigations”? Really?
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Ooold style jazz in the coffeehouse. Soo, nice!
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Blah, blah, blah, blah, coffee, blah, blah, blah, blah, coffee, blah, blah, blah, blah, coffee …
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If the woman at the next table uses the phrase “like, um, you know” one more time, I may need to scratch up some bail money. Can I count on donations?
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Guy just walked into the coffeehouse wearing a white shirt with epaulettes, navy pants … and what appear to be two-tone golf shoes. Yeah, FootJoys. This guy doesn’t know whether to go to the Lido Deck or the links. … But in his defense, the epaulettes are a nice touch.
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A pretty young woman — a complete stranger — just flashed me a very big smile. That does not happen nearly often enough.
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I just spotted a woman pushing a Chihuahua in a baby stroller. I can’t decide if that is an indignity or just makes the little rat-dog lucky.
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This is something new. There’s a guy sitting on the coffeehouse patio with his own ashtray – a topless mermaid with a clamshell in her lap serving as the actual ashtray. … She’s looking away from him as if she’s pissed or something. … I suppose if someone was throwing cigarette ashes in my lap I’d be pissed, too.
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I just overheard a couple of guys in the coffeehouse talking about O.J. Simpson. Apparently, he did it, the LA cops screwed up the investigation, and some of the people involved lied. These freakin’ legal geniuses should have come forward years ago! Now we know the truth. … By the way, this was intertwined with a conversation about the mob. I’m not sure how they were connected, but there you have it.
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The guy who was sitting on the couch next to my table was wearing a great tropical shirt! Palm trees, dugout canoes, grass shacks, bright colors, perfect. I’d ask him about it but his mommy just rolled him out of the coffeehouse in his stroller. He’s a toddler.
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A sign taped to one of the tables reads “Wet floor. Don’t sit here.” A guy just came in, read the sign, ripped it off the table, sat down and plugged in his computer. I hope he doesn’t electrocute everyone in the coffeehouse. That would simply ruin my day.
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Coffee — you are one of the top-five things in my life. … OK, maybe one of the top three.
And, yeah, I know what that says about the rest of my life, so zip it!
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The guy sitting at the next table is not nearly as funny as he thinks. Not nearly at all.
And, no, I am not sitting next to a mirror.
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I arrived at the coffeehouse earlier than normal and I’m feeling as if I need a coffee IV.
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Quiet coffee at the coffeehouse. The joint is nearly empty … in the middle of a holiday weekend. Some of you are simply not keeping up on your end of the bargain.
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Sweatpants are sweatpants, even if they have pockets and you wear them with a nice shirt. … I’m just sayin’. … I suppose I should mention that to the guy who just walked into the coffeehouse, but I’m not sure he would change his wardrobe or sense of fashion style.
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Letters From Away 