Starbucks
October 2, 2002
I’ve got a friend who comes up with a new business idea every time he walks into a Starbucks. Every time he walks out, it’s gone; he’s just outside another Starbucks, a lonely programmer with a latte in a cardboard sleeve, Ray-Bans low on his nose, wondering where the hell he parked. I spend a lot of time at Starbucks with my laptop, drinking Venti (that’s the big one) iced chai tea lattes with the other would-be writers with their laptops and big lattes. I shouldn’t say that: I don’t know for sure whether or not the others are real writers. The fact is the ones I’ve been watching appear to spend too much time talking on their cell phones and smoking their cigs till they’ve filled the ashtrays to get any writing done. They do caress their touchpads longingly while they’re talking. I suppose they could be poets. Come to think of it, I’ve never known any poets who weren’t chatty drug addicts. [Read more]
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