I’m developing a tradition for my work-free Friday morning: going to a coffeeshop and reading. Nothing revolutionary. And yet, satisfying. I must avoid caffeine, but one large carmel macchiotto or chai a week, supplemented with a cream cheese Danish (which Starbucks returned to its menu, after being exiled during several years of organic elitism), is okay. 

But you also need a soft, thickly-padded chair. Something to sink into while you read. Starbucks has just two such chairs, both clustered together, and they’re always occupied. Last week, two ladies spent the morning chatting meaninglessly in those chairs. I sat on a hard chair at a table, waiting for them to leave, but they refused my persistent ESP signals. Today, two men did the same thing. I ate and drank and read “Crowdsourcing” on a hardwood chair which, I’m sure, violates the Geneva Conventions of coffeeshops.

Several weeks ago, seeing those chairs occupied, I simply moved down the street to a different coffeeshop. Shoulda done that today. Will do it next week. I must, must have a nicely padded chair. It’s a requisite part of the total Friday morning experience I seek, but which has been denied me yeah these past several weeks.

And thus continues the saga of my hardscrabble life infested with deprivation and injustice.