Camembert, perhaps.

I don't write in this stupid thing enough. I can't even call myself a blogger, which is a title of dubious distinction to begin with, but at least it means you've been writing consistently and faithfully in the same spot, long enough to earn readership, or at least a degree of derision in the greater media world.

Consistently and faithfully are not the adverbs I would use to modify any of the verbs I attach to myself.

That last sentence could use a rewrite. But that would require faith and consistency. This is why no one's deriding me anywhere. Except maybe at the Ben Sherman store in SoHo, where I returned a shirt today.

But now my fingers are moving across the keyboard at lightning speed. Look at this. I am indeed "typing" if not writing.

I believe that New York coffee shops are designed as places to bring coffee shop employees together to have a good time. It is not geared toward patrons and their enjoyment. Patrons get to enjoy saying to their friends, "I'm at the coffee shop at 5th Ave and 13th," or "I was at the coffee shop all day, working on my screenplay." There's a romance about it in the big city. I fall sucker to it consistently. (look at that!) However, I never get any work done. And no one ever comes to the coffee shop to meet me. That's because the music is too loud, the coffee tastes like my ass, there is more often than not NOTHING to eat except almond biscotti, and the staff act like hipster monkeys grooming each other, going "Eek eek aaa! aaa!" while they paw at each other's butts and bump up the volume on Vampire Weekend.

And to add insult, they've all gotten rid of their Wi-Fi. They won't even let you pay for it. Sorry, we don't have it. That's when I conclude that they don't really want me there. You have no reverence for my ass in your seat. You have no desire to be the Paris to my Ernest Hemingway. You want me out as quickly as possible so you can go back to your conversation on scuba diving. That is when your ten-coffee punch card becomes useless to me.