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A piece of banana blueberry muffin that I dropped the other day is still hanging around as I drop my coat, scarf and empty laptop bag to the ground behind my chair. I don’t mind it so much, or really at all, as I have issues with cleanliness but keeping it sorted at home allows me to enjoy it abroad. The silly cartoonish paintings of goats sorting coffee beans and all drawn with different styles that covers a large pillar that runs across the length of the place gives me the impression that the US will never quite get the idea of a hip European coffeehouse, and the thought doesn’t make me entirely unhappy.

The barista &em; as they’re calling themselves I guess, I was personally always more happy with “coffee guy” or, were my genitals reversed, “java hoe” I suppose &em; is an actress who admits that this is her real job to the man ordering ahead of me, but only after he says something to her along the lines of “someday when you get a real job“. People assume that coffee shop girls or Wal*Mart associates don’t have the ellusive “real job” but I’ve always wondered where the line is drawn between having a career and being seen as having just a temporary job. Are construction workers employed in “real jobs”? How about maintenance men? Janitors? A janitor at McDonalds?

I’d be more comfortable in the knowledge that only the hoity rich assume that a job at the Dairy Queen is beneath them and therefore not a real job, but I think we all know that I probably think the same way to a degree and the guy at Dairy Queen most likely isn’t going around bragging about his promising future with the Dilly Bar.

That customer leaves and the barista and I are left alone for a few minutes, before the regular morning guy &em; bald, chewing but rarely smoking, a cigar, and always on his laptop working diligently away, even when the WiFi is down &em; he comes rolling in, orders up whatever it is he gets and makes his way to the exact opposite corner that I sit in.

I like this particular corner. All windows to the left and behind, leaving my screen exposed to any passers-by, and staring right into the sculpture of a goat’s ass and giant blue balls. They love goats around here, and presumably celebrate their balls. Okay, I admit it, it’s the goat’s utters. But they are blue. That’s what they call art, my friends.

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