In a feeble attempt to revive my dying research before it goes into complete cardiac arrest, I’ve been holed up in the neighborhood cafe. The most interesting thing from my morning is not the unbelievably cool equations I’ve been deriving, but the other patrons:
A little girl spent the morning eating play-doh and licking her mother’s keys like an ice cream cone. A hard-core bum came in to get his morning latte. One guy, in a feeble attempt to chat up the barista, kept talking to her about starb***s while she not so subtlely ignored him. Wrong place, dude. And the morning DJ came in wearing a suit and fedora and proceeded to spin hip-hop records at a deafening roar that drowned out passing freight trains. And then there was the crazy guy with pages and pages of equations all over the table. Weirdo.