And here just last night, daydreaming while watering plants, I was lamenting my lack of imagination, due to an overabundance of common sense and pragmatism. Many would say these are strengths, I realize. Yet this morning I find myself at a brand-new Starbucks on Illinois Road, two computers with me. On one I try to do my actual work, for which I’m paid cash money -- very pragmatic, right? -- and am foiled by the company VPN and an insecure wifi connection. Dorking around trying to circumvent this takes so long I give up and never open the second computer, the turquoise one with the keyboard I love, which is full of imagination. Or at least I hope it is. Obviously, something was written, and work was done, but back at home under the auspices of a secure 16-bit WEP code. I suppose, if I were serious about this, I wouldn’t even have tried writing at a chain-store (if brand new) coffee shop, I’d have gone down the road to the local place. The place with homemade biscotti and in-store roasted coffee. But the roasting machine always makes the place smell, like, at work when an empty glass coffee carafe gets left on a warmer, like burned coffee, not brewed coffee. And always-good-smelling Starbucks, bless their corporate heart, rebranded their food counter with La Boulange products, which is French for ‘Cathy come here right now and have a chocolate croissant.’ Not really, I think it just means, ‘The Bakery,’ decidedly unromantic, even in French. Yet what do I care for particulars? You’re sitting there reading the blog of a person who went to Paris and had Diet Coke and les frites (yea, now, that sounds better in French) at McDoo's. But hey, I was at the Louvre. And I’m getting endless blog mileage out of that one particularly distressing culinary incident. Anyway, I had time to enjoy that warm croissant, and now the mocha is making my kitchen smell pretty damn good. I’m thinking that maybe my imagination’s been perked up a little, what with the French pastry and the coffee smell and all. J.K. Rowling wrote in coffee shops, you know. Kind of wish I could whip up some polyjuice potion and take on the appearance of a real writer, at least. Although I’d have to write and ask J.K. for a hair, or something. Gross. But maybe I've imagined myself into that part, anyway. Appearances can be deceiving. Or not.
At least at home we choose our own playlist