It’s beer o’clock in Hipster City. Even better, it’s Tuesday, which means this hi-test myrrh-smoked gose before me cost me only $5 plus tax (and tip – always tip). I’ve been planted in this high-ceilinged room for three hours now and have gone through a “large” drip coffee (which is a small with a refill) and a gluten-free cookie while seated on a decently padded stool at one of the five dark wood-plank four-spot high-tops, copyediting a Darien Gap of academic prose with my editorial machete. The music has lately shifted from anodyne jazz to techno-club, and the joint is jumping as the laptop-bound cyberserfs are joined by the thirstier crowds done work for the day. Continue reading
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