Trapped Near the Circle of Fault

This is my view from my table at the coffee shop near my house. The house that, incidentally, is now ONE FUCKING BLOCK FROM OBAMA HEADQUARTERS for all of Southern California, which if you didn't know is the second-finest major geographical region in all of California. Right on my street, right in my jogging path, right by my coffee shop where inevitably Barack must come for a meet-and-greet and a cup of shitty espresso. Did I ever mention that my local coffee shop isn't that good? I just go to it because it is by my house and now the 'quarters, as we locals call them?

Anyway, the photo above is the view. I can see a notebook and a douchebag. But this entry isn't about the douchebag since I am so totally engrossed by the notebook. The thing that makes it special is that IT IS NOT MINE. Correct. Someone left it there and I haven't opened it yet. This book represents endless possibility. It could be a book of recipes for the finest barbecue brisket in the world. It could be a lengthy suicide note. It could be empty. It could be a series of To Do lists. Come to think of it, all those possibilities are boring as hell. My hours-long bout of wondering whether or not to pluck it from the windowsill and have a peek is ending quickly.

Let's talk about the douche behind it. The hat over the bandanna seems to say "I may be a douche, but I'm willing to also be a douche in layers."

I notice that the bandanna, the basketball shorts, and the sockless shoes all seem to match. This, refreshingly, suggests that this man wakes up in the morning, actively asks himself how he could be more of a douche, and discards several options before deciding on his douche ensemble. His douche-semble, if you will. RESPECK.

What a goddamn motherfucking day at the coffee shop.