I drink a lot of coffee. Probably more than 50 dollars of it every month. Here in California a double cappucino goes from anywhere between $2.25 and $2.75; coffee was more in Boston, at least when I last visited, but I drank less of it when I was there. Sometimes I have café au lait or plain coffee (with milk), which go for less, but I dislike spare change and put it in the tip jar unless there’s more than 50 cents.

Coffee only recently became more than an occassional beverage, and this in Boston (perhaps this should be another entry). I started drinking it not because I really liked it but because I liked sitting in cafés and reading until very late at night.

Berkeley has been disappointing, but I still have the habit. Most places close at 11pm or earlier, have uncomfortable chairs and entirely the wrong atmosphere, and awful music.

I’ve started going to this place on Durant called Wall Berlin. It’s the closest anyone’s gotten to my beloved Curious Liquids (now out of business), 1369, and the Someday Cafe; and if they’re a little too conscious of their image, I’m willing to blame this on California rather than any particular person.

Also, the first time I actually went in was after a long and satisfying conversation on the phone with a certain woman, and my aura of self-assurance and happiness leaked into the floorboards of the place.

At any rate I’m in there on a Wednesday night, drinking something and trying to read Agamemnon in an old translation. If you ever see me trying to read Agamemnon I’m probably just watching people. A man and a woman, the man dressed in leather jacket with spikes, etc. The punk rockers usually sit outside and the indie rockers and constipated intellectuals inside. He’s talking about music to the barista and the woman he’s with. Someone mentions Skinny Puppy. The barista leaves and the man and woman are pleased to find that they both hate the Beatles. The Beatles start playing music on the stereo (they do this sometimes, one of my objections to being here); the man and his date laugh and leave.

Later an older man comes in; he was playing chess the last time, and I manage to get into a series of games with him. I lose all of them, and should win the last one except that I’m distracted by the barista 86’ing someone.

Strange things make me happy, as I tried to explain to Elena on Tuesday, and the happiness almost always comes later, as if it were an explanation.