I go to coffee shops regularly to keep my loathing of humanity at a low but consistent boil.

Yuppie urban-wanna-be regions, Pasadena for example, are excellent for this.  I’m in a wood-beam and exposed aluminum piping hipster dream; there is a large neon sign, MOTEL NO VACANCY flickering on the wall above me, and I think that this is what it would feel like to be me playing Charles Bukowski playing himself in a romcom about Charles Bukowski playing me. “NO” flashes fluorescent red above my head