power hungry

The only time I really like to write is when I'm out and about... not like when I'm shopping at the mall or working out. It's not like I'll be powering up my laptop in between my bicep curls. But, still, I find the environment most conducive to writing creatively is usually at a Starbucks. When I'm home, there are oddly too many distractions. Most would think that being in public with other people and noise and sites and sounds that the distractions may prevent me from being productive, but I find the opposite to be true.

When I'm home, there are so many other things that can prevent me from doing something I might really need to do. Clean the litter box, mop the floors, take out the trash, fold laundry, iron shirts, sleep... all these things will keep me from doing anything remotely productive like writing. The oddest part is that I hate doing almost all those things; but when I'm home, I feel practically obligated to do at least one or a few of those chores. Since the cat doesn't lift a paw to clean up after herself, I turn into freaking Alice (without the Bunch) when I'm at the house. That's why on the days lately when I 'work from home,' I'm working from Starbucks.'

One draw back from only feeling inspired to write when I'm at a Starbucks is that unless I'm near a power outlet, the writing becomes a timed event. This afternoon is a prime example. Choosing a much too crowded Starbucks to plant myself, I had to take the only table available.

I don't mind it being in the center of the Starbucks; after all, this helps fill some flawed need I have to be the center of attention and continue my dillusion that the world revolves around me. Plus, I get to witness pretty much everything going around me... like, from here, I can see the guy who has been waiting on the restroom for about 5 minutes... which means the person IN the restroom has been in there for 5 minutes... which means the guy waiting probably doesn't want to go in there any time soon.

From my current vantage point, I also can pick up the odor the guy that smells like a dog. I can hear the guys next to me debating the virtues of Dallas. I can see the guy across from me is reading the Lisa Jackson novel "Wicked Green" (it looks stupid-- and quite honestly, so does he a little bit).

But, most of all, I see where there are available outlets and how each one of them is blocked by people NOT using or needing them. There are the Turkish guys with their med school books at one table near a wall outlet. Yes, they need the larger table, but not the plug. Still, they are spread out and appear as though they'll be planted there for a while (even if they are only splitting a tall coffee).

Then, behind me is a couple of guys who looked like they met online and chose this Starbucks to meet in person and see if they hit it off. From the body language it seems like a match. Goody for them. I'm sure they'll tell their adopted grandchildren all about this day.

The only other outlet in the place is actually being used by some guy on his laptop. I'll forgive him for using the plug. I will not forgive him for that shirt he's wearing.

So, here I sit, in the middle of everything but completely cut off at the same time. No energy source. No power. As I see the battery measurement slowly but surely decrease, I know my time is limited. So, instead of crafting a well-written piece with substance and depth or humor or style, I'm just going to go do what any gay man does when he can't get what he wants. He goes shopping.