This morning, Hank asked me to meet him at Starbucks to talk about some PC website stuff without all the usual interruptions of critique-week-student-crises. He was late, of course, caught in intervals on his way down the hall, up the stairs, and out the door of the school. Not only that, but once he arrived, no fewer than three students, an instructor, and an alum "stopped by" for lattes. Needless to say, we accomplished not-much.
While I waited for him, I had an opportunity to people watch, which meant the usual visual assaults: a woman in black pants with a bright green geometric pattern--pants that should only be worn to Junior League or book club meetings; a middle-aged Eric Clapton wannabe, sporting poetry hair and a white short-sleeved tee shirt with a vest; a variety of smug businessmen sweating off their mystic tans in their Brooks Bros.; and this guy in the photo, certainly off his meds, who sat outside all morning, styling his hair with an Ace pocket comb and his own snot. I shit-you-not.