Step into my office, where the baristas know my name (and deliver excellent service btw), Facebook is my water cooler, and a thousand writers bang away at a thousand Macbooks among a few people taking naps and charging their phones while the old man dressed head to toe in oversized houndstooth tweed shuffles around asking people to buy him a coffee and usually gets what he wants but never smiles or says thank you and generally gives zero fucks but then the place is suddenly taken over by a gaggle of sweaty spinners from Rocket Cycle across the street all jamming in among the strollers that are more like space ships and the power suddenly goes out across all of St. Clair West and I fantasize that it's the beginning of the zombie apocalypse and soon we will have to fight to the death for the last asiago pretzel.