I've ordered the same thing every morning for the past six months from the creekside Starbucks here, firmly, um, affirming my yuppie status. I even have that little Starbucks card so that I don't have to do such devolved things as pay in cash, or worse, use an ATM card for a $4 charge. This morning, they didn't have my usual scone, which sent me into a momentary panic. I could tell that this is going to be a bad day. I had already spent the night in a company conference room in my sleeping bag, so I'm cranky as it is.

Walking back, even through my iPod's headphones playing Yo-Yo Ma, I could hear Miles Davis coming through their exterior speakers. John Mayer says that wants someone who can distinguish Miles from Coltrane. I want someone who can distinguish Kind of Blue from Sketches of Spain.