The author, smiling winningly Scott Raymond home


11 Apr 2003

A friend of mine, an acquaintance really, works at coffeeshop, she’s a barista. It’s a cool one, not one of the corporate chains, nor one of the self-consciously un-corporate ones, the ones that try to have funky furniture or offbeat indie zines laying around. This coffeeshop is geniunely cool; it doesn’t try to be anything. When I came in, they were playing Kid Koala, who is sufficiently underground to be quite cool. But sufficiently underground isn’t enough: they weren’t playing any of Kid Koala’s official, label-backed releases. No, they were playing his early, raw mixtape which was never released due to legal constraints. You could smell the street cred.

She made me an americano and I sat at the bar. Some small talk. I asked her what she thought about the coverage of the war; she’s a journalism major. “First,” she said, and she put a finger on the counter, like a bullet point, “I don’t want to be a foreign correspondent, I want to be an anchorperson.”

Something about the way she didn’t answer my question gave me the impression she had given this speech before. “An anchorwoman?”

“Yes, for the Fox News Network,” she said, as though the cameras were already rolling. I wanted to ask why — was it because of their fair and balanced coverage? — but she was just getting started.

“Secondly, I think that…” she started to say, but I cut her off. Listen, I said, sorry, I just realized that I’ve got to go. Meet a friend. Over at his place. So. Maybe I’ll see you around.

But that wasn’t true at all.