The Kvetcher Has Become the Kvetchee

If I may take a moment to publicly flog myself: I have now become something that for years I have hated. As a writer, it would always bother me to walk into a coffee shop and see the hordes of douchebags clicking away on their laptops. It seemed so pretentious to me, that in a town filled to the brim with wannabe screenwriters, all these people would venture out into public to practice their craft. I perceived it as a desperate, transparent attempt to be seen, as if they were hoping Jerry Bruckheimer would stroll in for his morning macchiato, notice the unshaven guy in a beanie using Final Draft on his MacBook, and tap him on the shoulder curiously. "I notice you're working on a screenplay," he'd say. "Will you tell me what it's about so that I can hand you this bag of money and make you famous?" I mean, why would these people choose to come to a place that is 1000 times more distracting than the quiet of their own homes to do something that requires a good deal of concentration? Never made sense to me. Thus, I mocked these people.

And now, as I focus my Kvetch Beam inward, I finally understand. You see, living alone and working at home has a tendency to drive one somewhat stircrazy. After I spent my entire day yesterday in my own home, talking to nary a soul, alternating between writing, doing pull-ups and playing Wii frisbee golf, I decided I needed to get out more. But to do what? Wander the streets? Go shopping for stuff I don't need? Alas, no. The conclusion I reluctantly came to: do my work in a coffee shop.

And so now, here I sit, at this very moment, existing as the quintessential asshole I spent so many years reviling: a wannabe screenwriter, sitting at the Coffee Bean on Sunset Boulevard, writing a script on my MacBook Pro. Forgive me, Past Ethan. At least I'm drinking my coffee black.