HOW TO LOOK REALLY, EXCEPTIONALLY, IMPOSSIBLY BAD IN PANTS

the turk, the angolan and the american, and nothing to have brought them together at the dinner table than the glory of globalization. it's been happening, of course, well all know, and to the point that talking about it more than just in passing has become almost altogether passé. and we'd thought that madrid had just been only a little behind in the line of transmission when we saw the bicycle hung above the espresso machine and the register at toma, that the bike bar was still a theme for great cities. but now (and even if there's still resistance in its andalusian sister city), what do you know? we find one -- and a microroaster at that -- in columbus. downtown. and everyone in hamilton county is a beer snob. in oversize chinos. it's a relief, though, in a way, that it's all over. no need to try to go home again. just go downtown (in your hometown) and smell the smell of the rose sweet shit wafting out of the roaster, direct (via the cultural export lines extending out) from the pacific northwest. delicious until you get to the dregs, after which even the old, abandoned hearse factory can't make you think it's cool. hearses and industrial ambulances. but maybe that's just the jitters, and those, surely, must also be the same in istanbul and luanda. so then, moving on.