Historians and Gore Vidal can not tell us what hipster dipshits were called in the 17th century or whenever the ‘oldest coffee house in Savannah’ commenced operations. SCAD and fixies had not been invented, and neckbeards and fedoras probably could not be used with irony yet. No one knows. We can assume with confidence, however, that they were as condescending to the gentry in their day as our own hip wait staff are in ours.

Read the full tableau »

My heart had just been broken, big time, immediately before my last visit to Savannah. I exited a plane from Copenhagen and plodded into the salt marsh in a deep blue funk, spending the following weeks devouring endless half-pound tubs of low grade hummus from the local Kroger and struggling to maintain a Skype connection on dialup.

However, it was mildly soothing scene in one respect; I was liberated from a specific hunger: soymilk was cheap and tofu was local; I was finally freed from my steady diet of sour apples, budget digestive biscuits, and boxed multi-vitamin ‘dryck’. On the other, hand I was marooned on a barrier island with only sporadic communication with my outside world, narrow as it is, without a bicycle for the first time since 2003, and obliged to a task too grim to describe in the pages of cafe tableaux.

Read the full tableau »