Saturday morning in the gay coffeehouse is yet another change of pace. I’m waking myself up, nursing a hot cup of Earl Grey and still trying to finish my lesson plans, but just about everyone else here is winding down from their evening’s festivities. A couple of punk-rock transmen, a guy with no shirt on under his heavy pea coat, a wild-eyed meth addict in the same dirty sweats I saw him wearing when I had dinner last night, and a couple of Larry Kramer doppelgangers in leather pants who are buying breakfast for a pair of painfully teenage rent boys. It’s all a little exotic and yet a little bleak, as these things often seem to be. There was also a little old lady drinking some tea for a while, but I couldn’t tell what she thought about the whole scene. If she lives in the neighborhood, she’s probably as blasé as I am, in her own way.