I’m tired, groggy, and agitated that the lines at Starbucks are quadrupled since the start of the school semester, and my favorite barista girl has quit.  My head still hurts a little bit in combination of the hangover from the day prior, and not having a good night’s sleep.  And then a guy gets in line behind me, and is on his cell phone, and propagates black stereotypes by speaking as loudly and as animated as he can.

So it’s no surprise that I overhear his conversation; I’m pretty sure people at Piedmont Park could hear what he was saying at this point.  But being right in front of him, his words are crystal clear, and I’m trying my best to ignore it until I hear his idea for a business model: A sneaker bar.

A bar that instead of serving drinks, serves shoes.  Sneakers.  Kicks.  Cruisers.  Jordans.

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