How did Los Angeles, that haven of low-culture and strip mall malaise beat us (San Francisco) to the punch with high-brow coffee? (I jest. L.A. is great if you want to buy human bone jewelry, guzzle incredible garlic sauce, and hang out with famous porn stars in a 24 hour Jewish deli.)

How did not one of the six new cafes that opened  last week on Valencia Street contain even a passing reference to Thomas Pynchon and his mythical post-bugle as featured in The Crying Of Lot 49? (A book that almost made snail mail cool again.)

Carolyn Kellogg ponders Pynchonian coffee without answering any of my questions.