The cliché about coffeehouses in Los Angeles being filled with writers is no truer than the cliché about humans needing oxygen. Yours truly helps perpetuate that cliché. I need to get out and have some human contact, despite the periodic accusation that I don't socialize enough. (I like to reply to such accusations by email, just for the irony.) I actually get most of my work done at home, but I can't stay home all day. That would be nutty. So as a way of killing time before finishing this column, I went to my favorite coffeehouse yesterday for more material. I figured I wouldn't have to look very far. Coffeehouses in L.A. are also filled with nuts, you see.

There are degrees of writers you can find in coffeehouses in L.A. At one end are those who don't actually write much. They want to be writers, so they go out in public with laptops and work on the never-ending screenplay that they'll never sell. They fool themselves that they're actually writing. At the other end are the writer writers, the no-bullshit kind who aren't there to make friends or chat with anyone but the barista. They only go out to write because they have an annoying roommate. They fool themselves that they have a social life.

Many fall in the middle. We want to get work done, but it would be nice to socialize while we're at it. Since coffeehouses run the gamut from the talkies to the silents, we're free to find the one that suits us. Mine is not far from my place here in the San Fernando Valley, and I go there often enough to be familiar without breeding contempt. As a result, I have some engaging chats with some regulars when I'm not actually writing. The flip side of this is that some regulars have some inane chats with me when I am actually writing.

Some show up several times a day, walk around to chat up any regular they can find, and leave without buying anything. Most notable among them is Dave, a tall, middle-aged, straggly-haired fellow who does at least one walk-through every single time I visit. Despite his extremes in personality, he's hard to describe. Try to imagine Paul Lynde's less successful, less funny brother who's still laboring to reach similar heights of adoration. He makes these affected faces with his jaw protruding and his eyebrows raised as he enters a room, looks for anyone to talk to, banters noisily with only the occasional flicker of wit, and, while square, is hardly centered.

Dave rubbed me the wrong way the first time I never met him. Whenever he was there on one of his usual drive-bys and heard me say something funny, he'd let out a cackle loud enough for people in neighboring buildings to hear him, then yell, "What a wit! This guy!" Then he'd take a playful swipe at my shoulder like he was my sidekick on a morning talk show. Unsolicited flattery is apparently his only M.O., because once he realized I wasn't responding to it, he ran out of things to say to me.

I used to be completely annoyed by Dave, but I've lightened up, even saying hello to him sometimes. He is what he is, and he's not out to disrupt me on purpose. Also, I have it on good authority that he's not only bipolar, but has spent years taking care of his ill wife. These walk-throughs are probably the highlights of his day.

Another less frequent but no less off-putting regular is Bartholomew. You can tell that he's an intelligent guy just by the way he speaks. The fact that he always references his curriculum vitae helps too. He's been—or still is—a professor, psychologist, philosopher, author, and who knows what else. A guy that smart is bound to drop a few pearls of wisdom from time to time, particularly since he appears to be on a lifelong crusade to master the art of conversation by talking as much as possible. He enjoys talking so much that he'll keep going even after you bury your face back in whatever you were reading—even after you've left the room, it's been theorized. (If Bartholomew is talking in the forest... )

Bartholomew on where to live: "Berkeley is an outdoor lunatic asylum. L.A. is too, but at least the people here have some class."

Bartholomew on Dave: "He's good for a few laughs as long as he takes his medication."

Bartholomew on the collective unconscious: "[Blah blah blah... ]" for about three minutes.

Despite his chattiness and a pomposity that has driven a few writers to hang out elsewhere, I like Bartholomew. And Bartholomew likes me. I know this because he's extended a standing invitation for me to come over and have a martini with him sometime. I think he wants to give me his undivided attention while he watches me listen to him talk. More likely, I think he just needs company.

I arrived yesterday around 3:00, ordered my black coffee, and took my seat, wondering what sort of wacky episode might occur that would compel me to write it as it happened. If the offending nut then were to ask me what I was writing, I could suppress laughter. It would all make for a great story.

I sat there for an hour. I met another writer with whom I had a short discussion about a certain word usage. Then he went back to his writing. Then he left.

Then a regular showed up; then a second. Quinn and Russ. Quinn and Russ are two writers, real writers with the track records to prove it and without the need to brag about them. Furthermore, they are not nuts.

I bitched a little about how challenging writing can be. Then we all got to work: them typing away on their laptops, me staring at my notebook. I wrote nothing.

After I'd been there two hours, I got up to leave. Not because no one showed up with a story, but because there is a fine line between being a writer and being a nut who sits in a coffeehouse for an extended period of time not getting anything done.

Dave finally came in just as I was leaving. We said hello, then he said something he'd never said to me before.

Dave: "How are you doing?"

Me: "Fine."

Then I went home and wrote.