Ben’s a little distracted.

Sort of following the game, but not really, because his mind is on something that happened this morning.

This morning, like most mornings, Ben eased into his day at the Coyote Grill.

He got a table on the open deck near the fireplace and ordered his usual pot of black coffee and the crazy-good eggs machaca (for those in the benighted regions east of I-5, that’s scrambled eggs with chicken and salsa, a side of black beans, fried potatoes, and either corn or flour tortillas, which might be the best thing in the history of the universe), opened his laptop, and read the Gray Lady to see what Bush and his coconspirators were doing on that particular day to render the world uninhabitable.

This is his routine.

Ben’s partner, Chon, has warned him against habits.

“It’s not a ‘habit,’” Ben answered. “It’s a ‘routine.’”

A habit is a matter of compulsion, a routine a matter of choice. The fact that it’s the same choice every day is irrelevant.

“Whatever,” Chon answered. “Break it up.”

Cross the PCH to the Heidelberg Cafe, or drive down to Dana Point Harbor, check out the yummy-mummies jogging with their strollers, make a freaking pot of coffee at home for chrissakes. But do not do not do not do the same thing every day at the same time.

“It’s how we nail some of these AQ clowns,” Chon said.

“You shoot AQ guys while they eat eggs machaca at the Coyote Grill?” Ben asked. “Who knew?”

“Funny asshole.”

Yeah, it was sort of funny but not really funny because Chon has smudged more than a few Al Qaeda, Taliban, and their assorted affiliates precisely because they fell into the bad habit of having a habit.