Near the inner door is a short ursine man in an ill-fitting red coat. His bored features have a slight Asiatic cast. A coatrack stands nearby and the felt brush in his hand reveals his purpose. An imposing jukebox is looms on the other side of the room. It's straight Fifties, complete with all that fluted glass on top. It's a lost relic from that lost time when the world was sane and men took pride in the things they built. As it is, the gilt of the golden age has collapsed, revealing the dry rot present all the time.
On the couch lies two yellowish newspapers. You're familiar with one, if by title only--it's the New York Times--but the other one is a mystery. Why would anyone name a newspaper "The Onion", anyway? But perhaps they could shed some light on what this place is like. Above the faded old couch hang several old posters tacked to the wall, corners hanging limp like the resolve of cowards.
In a far corner of the room stands an old battered shelf full of worn books. They stand testament to ideas from bygone ages. As you move closer, you see that many, if not all, of the tomes have been damaged by time--some are probably illegible. Do you want to more closely inspect these ancient works?
Behind you lies the door outside; ahead leads into the common room of the Green Frog Cafe.