I'm offering entirely low-impact bloggin' this mornin' - hope all of those that wanted Maya pics appreciate what I threw up herein last nite. I'm trying to get some work done around taking time out to meet a fellow "new Dad" friend for coffee at a favorite cafe in Cole Valley. But I simply must attempt to defame a cheeseball who just came into my frame of reference. If you've ever believed me about anything, believe me about this. Imagine a punk rocker chick. Cute, but not too much so. No offense. Your standard studded belt. Bandanas tied around her lower calf (hey, Axel - your future wife appears to have raided your closet last nite). Platform chunky shoes. Black clothing, shoulders to toes. Poorly-dyed red hair. As she sits down at the table next to me she pulls from her army green sling bag (!) the recent punk rock non-fiction history titled "Please Kill Me" (haven't read it myself, but I've heard good things). All of this sounds in character for a generally-attractive, entirely-standoff-ish punk, I'm sure you'll agree. But then she pulls out her Sidekick and makes a big deal of flipping it open to check her messages - for those of you unaware or uninterested, Motorola's Sidekick is the under-30 Blackberry with a pricetag that is wholly unjustified. And then I noticed that she'd brought in a Venti Starbucks cup. Please excuse the shouting but THIS IS AN INDEPENDENT COFFEESHOP! Unless that's 20 ounces of gin, you're a fraud. I haven't seen this much cheesiness since the Cheddar Carving Contest at the Wisconsin State Fair back in '81. If I was two decades younger, I'd stand up and throw a green tea with just a touch of lemon in her face...
Wait. She left for the bathroom and hasn't returned for more than 10 minutes. I'm going way out on a limb here, but I think she's shooting up in there. Yup - haven't seen her for WAY too long. She's a mess. Gawd Shave the Queen. Whatever you take that to mean.
Regardless, hope your own radicalism has unimpeachable street cred today. Rock on.
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