Of course her name is Cheyenne

I went to a cafe the other day, one I hadn’t been to before, along the long fashion stroll that is 24th street. That street contains multitudes, moving as it does from Noe Valley to the Mission, or put another way, from people who think graffiti is vandalism to people who revere as it art. People whose tattoos can be covered by their sleeves, to the land of full sleeve tattoos. You get the point. However, I should note that the end of the street with the Starbuck’s stays white out a lot later than the side of the street with all the one-cup-at-a-time artisanal roasters. 

But lately I’ve been digging cafe’s. I like to go them and not ask for the wifi password so I can focus on writing or reading or whatever, free of the distraction that is the internet. (My old neighbor, Stephen Elliot, at one point had a computer without a browser for this very same reason.) This cafe had a TV though. A big 36 inch wall mounted LCD playing daytime television. Playing Murray- is there anything else on? Cafe’s do not need soundless TVs. 

Anyway, the theme of the show that was on yesterday? Am I the father of my brother’s baby? 

One shudders to think of the concatenation of events that leads to being a guest on that show. 

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