a tale of two cafés

1. wednesday.
I am sitting here in a diner, hot chocolate in front of me, desserts in their glass coffin behind. Behind and to my right, just out of periphery, but I still know it is there. A man and a woman are in the corner preparing to sing and play guitar. At least that is what I deduce from the microphone stands and other open mic paraphernalia. They both must be in their forties, maybe early fifties with that SoCal-variety hippie feel going on. She has embraced her place in society, but he appears to think he is still cool; although denial would not be the word for it. He is describing a band that features one of his friends as having a “Seattle feel.” This he describes as a mix between Sugar Ray and BNL. I don’t know who BNL are; should I? She asks what he said and he replies “a mix of Sugar Ray and Barenaked Ladies”. I know who the Barenaked Ladies are. Do people really refer to them as BNL? Am I not as cool as I thought I was? There are also horns. Horns are apparently a Seattle thing. Not so much in LA.

Her: “That is too bad”

Him: “Yeah, it is. Horns are great and they are really big up there. So and so have just added another horn player because blah blah blah.”

So and so must be his friends band. I am from Seattle. That is not my Seattle. I want to tell him this. Correct him. Tell him he is wrong.

2. thursday.
Another day, another café. There is no dessert graveyard today. Actually, there is, but it is around the corner, out of sight. Forgotten. I am in Borders and there is a sort of reading room that spills out from the espresso counter and connects in different parts to the music section and periodicals. There are a couple thrift store style couches strategically placed to look random, trying to help you not recognize the corporateness of it all seeping into you. But I show them. There is a stack of books and magazines sitting in front of me that I have no intention of purchasing. I may even walk out with the LA Weekly without paying for it. I accidentally leave a couple coffee ring stains on one book cover, so that is now hidden in the middle of the pile until I leave.

There is another band setting up. Getting ready to play. They must not have heard that the Seattle sound is what is cool because I don’t see any horns. It is a whole band this time, and each member is much more visually appealing than the two in Ventura. Not model or actor appealing, but real estate/lawyer pretty. The art on the walls is the same. Water paintings of sailboats and cottages. No abstraction or harsh contrasts of shapes. “Boating Galore” $450. “Backyard Dock” $450.

[insert picture of really boring art here]

I look around, and the guy making drinks is wearing a wristband. I first assume it is a sweatband which makes me smile, but it is actually one of those thick black leather or pseudo-leather bands that I always associate with Johnny Depp. I wish I had the balls to wear a wristband. A sweatband. I have this kickass Mariners sweatband from back in the day that has the old pitchfork logo and everything. But alas, I am not confident enough to sport it in public. I used to wear it when I played softball. If anybody had teased me, I was prepared to play it off like a joke, but all my friends shared my enthusiasm for sweatbands. Especially ones that were 10 years old and had a cool Mariners logo. Especially when coupled with my Bash Brothers t-shirt from 1989. Come to think of it, how I did not have a fan club of beautiful girls that would come to all of my games is beyond me.