hanging out, down the street

One of my favorite cafes was just featured on SFist, which makes this rainy day suddenly not so bad. Is it okay for me to have a favorite coffee shop when I do not drink coffee? Guess what- I don't care. It's great, even if I drink tea with roses there. Yes, b*tches, I drink some girly sh*t with roses in it at times. I have written about the place before, but now I think it might be a Mission measuring stick of sorts. Do you like it? Do you enjoy the music? Can you sit quietly reading beside me? Can you have a Mission-esque conversation there with me? Can you hang out there without people watching, and without feeling watched?

If your answer is no to all the above, that is certainly no knock against you. It simply means the Mission might not be for you. There are probably lovely cafes in the Marina where other people can hang out for hours, but I would not know, because I break out in hives and have to leave immediately.

J & I went to my most favorite cafe both yesterday and the day before. Since I am incredibly lazy, I love Cafe Que Tal because it is a quick walk from my crack shack. But it is also warm and inviting, has excellent iced tea, sandwiches, breakfast foods, and my friend A swears that they make a mean cappucino as well. When J and I were waiting in line to order, she turned to me and pointed out that the guy in the corner looked like he wanted to murder someone. His beady, darting eyes and moody, black turtleneck definitely supported her conclusion (and made me severely regret making eye contact with him). A few moments later, J caught another dude walking in, and commented that he looked like that guy who feeds Buscemi to the wood chipper. After getting a stitch in my side from laughing, I had to agree- the guy had walked in with a hood over his head, an 11 o'clock shadow, and... well, basically, he looked like an ashtray.

When I surveyed the room, I suddenly realized that the place was filled with Mission Hipsters. As I remarked to J, now I understand why the 826Valencia Comedy Night a bunch of us attended on Saturday did not irk me in the least. Actually, I was slightly annoyed, but that was because my future husband, Zach Galifianakis, found out I had violated my restraining order and therefore pulled a no-show. I know that not everyone enjoyed the night. I know some of this had to do with the amount of beards, converse sneakers, and hipper than thou attitudes prevalent in the auditorium.

Somehow none of it troubled me. I pondered later whether it was because I have lived amongst these folks for some time now. Is it simply a matter of adaptation? Had I moved to the Marina some years back, would I now be comfortable amongst people in Juicy Couture and Kate Spade purses? Is it because I prefer to look more dressed up compared to the general crowd rather than less? Or is there something I secretly like about these hipsters?

I think it might be that we are all snobby about something. That is a simple fact that is unavoidable. Whether it is IQs, manner of dress, political leanings, musical tastes, we all have a certain amount of snobbery. And somehow, I suppose my snobbery tends to match up more with the Mission Hipsters than any other group. I am not sure what this says about me, because I am definitely not a member of the Mission Hipsters, evidence by the fact that:

• I am a corporate slave, with a nine to five grind.
  
• I have shopped at The Gap.
  
• I do not drink coffee.
  
• I have never tried ecstasy.
  
• I have never been to Zeitgeist.
  
• I still listen to Death Cab for Cutie, and get excited when I see a sign that seems to indicate that they are playing in my neighborhood.

Perhaps this just makes me someone who wants to be someone I am not. Or maybe it makes me a generally oblivious person. Last year, I went to the same event with my friend MM, who was visiting from Santa Barbara. She could never be classified as Mission Hipster either, but we did not even notice that distinction when we were there. Granted, last year's acts were actually a bit funnier in my opinion. This year's only real noteworthy performance was John Hoogasian, who took that delicate, tiny leap from Mission Hipster to Mission Crack-ho and ran with it. I cannot divulge his best line, because I want J to bust it out- it belongs on her blog.

Which brings me to the best part. And that is typical for my blog, improperly structuring a post so that the most important thing is overshadowed by all my b*tching and meaningless musings. The best part was, of course, J. She made me want to get a roommate, because having her around this weekend rocked. This is one of the best things about San Francisco. It is so simple to feel like you are on vacation here, even if you live here year-round. Even though I did not show J a particularly wild and raucous time, I got a lot of joy out of just walking around and chatting with her. Oh, and she did not complain once about my crack shack, which also makes her something of a saint.