The Rocket Cat Cafe on Frankford and Norris. Must have funky sneakers to enter (negative--I'm wearing black flip flops). Must have a minimum of two tattoos, preferably in black ink only (failed again and I suppose moles don't count, nor does my one odd ear piercing that every fourteen year old girl now sports). Funky t-shirts and low slung jeans with chain wallet are the norm (again, no. Black cotton drop waist dress and oh, God, I bought it at Target). Here are the points of intersection where I don't look so out of place: I'm slightly dishelved, I have my laptop, I ordered a regular coffee and not some fancy pansy coffee drink that takes twenty minutes to make which puts the pixish, mostly unsmiling barrista off, I recognize the indy band playing (Rilo Kiley and have seen them in concert, thanks to Danny and Julie), and I live in the neighborhood. I won't be invited to any parties or band openings or CD releases at the new upstairs portion of Johnny Rockets like my friend Carrie, but I can sit here at the Rocket Cat, sweat sliding down my back because of the humidity and take advantage of the free Wireless and hope some of the coolness leaves a tiny shine on me for just a few mintues before Shawn picks me up to take me to the lawn and garden center.
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