In Sherman Oaks, they know me. They understand the SJG. In Studio City, they don't understand me all that well. For example, they don't know that the sight of two young hipsters asleep on sofas parked outside a hipster cafe will disturb me. Why? Because I'm a mother. A mother doesn't want to see two young hipsters asleep on the sofa, outdoors or indoors, and not be able to cover them up with a nice blanket. Such is my instinct when I see my own two sons asleep on the sofa. From babyhood on, I've covered them with a blanket. It's one of my main skills. Blanket-provider. It's right there in the job description. It's what I do, what I take pride in. Doesn't matter if it's cold or 100 degrees. I still cover them. That is the SJG way. So to see these two unknown patrons of the hipster cafe asleep without blankets... well, it made me feel badly for their own mothers. The fact that these two were slumming it in public for all to see only added to my angst. Clearly, it was time for someone to wake their lazy asses up. Someone other than me, of course. So I went inside and told the gal behind the counter, "You've got two sleepers on the patio." "Not again. Hey, Kerouac!" A waiter with a knitted cap pulled down over his eyebrows appeared. "Hey, Tangerine." "Can you go wake up those two dudes in front?" "Fo' shizz," Kerouac said. As he went outside to rouse the napsters, I grabbed a booth and texted my sons. If I couldn't cover them with blankets, at least I could smother them with emojis full of love.
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