The Living Room, besides being a spot in most people's houses where the sofa resides, is a nifty coffeehouse in San Diego, California. It's located near San Diego State University, and every night the students who want to hang out or get some homework done whilst drinking excellent coffee can be found filling the seats in the Living Room.

My personal favorite beverage is a Cafe Blondie, double-sized. Three or four of them and you're wired for the next 36 hours. If you frequent it often enough you'll eventually run into Yurei, a member of our Everything2 family.

The Living Room is located at 5900 El Cajon Blvd, SDSU area, call (619)286-8434 for additional directions or to see if there is any live music that weekend.

Just found a link with some additional info:
My pants sit on a broken easy-chair opposite me in the living room. A stack of wasted money in the form of once-viewed DVDs mocks me while a Garfield doll smiles. Smug bastard. A photo of my brother and now-sister on their wedding day stands beside a pair of kissing parrot figurines which conspire with the happy couple to further my depression. Serving as a perch to these objects of discontent, a television and his henchmen work tirelessly to suck the life from my body. They are asleep now. Dust covers everything. A samurai's livelihood poses beneath the television's sagging teak throne; two Japanese swords lie sheathed on a stand - a katana and the sword used in the Hara Kiri ritual (the name of which an ignorant, americanised kid like myself wouldn't know) - their blades too dull to accomplish any but their manufacturers' goal: to cut money from the pants of affluent white men with Yellow Fever. Dozens of pieces of art around the room serve to validate the fetish - all but one being Asian. A razor's edge jumps to mind when I look at the smaller sword; longing and fantasy sometimes give me hope when I pull back the sheath. It's still dull. The swords are framed by heating vents which will blow the accumulated dust of half a dozen months into my air when the cold comes. Electrical cords run everywhere around the edges of the room - a fire hazard for the optomist and the pessimist in me. Nothing will change. One window stands bare of all four in the room. Through it pours once daily a beam of light that obstructs the television's numbing glow. I hate that time of day. Lacey curtains on the rest are stained yellow to match the walls and ceiling with years of smoking. Everything's yellow. A cluster of brown blemishes amidst the cobwebs on the stucco-like ceiling baffles me... how does someone spill coffee on a ceiling? A dusty lamp at my back illuminates a pile of small change I'm too lazy to put in the jar. The change has a coat of dust too. Above my father's chair hangs the lamp's distant ancestor; entombed in a decorative orange prison thirty years its elder, an aging light-bulb begs to be turned on and put that much closer to its demise. The couch upon which I sit is a new guest in my home. An uninvited, but welcome guest. Young, virgin - unfamiliar with someone of my experience. I'll break her in. A scent of vanilla is in the air. Odd. Pleasant, to a point - mainly because I know its source is my pipe. I'm comforted by this.

Fireworks in the distance only intensify my feelings of solitude - common folk are off gazing at that which they've all seen before. The smart ones will make some real fun out of it. Such is life, I suppose: fucking or thinking about it. Writing about it makes me seem more pathetic. Depression sets in, bringing with it a need to numb my senses with intoxication. Am I a junkie? I feel like one. I feel like I'm trying to kill myself in the most cowardly way possible, and just beginning on the slow road to success. One thing I'm sure of is that when I die, the dust will cover me before anyone notices. Dust covers everything.

This is my living room, the name of which is contradictory with what goes on here.

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