| (no subject) |
[May. 12th, 2008|06:57 pm] |
You know, over the years, a couple people have asked me why I live where some would perceive as the middle of nowhere. Well, for starters: this isn't the middle of nowhere. Make no mistake, if I could choose to live in the middle of nowhere, I might, however, considered the duration and energy I expended assembling my last Ikea "no assembly required!" item, I don't think I have the skill set necessary to brave the wilderness.
For those of you who are unclear of my whereabouts, I could mention to you the close proximity to school. That might make sense. Or I could explain that one of the only reasons I've stuck it out so long is the convenience of that decrepit, dank darkness we refer to as 24 Hour Fitness (nothing like a 2 am working a block away). I could tell whimsical stories of the smoke shop that will charge you 8 dollars for a goddam pack of Camel Lights, or how the 7-11 finally got their liquor license back so that I can once again get my post-workout-2 am-I-have-to-wake-up-in-six-hours buzz on. Certainly, Mr. Pizza Man is a block away - so close, that when phoned for delivery, the nice man decided to remind me of my sloth and suggested that it would be quicker to walk down the street. There's just something magical about having food arrive to your door, though I did end up making the two-minute trek. I could spend hours divulging how many times I've made an afternoon trip to Walgreens (OR!) Rite-aid (OH, THE CHOICES!) to feed my sleeping pill addiction. I could shamelessly remark that, yes, while I grew up in the Mission, I am not afraid to have a sensitive spot for Taco Bell, which is parked right next to my beloved laundromat , which I have yet to learn to operate (told you I couldn't dwell well in trees.
)
But all of this would be mere fluff. These fine eateries and scenic sights are but the beginning of my love affair with Ocean Avenue.
It all began about a half an hour ago. There's a hobby store next to the place where I wouldn't get my hair cut if they paid me and the place that doesn't give you peanut sauce when you order spring rolls (god dammit, that's the best fucking part!) So, apparently the hobby store closes at 6. Well, apparently Tough Man with Macho Tattoos (TMMT) didn't realize. Poor guy, just looking to build a sail boat in a bottle or a miniature replica of some WWII plane. Anyway, it's 6:05 and TMMT is greeted by Crazy Man Who Doesn't Look Like He Runs a Hobby Store (CMWDLLHRHS). "We're closed," huffs CMWDLLHRHS. TMMT alerts the closer that it's merely 5 minutes after and he really would just like to purchase some kind of toy to heal the pain of his miserable existence (my words, not his). CMWD (for short) exclaims that he's sorry, but he's already locked up.
Then things get heated. TMMT proves that his ink is not for show and threatens CMWD with, "well, the last time I went to Ross at 5 minutes after closing, they opened the fucking doors and let me buy my shit!" Dude. Ross? Your cred just fell out of your ass. Come on, man. ROSS?!?! At least say something like...I don't know....Wal-Mart! At least they sell guns, bro. So. Anyway.
CMWD has really had it.
He explains that if he wanted to shop, he should have noted the FUCKING hours and that if "we stayed opened for every ASSHOLE that wanted to shop on his MOTHERFUCKING schedule, I'd never get to go home to my kids!"
Oh, nice card, CMWD. Play the kids.
Blackjack!
Before CMWD could collect his earnings, TMMT shuffles his knuckles and slams down a pair of aces quicker than you can say "go fish" and back the fuck up because CMWD is now on the ground, writhing from that crazy son of a bitch who had to prove that aggressive men with anger management issues can shop at Ross and eat their cake.
Someone called the cops. It sure as hell wasn't me. I was smoking backstage in the wings hoping that we could maybe do another song and dance or at least a reprise.
So, the next time you think you're in the center of the universe, Market and 4th, you remember your gangly little cousin, Ocean Avenue. What we lack in purchasable hobbies, we more than make up for in drama and amusement. |
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