I walked from my house down to the lake this afternoon, after a physical therapy session in which I almost threw a crunchy lesbian through a six-foot mirror. Mandana brought memories of getting thrown out of my apartment when my neighbors said it was like living next to Wayne’s World. Sadly, no one mentioned Tony by name in the affadavit. I noticed Rod Dibble is still doing his thang at The Alley, which is impressive given I thought he gasped his last breath the night we got banned from that place forever. Walden Pond books is still run by aging hippies waiting for the white Che to lead them. I’m pretty sure that Ethiopian joint is running guns for terrorists. I know that’s true of the Grand Lake theater, cuz there ain’t no way that dude could pay his rent otherwise. Despite the unbearable smell at the southeast end of the lake, I still enjoy making it around. I heard a literal drug deal while the dude puffed away on a brown cigarillo, followed cellulite so jiggly I had to stop and gather my balance, heard one mother call her son a “fucking laughingstock and a joke,” and noticed the Oakland Boathouse was being redone into a lakeside restaurant by the folks who brought you the Beach Chalet. Gentrification is a tough sell by the lake where the bodies never pop, but I wish them well. Mostly, I couldn’t help thinking how relentlessly tired Grand Avenue continues to look. Some may find it funky and multiculturally vibrant, but I find it depressing. Every storefront just looks worn. Granted, The Serenader may have the greatest potential for any nightclub in the Bay Area, but who dares enter to find if it’s for sale? Hell, even The Golden Bear is gone, not that I ever went there after 1992, but it’s always nice to know just in case, ya know? Well, it’s been a long time since I’ve lived down there, but Smitty’s has just lost its appeal. I’m a fucking yuppie scum and I don’t even care anymore. I spent 8 dollars for a small beer at The Trappist the other night and I felt privileged for the opportunity. I’m listening to Slayer as I type but what's a soundtrack. Just another suburban juicer looking for a reason.26 December 2008
Walking the Lake
I walked from my house down to the lake this afternoon, after a physical therapy session in which I almost threw a crunchy lesbian through a six-foot mirror. Mandana brought memories of getting thrown out of my apartment when my neighbors said it was like living next to Wayne’s World. Sadly, no one mentioned Tony by name in the affadavit. I noticed Rod Dibble is still doing his thang at The Alley, which is impressive given I thought he gasped his last breath the night we got banned from that place forever. Walden Pond books is still run by aging hippies waiting for the white Che to lead them. I’m pretty sure that Ethiopian joint is running guns for terrorists. I know that’s true of the Grand Lake theater, cuz there ain’t no way that dude could pay his rent otherwise. Despite the unbearable smell at the southeast end of the lake, I still enjoy making it around. I heard a literal drug deal while the dude puffed away on a brown cigarillo, followed cellulite so jiggly I had to stop and gather my balance, heard one mother call her son a “fucking laughingstock and a joke,” and noticed the Oakland Boathouse was being redone into a lakeside restaurant by the folks who brought you the Beach Chalet. Gentrification is a tough sell by the lake where the bodies never pop, but I wish them well. Mostly, I couldn’t help thinking how relentlessly tired Grand Avenue continues to look. Some may find it funky and multiculturally vibrant, but I find it depressing. Every storefront just looks worn. Granted, The Serenader may have the greatest potential for any nightclub in the Bay Area, but who dares enter to find if it’s for sale? Hell, even The Golden Bear is gone, not that I ever went there after 1992, but it’s always nice to know just in case, ya know? Well, it’s been a long time since I’ve lived down there, but Smitty’s has just lost its appeal. I’m a fucking yuppie scum and I don’t even care anymore. I spent 8 dollars for a small beer at The Trappist the other night and I felt privileged for the opportunity. I’m listening to Slayer as I type but what's a soundtrack. Just another suburban juicer looking for a reason.
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2 comments:
Ok let me tell you about my own little scene. The admiral's Club in Miami Airport. I thought point of this sort of club is that you are separated from the hoi poloi?instead they're in here with their families. Dad with an enomous gut red eyeglass frames and a stupid fucking stripey shirt, mom in some dumpy mall outfit and dye job, 4 kids who act like they've never been told no in their lives.
The food sucks. The espresso however is shockingly good. Most disappointing is the wifi which doesn't let you download Itune songs even if you sign up for T Mobile.
Gotta go get on the team for our flight. I'm going to try to read some more on this flight and ignore the cretins around me. I hate people.
good to know every post is all about you- it's comforting
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