This is a continuation of an earlier note.
—
We finally meet up. I jump in the car. We take a nearby, innocuous seeming exit from the airport. There was no sign. No warning. No indication that we were being funneled (”Railroaded”, Lauren would call it, fifteen minutes later) to a road with no exits, no turnarounds, and absolutely no way to avoid a twenty minute trip to the not-so-nearby (province?) city of Alhambra.
a. Alhambra b. Union Square (i think?) c. Garment District (I think?)
Eventually, she asks for the map, and I offer my iPhone and a smug comment I don’t even recall. She, in turn, says something so biting, mean, and hysterical that I am speechless and sort of in awe. I feebly offer back “Oh yeah, well can your precious little map make phone calls?” But really, it was just a token jab, she’d won. I am jealous of people like David Sedaris who remember lines from three decades ago, this happened last week.
Eventually we find a place to park in the Garment District. The parking garage was either designed by MC Escher, or the production designer from Labyrinth, and it takes a little guess work to make our way out. At one point Lauren, panicked, turnst o me and asks “Do you remember where we’re parked?” I say “Yes” but think “Maybe”, because if I don’t, the damage has already been done, so what difference does it make?
The Garment District is hard to describe. It’s an outdoor shopping area that looks like the kind of place a car chase is liable to take place, destroying fruit vendors and sending shoppers sprawling.
(or)
The Garment District is hard to describe. It looks like the sort of place where someone will yell out “La Policia!”, and then everyone will quickly stow away their knock-off clothing and run away, and you’ll be left standing with your Gucci<b>i</b> bag and your Chan<b>n</b>el glasses, and your pending petit theft charges.
(or)
The Garment District is hard to describe. It’s an outdoor shopping area that looks a bit like everyone you know brought their closets out to have a yard sale. And everyone you know is from Mexico or Japan. And some of your everyone sell hotdogs.
Whatever.
The idea is that you can buy name brand knock offs for a fraction of the price. Lots and lots of clothes, and a surprising amount of stuffed animals. That the people who need fake nice clothes also need stuffed animals is a complete surprise to me. But maybe it shouldn’t. (”Oh I love your Guccii bag. Lets have sex without condoms. Babytime.”) The first stand I see, however, sells neither. It is a lady who is selling the following items:
A. marijuana pipes.
B. Realistic plastic guns.
This is… new. Do people sit around with plastic guns thinking “I sure wish I was high?”
Between you and I, I’ve listened to Legend a few thousand times. Bob never, never, ever laments that Jah never hooked him up with a “nice plastic aye kay.” (I am committing a treasonous crime by equating Bob with Weed but it needed be done.)
(Speaking of treason. Don’t EVER tell anyone about what I’m about to do.)
(It’s better if you sing along.)
THREE LITTLE BIRDS (Bob version)
Woke up this morning,
Smiled with the Rising Sun,
Three little birds,
Pitch by my doorstep.
THREE LITTLE BIRDS (Garment District Rewrite)
Woke up this morning,
Pulled out my plastic gun,
A fake old aye-kay.
Came with this glass pipe.
Or is it piece? I love potheads for the most part, but I hate the reverie they use to refer to their new “piece” like it’s a Matisse or something. Maybe it’s just me hating out of ignorance but every single glass pipe I’ve ever seen looks just like every other one to me, and I’m willing to bet your high ass that it looks the same to them too. The discriminating glass pipe connoisseur is a scam, and here’s why.
OWNER: Hey, have I shown you my new piece?
VIEWER: Ohhh mann, that is like…beautiful. Beautiful. Wanna smoke?
OWNER: <Already Smoking>
Every. Single. Time.
For me to put any stock in the exchange I would need to see -this- at least once. Just ONCE.
OWNER: Hey man,…have I shown you my new piece?
VIEWER: Hmmm. Dude that blows. You have no taste. Seriously. WTF were you high when you bought that?
OWNER: …
VIEWER: Oh. Right.
Oh well. Where was I? Oh. Right.
So. This lady is selling fake plastic guns and pothead functional artwork, and I stare at her display for a full 30 seconds trying to figure out if I’m being punk’d. She looks at me, the only dreadlocked person for four square miles and thinks her sales are going through the roof today. But I needed neither a polymer desert eagle nor the pot accessory. Definitely not both.
Man… if ever there were two things that you didn’t need to own both of… What is the opposite of a pre-requisite? Mutually exclusive? If require turns to requisite, does exclusive turn to exclisite? It should, but exclisite is most definitely not a word. It sounds sexual, and not in a good way. Like something that’s left after sex. Something that needs to be disposed of. The exclisite. Gag. But these two items should be mutual exclisites.
If you buy marijuana paraphernilia, you should lose the right to buy fake guns for 3 days. Owning both will do you no good and (most likely) might get you imprisoned or shot. Similarly, if you buy your first guitar, you should lose the right to buy an amplifier. If you buy white sheets, you should lose the right to buy scissors, kerosene, or rope. If you buy one of those racist Obama shirts you should lose the right to vote. If you buy an early pregnancy test, you should lose the right to buy a coat hanger. You, pardon the fetus killin’ pun, get the point.
http://wonkette.com/390464/rednecks-enjoy-obama-monkey-t+shirt
To be continued. Might take longer to write this, than to have actually done it.