emma b. says

Wednesday, January 12, 2005

Wave of Irritation

as hummed to Wave of Mutilation by the Pixies, but then I think that might be a wee bit insensitive... But it is true, I have been irritated these past few days.



deeply annoyed

I suspect that I know the cause and it is rooted in impatience.

The cherry on my irksome sundae was my dinner. Some silly girly website had breathlessly gasped that this new restaurant in my neighborhood was just the best! I had put off trying it out of spite, since it opened in the place of my favorite Tuesday taco and margarita joint. But since my day was taxing and then I got lost in Amoeba records and confused in the bookstore, I decided to try this new Moroccan place on Haight. The margarita was correct, but that where correct ended. Service, crap. Food, astonishingly bad. I was awed that they had the verve to cheerfully place three little ramikins of regurgitated dog food before me, after making me wait forty-five minutes. Fortunately I picked out Manhattan Transfer at the book store as (don't snigger) I have only acquaintance with Dos Passos and tranported me to a begrimed New York in 1920-something.

My neighborhood is vexing me, because it is becoming unfamiliar. Have I been wearing blinders these last years, all of my favorite haunts have disappeared to be replaced by cheap shops selling Britney wear and fifty kinds of schlock. The meth kids have doubled their numbers, all of the drunk hippies have died off or gotten sober. In the space of my four block walk home I was panhandled six times and offered some form of narcotic eight times, who buys drugs off the street?

Some of the old guard are still around. There was a woman up here a few years back, she had an impressive mohawk, two gorgeous dogs, a fabulous body and tatoos on her face. She had a mighty swagger, and the junk she was shooting reduced her to a sallow wraith and then she disappeared. I saw her a few months ago, apparently clean, the dogs are gone and so is the mohawk, and her boyfriend looks like a mummy, but I am glad she is alive.

And then there is Buff Man, cue Simpson's soundtrack, it's Duff Man. That's what my brain chimes in with everytime I see him, which is every morning as I am sprinting to bus stop, ever late. Buff Man is indeed, buff. He only ever wears tank tops, regardless of the weather Buff Man is sweeping the sidewalk in front of People's Cafe with his gorgeous arms on display, he seems impervious to the elements.

My previous posts have irritated me, I sound too pat, I sound as if I need a good hard slap, or maybe I just need to get laid, that must be it. But in the spirit of regretting the things that I say I just let them stand and bare up under my loquacious hair shirt.


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