Wednesday, June 02, 2004
The Dwellers of Crest Liquor
Spent the holiday weekend in San Diego. We did stuff (Marah picked a bumper boat fight with rowdy 10 year olds), but mostly we were drunk. Gloriously, holiday weekend drunk (she was not drunk during said fight). When we needed drunk people food or more beverages, we trecked down the sand-paved sidewalks to Crest Liquor.
Now, the thing about where we stayed (our gracious host, Annie, has a sweet apartment overlooking the bay) is it's right on the border between Mission and Pacific Beach. Mission Beach is nice. Chill, not too crazy. Pacific Beach, on the other hand, can most accurately be described as 24 Hour Meat Market: The Town. The bars have names like Moondoggies and Moose McGillacutty's. It's Hermosa times 10. If you don't live in LA, it's like the bar scene in Top Gun. Or the volleyball scene. Or the scene where Iceman almost chomps Maverick in the locker room. But not like the scene where Goose dies. That's just sad. You get the idea.
So Crest Liquor is the unoffical city hall of Pacific Beach. Everyone converges there to see to the business of the town: partying. Over the course of the weekend I saw a shirtless dude with a severe wife-beater sunburn mock the cashiers while buying a 36-er; a girl with hot pink leopard-print tube top sloppily hanging on the shirt of her drunk, indifferent boyfriend; two guys crack up after slyly substituting "butt" for "bud-weiser".
Mind you, I was happily in the mix.
And the cashiers. The administrators of city hall. I'd feel bad about mocking them if they weren't such dicks. They huddled comfortably together behind the counter and got really put-out and bitchy every time they had to ring someone up. One guy had a tie with flames; another had a long pony tail; and yet another had traces of zig-zag facial hair. Characters, all. You have to be when you're the District Attorney of Chillin'.
But once again, happily in the mix. Gettin' loaded is what this country's founded on. Or whatever.
Spent the holiday weekend in San Diego. We did stuff (Marah picked a bumper boat fight with rowdy 10 year olds), but mostly we were drunk. Gloriously, holiday weekend drunk (she was not drunk during said fight). When we needed drunk people food or more beverages, we trecked down the sand-paved sidewalks to Crest Liquor.
Now, the thing about where we stayed (our gracious host, Annie, has a sweet apartment overlooking the bay) is it's right on the border between Mission and Pacific Beach. Mission Beach is nice. Chill, not too crazy. Pacific Beach, on the other hand, can most accurately be described as 24 Hour Meat Market: The Town. The bars have names like Moondoggies and Moose McGillacutty's. It's Hermosa times 10. If you don't live in LA, it's like the bar scene in Top Gun. Or the volleyball scene. Or the scene where Iceman almost chomps Maverick in the locker room. But not like the scene where Goose dies. That's just sad. You get the idea.
So Crest Liquor is the unoffical city hall of Pacific Beach. Everyone converges there to see to the business of the town: partying. Over the course of the weekend I saw a shirtless dude with a severe wife-beater sunburn mock the cashiers while buying a 36-er; a girl with hot pink leopard-print tube top sloppily hanging on the shirt of her drunk, indifferent boyfriend; two guys crack up after slyly substituting "butt" for "bud-weiser".
Mind you, I was happily in the mix.
And the cashiers. The administrators of city hall. I'd feel bad about mocking them if they weren't such dicks. They huddled comfortably together behind the counter and got really put-out and bitchy every time they had to ring someone up. One guy had a tie with flames; another had a long pony tail; and yet another had traces of zig-zag facial hair. Characters, all. You have to be when you're the District Attorney of Chillin'.
But once again, happily in the mix. Gettin' loaded is what this country's founded on. Or whatever.
