Another University District

NorthPark, San Diego

The walk is populated even though many establishments are closed.  It had rained sometime when the sun was still up.  Now the dark streets are glazed in a shine which amplifies the ever-changing assortment of bright lights above.  My brain is soaring with gusts of addy and stabilized from the consumption of a spiked Arnold Palmer as I navigate the heart of North Park.  

A quick glance over my shoulder and I am clear to step to the side and come to a halt.  I may be moving too abruptly, but I’m in the slot.  I remove a small silver tin of menthol snuff and shake some out on the meat of my thumb and index finger before taking a sharp smell off my loose fist.  Instantly, the nicotine sends a thunderbolt from my sinus to my brainy bits; holding a dull pulsing sensation there for a few moments.  I stuff the canister back into my pockets and begin moving again.  Think I like the apricot flavor better.  “Bloody Mary” plays in my red wireless Beats, providing a dark electric pop soundtrack to this shallow puddle jaunt to the others.  Unrented electric scooters glow with a green halo on this dark night, left abandoned on their side like interactable equipment in a video game. 

As I approach the intersection of 30^th and University there is a commotion at the crosswalk.  Black curly hair, mediocrely tall, a man with a blue badge lanyard around his neck swivels his head venomously at the onslaught of traffic.  He is throwing a tantrum of impatience, questioning out loud the speed of the light while repeatedly slamming the crosswalk button as if the request hadn’t been latched already.  I immediately lose respect for this moron.  I lean back on my heels, keeping my distance as I wait.  This is the type of guy who switches lanes without using a blinker and who cuts in line at the offramp.  This D-bag tries to get into the elevator before the passengers have a chance to come out.  A guy like this uses public streets as his own personal trash can.  This is the scourge of society who takes the elderly seat on public transit and allows his kid to pester adjacent travelers.  The lights remain green for traffic.  I could see this same guy thinking kicking his dog would make him feel better, or perhaps yelling hate slurs would elevate him, or believing the horoscope was the reason for his failures.  Or maybe he was the type to lift holy hands on Sunday and free his conscious of all the wrongs he committed so he can go sin again on Monday.  If I were playing charades, I would guess that he was acting out “thin slice of absolute nut loaf” as he mutters with face twisted resentfully about the crosswalk as if the whole universe is conspiring to delay him.  He again slaps the button in rapid fire as if he can bully more control of time through his frustration.  The walking icon lights up…“God, I’m fixating” I realize as I suppress the urge to coldcock punch his head over.  

I meet up with M, James Dean, and Ross at a Mexican restaurant.  I guess a little fuel before the bar is always a good idea; a lesson learned repeatedly through the years.  This place was of course tiled, though not as ornately as many other American/Mexican restaurants.  The curious detail was the black and white checkerboard floor.  This is the floor found in ancient Egyptian temples, kitchens of English manors, found below the Queens staircase at Versailles, in Masonic lodges, the ground floor of King Solomon’s temple, and of course, here at Ranchos Cocina.  The balance of good and evil, the symbols of life’s dualities, were not lost on me as it covered a long plot that was sprinkled with tropical looking plants.  M was handling one and I asked quietly, “are they real?”  

She grit her lips, and shook to the contrary; “fake”

“As fake as a Kardashians ass” Ross chimed in and began hunching in laughter of his analogy, before being interrupted by his ringing budget phone.  I watched him barge out the front door, the way illuminated by his bright yellow tennis shoes.  We may not see him again for a while; he had a fierce independent streak from the group when something else was on his plate.  And he loved to walk, at a pace most dogs would be trotting at.  He also broadcasted a startlingly loud talking voice, so San Diego’s streets would be treated to this fast pacing, one sided conversation via his inherent vocal megaphone.  

“Ross is the best to watch sports with” I mused to the group as we waited in the alcove to be sat in this almost empty establishment.  

“He’s die hard New England” agreed Dean.

“I love how his accent comes out as he shouts and hollers at the TV”

Finally, an agreeable fellow apologizes for the delay and sits us in the front corner by the window.  I see the small moving figure of Ross across the block in the darkness.  

“Drinks!” says M “what do we have for drinks?”

The server is gone again, and in a few more moments, I half expect a tumbleweed to blow down the restaurant walkway.

In time we are able to order some XX lager’s; I decide to order in Spanish “Dos grande, por favor”  

When they arrive, they are in 32 oz bottles, which look like they have been reclaimed from a dumpster out back.  “I’ll bring you a glass” the waiter assures me.  The others have glasses and hold them out for filling.  Once, my server duties are fulfilled, I hazard some sips from the bottle, but the enjoyment of drinking from this size bottle was left back in underage land.  It’s been six minutes, I start despairing that he will return and look at my water glass for help.  I’ll drink this and use it for beer.  But halfway through I am waterlogged.  M holds out her hand, looking intently at my water cup.  I give it to her, and she promptly turns and pours it into the corner pot and hands it back to me in one fluid motion.  The goofy look we share confirms that she has not forgotten these are plastic plants.  “brilliant” I thank her and start pouring the cerveza. 

Back on the road we head to our next destination.  A packed bar that sprawls deeper and deeper, with a dark ambiance and Scottish hunting lodge vibe.  This cozy place is “the Seven Grand” and our man Dean is ready to get to work.  He is hunting cougars.  And while we can all agree that you can’t hunt cougars; they must hunt you, Dean has a plan.  This 6 foot James Dean look alike has hair slicked back with faded jeans and Chelsea boots, his standard uniform.  But more importantly, he has M, and M will be his bait.  She is an attractive blond wearing a casual black dress with exposed back, and he is half engaging her in conversation while also scanning the crowd for lonely older woman.   Nothing attracts a woman more than attention from another woman he figures.  It’s like a litmus test…if she likes him, there must be something there worthwhile.

The Grands impressive bar wall, shines backlit ambiance through liquor colored crystal, stretching the full length and reaching to the ceiling.  Each compartment holds a row of options, with a rolling wooden library ladder employed to reach the upper selections.  Ross does a quick tabulation as to the value, averaging each bottle to 100 bucks, and reported that there is much more than seven grand here in liquid assets.  Collecting his tribute by way of chuckle and clink of the glass for his joke, he surmises that it is closer to 50k of booze on display here.  Like anything with value, the mind thinks about what could ruin it, and my brain can hear the crashing mayhem of what an earthquake would do to this place. 

“They should call this place the 100 Grand” Ross chuckles.

“Yeah, but isn’t that confusing with the candy bar?” I hear Deans fading response as I go in search of urinary relief. 

A walk to the restroom takes one over plaid carpet, passing under mounted taxidermy, and between wooden paneled corridors. This place is both classy and divey, appropriate for upmarket events, yet one wonders how shabby things would look if the lights were turned up bright.  A cigar light shines warmly from above and leads into a perpendicularly orientated back room with barrels as standing tables and further, to a back patio.  Undoubtably, in days gone past, this hallway would have been thick with smoke as well. 

 A few lone drinkers packed in among the throngs of the college crowd stand out for Deans submission.  I make a mental note.  The walk back to the front room passes by pool tables and riveted leather stools with brass foot rings.  It is loud. 

“So what are we drinking next?” 

“This is a whisky house. look” Ross was pointing to an advert to join the whisky society.

“sounds like our type of club” I agreed.

It was bourbon for Dean, scotch for M, whisky sour for Ross, and I ordered the Sazerac.

The balance of whiskey, sugar, bitters, and absinthe, was expertly blended with lemon peel garnish, and I am reeling in admiration from the first taste.  

  Next to the pool tables, under watchful protection of mounted wild not-so-life, and amid the congregation of whisky drinkers, we claimed our spot.  Between two columns, with the bar still a mere three person width away, we turned in to make a loose circle.  Under this formation, you could talk, facing one another as we were, and still take in the scene.  It would be rude to break through the middle of us, and traffic naturally flowed around.  The energy of the place was filled with many self-contained groups of mostly younger patrons.  It was too early for these groups to start drunkenly collide with each other, though it wouldn’t be long.  Packed bars like this are like a malfunctioning particle accelerator, but with larger collections of atoms colliding, namely:  the inebriated ape.

Once the drinks were depleted, it was decided that the back room should be tried out; after all, it was necessary to practically shout in this front room to be heard.  A large barrel serving as a standing table was open, and a hard-working gal is off with our orders for the next round.  Back here seemed a slightly older crowd, a fact that seemed to perk up old Dean who coolly surveyed the new local with arm lazily draped over M’s shoulder for the moment. His eyebrows were frozen up with eyes slightly narrowed, looking to the horizons slowly.

There was a surge of clarity and insight and lack of inhibition, all the wonderful combinations of swirling substances in my belly and it was time to bend Ross’s ear about it all.

“Self examination…it’s not just childhood, or parents, or exlovers. Not just the therapy of trauma and who fucked you up…It’s not the bad alone, but also the hero’s we choose. The idols we prop up. For instance; even the innocent admiration of Kerouac’s writing of On the Road in pure stream of consciousness, taping together pages feeding his typewriter in a benzedrine high would manifest as a disdain for editing…and a license for stimulants.”  After what seemed like a long pause, but probably was not, I continued “That love of something beautiful also altered my behavior to not filter, not hold back, push the envelope, which aligned with another project coincidentally…as the good book says ‘a tri-bound cord is not easily broken’ and maybe that third strand , the spirit, is just the ideology you adopt that alters the other two  cords of avoiding pain and seeking reward. For me, the ideology was honesty, which can get you in much more trouble than you’d think. But then again, it is trouble that allows us to refine, not merely talk about it.” With that, I took a healthy swig of my drink.  Ross looked both fully invested in what I was saying and at the same time, off in his own universe, as if the words transported him deep within his own psyche long ago.  M had looked as if she was gonna chime in, but never quite took the pauses in speech and cues she had to do so.  Her posture reminded me of a car with their blinker stuck on, screwing up traffic on the highway.  I wasn’t feeling generous to slow down and find out either.  

“Maybe honesty is the ideology I use while avoiding pain and maximizing pleasure, but maybe for you it is some other virtue or vice that gets imported in the process.” I add.

“OK Jean Paul Freud” says Dean pseudo-mockingly, “watching the Flinstones gave me a redhead kink, so yeah, I get it.  But seriously guys, you ready to bounce?” apparently, he was throwing the towel in.

“Yeah, we can go” chirps M with a suspended mouth shrug follow up… “but it was Scooby Doo for me, that’s why I like hanging out with you nerds” she says piercing our chests with her pointer fingers.

“But dude” begins Ross abruptly, speaking to me intensely “that’s how people die!  We need test strips for Fentanyl, cause just a few grains of that shit is enough to kill you man.”

My dumbfounded, processing face eventually melts into a quick nodding…I can keep up with this fact delivered at way too high a decibel level. 

“Oh, you’re for sure right about that, it’s a scary time for anyone that uses.  Did you know 2/3rds of overdose death are from that shit, and normally the people don’t realize it was cut into whatever they took? Test strips are a brilliant idea actually.  They should be as available as grocery store flyers.”  

Our posse turns and heads for the front with Dean looking to nod a goodbye to the server who is much too busy for the pleasantry.  The trek across the green blue carpet feels a little more downhill than on the way in and it requires a bit more concentration to navigate the scene.  It is the bounty of whiskey accumulation. 

The North Park Beer Company is a brewery that is in the right place at the right time.  In fact, it was just a few doors down across Ohio street.  And it takes us these few buildings to decide we should indeed have a night cap.  A stark contrast to our last watering hole, this place showcases shiny exposed brewing equipment, a loft that overlooks an open-air sitting area, and trendy cans of craft beer or a large selection on draught.  Even having never been here, I can still tell for a fact that there are serious board gamers that set up in here, for sure trivia nights, and other likely craft events that use all the vast space and particular ambiance of this building.  Ross immediately begins talking about beer cocktails and in the end, finds some brews infused with blueberries that both he and M bite on.  Im ordering my standard pils and Dean takes a heff.  

“She’s cute” Dean prompts me with his elbow as he leans towards a lone woman at the bar.

“You’re trying to pull a door that pushes out” I say.

“Why?, cause he can’t hunt cougars?” offers Ross poised to burst giggling.

“Probably because of her” says M dryly as she casts her gaze to another woman returning to a seat next to the mark, but not before two hands on the shoulder and a quick kiss on the laughing neck.

We turn away collectively as from an interception from an opposing team.

Ross wants me to try his hangover concoction, and I have to decline.

“Look man, if I had all the days back that I was bedridden from over consumption, or in this case, mixing spirits (“especially late in the night” I quickly interject), I’d have the time to write a novel…of course, all my precious events, experiences, and therefore content of said book, from overindulgence would theoretically be nullified as well…so it is kinda a push.  

Some good moments come with a steep price tag, so spend wisely.” I sagely conclude.

M could be caught with a mischievous sparkle in her eye, and addresses Dean with a matching tone.

“Just cause a player plays for one team, or even with another partner, doesn’t mean they do so under exclusive contract…” 

She has Deans and everyone else at the table’s attention.

 “There could be a golden opportunity that just costs some balls” she stated with emphasis, before whimsically adding “and a potential rejected proposition.”

Dean was drinking his beer and almost spit it out as he faded away from his pint in a bemused laugh, he knows exactly what M is implying.

Ross too understands and takes the baton, “Yeah, how many times are you young and stupid man?”

Dean, straightened up almost serious, and placed his glass down on the table with a heavy hand. “You know what, you’re both right” and with that he turned and immediately started walking with resolve towards the far bar and the sitting couple.

It was Ross’s turn to buckle and slap his knee in disbelief “NO WAY!”

I stand there motionless, following him with wide eyes and open mouth and M shades a frozen smile behind her raised hand. 

It was exciting and amusing, then all the sudden: terrifying. 

How many drinks had he had?

 Sympathy rushes over me with how many ways his approach could go wrong, then finally I realize…

he got us

as he passed right by the two women and turns to back into the bathroom door with a happy, snarled face 

and finally, finger guns 

pointed right at us

before disappearing within.

A collective exhale as we realize he played us perfectly.

The three of us clink glasses together, gently including Deans glass which was yet stationed on the table.

“Cheers. To beer helping us land the evening gently”

Where to go: Seven Grand in North Park

What to drink: Join the Whiskey club, and order a beer back

Who to go with: place best navigated with a small group, unless you are a mature woman looking for your Dean; then go alone.