I lead a charmed life in a magical little port town in California. And when I say charmed, I mean I’m terribly poor and constantly exhausted – because I spend 40 hours a week inside an office that used to be a closet, and get paid half of minimum wage because I’m supposedly contributing to the well-being of the United States of America (you’re welcome, people). And when I say magical port town, I mean the place where all the crazies end up. But we like to call that character.
I can’t lie; my life is pretty bad ass. And that’s because I’m teaching myself to appreciate the weird little intricacies of existence that tend to get ignored.
Like the antics of the mentally disturbed.
Said port town – San Pedro (pronounced “Peee-dro”) – is a Mecca for the not-quite-right-in-the-head crowd. That sort of thing tends to happen when you build a mental health facility next to the post office, and you let the patients check themselves out whenever they please.
The result? Full grown men swathed in sheets, declaring war on empty construction sites. Why? Well, the dude is Caesar, obviously. And he’s about to conquer some bitches.
Oh, you think that’s weird? Well the town’s unofficial logo is a three-eyed fish.
I adore it. Whenever I walk to work, I see all sorts of things that make me smile. For instance, last week, I watched a man ride down Centre Street – in a non-electric, standard issue wheelchair. He was leaning back, enjoying the breeze, and rolling right along in the fast lane. Next to cars. This was immediately followed up by a trip to hole-in-the-wall café for ice cream, which was interrupted by a homeless man yelling gibberish to get a meal. And, because this is San Pedro, the manager brought him a chicken panini and an iced tea. Then he turned to my roommate and started spewing random phrases in Tagalog. Say what?!
But one of the high lights of San Pedro is the collection of wacky shops that pop up in downtown. The rent must be freaking cheap as shit, because you would not believe some of the stuff you can find there. My new personal favorite? The Nautical Shop – which is apparently full of British treasures!
This store is basically what would happen if you took everything out of your garage and dumped it in a storefront. In no particular order.
I’m talking tea cups, old Nancy Drew hardbacks, a couple of Esquire magazines, a Titanic poster…oh, did I forget to mention the rotting fireplace façade?
Has the shop owner sold anything??!! EVER??
Honestly, my grandmother’s storage unit has more order to it than this store. My other problem is that “British Treasures” is a serious overstatement. A teacup is not automatically British. Nor is a model sailing vessel a treasure, per se. If there were some doubloons involved, I might be more open to a broad definition of the word “treasure”.
But there aren’t any.
The fact that this shop exists is pretty freaking awesome and magical, though. And so are The Boyfriend’s new pet goats.
Yes, drastic change of subject. But yet another thing that makes my long, crappy days better.
So, the boyfriend acquired an old, smelly, gimpy goat named Surly, who always looked really sad. He would basically sit around on his little gimpy goat butt and stare at me (unless I was in possession of an apple) and I suggested to The Boyfriend that said goat needed a buddy.
Well, Surly now has a new friend! His new friend is a year old, super intelligent, and the ultimate escape artist – and he unfortunately taught Surly a few new tricks. Surly never made noise or left the stable before he got his new friend; now he baaaaaaaaaaas all over the place and takes treks around the yard. This was all super adorable until 5:30 in the morning, when The Boyfriend and I awakened to clomp, clomp, clomp, BAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA! and discovered that Surly and his new buddy were incredibly determined to sleep on the deck right outside The Boyfriend’s bedroom. The Boyfriend led his goats back down to the stable, only to be re-awakened at 6:30 by a rousting clomp, clomp, clomp, BAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA! at which point he gave up and stayed in bed.
Well, by the time I got up for work at 7:30, this was the scene outside The Boyfriend’s bedroom doors:
Okay people. There is nothing more magical than waking up to sleepy goats outside your window. It’s like I was in the country or some shit.
Speaking of shit, the one giant non-magical part of this rural scene was the insane amount of goat poop that was scattered across the deck and yard.
Well, I guess shit happens.
So, what sort of random stuff prevented you from burning down your office building this week?