I just wanted dried Italian salami that's all. It was hot and the air conditioner at work doesn't work, it was 92 degrees in there when I left, and I was crabby and I just wanted cheese and salami on the bread S had baked, some olive oil, fresh tomatoes, red wine, call it dinner. So because it's on my way home from work, and because I like to support local small businesses, I stopped at the little specialized organic grocery store. I enjoy stopping there because the wholesome home-grown girlies behind the counter all look like they bathe in rivers and they all have friendly smiles.
I walked in and admired the fresh fruits and vegetables, took note of their interesting albeit limited wine selection, looked at the huge assortment of cheese and tofu spreads, wandered past the cookbooks and incense and hand-made pot holders and... pot holders, and finally found the meat section. The extremely limited meat section. No Italian sausage had ever tainted these refrigerated shelves with its wrapper. I had my choice of organic whole cut-up fryer chickens for $5 a pound; organic free-range beef patties $2 each; organic pork roast for $7 a pound; or tofurkey... which I guess is meat? There was lots of tempeh and packs of kosher organic no-meat hot dogs. I just wanted Italian sausage.
Alright, not willing to give up I thought maybe it wouldn't be refrigerated because some times in quaint little shops it is hung from hooks, strategically placed near crackers and wine. I made the rounds again.
There is here in the Pacific Northwest, and there may be elsewhere, a new type of suburban punk hippy I have not encountered before. They are not to be confused with the anarchists who roam the streets dressed in black, freeloading in the system they claim they want to smash but that's fodder for another blah. First let me say I have no problem with the way people want to dress, or behave, or wear their hair, or tattoo or pierce their persons, but please, please, bathe.
The three standing in the aisle who blatantly ignored me and my request to get past them looked like they had stolen my grandfather's clothing and then rolled around on the railroad tracks. The girl's hair failed miserably at dred locks and although I admired her knee-high black boots I didn't find the big black torn ruffled mini-skirt with pantalons to be practical for such a hot day. And the three rings in the bridge of her nose gave her a decidedly cross-eyed look.
The one fellow in shiny wing-tip shoes with dyed orange hair had so much metal in his bottom lip that he couldn't keep his mouth closed, displaying his orthodontically-straight and super-white teeth. He was rakish with his black tribal tattoo spiralling down the side of his neck, his tatty pastel shirt ripped in just the right places, suspenders affixed to pants too tight and too short, all the rage no doubt, just give it half a chance.
They smelled like patchouli and body odor and shit and it's not for lack of money or a place to bathe, oh no these kids had money or else they wouldn't be wearing $500 worth of metal in their faces with big elaborate strategically-placed tattoos and shopping for $10 a pound plums. Having reached my too-fucking-hot too-much-bullshit-on-a-Monday level, and having not found anything resembling dry salami except for the tube of tofurkey, I headed for the door. Past the punkippies. And one of them, insouciant and self-righteous and snide, said to me as I passed, "Hey it's all good, it's all organic." Which elicited stupid giggles from the other two and I ignored it because I know they'll just morph into yuppies in five years when they're done with college and have to look for jobs and then revenge will be mine, but really I felt like saying don't fuck with me because I will kick you in those pearly white teeth.
I just wanted dry Italian salami.
I walked in and admired the fresh fruits and vegetables, took note of their interesting albeit limited wine selection, looked at the huge assortment of cheese and tofu spreads, wandered past the cookbooks and incense and hand-made pot holders and... pot holders, and finally found the meat section. The extremely limited meat section. No Italian sausage had ever tainted these refrigerated shelves with its wrapper. I had my choice of organic whole cut-up fryer chickens for $5 a pound; organic free-range beef patties $2 each; organic pork roast for $7 a pound; or tofurkey... which I guess is meat? There was lots of tempeh and packs of kosher organic no-meat hot dogs. I just wanted Italian sausage.
Alright, not willing to give up I thought maybe it wouldn't be refrigerated because some times in quaint little shops it is hung from hooks, strategically placed near crackers and wine. I made the rounds again.
There is here in the Pacific Northwest, and there may be elsewhere, a new type of suburban punk hippy I have not encountered before. They are not to be confused with the anarchists who roam the streets dressed in black, freeloading in the system they claim they want to smash but that's fodder for another blah. First let me say I have no problem with the way people want to dress, or behave, or wear their hair, or tattoo or pierce their persons, but please, please, bathe.
The three standing in the aisle who blatantly ignored me and my request to get past them looked like they had stolen my grandfather's clothing and then rolled around on the railroad tracks. The girl's hair failed miserably at dred locks and although I admired her knee-high black boots I didn't find the big black torn ruffled mini-skirt with pantalons to be practical for such a hot day. And the three rings in the bridge of her nose gave her a decidedly cross-eyed look.
The one fellow in shiny wing-tip shoes with dyed orange hair had so much metal in his bottom lip that he couldn't keep his mouth closed, displaying his orthodontically-straight and super-white teeth. He was rakish with his black tribal tattoo spiralling down the side of his neck, his tatty pastel shirt ripped in just the right places, suspenders affixed to pants too tight and too short, all the rage no doubt, just give it half a chance.
They smelled like patchouli and body odor and shit and it's not for lack of money or a place to bathe, oh no these kids had money or else they wouldn't be wearing $500 worth of metal in their faces with big elaborate strategically-placed tattoos and shopping for $10 a pound plums. Having reached my too-fucking-hot too-much-bullshit-on-a-Monday level, and having not found anything resembling dry salami except for the tube of tofurkey, I headed for the door. Past the punkippies. And one of them, insouciant and self-righteous and snide, said to me as I passed, "Hey it's all good, it's all organic." Which elicited stupid giggles from the other two and I ignored it because I know they'll just morph into yuppies in five years when they're done with college and have to look for jobs and then revenge will be mine, but really I felt like saying don't fuck with me because I will kick you in those pearly white teeth.
I just wanted dry Italian salami.
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