Someday I'm going to have a place of my very own and it's going to magically have its own washer and dryer so I can wash my clothes any time I want without having to drive or plunk massive amounts of quarters (still quarters, by the way? What about dollars? Credit Cards?!) into a rocking machine in a puddle of dirty water somewhere. Current location: Seabright Laundry, on, well, Seabright, in Santa Cruz.
Last night I had a wild hair up my ass and decided to venture over to Alameda Island. First of all, I didn't even know I had an Island an hour and twenty minutes from my house. Like, an actually island so that the land doesn't touch without the bridges. !!! Something about Islands really excites me. So do temples, but that's another story for another time.
Like I was saying, we went to the island, and on that island was a place called "Forbidden Island". Yes. Forbidden Island. This was a place I had read about online - hence the adventure. The place touted its own syrups and juices and freshly squeezed this and that. When you get there, they hand you four pages worth of menu to choose a drink from.
Four pages is a lot to take in when you're trying to choose booze. Granted, I assure you that two drinks in, it gets a lot easier to choose. Unfortunately, the ones with the most amount of XXX's on them were supposed to be the strongest ones - I ordered one of them and I didn't get so much as a buzz. The second drink in I felt a whoosh of what might have simply been light-headedness from breathing in the scent of an incredible amount of elderly people.
Suddenly, while two of us are huddled across an entire couch, (looking like assholes hogging up more space than we should have) a young woman in a white dress flounces into the bar. It's not just any white dress - it's a wedding gown, and she's got her pretty blonde hair all done up in curls. Just behind her is a man in his Coast Guard uniform. "Yes, we did!" I hear. It's a little loud, but I'm picking up the gist of the conversation.
So you're some young kids with some military standings. Sure, it sounds like a great idea to rush off and get married. But do tell me - how are you landing yourself in a tiki bar surrounded by wicker, fire, booze, and little totem poles to drink from?
Our friends showed up a glorious two hours later, just in time for us to have stopped being the aforementioned assholes by moving to the bar. Sadly, our waitress couldn't follow us there. She was sweet and as prompt as she could be for the entire wedding party (!!!) that had just waltzed into the dark room. Now we were stuck with a black bartender who was just starting to warm up to us, a frazzled woman who seemed to think she needed to move quicker and more jerkily than anyone else back there, and a woman wearing a "Forbidden Island" shirt who looked like she wished she could be anywhere else.
The last one was actually quickly becoming a borderline bitch. I find it really difficult to go to a place that people and articles rave about only to be treated wretchedly by some girl with an accent because she's having a bad day. Yeah, well I drove 100 miles to see you smile, so now fuck your bar and fuck your forbidden island. This may be the last time I pay $10-$12.00 for drinks with canned coconut milk and syrup.
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