BREAKING NEWS: I’m moving. This is the imagined conversation I’ll be having with all of you in the coming weeks.
“But generic, didn’t you just move from that horrific parolee dumping-ground across the bay after breaking up with your girlfriend of 4 years?”
Yes, I did.
“And didn’t you love your new digs at 16th and Valencia? Wasn’t it central as All Get Out?”
Yes I did, and yes it was. My beloved Elixir was across the street, BART was 2 minutes away and you could hit Dolores Park with a rock. It was awesome.
“You lived above Tokyo Go Go, right?”
Right.
“So what was the problem?”
Rats.
“Like, actual rats?”
Actual, non-figurative vermin were in my room and all throughout the building. I could hear and see them. Fun fact: hearing them is worse—especially at night. When they fight, they make a high-pitched squealing noise that makes your skin crawl. The cliche about women jumping up on chairs? I’m not making fun of that anymore. (I didn’t say I do it, just that I’m not making fun of it.) Rats generally move too fast to hit with anything, so if you’re relying on poison to kill them, getting the hell away strikes me as a pretty sensible choice. (See Plague, Bubonic.)
Come July, I’ll be at 22nd and Valencia. My new roommates are visibly homosexual, and as such, I’ll be in the minority, but they are clean. They are motherfucking tidy and you can understand why that characteristic rates highly in my headspace after the past two months. I’ll no longer be on my city-block of choice, but I’ll be right next to my favorite crackhouse coffeeshop, Ritual. Which is all the long way of saying I really am going to buy that fixie now.
PRO TIP: Don’t eat at Tokyo Go-Go. I don’t care how good the sushi tastes, there are rats in the building. I have pictures.
