where else?

I hesitate to say that where I live gives me access to the worst of both worlds, because I enjoy so many of the "worsts." But let me give you an example. I was whining in here the other day about feeling embarrassed by my crappy yard and lawn, because I cannot keep up with the standard set by my immediate neighbors who are under the delusion that they actually live in the burbs. On the other hand, we have running right past our little island of faux suburbanity the prison bus. Have we done a prison bus conversation lately? Today's was, um, interesting.

Unassuming young man gets on, ascertains from the driver that the bus goes by the hospital, and sits down in one of the front seats. Several minutes later a guy from the back of the bus, possessing a huge neck tattoo and a stupid sideways baseball cap, comes forward. "Hey, man! I knew that was you! I been looking at you for twenty minutes, trying to figure it out." [Ed note: Just as six inches is nine in male measuring, 10 minutes is apparently twenty.] Handshakes and shoulder clasps ensue, and then they start discussing where they are on their way to. Oh, they are both going to the hospital to see their sick children. Whaddya know? Neck tattoo is surprised unassuming boy has a child, it's all news to him.

"No, man, I got two. A boy and a girl." Cellphone pics are shown about and neck tattoo says, "Oh, yours are young." Unassuming boy says, yeah. And they're only about a month apart! Let's digest this shall we? Someone recently asked me to explain the definition of "manwhore" in relation to one of Our Lil MILF's anecdotes. I would like to kindly refer to unassuming boy as exhibit #1. Also, I would like to buy him some condoms, or perhaps a nice vasectomy, but that's neither here nor there.

He and neck tattoo start discussing how they never see each other anymore and how the old gang has broken up. And gang may just be the right un-euphemistic term there. "Everyone's locked up," says neck tattoo sadly. "Or they got kids."

Okay, so maybe I don't want to buy unassuming boy a vasectomy. Maybe he needs to keep on impregnating random women to keep him on the straight and narrow.

So, really, how can I consider the chance to listen to that conversation a worst? And then there's this. D had a psych appointment this morning, and as we do, we went to the ghetto Shaws market across the street from the clinic (not my usual nice clean Shaws at which I will actually buy meat) to pick up a few things afterwards. Well. Sort of near the deli case, they have some cold drinks refrigerated. As we walked by, D says, "Huh. What kind of coke is that." It was in a long glass bottle. On closer inspection, it was all in Spanish. "OMG," I said. "I think this is the fabled Mexican coke with real sugar in it!" We read the ingredients and yeah, baby. So we bought one for him and one for me. Whatever undocumented Central Americans shop at this ghetto Shaws, I would like to give them besos! Your demand for the products of your homeland brings joy to the gringos too.

xoxo