If you're coming to Hague for me...don't honk!
January 8th 2007 17:47
I live on Hague St, and I am pretty sure that if you looked up the slang word ‘hood, in the dictionary you would probably be faced with a picture of the street signs nearest my home. We moved there about seventeen years ago, it wasn’t as bad as it is today. We actually had neighbors. Now we have a series of weather-like renters, who come and go as the wind blows. But I have grown accustomed to the area, and I don’t really mind walking the four or five miles to the main library and other surrounding cultural venues.
It is on some of these walks (the buses come in packs, every thirty minutes) that I come in contact with a wide array of people. Most of which would traumatize any other college undergrad. So far I’ve (in passing) conversed with recovering prostitutes, failed entrepreneurs, regular prostitutes, failed former drug addicts and lastly a few street pharmacists. Out of all of my acquaintances I have probably had more fun in passing with the street pharmacists. Who aren’t the gun slinging, pant hanging, curse slewing thugs that the media cracks them up to be. Of course they smell apprehension and can seek out a buyer without even trying, but all in all they are just like regular guys.
But back to the point that I was supposed to be writing about before I was distracted by the nice drug dealers. Oh, yes, dating with my father…. . If you’ve read my previous blog you’ll see that I have relocated to my parents home, and regressed myself to their regulations and rules. Devastating, I know. But what can I say; it seemed like a good idea at the time. I find that I do not stay in the actual house much, I find reasons to go to the mall, the library, the grocery store (which is hard because I don’t cook), wherever. My parents have a knack for dropping whatever they were originally doing searching throughout our full bi-level home until they found, say, me, and bug and nag until I loose if not my mind, then part of it. So, I leave. I walk, run, find someone to pick me up, whatever, I go.
I recently learned the trick to getting out of more questions that my parents have for me, having my ride text my cell before they arrive for one, this will allow me to cut my dad off from running to the door before I get there (he’s fast for 63) and yelling out that his daughter “doesn’t answer to honks, and that if whomever in the car wants to see his daughter, they need to show some respect and come ask her father for permission.” By this time my girls, in the car are cracking up laughing at the Bill Cosby look-a-like in blue joggers, a fitted sweatshirt, and long housecoat that used to call the DoubleTree home. With embarrassment striped up and down my face, I’d rush past him, screaming good-byes over “why do you always do this to me” looks at the man.
Soo, new rule, If you are coming to Hague, for me, don’t honk!!!
It is on some of these walks (the buses come in packs, every thirty minutes) that I come in contact with a wide array of people. Most of which would traumatize any other college undergrad. So far I’ve (in passing) conversed with recovering prostitutes, failed entrepreneurs, regular prostitutes, failed former drug addicts and lastly a few street pharmacists. Out of all of my acquaintances I have probably had more fun in passing with the street pharmacists. Who aren’t the gun slinging, pant hanging, curse slewing thugs that the media cracks them up to be. Of course they smell apprehension and can seek out a buyer without even trying, but all in all they are just like regular guys.
Soo, new rule, If you are coming to Hague, for me, don’t honk!!!
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