I was at Molly Malone’s on Friday and Saturday this weekend. It’s a great little dive, Irish style. It’s not that I go often. Actually, you can chalk these visits up as 3 and 4 in the past two years. Not much frequency at all.
Friday night, the incomparable Travis Howard lit the stage and that little place in my heart responsible for briefly falling in love with Memphis. Mind you, I realize 4 Guinness deep and 15 minutes to midnight are hardly qualifiers for an inspired 20-hour drive. Being the Earl of Good Judgment I sometimes can be, I holstered my lead foot and remained in the city of angels as he finished his set. In the spirit of circumcising long stories, kid can play.
Saturday, I made an afternoon pop in to celebrate the thrashing of USC Film School softballers. Several weeks ago, I was acquired off the free agent wire by the UCLA team of similar denomination. Since I took a course in Westwood upon arrival, only partial ringer status can be applied. This former D-1 college baller is now a proud part of the Bad News Bruins.
And this is all relevant, partially…somewhat.
Molly Malone’s sits on the corner of 6th and Fairfax. Let’s just say, for all intensive purposes that 6th Street is the line dividing Heaven from Hell in Los Angeles. It helps me paint an irresponsible picture.
Now that we’re clear, I can quickly sputter…
On the corner of hell, there’s a 99 (where the fuck is the key on my keyboard) Cent Store. When I initially drove past, I had a single digit flashback…the day R. Smith lost his Everything Under a Buck Store virginity. It was in fabled Vernon Hills, Illinois. For all you non-Midwesterners, Vernon Hills is the human equivalent to the magical Land of Oz.
That’s when it happened. I walked through the semi-automatic, selectively operable doors and realized…
This was the dumbest fucking idea I had ever been a part of. I was 9…roughly. Okay, it’s a guesstimate. I expected to find flammable and potential eye-gouging Halloween costumes rejected by the Safe Parenting Association of America. I hoped to swoop in on decadent meat and cheese platters that had fallen victim to Customs code 134 A. I crossed fingers for play at home kits on how to wage discreet yet substantial campaigns in chemical warfare.
Where were they?
Instead, people were shopping. And for regular shit! If a box if Ziploc bags cost 3.99, you could now get a box that was ¼ the size for under a dollar.
Revolutionary, indeed.
Wait! Certainly, a mistake had been made. Surely, an explanation was in order. Where were the specials on heat seeking darts? Or Ebola-infected pet monkeys? Surely, someone could guide me to the section that housed the handheld lasers and ninja stars? What about the cosmic dildos???
They didn’t exist. They never did…and as I would soon discover, they never would. Although the next line you read doesn’t deserve caps…or singularity, I’m going to say it anyway…
Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to THE significant turning point of my life.
…
On Friday, as I drove past this particular corner of hell, laughter nearly crashed my car into a parked Mercedes S 550. On Saturday, a familiar notion crept through my mind…if only I could turn back the hands of time.
Shop Less Than a Buck Store on the corner of hell was flying a banner. So elegant was the black lettering over a yellow background. So intriguing also, were the scattered brown stains that heightened the invitation of the sign’s appearance…
Looking back, it’s difficult to tell if the stains were a stylistic choice. Perhaps a disgruntled vagrant had taken a shit in his hand and projected a contribution. Because I am ingrained with journalistic integrity, it’s absolutely necessary that I examine all angles of logic.
…
Mother’s Day Headquarters. That’s what the sign read. If only I knew in time.
Now, tonight, I can only dream of the day where my mother opens her heart enough to forgive a son who has been ill schooled in displaying gratitude.
May Shop Less Than A Buck boldly make this an annual declaration.
May I one day forgive myself…
