Gelo Shots

What does it mean, to be a Grid Kid?

2011-09-09T02:22:24Z

Lately, in this publication, there has been a lot of fur flying regarding Midtown people and suburban people (specifically from Roseville, Rocklin and Granite Bay). Insults have been flung back and forth from both sides of the issue. Terms like “Ed Hardy” and “hipster” have been volleyed around with the vehemence of a food fight in a middle school cafeteria.

Stereotypes are flung from both camps: People who live on the grid are all tattooed, Rivers Cuomo-looking, “Flight of the Conchords” wannabes, and the suburbanites are all roofie-dropping, backward cap-wearing “Jersey Shore” wannabes.

I was once told that I was the type of person who didn’t like my cheese moved, meaning I don’t like change. Well, I am not the only one who doesn’t. There are a lot of people who live on the grid who do not like the changes happening in the core. Midtown is no longer just cute little coffee shops, art galleries, cheap apartments and neighborhood bars. Midtown now has full-fledged nightclubs where you can rent a booth for a night for the same price of a month's rent. Midtown has four-star restaurants and condos that sell for half a million dollars.

I have been part of the Midtown scene since I was a teenager. Like a lot of people of my generation, I did not come to Midtown to be cool. I didn’t even know what PBR was. I came to the grid to escape.

When I was 17 years old, I moved from Portland, Maine, to Sacramento to live with my estranged mother. The reason for the drastic move was so I could attend my last year of high school and then go to college as a California resident. We lived in an apartment complex on Howe Avenue, and I ended up going to a gangbanger high school.

I made some friends from Country Day High School. On the weekends, we would park in the middle of a soccer field and hotbox, then head into Midtown and get cheap munchies at Cafe Cambire, which was open all night. The cafe was the central spot for all the misfits of the grid:
tweakers, gutterpunks, goths and wannabe DJs spinning on acid.

We would sit on the stairs, smoke clove cigarettes and have cheap Peach Schnapps. The Country Day crew and I would wear our khaki shorts, button-up shirts and Birkenstocks. We would sit down and chat with people with names like Warchild, Leaf, Sasha, White Trash Dave,
Star. To paraphrase Eric Draven, we were “a jolly band of pirates, with pirate nicknames.” Some were friendly, others were creepy, others just looked down at us because, in their minds, we were tourists, and we had no right to be in their space. And we were tourists.

At the end of the night, the Country Day kids and I would go back home — them to Arden Park and Curtis Park; and I would head back to my crappy apartment on Howe Avenue to face the wrath of my mother for coming in so late.

The high school I went to was a far cry from my previous one in Maine. My first week there, there was a drive-by in the parking lot. I had a gun pulled on me when I interrupted a crank deal in the back of the school, and that January there was a full-fledged race riot. Midtown was my escape from my day-to-day life. The core was a place where I could dress how I wanted and express ideas that did not seem so kooky.

There was no judgment. I could be anyone I wanted to be and receive no grief.

I was young, and, like most people at my age, I thought I knew everything. I dropped out of high school. My mother and I had been arguing more and more, until it came to a head and she kicked me out of the house.

After a week of couch surfing, my luck had run out and I was forced out into the streets. The only good thing I had was a part-time job at Burger King in the Pavilions. To kill time, I spent a lot of hours at Cafe Cambire. Even though it was the beginning of summer, I was wearing a long black duster because I could not fit it in my bag with the rest of my clothes. I was no longer part of society, as I had known it. I even got myself a jolly pirate nickname. I was now known on the streets as Streak, a name I picked out from a superhero I used to make up as a child to help me
fall asleep — and honestly, I still do, now that I am in my 30s.

At first I did not even go to bed. I would just stay at Cambire’s until 5 in the morning and then head to the Firehouse at New Helvetia.

Before the advent of Red Bull and the infinite number of energy drinks, my stimulant of choice was the Red Eye, which consisted of two espresso shots poured over a large cup of coffee. Fueled with enough stimulants to rival most of the tweakers in the neighborhood, I would head out the light rail to my job at the Burger King.

After three days of this, my body had finally rebelled. I needed to sleep. I picked a tree in Capitol Park, which was fine for a couple of days, but if I wasn’t being harassed by the CHP, I was being
propositioned by older gentlemen, who are referred to as chicken hawks.

Other times, I would be able to catch naps in Old Sacramento when there was a movie projected on the wall. I remember the first time was during the showing of “Monty Python and the Holy Grail.” I kept on having dreams of coconuts.

I would hang out with other street kids, smoking pot in the K Street tunnel until we were scattered by mounted police. I would be so stoned that I would just want to pet the horse, oblivious to the fact that I could have been arrested.

The ultimate low point came when a friend of mine was killed in a drunken driving accident, and I went to her funeral in clothes I had worn for at least three days. I had to sit in the back of the church, crying by myself because I was afraid my BO would offend people.

The owner of Cafe Cambire noticed that I hung out there quite a bit and, sometimes, into the next morning. He offered me a job working the 10 p.m. to 5 a.m. shift.

I lost the last of my innocence, working at the cafe, when a woman came in all beat up. I thought she was a damsel in distress. Instead, she was a crank dealer who had sold baby powder to the wrong people.

Working the two jobs, I was able to get a crappy apartment with a common shared bathroom.

I was no longer a tourist. I had made my bones. I had survived all sorts of crazy little adventures, too many to list in this article. I had become a grid kid. Like many other people who survived those surrealistic days, I take pride in that.

It’s that pride that makes me and other grid kids wary of the outsiders who invade our sanctuary every weekend. One reason that some Midtown residents have a subconscious disdain for the people who come in from the ‘burbs is because it reminds them of the pain and the humiliation that they had to endure while growing up in those areas they escaped from. : To us,, it's like an abusive spouse walking around freely in a battered woman’s shelter.

So, the grid has now turned into a high school quad: the bros in one section, the hipsters in another, and the grid kids watching as they both come — and both go.

PBR? No, I will have a Lagunitas instead.

Bar West going too many directions

2011-09-04T00:11:26Z

Living in Portland Maine, one of my favorite things to do was go to a great neighborhood wing place. I would wait all day on my days off, for their happy hour special of all you can eat wings. The wings came in many flavors, they even came a flavor called Chernobyl; if you were able to eat a dozen, you got it for free and your picture on the wall..

When I moved back out to Sacramento, I was in search for wings, that were as good , as my neighborhood haunt back east. I tried Fanny Ann’s, Wing Stop, and to my own personnel shame even Hooters. I had gotten so desperate, I was even hitting every Asian buffet I could find, but always disappointed.

I had given up my search.

Then I heard a new bar was opening called Bar West.

I tried looking it up on the Googlesphere, after 10 minutes of getting listings for all Bars in West Sacramento, I finally figured out to put Sacramento, then Bar West , then found it.

I walked in around 930 on a Wednesday night. Walking in I realized, I did not exactly fit in, I should have done some recon. No Ed Hardy shirts for me. I decided togo with my Chuck Finely look, which consisted of a Hawaiian shirt and shorts.

The Bar was packed, and a waitress directed me to a cock tail table. The Bar had a Tiki Motif with Grass hanging from the ceiling , and surfboards hanging on the wall. I found it ironic I was the only one with a tropical shirt.

There are a least 10 big screen T V.s with football, baseball, ultimate fighting. There was even a documentary on the life of Bruce Lee..

There was a stair case leading up to a second level. My waitress informed , that Bar West was going to start lounge service in the near future.

Like most new bars in Sacramento this bar had decided to go with with an Internet Juke box, that seemed to be stuck the radio station 105.1. Don't get me wrong I am not country music snob, but to me Country is Johnny Cash, Waylon Jenning , Loretta Lynn, Patsy Cline, Emmy Lou Harris. The Music that coming out starting to effect my equilibrium. An occasional Sublime, and Hip Hop song came on, but few and far between.

Seeing all the waitresses, I felt like I was in a Robert Palmer Video, All the waitress were petite with tight shirts that displayed their attributes. In my personal opinion any woman applying for a job, would not get it if they weighed over 125 lbs.

I started with my favorite local brew Lagunitas Draft which ran me 5.00, which is not too bad of a price for that part of Midtown. The Tiki Theme is reflected in the Cocktail drinks. There were at least 10 lemonade slushie drinks. There are two options on sizes for most of the drinks; 16 0z or what they call the fish bowl, which is 64 oz, and is meant to be shared, but I was told by a waitress , that a single person could order it by themselves .

I ordered a 16 oz bourbon slush. It tasted like a tropical pineapple drink., The drink had bourbon and sweet tea vodka. I could not taste the alcohol at all. If you have more than three of these type of drinks , you can easily start doing a Frank the Tank impersonation..

I finally decided to go for the wings,.. The Wings come in three different sizes, batch of 10, 20, or 50. Starting at $10 , and up to $40 You can get the wings in seven different flavors. teraki, BBQ, garlic parmesan, lemon pepper, Cajun, garlic BBQ, and sweet and sour. There were also degrees of spiciness, from mild to “Oh my God, I cant feel my tongue!!!!”

Reading the menu, I thought it was going to BBQ sauce in fused with garlic. Instead it was BBQ wings with a garlic sauce dripped all over it. The garlic sauce was so strong , the table next to me complained of the smell. I bit into the wings, expecting a semblance of what I had back east, but. what I got was slightly undercooked wings that tasted like a bulb of garlic.

I was given napkins, but this was the first wings place I had ever been to, that did not give me a wet naps, which can be annoying when you are grabbing your drinking glass.

For my main meal I decided to have one the six burger options, the cowbell burger., with bacon and a onion ring. I had the option of regular fries,sweet potato, or tater tots. Tatar tots of course.

The cowbell burger patty was organic and fresh, but the the bun was so thick, the only thing I could taste was the onion ring. The taters tots were addictive as hell. I was like Zoidberg with a plate of Popplers. Out of all the food Items, the tots were the only thing I actually finished.

I really hope this bar is not hoping to base it's food menu, on the belief, that their patrons , would be so drunk, that they cant tell the difference between good food and over priced pub grub. Spin Burger made the same mistake, and its doors closed, in less than a year.

I really dont know what this bar is trying to be; a sports bar, a country bar, a tiki bar, a wannabe Hooters ,or a lounge. Honesty this bar would be a better fit, in a strip mall in Roseville, or Granite Bay. . The bar does not seem to fit midtown. There is no sense of the grid,, no original art on the wall, nothing to connect it to the neighborhood it resides.

My wing quest will continue. Maybe I can convince the place back east to open a franchise here.

Driving Dangerous; A Sacramento Cabbie's Plight

2011-07-24T22:01:56Z

My first year driving a cab, I was 22 years old, and I was having the time of my life. Every night was a new adventure.

Before every shift, I would ask what would fall across my path that night. There was no such thing as a normal night, and as a Bukowski/Kerouac-wannabe, I was Augstus Gloop, and the nightlife was my chocolate factory.

But like that overeager nearsighted kid with a black hole for a stomach, I finally bit off more than I could chew.

I picked up a fare just going a couple blocks. When we stopped the fare, he reached over from the backseat and tried to grab me, asking for my money. I got out of the cab still holding onto my first real leather jacket. He ended up ripping my sleeve nearly off.

He got out the cab as well, and before I knew what was happening I was flat on my ass with my face hurting, like it been hit with a brick. The fare hit hit me so hard, he broke my cheek. I thought the next moment the guy was going to finish me. Then I heard, “Hey, what the f*** are you doing?”

It was like I was watching a deleted scene from “Priscilla, Queen of the Desert.” All of a sudden, a 6-foot drag queen started chasing the guy down, and some other cross-dressers pulled me up. I had never been so grateful.

I went to the hospital, and all they could do for me was give me an icepack and some Vicodin. The guy didn’t end up getting any money, but the hospital charged me $465, so in a sense I still got robbed.

It was then that it struck me: This job is not strictly fun and games.

Cab driving can be a dangerous profession, especially night driving. Only one other occupation deals with the same type of people in the night, and that is the cops. The difference is that cab drivers don’t get nearly the respect, or the gun.

There have been more and more reports lately of cab drivers getting robbed and assaulted. In fact, last year a driver was killed in a notorious apartment complex in North Highlands.

Several factors contribute to the increase in robbery and assault reports. All those factors stem from one source: the economy.

Think of it this way. Cab driving relies on making money by picking up strangers. Remember what your parents used to say about picking up hitchhikers? So in essence, every fare is picking up a hitch, especially when a driver picks up a fare that hails him down.

The Sacramento cab industry is not like those of major cities like San Francisco or New York. There aren’t throngs of people hailing cabs down in Sacramento, except when bars close or for special occasions like New Year’s Eve or St. Patrick’s Day (when people line up around the corner for an English pub — that subject is up for a later rant).

Cab drivers here depend on people calling them from a location or on charge accounts from governments, hospitals and social services.

There was a time when cab companies had charge accounts with state, county and city governments. Daytime drivers could easily make 40 grand a year on state charges alone. With individual government budgets getting slashed, government-paid cab rides were one of the first things to go.

By law, cab companies cannot discriminate against calls based on where people live, yet it's not a big secret. Drivers still did it and could afford to do it. Why would a driver want to risk his life in “G” Parkway when he could make money in downtown or bring someone from Arden Park?

There is no such thing as guaranteed income anymore. Drivers can sit around for hours until receiving their first job, so they now fight over jobs that no sane cab driver would have gone for 10 years ago.

The average rental fee for a cab is $650, plus gas for vehicles that get 15 miles per gallon. So, basically drivers need to make $120 before they even think about making a profit. Because of the economy, cab driving has become the modern version of crop sharing.

The amount of business has dropped to the level of Dickensian orphans, scrapping it out for a single piece of bread.

Drivers now go into crappy neighborhoods no longer working, but gambling. The driver either makes money, loses money, or, even worse, loses their life.

Disclosure: Angelo Howland has been a Cab driver , in both Portland, Maine and Sacramento Ca, for 11 years

What Happened to Adult Spaces

2010-04-23T01:38:23Z

One would think hearing a child's laughter would make a person feel better. Instead, I feel disdain and annoyance. The sound pierces my inner ear like Rosanne Barr singing the national anthem, not just once, but over and over again.

I try to stay in areas where there will be no children. Like the Weatherstone's courtyard.

Until about a year and a half ago when Old Soul bought Weatherstone from the once-mighty Java City empire, it was the courtyard where the rockers, chess players and a generation of grid kids pretty much grew up in. When Old Soul first took over, the only major changes were the sandwiches and the increased price of coffee. The quality of the coffee went down, but the Sandwiches got better.

With the changes, a lot of the old clientele left, and a new type came in. One of the good changes is the acquisition of a beer and wine license. So this addition enhanced the courtyard experience, until the hipster parents started showing up.

Where alcohol is consumed and people are smoking cigarettes is a place that I would think, would automatically bar children, just through the concept of common sense, but as history marches on, that trait is disappearing quickly.

I know you yuppie hipster parents think it’s a great idea to expose your precious little snowflakes to the outside world, but those of us who want to relax after another day in our crappy lives just want to chill, smoke a cigarette, drink a pint and not feel guilty about accidentally using a cuss word.

What you are exposing your future self-entitled child to is the general annoyance of other people being forced to listen to the whines, the cries and the temper tantrums.

I am sure your children love being exposed to all the secondhand smoke, crude language and people getting intoxicated.

Hell why stop there? You could go to a strip club and teach them
about human anatomy and show them what a rip-off the VIP room
really is.

Better yet, take your kids to a rock concert and teach them physics – the concept if inertia – with the combination of too much Pabst Blue Ribbon and body surfing.

How would you like it if I lit up a joint in the middle of Fairy Tale Town? There is a time and place for everything.

So until there is a smoking section in a daycare, leave your children home if you want to have a beer in an adult setting.