When I left home shortly after graduating high school, going (North) west young man, I spent many of the best years of my early days of forced manhood in a piecemeal duplex that was filled with roaches, spiders and ghosts, but, hey, it was mine and I loved it.
Roughly one block up the street was Western Ave., still in its dilapidated heyday. I had a part-time job washing dishes at Sushi Neko, the Will Rogers still had killer shows and the non-7-11 convenience store was a wealth of drug paraphernalia and three-packs of discount pornography. But, best of all, it was a two-minute walk to VZD’s, where a lone wolf such as I could score a beer and a late-night burger as whatever local Red Dirt band was packing up their gear and heading home.