Nnekay.com

I hang out with a pretty eclectic group of people. Many of which play musical instruments, thus resulting in various bands. I try my hardest to support the majority of these fabulous folk, but lately the number of bands to support has risen to the double digits making it hard for this one girl to try and kick out the love for her friends.

When I finally get to go  to these shows, it reminds me how incredibly varied my pocket of peeps are. Sometimes, I’m listening to boppy surf jams with naughty lyrics. Sometimes it’s rock and roll and I’m surrounded by giant ladies with a shit ton of make up and pompadours. I’ve found myself listening music with no lyrics, the beats are mathematical, and the guitar riffs are complex. There are the good ole funk bands, and sometimes a nice dance jam is thrown into the mix as well.

On this particular night in question, I was supporting a friend of mine in a fun punk band called Gnarboots. Simply put, they are insane. The music is fast, they jump around, and usually one or all of them manages to loose their pants by the end of the set. The audience either looks on in pleasant disbelief, or looses their shit. It was a good show.

Since I’m not some hot punk girl, I usually don’t have to worry about getting hit on at these types of shows. Most girls have their specific venues where they know someone will eventually try to slur drunken words into their ear to get closer to their boobies. I have two: Dance Clubs and the sidewalk in Downtown Oakland. Dance Clubs are easy-you get the chance to prepare yourself for the onslaught of drunken advances and butt humping, but the sidewalk in Downtown Oakland always… ALWAYS throws me off. There was a point when I worked in Oakland, and actually got used to this attention. I would put on my stone cold face, wear sunglasses, slap on the headphones, and walk like my ass was on fire. This worked a bit, but believe it or not, about once a day some persistent idiot would try to yell his way through the personal barrier I put up.

Now that I don’t work in Oakland anymore, I’ve become soft. I find myself walking around with my usual dumb smiley face, looking people in the eyes, and ultimately getting bombarded by inappropriated comments from dudes just hanging out on the street. I’m not scared or anything, but just for my sanity I try to drive through Downtown Oakland as much as I can.

After the Gnarboots show, I was pumped and hungry- so, me and some friends decided to grab some food at a near by taco truck. Since it was late on a week-end night, in Oakland, this truck was popping. A huge crowd of mildly buzzed 20 somethings had gathered around for after party sustenance, in the middle was a plastered young man. He wore the traditional Oakland ensemble of a giant white t-shirt, and obnoxiously large jeans that sorta pooled and sagged around his posterior.I never understood this style- you don’t look cool, just lost and drowning in your clothes- like some child trying to play "daddy" in his father’s closet. People had already begun to back away from his drunken sways when we walked up to the crowd. This create a sort of bubble around him as he hazardly swung his dreads this way and that like Janice from the Muppets.

In a comically thick Jamaican accent he started to proclaim, “I WANT MY CHEESE TACO!” I sensed this would be trouble, and tried to sink behind my friends and somehow achieve the anonymity I had back at the punk show. “CHEESE TACO!” Everyone else at the taco truck tried to resume normal conversation as they either waited to order or to pick up their food. It was almost entertaining to watch, as he weaved and bobbed around people trying to stay upright. A lesbian couple walked up to the truck to order their food, and he honed in on one of them. “heeeeey… who are you ‘ere wit?” She ignored him. “You need to listen when a man is talkn’ to you, girl.” She rolled her eyes. He continued to ramble on in his drunken island talk, until she said some choice words to him, threw me a concerned but hilarious look, and walked back to join her girlfriend after ordering. I laughed a little bit, and in that instance caught Mr. Cheese Taco’s eye.

DAMN IT.

He wibble wobbled his way towards me and said, “Now, who protect you, girl?” Which I couldn’t help but think was a weird thing to ask… I shot him a dagger filled look and directed my attention to something else. “WHO PROTECT YOU?” He wasn’t letting up, so I decided to switch tactics and resort to my crazy person tone I’ve learned from working many years in the public library.

“Can I help you?” He looked at me blankly from behind his swaying dreads, and repeated his inane question about protection. “I’m sorry?”The apathetic snotty tone usually throws most suitors off.

“Baby Girl, you gotta have a man protect you, you need to let me protect you, and come back home with me. I’m gettn’ some cheese tacos.” Obviously my snotty tone didn’t derail Mr. Reggae.

“Okay, that’s great, but I’m with my four friends, and I’m sure you’ll enjoy all of your cheese tacos without me. Have a good night. Thanks.” The ‘thanks’ usually works to end conversation in a weirdly awkward way.

He edged in closed and continued on with his drunken rambles, my friends pulled in, but he wasn’t having any of  it, he was focused and ready to pounce, but I stood my ground and calmly kept saying, “good-night!” and “have a nice night!” also “enjoy your cheese tacos” Until finally, his order was called. He wibble wobbled his way to the bag of food, turned to me. Like a little kid attempting to share he said,

“You sure you don’t want some, girl?”

“No thanks, I’m good!” I smiled and waved thinking it was over.

“Too bad, because my dick is like a cheese taco,” with that he turned and casually walked away. Normally, I’m disgusted whenever a stranger talks about their penis with me. This was just wacky, his comment was neither appealing or complimentary to his appendage. Honestly, I just sorta felt sad for his messy sloppy attempts at love.

Also what the hell is a Cheese Taco… isn’t that just an open faced quesadilla?