Picano’s, the El Salvadoran bakery at the bottom of my street, just re-opened after being closed for many months by the Health Dept. for what were officially kitchen violations. However, word on the mean but Millennially infested streets of East Hollywood has it that they finally got caught for selling Oxycodone to ’80’s Hair Band refugees and machete’s to street gang members and yours truly as a prop for a project – the manager was touched to have one of his weapons as a prop in a play on an actual stage – but that’s a story for a different time.
I used to get up, make my coffee and watch as the Sebastian Bach and Mötley Crüe middle aged wanna be’s line up to get their medication as memories from a night’s debauchery at The Rainbow Room in 1985 was reminisced over for the hundredth time since 11pm while leaning on one of the last working pay phones in Los Angeles. Since the grand re-opening, two groups line up outside the place: El Salvadoran yenta’s with their push baskets and Millennial hipsters in their yoga pants trying to support a local business that doesn’t seem to have the exact kind of Starbuck’s product they’re looking for but what the fuck buy local.
The other day as I opened the door to get my large coffee, I found myself in the middle of a commotion. It seems Man Bun, with his fabulously frosted hair and cerulean dyed bun daintily tied on the left side of his crown, was in an argument with the manager about his Lhasa Apso that he brought into the joint.
“But I’m holding it,” Man Bun says.
“It’s a health code violation and we can’t have the dog in here,” the manager said.
“It’s a service dog,” Man Bun claimed. “I need her to relieve my social anxiety otherwise I can’t buy anything in this crowd.”
The crowd was me, three El Salvadoran yenta’s waiting patiently for their turn to buy native deserts and other cookies and cakes and the manager.
“Look buddy, I just re-opened a minute ago and I don’t want to be shut down again. Do me the solid ok? Don’t bring the dog in here. It’s a health code violation,” the Manager said.
“It’s a service dog,” Man Bun screamed as the yenta’s went about their shopping, looking at lists and the like.
“Then get one of those little yellow coats that says it’s a service dog and I’ll let it in. Until then DO NOT bring the dog in here.”
Man Bun looked around with disgust. “I’m going to call the Health Department and they’ll get you to check your White privilege. You and your deplorables!” He walked out with enough righteous indignation to make A Line proud. Of course the rest of us wondered if he knows where El Salvador is.