Benicia, CA
Barnaby Hazen
Tucked away in the hills, about thirty miles from Berkeley's Haight St. and the rest of the Bay Area zaniness, lies Benicia.
Having been living in Benicia these past many hours, I've come to the conclusion that in spite of its suburban drudgery and my salty, violent ghetto pride, this little town and I are in love!
Two dollar burritos can be found on First Street as can many a smile, completely free of cost, from the passer-by. Moving along toward the pier extending over Benicia's Carquinez Strait, you'll find a cafe which boasts of staying open till midnight every night of the year but Christmas and Thanksgiving, an open mic on Thursdays and a cafe mocha that'll just knock your socks off!
The bar on this particular strip is referred to as a cantina, but the food stops being served sometime before 6 p.m, apparently. Although surly, the staff and clientele are always surprised to see a new face.
Moving toward the pier there are antique shops and over priced pastries, clothes, etc; and the pier itself is just gorgeous at night. You can always find kids necking and smoking out there or in their cars. Enjoy a romantic moment or a smoke there yourself, with the sparse Benician town lights surrounding you in a breathtaking configuration. But if it's after say, nine, make sure you don't make too much noise! Benicia is full of the dutiful working class morning types we writers regard with awe and appreciation (keep that world turning, folks!).
Skipping a few residential blocks to 6th St, half a mile past 7/11, to find that one remaining brothel (from those naughty days when brothels and bars were about all that was here, you see).
Engage in passionate intercourse with your choice of girls, girls, girls, or fuck a one legged, 70 year old hermaphrodite while it blows bubbles with its previous customer's semen and fails to sing the alphabet backwards or get you off.
Below the sound proof glass floor, assuming you take a top position, you'll have a decent view of Satan and his playmates forcing two generations worth of your dead relatives into a small blender, ass first, while occasionally glancing up to point and laugh, presumably shouting things like, "We hunger for you, but soon enough," etc, all the while. That sound proofing really makes the place, I'm telling you.
And for a soul-purging value approximately three times greater than your average Generichristian church, visit Mr. Rogers afterwards, who lately has found a spot for himself in a nearby communal teepee with the Thompson Twins, Poison, Joan Jett and her incestuous brother, Billy Squire.
Here's to a new beginning...Benicia style!
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