You know this street- every city has one. It’s got wide brick sidewalks and three-story brownstones and so many vintage bicycles tied to the lamp-posts that you’re just waiting for an army of people to come out of the storefronts sniffing their own farts out of wine glasses[1] and then asking you to hold them while they hand-roll a cigarette.
Of course, you go half a mile in any direction and you’re bound to find half a dozen taquerias and a concrete bunker that’ll repair any and all mechanical products that you’d never even think needed maintenance. Like electric razors. Or cars[2].
But not on this street, not in this part of towne. This part of towne is so otherworldly, Microsoft Word insists that it’s spelled wrong.
And I can humor it, but there might be a threshold. I don’t know what additions they’ve made to your olde towne, but mine now has a Native American store, right next to the frozen yogurt shop. I’ll admit, yogurt seems to be a craze for the adventurous these days, but I don’t know how extreme your yogurt would have to be to get you thinking, “you know what I need- a thirty dollar feather!”[3]
And the truth is, these places never last. Because rent ain’t cheap in the olde towne- about nine thousand a month, I hear. Or five hundred dream catchers. I’m no economist, but I’m guessing the demand for dream catchers isn’t quite there. But if there’s anything I’ve learned over the past couple years, it’s that we never learn. Before the Native American store, I believe it was a Penny Loafer Cordwainery[4]. Over their two year existence, they repaired exactly no penny loafers. Now, I may not be a history expert[5], but I am known as the Nostradamus of my friend circle, so here’s what that storefront’s future holds once the Native American store doesn’t sell enough incense to stay in business:
v Incense World: I’m serious. This will happen.
v Re-Flax: A store dedicated to the relaxing properties of all comestibles made of flax seed. And by relaxing property, I mean these seeds make you shit your brains out.
v Get Fixed: So you really want a fixed-gear bike, but you’d also like a vasectomy. Guess what- we offer both!
v Uni-Tards: Fixed-gear bicycles were sooo three months ago. Everyone in this towne knows that unicycles are the way to go! Don’t worry, we still provide vasectomies.
v In Her Shoes: A feminist shoe store. If they make your butt look good, you can be sure they don’t carry them.
v Return to Sender: This store specializes in the short-lived 41₵ stamp. We’ve got never-mailed and once-mailed stamps from the Beijing Olympics Collection, the TV Moms of the 80s Collection, the Woodland Creatures of the Tennessee Valley Collection, and of course, the misprinted Al Gore Presidency Collection.
v Olde Towne Rugs: A rug store.
v Rug Munchers: A feminist rug store.
v Chipotle Mexican Grill: “No! We want the Incense store!” you cry, helplessly. “Oh well, I guess I’ll take the fajita burrito”.
If my Futurist knowledge is worth anything, this should about constitute the lineup for this towne’s storefronts. That is, until next December 21, when we’ll go extinct. That’s when the Martians will come in and build a Super Target.
[1] I know that’s stolen from South Park, but what jokes are left?
[2] “Daddy, what’s the blinking light mean?”
[3] My friend said that, but I forget which one. So whatever.
[4] That’s Olde for “loafer-fixer”.
[5] If it wasn’t a loafer-fixer, it was a Jamba Juice- I can’t remember.
