So Jon and I get a little bored on the weekends. We have designated Friday as our "date night" but it usually turns to trouble after we've tried to fit the norm and do typical date night things. Last Friday, after a pretty fun drive-in movie with some friends, we were heading home. But ... since we were in West Valley (da HOOd!) at midnight, adventure was bound to find us.
Now, I must digress. I speak Spanish. I taught elementary school in West Valley for the better part of two years. I have a certain affinity for the Latin (specifically Mexican-American) culture. I'm fascinated by it. Just because I could at one point walk the walk and talk the talk with my homies out there, doesn't make me one of them. But sometimes I really wish I was. They are so COOOL!
It's only natural, then, that when we were cruisin' 33rd and came upon not one, not two, but TEN lowrider hydrolic lifted pimpin' machines that I made my devious husband chase them. We pulled up alongside each of them, checking them out then pulling into side streets and turning around every once in a while so as to not get pumped full of lead. They were probably all laughing at the stupid GRINGOS who were trying to be so SNEAKY. We lost them for about 10 minutes on State Street, but luckily caught up to them just in time to see them convene at their rendezvous point. I was expecting a shady warehouse, salsa dance club, or some kind of deal... but where did they go?
Sonic. Yup... the restaurant.
Turns out their "oh so cool" life is just like ours. Oh well. It was still fun!