Illustration by Bob AulSo it's Friday night, and me and my friends are hanging out in Anaheim Hills of all places. All we wanted was a little booze. Fuck you, yuppie town. That's right: this letter is addressed to the entire town of Anaheim Hills, the town that never wakes. My beef with this religiously uptight Republican stronghold: the immense amount of completely unavailable alcohol after midnight. It was 12:30 a.m., so I figured I had about an hour and a half of booze-purchasing time left. So I didn't sweat it. I waited for 45 minutes before embarking on my quest. I cruised the regulars: Ralphs, Vons, Albertson's, Pavilions—one after another all closed. The grocery stores were all a bust, so I cruised around for a liquor store. The only thing more appalling than the complete lack of liquor stores in Anaheim Hills is the fact that if one existed, it would most likely only be open from noon till 5 p.m. and sell nothing but bubble gum and Bibles. At 10 minutes till 2 a.m., I did what any red-blooded American would do when deprived of his favorite liver-damaging poison: I improvised—but only after I screamed and yelled at the top of my lungs. Breaking many traffic laws and traveling at unbelievable speeds, I stoppped at one closed store after another, each stop eliciting a new cavalcade of ranting and cursing. (By the way, if you're a yuppie who was rudely awakened around 1:55 a.m. one night by a loud cheeky fellow screaming obscenities at the top of his lungs, then you'll get no apologies from me. It's your own fault for being so yuppie-ish. So there.) My last bastion of hope came from a 24-hour gas-station snack stop where at 1:59 a.m. Saturday morning, I purchased a six-pack of Tequiza for $8 through a hole in the wall. So if you're ever in Anaheim Hills after midnight craving a little gin and juice, take my advice: leave town. Or else you, too, might end up listening to the vocal styling of Paco the shifty-eyed, guitar-playing, insomniac, gas-station attendant.
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