Avoid the Usual Suspects for Mary Jane Munchies

Staring red-eyed and perplexed at the gigantic black board, I couldn’t help but hack up the brown phlegm clinging to the back my throat. Eight dollars for a burrito? As a freshman it was a staple, but if I’m forking over eight bucks for a burrito now, it better whisk me away to the fields of Elysium instead of tasting like the last-three-year’s drunk. But aside from busting out the cooking gear your roomies never washed, how can you avoid some of the ridiculous prices certain eateries in Isla Vista try to push past you?

For starters, Skynyrd was right: This bird you cannot change. So the let the bitch fly and cruise high on by to someplace else.

Naan Stop’s chicken bowl is a scrumdidilyumptuous option that won’t hurt your purse and will please even a big friendly giant’s hunger. It’s certainly not Indian cuisine at its finest, but with a price tag of less than five bucks, you’d be pressed to find a better deal in the rest of I.V. It’s the Panda Bowl of actual food.

The Deli Mart isn’t too shabby either. When they’re stocked on ciabatta bread, you can grab yourself a bag of chips, a soda and a sandwich for about six dollars. Strike up a conversation with the owners, though - I’ve practically made back the money I’ve spent at the place thanks to their savvy pro football advice. Baseball? Not so much.

While Woodstock’s ain’t Woodstock’s without pitchers, it does have a decent slice-of-the-day deal at $2.50 a pop. And try not to worry about the Wild Things hanging out inside, they’re friendly so long as you let them bum a smoke or two off you. Just don’t leave your slice on the table for long: King Max still hasn’t eaten his supper and he’s wielding a fork.

Subway isn’t bad if you like stale bread, long lunch lines and fake cheese, but the daily sandwich deal isn’t the same if you can’t buy a footlong for the cost of a six-inch. And does the bread taste the same to you? Maybe I’ve burned off my taste buds, but to me they all taste the same.

If you haven’t smelled the waft of Super Cuca’s in the wee hours of the morning, then you don’t live in Isla Vista. I have to tip my A’s cap to them. Their stench will forever remind me of a foggy 3 a.m. Natty-accompanied stomach grumbling. The secret here is the taquitos. They aren’t a boatload of food, but you may find them easier to toss up later in the night than a cornucopia of nachos and sour cream. But what am I saying? You’re the artist, go ahead and pay more for your palate.

Want to wet your whistle with your meal? Then avoid buying drinks at most places. Keg ‘N Bottle, aside from the sheer wall of goodness, has a great deal on a two liter bottle of soda for as much as most one liters - both a few cents more than that fountain drink you buy with your quesonachorito.

In all honesty, eating out in I.V. just isn’t worth it to me anymore, unless I’m too stoned to taste the difference. While it may serve as a temporary distraction from dining hall food for the noobs, any student can cook as well as the crap out there for an eighth of the cost. It may be pessimism, but when a frozen yogurt place offers only one flavor of ice cream for more than a local meal price, you know some of you here are spending Daddy’s money a little too ignorantly. I’m predicting a bankrupt Berrylicious, but maybe Daddy has more money than I previously thought.

The pessimistic feelings I hold didn’t kick in though until Domino’s tried to jump on the Bird’s bandwagon a few months back.

“5-5-5, baby.”

“Sorry, we don’t offer that deal anymore.”

“Well, fuck that.”

Click.

Apparently Domino’s screens my calls now. I’m hungry. I dial. They don’t answer. Figures.

Where’d I leave that Top Ramen?

Holy Left This Vegas Trinity Behind

What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.

But I couldn’t resist. The Fates happened to spin the Nexus Sports crew a few glistening green threads last weekend and I’ve had some aces up my sleeve ever since. But unless I bow like a pagan to the poker gods, whom do I really thank for all of the images implanted in my retinas? I guess I’m going to have to return the favor, and bend my knee at the feet of Trinity.

It was the look on the cabby’s face when we popped into his ride that said it all.

“She was practically jacking me off under the table,” Pavy exclaimed as he clambered into the passenger seat. Pavy didn’t roll the dice much, but that cute clean-shaven face of his happened to attract enough strippers at the Spearmint Rhino that they might cast him in the next lineup of misogynistic Axe commercials.

I missed the debauchery in search of other pursuits.

“So, what’s your major?”

“Poker,” I stammered. This was fucking bat country; could I trust her broken wings to fly? But as I arrived at the moment, I realized I might as well have been right. The nug of truth stemmed from the fact that I would probably be paying Trinity thanks to the blue whale this morning that kept throwing Benjamins into the pot on queen/9 suited - all I had to do was wait, then throw up the rock when Henry came along for the ride.

“Fuck you!” he yelled.

“Pay me,” I said as the dealer pushed me the pile.

Trinity yawned through the spearmint haze and interrupted my recollection with a seat on my lap. Then she asked me why the hell I was wearing a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup T-shirt. What else would I ask her?

“I eat ‘em around the edges first,” she replied. “My name’s Trinity.”

After a heated Quentin Tarantino debate, she teased with the age question.

“Are you calling me an older woman?”

No fault to her, I was a noob in there and she knew it.

“So, what’s your fix?”

I was a fawn in front of xenon lights. Um… weed? No. Music? Maybe - I lit a cigarette. Peanut butter? Yeah, I love peanut butter.

“I love peanut butter!”

I’ll admit, I didn’t see her next response coming.

“No. I don’t smoke weed. I think it’s disgusting.”

Heartbroken, I took a drag from my cigarette as Chris tipped her and pointed in my direction.

Hours later we stumbled outside to a Nevada sun careening into the distant desert, some of our crew hiding the antiquated revelry with a home-game poker face, others clearly displaying a nut flush to the approaching taxi.

“She was practically jacking me off under the table,” Pavy exclaimed as he clambered into the passenger seat.

Sorry Pavy, I couldn’t fold the better hand to a kid I taught to play the game.

“Trinity told me some guy dropped her 50 for doing her thing in a shot glass so that the dude could down it back as she watched,” I laughed.

For the next 20 seconds, not a word was said. The cabby ran a stop sign, then accelerated over the speed limit, gripping us to the sticky leather seats.

“Fools get off to that?” Chris asked.

Apparently not this cabby, I figured. Shit, at least the fare would be cheaper. But the cabby didn’t share my optimism on the drop-off. He beat me on the barter, straight up, but I paid that man his money - I was too busy tripping off what I discovered in my front pocket.

I dropped to a knee in the middle of Luxor’s front walkway. There, between my thumb and forefinger, rested a triad of mangled portions of a Bubba Kush spliff.

Trinity’s work. Naw, my stupidity. I had left the spliff in there during every lap dance. She may not be a fan of weed, but as far as I could tell the Bubba sure was fond of her. It wasn’t piss in a shot glass, but I burned it down for Trinity’s pink gown. She showed me the humor in it all.