Aggressive Women in Area 7

Does anyone else remember this song? The guy who wrote it performed it live in the CSUS coffeehouse back when I was an undergrad–so long ago that the guy has probably (a) given up the musician’s life and become an accountant or (b) released several platinum albums.

Area 7 was (maybe still is) a real-estate map reference to the area around Howe Avenue and Sac State–prime student housing land (Remember The Village before the remodel?).

Anyway, I cruised up to Petco and Cost Plus yesterday and got a little reminiscent. Petco is next door to what used to be a nightclub back in the early 90s…I’ve been trying (and failing) to remember the name. I keep thinking “Club Gnaw”–but no, that was the dance club that was located in the ever-so-upscale Country Club Lanes building. (I just so totally dated myself there.) Club Gnaw was a seminal experience: I learned all about dancing til 3 a.m. and then hitting the Lyon’s for breakfast…and about waking up with my hair smelling (nay, reeking) of Obsession and clove cigarettes…and about rolling into work at 8 a.m., still in my clubbing clothes (ew).

With the exception of some in-fill development, the area is still much like it was back when I was an undergrad. Before I left it for the “dark side” that is Area 1. I can only describe it as a cultural shift: One arrives in Sacramento, all fresh-faced and innocent, and promptly installs oneself at an apartment in the logical area near CSUS. But once you graduate, there are choices to be made…I could have stuck with the same group of pals, and I’d probably be living the suburban life in Serrano or Rancho Murieta right now. But the grid beckoned.

What was it? The scene, the bars, the parks, the funky-hip atmosphere of midtown. My “friends”–such as they were–screamed about homeless drunks, high crime rates, and those ugly old buildings (they were referring to the Victorians). Not for them, they said, and told me to look at new apartments with swimming pools and tennis courts and valet dry cleaning.

I leased a tiny, one-bedroom apartment in a pink Victorian 4-plex at 15th and F…across the street from what used to be a bar called Joe’s (it’s now Sandra Dee’s) . The landlord had not had it cleaned before I moved in, so I found the former tenant’s ammo and clumps of fur from his German Shepherd. Next door was Dorothea Puente’s house–although she and her gruesome collection were gone by then.

Our corner had its very own prostitute and pimp. Joe’s provided us with a steady stream of drunks peeing on our fence. We had a crackhouse a few doors down–which meant I’d come home and find people smoking crack on my doorstep. I watched from my apartment window one night as someone broke out my car window and snagged my stereo. Then there was the night of the Sac PD raid, looking for the guy with the ammo and German Shepherd, instead finding a somewhat bewildered short chick. (BTW, the officers looked kinda hot in those bulletproof vests.) Oh, yeah…good times.

The realities of living in Midtown, though, meant taking the bad with the great. Being able to walk and bike everywhere, having the parks and live music and good restaurants nearby. Hanging out at the Weatherstone with its old-school characters. I loved it. And still do. Driving through the Howe/Arden area yesterday reminded me once again that Area 1 is the place I want to be.