X marked by Spot
Across the street from the Revolution, a plainly marked, small building sits, demurely emblazoned with
the cautious, nearly anonymous moniker "Pet Medical Center." It is a heart-rending sight, indeed, to
periodically see wizened old retrievers enter and exit its placid doors limping, coned, and surely
in pain. But, as Clinton says, I didn't write this about the pets or their staunchly optimistic-looking
Medical Center.
I'm writing about Treasure Island.
Treasure Island is a small island of earth between the sidewalk and the curb. Nominally, you might expect this
to be a venue for bright green, Santa Monica grass. Instead, it is a minefield. You see, we've taken
to calling this strip of abused vegitation Treasure Island for the little presents that the Medical
Center's patients leave behind. Copiously. You get the picture.
