25 Ways to Know You Spend Too Much Time in Montrose

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Rocks Off loves Houston's adorably scruffy, formerly sketchy hipster 'hood long ago known as "Neartown," but sometimes you have to go beyond Allen Parkway or 59. We asked a few of our writers exactly when they know that.

You envy the comparatively walkable sidewalks of Fallujah.

You have five different pools to swim in, but don't know a soul who lives in any of the complexes.

You've come up with approximately 700 viable business plans for the former Blockbuster space at Westheimer and Montrose.

You've memorized precisely how long it takes to get to Baba Yega from your house so that you can sleep in as late as possible on Sunday.

You don't actually have to walk inside of Catbird's, Boondocks or Royal Oak to be recognized and welcomed -- just walking past their respective patios results in a chorus-like ovation of salutations and/or catcalls.

You've ended so many Ice House nights at T.K. Bitterman's that you can now name the Chicago Cubs' pitching coach.

You forget that pungent smell is actually marijuana.

You remember when the mayor wouldn't be caught dead riding in the gay pride parade.

You know what La Casa del Caballo used to be. EVERYTHING it used to be.

You are shocked when you see a woman without tattoos.

You remember when Mango's served Mexican food.

You're saving up money because your girlfriend's tattoos are nicer than yours, and it's become a problem.

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Your favorite night of the week is Monday because of the $2 wells at Cecil's.

You remember the original Late Night Pie, before Midtown existed.

You know the difference and boundaries between Montrose and East Montrose.

Your jeans are so skinny that your balls aren't touching one another.

Your neighborhood-wide power outage is caused by a cat. Or a fixed-gear.

You own more pairs of tights than socks.

The homeless guy under the spur stops asking you for change.

You quietly wish that your scooter had been stolen instead of your bike.

List continues on the next page.

You cried when Taki died. (This was the giant Ice House dog.)

It bummed you out that they painted the Kool-Aid man white at Poison Girl.

They know just how you like your Rudz burger.

You actually read the Houston Press for the articles.

You'd better leave in about ten more minutes. You've got to drive back to Katy tonight.


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