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The art of mean.

Being mean is not something you set out to be, its a place you end up.

Like closing a bar and going to Denny’s, you didn’t start your night with that destination in mind, you just ended up there.

But, if you stay open-minded, you can enjoy being mean just as much as being kind.

You just don’t get that karmic after-taste of satisfaction that being kind leaves you with.

That cosmic pat on the back and a celestial “Atta-boy!”.

And why am I mentioning it?

Because I am being mean.

And I am loving it.

Here’s why.

There is a Family with a baby at the next table at my favorite breakfast spot.

And it is not a young family, these are mid-40 parents.

And here is my problem with that.

When a teen or 20-something has a kid, that kid is their whole life.

Both parents focus on that kid like its the only thing keeping them alive, and it just might be.

But, and this is not all 40-somethings, I happen to know a 40-something single mom who is a great mother. (As well as being breathtakingly hot.), but the overwhelming majority of 40-something parents have too much shit going on to make the child their sole focus.

Here is the cast of characters at the next table:

Baby- Pretty much had a low level crying fit going the whole time he was there. I have seen this before. Not a good looking kid. Seriously. Some people win the genetic lottery, and those Irish among us know what I mean, but some people really just rolled snake-eyes on that one. This kid has a life-time of disappointment ahead of him.

Dad- His name is Don. I know this because it was the only clear word I could make out from Mom. Don took the lion’s share of the blame for many things from the moment they walked thru the door. He lived in his cell phone.

Mom- Not sure what her name was, not sure she needed one. She had the unbelievably annoying habit of whispering everything except her husband’s name. Instinctively, I don’t like her. Can I use the word bitch here without being sexist?

And here is what I am doing.

I am annoying Mom.

Dad is sitting with his back to me, Mom is facing me and Baby is in a high chair at the end of the table.

Early on, Baby hit is vocal peak for a second and I looked up and rolled my eyes.

And locked eyes with Mom.

The glare was epic.

She was at that point in her life that the baby is a reflection of her.

And total approval is what she demands of the world at large.

And it made me laugh.

I stayed poker face, but it was close.

I love to annoy women like this.

Over the course of the next 10 minutes, I rolled my eyes, sighed, hell, I even thru up my hands at every little squeek that came out of that kid.

And it was driving Mom fucking berzerk.

About 5 minutes in, Mom started whispering to Don, because obviously, this was his fault.

It took a whole 5 more minutes before she hassled him into doing something.

Finally, after I sighed a little too loud, Don put down his phone and turned around.

“Do you mind?” It was said almost politely. Dammit Don, if you are going to confront, be an asshole about it.

And here is the completely childish response from me.

I have a lazy left eye that drifts off if I am not concentrating.

So I let the eye drift off, badly. Right eye is looking at Don, left eye is looking at the wall.

It disturbs people for some reason.

I pulled my headphones out of my ears. They aren’t on, but if they were, I would not be able to hear what they were saying, would I?

I slurred my voice. “I’m sorry, am I bothering you? Sorry, sir, sorry.”

The whole thing together was a confusing thing to deal with.

I could see it in his eyes.

“Oh, uh, no no, its ok.” And Don turned around and got in a whisper fight with Mom.

And it really did not help that Mom caught me smiling and looking at her with both eyes straight.

Please understand that I am not exactly proud of this little episode, but I am not ashamed either.

But it was funny at the time.

 

 
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Posted by on August 28, 2015 in Uncategorized

 

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The unproductive side of insomnia.

There is a certain terror that courses thru me on the occasional friday, my day off, when I wake up and realize that I do not have a blog ready.

I usually write them several days ahead of time and schedule them. It makes life that much easier.

Not today.

Today, we go old school.

For the first 6 months of this blog’s existence, I wrote it every weekday, right before heading down the hill in Manhattan Beach to the office.

500 to a 1000 words, on the fly.

And some of that stuff was brilliant.

So here we are today.

I got nothing.

 

Among the many things that bother me is the fact that I can’t sleep.

Insomnia has always been like some sort of karmic herpes for me.

It lingers, could pop up at any moment and has ruined many nights and the ensuing days for me.

What does it want?

It never says.

It just sits there, glaring at me, taunting me, belittling my lack of rem state.

Like there was a damn thing I could do about it.

I was about 7 years old when my mother stopped trying to make me go to sleep at 8pm.

The unspoken rule was, turn the lights out and at least fake being asleep by 6am and we were good.

Writing became a survival tactic to keep me from getting into bigger mischief.

Plus its fairly quiet as far as late night activities go.

Most people don’t understand how little sleep you can function on.

I went thru most of high school on an hour of sleep a night, and I usually just stayed awake on the 4th night.

I ran on adrenaline.

I have mellowed since then.

I get about 4-6 hours of sleep a night now.

And I only get up 2-3 times a night, this is pretty good.

Being single kind of amplifies it.

When I have a regular bed mate, I sleep like a stone.

Insomnia doesn’t mind screwing with me, but at least its polite to my company.

Except that I am single right now.

Not by choice, lord knows I try.

However, and I came to peace a long ago with this fact, my odd collection of mental/emotional shit is no day at the beach.

I have always been indecisive about what particular medal my ex should be awarded, but she does deserve something.

I mean, you get to read the blog, giggle at the nastiness, put it down and go about your day.

Now imagine that you live with this mind, this mouth and this attitude 24/7.

M. Night Shyamalan would write the horror movie version of this little plot line.

And you would think that, being up most nights, I would write the damn blog.

Wrong.

So here we are.

Literary rambling at its finest.

And my favorite breakfast place has so far delivered 2 different dishes that I did NOT order.

My order is not a difficult one.

1 pancake, 1 sausage, 1 scrambled egg.

Seems simple, doesn’t it?

Nope, first plate to arrive was the country skillet.

Eggs, potatos, ham, sausage, bacon, and a handfull of various chopped veggies.

I was tempted to keep it, it looked that good.

However, that would mean someone else didn’t get theirs.

The second dish came soon after.

Biscuits and gravy, hot and steamy. Looks absolutely delicious.

And its still not what I ordered.

I am now worried that, thru no fault of my own, I am in danger of angering the help to the point that someone will spit in my food.

Its a harmless paranoia, all things considered.

But the thought of an extra shot of questionable DNA in my eggs makes my stomach a little queasy.

Breakfast has finally arrived, along with the end of today’s meandering rant.

So I will eat the food and let you digest this.

Much like baby food, it will not strain your system, will fill you for an hour or so, and just might give you the shits.

 

 
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Posted by on August 21, 2015 in Uncategorized

 

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The naked muse.

A naked woman once told me I cannot claim to be innocent given the content and tone of this blog.

True innocence is much like true viciousness, pure and perfect at its core.

So I called bullshit. Maybe not at the time, mainly because you don’t interrupt a naked woman.

Your penis will not let you.

When it comes to lust and things of a sexual nature, the penis runs a tight ship.

Don’t get between the primal directive and the captain of that ship.

This is not as deep and philosophical as it sounds.

Basically, a naked woman could read aloud from Norman Mailer’s The Executioner’s Song, arguably the worst fucking book ever written, and I would be enraptured.

(Sidenote. I have no clue how in the hell Mailer won the Pulitzer Prize for that piece of shit. I can only assume that he had pictures of the judging committee playing an intense game of Naked Johnny on the Pony with their faces totally visible.)

And if there are any Norman Mailer fans out there who were offended, fuck off, you are a pretentious piece of shit and you should be ashamed. The only saving grace is that once the half dozen aging hipsters that claim to love his work die off, his name and novels will fade into the obscurity of history.

But enough about Mailer.

Back to the viciousness.

When you are younger, or ignorant and naive, you attached a negative connotation to that.

But your perspectives change as you get older.

Its like the word manipulation.

If I told you I have manipulated you, would you be upset.

Sure, I could stop and make the verbal argument as to why you should say or do what I want you to.

Or I could just guide you down the path of seeing that this is whats best for you.

And when you present it as your idea, I always make it look like I am impressed with your decision.

Now, and this is where the viciousness happens, so pay attention.

I do this to everyone I know.

So, it follows that, if we know each other and you think I have never done this to you, you are so easily manipulated that you have yet to figure out that it happened.

Your welcome.

The older you get, the more you realize that things flow a lot better when someone is in total control of the situation.

Plus it helps if you are the one in charge.

The people that get upset at this are not mentally capable of taking charge, but are close enough to recognize that they are not, or the ones that are dumb enough to think they really should be in charge.

Either one is really annoying.

But lets stay focussed on my innocence.

This blog is pure, untouched, largely unedited, and doesn’t hesitate to say something that might be considered rude.

Censorship is tainted, evil and bad for the soul in the long run.

Not to be confused with the taint, arguably the smoothest skin on the human body.

Try this for one day, from the moment you get up, to the moment you go to bed, say whatever vile of mean thing that comes into your head, with no censorship or filter.

And if you are unemployed, facing divorce and haven’t had your ass kicked as LEAST once by the end of that day, you held too much back.

Please note, I did not say it was a great idea.

I believe I said “From the moment YOU get up-”

I need my job.

And I don’t want to anger the naked woman.

 
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Posted by on August 14, 2015 in Uncategorized

 

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Puppies and Rainbows

So I had someone whine at me that I am too negative.

A comment that I immediately derided and belittled.

And then, I read over the blogs for the last, oh say, all of them.

Maybe they have a point.

So I have decided to write a positive themed post today.

Tougher than I thought.

I am like a pressure cooker. Pressure builds and eventually it can’t hold it and steam escapes in the form of a post.

So, here is what I will do.

I will tell you about 3 things I have seen in the last week that made me smile.

 

The first was a young mother.

And I mean young.

18 at the most and pushing a stroller up to Starbucks when I arrived.

The stroller was configured so the baby faced her.

I held the door. (Chivalry is not dead, its just resting for the most part.)

Mom kept up a whole conversation with the baby all thru the line.

The baby was paying attention.

Once she had her coffee, she went and sat down with the stroller right there.

No cell phone to be seen, total focus on her child.

There is hope for the world.

This is the polar opposite of what you normally see with a mother and child in Starbucks.

When mom is older, late 30’s and 40’s, the kid is on his own.

Mom is busy, usually texting or on the phone.

Lord of the Flies time, people.

There is a reason why your body is able to have a child in your teens.

Because you are supposed to.

Just because modern science has made it possible to have a child in your 50’s, doesn’t mean you should.

To paraphrase Chris Rock, you COULD drive your car with just your feet if you want to, but that doesn’t make it a good fucking idea.

I wish mother and child all the best.

 

Four construction workers were having lunch at a burger place I like.

3 were obviously experienced guys, with a new guy, kid really, sitting off to the side and trying to be included.

It was like watching a puppy desperately trying to play with someone ignoring him.

And then, things shifted.

The oldest of the 3, lets call him Big John, looked over at NKOTB. (New Kid On The Block)

“After lunch, I am going to have you work with me on the entry.”

NKOTB’s head snapped up and a smile spread on his face. Someone noticed the puppy existed.

“Ok!”

One of the other guys, lets call him Mullet, (No judgement here. God loves you and your trailer.) shook his head and leaned towards Big John.

“He’s digging the utility trench, only half done.” He says this almost with regret, its just too bad.

Big John is casual about it and doesn’t miss a beat.

“Finish the trench, I want him to work on the entry with me.”

I will give him this, Big John runs a tight ship. Mullet didn’t even make a face. “Ok.”

Lesson: There is a reason they call them Alpha Dogs.

 

Third and final positive thing.

Thelma and Louise.

That is the title of a God-awful feminist movie from the 80’s that was the biggest piece of self indulgent crap ever forced on the public.

It is also the nickname I have given to two apparently bat-shit crazy homeless crones I see everyday during my afternoon bicycle commute.

They are anywhere from 60-100, but street aged to the point that it no longer matters.

They are OLD.

They are also 2 different types of bat-shit crazy.

Thelma always looks really pissed and never stops chewing out someone imaginary nearby.

Louise looks like a carbon copy of her partner and never says a word.

However, she is always wearing several layers of clothes, even on a hot day, and has a shopping cart piled high with more clothes.

I see them heading down the street together in a really crappy part of town.

Yesterday, they were crossing the street. I was waiting for the light.

The street had a slight incline from the curb to the middle of the street.

Thelma walked a little ahead, keeping up her constant stream of obscenities at the ghosts around her.

Louise fell behind, struggling to pull her shopping cart piled high up the slight incline.

It was a sad little scene, mainly because she was failing.

The cart would not leave the gutter.

I began to lean my bike against a pole to go help, I am an asshole, but not a heartless asshole.

And stopped.

Thelma looked back, saw her companion struggling, and shut her mouth for the first time I had ever seen.

She went back to help.

Even crazy needs a friend.

The two of them pulled the cart to the middle of the street and over the hump.

They made it to the curb and went past me, down the sidewalk.

I realised I had tears on my cheeks.

 

There is hope for this world.

 
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Posted by on August 7, 2015 in Uncategorized

 

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Hoping for that Snooky sucker punch.

There is something about being born in Southern California that keeps you from using the word “Cali” in a sentence.

That has always been the big three of identifying a tourist or worse, someone trying to pretend they were born here.

  1. Use of the word Cali. You were not raised here, stop faking this, its just sad.
  2. Mullet. Can’t get around the hairstyle as an instant identifier of someone raised “Elsewhere”. Its an ugly hairstyle indicative of trailer parks and trucks up on blocks in your front yard. See also inbreeding.
  3. Calling a soda “Pop”. May as well have a piece of hay sticking out of your teeth, Jethro.

Do I have a point here? Not sure.

What I do have is indigestion based on the conversation going on at the next table.

My muse this morning is a mid-30’s woman that is a walking cliche.

Jersey hair, too much perfume, too much jewelry, too much…

Just too much.

And she is on her cell phone, which has been bedazzled too much.

Volume of her voice? Too much.

“I have been in Cali for 5 years now. I’m practically a native.”

I just about shit myself when that little gem slipped out of her mouth, too much lipstick, with her thick Jersey accent.

Like a more mannish Snooky who may, or may not, have penis.

You would think I would be repulsed.

However, like a slow motion train wreck, I cannot look away.

But its a painful perspective.

One that is tough to endure and also tough to hide.

The person she is talking to is located somewhere called “Back in Dirty D”.

Not sure where that is, but it sounds like a pit.

(My apologies to pit inhabitants everywhere. I am sure your place is much nicer.)

Don’t get me wrong, I am fully in favor of migrating if you do not like your present surroundings.

But at least make the effort to blend in before you declare your native standing.

Its a lot like those that become Irish each and every St. Patrick’s day.

No, you are not. Green beer and wolfing down corned beef and cabbage by the metric ton does not make you Irish any more than having few years of rent paid west of the West of the 405 makes you a native. (Mostly just natives will get this. If you aren’t a native, but you do get it, you are still not a native)

So where does that leave us?
For me, it leaves me in a Starbucks sitting with an irritated nose next to the second coming of Snooky the terrible.

Eventually, she hung up the phone and began texting.

And if you have never had the pleasure of watching a woman with inch long fingernails texting, it is a case study in blissful frustration.

It appears to be 3-4 times the effort of normal texting, but all done with a smile and the low humming of a tune.

No brains, no headaches, everything is streamlined and simple.

Its a little like watching Winnie the Pooh, if he had Jersey hair and a push up bra, but that same innocent ignorance.

Except that I have never despised Winnie the Pooh.

But maybe thats just me.

 
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Posted by on July 31, 2015 in Uncategorized

 

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Easy rider it isn’t.

Its called “Right of way”, asshole.

No one knows how to drive these days.

And I am not just talking about turning the wheel and pushing the pedals, you could hook electrodes to a dead earthworm and he get push the pedal enough to get you a ticket. (Plus you would probably get hit with the “No seatbelt” ticket too. They are so small, it would totally slip your mind.)

I am talking about those pesky little nitpicking annoyances that those of us who are just being assholes like to call THE FUCKING TRAFFIC LAWS.

You know, silly concepts like right of way, signalling a lane change and driving in the bike lane.

I swear, riding my bike to work has been an interesting mix of blessing and curse.

On the one hand, its a great way to get a morning and afternoon workout in my efforts to change the shape I am in. (Mainly from round into something that looks better.)

However, as I watch my fellow motorists zooming past me, a couple of things are abundantly clear.

  • The shittiest driver’s on the road have the nicest or the crappiest cars. Your high end Mercedes drivers are the most clueless d-bags on the road. Crappy cars are known for erratic driving. no look lane changes and right turns are their stock in trade.
  • Motorcyclists scream the loudest about how everyone doesn’t look out for them, but they look out for NO ONE. An even 50% of observed motorcycles on my daily trek speed, do NOT use turn signals, accelerate 3-4 times faster than everyone else and weave in and out of traffic. I am stunned they are not dropping like flies on an hourly basis.

On the good side of things, and we all know how I love the positive side of things, the ride to work was a great one.

Long enough to get a workout, not so long I am destroyed when I get there.

Hoping to ride a 100 mile race next month, so I need the work out.

But enough about me.

I did see a friend of sorts on my way.

Pauline, my latest homeless meth-head friend, happened to be walking down the street as I was riding to work.

Meth, it seems, does not have a bed time.

I waved and shouted her name and she just looked blankly at me, like she didn’t recognize me.

And she probably didn’t. Hard core drug use is a bitch on the short-term memory.

The morning ride was vastly different from the afternoon ride.

Morning ride starts just before sunup. The streets are deserted except for those with the really shitty commute. (Which was me for a long time.)

Its cool out, slight breeze, and more than enough light to see, but I use my bike lights anyway, more for them to see me than for me to see the road.

The afternoon ride is busy. Lots of cars on the road. Its hot and real humid out, so the sweat starts quickly and truly shocks me with the quantity.

But its a good ride, mainly flat, a few small hills, but nothing even approaching hard.

Had an interesting encounter on the ride home.

Pulled up to a stoplight and waited at the curb for the light to change.

There is a massive street dude standing there, truly a beast of a human being with all the earmarks of the thug life, up to and including facial tattoos.

His shirt print is a really interesting design, kind of an urban cityscape, but with colorful air brushing and some sci fi imagery mixed in.

And then I realized I was staring.

And then I realized he was staring at me, staring at him.

Among the thug world, mono a mono stare downs can get you shot. The best course of action its to change the setting.

“I like that shirt.”

He looks confused, and pulls out his earbuds. He didn’t hear me.

“What?”

“I like that print.”

And just like that, the moment is defused.

A huge grin spreads across his face.

“Its my design. I’m the artist.”

“You are a talented human-being.”

Andre and I talk for a good twenty minutes.

Awesome dude. Grew up in a really bad section of town, had an uncle who wanted to keep him out of trouble, so he taught him to draw when he was little. It worked, sort of.

But uncle died recently and left Andre a 4 color silk screen press.

And Andre is doing 4 color shirts, then doing further painting on them to create some truly incredible stuff. He showed me picks on his phone of a dozen shirts he has done. He sells them for $40. Doing well, he says.

The light has changed a number of times, and I am finally ready to go.

The white walk signal comes up and Andre steps off the curb, heading in the same direction.

And a car tries to turn right with no signal, against the light.

Had I jackrabbited, he might have clipped me.

Andre smacks the hood with his fist and the driver looks terrified and backs up.

As I ride off, I wonder if I can talk Andre into doing the daily ride with me.

Because people drive like shit.

 
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Posted by on July 24, 2015 in Uncategorized

 

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Turning the other cheek has never been my thing.

50 shades of blog.

That is my life right now.

For those that didn’t put down their Highlights magazine or the latest copy of 17 magazine in order to read the book or couldn’t get an adult to buy you a ticket for the movie, 50 Shades of Grey is housewife porn about S & M.

I always found the concept of S & M a little silly, and then I realized something.

Turns out, I am totally into it.

I write a weekly blog, and I really work on the rude, like more than most people would think.

Over 4 years, close to 600 posts.

Thats a lot of rude.

But the hate mail has been pretty solid for the last two years.

And it suddenly occurred to me that I am setting myself up for a weekly flogging, all the while whining like some sort of prison bitch about my lot in life.

Here is the issue.

Its all email.

I was perplexed as to why people would send a private message to chastise me when they could comment at the bottom of the post and do it publicly.

And then it hit me.

Because its public.

The whining fucking maggots that piss and moan every week prefer to hide in the shadows as they take their shots.

Confrontation in a public forum might lead to the one thing they fear most.

Someone might chastise them.

And they can’t take that.

So, I have made a little change in the set up.

This will be the last week an email option will be available on this site.

Got something to say? Do it in public or shut up and take it.

So, this is your last chance to take a private swing.

Next week? We will throw down in public.

I have said it before, but you came into my yard.

Welcome to Thunderdome, bitch.

I am not getting misty eyed about it, but there are a few of my dedicated critics that I will miss.

I only know them by their email names.

Tiny Mouse, from New Zealand, sent me the first hate email I ever received.

Calls me a belligerent cis-male every now and then.

Has never understood that I do not view that as an insult.  (A cis-male is someone who insists on being viewed as the gender they were born to. The connotation being that you are doing it just to be an ass.

I view my gender as the default setting. I am a guy. So is Bruce Jenner. I will call him Caitlin, but I will not call him a woman until he has his junk removed.)

Another favorite critic is Newhall who is lurking somewhere in Southern California.

Newhall is a unicorn with a winning lottery ticket in his mouth.

Male, and has about a dozen cats. (I have replied to his most heated hate emails with accusations of cat-rape and that just throws him into a frenzy.)

Usually your crazy cat person is a woman.

And while Newhall has tried so hard to make me see my misogynistic racism, its just not a concept I can understand. No doubt a side effort of my cis-maleness.

And he has found it in places that I had no idea that misogyny could exist in.

I have written tens of thousands of words about a married couple that I named the “Evil Couple”.

My bewildered confusion at the antics of those two are some of my favorites.

It turns out that my comments about them, equally spaced amounts of shit heaped on both, are misogynistic.

How? I am still in the dark on that one.

I would like to say that I will miss them, but I won’t.

Much like wiping shit off of my shoe, I will tell myself that its ok, but I will always feel a little dirty, in the back of my head.

So, with all that being said, I invite you pussies to step out of the shadows and into the Fight Club.

And if its your first time at my Fight Club?

You fight.

Bring it.

 

 
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Posted by on July 17, 2015 in Uncategorized

 

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