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Monthly Archives: August 2011

The sound…….of Silence.

There is a vicious, scorched-earth, fully bi-polar argument going in Starbucks right now. Shit is being thrown out there that you should never say to someone you are sleeping with, much less a loved one.

In total silence.

There is a guy at a corner table who is deaf. He has his Iphone propped up against his coffee cup, and if I casually lean over, there is a dark haired woman signing furiously and angrily into her webcam.

I have no clue whats being said other than the expressions, unlike Spanish, which I can sound out. I don’t even know how to sign what day it is.

He has been signing furiously for thirty seconds and now slowly licked several of his fingers and it has seriously pissed off the woman on the phone even more than before. Sign language seems to have newer options for going dirty.

This is absolutely fascinating.

And then its over, he gets up and leaves, in total silence.

He may be deaf, but he still has the same issues we all do. Some more than others.

I couldn’t be deaf, I would go insane. Anger demands noise, that is basic human nature.

But on the same note, being deaf would make me impossible to be around as well. Most deaf people accept it and grow to enjoy it.

Not me.

For me, it would be like having a permanent case of the shits. Always there, always annoying. I would exist in this permanent cloud of pissy that would make me even more unpleasant than I am.

And I can be pretty unpleasant.

But I started wondering why the deaf guy has an Iphone to begin with, its not like he can use it.

And then it hits me like a smack with the big “Hey dumbfuck!” stick.

He is using his phone.

Maybe not how I would, but now everyone can use a phone. The technology has now caught up with the needs of the deaf.

In other words, the people that don’t need phones? They now need phones. And not just any phone, but one of the most expensive, high end phones on the market, with one of the costliest rate plans.

Very clever, AT&T. Or shall I just call you Mr. Jobs?

I can see it all now.

This is world wide conspiracy shit. This is like an Internet grassy knoll, data plan goes back….and to the left, broadband-Da Vinci code type thing.

Chilling.

Should I suddenly meet with some sort of suspicious accident, be aware that “They” had a hand in it.
(And by “Accident” I don’t mean like a child fouling himself. I have only done that once and it involved a lot of grain alcohol.)

I have begun poring over my cell bill, looking for some sort of code. Unfortunately, I think I have a better chance to crack the Beale Cipher, (Google it), than I do of figuring out the AT&T/Apple master plan.

But at least we know there is one.

 
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Posted by on August 18, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

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Life happens…

“Hola, Signor.”

I stop and stare.

I am one block from Starbucks and Garrett, my favorite homeless man, is speaking Spanish.

This is unique in that Garrett is a six and a half foot tall man of obvious Nordic decent.

I Hola back and ask him why the hell he is speaking Spanish.

“I want to be able to thank Mexican people who give me money.”

I am floored.

This is a game changer. Garrett sits on the corner and talks to himself for the majority of the day about the corporate policies of the major coffee houses in the US. We’ve had this discussion before, he finds that Coffee Bean is insincere in its green policies.

The homeless have gone global.

Why the hell not?

I wrote the proceeding a day ago, planning to finish it today.

And then shit happened.

Garrett the homeless guy, my bagel friend in the morning, the corporate politically conscious patron of Starbucks, died this morning.

I was talking with a friend on the phone, no more than a block from my office, when I saw two cop cars, 1 ambulance and a paramedic, all cluster parked around the corner.

He was on a stretcher, with a paramedic working on him the whole time they were loading him into the ambulance.

I found out from the store owner who knows one of the paramedics, that Garrett died on the way to the hospital either from a heart attack, but they suspect overdose.

Harsh.

I had talked and broken bread, or at least bagels with the man. He was a fascinating mix of drugged out crazy, and intellectual.

I will miss him.

Garrett the homeless guy, RIP.

 
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Posted by on August 17, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

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My Eviction Notice.

Am I being evicted?

An article on Rueters news service says that the Starbucks in New York City are taking action to get rid of “Squatters”

A squatter is a customer that comes in and stays for hours, takes up space, uses the free wifi and buys minimal.

People like, well, me.

Shit.

New Yorkers are notorious for being inhospitable, but this is a new low. The economy is tanking like Armageddon, and New York has decided that they don’t need your business? Do us all a favor, shit head and take your purchase somewhere else?

But where?

In terms of legal crack houses, I prefer Starbucks. Coffee bean is nice, but a little bland. Starbucks straddles the fence between elitist but quick and dirty coffee version of fast food quite nicely.

And something about the place. I have never been able to put my finger on it, but it almost tries to be like a modern hipster version of those folksy coffee houses from the 60’s, but with a pretentiousness that they would be ashamed of having achieved.

So, if they do kick me out, where do I go?

The mere thought of it makes me break out in a quick case of nervous swamp ass, which is never pleasant.

There are a few places I could relocate to, but they all have their set crowds.

Coffee Bean has a more sedate, older clientele. I can walk thru the front door and lower the average age by ten years. And they play muzak. Its like drinking coffee in an elevator with your grandparents.

Noah’s Bagels is across the street. Noah”s exists in this permanent stench of burnt bread as your walk thru the door and has a lot of harried people trying to get their breakfast on in the shortest amount of time. Not a lot of eye contact and little chit chat, a lot like getting coffee in a men’s bathroom. No wifi and the coffee tastes suspiciously of teabagging. (I will not explain this. You’re on your own.)

Peets coffee is right next store and unfortunately has the shared stench from the bagel shop. Also, I am not sure what they serve there, despite the name “Peet’s Coffee”. Their coffee might be good, but I will never know, because it is served in non-heated coffee urns and therefore cold.  Its like getting coffee at a gas station.

Also, every time I go in there, half of the customers are mothers with no less than 3 children in tow. Maybe it is some sort of cold coffee and fertility clinic.

Oddly enough, Jamba Juice makes a good cup of coffee, go figure. However, no wifi, no seats and no one over the age of 17 works there.

My mother’s house is always an option for a quick cup of coffee. Mom however has been a professional psychic for about 45 years, so you get coffee and some psychoanalysis. If you are not used to it a psychic picking your brain can be every bit as uncomfortably invasive as picking a total strangers nose. She doesn’t mean anything by it, it’s second nature by now. Mom is a serious force of nature in my book, not to be fucked with unless you are ready for war.

Which leaves me with only one alternative, I could just go to work early.

You can have my seat when you pry it from my cold dead ass-cheeks.

 
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Posted by on August 16, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

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Can you make a Ho into a Housewife?

Let me paint a picture for you, and then I have a question for you.

Lets say, for the sake of arguing, that there is a woman you work with. She is single, but living in sin with her boyfriend.

Enter the new man. He is single, he has some sort of legitimate reason to drop by the office. While there, he hits on her unmercifully. She doesn’t shut him down, in fact, she goes to lunch with him on occasion.

I’m not done. Add to this the fact that he has sent her flowers twice. At work. Twice. Not once, but twice. Just want to make sure you have that one. Also add to this the fact that she has mentioned that her boyfriend doesn’t know, because, quoting here, “He’s just a friend.”

Uh huh.

Are the flowers because he loves the way her shoes match the ceiling? (Give that one a minute, you’ll get it, its dirty.)

That, by the way, is not my question.

My question is this. I don’t want to know if they are sleeping together, I am trying to figure out how she keeps her dress wrinkle free after having sex all during lunch?

That might be a rhetorical question. However, somebody should answer it. I would, but I need more info. I tend to judge and form snap opinions on people based on all the things you are not supposed to. Sex, age, hair color, Nationality, where they grew up…etc.

For instance, and you knew this was coming, if she is a girl, blonde, under 25, grew up in Southern California, I would be willing to bet my life she is doing the dirty deed during her lunch hour. And not just missionary, but some serious venial sin stuff. That is sexist, age discriminating, and a whole lot of other stuff that basically boils down to it not being nice or things you say in polite company.

I have never really been all about the polite.

I am tired of the whole idea of being politically correct. I was married for a long time, trust me, I understand how it feels to hold your tongue. For years. With both hands.

I made the conscious decision awhile back to speak my mind. Besides, nothing makes a type A head snap around that the timely use of a descriptive obscenity. And if that gets their panties in a twist?

So be it.

Makes me sound horrible, don’t it?

Um…You may be right.

However, back to the question.

The outrage that some might have with a young girl deciding to have a lunch-time tryst, to me, is offset by the fact that, unless there is a ring on her finger, she is a free agent. If her boyfriend doesn’t notice that she comes home twice a week without her panties, bite marks on her thighs,  that is his oversight, her secret, and, other than for the sake of a heartless wager, or a personal entertainment, none of my business.

Unless I happen to be the guy biting her thighs.

 
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Posted by on August 15, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

This is science…..Dammit!

There is a hotel near LAX airport that is kind of a way-point with international travelers. At any given moment, 80% of the hotel’s patrons just flew in from another country.

Why am I telling you this?

Because there is a Starbucks across the street.

Again, why am I telling you this?

German albinos.

I shit you not.

I did a double take as I came thru the door. Three of them. Red eyed and pale.

Ewww.

Albinos are disturbing enough, but add to the equation that they are chittering in German and you have the recipe for full blown skin crawl.

Worse than the time I dated the girl with the outee belly button, and that one took months to recover from.

Back to the albinos.

I get my coffee, a cookie and rush to throw cream and sugar in before they get away.

I may have to kidnap them. I am that curious.

First, staging an encounter.

They sit outside, because there is nowhere to sit inside, but this Starbucks has a huge stone patio.  All of the furniture is wrought iron and makes hideous scraping noises when you move the chairs.

I watch thru the glass as each takes his turn pulling his chair out while the other two cover their ears. They are sensitive to sounds.

Creepy.

This is so mean. However, you came to me, so suck it up.

I enter the patio and realize that I am Jane Goodall, Albinos in the mist.

I can’t stand it anymore, I walk over and pull up a screechee chair and am treated to all three of them holding their ears.

I sit. I am both nervous and excited. I realize that I need to fart, but it might startle them and make them scatter. I don’t want them running into traffic in a blind panic.

They are staring at me like I have either a secret to tell them or cookies. I could kick myself as I realize I have a cookie.

I break off a little piece of chocolate chunk cookie and put it in the middle of the table.  It would have been cool to try and get them to eat out of my hand, but that is a little ambitious for a first encounter with wild albinos.

Nothing. They stare like I just told them they were adopted.

I decide to try verbal communication.

The next five minutes is very confusing and disheartening.

First, Albino Germans are not any better than tanned Germans at puzzling out English, and I don’t speak German.
Second, Germans are generally not the most outgoing of people. Especially when visiting another country.

Plus I want them to wow me and do tricks and I quickly come to the conclusion that they are not going to.

I finally just give up and leave.

This sounded like so much more fun in my head.

 
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Posted by on August 12, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

Some kind of Wonderful…

And it starts.

First sip of coffee and the door to Starbucks opens and Mr. Wonderful stumbles in.

Two things stand out. One, he is not a regular customer. He doesn’t even mess with the line, he just makes a beeline for the bathroom. The kind of line a bee makes when it has been up for two days on a nasty cocktail of meth, weed, and Jack straight out of the bottle.

Two, he looks like shit. His clothes were nice once. Now, they need a wash and a good pressing by someone who knows how.

The manager spies him like a hawk the first second. His job is not an easy one. He has a Starbucks in a really nice section of town so he gets a higher class of people.

But he is about a block from the beach, so he gets the best the beach has to offer. Mostly, its just the homeless, harmless for the most part, right up until they aren’t.

Back to Mr. Wonderful.

He bypasses the bathroom and goes right thru the door to the back room. As that door has a security keypad on it, I am not sure how that works.

The manager sees it too. He bolts for the back, just as Mr. Wonderful exits the back and goes into the bathroom.

The door to the back room opens and the manager steps out.

He looks at me with his hands held halfway up in a WTF gesture.

I point at the bathroom. I view my job as mainly self entertainment, but I can be helpful on occassion.

The door is ajar.

Now, I view barging in on a meth head while he shits as a potentially bad idea. You get cut that way.

The manager, however, views that as job one.

What ensues is a little tension-bomb dream-come-true.

Its going to be a good day.

In the following exchange, the manager is speaking loud, not yelling, but using his “Authority” voice. Its in the Starbucks manual, look it up.

Mr. Wonderful is yelling.

“Dude!”
“What are you doing in my back room?”
“Dude!”
“You aren’t allowed in there.”
“Dude!”
“Don’t go in there again.”
“I’M TAKING A SHIT!”

The door closes and the manager goes in the back.

I am no longer pretending to mind my own and I am just openly watching.

The tension in the Starbucks has an interesting effect. Those at the tables that have had their fix clean up and leave. The caffeine addicts in line, are uneasy, but need their fix, so they are staying. Addiction trumps fear.

As for my fix? I’m getting it right now, leave me alone. An Alabama tick would be easier to dig out of here than me.

Act two, the bathroom door opens.

Mr. Wonderful comes out of the bathroom, bloodshot eyes casting about, looking for the point of ignition, whoever interrupted his crap.

Hunter S. Thompson once said, you can turn your back on a man, but don’t ever turn your back on a drug. I hold still and wait for the manager to make an appearance.

But he doesn’t. The manager is currently hiding out in the back room.

Mr. Wonderful appears to be a little disoriented and can’t remember who accosted him in the bathroom.

One of the helpers on the low end of the totem pole comes out to sweep. Mr. Wonderful turns on him and takes an aggressive step.

“Was that you?”
“Huh?”
“Were you the one who stuck his head in the door?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”

This dialogue is repeated as Mr. Wonderful makes his way thru the staff. The cashier, the runner, the barrista. (You do not fuck with the barrista as a general rule.)

Finally, he wanders over to the corner table near the front door, muttering to himself.

Mr. Wonderful is not done being special for us. He begins to talk to people randomly, making odd comments.

“You look just like the governor of South Carolina.”

“Organic milk rocks!”

“That’s funny!” (Along with giggling, however, without anyone he is talking to.)

Finally, and I am certain it would have shocked him if it could, he dozed off. Probably the first time in days.

And then the police arrive.

The black and white prowl car rolls past, nice and slow. Almost on cue, manager walks by the front of the Starbucks, going in the same direction. How did he get out there? More on that later.

A few minute later, the police come in. All police wear bullet proof vests now, which I approve of. They get shot at, fairs fair.

One of the cops, a shaved head bull of a man, sits down at the table across from Mr. Wonderful.

The motion jars him awake.

The biggest fear a meth head has is of the police, who will “Jack them up for no reason”.

Good morning.

They all chit chat quietly for a few minutes, with Mr. Wonderful trying hard not to tweak, which only makes him tweak harder.

Finally, the cops are done with the preliminaries. The stand and invite Mr. Wonderful to take the air with them.

He went without a whimper.

Smart move. You don’t mess with people who train for this situation and do it for a living.

Out the door they go.

And a few minutes later, I see them all driving off together. The cops in the front, and Mr. Wonderful in the back.

Maybe going to the movies.

 
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Posted by on August 11, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

When you least expect it…Evil Couple.

There are days that life decides to surprise you in a way that is so totally shocking, you almost don’t believe it.

I park about a quarter mile from my office, with Starbucks halfway in between. Its Manhattan Beach, parking sucks 24 7.

I was sending a text and not paying attention, just standing right in front of the escalator when a woman shoved past me. We never touched, but I still felt bad because I was blocking the way.

“Oh, sorry.” I muttered and stepped onto the escalator, right behind the woman I had blocked.

She turned and glared at me, saying nothing. My eyes widened a bit in recognition.

Mrs. Evil Couple.

“Excuse me.” A friendly voice sounded from behind me. I stepped to the side and an older man in surgical scrubs stepped politely past me.

Mr. Evil Couple.

Oh shit!

I am in the scene today. Its like winning a small prize unexpectedly.

“You didn’t need to run off like that.” He stands next to her, looking straight ahead.

“This sounds like your problem, not mine.”

For a second, I am confused by her statement, but then I realize that she is talking on her phone. She ignores his comment.

“Your car smells like shit, I don’t like to ride in it.” As she inclines her head to indicate him, it becomes apparent that she is arguing on the phone with someone, and with her husband, in person.

Multitask arguing. This woman is a dynamo.

I have to remind myself that they don’t realize that I consider their life to be my entertainment.

It is evil, all by itself, But I’m good with it.

I try to act casual and just meander towards Starbucks, and still stay close enough to hear them. I am aided in this by several other people all going in the same direction.

Based on his comments, he was about to pull into a parking spot when she bolted from the car. I am not sure why they rode together, as I had the impression that they rode separately and just met up at Starbucks. I am floored by what he says next.

“The dealership with have your car by tonight, they had to send to San Diego for one the right color.” He sounds apologetic.

“Whatever.” She shits on his attempt at nice.

He bought this bitch a new car?

I know how bad that sounds. Don’t judge me, you weren’t there.

Last I heard her car was being fixed because she hit it with a pole. Her anger then was directed at her husband because he allowed the insurance company to raise her premium, which they do when you hit a pole.

She ignores him and begins arguing with the person on the phone.

“She is old and I have no patience with her.” That little tidbit comes drifting back as we enter Starbucks. Drawing once again on my total lack of manners and listening in during previous conversations, I come to the conclusion that she is arguing with her sister about thier mother. She has stated before to her sister that their mother would have to go live either in a home or with the sister. Her classic comment during that little exchange was that the home can’t be so close to her house that “I feel guilty that I don’t see her every week.”

Lotta love going on there.

If I could have planned this morning, I don’t know that I could have thought of something more delightful. I am almost giddy.

She leaves him to order and walks over to the bathroom while still arguing with her sister. I hear the F word echoing back out of the little alcove with the bathroom door.

She tries the door and finds it locked.

She begins to knock, slowly, loudly and deliberately. And she doesn’t stop.

Awesome.

I use that word a lot when I describe Mrs. Evil’s antics. I am so in awe of the arrogant disdain she views the world around her and her total lack of caring what anyone, including her husband, thinks.

I counted the number of knocks. At 75, the door opened and a thoroughly embarrassed woman came out. The woman tried to glare at her, but it bounced off of Mrs. Evil as she steps briskly past and shuts the door.

The woman, red faced and pissed, finally just stomps off. She can’t win this and she knows it.

It makes me wonder why her husband hasn’t stomped off, years ago. What power does she have over him? Pictures of him having sex with animals? Drugs? Did her family finance medical school for him?

Maybe its a sex thing. A close friend of mine made the comment about this very subject that she, and I am quoting her, “must suck great cock.” Its a crude statement, but I have seen marriages based on weirder shit.

And who knows, maybe she does.

In the end, that is all I get from them today. A few minutes later, Mrs. Evil walks out of the bathroom and sails past her husband, who happened to be getting their coffee creations from the barrista.

He looked around like a little kid who realized mom has left him in the store alone. He took off, trying to catch up.

Good luck, pal.

She has been several steps ahead of you for years.

Sic semper tyrannis

 
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Posted by on August 10, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

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We meet again…

Every now and then I get a feeling of impending doom. I usually attribute it to a lack of caffeine and set about getting some coffee.

Ah. Better. My head begins to function better, but I still can’t shake the feeling of impending doom.

I am hunkered down in my usual spot in the back. Laptop open, sipping and tapping away.

And then it happens.

I had not been paying attention like I normally do as to who is coming in. As you may have noticed, I enjoy my fellow patrons at Starbucks.

And then the first scream came.

It was a child. As a parent, I can tell the difference between a scream in pain and noise for effect. This was noise for effect.

The guy next to me had to have been a bachelor. The scream startled him to the point that he almost tossed his coffee.

“What the hell?!?!” We were both trying to see around the product shelves that block the view of the cashier area.

Another scream. Whoever the kid was, he was going for broke. Thankfully, my kids never pulled shit like this on my ex and I.

The line moved forward and a stroller rolled into view, facing slightly away so I couldn’t see the noise maker. The stroller was rocking a bit. By my estimation, serious fit going on.

Mom came into view, talking on her cell phone. Something familiar about her, but I have been wrong about that before. Something about blonds, so sue me.

The most impressive thing about the screaming was distance more than the volume. They seemed to last forever.

Whoever he was, this kid was swinging for the fences.

The atmosphere in Starbucks began to take on an uncomfortable edge that I haven’t seen in awhile. I began to feel a pit in my stomach.

Mom paid and gave the stroller a one handed turn into the middle of the room.

I swear, the color drained from my face.

Carter, the demon child himself.

Fuck.

Even more horrifying is the fact that the table next to me just emptied as the single guy, my inadvertent wing man, just bailed out the front door like a man possessed.

I am alone with the beast.

I take a sip of my coffee because my mouth has gone dry suddenly.

Mom takes a seat and pulls the stroller closer, evidently she can’t hear his hysterical shrieks clearly.
Whatever I was going to write is now out the window. I can’t think and I am tense to the point that you could not get a pin up my ass with a jackhammer.

It occurs to me that I have an intense dislike for other peoples children. I love my own blood, or those I chose, but strangers children make my teeth itch. Especially really poorly behaved ones.

However, I am beginning to dislike his mother more. That is out of character. She is a pretty woman with a lovely figure. But there is an overlay of exhaustion to her that saps the hot right out of the air. Her child is eating her soul, one day at a time.

Where is the old woman when I need her?

For those that didn’t read the earlier blog, Carter and his mom and I go back. They were in before when Carter had a dirty mouth, directed at his mother.  An old woman, a magnificent woman, a woman that raised fine upstanding children, a “Call your grandmother right now and tell how much you love her” type woman took control of the situation, slapped Carter, a strangers child, right on the lips, told him to watch his mouth, chewed out his mom, well, for not being a mom, and left.

She was awesome.

She was also, nowhere to be found today.

And then Fate intervened.

Actually, it was Carter that intervened, but I will take what I can get. My stomach is churning like I just ate Thai food.

Carter figured out two things. Two things that didn’t keep him from screaming, but two things.

The first was, that by throwing his body forward, the stroller would roll forward and bump the table, lightly.

The second thing was that he found was that by scrunching down, his foot could touch the single pole holding up the table.

I saw it coming.

Mom was oblivious.

Carter’s timing was flawless. He slammed himself forward, and a split second before the stroller touched the table, he slithered down as far in the stroller as he could, pudgy little leg coiled.
Contact.

Her latte had a lid, however, it separated from the cup when it hit the edge of the table.

Right over her lap.

Scalding hot latte’s can ruin your morning. She shot out of her seat like her crotch was burning. I guess it was.

She dropped her phone and the battery popped out as it hit the ground.

The next few minutes were a blur. There was a flurry of activity involving Carter’s mom, and a  helpful employee.

The bottom line is that, in a very short amount of time, Mom and Carter left.

Good.

I love my kids.

 
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Posted by on August 9, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

The Great American Game…

At the Starbuck’s across the street from the Egyptian Theater in Hollywood, getting something hot and addicting.

This place is crowded. Big time. The interesting thing is that the line to order is not as long as the line to pick up. This barrista is S.L.O.W. (See also snail-like)

I pay and shuffle down to wait and find that an interesting thing is going on. There is an old guy there, waiting for his coffee with the rest. As he waited, he was gesturing at anyone who made eye contact and pointied out baseball facts.

“Babe Ruth was the first payer ever to hit 60 home-runs in a season. You know when? 1927!” Each sentence was a gravelly, point with his finger at the, more or less, trapped listeners.

The funny thing was, in that section of Hollywood at that time of day, 90% of those waiting for their coffee were tourists. Two couples were talking quietly in Japanese, and a group of 5 was speaking German.

The coffee staff behind the counter eyed him warily. I had seen that kind of look before, They were waiting for an explosion.Perhaps he was a regular oddball and they knew him.

“Name one player even in the realm of a Babe Ruth?”

I recognize my cue when I hear it. As luck would have it, he looked right at me after he spoke. I don’t really know old school baseball players, but I can bullshit pretty well.

“Ty Cobb?”

Ground Zero.

“FUCKING TY COBB?!?! The coffee he had sipped dribbled down his chin. “TY COBB WAS A RACIST BASTARD!”

Wow.

Now I see why the staff was edgy.

“Tom?” The nervous voice of authority behind the counter, manager I’m assuming. His tone is that of “Oh shit, not again.”

The old guy spins around. “NO! DON’T GIVE ME THAT SHIT!” He flings an accusatory finger in my direction. “TY FUCKING COBB!” He is shaking with how worked up he is. He glares at me for a long moment and I wonder if I am about to be assaulted by some old guy in the middle of Hollywood.

And then its over. The old guy clutches his coffee close to his chest and begins stomping out.

At the front door a massive guy, six and half footer, easily 300 pounds, has just entered and takes a half step to the side, completely engrossed in a text on his phone.

“OPEN THE GOD-DAMNED DOOR!” The old guy snarls as he gets there.

The big guy is so shocked, he says nothing and just opens the door.

And off he goes.

I love baseball.

 
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Posted by on August 8, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

The Suicidal Man

“I want to kill myself.”

It was muttered from the guy sitting next to me. I didn’t look, but I could see he was alone. After a moment, a woman came and sat with him, bringing him his coffee creation.

I had seen him in Starbuck’s a few times but he mumbles and is hard to hear, so I have ignored him.

However, today, he and his coworker? are sitting next to me, so I can hear every whiny frickin word coming out of his mouth.

Good Lord!

I have never heard of such a miserable human being.

He started slow, describing to his coworker how he had bought a groupon for 4 weeks of boot camp personal training. Every facet of his description of the training, the one and only time he went, is dismal. The trainer obviously didn’t like him, he was rude, it was too hot, a moment later a breeze sprang up and he froze, he mentioned that his calves get tight and the trainer ignored him obviously wanting him to hurt himself. On and on until I was on the verge of yelling at him.

His final word on the subject was that his calves still ached. His coworker said he should see someone about it and the guy replied that his doctor “just thinks its another one of my things.”

When you complain to your doctor to the point that everything you go to him about is not believed, you have an issue.

And then it came down to his work. His boss was evil, mean, non-professional, too short, too heavy, and, after prefacing the comment with “This isn’t meant to be racial” it turns out that he is “Sooo Hungarian, and you know how those people are”.

I’m not even Hungarian and I was offended.

I was soon hoping he would kill himself, I know that I wanted to kill myself after just 5 minutes of this shit.

Although that can ruin your morning coffee.

It was when he complained that his decaf was too hot that I realized what his issue was.

My first thought is that he is a spineless little shit-weasel that should get hit by a car, but I finally realized that he Is in one of those vicious downward spirals of depression brought on by not enough caffeine.

Luckily, we are in a place that you can get your caffeine fix on like donkey kong.

Caffeine is the opiate of the masses. It is accepted, appropriate.

Plus its delicious.

And the acceptability factor is off the charts. You can drink coffee a church functions.

It is, however a drug. One that I may or may not be heavily addicted to. But this is not about me, its about whiny boy.

So, in the midst of my efforts to understand this guy, he got up to go to the bathroom, because, “The men’s room at work is a cesspool.”

And that was when the funny began.

The moment the bathroom door closed, the girl, who had been quiet and understanding up till now, shot up out of her seat like it was on fire.

“Enough of this shit!” She muttered under her breath as she grabbed her purse and bolted out the door like she was skipping out on the check.

And here I thought this morning was going to be boring.

It was a full ten minutes until whiny boy came out of the crapper.

I would have felt bad about the moment of sadness that passed over his face., but I began feeling rottenly delighted.

He pointed at her chair and it looked like he was going to ask where she went. But stopped when he looked at me.

I answered him anyway.

I spread my arms like a magician at the end of the trick. And, despite my be efforts, I still laughed when I spoke.

“She left!” .

He left, probably confused as to why I was laughing in the first place.

I watched him go, still chuckling.

I know, I know.

Some of these are just for me.

 
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Posted by on August 7, 2011 in Uncategorized