Monthly Archives: October 2011

Digital sweet nothings.

“You always have the right to be angry, but you never have the right to be cruel.”

Awww, that is just so fucking sweet.

Somebody sent me that on Facebook.

Where do I start?

First of all, cruel can be downright satisfying at times.

Keep you warm at night.

Besides, I know me, and if its enough to make me angry, the cruel is just a gimme at that point.

When I get stuff like this, I usually hold my breath and wait for an invite to go to a new church or asked out by another dude.

Its not that I am anit-religion, quite the contrary, I have an incredibly strong faith.

Its just nobodies business.

Back to the digital sweet nothings I keep getting.

If I can quit being a dick for 30 seconds, I think I appreciate the sentiment at least. I mean it was sent by an old friend.

But when it is kind of out of left field, for no reason. I mean, we didn’t just bury our favorite dog or something.

And, given my evil mind, I want to know what the issue is. Drugs, prison, abuse, illness, whatever it is, it points to recovery of some kind.

But Recovery can be good.

They don’t have some sort of 12 step program for being an asshole, I checked.

Its rude, but not a recognized condition.

Mores the pity.

And then it occurs to me that he thinks I am in need of recovery.


God knows I need something.

Anybody else think this sort of everyday thought process is healthy?

Its kind of like the unable to shut the hell up thing with me.

And yet, I am beginning to think that this sort of digital vomiting is somehow healthy.

And fun.

Mainly for me, but if this happens to make you snort your morning coffee out your nose, so be it.

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Posted by on October 31, 2011 in Uncategorized


Starbucks in the afternoon.

If you want me to stop on the sidewalk, listen patiently to your position, and sign your petition, the absolute best way to do that is to have a beautiful young lesbian do it.

Just saying.

I am still not sure what the petition was about.

Whales maybe.

And yet, the entire experience was semi ruined by the fact that she didn’t match the wicked stereo-type all men keep in the back of their evil little mind about lesbians.

No g-string. Like, at all.

Cargo shorts. Not baggy ones, but cutesy, form fitting ones.

No pasties. Not even a bustier or sports bra.


Adorable, pretty, knew her subject matter and presented it well.


No wonder her page was full of signatures. Mine too.

What I was hoping for was a sluttier, flirtier Lindsay Lohan on ecstasy.

Her partner is a lucky bitch.

Starbucks has a totally different vibe in the afternoon.

The rush is missing. The people are not in a hurry to get their drug and get to work. (Caffeine, look it up.)

There are business folks, not starting their day, they are in the middle of their day. Shit is rolling at this point.

Half of the business people are having meetings and working on laptops. I managed to rudely listen in and watch a powerpoint presentation for a development project.

Highly informative and has nothing to do with me.

The other half of the business crowd are on the phone.

The wonderful thing about business calls via cell at Starbucks is that, due to the music, they are forced to talk louder.

Which means I get to hear the whole thing.

After giving the entire conversation a listen the only thing I can say is this.

I would kill people in Pharmaceutical sales.

Not, “I would make a killing”. I mean, “I would go to jail for murder”.

This woman made 5 calls, asked, begged, pleaded and was smacked down by everyone she talked to. Then she called someone named Hal and told him that she was doing great and then detailed the calls and her plans to visit all the people who shit on her tomorrow.

Bright and early.

I got out of sales a few years ago and my sanity returned shortly after.

Before anyone got hurt.

Being in sales is a lot like being in prison. Its cutthroat, you can’t trust anyone, and the stories are always good.

My biggest flaw as a salesman was the fact that I have a hard time shutting up.

Is that really shocking anyone?

The other occupants of Starbucks in the late afternoon is the elderly. I get the feeling that Coffee Bean clears them out after noon.

The afternoon staff is your “B team”.

These are the barrista’s and cashiers that are not ready for the big game.

Counting change is a noticeable issue.

You know there is a problem when you are getting $.60 in change and the girl needs to “Start over” when counting it back.


Another red flag is if someone orders something difficult and the barrista has to pour it out and start over a few times.

You start to worry.

Luckily, I took math in school, so I can count for the both of us, and I drink regular coffee, nothing fancy. I cut the barrista and the risk of something nasty in a cup out of the whole equation.

I try to remove as many risk factors as I can in my life.

Morning is much more fun.

The afternoon lacks the edginess of the morning.

Everyone brings their A game.

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Posted by on October 28, 2011 in Uncategorized


When the Ginger speaks…(Cracking the Ginger part 2)

When hunting season comes around, hunters will sometimes lay in wait for a few days, waiting for their prey.

Me too.

Except that I am hunting the Ginger.

(Recap- Old guy – Ronaldo, son embezzled money from him and got his house seized for a slew of illegal activities. The capper is that he moved to Chicago and left behind a surprise, a hot redhead that works at the local coffee house. If I want any info about Ronaldo, his evil son, or his hot friend/girlfriend, I have to go thru the Ginger. Anyway, theres a lot of questions.)

Everybody got that?

The last time I talked with her, we got interrupted just as she was about to tell me…what?

Something about Ronaldo.

The main obstacle now is the same two things that they were last time.

A. The girl hates me like poison. Not sure why, and I have been pissing people off for so long, I don’t even ask anymore.

B. I have no idea of who or what the girl does or is outside of working at Starbucks and being stunning in that “I have no clue I’m hot” way, which, oddly enough, does me no good. (She is in her early twenties, which you would think would be ideal, but I have a thing about older women, always have.)

So that leaves me with the slightly creepy task of staking out the poor girl at her work.

Which works out well, I happen to be here a lot.

But fate seems to have a twisted sense of humor.

I had just left the underground parking fallout shelter I am forced to park in when I see a car pulled halfway into a parking space, sporting a really flat tire and an open trunk.

Sometimes I can be a good Samaritan.

But today is not one of those days.

I keep walking.

Just as I am passing the car, Ginger gets out, pulling her phone away from her ear and putting it away.

“You’re having a bad day.”

When in doubt, open with an obvious statement.

She recognizes me and frowns slightly. The lack of the dismissive attitude tells me that whoever she talked to on the phone, they are not coming to help.

“No, its turning into a pretty shitty morning.”

The fact that she is talking to me is evidence of how off balance she is at the moment. Plus I would give you good odds she has never changed a tire.

All of this is guesswork and I could be totally wrong. The wrong part happens a lot with me, but that is due mainly to the fact that I guess a lot.

“Did you call AAA?”

“I don’t have AAA.”

Ah, twenty year olds.

“What time do you have to be at work?” Most people don’t put up with prying questions, unless they are in trouble. (I actually had a work associate out himself when his computer broke down.)

“Twenty minutes.”

The things I do for this blog.

“Then lets get your tire changed.” I put down my laptop bag and pull her spare from the trunk.

“Oh no, you don’t have to do that.” She makes no movement to stop me.

We get the car jacked up and the tire off before I begin my plan of attack.

“You know, you were mentioning how Ronaldo was doing?”

The line is leading and invites expansion. She could easily refuse to answer in any other setting but the one we are currently in.

To those that follow this sort of thing, she is now in a state of emotional obligation. Its a bad place to be with a rotten weasel like me.

“He is trying to get all of his stuff unpacked and meshed with Magda’s.”

Magda would be the old friend of Ronaldo and his deceased wife, that he has moved across the country to shack up with.

“Good. I miss him”

“Me too.” Her voice has a tenderness in it that is to be envied.

Ronaldo, you lucky bastard.

“What’s up with that kid of his?”

My tone suggests disapproval, which should put me and her on the same side, and thus, she can give me all of the tid bits and inside info on the shitty little turd of a son that stole his father blind.

Look at me, all in a snit?


I look up from the tire, which is almost finished.

She’s crying.

Huh? A creeping feeling in my spine tells me I have critically misread something, and I think I know what it is.

“Tony took a deal, he got 15 years.”

Crap. Instantly, a lot more shit falls into place.

When I first thought that she was dating Ronaldo, it was creepy. Old, old guy and young, young girl.

And yet the thought that she was dating the son is almost more creepy.

The next few minutes are enlightening and even more creepy.

I have this “therapy effect” on people on rare occasion.

And trust me, I am the wrong one to tell. 9 times out of 10 I’ll use it against you.

Just saying.

The Ginger used to work for Ronaldo’s son. He owned a business of some sort. They dated briefly.

I take that to mean that they were screwing, she’s a child for God’s sake. A hot child, but a child none the less.

She left him and the business right before the business closed. Wonder of wonders, meth heads make horrid businessmen and worse boyfriends.

Ronaldo always treated her so sweetly, and he always checked in on her.

I am willing to bet Ronaldo kept the son away. Meth heads are famous for dragging others down with them. Misery loves company after all.

Here are some bullet points of updates:

* Ronaldo’s rotten bastard of a son copped a deal and got 15 years. Good, hope his cellmate is a raping beast. Think what you want on that one, he’s got it coming.
* Ronaldo’s house is still considered seized by the state as a drug house. He has hired a lawyer who is fighting to get it back. Hope he get’s it. His son is the villain here, Ronaldo’s only crime was trusting his own son.
* The Ginger, as near as I can figure, was coerced into sleeping with the son, who must be in his 40’s. She emotionally rolls with this kind of regret/guilt/affection that is exhausting, just to watch.

And the weird thing is, once I finished with the tire and we got her car all the way into a parking space, she stomped off.

That, I was expecting. Not the first “after-confession” anger I have seen. Its like an emotional buyers remorse.

She told more than she intended.

Don’t they all?

I still have no idea why she despises me.

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Posted by on October 27, 2011 in Uncategorized


The cars are giving her aids.

Stupid cars are giving me aids!

Shouted, not said quietly, with a dash of bat-shit crazy.

God, I love the homeless.

Let me explain.

Every now and then, the road calls to me.

And I go on walkabout.

For those that don’t know, that means you just kind of take off for awhile.

In reality, this ends up being a lot more thought out than it sounds.

I like the comfort that comes with proper planning and reservations.

So I am in Carpenteria, CA.

They have a small, but scrappy downtown area.

Complete with a Starbucks, and a Coffee Bean.

The Starbucks is in a Von’s, which by default makes it suck.

And in a weird sort of time warp, the Coffee Bean is very hip and rocks.

And the resident crazy homeless woman has an act that is second to none.

Before you write a scathing comment about how cruel I am, save it, I know and still don’t give two shits.

Besides, I love a good show.

Let me set the scene.

She is old, but kind of crack-head old, meaning that she could be 70, or in her 30’s and just look that worn out.

Make up. Its masterfully done in what I can only describe as hobo-chic.

The clothing is a pink, quilted house coat. Its a tough look to pull off, but she does it with a “Go big or go home” attitude.

Silver buckled, square toed pilgrim shoes, with inch and a half heels that clomp as she stomps back and forth.

She is posted up on the corner in front of the Coffee Bean, keeping an eye on the people walking by and the cars on the street.

As I walk by with a group of friends, we make eye contact and I smile, ducking my head in a harmless, friendly way.

Never pays to upset the locals till you find out if she’ll attack.

She surprises me by bugging her eyes out wide and sticking her tongue out of a mouth opened wide.

The gesture would catch your eye all by itself, but add in the hobo chic ring of lipstick around her mouth and white and red eye make up and its breathtaking to behold.

Don’t tease me, honey.

I get about 10 feet away and she barks at my back.

Now I’m sure she’s just dicking with me.

When I get about a half a block away, we pause at a restaurant, waiting for the doorway to clear so we can go in.

“Stupid cars are giving me aids!” She has a set of lungs on her and I can hear her clearly.

I look and she has her scarf twirled around her head like a homeless berka and is pointing accusingly at the cars driving by.

Who really knows what comes out of exhaust pipes these days?

I think about what she was yelling all during lunch.

I love the homeless, both as individuals and as a source of entertainment.

And this woman is a pisser.

Lunch was delicious and we are now well out of downtown and just walking towards beach, just meandering. One of our group in enjoying a cigar.

We had just walked past this huge hedge when the same homeless woman came wiping around the corner, head low power-walking.

By shear chance, the cigar smoker had just exhaled a noxious cloud of cigar smoke.

She plowed right thru it, hands waving in front of her.

“I can’t speak, I’m covered with smoke.”

She muttered and cursed for the rest of the block.

And I watched her go.

She was incredible.

Bat-shit crazy has that certain allure.


Posted by on October 26, 2011 in Uncategorized


I do not abuse my car, honestly.

I was driving on the freeway with the girlfriend and a Shelby Mustang Cobra passes me.

Passing a 97 Taurus with transmission issues is not that hard for a Shelby Mustang Cobra.

“Good god.” That is really all I can say. I grew up in a car family, and although I am pure crap as a mechanic, I can recognize the real deal when I see it.

“That man has no penis.” Is my girlfriend’s comment. “He is compensating for something.

At this point, I don’t care if he has a vagina. I am not wishing I could sleep with him, but his taste in cars is stunning.

Maybe not the taste, but the financial ability to have a Shelby Mustang Cobra is the impressive part.

He could have gotten a Mercedes, top of the line Lexus, Ferrari, anyone of those European super cars.

But not this guy.

He bought American.

He may as well be John Wayne behind the wheel.

Not sure what being behind the wheel of the terminally ill Taurus says.

I tend to chose quickly and cheaply.

Ok, I’ll own that.

In my own defense, the Taurus was not a car I set out to get, it just kind of showed up.

Like some sort of automotive herpes, not my choice and I have just been stuck with it.

It will die, eventually, and I have made a DNR in my own head for it. Do not rebuild. When it dies, I will let it go.

Shitty cars are like that.

If you are into cars, this makes no sense.

But, if you only view a car as something to get you from point A to point B, this makes perfect sense.

I have always wanted to get an old classic and restore it into one of those “Cruise Night” cars.

I just don’t have that kind of attention span.

Growing up, I figure I broke my father’s heart several times with my treatment of my cars.

Or rather mistreatment.

Ignoring regular maintenance is one thing, by my big issue was ignoring things that demanded maintenance.

Like water leaks, oil leaks, warning lights, you name it.

This was the type of thing that destroyed several of my early cars.

These I like to refer to as my serial car-killer days.

I try to be better now, but those were my formative years.

I even gave my car an oil change and a sloppy tune up last weekend.

(But I also made sure my bike tires are properly inflated. Just in case.)

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Posted by on October 25, 2011 in Uncategorized


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My unnatural hatred of Halloween, or maybe just Candy Corn.

I have hated Halloween ever since I hit my twenties.

I was dating a girl who just got too into Halloween.

You know the type?

They start with pumpkin earrings.

Add to that a witch decorated scarf.

Skeleton keychain.

Knee high Witchee-poo boots. (Which are hot, by the way, just don’t let them throw you.)

Throw in the Monster Mash on their Ipod, which causes them to mumble that rotten crappy song all day.

And, just for good measure, a sick addiction to Candy Corn.


It’s wax as near as I can figure.

I know its not corn, cause I have eaten it and held a stakeout over the toilet. There was no Candy Corn in my healthy poop. (I have bowel movements like a thoroughbred in training, thats healthy in a sick way.)

They tend to sell Candy Corn in two ways.

The first is a large bag, filled with a couple of hundred little cellophane bags with ten pieces each. The other is a large bag of just loose Candy Corn, usually 3 to 5 pounds of that waxy crap.

Who the hell eats that much wax without being constipated for a week?

Maybe the company that makes Candy Corn also makes laxatives.

Very sneaky Xlax.

Back to the ex-girlfriend.

I think the thing that bugged me the most was just the level of excitement that she would hit the whole week before Halloween.

Not being into something when someone else is REALLY into it, is really annoying.

It was the weekend before Halloween and we were at the fourth club of the evening that was having a costume contest.

She is dressed in an elaborate Pirate Wench outfit. (I rarely argue with any outfit that sports THAT much cleavage.

This is back before the whole Pirates of the Caribbean films broke, so maybe she had some insight.)

I was dressed as a pirate completely against my will.

I was not happy.

The MC called our name and the girlfriend went out on stage.

Me? I just stopped.

I began to walk out of the club, losing pirate costume pieces as I went.

Thankfully, by the time I hit the parking lot and got into my car, I was back to being a normally dressed man with a little bit of dignity regained. Not a lot, I was dressed as a pirate after all, but a little.

I left her there to find her own way home.

An asshole move, I realize that, but dressed like a Pirate Wench with that amount of cleavage, I didn’t think she would have any trouble getting a ride.

My cell phone went off for the rest of the evening.

I ignored it. If you are going to be an asshole, go big or go home.

She never talked to me again, and I am ok with that.

To this day, I have never touched a pirate outfit or (for some sort of psychologically connected reason) Candy Corn.

Although, upon reflection, maybe it was the big plastic pumpkin bowls of Candy Corn on the table.

I still say its not candy.


Posted by on October 24, 2011 in Uncategorized


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Slutty manikins are a sinister force for evil.

Is it wrong to get a little tingly from looking at a manikin dressed in a slutty fashion?

There are several clothing stores in downtown Manhattan Beach. Several favor themselves as just this side of New York chic.

They might be, I have no clue.

I am standing in front of one that has two manikins. Both are dressed in what appears to be high classed hooker outfits. I can’t imagine anyone else wearing this stuff.

One of the manikins was dressed in a sloppy fashion. One shoulder has slipped and the breast of the manikin is exposed.

You had me at hello.

Why is that exciting?

Its not even a very life like manikin.

The head is a slimly shaped oblong in a vaguely human shape.

Then it hits me.

Its the hint of hotness.

Your mind makes the dirty.

I say your mind because my mind starts dirty and only occasionally goes clean.

Its a fundamental difference in perspective.

Here is an excellent example.

This morning, a woman stood next to me on the corner and asked me if I had the time.

That seems like an innocent question, right?


Its filthy.

I went obscene before she finished her sentence.

I had to wait a second to get clean enough to answer.

You all would have been proud of me, I only told her what time it is.

And yet, some of you are probably a little miffed (Yes, miffed) that I didn’t take the opportunity to play with her head, creating chaos as I go.

I try to remember that I am not nearly as entertaining outside of my own head or off of the blog as I think I am and I try not to inflict myself on the innocents in life.

Besides, there are so many guilty out there to play with I don’t really suffer.

I think I am really the person that marketing people dream about. I’m highly susceptible to all of the advertising tricks.

I read an article about the subliminal tricks the ad men use.

Hard core drinks, they say, have a death wish. So the ad men put little hidden skulls in the glasses of hard liquor shown in ads. The critics at the time said this was absolute bullshit.

Sales shot thru the roof.

This might explain my love of good whiskey in my twenties.

The practice is now rampant in advertising.

And I don’t think thats a bad thing.

At work, with our personal relationships, hell in dealing with family, we do our best to figure out what works best in terms of presentation to allow us to manipulate the hell out of the situation to our advantage.

For those who bristle at the word manipulation and you would never manipulate a situation, pull the pedastal out of your ass and admit, that you especially are a manipulative dick/bitch. (Whichever applies.)

I tend to over indulge my inner asshole and allow him to run the ship a lot, more now than before this blog happened.

The way I look at it, I am trying to point out the Slutty Manikin in all of us.

(Now that is a twisted phrase, but is it REALLY bullshit?)

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Posted by on October 21, 2011 in Uncategorized


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