RSS

Monthly Archives: November 2011

Why Twilight still sucks.

Here is why I hate the Twilight movies.

There is a joke that goes like this:

Why are the Twilight movies like soccer?

Because there is a lot of action and everyone runs around for two hours and in the end? Nobody scores.

And I really think this is funny. Mainly because it is.

And much like a soccer game, there is a lot of people that get so much more excited than it really deserves.

Soccer has never caught fire in the US like it has in the rest of the world.

Because it sucks.

Right, Twilight.

There are some issue with Twilight.

Robert Pattinson looks dorky all pale. He looked a lot better as Cedric in the Harry Potter flick.

Oh, yes. I speak the lingo.

Ok, enough with the geek and chick flicks.

I like them both, sue me. And pray to God your lawyer is as good as mine. He is soul less to the point that he could be in Twilight as both a soul less vampire and a blood thirsty werewolf.

And besides, he’s family.

Then again, I like the film “Santa Claus conquers the Martians” so my taste is questionable. (This was my favorite movie when I was 5 and if you haven’t seen this film, its a hideous piece of shit, trust me. You should still see it though.)

And yet, part of Los Angeles has been taken over more thoroughly than if the Occupy LA bunch had hand in it.

Mainly because the Twilight fans have a stated goal.

To shriek like giddy schoolgirls at the Twilight cast.

That’s it.

Which is ok if you’re a giddy schoolgirl.

But I saw a guy on the news that was a 50 year old father of 3 that camped out for 2 days BY HIMSELF and says that he is in “Edward’s camp”.

He is probably also on the pedophile watch list somewhere.

The phrase creepy mother-fucker comes to mind.

Just saying. (And mom, if you’re reading this, sorry about the language.)

In truth, I enjoyed the movies. I will see the latest Twilight film.

But I refuse to camp out. A) I like it the movies, but I do not love the movies. B) I am aware of what age I am.

Its kind of like any current kids band. When they come on the radio, I might listen for a second.

But I am not buying a poster and I am not going to the concert. I don’t have an Edward keychain, or a Jake screensaver.

Plus, have you heard the bubble gum shit they trowel out on the radio these days?

Back to Twilight.

Why does everyone have to be so tortured and sad?

Why not a smile?

Even if you are undead?

I am back at the beginning question.

All the girls are hot, all the guys are models.

And no one is sleeping with anyone.

At least not on camera.

Maybe the crew is having sex between takes.

I hope someone is.

 

LIKE THIS BLOG? Then do me a favor and click one of the buttons below and spread the word! Thanks.

Advertisements
 
8 Comments

Posted by on November 21, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

Why does Jazz make my soul ache?

Jazz is a unique American musical art form.

It also sucks.

Bear with me for a moment.

I am all for making a statement, like what you like, be what your gonna be.

But Jazz sucks ass and thats a fact.

Bullshit! You are saying to your screen.

You have no taste, you say, you have no culture.

You are talking out your blog scribbling ass on this one.

And then it comes, the Jazz lovers standard go to line.

You just haven’t listened to good Jazz.

Yes, that Jazz too.

And Starbucks is smitten.

Like a dog in heat, Starbucks can’t get enough of what is called, “good” Jazz.

That is an oxymoron. (Look it up, I do not have time to ‘splain this to you.)

I spend an inordinate amount of time in Starbucks, this is known.

And it is a stone bitch to write a blog when there is a wild cacophony of noise in the background.

And just a shade too loud. (And by shade, I mean that my soul is being cut into little pieces.

I have a theory about this.

There was an article in the Wall Street Journal awhile back about Starbucks trying to keep “Squatters” out.

A “Squatter” is a patron that, yes purchased something, but was staying too long.

In other words me.

I think this is a passive aggressive method of getting me to leave.

Its also rude, but we can address that later.

As for getting rid of me?

Good luck, people. You have have my seat when you pry it from my cold, dead ass cheeks.

I am not going anywhere, I am dug in like an Alabama tick.

Pack a lunch and come early.

Insert whatever other folksy cliche you like here, I am still not leaving.

So, now we are at a stalemate. We are kind of like two old gunfighters, waiting for the other to make a move.

So what’s next?

In a way, I represent the Occupy movement in downtown Manhattan Beach.

Its my own little protest and I take it very serious, kind of.

Big business is trying to take something from me. Something they own and I feel entitled to it.

My seat. If I could grip a chisel with my ass cheeks, I would chisel my name on it.

The good one, the round by the cream and sugar kiosk.

Look at it this way.

The Constitution promises life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. I want to pursue my happiness from the cushy round table in the back with the Ginger scowling at me from the barrista station.

I hold these truths, such as they are, to be self evident.

So, my final Occupy Manhattan Beach demand is for Starbucks to quit using Jazz to deny me my Constitutional rights.

It’s anti-American.

You bastards, how could you?

Wow.

How the hell did I pull that one off?

I mean, I am good at bullshit, but damn, this is good even for me.

Its the Jazz talking.

Yeah, man. (Finger snapping ensues.)

PLEASE RATE THE BLOG ON AMAZON.COM CLICK HERE

 
16 Comments

Posted by on November 18, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

I did NOT piss myself!

I think it has been several decades since I pissed my pants in public.

Got your attention, do I?

I think I may have mentioned that I like to start my day at Starbucks. Check my email, have a cup of caffeine, its my routine.

There is some promising personalities in the java house today.

There is a woman who is probably in her late 60’s, but desperately trying to be taken for her 40’s.

And she is a flirt.

A girl in her teens that flirts? Just old enough to have an inkling about sexuality?

Awwwwwww.

A woman in her 20’s that flirts? This is the warriors age, ferocity makes up for experience.

Awesome!

A woman in her 30’s that flirts? At her sexual peak and biologically designed to deliver the goods at this age.

Hey now!

A woman in her 40’s? The cougar knows what she wants and likes, and is not too shy to demand it. (Usually with your balls in her hand)

Nice!

50’s? Lets talk sweetie. You are allowed to be a sexual being, God bless and lord knows, this is an age that I find hot as hell, but the predator on the prowl mentality should be tapering off at this point.

Have your hormones checked.

60’s? Umm, really?

Sugar you have grandkids thinking about college. WTF? Its called dignity, lets look into it, shall we?

The other personality that was intriguing was the Jazz man.

Starbucks, much like a teenager that is trying new things, has horrible taste in music.

Its current phase is Jazz music.

And, as we all know, Jazz sucks.

But not to the Jazz man.

Head bobbing, fingers snapping. Eyes closing occasionally and he savors a particularly hot riff by Miles Davis.

Miles Davis may have been insane.

Jazz man had a whole groove going on.

Scruffy beard, tea shades, hipster hat at a jaunty angle.

The kind of white guy that might answer a question “Word.”

Just as I am about to pack my stuff and move closer and take notes, I make a little mistake.

And dump a Venti hot coffee dead center in my lap.

For those who are unaware, the venti is the largest hot size Starbucks offers.

Damn.

There is a split second of time right after you do something stupid like this, that you exist in this little secret bubble of anonymity.

And then reality rushes in.

And embarrassment makes itself known.

The coffee was hot enough to make my genitals wonder if we were arguing, but not hot enough to scald.

And cargo pants? While they may be baggy and comfortable, all that extra material and pockets are like a sponge.

Half the room was staring, the other half had no clue.

Including the guy sitting next to me. Even when the cashier came out with a mop and mopped under his legs, the guy next to me never stopped texting. He just lifted his legs and took a sip of his coffee.

Clueless.

I however am seeing everything goddam thing around me, every look, every stare, every whispered “What happened?”, everything.

I am even hearing things that didn’t happen in my paranoia.

In my head, I heard the guy in line say “He pissed himself.” My rational mind knows he didn’t.

But I still had to stop myself from declaring to the room that I did NOT piss myself.

So I packed up, and left.

I went home to change.

But I still stopped back in for coffee when I finally headed in to work.

After all, addiction is addiction.

PLEASE RATE THE BLOG ON AMAZON.COM CLICK HERE

 
2 Comments

Posted by on November 17, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

And you bastards would die without me.

I believe in charity, I think its a good thing.

I have been known to make a donation on occasion.

I refuse to give change to the homeless.

With the exception of Garrett the homeless guy, but he’s like family. I am trying to get my mom to greenlight him for Thanksgiving. Just to fuck with the family.

That would be mean, in any other family but mine.

Back to charity.

There are two types of giving it seems.

The first is giving money.

Money is the one that is the most impersonal, but the one they need most of.

The second one is time and effort, and even this one breaks down into two types.

There is the selfless time and effort type that does it and no one finds out until you are dead, when the orphanage you helped build turns out at your funeral.

And then, there is the type of time and effort that seeks a little recognition.

And by a little recognition, I mean, of course “LOOK AT ME, LOOK AT ME, LOOK AT ME! GOD DAMMIT, LOOK AT ME! EAT MY HOLINESS, BITCHES.”

Whew, glad I got that out.

You ever get something lodged deep down, screaming at you to get out so it can scream in public?

If you are thinking I have someone in mind, you are right.

No names, thats more than a bit rude, plus libel is a bitch in court when you put in writing on a blog.

Plus, my lawyer, a blood relation and one of the most cutthroat lawyers I have ever seen, has retired.

Gotta watch my shit from here on out.

Anyway, this person has done something seemingly nice, for the last year. Seemingly is the key word here.

Long term nice.

And posted pics and Facebook posts.

Several dozen pics, each with them as the star.

Not one post, and there are dozens, that says anything about who its for, but just how difficult it was for them.

About the selfless sacrifice.

The phrase that really got me going, was “Most people will never understand why I, and others like me, do selfless things like this.” (I shit you not)

It has been suggested that all of this effort is being done in the effort to have a golden statue erected at the white house.

Knock the national Xmas tree over and put the Golden statue up in its place.

Tack the Nobel prize for charity to it while your at it.

Saint charity kick me in the teeth, I am not worthy.

Ok, I think I have it all out of my system now.

I think giving your time and effort is a great thing. But, when you live your life bitching and moaning about how everything under the sun sucks and everyone you know is a rotten bastard to you, it just seems so out of place.

Its like if I became a phone councilor for people with low self esteem, we would all wait for the punchline.

And thats what this situation was like.

I am waiting for the punchline.

I mean, if you are going to do something don’t do it with an ulterior motive.

I also feel guilty and am considering possibly doing something charitable.

Its the tinsel talking.

God I hate the holidays.

PLEASE RATE THE BLOG ON AMAZON.COM CLICK HERE

 
2 Comments

Posted by on November 16, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

Can I take back my RIP Garrett the homeless guy?

Life has a way of shocking me to my core every now and then.

When it happens 9 times out of 10, your jaw drops and your butt clenches.

And then there are those rare, rare occasions that the shock is so HUGE, that you honestly

have to make a concerted effort to keep from shitting yourself.

This morning is one of those times.

I had just left Starbucks and was making my way down the block to my office.

I read my Kindle as I go, its my habit.

Manhattan Beach is slow to wake up in the mornings. Every store seems to open at a different time, so there is not a set time that everyone opens.

The only exception to that is the coffee, bagel and juice places. They target the early morning, before work crowd, so they are rolling before sun up.

My circuitous trek to the office is kind of a go down, go over, go down, go over, go down zig zag that I do out of reflex, only looking up at the corners to make sure I don’t get hit by a truck.

I turn the final corner and stop dead in my tracks.

Garrett the homeless guy is sitting on the corner in his usual spot.

HOLY SHIT!

Quick recap. Garrett the homeless guy was a friend of sorts that used to sit on the corner just up from my office and argue with himself all day.

Until he died, that is.

I came to work one morning and saw the paramedics taking him away.

The owner of the bar right there said it was an overdose.

Later that same day, the bar owner said that one of the paramedics told him that the homeless guy died on the way to the hospital.

Garrett was my friend.

He and I severely pissed off the regulars at a local bagel chain by sitting out front, eating bagels in the seats they usually occupied. Just me and a 6 foot 5 massive filthy homeless guy.

I was really bummed when he died.

“Where the hell have you been?” I sound like a jilted love interest.

In a way, I am. Comes from the same emotional core. “Last I saw, they were feeding you into an ambulance. I heard you died!” I am officially in a snit.

“Really?” He almost looks like he is trying to remember if he died or not. Finally, he shakes his head.

“I went to stay with my brother. I don’t like Iowa, so I came back.”

Evidently being housed in Iowa is still not as good as homeless in Manhattan Beach.

I couldn’t agree more.

I wanted to cry. I don’t know this guy THAT well, but I want to cry right now.

I would hug him, but A) We aren’t THAT close, and B) He really is filthy and has that funky homeless odor.

Finally, it occurs to me that I am staring, so I say the first thing I can think of that would be ok for Garrett to do.

“Are you hungry?”

He smiles and stands up. God, he is tall.

“I’m always hungry.”

Bagel house patrons, prepare to have your morning all fucked up.

Its gonna be a good day.

PLEASE RATE THE BLOG ON AMAZON.COM CLICK HERE

 
3 Comments

Posted by on November 15, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

Why yoga people are just stretching out.

Yoga is all the rage.

My rage, that is.

I am sick to death of yoga people.

The reason for this is the fact that yoga becomes their reason for living.

Add to that the lack of actual knowledge they possess and you have a recipe for annoyance that goes above and beyond.

Except maybe for little kick-em dogs. Nothing is more annoying that that.

Actual line heard in Starbuck’s by latte-swilling, yoga-mat carrying, new age maggots:

“Since I started taking yoga, I can actually see how my ancestors stayed fit.”

Are you retarded?

It was all I could do not to go off on this moron.

First of all, he was Irish by the look of him.

I hate to break the news to you, Sluggo, but your ancestors stayed fit but living a brutal existence that was a combination of surviving genocide by the English and taking part in various wars usually as conscripts against their will.

Think of Braveheart with malnutrition and the plague.

No one who survived the Potato Famine knew the first few postures in Pilates.

Second of all, dumbass, Yoga came from India.

So, unless Mr. O’Dumbshit is descended from a Irish clan who immigrated to Mumbai in the mid 18th century, he’s shit out of luck.

Its stretching, dude. No, really. Stretching.

Different stretches work you in different ways, but its still stretching.

I am thinking that, in part, my dislike of yoga comes from the yoga studio that shares my office building.

They have a thing about incense.

I realized how happy I was to have a yoga studio in the building about a week after my company moved in.

I walked in the front door and my sinuses and asthma-ridden lungs were filled with the sickly sweet stink of Nagchampa.

As my tortured bronchial tubes began to swell shut, and my eyes watered, I began to think about the term Carbonized Particulate.

Needless to say, running like a refugee to my office while holding my breath is hardly dignified.

In a word, it sucks.

I happen to find myself in the lobby with the Yoga Studio’s receptionist a week later and mentioned it to her.

Her reply was hardly reassuring.

“Oh, that won’t happen again, we are going to start opening the back door. The wind will blow it right out.”

Oh, good.

This is the equivalence of a smoker smoking in your car, but hanging it out the window.

Makes it all better, right?

Also, I found out that the Yoga Studio charges a wretched fortune for a monthly membership.

And thats fine, charge what the market will bear. I am quite a fan of capitalism.

I used to be in sales, so there is an element of my soul that is a rotten whore for cash.

But it just seems like a silly scam.

And before you all start barking at me, I have tried it.

I took a free class that a friend told me would be so awesome, I would eat my negative words and probably buy a membership at the end of the class.

Right.

I spent a solid hour in a room that was 110 degrees, stretching my body into more sick positions than the new girl on a porn film.

Well, trying to, anyway.

A lot of the class was getting halfway there and having to stop and mutter “I can’t do that”.

Over and over.

Meanwhile, the skinny metro-sexual running the class, who stank of hand lotion and shook hands with his thumb straight out, managed to twist his body into every position with speed and finesse.

And he seemed like he would have been thrilled to be the new girl on the porn film.

You’re God damned right I said it.

PLEASE RATE THE BLOG ON AMAZON.COM CLICK HERE

 
2 Comments

Posted by on November 14, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

Newark Marie, my 90 year old BFF.

“How ya doin?”

I am usually a fly on the wall here at Starbuck’s so the question caught me off guard.

Sitting next to me, almost invisible until she spoke, is a little old woman.

With a thick Jersey accent. And if I had meant, New Jersey, I would have said so. This woman is from Jersey.

“Fine, you?” I try to be polite, when I can. Plus, this woman is about 90 and from a generation I absolutely adore.

“I’m good, I’m good.” She took a sip of her coffee.

If memory serves, this is a generation that loves to chat over coffee.

Let’s see.

“What brings you to the beach today?”

And with that, we are off to the races.

Marie, my new friend, talks for the next 5 minutes straight. Pausing only to sip her coffee regularly and blow her nose twice.

She is waiting for her niece to come pick her up and take her to one of her daughter’s houses.

She flew in from Newark last night and was staying at a hotel up the street.

She is in town to see the family, she hadn’t seen them since Edgar died, her husband of 70 years.

No shit.

This entire conversation takes place with her severe Brooklyn accent. Also, Marie probably smoked for a portion of that 90 years, which gives her this deep husky voice, along with that accent.

She is an absolute pisser.

Marie has hit that age that she either doesn’t realize that she is mouthing off or no longer cares.

There are a few highlights that stand out in both my notes and my memory of my talk with Marie.

Her great grandson, Martin, might be a feg. For those who are not familiar with the Jersey accent, a feg is the word “Fag” with a thick accent.

Marie’s entire reason for suspecting Martin’s feet do not touch the ground, (Everybody got that?) is that Martin has a pierced nose and both ears are pierced.

The daughter she will be visiting with today is “Dina, the middle girl.” Dina is married to Frank and they have two kids. Edgar, God rest his soul, always suspected that Frank was retarded or at the least a communist.

She then proceded to stop in the middle of her sentance and glare at a woman in her twenties, walking by with a black dress and red heels.

Ah, red heels and the older generation.

As Marie put it, “That girl looks like a whore!” (Pronounced hoe-wuh)

This as the poor girl is still within earshot.

You never saw a head whip around so fast.

Then Marie regailed me with a story about when her aunt died in the middle of Thanksgiving dinner and no one noticed.

I love this woman.

There is such a frickin delight in hearing someone with a total lack of caring about what anyone might think. I still can’t figure out if it is a lack of understanding or caring. It still adds up to the same thing.

Rude talk in public.

With me as the giggling witness.

God, I love my life.

PLEASE RATE THE BLOG ON AMAZON.COM CLICK HERE

 
9 Comments

Posted by on November 11, 2011 in Uncategorized