The Starbucks in downtown Manhattan Beach is surrounded by bars.
In the morning, the bars are closed, or morph into restaurants for breakfast, so no worries.
But at night, all bets are off.
It was a killer day today.
The weather was awesome to the point of approaching summer conditions.
So an evening walk for health is in order.
The misses and I walk about a mile and end up at the halfway point.
My daily Starbucks.
The bars surrounding it are in full swing.
Starbucks has an interesting mix of studiers, business people, and those like me, the addicted.
I think we come here out of sheer reflex.
And in the corner is the Priss.
The Priss is dressed in a black cocktail dress, like she is out for the evening.
Except that her evening seems to consist of chattering on her phone while drinking a salted caramel latte and eating a bran muffin.
Add to that the narrowing of the eyes and pursing of the lips whenever she looks at anyone else and you know why I named her the Priss.
Like someone just farted really loud in front of her and how dare you.
Instinctively I think I hate her.
She was the best friend of that girl you always wanted to go out with in high school, but the Priss talked her out of it.
Come to think of it, the Priss has a lot of things to answer for, real or imaginary.
Every now and then in life, someone has to pay the fiddler.
If you don’t get that, I can’t tell you.
Like BB King once said, “Some people, if they don’t know, you can’t tell them.”
Wise man, played a mean guitar.
How can you drink a Venti coffee at eight o’clock at night, then go to bed at ten?
And the answer is severe ADD.
A curious affliction in which mild stimulants, like coffee are used to slow down the thought process.
But enough about me.
Back to the Priss.
The Priss also happens to be of the right age for attracting men.
A trio of inebriated winners is making their way by the huge front windows.
These guys are obviously trashed, and its only eight.
I used to drink like that in my twenties, but usually just on St. Patrick’s Day.
These guys are like this on a non-descript Thursday.
One of the guys has taken a fancy to the Priss, it seems.
Let me describe this, because it just got good.
He was just standing on the sidewalk, shouting “WOOO!” loud enough to be heard thru the glass.
The Priss looked up, narrowed her eyes and pursed her lips in disdain.
And this only egged him on.
Now his buddies are laughing and, combined with the alcohol, makes him the MAN.
He hops up on the brick porch in front of the huge window, whips off his shirt and begins an odd bump and grind against the glass.
Is he? Yes he is. He is licking the glass.
That is just flat out, stank nasty.
The Priss is blood red at this point.
And with good reason.
The cops must be part ninja, because I certainly never saw them walking up.
And then they helped him down off of the brick porch.
How nice of them.
The last I saw, as we left to finish our walk, the MAN, was being fed into the back of a squad car.
And all is right with the world.