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Monthly Archives: February 2012

Just don’t hurt me.

Buying a new car is a lot like anticipating a prison rape.

The tension, the waiting, the certainty in the back of your head, that at any moment, things are going to get so out of control.

The best description I can come up with is that it is like a full bodied ass-clench.

The kind you only understand if you have have the flu for 2 weeks.

But the cars are so shiny!

You get on the car lot and it is almost hypnotic.

And here is a basic secret, any car you test drive is better than your car.

Why?

Because you hate your car.

You might put up a brave face and tell everyone how much you will miss your ol’ beauty.

But you can’t wait to be rolling in something new.

And the worse part is, the dealership and their salesmen know this.

Everyone that goes to buy a car figures they have the system beat, and they are going to work this dealership over.

If this sounds familiar, its because this is what every friend you know that is going to Vegas says.

“I have a plan, and I am going to beat them at their own game.”

Let me tell you this.

I used to sell cars for a living.

And the car salesman prays that you have that attitude.

Because a customer that believes he is holding all the cards is the easiest to close.

Dispute this if you will.

But I was a car salesman, and I am still nervous.

I figure thats healthy.

But back to the cars.

I come from an American car family.

Dad was a Master Transmission mechanic for Ford.

I like Ford.

My brothers drive foreign.

Theres a little tension there.

I miss my first few cars.

Due to my dad’s transmission business, I had a constant supply of old beaters, usually Mercury’s, for my first few cars.

And I loved the beasts.

They were huge, ugly and sucked up gas like drunks on a binder.

But, and here is the main point, when a beast of a car dies, your tears dry up quickly.

And you move on.

But, the time of the beast is past.

And it is time for something nice.

Its an odd quirk of mine, but I will not buy new.

So a late model shiny car is whats needed.

The first car I am shown is a Volkswagon.

On a Ford Dealership? I am so glad my father is not here.

It is nice. Really nice.

But Farfagnugen is not even a word.

So the answer is no.

The next car is a PT Cruiser with next to no miles on it.

Hey now.

I may be in love.

And then we go into the office.

That is where the whole thing moves into a prison rape cloud of tension hanging over me.

And a wicked case of swamp ass sets in.

But in just the few years since I sold cars, they have wildly streamlined the whole process.

Ford is gentler than others, so in record time, with a minimum of financial/rectal discomfort, I am driving home in my new car.

The only down side is that, as I leave the dealership, I pass my old car.

They wouldn’t take the old piece of shit as a trade in.

How pathetic is that?

 
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Posted by on February 14, 2012 in Uncategorized

 

The verbal hostage taker.

Help me.

Seriously, help me.

I am being held hostage by a little old man.

He will not shut up.

I realize that I am not a piker when it comes to the fin art of running off at the mouth, but dear lord!

This old guy must be the loneliest guy in the world.

The first mistake is eye contact.

I am at the Starbucks in Barnes and Noble.

As we all know, the unfriendliest Starbucks on the planet.

You would think I would learn.

They will not give me hot water for my Via instant coffee without charging for the regular coffee, and the regular stuff sucks.

And the music!

Its this hideous alternative, experimental stuff that you listen to because that hot chick you want to go out with is into it and you think if you are to, you might have a shot at bumping uglies with her.

Anyway, where way I?

Oh yeah, the old guy.

I was looking for an Iphone tips and tricks magazine to bring me a Siri closer together.

“Is there a Unix magazine on your side?”

That should have been my first red flag.

Old Unix guys are a lot like overly friendly hippie guys from the 60’s because, well, they are overly friendly hippie guys from the 60’s.

The hair is grey, the bald spot is prominent, and the glasses are thick.

And layers, old guys love layers.

A crew neck t shirt, under a three button polo, under a hoodie, under a, wait for it, down vest.

Old guys are always cold.

“Here you go.” I have him a copy of Unix Quarterly.

And then I made my mistake.

I tried to be funny.

These guys have no sense of humor.

“Is the magazine in Binary?”

Trust me, tech guys will shit themselves on this joke.

He chuckles, but its just a ruse.

And he begins to talk.

For the next ten minutes.

I am getting his job history, his opinions on Windows, why Android will fail, and the fact that Iphones are spreading communism.

He reminds me of the old guy at Starbucks that held me verbal hostage awhile back.

But this guy is SOOOOOO boring!

I finally use my hole card.

“I need to get back to my girlfriend, great talking with you.”

Its a bad sign when he keeps talking as you walk away.

I am back at the table, trying to swill enough coffee to relax when I feel a tap at my shoulder.

He’s back.

“I was going to show you that VR Compression software…….blah blah fucking blah.”

He is sitting right behind me.

I contemplate falling to the floor and playing dead in the hopes that he will just sniff me and wander off.

But these old guys are twitchy.

He may roll with a defibrillator and decide to hit me with the juice.

And all I want is to be left alone.

I try to make eye contact with the girlfriend, but she is delightfully oblivious to my predicament.

I finally decide to take the gibberish.

“I hate to cut this short, but my mom’s visiting, I need to finish this report, and my blood sugar is low.”

Three random bits of data that have nothing to do with each other.

His mind won’t process it, he will have to go reboot.

And it works, he tilts his head to the side and walks away.

I will take that as a victory and head out.

Take it where you can get it.

 
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Posted by on February 13, 2012 in Uncategorized

 

The Priss and the MAN.

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?

Excellent question.

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.

How cute.

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.

 
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Posted by on February 10, 2012 in Uncategorized

 

What stinks?

Have you ever smelled pepper?

Not just a hint of it, but sucked a full sprinkle of pepper into your nostrils?

Its not like in the cartoons, where it just makes you sneeze in a comical fashion.

but one of those harsh sneezes that might squeeze a little fart out of you?

Why am I describing this and asking?

Because wearing too much perfume is very similar, nostril pain wise.

Join me at the table next to the cream and sugar kiosk at Starbucks.

In a random survey of the last 5 business women to doctor their coffee, perfume is subtle and kept at a minimum.

And then she walked into my life.

In all the gin joints in all the world, she has to walk into my Starbucks.

I was at the table farthest from the front door.

But when the door opens, the wind blows into the building.

Holy shit.

Are you kidding me sweetie?

I could smell her the moment she put her hand on the door.

And the whole way thru line.

I couldn’t see her, but I assumed that she was an older woman, from that glorious generation that believed that perfume was applied by the pint.

I did my best to ignore the stench, but I could tell the second she got her coffee and walked over to where I was sitting, intent on her coffee.

And she was about 22.

It was so out of place that I began to stare openly.

And I am incapable of doing this on the sly, you KNOW when I am staring.

She was conservatively dressed in business attire.

Not slutty, rather plain overall.

But where the hell could you work where you smell like 10 old women?

Are her coworkers old hockey players and boxers?

And then I began sneezing.

I lost count at 8 times.

And she said bless you each time.

Like she was expecting it.

And maybe she was.

Maybe the whole saying “Bless you” is her thing.

Who knows?

I think she finally figured it out, took her coffee and left.

By this time my eyes are almost swollen shut.

It is several hours later and I am still a little congested.

I would like to make this an open letter to the ladies out there, and possibly the guys that think they are on Jersey Shore.

And for the record, Snooki is hot, right up until she opens her mouth.

And you can’t smell her on TV.

Back to the matter at hand.

To the ladies, have a heart and dial it back a bit.

For the guys, seriously?

To put it bluntly, you smell like shit.

A little restraint is in order.

By everyone.

And I so need to keep some Benedril in my laptop bag.

I should have been a boy scout as a child.

I would be better prepared.

 
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Posted by on February 9, 2012 in Uncategorized

 

I TOLD you, Burning Man is over, here’s why.

A few months ago I wrote a blog about how Burning Man was done and gave some reasons why.

And almost all of it was dis-proven.

Except for the “It’s all over part.” That is.

I realize that my original theory was flawed.

You cannot shut down a massive event like this overnight.

Why shut it down when you can evolve it.

This gets even more sinister.

This years Art Theme is Fertility 2.0

As in, to create something new.

It begins with the current ticket fiasco.

In a somewhat confusing move, the powers that be in the Burning Man Org have changed the ticket selling process and making it a lottery.

Maybe.

A lottery implies some sort of randomness to it.

But why would you need to take all of that demographic information down for a supposed blind drawing?

Because it wasn’t blind, it was fixed.

Did you say that?

Yes I did.

So, if the fix was in, what was the purpose?

To change the event.

But the experienced burners would never let that happen.

Would they?

Except that, with very, very few exceptions, almost no veteran Burners got tickets.

So, if a HUGE percentage of the attendees are brand new to the event, where will all the veteran burners be next year?

At the regional events.

That is the master plan.

The main Burn is chicken scratch compared to a couple dozen events thru out the year.

Each with their own flavor and feel.

Is all of this based of guessing and horse shit theory?

Pretty much.

But that doesn’t mean its wrong.

I am fully expecting hate mail and to be ripped apart on this one.

So be it.

Doesn’t mean its wrong, though.

 
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Posted by on February 7, 2012 in Uncategorized

 

Clones and Super Bowl

I made an accusation  a number of blogs back that Tom Brady might be the Antichrist.

Once again, I am not saying he is, I’m saying he might be.

But the Manning’s might be a more sinister plot.

Back in 1975, NFL quarterback Archie Manning participated in a top secret government project.

To clone top quarterbacks.

Manning 3.0, the third clone made, will be starting in the Super Bowl today.

Lots of bad portents going on today. I am not sure why I bet on Super Bowls

Despite the fact that I have a decadent Super Bowl party to go to, I can’t seem to shake a feeling of dread.

The wagering consists of two poster boards.

Grids, charts, and lots of empty spaces.

Within seconds I have put a 20 spot on a bunch of wagers I probably will never win.

I am not sure why I bet on the Super Bowls anyway.

It would just be easier to just hand a couple of bucks to everyone that walks thru the door.

Probably cheaper, too.

The food is a frightening thing to consider.

In a nation where everyone is concerned with their weight, Super Bowl Sunday seems to be one of those days that it just doesn’t count.

All bets are off.

For a party of 25 people, there were 2 large catering tables filled with food and 4 coolers filled with beer.

On an interesting note, the two teams playing in the Super Bowl are not the big favorites.

Of the 5 NFL jerseys at the party, none were of the Giants of the Patriots.

And then, 15 minutes into the game, and halfway thru my first bowl of chili Fritos, the power went out.

It seems that Southern California Edison has an issue in the area with something that looks like a hot water heater on top of a power pole one block away.

So the coverage of the Super Bowl was provided by Iphones.

And none of it live.

But nobody left.

It turns out a Super Bowl party without the Super Bowl is still a party.

We ate, we laughed, and for God’s sake we drank like fish.

I talked with some old friend’s and shamelessly hit on their wives.

Its important to have a hobby.

About a half hour after the power went out, we found an obscene piece of fruit.

This is the height of boredom.

And yet, that damned piece of fruit kept showing up in the hands of someone new, who figured out a new spin on an orange shaped like an ass.

And juvenile dick jokes rarely get old if you have been drinking.

In the end, a great time was had by all.

Piles of food were left to be thrown away.

Somewhere in the vicinity of 2 cases of beer were left.

And I came out of it $35 ahead.

I am sure I will hear from the IRS on that one.

On a closing note, Eli Manning was the Super Bowl MVP.

All I can think of is to say, I am glad the Manning clones are not assassins.

At least with football, the Manning clones are using their powers for good.

 
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Posted by on February 6, 2012 in Uncategorized

 

The Fallen Man

There is a fallen man in Starbucks.

Yes, he’s homeless, but I mean he has fallen over in his seat.

He is a homeless guy I have not seen before.

The staff seems to know him.

He has been here the last few mornings.

Always on the verge of a nap.

Lots of head nodding.

Today is the first day he has actually fallen over.

I am not sure he is sleepy.

The first day he was here, I was running late.

I came into Starbucks, got my coffee, cream and sugared and was shocked to find that two of the three nice round tables in the back were available.

Got my computer set up and took a sip of my coffee.

Wow!

My coffee has BO.

Then I realized it was the guy sitting next to me nodding off.

And boy, did he have a STANK going on.

Luckily, my sense of smell is weak due to a broken hockey nose years ago.

Well, that explains why the seats were available.

The general public tend to shy away from anything that looks or smells bad.

Me? I need stuff to write about.

This blog doesn’t write itself.

So for three days in a row, John, the new homeless guy is zonked out near the cream and sugar kiosk.

He is there before I get there, and he is there when I leave.

Except for day three.

The kind-of manager comes over.

I say kind-of because he always mentions to people that “My manager said.”

I think its a passive aggressive form of being in charge.

So nobody thinks he is the one pulling the strings.

Like a coffee based wizard of Oz.

Ignore the manager behind the curtain.

Judy Garland was a piece of ass back when.

Anyway, he comes over and clears his throat.

John is curled up on the cushion, he head less than a foot from my leg.

Snoring softly, smelling loudly.

Funny name for a homeless Kung fu movie.

Crouching tiger, hidden stank.

Finally, he knocks on the table.

Which is a smart move.

One of the basic rules about the homeless is that you do not touch them.

Same rule as dealing with a rattlesnake.

Don’t touch unless you have that kind of training.

John Starts awake.

“Um, John? My boss said you gotta go, you’re not supposed to be in here.”

“But I got my coffee.”

He says it quietly, like even he doesn’t believe it.

“He said I gotta call the cops if you don’t leave.”

And thats the homeless trump card.

Don’t mess with the cops.

Enough people mess with the cops as it is.

If I were a cop, I would be one of those cops you see in the movies.

The totally power tripping, bad cop.

Probably a good thing I am not.

I know a few cops, good guys.

I hope that doesn’t sound like one of those closet racists.

“Some of my best friends are–”

Fill in the race du jour.

 
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Posted by on February 3, 2012 in Uncategorized

 

Big pimping at Starbucks.

Some of the guys that work at Starbucks have the lines down pat.

Its got major foot traffic of young single women, these boys bring their A game.

I am at a Starbucks in which the all male staff are players.

But the cashier is the worse.

Or best, depends on your point of view.

He is a young Italian kid.

Long eyelashes over dark brown eyes.

And every woman that comes to the counter gets worked over with what I like to call the “Eye rape”.

Its almost like a second form of speech, over-laying everything he says.

What can I get you today?

How about I bite your neck?

How would you like that drink made?

What position do you like?

Thank you, come again.

Thank you, come again.

Sometimes, its the emphasis.

In a 5 minute period, I heard two different women invite him to a part.

I was not invited, but I am sure this party will be something akin to the Fire Island Barn dance.

I think he will find his dance card full on that one.

Do the math, in a 4 hour shift, this kid is closing like the Brentwood Century 21 realtor.

And someone should, don’t you think?

Everyone else out there is trying to hook up and find that someone special, and this kid is living the life of the head bartender in Studio 54 circa 1975.

Without the drugs of course, Starbucks does random testing on its employees.

And they don’t care if you have a Kush card or not.

Or maybe something more bizarre is going on.

They could be running some sort of gigolo java scheme to service well monied coffee fraus.

But I doubt it.

The cashier would have to be taller.

And speak French.

I am not sure why but every movie I can remember seeing with a gigolo, someone spoke French.

Just stuck in my head.

Richard Gere is an amazing actor.

He was the American Gigolo after all.

If you didn’t see it, it was this AMAZINGLY shitty film they made him do, early in his career.

This was before he made all that Pretty Woman F-U money and married super model Cindy Crawford and her mole.

Interruption – The Starbucks at Barnes and Noble has just started playing this hideous Gregorian Chant goes Bondage song.

Back to your blog.

There is a woman in her thirties that has been watching the cashier like like a starving Kenyan the whole time she has been in line.

She have on Mom jeans and a halter top.

What kind of message does that send anyway?

It is now her turn and she steps up to the plate.

The cashier goes with what has to be called the hot hand tonight.

The eye rape.

Works like a charm.

Looking closely, her nipples are now protruding.

And she responds with the hair flip, complete with the giggle.

Nicely played sir.

 
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Posted by on February 2, 2012 in Uncategorized

 

Going gentle into the night, like a laxative.

I wrote a blog yesterday about an old woman who has been using plastic surgery and botox to allow her “staying young” delusion to live longer.

And it got me thinking.

How are we aging?

Due to Facebook, I am more in touch with people I went to high school and even grade school with than at any other time in my life, including when I was in school.

And it has been interesting to see the lives that have gone on.

But some of us are not aging well.

Throw me into that pit as well.

I don’t think I have hit fugly, but I have lost my boyish good looks as time marches on.

And time is marching on like the fricking Bataan Death March for a lot of us.

I think the thing that shocks me the most is not the grey hair that I seem to be losing the battle to, but the aches and pains that are accumulating.

I bent over to pick something up the other day and I made a groan that my great grandfather made in the 70’s, complete with a hand on my lower back.

I am getting old.

I would say old and tired, but I drink too much coffee to be classified as tired.

Dylan Thomas said this:

“Do not go gentle into that good night,

Old age should burn and rave at close of day;

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.”

Everyone up to speed with their metaphors?

Ok then.

I will raise a stink.

Ungentle or otherwise.

I will fight, scratch and claw when the shit goes down, just to make sure my final legacy is not a victim.

And do me a favor?

If you see them coming for me, and we all know who they are, do something about it if you see them carrying me down the street in a big mob.

And THAT, is a beautiful, crazy, paranoid line.

Maybe that is what this blog is all about.

The last of my childish angst, raging against the death of youth.

Or possibly just a childish vent in print.

Take your pick.

Should you rage against the inevitable?

Does it do any good?

Hell, blogging might just be this generation’s outraged poets.

Taking the untamed angst of societal outrage and filtering it into the raw product of mental/emotional revolution!

Makes me sound pretty good, doesn’t it?

Or was it just really dumb?

I think it raises the bar on the intellectual front.

I am on top of the elitist intellectual heap.

Which one of you pukes can knock me off?

Back to be a high end poetic revolutionary.

Me and Ol’ Dylan, kindred souls, doncha know?

Maybe.

Ah hell, I can’t back that up.

Sometimes, things are exactly what they seem.

And this is just a snotty little blog that makes fun of people, places, and situations.

So its not Shakespeare.

But when was the last time you read Romeo and Juliet everyday before work?

And Shakespeare never tried to make you shoot coffee out of your nose?

But I do.

 
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Posted by on February 1, 2012 in Uncategorized