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Monthly Archives: February 2012

Beat your kids!

Nobody beats their kids anymore.

And the world is worse off.

But before you all send me the emails that are all in caps, let me explain.

Some kids need beating.

You’re God damn right I said it.

When I was a little kid, I was a rotten shit, and my mother used to beat my ass daily.

Lord knows I had it coming.

Now, before you make your inexperienced, saw it on Oprah, judgements, consider this.

I have never been in jail, I rarely drink, and other than main lining caffeine, I do no drugs, and I have never had to explain my arguments with the ex wife to a policeman pointing to a bruise on her neck.

So maybe mom was on to something.

But before anyone takes this as a cart blanche to start swinging, lets clarify.

Discipline belongs in child rearing only if you are smarter than the child.

Because stupid beating causes stupid kids.

And before you argue this point, consider this.

If you were beaten and it did nothing and left you with hideous baggage for life, that falls back to your parents.

Stupid.

There seems to be a fine art to beating your kids.

Its like hitting a golf ball.

There are times you break out the 1 wood and swing as hard as you can.

And then there are times you use the putter and just tap it in.

My mother was the Tiger Woods of her day.

Just the right amount of force.

But then, she played a lot.

My father, was a master of the game.

He spanked me twice, count em twice, in my entire life.

And damn if it didn’t stay with me for life.

I once had a teacher rip me out of my desk and toss me into the wall, slapping my face as I bounced off of it.

And he turned out to be the finest teacher I have ever had.

Phenomenal man. Taught me more about the English language than all of grade school, high school and college.

He walked thru the door, raised the expectation bar to the ceiling and whipped us like animals in order to achieve perfection.

Just don’t get caught sleeping in his class.

That method of teaching would not fly today.

It actually didn’t fly then either.

In a very heated exchange, my beloved mother threatened to cut his balls off if he laid a finger on me again.

Oddly enough, they were both moving towards the same goal.

Me.

One of my favorite subjects.

As a disclaimer, let me say that beating your kids is wrong, in a legal sense.

But, if you are confused, ask your grandmother.

She might only smack you on the back of the head.

 

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Posted by on February 17, 2012 in Uncategorized

 

Run Forrest, run!

Some people are a little too monied and have too much time on their hands.

Its a beautiful Sunday in SoCal.

I am on a bike ride with the girlfriend, enjoying a late winter sunny day.

You get those in Southern California and the rest of the country hates us for it.

We bring the laptops for email and blogging.

Cause you never know when something will come up to blog about.

Such as now.

A major power brokering is going on in the patio of the Starbucks in Hermosa Beach.

I have no clue what the deal is, yet.

Three women showed up a few minutes ago and took over the patio.

We got some glares, but I don’t give up my seat to over monied house fraus.

Several laptops are set up, lattes are steaming.

And they wait.

In a few moments, two other women show up.

The deal is about to go down.

I have scooted my chair back as far as possible in an effort to find out whats up.

There is a spreadsheet with a schedule on one screen.

Google Earth is on another.

This is getting good.

I am wondering what the deal is.

Real Estate? A new business? Espionage?

It could be anything, really.

There is a low voiced discussion about timing, comfort levels and shared responsibilities.

And then, they drop the bomb.

This entire setup and planning, and negotiation, Google Earth for Christ’s sake, is not about business.

Its about picking up each others kids from school.

Really.

Are you kidding me?

Only in Hermosa Beach.

Well, maybe Manhattan Beach.

Or any of the overly monied neighborhoods of the world.

Whether you are wearing a burka or carrying a Gucci bag.

Stupid money is stupid money.

Maybe.

Or maybe this is what happens when you stop worrying about money and making ends meet?

You are just bored as hell and make a campaign out of anything you can to keep your sanity?

It can’t be because they are that stupid, can it?

Can you be dumb enough that something simple like, pick mine up on Tuesday/Thursday and I get yours the rest of the week?

It is if I can explain it in one sentence.

But how do stupid people attain that kind of wealth?

Let me rephrase that.

How did this stupid person’s smart significant other attain that kind of scratch?

Notice how I didn’t say “Stupid woman” or “Smart husband.”?

Its because I am unbiased.

Or chalk it up any way you like, these broads are still as dumb as a bag of rocks.

I hope I have not offended any bags of rocks.

And I don’t know these women enough to make that kind of call.

But, to quote Forrest Gump, “Stupid is as stupid does.”

And that goes for picking up your kids from school.

Or writing a blog for that matter.

And I KNOW I have hit some absolute genius stupidity in the past.

 

 

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Posted by on February 16, 2012 in Uncategorized

 

It’s all about the stuffed bear.

Suckers come in all shapes and sizes.

And there is no restriction on what you can be a sucker for.

Me? I am a sucker for Valentine’s Day.

Its stupid, I know.

I have had more than one unwashed hippie spew the “It’s all a corporate sham, man.”

You lost me at “Man”.

And if I hear it one more time, I will donate money to the Japanese Whaling fleet.

NOW, they are quiet.

But there is something nice about the idea that, as much of an un-affectionate bastard as you can be for the majority of the year, there is one day that you are required/guilt-ed into/pressured to be nice, with flowers, candies and an optional stuffed bear.

And if you are thinking about that online “Make you own special theme bear” do so with the understanding that you will be throwing down a couple of Franklins for that shit.

Makes me sound like a gangster rapper, don’t it?

Raised on those mean streets of Manhattan Beach, California.

Not my fault, dog.

My daddy left us.

Every morning, to go to work.

But he came home every night.

A man’s man, big John Wayne fan.

And as “Marlboro man” as he could be?

He has done some nice Valentine’s Days for my mom over the years.

Maybe that is why I like it.

You follow the examples your folks set for you during those formative years.

And yet, in recent years, I pooched the who Valentine’s Day thing.

I woke up on a Valentine’s Day that fell on a Sunday, looked across the pillow at the girlfriend, and fucked it all up.

“What day is Valentine’s Day this week?”

Today, shithead.

But she didn’t say that.

“Really?”

Which doesn’t tell me anything, really.

She waited until I was in the middle of my morning BM, defenseless on the toilet.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Dumbass.”

And she handed me a card with a little bear.

The day could have gone bad from that, save for a few lucky breaks and breakfast on a sunny patio in Santa Monica.

But I pooched it that day.

Still have the bear though.

She still brings it up to this day.

And here is a tip for the guys, from someone who knows.

When she says, “It’s no big deal.”

Trust me, ITS A BIG DEAL.

Ignore this advice at your own peril.

But keep in mind that women can be vindictive.

I don’t want to go into the details of Lorena Bobbit, or he heinous crimes.

Just saying.

I bet john looks back and wonders if he could have flown under the radar on that fateful day with just the purchase of a dozen roses.

And a stuffed bear.

 

(FOOTNOTE: I hate Gangster Rap. Except Eminem. His stuff rhymes. Plus he looks like a cousin of mine. Holler.)

 

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Posted by on February 15, 2012 in Uncategorized

 

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