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Monthly Archives: August 2012

Obsession is an ugly thing, and kind of fun.

I recently got an email critique from a family member, and despite my arrogant assumption that I am smarter than most, I really respect her opinion.

She mentioned that, while she loves the blog, it sometimes pisses her off that I bag on people so much.

My first reaction was bristling and denial.

How dare she? I am an artist, dammit! Hemmingway was never subject to this kind of shit! Why should I have to put up with it?

I have done denial before, I am good at this.

And then, once I thought about it, it led to more thought.

Now we’re in trouble.

I decided to look back over the last month of blogs, looking for instances that I might have unfairly bagged on someone who did not deserve.

Didn’t take long. Page two, the shit storm began.

Ok, so she’s right. (I don’t know why I think everyone else is always wrong. Call it a personality quirk.)

But this also led me to reviewing the way I view those around me.

The first thought is “Playthings for my amusement” and it doesn’t bode well.

Here is a good example:

I was in Starbucks one morning, cream and sugaring my coffee, when the guy next to me began cleaning off the cream and sugar kiosk.

And he didn’t work there.

As I watched, he cleaned up the area in front of himself, the space between us, and then I had to pick up my coffee as he started cleaning my area.

Interesting.

Once he finished with my section, he started to clean up the upper level with the creamers.

This is when the evil side of me began to rear its ugly head.

I decided to test his commitment to obsessive cleaning.

Call it blasphamy, but I knocked over my coffee.

Beautiful golden liquid spread out over the lower level of the kiosk and began to drip down the side, onto the floor.

And Obsession boy almost lost it.

First, the muttering under his breath began. It was low, indiscernible and a little creepy.

His hand was a blur, pulling napkins out for sopping up and cleaning.

This is just sick.

I almost feel bad for taking delight in his cleaning issue.

But this is the kind of guy that buys his cleaning supplies by the case, from industry warehouses, and his hands always smell faintly of ammonia.

I appears to help, by trying to throw my cup away and spilling what little was left on the newly cleaned section.

The muttering got worse.

For a moment, I thought of keeping this up, but cruelty is hard to sustain without feeling like an absolute shit.

Best to let it go.

So I went to the cashier to get another coffee.

And the cashier stared at me for a short moment and I realized that he knew exactly what I had been up to.

“That’s just wrong, dude.”

He’s right, you got me.

 

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Posted by on August 31, 2012 in Uncategorized

 

The pursuit of happiness.

I saw an item on the internet this morning that was funny, disturbing and just flat out sad.

Authorities in the UK have arrested a man for trespassing onto his neighbor’s farm in the dead of night, standing on a stepladder in the barn and sodomizing one of the horses.

This is the third time he was arrested for an unnatural act.

Third time?

What the hell is going on in the UK?

Usually, the US is the place for freaky crimes.

Now, if it was a consensual freaky sex thing, Japan would be the country for that.

But that is not the weird part.

The weird part is this.

(Those of a sensitive nature  might want to skip this next sentence.)

Turns out the first time he got arrested, it was for sneaking into the same barn, hassling the same horse, stimulating its genitals until aroused and then impaling his own ass on the massive horse dick.

I think I just threw up a little bit in my mouth.

And that, weird as it is, is STILL not the weird part.

The weird part is this.

The last two times he has been arrested, its because he was sodomizing the horse.

In this guys head, in the sickest of ways, payback is a bitch.

Especially if you were once the bitch.

Or he could just be crazy.

Every time something truly heinous happens, everyone tries to find some sort of logical reason for it.

What ever happened to old school crazy.

Why’d he do it? He’s crazy, thats why.

Sometimes, its the easiest answer.

My father once told me that the problem is usually the least complicated thing that could go wrong, so check that first.

And that goes for more than car repair,

Picked up a lot of wisdom among the seemingly casual comments my dad made growing up.

And thats how it should be.

I grew up with what I think is the proper view of the world.

Mom was a force of nature that you didn’t mess with.

And my father was what a man should be.

Never really went thru that period that some kids do in their late teens of hating their parents.

So if thats what you’re looking for here, can’t help you.

I ran this next line past the therapist in the family and was told it was insensitive.

But, if you had a shitty childhood that haunts you as an adult, take it off like an old coat that no longer fits and move on.

Like the cops will tell you at a crime scene, the shows over, move along.

I happen to know of several people I knew as a kid that had shitty upbringings.

They reinvented themselves with a creativity that Madonna would envy and are a lot happier.

So be it.

Happiness is not a goal line that you cross and spike the ball.

It is an easily lost state of being that you chase like a meth head in need of a fix.

Searching for the happiness you had as a child.

That kind of happiness is easily found as a kid and highly addictive.

The older you get, the harder it is to get back to.

But there are exceptions.

Here is the secret.

Every now and then, you run into one of those truly happy people, someone tapping the source naturally, not chemically.

When you find these people, figure out a way to include them in your life.

Because when you hang out with happy people, some of it may rub off on you.

And that is a good thing.

 
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Posted by on August 30, 2012 in Uncategorized

 

Motivation for the unmotivated.

The shortest point between two places is a straight line, in the opposite direction.

Thats a quote from the zen philosipher Basho.

Its also from one of my favorite films that quotes the zen master.

It is also horseshit.

Philosophy is, to a large extent, based on theory.

And drugs, lets not forget them.

First of all, I am a big believer in experience.

If you wasnt to be proficient in anything, just do it.

Its a lot like writing a blog.

You can find enough material on writing to spend the next decade reading.

But You will learn more about writing simply sitting down and belting out 500 words a day.

Doesn’t make you a great writer, but it does get you past the basics and on the road.

For instance, I am no longer sure that writer’s block is even a valid term.

I think it has more to do with not having written day in and day out and then, when you actually book the time to sit and write, you are trying to use a mental muscle that either hasn’t been developed enough to use or was once strong but atraphied.

Either way, I can sit and be cranking a few seconds after my ass hits the seat.

Good.

Because while I have yet to miss a workday post since August 1st 2011, I have been late a few days.

And the crappy emails are whiny things of beauty. True tributes to bitchy nonesense.

Call it what you like, I call it motivation.

Plus, bitching is warranted.

If you think about it, you are all here at my invitation, and it falls to me as host to make sure the party goes on.

And go on it shall.

I ended up writing about the goings on in Starbucks mainly because I couldn’t think of anything else to write a lot of posts about on a weekly basis.

But, Starbucks it turns out, is some pretty fertile ground.

Do you realize how many freaks are out there?

And they all love coffee.

Me too, so here I am.

I got outed the other day, I am not sure if I mentioned that.

For being a blogger.

The cashier at my favorite Starbucks asked me if he was going to read about something that had happened that morning.

It was like Lois Lane calling Clark Superman.

The facade was over.

And then reality set in.

This is a little bitty blog read by a VERY small population.

So the only one who it really matters to was me.

Thats a relief, actually.

I function better as an anonymous crude voice in the darkness.

Looking at the world with odd eyes that seem to see the stuff that others miss.

Not that it is a useful trait, but still.

That is a funny thought, my eyes.

All the better to see and blog about you with.

 

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Posted by on August 29, 2012 in Uncategorized

 

My love hate relationship with Insomnia.

I don’t sleep much, never have.

I think I was about 7 when my mother quit trying to make me go to bed.

I was always that really hyper kid that was up all night.

Writing is a great hobby to cultivate when you stay up for a few days in a row.

Insomnia just gives you more time to do shit.

Where do you think this blog comes from?

But, I can only go to Starbucks when they are open.

There are no 24 hour Starbucks near my house.

Hell, I would even drive to find one, but the only thing you can get in LA after hours is drunk and the crabs if you aren’t careful.

So wear a condom, for God’s sake.

This is a public service announcement.

I used to share a room with my brother.

If I had a nickle for everytime he yelled across the room for me to “GO TO SLEEP!”, I would have a lot of nickles.

My brother’s happiest day is when we got seperate rooms.

Now he got to sleep thru the night without risking attack at any moment, and he got to keep his room as obsessively clean as he liked.

I am kind of a slob.

There used to be a show on tv when I was little called the Odd Couple.

One guy was a really pent up clean freak and the other guy was a slob.

They had more laughs on the show.

But at least we get along now.

I have always wanted to be one of those really clean people, but it goes against my basic instinct.

Cluttered mind, cluttered room, go figure.

One of the better things about writing a daily blog is that, when its the wee hours and I seriously need something to do?

There is always tomorrows blog on the Things To Do list.

Plus you can only masturbate so much and then you chaff.

Ok, just kidding. You can NEVER masturbate too much.

The funny thing is, most of you chuckle and figure I’m kidding.

But all men are like this.

And if you just said, not my guy, yes him too.

But that is a whole other blog post.

If nothing else, Masturbation deserve the respect.

Back to insomnia, a much safer subject, wouldn’t you agree?

There are times that insomnia sucks.

When the writing dries up, and there is literally nothing to do, that is when it sucks the most.

Nothing to do, and your mind is at full speed.

ADHD is not just a catchy name.

and there is times that it takes over and makes everything impossible.

Nothing to do but knuckle down and weather the storm.

You’d think I would be used to it by now.

No such luck.

However, an odd thing I have noticed is that, since I started this blog, I have not had one of those nights.

So, if you think about it, these internet scribbles you are reading are a therapy of sorts.

My own little group therapy.

Hello, my name is Bittermac, and I have an issue.

(Everyone says-) Hello Bitter.

 

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Posted by on August 28, 2012 in Uncategorized

 

Joe for Jesus, my new BFF.

The is a sort of mindless joy to wandering thru a casino fairly drunk on your butt.

Reno, Nevada is not Las Vegas, but it plays by the same rules.

And no, I am not talking about the whole “What happens in…” nonesense.

I am talking about drinking.

There is nothing a casino loves more than a drunk.

Because drunks gamble.

Even people who don’t gamble, will gamble when drunk.

Perfect example? Me.

I don’t gamble. Ever. Not a dime. Long story, but I don’t.

And I am down $50 bucks.

See what I mean?

But the drinks are so cheap!

You can go to any bar in one of the beach cities of Southern California and getting drunk can be near a hundred dollars.

In the casino? Less than $20 dollars.

Awesome.

But, not being a gambler despite my sidestep into the world of video poker, I don’t want to be in a casino.

So lets go out.

Some of the most viewed posts that were the most fun to write have been concerning the homeless.

So I decide to check out the local talent.

Now, the wisdom of loading up on WILDLY low priced Mexican beer prior to going out to observe the homeless, is a poorly thought out one at best.

But these things happen.

I head out with only a mild stagger going on, with a 64 ounce Sands Regency change cup filled with Pabst Blue Ribbon. A shitty beer, but the only one they will serve in a change cup.

A $20 tip is well respected in the bartending industry.

So that is the setting as I head out to find a new friend.

I head out of the hotel/casino complex and take a right, away from the strip and down the block that gets ugly once the casino property ends.

And it doesn’t take long.

“Pick up your CROSS and follow ME!”

Even with loud downtown Reno traffic, this man’s voice cuts thru the noice.

Let me paint you a picture.

The pants are made for a 500 pound man, but they were hemmed with a butcher knife and held up with that same 500 pound man’s belt, with a full foot of excess belt hanging off.

A grey Sun Devils hoodie, over a pendleton, over two tshirts, in hundred degree weather.

Its important not to be caught out in the cold.

And a 3 foot, dark lacquered wooden cross.

Marching down the middle of the street, cross held out in front of him like a standard bearer.

And maybe he is.

I got him out of the street and decided we needed some coffee.

It was a REALLY interesting walk 4 blocks to the Starbucks.

Joe for Jesus, as he only will refer to himself, often in the third person, is ALL ABOUT Jesus.

And Jesus HATES meth. (Direct quote)

Joe for Jesus has a serious obligation to spread the word.

Nice guy, but meth has just destroyed independent thought for him.

Religion is one of those things that can fill the void for a guy like this.

TOTALLY necessary in this case.

Joe for Jesus is fairly harmless, but like Hunter Thompson said, never turn your back on a drug.

Starbucks, however, is less than thrilled to see us.

I get us coffee and these delightful mini cherry pies, and take Joe for Jesus out to the patio in an attempt to tone it down.

The manager is looking jumpy as hell.

All hell broke loose when Joe for Jesus climbed up on his chair to preach loudly and flail about with his wooden cross.

Two police cars arrive soon after.

I have ditched the change cup of beer prior to this, but I am certainly in no condition to talk to the police.

The Reno police have no sense of humor in this kind of heat.

Joe for Jesus is apparently well known by the local cops.

They talk him talk down from the chair, into the back of the cop car and leave.

I have a somewhat awkward conversation with the remaining officers which does not go as well as I had hoped.

The back seat of a Crown Victoria is plush, as far as huge sedans go.

I begin to go over the financial who’s who of my friends and family in my head.

However, as I am without handcuffs and have not had my Miranda rights read to me, I am wondering if bail is different here as well.

And then we pull up at my hotel.

I am admonished not to leave the hotel.

I had forgotten the one cardinal rule of Reno/Vegas.

Reno loves a drunk.

I love Reno.

 

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Posted by on August 27, 2012 in Uncategorized

 

Mamma said there’d be days like this.

Mamma said there’d be days like this…

Sorry, I wanted a mamma reference and couldn’t think of anything else.

This is part 2.

We are still in Starbucks, and sitting next to me is Mrs. Evil Couple, which in and of itself is a goddam party.

But Mamma Evil has joined her.

And she is a whole different kind of arrogant mean.

She just evicted the suit sitting next to me.

Mamma Evil is two feet from me.

And she smells slightly like…..Ben Gay.

Or soup.

Maybe like Ben Gay soup.

Cambell’s would never have the balls to make that. Maybe Progresso.

Mrs. Evil walks over with their coffee creations and sits.

Something is off here. Something about how she is acting.

After a moment, it comes to me.

If you have ever watched two alpha dogs that just met, if they are around each other for more than a minute without fighting, you finally see one of them ducking his head and tucking his tail.

Submissive. That is what I am seeing.

Mamma Evil is the Alpha female.

And submissive just looks so out of place on Mrs. Evil.

Mamma Evil raises an eyebrow.

“No cake?” Her voice is light, but has an edge.

“Oh, I thought you said-”

“Ah, the thinking again.” Her voice is tired.

At this point, I snort, loudly, while staring at my computer.

Both women turn to stare as I try to fade into the background.

I mumble an apology and gesture vaguely at my computer screen.

They ignore me.

Good.

The reason I snorted was that I thought about how to describe Mamma Evil’s attitude, and I came up with the same one I describe her daughter with.

She thinks you are a moron and she is SO sick of your shit.

Matching attitudes, like handbags.

I take a quiet moment to stop myself before I begin to giggle.

Mrs. Evil gets up and stomps over to the cashier.

Someone else was right in the middle of an order, but that doesn’t stop her.

She orders two pieces of coffee cake and just glares at the cashier, daring her to say “What your turn.”

I can’t actually see her face, but I have seen that glare.

The cashier is a bubbly 20 something that doesn’t have NEAR the experience in life to withstand this.

As expected, she breaks and serves up two pieces of coffee cake.

Mrs. Evil stomps back to the table. She is not nearly as good as her husband at swallowing this kind of arrogant shit.

It a developed skill that she lacks.

“I was talking to Renka, and we were discussing your car-” Mrs. Evil is gingerly working into a something that she is bracing for a fight on.

“Try not to speak, Tasha.” Mamma Evil sips her cup, not hesitating at stepping on someone elses sentence. She knew her daughter would stop talking.

“You are so much more intelligent when you don’t speak.” She puts her cup down.

“You and your sister are very busy. That is good.”

She pauses.

“You, you can hear fine?” He voice takes on an angry tinge.

She’s talking to me.

Oops.

I had stopped typing and was just staring at a point in between my table and theirs.

Its pretty obvious what I  was doing.

I have just been outed.

Mamma Evil is pissed. In short order she snatches up her purse and walks off.

Crap.

Mrs. Evil stands as well.

Just before she turns to follow her mother out, she turns to me, her mouth forming a single word, in total silence.

Sorry.

And off she goes.

 

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Posted by on August 24, 2012 in Uncategorized

 

Evil runs in the family.

The Gods are kind.

I am sitting at my favorite table, in my favorite Starbucks, during my favorite time of the morning.

And the door opens and in she walks.

Mrs Evil Couple.

The first thing I notice is that she is dressed nicely. Hair attractively styled. Makeup on.

Nice.

This is a pretty woman that normally wears her hair in kind of a low rise blond afro. No makeup. Grey lifeless sweats and an xxl tshirt WITHOUT a bra.

Paints a picture, don’t it?

She is in line, waiting for her turn to order her soy latte, frowning slightly.

She turns and talks to the woman behind her.

I freeze in place as something in my head clicks into place. Holy shit!

Momma Evil.

OMG!

This is the Momma that Mrs. Evil told her sister that they HAD to put her into a home, but “Not so close that I feel bad that I don’t visit that often.”

I pause a moment to observe and take it all in.

She is blocky in that old school Russian way. Hair is a combination of grey and blonde.

Poofy in that “hottie at the old folks home” look without the blue tinge.

She is also scowling. But you can tell that it is a natural expression for her.

There is an aura of displeasure that emanates from her.

This is a woman that is not happy about a lot of things.

She is dressed in a little old lady version of hot.

Your standard, Soviet issue black purse tucked under one arm in defense of muggers.

They order and move over by the pick up window.

As Mrs. Evil looks around, I can tell what she sees.

Not a seat around. Even the big table is full.

Had I known, I would have saved the table next to mine. There was a late 20, early 30’s suit with a weak chin reading the Wall Street Journal.

Mrs. Evil leans over and says something to Momma Evil.

No doubt suggesting they take a walk with their coffees.

I could shit myself with disappointment.

And the Mamma Evil looks around.

There is something in her eye.

She looks right at me and slides her eyes to the suit sitting next to me.

Her face hardens and she walks over.

Something is afoot, but what?

“Excuse please.”

Mamma Evil’s voice is cultured and accented, and tinted with that type of arrogance that makes the “Excuse please” sound a lot like “Hey asshole”.

The suit is startled and lowers his paper.

“Y-yes?”

I can’t be sure, but the slight stutter in his voice made her eyes widen like a wolf scenting blood.

“I have had my foot operated on, and it hurts, my daughter and I need to sit. You will move please?”

She pulls out one of the chairs.

“Well, I-”

“Thank you, you are very kind.” She drops her purse in the middle of the table with a loud thunk.

The suit never had a chance.

He was mumbling an apology for some reason as he walked out.

You could not get a pin up my ass with a jackhammer.

My God, I have missed this.

TO BE CONTINUED

 

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Posted by on August 23, 2012 in Uncategorized