Monthly Archives: April 2013

Richie Valens was NOT talking about her.

Oh, Donna. Oh, Donna.

Richie Valens was the shit for a period of time. Maybe not Buddy Holly type shit, but shit none the less.

One of his biggest hits was La Bamba, and another one called Oh Donna.

He was not talking about the following Donna.

There is a time and a place for all things.

This has been paraphrased over and over in both song and poem over the years.

In the middle of my favorite breakfast spot is the wrong place to open up a can of white trash family laundry.

But here we are.

Lets play Twilight Zone.

Picture a man caught in a night. A place of sights and sounds so vile to the human eye that the mind rejects what it sees. A place that knows nothing of right or wrong, only off embarrassment.

He is in, the “White Trash in the Next booth” Zone.

Lets call him Roy.

Why? Cause Johnny Cash is dead and I see no reason to besmirch his memory by naming the white trash guy after him.

Anyway, Roy is sitting with Donna.

And Donna is a WHOLE lotta woman.

No kidding.

Pound for pound the heaviest Donna I have ever seen.

I am not making up her name, by the way.

How do I know that her name is Donna?

Because Roy’s method of trying to get a word in edge-wise is to say the name “Donna” over and over and over.

Like a little kid saying mommy.

And there is more to that comparison than just that.

Donna has been chastising Roy since I got here.

My pancakes are done, and I do not eat fast, but she has not let up yet.

Roy is almost painfully thin, while Donna has to be tipping the scales at over 400.

Thats a big bitch.

Not in that “All women are bitches” way that hip hop seems to promote, but in that, “She’s a rotten bitch” kind of way.

I don’t know Roy, he could be a really bad guy for all I know.

But she should just shoot him if he is all that bad and get it over with.

And what the hell is Roy’s problem?

Why would anyone put up with this little honey’s shit for 2 seconds longer than absolutely necessary?

However, the heart wants what it wants.

Or enlarged cholesterol soaked heart of Donna, in this case.

The heart should lay off fried foods for two seconds.

The interesting part of this is that the pancakes were awesome but the rude trailer folk in the next booth didn’t ruin it.

Dinner and a show. (Breakfast)

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Posted by on April 29, 2013 in Uncategorized


Holier than thou asshole

There is a kid outside of a Von’s Supermarket in Manhattan Beach, collecting money for the environment.

I would tell him to get a job, but he has one sort of.

I guess I mean a real job.

Before everyone gets their panties in a twist about his “noble” job of saving the world, consider this.

The kid is about 30 years old.

I call him kid because there is obviously a part of him that is damaged into thinking that this minimum wage job, hell any minimum wage job, is acceptable for a grown man.

But his choice of jobs is a sad one.

The argument that he is trying to make a difference would be a valid one except that, its a waste of time.

Their approach to fixing the issue is colored by a misconception of the facts and a generous helping of greed.

Long story there.

Anyway, that is not the story today.

He is a simple kid who thinks he’s helping and despite my views, its not my job to educate his world views.

The whole point of the day is the shitty line.

I was walking to the Von’s on my way down to my office, when a Powder blue Prius pulled into the slot near the front door.

I was about 5 feet behind him when the environmental kid spoke up.

“Donate to save the environment, sir?”

Its as polite as organized begging gets.

The response, however, was not.

It was also epic.

“I drive a Prius, asshole, I am doing my fucking part.”

Venom filled, arrogant, shitty, and over kinds of rude.


The kid, for his innocent simple minded part, was stunned, mouth hanging open.


I just started laughing, loud.

Nothing screws up a tense situation like someone laughing loudly and unable to either stop or quite down.

I lost it.

Made my day.

I gave the kid a buck as I went by.

Entertainment like that is worth a buck.


Posted by on April 26, 2013 in Uncategorized


Rick Rolled at the Ren Faire.

Ah, the Ren Faire, loads of fun.

And the fun starts with 10 dollar parking.

Its a cute outing, right up until you run into someone who takes the whole thing too damn serious.

The outfit alone must have cost $500 or more.

I believe that the look desired was a cross between Captain Jack Sparrow and Captain Hook.

He pulled it off, too, studio costuming could not have done better.

And he has the speech down.

I followed him for 5 minutes and he was flawless, the accent, the swagger, the whole shebang.

Right up until his wife called.

Just as he hit this nice level section of road and really hit his spot on runway walk, the elegant strains of Rick Astley’s one hit wonder song, “Never gonna give you up” began playing.

Thats right, he got Rick rolled at the Ren Faire.

And the man fell apart.

He went into what looked like a convulsion, and then I realized that he was trying to dig out his cell phone.

It was pretty pathetic, and it only got better from there.

When he finally got his Iphone on, he hissed into the phone with a voice that was definitely not a pirate.

“What?!?! I told you I was not going to be available till noon!”

What followed was about 5 minutes of absolutely effeminate hissy fit whispering, followed up by a serious old school snit.

It was pathetic.

In terms of the picture being created today, this was the frame that surrounded it and gave it structure.

Slightly old school gay, and I mean that with as much tolerant sarcasm as possible.

And yet, one of the things I love about the faire is the Olde Time feel when its forced into the modern world.

And its funny when the two really collide, especially in an embarrassing way.

We’ve met right?

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Posted by on April 22, 2013 in Uncategorized


Judge not lest ye be

There are times I love yoga people.

Let me be more specific, yoga ladies.

Lets get a touch more specific, yoga pants.

When a woman either is in her prime, or has worked her ass off to get close enough to it that you can’t tell, and then she decides that yoga pants are the thing to wear, its an awesome thing.

I mean that in a pure and innocently sexist way, that objectifies women.

And the content of my evil thoughts at the moment, if known, would set the women’s movement back a decade or two, not to mention that its illegal in a few states.

Now that the ritual lust is out of the way, lets go in the other direction for a second.

Here is a gentle word of advice for the ladies out there.

And let me preface this by saying, do not think for a second that I have any sort of strangle hold on fashion.

I am a wild mess of a human being on my best day.

The fact that I can write some shitty lines is a fluke, try not to read too much into it.

Moving on.

We have established, yoga pants look great on women in their prime or the highly worked outpseudo-prime.

But not on those that aren’t.

And some folks aren’t even within driving distance of prime, it is a ship that sailed long ago.

Case in point.

In the Starbucks line, right at this moment, is a cheetah print tube top, circa 1984.

It is also 3 sizes too small and looks painful to wear.

The woman wearing it also has decided that yoga pants are the way to go.

You would think with the retro top, poor taste or not, that the pants would match.

They do, but not in the way you would think.

They are both poor choices.

I am not sure if she is a yoga person, trying to look like a yoga person, or just wearing whatever was in the drawer today.

It would explain the clothing choice if she was behind on herlaundry and this was all that was left.

I have a pair of Sponge Bob Square Pants boxer shorts that get worn at the same point in the laundry cycle.

Doesn’t excuse it for either one of us, but it does explain it.

My coffee is getting cold.

There are few sins in my world, but thats one of them.

More of a venial sin, really.

But enough about me.

Back to the train wreck in the tube top.

I have come across more evidence of craziness on her part.

Personally, I have never seen someone spend more than 5 minutes choosing a granolaparfait.

You would think that would be a relatively quick decision but to each his own.

There seems to be a fair amount of clutter in her head.

I think I might have dated her in college.

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Posted by on April 19, 2013 in Uncategorized


I got nothing.

I am no longer a gypsy.

And that is the only positive of the situation.

Mainly because, while the house was tented, it was also burgled.

And my gut instinct is that the guys doing the house tenting did it.

I like to apply Occam’s Razor to most things.

Occam’s Razor is the theory that the answer with the least assumptions is the right one.

So, instead of trying to figure out how someone got thru the seals and picked the lock, leaving no trace, and took out their respirator and air tank, grabbed a pillow case and filled it with roughly 2K in jewelry, then snuck away without anyone noticing.

The easier explanation is that the guys who were unsupervised and had free access to prep the house, put a bunch of shit in a pillow case, put it in theirduffelbag and walked it out to their truck when they left for the day.

Lesson learned, trust no one.

The biggest suck-point of the whole thing is that the things taken are not replaceable.

I won’t even get into that whole “Karma sucks, they’ll get theirs” whining shit.

Mainly because karma has been on a fucking holiday for years.

It only works sporadically, like some sort of karma Alzheimers patient that only has rare moments of clarity.

Screw it, I would rather be the untrusting shit that I have always been, just more so.

I am looking for some sort of Karma over-kill.

Like the guy gets arrested, raped in jail, gets aids, cancer, rickets, and some sort of incurable form of rectal herpes.

Unlikely, but it would serve as an awesome warning.

I am also hungover today, and that doesn’t help.

It does, however, explain why the blog is a day late.

Doesn’t excuse it, but it does tell you why.

I had written a fairly obscene paragraph to finish this off, offensive even by my standards.

At the last second, I pulled it from posting yesterday, but I was not in a place to finish it then, figuring I would just bump it to today.

And then somebody blew people up in Boston.

And I got nothing.

Boston, we are praying for you.

Hope the guy that did this suffers, no prayers for him.


Posted by on April 16, 2013 in Uncategorized


Try not to bleed.

There is a moment of clarity that comes to you the second you mistakenly slice thru your hand with an exacto blade.

Its like a Wintogreen Lifesaver, the first few seconds are cool and almost refreshing.

And then, your mind plays catch up with the situation and your hand is now on fire.

And the word “Fuck” becomes involved.

And you spend the next 5-10 minutes doing two things at once.

The first thing is stop the blood flow.

That tells you how bad it is.

If it overwhelms the paper towel and begins dripping on the floor, you are screwed.

Have you tried to get blood out of carpeting?

Plus, that is a big indicator that you will need to go to the emergency.

Mainly because if you lose too much of the red go-go juice, you fall over and die.

The second thing you do is wonder, often times out loud, how you could be that stupid.

Its never your proudest moment.

Thankfully, I was sober.

Being sober means that my mother will not Tsk Tsk me and tell me “Thats what you get”.

Like its a choice anyone would make, sober or drunk as a Lohan.

(By the way, thats pretty shit-faced to judge by the news and eye-witness reports)

Luckily, I managed to stop the blood flow and the edges of the cut came together without having to mess with any self-doctored crazy glue closures.

It would suck to end up in the Emergency room to get stitches AND have my crazy glued fingers cut off of the wound.

I got enough trouble.

Plus, the property management company that handles my house just had the place tented for fumigation.

I didn’t notice any buggage going on, but evidently the guy that lives in the back was watching termites flying around in his living room and threatened a lawsuit.

So, in perfect knee-jerk reaction, they decided to tent the house.

Not a bad idea.

I never notice things till they get out of hand, so there could be serious, life and health threatening buggage going on and I might never be the wiser.

So lets destroy the illegal house guests before they get anymore comfy than they already are.

So now I am a gypsy.

A wounded gypsy.

Such is life.

And if that is as difficult as life gets for the next few months, my life is a fucking cakewalk.

Trust me on that one.

I am one of those people that, for some godawful reason, people tell me their problems.

I am like a bartender you tell your troubles to, just without the alcohol.

Plus, there is the chance that I will change your name and put your situation in the blog.

And when that one backfires on me, it is never pretty.

But there are those out there that, while you may not suspect it, have an incredibly hard road.

So I try not to bitch.

I didn’t say I was successful, key word there is try.

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Posted by on April 12, 2013 in Uncategorized


Served at the bar.

The anatomy of a bar pickup.

She is the unsuspecting prey.

Why she is unsuspecting is anyones guess.

If I were a woman, I would be on guard from the moment that I stepped into the building.

But, that is because I am a guy and I am privy to the evil that lurks inside the male head.

Trust me, ladies, its not pretty.

You think you know about 10% of the depravity, guess about another 10% and don’t even suspect the remaining 80% that would turn your hair white and make you an advocate of male genocide.

So its just better off you just don’t know.

Back to the bar.

Despite all of the warnings in the news, this girl is oblivious to the fact that she is the prey in this little wildlife setting.

Thy say roofies have a faint cinnamon flavor, by the way.

And I am not saying that this guy is that kind of scumbag, but the odds are not in her favor.

She is going for it, all the signs are there.

Lots of eye contact.

She touches his hand when she speaks.

She laughs outrageously at anything that comes out of his mouth.

Hair flip, WITH A GIGGLE.

Its practically a done deal.

And the guy, despite appearing to be mister smoothie, has all the earmarks of being that guy that will screw up every relationship she has for the rest of her life.

It is kind of an ugly talent to have, the ability to see the worst in people, at its core a negative thing.

But you play the hand you are dealt.

At least the guy has a job, or a soon to be maxed out credit card, because the drinks are flowing.

Shots are lined up.

You can almost see the conflict in the waitress.

She knows the score and obviously wants to say something, but she is a dealer of sorts, peddling a legal drug, and she knows with a certainty that the drunker he gets, the bigger her tip has to be.

And money makes the monkey dance.

(That remains one of my favorite phrases from a blog of the past. It was said by an elected official involved in a sting operation. Yes, he went to jail.)

Its kind of an ugly little soap opera that is held live every night in bars thru out the country.

And the math is pretty straightforward.

A 5’6, 120lbs girl drinking shots of Jaegermeister, 1 every 10 minutes for an hour equals one drunk blond.

Sitting next to her with one hand on her knee and the other one fingering his wallet to make sure the circle of the condom is there, is a 6 foot, 200lbs man that can hold his alcohol.

And then, fate intervenes.

The waitress, the disapproving one? has been tottering around on 3 inch heels all night.

As she makes her way down the semi crowded aisle, just as she is passing the “Table of seduction”, a woman accidentally steps out in front of her, hip checking her into the table.

Each and every drink on her tray ends up on the guy.

It is an epic waitressing fail.

He is humiliated and his prey is now eyeing him with a look of disdain.

The waitress produces a towel and a lot of apologies.

The prey is spooked and makes a comment about her friend needing some help and bolts, leaving the guy stinking of a vile mix of alcohol and a bar tab for his trouble.

He pays off his tab and slinks out of the bar like a pedophile that just made parole.

All from one mistake.

The waitress watches him go.

And then she high fives the girl that bumped her.

Well played, ladies.

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Posted by on April 8, 2013 in Uncategorized


Quacker shits and hat tricks.

All I want is to get my food with a minimum of hassle.

Does that seem so hard?


Its late, I am in a shady section of town. (Not “hanging out”, I was on my way home.)

And going thru the drive thru is a bad idea as a general idea, add to that the freak factor of this part of town and you have a crappy bubble of potential discomfort that just kind of knots up on you like Thai food at 4 in the morning.

(Incidentally, Thai food at 4 in the morning is one of the conditions that led to the invention of the term “Quacker shits”)

It began at the drive thru menu/speaker.

I had just given my order when he appeared.

A tall black man, dressed a little roughly, homeless chic if you will.

“Got any change for a brother?”

Polite works with me, but like most things with me, there is a stupid mental game involved.

He has to take no for an answer.

Childish and slightly chickenshit, but I am good with it.

“Nope, can’t help you, pal.”

All he has to do is remain silent for half a minute or say a polite thank you and the two dollar bills I am holding are his.

Clear as day, I can hear him from 10 feet away.

“Motherfuckin cheap white bastard!”

Muttering can carry further than whispering in some cases.

I put the money away, there is no excuse for being rude. (I suppose that does go both ways.)

The line moves up and I am behind a car with political bumper stickers.

A lot of them.

It always amazes me the amount of ignorance that can be contained on the rear end of 1 25 year old car.

But, before I can get into the sticker fest ahead of me, a bird has appeared outside my drivers side window.

If the bird was hooked on meth and was routinely scratching holes in its head.

“Got a dollar for me, just a dollar?”

This is said as she goes by at a fast walk.

The woman was old, or maybe just homeless old. (30 that looks like 70. Meth is like that.)

And she didn’t slow down to see if I was getting a dollar out for her.

She is the type that works on quantity, not quality.

Her theory must be that I will chase her down to give her the buck.

No game to be played her, she is gone before I can set my silly rules on the situation.

The line moves up and I find myself in front of the drive up window.

Like most fast food places in shady parts of town, this one uses the blast door method of money collection and food delivery.

A sliding box made out of 2 inch thick plexiglass comes out to take my money, along with a scratchy speaker that tells me my total in pidgin English.

I deposit my dollars and the box rolls back.

My change and food come sliding back out a few minutes later.

I take both and roll up my window, lest the bird comes back and start to roll out of the drive thru lane, my mission here is done.

And there, at the end of the lane, off to the left, stands a homeless guy holding a sign.

“Hungry, need some help.”

In hockey, they call this a “Hat Trick”, scoring three times in one game.

I roll my window down.

Game on.

“Don’t have anything for you, bud.” I roll by real slow.

“Thats ok, God bless.”

I stop the car and give him two dollars.

I may be an asshole, but you have to follow the rules of the game.

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Posted by on April 5, 2013 in Uncategorized


Peeps, damn it!

Easter is all about the ham.

As far as personal addictions go, and I know a couple of things about those, ham is a fairly mellow one.

But it is still there.

Its not as back as crack or heroin, so you would never steal your mom’s jewelry or blow anyone in an alley.

Ham is subtle.

It starts with the first couple of slices, before dinner.

You sneak a few bites, here and there.

Then dinner comes up, and you begin nomming a serious pile of honey baked pig.

A little after dessert, you find yourself in the kitchen, for whatever reason you come up with.

And you are snacking more ham.

If you are lucky, its still on the counter, and you can snatch and go.

If not, you have to sneak a knife out of the drawer and go after it, cold in the fridge.

And cold ham is tough to cut.

But it is still ham.

An hour or two after dinner, your first ham sandwich is like a little slice of heaven.

With mayo.

Easter is a family thing for me.

As noisy and out there as my family is, they are mine.

Which means noisy.

Not a lot of mousy going on here.

Easter brunch is a lot of cooked meats and mimosas.

And mimosas go with breakfast well, thank god I don’t have them that often.

I tend to run my mouth a little when I drink.

And that is never Easter-Sunday proper.

There is also an evil Easter oriented addiction that, thankfully, I have never picked up.


For those that don’t know, peeps are an evil combination of twinkies and candy corn.

Twinkies for the vile nutritional facts, who knows WHAT is in them.

And candy corn for that “Chained to the holiday” thing that means they will never go away.

If its Easter peeps are on the shelf, like like a dealer on the corner.

And, much like candy corn, if it doesn’t sell this year, they put it in the back so they can sell it next year, mainly because it lasts forever.

I fear peeps, its slightly wimpish to admit, but its there.


Posted by on April 1, 2013 in Uncategorized