Monthly Archives: March 2014

That vile stench.

There is something to be said for kind gestures.

Or just basic customer service.

Either way, its just nice.

I changed jobs awhile back, moving to another local company.

My morning Starbucks is now a different one.

I fear change like an old school peasant.

Given the right situation I would be standing at the unlit bonfire yelling, “Burn her!”.

I am ok with that.

The show Cheers was a hit for the better part of a decade.

And the reason was the idea that there was a hip, cool place where “Everybody knows your name”.

Catchy tune, sticks in your head.

Today, something nice happened.

I came in to find a sizable line waiting for me.

Nothing new, plus, I had a book with me.

And then it happened.

“Here you go.”

The floater goes between the cashier and the barrista, getting items and orders together.

The floater handed me my hot water.

I drink the Starbucks via, the instant coffee, so all I need is hot water in the morning, but you still have to wait in line for it.

Its a minor, silly thing, but it’s nice.

Makes a difference.

So I am writing this with a smiley feeling in my head.

Doesn’t lend itself to sarcastic thought.

Pity, I do some of my best work when I am annoyed and semi-pissed off.

Which means you are stuck with shiny happy Mac instead of bitter.

Here I sit, watching Game of Thrones and sipping my coffee, the soul of contentment.

There are better situations out there, but this is nice.

And just like that, its gone.

My table is near the back, near the bathroom.

And there is a line for the toilet.

And the guy in line, right next to my table has a particularly fierce brand of BO going on.

You have to wonder why you leave the house, smelling like that.

And yes, I am arrogant about this.

But basic cleanliness seems like a foundational understanding that some are born without.

Who knows, maybe Stank boy was born with that, then life and experience stepped in and twisted him around to the point that a little stench is the least of his issues.

If you look at one way, he stinks, but he is minding his own.

I, on the other hand, smell delightful, but I have been told often, by the dedicated blog critics, that there is a vile stench that emanates from my written thoughts.

So who smells worse?

He does, but my stench will stick with you longer.

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Posted by on March 28, 2014 in Uncategorized


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Asshole with a side of crab.

Ok, so bottomless mimosa’s for brunch are never a good idea.

Alcohol tends to bring out the asshole in some people.

But what do you do if the asshole is already out?

Then it shifts into something vicious to behold.

You realize about halfway during brunch that, if the waitress were to mutter the word “Dick” under her breath as she walks away from your table, it will make your morning.

This may sound mean and I really don’t think I can argue that one with you.

Its not like I start out on the moral high ground or anything.

To quote Robin Williams, “I fucked my way to the middle and screwed my way down.”

And while I am a big advocate of embracing the asshole within, I can get to a place that even I am sick of myself.

The first step on the road to recovery may be to stop seeing others as playthings to be manipulated for my own amusement.

Have you ever noticed that they are putting cranberries in pretty much everything now?

It used to just be juices, now its drinks, baked goods, seasonings.

Well, crab is now the cranberry of seafood.

I counted it up, and of the 65 food items on the restaurant menu, crab was in 40 of them.

Top sirloin sliders sounded good, until I noticed there was crab mixed in.

Is nothing sacred?

And, of a party of 8 people, 6 had crab in their entree.

This makes me suspect some sort of plot with crab at the middle. (Perhaps the Mason’s?)

In the end, I found the food at the restaurant rather bland and seemingly low end. (Mine was cold, and trust me, you have not heard bitching until you serving me cold Breakfast Wellington. (Like Beef Wellington but with eggs and ham.))

This is one of the reasons that I seldom try new eating establishments.

There is always the chance they will pooch it and then I am stuck with an unpleasant memory.

You would think it was not a big deal, but it is.

I mean, you eat 3 meals a day, 365 days a year. Thats over a 1000 meals every year, surely one bad meal is no biggie?

It is.

The point of this entire whiny rant is that, a restaurant that charges over $20 a head should have their shit together.

That being said, the company was spectacular and funny and included a few people I have not seen much lately and have missed.

Which led to the waitress getting a decent tip.

I was not able to goad her into calling me names, but she did instruct the water busboy to “Just ignore him.”

(Don’t ask me why, but a woman throwing a smack at me publicly is oddly endearing.)

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Posted by on March 24, 2014 in Uncategorized


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Please don’t hurt me.

Fiber is a jealous mistress.

Once you add it to your day to day regimen, it begins getting really possessive about your time.

Specifically, your bathroom time.

And you better not be late, heaven help you then.

She has comments about what you eat, what time you get up in the morning, and what time you go to bed.

If you think I am kidding, try taking a fiber supplement for a week and tell me if I’m wrong.

Don’t get me wrong, the benefits are awesome.

Its like joining the military for your intestines, and boot camp can be rough in the beginning.

That being said, lets move on.


Bullying is in the news.

My son was bullied.

It was a crappy period of life.

A school deals with hundreds of kids, while I have just the one.

And one of the bigger issues is that the teachers and the schools still don’t take it serious.

I have dealt with little, private church schools, those are the worst.

The principal is never all that qualified, its always someones semi-competent, but not really, wife.

The teachers are usually newly minted teachers that never caught on elsewhere.

Which mean they are almost as bad as the principal in terms of getting shit done correctly.

An excellent tactic is that, when you have an issue that has really pissed you off, is to go into the school office, walk right past the receptionist with one hand raised.

The principal’s door is always open, which I always take as an open invitation, even if she is on the phone.

Nothing ends a phone call quicker than a pissed off parent loudly declaring “Are you busy?” and then sitting down.

Good times.

The bullying stopped about as quickly as it started.

And here is what I took away from it.

Be involved.

Teachers AND principals need to be involved. (Remember that you are not bothering anyone, and if bullying is going on, rocking the boat is the first order of business.)

Make sure your child gets nothing but acceptance and love from you.

Be realistic. (I saw a thing on the news about a child who, despite being 9 years old and a boy, he is quite the fan of My Pretty Pony. He also seemed a little immature. Bullying is wrong, but this kids mother pretty much did her best to get him bullied. And wonder of wonders, he got bullied.)

Martial arts are a good thing. I don’t recommend the striking arts, they teach how to damage, but not necessarily control. Judo, jiu-Jitsu, wrestling are my recommendations. They teach control over all.

In the end, it really comes down to what kind of kid you are raising, but never forget that, no matter how much you truly believe your child could never be a bully, they can.

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Posted by on March 21, 2014 in Uncategorized


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The origin of bad attitudes

Not everyone is a morning person.

Me? When my eyes open, I am fully functional, like a sarcastic robot. (Coffee is the “Founder of the Feast” here. Take note.)

My kids don’t take after me in this regard.

There is an hour after they get up that you just leave them alone.

Grumbling, pissy, and nothing but fun to mess with. (Starting to see the whole divorce picture?)

Some people take this pissy-ness to a higher level.

Take the guy in line ahead of me at the gas station cashier with the leather jacket and serious BO.

He smells like BO, cigarettes and old ass stuck between floors in an elevator with no air conditioning on a hot sunny day. (Awesome line.)

It seems a little busy for sun up on a Saturday at the gas station.

However, since we are a stone’s throw from LA International Airport, this may be normal.

Besides smelling like shit, what happens next is what brings the term “pissy-ness” into the equation.

The line has moved forward and BO Dude is next up.

“20 bucks on 4.” He grumbles, tossing a crumpled bill on the counter and turning to leave.

Wait, we are not there yet.

Here is is.

“$20 on 4, got it. Have a nice day.” The cashier says this a little automatically, but with a pleasant tone.

“Oh, fuck off.” And then he goes out the door.


Typically, people require something other than a morning pleasantry before throwing that reply out there.

Common courtesy is dead, evidently.

Some peoples kids, I tell you.

This is how the zombie holocaust begins.

Its a small step to go from “Oh, fuck off.” To leaping across the counter and eating the cashier’s brains.

Ok, maybe its a fairly big point, but can you see where I am going with this? (Could you let me know? I am rambling at this point.)

There are some things you witness that stay with you.

How can something that is considered minor and yet still be in my head and screwing with me and this blog several hours later?

Because it isn’t.

Clarity sometime comes upon you like a case of the shits, brutal, sometimes painful, but usually giving you some relief in the end.

It is a big deal because, just as a base, we expect people to be better.

Are anyone of us capable of saying that kind of shitty, dismissive thing to someone else at any given moment?


10 out of 10 times when you hear someone else do it, don’t we all feel like they shouldn’t?


What it boils down to is this:

We are all a bunch of holier than thou shitheads that secretly wish we were better people.

Wow, this went from being slightly humorous to being a downer quickly.

So lets rationalize this another way.

I have often thought that people with shitty attitudes have shitty lives. (If I meant vile, sarcastic attitudes, I would have said so. Vile and sarcastic usually means happy, intelligent and bored)

So maybe this guy with the bad attitude and the dirty mouth had just that morning realized that he had the clap.

Which changes things.

Because with the right excuse, a bad attitude is understandable.

And painful.

Get yourself checked, slap on a little deodorant and have a nice day.


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Posted by on March 17, 2014 in Uncategorized


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Because I do stupid shit.

I have never claimed to have a strangle hold on clever shit.

So it doesn’t shock me when I find myself doing something stupid, that I find out is a lot stupider than I thought at first.

My iPhone comes with Siri, my cyber mistress.

She sets my reminders, alarms, appointments, answers my questions with her little dry comments.

True, we will never consummate the relationship, but what she does for me is critical.

A week ago, while screwing around in the phone settings, I found that I could give Siri an accent.

So she has been Australian for the last week.

Its been cute, her little accent.

It was amusing, right up until my texting stopped working.

It has been a frustrating week.

I am a lazy texter, there in lies the problem.

I rarely type on my phone, my fingers are a little clumsy and I tend to hit several letters.

Speech to text is much better.

And now its not working.

The speech to text is pooched and cannot recognize shit.

I have been meaning to call tech support, but found myself too busy.

Do you see it now? I sure as hell didn’t.

I was just about to leave the gym, standing sweaty and exhausted in my judo gi, waiting to talk with one of the trainers.

I wonder…

Just for shits and giggles, I changed Siri’s voice back to English.

I tried a trial speech to text message to the girlfriend.

And what do you know? It worked perfect.

And then came the stupid feeling.

That moment when you realize that you were the source of your own torment. Your stupidity has been teasing you like some sort of schoolyard bully, making you miserable the whole time.

And there is no one to blame but yourself.

Which sucks.

Its always more pleasant to have someone to blame.

At least I have always thought so.

Blame is good, blame is fun, mainly because blame is someone elses fault.

And I am good with that.

For God’s sake, I can’t be guilty for everything.

Let’s spread this around.

One entity I would like to blame? Right now, right at my table at Starbucks at this moment I would like to blame Starbucks.

For the music.

I once compared Starbucks to a teenager, constantly going thru phases of music appreciating.

That had been mellowing for several months, and while the music still couldn’t be described by any sane person as “Good”, at least it didn’t suck.

Till today.

The teenage persona of Starbucks that picks out the music has developed ADD. Badly.

Mellow incomprehensible jazz was playing when I first came in. The kind of jazz that is identified as “Good jazz”. So good, its almost impossible to listen to without developing a migraine.

Then we moved on to Some sort of a Latin/Rumba torch song that may or may not have had the sounds of a cat being killed in the background.

Barely had that ended when a Russian folk song came on, totally incomprehensible in slurred Russian. Crosby, Stills, Nash and Leonid.

And then the soulful strains of a acoustic guitar playing hipster came on, butchering a top 40 song from the 80’s.

This is the missing tenth circle of Hell that Dante spoke of. (Or forgot to speak of.)

Now my coffee tastes off.

Starbucks is in the torture game, it seems.

Waterboarding must be next. (Still don’t consider that torture.)

But at least I have done no wrong here.

So you can’t blame me.

And that is what its all about.

(No animals were harmed in the writing of this blog.)

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Posted by on March 14, 2014 in Uncategorized


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Do I really need to walk a mile in your shoes to know they don’t fit?

Two sides of the same coin.

I was writing a few minutes ago and something oddly uncomfortable happened.

Not like “Too much fiber and a long line at the bathroom” type of uncomfortable.

I mean the outside my comfort zone kind.

I get heavily absorbed when I write, and really don’t pay attention to what is going on around me, unless of course I need something to write about.

And then she was there.

Indian, skinny, she was about 5’4 and had a child clinging to her skirt.

In her hands was a sign.

“Poor, hungry, please help.”

The saddest eyes in the world stared at me.

There are easier ways to get money out of me, but none of them come to mind as I write this.

And it hit me two separate ways.

On the one hand, outrage.

Fucking beggar. And she does this shit in front of her child? Raising the next generation of beggars? Just great, just fucking wonderful.

On the other, curiosity. (Almost wrote compassion, but I tend to analyze first.)

What would you do for your kids? Is there a line you would not cross if your ass was against the wall? Yeah, bad choices, not thinking about your future, blah, blah, blah. But the past has already happened, the future is tomorrow, and the present is… Right. Fucking. Now.

I rarely carry cash, so the $5 in my wallet kind of shocked me.

Yeah, she’s a pro, I’m a sucker, and a five spot won’t kill me.

And its none of your business, good or bad.

True, I make it yours by putting it in print, but this is a lecture, not a discussion.

Socrates once wrote, the poor are with us, always.

A few thousand years ago, thats age’s version of this woman and her kid was carrying a sign written in ancient Greek into the vomitorium and hitting up the Ancient Greek blogger, Bittermaximus for a few drachma’s.

The Greeks invented the alphabet, democracy and astronomy, so I will put solving the problem of homelessness just out of reach for my skill set.

Unless of course the problem can be solved with sarcasm and shitty comments, then I am your man.

Which is a pretty immature way of throwing my hands up and braying, “I can’t fix it, so I’ll make fun of it.”

I like to think its important know your strengths and weaknesses and come to peace with them, you tend to sleep better at night.

And I sleep like a rock.

A guy in line just had two things happen.

He got in the woman’s face and slapped at her sign.

Rude, and mean. Cruel and unnecessary.

What happened next was interesting.

He got his venti cup of steaming goodness at the counter, picked it up and turned to go to the cream and sugar kiosk.

And dropped a steaming venti cup of black coffee right onto his (Let me guess)…Bruno Magli shoes. (Ridiculously expensive shitty Italian shoes.)

You know, it always shocks me when Karma pays attention to the goings on around here.

And its about time.


Posted by on March 10, 2014 in Uncategorized


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Occupy some soap, hippie.

We all have a little masochist in us.

It all depends on what your particular choice of whip is.

I currently have a thing going with an odd combination of Judo and popcorn.

Long story, one beats you up from the outside, the other from deep inside your bowels.

But this isn’t about me.

This is the story of Icarus and Beyonce.

You may ask why I chose those names.

Because I have been sitting next to them for the last half hour and I can think of no better names for them.

Icarus is a suffering artist.

However, lets adjust our definitions of suffering, shall we?

The iPhone 5S on the table in front of him is in a case that I know for a fact costs about $200.

Sitting next to them is a keyring with a Mercedes smart key.

And he is whining like a bitch in heat non-stop about how his parents don’t take him seriously.

He appears to be in his late 20’s.

You figure if they aren’t going to take him serious by now, give it up, they aren’t going to.

Like a set of fake wings, this no real ambition, no talent, overly entitled little shit is expecting to fuck around for his whole life, then magically wake up some morning and the world will prostrate itself at his feet in recognition of…what? (Ok, so the Icarus imagery is pretty weak, but it remains a solid shitty nickname, I hate him already.)

Good question, lets get back to that later.

And then theres Beyonce.

She has ridiculously high maintenance bitch written all over her.

And, judging by her self-absorbed ramblings the entire time Ikarus has been going thru his period, it hasn’t pulled her away from her true vocation, worshiping herself.

She may even be more talented than the real Beyonce, the original no-talent golden calf the media has been shoving down our throats ever since she fired the girls in Destiny’s Child for not being named Beyonce.

Wow. Even I am impressed by the pissy angst in that little sentence.

Icarus is beginning to rub off on me.

I need to get out of here before Beyonce rubs off on me.

Add her diva attitude to my mouth and someone would kill me inside of an hour.

I am enough of an ass, I don’t need the help.

Back to the kids.

I am beginning to see a theme to the bitching.

As near as I can figure, it has something to do with corporations keeping him from getting a gallery show for his art.

Occupy Starbucks.

Christ, not this shit again, like this couple wasn’t worthless enough.

As you may be able to tell if you’ve been paying attention, I don’t view the Occupy movement with any sort of respect.

Mainly because I don’t respect that “unwashed welfare takes a holiday”.

But that is a story for another time.

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Posted by on March 7, 2014 in Uncategorized


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If it weren’t for hockey.

Rain has come to Southern California.

You would think it was a plague of frogs, judging by the over reactions of some people.

Its just water, for Christ’s sake.

Here is a verbatim conversation from the table next to me.

“Look at that.”


“Man, how am I gonna get home?”


“Thats not safe!”


The participants in this little exchange are late teens to early twenties, totally lending credibility to my theory that pretty much everyone in that age range are functionally ‘tarded. (Don’t email me, I mean it in the good way.)

And, just judging from the hip, both of these boy’s Kush cards are up to date and probably well worn.

But, hey, no brains, no headaches.

Back to the subject at hand.


Its about as basic nature as it gets.

But people like these two still freak out.

And the sad thing is, its not even raining too hard.

This is one of the side effects of living in Southern California.

The ground may shake every now and then, but you can still go surfing afterwards.

But let the skies weep a little bit and half of the local indigenous population will shit themselves.

Could be worse, I’m just not sure how.

I lived in Portland, Oregon for a few years, and they are the exact opposite.

It rains roughly 9 months out of the year, so you are always a little soggy.

You don’t even notice it after awhile.

That is how you know a tourist in Portland, they are the only ones carrying umbrellas.

But, a little after my 3rd month of moving in, there was a 2.6 earthquake, really rare.

Within 30 seconds of a shaker so weak you could barely feel it, my neighbors were out in the middle of the street, some in their pajamas.

There was some talk of the need to hoard canned goods and drink toilet water.

I think everyplace has something that the locals will freak out about.

Its in human nature to pick out something that rarely happens and then treat it like the terrifying first time every time it happens.

Gotta wonder how this started.

Probably in Canada somewhere.

And I only say that because, in the grand scheme of things, the Canadians are the guilty red-headed stepchild of North America who’s only redeeming contribution to the world is the great sport of hockey and Wayne Gretzky.

I am sure the Canadians started the trend of fear that now plagues the world.

Some Canuck ran into something unusual and freaked out. Something that you rarely see in Canada, like a bar of soap or a job, then all hell broke loose.

(I love smacking Canada, they’re such victims.)

All kidding aside, its the frightful superstition that really shapes our traditions.

Most holidays are based on them.

Would we have Halloween without someone, somewhere, being scared shitless about something the Canadians had done? (Did you really think I was done with that?)

Fear is a great motivator in life, don’t discount it.

Fear can be a better motivator than sex.

In that period immediately after you finally get sex of any sort, you can be afraid of something.

Hell, depending on who you had sex with, you could be afraid of what your new found friend might have given you.

(Better hope she’s not Canadian.)


Posted by on March 3, 2014 in Uncategorized


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