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No brains, no headaches

There is an interesting dichotomy that most people exist in while at Starbucks.

It is a coffee house, so there is always a certain element of social interaction as you walk thru the door.

People talk to strangers in line and while they wait for their coffee.

But, once they have their coffee in hand, if they are alone and not leaving, there is a mental “Leave me the hell ALONE!” vibe that springs up. (I have purposely avoided the word Fuck in this sentence.)

Some more than others.

There is a woman sitting at the end table at my local starbucks.

Pretty without being beautiful, well dressed without being chic.

But there is a vibe going on there.

It is a palpable menace that exists in a bubble around her.

You don’t realize it is there as much as you just realize that your pucker factor goes up a couple of notches if you get too close.

So much so that, even in a medium busy Starbucks, the table next to her is empty.

I have named her the Ice Queen, because she is cold.

“Let it go” is playing in my head as I watch her.
She is using a tablet and ignoring the world around her.

Enter Magoo.

Magoo is the perfect name because he is oblivious and squints at everything. (Don’t bother Googling, you either know why this is funny or you don’t and getting an answer from Google won’t explain it.)

And Magoo is in everybody’s shit.

He is talking to everyone in line, people near line, the employee rolling the garbage can past him, the cashier, the barista and 4 people waiting for their coffee.

He is not dumb, but you would never call him smart.

Magoo is entirely too happy about the mundane shit. (There may be something to be envied there.)

And then he spies the empty table next to the Ice Queen.

Beeline.

His sits and sips his coffee, being quiet for the first 30 second period since he came thru the door.

“Good morning! Is it a beautiful day out or what? Hot coffee, hot day, talk about paradise.”

The Ice Queen says nothing, she doesn’t even look up.

Total ice off. Not unexpected, but impressive.
Few people have the ability to tell the modern social contract to go fuck itself, but the Ice Queen just did.

99.999% of society catches the clue at this point and awkwardly moves on.
You find something interesting to look at on the other side of the room, suddenly become engrossed in your cell phone, something, but you have to remove yourself from the awkward.

Not Magoo, like emotional water off of a ducks back, he begins talking about the beach area in the Summertime and his favorite vacation spots.

And there is a noticeable paradigm shift.

The Ice Queen no longer holds sway here.

She senses it too, you can tell from her body language.

Finally, she looks up.

The look on her face is lifeless, like that of a mob hitman, staring down at you as the truck lid closes.

“Do you mind? I am reading.”

And she goes back to her tablet.

And Magoo doesn’t miss a beat.

“What are you reading? I just finish an amazing……”

It was beautiful to watch, like geese flying in formation, something majestic that took her icy facade and poured a hot cup of Social on it.

And it didn’t end there.

Magoo kept talking.

And then, she broke.

The Ice Queen did not look up, but she began answering questions.

I could not hear clearly, but it didn’t sounds like rephrasings of “Leave me the hell alone.”

When I left, Magoo and the Ice Queen were still doing their little dance.

They will probably be married in less than a year.

The Magoo’s of the world live in an oblivious bubble that the rest of us can barely understand, much less try to emulate.

Me? I would still be clearing the pepper spray out of my eyes.

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Posted by on June 24, 2016 in Uncategorized

 

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Hoping for that Snooky sucker punch.

There is something about being born in Southern California that keeps you from using the word “Cali” in a sentence.

That has always been the big three of identifying a tourist or worse, someone trying to pretend they were born here.

  1. Use of the word Cali. You were not raised here, stop faking this, its just sad.
  2. Mullet. Can’t get around the hairstyle as an instant identifier of someone raised “Elsewhere”. Its an ugly hairstyle indicative of trailer parks and trucks up on blocks in your front yard. See also inbreeding.
  3. Calling a soda “Pop”. May as well have a piece of hay sticking out of your teeth, Jethro.

Do I have a point here? Not sure.

What I do have is indigestion based on the conversation going on at the next table.

My muse this morning is a mid-30’s woman that is a walking cliche.

Jersey hair, too much perfume, too much jewelry, too much…

Just too much.

And she is on her cell phone, which has been bedazzled too much.

Volume of her voice? Too much.

“I have been in Cali for 5 years now. I’m practically a native.”

I just about shit myself when that little gem slipped out of her mouth, too much lipstick, with her thick Jersey accent.

Like a more mannish Snooky who may, or may not, have penis.

You would think I would be repulsed.

However, like a slow motion train wreck, I cannot look away.

But its a painful perspective.

One that is tough to endure and also tough to hide.

The person she is talking to is located somewhere called “Back in Dirty D”.

Not sure where that is, but it sounds like a pit.

(My apologies to pit inhabitants everywhere. I am sure your place is much nicer.)

Don’t get me wrong, I am fully in favor of migrating if you do not like your present surroundings.

But at least make the effort to blend in before you declare your native standing.

Its a lot like those that become Irish each and every St. Patrick’s day.

No, you are not. Green beer and wolfing down corned beef and cabbage by the metric ton does not make you Irish any more than having few years of rent paid west of the West of the 405 makes you a native. (Mostly just natives will get this. If you aren’t a native, but you do get it, you are still not a native)

So where does that leave us?
For me, it leaves me in a Starbucks sitting with an irritated nose next to the second coming of Snooky the terrible.

Eventually, she hung up the phone and began texting.

And if you have never had the pleasure of watching a woman with inch long fingernails texting, it is a case study in blissful frustration.

It appears to be 3-4 times the effort of normal texting, but all done with a smile and the low humming of a tune.

No brains, no headaches, everything is streamlined and simple.

Its a little like watching Winnie the Pooh, if he had Jersey hair and a push up bra, but that same innocent ignorance.

Except that I have never despised Winnie the Pooh.

But maybe thats just me.

 
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Posted by on July 31, 2015 in Uncategorized

 

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