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Ask not for whom the vibrator tolls…

“That thing is just obscene!”

That kind of line, when harshly whispered, will always catch my attention.

I have been waiting patiently at Starbucks for my favorite people, the Evil Couple, to start the show. I have never sat near them that there has not been a show. (To catch up on who the hell these people are, click here.)

They are whispering, something never done before.

To my mind, that says one thing.

Its something dirty.

Based on what comments I have been able to make out, Mrs. Evil Couple was either given or has bought, a marital aid.

A vibrator.

That revelation is both erotic and somewhat icky.

Let me explain.

Mrs. Evil couple is in her mid thirties, and might be one of the hottest women I have ever scene, but only on that rare one time out of a hundred that she dresses up.

The other 99 times, she has a wild low-rise blonde afro, no make up, thick gray muscle-man sweats, and a t-shirt that is always several sizes too big. (Underneath that t-shirt is a large bust line without a bra.)

Take a moment and let that sink in before you read on.

“Why does it bother you so?” Mrs. Evil is done whispering, it seems. Her tone has taken on something I recognize immediately, I wonder if Mr. Evil does?

She is taunting him.

“You don’t need it!” He is almost spitting. Evidently, even with the decade plus of marriage to this woman under his belt, he has still not figured her out.

“That is your opinion.” She lays that one down like a card shark throwing down a full house.

This was a no-look rib-kick he was not expecting.

“What do you mean by that?” He doesn’t sound so sure of his anger now.

Big mistake, this woman can smell the blood in the water like a great white.

“Perhaps this is not the place to discuss, this.” That is one of those phrases that makes you feel just fucked. That there is a LOT more to say, but it will obviously upset you, so lets take this private. Its a master-stroke move.

Now I am getting the feeling she is taunting me.

Please discuss it here, please, please, please. I am not above a little psychic begging here.

There is such a duel set of feelings in observing this woman. How can anyone be both vile and desirable at the same time.

Its like the old show Kung Fu, with the studant trying to snatch the pebble from the master’s hand. Except that the master is Charles Manson, with incredible cleavage.

Thats where I am at. Sometimes this blog twists the shit out of me.

Where were we?

Oh, right, the aforementioned vibrator.

Confusion is almost dribbling down his leg like piss at this point.

“I think we are ok in that department.” His tone makes this a question.

Oh, shit.

She will not let this one go. I have seen her eviscerate him with less of a straight line.

She sips her coffee and eyes him over the rim like a cheetah looking over the caribou from the tall grass.

This is not going to be pretty.

“It is not for me. Its for Magda’s shower.” She smiles slightly, batting her eyelashes at him.

WTF?

I’ll be damned. She let him off the hook.

She pulled her punch and threw the fight.

As I sip my coffee, I remind myself of the fact that while she may think her husband is an idiot…

He is still her husband.

As I pack up my laptop and head down the street, a song is in my head. As I get to the corner, I remember the title of the song and I suddenly know why this particular song is in my head in the first place.
“The lion sleeps tonight.”

She’ll be back.

 
4 Comments

Posted by on October 13, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

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Evil Couples councelling.

How fucking oblivious am I?

I have been sitting in Starbucks for the last half hour, writing a blog about Ronaldo when the couple that came in right after me begins having a snippy argument.

The only reason I notice is when the wife reaches over and puts her fingertips, beautifully manicured, on my table.

“Can I ask you a question?” Her tone is aggressive and a little angry.

AND A LITTLE RUSSIAN.

Evil Couple. Stealth Evil Couple. Sitting right next to me.

I am the littlest deer in the headlights ever.

Oh shit!

I stare in horror as Mrs. Evil narrows her eyes at me.

“Um….yes?” I am not sure whether to shit or go blind at this point. (An awesome phrase from the 70’s in the deep South that totally applies here.)

“If your wife asked you for something simple, something you would want if you were not being angry and childish, would you do it?” She folds her arms, almost like it was either a rhetorical question or that I  had already answered affirmatively.

In the back of my head, the former husband in me understands the tone and the move. Going outside the argument and bringing someone else in means that both he and I are just fucked.

And I am not even married to this bitch.

“I’m divorced.” Its all I can think of. Digging a hole in the sand to hide in won’t work, they use Italian tile in Starbucks.

“And?” She arcs her eyebrows. I am not getting out of this.

“Depends on what it is, I guess.” You could not get a pin up my ass with a jackhammer.

She looks right thru me.

“I can see why you are divorced.” She dismisses me and focuses an angry look at her husband.

If anyone else talked to me like that, I would rip in, curse, throw shit…etc. But I have spent so much time studying these two and writing thousands of words about them that being shit on by her……is kind of charming.

As they keep talking, it becomes apparent that, somehow, the school that the twins go to has wisely decided to put them in separate classes, as is advised by many child psychologists.

He is in favor of it and she is not.

As always, according to her, he does not love her or the twins enough to fix this.

In other words, tell the school their job.

“When they are beaten by bullies, I hope you don’t laugh in front of them.”

The fact that he speaks at all after this comment tells me that he has been married for over 10 years and hasn’t learned a damn thing.

In trench fighting, the first thing you learn is that there is a time to fight and a time for keeping your head down.

Break in the action.

A friend of the two of them has come in.

This guy has that awesome social skill of being totally unaware of walking into a tense situation.

Mrs. Evil is leaned over the table, angry finger thrust into Mr.’s face and is ripping him in whispers when the friend sits down next to Mrs.

“Whats up, guys?”

The entire situation diffuses.

“Are you going to eat that?” Mrs. points at the cheese danish in front of Mr. This is in the awkward silence that follows.

“No!” The anger in Mr.’s voice catches me off guard. He rarely shows that much anger, and I have seen them in arguments that would end most marriages.

“Why not?” For once, Mrs. Evil seems off balance, like she wasn’t expecting the response.

He looks at the friend that is sitting there, in between her and me.

“I lost 50 pounds last year and gained it all back, wanna know how?” He looks at the friend.

And me.

Shit, I am back in the middle of it.

Mrs. Evil, for her part, has a little deer in the headlights thing going on that seems so out of place on her, its like watching a different person.

“I had a full breakfast with my wife less than an hour ago.” He gestures disdainfully at her. The volume of his voice is rising steadily and people behind him are stepping quietly away.

“Then I sit down and she puts this shit in front of me.” He gestures angrily at the danish.

The man is all in a lather and Mrs. Evil’s face is frozen.

“And I will eat it like a FUCKING animal who doesn’t know any better!” He holds up a finger to shut Mrs. up, who was not trying to speak, by the way.

“No, Kat, no! I am sick of this shit!”

Kat? Katrina? She’s russian, maybe its Katarina. Lovely name.

Back to the scene.

This is a warped twist I was not expecting. The roles have been reversed.

Mr. has caught his breath and is continuing.

“Shit in the morning, shit in the evening. Its no WONDER I am gaining weight.”

He stands up abruptly, shooting his chair back an angry foot.

“I’m going to work.” He is pissed. He doesn’t say anything else, he just turns and walks out.

Mrs. Evil barely misses a beat before she is up and out the door chasing after him, a look of anguish on her face.

What just happened to the world?

Just when I thought I had it all figured out, at least this little part of it, it has spun so far out of pace that I am firmly convinced that I know nothing. My mind is trying desperately to catch up.

I feel bad for Mrs. Evil. Those words, even the thought of those words, is an alien and foreign thought.

How did that happen?

So, to recap:

Mr. Evil has an anger and weight issue.

And poor Mrs. Evil?

She is the victim.

How fucked up is that?

 
8 Comments

Posted by on September 15, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

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Open Seseme…

Oscar the grouch.

Represent, bitches.

Oscar was a grumpy shit way back when. Back when you were young enough to get in trouble for being in a bad mood.

I think it had to do with living in a trash can and being the unspoken homeless guy on the show.

Bert and Ernie had a house and they didn’t seem to have jobs at all. They were either mediocre kids, living without parents or retarded adults who might be gay.

Take your pick.

Back to Oscar.

I seem to end up dealing with the homeless a lot on this blog and I can’t figure out if it is an obsession or just good choices on writing content.

I saw a new Muppet Movie is coming out and it got me thinking about Oscar.

Oscar came at us during a time in our life when we were being bombarded with vanilla, black and white views of life. The cartoons reflected either a good guy or a bad guy. The good guys were always good and the bad guys were always bad.

And then there was Oscar.

Oscar was a good guy that bitched about everything. but everyone seemed to like, and he was just kind of made fun of, but he spoke his mind and was more or less accepted by the majority.

All without getting a time out.

I am seeing scary similarities between myself and Oscar.

And, in a way, I kind of like that.

Oscar pretty much demanded that you accept him and his shitty attitude at face value. He taught us to be pushy and outspoken way before that was allowed by school or our parents.

And never once did he get the recognition.

Hell, some of us have personalities based on it.

Willy the grouch.

Has a nice little ring to it, ay?

When my kids were growing up, I started watching Sesame Street again. I was a little twisted up by it at first.

The Muppets were puppets and never aged, so all my old friends were still vibrant and funny.

But the people changed.

They were older and what was once friendly and helpful was now kind of creepy and moist? and made me afraid to leave my kids alone in the same room with them.

But I got over it and sat with my daughter and clapped and sang. Daddy stuff.

And then your kids grow up and, at least mentally, you put the Muppets on the shelf again.

Until the grand kids show up. Then you can watch again.

And I will still be creeped out by the overly sugary-sweet delivery of the cast of humans then, too.

But the Muppets will still be there.

And, fuzzy pound for fuzzy pound, Kermit the Frog is the elder statesman of childrens television. He kicks the shit out of Spongebob with one thin furry arm held behind his back with a little black stick.

And he will bitch slap Hello Kitty without working up a sweat.

Although, Hello Kitty has a Japanese following that is fanatical and well monied, so maybe that’s a bad comparison.

Getting back to Oscar the Grouch, I like to think he was a roll model for some, if not all of us.

He catered to the inner asshole.

Thank you Oscar.

I would follow you into Muppet hell, you magnificent fuzzy bastard.

 
2 Comments

Posted by on September 14, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

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10 years of remembrance

And a lot of whining and bitching.

Its 9/11 and I am thinking about water boarding.

On the day we watched people die, there was a rolling wave of outrage that rippled through out the land.

Think what you want about President Bush now, but he was awesome during that time.

We chased that rotten shit head Ben Ladin all thru the mountains and couldn’t catch him.

And then the whining began.

Waterboarding was screamed at in the news as being torture.

Except that it wasn’t.

The reporter from CNN had it done to him on camera by an ex CIA agent. Within 30 seconds of being waterboarded, he was back on camera, microphone in hand.

WTF?

How is something so terrible that the media screams that we are hideously torturing people if it leaves no damage and is being done by reporters to make a good story.

John McCain can tell you about some torture.

Broken knee, broken shoulder. Stabbed in the ankle and the groin. Cracked ribs, broken teeth.

That is torture.

Waterboarding is tough, to be sure, not something you want to do, unless you can benefit from it. But it is not torture.

Put an Ohio state shirt on the waterboardee, pour beer on them and have them sing the Ohio State fight song?

Its a hazing prank.

The big argument is that torture doesn’t work.

Then explain why every society since the dawn of time has used it. Because it doesn’t work?

Morally, they don’t want it to work. They hate that there was actually terror plots blocked because of info gained by waterboarding.

The argument should be, should we use torture.

The answer is no.

But waterboarding is not torture.

Let me say that one again. Waterboarding is not torture.

There is no permanent damage. It scares people. Scaring people is not torture.

If so, zombie films are torture. They scare the shit out of me.

How dare you violate my civil rights like that.

I think that one of the saddest things about the anniversary of 9/11 is that it has been a decade of whining and accusations. Should we have done this? Should we have invaded there? With a war on, we have had people who disagree with the president calling childish names and definitely giving the impression that they can change our minds with violence and threats.

These are the same people that piss and moan when you question Obama.

Usually, they call you a racist for disagreeing with him.

Here are the basic facts. Due to what they claim are valid reasons, terrorists hijacked a total of 3 planes. They ran 2 of them into the Twin Towers. The towers fell.

2996 dead.

Another plane crashed, after the passengers tried to overpower the hijackers.

127 dead.

Al Qaeda hailed it as a victory. And, I guess if you think you were in a war at the time, it was.

So how can they bitch when we begin scouring the planet to ferret them out like vermin.

Fuck em. I am tired of caring what anyone outside of this country thinks.

The one thing I would like more than anything is to get the opinions of people I have never met.

The ones that died on 9/11.

However, they aren’t talking.

And I hope that silence is never forgotten like it has been for the last 10 years.

God Bless.

 
4 Comments

Posted by on September 12, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

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To rebut is human……to forgive is not.

I am a little angry today.

So what else is new?

I have received a second email from an anonymous source about the “Ronaldo’s Son” blogs. The first was a simple admonishment about being harsh.

Fine, I sent back a “Sorry you feel that way” email and asked them to post on the blog page. I prefer to make a public scene.

The second was more, and I take it personal.

Despite my request that I would rather you comment on the blog on the actual blog page, Ms. X has elected to continue emailing.

Fine.

Then I will rebut all the lines of your email here.

First of all, eat me.

I have never read anything this pathetic in my life. Every soft-headed platitude in the book or books is there.

“An addict is not responsible for his actions.”
Two things. First, Ronaldo never said his son was an addict, I never said his son was an addict. Second? Bull! We are all responsible for our actions. An addict always has the option of getting help.

“Walk a mile in his shoes before you judge him.”
I could be in the Battan Death March in his Nikes before I would shit on my father to the degree this piece of garbage has.

“Judge not lest ye be judged.” Ah, biblical. Mathew. Sermon on the mount. It was part of a sermon on ostentation and not meant to be a “get out of jail free” sinners card.

The really interesting thing is that, for all of these dark and dour crimes, you assume he is an addict and auto forgive all of his actions.

What about me?

How do you know this isn’t my 11th out of 12 steps or something? Where is the automatic assumption that I too, am an addict. Where the hell is my auto-forgiveness?
(According to MyAddiction.com Caffeine is a really serious one too. All of my behavior is now golden. Yah!)

Back on subject.

I know a little something about addiction. I have family that is in the rehab biz and the general consensus is that taking responsibility for your actions is in there somewhere. It is also one of the twelve steps.

But lets look at all the people you have turned your back on in favor of the Demon Son.

Ronaldo. The meth lab on the premises gets his retirement-funding house seized. It also is a huge betrayal of his parent. (This is a biblical issue too, or did you miss that?)

The girls. Smuggled into this country and forced to do drugs and make porn films. A sizeable portion of their life is ruined. I hope they get some peace down the road on this one. I see them as victims.

The parents of the girls. They will most likely find out at some point. Could be the biggest nightmare a parent could face.

Anyone in the film distribution chain that is simply trying to make a living. They have been given films that contain illegal actors. I assume the economy sucks all over and they can’t afford hits to their bottom line either.

Because actions speak louder than words, I have a challenge for you. When Ronaldo’s son gets out of jail, take him and Charles Manson as room mates.

Let me know how that goes.

You may as well go fishing with Fredo, because you are dead to me.

So, to sum up, take your excuses, your platitudes, your obvious self-issues, your blind eye forgiveness to any crime that does not directly affect you…..

And stick them. In the biblical sense.

Have a nice day…………..ass.

 
9 Comments

Posted by on September 8, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

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Time to pay the fiddler…

I am sitting in my favorite Starbucks, in the middle of Blondie and her study group. The Penguins want to play cards, and have yet to say anything because, while they may be able to bully Blondie and the girls, I think they hesitate at hassling a grown man with a goatee and mustache who tends to look angry when concentrating. So it is an uncomfortable stalemate with everyone just glaring at me.

Its good to be back.

For those who were not aware, I have been gone for the last week. The blogs have been scheduled. I spent a week with my kids in Portland, (While managing to blog several times.). Then I made the trek to the Nevada desert for Burning Man. (More on that later.)

Normally I would not give up my asshole seat for anything. There is a certain delight in pissing of several groups of people at once with just my presence. (Check the archives till you find the story about me taking Garrett the six and a half foot tall homeless guy to Noah’s Bagels and having morning bagels out front with the regulars. It was nice visit with an interesting guy and a beautiful shit storm of discomfort for the regulars.)

But Ronaldo just came in.

For those behind the curve, (Read the fucking blog) Ronaldo has an interesting situation. He bought a house 50 years ago in a prime location in Manhattan Beach. 20 years ago, he remodeled and made it a mansion that he rents out to wealthy families as an income property. His son manages the property.

Well, he did until recently.

It turns out that the son was renting the house to himself under an assumed name, not paying rent, making underage porn films, possibly dabbling in the sex slave trade, running a meth lab and embezzling money from his own father. Its an amazing bit of cruel shit to pull on your parents. It caused Ronaldo to have chest pains for several days.

We have to talk.

I slide sideways from the big table into one of the little rounds and wait. When Ronaldo gets his tea, I wave him over.

Ronaldo is one of those old guys from that generation that will relax and commiserate over his troubles with a friend over a drink.

Now days, our drink is coffee, which is not made to relax you. The good news is, Ronaldo views me as familiar enough to tell me his troubles.

And they’re some pretty fucked up troubles.

Turns out that only 2 of the girls were underage, the ones making the porn films? Somehow, this is viewed as better, I am not sure how, but whatever.

They were all illegal, which is bad, and it is still being debated about whether they forced to do drugs and make porn films. Half the girls are saying they were forced and half were doing it because they have to pay off the “Sneak me into the country and ruin my life” fee. That is still coercion,

Ronaldo is sure they are lying and his son will be cleared.

A father’s love is golden.

Personally, I would really appreciate it if Karma would get off of its ass for once and bring down some vicious biblical justice in this case. Ronaldo’s son is the closest thing to Manson I have seen in this generation.

And yet, we are so jaded by this sort of thing that we say “Oh, how terrible!” and move on. I have yet to see anything on this in the news. In other words, they ran the original story and no follow ups.

How sad.

According to Ronaldo, his son’s friends were running the Meth lab and he didn’t know.

This entire situation is hard to fathom.

Ronaldo seems like a fine man, says the right things you expect to hear from a solid guy from that generation.

And yet, his son, based on reports, is a fucking monster who deserves to be put down like a rabid dog.

With any luck, that will happen in prison.  I think in my last Ronaldo blog, I called for the hopeful prison rape of both Ronaldo’s son and Karma.

I do tend to rant, don’t I.

Why the hell not?

They only thing you hear from our politicians is ranting about other politicians. It is never anyones fault, its always someone elses.

he economy, taxes, jobs, war, drugs, fiscal responsibility. There is a lot of bad shit rolling right now.

Me? I have decided to blame it all on Ronaldo’s son. Kind of a “Sacrificial Lamb” of the new millennium.

Because someone has to pay the fiddler.

 
2 Comments

Posted by on September 6, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

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Old School Evil Couple.

This is an early argument that a friend reminder me of, that I had all but forgot.

And it involves my favorite couple.

The Evil Couple.

For those new to the blog, the Evil Couple are simply a couple that comes into Starbucks near my office andhas the most uncomfortable arguments where Mrs, Evil treats Mr. Evil (And everyone else around) like shit she found on her shoe. My favorite description is that she treats you like a moron and she is sick of your shit. That little statement is as accurate now as when I first wrote it.

As a visual, Mr. Evil is a doctor (Always wearing scrubs), he has a local practice in Manhattan Beach. He is mid 40’s to 50’s, good looking, and you would trust your health to him.

Mrs. Evil is a conundrum that confuses and delights me, excites and shames me.

She is mid to late 30’s. She wears thick gray sweats, the kind that muscle guys in the 70’s wore, an over sized t-shirt without a bra. Watching her for a few seconds tells you this. When she turns to the side and her breasts (Impressive DD’s) take a second to catch up, you know something is up. Her hair would be long and blond, however, it is never styled and is worn in kind of a low rise blond afro.

This was the only way I have ever seen her dress.

Until recently. Apparently, she is in real estate, and when she is dressed up for work, I have not seen a woman this stunning for a long time.

When she rips into her husband or anyone around her, the entire encounter is made that much more evil by the fact that she has a Russian accent. It shouldn’t, but it does make a difference.

Enough background, on with the shit.

They were waiting for me when I got to Starbucks. The gods smiled and the table next to them was open.

Good. I hate trying to listen in from a few tables away.

Rude? Yes. Fascinating? Absolutely.

Anyway, the argument was just warming up when I got there.

The twins, it seems, were just starting a new school and the question was, “Should they be in the same class?”

“They will be picked on if they are apart, you know this.” Mrs. Evil has a way of ending her sentance that seems to imply that you are simply confused.

“They need to learn to rely on themselves, not on each other.” He is the calm cool voice of reason.

And she could care less.

“Why is it so important to you that they be unhappy?” He voice can drip sarcasm like no other.

“I don’t want them to be unhappy. Miss Cormack said-”

“She was a whore of a teacher, she spent so much time trying to show you her tits. She was a pig.” She finished with a definitive sip of her latte.

Mr. Evil says nothing. What do you say, really? The argument has shifted from arguing about the classroom assignments of the kids, to whether or not their old teacher (?) was a whore. I am a little shocked she hasn’t accused him of sleeping with her.

“I never noticed that sort of behavior.” Mr. Evil’s voice takes on the tone of someone that knows he is fucked, no matter where it goes from here.

“You loved it, go lie to someone else.”

I spoke too soon. I need to be more patient.

His phone chirps like a boon from the gods. The tension seems to breaks a bit.

They begin texting for a few minutes as if they are not in the middle of an argument.

And maybe they aren’t.

Maybe this is the way they interact on the day to day. A friend of mine once gave the opinion that she does this to drive their sex life, and that she must go with him to work and have make up sex either in the elevator or in his office.

At first, I dismissed such a twisted scenario. Maybe there is more to it than I saw then. Maybe twisted is how you have to view it. You have to twist yourself up or it makes no sense.

To quote Mr. Spock, “In an insane society, a sane man must be viewed as insane.”

God, I miss Star Trek.

 
2 Comments

Posted by on September 2, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

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Sin’s of the son……..

I have a tendency to focus on the loud, the larger than life, conflict. Kind of like the Predator in the movie by the same name, but no one dies or gets shot by Arnold Schwarzenegger.

However, if you are a maid by trade, you do run the risk of being sexually harassed by him, and/or impregnated by him. On the plus side, the hush money rocks.

Ronaldo, an old man that is in Starbucks more than I am, likes to read every word in the LA times. All the killer moments you love to read about so much? He has witnessed them all.

I first noticed him months ago, but never got the chance to talk to him.

It seems that he has several children, including one son that, when he mentioned him several weeks ago, was a very successful businessman.

Ronaldo has several houses in Manhattan Beach. One house, in particular, is his pride and joy, He and his first wife bought the house near 50 years ago. 20 years ago, he tore it down and rebuilt it into a palace. The description is incredible.

Why do we care?

Excellent question, heres why.

Ronaldo is angry at his son. The son manages the house which Ronaldo was told had been rented to a wealthy young family.

Turns out thats bullshit.

Ronaldo was contacted by the police and informed that there had been several arrests on the property and he may lose the house.

Got your attention? It gets better.

Turns out that Ronaldo’s son was lying thru his teeth and had actually rented the place to himself, under an assumed name. (Turns out he wasn’t paying the rent either, to his own father.) And he was running several businesses out of it.

Porn films were being shot on site, the 3 car garage had been converted to a sound stage. Some of the films are being investigated concerning the age of the actors.

Also, a number of the actresses found on the premises were illegal, and may have been held against their will and forced to perform.

A meth lab was in operation.

Ronaldo’s son is a piece of work.

Ronaldo is an older man, apparently in good health, this however has given him chest pains that he has refused to do anything about. His daughter has finally prevailed and is taking him to the doctor today.

Normally, I am delighted with situations like this and type away with glee. But this is just so fucking sad.

But, as I have found thru the wretched soap opera that is my life, shit happens. Shit can often happen in a manner so foul that the “Shit-edness” shocks the hell out of you.

Like Ronaldo. His kid, who has a degree and did have a healthy business portfolio.

Now, from the looks of it, he is going to have a sore ass from prison rape. At least he will if there is any justice in the world.

Every time there is a horrid thing that happens in the media and whoever did it goes free, someone will pipe up with “Oh, don’t worry, karma is a bitch, they’ll get theirs.

Bullshit.

If karma was at all consistent we would not need laws to begin with.

Karma is a bitch. A whiny little bitch that has not been pulling its weight. I say we throw karma into jail with Ronaldo’s son and let them both be sodomized.

Because what goes around comes around, even for Karma.

 
6 Comments

Posted by on August 24, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

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Of all the Gin joints in all the world…

There is a Starbucks in Hawthorne that always has their AC running when I go there.

I call it the Freezer.

Thank god they serve hot coffee there, because at 59 degrees, hypothermia can set in with iced coffee before you can finish your blueberry scone.

I got in line behind two people and when I finally stood in front of the cashier, my nipples were like little rocks, no lie.

I got my cup of addiction and had a seat.

Its not a Starbucks I go to that often, mainly because I gave my parka to Goodwill when I moved back to LA from Portland Oregon.

Just as I was setting up my laptop, I saw her come in.

Wow.

Every now and then you see someone with the beautiful gene and the intelligence to present it.

Stunning woman. Average height, maybe mid-thirties. Business suit cut well enough to accentuate an incredible build without being slutty. (Harder than you think.) Just beyond shoulder-length blond hair styled very feathery without going near “Jersey Hair.” Mirrored sun glasses hid what had to be blue eyes, and a flawless, perfect mouth.

I had this feeling that I knew her, My mind kept telling me that was impossible, she had the type of looks you remember seeing.

With her was a younger man in a business suit. He had that look of being just a step above car salesman.

Real estate agent.

I usually do my best not to stare, but I step over into rude often enough that I may just retire there and get it over with.

They got their coffee and sat down at a table just behind me.

Miss Gorgeous sat less than a foot behind me.

“A few good prospects today, the Asian lady kept telling her husband they would love living there. This should sell quickly.” The young guy had a salesman’s voice, suave and assured.

“She smelled like dead fish, I hated them.” The woman’s voice drifted back, cultured and European.

Oh shit…..I felt a chill make its way up my spine and raise every hair on the back of my neck.

I know that voice. I have written several thousand words about this woman.

My ass went into full clinch with recognition.

Mrs. Evil. Couple.

It was one of those moments where, to quote one of my favorite comics, “The left half and the right half of the brain come to a screeching halt. The left says to the right, Its dark in here, and we may die.”

This evil, rotten…..the only word that comes to mind is bitch, but it doesn’t carry enough venom. I would use the C word, but it isn’t broad enough in scope.

To suddenly have the image of an incredibly beautiful woman mixed in with memories of personally witnessing her absolute disdain for everyone and everything around her was almost too much to take.

Her voice pulled my tortured mind back to the present.

“Why did you keep talking about your sister? You kept going on and on, it was very uncomfortable. I doubt we will get any offers because of it.”

“What?” The young guy seemed confused, suddenly slammed. “We were talking about family and siblings. I didn’t think it seemed out of place.” There was doubt in his voice.

She pounced on it. “It was creepy, I thought she was an ex lover until you said she was your sister.”

That got him. “I really think that’s uncalled for.” He was indignant and rightfully so.

Not that it would help. He went for an end to the subject. “We’ll just agree to disagree.”

Take that disagree and cram it, buddy. You have no clue who you are messing with.

“You remind me of my cousin.” She changed the subject without warning.

“Huh, what cousin?” The young guy was off balance.

“He is young, a drug addict, he sucks old men for money. He would agree with you, you seem very similar.“

It was a football punt to the nut sack that the kid never saw coming. It was insulting on several levels at once.

He sputtered for a few moments, then just got up and left without saying a word.

I looked at the front counter. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see her watching him go.

She made a noise that sounded like she was chuckling.

I wanted to turn around so badly, but I reminded myself that Mr. and Mrs. Evil Couple had no idea that they occupied such a prominent place in my life. Mainly as entertainment, but still.

When she spoke, I thought at first she was talking either out loud or to me. Then I realized she was on her phone.

“I don’t want to work with Henry again, he ruined the open house.” Sounded like the boss on the phone.

“I think he was high today, he hit on the wives, and a few of the husbands, I think.”

The buzz on the phone was someone outraged.

“Don’t worry, I have an offer to submit, one of my clients texted me on the way to Starbucks.”

The conversation must have changed, I couldn’t hear anything else on the phone, but I knew real estate people.

The broker she worked for may or may not believe her, but in real estate, or just sales in general, you go with the hot hand. If she was selling big, the young guy would be thrown under the bus without hesitation.

I love this woman.

There is something just old school menacing about her. Like the evil queen in the Disney version of Snow White, but with a better ass. The fact that she cleaned up into a stunner only served to make it all hotter and more shameful at the same time. It was one of those situations that was exhilarating, and at the same time, you just felt dirty.

She might be the antichrist.

Before anyone goes off on that comment, I didn’t say she was, I said she might be. All I know is that she is married to a doctor, lives in the tree section of Manhattan Beach, and gave birth to twins about ten years ago.

Absolutely nothing to connect her to most of Revelations.

Unless of course the twins are named Famine and Pestilence.

 
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Posted by on August 23, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

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Rearing its ugly head…Some heads are uglier than others

There is a brisk little business going on at Starbucks, and it ain’t coffee.

There is a husky little blonde running a full scale SAT cram group. Let’s call her Blondie.

There are 5 of them, usually at the big table if its available. They are there from 7 to 8.

Blondie runs a tight ship. She barks her orders and the girls march in lock step.

I have no idea what she charges, but if she can whip these dipshits into high SAT scores, she deserves a frickin medal. There are a few girls that I honestly wonder if they attended, much less graduated from, high school.
You always hope girls this dumb either marry well or lose their looks young. Otherwise, they are just a few months away from swinging on a pole for a living.

Pretty good rule of thumb is that is that if your job involves baby oil and glitter, you’ve made a pretty serious vocational error somewhere.

Not to bash strippers. Any girl who is willing to dance for a living, just to pay for college of course, should be commended for their work ethic.

Plus its hard for a man to criticize a woman in a G-string. Its an instinct thing.

But most women hate strippers. I have never been able to understand that, and in a weird way, I don’t really want to know why.

Back to Blondie.

You have to admire the entrepreneurial spirit.

But how does it stack up against old and bitchie?

Let me explain.

The big table at a Starbucks is the only area of the store that customers often have an agenda for sitting there. Business people, students, and those that feel the need to spread out.

And then there’s the Penguins.

The Penguins are a trio of little old ladies who come in every other morning to play cards. They order their tea, bitch unmercifully about the price, and play a card game that looks suspiciously like gin rummy, but I am not sure, because they cover their cards like high stakes poker players.

They look like they are from the old country. Not my old country, but somebodies old country.

I call them Penquins they always dress in dark colors, are kind of thin in the shoulders and broad in the hip.

I first noticed them one morning while walking to work. As I have mentioned previously, I park about a quarter mile from my office and walk down. As we are the last office building before the beach, parking sucks like no place else.

I noticed the three old ladies walking in front of me. They waddled along in a line. As an obstacle got in their way, they would waddle around it, still playing follow the leader.

And then it hit me. Penguins. I would have called them Lemmings, but I was unsure about getting them to walk over a cliff.

Some people have no sense of humor.

They went right into Starbucks. By this time, I was following along, having been unable to get around them without resorting to old school hockey checking.

They got their tea and complained in their little old biddie fashion, and then sat down to play their cards.

That is when the bitching began.

What was amazing was that it almost seemed that they were having 3 separate conversations, each one complaining about different people.

It was like a bitchie support group.

Enough background.

Blondie was mid chastise with one of the girls about her lack of understand of basic algebra, when the Penguins came in.

Blondie didn’t notice, but the Penguins immediately saw that their usual spot was occupied.

The Penguins waited in line, casting ugly looks at the main table.

It was developing nicely, but I think I was the only one that was getting the situation.

I love this.

The Penguins waited until they all got their tea, properly creamed and sugared them, then marched, I say marched damn it, over to the main table.

“You can’t have the whole table.” The head Penguin’s voice was a combination of shrill and crackly. It was an perfect combo of menace and wicked old, like a witch, maybe.

“We were here first.” Blondie didn’t even look up. She was a business woman and I respect that.

“We want to play cards.” The head Penguin tossed her cards onto the table like she was throwing down a gauntlet.

Blondie looked up. “What is it you want me to do about that? We were here, and we’re not done.” She stared for a few seconds more, then looked down at her book.

The girls, the students, were looking back and forth like anxious little animals, just about to bolt at the first sign that this gets out of hand. Its the smart move. Survival, more than algebra, seems to be their skill.

The Penguins were outraged. There are several things that I can see happening.

They might trade blows. I said might, I didn’t say it was the most probable, just might. And it would be the funnest to watch.

The Penguins should leave. They could go to Coffee Bean. Besides, the crowd at Coffee Bean was much closer to their age. Hell, they may even pick up a few more players.

And then, they did the unexpected.

Without saying a word, the Penguins moved as one to an empty small round table right behind Blondie. The little round tables were way too small to play cards on.

But they had no intention of playing cards.

They started complaining.

All three of the Penguins began chastising Blondie, discussing her lack of manners, rudeness in general.

And then it got ugly.

The Penguins got nowhere attacking Blondie’s behavior. The opening salvo was harsh.

“And not a pretty girl.”

5 words was all it took. Blondie kept staring down at her book, but I could see her eyes well up.

In that moment, they broke her.

It was over.

“We’re done for today.” Blondie closed her book, gathered her stuff and got up.

I thought she was going to head straight out, but she hesitated.

Blondie took one quick step and bent, her head about 6 inches from the ear of the head Penguin.

I have no idea what she said. Whatever it was, it was quick. She straightened, then walked out.

The head Penguin sat there for several minutes, saying nothing.

And then they played cards.

But the head Penguin never lost the haunted look.

Blondie’s parting shot messed with her for awhile.

Good.

 
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Posted by on August 21, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

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