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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.

 
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Posted by on October 13, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

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My rude past…

I have an odd reaction to really embarrassing moments.

I get louder and become fearless.

This can be a really bad combination and it rarely leads to things calming down and moving away from whatever the embarrassing starting point was.

Here is a good example from my past.

There is a fine art to having sex in a restaurant.

And I am not artist.

Maybe I should add a little bit of back story here. In a certain sense, I am still the dirty-minded 13 year old I always was.

I was in an El Pollo Loco with a new girlfriend.

We were in the honeymoon stage. That cool period of time right after you figure out that you are sexually compatible, and you really can’t keep your hands off of each other.

You can only sit in a booth making out for so long before the help begin to get twitchy. And we are not wide eyed teenagers. Being past the age of being old enough to know better, but obviously not giving a shit ratchets up the discomfort of others even more.

And that is when the idea of sex in the bathroom begins to make sense.

El Pollo Loco almost encourages this sort of behavior. The bathrooms are always in their own little secluded hallway.

This discourages witnesses. And the bathrooms are single occupant only.

We are both a little iffy about the whole scandalous thing right up until we get in the bathroom.

Its on like donkey kong.

Less than 30 seconds later the knock on the door comes.

Its loud, its impatient and its incessant.

“We have to stop.” She is the voice of reason in these situations.

“No, we don’t.” I am really not in control of my actions at this point. My penis has taken control and he is a tyrant.

“Stop” Once out of their teens, women are much harder to talk into things they have decided against.

“How do we get out of here?” NOW she is worried. Women hate witnesses. Men view witnesses as more of an annoyance than an embarrassment.

This is where I become Rambo with a hard on.

“We go out one at a time, no eye contact.”

She straightens her clothes while I put mine back on. Men seem to get naked a hell of a lot quicker in these situations.

I put my hands on the lock and the door knob and look back at my somewhat nervous partner in crime. I blow her a kiss, but I can tell she is missing the humor of the gesture.

I open the door and find an old woman waiting with her hand poised to rap on the door again.

Her eyes widen in shock at a man coming out of the bathroom. I focus on the hallway next to her and step past.

“All yours chief.” I am now headed for the parking lot.

Pure guilt makes me look over my shoulder.

It is worth risking the look back.

My partner had tried to push the door shut the moment I cleared the thresh hold.

The old woman recovered from her shock quickly and tried to get into the bathroom.

There is a brief struggle with both trying to move the door, one to get it open and the other to close it, presumably to hide.

Then the door is forced open.

My partner makes her first mistake.

Eye contact, frozen in place.

A number of things should be falling into place mentally for the old woman at this point.

If there is more to be seen, I have no way of knowing.

The front door is in my hand and I am now free.

You are on your own, sweetie.

Don’t hold it against me, survival is an instinctive thing, and those old ladies can be vicious.

A few minutes later, my now thoroughly embarrassed partner exits the El Pollo to find me across the parking lot, sitting on the hood of the car, smiling and about to begin laughing loud.

“You’re an asshole!”

What the hell did I do?

I would ask, but I have pulled enough shit in my past that I don’t question the asshole accusation.

She forgave me, eventually.

As part of an unspoken agreement, we steered clear of fast food bathrooms from there on out.

Looking back, I view that as a damn shame.

There is a poster I see here and there about living life.

Here is my version.

Live well.
Laugh often.
Love deeply.
And if you are ever kicked out of an El Pollo Loco bathroom for having sex, NO EYE CONTACT!

 
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Posted by on October 10, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

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I just met a girl named Maria…..

I am sitting in the Starbucks at the mall, doing what I do.

Which is listen in. Rude as it gets.

You have to bear with me on this one, my Spanish is rusty as hell.

Luckily, the young couple next to me at the Galleria Starbucks is switching back and forth between English and Spanish.

I love West Side Story, so here is the story of Tony and Maria.

Tony is Latino and looks to be about 12. He has all the characteristics of a guy in his mid to late teens. Maria is a Latina who is carrying a few pounds and appears to be about 13 years old.

They have 2 kids together.

I wondered at first if I miss-heard that, but it was repeated, so it must be true.

Children having children. (From the look and mannerisms of Tony, dumb kids having kids

Also, it appears that Tony is several months behind on what sounds a lot like child support.

Maria has made several comments about her abwella, or something like that. (After checking with my chola barber, it was abuela, grandmother in spanish.)

She is mellowing, but started out really pissed at him. Tony, however, understands how to shut her down.

Not 5 minutes into the conversation, she is laughing and slapping playfully at his hand.

Shit.

Not that I am against young love as a general thing, but this whole little scenario puts the vice on my butt something fierce.

What percentage of this generation is sitting in front of me?

How many more kids will Maria have with Tony before they get their lives together?

Or at least graduate high school.

Just kidding, I realize that they probably won’t graduate high school.

That is not necessarily a racial thing. I think everyone in their mid to late teens are complete morons, with few exceptions.

People in that age range should not be allowed to make any serious decisions for themselves.

But thats just me.

Although, maybe some of the tougher decisions in life should be made before you can acquire enough experience to chicken out.

The scary stuff.

Marriage, the military, Amway.

Of the three, I am in favor of marriage and the military.

But Amway is a fucking cult.

Lets get back to Tony and Maria before I get all the way up on my soap box.

The sad fact is, they are a small percentage of the other Tony and Maria’s out there, cranking out children like an assembly line.

I saw an article that stated that a lot of kids have kids because it allows them to do something important in their life.
As an esteem builder.

Kind of a self improvement thru reproduction.

I will laugh at that line for a few minutes and then I realize that there is a pretty good shot that I will be paying taxes to keep Maria and the kids in food and huggies for a good long time.

And I won’t even be invited to the family BBQs.

 

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Posted by on September 23, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

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Hella is not a word, people!

The first thing she said was:

“Babe? I need something hella good for breakfast.”

It was such an odd little phrase that I looked up from what I was reading as I walked along.

It was a young Asian girl, early twenties or so. She was hanging on the arm of the gangly boy walking next to her. It was that type of clingy type of arm holding like she was afraid he would float away like a balloon.

As we walked the last half block to Starbucks, she proceeded to call him Babe 31 more times, I counted. She used the word hella a lot less, but it was more annoying.

First of all, hella is not even a word.

It was like listening to Marine Corp recruits begin and their sentences with a specific word.

Sir, yes Sir!

When they turned in at Starbucks, I was both elated and bummed. Elated because I am always on the lookout for odd personalities and bummed that this vacuous dip shit was ahead of me in line.

My need for caffeine in the morning can be an ugly thing sometimes. I don’t want to hurt anyone, I just want my coffee.

There were 3 people ahead of us in line.

Lizzie, the girl, as referred to by her boyfriend, was like a hyper child in a toy store.

“Oh babe, the coffee cake looks hella good!”
“Babe, did you want the donut? We could split it and a coffee cake.”

My teeth began to itch.

If she were 5 with these communication skills, this would be cute. But, god damn it, this is a woman in her early twenties, and it was more like looking at a caricature of the most annoying woman the artist could think of.

Live and in person.

Shit.

I counted 26 more “Babes” in line.

Pace yourself, dear.

I took a seat right next to them and set up my laptop. I would rather get a root canal, but I am willing to take one for the blog.

The perfect opportunity to be a dick came when Lizzy told “Babe” that she had to pee “hella” bad.

I waited for her to hit the bathroom then caught “Babe”’s eye.

“Morning Babe.” I said this with as straight a face as possible, then sipped my coffee to hide the smiled.

He flinched and had the good grace to act both annoyed and embarrassed.

“My name is Mike.”

Spitting coffee is never a great way to start a conversation, but I could not contain it.

Whatever else I was going to try to say was lost in the laughter that came over me.

I lost it.

I fought for control for about five minutes.

Babe just sat there looking a little pissed, but going further down the road of being really embarrassed.

Lizzy came out of the bathroom and found Babe standing, waiting for her.

Before she could ask anything, he turned and walked out clutching both coffees and the baggie with the pastries.

There are times I need that as much as the coffee.

I think we all do, but have been told over and over that its rude.

Fuck it, I feel really good today.

 
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Posted by on September 22, 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?

 
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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.

 
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Posted by on September 14, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

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Sorry to bother you…

Every now and then, I meet a total stranger that just pisses me off without warning.

And I think that the parents out there will be joining me in the pissed off realm.

By the way, I am a father of two.

I ride my bicycle to work some days, mainly because its southern California and you kind of feel like you have to.

Manhattan Beach is a beautiful place. There are times that it catches you off guard and throws you for a loop. It mostly has to do with money and the people who have too damn much of it.

There is a little side street off of the main drag in downtown Manhattan. It is a one way and has a parking garage on one side and restaurants on the other.

I come rolling around the corner and see something a little odd.

There is a baby in the middle of the street.

Take a second and let that one sink in.

There is a baby in the middle of the street.

This is not the set of boys in the hood, with a crack baby in the middle of the street.

This is Manhattan beach. It would take about five minutes to ride far enough to find a house worth less than a million dollars.

A car is stopped a half block away, rolling an inch at a time, the driver reluctant to come further.

I start flying towards the kid.

I all but screech to a stop, putting my bike between the kid and the car, who has come to a complete stop.

There is a woman walking slowly up the walk pushing a stroller.

She is on her cell phone. I have a cell phone too, but at that age, my daughter was either at home, in her stroller, or had her hand in mine, without exception.

“HEY MOM!”

In retrospect, I think I yelled a little too loud, or maybe not, after all….

THERE WAS A FUCKING BABY IN THE MIDDLE OF THE STREET!

The woman turned around startled. She keeps talking on the phone and begins to saunter back towards me.

As she gets close, I give her a WTF? look.

She blows it off, glaring at me and picks up the baby.

As she walks off, a snatch of her cell phone conversation drifts back.

“-some guy being an asshole.”

Right.

I am pissed and confused and angry and hurt and about five other things, and for the first time in a god damned looooooong time, I am speechless.

I want to rip her a new one, but I really am pretty stunned by what just happened.

I roll out of the way and let the car roll by.

The passenger side window rolls down as the car goes by.

“YOU STUPID BITCH!”

And he drives off.

Here, here.

I cannot agree with you more.

Perhaps not with profanity, but with a stern voice, I could have talked to her and …..no. That would not have worked.

I should have called her a stupid bitch. That is what is really bugging me. For those that hang up on that word, sorry, but it really does fit.

Because then, god forbid something happen due to her lack of common sense, maybe she would get it. She would agree in the back of her head.

She is a stupid bitch.

 
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Posted by on September 13, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

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Love, Honor and Cherish

An interesting diorama unfolded in the food court in the Washington Square Mall in Tigard Oregon.

Everyone got that?

A man in his 80’s or so was arguing with his wife. That doesn’t seem so out of place. However, his wife, who appears to be older, has an oxygen tank and some Kung Pao chicken that she does not want to share and evidently it is driving to old guy insane.

Add to the mix a young man that would have to be a grandson since I am positive that A) the old guy is not capable of fathering a child. Viagra can get it up, but it can’t make the gun fire without real bullets. B) The old woman appears to be too old to conceive and live thru the delivery. I am fairly certain her ovaries started their retirement years ago.

The boy may even be a great grandson, but I could easily be wrong.

The really fun part is this.

The old man and woman are having their little argument in a whisper, totally in keeping with their generations hard-fast rule of “Don’t make a scene in public.” Of course, this was also the generation that had the rule “Don’t beat her in public”. A lot of shit went down behind closed doors back when.

The boy has on ear buds and is listening to an Ipod and looking around at various things. Girls, food, shiny lights. He is a teenager and easily distracted. (Not sure what my issue is, I am not a teenager and I have the attention span of a horny gnat around rotten fruit.)

But, every now and then, the boy chimes in on the conversation. But, because he apparently has his Ipod cranked up, he is all but shouting. He has done it 5 times in as many minutes. Everytime he erupts with a comment, it scares the old woman half to death.

Nothing makes a young man happier than some dysfunctional time with the grandparents.

On the nice side, my children are fantastically well behaved. I am kind of an arrogant dick about it. I found out a long time ago that I have no patience for other peoples kids. Mine are brilliant and beautiful, everyone elses are slugs. Got that?

Things seemed to be reaching a peak when the old guy reached out and just pulled her plate over to his side of the table. It was a phenomenally shitty move that you have to know someone for decades before you can attempt that kind of crap. The look on the old guys face seemed to echo shock at his own action. Kind of an, “I can’t believe I just did that.”

The old lady just stared straight ahead like nothing happened.

The old guy tried to say something.

The old lady did not move.

The next few moments were an odd transfer of power. The old guy lost the advantage and he knew it. The old woman was beating the living shit out of him by not even acknowledging his existence.
In the end, he just sheepishly slid the plate slowly back across the table.

Pussy.

In the long run, it was probably the smart move. He has to sleep sometime. And after you have been married for a few decades, that is where the real animosity can build up.

And that’s when someones gets his penis cut off in his sleep.

And we know this.

 
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Posted by on August 30, 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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