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Hating a stranger.

Its not often, but sometimes, when I least expect it, I instinctively hate people.

Case in point, I am in Starbucks, its not my favorite one, but its still a Starbucks.

For those of you that pay attention, its the “Icebox”, so named because the temperature is always at 60 degrees, Winter or Summer.

I used to think this was a bad idea, then I realized that on those days that I am there for an hour or more, I buy more coffee to keep me warm.

Maybe the manager is a genius.

And in she walks.

Something about her screams “Bitch”, loud and clear.

Of course she is on her cell phone, what else would she be doing?

And maybe it is just because I didn’t like her from the beginning, but I swear that the people around her moved just a touch more away from her than you would normally.

Maybe its an unconscious thing, just some sort of evil presence, like a low level fart in an elevator that you don’t know who did it, but you know it wasn’t you.

Anyway, she gets thru the line, gets a spinach quiche. (Red flag – Spinach quiche is the food of choice of pedophiles, serial killers and overly monied coffee hoes.)

Her drink, when it came, had a lot of foam, another red flag but I’m gonna let that go.

As luck would NOT have it, she sat at the seat next to me.

Conversation still going on.

Here are the highlight quotes.

  • “Marshal is having problems at school, he failed a test and the teacher is being a bitch about it. I told him he could stay home this week and calm down.” (My comment is to fucking long to put here, so its below.)
  • “Jack is still arguing about the alimony, I mean, I gave that asshole my life, and thats going to cost him.” (Lesson learned boys, some people, not all, just some people, when they are flat on their backs the meter is running. Talk amongst yourselves.)
  • The car is still not running right. Every time I put it in gear, I have to let off on the gas COMPLETELY. (You mean revving it and dumping it into gear is NOT good for the tranny?)

It was the Polish astronomer Copernicus who first offered the model of the universe that had the Sun at its core and not the Earth.

And it was the shithead sucking down a frappuccino sitting next to me that first offered the model of the universe that had Marshal at its core.

That means the center of the universe was somewhere local, still in his pj’s during mid morning and crying like a pussy.

For a long moment I was outraged.

We are currently raising a generation of kids that are being taught that, God forbid they ever encounter a problem, the only proper response is to freeze in place and over analyze it until someone comes along and either solves it for them, or it goes away on its own.

That was a shitty long moment.

The highlight was when I made her leave.

Its called the creep move.

It is a beautiful study in low level emotional intimidation.

I began to furiously scratch my armpit, the one closer to her.

I grunted slightly.

Once I could see her staring, I stopped scratching and smelled my fingers.

Wait for it……..

I scooted a half an inch towards her.

Then I turned my head, locked eyes, and smiled.

If you have ever seen someone fleeing a burning building, that is a lot like how she left.

Hung up her phone, stood and stomped her little feet out of Starbucks.

Even left her coffee creation behind.

I would feel bad, but, after all…

I didn’t like her to begin with.

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Posted by on April 24, 2015 in Uncategorized

 

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I don’t need a BFF, dude.

There is such a thing as being too damned friendly.

When I am writing, I try to give off an unfriendly, “Asshole” kind of vibe. (As opposed to the friendly asshole vibe I give off the rest of the time.)

Mainly because nothing sucks worse than getting a line in my head that has just the right amount of cerebral stank on it only to have it evaporate like early morning mist because a stranger has decided I was BFF material.

“What are you writing?”

This is the witty opening line that ruined my thought process and sewered the killer blog idea in my head.

The unspoken here is that now you are stuck with my pissy, angst-filled rant of a post about shitting on strangers.

Suck it up, life is like that.

As I pull myself away from my writing I take a good look at “Magoo”. (I can’t remember what he said his name was, but Magoo fits.)

Magoo is one of nature’s children. He has an innocence about him that is almost charming and in any other setting, I would be happy to chat.

But he is in the wrong creative neighborhood at the wrong cerebral time of the night.

Lot of mind assault and battery happens in those settings. (He would be the star of the show if there was a mental episode of “Cops”. And I realize this imagery is a stretch. Work with me.)

But his question does demand an answer.

“Obituaries. I write obituaries for the LA Times.”

“Oh.” Deer in the headlights. The little smile is gone.

I’m not finished.

“Pays better than you think. Plus you get to spend a lot of time talking to grieving families.” (Its important to smile and be too excited at this point. It twists up the deeply ingrained expectation of being really serious on a serious topic. Like a giggling mortician, its out of place and more than a little disturbing.)

“Is that a good thing?” The question kind of tumbles confusedly out of his mouth.

“Its awesome, really gives you a heads up on estate sales and used cars.”

“Oh.” The deer in the headlights is beginning to realize that the headlights are not friendly.

“I am up for a promotion. Sex crimes beat. You talk with a LOT of rape and shooting victims.”

Eye contact breaks at this point and you can feel the flight part of the fight or flight reflex taking over.

He’s not sure what is wrong with me or the situation, but he knows SOMETHING is wrong and its making him antsy.

Bingo.

Almost on cue, the guy mutters something that sounds like something between a hiccup and a word that sounded like “Megosh” and walked away.

More like scurries away. I watch him go, smile and put my headphones back on.

Yeah, I know.

Asshole.

It is what it is.

What kills me is, I had my headphones on.

I could put a sign on the table that says, “Fuck off” but I figured the headphones were enough.

Besides, the last time I put the sign out, enough people complained that the manager asked me to take it down.

Once again, I know.

 
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Posted by on January 16, 2015 in Uncategorized

 

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Your dirty, sexy mouth.

Picture this in your head.

Picture the woman that says the following phrase.

“Finish your coffee, I’m gonna go push out a gang of tootsie rolls and then we’ll roll.”

What is the image in your head?

More specifically, what does the trailer park she lives in look like?

Is Walmart involved?

Now, here is the reality.

Mid-40’s, attractive brunette.

High end business suit, hair styled by someone that probably costs a fortune.

Mercedes smart key on the keychain.

iPhone 6 sitting on the table.

This is a high end business woman.

With the communication skills of a foul mouthed teenager before curse words come into play.

It really ruins the overall desirability of the rather expensively hot look she has put together.

For the mind, that is.

The penis could care less if she shit herself, he is still up for play time.

Very one track mind, the penis.

The woman disturbed me for a few minutes mainly because she didn’t fit the niche I had carved out for her in my head.

In my head, she was a sophisticated, flirty, wholly desirable business woman in an age range that is totally at her peak, physically and sexually.

And then, my mind made the correction and put her in the niche she belongs in, and all was better.

Salesman.

And now her phrasing made sense.

Salesman have a relationship with the spoken word much like a john with a Bangkok hooker.

Use it to do things you should be ashamed of, for money.

Sales is the type of profession that kind of removes your filters when you are not speaking to a client.

You have to be very controlled in not only what you say to a client, but also, how you say it.

When that is no longer required, the kid gloves come off.

I was a salesman for about 10 years, and this blog reminds me a lot of my mouth during that period.

Not a lot of filtering going on.

But back to the situation at hand.

My disappointment is huge.

I hate having my semi ruined mid-lust. (Anyone but me get this one?)

Eventually the hot, potty mouthed business woman returns from her presumed tootsie roll dropping, and they leave.

And the whole thing has left me slightly twisted.

I spend a lot of my time slightly twisted as it is, so when I hit something that shoves me further down that road against my will, it ruins my equilibrium.

Even coffee is not helping.

That alone tells you how disconcerting this is, because coffee usually fixes EVERYTHING.

I was so upset, I got another vente house drip.

And if you follow the news, you know that Starbucks house drip has the highest caffeine content of any national coffee house.

A vente cup has roughly 415mg of caffeine.

I have had 2 in the span of an hour.

There is a legal limit of 250mg of caffeine per hour in the state of California. (I could be wrong)

So, having ingested 830mg puts me over 3 times the legal limit.

Which explains my attraction to the hot, yet dirty, businesswoman.

I no longer question what goes on when I am under the influence.

This comes from years of morning after examinations.

At least with caffeine, you will never wake up with indelible marker writing on your face.

And sadly, with caffeine, you will never wake up after a black out evening to find yourself in bed with a hot businesswoman, dirty mouth or not.

 
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Posted by on December 12, 2014 in Uncategorized

 

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Talking a little crazy here.

I sometimes have a hard time coming up with an idea for a blog post.

After writing 500+ of these in the last 3 years, everything has kind of been done.

So sometimes, I just look for a hook, something that stirs my imagination when I hear/see it, and your imagination when you read it.

The post you are reading, I am writing the day before its due.

I got nothing.

Or, at least, I had nothing.

But as I was crossing the street to head into the Coffee Bean, 2 homeless people began loudly arguing on the corner.

And the hook fell, like manna from heaven.

Out of the mouth of babes, or in this case, a 400lbs homeless woman.

“YOU DON’T KNOW MY LIFE!”

I found myself repeating that phrase as I waited in line to get my caffeine fix.

And I came to a conclusion.

I don’t know her life.

However, I could probably make some pretty accurate guesses. (And I am ridiculously accurate when I am just guessing.

1. Odds are, we are not dealing with a graduate from a master’s degree program.

2. Perhaps the exact mix of the cocktail is questionable, but I am willing to go out on a limb here and say that perhaps drugs played a big role. (I have a whole slew of friends that will piss and moan and make all sorts of claims about the harmlessness of drugs. Sorry, my blog, my rules, and you get to gag on my opinion like a first timer in the big house.)

3. Whatever happened to old school crazy? Everyone wants to pony up excuses, well crazy is making a comeback. Whether its naturally occurring or chemically induced, there does come a level of fucked up that you just don’t come back from.

I can almost see the excuse fanatics lining up on this one.

“Judge not lest ye be judged.” Don’t go biblical with me, you’ll lose. That passage was not a biblical get out of jail free card. Its meaning was don’t judge cheaply or with bias, or you’ll be judged that way. Fine, use my own measuring stick against me and see how unsatisfying it is.

“Its not her fault, society/Dems/GOP/whoever is to blame.” No, they’re not. Ultimately, fault lies with her. Some situations have you seriously behind the 8-ball, but that is where the tenacity of the human spirit comes in.

“You don’t know what an addiction is like.” Yeah, I do.

“You are a racist/bigot/misogynist/cat-hater.” Entirely possible. Bias, preference and dislike are human traits. There are exceptions to every rules and there are examples that prove the rule. Case by case is how I take it. I have yet to meet anyone on this planet that loved everyone with the exception of the soon to be sainted Mother Theresa. (Rumor had it she hated the Italians.)

In the end, the secret to getting the crazy lady calmed down and away from flowing traffic was to buy her a cranberry orange scone.

Even crazy loves a scone.

 
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Posted by on October 17, 2014 in Uncategorized

 

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Welcome to hell.

There are times I enjoy flying and times that I am in the 9th circle of hell, thinly disguised as United airlines.

And the reason is, there is an excellent chance that, at any given moment, you could be fucked with by the airlines, the government or other people, often without warning.

It begins subtly, you almost don’t notice it.

The car in front of you at the airport parking garage stalls as they are getting their ticket to raise the gate.

That takes  minutes.

While this is going on, the next lane over admits 15+ vehicles and you don’t have the option of backing up.

You have just had your first slice of “Being fucked with” pie.

Save room, there’s more.

The airport is all about lines. The line at the elevator is more of a mob.

And if you have not been trapped in a metal box on a hot summer day, you are missing out.

Would it KILL people to bath and use some deodorant?

And someone either farted or shit themselves somewhere between the s2nd and 3rd floor.

I remember because it was right after the Chinese woman got on at the 3rd floor with what smelled like dead fish in her bag.

Finally, the doors opened and we began shuffling out.

And we are so conditioned to being contained and shuttled thru shoots, its a lot like being human cattle.

If the English ever invade and start rounding up the Irish to put into prison colonies, they can pull it off if they involve elevators. (And this is their vile plan, according to my great grandma. She told me after her nurse left the room. I was 5, still makes sense today.)

And then we get to the crosswalk.

The crosswalk is being manned by the most heavily armed crossing guard I have ever seen.

Here is the weird part.

The airport has its own police.

That makes perfect sense, we live in a dangerous world, and terrorists seem to have a hard on for The USA and airplanes.

But, and this is where my head stops in place, why would your entire police force be old fat guys?

I did a quick study on the hiring requirements to become an airport cop.

Its the same as regular cops.

Huh.

Anyway, I was waved across the street by a morbidly obese man with a gun and a belly the size of a yoga workout ball.

Inside the terminal, the fun and games continue.

The cattle lines are longer, the tempers are shorter and the base intelligence scores are dropping fast. Its a grim room here, people.

The woman in front of me is losing her fucking mind.

Evidently, her flight leaves in ten minutes.

She is on the phone, complaining to someone who gives a shit. (I know its not me)

Here is the situation:

It seems that she was going to leave for the airport an hour ahead of time. (The airport recommends getting here 2 hours ahead of time. )

But, the cats were being so playful. (Personally, I hate cats)

And traffic sucked. (This is Los Angeles, there isn’t a time when traffic DOESN’T suck.)

And there is a line. (This is an airport, you tard. Of course there is a line.)

Now, by my figuring, and I realize that my not having a degree in physics or higher math I could be wrong, but with 10 people in front of her, there is no way this chick is going to make her flight.

And evidently, this is my problem.

“This is ridiculous, right?” She has pulled the phone away from her head and is talking to me.

“I hate cats.” You may think that is a shitty thing for me to say. It is, but when she realized that I am not who she wants to look for agreement with, she turned her back and continued her phone conversation.

The really shitty thing to say was to stare at her back and, in a creepy monotone voice, tell the story of how I accidentally ate cat once in Mexico and ended up chasing a lying burrito vendor thru the alleys of Tiajuana with a couple of friends, trying to kick his ass for selling us cat.

The moral of the story is that cat is fairly delicious.

I know, it fucks with me too and its been 25 years.

Anyway, of the 3 agents at the counter, cat lady is at agent #1.

Agent #2 has an Asian couple in their 50’s that are pissed and have been there since I came thru the door.

And their problem is bags.

They have a lot of them.

United Airlines  has a baggage policy that was written by either the Bavarian Illuminatus or expatriot Nazi’s.

!st checked bag ? $25. 2nd bag? $35. 3rd and on? $125 a piece.

Thats not a typo. $125

And the couple has a total of 14 bags.

And this is not an International flight, they are going to Portland.

Here is the cost breakdown.

They each get 1 $25 bag and 1 $35 bag. $120 spent and 4 bags down.
The remaining 10? $1250.

And I happen to know that round trip tickets to Portland are around $200.

And the couple’s logic is that if they keep yelling, eventually the airline will cave and ship their luggage for free.

Which will never happen, by the way.

The airlines will do everything but give away money.

They are just like us.

Mercenaries.

Nobody, with the exception of Mother Theresa, does what they do for a living out of love.

You do it for money or recognition.

I get that and have embraced it more than most.

I moved on from Mercenary to whore a long time ago.

Anything else that went on with the Asian couple was lost as I left agent #3 and headed to my gate.

I am early. Perhaps a beverage at yon tavern.

 
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Posted by on September 19, 2014 in Uncategorized

 

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Karma is now my personal hitman.

High school reunions are always a dicey thing, at best.

However, and this comes from crashing several high school reunions for years that I did not graduate in, but there may be a reason why some of us never stayed in touch.

Don’t get me wrong, there are some people I really enjoyed seeing. People that only life and circumstance has kept from hanging out with.

And then there are some that, 10 seconds after you start talking to them, you realize why you last saw or thought about them was in high school itself.

As a last minute thing, I recently went to a reunion for a year I did not graduate in.

Here is why it was last minute. Although I clicked on the “Going” button on Facebook, I was not planning on going, I was just tired of it sitting in the Invites section, staring at me.

It was in a beach city bar that I once got wildly drunk in and almost beaten to death. Call me superstitious but I am a big believer in bad vibes.

However, I found myself walking thru the front door.

And it was fine, I ran into a few people that totally reminded me of why that was one of the best periods of my life.

I also ran into a few that make me sooooo happy we were not closer back then.

A bitch rarely ages well, and there is a special brand of fugly that happens to the “Uber” bitches of our youth.

 Before you go all feminist on me, the primary bitch in my mind is a guy.

Several others were, in fact, women. That being said, I am kind of blind, sexism wise, on the subject of dislike.

Here are my top 5 reasons for dislike overheard at the reunion:

1. “She and I have hated each other since high school. She’s a slut”. (Translation- My boyfriend back then slept with her because I was holding out. I am incapable of blaming him.)

2. “She has hated me since high school, I don’t know why.” (Translation- I knowingly slept with her boyfriend back in school and I am incapable of blaming myself.)

3. “That chick is crazy.” (Translation- I cheated on my girlfriend with her in highschool and I am incapable of blaming myself.)

(Side note: Are you beginning to pick up on the Peyton Place/Jerry Springer drama here?)

4. “I hated you in high school.” (Translation- During the most insecure time in my life, you scarred me for life.)

5. “You were hysterical in high school.” (Translation- I took a lot of voyeristic pleasure in watching you torment others.)

And the only one I regret not hanging out with is the one I tormented. Its for the better, I was a rotten friend back then.

Now, here is the section of the blog were I get into the exciting part.

Just about every woman I went to high school with are at an intoxicating peak of hotness.

Its incredible what happens to a woman after she is done being a scared kid.

There is a level of confidence that only time can give but under the right circumstances, it can hit like a sensual meth for the libido.

Like a kid in a candy store.

But everybody, man or woman alike, breaks up into 3 catagories.

The first category is those friends who hit nirvana at some point, either married or not. They are worth a fortune, don’t talk about their money and seem genuinely happy.

Fuck em. I distrust these people on an instinctive level.

The second group is those who have kind of gone a different route. They have fucked up a lot since high school, but this seems to be the age that they get it together. They are innocent, like children, without that negative connotation.  They are warriors, fighting for every inch to regain ground they lost. More power to them.

The third group are my people. The functionally damaged. We are married or divorced and not wildly happy about one. If the career is high end, the relationship reads like a horror movie. If the career has had some rough turns, the relationship usually sucked in the past and they are on a better road. But the baggage is there, and the stories are better.

These are people who need to unwind.

And, sometimes, you find a little peace in the chaos. A little ray of sunshine among the dark. Some woman age well and then there are the ones that kill it. Always an odd thing to suddenly be overwhelmed by the earthy sensuality of a woman who is empowered and knows what she wants.

Enough said.

In all, I am glad I went, ran into some old friends, saw some old trash I once knew, and met one or two new friends.

And who doesn’t need some new friends?

In all, everyone seemed to have a good time, some more than others. Some, like the poor unfortunate that was being fed into the back of the police car as I was leaving.

Turns out she was the one who hated me, way back when.

I hate you too, sweetie. (And yes, I did laugh)

 
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Posted by on September 5, 2014 in Uncategorized

 

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You can’t sue me for being lazy.

I am not sure I can get much lazy-er and still be considered living.

I have a nephew that entered the military a few weeks back.

Much to my shame, I just sent the first letter today.

I was in the Army years ago and basic training sucked.

I come from such a close family that the culture shocked was huge.

While the nephew in question comes from every bit the close family situation, he seems a hell of a lot tougher than I was at that age.

But basic training eats away at your old comfort spots, replacing them with new ones in the long run, but for the short term, you are kind of screwed.

But I loved getting mail.

Here is where I hit new highs of laziness.

I didn’t physically write a letter, at least, not in the conventional sense.

I found a website, cut and pasted content, paid just under $2 and they are mailing out my letter for me.

I used this site only because I could not find one to write the letter for me as well.

But the shame factor is hard to get by. (The being raised both Irish and Catholic only ratchets up the guilt factor.)

The results are, a letter was definitely sent. Maybe by a surrogate, but it still went.

By my standards, I am golden, the ultimate uncle.

I have been reminded that I am not the boy’s uncle.

Technically, he is my first cousin’s son, but I come from a large immigrant family, there are literally dozens of cousins, aunts, uncles, nieces, nephews, and everything else in between.

Dealing with a crowd that large is tough unless you streamline the process.

Here is how it works. Anyone within about 5 years of my age up or down is a cousin, anyone younger than that is a niece or nephew, and anyone older is an aunt or uncle.

Within the family, everyone gets it. Outside the family? You get nothing but stares and confusion.

But, and I understand this one better than most, there is a fine line between being totally clueless and completely getting it.

Perspective is everything.

Perspective is caused by experience.

If you ever want marriage advice, avoid counsellors like the plague.

Seek out a couple that has been married for more than 40 years.

These are two people who raised kids, grew up, grew apart, grew back together, and managed to keep all the plates spinning for decades.

This is who you want advice from.

Counsellors, as a general rule, are single or have been married less than a decade, usually without kids.

And if you take your car to a mechanic who doesn’t drive, you will pay for an overhaul you don’t need.

Marriage, as well as most things in life, require that you work your ass off or they will stagnate and die off.

Trust me on this one, I have lived thru that one.

Enough said.

 
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Posted by on August 1, 2014 in Uncategorized

 

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