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Gentle versus a solid ass kicking.

Dylan Thomas was an English poet in the 50s.

Like all poets that means he was all about the pent up, whininess that permeated the overwhelming majority of poetry from that era. (Test reader is a poet, after reading that line I was told to go fuck myself. I think I am onto something here.)

However, in the realm of pent up emo angst, Thomas was a god and should have sacrifices made in his name. (There has to be perks for being the top of your field, even if its whiny.)

But, and this may be a valid question, why should morning coffee and Dylan Thomas go together?

Good question, let’s ponder that over a cup.

Heading into my favorite “Coffee and healthy sandwiches” place is difficult, there is a shopping cart blocking the door.

I tried to move it slightly, only to find that the back wheels are locked up. (This happens when you take a cart away from the boundaries of the supermarket.

Magnetic locks are cheap, easy and impossible to remove without disabling the cart.

Unless you are willing to pick up the back wheels and carry.

Like a wheelbarrow that is totally back heavy and unwheldy.

I take in the pile of garbage in the shopping cart and suddenly it hits me.

Homeless, and he parked his cart out front.

Like a homeless valet service was tipped an extra $20 and told to “Keep it up front.”

I went in.

Ordering was delightful.

The nervous young lady at the counter was splitting her time between me and the collection of people at the end of the counter.

  1. End of counter roll call:
  2. The manager.
  3. The assistant manager.
  4. A kitchen helper whose attendance might be just cuz.
  5. A large gentleman of Samoan descent whose button up, collared, untucked, white shirt says “Security”. (I wanted to call him Boagrius after a warrior from ancient Greece, but no one would get it. I hate being the only one who reads. Plus, Achilles killed him in glorious combat.)

“So what do you want?” Boagrius is big, but polite. (Fine it stays.)

“He needs to go. He is scaring people from using the bathroom.” (I am not sure this is a bad thing. Most men’s rooms look and smell suspiciously like an uncleaned monkey hut at the zoo.)

“Ok.” 

Good, I didn’t miss the opening scene. I hate that, it ruins the movie.

Boagrius saunters over to a table on the far side of the room.

It is pure serendipity that as I cream and sugar my coffee and then move to a table, that I have a perfect vantage point to watch.

The “Person of interest” is sitting at a table right next to the bathroom entry hall.

And interesting, he is.

Homeless is a gimme on the basis of BO alone. (If my busted nose can get a whiff more than 10 feet away, you need a serious delousing and a bubble bath. (And no toys, you are in there to get clean, mister.)

Older, natural aging or meth? (Both?)

There is a small cup of coffee on the table. (It has however, been torn up. This says meth to me, something I have seen them do. I don’t get it either.)

Along with 3 notebooks that I can see words and drawings on from 20 feet away. (This appears to be one of those homeless researchers. Usually, they focus on conspiracy theories. Chem trails are big with them for some reason.)

Bogrius is a big kid, Samoans are not a tiny people.

But he is polite and professional.

“Pardon me, sir?” (Leading with a polite “Sir” is a solid move, right up until it backfires.”

“WHAT?!?!” (Backfires)

As an opening line, that is a line drive home run.

The pure angst and whiny persecution in his voice immediately makes me name him Dylan. (And you thought I forgot about the Dylan Thomas shit at the beginning, didn’t you?)

“Sir, management would like you to leave.” (I like Boagrius because he stays on script, no deviation. A nice quality in a huge security guard.)

“But I bought a coffee!?!?” (Universally, this will be even the most unacceptable homeless guy at least an hour or two in the majority of coffee places. Like a low price ticket for admission.)

“Management called security, sir.” (Solid argument. Boagrius is not new to this.)

“What if I call security on you?!?!” (Plot twist, some of you saw that coming.)

“I am security.” (So who would you call?)

What happened next really bothers me.

Mainly because I didn’t hear it.

Boagrius leaned in and spoke very softly.

It couldn’t have been a threat, his body language was wrong. If anything, Boagrius and Dylan both relaxed halfway thru the comment, whatever it was.

And then Dylan got up, and gathered his notebooks.

He and Boagrius left together.

Dylan lifted the back end of his shopping cart and began to roll away.

He stopped.

Turning, he reached out and rapped on the window, pointing at the manager.

And flipped him off.

Defiant to the end.

“Do not go gentle into that good night”
“Old age should burn and rave at close of day”
“Rage, rage against the dying of the light.”

Dylan knew his shit, I wonder how he took his coffee? (The poet, I mean. The homeless guy is drug addled to the point of possibly not knowing anything of value anymore.)

 

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Posted by on August 4, 2017 in Uncategorized

 

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Little Orphan Meth-Head

“Its a hard luck ROCK, for us.

Its a hard luck rock, FOR US!”

 

“The pipe will come out, tomorrow.

Bet your bottom bitch that, tomorrow, there’ll be crack….”

 

This visual is killing me.

Out in front of the supermarket, is a folding table.

Taped to the front of it is a poorly xeroxed pictures of smiling kids.

A sign on the table asks for donations for foster kids.

The little honey behind the table, I assume to collect the donations as they roll in, is a human being that has lived a hard life.

Meth is not even in question, there has DEFINITELY been meth.

Missing teeth tell a story all their own.

But, and here is the kicker, this is all about her.

Meth will do that to you, make you the main character in every story.

And she is on the phone.

Angry.

Practically yelling.

“These fuckers want me to sit here like a retard, begging for change for minimum fucking wage!”

Wow.

Let that sink in.

Take a minute.

Got it?

Lets move on.

If we take our clues where we may find them, we have the tragic tale of Little Orphan Meth Head.

She is not homeless.

How do I know this?

She has a house arrest ankle bracelet, so she lives SOMEWHERE.

She is making minimum wage, but has not walked off the job, so, at some level, she gives a shit.

Lots to love, lots to hate.

Plus she has a potty mouth and doesn’t give a shit who hears it.

Sliding over into love here.

I am hiding just inside the automatic doors in the store, out of sight.

However, my presence is making the automatic door stay open.

When no one comes out but the door stays open, eventually she will notice and the jig will be up.

Next epic line.

“I don’t give a fuck where they put those little bastards!”

Big step to the hate.

Do what you want, but don’t fuck with the kids.

They have a hard life too, but they had no choices, unlike our orphan.

Run your whiny mouth all you like, addiction is still not a disease.

I contemplate for a few minutes what to do.

Do I get involved? Complain? Try to talk her down? Something?

Something it is.

I play wallet roulette.

I reach into my wallet and grab the first bill from the middle and pull it out.

I don’t organize my money, so today, it could be any one of 3 ones, 2 fives, a ten or 2 twenties. (I am really sweating the $20s. I am charitable, not rich.)

In the end, I folded the ten and stuffed it into her box while holding my finger over my lips.

Crazy bitch actually smiled at me.

I left before Annie attacked Daddy Warbucks.

It was a beautiful moment, but lets not try and fool ourselves.

The sun will come out……Tomorrow!

 
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Posted by on February 10, 2017 in Uncategorized

 

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A half century of greatness.

Turned 50 this morning.

Half Century mark.

As I sit here, I can feel wisdom imbruing my mind and oozing from me like an intellectual diarrhea.

And sometimes just as smelly and inconvenient.

However, I find myself blooming like an intellectual rose at this point in my life.

So, and I mean this from the bottom of my somewhat shallow heart.

Whatever wisdom you find here is golden, take it to heart and realize that if you disagree, its only due to your ignorance, and that isn’t your fault.

And I forgive you.

Moving on to the blog.

 

The Man is in the M-er F-ing HOUSE!

The Starbucks closest to my house is a big one, couple of dozen tables.

Busy, even during the off hours.

And you would think that with that mass of humanity, it would lower the instances of crazy, safety in numbers and all of that.

Try not to think.

Turns out that it just makes crazy up it own game.

Enter the Man.

He is either badly aging 50’s or normal aging late 60’s.

He has swagger to his walk, like he is the Shit.

Let me describe his outfit.

White short shorts, bordering on booty shorts.

Pasty white legs that would need several weeks of a proper diet and then a workout program to look even ok in booty shorts.

As it is, its more than a little creepy.

Moving on.
His shirt appears to have slipt thru a time portal from the 80’s.

OP poloshirt, white with faded blue seagulls.

His hair has a little bit of Pomade in it, giving it a slick and greasy look.

He has an original Ipod, complete with the vintage headphones, vintage to the point that the cord to one of the earpieces has a little ducktape repairing it.

Here is the cherry on the Sunday for this little scenario.

He is a big Journey fan and is singing along to Wheel in the Sky.

Out loud.

And he does not sing well.

Journey was only tolerable if it actually is Journey, but when its sung by The Man (AKA Freakboy) it becomes creepy and a little frightening.

The voice is like a serial killer’s, like its the last one you will ever hear as the trunk of the car closes.

And then there is the straw.

The Man fancies himself as a drummer of sorts with a green straw from the cream and sugar kiosk.

So he is singing out loud, pretty poorly by the way, and smacking this straw onto the table like he is beating on a snare drum, out of beat, of course.

Now I don’t want to assume too much hear, but lets go out on a limb here and say that the Man has, or has had, an issue with various chemicals in his life, most likely for a long time.

Long term abuse of any drug makes you hard to take, case in point, me and caffeine.

But there is a loss of self awareness that comes with the more mentally damaging drugs.

In other words, you lose sight of just how weird you have become.

Like a meth head that has scratched holes in his face, then hits you up for change with some convoluted story that, to him I am sure, makes it seem like he is just a regular guy who needs a couple of bucks to get out of a jam.

All the while, continuing to scratch new holes in his face.

And if the thought actually entered your head, “Don’t judge.” Grow the hell up. And if you think the bible says don’t judge you aren’t paying attention.

Uh oh. Looks like there is the potential for mayhem, the federales have arrived.

In classic form, The Man is not shocked to see them.

With almost no words bing said, they all head outside to talk.

Perhaps they are all friends.

Everyone is smiling and friendly.

The meth head with the heart of gold.

Maybe this will be the sequel to Pretty Woman, a new vehicle for Julia Roberts. (Hooker with a heart of gold scenario)

Maybe not.

 
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Posted by on June 3, 2016 in Uncategorized

 

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Anybody dead yet?

Paraskevidekatriaphobia: Fear of Friday the 13th.

Excuse me while I shit myself sideways and die.

Its no secret that this day in particular tends to give me an immediate case of swampass.

And you people are READING it on Friday the 13th as if its nothing.

Well, dipshit, I hate to be the one to tell you this, but…

We’re all gonna die.

Look at the logic, for God’s sake.

There is ONLY ONE Friday the 13th this year, versus 3 last year.

This year has all of the power crammed into one day.

Think this is bullshit?

Anyone want to guess when the last year was that had only one Friday the 13th in it?

2001, the year of 9/11.

Ha!

Now, I know that half of you are ready to get into the panic room I have been building to ride out this evil storm and the rest, morons really, are skeptical.

Anybody ever see the movie the Purge?

That is exactly what is going on.

Anarchy, blood in the streets, dogs and cats- living together. MASS HYSTERIA! (Name the movie and you get sprinkles.)

And the twisted part of it all is that I am forgoing my time honored tradition of huddling in the dark and crying like a little girl for the day.

I will be thumbing my nose at the beast and going hiking.

There is an excellent chance with will be the last blog ever written as I will be dead at the bottom of a cliff by 9am tomorrow, both legs broken and gang-raped by bigfoot and the chubacabra.

I was going to say that there are worse ways to die, but I can’t think of a worse way to die right now, that sounds pretty F-ing horrible.

But, I have been bitten pretty badly by the hiking bug and I am heading out every day off I have.

Like a healthy form of meth, I am pretty deep into the addiction.

It is better for your body than meth and you never have to blow anyone in an alley for a trail.

So I’ve got that going for me.

Turns out, that after a lifetime spent growing up in southern California, I suddenly found out there are amazing trails all over the place.

And it may be the cheapest hobby on the day to day.

Decent shoes are a must, along with something to hold water and food, hiking poles are nice, shade hat and sunglasses.

But you can piece it all together on the cheap and as long as you have the free time, you can go binge on your addiction all you like.

I will get sick of it eventually, but for right now, I am loving it.

But hiking on Friday the 13th has that extra edge of masochism to it that makes it pretty exciting.

I wonder what its like to die in a landslide?

Without coffee?

Now THAT is scary.

Fuck it, I am staying home.

If anyone needs me, they will find me in my panic room, sipping coffee and crying like a little girl. (Possibly masturbating, but this is a don’t ask/don’t tell blog.)

My condolences.

 
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Posted by on May 13, 2016 in Uncategorized

 

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Whatcha gonna do?

“You have brains in your head. You have feet in your shoes. You can steer yourself any direction you choose. You’re on your own. And you know what you know. And YOU are the one who’ll decide where to go…”
― Dr. Seuss, Oh, The Places You’ll Go!

Dr. Seuss forgot one part.

Unless of course, you get a snoot full of meth.

Its not as flowery or even comes close to rhyming like the legendary prose of the good doctor, but there is a nasty little snatch of truth in it.

So why am I trotting out the wraith of Seuss?

Because the tv show Cops is real.

Let me explain.

I got a an activity tracker a few months ago.

It has gotten me into the guilty habit of coming to the end of my day, realizing that I have not done anything for my health, made me feel bad that I refuse to go jogging, so I go on 5-10 mile walks.

But where do you walk to, you ask?

Somewhere to write.
I pick Starbucks that are a good stretch of the legs and hit the road.

And it worked.

In a couple of months, I have logged 1 million steps.

What does that have to do with Dr. Seuss?

Be patient, I am getting there.

I also suffer from ADD.

I get bored easy, so going to the same Starbucks all the time goes stale pretty quick.

Which leads us to today.

I have been walking for over an hour and I am now less than a mile from my chosen destination.

And I am sitting at the side of the road on a low wall watching the decay of modern society.

The cameras are not here, but this is an episode of Cops, I am sure of it.

Mom is in a bathrobe, chain smoking and alternating between screaming at the cops and crying and trying to comfort Joey. (Not my mom, of course. She stopped smoking decades ago, and you could not get her outside in a bathrobe without makeup unless you put a gun to her head. Even then, she may just take the bullet, mom likes things just so.)

Back to Joey.

Joey, is her little pride and joy.

At least, he was about 25 years ago, now he is a drugged out mullet wearing handcuffs and sweating like he is in a sauna.

And if you really wanted to wrestle with the police, why would you wait until you are handcuffed and surrounded.

Joey loves a challenge, evidently.

I really love police dogs.

They are almost always German Shepherds, one of my top 3 favorite breeds. (The other 2 are Irish WolfHound’s and Shih tzu’s)

The police dog is really wanting in on the fun here, but he is being barely restrained by a large cop no doubt with a heart of gold.

[[ADD SIDEBAR]] The Starbucks I am in stopped playing self indulgent Lillithfair crap music and played a 4 pack of Run DMC. They were the shit. [[END]]

Where was I?

Ah, my disappointment that there was no meth head mauling by the big puppy.

Now, you can screech at me all you like about this next line, but you are still wrong.

Joey did this to himself.

Meth and ignorance are a personal choice.

You’re goddam right I said it.

Its a disease, you whine.

Polio is a disease.

Meth is a personal choice made up of equal parts ignorance, lack of faith (In God and self) and poor parenting.

Personally I feel there is a lack of Irish genealogy here, but I cannot find the science to back that up.

“Are you happy now, mom?!?!” Joey yelled this as he was leaning across the hood of the patrol for the pat down.

Let me answer for mom.

No, no she isn’t, probably hasn’t been happy for a long time.

I read somewhere, “At any moment before you enter the gates of hell, you can change your luck.”

I have always felt there was a part of that missing.

You can change your luck, but only if you know you can.

I am going to jump out on a limb here and say that mom and Joey have no clue.

More’s the pity.

 
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Posted by on April 8, 2016 in Uncategorized

 

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That flash of brilliance

There is a really dumb theory that truly creative minds gravitate to drug use.

This little treasure of ignorance is always spouted off by someone who uses it to defend their idol.

Jimmy Hendrix, John Belushi and Kurt Cobain are the 3 sacred cows they like to trot out.

But here is the key.

I have never, ever, heard this theory trotted out by anyone who: A. Had an advanced degree. And B: Has a successful career.

You will never see all three of those together. Just saying.

But, this whole argument leads me to the little scene going on in front of me.

Using the argument from the sentences about, 2 of the most creative men ever to walk the planet are sitting on the patio of a Starbucks.

And these two genuses stink like someone dipped them in shit.

But the shining brilliance makes that ungodly BO bearable.

And what is the subject of our little think tanks roundtable today?

“If Bill Gates drops a $100 bill, he will lose money if he takes the time to stop and pick it up.”

Its like being in the presence of Stephen Hawking if he was being gang raped by Einstein.

(Personally, there is no way Einstein could maintain an erection with that kind of BO. Can’t be done.)

I know I am setting myself up for a bunch of whiny emails from the social justice warriors who will throw out the same tired catch phrases. “Walk a mile in his shoes, you don’t know what has gone on in his life… blah blah frickin blah.”

First of all, I would not be caught dead in those shoes.

Second of all the logic is something teenagers would come up with.

And slow teens at that.

I have never smoked meth or blown a dealer in an alleyway, but I am more than a little sure I would not like it.

Moving on.

The thing that keeps bringing me back to these two is that there is a specific spot that Bill would need to be dropping Franklins.

Creative genius number one has repeatedly smacked the same spot on the ground.

“Right here, right Fuxxxxx here.” Smack! “If Bill Gates dropped a $100 right here, he wouldn’t pick it up, couldn’t pick it up, he would lose money just doing it!”

And it wasn’t even an argument, they were agreeing with each other for the better part of an hour.

And here is the take away from this entire meth-fueled Algonquin Round-table:

Sometimes creative people do drugs.

And sometimes, smelly dipshits do drugs.

And it probably isn’t a good idea for either one.

 
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Posted by on March 25, 2016 in Uncategorized

 

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Cup a joe

Ahhhh, coffee.

Sometimes it’s important to pay a little homage to what brought us all here.

The founder of the feast, as it were.

Coffee.

If you say it softly, it’s almost like praying. (My mother is not going to like that line, by the way.)

Ok, it’s not, but you know what I mean.

Caffeine, in the form of coffee is the most acceptable addiction on the planet.

It beats the shit out of meth in the public eye.

You can sit in church and sip coffee. (Not the church I grew up in, but others.)

I actually had someone tell me how bad Red Bull is for you, while sipping coffee.

You might say people in glass houses should not throw stones, but I am a firm believer in being a total hypocrite.

I will lob rocks from my glass porch all day long.

And if something breaks, call the glass guy to fix it, he has kids to feed.

To do anything else is unamerican.

Hypocrisy and denial is the American way.

Despite how that sounds, I am not knocking it, I am reveling in it.

The people who boo hoo about most things are wildly hypocritical about most things.

3 examples:

  1. I have a friend who, while between jobs, slept in downtown LA in the Occupy LA encampment. She tweeted incessantly on her Iphone (Newest model), used her visa platinum card to order food to be delivered, and every other day, would drive her new BMW to her parents place in the Hollywood Hills to shower and bitch her parents out. My suggestion that her parents should have her tasered on site for being a family embarrassment did not go over well.
  2. If you are addicted to cigarettes and use a nicotine patch to stop smoking, you do realize that you are simply switching one drug for another and you aren’t really quitting anything. The cigarette companies are the ones that make the patch and trust me, they have no interest in you quitting smoking. But it does look good in the news, doesn’t it?
  3. Just about anyone with a strong opinion about anything. Dig deep enough and you will find something they have, do or believe that contradicts that strong opinion enough that, God forbid you point that out in a rudely sarcastic way, they will flip you off and drop the subject.

Back to coffee.

My first sip in the morning sends a shudder thru me that is as close to a tiny orgasm as you can get without having to change your skivvies.

But here is how great an addiction coffee is.

If you go to a support group for addiction to various drugs?

They serve coffee, the most pure of drugs.

How great is that?

So, as I sit here in my little glass tower, pontificating on the vagaries of the human condition from the existen-

Shit, out of coffee.

brb

 

Ok.

Better.

Where was I?

Oh, coffee, right.

It’s a good thing.

 

 
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Posted by on February 12, 2016 in Uncategorized

 

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