Tag Archives: southern california

Water will not kill you. (Most of the time.)

There is a certain vicious delight that runs thru me as I watch people freak out about the rain.

Its Southern California, so rain is like a unicorn with a drinking problem and a rage issue.

When it does show up, it will fly into a homicidal binder and does its best to kill you.

I am staring out the window at the rain.

The concept of a gentle drizzle is all but unknown in these parts.

Houses slide down the hillsides, mudslides and flashflood warnings take over the news like a natural disaster form of corporate take over.

Personally, I like it.

Not the horror, the rain.

I lived in Portland, OR for about 5 years and it rained for most of that time.

You get used to it.

You can always tell a tourist in Portland because they carry an umbrella.

Everyone who actually lives there just puts their hood up.

You live in a constant state of always being a little wet.

But you miss the sun.

To Portland, the sun is a lot like a deadbeat dad.

It shows up once in a great while, and never stays long enough to establish any warmth, but just enough to remind you of what’s missing and make you wonder what life would be like if it was around a lot more.

There is a puddle on the walkway leading into the Starbucks I am in.

The path dips in that spot and it has created a deceptively deep puddle, about 6 inches deep.

However, and this is the key point, it doesn’t LOOK deep at all.

So people keep stepping in it.

That is how pathetic my mind is, my amusement this morning centers around watching people freak out after stepping in a deceptively deep puddle.

Childish? Yes.

Mean? Possibly.

Awesome? Absolutely.

And people are different when it comes to the unintentional dunking of their stanky feet. (All feet are stanky with the exception of mine, my children (You should have smelled their baby feet!), and any woman I have given a foot rub to over the years. (Possibly the most erotic thing on the planet.)

The more manly a guy is, the more prissy and girly their response.

The guy is about 6’2, square jaw, man’s man.

Right foot, full immersion.

The screech was high pitched and easily heard thru the window.

He began high stepping with his hands flexing then tightening into fists, then flexing again.


Next up, Yoga woman.

She is the epitome of the “New fitness” prototype.

Yoga pants, greatest creation of modern times when worn by the right woman.

Baggy yet frilly top that is supposed to be shapeless, yet points out that this woman is incredibly built.

Low rise snug ugg boots, a good look with this ensemble.

The hair is carefully arranged to look casual.

The overall effect is stunning.

Left foot, full immersion.

The cursing is deeper than expected and a lot filthier. (Uncomfortably masculine.)

She may have a penis, we have no way of knowing.

Gone is the serene facade and what is left is pissed off.

Wet ugg boots, can’t blame her. (If they are real lambs wool, they are going to stink later.)

The most surprising of the morning was the little old lady.

I saw her get out of her Oldsmobuick and heard towards the front door.

Peasant skirt, flats, blouse with a little rain coat plus umbrella.

I am out of my seat and just coming out of the front door to stop her when something interesting happened.

She jumped in the puddle.


I held the door for her as she went in.

Made my day.


1 Comment

Posted by on January 8, 2016 in Uncategorized


Tags: , , , , , , ,

Welcome to the party, Karma, you’re late.

Everyone makes such a big deal about karma, like its this serious cosmic force for justice.

If it worked even a third of the time, we would not need laws at all, and not one of the Kardashians would be living.

Sadly, karma has never pulled its own weight.

That being said, when it does show up, the results can be stunning.

And funny to those of us that relish the misfortune of others.

Guilty as charged.

I am at one of my favorite breakfast spots at the beach, a little Mexican place tucked away in a corner, they’ve been there forever.

Mexican places rock for breakfast.

Several that I have been to spike their coffee with cinnamon for that Feliz Navidad feeling, and chips and salsa while you wait is just sprinkles on the “Happy” sundae.

But enchilada sauce and melted cheese on a breakfast burrito allows you to achieve a sense of nirvana only previously reached by the greater yogi’s of history.

That paints quite a picture, doesn’t it?

Let me go further.

I like the patio. View of the ocean kind of open air, with part of the patio covered with an old wood pergola covered with vines.

Ocean breeze and awesome food, what could possibly fuck this up?

The lady at the next table.

Imagine that great aunt of yours that was your grandmother’s best friend growing up? She is big and heavy, always wore those brightly colored mumu/sun dresses with too much fake jewelry?

The makeup was troweled on by someone with a putty knife and perfume was applied by dipping her in a vat of Avon’s finest.

She came from somewhere else, so she had an accent, not something cute, something that only annoyed you more.

Now, take away any goodwill/benefit of the doubt you might have had because she was a relative, and put her at the next table over on the patio at my favorite breakfast spot.

And she is bitching about something, because what else would she be doing?

It doesn’t really matter what she is pissing and moaning about, to me, the fact that she is squawking about it is enough.

But, you are all details people, I can see that.

Here you go:

Comment 1. “I don’t know why you insist on coming to these dive places, the food is rarely good and you don’t know who they have working in kitchen.” (Are you high, lady? You are in Southern California, there are Mexicans in the kitchen.)

Comment 2. “I don’t know why Tammy was shocked when her son flunked out of school, I had that boy pegged early on. Drugs.” (Yes, whispering the word drugs doesn’t make you seem like a rotten bitch of a human being.)

Comment 3. “What HAVE they done to the coffee? Is that cinnamon? That is almost a cliche its so sad.” (Alright bitch, now you have done it. Do NOT fuck with my coffee. I will cut a bitch.)

However, before I can say or do anything, karma shows up like that flaky friend that is late 9 time out of 10. This being the 10th time.

Sparrows like to flit back and forth in the vines above, but in 15+ years of going to this place, I have never seen one shit on the ground, a table, and certainly not a person.

Until today.

With pinpoint accuracy, a sparrow shit 2x times its body weight onto her upper left breast, evenly splitting the material and flesh for a smelly ground zero that I happened to be looking right at when it happened.

Wow. It is one of those rare times that I am speechless.

Except for laughing.

The bark of laughter that exploded from my mouth scared the crap out of her.

The fist pump and harsh explosion of the word “YES!” from my mouth didn’t scare her as much as it pissed her off.

After all, the sparrow had flown off and she couldn’t bitch at it.

But we had both shit on her in different ways, but I was still there.

The evil old-lady glare I got was epic.

If she had any gypsy blood, I was in for a serious cursing.

They comped her breakfast and she stomped her chubby ass out the front door along with her reluctant companion.

And I got to eat my breakfast in peace.

And all was right with the world.

Leave a comment

Posted by on August 29, 2014 in Uncategorized


Tags: , , , , , , , ,

You want a piece of me?

Its a new year.

That is not necessarily a good thing, by the way.

January 1st is never the greatest of days for those who partied the night before.

Hangovers are a bitch.

And then there is that whole “Gotta remember to write “2014” on everything.

I usually end up throwing away about a dozen checks every January and February like clockwork.

I try, but it is the same every year.

Like a numerical form of Alzheimer’s, I will write the wrong date in a daze.

And then tear it up.

Luckily, the bank, like all good crack dealers, will gladly facilitate my getting more checks.

I got a 40 word text message from a friend of mine at a quarter to midnight, new years eve.

If you remove the F-word, there were only 15 words in the text.

Ah, the joys of having severely drunk friends on the one night of the year I refuse to drink.

And not because I have some sort of moral objection.

But, as we all know, I view others as toys, to be screwed with as the mood hits me.

I have a friend that claims its a sociopath’s view of things.

Lets not get ahead of ourselves.

I am writing this on Friday, 2 days after New Years.

The weather is going to be in the mid 70’s today.

Winter, in Southern California.

Michigan state has been in town for the Rose Bowl for the last few days.

And now, they are going back to their snowy hinterlands.

Good for them, they have my condolences.

They are more that welcome to the shitty land they live in.

There is something seriously wrong with anyone who live in a place so cold you are literally afraid to go outside.

People die there every winter.

However, I am a product of growing up in Southern California.

Its always fairly nice here.

That might explain why the rents are what they are.

What are you gonna do?

I have gotten email about my arrogance about Southern California.

I find that fascinating that with all thats going on in the world, anyone would give a crap about my opinion about anything.

Maybe my comments about Egypt were a bit much, I am willing to admit that.

“Even if they win their country, its still a shitty desert.”

A little harsh, even for me.

I have said worse, trust me.

My somewhat brutal witnessing of people behaving badly has gathered some pretty awesome comments that really hit on the high side of crude, rude and obscene on more than a few occasions.

So be it.

It may be an old saying and a tradition that you don’t shoot the messenger, but traditions are broken all the time.

And maybe the saying came about because too many messengers were getting killed.

And I get that.

There is a price for everything.

And if somebody is really looking for me to settle up over something rude, you know where to find me.

I am the short chubby guy sitting at the round table in the back of Starbucks.

Which one?

Maybe all of them.

Watch your shit, cause you know I will.

Leave a comment

Posted by on January 3, 2014 in Uncategorized


Tags: , , , , , , , , ,