Twenty-one Minutes

Inspiration: Fingernails & burritos

2008-03-14T22:13:00.004-04:00

Granted, the post title could be a messy combination, but it is/was completely innocent.

I was driving to work Friday morning - how I loathe the commute - and took the opportunity to engage in some clandestine people watching.

Staring at people from the inside of a car is an art. You're sitting in your metal box with wheels - and they're sitting inside theirs. When you're stopped at one of the traffic lights that litter this part of suburbia like politician's lies in the run-up to Election Day, the last thing you really want to do is have someone actually NOTICE you staring at them.

The art of a good traffic stop stare is to watch the action, but also to watch for subtle moment when they "know" they're being watched, and just at that moment shift your gaze to look "past" the person. You need to be able to wordlessly communicate the fact that you weren't staring at them, you were calmly listening to music, staring off into space, dreaming behind the wheel.

Of course, they probably know that you've just been staring at them, but they've got no proof - and unless they're packing, there is precious little they can do about it, short of getting out of the car and making a scene the likes of which Russell Crowe would enjoying throwing phones in.

One word of advice: Never give a good stare at someone likely to be packing. This includes vehicles displaying NRA bumper stickers, Confederate flags bumper stickers and anything with a W '04 sticker left over from Bush vs. Kerry. People who vote Republican are crazy.

What's the point of all this? Sometimes you capture more beautiful slice-of-life action in the ten seconds you're stopped at a traffic light than you do all week on CBS. Particularly if you're watching "Two and a Half Men."

I was gridlocked at the intersection of two major cross streets this morning, when a beat-up sable Acura Vigor careened from four lanes over into the left turn lane trying to catch the arrow and get onto the road headed for downtown.

In the car were three Hispanic women, obviously lively for this time of the morning when I wished I could crawl back into bed. They were eating what I can only believe to be takeout breakfast burritos from a really odd Mexican/Chinese storefront takeout in the shopping plaza they just pulled out from.

I don't know who they were, or where they were going, but it was just a perfect scene of three friends laughing, eating and enjoying their free time in the moments before they headed off to some hopefully not too soul-deadening job.

I didn't get too good a look at the driver, but the car was stopped in traffic long enough for me to get a good read on the woman in the passenger seat and in the back seat.

Passenger seat had that fiery red-black hair that looks so beautiful on some women. It was done up in big curls and had a lively bounce. She was half turned in the seat to talk to the woman in the back, and chomping on a burrito and swigging from a bottle of Dasani. Her nails were this ruby shade of enamel polish, and she had a set of talons on her. She's probably a hell of a lover, a fighter and wears her emotions on her sleeve.

Back seat looked like she was rushing to finish her burrito, taking big bites and holding her hand over her mouth not to laugh too hard and spew food everywhere. She would laugh and her ebony curls would bounce all over the place. She had nails too, but she had green - almost the color of emeralds - polish on.

No one in the car knew I was staring, and I doubt they would have cared. It was a beautiful scene - and over all too quickly.

Traffic kept moving, the driver handed the woman in the passenger seat the water bottle back and the car shot forward like the women were late for an appointment with God - or a timeclock.

Adios.

Today's findings: Ham, egg & feta burrito

2008-03-13T11:26:00.002-04:00

Not dead, but the flu has left me decidedly weaker and with a persistent cough.

I have been driven from my apartment by the idiots at Comcast. As soon as "John Adams" is finished on HBO, I am going to cancel my HBO & Showtime. Maybe I'll start back up my NetFlix and just get stuff thataway.

But I have discovered a new coffee house, a local place that opened up not too far from my apartment. The coffee isn't much to write home about, but there is free WiFi. And a colorful cast of local characters hanging around. Think "Coffee of Doom" from the Questionable Content webcomic.

So I found inspiration - a ham, egg, roasted red pepper and feta cheese breakfast burrito. Overpriced at $6.95, especially as I didn't eat the unpreposessing slab of watermelon which accompanied it, nor the "salsa" that looked like ketchup, but the burrito was excellent. The feta cheese really gave the whole ham and egg thing a lift. I had a raspberry white chocolate scone for dessert. It was yummy.

The cast of characters here is really something. This little cafe is probably what the prototype for "neighborhood coffee shop" should be - except that I've been the only paying customer for the past 45 minutes. Well, there is this crazy homeless man in the corner, who seems to keep getting food without visibly paying for it. He has knocked back two cookies, a scone and four cups of coffee. I wonder what his story is - I know he has one. And who is paying his bills? I mean, if they like old, crazy and scruffy, I need to be in on that action!

Now he is singing along to whatever is on the radio. Pat Benatar should ONLY be sung by Pat Benatar. He'll talk to anyone - and thus far I have managed to avoid his efforts at conversation. I'm not minded by his presence, but he needs to stay on his side of the personal comfort zone. Crazy homeless people rarely seem to understand that not everyone wants to talk to them.

Hmm. Let me think about that for a second. I guess society has failed this old buzzard - and we should all be more forgiving. I wonder if he's mentally ill or just one of those people that have slipped through the cracks and is just wandering around without a home or family or anything to hang on to - and he thinks of the coffee shop as home. I wonder where he sleeps.

I just caught a glimpse of coin-slot as one of the "baristas" bent over to pick up something she dropped on the floor. Lovely way to start the lunch hour. The Coin Slot Cafe - $4 for the lattes, the baristas are a quarter out back!

Please help me survive the day

2008-03-04T15:32:00.002-05:00

I think I'm going to die. I have the flu - or at least the symptoms thereof and am currently feverish and sweating like a drag queen in line at an Army recruiting office. Bitch know she gonna get found out and won't get to see the pretty marines take their clothes off.

And I tried a new deli for lunch - girls, avoid turkey, cranberry and dressing sandwiches made by Cubans. If it don't come from your grandma, leave it at home! Lord. My head hurts, my stomach is doing a Flying Wallenda number and my eyes are crossing. I think I'm going to die. Ohhhhh. I have bad gas too.

These thin-blooded heifers keep the temperature in the office so hot. One turned it up to 78 degrees the other day. What is this? Egypt? Bring a sweater.

OK. Enough kvetching. I need to make a run to the bathroom before I throw up at the desk.

I process at a keyboard

2008-03-01T10:56:00.001-05:00

If there is a hell, it must be populated with the souls of Comcast executives and strung with thousands of miles of low-grade digital wires from which Satan's demons drop bricked modems upon the heads of the unfortunate.

If I am ever – EVER – in my life – EVER – in a position to destroy Comcast, I will. I will buy the company and personally force every single executive to live for a month in a neighborhood with shitty cable service. And then be forced to spend TWENTY-FIVE MINUTES on hold before even talking to a human being. No golden parachutes. I won't fire them. I will put them to work in the janitorial department.

As for the phone monkeys, I will go through my records and find every single one of you who EVER handled one of my calls. I know your little digital fingerprints are there. I will make your lives hell – wherever you are. Your incompetence is staggeringly profound. I DO NOT WANT AN EFFING SEFRVICE CALL. DON'T YOU THINK THAT AFTER I'VE CALLED YOU FIFTEEN TIMES IN SIX MONTHS THAT IT IS NOT SOMETHING A "SERVICE CALL" CAN FIX?

Stupid. Jaw-droppingly stupid. Wal-Mart hires people with more intelligence. And we all know what I think about Wal-Mart.

Moving on ….

I hesitate to write about being depressed, because I don't want this to turn into an emo-livejournal-thing, but man, I felt shitty driving home last night. And no, this isn't a cry for help, I'm just trying to work out how I feel. I process at a keyboard.

I don't know what's wrong with me lately, but I feel so "damaged," almost as if my life were an Etch-a-Sketch, and someone keeps shaking the drawing every three minutes. I don't know where to turn to, I don't even know which way is up or down or sideways anymore.

I just feel trapped in this loop where every day feels like it is over before I start doing anything – and every week is over before I get anything done. I bought my grandparents a card for their 59th anniversary, put it by the door to take to the post office, and just looked at it yesterday morning. Their anniversary was two weeks ago.

I don't know who I am – and worse, I don't know who I want to be. When I was in college, I suffered from the arrogance of youth – and I was so "sure" of who I was. I was a horrible person on the inside then – but youth is about learning. And I did learn – and I'm still learning – but damn – there has to be something more to life than this.

There's nothing around me that makes my heart race, my pulse pound, my ears ring. I feel like I walk through life a zombie sometimes, going from home to work and pressing buttons to make words appear on a screen.

There are all these thoughts in my head – things that I know with the certainty of a thousand oaths sworn upon the sacred texts of all the religions of the planet – that no one at my real job will listen to. It is so discouraging to be hired and asked to innovate – and then sit and watch people absolutely refuse to take the advice they're paying you for.

All too frequently now I feel like the only intelligent person in a room full of people with blinders over their eyes and their hands clamped firmly over their ears all screaming "LALALALALALALALALALALALALALALALALALALALA" at the top of their lungs as fast and as loud as they can, stopping only to cash a six-figure paycheck or tip the valet. And they only reason they're acting like that is because they don't want to hear what anyone else has to say. So damn discouraging.

This is how Fox Mulder felt – except that I don't have a Scully, or even the Lone Gunmen. I don't even have any fish. However, if this turns into that shitty "Jose Chung's 'From Outer Space" episode, I'm gonna kill a bitch. That mess was rank.

CrumbCast - round one thousand

2008-02-28T08:38:00.002-05:00

Before I start, THANK YOU for all your wonderful words of support. I had a really crappy couple days Tuesday & Wednesday, topped off by a meltdown in traffic while I was already a half-hour late to something I really didn't need to be late to. I missed a turn in the dark and drove three miles in the wrong direction looking for a turn lane or a median cut or anything – damn "NO U-TURN SIGNS." I went to work yesterday, basically because I had to – but locked myself in a conference room and didn't come out until 2 p.m. I told everyone I had bad vibes. They just think I'm unsociable. Whatever. Anyway. My GMAIL notifier kept going boing-boing and I'd read another comment and I just finally had to smile. Thanks. I mean that. I might be a shitty writer, but you're all fabulous, wonderful individuals.

On that note …

CrumbCast just sucks huge and major dick. I don't even call and complain anymore – it does no good. There is probably a note on my account "customer suck – ignore and promise service call – listen to strangled screams of rage."

If it rains, the line goes out. If the wind blows, the line goes out. If it gets cool, the line goes out. If a bird takes a crap, the line goes out. If a leaf falls the wrong way, the line goes out. It is a complete joke that a First World country has such poor infrastructure.

This is what monopoly has wrought upon the American people. I think I'm going to cancel my HBO & Showtime as soon as this season of "The Wire" is over – and possibly cancel my cable altogether and see about getting an aircard.

When I call to cancel, I am going to tell them – "You cannot provide me with Internet service, you do not deserve my dollars." Sadly, CrumbCast or Embarq (that motley collection of dog feces) are the only games in town. I long ago gave up on Embarq – back when they were Sprint and gave me a 10-day install time just to turn on the phone service in my apartment.

I downloaded the Scissor Sisters mashup album "Da-Tah" from arjanwrites – and I'm sort of liking it. I'm not a huge Scissor Sisters fan, but I love how the Internet and cheap/free software have inspired all sorts of new creative expression built upon the bones of established art.

Apropos of nothing, I had a late dinner with a friend last night. Word of advice to anyone considering Jack Daniels bourbon sauce for the hot wings – "avoid." Gastric distress – I CAN HAZ IT. I was driving home and had to make an emergency stop by the office park where I work and visit the necessary.

Of course, when you're in a "hurry," the parking lot seems ten miles long and the security measures just seem to slow you down. Badge. Elevator. Badge again, because we only get specific floors of the building, and maintenance is in the bathroom. I went anyway. I told the 700-year-old Eastern European man that does our maintenance "I have to go." He stayed for a second scrubbing the sink but left when I went into the stall. How nice of him. I have no shame dropping a deuce with people around though. I had to GO.

Going to every sleazy dance club and gay bar in three southern states teaches you real quick not to be particular about the facilities. If they have toilet paper and it flushes, count your blessings. If there's a sink with running water and some paper towels, you need to go buy lottery tickets and hire an investment attorney. And the signs on the door in these types of places are essentially just "suggestions," – and the more people that get comfortable going to the loo together the better. That just means you get back to the dance floor sooner.

Lord, the things I did back in the college days. There was this one club in Mississippi, called "Club City Lights," that was in a, shall we say, "not so good" area of town. (they always are). To get through the door, you had to go through a metal detector. Then, there was the pat-down from a six-foot-plus bouncer that could have started at linebacker on any NFL team.

It was a fun night though – it was just insane. The club had table service, there was great dance music and underground club cuts I'd never heard before and I think they had some live jazz around 4 a.m. – which was just amazing. The place was open all night – right up till 5 a.m.; we ate breakfast on one of the floating casinos on the Mississippi River sometime around 7 a.m. and watched the sun rise. I remember thinking that even at that hour on a Monday morning, there were some hardcore gamblers up in the joint pumping money into the slot machines or looking grim over the blackjack tables.

I miss the circle of friends I had then; we fought like dogs sometimes, but we did love each other. I work too hard now, and don’t play enough – and there's no one around me that has that same sense of carefree whimsy that we seemed elevate from character trait to lifestyle.

Being an adult sucks.

I'm lost and I don't have a map

2008-02-27T10:30:00.002-05:00

Yeah. I know. Bad blogger. Whatever. Get over it. Most people hate what I put out anyway. And you all are certainly not shy about sending emails. Jesus. One little "Chinese dog buffet joke" and people go apeshit insane. It is OK. Seriously. The doctors say the scars from the razors will heal in a few months. I was lucky that my friends found me though. For the record, O positive.

Joke. Totally a joke. I'd take pills. Just like that scene in "Nip/Tuck" with Julie Warner, where she takes the pills and then says "I think I'm going to put the plastic bag over my head now." That's totally me. And I'm dead serious about that. See what I did there. Using the word "dead." Another joke. A sense of the macabre brings out the best in me.

Anyway. I haven't been around much. I wish I had a good reason. I don't really, other than the fact that I have not been inspired.

Look. I know my writing sucks like Tri-Delta at a Kappa Sig party, but I don't really know anything else to do but keep trying until something clicks. It took more than eight months until "Behind the Counter" really sort of got into a groove and I just haven't found that yet.

On a side note, it still hurts me to type "Behind the Counter." There are days I wish I'd never quit Wal-Mart, never ended that blog. I severely misjudged how much of myself I'd invested in that – and how much it hurt to give it up. I feel like I abandoned a child sometimes. And no, I'd never go back now – but I still miss writing "Behind the Counter." It was something I loved, something I cherished and even though it was probably destroying me to work there, the part of my soul that was fed by the writing is going hungry now.

You think I don't know my new stuff sucks? Knowing it sucks makes it worse. Knowing I put the suckiness out there doubles the sucky factor on top of that.

Honestly, I've been holding back – because people I might want to write about read this. It is not a trust thing – it is more that I can't write around the voids that leaving those things out would cause.

Anyway. I don't know if I care anymore. I'm tired of hurting myself for the sake of something I don't even know if I believe in. I'm tired of waiting. I'm tired of looking at the shadows of the fire on the wall and thinking those are all that is and ever will be.

I'm going to write until I find myself again.

I owed Laura Bush a solid for the pretzel incident

2008-02-12T03:32:00.002-05:00

Lord have mercy. It's has been another crazy-ass day up in here. I just got back from Rome this morning – after having a throw-down with an Alitalia stewardess about bringing a pound of fresh-ground espresso on board the first-class cabin.

Damn. I wanted to bring the coffee back as a present. And so help me god if someone can use coffee to bring down a modern jetliner. Well, according to Google (pretty soon, we will all worship at the altar of the High Lord Brin & the Most High Holy Page) – you can make a smoke bomb and a bath bomb – but not a real bomb using coffee. What the hell is a bath bomb anyway? It don't sound good.

What was I doing in Rome? If I told you I'd have to kill you. No. I was actually in Greece, on the island of Santorini, taking a wine vacation and doing a little relaxing – if you consider taking out five ninja assassins, three IRA zealots and Condoleeza Rice to be "relaxing."

Condi wasn't officially on the menu – but she swung by the island on her way to Istanbul (Turkish democracy or Turkish delight – which would you vote for?) and I figured I'd make the world a better place. Plus, I figured I owed Laura Bush a solid for when she tried to take out W. with that pretzel back on '02. The man is like Fidel – preternaturally lucky. We were SO close.

Anyway. I'm slinging my tuna around the island – trying to catch a man – a rich old man (where the hell is MY Aristotle Onassis?) when I stop in at this café. The first thing I see – "proudly serving Starbucks Coffee." Le sigh. It's everywhere. Everywhere. Seven thousand stores and growing. I mean, I guess that's what I get for coming to a tourist trap.

I get a cold-brewed iced coffee – and let me tell you – if you don't already subscribe to the wonders of cold-brewed, you really, really ought to. That stuff is far, far better than regular iced coffee.

But back to me. I'm thinking about the crap I left behind at the office. Yes, even world-class assassins have "offices."

Some new beyotch moved in a few weeks ago. She's an "individual." Bless. And curse. And she apparently loves plants. Can't go anywhere without her "air-purifiers." IT IS A CLIMATE CONTROLLED BUILDING. PLUS, THE HEFFA BROUGHT IN TWO GIANT TREES. AND AN ORCHID. PRETTY - BUT WITH ANTS. ANTS. I HATE ANTS.

Her cubicle looks like something out of "Ferngully" now. There is a "shrine" to some nature deity – with stalks of wheat and tiny animals and posters. There are plants. There are enough origami figures to populate most of post-war Japan and make a good start on mainland China. It's not a cubicle, it is a second bedroom.

All this would be find if the woman was there all the time – but she isn't. She "works from home" a lot. Apparently, the cubicle decorations are some sort of bizarre cat-spraying, territory-marking ritual that only she understands. The territory, I marketh it. Touch. Die. Who the hell knows.

Where the hell is that café waiter? I need another bottle of wine. Actually, can I get the waiter on the menu? As a rule, I try not to sleep with the help, but I'm leaving tomorrow – and this one is kind of cute – in that skinny, dark-haired, Macedonian Serbian-ish Novak Djokovic way. CHECK PLEASE!

--filed by Charanda deKristeax from the Potamis Pita Plonk and Euboean Express Espresso Bar.

How to Love Lasagna Without Really Trying

2008-02-12T02:53:00.000-05:00

Pooooooooooooooodles. What on earth are ya'll up to? It seems like fa-evah since we done been able to sit down and have good yakkety-yak. I know, right? We is all so busy, what with the global assassination business being what it is these days.

I mean, just last week I was in Buenos Aires, running around the halls of the Casa Rosada in a pair of Manolos and a gold glitterthong, fishing a pair of poisoned darts out of my underwire and trying to get a clear line of sight on two narco-terrorists who were there to get the drop on the Madame President of Argentina. I mean, us girls have got to stick together, right.

Plus, I loaned the bitch my white Banana Republic button-down that I snagged from that frog Sarkozy and she totally got lipstick stains all over it when she spent the night with that old raggedy would-be sugar-daddy Fidel in Havana. Damn girl. You owe me a shirt the next time we go out bodega hopping. PS: Fidel is NOT going to give up the keys to the island any time soon. You know the brother has that shit locked up.

Anyway. I left the daggers, the guns, the ninja stars, the bastinados, the mace, the cyanide-filled teeth and the derringers at home tonight and went to this perfectly charming neighborhood bistro with my normal-people friends. I must be cursed or something – because the place was lousy with old people. Full of Q-tipped old things. Like fleas on a mangy cur. Or lies in a Republican administration.

But we got seats in the bar and ordered drinks. And then the adventure really got started.

Our server was named Rosa or Maria or Noriega or Salsa or something like that – from somewhere like Honduras or Nicaragua or Costa Rica – somewhere they speak Spanish and do a lot of the kneel-pray, kneel-pray thing with La Virgen.

Perfectly lovely girl. The waitress, not the Virgin Mary. La Virgen, she's lovely to, btw. Does lovely work with dishcloths. Fantastic folk art. Sells well in Europe. But the server – forgetful. We get menus and drinks. And we wait. And we wait. Which is fine, because there is live jazz and we have time to talk. But no bread. And then the drinks are dry.

She comes back. We're ready. We get one entrée and one appetizer ordered and she suddenly scurries away. What the hell? Do she got the runs? Because I totally understand. I had a bad burrito this morning and had to take my laptop to "el bano" for more than a few minutes. Kali bless the WiFi and the ability to work-at-home.

No. She forgot her damn order pad. Okaaaaaaaay. Repeat the order. She repeats it back and it is still not exactly right. Sweetie. Darling. Maybe, just maybe, this isn't going to be the career for you. Very sweet and attentive. Just not fully on this plane of existence.

The food was fantastic though. The best lasagna I have had in ages – exactly like what you think an old lumpy Italian grandmother would make – and piled with meat sauce – probably half a pound of good beef in that sauce. I can feel my colon groaning right now under the weight of the sauce. And the bread was good. Fresh and hot and plenty of good olive oil.

On the subject of bread – Clara or Clarisa or Mandisa or Marilinda or whatever the hell her name was kept trying to take my damn bread dipping dish. NO YOU CAN'T HAVE IT – I'M NOT DONE WITH IT – LEAVE IT ALONE OR I WILL STAB YOU WITH MY FORK.

Por lo mano de Christo. Just bring another bottle of wine, set it in the chiller and back away slowly. For the record, we tipped 20 percent, in cash. I worked the service industry, I know. Unless you give absolutely horrible service, I will tip you – and tip you well. Even then, I'd rather speak to a manager than stiff you.

Anyway. That was pretty much our night – except for when I tried to pick up the wine menu and nearly slung a butter knife across the room because they sat four people at a two-top in the bar. Like I said – the place was absolutely lousy with old people. Don't they know old people don't tip – and young people will spend money and bring in more attractive, sexy young people?

Admittedly, the thought of a butter knife sliding through the skull of some of those old codgers IS kind of funny. Because at that age the flesh slides off the bone like a well-cooked chicken. (Now where is that from? Anyone? Bueller?)

Anyway. Next week I got to run down to Tijuana and pick up some pharmaceuticals. How do you think my skin stays so supple? Monkey hormones!

--filed by Charanda deKristeaux from the Ristorante de Lasagna Especial

Rhino Miyake and case of the fake Chanel

2008-02-11T03:40:00.000-05:00

All right NOW! Charanda up in tha hiz-zouse! Fine and feisty to-night ladeez and gentle-thangz. Why? Why! Why! WHY!

Because I have just seen the most tragic fashion disaster ever to walk the earth. Blind retarded dwarves with no limbs and seriously bad cases of eczema couldn't do this badly. Hell, LiLo could roll down the street in a garbage bag, hot pants and fishnets and beat this. It was baaaaad. Both for what it was, what it TRIED to be and what it was never going to be.

So, I am ~~husband hunting~~ people watching downtown, slurping on a latte and generally enjoying a rare free afternoon.

It walks by. I think to myself "That shit did not just happen. There is no way in hell she is out in public looking like that."

I slung my laptop into my bag and set off after her. That shit was crazy and I could not let it go. One of these days someone is going to call me on being nosy and I am going to die.

Think of a hippopotamus - wearing a beyond skin-tight micro-mini in a black & white Issey Miyake-ish print. Now top that off with a Moe from the Three Stooges wig -- sitting kind of crooked because she's either forgot to put some Woolite on it and it won't lie down or she just don't know how to wear a wig.

It was just a damn shame. That was a nice wig too. I think she was going for Julia Roberts thing - when Julia was trying that short bob look - but this girl really, really needs to learn to take better care of her fake hair.

And don't get me started on the clothes. OH MY GOD. OH. MY. GOD. She'd take about twelve steps and look in a shop window, then try to hike the skirt down over her lady bits and her thighs. It poked out in the front (gut), the back (enormous trunk), sides (hips) and arms (saddlebags). She'd take twelve more steps and it would ride back up again. Wash. Rinse. Repeat.

Most of the fifteen-block downtown area could have been her gynechiatrist. Or her fishmonger. Whatever you prefer. If they could have found it.

For a while, I really thought it might be a man. We have plenty of trannies around - one used to roll up in the Wal-Mart around 11:30 p.m. each Sunday and buy ciggies and a couple bottles of wine. Very nice person - needed to shave before going out in drag - or apply a heavy foundation.

But Rhino Miyake here was a woman - just one with an extremely distorted self image. AND DON'T YELL AT ME. I'm all for big girls celebrating they self. All them anorexic heffas need go on - won't kill ya'll to eat a little. Women NEED some meat on them. But whatever size you are - you need to have the wisdom to dress APPROPRIATELY!

Damn. Look at Mo'Nique. Sister got all kind of stuff going on. Front. Back. Wherever. But she don't go out in public looking like a rhino stuffed inside a antelope now do she? She might wear some funky shit (her prison special - wtf sister?) - but it is gonna be in size to fit her. JUST WEAR SOME DAMN CLOTHES THAT FIT. Tight is good. Toothpaste tube is BAD. VERY VERY BAD!

If you got to keep pulling it down over your thang 27 times an hour - the skirt is too short. Unless you're a "working girl" and that skirt ain't the only thing gonna be riding your thighs tonight ......

I was gonna give Rhino Miyake a pass on the clothes - although she needed a talking-to on the wig - until she turned around and I got a real good look at her shoes.

Oh. Hell. No. She tried to make a fake Chanel logo on her sandals with a gold glitter pen. I swear to Shiva. Strike me down now as I live, breathe and blog. I rolled my eyes.

At least she keeping busy and not snacking. Damn girl. Fake Chanel sandals - in gold glitter pen. I have seen it all. I have seen it all.

--filed by Charanda deChristeax from the Rhinos & Winos Wig Store and Designer Knockout Boo-ti-kwee

One mice, two mice, red mice, blue mice

2008-02-10T13:54:00.000-05:00

Ok. Aside from the fact that I keep trying to spell "mice" as "mise" - I FINALLY HAVE A NEW MOUSE. Praise Jesus, Kali, Shiva, Budda, Cthulu, Thoth, Amon-Rah, Imhotep, Dracula, Cruela, whoever.

The FIRST time I went to the House of Wals (because I DETEST Office Despot), I was nearly kneecapped by a sweet old lady who wanted to give me her cart. She just wasn't looking and didn't mean me any harm. Or so I thought.

Then I noticed she had her car plastered with Mitt Romney bumper stickers - at least six of them. GET THEE BEHIND ME - OH BRIDE OF SATAN!

I'm trying to fight my way back to Electronics - and I come upon a rear end clear. Some suburban hausfrau in a lime-green track suit has parked her buggy in the middle of the aisle and is STUDYING the 2-for-1 on the potato chips. THEY ALL GONNA MAKE YOU FAT HEFFA. MOVE!

I get a mouse. Get it home. I'm a complete cow. It's not a simple USB mouse. NO. Oh no. It has the receiver you have to have on the desk somewhere. Not exactly useful for mobile computing.

Won't go back to the House of Wals - they didn't have anything else I wanted.

Decided to put on my mascara and heels and work it like a rock star in the Office Despot.

Can someone please - for the love of small animals - tell me why Computer Peripherals are stocked next to Office Furniture? Not next to the printers - but near the wooden things? Is it so you can beat the shit out of a dumbass worker with a faux cherry-wood table leg?

Anyway. They have ~~mise~~ mice you can pick up and play with. Ohhhh. Look out, here comes Richard Gere, back for round 2!

I snagged one EXACTLY like what I have - because I was happy with it, it generally doesn't eat batteries and is sturdy - and let me tell you, I'm tough on my toys!

I was there 20 minutes and not one person acknowledged me or offered to help. I didn't see one stocker or sales associate other than two people on register and one person in the "business center" or "copy center" or whatever the hell it was. And I couldn't even find a damn bathroom - because that Chinese food I ate for lunch was about to make my O-ring blow!

Anyway. That's my mouse.

-- File by Charanda deKristeaux from the Office Despot Thunderdome

My flu, let me give it to you

2008-02-06T19:29:00.000-05:00

So I have the flu, and I have to literally strap on my high heels and drag myself into the doctor today.

Thank you, Miss Ukraine 2005 Receptionist Heifer. You are not our dear Masha – Maria Sharapova for those in the know. You are not glamorous, famous or desirous. You have the bedside personality of a toad. An ugly toad. "Fill this out and sit over there," is not exactly helpful or welcoming, especially as I can't HEAR YOU VERY WELL.

My ear hurt, my throat hurts, my head hurts and you're mumbling away while you're not even looking at me. I know that my $15 co-pay doesn't count for much – but I'm sure that UnitedHealthcare sends a gigantor check the size of Rhode Island to your office every month. I said "please," "thank you" and I managed to greet you with a weak smile. The least you can do is look at me bitch.

The number of old people who do nothing but go from doctor to doctor to doctor all day is astounding. One old lady had a Macy's bag full of pills. I heard them rattle. Maybe that was her death rattle. I don't know.

She went into the bathroom to give a "sample" and I swear to god I heard her. If I hadn't already hurled at home I would have in the fake potted plant next to me. What I didn't hear was the damn sink. Old ladies creep me out.

All that and I didn't even see a doctor. I got a nurse who looked at my throat, my nose and my ears and said "you've got something." She brought back a prescription for a pack of pills. I left and the waiting room was now completely jammed. Amputees even. I need to get off this HMO and onto a real medical plan.

I decide that I can't deal with the horror of CVS today. I might commit murder on some old people stupidity and stumble into the pharmacy in the bottom floor of the medical clinic building.

Three old leathery things have to "consult" over my prescription while a cute clerk wearing silver rings and a bracelet wants to flirt with me. "Hi." My name is Charanda. Want to get the flu the fun way? OK. Meet me behind the building in five minutes.

Eighty dollars later … I'm drinking orange juice and swilling pill candy. Please Kali don't let me die. I'm so young. There are so many men I haven't slept with yet.

--file by Charanda deKristeax from the HMO holding pens

Crazy Thai ladies that pinch my nethers

2008-02-06T03:14:00.000-05:00

All right now crazy Thai ladies, I know that ya'll get real happy when my crew rolls up into ya'lls establishment. God knows that nobody else shows up there to eat. I don't know why. Ya'll got the best Thai food for 40 miles.

Although really – if one of you bitches pinches me on the ass again no amount of free chicken pad thai is gonna save you. Green curry – not green card. Don't want none of that. Ya'll need to get a work visa or something.

Anyway. Ya'll got good stuff and you will have the chef make just about anything we want – she comes out and talks to us and asks if we like it or if we'd like to try the new broth or whatever. I love your place and I hope you never close.

However. And this is a big however. Your food is great but the service is iffy at best. Ya'll need to hire a waitress or three and not try to run the place with just a cook and a sushi chef.

We sat and waited for water for five minutes. We started waving menus because there was NO ONE in the dining room. NO ONE. Five tables of people and NOT ONE SERVER.

The woman sitting three tables away laughed and said she'd been waiting on napkins. I picked some up off a stack sitting at the table next to us and gave them to her – I REALLY DON'T KNOW WHY THE DUMB HEFFA COULDN'T GET HER OWN DAMN ASS UP AND GET THE DAMN NAPKINS HERSELF.

But back to me. Ya'll need to come take our damn order. We hungry. It is a reason people don't come up in here even though everyone I know recommends it – people don't want they lunch hour to stretch to 2 p.m. Damn.

That new Thai chain that opened up five blocks south is gonna put you heffas out of business. Seriously. And ya'll need to learn how to pace a meal. Don't bring the soup and then three minutes later bring the entrees. I'm not complaining though – we was hungry. And then we all feel obligated to tip well because we know you and we want to keep coming back. What are we going to say? We love you but we don't want you wait on us? Really? That'll go over like La Migra at a day labor camp in Tiajauna.

And it gets worse. We're TRYING to get back to our office park and traffic is backed up like a Woodstock '99 toilet. My friend cuts through a parking lot with some thrift stores in it and I will be damned if three WOACAs don't start holding a conversation right in front of her car.

I'm screaming at her "HIT'EM VIDA, HIT'EM. I WILL PAY THE DAMAGES."

One bitch with nothing better to do with her time than shop all day was dressed in black and white print culottes, a white blouse and fugly turquoise sandals. Damn bitch. Are you colorblind? And you really did NOT need those big plastic swingy turquoise earrings. It was like an ugly cherry on top of an ugly cake. And I got a full on view too because your fat ass would not move – because you had to wait for your friends to get out of the car and trip-trap across the parking lot into the Garden of Slightly-Used Delights.

YA'LL BITCHES NEED TO MOVE. If I had been behind the wheel the parking lot would have noticeably fewer holes. You are not that special. You are not an employee of public works. Your hair does not glow and your skin does not produce an aura that repels automobiles. Bitch. MOVE!

If you are waiting for your party, get out of the flow of traffic. Especially if you're dressed like a piece of Navaho art threw up and then got tossed into a blender. You never know when Chief Eagle-Craps-on-Head will show up and want his turquoise back.

PS: 7-Eleven bitch – I was not making a face at you. I have damn headache and a fever and I wanted an ice cream and a coke. Screw you and your bad bleach job. Get your roots done and wash your face more often. With soap. Unless your boyfriend likes that Papa John's look.

--filed by Charanda deKristeaux from the Curry Shack

My Chinese buffet, let me tso you it

2008-02-05T09:26:00.000-05:00

See what I did there? Laugh uproariously, because I love LOLcats. PS: Ya'll need to get up on Hobotopia.com. That mess is fun-nee.

Anyway. I rolled into the local ~~dog meat palace~~ Chinese buffet yesterday because I was hungry but didn't feel like fast food. Their chicken in peanut sauce is to die for. I'd stab a heffa and rip out her weave and knit a basket to carry some home in – it is that good.

So I trip-trap into the buffet, looking fine in my Apple Bottom jeans and my sling-back mules. I grab a takeout box and promenade down the aisle to the buffet, ever on the lookout for a hot Latin man with tattoos and piercings to treat me like rough trade and scream "Mami, mami, maaaaaamiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii" in the shadows of the night.

Sadly, today is not the day. Ain't nothing up in here but ghetto white trash shoveling crawfish into their maw with a trowel and some old people that look about three centimeters from the grave.

Word to the wise, never go to the buffet at 4 p.m. That shit is gonna be picked over like an alley full of hookers at 3 a.m. Everything fresh is gone and you ain't got nothing left but some stanky trannies working the corner of Beverly and Highland and trying to stay warm in a pair of fishnets and gloves with the fingers cut out.

Thankfully, there's some decent peanut chicken. It's really the only reason I got to this buffet. In the process of trying to find decent food that doesn't look like roadkill or that has identifiable parts that came from something that white people consider edible, I nearly get blasted by a pair of howler monkeys toting plates.

OK. Ya'll know that I hate the monkeys of the howler. ESPECIALLY WHEN THEIR BABOON MOTHERS AND APE FATHERS CANNOT PROPERLY SUPERVISE THEM.

These little walking genetic time-bombs loaded up a plates with three chicken nuggets, some French fries and a slice of pizza, proceeded to LIFT THE PLATES ABOVE THEIR HEADS, and try to prance back to their table. It is chicken. Not a damn prize.

And they both spilled fries everywhere. Ethiopian children everywhere weep in shame at their American brethren, wasting the fruit of the potato in such shameful fashion.

If your brat wants some damn chicken nuggets and fries, take the thing to McDonalds. Do not drag it up into the buffet where it will act a fool and disrupt the meal of everyone around it. Better yet, keep it the car and hit the drive-thru. No one deserves to be exposed to your deoxyribonucleic disaster.

I weave, I bob, I dodge. I roll my eyes like a lumberjack at a log competition. I consider "slipping" on this French fry and suing the hell out of the mother and the Chinese joint – but figure that the potential payout isn't worth it.

I go pay and TRY to leave. Another damn howler monkey.

I try to be nice. "You gonna let me leave?" NO. Not just now, but a resounding hell no. Mother ……

Where are the parents? It ain't Chinese, so that ain't its momma sitting back there shelling peas or its daddy that just rang me out. That's not Uncle Tsing-tao putting sodas into the cooler. Damn. People need to tie they howler monkeys's tails to the chair or something.

Where are your damn parents little howler? Why the hell are you playing in the door of a Chinese buffet about five feet from the busy parking lot in a shopping plaza? Does your mama WANT you to get kidnapped? Well, maybe. Shit, if I had one, I'd give it away. But it must be a good 30 feet to the nearest table – and that's two old, toothless white ladies gumming the hell out of some sugar biscuits. I don't think you're their little taquito.

Whatever. You're not my problem. Maybe some organ harvesters will snap you up and keep you on a secret island in the Pacific. Your mama need to wipe your damn nose too. Who knows what germs your spreading wiping your filthy hands around on the door.

I hate howler monkeys.

-- filed by Charanda deKristeaux from the Palais de Beijing

My sabbatical, let me share with you it

2008-02-04T01:28:00.000-05:00

Frankly, I just needed a break. Work is work – if fills the day in the way that meatloaf and mashed potatoes will get you full, but imagine eating the same meal every day for nine years. Sometimes you try some carrots, sometimes you try some peas. Maybe the tomato sauce gravy, maybe the flour gravy. Ohhhhh. Did they use crackers instead of breadcrumbs this time? Was that a jalapeno? But it is still meatloaf.

And you're still sitting there, watching incompetent idiots be promoted around you, despite the fact that you've played the office politics game correctly, stroked the right egos, worked the crappy shifts, done the special projects and worked 18 days in a row during Christmas and New Year's for a crappy bonus that wouldn't even make your car payment. Meatloaf. And mashed potatoes. Is that a garlic roll? Woohoo!

I spend at least an hour and a half driving back and forth from work now – time that I can't be doing anything productive as far as writing or creating goes. The only plus side is that I'm becoming an aficionado of NPR & classical music, but that's not a major entry on the credit side of the ledger.

The commuting gives me time to think and to reflect. As much as I still like the concept of "Twenty-One Minutes," I don't think that it is workable as a long-term project in the way that "Behind the Counter" was.

Quite a few people – QUITE A FEW PEOPLE – let me know that they thought it was boring, repetitive and lifeless. For the most part, I actually tend to agree with the "lifeless" part of the statement. What made "Behind the Counter" so compelling to so many people was the point of view I afforded, coupled with the common experience of shopping inside the world's largest garbage heap.

Unfortunately, if I remove myself from the action, a certain quality gets lost. No matter how snappily I write – I can't truly bring a scene to life if I'm just describing it, am not part of it and have no control over it. The last ten days or so that I did update, I did try to make "Twenty-One Minutes" more personal, with more of a point of view.

I am not comfortable moving forward on this particular road. While I personally have no qualms opening my life up for you, I have zero desire to be "Dooced," as it were. What I do is a big part of my life – and I simply cannot and will not risk my professional future on a project I am now increasingly ambivalent on.

So where does this leave us?

Well, last Sunday it left us at a crossroads. I was depressed, moody, mopey, hungry and alone – all this on my birthday too. I was going to update "Twenty-One Minutes" with a "My sucky birthday" post and then just decided to go to bed.

I had a crappy week, filled with copious hours of unpaid overtime – because that's what "salaried employee" actually means – and was gone from my apartment for more than 14 hours each day. There are only so many variations on "My cubicle, let me describe you it" that I can do. When I was home – the bastards at CrumbCast saw fit to again throttle the tubes of my Internet. When I attain power of any sort, I will literally render ComCast into its component atoms. Piece by stupid piece.

Problem #1, I deduced, is time. Commuting sucks up a good chunk of the free time that I used to have to essentially sit around in coffee shops and smoothie bars and write. I need to create something that I can either write at work, thus taking advantage of the company's high-speed Internet, or write a bunch of posts at once, like I used to do with "Behind the Counter."

Problem #2 is that it needs to have a point of view, but it can't be about me. So you're all going to have to settle on a slightly fictionalized version of me. Good chunks of "Behind the Counter" were my internal monologue anyway, so maybe the tough critics will like this new series of insightful, ground-breaking and thought-provoking essays better. If you didn't get it, that was a joke.

Here's the deal. We're still going to call it "Twenty-One Minutes," at least for now. I still like the structure it provides for the whole "slice in time" post. However, I'm going to take the things that happen to me in my daily life and put my peculiar spin on them – saying all the things I wish I could say – while still spraying fashion commentary like a bulldog with its leg raised.

So, without further ado, I would like to introduce the new author of "Twenty-One Minutes," Miss Charanda deKristeaux.

Old people who shop at CVS deserve to die

2008-02-04T01:12:00.000-05:00

What up ya'll. We need to talk about old people today. Old people are a gigantic pain in my ass. Well, that might just be the hemorrhoids talking, but old people are right up there with screaming babies, shitty babies, evil waitresses, Republicans, John Kerry, Dick Cheney (not a Republican, alias of Satan) and stupid people on my list of PEOPLE WHO SHOULD NOT BE ALLOWED OUTSIDE!

So, my nerve pills was running low. You know what I'm like when I run out of my nerve pills. It is not a pretty sight – like a marathon runner's foot at mile 25. Or my breath right when I wake up. I will claw your mama's eyes out for a pill. I got to have my nerve pills. Are you holding?

Anyway. Seeing as how I'm stupid and completely unable to plan farther ahead than last week, I run out of pills on a Saturday. Hello, Mr. Last Pill. You look so lonely. Where are your friends? What DO YOU MEAN they already left the party? Its like a Second Life party up in here. Gone. Gone. Gone.

OK. Get on the phone. Call the CVS. Arrange for prescription refill. Go to CVS. Stand in line at pharmacy, get pills, pay for pills. Realize I'm as dumb as all those people that pay for Hannah Montana tickets and need a soda to take the pills. Also realize there is a crazy person now arguing with the pharmacist. So I try to check out at the front.

SO HELP ME GOD OLD PEOPLE I HOPE YOU ALL DIE IN A FIRE!

No one needs to come to the CVS and fill up an entire shopping cart – plus the space under the cart – with your shopping. WHO BUYS GROCERIES AT CVS? YOU NEED TO GO TO A GROCERY STORE FOR THAT MESS. You are buying soda and chips and cans of chili.

I swear to go I saw the cashier look at them and roll her eyes. AND THE STUPID OLD WOMAN JUST PROCEEDED TO MAKE IT WORSE.

The bitch had four coupons and I will be damned if she did not stand there and make the girl scan item by item by item until she got to a certain dollar amount so she could split this transaction up in to four parts so she could use four coupons.

Before you ask, I don't know why. I think CVS has some whack-ass coupon system like "$3 off $15 purchase," but all I buy is pills and soda. I DON'T MAKE MAJOR PURCHASES THERE. It is not like they have layaway. It is a drug store. The most expensive thing they sell is pills!

I gave the woman a death glare that should have melted the polar ice cap and made a swimming pool of Miami. She responds by sticking her credit card into the reader the wrong way. This bitch is the reason that people are starting to use the Internet to order shit like toilet paper.

There is now a line of people and the old woman is still stacking crap on the counter. "How much is it now?" "How much is it now?" IT IS TIME FOR YOU TO LEAVE! I'm sighing. The woman behind me is sighing louder. There is a man with a baby screaming and throwing candy. Did I mention that I hate howler monkey brats too? If your baby is screaming, take it outside. Maybe a bird will take a dump in its mouth and give it something to REALLY howl about.

All I want is a Vanilla Coke and the universe take a gigantic dump on me. Did I run over a kitten this week or something?

I sighed, loudly. She didn't break a stride. Look old lady, you need to go to the damn Publix for this kind of crap. They have BIG counters and bags and stockboys and lots of cashiers.

I don't care if you have a coupon for free Depends or a Buy-1-Get-1 Polident up in that granny-purse, I'm about to rip it off your arm, wrap it around your turkey gobbler neck and strangle you with it. And you know what grandma? The four people behind me in line would cheer and happily walk right over your prone crone body to check their stuff out.

I bet she's gonna try to return that mess later too. Old people pull that kind of stuff because nobody calls them on it. Old and fluffy my ass. Old people are like vipers – 70 years of poison and vituperation coiled inside a shrinking wrinkled shell – just waiting to strike at the young, the fresh and the fanciful.

It is not my fault that life has passed you buy. Get some Botox, get a dog, get a cat – it will appreciate you and eat you after you're gone. DO NOT act a fool in public. Would you want someone to pull that stack and count shit on you? Hell no. All right then. Take your cane, ram it where the sun don't shine and push that buggy right on out of here.

If you're wondering, I don’t plan to get old. I figure I'll go out in a haze of tattered glory in a few years, surrounded by twisted sheets, a few pill bottles and a plastic bag.

Anyway, the manager finally jumped on a register and started checking people out. He checked six people out while this old cow was still stacking and haggling. I hope the wheel falls of her car.

--filed from the CVS by Charanda deKristeaux

Minor league hockey arena, 7:30 p.m. – My icy adventure, let me share with you it

2008-01-26T23:25:00.000-05:00

While not strictly twenty-one minutes, because I'm not going to lug my laptop around for two hours and try to keep up with it, these are the highlights of my first (and quite likely last) venture into the world of minor-league hockey.

There is a woman with a sequined alligator crawling up her back and onto her head. It is masquerading as a hat – but really looks more like a tumor – sort of like that thing that Star created during the "express yourself" challenge back in the early days of "Project Runway."

Everywhere I turn people are wearing team shirts, sweatshirts, jackets, jerseys, etc. OH MY GOD THIS MAN HAS ON A GREEN WIG. All this for a team that is in fourth place – in the division. Not the league, the division. Still, they managed to pull in 6,000 people on a Saturday night. I remain amazed.

I can never see a Zamboni and not think of the episode of "Cheers" where Carla's husband met his untimely end. There is also apparently a special "Zamboni song," to which the intoxicated (yes, they sell beer – a LOT of beer) fans in the arena dance along to. It is scary. They followed the Zamboni song with The Village People and "YMCA," – and trust me – if you've never seen a 300-pound fat man in a football jersey working it to the tunes of "young man, there's no need to feel down," you've not lived!

The level of merchandising in minor league sports is astonishing. I'm frankly shocked that the patrons weren't plastered with ads when they walked in.

The backs of the tickets had ads. Both Zamboni machines had ads. There were special promotions at the intermissions. There was the "Taco Bell Power Play" and the "Wendy's Penalty Kill." Ronald McDonald must be kicking himself all the way back to his PlayPlace – because they must have mentioned Taco Bell about a million times over the course of the night. I'm wondering who exactly wants a "Taco Bell Power Play" though – might depend on the size of the burrito! Maybe the "Taco Bell Power Play" comes later, at home? And involves toilet paper?

There was a "Saturn Puck Toss" and a children's charity doo-hicky and at least six things involving special things with the program – including a free gallon of wiper fluid if the team scored during the third period. Most of which were an excuse to sell badly printed programs I am sure.

The scoreboard had so many ads on it I had trouble finding the damn score! All this on top of a $22 ticket and paying $5 for the "privilege" to park in the median because the arena would sell their own mothers for cash but won't build a parking garage. Someone is raking it in.

There was a creepy man. THERE IS ALWAYS A CREEPY MAN. We had seats behind the visitor's box – which wasn't that bad. There was a man who was right down on the first row and in the nook RIGHT beside the visitor's box. He sat there the entire time wearing blue denim shorts and a navy T-shirt, drinking an extra-large soda from the concession stands and didn't say a word. No cheering, no yelling at the refs, nothing. He did give a family of four a nasty look when they sat down next to him, but that was all. Maybe he just really loves hockey and these were the best "on the ice" seats available. Dunno. But he was strange.

My impression of the hockey is that it wasn't that good. The fights looked about as real as a wrestling match – very staged IMHO, but what the hell do I know? The players are obviously athletic, but the hockey looked sloppy.

I was sort of under the impression that hockey was a good deal like basketball on ice – just a great deal more physical. You treated the ice like a basketball court and moved the puck around like a basketball. You can run "plays" just like you run an offense on a basketball court – pass, defense, etc. I have to say that I became roundly disabused of that notion in short order. Hockey is just organized aggression with sticks and helmets. The scoring is optional and the whole "someone wins" thing is sort of just an added bonus.

Also, watching hockey players spit on the ice is just disgusting. Maybe this isn't Centre Court at Wimbledon, but act like you have a little bit of class.

Anyway. That was my night. It was only slightly cold, but my toes suffered because I was stupid and wore sandals because I was running very late (had to wash my hair in case I met a cute boy) and didn't think about the fact that I was, you know, GOING TO BE SITTING INSIDE A GIANT REFRIDGERATOR FOR THREE HOURS.

Anyway. Much love. Hockey pucks to you all.

Starbucks #infinity, 12:42 p.m. - My terrible coffee, let me show you it

2008-01-25T22:52:00.000-05:00

Well, giving a brand-new Starbucks an (espresso) shot is always a gamble. This time I lost. When it takes them forever to make the drink – and they can't even get the lid on the coffee without managing to spill foam and mess up the whipped cream.

The first sip is a disaster. THIS IS QUITE POSSIBLY THE WORST CUP OF COFFEE I HAVE EVER TASTED – and I've had Starbucks coffee at airports, bookstores, kiosks and everything in between. The shot is weak – I can't even tell that there is any coffee in there in fact. It tastes like I'm drinking milk flavored with white mocha and a raspberry shot.

Anyway. It's my birthday weekend and I'm on the road. I'm way north of my usual hangouts and decided to check to see if this new Starbucks was open. It was – much to my chagrin.

My friends shocked me at work today – they came in to my office – the office that I hate – and decorated it overnight. When I came in to work I had balloons, streamers, banners, GLITTER and all sorts of decorations. And a Starbucks gift card. I love my friends. It was the best thing that's happened to me in a long time and I was so happy.

There's a Quiznos right next to the Starbucks – and there's a gas station 40 yards down with a Subway inside. Somebody in the sandwich game is going down. All we need is a Blimpie up in here and it would be a sub brawl!

It's cold today. I'm sitting outside because it is sunny and I love the weather and the breeze – but the wind has a bite to it. Still, I'm glad that I'm not in some godforsaken place like Wisconsin or Minnesota – with minus two degrees and snowdrifts and icy sidewalks and all that mess. I would just die – either in an accident or of the cold. Plus, the cold weather plays hell with delicate skin.

Speaking of near death experiences, I had one in the Interstate on-ramp coming here. I was sitting in the turn lane, listening to Chopin (because all of you hate Cher so much) and about to pull forward. This black SUV darts forward across a lane of traffic and cuts in front of me – literally INCHES from my front right bumper.

I slam the brake so hard that I can hear the tires squeal. I know I laid more rubber than a room full of porn stars. I was praying that there was no one behind me about to slam into the back bumper and put my car into the shop for unable-to-be-paid-for repairs.

I look up and the couple in the black SUV have pulled forward and are not even apologetic. I give them the universal one-finger salute. They return it.

I mutter a few lines of a Zen koan and try to regain my composure. And not 90 seconds later – the black SUV – which ZOMG – HAD TO EFFING GET INTO THE TURN LANE TO GET ONTO THE INTERSTATE – peels back out in front of traffic and tears back of down the access road.

Tourists. Virginia tourists. I hope they all die in a fire.

OK. Peace, love, understanding.

Thank you so much to the nice old lady who stopped to chat just as I was shutting down. You totally made my day by commenting on what a nice afternoon it was, how nice the weather was and how much you looked forward to an afternoon at the flea market.

I know that I rag on old people all the time, but you were just sweet and happy and genuine - and you made my day.

Sonic, 9:34 a.m. – My grumpy face, let me show you it

2008-01-24T16:42:00.000-05:00

Well, it was supposed to go online this morning. If I didn't fall asleep as soon as I got back to my apartment. Bless me readers, for I have sinned!

Ya'll gonna get a rare treat today – an early morning update of "21 Minutes." It's not that I'm not usually up by this time – it is that I’m usually hip deep in crazy people that should have been put in a burlap sack and dropped into the nearest river the day after they were born. MANDATORY INTELLIGENCE TESTING. I swear to Cthulu that it would improve the efficiency of the American workforce by the power of three in short order. There is just no excuse for the complete effing illiteracy, stupidity and ignorance that the general population seems to revel in.

Anyway. Back to me. Away from the screed. I worked all night on something I can't share with you or else you'd all know way too much about me. This was after I stayed up until 3 a.m. Wednesday morning in order to have something turned in by the time people got to work at 9 a.m. Wednesday. Yeah. My shitty week – let me show you it.

Anyway. Back to me. I stayed up all night – broken up only by the marvelous interlude with Big Tony in Little Italy at the pizza joint one strip mall down from my office park. By the way, my penne with sausage, artichokes and sun-dried tomatoes was excellent – even if it did cost $16.

I guess Big Tony was included in that. For the record, he did indeed lurk the entire time I was eating – although he was an equal opportunity lurker – lurking as he did upon the entire dining room. Most people took him in stride – although I did notice that none of the waitresses or busgirls got anywhere near him. And when I left, he had parked his considerable girth in one of the patio chairs outside and was chomping on a cigar like it was manna from heaven. Imagine Sly Stallone with blonde hair and a bowl cut and some ugly tats on both arms chewing in a stogie. That's Big Tony in a nutshell.

Anyway. Back to me. I stayed up all night working on things. I sort of lost the period from 3 a.m. – 7 a.m.; when the morning people started coming in at 5 a.m. I freaked out and then promptly forgot about them – although there was one man that must have walked by my workspace 15 times and kept wanting to TALK. Seriously. I've been here for 13 hours. What about ME makes it seem as if I want to TALK TO YOU instead of FINISH the project that has KEPT me here for 13 hours. Birth control in the water. It's the only way.

Anyway. Back to me. The thing that needs to get done gets done. People throw computers in bags and leave. There's a whole mountain of Diet Coke cans. I've got two one-liter bottles of Coke that I don't remember drinking – although I remember being chastised roundly for burping. Right now, it's all sort of a haze.

Anyway. Back to me. I drive home – in the rain – and spend 20 minutes rushing to get my apartment neat enough so that my cleaning service can do their work. Yes. I have a cleaning service. I hate to clean – absolutely, positively despise it. Picking up doesn't bother me, but that whole scrubby thing is so not me. Turns out you can pay people for that – and so I have a service that comes twice a month and does everything but the windows.

But I'm anally retentive about them – I don't want to be there while they're there – because they rush – and I don't want them to "pick up" – I want them to clean. Thus, I have to "pre-clean" and deconstruct my usual "pile stuff on the table, counter, TV tray, other end of the couch, on the stove, beside the couch, on top of the commode, in the bathroom sink, etc." habits and clear out surfaces for them to spray, mop, sponge, etc.

It's actually very good for me – because it forces me to get organized twice a week. I usually spend Wednesday nights or Thursday mornings sorting bills from the past two weeks, making decisions about old magazines, taking out the recycling and in general just being neat. Not so today. It was like I had been possessed by a Tasmanian devil on crack rock – frantic to get stuff off the floor, off the counter, not lose my tax statements, hide the porn, put all the DVDS back up, etc. I beat them out by two minutes – I was getting in the car when they pulled in.

So here I am at the Sonic – watching old women pour into the Bealls across the parking lot and marveling at people who have the urge (and the time & money) to just go out and shop for home goods at 9:30 a.m. on a rainy Thursday. I mean, I got here at a quarter after 9 and there were already 30+ cars in the parking lot – and I know where the employee parking is marked. These weren't employees.

Anyway. The cleaning service should be out by the time I get back. I need a good long sleep today. I might take Friday off too. I think I deserve it.

Peace out. Pass the tater tots.

Pizza joint, 8:24 p.m. – My Italian bouncer, let me show you him

2008-01-23T21:45:00.000-05:00

So, I'm burning the late-night oil for this massive project at work and decide to give this hole in the wall pizza joint near the office park where my cubicle has been relegate to a try.

This place shares a plaza with a rug store, a tiny Thai takeout, a dance studio and some other things. It's not much really. But honestly, I'm hungry and I just want some food and don’t feel like punishing my stomach with yet another greasy bag of fast food.

There's nothing from the outside to advertise that this is a "bistro," – although the CROWD CONTROL LINE (wtf?) and man with a tie waiting inside the door give me pause. There's also a sign on the door in at least 36-point type about how "we can't guarantee you seating in a particular dining room."

I'm staring at a deli counter and the man in the tie is trying to give me a menu and there's a scary "thing" that looks like Stephen Baldwin with an extra 40 pounds of muscle and more tattoos and hair that got cut with an egg-beater glowering menacingly and I swear to Kali I expected the next three words to be "How You Doin?"

It was all too much. If I wasn't sick of work and desperately hungry I might have fled, menu pages fluttering before me like pedestrians before the SUV wheels of Lizzie Grubman.

I breath deeply and allow myself to be led to a table. We may begin. It is a little upscale this joint – and it looks like it was carved out of two units in a strip mall – because the one I'm in has a front door as well. There's basically just a hole cut in the wall between the two units – that's where large Tony is leaning now – scanning the dining rooms like he's looking for contraband. Or illegal aliens. Or miscreant Mafia wives. Or maybe Adriana La Cerva. I dunno. What I do know is that he is officially giving me the major creeps.

The group next to me is getting mini cannolis for dessert – they look lovely. I'm torn between a marghuerita pizza and pasta. Let's go for penne with sausage, artichokes and sun-dried tomatoes. Ohhhh, free bread and garlic knots. The garlic knots are a little doughy, but the bread is perfect – better even than the bistro I ate at last weekend.

The big group over to my left has finished the cannolis and is getting coffee. Here comes Large Tony with a dessert menu. The waitress is telling him "THEY JUST HAD DESSERT." The diners are telling him, "WE JUST HAD DESSERT." He'd going "Would you like a dessert menu?" Obviously, he's the muscle here - not the brains. What the hell kind of odd protection racket is going on here?

If Large Tony is one of the "Two Brothers" for whom the place is named, I'm wondering where the other brother is. Did Large Tony get rid of him? I hope they're not serving him with marinara and breadsticks. Wait, that must be him – in the apron – doing the cooking.

Dude, seriously. Your brother is NOT DOING YOU ANY FAVORS BY STANDING OUT HERE FREAKING OUT THE CUSTOMERS. He looks like a felon, interrupts their dinner, tries to upsell them on things they already bought and lurks like a sex predator. Get him to go wash some dishes or something because he gives me the creeps.

OK. My soup is here. I hate to blog and run, but I'm hungry. Peace out.

Doctor's office – 3:02 p.m. My stogie-chomping friend, let me describe you him

2008-01-22T15:59:00.000-05:00

OH MY GOD I SHOULD HAVE TOTALLY DONE THIS EARLIER!

There is an old decrepit man in a motorized wheelchair sitting not six feet from me. He only has one leg and he is chomping on a stogie like there is no tomorrow.

His wheelchair is a "Jazzy 1103 Ultra" and let me tell you, it is loaded to the max. This is a cute rotund old man – if you saw him on the street – and maybe if he had both legs - you'd go "Aww" and maybe let your kids take candy from him.

He's got a cute little sailor hat and shorts and a gray sweatshirt on – but MY GOD he is chomping on that cigar like it is his very lifeblood and giving his poor daughter the what-for about Rudy Giuliani.

WOW. A drug company rep just walked in and she is dressed to the elevens. She's got a HUMONGOUS bag filled with samples – nothing good I bet – I can't even read it because of the way she's holding it at the window.

She's working a black pencil skirt and a red blazer and a fierce blow-out on her coal-black hair. She's got to be pushing 40 but she's totally working the porcelain complexion. The only thing that doesn't quite go is her odd burgundy slippers – WHICH ARE NOT THE SAME SHADE AS THE FIRE ENGINE RED TOP LADY!

OK. She's selling Carinex. Whatever that is. And now she's taking her feet out of her inch-high heels and twirling her toe around in a seductive manner even though there's no one to see it – you know how you do when you're wearing flip-flops and you're standing at a counter and you know that no one can see you let your toes out to breathe. Except that I totally just busted her. Her burgundy shoes are totally bothering me though. Such an obviously dapper dresser should NOT be mismatching her reds in this way.

The old man is still giving the daughter the what-for about politics. She's got her hand firmly planted across her jaw in that "dutiful daughter" pose – and the old man has take the foot-long cigar out of his mouth long enough for me to see the chewed-up, slobbered-on end of it. I think I'm going to hurl.

The drug company rep has been denied and is forced out the door without being able to peddle her wares upon more unsuspecting doctors and hook more people on drugs they don't need.

Oh lordy. Turns out it was a two-fer! Wheelchair man has a WIFE! She's dressed in black from with gold sequins around the top – and the doctor is giving them both sheets and sheets of prescriptions and lecturing the daughter "make them finish up what they have before they take more." OH LORD. I can hear her very audible sigh. Her mother looks like she's on lithium – that or a very strange natural high.

The old woman's hair also looks like she shaved part of her forehead – or else she just has old-lady baldness. There's also enough hairspray there to wipe out an Amazon rainforest and still supply two seasons of "Project Runway" and an episode of "Top Model."

OK. I have to go. I do like maybe have some work to do today. Peace and cupcakes. I LOVE CUPCAKES! BECAUSE I HAVE TWENTY SEVEN PERSONALITIES!

Dunkin Donuts, 5:44 p.m. – My Thiago, let me show you him

2008-01-20T21:05:00.000-05:00

OK. I'm parked inside the cleanest Dunkin Donuts I've ever been in and just gotten a vanilla frosted from a twentysomething – I kid you not – named "Thiago." In the dictionary of interesting names, that one is right up there.

And bless me father, for I have sinned and heretofore art cometh my reward for doing good. There is a vision of loveliness walking my way.

There's a hot-ass boy walking in the door now. He's got on blue jeans and a light blue polo short. It fits tightly around his arms because he's got muscles to burn. Oh. I'm weak at my knees. He's got a nice crop of stubble on his chin and an armband tattoo. I need a man so bad I'm about to jump up and club him and drag him back to my car. He's got his cell phone glued to his ear the whole time he's at the register. le sigh Bad register manners. Strike one.

Strike two – these weird white plastic flip-flops that aren't even pretending to be fashion thongs. They're like what you wear while you're having treatments done at a day spa or something. OK. My final verdict? This is the guy you take back to your hotel room but not back to your hometown!

There's a blasting dance mix of "Don't Leave Me This Way" coming out of the speakers in here. I wonder if they crank it up like this during the mornings when all the old people are out in full effect?

I have to say that I like the atmosphere in here. The tables are double wide – they're not typical square but more like rectangles – long rectangles – perfect for two people with laptops or two people with plates or something. I'll have to try this on my way to work one morning – BUT IT IS STILL ON THE WRONG SIDE OF THE DAMN ROAD.

Mr. Blue Shirt is still loitering at the pickup counter. His tattoo is peeking out from under his shirt. He is distracting me to an extreme degree. I can't think for the Abercrombie factor. OK. That is what I hereby dub the "cute boy" effect – the Abercrombie factor. And Blue Shirt has left – he gets into a slate gray PT cruiser and leaves. My day is so much less bright now.

OK. Back to me. Stop thinking about Blue Shirt and his bulging biceps and his peek-a-boo tattoo.

Who out there knew that Dunkin Donuts had a loyalty card? Seriously? There's a DD-Perks card – and you get three percent cash back. I need to get up on that. Apparently this is the best place I'm going to find to replace the Starbucks – especially if I can arrange to run into Blue Shirt more.

There are power points all over the place – no WiFi as far as I can tell – but it is sort of close to my office – and there are donuts and sodas and coffee. There's also about five giant signs staring me in the face everywhere I turn for this kind of plastic-looking Sausage Supreme Omelet sandwich. I dunno about that. I like bagels – but I find them kind of chewy. I especially dunno about having prefab eggs and sausage and cheese on a bagel. Maybe if I'm feeling adventurous or generous.

OK. I'm wrapping this one up. I'm sort of tired today and I need to do laundry. Much love – and thank you all for your comments and emails of support. :) I needed that.

Italian bistro & sushi bar, 9:08 p.m. - My leopard spots, let me show you them

2008-01-19T23:59:00.000-05:00

This was supposed to be Saturday's entry – except that the flesh-eating, dung-encrusted maggots at Crumbcast have seen fit to throttle the pipes that power the tubes of my IntarWebz and I have been shut out of offering my brilliance. There is a conspiracy afoot, I tell you.

OK. I'm perched in a high stool at a white linen tablecloth kind of café-bistro-sushi-bar type place.

Why do people think that pasta and sushi go together? Just because the whole damn planet thinks that raw fish and vinegared rice is nice doesn't mean that I want to stare at someone pfaffing around with chopsticks while I'm trying to enjoy a nice glass of wine and eat some pasta. Italian does not go with sushi.

And I'm not talking "Asian Fusion" cooking here. I'm perfectly aware of what fusion is. This is a bistro that serves pasta and has a sushi bar. It's like a shotgun marriage and you're not sure if they're going to manage to do either one of them well. I don't like sushi. I was raised to cook food before you eat it. My eggs are scrambled hard, my burgers well done. I don't eat food raw because that's how you wind up with diseases of 57 syllables and become a case study that shows up on an episode of "House."

Why am I here? Because I had to go to work on a Saturday and I just couldn't take the place any more. I'd love to be slugging back a bottle of champagne (the whole bottle, thank you very much) or a bottle of white wine, but I can't afford either and I have to drive home anyway. God. I really, really, really need to get hammered soon and let go of some of this anger and frustration.

Anyway. I'm sitting outside because it's cool and fresh and brisk and I don't want to be around the "see and be seen scene" inside. Plus, it's loud up in there and I can't take any more loud right now. I might haul off and clock a bitch with my computer. Plus, there's the bonus of sights.

This bistro-sushi-bar thing is about two doors down from a movie theater in a strip mall, so I get to see all sorts of things. I've never seen people actually take a giant tub of popcorn home before – like in those NetFlix commercials (or was it for some widescreen TV) – but this fat man and his Q-tip-haired wife are sure as hell doing it. I mean, really, did you NEED that much popped corn flavored with butter-flavored grease in the first place? And now you're TAKING IT HOME? Is there a round two on the sofa?

The bread here is fantastic by the way. This charming Hispanic man keeps bringing baskets and baskets of homemade garlic knots and this fresh, crusty loaf stuff. I wish they had some sort of butter other than those rock-hard square bricks, but I'll survive. The bread is wonderful – one of the first nice things to happen to me all week.

I think it's gonna rain. It's gonna rain. It's raining. Oh lord it's raining.

Somehow, you would think that the population here is composed of either sugar or else is all first cousins to Elphaba, the Wicked Witch of the West from the way they carry on over the potential to get splattered with a few drops of water.

One old woman sends her man out to get the car – he gets the car and promptly drives a good ten feet past he pickup point – forcing her to RUN THROUGH THE RAIN to get into the door. Nice one old man, nice one.

The showers also provide a nice "stop and look" point for me to observe the fashion. There's a matched pair of mother-daughter wannabe models – both overly bleached and cosmeticized. The daughter is nothing but legs and is working every inch of her leather jeans – and baby – those legs GO ALL THE WAY UP. She's got extensions in – I can tell because her hair just doesn't hang quite right. Her mother – although it might just be an older friend – is trying valiantly but failing to pull off the blonde in a leather skirt look. It's nice people watching though.

And leopard seems to be the fabric d'jour this year. If one old matchstick had on leopard, I must have seen it on twenty. Tunics, jackets, trims – it was like an African savannah out there – all shades too. That reminds me – I need some leopard curtains for my cubicle.

OK. My pesto chicken alfredo is here. Ciao.

Cubicle farm, 4:49 p.m. - My noisy new office, let me show you it

2008-01-18T17:28:00.000-05:00

So last Friday word came down from on high that it was official, I have to move from my cushy decorated digs to another cubicle farm 17 miles northward in another office. I had hoped to avoid this - and voiced my opinion many, many, many times that I did not want to take part in the move.

That 17 miles translates into about 45 minutes if traffic is good – over an hour if traffic is bad. I got stuck in construction on Monday and spent 20 minutes staring at the back end of a delivery truck loaded with canisters of CO2 and praying that no one decide to recreate a scene from a Bruckheimer movie.

It is horrible. I hate traffic. I hate being in traffic. There's not a convenient Starbucks. This current office park is bland – pretty and heavily landscaped with flowers and fountains and palm trees – but with zero personality. Plus I have to take my life into my own hands and turn across three lanes of highway traffic without a stop light every night when I want to go home.

There are three Starbucks within three miles – but they're all on the wrong side of the road if I'm coming here – and none of them have traffic signals or turn lanes – all require U-turns or complicated mall parking lots. Getting back to Starbucks after getting TO the office requires the aforementioned deathtrap turn across three lanes of oncoming cars – without a suicide lane in the middle. I could kill the idiot that designed this office park.

I don't know how much longer I'm going to last at this job. I feel under-appreciated and very much under-challenged. There's just not much else out there right now that I feel like I want to do – unless someone wants to pay me to bum around the world writing travel guide articles while staying at four-star hotels and flying first class.

This is the crux of my problem – I like creature comforts too much to learn to do without them. I like digital cable and air conditioning and takeout food and bottled water and clean sheets and automatic transmissions and health insurance and regular prescriptions and "Project Runway" and TiVo and private bathrooms and toilet paper and triple venti raspberry white chocolate mochas with whole milk and sprinkles. I LIKE ALL THAT OK.

That does not make me a bad person. It just makes me ill-suited for becoming a digital Bedouin who could travel the globe, living off the local economy for a few weeks at a time before decamping for a new place.

Maybe I need to radically re-adjust my thinking. I'm got to break out of this rut that I'm in or I'm just going to wake up in 20 years and think "What the hell happened to my life?" Shit. I might just wake up tomorrow and decide to take a handful of pills and stick my head in a plastic bag. I think I've forgotten how to feel anything anymore.

I need new thought patterns. I need a boyfriend. I need some new music. I need a haircut. I need new clothes. I need new shoes. So help me Buddha, I need a whole new life.

Blarf. I'm a depressed as the stock market during a Bush presidency. Anyway. My week has been absolutely craptastic. I haven't been able to find the time or a place to write all week – and the one night I tried to land at Starbucks #2 – they gave me a free frappuccino but said they were closing early and kicked me out. I gave up and went home and went to bed because I couldn't take it any more.

Thank you for caring. Or not. Internet trolls clean public toilets with their tongues anyway.

Sonic – 10:58 p.m. – The Sonic is understaffed and the customers are getting rowdy

2008-01-13T23:36:00.000-05:00

There is some kind of high drama going on here at the Sonic – and I wonder if me and these four old people who just wanted some sundaes are gonna get caught up in some crossfire or something.

Destiny's Child is banging out on the radio. Every 30 seconds the manager or the carhop looks out the door like they expect a gangland thug to come roaring by in a little black Buick and start pumping out hot lead.

There's a truck that has torn through the parking lot a few times – and I saw the carhop stick her head outside the door and scream at someone leaving the drive-thru. She was also yelling exasperatedly at the order screen – but that could just be equipment issues. Retail. It's the modern soap opera.

Here comes the manager again. In. Then out. They are watching for SOMETHING – although I don't know what. There's a Ford Excursion on one side of me and a Dodge conversion van on the other. I can't see anything but straight ahead – and I'll be damned if I back out and get into the middle of the great Tater Tot War of January 2008.

Now the carhop girl is out – prowling around. The old people want more napkins. They might be wanting bandages and splints in a minute. Oh. My. Shiva. Typical old people. They sent back a completely consumed chocolate sundae because – and I swear upon my dead plant's grave that I might have heard this – the hot fudge melted the ice cream too fast.

Yes. Carhop just brought out a brand new sundae. It's just like the Wal-mart. Eat it. Return it. Get a new one for free. Boy, the old people are cackling like mad hens on acid now. They're driving a brand-new Escalade and scamming ice cream sundae's out of minimum wage girls at the Sonic.

What a life to look forward to when I start collecting Social Security. At least my own grandparents garden. My granny might chew out the checkout girl at the Piggly Wiggly for crushing her bread – but she'd never scam. The woman saves the lids to baby food jars to make Christmas ornaments.

Where was I? Oh. The Sonic manager just came back inside. The old people are laughing. I guess any potential threat has gone the way of the dodo bird. And my burrito. Gone, gone, gone!

Sonic has a new Double Berry Smoothie – the double berry part comes from raspberries and strawberries. It's good – but the seeds of the strawberries are a real pain. Plus, it doesn't suction well out of the cup. You know how sometimes when you get an ICEE and you suck all the Coke or strawberry flavor out of it and all you're left with is ice? That's what seems to happen with this – although if it really is "low-fat yogurt" in this I'm dying to know what exactly causes this effect.

My. Lord. Vishnu. I have the window on the car cracked for fresh air (I didn’t feel like getting out because it was clammy) and I can hear these old people kicking up a storm. I need to order me one of them there sundaes and see what all the fuss is about. And then eat it and return it.

The old people are departing. Two old ladies in the back of the Escalade, two old men in the front of the Escalade. That's the way the retirement fund goes!

OK. My time is up. My smoothie is done. I need to go home and do some laundry.

Peace, love and tater tots!

Another Apple Store, 7:57 p.m. - The Apple geeks are ugly

2008-01-12T20:10:00.001-05:00

Seriously, I don't know if it is something in the water or what, but the Apple geeks up in here look like .... well, there's no way to sugarcoat this, real geeks. It is frightening in its truthfulness. I think I've stumbled into some sort of fanboy convention or something - because some of these dudes look like they still live in somebody's basement.

The one at the genius bar is wearing a pair of ratty tennis shoes and shorts and looks sort of schlubby. There's one at the far end greeting customers that is wearing a pair of aquamarine - yes, I kid you not - AQUAMARINE (not just a Britney movie!) - shorts and the navy blue Apple T-shirts. It is one of most clashy trashy combos I think I've ever seen. Maybe he's trying to match the shirts of the girls in the store - who all seem to be wearing that shade of blue. Oh no honey. IT AIN'T WORKING!

The geeks here are not friendly either. There are four of them clumped up in a big group over on the right side of the store - like wallflowers at a school dance. Then again - if they all started out as geeks, they're probably used to being wallflowers at a dance.

Awwwwwwww. I just got an Apple geek all frothy with the prospect of me buying one of those super-sleek keyboards. I want one so bad it hurts right down to my toes - but I have absolutely no use for it if I have a laptop. I mean really, I don't like external monitors and don't want to use one - it does tend to cut down on the whole "portability" thing - but oh. my. god. I love those little keyboards.

The music up in here is whizack tonight. It's some sort of rappy-thuggy-clash crap that I can't even begin to identify. I don't even know if it has an identifiable melodic stream.

The vibe here is really strange. I get the feeling that this is a low-traffic store - it certainly seems so - because it is Saturday night and there are nearly as many staff as customers - and there are only about 12 customers in here. The staff aren't doing much - although that is totally Apple's laissez-faire way of doing things - touch, feel, play - then ask for help. But really, there is an odd vibe. I can't pin my finger on it, but there's just no "excitement."

You know, I'm about to call them on this too. I can't save for **** on this here iMac. The Safari browser seems whacked.

OH. MY. KALI. There is a howler monkey acting all kind of a fool up in the Apple "discover" station. It is going around pressing all the buttons on all the computers just to hear the different Dr. Seuss sounds. I'm all for "the wonder of discovery," but you better sit your little spoiled and pampered behind down and discover, not keep running around and howling. I'm about to turn around and smack it. It's parents do not deserve the wonder of a Mac. Thou shalt be thrown out of the church of our Lord Jobs.

There is a bald man on the iMac next to me. He is staring very, very quizzically at something in the iLife suite. Hurr. He is bald at a young age too. Bald by style or bald by choice? You never know. It doesn't look good on him either.

Oh Lord. Here comes his weird-looking wife. She apparently tried to jam a memory card into an iBook and "somehow" wiped the memory card? Can you even do that? Don't you have to have a card reader? I really don't understand people sometimes.

They're yammering at the guy at the Genius Bar and I swear to Shiva I saw him roll his eyes. The woman is pouting and squinchy and going "I don't know, but it was new when I bought it." Really, Most things ARE new when you buy them.

And this is not going well. They don't like what they hear from the Genius Bar - because the computer is telling him a different story. I must have gotten only half that conversation. Oh. They just got quoted $300 to fix whatever problem they have. I swear it was just some kind of memory card. Oh. No. It's a power cord for an iPod. They broke the power cord for an iPod - and now the husband is talking loud enough for me to hear. It was the kid who yanked the cord out and actually damaged the slot on the iPod.

Reason number 8,997,235 not to mix howler monkeys and expensive electronics. One will always damage the other.

Peace out. Much love.

Outside the Pita Barn, 11:34 p.m. - Because everyone loves shirtless boys

2008-01-11T23:54:00.000-05:00

OK. We're working the college thing tonight. I roaming around in a brand new part of the planet and get a hankering for something to eat. I land beside the local college – and find this tiny storefront shop that sells pitas – and it is open until midnight.

I'm perched on a bench outside the store because the music inside is so loud that it would wake the dead, pierce their eardrums with an icepick and then serve the brains in nice compote for dessert. With toothpicks through the eyeballs. Maybe some chocolate sprinkles.

Still, the pitas are good and the college boys were very pretty. There were even two shirtless ones lounging around as I placed my order. Very hard not to stare. Impossible in fact.

No. It's not that kind of place. They were painted green from the waist up – because allegedly the college had a basketball game tonight. That, or there is some odd sort of William Wallace festival going on nearby that I obviously need to get myself too in a damn big hurry. Oh …. I miss college and the random happenstance of shirtless boys just lying around like tossed-aside soda cans in Third World countries.

I love the staff T-shirts here. One dude had on a shirt that said "Getting freaky with tzatziki" and there's another "Getting groovy with tabouli." I'm waiting to see what rhymes with "hummus." Yeah. Rhyme that one bitch.

OK. I really, really miss college. It is about a quarter till midnight now – and the place is jumping. It's nothing like the barren wasteland of cultural suburbia where I live. There are all kinds of young people up in this joint.

They're all bored college kids trying to find food on a Friday night – and one coked out sorority whore with cutoff blue jean shorts halfway up the crack of her Great Rift Valley and a V-neck that really looks more like a swan dive. Seriously honey – you need to get thee to a nunnery – that or some rehab. PS: That Chanel bag you're swinging around is a fake. The stitching looks like it was done by a blind Chinaman with an eggbeater using a vine as thread and the metal decorations are wrong. I can tell that from here. Much love.

The music is pumping out over the speakers outside too. "Sad Songs" from Elton. Wow. I don't really know how this is modern college music, but I'm loving it. I know Elton is like some kind of eternal flame (get it) that's good for every decade, but really? College? Anyway. It's really nice out tonight too. I wish there were actually tables and chairs, but I'm making this bench work.

On that subject – I'd like to deliver a great big "Screw You" to the Calistoga Bakery Cafe next door. Not only do they close early, but they literally lock up all the tables and chairs so that you can't use them. Ugh. My foot is going to sleep.

Now we're on to Three Doors Down and "When I'm Gone." Uh. This was big right around the time I was in college. Or graduate school. It gets blurry that far back.

One thing I severely DO NOT miss about college – stupid kids racing up and down the road acting a fool just because their rich daddy bought them a new pick-up truck. I really don't want to listen to your engine. Hell, I probably don't want to listen to you. The traffic noise here is nothing to write home about.

Well, I just saw a girl riding a motorbike in a pair of short-shorts. That … takes courage in a whole new way. Maybe she just needs a bikini wax and is just too cheap to go to the salon. Gives a whole new meaning to "burning it off."

Damn. IT IS JUST A NISSAN ALTIMA. IT AIN'T GOING NOWHERE FAST EVEN IF YOU GUN THE THING! OK? OK.

"Summer breeze. Makes me feel fine. Blowing through the jasmine of my mind." Oh. I love this song. I've always loved this song. My foot is totally and completely asleep. Damn.

OK. I'm tired. I've had a tough week – which accounts for no post on Thursday. I shall endeavor to do better in the future.

Much love. Wait. Stop. Just remembered this.

I'm going to deliver some much-needed fashion advice from earlier in the day.

Ladies, it is NEVER, EVER, EVER acceptable to wear Mardi Gras beads as everyday jewelry - especially if you are currently more than a thousand miles from the wonderful, fabulous and glorious city of New Orleans.

EVER. Are we clear on that? Crystal clear?

Even if you are 110 and have the Alzheimer's and think you might be related to Catherine the Great. Even if you think you ARE Catherine the Great. Hell, if you think you ARE Catherine the Great, you need to be wearing a live horse, a Bjork swan or vest made out of Russian bears or something. Not some damn Mardi Gras beads.

NEVER. In the unlikely event you rig the vote and become a Mardi Gras queen, you will be provided with appropriate gemstones.

DO NOT, and I repeat, DO NOT wear Mardi Gras beads with brown slacks and a yellow sweater. I will laugh at you and clown your wide behind on my blog.

We now return to our regularly scheduled blogging.

Starbucks #798, 7:35 p.m. – My new computer, let me show you it

2008-01-09T23:00:00.000-05:00

I GOT MY NEW MACBOOK TODAY.

Praise Allah. Praise Kali. Praise Buddha. Praise Shiva. Praise Cthulu. Braise a howler monkey and pass the barbecue sauce. I GOT MY NEW MACBOOK TODAY!

Now that I've got that out of my system … I'm about 35 miles north of my normal haunts hanging out at a brand new Starbucks. This is the first Starbucks I've ever seen that is laid out in a near-perfect square. The dining room is a rectangle. The barista bar is another skinny rectangle – and the drive-thru is a third skinny rectangle on the back of that.

It's very, very strange – because the design is open – and it means that every single bit of noise that comes from the espresso bar is amplified and echoes out into the customer area.

This is another one of those - "no-merchandise" Starbucks - so there's lots of seating and hangout space. It is just noisy as hell. No one in their right mind would want to make this their "third space." Counting me, there are only three customers here. I can't hear myself think over the noise of dishes, the sink and the blender. If this place were full of customers, I'd run screaming for the hills trailing coffee beans behind me like a shitty baby with a diaper full of poo toddling down the aisle of a Wal-Mart!

One of the baristas was just making a frappuccino – and I swear to Kali it sounded like she was blending a concrete block inside a cement mixer. It doesn't help that they've turned up the Juanes in this joint to a level 11 and beyond. I'm down with Juanes. Just not a level that will vibrate the hairs right off Frida Kahlo's upper lip.

The baristas are a triple set of teenage tramplets that belong in a Pussycat Dolls video. Or in the Pussycat Dolls. Whichever comes first.

This is the dialogue from the last thirty seconds. "OH MY GOD. I'M TOTALLY IGNORING YOU. LIKE, IT WAS BLENDING SO LOUD. LIKE, WHAT'S THE EASIEST WAY TO MAKE A CHAI LATTE? JUST, LIKE, PUT SOME MILK IN THERE. OH MY GOD. DOLCE. I'M SO STOKED."

Blarf. There were a couple of foreign tourists in front of me at the register.

POR LO MANO DE CHRISTO. THE NOISE FROM THE DISHES IS KILLING ME.

Anyway. These tourists. They couldn't figure out what they wanted. They finally managed to get two coffees.

CANNOT HEAR SELF THINK FOR NOISE OF BLENDER. WHOEVER ORDERED THAT FRAPPUCCINO I HOPE YOU GET THE RUNS RIGHT IN THE MIDDLE OF THE TOLL BRIDGE AND DIE!

Foreign tourists. Two coffees and two coffee cakes. Then they ask the girl at the register for sugar and cream – because they're obviously from some Third World ~~slumhole~~ country that has not yet been ~~cursed~~ blessed with the beneficent majesty of the Green Apron goodness. Anyway.

MY GOD I CAN LITERALLY HEAR THE SCRUB BRUSH GOING IN AND OUT OF THE DISHES OVER THERE.

Anyway. Register monkey is helping me and asks another girl to direct the tourists to the cream and sugar on the condiment bar. The other girl – who has ratty hair that looks like a beaver made a nest, died, willed the nest to another beaver, then that beaver made and nest and raised a family of six and then died – she leans over the espresso machine and yells at the top of her lungs ITS OVER THERE! And she points at the condiment bar.

Because she obviously knows how to give the legendary green apron customer service.

Ok. The noise here is just too much. I feel a migraine. Either that or I am way, way, constipated and need to take a serious dump.

I love you all.

But I love my new computer more.

Park, 7:38 p.m. - Old people love their heavy metal objects

2008-01-08T20:03:00.000-05:00

OK. My friends and I decided to broaden our horizons and head out to a community park in the county north of here tonight. We saw a thing in the paper for a horseshoe thing and thought, "Hey, nice. That could be fun." So, we rolled out of work, fought traffic and landed at the park amidst a bunch of old people who haven't worked a day since Reagan was president.

I know I'm REAL down on the old people all the time, but everyone we met was absolutely wonderful. There was this old guy named Bob who adopted us liked we were his long lost children.

He cleaned off a horseshoe pitch for us, found some horseshoes, gave us a quick lesson, and told us to start throwing. And you know what, I LOVE TO THROW THINGS. Horseshoes are good. Plates are are better. Ex-boyfriends out of the car at a gas station are GREAT!

Anyway. This perfectly wonderful old lady named Barb or Ann or Sue or Deb or something else with three letters and as old as dirt was sitting behind a Welcome table. We got name tags and welcome packets and everything. Deb has on a blue jumper and those old lady blue jeans with the elastic in the waistband. She's got steel-gray hair and might be seventy but she doesn't act like a day over 40.

There's a lot of old ladies here - who are clearly just supporting their menfolks. One old bird is sitting at a picnic table behind me. She's the best-dressed person here - in Ann Taylor Loft separates and a really nice red blazer. She's got the knitting out and it looks like she's making a baby booty in pale blue. I bet she's got a new grandson. The clank and the thunk of the horseshoes doesn't bother her in the least.

The action on the pitch has died down, but there are a couple of die-hards. Three old dudes - one of them wearing a knee brace - and one skinny woman wearing black jeans and a red gingham shirt are still throwing two-pound metal U's back and forth with deadly seriousness.

My mentor, Bob, was explaining the rules of the game to me and how he goes to competitions all the time. Bob is a serious player. He's a good player too. He's got a tournament tomorrow - and he told us that he can hit a ringer in 40 out of every 100 pitches.

Wow. This is a dangerous game. One guy is cleaning the horseshoes in a bucket. The three other guys are pitching from the other end. One old guy threw a horseshoe, smacked the concrete and bounced it right into the bucket the old dude was cleaning horseshoes in. And then DID IT AGAIN!

This one old lady is WILDLY curious about what I'm writing. I think she thinks that I'm a reporter. Well, I am "reporting" the action. But not how she thinks. Real reporters would identify themselves and ask for people's proper names. Not just sit and write.

Anyway. The bugs are going something fierce out here. And I'm hungry. All that exercise helped me work up an appetite.

And I think I might have pulled a muscle in my arm!

Much love.

Starbucks #1, 9:09 p.m. - I'll have a tall latte and a quick blowjob

2008-01-07T22:27:00.000-05:00

The alternate title was "Alas, pour your drink, I knew him Fellatio."

Yeah, I know. I'm predictable. I like comfort food though, and I really do buy into that whole 'third place' bullshit that Starbucks pumps out. Plus, there are cute boys.

Like the one that just walked through the door. Uhhhhhh. Strike that. He has an asthmatic cough. He has on an orange Texas Longhorns T-shirt and red and black athletic shorts. He's got on sandals and crusty toes. He has big ears too. His haircut is not doing him any favors, but he is nicely formed. The register girl is flirting fit to beat the band.

He apparently has a $5 Starbucks gift card and wants to use it. His bill comes out to $4.22 and he's crushed that he can't spend it all at once. So he decides to flirt with the barista some more. She simpers. He smiles. I gag. "Is it possible that I can use 78 cents the next time?" No mother-f*****. Because that is not your money. She simpers. He smiles. I gag. "Of course," the barista answers, "that's your money." That's right dumb-ass. Seriously. Maybe he really DID go to a Big 12 school.

Anyway. He gets his coffee and leaves. She sighs. He stalks. I gag.

Where were we? Oh. Yeah. Cute boys. Diamond Studs, the ghetto-fied white-boy high-schooler is working tonight. He has a big hickey high up on his neck. Too high for a turtleneck to cover up - even if it made any sense at all to wear a turtleneck in Florida.

I'm sitting outside now. They cranked the radio up in there while they're cleaning and I just can't concentrate. The traffic noise is loud but oddly calming. Whoosh. Zoom. Whoosh. Zoom. Thank you Mr. Motorcycle.

Apparently, and I'm getting this second-hand from a chatty barista, I just missed a rather long philosophical debate about the best way to perform fellatio on a male. The three female baristas were tormenting poor Diamond Studs with this as he's trying to clean the espresso machine.

Are we interested in the techniques that were being espoused? I know that I'm always down for a good discusson on the techniques of fellatio. I'm not sure how experienced a couple of these girls were - one looks like an old pro - but two of them look like they're still in high school. Looks can be deceiving - and who knows - maybe they're earning tuition in the back seat of the bus on the way home each afternoon.

Anyway. The blonde girl was apparently asking questions about the whole "Pop Rocks" theory - which is how the debate got started. Seriously. That's how blonde jokes got started.

The brunette said that you've got to use plenty of hand - and juggle the jewels while you're at it. The old hand - the manageress, just smiled and nodded wisely and said that if you manage to finger the culo, that's even better.

Methinks she's given a few in her lifetime. Anyway. Poor Diamond Studs just blushed red, made my drink and clocked out. He shoved his green apron in his back pocket and stomped out the door just a minute later.

After he left, one of the baristas confided in me that "his girlfriend won't do it for him. And she cheated on him over Christmas." Well, hell. Poor Diamond Studs. I guess I need to tip him good tomorrow. Maybe a five with my phone number written on it in Sharpie.

The SBUX is dead tonight. I guess everyone is indoors watching the LSU-OSU game. Whatever. Who would have thought that OSU would score first? I saw that much before I left the office. Even the traffic is dead here.

Oh. Man. I don't know what the hell I ate, but it is killing me in the digestion department. Maybe it was that IHOP last night. I dunno.

OK. Drivers are stupid. This white Toyota 4Runner just turned out in front of a Mustang. So the Mustang slams on the horn. The 4Runner blows the horn back, then guns it. I can hear the Mustang gun it too. All this not five blocks from downtown and another stoplight and tons of police. Effing brilliant.

Huh. I just caught three stop lights in different stages. Yellow. Red. Green.

I love the different colors of light. Wow. I'm back on light. I can see blue, white and yellow from here too. Ohhhhhh. Pretty.

Traffic noise. I can haz it. It's funny, but when the light goes green or yellow, I'll hear a sudden deeper THRUMMMMMM of the engines as the drivers either accelerate or try to make the light.

OK. I'm done. I need to do my laundry.

Peace. Love. Thank Mr. Corvette. You really had to peel out there. Understanding.

Starbucks #1, 7:10 p.m. - My breast tattoo, let me show you it

2008-01-06T19:52:00.000-05:00

Damn. I need that triple venti raspberry white chocolate mocha. I have been caffeine deprived all day because I refuse to buy soda for my apartment. I think soda is bad for the body - but I can't break my caffeine addiction. I try to fight this by not buying soda - or buying it only in the 16 oz. bottles. Therefore, I always have a limited supply on hand and getting more requires me to actually lever myself up off the couch, go downstairs and make my way to the 7-Eleven.

OK. Mega strangeness. An old dude decked out in runner duds just came in, did an about-face, then went right back out, crossed four lanes of traffic and disappeared into the distance. He crossed the opposite corner too. I can see him walking through the parking lot of the Mobil station across the corner.

Ha. I bet he thought the coffee prices were too expensive. DUDE. It is a fricking Starbucks. You are paying for a decade of marketing and the mythical "third place" experience. Also, he's in for a helluva shock when he goes into that Mobil station. It's one of the Mobil "On the Run" cafe stations. They serve gourmet coffee and at one point actually had a small cafe in the back - like a Subway with a person making fresh sandwiches for you.

There is an extremely tall woman wearing a Marimekko-esque print shirt and Ugly Betty style glasses that is accompanying an old dude with a goatee and one of those tragea piercings in his right ear. Well, he's not THAT old, but he's got a good fifteen years on her. She looks like she ought to be vamping it up on Nikki Beach or something - not hanging around coffee shops with grizzled old wannabe-hot-stuff Cuban dudes who are trying to work the Picard look. OH MY GOD. He just told her to go fetch their drinks. Servile much? Girlfriend, you need to dump this dude. No amount of clothes and jewelry is worth your self respect.

Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. Midwestern tourists in tha hiz-ouse. She's wearing white pants with cute little tassels on the bottom cuffs and a gigantic black fisherman's sweater. He's got on the latest from the Tommy Bahama line - ugly yellow and tropical flower print shirt, khakis, hat and boat shoes. Her cankles threaten to overwhelm the one and a half-inch black jeweled heels she's trying to work like a rock star. Sister-girl, please, listen to mama. That day has passed.

OH MY GOD. I just got a frontal of the Cuban girl in the Marimekko outfit. She has a huge tattoo of hearts and flowers and scrollwork splashed across her collarbones and extending down to a point right above her breasts. Very eye-catching. And they just got into their huge black Ford Excursion, drove over the curb and through a red light. Nice. Really nice.

Wow. This is just the best cup of coffee that I have had in like two weeks. This is the one barista that I discreetly "complained" about too. I guess they went back and re-trained her, because her work has been spot-on here lately. I mean, this is an EXCELLENT cup of coffee.

I love the city at night. From where I'm sitting, I can see one of the really big intersections in town and the ebb and flow of traffic and traffic lights. It has a very peaceful and at the same time frenetic beauty. The movement of the light is so hypnotic.

It brings to mind one of my favorite old "Northern Exposure" episodes. Anyone else love that show? Anyway. The episode was called "Aurora Borealis, or Fairy Tales for Big People." I think that was what it was called anyway. The episode ended with the John Corbett character unveiling this huge light sculpture in the town square and the Enya song "Ebudae" playing over the end credits. It was fantastically wonderful and beautiful and soulful and spiritually powerful. Dunno. Maybe I just loved "Northern Exposure."

Anyway. There's a yuppie here who either has an internal modem or who doesn't mind paying the exorbitant price for Starbucks Internet access. He's been surfing on this laptop the whole time I've come in, snagged THA BEST COFFEE EVAR, decided that I wanted a meal, eaten some tuna salad, chatted with one of the baristas about the unfortunate demise of my MacBook and why she should avoid the Mac Mini and just get a laptop, and then write this post. Whoops. He's leaving now.

Wait. My time is up. So am I. They're grinding coffee beans now. The noise is terrific. The smell is intoxicating, but the constant whirr-whirr-whirr is going to give me a headache in short order.

Peace. Love. Understanding.

My cubicle, 11:04 p.m. - Let me share with you it

2008-01-05T23:28:00.000-05:00

So, the evil monkey butt nuggets at Comcast saw fit to destroy the tubes that power the InterWebz and throttle the pipes that bring forth the life-giving manna of the high-speed Internet.

The busted laptop I'm forced to carry around until I get a replacement has a janky power cord - and a battery that apparently has the staying power of a fifteen-year-old boy in the presence of Pamela Anderson - so I'm have been forced to come in to work to satisfy my desperate email craving. I feel like such a techno-junkie.

If this horrible situation goes on much longer, people are going to find me outside the Verizon store a few blocks from my apartment panhandling for wireless cards or something. "Hey brother, can you spare a text? What about a prepaid cell phone? Please mister? HAVE MERCY ON ME! I KNOW YOU HAVE TECHNOLOGY ON YOU!"

Anyway. I went to the Sonic and got a burrito. Word up - the steak, bacon & egg burrito is back, ya'll. That mess is so good. It keeps real good too. I like to get two and then I have a spare for breakfast. Then, seeing as how I wasn't doing much else on a Saturday night, I came to my domicile of drudgery.

There's only so much email and Google Reader you can do. At some point, you actually do reach the end of the Internet. Especially since my preferred method of passing time on the Internet - shopping - has been curtailed as of late, because, you know, I'm as poor in funds as Britney is in good sense. Anyway.

I get so much more work done when I'm not actually supposed to be at work. I think it has to do with the fact that I'm so much of a night owl anyway - and the whole eight-to-five schedule just does not agree with me. There's no one here, I turn the iTunes up and blast that stuff out at full volume. What do I listen to? The best of the pop tunes from the 80s & 90s, with a good dash of Mama Cass and the hits of the 60s thrown in.

My favorite song? Hard to pin down. A definite contender is Cher's "If I Could Turn Back Time." I bought a cassingle of that at a garage sale way, way, way back in the day and played it every single day for a year until the tape broke. My friends hated me. And hated Cher.

Lately I've been discovering more melodic music. I love piano music - and I wish I had the time to learn to play. Here's my theory on that. If I can type 80 words a minute, I can learn to play the piano - but I have short and fat fingers - and I can't hear music worth a damn. I bought a keyboard and three "Learn to Play Piano for Dummies" books and couldn't make heads or tails of any of them.

Maybe my brain just doesn't work the way musician brains work. I'm very process-oriented - in that I want stuff to make sense and operate in a logical fashion again and again and again. Still, I love piano music.

I saw that episode of "Dexter" with the Chopin references and loved that music. Unfortunately, it appears that everyone else did too - because there was apparently a run on Chopin at the public library. *grumble* Everyone else has the same idea of getting music for free .....

Anyway. What else do I listen to? Soundtracks to Broadway musicals. Current favorite? The soundtrack to the musical "Closer to Heaven." Music was from The Pet Shop Boys and the book was by acclaimed playwright Jonathan Harvey - who wrote "Beautiful Thing." I paid a small fortune to have it imported from the UK - and it may be out of print now - but I highly recommend it. The songs are beautiful, sexy, exotic and heartbreaking - especially the title track.

Anyway. Peace. Love. Understanding.

Outside Gamestop, 9:13 p.m. - This truck needs to turn off its lights

2008-01-04T21:13:00.000-05:00

Seriously. I despise "outside malls." I applaud developers for thinking that people love the whole "town square" concept - and I love that the Panera Bread is coughing up some free WiFi - but this mother-f****** pickup truck needs to dim its f****** lights up in this bitch.

On the other hand, I can see to type like it is broad daylight up in here. KALI HELP ME. This dood is honking the horn to tell his wife that YES HONEY I AM RIGHT HERE. She is near bout tripping over herself to high-tail it out to the truck with a couple of lattes. Whatever.

The people-watching here is fascinating. There is a table full of Hispanic women over to my right who are carrying on an animated conversation in Spanish and quite possibly Dutch and French. Somebody found a new pair of shoes and everybody else wants to know where she got them. And some other girl is having man issues. The troubles are all the same....

It is kind of chilly in my part of Florida here tonight - but people are everywhere - inside and out. The outside crew has bundled up in fashionable winter wraps that they probably don't get the chance to pull out of storage that often and are totally working the hot Minnesota Mommy ski vixen look. Although the one fat girl at the table is sucking down a frappuccino like a newborn knocking back a fresh bottle.

There's a skinny white boy wearing a white windbreaker and carrying an iPhone walking by. He's on the prowl. I know he's not calling his girlfriend.

More skinny white girls walking by. One of them has on a "Blackwater" sweatshirt. The name had a big bear paw underneath it - maybe a high school. Maybe the disgraced Iraqi contractor is now sponsoring high schools? I wonder if Blackwater shirts would be worth anything on eBay?

Hrmmmm. It's kind of cold out here. I should have put on a vest or tossed a sweatshirt or something. I'm waiting on my friend and we're going to see "Juno."

I totally want to go get a coffee to warm up - but I had a smoothie earlier and I feel bloated - bloated like a water-retaining lesbian.

God. There are tons of teenagers out tonight. There's a kid with a mohawk coming by right now - a good-sized one too. I applaud anyone who dares to thumb their nose at convention - and at the same time, I mock them because you are so clearly not counter-culture if you're wearing an Abercrombie sweatshirt and a pair of Vans. The Mohawk is there solely for attention. That, or you lost a bet with your little stupid friends.

Some car just rolled by blasting music. And now a loud bunch of Latinas are rolling by calling each other "puta" and screaming out "YOU KNOW YOU JUST LITTERED BITCH. WHY YOU GOTTA YELL AT ME? I DID NOT LITTER BITCH." Damn. Somebody need to teach these heifers some manners.

I'm sandwiched between the Starbucks and the Panera Bread, staring right at a GameStop store - and one might think that this would be a good location for the GameStop store - but I've been here 20 minutes and not seen a single customer come in or out of the GameStop. I guess everyone got their video games for Christmas and have already exchanged them or they're just not in a buying mood.

Shit. I totally missed the Hair Cuttery store. I could use a new 'do. I've been thinking of getting my hair bleached. The only problem with that is that my hair gets so fried afterward. And it takes months and months to come back to normal.

Two girls are play hugging outside the Starbucks. This old man at the condiment bar inside the Starbucks is casting such a gimlet eye on them. THEY ARE NOT LESBIANS DUDE THEY'RE JUST HUGGING!

It's cold out here. I can't feel my pinky fingers on either hand. My friend needs to hurry the fuck up so I can send them into the Starbucks for me some coffee. Damn. How long does it take to go buy some movie tickets?

Three completely juvie brats walking by right now. The GameStop appears to be closed - SO THEY DECIDE TO TRY TO SCOPE OUT THE SEATS RIGHT BY ME. I hit one of them with "the look" - so they decide to "lets go sit over at the bench." That's right bitches. Do not invade my personal space. DO NOT GET UP IN MY PERSONAL SPACE. I BE TRYING TO CREATE UP IN HERE!

Two minutes to go. Damn. Now I need a pee too. The chatty Catalina party is breaking up. They had enough coffee cups on that table to serve a a family of 8 for a year. They must have made three trips to the garbage each.

No. Wait. It's not over. They're just moving the table - and six chairs - around to the other side of the restaurant out of the wind. Nicely done ladies. Nicely done. I wish I'd had the sense to do that. But no, I thought I'd sit out where I would be able to see my brilliant friends that are apparently waiting in the longest ticket line known to man.

OK. I gotta go pee and find the movie theater.

Love ya'll lots!

Apple Store, 4:23 p.m. - There is a shaved poodle in the Apple store!

2008-01-03T16:20:00.000-05:00

Well, I have been driven to become peripatetic. I have been driven to worship at the altar of our lord Jobs. Yes. I'm typing at the Apple Store. Just call me David Duchovny and call this an episode of "Californication."

Mon dieu, it is hella crowded up in here. I do say that I love these new flat Apple keyboards though. I had to squeeze in on one of the big-screen iMacs because all the laptops were taken up by students doing Kali knows what with PhotoBooth and MySpace.

There are more retail slaves here than in a regular Wal-Mart. Most regular retail places could learn a thing or two from Apple. There is an annoying twenty-something in a pale blue T-shirt running around with a clipboard and a Palm-Pilot sized device that is just bugging the mess out of everyone.

You know, I realize that these are displays, not general use computers, but Apple could at least provide some stools. That, or raise the height of the counters to make it easier for people to type. I've tried about eight positions so far and not found one that is comfortable for me to type at for a long period of time.

Rich people have WAAAAAY too much money to waste on the last of the world's technological resources. Two girls over here are trying to convince these two old white people in expensive leather coats and $400 shoes to buy a laptop. She's working the whole iLife suite thing. "Look at iPhoto here. You can share your photos instantly." They're not buying it. I bet they'll go buy some piece-of-crap gPC at the Wal-Mart or something.

I LOVE THIS KEYBOARD. If I didn't have a laptop, I would totally buy myself one. Yeah, that and the fact that this keyboard costs $80.

There is an old woman wearing a turquoise green pants suit and dark, dark, dark sunglasses right up in the store here. Wait. She's got on a lime green Gore-tex vest OVER the pants suit and she has on a black crocodile bag. That's really an interesting combination of flavors there lady. AND SHE IS WALKING A SHAVED POODLE RIGHT INTO THE STORE. SO HELP ME GOD A SHAVED POODLE. I don't know who she is, or what she is, but this poor pooch deserves to be put out of its misery.

OK. Me craning my neck to get a better look at the dog just earned me a visit from one of the Apple geeks. "Do you need help sir?" No. I'm just trying to get a better look at the dog. "What dog?" That dog. And the dog picks that moment to howl.

Apple does not age discriminate. Some ancient fossil who looks like a skinny John McCain is trying to convince these two even older fossils to shell out on an iMac is touting the benefits of the widescreen display. And he is trying to play down the fact that it costs $1800. Now he's trying to figure out what kind of computer they have.

"Are you using Microsoft Outlook?" Really? I don't understand that question. It's so noisy in here that I really cant eavesdrop very well. He's selling the hell out the photo-sharing.

Now the old people want him to come to the house and install it. He's like "We don't do that. Macs are easy." These old people seriously want someone to come set the computer up for them. Damn. They need to go up to a Best Buy and get pocketbook-raped then!

This dude is having to sell the return policy because these old people are stupid. "We're going to take it out to the car for you. If you don't like it, you put it back in the box. We'll go out to the car and get it for you. Y0u don't have to do any thing else. You just tell us you don't want it."

Uh. OK. Just make sure you keep your receipt. Seriously. Old people are the worst shoppers in existence.

OMG. I'm laughing on the inside. I see one of the Apple geeks trying to get comfortable down the bar at one of the MacBooks. I KNEW THE PRODUCT BAR WAS TOO LOW!

You know, if this were a better working environment, I'd come here more often - like that woman who wrote an entire book at that Apple store. I think it was in the New York Times this past weekend.

Oddly enough, there are a lot - and I mean A HELLA LOT - of middle-aged and old people up in here. There really aren't that many young people. And the woman with the poodle walked by again. SHE IS NOT BLIND. I DO NOT WANT POODLE HAIR IN MY PRODUCT.

I really should fall down on the floor and act like I'm going into anaphylactic shock because I'm allergic to dogs. That shit would be so funny. I wonder if they'd give me a free MacBook because of it? Hell, I'd settle for one of the baby MacBooks - as long as it was a black one!

OK. My time is up. And my shoulders hurt from typing in this awkward position. Thanks to today's sponor - the Apple store!

PS: There are some cute Apple geeks up in here!

Starbucks #1, 4:21 p.m. - Crazy art woman and even crazier return lady

2008-01-02T11:54:00.000-05:00

Obviously, this is from yesterday. My backup computer has now died. The power cord is faulty and I had to wait and seize the opportunity to steal another one from a spare computer at work today. SOMEONE HATES ME.

It is crazy insane busy in here. You would think it is New York up in here, at the height of tourist season, at midnight on New Year's Eve the way people are stacked up like cordwood and the line is humongous.

To top everything else off, there is a crazy artist woman replacing the art on the walls here right above my head. Why she picked right now - at the height of the afternoon rush - to be doing this - is beyond all reason and beyond me. Right now, she's trying to unscrew the box that held her business cards under her $800 photographs. She kept sighing and pouting and then I noticed that she was actually screwing the box INTO the wall.

I looked up and said "You're doing it wrong. Lefty loosey, righty tighty." She was like "Oh. I'm doing it wrong." One would think she might have noticed that after 20 minutes of screwing and not being able to get the box off the wall. Le sigh. Artistic types. Her photographs were really nice, but not for the outrageous price she was charging.

I told her to just leave it for the next artist. She told me "I paid good money for that. I'm not going to leave it. It's mine." Okay then. Go right on with your bad penny-pinching self. She took the photos, the hooks that they were hung on the shelves with and the box her business cards were in. It looks like a denuded apartment up in here.

Ladies. Let me offer some random fashion advice. If you have a size 24 behind, that's all cool. The Goddess loves everyone - all shapes, sizes, colors, etc. HOWEVER. You really, really, need to think about the possible ramifications of going out in public with roses hand-stitched over your back pockets. I realize that you might be wanting to serve as a walking billboard for Sophie's Sewing Shoppe, but all you're really doing is making a rose look like a red cabbage. And it looks like you enjoy getting your buttocks spanked in some odd sort of flower fetish foreplay. Please do not be wearing gigantic embroidery if you have loins the size of water buffaloes. Kthnxbai.

Snakeskin appears to be back in this year. There's a woman with a fire-engine-red snakeskin coat prancing impatiently waiting for her drink. And yes, I did hear her order a peppermint hot chocolate with soy. Ewwwwwwwwwwww.

There's a scary WOACA in line now. She's got on light gray slacks and a regular white tunic. The kicker? She's got on silver snakeskin shoes. All this is accessorized with a Tiffany-ish powder blue handbag. I'm not sure of what kind of looks she's going for. OH MY GOD. I think ... I think. Actually, I'm sure (ewww, she's getting a soy caramel macchiatto) that she's got a pack of cigarettes jammed up under her shirt. No. It can't be. It has to be a nicotine patch. Although I don't know why she would have that floating around down near her muffin top.

Hello. Old dude. Christmas sweaters are officially out of style on Dec. 27. You MIGHT be able to get away with it on Boxing Day, but not on January 2. Please exit the building and get thee to a Macy's, pronto.

The baristas are arguing about the schedule.

And there is some RETURN DRAMA. There's a woman with OH MY GOD - a STACK of Starbucks receipts. She's got a Christmas gift bag and she's pulling out pounds of coffee, coffee grinders, some mugs -- all sorts of shit and she's holding up the line tremendously. Worse, she's dressed in an odd black and green jogging suit combination. She's old and white - but she has one leg of the jogging suit pulled up over her knee in ghetto style while the other one is down near her ankle. She's hollering at the assistant manager on duty about return a pound of ground coffee that she apparently bought back in early December but she claims tasted bad. Uh. Uh. Uh. I see a potential scam here.

Buy the $16 a pound coffee, fill the bag with Folgers and return. Wash rinse repeat.

They're still arguing. The girl at the register is holding up one finger to the customers getting increasingly impatient behind her - "One moment. One moment." And she points at the black sweatsuit woman. If this woman keeps this up - denying these poor people their triple mocha latte fix, there might me a venti-sized riot up in here.

Finally, she'd done. THEY ARE GIVING HER MONEY BACK FOR ALL THOSE POUNDS OF COFFEE. Damn. I need to get up on this.

Ok. We're going to depart with one bit of fashion advice that we should all take to heart. Ladies - and gentlemen - when you bleach your hair in order to go fashionably blonde - YOU NEED TO PUT SOME CONDITIONER UP IN THAT MESS. Otherwise, it do be looking like straw up on your head. And I will clown you ferociously.

Starbucks #1, 7:25 p.m. - Screw this laptop and this one heffa is hella noisy

2007-12-28T23:26:00.000-05:00

Let's try this again. I just kicked the cord and lost the first nine minutes. I burst out with a "What the fuck" and caused everyone at Starbucks to stare at me. Must needs remember that I'm not always in private. Lovely. Just effing lovely.

I have GOT to get a better computer. The MacBook that I killed was posted off to Apple by the tech support folks at my real job - Apple sent back a repair estimate that would cover the price of one of the baby iBooks. So for the time being, I'm not portable except for this janky Dell with the non-existent battery and now complete with a shitty power cord. Merry effing Christmas.

Anyway. Where was I? Oh. It's another Starbucks on another night and I'm working on another iced mocha. The workers here have those dead looks that say "I've worked too much over the past few days and not spent enough time with my family. I will serve you your coffee, but I will not smile at you and I will hate you for even expecting me to be friendly when I really want to be at home on the couch chomping on Cheetos and sucking down a fifth of Jim Beam."

OH MY GOD. The barista working the espresso bar just announced "VENTI CARAMEL CRAPPUCCINO." The recipient of said "crappuccino" eyeballed her and said "What was that?" The barista apologized and assured him that it was a frappuccino. And then announced to no one in particular that it has been a long four days.

It has been a long four days. When the power on my computer died, this dude behind me asked "Did you lose your data?" No. I was just screaming at random.

I do realize that this is a Starbucks - people might holler and scream on a regular basis, but I do try to keep my stuff under control. This is a man that comes in around 7 p.m. every night with takeout from a different restaurant, sits in one of the comfortable recliners and proceeds to feast for the next 45 minutes. I've never seen him actually order anything FROM Starbucks - just take up their space and use their napkins, forks and toilet paper.

There's a girl making really loud social plans off to my one o'clock. GIRL, WHERE YOU AT? I'M ABOUT TO HEAD OUT TO THE HIP-HOP FEST AND I THINKS ALL OF YA'LL SHOULD BE JOINING ME. I NEEDS MY PEEPS. YOU FEELS ME? YOU KNOW WHAT MY FRIEND DID? SHE WENT TO THE DOCTOR AND SAID HER SHOULDER HURT AND SHE GOT ALL KIND OF PILLS AND THEY WERE SO STRONG AND SHE SOLD THAT SHIT. SHE TOOK HALF AND SOLD HALF AND PAID FOR HER KIDS CHRISTMAS.

Damn. I never knew. That's how you make money up in here. Lie, cheat and sell.

The cacophony of noise up in here is terrible.

The girl on the phone is getting louder, if that were possible. IS JESSICA GOING? I CAN'T BE BY MYSELF. SHE NEED TO PICK UP THE PHONE WHEN I CALL. I KNOW SHE BE UP IN THE HOUSE. WHERE SHE BE AT? I NEED MY GIRL. GIRL, LET ME TELL YOU, SHE DON'T PICK UP THE PHONE FOR NOBODY.

Now this girl is wandering around the Starbucks, screaming into the phone and picking her thong out of the backside of her skirt. It REALLY is an attractive picture. She has on a black skirt and white flip flops.

Which is a step up from what just walked in - two kids where one of them doesn't even have shoes on at all - and they are certainly old enough to know better. Either twins or brothers. I'm trying to figure these pants out. I think one of them has on khakis with the back split halfway and denim sewed into the gap to create two-toned flares. It is the strangest thing. The one without shoes has on shorts. Homeless or European? Obviously not homeless because the both just whipped out cell phones.

Two well-dressed middle-agers just walked in. The woman has on what I refer to as a peppermint shirt - it looks just like one of those candy mints in a million different shades of red and pink and is all stripey. It is very cute.

The cell phone girl is still screaming. GIRL, I DON'T REMEMBER ANYTHING FROM THAT PARTY. ALL I REMEMBER IS THE SHIMMY SHIMMY AND FALLING INTO THE CHRISTMAS TREE AND THEN SOMEONE HAD TO REMIND ME OF IT. SOMEONE WILL SAY SOMETHING LIKE THAT HAPPENED AND I WILL BE LIKE "I WASN'T EVEN THERE" AND SOMEONE HAS TO BE LIKE 'YES YOU WERE." She sure sounds like she has a fascinating party-filled life - falling over into Christmas trees and all.

One final note. Pink polo shirts are a no-no unless you have enough money to buy and sell small islands. They just look funny on anyone else. Thank you old man - your touristy ways made me laugh - especially because that shade of pink made you look like someone dunked you in a bottle of milk of magnesia!

Starbucks at the Mall, 6:54 p.m. - It is really noisy in here

2007-12-27T23:19:00.000-05:00

Yeah. It is super noisy in here and there are a lot of people. There is a woman trying to maneuver a gigantic baby buggy - the kind with a car seat on top - and stacked with packages out from the restroom.

She obviously has no sense of space or proportion. None of dress either - or she wouldn't be wearing enough make-up to plaster a three-bedroom house and an extension and have some left over.

These teenagers over to the right of me are very annoying. One has bleached blonde hair and the other has hair dyed black as night. Ten to one their natural colors are the exact opposite. I can't make out the conversation over the annoying as hell music up in this Starbucks - but it seems to revolve around some boy, a class or some ginormous trouble that surely isn't.

God. I never knew that jazz music could be so annoying. And here come the howler monkeys. There's a young mother with an awful haircut with two howlers and an aged mother in tow. ARE YOU GONNA GO WITH GRANDMA? OK. LET GO. LET GO. GO WITH GRANDMA. Damn bitch. Kick it in the ass and send it across the floor if it won't let go. Grandma yanks the howler back toward the bathroom and mommy proceeds to order even more sugar for her hopped up little heathens.

The kids are now describing some "throw-down party." HEY, HERE'S THE CAMEL LIGHTS. I LOVE HASH. THAT'S WHAT I SAID. None of them look old enough to be in college, much less smoking hash. Kids today.

There must be a sale at the Victoria's Secret - because every third woman in here has had a Vicky's bag. Old women, young women, fat women, skinny beyotches - they've all had Vicky's bags. Here is my question - WHAT THE HELL IS VICTORIA'S SECRET? I'm dying to know. Is it locked in a vault at the back of the store somewhere or what?

There is a woman in a horribly ugly green and brown shirt and a cutoff denim skirt that has additional rips in it at the counter now.

Ma'am. I'm going to give you some free advice. If a skirt is short enough that you have to slide out of car seats so as not to flash the planet, you DO NOT need to put further slits in the sides or front. NOT NECESSARY. The population of suburban south Florida is certainly not your gynechiatrist!

The woman with the howler monkeys is walking by me. I think her mother is trying to shoplift. The staff here is so slammed with customers that they would never notice some ugly Christmas merchandise walking right out the door. I mean really - why is small and easily pocketed merchandise located right by the entrance.

The woman right now is practicing a classic grifter move. Put the drink down. Put the purse down. Adjust the purse. Wrap napkin around drink. Examine Starbucks Christmas ornaments. Think about it. Think about it. Think about it. She sees me looking right at her. She leaves. Damn. I deserve a free venti iced mocha for stopping this shoplifter.

Ladies. Unless you are doing some en pointe work, you do not need to be wearing ballet flats. Especially if you are tipping the scales at several multiples of a hundred. It don't be working for fashion. Please. Spare us all. Unless you're going to be doing the dancing hippos from "Fantasia" routine. Then, I'll sell tickets, popcorn and gladly watch.

Here's another question. When did tights - and nothing else - just tights and a T-shirt become acceptable outerwear? I know this is South Florida and the temperature - even in December - never goes below 70 - but no one needs to see your butt cheeks hanging out.

This Starbucks is apparently so busy that they have had to implement rudimentary crowd control measures - by which I mean they actually have LINES roped off for people stand in. The way these yuppies are reacting you'd think the concept of LINE never crossed their caffeine-addled brains. Sir, I need you move over here. SIR. SIR. CAN YOU MOVE OVER HERE PLEASE!

OK. The teenagers just got up to leave and I swear to Kali one of those girls had on flowered pants that were barely enough to cover her copious buttocks. More underwear as outwear. Flower garden as pants. I have seen it all.

OK. My head hurts like MF-er and I feel like crap. Peace, love and and coffee grounds.

Tropical Smoothie Cafe, 6:06 p.m. - Bored white girls boss a Mexican woman around

2007-12-26T19:51:00.000-05:00

The two bored-ass-looking white girls running things here are just standing around yakking and ringing in the orders once every 20 minutes while the Mexican woman in the back is working like a dog making sandwiches, slicing bread for tomorrow, slicing meat, cleaning, etc. The American dream - let me show you it. Or, reality according to the GOP!

I wonder if the management here ever actually watches the security cameras? I saw the heifer that looks to be higher up in the food chain disappear into the bathroom while the other one was taking the order for my smoothie. She was in there when I sat down. She was still in there when I GOT my smoothie. She was still in there when I got my food. She was still in there when I'd finished half the sandwich and most of the bag of chips. Finally, twelve minutes later, I saw her come out clutching her cell phone.

Either she's got some real, real, real bad female problems or she's sneaking off to yak to her friend-girls or her man on the clock.

There's a WOACA in high-water pants at the counter now. She ordered a smoothie and then disappeared into the bathroom for four minutes. Maybe she had to purge. Maybe the other girl had to crap out a load of heroin and the housewife is here for a drop. Stranger things ....

She's the dainty type that's been influenced by too much "Desperate Housewives" and thinks that she'll one day look like Nicolette Sheridan. Maybe. If she wasn't equally influenced by Sara Lee. She's got cankles the size of Connecticut and tiny gold ankle bracelets stretched to the max around each ankle.

Oddly enough, her tropical print top actually MATCHES the strange menagerie of fruit flavors that they use for table-tops in her. She's rocking a fake white Louis Vuitton purse with the leather already starting to look aged and a bad home perm. She is very polite though. I heard her thank the girl for bringing her food out. So despite not knowing how to dress or accessorize, she gets an A in my book.

Oh my Thoth! There is a man with a literal rat's nest of hair at the register now. It .. Just .... DEFIES .... description. It doesn't look dirty, but it doesn't have that "just washed" look either. I think he's a hippie with thinning hair and no comprehension of the concept of product. Or conditioner. It is all wispy and floaty and wavy - sort of like a girl in a music video - and you just know that he would never dare put that head of hair into a convertible or else he'd have to shave it bald afterward because of the knots.

OH MY GOD. The register monkey is now ordering the tiny Mexican woman in the back around. Apparently HairMan ordered like six sandwiches and so the register girl is just WATCHING the Mexican woman make them. I can see sandwiches spread out on the counter as far as the eye can see. The register girl is just holding a piece of paper and waving it around and going "THAT'S NOT THE RIGHT BREAD!"

OK. Feel free to jump in and help any time here.

I would get onto HairMan for reading at the table, but I'm typing, so we're pretty even there. He's reading what looks like an anatomy textbook though, so that's a little more unusual.

OK. The register monkey woman finally started helping to wrap and bag the sandwiches when she realized that OMG IT WAS GOING TO TAKE A WHILE TO MAKE SEVEN SANDWICHES! How do these people ever get put into positions of even minor supervision?

And I just realized that she is being extra squeamish about touching the food. She's got on gloves, which is like the law, but she doesn't even want to touch the takeout bags or the bags of chips. Surely in a small cafe you can't expect to just run the register all day - especially not with just three people on duty. Logic would dictate that if someone is sick or on break you're going to be called on to help out.

OK. The bad fashion parade just got a thousand times worse. The WOACA from earlier is Jackie O compared to this lot.

Three teenage girls. One has on Converse All-Stars that lace all the way up into boots. She's wearing skinny jeans and a white T-shirt with stars. Another has on short-shorts so short that her T-shirt covers them up. She has on pink socks and brown shoes with a leopard print and she's headed to the bathroom to go purge right now. The chunky girl of the bunch - who got stuck paying for the order, has on Umbros and a normal-looking T-shirt. If only her blonde hair didn't look like it came from a bottle and she didn't have roots that a sequoia would envy. Le sigh. Kids these days.

I couldn't hear the order over the giggling, purse-swinging and "LIKE OMIGAWDS" emanating from that general direction, but I don't see the Mexican woman making food. I do hear multiple blenders going.

OK. I have a headache and the giggling is making it worse.

Also, the thought of knee-high Converse All-Stars is a little odd. I'm not sure I can handle that right now.

Starbucks #1, 5:42 p.m. - Ironic camouflage is still ugly

2007-12-24T20:17:00.000-05:00

There is a woman wearing ironic camouflage that has a worn patch around her buttocks standing at the register right now. She has a zebra pocketbook and combat boots. The only saving grace of this entire outfit is the white tunic. Bizarre, or European tourist? You never, ever know. She also has a gigantic - and by gigantic I mean that this thing could double as a dog toy or a necklate choker - pink plastic keyring in the shape of a diamond ring dangling from her belt loops. It is easily one of the most outre things I've seen in days - and I've been reading Go Fug Yourself and run across Bai Ling more than once.

You know, the more I look, the more I wonder if those pants really ARE camouflage. If might be some poorly thought out homage to Monet, using green and gray pigments with occasional splashes of blue and orange. She's sitting not five feet from me right now and I'm positive that those pants are actually meant to look like a artist's palette after painting a tropical forest at 11 p.m. No matter if it is ironic camouflage or Monet-inspired fashion - it is still as ugly as homemade sin.

The more I look, the more I think this is a European tourist - one here for the holidays. As if the strangely interesting fashion weren't enough, the stitching on her shirt is odd. It doesn't look like anything made in the sweatshops of China for knockoff American designers. I can't read the label, but it just has that "foreign" look to it. The pattern for the shoulder comes all the way back to the middle of her shoulder bone, where a small square comes down from the neck to join the two together. It looks sort of like this: ______|__|_____ The seam for most American garments runs right across the top of the arm. She's gone now.

My favorite Starbucks re-arranged the furniture. They moved the condiment bar and broke up the comfy grouping of lounge chairs. I like it, except that by doing so they managed to reduce the number of tables for laptop users by two. Two of the remaining spaces are right by the doors - where you'll be bothered by constant traffic. I wonder if it was a deliberate move.

Oh. Cute boy alert. Tall, MORE camouflage pants, pasty white so he's obviously a tourist, and carrying a super-thin laptop. It's a tiny, tiny, ultrathin Dell laptop. On second thought, I think I'll pass. He's got a hat with a glittered tiger on it. He is also wearing a giant square gold ring with an onyx square on it on the index finger of his left hand. It's just too much.

Damn. Hot Latin Boy alert. One just rolled in as part of a family on holiday. He's got a muscles and he knows it. He's cut the sleeves off a brown shirt and is just smoking hot. Hello Mr. Bicep. What are the odds I can unwrap you later tonight? There's skin tone the color of a really light cafe mocha, with a head full of tousled curls. His skanky girlfriend is wearing what looks like a pleat of denim over her much-abused lady parts and a top that barely covers her surgically enhanced mammaries. She can't be a day over 20 and she's had more work done than most Palm Beach doyennes.

Apparently Starbucks is going to close at 7 p.m. tonight. The baristas are desperate to have this crew clear out - but apparently everyone is just like me and has nowhere else to go on Christmas Eve. It could be worse - they could be going to the Wal-Mart - where there won't be a holiday at all.

OK. Now Mr. Biceps is sipping a coffee and rubbing his abs. I have to leave. The choices are leave or rip the weave off his girlfriends head and use it to tie his wrists and ankles together and drag him home with me.

MERRY CHRISTMAS EVERYONE!

My couch, 11:06 p.m. - My Santa suit, let me show you it

2007-12-23T23:23:00.000-05:00

I left the apartment exactly once today, for about fifteen minutes. This period involved a trip to the Sonic for a breakfast burrito - even though it was well past noon - and a subsequent stop at the 7-Eleven.

My efforts to flirt with the 7-Eleven checkout boy who looks like a Sasquatch married to a Q-tip (he's short, but with big hair and a beard, and very cute) were marred by a stupid German tourist who demanded relish for his hot dogs in a very loud voice. Thus, some old man named Butch with an emphasemic wheeze scanned my items but failed to properly check me out, if you know what I'm saying.

Anyway. Let's continue the holiday theme, unless you want me to describe my living room, complete with piles of magazine, dirty laundry and a dining room table with three months of unsorted mail. I have unread magazines that haven't seen the light of day in months and are likely touting trends that are already out of style. Mukluks anyone?

When did I stop believing in Santa? Although the alternate title here could be "When I learned that all parents lie to their children."

Back in the dawn of antiquity, I lived in a tiny hamlet in a poor rural parish in one of the poorest states in the Deep South. Even now, the entire population of the parish is just above 20,000. But that's beside the point. The social life was akin to something straight from Laura Ingalls Wilder - centered around the church and the school.

Every Christmas, the community - which was basically an off-ramp off the Interstate with a gas station and a high school with some cotton gins nearby and - would gather at the high school cafeteria on the Friday night after school let out for a big community celebration.

The high school cafeteria was used because it was the largest open space in the parish with a big kitchen. The rural churches had neither the space for the people - nor the facilities to prepare food for five hundred people.

I loved the community Christmas parties. It was AT school but wasn't like BEING at school. The food was certainly much better - because the cafeteria ladies weren't cooking it - some of the big fat church ladies were. Plus I could get a soda instead of milk if I wanted - and seconds and thirds. There was singing and music and small fireworks and lots of people. It was just lots of fun - especially for child of six or seven who was just that day free from school for at least the next two weeks. Plus, the almighty glory of Christmas was in the future.

There was always a Santa Claus children - and parents could either bring a gift from home for Santa to give their child or sign up and pay money for the organizers to buy a gift off their child's wish list. Kids actually got something they wanted - instead of generic toys or trains or dolls.

I remember thinking that Santa was so wise and so powerful to be able to produce EXACTLY what I wanted just minutes after I whispered it in his ear. Of course, all the adults in the room got a huge kick out of watching the kids tear open presents.

The very last time my parents took me to this shindig, I remember that my dad was late and didn't come with us. My mother said that he was running late and would find us later. He did and helped me navigate the dinner line and ate dinner with me and took me outside to watch the fireworks that older kids were shooting off. I loved sparklers at this age and he found a box and lit sparkler after sparkler for me and watched to make sure I didn't catch my fool self on fire.

I was running around with a sparkler and then I looked up and he was gone. It was just one of my uncles there - who told me "Your daddy had to go. Someone came and told him that all the cows were out and he had to go home." I was really pissed off at all those idiot cows, but they had a habit of getting out, so it was nothing unusual to me.

I ran around for a while longer and my uncle took me back inside, because Santa Claus was about to show up.

My uncle got me a piece of chocolate pie so I would have something to occupy me (and not bother him) and parked me in the line to visit Santa. Then he went off to find pie of his own. "You stay right here and follow these kids. I can see you from across the room. If you need anything, just wave." I was fine though. started working on my pie and thinking about what I was going to tell Santa and if he would be able to give me everything on my list this year.

Noisy crowd, smallish space, little kid. It wasn't until I got to within four or five kids of Santa that I began to get a little weirded out. For one, Santa was not fat. Two, Santa seemed to have a red beard. Three, Santa sounded just like my daddy. But my daddy was supposed to be home, chasing runaway cows.

Anyway. When you're seven, you don't dwell on these things, not with chocolate pie to lick off your fingers and wish lists to make up. Anyway. I get to the batting circle, so to speak, and the girl ahead of me jumps off Santa's lap.

Santa leans down and goes "Ho Ho Ho, have you been a good little boy?"

And his fake beard falls off.

Me: "Daddy?"

The rest of the night is pretty much a blur, although I apparently "ruined" Christmas for all the kids who thought that my father was Santa Claus by crying and carrying on like I did. My parents scolded me for acting like a baby and said that my dad was only "filling in" for Santa while he was busy somewhere else.

On top of everything, I got a bunk gift, because my mother forgot to bring one from home for me - and I got one from the donated pile that they used for poor families. What the hell did I want with $4 Wal-Mart plastic train?

We never went back to the community Christmas celebration - and two years later it broke up so that the Baptists and the Pentecostals wouldn't have compromise over not singing hymns and having a proper Christmas sermon on school property.

The Methodists and the Church of God people didn't care - they just wanted to eat and spend some time with the community - but the Baptist women were the ones that did all the cooking. Plus one of the new Baptist ministers was raising a fuss over how people were taking Christ out of Christmas - what with gifts and fireworks and food and no mention of the Lord.

So it all fell apart. I forgot about the whole thing for a while, until about three years later, I was playing in my dad's closet - and saw that Santa suit hanging in there.

My dad - secret identity - Santa Claus.

My couch, 11:40 p.m. - My memories, let me share you them

2007-12-22T23:40:00.001-05:00

I slept in today, the first weekend in five weeks I've had that luxury. It was bloody fantastic. No Cujo pawing at my face demanding I get up. No work projects. No unavoidable social engagements. Just me, my bed and my couch.

I spent about 15 minutes outside the apartment today. I made two food runs - one to Wendy's and another to Sonic. The Wendy's one ended in disaster with a Biggie soda sloshed across the passenger seat of my car. That's what I get for stuffing the cup holders full of those free mints from the Sonic in the event that I ever DO meet a boy and need to freshen up my breath. In the greater scheme of things, I'd have rather had the coke at that precise moment because I was having a severe caffeine-deprived meltdown. C'est la vie.

And the Sonic has a new boy-toy delivering food to the car stalls. Think Elijah Wood with more hair and an extra 20 pounds. He was cute until I realized he was wearing black socks with black shoes. Maybe I could give him a makeover.

Anyway. The point of tonight's pontifications is that I want to pay tribute to someone special to me - someone that I won't get to see this holiday season - my grandmother.

Of all the people in my life, this is the person I've managed to stay the closest to even has I have drifted away from my family. This woman was born during the hardest years of the Great Depression, sent a husband off to the war in the Pacific and once picked cotton by hand in the Deep South. She raised three children and then four more grandchildren and worked until she was 65.

I love her dearly.

This is the woman who encouraged my imagination to run wild and never blinked an eye when I broke things or smacked a baseball through a window. For three summers she listened to me throw a baseball onto the tin roof of the house over and over and over so I could practice catching it as it rolled off.

When I wanted to play store, she emptied out the cabinets for me, and would obligingly come "buy" a can of peas or beans for dinner from me. She gave me real nickels and quarters for groceries from her pantry. She even made me loaves of "bread" from dish rags and old bread bags. She never threw anything away and still to this day saves the plastic bags bread comes in.

Despite being forged in the crucible of the Deep South, living through the Depression and living in a house without air conditioning for nearly 70 years, this woman is a creative genius. She can draw, paint, sew, craft and create with the best of them.

Every Easter, for as long as I can remember, she would boil dozens and dozens of eggs for all the grandchildren to decorate. Anyone who wanted to could jump in and make a grand old mess decorating. Crayons, markers would be scattered everywhere and every teacup in the house had little tablets of Easter egg dye in it. "Oh, that's pretty," she would exclaim again and again.

And this woman could cook. She still uses a gas stove and an ancient rolling pin made out of a glass bottle to roll out the dough for the plumpest dumplings. She swears that an electric range makes food taste funny - and won't let my uncles put one in.

For years, she would never let anyone but me help her in the kitchen at holidays - because she said that I was always the only one that would never get in her way. I would butter rolls and set the table and listen to her fret over the turkey and dressing, or the ducks, or the fried venison or dumplings.

I would eat nearly everything this woman decided to cook - except the squirrel dumplings. Squirrel has too many bones to make good dumplings. My theory on food is that you should not have to work for it.

One of my strongest memories is of the immediate aftermath of a tornado that nearly destroyed my grandparents home. Miraculously, it spared the house but tore up hundred-year-old trees, nearly a dozen outbuildings and completely obliterated a shed where a bunch of farm equipment was stored.

I must have been barely 9, and didn't really understand what had happened - only that the house was crooked and all the places I used to play and the trees I used to climb were gone and the cats and dogs and chickens were all gone too. There was aluminum irrigation pipe from the cotton fields around there house stuck up in all the trees - hanging down like some bizarre fruit.

I remember sitting on an overturned chicken coop crying because I'd been trying to help my uncles sort out the mess and had sliced my leg open on a nail. I still have that scar, faintly, across the top of my left thigh.

My grandma came and sat down beside me and put her arms around me and said that everything was going to be all right. Everyone was alive. Trees would grow again. Stuff would be rebuilt. And she gave me a few bites of a bacon, egg and toast sandwich and took me indoors to help her make biscuits for my uncles and all the people who were coming to help clean up.

I hope I get to see her this year. She turned 75 two weeks ago and I love her and I miss her.

Tropical Smoothie Cafe, 6:15 p.m. - My cheating boyfriend, let me show you him

2007-12-21T19:06:00.000-05:00

Ya'll ain't never gonna believe this. Mr. Smoking Hot, from the smoothie shop, was in here again today when I came in - WITH A DIFFERENT GIRL. The last one was a blonde. This one was a brunette.

I know it was him because of his distinctive neck tattoo. That, and the come-hither glances he was throwing out at the girl across the booth from him. Seems he was slow-playing this one. Or she was slow-playing him. Hard to tell these days. I really hope she wasn't buying him lunch.

I so wanted to be nosy, but one of the only booths with a place to plug in my third-string back-up janky laptop was halfway across the restaurant. The new girl looks just like the old one - just darker hair. Skinny, slutty and definitely skanky. Maybe she'll give him a taste of his own medicine.

I wonder who's fooling who there. They're gone now - and he didn't even hold the door open for her or dump her trash. The least he can do is be a gentleman - even in a fast food joint.

There is a VERY happy man at the order counter now. Apparently he was here earlier in the day and is exclaiming how happy he was with his smoothie. And he wants another one.

OK. I lurve smoothies too, but I'm not IN LOVE with smoothies. He's damn near 50 and he's got a trophy wife with him. Maybe it is his daughter. It could be either or both. She's got a pouty/bored look and isn't saying much, so maybe she IS his daughter.

Whoever she is, I do kind of like her style. She is wearing a cute tunic with a tucked and belted jacket over that. The jacket has those poufy sleeves like what Christian has been making all season on "Project Runway." She's got on skinny jeans and black Converse All-Stars. The whole thing would be a tad more interesting if the tunic AND the jacket weren't both white with blonde hair. I'm just saying.

Oh my Kali. They're sharing the smoothie. Two straws and double suck action. Yucky toast. Creepalicious much?

There is this horrible slow melancholy piano & sax music playing on the overhead. I love piano music, but this sounds like a goth Dave Koz with a death wish. Think the theme to "LA Law" slowed down about a thousand times and that's what this is. When you're in a precarious emotional state like I am right now you really don't need this.

And now someone is talking. I guess they're just piping in straight radio. I can't make it out over the noise of the slave girl slopping around the mop bucket. She is the single loudest cleaning crew person I have ever known. She was sweeping the floor just a few minutes ago and it sounded like a tornado going through Kansas. I was waiting for Dorothy and a troop of flying monkeys to go roaring by it was so loud.

Anyway. I love my smoothie. The lady making it gave me the extra bit that was left in the blender. I guess that is what politeness will get you. I guess I should tip - but I never have cash on me these days. I feel stupid paying for a smoothie with my debit card, but the second I get cash out of the bank, it it gone - like seriously gone.

I know people that use the "envelope system," and it really works for them - but I could never be that regimented. Then again, I'm always broke and struggling and wondering where the hell the money for rent is going to come from. And I am addicted to smoothies and white chocolate mochas and I haven't cooked in months. I'm a screwed up mess.

And I promised myself I was going to stay positive today. Maybe I should get another smoothie or three and go into a diabetic coma and fall out and die.

Anway. I'm sure everyone involved is as bored with this whole thing as I am of being here. These workers are just yakking up a storm. "I ain't want to work tomorrah 'an I don' kno' why da' company made us come up in here."

OK. That's fine. But I might want a smoothie. And I'm sure you are being well compensated. Either come to work or don't. but please do not be screaming about it loud enough that a deaf person can hear you.

OK. I'm done.

My couch, 11:20 p.m. - My issues, let me show you them

2007-12-20T23:29:00.000-05:00

I did not get the chance (or the dubious honor) to go anywhere remotely fun to write today. Thusly, you're all going to get 21 minutes of me moaning while I'm sitting on my couch whilst half-blitzed on chocolate liqueurs that a shockingly wonderful human being gave me for Christmas. Much love.

I gots the issues ya'll. I feel like my entire life is just one big episode of "wash, rinse, repeat." Is it possible to have a midlife crisis when you're not even close to being in the middle of your life?

I don't really know the hell is going on with me lately. For a while, I thought I wanted a boyfriend. I screamed and yelled and took pills and threw phones at doors and spent a lot of time in clubs a few years ago in pursuit of this.

I'm not positive I want to go any further down that road right now. I can barely keep my own mess together on a daily basis, much less deal with any more drama. No amount of sex, however good, is worth that. Seriously, I forget to pay the rent half the time. If I didn't have auto-bill, I wouldn't have electricity or cable.

Plus, I have issues. The full subscription, plus Sunday supplements. Let me describe you them.

I've got this problem with men. (Don't we all sister, DON'T WE ALL?) I get bored with them very quickly. If they're not smart and funny and able to keep a conversation going, they're pretty much yesterday's news faster than the local fish wrapper. Give me 90 seconds and I'll judge you like Simon Cowell on crack. Unfortunate, but true.

My problem is that my taste in men runs to pretty - which usually means dumb as a post. There's a certain wall there that I keep hitting, like a crash test dummy. So I swore off men. Nice to look at, pretty to hold. Don't take it home, you're sleeping alone.

So I thought I'd get a dog. Which is an investment in the monetary and emotional senses. One of my dear friends agreed to let me do a test run by puppy-sitting her adorable little canine companion during Thanksgiving. I liked the dog, the dog generally liked me. It seemed like a fine idea at the time.

In the legion of bad decisions, this one was right up there with the time I tried to make Boy A jealous by telling him I was moving to Chile with Boy B. Just imagine how badly wrong that went.

Anyway. Little Cujo managed to ruin my Thanksgiving, kept me awake for five solid days with his version of puppy separation anxiety, clawed me in the face to tell me that IT WAS TIME FOR HIS BREAKFAST, peed on a new pair of pants and shed over anything that didn't move and most of the stuff that did.

MUCH TO MY CHAGRIN, I learned that this puppy also had the most overactive bladder known to canine-kind. There is no such thing as sleeping in if you have a dog. No. Cujo wanted to play and be entertained. Cujo also wanted to eat people food, going so far as to try to steal my Wendy's sandwich off the TV tray right in front of me.

That little stunt earned him a time-out locked in the bathroom. I didn't care how much his ass whined, I was pissed off and need a break before I simply beat him like a drum. That's why I will never have children - you can't beat them and you can't return them.

I learned something from my weekend with the puppy though.

I am far, far too selfish to get a dog or a boyfriend right now. There are currently three people in this relationship - ME, MYSELF and I. There ain't room for no more.

So I gots issues. I'm trying to come to terms with that. I sense that it is going to be a bumpy ride.

Is acknowledging that you're shallow and emotionally unavailable a sign that you're actually emotionally mature?

Books-A-Million, 6:37 p.m. – My smoking hot barista, let me show you him

2007-12-19T19:55:00.000-05:00

Remember way back in the dawn of antiquity, when 21 Minutes started, and I came to Books-A-Million? There was a hot, hot barista working here. I’ve been back a few times and never seen him, so I figured he’d moved on.

Not so. Not so. He’s right here now, pacing back and forth in front of me in his little indie musician black hair shag and wearing his thrift store-best shirt and green pants. That three-day-old beard looks incredibly hot. And he’s wearing that indie-rock slash skaterboi standby – a pair of Vans. A bit corporate indie rock, but cute nonetheless.

Plus, I’m just a sucker for a man with a tattoo, and he’s got one down the entirety of his right arm. There’s a very graphic pattern with swirls and loops and stylized flowers. He’s also got what looks like a bright red sunburst around his elbow. That must have hurt.

OH MY GOD. Howler monkeys. Excessively loud ones. Really people. Please do not be shopping with your howlers. Leave them at home – preferably in the care of Sweeney Todd or something. Anywhere but in my immediate vicinity.

There’s a decrepit old wreck of a man wearing a pink shirt slumped at a table in the Joe Muggs café. I think he’s reading, but he could just be mumbling to himself as he’s turning pages.

Oh. Hot Barista boy is just trying to start something here. He’s gnawing on a straw and bounding up and down on his heels. One does not need that particular imagery at this moment.

Oh my Kali. There’s a chunky suburban mother with hundred-pound brat in tow. The child has on a camouflage hoodie, bright green boxer shorts – like what boxers wear into the ring – and flip flops. And it’s about fifty degrees outside. Bad fashion begins at home.

In the past two minutes, I’ve seen two guys give each other the eye and then head into the bathroom. Now I remember why we always used to call Books-A-Million “tricks-a-million.” Every bookstore in America is a pick-up joint for gay men.

I would like to comment again on the disservice that Books-A-Million does toward laptop users. Just like the Barnes & Noble, there is only one plug-in in the entire café area – at the bar facing a giant cooler.

I’m fighting for counter space with a stack of board games, a cake stand and a box of plastic wrap. Apparently, the comfortable chairs are reserved for patrons who aren’t planning to sit for a while. Why bother to create an inviting space for laptop users if you don’t want them to stay awhile?

I love indie rock boys. This one is very pretty. He smiles my way every so often. I wonder if he’s taken? I’m too chicken to actually ask him out, but it’s still nice to imagine.

Anyway. This freezer that I’m staring at is hella noisy. It’s like bomb – thrum, thrum, thrum, thrum. I can’t even hear the generic Christmas carols playing on the store PA system.

More bad fashion approacheth. There’s a really old man in blue jeans and a blue denim shirt that wants to buy something from the café register, but Indie Boy Barista is MIA. Whoops. He’s back. Maybe HE had a quickie in the men’s room.

OK. On that note, I’m off. I can’t deal with the rejection any more.

Tropical Smoothie Cafe, 5:44 p.m. - There's a hot construction worker and my lust is building

2007-12-18T18:26:00.000-05:00

I've delayed over my sandwich and smoothie too long. There's a woman with a howler monkey in here now. She's the indecisive type who has to stick a finger in her mouth while she looks at the menu. Then she goes "I just want a soda."

Why did you come to a smoothie place in the first place? No. Wait. The child is howling for a "shake like at McDonalds."

Dearest Mumsicle has obviously failed at the home training. "Do you have anything with strawberry?" No woman. It's a smoothie place. Of course they don't have anything with strawberries. CAN YOU EVEN READ? Of course they have stuff with strawberries. Strawberries and bananas. Strawberries and oranges. Probably strawberries and chipotle if you ask.

The howler monkey is now running laps around his mother's legs. He is now trying to pull his diaper out of his pants - the top of his pants - and only succeeding in giving himself the mother of all wedgies. OH GOD. The kid is hacking and coughing. This could be preparatory to the mother of all spit ups. Please Kali let me be on hand to witness this. This woman just smiled at me and I realized that she is pregnant with another one. This one isn't even out of training pants and there's already another one on the way.

Whew. Someone throw a bucket of ice water on me. There's a hot boy ordering at the register. He's got one of those beanie caps and both ears pierced. There's a tattoo snaking out from under his shirt on the right shoulder and up his neck. He's very tan and wearing work boots and a construction shirt. Nice white teeth. Totally melts my butter. I'd have to do something about his girlfriend though. She's totally the type that would ruin things.

Now Mr. Construction Worker is trying to hit up the sandwich dude for a free sandwich. "Hey, don't I know your brother's girlfriend's sister?" I kid you not, that was the exact line. Always trying to work the angles.

Obviously, he has been neglecting the girlfriend. He's giving her heavy-duty attention and she's all over him like cherries on a sundae right now. She is grabbing onto him, wrapping her arms around him, pulling him close, not wanting him to get more than a few feet away from her. Sister, let me give you some advice right now. Boys like that, those are the boys that your mama warned you about. You seriously need to drop him like a bad habit. He might be a tiger in the sack, but he will NEVER meet your emotional needs and he will NEVER be a father to your children. Screw him like a loose bolt and them leave him on the dance floor. Comprende?

This girl won't take the advice. She's obviously the type that will try to "change" her man, or that thinks she's the one that can make her man change. Ladies, it just don't happen. Men are dogs.

I'll give this to the sister, her man is hot. I'd throw down with her over this boy. He's got muscles for days and sure looks pretty. There's usually an inverse proportion between brains and beauty. I bet this boy is no different.

Oh, he's a sweet talker. That', or he's in deep, deep poo and he's trying to talk his way out of it. He's grabbing her hand, caressing and kissing and sweet-talking like a pro Casanova trying to win the key to the city of Venice.

Long fingers too, we all know what that means. :)

I'm done with my smoothie. Boo, hiss. I wonder if I should get one for the road. I lurve smoothies. Smoothies are the new white chocolate mochas!

And Mr. Construction worker is harassing the kitchen workers, trying to get more free sandwiches. Just how much is he planning to eat? Oh noes, they're leaving. Please don't leave pretty boy. I wanted to see the ending to this little drama.

There are four workers here and one customer now - me. I know why the markup on the food is so high - they need it to pay the staff - which is standing around doing nothing. They are talking about what time they get off. No one is cleaning. In fact, my dirty dishes are still sitting on the table, exactly where they were 20 minutes ago. Le sigh. Service standards in America, how they have dropped!

Oh. I really want another smoothie. I'd settle for 21 minutes with Construction Boy.

I guess I'll settle for a night of bad television. Woe is me.

Calistoga Bakery Cafe, 7:39 p.m. - There's a woman in a fashionable coat that will not sit down

2007-12-17T19:59:00.000-05:00

There is a woman with three children eating not six feet from me. The children have fairly good manners, but they do not appear to know the concept of "inside voice." I can follow the conversation with ease, even as I type. "Oh, so you do good in school? Someone didn't like this at school today but I liked it a lot."

To make things worse, we're having a "cold snap," and the girls are wearing shorts - with long sleeve shirts and jackets. I subscribe to the theory that if you're cold, you need to cover ALL of your body.

The children also appear to be incredibly spoiled. All three had to have coffee or hot chocolate drinks in addition to sodas - the hot chocolate seems to be merely a toy. There is much excessive stirring and playing with spoons and getting up to ask for extra marshmallows and longer spoons and more whipped cream. It's all a lot of nonsense that children need to be taught not to partake of outside the home.

The action is brisk inside the cafe tonight, what with only a few days to go before Christmas. Huge shopping bags abound. I must have seen eight or ten gigantic JC Penney bags. Curiously, there were few large bags from high-end retailers. I only saw one medium-size Abercrombie & Fitch bag - and no bags from the Macy's or places like Victoria's Secret, Hollister or other high-end stores.

"And then she talked about her friend Mitch. Do you want to see me do a trick? I learned how to wash my hands. I'm really glad this mother is engaging her children, but I heartily suspect she might be a parachute mom from the way the children are bombarding her with information. It's like they never see her.

There is a horribly bored looking woman cleaning the tables. I so feel for her.

And the obligatory group of teenage girls is looking at the trash can here with disgust and dismay. There's a look "THEY WANT US TO BUS OUR OWN DISHES?, LIKE OMG, NO." One girl is holding the tray over the pan and holding her other hand out in a 'stop, no, I don't believe this is happening' motion. One of the other juvenile delinquents has to take the tray from her and talk her off the edge before she commits hari-kari with a butter knife or something.

You never know. These priviledge kids nowadays have never washed a dish, taken out the trash or mowed a lawn. That's what the lower classes are for for most of them.
I should not have had that smoothie. Now I feel bloated.

On the upside, there's a woman in a banging black and white and brown print coat that looks just like that M.C. Esher print with the birds walking around. She's a real fashion plate. She's got the kind of heels that go clicky-clicky-clicky on any type of floor and she's totally working this room. Swish. Over to the register for a takeout box. Swish. Back to the table.

Ladies. Let me offer some fashion advice. Cutoff sweatpants do not work when you're 21 and are a size 2. THEY MOST CERTAINLY DO NOT WORK WHEN YOU ARE 40 AND A SIZE 16. OK. Thank you. Now that we've got that settled, we can move on.

There's a boy (well, there's always a boy) with cute hair standing in line. He's got sort of a modified faux-hawk with a flip thing going in the front. He's cute, if a little young.

Remember ladies, 16 will get you 20.

I wish my hair did pretty things. Maybe I need to get a weave or something. Maybe some extensions. Maybe I just need to go blonde again. I need new shoes. I need a new outfit. I desperately need .... well, we'll leave that one alone.

This boy needs to quit walking back and forth in my field of vision. He's distracting and I can't concentrate.

Escher coat lady went by again. If I didn't know better, I'd swear the white in the patter on her coat was the state of Texas. It has that distinctive shape. No. It isn't Texas. It is just a stylized star shape.

That is a totally hot coat though. Seriously though, this woman needs to sit down. She's been back and forth three times on frivolous errands in the last fifteen minutes. No one needs that many damn napkins or one more muffin.

OK. Pretty Hair Boy has left and I'm tired. I'm out.

Tropical Smoothie Café, 6:05 p.m. – My faux tropical décor, let me show you it!

2007-12-14T20:57:00.000-05:00

There’s a pretty preppie bagging trash in the kitchen here. There’s a Mexican woman sweeping and some generic corporate jazz is playing over the speakers.

I have a cold, my head hurts and I’ve finally gotten some sleep after staying awake for 33 hours to deliver a huge project. I’m also having to write on the borrowed laptop with the janky power cord – so I dare not shake the table or the thing just cut out and I lose my beautiful, cold sharp prose. Abadon knows we wouldn’t want that to happen. My prose, my prose, my kingdom for a word of your prose!

I lurve the smoothies here. I could drink a gallon of “Mocha Madness,” but I absolutely loathe the corporate faux-tropical décor. My tropical décor, let me describe you it.

There is a straw roof over the drinks station. And there is a wall hanging of a Hawaiian girl in a coconut bra and a grass skirt behind the Coke machine. Toss in some plastic birds of paradise flowers and hey, you’ve got tropical flavor madness all up in here. Please Pope John Paul II someone pour me a stiff drink.

Over to the left, we’ve got an eight-foot high silk plant that resides somewhere in the tropical fern variety. It’s a first cousin to ugly and a sister to hideous. There are more fake birds of paradise jammed in the base. On the walls behind this dusty monstrosity are paintings.

Thankfully, the paintings are not of natives in coconut bras. Somewhat worse, they’re of what old-lady-painters think the Costa Rican rain forest probably looks like. There are huge broadleaf plants and red blossoms big enough to take a bath in. Throw in a few shutters on some stucco walls, a frame and call it art!

The walls, the walls, the walls, they’re closing in! No. They’re just as ugly. There’s a picture rail at about three feet – which is crafted of the finest real bamboo corporate decorators can steal from pandas in China.

Below the picture rail there is MORE bamboo, but this has been fashioned to look like wallpaper – burnt wallpaper. Have you seen my friend Good Taste? No. I think she just left. Said she was feeling a bit ill. The fake burned bamboo texture wallpaper also wraps around the order counter and drinks station.

As a final insult, about half the table tops in the place are “theme” tables with these graphic absract representations of pineapples, oranges, limes and bananas. At least I think it is supposed to be a pineapple. It has the green things pineapples have sticking out of the top – but I’ve never seen a bright red pineapple in my life!

Anyway. I’ve been sitting out here for fifteen minutes now and not one customer and not one staff member in my sight. I wonder if the register is open? There are no cameras either. Whoops. Just saw one. And two. And both saw me looking at them.

And there’s the staff. One of the girls walked into the bathroom and whipped out her cell phone on the way in. Hmmm. I bet cell phones are not kosher for work. She wasn’t in there long. I wonder what she was talking about? Plans after work? World domination? A quickie? We’ll never know.

The jazz is very mellow here now. It is also very quiet. I could write here, if I had to. I like the people-people-people vibe at Starbucks, but there is something to be said about quiet.

OK. I’m tired and I’m ready for some sleep.

Much love.

Hospital common area, 11:40 p.m.

2007-12-11T23:59:00.000-05:00

I have to say that it is very eerie being the only person within sight, even though I know that there are hundreds within just a few feet. It is amazing what darkness does to the human psyche.

Where am I?

As you know, my laptop is destroyed. Not just injured, but destroyed. In trying to save it from the soda, I grabbed at the LCD screen a little too fiercely and cracked that as well. For an Apple, a cracked LCD screen is the kiss of death.

Anyway. I borrowed a janky old Dell from work - a fossilized machine so old that the battery doesn't even work on it. It has to be plugged in to actually power on - and lo and betide anyone who trips over the cord. Instant data loss.

I didn't manage to get the machine until very late this evening - at which point I was wrapped up in a huge project - thus reducing the writing time to the very late hours of the night. This again brought into the play the issue of where to find a safe place after the sun goes down. I did see a hotel with an open lobby near my office park tonight. I might try that soon. I prefer places with people around. I have issues.

I'm further restricted tonight, becuase I have to have a place to actually plug the computer in. While I'm not averse to being outdoors, I'd rather not fight off freshwater and saltwater mosquitoes the size of F-11s. Where to go? Where to go?

Most of the booths at the few fast food places don't have outlets. I could hang out at the Service Desk of a Wal-Mart, but I'm leery of stepping foot inside one of them ever again. Where do people go at any time of day?

The hospital. That's right. The hospital.

I'm on the second floor patient wing, sitting in an area that's used during the day for community classes and and a gym/workout center. I can look out over the parking garage and see the hospital security guy roll past every few minutes.

Aside from the fact that I had to hunt around in the dark for a power outlet, and then drag a table and chair over, I'm doing OK. I'm not too keen on the dark - I keep thinking zombies and ghouls and all sorts of rogue vampires straight out of "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" - but in general I'm doing OK.

This is actually the first time since my computer died that I think I might live to see a new day.

I actually did think about going to the ER admitting room - but gave that a pause. I've accompanied friends into the ER - and it is not a pleasant place. Plus there's a uniformed cop there at all times. I"m not sure I want to waltz in, plop my laptop down and start writing.

OK. There is some serious banging behind me. There's a gate thing pulled down over a snack bar area. I hope it is just rats. I pray it is just rats. I had the choice of sitting with my back to the giant plate glass window, putting my back to the direction people are most likely to come from, or turning my back to the the locked gym. I have my back to the gym so that I can watch the parking lot and the approaching hallway.

So far I've only seen one guy - who looked like night maintenance. He did not see me. If I were more paranoid I suppose I could lock myself into the bathroom and write - although that would make me look like a heroin addict or something. And just plain weird.

I guess I should tell you what's going on here. Not much of anything.

The lights are off. The furniture is very "modern hospital common area" and arranged in conversational groupings so that family members can take a moment away to get a breath of air, relax, have a soda or make telephone calls. I suppose this also allows the staff at the hospital a nice place to have lunch or take a break if the weather is bad.

There a tons of plants around - not real though - I just checked. The fake plants contribute to the air of "pseudo-modern sensitivy" that pervades the place.

You know it's not real, no matter how nice it is. No hospital, however nice, will ever replace home.

Balrog. I just coughed. It echoed for what seemed like miles. And now I feel a draft. Did a door open? Is my jig up?

I guess I better get rolling.

Peace out.

Starbucks #2, 10:17 p.m. – Two new baristas and a borrowed computer do not a fun time make

2007-12-10T23:25:00.000-05:00

I have done a terrible thing. My MacBook is no more. It died in the tragic Dr. Pepper incident of 2008. I’m writing from a borrowed computer. I can barely fight back the tears. The frappuccino fails to comfort me.

In short, my advice to you is to never put a bottle of Dr. Pepper in your laptop bag, carry it around an outdoor art fair for two hours, then attempt to open said bottle of Dr. Pepper in the general vicinity of your laptop. BAD, BAD, BAD PLAN. In the legion of bad plans, this is right up there with having children, mixing plaid and stripes, voting Republican and admitting that you “smoked but didn’t inhale.” BAD, BAD PLAN!

I’m sitting inside Starbucks #2. There were some new baristas tonight, including two aged crones with zero customer service skills. Older women are usually the friendliest cashiers on record. Maybe they have corns. Maybe they have bunions. Maybe they just have a really tight thong that’s riding up in their old-lady cracks.

I don’t really care if you have a face fit to frighten fish out of water, but I would like for you to be able to take my order without asking me to repeat it five times and then actually use my Duetto card as a DUETTO card, not a credit card. That’s why I have it – to get the three percent back. Know your product heifers. I might not be able to make a half-caff, three-Splenda, no-foam triple espresso, but I CAN run a register, smile and tender a transaction with all due dispatch. The coffee part can be LEARNED!

Anyway. The experienced barista – a strung-out heroin addict by the looks of it – made made an excellent white chocolate frappuccino. Truly excellent. “Hark the Herald Angels Sing” is playing on the stereo and I’m trying to drown my sorrows. It is not working.

I love Christmas carols, but they sound so sad when you’re sad on the inside. Oh my Shiva. Bing Crosby and “Winter Wonderland.” I really, really don’t think I can deal.

This place is dead tonight. Like really dead. There’s a yuppie sipping green tea over in the corner. Hi Mr. Yuppie.

I’m kind of sick of this Starbucks Christmas CD. And if you value your life, please Kali remind me to avoid the Chili Chili Cheesburger at Red Robin the next time I go.

I scarfed one of those and most of a basket of fries before going to see “The Golden Compass.” I am paying the price in spades today.

The gastro-intestinal distress is killing me, not to mention that the inevitable social consequences of eating a large load of bean-laden chili cannot be measured in dollars and cents. It would be OK if I work with people I hate, but I don’t. I don’t love my co-workers, but I don’t hate them either, and I’ve been delivering some lethal not-so-silent but still very-deadlies all day. Avoid the beans. Avoid the beans.

YuppieBoy is playing with his BlackBerry. I’d like one of those (the BlackBerry people, the BlackBerry), just for the email – but I hate the keyboard. What I really need is one of those Asus EEE PC’s. Anyone out there with deep pockets? Anyone care to console a starving writer? Anyone? Bueller? Bueller?

There are religious carols playing now. “Hallelujah, hallelujah ….” This is very pretty, but it sounds like a combination folk song and hymn.

I’m just not inspired tonight. I’m sorry. I can’t really write. Four more minutes.

The workers here are making a tremendous amount of noise. Surely cleaning in an empty restaurant does not require enough noise to wake the dead. Surely they must know that my laptop has died an untimely death. Candles should be lit in its honor, memory chips set afloat onto the seas of the Interweb and memorial Web sites created …. le sigh.

O-kaaaaaaay. Now the baristas are expounding on the allegedly poor design of this Starbucks. “The bathroom should be over here. The sink should be over here.” Come to think of it, I’ve never seen any two Starbucks designed the same way. Ever. Ever. Hmmmmmm. It’s not like a cookie-cutter McDonalds. Things that make you think.

OK. Peace out. I’m going to find a bottle of Scotch.

Downtown, 1:19 p.m. – Ugly art surrounds me

2007-12-08T22:31:00.000-05:00

Business is booming at this downtown art fair. Also booming is this woman’s rear end at the tent nearest me. She ought have the grace (or good sense) not to wear stretchy fabrics if she’s going to be bending over a lot. I see London, I see France, I see this fat WOACA’s underpants!

Anyway. There are more stuck-up old people walking around looking at ugly art than I care to talk about. There’s a couple camped out on the next picnic table over that has huge sun hats on.

They already have a bag full of stuff and they’re perusing this brochure like they’re planning the invasion of Normandy. “What about this aisle here and then meet up at this stall?”

There’s a grouping of four old people on the table over from that that BROUGHT A COOLER. I kid you not. They brought supplies to an art show. Not art supplies. Food supplies. They’re not vendors, just shoppers. Old people are serious about their shopping in this town.

One old lady is dressed in a Marcel Marceau costume and I keep waiting for her to jump up and burst into a “Mime trapped in a Glass Box” routine. Instead, I think she’s trapped in bad fashion.

Oh my Aztec gods. The fat woman from earlier has been joined by another woman in a black and white tropical print. Every time she bends over I get palm fronds the size of Loch Ness staring me in the face.

There is a very tan, very fit man doing some things with telescopes. He has on a hat that would look at home on Crocodile Dundee and shades.

Random fashion advice. Fat ladies should not wear tiny backpacks. It does not work.

More random advice. Ugly art does not look better in large groupings. If anything, the ugliness is compounded. Think of a thrift shop. That sad and misused couch you donated just looks all the worse for being lumped together with its cast-off brethren.

I truly pity the people who feel that they have to fill their walls with all this bad art. I can see seascapes with umbrellas, seascapes with clouds, seascapes done in watercolor, seascapes with lighthouses, seascapes with forests in the background … you get the picture. Lots of sand and water.

The couple with the floppy sun hats is moving off. He’s breaking right and she’s breaking left. I wonder who will benefit from their large-wallet largesse?

The telescope man has hooked some victims. And he’s trying to sell a book to some poor unsuspecting woman. “You could see it if that cloud would cooperate.”

There is a woman wearing a black shirt standing at the telescope looking puzzled. Seriously. Who wears a damn black shirt to an OUTDOOR ART FAIR on a hot day? Are you insane? Well, if you plan to buy this art, maybe.

Telescope man is pimping this astronomy book like it is an Oprah best-seller. He’s moving this couple back and forth between the telescopes.

Let’s talk about Oprah. I don’t like Oprah. She’s a heifer. She let George Bush on her show in 2000 and let him kiss her on the cheek. Now look where we are. Shame on YOU Oprah. Shame on YOU!

Fashion disaster. Purple skirt. Pink top. Muffin top that prevents the twain from meeting.

Karma is a cruel mistress. I was just thinking “Who comes to an outdoor art fair in six-inch-high wedge heels” as this overdressed yuppie walked by. Ten feet later, she stumbled and went down. Slaves to fashion will always pay a heavy price.

There’s a random woman on a Segway wearing a Santa cap rolling around. I’d like a Segway.

OK. I’m done and I’m hungry. Must eat brains.

Peace out.

Mini-golf parking lot, 11:25 p.m. – My creepy vibe, let me show you it!

2007-12-06T23:58:00.000-05:00

There is a seriously skeezy vibe going around town tonight. My friend and I were going to sit on the patio at Sonic and enjoy the cool air, but the hood rat Mafia gangs made me fear that if I let loose a spare shekel they’d grab it – much less my bejeweled laptop.

I drove over to the movie theater – and the place was like a ghost town – except for the random acts of domestic violence in the parking lot. I swear to Kali I saw some people having a throw down out side of a silver Jeep Liberty.

I wanted to watch because it really looked like a ghetto heifer in a silver mini-dress and some hooker heels was about to give her man a “what for.” I reconsidered when I factored in the fact there a) might be a random act of gunfire and b) might be police, which would necessitate witness statements.

I tried the parking lot of the 7-Eleven – and it looked like I interrupted a drug deal when I pulled in. The parking lot of the mini-golf place next door has a decrepit mobile home parked in it and all the overhead lot lights are out.

I’m sitting in my locked car and I’m prepared to drive right over anyone who comes within thirty feet of me.

Great. Now there’s a random bum stumbling through the 7-Eleven parking lot and toward the highway. Please Kali smile upon this lost soul and guide the cars away from him. Unless it is his time to die. In that case, people pancake. Extra syrup for the buzzards on table 4.

There is something vaguely dirge-like playing on NPR. How appropriate. In retrospect, I should not have picked a tree to park under. If by chance a branch falls on the roof, I think I just might have a coronary.

I never realized there was so much action in town as we approach the midnight hour. The 7-Eleven is doing a land-office business.

There’s a TV news crew and a satellite uplink truck here. They’re getting gas. The nearest TV station is more than 40 miles away – in the next county – and there aren’t even bureaus here. I REALLY want to know what the heck is going on tonight.

I check my mirrors more often than a student driver. Please Shiva let me survive the night.

Oh. The TV correspondent is cute. Short (like all TV people) dark and handsome. Hi Mr. Anchorman. Can I play with your TelePrompter?

Random people on bikes are now approaching. Don’t they know they need to go home? I wonder if they have a home to go to. And they’re stopping. I don’t for one second believe that they actually have a flat tire.

I will not be easy pickings. One SUV vs. three bikes. Who’s going to win this fight? Think about it. Think about it. That’s right. Leave.

I think they’re gone, but I’m not certain. The doors are locked. There are parking barriers in front of me, but this is a Jeep. It has high clearance. I’ve hit every curb in two counties and lived to tell the tale.

Screechy violin music is playing on NPR now. Not cute. Not cute for one second.

I seriously need to write a letter to someone about the lack of parking lot lights here. This is a civic disgrace.

Moreover, there is a DISTINCT lack of amenities in town for people who revel in the post-midnight hour. There are two IHOPS, more Wal-Marts than anyone wants to care about and a greasy spoon diner that even the rats avoid. All the coffee shops and bookstores close at 11 p.m. I wonder if I could start sneaking into hotels or hospitals?

Does anyone have suggestions for safe public spaces in the late hours of the night?

The 7-Eleven is empty now. I wonder if the rabble has to be home before midnight – like Cinderella – or else they turn into cigarette butts, empty soda cans and used condoms?

There’s a cop car rolling in; the police are on the prowl. It is an out-of-town cop car no less. Something is DEFINITELY up tonight. I wonder if I should go try and flirt with the cop? No. Police are not worth the time or effort – except for that one cute downtown cop.

It is December and there is green grass everywhere. There are green bushes, palm trees and shrubs all over. It is December and the grass is green. Sometimes, I forget that I live in Florida and stuff like this IS NOT NORMAL for most of the people in the country.

OK. I’ve hit the twenty-one minute mark and probably gotten a pretty good cardiovascular workout in the bargain. Disengage panic mode and try to calm down enough for bed.

Peace out.

Panera Bread, 9:08 p.m. – It is noisy and hard to concentrate and my day was crappy

2007-12-05T23:51:00.000-05:00

I’m sitting at the outside patio of a Panera Bread. Score. More free WiFi. I really need to make a list. I wonder if the WiFi here stays open after the place shuts down? I wonder how safe I’d be. I could sit in the car. That would look shady though. Still, free WiFi. Anything is better than the icy grip of the Comcast minions. Anyway.

It is really hard to concentrate here because of the traffic noise. It is made even worse because there’s a really noisy group of teen-agers off to the right of me laughing it up. I must be fifteen feet away and I can hear most of their conversation. I don’t think they bought anything from Panera Bread either.

There’s a dirty white Chevrolet van cruising the parking lot. I hope there aren’t any child molesters inside.

There’s a hot Asian girl going into the ice cream shop near here. Banging hair. I wonder if she’s going to be in a Bond movie or something. Every action movie coming down the pike nowadays has a hot Asian girl in it.

Anyway. These kids are loud. Think “Hollywood café scene” background noise loud. There must be three different conversations happening all at once. I KNOW OH MY GOD I TOLD YOU SO I TOLD HER TO GO WHAT DID YOU SAY? IS THAT WHAT SHE SAID OH MY GOD I TOTALLY THINK SO. SHE WENT DOWN STAIRS AND SAW THEM. Le sigh.

Now there’s a motorcycle zooming up and down the road. Zip. He’s in the parking lot and gunning it again. Somebody needs attention. I guess someone’s mummy didn’t talk to him enough.

THEY WERE JUST SCREAMING AT EACH OTHER AND THROWING THINGS. I REALLY HOPE SHE BREAKS UP WITH HIM. I HATED HER ANYWAY.

Every now and again I get a hint of the soft jazz that Panera has playing. I guess the kids have to come up for air sometime.

Back to me. I’ve had a really crappy week so far. I have an enormous project due soon. The pressure is not making me a pleasant person and is actually my mental and physical life.

I’ve had a headache nearly every day this week – and today I woke up around 5 a.m. with a migraine large enough to blot out the sun. I rolled over in bed and prayed for it to go away. No such luck.

Every move was agony. I got up and stumbled to the bathroom and threw up and managed to make it into the kitchen – which is where I hide my stash of migraine pills.

Don’t ask. I keep all the pills in the kitchen so that I remember to take them as part of the morning routine. Otherwise, I forget and bad things happen. Anyway. I knocked back one migraine pill and a handful of aspirin and managed to stagger back to the couch.

I sort of lost the hours from 5 a.m. – 7 a.m. I remember turning on the TV and finding “Tin Man” on my TiVo. I don’t remember much about it other than the fact that the flying monkeys flew out of a tattoo on some lady’s boobs. At some point I went back to bed.

I woke up at 10 a.m. Work was calling and someone was asking “Are you OK?” That’s pretty much how my day has been. I feel like I need a good solid month in a health spa or something to decompress – and the time is just not available right now.

Anyway.

I think there is an ant crawling across my foot. I’m not wild about nature in general or in specific as a matter of fact.

I DON’T KNOW. WHAT DO YOU THINK? HA HA HA. OH MY GOD THAT IS SO FUNNY I LOVE HANGING OUT WITH YOU MAN. These children are seriously annoying.

Two women further off are seriously trying to have a nice dinner. They keep looking up and giving the kids looks that would melt concrete blocks. The oblivious shields are in full effect though. Oh to be young and not have a care in the world.

OH MY GOD. The white Chevy van is back. If OJ is up in that mother I’m going to turn the computer around and start broadcasting live. No such luck. The driver looks like an old fat white man.

A really fat kid got out. This little piggy needs to be up in fat camp. Predictably, he’s going to the ice cream shop. I love America. I just freaking love America.

Peace out. Tomorrow is another day.

Downtown, 6:45 p.m. – The floor is dirty and the action is slow

2007-12-04T19:14:00.000-05:00

I’m stealing a table at a tres chic coffee shop downtown, slurping up their free WiFi and drinking a smoothie I imported in from another place. I’m the worst kind of customer – the kind that doesn’t buy anything. Maybe I’ll reward them with a visit tomorrow.

Tourists drive me crazy. This woman in an insane hairdo just went by – cackling like a maniac. Think Angelina Jolie in “Girl Interrupted” crazy. Uh-huh.

Despite it being the holiday season, things are fairly quiet. A contingent of middle-aged white men – obviously in town for a convention – just rolled by. They looked to be from the Midwest, by the cut of their shirts, the cut of their hair, the ruddiness of their cheeks and the roundness of their bellies.

Uh-oh. I just saw a coffee slave looking out the window at me. If I’m evicted, I will post the address and you can all send hate mail.

OH GOOD LORD. Bad fashion alert. WOACA alert. Call out the National Guard and tell them that Fort Knox called. We’ve found all the gold!

OK. This WOACA just clattered by. She’s got on a pair of black clamdiggers (yes, another pair) and a black shirt and a black jacket. She’s accessorized all this black with enough gold to fund the economy of a Third World state for a few decades.

There’s a thick heavy gold clasp on the right hand, plus a few more bangles. There’s a whole STACK of bangles on the left arm, which I imagine she believes tinkle like wind chimes as she walks. No. Think wind chimes caught in a hurricane. The gold horn-rimmed glasses are hanging from a gold chain. The steel-wool-gray hair is pulled back with a bright yellow band.

Single female tourist. Poor thing. She’s in traction, well at least one of those walking casts. She looks miserable even though she’s got a yummy-looking chocolate concoction and a bowl of soft-serve ice cream. That must just suck beyond suck – to be about to go on vacation and then break a foot or something.

Ladies. Let me dispense some fashion advice. Even if you are in a tropical climate, jeweled sandals do not pass for “dressy.” If if looks like something you bought at Target and decorated with your Bedazzler, you should not be wearing it with dinner rings and accompanying your husband in a tuxedo. Thank you. We shall now return to our regularly scheduled programming.

You know, for a “gourmet café,” this place has the most deuced uncomfortable furniture. All they’ve got for seating outside are these plastic patio chairs you can pick up at Wal-Mart or Target or K-Mart for like $5. My rear end is used to more padding than mal-formed plastic. Some nice wooden benches would do wonders for the ambience of this place. I’m just saying.

I wonder what the hours are? If they’re open late I could totally come here and use up the free WiFi. Starbucks is such a grinch with the WiFi. But I love the coffee so. Choices.

This place is messy too. Like trashy messy. Some really need to sweep around here. This place and the Sonic both. My grandma – even though she’s 75 – manages to keep her house clean. She’d be ashamed for anyone to see this floor – and these people are asking paying customers to stop and sit a spell.

My god. There is an old woman wishing someone farewell at the top of her lungs. I can hear her over traffic noise. Does everyone on the street really need to know “THAT WAS A GOOD DINNER. I’LL SEE YOU TOMORROW?”

There’s a boy making rude noises with a straw. How cute. He’s obviously old enough to know better – but looks like he’s having a world of fun. He’s flipping through a real estate magazine – the kind they leave out for tourists that have all the $8 million dollar mansions.

If anyone bought me an $8 million dollar house – they could make all the rude noises they wanted.

OK. Another café slave is giving me dirty looks as he brings out the trash. Not cute, but scowly.

OK. OK. I’m leaving.

Starbucks #1, 6:29 a.m. – It is morning at Starbucks and nobody is happy

2007-12-03T07:49:00.000-05:00

The very-early-morning crowd at Starbucks is completely different than the early morning crowd, the morning crowd, the mid-morning crowd or the late morning-not-quite lunch crowd. How, you ask?

Easy. Nobody is awake, nobody is communicative and everyone speaks in grunts and vocalizations that would serve as Oscar-winning dialogue in “Clan of the Cave Bear.” Daryl Hannah would be so proud.

Right now I’m looking at a man in white short and a gray shirt make the largest production out of getting cream and sugar into a cup that I’ve seen this side of a white-tablecloth coffee service. I don’t believe that starched-apron maids make this big a deal out of precise amounts of cream, sugar and sprinkles of cinnamon.

And then there are the early risers, the go-get-em’s, who are delineated by their brisk walk and the pep in their step. They want to talk to the baristas, who are more than likely as not as sacked out as their customers. After all, they don’t just open they store at 6 a.m. – they have to show up earlier to brew coffee, set out pastries, etc.

A lovely couple just waltzed in. Real estate types by the look of things. She’s got a casual but dressy black sweater ensemble tossed over her shoulders and is moving in pert and precise steps. Her companion – in khaki slacks and a white cotton shirt with creases so straight you could slice cheese with it – orders and sits down to read the paper. It’s up to her to pay and fetch the brews.

Some schlubby-looking Indian - (the subcontinent, not the tribe) - businessmen in the house now. They are dressing very fashion forward – even if everything is wrinkled. One has a purple pinstripe shirt and a dark purple tie; the other has a white button-down and a flashy lime-green thing around his neck. Maybe they watched this week’s “Project Runway?” Maybe they’re just clueless. You decide.

There’s a contingent from the large downtown hospital here. And a skinny woman with the most awkward-looking broken-arm sling known to man. If I ever broke my arm, I really do not know what I’d do. My life is lived at a computer. I’d have to get a direct neural hookup or something.

Sling lady is a fashion disaster. Ballet flats, fried perm, at least a dozen cheap gold bangle bracelets and an ugly sweater vest that is not the same color as her ballet flats.

The Indian dudes are lingering for some reason – although they don’t seem to be able to cotton on to the fact that there are tables available. They’re wandering around. They look like they have cell phone plus some other data devices hooked to their belts. The one in the lime green tie is making sure that everyone in the Starbucks knows that he left “MY IPHONE AT YOUR APARTMENT LAST NIGHT.” Seriously dude. Glad you got a hookup. Nobody cares. I’d throw you back. Even if you have an iPhone.

There’s a semi-cute boy wearing a pair of clamdiggers looking at the outrageously expensive $600 coffeemaker Starbucks is selling for Christmas. He would be cute if the would not be trying to grow the mustache. Clamdiggers – unless you are within 10 yards of sand – do not look right on men, especially when paired with black athletic sandals. These are the rules of fashion by which we must all abide.

There’s a traffic jam at the condiment bar. Three old men wearing, in order, a peach polo shirt, a white polo shirt and a navy polo shirt. They are polite, but I sense they are about to start measuring the unmentionalbles in order to get at the pitcher of half-and-half. The morning coffee is serious business with this crowd.

Some man just came in and asked for his 7-11 cup to be refilled with coffee. He’s wearing a NASCAR hat and shiny metallic shorts that do nothing for his enormous rear and I just saw him pour half a pitcher of milk into the cup. I guess I just witnessed a ghetto latte. Stay classy NASCAR man, stay classy.

Meh. I have to go to work in a few minutes. Peace, love and understanding.

Barnes & Noble, 8:45 p.m. – I suffered for this post!

2007-12-01T21:14:00.001-05:00

I have never had to work under such primitive conditions.

The battery on my MacBook Pro is dead. Very, very dead – so I have to keep the power cord plugged in at all times. I am at the Barnes & Noble – and there is exactly ONE power point in the café area. ONE.

Let me repeat that. ONE. It is not even near a table. It is near a plush chair – which is currently occupied by a skinny old dried up prune of a woman who looks like she sand-blasts the hulls of oil-tankers with her tongue in her spare time.

There are NO other power points anywhere else in the café area. NONE. I’m currently wedged beside a structural support staring at a display of MAD compilations and “The Indispensable Calvin & Hobbes.”

There are women and children and assorted howlers monkeys crawling all over me like I’m a dropped ice cream cone at a fair and they’re an army of ants. There is a shelf poking me in the back and I’m desperately wishing I didn’t have that extra soda for dinner. So help me Kali I’ll never spend another penny at Barnes & Noble again as long as I live.

Mon dieu. Why do parents shop with their children? This fat woman is arguing with her kid, who is bored and wants to leave. “HONEY I’M TRYING TO LOOK AT BOOKS.”

She’s yanking his arms and trying to make him understand that whining in public is unacceptable. Well, maybe if you paid more attention to him – and taught him to read – he’d find more to interest him in a bookstore.

This shelf keeps digging into my back and I can’t get comfortable on this floor. I have to keep remembering to hit APPLE-S to save so my entire volume of beautiful prose won’t go down the tubes – and protect my work from the hordes of people who go stomping by.

I just noticed that the display in front of me includes “Uncle John’s 4-Ply Bathroom Reader.” Neatorama.com is always quoting articles from Uncle John’s. I find it breezy fun – but I’m not sure I’d spend $9.98 on a book. Actually, I don’t even know the last time I bought a book. I usually just reserve a copy of whatever I want at the library and read the best-sellers that way.

There is a woman in a pink T-shirt and a pink velour jacket browsing the books over to my right. She has a Christmas list in her hand. She has on the ugliest pair of horn-rimmed glasses I’ve ever see on a human being. Totally wrong for her face.

Help me Kali. This shelf is totally killing my back. My left leg is totally numb. If you are reading this, please know that I suffered to bring these words to you.

There’s an old man in a red gingham shirt browsing the $12.98 table. He’s looking at a slim “The Beatles” tome.

My god. There’s a twelve year old girl with a giant glitter bow on her behind. She is wearing heelies and trying to skate on the carpet. She nearly wiped out and caught the edge of a table. Too bad the forces of Darwinism were denied a victim.

WOACA alert. Skinny woman in black jeans and black long-sleeved tee browsing the bargain paperbacks. She’s a short one, Mr. Grinch – trying to look taller by wearing three-inch heels. That’s fine – but she really needs to cover up the gray in her hair.

The girl that wiped out on the heelies is being marched out by her mother now. I wonder if they were asked to leave or if they’re just leaving? Hopefully it is the former.

Creepy man alert. There’s a dude in blue jeans and a white shirt staring at me. YES IT IS A LAPTOP AND I AM TYPING ON IT. He’s looking at pop-up books.

Cute boy alert. He’s checking out gift boxes. How to play the guitar. Is the flirting? No. He’s talking to a girlfriend. But he did say “excuse me” as he walked in front of me – which is more than the 27 other people who walked by did.

When did it become acceptable to go out in public with your lower buttocks exposed? Someone please tell me. Please. I’m looking at a girl – who has to be in high school – who is wearing a pair of short-shorts that would make Catherine Bach blush with shame. There is NOTHING left to the imagination here. She’s parading around with a Hollister bag and a frappuccino like nobody’s business.

Loud people coming up on my left. Please leave. And take the old man with you. He has wrinkles.

There’s a rampaging pack of teenage girls in here. One keeps reaching down to “adjust” something in her female area. I hope to the heavens she just has a tight thong. Although it would be poetic justice if she’s got a case of the LiLo firecrotch.

Anyway. There’s a freaky woman in a red spaghetti-strap tee and those horrible red Crocs who’s shuffling across the floor toward me. She has a tattoo on her ankle. This I noticed as she went RIGHT by my and didn’t excuse herself.

Die in a fire heifer. Die in a fire.

I’m out. I can’t deal with this anymore.

Peace, love and understanding.

Starbucks #2, 10:28 p.m. - The kids are DEFINITELY not alright

2007-11-30T22:56:00.000-05:00

When I rolled up, I nearly creamed what looked to be the cast of “High School Musical,” only dressed as preppy goths.

Turns out there was some high school event tonight – and the resulting crowd flocked over to Starbucks for tall chocolate chip frappuccinos. As a result of all their giggling and general space-hogging antics, I scored a free venti coffee from one of the baristas.

He was in a very bad mood. “We made like fifteen frappuccinos – and they all wanted them LIKE NOW! It was insane.”

Now the kids are singing lyrics to something. They are badly out of tune, but it sounds like something from the stage version of “Wicked.” I can distinctly make out the words “bring her dooooooooowwwwwwnnnnn.” O-kaaaaaay.

I guess my plans for a little quiet contemplation and some writing just went out the window.

Two old WOACAs just came in and perched on the only two vacant chairs left in the Starbucks – said chairs which happen to be far too close to the bratty kids for these over-dressed and under-sexed ladies’s tastes. These old birds are giving the teen-agers some nasty looks. Think “I found six and a half roaches in my sandwich” nasty looks. That kind of nasty.

The baristas are doing some heavy duty flirting – with me and with each other. I guess cleaning is kind of moot since there are currently twenty-plus kids up in here shouting the place down.

The kids are screaming so loud the departing manager can’t even get her staff to hear her orders. “Clean up outside.” Louder. “Clean up OUTSIDE.” PRACTICALLY SCREAMING. “CLEAN UP OUTSIDE!” It is insane. These kids seriously need to leave. Leave or learn how to act in public.

Appropos of nothing, I love red. It is my new favorite color.

OK. One of these heifers is doing a full-blast old school Montell Jordan up in here “This Is How We Do It.” Really? I could totally believe you act like this all the time.

More tragic? I just noticed that half of them have their cell phones out and are yakking away at the top of their lungs or are text messaging. It is the ultimate in friendship. Let’s meet up and text message. What happened to just hanging out?

Kali bless me for not smashing someone. The timer on one of these pots of coffee is gong off and the baristas can’t get free to shut it off. BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP. It’s like the freaking roadrunner of coffee timers.

I wonder if I could call in an anonymous noise complaint on these kids? Hello, police, there is a disturbance at the Starbucks on First Street. Can you send a paddy wagon?

My free coffee is not that good. I know, I know – never look a gift coffee in the mouth, but still. I would have paid for it to be acceptable.

Oh. From where I’m sitting I can see the “Green Apron Traits” message board. These baristas are supposed to be suggesting the Christmas blend and trying to get some extra add-on sales by pushing pounds of coffee to customers by telling them they make excellent Christmas gifts. Let me know how that goes.

Score. Free pastry because they’re marking them out and will just throw them away. I asked if they donate them. They said they do – but the food pantry doesn’t come pick them up regularly. That’s just sad.

OK. The kids have moved outside to wait on their mothers. They all have the cell phones out trying to locate the she-beasts who squatted in a rice paddy and squirted them out. Most of them should have been strangled at birth. Or drowned. I’m an equal-opportunity teen howler-monkey life-ender.

I’m just in a crappy mood tonight.

Drink my coffee. Eat my free chocolate mint cookie. Flirt with barista. Leave.

Just a note, the Starbucks I write from most often will be Starbucks #1. This one will be #2. There's a third one I visit, but haven't written from yet. That one will be #3.

Bad Ass Coffee, 7:02 p.m. – It’s deader than the Giuliani campaign

2007-11-29T19:28:00.000-05:00

Unless these people dramatically improve their barista skills, I predict that the end is nigh for Bad Ass Coffee.

After three post-midnight exits from my office this week, I left early and came downtown to cadge a coffee and write. The downtown area is flooded with holiday shoppers, tourists and diners. If you look out the plate glass window in the front of the store here – you’d think it was New York on Labor Day weekend. Ghost town.

There is a tiny trickle of customers – but certainly not what you’d expect of a coffee shop in the downtown district – and CERTAINLY not what you’d think they’d expect from the hue and cry raised over their name.

Business must be hurting already. There is only one young barista here – nose piercing and all – and the owner. He’s out and about – pressing the flesh and greeting for all he’s worth. The personal touch is nice, but it does reek of desperation. Also, it took eight minutes for me to get my fruit smoothie. I can get a triple venti raspberry white chocolate mocha in under 90 seconds at the Starbucks. Speed of service is another strike.

There’s an argument at the register over decaf tea vs. regular tea. People. Please. It is a leaf. Camellia sinensis. Deal.

These two middle-aged tourists – WOACA & MOACA – dressed in slacks and black-white-stripes (an homage to Marcel Marceau?) are still arguing about tea. They are debating the benefits of caffeine with the owner.

WOACA is expounding on how she quit caffeine “cold turkey.” It would be more interesting if it were you know, actually interesting.

There is some sort of odd tropical jazz playing here. I can’t tell if it is tribal fusion, tropical fusion, Hawaiian fusion or what. There’s a samey-ness quality to it that sounds sort of like Hawaiian tropical elevator music.

MSNBC is playing video of the GOP debate. Does anyone really care? All I see is a bunch of white guys standing at podiums, expounding on social policies that more than half of America doesn’t agree with. They’re also doing this little “Does America HEART Huckabee” with a little heart symbol – a take-off of the “I Heart Huckabee’s” movie. Cute. Reducing the race for leader of the free world to Hollywood drivel.

Now MOACA & WOACA are regaling the owner with tales of hot chocolate in New Jersey or some other Yankee state. They’re telling him how to run his business. It was 89 degrees here today. Somehow, I really don’t see people running to line up for hot chocolate.

There’s a group of old people wandering by outside. They stop and peer in. They see people. They read the name “BAD ASS COFFEE.” The old people move on.

The pseudo-barista finally remembered that I ordered a snack to go with my fruit smoothie. Eighteen minutes after I placed the order, I get my cardboard chocolate cake.

This place has a gimmicky name, free WiFi, some interesting ambiance and very little else.

The staff just ordered Chinese takeout. I wonder if they’re paying for it out of the register?

There is a no-lyrics jazz version of “Jingle Bells” playing now. I almost didn’t recognize it. Very nice. Very peppy. I love Christmas music.

Play me out! Wait. Not before we get a jazz riff on “Here Comes Santa Claus!”

Sonic, 11:44 p.m. – There’s a boy making dirty gestures with caramel sauce

2007-11-28T23:59:00.000-05:00

I’m sitting on the patio at the Sonic. I can find a WiFi network from this sketchy mobile home park down street, but it is password protected. Le sigh.

Damn. How long does it take to bring out a soda and some cheesecake bites? Ize be havin’ a sweet tooth tonight.

Some country music is wailing out over the radio. Sonic FM in the house!

You know, it is kind of nice out here – if I didn’t feel like I had to keep turning around and be looking for skeezy characters or listen for bullets and be afraid of a knife in my back. The patio is well-lit, the people inside can see me and I don’t think I’m in imminent danger - but I still feel kind of unsafe.

The cheesecake bites are pretty good. They’re a little bit over-fried, but err to the tasty side. The apple-caramel dipping sauce could use some work (I prefer the raspberry sauce from Arby’s), but other than that, I’d give them a solid B.

Land sakes a Cthulu. White peoples in the house. Urban professionals from some office. I guess they’re out on the roam. They ordered cheesecake bites too.

One of them – a preppy white boy type wearing slacks and a polo shirt, stole some dipping sauce from his friend. He’s dipping his finger in the sauce. He’s running his finger around the sauce container. Now he’s making faces and licking his finger. WORK IT! WORK IT!

Way to go man, way to go. Sex it up. Sex it up. Way to act like a grown up. That was the most mature thing I think I’ve seen all week. And it’s only Wednesday. Well, almost Thursday now.

The DJ for Sonic Radio is just waaaaaaaaay to cheerful. And he screams.

There is a gray Toyota that has been parked at the drive-thru window for at least five minutes. What the hell did they order? A whole cow with a side of tots? I love tater tots.

Hmm. Only one skinny white boy in the Toyota. I hope he doesn’t have a heart attack when he eats that order, whatever that was.

We’ve switched to something thrashy/slammy/guitarish on the radio now. “Crushcrushcrush,” from Paramore. I kind of like this.

The Sonic staff is here for the midnight shift. Poor dude is banging on the window trying to get inside and no one wants to come open the door. BANG BANG BANG. Seriously. Somebody need to come to this door or he’s gonna break the window.

OK. He’s in.

The preppies have left. I’m the only person here. Me and the DJ apparently. If I keep coming to the Sonic I’m going to turn into a country music fan.

There’s a red Chevrolet pickup at the drive-thru. Nothing else to say, just a red Chevrolet.

You know, there’s a lot of trash out on this patio. Would it kill them to come out and spray it with a hose or run a broom around a few times a day? Or would it kill the customers to actually pick up after themselves? There are mints, straws, ketchup packets, etc.

OH MY GOD. Those freaking chipmunks are singing some insipid promo on the radio.

All I want for Christmas is for Alvin, Simon & Theodore to go die in a fire. Seriously. And I loved the “Chipmunks” as a child. Heck, I even liked the Chipettes.

Man, let me tell you, that “Chipmunks” movie is SERIOUSLY going to blow major chunks. Think two buckets of chicken and then a bottle of tequila chunks. The only thing that could be a bigger bomb than the live-action Chipmunk movie is Dick Cheney target range. And then only if you’re a Democrat!

CALL IN YOUR REQUESTS AT 866-SONIC. This man needs to stop screaming. No one is this chipper at midnight. He bothers me worse than that crazy heffa Delilah that hosts the soft-rock & talk-about-your-problems show.

I’m having trouble with inspiration tonight. Maybe it is this ugly pseudo-modern lawn furniture – which is none too clean, mind you. Maybe it is this TOO DAMN LOUD music. Maybe it’s just the fact that I’m tired and cranky and really need a good night’s sleep.

Finally. Some good music. It’s the Go-Go’s and “Our Lips Are Sealed.”

Just in time.

Play me out, Belinda Carlise!

Peace, Love and Understanding!

See you all tomorrow!

Café, 6:26 p.m. – I’m not inspired enough to write a clever title

2007-11-27T19:57:00.000-05:00

Kim Carnes is pumping out over the hi-fi – singing about those “Bette Davis Eyes.”

I’m parked in one of those trendy new “bakery/café/coffee hut” type places that opened up at the mall here. The atmosphere is nice, but the promise of free WiFi is – for right now – a lie. I can see the network, but every time I connect, it disconnects. This WiFi is full of fail.

The noise level in the joint is also terrifically loud. Very open-plan seating, complete with open kitchen and tons of howler monkeys scampering around flinging poo. Not literally, just metaphorically. And every thirty seconds, there’s a name booming out over the loudspeaker announcing an order “JOYCE,” “CLYDE,” “CARLOS.”

I’m staring at a table of single mothers – or at least a table of pregnant women giving the appearance of unwed mothers. They looks like they’re on a day trip from the local “bad girls” home or something. Three of them are pregnant – and two of them already have howler monkeys in tow.

JULIE!

Across the room, there’s the most adorable little girl bouncing up and down in her high-chair. She’s got a huge Angela Davis afro the size of a bowling ball on her tiny head and she’s bobbing up and down to the Cars and “Drive.”

MIKE!

I love the décor in here. Dark wooden floors, dark wood tables and chairs – which have this neat nine-dot pierced patter in the back of them – and plush cushions.

There is a great curved swoosh of a dining booth – which would be GREAT for a big birthday party – it looks like it would hold 15-20 people. Each end is very nearly an enclosed circle – but it actually connects all the way from one end to the other. The ceiling is exposed ductwork, but there is so much drop-lighting you hardly notice.

Too bad the food is so mediocre.

DON!

Apparently, so is the music selection. Pre-breakup, pre-rehab Backstreet Boys in the house “I Want It That Way.” I never did. Really. Never. No. Really. Not even AJ. Well, maybe. We all know he’s probably a freak in bed!

VERONICA! Where are the rest of the Archies?

Cute boy alert. Although he’s wearing the ugliest white flip-flops ever. And he had to navigate to the the trash can for his stoner-looking dad. Here’s a fashion tip we can all use – ponytails belong on four-legged members of the equine family and sorority girls. No one else.

OMYGAWD YA’LL. I THOUGHT I JUST HEARD A SNIPPET OF SOME CHER!

Wait. It was just Madonna with “Like a Prayer.”

ANNA. Anna Banana. Order up.

There’s something on the menu called “Chocolate Euphoria.” I wonder what that’s about. Or if Taye Diggs is planning to sue for defamation of character.

WOACA alert. Or suicide watch. Whichever you prefer. Older single woman eating alone, reading Tom Clancy. Dunno. She looks like she’s enjoying life. You go girl. But get some new reading material.

This place is worse than Starbucks with the blenders. They have at least three going at once, plus kitchen noise and people and screaming kids. I have a headache.

OK. I’m out. I’m tired and kind of cranky and not really inspired tonight. Plus the food was crap and my muffin tasted like styrofoam.

Starbucks, 8:52 a.m. – Morning fashion is no better than evening fashion

2007-11-26T09:36:00.000-05:00

Yes. I struggled up from my crypt in time to give you kids a morning edition today. Just don’t get used to it. If I had my way, I’d work from 3 p.m. to midnight every day.

Oh, yeah. I’m at the Starbucks. It is old man central up in here. Six, no, wait NINE – counting the ones outside – old men sipping lattes and reading the newspaper. I guess this is what retirement is like. Someone shoot me now. I hope my retirement involves a yacht and Brazilian boy named Paulo or Santiago or something.

Anyway. Aside from the Metamucil Literary Brigade, the action here is slim. I cannot bring myself to describe nine individual old men slugging down coffee and reading the paper.

We’re right at the 9 a.m. hour though, so things may start to heat up.

And they just did. Some self-entitled a-hole of a customer just walked in and GRUNTED at the barista. I know you’re a regular and all – but at least make the effort.

There’s a woman here with an iPhone. She’s the chunky “I work in an office” type that doesn’t really need an iPhone, but really wants to show up her friend Janice. Anyway.

She is in line, but still wearing her knockoff Ray-Ban fashion shades that she got at the Old Navy, some Rack Room shoes, faded blue jeans and the ugliest leopard print top this side of the Atlantic. Real leopards would die in shame if this print ever showed up on one of their kin.

But this woman has one of those fancy leather iPhone cases that she’s hung off her right pants pocket – not the hip – the pocket – just so that everyone can gasp in awe that OMG THAT WOMAN HAS AN IPHONE!

Her drink is insanely complicated too. Three people went through the other register while she was ordering.

Ladies, if your “girls” are one of your assets, more power to you. However, you probably need to restrain them somewhat, either with a brassiere, a sports bra or clothing that fits properly. Really, the last thing I need at 9 a.m. is a gigantic pair of bouncy balls doing the rumba in my face.

Mr. Chocolate Chip Frappuccino is here. Every morning that I’m here, he’s here, ordering a grande chocolate chip frappuccino. And wearing the same clothes – complete with black baseball cap. I’m dying to know his story.

Mon dieu. A horde of tourists and the place is crowded all of a sudden. One of these women is wearing black velvet tights, a black velvet tunic and a burgundy velvet cape. She’s got a full head of blonde hair, which she’s chosen to pin back with a black sun visor. Yow.

And the exercise crowd. Ma’am. We all know you work out. We can smell you. However, we do NOT need to see your buns hanging out the back of your gray bicycle pants and your boobs hanging out the front of your blue sports bra. And really, is coffee all that good for any exercise regimen?

Men should not wear Crocs. Ever.

There is a grandma here with her granddaughter – they’re trying to find a place to sit down – and granny is giving the old man brigade the look of death because all the tables are taken with the old men reading the paper. The kid is clutching a book like her life depends on it.

Gun alert. Sheriff’s deputies make me nervous. Not that I’ve done anything wrong, but that we’re only one crazy person away from something really going wrong. And they get free coffee too. This one got a free pastry as well.

Exercise chick is looking severely unhappy. She must not be a yoga practitioner.

I just saw an old man with a Dali T-shirt. I love Dali. The world needs more surrealism.

And now a woman is complaining that the girl on the register slammed the cash drawer “too hard.” They have to explain to her that the drawer sticks and sometimes they have to slam it to close it. It was not a statement on her being difficult.

Greek restaurant, 7:14 p.m. – Tourists, hummus and Serbian pop do not a pleasant evening make

2007-11-25T20:16:00.000-05:00

Who knew that ~~Greek~~, I asked SERBIAN, pop music could have such a thumping beat?

I’ve already accomplished one of the things I wanted to when I started “21 Minutes” – and that was to get out more and be exposed to different things. I think Serbian pop certainly counts in that regard.

If you’re looking for some thumping beats – check out Lepa Brena – maybe not for everyone, but definitely for me!

There are only two waiters and one cook in the restaurant tonight – and the waiters have the sounds system BANGING. It is like a disco up in here. Apparently the audible wants and needs of the customers are secondary. I love a good café.

There is a family over to my immediate right. They are the ultimate modern American nuclear family on vacation – and they have no business being in a Greek restaurant. None. None at all.

I saw the waiter roll his eyes at least three times while trying to take their drink order. Please do not be trying to sample of the ethnic food if you do not be liking of the different spices.

They ordered four waters, mulled the menu for ten minutes, then ordered the house red (for him) and house white (for her). The daughter is apparently picky and has to have a cheese pizza – but only with white cheese. The boy wants chicken – but not a chicken pita – because hummus is not acceptable. Hmm. Did they not notice that this was a GREEK restaurant? The final order has lots of “on the sides” and “withouts.” It is a comedy of errors.

The décor in here is “interesting” – to say the least. It leans very heavily on the romanticized view of Greek mythology made popular by storytellers and fables and with a full measure of sensuality.

Right now, I’m staring at a full-breasted Medusa clad only in her crown of snakes. She could definitely use a visit to a Victoria’s Secret. There are even the suggestions of nipples painted on there.

On the back wall, there’s a six-foot-wide version of a winged Icarus in flight – clad only in a codpiece (I’ve waited YEARS to use that in an entry). I wonder if the ancient Greeks had such “defined” six-packs?

Personally, I love the décor and the slightly snotty waiters (the service is always uniformly haughty here, no matter which vampiric Greek you get) – rather annoying at first, especially as someone who wants good service, but it does eventually add to the charm once they get to know you.

Heh. The wife of the vacationing family was so busy yelling at her daughter about not playing her Nintendo DS at the table that she nearly leaned right into a full plate of food. Logic, my dear fishwife. You see the waiter coming. Shut up and be still so that he may put the hot plates down!

No one at that table likes their food. They are taking tiny bites and nibbling the pita bread and picking around the peppers. I would feel sorry for them, but it is VERY obvious this is a Greek restaurant. Moreover, they are the very stereotype of the Ugly American Tourist. And they're not even in another country.

The table in front of me has read the Sunday New York Times – cover to cover – over three courses – salad, appetizer and entrée. I’m only shocked they didn’t order dessert. This place makes baklava like nobody’s business. Sinfully delicious.

The Serbian pop is still thrumming out over the airwaves. I can only imagine the party once the customers leave.

On that note, I’m out.

Public library, 2:55 p.m. – How do you copy a pattern without really trying?

2007-11-24T15:31:00.000-05:00

Yay for free WiFi, boo-hiss for non-functioning power outlets at the workstations.

It is a lovely Saturday afternoon – and the public library is lousy with old people and children.

And the kids all have technological toys. I guess the library is just the same as an air-conditioned playpen. I’m staring straight at a daddy who is chaperoning his pair of howlers – both of whom have Sony PSPs – and neither of whom can sit still for more than two seconds.

Think about that for a second. Sony PSPs – in a library. Surrounded by the greatest literature that centuries of mankind’s greatest thinkers can produce – and you’re banging away on a damn video game. Epic fail.

Ohh. Snotty librarian. “IF YOU’RE USING THESE COMPUTERS, THESE ARE NOT THE ONES YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO BE USING. YOU NEED TO BE OVER HERE.”

Why do you have multiple types of computers if you don’t want people to use them?

There’s a WOACA in a black and white striped pants and a black shirt with a pair of chic sunglasses tucked into the collar of her shirt. She’s got a knockoff Louis Vuitton handbag slung over her arm and she’s asking – in a decidedly non-library voice – “IS THIS THE WAITING AREA FOR THE INTERNET?” Well lady, you see that sign, where it says “Waiting Area for Internet, Please Sign In & Take a Seat” – please read it. Unless you’re here for remedial English lessons.

I can understand a line for the catalog computers – there’s never enough of them – but do so many people really not have the Internet or even a basic computer at home in 2007?

These are not kids here either – these are adults who look like they make enough to afford one of the cheap laptops put out by Wal-Mart or Best Buy – at least enough to get on the Internet or do basic word processing. Then again, most of these people probably think that the Internet starts and ends at AOL.

Wow. The Internet line is now six people long and there are eight people on the computers.

That old myth about libraries being quiet enough to hear a pin drop is so totally false. I can hear the residual spillover noise from the DVD area – as well as see the action back there – and it is a complete and total madhouse.

There are about ten howler monkeys back there – all running around unsupervised – and the poor old lady trying to restock movies looks like she wants to serve monkey brains for a snack or something.

One little boy – can’t be more than two – keeps taking movies off the shelf and handing them to her. God bless, she is very patient and thanks him each time. But after he leaves I saw her twitch just a little. Keep knocking back those nerve pills lady.

Cute boy alert. Too bad he’s still in high school. A friend of mine gave me good advice once – “Sixteen will get you twenty.” Remember that girls.

I unwittingly choose a spot right by the copy machine. Which is more noise than I expected or needed.

And a source of unexpected drama. This old woman in a black sack dress has a HUGE stack of receipts that she is trying to copy and collate for something and she’s having obvious difficulty.

I hear the scanner going WHIRR WHIRR WHIRR and then a “Drat!” and the paper being crumpled.

More whirring. More “dratting.” More paper crumpling. Wash. Rinse. Repeat.

Finally she goes to fetch the attendant – who walks past the copier with a cart full of books that need to be re-shelved. Go to the Kinkos lady!

Ok. More copier drama. This woman is trying to make a blown-up copy of some patterns – looks like craft patterns or something. The copier is out of legal paper. Because I’m sitting here, PatternGirl asks me if I know where the paper is.

Um. No. I am typing on a shiny silver computer that is miles newer than what the county can afford. Do I have a nametag on? Do I look like I work here? MY DAYS OF SERVITUDE ARE OVAH!

But I tell PatternGirl to talk to the snotty attendant. “Does he know where the legal paper is?” Well, he’s got a higher probability of that than I do!

He goes to get the paper. PatternGirl asks him for help on getting her patterns embiggened – because apparently she needs mega-large sizes.

His answer “I don’t really work with the copier.”

Your tax dollars. At work.

My stars. This woman with the patterns is making a hella amount of noise. Buttons. Squeals. Noise. The dude put half a sheaf of legal paper in there – and she’s going to go through all of it if she keeps this up.

OK. I’m leaving. PatternGirl and this copier are about to drive me insane.

Wal-Mart, 2:49 p.m. – Old people are lugging oxygen tanks around in pursuit of those always low prices

2007-11-23T16:47:00.000-05:00

What do you call the detritus of Black Friday? Whatever it is, I’m breathing it in right now. I hope I don’t get the MRSA or something.

I’m trying to lay low inside the Subway at one of the regular Wal-Marts in my hood and observe the action on a Black Friday from the customer’s point of view.

Let me go on record and say that if I were a customer at this Wal-Mart – I would be plenty pissed off. It is 3 p.m. on Black Friday – and there are only four registers open. There are LINES of people with buggies jammed full of cheap plastic crap trying to check out and no one seems to want to take their money.

The Subway here seems to be a popular spot. There is an Indian family off to my immediate right. This poor woman has four kids and a buggy full of junk. All the kids are restless and screaming and hopping around in the way that howler monkeys will do.

One chunky white woman just rolled up with another buggy full of crap – mostly imitation Barbies and Wal-Mart brand toys. She’s regaling two old crones with two-tone hair of her exploits. “I didn’t get everything I wanted, but I got a good start.”

Kali on a crutch. THIS OLD LADY HAS AN OXYGEN TANK IN A BUGGY. SHE WHEELED AN OXYGEN TANK INTO A WAL-MART ON BLACK FRIDAY.

My god. Consumerism has truly taken hold of America. She is seriously hooked up to an oxygen tank that she is pushing along in a buggy.

This old woman has an OXYGEN TANK and her MERCHANDISE in a freaking Wal-Mart buggy.

That mess did not just happen. It did not. I have to keep telling myself that or I will fall over and die. I wish I could have gotten a picture without being totally rude.

Citified homosexuals in camouflage coming through the doors now. One was cute. The other was wearing a camouflage thermal knit top. No way. No how. Baby Phat is not where it is at!

The air in here smells sad and dirty, and the people seem so desperate to spend. I wish they had quality merchandise to spend it on.

The after-work crowd is flooding in now. There’s a bored mother with three equally bored-looking teenagers struggling with a cart. Her son is wearing a John Deere hat in a totally non-ironic way. He looks like a few months a farm would do him good – in that “I need to learn to work for a living” way.

The lines are still long. Now there are only three registers open. And Wal-Mart wonders why sales are down? BECAUSE THERE IS NO FREAKING HELP!

Wal-Mart is going all-out this holiday season. They have every inch of this place covered with Christmas merchandising, big green “For Every Wish” signs in English & Spanish and actual greenery and ribbons on some of the registers and displays.

THERE IS ANOTHER OLD MAN IN AN OXYGEN TANK AND A WHEELCHAIR CART OVER HERE.

Cthulu on a crutch people. No damn plasma TV is worth venturing out on a day like today for.

If you are on an oxygen tank, do you really, REALLY need to be shopping?

This old man with the oxygen tank is sitting there in the MIDDLE of the big aisle in front of the registers debating some stupid plastic doll with his wife. Insane. Insane. Buy your granddaughter a book. It will last longer and do so much more for her mind. If she knows how to read, that is.

Another sign of the coming apocalypse? They’re selling “The Santa Clause 3” for $19.96. They ought to try that on the downloadable “pay what you want” model!

I just saw a manager go by with a loaded buggy – including an Xbox 360. Now where would he be going with that I wonder?

I can’t take this any more. I have a headache – the Wal-Mart headache. I’m bouncing.

Airport cell phone lot, 11:36 a.m. – The traffic is thick and the cell phones are ringing

2007-11-22T14:53:00.000-05:00

I have never seen the airport’s cell phone lot so busy. I got the LAST parking space in the actual lot – and now people are starting to line the medians as they wait for their family and friends to arrive.

I’m staring straight at two perfectly charming old people who cannot work a cell phone to save their lives.

She’s wearing brown pants and a white shirt. He’s got on green shorts and a pink shirt. And he has socks that are an awkward length about halfway up his calves. The old lady has a deathgrip on her handbag – in that way that ALL old ladies do. Don’t lie. If anybody wanted my granny’s purse, they’d have to pry it from her cold, dead hands – and probably have to use a blowtorch, a diamond saw blade and possibly sulfuric acid. You know your grandmamma is the exact same way!

There’s something quaintly charming about old people who just act like old people though – not like wrinkled fashion plates. They’re rolling a slick new Toyota Camry LE with a Triple AAA sticker.

Have patience. We’re getting to the funny bit. Obviously, their party is either at the airport or just touching down, because I’ve seen the old man try to open his cell phone – a raspberry-colored something that looks like either a RAZR or a KRAZR or whatever about three times now.

He’ll feel it vibrate and grab for his pants pocket. AT LEAST I HOPE HE’S GRABBING FOR THE PHONE.

And somehow in the process of fumbling for the phone or trying to answer, he’ll disconnect. Or maybe the people on the flight keep getting cut off.

He’ll put the phone back in his pocket. And thirty seconds later the fun starts all over again. His old lady wife isn’t helping because she just keeps jumping around yelling advice.

Round four. They’ve managed to get the call answered AND connected. But they still don’t know how to use the phone. They really, really would have been better off with a simpler phone.

He’s not holding it to his ear and speaking into the end of the phone like a normal person.

No. He’s holding the phone at a distance and shouting into it. Now he’s holding the phone up to his wife’s face and she’s bending down like she’s talking to a baby or something and she’s yammering away. I guess the flight really is here, because they’re getting into the car and driving off. Adios.

Whoever these people are that are arriving at the airport for this Thanksgiving, they have some wealthy families. I’m looking at a Lexus LS 430, a Volvo, a Lexus RX 330 and an Audi S 4.

I need to get up on whatever these people are doing.

Huh. Twinkie cars – two of those funky PT Cruisers – in silver and black – parked side by side.

There is an old bald man in the Audi – it’s the Cabriolet model – so he has plenty of scratch. He’s got the top down and he’s sunning his bald head. He must be really early for his person’s flight (or it got delayed) – because he’s tilted the seat back and he looks like he’s getting ready for a snooze. I’m not so sure I would actually go to sleep in an airport parking lot. Moreover, I’d use sunscreen.

Oh brother. There’s a dood – I don’t know any other way to describe it – that’s next to me in a brand spanking new Chrysler Sebring convertible.

He’s wearing a set of those “I support something” bracelets. The Lance Armstrong cancer bracelet, a red AIDS Awareness one and a red and white stitch one that looks like a baseball. Full set on both wrists. And he’s wearing some kind of specially branded Major League Baseball hat. Just saw it. Boston Red Sox.

If he adjusts this hat one more time … I’m going to have to get out of the car and beat him. He’s got the top down because he wants to be seen. I really don’t know how much action he realistically expects to get in an airport parking lot. Hot WOACA action anyone? For the record, it stands for "women of a certain age" - and every time I use the word "WOACA" I try to make a tooltip so you can mouse over it and have the definition pop up. I know people be complaining about it.

We’ve got a reunion going on over here. There’s a man in a ratty-looking gray tank top and blue shorts that’s talking to a well-dressed couple that look like they stepped out of a catalog.

This woman is seriously wearing glitter to the airport. I hate to tell her, but the glamour days of air travel went out decades ago. She’s got black slacks and a sliver and black sleeveless top that has glitter worked all through it. Her husband looks like the consummate Florida sportsman – khaki shorts and a green & white polo shirt.

Ugh. Gray tank top is scratching his chest hair. Quelle attractive.

Mr. Sebring is flashing his cell phone around. I get a signal. So should you. PS: Your cell phone is not all that. It’s not even a smartphone. Get an iPhone. Then we’ll talk.

There are some seriously bored people in the row behind me. There is a whole family in a Land Rover that has books and what looks like it could be a picnic basket. They’ve got the rear door up, all four doors open and they are hanging out. OK. They’re on the move – and almost backed over this stupid old man who was going hell for leather to throw away a bag full of McDonald’s trash. Save the planet, die in crash!

They’re parked next to a guy that has advertising plastered all over his truck advertising for poochooch.com.

He’s got some sort of contraption rigged up in the back of this pickup and has stuffed dogs hanging out the side. He is totally working the crowd and passing out business cards. I bet he just drives around to every airport in South Florida all day and bugs the mess out of people. Is he selling pooches or hooch I wonder?

OK. I am rolling. Peace out, later bye!

Bad Ass Coffee, 3:48 p.m. – Oh baby, bat those eyelashes in my direction!

2007-11-21T16:56:00.000-05:00

We’re coming at you live – well, semi-live from downtown’s hot new controversy – Bad Ass Coffee.

Named for the “mythical beasts of burden” – the donkeys that hauled heavy loads of coffee beans down the mountains of Hawaii – Bad Ass Coffee purports to brew the finest cup of coffee this side of the Kona Highlands.

Whatever.

This bunch of high-school-age brats doesn’t know an espresso shot from a tequila shot.

My iced mocha tastes like a cup of decaf that someone dumped some chocolate into, squirted some whipped cream on top and shoved it over the bar. For this and a muffin, I paid the princely sum of $8.

On the other hand, the WiFi is free. So I suppose I’ll be down here a lot – especially since I’ve nearly arrived at the decision to abandon the cold bed of Comcast for warmer pastures elsewhere.

Anyway. This is basically a Starbucks without the intense Starbucks-themed branding campaign. Instead, I’m being treated to a theme similar to what you’d imagine if a pair of Hawaiian shorts mated with a Starbucks.

There are life-size fake palm trees, a grouping hideously ugly rattan furniture with ghastly tropical palm cushions and posters all over the place screaming TROPICS TROPICS TROPICS. Get real people. It's a coffee shop with a cute name! Not the second coming of the Godchild!

There is a sad old granola WOACA in here, out for her daily bike ride or something. She’s got on an urban camo top in gray and yellow and black cargo shorts that are splattered with paint. Her hair is twisted up on top of her head in that careless “I’m worth more than you’ll ever make” way. And she’s sweaty as all get out and pawing through the T-shirts and tumblers like no one’s business. “WHAT A COOL PLACE!” she announces to the room at large. NEWSFLASH! We don’t really care.

Bored teenage tourists are the same the world over. A pack of Dutch tourists just walked in. Either Dutch or Swedish. The mother is yelling into a super-modern cellphone at the top of her lungs in some language and the Dad is digging money out of his fanny pack.

Swedish I think. Their clothes have a certain Ikea-ish style and their hair is kind of blonde and blocky. But the teenager with them just looks so perpetually bored by his parents that I truly do feel for them. His poor father is trying to engage him in conversation and the kid is just leaning against the condiment bar and twirling his sunglasses. They’re gone now.

There is a summit meeting happening over to my right. There’s an older bald man and his twenty-something girlfriend. They just wanted to sit on the rattan “couch” and catch their breath. Then this idiot in cutoff khakis and a sleeveless cutoff tee plopped himself down and started a discourse based on the headlines flashing by on CNN Headline News. “Bush is innocent in the Valerie Plame thing! It is all a Democrat smear job.”

They don’t really want to talk to him, but I guess they think it would be rude to just get up and walk away. They’re both giving one-word answers and hope he will shut up, but he’s leaning back (oh my Kali, a forest of armpit hair) and settling in for a debate.

Cute boy alert. He must work in one of the shops or offices around here. Grey pants and a red shirt. Hair cut very short. Hmm. His ears are kind of big though. He’s very polite to the “baristas.” (Are they called baristas anywhere but at Starbucks?) And he pays with cash. I need a man with cash. And he has pretty eyelashes. Sigh

This man talking about Barack Obama and how he’s an idiot who doesn’t know anything about politics needs to shut up. I personally don’t plan to vote for Obama, but Obama did change the game as far as online political organizing goes.

Tourists. Swimsuits and flip-flops belong at the beach. Please, please, please put some clothes on your child before you bring them into an eating establishment. In fact, put some clothes on YOURSELF. Some sand crabs might drop out or something.

OMG. OMG. OMG. PrettyEyelashes just sat down at the table right across from me. He’s checking his text messages.

Look at me bitch. I’m smiling at you.

Seriously dude. This man yakking on and on and on about politics NEEDS to go die in a fire. Now he’s quoting Ann Coulter. Seriously. Ann Coulter.

PrettyEyelashes kind of looks like Orlando Bloom – although his eyeBROWS need a serious plucking. Caterpillars come to mind. And he’s totally not looking in my direction anymore. You little shit. Am I not cute enough for you?

And he’s leaving. Well. On that note, I guess I better pack up my stuff and go stalk him.

If there’s no update tomorrow, send bail money.

Starbucks, 5:43 p.m. - LoudLucy laughs it up at the NA meeting

2007-11-20T22:33:00.000-05:00

The store that I think of as “my Starbucks” has added a new Christmas touch today – little glass vases with sprigs of fake holly and mistletoe and silver and gold sparkly things.

Seeing as how it is November 20, I personally think it is terribly premature – but I like it anyway.

OH MY SWEET JESUS MARY AND JOSEPH. It’s not a WOACA. It’s not a fried perm. It is just a fashion disaster in the flesh.

This woman just came in. She’s wearing those unfortunate culottes that catch her lower legs about eight inches above the ankle. No black could be that slimming. Her hair honestly looks like something nested in it, left to go south for the winter, then came back and nested in it again. She’s with a guy in a fairly normal plaid shirt and blue jeans.

They walked up to the counter, asked questions about the “free” coffee being dispensed, got a sample, refilled that, refilled that, then refilled THAT. Now they are walking around, sipping the fourth refill and browsing the art on the walls of this Starbucks.

They’re behind me, but I got a good look at this woman’s eyes as she came in. Completely dead. And her skin is in horrible condition. You know, I bet she’s a drug addict or something – and the guy is her sponsor. I know there’s an AA meeting place around here. I bet NA would use the same space.

Cute Boy Alert! Green cargo shorts and a gray T-shirt. Shaved head though. Points for the Celtic tattoo on the ankle. Caramel soy macchiato. And he delicately adds a sprinkle. Wait. No. Not so delicate. He DUMPS cinnamon on there.

The loud barista who always screams and tries to leave early just came in. “IS THE SCHEDULE UP?”

She’s browsing the merchandise – the Starbucks merchandise – and offering her unsolicited opinion on the advent calendars, the plush toys and the CDs. “I LOVE THIS BEAR. I SAW IT LAST NIGHT AND I AM SO GETTING ONE.”

The rest of the baristas are just working around her. She is obviously bored with nowhere to go, but doesn’t realize that no one wants to talk to her while THEY HAVE WORK TO DO!

One barista is trying to re-stock the water & sandwich case – a task made all the more difficult by the fact that LoudLucy is standing there fingering stuffed animals and exclaiming how tasty the cookie displays look.

Now she’s flirting with Diamond Studs. I swear to Kali, the sexual tension in a Starbucks could power a city block if harnessed properly.

There is a Hanson holiday remix on the radio right now. I think it is “Little Saint Nick.” Whatever it is, it is an abomination. A complete and total abomination.

I see that Starbucks is selling the soundtrack to the Charlie Brown Christmas special. I adored that show as a child. It was almost a requirement for Christmas – along with the Rudolph & Frosty specials.

Old people suck. There’s one old man sitting behind me TRYING to read a newspaper. This other old man just came in and ordered a coffee. For whatever reason, he feels the need to SCREAM across the Starbucks at this other old man ‘HOW ARE YOU TODAY? JUST BEING PEACEFUL? WHAT’S GOING ON WITH YOU?” Well, it was peaceful before you started yelling up in here!

Another fashion tragedy approacheth. For one, she has what looks like a blonde mop on her head – one that has seen far too many Sally Beauty Supply bleach kits.

Then there’s this odd heart-print top with a keyhole in the back that exposes her bra. I really don’t get it. Black shorts and gray flip-flops. Her male companion is wearing slate-gray shorts and an orange shirt. Maybe they’re just color blind?

And they’re ordering a set of frappuccinos. What they need to be ordering is green tea. Or a coffee enema.

There’s a hot guy coming in wearing a T-shirt advertising ALWAYS AVAILABLE PLUMBING. I wonder if he is truly “always available.” I need to write that number down!

OK. I’m out. I’m going to eat my peppermint cookie and go home.

Crispers, 7:32 p.m. – Rocking through the 1980s

2007-11-19T23:55:00.000-05:00

Whoever picked the music for this Crispers has EXCELLENT taste. I’m sitting on their patio, enjoying a soda and slurping their free WiFi. Bananarama is banging out that 80s classic “Cruel Summer.”

Life really doesn’t get any better than this.

It’s a cool fall night, there really aren’t any bugs and the air is crisp and lovely.

Too bad there is almost nothing happening at the Crispers.

I like the plaza this Crispers is in. Unlike the other store, this one is set back from the road a bit more and is next to a Sweetbay grocery store. The parking lot is quieter.

The real traffic noise comes from a big intersection that unfortunately seems to attract people trying to gun it through the stoplights. THANK YOU MR. MOTORCYCLE. PLEASE PUT A HELMET ON. OR NOT. SPARE US YOUR STUPIDITY NEXT TIME.

Now we’re onto Crowded House and “Don’t Dream It’s Over.” “Hey now, hey now. Don’t dream it’s over.” Sigh. I miss the eighties. They had the best music EVAR.

The preppy manager at this Crispers is a super-go-getter type. He’s totally working the room here. He’s greeting every customer as they come in, walking them through the menu, then going around through all the tables. Very cute too. Think a younger, less Hollywood alcoholic Josh Hartnett – with bigger ears.

Take the nametag off and you’ve got husband material. Well, if he quits the Crispers job and goes to Hollywood and starts making movies like “Pearl Harbor,” “Wicker Park” or something.

FINE YOUNG CANNIBALS ON THE RADIO BABY!

WOACA ALERT!

Today’s specimen is accompanying her aged mother out for some flatbread, some salad and some soup.

My god. Thomas Dolby and “She Blinded Me With Science.” It is classic 80s rock all over the place up in here!

Back to the WOACA. She and Grammy are hamming it up with Mr. Josh Hartnett Food Service over there. WOACA is wearing a scoop-neck that exposes way, way, way too much breast for a 50-year-old woman. She really needs a hot-oil treatment for her hair – that, or stop over-bleaching it. Her old-lady mother has a humpback that would do Quasimodo proud. She’s making a valiant attempt to cover it up with a knitted blue afghan. In reality, she’s making the problem worse by screwing her hair up in a bun. Think minaret on top of a pyramid. Yeah. It’s that strange.

Could this woman that is taking out the trash be making more noise? Seriously lady. Plastic does not make that much noise. Also, that shade of red lipstick clashes with your blouse. PS: Those pants make your behind look HUGE!

It’s the Pretenders with “Show Me.”

It is so nice out tonight. I could sit out here forever. The traffic noise is starting to impede though. One of the main roads through town is about 20 yards away – and the smell of gas and oil and that metallic road tang is right at the back of my throat. It is definitely impinging on the ambiance here.

REM is going to play us out tonight. Peace out.

Minute 22: We’ve had a startling development. A huge Doberman just wandered up. It looks very lost. And it wants food. It is very nice, but very scary.

I'm leaving for real now. This dog is creeping me out. Getting all Cujo up in here.

Starbucks, 6:24 – Psst. I’ve got some oceanfront property in Arizona…

2007-11-18T22:08:00.000-05:00

I’m sitting here staring at a woman with the most atrocious fried perm in the entire world. If she entered this perm as a concoction in the Texas State Fair, it would beat out Fried Coke, Fried Hot Dogs and Fried Twinkies as the top fried item. That’s how fried it is. Ladies, your hair-stylist IS YOUR FRIEND. Home perms will save you money but not your reputation.

She’s got the full “I’m studying for finals” regalia out. There’s a rolling backpack with a tin of tea, a separate thermos for coffee, a stack of books with names like “Quantum Healing: Exploring the Frontiers of Mind/Body Medicine” and a lunchbox.

She’s wearing blue jeans and a much-washed pink tunic. What’s worse is that she’s not studying. She’s downloading music files on her laptop over the Starbucks WiFi. I can see the BitTorrent client from my chair.

She wouldn’t be able to concentrate anyway. Two old real estate queens are working over some deal with all the concentration that Dick Cheney would have given to trying to solve the thorny issue of an opposition party.

I love old real estate queens. One is wearing a pink and white striped shirt and slacks and these delicate gold glasses. He’s got silver bracelets on BOTH hands and is punctuating his declarations with jabs from a black Bic pen.

And he’s wearing sandals with jewels on them. Pinky’s little friend is dressed in a black crewneck pullover that’s unbuttoned down to the last button – showing a decent amount of tanned hairy chest. He’s rocking the shaved head and stubble look. Workout queen. His neck tendons stand out in ropey cords and make him look like the result of a vulture mating with a Cardassian.

Black Crewneck has what looks to be a MontBlanc pen but is really just a cheap knockoff. He keeps drawing diagrams on a pad. I think he’s trying to get Pinky to invest in some scheme.

The table and two extra chairs are littered with the detritus of this conversation. I can see an iced coffee cup, a Super Big Gulp cup, three sacks from Starbucks To-Go cookies, napkins, a pile of folders, four notepads, two clipboards and a couple binders.

No. I got it wrong. Pinky is trying to close a deal. “I hear what you’re saying but you just need to listen.” Pinky is starting to get touchy-feely. Now he’s slapping one hand into the other and enumerating his points.

I’m being blinded. Some dude in a gigantic white GMC pickup just rolled up. PLEASE DIM YOUR LIGHTS IF YOU FEEL THE NEED TO USE THE ON-STREET PARKING! There are people inside. He need to wash his truck too!

StudyGirl just got up to swipe about five little paper cups of the free cookies the Starbucks has on the counter. What if I wanted that cookie?

Now StudyGirl has a supportive friend. A big fat old WOACA with major fashion issues. This woman is wearing what looks like a pair of Hefty bags that have been sewn into pants. They stop at that awkward point about six inches up from her ankles – where only people with thin legs should have pants stop. She’s topped off the black trash bags with a turquoise top a size too small.

I can clearly see the underwire of her bra straining to poke out the back, sides and FRONT. They long to escape the turquoise confinement. Her hair is fried too – although this is clearly a case of too much bleach. She’s probably a granola WOACA – because she’s wearing some kind of awful thongish sandal that make her feet look huge. She’s toting a giant black purse that looks like it could hold a baby inside.

She’s leaving. Now I’m being blinded by the headlights of her black VW bug. I wonder why she bought such a small car for such a large person? Hrmmmmm.

There’s a weird girl wandering around now. She’s got on high-waisted shorts and a black pullover – and orange shoes. It gives the impression that her crotch is somewhere up around her boobs. She’s super-skinny and looks like one of those poseable figures with the wires that you can make into all sorts of crazy shapes. She’s getting a coffee, a sandwich and a cookie. That’s right girl. YOU NEED TO EAT!

I guess the milk steamer is going to play me out tonight.

I could barely hear the in-store music over the deal-making from Pinky and Black CrewNeck and the constant chair-scratching from StudyGirl. Peace. Later. Bye.

Starbucks, 7:27 p.m. - Flashcard boy fails at studying

2007-11-16T21:25:00.000-05:00

Bing Crosby is wailing out “White Christmas.” I’m sipping a delicious super-extra-special chocolate deluxe café mocha and nibbling a peppermint cookie and it’s beginning to feel a lot like Christmas.

The unseasonable cold snap that has Florida in its grasp has finally dug in its claws enough to force people to dig out the sweaters and jackets and boots and put a chill in the air. I hate Christmas creep, but the season is jolly tonight.

Shockingly, no one else around me seems to share the glee. There is one poor dude in here trying valiantly to study. He has homemade flashcards, a backpack and a stack of books with imposing-looking titles about anatomy. No, wait Spanish. Ay, papi. Habla conmigo, por favor. Dime muchos besos!

He is wearing blue jeans, a knitted navy-blue sweater thing that is looking more and more like flannel underwear the longer I stare at it and black Nikes. He’s trying so hard to concentrate and failing miserably.

The noise in here is terrific tonight. There’s a jazz riff on “The Christmas Song” playing, the dishwasher and a coffee-bean grinder going – in short there’s lots of noise. Someone also just ordered a frappuccino. Blender. Slish, into the cup. Splash of water as the barista rinses the blender.

There’s also a barista trying really hard to leave half an hour early because her friend just came in and invited her to a party. “Can I leave half an hour early? Please? Do I have to work tomorrow? You’d be surprised how hard I work.” I bet I would be!

Mr. Flashcards is so not succeeding. He’s shuffling the cards around, but he’s not really studying. I can see it in the way he’s holding himself.

I barely recognized this song just now as a funk-a-riffic version of “Winter Wonderland.” Wow. It is amazing what some jazz and blues can do to a classic.

“Do you see what I see? / A star, a star / Dancing in the night,”

There’s a diva that’s got hold of this one. She’s pumping it out at the top of her lungs. And we’ve got a dancing patron. Another diva's got hold of it!

Skinny guy, either Hispanic or Middle Eastern. He’s wearing jeans and a very tight black knit pullover. There’s barely enough room for his little chicken-breast pecs, the pullover is so tight.

He’s got a goatee and a thick gold chain. He’s dancing in between the tables, touching first one table top, then the other.

During the riffs in the song, he’s waving his hands in the air as if he is literally balancing the notes inside his head and in the air. It’s a beautiful image of someone so free, so happy as to break into movement in public. In some states, it would likely get him killed.

Alicia Keyes is hitting some notes now. I think this is her new single “No one.” I can hear the guy sitting behind me saying “Alicia Keyes. Now this is what I bump to.” Thank you so much. So, so much.

Mr. Flashcard is still trying to study and there are all these conversations around him. He’s making an effort now. His lips are moving as he makes an effort to imprint the words on the flash cards into his brain.

The baristas are re-stocking the shelves not three feet from him with coffee and merchandise. They’re also all arguing about who is going to work tomorrow, where the phone list is so the one skiving off work can get coverage and generally being noisy. Either Mr. Flashcard has tremendous powers of concentration or else he just totally fails as a student.

WOACA alert. There’s always a WOACA. She’s the tall, artistic type. This one is wearing brown – not khaki – brown slacks and a white shell tunic. She’s gone dramatic with the huge black floor-length knitted osweater-coat that she’s sweeping around. If she’s cold enough to be wearing such a thing – she ought t be wearing socks – or at least some stockings – with her shoes.

Mr. Flashcard finally gave up and picked up his cell phone. Too bad no one has called him. He’s having to send out a text message. PLEASE HELP ME. I FAIL AT STUDYING!

My time is up. Thank you.

Starbucks, 4:33 p.m. --- Cold weather brings out the frappuccino addicts

2007-11-15T19:41:00.000-05:00

I’m at a new Starbucks – one I don’t normally go to – because I’m in a new city. This one looks like it has been converted out of a McDonald’s or a KFC – because it is much, much larger than a typical Starbucks. Plus, it is completely standalone – not joined to any other retail space.

Right now, I think I’m sitting in what used to be the drinks station. I’m in a tiny nook off to the right of the Starbucks kitchen. There is a really nice table where I’ve plopped open my computer and these fantastic slipper chairs. This Starbucks also retained the old coffee bean and tropical flower wallpaper.

Moreover, they have not gone overboard with the Christmas décor. There are only a couple of wreaths and the usual red Christmas merchandise – which manages to coordinate nicely with the fire extinguisher.

I can hear all the action at the coffee bar, but I can’t actually see the baristas. The blender for the frappuccinos is whirring, but I don’t know who ordered it or why. I really don’t know WHY anyone would order a frozen drink in 45 degree weather …

There is a woman in a fur coat saying “That just makes my heart so heavy …” Well, sucking down those frappes is what makes your hips so heavy.

Oh. They’re talking about snow. My god. She’s getting MULTIPLE FRAPPUCCINOS.

Old dude comes in limping. He’s wearing a black pullover with a Ford logo. His hair is as white as snow.

Howler monkey alert. It is a young mother with a tiny, tiny child. She is literally dragging it across the threshold of the door. The child clearly does not want to partake of the delicious coffee beverages in the Starbucks. This baby is smacking on a pacifier for all it is worth.

Now the child has pulled loose of its maternal unit’s grasp. DO NOT WANT. She’s feeling its bottom. Now we’re going to the bathroom. Stinky baby.

WOACA alert. There’s a middle-aged woman giving me a dirty look because I’m sitting at the handicapped table typing. She’s carrying a coffee and a slice of cake, not to mention a few extra pounds. She looks into the nook I’m sitting in, sniffs, as if in disapproval of my occupying HER table, then wanders out into the rest of the Starbucks.

Now she’s not even eating the cake; she’s checking her voice mail and blathering into her phone. She’s one of those precious types who thinks a blonde pageboy is the latest in de rigeur hairstyle conventions.

I’m at least twenty feet away and I can hear her conversation. “HEY BARBARA THIS IS SYLVIA. I WAS AT THE HOSPITAL BUT I JUST GOT OUT. OH ABSOLUTELY. GIVE ME JUST A FEW MINUTES. I HAVE TIME. I SHOULD PROBABLY BE AT MY OFFICE. OH ALLRIGHT THANK YOU.”

She’s wearing a leather jacket and blue jeans. All of this is spoiled by the fact that now she’s shoveling cake into her mouth like a demented pot fiend. And she’s still not put the phone down.

It is about 50 degrees out – and a man just walked past wearing shorts and sipping on a frappuccino. Hmmmm. Clearly Yankees have thicker blood than I’m used too. He’s a skinny thing too.

Blonde Pageboy is slamming the buttons on her phone again. She’s done with the cake. That was fast. And she’s giving me another dirty look. Devour the power of the MacBook and laugh. I bet she’s a Realtor or something.

OH MY GOD. They’re making another frappuccino. I seriously do not understand it. The people coming through the drive-through must have a serious, serious sugar addiction.

KALI FORGIVE ME JESUS THEY ARE MAKING ANOTHER ONE. I really do not get it. I love me some frappuccino – but this is just too much.

The entire time I have been here, the drive-through at this Starbucks has been bumping like the tenth hour of an all-night rave. It is crazy-busy.

The woman with the howler monkey is out of the bathroom. And the howler monkey is letting loose. Shrieks of joy I guess. And dearest Mumsy is getting – you guessed it – a frappuccino.

Seriously. What is it with the population here?

My time is up. Thank you.

The airport, 4:09 p.m. – Bad fashion abounds!

2007-11-13T16:34:00.000-05:00

Coming at you live on tape delay – all the action, all the fun – all the old people you can handle – 21 Minutes at the airport!

Old ladies love dogs. One old bird is here to pick up another old bird. The pickup crone has band-aids on her nose, forehead and hands, but she has a death-grip on this fluffy Shi-Tzu puppy’s leash. The dog is in canine heaven – what with all the airport sights, sounds and smells.

PuppyCrone is here for two wafer-thin old people dressed in that generic “old people traveler” style – slacks, t-shirts and those horrid navy-blue windbreakers. The reunion that is going on with this puppy is embarrassingly sloppy. Somebody is going to get rabies at this point. Now the old bald man is scolding his wife, who apparently went the other way off the plane and got here late “YOU SHOULD OF WENT THE OTHER WAY.” Damn. Maybe she had to take a pee or something.

There is so much action. Oh Kali. And so much bad fashion. SO MUCH BAD FASHION!

I just saw a woman wearing ballet flats inside a pair of Birkenstocks. Above the ankle, she was wearing a coordinated outfit of purple culottes and a purple tunic – both screen-printed with white fish skeletons. Her hair is more “Flock of Seagulls” than Q-tip and it is just plain scary.

There are so many old people here. If Florida is God’s Waiting Room – then the airport must the place they come to get pre-certification.

Off to the right of me, two old people are waiting on a flight.

The old lady is dressed head-to-toe in black – black pants, black VELVET pants, black tunic and a black velvet jacket. Black ballet flats. Even her CANE is black. I’m just shocked her glasses are horn-rimmed and not black plastic. Maybe the optician was out of black that day.

Her traveling companion is trying to read the newspaper – but he’s obviously got vision problems and is holding it literally an inch from his nose. Huh. He has black glasses. I wonder if they got their spectacles confused this morning?

I love airports. The constant ebb and flow of people just streaming through all day appeals to the people-watcher in me – plus there is just so much to do – shop, eat, spectate.

There is an old man in an orange Tommy Bahama shirt wearing Ray-Bans indoors. Just say no to the faux pas. Unless you’re Jack Nicholson. Wait. Not even if you’re J.N. It is just wrong.

The Starbucks here is doing a land-office business – although to be fair – any coffee bar in any airport in the world is going to be doing good business unless it is truly serving horrible coffee.

Wow. There is an middle-aged woman pushing a man in a wheelchair across the lobby. She’s pushing him in the chair and he’s dragging a pair of wheeled suitcases out behind him. From the side, it sort of looks like she’s driving some sort of bizarre chariot.

And now there’s a howler monkey. Howl on. At least you’re off the plane.

I really thought this was going to be an interesting entry, but I’m having trouble trying to focus on one thing. Bad fashion aside – which does give an enormous amount of pleasure to me – there is only a limited amount of attention I can give to people walking and rolling suitcases across the lobby.

Bad fashion alert. Crazy hippie chick or some fair approximation thereof. She’s super-skinny and wearing those tapering jeans that make her legs look even more like toothpicks. She’s jammed her legs into some sort of odd red boot, which she has chosen to pair with a violent magenta nail polish and a shiny blue metallic bag. That brown sweater the color of dead grass in January does nothing to pull the outfit together.

To be fair, Coco Chanel probably couldn’t design anything to pull that outfit together.

My time is up. My flight is being called. Peace out.

My laundry room, 11:58 p.m. – You spin me right round baby, right round!

2007-11-12T23:58:00.000-05:00

All I can hear is the thump-thump-thump of the dryers at my apartment building’s laundry room turning my clothes round and round.

I love my building. It is ancient – for Florida anyway – and has tons of charm. None of the apartments are exactly alike and it is painted in those funky pink and yellow stucco colors. I just don’t get a washer/dryer in my apartment.

This means I have to schlep everything downstairs every so often – usually in the middle of the night – and deal with the cranky washing machines and other people’s lint. One washing machine has – I guess you’d call it a ‘quirk’ although it is more of an annoyance – and always takes exactly nine minutes longer to finish the soak cycle than the other one. I always have to remember to get that particular one going first and then sort my clothes for the other washer – otherwise it screws up the timing on Wash/Dry in unison.

I’m writing from the picnic bench on the downstairs patio. It’s a sad, broken-down picnic bench that saw better years during Bush I; actually, this is a sad little patio. It is more or less a morgue for dead grills. There is probably charcoal in there from the Cambrian.

The less attractive lawn furniture – the ones that can’t get dates – is consigned here from the upper deck patio as well. Being mostly plastic, it just blows around during storms. There isn’t really any shade, unless you count the ugly hedge dividing my building’s back yard from the old-people subdivision next door.

Miraculously, I’m able to get a fairly decent 41% signal on my wireless network down here – even though I’m three apartments over.

The noises of the night are held in abeyance – or else drowned out by the clunk clunk clunk of the dryer. I just heard someone’s air conditioner kick on briefly – but that’s pretty much it. No frogs tonight – thank you Shiva!

The morning dew is starting to fall – I can feel my T-shirt getting heavy with condensation; the wood of the picnic table here is also a little cold and slightly damp.

The smell of the air is damp and kind of earthy – and every now and again I get a whiff of the metallic tang coming out of the laundry room. There is absolutely no breeze. Everything is completely still – as if frozen in smoked black glass as I look out across the back lawn. I’m sure there are tons of bugs moving around – but as long as they stay off me – we’re cool.

I can see stars. Not a lot, but they are definitely out tonight. Thinking about the great big world out there only makes me feel small. I’ll switch gears now.

Only 30 minutes left to go on my laundry. My landlady claims that she doesn’t make any money off of the laundry room – but I fail to see how that’s a possibility when we pay $1.25 to wash and a quarter for every twelve minutes on the dryer. And the dryers are old and cranky – so if you have a decent-sized load – you need to shell out at least $1.

One of the things I love about my building is that it has been heavily landscaped in a sort of “wild Florida” style. A lot of the trees are mature and I love the fact that I can see palm fronds waving outside my window. The planting along the front walk is also overgrown and lush – it really does a lot to hide the fact that it’s really just a parking lot with some old funky apartments.

Ugh. I’m getting a chill. I’m also getting a little bit wet sitting out here – I can definitely feel the damp in my pants.

Time to go. Peace out, later bye!

Starbucks, 11:07 p.m. - Drawing boy is drawing

2007-11-10T23:50:00.000-05:00

Somebody – definitely NOT Lauryn Hill – is wailing out “everything is everything” over the speakers at the Starbucks. They have it cranked up too.

It is a nice contrast to the Christmas carols that have been playing at the Starbucks the past few days. I wonder if there were “complaints” to corporate or if this store just has a manager with a different bent? This is also allegedly a “no-merchandise” store, so maybe it gets “special” choices.

The barista who took my order and made my drink totally flirted with me. “What are you doing tonight?” There was more small talk than was strictly necessary. Maybe I’ll hang out.

There is action. There are four teenage boys hanging out practically in each other’s laps in a totally non-ironic way. If they were any closer, I would be staring Siamese twins with eight arms and legs. And these are boys. They are totally oblivious to the homoeroticism going on. They are comparing their cell phones with all the glee of teen-age girls comparing boys, purses and slam books.

The barista cleaning the trash outside just leaned in and yelled “One of your mommys is here to pick you up.” HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

Dearest Mumsicle is rocking it in a silver Land Rover. The children depart. I’m alone.

I lied. There is a guy in the back with a huge – at least 3x3 sketch pad drawing something – presumably life art – although who really knows. It could be naked LOLcats or the aforementioned teen boys dressed a Avril Lavigne. I’m not asking.

There is something that sounds suspiciously like Sade on the radio – although I’m not positive of that.

“I used to move to / Create change / Realized and rearranged.”

Hmm. Turns out it is this band called SOULSTICE and the song is called “Illusion.” What the hell are the baristas up to?

I like that song though. Someone needs to buy me that.

There are four baristas here at this hour. What are they all doing? Not much as far as I can tell. There’s no cleaning going on, although that one dude did bag up the trash outside.

Speaking of the outside area – the concrete in front of this Starbucks needs a mop in the way that Bush needs Cheney – DESPERATELY.

The barista that flirted with me has now gotten a carpet sweeper and is moving it around in my general vicinity. He’s thrusting his behind out and then standing with his hand on his radio as if to impress me with the fact that he is important enough to work the drive-thru. OK. Whatever.

I’m not saying I would throw it back – but really, I’m hoping that I could do better in the fashion sense department. He is wearing black shoes. Stand on your feet all day or not – those clodhoppers are as ugly as sin. Worse, MUCH worse, he made me a shitty cup of coffee. That is the one unforgivable sin.

Oh. They are brewing that Italian Roast coffee again. I don’t know what for – unless it is corporate policy to always have a fresh pot made up and they just ran out. It is only 40 minutes to close – but I’m not complaining – I love the smell of that Italian Roast.

Drawing guy is still drawing. Hmmm. I caught him looking at something, then sketching again. He’s not looking at ME – so obviously not something on this end of the Starbucks is out.

I can’t see whatever it is he’s looking at because there is a stupid Starbucks music display in the way. Damn. I thought this was a “no merchandise” Starbucks – and here goes some stupid CDs that NOBODY wants getting all up in my business.

I can’t be nosy without being obvious. That doesn’t bother me, but as there are only two patrons and four baristas, it will be many levels beyond completely obvious.

I just realized that this Starbucks is not decorated for Christmas yet – or if it is – it is a severely toned down version. There is only one wreath on the door and a hideous “Pass the Cheer” banner with advertising for the eggnog latte, gingerbread latte and peppermint mocha. I also see some of the Christmas blend coffee and they are for sure using the Christmas cups. All of this on November 10, I might add. Christmas creep is alive and well in the year 2007!

There is a sheriff’s deputy in the hizouse. He gave me a dirty look when he walked in. Yes, I am typing about you. You are overweight and your buzz cut does nothing for you. Happy now?

Oh. They gave him a receipt. I always thought cops got free coffee. I guess not.

Oh Kali no. The painting crew that is working on building the Sprint store next door just rolled in – it is suddenly all tore up in here with a whole crowd of greasy white men with stringy hair, dirty clothes and all wearing kneepads.

The cop is looking askance at these dudes, even though they greeted him too.

I’m leaving before there is a rumble.

Minute 22: I had to ask. Drawing boy is the assistant manager – and he is drawing penguins wearing Santa suits and holding cups of peppermint mocha. OK? OK.

Starbucks, 8:36 p.m. – Yuppie tourists are creepy!

2007-11-09T22:25:00.000-05:00

My Starbucks decorated for Christmas! November the 9th and the red and silver is out. Wreaths, trees, trim – the works. It’s not Christmas creep – it a Christmas Invasion.

Another thing they’re doing which slightly annoys me is the Christmas carols on the in-store channel on the Starbucks channel on XM Radio. I mean, I really do NOT feel like listening to every jazz chanteuse on the planet re-interpret “Jingle Bells” for the next two months. Please go back to the regular jazz, blues and funk until after Thanksgiving.

Other than me, the SBUX is dead tonight. Deader than the McCain candidacy, deader than the Kucinich candidacy, and surely deader than Obama-as-a-friend-of-the-gays candidacy.

Red goes well with Starbucks – at least this particular Starbucks – which has a lot of the older fixtures – including lighter-colored wood tables and shelves, cream paint and a pale floor tile that looks most closely resembles a well-made mocha.

The barista population outnumbers me three to one. Diamond Studs is here – surely cursing at having to work on a Friday night. I must say – the new red holiday shirts fit him well – although I do believe he purposefully choose shirts a size too small!

Another barista is moving along in a desultory fashion, dumping the trash inside and out, cleaning the condiment station, restocking. She’s always been polite to me, but she makes a terrible cup of coffee. I wonder if she’ll last at the SBUX?

The baristas are brewing new coffee and grinding the beans for tomorrow. I can hear the constant grind * grind * grind and the tamp * tamp * tamp as they fill containers and prepare for the next day’s shift.

BadCoffee is fluffing out trash bags. Whirr * tamp * crackle.

Oh Shiva. Entitled yuppies at two o’clock. They aren’t even interested in buying coffee. They’re here to browse the merchandise.

“Oh, look at the advent calendars? It’s glass! Will the cat break it?”

Now they are “browsing” the pastries. Seriously. It doesn’t take skill to pick a muffin.

I just caught a look at their footwear. He’s wearing a long-sleeve black pullover, black athletic pants and black flip-flops – SO HELP ME GOD. She has on zip-up athletic pants that are unzipped up to her knees, a black tee and a blue-jean jacket and some pert little running shoes. She also has a Celebrity Cruises fanny pack and a purse that looks more like a parachute. Tourists are the bane of my existence.

Really, I though Celebrity was the “exclusive” cruise line. Someone please correct me if I’m wrong.

Now they’re demanding wrapping paper and a bag to protect their precious Starbucks advent calendar. Really. Wrapping paper. To protect it in the twenty feet back out to your car. I swear to Kali I saw the barista roll her eyes.

The dude just walked right by me with his flip-flops. He seriously, seriously, seriously needs to cut his toenails. Ugh. I am so creeped out right now.

The baristas are re-filling the ice freezer. I love the sound of ice as it hits the freezer. Slish. Slish. Slish.

The smell of the coffee brewing is just intoxicating. It's that Italian Roast. Think all those cartoon images where the scent just tickles your nose and leads you on a chase through the entire house. That’s what it is like right now. Lovely and deep and fresh and delicious.

OH. WOW. Cute boy alert. We’ll be going into overtime for this one. Minute 22 starting right now.

And OT is ovah. He was only cute from the back. From the front, he’s damn near 40. Needs a shave and few hair plugs. Don’t you just hate those?

On that note, I’m out. Peace. Later. Bye.

Beach park, 5:38 p.m. – Tourist season is here and I'm cold

2007-11-07T18:47:00.000-05:00

November marks the official start of tourist season in my neck of the woods – and you can surely tell the difference in the number of people crowding the beach for sunset.

The cars are pouring into the parking lot and lumpy Yankees and Midwestern tourists are slamming car doors and running – literally RUNNING to the beach desperate to get a glimpse of the sun as the molten ball of lava descends into the ocean.

I just saw a fat and frumpy middle-aged Midwestern housefrau nearly trip over the sidewalk in her haste to get out of her minivan and get over the grassy verge and onto the sand.

The air has a distinct and pronounced chill tonight. The breeze is blowing something fierce – like the tongue lash of a harangued fishwife, it is whipping the hair and coats of all present.

The sun sank remarkably fast – within a matter of minutes. From the time I started writing until now. Sink. Sinking. Gone.

Show is over now. The crowds are leaving. It is like a tourist attraction. The herd comes into the museum room – stares at the pretty painting, then dutifully troops back out behind the matron. I expect to hear the screech of tires and see the mangled bumpers any time now. Yankees have an inability to drive outside their native habitat.

Four minutes after sunset and the beach is nearly deserted. There is only one slightly odd family still out there. They look to be taking vacation pictures for a family album.

The woman taking pictures is hardcore. She has a serious camera, ginormous lens, flash – the whole package. The family hardly paid attention to the sunset, they were so busy posing. First, they laid in the sand. Then, they laid on top of each other in the sand. Then, the photographer laid in the sand and the family jumped in unison.

With the sun down, the air is even more chill.

WOACA bad fashion alert. There’s a group coming up to meet someone at the pavilion here – one of them has on those new high-waisted jeans – which is fine, except they are white – and she has on a lime-green button-down shirt. Picture all this on a super-skinny fifty-year-old woman and you have what appears to be a blank page from a coloring book with the crown of a tree colored green. Don’t forget the bleached blonde pageboy on top. Hrrrrm. Hrrrrrm. I'm reaching for a comparison and I can't get there, it is just so odd.

The seagulls have complete ownership of the beach. There is a HUGE crowd of them out there on the sand. Jonathan Livingston would be so proud. They’re just sitting out there, chilling out. Not doing much of anything. Actually, I wonder what the hell they ARE doing. I usually despise the seagulls when I come to the beach because of all the noise and the inevitable byproducts of seagulls, namely seagull poo.

Damn. I’m cold. I never thought I would turn into one of “those people,” but it is seriously freaking chilly to me.

The parking lot that ten minutes ago looked like the the mall on a Saturday afternoon now looks like the mall at midnight on Sunday. As empty as the George W. Bush mind.

Damn. I’m cold. And there’s a woman running around with shorts and a sweatshirt. I never understood that particular fashion “statement.”

The seagulls are gone. Didn’t even hear them take off over this freaking wind. It is a blowing, that is for sure.

Some guy just swept by on the beach with a metal detector. That must be a good life – just metal detecting all day. I wonder how much stuff they find? Is it worth it to walk, walk, walk, out in the sun all day? But I bet you find some cool stuff.

The best thing I ever found on the beach was a bra. My friend and I came out to the beach early one morning to take pictures to send to our families and we found the remnants of someone’s VERY good time. Playtex crossed and uncrossed her heart that night.

Aw. Old people. Old man and old woman. He’s wearing khaki shorts and a bright yellow fleece jacket. She’s got on a black pencil skirt and a white long-sleeve top. She’s got a camera but missed the sunset by at least fifteen minutes. The only thing you’re gonna get now is clouds sister. Hang on to your man and tell him to drive faster next time.

Damn. I’m cold.

Even the crazy ducks that usually hang around the park are gone. I swear that my fingers have a chill. Of course, this venti iced white chocolate mocha that I had to stop off and have isn’t helping. The one time I should have stopped and gotten HOT coffee ….

The ocean looks so angry. The whitecaps are rolling in and crashing on the beach. The smell isn’t pleasant and sandy and serene and beautiful – just harsh and violent and stormy. The air sings a song of power and rain and violence and hints of barely contained fury. I am starting to enjoy this weather, although I am damn cold.

I love the feel of the wind and the air and the cold. It reminds me that I’m alive.

I love the taste of the salt air.

OK. My time is up. I can’t feel my fingers.

Sonic, 10:15 p.m. – Sonic mayhem at the Sonic

2007-11-06T22:54:00.000-05:00

OK. I’m going to try to break out of my love affair with coffee shops and bookstores and try some other place to spend 21 minutes.

Tonight my trusty MacBook and I at the Sonic. I’m not getting out of my car just yet – because I’m not entirely sure of the crowd in this neighborhood – and I can’t risk my work laptop. Sorry, no can do. I’ve killed it once already this year and I don’t think they’d replace it again.

Still, as an experiment, it is this is starting off on a good note, at least so far as it proves that I can write in my car and not be too slow in the process.

Just got my food – a Route 44 vanilla Coke and those new fried mac & cheese things. Yum. Fried mac & cheese is the bi-zomb.

The guy who delivered the food gave me the strangest look. One of those “what the hell are you doing typing in the car while at the Sonic?” looks. Well dude. I pay you to cook and deliver the food. If I want to do cosplay, role-play or track a Yeti with it – that’s my business!

Let me just take a moment to strike a blow against holiday creep. Two thousand and seven in the year of our Lord anno domini is going to go down as the year that America just said “Eff the Pilgrims. Screw Thanksgiving. We’re going straight from Halloween to Christmas.”

I’m sitting here at the Sonic and they are already promoting the Sonic Card as “the perfect gift for people who eat.” Complete with red and green decorations and stickers that go above the payment area AND a special sticker promoting the $25,000 contest for the Sonic card at Sonic’s Web site – also in Christmas trim and colors.

Consumerism. I reject thee. I cast off thy shackles and reject thy greed. Get thee behind me wrapping paper.

Anywhoo.

Other than some intermittent drive-thru traffic, there’s not much going on here.

The music on the in-store speaker system is something I don’t recognize. It is usually a mix of country, pop and top 40 – but tonight it sounds like cats being anally raped by an electric toothbrush. Lots of yowling. Must be emo metal. Or the White Stripes. Same difference.

I can see the Sonic manager through the window. He’s yelling at someone. Somehow, authority doesn’t really translate when you’ve got a baseball hat and a greasy ponytail and you’re standing inside a fast food joint. I mean, he’s always been the very model of a modern major fast food worker whenever he’s delivered my food, but screaming orders just isn’t going to get anything done.

You know what I don’t like about this Sonic? It is RIGHT by the highway. I understand they’re all about customer traffic and all, but still. The constant drone, drone, drone of cars as you’re trying to eat is annoying. I can even hear the gunning of motors as I have my window up. More better landscaping please.

Now Jackie DeShannon is wailing “Put A Little Love In Your Heart.”

And now a word from our sponsors: You too can own Sonic’s extra-long coney & tots for just $2.99. Here’s a tip. Don’t get it. It’s a lousy hot dog. If you want a good dog – go to Checkers. Much better food.

There is a beat-up black Pontiac Sunbird convertible in the parking space next to me. The cloth top is ripped, the paint is stripped like a hooker in the last hour of a eight-hour shift and if anything inside works, I’d be shocked. It is always parked there. I bet the speaker in that particular stall is broken and they just don’t fix it.

What does that say about this particular Sonic’s business? Do they just not care or do they simply not need the stall? Maybe the door locks don’t work and Mr. Greasy Ponytail wants to park his pride and joy where he can keep a close eye on it.

Anywhoo.

I just realized that from this particular stall I can see the clock that tells workers how long they are taking on a particular order. This silver Mustang at the drive-thru is already clocking in at over 2:20.

Aren’t drive-thru orders supposed to come in under two minutes. I remember reading something on Digg or Slashdot that two minutes was an industry standard. Maybe that was Starbucks. At 2:30, the screen went red – I guess 2:30 is Sonic’s GET ‘ER DUN mark.

Then again, it is 10:30 p.m. at night. How much food could they reasonably have made up ahead of time? I think everything after 10 p.m. is made to order. At least, I hope it is. The silver Mustang’s final wait time clocks in at 5:34.

Speaking of time, my own time is up. Thank you and good night!

Starbucks, 9:32 p.m. – The ‘Anti-Kitty-Committee’ is out in force tonight

2007-11-05T23:08:00.000-05:00

I’m trying out a new Starbucks tonight. I like the chairs. I mean, I REALLY like the chairs.

This is one of those Starbucks decorated in the retro-mod style, with the earth tones and the cocoa-colored stools and the raspberry faux-leather high-backed stools that spin around and the big chocolate leather easy chairs. YUMMALICIOUS!

It is also apparently a “no-merchandise” Starbucks, as I learned on my last visit – so there is only one stand of coffee, a tiny basket of the coffee of the week and a wall of ground coffee. No mugs, no huge racks of CDs, no screaming promos for the iTunes single of the week. No. Not even the free iTunes single giveaways. I’m almost crushed.

This Starbucks also stays open until 11 p.m. on weeknights, later than any other one in the city – and midnight on weekends – a fortuitous circumstance I am sure is owed to the near proximity to the nearby movie theater. If only it were not so crowded with screaming teen brats wearing next to nothing.

Do they really let kids out of the house wearing so little nowadays? I just saw more of a teen girl’s ass than I ever wanted to. She was wearing short-shorts that would have made Catherine Bach run for a cover-up and a shirt that read “Anti-Kitty-Committee.” Pair this with knee-high black socks and plaid Vans and you have quite the ironic hipster bad-fashion statement.

The bratty children have gone now. They’ve swept up their tall chocolate chip frappucinnos and flapped out the door – taking their proto-homosexual floppy-haired blonde emo boy toy with them. Fashion-forward that one was – kept pushing up the sleeves on his brown American Eagle sweater and trying to toss the locks out of his face.

The baristas are not even making an effort to look busy. There are five of them and they are lolling about by the drive-thru window just chatting it up. Yakkety-yakkety-yakkety.

I can’t hear them over this crappy mid-tempo something, although every now and again the occasional snappy phrase floats through. “What did I do Danny?” Um, not your job, obviously.

We have a customer now. Our winner is a bored-looking twenty-something in blue jeans and a white windbreaker from some tourist trap. She’s got a fake Coach purse slung on her shoulder and a nasty scowl planted across her lips.

I wonder what crawled up in her and died. Maybe it is her pancake makeup causing facial freeze. Yeesh. You’d think as much as she spends at a makeup counter someone would show her how to apply it correctly.

Oh. It gets better. The boyfriend is here. He’s in plain faded blue jeans and a gray tee. They both have worn-out tennis shoes on. They both look so “average.”

Just got a good look at the jacket. I pegged the tourist trap correctly. Like I said – Cancun. Ok. If you really are a ‘world traveler,’ you don’t have to advertise that you went to the Mexican version of Branson. Capische?

Grande white mocha and grande no whip latte. Predictable and boring. I bet they do it in the missionary position. Actually, I take that back. She looks like a total hooker. I bet she puts on a pair of cowboy boots and some spurs, mounts up in reverse cowgirl and goes to town.

Anywhoo. They’re gone.

It just hit me that this is the largest Starbucks I’ve ever been in. I don’t know if that is because it is minus all the crap that is normally in a Starbucks or if it is just physically larger. Either way, it is a nice change. It feels … spacious … and light and airy and open.

OK. This place is really dead. One of the baristas has taken off his apron. He’s just slumped in one of the easy chairs in the back, staring off into space. He’s already smoke two ciggies in the last ten minutes. I wonder if Seattle corporate knows about this?

Finally some good tunes going on the radio. A tinkling jazz piano riff. This, I can rock out with. There’s also a fresh pot of coffee brewing. I guess they have to do a pot on the hour, every hour. Whatever today’s blend is, it sure smells good. That’s the timer.

I just asked. Tonight’s blend is Italian roast.

My time is up. Thank you.

Crispers, 6:59 p.m. - Noise pollution is for the stupid

2007-11-04T19:23:00.000-05:00

I’m sitting in the deserted outdoor smoking section of a Crispers restaurant. Just me and Quaterflash wailing out “Harden My Heart.”

“Gonna harden my heart, gonna follow my tears ….”

Sigh. Now I’m depressed listening to these lyrics.

I can’t even hear the sound of the music now – the noise of traffic in this “retail space” is getting to me. We’re about 50 feet back off the road, but there is a movie theater and a ginormous Chinese buffet in here – and the traffic seems to think the parking lot is a NASCAR raceway on Sundays.

The Crispers is deserted, other than some random old people who I think mistook the place for a Checkers or a Charley’s or something.

This patio is kind of nice. There are ten wrought-iron café tables with matching chairs and quaint red tablecloths. There are even ashtrays – because the smoking Nazis have had their say in Florida too.

Damn, people. YOU DO NOT NEED TO GUN YOUR TRUCK IN THE PARKING LOT!

What is nice about Crispers is that they offer free WiFi. I guess they hope you’ll stay and have another bowl of their crappy potato bacon soup. Don’t. Come for the baked potatoes and stay for the Hawaiian flatbread – but leave the soup alone. It is runny as a three-year old with the green apple splatters and probably as tasteless.

I can see a worker inside wiping down tables and mopping. I feel your pain honey, working retail on a Sunday night when you’d really rather just be in bed.

You know what I don’t like about this place though – the chairs on the patio. I don’t know if it is just my behind or if the chairs are just meant to be uncomfortable – but they are deucedly damned hard to sit in. I keep shifting and shifting and pretty soon I’m going to shift a hole in my pants.

They really could use a bug-zapper or some citronella candles out here. I don’t know about where ya’ll or from, but this is the Florida – and we got bugs the size of alligators down here.

I wonder if I should steal the salt and pepper? They come in those neat “grind-your-own” containers. They’d never know it was me either. Plop, chunk, into the laptop bag. Mine all mine.

The traffic noise is heating up. A movie must have let out or something. Oh. I wonder if there’s an ice cream parlor around here or something. I totally have a sweet tooth.

There’s a truck with a U-Haul attached to it parked out in the parking lot. It is too dark for me to make out the state on the U-Haul. I wonder where they’re from? I took three days to drive to Florida when I came here from my internship ten years ago. I must have eaten at fifteen Waffle House’s along the way – and to this day, I hate that food.

Some dude just came out to start tying up the patio furniture for the night. How sad is it that this business has to do an enormous amount of work every morning and every night because the vast part of humanity is lying, stealing, thieving garbage? I mean, really people – what the hell are you going to do with ten patio sets in cheap iron? Really?

All night I’ve been staring at this huge sign “THIS HOLIDAY DON’T FORGET TO TRY OUR PUMPKIN SHAKE” No thanks. I’ll be passing on that. The only pumpkin thing I like is the color. The sign would also be much more effective if the “illustration” of a pumpkin in any way resembled a pumpkin and not a Peppermint Patty haircut.

Car just peeled out. Hmm. Where are the sirens when you need them?

Back to pumpkins. Who really thought that the taste of pumpkins and ice cream would go together? It is sort of like pumpkin coffee. I mean, I know that art and design and food and fashion are all mixed up now, but just because orange became the go-to color for your walls don’t mean it is the go-to thing for the palate.

Make a pie with your defaced and debauched Halloween carving experiment and shut up about the rest.

Hi. White car. That was a stop sign. Much love.

Wow. They are serious about security. All the chairs get roped together around the table, and then I’m assuming that all the tables get roped together as well.

Prince’s “Dearly Beloved” is going to play us out. Mr. Patio Security Wrapup is giving me daggers even though it is only 7:20 p.m. and the restaurant doesn’t close until 8 p.m.

Mr. Motorcycle. You’re a noise-polluting fool. Much love.

Park, 6:10 p.m. – Four little howler monkeys, swinging in the park

2007-11-01T23:27:00.000-04:00

There’s something about howler monkeys that both attracts and repels me. I’m sitting here watching a quartet of them playing on the swings in one of the county’s big regional parks. They’re lying belly down in the swings and twisting round and round. They’re all trying to see how high they can twist the chains – how many revolutions can they get before they can’t touch the ground any more.

Then, when their feet can’t touch the ground, they let go and start screaming at the top of their lungs as the chains unwind and they start unwrapping like some odd demented octopus being unwrapped on a merry-go-round.

NEWSFLASH! They have now taken to helping each other wrap the chains higher – to get maximum lift and the maximum propeller revolutions.

One little boy in an orange shirt and camouflage pants is just lying limp in his swing right now. He has a decidedly greenish cast to his features. He’s a little chunky and his sandals are dragging the ground. I think he needs some time to recover from his latest trip round-and-round. I hope that afternoon snack he probably ate doesn’t decide to take a trip of its own.

Now they’re off to the monkey bars and what I can only describe as a child-sized version of a hamster tube.

The park is nice today. The breeze is blowing and the effects of Tropical Storm Noel are still keeping it quite cool in these parts. The sun is shining, but at 6 p.m., the heat is gone from the day.

One of the drawbacks of this park is that it is more urban than most. I can still hear the drone of traffic going by; even though there’s been a lot of care taken with the landscaping and trees and shrubbery, it still feels like a big median with a playground and some barbecue pits.

There is a surburban soccer mom approaching with her tots now. Shes got two kids decked out in the latest styles from the mall – striped polo shirts, tiny little GAP khaki shorts and those obnoxious Crocs. Both kids have sodas from McDonalds. And she’s carting them around in a big black – very new - Chevy Suburban. She doesn’t have to worry about money or keeping her man – she rolled up in here with her hair looking like a hot mess and wearing a pair of sweatpants I would not wash the dog in. I wish I had that life.

The sun is down – or at least behind some clouds. In the last five minutes, the shadows went from long to longer to gone. The air temperature feels just a little cooler too; the breeze has just a little more bite.

The breeze brings with it the scent of new-mown grass, along with the hint of motor oil and the tiniest anticipation of rain.

The wind is ruffling the trees now. Nature’s xylophone – such a soft and soothing counterpoint to the screams, yells, giggles and shrieks of joy coming from the playground.

There are a dozen or so kids out there now – and a good handful of parents watching or actively participating. One young father has plopped his daughter into the infant swing and is giving her pushes for all he’s worth. She’s holding onto the ropes and yelling her little head off. Her coal-black pigtails are flying in the wind; she’s loving every minute of this. Her shoes just fell off. Her dad bent down to pick them up and now she’s trying to twist and turn to kick him. Bless!

There’s a tiny little boy in a horrible outfit – red and yellow striped shorts, yellow shirt with black and red striped sleeves – he is digging in the bark for all he is worth. I wonder what he’s hoping to find? Fashion sense for his mother if he is lucky!

One bored looking dad is following his toddler around as the boy bumbles from one piece of playground equipment to the next – never really big enough to entertain himself on his own – and lacking any friends to play with him. Now they’re at the swings and Daddy-Is-Bored is giving him a few desultory pushes in the whole “I-am-a-father-and-I-have-to-do-this” way.

The little boy in the orange shirt and camo pants from earlier has obviously recovered, because now he is riding a purple worm and screaming at the top of his lungs. His little friend is screaming too. Not just hollering – but bring-down-the-house, lock up your women and children, hide the liquor from the alcoholics screaming.

Whoever this child is and whatever is going on, he has one active imagination backed by some serious lung power. Then again, maybe he just has schizophrenia.

Suburban mommy is back with her two chic brats. They’re standing around too afraid to play with the Hispanic children and she won’t push them on the swings.

My time is up. Thank you, and happy swinging.