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

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.

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

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

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.

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

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.

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

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.

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

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.

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

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.

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

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.

Public library, 2:55 p.m. – How do you copy a pattern without really trying?

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

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.

The airport, 4:09 p.m. – Bad fashion abounds!

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.

Park, 6:10 p.m. – Four little howler monkeys, swinging in the park

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.

Einstein Bros. Bagels, 3:39 p.m. - The green tunic of death will now control your life

"Under the Boardwalk" is playing on the overhead speakers. Too bad literally nothing is happening in the store.

There's me and one bored-looking Hispanic guy flipping a rag around in his hands. I'm pretty sure he's supposed to be wiping down things, but he's mostly just wandering back and forth behind the counter trying not to look too bored.

Whoops, here's another one. It's "too-pretty-for-food-service" moo who's just come out of the bathroom. Where's she been for the past 10 minutes? At least there weren't any customers. She's got a drinks mug that she's refilling full of SpontaneiTea Iced Tea. No soda for this size zero princess. She's waving papers around. Maybe it was the bathroom cleanliness check sheet. Hope she washed her hands.

Ohh. "Age of Aquarius/Let the Sunshine In" is playing now. I LURVE THAT SONG! I saw a horrific drag version of it once though. Nearly scarred me for life.

There is a scarily obnoxious man that just walked in. I can't figure out what is worse. His attitude or his shirt. Let's take them in turn, because I have all the time in the world to describe, describe, describe.

He cracked through the door yelling into a Sprint-Nextel walkie-talkie phone like he was barking orders to a commanding army, then disappeared into the bathroom. Presumably he finished barking orders into the phone before doing his business.

The shirt is some horrible palmetto print that places like Tommy Bahama and Ralph Lauren think the over-50 set want to wear on the golf course. It is green with a yellow palmetto pattern. What it really looks like that someone stepped into a puddle of cat puke with a flip-flop.

This old dude is taking FOREVER to make up his mind. The way he burst through the door you might have thought he owned the place. I guess he's never been here before. Is that how he enters every fast food joint? If it is ....

Now we're joined by a WOACA and her henpecked yuppie husband carrying a heavy-looking laptop. They're looking for a laptop plug. "Didn't you say there was one over there? No. What about over here? Well what about here?"

She's the nervous "I HAVE TO BE IN CHARGE OR IT WILL NOT GO RIGHT" type that is the bane of every PTA in existence. Too bad she never learned to dress. Green sleeveless tunic and blousy blue jean skorts. Her shoes are some awful brown not-quite-a-sandal thing with a series of straps that is .... just not quite right. The husband is OK in a blue and white pinstripe not-quite-matching olive pants. Curiously colorblind maybe. OK. Closer look. They're gray. He's safe.

WOW WOW WOW. This man just walked in in black running shorts and a black top. The running shorts a maybe, just maybe, a biiiiiit too short for polite company. When he walked past, I thought it was his shirt. No one needs to see that much leg on a 45-year-old man unless they're a bear chaser. And take it from me - this bear needs trapping.

Another strange couple in here now. Primary colors. She's in a bright sun-yellow knit shirt and white pants and he's in a gray shirt and, so-help-me-god, turquoise shorts. Gray and turquoise. On a man. Hmmm.

Well. Green tunic I MUST CONTROL is like a hummingbird in flight. She has her food but hasn't sat down once. Gotta get a fork. Gotta get a knife. Gotta get cream and sugar. Gotta get napkins. Gotta go wash her hands again. Doesn't like this chair. Needs a lid for her coffee. Needs cream and sugar. Whoops, forgot the milk. Fork and knife for the her. Fork and knife for the husband.

She is for sure running the conversation. "We need to do this. Is the laptop charging? Is it plugged in? What is it doing?" I bet there's a hole worn in her side of the floorboard of the car - if she lets him drive.

He's a passive aggressive. They're arguing over the coffee. She got up to get lids for the coffee and set them down side by side. "That's yours, he said." "I KNOW THAT," she snaps. "That's why I punched out the holes."

I wonder if he ever fantasizes about taking that laptop cord, wrapping it around that neck and ....

OH MY GOD. She just pulled a sewing box out of her mega-purse and whipped out a pen and notebook. She's one of those "super-organized" types. She's even got Wet Wipes.

My time is up. Thank you. Although I think I'm going to stay just to see what happens.

Right after I started to close my laptop she knocked over a cup of coffee right under his laptop. Comic goodness right there.

The mall, 4:49 p.m. - Bad fashion abounds when out in public

Who said the American economy was slowing down? Consumers are out in droves on this bright Sunday afternoon despite all predictions to the contrary. They are not at church, at second or third jobs or staying in. They are shopping.

And obviously not shopping for new clothes. Right now, I'm looking at a woman in line at the Dairy Queen/Orange Julius. Somewhat appropriately, she is wearing an orange T-shirt, an orange and gold print skirt and gold two-inch heels. There was plenty of junk up in her trunk too. You go sister, you go. You go right on down the mall with that double-fudge dipped chocolate waffle cone.

J.C. Penney must be having a sale. I've seen eight bags go by in the last three minutes. Not small bags either. LARGE bags.

The two girls running this Dairy Queen stall are comically unequipped to handle even the running of an outhouse. One looks to be about 12 - and she's got earbuds jammed in her ears even while waiting on her customers. The other one looks like a reject from the Helena Bonham Carter school of "dazed Englishwoman" acting and is probably "HIGH ON JESUS." She looks the type. Her hair seriously needs a wash though.

They both run back and forth from the Orange Julius to the Dairy Queen registers with no apparent purpose. Now it is taking two of them to ring up a banana split. This is why I don't eat at the mall more.

The noise level is so high that it is virtually impossible to pin down any one individual sound. I think there's a conversation going on right behind me, but all I get is various shrieks and giggles from what sounds like a gaggle of teenage girls. Nope. Just checked. Only two.

OH MY GOD. There is a woman wearing a black t-shirt dress, a belt that is styled like a piano and ORANGE NIKE HIGH-TOPS. Is there a Leopard Time Machine for the eyes?

The cute boy factor for the mall seems suspiciously low for a Sunday. Perhaps they are all at the beach.

Speak and you shalt have. One just walked by in blue jeans and a pink polo shirt - with a knit sweater-vest thrown over his shoulder. Secure and metrosexual or budding prom queen? Who knows in this day and age.

What there is a lot of is old people. One old couple just tottered by on chicken legs. The old man is so frail he looks like he would topple over if you looked at him wrong.

Build-A-Bear. Does not compute. Isn't it just a teddy bear? Yet I must have seen about nine go by in the last few minutes - including one zit-faced couple with matching Build-A-Bear boxes. How cute. When you break up in a few weeks after arguing over who gets the pimple cream - you each get a bear.

People. Please put a lojack, a locator beacon and a safety harness on your howler monkey. To wit. This woman is getting a sub down at Charley's Steakery. She looks up and the kid, wearing a pair of khaki shorts and this adorable little pastel plaid shirt, has wandered down three stalls to stare at the waffle cones in the Dairy Queen window. She's freaking and he's just drooling all over the place. Cue frantic *slap* *slap* *slap* of her flats across the mall's tile floor.

Fifty-seven minutes until the mall closes and the traffic is starting to slow down a little.

Thank you, Mr. Goth Preppie I-am-a-scenester. I will have the image of your plaid board shorts and green underwear across your rump burned into my brain. Dude. Green Scooby-Doo underwear? Seriously. I'll give you points for retro-style, but you're not old enough to have experienced the first go-round of Scooby-Do and you are SERIOUSLY not cute enough for me to care about.

The stupid girls have a huge line at the Dairy Queen now. There is an elderly Hispanic woman with four tiny little girls dressed in their preppy best - all pastel sweater vests and turned-up cuffs - ordering cones. It is so cute but if I were in that line I would be going crazy.

The woman standing behind her, a WOACA in plaid shorts and a white tee (both a size too small) is fiddling with the cash in her wallet, as if to say "I have money, they don't, you should serve ME NOW."

WOACA is twiddling the hair of her obscene poodle perm and whispering under her breath to her friend, who is wearing, I can't describe it exactly, but it looks like she's taken a pair of blue jeans and rolled them up past her knees. Hmmmm. That's an interesting fashion statement there. Might want to rethink that honey. The yellow tank top is OK, but again with an atrocious home perm.

Ladies. Salons are not your enemy.

The line at the DQ is six people deep now. It was eight but the last two just walked off in frustration.

My time is up. Thank you. Damn. I think I want some ice cream.

Beach park, 5:47 p.m. - Human fauna, turkeys and geriatric picnics

The ocean is always so calming. I wonder why I don't come here more often. The city has this great beach park with a shaded pavilion, tables and even a concession stand that's open for part of the day.

The fauna here is interesting. There's a Muscovy duck stuffed fatter than any Thanksgiving turkey waddling around looking for yet more nutrition to cram down its gullet. There's a black and white cat stalking the duck.

Then there's the human fauna. That's a whole 'nother story!

An old man the color of an orange wearing a pair of raggedy blue bathing trunks is reading a newspaper and watching two old women with a small Igloo cooler. The two old ladies are a treat. They are retirees most likely, probably inhabitants of either trailers or low-end condo units. They look to be habitués, what with the coming here with the cooler. It smacks of knowing to be well-prepared.

They've got a spread from KFC. That chicken actually smells kind of good. I get a whiff of chicken every now and again as the wind brings it my way. Man, I'd like some chicken and a KFC biscuit right about now.

The salt air and the brine are the main things on the air. We're pretty far back from the beach. There is a boardwalk down to the sand and signs warning NO LIFEGUARD ON DUTY. There's a flat wide beach with sand the color of sugar. The sound of the waves and surf is so calming. It's like a distant, soothing wash, like water running in the background of a hot bath. I can feel the tension draining even as I type.

The sky is perfectly blue with puffy clouds the shape of cotton balls. The sun is so bright it hurts to look toward the ocean.

There is a random creepy old man that I can see out there on the beach. He's walked back and forth at least four times. now. He doesn't have a metal detector. He's scoping out that woman in the yellow bikini with her breasts thrust into the air

Oh. Here come some more people. A guy and a girl - tourists most likely - they're going off toward the beach showers on the other side of the pavilion. Oddly, they have on matching swimsuits. The guy has an armband tattoo and another huge tat on his left pectoral. The girl is bouncy without being all Anna-Nicole boobalicious.

There are three extremely old people here now. They've unpacked a huge spread - all in matching Halloween ware. There's a Halloween pumpkin-shaped dish, glasses, tableware. Damn. I just noticed they have a green tablecloth. Didn't notice that before because the wrought-iron tables here are green too. Now more old people are coming up. Some of them can barely walk. Don't these people need to be in a home?

It's like an old people convention up in here. All the old men are being gallant and giving the old ladies their hats. We're sitting underneath a pavilion at 6 p.m. in the afternoon and old men are still worried about t their old women. It is so cute.

There is apparently iced tea. One of the old girls is VERY proud of her iced tea. I bet that old girl was a school teacher. She might be seventy, but her voice can still cut through the background noise. Now all the old girls are complimenting the hostess on the "decorations." Shit. I want to see some black cats, ghosts and a jack-o-lantern with a live fire inside.

Somebody brought a thermos. I wonder what's in there? Their canes keep falling. I hope I'm this happy when I'm old. They look remarkably self-content.

One old woman is alone. I wonder where her husband is? She's dressed in blue slacks, a nice pullover and has cornflower-blue clip-on earrings. Her hair is fixed and she's clearly making the most effort of anyone at the table. I can tell from the conversation that she's the one who brought the decorations. And she arranged the geriatric playdate. Hmm. They're having Subway. The other old ladies had KFC.

Everything is quiet now. Man. They are packing it away. I'm trying not to be nosy and stare, but all seven of the old-people-party are miles away.

The KFC girls left their Igloo cooler on the table next to me. I really want to look in there and see what's in it.

The sun is setting far enough so that it is below the level of the pavilion, even though I'm on the back row of tables. I forgot how bright the late afternoon sun is in Florida.

Oho. That duck from earlier has shaken the Kitteh and is now bugging the mess out of the old people for food. He's moving around the table hoping for something to drop from clumsy arthritic fingers and into his voracious gullet. Tough luck ducky. These old birds are tougher than you are.

Another duck decides to join the party. They're mostly silent. Very ugly too. Wow. One just took an enormous dump right behind one of the old ladies with a cane. I hope she's careful getting up. I just have visions of that commercial from the eighties. "Help, I've slipped in duck crap and I can't get up!"

Every time I come to the beach I fall in love with it again. The peaceful sounds, the soft crash of the waves, the salty tang of the air. I breathe easier.

OK. My time is up. Thank you and goodbye.