My Chinese buffet, let me tso you it

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

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

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.

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.

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

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.

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

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.

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.

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

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.

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

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

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.

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

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.

Bad Ass Coffee, 7:02 p.m. – It’s deader than the Giuliani campaign

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!”

Café, 6:26 p.m. – I’m not inspired enough to write a clever title

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.

Greek restaurant, 7:14 p.m. – Tourists, hummus and Serbian pop do not a pleasant evening make

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.

Crispers, 6:59 p.m. - Noise pollution is for the stupid

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.

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.

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.