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

Old people who shop at CVS deserve to die

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

--filed from the CVS by Charanda deKristeaux

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

Barnes & Noble, 8:45 p.m. – I suffered for this post!

I have never had to work under such primitive conditions.

The battery on my MacBook Pro is dead. Very, very dead – so I have to keep the power cord plugged in at all times. I am at the Barnes & Noble – and there is exactly ONE power point in the café area. ONE.

Let me repeat that. ONE. It is not even near a table. It is near a plush chair – which is currently occupied by a skinny old dried up prune of a woman who looks like she sand-blasts the hulls of oil-tankers with her tongue in her spare time.

There are NO other power points anywhere else in the café area. NONE. I’m currently wedged beside a structural support staring at a display of MAD compilations and “The Indispensable Calvin & Hobbes.”

There are women and children and assorted howlers monkeys crawling all over me like I’m a dropped ice cream cone at a fair and they’re an army of ants. There is a shelf poking me in the back and I’m desperately wishing I didn’t have that extra soda for dinner. So help me Kali I’ll never spend another penny at Barnes & Noble again as long as I live.

Mon dieu. Why do parents shop with their children? This fat woman is arguing with her kid, who is bored and wants to leave. “HONEY I’M TRYING TO LOOK AT BOOKS.”

She’s yanking his arms and trying to make him understand that whining in public is unacceptable. Well, maybe if you paid more attention to him – and taught him to read – he’d find more to interest him in a bookstore.

This shelf keeps digging into my back and I can’t get comfortable on this floor. I have to keep remembering to hit APPLE-S to save so my entire volume of beautiful prose won’t go down the tubes – and protect my work from the hordes of people who go stomping by.

I just noticed that the display in front of me includes “Uncle John’s 4-Ply Bathroom Reader.” Neatorama.com is always quoting articles from Uncle John’s. I find it breezy fun – but I’m not sure I’d spend $9.98 on a book. Actually, I don’t even know the last time I bought a book. I usually just reserve a copy of whatever I want at the library and read the best-sellers that way.

There is a woman in a pink T-shirt and a pink velour jacket browsing the books over to my right. She has a Christmas list in her hand. She has on the ugliest pair of horn-rimmed glasses I’ve ever see on a human being. Totally wrong for her face.

Help me Kali. This shelf is totally killing my back. My left leg is totally numb. If you are reading this, please know that I suffered to bring these words to you.

There’s an old man in a red gingham shirt browsing the $12.98 table. He’s looking at a slim “The Beatles” tome.

My god. There’s a twelve year old girl with a giant glitter bow on her behind. She is wearing heelies and trying to skate on the carpet. She nearly wiped out and caught the edge of a table. Too bad the forces of Darwinism were denied a victim.

WOACA alert. Skinny woman in black jeans and black long-sleeved tee browsing the bargain paperbacks. She’s a short one, Mr. Grinch – trying to look taller by wearing three-inch heels. That’s fine – but she really needs to cover up the gray in her hair.

The girl that wiped out on the heelies is being marched out by her mother now. I wonder if they were asked to leave or if they’re just leaving? Hopefully it is the former.

Creepy man alert. There’s a dude in blue jeans and a white shirt staring at me. YES IT IS A LAPTOP AND I AM TYPING ON IT. He’s looking at pop-up books.

Cute boy alert. He’s checking out gift boxes. How to play the guitar. Is the flirting? No. He’s talking to a girlfriend. But he did say “excuse me” as he walked in front of me – which is more than the 27 other people who walked by did.

When did it become acceptable to go out in public with your lower buttocks exposed? Someone please tell me. Please. I’m looking at a girl – who has to be in high school – who is wearing a pair of short-shorts that would make Catherine Bach blush with shame. There is NOTHING left to the imagination here. She’s parading around with a Hollister bag and a frappuccino like nobody’s business.

Loud people coming up on my left. Please leave. And take the old man with you. He has wrinkles.

There’s a rampaging pack of teenage girls in here. One keeps reaching down to “adjust” something in her female area. I hope to the heavens she just has a tight thong. Although it would be poetic justice if she’s got a case of the LiLo firecrotch.

Anyway. There’s a freaky woman in a red spaghetti-strap tee and those horrible red Crocs who’s shuffling across the floor toward me. She has a tattoo on her ankle. This I noticed as she went RIGHT by my and didn’t excuse herself.

Die in a fire heifer. Die in a fire.

I’m out. I can’t deal with this anymore.

Peace, love and understanding.

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.

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.

Starbucks, 4:33 p.m. --- Cold weather brings out the frappuccino addicts

I’m at a new Starbucks – one I don’t normally go to – because I’m in a new city. This one looks like it has been converted out of a McDonald’s or a KFC – because it is much, much larger than a typical Starbucks. Plus, it is completely standalone – not joined to any other retail space.

Right now, I think I’m sitting in what used to be the drinks station. I’m in a tiny nook off to the right of the Starbucks kitchen. There is a really nice table where I’ve plopped open my computer and these fantastic slipper chairs. This Starbucks also retained the old coffee bean and tropical flower wallpaper.

Moreover, they have not gone overboard with the Christmas décor. There are only a couple of wreaths and the usual red Christmas merchandise – which manages to coordinate nicely with the fire extinguisher.

I can hear all the action at the coffee bar, but I can’t actually see the baristas. The blender for the frappuccinos is whirring, but I don’t know who ordered it or why. I really don’t know WHY anyone would order a frozen drink in 45 degree weather …

There is a woman in a fur coat saying “That just makes my heart so heavy …” Well, sucking down those frappes is what makes your hips so heavy.

Oh. They’re talking about snow. My god. She’s getting MULTIPLE FRAPPUCCINOS.

Old dude comes in limping. He’s wearing a black pullover with a Ford logo. His hair is as white as snow.

Howler monkey alert. It is a young mother with a tiny, tiny child. She is literally dragging it across the threshold of the door. The child clearly does not want to partake of the delicious coffee beverages in the Starbucks. This baby is smacking on a pacifier for all it is worth.

Now the child has pulled loose of its maternal unit’s grasp. DO NOT WANT. She’s feeling its bottom. Now we’re going to the bathroom. Stinky baby.

WOACA alert. There’s a middle-aged woman giving me a dirty look because I’m sitting at the handicapped table typing. She’s carrying a coffee and a slice of cake, not to mention a few extra pounds. She looks into the nook I’m sitting in, sniffs, as if in disapproval of my occupying HER table, then wanders out into the rest of the Starbucks.

Now she’s not even eating the cake; she’s checking her voice mail and blathering into her phone. She’s one of those precious types who thinks a blonde pageboy is the latest in de rigeur hairstyle conventions.

I’m at least twenty feet away and I can hear her conversation. “HEY BARBARA THIS IS SYLVIA. I WAS AT THE HOSPITAL BUT I JUST GOT OUT. OH ABSOLUTELY. GIVE ME JUST A FEW MINUTES. I HAVE TIME. I SHOULD PROBABLY BE AT MY OFFICE. OH ALLRIGHT THANK YOU.”

She’s wearing a leather jacket and blue jeans. All of this is spoiled by the fact that now she’s shoveling cake into her mouth like a demented pot fiend. And she’s still not put the phone down.

It is about 50 degrees out – and a man just walked past wearing shorts and sipping on a frappuccino. Hmmmm. Clearly Yankees have thicker blood than I’m used too. He’s a skinny thing too.

Blonde Pageboy is slamming the buttons on her phone again. She’s done with the cake. That was fast. And she’s giving me another dirty look. Devour the power of the MacBook and laugh. I bet she’s a Realtor or something.

OH MY GOD. They’re making another frappuccino. I seriously do not understand it. The people coming through the drive-through must have a serious, serious sugar addiction.

KALI FORGIVE ME JESUS THEY ARE MAKING ANOTHER ONE. I really do not get it. I love me some frappuccino – but this is just too much.


The entire time I have been here, the drive-through at this Starbucks has been bumping like the tenth hour of an all-night rave. It is crazy-busy.

The woman with the howler monkey is out of the bathroom. And the howler monkey is letting loose. Shrieks of joy I guess. And dearest Mumsy is getting – you guessed it – a frappuccino.

Seriously. What is it with the population here?

My time is up. Thank you.

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

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.

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.

Downtown at the park, 6:05 p.m. - Don't howl for me, howler monkey

"And the wind began to blow..." I love that line. I'm sitting in one of the city's main downtown parks. It's the oldest park in the city and jammed with "stuff," like a bandshell, picnic tables, tennis courts, a stage and a kiddie play place.

The grass is lush and green and practically begs for a picnic blanket and lazy summer afternoons spent lolling in the sunshine with families and Frisbees and frollicking dogs. Not now though.

At this time in the evening, the human population is virtually nil. The sun is mostly obscured by clouds and the light is starting to fade fast. There really isn't much going on.

The main attraction seems to be the kiddie castle. A couple families have their children out for an early evening playdate. One young and harried-looking father in a pair of sandals, some ugly black-and-red shorts and a gray wife-beater is trying to shepherd his three young howler monkeys into the play area. Two girls and one little boy refuse to be corraled. "Look, a stone dragon." "Look, a picnic table." "Look, a water fountain. I want a drink. I want a drink. I WANT A DRINK."

The light has a particular eerie quality; it is more or less gone, but still present. There is no sun, just the last half-hour of twilight.

The birds are starting now, their last calls of the evening. Verizon would do well to tape this for a commercial. A thousands tweets are suddenly coming alive. I can hear feathered fiends squawking in the trees all around me. Deep cheeps, tiny tinny cheeps and every sort of cheep, cheep in between.

The breeze is picking up. It is colder and smells faintly of the salt of the ocean, even though the water is a half-mile away. There is a taste of rain on the air, the oncoming storm. One of the city's busy arterial roads straight through to the business district is less than twenty feet away and cars are starting to come by with their lights. People are heading downtown to the old theater, the restaurants and shops and flitting by in their finery for an evening of parade and promenade.

Here come two more young mothers. Well, at least one mother and one mother to be. One is obviously heavily pregnant; she is walking with difficulty. The other, who has that "tired mommy of a toddler" look, tries in vain to call out to her child, a raven-haired tot wearing a ruffled pink tee and white shorts who has picked up a stick and is running far ahead, waving it like a magic wand. There are fewer than half a dozen people here and the mother is still rightly worried about her child.

The mother amble into the play area after the tot and amble back out. I don't know what they're looking for. Amusement?

Now the child is crying. Maybe she fell down. The howls are getting louder, although I don't see any obvious sign of hurt. I just see a brat throwing a tantrum.

I never understand why children will insist on screaming in public places. The mother is asking her "Are you done? Are you done now?"

The mommies are walking off; now they're getting in a ratty minivan. The litle girl is still staring at the stone sculpture dragon, wanting to play. They call to her "We're leaving. Sorry, Brianna stays at the park." That doesn't elicit a response. Now the tone turns angrier. "Come on."

No dice. So the mother goes over and picks up her child. Now Brianna really cuts loose with the lung power.

There's a guy juggling. He walked up to a picnic bench right across from me during the drama with the mommies and the screaming howler monkey.

Juggler Man has two cans of tennis balls and seems pretty intent on his craft. The wind is ruffling his hair and tossing the balls about and he doesn't miss a beat. Two balls in one hand. Over. Under. Over. Under. Over. Under. The eyes are the thing to watch while juggling. The concentration it must take is amazing. I could never juggle.

The wind is still blowing. The juggler continues. He's got all three tennis balls out now. Over. Under. Around. Over. Under. Around. He's crossing his arms and doing tricks with the balls. There's a lot of practice that has gone into this routine.

There's a kid and his dad walking up from the parking lot across the street. The kid is just staring at the guy juggling. I love the sheer wonderment of children - even if I hate the children themselves. The little boy can't be more than three. He has a piece of string he's toting around like it is his best buddy and a tennis ball of his own. I wonder if maybe one day he will grow up and think of that guy he saw juggling in the park.

Old people coming up now. Power walking with a serious need for speed. God forbid anyone get into their path. They would be cut down like a protester at a John Kerry speech.

She's wearing a pair of olive khakis and a blue and pink striped polo. He's got olive shorts and a ugly red and blue check short sleeve shirt. They've both got walking shoes on. Old people with a health fetish. I wonder if they eat olives? Olives are supposed to be good for your health.

The juggler is still at it. He's holding a tennis ball in one hand and moving it up and down while juggling the other two with one hand to give the illusion of juggling.

The sky is darker now. The wind is colder and the warmth of the day is almost gone. I love the evening. I wish this time didn't have to end. It feels so special, the day slipping into night.

My time is up. Thank you.