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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Peace out. Pass the tater tots.

Starbucks #1, 6:29 a.m. – It is morning at Starbucks and nobody is happy

The very-early-morning crowd at Starbucks is completely different than the early morning crowd, the morning crowd, the mid-morning crowd or the late morning-not-quite lunch crowd. How, you ask?

Easy. Nobody is awake, nobody is communicative and everyone speaks in grunts and vocalizations that would serve as Oscar-winning dialogue in “Clan of the Cave Bear.” Daryl Hannah would be so proud.

Right now I’m looking at a man in white short and a gray shirt make the largest production out of getting cream and sugar into a cup that I’ve seen this side of a white-tablecloth coffee service. I don’t believe that starched-apron maids make this big a deal out of precise amounts of cream, sugar and sprinkles of cinnamon.

And then there are the early risers, the go-get-em’s, who are delineated by their brisk walk and the pep in their step. They want to talk to the baristas, who are more than likely as not as sacked out as their customers. After all, they don’t just open they store at 6 a.m. – they have to show up earlier to brew coffee, set out pastries, etc.

A lovely couple just waltzed in. Real estate types by the look of things. She’s got a casual but dressy black sweater ensemble tossed over her shoulders and is moving in pert and precise steps. Her companion – in khaki slacks and a white cotton shirt with creases so straight you could slice cheese with it – orders and sits down to read the paper. It’s up to her to pay and fetch the brews.

Some schlubby-looking Indian - (the subcontinent, not the tribe) - businessmen in the house now. They are dressing very fashion forward – even if everything is wrinkled. One has a purple pinstripe shirt and a dark purple tie; the other has a white button-down and a flashy lime-green thing around his neck. Maybe they watched this week’s “Project Runway?” Maybe they’re just clueless. You decide.

There’s a contingent from the large downtown hospital here. And a skinny woman with the most awkward-looking broken-arm sling known to man. If I ever broke my arm, I really do not know what I’d do. My life is lived at a computer. I’d have to get a direct neural hookup or something.

Sling lady is a fashion disaster. Ballet flats, fried perm, at least a dozen cheap gold bangle bracelets and an ugly sweater vest that is not the same color as her ballet flats.

The Indian dudes are lingering for some reason – although they don’t seem to be able to cotton on to the fact that there are tables available. They’re wandering around. They look like they have cell phone plus some other data devices hooked to their belts. The one in the lime green tie is making sure that everyone in the Starbucks knows that he left “MY IPHONE AT YOUR APARTMENT LAST NIGHT.” Seriously dude. Glad you got a hookup. Nobody cares. I’d throw you back. Even if you have an iPhone.

There’s a semi-cute boy wearing a pair of clamdiggers looking at the outrageously expensive $600 coffeemaker Starbucks is selling for Christmas. He would be cute if the would not be trying to grow the mustache. Clamdiggers – unless you are within 10 yards of sand – do not look right on men, especially when paired with black athletic sandals. These are the rules of fashion by which we must all abide.

There’s a traffic jam at the condiment bar. Three old men wearing, in order, a peach polo shirt, a white polo shirt and a navy polo shirt. They are polite, but I sense they are about to start measuring the unmentionalbles in order to get at the pitcher of half-and-half. The morning coffee is serious business with this crowd.

Some man just came in and asked for his 7-11 cup to be refilled with coffee. He’s wearing a NASCAR hat and shiny metallic shorts that do nothing for his enormous rear and I just saw him pour half a pitcher of milk into the cup. I guess I just witnessed a ghetto latte. Stay classy NASCAR man, stay classy.

Meh. I have to go to work in a few minutes. Peace, love and understanding.

Starbucks, 8:52 a.m. – Morning fashion is no better than evening fashion

Yes. I struggled up from my crypt in time to give you kids a morning edition today. Just don’t get used to it. If I had my way, I’d work from 3 p.m. to midnight every day.

Oh, yeah. I’m at the Starbucks. It is old man central up in here. Six, no, wait NINE – counting the ones outside – old men sipping lattes and reading the newspaper. I guess this is what retirement is like. Someone shoot me now. I hope my retirement involves a yacht and Brazilian boy named Paulo or Santiago or something.

Anyway. Aside from the Metamucil Literary Brigade, the action here is slim. I cannot bring myself to describe nine individual old men slugging down coffee and reading the paper.

We’re right at the 9 a.m. hour though, so things may start to heat up.

And they just did. Some self-entitled a-hole of a customer just walked in and GRUNTED at the barista. I know you’re a regular and all – but at least make the effort.

There’s a woman here with an iPhone. She’s the chunky “I work in an office” type that doesn’t really need an iPhone, but really wants to show up her friend Janice. Anyway.

She is in line, but still wearing her knockoff Ray-Ban fashion shades that she got at the Old Navy, some Rack Room shoes, faded blue jeans and the ugliest leopard print top this side of the Atlantic. Real leopards would die in shame if this print ever showed up on one of their kin.

But this woman has one of those fancy leather iPhone cases that she’s hung off her right pants pocket – not the hip – the pocket – just so that everyone can gasp in awe that OMG THAT WOMAN HAS AN IPHONE!

Her drink is insanely complicated too. Three people went through the other register while she was ordering.

Ladies, if your “girls” are one of your assets, more power to you. However, you probably need to restrain them somewhat, either with a brassiere, a sports bra or clothing that fits properly. Really, the last thing I need at 9 a.m. is a gigantic pair of bouncy balls doing the rumba in my face.

Mr. Chocolate Chip Frappuccino is here. Every morning that I’m here, he’s here, ordering a grande chocolate chip frappuccino. And wearing the same clothes – complete with black baseball cap. I’m dying to know his story.

Mon dieu. A horde of tourists and the place is crowded all of a sudden. One of these women is wearing black velvet tights, a black velvet tunic and a burgundy velvet cape. She’s got a full head of blonde hair, which she’s chosen to pin back with a black sun visor. Yow.

And the exercise crowd. Ma’am. We all know you work out. We can smell you. However, we do NOT need to see your buns hanging out the back of your gray bicycle pants and your boobs hanging out the front of your blue sports bra. And really, is coffee all that good for any exercise regimen?

Men should not wear Crocs. Ever.

There is a grandma here with her granddaughter – they’re trying to find a place to sit down – and granny is giving the old man brigade the look of death because all the tables are taken with the old men reading the paper. The kid is clutching a book like her life depends on it.

Gun alert. Sheriff’s deputies make me nervous. Not that I’ve done anything wrong, but that we’re only one crazy person away from something really going wrong. And they get free coffee too. This one got a free pastry as well.

Exercise chick is looking severely unhappy. She must not be a yoga practitioner.

I just saw an old man with a Dali T-shirt. I love Dali. The world needs more surrealism.

And now a woman is complaining that the girl on the register slammed the cash drawer “too hard.” They have to explain to her that the drawer sticks and sometimes they have to slam it to close it. It was not a statement on her being difficult.