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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Anyway. Much love. Hockey pucks to you all.

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.

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Peace out. Much love.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Much love.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Love ya'll lots!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The cacophony of noise up in here is terrible.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

MERRY CHRISTMAS EVERYONE!

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.

Hospital common area, 11:40 p.m.

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

Where am I?

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

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

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

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

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

The hospital. That's right. The hospital.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I guess I better get rolling.

Peace out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

Downtown, 6:45 p.m. – The floor is dirty and the action is slow

I’m stealing a table at a tres chic coffee shop downtown, slurping up their free WiFi and drinking a smoothie I imported in from another place. I’m the worst kind of customer – the kind that doesn’t buy anything. Maybe I’ll reward them with a visit tomorrow.

Tourists drive me crazy. This woman in an insane hairdo just went by – cackling like a maniac. Think Angelina Jolie in “Girl Interrupted” crazy. Uh-huh.

Despite it being the holiday season, things are fairly quiet. A contingent of middle-aged white men – obviously in town for a convention – just rolled by. They looked to be from the Midwest, by the cut of their shirts, the cut of their hair, the ruddiness of their cheeks and the roundness of their bellies.

Uh-oh. I just saw a coffee slave looking out the window at me. If I’m evicted, I will post the address and you can all send hate mail.

OH GOOD LORD. Bad fashion alert. WOACA alert. Call out the National Guard and tell them that Fort Knox called. We’ve found all the gold!

OK. This WOACA just clattered by. She’s got on a pair of black clamdiggers (yes, another pair) and a black shirt and a black jacket. She’s accessorized all this black with enough gold to fund the economy of a Third World state for a few decades.

There’s a thick heavy gold clasp on the right hand, plus a few more bangles. There’s a whole STACK of bangles on the left arm, which I imagine she believes tinkle like wind chimes as she walks. No. Think wind chimes caught in a hurricane. The gold horn-rimmed glasses are hanging from a gold chain. The steel-wool-gray hair is pulled back with a bright yellow band.

Single female tourist. Poor thing. She’s in traction, well at least one of those walking casts. She looks miserable even though she’s got a yummy-looking chocolate concoction and a bowl of soft-serve ice cream. That must just suck beyond suck – to be about to go on vacation and then break a foot or something.

Ladies. Let me dispense some fashion advice. Even if you are in a tropical climate, jeweled sandals do not pass for “dressy.” If if looks like something you bought at Target and decorated with your Bedazzler, you should not be wearing it with dinner rings and accompanying your husband in a tuxedo. Thank you. We shall now return to our regularly scheduled programming.

You know, for a “gourmet café,” this place has the most deuced uncomfortable furniture. All they’ve got for seating outside are these plastic patio chairs you can pick up at Wal-Mart or Target or K-Mart for like $5. My rear end is used to more padding than mal-formed plastic. Some nice wooden benches would do wonders for the ambience of this place. I’m just saying.

I wonder what the hours are? If they’re open late I could totally come here and use up the free WiFi. Starbucks is such a grinch with the WiFi. But I love the coffee so. Choices.

This place is messy too. Like trashy messy. Some really need to sweep around here. This place and the Sonic both. My grandma – even though she’s 75 – manages to keep her house clean. She’d be ashamed for anyone to see this floor – and these people are asking paying customers to stop and sit a spell.

My god. There is an old woman wishing someone farewell at the top of her lungs. I can hear her over traffic noise. Does everyone on the street really need to know “THAT WAS A GOOD DINNER. I’LL SEE YOU TOMORROW?”

There’s a boy making rude noises with a straw. How cute. He’s obviously old enough to know better – but looks like he’s having a world of fun. He’s flipping through a real estate magazine – the kind they leave out for tourists that have all the $8 million dollar mansions.

If anyone bought me an $8 million dollar house – they could make all the rude noises they wanted.

OK. Another café slave is giving me dirty looks as he brings out the trash. Not cute, but scowly.

OK. OK. I’m leaving.

Starbucks #2, 10:28 p.m. - The kids are DEFINITELY not alright

When I rolled up, I nearly creamed what looked to be the cast of “High School Musical,” only dressed as preppy goths.

Turns out there was some high school event tonight – and the resulting crowd flocked over to Starbucks for tall chocolate chip frappuccinos. As a result of all their giggling and general space-hogging antics, I scored a free venti coffee from one of the baristas.

He was in a very bad mood. “We made like fifteen frappuccinos – and they all wanted them LIKE NOW! It was insane.”

Now the kids are singing lyrics to something. They are badly out of tune, but it sounds like something from the stage version of “Wicked.” I can distinctly make out the words “bring her dooooooooowwwwwwnnnnn.” O-kaaaaaay.

I guess my plans for a little quiet contemplation and some writing just went out the window.

Two old WOACAs just came in and perched on the only two vacant chairs left in the Starbucks – said chairs which happen to be far too close to the bratty kids for these over-dressed and under-sexed ladies’s tastes. These old birds are giving the teen-agers some nasty looks. Think “I found six and a half roaches in my sandwich” nasty looks. That kind of nasty.

The baristas are doing some heavy duty flirting – with me and with each other. I guess cleaning is kind of moot since there are currently twenty-plus kids up in here shouting the place down.

The kids are screaming so loud the departing manager can’t even get her staff to hear her orders. “Clean up outside.” Louder. “Clean up OUTSIDE.” PRACTICALLY SCREAMING. “CLEAN UP OUTSIDE!” It is insane. These kids seriously need to leave. Leave or learn how to act in public.

Appropos of nothing, I love red. It is my new favorite color.

OK. One of these heifers is doing a full-blast old school Montell Jordan up in here “This Is How We Do It.” Really? I could totally believe you act like this all the time.

More tragic? I just noticed that half of them have their cell phones out and are yakking away at the top of their lungs or are text messaging. It is the ultimate in friendship. Let’s meet up and text message. What happened to just hanging out?

Kali bless me for not smashing someone. The timer on one of these pots of coffee is gong off and the baristas can’t get free to shut it off. BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP. It’s like the freaking roadrunner of coffee timers.

I wonder if I could call in an anonymous noise complaint on these kids? Hello, police, there is a disturbance at the Starbucks on First Street. Can you send a paddy wagon?

My free coffee is not that good. I know, I know – never look a gift coffee in the mouth, but still. I would have paid for it to be acceptable.

Oh. From where I’m sitting I can see the “Green Apron Traits” message board. These baristas are supposed to be suggesting the Christmas blend and trying to get some extra add-on sales by pushing pounds of coffee to customers by telling them they make excellent Christmas gifts. Let me know how that goes.

Score. Free pastry because they’re marking them out and will just throw them away. I asked if they donate them. They said they do – but the food pantry doesn’t come pick them up regularly. That’s just sad.

OK. The kids have moved outside to wait on their mothers. They all have the cell phones out trying to locate the she-beasts who squatted in a rice paddy and squirted them out. Most of them should have been strangled at birth. Or drowned. I’m an equal-opportunity teen howler-monkey life-ender.

I’m just in a crappy mood tonight.

Drink my coffee. Eat my free chocolate mint cookie. Flirt with barista. Leave.

Just a note, the Starbucks I write from most often will be Starbucks #1. This one will be #2. There's a third one I visit, but haven't written from yet. That one will be #3.

Starbucks, 7:27 p.m. - Flashcard boy fails at studying

Bing Crosby is wailing out “White Christmas.” I’m sipping a delicious super-extra-special chocolate deluxe café mocha and nibbling a peppermint cookie and it’s beginning to feel a lot like Christmas.

The unseasonable cold snap that has Florida in its grasp has finally dug in its claws enough to force people to dig out the sweaters and jackets and boots and put a chill in the air. I hate Christmas creep, but the season is jolly tonight.

Shockingly, no one else around me seems to share the glee. There is one poor dude in here trying valiantly to study. He has homemade flashcards, a backpack and a stack of books with imposing-looking titles about anatomy. No, wait Spanish. Ay, papi. Habla conmigo, por favor. Dime muchos besos!

He is wearing blue jeans, a knitted navy-blue sweater thing that is looking more and more like flannel underwear the longer I stare at it and black Nikes. He’s trying so hard to concentrate and failing miserably.

The noise in here is terrific tonight. There’s a jazz riff on “The Christmas Song” playing, the dishwasher and a coffee-bean grinder going – in short there’s lots of noise. Someone also just ordered a frappuccino. Blender. Slish, into the cup. Splash of water as the barista rinses the blender.

There’s also a barista trying really hard to leave half an hour early because her friend just came in and invited her to a party. “Can I leave half an hour early? Please? Do I have to work tomorrow? You’d be surprised how hard I work.” I bet I would be!

Mr. Flashcards is so not succeeding. He’s shuffling the cards around, but he’s not really studying. I can see it in the way he’s holding himself.

I barely recognized this song just now as a funk-a-riffic version of “Winter Wonderland.” Wow. It is amazing what some jazz and blues can do to a classic.

“Do you see what I see? / A star, a star / Dancing in the night,”

There’s a diva that’s got hold of this one. She’s pumping it out at the top of her lungs. And we’ve got a dancing patron. Another diva's got hold of it!

Skinny guy, either Hispanic or Middle Eastern. He’s wearing jeans and a very tight black knit pullover. There’s barely enough room for his little chicken-breast pecs, the pullover is so tight.

He’s got a goatee and a thick gold chain. He’s dancing in between the tables, touching first one table top, then the other.

During the riffs in the song, he’s waving his hands in the air as if he is literally balancing the notes inside his head and in the air. It’s a beautiful image of someone so free, so happy as to break into movement in public. In some states, it would likely get him killed.

Alicia Keyes is hitting some notes now. I think this is her new single “No one.” I can hear the guy sitting behind me saying “Alicia Keyes. Now this is what I bump to.” Thank you so much. So, so much.

Mr. Flashcard is still trying to study and there are all these conversations around him. He’s making an effort now. His lips are moving as he makes an effort to imprint the words on the flash cards into his brain.

The baristas are re-stocking the shelves not three feet from him with coffee and merchandise. They’re also all arguing about who is going to work tomorrow, where the phone list is so the one skiving off work can get coverage and generally being noisy. Either Mr. Flashcard has tremendous powers of concentration or else he just totally fails as a student.

WOACA alert. There’s always a WOACA. She’s the tall, artistic type. This one is wearing brown – not khaki – brown slacks and a white shell tunic. She’s gone dramatic with the huge black floor-length knitted osweater-coat that she’s sweeping around. If she’s cold enough to be wearing such a thing – she ought t be wearing socks – or at least some stockings – with her shoes.

Mr. Flashcard finally gave up and picked up his cell phone. Too bad no one has called him. He’s having to send out a text message. PLEASE HELP ME. I FAIL AT STUDYING!

My time is up. Thank you.

Starbucks, 11:07 p.m. - Drawing boy is drawing

Somebody – definitely NOT Lauryn Hill – is wailing out “everything is everything” over the speakers at the Starbucks. They have it cranked up too.

It is a nice contrast to the Christmas carols that have been playing at the Starbucks the past few days. I wonder if there were “complaints” to corporate or if this store just has a manager with a different bent? This is also allegedly a “no-merchandise” store, so maybe it gets “special” choices.

The barista who took my order and made my drink totally flirted with me. “What are you doing tonight?” There was more small talk than was strictly necessary. Maybe I’ll hang out.

There is action. There are four teenage boys hanging out practically in each other’s laps in a totally non-ironic way. If they were any closer, I would be staring Siamese twins with eight arms and legs. And these are boys. They are totally oblivious to the homoeroticism going on. They are comparing their cell phones with all the glee of teen-age girls comparing boys, purses and slam books.

The barista cleaning the trash outside just leaned in and yelled “One of your mommys is here to pick you up.” HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

Dearest Mumsicle is rocking it in a silver Land Rover. The children depart. I’m alone.

I lied. There is a guy in the back with a huge – at least 3x3 sketch pad drawing something – presumably life art – although who really knows. It could be naked LOLcats or the aforementioned teen boys dressed a Avril Lavigne. I’m not asking.

There is something that sounds suspiciously like Sade on the radio – although I’m not positive of that.

“I used to move to / Create change / Realized and rearranged.”

Hmm. Turns out it is this band called SOULSTICE and the song is called “Illusion.” What the hell are the baristas up to?

I like that song though. Someone needs to buy me that.

There are four baristas here at this hour. What are they all doing? Not much as far as I can tell. There’s no cleaning going on, although that one dude did bag up the trash outside.

Speaking of the outside area – the concrete in front of this Starbucks needs a mop in the way that Bush needs Cheney – DESPERATELY.

The barista that flirted with me has now gotten a carpet sweeper and is moving it around in my general vicinity. He’s thrusting his behind out and then standing with his hand on his radio as if to impress me with the fact that he is important enough to work the drive-thru. OK. Whatever.

I’m not saying I would throw it back – but really, I’m hoping that I could do better in the fashion sense department. He is wearing black shoes. Stand on your feet all day or not – those clodhoppers are as ugly as sin. Worse, MUCH worse, he made me a shitty cup of coffee. That is the one unforgivable sin.

Oh. They are brewing that Italian Roast coffee again. I don’t know what for – unless it is corporate policy to always have a fresh pot made up and they just ran out. It is only 40 minutes to close – but I’m not complaining – I love the smell of that Italian Roast.

Drawing guy is still drawing. Hmmm. I caught him looking at something, then sketching again. He’s not looking at ME – so obviously not something on this end of the Starbucks is out.

I can’t see whatever it is he’s looking at because there is a stupid Starbucks music display in the way. Damn. I thought this was a “no merchandise” Starbucks – and here goes some stupid CDs that NOBODY wants getting all up in my business.

I can’t be nosy without being obvious. That doesn’t bother me, but as there are only two patrons and four baristas, it will be many levels beyond completely obvious.

I just realized that this Starbucks is not decorated for Christmas yet – or if it is – it is a severely toned down version. There is only one wreath on the door and a hideous “Pass the Cheer” banner with advertising for the eggnog latte, gingerbread latte and peppermint mocha. I also see some of the Christmas blend coffee and they are for sure using the Christmas cups. All of this on November 10, I might add. Christmas creep is alive and well in the year 2007!

There is a sheriff’s deputy in the hizouse. He gave me a dirty look when he walked in. Yes, I am typing about you. You are overweight and your buzz cut does nothing for you. Happy now?

Oh. They gave him a receipt. I always thought cops got free coffee. I guess not.

Oh Kali no. The painting crew that is working on building the Sprint store next door just rolled in – it is suddenly all tore up in here with a whole crowd of greasy white men with stringy hair, dirty clothes and all wearing kneepads.

The cop is looking askance at these dudes, even though they greeted him too.

I’m leaving before there is a rumble.

Minute 22: I had to ask. Drawing boy is the assistant manager – and he is drawing penguins wearing Santa suits and holding cups of peppermint mocha. OK? OK.

Sonic, 10:15 p.m. – Sonic mayhem at the Sonic

OK. I’m going to try to break out of my love affair with coffee shops and bookstores and try some other place to spend 21 minutes.

Tonight my trusty MacBook and I at the Sonic. I’m not getting out of my car just yet – because I’m not entirely sure of the crowd in this neighborhood – and I can’t risk my work laptop. Sorry, no can do. I’ve killed it once already this year and I don’t think they’d replace it again.

Still, as an experiment, it is this is starting off on a good note, at least so far as it proves that I can write in my car and not be too slow in the process.

Just got my food – a Route 44 vanilla Coke and those new fried mac & cheese things. Yum. Fried mac & cheese is the bi-zomb.

The guy who delivered the food gave me the strangest look. One of those “what the hell are you doing typing in the car while at the Sonic?” looks. Well dude. I pay you to cook and deliver the food. If I want to do cosplay, role-play or track a Yeti with it – that’s my business!

Let me just take a moment to strike a blow against holiday creep. Two thousand and seven in the year of our Lord anno domini is going to go down as the year that America just said “Eff the Pilgrims. Screw Thanksgiving. We’re going straight from Halloween to Christmas.”

I’m sitting here at the Sonic and they are already promoting the Sonic Card as “the perfect gift for people who eat.” Complete with red and green decorations and stickers that go above the payment area AND a special sticker promoting the $25,000 contest for the Sonic card at Sonic’s Web site – also in Christmas trim and colors.

Consumerism. I reject thee. I cast off thy shackles and reject thy greed. Get thee behind me wrapping paper.

Anywhoo.

Other than some intermittent drive-thru traffic, there’s not much going on here.

The music on the in-store speaker system is something I don’t recognize. It is usually a mix of country, pop and top 40 – but tonight it sounds like cats being anally raped by an electric toothbrush. Lots of yowling. Must be emo metal. Or the White Stripes. Same difference.

I can see the Sonic manager through the window. He’s yelling at someone. Somehow, authority doesn’t really translate when you’ve got a baseball hat and a greasy ponytail and you’re standing inside a fast food joint. I mean, he’s always been the very model of a modern major fast food worker whenever he’s delivered my food, but screaming orders just isn’t going to get anything done.

You know what I don’t like about this Sonic? It is RIGHT by the highway. I understand they’re all about customer traffic and all, but still. The constant drone, drone, drone of cars as you’re trying to eat is annoying. I can even hear the gunning of motors as I have my window up. More better landscaping please.

Now Jackie DeShannon is wailing “Put A Little Love In Your Heart.”

And now a word from our sponsors: You too can own Sonic’s extra-long coney & tots for just $2.99. Here’s a tip. Don’t get it. It’s a lousy hot dog. If you want a good dog – go to Checkers. Much better food.

There is a beat-up black Pontiac Sunbird convertible in the parking space next to me. The cloth top is ripped, the paint is stripped like a hooker in the last hour of a eight-hour shift and if anything inside works, I’d be shocked. It is always parked there. I bet the speaker in that particular stall is broken and they just don’t fix it.

What does that say about this particular Sonic’s business? Do they just not care or do they simply not need the stall? Maybe the door locks don’t work and Mr. Greasy Ponytail wants to park his pride and joy where he can keep a close eye on it.

Anywhoo.

I just realized that from this particular stall I can see the clock that tells workers how long they are taking on a particular order. This silver Mustang at the drive-thru is already clocking in at over 2:20.

Aren’t drive-thru orders supposed to come in under two minutes. I remember reading something on Digg or Slashdot that two minutes was an industry standard. Maybe that was Starbucks. At 2:30, the screen went red – I guess 2:30 is Sonic’s GET ‘ER DUN mark.

Then again, it is 10:30 p.m. at night. How much food could they reasonably have made up ahead of time? I think everything after 10 p.m. is made to order. At least, I hope it is. The silver Mustang’s final wait time clocks in at 5:34.

Speaking of time, my own time is up. Thank you and good night!

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.

Starbucks, 8:32 p.m. – Halloween is when the old people come out to play

This old man with his cell phone holder swinging on a carabiner clip just walked into the Starbucks. Hmm. He’s got on blue jeans and a blue check shirt. Ordered a small coffee and now he’s gone. No. Wait. He’s making a stop at the condiment bar. NOW he’s gone.

Really. I’m addicted to the Starbucks because there is no other place to get a triple venti raspberry white chocolate mocha unless I make it. You can get a cup of coffee at any gas station. Point of fact, there’s one right across the corner.

Sadly, that old man may well be the highlight of tonight’s 21 minutes. There’s me, myself and three very bored baristas up in here.

Some slow jazz is wailing on the speakers, but I can’t hear it for the sounds of the two baristas flirting behind the coffee bar. Malebux is flirting with Femalebux. The clanging of the blender in the sink is apparently a metaphor for their love. I can hear the thumping noise of various things being cleaned and the noise of mats being drug around. Interesting.

Seventeen minutes later.

One of the off-duty baristas is in to argue about her hours. “But I need more money,” I can hear her say.

Now she wants to chat with me because she has nothing else to do and I guess I don’t look busy enough. Computer? Check. Looking DOWN at computer? Check. Typing about your stained orange shirt that makes you look like a decaying pumpkin? Check. Not busy? Not checked.

Twenty-two minutes later. Now the manager of the Starbucks joins in this friendly pow-wow, because he is interested in my MacBook. Buy a Mac people. Buy a Mac.

There have been two customers. I have been trying to write, but it seems rude to ignore the friendly baristas, especially when it might lead to free coffee later.

There was a grand and glorious WOACA incident during the conversational fun. This fleshy woman came inside wearing black pants and a ratty navy tee. She lumbers up to the register, is greeted and orders a drip coffee. The barista asks if she would like a pastry to go with that. Upsell is the name of the game in retail.

Her response? “Only if you’re going to throw it away.” O-kaaaaay. Because this is a marketplace and we all bargain for Starbucks pastries.

It’s 8 p.m. – and the Starbucks stays open until 10 p.m. But the barista gives her a free doughnut anyway. She gets the coffee and leaves.

When the WOACA xleaves, he comes over to me and says “I hate people like that.” You know I asked for the dirt.

So what did she do? “She paid for the coffee with two singles. I gave her a free doughnut and she didn’t even bother to throw the change into the tip jar.”

How much you want to bet she’ll never get anything for free at this Starbucks again? Hey lady - karma is a cruel mistress. Check your tires in the morning.

OK. There is history being made in the Starbucks tonight. Both baristas just went outside to smoke. I’m still sitting in the corner writing. They both know me, so they looked over, said “Don’t steal anything, we’re watching,” then lit up.

I don’t know whether to applaud that I’m trusted or cry in shame that they just sit outside the front door and smoke. Coffee and cigarettes. They go so well together.

There is some really funky jazz going right now. It’s peppy, with a trumpet, some good piano action and maybe a trombone. I wish I knew how to play the piano – especially jazz piano.

I don’t think I’ve ever seen this particular Starbucks this still. This is usually one of the busiest spots in the city. If I close my eyes and extend my senses, I get the soft hum of the ice freezer and the lower hurrrrrr of the drip coffee urn.

HELLO ACTION. Old people sighting at 11 o’clock.

Ancient frail and withered old people. An old man so reedy he can barely open the door peeks in; the baristas are so happy to see him they yell “Happy Halloweens” from behind the bar. I think it scares the old man.

The head of his cane is carved like a seahorse. That’s unique. His wife has some old-lady pants in a seafoam check. She lives high off the hog. I can see some granny fat hanging off her arms and through the seams of her thin white short sleeve shirt.

Wow. She’s giving me a dirty, dirty, dirty look because I’m sitting in one of the plush chairs. Well, there are three more available. It’s not like I put down roots and a flag over here. Deal.

Now Malebux is flirting hot and heavy with these two skanky hooker types that aren’t even in costume. Ohh. Someone is showing someone else camera-phone pictures. Do I smell free pastry? You bet I do.

They both have on blue jeans – which is fine in and of itself. It’s the hair that bothers me. One is a bottle-blonde of a particularly “I did this at home” bent. I can tell because her hair looks completely fried. The texture looks like straw. She has split ends too.

The other one has some atrocious blonde highlights and enough product in her hair to style a fashion show. I am also not loving her super-clunky coral and seashell bangle earrings. They’re just too heavy on her petite frame. I just don’t get why she thinks this is a good look.

Anyway.

There’s a cute boy coming in now. Basic black tee and a pair of khaki pants. Too bad my time is up. Maybe I’ll go flirt. O hai, Mr. tall, dark and handsome.

Peace out.