I owed Laura Bush a solid for the pretzel incident

Lord have mercy. It's has been another crazy-ass day up in here. I just got back from Rome this morning – after having a throw-down with an Alitalia stewardess about bringing a pound of fresh-ground espresso on board the first-class cabin.

Damn. I wanted to bring the coffee back as a present. And so help me god if someone can use coffee to bring down a modern jetliner. Well, according to Google (pretty soon, we will all worship at the altar of the High Lord Brin & the Most High Holy Page) – you can make a smoke bomb and a bath bomb – but not a real bomb using coffee. What the hell is a bath bomb anyway? It don't sound good.

What was I doing in Rome? If I told you I'd have to kill you. No. I was actually in Greece, on the island of Santorini, taking a wine vacation and doing a little relaxing – if you consider taking out five ninja assassins, three IRA zealots and Condoleeza Rice to be "relaxing."

Condi wasn't officially on the menu – but she swung by the island on her way to Istanbul (Turkish democracy or Turkish delight – which would you vote for?) and I figured I'd make the world a better place. Plus, I figured I owed Laura Bush a solid for when she tried to take out W. with that pretzel back on '02. The man is like Fidel – preternaturally lucky. We were SO close.

Anyway. I'm slinging my tuna around the island – trying to catch a man – a rich old man (where the hell is MY Aristotle Onassis?) when I stop in at this café. The first thing I see – "proudly serving Starbucks Coffee." Le sigh. It's everywhere. Everywhere. Seven thousand stores and growing. I mean, I guess that's what I get for coming to a tourist trap.

I get a cold-brewed iced coffee – and let me tell you – if you don't already subscribe to the wonders of cold-brewed, you really, really ought to. That stuff is far, far better than regular iced coffee.

But back to me. I'm thinking about the crap I left behind at the office. Yes, even world-class assassins have "offices."

Some new beyotch moved in a few weeks ago. She's an "individual." Bless. And curse. And she apparently loves plants. Can't go anywhere without her "air-purifiers." IT IS A CLIMATE CONTROLLED BUILDING. PLUS, THE HEFFA BROUGHT IN TWO GIANT TREES. AND AN ORCHID. PRETTY - BUT WITH ANTS. ANTS. I HATE ANTS.

Her cubicle looks like something out of "Ferngully" now. There is a "shrine" to some nature deity – with stalks of wheat and tiny animals and posters. There are plants. There are enough origami figures to populate most of post-war Japan and make a good start on mainland China. It's not a cubicle, it is a second bedroom.

All this would be find if the woman was there all the time – but she isn't. She "works from home" a lot. Apparently, the cubicle decorations are some sort of bizarre cat-spraying, territory-marking ritual that only she understands. The territory, I marketh it. Touch. Die. Who the hell knows.

Where the hell is that café waiter? I need another bottle of wine. Actually, can I get the waiter on the menu? As a rule, I try not to sleep with the help, but I'm leaving tomorrow – and this one is kind of cute – in that skinny, dark-haired, Macedonian Serbian-ish Novak Djokovic way. CHECK PLEASE!

--filed by Charanda deKristeax from the Potamis Pita Plonk and Euboean Express Espresso Bar.

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

Business is booming at this downtown art fair. Also booming is this woman’s rear end at the tent nearest me. She ought have the grace (or good sense) not to wear stretchy fabrics if she’s going to be bending over a lot. I see London, I see France, I see this fat WOACA’s underpants!

Anyway. There are more stuck-up old people walking around looking at ugly art than I care to talk about. There’s a couple camped out on the next picnic table over that has huge sun hats on.

They already have a bag full of stuff and they’re perusing this brochure like they’re planning the invasion of Normandy. “What about this aisle here and then meet up at this stall?”

There’s a grouping of four old people on the table over from that that BROUGHT A COOLER. I kid you not. They brought supplies to an art show. Not art supplies. Food supplies. They’re not vendors, just shoppers. Old people are serious about their shopping in this town.

One old lady is dressed in a Marcel Marceau costume and I keep waiting for her to jump up and burst into a “Mime trapped in a Glass Box” routine. Instead, I think she’s trapped in bad fashion.

Oh my Aztec gods. The fat woman from earlier has been joined by another woman in a black and white tropical print. Every time she bends over I get palm fronds the size of Loch Ness staring me in the face.

There is a very tan, very fit man doing some things with telescopes. He has on a hat that would look at home on Crocodile Dundee and shades.

Random fashion advice. Fat ladies should not wear tiny backpacks. It does not work.

More random advice. Ugly art does not look better in large groupings. If anything, the ugliness is compounded. Think of a thrift shop. That sad and misused couch you donated just looks all the worse for being lumped together with its cast-off brethren.

I truly pity the people who feel that they have to fill their walls with all this bad art. I can see seascapes with umbrellas, seascapes with clouds, seascapes done in watercolor, seascapes with lighthouses, seascapes with forests in the background … you get the picture. Lots of sand and water.

The couple with the floppy sun hats is moving off. He’s breaking right and she’s breaking left. I wonder who will benefit from their large-wallet largesse?

The telescope man has hooked some victims. And he’s trying to sell a book to some poor unsuspecting woman. “You could see it if that cloud would cooperate.”

There is a woman wearing a black shirt standing at the telescope looking puzzled. Seriously. Who wears a damn black shirt to an OUTDOOR ART FAIR on a hot day? Are you insane? Well, if you plan to buy this art, maybe.

Telescope man is pimping this astronomy book like it is an Oprah best-seller. He’s moving this couple back and forth between the telescopes.

Let’s talk about Oprah. I don’t like Oprah. She’s a heifer. She let George Bush on her show in 2000 and let him kiss her on the cheek. Now look where we are. Shame on YOU Oprah. Shame on YOU!

Fashion disaster. Purple skirt. Pink top. Muffin top that prevents the twain from meeting.

Karma is a cruel mistress. I was just thinking “Who comes to an outdoor art fair in six-inch-high wedge heels” as this overdressed yuppie walked by. Ten feet later, she stumbled and went down. Slaves to fashion will always pay a heavy price.

There’s a random woman on a Segway wearing a Santa cap rolling around. I’d like a Segway.

OK. I’m done and I’m hungry. Must eat brains.

Peace out.

Airport cell phone lot, 11:36 a.m. – The traffic is thick and the cell phones are ringing

I have never seen the airport’s cell phone lot so busy. I got the LAST parking space in the actual lot – and now people are starting to line the medians as they wait for their family and friends to arrive.

I’m staring straight at two perfectly charming old people who cannot work a cell phone to save their lives.

She’s wearing brown pants and a white shirt. He’s got on green shorts and a pink shirt. And he has socks that are an awkward length about halfway up his calves. The old lady has a deathgrip on her handbag – in that way that ALL old ladies do. Don’t lie. If anybody wanted my granny’s purse, they’d have to pry it from her cold, dead hands – and probably have to use a blowtorch, a diamond saw blade and possibly sulfuric acid. You know your grandmamma is the exact same way!

There’s something quaintly charming about old people who just act like old people though – not like wrinkled fashion plates. They’re rolling a slick new Toyota Camry LE with a Triple AAA sticker.

Have patience. We’re getting to the funny bit. Obviously, their party is either at the airport or just touching down, because I’ve seen the old man try to open his cell phone – a raspberry-colored something that looks like either a RAZR or a KRAZR or whatever about three times now.

He’ll feel it vibrate and grab for his pants pocket. AT LEAST I HOPE HE’S GRABBING FOR THE PHONE.

And somehow in the process of fumbling for the phone or trying to answer, he’ll disconnect. Or maybe the people on the flight keep getting cut off.

He’ll put the phone back in his pocket. And thirty seconds later the fun starts all over again. His old lady wife isn’t helping because she just keeps jumping around yelling advice.

Round four. They’ve managed to get the call answered AND connected. But they still don’t know how to use the phone. They really, really would have been better off with a simpler phone.

He’s not holding it to his ear and speaking into the end of the phone like a normal person.

No. He’s holding the phone at a distance and shouting into it. Now he’s holding the phone up to his wife’s face and she’s bending down like she’s talking to a baby or something and she’s yammering away. I guess the flight really is here, because they’re getting into the car and driving off. Adios.

Whoever these people are that are arriving at the airport for this Thanksgiving, they have some wealthy families. I’m looking at a Lexus LS 430, a Volvo, a Lexus RX 330 and an Audi S 4.

I need to get up on whatever these people are doing.

Huh. Twinkie cars – two of those funky PT Cruisers – in silver and black – parked side by side.

There is an old bald man in the Audi – it’s the Cabriolet model – so he has plenty of scratch. He’s got the top down and he’s sunning his bald head. He must be really early for his person’s flight (or it got delayed) – because he’s tilted the seat back and he looks like he’s getting ready for a snooze. I’m not so sure I would actually go to sleep in an airport parking lot. Moreover, I’d use sunscreen.

Oh brother. There’s a dood – I don’t know any other way to describe it – that’s next to me in a brand spanking new Chrysler Sebring convertible.

He’s wearing a set of those “I support something” bracelets. The Lance Armstrong cancer bracelet, a red AIDS Awareness one and a red and white stitch one that looks like a baseball. Full set on both wrists. And he’s wearing some kind of specially branded Major League Baseball hat. Just saw it. Boston Red Sox.

If he adjusts this hat one more time … I’m going to have to get out of the car and beat him. He’s got the top down because he wants to be seen. I really don’t know how much action he realistically expects to get in an airport parking lot. Hot WOACA action anyone? For the record, it stands for "women of a certain age" - and every time I use the word "WOACA" I try to make a tooltip so you can mouse over it and have the definition pop up. I know people be complaining about it.

We’ve got a reunion going on over here. There’s a man in a ratty-looking gray tank top and blue shorts that’s talking to a well-dressed couple that look like they stepped out of a catalog.

This woman is seriously wearing glitter to the airport. I hate to tell her, but the glamour days of air travel went out decades ago. She’s got black slacks and a sliver and black sleeveless top that has glitter worked all through it. Her husband looks like the consummate Florida sportsman – khaki shorts and a green & white polo shirt.

Ugh. Gray tank top is scratching his chest hair. Quelle attractive.

Mr. Sebring is flashing his cell phone around. I get a signal. So should you. PS: Your cell phone is not all that. It’s not even a smartphone. Get an iPhone. Then we’ll talk.

There are some seriously bored people in the row behind me. There is a whole family in a Land Rover that has books and what looks like it could be a picnic basket. They’ve got the rear door up, all four doors open and they are hanging out. OK. They’re on the move – and almost backed over this stupid old man who was going hell for leather to throw away a bag full of McDonald’s trash. Save the planet, die in crash!

They’re parked next to a guy that has advertising plastered all over his truck advertising for poochooch.com.

He’s got some sort of contraption rigged up in the back of this pickup and has stuffed dogs hanging out the side. He is totally working the crowd and passing out business cards. I bet he just drives around to every airport in South Florida all day and bugs the mess out of people. Is he selling pooches or hooch I wonder?

OK. I am rolling. Peace out, later bye!

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

There’s something about howler monkeys that both attracts and repels me. I’m sitting here watching a quartet of them playing on the swings in one of the county’s big regional parks. They’re lying belly down in the swings and twisting round and round. They’re all trying to see how high they can twist the chains – how many revolutions can they get before they can’t touch the ground any more.

Then, when their feet can’t touch the ground, they let go and start screaming at the top of their lungs as the chains unwind and they start unwrapping like some odd demented octopus being unwrapped on a merry-go-round.

NEWSFLASH! They have now taken to helping each other wrap the chains higher – to get maximum lift and the maximum propeller revolutions.

One little boy in an orange shirt and camouflage pants is just lying limp in his swing right now. He has a decidedly greenish cast to his features. He’s a little chunky and his sandals are dragging the ground. I think he needs some time to recover from his latest trip round-and-round. I hope that afternoon snack he probably ate doesn’t decide to take a trip of its own.

Now they’re off to the monkey bars and what I can only describe as a child-sized version of a hamster tube.

The park is nice today. The breeze is blowing and the effects of Tropical Storm Noel are still keeping it quite cool in these parts. The sun is shining, but at 6 p.m., the heat is gone from the day.

One of the drawbacks of this park is that it is more urban than most. I can still hear the drone of traffic going by; even though there’s been a lot of care taken with the landscaping and trees and shrubbery, it still feels like a big median with a playground and some barbecue pits.

There is a surburban soccer mom approaching with her tots now. Shes got two kids decked out in the latest styles from the mall – striped polo shirts, tiny little GAP khaki shorts and those obnoxious Crocs. Both kids have sodas from McDonalds. And she’s carting them around in a big black – very new - Chevy Suburban. She doesn’t have to worry about money or keeping her man – she rolled up in here with her hair looking like a hot mess and wearing a pair of sweatpants I would not wash the dog in. I wish I had that life.

The sun is down – or at least behind some clouds. In the last five minutes, the shadows went from long to longer to gone. The air temperature feels just a little cooler too; the breeze has just a little more bite.

The breeze brings with it the scent of new-mown grass, along with the hint of motor oil and the tiniest anticipation of rain.

The wind is ruffling the trees now. Nature’s xylophone – such a soft and soothing counterpoint to the screams, yells, giggles and shrieks of joy coming from the playground.

There are a dozen or so kids out there now – and a good handful of parents watching or actively participating. One young father has plopped his daughter into the infant swing and is giving her pushes for all he’s worth. She’s holding onto the ropes and yelling her little head off. Her coal-black pigtails are flying in the wind; she’s loving every minute of this. Her shoes just fell off. Her dad bent down to pick them up and now she’s trying to twist and turn to kick him. Bless!

There’s a tiny little boy in a horrible outfit – red and yellow striped shorts, yellow shirt with black and red striped sleeves – he is digging in the bark for all he is worth. I wonder what he’s hoping to find? Fashion sense for his mother if he is lucky!

One bored looking dad is following his toddler around as the boy bumbles from one piece of playground equipment to the next – never really big enough to entertain himself on his own – and lacking any friends to play with him. Now they’re at the swings and Daddy-Is-Bored is giving him a few desultory pushes in the whole “I-am-a-father-and-I-have-to-do-this” way.

The little boy in the orange shirt and camo pants from earlier has obviously recovered, because now he is riding a purple worm and screaming at the top of his lungs. His little friend is screaming too. Not just hollering – but bring-down-the-house, lock up your women and children, hide the liquor from the alcoholics screaming.

Whoever this child is and whatever is going on, he has one active imagination backed by some serious lung power. Then again, maybe he just has schizophrenia.

Suburban mommy is back with her two chic brats. They’re standing around too afraid to play with the Hispanic children and she won’t push them on the swings.

My time is up. Thank you, and happy swinging.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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