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.

Cubicle farm, 4:49 p.m. - My noisy new office, let me show you it

So last Friday word came down from on high that it was official, I have to move from my cushy decorated digs to another cubicle farm 17 miles northward in another office. I had hoped to avoid this - and voiced my opinion many, many, many times that I did not want to take part in the move.

That 17 miles translates into about 45 minutes if traffic is good – over an hour if traffic is bad. I got stuck in construction on Monday and spent 20 minutes staring at the back end of a delivery truck loaded with canisters of CO2 and praying that no one decide to recreate a scene from a Bruckheimer movie.

It is horrible. I hate traffic. I hate being in traffic. There's not a convenient Starbucks. This current office park is bland – pretty and heavily landscaped with flowers and fountains and palm trees – but with zero personality. Plus I have to take my life into my own hands and turn across three lanes of highway traffic without a stop light every night when I want to go home.

There are three Starbucks within three miles – but they're all on the wrong side of the road if I'm coming here – and none of them have traffic signals or turn lanes – all require U-turns or complicated mall parking lots. Getting back to Starbucks after getting TO the office requires the aforementioned deathtrap turn across three lanes of oncoming cars – without a suicide lane in the middle. I could kill the idiot that designed this office park.

I don't know how much longer I'm going to last at this job. I feel under-appreciated and very much under-challenged. There's just not much else out there right now that I feel like I want to do – unless someone wants to pay me to bum around the world writing travel guide articles while staying at four-star hotels and flying first class.

This is the crux of my problem – I like creature comforts too much to learn to do without them. I like digital cable and air conditioning and takeout food and bottled water and clean sheets and automatic transmissions and health insurance and regular prescriptions and "Project Runway" and TiVo and private bathrooms and toilet paper and triple venti raspberry white chocolate mochas with whole milk and sprinkles. I LIKE ALL THAT OK.

That does not make me a bad person. It just makes me ill-suited for becoming a digital Bedouin who could travel the globe, living off the local economy for a few weeks at a time before decamping for a new place.

Maybe I need to radically re-adjust my thinking. I'm got to break out of this rut that I'm in or I'm just going to wake up in 20 years and think "What the hell happened to my life?" Shit. I might just wake up tomorrow and decide to take a handful of pills and stick my head in a plastic bag. I think I've forgotten how to feel anything anymore.

I need new thought patterns. I need a boyfriend. I need some new music. I need a haircut. I need new clothes. I need new shoes. So help me Buddha, I need a whole new life.

Blarf. I'm a depressed as the stock market during a Bush presidency. Anyway. My week has been absolutely craptastic. I haven't been able to find the time or a place to write all week – and the one night I tried to land at Starbucks #2 – they gave me a free frappuccino but said they were closing early and kicked me out. I gave up and went home and went to bed because I couldn't take it any more.

Thank you for caring. Or not. Internet trolls clean public toilets with their tongues anyway.

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!

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.

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!

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.