Beach park, 5:38 p.m. – Tourist season is here and I'm cold

November marks the official start of tourist season in my neck of the woods – and you can surely tell the difference in the number of people crowding the beach for sunset.

The cars are pouring into the parking lot and lumpy Yankees and Midwestern tourists are slamming car doors and running – literally RUNNING to the beach desperate to get a glimpse of the sun as the molten ball of lava descends into the ocean.

I just saw a fat and frumpy middle-aged Midwestern housefrau nearly trip over the sidewalk in her haste to get out of her minivan and get over the grassy verge and onto the sand.

The air has a distinct and pronounced chill tonight. The breeze is blowing something fierce – like the tongue lash of a harangued fishwife, it is whipping the hair and coats of all present.

The sun sank remarkably fast – within a matter of minutes. From the time I started writing until now. Sink. Sinking. Gone.

Show is over now. The crowds are leaving. It is like a tourist attraction. The herd comes into the museum room – stares at the pretty painting, then dutifully troops back out behind the matron. I expect to hear the screech of tires and see the mangled bumpers any time now. Yankees have an inability to drive outside their native habitat.

Four minutes after sunset and the beach is nearly deserted. There is only one slightly odd family still out there. They look to be taking vacation pictures for a family album.

The woman taking pictures is hardcore. She has a serious camera, ginormous lens, flash – the whole package. The family hardly paid attention to the sunset, they were so busy posing. First, they laid in the sand. Then, they laid on top of each other in the sand. Then, the photographer laid in the sand and the family jumped in unison.

With the sun down, the air is even more chill.

WOACA bad fashion alert. There’s a group coming up to meet someone at the pavilion here – one of them has on those new high-waisted jeans – which is fine, except they are white – and she has on a lime-green button-down shirt. Picture all this on a super-skinny fifty-year-old woman and you have what appears to be a blank page from a coloring book with the crown of a tree colored green. Don’t forget the bleached blonde pageboy on top. Hrrrrm. Hrrrrrm. I'm reaching for a comparison and I can't get there, it is just so odd.

The seagulls have complete ownership of the beach. There is a HUGE crowd of them out there on the sand. Jonathan Livingston would be so proud. They’re just sitting out there, chilling out. Not doing much of anything. Actually, I wonder what the hell they ARE doing. I usually despise the seagulls when I come to the beach because of all the noise and the inevitable byproducts of seagulls, namely seagull poo.

Damn. I’m cold. I never thought I would turn into one of “those people,” but it is seriously freaking chilly to me.

The parking lot that ten minutes ago looked like the the mall on a Saturday afternoon now looks like the mall at midnight on Sunday. As empty as the George W. Bush mind.

Damn. I’m cold. And there’s a woman running around with shorts and a sweatshirt. I never understood that particular fashion “statement.”

The seagulls are gone. Didn’t even hear them take off over this freaking wind. It is a blowing, that is for sure.

Some guy just swept by on the beach with a metal detector. That must be a good life – just metal detecting all day. I wonder how much stuff they find? Is it worth it to walk, walk, walk, out in the sun all day? But I bet you find some cool stuff.

The best thing I ever found on the beach was a bra. My friend and I came out to the beach early one morning to take pictures to send to our families and we found the remnants of someone’s VERY good time. Playtex crossed and uncrossed her heart that night.

Aw. Old people. Old man and old woman. He’s wearing khaki shorts and a bright yellow fleece jacket. She’s got on a black pencil skirt and a white long-sleeve top. She’s got a camera but missed the sunset by at least fifteen minutes. The only thing you’re gonna get now is clouds sister. Hang on to your man and tell him to drive faster next time.

Damn. I’m cold.

Even the crazy ducks that usually hang around the park are gone. I swear that my fingers have a chill. Of course, this venti iced white chocolate mocha that I had to stop off and have isn’t helping. The one time I should have stopped and gotten HOT coffee ….

The ocean looks so angry. The whitecaps are rolling in and crashing on the beach. The smell isn’t pleasant and sandy and serene and beautiful – just harsh and violent and stormy. The air sings a song of power and rain and violence and hints of barely contained fury. I am starting to enjoy this weather, although I am damn cold.

I love the feel of the wind and the air and the cold. It reminds me that I’m alive.

I love the taste of the salt air.

OK. My time is up. I can’t feel my fingers.

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!

Starbucks, 9:32 p.m. – The ‘Anti-Kitty-Committee’ is out in force tonight

I’m trying out a new Starbucks tonight. I like the chairs. I mean, I REALLY like the chairs.

This is one of those Starbucks decorated in the retro-mod style, with the earth tones and the cocoa-colored stools and the raspberry faux-leather high-backed stools that spin around and the big chocolate leather easy chairs. YUMMALICIOUS!

It is also apparently a “no-merchandise” Starbucks, as I learned on my last visit – so there is only one stand of coffee, a tiny basket of the coffee of the week and a wall of ground coffee. No mugs, no huge racks of CDs, no screaming promos for the iTunes single of the week. No. Not even the free iTunes single giveaways. I’m almost crushed.

This Starbucks also stays open until 11 p.m. on weeknights, later than any other one in the city – and midnight on weekends – a fortuitous circumstance I am sure is owed to the near proximity to the nearby movie theater. If only it were not so crowded with screaming teen brats wearing next to nothing.

Do they really let kids out of the house wearing so little nowadays? I just saw more of a teen girl’s ass than I ever wanted to. She was wearing short-shorts that would have made Catherine Bach run for a cover-up and a shirt that read “Anti-Kitty-Committee.” Pair this with knee-high black socks and plaid Vans and you have quite the ironic hipster bad-fashion statement.

The bratty children have gone now. They’ve swept up their tall chocolate chip frappucinnos and flapped out the door – taking their proto-homosexual floppy-haired blonde emo boy toy with them. Fashion-forward that one was – kept pushing up the sleeves on his brown American Eagle sweater and trying to toss the locks out of his face.

The baristas are not even making an effort to look busy. There are five of them and they are lolling about by the drive-thru window just chatting it up. Yakkety-yakkety-yakkety.

I can’t hear them over this crappy mid-tempo something, although every now and again the occasional snappy phrase floats through. “What did I do Danny?” Um, not your job, obviously.

We have a customer now. Our winner is a bored-looking twenty-something in blue jeans and a white windbreaker from some tourist trap. She’s got a fake Coach purse slung on her shoulder and a nasty scowl planted across her lips.

I wonder what crawled up in her and died. Maybe it is her pancake makeup causing facial freeze. Yeesh. You’d think as much as she spends at a makeup counter someone would show her how to apply it correctly.

Oh. It gets better. The boyfriend is here. He’s in plain faded blue jeans and a gray tee. They both have worn-out tennis shoes on. They both look so “average.”

Just got a good look at the jacket. I pegged the tourist trap correctly. Like I said – Cancun. Ok. If you really are a ‘world traveler,’ you don’t have to advertise that you went to the Mexican version of Branson. Capische?

Grande white mocha and grande no whip latte. Predictable and boring. I bet they do it in the missionary position. Actually, I take that back. She looks like a total hooker. I bet she puts on a pair of cowboy boots and some spurs, mounts up in reverse cowgirl and goes to town.

Anywhoo. They’re gone.

It just hit me that this is the largest Starbucks I’ve ever been in. I don’t know if that is because it is minus all the crap that is normally in a Starbucks or if it is just physically larger. Either way, it is a nice change. It feels … spacious … and light and airy and open.

OK. This place is really dead. One of the baristas has taken off his apron. He’s just slumped in one of the easy chairs in the back, staring off into space. He’s already smoke two ciggies in the last ten minutes. I wonder if Seattle corporate knows about this?

Finally some good tunes going on the radio. A tinkling jazz piano riff. This, I can rock out with. There’s also a fresh pot of coffee brewing. I guess they have to do a pot on the hour, every hour. Whatever today’s blend is, it sure smells good. That’s the timer.

I just asked. Tonight’s blend is Italian roast.

My time is up. Thank you.

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.

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.