Oh, you silly bird...

"Hot town, summer in the city, back of my neck getting burnt and gritty... Been down, isn't it a pity... doesn't seem to be a shadow in the city..."

Can't get the song out of my head today. It is so perfect for this kind of weather. Florida is a desperately hot place-- seems to sap all of the life right out. I decided to brave it anyhow and go out for a bit of coffee, as I often do.
After a quick dash to catch my bus, rushing on and grabbing a seat, I notice this odd older man staring at the camera I carry with me. After some silence, he finally stands up and pulls the stop cord frantically.
"Devil box! Devil box! DEVIL BOX!"
And poof, he was gone.
It amused me for two reasons:
1.) He seemed to operate under the assumption that cameras do, in fact, steal souls,
2.) If you were sitting on the right side of the bus, you'd think he was pointing at my crotch.

Next bus! It seemed to be uneventful enough to start until a young, very much flaming black man/child stepped on. He had a perfect 70s porn mustache, pants hanging around his hips and a bandanna around his little flaming neck. He was trying to stealthily solicit some of the older riders, which was met with both confusion and blatant disgust. It didn't work out too well, to say the least. He finally fled after one of the older gentlemen decided he was going to give a piece of his mind, which was rapidly degrading to a bit of his fist.

I was pleasantly surprised to not be hassled on the way to the coffee house, aside from a car randomly trying to drive up the side of the railroad tracks-- as I was walking in that exact spot. As much as I need to be plowed into the gravel by a car, I had to do a quick little leap to avoid pulverization. He seemed angered that I had the audacity to walk on the sidewalk. That he was driving on. Ahem.

I try my best to be left alone when I'm writing or otherwise engaged in something I am deeply interested in, but there is never any guarantee some pushy chatterbox won't decide that I seem the kind of person to drop all and listen about their tales of woe as pertains to a certain boil, a poor sex life (my wife won't have sex with me... do you like blowjobs? 'Cause my wife doesn't...), or how that prostate just isn't what it used to be. Either way, that was my intent today. Sit quietly, put on some music and write some. The course of my writing was changed a bit thanks to the coffee shop patrons.

I see the usual riffraff ... Mullet Man, Wheelchair Guy, That Guy with Urine in a Cup.... (he's very special, indeed) but did not expect this exchange from a well-dressed Brit:

Well-dressed Brit: "Oi."
Me: "Hm?"
WDB: "You're writing."
Me: "Yes..."
WDB: "Whut about?"
Me: "I have this blog... thing..."
WDB: "Oh. One of those."
Me: "Yeah."
WDB: "So eh. Why bother? You Americans don't read."
Me: "I beg to differ. I read every day."
WDB: "Right. But not books."
Me: "Yes. Books. Those pulverized woody bits with binding and such and printing."
WDB: "Smartarses, all of you."
Me: "Yes."
WDB: "Well, right, keep having a go at aiming for something Americans are worthless for."
Me: "Indeed."

When he left, he started talking to some other chick at the restaurant next door. I am assuming he was just going around starting fights, because she looked right pissed after only a few minutes.
Oi! Cheers.