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When it rains... well, it gets wet, obviously. Jeeze.

It's been raining. Heavily. Here's a picture of some awful weather. 


I finally managed to escape the house to get to my personal favorite spying location near home. When I arrived, nothing seemed too off. Everyone was busily typing away on their computers, or randomly blabbing on a cell phone. One girl looked drunk, but this is Florida, so it's to be expected at 2p.m. 


It's about the time I noticed drunkypoo that something strange happened. 
People started getting nasty. A couple broke into an enormous fight at the table nearest mine, complete with the obligatory "you're not the man I started dating!" and "my mother warned me about girls like you!" kinds of insults thrown around like bad, bad step-children when daddy drinks.


I decided that I'd leave them to it and head inside for a quick bathroom break, but was met by another couple arguing at the counter, and yet another woman banging on the bathroom door for her slow (no, literally-- she has Downs) child to exit. I had a flashback to the mentally distressed child that once came into the Starbucks I worked for who fingerpainted with his own feces on the bathroom wall, and rapidly gave up my thoughts of stepping foot in there. 


Outside! No, no. Outside is now populated by violently arguing college students. One lady sits among us, rapid-fire talking into a cell phone about how many apartments she has in what states. One of the students snaps, telling her to "take her rich ass back to one of them, we're trying to get shit DONE." 


By now I am assuming I'm hallucinating some collapse of society, that a raging virus is taking over their minds, and not everyone can be this utterly pissed off for no reason. It's about the time that a man mumbles to his friend as they pass... "Fuck Monday."
Right. The working man's burden. That must be it.


But no. These people are not at work. Is the collective hatred for Monday so very strong that it invades the minds and lives of those without 9-5 jobs? Is there PCP in the coffee?
I have no idea, honestly-- but it's fucking funny to watch.


So for now, I'm going to sit back and collect their mutual annoyances for later stories. 
I feel pretty good, myself.

CODE RED.

To make a long story short, I was in the hospital this morning. The being sick part isn't what this is about. As always, you cannot step foot into a medical establishment that caters to broke people without something strange being said near you. A few notables:

I was in triage, being asked the usual questions, when a man was seated a few feet from me to talk to the nurse.

Nurse: "So she says you have a history of brain damage? What happened?"

Patient: "I don't, uh..."

Nurse: "It's ok. It's all strictly confidential here."

Patient: "But, uh... I can't..."

Nurse: "No, no... c'mon. You can tell me. Should I ask your daughter?"

Woman with him: "Oh, we're not... related..."

Patient, loudly: "AUTOEROTIC ASPHYXIATION."

Nurse: "... Ok!"

After the nurses lost me for a moment and the doctor pointed it out (ehhh...) I was taken back. Along the way I was greeted with a large, angry woman speaking to two cops:

Woman: "She hit me first! She hit me first! She hit me first!"

Cop 1: "So you broke her leg."

Woman: "She hit me first!"

Cop 2: "And you felt the need to push her down the stairs?"

Woman: "SHE HIT ME FIRST."

... finally at my bed. Waiting for the doctor, head covered in my hood because fuck you bright hospital lights, while an old lady complains...

Old lady: "This place is shit. I don't need this shit, I'm fine."

Daughter: "Ma, you're hurt."

Old lady: "I don't need this shit. You think I'm so fragile an---"

(Doc walks in)

Old lady: "Owww. Owww... ohhhhh."

Doc: "In a lot of pain, huh?"

Old lady: "Owwww..."

Another guy near me apparently works with pools. He seems like a decent, hardworking kind of guy. He's covered in rashes and hives, so...

Doc: "So you work with pools... have they changed the chemicals recently?"

Guy: "Nope, they have been the same for like eleven years since I got there."

Doc: "Well, sometimes the manufacturing company changes the additives in the pool chemicals without notice, and if you grab the same bottles everyday without checking labels..."

Guy: "I don't get paid to read 'em, I get paid to make green water look blue."

Doc. "Ok... well, with the amount of Benedryl you'll be on, you can't go back to work, but you should find out if anything has changed in th--"

Guy: "I have to work."

Doc: "I know, but--"

Guy: "Need the money."

Doc: "You need to breathe to do that."

Guy: "I don't breathe with my arms."

Doc: "See how that rash is creeping up your shoulders to the neck? Slowly, but surely, it's going to get there. You may only have a rash THIS time, but nobody likes to find the pool guy dead in their yard."

Guy: "Well, it... how many days off."

Note: I've had that doctor before, and I love him for the way he talks to people.

Doctor gets to me. It's fairly quick once we get to that point, but before I am processed to leave, two nurses are talking.

Nurse 1: "So they're going to make us wear pink from now on."

Nurse 2: "What's wrong with our blue?"

Nurse 1: "We're apparently not faggy enough to suit the city of Hollywood anymore."

Nurse 2: "What about Memorial South?"

Nurse 1: "They're already taking it in the ass."

Hey... if you had to handle gunshots, the mentally ill and people with glass bottles up their asses all day, you'd be bitter too.

On my way out, passing the main area again, I was treated to one more thing:

Patient: "I have to ... pee."

Nurse: "The bathroom is across from the nurse's station."

Patient: "I think you took too long to tell me that."

I don't know exactly what happened after that, but I can imagine.

When the rape van approaches...

Sometimes, the creeps you find are burned into memory like a bad bout of food poisoning. You'll never forget the face or their mannerisms, and once they show up again-- BAM!-- reminders of their previous disturbing behavior comes flooding back.

Close to ten years ago, I was graced with the presence of a very distressing man at a Starbucks. I was still in my "HOLY CRAP PEOPLE NO! TOO DAMN SHY!" mode, so talking to anyone was enough to make me panic. I spent most of my time writing or drawing pictures after making sure to remove any extraneous chairs from my table. This didn't deter everyone, sadly. One such fellow (we'll call him Steve, since I don't remember his name) decided that he must know me, and what I was writing. Every day.

Thus far, all I knew of this guy went as follows: He was in his 50s. He wore see-through mesh shirts and tweaked his nipples when he spoke to you. He owned and basically lived in a huge white van with no windows, and he never wanted anyone to see in the back. One Halloween, he was kicked out for wearing shorts so tiny all of his manly bits decided to flop out at the kids coming in. It wasn't until later that I figured he probably intended that.

So, after he kept peering at my writing, he eventually decided I had to see his screenplay. Now, this was a Starbucks-- it's not like he was the only guy writing one there. He was, however, one of the first to ask me to edit it. After he gave me a long description of this and offered to pay me, I said I'd look at it. Holy shit. Vagina. Rape. Vagina. Also, vagina.

It was all about a serial killer that got off by tying women down and eating them, while they were alive, from the genitals up. It went on like this from page to page, in horrible spelling and confusion interludes that involved a puppy or some crap. I didn't know what to make of this... thing. To top it off, his actions made me wonder if this was less screenplay and more autobiography.

It was around this time that he started trying to date a fifteen year old that worked at the now-defunct Wild Oats store. He wrote her long, rambling love letters and spoke of marrying her. The mother of this girl worked there as well, and somehow didn't make him go away BEFORE the stalking began. It was well before this point that I couldn't really handle him anymore, and told him I would be unable to assist with this manifesto of rape. He seemed utterly bewildered as to why, but accepted it. That was until I started working for the Starbucks down the road.

He found me there one day, and seemingly never left. On and on he spoke of his screenplay and how it "would be seriously helpful if you could assist me in this most important matter."

That sounded awful.

So due to circumstances I can't possibly recall, the police showed up one day. Nobody knew if it was because of his love for the young girl, his actions or his special writings-- but he was hauled away on the spot after a search of his van. It was an odd moment all around.

So today I came to the other shop. I wander inside, as usual, and what do I see before me but good old nipple man, alone in a corner and creeping people out. There was an odd sense of wonder and nervousness in me at that moment, seeing this deviant so near me. I carefully and quietly skulked past him, hoping he wouldn't notice. If he did, he never said anything, which was fine by me. I came back out to regale my companions with the story of how I met such a fascinating creature, when he magically removed himself from his seat and slid out the door to his van before I could notice.

At this point he simply looks like a slightly broken old man gazing at porno in a coffee shop. Nothing new there, they do it all the time. This one is special, though. This one is insane.

So remember, kids... sometimes that weird old guy that wants to talk to you about your feet actually hopes you're fifteen and willing to be a snack in the back of a van on Alligator Alley.

It always amazes me what some people really are underneath it all, and that no matter how long they hide, SOMEONE remembers what they've done.

Cat's in the cradle

This is a different kind of run-in with a crazy guy.

It was purely by accident, and I'll have to remember this forever, despite my best interests. The hard part about it is that I've never even met him.

I've had a love/hate relationship with the crazy, drug-fueled people that have crossed my path in the past, and certainly in the future. I know previous drug addicts, and many I call friends. I know current drug addicts I call friends. Some are alcoholics, other turn to pills, and more snort their choices. I still care about them, and can only hope they will be alright with what they do.

Some, though, I cannot be around. They've gone beyond function, roaming the streets and generally just causing havoc. They've ruined themselves, families, and even taken lives-- or tried to. This man happens to be one of the dangerously ruined ones, the kind that make me look on in fear when a friend confesses a drug "adventure." You're only really a few adventures away from being like him.

It was disheartening to hear the first half of the story. I had actually asked a private investigator friend of mine to look into this, to find out anything I could. All I found were things I half expected, half hoped I'd never see. Drugs. Abuse. Felonies. Broken families, children left with restraining orders instead of a decent life. Nothing I can say was surprising after the stories I had heard, really, but still. Disappointing nevertheless.

So for some time, I hunted for more concrete information. I couldn't find much, not even so much as a picture. Facebook was useless, and the people search engines gave me a hundred addresses. A lot of homelessness was involved, and tracking down a homeless felon isn't as easy at it sounds with only the internet available. I decided it was time to take a new route and hunted down some of his family I never even knew had existed before. I managed to get a phone number, and from there, a little more information.

He spent time as a child in the Dominican Republic. He was a highly talented musician, picking up many instruments along the way. Natural gifted all around. Always had a very wicked temper, and a sort of laissez-faire attitude about anything of real importance. Highly intelligent, too. Perhaps a bit too much. Sounded like a rather troubled person, though. That was made obvious by his later mistakes.

Not much came of any of this, though. Not until yesterday when, on a whim, I did another Google search. That's when the mugshots cropped up all over the place.

First was the more recent-- cocaine. Then came trespassing, failure to appear, public intoxication and misconduct. Sometimes there was a home address, most of the time it was simply "at large." I was, to say the least, in a state of disquiet. I'd never seen his face before, and this was the last way I had hoped to.

I'm a person of silent morality. I may have interesting stories to tell people, but rarely do I let much about myself out to be heard. So my general set of ideals, beliefs, and other such inner makings don't often get to come out. It's partially a matter of my own introversion, with a dash of utter fear. I grew up with people disappearing; seldom did they stick around. Investing in others was just a pathway to feeling bad, so I didn't. But inside, I have a very solid set of right and wrong. I am disgusted by certain actions, like abusing an animal or cheating on a spouse. This gave me the same feeling-- but it was coupled with a new sense of revulsion and dismay.

I didn't expect anything good, to be honest. What I did expect was to feel uncomfortable. I got just that.

My family always had a bit of a problem with me. They didn't purposefully shun me, but I was also pinned down as a bad child, no questions asked. There were some things that cannot be discussed here, but needless to say it wasn't always pretty. My uncle was the only real male figure I had to associate with a father until my step-dad came along. My mother never married the man, but he was what I had. His drunken ravings, constant misbehavior, treating me as a horrible person and obvious outsider, and eventual proposition to me for sexual favors didn't leave a good impression. So now, as I stare at the terrifyingly familiar, yet unseen until now face of my actual father, I am only able to wonder why.

There's something deeply disheartening about seeing your paternal progenitor only in a mugshot. Somewhere deep in me I sense I've seen the face before... my recollection of my childhood is uncanny at times, remembering things from toddler-hood that some people have no capacity to recall. So in there somewhere is the knowledge that this man was in my presence at some point, a long time ago. I see hints of my face in his. The eyes remind me of my own. But what truly hit me was his expression. In most of the mugshots, he's smirking. He couldn't care less. In one, however, it's rage. A rage I know I have seen in my own face, the kind that led him to multiple arrests, and ruined his relationships with family and various others. It's in me, and I can feel it burning. His fears, anxieties, anger, addictions, insecurities and disturbances are in my blood, and I know them well.

I have my doubts that I will ever be face to face with this man before his inevitable death from his own misdeeds. I daydream of wandering around his town, hunting him down (most likely at a bar) and having a very pathetic conversation that ends in him brushing me off. That's about the best I can hope for after twenty-six years, I suppose.

A lot of people can shrug these things off without a second thought. For me, though, it'll eat at me. I've always wondered about him off and on, and it consumed me for a time months ago. My own search for who and what I am and will become has been a constant struggle, and knowing of him has been part of the puzzle. It taught me a lot about why I do and act in some ways that confounded me. It has always shown me how NOT to be as a person, for which I am grateful. The genetics in me do not define me, yet they have an impact that is subtle and creeps up on you when you least expect it. The only battle is making sure it doesn't control you.

Yet here I am, staring at this ruined man that created me, and I can only wonder now: will I attend his funeral?

The animals and the gods of sound.

Going through a playlist to discover someone's personality is often an interesting endeavor, but it's not always quite as accurate as one would like. The quiet and meek girl could be a fan of extremely hard electronica music, while the annoying bro from the bar goes home to some 80s love songs.

Over the years of knowing many a talented (or simply someone with a hobby) musicians and realizing my own tastes and how they function to tell of my own inner desires, I have my own ideas of what makes a person and their music.

There's no denying the primal violence of drums-- you're very literally beating the sound out of it. It's the sound of war. Of military processions. There's a wildness to it, and the people behind those instruments tend to display that. Not every drummer is a raging monster, but if you're in a harder genre like industrial or metal, you have to become one for that moment to convey what you're truly after. The bass isn't too far off... the drums hammer you to the core while the bass notes grind through you like a beast. It's something a guitar can't quite reach, and it claws into your core. Sometimes it's a deep drone to jazz, others it hovers just under the surface to give you that cruel but beautiful punch. Most of the bassists I've met tend to be methodical and far-reaching thinkers, with a beautiful mind holding that animal they contain. The guitar, though, is a different level. It's more spiritual. While the drums and bass eat you alive, the guitar, no matter how hard or soft, speaks. It rumbles forth like a god, conversing to something with a desperate wail or a soft whisper. The person wielding it doesn't exist for a while. There is only a guitar.

There is nothing better or worse about either effect, it's simply a matter of your being. Chances are you won't turn on the Mozart when you are in a vile mood, unless you're a serial killer. If you do, that's rather cool and I would like to apologize profusely and ask you not to murder me. Thank you.

Classical music is another more emotional style. Little can be as sweeping and epic than a slow upward progression of violins, punctuated by a roaring timpani downswing. Horns don't tend to move me unless they are droning, like the sounds of an angel blaring his trumpet before the end of time. It's different for everyone. Some people may find their soul in country, others in hip-hop.

I've recently found myself drawn into the hybrid child of electronic and dubstep, for three main reasons.

There are rarely lyrics. I love some lyrical styles, but mostly can do without. I want the music to take me away. If I want words to do it, I read. Again, this is just me.

The beat is crushing. I'm never going to call myself a vicious person in general, but I am not kind when provoked, and the harder the sound is the more it appeals to that creature.

It's epic. There are many mixes that include sweeping classical pieces, and those are amazing to me. It's a meeting of the old glories and the new.

It doesn't appeal to everyone, but that's fine. The way it enters into a person is what matters. I can listen to something and find it to be utterly horrible, but the person that put it on could be in heaven.

There is something inside musicians that allows them to speak through a new appendage, and that instrument becomes them. Whatever is inside of them is being broadcast straight into you in a way they may never be able to verbalize. Unless, of course, you're a singer. You are your own instrument, and that's a gift of its own. I will always be a drummer at heart, despite what my body forbids me to do. I will always hold my guitar in high regard, though. He says things I couldn't write here if I sat and stared at the screen for ten years.

Of course, there are still people out there that fancy themselves musicians that just don't appeal to anyone but themselves. Hey, at least they're happy. Or self-loathing in a coffee shop about how they'll make it one day, damn it. Sort of like the guy always writing a screenplay, there's one for every artistic format.

So if you're a drummer or a trombone player, a pianist or stick to the hammer dulcimer, it doesn't matter. You're still speaking a language everyone will feel to the core in one way or another, something no spoken language can ever convey with the same kind of precision.

We idolize them, love them, and feel for their sounds and worlds.

So even if the musicians you know and love are assholes, they're still in touch with something most of us can only witness with awe.

Flirting with sloth.

Ever so slowly but surely, people are becoming more accustomed to doing absolutely nothing. Why would they need to? All things can be found on the internet and through phones, television-- all delivered to the comfort of your own home. You're reading this online now, and the most productive portions of my body are my fingers and my mind as I type this.

Not that writing is without merit, by any means. It's a wonderful way to present most things, be them opinions or desires. Do people want to read much anymore, though? Not really. Not when you can get it on a podcast or a show. Visuals, aural -- all things that don't require much effort. If it has bright moving pictures, it will capture the attention of many.

Devolving into a sloth is a very casual thing. Remove the simple pleasures in life-- going outside on a beautiful day just to be there, taking a hike, a bike ride, a walk on the beach.

All of this can be lived out in fantasy, so it's not as needed. Now it's just too hot to go outside. I'm tired. My show is on. But we can order in! Maybe tomorrow...

Can't find the show you want on right now? Order it on the computer. The DVD will arrive shortly.

I just can't wait for that. Oh, it's online! Good.

All of this done in a matter of ten minutes, ten minutes that could have led you down the road to a park. You know the places with trees and grass? Yeah, those still exist.

Of course, some people say they don't want to take the risk.

If you go hiking, what happens if you fall and hit your head?

If you go for a drive, what happens if you crash?

What about parks? People get robbed there.

I could trip on my own foot.

The sun could burn me and I could die.

Presumptuous people may think I cannot see the merit in a good, restful day. That's hardly the case. Should every day include rest? Of course. I tend to do that after I pull the covers up, but I am hard to keep still.

Even if you're not a hyperactive adult child like me, there should still be some limits to keep "rest" from becoming sedation. After a time, watching that show becomes more important than other things. You can't go out that night, I need to see what happens next.

What about your own life? What would have happened next for your reality?

A calm collective of humanity is much easier to contain and control than one that is ready to get up in arms about issues. Armchair politicians run rampant, and you can simply log on to a website to sign a petition. People assume they have no power anyway, and if anyone else does, they'll handle it. There is a better chance of seeing someone take an online poll to express an opinion than them going out and voting on a proposition.

American freedom of choice has locked people into a sense of security in their money and on their couches. You're safe at home. Let the television lull you.

Being complacent is going to be the end of our species one day. The general populace delves into nothingness while the aggressive ones take over, and we complain about the wars. People are demanding, but mostly of more additions to their lives they don't even need.

Children are mostly at risk. It's easier to park them in front of a television than to take them out and give them exercise. They need better toys. Faster internet.

People have children and assume they are stuck inside forever.

They make strollers for that.

Read to them. Show them the outside world as stimulus instead of colorful characters on the television that shapes their mind.

You can look as far as a person's car to see how much comfort they need. You can load up on satellite radio, DVD players, vibrating chairs, seat warmers... all so that even in the five minute ride to the grocery store for more delicious fatty foods, you can be assured that entertainment and stimuli are at your fingertips. Luxury has been taken to extremes, and you will hear people complain to no end if their cable goes out for five minutes. I can remember when having AC in the car was considered a huge luxury. Now, if it goes out, you can't go out.

That sun is still lurking up there, ready to ruin your fun.

From medications to calm us to music to sooth us, places to relax us and entertainment to hold us, we're losing touch with the foundations of our own existence. Survival is no longer down to food, shelter, and health. It's being unable to function without your cell phone for a day, making sure you get home in time to harvest your crops, what would we do without this cable internet?

Remember dial-up? No...?

As I sit here in this coffee shop, I am watching people and listening to their complaints. Everyone complains about things many people in other countries would consider trivial. They ran out of blueberry muffins? Oh my god, what ever did you do?

There is a teenage girl about ten feet from me at the counter, whining about how her mother makes her ride the bus so she can understand the importance of money and saving to get a car.

I wish I could meet her mother.

We can pass by the homeless man on the corner asking for a bite, because we have to get to that darling Mexican place with meals for only $15 because Jill told Mary it was très chic.

Perhaps one day, as I'm walking just to walk, I'll run into someone else just walking to walk.

It hasn't happened in a long time. People resort to walking if they must be somewhere. There's an ulterior motive to much of the physical activity people engage in, and it isn't always just for the sake of it or to stay healthy. Let's go to the gym to pick up chicks. Maybe if we walk down the beach, someone will notice we exist.

I have made quite a few people upset with my go, go, go needs. I don't have to be running circles constantly in order to be content, but at least doing something. Going for a drive to discover what's around. Maybe there's a place over there we've never seen. Taking a walk to feel gravel crunch or the see what is on the other side of that hill. Go to a swingset and remind yourself why you loved it as a kid. Talk to people. Learn about them. Learn something new. My memory likes to soak things in-- so while I can quote banal, amusing moments from a movie, I can also tell you the tale of a man I met on the train tracks in Fort Lauderdale one night. When you're used up and you've reached the end of the line, do you want to remember back to all the times you diligently watched the newest fad shows every week, or about the adventures you got into?

Want to spend time making memories with someone you love? It doesn't have to be on the couch.

Rest is good for everyone. It's healthy, it's wonderful. Life, though, isn't one big break. EARN the rest. EARN the time spent collapsed on the bed, thrilled at all the amazing things you managed to pull off that day.

You want to be a rebel?

Go climb a tree.

Take a swim.

Take a hike, you lazy bum.