Wednesday, August 15, 2007

...Sometimes, There's a Man Who Fits Right in There...


















..."Way out west there was this fella I wanna tell ya about...he called himself "The Dude". Now, "Dude" - there's a name no man would self-apply where I come from. But then there was a lot about the Dude that didn't make a whole lot of sense. And a lot about where he lived, likewise. But then again, maybe that's why I found the place so darned interestin'. See, they call Los Angeles the "City Of Angels"; but I didn't find it to be that, exactly. But I'll allow it as there are some nice folks there...after seeing Los Angeles, and this here story I'm about to unfold, well, I guess I seen somethin' every bit as stupefyin' as you'd seen in any of them other places. And in English, too... sometimes there's a man... I won't say a hero, 'cause, what's a hero? Sometimes, there's a man. And I'm talkin' about the Dude here - the Dude from Los Angeles. Sometimes, there's a man, well, he's the man for his time and place. He fits right in there. And that's the Dude. The Dude, from Los Angeles. And even if he's a lazy man - and the Dude was most certainly that. Quite possibly the laziest in all of Los Angeles County, which would place him high in the runnin' for laziest worldwide. Sometimes there's a man, sometimes, there's a man... "


...so the heat in this town has been abominable for the past week-and-change and I remember looking up one day and screeching to the sun in my best Jeff Lebowski/ Bridges drawl: Dude, new shit must come to light"...so I've been doing most of my online work/ studying at the library...from morning, through the day and into the night...what can I say? The A/C is boomin' and its good to see other people toiling at whatever they do on their laptops, sometimes you need to witness first-hand that you're not alone in your exploits (I've closed the joint about four times so far)...

...there's a cafe here that sells somewhat overpriced cups of joe/ sandwiches which isn't very cost effective or any better than shite I can bring in myself, so that's what I've been doing-- these days a fool is expediently divested of his loot, even at la biblioteca...after the first couple of days, I started to bring coffee I brewed myself, the way I like it...and I'd worked out a little tip scheme with this female barista wherein I'd get a couple of packets of brown sugar, a little cream and I'd tip her instead of buying a cup of that overheated, overpriced swamp water...und alles war mit der Welt gut...well, all was good with the world until today, that is...

























..."This agression will not stand, man"...the regular lady wasn't there, so I asked this white-haired, white guy if it'd be cool if I got a couple of packets of the sweet stuff..."what and not buy any coffee?"...well, yeah, I have my own..."Well, I think not."...there were a couple of other people sitting around and, as I jacked into the vitriolic fury that only a man, jonesing for caffeine while trying to quit smoking can feel, I looked him straight in the eye and said: "thanks very much, punk"...I could've continued and offered to pay for the sugar, which I started to do...but then I looked at the way that fucking homunculous' attitude changed when he thought I wasn't going to proffer any loot and it sickened me...would all of the wheels have fallen off the wagon if he'd given me two packets of sugar? I understand the laws of supply and demand and all but damn son..."mark it zero, dude..."














...and then there's the "testosterone thing"...I wasn't going to give that macrocephalic oldster the satisfaction...something in his tone didn't jibe (women, I know this sounds crazy but men go through little pissing contests such as this all day, every day...whether we'll admit or not is another issue altogether...just accept it...I have)...I didn't threaten to throw him a beating as a younger me might've...I passed and am now drinking my coffee sans sugar and milk...as I do so...I'll live...the question is, would I ever sink to that if my life were so drab that I found satisfaction in condiment blocking (when one of those cardboard-hatted, fast food people standing behind on of those cash registers with the little pictures on 'em, act like they're giving you ketchup that THEY THEMSELVES BOUGHT, when you ask for a couple more...when they finally acquiesce to your plaintive beseeches, they do so grudgingly...like they're doling out loaves 'n fishes...what the fuck is THAT all about?)...would I suck the bullet out of a barrel, rather than take that exit to McJobland?...I think not...whatever's clever, son...keep your fucking sugar...I'll wait for that cool chick to return...hope this gig in foisting bad java on the world pans out for you...I'll live, besides, things could be worse...I could have YOUR GIG...and just to give you a feeling what straight black coffee does to me on an empty stomach, I leave you with this Jackie Treehorn, Gutterball Production...(to stop the tunes in the iVoon, just click stop on the iPod)...laters...

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