FUCK YOU SEAL BEACH

I don't care what my well-to-do Long Beach friends say: The Seal Beach Target sucks. I'm perfectly fine with my weekly treks to the one on Bellflower, but for some, that store's not good enough. The problem with the Seal Beach Target is that it's in Seal Beach. I've lived in Long Beach a few years now and I've noticed people from this town frequent Seal Beach. Those who moved to Long Beach don't. I've been dragged to this Target two or three times and each time I go there I remember why I try not to make a habit of it. Seal Beach has two types of resident -- old and almost old. There are lots of bona fide, grade-A bluehair old people all over the place. I know about Leisure World, but can that little retirement community have that much pull in this town? Old people are slow, but that doesn't bother me. I'm slow too. Except today. We used our new coffeemaker to brew extra strength. Three cups later and I was feelin' it! Anyway, old folks, you're ok with me. It's the almost old who really suck. These people can be anywhere from their 30s on up. They act like they own the aisles and the air we breathe. It's all an act. The Seal Beach suburbanite puts on a show. Sure, they've got more money than I'll ever have, but still not nearly as much as say, Laguna or Newport Beach. Seal Beach residents want to act like they're knee-deep in the OC, but they ain't. They're more Long Beach than OC. They know this and it kills them. To compensate, everyone bleaches their hair, looks down on anyone who's not tan, drives an oversized vehicle, talks on their cell phone in the store and doesn't say sorry when it's their fault for running into your foot with a shopping cart. My blonde surfer dude cashier wouldn't look me in the eye. Fucker. He knew I was from Long Beach. I was pale, was wearing Dickies, didn't comb my hair and failed to take the lint roller to my cat-hair -filled black shirt. And for a supposed beach town, there sure isn't much, uh, sand, or water, in this city. If I lived on the water, I'd have a problem with the inland folks claiming to live in Seal "Beach." It's more Seal Asphalt. Just more posing and posturing for those who just miss being filthy rich by a few million dollars. Give me the student-heavy store on Bellflower any day. I like that store. The people watching's much better. There are always lots of college kids just staring at things. My guess as to why is one of three things. 1. They just moved away from home and have no idea what the difference between the eight shelves of laundry detergent is. I can't blame them. I still don't know the answer. OR 2. They're stoned. OR 3. They just moved away from home and have no idea what the difference between the eight shelves of laundry detergent is AND they're stoned. My money's on number three.

Listening to jazz radio. Sure sign I'm getting old. A lone trumpet player and a lone writer doing our respective things just slightly after midnight Saturday. And we're both happy and fine.

Strange Day

I woke up early, 10:10 to be exact. I stayed up til 11, then fell back asleep until 1:15, totally blowing off important stuff. Oh well. At 2, I walked a few blocks to Rite-Aid. On the way, there was an apartment complex that caught my eye. In front was one pink-and-white sandal and a pair of black Dickies thirty feet away. The Dickies were on a patch of grass between two buildings. It looked like they had been thrown from one of the top floors of the building. Where was the other sandal? I thought that was my strange experience for the day. I was wrong. I got into Rite-Aid and instantly ran into Chris, who was buying cold medicine. Again, not the strangest thing that happened. This was: Standing in the prescription line, this weird guy approached me and asked in a joking manner if I was standing in the front of the line. I was third in line and even a blind man knew it wasn't the front. I played along and looked over. Then I looked down. He was five feet tall with a baseball cap pulled so tightly over his head that his salt and pepper hair made batwings on the side of his head. He had one of them fuzzy comb moustaches and his beety eyes were open real wide. Before I could chuckle at his mildly humorous observation, he went into a monologue. "What animal comes from the clouds?" he asked. I said I didn't know. "Rain...deer." Hardy fucking har, leave me alone creep. Without missing a beat, he asked me if I knew what the word pasteurized meant. There was no way out so I said no. Then he extended his right arm, hand flat, and ran it past his eyes. Past-your-eyes, get it? Before I could respond, he leaned forward in a real pathetic way and said "Pretty bad, huh?" Insead of answering, I looked for the camera. I fancy myself a well-known writer, but I'm not famous enough to be on Punk'd, am I? I stepped out of line for a second and he zoned in on the couple in front of me. They were your average early 30s boring white couple, the kind who, once they get in their hybrids in the parking lot, comment on all the weirdos in that store. They looked slightly less amused than I was. I was glad he was gone. Then I got back in line and he got behind me again. Total bummer. Someone walked passed us and he said "Happy New Year." Needless to say, I thought he was trying his act on a third victim and didn't turn around. He got no response, so he leaned over my right shoulder and repeated it. "Happy New Year." Startled, I turned around and he wished me a Merry Christmas. Today's January 6! Obviously someone needed to be bumped to the front of this line and get their meds. I wished him the same although on the inside I wished he would leave me alone. His next one really got me. "Did you hear the one about the rope?" "No," I replied. "Ah, skip it." I've never heard any of these before. I wondered if they were his own material. If he was five, I'd say he might have had a promising career ahead of him. But he was older than shit and probably got hit by a bus on his way home.