MILF MONDAY

If I was looking to put the moves on an attractive, well-to-do woman in her mid-40s, going to Target on a Monday afternoon is where I'd start. I kicked myself last night. My alarm clock broke and I knew that meant one thing: going back to Target the next day. I was at two goddamn Targets on Saturday buying junk for my vacation. I willed myself there today. I didn't want to go, but knew I had to. The parking lot was nearly empty, as was the store itself. Inside were aisles and aisles of tanned 40-something trophy wives spending their rich husbands' dollars. Must be nice. I mean, they were everywhere. So much so I'm writing about it now. Another reason I prefer the Target on Bellflower to the one in Seal Beach. And now, a moratorium on writing about Target...


Lakers win! Lakers win! All is well.

Ran too many errands today. Not having a real job is pretty good, but hear you me, there is not enough time in one day to get everything accomplished. It's funny how I sat behind a desk from 9-5 for three years and got by just fine. Now that my schedule's wide open, I can't get shit done. Between the dishes, sweeping, going to the bank, Target (fuck, I broke my rule. Ok, starting now...), Trader Joe's, a book store run by a creepy middle-aged man, dropping off W-9 forms and emailing editors, there's not much "me" time. I suppose "me" time is from 10 p.m. until about 3 a.m. And from 3 a.m. to 11 a.m. That's when I sleep.

Food advice of the day: Trader Joe's sells these pre-packaged eggplant wraps. Normally I don't go for pre-packaged anything, but these things are something else. Slap those in the microwave for 45 seconds, douse them in whatever sauce that comes with it, and get to work. Perfect for the lunch eater on the go. Or for guys like me who shift from the desk in my office to the couch to watch the 3 p.m. re-runs of Around the Horn and Pardon the Interruption. All hail Woody Paige!

Spent way too long today filling out an online grad school application. I must be the only person under the age of 50 who thinks technology is a regression (says the guy typing on a blog). I never thought using a No. 2 pencil was all that difficult. Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe cell phones and text messaging and myspace pages and owning a car and pulling out laptops at airports and coffeeshops is the way to go. It all confuses me and leaves me pining for simpler times. Wake me when they've perfected the beaming up process and hover boards are the top-selling item at Toys R Us, err, I mean, amazon.com. Those seem pretty fucking cool.

Bynum out eight weeks. This is a bummer, man.

Been thinking about this Charles Schulz doc I saw on PBS a few nights ago. Learned lots of interesting things. The thing that stuck with me the most was a quote about working. I'll paraphrase...Someone was asking him why Peanuts stuck around so long and why he didn't take vacations and relax. He said his was the kind of job that people don't quit. He didn't get into drawing to make money so he could get out of it. But he said it much, much better. It was one of the most intelligent and inspiring things I've ever heard. It makes perfect sense to those who have something inside that has to come out. Two years ago I realized that I've been writing for much, much longer than I previously assumed. It's been there for a long time and I don't see it going away. Yes, money, fame and fortune, it would be better than the position I'm currently in, but that wouldn't silence me. Nothing will. This is who I am and what I do -- money or not. I always knew I'd give in, and give in I did. I played around with music for a long time, hoping that was what I was supposed to be doing. But it's not. This is. I can't draw a lick, but my respect for Mr. Schulz is higher than ever.

Caught the premiere of Scott Baio is Old and Making a Big Mistake or whatever the hell it's called. My girlfriend says he reminds her of me. Yeah, I said, except for the thousands of Playmates he's fucked. Other than that, we're twins. But I can't totally disagree. Assuming his on-screen persona is somewhat real, I respect and understand his position. He wants to be left alone. He wants everything to just go away. He wants freedom, peace, quiet. Me too. If I had lots of dough, no real job and was a celebrity since pre-pubescence, I'd probably not want to lift a finger too. Why start now?

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.