Entries Tagged 'Uncategorized' ↓

When it was all done, when he knew no one was going to tap him on the shoulder and say � excuse me, Bob � um, please, they read the wrong verdict, please, I know this is awkward� when he knew he was free, Bob Blake was going to enjoy every single moment of his courthouse vindication. Thank you, Bob. We were treated to the magic of a rambling old murderous crank with nothing better to do than stand on the steps of justice and spit in her face. Amongst the talk of scabs and cowboying, mixed in there somewhere was the sneer of an old man on a fast track into oblivion.

Blake will make his money, and well earned too, for that 30-second sob when the verdict was read. But the leech is on him now, and he will be second to the dinner plate from now until his life is over, and even then � cold and dead, Bob Blake will get buried where the jackal says, and only after the jackal eats.

Bob knows. The jackal put his arm around his shoulders and smiled into his ear yesterday, and told him, hey, Bob, shut up now, let�s not give all our meat away. There�s a TV deal to be had and a book to write. Bob is OJ without the pesky civil suit, because there is no Denise for a scheming ho like Bonnie Lee, no screaming fathers or sisters who will make Bob�s life gift a curse.

Thank God. There are plenty of killers and pedophiles roaming the streets, but it�s hard to spot them in the bright desert glare of Bush America. Bob Blake, standing up there with spittle on his face, showed us all. So now we know. Free Michael Jackson!

Bob Blake beat the rap today, though he will never be free from the stink of his bad acting verdict. In today’s Cowboy America, Blake was a hero tv star who aged poorly and made bad decisions about girls — usually enough to make the wolf pack turn on you, looking for blood and a warm caracass to sleep off a night of blood lust. Lucky for Blake, his ex-wife was a whore who had it coming, so sayeth the Jury, halleujiah.

I think I’m gonna kill my wife. Only Joking.

Hey Maaaan, what are YOU doing on my freeway?
I didn’t see the car until it was too late. He–I’m sure the kids who sat in the backseat called him Daddy, or Pops, or something–was apparently trying to get off the freeway without waiting his turn. To do so, he swooped down from the fast lane and jammed his little white Toyota a foot or so off my front bumper. Then he stopped.

I didn’t have time to think. Luckily, instincts were enough to avoid a tragic accident.

That was Tuesday. On Monday, I sat and sucked fumes for an hour, earthmovers to my left and minivans to my right.

So this is progress?

Every freeway is torn up, and along with it, just about every major thoroughfare that serves Orange County. Lanes end mysteriously, potholes are big enough to swallow whole Yugos and concrete pylons stick out into lanes. As a result, the simple act of driving has morphed into a screen test for Mad Max in the Orange Dome.

Like Queensberry at a bar fight, traditional rules of the road are history. No more right of way. Forget passing to the left. Merging? What’s merging?

Thanks to the battle zone conditions, a new driver is emerging from the rubble:

Doin’ the Mario
There he goes, zipping around construction zone corners, zooming up to the traffic then bounding into the lane with the most room.

Most Likely to Be Seen: On the 5 at the Orange Crush, or at the 55/91 interchange.

Mr. End Around
He’s not going to wait like all those other yahoos. Nah. He’ll jump to the front and wait on the island for some poor fool to let him in. Most Likely to Be Seen: At the 91/57 interchange, and especially at the 5/55 connector.

Little Miss Make Your Own Lane
She’s too late to take cuts, and, like husband Mr. End Around, certainly will not wait like a good citizen. So she makes her own way, transforming traffic patterns and wreaking havoc along the way. Damn–traffic sure goes faster when all lanes turn right! Most Likely to Be Seen: Irvine or Newport roads, but sometimes wanders into central Orange County.

“Hey Maaaan, what are YOU doing on my freeway?”
We all know this guy. Can usually be found driving a beat up LUV truck decorated with bumper stickers on the back. Liable to make sudden stops or lane changes for no apparent reason. Brake lights do not work. Most Likely to Be Seen: Everywhere, especially when most other people are at work.

SUVIE Susie
She’s blond, she’s beautiful and she’s the Queen O’ the Road in her big ol’ nasty Expedition. This is the perfect car for the girl who never really learned how to drive. Just put it in gear and go, babe. Whatever’s in front will soon move.

Most Likely to Be Seen: You don’t see Susie. She sees you. If you’re lucky.

MiniVan Marla
Marla didn’t marry as well as Susie, so now she’s stuck in an old-model Minivan with three kids and a dog. It doesn’t have much acceleration and it looks like crap. But no matter. As long as you balance the thing like a sail boat, it’s a nimble little tank. Besides, most people see Marla in the Minivan and make room.

The OC Wedge
In Orange County, minivans and SUVs are like buffalo in the Old West. Get three or four in the same vicinity and they crowd together in a strange migration pattern. It makes for great visibility on the freeway, which is especially handy in spots (5, 55,405, 22, 91) infamous for sudden stops and starts.

The Brain Surgeon
This is the person who decided to tear down all our freeways and roads at the same time. Is it the same guy who decided that a one-lane car pool bridge between the 5 and the 55 was a good idea?

Earl’s Home Cookin’
Chicken Fried Steak and Eggs, steaming hot and full of grease. Or maybe it’ll be the New York Steak and Eggs, served with a heaping pile of home fries spilling off the platter. And be sure to order up those delicious biscuits soaked in gravy so thick you could eat the lumps with a fork.

Ahh. There’s nothing quite like a plate full of lard.

And there’s no better place to get it than Earl’s Home Cookin’ Restaurant in Orange. Through good times and bad, Earl’s has been the place where real (but not real healthy) Americans go to chow down on traditional coffee shop fare — and is there anything more American than a huge steak served with a slab of potatoes, or a sandwich so big you can barely manage to wrap your jaws around it?

If you want entertainment, go to Lenny’s and play with the table tents. But if you want a hot cup of coffee and food sure to satisfy, go to the only place on the safe side of the Southland that’s open 25 hours a day. At Earl’s, if you wait to be seated you’ll wait for a long time. The menus are where they belong–on the tables–and what the servers lack in sophistication they more than make up for in friendliness and ability.

It’s worst because no one ever lost weight eating at Earl’s.

Earl’s is simply the best worst place to eat in OC. It’s best for one simple reason: nothing ever beats a good piece of meat and pile of potatoes. Yeah, they’ve got salads and such on the menu, and I’m sure they do a good job of it, too, but no one seriously eats that stuff at Earl’s. What you get ain’t foo foo food–just old-fashioned grub and good service at a reasonable price.

In fact, spend enough time here and you’ll start looking like one of the regulars. Which is to say you might start looking like a real Orange Countian. If you ever wondered if there was a thing called locals in such a transient place like Orange County, Earl’s is the local’s natural habitat. It’s here you’ll find the working stiffs and business owners gobbling down lunch. And of course, the pyramid-scheme salespeople are always here, hunched over tables and pitching their game to some poor sucker.

Best of all is the smoking section — I mean the indoor patio.

Out where the air is thick you’ll find the senior crowd puffing on their Lucky Strikes, hangin’ out and talking about Reagan to a runny-nose gang of students from Chapman University.

Which is exactly what happens when you put real food in front of real people.

That’s Life
The following stories are fictionalized accounts of actual police reports.

All he got was a sympathetic shrug of the shoulders, an awkward smile and a handshake. It all happened in a blur, and even though deep down inside he knew it was coming, he still went numb to the news.

Downsized. Laid off. Canned. Just an ordinary man, an unlucky ordinary man who got a pink slip for Christmas.

Should have listened to that little voice that told him to save, to stop living paycheck to paycheck. But times were so good, everyone was so prosperous. How could this happen in the fastest growing economy in the nation?

All he got was a dirty smile and a sarcastic shrug from a boss who never really liked him anyway. It makes him wonder why; he always worked hard and kept his nose clean. The reason dawns on him as he drains his third martini. He wasn’t one of them, and everyone knows those guys stick together. This unlucky ordinary man is looking for someone to blame.

It doesn’t take long to find something to burn.

It sits in front of a house in the same Fountain Valley neighborhood he calls home, just a couple of streets over from his own. Bastards. He’ll show them. He’ll burn that damn Chanukah flag.

Except the thing won’t catch fire. No matter how many times he holds the flag up to a match, the thing will not blaze up like all the times he’s seen it done on television. He runs out of matches and tries ripping it–but only breaks the pole.

He leaves it lying on the ground in front of his neighbor’s house, a broken flag with a hole burned in the center.

Fountain Valley…
Someone removed a resident’s Chanukah flag from a holder outside the home, broke the flagpole and attempted to burn the flag sometime Thursday night. The flag did not catch on fire, but a 1-inch hole was burned into it. It was left on the driveway.
—
He always knew a sales career was not for the thin-skinned. That was OK; it was a decent living and he was tough enough to take it. As a salesperson at a Fullerton furniture store, he got his share of challenges. Every time he thought he’d blow it, he’d recall what the old man who trained him would say:

“Don’t ever let ‘em see you sweat, Charles. Don’t ever let them see the real you.” It was good advice, but Charles believed that to maintain self-dignity you had to draw a line. He just hoped he’d never find out what would happen if a customer made him cross past the point of no return.

John walked into the store looking for a fight. Traffic was terrible and Christmas was racking up ever more in credit card debt. Why he was here he didn’t really know for sure, except for some vague notion that his wife wanted a china hutch.

This was supposed to be the store with the cheapest furniture and easiest credit terms. He had already been turned down three times, and John was not used to rejection. Charles smiled and told him not to worry. They approve everyone, he said. Bad credit, no credit–no matter. Everyone got furniture here.

He showed John every single hutch in the store, opened all the doors and drawers for his careful inspection.

John haggled. Charles told him the price was not negotiable.

He called him a liar. Charles asked him not to be insulting.

Finally, John realized he was getting nowhere, so he picked the first hutch Charles showed him and asked for the paperwork. Charles smiled and told him not to worry. They approve everyone here–bad credit, no credit, no matter. Everyone gets credit at this furniture store.

They approve everyone here–bad credit, no credit, no matter.

Everyone, unless your name is John and you’re maxed out beyond hope. No one trusted his signature anymore–not even the easiest furniture store in town.

It gets a little fuzzy after that. John started getting crazy, yelling and shouting and creating a scene. Charles remembers that John said some pretty nasty things, and at some point he decided that he didn’t want to be a punching bag anymore. He can’t recall what it was that did the trick. All Charles knows is that he pushed John out of the store and closed the door.

John called the cops and filed assault charges.

Fullerton… Report of an assault…apparently a furniture salesman grabbed a customer and pushed him out of the store.

There is something very wrong with us. While we fiddle about Merry Christmas, someone is murdered and her baby taken from her womb. While we fume about gay marriage, a woman dies in the heartland and a Christian conductor in the suburbs of California takes his own life. Happy Holidays.
It’s late in the game now, very late. It’s getting cold and dark, and still we fiddle. Focused as we are on the thought of righteous behavior, we have forgotten that Christians are grounded by love and tolerance. Instead, our leaders preach anger and cast a hateful eye toward those who do not fit in the Christian mold.