pizza picnic, pirates, and psychos

i've never thought of a church as a likely place to meet boys. but last night changed everything. after the meeting finished there was a pizza picnic on the front lawn. i was sitting with my friends, enjoying my salad and pizza, and in general having a nice summer evening. i get up to throw out my trash and was accosted, "hey, i really like your shirt!" i look left and see a thirty-something with chops and wire glasses. i know what shirt i'm wearing (a messy pirate plus schooner motif from urban outfitters), and purposely don't look down to acknowledge this comment.
"that's a great shirt," he continues in a pirate accent, "arrr you a pirate?" obviously not, real pirates would never wear a shirt that's basically a name-tag. (unless they are very clever pirates.)
i'm gradually feeling more and more uncomfortable, knowing that he and his group of friends are all looking at me and my shirt, which consequently means that they are also looking at my boobs. (i am thinking of purging my wardrobe of all tees that are not solid-colored to avoid these interactions.) i have to walk past them to get to the garbage, so i politely stop and say hello. he offers me a handshake-hand. obviously he was not paying attention to that body part, otherwise he'd know that both my hands are full of empty plate and cup. no handshake.
"pirates mean a lot to me. i have a jolly roger tattooed on my back, it was done by pirates..." (i'm nodding and smiling) "they saved my life out at sea, and if i wanted to live i had to become one of them; it was either branding or a slit throat." (nice, right, sure...but what if he's serious? do pirates actually sail the seas today?")
his friends shake their heads with that, my-friend-is-so-embarrassing-does-he-really-think-this-is- charming-look. so i realize it's all just to make conversation, to engage me in some way. well, it was really working.
"we've met before, right?"
"umm, i don't think so."
"i know you from somewhere...how long have you been coming here?"
"around four years...off and on"
"this is really weird, i'm sure i know you. hmm...what's your story? where'd you go to school?" "westmont...started in two-thousand."
"i graduated by then, that couldn't be it."
i figure he'll drop it at this point, notice i was still balancing the trash in my hands, and let me leave just as politely as i could. of course it wouldn't be that easy. he introduces me to his friends, two of which i already met once before. by now i'm feeling pretty desperate. i mean, i'm standing above 4 guys sitting cross-legged, all smiling up at me. (i feel like a momma bird that should vomit up her dinner and carefully divvy out the mush in each of their smiling beaks.) i do my best to end the conversation enough to excuse myself to the garbage can... while my back is turned the one with the chops yells across the lawn, "you're coming back, right?"
"no, i'm going home. i have to work at four tomorrow morning."
"oh, where do you work?"
"starbucks" i say as quietly as i can.
"octopus?"
"no, starbucks!"
"free coffee!"
"riiiight"
"maybe that's how i know you"
"yeah, maybe"
this episode confirms the hypothesis...
talking about pirates does not garuntee booty of any sort, not at church picnics, not anywhere

gustatory athletes, we commend you

today was the world championship of competitive eating. i happened to tune in to espn2 just as the quarter-finals commenced, which, as everyone knows, is the "chopped italian salad" discipline. the competitors go head-to-head, and the winner is determined by the weight of the leftover food on their plates.
oddly enough, i was first introduced to this subculture of eaters while at the gym (yes, i am one of those.) i was a bit surprised at the programming choices for a place where most of it's visitors are painfully aware of every calorie they consume. i guess if you can't eat what you want, what better entertainment than to watch people gorge themselves in 4 minutes flat?
now that i have typed this, i realize that it was a lot funnier and more ironic several hours ago. sorry to waste your time...but, if you're reading blogs, i guess you're pretty used to wasting time. in that case, let me recommend that you check out www.ifoce.com for more information on the international federation of competitive eating.

be like me

read:
gillian rose-- love's work
thomas merton-- thoughts in solitude
mary oliver-- dream work
flannery o'connor-- everything that rises must converge

hear:
the arcade fire--funeral
devendra banhart-- nino rojo
devendra banhart-- oh me oh my
owen-- self-titled
adem-- homesongs

watch:
batman begins
charlie and the chocolate factory
me and you and everyone we know

tell me:
what should i read, hear, and watch?

the oh-see and me

in light of the ongoing attention given to the illustrious county called orange, i decided it was time to visit this area of the universe to discover the hidden secrets that must make THE OC so irresistible.
on the 405, i couldn't help thinking of that death cab for cutie song. the band made popular by the television show, THE OC. i find it both depressing and wonderful that this band is featured on a hit tv show. Depression because they are now so mainstream and fabulous because a good band is making money off their music.
in the middle of the labyrinth of a townhouse paradise i found an oasis of sorts. a library, with "the neighborhood cafe" attached. if i lived in THE OC, i would spend my down time there. everyone who lives such a glamorous life of spa treatments, beach fun, wild parties, and nice cars needs a place to unwind, access free wireless internet to update blogs about the nights before.
the only difficulty i found in this county is how easy it is to get lost. really, everything looks exactly the same. while driving i kept on saying, "that's got to be the street/ exit/ intersection/ shopping center where we have to turn." but it rarely was, but we eventually made our way out of there, back to the american riviera i call home.
overall, it was a very educational trip. i gathered plenty of research, and am in process of compiling it all. hopefully, in time i will have the secrets of THE OC unlocked and will make millions on a book i will publish called How To OC: The Complete Guide To Recreate THE OC In Your County.

sighting three

yesterday:
after three days of not starbucking, my mind finally cleared enough to remember that the beach is a really good place to spend an afternoon. as i drove past the overcrowded parking lot i noticed black smoke coming from that area. i figured it was the result of an over-zealous barbecuer. i glanced over to see...not a sunburned man in a chef hat wilding waving a spatula, but the hood of an suv ON FIRE.
i thought about calling an emergency number, but decided someone else, like the owner of the car, had already done so. (i do realize this is the same assumption that many people make, which causes some emergencies to become disasters, but i was on VACATION.)
the clouds of smoke got blacker and bigger, and finally i heard some sirens. then the funniest thing happened, the black smoke turned white--just like that. i think firefighters use magic, not water like in the good ol' days.

fête de les Français

last weekend S---- and i were driving past oak park and i remembered that the french festival was happening there. we decided to stop by, check out the scene pretty quickly with the easy excuse of getting crepes for dinner. While we waited in line, a over-excited drunk woman started talking to us about almost everything. towards the end she flippantly mentioned that some drag queen show was going to close the festival. i didn't really believe her; i mean, she was really drunk, not making much sense, and we were still in santa barbara, where i don't think they grant admission to transvestites (other than the prostitutes on haley st.)
fortunately for us, she was right. we heard some really bad girl-band songs (sheryl crow to name one) playing over some loud speakers and eventually found the stage with 4 guys dressed as ladies strutting around. i can only bestow the name of "queen" to one performer, the others just looked like normal guys who lost a bet.
after the show we wandered past some sartre, rousseau, and voltaire books, some posters of orangina advertisements, and multi-colored berets. in the middle of this shopping plaza was a guillotine. ummm, what the hell? don't they see how tasteless that is? i'm all for honesty, but come on, it's a french festival, it has nothing to do with what it truly french. it's just an excuse for rich people to hang out in a park, drink perrier, eat nutella, and buy their kids berets. i can't help but wonder if they had some actors do execution reenactments earlier in the day, sort of like the civil war reenactments that are so popular in the south.

rob lowe touched my hand (and my heart)

i know, i can hardly believe it myself, but it's true. we were both leaning over the counter (to be closer to each other, of course). i, with a sharpie in hand, writing down his drink order on that all-too-familiar starbucks cup, he, with his badly-needing-a-shave face looking at me just so. that's when he casually, and sincerely, and sweetly, and gently put his hand on mine and said, "i'm sorry (pause) i wanted that iced." then i teased him in that special way that only close friends can tease: about how he made my life so difficult, wasted a cup, and ordered a non-existent drink (don't believe me? you figure out how an iced, dry cappuccino makes sense.) and he smiled oh-so-genuinely at me, and i honestly think we connected, i know he'll be back. he didn't leave me a tip, but he didn't need to, his presence was enough, monetary gifts would cheapen what we have. those celebrities try to get away with everything, and they do, because we let them.