Today, ready for a long day of poolside activity I drove on over to the local Rite Aid to pick up some Swimmer diapers for Arch. I pulled into the parking lot and waved to the man with the great big bag of charcoal to go ahead and cross the street in front of me.
"Go ahead," I said sweetly, humming along to the ster-e-er-e-o.
At first I thought he was waving back as if to say, "thanks" but then he squinted and glared and lifted his arms above his head as if to threaten me. "What the hell is your problem, bitch? Jesus Christ!"
"What?" Um. Are you..."
"We don't need your permission to cross the fucking street, dumb bitch."
"Come on kids, get in the car."
That's right. He was a FAAAATHER. He had KIIIIIDS. The children didn't even flinch at his outburst and I was so caught off guard I accidentally bought Archer the Little Mermaid, pink swimmer diapers instead of the blue "for boys" Nemos. He will be spending the week exploring his feminine side (sorry, little dude) and it's all the lifted-Suburban driving, red-mustache rocking, flip-flop Tommy Bahama wearing, Budweiser The King of Beers drinking, asshole in the parking lot with the W sticker on his rear and the softball-coach waddle. Growing up these men were everywhere. Perving on us at Ice Cream socials and pizza joints, drunk at the beach littering their idiocy all over the place, blasting Rush Limbaugh on their way to Wal-Mart.
Our L.A. crazies are far crazier than, well, everyone, but at least they're well-dressed and/or homeless without their dozen kids following them around in the streets. That's just aint cool, dude.
Unfortunately I was not born to be confrontational. I was born to smile and nod and flash a thumbs-up like a proper tourist and then talk shit on my blog, thank you very much.