Procrastination Station

So, I am sitting at my little cafe, doing some work and some people watching. In other circles, this may be known as "eavesdropping".

But anyway... Today, we have a "normal" mix of Friday morning coffee-drinkers:

There are several older men playing guitars on the patio and producing some nice harmonies. It reminds me of Neil Young, only without the warbling*.

Two stoney California surferdoods, who are hawking their new hemp (of course) clothing line from the back of a brand new Subaru, are jumping around and taking their clothes off. They are "on the road", going to (surprise, surprise) Santa Monica. Their rooftop Yakima pod-rack-thing is full of hemp fiber yoga pants and t-shirts. They are "the people's people", they say, as they snap off photos with their digital SLR. Also, why do people like this always have stickers to hand out? I am now the proud owner of a big blue bumper sticker, saying "Jungymaven" or something, which I will promptly put nowhere. Like most English words that begin with the letter "j", I also have no idea how to pronouce their brand's name. (Hungymaven? Yoongymaven?) I avoid having to say the word out loud while listening to the "story of hemp" (for the 237th time in my life). Did I know that the Constitution was written on hemp paper, for example? (Well, actually, it was the Declaration of Independence, but I play along and act amazed, as if I'd never heard this shpiel before.) I wait for a reference to 4:20. Thankfully, it doesn't come. They seem like nice enough kids. Good handshakes, anyway. They bounce back to their car and head towards the 101.

Some scantily clad Cali hipster girls are sitting closeby, "inspiring each other" (their words, not mine!). They look to be freezing their bazongas off, since it's only 57 degrees today and foggy, and they are in semi-transparent tubetops. For whatever reason, they also have their over-sized Paris Hilton sunglasses on. In the spirit of a truly converted-to-Californian-wussy, I am in a wool sweater, scarf and gloves, and still trying to absorb the heat from my coffee to try to warm up.

The owner of the cafe pulls up with her son, who is about 5 and has dreadlocks. They are white. She almost hits another car as she pulls in, since she is (wait for it....) on the phone. Lots of honking ensues. The other (also white) dreadlocked barefoot patrons shake their heads at her, and say "Damn hippies".

The bearded man who is living in a (not so) "mobile" home next to the cafe (with his two 140 lb. dogs) pulls out a Razor phone and laments his one dog's food and skin allergies. I think that he just hangs out there all day. He talks loudly and constantly and seems to know everyone, including the bicycle-riding man with the prosthetic metal leg, who keeps coming and going. I can see the metal leg clearly, only because he is wearing pink capri pants. Mobilehomeguy keeps talking about "Back East"**, to anyone who will listen. This is certainly a better place to live in a trailer than "Back East", I'm sure.

Stereotypical Italian Man (fashionably dressed, and in a fisherman's cap) sits brooding in the corner, rolling one cigarette after another. The artist of the month is hanging his art inside. It features a lot of text, apparently in Spanish, but randomly has French words thrown in. There are grammatical errors everywhere, no gender or number agreement to be found. The Spanish-teaching semi-French speaker in me wants to get the red pen out. I say nothing. Maybe I just don't "get" the art.

Various German-car driving wealthy people come in and out, stepping around the growing pack of dogs hanging out at the door. Aside from them, I think I am the only one to have left her dog at home. Very pierced barista guy comes out to fill up the dog water bowls. Some guy appears out of nowhere and asks me to "borrow" 50 cents for dog food. I tell him, don't worry, he doesn't have to pay me pack. He looks at me strangely, not getting the fact that I was trying to be funny, and not trying to be an asshole. Aah, well...

Tourist families walk by, rolling their suitcases clumsily and staring at this microcosm of California. I don't blame them. I'm staring too, and I live here.

It's like being at the circus, only without the elephants.

I am definitely coming back tomorrow.


* I like the warbling. Really!
**In California, "Back East" means anything east of Nevada. South Dakota? "Back East". Chicago? Also "Back East".