It finally happened! ! A drive-thru dream come true.

I don’t want to give the impression that I am constantly driving through fast-food restaurants. I don’t. I’d rather cook, or put something together from the fuzzy food items lingering in my refrigerator. Mostly owing to my frugality, spending money on food is one of the most unsavory financial choices I feel people make.

Still, occasionally, I can be found driving through a local indifferent/teen-staffed mass-food-production conglomerate. I’ve done it enough times that I know the spiel well.

See, first you drive up to the microphone/speaker. In a couple of seconds, a fuzzy young voice pipes in and buys you more time with which to reconsider ordering that shit you had impulsively decided to get by offering you something like, “Would you like to try our new pint-sized popcorn bourbon-flavored chicken valueless happy meal?” Of course, you never want what they have to offer, so you breeze on with an exclamatory NO and order that putrid slop that passes for food and which are you shameless enough to carry home in a bag that is unmistakably emblazoned with said food outlet’s gaudy and commercially recognizable logo.

NO you admonish. I don’t want that ridiculous special you’re trying to whore out to me.


And so I’ve experienced this enough times that I now reflexively tune out the less-than-tempting offers before commencing with my exciting and mouth-watering order.

Tonight was once such night. I worked late, and thus, convinced myself that I deserved to not cook tonight, so I stopped by that ubiquitous clown-studded culinary hovel that populates nearly every street in this country. I have not eaten anything (other than a vanilla cone here and there) from this fine eatery in years, so I was eager to see what new wonders the menu offered. I wanted a burger, a medium-sized burger and large fries, for this eatery is known for its fries and nothing else. People can talk utter shit about this clown place but when it comes to the fries, they suddenly melt into little schoolgirls in the wake of a Justin Bieber swath. Everyone loves the fries here!

I wanted a burger and fries, and immediately, it stood out. The photo on the menu was blatantly inviting to the Mexican me.

jal double

Furthermore, I was delighted to learn that it was on the “Dollar Menu.”


However, upon close examination, it seems the restaurant’s definition of Dollar is anything +/- $1 because the Jalapeno Double could only be gotten for $2. Oh well. I’m surely not one to turn down a $2 burger with jalapenos. My mouth began watering before I reached the speaker, a task mightily delayed by the wench in front of me in the Mazda with 4 kids who all had capricious and snotty sweet tooth’s. So long it took just for her to get the shit straight. Finally, having somewhat ordered her batch of condensed, insulin-jarring sucrose family fix, I was up!

I drove to the speaker and awaited my turn. I wanted that Jalapeno Double!

The speaker came to life.

“Hi, would you like to try our new Jalapeno Double…?”

Yes! They knew.

Finally, the drive-thru sales pitch was greeted with a resounding nod.

My day was made. It happened!

An apparition on the Red Line train this morning and the dawn of a coming doom…

Let it be written, let it be noted, in the timeless annals of the eternal medium of cyberspace, everything that has ever been written shall never be discarded or lost.

Let it be written about the apparition, the one I saw this morning. An apparition that frightened me not for its apparent intrusion into my pragmatic, non-magical, atheist daily rigmarole, but for what I sense it portends for us…a gloomy, bleak and darkly vicious fate to befall mankind. A sign I glimpsed, as if squeezed out from the slimy entrails of multidimensional possibilities we cannot see with our eyes. A harbinger of sorrow.

I saw an apparition this morning on the way to work, on the train, of all places, and this is perhaps what was so horrendous about it. It occurred on a crowded, harshly lit MTA train under the streets of Los Angeles, of all places.

Let me preface by saying that last night, I slept very badly and I was not rested in the morning. I am one of those people who finds it difficult to sleep in public places, especially on public transportation. Still, I found a seat on the Red Line train as it headed northbound into Hollywood and I sat by the window where I was slightly hidden by a slight protrusion that was a dividing wall housing one of the sideways seats, so my vision of the train was a slightly obstructed. I rested my arm on the window frame, a dirty rubber frame that has housed thousands of filthy riders and their soiled elbows before me. I let my eyes close and before I knew it, I was nodding off. Very rare as I don’t typically fall asleep on the Red Line.

I occasionally opened my eyes and saw the seats before me, all facing my direction, and took disinterested note in the occupants. One the seats was filled with a 30-something full-bodied Hispanic woman with clear brown skin, glasses, and wavy hair tied in a casual ponytail. I noted this but barely noted it. I just knew she was there but didn’t need to consciously acknowledge this fact in order to recall it. I closed my eyes with my right arm propped up on the window frame. Closed, sleepy eyes…deeply…as sleep overcame me, my arm, supported no longer by my conscious wakefulness, fell from the frame, jarring me awake. My eyes flew open and in that moment, that brief instant before I closed them again, I saw, next to the Hispanic lady, hovering close to the floor of the train, a very, very pale girl. Her skin was white as the clearest, polished ivory and I think she had red hair but her features were of such darkness that they cut a contrasting and sharp series of edges against that face and the…red hair? But most startling was the fact her face was so much lower than the surrounding seats, just inches from the floor even.

And I closed my eyes again and then opened them, and she was gone.

The Hispanic lady was still in her seat. The train still raced through the dimly lit tunnels below the big city.

Let it be written.

Let yourself be forewarned.

Evil rabid scathing death and tribulation barrels upon us!

Not an MH17 conspiracy because both sides have a vested interested in pinning the disaster on the “other side”

Come on, now.

Is it even “tin foil” to humor the possibility that Ukrainian troops “procured” a BUK missile system and deliberately shot down a passenger jet knowing full well that the political and social backlash against such an action, one that could too easily be laid at the feet of Russian and Ukrainian rebels, would help that nation’s global cause immensely?

I’m not saying Russia was not involved. But let’s keep a clear, lucid mind about this.

You can’t convict a man for murder based on the fact that he tends to like .45 caliber Smith & Wesson handguns, one which just happened to be involved in the murder he is tried for, in the absence of any other evidence.

And a Malaysian Air B777? Please, the script could have written itself.

Men: your vulnerability is only for you to know. One must proceed like a stone.


As romantic and sullenly pleasing as it may seem, I have some news for you, guys.


Vulnerability is a private matter that has no business being uttered or seeing the light of day by any woman, except maybe your mother.


Vulnerability is the key to your demise in the eyes of women.


If you must vent or express your deepest, most private vulnerabilities, keep it quiet and a secret that remains in your deepest caverns of thought. Write a letter to yourself or compose and construct an anonymous blog and pour out you cathartic doubts to your heart’s content. But never, never, NEVER, burden the woman in your life with your personal vulnerabilities. Even the most sensitive and kind woman will find that she cannot fathom listening to your vulnerabilities without eventually absorbing them into her arsenal of every reason not to continue having you in her life.


The moment you tell your girlfriend or wife of your most sensitive and shameful vulnerabilities, you have handed her the dagger and entrance to your heart where she can inflict the most damage. Giving a woman a detailed rundown of your vulnerabilities is like letting a vampire into your house.


You are screwed.


For every vulnerability you confide, you must also volunteer and perform at least 20 acts of brash insensitive boldness. This is the only way to offset the humiliation that must naturally visit your profuse relinquishment of vulnerabilities that have no business being known to anyone, least of all your girlfriend or wife.


The crux of a man are his secrets.


All men, even the most powerful, possess vulnerability, but what separates the masters of men from the worms is the ability to withhold certain dehumanizing personal hangups from entering the light of day.


There is nothing to be gained from divulging your sincerest vulnerabilities to a woman other than disgrace and alienation.


Just shut up and proceed like a stone.