Wheelchair Asshole

Yesterday was my berfday (go vampira!). I made plans to hang out with two of my favorites, John and Irmy, at the 11th St. Diner on Washington Ave for some cake. Two out of the three of us are avoiding alcohol for a little while so we were like, "No alcohol, just CAKE." They got to the Diner before I did, so I was speed-walking my way over there. There was a hot black guy walking down the sidewalk towards me and when he saw me he stopped and waited for me to walk past him. He had take-out food in one hand and held out his other hand for me to shake. Being the friendly tranny that I am, I smiled and shook his hand, and kept walking. He turned around and asked me, "When do I get to see you again?!" I yelled back, "You don't!" That reply prompted him to run after me. Whaaaat?! Dude ran down half a block to catch up to me. I started laughing and yelled, "FASTER!!" When he caught up to me I stopped and we talked for a little while. He gave me his number and we chatted for a little while. He seemed like a really nice guy but I'm not dating anyone until I start to look my age. And by the looks of it, that will be when I am deceased and decomposing in a grave somewhere.
I made it to the Diner and my babies were sitting outside waiting for me. I asked if we were gonna stay outside or go indoors and grab a booth. The weather was nice and the people-watching was interesting so we decided to stay outside. Across the street we saw this dude in a wheelchair letting out these weird crack-addict screams. At one point he stood up from his chair and walked over to a garbage can. We were like, "Awesome, he doesn't even need the wheelchair... "
While we waited for our waitress to bring us some menus, we saw two guys walk down the sidewalk right next to our table. One of them was a tall white dude, with a shaved head and a handlebar moustache, and his arms were sleeved up in colorful tattoos. I said, "That dude is delicious." Irmy laughed and John wanted to take a look, so he pretended to be a super-obvious Peeping Tom and look through the bushy potted plant right behind him. Irmy and I laughed at the way John was rustling through the plant, when he could have easily leaned forward and taken a better look at Delicious Dude. I asked him to hold the pose so I could get a picture of him, when we noticed that the wheelchair crackhead had Fred Flinstone'd his wheelchair across the street and stopped right next to our freaking table. I put my phone down & told John, "Ok, wait, I'll take the picture in a little while."
I didn't know crackheads had bionic hearing, because this motherfucker called me out on my putting my phone away. He cracked out, "What, I come over here and you put your phone down? Ahh! What, I'm not a person? What, you're better than me? Ahh! What, I spent five years in prison! You don't learn shit in school!! Only on the streets and in prison! I was in prison!!" He rambled on about how... um.... crap, I don't remember the rest of his crack monologue. He spotted a man smoking a cigarette on the sidewalk behind us and yelled out to him to bum a cigarette. Then he pretended he had difficulty standing up out of his chair, yelling, "Ahhh my leg is broken!!" The other man walked over and gave him a cigarette, and then crackie sat back down and .... fucking stayed there, watching us. Very casually. Dude was not going anywhere. When the waitress came out, John said to her, "This guy won't leave... maybe we should go inside...." The waitress said to the Wheelchair Asshole in Argentine spanish (I can always spot the Argents), "Señor, por favor, se puede mover un poquito, porque los esta molestando." (Sir, please, can you move away a little, because you're bothering them.) This request provoked Wheelchair Asshole to yell, "YO ME VOY PA' LA PINGA!!!" Roughly translated, this means, "I'm gonna go fuck myself!!!" The awesome Argentine waitress calmly replied, "Bueno, ¿se puede ir para la pinga ahora?" ("Well, can you go fuck yourself now?") Irmy and I were dying laughing because she was so calm about it, she spoke with  the same intonation as when she greeted us and brought us our drinks. The four of us collected our things and everything on the table and high-tailed it inside. It took us a few minutes to compose ourselves and stop laughing at how awesomely our waitress handled that douche. 
At the end of the night, we Mission:Impossible'd our way out of the diner, sneaking around the corner, waiting to see if there was a super-pissed-off-ex-felon-crackhead barreling down the sidewalk, trying to take one of us out with his wheelchair of delusion. The coast was clear and  the night was saved, all by one petite Argentine waitress with an immeasurable amount of sass.

5 things VIII

Five things I'm grateful for, in no particular order:
1. Ikea
2. My dermatologist
3. Unlimited texting
4. Cheetos
5. Ryan Gosling

xoxo

The Night We Met Tyler: Part 2

I just unhinged my jaw and swallowed whole three quarters of the biggest burrito I've ever had in my life. I now lay immobilized on my bed with an engorged stomach, so naturally I felt it was the right time to continue my Tyler story. I need to type fast before my body begins to violently reject my late dinner and I'm sent running for the hills. The hills being my kitchen, where I can puke in the garbage can, surrounded by the comforting sight of all the PBR cans strewn about this afternoon by Billy, Bel, and me. We abandon empty beer cans on any flat surface, and later as I go about collecting them I reminisce about whatever random ridiculousness we were laughing at that distracted us enough that we would forget the can completely.

In "The Night We Met Tyler: Part 1," I left off at the part where the three of us became a unit. During our initial bonding experience, a tattooed guy walked into the bar. (You know how I feel about tattooed dudes...) He sat to Tyler's right and they talked to each other for quite a while. Then he came around and started asking me who tattooed my arms, and what my tattoos meant, etc. He asked what nationality I was, and when I told him my parents are Argentine, but I was born and raised in Miami, he instantly became the most fucking annoying person in South Beach. 

He started talking about Che Guevara, and giving me his theory as to why "this country fucking sucks," and how he "can't wait to get the fuck out," and it was all just a shit-storm of anti-American sentiments. My dad's a Vietnam Veteran and my brother's a veteran of both Operation Enduring Freedom and Operation Iraqi Freedom wars, so I was about ready to gouge out this fucker's eyeballs. Which brings us to how he got his nickname, Crazy Eyes. He had light eyes; on a well-adjusted individual they would have been really attractive. However, on a drunken, bellicose, idiot, they made him look like a psych ward escapee. Especially 'cause he was all wide-eyed and shifty. After what felt like an eternity, and after he nearly had me in a boredom-induced coma, I looked at Tyler and Belinda with pleading eyes that screamed, "HELP ME!" I think they were enjoying my uncomfortable body language and overall look of despair, because I was slowly sliding off my barstool and must have had the worst posture ever. At one point I just leaned over and said to them, (not even caring if Crazy Eyes could hear me,) "This guy is insane, he's insane!" Tyler just laughed, and I was like, "Do you not care? He's nuts. Really. Belinda help. Help me please. I'll buy you a beer. Get him away from me." The music in there was loud enough that I thought Crazy Eyes wouldn't hear me. When I turned back to Crazy Eyes, his eyes had gotten wider, and he puffed his mouth up like a blowfish. I thought for sure he heard me talking shit about him and was gettin' ready to knock me on my ass, when he continued talking about how America is such a huge piece of shit. Apparently, not only is Crazy Eyes partially deaf, but he has a unique way of catching his breath when he's in the middle of a rant. Acting like an underwater sea creature only added to his batshit crazy vibe. 

Eventually Crazy Eyes left me to go empty his angry bladder (at this point I just assumed he had lots of misdirected anger in his small tattooed frame and that he must have really violent bodily functions). Belinda, Tyler, and I regrouped, and I explained to them that they are not to allow Crazy Eyes to get that close to me again. I asked Tyler, "What the hell were you two talking about for so long? 'Cause all I got was crazy-talk." Tyler was too nice to say anything mean about Crazy Eyes. Which is really fine with me, 'cause I got enough bitch in me for a small village. (A small village populated by a dying breed of tiny people.)

So there we were, the three of us, sitting at the bar talking while simultaneously shunning any stranger that tried to infiltrate our Circle Of Trust, when Belinda and I were approached by a super cute, short-haired, tattooed girl. She asked us a question about where would be a good place to go dancing, when Belinda pointed to a tattoo on her inner arm. Immediately recognizing the Hedwig tattoo, I grabbed her arm and shrieked. I think I freaked her out because she politely yanked her arm out of my grip. Belinda laughed and I was like, "OMG OMG HEDWIG!!!!"

That's how we met lovely Dominique and her beautiful aunt, Annika. They were on vacation from San Francisco, weren't shifty-eyed, and seemed well-adjusted, so we allowed them entry into our Circle of Trust. After a little while, Tyler and Annika kind of drifted off into their own conversation, and Belinda and Dominique did the same. I was left an open and easy target for Crazy Eyes, and he didn't waste any time in gettin' back to me. This time around, however, he didn't talk about what he feels is wrong with this country, he talked about his failing marriage. I was thinking, "Dude, talking to girls in bars is not the way to repair your marriage..." but whatever, the guy already seemed a few sandwiches short of a picnic basket. Not the sharpest tool in the shed. The lights are on, but nobody's home. I'll stop.

After Dominique and Annika left, we quickly formed our trio again, and went back to shunning outsiders. Belinda and I decided that Tyler was nice enough and non-creepy enough that we would want to hang out with him again on his vacation. Belinda and I put my number in Tyler's phone as "Belinda & Kat, Tour Guides." He was going to be in South Beach for a little over a week, and the next day his friend/bandmate, Mike was flying in.

Which brings me to the next installment in my blog, "The Night We Met Mike, Tony, Eric, Howard, Danny, and Crazy Eyes 2.0."  

The Night We Met Tyler: Part 1

As you know by now, Belinda and I frequent a small bar two blocks away from my apartment: Lush!!! It has one pool table, two big bathrooms, and three cool bartenders. The best part is that it's not your typical "South Beach" bar by any means. It's a great place for low-maintenance-personality types; a haven for genuine people with real hang-ups and occasional social-anxiety disorder. We went to our home-away-from home a few Tuesdays ago, and as we walked in, were greeted with an awesome thank you from the HBIC (Head Bartender In Charge) Justin, for finding him a ska band to play the following night. He was so happy, he gave us each a beer on the house as we took our seats at the bar. I said to him, "God, I really hope they don't suck... I've never heard them before but they came highly recommended from a reliable source, so they should be... sorta good...?" He said, "I don't care, I don't care, I'm just happy to have a live ska band here tomorrow night!!" Earlier when I said, "God, I hope they don't suck," the bearded guy sitting at the bar to our right laughed at my comment. I thought, "Well, there's a friendly fellow..." Little did I know that we were going to be spending the next crazy week with him and his friend. (That's not a euphemism; his "friend" is actually his buddy that flew into Miami the next day.)
So Belinda and I sat there making small talk with Justin, while Bearded Dude drank his beers and politely eavesdropped. Justin asked us where we were from, and Belinda said, "I'm from Jacksonville, and she's from Miami." He looked at me and said, "Miami? Really?! You don't look like you're from Miami." Belinda said, "Well, she does have those chola eyebrows..." I laughed and said, "These eyebrows are from South Central, honey!" Justin, Belinda, and Bearded Dude all laughed out loud; they understood that my eyebrows are a status symbol one should not fuck with. 
Since we don't own TVs, Belinda and I always get sucked in to the hypnotic flat-screen TV that hangs right over our seats at the bar. They usually have an EXTREME sports reality show playing. We sat there silently watching skiing on TV and then for some strange reason, we started talking about dying, specifically, ways we would prefer to die. Because naturally, skiing makes me think of death. 
When it comes to death and dying, my feelings and thoughts on the matter have changed over the years, except for one thought that's remained the same: I hope nothing happens to my eyebrows. (One day I was thrift shopping with my cousin and brother. Diego grabbed a funny hat and plopped it right on my head. The look of horror on my face was his cue to take it off immediately. He said, "Sorry! I forgot how you are with germs and other people's hats." I replied, "No, it's not that. My eyebrows! Did you mess up my eyebrows?!" I was more concerned that my eyebrows had been temporarily messed up than if some tiny critter laid eggs in my hair. True Story.)
I was telling Belinda that I would rather be set on fire than die by drowning, and we were discussing the logistics of the two, when Bearded Dude started laughing and said something like, "Are you two really talking about ways to die?" Belinda said to him, "Yeah, she says she would rather die from a fire than from drowning, which I think would be less painless and more peaceful." So the two of them started trying to convince me that I was fucked up for choosing fire over drowning, at least, that's the way it felt. Those goddamned bullies. They had me imagine myself dying from drowning, floating towards the bottom of the ocean, at which point my lungs began to close up inside my drunk birdcage chest. After I could breathe normally again, the three of us were emotionally attached for the rest of the night.


to be continued.... (in other words, I forgot details of that night [don't judge] so I gotta call my partner-in-crime Bel.)

Fear and Loathing In ... The Lounge Car

 Meeting and finding out all about new people is one of my favorite things. Seeing a really cute guy but not having the courage to talk to him is one of my least favorite things. The two of these happened to me on the train ride to Tampa on Thursday afternoon in the Lounge Car. If you're on a train ride and want to meet, share a beer with, or simply stare at, random strangers, you head to the Lounge Car. 
After having woken up from a seriously uncomfortable and short nap in my seat, I realized that the blonde lady that sat next to me was gone. She had been friendly and I knew I could strike up a conversation with her. A baby was crying a few rows ahead of me, and some inconsiderate douche was watching a movie on his laptop at full volume and without headphones. My options for decent behavior at this point were limited. I couldn't tell the crying baby to shut the hell up, but I was about to channel my frustrations with it and with the action-movie-loving-and-headphones-hating-douche entirely on the dude with the laptop. I was wondering how to handle the situation, if at all. The only things dancing around in my brains were really mean, laced with profanities, and completely passive-aggressive. Something along the lines of, "Excuse me, but do you have your headphones with you? Because no one else here wants to listen to your shitty movie, and clearly you and that baby are the two rudest motherfuckers in this car. So either put on some headphones or turn that shit off and read a book!!!" (I really can't stand the sound of a baby crying. I once told a co-worker I'd rather hear someone get shot than listen to a crying infant. The fucked up thing is I really meant it.)
I got up from my seat and headed to the bathroom. Using a bathroom on a train requires great balance and coordination, neither of which would ever be used to describe me. I'm more clumsy than a baby bull in a china shop. I was happy and relieved (literally and mentally) that I didn't come within an inch of that toilet. Yikes. Also, let's talk about the fact that I didn't have to use soap to wash my hands because the water was so damn scalding hot, I'm pretty sure it burned off whatever germs I had hanging out on the surface of my hands.
I made my way to the Lounge Car which was about three cars away. I stumbled my way through the cars trying not to fall on anyone's lap as the train was going so fast it was almost flying off the tracks. When I opened the sliding door to the Lounge, I scanned the room, first, to see if there were any available booths, then, to see who was in there that I would be drawn to in order to extract their whole life story. And that's when I laid eyes on him. He was sitting in the last booth on the right, in the corner, against the window. I thought to myself, "Hello.... that's a hot piece...." We made eye contact and of course I was instantly shy; it's like I crawl into a shell and the only way to lure me out is either with gay guys or tacos. I walked into the small cafe area to buy a Red Bull, and then walked back to the lounge. I picked an empty booth facing him, because even though I didn't have the sober courage to actually speak to him, I did want to just prop my head in my hands and gaze at him constantly, then look away nervously when he would catch me staring. It's really mature of me, I know, I know, you don't have to say it.
I pulled out my Chelsea Handler book, "Chelsea Chelsea Bang Bang," and read a little bit here and there in between observing the other passengers, lookin' out the window, and getting caught starin' at him. He looked like a younger, more innocent Johnny Depp, not young like 21-Jump-Street-young, but maybe a few years older. More of a Secret-Window-Johnny. He was wearing an unbuttoned plaid shirt over a t-shirt; the sleeves were rolled up and so his tattoos were visible, and you all know how I feel about a cute guy with nice colorful tattoos..... Crap I'm getting carried away. Ok let's continue. He was wearing a fedora and had such a nice smile. Oh wait, let's clarify that he wasn't smiling at me (yet) but because he was smiling at the people he was sitting with and I was facing him I would catch glimpses. 
He was sitting with an older man and two women, and I was trying to figure out what their relationships to him were, in order to see how good my chances were of making my way onto his lap. I thought they might be his family, but then I heard the most magical thing: they asked him how old he was! Then, they asked him what his tattoos meant!!! I suddenly knew that they were perfect strangers and the door was wide open. I would not get shanked with a broken beer bottle for trying to talk to him. 


::sigh:: Even though I knew that he was traveling alone, I still did not have the courage to talk to him, and I was growing more and more frustrated as the time passed. He began smiling at me, which was lovely, but how was I supposed to break the ice when he was surrounded by three drunk people that seemed to really like him, and as a result, not leave his freaking side? As I was thinking of how to pounce, another guy walked into the Lounge Car and asked me if he could sit at my booth. Of course I said yes, while two words flashed in great big neon letters while fireworks fired off behind them, in my brains: COCK BLOCK. I really did appreciate that I finally had someone to talk to, I was just bummed that it was a young man around my age who could potentially turn away any hot, tattooed, fedora-wearing guys that might be interested in talking to me. I mean, shit, I had the entire booth to myself!! I put my book away and started talking to the New Guy. We never exchanged names, just where we were from, where we were headed to, our ages, and a little bit about who we were visiting and why. He had such a strange dialect; when I could understand what he was saying to me, I laughed because he was funny. We joked around about a few of the other passengers in the car, and he laughed at all my jokes. I decided to go buy a beer in the cafe because I had relaxed a little in talking to New Guy, so it was time for some liquid courage in order to talk to the hot, tattooed, fedora-wearing dude. 
Even though I had Blue Moon coursing through my veins, it was still impossible to take the hot dude away from his fan club. The only thing that would have been a guaranteed tactic would have been to stand up, point at him and say, "Let's go for a walk!!" then grab him arm in arm as I lead him away to a more secluded car. Totally romantic and non-creepy, right?? Totes mug-otes!!!
Finally the train slowed down and approached the Tampa station. One of his fans said the saddest thing, "Good luck in Atlanta!" I knew we were parting ways. The other blonde lady, who I recognized as the blonde that sat next to me for like five minutes before taking off for the lounge, said to him, "Call me if you need anything!!" I felt so frustrated with myself!!! I hate being shy, I'm really not that shy anymore, but when there's a hot piece in the mix I resort to a catatonia that can only be cured with beer. 
I knew I better head to my seat, get my PBR duffle bag, and get off the train with the rest of the Tampa crew. I said goodbye to New Guy, but couldn't bring myself to look at the tattooed wonder. 
Once back at my seat, I said to the blonde, "The guy at your table, with the tattoos.... tell me all about him." She went nuts! She said, "Ohhh, that's Matt, isn't he cute??" And I said, "Yes! He's very cute, what do you know about him??" I knew she was drunk because she kept saying how cute he was and if she wasn't engaged she would totally try to hook up with him because he was just too cute! She said, "His name is Matt, and he's a musician, and he's moving to Atlanta, and he's sooo sweet and cute!!" I said, "You have to text him for me, please! Tell him I said 'hi!'" She was quick to whip out her phone and text away, and we both waited for the reply like a couple of game show contestants waiting to see what we had won. He wrote back and we shrieked, and by this time every passenger within earshot knew what we were doing and how cute Matt was. Kim asked Matt if she could give me his number. He replied, "Ha ha, did she ask for it?" Then drunk Kimmie gave him my phone number, saying, "You don't mind, right?" I said, "Oh Hell no! You give him my number!!! Oh my god... how excitiiing!!!" Clearly, Kim and I are cut from the same cloth because every time Matt would text her back we would giggle. (Heaven help us.)
We made our way off the train and Kim stopped outside to smoke a cigarette. I told her I needed to get to the bathroom as soon as possible because my bladder was about to get up and walk out, all the while yelling at me about how irresponsible I was to let her get that full and did I not know how unhealthy that is?!?! My organs can be really passive-aggressive and controlling.
Matt texted me a little while later. We became facebook friends that night. He sent me the link to his music, and I listened to it and liked it so much. It's very reminiscent of Bright Eyes, which I love. I joked with him that it was a really good thing I didn't listen to his music before getting to Tampa because I surely would've missed my stop and stayed on the train with him... yeah... I totally would have. ::sigh::

liquid courage.

I shall call him... Bartender

Thursday night I went to a local dive bar with my girl Belinda. We walked in with our own beers, sat at a small table, and talked while drinking our beers, very casually. You see, we're very casual ladies. There were five other people in there: a couple playing pool, two guys sitting at the bar (one had a skateboard with him: major sighs), and the bartender. A little while later the skater took off and we both sighed heavily, as he was quite tasty. We decided to go sit at the bar and order a couple of beers. The bartender smiled at us and said, "So you finally decided to join us," to which I replied, "Yes, but we're very anti-social, so please don't talk to us. Look away!" He laughed and said, "Ok, I'll get you your drinks, then leave you alone." The guy sitting at the bar finished his drink and took off. A few minutes later the couple playing pool walked out, leaving just the three of us in this tiny bar. I said to Belinda, "Are we driving everyone away?" The bartender heard me and said, "You guys are bad for business!" We giggled and I believe we simultaneously had the same thought, "Um, helloooo bartender.... (wink wink ....)"
So I waved him over to us and he smiled and said, "Oh, now you're ready to talk?" And I smiled and said, "Yeah, I just have a few questions." If you know me, and know what my definition of the term, "just a few questions," is, then you know that I interrogated the shit out of that bartender. I asked him why he didn't have a dart board in the bar. He said they once had one, but people kept walking in front of it. I said, "Um... if you're walking in front of a dart board, you deserve to get hit with a dart." I asked where in the bar had they placed the dart board, and we talked about other areas where it could work. I asked if he was a surfer. I forgot his reply to that question since I was distracted by his nose; he very much resembled Michelangelo's David. I asked what was up with the stripper pole in the corner; he said, "That's not a stripper pole, that's a support beam!" I asked if it was his bar, I asked where the airline seats against the wall came from, I asked about the red lighting in the ladies room, I asked what his favorite beer in the case was, I asked about the deli case, and I asked about the jello shots. He brought Belinda and I a couple of jello shots. I looked at her and whispered, "I'm still recuperating..." I was still recovering from my cray-cray birthday Tuesday night. Belinda told him it was my birthday the other day and we had a crazy night. He said, "Well the jello shots are my birthday gift to you." So charming, that bartender... He said his favorite beer in the case was Sierra Nevada but lately he'd been drinking lots of Blue Moon. Belinda said she once had one with an orange wedge, and it was delicious. Bartender said he heard it was really good with the orange but they didn't have any orange wedges. I told Bartender that next time we were going to take our own dart board and orange wedges. 
For a little while Belinda and I were mesmerized by the flat screen TV. Neither of us have TVs and rely on Hulu and the Internets to watch our shows. So we weren't so interested in the content of the programing as we were by the crispness of the images and the vibrant colors playing out before us on the big flat screen TV hanging directly over us. We explained this to Bartender and he said it was a good thing to not have a TV. The three of us stared quietly at the TV for a little while, and a few people started to trickle in.
Early on in my questioning a group of blondes walked in. I thought they were totally gonna ruin the vibe the three of us had going. Luckily they only wanted to know where the good restaurants were and had no intention of staying. They asked if he had any drink specials, then yelled, "Okaaay, we'll be back!!" We were like, "Yeah, they're definitely not coming back in here." I was happy to see them leave; they didn't even seem interesting enough to talk to or interrogate. Plus I wanted Bartender's undivided attention. 
So, Belinda and I are making our way back to that bar tonight. I wanna talk to Bartender again and get more material for another post. And stare drunkenly at his lovely profile. 

Bartender.