Disclaimer: You may or may not already know this, but I really played this post up in my previous post You’re On Crack If You Think This Post Will Be As Good as the Last One, which was a fucking awesome follow-up to another previous post called It’s Just a Blog, which was also fucking awesome.
I just *might* have said something about how this post was going to be Entertaining, Insightful and Brilliant.
Okay, yeah, I totally said that. And I started to write this disclaimer to say, “Well, I *might* have overplayed that whole Entertaining, Insightful and Brilliant thing,” just to cover my ass in case you read it and didn’t like it, and felt like I had tricked you into coming back to my awesome blog under false pretenses.
But then I went back and read it again, and you know what? It is actually VERY Entertaining, Insightful and Brilliant. At least, I like it. And I can be pretty smart sometimes. So fuck that whole disclaimer thing.
I am a People Watcher. I think I’ve always been one — at least, I can’t really remember a time when I wasn’t. I Watch People all the time, wherever I am, whatever I’m doing. When I’m at the mall, I don’t window shop, I People Watch. When we’re out to eat, I shush the Big Bean so I can better hear the conversation going on at the next table. People (meaning mostly the Big Bean) are constantly perplexed that I never know where ANYTHING is in the town where I have lived for most of my life, but the truth is, when I’m in a car if my eyes aren’t on the road they are looking at the people in the next car. And the car after that. And the car after that.
Side note: I just realized that the above paragraph makes me sound like a terrible driver (and potential stalker) who just watches the people in the other cars and doesn’t pay attention to the road, which could not be further from the truth. I’m really an eyes-front kind of driver. Unless there’s something REALLY good going on in the car next to me.
But I digress.
My point is, I’m an addict.
In high school, when my best friend Queen Bee (so named more for her effect on me than her true disposition) and I were bored we’d swipe some booze from my mom’s liquor cabinet (sorry, Mom — but it’s not like you didn’t already know) and head out to the old Austin Mueller airport, where we’d post up at a gate and watch other people wait for each other and greet each other and hug and kiss each other and leave holding hands and sometimes awkwardly try to walk with their arms around each other, which never ends well because our bodies are just not made to do that, no matter how much we want them to be.
(You see, kiddies, waaay back in the OLDEN days, people could actually just saunter up to any old gate at the airport – no ID or ticket required. We didn’t even have to take our shoes off! I know – crazy, right?)
There I would sit, on a bench with Queen Bee at Old Mueller, sipping my mom’s watered down liquor mixed with Sonic cherry-limeades (cocktails, anyone?). Often we wouldn’t even speak — just exchange a quick elbow nudge or a sideways Do-You-See-What-I-See? glance every now and then if something really interesting happened or passed by.
It was Fucking Awesome.
So yeah, I’m a People Watcher.
Another side note: I Watch People so much that I’ve become paranoid about other People Watching me. Wherever we go, I am SURE that everyone else is looking at me funny. And I become convinced that one of two things is true: Either (a) I have a huge booger/big stain on my pants/spinach in my teeth, or (b) I am the most beautiful woman any of them have ever seen. I’ll give you one guess which one I most often believe is true.
Over the years, I’ve had some real Blue-Ribbon People Watching Experiences — a few that have really stood out from the crowd. Every one of them made me ask questions that I knew would never be answered, but it’s the questions that make People Watching so much fun. You can use your imagination to try and answer them, or just let them linger. Mine usually linger. Sometimes they linger for hours, sometimes days, sometimes years.
Okay, I have issues.
Anyway, here are a few of my favorites.
Now, Steve Guttenberg is a pretty ordinary-looking guy, and so was the Guy Who Looked Exactly Like Him (except for the fact that he looked exactly like Steve Guttenberg, which I guess in itself could be considered extraordinary). But anyway, the REALLY extraordinary thing about this guy was NOT that he looked exactly like Steve Guttenberg, but the large steel briefcase handcuffed to his wrist and the even larger bodyguard shadowing him wherever he went.
Did I mention I was at McDonald’s? SO fucking random.
What was in the case? Drugs? Ransom? Blood diamonds? The glowy stuff from the Pulp Fiction briefcase? (What WAS that, anyway?)
(And what is up with my latest obsession with that film? I don’t think I’ve even SEEN that movie in like 8 years but suddenly I’m thinking of everything in terms of Pulp Fiction. Is that how you can tell something’s a classic? Or is it just that I have the hots for John Travolta? And that is a little embarrassing to admit, but I don’t mean Fat-Scientology John Travolta, or even Skinny-Vinny-Barbarino John Travolta, but the In-Between-Look-Who’s-Talking John Travolta, the kind of pathetic John Travolta willing to sell his soul for a comeback. But only that one.)
Was the Guy Who Looked Exactly Like Steve Guttenberg on his way to a big drugs-for-money exchange, but just HAD to stop for some McNuggets? Did a Mac Attack derail his blood diamond deal? Was the 2-Apple-Pies-for-a-Dollar deal just too good to pass up?
Maybe he was just using the case and bodyguard to pick up chicks. I’ll never know.
I was four months pregnant and had to leave the Big Bean and our friends watching Tenacious D at the House of Blues because my enormous swollen feet were hurting before the show even started and it was standing room only.
(Which pisses me off in itself – WHY standing room only? The only thing I hate more than standing room only is when I actually pay for a seat but end up having to stand up the whole night anyway because everyone else is standing up and I can’t see over their heads, which defeats the whole purpose of having the show in a venue with seats — if you PAY for a seat you should sit your ass in it so everyone else can too and we can all enjoy the show, and our seats, goddammit).
Anyway, some guy standing waaaayyy too close to me (I have personal space issues) lit a cigarette just as Jack Black came out and that was it for me, I had to go because I was pregnant and already hot and hormonal and my personal space was being invaded and I really wanted a cigarette too I was very concerned for the health of my unborn child. No matter how much I wanted to see Jack Black and that Kyle Is-Your-Last-Name-Really-Gass-or-Is-That-Just-Part-Of-The-Act guy rip it all to shreds, I just wasn’t gonna make it inhaling secondhand smoke while trying to balance my waaayy-too-big-for-just-four-months belly on 3-inch heels.
(I honestly don’t know what I was thinking with those heels, except that those boots were REALLY hot but they were also very trendy and I knew I would only have a limited amount of time to wear them before they just looked silly and not fashionable at all, and goddammit I was going to get my money’s worth out of those fucking boots.)
So anyway, I wandered out into the casino, where I alternately felt sorry for myself and played the slots half-heartedly.
But then I saw her. The Large Lesbian. She came out of nowhere, about 350 magnificent pounds squeezed into a tiny pair of Daisy Duke shorts, with red cowboy boots on tiny feet (comparatively speaking) and a full face of goth-like makeup with jet black hair poking out from under her battered straw hat.
How did I know she was a lesbian? I think *maybe* it was the t-shirt that read “I (Heart) Pussy” stretched over her enormous breasts that gave it away.
Just. Fucking. Awesome. All my self-pity washed away as the questions started – too many to list here.
Thank you, Large Lesbian – wherever you are. You MADE my trip to Vegas.
As wonderful as the Large Lesbian was, my all-time favorite EVER People Watching Experience is Sex Limit Fabio Dad. Spotted at the food court at Six Flags Over Texas, circa 1995. Towering over the rest of the crowd, at least 6 feet, 4 inches of brilliance, a beautiful mullet of long, blonde hair cascading over his shoulders. (But just the back of the hair knew how to Party. The front was All Business.)
Think Fabio, but more bleachy and not as chiseled.
Hey, remember when Fabio got that bloody nose because a rogue bird obviously had a beef with either romance novels or butter substitutes and smashed into his face during a roller coaster ride?
That was fucking AWESOME.
And you know what is even more Fucking Awesome? The smile on the face of the woman sitting next to him in this photo.
But I digress.
Back to Sex Limit Fabio Dad. At Six Flags. Circa 1995.
He wore black jeans over black cowboy boots in 100+ degree weather, blonde mullet damp from the sweat trickling down his face. Strolling to the next ride with his short, round, frumpy wife (who came about to his belly button) at his side. At least five kids of various ages in tow, one tugging on Daddy’s black jean leg and begging for a Sno-Cone.
The whole scene was truly remarkable, but the best part of this guy, the part that STILL keeps me awake at night, was his t-shirt. A tucked-in white t-shirt, sleeves rolled up, one side holding a pack of cigarettes in place (of course). On the front of the t-shirt, what looked like a typical speed limit sign — but instead of “SPEED LIMIT,” the sign said “SEX LIMIT.” What WAS the “SEX LIMIT,” you ask?
Why, “69” of course.
It just doesn’t get any better than that, folks.
Have a Blue-Ribbon People Watching Experience of your own? Do tell!Stumble it!