Open letter to Californians

Hi, guys. I hope the weather is "hella" nice for you folks out there in the land where people say "hella". I sure wish I could hop into my "woody" and come "hang ten" with you!

So, to the point: I got married this summer, way over here in Massachusetts, where same-sex marriage has been legal for four years now. (Massachusetts, if you're not familiar with it, is one of those little states crammed into the northeast, about the size of the Napa Valley. It's the one with the pirate hook.) I wanted to let you know that my opposite-sex marriage seems to be working just fine, despite the existence of gay marriages in our very own state — I've detected no undermining, no diminishing, no attenuation of our commitment. Our rings haven't fallen off; nobody played any Streisand at the reception; the certificate didn't catch gay cooties from rubbing up against gay certificates in the government filing cabinets. The officiant didn't accidentally pronounce us "husband and husband", or get confused and marry me to the sexton, Roland. It all seems to be rolling along, just as if there were no gay married couples in our fair commonwealth.

I mention this because some of you seem worried about what gay marriage might do to your straight marriages. Don't be! As far as I can tell, it doesn't do "hella" much at all. Being married is still pretty sweet. Frankly, I think you should encourage more people should do it, even if they're in love with someone who can borrow their underwear in the morning.

No on 8, please. And hang loose, bros. \m/

Some crazy bastard wants to hit me (part 2)

I had a coffee shop confrontation tonight. Shades of Elrod. (Some of you remember Elrod.)

When I arrived, a little after six, the squishy chair in the back corner (top-best #1 chair) looked empty from a distance, but someone's bags marked it as occupied. I shrugged, found another seat — no easy task, as the place was jam-packed.

Half an hour later, the bags were still there. The chair was still empty. I watched a stream of customers come back, look for a place to sit, wander off.

Half an hour after that, the cushion was still untouched by human ass. Finally fed up, I moved the bags against the wall, then went back to my seat. Less than a minute later, three college girls sat in the squishy chair — one in the chair, one on the arm, one on the floor.

Five minutes later, the bags' owner showed up. I've seen him in Diesel a lot, and suspect his Christmas tree is missing a couple of bulbs: sallow skin, black stocking cap, spends a lot of time muttering and chuckling to himself in his Jeff Spicoli voice. He was not happy to find his "stuff" had been moved, not one bit, and confronted the (bewildered) college kids about it. I stepped in: "Dude, they had nothing to do with it. I moved your stuff. I'm sorry, but you were gone for over an hour." He started ranting at me, filthy yellow fingernail an inch from my nose, about his rights and my rights and paparazzi and stalking and people going out for a smoke for five minutes and how I just wanted to play hero for the pretty girls. I did my best to explain, calmly, that this was a business, that they need seats for their customers, that I'd been watching the chair for an hour and I knew he hadn't used it. He just loomed, and fidgeted, and mumbled: "Read the Constitution!"

He finally wandered off to complain to the manager. I didn't see him again until much later, when the college girls left and he reclaimed "his" seat, next to mine, from the depths of which he muttered dire threats to himself, half-heard and oneiric: "Some 'boy' thinks he can take me...they're gonna call, wondering why he never came home...take him up to Dorchester...Muslims...little pussy...." I tried to concentrate (I was there to work), and was able to sketch out the course of a battle scene once he finally trailed off into cold silence, interrupted by quiet burps of invective: "Fuckin' little boy."

Before I left, I thought about trying to make peace — I sat for ten minutes debating, missed my bus for it — but finally decided rational argument probably wasn't going to find much of a toehold. I did talk to Jared, one of the head guys there, on my way out, and he was sympathetic — said he'd been ready to ask the guy to leave if he did anything else tonight. But I was tense, conflicted — not just because of the vague threats, but because I don't want to create drama for the staff, to be one of those customers, a presumptuous, petty crusader. But I think I did the right thing, and apart from asking the staff to move the bags instead of doing it myself I would do it again. Confront the little abuses; remain calm and rational when the bullies get mad.

I'm-a-gonna get knifed someday....