Tag: mystery

Floridan Follies, Hobos and Retirees

When I use the word Hobo here, it’s by far a completely different definition than the Obispo Hobo. Florida Hobos aren’t actually homeless although they might appear as such. These particular hobos have traded in their luxurious shopping carts and hiking backpacks for a bike or even a walking stick. The Florida hobo almost never wears clothes, if any, trading outerwear for darkened brown, leathery skin just as worthy as a cowhide is to a pair of fine shoes.

The strong scent of coconut oil and suntan lotion replaces the usual noxious stench of body odor coming from the typical Hobo. These hobos play in the day as if there is no tomorrow to only retire to a fancy hotel, condominium or retirement retreat in the evenings for a little needed R&R.

Women of all body types, but mostly ones that would make any self conscious girl feel better, slather on sunscreen smack dab in the middle of the beach as if no one is watching, carefully applying the creamy concoction to every single part of their bodies by merely shifting their suit to one side or the other. In my opinion, it might have been easier done and perhaps with more privacy in the confines of their hotel rooms. However, this is not the way in which it is done here, and for reasons I haven’t figured out being that I’m the only person fully clothed.

The aging Florida Hobo seems to have lost all sense of awareness when it comes to modisty. The men ride their senior bicycles in nothing but wind shorts just shy of being daisy dukes. The sheer ability to keep their jewelry tucked up is a complete mystery, but one I’m unwilling to investigate further. The granny’s have slightly more self awareness than the retiree male by wearing a few more articles of clothing, but only because it’s prohibited for women to go around topless. They have traded lofty cardigans and floral dresses for short mumus and skirted swimsuits. They sport those suits like Sundays best while walking small, manicured dogs down the lush sidewalks covered in flowering hibiscus bushes.

Lizards run about as if they own the places and some as large as small cars. If anyone could think a rat could make me scream, they haven’t witnessed my encounters with iguanas. They are horrific events that nevertheless leave other people around me stumped by my inability to stop screaming like a complete and utter psycho. Especially, if that particular, horrifying Iguana, does nothing but be the lizard it is by merely staring at the screaming freak in his solid, unmoving stance.

There are other predators here than just an Iguana. Large pterodactyls that everyone here calls a pelican, swoop and dip over my head as if I might be their next snack while beach hobos appear unaware of their pesky existence. Fortunately for me, I have an umbrella which completely tricks this bizarre Dino bird into thinking I’m furniture, furthermore eliminating me as prey. Thankfully, I’ve been spared.

Unfortunately, I haven’t been spared from viewing the young girl in her late twentieth who decided to pretend she were a bond girl by bending over abruptly in the midst of a crashing wave to dip her brassy yellow hair into the ocean and then flip her head back in a rendition of an old Bo Derek move from 5.0. She took that move as a que to look for anyone watching. Pleased with herself, the young woman decided to turn from the salty heaven and run, bouncing her body around as if she had just become Pamela Anderson in Baywatch, giving all of unlucky spectators a few laps to gather it all in.

The other strange folly comes from the strongest urge to take a nap or pass out right where I’m sitting as if I had been slipped a roofy in my morning coffee although I would have been the only person to do that and, I certainly did not.

For now, I shall return to reading my book and keeping a watchful eye on the Pterodactyls I know want to devour me whole all the while burning my skin as if I were toast.

Thank you for reading ❤️

California Triangle

Actual photo of the alluring and mystical triangle

The California Triangle is much like the burmuda triangle. It’s not as glamorous of course, but nevertheless it’s real. It sits on a fairly quiet street, behind a shopping plaza and across from an embassy suites. It’s a place where strange burrowing squirrels along with a few lone cats, call home.

In essence, it appears to be nothing more than a triangle of grass at the back of a parking lot. But, it’s much more than that. You see, It calls to hobos of all kinds. They love to frequent the lone tree in the back corner as a motel of their own, pitching tents like real campers.

Random cars, often of the Japanese car make, as an example, Mazda and Honda, enjoy spinning circles into donuts in front of the triangle as if they are there for its entertainment purposes. a

In the wee hours of the night, teenagers dressed in t-shirts, scarves and sweat pants ride down the sidewalk on their skateboards outfitted with headlights as if they are drawn there by some unseen force.

Police officers visit in the morning, often parking against the shrubs to smoke cigarettes as if no one can see them. Late night drug smugglers or people trading large, brown bags of brachs candy (not sure which) edge against the shrubs to do their dirty deeds. Sometimes they gluttonously cram things from those paper bags into their mouths greedily.

Transients, typically traveling in threes equally enjoy the green by coping a squat for a midnight piss, all the while cars buzz down the freeway behind them. Fortunately for the drivers the hobo ass is obscured from the massive shubery separating the triangle from normal civilized life on the other side.

It’s a baffling occurrence, but nevertheless happens on a daily and if your lucky, you can catch bizarre men and women, park their cars to sit for hours as if in a complete trance. It’s as if they are unable to move or go about their day. I can’t be for sure but I think they may possibly be deadlocked into some mind blowing orgy only they can see. Although I haven’t tried it myself.

People, usually men in large trucks, a few suvs and one mini van love to bring their big, massive dog to the triangle just so to defecate on its luxuriously green patch of triangular bliss. They almost never pick up the doo, but instead opt to talk on the phone pretending they didn’t see the massive hound dropping tootsie rolls on the naked ground below their tiny starfish.

The triangle even calls to winery tour buses, beckoning them to frequently do drive bys on a dead end street, making it more suitable to a Nascar track than a road to nowhere. Where the people go or if there were even any on the bus is anyone’s guess.

This triangle is as diabolical as a scorned ex wife hell bent on eating her child support as if it was all just for her. It’s as sinister as a walmart shopping cart in a covid pandemic and as evil as a hearty bowel movement to find an empty roll of toilet paper in a public restroom.

It’s mystifying and intriguing, but yet not enough to lure me out with an attempt to explore its magnetic pull, any closer than my third floor micro balcony. It’s safer here and for some reason casts an invisible shroud over me so that not a single soul notices my presence.

These are the oddities in which I find folly and solace. These are the moments of my life.

Thank you for reading my satire ❤️