Overheard in the Bay Area


Young Guy #1: "Where did you stay last night?"

Young Guy #2: "Bodega Bay. It's where some movie The Birds was filmed. Have you seen the movie Birds?"

Young Guy #1: "No."

Young Guy #2: "Thank you! Me either. We stayed there, and everyone kept talking about it. It's made by some old guy, some Arthur something."

Older Lady at the Same Table: "Alfred. It's Alfred Hitchcock. It's an incredibly famous movie and director."

11:59 a.m., May 13, 2012; Atlas Cafe, Second Table from the Door on the Left Near the Magazines

"You are extremely important in my life. I was thinking of you back when you were living with Jessica."

"Really? Really?!," her voice is a squeal, that of a girl who has just been told she's won a pony after wanting a pony all her years.

"Yes, really. I've been thinking about you for six months."

Their forearms are locked across the table. They stare at each other and talk and laugh, but something happened. Something went wrong.

"I don't know if I told you this, but I went to a clairvoyant. And she told me the next six months of my life were going to be really important."

She says this to him through a stuffed nose. It's not the nose of someone with a cold. She's been crying and hard. She's swiping at her nostrils with the cuff of her shirt. Her hair is short and thin and pulled into wispy pigtails touched with purple dye in messy streaks. Her eyes are ringed in violet and they're swollen and bloodshot.

He's wearing a stiff, clean cap and his beard is newly trimmed short. His eyes are not swollen or red.

He stands up suddenly but smoothly, leans over the table and kisses her hot, wet face. She gives in to it completely, over half-eaten smoked trout on a sesame bagel.

"Let's go," he tells her.

She floats from her chair. He positions her in front of him by grabbing her at the shoulders. Her posture says she'd be a puppet for him.

He leads her body out the door crowded with late morning brunch seekers. As he crosses through the door frame his gaze falls on bare shoulders, darker than hers.

I'm a Moron Sometimes (Fine, Most Times)

The Boyfriend: "...and they should put more locally-owned restaurants in the airport, because local businesses pay for that airport with their taxes..."

Me: "Yeah, then they just give it all to Chick-Fil-A, which is in Utah."

The Boyfriend: "Are you sure? I think they are based in the South."

Me: "I think they are Mormon."

The Boyfriend: "I know they are churchy, but I don't know if they are Mormon. They might be Baptist. I know they are closed on Sunday."

Me: "Hmm wait, maybe they are Seventh Day Adventist."

The Boyfriend: "No, because..."

Me: "...because then they wouldn't serve meat!"

The Boyfriend: "Uh yeah, except that they would be closed on Saturday."

Me: "Oh, yeah."

The Boyfriend (laughing): "I mean, of all the ways to be churchy, we can go ahead and eliminate them and the Jews."

Note: Just now in typing that I debated whether to quote him verbatim, what with the words "eliminate" and "Jews" in the same sentence, but The Boyfriend insists on accuracy.

I Shit You Not

So, earlier I was having an adult beverage with my Auntie B at Beyond the Edge, when a curious thing happened. We were just chilling, talking internet shit, when we heard this dude behind us all, "Yeah, it's called Nashville is Talking, and it's a great way to see what people in Nashville are talking about. It has all these blogs on the right-hand side that update automatically, and on the right it's more editorial...Yeah, man, Stacey Campfield has a blog...yep, NashvilleIsTalking.com."

Now, in all the two plus years I worked for WKRN I never, ever overheard anyone talk about my blog. A week after I quit, the site gets some word-of-mouth. Figures.

Anyway, that was weird, but not quite as weird as the staggeringly drunk redneck who came tumbling out of the door, walked up to B and mumbled something about "What the hell...eating..." His friend quickly told Juiced Up John to straighten up, while I gave them my very best What the Fuck Face. A minute later John was rubbing his jean shorts-clad ass on some woman's Ford pickup. John was tore down and it wasn't even 6 p.m.

I need to get out more.

UPDATE: I feel like an asshole for not knowing that's what was said at my table last night. I'm mad as hell now, and feel like going Sycamore Rec on that fucker.

Sign of the Times

A conversation between my sister and I yesterday as we tackled the greenway after work. We'd just passed a taut, tanned young lady with a without an ounce of fat anywhere it wasn't supposed to be:

Amy: Man, I wish I looked like that.

Me: Yeah. But, she's probably 20.

Amy: Oh, my God. Listen to us. We are so old.

Me: Next thing you know we'll be buying our clothes at Cracker Barrel.

For Fishfucker

I've been doing "real" writing lately, so things have slowed here a bit, like you didn't notice. I'm proposing things and reviewing things and starting a new project that I'm taking on a page at a time.

Fear not, soon a customer will get drunk and say something funny and I'll tell you all about it. Unlike the couple that got drunk tonight and said nothing funny at all, just flirted mercilessly then, as they left, bid every single person on their path to the door goodbye. But not before they whistled me down and told me what a great time they had. I was the best, just the fucking best. Then guy punched me on the arm a little, like I was his waitress wingman and he was gonna get SO LAID. I did serve her three Grey Goose and tonics, but that isn't so many unless you DON'T EAT WHAT YOU ORDERED. She just sat there, giggling, sipping her cocktail and ignoring her eggplant parmigana.

Anyway, something better than that will happen soon and I'll be back to fill you in. Until then, ponder this statement I heard when I dropped off the check at a table: "I'd rather watch my parents fuck than think about where Tony might have put those."