I ain't tellin' you goodBYE-YI-EE-YI-EE-YI-EE

Ralph's is a bit of a strange place sometimes. Not only is it the home of America's Worst Parking Lot, it also has a couple of strange cats that come out at night. Case in point. I went today to get myself one of them Ralph's salads I like so much for dinner. Though I was disappointed that they didn't have those really tasty high-moisture mozzerella balls like they have sometimes, I put together a decent effort. (Although I mistakenly purchased this horrendous drink thinking it was some sort of fruit tea or something. It was called "Sensa", and labelled as "Orange Mango". 'Brilliant," I thought, before I took a drink and a closer look at the label, as a result of which I became aware of two facts: what I was drinking tasted like serious ass, and I was also drinking Diet Orange Mango Sensa, and that Sensa is labelled as an "energy drink". Ugh.) I then decided just to snag one of the outdoor tables outside of Starbucks and each my dinner.

The first incident happened when I was just about to sit down. This guy comes walking down the sidewalk just, well, how to describe it - I guess the best thing to say is just to say that he was "rapping". That's right. Just rapping to himself. No beat. No voicebox. No, you know, whatever, mouth beat noises. Just rapping. He seemed to be attempting to solicit some acknowledgement from the crowd at Starbucks, as if we were going to stop and nod along to the non-beat, or somehow spontaneously burst into applause, or wave our hands in the air like we just didn't care. When that wasn't forthcoming (nor was some sort of fantasy rap-challenger, which would also probably have suited him just fine), he went on his merry way, rapping all the while. I can't remember what he was rapping about, something about "put me in the arena". Good luck to you, miscellaneous rapper.

So I'm midway through my salad now when a guy dressed in a tight-fitting dark blue exercise suit, yellow running shoes, and a skullcap sits down noisily right next to me, puts his feet on the chair next to him, pulls out a copy of "Ski" magazine, and lights up a stogie. Big, fat one, too. And he was unapologetic. Some people were looking at him, as if to say, "where do you get off lighting a gigantic cigar in a reasonably dense crowd, right outside the door of the Starbucks?" I was one of them. But he was undeterred. Gleefuly, he held that thing between his teeth as he perused the magazine. The cigar seemed out of congruous with the outfit and mag, to me, but you never know. Maybe this is his only vice. Although, by the looks of him, I can guess probably three or four more, some of which might involve underage girls.

Finally, as I'm about done, and trying to avoid the chemicals spouting from Ski-man, I notice a reasonably elderly woman double over as she's walking along. I look concerned, but then she seems to regain composure and said something, laughing, like: "Damn! I guess I haven't had enough to eat today! I better go get ... (trails off)". That was perhaps the wierdest encounter of them all, given that I felt an intense urge to help/pity, followed by an intense urge to commit to some sort of asylum. Perhaps those are not contradictory emotions.