The writing on the mirror

Either the bro dudes have noticed that the housing boom and their easy money days are ending, or someone just dumped a lot of cheap cocaine on the market around here. I have seen more coked-out 25-40 year old mortgage bro guys this week than in the six months previously. I mean really fucking HIGH AS A KITE, flying, twitchy and loud, eyeballs making Ren & Stimpy noises, inappropriate affect, sweating, jaw clenching, everything.

The last one I saw tonight was standing on Newport Blvd near 17th with a couple of other guys. He had that overly-tanned and haggard skin, sunglasses pushed up on hiss spiked hair, a coating of sweat on his face, and office dress shirt and pants. As I waited at the stoplight he suddenly tugged sharply on his shirt so that he seemed to rip a couple of buttons off, exposing the top part of his chest. Then he yelled at them: “Revenue. Revenue, revenue. REVENUE!” And then the light turned green and I drove away.

Patio Nights: Bad boys, bad boys

Some of you might remember the strange doings in the insurance office upstairs from the patio. The youngish woman who’s apparently the daughter of the insurance agent using the office at night, lots of comings and goings of obviously freaked out addicts, bad scenes with people waving knives and yelling and kicking things. We were on the verge of calling the cops, mostly because she had her young son around for all this fun and because there are a lot of children on the patio who really shouldn’t have to deal with tweakers flailing about waving sharpened screwdrivers.

And then it all stopped. She still showed up but seemed to be doing legit daytime business stuff, and had a guy with her who looked like he had a job and was nice to the kid, and I thought “well good, she stopped dealing”.

Last night she was there with That Guy Who Gets Arrested On Cops, and they were playing yell at each other and slam the door for an hour or so. It wasn’t clear what was going on, but we started to wonder if she was trying to leave and he kept slamming the door on her. Or whether the quiet bits meant that she was being strangled. Or whether the kid was there. Around the time we were thinking seriously we should call the cops, the door opened and Loser Boy appeared. His first act was to dump a cup of ice from the second floor balcony on to bruisedhips which was a mistake, because that’s when the cops got called.

They showed up in about 30 seconds and were oddly casual. While both of them were talking to her inside, Arrest-Me-Now popped off his keychain, slipped down the stairs, and disappeared. Sierra pointed out that he probably lost the keychain so he could hop the fence in back more easily, because Sierra is O.G. from H.B. and thinks that way. Obviously Bluto didn’t want to talk to any cops at length last night.

No idea what happened to her. Part of me sympathizes with her obviously wretched life and wants Things To Get Better, but considering what she’s putting her kid through it might be better if she spent some time in the snicker while Grampa raised Junior. Whatever’s going on, it’s not the six-year-old’s fault.

I’m mostly a small-L libertarian about “drugs”, but speed is such a terrible, terrible thing.