A case of low-class Mexican signalling at the SWPL cafe.

Earlier, at the cafe.

A real cafe. Not a chain, mind you. In Monterey Park, a Los Angeles suburb populated largely by Chinese.

At this cafe, they take their coffee seriously. They are craftsmen, which frankly can’t be said of many of the employees and stores making up the nexus of coffee-doling chains scattered throughout this commercial Western sprawl we call the “service industry.” This is a cafe where you order a cortado with nary a raised or furrowed eyebrow from the barista.

As with all such establishments practicing the serious art of coffee, the clientele tends toward that certain “upper crust” of customer that leans toward the SWPL side of the aisle. This cafe is owned and frequented by well-educated and upper-class Chinese people, and it’s not infrequent that young Chinese women who visit are accompanied by Anglo and Jewish gentlemen.

The concept of “SWPL” is obviously constructed around the social phenomena predominant among White people, but in Los Angeles (and I’m sure other major cities as well), it can also apply to Asians who have taken the SWPL torch and have striven boldly toward the racial finish line. The customers of this cafe are that class of educated, SWPL folks, White and Asian alike, with the occasional brown interloper like myself, but frankly, I tend to assume many SWPL affectations, so I don’t particularly stand out in my manner or dress.

Now just west of this suburb is East Los Angeles. And specifically, the neighborhood just west of here contains a series of low income housing strips and one large housing project. Most of the residents there, just west of the Chinese exurb, are Mexican-Americans. I specifically note “Mexican-American” for most of them are 1st or 2nd generation Mexicans who lack the charms and humility of native Mexicans while simultaneously lacking the manners and civilized bearing of White and Asian Americans. It’s as if, hampered by the lack of a geographical base with which to house their legacy and roots, they have transformed into a hybridized, trashy brand of American that benefits no one and drains the quality of life for the rest.

The proximity of both sociocultural spheres matters not for the worlds rarely intersect. The Mexicans stay on their “side” of the tracks while the Chinese do the same. Each respective niche only contains that which dilettantes of that side consume and enjoy. There is little cross-contamination going on here!

Earlier, I suspect I witnessed a rare moment of this cross contamination when a Mexican couple strolled into the cafe for whatever reason. Maybe they felt that fleeting urge to shun Starbucks for exotic Joe-lands unknown. But in they walked. The fellow, short-cropped hair, looking so Mejicano, wearing a basketball tank-top jersey, denim shorts and white sneakers. The woman wore very tight shorts and a slender blouse. She was not totally unpleasing to the eye despite her advanced years. The temperature is supposed to soar into the 100s for the next few days, so shorts and t-shirts are not unheard of, but the style of clothes they wore were not SWPL-smart. As my son joked later, they could have just as easily gone to 7-11 for their coffee fix and would have blended in better. They were tatted up as well, egregiously so, way more than the typical restrained-ink display an SWPL might wear on the top of a foot or side of the shoulder. The cross contamination was obvious for anyone who paid attention, and of course, I was. My social radar is always on and I note every little sound and image.

Around this time, a youngish Chinese woman, not bad-looking, in loose, smart shorts, walked in with an Anglo, maybe Jewish, guy who was about a decade older than she. They sat to our left and began chatting after they ordered their coffee. They were talking about school, degrees, the stuff of our society’s finer citizenry. Just then, the ghetto couple was paying for their coffee at the cash counter, to our immediate right. I overheard the Chinese girl say to the man, quietly, but not quietly enough, “See those two people to our left…they are not dressed right.” The guy didn’t say much and she reiterated, “You know which ones I’m talking about, right?” she could have been talking about my son and I, but being that we were wearing innocuous t-shirts (and we were seated), I knew what she was talking “about.”

She was thinly insinuating that class-based racial signalling that we all know exists without having to utter it. Maybe in a less public situation, she would have told her companion what she saw, but in less ambiguous terms.

Posted in L2

Shrew in Hawaii walks all over Hawaiian guy and all he can do is film because modern enlightened society has tied his hands.

Check out this shrew’s road rage behavior in Hawaii.

I’ve heard from many that Hawaiian drivers are some of the most chill folks out there. I don’t think this cunt got the memo.

In a sane, mature world, any man would be entitled, even encouraged and expected, to assert and display just the right dose of male strength necessary (without truly inflicting permanent harm) to subdue and silence the emboldened witch. Conversely, in a sane world, she would not expect anything less of a man and hence, not act like such a petulant prepubescent swine.

But the law and society is on her side. A woman without qualified behavioral limits is indeed a force to be reckoned with.

Can you imagine the mirror image of this scenario involving a violently angry man who approaches a woman’s vehicle in such a manner?

Our White Knight American pussy culture would step up in a mighty and rousing denunciation of his aggressive and horrible threatening behavior (while congratulating itself smugly for salvaging the woman’s fractured honor).


Update: Kimberly Ong is her name-o….


Posted in L6

I’d respect Drew Carey more if he put his $10,000 away and instead began the “Bed Pan Challenge”

Police in Ohio have allegedly identified the perpetrators of that heinous twist on the Ice Bucket challenge that left a 15-year-old autistic boy awash in a noxious bullybrew of piss, shit, cigarette butts and spit. All the do-goodyism that modern internet/celebrity culture could conjure erupted in response. Calls for criminal prosecution filled the airwaves. This was awful and cruel, yada yada.


I got to wondering…if we called upon the police to investigate every act of teenage cruelty to dot the American landscape, they would not have time to concentrate on real crime. What is the statute of limitations for this shit (literally)? I can think of some things from my school years that I’d like the cops to check out.

C’mon, this is not a crime. The parents of the bullies should see to it that their children are punished on a traditional familial level. We don’t need the police and Drew Carey piping in on this incident which is really nothing more than rehashed juvenile cruelty that has plagued 15-year-old boys…forever. All it takes now for something to blow something up beyond all good sense and reason is strategic addition of a trigger word. In this case, we had two! Autism and bullying. This is Nanny Fodder.

If people really want to put their money where their mouth is and stand unified behind this boy, why don’t we start a new challenge to show our corny, collective commiseration.

We shall call it the Bed Pan Challenge!

Posted in L4

The sincerest forms of humanity occur in elevators. Why I like the battle of Rice vs Palmer so much.

Anybody knows the rule of a husband. If you go biblically, the husband is the head of a household. My job is to lead my family, my job is to lead my wife. My job is to lead in whatever I do. And if I’m not being the example, then my family crumbles. – Ray Rice, during a July press conference.

Whatever to this stupidity; whatever to this predictable and re-hashed script that seems to replicate itself each time you toss a typical baller athlete and a gambling casino into the blender of cultural dystopia that is called 21st Century America.

I like this story. I like what it says about our collective hypocrisy and cosmetic falsities that drive us to yammer on like a swarm of mother hens, smug in our assurance that we know what is good for everyone.

I like this story. When the light is turned inappropriately down the wrong end of the telescopic shaft, we are greeted with a spectacle that is jarring to our civilized sensibilities.

A man and woman, embroiled in an altercation. The man swats her down, slugs her, she falls, strikes her head, and is knocked out. KO for the brotha!


The lovely thing about this fiasco is not the behavior of the modern-day gridiron gladiator, the adulated mass of muscle who evokes a strange, homoerotic fixation from legions of bedazzled men who are so enthralled with the spectacle that they barely realize the ludicrousness of the game.

That is not the lovely thing. The man, the gladiator, in violently knocking the girl out, does little to amuse.

No. The amusement is in the behavior of the woman, the one being pummeled into unconsciousness. This incident took place on February 15, between her and her fiance. They were engaged at the time of this fight.

Was it a deal breaker? Surely the civilized, simpering man would argue so. Such a man would proclaim that women must never be struck.

But did she, the one whose opinion matters most, think twice about making this man, who had punched her into oblivion, her husband? Of course not. In fact, just 6 weeks later, the two were married.

The popular, comfortable dialogue, unable to reckon the actions of a woman thus, ascribe to her a madness, an insanity born of physical abuse, a schism in her normal socialization, in order to sate their inability to accept that the woman might actually be content and know what she wants, and furthermore, may be quite at peace with her subservient role a man of strength and means. The popular dialogue cannot comprehend that this woman represents an extreme of female nature that betrays all the do-goody cultural castigation that erupts flagrantly in reaction to a man’s actions in times like this.

And this is why I adore this story.

It lays bare the elemental skeleton of the soul of man and woman without the decorous pomp of modern feminized civility and and its shameless corruption of Natural Instinct. At moments like this, the duplicity of those who try to manufacture and engineer an anti-evolutionary society is visible for all to see. The sincerest form of humanity occurs in elevators.

Posted in L7

Meredith Cole, the thugs, and how emotion rules public discourse.

From the latest installment of BAB (Blacks Acting Badly) comes this surveillance footage of a physical altercation/assault that happened in Springfield, Missouri, last week.

According to local Springfield television station, KYTV:

Springfield police are looking for a group of people who brutally beat a couple in downtown Springfield. Police have not made any arrests. They hope someone seeing the video will identify the attackers.

One of the victims, Meredith Cole, says the attack started while her boyfriend, Alex, was working as a DJ at the Outland Ballroom. She said she was approached by a group of men outside the club, and they began to sexually assault her. Cole says she returned inside the club to alert her boyfriend, who then left the club to try to identify who her attackers are.

And according to this Fox story, Cole and her boyfriend, Alex Vessey, were attending a rap concert at the Outland Ballroom prior to the incidents which led to the assault. Vessey was allegedly upset that the group “disrespected” his girlfriend which led to the confrontation.

Once again, the agitated chorus arises in a swell of self-assured antipathy across the commentariat. Many people focus entirely on this video and the painful images it shows of a brutal assault of a poor White couple at the hands of a gang of Black brutes. I’ve mimicked the language and emotive reaches that one can find in most comments related to this footage.

The only thing missing is a clear-headed analysis of the incident and all the necessary skepticism and empiricism required to honestly appraise inflammatory images like this.

The facts are vague and we don’t know many of the underlying precursors to this scene. Yet, this does not stop the typical netizen from launching into an anti-Black spiel based purely on emotional responses to the images. We know nothing of what happened other than ambiguous police statements and a couple of curt news paragraphs. The emotional trigger appeal to this footage is stupendous and it is no shock that people so readily jump to conclusions.

Sampling of Facebook comments

Sampling of Facebook comments

I am a logician, a “scientist,” and I deal in the world of facts and reality, not emotions, but it seems lately that all we have to harvest in the realm of public discourse is pure emotion.

Does anyone wonder exactly what Meredith Cole’s definition of “sexual harassment” was? Were there catcalls and aggressive Black male flirting and shit-talk (we’ve all seen this), or did they really “assault” her? If so, did she call the police immediately? Did she believe she was the victim of a crime? And what on Earth prompted her boyfriend and all 150 pounds of him to drag her back outside the club to confront this group of mack daddies?

Nothing excuses what the Black kids did, but some additional knowledge might shed light on the pragmatic culpability the couple had in provoking such an exchange.

But ultimately, emotions and lack of critical thought rule the day.

We are “blessed” with this mighty hive called the internet but slowly I’m seeing that it is not improving the nature of man. It is only illuminating its inadequacies.

Posted in L3

Happiest ass-kicking ever. Russian gets pummeled by cartoon cast.

I don’t know what to say.

For the sake of hilarity, I will have to assume this video represents a “real” incident and that there was no staging.

The laughter is as funny as the spectacle.

Posted in L2

A new slogan for America, or if nothing else, a new stanza to add to the Pledge of Allegiance.

While in the midst of some rambunctious philosophizing over at Robert Lindsay’s great blog, I suddenly blurted a thought which I intend to tease out a little more:

I wrote:

The worst freedom is freedom to believe you are, in fact, free.

Perhaps I’m overly enamored of my own bullshit, but I think this has legs and describes delusional American culture a whole hell of a lot.

Posted in L3

Question of the day was: does Dean Cain have no balls, or is he just a bad actor? (Pretty boys trying to be tough)

I entertained an abbreviated misfortune this weekend.

It could have been worse. I could have been forced to sit through the entirety of Hallmark’s tedious Operation Cupcake, starring former pretty boy heartthrob, Dean Cain, of the 90′s chickdrama, Lois And Clark.

In this respect, it could have been worse, but I should not spend much time shooting holes in the typical Hallmark whitewashed, bland offering that only serves to fill an afternoon and soothe a frayed sense of modern female disembodiment. Nah, I won’t spend time talking about how bad this movie is. This movie belongs to that singular genre of tired small screen vapid drama so utterly bad that discussing its lack of artistry is akin to shooting fish in a pitcher of Brita filtered water.

The movie is bad, but who doesn’t know this, even those who like this type of thing?

Dean Cain stars as a military Colonel who is home for leave from his overseas station while his superiors decide whether to promote him to General. His return home is fraught with anguish and torment because the civilian life he encounters is nothing like what he was prepared for after serving so many years in the harsh military. His wife owns a bakery, and she is opening a second as the movie begins. Cain’s character, Griff Carson (yes, that is the name the writers blew out their collective uncreative asses), finds the new home and its insular family life a difficult fit. He is an interloper in the pussy-footed, feminized civilian world of foodies and baked goods.

Trashy plot aside, what struck me most was the presentation of Griff Carson and all the incongruencies that his televised character displayed. Much of Carson’s character is a deterrent textbook that men should watch carefully while assiduously jotting notes.

Dean Cain is asked to assume the macho role of a lifetime soldier and all the curt stoicism, no-nonsense gruffness that comes with it. Dean Cain fattened (bulked) up, apparently. His face expanded precipitously and it seems he hit the weights. His face lost any sense of chiseled masculinity, but somewhere behind those fleshy mounds, he maintained those pretty boy looks from 20 years ago. He has muscled up and in terms of physique, anyone could accept he might be a military man. No problem with this leap of faith…

…until we hear and watch Dean Cain (aka, Griff) in action.

This lumbering macho Army man suddenly becomes a restrained, repressed and over-civilized choppy Eurasian man. To watch Dean Cain sadly assume the role of a masculine man is to finally realize that a man’s bearing is truly his path to pussy riches or cock neediness. In Cain’s case, I can’t imagine it is anything but cock neediness. In fact, his personal life seems fraught with non-relationships lacking notable or praiseworthy acclaim for a man of his aesthetic gifts. In other words, if I had this dude’s looks, I would be getting laid 365 days a year by 365 different women, and perhaps, if I was feeling benevolent, I might let one of them slip in twice to account for leap years. This guy should not have a problem creating a steady stream of sexual buzz.


Alas, theres seems to be little buzz aside from suicidal country singers and cast off beauty pageant contestants. This is no surprise.

Listen to the man comport himself in this “Operation Cupcake” promo. Mind you, this is the career soldier who is trained to face down death, right?

His mannerisms and speech betray the fact that Cain has no masculine bone in his body. He is a pretty boy who never learned to be dirty and rough and his lineage probably contributed strongly to producing a pampered, sensitive boy who never learned to project his manhood. There are a few clips in this promo that spotlight the utter lack of rakishness this really good-looking guy is afflicted with, and hence his dearth of manly rambunctiousness.

He speaks and acts like a man who must behave, a man who is worried about appearing too strong. Pretty face, no balls.

Men, the take away: MAN is shaped and expanded by his fearlessness, not by his sparkling eyes.

Posted in L3

The Highest Goal; the Lowest Goal. High Mind and Esteem, or Low Mind and Baseness. What do you choose?

The goal is not money, a house, a car, a retirement package that can support a Third World village for a year, a shiny office with title to match.

These are not goals.

They are byproducts of a diligent life well lived and selfless fortitude mixed with good doses of self-sacrifice. But objects and money are not goals, for anyone can share such “aims.”

Your goal as a person of High Mind and Esteem should be to dive into Life with courage and relentless pursuit of experience. Your goal is to milk each day, each moment, for all they offer without paying heed to the nagging, dehumanizing cultural admonition that material success is the only worthwhile end. The goal is to garner wisdom through victory and failure, the goal is to take each moment and nourish it with your own personal dose of curious exploitation.

Conversely, your goal as a person of Low Mind and Baseness is to fill your life with over-sized objects of glitter and gold, and other more illusory shadowy beacons of egotism.

The problem with Low goals is that they are only a means to an end and are burdened with the oppressive weight of an empty, utilitarian soul. Low goals never rise beyond, and they only encourage stunting of the human spirit. The High goal is discarded, or more commonly, never recognized.

Posted in L7

Bring on the Trampoline Tramps!

I can’t stop watching this video!!

It’s so magnetic. It’s not even sensual. It’s just unadulterated animal lunging scooping out every trace of your last carnal pleasure.

This video lulls me with its high energy frenzied dynamite beat of racing limbs and bent thighs arching machine-gun like in razor thrusts of gooey ecstasy.

I want meself a Trampoline Tramp! Check out the burst of female jackhammer action shortly after the one minute mark. C’mon guys…tell me you wouldn’t like to feel some of that rat-a-tat-tat pussy envelopment as you lounge back in your well-worn mattress.

Posted in L2