Life behind the Burnt Orange curtain: 3 teenagers dead on Halloween night.

Daayuuum!

hit and run

Hit-and-Run Driver Kills 3 Teenage Girls Trick-or-Treating in Santa Ana

A hit-and-run driver struck and killed three teenage girls who were trick-or-treating in Santa Ana Friday night, according to authorities.

The children were struck at the corner of Fairhaven Avenue and Jacaranda Street (map) around 6:45 p.m., Orange County Fire Authority said.

All three were found dead upon arrival, Santa Ana Police Department Capt. Anthony Bertagna said.

The girls were 13 and 16 years old, OCFA Capt. Steve Concialdi said.

It was unclear if the girls were related or friends, he said.

Santa Ana is one of the less “orangey” cities in Orange County.

This mecca-county of exclusive Republican Whiteness in SoCal is not everything you might think, especially if you place much value in horseshit reality television dealing with certain despicable housewives and their vile husbandry.

oc wives

By the same token, Santa Ana is populated largely by a lot of my people, many of them acting badly.

In fact, if they catch this guy, which they probably will, I would put $20 on it that he’s Hispanic, and another $10 that he was drinking, and maybe $5 that he was illegal.

Such is life behind the Burnt Orange curtain!

burnt orange
courtesy, workwithcolor.com

The parents have not even been notified. Sad

Los Angeles Times

Authorities believe they have located the suspect vehicle, a Nissan Pathfinder, which was found behind a Big Lots store near the crime scene, police said.

Police are looking for two men who they said were in the car at the time of the incident.

from Google Earth

from Google Earth

Even the NYT has chimed in with more of a characteristic journalistic flourish!

The scene was “very sad,” he said, “when millions of children, teenagers and adults are out trick-or-treating on a wonderful evening to insert tragedy like this.”

Police were seeking two men from a Nissan Pathfinder that hit the girls, police Chief Carlos Rojas said at a media briefing.

The SUV was found abandoned near the scene, but the suspects had not yet been found, Rojas said.

Police were working to determine the girls’ names and to find their parents, Cpl. Anthony Bertagna said.

Jeff Evans was trick-or-treating with his 8-year-old daughter about a half-block away when he heard squealing tires, looked over and saw the collision.

“When we got over here, there was already a tarp over two girls,” Evans told the Orange County Register.

Soon after the accident some 60 people had gathered at the scene, where the fire department had chaplains and volunteers to counsel those upset by the incident.

More from the Los Angeles Times. Photographs. The indescribable torment of parenthood comes to life for an unfortunate, tragic few.

lat1

lat2

CNN

Posted in L2

About that attention whore, the White Knight, and their “anti-street harassment” propaganda piece.

Oh lord, here we go again.

Yet another viral woe-is-me hysterical female victim video is making the rounds. And it was instigated by this White Knight (literally):

bliss

His name is Rob Bliss and he has his creative hands in a little of everything. A man of many dubious socially redeeming talents and beau to a woman who evidently complained incessantly about that modern phenomenon of “street harassment” (actually, female whining is the real modern phenomenon), prompting him to spring to action on a path to reclaim her honor. Bliss concocted a plan and Shoshana Roberts, a New York actress and not the girlfriend, was procured to play a leading role in his scheme.

roberts

Basically, Shoshana walked a few steps behind Bliss through the streets of New York for many, many hours of surreptitious camera footage. The “secret video camera” was rigged in Bliss’ backpack which filmed the curvy don’t-quit-your-day-job actress as she paraded past all manner of Black and Hispanic men as they hooted, hollered, remarked, gesticulated, praised and made dramatic expressions of repressed lust. Bliss condensed all the “harassment” and edited it into a video which you see here:

Shoshana has that unique thickness and expansive booty that drives Black and Hispanic men into frenzies but leaves White and Asian men cold.

This footage is rigged and cherry-picked. The video production, sponsored and perpetuated by hollaback, one of those generic and aggravating social-responsibility sites whose liberated mission it is to tackle all manners of inappropriate and un-PC behavior (in this case, “street harassment”), purports to illustrate all the abuse Shoshana experienced over a 10-hour stroll through the Big Apple.

Frankly, if this footage represents all the bad male behavior she experienced during that amount of walking in New York City, big fucking deal.

Can I please see the other 9 hours and 58 minutes of mundane and unmentionable boredom? Oh, no, that won’t happen; it would be counterproductive to the histrionic point these do-gooders are trying to make. We would see that women don’t experience that much egregious flirting despite what the victimization movements and White Knights drone on about.

I’d like to propose an alternative video and would like Rob Bliss to produce it.

I would like to follow him and his sneaky camera through the streets of Los Angeles for 10 hours in order so we could all marvel at the anonymity and invisibility that visits my presence any time I step out in public. It would be far more amazing than the two minutes of leering the JAP thickster “endured” in New York. The amazing manner with which people’s disinterested eyes avert my existence would be a spectacle to behold, and I’m sure, send chills up and down Shoshana’s spine (she of “I don’t like the attention, wink wink”).

Besides, we all know and realize that the extent of Shoshana Roberts’ interest in highlighting the horrors of street harassment is only as sincere as the amount of acting gigs she squeezes out of this little publicity stunt.

And Bliss…well, his girlfriend apparently represents a timid social cause. Because passive, manipulative strategies to back into a woman’s respect are far more preferable than leers and catcalls, right?

Posted in L2

DreamHost…best served when your account is in arrears.

Sorry, blame DreamHost.

Is complaining about your blog host like biting the hand that feeds you?

Who knows, but DreamHost sometimes drives me crazy.

My renewal is paid annually in August but I have 60 days to pay it, and being the financial wizard that I am, I take advantage of that and wait until October to cough up the dues. During that period of time, I receive regular email reminders from DreamHost telling me that I better pay up. During this time, my blog runs as smoothly as can be expected.

However, once I pay the renewal, guess what happens?

My site starts going down and freezing again. This has happened in previous years as well.

This morning, it was down again, and I presume judging by the astronomic dip in views, for quite a while.

But hey…I’m paid up for the year. I guess this will continue until DreamHost wants my money again.

Interesting.

Posted in L7

The scourge of the Purveyors of Bland; in defense of Hate as an artful human trait.

Amusingly, a couple of blogs on my blogroll have posted the same video in the past several days.

Right View from the Left Coast

and

Goodbye, America (in a photo)

The video you can find in both posts is a reprehensible spew of left-wing tropes stacked atop each other like mushy layers of sewage at the bottom of an outhouse on a sweltering day. Its essential and archetypal ingredients are blather, reflexive dearth of thinking, sandwiched between egregious doses of childish ideological aggression, bloated furthermore by fanciful sophomoric assumptions. Typical left-wing one-size-fits-all attempts to malign that which does not abide.

The video is apparently the bowel movement residue of a bumper-sticker philosophy group of socially aware toy revolutionaries called FCKH8 purporting to make the world more hospitable for queers, bitches, and niggers/spics/slants/kykes/ragheads.

They have a website where they resort to rash consumerism while capitalistically engaging in profit motive to dump their enlightened product on the worst detritus the Millennials and forward have to offer. That intolerable swath of undernourished, overbearded dweeb with a hankering for egalitarianism and overriding sense of Utopian erase-suffering shaming philosophy.

fckh8

h8

Everything with these young Purveyors of Bland is about the hate.

Always the hate, the hate, stopping the hate, being anti-hate, the hate, everything is about the hate.

These simpletons act as if the world’s most pressing problem is, in fact, hate. They act as if the erasure of hate will lead all to fall into place in one tidy mound of cheer. How nice it must be to revel in soft, marshmallowy political pillows of spoiled naivete like these neophytes. The world is beautiful but it would be better if we just didn’t hate so much!

Personally, I love hate.

Hate is the spice of life. I’ll take a world full of hate, thank you.

Hate is human. What could be more human than hate?
Hate is peculiarly human. Animals do not hate.
Hate is awareness of dislike. Animals dislike, but on an instinctual level. They don’t comprehend “like” or “dislike.” But humans, ah, yes, humans…we take it to another level. We don’t simply dislike something…we dress it up with a higher-minded awareness and self-consciousness and it is transformed into that lovely thing call Hate.

The young socially-conscious, liberal kiddies think the world would improve if we rid it of hate and taught humans to not do so much of it.

I, on the other hand, think the world would improve if we nourished and perpetuated hate with resilient gusto.

If we, as a species, were comfortable with expressing hate, we would also be comfortable when others expressed it and finally, we might actually grow up and stop being such fussy little spineless children looking to pummel mankind into a sanitized amorphous collection of inoffensiveness.

Posted in L3

Whistling Dixie in the City of Angels

I went through a strange stage in my 20′s.

It wasn’t sexual or perverse, or even dangerous. It was definitely not expensive.

I really, really, really, became absorbed in the imagery and cultural mythology of the American South.

It began, for me, in a college American history course. General Ed crap that caught my eye which is what General Ed is designed to do, I suppose, and I took it and ran.

The Civil War was the draw and I was spellbound by stories and Brady-ian images of the 19th Century national family feud which ripped this country apart at the seams. Abraham Lincoln and Robert E. Lee and Ulysses S. Grant and Stonewall Jackson…there was a riveting and long-dead cast of tragic, glorious characters and faint photographic faces. Lore of deadly, blood-washed battles. The nuanced and horrific tales of a dastardly war and its relentless gutting of the young nation.

http://www.totalgettysburg.com/civil-war-photos.html

http://www.totalgettysburg.com/civil-war-photos.html

Of course, it followed that I also took great interest in the unfolding cultural phenomena that was the American South. The Reconstruction, slavery, the deeply imbued racism that still stirs in Dixie’s hornet nest, and the legendary geographical culture that has found itself on the receiving end of an anathema from the “sophisticated” urban mentalities of the modern clerisy coastal class.

I even took great interest in Southern literature. Most of the greatest American literature found its roots in the South. The South was a land of stories and endless tragedy.

It was America without American sensibilities.

I loved it!

For a period in my 20′s, I read and studied everything Southern. I fancied myself a Southerner at heart. I even bought a ridiculous belt that was stamped its entire length with distressed, multicolored indentations of the Confederate flag. In 1985, this didn’t seem such a big deal. Now, that flag represents everything that must be quelled and defeated by the same coastal class that delights in denigrating the South while simultaneously appeasing and soothing the delicate sensibilities of a society that demands bland subjugation to avoidance of all conflict.

Perhaps this is why I found such communion with the South.

A little ol’ Mexican boy from East Los Angeles…what the hell could he possibly care about Dixie?

I fell for the languid, soulful entropy of a land that was steeped in its own ill-fated rules of death.

I admired the South’s pitiless acceleration toward the pursuit of a triumph that could never live in the face of Eastern, global elites, a moneyed class that would forever subvert this nation’s free will to the expediencies of profit and avarice and nepotistic pretensions.

My Southern fixation had nothing to do with wars or slavery or mint juleps. It had everything to do with that aggravating sense of manipulated alienation.

In 1984, I took my 1974 Ford Maverick up to about 105 mph on the northbound Glendale freeway here in Los Angeles. That piece of crap had no business going over 60, much less triple digits. An LAPD patrol car chased my ass down. LAPD never makes freeway traffic stops. I pulled over and the cop walked up and asked me if I knew how fast I was going, and for my car registration. I leaned over to pull it from my glove compartment and my concert jersey (not sure the band) rode up and my Confederate belt was exposed and I wondered at the time what this White LAPD cop could possibly have made of a mustachioed Mexican kid driving 100 in such an old clunker with such a ridiculous belt. I apologized and owed up to what I did. “Yeah, I was driving too fast, sorry,” and handed him the paper. Once everything was run and cleared, he told me to drive carefully and let me go without writing me a ticket.

I’m convinced he let me go because of that belt. Not because he felt a kinship or anything stupid like that. It wasn’t a Southern thing, at all. It was probably for embarrassment, the sort I feel when recalling this story.

Posted in L5

America = buncha lazy people with too much money to burn.

Stuff like this has become a blight upon a spoiled abscess on the collective pampered American ass. “Ready made meals to cook” has turned into a thing. All shipped to your door in a wonderful biodegradable box. Oh so urban and lazy-ass of you.

home chef
home chef 1

The foodie generation is a lazy, apathetic conglomeration of encapsulated non-humans. Shielded from life, insulated from growth and ruggedness.

They are all fucking Chihuahua’s in sweaters.

Posted in L1

About Doctors Without Borders and Craig Spencer’s apparent shortage of domestic altruism.

I stand by my words from this post a few days back.

The group does admirable work and mankind is better for it.

But this.

The doctor [Craig Spencer] began feeling sluggish a couple of days ago, but it wasn’t until Thursday, when he developed 103-degree fever, that he contacted Doctors Without Borders, authorities said.

I expect more consideration and thought from such medical emissaries, even after they return home. Especially after they return home.

I get the sense that some of these people might be so wrapped up in helping the world that they shortchange their own neighbors. It’s as if they come home and suddenly that facade of saintly volunteerism crumbles into a shit pile of disregard and irresponsibility.

I almost wonder if some First World people infect themselves in a fit of psychotic vainglory.

Posted in L1

The failure of Richter’s Riposte and why men should not add this meek move to their arsenal.

The other day, a chorus of Reddit neophytes greeted a clip from Conan featuring a droll but friendly exchange/clash between the greatest sidekick ever, Andy Richter, and unfunny henchwoman, Chelsea Handler, with cyber-cheers and pumped fists and hollers of hoo-ya. They presumed, in their delusional little minds, that they had witnessed some serious comeuppance on the part of Richter for a rather weak defense he slung back at the jack-off-of-all-trades pop cultural female icon who had just owned the chubby comedian.

Richter, having acknowledged that he enjoys swimming in the ocean, is suddenly the target of Handler’s caustic, belittling retort, “You must…do you float a lot in the ocean?” Richter shrugs and answers weakly with a barb that is hardly the greatest comeback ever. “Sure…what, do you sink? It might be that cast iron heart.”

His desperate offense-is-the-best-defense snark is sniveled, but it falls flat as a worthy response to Handler’s ad hominem bullying.

(Incidentally, I love Andy Richter…I’m just calling it as I see it).

The exchange was hailed as the “greatest comeback ever” by Redditors. This is ridiculous. Who would dare voice such a claim other than some young cyberfiend with zero knowledge of the female creature? Only from this undersexed perspective could Richter’s retort be remotely considered a decent defense against the fat-shaming, emasculating put-down.

If that is what today’s young males consider a worthy riposte against a scornful, aggressive Alpha woman’s insults, Western American culture is in sorry-ass shape.

You never attempt to sincerely insult a woman by alluding to her cast iron heart/meanness/cruelty/insensitivity/fiendish nature/assertiveness/bitchiness/bossiness. To do so is to bring your butter-knife to the gunfight. These descriptors are praise to women’s ears, especially women of the 21st century. If young guys believe women don’t like being perceived as such, they really have a lot of catching up to do in the battle of the sexes. Women eat that kind of slander up! A woman will feel privately empowered and proud at being the receiving end of such accusations. Richter resorted to a default simpering Beta state here when confronted with the unqualified slings of personal attack that only women can get away in public (ie, imagine if the roles had been reversed). Richter probably buys into the “all women are special snowflakes” mentality and thus, has integrated the mindset that this is the self-perception that pleases them and makes them giddy, when in reality, women hate being perceived as retiring snowflakes; they’d rather be slushy, shit-encrusted mud wreaking havoc on your weak male spirit.

Insult Handler’s age, her wrinkled skin, her weathered appearance. This is how to hurt. Shoot to kill, not to vaguely malign.

Insulting a woman’s vanity is the surest way into her cast iron heart.

Posted in L3

Renee Zellweger’s plastic path to the mundane tract home.

Here I am, the consummate blogger, pontificating about the important issues of the day; those that affect each of us in astounding measures of gravity.

That’s what I do, and it is also why I am taking time and energy to write about a controversial schism that has apparently pierced the heart of the American public today.

It is this, of course.

zellweger

Renee Zellweger, a woman whose movies I have not exerted effort to watch, nevertheless intrigued me for years. Her nuanced facial structure, while not classically molded, was still attractive to me. I found it aesthetically magnetic. I loved her look. It was unmistakable. It had character, to borrow a tired, soothing refrain. Those draping, concealing eyelids shadowing sweet sparkling blue eyes, the vulnerability of her narrow lips, the girlish jut of her pleasant chin…she was such a cutie. The sweetest girl next door, but in a manner which screamed, “I’m taking a different path into your heart!”

I’m speaking of the Renee on the left, of course.

It seems the Zellweger of old has metamorphosed over the past several years into this odd cookie-cutter Stepford creature that bears no resemblance to the charming girl I once adored. Photographs reveal that Zellweger has apparently parted with precious money (this is unsubstantiated…she has never admitted to plastic surgery, nor have any acquaintances stated such with confidence) in order to look like every other blonde, over-tanned and over-luxuriated Valley or OC housewife in SoCal.

She has gone from cutely unusual and visually provoking to a white bread ho-hum one-size-fits-all shade of Anglo.

Zellweger’s evolution is emblematic of our culture of conformity and collective lack of originality. A world in which beauty is defined anyway you want so long as it’s marketable and familiar and boring. Soulless.

And as all piercing glimpses into society must, this Zellwegerian ascendance to Valley Housewife was greeted on Facebook with a chorus of expressions of shock and bemusement.

To which, I responded:

She traded in an old Victorian for a tract home.

Posted in L4

She gave me a sour expression, and in return, I give her .00317 seconds of anonymity.

On this blog, well aware of the vast, countless cosmic reaches that my blowhard bloviating extends to each time I press that grueling PUBLISH button, I am quite happy and accommodating when it comes to extending others their deserved, or at the very least, unearned, 15 minutes of fame, virtue of Social Extinction.

Never one to selfishly horde all notoriety and fame that attends such legendary bloggery, I am very happy to draw others into this arena of whoredom.

As you may know, and perhaps have cringed to learn, I like to let my dashcam “roll” during those periods I’m not in the car as well. I find it engaging and oddly involving to watch the parking lotscape idle by while I run into the store or restaurant or wherever that requires I park my car, unattended.

Yesterday this Asian chick peered at my windshield. It was as if she spotted my dashcam. Could she have known?

In return, I giver her my 15 minutes of fame. Or, since it is this blog, maybe her .00317 seconds of anonymity. Regardless, here you go, sweetie!

15 MINUTES

Posted in L1