The corporate PD

This is a sorta continuation of yesterday’s post in that I’m fine tuning my thoughts on the modern police culture. It came to mind earlier during Thanksgiving dinner. Someone who knows someone who knows an LAPD officer told someone in this chain of communication that the other day the police were estimating 50 arrests during an OWS demonstration in downtown, but that they ended up arresting 75 people. Something struck me as a tad bit boastful about this. I asked if the police had a quota and was told no, there were no quotas. I thought it amusing that the PD is accounting for this stuff. Police seem to be involved in some sort of paramilitary bookkeeping maneuvers. This certainly happens, but the crowds here don’t seem particularly noteworthy. I find it amazing they surpass the police predictions. I think someone is fudging the prediction or inflating the result (as in, GUESS WHO).

I outlined my thoughts a couple of months ago in regards to the death of Kelly Thomas, a homeless and mentally ill man from Orange County who was beaten to death by a crew of Fullerton police officers who easily outweighed him by 5 to 1, collectively. I stated then and I stated in yesterday’s post: police who serve the municipal citizens of this country are increasingly demonstrating paramilitary tendencies in the wake of the financial disasters over the last few years in reaction to the faltering status of the moneyed elites. The municipal police are pseudo public agencies maintaining law and order, but in reality, it goes much deeper. They are indeed preserving law and order, but they are also preserving a free-market economy the oligarchs can hide behind while continuing to spin off lusted-after products and bolstering the culture of commercialism. The police are basically squads of peacekeepers who pledge their duty to maintain order and a sense of predictability that mimics a level playground which hypnotizes the sheep into the belief that right and wrong reigns. But right and wrong is an illusion. We don’t see it because the men in blue stand over us with a sword poised at our temples.

The oligarchs: the keepers of the corporacracy, wear ties and nice shoes and get manicures. Not a formidable force. In predictable historical fashion, the financially powerful steer physical powerful minions under their domain to protect their interests. The Constitutional culture of the United States is such that this outright parasitical relationship cannot be openly acknowledged. This is not to say it does not exist. It’s oblique and shielded, but it thrives. It erects itself autonomously. No one person directs the unfolding conspiracy consciously. Just like HAL in 2001: A Space Odyssey, our hierarchical commercial capitalist system has unknowingly breathed life into this Frankensteinian self-perpetuating system that safeguards its own well-being.

The police are the safeguards. When the powerful falter and their reputations are battered, when they begin to lose their grip, the police step in to fill the compromised void. Police are trained to proportionately escalate their response in the face of resistance, and this method can also be viewed as playing itself out on a national, cultural scale. As the business interests lose their grip, they call in the soldiers to take up the slack. Our fate as citizens is zero-sum. We can never find our truest sense of inherent freedom because to approach such a threshold elicits a disdainful reaction from the executive leaders. They cannot grant us our freedom for it drains their accounts.

Police will see to it that you buy and consume. This is their unknowing duty. To protect and serve does not honor the poor and indigent. They will see to it that you suffer if you balk. This is why we must subvert rather than confront.

The Revolution Cloud

 

It’s their money. People can do what they want with it.
It’s their money, right?

 

This is the problem. People don’t know what to do with money other than spend it gratuitously. Money contains a magnetic potion that lures us out of our sensible skin into the frantic, lustful frenzy of spending. This is propelled further when our environment is shared with others who entertain a similar spending lust.

 

It’s their money so they can do what they want on November 25.

 

Black Friday. A consumerist lemming race. Park your brain at the door; better, leave it at home. Spend your money wildly and embark on a government-mandated mission to engorge the coffers of our commercial elites.

 

If you can’t get enough of it and haven’t begun pitching a tent on your favorite blacktop parking lot, you still have time to work yourself up into a mindless buying spell by checking out a site devoted entirely to this farce.

 

The problem with OWSers and other toy revolutionaries is that they are too focused outwards. It’s more satisfying to blame from behind the guise of dissatisfaction. Blame can be served generously and public marauding protests can be staged for the sake of spectacle, and that’s all it is. Spectacle. Modern protest marches are manned by fuzzy idealists who prioritize the gratification of dramatic actions rather than concrete steps. Any physical protest is invariably fueled by showmanship and ego. Street protests are like bumper stickers becuase they flaunt an idea you can assume in differing degrees of secretive earnestness. Externally focused action is useless because you are never accountable to yourself. Your stand is obliterated by your street stage performance. Street marches are a script with many actors. In recent months, the newest batch of actors are the municipal police who have boisterously assumed the role of private elitist police force/shills. They now play the part of strong-armed enforcers of the corporacracy while hiding behind a secret handshake and a badge. They stomp out dissent and stomp on heads and the protesters shout louder in response, and when they resist, the news media inflates the news accounts. Some commentators condemn, other celebrate. But in the end, nothing changes. Street protests are collective temper tantrums which cool down, allowing you to get up and go stand in line outside your national conglomerate’s outlet of choice so you can rush in when the doors are opened and spend lots of dough on shit and thus contribute to the firm’s profit margin.

 

The only revolution worthy of the term will happen when we change ourselves, when we extinguish the materialistic hunger which drives us to stand in line for store doors to open, when we truly are at peace not buying, and not receiving. The revolution is to assert our free will and asserting our right to say no and live as simply fulfilled human beings. If we resist the communal urge to join the rat race and out-rat the other rats, upheaval is ours. The revolution will come when we are content within our own unremarkable boundaries. It suits the business elites to nurture an artificial hunger and sense of need. We have no needs except to live.

 

The new revolutionaries must combat the mass consumerist hypnotism of modern humanity. The next revolution will be in the faceless playing field of cyberspace. It will be internally focused which is as how it should be. Cyber collectives like Anonymous which are for all intents and purposes merely “Revolution Clouds” have the ability to upset the world and turn it right again.

 

The next revolution will transform civilization by transforming human character by first taking it back from its enslavement to the corporate consumer assembly lines.

 

 

The Lettuce Wars!

Out of curiosity, I did a search on this blog of the word “lettuce” and was fascinated to discover than in over 2 years of this shtick I’ve only mentioned the word “lettuce” in 3 posts. I suppose that is praiseworthy? Perhaps the truest gauge of a blog’s relevance is how many times “lettuce” appears. Or not. Two of my 3 posts in which the word “lettuce” appears did not center around the leafy vegetable that populates salads across our foodie nation. One was all about lettuce. In fact, the title was “We’re trapped in this blog!! Lettuce out, please…” This was from May 10th of last year. Amazing how far I’ve come.

Of course the question that follows is Why? Why the hell am I searching for lettuce on AUM?

Um, what else are you going to do when the subject comes up in the comment thread of a post that supposedly dealt with the trivializing AND dehumanizing nature of modern urbanization. We are talking about lettuce. Knee-jerk conservative Mark, of “Right View from the Left Coast,” started it by taking the traditionalist tack of demeaning the green leafy goodness of Arugula. I mentioned that I had a post dealing with this very subject in my cue (take THAT Anonymous), which was a half-truth. Wise Amy insightfully saw where I was going with this. She offered a small nugget of wisdom in the grand landscape of the Lettuce Wars. Of iceberg lettuce, she said it “tends to be looked down on as the Wonder Bread of the salad world.”

Yes, it is true.
I was raised on iceberg lettuce. Our parents and their generation loved the stuff. Iceberg lettuce has come to symbolize generational obsolescence like a lot of other stuff we prefer to not think about. Why is it each generation feels compelled to denigrate the humble affectations of the previous? In fact, I would say the genesis of the SWPL mentality is nurtured in the veins of generational rebellion. The Hip and the Modern boast of their leafy greens, with good reason. Common sense tells us that the more pigmentation that produce has, the greater the variety of nutrients. When you compare the albino iceberg lettuce to a leafy bundle of green Romaine leaves, it’s easy to guess which will contain the most nutrients. This fact is detailed here.

All those years my parents fed me iceberg. Little did I know they were depriving me of a host of complete vitamins. Child abuse!

Whatever.
C’mon, let’s get real. The superior nutritional offerings of romaines and looseleaf lettuces over iceberg (a “crisphead”) are substantial but in the larger scheme of dietary perspective, not noteworthy. Who the hell from the human family eats a lettuce diet? We are omnivores and thus we derive a complete complement of nutrition from the wide variety of foods we are evolved to digest and masticate. Eating a less nutritious lettuce is not dietary armageddon as long as the rest of your daily diet is well-rounded. Lettuce does not have a monopoly on vitamins A, C, K, etc. Definitely not on anti-oxidants. You can get these all from eating a complete diet of vegetables and fruit. Oh, that’s the problem. People who have the hardest time eating fruit and veggies apparently have no problem eating lots of salad. Puzzling. Personally, I prefer Romaine lettuce. I love green, leafy vegetables. Spinach is the best, especially when it’s fresh. I make sure to mix in carrots, corn, and other varying shades of produce in my diet. Color is nature’s coding scheme for nutritional value.

You don’t need to like iceberg. I just get the impression that lettuce has become a delineation between the traditionalist and the new urban yuppy scum mentality. You won’t be caught dead eating iceberg lettuce in a trendy Hollywood shitbucket nowadays, not because you dislike iceberg as much as you subconsciously desire to distance yourself from generational antiquity while simultaneously ingratiating yourself with modern affectations. Most people won’t admit it or don’t recognize it, but they snub the joys of the crunchy and pale iceberg merely because they are similarly shunning their parent’s generation and mindset.

Just as we tell our children that they aren’t old enough to understand “things” yet, our parents told us the same thing. And everyone is right. We were too young, our children are too young. We all know better, don’t we? And the act of knowing better leads us to turn a nose at that which walked before us. It’s not about the lettuce. It’s about “knowing better” but knowing better means shit. Eat more nutritious lettuce but still eat less vegetables and fruit. That’s our approach. My parents and their parents did not grow up eating food that was predominantly molded from the assorted commercial permutations of corn, and they did not drown in the sweetness of HFCS. Maybe they ate iceberg lettuce, but they ate better all around than we do with all our half-assed knowledge.

The Big Lie of urban living

Urban living is a travesty.
It is unnatural. It is forced, like an empty masquerade. There are too many people, too many caves, too many cars. Too much.
Pressed together, stacked, impacted, bleeding profusely from the lacerations of modernity.

Big city, squashed-in existence, is the anti-life.
It is a 99-cent trinket.

When dwelling within masses of humanity pressing in on your sanity, you lose individuality, you lose that special snowflake aspect of your existence. Soulless. Humanity is rendered tragically expendable. We are overpopulated, not because we don’t have the ability to sustain most of our useless population, but because there are too many people to justify individual worth.

Today I had to walk through parts of Hollywood I normally don’t because of filming going on outside the Hollywood & Vine Red Line station. I walked by areas I don’t know because I no longer have a social life. PUA/Gamers and 28-year-old handsome guys have lives and they electrify the new Hollywood. I don’t have a life. I leave work, talk to no one, see no one, come home. I walk the same, abandoned route where there are few people, no hip businesses, nothing. This morning that changed as I walked my alternate route. Suddenly it struck me, the fucking artificiality. Bars and restaurants, recreating exotic locales, smart and witty names distracting, people walking to work in expensive clothes, unattainable footwear, everyone in the big city looking to make a splash. The big city steers what America sees and becomes. Even the America that is not a big city. The urban culture becomes our culture. It’s pure, artificial garbage. Everything in the big city is a put-on.

The artifice of urban living disproportionately empowers the feeble-minded and the feeble-hearted. You can be much less of a person in the big city because your style and trendy hipness can carry guide you through the obstacle course untouched and you have less to display, less to prove. Sincerity is shit in the big city.

Yet, sincerity is man’s sole path to the enclave of humanity.

All else is transient bullshit and not real.
The big city with its lights and noise and human dejection is not real.
The big city is not sustainable. It is an affront to life.
Everyone I cross paths with has a blank stare and a disconnected fascination with reality, one that is far from the city, beyond the civic limits.

Urban inhabitants are drawn to a primal memory of life, a pastoral existence where nothing is proved or disproved. Where existence is plodding but beautiful, not a duplicitous facade. Urban living is a humid mask that sticks to your skin. It is a shield fending off that which resides deep in our nature, but which, if allowed to escape, will upset the Big Lie.

Walking amid groups of too many people, the Big Lie is our umbrella and our raft.

LA Auto Show, a rainy Sunday afternoon pictorial

This is how my mind operates. Before I leave the house to do anything, I have one overriding concern that preoccupies me. For instance, in preparation for a trek to downtown L.A. and its conjoined amusement of mobs of LA Live strollers and annoying throngs of people blocking walkways at the annual Los Angeles Auto Show at the Convention Center, I only cared about one thing. It’s the one in yellow:

The Los Angeles auto show is an annual madhouse. It takes place at the Convention Center which architecturally predates the Staples Center and LA Live by decades and though it has been upgraded, it is a relatively “ancient” structure within the context of area landmarks. It’s located on the grimy streets near the junction of the Harbor and Santa Monica Freeways. You’ll typically have many wayward visitors, many whom don’t visit downtown very often. Traffic clogs up the streets, everyone seems to be in the wrong lane, and parking is precious and expensive. I hate crowds and I absolutely hate lines. For me, it’s all about the FAQ #7. Not that it mattered because I had decided to attend the show today, so it came down to minimizing the human torment the best I could. My son and I left the house about 10. I figured Sunday morning should be tolerable. People are at church or eating breakfast. My gamble worked because I nabbed a pretty good spot right off Figueroa on the first floor of a parking structure. $12 was the rent. The sky was gray and the forecast warned of rain, but it was dry when we arrived.

The crowd entering with us was sparse. Just my speed.

We handed our home-printed tickets and the guy scanned them and we were in. The first and largest collection of exhibits is in the South Hall. Here you’ll find almost all the major auto manufacturer’s exhibits. We meandered about, checking out the concept cars which are a main reason to come to auto shows. These mainstream auto company exhibits tend to be the most boring because most of the cars you see here are the same ones you can see in your neighborhood shopping market parking lot. I didn’t sit in any of the cars this time around. That’s one of the more fun aspects of the auto show. It seemed all the cars were full of gawking adults and bothersome kids. After we had seen all the cars here, we walked outside to look for West Hall where the rest of the domestics were displayed but we stopped at Concourse Hall on the way and had a look at some exotics and other pricey shit…Rolls Royce, Lotus and one of my favorites, Aston Martins. I love the Aston and if I were a profligate earner and spender, that is what I would be driving. What a sweet car.

After the Concourse Hall, we got a little “turned around” and ended up outside looking for the West Hall. It was raining now and walking in the rain like a lost dog in search of a car showroom is not ideal. My son was not wearing a jacket even though he brought it. It was sitting uselessly the backseat of my car. If his mom or grandmother found out about this, I would be in a “river of shit” as Don Draper said in an episode of Mad Men. We looked at a map and figured out that the West Hall was actually accessible from inside through the South Hall. There had been no reason for us to get wet. Sigh. We stopped at Petree Hall on the way and checked out the Porsche’s which were the sole occupant here. I couldn’t find the Ferrari’s, sadly. I don’t think Ferrari had an exhibit this year. Big sad face. How could this be? If they allowed conspicuously consumptive Rolls into the party, why not the beautiful, sexy Ferrari? Ferrari is the King Cobra of automobile joy. The thunderous sound, the racing heritage planted on city streets near you…even if you can’t touch them, it’s exciting to stand just feet from their glistening Red sheet metal and gawk like a MILF wets her pants at your current teenage vampire cast. From Petree, we scooted over the West Hall and checked out the remaining “commoner” auto makes, ie Fiat, Lincoln, Honda, Mitsubishi,etc.

Here are some of this afternoon’s sights.

Phil Spector

I believe the red car was a Scion concept model if I remember correctly. It was beautiful. My attention however was distracted by the oldster with puffy gray hair. He talked seriously in his phone while orbiting the car, no doubt scouting his next mid-life crisis mission of mercy.

Hybrid Chillin’

Each auto manufacturer attempts to dress up its exhibit with a personal, pampered touch and the Toyota Prius area sported this fancy urban outfitted shaggy lounge worthy of a penthouse suite. Walking through an auto show can be exhausting. People come here to drive, not walk. The faux living room works wonders.

Spoiled Eurotrash Brat

I like to look at random photos of 2 people talking and imagine a conversation based on the surrounding photographic elements. Photographs are silent frozen flickers of time. There is no narration, no movement, we must make up a story. I do. In this case, the mother at the far right of the frame is promising her son, “Yes dear, when you turn 16 we’ll buy you a new S4 if you maintain at least a 3.6 GPA.”

You Are Not Men!


Perhaps they are handy, but these front-loading baby harnesses fathers wear irritate the hell out of me. You cannot carry a baby in such a monstrous contraption and call yourself a man. It’s impossible. I don’t care how bad you are, or how thoroughly you can kick my ass. You look ridiculous with that little blob of newborn flesh squeezing your non-existent man-breasts. In my day, a man just carried his baby, and once he was tired, put the baby back into a stroller. This shit is meek. The harness holds a baby…does it also have a pouch for your abandoned testicles?

Prole Exhibit

This photo captured an odd sort of trilogy of intersecting elements. 1) Balding man with folded arms appears to kill time reading about electric cars. Will he buy one? More likely, he’ll end up, 2) Riding a motorized cart through an auto show and snubbing his wheels at the proud electric car exhibitors with a flourish that exclaims, “Electric car? I’ve been driving one of those for years” as he speeds away toward the geriatric Buick exhibit. That is, provided he avoids colliding with 3) A rotund woman using her baby stroller to house an infant and a big gulp of some high-fructose waist-expanding elixir.

This Sums Up The Maze

The entrance to the Convention Center and the crisscross confusion of the atrium symbolized my maze-like confusion trying to find my way around the Convention Center. Especially for someone like me who wouldn’t be able to find his way out of a box if his life depended on it.

Poor Multitasking Role Model

I don’t want to single out the balding father with the Nike backpack because a lot of parents are equally distracted to the point they can’t keep track of their child’s location. Still, I don’t understand how a parent can lose track of their 5-year-old. I never did that. I was always able to manage more than one train of awareness in my mind when carting my son around at that age. On the one hand I constantly kept tabs of his presence, but I found it possible to engage other activities required by my environment. It’s called multitasking and this Nike father was so intent on trying to wend his way through the ticket line at the entrance that he forgot his son was wandering around out of his sight. Suddenly awareness jolted him and he jumped and spun when he realized his son was not around…his son was behind us, fascinated by a baby in a stroller. How can you forget your 5-year-old child for even the span of 5 seconds when you’re in this kind of large random crowd? I don’t get it.

Ew

I once liked the Smart car until I heard its engine. What an uninspiring, rough sound. Small displacement engines need not sound like crap, not nowadays. That killed my infatuation. It’s like hearing that cute girl you have a mild crush on fart for the first time. This crayon box killed it some more. Hideous.

Wrong Turn

The Scion exhibit is youthful and bouncy because after all, Scions do appeal to the college-aged entry level car-buying market. I wonder if the gray-haired black gentleman got the memo or didn’t understand the directions to the Lincoln exhibit.

Lexus Is Happy Endings

Lexus is seeking to conclusively capture the high-end market. Female display models are also encouraged to satisfy affluent clients in every way possible.

Beaners Need Not Apply

Most of the public faces the car companies proffer at these auto shows are composed of tall, model-caliber men and women. Anglo, Asian, Black…but no Mexicans! Oh wait, the public Mexican face is present. They are the ones who dust and wipe down the cars.

Where Are The Cargo Vans?

Perhaps I can’t relate because I’m not a caregiver for anyone who is confined to a wheelchair, but I can’t imagine an auto show is high on the list of events I would want to take such a person. Mazda’s “zoo zoom” advertising slogan seems ill-at-ease here.

What Do You Know About Continuous Variable Transmission?

They’ve got some real lookers manning the fort at these auto shows. Do they know anything about their product? I imagine they know enough to get by and not sound like complete morons, and besides, what kind of man asks these girls intricate automotive questions, and furthermore, really cares about the answer as much as he does about getting a glimpse of some leg or titty?

This Means Green


Even though you can still find many high-horse-powered V8, V10 and V12 beasts on the floor of the auto show, there is assuredly a new sympathetic acceptance of practicality and economy in the new breed of automobile, and the plethora of forward-thinking electric cars and hybrids is to be found in most exhibits. Real live vegetation has become a new prop symbolizing its synonymous display as an ecologically-friendly allusion. Pretty actually.

Just A Little More

If I use Google AdSense, maybe I can afford one of these?