Malaysian Air mystery probably mechanical in origin; mythologization of human evil.

It’s quite tempting to jump to paranoid conclusions regarding the cause of Malaysia Air’s flight 370 disappearance with the pronouncement that two of the male passengers boarded the plane using stolen passports.

Obviously, this is a blustery fact and paves the way for terrorism suspicions. I’m sure there a chorus of people all over the planet who are dusting off the Big Bad Muslim meme and weaponizing it for use as the alleged cause of the 777′s sudden disappearance from radar and radio presence about 2 hours into the China-bound flight in the midst of a gentle, 35,000 foot cruise.

Who knows. Perhaps there is something evil lurking in the missing passports story, but I’m not entirely convinced. I suspect that on an international scale there is so much malfeasance and inefficiency in the realm of passports and their distribution that I wouldn’t be surprised if there were typically 2 or more passport impostors on most international flights at any one time.

Of course, it’s less romantic and politically expedient when the cause of an air accident is just ol’ nuts and bolts mechanical failure. In this case, it’s not unreasonable to presume that Boeing’s executive boardroom is not secretly rooting for a terrorist cause as it exonerates their corporate name from any role in the deaths (I think it’s safe to guess) of those 200 passengers.

If mechanical failure is behind the disappearance of the Malaysian plane, the collective disappointed exhalation of giddy “terrorists did it” breaths will be deafening.

Perhaps terrorists or an evil-doer did bring the plane down. Its abrupt disappearance surely points to a catastrophic failure and/or explosive destruction of the aircraft. However, airplanes have gone down many times without an inkling of trouble transmitted over the air frequencies.

TWA 800 and Egypt Air 990 come to mind. Egypt Air’s crash may have come at the hands of a member of the flight crew, but this alleged chain of events has been refuted by many people and governments with vested interests in pinning 990′s crash on mechanical failure. And TWA 800…what can be said of that one? TWA 800 is one of the greatest aviation mysteries of our day. The purported cause has been asserted to be mechanical, but there are many good, logical arguments refuting this.

The crash of the Malaysian 777 reminds me of another mysterious incident involving a plane dropping right out of the sky, coincidentally, also in southern Asia.

On May 26, 1991, Lauda Air flight 004 departed from Bangkok at 11pm. Just 15 minutes into the flight, the plane vanished from radar and radio contact. A subsequent investigation lasting a year and a half revealed that the plane was brought down by an unanticipated thrust reverser deployment in the left engine.

Thrust reversers are part of the engine architecture and act as “brakes” that are occasionally used by flight crews after the plane is on the ground. If a thrust reverser deploys in flight, the pilot essentially has seconds to anticipate and correct the problem, which is further exacerbated by the fact they are travelling hundreds of miles per hour. In theory, deployment of a thrust reverser is not absolutely catastrophic, but people flying planes are human and no one can react that quickly when the event surfaces so suddenly (though it must pointed out that the Lauda’s warning system did alert the flight crew to impending problems with the thrust reverser which they disregarded due to flight manual instructions). The Lauda Air flight plunged to the ground at speeds approaching Mach 1. Little was left intact of the airplane. The CVR was recovered and revealed that the First officer yelled, “Oh, reverser’s deployed!” just before the plane broke up.

The Boeing 777 is a relatively “new” aircraft (not as new as the 787 Dreamliner) and I don’t know of any historic troubles it’s experienced with its thrust reverser systems. I suspect that the cause of a soon-to-be-determined Malaysian Air crash, may be a lot less “romantic” or criminal than the masses or Boeing would care to hear.

It might have been a something as mundane as a faulty thrust reverser system or a host of other mechanical, unforeseen causes not involving a turban or China.

Posted in L2

“dat’s why we all here” – more fucked up stories of my past

This is how it started, ended and continued. Thus.

simply. But wildly oppressive.

First they packed us into an LA County bus with mesh screens on the windows. A bunch of handcuffed losers we were. And dulled to death, sapped of killer testosterone, by the romantic blather piped in through the bus by a loud speaker torment controlled by the driver.

Many annoying, bland, stagnant songs played. Even those I liked were not the type I would listen to with only men around. Like this.

For instance, the one I remember most vividly playing while we drove into downtown was 10cc’s “I’m Not In Love.”

I always liked this song. In my car.

In my house.

Not in a bus full of Jose’s and Trayvon’s. Fucking disastrous memory affiliation here.

Now, if I hear that song, I think of fucking LA County jail. And the weekend I spent there in 1993.

But on its own terms…I love this song.

The ambivalent self-escape and denial practiced by the 70′s-style long, messy hair-doed singer. A song of ambiguous irrationality, rare in pop music. I always had a soft spot for this song, but after my 1993 foray into LA County’s jail system, I can never look at this song the same way again.

Ah, see. The previous summer. I think it was summer. This was over 20 years ago. The sign of old age is when you can recollect memories that are over 2 decades old. This is the sign. I do it all the time. I sit here and sentimentalize over crap that happened so long ago that most of the under-aged numskulls in the blogosphere weren’t even born.

This is how we define old.

In 1993 I was drinking at a local bar.

I chatted with people and I seemed to entertain a thick affinity for Jack Daniels this night. It was about 1 or 2 in the morning when I drove away. For some reason, I decided to visit my post office box in an adjacent city. Everyone must retrieve their mail at 2 in the morning. Last call mail pick-up. This is the shit I did.

I pulled up at the post office (24 hour deal) and parked very, very far from the curb (police report substantiated).

I don’t know if I actually went inside to check the box, but the bottom line is that I passed out in my car. With the scent of Jack Daniels accompanying my solitary party.

The police pulled me out, arrested and booked me. I think I pissed on the police station’s tiled floor.

Before the bus ride to downtown, though, I had to plead guilty. And be sentenced.

One weekend in county jail you lame ass alcoholic motherfucker.


It was a condemnation I wore like a steel collar.

A month before my confinement was to begin, I met a girl. We hit it off. We were romping and drilling like rabbits within that span of time.

I had to break the news to her. It was a big deal, for me. It was like coming out of the drunk closet. We had spent so many good times together but really, we didn’t know each other very well. She could very well leave me when I told her the truth of how I would be “absent” for a weekend. Or I could lie. Lying was not foreign to me. Hmm.

I debated.

I decided to tell the truth.

I broke the news during lunch at Marie Callenders in Whittier one afternoon. I was nervous as shit. I told her in the most halting, guilt-ridden manner I could summon. She made me sweat. She seemed thoughtful. I was a wimp. She let her eyes dart. This is when I was still afraid of women. She made indecisive and judgmental noises.

After pleading, she relinquished a little. She was OK with all this if I stopped drinking (which I had, at that time).

When 10cc played on the radio in the stupid bus, instead of thinking of my future cell mates, I thought of my new girlfriend. We had spent every weekend together. Dry humped, real humping, kissing. Now I would be away from her, spending all my time with a bunch of smelly, foul, obscene, men. Criminals. It was my descent into hell. I was sad, crushed, forlorn, but not very repentant.

One of my proudest moments happened in the holding tank. It just goes to show how deprived I am, in all manners of speaking.

See, before you are shipped off to the jail, you need to “turn yourself in” at the court where you plead guilty. In my case, it was a suburban outpost. After you go through the rigmarole, you are sent to a small room in the back of the court house. I walked in and apparently all of LA’s hoodlum, cholo class had beaten me to the punch because the holding cell was crowded.

LA County is fond of apples because it makes prisoners regular, and regular prisoners means a good foothold to communal peace. Constipation creates tension and friction. Let them eat apples.

I walked in to the holding cell and all these dudes were just picking at apples like Goddamned beavers.

One skinny black dude leaned back on the concrete bench and chucked the core of his 8th apple into a cardboard box and asked me, in a not completely genteel manner, what I was doing here. Rather than revert to my nerdy, retarded manner of over-explanation, my survival/social instincts kicked in.

“Booze,” I answered simply.

This seemed to win his coherence and maybe even respect.

He smiled and visibly relaxed. Another of his brothers looked up at me dully.

“Yeah, dat’s why we all here, I guess,” he ventured and I was able to enter the ring quietly.

Some have wondered.

My new girlfriend picked me up at LA County jail at 3:45 on Sunday morning. She brought me food to munch on. She sat in that shithole neighborhood and waited for me. We went to lunch that day.

I was in love, but she dumped me the November of the following year (1994).


Posted in L7

Hating on the Oscars and leaving the world of “big media” behind.

This year marks a turning point.

I’ve never seen so many people hating on the Oscars!

Personally, I’ve never cared for the Oscars. I disliked the overblown spectacle, the self-important Hollywood charade, the pomp and circumstance, but it was easy for me to turn my head and do “other stuff.” But judging from Facebook, and other media outlets, it appears those who despise the Oscars are now publicly indulging their distaste in the name of sport and rather blatantly at that.

Hollywood cinema, long the grandest spectacle of all that was big in this culture, has finally hit a wall. The only movies worth watching now are streaming into your living room quick enough that the fact you forgo buying $15 tickets to sit in a crowded, shitty theater doesn’t seem like such a sacrifice. I believe Spielberg and one of his other cronies said recently that they foresee a day when movie theaters will be reduced to “special showings” only in which people pay inflated one-time fees to see 3D shows that can’t be replicated in their living room (in the same manner we go to stage plays or stage musicals now).

Modern culture sees to it that nothing can ever be “big” or “spectacular” any longer. In the 1980s, I stood in line for hours to watch Chevy Chase or Harrison Ford display their lame bullshit on the big screen. It was an event. It is trite, now. I can’t imagine a bunch of 17-year-old kids waiting in line for the new Will Farrell movie. It’s doesn’t work this way in 2014.

We are so jaded.

We can do everything in our house or car.

The days of the wild, fantastic King Kong cinema displays are over. We now watch television to saturate our senses.

The Oscar magic is over, baby.

Posted in L5


I realize the analogy is not fluid and airtight, but I’m in the mood to ramp up the rhetoric.

I would like to know how Barack Obama would answer the following question:

If one (or more) of the 50 American states decided to assert a separatist course of self-determination, what would be your response to a foreign power’s threats that you do not commit American military to the prevention of such?

Posted in L2

The Curse of the Foodie generation: we are connoisseurs of taste but imbeciles of substance.

One of my favorite folksy aphorisms, and apparently, most timely, is the culinary admonishment: “Eat to live, don’t live to eat.” This simple sentence encapsulates the flawed nature of America’s relationship with food. In a spoiled culture so fixated with food, with experimental incarnations of the most mundane dishes and overextended definitions of basic recipes posing as pretentious culinary affectation, food has been elevated to heights that are embarrassing to witness in all their gluttonous self-conscious glory.

Food is not simply food. Not any more.

Food is spectacle, it’s overly civilized manifestation of a higher calling that you are free to display in the most ostentatious manners of pedagogy possible. The effusive overstated nature of food praise is a competition in itself. Who can sound like the biggest fruit while ejaculating over the wonders of a risotto dish? You are the winner!

People make a spectacle of thumbing their nose at a dish or a meal while spending nauseating amounts of time spilling lavish praise about the sensual joys of simple ingredients in measures beyond what even a simple grain of rice should ever deserve.

Most of the new foodie movement seems a like put on. A charade of overacting and overreacting.

We no longer live to eat. No…this is too simple and basic and onerous a task. The most elemental survival activity has been decorated with distorted amounts of human egomania and falsity.

I don’t care about the obesity element that is an outgrowth of foodie-ism. That’s a given. I’m sure there are many foodie types who are rather slender. No, my concern is not the health or the physiological manifestations of the foodie mentality. Rather, I wonder, why have Americans become such food worshipers. What does this connote about our culture and mentality?

What does this obsessive deconstruction and “overconstruction” of food say about our collective soul? The foodie movement is an outgrowth of disposable income and expendable time. Too much money and not enough spine. In those faint archaic days of family dinner, courtesy of mother in her apron, food was a less extravagant ideal of urbanity than it has become today. Modern people denigrate old food traditions, old recipes. When women stayed home and cooked meals and we didn’t eat out for sport, food was one-dimensional and was segregated from the egotistical demands of peer-driven glutton porn.

In fact, the plethora of food-related television programming represents true glutton porn. I enjoy Food TV. I will not lie. But glutton porn is not the cause of our foodie culture and food obsession; it is a symptom.

No one appreciates the culinary arts as much as I do. I enjoy cooking more than most men or women I know. I began tackling “The Joy Of Cooking” after I married in 1997. There is a Zen involvement and purity involved in true cooking. In patiently building a sauce, in the rhythmic circularity of constructing bases and rues. In the old days, it was a given that men didn’t enjoy cooking, but conversely, women were expected to cook.

That is history. Now that liberated women work and whine about it so much, they have finally been liberated from the kitchen. And this is the one “freedom” they have embraced most heartily. With the decline in the family dinner table and the traditional female role of home- and family-chef, food has progressed to become a social extravagance and a thorough spectacle of “keeping up with the Jones’” where one-upsmanship is defined by who has been to the newest restaurant first.

Food is no longer humble. It is not an ojbect.

It is showmanship. The most irritating thing about foodie-ism is that it is showmanship by proxy because people don’t make food. They buy it! They watch others prepare it and celebrate that. They spend hard-earned money on prepared food. They eat out constantly. Restaurants are an esoteric scene here in Los Angeles. They have askew names and build up a franchise of cultivating foodie hordes. Their lunch offerings are icing on the cake because they can count on the lazy, complacent foodies to never eat left-overs or bring lunches to work. Especially when the company buys lunch for you, as is common in much of the “Industry” in this town.

Modern urban-dwellers are lazy-asses who can’t be troubled to turn the burner on or dust off their measuring spoons and actually make a mess on their pristine HGTV-approved counter-tops.

People are so insulated from the elements of life, from living. They live in absentia. They buy prepared meals. They don’t make meals. They don’t even buy food stuffs. And as far as raising or growing food stuffs, forget it! It’s been a long decline in proximity to what we put in our mouths. What we once grew, we now buy, cooked, as it makes its dreary, lifeless appearance at the other end of the food chain.

We are lazy consumers of life, of survival. We’ll pay for it. Put it on our tab.

We are now connoisseurs of taste but imbeciles of substance.

We are foodies!

Posted in L4

We live in the anti-Zen age. A plague of clenched minds.

Our brain is not like a muscle.

Our mind is.

Our mind is a muscle, and our mind issues from the brain, but it is not our brain. It can be argued that our brain is a muscle because it is structured of our bodily cellular mass. Our brain is physiologically tangible, an organ.

But not so, our mind. Our mind is that ethereal byproduct of neuronal firing that ricochets in the vast play land of the brain, where it is housed.

Our mind is the interplay of brain chemistry but it lacks a body. Its only existence is granted when we breathe form into it by virtue of our thoughts and behaviors and reactions. Our mind wilts and flows and bustles and blossoms. Our mind is never still, and its greatest threat comes when it defies our conscious efforts.

The sign of mental health is the ability to capture and harness one’s own mind.

This is not a strength of 21st Century man. He is so distracted and suffused with goals and social and cultural ambitions that he has become a slave to his own unrecognizable mind.

Modern man’s mind is clenched with a ferocity never known before. If the mind is a muscle, modern man is unable to unclench it of its own volition and allow it exist freely for a few placid moments.

Yesterday I thought of this while standing at a corner in Hollywood while I waited for the light to turn green. The red light at this corner is prolonged. Red lights have no reason to last this long. Eventually, several of us had gathered at the corner, waiting impatiently for the light to change, thus liberating us to move move move because this is what we do. We move move move because our impatience wrings our minds in fits of rage. Move move move, we cannot stand still. All these people waiting for the light with me had their smart phones and punched and rubbed intently while waiting for light to turn green. They could not take their eyes off the stupid little screens.

Their minds were clenched. I alone stood, the old-timer, the smart phone holdout. I stared blankly at the traffic signal, watching it, but not, allowing these few moments of peace to filter and lighten my mind, to release it from its mortal toil which everyone else seemed to pursue with the aid of their little toy.

People are unable to unclench their minds.

They are so addicted to stimulus and the perpetual rush of diversion that they are uncomfortable allowing a few moments of Zen nothing to themselves. Zen being. No one just is any more, it seems. Always on, always tied up in distraction and mental absence, always somewhere, anywhere, but the here and now.

So many minds clenched around me. At times I feel odd with my unclenched mind, like a small fish swimming lazily downstream while all the other fish struggle against the current in an onrushing lemming stampede that stares me in the face.

Posted in L2

The first Mexican Law of El Chapo. Supply does not incite demand.

A little shit-storm of cross-border posturing will undoubtedly ensue after yesterday’s capture of Joaquín ‘El Chapo’ Guzmán in Mazatlan. In addition, it will degenerate into a tempest in a telenovela teapot with everybody involved claiming victory while few are willing to part with control.

Already the squabbling has begun with the U.S. brazenly seeking to have Guzmán extradited here to stand trial on grounds he inflicted numerous counts of heinous crimes against the American people in the way of drugs (as if anyone is putting a gun to the heads of Biffy and Buffy as they head out for tonight’s club-sized cocaine fix). A good number of Americans justify and cheer the joint capture and an American trial because they believe Guzmán will not be restrained by the notoriously inadequate and corrupt Mexican penal system, especially when tasked with containing the larger-than-life Robin Hood figure that Guzmán represents to many Mexicans. And this may very well be the case. But ultimately, there is a myopic idiocy to these mostly American claims. Most profusely there is an idiocy in the cheer-leading and black-white brushstrokes many people paint this event with and the pea-brained comprehension of effects they believe it will have on the future of the drug economy across the U.S.-Mexico divide.

There is a closed-loop that laces Mexico and the United States and it conjoins many shared and social legal aspects of both nations. The U.S. perceives itself as the higher, righteous embodiment of morality, while condescendingly resigning itself to Mexico’s status as a backwater, corrupt and inept system that floods America’s shores with refuse of every sort. And we are led to believe, as always, it is the ornery task of Americans to clean up the mess because the Mexicans can surely not do it, though in reality, the mess is a shared mutual polarity of First- and Third-World cause and effect.

America’s contribution is its egregious greed and sensual gluttony, laced with gaudy levels of conspicuous consumption; Mexico’s is its innate corruption and lavish inequality, laced with soulless opportunism. The product is then a criminal phenomena hybrid of the tenuous border the two countries share.

So when I hear that the U.S. demands that a mythic Mexican drug figure be extradited here for “crimes against our children” I just shake my head because once again, as is typical of Americans, cultural accountability goes right out the window when it comes to Mexico. Sorta like how illegal immigrants and Mexico are blamed for…immigrating, when in fact, it’s that elite class of Americans who establish and enable to shadow economy that perpetuates this human flood which harms lower American classes.

Supply does not incite demand.

Here is a snippet of something Arthur Bilek, Executive Vice President of the Chicago Crime Commission (which named Guzmán “public enemy #1″ last year) said in a press conference. His statement embodies the short-sighted perspective of so many “we share no culpability” Americans.

Or perhaps Bilek was surreptitiously castigating us by pointing out the full story. If one draws a drug analogy, the gun does in fact belong to Guzmán in the respect that he once touched, maybe manufactured it, but the trigger was not pulled by him, it was pulled by every single American who spends money on drugs, thus directly enriching the Guzmán’s coffers. By extension, those who pull the trigger, the drug users, the consumers, are just as guilty, but for some intriguing reason have escaped the ruthless tendrils of the American and Mexican military. How can this be? Perhaps it could be that many Americans who belong to this drug-purchasing consumer base happen to be spoiled children of the endowed American elite who would rather not see their own children pay the stiff penalties reserved for foreign capitalists.

Furthermore, I find is disingenuous and ignorant for anyone on this side of the Rio Grande to pretend that America’s domestic drug habits will disappear magically with Guzmán’s arrest. I suspect most Americans don’t buy this charade. Still, they largely find a sense of Us vs. The Bad Guys romanticized vindication that seems peculiar to the American temperament. I don’t give a crap what happens to Guzmán. The illegal drug business is opportunistic, ruthless, coldly unsentimental and greedy. No one will step down and bow their heads to honor the sorrow of Guzmán’s arrest. There is probably jockeying going on already over his profitable void and how it will be filled, and by who. While the United States is savoring this meaningless arrest, the next generation of drug suppliers is gearing up for tomorrow’s output which the next generation of our domestic drug users are likewise gearing up to buy.

Repeat cycle.

Posted in L3

The master spinner of irony remembers all the shitty memories and the death knell of his brief future.

On that putrid, evil force known as Facebook, I saw a wall post that took a gruesome bite from my heart. It was a photograph someone snapped at a local restaurant they happened to be headed to for happy hour and the accompanying complementary munchie spread:


They were shocked and disappointed to discover that this dependable drinking destination was closed for business. Forever!

After contributing so many wonderful years to our local alcoholic non-vibrancy.

The restaurant, Charley Brown’s, was a fixture in this area for several decades.

It sat north of the Pomona Freeway just a DUI’s safe throw from the freeway entrance. This was one of those restaurant bars that came to life during the 70s and all that the 70s entailed. Disco, sex, sex, drugs, blurry abandon, sex, drugs. I didn’t drink freely and legally until 1986. By then, the restaurant was well established and cascading into a new era of what was expected of drinking establishments, but if you looked carefully while you were eating a steak (it was first, and foremost, a steakhouse), you could see archaic remembrances of an era past, and over.

Charley Brown ‘s maintained its cloistered party, degenerate atmosphere and sitting in the bar dining area at night, one could watch the freeway’s mad dash through the windows. The pretty scenery lent an air of misplaced exclusivity to the dining and drinking atmosphere, but it was trashy as hell. It was semi-romantic if one wished (this is where me and my ex-wife had our first date). Consequently, many of the waitresses, especially in the bar, were throwbacks to the original Travoltian era. They wore frumpy shorts and hose and looked every day of their 60 years (even at that time). This was a heavy smoking bar until California’s nannies blew their suffocating wad over bars, forcing drinkers to go outside and smoke. The standing ashtray business boomed after California’s special legislation.

Charley Brown’s was the dependable Wednesday night watering hole that me and some friends would hit occasionally after bowling and sporting events. As I said, it was where I took my ex-wife on our first date before skipping across the freeway to watch that really bad piece of shit, “Outbreak,” with Dustin Hoffman.


After we were married, we had dinner at the restaurant a few times with our infant son as he sat in his high chair, and still, the floor to ceiling freeway-facing smoked windows always presented us with that special View. That view that harked back to our first date, to my early drinking days. I suspect I took many dates to Charley Brown’s, including a later date with a girl who I chose to break up the very marriage that had started here.

I am the master spinner of irony!

One night, (I usually drank alone at a table because I don’t like people and I don’t like bar people), I actually was sitting at the bar. This Hispanic chick sat next to me and we began chatting, which is only possible for me when I’ve had a lot to drink. Next thing, we’re at her apartment in the seedy Union district near MacArthur Park. This is where Central Americans reign and where they kill and maim. I remember sitting in her dimly-lit kitchen with her mom or some elderly figure, drunk as shit, but still, I didn’t get laid. Rather disappointing. You don’t stray that far from a bar just to sit in a kitchen, but I did. Cause I can be a loser that way.

Speaking of loser, this is also the bar I sat at one weekday afternoon (I must have had the day off) and was on my phone for an hour, sipping martini after martini, while I made time with a strong Catholic wife (not married to me). I could have gotten places with her but I always found reasons to simper out. Cause I just wanted to drink martinis at Charley Browns. Much more important!

Charley Brown’s is a curt memory.

A fleeting memorial to an older business era that simply cannot live any longer, not in this new paradigm of no-smoking and cyber-smarts.

It was an old joint that couldn’t keep up with its dying and disabled customers.

Young people need new things, new, shiny beacons of sociability, and an antique drinking fixture from 40 or 50 years ago with dying customers doesn’t cut it.

This is a new era. I’ll be 50 this year.

My past is thrown to the curb by our commercial, youth culture. Iotas of my past dissolving, ceasing to exist. I suspect I’m not far behind.

Charley google.
A Google Earth image from July, 2012, showing how easy it was to simply drive out of the parking lot and right onto the safety of the freeway. Important when you’re shitfaced.

Posted in L3

Trouble brewing in Manus and your buttocks are in mortal danger.

I could not have written a better headline than this one which appeared in The Guardian’s reporting of local turmoil at a detention center in Papua New Guinea.


The word, or name, “Manus” should simply not exist. In fact, it should be expunged from the human lexicon and all locations and surnames wearing the bold “Manus” label (even gay bars in San Francisco) shall be ordered to submit a change of name immediately.

Furthermore, in the event “Manus” seeps out into public usage, it shall never be allowed to appear in conjunction with the physiological denotation of “buttock(s).”

This can not happen again!

In the meantime, these refugees need to chill the hell out. Or it could be they simply don’t like being housed in a Manus unit.

Can you blame them?

Posted in L3

The first step in fixing our broken society: just beat the bitch up if she asks for it..

So the understanding between men and women, since the dawn of time, is a mutual relinquishment of rights and subversion. There has never existed that “free lunch” to deal with in reality, even as slimy pond creatures.

The beautiful thing about nature is that she is a cold machine that will not accomodate superfluous drainage of energies. Nature is my god. Nature sets the rules and the boundaries, and anything beyond that is a gift for me but someone else will surely pay. This is the zero sum nature of cold reality.

Thus, for the longest spans of time, women knew and accepted from birth that this awareness entailed that they were the helpless (not lesser) gender and in return, they allowed men that which men required: emotional enslavement and intellectual imprisonment. In return, women were allowed to flee the ship first, enter the bus first, and they rarely faced physical threat and could, if they chose, to live a life of pampered seclusion. But no. Somewhere along the way, the consumerist, everyone-can-breathe-equally model seeped into popular consciousness, propelled especially by the fact that women no longer had to spend all day doing the laundry. This quirk was exponentially swollen by their innate childish impulsiveness and lack of wisdom.

Women today play by the old protect-me rules while nevertheless expecting to thrive by the same empowered masculine principles that men once sacrificed their hides for.

So today, women act like this:

Women who historically escaped a beating, still escape that beating no matter how childish they act, even though they are indulging in all the economic benefits of their liberation. How is this fair?

The reality of the video is that this wench is probably a mobster’s mistress and was marauding on his power-tails. This happens all the time. Women riding out their petulant storm on the wings of their master’s power. These women are doing very little to further the “female” cause because in effect, they are telling the world, “I am still helpless but I can do anything I want because Vlad, my married, mobster boss boyfriend, is my lifeboat. I am an entitled puppet!”

Posted in L6