Rectify, the greatest show on TV, points out the decaying state of feature cinema and a new elevated cerebral nature of television.

I’ve been preoccupied, and thus missed last week’s Season Two opener of Rectify.

The juxtapositions and parting paths of a fateful life teased to brittle embers continued without qualms!

The greatest show on television in generations is back. A Faulknerian descent to glory and beyond.

Welcome back, Rectify!

I rarely speak in such overblown terms about entertainment media, but this show cements the fact that excellence and thought is now produced for our living rooms, not for the theaters (unless mindless spectacle, talking animals, and rote heroics are pleasing to you).

Daniel Holden’s initial statement to the press, upon his release from false imprisonment (or was it?) in the show’s first episode last season exemplifies the soul of this magnificent show.

Hello. I’m not sure what to make of this drastic change of course in my life. I’m certainly not against it.

Over the past two decades I have developed a strict routine which I followed religiously. You might say a way of living and thinking, or not thinking, as was often the point of, well…the point.

Now this way of being didn’t encourage the contemplation that a day like today could ever occur, or a tomorrow like tomorrow would be before me, now.

I had convinced myself that that kind of optimism served no useful purpose in the world where I existed.

Obviously this radical belief system was flawed, and was ironically, a kind of a fantasy itself.

At the least, I feel that those specific coping skills were best suited to the life there, behind me. I doubt they will serve me so well for the life in front of me.

So I will need to seriously reconsider my worldview.”

And so must we all, each day we wake up.

Each glorious debarkation of life and fresh ascendance is fraught with inner evolutionary tumult.

Posted in L2

Amber Gomes plays the part of civilized modern woman but how much you wanna bet she’s intrigued by the bad boy felon?

Jeremy Meeks, a 30-year-old career criminal from California’s armpit, Stockton, was arrested during a police sweep on Wednesday for weapons charges. He was charged with 6 felony counts and the Stockton PD posted his mugshot on their Facebook page in spite of themselves.

Meeks felon

A bad boy with looks like these is chick crack.

No future?
No work?
Criminal rap sheet?
Chiseled masculine movie star looks?

Yeah, of course looks go a long way for both sexes. Nothing scientific to see here. But women are not only titillated by rugged good looks; their intrigue and attraction is amplified when the subject also happens to be a dangerous, amoral rake who snubs Beta laws. As in these very honest Facebook comments quoted in the story:

Meeks’ police mugshot generated 10,914 likes and 2,400 comments from Wednesday night to Thursday morning, many from women claiming to admire his looks.

“Hottttttt,” Melissa Stiles wrote.

“Omg come to mama,” Nicole Seba Lorena Elena commented.

“Holy [heck] i would arrest him too..hottest bad boy I’ve seen,” Ellie Abbey wrote.

“He can kidnap me anyday… Hold me against my will lol,” Jessica Gutierrez commented.

“Why is he breaking the law when he should be making millions modeling! Wowzas,” Tanya H. Thomas said.

Now are these women smart or discerning or classy? Who knows, and really, who cares. It doesn’t matter worrying about it. Guys who fixate on the troublesome tendency of women to ignore their steadfast value systems will lose their minds and maybe go on shooting sprees. Get over it, dudes. The point is that these women are being publicly honest. Unlike Amber Gomes:

“$900,000 in bail and 6 felonies. You ladies are desperate,” Amber Gomes wrote.

Some women act classy, ambitious, intelligent, and sophisticated, but they usually talk out both sides of their mouth when it comes to what they say about men. These type of women work hard at portraying images of preachy propriety. Ghetto, prole women, on the other hand, simply and shamelessly reveal an unfiltered stream of carnal desire that has no regard for manners or genteel sensitivities.

Posted in L2

NYC (aka, be Blahsio), what on Earth is your problem? Striving for Zero mph speed limits and the plague of Civil Interventionists.

Man, I thought California was a meddling, hypersensitive nanny, but you put us to shame.

Bill to Reduce Speed Limit to 25 M.P.H. Gains Favor

A proposal to lower the New York City speed limit to 25 miles per hour cleared a critical hurdle on Tuesday, as a bill in the State Senate won the support of the de Blasio administration and some, though not all, traffic safety advocates.

If passed before the legislative session ends this week, the bill, introduced late Monday by Senator Jeffrey D. Klein, and companion legislation in the State Assembly would deliver perhaps the most significant change yet under Mayor Bill de Blasio’s Vision Zero plan to eliminate traffic deaths in the city by 2024.

Mercifully snipped…

Of course, this ignores the fact that traffic deaths could be eliminated completely if speed limits were reduced to Zero.

Does anyone who has driven on the Big Apple streets believe a 25 mph speed limit will put a stop to traffic deaths?

A speed limit of Zero, however, would eliminate traffic deaths, noise pollution, air pollution, decrease our dependence on foreign oil. It’s a win win. I’m sure we can all find a way to get there…

In fact, I further propose that all childbearing should be illegal. If enacted, we would no longer have accidents or deaths in a few generations. It will be happy, worry-free world which is all the worry warts seem to lust after, and besides, it would fall in line with the existing breeding habits of all the sensibile elitist civil interventionists who would celebrate this nonsense.

Posted in L6

The “everyday sexism” of slut feminists.

The BBC’s John Humphrys has been taken to task over something the Cult of Women’s Victimology is now calling “everyday sexism,” a strange phrase as nebulous and self-serving as “micro-aggressions.”

“Everyday sexism,” as used in the context of a ho-hum accusation by British Foreign Office minister, Lady Farsi, appears to draw out the faintest traces of sexism from the most innocuous comments made by men. Everyday sexism is like an electric coil that can create a lightning strike from a spark.

This all stemmed from a “sexual violence in war” event which British Secretary of State, William Hague, chose to attend with Angelina Jolie and which consequently incited Humphrys to accuse Hague of allowing Jolie’s sex appeal to trump policy (because in Humphrys’ estimation, he should have been paying attention to the Iraqi crisis).

In a terse exchange with the foreign secretary, Humphrys suggested William Hague had been a bit “star struck” by being photographed with movie star Angelina Jolie while attending a sexual violence in war summit in London.

That’s British-speak for saying William Hague was a bit pussy-struck and instead chose to spend his valuable time chasing down stupid feminist causes, like sexual violence in war time. Isn’t war in itself violent? So in the heat of battle in which men are dying, women still believe rape is equally grave? Uh, leave it to Angelina Jolie to perpetuate highfalutin tripe like this.

Warsi defended Hague, insisting he was “incredibly passionate” about the issue of sexual violence towards women in conflict zones.

She added: “In terms of the comments, well, you know, everyday sexism, what can we say.

“If there are men out there who believe women can’t be beautiful and brainy maybe they should read the foreign secretary’s speech in Washington last year when he said it is finally time for women to take their place at the important tables where decisions are made …”

Mmm, Lady Warsi, how about this everyday sexism, American style: Angelina Jolie is an entitled airhead whore who uses her star power to shed light on bullshit issues while clinging greedily to her luxurious, elitist Hollywood lifestyle.

Now that is the everyday sexism.

Posted in L5

Hallmark is for girls. Tender Thoughts is for real men.

Greeting cards are too expensive. I’m not saying the price structure is illogical, of course. I’m sure there is lots of preparation and work involved in the creation of greeting cards. The art work, the insightful message…essentially, you are purchasing a “mini-book” which is subject to royalties, licensing, printing, etc. You are spending money on a unique gesture of creativity and its fulfillment to the marketplace. Well, I like to think so, anyways. Still, speaking strictly from the perspective of a consumer, greeting cards cost too much money. Most galling is that you can be confident the person who you give that $4 or $5 thought token to will immediately turn around and toss it in the trash can once the celebration is over and everyone’s gone home.

So for once, I took it upon myself to listen to some of the women in my life and began scouring the aisles at a local Dollar Tree for greeting cards. Granted, the cards there don’t have the “pizzazz” or high BS quality that some of their higher-priced Hallmark cousins possess, but it’s hard to argue when you can pay under a dollar for a greeting card, which ultimately, represents a rote gesture of thought and which is ignored and forgotten for the most part.

So yesterday, in my most typical procrastination pose, I took my son to the Dollar Tree so we could buy a couple of Father’s Day cards. I don’t typically spend much time fussing over these, and in fact, I pride myself on spending less than one minute on such a revolting activity. I let my son pick a “grandfather” card while I found a “dad” card right away. At first, the simplicity and curtness of the message struck me as odd, but later, I thought about it and decided I really, really like this card.

Front

Front

Inside

Inside

This is a very masculine Father’s Day card!

It doesn’t resort to that ridiculous and tired Father’s Day trope of a dirty, slovenly man laying on a couch in front of the television while shoveling some carb-rich goo into his mouth. It is very masculine because it is impersonally and indifferently charming. The ball’s in your court. Have a nice day, if you’d like. It’s your choice, we are the masters of our mood. A man is a fortress and he steers his own frame. He doesn’t need pithy greeting cards or symbolic days of hollow collective platitude to make him happy.

Later I dropped by their house and while my dad was outside watering the lawn, I described the card I bought him and my mom’s face lit up in amusement. She had similarly visited the same Dollar Tree (the family I spring from suffers from pathological frugality) and bought me the very same card! After looking at the card when she got home, she believed it was too “rude” so she bought another. She thought it was harsh. I laughed and said I would have loved it. I said it is such a man’s card. None of this cutesy, soothe-the-sensitive-soul greeting card crap. I allowed that it was not the type of card you would buy a woman on Mother’s Day. Mother’s Day is about effusive displays of phoniness and excessive preoccupation with the presentation of feelings, all the crap that women eat up.

Ironically, the greeting card line that designed this little frigid jewel is anything but what its name implies (BTW, this card only cost me 50 cents…I guess they weren’t flying off the shelves at $1.95 each).

Back

Back

Posted in L3

Wacher Reserbor and other minutiae

Actually, I think Hispanics would make excellent hockey players.

We are short, so skates act like stilts, we have robust quick low-end, short-legged power (ie, we box) which is great for end ice scuffles, and we are very nimble on our skinny legs. It simply never snows in the tropics. Well, most of the tropics. My dad grew up in a rural area of north-central Mexico called Jeres, and apparently, it snowed there. Still, Mexico, and much of Latin America, is not an ice-centric culture. I knew a Black dude who hated cold weather. He always boasted of being one of those “people of the sun” and I thought that was stupid, because people of the sun go nowhere. But that’s the way it goes, man. Some people, mostly of the dark and subtropical tendencies, love the sun. People of the north, on the other hand, love the cold and misty. They are usually pale. The pale people usually like “White” stuff like coffee and Woody Allen. Cold people like to think and they are introspective and they are averse to loud sounds and overblown expression. Sun people, a lot of my people, like loud music and rambunctious gatherings. They love emotion and profuse expression.

I am a cold weather Mexican. I like silence, serenity, Polar intransigence. I don’t enjoy movement or light.

I am a dichotomy and in the old, pre-internet days, I would have sunk into obscurity, as opposed to 2014 where I still sink into obscurity, but albeit in a more public manner.

All I can say at this point is that Hispanics are some of the most indecipherable people. Hispanics…we are all over, but nowhere. We celebrate anonymity but we still pop up here and there and ultimately, there is no blanket conformity which defines us.

You wanna deport all illegal aliens? Good for you. I don’t give a crap. Most of us really don’t, either. Quit listening to those Aztlan college fools and the career politicians and policy leaders they become when they get older. Hispanics hate the immigration debate because most of it straddles the line of racism, but immigration per se does not concern us a whole lot.

But I can’t blame you White folks. Hell, if I knew a vernacular and lived with it, I would absolutely hate it if intruders overran my world with their wayward native manners and broken English. In fact, as a Mexican, I am horribly bothered by much of it too!

I thought of this when I was handed the “auto health report card” after picking my car up from my local dealership after some routine maintenance. The mechanic typed some “comments” and I beheld their grimace-inducing misspellings with an air of amused haughtiness.

Mechanic homie

This is how people talk in my neck of the woods, except, they usually aren’t asked to notate their speech on paper. But when they do, fun ensues!

Posted in L2

Sometimes the shit just work out.

So it panned out, somehow. It did, and let me tell you how. Not the why, because the why is always cosmic and magical and why is an infinite series of deconstructed happenstance that we can never know. At all

The Why.

But I can tell you the what and how this shit panned out for me Sunday night and Monday morning and finally, Tuesday morning.

Just when I’m ready to hang my head low and submit my happiness to an engulfing maw of pain and despair (it is my life, after all), something happens, something snaps in place and works out OK, and in many cases, beyond my direct meddling or control, and I start thinking, hey, maybe someone is watching out for me…

But nah.

No one is ever watching out for you. Those “lucky” breaks are frequently the cumulative elemental opportunities you’ve been compiling in that foggy little spirit of yours and one day, they all break out like horses from a freezing barn and you behold: the shit worked out in spite of yourself.

Let me tell you how it all panned out.

Rewind this stinky filament back to ahhhh, let’s say…Sunday night. Act the First.

The weekend was torrential and fast and fried. Too much going on in this debacle called Me.

What better way to celebrate the passage of another futile 2 days than to sit on the floor of my apartment while I watched Fargo’s Episode 5. Best damned show on television right now. Fargo, brilliant, I’m spellbound. It will remain this way until next week when Rectify begins its season 2 and then I will be able to say confidently that the best show on television is now airing.

But Fargo is great and I watched, tired, spent, vague, but the episode captured me. Tired, the remote controls lay askew all over the carpet. One for the television, one for the cable box, one for my Bose stereo. The Bose is too old to be configured with anything “universal,” and besides, it’s funner and more spiritually grueling to juggle remote controls in the dark, especially considering the fact that your eyesight, which sucks during the daylight hours, is downright comical at night.

Television hour was over and I scooted off to bed about 11.

Monday, went to work, waddled home in the evening, and instantly launched into cooking mode. In the course of unpacking my day’s lunch bag and other portable belongings, I stepped on the Bose remote twice because I left it on the carpet within sight of the radio. The remote is thin and small and costs a lot to replace, and get this…the radio is useless without it. The Bose has no knobs or controls on the unit’s body, so everything must be controlled by the stupid remote control. So you guard that remote with your life and you really avoid stepping on it, which I did twice on Monday night. I finally leaned down and picked it up and rested it on my computer desk. Such effort! Still, I thought nothing of it at the time.

Dinner was splendid, sumptuous, I ate up. Pasta for a King.

Incidentally, I had reset my bedroom clock radio and microwave oven clock on Monday morning because an electrician came out this weekend to work on my fuse box and had to shut my power down.

Anyways, in my exhaustion and Monday sorrowful aftereffects, I made an error in one crucial ingredient when setting my clock radio: in setting the alarm from its power disruption default midnight setting, I changed the wake time to “pm” instead of “am.” I wasn’t wearing my reading glasses when I did this. My alarm clock is set to go off at 5:25am and 5:27am. This is a fancy clock radio with 2 alarms (OK, not that fancy, but still, kinda keen, I think). Now sometimes, I wake up of my own accord before my alarm goes off, but there are other times I will easily sleep through if it doesn’t go off. This has happened. A couple of times I’ve had power outages during the night and I’m too lazy to install a memory back-up battery to prevent such occurrences. A couple of other times, I simply forgot to turn the alarm on before bed time. Well, Tuesday morning rolled around and my alarm clock happily slept along with me because it couldn’t be bothered to issue a synchronized beeping wake up call for another 12 hours, at 5:25pm. I slept through comfortably and I would have overslept, thus missing my bus, if not for one other auspicious mis-event:

During my bumbling, flailing clumsiness on Monday night, when I stepped on the Bose remote twice, my foot must have accidentally set the radio’s alarm to go off at 5:25am (which was a preset I had programmed into the radio long ago when I used it occasionally as an alarm clock). I never use the Bose for this purpose anymore!

That’s right, bitches!

I failed to set my alarm clock correctly, but fate rescued me when my Bose began piping out loud classical music early on Tuesday morning at 5:25, virtue of my two left feet the night before.

Sometimes the shit just work out.

Posted in L5

The myth of the mysterious female and why men need to sever the trance.

Women are not mysterious. They are not “incomprehensible.”

Don’t tell yourself this, guys. Purge that shit from your head.

The “women are confusing/mysterious/don’t understand them” memes are destructive for men to keep repeating or be mindful of. If men continue to recite these hesitations, they become more helpless, and helpless men are dangerous and unsavory.

Women are not mysterious and this is a dogma you need to relinquish immediately. Leave it behind, leave that church of female mysteriousness to petrify. It is a cult and it’s not true and only in perpetuating the stupidity of the mantra does it become true, because then it only empowers women and deters masculinity.

I don’t believe I’ve ever heard a woman rebuke the mantra.

Women sneakily humor it and allow the sentiment to spawn on the lips of buffoons for it elevates the intrigue of women, thereby empowering them…for doing nothing. Conversely, internalizing this nonsense makes men weaker for it allows them to eschew control of the male/female dynamic, and most men do this because they are lazy, cowardly, and hypnotized by the illusory power of the female.

The “women are mysterious” chant takes advantage of human nature which instinctively cowers before the unknown. An increasingly femininized society leeches off the intimidation implicit in the popular definition of women as mysterious. It has become such an overriding given of modern society that men no longer think to question or contradict such apparent, institutionally perpetuated “wisdom.”

Men need to stop buying into this unqualified faith in the smokey mirage of the mysterious woman.

Man, being what he is in 2014, is not one to take charge of, or barrel into, the unknown. He is sensible, he likes houses and money and land and LinkedIn reputations and he doesn’t want to upset things, especially women. It’s easier to recite hollow platitudes of common precepts that are unfounded and unproven, such as “I can’t understand women.”

Men cower before women and they write it off as “women are mysterious” and thus don’t persist. This collective sublimation to feminine mysteriousness leads men down the blind alley of stupidity and weakness, and rather than actively practicing what nature taught him for millions of years, he weakly chooses to ascribe it to this mysterious mysteriousness which is complete garbage.

It’s time to stop the nonsense.

The sooner men stop buying into this mindset, the sooner they might take charge of the cultural situation which is rather bleak right now. Incels, mass shooters, Beta/Omega losers, all of them, need to stop treating women as rare jewels and realize, that at their most basic level, women are frighteningly simple.

Women are base.
Their pleasures are plain and unadulterated. They are not complicated, nor are they mysterious.

Women are sensual creatures and you must merely behold them as such.

When I argue that women are sensual creatures, I am saying that they seek fulfillment and satisfaction through the carnal input of the physical senses solely. There is little to woman without her physical senses. A woman is unable to conjure pleasure or succor without the bridge to the outside world using the pathways of her physical senses that establish her in that same external world.

Women enjoy and live for taste and touch and smell, they seek such distractions in magnanimous measure. In the cerebral realm, they seek capricious excitement and novelty through visual and auditory input.

This is all there is to women.

If Elliot Rodger and all the other hapless male specimens of the 21st Century knew this, they might use their surplus intelligence toward exploiting the disappointing depth that is female nature.

Posted in L2

Beta male rage in Vega$$$!

It has to be.

As police converged on Walmart, Gillespie says the female suspect shot the male suspect before turning the gun on herself.

Damned bitch. They’d still be alive and revolutionizing. She had to go and shoot her Beta husband.

A real Alpha man would have left the woman at home to cook dinner while he went out and inflicted civic turmoil.

Times they are a-changin’

:(

Posted in L2

Dispirited: so beautifully dreadful.

I thought of this word.

Really, I didn’t “think” of it in the sense I conjured a new word…but I was reminded of it because of some personal travails I’m experiencing.

It’s a beautifully dreadful word, isn’t it?

Dispirited.

To anyone with an exceptional comprehension of language and its associated ethereal concepts, this word shafts a pin-sized sword right into the kernels of your gross little soul, doesn’t it??

And because I occasionally do a little “research” for my posts on this stupid blog, I decided to investigate the morass of meanings of “dispirited” and they were every bit the soul-wrenching descent into personal deconstruction I could ever hope.

Typical:

Dispirited

See, it’s not sadness, it’s not even despair.

It’s dissatisfaction, rather. An overwhelming sense of futility and pointlessness.

When you’re dispirited, your sails are punctured, and though you have enough propulsion to accelerate, you also lack the control to steer. You are adrift. But you’re not sinking!

When you’re dispirited, the highs and their promise is vanquished, but the lows aren’t quite so pernicious as to extinguish the last traces of hope.

Still, being dispirited is no fun because you don’t want to do shit except idle hopelessly and soak in all the beautiful nihilism that makes this fucked up life so tender and special, like a polluted, soiled snowflake.

Posted in L7