Saw a curious thing this evening at the Hollywood and Vine Red Line Station.
Lugging my bulky backpack, I meandered over to an open concrete bench where I could sit for 2 or 3 minutes before the next Southbound/Eastbound train came roaring through.
I saw a woman sitting on a nearby bench chatting away on her cellphone. I momentarily dismissed the image, didn’t think of it really. Not the most distinctive sight, you hear?
Then…I literally froze in my tracks.
There is no cell service underground.
I don’t care how fantastic your carrier is, in L.A., you are disconnected when you’re in the MTA subterranean jungle. Cell phones cease to exist.
It’s like 1975 all over again.
I relish the fleeting peace. It’s with great satisfaction that I note women engaging in every possible maneuver in order to avoid engaging the outside world because they have no phone to focus their attention on.
For the 16 minutes or so I’m underground, I live in a cell free world.
A flashback to days of yore. When “wireless” referred only to bras.
So this lady is talking on her cellphone. In an area where the phone has no bars. None.
She’s going on about Israel and other insane ramblings.
In 2010, the voices in our heads now have another medium by which to transport themselves into reality.
In fact, a couple of years ago I was on the bus late at night, returning from a bar, and this man was sitting in the back of the bus chatting away really loudlly on his cellphone. Loud. Judging by his conversation, you’d think he was some “industry” bigwig. He was wheeling and dealing! About movie deals and scripts and it didn’t take long to realize: loony transport! There is no way this guy, sitting in a bus in East L.A. at this hour, had any connections to the movie industry outside perhaps a membership at the local Hollywood Video.
My amazement at his connections was short-lived.
If I was in the presence of a great Hollywood broker, I spurned it with an air of cynicism.
So tonight Ms. Israel was going on and on, holding that cellphone to her ear for dear life.
The train finally came and I hopped on (well, not really…hopping is not something you need to be doing on any of the MTA lines around here) and I spaced out while the train carried me toward Pershing Square. Zoning out as I do.
At one of the stops, a mass of people exited the train and I caught an older, middle aged woman, kinda trashy, looking at me. Perhaps there was borderline lust in her eyes?
Maybe. Maybe not.
She was looking at me and her stare did not waver even as she walked toward the train exit. Caught my eye and kept it…
She was beyond plain. She was downright asexual. You know the type. Some people, many people, as they age, they lose much of the gender differentiation which may have distinguished them in earlier years; but which now only seems hideously contained behind a gnarled exterior.
That was her.
She had shortish but puffy dirty blond hair, she was a couple inches taller than me. Not fat, not skinny. Solid. Big bubble ass. And she was flirting.
I am a sick man. Maybe a little, or a lot, depraved.
I might have just done it.
I can’t convey you to the freakishly unorthodox sex drive I have.
Most people are proud of boasting of standards and and other prim bullshit.
I have very few standards and I’ve proven it in the past. And I’m not afraid to admit it.
Why should I?
I’m a man and I fuck. That’s what I do. Actually, I am not sick. I am just a man and I’m an animal.
My drive is eveloping and unrefined. Disturbingly phenomenal, if you’d like. To my detriment and other’s amazement.
Well no, it’s probably because I’m Hispanic.
I saw a statistic cited in a post at In Mala Fide which claims that Black and Hispanics possess the highest sex drives by correlating it with frequency of sexual intercourse. As revealed by studies, which of course, are the lifeblood of the HBD movement. These are good scientists and resorting to anecdotal data would be amateur science hour. So studies showed that Blacks and Hispanics had the highest frequency of sex. Once again, and unfortunately in this case, I’m hardly typical.
The HBDers are amusing, as always.
When contemplating the wonders of HBD I’ve alway wondered.
In the grand racial horse and buggy show of HBD-ism, does the racism come before the buggy?
My suspicion is that racism is inherent to these types. Intelligence, scientific inquisitiveness follow. And they afford the perfect opportunity to bolster and defang one’s own racism.
In contrast to these analytical (and then some) HBDers, I actually have an iota of respect for the blatant racist who makes no excuses or rationalizations for his distaste of specific racial groups. He has no need to summon spells of logic or scientific incantations in order to dampen the guilt or discomfort his innate sense of racism leaves him with.
Cloaking such unpopular beliefs behind a nice thick layer of scientific reason prevents one from having to confront the reality of his own naked misery.