Loony transport

 

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.
Wait.
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.
Ah.
In 2010, the voices in our heads now have another medium by which to transport themselves into reality.
Cellphones.
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.

 

 

Vive la gender difference

Hey man so honestly, what is the deal. Why does everyone need to understand the opposite gender? Why all the effort?

If we aren’t tearing our hair out trying to understand them, then we are beaming in delight at the illusion that we are one of the few who actually understand the opposite race. It’s all a racket, man. There is no understanding them. There is no understanding.

None at all.
And why should we?
What purpose would it serve?
We are different creatures. Through and through.

It amazes me that in spite of our common and historic human lineage, men and women are truly nothing alike. At all.

Physically, emotionally, intellectually…we might as well be alien races.

We are born of different zygotes and the differences only compound with age. Different hormones, different organs, different instinctual and evolutionary mentality…is it even possible for us, having spent our entire life in a body of our gender and reacting to the world through the eyes of our gender, driven by the primal forces in our psyche which dictate our gender-based behaviors, to ever have the slightest concept of what it’s like to be a member of the opposite sex?

Hell no. No easier than it would be for us to truly understand what it would be like to be a dog for one day. We can guess, we can construct bizarre realities and viewpoints and try to “walk in their shoes,” but you know what is missing? The reality. We can never grasp the depth of involvement required for absolute understanding of that existence.

So you just go right ahead and boast about how you understand the opposite sex and how you allegedly know them better than they know themselves. Keep on fooling yourself, you don’t know jack.

So back to my original point. Why does everyone feel compelled to understand the opposite sex?
Why do men need to understand women? And vice versa?
What’s the purpose?
I would even propose that there is a danger in understanding the opposite sex too well.
This natural gap, this moat, this chasm which has separated us from time immemorial, serves a purpose. It demarcates, it defines. Don’t we need that definition?

We should revel in the differences. We should celebrate them, enjoy them, breathe them. Rejoice in that which distinguishes man from woman. And woman from man. Embrace it.

Do not fear it or flee it.
That is the precursor to the state of confusion that leaves you grasping for a bumbling understanding of the opposite sex.

Personally, I have absolutely no desire to understand women. To understand how or why they think like they do, or act like they do, or any of the other millions of things they do differently. The difference, the vast gulf between Man and Woman is charged with a visceral tension that leaves me gasping for more. I welcome it and worship it.

I don’t want to understand it because then, just maybe, the magic would disappear.

So when I tell men to avoid heeding female advice in the realm of courtship, I’m saying so for the man’s benefit and because I’m ashamed for him. I’m ashamed for the fact that in seeking a woman’s opinion about his girlfriend or wife or crush, he is relinquishing something important, something crucial to his manhood. Control.

For the woman’s advice is ill-fated. A woman can never know a man’s heart, cannot comprehend his needs and deepest animalistic urges and instincts. The same goes for women. Ignore and do not seek a man’s advice when it comes to other men. We haven’t the slightest clue how to handle a boyfriend. We know how to handle buddies, we understand male camaraderie…but that’s it. Sorry.

At one point you must learn to relinquish control and let the chips fall where they may.
Trying to understand the opposite sex is the most futile task you can undertake. It’s like reading the last page before you begin reading the book.

The sooner you come to accept and even relish the difference and unpredictabilities of the other sex, the sooner you will find a sense of oneness in their presence.

I don’t understand how women arrive at most of their conclusions. I don’t know why they prioritize certain things and disdain others. I don’t know why they act certain ways in certain situations….

But I know I wouldn’t have it any other way. If women were completely understandable to me, I’d lose interest very fast.

I love women.
I love the way everything they do is just so fucking foreign to me!
I love their bizarre and capricious attitudes and their maddening traits.
Women are great and they are flawed. Just like men.
We all trudge along this common human path doing our best. We have the final say in who makes our life miserable.

Ourselves.

Or them.

Them?
I’ll leave that one to the misogynist.
He is the one who is frustrated and distraught at his inability to understand women.
He is the one who has never learned to not care to understand.
The one who has never learned to conquer the unknown by embracing it.

Flowers are pretty. Women are sexy.

So I was having a conversation with a woman I work with, one of those conversations that is essentially time-killing fluff.

The subject…who do I think is the prettiest woman at work?

Now I forgot for a moment that I was talking to a woman.
That is a very important consideration when discussing women’s aesthetic and bedroom appeal…with women.

I began by whittling down the candidates.

There were some women who are that bad that they can’t be mentioned without a good dose of caustic laughter.

“How about ______” we joked and laughed our asses off, because there is no way in hell _____ should even be considered a member of the female species. Brrrr.

(Sorry, I will continue to use _____ in the place of real names because frankly I don’t want to have to deal with the embarrassment of walking down the hallways at work and having _____ call me out about my little gift of public humiliation. I’m not that stupid. Close, but not… )

“_____,” I finally decide. “She is the prettiest.”
The woman agrees, and then I up the ante.
“But you know, the hottest girl in the building is _____. She’s really sexy.”
The woman waves me off, as if to halt this train of thought, or cool me down, I’m not sure.
“No, I meant the prettiest,” she scolded.
“Ah…” I reeled. Dejected. I really wanted to talk about the sexy girl. She is much more interesting to talk about for she arouses passion in me. Sexy is much better than pretty…or should be. And there is a difference, if we only listen to our bodies.

There is a common snippet of wisdom that many men are ignorant of and which I think bears repeating.

When it comes to women, never, NEVER, trust a woman to tell you anything accurate as it pertains to dating and sexing them. “Accurate” as in info which will benefit you, as a man.

Women relate as women to women.
How in the world can you expect a woman’s advice in dealing with the female race to be of any help to a man who has inherently different aims and drives?

Women’s appraisal of other women (unless they are lesbians) is purely aesthetic. Pretty. For a woman to judge another woman’s looks is akin to her opining on the woman’s shoes or make-up or outfit or earrings. It means nothing to us men.

Pretty. B.F.D. I say.

Pretty doesn’t do anything for me.
And it shouldn’t do anything for men.

If you’re a man, it’s not “pretty” you want to tap. “Pretty” is not what boys think about in the bathroom when they are stumbling into the sexually precarious zone that is Puberty.

“Pretty” does not breed.

Sexy breeds.
Sexy is different to everyone, but sexy is what makes you want to plant your seed.
Sexy is what make you want to rip her clothes off and throw her on the bed and ravage her body.
Sexy is what makes you want to roar.

Sexy is what gets things flowing.

And this lady at work, _____, I find her incredibly sexy. She is attractive, but nowhere near as “pretty” as _____. The pretty one would have no problem making me spill my seed, heh heh. But it wouldn’t be virulent seed. It wouldn’t have the same reproductive force.

When I think of the sexy girl, I think of her body, her hips, her ass, her curves…pretty? Ah, who cares. The urge transcends beauty.

Unfortunately, I see too many men lapse into the “pretty” mentality. They sound like women when sizing up chicks. Pretty, cute, this is the yardstick they use to measure a woman’s appeal to their vestigial loins.

Such men intellectualize the mating dance.
They use their heads, their aesthetic emotionality. They do not allow themselves to think with the correct head, which for a man, is the Southern one. That is the brain you need to listen to, fellas. The little brain tucked away comfortably in your underwear.

That is your animal brain, that is the brain that will point you in the right direction.
Forget the face, you nut.
A man who blurs the aesthetic with the primal has lost touch with nature.

I had a friend who used to bellow if someone complained about a girl’s face.
“What are you gonna do, fuck her face or her pussy???”
Charming guy, but he was right.

And with the Oscars on (probably as I write this), I thought of a good example which illustrates the sexy vs. pretty conundrum in my own sphere of attractiveness.

There are two female celebrities who strike different chords in me. I imagine they will both be at the Awards show tonight (I know one definitely will be).

Sandra Bullock:

and
Amanda Bynes:

First of all, I’m not throwing either one out of bed. Not that it’s a predicament I soon expect to find myself in (barring some strange fantastical dream tonight). No, the intention of this intellectual exercise is to point out the contrasting impacts these women have upon my sexual psyche.

Sandra is certainly an attractive woman, but let’s face it. Her face is slightly flawed. That nose…
But the body. The body. Wow. Sandra elicits something savage in my gut. Something savage that has nothing to do with her face but everything to do with those legs, those hips. She arouses a raw primal drive that Amanda doesn’t.

Amanda has the more attractive face but that’s all that distinguishes her. Perhaps I’m stuck in the time warp that is her Amanda Show days of pipe cleaner legs and skeletal body. Maybe she’s developed more, but I don’t see her as sexy. Any arousal I experience is purely aesthetic (her face) or the superficially intriguing (her youth). And for some guys, this is all they need. I could see where, in utter denial of my primal urges, I might convince myself that Amanda turns me on more. I can’t bring myself to that point.

I need more, man. I need a woman.

Grrrrr…

East L.A. Makeover: Stage 5, the Laundry Room Closet, video intro

Last week I decided I would kick off Stage 5 of my illustrious East L.A. Makeover series. This project has stagnated, partly due to laziness, partly due to the distracting Holiday season.

Who am I kidding.

Mostly due to laziness. And a good dose of apathy.

So tonight, with the help of my trusty videographer, I recorded the videotaped “introduction” to Stage 5 (The Laundry Room Closet), a normal segment I record prior to the beginning of each stage.

It was late, the sun had disappeared behind gray, stormy clouds and the bulb in the laundry room blew out about 3 months ago. In other words, the lighting sucked, the laundry room closet is small and cramped and barely warrants any kind of videotaped notoriety, and I frankly didn’t know how to fill the dead vocal air.

Didn’t stop me from persisting, however.

As I reviewed the video priot to uploading it to YouTube, a horrible thought occurred to me:
I’ve subjected those who have been bold enough to read Phoenixism (or whatever it is you wish to call them) with some truly God-awful videos. Bad.

Terrible quality, terrible scripts. The grade school caliber of my videos would embarrass me if I had a normal human sense of shame. Only if

I find them amusing.
And bad.
Amusingly bad.

These videos, in their frightening abundance, cannot go unnoticed.

They cannot go unnoticed in the same way a dog carcass cannot go unnoticed after it’s laid in the second lane of the Santa Monica Freeway for 5 hours.

My video collection is prolific. Or something.
After I watched the video intro to Stage 5 tonight, there is no denying the fact. It doesn’t get any worse than this!

And this East L.A. Makeover. It’s become a great source of frustration and repressed goals.

I had great aspirations back in September. I wasn’t messing around man. I was going to turn this place upside down and transform it from hovel into sleek bachelor pad.

Mmm…OK, this is still happening.

But in the six or so months since I started, I have very little to show.

So now I have 3 concurrent stages in progress.

Stage 3, the Kitchen, start date of October 26, 2009.
Stage 4, the Dining Room, start date of December 5, 2009.
Stage 5, the Laundry Room Closet, start date, any minute now.

The pace of this project can best be described as “going nowhere fast.”

Also, in order to give my collection of videos their due, I am creating a production company which will lay claim to all their mediocrity under the guise of a professional production, a rather shameless and ironic move on my part.

Introducing Ch’ E-Z Productions.

Stage 5 intro, The Laundry Room Closet.
Enjoy (or at least act the part)!

Pointlessness as an antidote

What is the point?! he griped angrily.

And as with all accusations, I react reflexively to such a statement. I spring into Defensive Mode. An accusation. “What’s your point” is a passive accusation.

Its gist?

If someone responds “what’s your point” in response to a thought you’ve laid out, the implied accusation is “what you just said isn’t important” or “I don’t understand what you’re trying to say, hence, why did you bother saying it?”

The point.
The almighty point.
The idealogical destination.

The point is the Western mind’s left-brained requirement that all intellectual expression must possess a map, a linear one-way path, a sequential chain of events with a timeline represented as beginning>middle>end.

If a, then b, and if c, then either d or e depending on the weather conditions or any other multitude of extraneous factors. Such a thought process does not take kindly to the disruptive, and many times decidedly non-linear, extraneous factors. And as such, attempts to account for extraneous possibilities by designating these various possibilities with labels, thus controlling and intellectualizing them. The unknown or unknowable thumbs its nose at us and we seek to draw it into the stodginess of our rigid equations and control.

Control the uncontrollable. And thus, manipulate the Point.

Our Western mindset, solidly linear. Our intellectual framework, firmly ensconced in a large, mass-produced cookie cutter Box. This is how our cognitive journey unfolds. Within walls, guided by straight lines, and if we are feeling a little edgy, we might even throw in some turns (but only the 90 degree kind).

What’s the point?
Maybe there is no point.

In fact, especially on this blog, there usually isn’t.
I have a tendency to be absolutely pointless in much that I do or say.
I don’t believe a Point is nearly as important as some would have us believe.

It’s the path that I value. The process in itself. Not the goal, not the conclusion, not the resolution.

I find satisfaction in the self-discovery, the revelations that my mental gymnastics can uncover.

Treasure the journey.

The Means frequently have very little in common with the Ends. In fact, the less similarity or logical extension the Ends share with the Means, the more interesting and intriguing they are to study.

Open Pandora’s box and run!
Who cares to stick around while everyone rushes to put the lid back on. Knowledge and discovery are the timeless gift.

For me.
My point.