The contemptible wealthy White and Asian class

Damnit, the one time I forget to bring it with me…

I travel everywhere with my trusty 6-year-old Canon digital camera. It also offers a rudimentary video recording function. It works well for my basic purposes. In this age of video vulgarity and the abundant displays of voyeuristic human wreckage, the camera must accompany me at all times. You never know when you might be the only person with recording equipment on the scene of some outlandish viral event. I secretly fantasize about being the only person around with a camera to witness the initial scouting invasion of Earth by hungry extraterrestrial lifeforms. Just a fantasy.

Today, I forgot my camera. Not that what I saw was meme- or viral-worthy, but I would have liked to taken some shots for this post. They would have splendidly illustrated a point. Instead you’ll need to bear with my narration.

Today I drove to Pasadena by way of Oak Knoll Avenue, a narrow, tree-lined street that winds from Huntington Boulevard through South Pasadena, San Marino, and finally, Pasadena. The street’s passage through San Marino is dotted with prestigious, urban mansions. The houses are large, the yards are vast mini parks, and the neighborhood seems ripped out of a foreign locale for it bears little resemblance to what many might envision of Los Angeles. The houses are generally old and individualistic, nothing like the tract lethargy you see in new communities. San Marino is money personified. If you’re a slouch, you don’t live here, and really, you shouldn’t even drive through. This neighborhood is too classy for you. As would be expected, the 2010 predominant demographic make up for affluent San Marino is White and Asian. Two flavors, that’s it.

The 2010 United States Census[20] reported that San Marino had a population of 13,147. The population density was 3,483.4 people per square mile (1,345.0/kmĀ²). The racial makeup of San Marino was 5,434 (41.3%) White, 55 (0.4%) African American, 5 (0.0%) Native American, 7,039 (53.5%) Asian, 2 (0.0%) Pacific Islander, 198 (1.5%) from other races, and 414 (3.1%) from two or more races. Hispanic or Latino of any race were 855 persons (6.5%).

Black and Hispanic San Marino residents, all approximately 900 of them, are most likely either musicians or live-in help. Whites and Asians (mostly Chinese) rule the well-to-do roost here.

San Marino is part of the northern, foothill-adjacent area that was hit hardest by the violent Southern California winds on Wednesday night. As I drove through, traffic lights were still out, leaves and branches dotted the streets. Gardeners were hard at work sawing and clearing. See, this is the type of community where homeowners pay people to do the shit they are too lazy and entitled to do with their own dainty hands. These people are accustomed to ordering others around. Oak Knoll is narrow, and curvy in sections. I wanted to take photos of something I saw as I drove through. Sporadic sections of the street were narrowed even further into single-lane disarray because stray branches blocked the street next to the curb. Anytime you came upon one of these branches, you needed to stop in order to make sure no oncoming traffic was headed toward you in the opposing lane so you could deliberately circumvent the fallen branches. It occurred to me as I dodged these branches that many of them were were relatively small! They were nothing that a healthy man could not lug off the street in a few strident moves. It’s not like tons of tree material were toppled over. These were stupid stringy branches that could be dragged. I wanted to take a photo to illustrate how insignificant these branches were that were laid across the roadway, impeding and inconveniencing the traffic flow. The municipal workers had bigger problems to take care of than these branches. You think the residents might help out?

Hell no!

Not these wealthy, lazy snobs. I joked with my son that they were probably waiting for their gardeners to do it for them. Most of these residents probably don’t even know they have a front yard or what it looks like. Heaven forbid these moneyed Whites or Asians actually dirty their smooth hands on tree branches. I guarantee you that if this was the barrio, that shit would have been cleared off immediately by the men who lived there, something San Marino apparently lacks.

When you lack a camera, you nab an image from Google Earth. This is a screen shot of a street view of a stretch of Oak Knoll Avenue I’m talking about from its better days.

I like to think that these wealthy elites do not place a great burden on society because of their dazzling doses of economic self-sufficiency, but it’s apparent that in times of emergency and natural disaster, these are the same people who will be the biggest impediment to the survival of the robust. Money and possessions get you ahead of the evolutionary line, but in a world without money or goods, there is no line, only brawn.

Smurf sexuality

I happen to be in a serious case of lust right now.

I blame Yahoo email.

Recently, this has been greeting me before I log in.

You know how sometimes (back to my mindfulness kick) you see things, but don’t think about them or consciously integrate them? You absorb them into your inner eye, but they stay embedded there. You constantly recount their image, but on the sly, to your inner metadata processor, and you don’t consider what you saw.

Until today.

For some reason, when I opened Yahoo this time, I noticed her. I saw that hot blue bitch for the first time. I’ve been noticing her big blue eyes and that flourishing blonde wave of goldilocks, but I never admitted or allowed that she was actually hot. Until today. Maybe the hormones were on overdrive, maybe I was more open to alternative love styles…the point is, today I finally saw that piece of blue ass, the Smurfette today. My mindfulness was defeated!

She is a fine piece of skin. Her blue weirdness does not perturb me.

That pose. So dainty and innocent. Those eyelashes. The epitome of feminine innocence! Until.

OH MY GOD!
She is inviting me and you.
Come hither in shades of azul.
The fucking slut is calling me into her weird wonderland of monopolized male attention.
She needs a real man, a man with intermittent organs and fleshy-colored skin.
This picture drives me nuts!

Today I realized Smurfette is hot. She is femininity embodied in the slides of some stupid muddled animated garbage.
She is so hot!
She is assuredly hotter than your garden variety lesbian feminist with tattoos and bowlegs.

Show me a feminist bulldyke you’d rather hump than the blue-skinned semen receptacle that is Ms. Smurf?

She is the clarion call of femininity.
This is what we, as men, weak and strong, impotent and ghetto, desire. Our evolutionary drive demands it.
We want our woman to be meek, weak, demure, silly, girlish, and submissive.
We want the girl who we played with in the sandbox in the 2nd grade. But we want her to have all the things grown women have. Only sick men don’t progress beyond the sandbox.

Sometimes, we like women who can fulfill this role but turn nasty when it matters. This duality is a great draw. Men love women who can be “ladies in public, sluts in the bedroom.” Yes, it’s sorta hypocritical, but it is (or was) a man’s world. We want the sweet Smurfette with buoyant golden curls but who can switch instantly once the doors are closed and swat our ass down with a pussy pounding.

We are men. We want it all.

Real men admit this. The plastic, noveau men lie openly. They say they want the stuff they know women want to hear. But women are constructed in such a way that what they want to hear has no correspondence with that which they want to handle.

In our world, blue animated female characters embody a femininity and allure that RL (real life) females do not supply.

Men are drawn primitively to femininity. Femininity is more than a physical body or curves. Femininity is a core behavior. An attitude. You can’t fake it. And those tattoos are overdone and look terrible.

You women are all rebelling against the Smurfette’s image and in return you get a bunch of Smurf men whose gonads are replaced by blank curvature. Enjoy!

The wind and our nothingness

It’s been all about the WIND lately in L.A. The local news oozes with stories, features and excessive infatuation, with all things wind-related and its ensuing damage, both serious and amusing, in every photographic and anecdotal incarnation imaginable. Turn on the local news and you will see…wind tops the charts! L.A. is a relatively sedate meteorological non-phenomena. Our weather, balmy and mild, is also torturously bland and nondescript. It never snows in the L.A. basin. We don’t experience tornadoes or hurricanes, and high temperatures rarely exceed the century mark, and strong winds are as foreign a concept to us as North Sea gales.

Now our news is aflutter with scintillating and dramatic observations about our blustery overnight debacle, with more to come possibly this evening, into tomorrow. It’s WIND, all day, all night.


from KTLA.com

These are some of the most powerful off-shore winds we’ve seen in years. Shit was turned upside down last night. Trees uprooted, other ostensibly stationary items were tossed about casually. Off-shore winds are dry and they scrape the skin off your lips and arms. Many of us went to sleep last night to a placid urban wasteland and woke up to glowering havoc and disarray. People I know were awakened by the shrieking wind in the middle of the night. Still it strikes me as a significant non-event. It deserves some coverage, but this is ridiculous. It’s only wind. Some of our precious landscape was savaged by the intense winds, but everything is “uprightable” and I don’t think anyone was even killed. It’s just a dramatic perturbation in our insignificant weather patterns.

The hullabaloo is what is most noteworthy. The pure amount of unabashed overstated bullshit and lost work hours and idle, agonizing small-talk related to the wind is what I believe the KTLA’s of the world need to really address. The lost man-hours. The distraction we feed upon.

This morning, a couple of people I work with came in late, one citing the “crazy winds last night.” Huh? This person lives in the concrete junglehood of Mid City. What the hell there can possibly be affected by high winds? It’s all concrete slabs and chain link fences. Later, she let slip out that the winds had merely kept her up all night. Ahh.

The buzz at work this morning, and most of the afternoon, was about The Wind. Wind this, wind that…no one was seriously affected by the wind but it didn’t prevent them from pointing out the havoc that lined their parade routes to work. So much time was spent talking about the wind that I began to wonder if talking about the wind would prove to be more profitable than actually doing some work. Still, The Wind obviously represented a departure from the normal trodden path. We love deviations from the norm when they are essentially harmless, as The Wind was. This is what epitomizes small talk. Inconsequential crap we can all share in our communal tub of idiocy. Why do we prefer to fill our days with groundless frivolity? Why do we engage such petty diversions? Is it because we cannot concentrate, and thus lazily succumb to boredom so effectively? It’s the memes, they are everywhere. This type of verbal synchronization serves a purpose, an emotional, visceral need, but I’m not sure what it is because I’m not very human.