Postscript: August 28 I’m amazed by my own naivete sometimes. Really. I wrote this post last night, blindly named it, then crashed. This morning on my WordPress Stats I notice a huge jump in page views. Huh? I go about my business, blindly, and it finally strikes me what the hell is going on. The title to this post is like a fucking honey pot to the legions of lurking internet perverts. I hate having to explain myself, but I feel in this case it is warranted. I did not title this post “Daddy’s little girls, drunk” intentionally or as a conscious and cheap effort to boost readership. Besides, once the apparent nature of this blog becomes obvious to those “new” readers, I’m sure they will never return. The post was named in honor of a phenomena I’ve thought about in our culture, that of “daddy’s little girls.” It has nothing to do with little girls and I suppose that is a disappointment for a lot of people who would land here by virtue of those key words. Sorry to disappoint, there is nothing here to sate your depravity, move on if you’re looking for that. This is a post which deals with the tendency of men in power to perpetuate and enable female misbehavior on a grand societal scale. Sorry to disappoint! I will not rename this post.
My mom, a loyal retired devotee of “Good Day L.A.” here in L.A. loves recounting occasional exchanges and dour encounters between its three “stars,” Jillian Barberie, Steve Edwards and Dorothy Lucey, during the weekday morning show that takes place while I’m in the midst of signing on to my sluggish workstation at work or pouring myself some hot tea in the kitchen. The other day she told me how Jillian Barberie, the buxom bombshell of the trio, recalled a recent incident in which she was pulled over by a traffic cop. Apparently she was daring her luck because she was speeding and talking on the cell phone without a headset, you know, the usual bullshit high risk factors which a guy such as myself would be cuffed and lashed for. But as Barberie explained, she smiled and flashed her feminine pleasantries at the cop and he waved her off with a symbolic warning.
Once again, another example of how our male-infested police forces cater to and indulge the male-perpetuated lack of feminine accountability and horny-driven leniency.
Reminds me of something that I witnessed first-hand about 4 years ago.
It was a Friday night in 2006, the year I didn’t have a driver’s license courtesy of the State of California’s harsh hands of justice which brought down the law on my drunken ass from the previous year (2005) when I wrapped my car around a tree while under the influence of alcohol, about 3 times over. In addition to losing my license, I was subjected to an gruesome regimen of payback in which many of my liberties were withheld or retracted by legislated ransom.
It was a Friday night and the fact that I nearly split my neck in half courtesy of the booze did not stop me from drinking more booze. Not quite.
I was out with a female acquaintance and we decided to hit up a Chili’s here on the Eastside. We arrived about 8 and sat at the bar. We began some illustrious and epic drinking, spearheaded by fearsome Schooners of beer, and I had the opportunity to observe the travails of a woman’s social existence in a very needy man’s world. One guy on the other side of the bar sent her a drink and a really cheesy note via the bartender. My friend smiled, said “thank you” and drank her free drink. The guy came over and they talked for a while. This despite the fact his behavior was a solid rebuke against my “Alpha” presence (even though I wasn’t officially with her, not in the dating capacity to be sure). He passed through, we continued drinking, and before the night was over, we were standing outside in the parking lot talking to an older guy about who knows what or who remembers what. It was pure drunkenness. My friend was trashed. She’d had about 4 or 5 schooners. And we hadn’t eaten other than some appetizer scraps.
Finally, we packed it up and jumped in her car and headed home.
We drove down Washington Boulevard while she yapped away on the cellphone with her boyfriend. She was one of those women whose phone is literally an appendage. A physical tendril jutting from their palm, melded to the earlobe.
Driving down Washington, a wide 6 lane street, loaded with quarts of cheap, bland American beer, her steering synchronized with her flailing speech and at one point the car drifted across the lane in time with a gesticulation she made in response a dramatic verbal point.
Headed in the opposite direction was an LA Sheriff 2-man patrol unit.
The man in olive green flipped a quick U and pulled us over immediately.
As he ordered my friend out of the car I began formulating a mental plan about how I was going to get out of this scrape and get home (which was about 10 miles away). I had a revoked driver’s license, I was drunk…driving off in this car was highly unlikely. I wrote my friend off. There is no way she was walking from this. Damnit, I began to experience some pangs of guilt.
It seemed I sat in the car forever, waiting for the conclusion to this saga. From behind the car I could hear the sheriff radio going “beep…beep…beep” like they do. I heard a couple of men speaking, I heard movement.
“Cops” this was not.
There were no dramatics.
No hamming it up for no one watching.
In the dark of the night here in Southeastern L.A. County.
Laughing, more voices.
Finally, my friend stumbled back into the car and started up the engine and casually pulled away from the curb. She told me the police told her to stay off the cellphone and go straight home.
During the field interrogation, they asked her how much she’d had to drink. She told them “a couple of beers” and she was fond, in the following months, of joking about how it was only a partial truth, because she said a “couple” of beers while failing be candid about it; part of this routine involved her stretching her arms apart as far as they would go. A “couple of beers like this” she would giggle.
I’d still be in jail…