L.A.’s fiery sky

I read somewhere, a long time ago (National Geographic magazine?) that new visitors to Los Angeles say that one of the first things they are struck by is the lighting in the city…a function of the atmospheric qualities of the LA Basin.

I don’t know about that. I’ve lived here all my life, never really noticed.

Sometimes while fires rage and destroy homes and lives in the hills, I have to admit the lighting is tragically and destructively magnificent. I’m sure the fiery end of the planet is beautiful to those observing from millions of miles away.

Re-hashing the indecisiveness issue in Hollywood

Gotta conjure up the ghosts of my “indecisive” post from the other day. Just gotta.

Never reluctant to overstate, but nevertheless quite aware of that tendency, I find myself hypervigilant to the extreme when it comes to maintaining a sharp eye (and ear) for instances of behavior which bear out my rantings.

So…I ranted about indecisiveness on Thursday and yesterday, Friday, I was treated to a tremendous and and unmistakable example of it as I rushed to the Hollywood and Vine Red Line station after work.

Grand, eloquent, effervescent…unbridled indecision brought to you (indrectly) by this pinnacle of the performing “arts.”

Yep…Legally Blonde, The Musical. Go ahead, wipe that shudder off your spine and bear with me (and get your eyes of the blonde’s legs). This estrogenic production can be all yours to view if you’re willing to throw down a serious wad of cash that will allow you to enter the teeny bopperish throngs crowding into the lobby of the Pantages Theater in Los Angeles. I can’t see myself spending any more than three dollars on this show…that’s about what I spent to rent the DVD (and incidentally, I didn’t think it was half bad).

Anyways, the show started a few weeks ago and I’m treated to a mass of femdom each time I rush to the train station about 6:15 in the evening and cut through one of the parking lots serving the theater. I can tell you that the crowd appears to be at least 80% women. The other 20%, the men, are either swishers, or if not, then they have that captive, POW gaze and when you meet their sad eyes they seem to cry to you helplessly, for a woman, this???

Last night, rushing to catch the 6:19 southbound to Pershing Square, the usual hustle and bustle of pre-show chickdom parking and balancing on heels and donning their theater-going best and I approach about 4 young women crowded around a small econocar. They appeared to be in the act of doing one last pre-mission check before locking the car and heading to the theater. In their twenties, white, wholesomely attractive, they all chattered around a central female figure who was writhing with self-doubt.

“I think I’ll just take it. I’ll keep it folded,” she ventured. It was obvious by the reaction and stances that this bizarre conversation had been in progress for at least a minute.
“Yes I think you should take it,” helped one of her friends.
“Yeah just carry it in there, you never know…” piped in another.

What was paining the girls?

(Now is a good time to lay down a preface: it’s been miserable hot in L.A. Temperatures in the 90’s and the air is smokey, orange and ashy from the fires).

The issue was whether Subject One, Indecision Ground Zero, should bring a sweater with her into the show. For this triviality the girls could not leave their car until they hashed out a solution for their lost friend who didn’t know if the theater might be too chilly for her bare arms, but which of course was further complicated by the fact that Los Angeles, outside of theaters, was sweltering under a hellish pall. Which was complicated by the fact that the air temp inside the Pantages might not be congruent with the wardrobe demands needed outside and the jaunt across the street.


Why in the world do you bring a sweater in the first place? You know you’re going to take it into the theater otherwise you would not have brought it. Just take the sweater and carry it, it was a thin women’s sweater that didn’t weigh more than a pound.

I wonder if she enjoyed the show?

The lesbian+feminism dilemna

Ah that got your attention!
Amazingly, sadly, repulsively, we as males are intrigued by the L word.
The word brings with it a flurry of pornographic and pseudo-pornographic snapshots steamrolling through our depraved skulls.
I think it was all that damn lesbian porn we saw as teens (or adults, as the case may be) that served to reinforce the idealistic image we have of dykes.
Except that what we saw sputtering by on bad videotapes…were most assuredly not dykes. Those were babes, they were HOT LESBIAN SLUTS; we decorated them with hetero folly in order to make them hot, but the sad truth is that it was all a big fat lie. Most lesbians do not, I repeat,


, look like this:

Generally it is safe to say most lesbians do not voluntarily wear skirts, do not have long hair and are not the slightest bit feminine. Not a complaint or a judgement, just a statement man.

Nope, dial up Lesbian Escorts Outcall and you’re more likely to find this knocking at your door:

To each their own. I’m a live and let live kinda guy. I’ve known lesbians, I know lesbians, some of them are the coolest chicks out there…the only catch is they don’t want your penis. Lesbians are the ultimate self-perpetuating cockblockers.

And for the other side my equation…the feminists.
Hey what the hell is a feminist anyways? My first thought…a woman who actively campaigns for equality, no? But I hear the damn word slung around with such ferocity, it is used to describe all manner of ills and scourges…but what can we conclude a feminist is?

According to the encyclopedic standard of modern day internet-ism, Wikipedia, feminism is a political discourse aimed at equal rights and legal protection for women. It involves various movements, theories, and philosophies, all concerned with issues of gender difference; that advocate equality for women; and that campaign for women’s rights and interests.
My friends, that is fine.
I can’t possibly rationalize any useful or pressing need to relegate women to second class citizenship. Let them earn as much as men, let them vote, let them change spark plugs. Let them pee standing up for chrissakes! I do not give a shit. Call me a feminist then.

With Wiki’s loose definition, I think we could call most people feminists. Despite the fact most hetero women want and desire equal opportunity, they do not necessarily disregard clear cut gender lines. Hetero women, while striving to accelerate through the corporate rat race and make lotsa dinero so they can decorate their homes ala HGTV and kitchens ala Food TV, do not consider themselves equals to men in biological terms.
And this is clear distinction that must be drawn between different brands of feminists. The typical hetero woman has no urge to usurp manhood and is quite happy and comfortable living the biological subservient role they were born into by virtue of their XX chromosomes.

Get my point?

Lesbian = cool, whatever rocks your boat!
Feminist = of course, I have a mother, women are human and should be treated as such.

But then…things get dicey. You know why??
Because all great human arrangements are unquestionably doomed to implode and degenerate into a pile of steaming shit once humans get their hands on them.

Take 2 ingredients: 1 tablespoon of Lesbianism, 1 tablespoon of Feminism, mix them together and you got yourself a toxic brew, a bitch’s brew, so to speak.

The Lesbian Feminist, bless her soul!

You see, whereas the average hetero woman strives for financial independence and a modicum of self-respect while being more than willing to relinquish material control to the male, the lesbian feminist is a different creature entirely.

The LesFem does not enjoy being a woman, does not relish the prospect of fulfilling the gender role nature has handed her; the LesFem must compete and defeat the aura of masculinity. The LesFem has nothing to lose in the battle of the sexes because she doesn’t want or need dick! The only dick the LesFem wishes she had was her own growing between her legs, right above the testicles she’d die for. Nope my friends, the LesFem is indeed out to usurp the male species. The LesFem is quite content throwing the baby (gender lines) out with the bath water (feminist ideals) because she seeks nothing from mankind. The hetero woman, like most “well-trained” women realizes she can only push things so far, and beyond that…all things are lost. Being a woman, she has womanly needs. Thus, equality with, and eventual defeat of, the male species, would only leave her high and dry and lonely and non-revered…quite a plight for the normal woman, indeed.

Remember this part of the Wiki entry? It involves various movements, theories, and philosophies, all concerned with issues of gender difference. That is the point where feminism ceases to be about equal rights and instead swells into some demented idealogical beast which declares war on the physioligical underpinnings of the male and female roles. And we can thank LesFems for that.

Papas don’t let your baby boys grow up to be…indecisive

One of the great transgressions of modern mores which I see fit to punish with 30 lashings and a good dose of tar and feathers is that logjam presented by the indisputably annoying sack who hems and haws for 5 minutes at the counter while they decide exactly which coffee or sandwich or big fucking meal special they want this fine day.

And we wait in line hanging on each confused and unsteady thought which rambles out their mouth as they contemplate all the choices that this godforsaken restaurant’s menu presents to their wavering souls.

Just when it seems they have made a choice and you’re only one step away placing your order quickly and confidently (because you’ve had a good 10 minutes to make up your mind while this ninny was deciding…) and then…he/she decides they need to ask the cashier one more question because they simply cannot choose between the 2 choices it has taken them an eternity to wittle the menue down to. So they ask and you wait.

It it’s a woman, you shrug helplessly. It’s the female curse…that insane inability to make up one’s mind. Cool. Whatever, even. We can tolerate annoying behavior when it’s expected, part of the script. It’s what girls do. If a 4-year-old in-potty-training boy pisses all over my toilet seat…well, frankly it is annoying but it’s no big deal. It’s what you expect.

So if you have a woman lingering and holding up the Starbucks line because she can’t decide between a caramel macchiato and a vanilla latte, it seems business as usual. But when it’s a guy…

Now it’s strangle time. Be a man damnit. A man makes a decision and lives with it. Simple. If you don’t like the coffee you ordered, oh well, life goes on. Next time you can order something different. A man recognizes that life is too large and of such grave concern that agonizing over what kind of ice cream cone to order is indeed a pitiful display of manliness.

Simple law of gender nature: men choose after short introspective deliberation; women choose after extended and drawn-out public consultation.

Problem is, I’m seeing way too many men lapsing into the female netherworld of indecisiveness lately. Too many men now seem overwhelmed by the choices they face; a panic sets in, a loss of self, a loss of direction. The masculine inner compass is rendered directionless here in the topsy turvy world of the 21st Century Male.

Making a decision and facing the consequences is a stoic exercise in maleness.
When did we stop teaching little boys that one stands by their choices and their words?

Burnt L.A. offerings

Where the ragtag L.A. skyline sits nothing but smoke, haze. In the Angeles National Forest, just north of here, a wild-eyed fire rages, or raged…it may be under control now.

During yesterday morning’s weights I thought I smelled burning something and expected to hear sirens blaring nearby, but nothing. My son, more versed in current events, filled me in, told me there were wildfires.

Ah. A hazy picture of downtown up close close and impersonal would convey the “scene” much better, but I was late and not about to pull off the freeway. For a blog photo.