The American Dream and the Meximart

I stopped at a supermarket tonight, one of those non-chain sordid grocery stores where the produce is cheap but undersized and wilted. The aisles are lined with a plethora of processed items with all the uniform boxy appearance such food is housed in. Slick and artificially constructed containers, excessively colorful packaging and alarmingly standard cookie-cutter in shape. This market is not necessarily in the barrio or ghetto, but it’s “adjacent,” to put it mildly. The customer base, if I was forced to summarize it the best I can, is largely Mexican-American, primarily of the first generation variety. There are pockets of immigrant Mexicans who shop there, and the market has a small meat and deli area which might appeal to the Mexican immigrant due to its offerings of marinated meat cuts, freshly mixed salsa and pickled chili’s. This side of the store, the “real” Mexican side, curiously, offers more “clean” foods whereas the remainder of the store, which I would call the Mexican-American side, is stocked to the brim with processed foods. This is not the store of choice for immigrant Mexicans in the neighborhood because there are plenty of supermarkets which appeal specifically to that segment of the public. There are supermarkets around here that are truly hard-core Meximarts, as I call them. If you didn’t know, you might think you were in a grocery store south of the border. Pickled pig’s feet included.

Shopping in both environments basically reiterates what I’ve noticed about the Mexican population when viewed from dual perspective of “immigrant” vs “1st generation.” The “vibe” is vastly different. I can only conclude that “Americanization” is mildly destructive and dilutes the favorable qualities of the Mexican character. Immigrant Mexicans, while poorer and less privy to the sumptuous perks of American citizenship, are generally more tolerable and well-mannered than their US-born counterparts. My shopping experiences in Meximarts, while at times chaotic and anarchic, is gentler on the psyche. The cashiers and customers are a tad more respectful and conscientious and even a bit more subdued in the tacky, visual affront department. Perhaps you can say they are “simple” in a more genuinely rustic measure. They have not been tainted by the hypnotic splendor of American society and there is just that much less of pretentiousness or class bitterness to bear from the Meximart immigrant crowd.

But just walk into a ghetto market catering to young, first-generation Mexican-Americans and the sensation is entirely different. Having been born and raised amidst the delusions and pomposities of American pop culture, this crowd has been mesmerized by the spoils of a land they can’t have and in turn cheaply mimic an existence that exists in fantastical notions of self-righteousness. Born here, these class of people assume the entitled and complacent petulance of an antagonistic prisoner. There is a distinct lack of social grace or niceties. There are no manners, no courteousness, so smiles. Customer service is shit in these places. Many of the cashiers are unfriendly and simmer behind stand-offish attitudes of apparent resentment. An undercurrent oozes from their shit attitude; it’s as if they are emitting a meta stream of bitterness which scolds, “I deserve better than this.”

The difference can be traced to one simple factor: expectations.
The immigrant has grown up and lived a large part of his life in an alternate reality 3rd World hellhole of diminished wants and rewards. This shapes and downsizes one’s mindset while tempering the ego. The first generationer, on the other hand, has grown up amidst the spectral visions of Western consumerism and celebrity. Despite the fact this brand of existence, this vision of another world quite different from ghetto life, still distends its roots into their heads and there is something about growing up in the land of plenty and opportunity which leads to a self-delusional sense of expectation when it is blended with a repulsive dose of entitlement. He is spoiled of mind.

The American dream is a corrupter today.

Blasphemous advice for dealing with bloody sex


Have you ever been with a chick on her period?


It’s gnarly. I’ve never been averse to the concept or practice. However, I do have my limits. I will absolutely not eat her out during her menses. This is the era of the vampire but I will not go that far to impress. I need to make this clear because there are plenty of guys who don’t mind going south during the rainy season. (I just made that phrase up, incidentally) I hear women are hornier during their menstruation which is great because that means they might actually want me more than normal (meaning that they just want me, which is a step up for me).


Having sex with a girl during her period also provides the added benefit of it being a built-in form of natural birth control. Of course a woman can get pregnant any time during her cycle, I’m not a complete idiot. But if you’re a gambling man, I would place my paternal bets on having sex during a girl’s period in order to ward off the unsettling fear of missed periods later on.


Take that, you crazy Catholics.


I’ll never understand about Catholics. Why is it the rhythm method “acceptable” but the condom or birth control pill are not? Aren’t these tools of contraception just points on a larger continuum of meddling in godly plans? Isn’t the rhythm method just people co-opting God’s glorious handiwork by seeking to divert the holy mission of the precious little spermatozoa by injecting him into the chick’s uterus when it’s basically barren? I think this is clearly toying with God’s intentions. You could have saved that sperm for tomorrow or the day after when her egg was more likely to be exposed to your child-bearing Papal wonderjuice. So are we to assume the Bible has always hypocritically sought to split physiological hairs? Rhythm method versus Trojans. Tonight’s debate on Catholic Talk. Which is more evil. Join as at AM 720!


Oh, back to the bloody period fuck.


When you have sex with a girl on her period, you must keep some things in mind. All periods are not alike and not all women are alike. Where is she at in the menstrual cycle? Is she heavy? During certain menstrual periods the lining, clots and other horrid bloody flotsam is present and it may test your squeamishness. There are some people who literally faint at the sight of blood. If you’re at home, double up on a discarded bath towel…fold it in half, or whatever. Rest her rump on it so when you stick your penis in and break up a clot, all that shit pours out on the towel and not on the sheets. That would not be good. Bloodstains are a pain to remove once they dry. If the period is heavy enough, it will provide its own degree of lubrication as well. It’s great! When the blood is flowing, there is none of that annoying initial dryness to excite her out of. It’s like a dose of crimson KY. Go at it and chances are you might orgasm at the same time. This is where things get dicey. If you’ve both committed to this bloodfest and you’re willing to live with the “consequences,” the price to pay for the short-lived moment of physical bliss is the resultant mess. You both lay there for a few minutes, exhilarated, winding down from the crescendo, and as your frenzied physical levels return to normal, the realization will now dawn that it’s time to pull yourself out. In doing so, you will probably uncork scads of blood and clots and discarded uterine lining. Sometimes, the stench is grotesque. Make sure you have a clear and uncluttered path to the bathroom because your penis will drip blood all the way back to the bathroom. Jump in the shower quickly but keep in mind that your penis is a bloody weapon at this point. Like a wet, muddy dog shaking itself dry, your penis will wave about, launching drops of aerosolized menstrual fluid everywhere, including the walls, the shower curtain, the rugs, the floor. Sometimes the coppery stench of blood is overbearing. Once in the shower, wash your cock down with cold water and soap and later, do the same once you get home from the ho’s pad.


And remember: life is good.



Super 8, better in the gray-toned, Fascist cut

I’ve got some major ambivalence about Super 8.

On the one hand, I have a soft spot for this horror sub-genre. You know, the “vidcam” pseudo-salvaged footage of real events which seeks to portray a story or timeline behind the smokescreen of a real fictional narrative.

I dig this because it earnestly asks the viewer to suspend disbelief. In greater measures. The vidcam sub-genre requires active input on the part of the audience and many people have a difficult time overcoming the schism between reality and fantasy that these movies seek to undermine. Whereas a normal fictional narrative does not pretend to be real and is thus easier for some to grasp as a piece of entertainment, a pseudo-documentary asks that you not only perceive the story as a story, but that you actively allow yourself to accept it as a real event within the confines of fictional boundaries. For better or worse, I’m rather adept at this little self-inflicted twist of truth.

On the other hand, I’m not particularly thrilled to learn that Steven Spielberg is involved, albeit “only” in the producing role. As in all of Hollywood, artistry follows the money, and Spielberg’s money…well, it speaks. I fear the movie will fall prey to all the traditional Spielbergian cinematic gimmicks which I don’t like. Cutesy, formulaic and under-aged characters who I can’t bring myself to give a shit about, over the top action sequences which are simply outgrowths of the film school nerd mentality seeking penile compensation with celluloid spectacle, and a rather neutered, bland story which perhaps seemed awesome while it still wandered the halls of my imagination while the movie still lived in theory. Spielberg needs to recapture his Schindlerian bleakness and maturity instead of offering us cinematic romps with adolescents. And his movies inevitably cascade into a trite spectacle of explosions and mangled metal. He diffuses all his innate gravity with self-conscious directorship. He is not directing Super 8 so perhaps his imprint will be minimal. I’m not the biggest J.J. Abrams fan either, but I’m not averse to his work in the same way I am Spielberg’s, so what the hell, I’ll give it a shot.

I’m certainly not expecting another “Blair Witch Project,” which is the best of this sub-genre. The thing BWP had going for it, at least when it was initially released, is that there were no inflated cyber/viral expectations or other hoopla attending it like Cloverfield (and by the time I finally saw Quarantine online as well). I have great difficulty toning down my trailer- and clip-induced enthusiasm for movies. If the word of mouth and viral dramatization is intense, my expectations are elevated to self-destructive levels. Being that Abrams and Spielberg are primary players in Super 8, it figures that the movie is receiving a lot of pre-publicity boosting and the trailers are carefully crafted enough to make it look undeservedly interesting.

BWP essentially escaped this overly-optimistic doom on my part. It was tight, simple and concise at less that an hour and a half long. Perfect for the style. I easily lost myself in its suspended disbelief. Every second of the movie compounded exponentially in a build-up of eerie and doomed supernatural deadliness. I’ve watched the movie over and over and I never tire of it. BWP did the vidcam thing exquisitely well, for it pulled you helplessly into the mind of the narrator, who, in these types of movies, is you, enacted as a player in the movie. This clip captures the crescendo of horror at the moment the characters realize that even though it seems they’ve traveled in a straight line for most of the day still find find themselves at a river crossing they passed earlier on this nightmarish journey. This is when the realization dawns that they are not only dealing with a force that throws evil in their path, but also a force that manipulates their full existence and fate. Omnipotent evil. That’s the scariest shit of all. The only omnipotent force is god, right???

I realize this is too much to expect from popular filmmakers.

Judging from what I’ve seen, Super 8 may descend into the Spielbergian formula I dread. From filmjabber: In the summer of 1979, a group of friends in a small Ohio town witness catastrophic train crash while making a super 8 movie and soon suspect that it was not an accident. Shortly after, unusual disappearances and inexplicable events begin to take place in town, and the local Deputy tries to uncover the truth – something more terrifying than any of them could have imagined. Bold is my own.

I did a quick survey of the cast on IMDB. I counted 6 child actors immediately. I know where this is going. Spielberg’s familiar pre-pubescent motifs begin charging in!

I’ll watch Super 8 but I suspect it might be improved by making it black and white and throwing in some fascist carnage.

True masculine aloofness


There is popular school of thought in the PUA/Game community, seguing into the “Alphasphere,” that men, in order to boost their Alpha factor and be more attractive to asshole-seeking chicks, must distinguish their insolence and aloofness. The thinking goes that men must be “act” distant and disinterested in outcomes and resist displays of tender or involved emotion. They must not care, or at least act like they don’t. The stress is on aloofness within the context of daily social and mating interactions because ultimately, this is what the PUA community is concerned with.


I agree with the putative aim of this assertion. Men who appear distant or removed from the brittle demands and foolishness of trivial girl games are less likely to fall prey to female manipulations and there is an aura of strength in this ability to withstand the capricious derailments of becoming too involved in such childish interactions or power plays. A man who is aloof is a man who is not concerned with what a woman thinks of him. Thus, his provocative disdain is magnified and women are generally powerless to such self-contained strength of character, or at least its apparent display.


I think PUA’s have it wrong. Wrong in the respect that the ploy they are teaching is so narrowly focused on the acquisition of women that they ultimately sell their power entirely to the woman. Perhaps if they simply admitted they are sissy boys who stop short of nothing in order to get laid, I might tend to sympathize and not believe so many of them are full of crap. Implicit in much of what they lecture is a fragile vanity that hinges entirely on how many notches they can carve into that bedpost, a figure or image which is flaunted shallowly in the same way someone might flaunt his Porsche in spiraling cries for attention. I don’t think such boys have a right to boast of their douchebaggery as “Alpha” or remotely masculine. They act aloof, they are not aloof. Aloof is a circular trait when enacted consciously. If you act aloof, you are consequently not aloof. To be truly aloof is to mindfully or naturally not be aware that you are being aloof.


Where the PUA’s and Gamers have it wrong is that they structure their existence around the single-minded goal of procuring and dazzling women. They distort their own personality in order to trigger female attraction buttons. To trigger…in other words, tools which are disingenuous and misleading and artificial. With the ultimate goal being to get laid. Most of these guys don’t care how they get into her bed, they just care that they do.


An Alpha MAN is aloof, yes; but he is not acting aloof and channeling it into petty selected scenarios. An Alpha man is aloof from women, from whores, from delicate social institutions. From everything. An Alpha man is aloof from himself. He is disinterested in impressing his own ego and consequently, in impressing anyone else. Only the man who can eschew the egotistical trappings of materialistic society can truly exert Alpha masculinity. A man who invests himself heavily in belongings and impressive materialistic accoutrements dilutes his masculinity. A man overly concerned with his impeccable appearance and tailored presentations has forsaken manhood. He may be rough and mean and kick ass, but he is not a classic Alpha


A Man is aloof of his own ego and does not humor it glibly.


If a man is committed to his possessions, he is committed to results and outcomes. He is not aloof.


Aloofness in its purest form accompanies alienation from society. As a man becomes wrapped within the layers of cultural expectations, he becomes involved and his manhood is diffused over the cash register.



Brunette vs brunette

She trounced her, man. Sofia owned Sarah Silverman. Quite insightfully dissected the unfunny offerings and self-conscious pandering of the non-funny comedienne. Sarah Silverman is decidedly not funny, but she appeals to the frigid and repressed SWPL/feminist crowd. I can’t bear Sarah’s humor, just as I can’t stand Dane Cook’s agonizing smorgasbord of bland comedy. They are the same breed of humor-challenged comics who somehow caught a break and found a niche and they are undeservedly basking in the mass appeal of their mediocre humor.

The Sarah Silverman spiel did remind me of something. I’m hot for her. I think Sarah Silverman is sexy as hell and I would do anything to have her nest in my bed (as long as she doesn’t speak). The revival of my Silverman infatuation coincidentally happened right about the time I was beginning to take notice of another brunette in the media lately who has captured a similar horny fancy of mine. The T-Mobile chick that keeps showing up in commercials in the long dress and slender legs. She’s a hottie.

It just so happened that I was checking my Yahoo email earlier and there she was, the T-Mobile girl (Carly Foulkes). She reminds me of Sarah Silverman, who happened to be fresh in my mind, thanks to Sofia the hater.

Side by side, it struck me how similar they are.

I like to think or fancy that I’m in complete control of my biological drives and yearnings, or at the very least, that I’m aware of everything that plants its seeds of attraction in my head. So it’s disconcerting to realize that my subconscious is an unruly rebel that defies me to know it or understand it. I wish to own my sexual drives and urges but my latent mating urges have a mind of their own. I don’t realize I’m going for the same kind of female physiognomy until photos are literally staring me back in the face.

I’ll take the T-Mobile girl just because she can’t be unfunnier than Sarah.