The unkind man; or, OMG, I met the ugliest woman I’ve ever seen today

I met the ugliest woman today.

I won’t divulge further details. But let’s just say…take my word for it.

This is the ugliest normal-genome woman I have ever met. She was uglier because she was not disfigured, or spawned of genetic aberration. She was ostensibly a woman of normal genetics but she was hideous. This is why she stood out. Because she was not disfigured. Because she was not afflicted with a rare or repulsive skin disease. Nope, she did not possess even a single malformed attribute that might automatically bestow the ugly title on her simply by its unwelcome presence.

There was nothing wrong with this woman other than she was ugly as sin.

I feel horrible for thinking this, for writing this, for posting this. But I am merely the messenger, the reporter of my daily affairs, good and bad, pretty and ugly, or in this case, pretty damned ugly.

She might very well have been a nice lady. I don’t know this because our acquaintance was fleeting and distracted by the adjacent social occurrences fluttering loudly in our vicinity. I hate that I am acting in such a superficial manner, but how can one possibly ignore such a glaring and disabling force of ugliness as this?

Holy cow!

If she was a midget, or had a disfiguring harelip, or a stub arm, at least I could find solace in the fact that her hideousness owed itself to an incomplete or fractured genetic unraveling, but as it is, the only thing I can assume is that her fetal development proceeded normally but just gathered its inauspicious forces to create a human organism whose face aroused such intensely nauseous sensations of such repugnance in the heart of man. This is the least I can say.

Argh. I am such an unkind man.

Elisa Lam died from…an accident


This certainly doesn’t solve anything. Nothing at all.

Elisa Lam died and the coroner can only tell us it was “accidental.”

I feel like a blew a big blank wad. Cheated.

Well I guess the lack of discernible cause of death only adds to the allure and mystery of yet another dark, sinister Los Angeles noir death.

The death of a 21-year-old Canadian tourist who was missing for weeks before being found in a water tank atop a downtown Los Angeles hotel where she had been staying has been deemed an accidental drowning.

Elisa Lam of Vancouver, British Columbia, had been missing since Jan. 31, when she stopped making daily contact with her parents, according to Los Angeles police.

Her whereabouts remained a mystery until about 10:15 a.m. Feb. 19, when a maintenance worker went to the roof after guests complained of low water pressure and found the body in a tank.

Lam, who arrived in Los Angeles on Jan. 26, had been traveling alone and was staying at the 1920s-era Cecil Hotel at 640 Main St., police said.

Surveillance video from a hotel elevator showed her pressing all of the elevator’s buttons and stepping in and out of the car.

She had planned to travel to Santa Cruz, police said.

Firefighters used cutting tools to gain access to the body and remove it. Public health officials reassured hotel guests that the water in the building was not going to make them sick.

Hotel employees said roof access doors were locked and had alarms, but the four water tanks were not locked, police said.

The roof was searched after Lam was reported missing, but it was unclear whether the tanks were checked, police said.

This Chicano is fucking sick of the chicanery! El idiota speaks!

The damn idiot.

She tried to explain that even helping just one person made charity and volunteerism “worth it.”

I darkly disagreed, because I am dark. Of soul and temperament, like the dark desert night of a new moon. She tried to justify generosity but I would have none of it. I reasoned that people are rotten. All people. Rotten to the core. If you entrust any inkling of faith in people, you will invariably be disappointed. One-hundred percent of the time.

People are rotted shells of coexistence eking out a disgraceful and inflated journey of significance. People are egotistical canards marching around like self-righteous saints.

Don’t trust them.

People deceive, they are surreptitious sneaks, they are lazy, they are stupid, and they don’t want to experience pain or displeasure in such voracious degrees that they will literally do whatever it takes to avoid such discomfort, even if it means sucking the life out of their most cherished possessions.

I explained this is why I am a misanthrope. People are not worth your trouble. You may help one person today, and perhaps that person may even turn around and help another person tomorrow, but let me tell you something: the chain will break and this auspicious metastasizing of charity and goodwill is doomed to die quickly and abruptly when allowed to exist independently in this large diseased Petri dish called humanity.

Humanity is incapable of sustained gloriousness. Our innate nature eventually asserts itself over the whole of civilization and years of timeless generational turnaround. You cannot keep mankind’s filthy heart down! Your dreams of virtuosity and ethereal optimism are no match for the putrid calling of man’s self-absorbed striving to enlist a life of absolute and mundane pleasure and sloth.

People are up to no good. All of them. It is our nature to tear down the columns of civility in order to preserve our own incapable and meandering existence. People will lie and construct myths and spin reality and act as low as the slimiest reptile in order to get the upper hand.

I’m demoralized. Beaten down. I am a bad man who surrenders no succor. I am a maelstrom of dashed expectations. When one expects too much, one reasons too little.

People are not worth it, I concluded. The dazzle of charity still gleamed in her eyes. Perhaps I gave up too soon.

Kate Moss finally gives it up, and I barely had to beg


Kate Moss was like the only runway model I ever thought was hot.


Runway models are gross.


They are skinny and shapeless. They have no hips, no tits, no ass. All they have are really gorgeous faces. Big deal. Faces aren’t sexy, they are nice. Asses and hips are sexy. Runway models make me want to puke. Only high maintenance prissy White and Asian boys like models because there is little sex involved; just lots of ego and peer posturing.


Still, for some reason, Kate Moss was the peculiar case I always found very hot. Maybe it’s because, despite looking like a twig, she still fulfilled the womanly presentation. She didn’t look like a 13-year-old boy in a dress, which is how most of these praying mantis runway models look. Kate wouldn’t give me the time of day. She wouldn’t give anyone the time of day. She was mysterious, elusive, oblique. And she never parted with a second glance.



OK, well maybe she doesn’t look like a 13-year-old boy, but it could be argued she may resemble a 13-year-old girl. Still, she was hotter than most of those genderless models. She didn’t give a crap about me, or anyone like me. This is why she was so exclusively reclusive.


She was young.


Kate is 40 now.


Which means that like all good desperate women who have outlived their usefulness, she is now giving it up to the all the pathetic offerings of the sexual middle-aged male marketplace, which includes hordes of simpering desperadoes who can easily cough up enough money to buy a stupid Playboy magazine from the corner rack. Kate is finally giving it up for us.


Kate Moss is set to take it all off for Playboy. The British fashion model, known for her pin-thin androgynous body emblematic of the heroin-chic look of the ’90s, is due to pose nude for the magazine’s January issue. Web reports first surfaced earlier this year that she was going to pose in the buff for the iconic men’s title. But last week, her hairstylist Oribe Canales let it slip that Moss in fact completed the shoot and that he was on set to style her hair. Moss is expected to appear on the January cover to coincide with Playboy’s 60th anniversary and the beauty’s own 40th birthday.


C’mon. 40 is the new 17, right?


Perhaps opening that centerfold might strike you as “lucky” as winning front row tickets to the REO Speedwagon performance at the state fair, but behold the ancient beauty!



“The Purge” – a rare Hollywood gem that glares into our dark soul

Note: this post contains “light” spoilers

Movie studio marketing divisions are merely gussied up whoring advertisers (pardon the redundancy) and as such, they specialize in appealing to the public’s lowest common denominator, which is not surprising considering it’s the lowest common denominator that keeps them in business, ie, the box office sales churning.

Movie trailers sieve out the most intellectually barren snippets of any movie and create a short montage that conveys a condensed and moronic appeal that the general movie audience can relate to best. Have you seen the people who go see movies at a mainstream, major movie chain? It’s not surprising that intriguing thoughtfulness that might reside in a movie are not invoked by studios as sales tools, ie, trailers. The general movie-going public doesn’t want to think too much in the darkened theater. Consumers of pop idiocy flock to movies to spend too much money for crap food while they watch a movie from the densest perspective possible. This is where studios make all their money! Movie audiences leave their discerning minds at the door (provided they had them to begin with) and transform into gaping retards once the main feature’s credits begin.

For instance, take a look at this trailer for “The Purge.”

Judging by this, you would never have an inkling that The Purge provides a wonderfully perceptive and caustic appraisal of human social society within the folds of its suspense/thriller presentation.

After watching the movie yesterday, I walked out of the theater with words like “allegorical” and “microcosm” swimming in my head, while most other people were thinking in terms of action and violence and guns and gore and justice. This movie was much, much more.

One of the more important ingredients in movies I enjoy is that they are able to work on many difference layers of audience participation and sophistication. On the one hand, movies must appeal to the commercial masses, but if the movie is sly, it can simultaneously appeal to those who enjoy deconstructing the feature for all the enticing symbolism and literary devices of interpretation it affords within the convoluted folds of its script. I do this all the time. I approach most movies from the intellectual angle. It’s a tiring trait of mine. I overthink, I overanalyze, I’m a supercilious SOB. I can’t help it. This is why I was at home in those English Lit classes in which you are trained to not merely read for enjoyment, but to parse and tease out authorial interpretations.

When I watch a movie, I assume the director and writer have something interesting to say beyond the superficial elements visible on the one-dimensional big screen. Obviously, in some cases, this is a ridiculous cinematic dock from which to launch; I can switch this bent of mine off, in some cases. There are movies that owing to the director, actors, prequels, are of such obvious meaningless content, but I normally avoid such movies. I am rarely affected by stupid movies because I steer clear of them. Nevertheless, I enjoy the occasional Owen Wilson or Bruce Willis flick, so I know what it’s like to turn down the intelligence-meter and merely enjoy the movie with the empty gaze of the typical brain-dead movie-goer.

The Purge is one of those movies that operates on several vertical layers of acuity. At its basest level, that at which the trailer appeals, most simple-minded patrons can still enjoy. It is a sci-fi (loosely) dystopian thriller about a family that is “locked” in their home during a government mandated annual 12-hour (2022 in this case) period called The Annual Purge in which all laws are lifted and all police and rescue personnel are unavailable. The family, with Ethan Hawke at the helm, is a prosperous suburban unit protected during the annual anarchy by a fortress of iron doors and a video security system that is armed once each year. A series of events occurs in which a pleading homeless man is able to enter the home after the soft-hearted son raises the iron doors, and some Purge “hunters” who were pursuing him after he killed one of their own, discover he is hiding in the house. The hunters ultimately, after warning Hawke to kick their prey out of his house lest they find a way to enter, are able to penetrate the security system with old-fashioned chains and trucks, and typical gunfire/stabbing/physical beating mayhem ensues as Hawke and family fend off the invaders.

This is an action thriller that appeals to those who first and foremost demand a visceral cinematic experience, but it is also a refreshingly unapologetic (for Hollywood) examination of human social structure as it untangles itself across the breadth of society. The tense unfolding of the hunter/prey dynamic in the house as disparate characters, each possessing a unique agenda, comes together in a clamorous collision of values and personal drives is the microcosm of society that I alluded to previously. My son, who tends to fondly analyze movies as well (not nearly as bad as I, however), noted an analogy between The Purge and the novel, Lord of the Flies. The movie is not “only” about murder and violence. It is a glimpse into the human construct of civilization as a self-regulating tool of oppression and unnatural restraint of our genuine and horrifying primal nature.

Ultimately, The Purge asks us: are laws in place to protect ourselves from others, or to protect us from ourselves?