RIPOSTE
by RIP RENSE |
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LTSEWH
(Dec. 12, 2007)
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Call them Less Than Satisfying Encounters with Humanity, or LTSEWH, for um, short.
They are intended as a chronicle of the decline in civility and deference,
written with just the slightest implication of humor, in this, the alleged
21st century. Names have been included whenever possible to ensure fullest
humiliation.
LTSEWH # 1: Reading
Matter
There I was. . .
In the nice new Westwood
branch of the Los Angeles Public Library, working hard on a short story
collection for lots of agents to reject. I had gone to the library because
libraries are quiet, and people tend to do studious things in them. I also
appreciate the fact that it is just yards away from the unmarked grave of the
great Frank Zappa.
But I had forgotten who I
am: Rense, The Man The Cosmos Loves to Prank.
As I sat there, hunting
and pecking, I smelled something. Something that was not
lilacs. I have the sense of smell of a golden retriever.
Sniff sniff. What
was it? God! Awful. Sniff sniff. Vintage toe-jam. Drying roadkill.
Sniff Sniff. It’s true I hadn’t showered that day, but. . .I smelled my
shirt. Nope---rose gardens! Sniffed my armpits discreetly, which of course,
is impossible. Ambrosia! Sniff sniff! Wow! Backed-up, week-old
sinkwater.
“SNOORRRRRKPPPFFFFFFFF!”
Eh? Obviously, a
hippopotamus had surfaced right behind me, with a sudden need to
evacuate its sinuses. That was okay. Stranger things happen in this world,
like Ellen DeGeneres. Or perhaps the
pig-slaves of “Dr. Who” had just
slipped through a crevice in the time-space continuum, and would soon haul
me before the Daleks. Or Dick Cheney.
Having lived in L.A. much
longer than is wise, I just continued typing. Sniff sniff. What was
that smell?
“SNOORRRRRKPPFFFF-FLEEEGA-
SNOOORRRRKPFFF-FWAT!”
Now, I should point out
that I had headphones on at the time---Beethoven’s 9th Symphony, nothing
less---yet the Intergalactic
Toad behind me had drowned out the music.
Beethoven’s stupefyingly brave, poignant message, Alle Menschen werden
Bruder (“All men will be brothers”) became “All men will be
SNOOORRRRRKPFFFF,” which, while maybe closer to the truth, was less
inspiring.
Having lived in L.A. much
longer than is wise, I. . .still just continued typing. Sniff.
I let about a dozen of
these little intrusions pass over the next five or six minutes, hoping that
any of several things would happen: paramedics would arrive and haul Nose
Monster away; Homeland Security would arrive and haul
Nose Monster away; God
would appear in the form of a very large and hungry centipede, and eat
Nose
Monster; or, most fantastically, a librarian would arrive and look into the
matter.
“HOONKKKKKKSNOORRRRPFFFKA_
FOOOOGASNOOORRRKPFFFIT!”
I mean, really. It
wasn’t just a little blowing, folks. It was a nasal quake, 8.0,
resonating to the center of the earth, or the center of the girth. For as I
finally, at last, oh-so-reluctantly took the bait and turned my head slowly
around, I was confronted with the sight of a woman (I think) of no more than
300 pounds. Standing. Bending over the table behind me, scribbling.
I had a head-on collision
with the smell. AIEEEEEEEE. Thank goodness it wasn’t me! No, this was the
uniquely delicate scent of Humanus Longtimeus Nosoapus. Pray that Al-Qaeda
never distills this stuff.
I spoke.
“Good God, woman. Take it
to a hospital.”
Now, when I say this
creature was scribbling, I mean exactly that. She had laid out lots of
notebook paper, and was making big circles all over it, with pen, as loudly
as possible. Yes, I realized, it was all deliberate: the SNOOOORKPF’s,
the scribbling, possibly even the smell---all an effort to annoy
“normal” people. The irony of her choice of target here is enough to make
one roll on the floor and froth at the mouth with laughter, but that’s
another story.
I know, I know. Pity was
in order. But lately, I’ve just been fresh out, having spent it mostly on
myself. Life in L.A. does that to you. Sniff. Her response?
“Why donchoo go fuck
yourself, white
honky cracker ass.”
Oh, I didn’t mention
that she was black, because in today’s world, when a white person takes
note of a black person’s race in an ambiguous or uncomplimentary context,
Jesse Jackson and Al Sharpton clog up the airwaves.
I would never have
thought to mention race at all here, had she not.
“Ah, I see,” I said.
“It’s racial now, is it?”
“Why donchoo shut your
fucking white cracker ass up, white boy?”
Understand that her end
of the um, conversation, was carried on loudly enough for all in the
vicinity
to hear, and possibly other vicinities. Yet no one was intervening. I
know---they must have been enjoying it! So hell, I opted to increase the fun
of it all.
I offered a response that
was competitive in vitriol, profanity, but devoid of racism (though
admittedly tinged with misogyny.) And ending with a flourish: “What are you
doing, coming in here and destroying people’s peace, you racist asshole!”
Writing professionally
for 34 years makes you eloquent.
The rest is
comparatively dull. I asked a librarian to get the security guard, who
was absent. (I later found him standing in the children’s section, engrossed
in a kids’ book.) Madame SNOORKPF heard my request, packed her precious
belongings into a little basket on wheels, then shuffled her gigantic girth
out---but not before once more calling me a “skinny white
cracker-ass.”
Seeing as I need to lose
about ten pounds, I took it as a compliment.
HAVE A
LTSEWH XMAS, FOLKS!
Less Than Satisfying Encounters With Humanity.
The Illustrated Book.
HERE. CHEAP! |
LTSEWH # 2: Bad Language
I was crossing a street
in Santa Monica, which is always a rewarding experience. For one thing, I
really enjoy the tweeting “walk” signals for the blind---oh, I mean
"visually impaired"---that go “KOO-koo, KOO-koo,
KOO-koo.” They always remind me of
Laurel and Hardy.
And then, the crosswalks
are always full of such interesting young people, all in quest of all manner
of instant gratification, with their delicate banter, colorful
cigarettes, killer pit bulls, etc. I especially enjoy all the visiting
Japanese students, who dress like goblins from
anime hell.
On this occasion, two
fine young people passed me on the left. They were short, slightly built
American males, sucking down cigarette smoke as if it were fresh mountain
air. I would guess their ages as somewhere between 12 and 25. They wore very
expensive tattered rags, and pants that were belted well below their tiny
buttocks. Say, just above the knees. Half their hair had been cut to stick
straight up, and half to fall over the right side of their faces. This, of
course, was all an expression of individuality. I know this because I’ve seen
countless other young people dressing the same way, and they always talk
about how it is an expression of individuality. But it was not their
appearance that shocked. It was their conversation:
“Didja see that sign,
‘Post No Bills?’ Hahahahahaha. That’s old-fashioned kinda grammar!
Hahahahahaha. ‘Post No Bills!’ ‘Post No Bills!’ Hahahahahaha! They couldn’t
just say ‘Don’t Put Any Signs Up.’ Hahahahahaha! That’s the way people USED
to talk! It’s old-fashioned grammar! Hahahahahaha!”
“Yeah.”
“It’s like a sign saying,
‘Do Not Take Money From Me’ instead of ‘Don’t Rob Me!’ Hahahahahahahahaha!”
I suppose I could
contemplate the circumstances that produced such absolutely terrifying
ignorance, arrogance, stupidity, but that would mean thinking about the
broken government, and the bankrupt popular culture, and the brain-deadening
mass media, and demographic dumbing down of everything, and the worship of
celebrities, and the exalting of fashion, and the underfunding of teachers
and schools, and the preoccupation with self, and the general disdain for
just about everything and everyone.
And that would be too
depressing.
LTSEWH # 3: Kiddie
Car
No LTSEWH column would
really be complete with a driving tale.
There I was. . .
Deliberately cruising up
less traveled sidestreets to avoid traffic on Westwood Boulevard, heading
into Westwood. It was a Friday night, and lots of people were driving to
Westwood for movies, restaurants, human sacrifices.
I was, too, with my
redoubtable female assistant, and couple of guests in the back seat.
Up ahead, in this
district of tiny 1940’s-era homes selling for no more than a million bucks,
I took note of an SUV parked---parked---in the oncoming traffic lane. People
do this now. They just park in the street, sometimes sitting in their mighty
vehicles to finish cell phone chats, do a little thinking,
nose-picking---and sometimes actually getting out and just leaving their
cars, no flashers, no explanation, no nothing.
I slowed way, way down
as I went past. A woman had just gotten into the SUV, you see, and
there was no telling if she had seen me, heard me, or had any intention of seeing or hearing anything before she began driving,
no doubt with cell
phone on ear.
As I proceeded to slide
between the SUV on the left, and the parked cars on the right, a small boy
of perhaps three years ran directly in front of me. Zip. Darted between
parked cars right into my path, apparently running to say goodbye to Mommy
in the SUV. Nearly his last goodbye.
Had I not already
exercised caution and slowed down, the little boy would now be underground,
or in a little vase. Which is to say, had it been almost anyone else in L.A.
driving that street that night, the kid would now be frolicking in the
Elysian Fields.
I slammed on the brakes, slammed the horn, and did not slam the kid,
stopping right beside the SUV. I admit it: I was furious. I rolled down the
window and shouted at Mommy.
“Your child just ran in
front of my car! Your child just ran right in front of my car! I almost
killed him! Why don’t you watch your goddamn kid!”
She screamed
back at me. The usual lyrical patter, suggesting I experience
intimate knowledge of my own physiognomy. In her defense, she had a Persian accent, and apparently
thought I was yelling at her for parking in the street.
This, folks, is what you
call a “comedy of errors.”
Now, charging across the
lawn of one of the million-dollar 1940’s
crackerboxes, fierce and hairy,
came Daddy.
He had also decided that
I was yelling at Mommy for parking in the street, and he was not going to
stand by and let somebody insult his woman! He rushed right up to my window
and tried repeatedly to break it with the sides of his fists.
I figured at this point
that the likelihood of straightening out this international incident was not
great, so I hit the gas. Luckily, no kid ran in front of me.
HAVE A
LTSEWH XMAS, FOLKS!
Less Than Satisfying Encounters With Humanity.
The Illustrated Book.
HERE. CHEAP! |
LTSEWH # 4: Dirty Shower
I don’t know what to say
about this, exactly. It causes too many synapses to misfire.
It was a table full of
werewolves---okay, not really---it was a “bridal shower,” or what passes for
one in the 21st Century. It was in a private room at a precious English tea place
called Tudor House in Santa Monica, on a Saturday afternoon. About 20 women
sat at a long table covered with delicate, floral-patterened English china,
against a backdrop of delicate, floral-pattered wallpaper.
These were the only
delicate things in the room.
All the women were tall,
lean, Caucasoid, young, with faces painted and hair styled and dyed in
“glamorous” ways that young women deem appropriate. This is to say, they
looked like aggressive, hungry
clowns. Most were blonde, if not originally, in
their mid-20’s. All were wearing cleavage-revealing party-type dresses. All were
displaying lots and lots of big white mastication devices.
For those who don’t
understand the intrinsic horror of this scene, let me say that these
were mainstream gimmegimme types, good little American consumer
“ladies” whose priorities boil down to: marry rich. Their eyes were somehow
fixed, spark-less, as if they don’t see the world around them, so intent are
they on roping a chump---er, provider.
And to think these
biology-deranged predators are the product of millions of years of
evolution! In fact, they are conclusive evidence of evolution. God would
never have “intelligently designed” such covetous beasts.
As I passed, glancing in
the room, I saw
Bridezilla opening her gifts. I paused to watch, much as I
pause to stare at car accidents, infomercials and “Designing Women.” I
observed two boxes being opened, the first containing sheer red lacy
quasi-underpants that would have embarrassed
Mae West, and the second
containing a see-through black undergarment that would have worked very well
as an eyepatch. It had no rear, of course, but would have easily covered up
most of the average pudendum. Of a midget.
Now, I understand
about fertility rites in all world cultures---you know, like
Easter---but even primitive tribes who parade the bride around naked on a
bed of palm leaves, and have a boiled root feast for her impending
defloration, exhibit more dignity than these Amerigirlies.
Naturally, they all
horse-laughed and made lewd remarks as the celebrated bride-to-be held the
little vaginal eyepatch aloft. Oh, tee-hee. Understand, of course, that all
were admiring these items. These were not “gag gifts,” although the joke is
certainly on somebody. Probably me.
I wonder why these women,
and I use that term advisedly, don’t just wear T-shirts that say, “I am my
(sex organ).” But then, I guess I’d better not wonder too much here, as I
don’t want to give them any ideas.
HAVE A
LTSEWH XMAS, FOLKS!
Less Than Satisfying Encounters With Humanity.
The Illustrated Book.
HERE. CHEAP! |
LTSEWH # 5: Tit Offensive
What was I saying about
dignity? Oh, I’m sorry. Many readers probably don’t know this word. Dignity
refers to a mode of comportment suggesting self-respect, as well as respect
for others. People used to actually aspire to have
dignity in this country,
back before Nixon and disco.
So why should it surprise
me to encounter persons who have replaced self-respect with self-adulation?
Why should it surprise me to find persons who define themselves not by their
thinking, character, behavior, but---as with Bridezilla---their sexually
defining body parts? Haven’t I learned anything from watching
Maury and Tyra
Banks? It’s the American Way.
It shouldn’t surprise,
but it does. And there was Little Miss Surprise---or, Mrs., I
guess---pushing a stroller with baby, and walking a toddler. Proof of the
value of eyepatch-sized panties! On a typical L.A. street where nice old
houses and apartment buildings are being replaced by ugly gargantuan condo
hives (that lately are not selling---hooray!)
Little Mrs. S. looked to
be in her mid-20’s. She was petite, blonde (if not originally), and looked
very, very happy. Was the source of her happiness her children? Perhaps. But
there was more direct evidence on display here. She was, in fact,
proclaiming to the world one reason---or two---that she feels joy in life.
There it was, right on her T-shirt:
“I LOVE MY LITTLE
TA-TA’S!”
Yes, she was proud of
her tiny, protuberant milk glands. She was so proud of them, that
she wanted the whole world to know. She wanted the world to know that
despite the fact that her two baby nourishment apparatuses/male erotic
fixation zones had been automatically, genetically and biologically
designed---she was proud of them.
What was I saying about
shirts that say, “I am my (sex organ)?”
As usual, I’m behind the
curve. Er, curves.
LTSEWH # 6:
Sidewalk Story
Many LTSEWH’s, such as
the preceding one, require no interaction whatsoever. One can merely open
one’s eyes, or eye, or half of one eye, and have an LTSEWH.
In this case, it required
only the act of walking serenely down a sidewalk in Santa Monica on a
Sunday morning. All was uncrowded, quiet, and
Monet had mixed the colors of
sky and sun.
Of course, this meant
that circumstances were ripe, pregnant, fecund for a LTSEWH. And
it happened.
A fellow crossed the
street a few steps ahead, and ambled along in front of me.
He was particularly sad. Not the usual seedy “homeless” hustler trying to
hook you with eye contact and “help me get something to eat?” (Translation:
drink or smoke.)
No, this guy was the
genuine wretched article: pathos personified. He could have been 30 or
60, and a lifetime of booze and malnutrition had rendered him thin,
leathery. He had a “homeless tan,” which had an ironic way of making him
look almost healthy.
The real killer was that
the guy had made an effort to clean up. Ill-fitting second-hand khaki pants
were held up by a too-large belt that left about a foot overlap, flapping,
and an ill-fitting second-hand print shirt was tucked in. His brown hair was
greased and combed, and I had the idea that he was trying hard to pass for a
regular citizen. Human optimism is punishing.
The capper: there was what would pass for a spring in his old alky gait.
This man was going somewhere. He had purpose. He also had a big, fat
twenty-dollar bill hanging out of his right hand, held at the top edge by thumb and
fingertips.
Ah! You could put it all
together easily enough: someone had given the poor bastard a twenty---hey,
it’s Christmas---and he was so amazed and happy that he couldn’t wait to
drink it. He knew where there was a bar that would be open at 9 a.m. on a
Sunday, and he had cleaned up for it so he wouldn't be turned away. He was
heading there fast. He sure as hell wasn’t going Christmas shopping.
Sigh.
As the alky
quick-stepped along, a young woman came striding out of a parking garage and
fell in just behind him. She was tall, indisputably beautiful, and had the glow of good
health and privilege. Her strides were athletic, her long hair bounced and
swung with fearlessness. She had just parked her probable BMW/Lexus/Mustang/whatever and was headed for a yoga class. This you could tell by the rolled up mat
under her arm---the ubiquitous badge of trendy, prosperous
West Side-ness.
The piece d’ resistance:
a lighted cigarette between two fingers of her free arm, swinging as
purposefully as the gait of Alky.
Oh, the banality of it
all. The bitter, cartoonish contrast. The failed man who had nothing but a twenty to get snockered with, assaulting what little health he had, and the girl who had
everything, abusing the body that she was also. . .trying to improve with
yoga. Her obliviousness. His eager plunge into oblivion.
The arrogance of youth. .
.the futility of life. . .A bill dangling from an old brown hand. . .A
cigarette from young, svelte, feminine fingers. . .Cruelty, promise,
stupidity, resignation, all mixed up. . .
I tried to view the
whole thing detachedly, bemusedly. Another little passing essay in human
foible. But I couldn't. I wanted to yank that cigarette away from Yoga
Girl, stomp on it, and give her a swift kick in the. . .mat. Or force her to
spend the day listening to Alky.
Not that either would do
the slightest bit of good.
For more LTSEWH'S,
watch this space---or. . .just buy yourself the brand-new
LTSEWH---The Illustrated Book,
with drawings by the great James Ferrigno. . .HERE.
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