A Gentleman Supreme

 

Marcos was on a street corner at 1am in Manhattan Beach when I met him. He’d blown a day’s wages on frou-frou drinks for two women who asked point blank if he knew anyone taller and whiter.

“I get it: I’m short, I’m overweight and I’m Latino.”

They accepted his drinks, and his conversation. Then another round. And then they abandoned him for a pair of taller, whiter men who swarmed in on his action.

He was headed back to the hood, out of cash, via Uber Pool. He’d been  stranded over an hour, getting turned down by Uber drivers who didn’t want to leave the lucrative beach communities on a Friday night. His optimism was undeterred. He had plans for Coachella the following weekend.  He was going to climb Runyon, lose a few more pounds.  He’d gone into hock to rent an RV with some friends. It had an extra sleeping berth for the ladies, the ones who would be tired of camping after the first night in the desert.  Marcos had plans within plans. Meanwhile, it was back to making macchiatos at Starbucks at 5am.

Overcoming rejection is the measure of a man.  It’s the dividing line between permanent adolescence and building a proper life.

In other words, the opposite of aspergic,  dateless, self-pitying, BMW driving Elliot Rodger, level 80 World of Warcraft player and compiler of a lengthy manifesto detailing the equisite agonies of desiring coy American girls.

“It’s been my life struggle to get a beautiful white girl; that guy seemed to get one to hang out with easily, despite having a worse car and being less white than me.  I deserve her more.  She should be in my passenger seat.”

On YouTube he called himself the Supreme Gentleman. In the darker corners of the web his nom de plume was The Purifier.

Women are Animals. They are beasts. They are incapable of reason. They are controlled by their emotions and impulses. They are attracted to the most animalistic,  brutal, and obnoxious men, instead of the ideal Gentleman. 

Ideal, meaning Elliot, or Saint Elliot, as he is known on Reddit today, patron of the involuntarily celibate,  who was fond of selfies in golden light, lips pursed, head tilted to one side like a K-Pop star. One can marinate in the toxic brine of why do douchebags get the girls while I’m alone with my phone only for so long before achieving resentment’s critical mass. For Elliot, this meant driving to the Alpha Phi sorority house with the intention of burning it to the ground Carrie White-style, with the aloof blondes trapped inside. Failing to gain entry after pounding on the door, he shot two random women next door, then drove his BMW into downtown Isla Vista and made like Death Race 2000 along the sidewalks, killing six, and maiming a score.

Why am I writing about this?  Because, the Toronto van guy. The Sweet Prince’s retribution.  Because of the grass eaters I see all around, absent of courage, restlessly desiring purpose.  I fear we will have more Private Minassians, signing up for a rebellion.  Because Parkland shooter Nikolas Cruz posted his admiration for Rodger online.

I watched the girls grow up in Van Nuys, then fly into the city at 18 like they were shot out of a cannon.  The young men haven’t left the block.  Nice boys, non-delinquent, gainfully employed, spending their free time smoking weed and playing video games of conquest.

Total estrangement from women among young men is not a normal state of things, but we’re fast normalizing it as a society.  The phones are empowering the women.  On the other hand they induce boys not to go out and do what comes naturally.  The girls are taking turns with the Alpha Chads before being dropped off in Spinsterville. The boys are headed for WizChan.  That’s a recipe for societal collapse, in one generation.

How does this movie end?  Hopefully, not like this:  Don’t laugh at me, Stacy.  I’m warning you.

We need a few more Marcoses in the world.