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.

The MILF Hunters

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She was about 28, Latina, packed into a short dress. He was in his late 40’s, balding.  They were going to Manhattan Beach, ‘Milf hunting’, she announced, as they climbed into my Uber.

She had taken on the role of ringmaster for the evening, squirming in his lap as she explained the rules to him.

“Number one, Milfs like to be petted.”

“They do?  How exactly?”

“Two fingers. Stroke her hair.  They like to be touched. But not too hard.”

“Are three fingers too many?”

“Five are too many. That’s aggressive.  Rule Number Two: avoid anyone dressed in red. They’re batshit crazy.”

“What about bright colors?”

“Seriously, no. It’s nature’s way of warning you of danger. Number three, I’ll signal you.  If I go like this: (playing with necklace) that means you have ten minutes to close the deal.  If I go like this: (flips hair) it means yes. If I rub my belly, it means I’m ready to go home.  Basically, the lower I go, the crazier I think she is.”

“Got it.”

On the freeway, her phone rang.  She was not pleased. “Why are you calling?….none of your business….why are you going into my computer?…there’s nothing there for you….nothing….I’ll be there when I get there. Don’t call.”

Turning to her companion, she breathily told him, “he’s really obsessed with you.”

The phone call provided some kind of accelerant to the purpose of their evening. The conversation trailed off into wet, smacking kissing sounds for the remainder of the ride.  Who she was to him and who the caller was to her, and how the Milfs fit into it remained a mystery, but I was entertained.

It also occurred to me my marriage was distressingly stable and predictable.

On Sunday we went to Chibiscus for noodles. Obeying an impulse, I publicly violated the Two-Finger Rule with Mrs. UpintheValley.  Cupping her face in my palm, she responded with something tantalizingly akin to submissive purring.  Perhaps the Milf hunters were on to something.

“Darling, I’m so happy….my ramen is here.”

And on that note, two bowls appeared before us, and we commenced to supper.