Tag: Santa Monica

Everyone Is Lying. Merry Christmas!

On Saturday I drove a trio of beauties to the pageant of pulchritude at Petit Hermitage in West Hollywood, young women who spent the trip altering PDF files of Covid tests to satisfy the doorman.

There was never any question of their gaining entry, Wuhan status be damned. Take it from someone who knows, the nightclub economy is founded on the presence of such women being prominently visible.  How else can you charge $2000 for a table and move discount champagne from Costco at $2o a flute?  Stretch pants and cleavage…

On Monday, I moseyed down to mandate-free Santa Monica for dinner, and was irritated to learn this particular restaurant was asking for proof of vaccination. Neither my companion nor myself being vax-submissive, we turned to leave, as which point the hostess rather furtively urged us to just show her our phones.  She looked at our blank screens, smiled broadly and seated us amidst the other unmasked diners who may have been showing  proof or nothing at all.

In June we had a preference cascade where everyone took their masks off. This winter we have a preference cascade for fake paperwork.

We’ve entered the public hypocrisy phase of late stage Communist nations. They pretend to pay us and we pretend to work.

Behold the mission failure of Wuhan Zero. Behold the arrogance of the administrators who claimed they would stop a virus. Mutations of the 1918 Spanish Flu are with us today, but Omicron is the little people’s fault for insufficient obeisance to diktats from on high. If only we ignored the adverse event profile and lined up for the vaccine which turns to not to be a vaccine after all, if only we would submit to a protocol of semi-annual shots, and masks, and distancing, and permission slips for family gatherings, it would be over.  Our liberties will be restored.  Why can’t we be nudged toward perfection?

Not a true statement. Not even close.

Masks will protect us, says Fauci, knowingly lying. Children are at risk of Covid, schools should be closed. That too is a lie. People who have a positive PCR test actually have Covid, also a lie. Here’s another lie, squared: the signers of the Great Barrington Declaration are discredited frauds.

I am science, says Fauci, lying abundantly, those who question my policy are anti-science.

Here’s a little science: the “vaccines” neither prevent infection nor transmission, and have a useful life cycle of less than six months, obliging the CDC to quietly rewrite the definition of the term vaccine.  Boosters appear to be of little use against Omicron, a mutation beyond the reach of Pfizer and Moderna. Natural immunity following infection has proven the strongest, ideal resistance.

If I said this on Twitter, Facebook or IG, I would be de-platformed for trafficking in misinformation.  This would be a lie, wholly endorsed by the legacy media, eager to license free speech on its terms. Their answer to Omicron, as is Fauci’s, is more jabs and silencing questions.

Have you noticed no one is talking about herd immunity anymore? Herd immunity has an off-ramp, and we can’t have that. Wuhan metrics now reference deadlines of total compliance. Deadlines perpetually pushed back weeks or months in the face of passive resistance from those lying liars, the segment of the public insensible to bullying.

Here are therapeutic protocols which have proven to work at scale:
-Vitamin D
-Ivermectin
-Hydroxychloroquine
-Zinc
-Monoclonal antibodies
-Exercise in the sunshine

Here’s what hasn’t worked: keeping everyone indoors, sedentary and isolated, for two years.  Sending people who test positive home to wait until they develop respiratory failure before a treatment protocol is offered. Putting people on respirators.

Guess which we are obligated to lie about?

The Clerisy’s ideal citizen. Very on brand for 2021 and ready to inform on others.

Here is wisdom, from an older source: there is nothing new under the sun. Viruses have been with us since the beginning.  So has human folly. One can no more eradicate the mutations of the former than one could frailties of character.  Hubris and arrogance are with us always. It is our nature.

Tonight we celebrate the birth of Christ, who had something to say about man’s fallen nature and the futility of earthly perfection. People will light candles and publically lie about believing in Him. Others will lie to themselves in an effort to discount any possibility his revelation might prove true, then quietly fulfill his teachings.

Mrs. UpintheValley hasn’t darkened the door of a church in a decade. Tonight she’s going to sneak a $100 gift card into the mailbox of a neighbor who is struggling to pay her bills.  One could say she has been infected with an irrepressible urge to commit virtue.

I take comfort in the assumption He will not return in my lifetime as I fear we just might kill him all over again. In the meantime, let us live not by lies. Let us build our immune systems. Merry Christmas!

A Love Story for Mayor Cancel Everything

She was on the upswing of happy drunk when they entered the Uber.   They had been Skyping for a week before braving a meet-up for drinks at the Venice Whaler. It was her first date since the beginning of Covid, and she had already made two decisions.

Her: We should totally disregard politics. We should do the kissing part and the sex part and the fun part first. Let’s wait a week or two to find out if we don’t like each other. Do you know what I mean? I’m just so glad you’re not 5’5”. I’m so glad you’re tall enough and I get to go to your house and meet your penis and we can have a good time together. Driver, what do you think?

I said there was wisdom in avoiding politics after 10 pm. We were rolling through downtown Santa Monica at night, a ghost town sealed in plywood.

Him: Is everything really out of business? Why are all these stores boarded up? The riots are not gonna happen, unless Trump comes back from the dead.  

Her: Don’t say anything more.  

Him: The media poisons everything.

Her: Yeah, but it also tells you things you didn’t know. You have to look for the silver lining. Like this is a weird analogy, but my best friend got black mold in her apartment and had to move out so now we get to live together. Or like breaking up with someone just before Covid and having to wait the rest of the year before going on a date. Then meeting you and Facetiming and praying to God you weren’t 5’5” and finding out you weren’t and you were really funny and now I get to meet your penis. We can wait a month to figure out if we hate each other. Or a couple of months. Or six months.  How does six months sound?

Yes, this conversation really happened.  When I left them they were standing in the street in front of his apartment building, holding hands. I choose to believe they made it up the stairs. I choose to believe they forgot all about the election. Someone should.

But this was two weeks ago when our collective pent-up need for touch was finding cautious release after eight months of Covidian restraints. The question then was: in our headlong rush to intimacy would we come to doubt our choices?

His right Lord Mayor of Thou Shall Be C*ckblocked has put an end to philosophical questions.  Thou shall not have dinner with friends. Thou shall not visit family.   Thou shall not go on dates.  Thou shall not have moments on the stairs.  A long hard winter is your lot, by proclamation.  Hunker down. All is canceled. Order a vibrator from Amazon, if you must.

“All persons living within the City of Los Angeles are hereby ordered to remain in their homes.”

Cancel everything is a rather advantageous arrangement for the richest man in the world and his armada of independent contractors in sprinter vans.  Pineapple Hill not so much:

What public health argument justifies this?

If someone said to you five years ago this surrender of sovereignty was not only possible in Los Angeles, but would be fully normalized in a matter of months, would you have believed them?

If someone said to you in March Jeff Bezos’ wealth would increase 56% before Christmas, while our national debt would increase by $4 trillion and we would behave as though this were the rightful order of things, would you have believed them?

More kissing, please.

The Craigslist Escape Chute

Why do so many dingbat apartments look like minimum security facilities?

What do you do in your confinement but lay on your stained mattress in your airless sweatbox at the Casa Royale and wishcast on Craigslist a whole other life for yourself?

You scroll listings you can’t afford, like young Lucas, my protege at Lord Bezos Farm.  You fantasize a rent-controlled studio for $900, three blocks from the beach, with no need for air conditioning. No commute over the hill to work.  You, and thousands of others living off the 405, sharing an opium dream of fog slipping through the open window while you sleep.

In a mockery of desire, the very life-changing rental you seek crops up…. and just to really make you feel extra bad, it’s $300 less than you’re paying in Van Nuys, and one block from the Promenade. You drag yourself the open house to buy your lottery ticket, but only because you can’t talk yourself out of it. You send unhappy texts to Mr. UpintheValley, anticipating defeat.

Dude, the line for that apartment is huge.
Nowhere to park. Think I may bounce.
Me: Stay and fill out the paperwork, at least.
There’s going to be hundreds of applicants.
God hates me. I won’t get it.
Me: God loves you. Fill out the paperwork.

So Lucas stayed for the paperwork and paid the $60 application fee for the Apartment No One Gets, and went home to the Casa Royale feeling like a sucker.  Two days later he gets a text. He, out of the audition line of supplicants has obtained the apartment.  Suddenly he is Charlie Bucket, holding the gold foiled Wonka bar.

Which left the small matter of the mattress, and its sweaty, unhappy residual memories,  better left in the Valley.  Lucas decided to dump recycle it at the Narrows, at the crossroads of three homeless encampments.  Over my objections, ladies and gentleman of the jury, as a homeowner and Mayor-Without-Portfolio of northern Van Nuys.

Dude, it’s going to be gone in an hour. Someone will sleep comfortable tonight.

Later that evening,  I walked the dogs up to the Narrows to reassure myself the mattress was …recycled.  It had.  In its place…amidst the festival of plastic garbage, I found the repository of another man’s history.  Someone’s else’s life in LA which closed out in D minor on Raymer Street. A moment of urban symmetry.

Three days later, on my way to the gym, I saw a mattress which looked suspiciously like his on Roscoe Blvd., over by the airport, two miles from where he left it.  I sent an accusing text.

“That’s not her.  My lady didn’t have those handles….”

And I thought of the dirty futons of my youth and wondered what became of them. I thought of the bed I chopped to pieces and set on fire in an act of marital cleansing and renewal, many years ago.   All the escape chutes I wished for that never came to fruition.  Suffering has brought me a different kind of happiness.

If You Want To Be A Bird….

The Bird scooter, recently ubiquitous on the Westside.  You book one like an Uber, find it on your GPS, ride it to your destination, or until you get bored, or until the battery runs out, then you leave it on the sidewalk. Then the next rider hops on.  A lotus eaters version of the Russian Army in Stalingrad sharing the rifles.

The future of rideshare in Los Angeles?  I guess we’ll know Van Nuys has truly arrived when the Bird gets here.  Or we’ll know the Bird has truly arrived when it reaches Van Nuys.

Like, for example, the Barbie PowerWheels SUV with 12-volt motor, speakers, and faux leather seats.  This is the status and consumption marking kind of thing we love in girl-centric suburban America.

Until the older brother gets ahold of it and strips the drivetrain trying to spin donuts in the driveway.  Then he and his friends throw it into the Pacoima Wash to rid themselves of the evidence.

All  brightly colored plastic shiny things wind up in the Wash eventually, to be reclaimed and repurposed by the Favela.  Grab and go.  Leave it anywhere. Someone will be by soon enough.