Freak of Culture

I am a peculiar bird. Much of today’s culture just doesn’t suit me. And I long for simpler times.

I miss the eight-hour workday, getting Washington’s and Lincoln’s birthday off (two three-day weekends in a row, people), and whatever happened to Columbus Day and banker’s hours? I yearn for the time when cars came with turn signals, and driver’s that used them. The salad days when fruits and vegetables didn’t kill you, although some tasted like they could, and no one had to fear spinach or strawberries.

Remember way back when you would come home to messages -- either on a machine or via voicemail -- from people who loved you? Wasn’t that nice? Now, if you get a message, it’s usually from a computer calling, even though you are on the Do Not Call Registry. What rings of its non-existent hook is your cell phone. Everyone and their brother calls you just because they’re bored and have minutes to spare. Sure, the rest of the world seems to live on their cellies, but I’m old school. Oddly enough, I sort of expect my home phone to ring when I’m in my home. I know. I’m a freak.

No one should have to hear the words: “I had adultery for breakfast the other day. It was yummy.” Even if they are said over cocktails. Our grandparents would shudder to think that, instead of savings, we’ve got over fifty-grand in debt...and that’s not counting the mortgage (if we were lucky to qualify for one).

There was a time when an immigrant would want to learn English in order to thrive in the US. Now, it seems the US is expected to be multi-lingual. Until that day, we all have to wait a little longer in line until someone behind the counter who speaks that language can be found to translate for the citizen who’s been here a decade or two, yet doesn’t see the point of assimilating. When did that become all right?

Like I said, I long for simpler times.

Remember when a boy would ask a girl out and ladies went first? How about when we knew our neighbors’ names and saw familiar faces each time we went to the store? When being morbidly obese was a sin of gluttony and not of Ronald McDonald? When we kept our religion and politics to ourselves and would never dream of imposing our opinion on another. We preferred discourse to discord. We understood that prayer was private, sex was private (even in public if you were careful), and the government kept out of both. War was fought with honor because the reasons for going into it were valid. And we would never think of sending our soldiers to battle with faulty equipment or sans the proper protection. America had too much pride for that.

Then again, those were simpler times.

Today’s culture seems comprised of solo acts. It’s all “me” and “I”, with rarely a “we” in sight. Community? I can’t tell if that’s an antiquated concept or something so arcane that I’ve missed it. Co-operation and collaboration? Only if there are contracts involved or profits at stake. I’m having a hard time accepting that. I was hoping that the pendulum would swing back to the middle and we’d all be working together for our betterment. When did I, the cynic, become so naïve? Or it is hopeful?

Boob jobs for a teenager’s birthday and $300 pairs of jeans are just beyond me, especially when a tank of gas nearly costs that much. Perhaps this state of culture is merely evolution. Perhaps our parents posed the same existential questions. Or maybe, we, as a culture, are just spiraling out of control and into our own extinction. I don’t know. Perhaps all is swell and I am simply a freak, period. That is quite possible. All I really do know is at the end of the day, if you want to reach me, call me at home. My cell phone will be off.

Just Another Day in L.A.

Now that we have an extra hour of daylight, you have the chance to see some things that you normally wouldn’t...or shouldn’t.

Driving home the other night, I witnessed a huge, white van suddenly cut over from lane two to lane one of a major boulevard, nearly clipping the blue Bronco rightfully driving in that space. Rubber was laid as the Bronco’s brakes were applied. The van driver seemed oblivious, if not impaired. One would think such an abrupt lane change would be due to the need of an upcoming left turn. Nope. This was just a willy-nilly whim. The Bronco driver (a chick) was having none of it. Surely her insurance rates had flashed before her eyes. The Bronco betty pulled next to the van (also driven by a chick) and gave that white trash a piece of her mind before gunning it when the light changed and cutting off the van (and justifiably so). In response, the van driver (who had several leafy plants and a few dogs bopping about the interior), stuck her head out of the window and howled -- yes, howled -- at the Bronco.

Now I was driving behind the white van, and was less than happy. The van drove well below the speed limit and had yet to make a left turn (which would have justified her daft lane change). I finally had enough and zipped around her. At the next light, I watched the white van driver from my rearview mirror as she made out with her dog. Yes. Made out. With. Her. Dog. She had leaned over, wrapped her arm around the dog and began kissing it. I turned around to be sure of what I was seeing. Then, I threw up a little in my mouth at the sight. As I pulled away with the relief of the green light, she remained nuzzled with her canine companion, screwing up traffic. Lord only knows what she might be screwing later.

In other news more fit for print, I am officially a Buddhist. Don’t laugh. You can still be a complete A-Type personality and find your Buddha nature. Yes. You can. This is Los Angeles, not a Kyoto temple. We do the best we can.

I can’t say that I was Shakubuku’d proper (I have been studying and practicing Buddhism off and on for years), but, as they say: When the student is ready, she will share deep-fried cheesecake at Katana with someone who chants near her house. While I love Tibetan Buddhist philosophy and the Dalai Lama’s smile, quieting my mind and silent meditation just ain’t my thing. I needed to chant. So, I suppose the person who really gave me the Shakubuku was Angela Bassett/Tina Turner in “What’s Love Got To Do With It”. That was my introduction to Nam Myoho Renge Kyo. Wasn’t it yours? Anyhow, on January 8th (David Bowie’s birthday and the 6th anniversary of RUAWAKE), I did my first toso. At the end of February, I gave my first “experience”...and Courtney Love was there. Holla! And, last week, I received my Gohonzon. Now, I’m just Buddhaful.

In Los Angeles, each and every day is an adventure. You never know what you might see or who you might do...or vice versa.

Keep Your Hair On

Oh, Britney. The lengths a girl will go to get the carpet matching the drapes. Now, both don a Brazilian and neither should be seen in public. And while the sight of a Sinead-inspired Spears is more than a tad unnerving, I was probably more disturbed by the fact it appears as though the girl has had on the same cakey, black, round-the-rim eyeliner for nearly a decade. For heaven sake, will someone please teach this kid how to wash her face?!

Now, she has made her way back to rehab, where everyone goes after such antics. Why don’t these clinics all just open a new wing called Humiliation Camp? Well, isn’t that really what it is? Binge drinking at 25 is nothing new, though it should be old hat at that age. Is rehab really the answer? Wouldn’t a stiff shot of reality be more prudent? You’ve been acting like an ass. Knock it off. It isn’t cute. Obviously. Take out a mirror if you have any questions.

If you haven’t noticed, I shan’t be going down the “poor Brit” road. I have zero tolerance or respect for any wealthy celebrity (or celebutard) who has the world at their feet, access to the best and brightest, and clearly refuses to take responsibility for their actions, behavior and life in general. Spoilt brats do not get my pity, undereducated and chemically imbalanced as they may be. When one’s train-wreck life is on the cover of every rag on the newsstand, that’s a pretty large clue you need to do some introspection and maybe spend a few nights in. And, if one finds herself puking on a club’s bathroom floor (allegedly), what more of a wake-up call does one need? Shouldn’t two babies back at home be enough?

Many moons ago, back when Christina was dirrty and Britney was a slave, I wrote a column questioning which one would end up posing nude first...and would it be Playboy or Penthouse? Never did I think it would come to this. Not to age myself, but this harks back to the Prince vs. Michael Jackson debate of the 80s. Prince was the dirty one; Michael, a soft vanilla ice-cream, palatable by parents and children alike. The debate raged over who was more talented, who was the truer artist and, basically, who was less of a weirdo. In the immortal words of Chris Rock, “Prince won.” Now, it is Christina Aguilera, whom we all thought was teetering on the brink of porn back then, who has redeemed herself as the classy Mouseketeer. Who’da thunk it?

This is just proof of what lip-synching can lead you. Pay attention, Ashley Simpson.

Look, we are all human and, to be human, one must err. There’s no getting around that. Effing up is part of growing up. Some F-ups are just more spectacularly public than others. So I’m not chiding Britney for being a young adult, still learning the ropes. I’m just not attending a pity-party in her honor.