Asshole! (My brain screamed!) as the lodestone before me pretending to be a human stood in the midst of the aisle blocking the exist of the bus while he continued a less than erudite conversation on his cellphone. I could have given the jerk a karate chop on the neck but as usual restrained myself. Another phone struck zombie living in his own self-empowered universe whose awareness extended as far as, ‘only me‘. The amalgam of similar universes telling me in no uncertain terms that my appreciation of the current world is shrinking down to my own personal ‘black hell ridden hole‘. Try riding on the train based mainline through the ghetto and into downtown and get the gist of what I am saying. How to save those old out of date patterns of civility and respect for others? Nope not here! Cultural Marxist doctrine prevalence at PS 100 has taught (correction – mind numbed) its students well! Do I have to make a racial distinction about right here to virtue signal that the lout that I started out this diatribe about was a thirty to forty plus ]white[? The problem is not racial as the indoctrination of this same has flooded way over the boundaries of racial lines so that this inverted universe of moral authority is held by the Simians above all the newly designated the Neanderthals. Each dumbed down to happily protect their own mental cage encased in the small square of glowing light that their right hand keeps placed before them. My own mind is in a muddle of its own of self-contained appreciation of the world beneath a sheath of general unawareness that is festering away in plain view around my being. I have nothing in common with those that can be loosely referred to as ‘people‘! Perhaps I am not alone? Time to cut off the home based resource of the Internet? My latest bright idea being in de-training to face a mile and a half of cold concrete sidewalk at quick march to reach my destination unhindered. These days, not an abnormal practice.
On my way, I think back to when I went back for a second time to see the Ukiyo exhibit at the big art museum in town the other day. True, I was kind of tired and a bit on edge. It was mostly empty as many ‘guards‘ as spectators. And all of a sudden this one tall black fellow with all sorts of radios and intercom starts a tirade about lottery numbers booming through the exhibit to his fat Oliver Hardy companion. Mind you, he is a guard supervisor. So this goes on and on and on for fifteen minutes as he visits all the other guards to have a Black jamboree ghetto soul search about winning numbers and the ever present elusive presence of the lady of monetary success. Of course, “Be damned you white devils!” WE only tolerate you as we might fleas while we scratch out a low end poverty filled existence because of ‘Da Man!‘. I didn’t say a word, I just left. It is incredible to me how those in charge of works that are deemed ‘priceless’ by the higher ups are so willing to let a batch of untrained and very ignorant ‘ghetto monkeys‘ into their halls supposedly to protect the art from some joint with the text security services who was no doubt the low bidder. The job as they see it is to stand around and practice their entitlement as an abused minority wreaking havoc on the white demons that have been designated as their oppressor. I guess this might have despoiled any desire to go back their for a while. I guess I am too much into my ‘White Privilege‘ where I expect someone to do their job and leave their poor crippled egos at home. This city might be a nice place to visitors but sometimes but this infestation of PC-driven Blacks and their other equivalently aggravating minorities especially on public transportation that one must defer to is getting way beyond tedious.
Now today, I finally arrived to that terrazzo ceiling vaulted cyst and taking my seat. Surrendered to the ‘oldies‘. DO they all know how old that they look to me? My God! How old to I now look to be? No one here feeling like that could be their actual demographic. That aura of youth eternal deferred to the inevitability of rapidly advancing age. All here to listen to the ‘real’ good old melodies. A Venus Fly Trap for one’s soul. Youth betrayed, in a few cases dreadfully present, to all things lackluster, gray and totalitarian. I summon to mind the contrast of a recently constructed overly hip high priced hostel in the currently ‘hot’ part of town that feature gunmetal gray cool colorless everything. The persistent Muzak blaring overhead being some psychologically aggravating industrial sound effects. Perhaps there to scare off the old goats like me? Now safe from aural damage in the geriatric confines of this other Classical minded vault. Grand piano versus endlessly atonal ‘bing bang boom’. Close your eyes and see over fed loins but well-educated land whales sunning amidst self-emaciated Nazi black attired diffident Martinets skittering about in some nervous indefinable galvanic response who greet all of those more than a decade past their own communal existence with an initial stale milk soured expression, “Oh no!” “Not another one!” Sending up their own unique clarion call in reaction of “Hey Rube” converted to, “Hamburger and French fries for all!” The majority of interpersonal non-text based interactions based on how bodily fit and not the relative frivolity of the individual personality. Mindless hens mechanically sorting out un-pecked corn. Meanwhile back at a very much less sane cultural bunker the stuttering entrance of old grizzled prospector types tottering past with their hats canted at dangerous angles questioning sanity. One person sits there and reads. Another person sits a few doors down and writes. The other vast majorities dutifully dumb and entranced by four square inches of the glowing triviality of another text message. Reassurance perhaps that in a society where social interaction has become anathema that they are somehow still remembered.
The ceremony of the imminent concert’s commencement nears as a bent back Methuselah staggers past at breakneck slow speeds that make you wonder how in the hell he is amazingly still alive. Will Jon Hamm the Don Draper substitute one day a half a century on find this effigy in the mirror before him? The star of the show takes his obligatory dose of applause and the throng is off to the races. Not a bar or two of piano tickling goes by before some old asshole int he audience begins his cycle of coughing through the entire first movement. Perhaps he might consider leaving for the water fountain dow the hall and come back cough forestalled? NEVER! “I am the important one here!“, ]saa-ith Jack Torrance[. Cough boy continues his irregular counter rhythms as he doesn’t give a shit! Fucking Asshole!
“Hey! This is where I came in!”
Well-entrenched nihilism, ]compulsive paper rattlers[, perhaps mass genocide is the best solution of all? No respect afforded for those who devote their careers to produce beauty and clarity and beg a little bit of orderly quiet attention. What sort of suppressed terror can be summoned when one realizes that those wheel chairs so recklessly handed by young indifferent attendants will one day very soon be the home of your own functionally inert incontinent buttocks! All that you currently know and materially possess will be immediately forfeit. How sad to see so many women who have lost their looks primping next to husbands that still attended to them. As if the hands instinctively are arranging past feminine beauty that remains only in the fading corners of peeling paint memories. Life, it seems must end in futility.