The Lesbidrome…

Hey Julia. I really am sorry I haven’t been able to get in touch like I want to. I don’t live alone, and there is always something going on that takes my attention. Since I haven’t been able to tell you personally, I thought I would write to you about some of the goings on here. I’ve been writing to my one true friend, Wilson, for the longest time now, but I’ve been wondering how to end that story for some time, and I think the “game is still on” message from my piranha women post seems good enough for now. That guy is probably pretty tired of hearing my droning anyway, and while I tend to complain about a dearth of friends, I do in fact have a lovely ketamine girl from Amman that I haven’t been devoting nearly enough attention to. So I am going to write this one to you.

This weekend is Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year, and new things are supposed to happen. I’m kind of pissed off as I write this. You’ll see I’m taking the recommendation of someone I live with in writing. I’m going to vent. Thanks for reading that piranha women post, though. This one is going to build on that one.

My overall goal here in LA is to write my book about the Snyderverse movies and see if it would be possible to write about the filming of those movies as well. That second book about the filming has been disappointing to me because I’m having trouble making contacts that would help me write that book, partly because I am paying so much attention to other things besides work. Today is one of those days. I’m totally set off by an Instagram story and accompanying YouTube video I saw from somebody I live with. In order to tell you about it, I’m going to have to tell you about my little life here in this cooperative living complex I live in that is called “Haven,” though it is anything but a haven.

So I will catch you up on the weird Lilith energy that rules this place that hasn’t entirely stopped plaguing me since the big “destroy Jonathan Bailey” meeting that took place after my high crime of writing an endearing poem to an Israeli chick that lived here, a crime that got me called an ugly, creepy, weird, racist, misogynist, transphobe by every woman in Venice east of Abbot-Kinney.

Let’s start with Julie. She was a factor in the whole “destroy Jonathan Bailey and get him evicted” plot from His Infernal Majesty that didn’t work at that time. Julie is this tall,  londe, thin Danish chick. And yeah, you probably haven’t read the post about Rome or the one from Seoul where Nordic blondes showed up with their Asian friends in conspicuous pairs. She is a member of just such a pair. The other is Carol the Indonesian, and we will get to her later.

Yeah, her name is Julie, and yours is Julia. Significant women tend to have the same names lately. Just another lovely effect of this permanent Jungian synchronistic event I’ve been living since I met you in Amman.

My initial interaction with her centered around her being in LA to go to film school and become a great Hollywood director, but she doesn’t watch movies. She was also a combative bitch in a few texts I traded back and forth with her before deciding she was someone I didn’t want to talk to, and I think those texts played into the whole “cut off Jonathan’s dick because he isn’t transsexual” pogrom I endured as described in that last post to Wilson.

I think her cunty texts were related to all that, though, and she was absolutely honest and genuine in absolutely everything she said, so I have to give her props there. My assumption that she was a one of my female accusers around the time of my throatslitting comes from the fact that the grand meeting with the leadership and a small fraction of my multitude of slayers involved a raucous condemnation of the practice of trying to communicate with someone with headphones on.

I had just committed such a mortal sin with our dear Julie. She was sitting on my right in the living room watching a movie on her laptop with headphones on one evening while a dude from the house was sitting on my left watching yet another movie on his laptop with his own set of headphones on. At the same time, the trans girl who would call me a misogynistic transphobe was playing a videogame on the gigantic LG OLED TV in front of us…with her own set of headphones on. Yes, Julia, I have a hard time comprehending what life in 21st century California has become. So I tapped Julie on her shoulder to suggest that we all sit in the same fucking room and watch the same fucking movie. Without headphones, even. She refused on the grounds that nobody would like to watch the movie she wanted to watch. I gave up and tried to enjoy myself for fourteen seconds before leaving them to their digital paradise of solitude.

Since the three-hour “destroy Jonathan” festival was consumed by a half hour of bitching about how all civilized humans know never to disturb someone with headphones on, I’ll count her among my legion of Lilith detractors. After the meeting with the house leadership and my slayers, I blocked her from Instagram. It was very clear to me that I wasn’t feminist enough for her. Before I did that, though, there is a funny story I want to tell about her Instagram.

Like most of the girls around here, her Instagram account consists almost entirely of her taking pictures of herself with next to no clothing on. Now Julia, I am not moralistic about this. You may remember the conversation we had in Amman where I mentioned that I like lots of skin. I have a kind of a naturist in me, I suppose. I admire the courage and freedom of the scantily clad, and frankly, I find the human body more beautiful than most things we tend to adorn it with. You, for your part, said you didn’t approve because their beauty made you feel self-conscious about your own. I don’t know how you could feel this way, as there were so many times I couldn’t take my eyes off of those dancer curves of yours, but I understood your perspective. I’m sure these Lilith women would all blame the patriarchy and the subjugation of women for suggesting modest dress. I doubt they’d consider the older, fatter, less attractive women who don’t enjoy being reminded of their deficits, much less gorgeous dancers such as yourself who are just self-conscious.

Anyway, at one point on her Instagram account Julie posted a picture of herself in a bikini. The poses were very sexy. Julie is spectacularly beautiful. I have no reservation about saying this, as her beauty doesn’t get her anywhere with me, nor does it mean she will garner one nickel from my pocket or one minute of my time. But yeah, she is hot. She is also at least 5’9″, and again, this reminds me of the Electrochemical Girl.

On that Instagram post there were ten comments. Every one of them was from a woman, and all of the comments were basically the equivalent of cat calls. Things like, “Hawt!” and “Get it girl!” Not a single male posted a solitary comment about this picture of this spectacularly beautiful woman. In the post-Weinstein Matriarchy, any man who would say any such a thing to any woman at all gets reported to management for sexual harassment. On the other hand, I’d thought maybe there was also an aspect of girls being allowed to treat each other like that sort of like African Americans can use the n-word but nobody else can. However, at least one of the girls cat calling her was a lesbian! Lesbianism is huge around here, Julia. The hatred of men is so strong among so many of them, they just fuck each other and hang around with gay guys all the time and post pictures of themselves being sexy to be drooled over by other women because it’s socially unacceptable for a normative heterosexual male to do that sort of thing.

So for my part, I added the comment, “you are poetry in human form.” Her girlfriends couldn’t even think up a decent compliment, and I thought she should have one. It was the kind of picture a man won’t be able to get out of his head for a week. There was no response. A few days later everyone in the house was calling me an ugly, creepy, weird, racist, misogynist, transphobe and bitching about tapping someone with headphones on (they wear their headphones ALL the time, Julia. ALL THE TIME), so I went ahead and blocked Julie from Instagram and haven’t said a word to her since.

Days after I’d overhear the little Liliths talking about this or that weird creepy guy from Julie’s school who was doing this or that horrible thing like smiling at someone or enjoying their company, and once there was yet another conversation I overheard where they ranted and ranted about people who interrupt people with headphones on. I was of course SUPER comfortable around these vipers.

Now one of those lesbians who posted gross comments on Julie’s feed that everybody thought were perfectly fine because she wasn’t a man was Carol from Indonesia. She was one of the three beautiful Asians in the house at the time who reminded me of X23, my missing Chloe. I was and am and will be reeling inside from the thing with Chloe, Julia. And this affected my interactions with Carol.

The first thing about Carol is that her name might be Carol, or Carolin, or Caroline. Who knows? Her name is different on Slack, Instagram, and the name tags that you find on people’s personal spaces in the co-op. People just call themselves whatever they are in the mood for that day. Whatever they think will present the image they want to present that day. It’s Los Angeles. What can I say? Anyway, if we call her Caroline, that would make her the third Caroline in my story, with the other two being in my book.

In the very first conversation I ever had with Carol, she told me that she was studying hospitality, her visa was running out in a few months, and she was looking to get married. That’s a kind of a weird thing to say to someone you’re just introducing yourself to, right? I’ll tell you, Julia, with the state of mind I was in after Chloe, I thought about marrying her. The concept of losing a lovely Asian girl I’d just met made me want to cry. That’s how big Chloe’s absence is, Julia. Big.

I thought about marrying her for a while, a number of times, over the course of the next month, and talked to her about it once or twice with this or that cursory comment.

There were points at which I thought about marrying her at least to have someone to run interference for me and keep the piranha women off my ass. We live in a matriarchy, and a man is valid only when he has a woman. Until then, he is dangerous. Over the years of my marriage there were a number of times where my wife protected me from the delusions of raving girlfriends telling her I wanted to have sex with them and whatnot. I was doing criminal things like smiling and having friendly conversations with my wife and her girlfriends, looking them in the eyes with kind amicability and all that. Of course they are going to dream up that I want to have sex with them, and of course they would run to my wife about it. She would always defend me. Had she not been there, who knows what they would have done to me? We certainly know what the ladies of the 201st Battlefield Surveillance Brigade did to me the instant I got divorced. That’s in my book.

Carol is quite beautiful for her part. I guess I’m a sucker for Asians. However, she was always at work or up in her cubby, hard to find. At least initially. Now she seems to be everywhere. I assume Satan has her doing that because I’m trying to avoid her at this point. But I don’t want to get ahead of myself.

So the other first thing Carol makes sure I know is that she is a lesbian. However, she has only had sex with one man. No women. But it’s really important for her to be lesbian, and that was very cool by me. If I am going to marry someone to give them a visa, I’m looking for a friend or partner. I don’t date, and I don’t get attracted to women unless they’ve been my friend first. After months here, I have no friends here. Basically “buying” an ally in this house of enemies was what was on my mind, and her being straight would have made things less comfortable, really.

She posted a photo to Instagram at one point of her sitting on the beach with some dude with a comment about how life was about looking at boobs and butts with friends, and I thought that was super cool. I like to look at the ladies on the Venice boardwalk myself, and doing that with a lesbian chick friend sounded super cool.

I did finally find her in the living room watching TV with the trans girl at one point. The trans girl, normally completely shy, was singing with delight at the top of her lungs along with this show she was watching on NPR+. On the show, a dozen women were singing in a choir some song about how they found fulfilment within themselves. That’s the mantra of the New Matriarchy. If we get enough women on TV bellowing about their self-fulfillment, all the guys will be in dresses before no time. And it’s always about self-satisfaction and self-fulfillment. God made us to complete each other in love, but screw that dude. Who cares about what God has to say, right? Just keep deep-breathing and meditating until you have no needs. With my history, I was having a hard time stomaching the show. Carol had just sat down, and I asked her a couple of questions about her recent trip to Hawaii where she got to see her favorite group, LANY, which she answered sheepishly. Distracted by the feminist choir, I suggested that we all throw a movie on, at which point Carol shrieked that I should shut up so she could hear the TV. Fourteen seconds later, I left the living room.

Why did she just scream at me like that to shut up? If Nathan or Warren, dudes from the co-op, had yelled at me to shut up like that, there may just have just been blows. Certainly any camaraderie would be gone. I haven’t heard her or anyone else yell at anyone else like that. Such behavior doesn’t meet the good vibe, positive energy, kumbaya dogma requirements of the place. But Jonathan gets it every time he opens his mouth.

Well, there was one other thing I said. As I was walking up, Julie the bikini blonde was sitting in the living room and just stood up to leave when I sat down. It looked like she was going out. I only saw her from the back as she walked out, but she was wearing this leather miniskirt and tank-top outfit that almost made my heart stop beating, she was so stunning. I’m serious, Julia, I literally lost my breath watching her walk out the front door.

A couple of minutes later, trying to make conversation, I mentioned to Carol, “did you see Julie’s outfit? She must be going to the club. It’s just so spectacularly gorgeous.” Now under normal circumstances, no self-respecting gentleman, much less a man offering respect to a lovely young woman who he is considering broaching the subject of an arranged marriage to, would ever think to mention the flooring splendor of another woman. But this is the lesbidrome, Julia. Who knows what goes here? Carol is a lesbian who hangs out with dude buddies watching boobs and butts on Venice Beach according to her Instagram profile. Hell, Julia, I really thought talking about how hot Julie was could be a fun bonding moment. But was this her moment to be offended?

I’m starting to lack empathy, Julia. Now because of all the idiocy on social media out there, few even know what empathy is. The word is thrown about as a characterological defect that a sociopath would have. But sociopaths lack both empathy and sympathy. Sympathy is your compassion for someone in their situation. If I should see any of these people, even these piranha women, crawling on the sidewalk with a broken leg, I pick them up and carry them to a doctor. I still have sympathy.

Empathy is one’s ability to figure out what the fuck is going on in someone else’s mind. We do this by saying, “if I were in this other person’s shoes, this is how I would feel.” like, “if I were Carol, I would not scream at Jonathan because he said Julie was beautiful, given that I would be a lesbian who probably also thinks the outfit was hot, and as a lesbian, Jonathan’s erotic proclivities aren’t going to be terribly important to me.” That is, we assume others would react as we would given what we know about them and the situation. But Julia, these people are not like me. They might as well be Duergar from Niflheim. I have no ability to predict their actions whatsoever beyond an absolute certainty that anything they say or do will be hostile towards me. I’m not going to be able to put myself in the shoes of anybody in the lesbidrome unless I don a dress and a tiara and scream DOWN WITH THE PATRIARCHY with a dick in my mouth.

I haven’t talked to anyone in the lesbidrome since. That’s my new name for the section of the co-op where the piranha women live. She is one of them. I guess she will marry her boob-and-butt-watching buddy or something. I am now cured of the Chloe-induced draw to patronize a young Asian girl. Phew!

Now before I talk about the last lovely episode with a woman at the lesbidrome, I’ll  say something about the place in general. The state religion here is Hinduism. There are yoga classes every night of the week, meditation classes, deep breathing classes, classes on The Secret and the Law of Attraction, harvest moon festivals, and basically everything eastern and pagan that anyone could ever dream of. People attend them to have something to do. They don’t even know they are being turned into Hindus. Everything is about self-improvement and making oneself feel good, learning to emit positive energy, ignoring negativity, and ostracizing anyone who doesn’t have a good vibe or damages the kumbaya energy of the place.

There was once an old weird guy there when I showed up named James who was a Christian. He was super quiet, talking to basically no one. I tried to get him to open up with me, but he was barely coherent. Chicks were talking about him behind his back about how creepy he was. Actually, one of the first conversations I had with Carol was me telling her he wasn’t going to hurt her. After I’d been there a while, the guy’s awkward life of solitude in the co-op of 90 people started to get to him. He started getting frustrated, and the old weirdo punched a wall or something at one point. At least that’s what I heard. No idea if any of it is true. After all, I am an ugly, creepy, weird, racist, misogynistic, transphobe, right? But he was kicked out shortly thereafter. I wonder how it would have gone for him if he had joined all the yoga and deep breathing classes.

The other Christian that got kicked out was Pat, my only buddy at the place and, except for Mark, the gay guy I met not long after getting into town, is my only friend in this city that I’ve been in for three months. He was trying to figure out the online payment methods and after being there a few days was kicked out by the management for non-payment. Ultimately he went back to Chicago where he had a place. That just happened and has been pretty crushing for me. God forbid someone who isn’t a pagan live at this co-op, Julia. Seriously. This has me constantly thinking that I am next. The spirits that run these people have them looking at me with hostility because I have nothing to say to them. They think I hate them or something, that I have a bad vibe or something, and make me feel like my crime is not running up to them and hugging them and singing kumbaya with them, but the second I suggest watching a movie I get told to shut up so as not to interrupt the feminine choir of self-fulfillment.

Actually, the whole blowout from the piranha women event started with me trying to arrange a movie to watch in the Instagram group the house had made. I have to stop suggesting movies. Really, Julia, I’ve stopped doing pretty much anything. You’re pretty much only allowed to take yoga classes, worship the moon, and take Abillify at this place.

Before going on to the next person I want to tell you about, Maddie, I do have one more story about Carol and Julie. After Carol screamed at me to shut up I did run into Julie watching White Chicks in the living room. Carol was sitting next to her burying her face into her phone. I decided to plant myself down next to Julie and watch this mediocre comedy that everyone has seen multiple times.

Shortly after I sat down, Richie, a gay guy from the co-op, came in. Julie leapt up and threw herself into his arms, kissing him warmly with giggles and smiles, and asking him what he thought of her outfit. Julie is something of a fashionista and was wearing pinstripe pants with what looked to be a cashmere blouse with furry sleeves. It was a spectacular outfit, actually, and upon seeing it, I had to take some deep breaths to avoid succumbing to the inscrutable effect of her otherworldly beauty. Richie, being gay, wasn’t in any way affected whatsoever by having this beauty of legendary proportions in his arms. She asked him what he thought of her outfit. He responded dismissively that he liked it.

Julia, this type of thing is what makes Julie what we used to call a “fag hag” back in 1992 when I was hanging out with the gay crowd at the Aqualounge and the Video Bar in Deep Ellum in Dallas. That is, a woman who just loves the company of gay men. Just like in the Barbie Movie, their world is a paradise of girls nights with the gay neighbors next door all living happily ever after. The only person who doesn’t belong there is Ken, the only person who feels incomplete and thinks the goal is to love and be loved as a man with a woman.

I can only imagine Richie’s reaction. On the one hand, he had to be thinking to himself, “sure, add a jock strap to that and I might think it’s hot.” On the other hand, not possessing her attractive power or hold over men (such as me), there is a sense in which his identity may even have been impugned. All the while I was looking onward at her, panting inwardly for lack of strength to withstand the irresistable force of her sheer gorgeousness, only able to think to myself, “if I give Richie a rim job, can I have a hug too, Julie?”

So after the intimate fashion exchange with her gay buddy, she came back to watch TV next to me, but gone was her exhuberant and playful mood of kisses with Richie. I was sitting next to her now, and she squirmed in silence, rubbed her forehead a thousand times, scratched her chin five hundred times, tugged her ear dozens of times, adjusted posture forward, backward, sideward, and basically looked like someone as uncomfortable as a character in a Saw movie being forced to behead a child in order to save their own life or something. Her discomfort was absolutely palpable in every sense, Julia. It was a miraculous thing to behold. I knew beyond all doubt that my presence was causing the spirits that guide her to experience this massive discomfort.

At one point she piped along with a line from the movie, “that’s not just a bag! It’s Prada!” I commented that she knew the line, and she responded that she had seen the movie before. Then, as I started to say something else, she said the most amazing thing, Julia. She didn’t scream or anything, and in fact spoke very demurely: “Would you mind please being quiet, so I can watch the movie?” It’s like the spirit that possessed Carol to be nauseated by my presence had leapt into Julie and moved her to say the exact same thing, only it had learned to do it with a little reservation this time.

I’m not even lying to you. While Carol never for a second looked up from her phone, I hoped that she was paying attention to Julie basically being overcome by the same discomfort and desire to shut me up that she had experienced just a few days before. And remember, this was a movie that Julie had seen many times, apparently, and even knew all the lines to. Nevertheless, it was very important for her to shut me up so she could pay strict attention to it. The whole thing is just a surreal illustration of invisible spirits flying around everywhere dictating the behavior of a young, beautiful woman toward a prophet with the Curse of Elijah.

When Julie asked me to be quiet, I told he with a smile that I most certainly would. That I saw her discomfort, and that I was proud of her for doing what she could to stomach those few minutes of sitting next to me. Then fourteen seconds later I left the room in order to leave the two ladies to watch their comedy masterpiece, and their phones, in peace.

But okay, that’s the lion’s share of what I have to say about Carol and Julie, the Nordic-Asian pair of the day, and the current manifestation of X23 and the Electrochemical Girl. There is someone else I want to tell you about before I end this story, however.

Going back to the piranha women blowout, when the members of the house assembled to tell the leadership that I made all the women at the co-op uncomfortable for writing that damned poem to that damned Israeli chick and disagreeing with the mandatory matriarchy of the trans crew, there was another chick there who had just arrived and wanted to sit in. This is where things get really sad. Maddie.

I’d walked past her the day she arrived, and she was telling someone how overwhelming it was to be around all the new people. She had come down from Santa Barbara to set up a face-painting kiosk on the boardwalk. She does make-up to feel like a princess and make others feel that way. She is a fundamentally kind, open, innocent person. I just saw her YouTube channel today as I was preparing to write you this post. At one point we exchanged Instagram information, and I sent her a text about NFTs. She didn’t respond. Nobody responds to any kind of text around here. Whether they are male or female, young or old, I send a text, they don’t respond, and my texts somehow become evidence in some kind of attack against me. After not getting a response, I texted nothing further, and she unfollowed me on Instagram at some point, though I had not unfollowed her until just yesterday. I’m very selective about Instagram at this point. It’s usually a good way to get destroyed. I’ve adopted the mantra that if someone is silent, they are plotting to get you. It has turned out to be the case thus far when it comes to Instagram friends, followers, chats, and connections.

But since I hadn’t unfollowed her at the point of this story, I saw a story she had made referring to a YouTube video she made instructing people not to be nice as this resulted in lower credit scores and bankruptcy. I checked out out her YouTube channel to see videos of a sweet, open, vulnerable, innocent person talking about conjuring the courage to travel to Australia and test her limits, but now that she is living at the lesbidrome she is making videos about the merits of not being nice. When she came, she wore paisley pant suits and hippie clothes, but now she is wearing the standard booty shorts and halter tops. I love that LA clothing style, Julia. I really do exalt the loveliness of the human body, most especially the supernal beauty of an unclad woman. But on her, it’s just fucking sad. It’s like this place is turning her out. Her Instagram profile says she is a fitness nut and small-business owner. I wonder how long it will take this city to turn her into a Hindu lesbian.

I assume she unfollowed me because she is a piranha woman now. After seeing her devolve from a sweet young woman with a dream to paint little girls into angels to an instructor of the merits of cruelty, I unfollowed her as well. The only thing I have to do with that house is go to the kitchen occasionally to take creatine.

I seem to be taking the route of James the weird old Christian guy. I’m trying to spend more time in other areas and hang out with a few people who aren’t entirely uncool. But I am writing a chapter a week on my book, when I wish I were writing two or three, and I am making a phone call or so per week to try to make connections needed to write the second book when I should be making a few per day. I’m stress smoking and starting to get readdicted to nicotine, and if that happens the only way I know to get off it is to cease life and relax. I think I’ll end up spending money to take a vacation to get the hell out of here for a while, of course by myself. Tijuana sounds fun. I doubt I will make progress on the writing. Satan is having a ball.

As a last thing to tell you about this stuff, though, I want to tell you about a synchronistic event relating to everything happening around the house. First, I was riding up to Malibu wearing my World Cycling Federation jersey.

So while wearing my alternative sex jersey, a song from Carol’s favorite group comes on Spotify. I’ve never listened to this group other than to check it out when she informed me of its existence. It came up randomly on my release radar. A song from LANY is absolutely the last thing I would expect to pop up on my release radar. But it was the first song on the list during this bike ride.

So just as I put this list on and am listening to this song, I pass a sign I just can’t resist taking a shot of.

Then, just after taking this shot, as I’m putting my phone back in my jersey, clipping my cleats back into my pedals and getting ready to go, a dude in a parked car right in front of me makes a blowjob face. You know the one where you open your mouth and punch your cheek with your tongue while moving your hand back and forth?

So some gay dude sees my WCF sex jersey, assumes I’m a gay cyclist, and decides to offer me a blowjob in a store called “Caroline Marks” with a Superman heart symbol on it while Carol’s favorite group LANY is blasting the song “Home is Where the Hurt Is” through my headphones via a randomized Spotify list.

How is that for a synchronistic event, Julia? The universe is trying to make me gay. It sticks me in this house of piranha women who hate all opposition to the transmatriarchy, who cannot resist the urge to vomit when I sit down next to them, who adore any and all gay guys, until I contemplate marrying a lesbian just to have help surviving my living situation. The synchronistic event is haunting me, Julia. Is this God telling me there is something significant with that Carol chick? I’ve gotten in trouble with Spotify playlists before, Julia. I’d say you’d know about it, but I don’t think you’ve read my book. Maybe I should be writing this to Wilson. I think I should be writing this to someone who knows me fairly intimately.

So that’s my life. I wish you were here. I wouldn’t normally vent like this, but you did mention that it sounded like I wasn’t having a great time. Now you know. I actually decided to write this because of Maddie’s suggestion that not being nice will improve my credit score. I have it in mind to show her this, hence the idea of a blog post to you instead of just a letter or texts or call. I’ll password protect it since I would shudder to think of anyone connected to Debbie Snyder or Gal Gadot having a look at it. But that thing with Maddie just broke my heart, Julia. It really did. I can’t be silent about it. And you wanted to know how I am doing. So I am venting to you. I wish you were here.

Talk to you soon.