LTSEWH
(6/01/24)
            LTSEWH # 1: GARDEN OF DELIGHT:
             Call them Less Than Satisfying Encounters With Humanity, or LTSEWH, for "short." (Yes, the very name is a LTSEWH---a deliberately unpronounceable spoof on acronyms that no one ever gets.) Only names have been omitted to protect me from lawsuits. There I was. . .
            At the pastoral, idyllic, resplendent Elysian Field that is Descanso Gardens in Montrose. Well, yes, it used to be even more so; used to be rustic and quaint, while in recent years has largely surrendered to "monetizing." ($50 gardening hat, anyone?) But that's to be expected in this, the 21st Century, the age of "whatever you can get away with."
            Specifically, I was wandering beneath the fabulous oak canopy in  the ancient camellia forest, planted long ago by Descanso founder Manchester Boddy, owner of the original L.A. Daily News ("The only Democratic newspaper west of the Rockies.") Crooked, gnarling branches mingled overhead in Mandelbrot Theorem poetry, inspiring visions of Byron, lying on his side, scribbling in a small notebook. It was as if the sky was shy, using the oaks for modesty.
            And there were camellias on the right, camellias on the left, an epidemic of flora, their trees bushy, tall, fulsome, leaves a waxy deep green. The hordes of insouciant flowers were a pastel artist's dream, from soft pink to rose red to creamy white; the petals sometimes configured simply, sometimes as layered and ornate as if sewn artfully by Grandma. And lining the paths were great shocks of deep orange firecracker flowers, exploding silently out of long forest-green tongue-leaves.
            In short, this was a holy place; a tiny paradise in this increasingly human-despoiled earthly one. I walked slowly down storybook paths, trying to drink in the purity and goodness of it; of the palliative suffusing the scene. Things have been unusually stressful of late, nearly to the point of health emergency, and I badly---very badly---needed just a moment's peace, restoration. I stopped, taking a deep breath or two, and tried to feel malice toward no one.
            Whoops.
            "I DON'T KNOW! YEAH! COOL! I TALKED TO HER TODAY, AND WE CAN GO AHEAD! AWESOME! HAHAHA!"
            Oh. God.
            This was no more intrusive than a clown at a funeral, a rifle shot, a 2 a.m. rooster, a snake biting you on the ass as you sit on a toilet. And there she was, heaven help us all, the stereotypical millennial/Gen Z pinhead, marching along the impossibly tranquil, delicate, pristine path, blasting her grating, nasal voice as if she was trying to be heard across the Grand Canyon. Blue Tooth, or whatever they call it now, in ears.
            By her vigorous yoga-pant strides, it appeared that this unknowing creature was exercising, and by the content of what must too kindly be called a conversation, she seemed to be "working." As much as that word might be applied to "influencing" and other smarmy Internet gambits. Yes, that's correct: she had turned Descanso Garden into her "personal space." The incomprehensible glory of nature was just her backdrop, her workout/work zone.
            "WELL TELL HER THAT! OH YEAH! COOL! I'LL TEXT HER, TOO!"
            The woman might have been thirty, might have been twenty, I can't tell anymore. Guaranteed, though: she was a giant child, no more worldly than a sawbug, no more empathetic than Trump, no more concerned about anything other than her Internet-cultivated self than a cat with higher mathematics. All her words were connected, as if they were one big one. She verbally diarrhea-ed on and on. She gave gibberish a good name.
            Yes, you guessed it. I spoke. Or rather, erupted.
            "WHY DON'T YOU JUST SHUT THE HELL UP!"
            I can really project, but this was a rare occasion in that my voice actually overrode the demon machinery plugging up her ears. Amazing. She stopped, turning, and gave me a look that Marjorie Taylor Greene would bestow on Biden.
            "WHAT DID YOU SAY TO ME?"
            (Note: not "what did you say," but "what did you say to ME?" Narcissism, anyone?)
            I considered repeating it, but the ugliness sure to ensue was contrary to my priorities of the moment. So I smiled warmly, and employed what is so effectively known as a "shit-eating grin."
            "I asked you if you know what time it is."
            She glanced at her phone, plainly confused by my apparent harmlessness.
            "It's 2:15."
            "Oh, thank you very much!" Again, I displayed very many of my old, jury-rigged teeth. Cruel and unusual punishment.
            Girlie Pinhead turned and continued on her little march, speaking a little more quietly, and twice turning to look back at the evil old irrelevant "boomer" who had insulted and tricked her. Maybe.
            I sighed, instructed my blood pressure to leave me alone, and tried to resume looking at the pastel camellias, firecracker flowers, oak canopy, storybook paths.
            All I saw, though, was ignorance, stupidity, brutishness, and the runaway decline of civilization. With earbuds.
            LTSEWH # 2: COPY THAT:

             LTSEWH # 3: BEER BOTTLE BLUNDER:
            Okay, kids, here we go. Had to call the cops this time.
            There I was. . .
            On a "peaceful Sunday walk" with my female superior, heading to Sawtelle Japantown for a quiet boba tea, and then back home. And if you imagine that it all worked out this way---peaceful, quiet, uneventful---you don't know me, and you don't know L.A., and you don't know millennials.
            (Millennials generally being the most worthless, arrogant, stupid, brutish, greedy, amoral crop of humans ever spawned. Other than that, they're okay.)
            So we were walking down an empty sidewalk on Mississippi Avenue approaching Sawtelle, when I heard a "tinkle tinkle tinkle" to my left. I turned and saw a beer bottle bounce and roll into the middle of the street. Huh? I asked my wife where it had come from, and she replied, "That guy kicked it out into the street." Uh-oh.
            I turned around to see a large millennial doofus, Asian-American, about six-four, 220 pounds, standing there, staring at me. USC privileged T-shirt. He apparently lived in the corner house, and had decided to solve the problem of litter on his property by kicking it into the street.
            Oh, did I call millennials "stupid?" I must also place myself in this category. Because, as I walked, I spoke to Doofus, in a calm and polite voice:
            "Did you kick the bottle into the street?"
            "YEAH. WHAT'S IT TO YOU?"
            "Well, a car will run over it, maybe get a flat, and the scattered glass might get into somebody's foot. Maybe you should pick it up."
            "MAYBE YOU SHOULD PICK IT UP, BITCH!"
            Once again, as I continued walking, I spoke calmly, quietly, and stupidly:
            "It's your responsibility," I said, turning away from him.
            "HEY, BITCH, WHY DON'T YOU PICK IT UP, BITCH! WHY DON'T YOU FUCKIN' PICK IT UP!"
            And the arrogant, ignorant, pompous, worthless, stupid, greedy, brutish, amoral but otherwise fine young man---somewhere between 20 and 25---walked after me, can of beer in hand (Sapporo), screaming into the back of my head:
            "YOU GONNA FUCKIN' TELL ME WHAT TO, BITCH! FUCK YOU! YOU GO OUT AND PICK IT UP, BITCH!"
            Ah, yes, the courtesy, empathy, generally forbearing spirit of young people today! I was, by an reasonable assessment, about 40 years older than this good fellow. Respect for elders, of course, being as gone as pay phones.
            Well, he stayed right behind me, thisclose, and I could actually feel his breath on the back of my head. I reasonably took this as threat of imminent physical attack. I turned around, stopped, and gave it back to him in greater volume, poking my finger at his face:
            "YOU BACK OFF, MOTHERFUCKER! YOU BACK OFF, MOTHERFUCKER! YOU BACK OFF NOW!"
            Best defense is a good offense? I realize this will surprise you, but it didn't work. Doofus began grinning, I swear, grinning.
            "COME ON, BITCH, TAKE A SWING AT ME! COME ON, BITCH!"
            And he continued his primordial bellowing, while many people on both sides of the street turned to stare. It was a show. Well, I thought, at least there will be witnesses. . .
            I ignored him, and continued walking toward a mini-mall, where my spousal unit and I had planned to purchase tea, and benignly sip it on a bench. And miraculously, the rage monster stopped. We turned right, walked past about ten establishments to the Sunmerry Bakery, stepped inside, ordered the tea. And then, well, my naturally suspicious nature led me to step outside and look back, just to be sure.
            And there he was again, right on schedule. Giant Doofus Millennial had apparently gone home for a weapon, returned with truncheon in one hand, beer in the other, and---get this---was looking for us inside of each restaurant, cafe, and store, making his way in our direction. I kid you not. Yes, this guy's big, flatulent, festering ego---carefully nurtured since earliest sentience by popular culture---was seriously offended by Old Whitey, and he was going to teach the worthless old asshole who had dared to speak to him. . .a lesson. With a stick applied to skull.
            I spoke to the proprietor of Sunmerry, who knew us from past visits.
            "Look, there's a crazy guy looking for us outside. He has a stick, and he means to beat us with it. Can we hide in the back of your place until he goes by?"
            "Absolutely not! You may not come into my place of business."
            Ah. A brave man.
            "Look, I understand, but I'm telling you, this guy is coming, and he intends to beat my wife and I with a stick. Can't you hide us out for a minute?"
            "Absolutely not! Sir, you are interfering with my business! I don't know what happened to you and I don't want to know!"
            "Oh, real good, pal. You're a big help. Thanks a lot."
            And there was Giant Doofus, wielding his stick in an "I'll kill you" manner, standing in the doorway, waiting for me to come outside.
            "That's the guy," I said to the bakery manager. "You can see he intends to attack us. Call the police, will you?"
            "I don't know what's between you, and I don't want to know!"
            Ah, such courage! Nothing like a fellow citizen helping in a crisis! (Note the name of the business: Sunmerry.) I turned toward Giant Doofus and attempted to communicate in his own tongue.

This is what cops do for you now, when you are menaced by a maniac threatening to beat you with a truncheon? They give you a hug? Really? I suppose if I'd had my skull fractured, they might have given me a kiss, too.

             "GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM US, YOU FUCKING PUNK!"
            "COME ON OUTSIDE, BITCH!"
             Before I could deter her, my crazy female superior just walked up to Giant Doofus and began speaking to him in a calm voice. Seeing as she is also Asian-American, she figured she might have a slight bit more "rapport" with him than me. She was right. He spoke to her calmly, though he was clearly drunk. Maybe she looked like his Mommy. I heard her saying mollifying things like "Look, we're just meddlesome old people. Forget the whole thing. We shouldn't have bothered you."
            Giant Doofus answered in a normal voice: "Let me hear him say that."
            Female Superior: Well, he won't say that."
            Me: "GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM MY WIFE, YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE."
            Giant Doofus: "I'M NOT DOING ANYTHING, PUSSY!"
            Me: "YOU ARE MENACING AND THREATENING HER WITH A STICK, YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE!"
            He laughed.
            Had he so much as raised his voice at her, I realized I would have had no choice but to get into a physical fight, which, of course, would have left me hospitalized, or memorialized by my one or two remaining friends. Again, I yelled for the bakery manager---who stood there, still doing nothing---to call the cops. If you imagine that he did this, you have a vivid imagination. Instead:
            "You are interfering with my business."
            I asked my wife for the phone, which she handed to me.
            "WE'LL GET THE COPS DOWN HERE, ASSHOLE, AND SEE WHAT HAPPENS!"
            "GO AHEAD, BITCH! CALL THE COPS LIKE A PUSSY!"
             And, of course, as soon as I began speaking into the phone, the big, tough, privileged, amoral, greedy, stupid piece of worthless USC millennial shit. . .turned and walked quickly away. Need I point out his filthy, stinking cowardice in doing so?
            Four squad cars arrived ten minutes later. I explained what had happened to three cops, beginning with how stupid I had been for talking to the millennial garbage in the first place. I explained how my wife had heroically defused at least some of the bastard's insanity. The lead cop said this:
            "Well, he's a drunk fucking asshole, causing trouble, let's just call it like it is. He was disturbing the peace. We'll look around for him, and if we see him, we'll pick him up and see if he has any outstanding warrants. That's all we can do."
            I didn't complain, didn't stress that he had stalked us with intent to commit assault. Cops know the laws, and I don't, so I was glad they said they could do anything at all. But really, folks, "disturbing the peace?" Really? You mean I can get a weapon and threaten elderly people, and I will only be charged with "disturbing the peace?" As Scrooge was wont to say, "I'll retire to Bedlam."
            Well, we told the cops where Punk lived, and they said they would cruise by his home and take a look. The lead cop asked what our plans were, and I said simply to walk home. He and cop number two wished us well. And then cop number two actually said these words: "Do you need a hug? I'll be happy to give you both a hug."
            This is what cops do for you now, when you are menaced by a maniac threatening to beat you with a truncheon? They give you a hug? Really? I suppose if I'd had my skull fractured, they might have given me a kiss, too. Still, I opted for diplomacy.
            "No, I said, "but I'll gladly take a handshake."
            And that was that. Just another lovely, lyrical, uneventual stroll in the remains of the Shitty of Los Angeles.
            (Note: A few months later, I am delighted to report, this branch of Sunmerry bit the dust. I hope the manager is living in a tent under a freeway overpass.)
            For more LTSEWH's, watch this space.
            Annnnnd, for bushels and bushels of LTSEWH's, go to the store and order the two LTSEWH books! Do it now! Hours and hours of incredulity! 

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