Within about two hours this afternoon, I smelled and then laid eyes on two stout turds that someone had left on the sidewalk just around the corner from the Santa Fe Depot, took a trolley ride through some of the closest neighborhoods that San Diego has to a ghetto with a medley of hood rats and wiggers and also a grown Middle Eastern man (nationality indeterminate, IMO, but I don’t keep track of all nationalities) who was accompanied by his parents because he has a combination of upper-body palsy and severe mental retardation that causes him to make animal noises and spasmodically smack himself on the face (mom: “Shhhh!”), and got the bum’s rush from a pretentious, overpriced coffeeshop in downtown La Mesa for not being a paying customer. The last item is the only one that’s bothering me. I had in fact paid the woke phonies at Public Square Coffee House three dollars for a goddamned cup of coffee, notwithstanding the owner/manager/whatever-the-fuck telling me, “You didn’t buy that here. I’ve been watching you the whole time. I’d let you hang out here if we weren’t really busy, but we’re really busy. I’m being really nice about it.” Counterpoint: “No, you aren’t.” He offered to let me hang out in front of the building, like that was somehow a generous gesture to a paying customer who had a computer plugged into an outlet, so I told him, verbatim, to leave me the hell alone.
Thank God for Starbucks. This bullshit went to show that heterosexuality wouldn’t have fixed Coffee Queer. I suspect that this shithead at Public House (whom I absolutely will dox if I come across a credibly identified photo of him) booted me because I was carrying a small pile of luggage including a rucksack, like a bum, and he didn’t want my kind on his premises like I was a reputable paying customer or something. I had taken care to clutter as little of his floorspace as possible and had left space on the tabletop for at least two other customers to sit down comfortably at the same table. I wasn’t trying to make a statement by humping pack around San Diego; I would have left the lion’s share of my gear at the front desk where I stayed the last two nights or wherever I was planning to stay tonight if the logistics of doing so had seemed reasonable. It’s a huge pain in the ass to hump pack all over hell, especially when it doesn’t all fit into a single pack. No, that doesn’t mean that I should have gotten a rental car, a cab, or, fuck you very much for asking, an Uber. MTS offers superior styles of ride, especially on the light rail, which operates in the ghetto (in the ghetto).
Well, not really the ghetto, because San Diego doesn’t really have one on this or anny other cold Chicago morning, but there are San Diegans, or at the very least people who have spent too much time in San Diego to get a mulligan for their ignorance, who do not concede the existence of non-Aryan populations in San Diego. Hmm. I know one guy who moved to PB or some shit from the redneck-yuppie interface in suburban Philadelphia and came back east on breaks with stories denying the existence of San Diego’s brunettes, some of whom are responsible for the constant intrusion of fish tacos into his diet, to his great annoyance. It’s the damnedest thing, how the Mexicans all look like Pamela Anderson. All I can conclude is that we must give Kevin Vickers a Green Card immediately, not because he’s white, but because we’ve been getting all the wrong Canadians, and Alex Trebek is too busy influencing the culture of people who don’t leave the house to influence the culture of those who do.
The fuckers at Public House Coffee who told me to go back out on the sidewalk, where I belonged, operate under the slogan, “Coffee. Culture. Cause.” God help us. We must all be living in an episode of Black Mirror. These self-esteeming, sanctimonious phonies actually think they’re doing good in the world by serving overpriced coffee to flaming nellies who don’t look like they’d function for five minutes in half the neighborhoods I had just ridden through on the trolley. I was the problematic one, I guess for not having a receipt to prove that I had just bought their fucking coffee. Or maybe for traveling heavy and not buying one of whatever the hell panini and salads they’re hawking to Bougie. I can’t say for sure, because that shithead was not leveling with me.
This episode neatly, fearsomely encapsulated a lot of what’s wrong with America today: a perpetual security state whose hypervigilance and paranoia somehow cannot yield accurate profiling assessments informed by accurate facts; smarmy, disingenuous asswipes who kick peaceable, utterly harmless members of the public out of their very profitable businesses for arbitrary, ill-explained reasons, all using attitudes so vile and malignantly false that they ought to get smacked on the spot for having the nerve; a small business community that savors the smell of its own flatulence while using however much positive law it must to expel from its premises and even its neighborhoods those it unilaterally deems riffraff and blames for interfering with its painstaking marketing efforts; high-end restaurants and clubs where the influential can preempt other customers’ reservations by waving around tacit promises of increased patronage and exposure. Millennial entrepreneurs are celebrated in business journals for founding and operating hip indy shit like Public House. When there are people living in a wall-to-wall tent encampment and defecating on the sidewalks ON THE SAME TROLLEY LINE, something is badly, scandalously wrong. Coffee is not the cause that will fix that culture, dumbass.
Everyone living in urban San Diego County broke it and bought it. The homelessness problem is theirs. That shithead broke it anew by profiling me as an undesirable and booting me from his lobby. It isn’t just about me and my feelings. In retrospect, I should have gone straight to Starbucks, since I knew where it was, it isn’t run by assholes (unless someone like Coffee Queer is on duty), and it turned out to be cheaper anyway. The problem is that assholes who run good cop/bad cop games on whatever they construe as the riffraff and contrive artificial scarcity while pretending to be as charitable as their circumstances will allow personally drive the homelessness problem in places like San Diego. If they were actually charitable, they’d be serving coffee to bums at some rescue mission. If I were so charitable, I’d be serving coffee to rescue mission bums, too.
We have too many assholes talking the story of their own virtue in this country, and it’s worse in San Diego than it is some places. The church scene here is fucking horrible, for similar reasons to those that drive all the bougie status-whoring in the Gaslamp Quarter, the nice beach neighborhoods, and, as it turns out, La Mesa. Everyone at the evangelical churches around here seems to indulge in psychosexual fun time about the pervasiveness of human trafficking, i.e., sexual slavery. It must be more fun than trying to minister to their fellow San Diegans who are actually living in poverty on the streets, because that would involve listening to people who speak fluent English and use it to talk back, or talking to Tijuana streetwalkers and confirming that they’re about as bored as they look.
Getting naked and jackin’ it would be an improvement. So would riots by the homeless, I’m afraid. The meek aren’t inheriting a damned thing around here that I can see.