Christine had gone shopping and I was slaving away on her “git-it-done before winter list”. She didn’t trust me to wait until fall, and rightly so, because this was stuff I should have done the previous summer. As I painted away on the front porch, the sky became dark and raindrops began to splat around me. It was time to put down the brush and go inside.
Since there weren’t any inside projects on the list, I decided this would be a great time to take a nap on the couch. I’ve always considered taking an afternoon nap on Saturday or Sunday to be somewhat of a sacred rite. It is like getting a reward for all the hard work that I hadn’t actually done that week.
I can only nap on the couch because napping on the bed seems to carry a certain degree of shame and guilt with it. Of course, taking a nap with the TV on is even better. Turning on a football or basketball game (unless the Lions or Pistons are winning) to me is like taking a handful of Lunesta on an empty stomach. Before the first whistle blows I’m gone.
When the TV came on, it was another one of those moronic reality shows. I hate reality shows. I mean I really HATE THEM! I sometimes even yell at them and Christine will hand me the remote and say, “John, don’t yell, just change the channel”. The only problem is you can wade through a dozen of these reality shows before getting to something worth watching.
I was about to change the channel when the front end of a pimped-out, white Range Rover began to fill the screen. That looked kinda cool, so I decided to watch for a moment. The Rover came to a stop in front of a Beverly Hills fashion boutique known as Dash. The doors opened and out stepped three young women jabbering about something that had obviously caused them great distress. What horrible tragedy could have befallen these fair maidens?
It only took a moment for me to realize they were complaining bitterly about a homeless man that had the sheer audacity to stand near the driveway to the little mall where their store was located. They were terrified that their upscale Dash customers would have to look upon this un-kempt malingerer as they pulled in. Why did he have to hang out near “their store”? They even sent their cameramen down the driveway to zoom in on this guy so that we, the audience, could grasp the nature of this heinous crime.
What incredible arrogance! I was furious. But, being a glutton for punishment, I sat down to watch more of this twisted mentality unfold before my eyes. And it did.
It seems that these people belong to a certain tribe known as the Kardashians. Being indigenous to the Hills of Beverly, they are obviously wealthy. And they want you to know it. The apparent leader of this tribe is known as Kim Kardashian. Even though she is only twenty-something, she is a deep well of wisdom and knowledge that the others depend on for daily guidance.
The more I watched, the more fascinated I became. You have no idea what rocky shoals this family has to navigate each and every day. What makeup should I wear? Which party should I go to? Which club is the IN CLUB right now? Will Paris or Britney be there tonight? And most importantly, which car should I drive today, the white and pink Rover or the riced-out black Rover.
To add even more weirdness to the show, Bruce Jenner was constantly drifting in and out of these little dramas. You remember Bruce. That is if you’re old enough. He won the decathlon at the Summer Olympics way back in 1976. It seems that he is married to the mother of Kim. Bruce is a real-life Dorian Gray. He still looks like he’s in his early thirties, but you know he’s got to be tired from carrying all that plastic around that holds his face together.
I never really did figure out what Kim Kardashian is famous for. Other than being the daughter of Robert Kardashian, who was O.J.’s lawyer, making a porn movie with her boyfriend, and driving a customized Range Rover, why is she a celebrity? Oh well, it’s all too much for me to ponder.
A number of years ago, I visited a cousin of mine who lived in West Los Angeles. When he picked me up at LAX, he was driving a very nice sports sedan of Germanic origin. The next day we drove up to Malibu and took a detour into the canyon country. He wanted to show me how his car handled those hairpin curves. I was sufficiently impressed.
It seemed to me that all of his friends also drove upscale foreign cars. I asked him about this odd coincidence. His exact words were, “In L.A., you are what you drive”!
Well, I never did get my nap that day, thanks to Kim & Co. But I did learn a lot about arrogance and narcissism. If you’re going to be somebody, ya gotta look the part.
So Bunkie, if you’re sick and tired of being disrespected by the valets every time you pull up in your old domestic clunker. Don’t feel discouraged, there is hope. All ya gotta do is plunk down your $78,450 plus tax on the counter of your local Rover dealer, add another $10, 000 for options, then have it taken to a custom shop, where for another $20,000 they’ll give it that Beverly Hills look. Then, at last, you can get some respect.
Oh, and don’t forget to look down on those that are less fortunate.
