Sometimes living in California is a lot like living in California. The Whole Food crowd. The earnest. The fit, the organic, the brown rice, the soy latte, the supplements, peace, fucking love and granola.

I’ve had laryngitis all week. Either I have a particular throat-stabby burning rhinovirus, or the lovely, verdant hills are sprouting allergens all over their earthquake built peaks and valleys, or both. Fuck viruses and fuck pollen.

Universally, the folks at work recommended vitamin C. Not just vitamin C but the cultish little packets they buy at Whole Foods Market and pour into bottles of water. s Maybe I’m just too fucking cynical to enjoy a good, old-fashioned placebo effect.

A few people pulled out various viles of magical elixirs. I feel like shit, I will continue to feel like shit throughout the allergy season and/or the virus performs its little parasitic dance of birth, colony, free-for-all and death in about seven days. So it is and so it shall be. And, hippie cures of natural combinations of alleged healthy ingredients won’t change my fate.

I ended up in a joking argument about it all and about healthy food movements and organic this and that. What I want to know, what makes the chemicals you buy at Whole Foods superior to the vitamin-laced chemicals they spray on magically delicious, tasty cereals? I point out my youthful appearance, a product of chemical preservatives. Years and years and years of ingesting preservatives.

Not much to write or say. Prevailing wisdom says don’t write about the workplace, but it’s the workplace that’s responsible for the fatigue.

What’s a girl to write?

I’ll say this thing, though. I may lose the occasional job in a blaze of glory, but I kinda hate that I’m overall a goody-goody, obedient sort. I don’t steal, don’t lie, don’t rape and pillage. I tend to do my tasks well and make nice with the other kids.

I fucking hate that. Conscientiousness, empathy and ethics make you kind of a chump. I try to keep shit covered, so I invariably end up watching folks a little lighter on the neurotic workaholic scale cruise by unencumbered by a job well done.

M. has a friend, or maybe acquaintance, or maybe devotee, who I hate. I used that word advisedly, but in many ways he represents all of the mean-spirited, low, boring, unimaginative shitheads I sought to leave behind in my new life.

Boston is reputed as parochial. It is sometimes well-deserved, full of people with no concept of self-reflection, caught up in believing that they have contributed to the “Hub of the Universe.” Emerson, Thoreau they ain’t. Living near a college doesn’t make you a scholar. Attending classes doesn’t make you critical, thoughtful or intelligient. Proximity means nothing.

Still and all, in a gown town like Cambridge, you run into people who think their own farts are wise utterings.

Then, you get the other side, many of whom lived in the town where I grew up. Proudly, they proclaimed that they have never wasted time going to the city, because everything they needed could be found in their suburb 20 miles south of Boston (presumably at the mall). Not to mention if you drove there, you’d have to go through “wrong” neighborhoods, and if you took the train, you’d likely rub shoulders with black people. Perish the thought.

Books didn’t litter their homes, the regional paper was news enough, live theater was captured by television, music played from top 40, middle-of-the-road stations and critical thought was the sports guys on AM radio. They were the prime motivators for me to move from my suburban town and to head to the bright, city lights.

This guy, this moron, combines the worst of both worlds. Through luck and family push and some native math skills, he went to a good college. This circumstance makes him unbearably condescending when he talks about people who didn’t get the breaks he did or otherwise didn’t attend a major university. He believes that through the magical process of receiving a degree people become smarter and those without degrees are destined to uninspired failure. (The irony of this belief system is the very famous, iconic computer company for which he works, headed by a very famous, iconic college dropout from quite humble beginnings.)

He brags that he has never read a book for pleasure. He brags about his stock options. He claims that as a kid he never had interests or passions, he just planned on getting a good job to make money. He brags about his life devoid of pleasure, where he runs a mile at the gym, drinks only juice, eats mostly fruit and salads. He holds others in disdain for their their pleasure-seeking, once telling me that he thought wine was stupid and should just be banned. (Of course, he might have been saying that in jest, it’s tough to tell with the priggish.)

He is incredibly dull in conversation. I can’t add much to a guy who once started a conversation with “A guy at work told me that he saw a show on television…” It proceeded into something so uninteresting I couldn’t hope to pull the content from the recesses of my faded memory. Few good stories begin with anyone talking TV viewing, let alone if you are even yourself removed a step from that inherently passive activity.

He is incapable of discerning truth from fiction on television, completely oblivious to the lack of news content versus editorial on FOX or that Jay Leno’s monologue is based on the actual news. He has voted once. He bemoans taxes and the welfare state. In short, he is the perfect middle-class tool of the Bush state, unable to think critically and more than willing to accept the most transparent of rhetoric. (Except, thankfully, he does get political advice from his dyed-in-the-wool Democrat landlady. Never mind that she is insane and less than articulate on the issues, he listens to her.)

All of the above makes me incredibly uninterested in talking with him. What sends me over the edge, is his sheer bone ignorance, racism and homophobia. I have wasted hours of my life trying to explain that his experience of individual black people is meaningless and ungenerizable, gays aren’t sick (and don’t want him) and welfare recipients, homeless and downtrodden are not all lazy and/or stupid and sometimes addictions happen to good people. It hurts my brain, my soul and my heart to have these conversations, especially repeatedly.

The other night he called me out on his contempt of him. He was right, and it took him a long time to recognize it. In fact, I’ve spent many early evenings bitching to M. that I wasn’t going to go out if it meant seeing this assclown. But, for some sick reason, I think he likes me, has affection for me, respects me. None of those feelings are reciprocal.

After the evening’s fiasco, M. promises it will never happen again. It’s safe to say, I won’t be shedding any tears.

Do you think the parole board for Sirhan Sirhan were basically just whining in their heads the same as kids dragged out of bed on Sunday morning for church?

Whyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy did we have to come herrrreeeeee????????????????????????? Come on, I have things to do. COME ON. I want to GO.

He hates Americans and has no remorse. Seriously, can we go now?