Orange Not Black cont'd. . . .

It’s all an illusion of course, the milk & honey-bountiful mythology of a sun drenched, ocean rimmed utopia just north of Mexico. In actuality the most populous state in the union (38.8 million and counting) is a land of parallel universes: the “haves” and those whose job it is to serve them- a multitudinous mulch of mainly Spanish speaking illegal immigrants and their families hustling like crazy to remain. They’re washing the produce and chopping it up in the back of Whole Foods and keeping those hacienda bathrooms spiffy. Honestly, the whole thing makes me nervous, fodder for a revolution and Viva Zapata!

Okay, perhaps I am exaggerating, but if not a bona fide armed revolt, then surely a wagon load of resentment with a little middle class guilt thrown in on the side from those folk neither rich nor poor but intent on saving the world. In truth it’s a jungle of self-absorbed tummy tucks and ubiquitous churches in SoCal, inspired evangelical aphorisms of inanity and itinerant lost souls wandering in and out from other parts of the great land. And just to note, too much sun also has been proven to melt the imagination and dim one’s sense of heightened consciousness, making individuals prone to Camus-like moments where suddenly all they want to do is obliterate the first person they see after walking the beach on an extremely hot day.

Or perhaps my dim, over-analytical east coast view simply has gotten the better of me. Nonetheless, the not so hidden hillside hideaways of SoCal, egregious, stupendous opulence tended to by an underclass of underpaid house cleaners and overworked gardeners sit prominently on crests of potential mudslides in places like Laguna, whose name sounds like “iguana.”  

I’m convinced there are definite underpinnings of Tennessee Williams behind those dreamlike, hillside “cottages” on which the ultra violet light shines so relentlessly; either that, or I’ve read and/or seen far two many mid-twentieth century dramas that reveal the horror of it all and the moral destitution of humankind in general. Perhaps I’ve witnessed too many movies like the Perry Mason episode where the brakes mysteriously give out on a car perilously careening down the Pacific Coast highway. That image combined with the many tales of post modern spiritual destitution and millennium nihilism constitute serious recipes for doubt! Dreamers still may look westward to the land of the golden sun, but the world has changed and have you ever asked yourself why Turgenev is making such a resurgence with book groups these days? Have they even heard of Turgenev in some of those far flung outposts of the empire?

Just to clarify, in truth I’m not a philosopher, a social reformer or latter day suffragette and still have not even acquired one of those bumper stickers that query, “Are you ready for Hillary?” My utopian fantasies always have grappled with animal farm moments of deep cynicism.  Perhaps I overstate the case or simply do not cleave to giant representations of Mickey Mouse and it’s just not my scene there. . . .

So in closing, nothing more to say except th-th-th-that’s all folks!