There seem to be two kinds of stories out of California cities these days: filth and forbiddance.

As for the first, there’s the encampments of the dispossessed, whose population is allowed to roam the streets in the grip of mental illness, and cannot be sent to a place for treatment because “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest” taught us those places are run by sadistic nurses who do not understand how the patient’s illnesses are actually searing commentaries on society. Or the homeless people somehow got addicted to drugs – the details are an absolute mystery – and are thus entitled to shoot up anywhere, because prohibiting someone from jamming a spike in a vein in a playground would have a disparate impact on people who are economically marginalized and struggling with addiction. We can’t commit them to give them treatment, because they have to work this out on their own; the best thing to do is to provide free needles and safe injection locations, where they can incrementally destroy themselves in private, out of sight.

In both cases the real issue is the lack of “affordable housing,” by which they mean housing that can be secured by someone with no means of support who is incapable of holding a job, or spends all their money on intoxicants. Since they have no homes with flush toilets, they use the streets. Good liberals with “Resist!” bumperstickers sulk over stories about typhus-ridden fecal deposits, and wish the one-party government would Do Something. Otherwise they will vote out the ideologically interchangeable politicians and put in some other ideologically interchangeable politicians.

The “forbiddance” usually involves something performative and symbolic, intended to placate the Comfortable-Caucasian Caucus that is very concerned about the planet, right down to the yoga mat with recycled hemp stuffing, and learned a lot about the plastics problem when their nine-year-old did a project for the Science Fair. These are the people who book a vacation to New Zealand because seeing scenery qualifies as a spiritual event, particularly if the hotel spa has that thing where they put hot rocks on your spine while Enya plays (well not Enya she’s a bit déclassé now but you know what I mean), and while they may mutter “bless me Greta for I have sinned” they’re the sort of person who should be going to New Zealand, if only to tell others how the planet is beautiful and must be saved. They’re the sort of person who applauds the plastic straw ban and also has a few on hand, left over, you know, and when they’re used up, that’s that, no more.

I really don’t care what Californians inflict on themselves, but this gave me grim amusement.

I fully expect the Smoothie Consistency Act of 2020 to ensure compliance. For the children! turtles. It would be wonderful if someone calculated the carbon impact of all the blenders running for an extra few minutes, and discovering that the cumulative impact is equivalent to 40 airplane round-trips to New Zealand. 

They really should limit how many planes go there, you know. We were there last year, and you can tell it’s getting too popular. The people in our hotel were so loud and stayed up so late. You might as well go to Iceland if that’s what you want.