hate jawas.

Not those little shadowy creatures with the tan sand-robes and the glowing bulb eyes. No. But I hate the ones I saw today.

The wife and I walked over to Juniors, the local breakfast/lunch joint that is our Sunday tradition. Came in and there they were – six teens sitting at a table, five of them with their hoodies up.

“I can’t abide those Jawas! Disgusting creatures!“

                                                                      -C3PO

The deal was that the Corrine merchants were having a shopping drive over the weekend, with wares on the walks, a book show (got an invite but didn’t attend) and all that. So who knows where these jawas came from – probably Nob Hill (Baldwin Park) – they had the air of easy affluence and jaded indifference that plays so well with pampered teens. So they sprawl for hours in the diner, sipping their coffees and complaining about the world-village that raises them.

I’m sure there are people who will complain that I shouldn’t hate people who dress differently from myself. It’s not that at all. I’m accepting. I can accept all manner of cultural differences (and people speaking Spanish does not twirk me a bit). It’s when people are phony, and they manufacture a persona of being some slumlord bad ass when they are nothing more than privileged white kiddies out for eats and sneering with their pieced and tiny-tattooed disdain at everyone else, that’s what I hate. They might as well dress like mimes or bishops or rodeo clowns.

Yeah, wearing a flannel hoodie when it’s hitting eighty (and you’re indoors, to boot), that’s stupid. And I hate stupid things.

Like Jawas.

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