Undead P.S.

While I'm here (here being "online, playing with the blog", not "on the planet" or "still alive" or anything like that) I ought to go ahead and post the zombie painting I did of my dad (if you're confused, I'm talking about THIS).

It turned out fairly badass. I dangled my actual, from-my-mouth-to-your-art adult tooth from some black yarn that I painted red, and then pulled the yarn through the canvas and tied a knot in the back.

So here it is, with my dad, in all its glory.

 

Okay, now I seriously have to go get ready for my evening of debauchery. 

If we all could just admit that we are racist a little bit, even though we all know that it's wrong, maybe it would help us get along.

I went to the birthday party of a friend Wednesday night, and found myself involved in a discussion about racism. Apparently, the guy I was talking to takes things WAY too seriously. It didn't help that he was a complete and total hipster. He even had the Captain Hook mustache, and the cheap, tacky, fur-lined earmuff cap. Poor sad, cookie-cutter hipster kid.


This whole conversation started with a rather hysterical (and quite racist) joke that I found far more amusing than he considered to be in good taste. As we sat down outside and the conversation inevitably turned toward the awful, serious racism that can be found in the world, all I could think was that it was a shame that I couldn't just break into the song from Avenue Q, and follow him around for the remainder of the evening, yelling singing it at him.


Now, I understand that racism still exists in this far from perfect world. I understand that people have to deal with all kinds of judgments and assumptions that are imposed upon them by others. I understand that that isn't exactly considered fun, or right, or good. I mean, shit. I'm a white girl that grew up in Atlanta. Just like everyone on the planet, I know what it feels like to be ostracized.


(I think Jane Elliot showed the effects of racism best. She's amazing. Watch this if you haven't seen it. Hell, watch it if you have.)

Haha, the dude in the foreground even has the same curly mustache!

Thing is, I also know that things are only worth the value you assign to them. It's like art. Or politics. (Upon comparing racism to art or politics, the kid that was arguing with me went off. "WHAT?! You think that racism, art, and politics are all the same thing?! What's WRONG with you?!" Dude, the only thing wrong with me is that I lack the freeze ray from Despicable Me, because that's CLEARLY the only way I will get you to LISTEN.) If people feel a piece of art is worth $X, they'll spend $X on it. If not, the piece becomes worth whatever the next person that comes along is willing to pay for it. In politics, a politician is only worth the people standing behind him/her. Without the people that support you as a political figure, you're not going to be elected.


That being said, I feel like racism is something that ought to be seen as so ridiculous and archaic that all you can do is write it off or laugh about it. It shouldn't be treated with solemnity, or slight, inward gasps, or eyes darting back and forth, or whispers. That gives racism power. It allows the serious, offensive racists to feel they have sway, and are correct in their judgments. That's bullshit. Instead, people ought to stop taking shit so seriously. Life isn't about covering our ears and wearing blinders when things make us uncomfortable. It's about fleshing it out and learning WHY they make us uncomfortable, and then dealing with them. So either meet racism with a laugh and not a second thought, or (if it's serious/violent/out of hand) meet it with a firm "No, this isn't how the world works anymore," and change that situation.


I tried explaining this, but I think my logic made the hipster-brains in Captain Tightpants Jr.'s head melt a little. He started spouting off random words that had nothing to do with what I was talking about. Maybe he was hoping to confuse me long enough to change the subject. The last intelligible word that he used incorrectly was "existentialist", as in: he was an existentialist and therefore felt as though racism was to be treated as something that either doesn't exist or is far too horrific to joke about. Unfortunately, choosing to argue where lines ought to be drawn, with a perfect stranger, no less, is not existential in the least.

ex·is·ten·tial·ism [eg-zi-sten-shuh-liz-uhm]
–noun; a philosophical attitude associated esp. with Heidegger, Jaspers, Marcel, and Sartre, and opposed to rationalism and empiricism, that stresses the individual's unique position as a self-determining agent responsible for the authenticity of his or her choices.


So, you see, his disagreeable and judgmental words (and general attitude) go entirely against his so-called "existential way of life". If you believe that everyone, as unique creatures, has the right to think whatever they want, how can you possibly argue something that's so ridiculous to such an extent?


Fucking doucher (I'm so eloquent when people piss me off).

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

So, anyway, apologies for the lack of humor in this post. I just hate it when people perpetuate and give strength to anything negative, and then argue about how their doing that is supposed to help the situation. Why can't we just accept that everyone is a person, and that that's all that matters? Why does everything always have to be SO FUCKING difficult??? Ugh.

Well, tomorrow is my birthday. Tonight I'm being kidnapped by my darling TeriWife and SnarkMinion and taken to The Clermont in honor of said birthday. I'm hoping the rest of the weekend is just as full of crass, dirty, drunken shenanigans (at least until dinner with my parents and grandparents on Sunday).

Love to all. Best wishes and all that. And remember, Depeche Mode said it best. xoxo

Oh, The Clermont Lounge.

Last night was a huge first for me. I went to The Clermont Lounge (okay, so that wasn’t a first. I’ve been there a few times….though usually I go with my dad. Wait, that doesn’t make this better). Well, I ended up there at the tail end of an awesome, monthly figure study for Dr. Sketchy’s (the reason Daddy and I attend a strip club together, on occasion) which usually consists of 20-30 people with cigarettes and cocktails, situated with their creative implement of choice (sketch pads, spiral notebooks, easels, paint, graphite, oil pastels, charcoal, markers, whatever) around a beautiful burlesque model that would still be too hot to strip at the Clermont if her teeth fell out and she gained 50 lbs. It’s good times.

There’s also a dancer that’s always there, and she’s heavy and older, but she’s well-proportioned and is absolutely hysterical (as she took off her top, she looked back at the three of us and whispered, "I need my Geritol,"). She looks like a 40 year old Bette Midler, and has the cutest little, black, Mary Jane kitty pumps. I’m not sure if anything in that sentence other than the phrase “Mary Jane” is an accurate way to describe shoes, but I figured they ought to sound every bit as cute as they looked. And I think that’s right, anyway. Maybe. Probably not. Chances are most people weren't looking at her shoes, or I would've asked. Thanks a lot, nudity.

Despite missing the art class, Shana, Ariel, and I decided to sit down at the bar and have a drink. I thought to myself, "Self, Shana has the strange ability to get you more drunk than you're used to. So just have one sex on the beach, because it's late and you're already tired. Plus, work with a hangover sucks almost as much as sleeping through your alarm and missing work with a hangover." Well, after the first drink (that Shana kept picking up when I wasn't looking) I went ahead and bought one more. Two drinks shared between two people equals one drink each. It's basic math. As I finished that drink, the three of us were bought a round of shots. And then I was bought another drink. And then we were bought another round of shots. And then I was bought yet another drink.

Now, I am aware that I’m not an extremely unattractive person, but I have never in my life had a stranger buy me a drink. Ever. And ESPECIALLY never had the bartender drop off a drink and say, “This is from the guy over there,” while pointing at some wanna-be frat boy who is doing his best to look suave, like they do in really bad romance movies where the girl thinks the guy is totally lame and then he woos her after she splashes the drink in his face and they ride off to be happy and free on his private jet because he's also a secret millionaire.

I felt like there was some giant joke being played on me, or something. But then the trashy, 5’1”, 190 lbs stripper that was onstage crushed a beer can with her boobs, a move their #1 stripper (named Blondie) is known for, and I was distracted and forgot to worry about why I had two drinks and a shot waiting eagerly to be downed by my suddenly thirsty face.

The moral of this story? If you let your friend cut your hair quite short, and then go to the sleaziest strip club you can find, guys will buy you drinks. And when you start to feel self-conscious, backwoods dancers will crush an empty PBR can with their tits, just for you.

And nothing calms an anxious mind like a smushed can of PBR glistening with stripper boobie sweat.