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Tales of a Post-Grad Nothing

Saturday, August 26, 2006

Oh Virginia, There You Go Again Making Me Proud

In Florida until Thursday. See you suckers later.

Thursday, August 24, 2006

I Have a Dream

I did last night anyway. In it, Chris had somehow created a high-speed tunnel between New York and Rome, instead of using it to whisk us away on fabulous vacations, he was only really interested in the tunnel itself and I got jealous...like ragingly jealous. I know that there's not one, but several pretty disgusting plays on the word 'tunnel' that could be made here, but I'm going to take the high road here, mainly because every one I think of leaves me feeling oily and questioning how I got to be so damn vulgar.

To deal with my jealous tunnel rage, I somehow stomped off to what looked like some sort of trashy prom for adults set on board a cruise ship. Mos Def was my date. He, as always, was panty-removingly hot. There were many kids from my high school there, including this kid named Matt who I always used to think of as the Martin Van Buren of our high school since he was very nice, but never stood out for anything. In fact, I remember talking to that kid once (in real life) and thinking to myself, "I am not going to remember you or this conversation 10 minutes from now, much less after I graduate." Surprisingly I did remember that kid because a decade later he resurfaced in this bizarro dream I'm telling you now.

Mos Def and I are hanging out at adult cruise ship prom, Van Buren is somewhere across the room, and my illegal-levels-of-hot date whispers, "hey, do you wanna start a'kissin?" Being distracted by my scorching case of raging tunnel jealousy (RTJ), I:

A) didn't notice that my date was talking like a Beverly Hillbilly
and B) didn't seem to care since making out commenced.

My mom, who was wearing a highlighter pink colored dress that looked like it would be something you would wear to a 1983 wedding of two people you secretly hate (that'll show em), saw me, came over, and asked who my friend was. I looked at her and said, "Oh, Mom, this is Mos Def, he's a rapper." She gave me a look of disapproval, so I said, "He's also an actor. He's been in things like..." and at that point, my mind went blank. I could only name things that starred other black actors, not even black actors that even mildly resemble Mos Def. "He's been in Different Strokes, Hotel Rwanda, Pulp Fiction, The Jeffersons, Shawshank Redemption..." and I just kept going on and on until my date interrupted me and said, "You know, there is more than one black man in the world."

I tried to say that I do know the difference between Morgan Freeman and Gary Coleman, but I kept stuttering and couldn't get the words out. Finally my mom looked at my date and said, "She's always been a racist." Mos Def said, "I see that now," and just as I went to try to catch him to explain myself, I noticed that the whole crowd had stopped dancing and instead had mounted big fucking angry unicorns, that Van Buren kid sitting on one with talon-like feet. The dream ended with me being trampled to death.

I woke up crying.

Wednesday, August 23, 2006

This Is What We Do to Unwelcomed Guests

Just to give you an idea of how big this thing really was:

Rest in hell bud.

Tuesday, August 22, 2006

I just parked my car next to a man who is at least half naked (I couldn't see fully into the van because I'm comedically short) sitting in a van in my apartment parking lot staring into space. When I passed by his car, he waved and smiled as if to say, "Nobody here is doing anything sketchy at all." Thumbs up to you too dude.

Sunday, August 20, 2006

Twice the Parents, Twice the Fun (and Other Sitcoms For the Modern Tween)

Step parents are a divorced kid's consolation prize. Like on The Price is Right, sometimes the prize is awesome and sometimes it's utterly ridiculous, like a year's supply of dental wax. I got both ends of the spectrum and there's no time I really feel that more than at the holidays and during summer vacation.

Every year for vacation on my mother's side, we head down to my step-father's beach house on Gwynn's Island, located just off the Chesapeake Bay. That link pretty much sums up everything you need to know about Gwynn's Island since there's nothing there that really qualifies as an 'attraction.' Gwynn's Island is one of the few blessed places on earth that doesn't have cell phone reception or internet connections or television. Instead it has homey beaches

friendly dogs

tiny fishing boats

and a ridiculous amount of high-end bourbon thanks to my step-father. I highly recommend consuming said bourbon on the rocks while sitting in a hammock after a long day of fishing and catching crabs. Even when it rains, everyone packs into the cottage and spends the day reading books, playing cards, and talking trash. Gwynn's Island is the most fantastically relaxed place I've ever been. This is easily my favorite place on earth.

By contrast, next weekend Chris and I are going to visit my father whose personality can only be described by showing you this:

For both better and worse, my father is the biggest badass I've ever met. He's a true Man Engine if ever there was one. Hanging out with him is an adventure because chances are, you'll learn something you didn't really need to know like "you have a sister, she's 28 years old" or you'll get a bit of sage wisdom you can carry home like "if it flys, floats, or fucks, rent it."

Despite his rough edges, my father is also fantastic person to spend time with and I honestly think that if the situation were different, my father and step-father would be the best of friends. I have no idea what going on vacation with my father will be like. The last time we did it, my 63 year-old dad played 16 hours of blackjack straight and had to be carried back to his hotel room. The one thing I do know is that it will be an adventure, an excellent complement to the lazy days of relaxation Chris and I just had. Stories to come next week.

Saturday, August 19, 2006

It's absolutely everything it's cracked up to be. Well played Sammy L. Well played indeed.

Sunday, August 13, 2006

A List of People Who Should Not Have Attended the Dave Chappelle show, But Did Anyway

1. The guys who did not read the slip of paper that was passed out before the show that read in very bold print "PLEASE DO NOT HECKLE."

Yeah man, I know that after the show, when you're sitting around drinking Keystone Lite with your "dudes" Brad and Dru [sic] (who unfortunately couldn't make it to the show themselves because seriously they have another court appointment in the morning and if they're not there on time their moms might kick them out of the basement), they probably will say that yelling the word PUSSY at the top of your lungs every time the person on stage takes a breather probably was "pretty fuckin sweet," but for the rest of us, that's obnoxious. On the obnoxious scale, that ranks somewhere between the painfully obnoxious popped collar you're sporting and the blindingly obnoxious fact that every time you yell something, you slap your popped collar-clad bro as if to say Did you hear that one? That was all me bro! Brooooooooooooo.

2. White people who mistakenly believe that seeing a comedian of color brings them closer to the Black community.

It doesn't. If you're a white guy who bought a ticket to see Dave Chappelle, it doesn't mean you're blacker and it damn well doesn't make it ok for you to refer to whoever is on the other end of your cell phone call as "your nigga" as you walk out of the show and to your car. I don't know what my feelings are regarding whether or not the n-word should be co-opted by anyone, but I do know that when spoken by a white guy in unlaced shoes carrying a wallet chain it's a strong indicator that he's an pure-bred asshat.

3. People who walked out when Dave Chappelle waxed comedic about the vagina.

It's strange to see people who have sat through an (awesome) hour of talk about drugs and fights in which the words 'fuck' and 'nigga' were used a copious amount, get all in a huff once someone starts talking about crotch sniffing. That's like saying you hate Mary Kate, but loooooove Ashley. They're equal evils people, they're equal evils.

Other than that, Dave Chappelle was kickass and as the night wore on, he just got more kickass and my town just got more belligerent, irrelevant, and overall douchie. This is why we can't have nice things Richmond.

Wednesday, August 09, 2006

From Our Cupboard to Your Computer

Possible Racism With Your Molasses Ma'am?

Tuesday, August 08, 2006

Embarassing Moment of the Week

It's a three way tie between the fact that I was actually playing this sketchy, sketchy game (for work, seriously), the fact that I lost, and the fact that when I did lose, I was so taken aback by the ending that I actually screamed in my own home and fell out of my chair. Now I have a small knot on my head that's only made worse by shame.

A couple of benefits of living in Virginia include:

* Having amazing fall foliage
* An abundance of ham
* Not living in a place where you might get hit by a taxi AND cursed out at the same time
* Being smack dab in the heart of all things American

For those that haven't and probably won't visit "the big V-A," (as rapper Timbaland calls it), let me tell you this - it is, I believe, the most American place on earth. Besides having some major government buildings, historical monuments, Civil War battle sites, and Jamestown (which you can apparently experience the adventure of online here), Virginia also has a pretty broad cross-section of American cultural-isms, everything from a melting pot of people from around the world to red, white, and blue bumper stickers that say things like "Boycott France." Being located both in the South and just next to the our nation's incredibly diverse capital, Virginia is literally littered with (ear-catching grammatical devices and) symbols of Americanism, no matter what your definition of America may be.

Yesterday the boyfriend and I packed it up, packed it in and headed to Williamsburg, VA, home of the tri-cornered hat, an event called The Scoop on Poop, a World War II children's summer camp in which "Recruits will learn military history and participate in drills and battles. Equipment includes toy rifle, helmet and knapsack," and a good friend who recently moved from Dekalb, Illinois to a place on Patriot Lane in one of the most patriotic places in the country. Tying in with the theme of these colors not running, we decided to take in a greasy American meal at one of the approximately 27,000 pancake houses located in Williamsburg (seriously, I have no idea why there are so many damn pancake houses in this town. It's like one pancake house for every three people.). <--- (I also have no idea which side of the parentheses the period is supposed to go.). <---- (There it is again.).

The only way Mama Steve's House of Pancakes could be more American is if it had been built out of bald eagles and located actually inside of the rotting corpse of George Washington. We were ready to fill our bellies with buttery, syrup-covered goodness. We were not ready to be served by women begrudgingly dressed in colonial garb who looked like they have been living since Jamestown was first founded. Getting served by our pancake wench, eating artery-clogging food with friends, suspiciously eyeing the "plantation platter" of creamed chipped beef being served to the table next to us, and doing it all while listening to what sounded like a Michael Bolton cover of something by The Police was like a rush of all things American all at once. Maybe it was the awkward ambiance. Maybe the even awkwarder (word choice) chalice/mug combos we were given for coffee. Whatever it was, Mama Steve's delicate combination of mediocrity, semi-tackiness, and butter-soaked food was somehow the perfect setting for reconnecting with a person and a place I haven't seen in a very long time. Driving home on wide, open roads past lush greenery and an SUV with a pair of plastic testicles hanging off the back of it, all I could think was "God bless you Mama Steve's House of Pancakes and God bless the U.S. A."

Saturday, August 05, 2006

His Other Bitch

Wednesday, August 02, 2006

Walker's World

Before he became an internet sensation/joke, Chuck Norris was just a simple man with a powerful beard that played a justice-dishing Texas ranger on television. I loved that justice-dishing Texas ranger on television, so when the boyfriend's brother was given the final season of the greatest awesomely awful show to ever grace television, I basically "borrowed" that sucker as quickly as I could get my mitts on it.

Unlike my feelings for most people, my love for Walker, Texas Ranger is pure, unfettered, and never in short supply. Love isn't the right word to describe it. I feel the same pull towards Walker, Texas Ranger that middle-aged suburban moms feel towards my bald, kitchen-handy boyfriend, that my grandmother feels towards Bill O'Reilly, that my brother in law feels towards The Stones (capital T, capital S). Without any hint of pseudo-irony or sarcasm, it's fair to say that I don't just love Walker, I'm involved with Walker on what can only be classified as a sublime level.

I come back to Walker time and time again because unlike real life people, you can always count on Walker...to show up every time I pop in the DVD...to say something so outlandishly obvious it makes me feel like I must be inept for NOT narrating my own life...to dispense justice with roundhouse kicks to the face...to save humanity from a rash of absurd threats (no joke, Walker and the team of Rangers seriously do face the threat of ebola in the final season...who knew that Texas in the mid-90's was so damn dangerous?)...to constantly tow the line between well-kept and homeless-looking...to sport the bolo tie like it's on its way back...to band together with a racially diverse group of motivated rangers to keep the world, or at least the lonestar state, safe, clean, happy, healthy, and above all, morally uncompromised.

Watching Walker is like watching an action film that feature Nazis - In a world of Nazis and drug-smugglin Texans, there can be no moral ambiguity. In Walker's world, bad guys are bad without question. They never turn good. They never make you question your own ethics. They're just bad and there were all born that way and MUST be stopped, usually with a few face-meltingly sweet moves delivered by a surprisingly small man with the ferocity of a puma bubbling somewhere deep inside him. Walker, Texas Ranger sort of gives me hope that one day I can fulfill my dream of living in a sickeningly sweet uncomplicated world completely devoid of neurotic thoughts like "How is it that I've managed to waste the vast majority of my days on earth?" and "Why do my legs always look like tiny, white sausages?"

In Walker's World, good always prevails over evil, the answers to life-altering questions are clear, and nobody ever freaks out over the what if, the hypothetical, or the unimportant. Some people call it living by the frontier code. Walker just calls it the way we were meant to be.