Cool party. Like, what's your major?

The Saturday of Halloween weekend is the prime night to get ridiculously drunk. At my college, this is the night when frat parties are the perfect location to let loose, and abandon those inhibitions--and maybe a few articles of clothing. All are eager to gulp down free jungle juice--a hideous and deadly combination of Everclear and some variation of fruit punch--and cat piss that passes for beer. I wish I could say I was above this American Pie aspect of a college career, but I usually enjoy going to frat parties. They're fun and stupid, and technically free. So, why not?
American University is a dry campus. Thus our frat houses aren't on campus. Thus the way to get to these parties is through a ride system. This means a mass of people wait in a designated area, just hoping to be the apple of some frat bro's eye. Unsurprisingly, girls have an easier time with the transportation. But, with a 60-40 ratio of women to men, there are usually tons of cute girls waiting for a ride, and the brothers in charge of prioritizing pretty much have your night in their hands. So, basically, if you are a female and you'd like to get a ride to a frat party, and you don't happen to have any sort of connection, you're going to have to talk to one of these dudes in order to distinguish yourself from the pack as being desirable enough to get first ride.
There are some girls who are masters at this, my roommate being one of them. It is incredibly impressive to watch. They go up to these guys and just start talking to them, smiling widely and joking with them. Making their mark in the frat hierarchy. Last night was no exception. I watched girl after girl approach the guy who seemed to be in charge--a short Jewish dude wearing a red-velour pimp suit with zebra trimming, who used his pimp cane to point at groups. A guy who I therefore, unfortunately for me, could not take seriously enough to converse with.
But I realized, standing out in that cold parking lot and watching these girls, that I just can't really do it at all. I just cannot bring myself to attempt to befriend someone simply for the purposes of getting a ride to a sweaty party. I can't try to smile and giggle with someone who doesn't seem terribly interesting--a pimp suit? Really?--and who I don't particularly care about. It feels cheap and annoying to me, and I feel fake whenever I try. Also, I'm kind of bad at it. Since I don't see the conversation going beyond, "Can, like, me and my hot friends get a ride," and "Yeah, totally," I'm not too invested in a blossoming friendship. And why should I be?
I want to spend my time talking to people that matter to me. I just don't see the point in talking to douche-bags in pimp suits who would probably rather not be talking to me unless I seem like a promising attendee. And apparently my bright smile and sparkling wit are on permanent mute when I'm standing in a cold-ass parking lot, trying not to roll my eyes. I just don't feel like being charming, so I'm unsurprised when frat boys are less than enthusiastic about my intended arrival. This is clearly my own fault: I understand the system perfectly and I still ignore it.
But I just can't muster up the energy or gusto to extend my half of the conversation beyond, "So, how do you like Greek life?" I guess my secret misanthropy is out to ruin my good, clean, fraternal fun. Oh, well.

NYC

I went to New York, where the people are deliciously vulgar--you motherfuckin' bitch, fuck that, cocksucker can eat shit--and the streets are piled with natives running their routes like trained hamsters,or else tourists biting the apple, and everyone is walking on top of each other, avoiding the dirty bums who look you straight in the eye and know you, and the buildings are tall, but it's really the multimedia screens in Times Square that engulf you with their impossible neonety and moving advertisements screeching at you to buy clothes and watch television, a nightmarish prophecy that only Aldous Huxley could have dreamed up, and there's dirt, dirt, dirt, and New York City doesn't have any alleys, so the trash bags are on the streets and a certain smell takes over, a rich, ripe, real smell, it's sentient, it smells like humans, the waste that we make, the waste that we are, and there are still more people pushing you, God, there must be a million, jillion people on this street, everyone in the whole world is on 43rd street with you and they're all a thrumming, throbbing mass trying to cross the street onto their important lives.

When the sun goes down in New York City, life is different. The dark lets the dirt and smell live peacefully unnoticed, and the tourists with children retire to their overpriced hotel rooms. The energy levels from a boisterous nightmare to a quiet excitement, a slow and steady rhythm. Because it's cool, it's sweet, so sweet to be in a city at night and to feel the dark lift your feet. People laugh more at night, because they're done with work, and it's time to feel good, to feel like you're actually thrumming with this strange pulse instead of fighting against it.

I won't ever live in New York City. But I may go back.

things that are true

I think you take naps with finesse and
When your teeth click in your dreams I imagine you're eating
Something absolutely delicious.
Your vocabulary impresses me
And your memory
Selective as it is
Is quite astounding too.
You have bizarre theories
About bodies and people
And you like girls
A lot.
You don't like admitting when you're wrong
But you like being challenged.
I think you're a little mysterious
And you hold back a lot from me.
But that's okay, I don't really mind.
I like telling secrets in the dark with you
And I like cooking with you
Even though you won't let me do much
Wise; I cut my thumb wide open when slicing a pepper, and I'm
Klutzy with onions.
You say you're proud of me and I can't imagine why but
I'm glad.
And one time you told me you wanted to memorize me
And that you'd gotten my hands down pretty well.
Your hair looks funny when you wake up in the morning
And your forehead has indents in it because you sit around
With your eyebrows raised
Quizzical of the world.

you are not intelligent. you are not post-postmodern. you just suck.

Modern art is a horrendous exercise in self-importance. Yes. Yes, that it what I wrote. That is absolutely what I believe. Not enough people say it. This is because we are intimidated by conceptual art. It makes us nervous. We see the lone chair, or the wrinkled paper, or the cheese grater. We panic. What does a cut up piece of rope mean and why is it in a museum? I must not get it, we think to ourselves. But wait. Wait. The artist has so kindly included a statement.

"This work, which I call "Dirty Small Piece of Rope," signifies our increasing disconnect from humanity in this technological world. The rope, representative of ancient strength and fortitude, has been cut to signify its unimportance as we move into the Age of the iPod. It is now only a reminder of the way the world used to be, simple and straightforward--the rope that ties to our former identity as a people has been destroyed, never to be functional again."

Oh, is that what it meant? That's funny, I thought it was just a dirty small piece of rope. I never knew it could have so many complex implications. But that...wow. That's...thats deep. I mean, it sounds good doesn't it? And we all want to be thought of as intelligent, cultured people, and so we accept these ready-made explanations of this "art." We have become afraid of voicing, or even thinking, our own opinions.  In this exchange, we give up our own creativity and imagination. This is gross. This is beyond gross. Why should I let this schmuck tell me that a used tampon should represent woman's fear of menopause?

Fuck that. I call bullshit on the tampon, the rope, the chair, the cheese grater, the piece of paper, and all of this other shit that you found in your house. It means nothing to me. It means nothing to anyone, except no one will ever say that. Which is irritating and sad.

And for the record Jeff Koons, three basketballs floating in a tank of water is also really not art, and also do not represent "death, the ultimate state of being." It is just a representation of your extreme suckage.

happy birthday

Today my uncle will sit in the cemetery next to my aunt's grave and read, wishing for the infinite time this year that she was still alive. Especially today, to celebrate her 69th birthday. When you've decided to spend your life with someone, they always die too early, don't they?

I have a class to go to today. I have reading to do. I have friends to hang out with. I have movies to watch, and jokes to laugh at, and minor irritations to get frustrated about. I will spend today among the living. And I can't decide if it's better that way.

There are too many things to tell her. They're starting to weigh down my chest.

I should call. But I don't know what to say.

gol dang those white folks

I've been noticing for a while now an increasingly curious racial self-loathing in (younger) white people today. For a while it's been expressed as a self-deprecating look into the weird quirks and desires of "white" people, who are being portrayed as clueless psuedo-liberals who want to appear culturally aware and welcoming. "Stuff White People Like" is hilarious in its perfect specificity, and written with well-intentioned satire, typically prompting an "Oh god, that's totally me, dammit" response from a reader. It's not bitter or accusatory, but in it's own way manages to have a little bit of an edge underneath the jokes. 

I just stumbled upon another blog, "stuff white people do," which, on the surface, looks to be similar to the original "Stuff White People Like." On closer examination though, most of the posts are pretty vitriolic, slamming modern white people for embracing racist books (To Kill A Mockingbird was cited), being "afraid" of black people, investigating reverse-racism, denying the existence of racial tension, and generally just being...well, racist. The blog is written by macon d, who explains himself as "a white guy, trying to find out what that means. Especially the 'white' part." 

Judging by his hotly opinionated posts, Macon appears to have discovered what the descriptor "white" means, and it doesn't seem to have a positive connotation. The thing is, I don't think he's really wrong in most of what he says. But what is interesting is that he's so adamant that the people of his race are so ethically and politically backwards--and so, by heavily criticizing their faults, he's trying to distance himself away from the entire race. It's a sort of "I'm not like them," declaration; to what audience he's trying to convey this message, I'm not sure. But his blanket attacks on ALL white people certainly indicate some sort of racial self loathing. 

Enlightened white people--perhaps like Macon, or the writer of Stuff White People Like--don't want to be white anymore because it's not considered cool. The white people mocked in blogs are pathetic spineless wannabes, or else self-righteous closet racists. And while there's much truth to every stereotype, the people who point them out so wildly don't end up looking much better than those they accuse. 

In the end, your skin will always be the color it was when you came into this world. And no matter what your opinion is, that fact will always speak louder. 

Sparing Change

People ask me for money a lot. On the street. Sometimes they're outright about it. Other times they have a story. Most times I give them something.

I was on the phone with my mom, wasting time at work in the Loop, when this guy comes up to me.

"Listen, miss, I'm so sorry to bother you, but..."

I tell my mom to hang on, and I listen to this dude's story. Apparently he's from Jersey, doesn't know a soul, needs bus money but everyone downtown is an asshole with a place to go, and could I spare a couple of bucks? He pulled out his ID and told me he'd give me that as collateral until he paid me back. I didn't want his ID--what was I supposed to do with it?-- and I had some money in my wallet. But this is always a curious situation. Should I believe his story and cut him some slack? Did his story even matter? Fuck it. I had some buckage. I could spare it.

"Sure," I said. I gave him three dollars.

"Well, what I really needed was about 12 dollars, miss, but I didn't want to ask you that in the first place, I know it's a lot of money but I'm trying to get a bus..." and on he goes.

I check my wallet. I've got more than that to spare, but I'm not feeling giving all of it to him. So I hand him a fiver and wish him luck. He thanks me profusely and goes on his way. I go back to my phone conversation with my mother.

"Oh, you were so just scammed."

Yeah? Yeah. Maybe I was. Maybe he was lying about the bus, maybe he was hustling me. But he was still asking for money, which means he obviously still needed it for something. He still needed it. So who cares what story he told me? Why does that even matter? Why do we always need a reassurance that when we're helping someone out financially that they're in tangible trouble? People like my mother want proof that this person's car did break down, or they did get mugged. But why? What does that change? Does that make you feel better about giving away five, ten, twenty dollars? Because you're helping someone? That's the only time we can justify being generous, if we're absolutely sure that they have an immediate problem.

Look, that approach makes sense. We want to help someone in trouble. And when people lie about their situation, we get offended, like someone screwed up our charity donations. But I'd like to get back to the original point--that there's someone here asking me for money. And if they didn't need it for something, they wouldn't ask.

I dunno. I think the need outweighs the reason. And I don't care how naive that sounds because I never want to be as cynical as my mother.