So the babies are here this week and no matter how low and dark I feel I always make it a point to keep it from them. No need to let them know how fucked up in the head I really am. I want them to enjoy their childhood without worrying about whether or not they will come home to whatever... I just want them to look back on their time with me as happy, regardless of the inner turmoil I can't seem to shake.
In order to help me fake the funk, this week I'm going to revisit old blog posts that actually make me crack a smile. I can't give you anything new right now because all I have is darkness and sadness and I think you've had quite enough of that, no? Shit I know if I was a reader I'd be like, "What the fuck? Either get a shrink or just fucking kill yourself already!"
But that's just me.
Anyways... back to the trip down memory lane:
Picture it, Brooklyn, 2006...
Why I'd Support Segregated Night Clubs...
Saturday night: the quintessential night for party animals, horny toads and alcoholics. You plaster on the makeup, squeeze your tired feet into the cutest, most painful heels you own, and head out for a night on the town. You get there and meet up with your girlfriends. You're all ready to party- everybody's had a shitty week and drinks are needed ASAP. The music is good, the spot's not too crowded, the bouncers are crackin jokes with you- it's all good.
Then, he appears, almost as if he has a radar on you: Drunk White Guy. You can only imagine what kind of geek/nerd he must be during the week, because on the weekend, with a little help from his friend Jack Daniels, Drunk White Guy is a complete asshole.
He's fascinated with your hair. He jumps in on your conversation. You move away and he saunters over again. You figure he's got a scorching case of jungle fever but no self-respecting woman of color will give him the time of day. But he marches on in his quest. It doesn't help that the DJ has decided to switch up the Sean Paul and Ludacris with a little Joan Jett and the Blackhearts and Poison. Now he feels empowered- you're on Drunk White Guy's turf now.
Finally, you can take no more. You're from Bed-Stuy, goddamit- DO OR DIE; you don't have to put up with this shit. You just want to pull out your box cutter and show him why he needs to stay away from you, show him what's really hood. But even with the whisky and beer in your system, you know that going to jail is not that cool. So you follow your girls out for a cigarette break and he finally gets the message. Drunk White Guy moves on to a poor, unsuspecting Asian Girl. Better her than you.
Note: This post was brought to you by my night at Plan B, located at 339 E10th Street, and by the fine people at Simone's on St Marks Place who took us in after we decided that going back in to face Drunk White Guy was not the way we wanted to spend our night out. They make yummy martinis, too.
*smooches...hiding out in my memories*
listen- don't knock it til you've tried it, ok?