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Me, drunk at a wedding of some friends...

In My Day, Hipster Boys Didn't Show Their Butt Cracks

Last week Kevin and I went to this new bar in Montrose called Boondocks because he has a Tuesday night gig with Little Joe Washington. I don't really go out much anymore, and when I do, it's to the same old bar I always go to (Rudz), so I suppose I was a little shocked at how old I felt when I walked into the aforementioned Boondocks.

Specifically, I had this realization:

Back in my day, hipster boys didn't show their ass cracks.

Now I'll grant you, back in 1995 you had boys whacking everyone with their wildly swinging wallet chains and wearing Buddy Holly glasses when they didn't even suffer from myopia. But we didn't ever, ever get a peek of their private parts. Unless we were really drunk and went home with them.

What the hell is going on with these 21-year-old emo/hipster/art school boys with painted-on T-shirts from their middle school days (which happened only a few years ago, for them) and then these tight as hell pants that are showing their ass cracks every time they lean over or merely bend forward slightly at the waist? I saw the bartender's butt and the butt of the sound guy. I mean Jesus.

I'm not even talking about overweight, ugly dudes. (That would make it much worse.) I'm talking about young, attractive men just out of their teens that, quite frankly, don't need to be showing butt to score attention.

Do they not know their butts are showing? Surely they feel the breeze when they bend over? Certainly a girlfriend or friend has noticed and perhaps commented on the situation?

Now I know when I was but a wee lass cell phones weighed 500 pounds and we had these crazy contraptions called Discmans that were portable CD players because iPods hadn't been invented yet. So I know we were deprived and perhaps for that reason we missed out on what might be the fun of showing off your bottom to complete strangers. And sure we were living in the heydey of the Clinton administration and it was a simpler, gentler time, and possibly that's why our young men weren't driven to putting on a peep show everytime they bent over to tie their Converse All Stars. But whatever the reason, you know, I miss that era. Because by God we had a little respect for ourselves. And because in my day, hipster boys didn't show their butt cracks.

White People Are So Lame

Why are white people so lame?

Tonight Kevin and I went to the Big Easy on Kirby to listen to Grady Gaines and the Texas Upsetters. It was a pretty mixed crowd, but the dance floor seemed full of totally lame white people. You know the type. The type that act as if they've never heard Aretha Franklin's "Respect" before in their entire lives, so when they hear it, they have to jump up and down and dance like lunatics.

"I feel like I'm at a frat party at Sigma Chi, " I whispered to Kevin.

I mean, I love Aretha Franklin, and in theory I love "Respect." But I've heard that song 207,334 times in my life and it's lost some of its magic (sadly). So why are these lame white people dancing as if they've never heard it before EVER? As if they might blow a freaking gasket if they don't get to the part where they can spell out respect with the crowd and then "sock it to me" over and over (along with the sock it to me moves...oy).

It's the same way with, like, the canon of soul songs that white people love to dance to.

The Canon
Brickhouse by The Commodores
My Girl by The Temptations
Celebration by Kool & the Gang
Car Wash (don't know who sings it, but it's the one that goes, "Workin' at the car wash yeah, doo doo dee doo doo dee doo)
Respect by Aretha Franklin
Proud Mary by Ike and Tina
That song where the women sing about prostitutes in French (Lady Marmalade or whatever)

Okay, so I totally know there are more, but you get my drift.

I know I'm not saying anything original here. Much has been said about white people and how we move our asses in this really frightening way when we dance, and much has been said about the white man's overbite and about the way white girls have a scary way of dancing that always makes it seem like one of them is going to run into something with their huge, gigantic purse. But it's on my mind tonight.

I don't know what the answer to this problem is. But evenings like this make it very clear to me why God invented punk music. You know what I'm saying?

What I Have Googled Recently

I have this weird pain in my right side, like on the right side of my head, my arm, my torso. But only the right side. Here are the things I have Googled lately.

symptoms of brain cancer
symptoms of appendicitis
swollen lymph nodes behind ear
appendicitis and swollen lymph nodes behind ear
symptoms of gall bladder inflammation
swollen lymph nodes behind ear and gall bladder
Britney Spears divorce

The last one is just to see if you were paying attention.

Big Booty

I babysit for my friend Melissa's kids tonight. Eva is 4, Elena is a little over a year old.

While I was getting them ready for their bath, Eva told me "Your booty is in my way."

"I'm sorry," I responded. "Do I have a big booty?"

"Yeah," Eva responded. "You do."

She then proceeded to use her hands to show me approximations of the booty size of every girl and woman she knows.

"Elena's booty is this big," she said, holding her hands a few inches apart. "My booty is this big." Hands a little further apart. "My mom's booty is a little bigger, like this," she continued, inching her hands out, "and Oh-ma's (grandma's) booty is this big." With that she pulled her hands apart the length of a ruler.

"And what about my booty?" I questioned.

"Yours is this big," she said, adding a generous inch or two to Oh-ma's booty.

"I have the biggest booty?" I asked.

"Yes," said Eva, "you do."

His `n' Hers

Books Kevin Brought on Our Honeymoon

1. A book about boys growing up in Belgium under the shadow of the Third Reich
2. A biography of James Thurber as thick as a phone book
3. Some book by Gertrude Stein

Books I Brought on Our Honeymoon
1. Some gossipy non-fiction tell all about the secret life of sororities
2. A breezy, witty collections of essays by a non-practicing Jewish woman with large breasts (that she writes about often)
3. The Devil Wears Prada

I am curious about what this means, other than the obvious which is that Kevin is maybe way smarter than me.

Grocery Stores in the Daytime

It's weird being off during the summer...I find myself going to the grocery store in the middle of the day. Mostly, there are a few distinct types of people at the Kroger at 1 pm on a Monday...basically stay at home moms, unemployed people, people who work the night shift, and...crazy old people.

Crazy old people, especially crazy old ladies, are so sad to watch...God, please don't let it happen to me. They have no one to talk to at home and maybe their kids don't come to visit them or something, I'm not sure.

They get into these long conversations with the checker or they just wander the aisles for hours clutching their coupons. Oh god, I just can't handle it.

Conversation the little old lady in front of me at the check out line had with the young, male cashier who clearly did not give a damn:

LOL (Little Old Lady): Well, it sure is hot out.
Cashier: Yeah.
LOL: I don't like the summer. I stay inside all summer long.
Cashier: Yeah.
LOL: See, I have very fair skin, so I have to stay in.
Cashier: Uh huh, yeah.
LOL: I like the fall and winter though.

OH MY GOD. Seriously, it's going to happen to me...because even though I'm friendly deep down I mostly don't like other people, and I'm going to end up some crazy old lady all alone who has alienated everyone she knows, just wandering the Kroger talking to herself.