(warning: this is also a tale about the GDI reverse classist)
i come from a family of car people. we name them. they play prominent roles in all of our stories. i literally think about dave, about rhoda, about maxine, sydney, bob dole, the moosh, etc. with this incredible fondness. (kel: you can argue that bob dole's name is really lupe, but you know he had issues with the washer fluid.)
we listen to car talk.
i love hal, my 2000 insight. i especially love the gas mileage, i love all three of his cylinders, i love the clutch (it has just the right give, the right moosh)....
but last night i had an affair with stella.
i have read before that cars purr. i am here to tell you that THEY DO.
my aunt mandi loved her family. she loved her dogs, her cat named dillinger. and she loved her 2001 convertible mustang. six cylinders. the crazy color of green you will only find around 11AM when the sunlight hits the leaves of a citrus tree just right.
my aunt is no longer present, but she left the family an incredible legacy of story.
and she left us her car.
my cousin was gracious enough to allow me to drive stella last night. these words seem too mundane for the experience; this car begs to go on a road trip. she loves fifth gear. she loves the highway.
this is the kind of car who urges you to just keep going, to head west, you can buy a toothbrush when you stop for gas, put your hair back, kick the radio up, let's fly, let's hug the road, tell some stories on the way and smile....
i told you. in love.
so the above has some kind of connection to the following story, i guess, as stella was the mode of transportation, the vehicle (that is a terrible word to use for such a gorgeous machine) that delivered me to the meat market
that masquerades as an irish pub.
i won't kill you with details. suffice it to say that i was goosed and scoped out more than i care for in a crowded, loud bar full of spoiled, over-coiffed people who were openly desperate for sex.
i guess some might have settled for making out.
that's not really the story here, though. one of the women i met is a student at smu and my good sweet lord you would not believe the shit that came out of her mouth. she's in one of the top three sororities (yeah, i know. i'm using their language.) she's a strikingly beautiful brunette who has an internship that is going to make her a success.
and she couldn't believe that i didn't rush in undergrad. she asked "what did you do then at smu? student senate? something?" (read: how could you not be greek??)
i talked about reading and studying, the professors who mentored me, etc and got blank looks. okay. this girl wanted to know what i did socially. i told her that i was the secretary of the GLBSO (gay and lesbian society thingy) and she nearly fell down dead in that booth in that crappy overcrowded bar that is a fracking simulcra. her shock was so pronounced that i fully expected her to grab my heifeweisen and toss it in her own face to wake her from this terrible terrible dream.
and here is the kicker, folks. she literally asked me the following in full sincerity.
"there are gay people at smu?"
i'll let you sit with that one for a moment.
what kind of reality is she living in? and why on earth did she attempt to recover from her shock by asking me what said organization does? here you go:
"do they throw parties with drag queens or something?"
i am too nice. i should have told her that they meet to support each other because they are either othered or ignored by people like her.
sometimes i am too nice.
they refer to the social whirl at smu as a bubble. i inhabited that space for four years and i am still trying to rid myself of the anger i felt towards the privileged mass that was characterized by this lazy affluence. a disregard, nay, an ignorance of the suffering for other humans.
more on this later.