honky town

won't you take me to (trilling tongue) Honky Tow-w-wn!
won't you take me to (trilling tongue) Honky Town.

oh, wait, i already fucking live here.

before i continue, here's a cast of characters:
Karen: store manager, early/mid 30's, all around pretty nice
Lou: cafe manager, mid-late 50's, basically cantankerous and angry at life

so, i'm at the morning meeting and we're talking about shit that almost never has to do with me. it's a good way to kill 10 min. of the day, though, so i don't tend to mind. we're at the meeting and Karen says to start looking out for shoplifters and shit. apparently, people would take the book and leave the jacket behind.

here's a tidbit for everyone: the barcode is not the sensor. take the jacket. you went through all of that trouble stealing book, you might as well get the pretty pictures.

so, Karen is naming off some of the jackets left on her desk. a couple of Anne Hooper's pocket sex books and the new 50 Cent book. what happened next epitomizes why i hate living here:

Me: why would someone want to steal a 50 Cent book?

Karen: No, not a $.50 book, the book about 50 Cent.

Lou: You know, the rapper, Fiddy. Fiddy Cent.

Me: Yes, thank you, I'm black, I know who 50 Cent is.

(staff laughter)

Karen: Oh, you're asking why someone would want to steal his book.

Me: Yes, because he's garbage and so is his book.

(more laughter, mostly nervous, with eyes searching wildly)

Me: By the way, I'm going to tell all of my black friends about this.

what a bunch of assholes. i realize, in life, assuming is not a good look, but let's employ a little logic. i think it's safe to say that i know a little more about rap than a fucking angry, 50 year old grandmother from western Mass. Je-sus Christ. Fiddy. shut the fuck up. if Lou knows more about 50 than i do, i will surrender my black card. i'll start from scratch. i'll read Jet magazine and Ebony to build my blackness back up. i'll watch BET and fucking read every Eric Jerome Dickey book out there. Fiddy. just be still.

i was trying to explain to someone why living here sucks balls. basically, i need black people. not sold muthafuckers or over-compensating assholes, either. i need some chill black people. i need slang. i need Cosby references. i need to know that you've seen the fucking Cosby show (believe it or not, it's not a given). the thing is that i can certainly activate my white side and speak in Cracka code, but i need a break from it. there's a whole other side of me that needs to come out...and not solely for entertainment purposes. i don't want my slang to generate laughter. it's not "a good one," it's my fucking dialect. i once brought in my Mos Def cd and got through two songs before the dude i worked with said,"Mos Def doesn't like white people, does he?" boy am i not fucking getting into that shit. i took out the cd and Mos has never made it back there. Mos isn't even the worst i've got. i just can't relax and be me. i can't really do what i like. there is, of course, a certain amount of conformity wherever you go, but i've got nothing. that's not to say i don't like Death Cab or the Decemberists. i fucking love them. i'm definitely better for having them in my life...and totally want to make out with Colin. i also like Fatman Scoop, though. how do you rectify that? i guess you dance a lot at home.

i feel so fucking stifled. it's like if you loved meat and butter and accidentally moved onto a vegan compound. you can eat vegetables, they're good. i like spinach. however, snow peas are not curing your hankering for some BBQ ribs.

luckily, i employ a zen-like attitude with these people. i fucking have to. they should thank me too, it's the only thing keeping them safe.