Friday, March 13, 2009
Psycho beach party
I’m not pregnant!
Like not having any severed limbs, It’s one of those things that you don’t really appreciate until you find yourself sitting in the shower with the lights off, with nothing but one soggy novelty sock on, seeking counsel in your dead Grandpa Eddy, who would know exactly what to do in such a situation…
Don't feel tempted to give me the safe sex talk. There's only so much faith you can put in a thin film of latex, after all. And I'm an atheist, doubt is in my nature (self-doubt most of all). I did have a healthy glow about me for a while there...
Well, I spent last weekend binge drinking and chain smoking (just in case) and also because Emma, my gal pal (a term I’m trying to insert into youth culture), came to visit me in sunny Sarasota.
On Friday we split a family size bottle of wine and while she did the sensible thing and slept it off, I decided to take a shower to sober myself up. Somewhere between the suds and the alcohol, I guess I was feeling pretty limber because I attempted to do a little yoga. Somehow I managed to slip and scuff up the spiney part of my neck pretty bad. I thought for a second I might have broken my neck because everything was spinning, but then I remembered that I was drunk. Thank god for boozey clarity.
Saturday we went to the aquarium, where I am now a “member” (meaning I get the newsletter twice a year). The big selling point for me is the giant squid specimen they have pickled on display. Emma told me that if a giant squid is ever captured alive the aquarium in Sarasota has dibs. Since I’m a member and everything, I think that means I would be a partial owner of real live giant squid, so here’s hoping.
On Sunday we toured the Ringling Museum, where we spent the most time exploring the racial dynamics of the miniature circus replica. We were looking at the “backstage” section of the model where black and white circus employees were preparing for the show. Some of the black figurines apparently came directly from whatever factory specializes in creepily realistic and varyingly attractive dolls, but other black circus hands were merely painted a slimy greenish-brown color. You could tell that they had been painted because the plastic shirts and hair had also been painted over, blending the ugly uni-color from the torso up. Also some of the paint was chipped off in places, revealing a subtle peachy skin tone underneath. I guess nobody was willing to shell out the bucks to actually buy more than a few black dolls (I assume they up the price for ethnic diversity). They probably thought nobody would notice.
“What’s wrong with those negros, mommy? Their skin looks funny!”
“It’s rude to stare, Billy. Look away.”