Tuesday, July 13, 2010

inspired by lawanda (and a returning sense of peace)

in the spirit of temperance and capital m Maturity, this is not in fact going to be a post subtitled "and that's how much fuck wicker park."

this will not be a post about the recent miss wicker park pageant and you will not find me besmirching anyone's fuckstupid good (self-assigned nick)name here. this is a slander-free zone.

furthermore, i will assume that the young father in the dockers shooting eye daggers at me while i was smoking outside of olivia's market was a decent guy, an Every Man in khaki pants, a concerned citizen. i will not comment on the fact that he walked out of olivia's market with a goddess and the grocer bag and i respect his right to eyeshank me for indulging my filthy habits in a public space. live local, guys.

it does not upset me in the least that wicker park has single handedly created and perpetuated the belief that good mexican food is wholly contingent on the availability of freshly butchered pork belly. this is primarily because i do in fact recognize the currency of pork belly tacos in an economy like summer, and also because i've decided to allow others to be right when they tell me exactly how mexican i am or am not. i don't want to fight, white friends. you're right. you're always right. my spanish is miserable and my cultural identity a gimmick greater even than whiskey and tacos. go fuck yourself.  you are right.

this is not a post about that's how much fuck wicker park because 60647 is a series of numbers that signify nothing about a person's value as a human being or a friend, because assholes are everywhere, and because - let's stop with all this joking! -  i'm not about to stop going to big star.

what this is is the inaugural post in our new series, "neighborhood pageantry and 'accidental' performance art: a living poem."

welcome.

1 comment:

CARRIE said...

it's really typical and sweet to track text messages.