I wanna be like that

So M and I argued through dinner because he's a git and I'm a twit and because we essentially agree, except for nuance, also he's a thousand time more well informed than I, because he prefers histories and I prefer fiction.

But somewhere between the snapper and the second bottle I found myself in the awkward position of having to defend my particular faith and my particular morality. All the more precarious since my falling out with God, it was a red state/blue state thing and also general disappointment, that is, I would imagine, mutual.

Since I was a child I have been talking to God, or She/He/It/They. Shit for short. Or if the weather is clement and I am feeling expansive I might love the Pantheon. And why not. I like the idea of mystery, I like the idea of a force stronger than the ruddy peaks and more ravishing than the deep, deep ocean. I have talked to that energy, in buses and in bed, on airplanes and in the bath tub, and I felt it, and I believed. And then I stopped.

And I freely admit that it was a sort of childish punishment, and also because I had to stop and re-evaluate the state of shit and SHIT in my life.

Over dinner I was trying to explain how I am baffled by (oh don't, it's going to sound so precious and naieve) how you become corrupt. How many baby steps and corners shaved before Ken Lay. And maybe you think your path is righteous, maybe I am just as morally bankrupt, there are certainly those to the right of me who would think so. It is enough that I can freely admit to my foibles, though I wont list them here. And can even the lowest echelon claim expediancy as a means of justification?

I watched Crash the other night. And sure the critics and blah, blah, blah and narrative inconsistency... OK, fine. Flaws aside, I sat rigidly through the entire film, and was provoked. And what I saw is that the finer points of racism and the culture wars are quiet and insidious, seemingly benign. And it's the tragic smallnesses that pile up and pile up, that, and all of us, even we who prize our sophistication over the plebes (strike one) careen wildly over the meridian, sideswipe. And then I don't really understand how you could live in another country and not learn the language (strike two), I did learn to speak french in france if only to undertand what the boys were saying behind my back. Also why so Chinese ladies of a certain age favor perms and mixed knits (strike three). And why do a certain caliber of lesbian always where trousers and sensible shoes (strike four) Young black men everywhere, why must you subject me to three-quarters of your boxer clad ass, you are oh so, oh so ripe for pantsing, I don't because I am afraid of being shot at (strike five) . Ladies, ladies, you with the highlights and the Seven jeans, you all look the same, I honestly can't tell you apart, and why do you speak in your noses and carry the same purses, you shun food and for that I have nothing but scorn. (strike six)
Goth Girls, enough said (strike seven)

Anyone who waxes ecstatic over being born again or Rush Limbaugh (strike eight)

French bureaucrats, I'm looking at you Vichy. (strike nine, pardoned)

Russians, Russians pretty much freak me out, part of this is due to being a bartender in the seat of the Russian mafia's outpost in the outer Richmond. But they are armed and dangerous in Versace. That, and portly, that, and they dont tip. (strike ten)

And I could go on, and the strikes would continue and I will surely be remaindered to a special section of hell, since I didn't even get to the tards (I jest, sort of). But I am trying to get to bed early so I am not hung over for the wedding tomorrow.

You know what I really hate, dress shoes and white socks, or tube socks in dress shoes. Oh yeah and, panty lines drive me fucking berserk, I get fixated on a bad panty line and my eyes clench like a bull dogs jaws. It's bad. When I finally shuffle off this mortal coil I'll be relegated to Dante's seventh circle of VPL when I only want to be in fag heaven, if only for one re-mixed disco song.