Just back from another glorious weekend with Racist Grandma. After letting me sleep in all the way until six in the morning, she cooked me ham and eggs for breakfast, making sure to remind me that I had to share most of my ham with the dog, or else the dog would cry.
I made the dog cry.
"Do you like the eggs? I broke the yolk. Your father doesn't like it when I break the yolks, he always makes me recook them. He's such a kidder. I don't understand why the Blacks think they need everything. They all have nine hundred dollar shoes, and all that gold(!), and they keep crying about how expensive the heat is. But have you ever been to a Black Person's apartment? They all crank they heat up, and leave the windows open. My god. I don't get it. At least they get all dressed up and nice for Church, not like the Spanish. I keep telling the priest he needs to talk with the Spanish, they let their kids run around all the time, and they always spill their sodas on the floor. Who do you think has to clean it up? The white people. It's not fair. Do you know how hard it is for a white kid to get into those, what do you call them, magnet schools? They're all Blacks and Spanish. I thought Those People didn't want segregation. Oh, and the singing. I hate the way the Blacks sing in Church. It's shameful. Are you all done with your ham? Frisky wants the rest of the ham, don't you boy, yeeeeeeeeeea."
I have discovered that my body's defense mechanism is sleep. I'd be completely functional, and working on writing, or reading, and she'd start in on a rant, and zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. I'd be out for about an hour. But when I woke up, "And another thing, why do they drive so fast? All day long, zooom, zooom. Always The Blacks racing up and down the street. Shameful." Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
I needed the excess sleep for my return trip home, as I detoured to Worcester for a slam. Before the slam, I went out to dinner with a couple of friends at Crapplebee's. While we were perusing the menu, the teenagers at the table behind us were trying to remember the names of Hanson songs that weren't MmmBop. And then one of them said, "I just got tickets to The Spice Girls show in January. I'm so excited." Apparently, I detoured to Worcester circa 1998.
After dinner, we headed to the poetry venue. I debated just going to watch, but when I heard Ben was coming, with a carload or two of Hampshire students, I decided to make him pee a bit by slamming against them. I won. And, instead of going straight home, I decided to be a fratboy, and play drunken Monopoly with some friends until three in the morning. In order to be a fratboy, I could have drank some Budweiser, some Natty Light, a forty of just about anything. Instead, I drank Skittlebrau. Smirnoff Ice, with Skittles dropped in it, making it fizz and change to whatever color the Skittles are. It tasted wonderfully not quite awful.
I didn't win Monopoly. At all. I was only able to buy two properties during the game. I wasn't being selective, I just never landed on a property someone else didn't own. It was kind of eerie.
The game ended a bit after three, and a bit around six, I drove home with one of my roommates. I stayed up, banning bad_sex trolls until it was time for work.
During the middle of the shift, a bunch of coworkers stopped in. We were discussing my being caught in Worcester circa 1998, when one of them said "At least it wasn't 1986."
"I beg to differ. If it were 1986, I could have at least Pogoballed while people talked about the new Falco cassette."
None of them knew what a Pogoball was.
"You don't...I mean...they...they were these neon colored Saturn looking things. Two balls with a sort of plastic tray between them that you hopped up and down on. You don't remember?"
They didn't remember. So we ended up talking about other 80's fads, Hypercolor t-shirts, Jams shorts, jelly shoes, "Do you remember slap bracelets?" a random customer asked.
"You mean those brightly colored fabricy things with the metal rods inside?"
"I hated those things." I said. "The metal was always just waiting to slice through the fabric and into your skin. I hold the inventor of those stupid toys personally responsible for the entire generation of cutters we have out there."
And then the store got eerily quiet.