She's Writing a Novel

"I moved to this city to break into acting." (I will be on this restaurant's waitstaff indefinately.)

"But what I'd really like to do is direct." (I'm an overpaid, marginally talented actress; soon I will be doing porn.)

"Eventually, I plan to go into politics." (I plan to fail at everything else first; then I will foist myself on the apathetic populace as a capable public servant before fleeing in the wake of a scandal.)

"I really want to model." (I don't realize how fat I am.)

"I'm shopping my album to labels right now." (Don't be surprised when you see me still standing behind this bar in five years.)

"I'm in art school studying photography." (I'm an over-indulged child with a camera.)

"I'm a writer." (I have a blog.)

This year's Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition cover was revealed this week, to some fanfare and considerably more puerile complaint. The protesting factions are predictable in scope, as there are only two types of people who might have such pressing concern about a prominant bikini photo that they need to come out and say something about it:

1. Women who really wish they could be, or at least look like, the bikini-clad cover model.
2. Men who really wish they could fuck the bikini clad cover model, or at least the kind of women who look like her.

Everyone else either doesn't care about popular bikini photos, or has an appropriate level of appreciation for them.

I do always have to laugh at the indignant women who claim that they would never ever degrade themselves in such a way; that even if they did have that perfect body and that youthful beauty, the last thing they would do is strip down and pose for a magazine.

Bitches, please. It's not like the girl is dancing around a sweaty pole in a dark, smokey dive, wearing only a cheap thong and plastic shoes while plumbers and truck drivers laugh and throw crumpled one dollar bills at her tits.

It's more like she's wearing $900 designer bikinis, frolicking on a tropical beach, and having her picture taken by a sexy European photographer. Between takes, her agent asks her if she'd like an organic salad with mango dressing for lunch, and she replies that hell no, she wants a bacon cheeseburger, and then tells everyone on set about how hard it is having such a fast metabolism. She gets paid a ton of money for smiling and rolling around in the sand on a gorgeous warm sunny day, and when the all expenses paid tropical vacation photo shoot is over, she flies home to her Hollywood boy toy, pricey urban loft, designer wardroble, and red carpet social calendar. In a few years, she'll retire from modeling with millions, and marry a billionaire.

The self-righteous ladies need to admit it; they're just jealous they can't get a piece of that kind of degradation.

On Valentine's Day, the Russian lover and I grabbed a beer around brunch time. We had no big plans, had just finished a morning of food shopping and figured we'd hole up at home for the rest of the day. We sat at the bar of a busy upscale establishment; I put my purse on a hook just in front of me and slightly to my right, and hung my coat over my purse. Fatefully, the Russian lover sat on my left.

I didn't realize my wallet was gone for another eight hours, when I got a call from the police who had recovered it thanks to a wary shopkeeper. By then the damage was done, and the thieves had already helped themselves to about about a month's worth of my salary on a few debit and credit cards. I try to remain optimistic that I can recover at least most of that, while I dread the next few weeks of beaurocratic hassles.

I remember which people did this. Their behavior inidicated that they are pros, and if I hadn't been so happy and worry-free that day, I might have been been suspicious enough to reach for my purse and clutch it to my chest. I don't care about black people's feelings anymore; not when it costs me thousands of dollars to give them the benefit of the doubt.

I've worked hard for everything I have. I didn't have a baby and go on the government dime when I was 15; I got job after job and then I put myself through college with job after job. Instead of going out, I studied hard and earned scholarships. Now I have a decent job, so that the government can take a chunk of all that work and sacrifice every paycheck and give it to LaQueesha who had a baby at 15, then another at 17 and another at 19 and another at 23. And when that check isn't enough to buy her the things she doesn't need but thinks she deserves, LaQueesha gets together with her third babydaddy Jerome and his buddy Tyrell, and they get dressed up to go out and lift the wallet off a love-struck white girl. Then they take a cab all over town, and load up on cheap jewelry and Coach bags and Old Navy and pimpin' hats and drugstore lubricant.

What's funny is that hardworking, well-educated black people are more offended that I look at them suspiciously and talk shit about their "sister" than they are that LaQueesha has decided to be a useless piece of trash and copiously reproduce with useless criminal thugs. What's funny is that we live in society where people will be up in arms when I call LaQueesha and her boyfriend niggers, but they will not be outraged that these niggers committed theft and fraud. Apparently saying the "n-word" is a bigger crime than any of the criminal acts comitted by these n-words.

I have noticed that African immigrants don't have quite the same conflict of interest as decent black Americans; which is to say, they feel no need to have solidarity with people based on the color of their skin. There is a restaurant near us that always has valets standing outside; we often say hello and sometimes the Russian lover stops to chat. The valets are all African, and some of them are from a country he lived in for years as a boy. One day as they were all talking, a bum approached the group and said to one of the valets "Hey, brother, can you spare a dollar for a fellow black man?" The valet bristled, and in a thick Ivory Coast accent said to the man, "No. And let me tell you that I am black, and he is black" (he pointed to his fellow valet). "He" (pointing to the Russian lover) "is white. But you are not black. You are a nigger."

The bum was too stunned to even protest. A man who was at least ten shades darker than he had not only dismissed him but completely disowned him. He stumbled off confused into the night.

I remember being surprised myself when the Russian lover told me this story. And he was surprised that I was suprised to learn that many Africans despise many African-Americans. And then he asked me if I felt any kinship with white trash rednecks; I said no, of course not. They just happen to have the same skin color, but that doesn't mean anything. And he said, exactly.

You are only as good as the worst behavior you are willing to defend; you are no better than what you refuse to renounce.