2003-03-04 - 12:08 a.m.
Henry Cisneros over Diet Soda Pop
Tonight Ben and I went to a fundraiser for a local city council member, and former U.S. HUD Secretary Henry Cisneros was the special guest speaker. Due to the nature of my job as Austin correspondent for the Blipville Bonny-Herald, based in Blipville, N.M., I can not comment on whether or not Henry's speech uplifted or bored us. Maintaining the aura of journalistic objectivity at all times is very important, especially given that my dream is to one day become a Fox News anchorwoman � the "fair-and-balanced" equivalent of goddessdom. But I will say that during Mr. Cisneros' speech my diet soda gradually lost its crisp coldness and settled into a lukewarm state.
Part of my job with the Bonny-Herald involves attending these frou-frou fundraisers, to chat with familiar political consultants and meet new ones. After about two years of going to X house to toast Ms. Candidate X and Y manse to watch wealthy people raise bling for Mr. Candidate Y, I've come to regard the campaign-trail aspect of my job as an intermittent tour of the homes of the rich and progressive. The hosts of today's shindig lived in a grand estate with a pool and a view of the Hill Country. If not for my post at the Bonny-Herald, I would never see first-hand the interiors of such houses.
Sometimes I think that homeless people who live in capital cities should visit their local libraries and read the newspapers during campaigns, elections and the like. If they planned things out they might be able to take advantage of all the free happy hours and receptions and eat pretty well. But they'd also have to have a clean suit, and I don't think many homeless people find it very easy to keep a suit clean very long. $1 on food or $1 on clean clothes? It's not a very tough decision.Oh Yeah... Mardi Gras
In Pittsburgh, we didn't have Mardi Gras celebrations. It was too cold. But the Mardi Gras on 6th Street ��Austin's grand avenue of beer and blues and booze and tattoos � is a big deal. Part of the celebration involves young women exposing their breasts in the middle of the street, which I just don't understand. The women flash, and then average-looking or unattractive men give them strands of beads made of cheap plastic. The beads are pretty, but not really worth the trouble of flashing your breasts at a (typically) ugly man drooling like a bulldog, if you ask me.Sometimes mayhem enters this boob-and-bead picture. Two years ago, riots broke out because of men who went nuts at the sight of breasts. Last year, the local police tried to ban flashing, but some women staged a pre-celebratory "tit-in" demonstration to counter the insinuation made by some cops that breasts cause riots all by themselves. As far as I know, this year nothing incendiary has happened during the festivities, though harrassment and near-assault of women is common.
Though the boob show isn't my thing, and 6th St. the last place you'll find me on an average weekend night, I somehow end up amidst the mammaries at least once during the Mardi Gras week. Last year, I wore an ankle-length orange Hawaiian dress and walked around, shouting at the men, "look at this great dress! It's all one piece! Isn't that wonderful!" A skinny blonde fellow awarded me one strand of silver beads; I received no more.
This year has been more successful. Last Friday, after a bunch of us went to see the Briefs, the Yuppie Pricks, and the Riverboat Gamblers play at Emo's, Ben and I walked down 6th to catch a taxi. On the way to Congress Avenue, a main cab thoroughfare and route south, we passed throngs of men holding video cameras and pointing them in the direction of what seemed like the backs of other men. (Some of the flashers are very tiny and get lost under all that clammy, Bud-scented testosterflesh, making it extremely difficult to film them.) Remembering how much fun I'd had the previous year yelling all sorts of feminist things at the bead-dazzled ogle'ds and oglers, I decided on giving this year's crowd a little taste of my own Something Different. When a man anxiously holding a clump of beads walked by, I'd open my jacket and flash him the front of my crocheted black sweater, yelling, "look at this! It's from Spain!" or "show me your critical thinking skills!" Flashers received a different message: "Don't let the terrorists win!" All the way to Congress I spewed sarcasm (but nothing else ... it's not ladylike), and didn't once get a punch in the nose. I think it's because the revelers I harrassed just didn't pay any attention to me. The bare nips took center stage; they always do.
When Ben and I arrived at Congress I still hadn't received any beads. We walked to a western corner of the street and stood, waiting to catch a taxi. Many SUVs drove by. One SUV stopped and a bunch of guys yelled out the window, "show us!" So I yelled back, "Show me some fucking dignity," or something like that. "Oh, sorry," one of them said, and handed me four strands of beads. Now they aren't just any beads but symbols of desparate-man guilt and therefore very precious.
Jailing the Frailing
Associated Press reports that a 74-year-old man who escaped from Texas prison four decades ago has been caught and returned to prison. Here's the response from the Texas Department of Criminal Justice inspector general, John Moriarty: "It just proves, 'You can run, but you can't hide.'" But if you're a 74-year-old man, can you still run? At any rate, taxpayers will now have to spend $25k a year to incarcerate this guy until he dies. His original charge? Robbery by assault and forgery. So he didn't even kill anyone, and he got a life sentence.
�
�
Things are going to get a lot worse before they get worse. � Lily Tomlin |
