NOTE: If you are easily offended by offensive things then please go somewhere else. I suggest or, you wuss!


Wednesday, March 12, 2003

I don't give a fuck about Elizabeth Smart.

MOOD: annoyedtiredcalm

BACKGROUND: stereotyperider "same chords, same songs, same six strings" (worth buying)

I know that a large part of this is my angry sober side - I was much more passive-agressive when I was drinking - but remind me again why I should give a flying fuck about Elizabeth Smart. About six or seven months ago in Utah a guy broke into a house at night and took a young 14-year-old away at gunpoint. And now, six or seven months later, that girl has been found, now fifteen, perfectly fine.

Ok, now, remind me again why I should give a flying fuck? Why the hell are you cutting into my Pokemon cartoons to let me know that young Elizabeth Smart has been found? Like I give a fuck. Like I care. Shit, I'm dealing with my own problems and my own responsibilities and my own bills and my own job and my own sobriety and my own romance problems and my own life, so why the hell did you just cut into my cartoons to tell me that some fucking little teenager has been found alive? Shit, she could have been found dead dressed as Kiefer Sutherland knee deep in koala shit in a men's restroom of a Denny's in Portugal and I think I would still not give a shit.

This is what pisses me off about this the most. You put an alert about this missing girl all over the entire nation, you get the local police in Utah working in conjunction with the FBI, you have all these newscasts focusing about the missing Elizabeth Smart. Pretty little white girl, blonde hair, blue eyes. Chick who'd be on the cheerleading team in the movie Heathers. I'm sorry, but if she had brown eyes and black hair abd brown skin, or if she were black, then America, who likes to think it isn't racist but for the most part is, wouldn't give a fuck about Elizabeth Smart.

It's the truth. It's the sad truth but the truth nonetheless. So, in essence, I'm sitting here watching cartoons and the American media machine just inturrupted to tell me, "Don't worry, people of America! The little white girl is safe. She is safe. No need to panic. We found the white person. Go back to your normal lives. The little white girl is safe. We now go to a live news conference in Utah where white police men will talk about how they found the white girl. We repeat, the white person is safe."

I say all this through the side of my mouth, however, since most minorities hate me.

This is a strange, difficult thing for me to talk about. Sure, my name is Esteban Christian Galindo and I have thick, brown skin and mappy black hair and a skinny Cantimflas moustache and some seriously baggy pants and I drive a cold blue eighties Caddy, right? I mean, fuck, if I saw me at the mall then even I'd watch out for my wallet. Through all outward appearances, I am a brown-skinned Latino guy, la raza and all that stuff. But I am a minority within a minority and that always leaves me on sort of the outside rim of everything.

I mean, sure I'm Latino. But I don't know spanish, I hate mexican food, I'm listening to a Tempe, Arizona garage punk band, I'm eating sauerkraut, I'm downloading Neil Diamond songs, I have one of my fingernails painted blue, and I'm reading a biography on Grace Slick. I don't speak a work of spanish. I don't give a shit about my car. I'm only 123 lbs. I don't really like Mexico, the place, you know? It's just not my style. I'd rather go to the mall and play pinball. I am a very original man. I'm my own person. I don't put up this false front of me being a bad ass or me having some sort of gangster street cred. Shit, I usually wear Hulk Hogan t-shirts over my Ataris hooded sweatshirt.

The other day I was helping these teenage kids find some books for their class. They were all tall and buff and they had on their gold chain hoopty bling-bling whatever shit on, pants showing their joe boxers, total gang bangers, latino Ali G sort of guys. I show them their books. One of them asks me if I'm latino. I say yeah.

Then the little slimey gang-banging Cheech kid starts speaking in this fast-paced spanish slang sort of thing to me. I don't know spanish. Never have, probably never will. It's not that I hate my culture or any of that, but people see me and they forget that I love and care about my culture. I was born in Prestcott, Arizona in a small little shack in the woods. Shit, I was the spanish population of Prestcott, Arizona. Then I spent the rest of my life moving from upper-middle class white suburb to lower-middle class suburb. I never had a need to speak spanish. So I don't know it. Simple as that.

So I tell mini-Cheech that I don't know spanish and he up and tells me, "Dude, you don't know spanish, you ain't latino, pendejo!" Walks away. That's that. I've been dealing with that sort of shit my entire life. I sit here and type all of this shit about Elizabeth Smart and how upset I am that they focus on the missing little white girl when thousands of young minority children that could be found with the help of the media will never be found because of the color of their skin, I type all this stuff about America not giving a rat's ass about the minority population when, in an ironic twist, the minority population doesn't give a rat's ass about me.

Strange how that works, huh?

Well, my mutant ability to send women running screaming back to their ex-boyfriends has once again taken it's toll. The girl, the nice blonde girl I scored with a few days ago, a week or so ago? Yeah, well, I was thinking that we had something special and that a nice, honest, loving relationship would blossom there between us. And she thought that she should give her ex another try. I think that this power of mine could possibly get me registered Professer Xavier's School for Gifted Children. Here's to hoping.

My friend Jay is back, finally, back for good. Out of the brig, out of trouble with the Army and the law and now once again back in my life. And he seriously wants to beat the living shit out of the Big HIM. And he might, too. And I would tell you all about that. And I will tell you all about that one of these days. But not today. It's wednesday. And wednesdays are my days. They're mydays, my special days for comic books and music and sodas and ice cream and toy stores and shopping and video games and whatever the fuck I want.

My days!

Jay and the Big HIM might beat the shit out of each other, and for good reasons, too. Strong, incredible, personal reasons. But the sun is starting to get. The white fence around my little backyard is starting to turn yellow and gold. It's warm with a small cold breeze running through the leaves on the trees. And I'm going to let that breeze take away all the drama, all the who did what to who nonsense, all the bickering and the negativity. And I'm going to take a nice, long, hot shower and let the nighttime roll about me.

So some other time, okay? I promise.

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