The apartment mate, who is an innocent little middle aged Cantonese American girl, likes watching trash teevee about white women elsewhere in the country. Pretentious vulgar women. And she talks.
"OMG, I can't believe how big some of those breasts are!"
"These women are just awful; it's fabulous!"
"This is so white people!"
The women in question are all American rich bitches. So it's quite utterly fascinating for a Cantonese girl who has never lived further than six blocks away from Chinatown. Though locally born. Apparently exposure to me didn't quench her curiosity about how white America lives. The America that has fake boobs (her words) and tiny little perfect noses (plastic surgery).
I have no boobs (what with being male) and my nose is normal.
Pronounced.
Sometimes the trash women have husbands. Who are perfect for them.
"What the hell! Why is he trying on such poofy-ass shoes?!?"
Neither of us would want to move to the suburbs; we need to be close to Chinatown. Me because I need access to all the Indonesian, Chinese, and Dutch ingredients cheaply available a few blocks away, her because suburbs are where all the crazy cannibalistic white women live, earth mothers and free spirits, it's kind of like Vietcong territory, and there's howling at night.
Horrible things happen there. Strange ghastly things.
Very white things.
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THIS POST ISN'T ABOUT WOMEN
There are several artists rolling over in their graves right now. One or two aren't dead yet, but never mind. Rolling. Among them Frank ...
3 comments:
Crap telly is useful, in an anthropological sort of way. Back in the ancient days when I was studying patristics and medieval history it was rather interesting to watch talk shows (reality television, as it is now, was in its infancy) and the humanity that voluntarily paraded itself therein.
"Lest we forget," we shuddered, then applied ourselves to Augustine, Ambrose, Tertullian, and partaking of exotic cheroot.
Then I found that university studies cannot prevent one from descending into mental health housing, food stamps, Medicaid, and hoping for a spot on the Section 8 waiting list and a menial job.
Fortuna is a bitch.
And that, Lady Ignatia, would make a great reality show by itself.
Instructional.
Please understand, Sir BoTH, that the idea has certainly crossed my mind. Unfortunately it is prevented in many places by concerns of exploitation, as well as censorship (mentally ill folk partake in tobacco at something like double the going rate, can't have mad people on the telly enjoying their cigarettes).
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