Trent, I am offended that you would label someone a racist for calling Grandma a “sweet old black woman.
I believe empathy is the heart of morality. In this busy ending season bleeding into the holiday cheer and smear, give a hug, give a smile, anything that is contagious enough to spread some fucking love in this place. XOXOXOXO.
I grew up in a place where getting to know your neighbor was nearly unheard of. As a girl scout, I would go door to door trying to sell some Samoas™, only to be met with security systems, angry guard dogs, and (what I imagined to be) people hiding from the threat of walking outside and interacting with anyone (I still managed to sell over 500 boxes a year, go figure). During Halloween, instead of having a majority of houses with the lights on, pumpkins aglow in the night, and patrons handing out mounds of candy to gorge on, most houses were pitch black, with candy left at the end of the driveway as a warning of a threshold not to be passed. The neighborhood prided itself on a strict and damaging version of privacy that prevented much friendly interaction.
It's midnight on June 15, and I'm at Bonnaroo with friends. We are at The Other Tent, where the anticipation is high for SuperJam, a three-hour Jam session between John Paul Jones (Led Zeppelin), Ben Harper, and Ahmir "?uestlove" Thompson (The Roots). All of a sudden, the stage glows pink, and a wall of sound free in ecstasy blows from the speakers.
I am fucking pissed off. Why? Let's analyze the dating "scene" at Wes. Let's say you go on a date and have a great time. You contact the person to tell them you had a great time and wondered if the other person wants to do something again. Unfortunately, it hits their voicemail message, so you just leave a message and wait for a reply. And wait. And wait.