I went and saw the brilliant Funny But Mean last night, supporting the wonderful BFF, along with my good pals Richard, Ryan and Nacho. Conveniently, FBM takes place at the Exit Theater, deep in the middle of the Tenderloin. And after the hilarious show which all of you bitches missed, I had to walk myself back to my car, past "hotel" after "hotel", all of which seemed to have signs in their front windows which read, "Lomax Hotel is NOT a Hotel. Residents ONLY!"
It was very Josh Baskin.
Needless to say, there were large groups of people in varying stages of undress in front of each and every "hotel" and ALL of them had something to say to and/or about me and my freshly washed hair.
"Girl, where you think you are?"
Um, I think I'm in the ghetto, jammie pants. Unlike you, who thinks we're at a slumber party.
"Hey! Smile at me!"
I don't want to make you jealous of me and my many years of dental care.
"Where you goin', baby. Buy me some dinner."
I'm going home. To my house. Where people just quietly mug you as opposed to openly taunt you and then erupt into breathy laughter.
My ghetto invloves lots of broken car windows and lonely hobos passed out in doorways. THIS ghetto, last night's ghetto...well that's a whole different ballgame. People openly wander the streets, in scantically clad gangs having one big, cracked on, obnoxious, scary, dominant shindig. And I waded through them alone, clutching my knock-off under one arm and my virginal innocence under the other...