Musing: Isolation, Alienation, and the Portentous Populate

So, over the past few days I have made quite an ass out of myself. I will begin with two days ago.

This past Sunday, my mother was invited to a large social gathering at the home (I should say compound) of two Louisville elites. It was a brunch. Catered by one of the most "hip" restaurants in town. These two chosen ones own this restaurant. These two also own the avant-garde hotel in which the restaurant is located. My mother dragged me along with her. Given that my mother is in her fifties, it goes without saying that she has few friends. The only positive correlations with age are liver spots and prescriptions; everything else that is good about life slowly diminishes.

Anyway, we get there and I know I'm out of my league when I see that they have a buffalo farm. And that they own an island on the Ohio River. Oh, and that parts of their palacial estate date back to the late 18th century. And that they have a chandelier made of pills and syringes. Perhaps it's their statement, or I should say another's statement that they bought, that drugs have been glamorized and are now a luxury to the upper echelon of society. Oh, how culturally aware they are.

So we arrive, and I feel completely out of place. Short, pink faced, and balding men in Burberry run rampant throughout the manicured lawn, their porky fingers holding tightly to their Bloody Marys. Their wives flock in circles, heavily sprayed and perfumed, coral lipstick smeared all over their Botox-ed faces. I presume they were speaking about various charity events they held, Darfur, or other culturally relevant issues. That, or who gave them their most recent rhinoplasty. Both involve suffering.

I felt the heat almost immediately. I was not wearing Armani, and you could not smell my perfume from a mile away, and no, my necklace was not from Tiffany's...I didn't even wear a necklace. My oxford had wrinkles from the ride in the station wagon, and my pants were not tailored by an old Vietnamese woman. My mother wasn't much better. Again, she didn't know many people. So, in order to distract ourselves from the fact that we were not nearly as sophisticated as the other ostentatious party guests, we pretended to admire their modern "art" collection. In other words, we looked at black and white photographs of scrotums.

However, my mother did find a familiar face; her publisher. So she was whisked away, and I was left by my lonesome in front of an Asian penis. Or at least I assume it was Asian. I will leave that one to you all. By myself, I was able to spectate. The denizens were quite interesting. Men and women grouped in circles, strategically placing themselves by mirrors. Or actually, anything that had a reflection so they could see their surgically perfected bodies. Every so often, and by "often" I mean every few minutes, I observed them looking to the mirror, smiling smugly, and returning to their mindless banter. The artificial laughter made my ears begin to bleed. I had no one of whom to speak, and I already checked my phone several times pretending to text others. I even did text others, alas no one responded. Mainly because no one under 20 wakes before 10 AM on a weekend. Fuck.

Finally, I manage to make my way to the kitchen; food is never a fair weather friend. While stuffing my face with currant scones, I finally speak to a guest. And he's nice! He even asks me if I'd like anything else to eat or drink! And then, I realize that he is a server. I am not ashamed to admit it, I resorted to hanging out with the hired help. And we had a great time. Eventually, Terrance and I explore the rest of the "humble abode." The master bathroom looked like it should be in Architectural Digest; 10-foot photo of 8 year-old nude girl and all!

Eventually, brunch was officially "served" and the erudites were eager for arugula. We made our way downstairs, or, I should say, Terrance made his way downstairs. I, on the other hand, fell. That is right. My 110 pound body hit the wooden stairs with a loud SMACK, and I took a tumble right to the shiny shoes of...the lieutenant governor. I shuddered, and turned redder than his Bloody Mary. The urbane frowned, and continued to eat their crepes. I found my mother, grabbed her by the wrist, and made my exit.

The alienation and isolation doesn't stop there, folks! Tonight was another prime example. Along with two of my fabulous and feminine coworkers, I went to see a band perform at a local art venue. You know what that means: body art and B.O.

I was not disappointed.

So we arrive, and already we're out of place. All three of us are smiling and laughing. None of our clothes are from Goodwill, none of us smoke, and the worst: none of us came on bikes. Or, maybe it wouldn't be so terrible if we drove there in a Volvo or Volkswagen. Alack, I drive a silver Toyota. But I was listening to Royskopp! That should count for something.

The air of pretension was almost as potent as the artsy scent emitted from the venue. Think cigarettes, patchouli, and a certain bodily musk. Dilated and bloodshot eyes penetrated my epidermis and I knew then that I was not cool enough. I was not high, I was not smelly, my hair was not short and greasy, and my cordurouys weren't cut off so they wouldn't get caught on my bike. Actually, I wasn't even wearing pants, I was wearing a skirt from Forever21.

Eventually, everyone filed in to industrial chic venue. Suffice it to say, protest pieces adorned the walls like ornaments on a Christmas tree. Fuck fascism, dude. Fuck conformity too, man. Yeah, let's fuck conformity and the Dude together, dude. Alright. Hey man, wanna smoke and listen to some Modest Mouse? Nah, man. They totally sold out. Yeah, that's right. Let's go yell into an eight-track and step on a guitar and do an arpeggio on a bass. Sweet, dude. That's so subversive. Yeah, and like no one will ever have heard of it. Awesome, dude. What will our name be, man? Hmm, something simple yet complex. Something that makes others think, "like yeah, they're different. I want to like get them, you know?" Yeah, dude. Fuck man, I want a chai latte. Dude, coffee shops are so cool, man. Especially local ones. Yeah, man. Fuck fair trade and all of that corporate bullshit. Wait, dude, don't you mean fuck free trade? Isn't free trade the one that we shouldn't like? Oh, yeah. Well, whatever. Dude, that should be our name, man. What? Dude, let's name ourselves FairGrounds. It's funny cuz it's like coffee, and fairs, and even like a culturally relevant issue. It's simple and complex, man. I like it, and like fairs have ferris wheels. Yeah, I took a really cool shot of that with my fisheye camera last month. Sweet, man. Yeah, definitely. OK, sweet. How about after we get coffee we go listen to some Animal Collective? Dude, sweet. We should give ourselves names, too.