High-Falutin'

So one of my co-workers got invited to some fancy schmancy upper-crust dinner party in honor of Archbishop Desmond Tutu last weekend, and he brought in the pictures today from the whole shinding, and he was all rambling and excited and it all sounded very very cool. And true to fashion, Supa Sister was pumping him for all kinda pertinent and stupid inconsequential details (i.e. was Desmond a cool dude, did he roll with a posse, what’s up with that ugly ass painting on the wall behind you, how was the food, what’d you drink, who was serving ya’ll, black folks? Mexicans, PWT? Did they wear those black and white serving uniforms like back on the plantation, did any stupid muthafucker mention the word “Bush” at all during political conversations, did they validate parking, what tribe is TuTu from, etc.) Because Supa Sista is a straight detail fanatic. I need to get a visual with these things.

So, Supa Sista got a good glimpse behind one of those secret dinner club affairs where the “other half” meet and gather and drink and eat, because the whole event took place at some private, invitation-only type joint downtown next to the Bonaventure that I’d never even heard of, and I’ve been living in LA over half my life. So. There you have it. I really don’t know everything….

My co-worker is a wordly older dude, mid 50’s, a brotha of Latino background (Belizean), articulate, always on the go. His next trip is a 2-week stay in South Africa, and I’m envious because SA is high on my list of places I Have to Go Before I Die) And then we got into a conversation about how multi-faceted black folks are, as a natural talent and survival mechanism. How one can wax prophetic (in Standard Conversational English) about current events, politics, California's bogus-ass special election, yadda yadda amongst a room full of crackers and look and sound and act like you have a quantifiable amount of sense, and then come back and talk amongst your own in a fashion that surely would fucking alarm every one of those high-society counterparts you dined so elegantly with. Anyone who ever worked in corporate is probably saying, “word.” Hell, any black person who’s ever stepped outside their door and had to Get Out Into the World knows what I’m talkin’ about. Heh. Actually, I think it’s kinda funny. ‘Cause those muthafuckers (white folks) are clueless.

All in all, Supa Sister loves to get dressed up to chat and and cocktail and dine with the best of them, but there is a limit to that shit. Invariably, toward the end of the evening, Supa Sister always ends up getting impatient and antsy and ready to jet, ‘cause all that grin-talking with folks at extended intervals gives Supa Sister the hives. And by then all I really wanna do is get the hell outta my fabulous outfit and heels, plop down in front of my big screen and Tivo, down a Fatburger and seasoned fries, and just fucking chill.

Word….