I invited the real world to my house, always a mistake. Come to think of it, I accepted the real world's request to come visit. Seriously, what was I smoking?
I sat with a complete stranger, the parent of a friend, as he smoked my cigars and drank my liquor and ate the food I had so carefully slaved over. He looked at Percy's house, which by the way is for sale, and asked what the school districts are like here. I shrugged. Not the best. He seemed surprised.
"Huh. You don't have many African-Americans out here, so I'd think they'd be pretty good."
Again? The fuck. On what planet is it okay to say this crap to a complete stranger? At least this time I knew what to say. After his curious word choice, it was the only thing on my mind.
"Is using the PC term 'African American' supposed to somehow mitigate the racist remark?"
"Huh?" said the product of a school system no doubt blessed with an abundance of people just like himself.
Whenever I have some sort of hired-hand here while I'm working, I always let them choose the music to which we listen. Everything from crunk to baroque has passed through my stereo speakers in this way.
"Channel 867!" squealed Tomás just now, referring to a station called "¡Bailamos!" The description reads "Spicy hot Latin rhythms to fuel an endless tropical party." The music sounds exactly like the overthrow of Batista, if the overthrow were set to bongos duct-taped to a megaphone that was tumbling down a flight of stairs.
"Dude. Hell no."
"You said anything."
"I'm reaching for the show tunes channel..."
"OK! OK! Anything but that!"
And thus did we achieve the multicultural accord of listening to NPR.