Friday Night White

From the Poynter Institute for Journalists,

"Journalists need to challenge the presence of racial identifiers and could even help the public talk more openly and directly about race..."

This is an apology.
I am as guilty as big, over-sized grandma underwear under a little black dress on a Friday night because I want to make sure I don't go home with my date. I, like so many others, writers and thinkers of the world at small alike, have decided to pretend that race does not exist. (Which for the record it doesn't, it is a social construct) We delude ourselves under the notion that we are color blind, which is really just a PC way of saying blind.

So, I'm gonna talk about race from now on 'cause the 22 is one world, two classes and four wheels.

Friday, 8:35 p.m., Union Fillmore - Fillmore Oak

Friday night, leaving the Marina, the Deuce Deuce is packed with more white people than one will see at any other time.

Why?

Reason 1 - Heels. The three stretch mountain is no place for bejeweled 4" Louis V's to be treading.

Reason 2 - Booze. Five guys, striped shirts, torn jeans, shiny shoes, token Dad watch, board the bus. One uses a pole like a stripper.
"I'm gonna get fucked tonight."
"Yeah it's that kind of night."
"Fucked up is not the same as fucked."
"Not if you're a girl."
Laughing ensues.

At Fillmore and Jackson - thousands of dollars of heels step down.

By California, a parade of alabaster bro's exit checking their iPhones again for no missed calls.