Tuesday, August 19, 2008

Good vs Evil

Have you ever been somewhere and known that either something bad was about to happen or maybe already was happening and you just weren’t aware of it yet? It’s not a feeling of being uncomfortable, but a feeling of utter sickness and disgust at something so vile and wrong – something that borderlines on evil, no matter what scale you’re using to judge what’s “right” and what’s “wrong”.

I remember having this feeling once when I was fresh on the college scene. My high-school best friend was dating this piece of shit for a boyfriend, and he didn’t like me because I saw right through him. Still, it didn’t stop him from becoming an even bigger douchebag and running a drug ring through our dorm room, where he lived half the time in half a room with my roommate and me and a continually lactating pit bull.

One night I knew something was going down – I could just tell. Turns out a friend of the douchebag had just tried to pull a fast one on another friend of mine, Dan. Stole something from Dan and went running. Dan was crazy, and went after him with a knife. Police were knocking down our door, and with drugs in our room and me going to college on nothing but grant and federal dollars, I had to make the no-win decision to rat them out, so I would be exempt from being kicked out of school (and losing my tuition) when they found the drugs.

The douchebag and his friends had always given me the willies. Even when I didn’t know for sure he was a complete piece of shit, my intuition was already ranking him high on the piece-of-shit meter. I knew something was wrong with him. Dishonest. Conniving. Out to get something, and not in a fair way either.

I’ve been to Vegas close to ten times, but until last week I had never been to The Palms. I thought the media’s scolding of Dina Lohan’s decision to allow her and her youngest daughter to live at The Palms for several weeks to a bit overboard at the time, but after having spent all of several hours in that VD-infested cesspool I now understand all the hubbub.

The Palms gives me the willies. I could tell something was off as soon as the cab dropped us off. Tits and ass to be seen from a mile away and silicone as far as the eye could see. Everyone there was thin and tan and bleached and cinched and enhanced and injected. “This is gonna be fun,” I thought.

A work contact had scored me and my friends 10 VIP passes to Moon, the new hip nightclub at the top of The Palms. Shit, you should have seen the stares we got as we breezed past the $60-cover charge line to wait for the VIP elevator. Not only were we not tanned, bleached, tucked, or injected, but we also were heavily tattooed and wearing the “I don’t give a fuck” looks on each of our faces. It’s hard not to in a place like that, where for the love of buddah you don’t want to look like any of the women, who kind of scare you, and you are trying your hardest not to be approached by any of the men, who are all dressed in the same uniform of dark denim jeans and white buttoned-downed shirts with ties and sweater-vests (why are sweater-vests are back “in”?!).

Although I never saw anything sinister going on at The Palms, it still made me more uncomfortable then being at a strip club with a priest. To the people we came into contact with, it was all about appearances. And you knew they were only there to hopefully see a celebrity, get wasted, and get laid like it was spring break all over again. I suppose that’s why I’ve never wanted to stay at The Palms or even go there before – I don’t run with the type of crowd that highly values the material and superficial. That’s not to say that we all aren’t material to some extent, but my friends and I aren’t out to “look better than you” or take, take, take.

To me, life’s too short to try and buy the person you want to be. And I don’t think you’ll be happy even if you are the perfect weight with the perfect hair, boobs, and lips. I think it says more about a person to expose his or her flaws than to try and cover them up with surgery and expensive clothing.

It’s funny how I could have seen two radically different sides of Vegas within the same month. On one hand, there’s the people who strive to look better than you and who feel they are better than you – the people at The Palms. On the other hand, there’s the people who are happy you’re happy, even if you are fat and pasty-white, lying in a bikini, covered and bruises and bad tattoos – anyone at the IP pool during RollerCon. Then there’s the middle ground, where most of us exist outside of derby on a day-to-day basis.

I just hope I bring more of the fat rollergirl attitude to the majority of my life than I do the silicone Barbie. I like the fat rollergirl much better. And really, when you compare the two, shouldn’t we all?


girlon8wheels said...

Yep, I totally understand how you feel. I get bad feelings about people, which are usually right. It's too bad I couldn't figure out my ex as an asshole before I spent two years with him, haha.

I'm going to be in Madison, WI for the Eastern Tournament. We'll totally have to hang out!

Anonymous said...

I dunno...everyone has their own shit going on. I try not to judge people outwardly, whether they have big ol' fake jugs or whether they are tattooed rollergirls.

I mean, take those same ladies from the Palms and put them at, say, Nationals, and they are going to stick out just as we did. And maybe they will say that we are stupid and fake for shelling out $$$ for tattoos and piercings and booty shorts and fishnets and $600 skates.

I believe we are all equal when we are born. We aren't predisposed to being racist or liking rap or loving pinup or poor diet or hard work-ethic, etc. We are products of our environment and those women (and men in poorly worn sweater-vests) aren't any more influenced than any of us. We just wear it and act it differently.

So maybe I don't care to, or feel comfortable with, hanging out with people who subscribe to their ideals. But, I doubt they would like hanging out with us, either.