On Beads, Broads and Being Hip

By Lyssa Graham

 

        Another whirlwind Mardi Gras season is over and what have we learned? That the only piece of plastic that will even come within spitting distance of raising my shirt is the kind with raised numbers on one side and a magnetic strip on the other. And even that won’t work every time.

        Seriously, after attending a number of the Mardi Gras parades I cannot believe what people will do for a string of shiny plastic beads worth no more than 22 cents. Really now, what are these people thinking?

        Now I’ll admit that I am easily distracted by shiny objects. I’ll even admit to elbowing people out of the way to snag beads thrown from floats. (I’ll never admit to elbowing that four-year-old out of the way so you can tell that lawyer to stop calling me.) But I have never allowed my self to be so distracted by the shininess of an object that I lose sight of its potential resale value. And frankly, I had expected the same kind of heartless calculation from this current crop of gravity-defying bead babes.

         Boy was I wrong. For the first time this year I was invited to attend one of the “have” parties where you lounge around in a building on the parade route, drink wine and fling beads at the eager masses below. Kind of Marie Antoinette-ish in a way, although no one seemed to notice my frequent screams of, “Cake, eat cake, you fools!” Except maybe the host, which means I’ll likely be back at the “have-not” parties on the street next year. He shouldn’t have allowed me access to cake knowing my tendencies and the likelihood that I would fling it irresponsibly.

         But that’s neither here nor there nor even over yonder. What was staring us in the face were an amazing number of naked people parts. Question: if you encourage someone to get naked for junk jewelry without getting naked yourself, are in the same kind of lawbreaker category? Maybe that lawyer can call me just one more time. I have a hypothetical question for her.

       I just have to worry about the state of the universe in general when I see so many people – male and females alike – willing to expose themselves without a thought toward carat weight, color and clarity. Maybe I’m cynical. Strike that, I’m definitely cynical but I’d like to think that this current crop of gravity-free youth could get a handle on when and where to get naked. Trust me when I tell you that appearing in the Girls (or Guys) Gone Wild videos will not get you that SAG card you’re after and truly isn’t a resume enhancing item.

         You should keep that off your MySpace page too. I’ve recently joined the online revolution and started up? created? cut and pasted? my very own MySpace page. It’s part of my attempt at some sort of cultural hipness and relevance. I’m not doing very well with it.

          I know this because now I can measure my popularity minute by minute, day by day and second by second. It’s not pretty. I thought I had plenty of friends. People I spoke with on a regular basis, people whose birthdays I sometimes remember, people who truly care about me and my darling hubby and those damned dogs of ours – friends, damnit, I have friends.

          Apparently not. According to MySpace, I only have seven friends. Seven. And one of them I don’t even know. Something’s wrong here. It’s possible that most of my real life friends don’t have a MySpace page and so cannot be part of my imaginary friend circle but you’d think someone would want to hang in an imaginary fashion. It’s enough to dishearten a girl.

           I’ve been snooping through other people’s MySpace pages and I think I’ve discovered what I’m doing wrong. Leaving out all of the blinking fonts, cool backgrounds and snatches of music from incredibly hip yet somehow unsigned bands, my page is missing something vital. It’s not just my glaring lack of technical and programming skill. It’s something more.

           Nudity. That’s what it’s missing. And it’s not like I didn’t try. I posted some very clever photos of the Dynamic Dog Duo, Death Breath 3 and 4, to no avail. I even went a little edgy with the photos. Death Breath 4 is sporting nothing but plastic mouse ears and Death Breath 3 is featured wearing little more than a mountain of Mardi Gras beads and yet, amazingly, this little bit of canine soft core has completely failed to drive visitors to my site so that they could become part of my imaginary friend circle.

           Perhaps it’s my fault. I can’t find the photos on my page so I’m not sure that any casual doggy porn fan could happen upon them either. And realistically, I’m not so sure that I want to make friends – even imaginary friends – with someone who looks at the Death Breaths in that way. Still, you’d think someone would care.

           I may not be able to handle this MySpace thing. I may just have to go back to the old school method of entertaining and offending people. There’s a lot to be said for seeing your words on the printed page instead of on the web page. That’s one thing that can go on your resume and can make a difference.

          Which brings us to Molly Ivins. I won’t bore you with a repeat of all of her many credits, triumphs and clever turns of phrase. You’ve read and heard it all by now. What I will tell you is that we should all take a minute to remember the broad. That’s right, broad. Ivins never laid claim to ladylike behavior, instead she took every chance to stomp her cowboy boot clad foot and raise hell on behalf of others. That’s what broads do. And they do it while laughing.

          She didn’t shy away from writing unpopular opinions. She never missed an opportunity to point out corrupt or idiotic behavior on the part of our elected officials and she by god would have held out for quality before showing you her assets. I miss her.

          In one of her final columns she encouraged us to raise hell, stand up for ourselves and our rights and hold people accountable for their bad behavior. Good sound practical advice. The kind of advice that comes from broads who know which beads are worth it and which of them aren’t.

          Now go raise a little hell.

 

 

Lyssa Graham is a stand up comic, humorist and voice artist living happily on the coolest island in the US . She can be reached at Lyssa@LyssaGraham.com or catch her performing standup or with the best (and only) improv comedy group on Galveston . See that damned MySpace page MySpace.com/LyssaGraham for show schedules.

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