On Sunday there was a big sales event going on at the Tacoma Dome. Something about the radio ads indicated to me that I would really be missing out if I didn’t attend–and not because I believed that there was something there that I desperately needed to own, but rather, the potential for hilarity was extremely high.
These types of events, much like roadside attractions, are irresistable to me. I’m drawn to them like a moth to a flame. Like a shark to a drop of blood. Like a bee to the only person in a group who is intensely allergic to beestings. Like a cliche to a Mellzah blog post.
And I was not disappointed. Friends, it was like being in Tijuana, only with MORE trashy white people. Oh, Tacoma, how I love your aroma! The mariachi music was there. The vendors hustling you to buy leather jackets were there. The ‘designer’ handbags and sunglasses were there. If you didn’t go, and you’ve ever wanted to buy some ‘Dolce & Banana’ you missed out. Furthermore, if you’ve ever felt the need to own a t-shirt with Tupac silkscreened on it, with rhinestone accents bedazzled onto the eyes, teeth, and bling, you TOTALLY missed out.
I spent the majority of my time walking around, biting back giggles. The Scarface ‘framed art’ set me off, however, and I was very nearly temped to buy a piece of Very Serious Art depicting Jesus with the Biggest Crown of Thorns Ever, tattoos, and a river of blood to hang over my bed. However, a clearer head prevailed as I reasoned that at this stage, I cannot afford to scare away any potential suitors who may not understand my love of camp. Now, I don’t really care what gentlemen prefer, but terrifying them away from my bed is certainly not the road to happiness.
And let me make it clear, if it isn’t already: I love camp. The tragically ludicrous, the ludicrously tragic. The Jesus TV trays and inflatable furniture. There is a gene in me that makes me love John Waters with a deep and sick sort of love. It’s the part of me that makes me giggle when I watch Uwe Boll movies. The part that makes me think you can never have too many t-shirts with witty/offensive slogans on them.
It’s exactly that part of me that made me leave the Tacoma Dome with a pair of shoes with wheels in the heels. I’ve never been more pleased to have child-size feet than I was yesterday. The fact that I will eventually crack my head open while wearing them does not concern me. What I have determined so far is that either my balance is really, really substandard, or I am doing this wrong. It’s hard to practice in the apartment, with the approximately 8 square feet of linoleum in my kitchen. It’s even harder to practice outside, with the mocking laughter of children only a faceplant away and the uneven ground to boot. Nevertheless, I am determined to glide around on my wheeled shoes if it kills me. And it may. To that effect, I went to the WinCo yesterday to observe the little rugmonkeys in their natural environment. It appears that the trick is to have one foot well out in front of the other–I’ll have to give it a shot on the warehouse floor just as soon as the boss leaves. Because yes, I wore them to work.
There’s part of me that really would like to dress nicely–to look sharp and be perceived as an adult when I leave the house, for my apartment to look sleek and modern and clutter-free. This part of me is at war with my love of kitsch and crap. How will I ever reconcile the two? As long as I own shoes with wheels in the heels, I think the kitschy crap side of me is winning.