Chris Walker Vs. Real Breast Cancer Awareness

I don’t know why I can’t get over the stunt a bunch of girls pulled on Facebook a few weeks back, thinking if they posted their bra colors, without any information, excluding others, it would somehow make a prolific impact on breast cancer awareness. In retrospect, it seems like such a silly thing to get upset over (and I doubt anyone remembers but me). Maybe my issues run deeper. Regardless, here’s some real breast cancer awareness: breast cancer took this beautiful woman from us on January 01, 2010:

I’m not going to write a long biography about Lhasa de Sela. We all know what Wikipedia is, and I think the video above speaks more of her vivaciousness than I’m able. I hope she’s well remembered. Her gorgeous music will undoubtedly endure. Here is my favorite Lhasa track:

If you’re concerned with breast cancer awareness put your money where your bra color is and donate (even if you’re not wearing one). Not all breast cancer victims get to make an imprint this touching before they die.

LINKS:

Lhasa de Sela.

Susan G. Komen For The Cure.

For more of that live performance by Lhasa, visit Vincent Moon on Vimeo.

Chris Walker Vs. Girls With Dumb Ideas

Photo: xcraziiibabiii1x

Women have a lot of dumb ideas; I think this one takes first place for dumbest.

Yesterday, girls took to their Facebook pages with a mission. That mission: to post but a single word, the color of their bra. Evidently, they did this to promote breast cancer awareness. But no boys allowed! That’s right; men were not to be informed of what was going on which, if you ask me, thoroughly defeats the purpose of promotion. Furthermore, they didn’t provide any links so all these girls really fostered was confusion, simultaneously providing more concrete evidence that lots of girls are stupid.

I doubt many people (aside from girls) took the time to figure out what was going on. I mean, come on, there was a college bowl game going on yesterday afternoon. Most people probably saw some girl they know posting a color, said whatever, and then went on with their lives. Not to mention, words like “teal” and “maroon” don’t make me think of breast cancer. They make me think, man, I haven’t picked up a box of Crayolas in forever, which is now something I’m thinking about doing. Along with a Spider-Man coloring book. So, thanks for that.

The good news is, in an ass-backwards way, it worked. Not as they intended, I assure you, but in a way it did because here I am, ranting about it, publicizing it. And, after working myself into such frenzy over this nonsense, I decided in order to atone for your stupidity, ladies, for every bra-color-status-update I found on my Facebook wall, I would donate five dollars to the Susan G. Komen Foundation. I have made good on that decision. You’re welcome.

THIS IS HOW YOU PROMOTE BREAST CANCER AWARENESS:

Susan G. Komen For The Cure.

Also, if you’re feeling extra generous, this is a charity I like donating to:

Common Threads.

Chris Walker Vs. The Death Of A Lady

“Feminism is dead, ladies. Put your bras back on; relinquish your right to vote; get back in the kitchen and make me a sandwich. Your successors have failed you.”

That’s one way I considered starting this. I wrote it in my head as I leaned against a wall in the corridor that connects the main room and back patio at Pub and Sub, a local college haunt. I was waiting to use the bathroom. Directly in front of me were two obnoxious fat girls. They were waiting to use the bathroom as well. The men’s bathroom. “Sorry,” said Fat Girl Number One, exuding superiority and entitlement. “We’re next.” Arms crossed, I smirked.

These girls could have been attractive once, I thought; maybe they even had class. Not anymore. Those days were done. Their thoughtless and vapid nature shined as brightly as the glitter they wore. After they used the men’s room they would undoubtedly go back to devouring pizza and chicken wings; they would continue mainlining Pabst Blue Ribbon. The clothes they brought with them when they came to college would continue to fit less; the guy they swore they wouldn’t blow at the start of the night would come that much closer to getting blown. I was witnessing their decent from grace in real-time. Granted, most of their “Freshman Fifty” had been gained before our interlude but I was still watching their ascent into fat, sloppy slutdom as it occured. It was remarkable.

When the door opened and the previous occupant exited, I pushed past the two behemoths (no easy feat) and entered the men’s room. “It’s okay; you can shove me out of the way,” barked Fat Girl Number One as I posted up at the urinal. I ignored her. Something you should know about the men’s bathroom at Pub and Sub: the only walls are the four establishing it as a room; with the exception of a small, chest-level divider between the sink and urinal, everything is exposed. This means if you decide to hunker down and drop a deuce while another guy is in the bathroom, he can watch you. This also means if you’re a shameless nineteen year old with a fake ID who has consumed too much beer, and you decide you want to come in, pull down your pants, and pee in front of a complete stranger, by God, you can.

That is, of course, exactly what Fat Girl Number One did. Meanwhile, Fat Girl Number Two loomed overhead, texting friends, or checking her MySpace account, or twatting about the situation on Twitter. Whatever. As they annoyingly carried on I found myself wondering, whatever happened to the iconic influence of Audrey Hepburn? Did it die when Hollywood green-lit Barb Wire starring Pamela Anderson? Surely, Hepburn wouldn’t approve of these ghastly whores. Virginia Woolfe would be ashamed. Even Julie London would shake her head in disgust. Buckling my belt and heading out the door I realized not only is chivalry dead, so is the need for it.

Interestingly enough, watching these little tradegies take place is the charm of Pub and Sub. (Or Pub and Chub, as my friends and I affectionately refer to it. We also call it the Rub and Tug, the Thug and Chug, the Drug and Plug, and the list goes on.) It’s one of the reasons my friends and I congregate there on Thursday nights. We show up for the $2.50 pitchers of Pabst Blue Ribbon; we stay for the laughs. No matter where you look or who you interact with, there’s always hilarity or adventure awaiting you. Sometimes both. More often than not, it involves chubby chicks who think they’re smart because they study interior design (or something equally useless), wear club attire to dive bars, and do their damnedest to set the women’s movement back a minimum of fifty years.