WTF?

They say that you learn something new every day. Today I learned a new fact about one of my favorite American clans...sorority girls. I had heard (and seen movies with wonderful depictions) of the trials of sorority rush; about how you must wear the right clothes, ask the right questions, respond like a Miss America finalist, sit with your legs crossed just-so, party just the right amount (not so much that you're a drunk, but enough to make you fun at a House party), be adequately promiscuous (not so much that you're a raging slut, but enough to make you sufficiently wanted by the frat boys), etc. What I hadn't heard, however, is that some girls actually take classes (it was referred to as rush school) to learn how to be in the A-list sorority echelon. Such classes train you to shine during rush with your most brilliant Kappa Delta-ish sparkle. They polish you until you can rush with the best of them, and be accepted into your top pick. Not directly exposed to the Greek system myself, thankfully, I can only hope that some glimmer of your original personality will still lie latent somewhere inside yourself after the process is over. It's astonishing how much people, especially girls, will try their damndest to become a person wanted by the throng of mostly blonde, mostly white, mostly there on their parents dollar with plenty of dough to spare, sorority girl. Thank God for Berry College.

Wherefore ART thou?

We went to several art galleries this past weekend, and I am struck with the question of when a piece of art really shouldn't be considered art. I understand that people have their own unique interpretations and tastes and visions and blah blah blah. I fail to see how a photograph of a fuse box, regardless of the incredible lighting or the nouveaux angle, can not only be called art but be sold for $500. I don't expect everybody, or really anybody, to necessarily like the "art" that I own, and I certainly don't expect one single person besides my husband to appreciate the hideous oil-mounded-on-canvas "painting" of a dungeon hallway that looks like it belongs in The Haunted Mansion that he so cherishes. But I think some people just so strongly feel the need to be creative but so deeply lack the talent that such adjectives demand that they just throw whatever they can on a canvas or photo paper and call it art. And it isn't. I'll just warn you that if I walk into your house and you have "art" covering the walls that consists of paintings of decapitated babydolls, two-headed roosters, skeleton heads on Dali-knock off drawer bodies, and/or oversized plain white mailing envelopes, I will promptly leave, whether you have guacamole or not.