Inbreeding,By Whitney Farmer – Un Pop Culture

October 6, 2010 Whitney Farmer 4 Comments

Whitney runs a rock music venue on the beach in L.A. She has an M.B.A., and prays for rain regularly.

The “-ists” have come and gone again at the club.  Racists, misogynists, mulletists…If women were honest with the world, we would confess that we find the impractical business-in-front/party-in-back Braveheart hairstyle breathtaking, except that it is usually donned by dudes who live their lives loving hatred. Our venue tribe fulfilled the spirit and letter of our contract, honoring the money that was paid to see a guy sing endlessly about the glory of prison and the implied superiority of the increased risk of skin cancer of those who turn pink in the sun. On the bright side, the financial analysis on this show doesn’t warrant a re-booking. This is the reason I got an MBA:  I want to be able to speak the language of numbers in order to be an advocate for what is right. Now I can talk about cost/benefit analysis demonstrating weakness rather than ‘feeding the dark wolf’ makes it stronger in a world of limited time and resources. “What then must we do…?” is a more powerful question than “How to maximize the wealth of shareholders…?”, but the word ‘should’ needs to be woven into business carefully to be effective.

We loaded out the band into their bus as efficiently as when we take out the trash the end of each night.  My chest hurt from being mashed in from bearhugs that made me want to press charges with the same passion that was pressed on me and robbed me of breath. The best part of the night was watching the bus pull away well before midnight, leaving us with an opportunity to spend time together eating pizza in honor of one of my beloved Samoans who is moving his family to Vegas.

I can’t blame him for leaving. The math of having a growing family is very persuasive when faced with living expenses that are a third and a new job that pays double of what we were able to offer him on the shore of the City of Angels.  But I am going to miss his topknot held in place by a pen or a drumstick, and his improvised blowgun comprised of a straw and toothpicks which was the bane of our A-2 monitor tech’s backside.

The pizza arrived and I unveiled the first orange-tinted sugar cookies of the harvest season. Within reason, the bar was open  to our staff since we were closed to the public. As a precaution, I was the stone-cold-sober babysitter that could crosscheck the results of the Breathalyzer that my head of security was packing, courtesy of an agent with the ABC. We pounded fat and carbs like we didn’t care and talked off the moral slime of the night while our production crew began to do some light and sound work in preparation for the shows next week. People began to meander towards the dance floor  as a tentative electric slide began under the cold work lights.  But blessedly, after a short time, our lighting techs decided that they needed to see the full effect of their re-gelling efforts and the golden show lights came up while the icy and efficient  halogen flickered off. I cried out to Ed, the Dude of Light and Fog, “We must have a disco ball!”  The moving sparkles began to swirl around the room.

What followed was bliss. For three hours, the tribe danced in cowboy boots to hip-hop, old funk, rap, reggae, country…everything that sang to our souls and kept us wiggling. Intermittently, one would reluctantly leave the floor only to race back with a fresh supply of bottled waters for the thirsty revelers. Cell phones flashed to capture images of joy (see above). Think it’s not possible to have fun sober?  Subpoena our security camera archives.

At the end, Ima the Samoan was called into the spotlight on the stage. Straddling the steel barricades that kept the peace earlier in the night, he began to say goodbye to us.  One by one, the crew went forward to stand beside him and give respect. Somehow, the genetic mix of each of the contributors was disclosed during their time in the spotlight. Much love was shouted out to representatives of the four corners of the earth, leading to a sense of One Love.  When it all came to a close and I ended up back at my desk to do the show financials at 2 a.m., I was astonished to realize how clean I felt on the inside, but how wrecked on the outside.  Realizing that I wasn’t out of shape but remembering that I had danced for three hours in cowboy boots with influenza, I happily began to pound my calculator while my sweat-soaked hair began to dry and stiffen. Even if I got chilled, pneumonia was impossible after a night of dancing away bad humours.

My family has a history of rescuing mutts. These mixed breeds tend to be stronger and smarter and healthier than pricey purebreds.  It is a concept in genetics called ‘hybrid vigor’, ‘outbreeding enhancement’, or ‘heterosis’.  The truth of it drives racists crazy, as if they needed any help traveling down that road. Do they even know who Aryans were, that they were inhabitants of the mountains north of India who had once come from the same genetic twirl of those from the land of Iran? That they would have had dark eyes and dark skin? That they would look more like Al-Qaeda than Thor?

When Hitler conducted his state-sponsored fornication program to create a genius master race, the results created offspring that must best be described as disappointing.  Not smart, and not strong. A July 2, 2010 article in Science Daily articulates newer science that specifies what leads to mutt strength that is demonstrated across multiple phylum. The ‘genetic noise’ that is present in similar types within the same species can be quieted when a more different mate is secured. The chaos that can lead to weaknesses can’t connect with a resonating ‘hot mess’ and be born into reality.  Inaccurately quoting the Bible and denying the inclusion of Rahab the harlot from Jericho and Ruth the ebony-toned wife from Moab from a holy spiritual bloodline, racists try to increase the risk of rejecting their perverted beliefs by saying that it is the will of the Creator to hate and persecute large parts of creation.

Here is what I know and what I have done:  We each have a set of keys. There comes a time during the night when we can push hatred  and stupidity outside the door, lock it behind, and light up the disco ball.

Quote of the Blog from Ed Butler, Dude of Light and Fog, “Sometimes I can’t remember my name. Usually, that’s what I try for because I know I can be held accountable for it.”