If you haven’t discovered TV Tropes yet, you really must wander over and take a look. Disclaimer: I am not responsible for the vast amounts of time you will spend there, laughing like a fool while you read about common tools used in fiction like Dumbass Has A Point and My Hovercraft Is Full of Eels.
Now, lovers, as TV Tropes itself will tell you, “trope” isn’t automatically a bad thing. For example, certain rabid LOTR fans sometimes like to bitch about how Fantasy works they don’t care for “rip off” their beloved J.R.R. Tolkien, but let’s face it, Tolkien borrowed freely from the mythologies of just about every civilization on the planet. Tropes are common ideas, patterns, and themes by which stories are told. Tropes are older than dirt. There’s even a trope called that (you’re going to have to look some of these up, or this post will be nothing but a linky love-fest for troping, and as much as I’m a giant fan, that shit gets old). There really aren’t any truly original ideas. If there are, they’re probably horrifying anyway.
However, there comes a point where tropes can be overused, or badly used, and let me just tell you that the “Twilight” saga is pretty damn full of troperrific awful. I barely made it through “Eclipse” because the story veered right back into “Everyone Loves Bella Swan, The Most Insipid Ding-Dong On Three Continents” territory. Bella is a Mary Sue of epic proportions; she has no real interests other than Edward, no discernable outstanding attributes, not even any interesting flaws. Her described “accident-prone” nature borders on the cartoonish and only serves to make other characters further worship at the Church of Bella, which is annoying. Because if every time I went somewhere with, say, Mumma Boo, she kept dropping off cliffs, I would not be all, “You are so cute! Let’s get married.” I’d be more like “WTF is your problem? DID YOU NOT SEE THE CLIFF? AGAIN?” I mean she IS adorable and we SHOULD get married, but randomly plunging off cliffs isn’t what makes Mumma Boo delicious. And it shouldn’t be the only thing of note about Bella, either.
Hell, even Jacob the hottie werewolf is getting on my nerves. Meyer seems torn between wanting Jacob to be a hero and wanting to show that he’s kind of a jerk and ergo, Edward is the true perfect choice for Bella. Unfortunately, what ends up happening is Jake’s character often ends up seeming bizarre and unfocused – which would be fine, if this was explained at all. But it isn’t. Meyer pushes and pulls him around to suit her Edward-pimping notions. She’s the author, so she can obviously do whatever she wants, but it’s frustrating when you’re in the story and thinking, “Oh, so Jake kissed Bella against her will. Jerk.” But two pages later he’s risking his life for her and looking all heroic again and Bella is sighing over him even while she tells us all over and over how Edward is her life, her forever, she needs him to live. It should be pathetically obvious to everyone that Bella is mooning over Edward to the exclusion of everything else. Now, I don’t know any werewolves (damn it) but I do know some teenage boys (not in that way, you perverts) - and regardless of how crushy they are over a girl, they are generally not dimwitted rockheads who continue proclaim their undying love to her when she has unequivocally shot them down. You’d think a teenage werewolf would have at least as much sense.
Of course, given Bella’s tendency to give Jake false hope later in the story, I guess you can’t blame the poor kid for clinging to his fantasy of a life full of cliff-diving after Bella. She literally tells him, “Oh Jakey! I do love you, I am in love with you! I can see our whole life together! It would be magical and wonderful! But I still love Edward more than you, so sorry.” AND HE BUYS IT. Then Bella freaks out in front of Edward about hurting Jacob, hysterically comparing herself (rather hilariously) to Cathy from “Wuthering Heights”. In fact, there are so many references to “Wuthering Heights” and “Romeo and Juliet” in this series that it has become clear to me that Ms. Meyer compares her works favorably to Emily Brontë and Shakespeare. To which I can only say “Huh?” because INCORRECT. Would you like to try again and go for Double Jeopardy? I don’t mind a book being guiltily enjoyable drivel, lovers – just call it what it is. This is not timeless love story in the making. It’s good fodder for teenage masturbation fantasies.
"Bella...you smell so...FREAKING EMO. Snap out of it!"
Still, like a marathon runner in dead last place, I’m determined to stick it out ’til the bitter end of this thing, lovers. I’ve made it through “Breaking Dawn” to the point of Bella’s heroically vomiting into basins at the feet of the frantic Edward – she’s dying for her vampy fetus that is sucking her life out and which Carlisle can’t get a sonogram of since it’s encased in some kind of cement amniotic sac. All I keep thinking is “Why didn’t Edward’s vampy rock-sperm punch a hole in Bella’s uterus like tiny shrapnel?” and “Does the cement amniotic sac make it hard for her to get out of bed in time to pee?”
All told, I’ve more or less abandoned Team Jacob and I’m now on Team Drop A Bridge On All of Them. I’ll keep you posted on whether it turns into Team Kill Them With Fire Now as I get closer to the end…assuming I make it, of course. It’s almost time for the next Lara Adrian Midnight Breed book, after all - and THOSE are what I call some kick-ass dead sexy vampires, lovers. No sparkling allowed!
No, I’m not going to apologize for my lack of posting lately. The entire Internet has been closed for most of August, and I know most of you are busy burning daylight on Facecrack just like I am.
Still, I do hate to be limited to 442 characters for a status update (stupid Facecrack) so I can’t neglect my blog forever. Because you’ve been so good, it’s time once again for me to share with you, lovers, the contents of what I like to lovingly refer to as the Dead Letter Office, also known as my search engine hits.
It should surprise no one that Coconut Crabs continue to top the hit list. Who knew that so many people besides me were interested in giant crustaceans? Just to review, Coconut Crabs look like this:
Intellectually, I know Coconut Crabs are really a lot more interested in eating coconuts than they are in chewing my face off, but really, those things give me the freaking willies. Can you imagine waking up one morning and finding those giant eyes on stalks staring back at you? This is why I will never live in the tropics, lovers. Too many disgusting nightmarish vermin that grow to humongous size. See also: giant centipedes.
Anyway, speaking of disgusting vermin, let’s see who besides the crab fetishists has been filling up the post whilst I’ve been away!
Dear Coco,
What is Jillian Michaels’ middle name?
Signed, Glutton For Punishment
Dearest Glut,
As Jillian and I are not on speaking terms since she tried to chop my foot off with her voodoo skills, I have no idea. If I had to hazard a guess, I’d say “Damien”. Or possibly “Pestilence”. I think Jillian Pestilence Michaels has a lovely ring to it. I’d guess some more, but I value my mobility and I have no intention of being hobbled like James Caan in “Misery”, thank you very much.
Hugs and Kisses,
Plague of Coco
Dear Coco,
I’m really interested in Jillian Michaels’ feet. Can you provide photos of them, perhaps in a flirty little red patent peep-toe pump? Or a clear lucite sandal?
Signed,
I’m Totally Not Wanking Off to Foot Pictures, I Just Want To Become A Podiatrist
Dear Wanky McWankerson,
First of all, dude, whatever floats your boat, but you should be careful if you’re wanking to Jillian’s piggies without her express consent. That bitch will knock your ass out through the POWER OF HER MIND. Also, I don’t have any pictures of said piggies, in pumps or otherwise. Because she would kill me if I did. Jillian is everywhere. She is the all-seeing eye.
Love,
Jillian’s Devoted Pedicurist
Dear Coco,
I find myself irresistibly attracted to the sexy crab down the street. How can I make this relationship really crackle?
Signed,
I Don’t Have Crabs, I Just Want One
Dear Seafood Molester,
Personally, I’d go for a pot of boiling water, drawn butter and cocktail sauce. What can I say? It would be a very short term relationship. Mmmm. Crab legs.
Love,
Crustaceans Are People Too, But That Doesn’t Mean You Can Do It With Them, You Freak
So there you have it, lovers. My personal favorites from the vault. Be sure to tune in next time, when I discuss Jillian Michaels’ eyes…assuming she hasn’t cut my legs off at the knee by that time for all the smack I talked about her here. LOVE YOU, JILLIAN!
The Blog Carnival over at GIMH this month is all about remembering your favorite adoption posts. When I first started this blog, it was almost 100% a way for me to deal with the lingering effects adoption had on me, my daughter, and then my son. Now, not so much. The truth is, adoption is a wrenching topic for me. It often pushes and pulls; it makes me feel guilty, ashamed, ugly and small. While I take great joy in my daughter and rejoice that I am able to know her, I feel absolutely no joy in being a first mother. I feel no joy in separating my children forever.
So for this carnival, I am going to choose one post of my own, and some (much better written) posts by people I admire, because I think they need to be read, over and over. I hope they make you think like they make me think. I hope, perhaps, that even one mother considering adoption will read them and think again. Will believe in herself. And maybe, just one mother will write me a quick, anonymous note and tell me “I kept my baby because of what you all said. My baby is with me, and we are going to be just fine.”
It will always be too late for me to make another choice. But if it’s not too late for another mom and child, I will take comfort in that.
Today on Time Warp Thursdays, we’re going to explore the world of innuendo. You already know sex sells, right? I mean if you don’t see the humping references in most advertising, you have probably been raised in a convent in rural Albania with no electricity and lots of hair shirts.
For example, there are lots of things I could say about this ad, but “subtle” is not among them:
Yes. It is an ad for bullets, the large example of which looks amazingly like a giant golden dildo. Not that I’d know from experience. Seriously, Remington, how much of a clue-by-four did you need to hit us with here? Big gun + big bullets = you have the biggest golden wing wang on the block, Bro! Yeesh.
Some ads have less imagery and more verbiage, but their hidden meaning is there just the same:
Lubrication is a matter of timing, Texaco says. Oh my God, is it ever. Catch me after I watch Alex Skarsgard biting Anna Paquin on “True Blood” and you could probably slip-n-slide on my panties out to the back patio, honey.
There is no innuenedo here. The man is hotter than asphalt in July.
Wait. Was that more than you needed to know? Sorry.
Then again, there are ads where it seems that the innuendo truly is accidental, and usually in a hilarious way. Imagine if you will, an ad for the innocuous meat thermometer:
Holy hell, could this ad be any more fodder for Beavis and Butt-Head? “Heh heh. Heh. It’s a gift to please the groom. You’re going to give her a probe…heh heh. It’s a probe for meat. Heh heh. Heh.”
Well, there’s always ketchup. Nothing is more wholesome and innocent than ketchup! Right?
Setting aside the jackassery of the caption, if that doesn’t look like Little Miss Happy Homemaker is getting ready to give her Del Monte bottle a blowjob, I will eat my shoes. With ketchup.
And finally, lovers, not even children’s products are immune to unfortunate double entendres.
It’s The Mighty Tiny! “Oh so tiny…and it really plays!” Mmm-hmmm. Sure it does, stud. If I had a nickel for every time I’d heard THAT line…
Well, lovers, as much fun as I’m having finding the hidden pictures, it’s time to close out this edition of Time Warp Thursdays. See you later! And remember, just because its ad looks like a shiny phallus doesn’t mean the bullet is overcompensating for something.
It has been like a thousand years since anyone gave me a bloggy award. I suspect this is because I generally suck at 1. acknowledging them at all and 2. passing them on, undoubtedly leaving the person who did something nice for me to wonder if I was a stuck up bitch or simply a vacuous flake (the answer, of course, is…Hey! Ooh! Shiny thing!).
However, I recently discovered Sharon over at Humanity vs. The Apocalypse, which is unsurprisingly leaning in favor of The Apocalypse – very thought-provoking and often, also funny as hell. She gave me a very delightful award and since she is a new found friend, I am going to do the right thing. I may even bow to the blog gods and follow the rules on this one…even if it kills me, damn it.
1. Thank the person who gave you the award.
Done, but to go one step further, I’d like to thank Sharon by directing you to a few of my personal favorite posts of hers:
I’ll pause while you all read and comment on her razor-sharp wisdom.
…
There. Don’t you feel even more depressed about the future of the human species, yet also, curiously, smarter and more aware? Of course you do. Moving on!
2. Insert award into post.
Mmm. This instruction makes me feel like I should really buy the award a nice dinner first, or at least pull its hair a little, but what the hell:
3. Name 3 things you like about yourself.
Oh! I can do this. I love my hair, I love my sense of humor, and I love that I might not be much of a cook, but I can bake the hell out of just about anything. The way you know I really, really, really love you is I give you baked goods. Well, if you’re nearby, I mean. Mailing baked goods doesn’t translate well most of the time. So my far-off lovers know I really care because I say things on their Facebook pages like “For a minute I thought you said you were actually eating dinner at Hooters and that food is BAD. Allegedly.” However, if you ever do come over, I promise to cover you all in floury, sugary, buttery deliciousness.
4. Post a photo that you love.
Oh, crap. Who am I kidding? I can’t follow the rules to save my life. There has to be more than one.
First things first. Here’s one of Badger on the beach from our trip to Newport this past spring:
It’s one of my very favorite pictures EVER, because he loves the beach and the ocean so much. He has no fear. You can see it, as he marches into the foam, heedless of my panicky cries to stay back, stay close, stay safe. But he feels the call of the sea in his blood, like the wild thing he is, and he hears only that siren song. It makes me happy and yet melancholy every time I look at this shot.
Well. Enough of that waxing rhapsodic crapola. Here is another photo I love for entirely different reasons:
Oh, Daniel, and we are so very, very happy to see you. Just for Sharon, I am awarding a point to humanity just because you exist and you have those eyes. It is a humanity bonus point, Daniel, and you made it happen.
5. Tag 5 people to pass the award on to.
Now you know I cannot just pick five. Some of the bloggers I’m going to name here love awards, and some are mortified by their very existence, but lucky me, I don’t care either way. I am giving these out to people who have been making me happy lately, of which there are way more than five (and sadly some of those people were already scooped up by Sharon, so although I love them like I love Daniel Craig in a tight pair of jockey shorts, double awarding just seems too seventh grade even for me).
Without further ado, I bestow the Cupcake Blessing to the following people in no particular order:
Heather at Nobody But Yourself - Because you are such a big part of my heart. Also, anyone who comes up with the phrases “hobbity hooves” and “Crotchety McGrump” deserves the adulation of millions.
Andy at Today’s the Day! – For always being my cheerleader no matter what – and that’s not a lot of words, but it means a lot to me.
Emily at Wheels on The Bus – Because you are brave and smart and talented and generous and funny, and because despite your protests to the contrary, your heart is as lovely, gentle and tender as a new spring bloom.
Addie at According to Addie – Because you’re hilarious and irreverent, and at the same time true-blue down to the bone. I would trust you with my life.
Joy at Joy’s Division – Because you make me think and smile and cry, sometimes all at once.
Fae at Faemom’s – Because you made up the Penis Rules. Also, even when you struggle, you beat the darkness back each time, sometimes out of sheer force of will, for your boys.
So there you go, lovers. I’m sure I’ve missed someone who has been making me happy, because ooh squirrel! so please don’t be upset with me. Just grab the badge and play along, and make five, or fifty, people of your own happy with pretty pink pictures of cupcakes. Don’t say I never gave you anything!
Most of the remaining ten of you who still read my blog know that I am not a fan of “Twilight” in general, the books as well as the resultant movies. Robert Pattinson always looks like he’s just chased down two Percocet and a Xanax with half a bottle of cheap gin to me, although I think Kristen Stewart is quite lovely, and I cheerfully admit that Taylor Lautner’s name would be all over my notebook, surrounded by hearts and butterflies, if I was still in High School (and possibly even now, if I carried a notebook). Oh, come ON. Have you seen that kid’s body? He’s like a god.
Anyway, it’s not like I am some sort of literary snob who thinks I am so far above “Twilight” because that’s laughable. I am an equal opportunity trashy book lover. I don’t own a single book by Kurt Vonnegut. I do, however, own every book in Lora Leigh’s Breeds series. Also? When I was in middle school I read every single book in the “Conan” series. Yes. Conan the Barbarian (not the struggling talk show host) has a long, long, LONG booklist. Some of it is utter crap, and some aren’t half bad. It’s a lot like dating. So, as we see, if there is a book around, I’m generally reading it. It makes little difference to me if that book happens to be Shakespeare or “The Millionaire Playboy Takes A Reluctant Wife, Version 767,412″
My real problem with “Twilight”, book 1, was that, well, it just wasn’t very interesting. Bella came across as a dunderhead with little personality of her own and Edward seemed about as dangerously sexy as tinned meat on toast. Now, despite my devotion to the aforementioned Ms. Leigh, AKA The Queen of Panty Pudding Scenes, I don’t automatically mind if books aren’t full of Hot Monkey Sex, but if you’re going to make the story strictly non-Monkey-Sex-Having, you need to give me something to pass the time. Plot development. Characters I care about. Something.
Thus, I rather painfully made it through book 1 and then I didn’t give Bells and Ed much thought after that. I obviously wasn’t going to pony up my hard earned book dollars to buy the rest of the series and there is a permanent waiting list of sighing teenagers at the library for them; I just wasn’t that motivated. Then yesterday, I got home to find out that my mom, bless her heart, had sent me the entire series.
Well, there they were, in my house. What the hell, I thought. I had finished the latest adventures of Rachel Morgan and her scary but yummy demon Al, Lisa Kleypas has finally married off all my beloved Hathaways (although there is still an unmarried Travis man out there), I’m all caught up on Sookie and Eric, I’ve devoured every McKettrick at least twice, and I have to wait another six weeks to dig in to Brock and the Midnight Breeds again. I picked up “New Moon” and dubiously cracked it open.
I know, I know. After all the fuss I made, I’m seemingly doing a complete 180 here. But look at it this way; I’m reading it so you don’t have to, lovers. Yes, yes, I am all about self-sacrifice. Don’t throw flowers. It’s making me blush. Anyway, oddly enough, I’ve enjoyed “Moon” far more than I enjoyed “Twi-Snooze”, and I wondered why. Then I figured it out. It’s because Jacob turns into a werewolf in this book. Oh, he’s also turned into a 6’5″ strapping hottie, but you know me…I am not about the Monkey Sex aspects of the story. Certainly it’s not that the two major players are more interesting. Bella is still an annoying numbskull, and Edward has become, if anything, even less attractive than before. I hate martyrs, and between the two of them, they make “Romeo and Juliet” seem positively uplifting. Really, Bella? The vampire dumps you like you’re bad meat on the hoof, and your solution is NOT to run into the arms of the wolfy hottie for seriously bone-melting worshipping, but to pine away for the cold slab of marble who barely kisses you? Really, Edward? You love this apparently irresistible human, but you’re such a stick in the mud goody two shoes that you feel she’s “better off without me”? So, you then tell her she’s boring as hell (OK, you got me there, she is, but you don’t really think so), steal all her pictures and then try to kill yourself by flying to Italy to make the Kings of the Vamps mad at you AFTER you hear she’s apparently thrown herself off a cliff because of your crappy plan? Jesus. There’s less tragedy in “Wuthering Heights”.
In Twilight, Werewolf = YUM. Vampire = Meat Popsicle.
I am not ashamed to tell you that “Twilight” is fast becoming the series I love to hate. There’s something hilariously earnest about it, like it wants so much to be a great love story for all time, and really, what it should have done is teach Bella that a hot werewolf who can build motorcycles always trumps a frozen side of sparkly, tortured beef with fangs. I never thought I’d say this either, lovers, but Team Jacob! (I’m kidding. I think. I do promise I don’t have a “Twilight Mom” t-shirt or anything. Pinky swear.)
Stay tuned for more extremely biased and subjective reviews of the books as I finish them off. It has nothing to do with the hot werewolf. This is all for you, lovers. All about research.
However, in the TWT archives, there are quite a few little gems that either didn’t make the cut into my category posts or are lonely outposts unto themselves in the world of WTF Advertising. Still, they are definitely deserving of some bandwidth, because as usual, there is no shortage of scary going on, so I’m going to lump them all in together for your visual distress. Kind of a K-Tel Presents Solid Gold compilation of marketing flotsam! Let’s take a look at today’s line-up, shall we?
You know what’s fun? Playing dress-up.
You know what ISN’T fun? Playing dress-up with these:
I don’t understand. Isn’t the point of a wig to resemble something approximating hair? These are…molded plastic. In very strange shapes that make me think more about transmitting messages to the mother ship than they do about being a pretty, pretty princess. How is this fun again? HOW? I can’t think of anything that would be LESS fun than dressing up as a matronly alien with a glandular issue…
You know what? Never mind. A Prune Party – are you shitting me? Literally? I cannot fathom the nitwits who came up with this campaign. There is so much crazy going on here, I’m hard-pressed to know which items to mock the most. Nothing against prunes, lovers. I like prunes, myself; I think they taste good, and they clean out the plumbing, that’s for damn sure. However, when I think of ideas for fun children’s parties, the last thing that would EVER leap to mind is “PRUNE THEME FTW!” I mean, what kind of favors would you give out? A roll of Charmin and the latest edition of “Highlights”? Also, you’d better rent a port-o-let or two, because ten kids and a pound of prune whip later, your guest bathroom is going to look and smell like a dairy barn. Phew! Who fed the dog chili again?
All right, all right. Let’s settle down, class. It’s time for our filmstrip.
I think it’s safe to say that the projection equipment that Sabrina is modeling here has nothing to do with color slides. She looks more frightened than happy, doesn’t she? Perhaps she caught a glimpse of her shadow on the far wall and thought a missile attack was imminent. Or maybe the Varsity team has decided they’ve had enough of learning about biology from slides and they want Sabrina to teach them about it personally. Most likely, the poor girl is just trying not to topple over.
I hope you’ve enjoyed this randomly horrible edition of Time Warp Thursdays as much as I have, lovers. See you at the Prune Party! Bring your own Charmin.
I’ve always loved whales, particularly Orcas, beginning with the campy 70′s feature “Orca”, of course, where the unintentional but gory slaughter of his mate and unborn calf prompts a large male Orca to seek bloody revenge on the fisherman (Richard Harris) and crew who perpetrated the deed.
I always cheered for Vengeful Orca, despite my fondness, even in childhood, for Richard Harris. (My parents probably should have kept a better eye on my TV viewing habits, too, but that’s beside the point.)
In my teens, I was fabulously lucky enough to swim with wild dolphins. Much later, on our honeymoon in the Cayman Islands, my husband and I swam with and fed and even touched stingrays (which are not the tiny dinner-plate sized creatures you might expect, but 4-5 foot diameter gentle giants) These experiences had given me a taste of my dreams, to be close to these sea-faring animals. To touch them and experience them again and again.
So obviously, the place I was looking forward to the most on our recent vacation was Sea World. I waited. I plotted. I pored over the park map. I briefly wondered if I could blow the grocery budget on the Beluga Encounter, but finally decided nutrition for the family trumped my girlhood fantasies. It was to be the crowning glory to our trip, and I was far more excited than Badger.
Therefore, you can imagine I was shocked and dismayed when the actual visit turned out to be the strangest kind of let-down.
Now don’t get me wrong. We enjoyed our day. We bought overpriced sombreros, we ate mediocre food, we watched Shamu (who is not, of course, Shamu at all, but another Orca using an involuntary nom de plume) soak delighted tourists and perform well-rehearsed feats. Badger rode the Sesame Street themed rides and we all crisped slightly in the sun. The park was spotless, the day delightfully sunny and clear, and the animals obviously well cared for. I couldn’t quite put my finger on what was bothering me (other than the heartburn from the park barbecue).
Then I looked back over my pictures and I figured it out.
The whale watching cruise at the beginning of our trip was, in many ways, kind of anticlimactic. We spotted some whales, but there were none of the “National Geographic” thrill-moments that you might expect. What there was included Gray Whales surfacing briefly for air, mostly far away and hard to distinguish from the water, dolphins bounding in lively fashion in both open seas and most unexpectedly in the harbor, and some sea lions resting on a buoy, occasionally coming to take a look. Oh, and one unlucky seagull, who got greedy and stuck himself in the fish hold of our boat and squawked until he was rescued with a net. He pecked the mate most ungraciously and flew away, to our delight.
But the sea itself was satisfying and terrifying at the same time. We sailed on a vessel meant for fishing, under threatening skies and choppy waters. The swells tossed us up and down, and Badger, being Badger, loved the fierceness of it all. “More!” He screamed, obviously Poseidon’s godson, as the boat pitched and I clutched his hoodie tight and wrapped my other arm around his waist, “FASTER!” His golden-hazel eyes shone and he lifted his face to the stormy sky. We were surrounded by water, gunmetal grey, and clouds, storm-full and sinking low to the horizon. The boat shuddered and groaned and even though there was never any real danger, when you go up one side of a swell and fall even four or five feet down into the trough behind it, you understand how very little control you have there.
The power of the ocean dwarfed us all. Yet those elusive creatures we fought so hard to catch a glimpse of make it their home. Their very existence is bound to it, to its currents and cycles and temperatures and seasons. In storms and in calm, they sing to one another as they wind their way across untold miles of alien landscapes. They hunt and mate and give birth, living and dying in the inexorable embrace of the sea. The reason it is so exciting, so breathtaking to spot whales in the open sea is that they are as fierce and wild as it is. Being close to them, particularly in their natural element, is something akin to riding Apollo’s chariot across the sky. Like touching the face of a god.
Orcas are called the wolves of the sea for good reason, though they are not usually considered a threat to humans. I could not find any information on documented fatal attacks on a human by a wild Orca, and according to Wikipedia, there have only been a couple dozen attacks on humans by captive animals; however they are, in fact, ruthless and deadly pack hunters. Orcas are extremely powerful animals, which can grow up to 32 feet long and weigh as much as 6 tons. To give you some perspective, imagine you’re waiting for the bus one morning when you notice that the #356 Express to Downtown is suddenly sporting a mouthful of pointy 4-inch teeth, and has brought ten of its equally armed bus friends to chase you down the street and herd you into a strip mall parking lot where they can devour you. If you’re a leopard seal or a school of fish or a sea bird, this is your morning pretty much every day. Bet you don’t look at your commute quite the same way now, eh?
So Orcas are the alpha presence in their world. They have been known to hunt down and eat Great White Sharks, for crying out loud. Yet they are also intelligent, social, curious beings. I hesitate to ascribe human emotions to animals, but as I watched the Shamu show, where the wolves of the sea were reduced to performing circus tricks accompanied by cheesy music and painfully earnest trainers wearing silly wetsuits, I felt slightly embarrassed and a bit sad. How could they be happy going from shark-hunting badasses to stupid pet tricks? Really, can an adult Orca be satisfied with playing with giant rubber Orca-Kongs full of ice cubes instead of following its natural instincts to hunt and mate and range the ocean?
After the show, we wandered around the walkway over the habitat area for the Orcas. I have no idea if there is any other place for the whales to live and interact in a more natural setting, although one would hope so. I saw whales in sterile, rectangular tanks, lifting their heads to call out to the trainers, or perhaps to one another, since the walls and the tanks probably restrict some of the natural travel of their communications. I saw them swimming, back and forth, back and forth. Enough room to stay healthy and swim a short distance. Does it seem a clean, carefully monitored prison to them, these animals that are born to be the kings of the deep? They certainly aren’t being actively abused, and I would even go so far as to call them cherished. They are stimulated and made comfortable to the best of our poor human abilities, but it can never be the same. Not even close.
I understand what Sea World is trying to do. I know they do important work in research, rescue, conservation. I know they need to appeal to the baser love of us humans to have shiny distractions among the carefully brief educational opportunities if they are to continue to do those good works. I know I contributed to the demand for the Sesame Street rides and cheesy music and carnival atmosphere at Sea World. I am uncomfortable about that. At the same time, I can’t stop longing to have my very own Beluga encounter.
It makes me feel torn and small and kind of awful.
I wonder if at night, when the park is closed and the lights go off, the sea wolves feel the call of the ocean in their blood; is it singing to them, whispering their names, their true names, maybe passed from one podmate to another for thousands of years? Their elemental mother is the sea, and I imagine she feels their absence as surely as any other mother would. Come back to me, she calls. We cannot, they sigh back mournfully, we cannot.
“It was the Law of the Sea, they said. Civilization ends at the waterline. Beyond that, we all enter the food chain, and not always right at the top.”
Whew. I don’t know about you guys, but all that emo-rehashing I’ve been doing here lately has left me yearning for a little levity. To that end, I was looking in my files the other day and I realized I have many, many of those delightfully awful ads from years gone by still waiting to see the light of day. It’s summer, lovers, so it’s time for me to entertain you with Time Warp Thursdays until my squirrel brain takes over and I forget again.
Today, we’re going to explore the world of men’s fashion through the years. You know, I’ve often heard people complain that menswear gets the short end of the design stick, being relegated to variations on a few basic shapes and decidedly unimaginative colors. Not true, sez I! Why, let’s look at this first gem:
You know, actually the shirts aren’t half bad. The unintentionally hilarious thing about this ad is that the 3 dudes are all looking at each other like they are thinking the exact same thing: a MAN-age à trois! I see you baby, shaking that thing. Also unintentionally hilarious is that Betty Sue in the car there is eyeballing Jimmy Blue Shirt and is completely oblivious to the fact that this party is going to be strictly for sausage-packing members only. No girls allowed!
I’m pretty sure Arrow was not actually trying to make this ad into a lead in for man-on-man-on-man love. It was probably just a one-time deal. I’ll guess that Arrow quickly realized what this sort of posing looked like and took the appropriately homophobic, panicked steps to ensure that every other ad was carefully free of suggestive looks between dudes.
What’s that?
Oh. Never mind, then.
Are the June Cleavers screaming because of the burnt burgers, or because Ted and John are fondling one another’s…bratwurst? You be the judge.
Okay, I think we need to move forward a couple decades. Sure, the 50′s and early 60′s were full of repression and despair in a neatly pressed Arrow shirt. In the 70′s, though, men were finally free to let it ALL hang out!
Oh. Oh my.
So.
Many.
Questions.
Did they deliberately find the hairiest man on earth to model this regrettable monstrosity? What is with the pole? Is he going to strip (GAH! My brain!) for that special lady? After all, the ad makes sure to tell us “Easy on, easy off, quick as a flick of her tongue”. Won’t his body sweater get caught in the zipper? And most importantly, did Elvis know his jumpsuit was going to be used for this kind of nefarious evil?
You know what, I’m going to go ahead and say that there is no such thing as too much facial hair. Right? Look at Saturday Night Horror up there. LOOK AT HIM. He is so sexy with that dense forest of wiry hair on his face. He is a manly man-god. You worship at the altar of the Doobie Brothers beard.
Alas, there are those unfortunate men who simply can’t do it alone. For them, we’ve come up with a unique and natural looking solution!
That’s right, folks. Fake facial hair. “You will be amazed at the exciting change in your personal appearance!” the ad promises. I suppose it would be exciting to look like a tiny raccoon died on your face. Although “frightening” would have been the word I chose. Or possibly “idiotic”. Or “dumb-assed”. But you know what they say about fools and their money.
Well, lovers, we’re just about out of time. But as a reward for sitting through the fashion disasters of menswear past, I would like to leave you with this final image:
Yep. The slacks are hideous. BUT WHO CARES? Look at that vintage yumminess they poured into them! Meeeeee-ooooooowwww.
Also, I don’t think that’s a potato in his pants. What say you, Internet?
See you next time! Don’t waste all your money on fake sideburns.
I reach to the sky
And call out your name
And if I could trade
I would
-The Offspring, “Gone Away”
Part I, Part II, Part III, Part IV, Part V, Part VI.
Well. There’s nothing like falling face first onto the floor to end questioning by the police. The paramedic said I was dehydrated and borderline malnourished, and was possibly a little shocky from the stress. Yep, I remember thinking, finding your friend dead was pretty damned stressful. They gave me an IV and some oxygen (just in case I’d inhaled any of the gas, they said). I refused to let them transport me. They argued. I simply sat there, stone-faced, and they relented at last.
Eventually, the coroner’s office left with Pres’ body. The police finished up their questions. The ambulance and fire department packed it up. Sometime during the chaos, Robin had called Rick and he had left work early to come try and calm her down. She was still freaking the fuck out, which was, in hindsight, pretty understandable, but which at the time I simply could not tolerate one more minute of.
“I can’t believe it,” She kept wailing dramatically, “We were all sleeping in a house with a body! His room was right next to ours! Oh my God, oh my God!” You know, I think what was bothering me was she was not close to Pres in the least, and in fact they had barely spoken, but all afternoon she was acting like she’d just lost her Beloved Aunt Mary, wringing her hands and alternating between sobbing and moaning. Now she was acting like some B-movie scream queen, saying she just couldn’t stay there, she had to get out, she couldn’t be in a house where somebody died right next to her.
“What exactly did you think he was going to do, Robin?” I finally snarled, as Rick came down the stairs lugging an old suitcase and a box of their belongings, “Get up and dance down the hall? Pres is dead, he is DEAD and all you care about is that you were sleeping near a room with a body in it that couldn’t possibly hurt you? Get over yourself, you selfish little bitch.” I actually stunned her into silence. I wasn’t out-and-out venomous very often, but when it happened, it tended to frighten people. Actually, it still does. I didn’t stick around to hear whatever response she might have managed. I just stomped back up the stairs and slammed my bedroom door so hard that the house rattled. Then I spent the evening numbly watching my tapes of Mystery Science Theater 3000 until I finally passed out from exhaustion.
I found the note the following day. Pres had left it under the keyboard of the computer. With shaking hands, I opened it. I’m so sorry. I don’t know any other way out. I owe so much money to these guys, like sixteen thousand bucks, and they are going to hurt me. I couldn’t stop betting. I just couldn’t stop. I am so sorry for all of this. I read it over and over, disbelieving, my heart pounding so hard and fast I was sure it might burst at any moment. Money? This was all about money? Oh my God, no.
I handed the note off to Garett and called the police for the second time in as many days. My voice sounded hollow, but I was surprised that it was clear and steady as I explained, “My roommate committed suicide yesterday, and we’d thought there wasn’t a note, but it turns out there is one, and what should we do? An officer will be by within the hour to collect it? Well, we’d opened it and read it, of course. No, only my boyfriend and I touched it. Yes, we understand. We’ll be here. Thank you.” I might as well have been ordering a pizza. I still hadn’t cried, except for those few stingy tears when I first dialed 911. Something was obviously wrong with me.
The police came and went with little fanfare this time. As they were leaving, Rick pulled up in his car. I was alive enough to be thankful Robin wasn’t with him. Of the two of them, he was preferable to her, although that wasn’t saying much. All my anger had fled in the face of my overwhelming emptiness, so I greeted him politely and noted that he was carrying more boxes.
“Look, I’m uh, sorry about this and all,” Rick explained to Garett, “Robin won’t even come near this place. Says it’s cursed. I’m going to grab our clothes and stuff today, and I’ll be back with a truck for our furniture next week sometime.”
While he was packing, Jason came home from class. Naturally, there were two guys with trucks right behind him. “Sorry, dude,” Jason shrugged, “This shit is too much for me. I was going to move out end of the month anyway to be closer to school.”
Garett was protesting that everybody signed leases, rent was due and they couldn’t do this, but I didn’t blame them. Bitterly, I reflected that if I’d had a single option open to me, I would be packing my own stuff to flee. I wandered up to Jason’s room and watched quietly while his buddies tossed clothes into garbage bags and he lovingly packed his arsenal in padded cases. They were amazingly efficient, and his bed was being disassembled in less than an hour.
“So,” I said as The Buds carted out the headboard and Jason was doing a final scan to make sure he hadn’t missed any ammo or rifle parts, “Take care, OK? Don’t shoot anyone for leaving your wet clothes on top of the dryer.” A huge pet peeve of his, and a transgression of which Robin had been often guilty.
Jason laughed, and he gave me a little hug, which was probably incredibly awkward for him because Jason was so not a hugger. I flashed back to Pres telling me that Jason liked me, even though he hated pretty much everybody else in the house, and I felt a nasty twinge in my heart. Pres was never going to tell me anything amazing and insightful and funny anymore. Pres was dead.
“You look out for yourself, Coco. You should leave too. This house, it’s fucked up.”
“Oh, I’ll be all right,” I said, “Besides, I can’t leave. There’s nowhere for me to go.” I smiled at him and I’m sure it was ghastly, because it felt like my mouth was stretched out like The Joker’s.
“You can,” He replied seriously, “But I guess you’re not ready yet. You will be someday, though. See you around, white girl.” Receiving such measured counsel from Jason, whose main philosophy seemed to center around “kill ‘em all and let God sort ‘em out” was a little like hearing a parrot sing opera. Like you knew it was technically possible but it was still a giant shock when it actually happened. While I was digesting this, the phone rang and I had to close my mouth to go answer it. “Hello?” I said distractedly. There was only silence for a moment and I frowned. This was not the day for anybody to be asking me if my refrigerator was running.
“This is Pres’ dad,” My heart dropped like a stone at the sound of the strained voice on the other end of the line.
“Oh. Um, hi. This is Coco.” I felt so awkward and horrible. I had been the last person to see his son alive. You should have done something, my mind hissed.
“Yes. Pres talked about you. Thank you for…for finding the note. The police called to tell us.”
“I am so sorry,” I whispered. I thought I was going to be sick. I swallowed my nausea painfully.
“Thank you. We’d like to come and pick his things up as soon as we can. May we come over tomorrow morning?”
“Oh, sure. Yes, of course. Wh-whenever you like.” I stammered. We agreed on about eleven o’clock and I hung up the phone.
Garett stormed in and began bitching about having to call his dad and tell him the rent was going to be four people short. I uncharitably thought that this news would upset The Colonel far more than my dead friend in the bedroom had, but I needed something from Garett, so I wisely held my tongue.
“Pres’ dad is coming tomorrow to pick up his stuff,” I explained, “Please, you can’t leave me alone here tonight or tomorrow.” He was literally the only thing I had to hold on to just then.
“OK, don’t worry.” Garett reassured me. He hugged me and I remembered, again, that this boy had once made me laugh, had made me feel giddy with love. Maybe this awful thing would bring us together. Maybe things would change between us, get better.
Maybe I would spontaneously grow wings and fly to Tahiti.
Because the second the clock hit about 10 the next morning, Garett suddenly “remembered” he needed a part for his truck. “I’ll only be gone a few minutes,” He waved me off when I begged him not to go, or at least to let me come with him, “You can stay here for a half hour by yourself, Coco, for God’s sake. If Pres’ dad comes early, there needs to be someone here. I don’t want the neighbors calling the cops. My dad is already pissed.”
He left while I stood there in the doorway, and I knew, I KNEW just then that he wasn’t going to buy a part for his truck. He was simply a cowardly, infantile man-boy who was incapable of facing Pres’ dad and he was running away, abandoning me to the grim task. He was going to go visit his other daughter’s mother (just trust me when I tell you THAT tale merits a completely separate post), and he was indisputably fucking her again. He wouldn’t be back by 11. He likely wouldn’t be back before nightfall, if he came back at all that day.
The yawning well of despair inside me darkened and deepened. Woodenly, I sat at the kitchen table to wait for Pres’ father. Rick and Robin were gone. Jason was gone. Pres was dead. Pres was dead and I didn’t save him. I didn’t even know something was wrong. The house began pressing in on me. The doorbell rang and I jumped. I still hadn’t eaten anything and I was frail and jittery.
I opened the door and Pres’ dad and another man were there. Pres had described his dad as the total alpha male, a retired Navy pilot who’d flown dangerous missions and I could see that immediately. He wasn’t as tall as Pres had been, but a solid man, with big shoulders, an authoritative presence, and a sternly handsome face that was currently lined with grief.
“Good morning,” he said politely, “You’re Coco.” It was not a question. ”I’m Mike and this is Bill, a friend of the family.” The older man nodded at me.
“Hello,” I replied, feeling quite ill, “Please come in. I’m so sorry about all of this.”
“Thank you.” He told me again. We stared at each other for a moment, as my discomfort grew exponentially, and he finally continued, “If you’d just point us to Pres’ room?” I showed them where it was and all but ran for the safety of the family room, where I put on some mindless comedy show and tried not to think too much. I heard them coming and going, talking quietly from time to time. I deliberately avoided looking at them as they carried out the pieces of Pres’ life that had been contained in that bedroom. After about an hour and a half, I was in the kitchen trying to find something I could ingest without vomiting immediately when Mike came to find me.
“Well, we’re about done here,” He said, “Thank you for your help.” He stood stiffly in front of me, seeming a little lost for the first time.
“Pres was a good friend,” I said suddenly, “He was good to me, and I needed someone to be. I miss him. I wish I had known what was wrong.”
And that six foot tall badass Navy pilot who’d fought in wars crumpled like a paper doll. I caught him awkwardly as he sobbed into my shoulder.
“I just want to know why? Why did he think he couldn’t come to me for help? I knew he gambled, I should have known how bad it was. Why would he kill himself instead of just coming to me? Oh my God, WHY? My son, my son, please, I just need my son back. Please.”
It was one of the most heartbreaking things I’ve ever experienced. Ever. The grief he poured out to me was so raw that it was frightening. I didn’t know Mike, so maybe it was easier for him to unleash this on me, a stranger who had been the last person to hold his son’s hand. He cried like a baby and I just stood there and held on. Finally, he stood again and patted me on the shoulder. I could see the super strong persona slipping into place again, despite the red eyes and tear-streaked cheeks.
“Thank you,” he said, “You seem like a nice person. I wish we could invite you to the services, but my wife would like to keep it family only.”
“Of course,” I replied gently, “Please give your family my sympathies, though.” I was not at all surprised. Who would want us there? Pres’ dad was wrong. I wasn’t a nice person. I was an utter horror. Garett was even worse than me.
The two men left and I was alone once more in that house of death and pain. I sat down on the couch again and stared and stared and stared at the television while I waited for Garett to come home, rocking to try and comfort myself. I took all my pain and pushed it down, locked it away. It was all I could do to survive, because I was all alone. For years, I would forget almost completely. If ever I remembered the events, I shut my emotions down fast and hard.
I never mourned my friend properly.
The first time I was able to cry for Pres; really, truly cry for him, was today, while I typed out this post.
I wish you could have seen how much your dad loved you, Pres. I wish he could have shown you while you were alive. I wish I had done something, anything. I wish you had been able to choose anything else besides end your life. You were amazing, too. Your life meant something. You meant something. You still do.
I wish for peace for you, out among the stars. Save a dance for me.
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