Blog .:. September 2005 3 Entries
Re: Your “rebirth” commercial
Message: Are you fucking kidding me?
From: A concerned viewer who is still feeling the heebie-jeebies after watching a snake peel off its skin and a bajillion itty bitty spiders that will one day grow into huge-ass spiders cascade down my TV screen and NO, the sight of a butterfly did not help your case here, because after a million spiders there’s really not a whole lot you can do to save yourself. What made you think this was going to help you sell your product anyway?
Spiders, for the love of Bob.
Now I’ll have the heebie-jeebies when I see your product name.
Today, while staring at a magnet on my fridge, it occurred to me that magnets and pins/buttons will likely have a higher survival rate than most other materials. I mean, they are made of plastic and metal, which are durable goods, and they are so small/cheap that they are mass produced and easily lost—two details that would make it easy, I think, for them to survive in unlikely places.
Which means some day an archaeologist will be doing a dig and come up with all these buttons that say things like “I love cooking with wine. Sometimes I even put it in my food.”
And what conclusions will they draw? Will the humor survive, given how difficult it is for humor to cross boundaries (especially cultural ones)? Or will they think that we, as a society, were so dense we needed daily reminders that while wine is good for drinking, it can also be used for cooking?
I fear for us in the future: we’re going to look like idiots.
In seven hours I will be in my car on the way to State Fair, dressed in my ever-stylish ensemble of jeans, dirty tennis shoes, and raggedy old sweater. My rain jacket is waiting in the closet. It will rain. It always rains at State Fair.
I will wander into the barn area and say hello to the horses, probably annoying anyone who is actually showing because most general Fair visitors are idiots. I still remember the year a dad carried his perhaps-six-year-old daughter up to the stall row and told her she could pet the horses, despite the signs saying not to do that. Exasperated, she tossed her pigtails and wailed “Daddy! Can’t you read? They bite!”
If only all parents had the sense their children do. The kid’s comment was helped, I’m sure, by the fact that the horse the father was heading towards had his ears pinned back and eyes rolling because he was not, to put it lightly, a people horse. I steered them toward my older, gentler, greatly-missed Super Saint. And minutes later had to jump in front of a well-meaning parent who was about to feed my horse an apple. A normal activity, I know, but apple seeds can show up on a drug test as a banned drug. Weird, huh? How do you tell a five year old that they cannot, in fact, feed the horse an apple?
And by the fourth day of the show and six hundred kids later, how do you do so politely? You don’t, of course. You hope you’re stabled next to the cranky horse with his ears pinned back and his eyes rolling so everyone will gravitate down the stall row to the Saint.
Unless, of course, you own the Super Saint.
So I will show up this year not with an apple in hand but with an old, raggedy towel. I will scrape boots and polish hooves and set up the jumps they knock down in the warm-up ring. I will walk horses between classes. I will write names on ribbons when classes are done and I will hold martingales when riders finish their jumping rounds and head back for the flat class.
And if I am lucky I will see a class or two as well.
Sometime this weekend I’ll return to the Fair, but I won’t return to the horse show. I’ll slip by unannounced and make my way into the fairgrounds proper, something I haven’t done for eight years. I will find the funnel cakes I barely remember and peek in at the giant pumpkins and lettuce heads.
But before I enjoy the Fair everyone else knows, I am going to enjoy the Fair I know. I am prepared: I have my bag with clean shoes and socks for the ride home (the ones I wear in the morning will be soaked). I have my bug dope and my lotion. I have a towel and some gloves. I’ve found shirts to layer on each other and a hat to conceal my raggedy hair.
Seven hours. All I need is some sleep.
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