WATCHING ALL THE TELEVISED BODIES, BODIES WITHOUT THE HUMAN SMELL
On the bed, you're rolling on top of the skinny girl who's growing out of her satin training bra. That's when the noise arrives. First, it sounds like a bang, but then you realize an orchestra has piped up outside your window. The bang was merely the kettle drummer tuning up before the overture.
How on earth did that orchestra get there without you knowing it? Were you so involved with your daydream that you didn't hear it? You didn't hear the shouts, the powerful gasoline generators cranking up and spluttering, and you didn't hear the horns tuning, re-tuning and practicing particularly difficult lines.
Without realizing it, you are starring in your own romance movie.
Magically, you are dematerialized out of your bed by forces you can only imagine. It just doesn't make sense--but you go with it just the same. After a few disoriented moments, you realize you've "landed" in the middle of a New York-based magazine newsroom. You're pissed off, but the anger you feel isn't real. Instead, your ire is part of some sort of script. In fact, you're feeling an unusually "female" ire.
No, it's not a cat-fight. You're upset because the magazine for which you work has suffered a sudden change in regime and you're worried you may not have a job if you don't fall into step with the new management. You go to the ladies room to powder up for a big meeting with your managing editor, but it's there you get the shock of your life: You're not the person you've always thought you were; rather, you're Jacqueline Smith! You're Jacqueline Smith, suffering the indignity of having to kow-tow to an editor who wants puff instead of the hard-hitting journalism for which you're known!
During the meeting, you discover that you're not only a journalist, you're the star of a formula romance movie. The formula romance movie, you slowly begin to realize, is designed to play on the sentimentality of the female mind, a mind that operates on the romantic plane to such a degree that sex and touching are only one part of the bargain. In some ways, you are a willing participant in what might be called "the feminine vision quest," but in real life you know you're a man. But for some reason, you've been selected to become Jacqueline Smith, star of a sappy Lifetime Network romance adventure flick.
How many men are there out there who are playing Jacqueline Smith in their heart of hearts?
The meeting with the managing editor (this man may be God, you're not sure) ensues, and without any question you're to be sent way out to British Columbia to do a story about "where our salmon come from." This really upsets you. You're Jacqueline Smith. They can't do this to you. Besides, you're also a middle-aged woman. Words like "salmon" have multiple meanings. There isn't any reason to believe the managing editor is making some kind of snide statement about your status as a single, middle-aged woman who hasn't had any "salmon" in awhile, but you're wondering just the same. British Columbia? Do you have to go that far just to know where the real salmon are?
You land by boat-plane in a beautiful, albeit romantic, setting in British Columbia. You're not exactly dressed for the occasion: For some reason people are staring at your white pants and tiger skin blouse as you lug a suitcase on rollers across the dock. Everyone else is wearing jeans and plaid shirts. The only person who will talk to you is an Indian woman. What does all this mean? You are in the wild. It's far from NYC. You are in the vast unknown of middle-age. Sure, it's a beautiful place, but you're not used to that kind of beauty. You want to go home where you can sip fancy wine and nibble on caviar with your catty friends from the NYC literati set.
Then you meet the "rugged individualist who won't talk to anybody." He's a local legend. He's a loner. He has something on his mind. He seems to have a tragic--and mysterious--past. Which, you think, is pretty safe. So far, so good: You're right in formula here. The Indian lady boats you out to his skiff, the Indian lady convinces the "rugged individualist who won't talk to anybody" to let you interview him, and you get on board--still wearing white pants and that tiger blouse you bought at Sakowitz. Oh, those and the high heels. You apparently didn't think about wearing tennis shoes.
On board the ship, you and the "rugged individualist who won't talk to anybody" fight over trivials: You ask him, for example, if he has any cream for the coffee and he tartly replies that the cream is in the same place as the bagels and the cappuchino. This miffs you. But you like being miffed, don't you?
Of course, it would take an act of God to bring you together with the "rugged individualist who won't talk to anybody," and soon enough, that miracle occurs. You're caught in a terrible storm. The boat is rocking so hard you can barely stand up. Then you and the "rugged individualist who won't talk to anybody" hear a thump. He goes on deck and discovers the fishing skiff has been hit by a log and is taking on water. He gets on the CB and calls, "Mayday! Mayday!" But nobody responds. He tries to fix the leak, is forced to give up. And where are you? You're off in the corner, Jacqueline, shivering your cute little ass off! Your clothing is soaked.
"We're going to have to get you out of those clothes!" shouts the "rugged individualist who won't talk to anybody." You argue, but the argument is a meek one. Next thing you know, you're totally naked underneath a blanket with a rugged individualist in the middle of a horrible storm, the boat rocking back and forth so roughly that it's impossible to keep from touching him under the blanket.
Soon, however, the "rugged individualist who won't talk to anybody" and you are rescued. Yes, the fisherman has friends. They've all come to rescue you from the raging storm. See? All you had to do was take off your clothes and snuggle against a "rugged individualist who won't talk to anyone" and you got rewarded by having your life saved by the friends of a man who seemed a little scary to you until then. Now he's not so scary. He's a good guy. You go back to the boathouse and have a party. You're half drunk with the "rugged individualist who won't talk to anybody" and all of his rugged fisherman friends.
What? Where's your white pants? Where's that tiger print blouse? Huh? Now you're wearing bluejeans and a thick plaid shirt. Are you part of the gang now or what? Of course, although you're Jacqueline Smith, generally recognized as being one of the most beautiful women on earth, not a single one of those drunk fishermen has hit on you. In fact, the drunken fishermen are perfect gentlemen, far more civilized, in fact, than the white-collared boors in NYC. Yes, you are being converted to a new way of life. That new way of life is symbollic of settling into middle age in a graceful way.
Next: The Continental. It's after the party. You and the "rugged individualist who won't talk to anyone" have now bonded and are in his "house," a finely decorated place with stuccoed walls and tasteful paintings on every wall. Of course, you're thinking to yourself that a "rugged individualist who won't talk to anyone" would have stuffed salmon on all his walls, or at least a few velvet Elvises, but the truth is that this fisherman is one of the most civilized men you've ever encountered. He's not only educated, he's a poet. You sit on the expensive looking couch, in the condo knockoff (remember? this is British Columbia!) swirling your wine in your crystal wine glass.
As you fall in love with the "rugged individualist who won't talk to anyone," he shows you the wonders of nature. He takes you to a salmon stream. You watch those huge fish--and do you ever mean huge--jump out of the water as they fight their way to, well, the spawning grounds. The "rugged individualist who won't talk to anyone" tells you that all this is in danger--due to some corporate types who want to build a dam. Now, that dumb puff piece you were writing for that NYC magazine has been given an entirely new dimension.
Your editor calls you back to HQ--interupting your
ruggedly individual romance. You've barely started screwing the guy and now you've got to get back to "reality." The editor, who has read your piece, has also completely re-written it because he doesn't think the corporate interest section is relevant to the fine dining interests of the NYC readership. You're really upset. A friend of yours takes you to a bar to get drunk. It's there you see the "rugged individualist who won't talk to anyone." He's come all the way to NYC to see you. He has an Igloo container in his hand. Inside is salmon. Of course.
Now that the "rugged individualist who won't talk to anyone" has come to you, now that you've proven to yourself that middle-age isn't any big deal, now that you've shown your friends you can still catch big fish, you also begin to realize your perception of the world has changed. You look at your life: I'm not going to take this shit anymore! you cry.
Next scene? You're standing on the docks again in British Columbia. You look pretty hot in those tight bluejeans as the "rugged individualist who won't talk to anyone" chugs into the harbor. It's so romantic, isn't it? No telling how many frequent flier miles you've used up going back and forth across the continent. The violins begin to swell....
....and you realize who and where you are. You're not Jacqueline Smith. You're just some guy who's been sleeping. First you dreamed you were having illicit sex with a fourteen-year-old and then you dove into a deeper dream that was designed for fourteen-year-olds. What is this? Jacqueline Smith? Is this a sign you're a latent homosexual? Or, is it that you've completely associated your ego with your feminine aspect?
Crimony! You have no idea what's happened. From outside the window you hear strange noises: The orchestra is packing up and apparently going home. Now it's just you, you: Wondering how on earth your notions of romance and relationship were warped to such a degree that this--Jacqueline Smith and a "rugged individualist who won't talk to anyone"--is what you dream of. You're middle aged yourself. You should be more mature than this. You should have a different viewpoint. You should have lost that psychic training bra years ago.
How on earth did that orchestra get there without you knowing it? Were you so involved with your daydream that you didn't hear it? You didn't hear the shouts, the powerful gasoline generators cranking up and spluttering, and you didn't hear the horns tuning, re-tuning and practicing particularly difficult lines.
Without realizing it, you are starring in your own romance movie.
Magically, you are dematerialized out of your bed by forces you can only imagine. It just doesn't make sense--but you go with it just the same. After a few disoriented moments, you realize you've "landed" in the middle of a New York-based magazine newsroom. You're pissed off, but the anger you feel isn't real. Instead, your ire is part of some sort of script. In fact, you're feeling an unusually "female" ire.
No, it's not a cat-fight. You're upset because the magazine for which you work has suffered a sudden change in regime and you're worried you may not have a job if you don't fall into step with the new management. You go to the ladies room to powder up for a big meeting with your managing editor, but it's there you get the shock of your life: You're not the person you've always thought you were; rather, you're Jacqueline Smith! You're Jacqueline Smith, suffering the indignity of having to kow-tow to an editor who wants puff instead of the hard-hitting journalism for which you're known!
During the meeting, you discover that you're not only a journalist, you're the star of a formula romance movie. The formula romance movie, you slowly begin to realize, is designed to play on the sentimentality of the female mind, a mind that operates on the romantic plane to such a degree that sex and touching are only one part of the bargain. In some ways, you are a willing participant in what might be called "the feminine vision quest," but in real life you know you're a man. But for some reason, you've been selected to become Jacqueline Smith, star of a sappy Lifetime Network romance adventure flick.
How many men are there out there who are playing Jacqueline Smith in their heart of hearts?
The meeting with the managing editor (this man may be God, you're not sure) ensues, and without any question you're to be sent way out to British Columbia to do a story about "where our salmon come from." This really upsets you. You're Jacqueline Smith. They can't do this to you. Besides, you're also a middle-aged woman. Words like "salmon" have multiple meanings. There isn't any reason to believe the managing editor is making some kind of snide statement about your status as a single, middle-aged woman who hasn't had any "salmon" in awhile, but you're wondering just the same. British Columbia? Do you have to go that far just to know where the real salmon are?
You land by boat-plane in a beautiful, albeit romantic, setting in British Columbia. You're not exactly dressed for the occasion: For some reason people are staring at your white pants and tiger skin blouse as you lug a suitcase on rollers across the dock. Everyone else is wearing jeans and plaid shirts. The only person who will talk to you is an Indian woman. What does all this mean? You are in the wild. It's far from NYC. You are in the vast unknown of middle-age. Sure, it's a beautiful place, but you're not used to that kind of beauty. You want to go home where you can sip fancy wine and nibble on caviar with your catty friends from the NYC literati set.
Then you meet the "rugged individualist who won't talk to anybody." He's a local legend. He's a loner. He has something on his mind. He seems to have a tragic--and mysterious--past. Which, you think, is pretty safe. So far, so good: You're right in formula here. The Indian lady boats you out to his skiff, the Indian lady convinces the "rugged individualist who won't talk to anybody" to let you interview him, and you get on board--still wearing white pants and that tiger blouse you bought at Sakowitz. Oh, those and the high heels. You apparently didn't think about wearing tennis shoes.
On board the ship, you and the "rugged individualist who won't talk to anybody" fight over trivials: You ask him, for example, if he has any cream for the coffee and he tartly replies that the cream is in the same place as the bagels and the cappuchino. This miffs you. But you like being miffed, don't you?
Of course, it would take an act of God to bring you together with the "rugged individualist who won't talk to anybody," and soon enough, that miracle occurs. You're caught in a terrible storm. The boat is rocking so hard you can barely stand up. Then you and the "rugged individualist who won't talk to anybody" hear a thump. He goes on deck and discovers the fishing skiff has been hit by a log and is taking on water. He gets on the CB and calls, "Mayday! Mayday!" But nobody responds. He tries to fix the leak, is forced to give up. And where are you? You're off in the corner, Jacqueline, shivering your cute little ass off! Your clothing is soaked.
"We're going to have to get you out of those clothes!" shouts the "rugged individualist who won't talk to anybody." You argue, but the argument is a meek one. Next thing you know, you're totally naked underneath a blanket with a rugged individualist in the middle of a horrible storm, the boat rocking back and forth so roughly that it's impossible to keep from touching him under the blanket.
Soon, however, the "rugged individualist who won't talk to anybody" and you are rescued. Yes, the fisherman has friends. They've all come to rescue you from the raging storm. See? All you had to do was take off your clothes and snuggle against a "rugged individualist who won't talk to anyone" and you got rewarded by having your life saved by the friends of a man who seemed a little scary to you until then. Now he's not so scary. He's a good guy. You go back to the boathouse and have a party. You're half drunk with the "rugged individualist who won't talk to anybody" and all of his rugged fisherman friends.
What? Where's your white pants? Where's that tiger print blouse? Huh? Now you're wearing bluejeans and a thick plaid shirt. Are you part of the gang now or what? Of course, although you're Jacqueline Smith, generally recognized as being one of the most beautiful women on earth, not a single one of those drunk fishermen has hit on you. In fact, the drunken fishermen are perfect gentlemen, far more civilized, in fact, than the white-collared boors in NYC. Yes, you are being converted to a new way of life. That new way of life is symbollic of settling into middle age in a graceful way.
Next: The Continental. It's after the party. You and the "rugged individualist who won't talk to anyone" have now bonded and are in his "house," a finely decorated place with stuccoed walls and tasteful paintings on every wall. Of course, you're thinking to yourself that a "rugged individualist who won't talk to anyone" would have stuffed salmon on all his walls, or at least a few velvet Elvises, but the truth is that this fisherman is one of the most civilized men you've ever encountered. He's not only educated, he's a poet. You sit on the expensive looking couch, in the condo knockoff (remember? this is British Columbia!) swirling your wine in your crystal wine glass.
As you fall in love with the "rugged individualist who won't talk to anyone," he shows you the wonders of nature. He takes you to a salmon stream. You watch those huge fish--and do you ever mean huge--jump out of the water as they fight their way to, well, the spawning grounds. The "rugged individualist who won't talk to anyone" tells you that all this is in danger--due to some corporate types who want to build a dam. Now, that dumb puff piece you were writing for that NYC magazine has been given an entirely new dimension.
Your editor calls you back to HQ--interupting your
ruggedly individual romance. You've barely started screwing the guy and now you've got to get back to "reality." The editor, who has read your piece, has also completely re-written it because he doesn't think the corporate interest section is relevant to the fine dining interests of the NYC readership. You're really upset. A friend of yours takes you to a bar to get drunk. It's there you see the "rugged individualist who won't talk to anyone." He's come all the way to NYC to see you. He has an Igloo container in his hand. Inside is salmon. Of course.
Now that the "rugged individualist who won't talk to anyone" has come to you, now that you've proven to yourself that middle-age isn't any big deal, now that you've shown your friends you can still catch big fish, you also begin to realize your perception of the world has changed. You look at your life: I'm not going to take this shit anymore! you cry.
Next scene? You're standing on the docks again in British Columbia. You look pretty hot in those tight bluejeans as the "rugged individualist who won't talk to anyone" chugs into the harbor. It's so romantic, isn't it? No telling how many frequent flier miles you've used up going back and forth across the continent. The violins begin to swell....
....and you realize who and where you are. You're not Jacqueline Smith. You're just some guy who's been sleeping. First you dreamed you were having illicit sex with a fourteen-year-old and then you dove into a deeper dream that was designed for fourteen-year-olds. What is this? Jacqueline Smith? Is this a sign you're a latent homosexual? Or, is it that you've completely associated your ego with your feminine aspect?
Crimony! You have no idea what's happened. From outside the window you hear strange noises: The orchestra is packing up and apparently going home. Now it's just you, you: Wondering how on earth your notions of romance and relationship were warped to such a degree that this--Jacqueline Smith and a "rugged individualist who won't talk to anyone"--is what you dream of. You're middle aged yourself. You should be more mature than this. You should have a different viewpoint. You should have lost that psychic training bra years ago.
posted by Faceshaker at 1:22 PM
2 Comments:
Salmon?
Perhaps you are referring to 'trouser trout.'
Hell yeah I'm talking about trouser trout! It's entirely possible Jacqueline's editor sent her way out West just to get laid. Who knows? Probably to get her out of his hair. But that brings on another sexual metaphor. And, at this point, I don't think I wanna go there right now.
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