Tag: soapbox

Soapbox: Bee Day 1977

Bee Day 1977

At the beginning of autumn in 1977, I had not yet started kindergarten and my Nana (who I lived with) dressed me in a yellow Star Wars tee-shirt and sent me off for the day to my cousins’ grandmother’s place, on a nearby farm. I hated the tee-shirt because I thought it was boyish. I was also mistrustful because I’d heard that bees were attracted to the color yellow. Did you think that when you were little? Maybe it’s just because everyone I knew was a dumb bumpkin.

So, my cousins (Clint and Winfield) and I were playing in the cab of an abandoned farm truck in a field, when suddenly they yelled, “Bees!” and jumped from the cab, closing the doors behind them and leaving me alone. Before I could get the rusty old door open, I had been stung by three bees that had apparently been nesting inside the truck. I had never been stung by a bee before and I took it REALLY hard. I was pretty convinced I was going to die. My cousins’ grandmother took me in and picked out the stingers and smeared toothpaste on me, but she had one of the farm workers drive me home to the farm we lived on because I was still very shaken up.

At home, when I asked my Nana if I could change my shirt because it was yellow and that’s why I got stung by bees, she wouldn’t allow me to because she was the one who did all the laundry and I think deep down inside she hated me. So, I was allowed to watch cartoons while I continued post-hysterical-crying-shuddering on the sofa for a few hours.

When it got to be later in the afternoon, my Nana told me she’d seen the mail truck go up the road and that she wanted me to go outside and get the mail. Our mailbox was a short distance from our house, maybe fifty yards or so. I was like, “No. I’m scared to go outside.” Nana was not having it. She started shrieking at me about how I couldn’t spend the rest of my life afraid to go outside because it is very rare that a person is stung by bees, etc. (For the record, I don’t think I wanted to spend the rest of my life afraid of going outside, I just wanted to spend the rest of the afternoon afraid of it.) The only thing scarier than the memory of being stung by three bees at that point was the notion of being further cursed out and sent to my room where there was no TV, so I caved. For whatever reason, I was able to overcome the psychological hurdle of going out the door and walking up the road because I had the idea that I’d take this big red umbrella with me. Maybe I thought it would cover me, plus the red would distract from the yellow. Either way, my Nana told me I looked ridiculous going out on a sunny day with an open umbrella and I’m sure I did.

I remember walking about halfway to the mailbox and that it was really windy and hard to hold onto the umbrella and that is all I remember before blacking out. Why did that happen? Well, according to what I’ve been told, it’s because I walked straight into a swarm of angry bees. I guess when I took a long time coming back, my grandmother looked out the window and saw me lying in the road. She came out to get me and I was covered with a carpet of bees, passed out. She carried me inside and called my mother who rushed home from work. (I’m not sure, but if this ever happens to any kid I know, I might call an ambulance, but maybe she didn’t know the number?)

By the time my mom got to us, I had woken up, so good for me. My mom walked over to our neighbors’ house (they owned the farm we lived on) to warn them about the bee-saster and on the way, she got several bees on her (which she was and still is allergic to) and when she got to their door, she was trying to swat them away. The lady of the farmhouse was saying, “Don’t kill them! Don’t kill them! Those are our honeybees!” Come to find out, the farmer family had started raising honeybees and the very windy day had blown over two hives which broke. The farmwife panicked (???) and decided the proper course of action would be to throw the hives into the brook that ran by our houses. Which caused the bees to decide that the proper course of action would be to swarm.

The upshot of the story is, I went to the hospital because I couldn’t walk properly and was puking. They counted over a hundred stings on me and said that not walking and puking seemed pretty normal for a kid that had been stung a hundred times. In the end, I threw the Star Wars shirt away and didn’t go outside for over a week or something, until I was coaxed out under cover of darkness, to go bowling.

That’s my bee day of 1977. Thank you for letting me tell you.

– Caissie St. Onge

July 22, 2010
Soapbox: A Word About Shower Products

A Word About Shower Products

I am, according to my doctor’s opinion, as clearly stated by him by means of a mark in a check-box on my physical chart, a male. Let us be absolutely clear on this point, lest there be any confusion. For my part, there is no question: I am certain beyond a reasonable doubt that my X chromosome is complemented by a Y chromosome.

Now that we have that out of the way, let’s talk about showers (why is it that any talk of chromosomes always ends up leading to discussion about the shower?) … because I am a male (and if you doubt me on this point, see the paragraph above – and continue seeing it until you stop doubting), I am perfectly content to enter my shower armed with two, and only two, cleaning products: a bottle of shampoo and a bar of soap. These two items pretty much meet all of my scrubbing and/or sudsing needs.

Imagine my frustration and, let’s be honest, my deep hurt, when I enter a shower that is encased in a house where any form of woman also lives. This happens more frequently than you might think – perhaps you are married to a woman, perhaps you are visiting your aunt, perhaps you still live at home with your parents, or, in my case, perhaps you frequently sneak into your neighbor’s house while she is at work and use her shower (Frieda, if you’re reading this, I’m only kidding; I use your silk robe for my trips to the sauna, but I would never use your shower).

It is practically impossible to climb into the female shower, because its tiny space is jam-packed, from fiberglass floor to ceiling, with various “shower” products. I say “shower” in blatantly sarcastic quotes because I feel blatantly sarcastic about this subject. I do not deny that what resides in these thousands of bottles, all stacked neatly according to category and color, qualifies as product; you will get no quarrel from me on this. I will argue, however, that this product is not really “shower” product.

To demonstrate my point, let me walk you through, in moistly naked detail, the average shower experience that takes place in a female-inhabited house.

As the water reaches a basically user-friendly temperature and begins cascading down my back, I instinctively reach for the bar of Coast (or Irish Spring, if you want to smell like an Irishman almost never does – I always thought that Irish Spring should smell vaguely like Guinness malt and corned beef), but I stop myself. This is to be a feminine shower experience, I remind myself, and so I reach instead for the nearest bottle of shampoo.

Problem number one presents itself.

There is not one, single bottle of hair wash, there are approximately thirteen bottles. I am immediately confused. Do I want my hair to be anti-dandruff, or hydrating? Isn’t the prospect of having hydrating hair somewhat dubious to begin with? Will my hair spontaneously begin to water itself during the day if I use this shampoo? Should I instead reach for the full-body shampoo (which I imagine to be somewhat more rich, robust, and dark than the average light shampoo)? Perhaps I ought to be using the replenishing shampoo, with the anti-residue formula? But do I want the unscented brand with the 2-in-1 conditioner, or do I want the clarifying shampoo with the super-sensitive formula, even though it is scented?

Deeply offended, I mix all thirteen shampoos together in a goopy mess on my head. I then spend the next 162 minutes washing the incredible amount of suds out of my hair.

Next, it’s on to the joyless task of cleaning my body at large (and no, that is not a fat joke). Again forgetting myself and reaching for a normal bar of soap, I realize that, in fact, there is no bar of soap in this shower! Of course! It’s a woman’s shower!

I begin rummaging through the stacks and stacks of available bottlery, and quickly become disoriented. Am I in the shower, or am in line at the buffet? It is difficult to tell anymore, because – I swear this is true – I am staring head-on at a bottle that says Brown Sugar and Vanilla Body Wash.

This sounds fantastic, and I now wish I had brought a stack of pancakes into the shower with me. Alas, I did not, and so I move on to the next bottle, which reads, White Chocolate Macadamia Butter Scrub. The label helpfully informs me that this product is a “luxurious body scrub made with rich, buttery, white Belgium chocolate,” which is “melted with Hawaiian Macademia and Kukui nut oils and lavished with Shea butter and Cocoa butter.” The label promises, “This will leave your skin feeling smooth, soft and moisturized.”

Tasty! Mmmmm! I look for the Nutritional Info label to see if I can find a calorie count, but I cannot locate it. Being somewhat health-conscious, I pass on the chocolate nut body spread.

The next bottle practically falls off the shelf into my hands (which are now shaking from the insulin rush created by contact with the body butter) – I am now holding a container of Body Icing. The label claims, “Creamier than a body lotion but not as thick as body butter!” Ah, good, I think to myself, I was looking for a liquidy body syrup that was simultaneously creamier than lotion, but not as thick as body butter. In terms of texture, you usually want your Body Icing somewhere between “lotion” and “butter”, and this is not an easy balance to strike – so I salute the accomplishment represented by this product.

Of course, I ate three handfuls of the body icing before the Titanium Dioxide, Methylparaben, and Triethanolamine got into my bloodstream and caused a violent seizure. I would do it again. The Strawberry Kiwi flavoring was to die for.

Finally, I located what I thought would possibly make the most logical substitute for plain bar soap (which, by the way, I have never been tempted to eat) – a product calling itself a “Body Wash”. Seemed about right. “Body” … yes, my body is the object which I would like cleansed … “Wash” … indeed, washing is what I would like to do to my body.

And then I read the fancy, curly-font decorated letters, as my eyes widened in horror: Grapefruit and Bergamot Shea Butter Body Wash. I was not entirely clear on what, precisely, a “bergamot” is, so I stepped out of the running shower, found an encyclopedia, got slightly distracted for about 27 minutes by a fascinating entry on “Battle of Bull Run”, and then discovered that “Bergamot” is a small fruit-tree found in Italy, the fruit-peel of which contains an essential oil that can be extracted “by cold expression.” (I wasn’t aware that the bergamot fruit peel could even tell the difference between a warm or cold expression, much less that it cared enough to start secreting its oil when faced with the latter).

Shea Butter, of course, is tree-fat that comes from the Shea Tree, and is widely praised for its anti-inflammatory properties.

I returned the shower mostly at peace with the idea of rubbing a product on my body that contained grapefruit, bergamot, and shea butter. But the temptation was indeed very strong to use the product in a fondue dipping sauce recipe later that evening.

All in all, I was mystified by the experience of this feminine shower. I suppose I got clean … I think I got clean … and I certainly smelled like a French bakery when I was finished. But doing this on a daily basis would be extremely difficult. I now understand why women take, on average, 300 Kajillion times longer than men to get in and out of the shower.

So, thank you, Feminine Shower, but I’ll just go ahead and stick with the tried-and-true, bar soap and shampoo bottle strategy from now on.

–Jacob Michael
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March 16, 2010
Soapbox: So, AVATAR…

So, AVATAR

James Cameron wanted me to let you know that, in addition to being “the king of the world”, he is now also the king of Pandora. That, of course, is the name given to the moon associated with the planet Polyphemus in Mr. King of the Galaxy’s new movie, Avatar. An Avatar is, as I’m sure you know, the binary and digital equivalent of an “AKA”, which itself is just an acronymic way of saying “I can’t stand on my own two feet, so I’ll adopt a more exciting alter-ego”.

In this rather bizarre and “meta” way, Avatar is indeed a real avatar. Pretending to be its own movie, it is, in fact, a fascinating cross-cut blend of several other films, including Ferngully, Dances with Wolves, Pocahontas, Apocalypto, and maybe a bit of Braveheart. However, since Avatar dresses up its brazen plagiarism with some absolutely stunning and spectacular digital imagery and special effects, we’ll give it a pass and hand it some awards.

A quick synopsis, then: we Americans are a greedy, unfeeling, insensitive bunch of chunk-heads who have no appreciation whatsoever for other cultures, let alone other planets. We frequently go around with actual dollar signs flashing out of our eye sockets, and we will stop at nothing to make a lot of money very quickly. Thus, the RDA Corporation has set out on a mining expedition to Pandora, where it will blow stuff up, kill innocent life-forms, and generally make a drunken fool of itself in the quest to obtain a valuable mineral called … wait for it … unobtainium. Please, stop laughing, Mr. Cameron can hear you.

One of the ways the RDA Corporation intends to get this unobtanium (genus: nowaytoprocuremal) is to infiltrate the native Na’vi people using “avatars” – a human-Na’vi hybrid, specially built for the purpose, and operated by human beings using slightly upgraded The Matrix technology. Seriously, you jerks, quit laughing, this is serious art.

Jake Scully operates the lone avatar that is successful in being accepted by the Na’vi people, and this forms the basis for the movie’s morality tale: once Jake gets to know and love the Na’vi (because you just know he will), will he remain loyal to the humans and help them rape the land, or will he become a traitor to his race by helping the Na’vi preserve their civilization? I’ll bet you really can’t guess, can you?

I liked the film, in a sort of “3 stars out of 5” way. As promised, the CGI and digital effects show was very good, and the epic battle at the end of the film was as epic-y and battle-ish as anyone could want. My point of contention is that James Cameron carved up an over-used story, threw in some seriously shameless and pedantic political propaganda, and used that as an excuse to put on a digital dog-and-pony show.

The Na’vi prance around in their skimpy outfits, with their long and braided hair, worshiping the Mother Nature Goddess Life Energy Force and living off the resources of the land – and they have a pretty catchy war-cry, to boot. You can go ahead and mentally supply the eagle-feather warbonnets and tomahawk dancing.

As the unapologetically mercenary humans prepare to go to war against the Na’vi, their actions are justified as “pre-emptive”, and described as a “shock and awe” campaign. Jake complains that we humans have already killed our Mother (Earth, I think, although he may have been talking about Mother Teresa), and declares that human beings must be taught that we cannot simply take land away from other civilizations in order to get what we want.

In short, as the climactic battle begins, and the war cry is sounded, the average viewer will be so fired up and emotionally provoked that he may very well leap up out of his theater seat, raise his fists into the air, and scream “DEATH TO THE HUMANS!” Presumably, he will then return to his seat and continue consuming his 885 oz. Pepsi and 50-gallon drum of popcorn, little realizing that he has just sided against his own race in favor of a fictional, digital, alien community.

I fail to understand why James Cameron chose the American people as the antagonists in this film. After all, he was writing a story line that simply needed to pit humans against aliens, but out of all the cultures and races on Planet Earth from which to choose, he selected Americans. Obviously, Mr. Cameron has not watched enough Bugs Bunny or Connery-era 007 films, or he would have known that the nationalities preferred for representing Evil Incarnate in cinema are Russians or Germans.

I can only conclude that James Cameron is himself an alien, currently operating a genetically engineered human avatar, sent here to infiltrate our planet and prepare us for the coming alien invasion by filling us with self-loathing.

Still, he’s doing it with some fantastic special effects, so … who cares? Pass the popcorn.

–Jacob Michael

January 21, 2010
Soapbox: Golden Globes, Ricky Gervais, AVATAR, & A Few Other Buzzwords

Golden Globes, Ricky Gervais, AVATAR, & A Few Other Buzzwords

Golden Globes night. I had just cracked open a cold bottle of Paulaner Hefe-Weizen, while recalling my grandfather’s now-legendary words of wisdom: “Just remember, you can’t drink it all – they’ll always make more.”

Even now, years later, I see no reason to attempt to prove him wrong.

I was primed for this awards ceremony, having seen Ricky Gervais several days prior on The Tonight Show with Conan O’Brien, where the subject of his hosting the Globes was discussed briefly. More importantly, Gervais made it quite clear in his comments to Conan whose side he was on, and he doesn’t strike me as one to pull any punches. Gervais + Pro-Conan Stance + Hosting an awards show on NBC = a recipe for some potentially (unintentionally?) hilarious disaster.

I was in no way disappointed. Gervais made some comments that made me squirm in my seat and laugh nervously, repeatedly finding a welcome distraction in my wheaty beer (I would drink three bottles before the show finally ended). A small sampling of what I mean:

– In his opening bit, Gervais expressed his concern that NBC might suddenly replace him as the host of the awards, and put Leno in his place (adding at one point, “I’m not used to these sort of viewing figures … neither is NBC, for that matter”). This didn’t get unanimous laughter from the star-studded audience. Ricky, Ricky, Ricky… this is a Hollywood audience. Leno’s been around since before Jim Carrey was doing In Living Color, for cripe’s sake – he’s gotta have more than a few friends in this audience. Nervous laughter.

– The original creative power behind The Office, Gervais complained to the audience that everyone thinks Steve Carrell is the brilliant one, as evidenced by the fact that he gets all the movie deals. He referred to the American version of the show as having “jumped the shark” (literally, “Arthur Fonzarellied”), and promoted the British version of the show on DVD. More nervous laughter.

– Gervais spoke of having flown over on the same flight as Sir Paul McCartney (who was nominated for Best Original Song from a Motion Picture), noting that McCartney flew coach because he was “saving money… he spent an awful lot last year.” Jokes about divorce are rarely funny to the person who just experienced one. Still more nervous laughter.

– Before introducing Mel Gibson, Gervais walked on-stage with a beer, admitted to having “had a few”, then delivered the blow: “I like a drink as much as the next man… unless the next man is Mel Gibson.” Then he left the beer on the podium, thus setting up one of the night’s funnier moments, which came, not from the show itself, but from the Twitter stream: Ken Plume (@KenPlume) quipped, “Ricky even left the drink out for Mel. Now THAT’S a good host.”

Which brings me to my next point: I watched this entire event with my Twitter stream flowing, washing gently over me and keeping me informed, in 140-character quips, about what other people wanted to say about the show. It was like watching the whole thing with a room full of friends, who for some reason would only speak in short sentences, and only all at the same time. Oh well. At least I didn’t have to share my beer with them.

The whole live-tweet experience probably colored my perception of the awards show. There were a few genuinely funny moments in the show itself (see McCartney’s quip, “Animation is not just for children, it is also for a-dults who take drugs”), but most of the laughs that came from me, specifically (as opposed to “you”), were prompted by comments from the tweeple I follow. When Mickey Rourke walked on-stage in a too-large-to-be-taken-seriously cowboy hat, Ricky Gervais refused to poke fun at him (“mainly because he has arms as big as my legs”, he explained). Thankfully, Caissie St. Onge (@Caissie) was there to jab, “I love that Mickey Rourke declined to do banter of any kind. You’re not going to get wittier than that hat”, while Tim Siedell (@badbanana) noted, “Not sure Mickey Rourke knows someone put a hat on him as a joke.”

These were the golden moments of the Golden Globes. It gave me a great idea for future ceremonies: live-streaming Twitter feeds, running constantly on a jumbo-tron in the background. Wouldn’t that be awesome? We could sit in the comfort (read: safety) of our own homes and launch our stream-of-consciousness thoughts directly into the audience. I’m betting that would change a few things about the environment and atmosphere of those shows. Granted, Ashton Kutcher (@aplusk) might have to stop tweeting during those events, but I consider that a net win, really.

It also made me wonder: in what other scenarios might this live-tweeting medium prove to be a major enhancement to the event currently being experienced? Sporting events? Movie premiers? Book readings at the local Tea Society? Papal Vespers?

I don’t know. But I think I’m close to discovering something big here. I’ll let you know when I figure out what it is.

(A quick BTW/PS: I know, this post was about the Golden Globes, and I didn’t say anything about which movies won which awards. It doesn’t really matter. Same amount of shockers, upsets, disappointments, complaints, victories, no-kiddings, and they-deserved-its as last year.)

–Jacob Michael

January 19, 2010
Soapbox: FourthMeal, FifthMeal, SixthMeal

FourthMeal, FifthMeal, SixthMeal…

I suppose it’s a sad enough commentary on the state of our current culture that, as I prepare to begin this article by stating that I was recently out for a “FourthMeal” run, I realize there is absolutely no need to explain exactly what “FourthMeal” is. Congratulations, Taco Bell – all of those billions of dollars spent on that ridiculous advertising campaign were dollars well-spent; your nasty little slogan is now part of our common vocabulary.

I also wanted to say this: I think the “FourthMeal” branding is incredibly presumptuous. I resent the fact that Taco Bell assumes they know me well enough to make the statement, stamped with a registered trademark no less, that this is my fourth meal of the day. It might only be my third meal of the day, which would explain why I’m running out for fast food at 11:45 PM. Maybe I skipped dinner, and that’s why I’m so desperately hungry that I will actually drive to the nearest Taco Bell and actually order, pay for, and eat their pseudo-Mexi-slop. For that matter, maybe this is my ninth meal of the day. Perhaps I’m shooting for a personal record.

I am somewhat shocked that, these days, nearly every single item available for purchase at Taco Bell comes with a taco on the side. You want a quesadilla combo? That comes with a taco. You want a cheesy bean burrito combo? That, too, comes with a taco. You want a family-size combo-pack of 15 tacos? Here, have a taco with that.

When the time comes for the helpful sales associate to process your order, they are required by Federal Law to ask you, “Would you like a hard or soft taco with that?” This is where I get a bit antsy, as a consumer. I’ve already sat in line at the drive-thru and fearfully, anxiously weighed my menu options for a solid 15 minutes – not because I wanted to wait that long, but because that’s how long it took for this well-oiled, “fast”-food machine to process the order of the guy in front of me. By this point in the chronology of events, I’ve already come to several food-based crossroads, and I’ve moved on: I know which of the fifteen combo meals I want, I know which beverage (regular or diet) I would like to accompany that combo, I know whether I will go with steak, chicken, or beef in my “Supreme” (not “Baja”) Gordita (not Chalupa), I know what size I want, and I know which sauces I want on top of it all.

Do you really need to pressure with this “hard-or-soft-taco” decision now?!

Does it really even matter? We’re talking about the exact same internal contents in either case: some ground beef, a sprinkling of lettuce, a small ration of finely diced tomatoes, exactly seven cheese shavings, and a tiny plop of sour cream (yes, the standard Taco Bell unit of measure for sour cream is indeed the “plop” – look it up). The only difference between the hard or soft taco, then, is the flexibility of the wrapper around the taco-y center. Will it be brittle and dry, or will it be soft and moist? Either way, is it really going to drastically impact the overall enjoyment I will derive from the combo meal as a whole? I strongly doubt it. Do I intend to do anything with this edible taco wrapper that may or may not result in personal injury, based on its durability or texture? Perhaps, but not likely.

So I like to let the helpful sales associate choose for me. That’s one less thing they can screw up (although, I will not be terribly surprised if this one day happens to me). “Hard or soft taco?” “It’s your call, man.” I’m pretty easy going when it comes to my fast-food, precisely because it is just that: fast-food. This isn’t a formal outing, there are no culinary critics involved, and none of the menu items include fancy French sounds (such as words ending in -eaux, or words beginning with D’– or L’-). I didn’t put on a coat and tie for the occasion, nor did I bring a vintage bottle of cabinet reserve to accompany my “FourthMeal”.

On the contrary, I pre-resigned myself to ordering food from a place that actually spent marketing dollars on the concept of a late-night munchie-run. I fully expect the food-product that gets handed to me in a plastic bag through a tiny glass window by a minimum wage associate named “Chip” – food-product that is, I remind you, accompanied by paper-towel napkins and occasionally packaged in a cardboard box – to be heavy on functionality, and light on aesthetics. Put simply: I expect to cram this crap down my gullet in order to quiet the growl in my belly, not to experience taste-bud nirvana.

Which is why I will never understand those people who treat the drive-thru encounter as though it were akin to dining out at the Olive Garden. You know the type: the person who drives up to the little metal ordering-box and asks for the Big Hombre combo (all 38 pieces), grande-sizes the hell out of it, but then demands to have the tomatoes on the side, the sour cream swapped out for ranch dressing, nacho cheese instead of the pepper-jack, no “zowie” sauce, and two empty tortilla shells instead of the baggie of chips.

To this individual, I calmly say: please consider your %$!!@%$! surroundings and do a much-needed reality check. The franchise from which you are currently ordering your late-night sustenance has three large tubs in the back storage area, filled with ground meat-product, cheese-product, and some kind of damp “veggie” mix. The 74 menu items you see are simply a series of variations made up of ingredients drawn from these three tubs, rearranged in inventive ways for marketing purposes. You should consider yourself lucky that they don’t just dump the whole sloppy mess straight into the plastic bag, and hand it over to you with a spork and a friendly “good luck, SeÃ±or.”

Now… If you’ll pardon me, I need to go back to Taco Bell and complain. They put jalapeÃ±o sauce on my quesadilla and forgot to add fresh onions, again.

-Jacob Michael

January 19, 2010