Crap in a theater: boycott this movie

I’m in Missoula and so is all of my stuff, at last. Things were kind of touch-and-go for a few hours there, like when the movers showed up at my place in Montana with an EMPTY TRUCK, rather than a truck containing my worldly possessions; that caused more pants-wetting than I was prepared for (because the rest of my pants were on the MOVING TRUCK). Since I’m house-sitting, my stuff is still all packed up in the garage. I need to get in there and find my olive oil and some shoes to wear to work tomorrow. Yeah, wearing olive oil is all the rage now.

Anyway, there's something else, though, that I need right now that I can't seem to find...

Looks in basket of dirty laundry...

Checks behind the box spring...

Opens the cedar chest...

Aha! My soapbox! I knew I packed you where I’d be able to find you! Now that I am standing firmly upon you, I have got to get something off my chest...something that has been irking me for the last few months.

It seems that this summer New Line Cinema is releasing a little film called Snakes on a Plane, starring Samuel L. Jackson and 30% of the cast of Final Destination 3. I've been following this Snakes debacle since last summer and the more I read about it, the more irritated I get -- and not just because Samuel L. Jackson is systematically dismantling his once cooler-than-cool persona. This movie is not just smearing Jackson, but snakes, too.


Despite my tetchy relationship with the Nature Center and all things Nature Centery, I will always have a soft spot in my heart for snakes. It wasn’t until I worked with those lovable reptiles every day that I realized that they do all have their own personalities – they’re not just mouths with a tail. There was an indigo snake there that was quite the ham and did silly things in front of school groups, like perch his head on my index finger and check out the crowd. We had a snowcorn that always found her way into the belt loops on my pants, making herself into a lovely living snake belt; she sometimes made herself at home in my ponytail, which was a little awkward, but entertaining nonetheless. Not all of the snakes were fun and games, of course; our king snakes were grumpy old men who pooped on you whenever you picked them up…just like grumpy old human men.

No matter the personality, though, as a naturalist, I tried to impart the same snake lesson to all of our visitors: snakes are good. Snakes eat rodents. Not cats or dogs or slow-moving children (usually). Snakes are essential for controlling the mouse and rat population: if you started with two mice, a male and female, and they bred, and those offspring bred, and then those offspring bred, at the end of the year without any predation, you would have 15,000 mice. Mice can reproduce at three weeks of age and have litters of up to 22. Dude, that’s a lot of mouse shit – and that’s far more dangerous for humans than a five-foot long animal without arms or legs or ears.

I can’t say that I changed everyone’s views on snakes. I was a lot of things in my tenure at the Nature Center – Xerox repairperson, outcast, toad urination station – but miracle worker was not one of the hats I wore. I've accepted that the majority of people just don't trust animals without legs...which is weird because people don't like spiders either and they have a ton of legs. I know there's some biblical stuff involved, leading to the serpent's bad rap. I've given enough awkward snake presentations to uber-Christian groups to know that's true; I especially liked when teachers would ask me to point out to the class where the snakes’ hips are, from when the snakes had legs before they were damned or whatever. I don’t know my Bible stuff. (Oh, which reminds me: Happy Easter).

Christianity can’t take all the blame for the snake’s bad public image, though; Hollywood has done as much, if not more, to convince the general public of the inherent evil snakes possess.

Fun fact: in south Florida, there are 42 native species of snakes, only four of which are venomous. The largest species is the indigo snake, growing up to nine feet long (in fact, it’s the largest native North American snake), but they’re highly endangered, so no one sees them anyway (but if you did, you would be interested to know that this gentle snake actually eats venomous snakes like rattlesnakes, which makes the indigo a pretty cool snake to have hanging around). The next largest snake is probably the yellow rat snake, a skinny snake that gets to be about six feet long and dines exclusively on rats and mice. That’s it. There are no native anaconda-size snakes lurking in your bushes, attacking the pizza boy when he’s trying to deliver your dinner.

The majority of people, though, sees a snake in their yard, and assumes that it’s going to grow to be 20-feet-long and eat their German shepherd. Why do they think this? Methinks they’ve seen one too many movies where the antagonist is a menacing snakey behemoth. Lake Placid or Anaconda, anyone?

Here’s where I take issue with the brilliantly-named Snakes on a Plane. The premise is that a terrorist is taking over a plane by releasing highly venomous snakes in the passenger-filled cabin. From all the movie stills I’ve seen, the snakes appear to be milk snakes or scarlet kingsnakes which are no more venomous or dangerous than my bunny rabbit. In fact, Hef the bunny could totally take those snakes in a fight.

So, immediately, the movie is factually incorrect (and stupidly named). But what really gets me is the idea that free-roaming little snakes = mass hysteria. Why make people more scared of something than they already are – and needlessly so? Most snakes won’t bite without provocation – so don’t piss them off. It’s just that easy. (By the way, the same goes for me; I seldom nip at others unless they really rub me the wrong way).

I beseech thee, gentle reader, not to watch this movie. If flight attendants can boycott that Jodie Foster airplane movie because it made flight attendants look like stone cold bitches, then we can boycott Snakes on a Plane. And we will.

The snakes will thank you.

I thought I had an original idea until I saw Grey's Anatomy last Sunday. Damn you, Grey's Anatomy...damn you...

It occurred to me today while walking Foxy that perhaps I've dated too many guys. This thought popped into my mind as Foxy and I ran into an ex of mine in a park near the house I'm house-sitting; for the last two weeks, I haven't been able to walk ten feet without running into someone who has seen me naked. A high number of naked-BPW-seers brings a fair amount of drama. Take the picture below for example:

This picture was taken, unbeknownst (<--I've never typed that word before; it looks weird) to me, during my last night in Fort Myers. This is my bar -- I probably spent as much time there as I did at work. It's sad, I know, but Fort Myers is a sad place; that's why I'm not there any more!

Anyhow, check out my friends in this photo. The girl and I look like we go out all the time, right? Like we're tight tequila buddies? Funny thing about her...I've been dumped for her...twice...by the same guy. I can't even begin to explain all the stuff that went on between me and Toe Sucker (the dumper in question) in the last two months, so I'm not going to. I'll just say that he's one of my best friends now -- definitely one of the weirdest/healthiest/most painful breakups I've had. When I saw his girl at the bar the last night I was around, I figured that I had two choices:

1. Be the bitchy jilted ex.

2. Make a new friend.

For a little while, I tried to be bitter, but it's just not my style and, dude, I just so do not have the energy for that. Toe Sucker always said that she and I would be really good friends had we not had the weird connection to him standing in the way. So, on my last night, I decided to make our weird connection to Toe Sucker my connection to her, and we talked, cleared the air, shared some tequila, and exchanged phone numbers. I certainly did not think on my last night in Fort Myers that I would be standing in the parking lot of my favorite bar with Toe Sucker's girlfriend telling me that I could spend the night at her place if I needed to (my furniture was long gone on it's cross-country journey by this point; I ended up staying at Toe Sucker's again, as I had all week; we really do have a complex relationship).

Yeah, so I'm sure none of that made sense to you or was the least bit interesting. It's just been a big part of what's been going on with me lately. I surprised myself with the girl situation...I was a big person. It hurt to be dropped again for her, but I understood. Toe Sucker dumped me because he fell in love with her within an hour of meeting her. When they had their falling out a few months ago and he and I started seeing each other again, I liked him more than I did the first time. Something about him had changed, and I realized that it had to do with her...she made him a better person. So, I can't be mad at her. And I can't be mad at him -- who am I to stand in the way of true love? They both want to visit me in Missoula and I really hope they do.

So, there's a dude in the picture, too. That, friends, is Traveling Man. Yes, the Traveling Man, he of the recreational Viagra use. The last time I had seen him was January, when I stormed out of his hotel at six in the morning because I was so annoyed with him, with me, with the whole pathetic "relationship." Strangely, that was the same night Toe Sucker and his girl split up.

I had not heard a peep from Traveling Man until my last afternoon in Fort Myers. I was busy laying tile in my bathroom (which turned out awesomely, by the way. If you have a pet rodent destroy your vinyl floors, give me a call. I will hook you up), when my phone made the little "You have a text message" sound. I figured it would be Toe Sucker, but much to my surprise it was the traveler, asking if I still lived in Fort Myers.

I was greatly amused by him suddenly reappearing. In the preceding days, I had been spending a great deal of time with The Ex-Boyfriend (you know, the one I loved for way too long), and, though, I loved hanging out with him, I didn't want to get intimate at all...which is weird for me. I'm right back to where I was a few months ago, pre-Toe Sucker: I don't want to be close to anyone or care about anyone. So, it was fitting that the traveler would drop in --- he's someone I definitely don't care about, but who could, uh, satisfy my needs.

I let him know that it was my last night in town and that I would be heading down to the beach with a friend. He said he would meet me there and he did eventually appear with our mutual friend. I was chatting with her, asking her if she had ever gotten involved with him. The traveler is the kind of guy who has girls stashed all over the place. Since we weren't monogamous or serious by any means, I didn't really care about his dealings outside of Fort Myers.

The mutual friend made a face when I asked her that question. "Ewww! No way!" she exclaimed. Her response didn't really surprise me, until she added, "I don't know...married guys don't really do it for me."

?????

After I finished choking on my drink, I asked her to explain.

"What? You didn't know he's married? How did that not come up in the last few months?"

Well, gee, having sex in the Gulf of Mexico probably wasn't the best time for him to say, "Hey, have I told you about my wife?"

Then our mutual friend added a little icing to her revelation: "Yeah, he's married to another volleyball player. They have two kids."

Kids??? The 30-year-old who takes Viagra for fun and has sex with strangers in the ocean has kids???

I was already on the fence about hooking up with him on my last night, but this news sealed it. I was going to have fun with him. String him along, be a tease, play the player.

It. Was. Awesome.

I like how he's glaring at me in the picture up there. That was before I flat out said, "Gee, I'm tired. Thanks for coming out, but I think I'm going to bed." He caught on to me and congratulated me on stringing him along all night. I then told him that he was the worst husband ever. He agreed.

I had no idea that rejecting sex could be so empowering. I think I'm on to something new here. I think I need a break from men for a little while. And that is why I have vowed the following:

I will not have sex again until I learn how to knit a pair of socks.

You heard it here first. No sex, just knitting. I have several projects going and I've promised a scarf to Toe Sucker's girlfriend. I need to get these things done, man. Plus, I have no socks, and awesome as Missoula is, it is farking cold. I need me some socks.

Knitting can't be nearly as dramatic as dating.

Driving through Kansas: as much fun as it looks

The incredible journey is underway. So far, I've spent the night in Brandon, Mississippi; Tulsa, Oklahoma; and here I am tonight in Denver, Colorado. Oy. Good times.

The last two months have been more whirlwindy than I ever could have imagined. One day soon, I hope, things will settle down and I can go back to my boring life and I'll have time to do fun things like, you know, blogging and commenting. One day...

Until then, soak in the beauty of central Kansas. Alarmingly, this particular stretch of interstate was marked as a scenic route.