2002-02-04 - 6:21 p.m.
Could someone with a Ph.D. in semiotics please decontruct the U2 Superbowl halftime performance for me? There just has to be something subversively postmodern about it. I�m thinking that Bono�s American-flag jacket has got to be some kind of ironic homage to the American-flag shirt Abby Hoffman used to wear back in the �60s, or the flag diaper that Larry Flynt wore in the �70s, or the white flag that Bono himself carried onstage during the live concert video of "Sunday Bloody Sunday" in the �80s. Except people keep telling me that Irony Is Dead, so I must be wrong. Anyone care to clarify?
While you�re at it, could you explain Britney Spears too?
Oh, wait ... Satan. That one�s easy.
***
I love my friends. Whenever I get together with them I come away with new fun factoids to share with you, my minions. (Those of you with delicate digestive systems--both of you--should stop reading now.)
Jeff�s birthday party on Saturday was no exception. One of the people there owns a horse. Until now I�d always envisioned horse owners as either bitchy teenage girls, or modern-day would-be cowpokes galloping frantically out of a cigarette ad and toward the nearest gay rodeo. Not this one, though. This one was in her 30s, heterosexual, with multiple body piercings and tattoos covering both of her arms. Over the course of the evening she let us all in on some of the more gruesome aspects of horse ownership--including (in the case of a stallion or gelding) the need to periodically reach inside the horse�s penile shaft, scooping out all the accumulated smegma and then flinging it unceremoniously onto the floor of the stable.
And here I thought having to clean out a dog�s anal glands was gross.
I�m not sure how I�ll eventually put this knowledge to good use, but I think I�ll start by never, ever, ever owning a horse.
Best quote of the evening: "Well, hell, somebody�s got to do it. You can�t just sit around and wait for Tom Green to do it for you."
I love my friends.
***
So after the Superbowl I went to the Big Gay Ralphs for groceries and wound up witnessing the most astonishing psychological-castration scene in recent memory.
I�m in the crackers-and-chips aisle. In front of me are a man and a woman. The woman is very pregnant, at least eight or nine months along--I�m a lousy judge of such things, but in any event she looks like she could go kablooey at any minute. She�s also very loud, very crabby, and in obvious physical discomfort. I feel sorry for her.
I feel worse for the man, however, because he�s wearing one of those ... what are they called? Empathy Vests, I think. Those weighted aprons shaped like a pregnant woman�s belly and breasts, worn by extremely pussywhipped men to show that they understand how to feels to be Great With Child. I bet the fancier models even have pockets you can slip leaky bottles into so you can lactate, too.
My first thought was: God, what did the poor guy do to deserve this? It must have been bad, whatever it was, if the only way to atone for his sins was to go to the gayest supermarket in San Diego, on the night of the Superbowl, wearing a brightly colored preggo-vest and enduring a stream of verbal abuse from his wife, or girlfriend, or whoever. Marching him in shackles at noon through downtown with his testes in a burlap bag hanging around his neck would have been kinder.
I just sat there at the end of the aisle, pretending to look at the freshness dates on the Sun Chips bags.
Then, the scene got scarier. The woman was looking for Low-Fat Triscuits, and the store was out of them, so she freaked out and turned her wrath on Tit-Vest Man.
Woman: "Goddamn it! They�re out of Low-Fat Triscuits!"
Man: "They have regular Triscuits. How about regular Triscuits?"
Woman: "I DON�T WANT REGULAR TRISCUITS! THEY�LL MAKE ME FAT! YOU WANT ME TO GET FAT?"
(Me, silently: "How can you tell?")
Man: "Well, I�m just saying--"
Woman: "Never mind. Let�s just get these." She grabs a box of Cheez-Its.
Man: "Are you sure you don�t--"
Woman: "NO! Let�s just go."
I�m guessing you�ll be running into their kid at your local Goth club in 18 years or so.
***
So now I have this image of Elizabeth Taylor up to her elbows in horse-dick. Why is that?
***
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