Old [ohld] adjective:
far advanced in the years of one’s or its life: an old man; an old horse; an old tree. (www.dictionary.com)
I’m not exactly old. Not really. And my hairstylist is well-paid to ensure no rogue grays foil my plot to defy the aging process as long as possible. There are some things, though, that simply can’t be modified to seem younger than they are. One of those things? My absolute favorite television shows from childhood. There are a few I loved — the original Scooby Doo, whose feet sort of slid along as he walked because it was a real cartoon, not a computer generated show; Flipper, the show that made me want to be a marine biologist; He-Man, who made riding a tiger cool, had long hair, wore a loincloth and was my first step toward falling in love with Sam Bond. But of all of the, ahem, not-new shows that were around in my youth, there’s one that stands out as a clear favorite, one I still watch every chance I get.
I love this show. I wanted to be Ginger, who had kickass gowns and serious va-va-voom on a deserted island. I wanted to be Mary Ann because she was gorgeous and resourceful. I wanted to be the Professor because he was just too cool. I loved the Skipper’s temper. The Howells made me laugh at their ignorance and shallow attempts to remain socially elite. The island natives who were hysterical. And Gilligan? I loved Gilligan. I saw so much of myself in him–this kid trying to do all the right things and just bungling it regularly. He made me laugh out loud and cheer him on and sympathize, all at the same time. I never missed the show.
There was an innocence to the entertainment that I miss. Or maybe it’s my innocence I mourn. I’m not sure. Life was simpler then, and Gilligan’s Island personified for me what that meant — laughter, survival, friendship, camaraderie and, above all, hope. Pretty impressive impression to leave a kid with. High five, my lovely castaways.
I’m not much of a movie-goer. I always seem to watch movies when they finally make it to television. In 2012, I think I went to the movies once and that was because there was no way I could miss watching a piece of my childhood brought to life again. When I realized this post was about the Oscars…I had to actually look up the movies I’ve seen recently to see if they were nominated. I figured they weren’t.
The only film I could think of that won anything was The Black Swan which I finally saw over Thanksgiving…and that didn’t win an Oscar, right? *googles it* It won an Academy Award, not the Oscars. *shrug* I don’t watch the Oscarls, the Golden Globes, the Academy Awards, MTV Music Awards or anything like that because none of the people/groups I want to win ever do. *mutters*
But this time, oh this time something I really loved won. This goes back to my childhood coming back to entertain me.
My sister and I wrangled her youngest son (a 21-year-old) into watch The Muppets with us. For us, The Muppets couldn’t have been anything but wonderful. From the opening song to the credits we snorted, giggled and guffawed our way through the movie. Yes, children were turning to stare at us, but we didn’t care. Their parents and grandparents enjoyed the movie. And wasn’t that the way things were? The Muppets were hilarious whether it was on their show or in movies. And for me, for my sister, it was. My nephew, who probably never saw any of the Muppets movies, spent the entire film laughing at me and my sister.
Until this song came on:
This song brought the three of us together in a giggling, snorting mess.
Even now, a year and a half later, I’ll get a random text message from my nephew saying “Am I man or a Muppet? Cause if I’m a Muppet, I’m a very manly Muppet.” Which only makes me giggle (and earns me weird looks from others).
Sooo yeah, this was the only movie I’d seen in 2011 that won an Oscar for anything. But I’m actually okay with that since it was a good movie.
Did you see The Muppets? And I have to ask: “Are you a (wo)Man or a Muppet?”
The theme this time around is all about the zombiepocalypse. Oh sure, you’ve seen the movies, you know what to do. But would you really do it?
Don’t get me wrong, I don’t think I’d be as bad as the guys in Shaun of the Dead and head straight for the pub. At least I don’t think I would. But then again, I don’t have a full plan like some people I know. Plans, you say? Yes, plans.
There’s my nephew who has made the decision that when the zombiepocalypse happens, he’s going to his parents’ house, burn all the homes in a quarter-mile around their house and stake out on top of his dad’s shed (it’s roughly the size of a small airplane hangar). Now that’s planning. He has his defensible position picked out, a means to make sure he can see the enemy coming…so sorry about the neighbors though. This is serious business to him.
My brother plans to hang out at either Wal-mart or Sams. I don’t think that’s the best plan of action myself. I mean, isn’t that where everyone’s going to go when the zombies come? They’ll decide at the last-minute that they need to get some milk or something. Not to mention, there are just too many entrances into the building for my comfort. Sure, it has everything you’d need to survive for a good while, but you’ll have to fend off other survivors and the zombies. Not exactly my cup of tea.
Then there’s this belief that if you go out in the middle of nowhere, where there are no people, your chances of being the target of a zombie attack. But you’re also far from all supplies you might need. First aid, food, ammunition, etc. Sure, you could stockpile this stuff, but you will run out. The question is will you outlast the zombies or not? Besides, I seriously doubt a zombie infection would be isolated to humans. You could be out there in the woods surrounded by zombie squirrels, zombie rabbits…zombie mosquitoes! It’s dangerous!
As for me? Well, I already know I’d never survive the zombiepocalypse. It wouldn’t matter how prepared I was. I could go all Linda Hamilton in Terminator 2 dangerous and I’d still die. Why? Because I can’t stand being dirty or having dirty hair. It’s an OCD thing with me. It’s also why I don’t go camping. Hair must be washed daily. All the zombies would have to do to make a snack out of me is to wait for me to corner myself in a bathroom (because yeah, I would have to stay somewhere with running water, even if it’s a cistern) and take me out.
Hi, I’m Danica, your zombie hostess. Welcome to the zombiepocalypse. How do you like your brains? Shaken or stirred?