This, MANhandlers, is the photo that launched a thousand ideas. It is my inspiration, my happy and my favorite photo. Not as explicit as some of the others, but there’s simply something about this man that makes me rawr. Enjoy!
I put off this week’s post as long as possible. I’m writing it about an hour before it’s due. I’m normally not such a procrastinator. In fact, I try to have my posts done early so I know they’re up for you to peruse at your leisure. But this time? It’s not that I didn’t want to send out the MANhandler shout out, but I had nothing to offer for the (ahem) meat of the post. We’re discussing favorite horror movies, books, shows, magazines — whatever. I’ve got nothin’. I blame Halloween.
When I was little, not quite two, my mom dressed me as Raggedy Andy. I was freakin’ adorable. Then she and Dad took me trick or treating. We lived in Sacramento, California. I remember going, being very unsure of myself with the older kids, but people were giving me candy. Once I got that part figured out? I was golden.
We hit a few houses in the neighborhood and then went to The House. The man was dressed as a werewolf — mask, ragged clothes, big paws, scary-ass feet. He was terrifying older kids. Me? I lost my sh…tuff. The man removed his costume and got down on my level, tried to give me candy. Even then, I was nobody’s fool. I’d seen the monster behind the man, thank you very much, and my “Stranger Danger” alert was at DefCon 8 on a scale of 0-5. Dude had a bigass, terrifying creature locked inside him and I was the only one who seemed aware of this tidy little fact.
Things like this tend to leave a mark on a child and shape how she sees the world. I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, it created in me a true fear of monsters and mythology and things that go bump in the night. I always had an overactive imagination, but that night has been fodder for a lifetime of I’m-no-chainsaw-wielding-psycho’s-victim-chick-who’s-going-to-trip-in-the-woods-but-thanks mental ramblings that make me cross dark spaces quickly and get the heebie-jeebies when I walk down an unlit hall. So to come up with something like a favorite horror movie? There’s just no such thing as a “favorite.” I’m reduced to choosing between Scooby Doo episodes. Sorry, folks. I yam what I yam.
What about you? Do you love to get the wits scared out of you? Do you thrive on having to change your shorts after a movie? Or are you content to live in well-lit spaces? If so, come sit by me.
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.