Category: What’s Making Me Happy

Wherein I practice gratitude.

Road Trip Soundtrack, Part 3

It’s the 4th of July, and I promised you ‘Murrica, so I’ll start with Track 9, “Watching You” by Rodney Atkins:

You heard right.

Drivin’ through town just my boy and me
With a Happy Meal in his booster seat
Knowin’ that he couldn’t have the toy ‘til his nuggets were gone.

Thank god he’s teaching his young son that he’ll get a prize when he ingests all of his toxic meat-byproduct bites. Good parenting.

Oh, and isn’t that hilarious, how the boy says, “Shit,” because he wants to be just like his dad? That’s hilarious!

Now, did you listen to the whole song? You really need to. Right after he said, “We got back home and I went to the barn [course he did]/I bowed my head and I prayed real hard,” I was like, “Oh no. Oh NO. NO THE KID’S GONNA SEE HIM PRAYING AND THEN PRAY JUST LIKE HIM AAAAAAAAHHHH HELP ME MY EARS.” And that’s exactly what happened.

Worst.

Actually, I thought it was the Worst. It’s not the Worst. The Worst, found when I landed on another country station, is Track 10 by the same jackass called—can you guess? I bet you can guess. That’s right. It’s called “It’s America”.

I mean, aside from the banal melody and the grating hyperbolic hur-hur-hur of his Southern (patriotic) accent, there’s the lyric. Do you want to know what America is? I’ll tell you. It’s:

  • a high school prom (by which he means, teen pregnancy after abstinence-only education);
  • a Springsteen song (wonder how Bruce feels about being name-checked here);
  • a ride in a Chevrolet (funny, I still feel American when I drive my Mazda);
  • a man on the moon (is this our most recent victory?);
  • fireflies in June (fuck you, Alaska—where are your June lightning bugs?!);
  • kids selling lemonade (capitalism!);
  • cities (them places with liberals?) and farms;
  • open arms (aw, hugs!);
  • a kid with a chance (unless you’re born poor and/or of color lol);
  • a rock and roll band (he’s probably thinking Creed);
  • a farmer cuttin hay (sure);
  • a big flag flyin’ in the summer wind over a fallen hero’s grave (there it is); and
  • (most importantly) one nation under Gaaaaaaaaawd.

At one point, Atkins sings about how grateful he is to live in America after he witnesses people collecting canned tuna for “twister” victims. Because did you know that in other countries nobody does that? If your yurt gets swept away by a tsunami anywhere outside the U.S. borders, people (foreigners) just stand there and buff their nails. That’s all those ferners do is buff their fucking nails.

He does admit “we might not always get it right” in one line. One line. He dedicates one line to: slavery, the displacement of Native peoples, Jim Crow, eugenics, Japanese internment, corporate personhood, Monsanto, fracking, and Michele Bachmann.

But you know what? There’s nowhere he’d rather build his life.

You could change absolutely nothing about this song except have Jim Carrey sing it, and it would be a parody.

I wanted to put my car into the Susquehanna.

Fortunately, there were also Tracks 11-14:

Bonnie,

Shumann’s Symphony No. 1 in B Flat,

Prince squealing “Ain’t no particular sign I’m more compatible with!”,

and the new one by Daft Punk,

so I kep on truckin. Through America.

/endroadtrip/

Road Trip Soundtrack, Part 2

We polkaed! We got the Led out! We smoothed our hair like Tony Manero! Now we’re going all Ryan Seacrest for Track 5, Imagine Dragons’ “It’s Time”:

I like it all right, you know? It’s not a perfect song, but I like the chunka-chunka/bling-blingy-bling-bling thing they got going, and it’s fun to sing along to. (The line is: “It’s time to begin, isn’t it?” not, “Is it in?” I had thought it was rather evolved of him to share such an embarrassing question.)

Track 6 was “Don’t You Worry” by Swedish House Mafia:

I seldom in my life feel victorious. Do you guys? Do other people? I think no. We just don’t get  a whole lot of opportunities to feel victorious in life. That’s probably why they invented house music. It’s impossible to listen to a rave tune and not be like, “I have vanquished all mine enemies, and now I shall dahnce! DAHNCE!”

Track 7 has really stupid lyrics (Even in a hurricane of frowns/I know that we’ll be safe and sound):

But the Capital Cities duo is adorkable, and it’s not horrible to listen to.

Here’s a truly terrible song for Track 8 though:

Everyone involved in this mess should be drawn and quartered.

Incidentally, until I Shazam-ed this song on Saturday, I believed this artist went by the name Jason the Ruler. Which I thought was really dumb, until I saw that his name was Jason Derulo, and then I thought, “What kind of idiot is named Jason Derulo and doesn’t capitalize on it by adopting Jason the Ruler as his stage name?”

Also, where you think he’s saying, “I find your hairs all over me,” and you’re like GROSS because nothing’s ickier than another person’s stray hairs, he’s actually saying, “Bind your hands all over me.”

What does that mean? I don’t know.

Next up: COUNTRY and PRAYER and AMERICA.

Road Trip Soundtrack, Part 1

I will sell it. on the corner. in order to avoid driving I-95 anywhere between DC and Boston, so on my trip south—sans Dad :( —I took a wide sweeping swing west down I-81 and Route 29.

I pretty quickly grew sick of my podcasts and turned to scanning through local radio stations, which is always a joy. Nothing’s better than when WARM 103.3 Today’s Hits & Yesterday’s Favorites busts out “Take On Me” by A-ha.

By the way, I just learned he’s saying “I’ll be gone in a day or two“, which makes more sense than “I’ll be gone doo doot doo doooooooo“. Also, “steadily learning the piper’s OK” (whew, I was concerned about him) is actually “slowly learning that life is OK”. Also too, “you’re all the things I’ve got to remember”. I always understood that’s what the line was, but I never got until Saturday that it’s the fucking loveliest song lyric ever.

You’re all the things I’ve got to remember.

Wow.

Onward! Why are my local radio stations so lame and everywhere else’s so hilarious and/or awesome?

Since I was trundling through Pennsylvania, you might guess Track 1 of our Road Trip Soundtrack: Stanley Pulaski and His Orchestra’s “May June July Polka”, a very jaunty little number. I can’t find a video for it, but it’s available on Polka Party Volume 2 on eBay. (Don’t make a mistake and order Polka Party Volume 1 or you’ll be disappointed!)

Polka Party

Track 2:

Aw, YEAH. Ramble ON, man.

Reminded me of my days riding shotgun in the old Sube, my brother at the helm. All his Led Zeppelin cassettes case-less and kicking about in my footwell, the writing worn off—we had no way of knowing what album it was until we threw it in the tape deck. And then we’d just ROCK OUT. And then we’d go to school.

Track 3:

“Just What I Needed” is in the top ten greatest pop songs ever. Debate me.

Track 4:

Fun fact: My sister is a Bee Gees fan. Like, not ironically or anything. Loathes the Beach Boys, but genuinely enjoys the Bee Gees.

Next installment I hit the Top 40 stations!

Thanks

I’m thankful for dogs
My dogs,
Two foster dogs, and the three mommies who said
Ours
Mine

For my mom who gave me room to make
big mistakes
Look at all that room,
all those mistakes
For Dad, an old dog who tries real hard
to learn new tricks
from his pups

I’m thankful my sister
made a decision to drop out of Bryn Mawr
for some guy
22 years and counting of that guy

I’m thankful my friend humored me and emailed my brother
on his 30th to say
Happy Birthday
and that my brother emailed back

I’m thankful for the little pitchers
the eldest who says Yes
as often and with as much enthusiasm
as her dad (that guy)
for the huggy loud destructive one
for Darfy, even when sharing’s hard
for the one who wrinkles her nose with every Cheese
and the little guy that roars

I’m thankful for Cat, Kate, Cat & Kathleen, Erika & Heather
the Pod
and Zombie Squad
Durhamites, CFDers
Chapel Hill peoples, Seawell School and Lab! Theatre
Cuttyhunk friends
Margo
and Dan New Jersey

I’m thankful for stories
for the Monti, for Jeff
for this
for you
who read
who listen

Thanks

 

Ruby, Are You Contemplating Going Out Somewhere?

I don’t know shit about makeup. My daily face ritual is

a little dab of this

and…

Actually, no ‘and’. That’s it: Bonne Bell Dr. Pepper LipSmacker chapstick.

On school picture day, I’ll powder my T-zone because otherwise it looks like you could wax a car with my forehead. And about two or three times a month, on a weekend night when shit gets crazy, my tube of Great Lash gets busted out.

But some of the bitches I run with, they know makeup. I kept badgering them to teach me, and — squeaky wheel/grease — they got me a gift card to Sephora for my birthday and took me on a field trip to spend it!

It was so fun! And informative! I mean, I still don’t really get it. One of them would pick up a cask of green eye shadow and rub it on the inside of my arm. The inside of my arm. How does? — Anyway, they’d all lean in, and say in concert, “Oh, no.”

I’d squint at it and say, “No? Not good?”

They’d say, “No, not good.”

Then another of them would slather a different product on my inner forearm — one that looked to me exactly the same as the first — and they’d go, “Oooooooh. Yeah.”

And I’d go, “Yeah?”

And they’d go, “Yeah.”

And then they would teach me how to apply the stuff.

Here’s my sister-wife paintin me up like a Jezebel.

Anyhow, last week, at age 37, I bought my first-ever eye liner (a purple one by Dior that cost thirty dollars — what?!) and my first-ever rouge — wait, they don’t call it that, do they? — blush (Dabby dabby dabby on your cheek, aaaaaaand make a C around your eye… that’s what I remember from what they taught me anyway).

They told me to buy cheapo mascara — done — because I have good lashes already, and Kate M. tried to get me to throw out my powder compact and get a new one. She was like, “How old is it? More than six months?”

And I said, “Sure. It’s probably two or three years old, but I’ve only used it, like, eight times.”

She was all, “Older than six months! Throw it out! Bacteria! Breakouts! Disease and putrescence! Your face will rot off!” She didn’t really say all that, but she was quite emphatic. I wrested it from her talons and shoved it back in my purse.

(If I die of meningitis of the face, Kate, you can say I told you so.)

Anyway, I should’ve taken a Before picture. Alas, I didn’t think to. However, here’s an After shot (of me making a face like a total goober!).

I’m also real greazy because I had gone straight from the gym, but ignore that, and pay attention to the eye shadow, eye liner, mascara, blush, and lip gloss. I am wearing makeup!!!

Thanks, Kate, Mayg, Shiv, and Hammer! I love you guys!

37

So

One of these days, I’ll stop measuring my self-worth in Facebook Likes.

The irony (or not) is that my story had to do with being less than sanguine about turning 37, and being single, and having what I have, and not having what I don’t have. People keep asking me if they can read it, but—and this is weird because I told the story to 200 strangers on Monday night—I don’t feel ready to share it here yet. It was hard, and I cried, and apparently they cried, and I was hoping that it would be this big catharsis and I’d be Healed, and Filled with Optimism. But I’m not.

My birthday was great: My friends did it up for me; my writing teacher said nice things about my homework; I won the SLAM.

But two things: (1) I still seem to be in the midst of this 3/8-life crisis, and (2) Jeff, the director of the Monti, posted the absolute worst picture of me on Facebook on Tuesday to announce my victory.

And I flipped out.

Maybe a little histrionic.
Perhaps more than a little.

I concluded by saying, “If that’s what I look like, then the question ‘Why am I still single?’ has been answered.”

He deleted the photo, but I really did let it ruin my day. Which feels dumb. Letting one bad picture negate all the happy. Especially, since I’ve been trying to be more accepting of my appearance, and most especially in the face of the Sikh woman’s righteous badassery that’s been floating around the internet for the last few days.

How do I get to be more like her? I don’t believe that my body is a gift from a divine being, genderless or otherwise, but I do believe that not focusing on my appearance would leave more time to think about my attitudes and actions.

In the past month or so, when I’ve found myself sliding into egocentrism, I’ve stopped, gotten on Facebook, and acknowledged a friend’s particular brand of awesomeness. It has helped.

But I like gettin my hur did. :(

I’ll Take This Tequila and a Pack of Camels–It’s OK, I Was Bar Mitzvahed in June

Still sunbathing here, so I asked my good friend Dan New Jersey to guest-blog today. I’m calling him Dan NJ because I actually have two friends named Dan who have the same last initial, and both read the blog. One is a born-again Christian who lives in Texas; he and I stomped around the same section (trumpet) of the Watauga High School Marching Pioneers. The other is an irreverent Jew who I met when we sat next to each other in a seminar in New York City back in 2002ish; he, his Akita (Zeke), and I were roomies my last year in Astoria, and now he lives in NJ.

Dan NJ is the best at playing Devil’s Advocate with me.

He will tell me straight to my face when I’m being lily-livered. When I wanted to share my feelings with a man I had fallen for, but was convinced that email was the only way I’d have the courage to do it, Dan NJ said,

Sack up and tell the guy you fancy him in person, or don’t.  Choose powerfully, and be satisfied with your choice.  But should you email him, don’t be surprised if, after you can’t be bothered to take him seriously enough to engage him, he doesn’t take you seriously in return. 

Be AMY SCOTT.  Not amy scott.

But the opposite is also true. He builds me up when I’m broken, as I was after I “sacked up” and confessed my affections to the guy, who told me in the gentlest terms possible that my feelings were not reciprocated. Dan NJ blew it off:

…any man who doesn’t want you is gay, stupid, or dead for 72 hours or longer. I’m just saying.  Even mostly dead can’t withstand your awesomeness.

Based on all the advice and coaching he gave me during Summer 2012, my girlfriends with whom I shared snippets are convinced he needs his own radio talk show. His opinions are always strong, informed, empowering, and persuasive. And this guest-blog post is exactly that. As with yesterday´s post from amy a, I have thoughts and feelings, but I’d love to hear from you first.

Without further ado, I give you the inimitable Dan NJ.

P.S. Dan TX, let me know if you want to take a guest spot sometime!

I’m just a few weeks away from my second wedding anniversary, and I’m reminded of how wonderful my wedding experience was for my wife and me. In particular our cantor, who is gay, married us in a beautiful ceremony and in attendance were a great many gay friends and family, some married, others not yet allowed to do so by the State.  During our wedding my wife and I made a point of showing our support for the opportunity for all people in America to have a similar chance to express their commitment, but I was being a bit of a hypocrite.

I’m not actually in favor of marriage equality. I do believe, fervently, that non-traditional couples should be recognized by the State and afforded all the same rights and privileges that traditional married couples presently receive, but to embiggen the definition of marriage to allow same-sex unions will not address the fundamental violation of the separation of Church and State inherent in our current system.  The problem that wants addressing is not that same-sex marriages are not universally recognized, but rather that the State recognizes any religious marriages at all, including and especially “traditional” ones.

When I turned 13, I had a bar mitzvah.  At this gala event, I was acknowledged as an adult by the established hierarchy of the reform Jewish movement.  Without regard to my pre-pubescent testicles, under-developed sense of responsibility and obligation, and total financial dependence on my family, as far as the elders of the church were concerned I was a man.  My majority was not recognized by the United States of America, however, as I was not suddenly eligible to vote, drink, be drafted, or legally have sex with one of my teachers, which didn’t actually come up, but it could have. Seriously, it could have. 

I mention this as just one example of the many religiously significant but civilly insignificant events that occur throughout the nation every day, to people of all faiths.  These events lack secular impact and civil status for several reasons, but the original source of the State’s blindness to religious events is the Establishment Clause of the first amendment which states:

“Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof.”

Constitutionally, it is no more appropriate for Congress to formally support (through financial or legislative means) any particular religion or religious act than it is for congress to impede those religions from practicing as they see fit, within the law.  Yet in the case of marriage, Congress does both.

The outsourcing of this particular civic activity to religious authorities is inconsistent with the spirit of the Establishment Clause, and it’s that very outsourcing which is at the heart of what I see as both the problem and the solution.  The contentious issue that we face today is a result of the State allowing religious marriage to afford civil status, and that conflict will not be resolved by expanding the definition of marriage to include same-sex couples. Rather, we should reserve the benefits of civil status for a solely secular civil union, and bring integrity back to the separation of Church and State.

I suggest that the nation promote a national civil union contract between tax-paying consenting adults, with clearly defined creation and dissolution procedures, in order to promote the general welfare of the nation’s citizenry.  These contracts would be governed by the secular laws of the nation, and would not tolerate any civil rights preferences or violations.  Anyone and everyone who wishes to be considered legally joined to one another in America, whether hetero- or homosexual, would need to register their civil union accordingly.  And with universal civil unions, the State can get out of the marriage business, leaving it to religious institutions to include in their roster of meaningful but legally irrelevant activities. I contend there is no need for a broader definition of marriage to include same-sex couples, or for the creation of a separate but equal civil union alternative aimed solely at same-sex couples. I believe the need is for marriage to become a separate and unequal religious event, and secular civil unions to become the standard by which inheritance, taxation, insurance, custody, visitation, and the entire menu of items impacted by marital status is considered.

And then if Roman Catholics wish to exclude homosexuals from marrying, frankly that’s their business. If Mormons wish to allow marriage to multiple wives, similarly, that’s their business.  Neither of those unions should have any more significance legally than my bar mitzvah, and if any particular demographic feels aggrieved, they should feel free to take it up with their religious leadership rather than the President. It is no more appropriate for the State to force a civil definition of marriage on Roman Catholics than it is for Roman Catholics to force their religious definition on our secular authority.

The fight for same sex couples to achieve marriage equality via having their marriages recognized is a symbolic, but Pyrrhic victory.  The true civil rights victory would be the disenfranchisement of religious authorities of their ability to confer or withhold preferred status on American citizens based on a particular interpretation of a particular mythology.

Now, you may argue that my idea would then require an effort to ensure our civil authorities will universally recognize sexual orientation as a protected-class, which is not presently the case.  Yet I would counter that same-sex marriage is already covered under gender-discrimination laws, though for the life of me I can’t fathom why it isn’t being argued that way.  I don’t know about you, but if I were a woman and was being actively barred from legally receiving the same rights and privileges that a similarly qualified man was able to enjoy, I’d frickin’ sue.

 

The Relationship I’m in Already

You’ns may recall a while back when a different Amy altogether took the blog wheel for a minute. Well, I’m on vacation so I’m relinquishing the keys once again for my enlightenment and yours. This post made me have lots of thoughts and feelings, which I’ll share when I’m not sunbathing, but I’m interested in hearing from you all as well.

Without further ado, I give you today’s guest-blogger, the inimitable amy a (and no, that’s not my pseudonym—she’s an entirely different human being).

There are moments in Television History at large, and then there are those in my own Personal Viewing History.  Some are one in the same, like Michael Jackson moonwalking on live TV for the first time, the very last episode of The Sopranos, or Bill Clinton’s speech at the DNC this year. Others are exclusive to either category, and for the purposes of this guest entry, I’m going to fast-forward this to an episode of a certain Millionaire Matchmaker Reality Show Which I Never Watch But For Some Reason Happened to See at the Right Moment.

On this particular episode, a very wealthy divorced-with-kids fellow who exuded that teeter-totter imbalance of sweet and insecure yet not douchey was hoping to find His Match with the help of the Millionaire Matchmaker, who set him up with a down-to-earth-yet-beautiful single gal. They had a lovely date around a vineyard and horses, and just when I was about to gag, they shared an Actual Moment. Maybe it’s because they both seemed like genuine people, or maybe it’s because I secretly wanted to give this a chance as much as they did, but I can remember their exchange hitting me like a ton of bricks. He asked her somethingoranother, and she responded with the sentiment that she felt happiest and was a better person in a relationship. And that, my friends, is when the proverbial coffee cup fell out of my hand onto the carpet, and my proverbial everything bagel slipped off its saucer, landing cream cheese-first onto the coffee-soaked carpet.

Because the truth is, and was, although I desperately and unabashedly have loved the men I have been in relationships with, and several others with whom, let’s be honest, I haven’t quite exactly been in a quid-pro-quo relationship, I cannot say that I’ve ever been for any length of time happiest and a better person IN a relationship than OUT of one.

It occurred to me in that moment that many, or maybe most, folks over the age of 15 lived lives quite different than I.  Those couples I see on Facebook who have been together since high school and seem actually very happy, those who are remarried after divorce or the death of a spouse, those who were once married but now never want to be again but seem to constantly be in a relationship with Someone, those who have never been married but are in a monogamous relationship with Someone for a certain length of time…all of them, coupled, preferring to be in a relationship with another. I would assume that for most, it makes them happier and better people being in that partnership.

I thought I wanted that. And yet, the relationships I drew to me, even the “committed” ones, were not that. I have always felt more centered and alive on my own. It’s even more so the older I get, as I come more into my own person. It’s interesting to realize that I am at an age when many women are involved in the growth and change of their relationships with not only their husbands but their children as well, while I am only responsible for the one with myself. It can be kind of lonely, not because I don’t have those types of relationships, but because I find myself being unable to relate firsthand to my siblings and some of my friends on those levels.

I don’t know if I will ever be that comfortable sharing a life with someone.  I’ve always entered into relationships with the best of intentions, always thinking maybe this is The One. I thought I wanted a Partnership. And maybe I do.  But I also really like being single. And not dating. The pressure as each year has passed in my 30’s to Find Him has been at times not at all fun, but exhausting, humiliating, and unhealthy. (And here’s the thing, I don’t like just casual dating for fun, either, because you can’t do that for very long without it feeling ridiculous.) I’ve actually been at parties where upon hearing I’m single, someone said “Oh, I’m so sorry” and MEANT IT. I’ve been at family reunions where the only other adult who wasn’t married or engaged was my Special Needs cousin. I’ve been at weddings where I’ve been SCOWLED at for not catching the damn bouquet (I wasn’t even trying to catch it, thankyouverymuch).

I have walked through the valley of the shadow of Where I Thought I’d Be In Life, and I have fought those demons. I continue to do so, as I know everyone does from time to time.  I have discovered the glorious revelation that not only is it OK that I’m not partnered, that it’s also really OK that I don’t make it a priority in my life. I may never have that Great Relationship, but it never happening is no longer a fear of mine. If it happens, I welcome the addition of it, but I am truly happy in the relationship I’m in already.

 

Retrobruxist Friday 9/7/12

Former boss/dear friend/reader/Avid Bruxist cheerleader Margo started her campaign three years ago. Actually, probably earlier than that, but she made it explicit then. I’M TRYING, MARGO. YOU KNOW I’M TRYING.

(And failing.)

Two years ago, CrossFit made me feel bad about myself. That’s interesting—it still does! (Running.) And it also makes me feel really proud of myself! (Olympic lifting.)

I’m inspired by all these people.

One year ago, I missed an opportunity and was sad about it. There’s more to that story… and all I can say is phew. Sometiiiiiimes I thank God fer unanswered praaaaaaayers.

Happy Retrobruxist Friday, y’all.

Dinocroc vs. Supergator

The illustrious head_of_fema and I got together yesterday afternoon to view another awesomely bad movie, Dinocroc vs. Supergator, which he owns on Blu-Ray, natch. Matt had first suggested Halle Berry’s Catwoman, but when I read that D vs. S included David Carradine “in one of his final performances [before he killed himself jerking off in Thailand]”, I knew it was time for us to see some people getting eaten. Getting et.

By the way, previews included Dinoshark (exactly what you might imagine from the title) and Cyclops (“A general will be betrayed. Alliances will be forged. Revenge will be delivered,” said they. “Passive voice will be used,” replied I.)

…And now I’m thinking Roger Corman should probably produce Dinoshark vs. Cyclops.

OK, onward!

Alarms are blaring at Drake Industries Research Lab in Hawaii. “Everybody out now! It’s escaped!” yells a blond MILF in a lab coat, never mind that if it has escaped—just an idea but—maybe everybody should stay in. At 0:46, the Dinocroc or the Supergator, one, has its first white-coated snack. (Matt and I never figured out which beast was which. All I know is one had a lopey T-Rex gait, and the other ran low to the ground and wide, like Tulip.)

Dr. MILF hides behind a palm tree and gets on the phone. She calls Drake (David Carradine), who is smoking a cigar and having his blood pressure taken by a stripper nurse—oops, sorry, stripper doctor. My bad. He gets the low-down on what’s happening at his research facility from Dr. MILF, who then watches the other beast bust through a wall and flatten a dude. So many white-coated people get et.

Next up are the credits, including sweeping shots of Hawaiian landscape and a theme song, evocative of the Spaghetti Westerns of yesteryear, which will play relentlessly throughout the movie. And hurt my feelings.

A couple is lying on the beach (“Fully clothed. Interesting,” remarks Matt). They debate whether to stay there or go to a waterfall.  She runs; he follows. [Many superfluous shots of them running through tall grass.] They arrive at the waterfall. “Come on. Let’s get wet,” says the dude, in a totally non-sexual way. Way to blow an opportunity, guy.

He tells her she’ll look prettier—no shit—if she gets him a beer, and she—no shit—goes to get him one. Serves him right: one of the beasts, who had apparently Flat-Stanleyed himself, rises up out of the shin-deep water to snatch the dude under. Girl turns around, can’t find her beau, and then gets et by the other beast. So far, the two beasts are like ships passing in the night. Ships that eat people.

Two dudes are arguing on the phone. Paul is some sort of investigative reporter or something?, and he’s saying he’s found some sketchy stuff at Drake Labs, like maybe they’re using the growth hormone not on plants as they’re supposed to, but on animals. The other guy, Mark, is telling him… I can’t remember, but there’s a homoerotic what-are-you-wearing moment at the end of their conversation.

A young blond in a uniform (we learn later she’s a conservation officer, ohhhh) docks a speedboat and goes up the pier to speak to her father, the police chief, with whom she shares an inappropriate amount of personal space. He reports that something strange is afoot; they found clothes and backpacks at the waterfall. Blondie should check it out but not without backup. She punches her dad flirtatiously. Ew, Electra.

Meanwhile, Drake sends in mercenaries to kill the beasts a la Predator. But you know what? They’re just in it for the money, so you know what else? They all get et. Ha. That’ll teach them to be so greedy.

Victoria, a British Natalie Imbruglia impersonator, beats up a bouncer to talk to Drake. Not sure why she has to beat up the bouncer, since she works for Drake and so does the bouncer, but I think it’s to show how tough she is. Drake recounts an anecdote about this pizza place on the Lower West Side of Manhattan, where he grew up; on their boxes was written, “You’ve tried the rest. Now try the best.” And he instructs her to call The Cajun. (This scene was done eleventy billion times better in Pulp Fiction.)

Cut to The Cajun, a hot guy with a rifle (but no discernible accent, Matt points out), who cuts himself with a Bowie knife and drips his blood in the water. His phone rings, and he simultaneously talks to Victoria and shoots an alligator in the face.

Paul, you remember Paul, who turns out works for the federal government, duh, is fishing. His lover(?), Mark, calls him and says he’s had intel that proves Paul was right! Fishy shit going on at Drake! Keep digging! Build a case!

Cassidy, the blond ranger who’s maybe probably having sex with her dad, reappears in her speedboat, which breaks down at the dock where Paul is fishing. She peruses his computer files while he checks her propellers and knows he’s not an engineer as he claims. He offers her a ride in his Jeep. (Now I’m concerned because the cover said these beasts can outrun SUVs!!!)

They have this conversation:
Paul: Why did you become a conservation officer?
Cassidy: I love animals. I hate seeing them hurt or exploited.
Paul: What if I killed a wild boar?
Cassidy: I’d throw you up against the car and handcuff you.
Paul: Is that a promise or a threat?

Whoa, whoa, whoa, wait a minute, Paul! Are you flirting with her? I thought you were having sex with Mark! I have no time to be confused, as they hear a roar and speed off in the slower-than-mutant-reptile-mobile.

I’m going to paraphrase a little here for the sake of Internet space:

  • Some bikinis go to the waterfall and ask a nature photographer to snap pics of them; he says, “OK, one roll,” because apparently we still put film in cameras.
  • Bikinis & photographer = et
Paul and Cassidy find a field of two-story mushrooms, which have no relevance to the rest of the story. Dr. MILF runs down the road. They help her into the Jeep, and the requisite Jurassic Park scene commences, with the more upright of the two reptiles chasing the car. Cassidy’s bullets do nothing, but the exploding crossbow of The Cajun, who just happens to be in the river next to the road, slows him down enough for them to get away.
  • A movie producer asks the hotel clerk for a room stocked with food, liquor, and cheeses (that’s right!: food and cheeses) for three, if you know what I mean. (I think the producer’s telling the clerk that he’s invited for a three-way, but later it turns out to be the producer and two chicks, in a hot tub.)
  • Producer/chicks = et

In the hospital, Dr. MILF explains how Drake misused federal funds for this project. Paul videotapes it. Once everyone’s gone, Victoria jabs Dr. MILF in the neck with a syringe full of cyanide (MILF: “What are you doing?” Victoria: “Something bad”). Paul catches her, but she defibrillates him and gets away.

The Cajun has the brilliant idea to get the Dinocroc and the Supergator together and let them duke it out. They’ll use helicopters and explosives to bring them together. The Cajun and Paul get in separate helicopters* and use heat-seeking electronics to locate the (cold-blooded, notes Matt) reptiles but then go back home because they didn’t bring the explosives with them? Seems like they could’ve made one trip. But I’m not Cajun so I don’t know.

*Cassidy kisses Paul square on the mouth with tongue at this point, in front of her dad/lover, but just minutes before Mark had told Paul to “watch [his] 6”, which I understood as phone sex. I DON’T KNOW, PEOPLE.

  • A tour guide is taking a group of tourists around an abandoned hotel, which had been devastated by a storm years prior.
  • Tourists (after some truly spectacular bad acting)/tour guide/bus driver = et

Paul tells The Cajun it doesn’t matter that the MILF is dead because he sent her videotaped testimony to a friend.

The Cajun: What kind of friend?
Paul: The serious kind.

EVERYONE NEEDS TO STOP BEING SUCH A SLUT.

Paul’s serious friend has made his way to Hawaii at this point and shoots Victoria. Drake’s stripper doctor comes down the stairs. “Who are you?” asks the serious friend. “I’m Drake’s nurse,” she replies. (Me: “Earlier he called her ‘doctor’!” Matt: “She must have a PhD in nursing.”) Drake has a heart attack and dies. Of autoerotic asphyxiation. In Thailand.

Back at the abandoned hotel, Police-Dad and Cassidy have a Moment:
P-D: You ready?
Cassidy: I’m your daughter, aren’t I?
P-D: And I’m lucky to have you. I should tell you that more. And have more sex with you.

[I added the last sentence.]

(Me: “They just had a Moment. He’s gonna die.” Matt, indignantly: “SPOILER ALERT!”)

  • Police-Dad = et

Cassidy cries for exactly 34 seconds and then gets pissed. “It killed my dad. I’m gonna kill it.” She leads it through a tunnel into a field, where Paul and The Cajun are crouching behind a tractor, sharing a homoerotic touch.

This whole movie is nothing but sex.

The beasts collide! It’s finally the vs. part of the movie!

While one is killing the other, Paul comes up with a convoluted plan to finish off the victor, involving an explosive and a tub of rainwater. And guess what. It totally works.

The Cajun, Paul, and Cassidy walk off into the sunset, probably to have sex with each other. And Mark too. They shouldn’t leave Mark out.

Overall, super-fun and recommended. I just wish, since everybody was apparently having so much sex, they would’ve showed some of it on screen instead of making me picture it all in my mind. It was hot in my mind, though.