It's Not Easy Being Green...

Last week my daughter had a midmorning dental appointment, and, rather than take her back to daycare, I decided to spend some quality time with her in a futile attempt to lessen her resentment toward me in her adolescent years. A seemingly congenital resentment towards one’s parents is about as close as the Proctors get to a family heirloom.

While this December has proven quite mild, it seemed a bit too cold to tolerate a bike ride or trip to the playground—too cold for me, that is—the little ‘uns have an innocent imperviousness to the elements more akin to the Neanderthal than Homo Sapiens.  So, to make a long story short, I decided to take her to a matinee. Now I was hoping to get her to agree to see The Muppets again.  I know, I know: it wasn’t as good as The Muppet Movie or even The Great Muppet Caper, but have you been to a children’s movie lately?  Hell, have you been to a grownup movie lately? Who was it that said you would never lose money underestimating the intelligence of the American public?  Well, Hollywood has proven that axiom true…for the most part.  And Li’l Stinky was not interested in going with me to watch Kermie make time with Piggy again. Hmm. Maybe I should quit obsessively singing “Rainbow Connection” in my more than slightly askew Kermit voice. The loverrrrs, the dreamerrrrs, and meeeeee!!!! Anyhow, her refusal now pitted father against daughter in some fierce negotiations.

Now, I was well aware that she wanted to see the latest installment in the Alvin and the Chipmunks saga—Chipwrecked.  And though her attempt to formulate the word ‘chipmunks’ (which it takes her like 18 seconds to say more like chick-monks) is quite cute, I was not going to allow a viewing of this assuredly craptastic cinematic disaster to go down. Why? Well, I don’t particularly enjoy or even see the humor in listening to people talk after inhaling helium. It’s like 13-year-old boy humor. And I don’t like pop music. So, why would I want to hear Lady Gaga at massive RPMs? There is a certain level of annoying that is beyond the zone of humor. I don’t like squirrels. They’re just rats with fluffy tails. I mean, is there any difference between a chipmunk and a squirrel? I don’t like Jason Lee.  Bro! You were in Chasing Amy!  What happened to you?  I do like David Cross.  Bro! You were in Mr. Show! And Arrested Development! What happened to you?  And the whole mixing of live action and CGI is immoral.  I mean a good percentage of the parents in the audience likely experimented with LSD in their youth and could potentially be liable to a flashback.  In that case, who is going to watch my child while I’m trying to get those nasty singing squirrels off of me? Get the squirrels off of me! Get them off! …Ahem. The remainder (of the parents) likely saw Avatar and is still trying to recover. So, my job is to get Li’l Stinky interested in some film—any film—before she recalls the existence of this latest Chipmunk atrocity.  I should be able to outsmart a 4-year-old. Right?

So, an hour later we are seated in the theater in the Galleria watching Chipwrecked.  I’m drowning my sorrows in unbuttered popcorn and Coke Zero while she is reveling in her like 13^th consecutive victory over her father.  Oh well, I may as well make this useful. Maybe I can add Chipwrecked to my list of films for the Pop Culture class.  Maybe it’ll fit the ideological analysis assignment, for it seems that the obviousness of a movie’s ideology is inversely proportional to its quality….

Man, oh man. If I had been this agreeable to her mother, I might not be single at this moment. Aw, who am I kidding? I’m a single guy. I look at the world as a single guy. Outside of my parental responsibilities—which are indeed many—I instinctually plan my life concerning me and only me. When I go to the grocery store, I think, “Hm. What would I like to eat?” (Lil’ Stinky really doesn’t eat anything except steak and her own toys.) When I get off of work, I think, “Hm. What do I want to do?” When I decide whether or not teach extra courses, I think, “Hm. How much money do I need for me?”  And when I go on a trip, I think, “Hm. How much money do I have for me? And where do I want to go?”  You get the point. In fact, you are probably thinking, “So what, Proctor? What’s wrong with that?”  True. True.  I am single, so why should I really consider anyone else?  The problem is that it goes much deeper than that.  Let’s put it this way: ‘single’ has become a semi-permanent identity for me.  I am ‘single’ in the same way that I am a teacher or the same way that I like to run or prefer long novels to short ones.  It’s who I am.

Me, last summer in the South Pacific...

Ya see, I think as a single person even when I’m in a relationship. I wake up in the morning momentarily surprised that there is someone here. In the bed.  With me. It could really be anybody under that cover. I get home from work and hear something going on in my kitchen. “Shit! Am I being robbed?”  And when she informs me of our plans on Friday…and Saturday…and Sunday, I struggle to recall having asked her out.  Did I even ask her to move in? I honestly cannot remember. I can't even remember why she wanted to move in. Why would she want to move in?  Look at this place!... It just doesn’t sink in for some reason. I can’t get it through my thick skull.  And this is a real problem.  A real fucking problem. Because. Because. Because… I’m lonely. Okay. There. I said it. I’m 36. I like being a dad. I’ve got a job I like. Everything is wonderful wonderful wonderful. But I’m a bit lonely at times. So, let’s do something about that, Proctor. Let’s quit being so picky. Let’s start being more considerate of others. Okay?  But, first, let’s start being present in the present and try to pay attention to this piece of garbage you are witnessing only because you are trying against your own nature to be a half-decent father…

And there really is a wealth of assumptions at root here in the ideology deployed by the makers of Alvin’s weltanshauung. I mean there’s all sorts of stuff about single fatherhood right there in good ole Dave, right?  He didn’t really want to be a father.  He wasn’t ready to be a father.  He didn’t even accept fatherhood until Uncle Ian began to exploit the ‘Munks.  And here in this movie, Alvin is working out some sort of guilt. He’s a mischievous little bugger. Is it all really just a ploy, Alvin? A test just to make sure that Dave’s love is unconditional? But now you are really afraid aren’t you, Alvin?  You are afraid that Dave’s love isn’t unconditional.  You fear that, now that you are lost, Dave will not come to your rescue.  He’s already back home doing a touchdown dance in an empty and clean house. Tonight he’s got a date with a girl that’s like waaay out of his league. And he might even be able to bring her home for once. Bow-chik-a-bow-bow. And she’s like three times too hot to go out with him, and—

And that it occurs to me that there’s something else at work here. There’s something that is not accounted for in the neatly packaged little reduction that I’m preparing for students. There are not three chipmunks: there are six. A boy set and a girl set. Alvin (the cool, fun one) is with Britney (the attractive, fun one). Nerdy Simon gets an equally nerdy, bespecatcled Chippette (that’s seriously what They call them—Chippettes). And fat Theodore seems uninterested in the fat Chippette who presumable only condescends to pair up with Theodore when an occasion requires a date.  They are so unattractive that they’ve accepted asexuality in lieu of each other.  Holy shit.  They are teaching my child, and all of the other children in the theater, and all of the other children that have ever seen one of these Alvin and the Chipmunks movies—which has to be like every child in the Western world—that they are to find an equivalent of themselves in the other gender or accept asexuality.  Holy shit!  This is horrible. This is fucking horrible!  Do you know what this means?  Do you have any idea what this means?!

This means that I’m Theodore.

Come here, dear Reader, and take a look in the mirror with me.  Look at me. Just, look at me! Will you?! I know you’re taller than me, but stoop down a bit. Do you see it? It’s a bit like George Costanza with more hair and bigger ears, no? Okay, okay. Maybe it’s not all that bad. So, my female equivalent would have a few gray hairs, and little extra around the middle, and a kinda large set of ears…and a big nose. That is O-Kizzay. I will survive….

But what about that personality?  She’ll want to be left the fuck alone a LOT. I can tell you that. Like you won’t be able to talk to her in the morning before she’s had her coffee…or when she’s reading, which’ll be all the fucking time…or when she’s tired or watching something on the tele.  She’ll rant about politics incessantly, and like I already know we’re head to H.E. double hockey sticks in a hand basket. Enough already. She’ll be gone running for hours at a time, and, no, thank you, she’ll not want a running partner. But then all of sudden she’ll get needy and want your attention—like out of nowhere she’ll turn from introvert to extrovert on a dime without a moment’s warning in a semi-schizoid fashion. She’ll want you to listen to her problems, but won’t feign more than like ten seconds interest in anything you have to say—she’ll just go on whining about her family or work or whatever. And then there are the resentments. She’ll have a list of like 80 people that she just absolutely cannot stand, cannot be in the same room as, cannot even go to a place where they might be, would change jobs, move, and alter religions to avoid these people. “We can’t go to that restaurant. That asshole Joe Blow goes there sometimes!”  And she won’t ever want to make any plans in advance.  Everything’ll have to be by the ear.  No reservations. No trips planned ahead of time.  No commitments to hang out with any particular friends or family members. In fact, she will not under any circumstances be willing to ever hang out with any member of your family. Okay, maybe she’ll be willing, but she won’t like it.  Never.  Not under any circumstances.  Unless, maybe, there are sexual favors involved….

Whew.  What a catch! I guess it’s not such a bad thing that I’ve become so accustomed to the single life.

And I guess that’s why I wanted to go see The Muppets again. Ya see, in Jim Henson’s world, there really aren’t many ‘equivalents’—hence the running joke in The Great Muppet Caper that Fozzie and Kermit are twin brothers (a photo of their father shows a green Bear with bugged out eyes). Henson came out of the different times in American ideology, the late sixties, the ‘Me Generation’ that asserted and validated individuality. And, of course, the whole fiasco that is a Muppet movie revolves the unlikeliest of romantic duos—Kermie and Miss Piggy.  Piggy is…well…a pig. She may have pretty hair and nice big doe eyes…but she’s a pig. I mean, she has a snout, guys. And at one point in Caper, Kermit describes her as having ‘sturdy’ legs. Moreover, she’s rash and bossy and self-centered and, well, sometimes, she’s even downright violent. Hiiieeeyyaahhh!!! Ring any bells? And even her Oh, Kermie often seems affected and even downright manipulative….

But I’ll take her, people. I’ll take her. I’ll take her because there’s not a person out there who isn’t deeply flawed. I’ll take her because just about everyone is petty and self-absorbed sometimes. I’ll take her because we’re all gonna get downright ugly as we get older. I mean, she has pretty eyes. But, mostly, I’ll take her because she’s not me, and the last thing I want is to be paired up with my ‘equivalent.’  And it gives me hope that somewhere out there is a rainbow connection, folks.  Somewhere out there I’ll find a lover. Somewhere out there I’ll find a dreamer…just so long as I don’t find another me.