I’m a man’s woman. What can I say? I’m the youngest of a family of brothers and farting and picking and running and hiding and blowing up stuff is in my DNA. in fact, I tricked one brother into pooping in the branches of a dogwood for a ride on my minibike. Right when Dad was pulling in the driveway from work. (I’ve always had timing.) For the next two weeks, my brother and I did a lot of yard work when Dad unchained us from the basement wall.
I grew up after hanging out with tons of dudes. They all dug aliens. Some would try to create a parallel world and probe me, but I never fell for it. i know they weren’t from Xenia; more like Elmwood Road. We’d climb in trees and make whirling sounds and crash to the ground and the “military” – usually the older guys – would run in to contain the radiation.
Now I’m grown and 18 years married. That’s right. 18 freakin’ years. I married up. A former critic at the New York Times, my husband took me everywhere. I’ve heard Wagner in Hitler’s opera house, sat at the piano where Puccini wrote Madame Butterfly, watched the migration in East Africa, played in the paint-covered studios of Jules Olitski and David Hockney. He made me a sophisticated woman of the world, a woman who could parachute into Albania, find a great restaurant and order dinner within the hour.
My husband speaks English, German, French, Latin, Hungarian (swears, mostly) and studied piano performance at the Paris Conservatoire for 5 years. He also loves – and completely believes – any and all information about aliens.
How many times have I walked into this very room and caught this highly educated man watching a giant rubber alien being sliced like a portobello. The pyramids were built by these guys! He yells. A few days later, he’s picked up some information from Ancient Aliens that Superheroes may have just been visitors from space. Even his favorite characters on the Simpsons are the aliens and he runs around the house saying “Bring me the man named CLIN-TON.”
My husband believes that Stonehenge and Easter Island came from the same craft, the pyramids of Egypt and Mexico from another, and his shirts are starched lightly by Klingons. He passes pugs and says “What’s going on at HQ, Boss?” and knows that one day, whatever came and left these things, will come back and we will all be one.
I say that even the brightest among us are vulnerable to the strangest mutations of pop culture. Men of the world are drawn in by extraterrestrial hucksterism, always have and always will be. From religion to what color we prefer, human beings are just the most irrational strange contraptions ever created. Your weird is why you choose one book over another, this dress rather than that.
I finally realized it wasn’t all the education and civilization driving us, it was the weird.
Now, everyone go away. My Ghost Radar app has picked up vibrations in the cellar. My be my dead Uncle Willie. I need quiet.