"Wildlife Management"
Back
in late '99/early 2000 (-- somewhere in
The strangest part was that on stage she acts nothing like her heavy, morose "screen brand" and was really quite wonderful and charming-- sitting there at a self-conscious loss for words when we can not nearly be as "bad-assed" and severe as our imagery suggests with the eye of America watching in the raw arena of a stage, where the expectation of a studio audience left an edge of humor in the air that would readily root out fakeness, insecurity, and above all-- AWKWARDNESS as this was the time to speak for ourselves, as we truly are. Try to be insincere, and the existential silence of whether "this passed muster" would only be answered with either laughter or snide write-up's as you stood as an unvarnished specimen under the merciless gaze of the world.
(Which was more likely?)
Conan remarked that she always had an "interesting name", which led to the topic of her siblings' names which were even stranger. But growing up on a New Left farm, which was essentially a counterculture "Club Med" for families out in rural Mendicino county, California with separate houses but a dining hall, a library, and an old barn where her mother showed films, the names out there got stranger. If this place was like a summer resort "to get away from it all", then doing it all 365 days a year made it lose its allure and things got "pretty strange out there" at "Cult Cupcake".
One kid's given name, christened on his birth certificate "to stick it to the man" was "Asshole". He could be nothing else but a skateboarder/punk rock freak who embraced the title and had "A" shaved on his head in solidarity for scalp-rubbing deviance as he flipped a 360º.
Conan remarked that perhaps, in order to have matched his shaved letter, he could have grown up to become "an Accountant".
And here's where where I come in: Yes, a "bottom-line", bean-counter type of guy who filed tax records. . . . like I.R.S. or "I-Rate Shithead".
And then Winona could have a "W" shaved on the side of her head for "Wildlife Management" for having to put up with all these characters.
I could see her wearing a ranger hat in Yellowstone National Park in the standard uniform giving tours about the maple sugar leaf or the pine cone.
"Remember kids: Only YOU can prevent forest fires!"
Said so by "Smokey the Waif".
On her "smoke break", she absentmindedly throws her cigarette butt in the woods and the forest catches on fire. She calls upon "the hose", meaning your present author drinking beer who comes out, unzips his fly, and extinguishes the blaze like a tromping Big Foot with the hiss of steam and natural process.
With the job done, he walks back out to his mistress;
"Hey, Smokey the Waif". . . . do you think this hose needs a scrubbin'?
"NOT ON YOUR LIFE. Go polish your own brass knob!"
"The Hose" goes back to the shed, shut in by opprobrium and a pad-locked home office where he types this.
It is an interesting note that scientists are proposing to reintroduce megafauna-- elephants, lions, wild horses, and cheetahs to North America in order to replace wild populations that died out at the end of the ice age 10,000 years ago.
I'm sure that ranchers in the heartland are sure to leap for it, 700 pound carnivores devouring their livestock. Much less soccer mom's getting their SUV's tipped over by rampaging elephants. Unless you want to outrun a cheetah when you go jogging in the morning, that might be a bad idea.
When it doubt, shutter up "Sports Bars" and wipe out their natural habitat, the mega-fauna that roam America. Que Serà Serà-- "what will be will be" though "Do what thou wilt" is far more appropriate. . . . . and let that be "the whole of the Law"!
Incidentally-- does "W" stand for "Wawfully Wedded Wife"? Better check my www url-- ("Dear Winona" et al)
(You'll never put out "my fire"!)
While it's up at "YouTube", here's the original Conan O'Brien clip!
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"You want a-nuther song? Well I ain't plain' one mutherfuckin' note until someone comes up here and puts sum money in my god-damned tip-jar! You know I only came here for one purpose. . . . . to take yor fuckin' cash! Why, I could make more profit puttin' out my meth-head neighbor's asshole and ringin' a bell, hollerin' 'Man for sale! Man for sale!'
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(Rheeee of Crickets)
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("I heard that, Missy!")
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