Monday, August 29, 2005

You Can Tuna Piano...

A friend of mine from the gym brought me a large quantity of fish this morning, the fish that he caught yesterday. First, allow me to point out that this is wicked hot, the whole “man as food provider” thing. For real, I never took any Women's Studies classes so I can say that shit. Anyway, the gift of meat is sort of a primal throwback to when men would approach women and grunt some witticism like “Want go back my cave for sex and mastodon?” and then when she would drag her knuckles elsewhere, he’d shout “What? Not like mastodon?” Of course, if you’re George W. Bush, the above scenario would never take place because all the people were riding the dinosaurs onto Noah’s Ark.

Next, allow me to point out that I don’t really understand people who live in the suburbs but choose to hunt and gather their food (my fisherman friend being exempt, of course) because I haven’t spent any part of my adult life more than ten minutes away from a Harris Teeter. Until life on Earth resembles a disaster movie and I am forced to build a trap for a raccoon or a collie or something out of a box propped on a stick that I will pull away when the “prey” lunges for the Pottery Barn catalog or whatever I’m using as a lure (little known fact: most small mammals love a nice leather ottoman), I prefer that all of my food come wrapped in cellophane and stamped with a ‘sell-by’ date.

Despite having grown up on a mountain lake--one that begs to be the setting of a beer commercial--surrounded by woodland creatures and their various parasites, I have had zero interest in ever pulling my dinner from the woods or especially from the water. Why? Because there are fish in it (not in the woods). And I have also on occasion peed in it (both the woods and the water). Not to mention the fact that I will avoid interacting with any animal/fish/bird that is larger than the trunk of my car. For some reason, “car trunk” seems like a reasonable standard of measurement, in that something smaller than a set of golf clubs is probably less apt to drag me back to its lair and either feed me to its offspring or use me as bedding. Although I’m guessing I’m kind of gristly and I do have sort of bony parts, which probably wouldn’t make for the most pleasant night’s rest. If any mountain lions are reading this, I hope they pass that along.

That said, I do have a ridiculous fascination with sharks. I spent the weekend reading a book called The Devil’s Teeth about a group of scientists who study Great Whites (the sharks), which are not to be confused with Great White (the band) which should not be studied by anyone. Although if I were a pro wrestler who had survived a shark attack, I would sure as hell enter the ring to “Once Bitten, Twice Shy”. Same if I had survived a vampire attack. Oh yeah, in the shark attack case, my wrestler-name would be “Remora”. I’ll take suggestions for the vampire one.

Anyway, I learned some interesting things about sharks, such as:


1) You often hear about their length, but the impressive thing is their width. They can be 8 feet across, which the author described as “as wide as Yao Ming”. I cannot wait until my size is used as a standard of measurement. My all-time favorite measuring tool is the apple, because we all know that each and every Smurf stands three apples high. And yes, I know how insanely dirty that first sentence sounds.


2) The skin of a Great White is composed of denticles, which are like scales made of tiny teeth. How badass is that? The shark can kill you with its skin, which is a trait that I always thought was unique to Joan Rivers.

3) This incarnation of the Great White, Carcharodon carcharias, is thought to have evolved over 40 million years ago. Again, similar to Joan Rivers.

4) Sharks prefer Crate & Barrel over Pottery Barn.
And Food Lion over Harris Teeter. And they wish to God I'd stop peeing in the water.

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