WHALES recruiting grounds--i mean, book clubs!

years ago i had a roommate who belonged to a book club. she tried in vain to drag me along. i'd see her toting around bottles of wine and anita diamant and shudder. 'there isn't enough wine...' i'd say to myself. but when i read this article, listening to the complaint that these 'clubs' are still mostly women, often what is discussed are things other than the book (surprise, surprise) and they often turn into drunkfests, i began to reconsider--for they sound like the absolute ideal place for WHALES recruitment. (as i've said, only the celibate have the inclination to read.) drunk+horny+warped sense of own intellect/superiority=the most fervent WHALES!

now, i don't have a lot of free time, certainly not enough to read. but i do think i could join not only one of these groups, but several. you see, i need only one book, and that's how to talk about books you haven't read, an instant classic and of course the book to end all books; it is a masterpiece. housed in the appropriate cover, so as not to offend anyone, it will accompany me as i sit and chat and watch the WHALES numbers rise. incidentally, i'm considering group fees.

my yang yang

a couple weeks ago, a man was attacked by a panda bear at a zoo in china, and it seems people were less than sympathetic, readily blaming the victim:

The 20-year-old student had ignored warning signs and scaled a two-metre (6.5ft) barrier to get into the pen, hoping to cuddle the creature, who bit chunks of flesh out of the man's arms and legs. Speaking softly ('It hurts to talk,' he said) from his hospital bed, the injured man said the panda had looked so cute, he had just wanted to hug it. 'Yang Yang was so cute, I just wanted to cuddle him,' he whispered. 'I didn't expect he would attack.... I have many bites.' Yang Yang did not seem to suffer from the incident and was not penalized. In fact, the food-guy fed him extra helpings of leaves and stems. 'No need to blame the bear,' he said.*
*edited by ms. c.

i know what you're thinking--what kind of jackass breaks into a bear pen...to cuddle?--but not i. we learn as early as infants to love bears, starting with teddys. and those of us young at heart never lose that reflex. i for example am one of these youthful sort. i even have a yang yang story of my own.

i too was attracted to the panda's reputation as gentle, and its stylized black-and-white/yin-yang look and woeful-looking eyes. and, when i spotted my yang yang from afar, i too 'just wanted to hug it.' but as i drew nearer, i discovered that my yang yang was no panda bear--in fact, it was no bear at all. it was a man--MAN (or a thing very closely resembling one)--and not even one black and white, but a very pale, anemic-looking, fleshy color. i only thank god i had the realization pre-cuddle.

that's the spirit

maybe it's the cool weather, twinkly lights or fumes from my radiator, but whatever the reason, december has found me in high and magnanimous spirits (essential to finding success as a WHALES--yay moi!). and when recently i met an art critic at a gallery opening, my new joie de vivre worked like a charm.

a lovely fellow (he slunk around wearing all black and a permanent sneer), i invited him to drinks. as usual, i inquired about his work (men do love to talk about themselves and their work, no?). he said that he'd yet to write an unequivocally positive review. how long had he been a critic? over a decade. i thought this harsh--i mean, curious--and asked him to elaborate, and thus our delightful conversation:

he said, 'you may think it harsh--'

'not at all!'

'but what i aim to do is a community service. all these deluded, wannabe artists--they're wasting their time, they're wasting their lives--i wish to liberate them. they could be doing other things. there's a shortage out there: sanitation workers, truck drivers, teachers. they're always hiring at that home for people with disabilities--and who's better qualified to work with retards than self-deluded artists?'

i shrugged. 'who?'

'think about it: one person's shattered dream is another's ass-wiper. i should start a program; i could probably get some kind of medal.'

he was enterprising; i like that.

he took a small notebook and pen from his pocket. 'i just had a thought and want to get it down.'

'work, work, work!' i said. (big smile.)

'no, no, this is my hate book.'

'hate book?'

'book of hate. i write hate lists in it--lists of things i hate.'

'cool beans.'

'like headbands on babies.'

eh?

'those skinny satin things people tie around babies' heads,' he said. 'babies have no hair, or next to no hair--why do they need headbands? it's cruelty; it's child abuse. it's like a tourniquet--it's sick.'

'i don't think they hurt; they're not tight--'

'who cares? they're dumb! form should follow function, and headbands have no business with babies--not unless we're talking the brood de sasquatch.'

'they're...decor, or something--'

'they don't have hair.'

clearly, he cared very much about children.

'and sleeveless turtlenecks!' he said as he scribbled.

'yes, save the turtleneck!'

'what are you babbling about? sleeveless turtlenecks: they make NO sense.'

'the t-shirt?'

'it's not a T-shirt--therein lies the problem. it's like...a worm.'

'well, i don't see exactly--i mean, why--'

'you want cold arms and a hot neck?'

'no.'

we sat there awhile, i with my whiskey, and he with his lists ('eye contact--not all the time, just generally'), then i invited him to a theater reading i was to attend later that evening.

'i don't do theater,' he said. 'theater is just a bunch of dilettantes. i'd almost do ballet. at least with ballet, they're committed: those kids never hold down a meal--and there's no faking a pas de chat--either you look like a cat, or you don't.'

'i LOVE ballet,' i said, then ordered another round and blew off the reading.