by Barbara Poelle
So, um. I have an idea. Let’s talk about excess.
Like, how, oh I dunno, for example, say maybe someone who is not 22 anymore decides that it would be a great idea to attend two Sharktopus parties, one for the 9pm showing and one for the 1am showing. Then maybe that person wakes up in bed the next afternoon with mascara on her teeth, cereal stuck to her feet, and a dim recollection of explaining to Alison in an e-mail sometime after 2 a.m. why the Sharktopus makes whale noises (Because he is mournful. He has no soul mate. The entire film is a modern American noir about the anthropological and physiological impacts of loneliness on a single member species, Ali. Didn't you get that? Jeez.)
Excess is a funny thing, because it is like that 4th martini: never a good idea, but only truly identified as such in retrospect. Recently, I read a big buzzed about title that I thought was CLEARLY overindulgent in both the prose and narrative. As usual, I will CMA and not say the actual title as I would like to continue to do business with this house and I am afraid they may react less than enthusiasticly with regards to my next project when they see in writing how I would have rather scooped my eyes out with a melon baller than read one more metaphor for death. (Nope, you don’t know what book this is from that. Please. I am a CMA ninja up in here.) At one point while reading it, I remember looking up into the middle distance and saying out loud, “this book is a fat beagle” because you know when you see your friend’s fat beagle who isn’t just chubby, but actual teetering on some sort of weight related illness and you then look at the owner (your good friend for god’s sake!) and you think to yourself, “Mother of BALLS, why are you stuffing this poor dog with its own mortality every night?” and then you think to yourself, “Wait, this is Gary and Jenny I am talking about! They have had two really awesome beagles already; they know what they are doing. Maybe they are just trying something new with this beagle. Maybe they are actually showing us what a beagle CAN look like, maybe they are leading a new trend, and soon EVERYONE will have fat beagles but since they had the FIRST fat beagle they can hold their heads high knowing they are Trend Setters, not Irish Setters.” And then you will chuckle to yourself about this little word play.
The thing is, clearly Gary and Jenny cannot see their fat beagle for the danger he represents, and somebody needs to be like, “Dude. Sir Snootly Von Bonesington is FAT. Nope, no. Not chubby. Not roly-poly. FAT. And I think it is in everyone’s best interest to go ahead and slim him down. “ But no one wants to say anything because Gary and Jenny are kind of sensitive about weird things, like that time you got caught in their front yard drunkenly chatting up their lawn Santa while eating a handful of raw cookie dough at 11 am on a Tuesday, so you all just think, ahhh, someone else will surely tell them they have a fat beagle.
(Oh great. Now my brain just keeps singing “Fat Beagle” to the tune of Foreigner’s “Hot Blooded”. I dare you to try it once out loud. You’re welcome.)
The bottom line is everyone-INCLUDING ME- is paddling the surfboard out to catch this next wave of post recession jubilance when people return to the hardcover purchases and we see boosts in electronic readers and book sales, and there is dancing in the ATM lines and gosh, in my excitement, am I allowing for some leniency I wouldn’t have allowed for on my list three years ago? DO I HAVE A FAT BEAGLE? (Check it and seeeee.)
If I do, I am sure I will be very sensitive about it too, and I am hoping that Husband, just like he did on Sunday, will just sit me down and gently say, “Are those CHEERIOS on your FEET? So, um. I have an idea. Let’s talk about excess….”
