Nice Beaver

As contemporary man makes great leaps and bounds in technology, he is drawn further and further from his animalistic past. New modern inventions like the horseless carriage and automated slide ruler are almost commonplace in this, man's most fantastic era of existence. Nonetheless, there no doubt still exists a strong and ancient bond between man and beast. In fact, many humans have yet to evolve in appearance at all. Take, for instance, the shaggy Robin Williams, or the orangutan-like Mick Jagger. Also, there is no greater evidence of non-evolution in man than the existence and popularity of Adam Sandler.

Thus, even as humanity and civilization march towards a brave new world, we pay tribute to our great animal roots. Indeed, most nations on earth have an official national animal, a creature which best exemplifies the characteristics and people of its homeland.

India has of course the noble Bengal Tiger as its representative. Yes, nothing illustrates the greatness of the Indian people like the majestic tiger. Knowing nothing of India personally, I can only assume that Indians weigh between 350-550 pounds, have short thick fur, prefer prey of deer or wild pigs, reside solitarily or in small groups, and bear single litters every 2-3 years. I am puzzled, however, over the constant vocal concern regarding Indian extinction. The last that I heard there are still a billion of them around. This minor bafflement aside, I doubt the Indian people could have chosen a better animal envoy.

In New Zealand, their local animal ambassador to the world is the stout Kiwi. Often confused with the fruit of the same name, the Kiwi bird is different from the Kiwi fruit in that it is a bird. The dignified and gracious life of the Kiwi involves rooting invertebrates out of the mud, and emerging only at night. One of the primary traits of the Kiwi is the monogamous pairing with its mate for time periods of up to twenty years. This minor miracle of enduring union has lead to the popular New Zealand saying, “Wow, she’s really got you by the Kiwis mate.”

England’s long continuing symbol of national pride and power is the mighty lion. Residing only 3000 miles(or 4500 miles as the Kiwi walks) from England itself, the lion represents everything that is shaggy and feline about Britannia. The lion was officially instated by the nutty King George III, and more recently its popularity skyrocketed with Queen Elton John’s involvement in the feature film “The Lion King”. To this day, England’s connection to the lion remains strong; it was recently reported that a lion ate a Welshman touring in Zambia. Yes, England and the lion, truly a correlation of the ages.

Of course, there is one national animal like no other. A creature so akin to its countrymen that they may as well be one and same. A beast whose nobility and greatness truly know no bounds. The animal of which I speak is none other than the splendid beaver.

The history of Canadians and their beavers is a long and penetrating one, filled with massive logs, delicious tail, and the occasional monument erection. French and British explorers who first discovered the beaver quickly fell in love with the cute little critters, and subsequently had them methodically slaughtered. Still, the kind beaver is a forgiving creature. Our dark past with them is long forgotten, and they continue to overlook our occasional explosive demolition of their homes.

Yet, there are tribulations in the seemingly angelic relationship between Canadians and beavers. There is the concern, of course, about a certain term that “beaver” is often related to. A term that can frequently cause euphemistic embarrassments because of its particular vulgar meaning and position on the human body. I speak, of course, of the beaver fur hat, which continues to be widely accepted even though its construction requires the death of innocent beavers.

While many consider the 5 cent nickel to be Canada’s ultimate tribute to the beaver, I personally deem the honor of chief tribute to be held by the oft forgotten 1971 Broadway musical “Eh, Beaver.” Penned and composed by Canadians Robert and Hammerchard, “Eh, Beaver” ran for almost 2 weeks. The musical itself is the tale of the hapless beaver Marty who is forced from his home on account of jealously over his multicolored fur. Marty wanders Canada until he unites with some time traveling villagers from colonial America who take him back to the French Revolution. Here he falls in with a troupe of singing cats who, after a melody filled sea voyage, help him become the president of Argentina.

And so we are ever reminded of our national symbol, the beaver, by Robert and Hammerchard’s timeless ornate melodies that no doubt ring fresh in the mind of every true Canadian patriot.

I’ve lost my dam
And ‘ave not a pole
So here I am
Just a beaver in a hole

(Chorus)
Don’t give up Marty!
You must reach your goal!
Don’t give up Marty!
Show us you’ve got soul!

There’s not a drop of water
My home is gone
I’m up for the slaughter
I can’t go on

(Chorus)
Don’t give up Marty!
The future tisn’t foregone!
Don’t give up Marty!
A new day will dawn!

“…not gay, metrosexual.”

In today’s fast fashion fad world of floral shirts and colossally oversized chinos, one can’t help but hearken back to days of yore, when fashion and manner were more respectable. In a different time, the suitably dressed gentleman needed only to pull his wool evening tail coat over a double breasted suit, set his stiffened collar high, and plunk his top hat on before gallivanting about town for an evening's enjoyment at a box social hosted by Lord Withersworth, Duke of Essington and Earl of Her Majesty’s East Trans-Jordan Territory. Sadly, this over complex, but all concealing manner of men’s fashion has, much like Trans-Jordan, disappeared.

What has replaced it in this contemporary era is something that confounds and irritates most rational men. No longer is fashion a matter of throwing on your waistcoat, short-tailed jacket, and riding hat. Instead, the fashion itself must be all encompassing, embracing every minute detail of ones life. Enter stage left; the “metrosexual.”

The term metrosexual was apparently coined by author and columnist Mark Simpson in 1994. The term has evolved to cover all men who are “fashion and appearance conscious”, “stylish”, “secure”, and “confident”. When such a catchy title appeared, closet metros burst forth from every crevice, and the media was simply smitten with the term. Soon after this bothersome play on words surfaced, sales of 3 in 1 conditioner skyrocketed, the silk shirt industry boomed, and sensibly clad men everywhere began exchanging their comfortable and durable all purpose plaid for designer brand apparel.

Over the years, this quasi-homo fad hasn’t faded. Indeed, it has gained strength and intensity, overcoming several dozen millennia worth of masculine male evolution. Pragmatically constructed men who could very well be swinging an axe or driving a vehicle with more than 17 wheels instead choose to shop at The Gap and sip Tall Decaff Mocha Frapachino Americanas. Undeniably, this is an infliction on modern society, one that hasn’t been quelled in the slightest by the existence of ludicrously violent Mel Gibson movies, or the continued bulky presence of Chuck Norris.

Sadly, even as we struggled to get a grip on the new metrosexual craze, another unbearably frustrating term arose, rurosexual. This is used to describe a small town country boy who exhibits the standard metrosexual signs, but still “keeps a pair of riding boots in the cupboard.” Which is to say that he may, or may not partake in certain activities with a certain equestrian mammal. The observant spectators among us have long since noticed this rurosexual fad has slipped into the most manly of our society’s institutions. Country music, for example, has recently fallen ill to this infirmity. Stars with otherwise mannish 157 gallon hats and stalwart names like Paul Brandt and Keith Urban can be seen adorned with flaky getups and spiked hair.

No doubt feeling the need to strike back, an unknown non-metro, non-ruro fellow coined the term retrosexual, to describe an ‘old fashion guy’(that is, a male human who was assembled before 1994). Those lucid among us quickly saw this abomination in syntax and common reasoning as only adding to the problem, and quickly lynched the author. His writings, constructs, and indeed his very identity have since rightly been destroyed, in hopes that the term retrosexual will not catch on.

So what can be done about this incommodious trend? Well first off, we should realize that, despite the “modern”, “enlightened” metrosexual claims, it is not a new fad. Terms like "prissy" and "dandy" were invented long ago to describe those practically gay among us. Indeed, I expect that with the rise of metrosexuality, we will see an increase in the use of classic maxims like “look at that prissy” and “yeah, he’s a real dandy boy”. Looking at times past, we should realize that 400 years ago the average fellow could be spotted wearing skin tight leggings, bulbous shirts, and copious amounts of make-up, just like the modern day peculiarity, Ricky Martin. Furthermore, we must understand that in a caring, just, and lawful society, it is unlikely that a legal ban on “Old Navy” and “L’Oreal for Men products” will ever be put in place. Thus, our only action can be that of self preservation.

To avoid being tainted by metrosexuality, be sure to take the following steps: Keep your selection of footwear down to an old pair of sneakers and twelve pairs of steel toed boots. Watch Chuck Norris’ “Walker: Texas Ranger” at least 5 times a week. Make sure your bathroom contains no more than the following items: one bar of industrial strength soap, one tooth brush(optional in England), and one stick of deodorant(optional in France). Sustain yourself only on Crazy Ed's Cave Creek Chili Beer and Kraft Dinner. Finally, wear just old torn plaid t-shirts and oil stained jeans.

With these steps taken, you may rest assured that not only will you not be mistaken for a metrosexual, you will most likely be recognized as something other than human.

War, what is it good for? Ask Sean Penn.

Warfare is seemingly the one timeless and ever present element of human existence. Ever since a prepubescent Lucy hit her sister with a juniper branch over the stealing of a certain rock toy, warfare has raged wherever humans have strayed. With conflict has come suffering, sorrow, destruction, loss, and misery. Like warfare, Hollywood’s attempts to capture conflict on film have mostly brought us the same anguish and torment.

The recent wave of war films, or crap conflict cinema(CCC, not to be confused with CCR or CCCP), follow in the semi-illustrious steps of their forefathers. Too be sure, war movies have always been bad. And yet, the long-ago golden era of CCC had a certain air of élan and royalty about it that the current brand of shitty war movies lack.

Gone are the days when we could expect a war flick to feature the leathery tanned hide of Lee Marvin, the boyish good looks of Steve McQueen, or the ever heartening and slightly comical voice of Charles Bronson. No longer do we see John Wayne swagger through a barrage of gunfire untouched. Never more will Gene Hackman bombast us with the worst fake Polish accent ever recorded on film(or on anything else for that matter).

Yes, throughout the fifties, sixties, and into the seventies, horribly unrealistic war movies abounded, but they had a certain class. A level of class you can only achieve by having Donald Sutherland act a wisecracking hippy tank commander alongside a laughably stoic Clint Eastwood. Elegance such as that has nary found its way onto celluloid since.

The loss of grace in war films became apparent when Hollywood made a single cataclysmic mistake. The year was 1984, and stalwart director John Milius, fresh from his success with “Conan the Barbarian”, decided to try his hand in a daring new war picture. The title, “Red Dawn”. The star, Patrick Swayze. The mistake, Patrick Swayze.

Now admittedly, Milius hadn’t yet seen “Dirty Dancing” when he cast Patrick Swayze. For this horrendous misstep in his pre-casting research, we can only partly blame Milius, for “Dirty Dancing” would not be filmed for another three years. In this regard, the physical laws of time/space continuance and linear progression must take the lions share of the blame. Still, some culpability must rest with Milius, for no one, being of sound mind and body, should ever voluntarily involve themselves with Patrick Swayze, in any venture.

The resulting movie features a United States freshly conquered by the combined might of Cuba and Nicaragua, and a band of unlikely teen-partisans, the “Wolverines”, named after their school mascot. The juvenile guerrilla fighters spend most of their time sitting around well lit and lightly camouflaged base camps and occasionally detach themselves from pickup football games to go fight the Reds. While one wonders if they would have had as much success if their school mascot, and subsequent battle-cry, was “Manatee” or “Cockatoo”, the movie is generally less than thought-provoking. In fact, the only other thoughts this film will incite are “Why was this movie made?” and “Why haven’t we organized a special committee to oversee the destruction of every copy of this movie?”

Drawing inspiration from the sheer stupidity of ‘Dawn’, Mel Gibson set forth to create not one but two war movies of epic idiocy. The resulting films, “Braveheart”, and “The Patriot”, shocked audiences with their barbarically convoluted gore scenes, and the combined eighty-seven and a half hour presence of Mel Gibson. While the films did have some positive features, namely their barbarically convoluted gore scenes, they were about as historically accurate as a Shakespeare play. Also, having Heath Ledger co-star in “The Patriot” was a grave mistake. His boyish charms and complete lack of acting talent were obviously meant to appeal to women. Unfortunately, women constitute 0.0%(mean average) of the audience for gruesome war flicks.

Inbetween “Braveheart” and “The Patriot” emerged what is internationally recognized as the worst war movie of all time. In fact, some consider it the second worst movie of all time, next to “Armageddon”. The title of this cinematic horror is “The Thin Red Line”. Following on the hard and well earned success of “Saving Private Ryan”, TTRL tried desperately to piss off every movie fan in the greater Terra Firma area. The film itself featured two and half hours of the supposedly introspective thoughts of soldiers on Guadalcanal. Also, there was a slight bit of fighting. The battle to take the island, apparently, consisted of one artillery barrage, the capture of a single bunker, and the gut-wrenching, horror inducing presence of Sean Penn. Mostly, I believe this movie failed in casting. The problem was that we just couldn’t believe the actors to be soldiers. Men like Adrien Brody, George Clooney, Woody Harrelson, and the aforementioned Sean Penn would, in real life, only venture into the jungle at Disneyland. Also, the only ‘Japs’ they know are the vaguely Asian fellows with commerce degrees who do their taxes. Yes, ultimately casting, and two and half hours of shockingly incomprehensible ramblings, doomed this movie.

To this day Hollywood continues to search for that perfect war movie. A movie so bad that it can dislodge “The Thin Red Line” from its pinnacle of absurdity. “Pearl Harbor” made a solid attempt, depicting the story of a man who single handedly won the Battle of Britain, scarred the Japanese at Pearl Harbor, and bombed Tokyo, all in a fortnight. But even with the worst performances to date by a Baldwin, an Affleck, and a Voight, the atrociously terrible “Pearl Harbor” could not shake “The Thin Red Line” from its steadfast standing.

And so this is where we stand today. We have weathered the worst Hollywood could produce, a true testament to the human spirit. But we stand shaken knowing that somewhere Owen Wilson and Hayden Christensen are likely being cast to star as two soldiers of an 'alternate lifestyle' fighting at the battle of Antietam.

Form ranks moviegoers, the assault on our intellects will continue unremittingly.