The Trickster Diaries/Epilogue, Part 7
Nobody’s cool with unwanted sexual attention, even if there’s some trace element of connection or respect accompanying it. Nobody, that is, except Yanet Garcia, Mexican TV weathergirl extraordinaire, who uses everything she’s got to keep her station numero uno, and promote herself too, of course. So the fuck what? It’s socio-biology 101, man, and in teaching the course, she makes a mockery of the #MeToo thing, because from perfume to fashion to brains to money to peacock feathers, everybody uses what they’ve got to satisfy primal biological desire. Part of the game, baby. It’s only creepy and demeaning if it’s coming from the wrong source, otherwise it’s romance.
Rape and assault, equal pay defiant of gender are very separate issues.
Stalking and harassment, different again, more nebulous, and, frankly, forms of human behavior most of us will experience.
So the fuck what?
Anyhow, I started posting GIFs I made of Ms Garcia doing her weathergirl routine on Ello a month or so ago and, as I anticipated, immediately lost a few female followers. But it was, in a sense, art. A series designed to do exactly what John did in one of El’s experimental art classes years ago.
A simple enough performance art assignment that made a lot of people very nervous: “Do whatever you want,” said El. “The only restriction is that it must be performed solo.” That and the only classroom prop we were allowed to use was El’s desk.
So it’s John’s turn. He plops a water-filled goldfish bowl with a goldfish in it down on El’s desk, then reaches in, grabs the goldfish, places it on her desk next to, but outside, the bowl. Quite naturally, it does what fish do when not in water. It begins suffocating.
John stands there, stoically and silently observing the rest of us. Most, after a moment, are beyond uncomfortable, but, (almost forgot), a third restriction equaling an automatic fail is in play: you are not allowed to walk out, though two stand, pack up their shit, and leave almost immediately.
After another moment a couple young women begin crying as it became increasingly obvious John had no intention of saving the goldfish’s life.
“OK, man,”says the class jock, a tennis player, “put it back in.”
“Yeah,” someone else yells, likely echoing the majority sentiment, “just tell us your point.”
Finally, this gorgeous, exotic young women from Nepal who every guy in the class has a crush on, (John excluded, because he’s gay), begs: “Please? For me?”
John: Why? Don’t you eat fish?
Nepalese woman: No, I do, but…
John: But what? How do you think the fish you eat are killed? What I’ve done is actually far more humane. I haven’t trapped it in a net or hooked it, dragged on board a boat, kicked it in the head, gutted it, thrown it on ice…
The jock rushes up to the desk, picks up the dying goldfish, drops it back into the bowl. Within seconds the little fish is revived.
The jock goes back to his chair, confident he’s impressed the girl from Nepal. But, well, John’s not quite done with his performance. Or maybe he’s improvising? Anyway he reaches into the bowl again, grabs the fish, puts it in his mouth, and swallows.
Pretty sure El and myself are the only two people who applaud.
El: OK. So, who wants to go next?