This morning, two people on the elevator with me were discussing the overall strangeness of airport food, and the strange exceptions people tend to make for themselves when they eat in airports. “Ben and Jerry’s,” says one guy, “opens at 8 a.m. in such-and-such airport. 8 a.m.! And I saw people eating ice cream, at 8 a.m.!” Other guy, of course, is shocked: “People would never normally eat Ben and Jerry’s at 8 a.m.”
And I couldn’t help but wonder…what kinds of “people” do these guys know? B&J 4 LIFE.
Perhaps not quite the image PETA wanted to conjure up?
When I think of the band Phish, I think of fun music and happy crunchy granola hippies dancing around at their seventeenth consecutive show. Apparently, when PETA thinks of Phish they think of unpleasant things… ya know, like murder. Those PETA people are such downers.
I’ve mentioned this before on the blog. PETA wants to change the name of fish (the swimmy creatures, not the band) to sea kittens. That way, people won’t want to eat them if they think they’re eating a kitten of the sea. And when I said people, what I really meant was children. PETA is trying to make sure the little kiddies feel guilty when it’s fish sticks day at school. How admirable! PETA spokeswoman Ashley Byrne used this graphic similie:
“Hooking a fish through the mouth and dragging it out of the water is really the same as hooking a dog through the mouth and dragging him behind your car.”
Well, no. But I get what she’s trying to say. So now, PETA wants Phish, the band, to change its name to Sea Kitten. Not that Sea Kitten is a bad name for a band… if you’re a nautically themed chick rock band.
If the band did change its name, the world would see some serious changes. Life changing ones. Obviously, I’m talking about Ben and Jerry’s ice cream. Phish Food would have to be changed to Sea Kitten Food, and that just sounds gross.
I’m sure some people will fall hook, line and sinker for this stupid publicity stunt. (Hook, line and sinker. Get it?! I’m funny!) But I just don’t take the bait. I think there are more important ways to attack animal cruelty, and PETA is wasting its time and energy. Why don’t they go after the sickos that actually kill animals with malice? Like that woman who skinned her Jack Russell Terrier last week to make a belt. Ugh. Now that makes me sick.
And what does the band have to say about all this? Nothing as of yet. But their Web site still says they are called Phish.
You should know, first of all, that I’m feeling much better today. It took some Kathleen mixed with some wine with a side of chips and salsa and Ben and Jerry’s and POOF, healed. (Well, mentally. The ankle still causes me to go on angry expletive-laden rants in my head as I walk through Union Station: “God damned ankle. You mother fucker. Could you MAYBE stop HURTING you little piece of shit?!” Ahem.) Last night I may have eaten upwards of 200% of the recommended daily value of saturated fat in the form of Peanut Butter Cup ice cream, and Kathleen and I may have been glued to the television for an entire hour-long David Blaine special, straight out of 1997, with Leonardo DiCaprio and his floppy hair hosting. It happens.
I only overslept by a half hour (okay, 50 minutes) this morning, which was an upgrade from the rest of the week, and this morning this song came on my shuffle:
How could my day go badly if it began with that song? I mean…
Any time I need to see your face
I just close my eyes and I am taken
to a place where the crystal mind and
magenta feeling taken shelter in the base
of my spine sweet like a chicka cherry cola
The magenta feeling has definitely taken shelter in the base of my spine. (What?)
Or at least I had a t-shirt that said I was. I was once among the proud millions to own a shirt proclaiming my “unique” Sex and the City personality. I ordered the cheaply made light pink shirts for myself and my friend Kelsey (who, in my defense, really IS Charlotte, down to the high-pitched shrieking in the presence of a baby) in the height of our SATC obsession. It was the high school days, when, embarrassingly, the weekends were most often spent with a pint (or two…) of Ben and Jerry’s and a six-episode SATC DVD.
The funny thing is, I never really was a Charlotte. Sure, maybe (especially in high school), I was a leeeetle prude, but as a thirteen-year attendee of Catholic school, I certainly never was a WASP. And by now, I probably have as much whore/bitchy lawyer/neurotic writer in me as the next girl. I guess what I’m trying to say is, I think Kathleen’s right.
And for the record: you can now purchase my “I’m a Charlotte” t-shirt at a Denver Goodwill for about $1.00. It’s a great deal, people: it was never worn.