Hooray for Gross!

I’m on my third book by Mary Roach and I’m riveted. It’s called Bonk, and it’s a very graphic account of the anatomy of sex. Having taught gender studies, I’m not easily rattled, but I have to admit this makes me slightly queasy. I keep looking over at my dearest love, imagining his reaction to such medical monstrosities (in one section, Roach apologizes to her male readers for the shock and revulsion they’ll likely feel). This is my third book by Mary Roach in a month. For each one, I’ve stayed up late reading, my dreams filled with all manner of depravity.

Okay, I’m a sick person. I’m exactly the type of deranged, but harmless reader to whom Mary Roach and her contemporaries cater. I love this stuff, not the Hollywood fake blood and guts brand of horror, but the revolting wonders that only the human body can provide. I’ve passed thirty and I still love potty humour and playing the “which would you rather…” game. Whatever part of my brain controls propriety never grew in properly.

Perhaps it’s because I come from a family that doesn’t stand on ceremony. Perhaps it’s because I have friends with small children that leak (as small children do). Perhaps it’s because I have a dog, and have been the target of projectile everything.

What I’ve realized over the years is that “gross” is the great uniting factor for human kind. At the end of the day, we are six billion runny noses, and six billion rumbling stomachs. We can disagree over world politics, or environmental issues, but we’re irrevocably linked by the fact that most of our feet stink. Our cultures and histories are vast and varied, but we’re all familiar with pimples and sweaty pits. We can sleep tight knowing that on the other side of the world, someone else is sneezing and shedding skin flakes and carting around entire villages of microscopic organisms. Taro Gomi summed it up nicely with her literary masterpiece, Everyone Poops. Ah, the humanity of it all!

Velvet, Feathers and the Next Generation

I’m crazy about Halloween. Every year, I dress up, I perch myself on the front porch with a stack of processed sugar, and I wait for the crowds to descend. This year didn’t disappoint. There were witches and wizards, an entire zoo of furry creatures, things with wings and things with fangs. One kid even made herself into a pink Cadillac and toted around a bulky, cumbersome contraption with sincere commitment and dedication. Parents showed up as Captain Jack Sparrow, hockey heroes and other colourful characters.

Stuck in amongst the crowds were a handful of pint-sized pimps. Yup, boys too young to stay alone at home were dressed up in full pimp get-up, complete with purple fur jackets, feathered hats and platform shoes. One of them, ironically, was tailed by his little sister, who was dressed as a princess and sporting as much pink tulle and rhinestones as her little frame could carry. Trick or treat took on a different meaning.

It’s old-fashioned, I know, but I always saw Halloween as an opportunity to indulge in a bit of wish fulfillment. It was an occasion on which the phrase “I’ve always wondered what it might be like to be a…” was taken seriously. Over the years, I’ve tried on gypsy, punk rocker, rabbit, wizard, cupid, Captain Hook, fairy, pumpkin, and this year, Rosie the Riveter. I never really counted on “I’ve always wondered what it might be like to participate in the sex trade” being part of the dialogue. I didn’t realize there were parents comfortable with the idea of their sons becoming involved in the selling of other humans.

The whole notion of “monster” is being redefined. Creatures oozing pus and sporting six-inch claws are so passé. No one trembles at the idea of things that go bump in the night. The most terrifying entities by far are the ones that turn up on the news, and on dark street corners.