As previously stated, I have officially declared my intentions to court Trixie Garcia. There are, if I’m honest, a number of obstacles in my path.
The Masai have an ingenious solution to the problem of meeting someone nice: the men of marrying age line up in a field, surrounded by the women of marrying age (who will be choosing a mate,) the old men of the village (who will, like all old men everywhere, be heckling,) and at least two dozen ethnographers, anthropologists, and Michael Palin and his camera crew.
The young Warriors’ faces are painted brilliantly, great smears of red that complement the landscape, but not in the threatening manner of most culture’s facepaints. The intent is not to show ferocity, but beauty; and they work it, honey. They open their eyes and mouths wide and hop up and down and sing to the young women; the flashing whites of their eyes and shining teeth combine with the sweat that soon pours down their heads because it’s Africa, so it’s hot as Africa out there, plus 90% of a religious mating ceremony is atmosphere: you just can’t go take a knee and down an Orange Crush.
Say what you will of the method, at the end of the day there are couples where there previously were none.
Not in our world, and certainly not for adults. We have no lunchroom in which to meet each other, nor dorm to hump our way through. So, as unromantic as this may seem, TotD now presents:
The Case for Trixie Garcia and TotD:
- I am relatively disease-free. The things I do have are asymptomatic unless I forget to take my pills, which I often do.
- We have both gone grey relatively young.
- My progressive gender politics. I would have no problem changing my name to Thoughts on the Dead-Garcia. In fact, I would insist upon it, probably on the second or third date.
- We would both do nude scenes, but only if it were tasteful and served the plot and we got paid extra.
- Your name is Trixie, and I find that appealing. Also, your actual name is Trixie, and I find that crucial. If your real name were, like, Susan and you were all, like, “All my friends call me Trixie,” I would be, like, “Well, I am not your friend, Susan,” and I would hip check you into a shrub. But your charmingly hippy-dippy name is a result of your parents being, like, the King and goddamn Queen of the Hippies.
- I get along with dogs and cats.
- I will not do weird stuff to your dogs and cats while you run errands.
- If you have other rock star kids to the house, I will always be nice to them. “Can I refill your glass, Dweezil? The bathroom is down the hall, Wolfgang Van Halen.”
- I will not go through your phone to find Wolfgang Van Halen’s phone number and call him in the middle of the night screaming, “THIS IS MICHAEL ANTHONY AND I’M GOING TO KILL YOU.”
- If you ever become a werewolf, I will find a small town jail cell to lock you up in every full moon.
- We both have dead dads. If we were ever fighting, or just had grown bored and contemptuous of each other, you could go, “Dead dads, huh?” and I would say, “I know where you’re coming from,” and then we would chase a lobster around a kitchen and love would bloom anew.
- I will protect you from Bill Cosby.
That’s it, folks.
Seriously: shut this shit down.