Beaver Helmet Presents: Tourist Trap

Have you packed your expired sunscreen? Your fungus-filled flip flops? And put them in your carry-on bag with the squeaky wheel that won’t fit in the overhead bin with the broken latch? FANTASTIC! Then you’re on a less-than-magical carpet ride with us to a TOURIST TRAP! We’re just one month away…stay tuned for more shitty details…TOURIST TRAP

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Donna and Herb’s 2017 Christmas Letter

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Fa-la-la-la-la friends and family! It’s time for mistletoe and holly!

Boy oh boy, what a year! We planted some begonias, bought a used Winnebago and Herb finally had his painful hemorrhoid removed.

[NOTE to Dr. Finklestein: The chairs in your waiting room are so uncomfortable. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were trying to cultivate new hemorrhoids with your torturous seating options.]

But the really big news is that Herb and I joined bowling leagues at O’Malley’s Alley! Herb’s team is the Pocket Pounders and my ladies’ league is the Ball Busters. What fun! Such a nice bowling alley too, with live music and the most delicious chicken fingers.

Well. One night the band started playing “Proud To Be An American” and I was transfixed! The singer had such a lovely voice and was wearing patriotic red, white, and blue leather pants. My goodness they were tight! I never saw pants so tight. I mean, I just don’t know how he managed to stuff himself into those tight pants. They were like a second skin, hugging his sweaty, bulging, muscle-bound body.

I was so moved, so overcome by patriotism and love for this great land, from sea to shining sea and purple mountain majesties, at first I didn’t notice the disturbance rippling through the lanes. As I reveled in my American dream, the crowd had turned angry. Suddenly I heard someone yell, “Herb! How dare you Take A Knee in here! I thought you were a patriot! The bowling alley is no place for protest!”

So I looked over to see my Herb on one knee, getting pelted with corn dogs, onion rings and delicious chicken fingers.

Then a bunch of high school kids came over and all got on one knee around him. “Solidarity!” they shouted, fists in the air. “We kneel with Herb!” Voices raised and fried food flying, it was bedlam at O’Malley’s bowling alley.

I just didn’t know what to do. I was so torn! That singer in his incredibly tight, patriotic leather pants had stirred such fervor in me. But I wanted to show support for my Herb. So I stood with one knee bent, like a flamingo.

As it turned out, I didn’t need to worry. Herb wasn’t an activist at all. Just as he’d released his bowling ball, his back had gone out and he fell on one knee. He couldn’t move. So the high school kids carried him to our car and I whisked him off to the hospital. I’m afraid Herb’s bowling days are over for a while. Instead, we’re taking a long trip in our Winnebago to see more of our beautiful country: the mountains, the prairies, the oceans white with foam, and the outlet malls in Des Moines.

With liberty and justice for all,
Donna and Herb

Sexual Harassment Apology as Advertisement

Not sure if you all saw this, but redheaded restauranteur/sex pest Mario Batali managed to “sincerely” apologize for being a perv and tack on a promotion for his “fan favorite” pizza dough cinnamon rolls….all in the same post:

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Wow! Such ingenuity! So subtle and classy too! Surely he has inspired a trend for future public apologies. I mean, it’s just so clever. You’ve captured the public’s attention, why not capitalize on the moment? Picture it:

-If the CEO of a tampon company is caught in a web of sexual indiscretion, he might write:

“I have betrayed my wife and shamed my family. I am taking a leave of absence and headed to a retreat in Montana to reflect upon my poor decisions. P.S. Does a woman in your life have a really heavy flow? Tell her to try our new Gusher Size. In scented or unscented. She’ll thank you for it!”

-If the owner of a national chain of toilet stores finds himself swept up in the Pervnado, he could say:

“I deeply regret my bad behavior. I am on a path to recovery and discovery of a new me. P.S. Have you tried our new memory foam toilet seat? It’s a treat that can’t be beat! Order now and we can guarantee Christmas delivery!”

-If the star of a hot Broadway musical has to make amends for his sleazy ways, he might proclaim:

“Life in the spotlight can be challenging. My journey has been bumpy. If I have hurt anyone along the way, I humbly apologize. I will be stepping off the stage for a few weeks as I take on my greatest role: becoming a better man. P.S. You should still check out the show! No, my understudy isn’t as nearly as good as me (how could he be?) But SUICIDAL! a foot-stompin’ musical based on The Virgin Suicides, is still good, clean fun for everyone!” 

And on and on…

 

 

 

Your Body, Their Opinions

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This may seem a bit self-centered (don’t look at me like that–you’re reading my blog–what did you expect?) But it’s impossible to read the news today, rife with lurid allegations of harassment, molestation, rape and unfair balance of power, without thinking about my own body, and the men who have tried to lay claim to it.

But not quite in the way you think.

I’m not talking about the men who have harassed me, catcalled me or rammed their hard dick up against my ass on a crowded subway. Because honestly, when it comes to #MeToo, I consider myself pretty fortunate. I’ve taken risks. I’ve walked home later at night than I should have, more intoxicated than I should have been. I’ve invited guys back to my apartment…just to talk and have a glass of wine. Yeah. Can you imagine? (Well, those of you who know me don’t find this hard to believe. You know damn well that cocktail conversation is my favorite sport.)

Sure, these guys leaned in for a kiss. But when I firmly said no (and okay, it may have been on the 2nd or 3rd attempt) they just poured another glass of wine and we kept talking. (Actually, it’s more likely that I did the talking.)

Point is: was it pure luck that I chose men who respected my decisions? Am I just a good judge of character? Would it have gone down differently on another night, if he were in a different mood? I honestly don’t know.

So what I’m talking about now is men thinking they have the right to weigh in on women’s decisions…for our own good. There’s a GOP lawmaker in Wisconsin who thinks women have a patriotic obligation to give birth, to keep the tax revenue flowing. (This puts a whole new spin on the old “Uncle Sam Wants You!” poster.) There are men who want to deny us birth control, and a judge in Michigan who believes rapists have parental rights.

I’ve had men tell me what not to wear: “No long flowy skirts! Those are for fat chicks. I don’t want people to think I’m dating a fat chick.” Or “Why do you wear those stupid shoes? Guys don’t like those.” Or “For fuck’s sake don’t even think about wearing that dress. You look like a whore!”

I’ve had a guy tell me that I could not write anything “too provocative” when we got married (p.s. we never did and I write whatever the hell I want) and a guy who coerced me into the kitchen to teach me how to cook. Not because he thought I’d be good at it, but because he thought it was embarrassing to my mother that I didn’t know how. “What kind of a mother doesn’t teach her daughter how to cook?”

I never said, “One who works 8-hours a day and likes the relaxation of being in the kitchen by herself, no one bugging her for an hour, putting on some music and collecting her thoughts as she makes dinner for her family.” But I wish I had.

The next time the opportunity arose, I took it. When I went to university at Richmond College in England, my dorm was in an old monastery. It was actually pretty cool, but boys were not allowed after a certain point in the evening. This was for our protection. The same restrictions were not put on boy’s dorms. (What a surprise!) So, I routinely went over to one particular dorm by the Thames, and wouldn’t return to mine until around two or three in the morning.

There was an old man who was a security guard at the front. The first few times I came rolling in, he’d just give me a nasty look. Then one morning he finally he said, “Your mum would be very ashamed of you, coming in all hours of the night, doing who knows what.”

I looked him straight in the eye and said, “You don’t know my mother.”

And this was true. The next time I spoke to her on the phone, it must have been clear that I was enjoying my college freedom. She said to me in her Finnish accent, “Saara, kulta, tell me something. Have you taken a lover?”

 

Prom Night Detention: THE VIDEO!

For those of you who didn’t show up for Prom Night Detention (and I’ve got my eye on you!) here’s a taste of what you missed. This vignette was pretty much our only choice once we realized the batteries in the camera ran out half-way through the show. Yeah yeah. Making lemonade out of lemons. That’s too much work. Here’s to slicing them up and putting them in your gin and tonic…

Prom Night Detention: A John Hughes Revamp

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Calling all righteous dudes, dweebs and oily bohunks! Prom Night Detention is the show for anyone who thought Andie should have kissed Duckie, wished Ferris Bueller had been caught by the principal and wondered what happened to Long Duk Dong after his hangover cleared up. Four writers (Michael Maiello, Peter Olson, Christina Fitzpatrick and Saara Dutton) are rewriting and performing the last 5 minutes of four John Hughes ’80s teen movies. Plus: get your Prom photo taken and enter the Molly Ringwald dance off, where you can win “All the Stuff We Found In the Glove Compartment Of Cameron’s Dad’s Ferrari”. It will be sorta social. Demented and sad, but social.

VENUE: Parkside Lounge
DATE: Friday, September 8th
TIME: 8pm
PRICE: 5 dollars
ADDRESS: 317 E Houston St at Attorney St.
SUBWAY: F, J, M

Life moves pretty fast. If you don’t look around…you might miss this show. See you there!