Chandra K. Clarke

The next time I complain in this space about cold Canadian winters, remind me that I could be living in someplace really horrible, like, say, California.

When they aren’t being beaten by the police, California residents must deal with mud slides, wildfires, earthquakes and a major plastic surgeon infestation. As if that wasn’t bad enough, La Jolla beach homeowners once woke up to find that thousands of giant squid had washed up on shore and died in the hot sun.

“[Gag],” said one resident, as municipal workers removed more than 12 tons of dead squid. “[Retch, wheeze, gasp],” he added.

Aside from watching Californians turn green and start a desperate search for designer gas masks, the most interesting thing about this story was what didn’t happen. When dolphins beach themselves, entire seaside towns drop everything to whisk them back into the water. As far as I can tell, no one tried to send the squid back home. I have a few theories as to why:

1) Those weren’t municipal workers doing the cleanup, but representatives of the upcoming Calamari Festival.

2) It’s hard to rescue something that can grab and hold all four of your limbs, slap you around and still have at least three tentacles tied behind it’s back.

3) Squid aren’t cute.

This last point bears thinking about because ugly animals are just as important to the environment as the cute ones. For example, how would mother goldfish keep their fry in line if they weren’t able to point at carp and say, “If you keep making faces like that, you’ll end up looking like him.”

No, seriously, all animals are important in a balanced ecosystem. So it seems to me that we need a special wildlife protection group dedicated to protecting Earth’s unlovables.

The first hurdle in setting up something would be picking a suitable name. For instance, which is better from a marketing perspective: The Poisonous Creature Defense League (Motto: Bring A Pair Of Thick Gloves), or the Squishy, Slimy Protection Fund (Motto: Fish May Be Icthy But They’re Still Our Friends!)

Fundraising will also be an issue. Traditional wildlife groups raise money by selling things like mugs or t-shirts with photos of cute animals on them. However, you’d need to prepare your supporters carefully. For instance, if January’s feature creature is a big, hairy tarantula, I can see thousands of innocent desk calendars suffering sudden death by baseball bat.

Celebrity endorsement in the form of TV commercials is also out of the question. For one thing, us viewers would never get to learn what animal it is we’re supposed to support:

SALLY STRUTHERS: The plight of these poor creatures just breaks my heart. Every year thousands of them die needlessly. Save the-ARGH!! GET IT OFF! [whap!] GET IT OFF ME! [whap! whap!]

Even animal rights celebrities would have trouble:

JEAN-MICHEL COSTEAU: And here ve have zee beeyootiful stinging jellyfish, vich every year dies by dee tousands, becau- Tabarnac! Sacre-bleu! Oh, zee pain! Zee pain!

Perhaps a direct adopt-an-animal plan would work better. Adoptive ‘parents’ would have to have strong stomachs for the letters home though:

Dear Foster Parent:

Thanks to your generous donation, local aid workers have been able to build a special protected habitat and life skills training area. Today I learned how to stalk and disembowel chickens. In a few months, they say I’ll be well enough to produce venom strong enough to drop an elephant. I’ve enclosed pictures so you can see my fang development.

Love,
Nagaina

Of course, some animals aren’t ugly so much as they suffer from branding issues. Nobody ever thinks to Save the Pogonophore! because no one can spell pogonophore. And no one ever talks about saving the blue-footed booby, because, well, you’re laughing, aren’t you?

So the next time you worry about the media and our image conscious society, remember, endangered species have it worse. For them, image isn’t everything. It’s the only thing.

If this doesn't mark the complete and total makeover the Internet has done on society, I don't know what would. Forget the sound of bells and ice cream trucks, find them using Twitter:

http://springwise.com/food_beverage/coolhaus/

It’s been hard to read the newspapers here lately, because for several weeks the headlines have been exactly the same. On Mondays it’s: Major Corporation Admits It ‘Misplaced’ Several Billion Dollars. On Tuesdays, it’s: Shareholders Chase CEO to Mexican Border, Threaten Hanging. On Wednesdays, it’s: Celebrity Chef Denies Cooking Books; Says He Only Sauteed Them In A Light Apricot Sauce.

So, it’s with no small amount of irony that I noticed one story that stood out in all that sameness: it was about cloning.

The Russians, it seems, lost one of their most famous trees to a fire. It had been a large and rather magnificent mulberry tree, and was reputed to have inspired the legendary poet Aleksandr Pushkin to write one of his most famous poems, which actually featured a giant oak tree. Scientists were going to try to clone the tree from living tissue found in the burnt stump.

To me, this says two things: 1) Isn’t modern science amazing? and 2) Never trust a poet to keep his trees straight.

Now, lots of people will try to tell you that cloning is weird, or just ‘not right,’ but personally I think the technology has just gotten a bad rap. This is because the first creature ever cloned was a sheep. This was a silly move because A) As New Zealanders will tell you, we already have too many sheep and B) Sheep already looked too much alike - not even sheep can tell one from another. Don’t believe me? Next time you visit your neighbourhood sheep shop, just yell “Hey ewe!” They’ll all reply.

No, I think scientists would be far better off cloning things that we can all use on a daily basis. For example:

Car keys - I cannot go four weeks straight without ‘misplacing’ my car keys. This means I either need to get a key cloner, or I’d make a great car company CEO.

Lamb curry - Instead of cloning sheep, I’d like to be able to clone the dish of lamb curry I made in 1998, because it was the only time I ever got the recipe exactly right.

First holiday - Wouldn’t it be great to be able to make copies of that feeling you had as a kid when you experienced your first birthday party? Or your first beach vacation? So you could break open a copy on days when you really need a pick-me-up, like when your quarterly investment statement shows up in the mail?

Extinct Animals - Forget silly horror stories like Jurassic Park, wouldn’t it be wonderful if we could bring back animals that we’ve driven to extinction? Like, say, the dodo bird? What’s that you say? We have enough of those in government?

Socks - The next time I buy a pair of socks, I want to clone 12 copies of the left one. This is because my dryer keeps eating all my left socks. Don’t tell me that’s not true, I can see the remnants in the lint trap.

Ice Cubes - Why would I want to clone ice cubes? Because as I write this it’s 44°C (111°F) outside. I live in Canada. Something is very, very wrong here.

Dust Bunnies - No, wait - they clone themselves. Never mind.

Desk Space - Because you never, ever, have enough desk space.

Money - Do I have to explain this one?

Mittens - See Socks, above.

For Women - Wouldn’t it be great if we could clone several thousand copies of a young, cute, single, well-built, intelligent, sensitive man? The trick here, of course, would be finding the source material.

For Men - Wouldn’t it be great if we could clone several thousand copies of a young, single, blonde woman measuring 40-18-32, with multiple career talents and a great kitchen? Hang on, we have! Her name is Barbie.

Blue jeans - In a lifetime of shopping, the average woman finds exactly one pair of jeans that both look good and fit properly. When she does, the company will immediately cease making them. The ability to clone that magic pair would save women thousands of dollars.

And hey, isn’t cloning jeans what it’s all about?

There are many reasons why I hate shopping. I was reminded of one yesterday.

I had stopped at the grocery store, thinking I could dash in and pick up a few items. That was my first mistake. The second was starting in the orange juice aisle.

The orange juice aisle stretches out for miles.

There’s “original” orange juice, and then original plus calcium. Then there’s “country style” which I guess must be different than your urban, street wise, hip-hop orange juice. Another boasted extra vitamin E, C and bits of zinc, which didn’t really sound appetizing.

Two others claimed to be “home squeezed” and “home squeezed with calcium” but I swear no one’s been to my home to press oranges lately. There was also pulp free, low acid, orange tangerine, orange cranberry and something called “orange passion.” I didn’t even know oranges had love lives.

Now, because I’m a writer with a philosophical turn of mind, and also (ahem) because I got locked in the store overnight while trying try decide between 11 juices, I thought about this a lot. I asked myself: A) Just how much of the way we live our lives is dictated by product choices and advertising? and B) What horrors await me in the coffee aisle?

Consider cars: they’re just a box on four wheels right? Don’t be silly. Thanks to Madison Avenue ad agencies, your choice of car represents an entire lifestyle:

Four door sedan - You are a cubicle commando who spends too much time commuting back and forth to work. The people at the easy listening radio request line know you by name.

Pickup truck - You must be a Jeff Foxworthy groupie, a construction worker, a farmer or all of the above.

SUV - Overworked, overstressed, underpaid soccer Mom. Do not cut her off on the highway, or else, okay?

Teeny tiny two door hatchback - Greenpeace member who hates the idea of using fossil fuels at all or a transplanted European who just can’t deal with the size of North American cars.

A little red sports car - Obviously you must be a cute, smart, humour columnist.

Or, to get back to food for a moment, what about our meals? There are those of us who like nothing better than to start the day off with a piece of cherry pie and whipped cream. But we are shunned and persecuted by society, because as every one knows, only cereals like Fruit Coated Sugar Bombs with Marshmallow Shapes are suitable for breakfast.

Advertising also dictates what we drink. For instance: beer is for sporting events (and guys who drive pickup trucks). Wine is for cultural soirees (or overworked soccer Moms who need to take that edge off). Pretty mixed drinks are supposed to be for women (or for sedan drivers, but only on holiday in Hawaii where their buds from work can’t see). Champagne is supposed to be for romance, I guess because nothing says love like fizz up your nose.

And speaking of love... Valentine’s Day? Every year, succumbing to intense advertising pressure, normally sane men pay up to $100 to bring 12 roses home to die in a vase. Obviously, this is ridiculous pandering to consumer culture. It’s much more sensible to bring home $100 worth of chocolate.

Or diamonds? Quite possibly the most common ‘precious’ stone on earth, De Beers did such a good job of establishing the “tradition” of a diamond engagement ring back in 1939, that woe betide a modern man if he doesn’t buy a rock for his fiancee. Especially if he doesn’t know what betide means.

Advertising has even changed the shape of our families. It used to be that grandparents, parents, children and even aunts and uncles shared a home. But it’s hard to convince people that they need more than one microwave per household, so we’ve set up a system that makes everyone want to live separately. This means commercials targeted at youngsters (Message: Eighteen and still living at home? You’re a weenie!) and at parents (Message: Forty-five and still don’t have a separate rec room? You’re a bigger weenie!).

I’d say more, but I see we’ve run out of bread. I had a peek at the bread aisle before and figure I’d better leave now. It could take me all day to figure out what sort of lifestyle statement I want to make with my sandwich.

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