I once dated this girl whose parents had, if memory serves, about 30-some odd owls scattered throughout their house. Maybe more.
There were macrame owls and ceramic owls; owls painted on laminated sections of tree trunk and giant kitchen spoons; scrimshaw owls and owls made out of bits of string and bottle tops; luxury cruise liners with owl seats and private jet aeroplanes with actual owls stapled to the wings...
Ok, maybe not those last two, but just about anything else you could put an owl on, they had it. And it was just slathered in owl.
The thing is, they didn't really like owls. Maybe they grew to love them - or at least get used to them, having so many of the damn things laying around - but they weren't, like, owl enthusiasts or anything.
See, it started (like many things do) with just one owl. A present from a friend. Then I guess someone else noticed this one and, likely grasping for something to get them around Christmas, gave them another. As the years went by and the wrongful assumptions grew, so did the collection.
It's not hard to see how this tragic tale ends: ironically. With them being eaten alive by mice. Oh, where were their precious owls then?
But this is not about the owls.
This is about Marilyn Monroe.
When I was about 14 or 15, I went on a trip to Europe, part of which is contained almost entirely in France. On the banks of a biggish-sized river running through Paris, near the artsy building with all the piping on the outside, there were these vendor carts selling little knick-knacks (or, as the French call them, "maize").
One of these guys was selling, at what I assume were cut-rate prices for a teenager, pictures torn from Playboy Magazine and sort of nicely mounted (hur hur hur) on posterboard. I found one of Marilyn, tacked it up on my wall when I got home, and thought no more of it.
Shortly thereafter, I was entrusted with moving some books around to various storage rooms in my high school. Not being exactly the "model student" type, I have no idea why. And yet, there I was. Anyway, in one of these rooms was a giant poster of Marilyn, one of those 4' by 3' jobbers. By the end of the day, that poster was also on my wall. So, ok. No big deal.
Fast forward some 13-odd years and I now have something in the neighborhood of a dozen of these things. They're like tribbles, man - you turn around and bang! New poster. I swear sometimes I'd come home and they would have multiplied in my absence. Someone even gave me a Norman Mailer coffee table book once. Not a new one, but still.
Here's the thing, though: I don't even really like Marilyn Monroe. I never did. Hell, I can't think of a single one of her movies I can sit all the way through. These things just kinda have a way of happening. Like owls.
So look, I know it's still quite a way off, but just in case you were planning on getting me anything for St. Frankenstein's Day, and maybe you were in my house recently and thought, "Ah! There's an easy present!" ...Please, I beg of you: no more. How about a new cutting board instead? Or hey, what's wrong with an old-fashioned outboard motor, or a simple pile of used tissues (if you're a cheap jerk)?
But for the love of God just please don't attach a picture of Marilyn Monroe to it. Me and Marilyn, we had a good run. But those days are over.
It's time to just let her go.