Sometime last year, I happened upon a story about the Discovery Channel reality show <a href="
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Deadliest_Catch”>Deadliest Catch, which just recently aired its 5th season series premiere. Gregory and the babies and I LIVE for dragging out some cozy blankets, poppin’ up some cone, and gathering around the ol’ telly together to watch the latest exploits of those rough and tumble fisherdudes who run straight outta Dutch Harbor on their dangerous, neverending quest for crabbies. We have been riveted since episode one — and judging by the unimaginably high ratings the show consistently delivers up, we aren’t alone. Though I’m sure no one could have predicted it from its likely initial pitch to network executives (“Okay, so check it: we put cameras on crab fishing boats — and, then…well…we watch them fish.“) the show is an unquestionable cultural phenomenon.
Anyway, the story is that there was apparently some creative editing going on during one episode of the show — from what I can gather, editing for continuity’s sake — and now there are a few puny voices whining in the wilderness that this fact somehow undermines the integrity of the show. To this I say: FUCK OFF, ladies. If the producers made the decision to re-shoot a particular sequence for the sake of the overall flow of the story, that does not take away from the fact that these guys are still out there earning a living by performing one of the most dangerous jobs on the planet — all so my privileged fatass can plop down in a nice, warm seaside restaurant and proceed to get elbow deep into the yummy, four pound carcass of an Opilio Queen crab. This show is so awesome, so amazing, so riveting, so charming, so exciting, and so…ummm…HOT.
Allow me to explain. As regular readers know, despite the impeccably groomed (okay, bathed) and unincarcerated dame you see standing before you, I come from deep, hardscrabble, working class roots — families headed up by industrious men who perform grueling physical labor while exposed to the grinding elements, drink cheap beer after the whistle blows, and smoke pack after pack of non-filtered cigarettes with rough hands that are never quite clean, no matter how many times they hit ’em with the ‘ol bar o’ Lava.
This is the archetype of a man that was branded onto my soul. This is what raised me. This is what I had babies with and promised to love and obey when I was little more than a child myself. This is where I come from. This is what I know. This is what I am. And despite the fact that I am now blissfully (and permanently!) married to an extraordinary fellow who wears Brooks Brothers khakis to work, appreciates Woody Allen films, and has softer hands than mine, there is still something alluring for me about a man with a blue collar, a hearty smoker’s laugh, and a union card; I guess you could say it’s in my ears and in my eyes. There is no escaping it for me.
So, that’s my logical, intellectual explanation for my draw to this program and the men who people it. Now here’s my primitive, visceral one:
I really, really, really want Captain Sig Hansen to pull my hair, slap my face, call me a dirty whore, lash me to the bow of the Northwestern, and drive my fatass to Cleveland. He and his brother Edgar are HOT, BRUTISH, SEXY working class, middle-aged, modern-day Viking motherfuckers and I’ll walk their planks any old time.
In the meantime, stow yer weapons and welcome aboard the good ship Electra Complex!