Category: Social Media

What Ever Happened to Once Upon a Time?

*SPOILER ALERT*

One of the problems with doing nothing is you never know when you’re done.  I’ve spent the last week unable to distinguish 4:30 am from 4:30 pm and wondering what happened to all the o’clocks in the middle.  It’s a function of age.  Back in the day, transatlantic travel merely slowed the party down; these days it brings it to a screaming halt.  However, while watching mind-altering television (thank God for PVRs) and steering clear of the Bordeaux, I’ve gotten an insight into the direction entertainment has been going lately.  It’s an odd sensation to discover that all the important events of our 1,000+ mile per hour world pale in comparison to whether Emma can save Henry on Once Upon a Time, or how, by all the old gods and the new, will Daenerys ever get her dragons back on Game of Thrones.

Once Upon a Time is a brilliant series.  Created by the same people who did Lost, the premise is a bunch of fairytale characters have been cursed by the Wicked Queen to live for eternity in a New England town called Storybrooke.  The New England town notwithstanding, the point is there is no happily ever after for these folks anymore.  The story goes back and forth between contemporary Storybrooke and the Enchanted Kingdoms, piecing together how everybody got from their Fairytale world to the State of Maine and how they’re going to get back.  The writers play fast and loose with the original fairy tales and the acting isn’t great, but the Wicked Queen is pure evil, the peripheral characters are cool and Robert Carlyle carries the day as Rumpelstiltskin.

However, if you haven’t already starting watching the series, don’t bother.  It has one major flaw.  Prince Charming, one of the central characters, is a dolt.  The guy isn’t fit to carry a sword.  In the Storybrooke world, he starts off in a coma.  Okay, I can’t hold that against him, but when he wakes up, he isn’t the least bit princely or charming, either one.  First of all, when his wife shows up and looks like gorgeous was having a two-for-one sale, he just gets all wimpy about not being able to remember anything.  There’s one scene that’s clearly in an upstairs bedroom where Kathryn, the wife, is standing there in what can only be described as “an expectant mood” and our boy mutters something about “These things take time…”  This is where I quit being generous.  You’re Prince Charming for God’s sake!  Millions of girls — from Mumbai to Malibu — are peeing their pants waiting for you to wander by, and all you’ve got to say is, “These things take time?”  Man up, buddy!  Your only job is sweeping chicks off their feet, and you can’t let this one down easy?  And from there it only gets worse.  He meets a local school teacher, Mary Margaret, who is Snow White in the real (Fantasy?) world and falls in love.  Well, maybe he does.  Mostly he spends his time whining about how he “wants to be with Mary Margaret” (and that’s about as passionate as he ever gets) but he’s marrrrieeed.  (I wish I could type in a whiny voice.)  I don’t even want to speculate on how far this on-again/off-again “relationship” goes (regardless of what the series’ writers suggest.)

Meanwhile, as this storyline puddles out like liquid from a leaky cistern, in the Fantasy World where the guy is actually Prince Charming, he doesn’t come off any better!  He spends most of his time running away and getting his ass kicked.  Yeah, he kills a dragon, but that’s mostly by accident.  At one point, the Wicked Queen has captured him and is threatening Snow White with all manner of mayhem, and all he can do is rattle his cage and holler “Noooo!”  The real Prince Charming would have gone MacGyver on the locks, beat the crap out of the turnkey and laid some heavy duty slaying on the guards.  This guy just sits there looking miserable until Rumpelstiltskin shows up to bail him out. The promise is that he will eventually break the Evil Queen’s curse and wake up Snow White with a kiss.  Maybe, but if his lip action isn’t any better than his decision-making Snow’s going be catching Zs for a long time.

If you haven’t seen the series, you don’t know what I’m talking about and probably never will — because I’ve warned you about it.  However, my point is if this is what passes for acceptable in fantasy these days, our world is in deep trouble.  Don’t get me wrong: I’m glad the writers didn’t turn all the female characters in Once Upon a Time into bitches with magic and damsels in distress.  Actually, if you recall, in the real fairy tales, Prince Charming never did all that much anyway (except show up at the end with a kiss or a glass slipper.)  The stories were always about the women, and it’s good that they’ve been modernized.  My problem is just because you let the girls get a kick in, that doesn’t mean the guys have to all act like heartsick Hamlets.  Snow White might come with her own sword these days, but that doesn’t mean Charming doesn’t get one.  He’s still Prince Charming, and he should act the part.

If Fairy Tales are going to replace superheroes and hard-boiled cops at our movie theatres and on our television sets, we need to remember why we liked these old stories in the first place.  They’re fantasy!  Wicked Queens are extra evil, Snow Whites are beautiful to the bone, and when you finally meet Prince Charming, he better be William and Harry with a two-handed villain killer strapped to his hip.  That’s why they’re called Fairy Tales, folks!  This other stuff is just fiction.

Jet Lag and Culture Shock

Every travel writer since Herodotus has penned a line or two on how to get over jet lag and culture shock.  Don’t drink alcohol; suck Meyer lemons; wear those weird tight socks that turn your toes into Vienna sausages, etc. etc.  There is only one cure for jet lag, and you heard it here first: outlast the bastard.  Go about your business as best you can; eventually, time will re-telescope and you’ll get back to whatever normal looks like at your house.  Culture shock, on the other hand, is a completely different beast, and for some people, there is no cure.  They’re scarred for life.

Culture shock is your mind rebelling against a massive shift in your comfort zone.  It’s as if somebody set off a bomb in your inner baby carriage, and all the things you know and trust — like Boogy Bear and Blankey — are gone.  The air smells funny, the food tastes strange, the people around you are odd, and you spend half your time being lost.  Invariably, your senses simply overload and shut down.  This is a natural reaction that happens to even the most seasoned traveller, and you don’t have to go halfway around the world to get it.  Any sociologist will tell you, for example, there are some serious cultural differences between cities and their suburbs, or even between neighbourhoods.   Of course, it’s all relative.  Taking a trolley to the ‘burbs to visit Aunt Helen and hiking the Karkaar Mountains of Somalia are noticeably different experiences – depending, on your Aunt Helen.  My point is culture shock is unavoidable; it’s how you handle it that counts.

Speed Rabbit, my guide to the Latin Quarter

It’s been my experience that most tourists start fading out around Day

Five.  This

is when the ruins all start looking the same, the quaint local Corn Dance seems remarkably similar to the Wedding Dance and it’s too much trouble to read every plaque on every wall.  At this point, most tourists go back to the hotel and get heavily into the Tylenol™.  However, a select few, stop, find a bar, sit down, take three deep ones and look around.  They might look like they’ve just been given an overdose of Novocaine (it’s the vacant eyes) but they’re actually looking past the crumbling ruins and the colourful costumes.  They’re seeing the guy serving the drinks, the two women having lunch and “What the hell is that gorgeous smell?”  These people have instantly become travellers, and they’re never going to be anything else.

Travellers understand that people in different places do things differently, and while it might take some getting used to, it’s neither better nor worse than what we do.  They wonder how the waiter got to work and why the appetizer is moving — not how much the dessert costs in real money.  They see the sights (like everybody else) but they notice that somebody has to cut the grass and they wonder how they do it.  While tourists assume that their destination is a carefully planned theme park, travellers understand that every place they go is filled with ordinary people who live, breathe, cry and go to the bathroom.  (In some parts of the world, it’s very important to know where and how.)  Travellers are there because they’re curious.  They see the world as a gigantic playground with swings and slides and kids they haven’t played with yet.  I’m not knocking tourists; I just think they’re missing out on a lot of stuff.

Culture shock is the slap in the face everyone gets when they travel.  For tourists, the cure is a return to the familiar comforts of home, but for travellers it’s an addiction that will never go away.  Like James Kirk, they have a burning need to “seek out strange new worlds…and boldly go [etc. etc.]”  In short, travellers travel and tourists go places.  Tourists bring photographs and souvenirs home with them; travellers bring their experiences.  But the main difference is travellers also get a mild case of culture shock when they get home.

Air Travel: The Elegant Days are Gone

I’m definitely dating myself, but I remember when air travel was elegant.  Not the kind of Spy the Friendly Skies eyewash that ABC tried to promote with Pan Am but really a rather pleasant experience.  People used to dress up for it and mind their manners.  There was a style to it.  It was an integral part of travel, not just a delivery system.  Unfortunately, those days are gone and, like the rotary phone, they ain’t coming back.

I understand that the airline industry has grown up a lot since high-heeled stewardesses clicked up and down the aisles, handing out peppermints before take-off.  Back in those days (at least in my neighbourhood) if you were travelling by plane, you’d either been saving your money since birth or somebody had just died.  Air travel was expensive back in the day, and exceptional service was expected.  Now, since the asking price of a ticket to London is cheaper than dinner and dancing anywhere but Burger King™, service has naturally deteriorated.  Sheer numbers have overwhelmed most airlines’ ability to cope.  Processing even one 747 full of sweaty tourists and their over-packed luggage has got to be a nightmare, and the airline industry is doing it thousands of times a day – all over the world.  Obviously, the lines are going to be long, and the guy checking your bags won’t have time for a lot of idle chatter.  After all, he’s looking at two or three hundred other people who need extra leg room and a window, too.

Then, of course, contemporary times have given us the extra added attraction that anybody with a boarding pass is now a target for every homicidal malcontent with a chemistry set.  I’m not going to go into the whole WTF revelation that airline security is still looking for bombs and not bombers, but I’m not the only one who thinks that this misdirection is part of the problem.  Honestly, measuring everybody’s lip balm and eye shadow as if they were Abu Nadel’s murderous grandchild certainly ramps up the grumpy and cuts down on the courtesy.  But let me be the first to say that the security people in every airport I’ve ever been in have done a tremendous job against incredible odds.  Think about it: they have to be right every time; the terrorist only has to get lucky once.

I don’t mind any of this really.  It’s all part of the art of travel.  One learns to hurry up and wait, amuse oneself with eavesdropped conversation and partial undress while holding a passport in one hand and a clear plastic bag with a toothbrush in the other.  (It’s kinda like county jail with postcards.)  Nor do I mind playing hide and seek with my departure gate, fending off imminent dehydration with overpriced bottled water or getting the disinterested plastic glove treatment.  (I guess those guys really can’t smile.)

The thing I object to is the harshness and the impending chaos.  Every time I walk into an airport, I get this vision that it’s sheep shearing time in the Australian Outback and, someplace out of sight, Bluey and the boys are sharpening the shears.  People are flocking themselves back and forth in lamb-eyed confusion as if their best option might be the line marked souvlaki.  Nobody, except maybe the folks who built the airport, actually knows where they’re going.  They all just stumble around until they accidently find their baggage or the connecting flight.  And ID tags don’t mean a damn thing either; every one of them has a different story.  Once, at CDG in Paris, I got all the way out to the street without a passport stamp or my luggage on the advice of uniformed personnel behind a desk.  Try explaining that to a couple of tres curious security guards – in fractured Franglais.

Yes, I know, millions of people make it through thousands of airports every year with only tired and sweaty to bitch about, but really it could be so much better.  I’m not suggesting we return to the days of yesteryear when pilots were all greying at the temples and stewardesses were harnessed into their underwear.  However, getting from here to there should be more than running a guilty-until-proven innocent gauntlet, followed by a six to eight hour nose to knees dinner and a movie.  As Lewis CK says, sitting in a chair in the sky is a fantastic experience.  It could and should be tons more enjoyable.