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Advice Crush: Dear Boogie

November 3, 2010

Disclaimer: The opinions expressed by Brendan Boogie are his and his alone. They do not reflect the opinions of Boston Band Crush, the Boston music scene, or your mom. Okay, maybe your mom. She’s kinky like that.

Dear Boogie,
You’ve been getting kinda deep in your column lately… it’s almost like you actually have some insight into the wonky drama of the human psyche. I really hope you’re not just fucking with us, because there are two fundamental mysteries I’ve been dying to understand and you may be my only hope. (Help me Oboogie-Wan.) 1. What does “wonky” even mean? 2. What the hell is David Lynch’s problem?
Sincerely,
I’m Pretty Damn Sure The Owls Are Exactly What They See
m

Dear IPDSTOAEWTS,

Okay, this is a stupid question, so I’m going to ignore it and talk about whale watches.

Living in this area, we’re supposed consider ourselves lucky that we have access to viewing such natural wonders as sperm whales in their natural habitat. On paper, a whale watch seems like a great, mind-expanding activity. There’s only one problem: whale watches are fucking terrible.

Growing up around here, there were two basic school trips: Plimoth Plantation in the fall, whale watch in the spring. Every year, like clockwork. (If you were lucky, they’d throw a little Edaville Railroad in there. That’s how terrible field trips were – you were hoping to spend six hours sitting in a goddamn miniature train.) At Plimoth Plantation, you got the pleasure of getting the glassy-eyed stink-eye from some pothead drama major spending his summer working on his authentic Puritan accent. But that was a dream compared to the spring whale watches. Nothing quite like boarding the boat from The Perfect Storm during a tsunami on the off chance we might lift our nauseated heads up from the railing to catch a glimpse of a majestic blowhole before we blew chunks on our velcro-fastened Zips.

Whale watches are torture. They must be stopped.

Here’s the deal about taking a bunch of kids on a whale watch: it’s a total no-win situation. Before we got on Mr. Puke’s Wild Ride, we had a choice: to take dramamine or not. So we basically had to choose either four hours of drowsiness or four hours of vomiting. We were eleven! What kind of fucked up Sophie’s Choice is that for a 5th grader to make? There was no way to succeed. Abject misery behind Door #1 AND Door #2.

I remember one particularly choppy whale watch my first year of junior high. It would have been very educational, had we been studying the vomitoriums of ancient Rome instead of allegedly checking out some deep sea mammals. The deck was littered with 85 pre-pubescent versions of the “wafer thin” guy in the restaurant scene of that Monty Python movie. At one point, a girl stopped taking pictures of the whales and just started snapping photos of people vomiting. It was genuinely comical.

Of course, the teacher yelled at the girl to stop. Because taking pictures of kids getting sick is wrong, but forcing a bunch of kids on a boat and actually making them vomit — somehow that’s okay. I swear, the most sadistic people in the universe can be found in our country’s middle schools. (The other thing a kid got in trouble for was pointing at the horizon and yelling “Sperm!” When everyone looked, he said, “Sorry. I just thought I saw some sperm. Nothing to do with the whale.” I thought it was a good bit. He got detention.)

After yesterday’s big election, this seems like a good time to look at what’s really wrong with our school systems. Everyone wants to “solve” education. They think the answer is in more standardized testing, smaller classrooms, more inclusion. The new documentary Waiting for Superman points a finger at the teachers’ unions. Wrong wrong wrong. Let’s get our little ones out of the hands of grown adult sociopaths who think whale watches are good ideas. Puke-loving sickos.

Also, let’s get rid of gym class. And physics. Hated that class.

Soundtrack to your misery: Ships In the Dark “Supposedly Fun”

Supposedly Fun by Ships in the Dark

See? This is what happens when you write stupid letters to Brendan! You get over 300 words on whale watches. Let’s pick it up, monkeys! Shoot Brendan an email at dearboogie@bostonbandcrush.com or fill out our whale of an anonymous submission form below:

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