Zoo

• Lori Palminteri
• Uncategorized
• October 6, 2015

It felt like we walked a mile to see the polar bears.  For some reason, walking in the hot San Diego sun with my family at the zoo was particularly exhausting.  The San Diego zoo was supposedly one of the best, if not the best zoo in the country.  My mother and I agreed, it would have been a lot better without all the kids there (a woman who used to work in a middle school).

My brother had decided to opt out of the family zoo trip.  We were all a bit annoyed at this.  For me, I was annoyed because I was sure our San Diego trip was our last family vacation (it was).  We were all angsty teens, but I still enjoyed spending time with my family, and I wanted him to as well.

A few years before that, my friends and I went to Six Flags, and we also went to the Safari Park, only because we had a free pass to go.  We baked out the car in the Safari, and my brother, being the alpha male he is, kept ranting about how he would dominate animals throughout the safari.  “I could outrun that lion.”  “I would jump on that ostrich’s back, and ride it.”  “That tiger is a pussy.”  We laughed at his ridiculous ignorant confidence, and I during that San Diego Zoo visit, I couldn’t help but wish Mitch was there bestowing his infinite false wisdom.  He is entertaining.

My mom and I also agreed the Bronx Zoo was just as good, if not better than the San Diego Zoo.  I had recently gone there as well.  Like the Six Flags trip, I had been really stoned with my friends.  The lions and tigers always disappoint.  Because they don’t hunt.  They look like me on a Sunday afternoon, watching football.  Lazy, and well fed, perhaps a bit tipsy.  I’d rather watch Animal Planet in the comfort of my home, watching the predators pounce on a gazelle, and tear into their prey’s neck.  I thought zoo’s would be better if one could actually witness the gruesome violence of mother nature, forgetting I get faint at the mere sight of blood.

At the Bronx Zoo, we explored the world of reptiles, to the penguins… we observed the creatures we share our Earth with a hightend interest.  Before I was a comic, before I was a surfer stoner, I was just a nerd.  So I enjoyed all things nerdy, like seeing animals in the zoo.  It’s the Congo exhibit, with the gorillas, apes, and monkeys which made me switch from having a jolly time to feeling absolutely horrible.  I remember standing there, kids swarming the area, staring at this ape behind the glass.  One of female apes just sat there, watching us watch them.  She looked me in the eyes, and held my gaze for a moment, and I felt guilty as hell for her captivity.  The apes weren’t the reptiles or the birds.  I paid money to go there.  I paid money to see them locked up, and was responsible for this circus.  I stood there, lost in a rueful state, as young children were getting a lesson in anatomy as one of the male apes started jerking off.  The female ape just looked at me like, “this is the dumb shit I deal with everyday.”

One of my friends was talking with a man who worked at the zoo.  He was in charge of making sure no one banged the glass, I guess.  I came in about half way through the conversation, as he explained, in detail, the extensive monkey porn collection he had.  Everyday, this guy filmed the apes fucking or jerking off.  He said he had them doing it in different positions.  Going at it in front of (human) children.  We were all laughing.  I was laughing too, probably because I was uncomfortable.  Sure it was immoral, but since when has immoral acts not been funny?  Honestly, it was bizarre he was telling us about it.  No, no… he wasn’t telling us about it.  He was bragging.

I didn’t forget that time at the Bronx Zoo, but I figured, since I wasn’t stoned with my family in San Diego, I wouldn’t feel such an “intense connection” with the apes as I did in New York.  I was wrong.

Before I accepted I was doomed to be comic, I wanted to be a drug dealer.  Not your ordinary drug dealer.  I wanted to have a pet chimpanzee that would do the actual drug dealing for me.  This chimp I would have raised since it was a baby, and it would love me like a mother.  Anyway, when you ordered drugs from me, you would meet my chimpanzee, who not only conducted the illegal dealing of drugs, but would also rip your face off if you wronged me.  It was a flawless idea.  It’s not illegal for Chimpanzees to sell drugs.  I wouldn’t have to deal with talking to other people (which has, is, and always will be the bane of my existence).  My monkey would be my partner in crime, AND my best friend.  And I would make a killing.  Because wouldn’t you want to buy your weed from a monkey?  It was genius.  Pure and simple genius.  Acquiring a monkey, then training it, were logistics I didn’t care to think through.  In a perfect world, I would be living in a modest house, with my drug dealing monkey, and together we’d be very happy.

There’s a reason why monkeys aren’t more widely accepted as pets.  Because they’re bad pets.  Because they’re smart.  At some point, they’ll go ape shit crazy, because they don’t belong in your house.  They shouldn’t be owned.

Every one feels bad for panda bears.  “Their so cute!”  Shut up.  Panda bears are the retards of the animal kingdom.  They SHOULD be extinct.  The only reason they’re still alive is because we think they’re cute, and we coddle their total lack of survival and evolutionary development.  Panda’s have that glazed look in their eyes, stupid and soulless, like anyone who works at the DMV.  It’s the monkey’s we should empathize.  Even if their NYC habitat is much larger than my studio apartment.

Unfortunately, I never did become a drug dealer with a chimpanzee to execute the dirty work for me.  We all continue to get our drugs the old fashioned way, from people, be it the kid who wears his pants too low, or your doctor writing scripts for your “anxiety” problem.  As an entertainer, there’s nothing quite like writing and performing jokes.  It’s an incomparable high, and the reward is so great, it’s why people will abandon lucrative jobs and lovers for it.  It’s the best.  But it’s not always the best.  Sometimes, audiences are shitty.  Sometimes, industry people make you feel small.  Sometimes, you feel trapped, like an animal behind the glass, on display for fat people to gawk at on their day off from their shitty job at the DMV.  You learn to smile, despite disconcerting eyes.  What male comics never have to deal with, is the feeling that some audiences would much rather ogle at a pornographic video of you than listen to the jokes you’ve spent so many hours working on.  Sometimes, it doesn’t feel like an art at all.  Sometimes, it just feels like another exhibit at the zoo.