gentlemen prefer blondes

thoughts on "thots," and the ethical consumption of Marilyn Monroe.

It was a torrential downpour of a day.

I was tired, work was hard that week. Life was hard. Grocery shopping had turned into an Olympic sport of budgeting proportions. The weight of past choices, and future choices, strung across my shoulders like a leopard print shawl made of lead.

I was tired, whiney, and in need of a chilled white wine.

Luckily, my favorite kind of service came through. The kind with an attached washer and dryer. The kind with a friendly face, gentle company amongst the salty, thunder-ey air and a good listening ear.

My friend, we’ll call her—Prescott. Press, for short. A priss? Absolutely not. But elegant, to be sure. Finishing up her own work, as we lounged on the couch in our own minds, we collided into familiar spaces: movies.

It was raining. We wanted to watch a movie.

Now, when Press and I get together, we tend to enjoy a specific type of entertainment. Old, silly, but classic. We dine on local fare, wherever our whims take us. Be it pizza, fried rice, or potatoes…

we will eat,

we will drink,

and we will most definitely laugh.

Our connection is that of a Monstera leaf. It splits and deviates. No leaf is alike, no fenestration the same, but we are cuttings of the same plant. Propagated in similar soil and grown in harsher conditions. And yet, we thrive.

Sand or clay, we shall stay.

I digress.

An old movie, “Gentleman Prefer Blondes” directed by another Howard whomever. Marilyn splashes across the screen along with Jane Russell. The iconic duo of emerald-black and orange sequins. The difference is obvious, Marilyn knows how to cheat-out. But, Russell knows what to say and how to carry less than a care. We gab on who, and what, we like best in ourselves as it reflects back at us. The men are dumb. Reminding us further that misogyny hurts everyone. We joke about who has a chin, who is cute, and who is definitely going to lose their hair before the movie is even done.

Now, the bigger question. Why does that matter? Why does Marilyn Monroe still exist and permeate in our minds? Why does she reach even the most Wednesday Addams of us all?

Well, because she’s honest I suppose.

I found myself enjoying the movie so much that I wanted to commemorate the day with a gift for my friend. Something, “Monroe,” related to celebrate the occasion.

And then, I was thoroughly grossed out.

There isn’t an object in existence without the ability to don Miss Monroe’s lovely face. The iconic mole. Her beautiful, effortless platinum, curled locks. They. Are. Everywhere.

Playing cards.

Lighters.

Plates.

Shirts of every kind. Sweat-shirts to be sure. Dozens of replicas of her cardigan.

Newspaper print-outs.

The subway dress.

The subway dress print.

The bubblegum print.

The bubblegum print/Audrey Hepburn bubblegum print.

The same photo on various items of shirt(s), again.

Fake Starbucks tumblers.

The announcement of her death, in the newspaper, as a print…on a placemat

to dine on.

Replica earrings.

Replica dresses.

Replica wigs.

Everything this woman wore, touched, saw, liked, consumed, we still eat and digest and poop out onto our bathroom walls like we have something to say.

I am not knocking it, I understand it.

I only wish to call into question…why, when this woman died at 36, we emulate someone so deeply marred by life and experiences we can only imagine—that we imagine ourselves in her position.

That we transfix on someone like her, aching to be nearer to power. To choice. To what? Death? A life lived and left too soon to tell of any evidence of actualization of self. Of power. Of choice.

Did she have that/one?

It is mind-numbing.

To be clear, I love the idea of Marilyn. I love these movies.

I also wonder how many amphetamines she was on to get through the one-takes.

How heavy the jewels were; how high the shoe, and how tight the bodice.

Neither one of us knew she died so young.

Do I want to have the spoils of her life and death on my wall, in my car, in my hand, on my body?

Would I gift that?

Am I thinking too hard about it. Probably.

I’m not sure.

I do, however, know I love the macabre.

However,

…I do not dine on corpses.

Let the lady rest. Let her live, perhaps, in the same dream we all have: to afford and live a life, well lived.

Respectfully,

m.i.k.