11th October 2004, mid-morning | Comments (35)
Despite the tide of liberalism that has swept across Britain in recent years, certain things remain taboo in my home country. Get caught shagging a badger, cooling your genitals in the ice cream freezers at Safeway, or spitting on old people, and you can expect not only a stern punishment from the bods in charge, but also the scorn of your fellow countrymen. There are many such socially unacceptable behaviours, but one stands out beyond any other as a sordid and disgusting act within which to engage; and that is the act of ‘therapy’.
For the last twenty-nine years the strict conservative standards of my country have, to a great extent, kept me shielded from this deplorable practice. Occasionally I’d see some ‘therapy’ in action on a late-night American film or TV show, but that was as close I got to the real thing: scalded, but not burnt, so to speak. Unfortunately, as a newly-minted California resident, Britain's moral-shield is no longer there for me to hide behind. My recent move to the West coast of America has left me wide open to the scourge of ‘therapy’, potentially exposing me to it at every turn. Parties, in particular, seem to be the worst places, where I live in constant fear of introductions:
Josh, this is Dunstan, he’s a web developer from Engerland. Dunstan, this is Josh, he’s a little messed up in the brain department and cries every time he sees the colour mauve, but it’s okay, because he’s in therapy, you know?
Know? No, I don’t know. What do I say to him? Can I speak to him normally? Will he spazz out and try to hug my foot if I mention his therapy? I’m alarmed.
Personally I’d rather deal with the badger-shagger.
If therapy is a sordid concept to the British, ‘group therapy’ is viewed as a sort of obscene sporting attraction, the kind of thing that should appear on early morning satelitte TV:
Despite all this, the one redeaming feature both one-on-one and group therapy share is that they are relatively private affairs; they take place behind closed doors with only the clients and the therapist being present. What seems to be becoming more popular in the area of San Francisco that I live in is a sort of public, free-form, open-air, all-you-can-eat jazz therapy, involving a lunatic, a therapist, and a coffee shop.
Three times now I’ve sat and listened as these informal therapy sessions kick into life at tables beside me. Each time I’ve been unaware of the content of the conversation, until an odd word has lodged in my brain and made me pay closer attention. Take this conversation, for example, which I noted down yesterday:
It’s getting to the point where I’m almost ready to call Cheril in, you know? I’m freaking out here!
I know man, I know. All I’m saying is you know what you need to do, yeah? And you know that you need to do it, right?
Well it’s all very well saying that, but when he gets mad, you know, and we’re all yelling at him to calm down, and, well, have you ever lived with an angry lemur? It’s… I mean, have you?
No man…
Because, like, they’re so tense that...
I mean, what is a lemur, man? It’s not a monkey, you know, despite what you think, it’s not a monkey… and it’s hard, you know, having one in your house… man, I’m calling Cheril, I have to calm down.
I’m not sure what had been said before I started paying attention but I’m guessing that it was the word ‘lemur’ which kick-started my curiosity.
Later on…
I shouldn’t feel guilty you know, because it’s only two dollars and fifty cents, and even though she kept sayingIt’s mine,I’m likeOh, okay, whatever; just let me finish my movies,then I’d watch ‘em and then I’d start the next batch and she’d be likeHey! Where’s my two dollars and fifty cents, man?!and I’d just sit there and watch the movies.
Now you might think that sounds horrible, but to a certain extent, it rocked, you know, because I was watching movies, and she was yelling, and I was watching my movies, and that fucking lemur was nowhere, man, No. Fucking. Where.
…You know, not a day goes by when I don't pat myself on the back for coming to live in California. From England, Land of Hope and Glory, to America, Land of Lunacy and Lemurs. Bravo, Dunstan.
Footnote: More information on Lemurs can be found here and here and here. And he’s right, Lemur’s aren’t monkeys. How about that.
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