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Monthly Archives: November 2012

I used to rent Bond movies on Saturdays. It probably started with Goldeneye because I couldn’t get over how much fun I’d just had. Famke Janssen sexy gun shooting! Hawaiian shirts in tropical places! Aston Martin versus bikes! Pretty much everything a kid needs to throw that shit in the VCR all over again. So I slowly worked my way through all the Bond movies, watching them all twice–Twice, Dad! Go rent it again!–until I finally understood the subtleties of things like “Pussy Galore” or “being Scottish.”

So of course I wanted to see Skyfall, the 50th Anniversary Bond, if at least just once. It’s this new James Bond who’s edgy and different and blond and surrounded by a lot of the same characters as always and also still named James Bond. They’ve made a lot of really solid decisions, though. There seems to be a conscious effort to update for the Jason Bourne set. Indeed, Q’s role is to hand out a gun, a radio tracker, and advice about how the kids are usin’ the ‘puters these days, you goddamned relic.

And that’s where they came off a little heavy-handed. This is the new Bond in a new era fighting new adversaries, despite owning a murder rate on par with Pol Pot and a body that’s somehow actually 50, even though this is supposed to be the prequel. It seems to be the cap on a prequel trilogy where we get things back that made the old Bond Bond: a male M and a Moneypenny, and nary a question of loyalty. The work of all three new Bond movies only worked to embed us back in the old story arc and reveal that the young rogue we come to love in the next 20 movies is confusingly old, weathered, and supposedly now not just mourning his parents (still, forever) but also the lady M.

Which makes me wonder: How much of Skyfall is a rewards-based system where the joys come from catching references? Knowing why he’d reveal the Aston? Who Moneypenny even is? Is Javier Bardem just a smart Jaws? Because the rewards we usually see involve following all the clues just as closely as Bond (hot babes) until he unravels the scheme (hot babes’ clothing) just in time to save the entire world. But this movie’s villain’s evil plan, spawned by revenge, is to get agents killed until he can kill M. Which one of his henchmen does. Yep, not only does Bond not stop him but the man doesn’t even achieve his fiendish plot on his own.

So what is this brave new era of Bond we’re stepping into? Obviously, the references to the progression of social media and secrecy will continue to be a theme, but hopefully the idea that James is close to retirement will slowly fade to the background as he carries on with his job. In fact, I would prefer an older Bond; who really trusts the new recruits, freshly minted with minor computer skills in Langley, to travel around the world while foiling conspiracy theories that took years to put into place? I want the haggard old guy who looks like he ran to every meeting he’s ever had while carrying two Heckler & Koch MP5s and a scotch. That’s the guy I ask, “Hey, do me a favor and take out a multinational terrorist cell only using a helicopter and this unreasonably gorgeous woman.”

Also, who really gives a crap if he’s had some parent issues? I think completely leveling his childhood home should be reason enough to let that be just another one of the little Bond details, like how Bond got married once, that we let add to his character instead of demanding it drag him down.

But enough of that noise, I have a Bond movie to go see again.

Let’s get this out of the way right from the start: I’m talking about prostitutes, women of the night, whores. But that’s the point; prostitutes are people too, despite easy jokes that they’re dead inside. So let’s also talk about what they’re not: gardening implements.

And it’s high time we drew a line in the sand. Hoes and hoeing are gardening devices and activities while, for the sake of clarity at the very minimum, prostitutes should be labeled hos or pursuing a career hoing. It looks a little weird, like an underperforming hose or a shy host, but consider this: whore. No one in their life has ever correctly spelled it whoere, unless that’s another one of those bizarre British alternates that has yet to add a little colour to my understanding of the English language. Just like how bangers ‘n’ mash stands for sausage and potatoes, remove the whore letters and you have ‘ho’ at the very most—never a spud.

Which also brings us to the more earthly aspects of the subject. Things like trowels, rakes, and hoes are all gardening tools used explicitly to reshape or cultivate earth. It’s a human–earth interaction where the earth is prepared for fertilization or planting. The earth comes out on top (pun intended). Sex workers are people, not utilities or tools used to alter non-human objects. It’s supposedly the oldest career in existence and it has almost always taken place between two humans. From my understanding of the profession, fertilization has nearly nothing to do with its impetus.

I can’t pretend splitting the spelling in two won’t wreak havoc on our preconceived usage. For example, when Ice Cube literally spells it out “H-O-E” on “Who’s the Mack?” from his incredible AmeriKKKa’s Most Wanted, we’ll be undercutting a very important song that debates the idea of the pimp-and-flat-bladed-gardening-aid relationship in many aspects of our society. That’s something we’ll have to be willing to sacrifice. Dictionaries are built on catalogs of published examples of the correct usage. It’s why stupid things like LOL and irregardless have definitions, despite being considered improper words—they have a proven meaning that needs to be expressed for people who don’t understand.

So the next time you’re online and attempting to insinuate that the neighbors’ daughter dresses like she accepts money for illicit acts performed with one or many of her limbs, please call her a ho. If you say out loud that that same girl is dressed like a ho tonight, the homophone still applies, but you’re clearly not implying her boots are metallic and her posture is as wooden as her clothing. Did you spot a friend in a skimpy outfit downtown, leaning into car windows? Please announce on Twitter that you suspect that person is hoing. Or if you have to stage an intervention for a male friend that has been sleeping around in a manner reminiscent of a gigolo, please, don’t forget to call him a man ho, even though man whore rolls off the tongue much more effectively (pun not intended). You need your friends to know they’re not tools.

Most importantly, don’t let hookers do your yard work—they already have a job.