Steven Spielberg Is Responsible for My Crippling Fear of Intimacy
Plus: Dogs and a book
Before this week’s shenanigans, a quick book recommendation:
Marinovich, written by its namesake, Todd Marinovich, with help from Lizzy Wagner, is the story of the mercurial former USC and Raider QB’s rise and fall. Multiple rises and falls, actually, coinciding with addiction struggles and a love of art. You don’t need to be a football fan to enjoy this one (although it’ll help 😉).
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Steven Spielberg Is Responsible for My Crippling Fear of Intimacy
Have you ever had a life-altering realization strike you out of the blue? Like, you’re sitting at Chipotle raw dogging a burrito when you suddenly realize the reason why the phrase “Venus in retrograde” annoys the piss out of you? Well, thanks to superstar writer Shea Serrano, that happened to me earlier this week.
Shea wrote a piece about the epic 1975 film Jaws. In it, he breaks down the opening scene in the film where a beautiful young blonde girl named Chrissie gets eaten by a shark while skinny-dipping, leaving her hammered boytoy passed out on the beach.
Do you remember how horrific that scene was? To say she got “eaten” is like saying Custer had a rough couple of days at Little Bighorn. She wasn’t eaten, she was eviscerated. It is one of those scenes that shakes you to your core. And I’m talking about grown adults.
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By the time my parents saved up enough money to purchase a VCR, it was 1984. On very rare occasions, they would have a night out together and leave my older sisters in charge to babysit me.
I have fond memories of watching Solid Gold on TV and having mini dance parties with them on several of these occasions. But with the addition of the VCR came a creeping darkness, as Solid Gold was replaced by renting movies like Jaws.
By the time a young man is in the third grade, he has started to notice young ladies. And while my folks had made the monumental purchase of the VCR, they still hadn’t ponied up for Cable TV. So, no MTV beauties or Skinamax bombshells to ogle either.
I think Suzanne Somers’ character Chrissy in Three’s Company was my first crush. I would say something about the name Chrissy/Chrissey here…what with its different spellings and propensity to designate slutty 1970s-era women…but my sister’s name is Chrisie, so that’d just be weird.
At the time, I think I envisioned myself as the debonair bachelor who wooed Chrissy over Harvey Wallbangers at the Reagle Beagle.
When Chrissie from Jaws started flirting with that sandy-haired himbo and running to the water, stripping off her clothes, I was frozen in what can only be described as pre-pubescent lust. But to my nascent brain, newly introduced to testosterone, it was love.
True love.
My naughty bits were sending signals my prefrontal cortex had never previously received. And all I could think was, “I like this.”
And also, “I don’t think Jesus would be happy with me.”
As the shirtless nicompoop she was flirting with lay passed out on the beach, Chrissy swam elegantly through the surf. Just about the time I thought her body was about to turn to the camera and show me the meaning of life, there was that first tug on her leg.
While watching, I remember thinking maybe she had bumped her leg on something. That lasted a good two seconds before this gorgeous young woman, the object of my sexual awakening, got thrashed about and eventually devoured by what we can only assume by that point is the shark.
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When you’re a young boy, you’re nervous around pretty girls. At least the normal ones are. The guys who seem completely comfortable around gorgeous women tend to grow up into gigantic a-holes.
Or President.
Regardless, reading Shea’s piece forced a realization: seeing my first true love disemboweled by a 6,000-pound prehistoric eating machine might explain why, for the next fifteen years or so, I couldn’t form a coherent sentence in front of a girl.
Imagine the neural response I had on the Monday after my Jaws viewing, when I spotted third-grade hottie Mary Elizabeth genuflecting upon entering the pew in front of me. The only thing I can liken it to is those orphan animals at the zoo that imprint on a different species at birth. Like a baby cheetah following a momma golden retriever around.
It works. But everyone involved knows this wasn’t Plan A.
To wit, most third-grade boys don’t choose their first love. They imprint. Like baby cheetahs.
Just dumber and in corduroy.
Fast forward forty-one years, and I have done all of the necessary ‘work on myself’ to become a reasonably well-adjusted husband and father. And by ‘work on myself’ I mean golf, alcohol, and making sure the mantra “yes honey” is emblazoned on my medulla oblongata.
If only my folks had rented E.T.
I can understand how this would’ve freaked you out as a kid. I actually just rewatched Jaws for the first time in years a couple of months ago, and that 1) that girl is a total hottie, 2) that dude is a big time himbo, and 3) the attack is horrifying. I’m glad I didn’t see it when I was at such an impressionable age.
I could tell you long, fun, funny stories about that shark 🦈. Informational ones as well. My grandfather was engineer/inventor with a large corporation in the Chicago area. They built the shark. The inside of it, not the cosmetic skin. Jaws is one of my very favorite movies of all time.