So, when I regretfully made my daily to Yahoo! News and saw an article about a baby elephant at Smithsonian Zoo, I thought, how nice. This will be a break. I bet it’s cute and we can all talk about how cute it is. The article strikes a hopeful yet cautious tone. The new baby elephant, born at the Smithsonian's National Zoo, still unnamed, was “rejected” by her mother. That’s a word added by Yahoo. The Smithsonian blog post itself makes no such claim. But I was quickly reassured that an older female elephant in the zoo had taken the baby elephant under her trunk, so to speak, and all was going to be okay. Give the mother time and space, and she’ll come around. She’s new to this. This happens. The zookeepers are knowledgeable and patient and caring. All is well.

And in that impulse I have, that I can never seem to shake, I scroll down to the comments section. Of Yahoo news. I know. I open the comments, which are collapsed by default—a design decision made somewhere with A/B testing or perhaps to track engagement, or perhaps actually to protect the tiny parts of our humanity that still remain when we browse the internet—and immediately see that the top two comments have been removed by the moderator. In an article about a baby elephant. Okay.

The third comment stopped me cold, and I read it at least a half dozen times. “How a democRAT treats her young for $200, Alex. (edited)” I must have put my head in my hands, and leaned against my dining room table, and let out a sound somewhere between a groan and a cry for help, and then read it again. The cry for help wasn’t because of the message content, no. It was because I knew what would come next: I would be clicking on this person’s profile and reading their comment history. My alien hand syndrome was acting up again, and there I was, inside this person’s mind.

They spoke of Jesus, and Dr. Anthony Fauci, and of mRNA and spike proteins, and of 9/11. They seemed particularly preoccupied with biological preparations that provide active acquired immunity to a particular infectious or malignant disease, aka vaccines. The comments were rapid fire. 17 minutes ago. 16 minutes ago. 14 minutes ago. 11 minutes ago. Articles about celebrities and current events and baby elephants. The actual content of the articles did not matter—they were simply prestretched canvases, ready for paint to be thrown.

And then I wondered, did unnamed baby elephant get vaccinated? It was a question that our commenter had not seemed to consider. According to the Association of Zoos and Aquariums, there is a new mRNA (oh no) vaccine for elephants, which protects against Elephant Endotheliotropic Herpesvirus (EEHV). They claim that “this deadly virus is the leading cause of death for juvenile Asian elephants in North America and Europe, with a mortality rate of 60-80 percent.”

The person probably didn’t consider that there was no agenda, not one that my imagination can conjure, at least. No plot to control or brainwash or harm or kill elephants. I doubt few, if any, mustaches were twisted. It appears to have been the result of years of effort by a consortium of scientists and private industry. People who are presumably interested in science, and who are interested in elephants not dying unnecessarily.

I would like to sit down with this person. Buy them a coffee. I imagine they’d be scanning their surroundings suspiciously—what is that car doing? What exactly is in this supposedly free coffee? Does the person across from me know about raw milk—and say, hey. It’s okay. There’s some people that wanted to do cool science. And also help elephants. And this little elephant is probably going to live a decent life because of their efforts. Aren’t you okay with that? You’re not angry, are you? Can we sit and talk about this?

I want to hear about where they grew up, and what sorts of things their parents told them. I want to know what school was like, and who helped them through life. I want to know about when they fell in love, and if they can explain why it happened. I want to know if they were ever six years old and held a dog in their arms and wanted only good things for it. I want to ask them if they knew that even rats—the carriers of disease and destroyers of grain and livelihood—have been the object of love of and affection of adults and children. And, just like an elephant, just like us, are trying to get by however they can. And if I can get them to concede that, maybe we can move on to bigger things. And we’ll make a deal. I’ll stop reading Yahoo News articles if you stop commenting on them. We’ll both be better for it.

#essays

Well, what happened to old Ed after the Tonight Show closed its final curtain? A lot of things, but one thing stands out as a cultural moment that seems to have slipped into oblivion, one that is asking to be brought forward again and examined, like a broken sand dollar, before we cast it out into the sea again. The Miracle Fryer. Do you remember that infomercial? I certainly don’t. As an avid 1990’s infomercial watcher, I remember “set it and forget it!” and food dehydrators and the slanted grill that “cuts the fat” and a British man in a red bow tie yelling about fresh salsa. But the Miracle Fryer existed, too, and it’s an astonishing look into peak America, before it crumbled, quickly, then slowly, then quickly again until we arrived at present day.

The Miracle Fryer, to be clear, is a mesh screen sitting on top of a tray. That’s the entire product. Supposedly, one can place a wide variety of different brown foods—chicken nuggets, french fries, onion rings, fish sticks, and more! onto the mesh-covered tray, insert it into your oven, and use your oven’s own thermal waves to cook your food while also cutting the fat, a particularly obsessive fixation of the late 1990s that has morphed repeatedly and now sits firmly into the protein supplementation of everything.

Now, little research was done for this essay beyond watching the infomercial and reading Ed McMahon’s Wikipedia page. But I think that’s enough. I don’t know what the Miracle Fryer is made out of, I don’t know how many units it sold, or if it’s still available outside of a single second hand store somewhere near Topeka. I don’t even know if it really works in the way that Nancy Nelson’s loud MMMMs and grinning countenance seem to imply, but I have my doubts.

There’s something startling about Ed McMahon’s appearance three minutes into the infomercial. We’ve been educated on the evils of deep frying and the unquestionable unwantedness of fat in our foods. We’ve already seen Nancy taking a crunchy bite of french fries that allegedly have had their calories cut by 83%. Then, she pivots. There’s a gentleman she needs to tell us about. A man who, as she describes, is “here to unveil a discovery of his.” A discovery. Ed McMahon was in his garage in the San Fernando Valley, as I imagine it, surrounded by tools and parts and prototypes, and late on a Saturday night, _discovered it. _And now, 18 months later, he strolls in—no, wanders in—after Nancy Nelson’s introduction. He’s dressed to the nines, pocket square and all, and he brings Nancy into a hug. He’s glad to be here. He’s here to talk about his discovery, and the technology. They’re big claims. Yet the man in front of us is Ed McMahon, who we mostly know for his hosting chops, his catchphrase, and his background laugh on the Tonight Show. We did not know about his engineering proficiency, and his tenacious inventive spirit. Now we do.

A YouTube commenter jokes that Ed “knocked a few back” before the infomercial. I will not speculate. But I also won’t judge. He’s probably at a sound stage in Burbank, it’s the middle of the day, he’s in his golden years—who wouldn’t knock a few back? I don’t hold it against him.

What unfolds after the introduction is something to behold. We watch Ed McMahon, in his suit, and in his genteelness, carefully load chicken strips and onion rings (Ed’s favorite), onto the mesh screen. He is fixed in place for the entire infomercial, where I imagine two yellow footprints have been painted on the floor, while Nancy runs to and fro, putting his creations into the oven, retrieving things that are ready to taste, and he’s just…there. He’s a professional, of course—you can’t not be after decades in showbiz. He has the enthusiasm in his voice about fish sticks. He even smiles. But there’s something else there, behind his eyes. There is an, “I’m completing my contractual obligations. I wonder if my driver is still out back, if he’s kept the car idling. I wonder if the Irish bar down the road has air conditioning,” all churning behind those big glasses.

At one point, they bring out and introduce a Culinary Institute of America-trained chef. He’s framed as the actual inventor, or perhaps the executor to Ed’s idea. The Saturday night garage vision evaporates. We recalibrate. Okay, it was this guy. Ed was the idea guy. Fine. But Nancy and Ed continue presenting, and the chef gets interrupted, and can’t seem to get a word in. He does manage a few key sentences about grease dripping or excess calories, or the crunch of the foods that have been cooked on the Miracle Fryer (a particular preoccupation of this infomercial), but otherwise he’s largely ignored. If he’s the inventor, shouldn’t he be the main presenter? What’s Ed doing here? It’s not that Ed was the one to actually sign the endorsement and licensing deal, was it? I will wonder this until the end.

When it ends, I’m left feeling uneasy. I have thoughts about how we treat our aging celebrities, what we do with our “beloved” entertainers, those who we welcomed into our living rooms every night, now that we’re done with them. I’m also happy that Ed got some money, though I imagine he was disappointed this product wasn’t a runaway success like the Foreman Grill. In fact, in some ways, this is a product ahead of its time. Air fryers are legitimately one of the most popular counter-top appliances in America now. Damnit, Ed, you were so close. In sum, I feel a bit sad.

The YouTube video ends and I’m treated to a post-roll ad for car insurance, and then a recommended music video for an artist whose video I accidentally clicked on two weeks ago. I’m on my phone now, searching “air fryer” on Amazon. Maybe I should see what all the hype is about. I’d like to cut the fat too, and tell my family to be quiet so they can all hear that satisfying crunch of my now-healthy french fry.

And what I see is stunning. Dozens of brands. Perhaps hundreds, all trying to sell their air fryers to me. And many of these brands, I’ve never heard of. Rivee. Ordai. Lyncia. Whatever. They don’t care about me. They’re all made in the same factory, and the brand name is changed, and really, the brand name doesn’t matter. No one’s actually trying to sell me anything. I’m just scrolling. Here’s a product. Here’s another. Buy it, or don’t. Who cares.

There’s no Nancy Nelson. There’s no Ed McMahon. There’s no gentleman, no pocket square, no trembling hand carefully maneuvering a chicken nugget. These people weren’t perfect, but they at least showed up to the studio that day. They learned their lines. Nancy performed her enthusiasm. I was told a price, and then the price was slashed in half with a red X and now I’m getting a deal. Now, I see the same list prices crossed out, and they’re always crossed out, and they always will be crossed out, and the price is calculated by the day by an algorithm, I’m sure. And I find myself missing the flawed, loose with the truth, anecdotal, reminiscent-about-boyhood-onion-rings charm of it all. And I wish Ed would try to sell me one more thing. I would buy it.

#essays