When in conversation at a bar or party, I'll sometimes encounter an awkward pause when the other person begins to rummage around in their purse or front pockets before producing some object of deep personal significance, a cherished photograph of a newborn relative, say, or a cell phone with a touch-screen display. Look at my nephew""/""Listen to my ringtone,"" they insist.
Being told to shut up and listen to a phone ring is just irritating, but I've always admired the ability of an exotic gadget or a wallet-sized photograph of a fetus to command the attention of an entire group of people. ""Isn't it cute?"" asks the owner.
Some people take a less orthodox approach. More advanced in this art than anyone else I have ever met, the parents of one childhood friend kept what looked like a chunk of petrified wood on their coffee table. Guests would invariably pass the curious object around, examining it closely, before one finally asked, ""Just what is this, exactly?""
""Freeze-dried seal penis,"" replied the hosts.
Hoping to imitate that success, but with an eye toward portability that excluded large, preserved animal members, I quickly realized that I had no idea where to begin looking for a suitable keepsake or conversation piece. Never the sort to go souvenir shopping on vacations, the things I tend to buy while traveling are simply the items I forgot to pack before leaving home.
""Look,"" I said, after returning from New York City this past August. ""This is the cellular phone charger I picked up in Times Square. And here's the toothbrush I found in a kiosk at JFK!""
When the time came to hand out gifts to everyone else, I revealed that I'd bought a vegetable peeler for every member of my immediate family.
Other people seem to have a knack for identifying these sorts of things. That same month, my girlfriend called from a wedding in Poland to say that she'd found the perfect souvenir for me in a shop in Warsaw, but had decided that 150 Euro was too much to pay for an adult Goliath Beetle preserved inside a glass display case. ""But how can you put a price on love?"" I protested.
What I'd like best of all is a live Goliathus. As a rule, I'm no great lover of insects, but if a particular species manages to grow to the size of a kitten, I am willing to suspend my disbelief about it actually being one.
""Have you held David yet?"" I'd ask an acquaintance, reaching into my knapsack and then thrusting the massive arthropod toward them, its giant mandibles and six legs working furiously. ""Isn't he cute? Hey, let's introduce him to your niece.""
Sadly, unlike their taxidermied kinfolk in Europe, living Goliath Beetles have chosen to inhabit areas less cosmopolitan and more primeval, such as the tropical rainforests of Africa. If it were to come to a choice between the two, I'd be much more likely to hitchhike across the former East Bloc with a Polish-to-English dictionary and my pockets stuffed full of foreign currency than parachute into the Congo with a machete and my pockets stuffed full of quinine tablets.
I've never previously had a real interest in owning the remains of a dead animal, however preserved.
Taxidermy, for me, has always existed alongside lycanthropy and doll-making on a list of questionable hobbies whose practitioners should be placed on some kind of government watch list.
Would you feel comfortable around someone who considered ""embalming"" to be among their favorite recreational activities?
It's funny how quickly these kinds of biases can be overcome by the desire to own things. Not that I'm going to start storing huge jars of formaldehyde in the basement of our apartment building, but if I'm ever invited to Poland, I know exactly where I'm going to head when I get off the plane, ready to try and talk the owner down to 100 Euro.
""You don't want to haggle?"" I'll ask, if they refuse to negotiate.
""Well then, how much for just the penis?""
Are you a Goliath Beetle? Contact Matt at hunziker@wisc.edu.
