©2006 The Chestnut Hill Local

Zoo critic can bear-ly contain his sadness
by JIMMY J. PACK JR.

One of the many flamingoes trying to forget about the loud zoo-goers fighting about where to go next. (Photos by Jimmy J. Pack Jr. For more photos visit www.chlocalphotos.com)

Two weeks ago members of the Local and CHCA staff had an outing to the Philadelphia Zoo. The last time I had been to a zoo was when I was 12 years old. It was in the middle of the summer when my mother, aunt, two cousins and I packed-up and took a road trip to the Bronx Zoo. I remember many of the exhibits being spacious, full of land for the animals to roam or lie lazily on a branch.

But I left that trip pretty scarred. We were in a monorail going around an exhibit when we stopped about 15 feet in front of a koala. The grey, fuzzy little chubster had a grimace on his face. I was laughing at him because I could see the look of distain in his eyes as a car full of annoying tourists stared as though he were a wax statue in a cold museum. My cousins were not as amused as I was.

And since I was the only one laughing, for about a minute, that cuddly little stuffed-with-fluff bear winced his face at me, as though he smelled something really foul, and then proceeded to extend his arm and present to me only one single digit on his hand extended in a rather offensive manner. Yes, the bear gave me the finger.

I hadn’t gone back to a zoo in over 20 years.

A huge rhino feeds in a small space at the Philadelphia Zoo.

And we decided to go to the Zoo; I thought it would be a great opportunity to get back in touch with some sense of lost childhood. That maybe I could wipe away the distain from that damn bear from down under. At least I’d get some great photos. And I did.

But the saying is true — you can’t go home again. There’s no true revisiting of your past, particularly when the knowledge of the world can make you see things in a less Romantic light. While most of my fellow zoo-trippers had a great time, the outing left me a bit sad.

As I walked around it appeared that most of the animals were either doped up, dead tired or too depressed to give anyone any attention — not even the screaming hoards of children pointing, yelling and goading the animals to sit up, come closer or talk to them.

Admittedly, I am not a zoologist, so I don’t know if these fellow creatures of God were behaving in a normal way, or if they were generally nonplussed with their lives. But of all the animals, the two that were most depressing were the kangaroos laying in the dirt as though shot dead by a bushman, and the lions crammed in quarters clearly not as large as the lands in which they are instinctively known to roam.

As a matter of fact, the lions had this Flintstones-like air about them — the male was lying on his butt, lazy in a dead sleep, while the female lion felt it her duty of entertain visitors.

And let’s not even talk about the red panda, who looked as though he were actually on a spit charring as the main course for a barbecue.

But the children were enjoying everything — laughing, talking to their friends, enjoying their Nathan’s hot dogs and hamburgers in the 80-degree weather. Meanwhile after three loops around the joint my legs were rubber and my sinuses weren’t diggin’ the small mammal house.

To make matters worse, at almost every exhibit, there were no fewer than two stupid parents mis-educating their children.

“Look at those birds, Timmy.”

“Excuse me, those are fruit bats.” I corrected her.

“Well how do you know?” asked an embarrassed mom.

“If you read the sign to your left, it tells you they’re fruit bats.”

“Whatever.”

This is how children learn?

Then, to add to their little ADD-damaged minds, a few of the exhibits feature short TV shows. I am glad they didn’t have this technology when I was a kid. What happened to reading cards and signs? Is this type of technology really educating our children? Do they retain all the information, or do the images become meaningless symbols in their developing minds?

Still they were having fun. Not everything needs to be a trip through Public Television Land. But this place wasn’t for me. My jaded mind felt sorry for all those poor creatures, and the lack of brain stimulation brought my blood to a slow simmer.

I’d just as soon take a safari trip and let myself be the one who’s caged and taken around to view animals in their truly natural state — if it meant that much to me. And even then I think I’d rather spend a week in the hotel, drinking exotic drinks and reading a few Theodore Dreiser novels. I know, I’m boring like Spongebob’s nextdoor neighbor, Squidward. But don’t call me old. And don’t take me to a Zoo.