Tina Feylin and the Mysterious Traverse

This weekend I tuned into Saturday Night Live to watch the latest Tina Feylin skit. And then I saw this bizarre commercial for a Chevy Traverse, which I totally do NOT get. It has stumped me. Which . . . I suppose . . . is the point.
Except let me say now that any intended point was lost on me. Any scenario I can conjure has nothing whatsoever to do with buying a Chevy Traverse or any car, for that matter.

The possibilities, as I see them:
1. Gay guy is in a budding relationship, and although it has just begun, he believes it to be his destiny. To romance his new partner, gay guy goes to great lengths, making dinner reservations and ripping off on a cleaning tear, even going so far as to brush the toilet bowl. And throughout it all, he is handsome and cheerful, smiling in every frame. Our happy hero is also an enthusiastic cross-dresser. He irons his dress in preparation for the big anniversary dinner with a gleeful exuberance rarely seen in more mature relationships.
2. Gay guy is masquerading as straight guy, serving as personal assistant to a wealthy woman. She can bring home the bacon. He'll fry it up in a pan. And do whatever else she wants him to do, 'cause she's a woMAN.
3. Gay guy drives Miss Daisy. At her advanced age, she is small, weak, and does not hear well. Hence, his duties have expanded to cover most household chores, including her telephone business. But she's always been a feisty old girl, and he gets a glint in his eye whenever he thinks of her.
4. Gay guy (this particular gay guy in our story, I mean to say, lest you think I mean ALL gay guys) is one of the bluntest tools in the shed, sadly, and earnestly plods on, trying to impress his partner by cleaning their house. There's ironing, scrubbing toilets, and much more, I'm sure. All of which would be impressive feats indeed, were (again, I say, this particular) gay guy not clueless about hygiene. But clueless he is, alas, as evidenced by the fact he has come into contact with a toilet while semi-naked and has no idea this is a major turn-off. Vomit-inducing, in fact, it is.
5. Gay guy is metrosexual guy. This thoughtful, renaissance man has successfully traversed the stereotypical gender divide we see most entrenched when it comes to the division of household labors. We are meant to be shocked and awed by our man's pecs and housekeeping prowess. But once again, that distracting toilet-cleaning segment bursts through the fantasy, as we watch our presumptive hero scrub-brushing a black toilet while semi-naked.
6. Gay guy is simply a regular guy-guy. There is even the possibility that he believes himself to be straight. In fact, and let's be politically correct here, but for the fact he is exceptionally attractive, straight he might very well be. So straighten up, you skeptical girls. You only think he's cleaning house. In actuality, he fantasizes about you, dear girl, while he enjoys running about topless, indulging his fetishes for women's clothes, feather dusters, and toilet brushes.
7. Gay guy is brilliant. He is able to smile, make dinner reservations over the phone and brightly explain the purpose thereof, and fluffle clothes and iron them, all at the same time. Except that he does, as sullenly noted before, clean the toilet topless -- which renders the multi-tasking intelligence theory fairly implausible.
8. Cross-dressing gay guy is having an affair with an older man (an "OMILF") and he's making dinner reservations for their 6-month anniversary. He helps out around the house, just as you'd expect a wife or younger man to do. Like Demi Moore and Ashton Kutcher, he and his elderly suitor (in your mind's eye, insert dear Bruce here) have traversed, and indeed transcended, their massive age difference shamelessly, with pride, dignity, grace, and many photographs of same.
Oh, hell's bells. I give up. I have no idea what Chevy was getting at with this peculiar ad.
Maybe another Chevy Traverse commercial will reveal a common thread, help me figure out just why Chevy thinks its gay iron man will compel women everywhere to rush out and buy a new Traverse.

Nope. Still no clue.
And I have never, ever, not even in a drunken stupor, made a wish . . . that a shit-load of randomly-sized stilettos would pelt my car and rain down upon my head. Call me crazy.
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Unrelated postscript: my computer is resting on a wrap-around gel cold-pack as I type these words, no yolk. This post would have been up days ago if the computer were not on its death bed, spontaneously combusting and deleting my posts, willy-nilly, about, oh, every hour or so. If I disappear for a while, most likely I've gone off to bury the old Dell and find a new mate. I've got no "Gone Fishing" sign to hang up in my absence, but I will be back.

Labels: Tina Feylin