Most everyone who knows me knows that I have a fairly low opinion of television programming in general. Certainly there are exceptions to my dislike of shows; I enjoy a number of them – on DVD – regularly. I am, however, completely opposed to commercials and advertising. (Which is where the DVDs come in…) I won’t go on too long about this, but suffice it to say that I firmly believe that there is no amount of television that one can watch without it affecting their brain at some level – whether it be conscious or not. With that in mind, it’s wise to consider what sort of show one is watching.
This topic is at top of mind for a very specific reason: JT. JT is a 15-year-old young man with Down’s syndrome, and I am paired with him this week for a bike camp that teaches children with disabilities how to ride a bike. This volunteer role has been incredibly interesting, and also quite thought-provoking.
Today, the fire alarm went off during our regular hour and fifteen minute session. (The alarm had been pulled by a toddler; the criminal act was witnessed by many and still charges were not pressed. This is clearly evidence of the deplorable breakdown of our criminal prosecution process.) While we milled around outside, JT’s mom shared a story with us, which I will summarize:
JT was home alone one day when he found himself in a terrible quandary: His bag of potato chips absolutely refused to open. This was a very large problem, as JT fully intended to eat those chips and was – in fact – counting on them to assuage his hunger. The solution that came to his mind was inspired by one of the many television shows that he enjoys: Reno 911. (Those of you who are not familiar with this show: Bless you. May you continue to live an unadulterated life.) JT picked up the phone and dialed 911.
When the operator heard his emergency – that he couldn’t get his bag of potato chips open – she sent help immediately. It wasn’t long before the Sheriff’s deputies arrived on the doorstep of the home. At this point, another important lesson was remembered: Never open the door to strangers. Thus began a very strange sort of stand-off. On one side of the door, JT explained his dilemma. The police were sympathetic, and opened the bag of chips passed through the door to him. When entry continued to be denied they departed, calling later to recount the situation to JT’s parents.
This tale provoked a number of television-related thoughts for me, most of which I will spare you. What I will say: JT talks often about TV, and what show he will be watching that evening. At his level of development, he is like a child – unable to differentiate between what is viewed onscreen and actual reality. This is what we’re subjecting our children to on a daily basis… disturbing. I can’t imagine what a horrifying place the world must be through the eyes of a television.
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
Sunday, June 24, 2007
Digitized and Pixelated
In my former veterinary career, I used to take on the occasional pet-sitting job as my schedule permitted. When I departed that field, I left the pet-sitting behind – at least until Pixel and Digit entered my life. Pixel and Digit are Papillons, a small breed known for their luxurious coats and – especially – for the way that their fur cascades from their upright, pointed ears. Their dad – P – is a graphic designer that I met through work. We had a friend in common, for whom I used to cat-sit, and one day our conversation took a turn toward pets. The next thing I knew, I had acquired a regular client.
P and his wife travel, and the “kids” do not care to travel with them if it can be avoided. That’s where I come in. In addition to Pixel and Digit, the household counts two felines as members: Stray Girl and Crumbcake. Both cats were originally strays. The dogs tolerate these feline intruders, for the most part, although there are regular moments of tension.
Together, the canines create an odd – yet oddly compatible – couple. They are close to the same age, seven or eight years old, but are very obviously from different parents. Digit is a boy, and he is practically a caricature of himself. His eyes are large (frankly, they’re a bit bulgy) and they protrude from the sides of his head in a comical fashion. One of the eyes seems to stare slightly off in the wrong direction at all times. He has a tendency to run about with his tongue sticking out of his mouth ever so slightly, and his personality matches his appearance in every way. His entire body vibrates with enthusiasm, and – when pleased – he cannot help but wiggle every which way. When encountering any sort of comfortable resting place, whether it is a bed, a pillow, a blanket, or even a yard, he throws himself at it and rubs his body to and fro, making snorting noises the entire time.
Pixel, on the flip side, is like a porcelain doll version of a Papillon. She is absolute perfection in a tiny four-pound package. Small and delicate, her itty face holds beautiful doe-brown eyes. This appearance is most deceptive. She is fearless, and patrols the yard for signs of any intruder. As a sufferer of small-dog syndrome, she doesn’t seem to realize the truth of her diminutive size and would not hesitate to take on a raccoon, despite the fact that a raccoon would see her as nothing more than a light snack.
The two dogs are delightful to care for – most of the time. Things get a little tricky at night, when I am trying to sleep. P specifically requests that I stay overnight at their house, as he doesn’t like the dogs to have to spend the hours alone. This would be fine, except for the fact that Pixel and Digit seem to believe that nighttime is a time to take care of many odds and ends (snacking, tormenting the cats, etc.) and that it is also important to be extra vigilant for intruders. To be on the safe side, they bark at anything that might be a noise. This is disturbing, particularly as the home is located in the country, where there is no external lighting. In addition, the house is filled with large, uncovered windows. This – effectively – puts me on display for all to see.
The first time I stayed with “the kids,” it took me some time to relax enough to begin to feel that I might be able to fall asleep. I lay in the bed, one small dog curled into each side of me, concentrating on relaxing each individual part of my body. As fatigue began to overcome me, and I finally starting a slow drift toward sleep, the night was split by a horrific yowl. I very nearly leaped out of bed. What in the hell, I thought, was that? My mind briefly ran through every horror movie that it had ever seen, searching for that particular sound in the “noises to be very concerned about” database. I didn’t locate the sound, but this was not all that comforting as I watch very few horror films – expressly to avoid fueling my already-very-active imagination.
As I lay frozen, the yowl came from the darkness again, but this time it was much closer. Pixel, lying next to me on the side closest to the noise, stirred slightly. What kind of watchdog is this? I wondered. It barks at nonexistent noises, but completely ignores the sounds of an approaching monster. Once again, the horrific noise cut through the night. It very much sounded like it was coming from the space right next to the bed. This time, Pixel lifted her head and growled. The noise responded. Pixel growled. I realized that this mutated noise was the cat, Stray Girl. It appeared that her mangled, roughen-up appearance – a result of her years on the street – coordinated with this garbled version of a feline voice.
Despite her looks, Stray Girl is a sweetheart. She loves attention, and it appears the night hours – full of darkness and silence – bring out the loneliness in her. The only cure for this ailment, of course, is affection. Unfortunately, Pixel was not about to let a cat on the bed that was reserved for the higher ranking members of the pack. As Stray Girl – desperate – leaped unto the end of the bed, Pixel sprang into action. With a fierce spattering of barking, she threw all four pounds of body weight toward the pitiful feline, who turned tail and jumped off of the bed. As her feet hit the floor, she let out the first of what would be hours of plaintive, complaining yowls.
Pixel, satisfied with her performance, curled back into place next to me. I sighed, feeling a sense of foreboding about the actual amount of sleep that I was likely to get. My fears were not misplaced. Just as my ears had finally learned to ignore the freakish cries of the despondent cat, and I began to doze off, the dogs spontaneously sprang from the bed and run – barking frantically – down the stairs toward the front door. I found it odd that they alone had heard anything that might prompt such behavior, but – since I was now sitting straight up and was wide awake – thought that I might as well check it out. I moved toward the stairway and down the steps only to find the two dogs munching on dog food in the kitchen, looking happy to see me as I passed through the doorway. Oh good! Their faces said. She must have come down to reward us with a treat.
By the time we reconvened upstairs, I had given up on sleeping. Resigned to a long night, I turned the television on and distracted myself with bizarre late-night offerings. Pixel and Digit, meanwhile, had made themselves comfortable and soft snoring emanated from Digit’s slightly open mouth. Off in the distance, I could hear the sound of my companion in sleeplessness, Stray Girl, whose yowls waxed and waned as she wandered in and out of rooms. Occasionally, as the sounds grew louder, Pixel would growl softly, not bothering to open her pretty little eyes.
P and his wife travel, and the “kids” do not care to travel with them if it can be avoided. That’s where I come in. In addition to Pixel and Digit, the household counts two felines as members: Stray Girl and Crumbcake. Both cats were originally strays. The dogs tolerate these feline intruders, for the most part, although there are regular moments of tension.
Together, the canines create an odd – yet oddly compatible – couple. They are close to the same age, seven or eight years old, but are very obviously from different parents. Digit is a boy, and he is practically a caricature of himself. His eyes are large (frankly, they’re a bit bulgy) and they protrude from the sides of his head in a comical fashion. One of the eyes seems to stare slightly off in the wrong direction at all times. He has a tendency to run about with his tongue sticking out of his mouth ever so slightly, and his personality matches his appearance in every way. His entire body vibrates with enthusiasm, and – when pleased – he cannot help but wiggle every which way. When encountering any sort of comfortable resting place, whether it is a bed, a pillow, a blanket, or even a yard, he throws himself at it and rubs his body to and fro, making snorting noises the entire time.
Pixel, on the flip side, is like a porcelain doll version of a Papillon. She is absolute perfection in a tiny four-pound package. Small and delicate, her itty face holds beautiful doe-brown eyes. This appearance is most deceptive. She is fearless, and patrols the yard for signs of any intruder. As a sufferer of small-dog syndrome, she doesn’t seem to realize the truth of her diminutive size and would not hesitate to take on a raccoon, despite the fact that a raccoon would see her as nothing more than a light snack.
The two dogs are delightful to care for – most of the time. Things get a little tricky at night, when I am trying to sleep. P specifically requests that I stay overnight at their house, as he doesn’t like the dogs to have to spend the hours alone. This would be fine, except for the fact that Pixel and Digit seem to believe that nighttime is a time to take care of many odds and ends (snacking, tormenting the cats, etc.) and that it is also important to be extra vigilant for intruders. To be on the safe side, they bark at anything that might be a noise. This is disturbing, particularly as the home is located in the country, where there is no external lighting. In addition, the house is filled with large, uncovered windows. This – effectively – puts me on display for all to see.
The first time I stayed with “the kids,” it took me some time to relax enough to begin to feel that I might be able to fall asleep. I lay in the bed, one small dog curled into each side of me, concentrating on relaxing each individual part of my body. As fatigue began to overcome me, and I finally starting a slow drift toward sleep, the night was split by a horrific yowl. I very nearly leaped out of bed. What in the hell, I thought, was that? My mind briefly ran through every horror movie that it had ever seen, searching for that particular sound in the “noises to be very concerned about” database. I didn’t locate the sound, but this was not all that comforting as I watch very few horror films – expressly to avoid fueling my already-very-active imagination.
As I lay frozen, the yowl came from the darkness again, but this time it was much closer. Pixel, lying next to me on the side closest to the noise, stirred slightly. What kind of watchdog is this? I wondered. It barks at nonexistent noises, but completely ignores the sounds of an approaching monster. Once again, the horrific noise cut through the night. It very much sounded like it was coming from the space right next to the bed. This time, Pixel lifted her head and growled. The noise responded. Pixel growled. I realized that this mutated noise was the cat, Stray Girl. It appeared that her mangled, roughen-up appearance – a result of her years on the street – coordinated with this garbled version of a feline voice.
Despite her looks, Stray Girl is a sweetheart. She loves attention, and it appears the night hours – full of darkness and silence – bring out the loneliness in her. The only cure for this ailment, of course, is affection. Unfortunately, Pixel was not about to let a cat on the bed that was reserved for the higher ranking members of the pack. As Stray Girl – desperate – leaped unto the end of the bed, Pixel sprang into action. With a fierce spattering of barking, she threw all four pounds of body weight toward the pitiful feline, who turned tail and jumped off of the bed. As her feet hit the floor, she let out the first of what would be hours of plaintive, complaining yowls.
Pixel, satisfied with her performance, curled back into place next to me. I sighed, feeling a sense of foreboding about the actual amount of sleep that I was likely to get. My fears were not misplaced. Just as my ears had finally learned to ignore the freakish cries of the despondent cat, and I began to doze off, the dogs spontaneously sprang from the bed and run – barking frantically – down the stairs toward the front door. I found it odd that they alone had heard anything that might prompt such behavior, but – since I was now sitting straight up and was wide awake – thought that I might as well check it out. I moved toward the stairway and down the steps only to find the two dogs munching on dog food in the kitchen, looking happy to see me as I passed through the doorway. Oh good! Their faces said. She must have come down to reward us with a treat.
By the time we reconvened upstairs, I had given up on sleeping. Resigned to a long night, I turned the television on and distracted myself with bizarre late-night offerings. Pixel and Digit, meanwhile, had made themselves comfortable and soft snoring emanated from Digit’s slightly open mouth. Off in the distance, I could hear the sound of my companion in sleeplessness, Stray Girl, whose yowls waxed and waned as she wandered in and out of rooms. Occasionally, as the sounds grew louder, Pixel would growl softly, not bothering to open her pretty little eyes.
Friday, June 22, 2007
A Progressive State Of Mind
Last night, I was taken out on a “date” by J. The entire evening’s event schedule was restricted; information was provided on a need-to-know basis as the night went on. Things started out uneventfully: We had a lovely dinner, during which we conversed and tried not to be overly concerned about the strangeness of our waitress. (A modicum of concern was necessary. She was very odd. And she walked very strangely. Perhaps she was not – in actuality – human? It’s wise to be aware of such possibilities when out and about.)
After the meal, I was transported to a nearby bar, where I was presented with the evening’s entertainment: a Chicago-based progressive rock trio making their Madison debut.
For those of you who don’t know, J is a progressive rock journalist. It is his full-time hobby, and he is very good at it. Too good. So desired are his reviews that he receives near-daily shipments of CDs from bands and labels. (Needless to say, his CD collection numbers in the thousands.) His “hobby” takes him to festivals and concerts, and he’s often contacted by artists for a myriad of reasons. He had met this particular band at a festival earlier in the month, and they’d asked him to come out to see them when they played in Madison. The convenience of being able to cross “date night” and “see band” off of his “to-do” list at the same time was too much to resist, and so fate played her hand.
This I did not mind. I am quite fond of music, and have found myself quite intrigued with much of the music that J has introduced to my ears. What was – perhaps – the bigger surprise of the evening was that this band was second in a line-up, and that they were to be preceded (and followed) by “heavy metal” bands. This generated – in my mind – immediate sympathy, as I imagined that anyone who might have come out to see them would have noticed this and made inaccurate assumptions about the music that they play. I felt even more pain for them when I noticed the sparse population loitering about the premises of the venue. I would venture to guess that – between J and me – we comprised roughly 1/10th of the listening audience. This was even more disturbing when you factored in the fact that both bands awaiting their turns were also counted among the viewer numbers.
For some time, as J chatted with the band members of Aziola Cry (the trio that we had come to support), I watched the first heavy metal group go through some sort of elaborate on-stage ritual that spoofed actual band preparation. They seemed young, and I had the distinct impression that they were playing the roles that they imagined that a heavy metal band member should play. The lead singer wore a look of deliberate sullenness, and heavily utilized the “gaze off into the distance” method of cultivating the appearance of great emotional depth. He would – for good measure – occasionally fix the odd audience member with a scowl that was undoubtedly meant to communicate suppressed rage – the sort that could only be expressing through loud, jarring music and screaming voices.
After some time of “tuning” their instruments and moving random items about, the four band members onstage were apparently struck with a simultaneous need for alcoholic refreshment and abandoned their posts to satisfy this requirement. This was most interesting because they were already behind schedule. No doubt they believed this disregard of audience member’s time to be yet another key element of the success of a “heavy metal rock star.”
When the show finally began, and the loud chords and yelling washed over me, I felt a brief sense of nostalgia. I was – momentarily – transported back to my high school days, and the concerts that I had attended. Damn Yankees, Poison… it all came flooding back. Unfortunately, my trip down Memory Lane was cut short by the reality of the sounds emanating from the stage. They were – to put it bluntly – not very pleasant. I spent most of the show reviewing these points/questions in my head, where they alternated in the top position:
- I think that the lead singer perms his hair, and I think that he does it specifically to make it a more effective head-banging tool.
- I can’t believe that people still head-bang.
- How did head-banging ever begin? It’s not at all logical. There’s no way that it is not harmful to heads and necks.
- Why does the guitarist even try to head-bang? He practically has a crew cut. It looks absurd.
- I wonder what the singer’s voice would sound like if he were to actually sing with it. It almost sounds like it has potential.
- How do they make that weird, demonic voice? (This question was usually accompanied by quite a bit of neck-craning and shifting about in the seat.)
- It is SO dorky to wear black shorts with black socks and black sneakers. I can’t really think of a cool way to wear black shorts like that, but it’s DEFINITELY not with those socks or shoes.
Finally, the men that we had come to see were allowed their turn (literally) in the limelight. I had been introduced to them earlier, and they are – not surprisingly – very nice. They are a purely instrumental trio. I was looking forward to hearing their music, and was particularly intrigued by the fact that one of the three played a very unusual instrument – a Chapman Stick. As it turned out, I was not disappointed. They were very, very talented. Also worthy of noting:
- The drummer very much reminds me of my high-school friend Jerico, but with blond hair. I had to repeatedly tell myself that the man onstage was NOT Jerico with a wig.
- The drummer is also VERY talented and incredibly fun to watch.
- Drumming would be a very, very good arm workout.
- The Chapman Stick player reminded me of a cross between Paul Rudd and Christian Bale. He has much more of the Christian Bale presence, however; very hooded, shadowy, mysterious… That, coupled with the strange and difficult instrument that he plays, makes you believe that he knows things that the audience does not…
- The guitarist was playing with a broken finger. Seemed oddly impressive and stupid at the same time. Certainly played well, regardless of the wisdom of the action.
- Playing instruments under hot lights makes people very, very sweaty.
- Sweaty people tend to wipe sweat off of their face and forehead, and they tend to use their hands to do this.
- To avoid having to engage in the obligatory “nice to see you”/”nice to meet you” end-of-encounter handshake, it is most valuable to be a woman and have a purse that one can occupy both hands with. Men are definitely at a disadvantage in this situation.
To summarize: This trio is worth checking out, and “date night”/”band review night” was a great success. (Check those two boxes off the list.)
To learn more about Aziola Cry, visit the website: www.aziolacry.com
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
The Force Is With Me
My electromagnetic field is very powerful today. I know this because it has been wreaking havoc all day long, and has – frankly – made my life more difficult than it needs to be.
I should have suspected something right away this morning, when my cell phone – which had been fully charged – dropped down to two out of four bars the second that I picked it up to look at it. Naively, I wrote this off as a fluke and proceeded to “go about my business.” A few hours later, I found myself in a battle of wills with my computer, which insisted upon going through a series of program failure after program failure. As if this weren’t enough, the minute that I would return programs to functioning status it would begin firing irritated messages at me and would beep irrationally and repeatedly. Annoyed, I turned it off and went to yoga class.
My successful yoga class lulled me into a false sense of security, so I was especially unprepared for the afternoon’s largest surprise – the mutiny of the car alarm. My car’s alarm is controlled by a (normally) useful remote control. This control is useful precisely because it tends to function correctly and does – actually – enable or disable the alarm. I assure you that the usefulness of this device decreases DRAMATICALLY when it begins enabling and disabling the alarm ON A WHIM, and very much WITHOUT my input.
Imagine my surprise when I found myself DRIVING a vehicle while the alarm blared – quite loudly – in my ears. Most unfortunately, it was also blaring in the ears of everyone surrounding me. As I frantically pressed the buttons on the remote – disregarding their actual intended purpose – I struggled to both maintain control of the vehicle and to appear oblivious to the honking and wailing of my car.
“What noise?” Is the question that I very much hoped that I was conveying through my eyes, which were fixed on the road before me and refused to make contact with any of the nearby humans. “Shouldn’t someone do something about that car alarm?” asked my slightly raised eyebrows. “Whoever is allowing that racket to continue is a TOTAL moron. Idiot.” added my slightly wrinkled nose, always supportive of the rest of the facial efforts.
In the meantime, my hands were determined to accomplish the mission that they had accepted. They attacked the vehicle’s remote control – which hung, suspended, from the keychain in the ignition – with a vengeance, smashing it about this way and that, searching for its Achilles’ Heel, or – at the very least – for the stupid battery. The poor things had no idea that there was no hope for them: The Force was too great. It wasn’t until my electromagnetic field changed currents that the alarm finally ceased its embarrassing and obnoxious Ode To Chaos.
I should have called it a day after that episode, but – foolishly – I believed that I could save myself by simply avoiding all electronics. How could I forget that we – humans – are made of electricity? That is the only explanation that I can come up with for my bizarrely irrational thought processes for the remainder of the day. I won’t get into the specifics, but I will say this: It is a VERY bad sign when you find yourself arguing with yourself and winning. I’m hoping that my system will whip things under control overnight, and that tomorrow I will arise once again rational, and clear-headed. (I can’t say that this has ever happened in the past, even on the best of days, but if there’s one thing that I can be good at it’s optimism.)
Closing thought: Tomorrow, if you wake up to the sound of your alarm going haywire, or if your microwave decides for itself the length of time that your coffee needs to be heated, take my advice and GO BACK TO BED.
I should have suspected something right away this morning, when my cell phone – which had been fully charged – dropped down to two out of four bars the second that I picked it up to look at it. Naively, I wrote this off as a fluke and proceeded to “go about my business.” A few hours later, I found myself in a battle of wills with my computer, which insisted upon going through a series of program failure after program failure. As if this weren’t enough, the minute that I would return programs to functioning status it would begin firing irritated messages at me and would beep irrationally and repeatedly. Annoyed, I turned it off and went to yoga class.
My successful yoga class lulled me into a false sense of security, so I was especially unprepared for the afternoon’s largest surprise – the mutiny of the car alarm. My car’s alarm is controlled by a (normally) useful remote control. This control is useful precisely because it tends to function correctly and does – actually – enable or disable the alarm. I assure you that the usefulness of this device decreases DRAMATICALLY when it begins enabling and disabling the alarm ON A WHIM, and very much WITHOUT my input.
Imagine my surprise when I found myself DRIVING a vehicle while the alarm blared – quite loudly – in my ears. Most unfortunately, it was also blaring in the ears of everyone surrounding me. As I frantically pressed the buttons on the remote – disregarding their actual intended purpose – I struggled to both maintain control of the vehicle and to appear oblivious to the honking and wailing of my car.
“What noise?” Is the question that I very much hoped that I was conveying through my eyes, which were fixed on the road before me and refused to make contact with any of the nearby humans. “Shouldn’t someone do something about that car alarm?” asked my slightly raised eyebrows. “Whoever is allowing that racket to continue is a TOTAL moron. Idiot.” added my slightly wrinkled nose, always supportive of the rest of the facial efforts.
In the meantime, my hands were determined to accomplish the mission that they had accepted. They attacked the vehicle’s remote control – which hung, suspended, from the keychain in the ignition – with a vengeance, smashing it about this way and that, searching for its Achilles’ Heel, or – at the very least – for the stupid battery. The poor things had no idea that there was no hope for them: The Force was too great. It wasn’t until my electromagnetic field changed currents that the alarm finally ceased its embarrassing and obnoxious Ode To Chaos.
I should have called it a day after that episode, but – foolishly – I believed that I could save myself by simply avoiding all electronics. How could I forget that we – humans – are made of electricity? That is the only explanation that I can come up with for my bizarrely irrational thought processes for the remainder of the day. I won’t get into the specifics, but I will say this: It is a VERY bad sign when you find yourself arguing with yourself and winning. I’m hoping that my system will whip things under control overnight, and that tomorrow I will arise once again rational, and clear-headed. (I can’t say that this has ever happened in the past, even on the best of days, but if there’s one thing that I can be good at it’s optimism.)
Closing thought: Tomorrow, if you wake up to the sound of your alarm going haywire, or if your microwave decides for itself the length of time that your coffee needs to be heated, take my advice and GO BACK TO BED.
Sunday, June 17, 2007
The Secret Lives of Neighbors - Apartment 7
“This,” I heard my neighbor across the hall announce loudly from inside his apartment, “is what I use for my zits.”
I paused, turning the key very slowly in the lock of my front door.
“Zits are p-i-m-p-l-e-s,” he continued. “I squeeze them, and they ooze lots of pus.”
He pronounced “ooze” in a very drawn-out fashion, adding an unnecessary dramatic element to a word that conjures a vivid enough image on its own. How very, I thought, disturbing…
I recalled that I had seen this neighbor departing the building earlier today, with two tall, slender young men trailing behind him. Thinking back further, I now remembered that the few occasions that I had seen people visiting my neighbor, they had always looked very much like these two young men and – more importantly – spoke in a broken, rudimentary English accentuated by some sort of Russian or Slavic accent.
Hmmm. While I had previously felt some sympathy for my fellow apartment dweller, his lack of regular friends was now starting to make quite a bit of sense. What sort of bizarre conversation topics did he introduce to his guests? Even more puzzling, what was he talking about? I tried to visualize some sort of apparatus that one would use on an oozing pimple, but my mind drew a blank.
This particular neighbor is a bit odd in other ways, as well. For one thing, I cannot figure out what sort of hours he keeps. It seems that he comes and goes according to a rhythm that only he understands. When he is home, I can generally hear the television through his apartment door as I pass through the hallway. I’ve come to the conclusion that he either listens to his TV at a ridiculously high volume, or he’s positioned the television directly in front of his door. I’ve also determined that his favorite genre of film is – most decidedly – the hero-takes-all action flick. On occasion, I hear him shout encouragement to the film’s lead, providing much-needed support to the fictional character.
Even more interesting than my neighbor, however, is his roommate - a feline named Percy. Percy is a large orange tabby tomcat with a loud personality and an even louder voice. I hear this voice regularly, in the form of various sorts of meows, as Percy makes his wants and needs known to the world. One of Percy’s wants (that he very much believes to be a “need”) is to be free to roam the neighborhood. This is a bad idea for any cat, but an especially bad idea for a cat that lives on the second floor.
Last summer, I opened the door to the backyard one morning and found Percy sitting on the stoop. As the door opened, he let out a long and prolonged meow of protest (clearly having found whatever wait he had endured to be completely unacceptable) and paraded past me with his tail in the air. I followed as he led me to his owner’s apartment door, and obligingly knocked when he let out another feline wail. After some time, and repeated knocking, the door opened to reveal a very sleepy-looking cat owner. Percy, quite finished with me, deserted my side and sauntered past his dad, meowing loudly the entire way. My neighbor, meanwhile, mumbled a quick “thank-you” and closed the door, both of us quite ready to end the encounter.
As the summer progressed, I learned that Percy had taken to jumping off of the balcony, and that his owner – while he had initially taken extensive measures to prevent this – had given up the battle. If the chicken wire lining the entire balcony wasn’t going to contain Percy, then my neighbor felt that nothing would. (I, myself, can’t help but question the wisdom of letting the cat out on the balcony in the first place…)
Things seem to getting worse as times goes on. Already this year, I’ve been startled and/or awoken by one of two disturbing noises on a regular basis. The more natural – but still jarring – sound is the high-volume yowl that Percy employs as his “I want back in the apartment right now” signal. This can go on for quite some time, as often Percy’s owner is not in his own apartment to hear these plaintive cries. As if that weren’t bad enough, his owner has his own call for Percy – a ridiculously loud whistle that practically rattles my apartment. It sounds like a cross between a “wolf whistle” and a steam engine, and tends to be repeated multiple times, occasionally interspersed with calls of “P-E-R-C-Y-Y-Y-Y-Y.”
Sometimes I visualize the daily life that these two companions lead, Percy talking all day long about topics important only to himself, while my neighbor narrates his own activities to Percy, a habit that - as today proved - can lead only to problems. Since this morning, my imagination has begun drawing even clearer pictures of what life must be like behind door number seven.
"This," I imagine my neighbor explaining to Percy, leaning closer, "Is a nose-hair trimmer. It can also trim ears. Ear hair traps W-A-X. Wax is gross and yellow, and smells bad."
In my imaginary vision, my neighbor places an unusually emphatic stress on the words "smells" and "bad," driving the point home to the disdainfully meowing tabby who - with a final protesting wail - turns toward the balcony door.
I paused, turning the key very slowly in the lock of my front door.
“Zits are p-i-m-p-l-e-s,” he continued. “I squeeze them, and they ooze lots of pus.”
He pronounced “ooze” in a very drawn-out fashion, adding an unnecessary dramatic element to a word that conjures a vivid enough image on its own. How very, I thought, disturbing…
I recalled that I had seen this neighbor departing the building earlier today, with two tall, slender young men trailing behind him. Thinking back further, I now remembered that the few occasions that I had seen people visiting my neighbor, they had always looked very much like these two young men and – more importantly – spoke in a broken, rudimentary English accentuated by some sort of Russian or Slavic accent.
Hmmm. While I had previously felt some sympathy for my fellow apartment dweller, his lack of regular friends was now starting to make quite a bit of sense. What sort of bizarre conversation topics did he introduce to his guests? Even more puzzling, what was he talking about? I tried to visualize some sort of apparatus that one would use on an oozing pimple, but my mind drew a blank.
This particular neighbor is a bit odd in other ways, as well. For one thing, I cannot figure out what sort of hours he keeps. It seems that he comes and goes according to a rhythm that only he understands. When he is home, I can generally hear the television through his apartment door as I pass through the hallway. I’ve come to the conclusion that he either listens to his TV at a ridiculously high volume, or he’s positioned the television directly in front of his door. I’ve also determined that his favorite genre of film is – most decidedly – the hero-takes-all action flick. On occasion, I hear him shout encouragement to the film’s lead, providing much-needed support to the fictional character.
Even more interesting than my neighbor, however, is his roommate - a feline named Percy. Percy is a large orange tabby tomcat with a loud personality and an even louder voice. I hear this voice regularly, in the form of various sorts of meows, as Percy makes his wants and needs known to the world. One of Percy’s wants (that he very much believes to be a “need”) is to be free to roam the neighborhood. This is a bad idea for any cat, but an especially bad idea for a cat that lives on the second floor.
Last summer, I opened the door to the backyard one morning and found Percy sitting on the stoop. As the door opened, he let out a long and prolonged meow of protest (clearly having found whatever wait he had endured to be completely unacceptable) and paraded past me with his tail in the air. I followed as he led me to his owner’s apartment door, and obligingly knocked when he let out another feline wail. After some time, and repeated knocking, the door opened to reveal a very sleepy-looking cat owner. Percy, quite finished with me, deserted my side and sauntered past his dad, meowing loudly the entire way. My neighbor, meanwhile, mumbled a quick “thank-you” and closed the door, both of us quite ready to end the encounter.
As the summer progressed, I learned that Percy had taken to jumping off of the balcony, and that his owner – while he had initially taken extensive measures to prevent this – had given up the battle. If the chicken wire lining the entire balcony wasn’t going to contain Percy, then my neighbor felt that nothing would. (I, myself, can’t help but question the wisdom of letting the cat out on the balcony in the first place…)
Things seem to getting worse as times goes on. Already this year, I’ve been startled and/or awoken by one of two disturbing noises on a regular basis. The more natural – but still jarring – sound is the high-volume yowl that Percy employs as his “I want back in the apartment right now” signal. This can go on for quite some time, as often Percy’s owner is not in his own apartment to hear these plaintive cries. As if that weren’t bad enough, his owner has his own call for Percy – a ridiculously loud whistle that practically rattles my apartment. It sounds like a cross between a “wolf whistle” and a steam engine, and tends to be repeated multiple times, occasionally interspersed with calls of “P-E-R-C-Y-Y-Y-Y-Y.”
Sometimes I visualize the daily life that these two companions lead, Percy talking all day long about topics important only to himself, while my neighbor narrates his own activities to Percy, a habit that - as today proved - can lead only to problems. Since this morning, my imagination has begun drawing even clearer pictures of what life must be like behind door number seven.
"This," I imagine my neighbor explaining to Percy, leaning closer, "Is a nose-hair trimmer. It can also trim ears. Ear hair traps W-A-X. Wax is gross and yellow, and smells bad."
In my imaginary vision, my neighbor places an unusually emphatic stress on the words "smells" and "bad," driving the point home to the disdainfully meowing tabby who - with a final protesting wail - turns toward the balcony door.
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
Travel Velocity
Current Thoughts:
I am really, really tired.
How in the hell can I make that stupid message light on this hotel phone stop blinking?
Wow - I am tired.
I listened to the stupid message. It was idiotic. Clearly, it was automatically sent to my phone when I checked in. The dorky thing just says that - for my convenience - I can have people call this room directly. You know what would be more convenient? Telling me how to turn the stupid blinking red light off. Better yet, could we just have left the phone message-less? That might have been nice.
I NEED to sleep. I have to get up really early tomorrow for a work event.
M-U-S-T A-P-P-E-A-R P-E-R-K-Y.
That light is going to instigate a seizure. I can feel it coming on.
SO tired.
What can I cover the phones with? What's really annoying is that there are TWO phones in this room, and BOTH are blinking their stupid red lights.
Kind of a red-orange, actually.
I am already annoyed about having to get up tomorrow, and I haven't even fallen asleep yet. Also, there are a number of work projects that I had intended to complete tonight. How many did I successfully cross of the list? I'll tell you: Zero. That's right. And not because the list isn't here, either. Because I didn't finish ANY of them.
Cannot fight fatigue much longer....
Great. I forgot my toothbrush. REALLY great.
I HATE these phones.
I am really, really tired.
How in the hell can I make that stupid message light on this hotel phone stop blinking?
Wow - I am tired.
I listened to the stupid message. It was idiotic. Clearly, it was automatically sent to my phone when I checked in. The dorky thing just says that - for my convenience - I can have people call this room directly. You know what would be more convenient? Telling me how to turn the stupid blinking red light off. Better yet, could we just have left the phone message-less? That might have been nice.
I NEED to sleep. I have to get up really early tomorrow for a work event.
M-U-S-T A-P-P-E-A-R P-E-R-K-Y.
That light is going to instigate a seizure. I can feel it coming on.
SO tired.
What can I cover the phones with? What's really annoying is that there are TWO phones in this room, and BOTH are blinking their stupid red lights.
Kind of a red-orange, actually.
I am already annoyed about having to get up tomorrow, and I haven't even fallen asleep yet. Also, there are a number of work projects that I had intended to complete tonight. How many did I successfully cross of the list? I'll tell you: Zero. That's right. And not because the list isn't here, either. Because I didn't finish ANY of them.
Cannot fight fatigue much longer....
Great. I forgot my toothbrush. REALLY great.
I HATE these phones.
Monday, June 11, 2007
Flushed Away
As humans, we each process our lives in very different ways. We find different things sad - because they resonate a little bit differently within each one of us -we take different amounts of pleasure in different things, we find different degrees of happiness in the same pursuits. There are certainly events and/or topics that create a more or less universal response among non-psychopathic people (tragic deaths, lost loves, Pink Panther films) but – on the flip side – there are those quirky responses that are so individualized as to be incomprehensible to others.
I, for example, cannot listen to music early in the morning. It’s far too dangerous. If I were to hear the wrong song before my mind had prepared, it would set the mood for the entire day and possibly even extend into the next day. I’m also terribly disturbed by the sight of an elderly person dining alone in a restaurant (I find this horribly, horribly sad – even if the person appears to be having a good time.) On the flip side, it takes only the briefest thought of the Cheshire Cat to put me in a cheerful mood and to inspire hours of rumination upon the many delightful characters and quotes of Alice In Wonderland (or Through The Looking Glass, depending upon your perspective.)
I try to embrace these eccentricities in humans whole-heartedly, and celebrate them for their very strangeness. They certainly make us a more interesting species. Throughout my life, I’ve had a number of experiences that reinforce the uniqueness of each of us. One of the most memorable – one that I still ponder regularly – occurred during a visit to my mother’s aunt and uncle.
Aunt Gay and Uncle Martin were retired schoolteachers. They lived in what was perhaps the coolest home that I have ever seen. It was created as a model home in the 1950’s and the builders had installed the "top of the line" appliances for that time. This meant that the kitchen was entirely furnished in aqua and pink, and that there was even a built-in blender in the counter. It was amazing. I coveted it immediately.
Gay and Martin loved their home – perhaps not with the same ardor that I felt – but what Gay REALLY loved were her frogs. Being an adorer of amphibians myself, I could certainly see where she was coming from. We differed, however, on one very important point. I like live things. She was enamored of inanimate frog objects. Upon our arrival, she wasted no time in showing us the focal points of the living room; two very large, very concrete frog garden statues. It seems that having these frogs outside was too depressing for Gay; she wanted them located where she would see them on – at minimum – an hourly basis. Gazing at the (frankly) hideous creatures, I pondered this with some bemusement. It hardly seemed logical. Not only was the slap-hazard application of the scarlet red painted mouths frightening, but these large concrete abominations seemed destined to be the demise of toes everywhere.
As exciting as these frogs were, they were not the most exiting thing that we would be invited to share in. We had been visiting – under the freakish, bulge-eyed watch of the stone amphibians – in the living room for some time when the conversation took a decidedly strange turn. "How was our toilet at home?" Gay wondered. This was certainly not something that I had been wondering about prior to the question, but now that it had been asked I, also, began to question the state of the toilet. My biggest question was "What in the hell is she talking about? Does she know something about our toilet that we don’t know?"
Gay’s next comments clarified the situation somewhat. It appeared that she was merely being polite in inquiring after our toilet; she was actually leading up to a rather lengthy discussion about the merits of her new toilet. This was strange. What was even more strange was the expression of rapture on her face as she spoke, and Martin’s affectionate eye roll and comment of "here she goes again…" as he gazed at her indulgently. What we did not realize at the time was that this entire conversation was but a pre-show activity. Before we fully understood what was happening, Gay was standing and waving at us, indicating that we should follow her down the hall.
Call us slow, but my mother and I – no doubt at the insistence of our minds, who refused to believe that this was happening – still did not fully comprehend this experience. Thus, when we found ourselves huddled as a threesome around a sparking white porcelain toilet, we shared looks of consternation. Gay reveled in the moment, looking from one face to another, allowing the anticipation to build. When the tension had reached what she must have felt was the peak, she slowly reached a hand toward the shiny metal handle and pushed.
"WOULD YOU LOOK AT THAT!!!" She bellowed with glee, causing both my mother and I to jump in alarm. "HAVE YOU EVER SEEN A POWERFUL FLUSH LIKE THAT BEFORE?!!!"
Mute, my mother and I shook our head. I could honestly say that I had never seen a flush quite like that before.
Lost in her own joy, Aunt Gay was oblivious to our experience. Then, remembering her role as the gracious hostess, and perhaps finally considering our presence in a slightly different manner, Gay bestowed upon us the ultimate act of generosity.
"Would you," she asked, leaning in close to us and speaking gently, "like to use it?"
I, for example, cannot listen to music early in the morning. It’s far too dangerous. If I were to hear the wrong song before my mind had prepared, it would set the mood for the entire day and possibly even extend into the next day. I’m also terribly disturbed by the sight of an elderly person dining alone in a restaurant (I find this horribly, horribly sad – even if the person appears to be having a good time.) On the flip side, it takes only the briefest thought of the Cheshire Cat to put me in a cheerful mood and to inspire hours of rumination upon the many delightful characters and quotes of Alice In Wonderland (or Through The Looking Glass, depending upon your perspective.)
I try to embrace these eccentricities in humans whole-heartedly, and celebrate them for their very strangeness. They certainly make us a more interesting species. Throughout my life, I’ve had a number of experiences that reinforce the uniqueness of each of us. One of the most memorable – one that I still ponder regularly – occurred during a visit to my mother’s aunt and uncle.
Aunt Gay and Uncle Martin were retired schoolteachers. They lived in what was perhaps the coolest home that I have ever seen. It was created as a model home in the 1950’s and the builders had installed the "top of the line" appliances for that time. This meant that the kitchen was entirely furnished in aqua and pink, and that there was even a built-in blender in the counter. It was amazing. I coveted it immediately.
Gay and Martin loved their home – perhaps not with the same ardor that I felt – but what Gay REALLY loved were her frogs. Being an adorer of amphibians myself, I could certainly see where she was coming from. We differed, however, on one very important point. I like live things. She was enamored of inanimate frog objects. Upon our arrival, she wasted no time in showing us the focal points of the living room; two very large, very concrete frog garden statues. It seems that having these frogs outside was too depressing for Gay; she wanted them located where she would see them on – at minimum – an hourly basis. Gazing at the (frankly) hideous creatures, I pondered this with some bemusement. It hardly seemed logical. Not only was the slap-hazard application of the scarlet red painted mouths frightening, but these large concrete abominations seemed destined to be the demise of toes everywhere.
As exciting as these frogs were, they were not the most exiting thing that we would be invited to share in. We had been visiting – under the freakish, bulge-eyed watch of the stone amphibians – in the living room for some time when the conversation took a decidedly strange turn. "How was our toilet at home?" Gay wondered. This was certainly not something that I had been wondering about prior to the question, but now that it had been asked I, also, began to question the state of the toilet. My biggest question was "What in the hell is she talking about? Does she know something about our toilet that we don’t know?"
Gay’s next comments clarified the situation somewhat. It appeared that she was merely being polite in inquiring after our toilet; she was actually leading up to a rather lengthy discussion about the merits of her new toilet. This was strange. What was even more strange was the expression of rapture on her face as she spoke, and Martin’s affectionate eye roll and comment of "here she goes again…" as he gazed at her indulgently. What we did not realize at the time was that this entire conversation was but a pre-show activity. Before we fully understood what was happening, Gay was standing and waving at us, indicating that we should follow her down the hall.
Call us slow, but my mother and I – no doubt at the insistence of our minds, who refused to believe that this was happening – still did not fully comprehend this experience. Thus, when we found ourselves huddled as a threesome around a sparking white porcelain toilet, we shared looks of consternation. Gay reveled in the moment, looking from one face to another, allowing the anticipation to build. When the tension had reached what she must have felt was the peak, she slowly reached a hand toward the shiny metal handle and pushed.
"WOULD YOU LOOK AT THAT!!!" She bellowed with glee, causing both my mother and I to jump in alarm. "HAVE YOU EVER SEEN A POWERFUL FLUSH LIKE THAT BEFORE?!!!"
Mute, my mother and I shook our head. I could honestly say that I had never seen a flush quite like that before.
Lost in her own joy, Aunt Gay was oblivious to our experience. Then, remembering her role as the gracious hostess, and perhaps finally considering our presence in a slightly different manner, Gay bestowed upon us the ultimate act of generosity.
"Would you," she asked, leaning in close to us and speaking gently, "like to use it?"
Friday, June 08, 2007
Lovebirds
My father could be described as many things: Hard-working; logical; intelligent; determined… The list could go on for quite some time. One descriptor that could NEVER be found on the list, however, is that of adorer-of-birds. At least not the domesticated version. While he has a healthy appreciation for most species of wild avian life forms (aside from the ones that are caught building their nests in absurd spaces or harassing other birds), he considers pet birds to be far more trouble than they are worth.
He does have a point, in some respects. Birds are indisputably some of the messiest creatures around, especially when kept in cages within one’s home. They have a tendency to amuse themselves with games like “How Far Can I Throw My Bird Food” and “Watch Me Take a Bath and Drench Every Object within Ten Feet of My Cage.” While one can see a bit of the appeal of these pastimes, a modicum of restraint on the bird’s part is desired. Unfortunately, restraint is one thing that birds SUCK at. They throw themselves enthusiastically into every part of their little bird lives. Take, for example, Percy and Priscilla, two conures that I (very) generously gifted to my parents a few years ago, under the guise of “can you keep them for a while?” (My father – to this day – threatens to remove me from the will when the birds are acting particularly vile.) The two are bonded, which essentially means that everything that they do is double the fun, double the mess, double the noise, etc.
Percy and Priscilla embrace life with a passion that one can’t help but envy. Every morning, they eagerly anticipate the arrival of the sun and greet it with a loud cacophony of unearthly squawks. This cheerful greeting can go on for extended periods of time – on really good days it can go on for hours. Once the morning salutation is complete, the pair will generally move on to a lengthy examination and discussion of the contents of their food dish. This requires quite a lot of enthusiasm and dedication to do properly, as does every other activity that is undertaken during the day. If either Percy or Priscilla begins to feel slightly neglected, they take matters into their own wings by “causing a scene.” This most likely means either flying wildly around the house, swooping close to humans to increase the excitement factor, or flinging one’s bird self unto the floor. The status of “wing clipping” is the determining factor in this situation. The benefit of both of these scenarios lies in the attention that it draws from the humans of the home.
Still, despite the loud nature and messiness of The Two, my father has more tolerance for them than he does for the other avian member of the household – Ozzie. Ozzie is a small parrot, and her biggest fault is that she absolutely, positively adores my father. Her entire bird world revolves around his comings and goings. She loves him with a pathetic desperation, and it irritates him to no end. He is never left in peace if Ozzie is around; if he is within ten feet of her cage she cannot keep herself from attempting to get on him by whatever means are necessary. This is a problem. She often launches herself toward him with a shriek, only to fall short and land on the floor. Undeterred, she beelines in his direction at a fast waddle, pupils dilated in excitement.
Ozzie monitors the whereabouts of my father at all times. When he goes to work, she grows despondent and spends the rest of the day anticipating his return. As his truck pulls into the driveway, she emits a shriek of ear-destroying capacity and lunges forward into her “anxiety pose;’ the stress of the impending arrival nearly too much to bear. With eagerness, she watches his vehicle until it is out of sight, then immediately swivels to face the door. When it finally opens, and my father steps through, order is restored to her world. With dilated pupils, she clacks her beak in homage. Oblivious, my father tends to walk right past her cage and go about his business.
Ozzie spends all of her waking hours listening for or to my father, and/or admiring him with her head tilted to the side and her feathers fluffed in delight. The highlight of her entire day occurs at the very end when – before being put “to bed” – she is placed on my father’s knee by my mother. There she finally receives what she has been longing for all day long – attention from The Loved One. With no small amount of disgust, my father concedes to pet her head for a few minutes before sending her back to her cage. The irony of this situation is that Ozzie’s affection is so misplaced. Were she to take advantage of my mother’s affection, she would be showered with attention and petting all day long.
The irony does not end there. Not only does Ozzie adore my father, but Petula – The Mean Green Attacking Machine – loves him as well. In her eyes, he is second only to me. While she regularly attacks people who offer her attention, she actively seeks it from my father despite a track record of consistent refusal. There have been many times that I have found her at the very edge of her cage, as close to my father’s recliner as she can possibly get, hunched into a pitiful position and peeping softly to herself as she watches him with longing. The times that my father does choose to indulge her with a spot of attention only lead to desperate acts. Sometimes, unable to restrain herself as he walks by, Petula throws herself off the top of her cage, aiming for my father’s shoulder as she hurtles through the air while issuing a series of panicked-sounding peeps.
My mother and I have often speculated on this bizarre relationship that my father has with these birds. The best theory that we have been able to arrive at is that these birds have – like so many women – chosen to waste their affections on a man who refuses to love them in return. This seems to be supported by the fact that Keats – a male bird – shows little interest in my Dad and that Percy and Priscilla – who have each other – regard him as more of a source of entertainment than a love object. The misplaced love that these two female birds feel for my father - the “man of their dreams” – is disturbingly similar to the same emotions that I have witnessed in females of the human variety. Perhaps – I am now thinking – the term “bird-brain” is associated with women for a very good reason…
He does have a point, in some respects. Birds are indisputably some of the messiest creatures around, especially when kept in cages within one’s home. They have a tendency to amuse themselves with games like “How Far Can I Throw My Bird Food” and “Watch Me Take a Bath and Drench Every Object within Ten Feet of My Cage.” While one can see a bit of the appeal of these pastimes, a modicum of restraint on the bird’s part is desired. Unfortunately, restraint is one thing that birds SUCK at. They throw themselves enthusiastically into every part of their little bird lives. Take, for example, Percy and Priscilla, two conures that I (very) generously gifted to my parents a few years ago, under the guise of “can you keep them for a while?” (My father – to this day – threatens to remove me from the will when the birds are acting particularly vile.) The two are bonded, which essentially means that everything that they do is double the fun, double the mess, double the noise, etc.
Percy and Priscilla embrace life with a passion that one can’t help but envy. Every morning, they eagerly anticipate the arrival of the sun and greet it with a loud cacophony of unearthly squawks. This cheerful greeting can go on for extended periods of time – on really good days it can go on for hours. Once the morning salutation is complete, the pair will generally move on to a lengthy examination and discussion of the contents of their food dish. This requires quite a lot of enthusiasm and dedication to do properly, as does every other activity that is undertaken during the day. If either Percy or Priscilla begins to feel slightly neglected, they take matters into their own wings by “causing a scene.” This most likely means either flying wildly around the house, swooping close to humans to increase the excitement factor, or flinging one’s bird self unto the floor. The status of “wing clipping” is the determining factor in this situation. The benefit of both of these scenarios lies in the attention that it draws from the humans of the home.
Still, despite the loud nature and messiness of The Two, my father has more tolerance for them than he does for the other avian member of the household – Ozzie. Ozzie is a small parrot, and her biggest fault is that she absolutely, positively adores my father. Her entire bird world revolves around his comings and goings. She loves him with a pathetic desperation, and it irritates him to no end. He is never left in peace if Ozzie is around; if he is within ten feet of her cage she cannot keep herself from attempting to get on him by whatever means are necessary. This is a problem. She often launches herself toward him with a shriek, only to fall short and land on the floor. Undeterred, she beelines in his direction at a fast waddle, pupils dilated in excitement.
Ozzie monitors the whereabouts of my father at all times. When he goes to work, she grows despondent and spends the rest of the day anticipating his return. As his truck pulls into the driveway, she emits a shriek of ear-destroying capacity and lunges forward into her “anxiety pose;’ the stress of the impending arrival nearly too much to bear. With eagerness, she watches his vehicle until it is out of sight, then immediately swivels to face the door. When it finally opens, and my father steps through, order is restored to her world. With dilated pupils, she clacks her beak in homage. Oblivious, my father tends to walk right past her cage and go about his business.
Ozzie spends all of her waking hours listening for or to my father, and/or admiring him with her head tilted to the side and her feathers fluffed in delight. The highlight of her entire day occurs at the very end when – before being put “to bed” – she is placed on my father’s knee by my mother. There she finally receives what she has been longing for all day long – attention from The Loved One. With no small amount of disgust, my father concedes to pet her head for a few minutes before sending her back to her cage. The irony of this situation is that Ozzie’s affection is so misplaced. Were she to take advantage of my mother’s affection, she would be showered with attention and petting all day long.
The irony does not end there. Not only does Ozzie adore my father, but Petula – The Mean Green Attacking Machine – loves him as well. In her eyes, he is second only to me. While she regularly attacks people who offer her attention, she actively seeks it from my father despite a track record of consistent refusal. There have been many times that I have found her at the very edge of her cage, as close to my father’s recliner as she can possibly get, hunched into a pitiful position and peeping softly to herself as she watches him with longing. The times that my father does choose to indulge her with a spot of attention only lead to desperate acts. Sometimes, unable to restrain herself as he walks by, Petula throws herself off the top of her cage, aiming for my father’s shoulder as she hurtles through the air while issuing a series of panicked-sounding peeps.
My mother and I have often speculated on this bizarre relationship that my father has with these birds. The best theory that we have been able to arrive at is that these birds have – like so many women – chosen to waste their affections on a man who refuses to love them in return. This seems to be supported by the fact that Keats – a male bird – shows little interest in my Dad and that Percy and Priscilla – who have each other – regard him as more of a source of entertainment than a love object. The misplaced love that these two female birds feel for my father - the “man of their dreams” – is disturbingly similar to the same emotions that I have witnessed in females of the human variety. Perhaps – I am now thinking – the term “bird-brain” is associated with women for a very good reason…
Wednesday, June 06, 2007
Haiku For Today
Late spring sun streams in
Sunlight accosts my tired eyes
Warms my sleepy skin
Phones ring; people talk
Worker ants build an empire
I watch; contemplate
Time takes prisoners
Willingly they punch the clock
Calculate their days
Summer sings her song
Nature mourns the changing world
Fall stands on stage left
I wait; ponder; think
Elusive answers hover
Well beyond my reach
So I give a gift
In writing from me to you
A pitiable haiku
Sunlight accosts my tired eyes
Warms my sleepy skin
Phones ring; people talk
Worker ants build an empire
I watch; contemplate
Time takes prisoners
Willingly they punch the clock
Calculate their days
Summer sings her song
Nature mourns the changing world
Fall stands on stage left
I wait; ponder; think
Elusive answers hover
Well beyond my reach
So I give a gift
In writing from me to you
A pitiable haiku
Tuesday, June 05, 2007
Do You Believe In Magic?
As a young child, I had a way of "acquiring" tasty snacks or other useful items from the family kitchen. It was a habit begun very young: One of my baby/toddler pictures features me – front and center – in a pose very familiar to my parents. Standing to my full height of less than two feet, I am pulled up to the edge of an open kitchen drawer, rooting through the contents with intense concentration. Even then, I understood that anything worth having was undoubtedly hidden away.
Fast-forward a number of years, and I had reached an age at which it was my duty to take my younger brother under my wing to show him the ways of the world. These ways included a comprehensive tutorial of desirable things to eat, and how to acquire them. Unfortunately, my common sense of preservation dictated that I could not reveal the true nature of my owner status – which, essentially, consisted of slipping select items out of the kitchen drawers and/or cabinets and relocating them to my room and/or pockets.
I might have been a touch sneaky, but I was not greedy. [In my defense, once I aged a bit more and realized that what I was doing actually fell into the category of "absolutely forbidden according to one of the very-well-known Ten Commandments" I did cease the habit of absconding with the family groceries.] Much of the joy that I derived from my carefully secured spoils was found in the appreciation and wonder in the eyes of my little brother.
Ah… the younger sibling. Mine was particularly delightful at that age, primarily because he was so incredibly trusting and naïve. He never doubted a word that I told him. On the contrary, he became an ambassador for me in my absence.
"Don’t touch that rock!" He would exclaim loudly to my parents as they strolled through the yard. "That rock is Kresha’s!"
A few steps later, the parental units would once again require reprimanding. "Don’t touch that plant – that’s Kresha’s plant!"
By the end of the walk, my brother would have done a superb job of planting the symbolic flag of my ownership over nearly every item on the property. He was a loyal sidekick, and I rewarded him in the best way that I could imagine – by sharing with him the pleasures of the carefully gathered foodstuffs.
We had a good thing going, but – like so many things – it was destined to come to an end. Being an intelligent child, I had determined that the best way to present my stolen delights was under the guise of "magic."
"Watch what I can do!" I would boast, before pulling a pack of gum out of my pocket, or a cookie from my sleeve.
"Wow…." My brother would gaze, in awe, from the treat to me, and back again.
One summer day, I had – with considerable aplomb – produced a supreme treat: A package of grape kool-aid. Such a treasure was hard to come by, and I was anticipating the consumption of it with unparalleled excitement. Just as I prepared to indulge, I heard an alarming question coming from another room. Even more alarming was the fact that the voice asking it was my mother’s. "What" the voice questioned, "Are you two doing?"
This was a dangerous moment. Would my young, innocent brother have any idea of what to do here? Undoubtedly not. Stomach sinking, I heard his jubilant response. "Mom!" he exclaimed, with glee, "Kresha can do MAGIC! She made kool-aid appear out of AIR!"
As I ran, feet keeping the pace of a world-class sprinter, I could hear my mother’s voice – far away - yelling my name.
Fast-forward a number of years, and I had reached an age at which it was my duty to take my younger brother under my wing to show him the ways of the world. These ways included a comprehensive tutorial of desirable things to eat, and how to acquire them. Unfortunately, my common sense of preservation dictated that I could not reveal the true nature of my owner status – which, essentially, consisted of slipping select items out of the kitchen drawers and/or cabinets and relocating them to my room and/or pockets.
I might have been a touch sneaky, but I was not greedy. [In my defense, once I aged a bit more and realized that what I was doing actually fell into the category of "absolutely forbidden according to one of the very-well-known Ten Commandments" I did cease the habit of absconding with the family groceries.] Much of the joy that I derived from my carefully secured spoils was found in the appreciation and wonder in the eyes of my little brother.
Ah… the younger sibling. Mine was particularly delightful at that age, primarily because he was so incredibly trusting and naïve. He never doubted a word that I told him. On the contrary, he became an ambassador for me in my absence.
"Don’t touch that rock!" He would exclaim loudly to my parents as they strolled through the yard. "That rock is Kresha’s!"
A few steps later, the parental units would once again require reprimanding. "Don’t touch that plant – that’s Kresha’s plant!"
By the end of the walk, my brother would have done a superb job of planting the symbolic flag of my ownership over nearly every item on the property. He was a loyal sidekick, and I rewarded him in the best way that I could imagine – by sharing with him the pleasures of the carefully gathered foodstuffs.
We had a good thing going, but – like so many things – it was destined to come to an end. Being an intelligent child, I had determined that the best way to present my stolen delights was under the guise of "magic."
"Watch what I can do!" I would boast, before pulling a pack of gum out of my pocket, or a cookie from my sleeve.
"Wow…." My brother would gaze, in awe, from the treat to me, and back again.
One summer day, I had – with considerable aplomb – produced a supreme treat: A package of grape kool-aid. Such a treasure was hard to come by, and I was anticipating the consumption of it with unparalleled excitement. Just as I prepared to indulge, I heard an alarming question coming from another room. Even more alarming was the fact that the voice asking it was my mother’s. "What" the voice questioned, "Are you two doing?"
This was a dangerous moment. Would my young, innocent brother have any idea of what to do here? Undoubtedly not. Stomach sinking, I heard his jubilant response. "Mom!" he exclaimed, with glee, "Kresha can do MAGIC! She made kool-aid appear out of AIR!"
As I ran, feet keeping the pace of a world-class sprinter, I could hear my mother’s voice – far away - yelling my name.
Monday, June 04, 2007
Mean Green Machine
We’re all well aware of the dangers of the animal kingdom. We’ve seen the photos of victims of shark attacks – people with massive chunks of flesh and/or limbs missing – we’ve heard tales of cougar attacks, we’ve witnessed the scarred visages of humans bitten by dogs. We know that humans have fallen prey to the occasional warped bear, and that horses can kick their longtime rider. What most of us have not had to deal with, however, is the horror of the vicious Mean Green Petula Machine.
Petula is the worst kind of terror: She is tiny – perhaps three inches in height – and is rounded in the loveliest manner. Her feathers are made up of various shades of green, and her plump little belly extends in front of her like a friendly little Buddha’s. A small, well-formed beak fronts her cute little face, and intelligent brown button-eyes peer out at the world from the sides of her well-proportioned head. The entire package is – to be completely truthful – delightful. This is most unfortunate, as it causes many people to fall into THE TRAP.
Petula, you see, is prone to episodes of EVIL. Her reservoir of wickedness is ever-refilling and tends to manifest at the most surprising times. Consider, for example, an incident relayed to me by my Significant Other (henceforth to be known as SO.) According to my SO, he was innocently occupying himself in front of the entertainment center one fine afternoon, paying not a smidgen of attention to the bird cages about three feet to his left. Earlier in the day, being the caring fellow that he is, he took it upon himself to open the bird cages to let the birds stretch their little legs by running back and forth between each other’s cage. [This, my friends, is where he made his first naïve mistake. NEVER think that you’re going to get on Petula’s good side by being nice to her. At best, you’ll stay temporarily off of her black list. The way to the good list is long and forbidding.] As my SO continued about his business, he was – without warning – attacked from the left by a small green flying MONSTER. Before he even realized what was going on, Petula had attached herself to the left side of his face and begun a biting frenzy, her small beak a blur, her wings propelling her closer to the targeted skin.
Just as Petula readied herself to take on the secondary enemy – his glasses – my SO reached up and managed to grab her in his hand. [There are definite disadvantages to being a mere three inches tall. (Six if you count the tail feathers.)] The worst part about this story is that it is not the first time that such an incident has occurred. Petula once lobbed herself at her grandma in a similar tactic, and has even taken smaller leaping attacks toward me – her very own mother. There is clearly a faulty gene in this bird’s genetic makeup. I suspect that it’s the very same gene that many successful sports coaches possess.
Petula was acquired to be a companion bird to her older brother – Keats the cockatiel. Unfortunately for Keats, it took Petula approximately .0005 seconds to establish herself as the queen of the castle by – once again without warning – violently attacking her new big brother. Poor Keats has never recovered. The moment of the initial attack, most of the hard-earned bird knowledge that he had in his head was vaporized by the shock. To this day, I still catch him attempting futilely to recite the notes of "Sleigh Ride." Also lost were such favorites as "the wolf whistle" and key segments of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony.
Still, it is certain that Keats is less lonely than he used to be. For one thing, he has no time to consider it - what with having to keep a constant eye on Petula, who is prone to attacking him whenever and wherever the mood strikes. He’s not the only one. While I am the chosen object of Petula’s deepest adoration, her affection does not save me when she is possessed by The Fury. I am still trying to figure out what lesson I am to learn from this bird. What is it about her – this creature that is, by turn, either attacking me or whining nonstop for my attention – that, once I understand it, will strengthen my character? All I know for certain is that – until I have mastered this mystery – I’ll be sure to wear safety goggles at all times when within a ten-foot radius of her cage.
Petula is the worst kind of terror: She is tiny – perhaps three inches in height – and is rounded in the loveliest manner. Her feathers are made up of various shades of green, and her plump little belly extends in front of her like a friendly little Buddha’s. A small, well-formed beak fronts her cute little face, and intelligent brown button-eyes peer out at the world from the sides of her well-proportioned head. The entire package is – to be completely truthful – delightful. This is most unfortunate, as it causes many people to fall into THE TRAP.
Petula, you see, is prone to episodes of EVIL. Her reservoir of wickedness is ever-refilling and tends to manifest at the most surprising times. Consider, for example, an incident relayed to me by my Significant Other (henceforth to be known as SO.) According to my SO, he was innocently occupying himself in front of the entertainment center one fine afternoon, paying not a smidgen of attention to the bird cages about three feet to his left. Earlier in the day, being the caring fellow that he is, he took it upon himself to open the bird cages to let the birds stretch their little legs by running back and forth between each other’s cage. [This, my friends, is where he made his first naïve mistake. NEVER think that you’re going to get on Petula’s good side by being nice to her. At best, you’ll stay temporarily off of her black list. The way to the good list is long and forbidding.] As my SO continued about his business, he was – without warning – attacked from the left by a small green flying MONSTER. Before he even realized what was going on, Petula had attached herself to the left side of his face and begun a biting frenzy, her small beak a blur, her wings propelling her closer to the targeted skin.
Just as Petula readied herself to take on the secondary enemy – his glasses – my SO reached up and managed to grab her in his hand. [There are definite disadvantages to being a mere three inches tall. (Six if you count the tail feathers.)] The worst part about this story is that it is not the first time that such an incident has occurred. Petula once lobbed herself at her grandma in a similar tactic, and has even taken smaller leaping attacks toward me – her very own mother. There is clearly a faulty gene in this bird’s genetic makeup. I suspect that it’s the very same gene that many successful sports coaches possess.
Petula was acquired to be a companion bird to her older brother – Keats the cockatiel. Unfortunately for Keats, it took Petula approximately .0005 seconds to establish herself as the queen of the castle by – once again without warning – violently attacking her new big brother. Poor Keats has never recovered. The moment of the initial attack, most of the hard-earned bird knowledge that he had in his head was vaporized by the shock. To this day, I still catch him attempting futilely to recite the notes of "Sleigh Ride." Also lost were such favorites as "the wolf whistle" and key segments of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony.
Still, it is certain that Keats is less lonely than he used to be. For one thing, he has no time to consider it - what with having to keep a constant eye on Petula, who is prone to attacking him whenever and wherever the mood strikes. He’s not the only one. While I am the chosen object of Petula’s deepest adoration, her affection does not save me when she is possessed by The Fury. I am still trying to figure out what lesson I am to learn from this bird. What is it about her – this creature that is, by turn, either attacking me or whining nonstop for my attention – that, once I understand it, will strengthen my character? All I know for certain is that – until I have mastered this mystery – I’ll be sure to wear safety goggles at all times when within a ten-foot radius of her cage.
Sunday, June 03, 2007
The Block
A few weeks ago, I resolved to become a much more disciplined writer. As practice, I determined that I would write a minimum of one piece of writing per day, no exceptions. Being the flexible taskmaster that I am, I did concede that the writing could be in a number of formats: personal (not to be shared) essay; essay to be posted on my blog; essay to be posted on my secret blog; or inspired poetry. (Ha! That last option was my inner voice’s way of taunting me; I once happened upon a tortured piece of angst-ridden poetry leftover from my high school days. The memory has inspired many, many jokes from my internal conversation partner.)
I will be completely honest: I have not been writing on my secret blog much, I’m not writing personal essays these days, and poetry has yet to fly – inspired – from my ink blotter and pen. It takes remarkably low powers of deduction to look at the dates of this blog and realize that I have – once again – miserably failed in my attempts to become more structured with my literary powers. What, I have been thinking to myself nearly every day, is my problem? Certainly I’m tired. Of course I have a full-time job. Yes, I have pets to care for and people to spend time with. I’ve fallen embarrassingly behind on my list of films to watch and books to read, true. Still, doesn’t everyone face similar time dilemmas? Yet I happen to know that there are people in this world who accomplish incredible numbers of things. They manage to hold down difficult yet life-changing jobs, parent exceptionally gifted children, volunteer for up to ten different organizations, be champion runners or swimmers or kayakers, and have the time to renovate their magnificent Victorian home on their own.
I am beginning to suspect that the problem may be that one’s levels of personal expectations are based on a curve, and that one can always find someone higher along on that curve that is making one’s own grade look shabbier than one might like. If this is the case, it might behoove us to simply eliminate all overachievers. Failing that, we may have to learn to do something terribly unpleasant like accept one’s own limitations. What a horrid concept. I, for one, shall endeavor to find the hidden flaws in any person that seems to have it "all together." I’ve found – in the past – that this sort of knowledge can perk one’s spirits up considerably.
Sigh. Once again, my weakness of character has allowed me to pursue a tangent that – for a bit – successfully diverted my attention from the sad fact that I am still not the disciplined writer that I strive to be. The sad truth of the matter is that I have, of late, found myself battling the dreaded Block Of The Writers.
The Block is a vile and terrible thing, capable of convincing one’s mind that not a single word is worthy of being preserved upon paper, and that the ideas in your head are too embarrassing for words (literally) anyway. If The Block tires of that particular angle, it often opts for the even more entertaining technique of refusing to allow any ideas at all to enter the waiting receptacle of your Literary Bucket. When in blockage mode, The Block positions itself squarely in the doorway between the Idea Room and the Reception Area of the Literary Bucket. There it waits, huffing under its breath in anticipation as it spots an approaching idea. The poor idea, oblivious, is nearly tripping over itself in excitement as it approaches the Reception Area. It knows that, once it checks in, it’s only a matter of moments before it is brought to fruition – finally able to realize its full potential in the written word. Alas, it is not to be.
As the eager idea reaches the doorway, The Block springs low and attacks, slamming the idea backward with a full-body shot. The idea is stunned and confused. The Block smells blood, and circles in for the kill. With an evil snicker, it jumps up and down upon the idea, reducing it to a quivering mass of bewilderment. The idea finds itself dazed, and cannot remember where it was going. It may remember – vaguely – a sense of purpose that it had moments before, but it’s lost now. With an odd look at The Block, the idea wanders back in the direction from which it came, mumbling to itself. Whether it will ever find its way back again is anyone’s guess.
With an enemy like The Block planted solidly in my brain, is it any wonder that I’ve struggled to bring my poor, abused ideas to literary life? There’s no doubt that they’re in there – I’ve never had a shortage of topics to think or talk about – but when it comes time to translate them to paper my foe is winning far too many battles. This cannot go on. I am mocking The Block even now by transcribing the details of our battle. Take that! I am declaring, in literary war terms. Stop me from writing this, why don’t you?
I will be completely honest: I have not been writing on my secret blog much, I’m not writing personal essays these days, and poetry has yet to fly – inspired – from my ink blotter and pen. It takes remarkably low powers of deduction to look at the dates of this blog and realize that I have – once again – miserably failed in my attempts to become more structured with my literary powers. What, I have been thinking to myself nearly every day, is my problem? Certainly I’m tired. Of course I have a full-time job. Yes, I have pets to care for and people to spend time with. I’ve fallen embarrassingly behind on my list of films to watch and books to read, true. Still, doesn’t everyone face similar time dilemmas? Yet I happen to know that there are people in this world who accomplish incredible numbers of things. They manage to hold down difficult yet life-changing jobs, parent exceptionally gifted children, volunteer for up to ten different organizations, be champion runners or swimmers or kayakers, and have the time to renovate their magnificent Victorian home on their own.
I am beginning to suspect that the problem may be that one’s levels of personal expectations are based on a curve, and that one can always find someone higher along on that curve that is making one’s own grade look shabbier than one might like. If this is the case, it might behoove us to simply eliminate all overachievers. Failing that, we may have to learn to do something terribly unpleasant like accept one’s own limitations. What a horrid concept. I, for one, shall endeavor to find the hidden flaws in any person that seems to have it "all together." I’ve found – in the past – that this sort of knowledge can perk one’s spirits up considerably.
Sigh. Once again, my weakness of character has allowed me to pursue a tangent that – for a bit – successfully diverted my attention from the sad fact that I am still not the disciplined writer that I strive to be. The sad truth of the matter is that I have, of late, found myself battling the dreaded Block Of The Writers.
The Block is a vile and terrible thing, capable of convincing one’s mind that not a single word is worthy of being preserved upon paper, and that the ideas in your head are too embarrassing for words (literally) anyway. If The Block tires of that particular angle, it often opts for the even more entertaining technique of refusing to allow any ideas at all to enter the waiting receptacle of your Literary Bucket. When in blockage mode, The Block positions itself squarely in the doorway between the Idea Room and the Reception Area of the Literary Bucket. There it waits, huffing under its breath in anticipation as it spots an approaching idea. The poor idea, oblivious, is nearly tripping over itself in excitement as it approaches the Reception Area. It knows that, once it checks in, it’s only a matter of moments before it is brought to fruition – finally able to realize its full potential in the written word. Alas, it is not to be.
As the eager idea reaches the doorway, The Block springs low and attacks, slamming the idea backward with a full-body shot. The idea is stunned and confused. The Block smells blood, and circles in for the kill. With an evil snicker, it jumps up and down upon the idea, reducing it to a quivering mass of bewilderment. The idea finds itself dazed, and cannot remember where it was going. It may remember – vaguely – a sense of purpose that it had moments before, but it’s lost now. With an odd look at The Block, the idea wanders back in the direction from which it came, mumbling to itself. Whether it will ever find its way back again is anyone’s guess.
With an enemy like The Block planted solidly in my brain, is it any wonder that I’ve struggled to bring my poor, abused ideas to literary life? There’s no doubt that they’re in there – I’ve never had a shortage of topics to think or talk about – but when it comes time to translate them to paper my foe is winning far too many battles. This cannot go on. I am mocking The Block even now by transcribing the details of our battle. Take that! I am declaring, in literary war terms. Stop me from writing this, why don’t you?
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