Maggots and Confrontation Procrastination

My neighbor hasn’t taken out his trash in a couple weeks now. There must be some rotting meat oozing just under the lid, because the air is rancid and thick with flies out back now. I went to throw some trash in our bin this morning when I met the maggots. Apparently, they built a little maggot bridge and made their way into our garbage now too. We went through a similar ordeal a couple months ago when our neighbor decided to casually toss some fish remains out back. A few days later when it became unbearable to even step out on the porch, we both took the garbage to a nearby retention pond to dispose of the fish skin and entrails and disinfect the trash bin. My stomach turns just thinking about the nefarious odor that proceeded from that trash, and the sickly sight of that rotting, maggot-infested fish. The burden of what I must do tomorrow is sitting heavy on me. There are few things in life that I hate worse than maggots... although, confrontation may be one of them. Don’t get me wrong, I do it on a regular basis. The nature of my job demands it. But I don’t like it. And when it gets to be too much, every once in a while, I’ll procrastinate. But delaying the inevitable conflict is somewhat similar to avoiding the stench of maggoty meat – it only gets worse with time.

minutes in the making -- work and play

So I’m sitting out here at the tiki bar by the pool at a little Marriot resort just south of Ft. Pierce. I have a nice buzz going from a rum and coke that I mixed in the room and a beer I purchased at the bar that I’m milking with magnanimous leisure. In the reflection of my computer I see my wife and neighbor tossing my daughter around in the pool, and her priceless giggle is filling my ears with a joy that little else can match. Could life be any better at this moment? Well… yes, it could. The reason I’m on the computer is because I’m the middle of an online teaching term. I could be in the pool, playing with reckless abandon, but my conscience demands some measure of diligence and discipline even on our miniature vacation. Purpose and play (sigh). Sometimes I’d like to do away with the former and live it up in the latter. But even if I could, the novelty of that notion would only last so long… I know. Still it’s hard not to be in moment; it’s hard to straddle the life of leisure and livelihood. I’d eagerly give my all to each and not temper the one by the other, but it’s difficult to manage this menagerie of minutes which we’ve been given. God, give me wisdom.

On dawdling toddlers

I walked out of my house the other day and heard my neighbor two buildings down yell at her three year old son, “I said get up into your car seat!” Obviously, the child was not listening well, and obviously, his mother was in quite a hurry. Her tone communicated well her rushed exasperation which bordered on anger. Initially, I was inclined to send a subtle non-verbal signal to my wife, consisting of raised eyebrows and pursed lips, communicating something like a judgmental jab at the woman’s parenting skills and general demeanor toward her child. But before I had a chance, my conscience caught me, reminding me of the many times we correct our own daughter for “dawdling”. What this often means is that we’re running late because of some fault (genetic perhaps) of our own, and so we rush her along to get dressed, eat breakfast, brush her teeth at speeds akin to the auditory effusion of an auctioneer. I was particularly convicted of this around the same week that I overheard my neighbor’s annoyance. We hurried our daughter along one morning with admonitions such as “don’t dawdle” when the most poignant words came from her mouth, “but I was looking at the flowers”. Immediately, the expression, stop and smell the roses came to mind, and I realized that at times we force her out of the comfort of her carefree frolic and into the cast that contains our own worries and headaches and hardships, into the mold that we ourselves have often succombed to -- that of our ever scrambling society. It wasn’t the first time (and I know it won’t be the last), but I learned a valuable lesson from my 4 year old daughter that day.

He'll rip your lungs out, Jim

"I saw a werewolf with a Chinese menu in his hand walkin through the streets of Soho in the rain.

He was lookin for the place called Lee Ho Fooks, gonna get a big dish of beef chow mein.

Aaahoo, werewolves of London Aaahoo

Ya hear him howlin around your kitchen door, ya better not let him in.

Little old lady got mutilated late last night, werewolves of London again.

Aaahoo, werewolves of London Aaahoo

He's the hairy, hairy gent, who ran amok in Kent. Lately he's been overheard in Mayfair.

You better stay away from him, he'll rip your lungs out Jim.

Huh, I'd like to meet his tailor.

Aaahoo, werewolves of London Aaahoo

Well, I saw Lon Chaney walkin with the queen, doing the werewolves of London.

I saw Lon Chaney Jr. walkin with the queen, doin the werewolves of London

I saw a werewolf drinkin a pina colada at Trader Vic's And his hair was perfect.

ahhhooooo, werewolves of London

Draw blood "

I heard this song the other day after quite a howling hiatus (I think it was done in 1978 so I guess it only airs on certain “classic” stations now). I was thrilled when I was quite sure that it was, in fact, Werewolves of London playing because Kid n Play (or whatever the hell his name is) has some dim-witted version of Sweet Home Alabama that opens the same way.

The song appeals to me quite a bit. Maybe it’s the driving tempo of the piano and the husky, Bob Seger-like vocals of Warren Zevon. Yeah that’s part of it. But there’s more. Maybe, in addition to the fact that it generally jams, there’s a lyrical lure as well.
There are a number of places where the writer starkly juxtaposes the two sides of a werewolf with references to a well groomed gentleman and a ravenous, homicidal beast. He gives us a detail or two of savagery then tells us, perhaps parenthetically but oddly enough with almost equal emphasis, about his admiration for the creature’s urbane image. This contrast hits me as hilarious at first, then strikes me as strange, and finally it seems to make some sense. In the old-school monster genre, darkness could be endearing at times, but this was due to some strength or pleasantry in the nerdowell existing right alongside his villainy. According to Zevon, the werewolf has unparalleled classiness and good looks, probably present when he is in his right mind. Yet, methinks this kind of fiend knows a little something of his nighttime naughtiness. Perhaps he arrogantly dismisses the “dreams” that coincide with the recent rash of violent crime in the city as mere coincidence. Perhaps, he knows all too well what he’s done, but cares too much for his image and his appetite. Maybe he has been a werewolf so long that his malevolence has carried over into his “rational” state as well. Let’s go a step further, maybe his human state is merely a mendacious mask, a gallant guise meant to cover the brute that lies beneath. This last point reminds me of another classic by the Rolling Stones:

So if you meet me, have some courtesy have some sympathy and some taste

Use all your well learned politesse or I'll lay your soul to waste

Hmmm... sounds similar to Zevon's description of the alluring lycan. Something is afoot. Werewolves-- a hyperbolic metaphor for the true measure of many a man, or in fact a symbol for the devil in disguise? You decide.

black ceilings

I spend quite a bit of time at coffee shops and bookstores where wifi is readily available (and free). At a certain coffee chain, if you take the time to observe your surroundings (particularly those above you) you’ll notice vaulted black ceilings. The air ducts and various other vitals are right there overhead, exposed except for their melanin makeup. I have been to this chain many times and to this specific store quite a bit, but I hadn’t really taken note of this anomaly above until very recently. The peculiarity of these darkly painted parts struck me as ingenious and, in fact, quite appropriate in some nebulous way for a generally mellow and congenial java house. As aforementioned, the adust sky-scape doesn’t draw your immediate attention, but should you happen to glance up, there’s a subtle, gothic grandeur about the whole thing – medieval meets Manhattan, or cathedral hooks up with cool house blues. As I ponder it, I realize that I’m truly attracted to the abstract union of these two conceptions. The appeal, I think, has to do with the epic ideal embedded in the one, and the community concept at least latent in the other. When these two meet in real life, the result moves us beyond mere ambiance into the intersection of the sacred and the secular, of the transcendent and the imminent, of the prayer and the party. Despite what the Enlightenment espoused, human is not comprised of separate parts, but rather we embody concentricity on all levels. Community is connected to cosmic and epic dovetails with down to earth kind of like vaulted black ceilings fade into the fellowship found in laidback lounges.

the blueberry buckle shuffle

My wife made this wonderful dessert for our church group tonight called blueberry buckle. The top has a crumbly coffeecake consistency, while huge quantities of blueberries form much of the middle, all held together by ineffable innards resembling something like a pudding cake. Topped with ice cream and served with British tea or fresh ground coffee…mmm…. there is little in life that can so please my palette.

Why did I write this? It’s almost 1AM, and now I’m entertaining a raid on the refrigerator – a dance to the door that leads to delicious…. the blueberry buckle shuffle…

following fire trucks and riding in the rain

I decided to go for a bike ride today out to Old Time Pottery to pick up some incense. As I pedaled, fire trucks passed me with their lights flashing and sirens blaring. I followed them for a while, and it crossed my mind as I did so that had I taken a car I wouldn’t have bothered to give chase. I observed with a condescending countenance the woman who had pulled her vehicle off the road to wait for the passing parade as I pedaled with ferocity to keep up with the fire engines. While riding, I reflected on how driving is overrated. Yes, it gets us from point A to point B quickly, but what about the journey? What about the freedom to follow fire trucks? What about my prerogative to pursue a new found path, an unexplored trail, a different route? What about….what…about… the rain? Just then, I found myself in the middle of a thunderstorm. (On a side note, given the conditions, I availed myself of my recent approbation {see “a topless teaching”} concerning the covering of my torso…seriously, it’s not about vanity!) . Quickly I remembered there were other reasons for riding in cars. Rain pelted me for minutes until I could make it to an industrial park and take cover under a narrow overhang. Eventually I ventured out again when the rain diminished, but this time, in spite of my soggy shoes and socks, I enjoyed the shower. I thought about how outside of getting “stuck” in the rain I would never intentionally experience it. And why? Because comfort is such a commodity, and propriety dictates showers happen indoors. Well I say confound commodity and piss on propriety! Enjoy the voyage. After all, whether we know it or not, point A and point B are illusions anyway – we’re always on a journey.

Curly no more

My daughter’s fish died about a month ago (thus prompting eventually the need for another pet, about which you can read in “Bad Rat or Bad Rap”). It jumped out of the fish bowl. My wife found it still alive and placed it back in the water, but it was too late. Hours later it hovered motionless at the bottom of the aquarium, and then eventually became a belly up beta. We did a brief service by the toilet side at which my 4 year old daughter sang then cried. It was a solemn yet beautiful ceremony. Poor Curly (my daughter named it) decided she would push the envelope of her existence. Apparently the proverbial grass looked greener on the other side of her fish bowl. Obviously it was not – it was the wrong environment for a fish. But our funeral rectified that as we placed Curly’s corpse back in the place of its origin –water. And so, I’ve come to the conclusion that toilet bowl funerals are quite suitable for fish, in the same way that dirt funerals are appropriate for humans and other ground dwelling beasts. It makes sense in the circle of life as we know it, I guess. And while death may mark the doorway to dirt for human bodies and a segue to the sewer for pet fishes named Curly, I’m convinced that restoration and resurrection have entered the world. Their presence incrementally and mysteriously rewinds and reverses the known order of nature. Now, in large part hidden, a quantum explosion of revelation will one day disclose the ways in which these forces have been at work in and through God and his people. Don’t worry, fish will still be in the sea (or fish bowls) and man will still walk the earth, but the circle of life will no longer entail death. We'll finally be in the right environment to sustain life.

Time keeps on slipping, slipping, slipping into the future

Indeed, Mr. Miller, truer words are hard to come by. I would add, however, that the more it slips the faster it seems to do so. Like a biker who progressively gains speed as she barrels downhill, so life moves with such increased celerity with every passing year. Hell, every passing week seems to contain less time than the one before it. If perception is everything and appearance reality, then the reciprocal rule to quickening time is that prenatal existence and infancy must have entailed eons. Childhood would have sped up some, but we still lived in a slower space-time-continuum back then.

I remember epic summers that went on for years as we explored the Australian pine woods up the street, walked the fences around the house, rode bikes up 7-11 to play Punch Out, spent hours on Atari, watched Star Trek reruns, etc. And if summers were long, the school year was a frigging ice age. Inching along infinitesimally with its glacier pace, school moved in on the childhood delight of those lengthy summers like the doldrums of the dark ages.

Yes, time is moving along more quickly with each passing moment. I guess it’s all the same in the end though. Because while our summers may be shorter, so too are our semesters.

a topless teaching

I’ve recently taken the major step of occasionally disrobing my torso while running. While this may be a common practice among male runners, I had formerly been disinclined to surrender to this trend for reasons ranging from modesty to a general awareness and disdain of "the jiggling factor" that often accompanies said exposure. Now please understand that my recent revealing was not brought on by a newly emerging exhibitionist proclivity, but has arisen instead from rather pragmatic and pressing contingencies. Profuse sweat proceeding from my head and into my eyes is often the catalyst for the removal of my shirt so that I may simply have a cloth with which to mop my brow. If my shirt is drenched, I’ve also been inclined as of late to remove it so as to be free from its soggy cling. Yes, this freedom was, in part, forged by the observation that the jiggling factor has decreased; however, as indicated above, vanity was not the impetus for this unveiling… experience was.

So let us ruminate on the power of expediency and how it can take precedence over even modesty. Let us also think on vanity and how, in those with depraved dispositions, it too takes priority over a diffident display. Finally, let us consider that we cannot always judge by appearances the difference between the two, since sometimes they may look alike-- bare chested.

Bad Rat or Bad Rap?

We bought a rat today. It’s quite interesting how these creatures have received such an unfair assessment over the years. You see it all the time in the cartoons. The rat is portrayed as an evil beast ready to spread disease to humans and kill and/or bully the cute little mouse who happens to be the hero of the story. This myth that rats are reprehensible rodents is so prevalent that it made its way into the ranks of our colloquial metaphors: I smell a rat! Dirty Rat! Etc. The fact is though that rats are not very smelly or dirty. Indeed, they are far less fetid than ferrets, and I've heard they are the least odorous of the other small pets as well (mice, hamsters, guinea pigs, etc). As far as their disposition goes, they are quite gentle and easy to handle. In fact, they are much less apt to bite than gerbils or hamsters, and they actually like to be held and petted. I know the pink hairless tail is a turn off for some, but it eventually grows on you. And shouldn’t the rat be allowed this one aesthetic aberration? After all, I’m acquainted with dogs (two min pins to be exact) that resemble rats, yet lack the endearing qualities of silence and sanity. Yet, nary an instance have I heard anyone say She's Crazy as a Min Pin or Shut your Min Pin mouth! I for one will take the pink hairless tail, to the cacophony those impish hounds produce on a daily basis. So can’t we let the bad press be a thing of the past for these oft misunderstood muroids? For how many more years must the medieval memoirs of the bubonic plague harangue the happy plight of the rat, I ask? Let it go already!

21st Century Iconography

It’s a fact, whether in sports, music or movies, that certain stars rise to iconic status while others do not. Certainly talent is involved in their ascent, but often there is something else that contributes to the transformation. After all, there are many actors, singers, and athletes who have great skill, yet never receive the public adoration and worship that those select few experience. Perhaps in addition to the talent factor is the issue of timing. They often arise in the midst of a transitional time period, when society and culture are dramatically changing and the icons represent that shift into the new era – e.g. the Beatles. I think tenure can also play a part in such ascensions. If you’re in the public eye and ear long enough and loud enough you become a household name an eventually an icon.

Michael Jackson attained iconic status quite some time ago and to a degree that only a few in history have. Perhaps one or all of these factors (talent, timing, and tenure) contributed to his rise, but one has to wonder if there was an additional freak factor. (*Please note: I was going to use ‘eccentric’ here in order not to deviate from decorum which dictates never speak ill of the deceased, but alas, I was bound by alliteration {and the general appropriateness of the word in this context}). Had MJ not dangled his infant out of a second story window, purchased a cryogenic coffin, sealed his face with a surgical mask, sealed his face with surgery, owned a monkey named Bubbles, built a creepy theme park for kids, committed some act with one of them that warranted a 22 million dollar pay off, and changed his race (to name a few fiascos), perhaps he would simply have gone down in history as a great 80s pop star. Instead, due to his “eccentricity”, we now need a national day of mourning for Michael, a funeral that could bankrupt California, and so many magazines, forthcoming books, “best of”/ mix albums, dolls, and toys, and underwear, and white gloves, and mounds and mounds of ridicules refuse all bearing his image. Because why?… well, he was the king of pop—talented tenured, and twisted representing a transition into a twisted era.

appropriate agnomen

A horsefly is aptly named insofar as it congregates around the equine. Yet insofar as it deviates from said congregation and feasts upon the soft tissue of pedestrians or passing runners, its moniker might be altered to a more fitting flag, such as human flesh-eating f*&!er.

Scaredy Cat?

http://www.touregypt.net/magazine/mag04012001/magf1.htm

We have three outdoor cats... all black. Noah, the youngest, biggest and dumbest is my cat. I've had him since he could fit in the palm of my hand. Someone found him abandoned in the street on a hot summer day. Perhaps the heat stunted his IQ, because it sure didn't stunt his growth. He's a lummox of a cat who's deathly afraid of thunderstorms and the yard company. At times, he gets so scared that he busts through the screen on our porch to take solace from the lightning or the lawnmower. He also let's the other two smaller female cats push him out of the way at the food bowl. After being rudely butted in line, he'll go and lie down on the patio and patiently wait his turn (that is unless I'm out there -- the girl cats know he eats first if I'm around). With all of his cowardly quirks, however, when it comes to a very important matter, Noah is braver than most men.

I was sitting outside on the patio the other day when I notice him sneaking up on something I couldn't see on the other side of the porch. Whenver he gets in that mode, it's extremely fun to scare him with a clap of the hands or some other loud noise. I didn't miss the opportunity. He jumped, I laughed, and then he wandered off to do his normal cat duties (nap or eat), or so I supposed. Minutes later, the distinct sound of slithering got my attention about 3 yards away. A four foot long water mocassin sailed through the grass with Noah hot on his trail. I ran quickly to get the rake, and then came back out into the yard where Noah and the snake had stopped. I yelled out for Noah to move, which he did, and then I took a lame swing at the serpent who resumed his trek straight into the woods behind our house.

Yes, Noah is what you'd call a scaredy cat when it comes to storms and lawnmowers, but his feline instincts and curiosity allowed him to ferret a deadly snake out of our yard. He may not have survived a battle with the beast, but I guarantee you he would have given it a go had I not been there to stop him.

It makes me think how at times the cowardice of one coincides with the courage of another.