who?
bloomsday | circe (? - i forget; it'
I'm 45th generation rodent
All morning I've been dealing with representatives from collective agencies committed to qualifying the word 'Septic' in as many ways as possible. What sort of turvy topsy world do we live in where it is an insult to describe a person as 'septic' or 'antiseptic'? Would you rather be putrid or boring? Answers on both sides of the paper please.
I've recovered from my minor panic attack of a few nights ago. Mostly I'm comfortable with the idea of taking off without a final destination or goal in mind, and it turns out that my BA in Big Pimping is in more demand than I thought. I'll be OK. But please remind me not to go near the Engrish language again after I've had a half bottle of wine. I lose an inhibition or two and start sidling up to that hussy Hyperbole and jilted Syntax storms off in a huff.
I finally watched Mulholland Drive; watched it about eight times because I loveitloveitloveit. It has that certain ineffable - what do the French call it? - and then they lez up quality to it. I happened to watch L'avventura soon after (I joined Netflix) and I reallyreally want to write about the two of them, a good old skool homework assignment explaining why I think Lynch&co. steal Antonioni&co.'s style and themes and improve upon them in almost every way. Except I'm lazy and mostly out of my depth when writing about movies and people will laugh at me.
But first I have something very important to share with you: I love rodents. I've been holding this in for a while now, but with all the slander and baseless (well, ok, well-based and entirely accurate) accusations, it's time I spoke up. And not metaphorically either - I'm actually shouting as I type. Why I love rodents is this: they're cute. So a third of medieval Europe's population might possibly disagree, so what? They can't - they're dead! Fuck 'em! Rats, mice, prairie dogs, hamsters, gerbils, guinea pigs, rabbits, whatever - I love them all and no amount of pustule-sprouting monkey pox is going to change my mind.
It especially pains me to see prairie dogs so appropriately singled out and rightfully condemned. When I was small my family used to take vacations among the pine trees and hardened lava flows of central Oregon. There were prairie dogs everywhere, some of them so tame they'd even eat out of your hand. When I was 13 I visited the zoo in Washington, DC. At the entrance was the prairie dog exhibit (at least at that time - ooh, I hope it's still there so I can go back!). My family stood with me and watched as the adorably fuzzy critters dug their holes, scratched their ears, and stuffed their cheeks until they looked like they'd been caught weightlifting and had had to swallow their dumbells. Eventually they wanted to move on to see the rest of the beasts, but I wouldn't leave. I spent nearly the entire day watching prairie dogs, delighted.
I've had two rodents as pets, a guinea pig named Sunny when I was small (deceased due to lethal injection after developing tummy tumors) and a hamster named Wool that I inherited from Maenad in 2000 (deceased due to lethal injection after I noticed he had trouble moving and his body was cold. He was three years old and I hated to think that he was suffering in his twilight hamster years, so I took him to the vet. I cried on the way there). I've cared for many people's rodents while they've been away, including an adorable floppy-haired guinea pig (Sunny was sleek and smooth), two mice who walked upside down on the ceiling of their wire mesh cage, and a rat almost as big as my forearm whose owner had raised him on dog food. Right now, on the grounds at work, there are baby rabbits all over the place who will let you get within an arm's length before hop hop hopping away.
There is one species of rodent I have less than full enthusiasm for: squirrels. On this, my arch nemesis Sooner and I can probably agree, though my experience wasn't anywhere near as epic or traumatic as his. Almost eight years ago I was sitting on a park bench eating a muffin. A squirrel came up to me, eagerly, expectantly. "Here squirrel," I said, holding out a squirrel-sized bit of my muffin (note how I emphasise the word my in order to draw attention to the fact that this was my very own muffin, that I acquired by my own means, and was under no obligation to share it with said squirrel), "here, let me very generously share a piece of my muffin with you, purely out of the goodness of my heart and with no ulterior motives such as the hope that you might give me your last Rolling Rock or knock out that dent you put in my car last week; I give this to you, freely, willingly and guilt-free." The squirrel took his piece of my muffin and scampered off to eat it. Finished but not satiated, he came back for more. And after how generous and unmanipulative I had been! "Sorry squirrel, I don't wish to share any more of my muffin with you. In fact, I find your behavior after my own generosity to be quite uncouth." Somehow, unwittingly, in speaking this sentence I happened to mimic the noises which in squirrel-talk are fightin' words, since he immediately jumped onto the bench and, in one smooth, diabolical motion, dove into my lap and lunged at the remaining piece of my muffin. "AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH" I screamed like a sissy man. I jumped up, launching the squirrel off the springboard of my lap into the crisp autumn air and head-first onto the sidewalk. As the dumb beast scampered off, I congratulated myself on having such large frontal lobes, an upright gait, and opposable thumbs, since these no doubt contributed to my victory over one of Nature's lesser miracles. Since that day I have felt much scorn towards squirrels, scorn born of sheer mortal terror. Squirrels suck. They can eat a bag of dicks.
("Squirrel", however, remains a fun word to say. Trying substituting it for "girl" in your favorite pop songs, for example, Motley Crue: "Squirrrrrels! Squirrrrrels! Squirrrrrels!" See?)
Oh yeah, and I bought a car! Today at lunchtime! A green machine with half as many miles as my current one for lengthy unfolding highway fun! First off, I'd like to thank the Man who made this all possible, Jesus. His '77 Mercedes was the first to sideswipe me. Thanks to the other guy who hit me too, you're both the best. I'd also like to thank the mechanics who appraised the car, both times inflating the cost of the damage into the four-digit heavens. Last but not least, the well-heeled insurance companies who cut me checks like they were signing away their first-born child's right to have rickets; your speed in handling these matters places you amongst the angels. Thanks again all of you; I'm gonna pick up some whores and a vial of rock and then see you at the after party.