I'm re-reading "Aztec," the Gary Jennings book that I first read many years ago, and I have a few things to add to my previous post about the Jennings formula (at least as it applies this novel and "Raptor").
Yes, Jennings does his research, and combined with a perfect sense of pacing he manages to convey a realistic impression of what it was like to live at the time (in this case, to be an Aztec before, during, and after the Spanish conquest). I'm re-reading this particular book because I want to learn a bit more about Central American civilization, and "Aztec" is telling me a hell of a lot.
But Jennings isn't content to write 750-page books about dry old history, he must also introduce characters who are almost Ayn Rand-ian in their purity: the loyal and innocent servant, the battle-hardened and kind-hearted soldier, the intelligent and noble protagonist, the honest craftsman who pours his entire soul into his work.
These characters would be the first to disappear in an Ayn Rand novel, though, because they are so noble and pure that they can't even be CAPITALISTS (what sort of craftsman would give away his work for free simply because he is proud of what he does?), but they do share the Rand-trait of being such focuses of ideology that reality seems to WARP AROUND them. Thanks to their unswerving characteristics they form impossible alliances, get out of impossible (but clever) traps, and discover impossible things...you know, like Mayan eyeglasses.
During all of this they engage in meticulously-described sexual acrobatics, and they also witness meticulously-described tortures that make even the most hardened reader (me) physically ill. When reading either "Aztec" or "Raptor" you can rest assured that if things are getting a bit bogged down in philosophy or natural beauty, a flaying or an orgy is right around the corner.
As amazed as I am by Gary Jenning's audacity at writing historical novels which are simultaneously accurate and wildly exploitative and impossible, I have to admit that he's an incredible writer. In the pauses between the lesbian couplings and the guys whose guts splash out, his characters meditate on civilization and love, on warfare and writing, on the beauty of the universe and the beauty of the flowers. I have never read any other author who could pull this off so seamlessly that it becomes a genre unto itself...and for 750 pages, no less!
Here's to Gary Jennings. I wish I knew more about the man who wrote these books. In fact, I wish I could read at least one other review that bothered to mention this curious juxtaposition of brilliance and cheap smut.
Showing posts with label gross. Show all posts
Showing posts with label gross. Show all posts
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Thursday, May 20, 2010
Trapping the Bird and Sealing it Up
What the hell is it with olde-timey people and their canned poultry?
You may remember the vacuum-cooked chicken-in-glass of a few days ago...in fact, I bet you've been unable to get the imagined taste of it out of your mouth.
Now, to cleanse your palette, I give you the Hormel jellied whole chicken.
But that's nothing compared to the advertisement on the NEXT page. It's SQUAB! Ready to eat! In tins!
What's "squab?" The advertisement spells it out.
You may remember the vacuum-cooked chicken-in-glass of a few days ago...in fact, I bet you've been unable to get the imagined taste of it out of your mouth.
Now, to cleanse your palette, I give you the Hormel jellied whole chicken.
But that's nothing compared to the advertisement on the NEXT page. It's SQUAB! Ready to eat! In tins!
What's "squab?" The advertisement spells it out.
Folks fall out of saddles and leap out of lakes--when you mention this!Okay, so the advertisement doesn't even HINT at the true nature of squab. Is it because they assume the sophisticated readers of The New Yorker already know? Or is it because they don't want sophisticated residents of New York City to realize that they're eating pigeons?
NOTICE!!!
to all picayunish appetites!
Your horoscope says...squab. Fifty million Frenchmen say...squab. Don't overlook--have a look.
Monday, May 17, 2010
Whole, Vacuum-Cooked Chicken-in-Glass
For months I have been unsettled by these advertisements for Kingan's Chicken-In-Glass. It's not the idea of a pre-cooked chicken that bothers me, it's the fact that it's in a glass container like a fetal pig or an aborted fetus that makes me a bit squeamish.
But housewives in the '30s obviously didn't feel that way. No doubt they echoed the sentiments of the advertisements themselves:
YOU HAVE complete assurance of getting exactly what you want when you buy KINGAN'S CHICKEN-IN-GLASS. It is packed and cooked in a crystal-clear glass container...You see at a glance its size, its milk-fed plumpness, its inviting cleanliness. Never before has ready-cooked whole chicken been prepared to skillfully, so appetizingly!
They even advise that you "take a season's supply to your summer cottage," which makes me wonder how this stuff kept. Didn't it need to be refridgerated? Did the crystal-clear glass container allow you to see every step of loving putrefaction?
Sorry, when I think about Chicken-in-Glass, that's all I can think about.
Sunday, January 03, 2010
I'd Buy Anything By...Skinny Puppy
One of my first jobs was as a part-time clerk at "Sounds Music Plus," a record store in New Hamburg. Besides sitting around waiting for somebody to buy the latest New Kids on the Block or gospel album, me and friend/fellow clerk Lynda would get to hear the latest music.
In 1988 she played me the extended remix of Skinny Puppy's "Testure." I'd never heard of the band before. Until then I'd mainly been listening to synthpop, but thanks to Lynda my musical interests took an irreversible new course into politically angry NOISE.
"Testure" was far more commercial than any of Skinny Puppy's older songs so it was a good introduction to the band. After I picked up their "viviSECTvi" album I was exposed to the real Skinny Puppy sound: dirty, chaotic, multi-layered, screechy, and totally unlike anything else before or since.
It took two more years until Lynda and I finally got to see Skinny Puppy during their "Too Dark Park" tour. It was a year after their Ministry-produced "Rabies" album had been released, so the crowd was a diametrically-opposed mix of angsty goths and mohawked crowd-surfers. Their gleeful moshing stopped after only a few minutes exposure to the on-screen video footage.
Here's the live backing video for "Testure," and it's EXTREMELY graphic. I'm presenting it as an example of what sets Skinny Puppy apart from other bands which use shocking, horrific imagery, and why I still respect them for what they did.
Second warning about this footage, especially for those of you who adore animals. Don't watch. You've been warned.
You see, Skinny Puppy never glamorized atrocity. They used it as a tool. You won't find a single Skinny Puppy song that glorifies its subject matter; instead you get vocalist Nivek Ogre screaming about how sh*tty us human beings are, without an ounce of glitz or self-aggrandizement. This stands in stark contrast to horrorcore or even the Nine Inch Nails-ish bands which combine glam, self-pity, and rock star posturing to diffuse whatever message they might have had.
So Skinny Puppy was a topical band concerned with warfare, greed, corruption, and injustice. It's true that they didn't offer solutions to any of the problems they wrote about, but at least they took an unflinching and honest view.
Anyway, I continued to wallow in Skinny Puppy's misery during my teens and early-adulthood. I attempted a terribly-executed and misconceived Nivek Ogre hairstyle in grade 13. They inspired (and continue to inspire) many aspects of music that I love today, heavy percussive delay and distortion (on everything) in particular. I even met my first two girlfriends at Skinny Puppy concerts, and joined my first band thanks to a Skinny Puppy shirt, and learned about another long-term musical obsession (The Legendary Pink Dots) through a Skinny Puppy side-project.
Then -- while the band was struggling through the long process of recording "The Process," -- I started reevaluating my life. I realized that I'd sunk so far into depressing, angry music that it was actually feeding my worst character traits: a sense of helplessness, a deep self-pity, and a crippling misanthropy. A radical cure was required, and I swallowed it whole: I dived head-first into ABBA.
It couldn't have happened at a better time, because Skinny Puppy was disintegrating. Synth/sampling genius Dwayne Goettel died of a drug overdose and -- even worse -- Nivek Ogre decided he should sing. He and remaining member cEvin Key called it quits at the same time I was putting my Skinny Puppy CDs and vinyl into storage.
Then, in 2003, they reformed and started releasing new material.
It would be silly to expect them to sound the way they used to, but rather than run ahead of musical trends they are now lagging sadly behind, aping a dozen other "new metal" bands on the scene. The lyrics have lost their edge and both time and repetition have dulled the impact of the stage shows. A friend once described Ogre's live performance as "Come out dirty, hit himself, fall down, get dirtier, keep on falling down." He also said it would be far more shocking if Ogre wore a suit. He was right.
Their new albums aren't bad but they aren't good either. Ogre's decision to sing isn't a good one, and their meticulous sound certainly suffered when Goettel died. I CAN say, however, that after ten years of dismissing my previous love of Skinny Puppy as misguided, I have rediscovered their early genius and I try to remember them as they were:
Albums to buy: "viviSECTvi" hits the hardest and has the most layers, while "Bites" shows their earlier, cleaner, pre-Goettel sound. Albums to avoid: Excluding their two "reformed" albums, "The Process" is a terrible train-wreck and "Rabies" is pretty weak, and some people think "Mind: TPI" is a mess (but I like it). For fans only: The inevitable cEvin Key "Brap" releases of demos and early material, which are interesting appendixes for those who love the albums.
In 1988 she played me the extended remix of Skinny Puppy's "Testure." I'd never heard of the band before. Until then I'd mainly been listening to synthpop, but thanks to Lynda my musical interests took an irreversible new course into politically angry NOISE.
"Testure" was far more commercial than any of Skinny Puppy's older songs so it was a good introduction to the band. After I picked up their "viviSECTvi" album I was exposed to the real Skinny Puppy sound: dirty, chaotic, multi-layered, screechy, and totally unlike anything else before or since.
It took two more years until Lynda and I finally got to see Skinny Puppy during their "Too Dark Park" tour. It was a year after their Ministry-produced "Rabies" album had been released, so the crowd was a diametrically-opposed mix of angsty goths and mohawked crowd-surfers. Their gleeful moshing stopped after only a few minutes exposure to the on-screen video footage.
Here's the live backing video for "Testure," and it's EXTREMELY graphic. I'm presenting it as an example of what sets Skinny Puppy apart from other bands which use shocking, horrific imagery, and why I still respect them for what they did.
Second warning about this footage, especially for those of you who adore animals. Don't watch. You've been warned.
You see, Skinny Puppy never glamorized atrocity. They used it as a tool. You won't find a single Skinny Puppy song that glorifies its subject matter; instead you get vocalist Nivek Ogre screaming about how sh*tty us human beings are, without an ounce of glitz or self-aggrandizement. This stands in stark contrast to horrorcore or even the Nine Inch Nails-ish bands which combine glam, self-pity, and rock star posturing to diffuse whatever message they might have had.
So Skinny Puppy was a topical band concerned with warfare, greed, corruption, and injustice. It's true that they didn't offer solutions to any of the problems they wrote about, but at least they took an unflinching and honest view.
Anyway, I continued to wallow in Skinny Puppy's misery during my teens and early-adulthood. I attempted a terribly-executed and misconceived Nivek Ogre hairstyle in grade 13. They inspired (and continue to inspire) many aspects of music that I love today, heavy percussive delay and distortion (on everything) in particular. I even met my first two girlfriends at Skinny Puppy concerts, and joined my first band thanks to a Skinny Puppy shirt, and learned about another long-term musical obsession (The Legendary Pink Dots) through a Skinny Puppy side-project.
Then -- while the band was struggling through the long process of recording "The Process," -- I started reevaluating my life. I realized that I'd sunk so far into depressing, angry music that it was actually feeding my worst character traits: a sense of helplessness, a deep self-pity, and a crippling misanthropy. A radical cure was required, and I swallowed it whole: I dived head-first into ABBA.
It couldn't have happened at a better time, because Skinny Puppy was disintegrating. Synth/sampling genius Dwayne Goettel died of a drug overdose and -- even worse -- Nivek Ogre decided he should sing. He and remaining member cEvin Key called it quits at the same time I was putting my Skinny Puppy CDs and vinyl into storage.
Then, in 2003, they reformed and started releasing new material.
It would be silly to expect them to sound the way they used to, but rather than run ahead of musical trends they are now lagging sadly behind, aping a dozen other "new metal" bands on the scene. The lyrics have lost their edge and both time and repetition have dulled the impact of the stage shows. A friend once described Ogre's live performance as "Come out dirty, hit himself, fall down, get dirtier, keep on falling down." He also said it would be far more shocking if Ogre wore a suit. He was right.
Their new albums aren't bad but they aren't good either. Ogre's decision to sing isn't a good one, and their meticulous sound certainly suffered when Goettel died. I CAN say, however, that after ten years of dismissing my previous love of Skinny Puppy as misguided, I have rediscovered their early genius and I try to remember them as they were:
Albums to buy: "viviSECTvi" hits the hardest and has the most layers, while "Bites" shows their earlier, cleaner, pre-Goettel sound. Albums to avoid: Excluding their two "reformed" albums, "The Process" is a terrible train-wreck and "Rabies" is pretty weak, and some people think "Mind: TPI" is a mess (but I like it). For fans only: The inevitable cEvin Key "Brap" releases of demos and early material, which are interesting appendixes for those who love the albums.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
The Urgent Care
Three hours in the urgent care clinic, confined to a room full of coughing people, one heartbreaking baby girl who wheezed terribly while crying, another baby who promptly vomited in the corner.
Most of us wore masks and did a complex shuffle to allow old or frail people to sit down. First we wrote our names on an admission sheet, and then we waited to be called for registration. I sat on a small table and read my book, always listening for my name, and also listening to the other names and the deft ability of clinic workers to pronounce Hispanic surnames, Arabic ones, Japanese ones, East Indian ones.
There were very few hitches to break the monotony of everybody staring at everybody else. First was the woman who kept returning to insist that she be allowed to get an H1N1 shot, even though she wasn't in a high-risk group. She'd argue, the receptionist would explain, she'd argue some more, she'd leave the clinic in anger, and five minutes later she'd come back again.
Other hitches were the people who signed the admission sheet without actually having their children present, and then were called to registration to have their ruse revealed. After having already waited ninety minutes in line, these people were sent home to get their children, only to return and go through the whole process all over again.
The rest of us, I suspect, had a subdued loathing for the angry people and the rule-breakers, and then we smiled inside when their efforts were thwarted. WE were sitting quietly and following all the rules. COMPLIANT mothers were entertaining their children for three hours out of their busy day. By vicariously enjoying the punishment of others, we reaffirmed our own worthiness, even though we were wearing hot facemasks and sitting for hours with extremely sick people.
There was a dignified old man who refused all offers of seating, only to collapse gently when a chair became naturally available. An impromptu trio of cynical strangers entertained themselves by the free telephone. A small boy reached out and tilted my book up to see what it was, and perhaps to read the blurb on the back: "Jerry Cornelius copulates, hallucinates, devastates..."
"I don't know how much longer it will take," the receptionist kept saying. "Probably hours. Everybody's in the same situation, you'll have to take your turn."
After I got my H1N1 shot they sent me out the back door, to reduce my exposure to sick and coughing people. A black, swollen bruise has slowly formed and now I have TWO useless biceps. Tiny virus, stay away from me until I am fully immunized.
Most of us wore masks and did a complex shuffle to allow old or frail people to sit down. First we wrote our names on an admission sheet, and then we waited to be called for registration. I sat on a small table and read my book, always listening for my name, and also listening to the other names and the deft ability of clinic workers to pronounce Hispanic surnames, Arabic ones, Japanese ones, East Indian ones.
There were very few hitches to break the monotony of everybody staring at everybody else. First was the woman who kept returning to insist that she be allowed to get an H1N1 shot, even though she wasn't in a high-risk group. She'd argue, the receptionist would explain, she'd argue some more, she'd leave the clinic in anger, and five minutes later she'd come back again.
Other hitches were the people who signed the admission sheet without actually having their children present, and then were called to registration to have their ruse revealed. After having already waited ninety minutes in line, these people were sent home to get their children, only to return and go through the whole process all over again.
The rest of us, I suspect, had a subdued loathing for the angry people and the rule-breakers, and then we smiled inside when their efforts were thwarted. WE were sitting quietly and following all the rules. COMPLIANT mothers were entertaining their children for three hours out of their busy day. By vicariously enjoying the punishment of others, we reaffirmed our own worthiness, even though we were wearing hot facemasks and sitting for hours with extremely sick people.
There was a dignified old man who refused all offers of seating, only to collapse gently when a chair became naturally available. An impromptu trio of cynical strangers entertained themselves by the free telephone. A small boy reached out and tilted my book up to see what it was, and perhaps to read the blurb on the back: "Jerry Cornelius copulates, hallucinates, devastates..."
"I don't know how much longer it will take," the receptionist kept saying. "Probably hours. Everybody's in the same situation, you'll have to take your turn."
After I got my H1N1 shot they sent me out the back door, to reduce my exposure to sick and coughing people. A black, swollen bruise has slowly formed and now I have TWO useless biceps. Tiny virus, stay away from me until I am fully immunized.
Monday, October 12, 2009
Dance Heads Make Me Slightly Ill
I just stumbled across something called "Dance Heads."
Maybe everybody's already been exposed to this gimmick...it's a booth which superimposes your head over a dancing body. It ends up looking like somebody just vomited on an early-'90s computer-generated cartoon. With heads.
This amazes me for several reasons. First, it's the most gaudy disposable kitsch imaginable, resulting in a hideous patchwork of colours and concepts. I can only assume that it's SUPPOSED to be that ugly, in the same way that bobbleheads and car commercials are deliberately annoying: if they had any class, people wouldn't notice them.
Second, it's expensive.
Third, the people who do them -- and there are a lot of them on YouTube -- invariably look embarassed and way too sober, maybe because they realize that it isn't nearly as fun as the obnoxiously chipper avatar says it's going to be. And also because they don't know all the words.
What's interesting -- but not surprising -- is that most of the men in the YouTube clips have chosen GIRL BODIES. So at least Dance Heads has cathartic potential.
Maybe everybody's already been exposed to this gimmick...it's a booth which superimposes your head over a dancing body. It ends up looking like somebody just vomited on an early-'90s computer-generated cartoon. With heads.
This amazes me for several reasons. First, it's the most gaudy disposable kitsch imaginable, resulting in a hideous patchwork of colours and concepts. I can only assume that it's SUPPOSED to be that ugly, in the same way that bobbleheads and car commercials are deliberately annoying: if they had any class, people wouldn't notice them.
Second, it's expensive.
Third, the people who do them -- and there are a lot of them on YouTube -- invariably look embarassed and way too sober, maybe because they realize that it isn't nearly as fun as the obnoxiously chipper avatar says it's going to be. And also because they don't know all the words.
What's interesting -- but not surprising -- is that most of the men in the YouTube clips have chosen GIRL BODIES. So at least Dance Heads has cathartic potential.
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Spider Attack!
My mother told me horror stories about cleaning the kitchen window yesterday, and I saw her pile of blackened paper towels, but it wasn't until today that I learned the TRUE horror of a filthy window.
Since we're in for some cold and blustery days this week, I decided it was time to remove the air conditioner from my new bedroom. I figured that the hardest thing would be...well, just removing the air conditioner, which I knew would be heavy and which -- as is the nature of air conditioners everywhere -- had been installed in an individualistic and unorthodox manner.
After unscrewing the wooden platform and ripping off the electrical tape, I started pulling the air conditioner out...and spiders ran EVERYWHERE. Little tiny spiders the size of pin-pricks, monstrous pea-sized ones, and all sizes in-between...black, gray, transparent, ZOOM! All of them running for cover as I stood, helpless, with the air conditioner in my hands.
So I got Windex and paper towels and started scrubbing every groove and platform in the window. Everywhere I looked: spiders. DOZENS of them. I'd spray Windex in a corner, and three or four more spiders would run out. Crush-crush-crush!
And not just that...the MOULD. At least a decade of thick, black gunge in the corners, mixed with countless splats of flyshit and the corpses of long-forgotten flies. Under the eaves-troughs: dangling webs, more spiders. On the outsides of the windows: thick strands both new and old.
I thought I'd seen it all, and then I tackled the upper corner, which I thought was crammed with insulation to fill in the gap around the air conditioner. But Jesus, no, I don't even know WHAT it was: a solid black crud, an inch thick and several inches deep, which crumbled under my touch to reveal insect husks, spider legs, opaque membranes the size of peanut shells. This was ALIEN. IT SIMPLY COULD NOT BE.
And then the big-daddy spider came rushing out of some hidden cranny, fat-bellied, an inch long, waving at me. I sprayed him with Windex, he went down, he came back, I sprayed again, drowning him, but still he shuddered and spun until...well, I picked up a piece of the air conditioner and knocked him out into the air.
I think he's still alive. Tonight...close your windows.
So why are there so many spiders? Maybe because the previous owners just never cleaned the windows...but I never cleaned MY windows either, and nothing even CLOSE to that ever happened.
Strangely, all the spiders seem to be on the windows on the western side of the building, so either they never cleaned those ones or there's some natural phenomenon involved. Maybe mould grows on that side, which attracts insects, which attracts spiders...
Either way I thank goodness that I haven't found any spiders INSIDE the apartment. Yet.
Since we're in for some cold and blustery days this week, I decided it was time to remove the air conditioner from my new bedroom. I figured that the hardest thing would be...well, just removing the air conditioner, which I knew would be heavy and which -- as is the nature of air conditioners everywhere -- had been installed in an individualistic and unorthodox manner.
After unscrewing the wooden platform and ripping off the electrical tape, I started pulling the air conditioner out...and spiders ran EVERYWHERE. Little tiny spiders the size of pin-pricks, monstrous pea-sized ones, and all sizes in-between...black, gray, transparent, ZOOM! All of them running for cover as I stood, helpless, with the air conditioner in my hands.
So I got Windex and paper towels and started scrubbing every groove and platform in the window. Everywhere I looked: spiders. DOZENS of them. I'd spray Windex in a corner, and three or four more spiders would run out. Crush-crush-crush!
And not just that...the MOULD. At least a decade of thick, black gunge in the corners, mixed with countless splats of flyshit and the corpses of long-forgotten flies. Under the eaves-troughs: dangling webs, more spiders. On the outsides of the windows: thick strands both new and old.
I thought I'd seen it all, and then I tackled the upper corner, which I thought was crammed with insulation to fill in the gap around the air conditioner. But Jesus, no, I don't even know WHAT it was: a solid black crud, an inch thick and several inches deep, which crumbled under my touch to reveal insect husks, spider legs, opaque membranes the size of peanut shells. This was ALIEN. IT SIMPLY COULD NOT BE.
And then the big-daddy spider came rushing out of some hidden cranny, fat-bellied, an inch long, waving at me. I sprayed him with Windex, he went down, he came back, I sprayed again, drowning him, but still he shuddered and spun until...well, I picked up a piece of the air conditioner and knocked him out into the air.
I think he's still alive. Tonight...close your windows.
So why are there so many spiders? Maybe because the previous owners just never cleaned the windows...but I never cleaned MY windows either, and nothing even CLOSE to that ever happened.
Strangely, all the spiders seem to be on the windows on the western side of the building, so either they never cleaned those ones or there's some natural phenomenon involved. Maybe mould grows on that side, which attracts insects, which attracts spiders...
Either way I thank goodness that I haven't found any spiders INSIDE the apartment. Yet.
Friday, September 25, 2009
The Anal Trilogy
You know what they say..."Poopy things come in threes!" Or at least they SHOULD say that, because it's certainly true this week.
Warning: Do not read this while eating.
One: The Final Walkthrough
On Tuesday I went to my soon-to-be-new-home for a final walkthrough. My real estate agent and I were met at the front door by the former owners. They're a really sweet couple, but they seemed strangely anxious to leave...I assumed they just didn't like people looking at their stuff while they were still around.
After they scurried out the door, my agent and I went through the rooms, making sure everything was still fine. When I approached the bathroom door...WOAH! One of those cute, sweet people had taken a horrific dump sometime previous, and the stench was REVOLTING. I could only stand it long enough to take a quick look around and run back out...no wonder the two of them ran away so fast.
Unfortunately I didn't include the "No Stinky Poops" clause in my list of conditions.
Two: The Laundry Room
I go next door to do my laundry, and I've mentioned previously that they have an occasional sewage problem down there. On Wednesday I walked over with my dirty clothes and detergent, and I noticed that the basement door was open. I looked in...and there was one of my neighbours, sitting on the washing machine with his shirt over his nose and at least two inches of raw sewage floating around him.
"You'll have to leave," he said. Apparently he'd just dumped some water down the floor drain, and the sewage just gushed right out.
I asked him if he could escape, and he said "I think so." He gingerly lowered himself into the mire and tip-toed between the floating lumps of sh*t.
I am SO happy I'm moving away.
Three: The License Bureau
Today I went down to the license bureau to get my driver's license renewed. Amazingly, I was faced with exactly the same thing that happened the last time I was there, four years ago: one of the three attendants -- a poofy-haired blonde woman -- was having a long, whispered, personal chat with a creepy older lady across the kiosk counter.
I'm serious, these same two women were doing exactly the same thing the last time I was there, and we're not talking about a quick chat, we're talking about a good five minutes: "I knew somethin' wasn't right, with him always stompin' up and down the stairs." -- "Yup, nothin' else you could do." -- "An' I'm thinkin', what can I do?" -- "There's nothin' else you can do."
And on and on and on. We patient people in the growing line exchanged glances and whispered gripes that this always happens here.
Suddenly the creepy old lady at the counter let out a long, wet, deafening fart. We stared. We were dumbstruck and amazed. And the two of them just keep on talking as though nothing had happened.
"I hope I don't get that kiosk," said the woman behind me. She didn't, but the woman AFTER her did.
Warning: Do not read this while eating.
One: The Final Walkthrough
On Tuesday I went to my soon-to-be-new-home for a final walkthrough. My real estate agent and I were met at the front door by the former owners. They're a really sweet couple, but they seemed strangely anxious to leave...I assumed they just didn't like people looking at their stuff while they were still around.
After they scurried out the door, my agent and I went through the rooms, making sure everything was still fine. When I approached the bathroom door...WOAH! One of those cute, sweet people had taken a horrific dump sometime previous, and the stench was REVOLTING. I could only stand it long enough to take a quick look around and run back out...no wonder the two of them ran away so fast.
Unfortunately I didn't include the "No Stinky Poops" clause in my list of conditions.
Two: The Laundry Room
I go next door to do my laundry, and I've mentioned previously that they have an occasional sewage problem down there. On Wednesday I walked over with my dirty clothes and detergent, and I noticed that the basement door was open. I looked in...and there was one of my neighbours, sitting on the washing machine with his shirt over his nose and at least two inches of raw sewage floating around him.
"You'll have to leave," he said. Apparently he'd just dumped some water down the floor drain, and the sewage just gushed right out.
I asked him if he could escape, and he said "I think so." He gingerly lowered himself into the mire and tip-toed between the floating lumps of sh*t.
I am SO happy I'm moving away.
Three: The License Bureau
Today I went down to the license bureau to get my driver's license renewed. Amazingly, I was faced with exactly the same thing that happened the last time I was there, four years ago: one of the three attendants -- a poofy-haired blonde woman -- was having a long, whispered, personal chat with a creepy older lady across the kiosk counter.
I'm serious, these same two women were doing exactly the same thing the last time I was there, and we're not talking about a quick chat, we're talking about a good five minutes: "I knew somethin' wasn't right, with him always stompin' up and down the stairs." -- "Yup, nothin' else you could do." -- "An' I'm thinkin', what can I do?" -- "There's nothin' else you can do."
And on and on and on. We patient people in the growing line exchanged glances and whispered gripes that this always happens here.
Suddenly the creepy old lady at the counter let out a long, wet, deafening fart. We stared. We were dumbstruck and amazed. And the two of them just keep on talking as though nothing had happened.
"I hope I don't get that kiosk," said the woman behind me. She didn't, but the woman AFTER her did.
Saturday, September 05, 2009
A Street Person's To-Do List
For a few weeks this summer my workplace has had to deal with a street person's leftovers. This person would sleep overnight in one of our entry ways, then leave behind a bizarre collection of odds-and-ends the next day, including syringes.
Some of his leftovers have been bizarre -- children's toys, a broken stereo, a sleeping bag -- but once I discovered a backpack, and in it a "To-Do" diary with some very interesting notations.
His writing is difficult to decipher. Here's page one:
PS: As much as my workmates hated having to dispose of his garbage, what they objected to most were the syringes. This annoyed me too, but then I realized that they were all prominently displayed...almost laid out deliberately in front of his former possessions.
Suddenly it occurred to me: what is a street person going to do with used syringes? They aren't going to carry "sharpie" boxes around which would advertise to the world that they're injecting drugs. When they want to dispose of a needle, I think their only options are to throw it in a garbage or hide it in something until they're far away.
I don't know about you, but I'd much rather the syringes be immediately visible...I don't want to pick up somebody's old backpack or pull out a garbage bag and get a needle in the hand. I wonder if, by leaving their needles where everybody can see them, these street people are being CONSIDERATE?
Some of his leftovers have been bizarre -- children's toys, a broken stereo, a sleeping bag -- but once I discovered a backpack, and in it a "To-Do" diary with some very interesting notations.
His writing is difficult to decipher. Here's page one:
I NEED DO THE DOPage two is labeled "TO DO" and says:
STOP
DO NO HARME
BI BI
LEET GOOD
DO
CALL SHARON
MOM
1 DENTOS APPage three is one-sided:
RENT TO INTENT LETTER
1 2 3
FIND OUT WHAT NEEDS TO BE DON AT
1 TAX
2 WELFARE
GET RENT
PHONE BANK
400 WATS + iPOD
99 HDML DVD
49 5.100
B: DVD
79 200WAT
START TO SLOW DOWN AND STOPPage four is most interesting:
M L
AT 5:00 I WAS DOWN TOWN AT MARKET IN KIT
$120 PAND FOR RED PUMPKIN
7 DID IN IN THE ROW
8 WALKT HOME
10 TO 2:00
1 AM
CALL MOMAnd finally, page five:
GOOD DAY TO DAY
TRY 3 OR
$10: OOW AT LARAL STREET
TO DO
GET NUMBER FOR METH
CLINICK WOOD STACK
BUS FAIR
$20 DOLLERS
NIKKEY IS WITH ROS AND ALL I SENS IS NEGATIV MY LAIF IS OFF THE HOOK
I CANT USI suppose this is a glimpse at the functionality of a drug-addicted, partially literate person. He hasn't come around lately.
I CANT SEE YOU MONBER
HEPUT
PS: As much as my workmates hated having to dispose of his garbage, what they objected to most were the syringes. This annoyed me too, but then I realized that they were all prominently displayed...almost laid out deliberately in front of his former possessions.
Suddenly it occurred to me: what is a street person going to do with used syringes? They aren't going to carry "sharpie" boxes around which would advertise to the world that they're injecting drugs. When they want to dispose of a needle, I think their only options are to throw it in a garbage or hide it in something until they're far away.
I don't know about you, but I'd much rather the syringes be immediately visible...I don't want to pick up somebody's old backpack or pull out a garbage bag and get a needle in the hand. I wonder if, by leaving their needles where everybody can see them, these street people are being CONSIDERATE?
Tuesday, July 07, 2009
Weird Eyebrow Hairs
It's no secret that your hair starts doing strange things as you get older. By way of example, here are three hairs that I plucked out of my eyebrows several months ago.*
The hair in the middle is entirely typical. Almost all of my eyebrow hair looks like that: straight, thin, flexible, and brown.
The hair on the RIGHT is the type I'm seeing more and more: white, coarse, and much longer than usual. These hairs are like vicious spikes and they really yank when I pull them out.
The hair on the LEFT, however, is the weird one. I see one of these every six months or so. It's globular, stunted, and irregularly coloured. Since it's so thick and chunky I see it immediately when it grows, and all I need to do is prod it to make it come out.
I understand the concept of grey hair -- and I suppose that's what's happening to the hair on the right -- but fat little glob-hairs? I don't get it. I'm wondering if anybody else gets hairs like these.
* I didn't save these hairs for a year and then put them online today; this is an old picture from my old camera, which had obvious problems focusing on little nearby objects.
The hair in the middle is entirely typical. Almost all of my eyebrow hair looks like that: straight, thin, flexible, and brown.
The hair on the RIGHT is the type I'm seeing more and more: white, coarse, and much longer than usual. These hairs are like vicious spikes and they really yank when I pull them out.
The hair on the LEFT, however, is the weird one. I see one of these every six months or so. It's globular, stunted, and irregularly coloured. Since it's so thick and chunky I see it immediately when it grows, and all I need to do is prod it to make it come out.
I understand the concept of grey hair -- and I suppose that's what's happening to the hair on the right -- but fat little glob-hairs? I don't get it. I'm wondering if anybody else gets hairs like these.
* I didn't save these hairs for a year and then put them online today; this is an old picture from my old camera, which had obvious problems focusing on little nearby objects.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Lazy Blogger Flush
Just a bunch of things that don't deserve separate entries (or do but require more time and thought than I can spare at the moment).
- Every spring I am amazed at the way robins really DO go bob-bob-bobbin'.
- Speaking of the animal kingdom, yesterday was "flying ant day" here at the Muffy Household. I killed at least thirty of them as they went copulating across my front window. When you crush them, they release a very strong chemical odour which smells a lot like cotton candy.
- They have arrested two people for the murder of Tori Stafford, and the police say they're looking for her body...and yet most of the forum comments say things like "Please God let her be alright!" This makes me wonder just how carefully people read the news.
- I've been exploring the '60s lately. I read a book by Abe Peck about the underground press, and this got me wondering about the social movements of the time. In particular I wondered why Woodstock turned out so well and Altamont was a complete disaster. Having watched both "Woodstock" and "Gimme Shelter," it seems apparent that part of the trouble was having 30,000 people pressed up against a stage that was only four feet high. Another problem was a bunch of stoned and rabid fans. A third problem was a bunch of drunk bikers being expected to deal gently with people.
- So I bought "The Worst of Jefferson Airplane" and I have to say they were pretty cool. Now I'm finishing off "The Kids Are Alright," and next up is "The Doors."
- I'm seriously considering buying a condo, and if things work out during the next month or so then I really, really will. Hopefully it won't burst into flame.
- This weekend I'll be timing the "sin bin" at the season opener for our local Roller Derby teams. That's excitement!
- Next weekend I'll be at Guelph Pride's "circus" event.
- A second squirrel family has moved into the attic. They fight all the time. The ones in the northwest corner always lose.
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Eyeing the Intestines
A few nights ago I was amazed to discover a pile of viscera in the middle of my carpet. There were intestines, and a miniature liver, and other little bits and pieces all tucked inside that I couldn't really see.
My first thought was that Zsa Zsa had finally started vomiting up her own entrails, but these were far too small to have come from a cat. They were...mouse size.
As far as I know this is the sixth mouse that Zsa Zsa has caught. As though to express the changeability of her moods, every mouse is devoured in a totally different way; the first was left totally uneaten, the second was swallowed in a single gulp, the third was chewed and savoured in a leisurely way, the fourth was bitten into two pieces with only the top half eaten, the fifth was entirely devoured except for a tiny back foot...
...but this is the first time she's eaten everything BUT the entrails, which seems strange to me; why would she favour the fur and bones and tail, but leave the "choice bits" behind?
I wonder if there isn't some truth to that half-baked idea that cats sometimes treat humans as really useless kittens. Maybe Zsa Zsa left a pile of juicy mouse-organs for me because she thought I'd appreciate them, and she knows I could never catch a mouse if my life depended on it.
Even stranger, however, was how CLEAN and SELF-CONTAINED the viscera was. I've always assumed that such things were sticky and messy and gelatinous, but not THESE mouse guts; they were damp but coherent, a whole entity unto themselves, almost as though they could pull themselves back together and saunter off into the night.
I think it's wonderful that Zsa Zsa -- who now resembles Death's Own Pussycat -- still has the vigour to stalk, capture, and eat the resident mice.
My first thought was that Zsa Zsa had finally started vomiting up her own entrails, but these were far too small to have come from a cat. They were...mouse size.
As far as I know this is the sixth mouse that Zsa Zsa has caught. As though to express the changeability of her moods, every mouse is devoured in a totally different way; the first was left totally uneaten, the second was swallowed in a single gulp, the third was chewed and savoured in a leisurely way, the fourth was bitten into two pieces with only the top half eaten, the fifth was entirely devoured except for a tiny back foot...
...but this is the first time she's eaten everything BUT the entrails, which seems strange to me; why would she favour the fur and bones and tail, but leave the "choice bits" behind?
I wonder if there isn't some truth to that half-baked idea that cats sometimes treat humans as really useless kittens. Maybe Zsa Zsa left a pile of juicy mouse-organs for me because she thought I'd appreciate them, and she knows I could never catch a mouse if my life depended on it.
Even stranger, however, was how CLEAN and SELF-CONTAINED the viscera was. I've always assumed that such things were sticky and messy and gelatinous, but not THESE mouse guts; they were damp but coherent, a whole entity unto themselves, almost as though they could pull themselves back together and saunter off into the night.
I think it's wonderful that Zsa Zsa -- who now resembles Death's Own Pussycat -- still has the vigour to stalk, capture, and eat the resident mice.
Sunday, February 15, 2009
Something Gross on the Floor
Yesterday, Zsa Zsa peed on the basement floor, which she sometimes does for reasons known only to her. Fortunately the basement is totally unfinished so it isn't difficult to clean up...just cracked concrete floors and a lot of dust.
I went into the back part of the basement where the laundry tub is, and I picked up the mop bucket I keep next to the tub and filled it with water and bleach. After scrubbing down the floor, I returned to the tub and started emptying the bucket. While I was doing this I became aware that my toes were resting on something soft; I could feel it through my socks.
Thinking I was just standing on a leaf or something, I lifted up my foot and looked down...and saw that the soft thing was actually A MOUND OF SOWBUGS. Literally, a mound, about three inches in diameter and bulging up about three quarters of an inch. Sowbugs were crawling all over it, and some of the more perturbed ones were slowly gliding off in the disgusting way that sowbugs do.
I have nothing against sowbugs, but this was simply too horrific. It was like a sowbug tenement or a sowbug orgy. Plus I'd been resting my toes on them. My only thought was how I could kill them, so I did a relatively silly thing and poured bleach all over them.
Scatter! They locomoted in all directions, radiating out from the mound, scrambling over each other like rioting football hooligans. Some were merely specks on the floor, and others were half an inch long. Caring not for young and old, I followed them with the bleach bottle, splashing here and there.
I don't know if it actually killed them. In retrospect I should have taken one of the paint cans down there and just rolled it over them, but the sound would have been unbearable. There are lots of spiders down in the basement, but it's obvious they aren't doing their job.
.jpg)
PS: I was shocked to learn that sowbugs are not actually insects...they're "terrestrial crustaceans" and they breathe through gills, which is pretty amazing. That's why they always hang around water. It's also why they're so awful.
I went into the back part of the basement where the laundry tub is, and I picked up the mop bucket I keep next to the tub and filled it with water and bleach. After scrubbing down the floor, I returned to the tub and started emptying the bucket. While I was doing this I became aware that my toes were resting on something soft; I could feel it through my socks.
Thinking I was just standing on a leaf or something, I lifted up my foot and looked down...and saw that the soft thing was actually A MOUND OF SOWBUGS. Literally, a mound, about three inches in diameter and bulging up about three quarters of an inch. Sowbugs were crawling all over it, and some of the more perturbed ones were slowly gliding off in the disgusting way that sowbugs do.
I have nothing against sowbugs, but this was simply too horrific. It was like a sowbug tenement or a sowbug orgy. Plus I'd been resting my toes on them. My only thought was how I could kill them, so I did a relatively silly thing and poured bleach all over them.
Scatter! They locomoted in all directions, radiating out from the mound, scrambling over each other like rioting football hooligans. Some were merely specks on the floor, and others were half an inch long. Caring not for young and old, I followed them with the bleach bottle, splashing here and there.
I don't know if it actually killed them. In retrospect I should have taken one of the paint cans down there and just rolled it over them, but the sound would have been unbearable. There are lots of spiders down in the basement, but it's obvious they aren't doing their job.
.jpg)
PS: I was shocked to learn that sowbugs are not actually insects...they're "terrestrial crustaceans" and they breathe through gills, which is pretty amazing. That's why they always hang around water. It's also why they're so awful.
Monday, September 29, 2008
Today's Pepys Quote
October 13th, 1660:
I went out to Charing Cross, to see Major-General Harrison hanged, drawn, and quartered; which was done there, he looking as cheerful as any man could do in that condition. He was presently cut down, and his head and heart shown to the people, at which there was great shouts of joy. It is said, that he said that he was sure to come shortly at the right hand of Christ to judge them that now had judged him, and that his wife do expect his coming again. Thus it was my chance to see the King beheaded at White Hall, and to see the first blood shed in revenge for the King at Charing Cross. Setting up shelves in my study.From "The Diary of Samuel Pepys," Everyman's Library.
Sunday, September 28, 2008
And This Day
Whooo!
Up, packed, and away to Toronto by 9:30am. Not only have they changed the Greyhound ticket procedure -- requiring you to go outside and buy them from a surly woman wearing wrap-around shades -- but the bus also stops at a giant inflatable bus station near Sportsworld Drive. It's a "Commuter Connection," but it looks like a bouncy castle. Only bus-shaped.
I got the type of seatmate that I usually end up with: the guy who doesn't brush his teeth.
Arrived at Jason & Craig's to gain access to their apartment. The two of them are in the middle of an intensive campaign, and they also have new kittens. Somehow they manage to maintain their composure. I am thrilled that one of the kittens is named "Barrowman," and I bet he's a better actor than his namesake.
In order to let J&C prepare for their first show (of three that day) without the distraction of a visitor, I went for a short downtown Toronto wander. I thrilled myself, walking diagonally across the Yonge/Dundas intersection with the rest of the liberated pedestrians. I bought another book about Objective-C.
Leisurely preparations to attend the last half of the show at Gladaman's; small crowd but fun, and great to see Lady Butterfly with her big pregnant belly. Then a walk back to Zelda's, whose stage and dining room invite a wonderful cabaret atmosphere that I wish I could enjoy more often. In the change room -- which was also the women's bathroom -- a constant stream of mothers came in to change their baby's diapers. "I apologize for what I'm about to unleash," said one as I was touching up my makeup. This was a first.
My numbers went over well, and the crowd was totally into the diversity of the performers. Annie Drogyny showed up, the first time I've seen her in months, and fortunately I was wearing the outfit she made for me. A professional puppeteer gave me tips on how to better handle Schnaaps the Seal: in short, treat him like he's an actual animal, not like he's a mitten on the end of my arm. I thought the mitten-thing was funny, but apparently the animal-thing is even funnier.
A mad-dash rush with Craig back to J&C's house for de-dragging, then a rush to catch the 9:30 bus back home...and the line up was HUGE. Even with a second "backup" bus called to transport the overflow, I still was one of the last ten inside.
But before that, while waiting to get on the bus inside the terminal, an extremely disturbed man put something in his mouth and tried to wash it down with Mountain Dew. After choking it back up again and examining his teeth in the reflective glass, he wandered slowly down the line, bobbing and weaving, and when he passed me I was amazed to see huge gashes on both of his cheeks from his mouth to his ears...like, gashes so wide you could see partway into them. He was removed by security guards shortly afterward.
When I got onto the bus, the guy I sat beside was the guy before whom the disturbed man had staged his performance. This guy in the seat was enormous and daunting, talking on the phone with his girlfriend, saying that the disturbed man had "razors" in his mouth, which he was apparently trying to swallow. We talked a bit and he said that he was absolutely terrified...that after the recent stabbings in Greyhound buses he figured that he'd be the first person to stop the attacks...but when this disturbed man came up to him he just froze.
He wanted to know what was going on in the world. This obviously upset him, and I agree, it was absolutely surreal. I put off giving myself an insulin injection until he'd calmed down a bit. I was afraid he'd take it as an incipient attack and break my neck.
Up, packed, and away to Toronto by 9:30am. Not only have they changed the Greyhound ticket procedure -- requiring you to go outside and buy them from a surly woman wearing wrap-around shades -- but the bus also stops at a giant inflatable bus station near Sportsworld Drive. It's a "Commuter Connection," but it looks like a bouncy castle. Only bus-shaped.
I got the type of seatmate that I usually end up with: the guy who doesn't brush his teeth.
Arrived at Jason & Craig's to gain access to their apartment. The two of them are in the middle of an intensive campaign, and they also have new kittens. Somehow they manage to maintain their composure. I am thrilled that one of the kittens is named "Barrowman," and I bet he's a better actor than his namesake.
In order to let J&C prepare for their first show (of three that day) without the distraction of a visitor, I went for a short downtown Toronto wander. I thrilled myself, walking diagonally across the Yonge/Dundas intersection with the rest of the liberated pedestrians. I bought another book about Objective-C.
Leisurely preparations to attend the last half of the show at Gladaman's; small crowd but fun, and great to see Lady Butterfly with her big pregnant belly. Then a walk back to Zelda's, whose stage and dining room invite a wonderful cabaret atmosphere that I wish I could enjoy more often. In the change room -- which was also the women's bathroom -- a constant stream of mothers came in to change their baby's diapers. "I apologize for what I'm about to unleash," said one as I was touching up my makeup. This was a first.
My numbers went over well, and the crowd was totally into the diversity of the performers. Annie Drogyny showed up, the first time I've seen her in months, and fortunately I was wearing the outfit she made for me. A professional puppeteer gave me tips on how to better handle Schnaaps the Seal: in short, treat him like he's an actual animal, not like he's a mitten on the end of my arm. I thought the mitten-thing was funny, but apparently the animal-thing is even funnier.
A mad-dash rush with Craig back to J&C's house for de-dragging, then a rush to catch the 9:30 bus back home...and the line up was HUGE. Even with a second "backup" bus called to transport the overflow, I still was one of the last ten inside.
But before that, while waiting to get on the bus inside the terminal, an extremely disturbed man put something in his mouth and tried to wash it down with Mountain Dew. After choking it back up again and examining his teeth in the reflective glass, he wandered slowly down the line, bobbing and weaving, and when he passed me I was amazed to see huge gashes on both of his cheeks from his mouth to his ears...like, gashes so wide you could see partway into them. He was removed by security guards shortly afterward.
When I got onto the bus, the guy I sat beside was the guy before whom the disturbed man had staged his performance. This guy in the seat was enormous and daunting, talking on the phone with his girlfriend, saying that the disturbed man had "razors" in his mouth, which he was apparently trying to swallow. We talked a bit and he said that he was absolutely terrified...that after the recent stabbings in Greyhound buses he figured that he'd be the first person to stop the attacks...but when this disturbed man came up to him he just froze.
He wanted to know what was going on in the world. This obviously upset him, and I agree, it was absolutely surreal. I put off giving myself an insulin injection until he'd calmed down a bit. I was afraid he'd take it as an incipient attack and break my neck.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
The Gross Next Door
I have several reasons to be glad that I moved out of my old apartment two years ago, but one of the biggest reasons is the SEWAGE.
In that old apartment the basement is a long room full of storage closets, laundry facilities, and electrical equipment. Down the middle of the room runs a rusty pipe which always transported our feces safely away, until one hot summer day...
...I came home and heard a bunch of people working in the basement. I went down and saw that some men were standing in the external door at the far end, and in between them the floor was flooded with brown liquid an inch deep.
Wondering what was going on, I walked halfway through the basement towards the guys before I realized that I was skimming through raw sewage, so fresh that stuff was still floating in it. The men were city workers who had come to fix a sudden back-up in our drains, and they found it amusing that I'd decided to come downstairs and stand in shit, right in front of them. Like, they they thought it was both funny AND sad, particularly since all of our storage lockers were flooded as well.
Needless to say I was happy to move away from that mess (and to throw out that pair of shoes), but I still do my laundry down there...
...and today I went over and left my clothes in the washer, and when I came back there was poop everywhere. What a stink! Right back into the storage lockers. I suspect I'm the first person to notice this situation. It felt kind of nice to just pack up my clean clothes and sneak away.
After all, it's not MY poop any more. I've got worries of my own!
In that old apartment the basement is a long room full of storage closets, laundry facilities, and electrical equipment. Down the middle of the room runs a rusty pipe which always transported our feces safely away, until one hot summer day...
...I came home and heard a bunch of people working in the basement. I went down and saw that some men were standing in the external door at the far end, and in between them the floor was flooded with brown liquid an inch deep.
Wondering what was going on, I walked halfway through the basement towards the guys before I realized that I was skimming through raw sewage, so fresh that stuff was still floating in it. The men were city workers who had come to fix a sudden back-up in our drains, and they found it amusing that I'd decided to come downstairs and stand in shit, right in front of them. Like, they they thought it was both funny AND sad, particularly since all of our storage lockers were flooded as well.
Needless to say I was happy to move away from that mess (and to throw out that pair of shoes), but I still do my laundry down there...
...and today I went over and left my clothes in the washer, and when I came back there was poop everywhere. What a stink! Right back into the storage lockers. I suspect I'm the first person to notice this situation. It felt kind of nice to just pack up my clean clothes and sneak away.
After all, it's not MY poop any more. I've got worries of my own!
Monday, September 01, 2008
24 Hours
A warning to the sensitive...this is a little gross. And I do apologize that so many of these posts are about my cat; I'm considering calling this "The ZsaZsaBlog."
5:00am: I wake up to a terrible smashing sound. I go into the bathroom and see that the cat has knocked a bottle of shaving cream off the edge of the tub. Nonplussed, I go back to sleep.
7:00am: I wake up again, this time to an overpowering smell of feces. Zsa Zsa is on my bed and she's troubled, because...well, there's a huge clump of(unmentionable) hanging out of her (unmentionable).
Fortunately I have a kleenex box beside my bed, so I protect my hands and pull several inches of yellow string out of her butt. Assuming that it's a piece of partially-digested mouse tail, I take it downstairs and throw it out...then I realize, holy cow, that was a DEAD ROUNDWORM.
9:00am: I make the rounds of the house and discover several places where Zsa Zsa had tried to relieve herself of the offending worm. Soap, water, sponge, gross.
1:00pm: I take the bus to Conestoga Mall and buy roundworm medication from the pet store. These are little powdery capsules that you're supposed to mix with her food. Since I don't want to pull another worm out of her butt tomorrow morning, I feed her a second time, mixing the medication in with her food.
2:00pm: In the bathroom, I discover why Zsa Zsa had knocked the shaving cream over: there's an enormous moth huddled up in the corner of the room. Since I am a seasoned moth-rescuer, I manage to get it outside without destroying it. This is good.
4:00pm: I take a nap.
5:00pm: I wake up to the strong odour of liver-and-chicken cat food; Zsa Zsa has vomited up and down the stairs in several artfully-arranged puddles. Soap, water, sponge, gross. I don't think she has digested any of the medication I gave her, but I don't want to give her more in case that's what's causing her to throw up.
7:00pm: I begin getting ready for the night. I wear my cyberlox hair extensions for the occasion, since they look a bit like roundworms. Zsa Zsa sits under the computer chair, incredibly thin, somewhat warm but responsive. I decide that she's only warm because my apartment is extremely hot, but maybe she's sick and has a fever.
10:00pm: Club Abstract. I have trained myself to love the inevitable bridesmaids. Sweet people everywhere and a general love of my cyberlox. Some folks tell me that cats ALWAYS vomit when you give them such medication, others say that cats should NEVER vomit under those conditions. I am reminded that everybody has an opinion about cat health but nobody really knows for sure. At least other people have pulled worms out of their cats' butts too.
2:30am: I return home, half expecting to find Zsa Zsa dead or dying. Instead she trots up to the door like she always does, expecting treats. I sit her down and explain that she has a parasitic infection and that we'll need to go to the vet. She paws gently at my cyberlox and then goes looking for mice.
5:00am: I wake up to a terrible smashing sound. I go into the bathroom and see that the cat has knocked a bottle of shaving cream off the edge of the tub. Nonplussed, I go back to sleep.
7:00am: I wake up again, this time to an overpowering smell of feces. Zsa Zsa is on my bed and she's troubled, because...well, there's a huge clump of
Fortunately I have a kleenex box beside my bed, so I protect my hands and pull several inches of yellow string out of her butt. Assuming that it's a piece of partially-digested mouse tail, I take it downstairs and throw it out...then I realize, holy cow, that was a DEAD ROUNDWORM.
9:00am: I make the rounds of the house and discover several places where Zsa Zsa had tried to relieve herself of the offending worm. Soap, water, sponge, gross.
1:00pm: I take the bus to Conestoga Mall and buy roundworm medication from the pet store. These are little powdery capsules that you're supposed to mix with her food. Since I don't want to pull another worm out of her butt tomorrow morning, I feed her a second time, mixing the medication in with her food.
2:00pm: In the bathroom, I discover why Zsa Zsa had knocked the shaving cream over: there's an enormous moth huddled up in the corner of the room. Since I am a seasoned moth-rescuer, I manage to get it outside without destroying it. This is good.
4:00pm: I take a nap.
5:00pm: I wake up to the strong odour of liver-and-chicken cat food; Zsa Zsa has vomited up and down the stairs in several artfully-arranged puddles. Soap, water, sponge, gross. I don't think she has digested any of the medication I gave her, but I don't want to give her more in case that's what's causing her to throw up.
7:00pm: I begin getting ready for the night. I wear my cyberlox hair extensions for the occasion, since they look a bit like roundworms. Zsa Zsa sits under the computer chair, incredibly thin, somewhat warm but responsive. I decide that she's only warm because my apartment is extremely hot, but maybe she's sick and has a fever.
10:00pm: Club Abstract. I have trained myself to love the inevitable bridesmaids. Sweet people everywhere and a general love of my cyberlox. Some folks tell me that cats ALWAYS vomit when you give them such medication, others say that cats should NEVER vomit under those conditions. I am reminded that everybody has an opinion about cat health but nobody really knows for sure. At least other people have pulled worms out of their cats' butts too.
2:30am: I return home, half expecting to find Zsa Zsa dead or dying. Instead she trots up to the door like she always does, expecting treats. I sit her down and explain that she has a parasitic infection and that we'll need to go to the vet. She paws gently at my cyberlox and then goes looking for mice.
Sunday, August 31, 2008
Offtrack
Sometimes I lose track of life for a bit...I stop caring about productivity or improvement -- let alone cleaning my environment -- and just settle in with a bunch of movies and totally vegetate on my couch.
This can happen due to depression, or several days of poor blood sugar, or because of a series of misfortunes. In this case, however, my total lack of production -- and therefore the absence of blog posts -- has been caused by an uncomfortable, low-level anxiety about life in general.
My life is good, really! When TERRIBLE things happen around me I tend to get motivated and I go around and fix whatever needs fixing. But in these cases when stuff is just SORT of bad, my childish response is to drop everything, stop answering email, hole up in my apartment, eat junk food, and do nothing.
Which is exactly what I've been doing up until yesterday, when I think my funk finally broke. I made some progress on a piece of music called "Roadbird" that I've been playing with for a while, and went to see the Rollerderby grudge match in New Hamburg (I decided to root for the Venus Fly Tramps BEFORE I realized they were winning!)
This morning I pulled a four-inch roundworm out of my cat, which has actually been a bit of a motivator: now I have a tangible indication of what's wrong with her and how to tackle it. I'm actually looking forward to getting stuff done today, which is a much nicer feeling than just passively floating around and keeping my head down.
So here's to smooth production and a glorious sense of purpose, and those inevitable periods of down-time which make the better moments feel so darn good!
This can happen due to depression, or several days of poor blood sugar, or because of a series of misfortunes. In this case, however, my total lack of production -- and therefore the absence of blog posts -- has been caused by an uncomfortable, low-level anxiety about life in general.
My life is good, really! When TERRIBLE things happen around me I tend to get motivated and I go around and fix whatever needs fixing. But in these cases when stuff is just SORT of bad, my childish response is to drop everything, stop answering email, hole up in my apartment, eat junk food, and do nothing.
Which is exactly what I've been doing up until yesterday, when I think my funk finally broke. I made some progress on a piece of music called "Roadbird" that I've been playing with for a while, and went to see the Rollerderby grudge match in New Hamburg (I decided to root for the Venus Fly Tramps BEFORE I realized they were winning!)
This morning I pulled a four-inch roundworm out of my cat, which has actually been a bit of a motivator: now I have a tangible indication of what's wrong with her and how to tackle it. I'm actually looking forward to getting stuff done today, which is a much nicer feeling than just passively floating around and keeping my head down.
So here's to smooth production and a glorious sense of purpose, and those inevitable periods of down-time which make the better moments feel so darn good!
Sunday, August 24, 2008
Meeses to Pieces
After Zsa Zsa devoured a mouse from head to tail a few weeks ago, I did some research and discovered that mice are a wonderful type of cat food. I'm worried that she'll get tapeworms from eating them, but since there's no way to stop her I've decided to make the best of it.
We know that the mice prefer to enter my apartment through a vent under my kitchen table, so I built a special "mouse blind" for Zsa Zsa to hide behind while hunting. Five minutes ago she trotted into the computer room, dropped a mouse at my feet, and proceeded to eat it.
I knew you'd want to see this so I took lots of pictures -- and even a video -- but I'm afraid that they're just too disgusting. Instead of swallowing this one whole, she chewed bits and pieces off from various places, and while I'm amazed at the total lack of blood I am less surprised at the reverse-flow through the mouse's digestive tract...something you don't want to see.
So I'm afraid you'll need to take my word for it. Zsa Zsa is accepting congratulations for a job well done, and also soliciting tips for preparing tasty mouse treats.
We know that the mice prefer to enter my apartment through a vent under my kitchen table, so I built a special "mouse blind" for Zsa Zsa to hide behind while hunting. Five minutes ago she trotted into the computer room, dropped a mouse at my feet, and proceeded to eat it.
I knew you'd want to see this so I took lots of pictures -- and even a video -- but I'm afraid that they're just too disgusting. Instead of swallowing this one whole, she chewed bits and pieces off from various places, and while I'm amazed at the total lack of blood I am less surprised at the reverse-flow through the mouse's digestive tract...something you don't want to see.
So I'm afraid you'll need to take my word for it. Zsa Zsa is accepting congratulations for a job well done, and also soliciting tips for preparing tasty mouse treats.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
To Gentlemen Who Occasionally Want to Kick the Cat
So yes, I'm still alive, but I've had "one of those weeks." Not only was I spectacularly sick, dealing with money troubles, canceling all my social appointments, and taking my car into the shop...but through all this my cat was urinating on the basement floor.
You might know what stale cat pee smells like: sharp, evil, headache-y. If the Wicked Witch of the West ever got over her hydrophobia and took a pee, I bet it would smell like that.
Feverish, snotty, and exhausted, I kept on scrubbing, scrubbing, scrubbing...and then, a few hours later, the pee was back with its attendant odour. Things reached a head when, on Saturday night, I brought a person into my apartment who physically FLINCHED at the front door, and then suggested we "open a window and turn on the fan." And not just because I'm so damn hot.
The next day I scrubbed the basement floor again, and I bought baking soda and spread it around. Then -- in a moment of inspiration -- I put a deep ceramic saucer on the ground where she tends to pee. Lately she's been urinating directly in that saucer, which I quickly empty -- the smell isn't NEARLY so bad when it's fresh and unable to ooze into anything.
Why has she started doing this? I suppose it began with her bladder infection; maybe she associates the litter box with stress and pain now. It's time to buy her a new box anyway.
As for the infection itself, I've been sticking pills down her throat twice a day for almost two weeks, so supposedly the problem is gone. Once I have vacuumed and cleaned up the detritus of The Cloistered Sickly Muffy, my apartment will once again be safe for visiting.
PS: Why does that guy in the picture want to kick his cat? "It usually isn't any antipathy to Tabby's furry innocence...it's just that you're out of sorts...brain groggy...nerves jumpy...every man has had such days. Possibly you're smoking the wrong cigars."
The advertisement says that Muriel cigars will NEVER get on your nerves, and will "fetch you up at the end of the day with a smile as sweet as a baby's." Shiver.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)