pounce and slither

“No, no, no, leave him there, he’s alright!” This is what I said to my father-in-law who was about to brush off a praying mantis that had jumped onto my back. I had a wannabe-Jeffer moment, and I definitely got my wish. That little bugger crawled all over me. Damn, they are fast! The best part was when he got onto my head. It was pretty cool to look out of the corner of my eye, to see him doing his little bobbing and weaving dance. I got this idea in my head of a symbiotic relationship with the mantis. I would never have to worry about a fly landing on me, or getting stung by a mosquito, as long as he was around. He could be my little bodyguard.

Everybody got a good laugh at watching him scurry over my bald head. Except my mother-in-law, who mumbled something about me needing professional help.

Little did I know, but this was only the beginning of run-ins with nature that was to happen that day. This was on the fourth, and we were at our place in the country, and all of the family was there. After most had left, only my cousin, his wife and daughter were left. They didn’t leave until almost nine. As they are walking through the back yard, to get to their car, one of them lets out a shriek. It think it was my cousin. Apparently they saw a snake. I went out there to investigate, expecting a little grass snake. It was kind of hard to see, but finally I saw a little triangular-shaped head poke up. “Uh-oh,” I said to myself, “that’s not good. “

I didn’t have a hoe nearby, so I went into the wash-house, to fetch a crowbar I had hanging inside. I pinned him down with it, and as he starts squirming around, I finally get a good look at him. It’s a copperhead.

Not full grown yet, just an adolescent. But with these nasty little buggers, size doesn’t matter. He starts striking the hell out of the crowbar. I yell to my cousin to get me something else to kill it with. In the meantime his daughter is standing on one of the patio chairs, practically hysterical. I told her to calm down, she was safe.

My cousin finally comes back with another crowbar he found, quickly hands it to me and runs off. I couldn’t get at his head with it, and no matter how much I was poking him with the crowbar, it wasn’t doing any good. So my cousin finally finds a pair of lopers, quickly hands them to me, and scampers off again.

“Dude!” I say to him, “How many hands do you think I have?” So I finally am able to talk him into operating the lopers while I try and get his head up. His head comes up, and my cousin, who is hopping around like a bunny rabbit, manages to take the head off, before he runs away shrieking.

We left back for the city the next day. On the way out, I needed to get the water meter reading. With the event of last night still fresh in my memory, I was a little more cautious than usual when lifting up the cover and putting my hand in. Good thing. There was another snake coiled up inside. I didn’t hang around to see what kind it was. I just closed it back up, and walked back to the car.

When my wife noticed I hadn’t written anything down on the paper, she asked me “Didn’t you get the reading?”
“Nope,” I told her, giving her a funny little look. She knew right away why.

Portnoy's Complaint

The second book in my summer reading challenge. I thoroughly enjoyed it. I will definitely have to read the rest of his books.

I finished it Saturday, July 4th. Not exactly a patriotic read, but then again...it did illuminate a whole segment of America I've been pretty ignorant about. I know very little about Jewish Americans. Not surprising, I guess, growing up in Texas. Now that I think about it, I believe I've only had one Jewish friend: Mark. We were briefly friends in college. He was an interesting guy. He spoke so softly, that most of the time, I'd have to practically put my ear to his mouth, to what he was saying. And I will always remember him, due to the fact that his parents had estranged themselves from him. They had moved away, and never told him where they were going. I was so intrigued with that, since my parents were the polar opposite. To the point of suffocation. But I couldn't imagine why they did that, because Mark seemed to be a really nice, intelligent guy. Who knows?

Review follows:

I can only imagine that when this book was published in 1969, it probably caused quite a stir, due to the language and subject matter. And there are certain images I will always remember: the bread knife, his father's constant constipation, “The Monkey,” getting it in the eye, etc... He painted such a vivid picture, I leave the book almost feeling as if I had been the one experiencing much of it. And having grown up in a Catholic family, I always thought my parents were the experts at engendering repression and meting out guilt. They were rank amateurs compared with Portnoy's parents.

Of Mice and Men

The library where I work is having a staff summer reading challenge. I decided I would read all the short classic American novels that I haven’t read before. This was the first one.

I’m not quite sure how, but somehow I managed to make it to 45 years old without ever having read this book. My only knowledge of the characters came from the various cartoon treatments. Now that I’ve read it, all of those Loony Tunes spoofs really give me the creeps. I had always thought Lennie to be just a big harmless oaf. I had no knowledge of the evil undercurrent in him. And no matter what George may say, Lennie is a monster. And what makes it all that more unsettling is that Lennie doesn’t know it.

I finished it last night. I started it the previous evening, and almost read it through in one sitting. I just couldn’t put it down.

And I had a nightmare that first night. I haven’t had a nightmare since I don’t know when. Coincidence? Probably. It’s not like the book is horrific. But I did go to sleep with a feeling of unease. Like something bad was about to happen. And the book has left me with an uneasy feeling. How can such a short novel leave such a long impression?

A dram to your health

Currently enjoying a rather healthy dram of a very fine Single Malt, pictured at left. Ardbeg 10 year old. It's got such a wonderful nose, it's almost a shame to drink it. Almost.

After a long hiatus from Single Malt Scotch, I've recently rediscovered my love of this fine type of whiskey. Not that I'm giving up on Bourbon. But there are so many single malts out there, I'm having a blast going through them now. And with more of an appreciation than I had before. Appreciating a single malt scotch is very similar to tasting a fine wine. Well, the terminology and approach, anyhow. We're looking at color, nose, mouth feel, palate and finish.

The nose of this Ardbeg has got plenty of tar and smoke, to be sure. But there's also honey and lemon in there too, somehow. So complex.

This whiskey epitomizes scotches from Islay: strong, in-your-face, no apologies. The palate is medicinal and seaweedy, but also comforting and reassuring. The finish? loooooooong.

I'm sure this would be the perfect whiskey for a cold, winter's night. But it's not out of place now, in an unforgiving Texas summer.

Before this bottle, I finished a Laphoraig Quarter Cask. Am I a slave to Islay, or what? It's such a manly dram, I really don't want to drink anything else right now. So what will be next? Hmmm, looks like I've got some research to do.

Why I am so clever

Clever? The title is sarcastic, obviously. If I'm so clever, how is it possible to have been on this planet for 45 years, and still not know who the hell I am? And what I mean by that is that I don't feel I have any substance or essence whatsoever. What is my purpose? What am I doing here? I've always felt like a misfit, like I've never quite fit in with this world. I suppose that's not so rare. If you happen to believe the tenets of existentialism, and that we are thrown into this world without a purpose, then what I'm feeling is perfectly normal. That doesn't make it any less stultifying, though. And I still feel like a moron.

You know what my biggest problem has been? Wanting to know everything. And as a result, I don't have enough knowledge in a single subject or topic on which I could carry on a meaningful conversation with someone. I've never been able to settle on anything long enough to be able to get the gist out of it. Something else will come along and seize my interest, and I've already moved on.

I remember reading one of Seneca's letters to his little friend. In it, Seneca dissuades him from trying to read a bunch of different authors in the attempt to be well-rounded, and encourages him instead to pick just one good writer, and read and re-read and really get to know and fully understand his thoughts and ideas.

Me? I've got a whole library full of books I haven't even read yet. You can just check them out on my librarything.com app to the right, and see just how spastic and unattainable my desired breadth of knowledge has been.

Well, I've finally had enough. I've decided it's time to re-engineer myself. I should've done this years ago, but fuck it; better late than never, right? I've been doing some self-examining today, and am going to force myself to focus my concentration on a few select subjects/interests. What these particular subjects are, I'll save for another post. Suffice it to say, I've picked them.

Obviously, I'm writing all of this for myself. It feels good to get it out of my head, write it down, and see it in print: my alternative to therapy. It only took me one session with a psychologist years ago to know that no matter what problems or obstacles I happened to be dealing with, going to a shrink to try to solve them was not an option for me. But if any of the multitude of the three people who might happen to check in on my inane ramblings once in a while would like to leave a comment, feel free. I'm still surprised when anyone shows any interest in anything I have to say.

That's it for now.

Six years and 50 pounds ago

Today is our daughter's sixth birthday. Can't believe six years have gone by since she's been born. A lot has happened in those six years. And a lot of weight has found its way to my 45 year old frame. My wife posted a picture of me holding our daughter shortly after she was born.















I was lean, mean fighting machine! Now I'm a fat, lazy ice-cream eating machine.
















I've decided it's time to lose those 50 lbs., and get back to fighting trim. Easier said than done.

Batter Up!

Here it is, baseball season again. I've been getting more and more into it within the last few years. Prior to that, I couldn't care less about the game. I had been a big fan up until the strike. But that soured me so much about it, I had stopped watching.

My dad loved baseball. It didn't matter who was playing. If there was baseball on TV, he was watching it. I've got some really good memories from my childhood of watching Saturday afternoon games with him. It was the only time I didn't have to eat at the dining table. What a treat! We had a red card table my dad would set up in front of the TV, so we could eat while watching the game. I can still hear the voice of Joe Garagiola as he broke down a game.

My favorite team back then was the Reds, and it seemed that their games were always being shown. And with a lineup that included Johnny Bench (no runs, no drips, no errors), Joe Morgan and Pete Rose, what was not to love? I even liked the Yankees back then. What can I say, I was a confused little kid. My favorite Yankee player was 3rd baseman, Craig Nettles. Man, I can still see in my minds eye some of the spectacular catches he made. Of course, I despise the Yankees, now. As it should be.

In the evenings, when there wasn't a game on TV, he would go to his bedroom, and lie in bed and listen to a game on the radio. My dad was an interesting guy. The only time he watched TV was for sports, news, or Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom. Other than that, he couldn't give a shit. His only reading material was the four or five newspapers he subscribed to. I once gave him a book for Christmas, Jack London's "White Fang" and "The Call of the Wild." I thought he would enjoy it, since he was always relating to me stories from his youth about adventures he had had with his dogs. I don't think he ever read it.

My dad had a nasty temper. I don't think a day went by, when he didn't curse my mom out about something. He would scream at her, and tell her how stupid and worthless she was, until she was in tears. I hated him for a long time for the way he treated her. He never hit her, but the verbal abuse was unrelenting. There was a time when she couldn't take it any more, and threatened to divorce him. I cried, and begged her not to. She gave in, and continued to suffer, for my sake. How stupid and selfish I was.

I remember one time, when a tirade of his really went over the top, I got out my deer rifle, loaded it and sat on the front porch, contemplating killing him. I really wanted to. He walked by, saw me, and smirking, asked, "You gonna shoot me? You'd better go ahead and do it if you're going to." I lost my nerve, and put it away. Neither he nor I ever mentioned it again.

My dad seemed to mellow in his older years. And my mom even repressed the abuse to the point where she categorically denied it ever happened. Even after his death, she wouldn't allow me to say anything about it.

It wasn't until after his death, that I began to understand him. He suffered from severe arthritis most of his life from being hurt in the army. His spine and neck were completely calcified together, and he couldn't even turn his head. He was in constant pain. So it only stands to reason he had a short fuse.

The one thing we really shared and could talk about together was baseball.
I never told my dad I loved him. And he never spoke those words to me. But I know he did.