2/24/10
Just wondering...
Do you ever rediscover things you used to love when you were younger that you thought you grew out of and were too cool for, but then you come back to it and realize even the older, wiser, version of you still thinks it's awesome? In this particular case, I'm referring to Saves the Day's first album; like, I remember the first time I put that CD in and heard "Deciding" and was like HOLY SHIT WHERE DO I SIGN UP -- and then, for years I was like, "eh that album was cool when I was fifteen or sixteen and thought everything that had power chords and earnest lyrics and no song structure or production value was awesome." But now, close to a decade later, I have no preconceptions about it and just go "wow, fifteen year old you probably was a pretty regular dude."
12/7/09
Why I Won't Grow a Beard
People (mostly Steve) comment on a regular basis to me, things like, "Dude, you could totally grow a sweet beard. Yes you could, dude. Look how your stubble totally fills in. I wish I could do that. It's your duty as a man to grow a beard. Durr, I'm Steve."
While it's true, I probably could grow a respectable beard if I were willing to suffer through the weeks of awkward facial hair disbursement that would inevitably precede such an awesome thing, I have always thrown out half-hearted excuses for not growing one. "It wouldn't look cool" (obviously not true). "It would itch" (not enough to be a major obstacle). "I'm not doing it solely to spite Steve" (partly true).
Nay, friends. The true reason I won't grow a beard is that I don't want to participate in bringing about the coming apocalypse. You see, every time men have "beard-growing contests" and talk on and on about manly it is to grow facial hair and how it's totally natural and why should we have to trim our beautiful manes merely to please women who clearly will never understand, I see who really rolls their eyes -- women. And then I ponder those exact same sentiments previously uttered by our aforementioned prospective Paul Bunyans and Grizzly Adamses and apply them to women, who also have "beautiful manes" that are in all likelihood a pain in the ass to shave and that also are "totally natural." And that they might just take those ideas to heart and have similar contests. And as anyone who's ever experienced any type of pornography from the late 70's/early 80's is all too painfully aware, this would lead to nothing short of the coming apocalypse.
To that end, don't grow beards, no matter how cool they may be. The fate of the free world depends on it. Spread the word.
10/23/09
Well, as long as it's not religion or politics.
A man with asymmetrical features walks into a bar. The bartender is wiping down the counter and says nothing to him. It is not nearly closing time. The man with asymmetrical features is thirsty.
The cockroach at the bar is reading Dmitri Prechekovich’s new novel, Passeportes Obligatoire. It is enraptured. The man with asymmetrical features peers over its shoulder.
“Read this yet?” the cockroach inquires of the man with asymmetrical features in a formal, yet soft dialect.
“No,” the man responds, in a decidedly less proper diction.
“Well, I should say, sir,” continues the authoritative but gentle cockroach, “that it is quite a worthy read.” It shakes its head. “Now, I know what you’re going to say,” it continues, holding out two of its antennae in mock defense. “Everyone is reading it. It’s a sensation in all the coffee houses. The art galleries are just abuzz about it. I traditionally abhor the idea of getting wrapped up in all the popular hubbub as well. But my wife…” it sighs in a half laugh, ”finally forced me to give it a whirl, and here I am.” It clears its throat. “I can’t put it down.”
The man with asymmetrical features nods, and orders a bourbon. The cockroach takes this opportunity to attract the bartender’s attention as well, and orders an old fashioned.
The bartender has enormous breasts. And tattoos. And a nose ring. She smiles at the cockroach. The man with asymmetrical features sighs.
The room is quiet for a spare moment. The cockroach seems to sense the melancholy on the man’s asymmetrical face.
“Oh, don’t worry. I could never date her.”
“Why not?”
“Do you read philosophy?”
The man pauses for a minute, and takes a sip of his bourbon. The cockroach waits. The man half-shrugs.
“Well, if it is not a burden for me to share this with you, I have gathered over the years a collection of beliefs culled from the greatest minds on the planet—many of whom have advocated in favor of the small and weak, but also that they have a responsibility -- that they must continually work in tandem, without fail, without impatience of impurity, toward their ultimate goal. I have always believed that we – that is, counting myself among their ranks – should fight our oppressors with our intentions clear; worn across our faces as if battle paint, or military patches sewn to our exoskeletons, or what-have-you."
The asymmetrically featured man takes two sips from his bourbon.
“But what I have learned from Prechekovich,” it continues, “is that we must stare politely into the face of adversity, adopt a cordial tone, such as the one I am using now, and beam with seeming admiration in the direction of our enemies.”
The man nods. “Sounds… reasonable.”
“What she doesn’t realize,” the polite roach says, gesturing toward the bartender, gesticulating casually with its antennae as it speaks, “is that even as we speak, my minions are hard at work, undermining the stability of the floorboards beneath her.”
The man with asymmetrical features peers down. At the root of his stool, a small gathering of roaches scurry silently, prying away incognito with their antennae, hard at work on their various schemes. The man places his feet up in the crossbeam of the stole, and is very careful not to step on the cockroach’s brethren.
“Our race staked out this establishment long ago,” says the notably articulate cockroach. “For many years, we have been laying the groundwork to convert it into our base of operations – a haven, a mecca, if you will. Every roach born on the planet shall one day journey here.”
The man pauses. The cockroach waits. The man takes three sips from his bourbon.
“What we have discovered, right under this very tavern,” it continues, “is the holy nectar – the very fountain of youth, fabled through centuries all throughout arthropod lore. Never did we truly believe in its all-powerful existence. But now that we have discover it, it is simply a matter of time before this place is secured, and my species shall live forever!”
The room is quiet once again.
“So you see,” the roach says finally, rubbing its antennae together in a failing attempt to hide its enthusiasm, “I could never return the bartender’s affections, because we are mortal enemies.”
“Oh,” says the man.
The cockroach dips an antenna into its old fashioned. “Too bitter,” it remarks.
The man with asymmetrical features takes the last sip of his bourbon. He puts the glass down on the counter, and looks up to summon the bartender. She walks slowly over to them.
“Another bourbon?” she asks the man.
“Yes,” he replies. “Is it last call?”
“Just about.” She turns and starts to walk across the bar to pour him his bourbon.
“Excuse me,” he says, and she half turns toward him, rotating just her torso, accentuating her gigantic breasts, as well as the tattoo above her shapely posterior.
“I wondered,” the man says slowly, “If maybe you would let me buy you a drink when your shift ends.”
She pauses for a moment. She glances quickly at the cockroach, which appears to be lost in mischievous thought. She looks back at the man, and scans slowly over his asymmetrical face, studying his features. She takes a minute, and then furls her brow.
“I’m busy,” she says dismissively.
The man heaves a defeated sigh.
The cockroach at the bar is reading Dmitri Prechekovich’s new novel, Passeportes Obligatoire. It is enraptured. The man with asymmetrical features peers over its shoulder.
“Read this yet?” the cockroach inquires of the man with asymmetrical features in a formal, yet soft dialect.
“No,” the man responds, in a decidedly less proper diction.
“Well, I should say, sir,” continues the authoritative but gentle cockroach, “that it is quite a worthy read.” It shakes its head. “Now, I know what you’re going to say,” it continues, holding out two of its antennae in mock defense. “Everyone is reading it. It’s a sensation in all the coffee houses. The art galleries are just abuzz about it. I traditionally abhor the idea of getting wrapped up in all the popular hubbub as well. But my wife…” it sighs in a half laugh, ”finally forced me to give it a whirl, and here I am.” It clears its throat. “I can’t put it down.”
The man with asymmetrical features nods, and orders a bourbon. The cockroach takes this opportunity to attract the bartender’s attention as well, and orders an old fashioned.
The bartender has enormous breasts. And tattoos. And a nose ring. She smiles at the cockroach. The man with asymmetrical features sighs.
The room is quiet for a spare moment. The cockroach seems to sense the melancholy on the man’s asymmetrical face.
“Oh, don’t worry. I could never date her.”
“Why not?”
“Do you read philosophy?”
The man pauses for a minute, and takes a sip of his bourbon. The cockroach waits. The man half-shrugs.
“Well, if it is not a burden for me to share this with you, I have gathered over the years a collection of beliefs culled from the greatest minds on the planet—many of whom have advocated in favor of the small and weak, but also that they have a responsibility -- that they must continually work in tandem, without fail, without impatience of impurity, toward their ultimate goal. I have always believed that we – that is, counting myself among their ranks – should fight our oppressors with our intentions clear; worn across our faces as if battle paint, or military patches sewn to our exoskeletons, or what-have-you."
The asymmetrically featured man takes two sips from his bourbon.
“But what I have learned from Prechekovich,” it continues, “is that we must stare politely into the face of adversity, adopt a cordial tone, such as the one I am using now, and beam with seeming admiration in the direction of our enemies.”
The man nods. “Sounds… reasonable.”
“What she doesn’t realize,” the polite roach says, gesturing toward the bartender, gesticulating casually with its antennae as it speaks, “is that even as we speak, my minions are hard at work, undermining the stability of the floorboards beneath her.”
The man with asymmetrical features peers down. At the root of his stool, a small gathering of roaches scurry silently, prying away incognito with their antennae, hard at work on their various schemes. The man places his feet up in the crossbeam of the stole, and is very careful not to step on the cockroach’s brethren.
“Our race staked out this establishment long ago,” says the notably articulate cockroach. “For many years, we have been laying the groundwork to convert it into our base of operations – a haven, a mecca, if you will. Every roach born on the planet shall one day journey here.”
The man pauses. The cockroach waits. The man takes three sips from his bourbon.
“What we have discovered, right under this very tavern,” it continues, “is the holy nectar – the very fountain of youth, fabled through centuries all throughout arthropod lore. Never did we truly believe in its all-powerful existence. But now that we have discover it, it is simply a matter of time before this place is secured, and my species shall live forever!”
The room is quiet once again.
“So you see,” the roach says finally, rubbing its antennae together in a failing attempt to hide its enthusiasm, “I could never return the bartender’s affections, because we are mortal enemies.”
“Oh,” says the man.
The cockroach dips an antenna into its old fashioned. “Too bitter,” it remarks.
The man with asymmetrical features takes the last sip of his bourbon. He puts the glass down on the counter, and looks up to summon the bartender. She walks slowly over to them.
“Another bourbon?” she asks the man.
“Yes,” he replies. “Is it last call?”
“Just about.” She turns and starts to walk across the bar to pour him his bourbon.
“Excuse me,” he says, and she half turns toward him, rotating just her torso, accentuating her gigantic breasts, as well as the tattoo above her shapely posterior.
“I wondered,” the man says slowly, “If maybe you would let me buy you a drink when your shift ends.”
She pauses for a moment. She glances quickly at the cockroach, which appears to be lost in mischievous thought. She looks back at the man, and scans slowly over his asymmetrical face, studying his features. She takes a minute, and then furls her brow.
“I’m busy,” she says dismissively.
The man heaves a defeated sigh.
8/22/09
A Battle of Wits
It is early afternoon. It is light outside but it is still dark in the apartment. I have ventured away from the trappings of Metroid long enough only for coffee and Burger King. I toy with the idea of exercise, but I am lured back to find the last two Power Bomb tanks in Chozodia. They are as elusive as they are desirable.
The coffee began its short life several hours ago, when it was first brewed in one of the many large tanks at Orchard Variety and left there and not replaced. I purchased a cup, by rough estimate, somewhere between two and three hours after it could have been considered "stale" by those accustomed to the office coffee pot, or -- better yet! -- a home coffee maker that has not been retired to the scrap heap due to being infested by roaches. On the short drive home, the coffee makes its way down my esophagus, through my intestines, the caffeine sorted out and delivered via jolt to my brain, the rest doomed to my bladder where it will soon need to be released. This is where the coffee's tale ends, and mine begins.
I callously and optimistically proceed through my doorway and into my bathroom. Prepared for launch, the coffee quickly frees itself from its bodily prison and disappears into the lukewarm embrace of the sea below.
While this transaction occurs, an abnormally loud buzzing sound jolts my ear. I turn to face a creature of unparalleled size for this location and climate. Its wingspan is inimitable. It's double-barreled torso is several times the size of that of its peers. Its stinger looks like a gilded arrow, aimed straight for my heart. It glowers at me.
"You are going to die, Dan Sullivan."
Caught offguard, I stumble backward. I clench the mysterious muscle that controls urine flow. I back away through the doorway. The hornet takes up perch in its new domain, above my shower. It owns my bathroom now, it tells me with its piercing gaze; its hollow black eyes showing resolve but not a hint of fear. Unable to face down such a creature with my senses not about me, I cede this moment to it. I recognize his tactical offensive as well-prepared.
I decide that my newfound enemy has won himself a temporary reprieve. I prop open the door to my porch. I allow him the opportunity to escape, to relay the tale to his hornet friends, of how he, the mighty King of All Hornets, stared into the face of his human oppressor and did not show fear. He should be allowed this much. It is only fair. The promise of the open world, I offer him. A world of casual foraging. Care-free nest building. The luxurious lifestyle afforded by taking care of the brood.
I return to the living room and to my quest for the final two Power Bomb tanks. One is in a room I can see through a hole in the floor, but cannot access for seemingly tedious reasons. I explore every adjacent room on the map, but alas, there are no access points. I fucking hate it when they do this. I can hear my Nintendo laughing.
Suddenly, the dreaded feeling. The unfortunate side-effects of the coffee and a cigarette have now activated the other half of the waste-disposal alliance: the colon. It must also relieve itself of the weight it carries. I flee to the bathroom, in one of those sudden rushes of panic when the need to shit hits you like the proverbial ton of bricks. I scan the room to see if my nemesis has accepted my generous compromise. He has not. Perched in the top far corner of the room, puffing out his wings for battle, he waits. He waits for my return, to bury his stinger into my flesh. He is not content to stare down the enemy. He has charted his domain. He is going to stay here. It is his now.
I fall back to the cabinet. No hornet spray. Only roach. I gloss over the label. Do not spray into open air. Fuck. I take stock of the remaining tools in my arsenal. A rolled up magazine? Powerful, but only at short range. All it takes is one miss, and the game is over. Dustpan and brush? Useless. And what of the fabled insect-hunter's weapon of choice -- the broom? Mine is not the sturdiest. It is cheap plastic. Its bristles are light and weak, not the veritable spears attached to the older wooden ones, designed for outdoor use. But it will have to do.
I ready myself at the entrance to the bathroom. I steady my hand. The monster stares down at me. I will only get once chance at this. For if I only wound him, he will flee out of my reach. If I lose sight of him, I might not be able to find him without exposing myself. That would be far too risky. For a moment, I lose my nerve. But my bowels groan, renewing in me a sense of urgency. I release my battle cry, a guttural howl that surely sweeps for miles. I strike. My nemesis is pinned down beneath the bristles. I twist the javelin in my hands, hoping the bristles will tear through his weak exoskeleton and destroy his will. I hold it for a moment. I cannot see beneath the base of the broom. Have I prevailed? Will I reclaim my throne, so to speak?
I let the broom down. The hornet is still alive. He spirals in flight but is still airborne. I swat at him, now at a disadvantage. The broom is not fast or solid enough to bring him down in mid-air. He comes at me. I duck, and roll into the adjacent kitchen. I hit my head on the cabinet. I groan. Round two has been lost as well. My enemy is much smarter than I thought.
I sit back and nurse my wound. I plan my strategy. I am out of options. I am fighting a nimble and agile foe in an enclosed space with very little maneuverability for a human. He has every advantage at his disposal. I pick up the phone, and call the one man I know to be my superior in insect-hunting. A man I have always known to take to the call of battle and slay any spindly wicked creature that dare enter his domain and threaten his ilk: My dad.
My mother answers. How am I doing, did I call the insurance company? Pay my credit card bill? Apply for that job she found in the classifieds? No on all fronts. I need to talk to the insect-hunter, I say. I am in need of his tutelage. She groans. "Ned!" I hear her yell into the ether. "Your son needs your sage wisdom."
He comes on the line. "You have a bee in your bathroom?"
Not a bee, I say. A hornet. And this thing is serious.
"Do you have a magazine? Just roll it up and whack him with it" -- I can practically hear him gesticulating the exact motion he would use over the phone -- "BAM! Like that."
I explain to him the tactile impossibility of such a weapon in this situation. He has seen my bathroom, I tell him. It is not a battleground suited for short-range combat. I would be stung for certain.
"It's probably more afraid of you than you are of it," he sighs.
I am not afraid of anything, I assure him. I am a proud insect hunter of the Sullivan tradition. This is not a bee, it is a fucking hornet, the largest of the eusocial wasps, reaching up to 2.2 inches in length. This one appears to be even larger than that. Perhaps it is even a North American potter wasp. I hear those things decimate.
"Well, do you have a bee-keeper's suit?" he asks.
I sense his sarcasm. The sensei has decided to let the pupil learn for himself. I tell him I'll figure it out and hang up.
Back to business. I summon up the courage. I recognize that I may be stung in this battle, but that it has gone on long enough. And I really have to go to the bathroom. If I don't survive this, at least I will have died at the hands of a worthy adversary. I lower my head in defiance, and charge into the bathroom.
All is quiet. I squat down low to avoid aerial attacks. I survey the scene. Check the upper echelons of the bathroom. Nothing. I survey the walls. I check behind the shade. The shower curtain. The door. He is gone. Perhaps he has fled. Leaving the door open and the porch door propped, I cautiously pull my pants down, and hover above the toilet, clenching my rolled up magazine tight in my hand, ready for a quick strike. My bowels heave a weary sigh, and deposit their load. My enemy has not shown his face. It appears he has retreated, satisfied with the bravery displayed in battle.
The hours go by, and I go about my day. I forget all about the hornet, and the climactic battle fought earlier. I watch a movie. I make a few phone calls. I learn how to play a song. My exhilarating combat experience has given me a new, productive lease on life. I decide to retire, and first to shower.
Under the shower head, I comb my fingers through my hair, and reflect on the day's events. I think of the worthy adversary I faced mere hours earlier. He is probably miles from here by now. Living the good life. Preying on yellow-jackets. Not a care in the world. I wonder what has become of my --
--HOLY SHIT! There he is. Out of nowhere, in a fury. He rears his head and his wings are flapping at full-on speed. He has been biding his time in the nether regions of my bathroom, recovering from my broom-laden assault, waiting for his chance to strike. He knew I'd be too foolish to assume he'd stayed. He hid where he knew I'd never find him. And now it is time for me to die.
I leap out of the shower. Water covers the floor. I slip, but quickly regain my footing. Naked and vulnerable, I lurch through the door to the wall. And there it is -- my Excalibur. My sword in the stone. The Swiffer. Why did I not think of it before? I pull the slip-on mop cover off, revealing the flat, rock-solid surface, pivoting on its sturdy aluminum handle.
I turn in fluid motion. Time slows down to accommodate this epic moment. The battle has shifted into half-time. My reflexes are heightened. The bee steadies itself just above the shower. The water still running from the shower head. A combination of soap, water, and sweat drip from my naked figure. Unrestricted by clothes, I am no longer civilized man. I am primal beast, defending my home from marauding invaders. I am a savage killer, weened on scraps of the rotting flesh of my enemies.
He prepares for his charge. His wings rear up to propel him forth, but I beat him to it. The Swiffer comes down on him like the hammer of Thor; like the fist of judgment; like the hand of God -- smiting my mortal enemy with all His fiery wrath and damning him to the eternal pile of the corpses of my nemeses. The hornet caves in upon itself. Its entrails explode from its body, staining the Swiffer with a pinkish spray of insides. Its limp body falls from the air, into the waiting sea below him. He lands on the floor of the bathtub. As the current sweeps him away and down the drain, he manages one last final stare up at me, as if to say, in the most utterly astonished way an insect can express itself: How?
I hoist my Swiffer into the air in triumph. The battle has been won, but at what cost? I ponder this as I hold the weapon under the shower head and wipe away the carnage from its brunt. I return it to its sheath on the wall, and wipe away the wreckage from the battle off the floor, so as not to let it drip through the tiles.
I am Dan Sullivan, I roar. INSECT HUNTER.
And then there is peace.
Also, quote of the day, for those who know him:
"I hope the weather is good, and try to tell some Bemis stories."
-Bemis, on my upcoming trip to Los Angeles.
The coffee began its short life several hours ago, when it was first brewed in one of the many large tanks at Orchard Variety and left there and not replaced. I purchased a cup, by rough estimate, somewhere between two and three hours after it could have been considered "stale" by those accustomed to the office coffee pot, or -- better yet! -- a home coffee maker that has not been retired to the scrap heap due to being infested by roaches. On the short drive home, the coffee makes its way down my esophagus, through my intestines, the caffeine sorted out and delivered via jolt to my brain, the rest doomed to my bladder where it will soon need to be released. This is where the coffee's tale ends, and mine begins.
I callously and optimistically proceed through my doorway and into my bathroom. Prepared for launch, the coffee quickly frees itself from its bodily prison and disappears into the lukewarm embrace of the sea below.
While this transaction occurs, an abnormally loud buzzing sound jolts my ear. I turn to face a creature of unparalleled size for this location and climate. Its wingspan is inimitable. It's double-barreled torso is several times the size of that of its peers. Its stinger looks like a gilded arrow, aimed straight for my heart. It glowers at me.
"You are going to die, Dan Sullivan."
Caught offguard, I stumble backward. I clench the mysterious muscle that controls urine flow. I back away through the doorway. The hornet takes up perch in its new domain, above my shower. It owns my bathroom now, it tells me with its piercing gaze; its hollow black eyes showing resolve but not a hint of fear. Unable to face down such a creature with my senses not about me, I cede this moment to it. I recognize his tactical offensive as well-prepared.
I decide that my newfound enemy has won himself a temporary reprieve. I prop open the door to my porch. I allow him the opportunity to escape, to relay the tale to his hornet friends, of how he, the mighty King of All Hornets, stared into the face of his human oppressor and did not show fear. He should be allowed this much. It is only fair. The promise of the open world, I offer him. A world of casual foraging. Care-free nest building. The luxurious lifestyle afforded by taking care of the brood.
I return to the living room and to my quest for the final two Power Bomb tanks. One is in a room I can see through a hole in the floor, but cannot access for seemingly tedious reasons. I explore every adjacent room on the map, but alas, there are no access points. I fucking hate it when they do this. I can hear my Nintendo laughing.
Suddenly, the dreaded feeling. The unfortunate side-effects of the coffee and a cigarette have now activated the other half of the waste-disposal alliance: the colon. It must also relieve itself of the weight it carries. I flee to the bathroom, in one of those sudden rushes of panic when the need to shit hits you like the proverbial ton of bricks. I scan the room to see if my nemesis has accepted my generous compromise. He has not. Perched in the top far corner of the room, puffing out his wings for battle, he waits. He waits for my return, to bury his stinger into my flesh. He is not content to stare down the enemy. He has charted his domain. He is going to stay here. It is his now.
I fall back to the cabinet. No hornet spray. Only roach. I gloss over the label. Do not spray into open air. Fuck. I take stock of the remaining tools in my arsenal. A rolled up magazine? Powerful, but only at short range. All it takes is one miss, and the game is over. Dustpan and brush? Useless. And what of the fabled insect-hunter's weapon of choice -- the broom? Mine is not the sturdiest. It is cheap plastic. Its bristles are light and weak, not the veritable spears attached to the older wooden ones, designed for outdoor use. But it will have to do.
I ready myself at the entrance to the bathroom. I steady my hand. The monster stares down at me. I will only get once chance at this. For if I only wound him, he will flee out of my reach. If I lose sight of him, I might not be able to find him without exposing myself. That would be far too risky. For a moment, I lose my nerve. But my bowels groan, renewing in me a sense of urgency. I release my battle cry, a guttural howl that surely sweeps for miles. I strike. My nemesis is pinned down beneath the bristles. I twist the javelin in my hands, hoping the bristles will tear through his weak exoskeleton and destroy his will. I hold it for a moment. I cannot see beneath the base of the broom. Have I prevailed? Will I reclaim my throne, so to speak?
I let the broom down. The hornet is still alive. He spirals in flight but is still airborne. I swat at him, now at a disadvantage. The broom is not fast or solid enough to bring him down in mid-air. He comes at me. I duck, and roll into the adjacent kitchen. I hit my head on the cabinet. I groan. Round two has been lost as well. My enemy is much smarter than I thought.
I sit back and nurse my wound. I plan my strategy. I am out of options. I am fighting a nimble and agile foe in an enclosed space with very little maneuverability for a human. He has every advantage at his disposal. I pick up the phone, and call the one man I know to be my superior in insect-hunting. A man I have always known to take to the call of battle and slay any spindly wicked creature that dare enter his domain and threaten his ilk: My dad.
My mother answers. How am I doing, did I call the insurance company? Pay my credit card bill? Apply for that job she found in the classifieds? No on all fronts. I need to talk to the insect-hunter, I say. I am in need of his tutelage. She groans. "Ned!" I hear her yell into the ether. "Your son needs your sage wisdom."
He comes on the line. "You have a bee in your bathroom?"
Not a bee, I say. A hornet. And this thing is serious.
"Do you have a magazine? Just roll it up and whack him with it" -- I can practically hear him gesticulating the exact motion he would use over the phone -- "BAM! Like that."
I explain to him the tactile impossibility of such a weapon in this situation. He has seen my bathroom, I tell him. It is not a battleground suited for short-range combat. I would be stung for certain.
"It's probably more afraid of you than you are of it," he sighs.
I am not afraid of anything, I assure him. I am a proud insect hunter of the Sullivan tradition. This is not a bee, it is a fucking hornet, the largest of the eusocial wasps, reaching up to 2.2 inches in length. This one appears to be even larger than that. Perhaps it is even a North American potter wasp. I hear those things decimate.
"Well, do you have a bee-keeper's suit?" he asks.
I sense his sarcasm. The sensei has decided to let the pupil learn for himself. I tell him I'll figure it out and hang up.
Back to business. I summon up the courage. I recognize that I may be stung in this battle, but that it has gone on long enough. And I really have to go to the bathroom. If I don't survive this, at least I will have died at the hands of a worthy adversary. I lower my head in defiance, and charge into the bathroom.
All is quiet. I squat down low to avoid aerial attacks. I survey the scene. Check the upper echelons of the bathroom. Nothing. I survey the walls. I check behind the shade. The shower curtain. The door. He is gone. Perhaps he has fled. Leaving the door open and the porch door propped, I cautiously pull my pants down, and hover above the toilet, clenching my rolled up magazine tight in my hand, ready for a quick strike. My bowels heave a weary sigh, and deposit their load. My enemy has not shown his face. It appears he has retreated, satisfied with the bravery displayed in battle.
The hours go by, and I go about my day. I forget all about the hornet, and the climactic battle fought earlier. I watch a movie. I make a few phone calls. I learn how to play a song. My exhilarating combat experience has given me a new, productive lease on life. I decide to retire, and first to shower.
Under the shower head, I comb my fingers through my hair, and reflect on the day's events. I think of the worthy adversary I faced mere hours earlier. He is probably miles from here by now. Living the good life. Preying on yellow-jackets. Not a care in the world. I wonder what has become of my --
--HOLY SHIT! There he is. Out of nowhere, in a fury. He rears his head and his wings are flapping at full-on speed. He has been biding his time in the nether regions of my bathroom, recovering from my broom-laden assault, waiting for his chance to strike. He knew I'd be too foolish to assume he'd stayed. He hid where he knew I'd never find him. And now it is time for me to die.
I leap out of the shower. Water covers the floor. I slip, but quickly regain my footing. Naked and vulnerable, I lurch through the door to the wall. And there it is -- my Excalibur. My sword in the stone. The Swiffer. Why did I not think of it before? I pull the slip-on mop cover off, revealing the flat, rock-solid surface, pivoting on its sturdy aluminum handle.
I turn in fluid motion. Time slows down to accommodate this epic moment. The battle has shifted into half-time. My reflexes are heightened. The bee steadies itself just above the shower. The water still running from the shower head. A combination of soap, water, and sweat drip from my naked figure. Unrestricted by clothes, I am no longer civilized man. I am primal beast, defending my home from marauding invaders. I am a savage killer, weened on scraps of the rotting flesh of my enemies.
He prepares for his charge. His wings rear up to propel him forth, but I beat him to it. The Swiffer comes down on him like the hammer of Thor; like the fist of judgment; like the hand of God -- smiting my mortal enemy with all His fiery wrath and damning him to the eternal pile of the corpses of my nemeses. The hornet caves in upon itself. Its entrails explode from its body, staining the Swiffer with a pinkish spray of insides. Its limp body falls from the air, into the waiting sea below him. He lands on the floor of the bathtub. As the current sweeps him away and down the drain, he manages one last final stare up at me, as if to say, in the most utterly astonished way an insect can express itself: How?
I hoist my Swiffer into the air in triumph. The battle has been won, but at what cost? I ponder this as I hold the weapon under the shower head and wipe away the carnage from its brunt. I return it to its sheath on the wall, and wipe away the wreckage from the battle off the floor, so as not to let it drip through the tiles.
I am Dan Sullivan, I roar. INSECT HUNTER.
And then there is peace.
Also, quote of the day, for those who know him:
"I hope the weather is good, and try to tell some Bemis stories."
-Bemis, on my upcoming trip to Los Angeles.
8/19/09
Two REALLY IMPORTANT THINGS to consider
1) Someone give me the address of the ad agency responsible for the latest round of Jack In The Box® ads, and a machine gun.
I will never eat a Mini Sirloin Burger™ as long as I live, purely out of spite for that snowball-headed goon and his pointy hat and his lack of fresh dance moves.
2) I am probably the worst IMer ever. I always type in a stream-of-consciousness type of way
iamdanscolon (10:35) often spanning multiple messages
iamdanscolon (10:35) just as things occur to me
iamdanscolon (10:35) such as
iamdanscolon (10:35) a burrito would taste
iamdanscolon (10:35) absolutely DELICIOUS
iamdanscolon (10:35) right now.
iamdanscolon (10:36) And also I will watch Top Chef for the next ten minutes if it really is as good as you say
iamdanscolon (10:36) but Michael & Michael is on after that
iamdanscolon (10:36) and so I'll be forced to switch
iamdanscolon (10:36) also ampersands are dope.
iamdanscolon (10:36) Thoughts?
And just like that, I have now left you with three different topics which you could respond to, forcing you (short of creating a bulleted list) to respond to only one, thereby forcing you also to abandon two other completely legitimate avenues of possible discourse.
We may never know where the burrito conversation might have gone. But now it's in Conversation Heaven. And lost to us all.
Forever.
Fuck.
I will never eat a Mini Sirloin Burger™ as long as I live, purely out of spite for that snowball-headed goon and his pointy hat and his lack of fresh dance moves.
2) I am probably the worst IMer ever. I always type in a stream-of-consciousness type of way
iamdanscolon (10:35) often spanning multiple messages
iamdanscolon (10:35) just as things occur to me
iamdanscolon (10:35) such as
iamdanscolon (10:35) a burrito would taste
iamdanscolon (10:35) absolutely DELICIOUS
iamdanscolon (10:35) right now.
iamdanscolon (10:36) And also I will watch Top Chef for the next ten minutes if it really is as good as you say
iamdanscolon (10:36) but Michael & Michael is on after that
iamdanscolon (10:36) and so I'll be forced to switch
iamdanscolon (10:36) also ampersands are dope.
iamdanscolon (10:36) Thoughts?
And just like that, I have now left you with three different topics which you could respond to, forcing you (short of creating a bulleted list) to respond to only one, thereby forcing you also to abandon two other completely legitimate avenues of possible discourse.
We may never know where the burrito conversation might have gone. But now it's in Conversation Heaven. And lost to us all.
Forever.
Fuck.
4/28/09
Please Please Please
No more commercials with talking, singing, or psychotic yelling dogs. No dog thinks dog food tastes that good. And if dogs could talk, but they would sound like they do in commercials, I would totally not want dogs to talk. Please make it stop. I'll do anything.
4/3/09
Can we just...
...skip the obligatory gay-marriage-was-legalized-in-such-and-such-state stories? Don't get me wrong. I'm all for gay marriage. But every time a new state Supreme Court declares it legal, the news story following it is EXACTLY the same. There is a very specific template I believe they use for these stories that looks something like this:
(Capital city of state in question) -- The (state) Supreme Court declared in a (proportion) decision Monday that Article (obscure number), the decades-old law that prevented gays from marrying, was invalid under the state constitution. Chief Justice (person's name), who authored the decision, stated that the law was overturned on the basis of a passage in the state's constitution and other complicated shit no one fully understands. "What I'm trying to say," (name of Justice) stated frankly, "is that we are NOT participating in activist judgery."
Reactions to the decision has left (state)'s residents bitterly divided. "This is a heroic day for heroism," said Tim McFinnery, president of the GLBT group We The Gay Lesbian Bisexual Transgenderal People Demand Rights!, based in southern (city). "It's great that the courts have finally gotten around to recognizing the obvious fact that no rational person really has any good reason to give a shit what we do in the privacy of our own homes."
Others were not so pleased. "ACTIVIST JUDGES FUCK SHIT LIBERAL ASSHOLES SODOMY GOD CONDEMNATION!!!" commented John J. Uppercrust, spokesman for Family Family Family Seriously This Is All About Family, a group with ties to Super-Mega-Ultra-Jesus-Ministries, a high profile church in (city). "MORAL FIBER SHIT ASS JESUS FROWN FAMILY VALUES MORAL LIBERAL ACTIVIST BULLSHIT GAY BIAS!!!"
The five most prominent Roman Catholic Bishops in the state released a joint statement early Monday, stating:
Seriously. Can't we just skip all this shit and just say "MARRIAGE LEGALIZED, OBNOXIOUS SELF-RIGHTEOUSNESS ENSUES?" That would be easier and less degrading to the moral fiber of my brain waves.
(Capital city of state in question) -- The (state) Supreme Court declared in a (proportion) decision Monday that Article (obscure number), the decades-old law that prevented gays from marrying, was invalid under the state constitution. Chief Justice (person's name), who authored the decision, stated that the law was overturned on the basis of a passage in the state's constitution and other complicated shit no one fully understands. "What I'm trying to say," (name of Justice) stated frankly, "is that we are NOT participating in activist judgery."
Reactions to the decision has left (state)'s residents bitterly divided. "This is a heroic day for heroism," said Tim McFinnery, president of the GLBT group We The Gay Lesbian Bisexual Transgenderal People Demand Rights!, based in southern (city). "It's great that the courts have finally gotten around to recognizing the obvious fact that no rational person really has any good reason to give a shit what we do in the privacy of our own homes."
Others were not so pleased. "ACTIVIST JUDGES FUCK SHIT LIBERAL ASSHOLES SODOMY GOD CONDEMNATION!!!" commented John J. Uppercrust, spokesman for Family Family Family Seriously This Is All About Family, a group with ties to Super-Mega-Ultra-Jesus-Ministries, a high profile church in (city). "MORAL FIBER SHIT ASS JESUS FROWN FAMILY VALUES MORAL LIBERAL ACTIVIST BULLSHIT GAY BIAS!!!"
The five most prominent Roman Catholic Bishops in the state released a joint statement early Monday, stating:
"THOUSAND YEARS SODOMY FAMILY PURSUE EVERY LEGAL AVENUE PRAYER UNDERSTANDING OF MARRIAGE GAY SEX GREIVOUS HARM TO CHILDREN!!!"
Seriously. Can't we just skip all this shit and just say "MARRIAGE LEGALIZED, OBNOXIOUS SELF-RIGHTEOUSNESS ENSUES?" That would be easier and less degrading to the moral fiber of my brain waves.
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