Tuesday, November 24, 2009 :::
Secondhand Rants will return on Tuesday, December 01.
Posted by Ben at 12:00 AM
Thursday, November 19, 2009 :::
The companion piece to the story I told you on Tuesday is, of course, my story, and because I do possess opposable thumbs, along with a working knowledge of how they function against a keyboard, you shall witness text--lines and lines and lines of it--unfold before you on your digital device. It will be a technological curiosity, a dazzling display of Web wizardry circa late 90s, or whenever people still capitalized the word "Web," crashing into your space-age doodad.
The original story was simple. In it, I would adopt a dog right around this time, thereby completing some kind of iconic Thanksgiving picture in my head, where family and canine alike are gathered around a roaring hearth on a chilly evening. We would go around the room, each giving reasons for how fortunate we are, and the pooch would partake as well, because she would know that this is the season for giving thanks. Also for tryptophan ingestion, but that's tangential.
As is usually the case, though, simple quickly gives way to something far denser, and here we are. For starters, I'm pretty sure the dog doesn't care what time of the year you adopt her, or whether it's a national holiday, and the thought patterns probably go more like this: hungry, sleepy, hungry, thirsty, pee, sleepy, OH GOD WHERE IS THE DOG IN THE ADJACENT KENNEL GOING, hungry, time to poop. She doesn't know this is when the Pilgrims first shook hands with the indigenous peoples, simultaneously thanking them for maize while transferring foreign pathogens. She doesn't know about cornucopias filled with fruit. I mean, for fuck's sake! I don't even know what a cornucopia is exactly. Are there, like, cornucopia factories somewhere and, if so, what do they weave during the other 11 months of the year?
The real plan, then. I'm going to commit before New Year's Day. You may wonder why, after all this talk about holidays, and it's because surrenders typically increase after this time of year, or so I've heard. People may receive pets for Christmas, then realize they can't handle them. Perhaps the festivities hit the budget particularly hard, and it's time to pull back and roll out a clean slate, starting with a deposit at the local shelter. With this flood of new arrivals comes the need to make space, and you know what that means. I'm also going to find out which dogs are on the chopping block, if I may be blunt here. I imagine the ones that have been at the shelter the longest are on the short list, once the influx hits, and I'd prefer to look at this group first. Certainly I won't adopt solely on this fact, since I'm going to have to live with this decision for a long time, but it's a starting point.
You may accuse me of overthinking matters here, and you'd likely be right. The kennels will always be filled--slowly at times, quickly at others--and the churn will always be there, and the choice I make will be one grain against the gale. But this is a vote that truly matters to the party involved. It's going to be a ballot done right.
Posted by Ben at 10:58 PM
Tuesday, November 17, 2009 :::
Kennel by kennel, in one drab cell after another, stories were being written by animals who altogether lacked opposable thumbs and communicated mainly by barking. But the stories were nonetheless gripping, far outpacing that Da Vinci Code garbage, and when all was said and done, it was the same story--the same theme, really--for every dog: uncertainty. Large paws, small paws, all clicking to a tentative beat.
To be clear, though, the facilities were on the level with the humane society, maybe even a notch or two nicer, and with its colored roof and paved parking lot, it could have passed for a school or a church, were it not for the barbed wire fences. It was a gorgeous Sunday as well, 80 degrees in mid-November, sunny, the kind of weather that could only conceivably feel better in 1080p resolution. Few could complain. Few on the outside, at least, because the building interior was overwhelmingly blue, gray, and beige. The paint job, let's be honest here, mattered little to these inmates, though.
This wasn't my first kill shelter, but it was the first kill shelter I've visited in such close time proximity to a humane society, and the difference was stark. The largest change was in the general demeanor of the dogs, who were more subdued, more deferential. There was one jumper and a few of the puppies were sleeping, if I recall correctly, but by and large each dog, no matter the breed or size, would walk up to the chain-link, head slightly bowed at times, tail wagging hopefully. Heartbreaking, in a word, and this will only make it more difficult to choose.
The humane society dogs were comparatively more entitled, or as entitled as any surrendered pet can possibly be, and I know it's ridiculous to say so. There was simply more napping, a lot less desperation, and a take-it-or-leave-it vibe. And with three squares, the occasional walk, and no looming threat of execution, who can blame them? Dogs can sense death, I believe, especially that of their peers. When my family dog passed away, I mistakenly placed his freshly made urn in the living room, much to the chagrin of the new dog. There was a lot of wretched whining until I relocated the remains to the garage before burial. Perhaps it's a sixth sense, or maybe death itself commands a certain smell, but dogs know. They know.
And what I know is I'm setting up shop at this shelter. This is where the search ends, and the final stretch is falling into place. Time frame, full plan, the works. More on Thursday.
Posted by Ben at 11:27 PM
Thursday, November 12, 2009 :::
When you take the normal contour of blogs, where one post appears after the other in a steady flow of text, and fill it as I do with pronouncements of every kind, you may think I make good on my vows in the same sequential manner. We'll discuss my desire to cook better, for example, and it might appear as if I'm ready to make the most delectable sandwich on earth the following weekend, only to do nothing of the sort. There have been some evenings in the past few weeks, in fact, where I've subsisted wholly on popcorn, which is as far away from cooking as you can get, short of running out the door and foraging for berries, then taking a bite out of the neighbor's dog.
But it doesn't mean I've forgotten about my culinary stake in the ground, nor has my desire to construct the perfect sandwich diminished. It's there, in a crock pot brimming with other thoughts, simmering until I decide to pursue it. Really, it's more a question of when, rather than if, and along those lines I'm looking at this weekend as a refrain on some pursuits from earlier this year.
For one thing, I'm still volunteering occasionally, though my motives for participating remain as single-minded as ever. It's not my passion to serve recovering alcoholics, and I'm still deflecting that vile feeling of togetherness with the other volunteers, but it's the beef that keeps bringing me back, specifically how to achieve an optimal texture. I've yet to formulate a reproducible method, so further research is needed.
Also, a dog. The humane society sounds great on paper, but after another disappointing visit last Sunday, I decided to expand my horizons and visit a different shelter this weekend. I simply haven't been able to find any compelling rescues at the society, and more to the point one of the staff members seems intent on deciding which dog I should want, stubbornly insisting on the smaller breeds based on how big she imagines my townhouse to be. She also doesn't have her front teeth, which for some reason undermines her credibility. It's, like, I'm not looking for a mastiff, you toothless wench! Something in the 50-, 60-pound range with a mellow temperament. No, I don't want to take the rat terrier for a walk. Go away, please. So, a kill shelter this weekend. Sure, I won't be able to save them all, but I'll be able to give one rescue the last thing she expects on doggie death row. An exit.
Posted by Ben at 11:48 PM
Tuesday, November 10, 2009 :::
Phone books, I've concluded, are what annoyed people before the advent of the Internet and pop-up ads, showing up on doorsteps once a year, garish and large, in a desperate yellow bid to seize your attention. Honestly, now--when was the last time you cracked open a telephone directory? Exactly. Nevertheless, it continues to appear uninvited, and you've got to wonder about the economics behind such an institution. It's like the Radio Shack of books, in a way, because it persists, yet you don't know precisely why or how. Do people really buy that many batteries and transistors every month? Do businesses actually pay cash money to advertise in these hallowed pages? Why not purchase ad space inside, like, a dinosaur instead?
These are the mysteries of the modern world, but we're not here to talk about phone books tonight. No, it's more the time of year these books arrive--and are promptly pitched into the recycling bin--that's relevant to me, because it's usually around now that I mark my birthday. Normally I'd avoid mentioning as much because I prefer to fly under the radar, but yesterday was an exception because it began exceptionally poorly.
The long and the short of it is my car became surly as I was on my way to a celebratory lunch, its fine GM-quality construction kicking in at the perfect moment, effectively locking both my steering column and key in place. Apparently the piece of shit thought I was stealing it. Or something? Security measures sprung to life, preemptively warding off anybody in the Target parking lot who was planning on hot wiring my ride, and right then and there, as the smart key sat stupidly in place, I despised technology even more. What ever happened to plain metal keys that could activate automobiles with a simple turn?
After missing most of my workday, with two hours allotted to waiting for the tow truck, then another two to three hours spent getting my car onto said tow truck and transporting it to the dealership, where they essentially rebooted the security system for fifty bucks, I've garnered substantial insights. Prior to yesterday I operated from a framework of avoiding problems like this one. My goal, in other words, was to minimize the quantity of drama. But that's something you can't really control. For all I know, the goddamn wheels are probably going to fall off tomorrow, if everything goes well, right before my portfolio implodes and swine flu wracks my body. The real goal, I realized, is the art and manner in which I handle issues like this, and if the only way to figure this out was through a busted car, eighty-nine bucks out of pocket, and a few hours of waiting, well, it might just be the best present in years.
Posted by Ben at 11:53 PM
Thursday, November 05, 2009 :::
I'm going to proclaim something tonight, much to the chagrin of the St. Pauli Girl, patron spirit of all that is alcoholic, and it is this: here, at my current juncture, I'm content with a two-cocktail limit. Perhaps the optimal threshold is three, or possibly I could ingest double that without incurring the crazy eyes, but this is country I'm simply not interested in charting. It's, like, I could get soused enough to start swinging from chandeliers, though I'm far more interested in retaining the ability to spell chandaleers without the aid of corrective software.
I assure you I can spell tonight, in addition to honoring the hallowed traditions of subject-verb conjumugation, and I shall marshal both in the service of dispensing deep social insights. First, though, some thoughts about Jack and Coke. Look, I don't know who this Jack fellow is, but his life's work seems to center on the wholesale ruin of soft drinks. It's a culinary travesty, really, and you'd think something called "whiskey" would whisk you away to somewhere other than throwing up in your mouth a little. Or a lot.
But my axons are marinating not in adult beverages, but in two questions posed by the Operator. What do I find engaging? And why is it that people would easily label her as social, while I would instantly be classified as the exact opposite, even though she might also gravitate toward disengagement?
I find the second question easier to answer, because I believe people possess different capacities for social engagement. It's a finite substance, in other words. Whereas one person could convincingly fulfill social contracts at happy hour, then a business dinner, then a party, all in the same day, another person might be drained after a single exchange with a telemarketer. I'm exaggerating here, of course, so here's a more concrete example. I can recall at least two business dinners where I've contributed no more than a dozen syllables, which to others might seem like I'm suffering from adult-onset autism, when really my social points are just depleted, and conversing about the fucking weather or how A-Rod is doing these days just doesn't affect the price of tea in India.
The first question--What do I find engaging?--is actually the same question I asked a few weeks ago, I realized. It's a better way of asking my question--Why is it so difficult to connect?--because I have a habit of thinking in negatives. Let me explain. A potter takes a mass of clay and shapes it into what he wants. If you know how engravings or reliefs are made, well, that's how I tend to approach matters, by carving away what isn't to reach what is. This strikes me as roundabout, and maybe if I ask the right question I can save a whole lot of time and heartache. It's time to be the potter, I think, and listen to the wheel whir as it reveals its secrets.
Posted by Ben at 11:59 PM
Tuesday, November 03, 2009 :::
We usually celebrate every Tuesday with a different topic, a custom grown more out of my deficient attention span than anything else, but this evening is different. I'm still thinking about pathogens, specifically the avoidance of such, and in doing so I may have become a hypostrongdiac, a variation on the sniffling, WebMD-trolling species you know too well. Rather than embrace and catalog all manners of germs, I'm preoccupied with sidestepping them via homebrew remedies, sheer conviction that I must not get sick, and, of course, social distancing.
On Sunday, for instance, prior to lining up for communion I pored over a blurb in the program about how the bread was both baked and presented by the congregation's children. This was adorable--I guess?--and truly horrific, once I pictured a band of soot-covered street urchins emerging from the hospital dumpster to prepare the Lord's supper. Jesus Christ indeed. As I approached the tainted sacraments, eight feet, then six feet, then two, watching as parishioners took and ate, none the wiser, I suddenly veered off and retreated to a pew, relieved beyond measure that I did not partake.
And when I'm not engaged in evasive maneuvers at church, I'm stocking up on sleep. I've been catching about six to six-and-a-half hours each night for the past few months, which just hasn't been cutting it, so I've been ponying up for an extra hour or two recently. There are health benefits to this, I'm sure, but really I've rediscovered that sleep may be my most favorite thing. Television and video games, viable sources of escapism they may be, simply can't hold a candle to a cost-effective nap. You shut your eyes, and suddenly you're two hours into the future. They call that time travel in some circles.
Posted by Ben at 11:23 PM
