Tuesday, December 22, 2009 :::
Secondhand Rants will return on Tuesday, January 05.
Posted by Ben at 11:57 PM
Thursday, December 17, 2009 :::
Walk into an animal shelter with the scent of chicken on your clothing--not just any chicken, mind you, but chicken marinated in savory chipotle pepper adobo--and you will command an attentive canine audience. That's what I learned from my last trip to the pound, which happened to be adjacent to my weekly visit to Chipotle, and I'm still trying to understand the implications of smelling delicious to dogs.
There were a lot more jumpers during the visit, for starters, along with a higher frequency of frenzied barking. "They're in jail," explained the staffer, and accordingly kennel manners shouldn't be regarded as an accurate representation of true behavior. I wasn't so sure, though, because a dog that leaps two or three feet into the air, kennel or no kennel, certainly has the capacity to do likewise in your home. Eau de Burrito may actually be far more than an offshoot of lunch, then, and I plan on cloaking myself in it when I continue my dog hunt this weekend.
And while part of me wishes the same hounds I saw two weeks ago are still there, another part of me hopes for a new batch, perhaps one with the right mutt for me. There are really two main breeds, the staff member told me as he made an imaginary fork with his hands: those who hunt, and those who are domesticated. He then listed the attributes of each, to which I replied that neither sounded interesting. I wanted something in the middle. "A social dog," he concluded. A social dog. Imagine that.
Posted by Ben at 11:59 AM
Tuesday, December 15, 2009 :::
Whenever a Saab is manufactured, there is cause for celebration and marvel, the likes of which are normally reserved for documenting the birth of exotic animals. The process may, in fact, lend itself to scholarly scrutiny for decades to come, but here are the highlights: the engine comes from Germany, the transmission system from Japan, the frame itself possibly from Australia, and all the parts congregate in a Swedish factory where, in the heart of Nordic country, a car is born, and at the end of the assembly line sits a fellow who professionally fucks shit up. That's what the placard says, anyway--Professional Shit Fucker Upper, Esq.
My car ate it again yesterday evening, this time in front of the downtown Ritz, right in the parking circle during a business meeting. I was standing at the bar, mojito clutched in hand, ever thankful the establishment had the good graces to purchase mint leaves, when the valet scurried over and discreetly informed me that something was wrong. One of the staff must've jiggled the smart key just so, effectively locking the steering column and rendering the automobile inoperable. As far as venues go, there are far worse places for a Saab to sit lifeless, I suppose, and I can only hope it puttered out really classy-like and died, perhaps, in French.
Moments later I was in the driver's seat, cursing my ill fortune and turning both key and wheel hither and yon, praying to God that something would disengage. Then I looked up and there, not a foot away from the hood, appeared Hap seemingly out of nowhere, waving and grinning, and I can only conclude she is the albatross of cartastrophe. I thought back to the recent incident and wondered whether this would happen every month.
One of the more immediate concerns is whether to heckle the Ritz for towing and repair costs. Is $160 worth the time? Is a claim ticket enough documentation to pursue this avenue? Certainly my car was temperamental beforehand, but even so it was working fine until I handed my key to the valet who, according to one of the more junior staffers, had "over ten years of valet experience," which apparently translates into the ability to park expertly in anywhere but the actual garage.
The larger issue, of course, is what to do with the car. During a routine oil change last week, this very question became the topic of discussion. Dutch recommended I sell it, set it on fire and collect the insurance payout, or keep it and indirectly fund a Harvard education for his children. Well, I'm writing off yesterday's episode to valet incompetence. There's got to be another 60,000 miles left on this thing. Right? I guess this means I'm taking "Pahk the cah in the Hahvahd Yahd" for a couple thousand dollars, Mr. Trebek.
Posted by Ben at 11:59 PM
Thursday, December 10, 2009 :::
We have an agreement, you and I, an unspoken blogging arrangement that doesn't ask for much: you pay a visit to this site, and in return I give you my full attention. I've violated this covenant tonight, however, because I'm thinking about an entirely different piece of text right now. It's a prayer I wrote for a college commencement in '02. Not my own school, to be clear, where I flew as far beneath the radar as possible, but the university in my hometown.
I won't burden you with much more context, so in brief I was a junior myself then, eager to tackle the challenge of shoehorning an inherently religious set of words into more ecumenical terms. I wrote a page, it was delivered, received well, and now, seven years later, I need to do it again. Initially I thought I could dust off the original model and borrow liberally from it, if not copy it wholesale.
But when I cracked open the prayer tonight, read it again, I cringed. It's still mechanically sound, though the positives end there. In truth it's ornate. Heavy and overwrought. I guess parallel structure must've been cool at the time, because there sure is a lot of it. Parts of it also seem vaguely unoriginal, as if I had gone on a wild plagiaristic binge at a local Hallmark. There's cheese, too--literary cheese, perhaps the smelliest kind of all. Bottom line, it's a commencement prayer that tries a little too hard to be a commencement prayer.
Circumstances were partly to blame, I think. When I originally wrote it, I was enamored with the idea of graduating, since I had yet to reach the milestone myself. Now here, on the other side of the river, I'd much prefer to paint the ivory tower as a pillar of carnies and horseshit. I'd like to address the graduating class and say--hey!--your professors are probably bored out of their minds right now, and God help you make the most of your investment in this wretched job market. That would be crass and selfish, of course, on a day that really belongs to students and their families.
We were supposed to chat about dogs tonight, but with the commencement fast approaching, we'll need to postpone our discussion. I plan on writing the prayer this weekend. All I've got to do is lock onto a few feel-good ideas, let them percolate, then wrap it all in prose that is earnest and effortless--eloquent in economy, rather than excess. And it better have a hell of a lot less alliteration than what you just saw. Green eggs and fuckin' ham, this is going to take some elbow grease.
Posted by Ben at 11:59 PM
Tuesday, December 08, 2009 :::
There in the animal shelter, on a chilly Sunday afternoon, I wondered whether any other terrible realizations would come to mind as a light-brown lab canvassed the floor of the visiting room, sniffing every inch for--what, a cake with a file in it? Secret instructions left by another dog on how to escape? Hope? Perhaps she simply craved more treats and thought the three I had given her were but a formality, a kind of perfunctory doggie-human handshake.
But whether I had three treats or thirty-three treats, she wasn't the right dog for me, a fact the staff worker seemed eager to drive home. Why didn't she regard me as the alpha dog, he wondered? Well, Cesar, maybe it's because you work here and you've got a goddamn fanny pack full of treats, I suggested, only without the "Cesar" and the "goddamn." To be clear, though, the staff here was far, far more attentive than the humane society, plus everybody had all their teeth and nobody tried to shoehorn me into a five- or six-pound breed.
There was a discussion about breeds, mind you, but we'll need to wait until Thursday for those deep insights. For now, let's return to the terrible realizations, one of which was a disappointing acknowledgment that New Year's may be too aggressive a deadline. I want a rescue, sure, but I don't want to be saddled with a rashly chosen rescue for 10-15 years. The really grim part, though, was when the staffer extolled the high turnover of the establishment and how waiting would only result in a larger selection. The churn, the heartbreaking coming and going of canine inmates, the very thing I was trying to plan against, may be exactly what I need.
Posted by Ben at 11:59 PM
Thursday, December 03, 2009 :::
For those decisions that involve more than what's for breakfast, or which pair of socks you're going to wear for the day, there's a real chance of second-guessing yourself. You may go to bed resolved, your mind set on a particular course of action, and then awaken to a morning where all your carefully constructed reasons have disappeared. The convictions you were so sure about, the plan you were certain would hold water in any storm, gone.
You may at this moment be wondering where this is heading. Am I going to shop for, like, coffins or something this weekend, and who died? Did the coffin salesman himself croak? I don't believe so, at least I hope not, and the point here is more to share the overthinking that can extend its neurotic grip on me. Now, I obviously don't view it as overthinking when I'm in the thick of it, but I'll be the first to admit to such after the fact.
This ritual of tracing how my choices may change overnight thankfully doesn't happen every day. It's more for the big-ticket items, like hunting for my house or this job. A few weeks ago, I told you about my search for a dog. The place, the date, the method. And wouldn't you know it, this decision looks to be closer to the big stuff than, say, choosing between a burrito and a sandwich for lunch tomorrow. So what changed between the last time we spoke and tonight?
Nothing, surprisingly. I'm making my second trip to the shelter on Sunday. The last time I visited, I mistakenly left with one of their pencils, which will return to its rightful owners and--perhaps!--be traded for something much, much better.
Posted by Ben at 11:59 PM
Tuesday, December 01, 2009 :::
The only difference between the delicious farm animals I consumed last week and, well, me is that one of us contributed absolutely nothing to the holidays. All parties were well-fed, of course, a fact merely amplified by large stretches of grazing and minimal exercise, and relaxation was the overriding frame of mind, with little worry about work, or deadlines, or why Farmer Fitzgibbons is sharpening his favorite ax oh holy shit. But whereas the turkey ultimately gave its life to be the glorious centerpiece of the table, or Wilbur likewise to furnish pepperoni for a sumptuous deep-dish pizza, I mainly sat.
Yes, sat. I sat in front of the laptop. I sat in my car for four consecutive traffic jams. I sat in front of the TV for a movie. I sat in front of the TV again to watch improbably athletic people play basketball. I sat in front of another TV in the house, far removed from family members, with the Xbox as it hummed its secret frequencies to me. Then, the PS3. Then, back to the Xbox. There was an opportunity to play golf, the non-digital kind, but when it conveniently evaporated I rejoiced. I rejoiced! For unto Man was given little patience for golf, and blessed is he who owns clubs, yet refrains from ever using them.
I communed, instead, with screens. In the sitting position. And even as my eyes glazed over, even as I reaffirmed my vow to never buy a TV for my own abode, I was dimly aware that my guidelines for media consumption were changing. I've shared with you some thoughts on media self-consciousness, which previously seemed so very important. It still is important, to a degree, but the cardinal rule, the precept inviolate, is escapism. Media is my alcohol, in a way. It's what I consume to route my mind away from the day-to-day, smooth out the grind, and I've become more aware of shows and games and movies that seek to supplant this.
This title, for instance, fell comfortably within the limits of media self-consciousness, due largely to its healthy marketing push. People have heard of it. Maybe they've seen the commercials. But that's not enough, because when your entertainment asks you to shiv exactly five guards, placed at opposite ends of an accurately modeled Venice, and you need to pop open the in-game GPS to locate your targets, the escapism vanishes. Or maybe you're searching for a hundred goddamn feathers in a stunning recreation of Florence. Why bother, you know? Suddenly it feels like I'm volunteering or something, rather than escaping, and what's more I paid 50-odd bucks to do so. Now compare this to a show like Bones, where time simply flies. I forget where I am. I'm going to hit the "publish" button now, in fact, so I can let the forgetting begin.
Posted by Ben at 11:28 PM
