All you need is a gust of crisp, uncompromising subzero wind and you know: Old Man Winter’s here, and he just renewed your membership for another three months. Other creatures apparently have received the same proposition, insects with limbs multifarious who’ve accounted for a groundswell of immigration to my apartment.
I’ve murdered three centipedes in the past two weeks, which in bug terms is prodigious, surpassing even my summer kill count in sheer density. I could be more ecumenical, I suppose, and warmly welcome beasts of different colors, sizes, and poison levels, but this isn’t Ellis Island. This is wintertime, Chicago, where the huddled, squirming, and frighteningly quick masses will be crushed.
Crushing, however, isn’t the preferred way to go. Way too messy. If you’re hunting centipede, I recommend sprays for optimal cleanliness-to-death quotient–even cleaners like Fantastik will work just fine. You see, these bastards are very mobile, but they’re very porous as well, what I’d strategically deem “soft targets.” They’ll soak up liquid and take it to heart, water notwithstanding. Spray them on the wall and they’ll probably detach and demonstrate the meaning of scurry, though, so don’t lose sight of your quarry.
Cockroaches are entirely different, since they’re built to last. “Hard targets,” if you’ll indulge me, and thankfully these almost never appear. Bludgeoning them to death is the best option, I’d argue, Neanderthaloid as it may seem. A few months ago, after spending the better part of a week on an adult, it felt wrong to slam it with a toilet brush repeatedly. I’m talking short-lived guilt, particularly because the dustbin was right there.
When you think of divorced parents, it’s easy to invoke images of weeping children, embittered attorneys, the entrails of puppies freshly matted on the sidewalk–indeed, the very sundering of the American dream. Honestly, though, it’s not that bad. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not advocating they peddle marriage licenses in the clearance aisle at your local Dollar City, complete with generous return policy. I’m just saying, you know? People make their choices, hopefully after prudent consideration, and devote themselves with the best intentions, but should something become broken with too many jagged edges, well, that’s called imperfection.
I’ve got to tell you, though, planning air travel is fucking trauma. Clinically proven, do you understand? I could feel Southwest.com quiver with delight as it presented an intricate ballet of flights and layovers and specials, a unique choreography for which I would be made the dark-haired ingenue. This is the kind of thing that would’ve made Balanchine throw up his hands and commit to an eternity of dinner theater in the Norshore.
While we’re on the subject of hateful musical pursuits, I bought Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory last week because it only set me back $5.99. I reasoned, “Hey, I’d trade a burrito for a DVD!” Here is a maxim possibly related to the last sentence: just because something is cheap does not warrant its purchase. I should’ve gotten the burrito. Hell, even the foil wrapping the burrito would’ve provided more entertainment value.
I don’t have a problem with musicals. Why not break into song at the most inopportune times? It’s a certain inflection that encourages white-hot rage, however, and the specifics are tough to verbalize. Basically there’s an extra layer of self realization. An actor will sing and an actress will perform, and they will make it known they are singing and performing.
You hear it in Lassie, Charade, and definitely when Aubrey Woods croons about being the Candy Man. Oh, gosh, the Candy Man. Not only does he indicate he’s the Candy Man, he also clearly indicates he’s singing about being the Candy Man. Same thing when Grandpa Joe leaps out of bed and into dance. Every step, every gimp, loudly proclaims, “Look at me! I’m singing.” That’s when I stopped the movie. I need my films, books, and games–my media, if I may use the word incorrectly–to dispense seamless escapism.
Had you asked me to hold forth on the virtues of chess when I was 12 years old, I would’ve gestured wildly toward the whole winning thing and promptly swallowed a rook. The joy of victory is pronounced and convenient–and really, it’s a poor man’s source of enjoyment.
One of my then-proudest moments was in high school homeroom early in the morning, where I played a fellow I disliked immensely and took all his pieces without losing any of my own. A girl who was watching giggled straight through the endgame. Who says chess isn’t a fount of machismo? I’m talking a warm glow from first to third period, maybe even gym.
But that was childish. A few years and a bucketful of losses later, I can sort of articulate what makes the game so fun. The function of luck, that’s one thing. Chess certainly allows for it, though it doesn’t require it, nor does it thrive on the stuff. Your opponent may make a glaring mistake, or you may do the same and wish for a break, but neither case is really beneficial. All told, it’s usually your fault and your merit, and there’s a sense of contentment from this accountability.
More poignant are those moments when you invent something and it’s completely yours. You’ve probably experienced the same thing in music, cooking, art, anything where you start off learning the motions, expressing by rote. And then one day in a flash of inspiration you build upon your static knowledge and improvise, producing a fresh piece, dish, or stratagem. That instant is utterly captivating, and I’m glad to be playing again.