Near the top of every modern day remote control are a series of buttons indicating the various pieces of electronic equipment you have stacked in your walnut-brown entertainment console, like a ziggurat to the Gods of Home Media: VCR, DVD, AUD, TV, CBL. Pushing CBL/Power followed by TV/Power makes television shows appear, that much you know. You need to push the CBL button again if you wish to access the interactive program guide, and the TV button again if you want to adjust the volume. Don’t touch any of the other buttons, for the love of God. VCR, DVD and AUD are known as the “Fuck Everything Up Buttons.” And see that button in the upper right, the one mysteriously labeled STD. I wouldn’t touch that one unless you have cheap, unlimited access to antibiotics.
Actually, the remote control is silly with buttons you’ve probably never touched. If you’re anything like me, you’re afraid to touch them for fear that they’ll unlock a door to some other dimension, or at the very least royally screw up your television. To you I say this – fear is good. Let us review:
The “Master Power” Button
Don’t be flattered by the naming of the “Master Power” button. You are not the “master” of anything. It’s a canard. The “Master Power” button is the cable company’s version of the famed Milgram experiment in social psychology, a means to test your obedience to their authority. Unfortunately if you wish to watch American Idol, you’ll need to press this button. Just know who’s in charge.
The “Set-up” Button
The Set-up Button is the portal to a Matrix-like web of menu options that will confound your faith in the objective reality of existence. Pressers of the Set-up Button can only be saved by an emergency, two-hour phone date with a thickly accented, unduly deferential customer care provider who serves as a kind of home electronics shaman and apologizes a lot. You’ll live a much simpler, happier life if you don’t press the Set-up Button.
The Buttons of Redundancy
Somewhere on your remote you’re likely to find a cluster of buttons with names like “Guide,” “Info” and “Menu.” These pretty much all take you to the interactive program guide, owned and operated by the bots who hostilely overthrew the publishers of the once-popular, weekly periodical TV Guide. There may also be a button named “Settings.” This sounds a bit too similar to “Set-up,” if you ask me. I think it’s a trap. Oh, and the button marked “Exit”? I know a guy who knows a guy who pushed it and woke up with a black eye at the mouth of the Lincoln Tunnel, Weehawken-side. You have been warned.
The “Answers” Button
What does this button do? Is it like some kind of Magic 8-Ball, filled with fortunes and good, sound advice?
Q: Is there a reason why I can’t DVR more than two shows at a time?
A: As I see it, yes. You’re looking a little fat there on the sofa. Go out for a walk or something.
Q: Should I watch the MTV show Skins?
A: My sources say no. You’re too old for that shit. People will think you’re a perv.
True story: because I am a crackerjack researcher, I elected to press the “Answers” button and, well, get some answers. Without explanation, the station mysteriously changed to something called Kid Shows On Demand. I am left to assume that the Question, preprogrammed by Time Warner for the convenience of busy and/or distracted parents, is something like “mindless activities to distract my impossibly needy, pain-in-the-ass children?”
The “Aspect” Button
Once upon a time my sturdy, dependable, 500 pound, solid-state Magnavox television – the same one I’d been watching for 15 years – utterly shit the bed, and I was forced to upgrade to a newfangled, flat screen, HD Samsung. High Def! I was pretty excited, particularly when, while watching Lost, I could actually see the dirt trapped in Ben Linus’s pores. Then something strange and calamitous occurred. I noticed that the tip-top of everyone’s heads were cut off, and the info ticker that runs along the bottom of most news programs had similarly disappeared. How did this happen? No matter what I tried, I couldn’t fix it. I was just about ready to box the TV up and return it as defective when I thought to call my thickly accented, unduly deferential friend at Time Warner Customer Care.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Tabb. You must have accidentally pressed the Aspect button. Press it again and everything should be fine. Very sorry.”
That was irritating.
The “Fav” Button
Don’t be fooled by this button, “Fav” isn’t even a word. Oh sure, maybe its short for “favorite,” but according to the helpful web site www.all-acronyms.com, it might also stand for “Fast Attack Vehicle,” “feline ataxia virus,” or “floppy aortic valve.” If any of these things show up on your doorstep, you’ll be awfully sorry you pushed the “Fav” button. Not worth the risk, I say.
The “Live” Button
Think about it. Virtually everything on television is pre-taped. Even sporting events and awards shows and Saturday Night Live are on a short broadcast delay, to filter out obscenities and wardrobe malfunctions. It’s not as if you can just flip to live programming whenever you please. So what is this “Live” button, and what does it do?
The problem is one of grammatical usage. Because this is television, we assume that “Live” is an adjective; that we will see real, live people doing real, live things in real time. Wrong! The word “Live” on your remote control is actually a verb. If you press it, your TV will self-destruct and you’ll be forcefully jettisoned into the actual, participatory world where people LIVE, where they interact and physically engage and almost no one knows who Boston Rob is, never mind how many times he’s lost Survivor.
Sounds terrifying, right? I seriously wouldn’t advise it.
There’s a pretty good chance that Sean Tabb resembles the guy your sister dated in college. He gets that a lot. There’s an almost equally good chance that he DID date your sister in college, and just doesn’t remember. He does his parenting, husbanding, living and writing from his home in Portland, Maine. Check out his website at http://punctuatedequilibriumblog.wordpress.com, or follow his drivel on Twitter at http://twitter.com/pithnvinegar.
Showing posts with label Sean Tabb. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Sean Tabb. Show all posts
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Sunday, November 21, 2010
101 82 Uses for a Shellacked Gourd
1. Immunity Idol
2. Special “Friend”
3. Bunsen Burner (Gilligan’s Island variety)
4. Ironic Decorative Table Element
5. Company Christmas Bonus
6. Instrument for bludgeoning
7. Self-massager
8. Headdress (Carmen Miranda variety)
9. Shoe Horn
10. Earplug for Giants
11. Percussion instrument
12. Pet (Low maintenance variety)
13. Fly swatter
14. Bikini top (Note: requires two shellacked gourds)
15. Bookmark
16. Flotation device
17. Bicep Falsies
18. Clogs
19. Birdhouse
20. Bathouse
21. House for Small Animal Other Than Bird or Bat
22. Sailboat for Talking Mouse
23. Mr. Shellacked Gourd-head Toy
24. Scrotal Package Enhancer
25. Bike helmet
26. Athletic supporter
27. Place to keep your weed
28. Gift for your in-laws
29. Non-ironic Decorative Table Element
30. Lady Gaga fashion accessory
31. Bath Toy
32. Snack for Andy Richter
33. Muff for Mr. Squash Hands
34. Extremely unsuitable substitute for a basketball
35. Trophy
36. Tie Clip
37. Soup Bowl
38. Accessory to a shellacked Thanksgiving dinner
39. Accessory to a crime involving felons armed with petrified delicata
40. Objet d’art (Williamsburg hipster variety)
41. Object of Scorn and Derision
42. Paperweight
43. Car Seat
44. Fake nose for “Owen Wilson” Halloween Costume
45. Bong
46. Booty Enhancer
47. Neti Pot
48. Chamber Pot
49. New Drummer for The White Stripes
50. New Quarterback for the Minnesota Vikings
51. New Coach for the Dallas Cowboys
52. End-of-year gratuity for the newspaper delivery guy who skips your house every other Sunday
53. Place to keep your porn
54. Yankee Swap gift (Least popular variety)
55. Molotov Cocktail (organic variety)
56. Security bubbie for young child of struggling squash farmers
57. Ceremonial incense burner for touchy-feely Unitarians
58. I.U.D. (Birth control for giantesses variety)
59. I.E.D. (Road-side bomb for crazy, reclusive anti-government squash farmers variety)
60. Tea Cosy
61. Necklace (scoliosis-inducing variety)
62. iPad Case
63. Place to keep the tattered remains of your dignity
64. Passable substitute for fondue pot
65. Passable substitute for scorpion bowl
66. Jewelry box
67. Ammunition for your gourd-slinging trebuchet
68. A hot date (if you play your squash right variety)
69. Name for Billy Corgan’s new band
70. Stylish, semi-biodegradable hip flask
71. Ornament for your Festivus pole
72. Urn for Grandpa’s ashes
73. Codpiece for little-known, underappreciated superhero Captain Pattypan
74. Housewarming gift for new next door neighbors
75. Bitchen’ hood ornament
76. Not so bitchen’ winter hat
77. Horcrux
78. Place to keep your loose change
79. Excellent serving dish for party snacks
80. Condom (Makeshift variety)
81. Doppelganger for new Speaker of the House John Boehner
82. Viable candidate for 2012 presidential election (Tea Party variety)
Special thanks to Lisa Goeden Taylor, Michael Bourque, Doug Harmon, Deirdre Hickok Bridge, Scott Turner, Kim Crabill, Jeff Callahan and the Tabb Family Players for their contributions to this list. We tried to get to 101, but the mountain was just too high. If you have other ideas, leave them in the comments below. And Merry Thanksgiving!
There’s a pretty good chance that Sean Tabb resembles the guy your sister dated in college. He gets that a lot. There’s an almost equally good chance that he DID date your sister in college, and just doesn’t remember. He does his parenting, husbanding, living and writing from his home in Portland, Maine. Check out his website at http://punctuatedequilibriumblog.wordpress.com, or follow his drivel on Twitter at http://twitter.com/pithnvinegar
2. Special “Friend”
3. Bunsen Burner (Gilligan’s Island variety)
4. Ironic Decorative Table Element
5. Company Christmas Bonus
6. Instrument for bludgeoning
7. Self-massager
8. Headdress (Carmen Miranda variety)
9. Shoe Horn
10. Earplug for Giants
11. Percussion instrument
12. Pet (Low maintenance variety)
13. Fly swatter
14. Bikini top (Note: requires two shellacked gourds)
15. Bookmark
16. Flotation device
17. Bicep Falsies
18. Clogs
19. Birdhouse
20. Bathouse
21. House for Small Animal Other Than Bird or Bat
22. Sailboat for Talking Mouse
23. Mr. Shellacked Gourd-head Toy
24. Scrotal Package Enhancer
25. Bike helmet
26. Athletic supporter
27. Place to keep your weed
28. Gift for your in-laws
29. Non-ironic Decorative Table Element
30. Lady Gaga fashion accessory
31. Bath Toy
32. Snack for Andy Richter
33. Muff for Mr. Squash Hands
34. Extremely unsuitable substitute for a basketball
35. Trophy
36. Tie Clip
37. Soup Bowl
38. Accessory to a shellacked Thanksgiving dinner
39. Accessory to a crime involving felons armed with petrified delicata
40. Objet d’art (Williamsburg hipster variety)
41. Object of Scorn and Derision
42. Paperweight
43. Car Seat
44. Fake nose for “Owen Wilson” Halloween Costume
45. Bong
46. Booty Enhancer
47. Neti Pot
48. Chamber Pot
49. New Drummer for The White Stripes
50. New Quarterback for the Minnesota Vikings
51. New Coach for the Dallas Cowboys
52. End-of-year gratuity for the newspaper delivery guy who skips your house every other Sunday
53. Place to keep your porn
54. Yankee Swap gift (Least popular variety)
55. Molotov Cocktail (organic variety)
56. Security bubbie for young child of struggling squash farmers
57. Ceremonial incense burner for touchy-feely Unitarians
58. I.U.D. (Birth control for giantesses variety)
59. I.E.D. (Road-side bomb for crazy, reclusive anti-government squash farmers variety)
60. Tea Cosy
61. Necklace (scoliosis-inducing variety)
62. iPad Case
63. Place to keep the tattered remains of your dignity
64. Passable substitute for fondue pot
65. Passable substitute for scorpion bowl
66. Jewelry box
67. Ammunition for your gourd-slinging trebuchet
68. A hot date (if you play your squash right variety)
69. Name for Billy Corgan’s new band
70. Stylish, semi-biodegradable hip flask
71. Ornament for your Festivus pole
72. Urn for Grandpa’s ashes
73. Codpiece for little-known, underappreciated superhero Captain Pattypan
74. Housewarming gift for new next door neighbors
75. Bitchen’ hood ornament
76. Not so bitchen’ winter hat
77. Horcrux
78. Place to keep your loose change
79. Excellent serving dish for party snacks
80. Condom (Makeshift variety)
81. Doppelganger for new Speaker of the House John Boehner
82. Viable candidate for 2012 presidential election (Tea Party variety)
Special thanks to Lisa Goeden Taylor, Michael Bourque, Doug Harmon, Deirdre Hickok Bridge, Scott Turner, Kim Crabill, Jeff Callahan and the Tabb Family Players for their contributions to this list. We tried to get to 101, but the mountain was just too high. If you have other ideas, leave them in the comments below. And Merry Thanksgiving!
There’s a pretty good chance that Sean Tabb resembles the guy your sister dated in college. He gets that a lot. There’s an almost equally good chance that he DID date your sister in college, and just doesn’t remember. He does his parenting, husbanding, living and writing from his home in Portland, Maine. Check out his website at http://punctuatedequilibriumblog.wordpress.com, or follow his drivel on Twitter at http://twitter.com/pithnvinegar
Monday, November 15, 2010
Sean Tabb: Liner Notes to a Courting Tape From a Crazy Chick That I Ended Up Marrying
"It's just that romance, with its dips and turns and glooms and highs, its swoops and swoons and blues, is a natural metaphor for music itself" – Nick Hornby, Songbook
We had been a thing for about three days when Jen gave me the first mix tape. I was immediately taken by the cover art; she had found this great postcard of an old billboard sign painted on the white brick side of a truck stop: Brains, 25¢. Drive In.
I’ve held on to that tape for twenty years.
It’s an amazing selection of songs, but overall they’re very blue and moody. They’re all about love. Hearing it now, it’s a wonder the 22 year-old me didn’t take a cue and run like hell. That was my normal response to any sort of intimacy, even the happy-go-lucky sort. But I didn’t. Brains, 25¢. Drive In was the greatest gift ever. My new girlfriend had put a spell on me. I was ensorcelled.
It was a wham-bam-doozy of a spell, too. One with super sticking power, the Gorilla Glue of love. We’re still together, still mad for one another to this day.
So what were the songs, you ask? These are the songs, annotated with an absolutely precise approximation of the thoughts that crossed my mind and the words that tripped my lips the first time I ever heard them.
Side A
Hip Hug-Her – Booker T & The MGs
Excuse me? Is that an invitation? Maybe we should slow down, start out with a cocktail, and see where this thing goes.
Wicked Game – Chris Isaak
You don’t want to fall in love? Phew! Me neither! I’m totally with you on that. This is our song, baby. Nobody loves no one. And since we’re in agreement, there’s really no harm if you want to spend the night.
Crazy – Patsy Cline
OK, hold on. I’m getting some mixed tape signals here. You’re crazy for loving me? So what are you saying? Are you literally crazy? Or figuratively crazy? On second thought, maybe you should sleep at your place tonight.
Sweet Thing – Van Morrison
Shit man, this has got to be one of the greatest songs of all time. This song makes me want to run as fast as I can through the rain with my arms outstretched and a big, sloppy, goofy smile on my face. And I will raise my hand up/Into the night-time sky/And count the stars/That’s shining in your eye. What did you say your last name was again?
You Are The Everything - REM
No, YOU’RE the everything! No, YOU ARE! Honestly, how did you know I love REM? Peter Buck is the MAN! Geez though, this mandolin music is making me sleepy. Or maybe it’s the pot. Whatever, I’m drifting off to sleep with my teeth in my mouth. What does that even mean? Can I make you some coffee?
Come Hell Or High Water – Everything But The Girl
Do you mind if I fast-forward?
Cruel – Prefab Sprout
What kind of a name is that for a band?
I Met You – The Proclaimers
Scottish people ROCK! They pronounce things funny, and wear cool glasses! You know, Scotland has its own martial arts? Yeah, it’s called Fuck Yu. It’s mostly just head butting and then kicking people when they’re on the ground.* Hey, that makes me feel a little frisky. How about you?
A Certain Someone - The Sundays
This is my ex-girlfriend’s favorite band. What? Was that the wrong thing to say?
I Am Stretched On Your Grave – Sinead O’Connor
Umm. This song is a little intense. You’re not going to get all Glenn Close on me, are you? I’m hiding the knives, just in case.
Somewhere Down The Crazy River – Robbie Robertson
“That Voodoo stuff don’t do nuthin’ for me.” This song is sorta’ hot. Seriously though, why do we still have our clothes on again?
Moon Over Bourbon Street – Sting
Ack! Please tell me you’re not one of those vampire lovers. Ok, fine, whatever. No, I haven’t read Anne Rice. No, I will not bite your neck.
Temptation – Tom Waits
Now is the time when we tango around the apartment to the grumbly warbling of the dude who gargles with glass. Now is the time for lambada.
Side B
Is It Possible To Get Pregnant Without Intercourse? - Tom Waits
“I think the question I get asked the most is, uh…well, I mean it happens a lot, enough that I would remark on it. A lot of people come up to me and they say ‘Tom, is it possible for a woman to get pregnant without intercourse?’ And my answer is always the same. I say ‘Well listen, we’re going to have to go all the way back to the Civil War.’ Apparently a stray bullet pierced the testicle of a Union soldier, and then lodged itself in the ovaries of an 18 year old girl who was actually 100 feet from him at the time. Well, the baby was fine, she was very happy. Guilt free. Of course, the soldier was a little pissed off. When you think about it, it’s actually a form of intercourse, but NOT for everyone. Those who love action, maybe.”
Castles Made of Sand / Little Wing – Tuck & Patti
Can we rewind it and listen to that Tom Waits thing again? That was brilliant.
Friends - Led Zeppelin
Oh, please. Now you want to be FRIENDS? I’m not buying it. Fifteen minutes ago you were stretched on my grave. Let’s stop playing games, shall we?
Summertime Rolls – Jane’s Addiction
This song makes me want to have sex. And sushi. Not necessarily in that order.
Edge of the World – Faith No More
Have you actually listened to the lyrics of this song? I mean, on the surface it sounds like another routine declaration of lust, but the dude admits he’s “forty years older”! And he’d kill his mother to be with you?! I’m seeing warning flags.
If You Want Me To Stay – Red Hot Chili Peppers
I call this Music for Bumping Bits.
Mon Cheri Amour – Stevie Wonder
Is there any Bob Seger on this tape? How about Supertramp?
The Madison Time – The Ray Bryant Combo
Now when I say hit it/I want the big strong basketball/With the Wilt Chamberlain hook/Hit it! – 2 points!
I’m Blue (The Gong Gong Song) – The Ikettes
Where did you find some of these songs? Did you raid your grandparents’ record collection or something?
I Could Write A Book – Harry Connick Jr
Sinatra! I love Sinatra! Especially Nancy Sinatra. Huh? This isn’t Sinatra? Who the hell is Harry Connick Jr.? He sounds just like Sinatra. Is he aware of that? Is he purposefully mocking the Chairman of the Board?! I think this Harry Connick Jr. is going to end up sleeping with the fishes, that’s what I think. By the way, on the subject of writing books, I’m a writer. In other words, I don’t have a lot of money, and future prospects for prosperity are grim. If you’d like to leave now, I completely understand.
Too Marvelous For Words – Rosemary Clooney
You’re still here? Great! I don’t know about you, but these old jazz standards make me feel like I’m in a Woody Allen movie.
Them There Eyes - Billie Holiday
Hold on there now! I’m starting to get the impression that you really like me.
Driving – Everything But The Girl
I know this song. They play it at my dentist’s office. Ouch! That’s my weak arm you’re punching there.
Brilliant Trees – David Sylvian
I’m just going to fast forward one more time.
37-2 Le Matin – From the Betty Blue soundtrack
Betty Blue! Great movie. Great nude scenes in that movie. Kind of depressing, though. Doesn’t Betty go nuts? Wait a minute. You’re not implying that we’re like Betty and Zorg, are you? Four songs ago we were Woody Allen and Diane Keaton in Annie Hall. I’m confused. I think I lurve you. I think I loave you. I definitely luff you, two F’s. Geez, I hope that sushi gets here soon.
*Affectionately and anachronistically quoted from the movie So I Married An Axe Murderer (1993).
There’s a pretty good chance that Sean Tabb resembles the guy your sister dated in college. He gets that a lot. There’s an almost equally good chance that he DID date your sister in college, and just doesn’t remember. He does his parenting, husbanding, living and writing from his home in Portland, Maine. Check out his website at http://punctuatedequilibriumblog.wordpress.com, or follow his drivel on Twitter at http://twitter.com/pithnvinegar
We had been a thing for about three days when Jen gave me the first mix tape. I was immediately taken by the cover art; she had found this great postcard of an old billboard sign painted on the white brick side of a truck stop: Brains, 25¢. Drive In.
I’ve held on to that tape for twenty years.
It’s an amazing selection of songs, but overall they’re very blue and moody. They’re all about love. Hearing it now, it’s a wonder the 22 year-old me didn’t take a cue and run like hell. That was my normal response to any sort of intimacy, even the happy-go-lucky sort. But I didn’t. Brains, 25¢. Drive In was the greatest gift ever. My new girlfriend had put a spell on me. I was ensorcelled.
It was a wham-bam-doozy of a spell, too. One with super sticking power, the Gorilla Glue of love. We’re still together, still mad for one another to this day.
So what were the songs, you ask? These are the songs, annotated with an absolutely precise approximation of the thoughts that crossed my mind and the words that tripped my lips the first time I ever heard them.
Side A
Hip Hug-Her – Booker T & The MGs
Excuse me? Is that an invitation? Maybe we should slow down, start out with a cocktail, and see where this thing goes.
Wicked Game – Chris Isaak
You don’t want to fall in love? Phew! Me neither! I’m totally with you on that. This is our song, baby. Nobody loves no one. And since we’re in agreement, there’s really no harm if you want to spend the night.
Crazy – Patsy Cline
OK, hold on. I’m getting some mixed tape signals here. You’re crazy for loving me? So what are you saying? Are you literally crazy? Or figuratively crazy? On second thought, maybe you should sleep at your place tonight.
Sweet Thing – Van Morrison
Shit man, this has got to be one of the greatest songs of all time. This song makes me want to run as fast as I can through the rain with my arms outstretched and a big, sloppy, goofy smile on my face. And I will raise my hand up/Into the night-time sky/And count the stars/That’s shining in your eye. What did you say your last name was again?
You Are The Everything - REM
No, YOU’RE the everything! No, YOU ARE! Honestly, how did you know I love REM? Peter Buck is the MAN! Geez though, this mandolin music is making me sleepy. Or maybe it’s the pot. Whatever, I’m drifting off to sleep with my teeth in my mouth. What does that even mean? Can I make you some coffee?
Come Hell Or High Water – Everything But The Girl
Do you mind if I fast-forward?
Cruel – Prefab Sprout
What kind of a name is that for a band?
I Met You – The Proclaimers
Scottish people ROCK! They pronounce things funny, and wear cool glasses! You know, Scotland has its own martial arts? Yeah, it’s called Fuck Yu. It’s mostly just head butting and then kicking people when they’re on the ground.* Hey, that makes me feel a little frisky. How about you?
A Certain Someone - The Sundays
This is my ex-girlfriend’s favorite band. What? Was that the wrong thing to say?
I Am Stretched On Your Grave – Sinead O’Connor
Umm. This song is a little intense. You’re not going to get all Glenn Close on me, are you? I’m hiding the knives, just in case.
Somewhere Down The Crazy River – Robbie Robertson
“That Voodoo stuff don’t do nuthin’ for me.” This song is sorta’ hot. Seriously though, why do we still have our clothes on again?
Moon Over Bourbon Street – Sting
Ack! Please tell me you’re not one of those vampire lovers. Ok, fine, whatever. No, I haven’t read Anne Rice. No, I will not bite your neck.
Temptation – Tom Waits
Now is the time when we tango around the apartment to the grumbly warbling of the dude who gargles with glass. Now is the time for lambada.
Side B
Is It Possible To Get Pregnant Without Intercourse? - Tom Waits
“I think the question I get asked the most is, uh…well, I mean it happens a lot, enough that I would remark on it. A lot of people come up to me and they say ‘Tom, is it possible for a woman to get pregnant without intercourse?’ And my answer is always the same. I say ‘Well listen, we’re going to have to go all the way back to the Civil War.’ Apparently a stray bullet pierced the testicle of a Union soldier, and then lodged itself in the ovaries of an 18 year old girl who was actually 100 feet from him at the time. Well, the baby was fine, she was very happy. Guilt free. Of course, the soldier was a little pissed off. When you think about it, it’s actually a form of intercourse, but NOT for everyone. Those who love action, maybe.”
Castles Made of Sand / Little Wing – Tuck & Patti
Can we rewind it and listen to that Tom Waits thing again? That was brilliant.
Friends - Led Zeppelin
Oh, please. Now you want to be FRIENDS? I’m not buying it. Fifteen minutes ago you were stretched on my grave. Let’s stop playing games, shall we?
Summertime Rolls – Jane’s Addiction
This song makes me want to have sex. And sushi. Not necessarily in that order.
Edge of the World – Faith No More
Have you actually listened to the lyrics of this song? I mean, on the surface it sounds like another routine declaration of lust, but the dude admits he’s “forty years older”! And he’d kill his mother to be with you?! I’m seeing warning flags.
If You Want Me To Stay – Red Hot Chili Peppers
I call this Music for Bumping Bits.
Mon Cheri Amour – Stevie Wonder
Is there any Bob Seger on this tape? How about Supertramp?
The Madison Time – The Ray Bryant Combo
Now when I say hit it/I want the big strong basketball/With the Wilt Chamberlain hook/Hit it! – 2 points!
I’m Blue (The Gong Gong Song) – The Ikettes
Where did you find some of these songs? Did you raid your grandparents’ record collection or something?
I Could Write A Book – Harry Connick Jr
Sinatra! I love Sinatra! Especially Nancy Sinatra. Huh? This isn’t Sinatra? Who the hell is Harry Connick Jr.? He sounds just like Sinatra. Is he aware of that? Is he purposefully mocking the Chairman of the Board?! I think this Harry Connick Jr. is going to end up sleeping with the fishes, that’s what I think. By the way, on the subject of writing books, I’m a writer. In other words, I don’t have a lot of money, and future prospects for prosperity are grim. If you’d like to leave now, I completely understand.
Too Marvelous For Words – Rosemary Clooney
You’re still here? Great! I don’t know about you, but these old jazz standards make me feel like I’m in a Woody Allen movie.
Them There Eyes - Billie Holiday
Hold on there now! I’m starting to get the impression that you really like me.
Driving – Everything But The Girl
I know this song. They play it at my dentist’s office. Ouch! That’s my weak arm you’re punching there.
Brilliant Trees – David Sylvian
I’m just going to fast forward one more time.
37-2 Le Matin – From the Betty Blue soundtrack
Betty Blue! Great movie. Great nude scenes in that movie. Kind of depressing, though. Doesn’t Betty go nuts? Wait a minute. You’re not implying that we’re like Betty and Zorg, are you? Four songs ago we were Woody Allen and Diane Keaton in Annie Hall. I’m confused. I think I lurve you. I think I loave you. I definitely luff you, two F’s. Geez, I hope that sushi gets here soon.
*Affectionately and anachronistically quoted from the movie So I Married An Axe Murderer (1993).
There’s a pretty good chance that Sean Tabb resembles the guy your sister dated in college. He gets that a lot. There’s an almost equally good chance that he DID date your sister in college, and just doesn’t remember. He does his parenting, husbanding, living and writing from his home in Portland, Maine. Check out his website at http://punctuatedequilibriumblog.wordpress.com, or follow his drivel on Twitter at http://twitter.com/pithnvinegar
Monday, November 8, 2010
Sean Tabb: Dressing for the Apocalypse
These hoarders, the ones who never throw anything away, the ones who live amid their stacks of junkyard squalor and die beneath an avalanche of magazine back issues and TV dinner tins; I am not one of them. But I understand where they’re coming from. I get the motivation.
Letting go can be difficult. These things may come in handy some day. When the world melts down and zombies rule the streets, it’s unlikely that the publishers at Entertainment Weekly are going to continue mailing your subscription. In the eternal quest for reading material, you’ll be happy you kept those magazines. You’ll be the envy of all your non-zombified neighbors. And the TV dinner tins? With a little glue and gumption, they can be fashioned into a fine antenna for picking up signals from The Resistance.
My particular hang-up is clothing. I am constitutionally incapable of parting with any of it, even when it stops fitting (it may fit again one day), or is full of holes (darn those holes! No, seriously, get me some needle and thread. I’m going to darn them). My closet and bureau are a museum of sartorial history.
Take socks, for instance. The socks in the top dresser drawer are out of control. It won’t even shut, owing to the number of socks stuffed inside it. There are brown socks and gray socks, green socks and black socks, work socks and play socks, cotton socks and wools socks, thin socks and thick socks, argyle socks and striped socks. And socks with holes, lots and lots of holes. My wife has attempted to impose a sort of Marshall Law around the socks, an edict that goes roughly like this: "No new socks shall enter this house unless an old pair of socks is first surrendered." It’s a fair deal, net neutral. Regardless, the thought of giving up my socks makes me unreasonably anxious. How can I part with them? What if my feet get extremely cold? I skirted compliance of the Sock Law by culling out a number of long-neglected pairs (vintage 1990 - 1996, or thereabouts), stuffing them in a plastic grocery bag, and hiding it behind the mountain range of moth-eaten sweaters on the shelf in my closet.
I’ll spare you the details of my boxer short drawer; let’s just say that, of the forty-two pairs kept there, only seven or so are worn. It would seem like a trick of clown car physics that a drawer six inches deep could house so many pairs of shorts, but there’s an explanation. Sedimentation. The boxers at the bottom have been pressed to an impossibly thin stratum beneath the layers of cotton above them. Under such tremendous pressure, conditions are perfect for the spontaneous formation of diamonds.
Shirts, pants and shoes are not excluded from my compulsion. The shirts are roughly ordered in sequence of chronology; recently purchased are first and most frequently worn, followed by a succession of ever-older styles in passé colors with missing buttons and threadbare collars. In the trouser stacks are some contemporary models; newer denim that retains its indigo hue, classic twill and khaki for dressing up. But closer inspection reveals a stockpile of poorly weathered jeans and cargo pants and antique corduroy, in wales too wide and humiliating to mention. Of the 20-odd pairs of shoes only five are actually worn; the rest are jumble of worn out soles, leather dried and cracking, laces chewed by an orally fixated dog. I must keep them, though. We’re going to be doing a lot of running away in the future -- from zombies, from Tea-partying fascists, from the irreparable mistakes of our own sordid pasts. It’ll be wise to have some footwear in reserve.
So there it is. I have opened my wardrobe to you, and bared my fashion-forsaken soul. I find it difficult to get rid of these clothes because I suspect I’m going to need them again someday. Honestly, I have the most sincere intentions of rediscovering those Nantucket Red chinos with the tiny, embroidered Golden Retrievers or that overly large, awkwardly heavy lumberjack plaid flannel shirt and wearing them proudly once again. "When?" you ask, and by "you" I mean my irritated wife. I’ll tell you when. When the economy collapses and 1% of the population hold 99% of the wealth and the Confederation of Formerly Beleaguered Retail Employees burns down the shopping malls and The Eternal Light of Zappo’s is violently extinguished and we’re all living in shanty towns and changing our minds a little about the NRA as we train our crosshairs on the looters who’ve come to take our Entertainment Weeklys and our tin foil ham radios, that’s when. I’m going to be glad I kept these clothes when the revolution comes. Or the zombies.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I have some ironing to do.
There’s a pretty good chance that Sean Tabb resembles the guy your sister dated in college. He gets that a lot. There’s an almost equally good chance that he DID date your sister in college, and just doesn’t remember. He does his parenting, husbanding, living and writing from his home in Portland, Maine. Check out his website at http://punctuatedequilibriumblog.wordpress.com, or follow his drivel on Twitter at http://twitter.com/pithnvinegar.
Letting go can be difficult. These things may come in handy some day. When the world melts down and zombies rule the streets, it’s unlikely that the publishers at Entertainment Weekly are going to continue mailing your subscription. In the eternal quest for reading material, you’ll be happy you kept those magazines. You’ll be the envy of all your non-zombified neighbors. And the TV dinner tins? With a little glue and gumption, they can be fashioned into a fine antenna for picking up signals from The Resistance.
My particular hang-up is clothing. I am constitutionally incapable of parting with any of it, even when it stops fitting (it may fit again one day), or is full of holes (darn those holes! No, seriously, get me some needle and thread. I’m going to darn them). My closet and bureau are a museum of sartorial history.
Take socks, for instance. The socks in the top dresser drawer are out of control. It won’t even shut, owing to the number of socks stuffed inside it. There are brown socks and gray socks, green socks and black socks, work socks and play socks, cotton socks and wools socks, thin socks and thick socks, argyle socks and striped socks. And socks with holes, lots and lots of holes. My wife has attempted to impose a sort of Marshall Law around the socks, an edict that goes roughly like this: "No new socks shall enter this house unless an old pair of socks is first surrendered." It’s a fair deal, net neutral. Regardless, the thought of giving up my socks makes me unreasonably anxious. How can I part with them? What if my feet get extremely cold? I skirted compliance of the Sock Law by culling out a number of long-neglected pairs (vintage 1990 - 1996, or thereabouts), stuffing them in a plastic grocery bag, and hiding it behind the mountain range of moth-eaten sweaters on the shelf in my closet.
I’ll spare you the details of my boxer short drawer; let’s just say that, of the forty-two pairs kept there, only seven or so are worn. It would seem like a trick of clown car physics that a drawer six inches deep could house so many pairs of shorts, but there’s an explanation. Sedimentation. The boxers at the bottom have been pressed to an impossibly thin stratum beneath the layers of cotton above them. Under such tremendous pressure, conditions are perfect for the spontaneous formation of diamonds.
Shirts, pants and shoes are not excluded from my compulsion. The shirts are roughly ordered in sequence of chronology; recently purchased are first and most frequently worn, followed by a succession of ever-older styles in passé colors with missing buttons and threadbare collars. In the trouser stacks are some contemporary models; newer denim that retains its indigo hue, classic twill and khaki for dressing up. But closer inspection reveals a stockpile of poorly weathered jeans and cargo pants and antique corduroy, in wales too wide and humiliating to mention. Of the 20-odd pairs of shoes only five are actually worn; the rest are jumble of worn out soles, leather dried and cracking, laces chewed by an orally fixated dog. I must keep them, though. We’re going to be doing a lot of running away in the future -- from zombies, from Tea-partying fascists, from the irreparable mistakes of our own sordid pasts. It’ll be wise to have some footwear in reserve.
So there it is. I have opened my wardrobe to you, and bared my fashion-forsaken soul. I find it difficult to get rid of these clothes because I suspect I’m going to need them again someday. Honestly, I have the most sincere intentions of rediscovering those Nantucket Red chinos with the tiny, embroidered Golden Retrievers or that overly large, awkwardly heavy lumberjack plaid flannel shirt and wearing them proudly once again. "When?" you ask, and by "you" I mean my irritated wife. I’ll tell you when. When the economy collapses and 1% of the population hold 99% of the wealth and the Confederation of Formerly Beleaguered Retail Employees burns down the shopping malls and The Eternal Light of Zappo’s is violently extinguished and we’re all living in shanty towns and changing our minds a little about the NRA as we train our crosshairs on the looters who’ve come to take our Entertainment Weeklys and our tin foil ham radios, that’s when. I’m going to be glad I kept these clothes when the revolution comes. Or the zombies.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I have some ironing to do.
There’s a pretty good chance that Sean Tabb resembles the guy your sister dated in college. He gets that a lot. There’s an almost equally good chance that he DID date your sister in college, and just doesn’t remember. He does his parenting, husbanding, living and writing from his home in Portland, Maine. Check out his website at http://punctuatedequilibriumblog.wordpress.com, or follow his drivel on Twitter at http://twitter.com/pithnvinegar.
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Sean Tabb: Newton’s Laws of Motion (Unabridged)
Newton’s First Law of Motion (aka The Law of Inertia)
Objects in motion remain in motion at more or less the same speed and in the same direction unless/until they encounter an external obstacle or force that knocks them on their ass. Objects at rest are either inanimate, dead, or have a lot more leisure time than you do.
Newton’s Second Law of Motion (aka F=MA)
Acceleration is realized when a force (energy) acts upon a mass (object). The greater the mass of the object being accelerated, the greater the amount of force needed to accelerate the object. Now we’re getting algebraic. Now we’re putting alphabet letters into numeric equations. If you’re intimidated by such things, this would probably be a good time to make yourself scarce. By the logic of the Second Law, the Second Law itself would be defined as the Force that acted upon a Mass (i.e. your algebra-addled brain) causing it to Accelerate (i.e. down to the corner pub for a beer).
Newton’s Third Law of Motion (aka Costanza’s Law)
For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. In other words, if there’s a particular outcome you seek, and you know that your actions toward achieving that outcome will result in reactions opposite the intended result (for that is what the Third Law prescribes), then clearly the workaround solution is to DO THE OPPOSITE. If action results in opposite reaction, then doing the opposite will result in a favorable outcome. This is an especially useful tactic in matters of love, child-rearing, and domestic disputes involving dishwashers and laundry.
Newton’s Fourth Law of Motion (aka The Law of Coitus Non-Interruptus)
Objects that are rocking (i.e. a customized 1975 Chevy Van with curtained windows and kick-ass, airbrushed art featuring scantily clad women floating in space) should not be disturbed (i.e. knocked upon).
Newton’s Fifth Law of Motion (aka The Law of Post-Ablutionary Exsiccation)
After bathing, do not attempt to dry off like a dog. Vigorous shaking of this nature will result in painful and embarrassing compression of the cervical vertebrae. Use a towel instead.
Newton’s Sixth Law of Motion (aka The Law of Book Boxes & Major Appliances)
Lift with your back, not your legs.
Newton’s Seventh Law of Motion (aka The Law of Centrifugal Force)
Refrain from eating corn dogs before going on amusement park rides.
Newton’s Eighth Law of Motion (aka The Law of Friction)
When applying your hand in a petting or stroking motion, it is best and least resistant to move in the direction of the surface grain. This applies in situations as diverse as wood-polishing, affection towards cats, and the grating of parmesan cheese.
Newton’s Ninth Law of Motion (aka The Law of Screws)
Righty-loosey, lefty-tighty. If that doesn’t work, refer to Law of Motion #3.
Newton’s Tenth Law of Motion (aka The Law of Grace)
When slipping on the ice, try and make it look purposeful, as if you were suddenly, irresistibly possessed by the desire to practice your funkiest dance moves. Strangers and random passers-by will be impressed by your spirit and childlike spontaneity. When you get home, take two ibuprofen.
There’s a pretty good chance that Sean Tabb resembles the guy your sister dated in college. He gets that a lot. There’s an almost equally good chance that he DID date your sister in college, and just doesn’t remember. He does his parenting, husbanding, living and writing from his home in Portland, Maine. Check out his website at http://punctuatedequilibriumblog.wordpress.com, or follow his drivel on Twitter at http://twitter.com/pithnvinegar.
Objects in motion remain in motion at more or less the same speed and in the same direction unless/until they encounter an external obstacle or force that knocks them on their ass. Objects at rest are either inanimate, dead, or have a lot more leisure time than you do.
Newton’s Second Law of Motion (aka F=MA)
Acceleration is realized when a force (energy) acts upon a mass (object). The greater the mass of the object being accelerated, the greater the amount of force needed to accelerate the object. Now we’re getting algebraic. Now we’re putting alphabet letters into numeric equations. If you’re intimidated by such things, this would probably be a good time to make yourself scarce. By the logic of the Second Law, the Second Law itself would be defined as the Force that acted upon a Mass (i.e. your algebra-addled brain) causing it to Accelerate (i.e. down to the corner pub for a beer).
Newton’s Third Law of Motion (aka Costanza’s Law)
For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. In other words, if there’s a particular outcome you seek, and you know that your actions toward achieving that outcome will result in reactions opposite the intended result (for that is what the Third Law prescribes), then clearly the workaround solution is to DO THE OPPOSITE. If action results in opposite reaction, then doing the opposite will result in a favorable outcome. This is an especially useful tactic in matters of love, child-rearing, and domestic disputes involving dishwashers and laundry.
Newton’s Fourth Law of Motion (aka The Law of Coitus Non-Interruptus)
Objects that are rocking (i.e. a customized 1975 Chevy Van with curtained windows and kick-ass, airbrushed art featuring scantily clad women floating in space) should not be disturbed (i.e. knocked upon).
Newton’s Fifth Law of Motion (aka The Law of Post-Ablutionary Exsiccation)
After bathing, do not attempt to dry off like a dog. Vigorous shaking of this nature will result in painful and embarrassing compression of the cervical vertebrae. Use a towel instead.
Newton’s Sixth Law of Motion (aka The Law of Book Boxes & Major Appliances)
Lift with your back, not your legs.
Newton’s Seventh Law of Motion (aka The Law of Centrifugal Force)
Refrain from eating corn dogs before going on amusement park rides.
Newton’s Eighth Law of Motion (aka The Law of Friction)
When applying your hand in a petting or stroking motion, it is best and least resistant to move in the direction of the surface grain. This applies in situations as diverse as wood-polishing, affection towards cats, and the grating of parmesan cheese.
Newton’s Ninth Law of Motion (aka The Law of Screws)
Righty-loosey, lefty-tighty. If that doesn’t work, refer to Law of Motion #3.
Newton’s Tenth Law of Motion (aka The Law of Grace)
When slipping on the ice, try and make it look purposeful, as if you were suddenly, irresistibly possessed by the desire to practice your funkiest dance moves. Strangers and random passers-by will be impressed by your spirit and childlike spontaneity. When you get home, take two ibuprofen.
There’s a pretty good chance that Sean Tabb resembles the guy your sister dated in college. He gets that a lot. There’s an almost equally good chance that he DID date your sister in college, and just doesn’t remember. He does his parenting, husbanding, living and writing from his home in Portland, Maine. Check out his website at http://punctuatedequilibriumblog.wordpress.com, or follow his drivel on Twitter at http://twitter.com/pithnvinegar.
Sunday, October 17, 2010
Sean Tabb: The Meek Shall Inherit the Kitchen
I was a college sophomore when I rented my first apartment, a roach-infested flat I shared with three older roommates. The Council of Elders, I called them. It was safe to assume the roaches had been there a long time, given the age of the building and its proximal location to the known nexus of the cockroach universe (Allston, MA). Then there was the X-factor, the untold grunge of our unknown fellow tenants; the screamy sex-ers in the apartment next door, and the kimchi enthusiasts living below. A roach’s apartment building is his castle, and they don’t respect the boundaries formed by walls and doors with multiple locks. They roam, baby. They roam. But by some mysterious barometer, the Council of Elders discerned a spike in our apartment’s roach-to-human ratio, coincident with my arrival. An inquisition began. I was accused of being messy with food.
Denise was the Council potentate, a 30-something actress, thin as a whisper, beautiful and fastidious. She once told me that she slept with her asshole clenched tight to keep the cockroaches from using her as a hotel, a comment I mistook for flirtation. Her boyfriend, who looked like a perfect roach hotel, made his living as a beetle-browed musical composer, and drank the rest of any opened bottle of wine he ever found. They ate like royalty, these two, and never offered me a bite. It was the unspoken rule of the apartment, delibly inscribed in invisible ink on the lease. Buy what you eat, eat what you buy. They never left a crumb behind.
Kate, the Council magistrate, was a set designer of indeterminate age; she might have been 25, but in my mind she was closer to 40. I thought of her like a mother, and studiously avoided her like I avoided my own. The glowing ash of her ever-present cigarette was counterweight to the red-hot fireball of hair that leapt from her head, and she thrust it at me like a sideways exclamation point whenever she found evidence of my dealings in the kitchen: “CRUMBS!” Handy with a welder’s torch, a tool belt slung around her hips, she flung hammers for sport. It was hard to tell her laugh from her cough. She never ate a thing, and so couldn’t be held responsible for the roaches.
Gabe, the Council flagellate, was an actor too, a chewer of scenery. He would lounge around the house naked, a white feather boa strategically placed, more for effect than modesty. Gabe was like the older brother dressed in drag I never had. He taught me how to make coffee when no maker was handy; “cowboy coffee,” he called it, boiling water and grounds together in a pot and drinking the unfiltered brew. The dregs would lodge in our teeth for days. He subsisted on a diet of fancy olives and sardines.
For $200 a month, the Council of Elders let me sleep in the pantry behind the kitchen. It wasn’t much; barely room enough for a futon mattress and a stack of milk crates to house my clothes and books. We were on the third floor, and I had a window. There was no door. Kate gave me a remnant from a theater curtain, which I hung for privacy. The roaches were unsympathetic.
My relationship with food was underdeveloped. I had gone from living at home, being fed by my mother – first at her breast, then later from her Moosewood Cookbook – to living in a college dorm, where the food was laid out cafeteria-style three times a day and no one complained when I inhaled four bowls of Fruit Loops and a rasher of bacon for breakfast. I was pampered and ill-prepared to forage for myself, as the contents of my grocery bags irrefutably proved.
At the supermarket, I went for durability over taste. Anything processed was bound to keep, and I needed to stretch my meager food dollars as far as I could. Expiration dates were anathema. Plus, I had a tooth for kiddie comfort foods, the Kraft Macaroni & Cheese, the Spaghetti-O’s, the hot dogs. Gabe sneered and taunted me for the pre-packaged, pressed meat cold cuts I purchased, waving the foil packets in my face: “You know what that is? It’s the lips, and the hooves, and balls! They drive over it with a steam roller to make it look like that.” The thought hadn’t crossed my mind.
Worse, knowing this didn’t stop me from eating it. I was drawn to the convenience, and cowed by the idea of saddling up to a genuine deli counter, taking a number, asking for a half pound of roast beef sliced wafer thin. I was afraid of doing it wrong, sure to look like a fool before the sausage guy and all the other deli customers. My only concession to the penchant for processed foods was my all-natural peanut butter. It wasn’t that I went looking for fresh ground. Some smart marketer put the plastic tubs on a grocery store aisle end-cap. It was the first thing I saw, so I grabbed it.
Cockroaches appeared to favor these junk foods as well, perhaps because the preservatives fortified them against the pending apocalypse, or the exterminator, whichever came first. My slovenly habits of post-meal clean up certainly weren’t helping. I’d heard somewhere that “cleanliness” was next to “Godliness,” and since I was approximately eight degrees of separation away from “Godliness,” I didn’t feel a whole lot of compulsion to wield a sponge. SOS pads did funny things to my finger tips, made them look all sloughed and shredded. As a result, our kitchen had suddenly become the hottest cockroach speakeasy in town. In the dark you wouldn’t know it, but the instant you flipped on a light, BAM! A thousand tiny roaches would freeze for a moment, snap their heads in your direction, then one of them would mumble “shit,” and another one would yell out “RUN!” and they would scatter, leaving their cocktails and their hors d’oeuvres behind.
And so it came one morning that I stumbled from my pantry hovel, stomach growling like a junkyard dog, and thought to make myself a fancy, healthy breakfast: peanut butter on toast. All natural peanut butter on toast. My assigned cupboard was wall-mounted, way up high, in the corner by the sink. I reached up and grabbed the tub, pulled it down and, seeing what had become of it, dropped it in horror. “Denise! Kate! Gabe!! COME QUICK!” I shouted, and all three responded to the alarm, huddling around me.
Something, some unfathomable force of animal nature, had smashed the lid of my peanut butter container into plastic shards, done a kind of happy dance in the now exposed butter, and left behind a scattering of poo, like a signature, like a warning, like its own personal Mark of Zorro.
“Cockroaches?” I whispered, reverently.
“MICE!” the Council of Elders shot back in angry chorus. I was nearly evicted on the spot.
These pests clearly meant business. Their skills for survival were evolving, mutating, like a virus or a bacteria evolves to beat the world-class brains who arrogantly believed they could erase it. We were up against something far more powerful than sealed food containers and an immaculately clean kitchen could protect against.
What followed was a long period of reform. Under the Council’s tutelage and wary eyes, I was schooled in the art and science of disinfectants. Denise taught me to scrub beneath the stove top, down by the pilot light of each heating element; Kate introduced me to Lestoil. Gabe showed me how to dance with a mop.
It all seemed a bit futile to me, but I wasn’t positioned to argue. Buildings are meant to shield us from nature, but food is a powerful magnet. These four walls around us mount an effective defense against the larger of God’s scavenging creatures, the wolves and the bears and the Jehovah’s Witnesses, but they’re no match for the smaller ones. The meek shall inherit the kitchen. I was anxiously aware of that fact as I lay in my pantry at night, clenched in body and soul, awake to the sound of skittering feet just beyond the crumbling horsehair plaster.
There’s a pretty good chance that Sean Tabb resembles the guy your sister dated in college. He gets that a lot. There’s an almost equally good chance that he DID date your sister in college, and just doesn’t remember. He does his parenting, husbanding, living and writing from his home in Portland, Maine. Check out his website at http://punctuatedequilibriumblog.wordpress.com, or follow his drivel on Twitter at http://twitter.com/pithnvinegar.
Denise was the Council potentate, a 30-something actress, thin as a whisper, beautiful and fastidious. She once told me that she slept with her asshole clenched tight to keep the cockroaches from using her as a hotel, a comment I mistook for flirtation. Her boyfriend, who looked like a perfect roach hotel, made his living as a beetle-browed musical composer, and drank the rest of any opened bottle of wine he ever found. They ate like royalty, these two, and never offered me a bite. It was the unspoken rule of the apartment, delibly inscribed in invisible ink on the lease. Buy what you eat, eat what you buy. They never left a crumb behind.
Kate, the Council magistrate, was a set designer of indeterminate age; she might have been 25, but in my mind she was closer to 40. I thought of her like a mother, and studiously avoided her like I avoided my own. The glowing ash of her ever-present cigarette was counterweight to the red-hot fireball of hair that leapt from her head, and she thrust it at me like a sideways exclamation point whenever she found evidence of my dealings in the kitchen: “CRUMBS!” Handy with a welder’s torch, a tool belt slung around her hips, she flung hammers for sport. It was hard to tell her laugh from her cough. She never ate a thing, and so couldn’t be held responsible for the roaches.
Gabe, the Council flagellate, was an actor too, a chewer of scenery. He would lounge around the house naked, a white feather boa strategically placed, more for effect than modesty. Gabe was like the older brother dressed in drag I never had. He taught me how to make coffee when no maker was handy; “cowboy coffee,” he called it, boiling water and grounds together in a pot and drinking the unfiltered brew. The dregs would lodge in our teeth for days. He subsisted on a diet of fancy olives and sardines.
For $200 a month, the Council of Elders let me sleep in the pantry behind the kitchen. It wasn’t much; barely room enough for a futon mattress and a stack of milk crates to house my clothes and books. We were on the third floor, and I had a window. There was no door. Kate gave me a remnant from a theater curtain, which I hung for privacy. The roaches were unsympathetic.
My relationship with food was underdeveloped. I had gone from living at home, being fed by my mother – first at her breast, then later from her Moosewood Cookbook – to living in a college dorm, where the food was laid out cafeteria-style three times a day and no one complained when I inhaled four bowls of Fruit Loops and a rasher of bacon for breakfast. I was pampered and ill-prepared to forage for myself, as the contents of my grocery bags irrefutably proved.
At the supermarket, I went for durability over taste. Anything processed was bound to keep, and I needed to stretch my meager food dollars as far as I could. Expiration dates were anathema. Plus, I had a tooth for kiddie comfort foods, the Kraft Macaroni & Cheese, the Spaghetti-O’s, the hot dogs. Gabe sneered and taunted me for the pre-packaged, pressed meat cold cuts I purchased, waving the foil packets in my face: “You know what that is? It’s the lips, and the hooves, and balls! They drive over it with a steam roller to make it look like that.” The thought hadn’t crossed my mind.
Worse, knowing this didn’t stop me from eating it. I was drawn to the convenience, and cowed by the idea of saddling up to a genuine deli counter, taking a number, asking for a half pound of roast beef sliced wafer thin. I was afraid of doing it wrong, sure to look like a fool before the sausage guy and all the other deli customers. My only concession to the penchant for processed foods was my all-natural peanut butter. It wasn’t that I went looking for fresh ground. Some smart marketer put the plastic tubs on a grocery store aisle end-cap. It was the first thing I saw, so I grabbed it.
Cockroaches appeared to favor these junk foods as well, perhaps because the preservatives fortified them against the pending apocalypse, or the exterminator, whichever came first. My slovenly habits of post-meal clean up certainly weren’t helping. I’d heard somewhere that “cleanliness” was next to “Godliness,” and since I was approximately eight degrees of separation away from “Godliness,” I didn’t feel a whole lot of compulsion to wield a sponge. SOS pads did funny things to my finger tips, made them look all sloughed and shredded. As a result, our kitchen had suddenly become the hottest cockroach speakeasy in town. In the dark you wouldn’t know it, but the instant you flipped on a light, BAM! A thousand tiny roaches would freeze for a moment, snap their heads in your direction, then one of them would mumble “shit,” and another one would yell out “RUN!” and they would scatter, leaving their cocktails and their hors d’oeuvres behind.
And so it came one morning that I stumbled from my pantry hovel, stomach growling like a junkyard dog, and thought to make myself a fancy, healthy breakfast: peanut butter on toast. All natural peanut butter on toast. My assigned cupboard was wall-mounted, way up high, in the corner by the sink. I reached up and grabbed the tub, pulled it down and, seeing what had become of it, dropped it in horror. “Denise! Kate! Gabe!! COME QUICK!” I shouted, and all three responded to the alarm, huddling around me.
Something, some unfathomable force of animal nature, had smashed the lid of my peanut butter container into plastic shards, done a kind of happy dance in the now exposed butter, and left behind a scattering of poo, like a signature, like a warning, like its own personal Mark of Zorro.
“Cockroaches?” I whispered, reverently.
“MICE!” the Council of Elders shot back in angry chorus. I was nearly evicted on the spot.
These pests clearly meant business. Their skills for survival were evolving, mutating, like a virus or a bacteria evolves to beat the world-class brains who arrogantly believed they could erase it. We were up against something far more powerful than sealed food containers and an immaculately clean kitchen could protect against.
What followed was a long period of reform. Under the Council’s tutelage and wary eyes, I was schooled in the art and science of disinfectants. Denise taught me to scrub beneath the stove top, down by the pilot light of each heating element; Kate introduced me to Lestoil. Gabe showed me how to dance with a mop.
It all seemed a bit futile to me, but I wasn’t positioned to argue. Buildings are meant to shield us from nature, but food is a powerful magnet. These four walls around us mount an effective defense against the larger of God’s scavenging creatures, the wolves and the bears and the Jehovah’s Witnesses, but they’re no match for the smaller ones. The meek shall inherit the kitchen. I was anxiously aware of that fact as I lay in my pantry at night, clenched in body and soul, awake to the sound of skittering feet just beyond the crumbling horsehair plaster.
There’s a pretty good chance that Sean Tabb resembles the guy your sister dated in college. He gets that a lot. There’s an almost equally good chance that he DID date your sister in college, and just doesn’t remember. He does his parenting, husbanding, living and writing from his home in Portland, Maine. Check out his website at http://punctuatedequilibriumblog.wordpress.com, or follow his drivel on Twitter at http://twitter.com/pithnvinegar.
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