Posts from — July 2003

Well, I still can’t believe it, but tomorrow morning at Morristown Municipal Airport (MMU) I’m going to squeeze into a Piper Aztec with four other guys and fly to Oshkosh, Wisconsin.

Oshkosh. Yeah, place where they make overalls. But also home to the largest airshow in the world.

Every July pilots & aviation freaks flock to Whitman Memorial Field in Oshkosh for a gathering of eagles that even Hollywood couldn’t top. The vogue is to fly in in your own general aviation plane, camp on the field, and take in the vast array of aeronautical delights that abound. It’s something I’ve been curious about ever since I started learning to fly, but never thought I’d actually go to. But my friend offered me a seat in his friend’s plane this year, and I jumped at the chance. We’ll be staying in a hotel and driving in each day for the festivities, but we WILL be there. I can’t wait.

I’ll also be travelling sans laptop, so this will mark the longest Stretch Without Internet Access ever, since I first got Connected. See you in a few days.

• you know the exact day that Microsoft’s new Flight Simulator 2004 is due on store shelves


• you actually go to CompUSA on your lunch break to purchase said program, precicely on that day


• you inform the CompUSA staff that today is the day it’s due out, after not seeing any copies on the shelf


• you dutifully wait by the “staff only” door with nervous anticipation waiting to see if the staff member returns from the stockroom with a fresh copy


• you purchase the very first copy of MSFS2K4 from the new shipment at the 36th Street CompUSA


• you call Microsoft Flight Simulator 2004 “MSFS2K4”


• you install MSFS2K4 on your computer at work because you can’t wait to see it running


• you write about these dorkish traits and post them on your website, while MSFS2K4 is installing & while eating an entire sandwich in about three bites

Well, we got the little bastard. We set a couple of traps in the crawlspace, the humane “catch&release” kind. (Brenda’s idea, not mine.) I checked in on them daily for the first few days, but to be totally honest I completely forgot about them by Wednesday. But today I was putting away some tools (the aftermath of a very un-Norm Abrahm weekend last week), and I noticed that the traps were both closed. I thought of the scene in “Ghostbusters”, when they get the first call, and Annie Potts yells “WE GOT ONE!!!!!!!!!!!!”.

The traps were set back to back, so I figured that our uninvited guest must have gone for the peanut butter bait and when the trap door snapped shut the vibration must have caused the other one to close as well. I gave one a cautious wiggle, then the other. One was definitely heavier than the other. There was SOMETHING in there. “Brenda? When was the last time you checked the traps?”, I asked. Yesterday. Hmmm. Could the stupid thing have died in a day? I shook the trap, but the mass in there did not seem to move around. Well, it was hammer time. Time to take this thing outside and release whatever was in there, but I was starting to think it was dead.

From the safe refuge of our patio, I set the trap on the ground and opened the door. Our friend emerged, looking very pissed off, and soaked in sweat (later we decided it was actually covered in the peanut butter), eyes still beady. He shot us both a “screw you” look, and darted off into the bushes right next to our house.

I have a feeling that if his pals don’t eat him for the peanut butter in his coat, he’s gonna try and come back in the house. At least this time we’ll smell him.

Having recently endured an assault on my inner calm by a jolly band of skunks, it appears that the forces of nature have decided to press the issue. Friday evening, Emma (our extremely lovable cat) began to get interested in the goings on around the baseboard heater in the dining room. Initially I thought there was a housefly or mosquito tormenting her, and let her have her fun. But she persisted, and began running from one end of the heater to the other, looking into the vent, looking quite interested. I signaled to Brenda that something seemed to be going on, and she went to investigate while I chatted with my friend on the telephone.

Moments later, Brenda shot up with wide eyes, exactly in the manner she had done the previous week when she identified the source of the rustling in the bushes. Not good. “What is it?”, I asked, naturally fearing the worst—alligators. Turns out it was not alligators. But a single reddish American Field Mouse had somehow made his way into our abode and was now serving as live entertainment for our cat. “Uh, I gotta go”, I told my friend.

Armed with my trusty flashlight, I cast the uninvited guest in a whitish glow. He looked at me, while Emma kept her eyes on him. His look clearly said “hey, I have no idea how I got here, and I’m just as unhappy about this situation as you are”. I went to get my trapping kit. My trapping kit consisted of a Glad tupperware bowl, barely larger than our guest was, and a piece of cardboard that I figured I’d slide under the bowl once I had trapped the little bugger. It was as good a plan as any, especially since it was Friday night and I’d already had a couple of beers.

The next ten minutes went like this:

1. shine flashlight at rodent.


2. prod rodent with long stick.


3. watch rodent scamper along heater to other end, while wife writhes and makes noises. Come to think of it, husband was writhing and making similar noises.


4. go to other end of heater, and repeat step one.

I’d had enough. OK, that’s it, this guy’s outta here. I pulled the cover off the heater, and Mickey Mouse made a getaway dash for the living room, with Emma in hot pursuit, and, with my Glad tupperware bowl and cardboard, I was Emma’s wingman. We cornered the beast by the bookcase, and his little bug-eyes looked ready to burst. He was breathing heavily & rapidly, and looked plum tuckered out. The time was now. I lunged for him with my bowl. I missed. He was a small target, but then again the bowl was small too, and don’t forget I’d had a few brews by now. But Mickey Mouse suddenly got a burst of energy, and headed for the stairs to the basement. I didn’t see it, but Brenda saw Mickey’s Great Escape move in realtime. There are thirteen steps down to the basement, but apparently our guest did a Superman imitation, sailing from the living room level straight down to the basement without making any stops along the way. Wow. You gotta admire his spunk.

Brenda, Emma and I all formed a search party in the basement, uprooting the sofabed, peering behind the bathroom door, opening cabinets, but no joy. Mickey had eluded us. I decided it was bedtime, since the bedroom is two whole levels above the last known whereabouts of the elusive Mickey Mouse.

The next day, I bought two mousetraps from Home Depot and set them in the basement. So far, they remain empty. Did he get out the way he came in? Brenda said she saw a couple of mice dashing about in the backyard in the days since this event. So, clearly they are reinforcing the troops. The skunks and the mice and the mosquitoes all know it: there’s a city boy in the end unit and he’s pretty slow with the tupperware. The cat watches you like you’re a television show. Come on in, and have a look around.

I’m telling you, I need a flamethrower.

You believe this shit? I’m just about speechless.

Wake up, people. The people in charge of the USA are running their own program, and it ain’t a real smart one. I find it ironic that that half-wit who shamelessly sings that piece of shit “Have You Forgotten” is perpetuating the blind, mindless acceptance of this nation’s atrocious foreign policy. It appears that that hayseed/lecturer—and millions of others in this country—has forgotten what the casus belli of this clusterfuck was, or at least what was sold to us back in March…

Have You Forgotten

Well now I must be a communist
‘cause I have a problem with what went down

I feel like we’ve been duped

by a bunch of rodeo clowns

(chorus)
Have you forgotten,

Powell’s speech at the U.N.,

oh that’s right, I forgot,

you’ve never heard of CNN

Well he showed us scary pictures,
weapons of mass dee-struction,

Saddam was getting ready,

we gotta drop bombs by the ton!

Well we kicked some major ass over there,
yeah, Eyerack is finally “free”,

thank God (oops) Allah (nahh, God!) for the mighty USA,

Now let’s all go buy SUVs!!!!!

(chorus)
Have you forgotten,

they lied to us all

we stole Iraq and used 9/11

to make it a victory at the polls

Have you forgotten?
Have you forgotten?

yeah, yeah, …

(fade)

P.S. Donny (Rumsfeld): a prism splits light into its component parts. Prisms aren’t really that good at making things clear. Lenses do that. So your quote just makes this whole circus even more hysterical, until you realize how sad and pathetic it all is.

Well, Brenda & I just celebrated our one year anniversary in the new suburban home, and back in April we got a barbecue grill & patio furniture, so by now we’re getting pretty used to the idea of sitting outside and watching the sun go down, listening to the wind rustle the trees, sipping a beverage of our choosing, munching burgers. It’s all so suburban. After seven years on the fifth floor of a walkup apartment in Hoboken, this is really quite nice.

However, while the police sirens and bass-booming cars have been eliminated, I am faced with a new and cunning enemy. Nature.

While raised in the suburbs of New York City and Philadelphia, I am a city boy at heart. I moved to the city immediately after college and lived in cities until I decided that easy access to a barbecue grill was more important than proximity to museums. Well, that and the fact that we were drawn to the idea of being able to afford to purchase a home with, say a roof and more than 500 square feet. Anyway, urban, rental existence means one is shielded from many things country folk are used to, such as swarms of mosquitoes which descend on my backyard and hover around my head each evening just as I’m settling in and thinking “gee, this is really quite nice”. We have these little flies that hone in on my ears and make this shrill buzzing sound, taunting me, saying “go back to the city, we don’t want your kind around these parts”.

So, as is my wont, I told Brenda that I was prepared to spray all manner of harmful chemicals into the air, pour gasoline into the grass, and purchase a flamethrower, to stave off the winged menace. Brenda, being Brenda, recently bought a couple of oil lanterns, and—bless her—citronella infused lamp oil. OK, I figure I can give that a shot, before resorting to more aggressive methods.

Well, last night we tried ‘em out. They work! So help me god, they work. Brenda filed a complaint about the”gassy” smell of the lamps, but the ecological impact of my aforementioned alternative caused her to recant. My usual skittishness had all but disappeared. The bugs were at bay.

And then there was a rustling in the bushes right next to our patio.

Perhaps I should tell you now that there are five baby skunks living in the woods that start about thirty feet from our patio. Now, even with the new oil lamps, it’s pretty dark behind our place. Especially in the bushes. Lacking a visual confirmation, we initially wrote off the rustling as just some rogue wind stirring the foliage. But still, those skunks were out there, somewhere. And aren’t they nocturnal creatures? Damned if I know. I went to get the flashlight.

Upon my return, Brenda was already creeping around the edge of our patio, our little piece of turf seemingly getting smaller by the second. Suddenly she jerked upright, eyes like saucers, and goes “it IS a skunk!”. “I told you we needed a flamethrower”, I said, which did nothing to help the situation. Lacking a suitable weapon, I shined my flashlight at the wretched beast, pretending it was a light saber that had magical skunk repellent properties. Eventually he slinked off down the lawn and into the woods. But the whole time he seemed to say, I’ll be back”. Ready to go out in search of an all-night guns & ammo store, it took considerable effort from Brenda to get me to remain Out There, in the nature’s arena. I once again felt like I have no business being out there.

About these damned skunks. It seems as though a mommy skunk spit out five baby skunks, and then was promptly killed by a car. The poor babies are left to their own devices, in the woods behind my house. (P.S. Lest you conjure up visions of a garden paradise, it should be known that these “woods” are a scant ten feet deep, and barely camouflage a Conrail cargo train line, which is the subject of a whole other series of posts.) This is all information that was relayed to me by Mercedes, the animal control TRAINEE from a neighboring town who was dispatched at the request of our neighbor a few doors down, who has taken quite a liking to these monsters. Seems as though the neighbor saw a big dead skunk on the road leading to our place, and ever since she’s seen five (count ‘em, five!) little babies scamping about in our common backyard. She’s also been leaving food out for these creatures, which I feel is a bad idea. I thought bringing Animal Control into the picture would be a good thing, but it wasn’t. First of all, the “town” I live in has no animal control division, so we have to settle for a trainee from a nearby town armed with a big net. Her plan was to wander straight into the small woods with said net, and try to capture the creatures. Well, this went on for all of ten minutes, in broad daylight, with no success. Mercedes left the net with my neighbor, and wished us all well, and got the hell out of there. As far as I can tell, my neighbor has abandoned all pretense about trying to capture these things and rehabilitate them; she keeps leaving food out for them so they can grow into big strong skunks with powerful stink juice glands, who will inevitably get lost one night on their food run and end up on my patio again.

Damned nature.

I’m off to the store today, to pick up an array of products aimed at removing this menace. Citronella ain’t gonna do it, this time.