Thursday, June 25, 2009 :::
Secondhand Rants will return on Tuesday, July 07.
Posted by Ben at 7:52 PM
Tuesday, June 23, 2009 :::
"God can wait," declared the Chief late last week, and so ended my two-service streak of church attendance, replaced instead by a Sunday round of that unspeakably wretched sport. And yet, even though I was without congregation and scripture, the experience at hand had an Old Testament gravitas to it--harsh sun beating down upon my back, feet planted in a rich land wrought by the hands of slaves, and a general feeling of forsakenness. Had Moses appeared on the 8th, tablets in one hand and driver in the other, verily would he have proclaimed, "Let my people golf." And exodus would have had to wait.
I played horribly. Perhaps it was divine retribution for skipping worship, I don't know. A few weeks ago, I explained how I had felt the closest approximation to enjoying golf, ever, during a particularly revelatory round. My backswing clicked, shots took to the sky, and the game's mysterious frequencies began to resonate with me. The ideal follow-up would've been to capitalize on this breakthrough, clock in those hours, and dig some serious grooves into my muscle memory. Naturally I did the exact opposite and opted for weeks of inactivity.
It's nobody's fault but my own, of course. Along those same lines, I realized on Sunday how truly lonely golf can be. Swing poorly, and it's your fault. Lose a ball, and you've got to look for it. You might tee off with others, sure, and socialize accordingly, but in the end you're completely accountable for your game. Certainly your clubs matter, offering you something to blame, though they only matter to a point, because you can drop thousands on a top-of-the-line set and still suck. There's no opponent thwarting your finely conceived strategies, after all. It's simply you and your irons fucking matters up.
Having said all this, I'm going for more tomorrow. It's strange, you know? Because let's be honest here. I usually emerge from the 18th slightly tanner, one or two chili dogs heavier, head pounding from too much sun, and very likely disappointed with how I played. There's little in the way of positive reinforcement here. But there's also this hope that if I touch the stove enough times, the very laws of nature will be subverted and I won't get burned. I'll just get competent.
Posted by Ben at 10:47 PM
Thursday, June 18, 2009 :::
Three hundred years from now, historians will no doubt attempt to codify my system for purchasing cereal, so I'll lay it out here plainly to save them time. First, pay no more than $2.50 per box. Also! Try not to buy Fruity Pebbles. With such loose restrictions, you may suspect I'm easily compromised in the supermarket, and you'd be correct. I spied a rare sight in the breakfast aisle yesterday: a price tag proclaiming a virtually unheard-of $1.54 for an entire package of-- Of Hannah Montana Multi-Grain Secret Star Cereal, apparently.
"Shit," I muttered.
This was a problem, no two ways about it. On one hand, it was cheap and it wasn't Fruity Pebbles. On the other hand, I couldn't bring myself to reach for a box. Doing so would've ensured I'd bump into someone I knew minutes after--that's how these things always happen, anyhow--and what's more, I couldn't imagine pouring myself a bowl the following morning. I'd be ashamed to eat it. I ended up grabbing some Cinnamon Toast Crunch, which was fortified with just as much sugar and, most importantly, a little more dignity.
It also bears reporting that the shituation back on the home front appears to have resolved itself, courtesy of an indirect "Eff You" in place of darker remedies, and suburban life has reclaimed some of its comforting normalcy. But the next conundrum has already presented itself. My living room is being invaded by tiny spiders. They're fast and almost seem to be able to fly across the ceiling. I've vacuumed a dozen tonight and, as I was typing the last paragraph, killed the few who dared land too close to the keyboard. I need to figure out how to get rid of them without pumping the interior full of pesticides. Until then, they're free to spin their sinister webs, even as I weave mine.
Posted by Ben at 11:11 PM
Tuesday, June 16, 2009 :::
There is a harsh list of criteria, almost as capricious as it is long, that must be met in order for me to attend church. First of all, I must awaken--unassisted by an alarm clock, naturally--somewhere from 8:20-8:33 AM EST. Any time outside this range renders attendance hopeless and sends me straight back to bed. It must not be rainy. It must also not be too sunny. The temperature gradient between indoors and outdoors must be just so.
When I do make it, I conveniently arrive 15 minutes late, just as the onstage band is knee-deep in some guitar riff, which effectively cuts worship music in half. 17-20 minutes of tardiness means I sidestep the offering plate entirely, thereby negating the need to swing by an ATM. And contrary to what the folded program might suggest, the service really ends shortly after the sermon, when I disappear immediately following the reverend's closing prayer. It's the churchgoing version of the Amen Corner, if you will.
You could say it was extraordinary, then--supernatural, perhaps--that I went to church for a consecutive Sunday and, more to the point, stayed until the very end. Truly, it was a day of days and lo! Unto you a heathen was sanctified, if only for an hour-fifteen. Whether I'll be present for a statistically improbable third showing remains to be seen. This question of community, especially the religious variety, is something with which I continue to wrestle. I just don't commune, you know? And I'm not referring here to the bread and wine.
Posted by Ben at 11:42 PM
Thursday, June 11, 2009 :::
When I take a hard look at my social plan, measure its pulse, offer a brutal diagnosis, it's quickly becoming apparent that, of all the adjectives I could apply to it, "successful" certainly isn't one of them. I've made some effort to engage in society, sure, and yet deep down, even as I type this, I know I've expended an equal amount of negative effort to ensure the plan's failure. Part of me is relieved, really, that the two communities I've explored haven't had any real traction.
Obviously this won't do. My current existence could easily be mistaken for that of the elderly or the incarcerated. Most of my hours are spent sitting, essentially, and aside from 15 to 20 minutes of sunlight and three squares a day, there might be an occasional round of golf on the weekends. Holy shit, you know? This is the reality I've fashioned for myself. Throw in a couple pairs of orthopedic shoes, a Jell-O social every other Wednesday, and a synthetic hip, and I'd be set.
The places where people my age statistically congregate appeal little to me. I was at the Epicentre a few weeks ago for happy hour, and it was as if all the city's Hollisters, Gaps, and Abercrombies had violently collided into each other, creating a hot zone of fancy clothes, perfume, and hair product. It was ground zero for what may have been the most expensive mating dance in the natural order.
Before me is a rapidly shrinking list of venues. I made a rare quarterly appearance in church last weekend, and it wasn't bad at all. Now, this isn't to say I lasted through the whole service, but more on that later. Could it be? Is this the next community to investigate? Church? A "Lord help me!" would not be entirely sacrilegious here.
Posted by Ben at 11:55 PM
Tuesday, June 09, 2009 :::
Suburban living has a way of magnifying inconsequential affairs, and things that any sane passerby would dismiss as minor tend to adopt epic significance. A mosquito might find its way into your home, for instance, and what ensues is a taut game of cat-and-mouse worthy of a Grisham bestseller. I've been playing this game myself recently and emerged the winner yesterday, though the cost was great: five painful welts, with one more than an inch in diameter.
It's such a small insect, but damn it if quality of life didn't dramatically decrease the last few days. Personally, I'm not opposed to sharing a bit of blood with a creature who needs it, especially if it's, like, the one thing it eats. I have plenty to spare, after all. But it's a slap in the face when you offer free food, only to be poisoned when you finish dispensing it. So I hunted the bastard, room to room. Didn't go so far as to lure it, as I had to do last year, because luck favored me this time and I managed to trap it in a bathroom. And when the sonuvabitch landed on the door sill for a breather, I punched it. "Suck it! You dumb fucker," I shouted exultantly, hoping it would appreciate the wordplay before it died.
With the AC working at full blast now and the mosquito threat temporarily neutralized, it's time to move onto the next problem. Recently I've been finding a small black bag of doggie poo in my trash can every Wednesday, right after the garbage has been collected. I understand why it's there, of course. Who wouldn't find it convenient, with an empty can lining the curb, to get rid of Fido's shit and continue a walk unencumbered?
This doesn't sit well with me, however, because I'd rather not have pet waste marinating in my garage at 90 degrees Fahrenheit for a week, you know? I recall my old man regaling me with his solution to one neighborly dispute: slashing some tires in the dead of night--all four, to be specific--and as much as I admire the cojones required of this, I believe our generation is mandated to do one better than our elders. I need to devise a more elegant answer. The gears have been turning, as you can well imagine, and a plan shall be formulated shortly.
Posted by Ben at 10:57 PM
Thursday, June 04, 2009 :::
Mortality isn't what I'd qualify as light conversation on a Thursday or any other day, but between the coverage of missing plane debris and nukes detonating underground and church shootings and, just today, the passing of David Carradine, it's certainly top of mind. And while I don't like to dwell on it for too long, lest I end up paler than a Twilight superfan shopping for incense and powdered bat nuts at Hot Topic, it can serve as a sharp check-up on how I'm investing the time allotted to me.
Usually, though, it's not the dire news stories that bring death to mind. No, the triggers are more oblique, and I can think of two specifically. One is related to messing up dates in e-mails. I'll type 06/04/90, for example, and realize I'll be long gone in 2090. The other reminder comes whenever screen performers pass. It's, like, I just saw Carradine in Kill Bill a few years ago, or The Golden Girls are barely plural now. Granted, these were older stars, so it'll be much more unnerving when actors and actresses progressively closer to my age start to croak.
There are no easy answers to this conundrum. It's not even a conundrum, really, so much as the way things are. For me, the conversation continues to wend its way back to this idea of creating something great, something that will outlive me. I want to take the time given to produce a work that endures. This is as far as I tend to get, however, and the hope is to move beyond the abstract, find the concrete, and connect the dots.
Posted by Ben at 11:54 PM
Tuesday, June 02, 2009 :::
Two nights ago, as I lay awake at one-forty-six AM, ambient temperature eighty-five degrees Fahrenheit and rising, I found comfort in imagining something cooler, like the scorching river of coal connecting the Eighth and Ninth Circles. Next to the river grew a crop of unholy habaneros, lovingly tended by shrieking fire imps, and near the field was--could it be?--a Baja Fresh, whose terrifying presence jolted me to my feet. I stumbled downstairs for a cup of water and sanctuary from the heat, all the while asking myself, "Was it worth it?"
Back in April my AC broke, and after paying a ridiculous $90 diagnostic fee to learn I had to shell out another $150 for a replacement part, the Carney Radar immediately began blaring. The part in question, a contactor, resembled something manufactured in shop class, so I stopped the repair guy, fired up Google, and found the exact same piece for $17 shipped. I decided to order it myself and, to avoid incurring another $90 diagnostic fee from this den of shysters, hire the same repair guy directly. Contract the subcontractor, as it were. He agreed to the tune of $50, washed his hands of the $150 gouge, and gave his blessing for my plan.
There was a time cost and a learning curve, of course. Turns out that particular brand of contactor was discontinued. I guess that's why it was worth $150, you know? For its rarity. Two backorders and five weeks later, I popped open eBay, typed in the voltage and amp specs needed, and a compatible contactor was on its way, which brings us back to this weekend.
It was unseasonably cool in May, but the gravy train came to a stop this Sunday, when the mercury began climbing to proper heights. Hours before imagining a river of fire and habaneros and all that stuff, I had attempted to build a ghetto swamp cooler by lashing together two fans, a few cardboard boxes, and a pot filled to the brim with ice. Let's just say it failed. I hadn't pictured the ice melting so quickly, and when condensation began dripping onto the cardboard boxes, close to the fans, I concluded death by electrocution probably wasn't worth the 70-odd dollars in savings.
I dismantled my ill-begotten invention, slogged through the night, and then, hours later, finally had the contactor in hand. After a couple phone calls, $50, and some waiting, I'm happy to report my air is being conditioned once again. I know a solid HVAC guy now. Going to try to fix a computer his son broke, in fact. Via e-mail, of course--we're not that tight. I saved a little money. Learned about fuses and compressors and contactors. Increased my tolerance for heat. Gave the middle finger to the sordid world of institutionalized HVAC repair. Totally worth it.
Posted by Ben at 11:34 PM
