My Quest for a Dead Eagle

By Shawn

Recently I learned, courtesy of the New York Times,* that this country has a National Eagle Repository. Apparently the purpose of said repository is to keep dead eagles handy for Native Americans who want to employ dead eagles/dead eagle parts in traditional ceremonies. When I read about this, it delighted me to no end. There is a building somewhere, maintained at taxpayers’ expense, whose sole purpose is to store piles of dead eagles. There are people whose job it is to put dead eagles in bags and mail them. Somehow this is a possible career path.

I have to wonder how one winds up in that line of work. How does the government advertise it? Word of mouth? Craigslist? And is it anyone’s first choice? Has there ever been a kindergarten class in which something like the following transpired?

Teacher: What do you want to be when you grow up, Billy?
Student #1: An astronaut.
Teacher: And you, Jason?
Student #2: I want to stuff giant bird carcasses into what look like large sandwich bags, then ship them to historically oppressed indigenous groups.
Teacher: Well, in that case, you’ve got a lot of hard work ahead of you, young man.

But all that aside, I have to say, I’m glad this valuable public service exists. In fact, I can only think of one problem with the National Eagle Repository, which is that it demands a certificate of Native American tribal enrollment before it will send you an eagle. Look, I get why this is. Eagle corpses don’t grow on trees, so it makes sense to prioritize people who need them for traditional cultural practices. Still, exceptions ought to made for those of us who are not Native American, but nevertheless would very much enjoy a dead eagle.

I think I am one of those people. Your average person would be at best “pleased” to receive an eagle-bag in the mail. I, on the other hand, would be in seventh heaven. I would have an eagle-gasm. When I tell my friends this, they protest: “But Shawn, what the hell would you do with a dead eagle?” What wouldn’t I do? I’d name it something unbearable, like “Eagle Knievel” or “The Talon-ted Mr. Rip-ley.” I’d take it to class and make students address all their questions to it. I’d attach it to a fishing rod, and fly it at unsuspecting children like so:

And these are just a few of the activities I thought of off the top of my head. I’m telling you, I would enjoy the living shit out of that eagle.

I know, realistically, that the federal government isn’t going to change its policy just for me. So, really, this all a roundabout way of saying, if any of you readers are enrolled in a Native American tribe and are willing to go halfsies on a dead eagle, let me know immediately. (Alternatively, if you just wanna let me have the whole thing, I’ll give you, like, twenty bucks.) Seriously, get in touch. Let’s make this happen.

* New York Times article here: http://www.nytimes.com/2012/05/05/us/a-repository-for-eagles-finds-itself-in-demand.html?pagewanted=all

A Reflection on Spider Week

By Shawn

Just to mix things up, and because Ann randomly thought of two posts she wanted to write involving spiders, the two of us decided to declare this week Spider Week on the blog. So it felt pretty fitting when I discovered a spider in my bedroom the other day. I noticed him sitting there, perched on his tiny web in the corner of my room, and I thought to myself, “Boy, I should really murder the sweet sunshine outta that little guy.” I started to move towards the spider, but then I was stopped by a thought: “Shouldn’t I leave him alone? I mean, it’s Spider Week. Wouldn’t it be wrong to kill a spider during Spider Week?”

The correct answer would have been, “No, of course not,” because “Spider Week” isn’t a thing. There is no religion that recognizes “Spider Week” as a high holiday. And yet, for some reason, that didn’t occur to me. It felt wrong to kill him, so I decided to spared his life.

I woke up with two bites. Go to hell, Spider Week. Every spider should die in a fire.

Katie’s Spider Surprise

We’ve had a lot of fun entries for spider week. It just so happens that Katie recently posted a story about spiders on her own delightful blog, Soulshine and Sassafrass.

Check it out here:

 

“Hi! Just wanted to wish you luck on your audition!”

Monday evening found me happily driving my little self to an audition. As I drove through the heart of Washington DC (which, as you may or may not know, has the worst traffic in the nation), I felt something on my face. Assuming it was a few strands of my crazy mop of curls, I shook my hair back from my face – but to no avail. After a few unsuccessful tries of this, I finally pulled down my mirror to see what was happening. And there, resting on my cheek, an inch under my eye and half an inch to the left of my nose, was a FUCKING SPIDER.

Now, let me just preface this by saying that I love spiders. I grew up playing with the bugs I found in the woods behind my house. I would rescue them from their dangerous outdoor lives, rehouse them in cozy, air-tight jars, lovingly feed them the freshest dirt, and then sob inconsolably when they mysteriously died in a 24 hour time span. I’m always the one to shriek “Don’t hurt it!” and stop a conversation/rehearsal/make out session to gently carry little creepy-crawlies safely outside. I have saved numerous big, strong men from centipedes and giant beetles and wolf spiders.

However. When surprise face spiders make their presence known to me (and this wasn’t a teeny tiny little guy either; it was about the size of my thumbnail), I pretty much react the way the rest of the spider-hating world does. I screamed “OH MY GOD GET THE HELL OFF ME!”, smacked at my face and sent it careening off into the depths of my car, and almost took out the minivan to the right of me and two pedestrians.

I immediately called my sister and regaled my story of horror to her. She said the entire thing reminded her of the Misunderstood Spider.

I am seriously obsessed with this guy.

At the end of it all, I made it to my audition in one piece – although my monologue may have had a slightly hysterical note. Hopefully they’ll think it was an inspired and unusual acting choice. I’m expecting a call offering me the part any minute now.

—

For more of Katie’s musings, see her blog at: http://www.soulshineandsassafras.blogspot.com/

 

Jayme’s Doodle, Part 2

By Ann, Again with Material from Jayme

An update on yesterday’s post:

Apparently, Jayme sent me the wrong doodle before–one in which there actually was no spider. Which would explain a lot. Except the content that was included in the doodle. Nothing can adequately explain that.

Here’s the one he meant to send:

This time I see the spider. Also, this time the story is immediately clear. Why wouldn’t a turtle ninja be protecting his cheerleading bunny friend, who is enthusiastically making pancakes with her mind, from the spider above? How else is he supposed to get his pancakes? Plus, get serious. She’s doing him a favor. He’s not just going to leave her there to fend for herself. That would just be ungrateful.

Jayme’s Doodle and Spiders on Drugs

Written by Ann, Material Supplied by Jayme

Today’s Spider-related post comes courtesy of my friend, Jayme, who never fails to produce delightful and surreal material on any number of subjects. For more Jayme madness, visit his blog at http://metapodlove.blogspot.com/

First, a video he recommends:

And now a doodle that he “did many moons ago that has a spider in it.”

Now, I’m going to level with you, Jayme/the world, I have no idea where the spider is in this doodle. I actually have no idea what on earth this doodle is even supposed to be depicting. After several minutes of close scrutiny, my face pressed up to the screen, I discerned only the following possible narrative:

Once upon a time, there was an evil clown. He had a happy little pet crab. The little crab’s happiness filled the bitter clown’s heart with so much rage that he slapped it to pieces with his clawed hand and served it up with bacon and eggs for breakfast. The clown shared this breakfast with his equally bitter friends, Balloon-Head Man and Cap’n Hydra Hunchback. Unfortunately, Cap’n Hydra Hunchback was as bad at eating as he was at living, so he upchucked it all onto Balloon-Head Man’s outstretched hand. Then, no one was happy. The end.

So… that’s my best guess. Please let us know if anyone else has any other theories, preferably ones that actually include spiders.

 

P.S. Yes, Jayme, I did get the second video you also sent. I’m not reposting it because it was terrible, and no one should ever have to watch that. You already know that. You know what you did.

Scenes from an Awkward Childhood #7: Slavery

By Shawn

At a certain point in a young child’s life, one is introduced to the concept of race for the first time. If you are white, part of this involves learning about your race’s terrifying history.

Shawn: White people did all that?
Dad: Yep.
Shawn: But… that’s terrible!
Dad: Oh yeah. And there’s more.
Shawn: What?
Dad: We haven’t even made it through all the Crusades yet. You might want to grab a snack or something.

He wasn’t kidding. We had a bit of a nasty run there. Even though I was too young to really understand what had happened to whom, when, or in what context, I wasn’t too young to feel really, really bad about it. In particular, the enslavement of African Americans deeply upset me.  Feeling guilty and not knowing how else to make things right, I decided that I needed to apologize to a black person on behalf of my ancestors. Having given it some thought, I settled on Jacob, one of my best friends in childhood. One day, I was over at his house, and I judged the time was right to unburden my soul.

Shawn: Jacob… I think it’s awful what white people did to black people in history.
Jacob: Yeah, it’s really terrible.
Shawn: I feel really bad about it.
Jacob: Uh huh.
Shawn: (emphatically, with eye contact) I’m sorry.
Jacob: You’re sorry?
Shawn: Yes. We shouldn’t have done that to your people.
Jacob: What?

Now, you could argue this gesture of mine was problematic for a number of reasons. The one that really stood out, though, is that Jacob isn’t black. He’s a white guy who just happens to be tanner than me. Apparently, I didn’t understand the difference.

Shawn: I’m trying to say, I think it’s terrible what white people did to black people, and you’re my friend, so I just wanted to tell you that I’m sorry.
Jacob: But I’m not black. I’m white.
Shawn: What are you talking about? You’re black.
Jacob: No, I’m not.
Shawn: Here, put your arm against mine. You’re darker than me, see?
Jacob: So what?
Shawn: So, I’m pretty sure that makes you black.
Jacob: But—
Shawn: Look, wouldn’t you say your skin is brown?
Jacob: Brownish.
Shawn: Well then.
Jacob: “Well then” what?
Shawn: Well then, I’m sorry for slavery!
Jacob: I’m sorry for slavery too!
Shawn: Don’t be sorry, you didn’t do anything wrong!
Jacob: Shawn, we’re both white!

I wasn’t backing down. In desperation, Jacob appealed to his mother to settle the dispute.

Jacob: Mom, please, just tell him I’m white!

I should mention that there was another layer of historical misunderstanding in play here. Both of us are Jewish, and our ancestors were way too busy running around Eastern Europe screaming to systematically mistreat anybody. And that’s maybe why Jacob’s mom, too amused by the spectacle of one Jewish child apologizing to another for the horrors of slavery, couldn’t bring herself to end it.

Jacob’s Mom: (barely suppressed laughter)
Jacob: Mom, why aren’t you saying anything??
Shawn: Because she agrees you’re black!
Jacob’s Mom: (is trying so hard not to give the game away that she’s turning red)

Eventually, it was time for dinner, so I had to go home before we were able to reach a consensus. I can’t say the whole thing went exactly as I’d hoped.  On the plus side, though I don’t know the cure for healing contemporary America’s racial divisions, I can safely rule out apologizing for slavery to other white people. Turns out that doesn’t really cut it. Who knew?

Story Fail

By Ann

My roommate has a lot of wondrous qualities, but she is infamous for not understanding what makes for a good story. Case in point:

Katie: So, I’ve got a good story for you. You know how a bunch of people think Kevin Spacey is gay?

Ann: No.

Katie: Okay, well they do, and then there was this whole thing where interviewers were all like, “Hey, Kevin Spacey, are you gay?” and he was like, “This is none of your business, I’m not going to tell you.”

Ann: So?

Katie: Well, it was funny, though, because he, like, kept saying that, even though he probably was. So he sort of said that he was without saying he was.

Ann: …

Katie: This wasn’t a very good story. I’m sorry, I don’t know why I ran in here to tell you this. I’ll go now.

Ann: Mmkay.

Katie: Oh, wait, but you know what is a good story?! Today I bought some bean dip!

Who needs autocorrect when you’re already insane?

By Ann

So, tell me, blog world. “Verb the fool out of noun.” Is that a real expression or do I just think that’s a real expression? I mean, either way, I’m going to keep saying it. I just like to keep abreast of how banana-balls my current verbal expressions are.

An Even Conciser History of Western Thought

By Shawn

(See A Concise History of Western Thought for context.)

A Concise History of Western Thought

By Shawn