So I had this history professor my freshman year in college, Dr. Hanson, who had a bowl haircut and cheezy little mustache but eyes like Gene Wilder's - kinda fun, kinda crazy - and he was fairly sharp.
He said that not everything from the past was noteworthy. Brushing your teeth, for instance, was something you'd done in the recent past (at least, hopefully), but it didn't make the event historical.
Blogging's kinda like that. Haven't had much to say, lately, but now I got a coupla things:
First off, M and I are settling in nicely into our new place. We are in downtown Phoenix, the Garfield Historical Distric, which is one way of saying the the Arts District -or- another way of saying the Barrio.
M points out "Ghetto" may be more appropriate in lieu of her Jewish heritage, but tell the multitude of our hispanic neighbors that. If you can speak Spanish, that is. Which I can't.
Question: What do call a monolingual?
Answer: An american.
So I've been listening to the mexican radio stations but haven't quite made the lingual leap yet. But once the downtown library re-opens I am so there. Seriously.
Oh, so anyway, last night M wakes me up 'round midnight (all apologies to Thelonius Monk) and says:
M: Adam, you have to see this.
A: Mmmmf. (I say, in my sleep befuddled state)
M: You have to come see this and tell me what it is.
At this point I have no idea what she's talking about but I do know that I've been awakened from a deep sleep to do, what, share in the moment?
A: What!?
M: Come in here.
So I stumble out of the bedroom, bedraggled, to see what looks like a hummingbird flying around our living room. Or one of these really cool moths that recently started appearing at the warehouse where I work.
S'moth, I said.
No, she said, it's not a moth.
Then it landed on the wall near us. And she was right. It was not a moth.
First of all, let me say that all insects - with their mandibles, exoskeletons and multi-faceted eyes - are about as alien as you can get and at the risk of sounding species-ist, I just don't mix well with their kind. In fact, they pretty much freak me the f*ck out!
But cockroaches... they are in a class all by themselves.
Now imagine the grandaddy of all cockroaches - two inches long, half an inch thick, with a head big enough to make out facial features... (and I'm pretty sure we made eye contact).
Jesus, I am getting skeeved out just describing this. You know that itchy skin feeling on the the back of your neck and shoulders like something is crawling up your back and into your hairline? Yep, I got that feeling right now.
So now I'm wide awake, eyes locked with this Kafkaesque monstrosity, when suddenly it assumes the form of a small bird and flies at my head.
No, I didn't scream like a girl. Yes, I wanted to.
Thankfully, however, Jesus intervened (praise god!) and the little f*cker flew up into our overhead lighting, where he was trapped and finally cooked by the multiple lightbulbs therein. Of course we could see his desperately flailing siloutte and hear the skittering of his little limbs for about an hour after that but didn't bother us.
Much.
