Area dog licks crotch for seven consecutive minutes

inspired by the hard-hitting news of The Onion...

NASHVILLE, TN -- After waking his owner by pouncing playfully on his chest at 6:43 a.m., Huckleberry Hound, a 25 pound beagle/bluetick hound mix, meticulously licked his crotchal region; a procedure which spanned a period of 7 minutes and 38 seconds. His previous record of 6 minutes and 12 seconds was effectively shattered, and the new record will likely go down as the most enduring chain of tongue strokes to the pelvic girdle in canine history.

"What an honor to be acknowledged," Huckleberry said between several self-congratulating licks to his lower torso. "I'm just glad my hourly routine has finally gained the positive attention it deserves."

After gaining notoriety for his infamous fondle sessions in October of 2008, Huckleberry has quickly cultivated a unique sense of oral dexterity under the tutelage of acclaimed tongue-acrobat, Eli Blomberg.

"He taught me everything I know," Huckleberry said before guiding his nose along his almost hairless abdomen, scouting an ideal spot for one final series of licks before breakfast. "Eli taught me what it means to sacrifice social graces - even common courtesy and dignity - to achieve a flawless combination of strokes."

Moments after his owner had unwillingly stumbled out of bed to let Huckleberry relieve himself, the crotch licking champion was seen whizzing on the concrete sidewalk, a practice invariably creating a large pool of urine surrounding the front two paws, which will then tread the smelly, yellow liquid all the way up the carpeted stairs and onto his owner's white bed sheets.

connecting to the right grid

Hyperconnectivity. It's a recent cultural touchstone (some call it a revolution) that I find myself loathing more and more everyday, yet I still partake here and there. I can't seem to decide if I'm being self-protecting or self-righteous when I decide not to partake. I do realize that I am being a bit self-righteous when I laugh after someone asks if I "tweet" - but I also believe I am simply protecting my own sanity and well-being when I decline a request to join in on someone's vampire posse.

I am often guilted for not answering phone calls. Most of the time it is simply because I leave my phone in my car all day. Whoops. I don't do this on purpose all the time, it seems to be a sub-conscious thing. I just see it as a false sense of connection. I find it ironic that as we head further and further into the realm of hyperconnectivity, we seem to grow further and further disconnected. Perhaps, to be more accurate: As we grow more and more connected to one another via technology, we grow more and more disconnected from creation and Creator.

While I don't know if linking this whole (short) article is necessary, David Sirota raises an important question: What are the psychological and societal consequences of the revolution’s radical notion that always being connected and available is a necessity? And, I might add, Do you think that notion even exists? Do you feel pressured to be available? Do you agree with my assessment of how this affects our relationship to creation and Creator?

I wish we could all have this discussion around a table of good food, but the comments section of a blogger account will have to do for now.

--Getting Off The Grid--
As you read this, I am somewhere in rural China, probably disoriented, perhaps eating a fish eye, and certainly not paying attention to the news. This column was the last thing I wrote before embarking on what’s become an all-too-rare experiment in human life: I decided to see what will happen when I go fully off the grid.

Because I am completely cut off, you cannot call or text me from your phone; you cannot IM, Friend or Tweet me from your computer; and you cannot message me via my avatar on Xbox Live. You cannot even e-mail me or leave me a voice mail—my mailboxes tell you that all messages are being deleted, and that you will have to recontact me when I’m back. (Legend has it that Napoleon waited until he received two letters to respond to requests, figuring that most problems become moot in the interim—I guess I’ll find out if he is right.)

The prospect of going technologically cold turkey was daunting for me, one of millions of information junkies now hooked on connectivity. I vaguely recall a life without cell phones and computers (well, other than Nintendo), but my addiction has clouded that memory in sepia tones, making it seem a century ago. And so as I prepared for my current plunge into information deprivation, I felt like I was readying for a journey in a time-traveling DeLorean.

I can’t tell you whether I’m enjoying my isolation in the Middle Kingdom or going crazy from it—as mentioned, I wrote this column just before leaving. But I do know that the pretravel fear about cutting off is neither unique to me nor healthy.

Today’s Internet and technology revolutions have been rightfully celebrated for improving everything from education to medicine to commerce. We understand these benefits well—hell, we have magazines and blogs and RSS feeds and pornstachioed triumphalists like Tom Friedman constantly telling us how great it is that the revolution is being YouTubed. We don’t, however, consider the psychological and societal consequences of the revolution’s radical notion that always being connected and available is a necessity.

Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about. It’s that urge to answer your cell phone in the middle of a family dinner, that impulse to check your e-mail before going to bed, knowing your boss expects you to. It’s the urge to text-message a business colleague while driving—a problem so prevalent and dangerous that state legislatures are outlawing such behavior. And it’s that reaction you get when telling people you don’t have a Facebook page or a BlackBerry—that disgustedly stunned look as if you said your name is Fred Flintstone. The expectation is that you are—and must be—on the grid at all times.

Though we don’t talk about it much, it’s obvious that this rewiring of expectations will inevitably come with consequences for, among other things, families, interpersonal relationships, psychological stability and work. It becomes difficult to conduct face-to-face interpersonal relationships while Twittering, hard to find inner calm with a perpetually buzzing cell phone, and nearly impossible to be productive at a job when bombarded by e-mails all day.

That’s probably only the half of it, too—nobody really knows the full ramifications of hyperconnectivity. Either way, I hope my Chinese experiment gives me some deeper insight into the phenomenon, just as I hope the fish eye I’m probably slurping down right now tastes good. I’ll certainly let you know via Twitter, Facebook and e-mail. But not until I get back on the grid in a few weeks.

And (as I keep having to remind myself) that delay is actually OK.
--David Sirota via Truthdig

remembering the king of pop

This may seem like an unlikely choice for a "memorial" but at the ripe old age of 8, this song rocked my face off. Free Willy came out the day before my eighth birthday, and I remember getting it on VHS that following Christmas. The feature presentation was preceded by this video, and I used to dance to it a lot with my brother.

Now that I'm a mature adult with 5 kids, mortgage payments and a Twitter account, I can see that Michael Jackson had one of the largest influences on western music since the British Invasion - and that Free Willy is hardly where that influence comes from (this is just track 11 on Dangerous). However, in the world of Ben Rucker, killer whales impossibly jumping 30 feet into the air following a dramatic key change is the definition of influence.

Salana... Eyuong... Ayessis!

there is no time for mud pie

"If we consider the unblushing promises of reward and the staggering nature of the rewards promised in the Gospels, it would seem that Our Lord finds our desires not too strong, but too weak. We are half-hearted creatures, fooling about with drink and sex and ambition when infinite joy is offered to us, like an ignorant child who wants to go on making mud pies in a slum because he cannot imagine what is meant by the offer of a holiday at the sea. We are far too easily pleased." -C.S. Lewis

__________

Every time I travel back into Nashville from all those places, I play the same thing on the car stereo - right about the time my tires roll onto I-440. It's the only time I am even remotely tempted to smoke a cigarette.

When you're back in your old neighborhood,
The cigarettes taste so good,
But you're so misunderstood-
You're so misunderstood

I don't know if I'm misunderstood, but Jeff Tweedy seems to think so. Of course, that's assuming that the song is about me.
__________

I had a friend tell me recently to not fear being a broken record. I've feared being a broken record all my life. Perhaps that is why I am one.

He told me that riding a horse requires that you fall. The whole question about it is what you do when you're lying face-down with dirt in your eyes. Grass stains. Perhaps lacerations here and there. Normally, I tend to find some twisted sense of relief after a fall. Within seconds, I begin baking. Mud pies are riding down the factory line. That's right, I already built a factory. It's easy when I am wallowing in the mud. But who can blame me when they are flying off the bakery shelves? People are passing up holidays on the beach to eat a piece of this shit. I mean, mud. Pies.

It takes a while, but I will eventually realize what I am eating, and I will slowly, very slowly, saddle-up again.

But then I make a mistake that will later have me eating pies till I pop: I tell myself that I will never fall out of the saddle again if I can hold on tight enough. And with knuckles clenched white on the reins, I kick. Here we go again.
__________

In college, we had a poster of Bruce Lee hanging over our kitchen sink. He was ever present above our culinary endeavors, but more importantly, he kept a watchful eye over the dirty dishes. Someone, in a moment of pure civility, stuck a post-it note next to Lee's mouth that read: DO YOUR DISHES!

If I had small enough hands and my elbows were double-jointed, I would tack that very poster up inside my brain. Only, this time the post-it note would read: THERE IS NO TIME FOR MUD PIE!

what are you listening to these days?

This is a question I get from time to time.

Perhaps because I've been known to sacrifice my ears by scouring through a lot of music to try and find the good. Perhaps because I once gave him or her (the questioner) a mix CD, which I have also been known to do. Or perhaps because he or she thinks I am a pretentious douche and wants to stay away from whatever I recommend.

I must admit, I love few things more than sharing music with people - especially when that music really strikes a chord with them. This is exactly why I have found myself working for a radio station more than once. It is also why, when the station manager wasn't looking, I changed the playlist so that "On A Neck, On A Spit" by Grizzly Bear would always play during my shift. It is also why I played "Seaweed" by Fruit Bats during an Americana music program I helped produce. It is also why I post articles about music right here on my blog. I could say that I write all these posts for myself, but I'd be lying if I said I didn't hope someone might discover something.

So, at the risk of sounding like a pretentious douche, here are ten records that I can't stop listening to:

Passion Pit - Manners




"The Reeling"

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Neko Case - Middle Cyclone




"People Got A Lotta Nerve"

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Wilco - Wilco (The Album)



"One Wing"

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Forest Fire - Survival




"Echoes Coming"

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Grouper - Dragging a Dead Deer Up A Hill




"Heavy Water/I'd Rather Be Sleeping"

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Bill Callahan - Sometimes I Wish We Were An Eagle




"Jim Cain"

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Danger Mouse and Sparklehorse - Dark Night Of The Soul




"Revenge (feat. Wayne Coyne)"

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Truckasauras - Tea Parties, Guns, & Valor





"Up, Up, Down, Down, L, R, L, R"

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The Besnard Lakes - Are The Dark Horse




"Disaster"

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Breathe Owl Breathe - Ghost Glacier




"Toboggan"

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i came here to learn

Here is a video, documentary style, about the sustainable energy project that Patrick and I completed during the Ridge to Reef program. Fellow reefer, Dez, took on the task of documenting everyone's work for her final project. With little time and resources, she did an amazing job producing videos that show what we accomplished, and interviews that divulge the real reasons why we had all come to the farm. As far as Patrick and I were concerned, we came to learn.

the yellow dwarf and the dinner plate

With a few more posts left before I can really close the book on St. Croix (for now), I should probably go ahead and get these up here - before we all forget that, yeah, that actually happened. I shall start with the conclusion of my final project at VISFI: to design, create and install a working solar system for our client, Kyle O'Keefe.

I left off (almost FOUR months ago, geez) talking about how Patrick and I had to decide on the best location for the solar panel. Well, after surveying the area, we decided this was the prime spot:


Patrick and I worked closely with zen-master/zig-zag man/bearded electricity guru, Don Young, to develop the optimal system for Kyle's needs. We constructed a box out of scrap wood that was lying around the container pad to house all of the components of the system that would convert the sunlight into AC and DC. Then all we would need to do is send the current up to Kyle's cabana, connect a few wires, screw in a bulb, and voila - power.

The box, which we painted a lovely shade of green, was attached to a 6-foot post. The roof of the box was slanted at 17 degrees (the degree of latitude in St. Croix) and doubled as a platform for our solar panel. A maze of wires ran from the panel, to the charge controller, to the batteries, to the inverter, to the fuse boxes, and under the ground to Kyle's cabana. It honestly took every ounce of our sanity to check and recheck our math, solve wiring puzzles, and get all the tools we needed to finish the job. One of the things I was most proud of after completing the project was knowing how much we were able to recycle from previous projects or from junk lying around the container pad. As frustrating as it sometimes was to try and find the right size screw we needed or to try and get our hands on a wrench or a charged power drill, it felt great to accomplish so much without even one trip to a Home Depot (not that one even exists on the island or anything).





The big moment came the day before the project was due. Patrick and I had spent the previous afternoon digging a seemingly endless trench that would become home to one measly 4-in-1 10 gauge wire, we had connected all the wiring in the system, and the panel had been charging the batteries for a good 48 hours - it was time for the moment of truth. Now, I don't mean to be overly dramatic or sensational, but it was a very emotional moment for Patrick and me. It actually was our moment of truth. Would the light bulb light? Was all our work actually for something?

I twisted the bulb into the rusty socket of the old metal fixture we had borrowed from the baby chicken pen. I gave Patrick the thumbs up. He switched on the inverter. Current flowed through the fuse box, into the long gray wire, through our ramshackle joint box, and into the old fixture. The bulb's filament slowly began to glow, brighter and brighter (actually, not slowly at all, more like the SPEED OF LIGHT, but I like to pretend it was all in slow motion), and soon it was burning with the electrical fury of a thousand suns (40 watts). And the peasants rejoiced.


As Patrick and I were making the long walk down the hillside, back toward the community center, I noticed the setting sun in front of us. How incredible it was, I thought, that we had taken unseen particles of light and transformed them into something - creating a light of our own. We began to chat about this very miracle, when both of us turned around to gain perspective. We wanted to look back toward Kyle's cabana to imagine what it would look like from the other side of the farm if the lights were on. We wanted to imagine what future farmers at VISFI will see in the distance when someone is reading by the light of our bulb. We just wanted to imagine it, but we saw this:


The full moon had risen, stealthy in the night sky. It hung like a dinner plate directly over Kyle's cabana, casting its pale glow over the farm. It was, as Elton John might say, the circle of light.