Loving Everyone, Squirrels And A-Holes Included

Scariest book you'll ever read. It's a scary, scary
squirrel world, and we're just living in it.

Greg:

It's me, Thaddeus. Remember me? I showed up in your house somewhere back in 1962 - June, I believe. The 27th, to be exact. 45 years and three days ago. You thought mom and dad had brought a puppy home from the hospital. Ring a bell?

I'd have to use a calendar to recall how long it has been since I heard from you. And not just any calendar. I mean the Mayan Calendar, because it seems like millennia. I know you have a penchant for holing up inside your tuba with a peanut butter sandwich and a book of Green Stamps, thrift and nut butters being your keenest interests. But you should really poke your chalky-white face outside once in a while and take a look at who's making all the racket. You may find that it's me, the puppy your folks brought home from the hospital, begging you to throw me a bone. Or a word. Whatever.

I've been doing things. Working, for one. Reading, for another. I got a couple of really great books for my birthday. One was "Squirrels of the West" (Tamara Hartson, editor). Squirrels have filled me with a combination of warmth, fascination and horror ever since we had one as a pet when we were kids. Remember Desiree? Our little pet squirrel that we kept in the house who taught herself how to ride the turntable on the stereo? (Squirrels are such smart little bastards! Cross a monkey and a rat, get a squirrel. S'true. It's in every squirrel's creation mythology that they are the descendents of Hanuman and Karni Mata. Just ask one.) And remember how she pooped on, like, everything we owned? Living with a partially-domesticated squirrel is like randomly firing crap-rockets inside your own home. Few except us will ever experience the exhilaration of a chittering, crapping blur whizzing by their oatmeal bowl and caroming off the walls first thing in the morning. Unbelievable that we got away with it. No wonder dad drank so much. Either he let us get away with it because he was anesthetized by a half-rack of Carling most of the time, or he kept himself half-racked as a defense against random crap-rocket attacks. Not too sure which. Anyway, the book lets me feed my fascination with these vituperate, tree-dwelling rodents in the comfort of my own home, where I'm now safe from crap-rocket attacks. That is until I step outside of course.

Perhaps this book will teach me how to harness the power of squirrels for good. This has been one of my goals in life, believe it or not. A friend of mine once wrote a play wherein squirrels were a pervasive and aggregate evil. Hundreds of them would combine to create human forms and then attack the unsuspecting, Trojan Horse style. Not too far from real life, if you ask me. Judging from his personality, my cat could be nothing more than a dozen bilious and phlegmatic squirrels held together by cat-shaped spackle who are just waiting for the opportunity to explode like a seed pod and attack me from every corner of my being. But what if I could harness those squirrels and use their combined power to mow the lawn, replace my toilets, or shoot out the legs of my rivals? (That's a job best left for raccoons. -Ed.) Then I could make some real money. Then I could drive down Broadway in a faux gold trimmed Lincoln with a license frame that read "My Other Car Is A Squirrel".

The other book I got for my birthday was "Best Buddhist Writing 2006" which is more of a hoot than its title would lead you to believe. Usually books on religious matters are all too serious and leave me feeling like I've taken some kind of medicine that does nothing more than make me feel bad for being a schmuck. Not so much with this book, though. Allow me to submit as proof the laugh-out-loud-funny and deeply touching "Hair Braiding Meditation" by Seattle poet Polly Trout that is included in the book.

May I be filled with loving kindness. May I be well. May I be peaceful and at ease. May I be happy.

May my daughter, who wants a billion tiny little braids this morning, be filled with loving kindness. May she be well. May she be peaceful and at ease going to school with a billion tiny little braids.

May her best friend, who got a billion tiny little braids put in her hair at Club Med Ixtapa last week, be filled with loving kindness. Also her mother, may she be peaceful and at ease. And the woman the mother hired to do all that cornrowing, may she be well. May she be happy.

May I be filled with loving kindness as I put in these billion tiny little braids. May I be peaceful and transcend greed. Also, may I go to Club Med Ixtapa next season, when the beach will be even more inspiring due to my newly enlightened and greed-free state. May I be happy.

May my coworkers be filled with loving kindness as they wonder why I am late for work as I make these billion tiny braids. May they be peaceful and at ease.

May my daughter not notice that these braids are not nearly as cute as her friend’s braids that got done professionally in Ixtapa, or if she does notice, may she be peaceful and at ease about that, please for God’s sake.

May my toddler, currently trying to vie for my attention as I make these tiny braids for her big sister, be filled with loving kindness. May she be peaceful and at ease.

May my mother, who did this for me when I was five, be filled with loving kindness. May she be peaceful and at ease. I wonder why I never thanked her for that.

May I remember this day sitting with my daughter, braiding her hair, late for work again, peaceful and at ease, happy.

There's also the work of Marc Ian Barasch, an apparently very prolific Buddhist writer who I've never had the pleasure of reading before. What I really like about him is that he's a sort of Buddhist Everyman, a Dharma-working shlub who readily exposes his multiple warts and confesses his manifold failings in the face of his Bodhisattva vows. It's kind of like what it would be like if Thich Nhat Hanh did slapstick. My kinda thing, in other words. I highly recommend his essay "Searching for the heart of compassion". Aside from being quite engaging on an intellectual level, it's just plain fun reading. There's something very refreshing about teachers who engage in this sort of reverse pedagogy: "I can't tell you how to do it right, but I can tell you how many times I had good intentions and still completely fucked it up. Maybe you can pick up where I left off."

Which brings me to a point which I consistently get hung up on: how to love the assholes in your life. As Barasch says in his essay, it's pretty easy to love the good people. Our expressions of compassion get winnowed down to the precious few in our lives. But compassion is supposed to be for everybody. And everybody means everybody: you, me, that guy I don't know, that asshole that wants to kill me, squirrels - everybody. The issue that I'd like to addressed exhaustively is how to express compassion for people who hate you. Better still, how to express compassion for people who will turn around and use your compassion to harm you. I mean, c'mon. Everyone has had that happen one time in their lives. There are people in the world who will do whatever they can to capitalize on the best part of your nature and will at some point use whatever you say or do to stab you. One of that species of person is mentioned in the article, but the issue is only dealt with briefly, and that is to say that a line was drawn in the sand. "Letting you use me as a doormat isn't good for either of us, so in the spirit of compassion, I'm telling you in the kindest way possible to fuck off and stay fucked off. Namaste." But there has to be more you can do than that, isn't there? Or is there? Maybe there comes a point when you're dealing with someone who can't help but be abusive that you just have to say "Okay, I'm done" and break that contact permanently. Maybe the only way to make that action compassionate is to not do it in a spirit of anger or retribution, but in a spirit of contributing to mutual well-being.

Or maybe I should just sic some squirrels on 'em.

Cheers,

-Thaddeus

It's My 45th Birth - Wait, What Was I Saying Again?

This is the look of old. The ravages of time as recorded by a camera held in my
quaking 45-year-old hand.

Greg:

Jesus Christ, I'm 45 today. That means that you're...wait, I have to do the math...plus five...carry the twelve...six hundred and seventy eight years old, give or take. I don't know why people get so wanged out about getting older. I really don't feel any different than I did when I was seventeen...other than a little smarter...and not so impulsive...and my propensity for using ellipses has increased....yes it has.

Know what gives away the fact that I'm old? Here's the difference between my 20th birthday and my 45th. On my 20th, all I wanted to do was snort coke and Jim Beam off hookers while jumping the Snake River Canyon on a Yamaha. And for the most part that was how I rolled in back then. Now all I want to do is spend the day in my back yard, sitting in my folding recliner, yelling at my cat to shut up. And that's most likely what I'll be doing. And it'll be ossum. And I'll be happy.

What was I saying again?

Oh yeah. So we filled our ears with coins and swam naked all the way to Boston. And that' s how we me and your uncle Humbert licked the Jerries back in dubyah dubyah ought five. The End.

Oh man! You know what I've got in my back yard? Raspberries! They just ripened up the other day. We only have a few little canes, but they're pumping out a crapload of fruit. We threw some on some Chex the other day. Chex with raspberries in the back yard - now there's a picnic! If only we could've found a way to barbecue it...

Didja see that we (meaning RealNetworks) just released a new version of the RealPlayer that'll let you download videos right off the Web and barbecue 'em on a DVD so you can show 'em on your plasma TV and make your friends blow milkshakes through their noses from laughing at stuff like this right here? (Friends and milkshakes not included.) S'true. I fully endorse its use, however I'm barred from using it for religious reasons as I believe that putting your image on a DVD will trap your soul, then expose it to ridicule by milkshake -snorting troglodytes seated 'round a plasma TV.

Tip For Campers: While I was in Yellowstone, I got some kind of rash on my ankles, most likely from coming into contact with poison ivy or poison oak or poison raspberries or some damn thing while I was running around camp in my sandals. After I got home, I'll be gol-damned if I didn't re-inflame my ankles by putting on my sandals without washing them first. My point is that once an article of clothing has been exposed to poison [insert plant name here], it must be burned, and the earth around it must be salted, and you must turn your back on it and never speak of it again.

Don't I have a job? Shouldn't I be at work right now? Yes, I probably should be. Too bad for them

I'm going to go eat cake for breakfast because I'm a grown-up and I can do that.

Know what I really want for my birthday? The Field Guide to Squirrels. I know it exists, even though I can't find it on the InterWebs. I saw it in a bookstore just last Saturday. I plucked it from the shelf and gazed upon its pages with a mixture of awe and terror. Teresa axed me why on earth I would want that book for my birthday. I answered her with one simple phrase: Know thine enemy.

Time to go wring out the dog.

Cheers,

-Thaddeus

Squirrels The Size Of Rump Roast - OR - What I Did On My Summer Vacation

Grizzlies, hell! Watch out for this little bastard. He'll go straight
for your jugular. And he carries Bubonic Plague. Or so the guide
book I read ("Nature Wants To Fucking Kill You!: A Guide to the
Wildlife of the Canadian Rockies") tells me.

Greg:

Two weeks immersed in alpine splendor have completely robbed me of the power of speech. To get a gander at the splendor of which I speak, click on the picture of the tiny, tiny bear (above). I'll write more when my sprrch gerz bhurn drrr. Frr? Hack! Kaff! I'll write more when my speech crrrmss brrr.

Shmerr vrr brrrz,

-Thaddeus

Goal Achieved: Complete Whoredom

Chock Full O' Nutsack: Own the grail of Dear Gregory
schwag, the limited edition "Squirrels grabbed my
nutsack" 100% ceramic mug. Suitable for coffee,
tea, or - Greg's favorite - frosty cold absinthe.
Nab one now from The GregMart!

Greg:

Yes, that's you on a mug. Yes, it says "Squirrels grabbed my nutsack" on the side. Yes, I'm selling them. Yes, for money. But wait - before you start, let me say this: if Satan had given me a tail or the Power of Flight or the Ability to Smell Invisible People, I would've used all of them for good. However, He did not. He gave me a job in marketing instead. Therefore I had to put my marketing skills to good use somehow (he said, bending the definition of the word "good" until it made a twanging sound). It was inevitable. I had to create Dear Gregory schwag. And to sell that schwag, I had to open an online shop called The GregMart. The stupendous comedic power of your elementary school picture behove it. And that item came into my possession through no small amount of lies and world-championship-caliber wheedling, let me tell you. I mean, just look at it! Christ Jesus, it looks like you had to eat through a cowcatcher! Who would believe that picture after seeing you now? Answer: no one. Thus, it had to be made real and public. In short, if The GregMart did not exist, it would've been necessary to invent it. (-Voltaire.)

At this moment, GregMart's sole ware is this handsome ceramic mug with its priceless portrait and squirrel/groin-oriented humor, guaranteed to raise a smile on the face of the most hardened of Human Resources professionals. But as Jesus once said, pricelessness has its price, and that price is Only $12.99!

Certainly in the coming weeks - nay, days - I shall find more ways to capitalize on your - I mean - spread your face and fame worldwide. And you shall benefit! Hundreds upon dozens of people shall pour into Barney's Casino, Rib Shack & Whorehouse to hear your band and its unmistakably sloppydrunkrocknroll stylings. Tens of five persons will meander into Coldwell Banker Village Realty to purchase from your lovely wife Marie even the smallest piece of dirt whereupon you have trod. And you? You will bask in the glory of the buying public whilst sipping your morning brew from a mug which bears your own visage -just like the Queen of England does each and every day!

Yes, I've caved in to capitalism and I'm due a vituperative reading from any passage of Mao's lil' red book that you choose. But at the end of the day, what buys those frilly woolen under-drawers that you love so dearly better than cold hard American cash?

Yes, that's right - cord hald Japanese Yen.

Next in GregguMart! Crazy bucktooth gaijin say Eskwerrus grabbu mai nuttu sakku!

Squirrels Grabbed My Nut Sack

I know how you feel.

Greg:

I went and officially cracked the seal on Hiking Season '06 yesterday with an 8-mile round trip hike up Mount Si. I've done that hike a few times before, but this is my first time doing it during tit-freezing season. Nobody told me that it was still winter up at the top. I checked the freezing levels, which were at something like 5-6k yesterday when I went up, but again - nobody told Mount Si that, and it decided that freezing levels oughtta be well below 3k. No wait - it decided that I personally should freeze every single one of my teats off, and so endeavored to help me in that regard.

Other item of note: There were squirrels. But more about that in a moment.

The first three miles of the trail were unremarkable, save for the fact it was fairly warm by February in the Northwest standards - about 56 degrees. But the last mile to the summit was nothing but hard-packed snow and ice. Were I wise enough to bring along cleats and poles, I would've been just fine. However, I am anything but wise, and therefore spent a great deal of time falling on my ass and grabbing at the branches of saplings as though I were a soul of the damned being pulled from the lake of fire. My lug soles didn't do much on the ice except to turn me into some kind of spastic Hans Brinker, with my arms violently windmilling for all of nature to see.

So I sweat buckets for the first three miles, and then froze for the last mile. Luckily I brought along my wantonly bourgeoise fashion statement of a North Face parka (fully accessorized with North Face gloves) and some ice goggles that proved to be indispensible. Nothing sucks worse than snowblindness, and the weather was perfect for it - nothing but ice below and not a cloud in the sky above.

At the summit, I picked out a spot that was in the sun but protected from the wind, and got out my bag of trail mix and a Power Bar and sat down to have a snack and drink in the glory.

Then the shakedown started.

First it was the mountain jays who started eyeballing me. I made the mistake of offering them some nuts, which they eagerly snapped up straight from the palm of my hand. Then the squirrels came around, snapping their tails and barking. So I figured what the hell, I might as well give them a little something. Well, as you know with squirrels, it's "give 'em a nut and they take the whole sack". Suddenly I heard a shriek from behind me ("Nuts are for the people, man!"), and in a trice I had squirrels caroming off my back while the jays attacked from the air. So I did the manly thing, which was to scream like a girl and wrest my nut sack from the bushy-tails' grasp, and then scamper away flailing my arms. The hike down pretty much consisted of me tobogganing down the trail on my ass to the hoots and jeers of tiny rodents.

This reminds me of a quote from the movie "The Game", starring Micheal Douglas and Sean Penn, which is: "they [bleep] you and they [bleep] you, and just when you think they're done [bleep]ing you, that's when the real [bleep]ing starts!" - which is to say that nature is all fine and good until it starts to be all natural and shit. And by "natural" I mean when squirrels start kicking my ass. Bears I can handle. Cougars, sure fine. They got books on that kind of stuff. But squirrels? They're everywhere, man! What if a bear could break into a hundred tiny bears and grab your nut sack? Think about it. It's truly frightening. And what are squirrels but tiny, tiny bears? I rest my case.

So I went down to REI and bought a six-gallon tub of squirrel repellent. Hopefully that'll take me through the rest of the season. However, if I should be taken down by a gang of squirrels in the North Woods, please tell people at my funeral that it was a gang of tiny bears instead.

Cheers, and give my best to Marie.

-Thaddeus