4/28/2006 08:17:00 PM|W|P|Schnozz|W|P|Ahh ... finally, a trip I can sum up in one post! One picture, actually. Are you ready? Here we go. (Click here for a larger version in a new window) See that mountain? I hiked to the top. The view was amazing. See that ocean? I swam in it. The view was amazing. The End Really, that's it. You can stop there. All right, fine. Also there is this: (Again, clicky.) Which is a nice calm scenic lagoon across from our hotel. (As usual, pictures do not do it justice. Which always seems to be the case of any tropical photograph I try to take. How do the Corona people do it?) And also there is this: (CLICKY!) Which is where I spent my time basking in the sun when I was not basking in the sun in a calm lagoon or pretty ocean or on top of a pretty mountain after climbing through a pretty crater. I spent four days in Honolulu, but I really didn't do much of anything. But that's fine. Better than fine. I would even go so far as to say that such inactivity is RECOMMENDED. State-mandated, even. I realize that most of you are not the cosmopolitan travel expert that I am. Fear not! I can sum up all of Hawaii's daunting travel-advisory legalese in one simple equation. y=10x x=days in Hawaii y=allowable calorie expenditure while in Hawaii So if you spend four days in Hawaii, you have a forty-calorie budget to work with. And once you get the basics* out of the way (dressing oneself, eliminating waste, chewing, applying sunscreen**), forty calories is actually more like twenty calories ... or five calories a day. How to spend these precious calories? Well, it's YOUR vacation, so it's up to you. For your reference, I present a typical 5-calorie daily budget, with a little maneuvering room. Walking to elevator: .3 cal Pushing buttons on elevator: .2 cal Squinting in the delightfully warm Hawaiian sun: .2 cal Walking to the beach: a disastrous 1.4 cal Shaking out/arranging beach mat: .4 cal Flopping down into the sand: 0 cal (thanks, gravity!) Turning over: .2 cal (Smart travelers only turn over once all day. Wait until Side A is flaky, with a bubbling, crispy crust and a rosy glow.) Rolling up beach mat: .2 cal Walking back to the hotel: 1.4 cal, ugh Pushing buttons on elevator: .2 cal Picking up remote control: .3 cal Pushing buttons on remote control: .1 cal Falling asleep: 0 cal TOTAL: 4.9 cal Sadly, this calorie-sparing travel system does not leave me much to blog about. There are no whitewater kayaking stories. Nor were there midnight tangoes or beachfront luaus. I could have done these things, I suppose, but nothing screams TOURIST like burning 17 calories all in one day. There weren't even very many interesting conversations to be had. It's a little-known fact that when you check into the Hawaii terminal, you are forced to leave your brain at the gate. (Don't worry, they put a little barcoded luggage-claim tag on it so that you may retrieve it upon your exit back to the mainland.) I have proof of this. I will provide you with a few examples. SAMPLE OAHU CONVERSATION 1 Mr. S: You know, I've never noticed it before, but girl surfers are kind of sexy. I don't know why ... it's kind of like girl snowboarders, I guess. S: You mean, bent over with their feet apart and their asses sticking way out? MS: (Pause) ... Yeah! I guess that's it, huh? S: Yep. SAMPLE OAHU CONVERSATION 2 S: You know, when you think about it, sunscreen is amazing. Like, "Here! Smear this on, and you will REMAIN UNAFFECTED BY THE RAYS OF THE SUN!" How did someone even some up with something like that? MS: (Doesn't even bother to respond, so fed up is he with the way his wife constantly feels stoner-style amazement at everything she ever thinks about.) SAMPLE OAHU CONVERSATION 3, which occurred against our will EVERY SINGLE TIME we exited the hotel S or MS: Wow, it's really nice out. S or MS: Yeah. (Both chuckle as they remember, duh, they're in Hawaii.) You see? You see how little blog fodder I have to work with here? All I can offer you, then, are my observations. Moving your eyeballs around in your skull only burns like .0001025 calories with each glance, so I did a lot of that all day.*** In addition, receiving various kinds of data from the neurons in my skin only burns approximately .000357 calories, so I did a lot of that too. (I'm not lazy, you know. Just frugal.) Also, neither of these activities required much more processing than what my left-behind brain stem could provide, so that worked in my favor as well. So despite the stringent brain-check policies of Hawaii and despite my careful caloric budgeting, I do have some interesting Hawaii observations to offer you. I will provide ten. Well, eleven. Just in case you didn't find one of the first ten to be very interesting. 1. No words exist to describe the niceness of Hawaii's mid-April weather. I'm really not sure how it could have been nicer. Improving that weather would require something really, really drastic ... like chocolate frosting, for instance. I know, I know, you're all like What does frosting even have to do with weather? But I was just in Hawaii and you weren't, and you're just going to have to believe me when I say that nothing short of the mystical, inexplicable powers of soft, spreadable, creamy chocolate is going to increase the niceness of Hawaii weather ONE IOTA. 2. There are a great number of fake breasts in the world. Many of the owners of these fake breasts have a special smug look they give you if they catch you looking at their twin surgical marvels. I don't get this. What's there to be smug about? I'm not staring at your breasts because they're sexy.**** I'm staring because your neck and abdomen are near fifty, yet your breasts float in some magical Neverland o' Bosoms, forever in their early twenties. I'm staring because I'm fascinated with the way your breasts are actively straining against your sternum, and against gravity, and against the very laws of nature themselves. I am not staring because I envy you. So why the smugness? If I had a horn surgically attached to my forehead, I wouldn't feel smug when people paid attention to it. I would accept their stares as a matter of course, because I AM FREAKY. If you need a closer analogy, I myself have been known to contort my poor negligible boobs into cleavage using a wire-and-pulley system marketed under the brand Victoria's Secret, all for the amusement of my easily pleased, I-like-shiny-things husband. And then sometimes I adorn that forced cleavage with a revealing type of shirt and then go out on a date with the aforementioned husband. And then sometimes total strangers look at my contorted chest flesh. They look because this chest flesh has been manipulated within an inch of its life. And I know this. So when they do look, my first thought is not I am such a fox. My first thought is Ah, I see they've noticed that I am holding my poor breasts hostage in a veritable prison of lycra. Okay, that's not really what I think when they look. I don't know what I think when they look. I just know I never have that ridiculously smug expression on my face when they do it. Okay? This is supposed to be about Hawaii. LEAVE ME ALONE. 3. The scenery is just as amazing as the weather. Going on and on about that would be really boring, but I will say that the big banyan trees and the tiki torches lining the streets at night were especially cool. 4. People in Hawaii pronounce it in very distinct, choppy syllables: "Hah-wah-EE," with a lot of emphasis on that last I. Every time someone said it that way, I felt ashamed, because of my ignorance, and vaguely annoyed, because deep down I was pretty sure those bastards were just showing off. I considered looking "Hawaii" up in Webster and listening to the pronunciation they give there, but then I realized that doing so would prove how super cool I was, and I'm not sure I want the whole world to know. Yet. 5. There were a ton of Japanese people in Hawaii. I had no idea so many Japanese people traveled there, though I suppose it makes sense. The overwhelming Japanese presence was especially noticeable to me and Mr. S because we had planned to go to Tokyo, not Hawaii. It was strange to NOT go to Tokyo and then feel like we were in Tokyo anyway, eating at a restaurant while everyone around us conversed in Japanese. 6. Trying to learn to surf on Waikiki is a great way to get your whole face scraped off by the surfboard of some other moron who is also trying to learn to surf on Waikiki. At least that's how it seems to me now that I've watched about twenty beginner surfers attempt to crowd onto the same tiny beginner wave. An impromptu meeting between a rented surfboard and the outer bone of my ankle as I bobbed innocently in my little inner tube only strengthened my position on this looming safety hazard. Right after Mr. S and I were assaulted by a stray surfboard, we were snootily told that we weren't exactly swimming in a safe place. For one thing, there had been very few surfers where we set up shop originally; they arrived in droves after we were already obliviously floating along. For another thing, whose fault is it that we aren't floating in a safe place?? I'm going to start hanging out in public places while warning people in a similar fashion. "You really shouldn't walk around like that," I'll say in a patronizing voice. "I tend to head-butt people who walk around like that." 7. Many, many people are out of shape. I know, it's not a big news flash. But this fact really was one of the more depressing aspects of the trip. Mr. S and I hiked to the top of Diamond Head (see the labeled picture, above), and all we heard were people either talking about how they can't believe they made it to the top or how they actually DIDN'T make it to the top. I'm not saying I didn't get out of breath or that it was an easy hike, but for one thing, there's a trail going all the way up. With HANDRAILS. And WATER FOUNTAINS. And wide clearings in which to rest. For another thing, the entire hike up the mountain is .8 miles. Yet at the top, people purchase certificates saying they did it. I'm not sure I understand their confusion. "Diamond Head" and "Everest" don't even SOUND the same. Yet there they all are, standing in line to buy a certificate that PROVES that they climbed .8 of a mile using only their wits, a trail, a handrail, multiple water fountains, and two slushee trucks. (There really were two slushee trucks on the way up Diamond Head, though admittedly they were more near the bottom than the top.) I wasn't uplifted by the obvious triumph of those who reached the summit. It made me geniunely sad instead. Is it really true that climbing what is really just a big hill is now a certificate-justifying accomplishment? I'm not known for my athleticism either, but COME ON AMERICA ... and come on Japan, I guess. 8. There are a ton of ABC Stores (a convenience type of store that sells beach mats, sunscreen, etc) in Honolulu. I used to think there were a ton of Waffle Houses in the south and a ton of Starbuckses in every major city in the country, but that was before I visited Honolulu and witnessed the unbelievable frequency of the phenomenon that is the ABC Store. Don't feel like crossing the street to buy sunblock? Not to worry! There is an ABC Store right behind you. And in front of you, actually. And on your right and left. And also further right and further left. And also directly beneath that manhole cover. And also suspended right above you on a dangling platform. Once, while walking barefoot, I tripped and scraped my toe. (Klutzes should never walk barefoot.) Mr. S immediately walked away from the scene to buy me Band-Aids. And by "walked away" I mean he walked six feet, which landed him directly in front of the ABC Store cashier. Six feet is actually pretty far away for an ABC Store, but I DID trip right in the middle of the crosswalk. I'm sure mid-crosswalk ABC-Store kiosks are under development as we speak, so that such a six-foot-long travesty of a Band-Aid journey need not ever occur again in the fine city of Honolulu. THIS IS HAWAII FOR GOD'S SAKE. ABC STORE PRODUCTS MUST BE WITHIN ARM'S REACH AT ALL TIMES. EVEN FOR MIDGETS. 9. Hawaii establishments serve the best. pineapple. ever. Pineapples are now ruined for me. There's no point in ever eating one again. Unless I go back to Hawaii, I guess, and I'm not sure how likely that is yet. The notion that I am just sitting amid a huge ocean sort of weirds me out, a feeling that didn't really go away until I set foot in Los Angeles on Monday night. 10. No one is actually from Waikiki. I find this unsettling because it means that there isn't really a Waikiki at all. It's actually a ghost beach--just a bunch of empty hotels and restaurants, just waiting for the tourists to arrive to give everything a reason for existing, to make everything real. It's all very Langoliers and I do not like it. How can I sleep at night knowing the very existence of Waikiki hinges on a random assortment of people just DECIDING to go to Hawaii all at the same time?? (What I do like is inventing weird things to worry about, apparently.) 11. You pay for everything in Waikiki. Actually, I'm not sure this is true, but that was the hotel desk clerk's extremely snippy explanation to our question of why in the world we were expected to pay for high-speed internet access at an effing Marriott hotel. Wi-fi was $13 a day. Can you believe that crap? I've stayed in lots of hotels. Mr. S has stayed in about forty thousand hotels. Neither of us have ever heard of such a thing, especially at a fairly expensive resort. I mean, I once stayed at a ghetto Ramada where my room didn't even have a NUMBER on it, and the lobby had some sort of weird exposed giant metal ventilation fan, and I really didn't feel safe leaving the room at all, yet still, STILL I had free wi-fi. Anyway, when Mr. S asked about the charge, the woman behind the desk snapped, "Well, this is Waikiki. You pay for EVERYTHING in Waikiki." First of all: Well, excyoooooose us. Second: Thank you for that helpful explanation! You know what would be even MORE helpful? To Serve Us Better, perhaps next time you provide a customer with that useful explanation, you could try not to be such a heinous bitch. More specifically, you could attempt to avoid being that insufferable kind of bitch for whom, in some miraculous biological adaptation, our godless universe spontaneously generates a hell in which you can reside, because mere death and the typical subsequent nonexistence IS SIMPLY TOO GOOD FOR YOU.***** Anyway, this became a favorite joke between my husband and me. For the rest of the trip we would worry aloud about how much everything cost, including sand we stole from the beach on the bottoms of our sandals and the breeze we occasionally enjoyed. For the record, in my opinion a certain universal law applies here: the more immediate the bitchiness of a desk clerk, the more ridiculous a hotel policy is. If she can get that angry that fast, it means that she deals with the same question four million times a month ... and a policy that generates so many questions is perhaps a policy in need of some revision. DO YOU HEAR ME, MARRIOTT? I AM BLOGGING ABOUT YOU. IN ALL CAPITALS. WHICH IS NOT A GOOD SIGN. That's it. That's all I've got. At least it's all I can think of right now. It's possible I am still half-snurred. And now for a poll: If I videotaped a drunken Mr. S while in Hawaii, and it was eleven minutes of him not making a whole lot of sense, plus it was full of profanity and graphic concepts in general that I lack the know-how to bleep out, would you still want to watch it? This is all purely hypothetical. I was just wondering. ----------------- *If you really want to glam it up, I suppose you could add such frivolities as showering and brushing your teeth to this list. But you're only hurting yourself with your little prima-donna act. **Yes, applying sunscreen IS a necessity. Do not kid yourself. Any body part or patch of skin left bare to the elements will simply curl up and fall off, burning up, meteor-style, before it even hits the sidewalk. Do not miss that shoulderblade or it will be reduced to embers. EMBERS! ***Although I did blink as infrequently as possible. ****And even if some of them ARE sexy, it's not like they were earned, the way nice abs can be earned. I repeat: Why should I be impressed? *****If you were wondering, I'm not really an atheist. It is my opinion that firmly anchored religious people and firmly anchored atheists, no matter how good their intentions are, are making the exact same arrogant mistake by assuming they know crap about anything. I prefer to be a member of the Order of Fu-i-Hum (futility-induced humility). Looking to strengthen those shrugging muscles? JOIN TODAY!|W|P|114887264864744363|W|P|The Hawaii Post|W|P|j.h.gilbert@gmail.com4/17/2006 08:15:00 PM|W|P|Schnozz|W|P|So we left off with Carlos exploring his punk identity and hating me with all of his little hamster being. We left with Carlos's paws in the air, middle claws defiantly raised, as I struggled to figure out what had upset him so. About a week ago, the answer came. But it turns out I had known all along. In my original letter to Carlos, I said, You used to love your wheel. You ran and ran and ran! You were an Olympic hamster! Now you climb in it and run a few steps on it, then give us a Look. Clearly this is not the same wheel you had yesterday. Obviously we've changed something, because this wheel is no longer fun. This wheel is totally lame. As is the chewy square and the Hamster Lookout Tower. Stupid chewy square. It's blue and you HATE blue and no one understands you. Well. You know what? It turns out I was right. I had the answer all along. A mother does know best after all. I have checked Carlos's wheel repeatedly in between my requests that he turn down that horrible racket and clean up his cage once in a while. The wheel always appeared to be functioning perfectly. I would take it apart and wash it all out in case anything was stuck in it, spin it with my hand, and nod with satisfaction. Then Carlos would swallow a bunch of pills and I would be busy dealing with that all night, so I never had time to pursue the issue much further. Besides, forgive me, but I just kind of assumed Carlos was nuts. It wasn't as if his wheel was his only source of displeasure. What WASN'T a source of his displeasure, really? So the wheel spun easily under my hand. But a big monster hand is not a tiny hamster. Unbeknownst to me, the wheel was getting slower and slower. As Mr. S put it, "We were turning up the tension on his treadmill and we didn't even know it!" As I eventually discovered, the very inside of the wheel was grinding away, getting rougher and rougher, slowing the wheel down. A normal hamster probably wouldn't even have noticed, but Carlos weighs like .1 pounds and it's kind of a big wheel. He used to FLY on that wheel, his little legs a blur, but of late his running had become a bit slower, more labored. I just figured he was getting old ... until the day finally came that he tried to run and the wheel, which still spun fine under my hand, wouldn't move under his insignificant weight. Poor Carlos tried several times, cursing and kicking the wheel and trying not to cry, but it really was the last straw for the poor guy, and he climbed back out of the wheel hopelessly with the air of a broken hamster and cried himself to sleep. Mr. S and I looked at each other. A lightbulb went on. DUHHHHHHH. In the end, Carlos's angst was solved with a little olive oil on the inner parts of the wheel. Yes, really. That was it. We lubed it and put it back, and Carlos climbed wearily into it with resignation, like "Fine, I'll humor you, but trust me, this is totally going to suck." Then he ran a little bit. Then he ran a little more. Then he TOOK OFF in a HAMSTER SPRINT OF JOY, OH GLORY, THE WHEEL IS BACK AND I CAN RUN AND RUN SO FAST WATCH ME GO!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I saw something I never thought I would see again: blurry hamster legs. An orgy of wheel-running followed. Carlos ran until he was drunk with it, staggering along in sheer bliss, generating enough kinetic energy to power the block. When he finally climbed off, hours later, he plopped into a cage and languidly smoked a cigarette. His little hamster mouth curled around the cigarette in a smirk as he gazed upward at the red plastic ceiling. We didn't have to ask if it was good for him. (The crushing mommy guilt followed shortly afterward. Look, I kept TESTING the wheel. I was trying my best!) We have not heard a peep of complaint out of Carlos since. He runs his little heart out, then staggers over to the nearest bedding and passes out. Really. He sleeps as close to the wheel as humanly possible, completely ignoring his little wooden house, where he used to hang out sullenly all day while sniffing glue. If he's awake and not running, he's standing in the doorway of the wheel, making sure no one takes it. (He's learned that I can't remove it if he's in the joint between the wheel and the cage, so he lurks there as often as possible to deter me from stealing his favorite toy. When he finally wanders away to eat or drink, I immediately yank the wheel and you can almost see him slapping his paw to his little forehead, like "Crap, she got me AGAIN." Then he smashes his nose against the joint and waits impatiently for the beloved wheel to return.) He no longer frantically throws himself about his cage, looking for an escape. He no longer cuts himself or writes in his journal. He hasn't listen to emo punk in DAYS. He simply swaggers into the wheel and back out again, giving us a cool nod that clearly says, "Congratulations for finally figuring it out, you f@#$ing idiots," once in a while as he prepares to get some spinning action. This post would have pictures, but right now Carlos is either running and blurry or asleep and buried. Eventually the infatuation will be over, but I get the feeling that as long as we keep him supplied with olive oil, Carlos's teenage years have departed as quickly as they came, leaving behind a satisfied hamster, puffing away on his cigarette and celebrating the manhood he finally reached ... with the help of a little lubricant. THE END|W|P|114887252154914648|W|P|A Hamster's Tale, Part II|W|P|j.h.gilbert@gmail.com4/15/2006 08:13:00 PM|W|P|Schnozz|W|P|I'm sure there are a million ways to say this, but right now I'm busy shriveling under the onslaught of something I will describe further in a minute, so I'm just going to tell you: We got a rabbit. His name is Hugh. (As in Hefner.) Here he is, after a long day that included a bath and blow-dry, much handling by my nephew, and so on. Though he's a gentle, tolerant, sweet little thing, every rabbit has his breaking point, and Hugh is extraordinarily pissed off in this picture. Why a rabbit, you ask? Because it's Easter? NO, NOT BECAUSE IT'S EASTER. Though now everyone probably thinks I'm THAT idiot, the "I bought a Dalmatian after that Disney movie came out" idiot. LISTEN. I AM NOT THAT IDIOT. I HAVE WANTED A BIGGER PET FOR QUITE SOME TIME NOW. BUT IT CAN'T BE A DOG BECAUSE DOGS DON'T USE LITTER. AND MR. S'S WINDPIPE BEGINS CLOSING AT THE MERE MENTION OF A CAT. AT THE MERE MENTION OF A CAT'S WHISKER, EVEN. SO IT SORT OF HAD TO BE A RABBIT. EVEN THOUGH IT IS EASTER. I CAN'T HELP IT THAT IT IS EASTER. SHUT UP. So anyway. I wanted a pet that I could actually "pet." Hence the name PET. I adore Carlos, I really do, but Carlos is a prima donna diva type who shudders at the prospect of even brushing against human flesh. So I decided I wanted a rabbit, and began looking on Flickr and fantasizing about how insanely cute my rabbit would be. But today we went to the breeder, and today I broke a family tradition. I did not pick the cutest pet. (Not that Hugh isn't cute. He is very cute. Especially when he's hopping all over the kitchen or flopping down on his blanket like a dog.) I did not pick the pet that would have made the cover of the Pets So Cute You Can't Even Breathe Because That's How Cute They Are 12-Month Calendar. Throughout history, my family has chosen the cutest pets. And throughout history, our high-strung, inbred pets have continually attempted to rip people's faces off, or bite a limb down to the bone, or bark until everyone just WISHES that terrier would hurry up and bite through their jugular so they wouldn't have to listen to that godawful yapping anymore. Thoughout history, our precious, photogenic pets have foamed at the mouth as they begged to be released from their harnesses so they could feast on tasty newborn babies. Well, I've had enough of that. As tempting as the soft little gray bunnies are, as adorable as their pert little swiveling ears are, I picked the pet that had a great personality. I picked the pet with the floppy ears and the odd haircut. I picked the pet that, when viewed from a certain angle, sort of looks like a cross between a guinea pig and a donkey. And Hugh rewarded me by having the best personality ever. Today he let us blow-dry him without a complaint. Sure, he went sort of comatose, into some happy place deep down inside, listlessly allowing us to do our worst. Then, when he had recovered sufficiently, he entertained us all by hopping about and sniffing everything and just sort of behaving like a rabbit in general. A nice rabbit. A kind, nonbiting rabbit, unlike the littler, fluffier, cuter ones with the ears that stick up. According to the breeder, those rabbits are the harbingers of evil. I believe her. After all she has like four hundred rabbits, so I'm assuming she knows what she's talking about. Those little rabbits are awfully darn cute, and I have more than enough family experience to know that this means my fingers will be ripped off and stuffed into those little rabbit gullets. Those sweet looks don't fool me. I'm breaking the cycle. Anyway, Hugh is sweet, and loves to snuggle down into my lap and be petted, and he doesn't cause any trouble. And occasionally he'll fling himself down like a dog, sprawling out with his big hind feet in the air, and it is more than cute enough to make up for the aforementioned donkeyness. So what's the catch, you ask? Well. This rabbit? SMELLS. Oh man, does he smell. We thought it was just his environment, being with a ton of other rabbits and all, so we gave him a bath, despite his spirited protests. (Being a good rabbit, being the not-so-cute GOOD RABBIT, he submitted wearily after mere seconds of flailing and let us rub baby shampoo into his fur. Then he looked completely ridiculous for the next half hour as we blow-dried him. Poor thing.) After the bath, Hugh smelled sweet as a bundle of roses. We were thrilled. We knew no bunny as special as Hugh could smell like a rotting corpse! Or at least we thought we knew that. Several hours later, we are holding our noses and praying for Armaggeddon because at least that will stop the smell. The musky smell. The salty, musky smell. Yes. It's Hugh's balls. The stench emanates DIRECTLY FROM THE BALLS. This rabbit's testicles are beacons with far-ranging capabilities. Every female rabbit on this side of the Rockies knows that Hugh is looking for some action. His balls are broadcasting that loud and clear, much to our distress. We have wiped the balls. We have washed the balls. The balls are relentless. The balls cannot be stopped. The balls are something so much greater than you or me. There is no "team" in "balls." It's OK, though. My good friend Google, and several other sources, just tells us that neutering will take care of the rampant ball smell, which is created by sex glands that will be surgically removed. We'd been told to neuter him soon anyway, so this is really not a big hurdle. The only difference is, the neutering has been raised from "Sort of a Priority" to "Oh Dear God, Are Vets Open on Easter, Because Really, I Think I'm Going to Throw Up." Come Monday I plan to frantically dial the phone to see if I can drop Hugh off, oh, I don't know, TODAY, or maybe LAST WEEK, I know that last week already happened, Mr. Vet, but I can't think straight right now because my nostrils are being invaded by my rabbit's formidable balls. You have never seen two people in more of a hurry to cut off a rabbit's genitals. This is history in the making, folks. We are setting world records in sheer eagerness. I cannot WAIT for someone to hack into my cute new pet! How many pet owners can say that? The Internet has promised me (and several other horrified new rabbit owners with the same complaints) that neutering will resolve the problem. If for some crazy reason neutering does not solve the problem, it's OK. If I can't live with the smell (and I can't, dude, I can't), Hugh can go back to live on the farm. And no, that's not a euphemism for killing the poor rabbit; the very awesome and informative breeder sells rabbits on a trial basis, and the farm is more than happy to take him back if he doesn't work out. He was kept there as a favorite because of his personality; his very first owners, who were breeders themselves, were going to kill Hugh because he doesn't fit the crazy breed standards (head must be perfectly round, toenails must be 1/8 inch long, must have exactly 28000 hairs, etc). The farm owner we bought the rabbit from is a real softie and couldn't live with that, so he took Hugh on and has been housing him ever since, and many have enjoyed his doglike antics. I told the breeder that temperament was everything, and looks were secondary, and she picked Hugh for me immediately. I have to say she was right. Nothing freaks this rabbit out--not car rides, not baths, not small children screeching in his direction, nothing. He is the first pet I've ever had that does not appear to have a taste for human blood. His calm amid four-year-old-induced pandemonium is eerie. In fact he may actually be brain-damaged or something. But in a rabbit that's not a huge concern, really. At least it's not a huge concern the way a raging, invasive ball smell is a concern. Everything's relative! Believe me.|W|P|114887243337720965|W|P|I am hoding by dose wight now.|W|P|j.h.gilbert@gmail.com4/12/2006 08:12:00 PM|W|P|Schnozz|W|P|Remember poor Carlos? Poor Carlos, who went from a lovable, fluffy hamster to a monstrous teenager with black nailpolish on his little claws and a chip on his shoulder the size of a pencil eraser? (Note: For dwarf hamsters, that's HUGE. That's tantamount to borderline personality disorder.) Carlos, who has squeaked repeatedly that WE JUST DON'T UNDERSTAND HIM? Carlos, who would have slammed the door to his little wooden house repeatedly, if his wooden house weren't such a cheap doorless piece of crap house that isn't any fun and LIFE SUCKS? Well. Carlos's angst has deepened since. I know. You're thinking, how is that even possible? How is it possible when Carlos ALREADY spends all of his time either lying listlessly in his bedding, waiting for the end to come (to be fair, it's only like a year away, so this is somewhat appropriate), and bouncing off his cage walls, twitching madly in hamster fury? How could it get any worse? We didn't listen to him. We didn't care about his feelings. Carlos stared into his reflection in the shiny plastic walls of his cage, and what he saw disgusted him. All he saw was gleaming black eyes, an adorable little nose, and precious little whiskers. He saw fluff. He saw a trinket. He was so much more than that. He was a flailing, furry ball of angst. He epitomized the human hamster condition. but it didn't show on the outside. He tried to glare at us. We just saw sweet little white eyebrows. He tried to hide. We laughed at how cute his smooshed face was when he smashed himself all the way between his house and the wall. He tried to flip us off. But all we could see was his sweet little claw sticking up in the air. What a sweet, tiny little claw! It was time Carlos did something about it. Something radical. Something that would show the world he was different. Something that would command respect while at the same time getting him into all the right parties so he could smoke weed and engage in some heavy petting. No pun intended. After carefully reviewing The Legend of Billie Jean for inspiration, Carlos set to work. I watched in amazement as my hamster, who can't possibly have an IQ higher than 12 or 13, used his water bottle to STYLE HIS HAIR. Do you think I'm kidding? I am sorry to say that I am not. Carlos warmed up by listening to emo punk and biting himself (the hamster form of cutting). He allowed a few tears to brim in his shining eyes, making sure to record the touching moment by self-consciously dripping the tears onto the pages of his journal, which he kept stashed under his food dish, as he wrote about what it was like to live in the bottom of a deep, dark, pit of brightly colored plastic. April 10, 2006. Another day slides by in my ever-shortening life, wasted in the captivity of these insipid, cooing humans. My prison is in primary colors. But I think only in gray. I live only in gray. Once Carlos was fully amped for his big move, I watched in amazement as he rubbed himself back and forth, back and forth on this water bottle. I can honestly say I have never seen him do anything remotely like this. Usually one drop from his water bottle sends him into anxious convulsions, because OH MY GOD WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT. Mortified grooming would usually immediately follow such an indiscretion, and was usually carried out as far away from the offensive water bottle as human possible. But not today. Never again. Carlos's punk era had begun. Once his hair was sufficiently spiked, Carlos stalked around his cage, pleased with his new dangerous image. No one would mess with him now. He balled his paws together. Anyone who dared laugh at his new hairstyle would have two and a half inches of hamster to contend with. For the first time, I couldn't even try to reach out to Carlos. I was too afraid. I had become scared of my own hamster. He could feel the change in me. He fed off it, drew strength from it. My growing fear only fueled his rebellion. After a few short hours, any of my attempts to talk to him were met with lurking, glaring hostility. The razor-sharp spikes on his hammy fauxhawk gleamed as he sullenly ate his food. I felt hopeless, like I had lost the cute little hamster I used to know forever. But deep down, I knew that his punk furstyle was just one more cry for help. There had to be a way to reach him. And it was my job as his mother to find it. I had to get my sweet little hamster back. My sweet little baby hamster. Who used to look a lot like this. But how? To be continued ...|W|P|114887235265514306|W|P|A Hamster's Tale, Part I|W|P|j.h.gilbert@gmail.com4/10/2006 08:10:00 PM|W|P|Schnozz|W|P|I think we can all agree it's time to move on from Seattle. In fact some of you probably wish I'd never heard of Seattle, much less journeyed there. Fair enough. I understand. With your needs in mind, Schnozzfest.com presents **THE SEATTLE WRAP-UP POST!!!** That's right: After this post, no more Seattle. I don't care how long it takes. I don't care if this post is 40,000 words long. We are going to deal with Seattle, and Seattle will be RECKONED WITH, and then Seattle is going to run away with its tail between its legs. Go on, Seattle! Git! And don't come back round these parts! Where should we start? First, the Seattle timeline has been updated. Remember that timeline? Well, it sucked. I started it, and then I interrupted it, and then I remembered it but by then no one cared, including me. So I went back and updated it, but you didn't miss much the first time. Basically, I chose not to sleep, and I really should have, and then I was tired, and then I acted stupid, and then I slept for a long time. Boring, right? Right. Let's all agree the timeline was a mistake and move on, OK? Hurry, hurry, sit. I have pictures to show you. Seattle isn't going to go away on its own. So just look at these as quickly as possible. The sooner you do this, the sooner we can pretend the big earthquake has already happened and the United States now ends at the Midwest. Michelle showed me some cool sights around Seattle. One of them was this troll: Note that he is holding a Volkswagen. It's important that you notice that and nod your head so I can show you the next picture and put all this behind us. Do you see? Yes? Good. There's a blogging joke in there somewhere but SWEET MOTHER OF GOD WE HAVE NO TIME. Seattle has a big troll AND a big Lenin. They thought of everything! Michelle took me to several wonderful restaurants and a few bars. One bar was so homey that it had a big fireplace AND a cute little dog wandering around in it. It also had this sign: The sign made me laugh, because it made me think of Moose. Then I noticed that the sign actually was of a moose and featured the word "moose" several times, which made it even MORE fitting than it already was. Shannon was kind enough to show me several sights, including Bruce Lee's grave: Which is located in this pretty cemetery: Actually, various streets in Seattle featured those pretty blossoms. I would tell you all about how gorgeous it was and how the vision filled my soul to bursting with springtime optimism and the joys of nature, but I waited too long and no one cares anymore. NEXT! Shannon also took me to the Space Needle. I wanted to be all cool and uncaring about the Space Needle, but when we got there I couldn't help feeling excited. Except for a brief incident where I thought my camera was broken and almost cried (it wasn't broken; the wrist strap was preventing the camera from opening all the way), much fun was had at the Space Needle. (Looking eastish? from the top of the SN) (Looking westish? from the top of the SN) Shannon and I also went to the aquarium, where I took many many bad pictures full of blurry underwater objects. A few photos did come out, though, including one of me riding majestically in the very large whale tank. Notice my camera holster on my belt. The camera holster is really convenient. The camera holster also marks the day that I gave up on coolness forever and decided it was OK to wear a camera holster on my belt out in public. Someday my children will look at these photos and witness the EXACT MOMENT their mother gave up on cool and gave in to sweet, sweet convenience. Sorry, kids. I tried to wait for you. Hopefully we'll have cool neighbors you can learn from or something. Other aquarium shots: The best thing about the aquarium was the extreme otter cuteness. Witness the cuteness of the sleeping otters with their paws around each other: Cutest. Otters. Ever. I tried to take more otter pictures, but quite predictably, they all stank. Here is one that sort of came out: I'm pretty sure that otter cuteness is too powerful to be accurately captured on camera. Either that or I don't know what I'm doing. I prefer the first explanation. Lastly, I went to the famous fish market where everyone throws fish and it's really fun. Except no one threw fish all that often. But that's OK, because there were people in silver paint pretending to be puppets, which is even better. When you gave them money, the puppet woman sang as the puppet man moved her arms around. (The better shot happened when these folks took a break and the woman was stuffing a sandwich into her silver mouth, but I was too shy to photograph it.) And then we went some other places and then I got stuck in the airport for a long time and I finally got home. The end. That wasn't so bad, was it? That was sort of worthwhile and fun, yes? And we can all stop talking about it now? And move on to perhaps a hamster story or a cute nephew story or an essay about my four buttcheeks or ANYTHING THAT IS NOT SEATTLE? Good.|W|P|114887227410392650|W|P|The Seattle Wrap-Up Post|W|P|j.h.gilbert@gmail.com