old mcdelsheez had a farm

as a result of a serendipitous run-in with a former neighbor, i have stumbled upon a week-long house sitting gig this holiday season. commencing tomorrow, i will not only be holding down the family fort but also tending to a residential zoo. the herd includes: two dogs (one large, one small--yes, that's as specific as i get), two cats (one homebody, one adventurer), three hermit crabs (one in hibernation, two on the prowl), and one frog (because... of course there is).

my childhood was a fine one, but not heavy on the petting. we had a coop in the backyard that at one point housed a chicken, and at another time a rabbit. the gaps in time were filled with a hamster, occasional tadpoles, and the quintessential, minimal-interaction fish tank. never once in there do i consciously recall dealing with the numbers 1 & 2: pee-double-oh & pee-double-e.

i am not overwhelmingly equipped for this job.

but what am i if not a person willing to welcome bizarre challenges into my life? if i classify something an experiment then all of a sudden it's kind of interesting.

so here's the breakdown:

the dogs need to be walked twice a day, but one only likes to hang out in the backyard and the other only likes the street. one of them is also apparently a bit mental and has beef with other neighborhood canines. this one has a complex harness that attaches to his leash, though it has been explained to me that it's too complicated so i shouldn't worry about it. i'm already worried. i will obviously need to pick up and dispose of the excrement. i'll need to let them into the house at the right time, not let them out at the wrong time. they have dry food and water and treats and emotional issues, all of which i am completely unfamiliar with, quite like the language of mandarin. but if i need to learn it, i will learn it. nee how ma?

the cats (whose species i have never been particularly trusting nor fond of) require a specific serving size of wet food twice daily in separate (but equal) dishes as well as dry food and water. one of them goes rogue from time to time, trying to solve crimes in the 'hood or perhaps having a tryst with a sassy feline from around the way. he will eventually come back to the den by way of an enclosed patio where i will need to go call or whistle for him (not my strong suit) around sunset. the other is allegedly much more chilled out and stays inside the house but has taken up an angry habit lately of pissing in unofficial locations. the house owners informed me that the two distinct types of litter in the two different boxes are intended to help solve this reckless urination epidemic. we will see about that. now, the litter boxes are kept in one of the bathrooms. the door to this room cannot ever be closed or obstructed or else they will not have a clear pathway to their VIP WC. the cats will apparently sometimes hide behind doors, in nooks, in bedroom crevices, and i should not close the doors while they're in there. but likewise i should not leave room doors open for fear that they will opt to drop their business as a pleasant post-xmas gift for me. the door situation poses another challenge.

the hermit crabs are located in two different tanks, in two different rooms. one guy is hibernating in some kind of fleece sleeping bag (from north face?) and needn't be bothered, just requires his food stocked and water filled. the other two guys are a bit more interesting: in addition to needing an ample supply of dry food in their dish and water to drink, they need to be picked up daily by hand and sprayed head-on with special purified water. i am perhaps the most excited about this.

the last of the clan is the frog. this dude intrigues me. i feel like maybe i will relate to him most, but this will be confirmed over time. frogger here eats live crickets (which of course also require their own tank and food source). in the cricket tank there are two circular openings, one on each side. in those openings fit diagonally two hollow plastic cylinders with small caps on the outside. the idea is that, during the day, some of the crickets will climb up into the tube and just kick it there. when it is feeding time for kermit, i will pull out one of the cylinders, checking to ensure there are a few guys inside, and then hold the tube over the frog tank and tap the cap on top so they fall out the open end. to their death they plummet, as the frog is recharged and ready to take on the day. kumbaya, the circle of life. in the event that they opt not to climb into the tube that particular day (which the house owners assured me will not happen) i will just need to reach my hand into the cricket tank and grab the bastards with my tweezer-like fingers. no problem, right? no problem.

so there you have it. that's the rundown of my life for the next eight squares on the calendar. i can only pray that these animals last all eight days (and then some) like the miraculous oil of hanukkah.

stay tuned for the play-by-play and perhaps some genuine photographic evidence.

yours truly,

the farmer in the del(sheez)

i like my movies like i like my steaks: bloody

"127 hours", a newspaper headline told me weeks ago, would be the next film from director danny boyle. i didn't even know what or where these hours were, but i knew i was eagerly awaiting that very discovery.

boyle, the architect behind "slumdog millionaire", "trainspotting", and another handful of varied and skillfully crafted works, had already earned a certain level of my trust.

i read on.

this was to be the story--true story--of a rock climber in utah who becomes caught, quite literally, "between a rock and a hard place" (the aptly titled memoir on which the film is based) and eventually frees himself by amputating his own arm. intense, i thought. i could dig this. and aron ralston, the adventurer, was being portrayed by james franco.

now i'll say this much: i have always been fond of franco. surely his face does not hinder this, but it extends far past the superficial. from his relaxed high school charm in the short-lived judd apatow tv series "freaks & geeks" to his mainstream action spotlight in "spider-man" and his endearing step outside the box in "milk", he is genuinely likable, versatile, and seems to convey some level of depth. further research would show that sir james is actually one of the most driven, complex, and fascinating young actors in the game. between attending graduate school, having his short stories published, and pursuing seemingly countless other side-gigs, it's a wonder he has time to not only be present for his film career, but to give it his all. this guy doesn't sleep. he seems to fulfill himself by filling each hour of the day with something that keeps his mind engaged and always guessing. but why all this business about franco? only for the purpose of convincing you how there couldn't possibly be a better guy to take on such a feat.

once the movie was released in l.a., i was on a mission to go, asap. i walked into the theater already knowing that a few early audience members had not fared so well in the viewing. i had heard of a seizure and some vomiting, but i was convinced that, being (in my opinion) rather desensitized to violence and gore, i would do just fine. i was curious, though, to see if this was going to be the thing to push me over the brink. bring it on, boyle. let's see this. get as nasty as you wanna.

but enough of the background. you want the juice, i get it.

now, if the entire movie is one hour + thirty five minutes, i would guess that a full hour of that is spent down in a crevice with ralston, anticipating the inevitable. therein lies the trouble. immediately upon him becoming trapped, i found myself tightening up my chest, almost forgetting to breathe normally. i continually pestered myself to take the air in and out of my lungs. something about the panic of seeing this man (whose outcome you, in the first few moments of the film, are already deeply invested in) locked into an excruciating and nearly impossible situation makes it difficult to kick back and watch calmly as it unfolds. you feel for him, you like the guy, you don't even want to fathom switching places with him. so instead you sit there and put your energy into him, hoping that it will somehow give him the strength and motivation to watch the sun rise and set over his earthy abode one more time.

it may sound as though the meat of the film is a slow-moving, fish-tank-like observation of ralston sweating out the five days of his predicament. but that's where the artist danny boyle (with credit to his co-writer simon beaufoy) comes back into play, dancing in and out with visual stunners, narrative complexity, and comic relief.

i don't want to spill too many more of the beans before you sit through the adventure for yourself, but i imagine you're eager to know the dish on the gore. the truth is, i expected worse. but maybe i always do. it was certainly tolerable, but i can imagine how for many, it wouldn't be. there will be cringing and there will be blood, but don't let this prevent you from experiencing the rush of inspiration, cinematic artistry, and contemplation this film brings. if your own tolerance concerns you, have a look at this guide to the exact times to bury your eyes in your sleeve and arm yourself (not a pun, that would be in poor taste) accordingly.

beyond that, there's really not too much i want to say about the specifics within the film--you need to do the dirty work yourself. but promise me you will give it a go and won't be put off by the buzz of it being unwatchable due to ralston's few moments of torturous emancipation.

we don't truly know how we'll behave in a situation until we're in it, and "127 hours" gives us the chance to dwell in the trenches with one man confronting that harsh realization. he's done all the legwork; the least you can do is watch, right?

loco for taco

i'm exceptionally into tacos lately. i mean, the mexican food genre has arguably been my lifeblood for 28 years. burritos ranked highest, nachos were a late-night go-to or a superbowl staple, and the tamales, enchiladas and taquitos of the gang were mostly reserved as lazy freezer inventory, with a special thanks to trader joe, my homie for life.

but everyone goes through phases; we know this. you decide you prefer skinny jeans to boot-cut. or you're gonna start drinking green tea and cut back on the red bulls (very how zen of you). so this may be nothing more than a personal food fad, but the simplicity of a naughty little corn tortilla with a mix of crazy items smushed inside is topping my list of not only edible options but pastimes as well. on how many occasions have you been asked by a friend, "what do you wanna do tonight?", responded with, "uhh, let's get tacos", and been denied? exactly. taconsumption as a leisure activity is a cut above the rest and it's going to win 8 or 9 times out of ten.

and anyone who knows me well enough is aware of my carnivorous inclinations, but let the record show that i am not pushing meats here. the beauty of the taco is that it is a hospitable environment for just about anything. if you aren't fiending for dead animals, stuff it with frijoles and soy chorizo, i don't care. just make this magic happen--fast, cheap, and out of control.

¡buen provecho!

euphony, euphoria

sounds and bass, harmony, clap, the sizzle of the rhythm tells me how to feel. i paint myself into a film, sitting on a train, looking at meaningless trees and considering the who and the what of me, and why i ate so many fries. without these wicked notes dancing in and out of my ears i would be so plain. they don't define me, but they enrich me. for each mood, there is a complex string of aural insanity, arrhythmia, syncopation, tranquility. through my veins, into my lungs, coming out through the bottoms of my feet when i walk along the sand where it's packed tightly with saltwater.

it can hype me up, chill me out, cool me down, diffuse frustration, temper rage and make my head bounce. i sink into molten metal, cover the surface of everything i see. the wind abusing the palm fronds looks like a drum swish and a toe tap. the heat pulsing through headlights at dusk is the reminder of a sweaty dance floor.

a devious dj puts his fingers in your head and plays around. seek the magic: a violin of spine-tingling remorse, a drum of cultural chaos, a guitar twang of porch swings and swaying fields of the country, a legendary electro crescendo, turning ordinary into white hot.

fill the space with reverb and tone, fill it all up until it spills over. until you feel that all the air inside you is gone and has been replaced with this floating enigmatic eruption of sound.

and then you're there.

three strikes, you're out

have we gotten to the point in our courting code that everything is expected upfront, like a down payment on a car? or is it the same as it's always been yet more out in the open now? in the old school days, did people assume they were going to get down (or at least see some skin) right off the bat? is it history's own conspiracy to cover up rampant promiscuity in an attempt to maintain dignity and a sense of composure for the ages, or was it really more tame circa, say, the 18th century?

we now have this tug-o-war with taking the pants off that becomes frustrating and also a bit expository (figuratively). the guy doesn't have much patience--this much we know. he can handle paying for a lady's caesar salad only a couple times before he feels entitled to the goods, and simultaneously, no matter how game she is, she's playing the can't-put-out-too-soon-or-he'll-think-i'm-a-hussy game. she eats her salad, sips her appletini, and then maybe he'll get to first (whatever that is) and the chances that she'll give it up before he gives up are slim to none, and there goes that "relationship".

so now what? people getting down on the first date is nothing new, but is that now the norm? why do ladies inherently care about feelings and all that mush when men are in it for the nookie and, most often, nothing more? how exactly are we hard-wired that these things can't be altered without severe intervention from the brain, telling us to think/act differently? i have to believe that it'd be so much simpler to be able to turn these responses on and off like a control panel, but unfortunately it ain't that way. i hear about guys getting all caught up on some hot mama and they start freaking out and THINKING about things (with their brains!) and i realize that the roles we pretend to inhabit aren't always exactly the same on the inside. yes, many a lady gets in over her head by romanticizing something that just shouldn't be, but boys do this too. even men. it is amazing to see, because then i sit and think to myself how hard you guys must work sometimes to perpetuate the i-don't-give-a-f*** attitude. and yes, i know that maybe 8 times outta 10 you genuinely don't give-a, but those 2 times, oh man, they are killers.

bi-continental breakfast

i was here, i was there, and now i'm here, once again, in the sometimes glorious, always controversial u.s. of a.

truth is, i've been back for several weeks. i just never quite knew how to tell you.

before my seven months south of the border (heyo!) i had left my post in the fog city and schlepped my numerous unnecessary belongings to southern california, where the sun almost always shines (and when it doesn't people go mental). now that the adventures in beans & rice are over, i reside in loss anjeleez. i spend my time doing a variety of things, among them: attempting to get cultured, drinking tea, convincing people that walking is a suitable means of transport and a worthy pastime, eating tacos, and looking for the delsheeziest job-like thing to rock me into a new dimension.

beyond that, what would be excellent and earn me five stars (awarded from myself) is if i would get into a blogging rhythm that would far surpass my recent output, making verbal internet magic on a regular basis. this would bring joy both to me and to the readers. so i guess that means to me and my mom.

words, sentences, paragraphs--there is really so much potential to dance all over the psyche of anyone literate enough to partake. and dance i shall.

above the equator and climbing

well of course it's been about a month since i last wrote. that is so like me.

but listen to this: i have been in ecuador over a month now, after a week in montañita, close to three weeks in cuenca, a few days in baños, and a week in the otavalo mountains. in this time i have been in a mosh pit, a mormon baptism, and started writing my novel. my novel? yes, my novel. (you'll have to wait for details. i guess this is me dangling a carrot. deal.)

i have been loving the world cup madness. i have even set my alarm on a saturday to be up and showered for a 9:00 am match. yes, you are right--i don't follow american soccer at all but i'm not ashamed of this discrepancy. i enjoy having something to keep up with, sports-wise. it's one of my favorite pass times when i'm at home in the states and it shouldn't be any different on the road. so i found my thing, and it won't come around for another thousand-some-odd days, so let me have it, please?

ecuador has been nothing short of excellent. it has taught me some slang words i'll never use again and it has likewise continued to test my threshold for rice consumption. i have become very comfortable in this culture and yet i'm ready to walk across the frontera to a different country with its own set of awkward, wild, weird, and epic adventures.

tomorrow morning i am putting my life in the hands of fate, an unknown bus driver, and the colombian stereotypes, and getting aboard a bus from the north of ecuador to popoyan, colombia. after nearly two months of companionship, i am on a solo mission once again. hopefully someone who wants me to finish my novel will watch over me. with any luck, the only misfortune that awaits me is spilling food on myself, which i am not only good at, but borderline professional.

hasta next time, amigos.