Snake Yummie Time

Have you ever watched a snake eat dinner? If not, you're missing out on a fascinating process. I understand that some people are a bit too squeamish to stomach it, or love little furry creatures too much to bear witnessing their demise--especially this demise, a matter-of-fact necessity of nature that involves the prey's final paralyzing tremble as it faces its killer, a spectacularly fast strike, slow strangulation, and gradual disappearance into the expanded gullet of a satisfied reptile. I am neither squeamish nor a rodent-lover, but I'm also not heartless. (I'll get to that in a moment.)

For most of my adult life I've held rats and mice in tremendous contempt. Mice have been trashing the inside of my parents' backyard shed for years, chewing through just about anything made of plastic, leaving their evil little droppings and piss puddles everywhere. (This is why I used to fill up buckets with garter snakes in the woods, bring them home, and unload them in the shed.) For months in 2009, very large rats wreaked havoc on my friend Allyson's beautiful Highland Park house, destroying the insulation of expensive kitchen appliances and creating unsettling noises day and night throughout the house that would leave almost anyone doubting his or her sanity. (Incidentally, I had to dispatch one of these rats myself with the sharp blade of a shovel after Pearl and Buck, the loyal household dogs, mauled it in the kitchen. The damned thing was 13 inches long from snout to tip of tail.)

Given my not-so-wholesome feelings for these creatures, I used to rather enjoy watching my first corn snake, Courtney, catch them with lightning precision inside her shoebox feeding habitat and swallow them down. However, I don't exactly feel so cruelly satisfied anymore. My current happy family of corn snakes--siblings named Demitra (because it's a great name that I'd like to bestow upon a future daughter), Lucinda (after renegade alt-Country rocker Lucinda Williams), and Callahan (Dirty Harry's last name)--need to eat. It's a fact of life. They're my kids and they must be fed. Furthermore, they deserve to hunt and incapacitate warm, live prey as per their naturely instinct, rather than swallowing those sad little thawed-out things you can buy in baggies from Petco--pre-packaged fast food for the captive reptile nation. Thing is, rats are amazingly pleasant creatures. It's easy for us to hate those nasty, cat-sized, dirt-covered vermin patrolling the New York subway system's rail beds and sneaking through the innards of our homes, but domesticated rats--the ones that are clean and inquisitive, happy to be held and entertained--make wonderful companions. Pet mice may not seem quite so possessed of intelligence or higher reasoning skills, but they're also easily loved when we know that they're content in their escape-proof cages most of the time and fun to handle when we want. (Same with animals that humans eat. Their context--whether grazing in a pasture, sniffing our hands at the county fair's petting zoo, or simmering on the grill--dictates our emotional connection to them.) Watching these furry little guys die by snake isn't quite as satisfying as it seemed to me when I was 23. Now it's just something that has to happen. My snakes aren't vegetarians, folks. Neither is Luna, my almost 14 year-old leopard gecko who mostly dines on crickets but occasionally enjoys a twitching pinky mouse. (Not too often! The high fat content is not good for a gecko's health.)

When I feed the snakes, I put on classical music. It seems appropriate for such a ritualized dinner party, but also somewhat morbid in a way that conjures images of Hannibal Lecter, aristocratic culture man who feasts upon human flesh. I silently observe my babies doing their thing; I honor the lives of those cute little mice or rats as they unwittingly sacrifice themselves for the sake of the snakes' survival. (Sometimes there's a bit of dinnertime drama because the snakes are often moody or seemingly uninterested and really need to be coerced into eating; Lucinda's been the staunchest feeding-time rebel since I got these snakes, but now she's bigger than either of her siblings.) When it's all over, the snakes go back into their terrarium, usually guzzling water lazily to wash their meals down. Rodents reproduce like we relieve ourselves, so I often say to myself Well, there are a thousand more where these ones came from.

By the way, if you're interested in a pet corn snake, let me know. I'm not looking for a buyer; I intend to give one or two of them away to responsible persons whom I trust. I was given these snakes free of charge, trusted to raise them, and I refuse to profit from them. Just send me an e-mail!

Climbing A Thousand Stairs, or, How I Missed My Tower So

I wrote a while back that I would describe my recent tattoo experience in greater detail. It's old news by now; no long essay necessary. However, I'll say this much: the folks at Body Shop Tattoo & Apparel were fantastic. So fantastic, in fact, that they keep a basket of markers in the bathroom for customers to scrawl graffiti on the walls with--and so fantastic that when I stupidly left my precious washers (the threaded hexagonal ones that I've been habitually wearing as rings, and constantly twirling around my finger, for the last six years at least) by the sink after washing my hands, they not only spared the washers from the garbage can but have been keeping them for me until my next stroll down Lawrenceville way. Oh, Body Shop also does really great tattoo work, by the way. 

(It's a bit tangential, but I've learned an important lesson about blogging: don't promise that you'll write more about a given subject, or indeed any particular topic, in a later post; there's a good chance that, by the time you finally get around to posting later, you'll either have lost interest in writing about that subject, or it will have been rendered irrelevant by that time.)

Okay, on to the main course: this week I finally headed down to Pitt's Cathedral of Learning, steel-framed beauty in fine limestone Gothic garb and second-tallest building dedicated to education in the world (behind an imposing and rather hideous Communist wedding cake of a building at the University of Moscow), to hike up the stairs. All several hundred of them. Over and over again. (I don't know how many stairs, to tell you the truth; I've never counted!) It's a 36-floor climb from ground level up to the handsomely appointed Honors College reception hall where you can take in exquisite views of Carnegie Mellon, Schenley Park, the Carnegie museum complex, Oakland, and downtown in the distance without paying a penny or even passing through security. Most sensible people ride the elevators up, but those of us who are drawn (or addicted) to that arduous climb--and there are far more of them than you might think--mostly use the elevators only for the ride back down.

Climbing the tower's stairs has been a routine training ritual for me for several years; it's a habit restricted almost exclusively to the first half of the year, a useful and surprisingly satisfying physical conditioning for the Race for the Cure and half-marathon in May (in combination with plenty of running), and culminating with the Rachel Carson Trail Challenge at the end of June (in conjunction with as much outdoor hiking as I can fit in before the hike). I hadn't been over to climb the tower stairs since last summer, and I was aching to return. Admittedly, I've also been experiencing a certain amount of guilt at having consumed so many Christmas sweets and alcoholic beverages over the holiday without much in the way of intense exercise to counter the calorie intake. My workplace is only two blocks from the tower, so it's extremely convenient for me to change into shorts after work, walk over to climb, then come back and change again before heading home. As I approached the tower on Wednesday evening, gazing adoringly up at this truly magnificent piece of architecture, my smile beamed; a push through the revolving doors and all the familiar smells, sounds, and vibes of hard-earned satisfaction greeted me like an old friend. I stretched for five minutes and headed right up.

Most of the time you're on your own in those 36 floors of stairs; but you're bound to encounter other climbers from time to time, especially at the top and on the ride down. (Some people walk or run down, but there's really no physical benefit in descending the stairs unless you're training for an intense backpacking trip or mountaineering adventure and are consequently hauling a substantial load. As far as I'm concerned, by running back down after every climb up you're asking for knee trouble and increasing the chances of a wobbly-legged fall or a tragic slip from one of the occasional pools of sweat accumulating on the stairs and landings.) The diversity of people who use the stairs for training is impressive; there are folks of many ages and persuasions, degrees of fitness and areas of athletic aptitude. Some sprint up the stairs like maniacs (and generally make me jealous); others torment slowly under enormous backpacks, grinding ever uphill like locomotives while bathing in their own sweat. I generally travel light, hike quickly--about six to eight minutes per ascent--, and aim for the maximum number of iterations.

It must be all that Vinyasa yoga I've been practicing since June, but I somehow pounded out five ascents in slightly over an hour total (which includes short pauses on 36, elevator descent time, and brief water fountain breaks). Actually, I'm not being entirely honest when I say somehow. The first four were planned, and the fifth was mandated by my ever-stubborn competitive spirit, refusing to duck out without a final go because I didn't want to seem like an early quitter to the other climbers. (There were five of us waiting to use the water fountain at ground level; how could I just stroll out the doors with these self-confident athlete types scrutinizing me?) Today, I went back over and climbed another five times in far emptier stairwells.

It's amazing how one's mind operates while climbing thousands and thousands of stairs, again and again, in stale old stairwells that have become so familiar--so much like a living being. I never glance up at the floor numbers painted on the door of each floor's landing. I memorize certain semi-permanent scuff marks and observe the locations of dust bunnies, candy wrappers, and discarded paper. I obsess over other climbers' sweat droplets. I let my mind wander; I never count. I use anger or obsessions or anxieties that I can't shake to fuel my determination. When I hear other climbers approaching below me, I speed up, pretending that they're predators trying to catch me or competitors who mustn't be allowed to pass me. I never wear headphones. (I don't have an iPod so why would I wear headphones? I don't think that I'd bring an iPod even if I did have one. I like working out unencumbered by earbuds because I prefer to stay sonically connected to my environment; it's a fundamental aspect of the experience. All those sounds in the stairs are a kind of music.) I sometimes offer upbeat words of encouragement to people I pass who are struggling--often out-of-shape or older individuals who deserve to be cheered on for their effort. I marvel at the physical prowess of certain people, sneer enviously at others, indulge more than a little superiority when I outperform sporty guys who look far more athletic. Good for the fragile ego, folks.

Me and my tower are back in business. It's going to be an awesome spring.

On the first good day of the year

Happy 2011!  Feel any different?  Me neither, so don't sweat it.  Like any voracious bibliophile riding a wave of literary bliss, I'm just anxious to crawl into bed soon with my latest read, The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time by Mark Haddon.  I've owned this book for years but just yesterday got around to it.  (Now isn't that just the life story of anyone whose book collection expands at a rate far quicker than one's ability to chip away at said collection?!)  I don't want to reveal too much, but this book is awesome; it's one of those works whose reputation preceded it upon my first encounter with the title at Hunt Library a few years ago, and whose praise is well-deserved indeed.  It's proving itself a fast and easy read; I took it down from the shelf just yesterday evening and will finish by tomorrow.  The language is simple, direct, and flawlessly evocative in a very sympathetic way of the very spirit of our narrating protagonist's earnest, endearingly determined character.  I want to point out that it's the surprise this book delivered--the spectacular turn of events and resulting thematic blossoming of a story whose title and initial plot course suggested something more predictable, more crowd-pleasingly cute without much depth otherwise--that latched fast to my loyalty as a reader in the present and an enthusiastic praiser/recommender in the future.  Clearly, when I glanced the Boston Globe's front-cover pitch, "Gloriously eccentric and wonderfully intelligent," I was too quick to dismiss (at least the last half...), or perhaps just too jaded from such gluttonous literary praise printed on most best-sellers to pay these back-patting blurbs much attention.

Today was indeed a day to feel good about.  I had coffee at the 61C Cafe, relaxing to the sound of WQED's classical radio and reading in peace; when a couple of grumpy old stinkers who looked like professors but sounded like strung-out pundits came in and started to fill the place with their unbridled profanity and inflammatory political hate-talk (of the right-wing variety, I might add), I simply moved down to Te Cafe where I was the only customer for almost an hour.  The weather has been so unseasonably mild that one might be tricked into thinking that we've skipped ahead to mid-March.  (I even saw some tiny Dandelion blooms at the cemetery yesterday!)  One of the great disadvantages to such a dramatic and complete mid-winter melt-off is that it reveals just how much trash has accumulated on the sidewalks, streets, and front yards.  Whereas once I would've become infuriated to the point of violent anger and intense psychological despair, I now roll my eyes and simply accept that what I see merely confirms what I already know well of humankind.  However, as an obligation to my disgusted obsessive self, as a righteous duty to my community--and, perhaps, as a penance to counter my pride and my profound flaws of character--I spent half an hour in surgical gloves cleaning up Kamin Street and much of Wendover in the rain, enduring vapid stares from passers-by and receiving filthy ungrateful looks from two separate people who apparently find the idea of unglamourous community volunteerism positively repugnant or simply alien beyond reference to any reality they've ever inhabited.  (Those looks are part of my penance, I tell myself, part of my debt to society--and I sure as hell don't get down about it anymore!)

This afternoon, and into the evening, I edited all the photos that I took in the Homewood Cemetery yesterday.  In fact, I've spent more time on the computer in the past ten hours than I do on any given work day--but it has all been in the service of art and creative self-expression, by God!  I encourage you to check the photos out if you have the chance; you can find them at my Flickr page, www.flickr.com/photos/michaeljehn.  Below is one teaser photo that cannot be found in the collection.  Enjoy, and remember to try to find at least one way to make your today an adventurous one (even if the adventure is all inside your head)!