04/14/2006: "Cockroach!"

...in my apartment!

Now those that know me, or read this blog, or see me walking down the street all tough and manly and practically exuding pure testosterone, that manly musk just seeping from my pores or else, on days when I'm particularly verile, spurting from me in a fine mist like from one of those aerosol bathroom air fresheners...you might think I wouldn't be bothered to find a giant cockroach in my apartment.

Well, my friends, you would be wrong.

Bugs disgust me. This probably goes back---as most fears do---to an incident from my childhood...

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...me and my buddy Paul were feeding my pet lizard, a leopard gecko named...god, I forget. Spots? Li'l Slugger? I had so many pets as a kid, I'm forgetting their names (this is not to say I was a bad pet-keeper; I wasn't GREAT, as evidenced by the fact my lizard---let's call him Spotty---escaped down a heating vent and stayed in the ducts for a few days, leading to grim speculation he might die in there, which would doubtlessly have caused some rather rude-smelling emanations if we didn't get it out after a few days).

Okay, so I fed Spotty crickets. There was a choice: crickets or fetal mice. I did the mouse thing once (the pimply-faced sadist behind the pet store counter assured me mice had higher nutritional value), but when I dropped the poor, sightless, hairless little thing in the aquarium and Spotty started to chug it like an anaconda choking down a deer it squealed so hideously I ran into the other room and covered my ears (wow, lots of wuss revelations in this post).

From then on---crickets. Crickets are gross little bugs and if they feel any pain at all it is on a distant level, I would think, and they chirp instead of squeal so overall a better choice, nutritional value be damned (what did Spotty need the nutrients for, anyway? He sat around on his heating rock all day and occasionally licked the aquarium glass). To be sure, Spotty seemed less impressed with the crickets; he was almost disdainful of them as a food source; he would just sit on his rock until one was stupid enough to parade in front of its nose, at which point it would eat it with about as much enthusiam as I would a piece of dry toast. A few days later Spotty would excrete the cricket, which was odd in that what came out the other end was basically an empty cricket husk, like a glassine replica of a cricket with whatever essence it once held sucked out in its travels through Spotty's digestive tract.

Spotty was very discreet about his poops: always at night, under the cover of darkness. This was fine enough by me, as I had no desire to see my lizard pooping. [AS AN ASIDE: why do so many people, when they walk their dogs, watch them poop? I was out today and saw this fellow watching the hind end of his Sheltie with deep interest, as if he expected it to excrete the Scrolls of the Magi or something. Dog owners---don't watch your dog poop! Think about how awkward you'd feel if Fido or Rex or whoever padded into the commode and watched YOU take a dump. He'd get a whack with a rolled-up newspaper for gawking, wouldn't he? So look away! Give your dog its privacy!]

So anyway, every week I'd trek to the pet store and for 99 cents the pimple-faced sadist scooped up ten crickets from an aquarium full of them, scooped them up with a goldfish net and put them in a plastic bag, inflated it with a puff of air and knotted it. I'd go home and sprinkle the crickets with nutrient powder---basically, shake and bake for crickets---which made them look like disgusting little Cheezies, then drop them in the aquarium and usually watch Spotty eat a few before getting bored and wandering off to discover my sexuality or some other boyhood endeavor.

This on time my buddy Paul was over to see the ceremonial sacrifice of the crickets. My ensuing phobia---before this time, I wasn't particularly discgusted by bugs---was the result of a string of foolish decisions on my part:

1. I elected to let Paul---a noted shit-disturber---shake and bake the crickets.
2. I became engrossed by something on the floor and in doing so lowered myself to get a better look.
3. I turned my back on Paul, the aforementioned shit-disturber, who, seeing all the principals line up in a way that, in his mind, could be plotted out as an equation [BAG OF CRICKETS + CRAIG'S MOP OF CARROTY RED HAIR = LAUGHS GALORE], could hardly be blamed for doing what he did.

When Paul dumped the bag of crickets on my head, it took a moment to register what exactly had happened. It felt sort of like when you pass under a weeping willow and the leaves brush the top of your head; but then the crickets started running about and hopping and getting agitated; my personal hygeine being that of any twelve-year-old boy, I imagine they felt like they'd been dropped into a field of orange, wavy, greasy and somewhat smelly wheat. They crawled down the back of my neck under my shirt; one hung off my ear like an ear-ring.

I began to holler and buck about like a loon; I imagine, if I'd been an inmate at any mental institution, the workers would have broken out the butterfly nets and chased me about. I was kicking and gyrating and bleating like an idiot while Paul laughed his guts out. I had to admit it was a pretty good prank. Spotty might have even had a laugh at it, for all I know.

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...so, such was my mindset when, early this morning, I go to put my shoes on and see, hiding under one of them, what at first glance seemed to be a half-eaten Halloween-sized Snickers bar. Then the half-eaten candy bar sprung a bunch of filthy little legs and scuttled across the floor into the nest of wires behind my computer.

Now I know some idiot entymologist would tell me they are the perfect survivalists, that if the world were blown up there would be barren bits of rock floating through the galaxy with cocroaches clinging tenaciously, surviving on space-mites or the foot-cheese in old gym socks or whatever, but I say SCREW that entymologist, screw him sideways with a shoehorn, because cockroaches are disgusting.

And of all the places in my apartment to go, it had chosen the best spot. All those wires and cables; the perfect hiding spot. So I had to crawl under the desk and start banging around with my shoe; of course I missed it and the little bastard skittered out and sat in the middle of the carpet. GOADING ME.

Now I don't want people to think I hate ALL bugs. For example, I like ladybugs. My apartment has a giant oak next to one window, and in the summer and starting again now ladybugs, dozens of them, crawl throught the window and hang out on the walls. At some point I gather them all up in a yogurt container and take them outside. The next day they're back in again. I like to think it's a game we play, though I've no idea if these are the same ladybugs; I like to believe they are.

To answer your question: yes, I am so pathetic that ladybug collection is an integral part of my daily life.

But cockroaches, crickets, millipedes, and the entire insect population of the Amazon basin are on my BIG LIST OF BUGS I HATE.

So I went and found an old protein powder tub (remember, I said I was TOUGH; TOUGH guys chug lots of protein powder, with sinfully delicious flavors like MOCHA DUTCH FUDGE and STRAWBERRY STARBURST SURPRISE; protein powder is, in fact, the source of all our TOUGHness), and I coralled that cockroach in the tub and then I stepped on it with extreme prejudice.

I give the little turd credit: it took a few stomps. By the end the thing looked like I'd run it through a blender. And it was STILL twitching a little. One tough hombre.

And you see, I'm sounding pretty tough now because it's 6:00, the sun is still out, and my apartment, for all I can see, is cockroach free. But tonight, when the lights go out, every little rustle, every crickle and crackle and unidentifiable sound is going to send a chill up my spine.

Cockroaches are a proud and honorable breed. They never forget, rarely forgive, and protect their own. And tonight, they're out for revenge.

For...blood?

All best, Craig.