020 — Spider Man
I've got beef with a spider.
Normally, I'm totally cool with spiders. I think they're amazing creatures, I'm beguiled by the myths and folklore that's sprung up around them, and I'm a big fan of the way they eat other bugs, like those good-for-nothing flies and mosquitos.
I grew up with a healthy respect for our arachnid pals. From the time I was a young kid, my dad would tell me, "Don't kill spiders — they're lucky." It's a nice idea, and as long as they keep to themselves I have no problem letting them hang out in the corners of the ceiling and the dusty nooks beneath cabinets. Dad had a semi-rural upbringing in Albuquerque, which included a largish plot of land we all called a farm, but was probably more like a really, really big garden. He knew all about what helped plants grow, which ones needed more water or less shade, and he knew all about pests. Spiders, as far as he was concerned, were helpers that kept the chiles and squash healthy until picking time, and treated them gently.
(Dad's mercy, of course, was as mercurial as Mother Nature's. When I was five or six years old, he was walking me through the property and telling me how we had to respect the land and the plants growing on it. Then he picked up the biggest, fattest, greenest caterpillar I ever saw, and held it close so I could get a good look at it. Then he casually tossed it to a nearby chicken, which gulped it down like a Chicago Bears fan eating a bratwurst.)
So all my life I've gently shepherded lost spiders from underfoot, scooping them up in paper cups or napkins, making sure they didn't lose a leg, or worse, get squished between my clumsy fingers. Otherwise, they've been welcome to stay, and we live like roommates on different schedules; we acknowledge we're sharing a space, but for the most part we almost never see each other and are happy to avoid any awkward small talk.
But recently, my roommate has been acting as if it owns the whole apartment, and neither one of us is taking this coup attempt very well.
Of course, I haven't done anything wrong. I haven't swept away any webs. I haven't smooshed any of the friends it apparently invites in to squat on an indefinite basis. When a spider dropped down silkily from the kitchen ceiling to hang in front of my face, I moved the thread a few feet to the wall, where the spider could scurry safely behind a painting. I'm the good guy here.
And still, the little shit is biting me! Biting. Me. That's classic bad guy behavior. It's not even passive-aggressive, it's just full-on aggressive. I'm not even sure where these ambushes are happening — while I'm sitting at the kitchen table, or sleeping in the bedroom, or when I normally enjoy the privacy of the bathroom. It's not just one tiny bite, either. I'm not getting bit on a regular basis or anything, but when it does happen, it's been multiple bites. Like two or three at a time. Have you ever had a spider bite? They don't give you amazing abilities or keen insight into the relationship between great power and responsibility — they just itch. They itch a lot. For days, and that's while they swell and feel increasingly hot to the touch. And good luck if you actually scratch it, because now you've spread the venom everywhere and you might as well buy stock in hydrocortisone because you belong to the spider now.
You know how I mentioned getting bit in the bathroom? Do you know what that means?
It doesn't happen every time, but it's happened more than once.
Yes, it's true.
IT BITES ME RIGHT ON THE ASS.
I don't know why the spider thought this was suddenly OK behavior, but man, I don't gotta take that from nobody. I don't know what I'm going to do if I ever see that eight-legged freak, but I know I'll be tempted to give it at least four black eyes. But I know myself, though. I'll probably just let it saunter on its way, safe in the knowledge it's in no danger from me.
So do me a favor. Next time you see a spider, bite it. Bite it right in the ass.
MOVING ON
Big thanks to Scott S. and Izzy M. for their very kind notes about the previous edition of The Beef. You guys are great, and I'm gratified by the thoughts you share. Also, the fall season is shuffling into the Chicago area, with average high temperatures hanging somewhere in the low- to mid-70s. I talked to Mom the other day, who told me things were cooling off back in Southwest Texas, with highs "only in the 90s!" I've had other Texas friends tell me the same thing, and I just laugh and laugh.
SCREEN
Sandy and I saw Brittany Runs a Marathon recently, and while the comedy has what at first sounds like a predictable storyline, we were both thinking and talking about it days later. Brittany is about a 27-year-old woman who lives life like it was one continuous party — lots of drinking, late-night hamburgers, and sex with random dudes. But a visit to the doctor's office — where she's told she has to lose weight or she could be facing real heath problems — has her rethinking her approach to her overall health, and to life itself. The movie is ostensibly about someone going from heavy to thin, from not to hot, from invisible to worthy of attention. But it's the last part that's important, because it's ideas of self-image and self-respect — getting the right kinds of attention for the right reasons — that Brittany wrestles with most. Brittany has a lot to deal with, and her weight is a symptom of other issues that have weighed her down nearly all of her life. She's not always a nice person, and reflexively keeps others at a distance with her sarcastic wit, a defense mechanism that only makes her loneliness worse. Brittany is alone in a crowded, noisy room, and it's killing her; running turns out to be what she needs to ground herself. Jillian Bell (you might remember her from Workaholics) gives an honest and charmingly human performance as Brittany, and you root for the character even as she often seems intent on hurting herself more than anyone else could. It's no spoiler to say Brittany Runs a Marathon has a happy ending, but it's not that happy, and it's not that concrete. But, like that medal a runner gets at the end of 26.2 miles, it is earned.
SOUNDS
Have I mentioned The Raunch Hands before? I'm still on my nostalgic psychobilly kick, and The Raunch Hands are another band I discovered around the same time as I found The Cramps. I'm not an expert on the New York band, but I know I wore out my tape of their second album, 1986's Learn to Whap-a-Dang with The Raunch Hands back in my 90s college days. (Warning: That link autoplays unless you've already told YouTube not to do it.) The music veers closer to old-school country and western than most rockabilly groups, and it's one of the things I find endearing about the band. The Raunch Hands are also unapologetically silly, frequently obnoxious, and undeniably catchy. Sexual misadventures, drunkenness, and ... well, that's it, mostly ... are the themes propelling listeners from song to song, and none of it is taken seriously at all. The Raunch Hands haven't put out an album since 2008, and sadly we lost frontman Mike Chandler to illness just last year, which means that's probably the end of new music from the band. Thankfully, we can always Learn to Whap-a-Dang.
PAGES
UPDATE: You might remember I had Jon Meacham's and Tim McGraw's book Songs of America on the reading list, and I finally got around to reading it. Or at least, I tried to read it, but between bouts of falling into a deep sleep and frustrated irritation, I never got through it. (I used to be the kind of reader who'd force themselves through a book to the bitter end, but ugh, who's got the time?) Considering the 200-plus years of U.S. history the book covers — both musically and politically — Songs of America is pretty slim, to its detriment. Meacham is a historian and it shows, with more time spent on historical background than the music the book is supposedly covering. Country singer McGraw's contribution is relegated to small pull-outs in which he talks about his personal thoughts on a particular song; as far as I can tell, this is the sum of his participation. Also, and most glaring to me, this book is very white. The inclusion of contributions by black performers and songwriters is consistent, but sometimes feels obligatory or like an afterthought; white performers get the lion's share of attention and ink. For example, guess how many pages rap and hip-hop get in this 320-page book. Well, whatever you said is wrong — it's only four paragraphs. Four. And Latino musicians and music? Casi nada.
IMAGE OF THE WEEK
My phone is embarrassingly full of pictures of my cat lately, and the few non-cat photos I've taken honestly aren't very good. So instead I'm sharing this image of a painting by Irene O'Connell, who goes by @_xirenita on Instagram. This beautifully powerful piece is titled La Nopalera, and in the artist's own words, represents women "who have endured so much, carried so much burden, pressed on through so much resistance. Yet they continue to rise, with strong spines filled with courage, bearing fruit in even the harshest conditions."
SHARING IS CARING
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