THE ENCOUNTER- a true Philly story

I had a lovely night last night. Went to a new pub, saw some friends play some amazing music, and supported other such musicians at an open mic night. [Land Ho! dear Dani. Land Ho, indeed]. But one portion of the night will surely remain, gnawing at the back of my brain for a long, long while. The story is below.



THE ENCOUNTER
I walked upstairs from the bathroom, schooched my way behind the patrons at the bar and bumped into him. He turned around, "Oh, I'm sorry darlin'. I like your sweater. We're both wearing sweaters". He takes my hand, we shake. He is obviously drunk. Beyond drunk really, a state rather unexpected for a Monday night. I try to continue on my way, he once again reaches to shake my hand (I assume), and an awkward arm sonata occurs. I play flirtation, cold flirtation in order to get back to my seat and my beer. It's often the best option when you're unaware of what manner of inebriated fool you are speaking to. Instead of surrendering to his palm I contract my hand, extend my pointer and thumb in a gun-like form. I click my tongue twice emulating a pistol. A safe way to express: nice meeting you, you're drunk, I'm out of here. Not the wisest decision, but hindsight is 20/20.

"I have one of those", he says as he lifts up his cream colored sweater to reveal a handgun. "I'm a cop". I fell every muscle in my body grow tense. A cop, in a bar, barely able to form coherent sentences, with his gun an arm's length away. Right away I went into some form of crisis mode. I remained a touch coy and engaged, all the while preparing to retreat at any moment. The proper option I thought, especially when I suddenly was hyper-aware of the bullets nestled in their holster just below his right hip. And without even being asked he pulls out his wallet and proudly displays its contents. A license and a badge. Officer C---, drunken fool. "I shot a guy down on 12th. Which way is that?" I point west, eager to end this whole experience. Much to my horror he continues, "It was about 3 years ago. Black guy. He shot at me first, though." How to respond to such a thing? What terrible cop drama am I caught in? I nod my head, acknowledging that he has just told me something that I never wanted to hear, let alone at an open mic night at a neighborhood bar. He echoed my earlier hand motion along with the click, click of the hand-puppet gun. "It was awesome", he brags as he then charades the aim and precision of shooting his actual gun, along with sound effects. "Ba-boom", he croons as he reenacts the kick back of his weapon. There was pride and joy and ego in his voice and eyes. He enjoyed shooting this man all those years ago, enough to immediately find a way to bring it up, and aimed to impress me with his story. This was a man I did not trust. An insincere soul. A very tangible threat. A cop?

"You got a boyfriend?", Officer C--- asks and I head towards my beer, my bag, and the exit. "Yes, I do" I said assertively. He interrogates me with his eyes. "Yes, I really do", finally losing the soft, safe edge of a young romantic. He takes my hand, delicately, and kisses it. I fill with discomfort and disgust. Racist, killer, Officer C--- with the gun on his hip has drunkenly hit on me. Filled me with the feeling of rotten justice, much like putrid vegetables. I may have even told him my first name early in the encounter. Finally, with as much girlish charm as I can stand to fabricate, I excuse myself. "Well, I've got a beer waiting for me". He takes my hand again. "Goodbye, miss". "Goodbye...sir". I swallow the rotten lump of that term of respect. He didn't deserve it, not one bit. I rush back to my stool, my bag, and my beer.

In all this happening lasted only about 5 minutes, but I felt like I had been trapped in a timeless void. It was beyond uncomfortable. I sat down, took a breath, recounted the disturbing tale to my roommate sitting next to me, and upon his urgings wrote it down quickly, which is what you've just read. After I was finished with the last sentence I calmly put away my pen and sipped deliberately at my lager, forcing myself to forget the matter and enjoy the music.

GULP--a brief late night romp through your mouth

So...


You ever watch yourself swallow in a mirror? Seriously, go do it the next time you brush your teeth. It's weird. And while you are reading this try and swallow, right now. Do it. Notice how your tongue moves in the back of your throat as you attempt to swallow sans proper lubrication. It's like a little sea cucumber inside your head.

That's grotesque. So sorry. I should give my tongue more respect. After all my tongue lets me taste delightful treats and verbalize my thoughts, amazing what a 10cm muscle can do (that's 4 inches for you non-metric types). And in exchange for its incredible functions all my tongue needs in return is the ability to make me cringe if I bite it, or burn it, or go too long without brushing my teeth (a rare occurrence, anyone who knows me knows I do enjoy a good teeth brushing).
 

Some facts about the mechanism of swallowing: (you can just scroll down now and look and some fun animal pictures, or you could take a moment out of your day and learn a little bit more about your body-no pressure or anything). There are three phases to swallowing: ORAL, PHARYNGEAL, and ESOPHAGEAL. Swallowing in scientific terms is deglutition and the proper execution of this action will result in goodies traveling from your mouth to your pharynx to esophagus to your happy tummy, and so on. Failure in this endeavor results in food going to the trachea then embarrassing coughing, or choking, which is just no good. But you knew that already.

So when you take that bite of apple, cheese, or whatever edible treasure you've decided to ingest the morsel begins in your mouth where saliva mixes with the food and you masticate. You masticate hard. Food then forms a bolus (a ball-shaped mass) and proceeds to the back of the tongue where a trough forms in the muscle from front to back against the hard palate. If the bolus is too dry- not enough saliva-it will not be swallowed (why you just can't eat all those Saltines without some water on the side). From the back of the mouth the food bolus moves along the palate and into the esophageal passage with the help of muscles in the back of the tongue. From there on reflex takes over for a moment while the muscles scattered over the base of the tongue provoke the next phase. At the onset of the pharyngeal phase all chewing, breathing, and coughing functions are inhibited. You can't breathe while swallowing. You just can't, so stop trying. The soft palate becomes tense as the pharynx pulls upwards and forwards as it prepares to receive the bolus, like a garage door opening to allow a tiny food bowling ball on it's path down the driveway. I'm sorry, that was an incredibly odd way of illustrating that process, which most likely didn't need to be illustrated in the first place. Maybe you should just scroll down. As the pharynx pull up, the side walls contract so that only a smaller bolus can pass. Small bites people. Chew well, or you'll hurt yourself. As a consequence of swallowing the auditory tube opens, equalizing the pressure in the middle ear and the nasopharynx. (This is why they tell you to swallow continuously as your airplane takes off). A series of muscles then contract to help the food bolus travel down the esophagus, gravity has little to do with this process. In the final phase the sphincter (such a hilarious word) relaxes so food can pass through eventually reaching the stomach. From there stuff happens, nutrients are absorbed, food is broken down and makes its way elsewhere. You can piece it all together I'm sure. Swallowing begins as a voluntary act, but once you start, you can't stop. For real, your muscles take over and you can't exactly tell them no, now, can you? [On a completely unrelated note: yes, I like to use commas, deal with it.]

So to conclude this mini-musing on your lovely, weird tongue and swallowing, please enjoy the following images.

THE REVIEW

EURYDICE Contemporized – All You Need is Love! at Players Club of Swarthmore’s Second Stage

swinging from the rafters

I went to the Philadelphia Zoo today. And it was magical, as always. The best part? Sitting for a long while watching the baby orangutan Batu play. But I don't need to recount the experience in text, I HAVE VIDEO AND PICTURES!!! I know, you're just as excited as I am. 

here's a LINK if you prefer it that way 

other notable sights? this pile of tortoises --->

this delightful lemur. you know, just hanging out

this sassy peacock, strutting around, making sure we all appreciate just how brilliantly blue his neck plumage is. what a bitch. 

and these big, beautiful gorillas. the big poppa silver back was sitting in a bucket and one of the lovely ladies was apparently in the mood for a profile picture photo shoot. 

pretty good for a cell phone camera, eh? 

mouse-pocalypse PART DEUX

Well we had a lovely opening night for Eurydice. The show was well received and I'm quite proud of all the work we have done. I'm excited to share it with an audience. Only 5 shows left! It'll be sad to let Eurydice go, I've grown quite fond of her.

But this post isn't about the show. It's about what horrors awaited me upon returning home. Thankfully I had my parents on the phone with me or I would have for sure had a conniption. And, of course, my roommate was at his parents for the weekend. As I walked through my door I said "I hope there's not a dead mouse in here". I removed my coat and scarf and scanned around the kitchen. No mouse in the glue trap, no mouse in the spring trap by the microwave, no mouse in the trap on the....oh no...DEAD MOUSE IN THE TRAP ON THE CUTTING BOARD. My heart skipped a beat. I now had the blood of two mice on my hands. A common household tragedy. I moved the cutting board a bit, the mouse did not move. It was indeed deceased. Mother coaxed me through the triple bagging process, praised me for disposing of the body, and once again assured me that the creature was dead. But I'll leave the traps out, just in case.

So RIP Wallace, or Wallace's sibling or aunt or fellow member of horrific mouse gang. I shall miss your squeaks but not your poops.

ode to an opening

Ode to an Opening
by Katherine Perry

'Tis the night before opening and all through the house,
creatures are stirring, in particular a pooping mouse.
The lines have been memorized with most extreme care,
all for the love of a character and a story to share.
The actors are nestled all snug in their beds,
while lines and blocking run on in their heads.
A-waiting the audience to give big claps
for a moving performance, one without naps.
When in their heads, oh what is the matter?
the actor's nightmare! making confidence shatter.
New costumes, new blocking, why don't you know
we're changed it entirely, the night of the show!
You're now playing this, and that prop goes here
we've just changed it all, there's nothing to fear.
The actor's confused, no one gives a frick
and all of a sudden everyone's being a big dick.
You're performance is terrible, they boo your name
crushing all hopes of glory and fame.
When suddenly, ah yes, it was all a dream!
aspirations no longer tattered at the seam.
The actors sit up, once more in their bed
realizing, oh, the nightmare's all in your head.
When who should appear in a voice not the least bit brute
exclaiming with eloquence, poise, and presence to boot.
But Sir Ian McKellen, in a voice that's just right:
"Happy opening to all, and to all a good night!"

 

mouse-pocalypse

this is no ordinary story.

                  this is the story of a mouse.

                                       not a cool mouse like this:

 

 <--------  or a bad ass mouse like this

this is the story of a mouse like this:

waiting to poop EVERYWHERE

we've known about him for quite some time. it started out as a once-in-a-blue-moon kind of awareness. a rustle. or the quick dart in my peripheral vision. then we named the mouse--Wallace. that was a mistake. Wallace became some kind of deranged little pet for us. he'd venture out while we were watching a movie, attempting to find some little morsel of human goodness to nibble on. then he got too comfortable. Wallace starting to shit. and oh boy, did he just poop everywhere. behind the microwave, on the rim of the sink, all over my cutting board and who knows where else.

i knew what had to be done. i knew he had to go. but how? i didn't want to hear little mouse screams as i was taking a nap or sipping tea as Wallace's spinal chord was crushed under the spring of a trap. my mother in her infinite wisdom gave me one of those glue pads that essentially acts as a tar pit as, i assume, the mouse struggles so much it eventually dislocates some joints. oh my. from there good old momma said "just wrap it up in a plastic bag and it will suffocate. it will be a horrible death". let me tell you that this is the woman that assured me that i had, indeed, killed the deer that decided to run across the rural highway and get t-boned by my volvo. such a comfort. needless to say i didn't want to be responsible for the horrible death of a furry brown little thing. my roommate did not have any interest in doing the deed either. nor did my beau, he had grown quite fond of little Wallace (that's because he wasn't cleaning up any of that damn mouse crap). so i knew it would inevitably fall on my shoulders. so naturally, i put it off. i vacuumed up mouse turds and silently shuddered to myself. until...

THE INCIDENT

as usual, i had hit a trough in my wave of productivity and neatness. my clean laundry pile grew dangerously close to copulating with the dirty clothes and lots of empty tea cups had compiled into a quirky skyline on my desk. before Wallace had only left evidence of him being in the kitchen, and i  naively believed that this was true. until last sunday. i was sitting at my desk, reading the internet, when i head a rustle. thinking it was my foot stirring the numerous wires on the floor and hitting something i shrugged it off. but then it happened again. and i saw something move. it was a plastic bag on the floor RUSTLING. i took a breath and tapped it with my foot. the bag RUSTLED AGAIN. so i looked inside and, sure enough, it was Wallace, or a member of his immediate family. there was a mouse in the bag. i nearly peed myself.

so i picked up the bag hastily, before the little sucker had a chance to escape. and rolled down the top. taking a deep breath i shuffled quickly out of my room, my haven, my personal space. halfway to the kitchen, the bag moved and heard the squeaks of a confused and most likely very angry little mouse. so of course i begin to freak, and i text my roommate who was out of town for this fiasco. he did his best attempting to console me, but alas, it just wasn't enough. in my vast contemplation of my options i held tight to the bag, feeling the panic of Wallace underneath my fingertips. and then it stopped. the bag grew quiet. afraid he was playing me only to leap out in a full on attack i stapled the bag shut. i had done the deed. it was over. or so i thought. out of the corner of my eye i see a flash of brown. ANOTHER MOUSE. i do admit i did for a moment think that my bagged mouse escaped and was off to formulate terrible plans of destruction. i dismissed this thought. i used to think i had mouse, but now...who knows how many of those little brown bastards are roaming around. this means war.

sigh, the traps have been set. and my roommate has returned. i'll let him take out the trash this time.

*one mouse was harmed in the process of this story.