Lulu/Legs: · "Everything's · better · with · Bacon!"

I've become rather Thoreau-ian secluded up here on Rebel Hill.

Since buying this centuries-old house smack in the middle of a foothill that paves the way to the Appalachian Mountains, I fancy myself a recluse. Entwined with the very land itself! I garden. You guys, I've CULTIVATED! In addition to indulging my penchant for aesthetic flora, I’ve tried my hands at pumpkin and watermelon. If successful, at the precise moment when that first drop of sweet, summery watermelon juice trickles down my throat, I will be able to proclaim "I'm living off the land" (If one could survive solely on pumpkins and watermelon).  I'm not working regularly, so days often pass before I make my way down to the bottom of the hill and join the rest of the world. Although I bathe daily, I long to become grizzled and leathery, slowly gathering dirt and muck until I match the color of the soil I love to work. Now, if I could only grow a beard....

Anyway, in my slow conversion to a woman of the land, I've begun to make friends with the birds. I've always enjoyed birds--especially the chirps of the cheery robins early in the morning. Their distinctive song always transports me to that wondrous night of summer--the night my family wakes with the robins to pack up the car, batten down the boat trailer and make the annual 8-hr trip to our cabin in New Hampshire.

I’ve always casually enjoyed birds, but this enjoyment has inched its way to become a hobby--a progression that was unavoidable. Here on Rebel Hill the birds outnumber the people. I love it. I'm discovering more and more species every day, and even had a blackbird build a nest in the impossibly small space between the porch and our house. I've become enamored with the blackbird, watching him fly in and out endlessly with either a tuft of grass or a struggling spider in his bright orange beak or a pure look of determination to find such. Mr. Blackbird has confirmed my suspicion that, indeed, blackbirds are as quaint as I imagined after reading about them being "baked in a pie."

From enjoyer to hobbyist, I may even be progressing toward becoming custodian of my new avian friends. As such I've installed a bird feeder (the first of many I plan to have) for the birds’ dining pleasure. I chose a feeder of unique design. It is constructed entirely of clear plastic and attaches to a window with three steadfast suction cups. As the birds dine and frolic and flit amongst the seeds and grains, I am afforded the most wonderful, intimate views of them through the window. I can observe their obsidian eyes and detect the minute, yet frenzied, beating of their little hearts. They seem to feel safe with spectators so nearby due to the pane of glass between us. Perhaps they don't even see me?

I attached the feeder to the window just above my kitchen sink. It has now become a pleasure to wash dishes as I am often visited by an avian friend. Yesterday, as I was rinsing my lunch plates, I looked up to find Mr. Squirrel in the feeder chowing down on the bounty I left for the birds. Although Mr. Squirrel is adorable, he's fast becoming my nemesis. Not only does he eat a ton of seed, he squeezes his entire furry self into the small feeder and, while doing his twitchy squirrel thing that squirrels tend to do, he kicks out most of the seed, leaving none for the birds. After yelling at him through the window to no avail, I discovered that tapping harshly on the glass with the dirty soup spoon in my hand scared him right off.

He leaped away, leaving me wondering how even got up into the feeder. The window is quite high and wide, and the feeder is attached to the highest point of the window--beyond the leaping capabilities of any squirrel. After pondering this and continuing to wash, I glanced up once again to come face to face with the answer. An answers which, unfortunately, involved Mr. Squirrel’s underside smashed up against the window as he tenaciously clung to the screen--nowhere even near the feeder. I screamed due to the shock of squirrel bits filling my field of vision, allowing the soup bowl to clatter into the sink. Apparently, Mr. Squirrel is able to leap to the very bottom of the window and hang onto the screen. I watched in horror and slight intrigue as he hooked his ghastly yellowed nails in between the spaces of the windows screen, climbing higher and higher and then shimmying sideways, inching his way to the feeder on the portion of the window that wasn't screened. I was afforded the same wondrously intimate view as I am with the birds, with only a pane of glass separating me and Mr. Squirrel’s, uh, underside.

Although I can say it was entertaining watching Mr. Squirrel do his squirrely acrobatics, I am equally horrified to be able to describe, in delightful detail, what a Squirrel’s “twig and berries” look like.

I wonder if Thoreau ever had such an intimate encounter with a squirrel while squirreled away in his woods...?

Interest in one’s roots flames when it’s already too late. I’ve recently discovered this phenomenon first-hand.

Back in middle school I was assigned a family-tree project. Nothing could have been more draining, annoying, and un-interesting. Added to the fact that it was assigned over Labor Day —well, I whipped up the most superficial, perfunctory tree I could manage during the commercial breaks of “The Price is Right” and “Fall Guy--” TV viewing staples during days off from school. “Here’s a hand-drawn stick picture of my mom, my dad and my annoying siblings. And a few assorted grandparents. And I drew them on a tree…you see what I did there?” Yawwwn.

The fact is, unfortunately, many teens and pre-teens are not developmentally ready to  give a shit about their origins during those times when they are expected to: For school-issued family-tree assignments and when held hostage by misty-eyed reveries and speeches from scary, old relatives . I certainly wasn’t mentally there yet, and thus, the exercise, and potential knowledge and experience I could gain from it, was lost on my Vacation-Day riddened, undeveloped brain.

Fast forward to the present. Last Wednesday I found myself drinking pints with M at the Irish bar where we first met seven years ago. We reenact our first meeting each year and toast to a prosperous coming year. In my head our little ritual has blessed these seven years of fun, adventure and googly-eyes.

We reminisced how on the day we met, M said he’d be a tour guide for me in Ireland. And three years later he was! It was wonderful! During our reenactment he asked where I’d like him to play tour guide for me next—Italy, of course!  

So, we talked about Italy and travelling and travel partners and the sites we’d see, the food we’d eat and the booze we’d consume (Grappa!). And I told him of my Italian heritage.

I was watching the Daily Show wherein John Stewart commented on the current Rush Limbaugh incident. In the segment, Stewart showed a clip of Fox News saying that vitriolic Democrats hide behind 'the helmet of comedy (?)' with the likes of Bill Maher and his ilk. FoxNews then contended (contradicting themselves, perhaps) that Rush was just being an entertainer. Stewart ripped them a new one, pointing out that comedians willingly suffer repercussions for their opinions. Comedians accept and expect public backlash, but it won’t stop them. Stewart also pointed out that Rush is a newscaster not a comedian. Either way, Stewart concludes, "I'm not saying that speech should be policed, censored or boycotted or that people don't have a right to say crazy things. I even believe that speech should be much freer."

Stewart's comments got me thinking. Yes, it’s very idealistic and democratic to want to open the ‘dialogue,’ to make sure everyone has their voice and be open to opinions and statements that you don’t like. I want to get behind this idealistic truth--to rally and support it and wave a witty, hand-painted sign proclaiming it.

But I simply can’t. I've recently observed that when people (I use this term vaguely and collectively) are gifted with the freedom of speech—when they are given their own soapbox and megaphone--well, they tend to merely spew ugly, vile, hateful things. The more public their forum, the more anonymity they are afforded, the uglier it gets.

After hearing Rush vomit forth hate from his wobby jowls, after reading internet comments, sometimes I’d rather wish these modern-day orators were restricted. Why do people behave thusly? Why, when given the chance to be heard, especially in an anonymous manner, why does the worst come out? Instead of making the case for their opinion, modern-day debates merely take a shit on the opposition. Women are whores and sluts. Men are adult-babies who won't grow up. Obama's the devil. Democrats are commies and Republicans are Bible-Thumper extremists.

In this era of unlimited voice (lookie here at me speaking through my own, free print platform), why can’t modern day participants have discussion and debate in a civilized manner?

In my rose-colored, nostalgia-ridden mind, during those years when this country was being forged and so much--too much--was on the line, our forefathers expressed their diametrically opposing beliefs in an intelligent, clear, compelling and lyrical manner. Their public discussion, addressing two clear-cut Black and White schools of thought (Do we fight for our independence or stay loyal to the king?), dealt with life-altering choices, and yet their debate remained  compelling and clean. Driven, yet flexible. They, in the most impassioned manner, shouted their opinions, trying to win listeners and their favor. They stimulated debate, yet were still willing to listen to the ‘other side’ and be accepting of new ways of thinking.

More importantly, their debate and dialogues remained civil.

Where is modern civility?

Why, where would be today if Patrick Henry pronounced the Federalists a bunch of slutty whores?

Oh, Interwebz, sometimes you astound me!

Mostly you annoy, irritate, disgust, disappoint or depress me, but once in awhile you truly astound me!

A while back I installed Leechblock, an internet timing and blocking productivity application (highly recommended). I hate wasting time online when I have a whole life to live and could be doing something...more productive. When I’m wasting time, I’m cognizant that I'm doing it, but I can't muster the will to just click off my computer monitor. Sometimes, after I've visited my favorite two sites a day (the only two I really 'browse,") I just sit there, staring at the computer waiting for SOMETHING to happen--thinking there must be something new to look at or that there must be SOMETHING on these here Interwebz that would benefit me. It's a compulsion and I hate it.

So, Leechblock helps a lot with that. Leechblock's main feature is that it blocks frequently visited sites. During prescribed times, days or even after you’ve spent a prescribed amount of time on a site, that site is blocked and when you try to access it the page is redirected to a white screen reading "This page is blocked." It also has a picture of a gross leech on it.

Today I discovered you can CHANGE what screen displays when a site is blocked!!

My mind instantly wondered if there was a meme of a cat saying "Get Back to Work," and the Interwebz came through…guess what I found.........