The Canine Rototiller

Meet Ernest.

She is technically the neighbor's dog and technically has a different name, but seeing as she likes to run around our yard, bark at the 200-pound wild pig that brazenly visits under the full moon, and sleeps near our door, I like to think she is partially ours.

Her original name (her original name, other than the neighbor's selection for her) was Ernest the Awesome, but given her farts when you pet her stomach and the utter destruction of The Boyfriend's kangkong/seedling boxes, she got demoted to Ernest the Mostly Awesome.

The infinite wisdom of Chris Rock

I made a conscious decision not to post musings here about politics/colonialism/race/militarization/the environment/sartorial choices, since there are others far better equipped to expound on such subjects--in blog form--than I. You'll see some of those writers to the right.

Also, I have no other place in my life to publicly post photos of slugs or what I ingested for breakfast.

But despite a mighty effort, I can't ignore those nasty "little" incidents popping up in daily life, whose occurrences increase in their frequency and ability to irritate me. The Drowning Mermaid's recent post about contact with military personnel exposed the marrow more clearly than I (and I imagine, a lot of locals) care to admit, and my mood's been a bit on, ahem, check, as it were.

So without yakking on about my thoughts on racism and all that other shit--acknowledging that her post touches on profound theories of local/tourist, military/civilian, Chamoru/not Chamoru--I guess the best possible way to (not) explain where I'm at personally, desde Sanlagu para Guahan after two and half years here, is to rely on Chris Rock to do it for me:

"If you're black, you gotta look at America a little bit different. You gotta look at America like the uncle that paid for you to go to college . . . but molested you."

Uncle Sam, indeed.

Walter A. Manglona just revived Richard Marx's career in the CNMI

I can't believe that I never posted it (I first heard this song maybe back in April), but am glad I finally got around to it. The Chamoru rap starts at 3:10.



Walter A. Manglona, you're an effin' genius. (I'm not quite sure what the snowy New England background or spaceship have to do with Saipan or someone's broken kurason, but what do I know about artistic license?) Si Yu'os ma'ase for showing our young people that Chamoru can be relevant to pop culture.

(By the way, Walter, yanggen you're out there . . . Umekungok yu' i kanta-mu, something about throwing kannai-mu on someone's daggan, and I have no idea where to get your album. Let me know, nai?)

In case you've got an extra $3,000-$6,000 lying around . . .

You too, could be the proud owner of this piece de resistance.

I just happened to spy an October 19 New York Times blurb about a book put out by the Museum of Modern Art's Library Council, which is based on Oliver Sacks's medical anthropology travelogue Island of the Colorblind.

Given that I finished reading this very book not two months ago, it seems somewhat fortuitous that I would happen across the blurb about--let's say it again, because we simply don't hear it enough out here as an indictment/excuse (but interestingly enough, never a point of pride)--"just a tiny tropical island in the middle of nowhere!"

Although, really, MOMA's overpriced book/art thing-y is less about Luta/Rota per se and more about the good doctor's nostalgia-inducing trip to the island. I think. I don't know because I haven't seen the book + excerpted text and am not jetsetting back to New York anytime soon to see the images in their respective gallery.

All I know is that New York Times called the MOMA book "mysterious" and "seductive." Given that it's a book with photographs of ferns, it sounds like the artist did a hell of job making them sexy, and I'd really like to hire him to take my next MySpace profile pics.

Airport/plane scenes, Guåhan-style

Scene 1
Whereupon the plane taxis to the gate, and over the intercom you hear, "Auntie, can you please sit down? The fasten seatbelt sign is still on."

Scene 2
Whereupon waiting in the U.S. Citizen/Green Card line (note to self: always take Line 41, which is only for U.S. passport holders, which therefore moves at least twice as fast as the Green Card one), the guy coming back from training at Fort Benning looks at the quicker moving Line 41.

He says, "That line's moving a little slow because there's a youth soccer team who played in Korea. See that groups of kids up front?"

And I say, "Yeah, Korea--that's cool."

And he says, "Yeah, that guy right there is my nephew."

And about ten minutes later, looking at the old dude holding up our line, the same observant Fort Benning trainee notices it's the mayor of Mangilao.

Scene 3
Walking back to the car, I run into the spokeperson for one of the utilities, and we chat about her half-marathon in Australia for about five minutes before her ride pulls up.

As someone who has traveled extensively throughout the world, I can attest that contrary to Friendman's claim that it (the world) gets smaller and flatter, it is only at Guåhan's airport where I can own such small and special experiences.

Kåtu

Unlike other people who blog but stray, I'm not gonna publicly berate myself for not keeping up regular updates, life gets in the way, blah blah blah, unsure of focus for writing, blah blah blah.

NONE OF THAT.

Instead, here's the feral cat The Boyfriend and I have been feeding for the past four months. She was pretty mean in the beginning (as evidenced by the consistent hissing despite our daily offerings of quality food), and so we called her Sourpuss.

But suddenly (about as fast as the chicks and chickens in our backyard mysteriously began to disappear), Sourpuss got really friendly with me. She started rubbing up on my feet or legs when I would feed her, and The Boyfriend and me never got around to catching her and taking her to the local animal shelter to get spayed because we wanted her to keep coming back.

HOWEVER. (You see where this is going. Maybe.)

It turns out that cats get friendly--not because they realize that the wonderful smartly dressed humans in Barrigåda occasionally dispense chicken breast and other tasty morsels--but because they GET PREGNANT.

Sourpuss, we are now taking the discourtesy of renaming you.

An introduction is in order. To all friends and familia: say "håfa adai" to her majesty SluttyCat (pre-pregnancy).

Full of it

One of my biggest fears, in being charged with the care and maintenance of this house, is the septic tank system. To my knowledge, there’s no handy dandy gauge that lets you know when the tank is nearing capacity—literally, when it’s full of shit.

According to my mom, the tank needs to be pumped “every now and then.” But I’d prefer not to be alerted—even if it just “now and then”—by overflows in a bathroom whose existence is already marked by a questionable state of cleanliness.

This tank business is all new to me. In Guåhan, sewer hook-ups are not consistent throughout the island, in part because there are still major tracts of land that are “undeveloped” (or “pristine,” or “primitive,” depending on your perspective). On my little seven house street alone, we all have septic tanks, in no small part because hooking up to the municipal sewer lines would individually put us out about $10,000. Additionally, because we’re on a slight slope, we would have to install electric pumps. Which, in a typhoon or post-typhoon conditions, wouldn’t work... and again, leave us to deal with the shit.

I think of these issues whenever I’m behind a sewage-related/pump truck, which isn’t infrequent. A few months ago I also escaped near death as I followed a truck which had three port-a-potties strapped precariously to its back. That would have been a gruesome end.

This morning, I had the delight of following a Todo Mauleg truck for a few blocks. In Chamoru, todu maolek means “It’s all good.” Which is a sentiment I can’t argue with. Especially when you can handle your shit.

Here’s to the company that “comes rushing to get you flushing”!