August 10th 9:13am - Dogs and a Drunkard

Indian bars are as sparse as nipple hair on Playboy Playmates. Thus, when some British bucks and I exited the Darjeeling movie theater after watching Harry Potter, and one of them perceived Joey's Pub, we were as animated as if there were alcohol signs out front. One reading, "Save the Planet! It's the only one with beer," and the other: "Warning: The consumption of alcohol may actually cause pregnancy."
Hours and a few beers later, we were somewhat sober. An Indian man paralleling the Simpsons' Apu was not. He careened into the bar, the bartender, the owner, other men at the bar, and me. When the owner and bartender refused him alcohol, Apu hurled his hands over the bar to procure more beer. Four men hefted him out, ejecting him into the street. Apu rhinoceros-roared outside as they locked the door. Fifteen minutes later he drop kicked the door and reeled inside, scuttling behind the bar for another drink. Five men hoisted him out and threatened to call the cops. This was as effective as Lindsay Lohan's singing career. Apu slung one of his shoes, shattering a window. Seven men streamed through the door. The owner snatched a stick as he followed.
Forty minutes later, the British lads and I deemed it safe enough to saunter back to our hostels. As we lodged in different locations in Darjeeling, I parted ways with them after five minutes. I wandered back wondering why men have nipples.
Without warning, nine male dogs converged on me as if I had promised and failed to deliver them each a female dog in heat as hot as Megan Fox. Some attack-stance-crouched with slit eyes, some snarled, all growled. Adrenaline orbited through me, darting into my limbs and making my voice Goliath-like. I stalked ahead until three dogs barred my path like they were protecting their annual sampling of Kibbles 'n Bits. I recalled childhood bear instructions to speak calmly, back away slowly, and wave arms to identify as a human. As these were dogs, I did what I reckoned reasonable: I growled, roared, "Hey... Hey!" and pointed at them as if my finger were a magic wand and I could castrate them with a wrist flick. They roadblocked the street as sufficiently as a passed-out blue whale. I stood stationary, eye-dominating them.
"I am the alpha female!" I howled and paced forward, angling to the left to avoid them as much as possible. They followed, snarling like I was canine-Satan. I contemplated running before rejecting this idea as my belly was weighted down with beer and samosas. After twenty paces I would probably self-sacrifice and lay in the fetal position welcoming the biting pity. I stalked away with feigned assurance.
The next day a dog in the same site licked my hand. I accepted his assent as acknowledgement of my supreme superiority. And recollected watching my friend's mom demonstrate her dog-domination by showing her Labrador flash cards. If the card read, "Sit," he'd sit. "Shake," and he'd shake. She should consider a dog career. Maybe she could open a school and teach dogs how to read. Chimpanzees can read. Dogs should too. Then in future, if I lost my dog I could carry a sign reading, "Lost Dog. Blind in one eye, broken tail, three legged, missing right ear. Answers to 'Lucky,'" and dogs could possibly help.

August 9th 6:23pm - Monkey Attack

I'm obsessed with monkeys like I'm consumed with small children. It's conceivable that this is because of their likenesses. Their minuscule midget fingers and ears, their infinitesimal eyes... I just want to nuzzle them and mother-move them around. Nestling them under my arm. Like I imagine I would a baby giraffe if I were a giantess.
When hiking through a Himalayan hill town called Darjeeling, I discerned a monkey reclining in the midst of the street. I was as enthralled as if I had just been supplied with a medium-rare steak in this steak-forsaken country of India. When the monkey treaded towards the trees and I beheld a monkey baby, suddenly the medium-rare steak shifted to include garlic mashed potatoes. I was captivated.
I accomplished the only action I could conceive: I camera-chased them as if I were a paparazzi and they were Angelina Jolie and her daughter Shiloh. I shadowed Monkey-Mother and Baby as they scaled benches, palpitated through branches, and Baby blitzkrieged Mama by bounding on her back.
Unfortunately my camera has a range equidistant to my 20/400 eyesight. I crouched, monkey-camera-ready, as Darjeeling locals lumbered by. When the monkey's motion caused the camera to produce fuzzy photos, I collapsed to my knees and elbows to pocket a preferable picture. The locals, amused by my monkey-attraction, pointed and promptly spoke to each other. As the Indians were insensibly oblivious to the monkeys, I functioned as their animal attraction. I observed monkeys. They scrutinized me. I muttered to myself every time my camera delayed and chiefly crawled down the street, anticipating the perfect photo. I looked like a mentally handicapped lion stalking prey.
Except that instead of eating monkeys, I craved to cuddle them. And nourish them. For richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, from this day forward. This was my thought as abruptly Baby bound from Monkey Mother into the trees. Mother Monkey followed. I frisked to my feet with immaculate dexterity but couldn't eye-trace them. They had departed like my dignity. I leisurely erected myself, discharging dirt from my knees, bottom, hands, face and hair. I located and expelled some from my eyelashes as the locals examined me like I would a tyrannosaurus rex. From a distance.
I was as demoralized as if I had received a scratch lottery ticket from a friend, won $75,000, celebrated like I had conquered a $78 million victory, and then determined that it was a deception. Which has happened.
I schlepped, head sagging, camera cascading from my clutch, and advanced towards my hostel. The locals dispersed as if a circus act had been annihilated.
As I passed teeming tender trees I perceived mobility. I haltingly hoisted my head to behold branches of monkeys. Ancients, adults, teenagers, babies... an ambrosial assemblage of beings. I was as sublimated as if I had consumed shrooms. I skated towards them, arms outstretched, smile smothering my face.
I sensed some resistance from my leg but continued to my monkey kingdom. I gazed upon the monkey-populated luxurious emerald foliage ignoring leg pulsations. With the effort I would extend competing in a Spam-eating contest I extracted my focus from the felicity to detect an archaic male monkey clutching my pant leg like it was a rum-infused banana. My pants extended like a Stretch Armstrong toy. I moved my leg. Monkey contracted his clamp.
"Oh, come on!" I said, roundhouse-kicking my leg forward karate-style. Instead of a handful of pant material, Hannibal now had a leg-hold like my leg was a baseball bat. Which he was slowly strangling.
He screeched. I screamed, "Stop it!" simultaneously wondering if monkey competitors could have human managers in Dwarf Cage Fighting. Whatever he squawked must have communicated to the other monkeys that I was considering monkey-napping him for Dwarf Cage Fighting.
My awareness on Hannibal, I asked him to please let me go, as I loved he and his family. Four more monkeys either launched from the sky or the nearest monkey planet. Regardless, they surrounded me, barking like dogs.
"Oh, no no no," I said, backing up as if they were rabid. However, I spoke to them as if they were equals, humans, thinking they'd appreciate the sentiment.
"I really just wanted pictures. See? Camera. I just wanted to remember you. The Indian children like when I take pictures of them. Apparently you don't like when I take pictures of you. That's okay though, I'll just go," I reasoned. I stepped once down the path, eye-raping every passing Indian, pleading for assistance. Nobody acknowledged me. The monkeys must have a monopoly in this area. Hannibal still secure around my shin, the other monkeys roared, growling like lemurs.
They were two feet tall at full height. At 5'7" I felt like I should be the dominant beast in this situation. I stalked away, eyes forward. Maybe if I ignored them they would leave. Atilla didn't appreciate this and rocketed from the concrete to the trees. He hooked his little monkey-hand in my hair and heaved hair from my head as if my strands were plants he was uprooting to fashion a marijuana field.
"What the fuck?" I screamed as my head followed the wrenches from those tiny monkey-dictator hands.
Pol Pot, another monkey, sprung from the ground to a fence post and then hurdled onto my arm. These monkeys were acrobatic. As I wondered if, with time, they would behave enough to perform a monkey-act, Hannibal spread his scope north and trucked my pants from my waist.
In a hunchback-stance from Atilla's hair tyranny, with Pol Pot weighing down one arm, and my pants hugging my thighs - courtesy of Hannibal - the atmosphere mingled with human and monkey sounds, gorging with grunts, shrieks, and barks.
I labored to lift my legs and shut my eyes with the strain. This should be reality television and I should be receiving money. I hoped someone walking by was either a monkey whisperer or a reality TV producer. Then torturous yelps and tragic wails rent the air as I felt midget monkey fingers ripped from my skin and clothing. I opened my eyes to behold a hero. A furrowed face gazed at me eye-level. This was bewildering, as elderly Indians are as tall as my pockets. I then realized I was still hunched over. I straightened myself and rose above my savior like a monkey-attacked Shaq. I felt as authoritative as a disabled panda with a mouthful of peanut butter.
He said one word to me.
"Chai?"

September 25, 2008 5:15pm - Crow Catastrophe

At a soccer tournament one weekend when we were about fourteen, the absence-of-parents had yet to become procedural. The troupe assembled for this particular weekend varied from winery owners, doctors and lawyers, to broods of small children, to dads that ran up and down the field's sideline as the ball traveled. One weekend one such father intently watching the occurring game sprinted the length of the field countless times as the ball journeyed, bouncing between the battling teams. Head turned sideways, he surveyed the game as he ran. I happened to glance over as he went dashing into a trashcan, which ensued in a rotating, tumbling image of white limbs and gray plastic. I doubled over on the field in laughter.
Anyway, back to the weekend in question. I and a handful of girls were kicking a soccer ball in the hotel hallway. Typically the hotel front desk clerk arranged so all the people involved in one team would room near each other. This, I have to imagine, was to benefit us as well as the hotel management and other guests. We were loud, raucous children with a knack for disorderly conduct. At the ripe old age of twenty-two that I now am, I know I wouldn't want to stay in a hotel near our delinquent fourteen-year-old selves. We tore through the hotel playing hide-and-seek. We forged small-sided soccer games in the hallways and the hotel grounds. We used our siblings as parental distractions. Eventually, we realized the parents collectively employed alcohol consumption as their distraction from their wild, free-roaming children.
Anyway, back once again to the weekend in question. We lazily kicked the soccer ball down the hallway, seeing how many times we could ricochet the ball between the walls and still get it to the teammate twenty feet away. Someone was able to achieve the highly-impressive count of six when another teammate came hurling towards us yelling maniacally with riotous blue eyes and disheveled hair. She came to an abrupt halt a few feet away. She stared at us. We stared back. Someone asked what the hell happened. She inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly.
She proceeded to tell us that she had been standing outside the hotel waiting for her dad to park the car when suddenly she was accosted. The top of her head was clawed and her face beat with wind. She saw black feathers and could feel talons digging into her scalp. She screamed and galloped a few feet crazed-madwoman-status before she reached above her head, grabbed at the bird, and hurtled it into the side of the hotel. She told us she continued shrieking. She ran through the hotel doors screeching, into and through the lobby yelling, leapt up the stairs, screaming, ran through a few hallways, still yelling, and then stopped when she found us. We dissolved into hilarity. Once we could speak again without laughing we went on an expedition to find the site of the crow/raven/blackbird (we're still not sure which) molestation. There was no mark on the wall. We did find some feathers, however. Our bird-accosted teammate kept one as proof.

September 3rd 5:09m - Canine Calamity

By 6th grade I had grown a few inches so the hefty rotund body I sported in 4th grade had expanded. Every ounce of my corpulent mass wasn’t concentrated solely in my stomach. Instead, my weight was distributed a bit more evenly throughout my body. I could, in fact, run as opposed to walking the mile. I was never truly aware of my weight until 3rd grade when the “fat” kid in school held up my jacket in front of the class, asked who the owner was, and proudly announced it was too big even for him. 3rd grade was also the year we obtained a dog. We obtained a yellow Labrador puppy. She liked to run. With three kids in the house and constant chaos, the door was constantly being left open. The dog constantly looked for an escape. If the front door was left cracked open for a millisecond she would sprint out, full speed ahead, ears flopping and tail wagging. Freedom. Mom would look at her brood of three and ask me to go run after the dog. I always obliged. I chased after the puppy through the neighborhoods and hills encasing our home. Bent over, hands on knees, face red, unable to breathe, I ran after that dog anywhere from twenty minutes to an hour and a half at least a couple of times a week. Well, by run I really mean I attempted to incorporate a bounce into my step so as to give the appearance of doing something slightly more intensive than walking. The dog was an escape artist. One day she fled without anyone aware of her getaway. The house phone clanged, Mom answered, and I heard her exclaim, “Oh no! I’m so sorry, I’ll be right up.” The dog had settled upon a jubilant run through the vicinity that had turned roguish when she noticed a white truck adorned with a painting logo in front of a house with a door that was ajar. She had darted inside to find a painter on a ladder with an open container. She collided with the ladder, paint erupted into the air, painter screeched as he plummeted to the ground, and paintbrushes were strewn about, trailing paint from where they had initially been hurtled into walls and on furniture. The tin paint can clanged, irate, against the floor, and footsteps resonated through the house as the family rushed to see what the clatter was. The dog radiated happiness as she heard people approaching (she was a fantastically friendly dog), wagged her weapon (aka tail) in anticipation of welcoming humans, and thus knocked over another open can of paint. It seeped onto the rug-covered wood flooring.

September 2nd 8:10pm - Sheep Show

In 6th grade a classmate invited me and my friends to her house for a birthday party. She lived in what is affectionately deemed “The Country.” Her parents had a lot of land and a lot of occupants on said land. These included a few horses, some sheep, chickens, and, if memory serves, a llama. The party occurred near Easter time, so arts and crafts for the day consisted of decorating hollow egg shells with yellow dyed cotton balls, colored construction paper and markers to somewhat resemble baby chickens. I failed wildly at this task, as four other girls and I became engrossed in another (perfectly logical) project: chase the sheep around the yard in an attempt to corner one. We ran back and forth, to and fro, in circles around the yard. Every time we managed to isolate one sheep from the other five, it would bleat, violently swing its head around, alarm playing in its eyes, and leap off and away. The five of us would shriek, run a few steps clear of the sheep, and then persist in our quest, once again harassing the sheep. Eventually, we did manage to corner a sheep. My friends and I advanced, slowly, in an arc, the sheep retreating until against a corner of the fence. Hands out, crazed smiles on our faces, we progressed, lessening the space between ourselves and the two-hundred-pound wooly beast before us. The sheep swerved its head, assessing the situation. The situation being, of course, six 6th grade girls walking empty-handed towards a weighty, dim-witted animal with no reverence for what young girls might consider fun. The sheep glanced at us, terror reflecting in its eyes. I watched as the dirty white mass at least twice my size soared through the air towards me. And then I was on the ground on my back, looking up in shock at the sheep’s face less than six inches from my own. Its eyes yellow, its ears upright, its elongated snout hovering above me, it exhaled and my nostrils were accosted with a semi-pungent grass scent. The sheep’s front hooves were on my chest (this might have been painful except that I had absolutely no breasts to boast of), and hind hooves on my thighs. It raised its head, bleated loudly, the noise echoing in my ears, and bounded away, hurdling itself towards the other sheep some distance away. Immediately my friends swooped down upon me to find me laughing. In no way was I damaged. However, I do believe (I hope, at least), my brain became slightly more intelligent that day. I’m hoping some brain cells were knocked into my head with the fall.
Disclaimer: no animals were harmed in the schematics of our mission. Harassment was solely in the form of chase-and-yell. No rocks were thrown, no sticks were wielded, and no rabid attacks by humans on sheep occurred.