The Enemy of My Enemy Eats Bugs

I know down South the mosquitoes are legendary. The mosquito is the state bird of both South Carolina and Georgia. True story.

But much like everything else in Massachusetts, our mosquitoes are meaner and more aggressive.

They do no fear the citronella candle. They scoff at your Off lanterns. They see most sprays as a marinade, not a repellent.

Short of dousing yourself in kerosene and setting yourself on fire, you can't deter them. Actually, self-immolation would probably just look like a barbecue to them.

I just spent a lovely evening on the patio with Special K and her gay husband. We were out there for hours. Just long enough to make me feel safe.

Just like in all horror movies, they strike when you're feeling most relaxed. And then they came for me.

I think other people get mosquito bites, and they have just a little itchy bump that goes away after about twelve hours. Not so with me. I get giant red welts that make my extremities look like I'm coming down with a a mild case of leprosy.
And they last for days. And days. And two weeks from now I'm still going to be itching that spot on my ankle.

I've got two bites on my ribcage, which means one of them got through my shirt-- which means that mosquito got further tonight than most of my recent dates.

One of them bit my face.

And I don't know what kind of environmental or evolutionary benefit mosquitoes provide. They suck blood. They spread disease. They buzz. They're just a nuisance.

As much as I am averse to bats in my residence, they seem to be our best hope for eradicating the mosquito menace. That is, aside from pelting my neighborhood with copious applications of napalm, which could create greater problems. So I'm thinking about using my savings to build a bat cave in my backyard. A haven for these misunderstood creatures.

Of course, if I establish a bat sanctuary in my yard, I will be so creeped out that I'll never want to go outside again. Either way, problem solved.

The 30-Day Hangover

I just finished watching The Hangover, which is something I had promised myself I would never do. But I was feeling a little nostalgic for Vegas, if one can feel nostalgia for a month ago.

I have determined two things.

1) Bradley Cooper is, in fact, ridiculously good looking.

2) The Suz and I did not take maximum advantage of Las Vegas. Nobody stole a police car. Nobody married a hooker. Nobody stole any wildlife of any kind. Nobody ended up in the trunk of any sort of vehicle.

Even in our younger heyday, I don't think we could have pulled off madness even close to the kind that Hollywood cranked out in this movie. I think the best The Suz and I could have hoped for would have been entering into some kind of altercation which would have began with me saying to a total stranger, "You don't have the stones!"

But we did see Elvis. We saw Elvis a lot. Elvis, in the words of that great philosopher, Mojo Nixon, is, in fact, everywhere.

He's on the sidewalk:

He's in the wax museum. And he's interactive:

He's in the gift shop. And he looks like Bill Compton:

He's in the casino bar, and he's mixing cocktails:

I guess there are some names that are embedded with a kind of destiny. For instance, if you name your daughter Destiny, there's a good chance she's going to end up working in clear heels. If you name your kid Elvis he's got a good chance of becoming a bartender in Las Vegas.

Or he becomes this guy:

Which is okay, as long as he doesn't become this guy: