Wednesday, October 28, 2009

Five Years: Hot And Bothered

You thought that last one was grumpy? Well, grump-a-grump-grump, this one is a grump trump!

Don't let the grumpiness scare you. These two pieces are memorable for at least the following reasons:

1. I reconnected with Bar on this trip. We hadn't been in contact since more or less right after we met, on the first day of orientation at grad school.

2. Thank God I saw "Layer Cake" instead of "Crash" at the theater.

3. Deleted Scene: As I just mentioned, I ate a grilled cheese sandwich featuring green chilies for the first time on this trip.

4. The absolute strangest comment was left in response to part one. An anonymous man really wanted to chime in with his thoughts on wheeled luggage, and the art of luggage in general.

5. Deleted Scene: The book I was reading was short stories by Julie Orringer: "How to Breathe Underwater". I bought it after reading that Nick Hornby liked it.

6. I got an insane amount of site traffic from lonely hotel guests searching for the titles of the porn movies listed. I can't really blame them for researching the films online. If you're going to throw down $14 for a rented movie, you should try to make sure it's a good choice.

7. Deleted Scene: I went to find a place for dinner one night. I started walking down Route 66, figuring it's a hugely famous highway and therefore a taco shop or something yummy would show itself promptly. After walking and walking, I finally found a place.

I had a chili cheese dog. I should have bought a T-shirt - they were pretty dope. This establishment was featured as a drug deal spot in an episode of "Breaking Bad", which is also pretty dope.

8. Note how heavy I lay on the grumpiness and symbolism in the last sentence. DO YOU GET IT, GUYS? MY GIRLFRIEND BROKE UP WITH ME AND I WAS SAD.

9. The title for these posts were also the title of a planned detective movie (or TV series?) by my pals Floyd and Jack Serpentine.

Okay, enough. Please enjoy:

Dry Heat - Part One


This is the second consecutive trip in which I have been randomly screened by airport security. After passing through successfully, I sit and watch as others are pulled aside. No one is nonchalant. They shoot flabbergasted looks toward their traveling companions.

"Oh my God, me?! Selma, look! They think little old me could be a terrorist!"
"For gosh sakes! That Latino man just went right through!"
"Look! He's making me spread my arms like I might have a weapon!"

One man finishes the screen and walks toward the seats to my left. A woman his age and a teenage girl are waiting for him. He is speaking in a foreign language - East Europe sounding. Maybe they are from Strawberry Hill, across the river. I listen to him speak, wondering if it's profound or useless chatter. If he was speaking English, I would assuredly be mocking his words. Since it is Russian or Croatian or else, I give him the benefit of the doubt.

The mother begins to assemble lunch. Empty paper cups appear from her carry-on bag. Hen House lunchmeat, possibly bologna, definitely smelly. Bread. One half gallon of milk. She builds modest sandwiches and hands one to her daughter and husband; she pours the milk. I consider the logistics required for their rushed meal - I calculate the odds of a resulting foodborne illness. Is there an ice pack in the bag? What are they doing with the leftovers?

The flight is Southwest. I am among the last to board, but get a decent isle seat next to a thin woman with a book - an ideal neighbor. The first short story in my new book is about death. The second is about low self-esteem. The third is about death and guilt. This trip will not be relaxing.

I do not want to stop my session mid-story, so I close the book as the plane descends. Almost by mistake, I catch a glimpse through the window at the earth below. There are mountains, and for a moment I am shocked. I have not seen mountains in more than five years. This is my first trip to New Mexico. I've never been near it. The airport floor is brick, or, more precisely, has been fashioned to look like red brick. Wheeled luggage clicks relentlessly. I want a word with the architect.

It will be hours before my room is available. The clerk stores my luggage, and his associate gives me directions to the old town district. I turn right and walk to Lomas. I turn left and walk for about 15 minutes. It is hot but I don't care - this is what people mean when they say, "It's a dry heat." I picture myself as a local, tanned after a few days in this sun. I am the bassist from Albuquerque's own The Shins.

Hispanics are gathered in the quad of Old Town. A nearby church has something to do with the celebration. Music plays over a PA as a man in the gazebo sings. He looks like bullfighter, minus the cape; he sings different songs in Spanish. They sound the same to me. I sit on a restaurant patio and eat flat chicken enchiladas. I can't see the entertainer from here, but I can see much of the crowd, and I can hear him all too well. He makes very brief conversation with the crowd between each song: he has been here many years in a row, his family has come from Dallas to see him today, he is happy to be here. I pay after sopapillas, looking at photos under the glass at the cashier's stand. John Kerry is in two of them. Gloria Estefan is in one. These should all be on the wall.

I make a lap in Old Town. Some shops sell jewelry. Others sell jewelry. A few even sell jewelry. He is still singing - the man's voice is tireless. This is why they keep asking him back.

The museums are on my way back to the hotel. I choose the natural history museum. It is a mistake.

I walk through neighborhoods on the return trip - the multitude of law offices on Lomas (immigration?) were not nice enough to see twice. The Shins are in my head. I can't relate to their lyrics - I do not smell the engine grease and mint the wind is blending. I don't smell anything. I am suddenly aware that I don't hear anything, either. No dogs bark. No lawnmowers run. Even the breeze can't be bothered to make a sound. It's three o'clock on a Saturday but quiet like a snowstorm. I consider if desert is an insulant, like snow. I reject the hypothesis.

Downtown features a handful of tall office buildings, almost all of which are named for banks. They are squatting, hiding behind the mountains that circle the city, apologetic for their non-adobe abilities, a tall man between yourself and the movie screen.

My hotel room faces south. I can see baseball stadium lights a few miles away. Every time I look at them in the next few days, I will think, "You hear that, folks? He said, 'Go 'Topes!'".

I'm too late to see Crash, so I decide to see Layer Cake. The movie ticket costs $9.25, and my $.75 of change goes to a charity that seems to be supported by a smiling black and white photo of The Rock. I start on two generous scoops of Dreyer's rocky road ice cream - my dinner - as the trailers begin. Later, The Rolling Stones' "Gimme Shelter" is used perfectly. If I could show everyone this scene, they would understand why I was disappointed with Garden State's use of "Caring is Creepy".

My walk home takes me past the bus station. A vagrant is yelling at a better-dressed man who wants the bus to take him away from the situation. Two uniformed policemen watch from twenty yards away.


Anonymous said...

Don't blame the architect. Wheeled luggage sucks. It's automatically heavier, has less interior space, and is hard to stuff into overhead compartments, because it has to be at least semi-rigid. It just generally slows you down. Think more about what you really need to take with you and save weight. Lighter is better and faster.

Dry Heat - Part Two


I want to get a nice late breakfast before the conference starts at noon. I walk around downtown - nothing is open. I abandon the morning constitutional and eat at my hotel.

The conference room is crowded. The panel of experts is seated, and their tables form a U, facing the Powerpoint display. Myself and the riff-raff are behind them, squeezed next to one another, chairbacks against the wall. I am among the last to arrive, so I have a poor view of the screen. The woman that is seated to my right has an even worse angle. She compensates by leaning into my personal space whenever she feels like seeing what the speaker is reading. She is the exact opposite of the woman I sat next to on the flight to Albuquerque. She's constantly fidgeting, and preferring both the standard leg bounce and the unconventional lateral knee touch - the latter performed as if there is an invisible Thighmaster in her crotch.

I meet Nathan and Julie in the hotel bar shortly after 5:00. I knew they were inside after seeing their large truck in the parking lot, loaded for their cross-country drive. The bed is packed high, and a blue tarp covers everything but part of a bicycle frame. I think of the Joads.

We enjoy beer as we wait for our food to arrive - we're on a patio off Central Ave, also known as Route 66. I am three feet from the neighboring table, where a bikerish woman is straddling a bikerish man. My boss walks by on the sidewalk, and I say hello. She approaches our table and sits down. Damn. A best friend, his wife, a liter of Sam Adams Summer, a warm evening on the Route 66 patio, my supervisor. One of these things is not like the other. It's over soon, and I show Nathan and Julie the theater's ice cream selection before they drive further west.

The hotel has HBO. Unlike the host cities of my last two conferences, Albuquerque does not sponsor a hotel channel that features local restaurants, museums, and landmarks. I take this as another bad sign.


For the past handful of years, I've tried to surround myself with my favorite things during my birthday. I listen to my all-time favorite albums, I watch my favorite movie, I bathe in my favorite champagne. This year, I battle my peers for complimentary bagels and muffins before sitting through plenary and breakout sessions.

A well-dressed, gray-haired gentleman sits a few seats down from me during the opening presentation. The speaker tells an anecdote involving Senator Robert Dole for some reason - a reporter asks Mr. Dole if it's effeminizing to be second fiddle to his newly elected wife. She pushes him away from the microphone and says, "Move over, cupcake, I'll take this one!" The crowd laughs, starved for something resembling humor.

"Heh heh. Savoir fare..." the man says creepily.

A speaker uses the phrase, "Not sure if the juice is worth the squeeze," and I try to think if I've been previously exposed to that wording.

There is a reception at 6:00 with a cash bar, appetizers, and a mariachi band. Why would a culture that lives in such a warm climate choose to uniform their bands in restrictive suits? Barbara, a friend from grad school that I found earlier that day, tells them it's my birthday. They ask me to stand as they play "Happy Birthday". The pacing of the mariachi version is far superior to our slow, pained, American chorus.

Later that night, Barbara and I try to find alcohol. A hotel shuttle driver takes us to Seven-Eleven, where we purchase two bottles of Yellow Tail. We drink the cabernet and catch up on the past two years of each other's lives. There are about a dozen adult films available for rent through the hotel, including Swallowing Shanks, Cream on my Face, Hot Young Snatch, and Hairless Honeydrippers. $13.99 is greater than our curiosity.


Tuesday lasts forever. Eventually, I am in a hotel bar with Barbara's female peers. The British-sounding one looks at me.

"Why do men ask 'Do you swallow'?"

It is unprovoked and accusatory, but at least we are not talking about risk ratios. The other girls talk about feelings of power/submission/control. I give my opinion, which I adopted from Loveline's Adam Carolla.

"It has little to do with power. It's more flattering. It shows that you're not disgusted. I don't care what you do, just don't seem incredibly disgusted by the process."

I'm sure she doesn't hear any of this.


I am waiting for a cab to the airport. I'm tired of feeling cold in the hotel, especially because it's so warm outside. I stand on the sidewalk by the entrance. There is an abundance of shade, but I want to spend my last minutes in the sun. The dry heat is nice, but it feels like there is something missing.

Sunday, October 25, 2009

Five Years: Oklahoma City Thunder

I mentioned the prolonged grumpy period that I dragged this blog through. The archives indicate my grumpy period (very similar to Picasso's Blue Period) ran from May 7, 2005, when my girlfriend broke up with me, to January 1, 2006, when Gav and I ate Triple Whoppers to celebrate the new year. ("More sticks in '06!" Gav shouted as he came home from HyVee with a bounty of frozen mozzarella sticks. What a year that was.)

In July 2005, a few months into the grumpiness, Matt and I trekked south to the Oklahoma City suburbs to visit our fine pal Brian. Matt's father had passed away that spring; I'm not sure why he put up with my mood when he had reason to be much more upset. It could be because we're friends.

Here is what happened that weekend, with my grumpy postscript, and some photographic aids taken much later.

Oklahoma City Recap

"You promised me a fight."
"Just wait."

Brian had not yet spent an evening at J.R.'s Bar and Grill without witnessing violence. A half hour later, bareknuckled fisticuffs erupted in the parking lot of, stretching Brian's streak to record lengths. Watching from a distance was bittersweet. I appreciated the insanity of the roadhouse, but it was now clear that the Friday night police response time to the southern outskirts of Oklahoma City was poor. If the motorcyclists or the would-be frat boys (as in, they would be frat boys if they could get in to the community college up the road) inside had a problem with me, I'd be square in the middle of a vicious cockfight.

There had been precisely one non-country-western song performed by J.R.'s karaokists, and Matt wanted me to sing the second. Prior to our arrival, I had planned to sing "Nothing Compares 2 U", but the roguish atmosphere intimidated me. Imagine my surprise when the younger set danced and cheered my rendition of the Spice Girl's "Wannabe", and I escaped J.R.'s without a scratch.

We bought great, cheap seats for the OKC Redhawks game Saturday afternoon. The ticket girl was reading the new Harry Potter book - she didn't yet know who the half-blood price was yet, and believe me, I asked. On the way to the stadium that night, the three of us took a denim short census. Within 20 minutes, we counted twelve adult males sporting jean shorts. Fair enough, Oklahoma City, fair enough. Maybe we all jumped off that bandwagon a little too hastily.

A fat boy raced a skinny girl during one inning break. The fat kid put on the oversized uniform more quickly than the girl, who especially struggled with the pants.

MATT: Congratulations, you peaked. Enjoy life.

The Redhawks' effort that night was lacking, but ours was not. After enjoying fine Boddington's and Guinness', we headed to the Wormy Dog Saloon. There was a steep cover charge, yet the bar was packed, presumably to hear the live band. To my surprise, I did not hate them - it was a huge upgrade from the previous night's country karaoke, and the band even pulled off sweet covers of "Sittin' on the Dock of the Bay" and Reel Big Fish's "Beer".

MATT: I guarantee you we are the smartest people in this bar.

Several beers and shots later, that fact might have changed. One of the attractive women directly in front of was showing plentiful cleavage, but our view was obscured by an Asian male.

MATT (to me): Look, I'm sorry that tidal wave killed all those people. Now move.

On the way home, we pepper Patrick, our cabbie, with curiosity. A different cab driver had once told Brian and Matt that he had driven Britney Spears and Justin Timberlake - we asked Patrick about his famous fares. "The Riverdance guy," Patrick said, and we knew he wasn't lying.

Brian wasn't lying, either. "I left my apartment keys in the car," he said, referring to the cruising sedan parked downtown. We climb back in with our man Patrick to retrieve them.

ME: Maybe we should have just broken a window.
PATRICK: Is there a window you could break? It might be cheaper.
ME: No, only the patio's sliding door. Hey - did anybody lock the sliding door? I didn't.
ME: We could climb up and get it that way!
BRIAN: No we can't.
MATT: Well...
PATRICK: I used to do things like that, back in my younger days...
ME: Let's do it! I've done it before at Lance's place! Let's do it!

Patrick made the U-turn, and soon we were studying the building's architecture. Breaking in to Lance's second story apartment was simply a matter of standing on the lower rail and reaching up to the second floor. This building had higher ceilings. Brian lived on the third floor. There was no chance of repeating the Lance method.

It's terribly difficult to describe the first attempt, but suffice to say it required more upper body strength / Jackie Chanesque abilities than I possessed, especially half-drunk at 2:00 in the morning. My first pull-up attempt fails; standing on a pitched roof overhang thingy 2.5 stories up, I ready myself for another try.

ME (to myself): Remember, you don't want to fall to your death while trying to break in to an apartment.

I axed the second attempt. We survey the situation again.

MATT: What if you stood on the rail and--
ME: I see where you're going with this, Matt.

Utilizing a nifty, undescribable move, I manage to reach the balcony's rail. I look back at my mates and gave Patrick a fist pump. "Thanks for believing in me, Patrick!" The door slides open, and I unlock the front door from the inside. Parody of happiness, arms around each other's shoulders, our triangle jumps clockwise as we shout stereotypically happy yeas. I've got an old text message from Matt is still on my cell phone. It reads, "I like the way my boner feels in the palm of your hand".

But this little dance is the gayest thing we've ever done.

We head over to the apartment pool to celebrate. After a brief period, a cop spoils the fun. He kicks us out of the pool and moves on to harass the similarly quiet group in the hot tub.


I woke up late Sunday morning. Earlier, I heard Matt open the front door a couple times before going back to sleep. I asked him where he went.

MATT: I went to my car to get the charger for my phone.
ME: Who were you going to call?
MATT (pauses):
God. I was going to call God...
...I was going to ask Him when the joke is going to be over...
...and if He thinks he's funny...
...and if He wants to fight.

It would be the funniest thing I've ever heard if it was a joke.


The janitor at work liked to talk. Because I drink water from a plastic KC Royals cup, he assumed I liked sports and would ask me about whatever game occurred the previous night. If it was up to him, the Royals would have re-signed Carlos Beltran AND brought Roger Clemens and Randy Johnson on board. It was a stupid idea and I hated the obligatory chats with him. Still, he didn't deserve to be stabbed to death last night by his 14 year-old stepson. He said something to me last week - something bad must have happened last weekend, because he said something vague about letting go, just trying to have a good time from now on. His new philosophy didn't last a week.

Ricky Gervais created and starred in the BBC's (the original version of) The Office. He was interviewed in The Guardian:
In among all of his theories about comedy, one that he won't accept is that it must always come out of a kind of darkness, the tears of a clown. I ask him if there have been times in his life when he has felt down; has he ever not wanted to get out of bed in the mornings?

He looks genuinely appalled at the idea. 'No. No depression. Oh God, no. I mean, when someone dies I cry. But I would never say: "What is the point of life?" I know there is no point to life. The point to life is having a laugh, getting on with everyone. Full stop.' He thinks about this a bit. 'I know how lucky I am. I don't allow stress. Being out of my comfort zone annoys me a bit; you know, if I have to drive a long way or something. Then I go: "Gervais. Your Dad used to hod-carry. Fucking grow up." That always tends to work.' He giggles to himself at this admonishment, at the idea of unhappiness, and, as ever, you cannot help but join in.

Tuesday, October 20, 2009

Five Years: Solitary Spider

The first showcased piece of The Very Best of Tornado Slide's Five Year Retrospective is a bit written September 5, 2006. Although it received only one approving comment (from Heather), I recall an additional kudo or two outside of the internet. Let's enjoy it once more:

Spidey Senseless
The first spider was unremarkable. It wasn't large, it wasn't small, it wasn't brown, and it certainly wasn't reclusive. It was Spider Edmund Hillary, the first to reach the second floor master bathroom ceiling. It clung there, and to the higher portions of the supporting walls. Showering did not disturb the spider, and neither did I. I respected its achievement, and left it alone. But my mind pestered him.

"Spider," my mind spoke, "I respect your achievement. You are the first. But surely you must see that this isn't the right niche for you. Do you see any food around? Any flies? Any sort of buzzing insect at all? Of course not. I keep a clean home, and you are only an exception. How are you going to sustain yourself?"

Days passed, and I grew more concerned. "Spider," I thought, "this is becoming absurd. Why don't you feel the need to sew a web? Even given the unlikely event of a fly intruder, you are unprepared. The fly would circle around your position on the wall, mocking you. Where are your instincts? Aren't you getting hungry?"

Seven days into the ordeal, a breakthrough -- the spider moved to a much lower position on the west wall, flanking the toilet. The bathroom was still devoid of any silky webs, but it was clear that the adventureous arachnid was planning something.

Another day went by.

And another.

And he died.

But not before giving birth to two more spiders.

One tiny spider took to the corner of Shower and West Wall, while its sibling stayed at Door Frame and North Wall -- a spot located just above his mother's dead body. Upon discovery, both had already built pathetically small, uncomplicated webs, and were perched among the invisible strands, hovering a few centimeters above the white linoleum.

Still, without so much as a single ant in the environment, the webs remained bare. The first spider disappeared after two days, dead -- or, in the spirit of his mother, exploring uncharted territory.

The second remains in place, without food for nearly a week now. Perhaps it is as optimistic as ever, sure that an insect will be trapped any moment now, anticipating the deadly dance that will ensue, and the succulent meal that will result. Still, it would be easy to forgive a gloomier mindset. The young spider lives in a strange world, dark for all but 30 minutes a day, the only other sentient occupant a six-foot-tall mammal, its deceased mother's shriveling corpse always within view, an ominous harbinger of a likely and terrible future.

Sunday, October 18, 2009

Five Years

This is my 835th blog post, posted just minutes prior to my five-year blogiversary.

I do not know what else to say about this thing. Many of my friends read it, and some do not. I accept that fact, but it has taken me time to realize that some people, very unlike myself, have no interest in reading everything their friends (or particularly intriguing acquaintances and strangers) have ever typed.

It started ambitiously, writing something every day, which meant a lot of complaining about television or current events. At times, it's focused on happenings at bars with friends, or the fluctuations of my dating career. It definitely suffered through a prolonged grumpy period -- more prolonged than I would have guessed before actually going back and reading it. Now, I guess, it is mostly a place for me to share my vacation tales, complain about work or the drive to work, and indulge in occasional (very occasional) photos of the cat.

Five years is a pretty long time. It's hard to find things in life that you continue to like after five years. I continue to like this blog. Looking back, I'm somewhat shocked at how much I like this blog.

Knowing this momentous date was approaching, I took the time to read all of my archives. While doing so, I re-labeled every post; you will now find a list of labels or tags or whatever in the right sidebar.

One of those labels is "the very best of Tornado Slide". (I always liked it when bands used a variation instead of simply saying "Greatest Hits".) In the next however many days I choose, we'll be looking back at some of the very best Tornado Slide has offered over the years. In most cases, these will be posts that generated the most positive feedback, either publicly in the comments section or privately via whispered praise from friends.

Thank you all for that feedback, and for reading.

I would like to start the proceedings with some very brief zingers that went largely unnoted in the past:

Mylanta Experience - August 14, 2008
I got a free dinner at a mediocre Italian restaurant. You know the type -- where they serve their dishes "family style"? You know, because it's fun! It's just like when you used to eat ravioli back in the old country, with your mom and dad and your kooky Nana Maggiano! But seriously folks, here's my thought on family-style dining: "You're eating all my mashed potatoes, dick."
Coast to Coast - June 26, 2007
It's strange to think that I write you now, blocks away from the Atlantic Ocean, when I began this month on the Pacific Coast. But in another way, it makes sense ending the month in New Jersey, since I started June Slippery When Wet.
A Motorcar, (Definitely) Maybe A Jaguar - March 23, 2009
A guy cut me off this evening as I was entering the turnpike.

He was driving a Jaguar.

His assigned license plate was POO 101.

That's JUSTICE, asshole.

Thursday, October 15, 2009

Calvinist Peeology

First, let me stress this is not the BIG EVENT I previously advertised. This is just a cell phone picture I snapped Wednesday morning in the parking lot.

This decal was not slapped on the back windshield of a 1983 Chevy Silverado. This was on the back of a small truck of recent vintage. Some human being loves Pepsi or hates Coca Cola so much that he/she was compelled to purchase and display an outdated meme.

Have you ever heard of Lieutenant Hiroo Onoda?
He had been stationed on Lubang Island in the Philippines when it was overrun by U.S. forces in February 1945. Most of the Japanese troops were slain or captured, but Onoda and several other men holed up in the jungle. The others were eventually killed, but Onoda held out for 29 years, dismissing every attempt to coax him out as a ruse. Finally the Japanese government located his commanding officer, who went to Lubang in 1974 to order Onoda to give up. The lieutenant stepped out of the jungle to accept the order of surrender in his dress uniform and sword, with his rifle still in operating condition.
This decal asshole is like that Japanese soldier, but instead of WWII, he refuses to believe the Cola Wars ended.

Tuesday, October 13, 2009

Hiatus, Kinda

I'm SO SORRY for the infrequent posting, you guys! Like the other bloggers I know and link to, I take my posting frequency seriously. I mean, shit, the subtitle of this very blog used to be "A post on every day and a chicken in every pot"!

It's not totally my fault, though. The cat has done hardly anything cute lately!

AND, I'm preparing for a BIG BLOG EVENT soon. It will totally be worth the wait! You ten guys and gals are going to enjoy it!

In the meantime, might I again suggest regularly checking my Google Shared Items page? It shows you the internet links I love and care about, AND I sometimes write patented Tornado Slide snark to accompany the links!

Thursday, October 08, 2009

My Scene, Man

Slashfilm talked about their favorite movie scenes this week, so let's talk about that. I love a lot of movie quotes, but a favorite scene should be more than just quotes.

One contender is Paul Rudd, acting like I do whenever I am asked to do anything.

Or maybe I should be thinking of scenes that are well-choreographed? Like the fight scene from Oldboy?

Or one of the great tracking shots in Children of Men?

Obviously, there are a lot of scenes to pick from. I invite you to share a scene in the comments.

Monday, October 05, 2009

Here Is Mousey!

Floyd suggested watching this while listening to Smashing Pumpkins, but I thought the cat's malaise and regret is best illustrated through this soundtrack.

Dead Mouse #2, Part 1, REMIX from chester reboulet on Vimeo.

This is the last cat video for a while. Days, possibly weeks. I promise.

Friday, October 02, 2009

Where Is Mousey?

There was another mouse in this house. I have no idea how these scoundrels are finding their way in; it's like they can instinctively find their way to shelter and food. Weird.

The lady and I did not see the mouse until the chilling end. We knew one was probably around, because Doby the cat was spending more time than usual in the kitchen, staring intently beneath the stove and refrigerator.

Doby finally managed to chase the mouse under the wine rack on Sunday. Alas, when he realized his paws could not reach the mouse in that location, he lost interest and walked to the dining room. I AGAIN caught the mouse for him, minutes later, using my black, plastic mousetraps.

I ran to get my camera to take video of the twitching mouse corpse, and recorded this before the battery ran out:

Dead Mouse #2, Part 1 from chester reboulet on Vimeo.

Then I grabbed My Everything's camera and took more video:

Dead Mouse #2, Part 2 from chester reboulet on Vimeo.