Shoup Airlines

15 Seconds

As previously mentioned, I recently moved back to Southern California, specifically Buena Park. Co-located in this fine town is a little amusement park that has more history and culture but less profile than it’s juggernaut of a neighbor. Did you know Mr. Knott and his famous boysenberry have been around longer than the Tragic Kingdom? But enough of the mindless trivia, you can do the research on your own.

Sometime during the late nineties Knott’s Berry Farm was purchased by the Cedar Fair people. These are the guys that hold several of the world records in roller coasters. We’re talking rides that make you expel bodily fluids you’ve never seen out orifices you didn’t know you had. Fun stuff! Sadly, Knott’s doesn’t possess any of the record holding stomach wrenchers. Nevertheless, they have some pretty decent rides and even a few classics that warm the cockles of my inner child’s heart.

If I walk out to my front yard I can see the majority of these metal monsters and, at first, thought all was good…until bedtime arrived. As I beat the faux-feather pillow into submission and began to grab my forty winks, a horrific shrill that would put any death throe to shame, echoed through my room. Suddenly wide awake, I desperately sought to find the owner of this howl or did I try to hide from it? That’s not important. What the hell was that!? My God, there it is again! Wait, was that a mechanical swoosh buried in the shriek? AGAIN, there it is again, and yes that was a mechanical swoosh with a definite rapid “clickety-clack” also. Is this the apocalypse? NO, it’s the stupid roller coasters cranking and banking at Knott’s!!

I quickly realize that something I tune out or is drowned out during the day is now haunting the sublimely serene evenings roughly once every 15 seconds. I begin to truly admire and hate the engineers that design these rides at this point. They have created machines that cause people to scream either in sheer fright or delight that, when amassed into one voice, sound absolutely cadaverous. At least when one is in that state between the conscious and subconscious realms of sleep. I think I may have discovered a new form of torture! What must the people, nay, the children be like that have lived in the shadow of this nightmare for years?! Tim Burton suddenly comes to mind. Then again, after a few nights I’ve already adjusted and don’t even notice the banshee wail any longer. Now, if only I could figure out how to do the same thing with that little voice in my head…

Them!

I recently find myself situated in a quaint little crib amidst the opulent ciudad de Buena Park, and I enjoy every Spanish speaking second of it. I am renting, because come on, who can afford a house in Southern California besides the latest winner of the MegaMillions lottery? See, there is method to the madness that is California!! You just have a 1 in 176,000,000 chance of understanding it.

Even though I’m renting, the landlords (translated: the ‘rents) are allowing me to act as home owner, meaning I can do whatever I want to the tract. The possibilities are endless, except when you’re unemployed and have no money (like me) to create the endless possibilities. Alas, the conundrum that has plagued me since the day I moved in. Add to this the fact that I am a guy (contrary to some beliefs) and lack the vision for endless possibilities and you pretty much get the idea. I suppose I could sit through hour upon hour of home improvement shows, but I would sooner shove rusty nails slowly between each and every fingernail! And yes, this claim is stated even with the knowledge that Paige Davis hosts one of those aforementioned shows.

Along with being a home owner by technicality, come all of those fun little chores you never ponder until you really do have charge of a house. At this point, those of you that are starting to make that “ah, now you know my pain” maniacal grin, knock it off! I hate that, I’m not bonding with you. Painting, plumbing, spackling, gardening, sanding, wiring, drilling, nailing and cleaning are just a few of those chores that I actually do enjoy. However, there is one that I am finding I loathe with total hatred and that is extermination of the local entomology, specifically ants!

When I first moved in, I thought I had roommates for a while there with all the Cellar Spiders (aka: daddy long legs) and Earwigs taking up residence. I swear, every morning walking around the house felt like a trek through the caves with all those spider webs in the opening scenes of Raiders of the Lost Ark! The house was soon tented and I was finally sole occupant….or so I thought. Not even a week later, I found ants marching through the kitchen. I thought it was impressive (I’m a geek and entomology is intriguing) because they were dismantling a dead spider and in very short order too. After enjoying the nature show, I got out the “wear a biohazard suit while applying” all purpose bug spray and introduced the ants to Mr. Moral Declivity. Now I was enjoying the death show. This liquid death kills on contact, literally. There is no writhing, no death spasms, no last second uncontrollable running, just ball up on the spot right there and die poison. This stuff is awesome! Mental notes: 1) maybe I SHOULD get a biohazard suit, 2) the Army might not have been too far off the mark after all.

That was that, or so the newly crowned home occupier thought. Several days later I found a large line of ants parading up and down the bath tub. Not thinking much of it, I got out the kill-o-matic spray and rained on their parade. A couple days after that I found a line of ants walking through the back room and sent them to ant heaven…or hell depending on their beliefs. And so this little territorial war for the casa del Diablo Circle beats on for two months now and I see no end in sight. They come out of electrical sockets, window casements, even the point where carpet and wall meet! I keep seeing the little Dutch boy plugging the hole in the dam with his finger and wondering where the next crack will start. My only reprieve is that the ants don’t invade using the same entrance twice. There can only be so many points of entry, right?

Now I’m just waiting for Rod Serling to step into the frame, smugly take a draw from his cigarette and say “Picture if you will, a young man, a bit wry, questioning his morality over the deaths of hundreds of ants that tread on his house. Is he enjoying it too much? Is he a mass murderer? Do the ants have a new plan to call in their radioactive cousins? These questions can only be answered in…The Twilight Zone.” Cue Tom’s version of the theme song.