I awoke and noticed the sky was now fully illuminated by a hidden sun that sulked behind the dark horizon. The living room looked like a psychedelic Chucky Cheese experiment that had gone terribly wrong. Pastel colored pens littered the floor, a child’s motley and ragged stuffed bear hung precariously from a valance over the window that looks out to (what will one day be) our private garden and a fluorescent colored ping-pong ball lay in the middle of the kitchen floor. Ping-pong ball??? Where the hell did that come from, I wondered? I hadn’t actually seen the winged Ozzy Ozbourne of Death leave via the open door but after the anti-aircraft barrage I had done an extensive search of the house for the bat, going to each accessible room and it’s corners like a S.W.A.T. officer in a low production movie “clearing” them nervously, holding a baton type Maglite (the one with like 12 “D” batteries that weighs 30 lbs.) and the smaller version of the lacrosse stick (and helmet, of course). I repeated the sweep of the house several times and had declared an “all clear” to myself. I had won! It had taken a slightly longer time but all was righteous in a world where humans sat atop the pyramid of the Animal Kingdom. Immediately upon my personal declaration of victory, I ingested 75 mgs of Benadryl to accelerate the sleep process and re-started my movie. That had been little more than an hour ago but why was I awake again? The bliss of success faded faster than my rising fear and adrenalin as I spotted the furry vampire making, once again, it’s way around my living room! FUCK!
This struggle had accelerated from a chance encounter between human and beast to a personal competition, which involved bragging rights between two social members and their respective groups. Bats are planning to take over the world, I reasoned. I was merely part of a twisted test scenario and perhaps the destiny of much more would be at stake if I failed, again. There are circumstances when we are pushed to our limits that define the nature of true grit. The sort of experiences that separate the preverbal “men from boys” in life that define timeless and vintage conflicts that ultimately pit the characters of fictional stories against real life dilemmas. What the heck did Chris Farley and David Spade do in that movie, “Black Sheep”, I asked? I ran to the closet and grabbed one of our large beach towels and used my wife’s nursing tape to affix it to the handle of the long pole version lacrosse stick. The other end, I attached to a formidable sized broom and using all my strength I held it open like some deranged version of a character cobbled together from Mad Max and William Wallace and charged the bat as it flew around the living room, timing my assault to corral the beast and force it into the office where I could, at least, confine it from the larger area which it had inhabited the past several hours. It sensed the onslaught and darted (as planned) into the office. I quickly slammed the French doors and barricaded them with the large (and heavy) beach towel at the threshold. Now to go outside, open the window and let nature (finally) take it’s course. Outside, I realized that I had not unlocked the window from the inside prior to my ingenious plan. Drats! Having locked myself out on at least one occasion since moving to this house, I had learned (the hard way) that these window locks are impenetrable to the old fashioned methods of defeat. I realized I would have to enter the office to put an end to this war, once and for all. Back inside, I “suited up” and cracked the door to see if I could detect a time when I could make my way inside without allowing the creature to escape. I detected no motion and after a few moments I slipped into the office, closed and LOCKED the door behind me. This struggle would end here, one-way or other and SOON. I unlocked the window and wrenched at the sill to open the upper half of the double hung pane but it wouldn’t budge. The effort had attracted the attention of my combatant and it swooped down toward me in several “dive bomb” attempts to rattle my nerve as I rattled the glass by hitting the frame several times with my palm, hoping the damn thing would break free of whatever kept it from opening. Finally I opened the lower half of the window and retreated to the confines of a small hallway that leads to our back room, which was at one time, a covered porch that was converted to indoor space some years prior to our purchase of the home. As I waited, the bat flew by near the ceiling level occasionally flying up to the closed section of window and veering away before repeating a circle of the small room. I couldn’t tell if it was toying with my hopes or attempting a bid at it’s own retreat. After several moments of repeating this dance, the bat again decided to take a rest and perched on the interior of the brick wall that extends from the living room to the office, which is the same wall containing the window. It looked over at me with it’s tiny pig nose huffing for oxygen and a sense of what I might do next. I could see it’s beady black eyes, it’s brown/black fur and the leathery skin of ears and wings drawn taught as it converted itself to a wall crawling contortionist. The beast was quite amazing and I felt a slight hint of admiration for it, bordering on compassion. It was looking directly at me when I blurted out, “For the love of God will you please leave my house!?! Go out the window, NOW!” It immediately flung itself airborne and made two or three low level circles around the office, one time flying into the cubby I occupied, causing me to hit the carpet in fear, before darting out the window and into the first rays of the suns direct light. I rushed over and slammed the window shut breathing a sigh of relief as I flopped into the computer chair. I took off the helmet and gloves, dropping them like a 1st grader home from the first full day of classes as I sloughed back to the couch.
The Benadryl had taken it’s toll on me and having opted for a Seinfeld season 8 DVD instead of my chosen flick, I almost immediately fell into a twilight between sleep and a foggy conscience state. I said a short prayer that my enemy had found safe passage back home when my wife appeared at the hallway’s entrance, holding both our Yorkies with a puzzled look (all three of them) and asked, “What the hell happened in here?” “Just a bad case of insomnia,” I replied as I gathered my pillows and headed down the hall for bed. I had had enough of Bat Country.
"All energy flows according to the whims of the Great Magnet. What a fool I was to defy him."
am on the edge of my seat!!!!!! PLEASE DO continue, G.R. And in the meantime will try to decide whether you have earned the Poe award for dark and suspenseful literary efforts, or the Bats in the Belfry award-or BOTH!!!!!
Last night, after my evening shift, I lay down on the couch and prepared for what has become a rather routine ritual watching of "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas". As I settled in to a comfy position with my favorite pillows, I became blissfully aware that I might not be awake past the opening scenes. Soon, my dreams and reality swirled together and I fell into a light sleep. The next thing I remember hearing was the line, “We can't stop here. This is bat country!” I opened my eyes to see one of these winged devil birds flying right at me! I’ve often had the experience of my dreams combining with reality as in the fabled ringing of the alarm clock becoming something other than reality as one dreams but this was fucking ridiculous (sorry Izzy)! As my senses restored me to this partition of reality, I squinted in the dim backdrop of TV light (and through a small opening in the blanket I now had securely over my frightened head) to render further visual confirmation of this winged menace. In the flickering light of the various changes in movie scenes I could see the bat as it fluttered about the room silently, it’s transmuted form mocking the laws of physics and it’s echo locating chirps mocking my fear as it swooped down around me in a passing circular flight pattern. I’m an animal lover but when it comes to bats, I draw the line. I’m not saying I want them dead nor do I dismiss their benefits in terms of insect control but respect does not directly translate to the cuddle love I feel for other members of the mammal species. I mean ‘c’mon they’re 4-5 oz of pure terror! “Poor bastards, wait ‘till you see the goddamn bats….”
The clock indicated 0220 hrs. and I intended to make quick work of this ferocious but small brained little enemy and be back in La-la land before the next whole hour. I had had some runs before with these pesky spawns of Satan, twice in cabins while on vacation. The trick is to open windows and doors so they can make themselves scarce, hopefully in short order by keeping them flying. Left to their own time schedule, bats can become unwanted freeloaders overnight, especially during the hottest nights of summer. Once they get the message they aren’t wanted, they begin looking for the Great Outdoors (wink). No need for violence or fly swatters, just easy work for a (now certified by this site) Super Genius. While my family slept safe in their beds, I began opening windows and the front door to make an easy egress for my winged nemesis. Now to sit back and wait and as I did so, I realized something. This was truly bat country! There were hordes of these creatures in my new neighborhood verified by myself on several dusk walks since moving here. Not to fear, this won’t take long……..
Several hours later found me donning a lacrosse helmet along with a two varying length “sticks” of the same sport and gloves from my sons’ left over sporting goods supplies that I had managed to obtain while maintaining my own hide intact, no thanks to my winged adversary that, no doubt, had emerged straight from Hell itself. This “Thing” had become amused at being quite capable of reeking pure terror at my expense. Wherever I went, “It” followed (with the great outdoors being the exception). Three times I had been expelled from my own abode and had “It” been in possession of opposable thumbs, I’m quite convinced I’d have been knocking at my wife’s bedroom window for re-entry. With every window in the house available to the creature now open, there were ample opportunities for a quick snack to this free loading winged rodent, as it terrorized it’s host while the insect masses not yet eaten alive, unwittingly descended upon my once pristine living room. Preferring what was left of the air conditioned air in the house, the bat reneged on dozens of close calls to exit via one of the many open portals, instead choosing to flutter ever closer to my person each time it vacated one of it’s choice perches at either of the rough brick interior walls we have in our living room. While perched upside down as it rested, the bat could be seen twisting it’s little nose at me while it’s snickering voice mocked my efforts. “Poor bastard”, that line must have been meant for me, written by a man who clearly knew the extent of his enemy’s cunning.
As the wee hours of night were about to become shattered by the first rays of dawn’s early light, my opponent took an extended rest perched on one of the interior brick walls that run perpendicular to the front door, with it’s opening to freedom only several yards away. I assessed my options in the respite of my office which I had accessed during the lull by doing a barrel roll over the couch (catching my ankle on the hard wood of the large coffee table’s corner) and sprinting (despite the intense pain) the remaining distance as my enemy rested, all the while amused by my panic stricken antics, I’m sure. As my back was shoring the closed French doors to the office behind me and my chest heaved to suck in precious oxygen, I looked around the room for anything that might aid me in a “cattle drive” effort to rid my dwelling of this vermin, once and for all. After failing to imagine a “McGuiver” bat eviction device concocted from paper clips and spare parallel computer cables, I spied a basket containing my Yorkies’ stuffed animal collection (which they never play with ‘cause they would have to be put on the floor for such activities - which never happens – they spend their entire lives being held like babies). On the desk above was an old plastic drinking cup containing about 50 disposable ink pens garnered from half a lifetime of attending conventions, hotels and various other activities resulting in the receipt of promotional novelties. Whether due to the tightness of the lacrosse helmet, the summer’s late heat wave or the delirious desire to re-enter Sleep’s dark and silent gate, I found myself standing behind the doors to my office armed (literally) with about 8 or 9 small sized stuffed animals, a fist full of cheap Bic pens and a plan to become a human anti-aircraft Gatling gun, in an effort to drive away the fury weasel out the front door. So, in an older, fatter and nearly balder version of John McClane, I burst through the doors yelling, “Yippeee-ki-yay motherfucker!!!!” as a barrage of sophisticated weaponry was dispersed in the direction of my unwitting enemy.
To be continued……
"All energy flows according to the whims of the Great Magnet. What a fool I was to defy him."
"So I jump ship in Hong Kong and make my way over to Tibet, and I get on as a looper at a course over in the Himalayas. A looper, you know, a caddy, a looper, a jock. So, I tell them I'm a pro jock, and who do you think they give me? The Dalai Lama, himself. Twelfth son of the Lama. The flowing robes, the grace, bald... striking. So, I'm on the first tee with him. I give him the driver. He hauls off and whacks one - big hitter, the Lama - long, into a ten-thousand foot crevasse, right at the base of this glacier. Do you know what the Lama says? Gunga galunga... gunga, gunga-galunga. So we finish the eighteenth and he's gonna stiff me. And I say, "Hey, Lama, hey, how about a little something, you know, for the effort, you know." And he says, "Oh, uh, there won't be any money, but when you die, on your deathbed, you will receive total consciousness." So I got that goin' for me, which is nice"
"Bark like a dog."
---- Carl Spackler
"Hey, no ones using this cart! I think I'll take a quick drive down the street and have a drink." LOL
Constable: "May I see your driver's licence, sir?"
Wallace (Murray): "No, you may not! But I do have this nifty communicator with which you can speak directly to my superiors. [On the communicator/cigarette case] Breaker, breaker, come on back to that big ol' HQ, come on back to me."
Latest Entertainment News
Murray Refuses Breath Test in Sweden
By KARL RITTER, Associated Press Writer
Wed Aug 22, 1:53 PM
Actor Bill Murray drives a golf cart toward the ...
STOCKHOLM, Sweden - Bill Murray could face a drunken driving charge after cruising through downtown Stockholm in a golf cart and refusing to take a breath test, citing U.S. law.
Police officers spotted the "Caddyshack" star early Monday in the slow-moving vehicle and noticed he smelled of alcohol when they pulled him over, said Detective-Inspector Christer Holmlund of the Stockholm police.
"He refused to blow in the (breath test) instrument, citing American legislation," Holmlund told The Associated Press on Wednesday. "So we applied the old method _ a blood test. It will take 14 days before the results are in."
Murray, who had been at a golf tournament in Sweden, signed a document admitting that he was driving under the influence, and agreed to let a police officer plead guilty for him if the case goes to court, Holmlund said.
"Then he was let go. My guess is he went back to America," Holmlund said.
He said the 56-year-old actor-comedian would only be charged if tests show his blood alcohol level exceeded the legal limit, which is quite low in Sweden.
A very high alcohol level could lead to a prison sentence, but Holmlund said fines were more likely.
"There were no obvious signs, like when someone is really tipsy," he said.
An e-mail to Murrays lawyer, David Nochimson, seeking comment wasnt immediately returned.
The golf cart had been on display for a week outside the downtown hotel where Murray and other VIPs attending the Scandinavian Masters golf tournament, were staying, tournament head Fredrik Nilsmark said.
Murray apparently drove the golf cart to the trendy Cafe Opera nightclub, less than a mile away, and was pulled over on his way back to the hotel.
Nilsmark said the vehicle wasn't intended for guests but added: "I don't hold any grudge against Bill Murray for borrowing our cart for a while."
Cafe Opera manager Daniel Bodahl confirmed that Murray had visited the nightclub late Sunday and said "he was a very good guest."
It isn't illegal to drive a golf cart in city traffic in Sweden, but Holmlund said it is very unusual.
"I have done this since '68 and I've never experienced anything like this," he said.
Murray was among the early cast members on NBC's "Saturday Night Live." He was nominated for an Oscar for 2003's "Lost in Translation." His screen credits also include "Groundhog Day" and "Rushmore."
Copyright 2007 The Associated Press. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.
The Dude Abides!
As the story goes, a friend of a friend of mine worked on a golf course in Aspen, Colorado.
One day, Hunter S. Thompson and Bill Murray showed up to play a leisurely round of golf. They put their golf bags on a couple of carts and teed off late in the morning. Usually, a normal round of golf takes anywhere from 4.5 to 6 hours to complete. Well, seven or eight hours later, they hadn't returned. It was getting dark and the clubhouse personnel wanted to go home. They had to go out on the course and look for Thompson and Murray because they needed the carts back. They found them out there, still playing golf. lol
Is ancient, but wonderful!!!!!!!! One of my all-time favorites. Cracks me up every time I watch it. A very kind and gentle Jimmy Stewart and an 6 foot invisible rabbit as a best friend. Dialogue in that film is just great-in the way that some older films were so good at-more dialogue less action.