Cicadas Attack!

That buzz you hear in the background isn't the onset of the end of the world--we're not so lucky. Judgment Day might have resulted in our collective eternal damnation, but at least it would have at least saved us from the Attack of the Killer Cicadas.

There are 1.5 million people in the greater Nashville area, but the Killer Attack Cicadas have us hopelessly outnumbered. Once upon a time, I thought the idea of strange-looking, locust-like bugs that emerge from the ground precisely every 13 summers was loveably eccentric, almost charming. Others thought the same.

We were horribly, horribly wrong.

We’ve woefully underestimated our opponent.

The cicadas are not only here, they are on the verge of becoming the Tyrannical Insect Overlords of Middle Tennessee. There is no escape. Cicadas are everywhere, and we are at their mercy. If you try to kill one, it laughs defiantly until five more instantly appear in its place. And they are just here; they are here to take over.

It wouldn’t be so bad if our conquerors weren’t so ugly. Words don’t exist to describe how disgusting these things are. If you picture a massive flying cockroach with gigantic, bulging, red eyes, and the legs of a gigantic fly, you get about half of the right mental image. Add in a pair of bright yellow wings and an exterior shell that they are constantly molting out of, and you have a rough idea of the terror cicadas present by their sheer presence.

Which is, of course, all part of their plan to take over.

The worst part is that as ugly as these things are, they are twice as loud. About noon, the male cicadas start their deafening, buzzing mating call and continue it until dusk. That their mating call doesn’t seem to work in those 8 hours is no surprise. A female cicada would have to be waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaayyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy past drunk to ever agree to reproduce with something that looks that awful.

But that just means the males come back the next day, slightly louder and more, um, anxious, than they were the day before. So far, this has been going on for about two weeks. Two weeks from now, we’ll all have been driven insane.

Our current, human government has even warned citizens against cutting their grass during mating hours. This is because of the very real risk the amorous Female Attack Cicadas might hear the buzzing, notice that a lawnmower and its attached human look MUCH more attractive than their other mating options, and swarm the innocent bystander in a massive orgy.

It’s a disgusting thought, but really, who can blame them? Have you seen a male cicada?

The government tells us that the cicadas are harmless. They say that they (the cicadas) just want to mate and go back inside the ground for the next 13 years. I’m pretty sure the powers-that-be just don’t want us to panic because they realize resistance is futile. They are probably working out the terms of our unconditional surrender as we speak.

The cicadas are everywhere, too numerous to defeat.

Drive down the street, and a swarm of cicadas attack your windshield.

Sit in your house and they crawl at your window, plotting their advance into your home. Open your car door to enter, and they swarm in, leaving you trapped and at their mercy.

Walk down the sidewalk, they fly at your face. One can get a workout just walking 200 feet and dodging a swarming insect every two seconds. That is, if you can manage to get out of their way.

It’s like a plague out of Exodus, only God wasn’t nearly angry enough at the Egyptians to allow something like this. Instead, He went easy on them and took their firstborn sons.

Perhaps you think I’m overstating things.

Perhaps you are their next victim.

I don’t plan to be. Some claim that cicadas only buzz around for a month before the desperate female cicadas, noticing the bar is closing, give in to the advances of their obnoxious pursuers, allowing the cicadas go away for 13 more years. In a month, they say, the cicadas will be gone.

But why would they want to leave when their battle is already won?

Regardless of their intent, we can’t afford to wait it out. We must evacuate while we still can, flee Middle Tennessee and hope the cicadas will be content with controlling Nashville. Perhaps they’ll decide they like country music and be content to not to advance further.

But we must act now. If we don’t do something, a month from now a horde of gas powered lawnmower/cicada hybrids may well be mowing us down left and right.

Locked Out

Why no blog last week?   For once, it isn't my fault.  Due to technical difficulties, I've been locked out of blogger for the last week. 

Just like when you lock your keys in your car and can see inside but can't get in, the blog has been up, but I've haven't been able to get inside to post anything.

It's finally working again now.  I promise a full post within 24 hours (unless Blogger goes down again), but in the meantime:  thank you.

Despite my inability to post in the last week, the blog has gotten, by far, the most page hits in its history this month, and there's still a week left. 

Good job, audience. 

I'll meet you back here tonight. 

Shaun Alexander: the NFL MVP Who Saved my Behind

I promised not to use this space to shill for my (Smash Internet Hit!) sports column.  If you want to read that sort of thing, you know where to find it.  You clicked here, rather than there, for a reason.

As unfathomable as it is to a someone like me, I know some of you don't care about the Miami Dolphins or Alabama's football team, even when it relates to something important, like who will win the battle to be our back-up nosetackle the season after this one.

I get it. 

Well, actually I don't. 

But I will pretend like I do, so you don't break up with me as an audience. 

But this week's column is a rare exception, because it's about one of my favorite people ever.  The first and only NFL Most Valuable Player who was also one of my friends. 

Before he was a star with the Seattle Seahawks, Shaun Alexander was my college classmate.  We graduated in the same class.  I was the sports editor of my school paper, the Crimson White, so I got to spend a fair amount of time with him before he went on the become one of the greatest players in NFL history.

He was the only player I ever interviewed who answered questions as long as anyone would ask.  A few times, I kept asking until no one else was around, and we moved from talking about football to life, religion and whatever else.

Shaun and I shared a common faith, though his probably exceeded mine. 

Alabama is a party school like few on earth.  Coming from a sheltered conservative Christian background, I struggled with immensely with the alcoholic culture of my school, but the ability to have encouraging conversations with the star of the football team, who faced some of the same issues, made me feel a little less alone.  Maybe at some level he felt the same way, except considerably less in awe of his conversation partner.  

The first time I met Shaun remains my favorite encounter.  As a 19-year-old freshman, I had an short interview scheduled with Alabama’s entire stable of running backs on a hot summer day in Tuscaloosa.

It was my first high-profile article. Alexander was a rising sophomore with promise, but he was buried on the depth chart at that point. I had been assigned to write an article previewing Alabama’s running game for the upcoming season. Alexander who entered the season as the third string backup, was to be a mere sidenote to the story.

Until he was the only one who bothered to show up.

When the other players didn't show, I feared Shaun would leave too.  After all, he had showed up to an interview for a story that couldn't be completed, and his interviewer was a bumbling college kid who probably didn't inspire a lot of confidence or provide any obvious incentive to stay. 

But Shaun not only submitted to an interview, he talked for nearly an hour, providing enough material, even beyond the questions I asked, to bail out a desperate 19-year old rookie writer with enough material to make a good story. And then some.

I became a Shaun Alexander fan that day.  Had he not taken the time to show up and go above and beyond in helping out a kid who obviously didn't know what he was doing (or even successfully schedule an interview), I would have bombed my first big assignment and maybe never gotten another one. 

Shaun saved me that day.  So, I take today to pay him back with a tribute to his career, now that his place in Alabama lore has started to be overlooked (though it will never fade) in favor of more recent stars.  You can find it here.

I still owe him one, though.  We've lost touch over the years since college, but if I ever get a hold of him, I'll thank him again. 

Ironically, while the two other Alabama running backs I was supposed to have interviewed that day were too big-time to talk to me, neither one of them ever went on to accomplish anything professionally. 

Unlike Shaun Alexander.  The NFL MVP who once saved my behind.

Good Friday Means One Year of "Thinking"

Happy Birthday!

It was Good Friday one year ago when the blog was born (I'm still not sure if it's a boy or a girl).

Here's how it started:

Last Good Friday, I was contemplating the direction of life on a rare off day from work.  I decided I needed to do more.  I had fallen into a daily rut of work, gym, tv, and repeat, and I was starting to feel like a hamster running circles on a stationary wheel.

My life needed...meaning. 

Beyond what my job provided. 

I like to think that my job makes the world a better place, but I know I'm not the only one who could do it.  If I got hit by a bus tomorrow, the State could hire some other lawyer who would, once properly trained, be just as good at keeping criminals in jail as I am. Maybe better. 

I needed do something unique.  You see, I believe that we are all created to do something unique with our lives, something that no one else could do.

And I realized I wasn't doing it.

As Donald Miller wrote, a good story involves a character who really wants something, and their quest to get it.  But our lives often don't add up to good stories, because it's so easy to run after things (money, promotions, vacation time, pleasure) that aren't what we really want, if we're honest about it.  I realized that when I'm gone and my story is told one day, I want it to be about something more than just my resume.

That's when I decided it was time to write again.  It's what makes me happy, and whatever silliness ends up in this space every Tuesday, at least it is unique to me.

But it hasn't been as easy as I expected. 

I had a captive audience of thousands writing for my college paper, and almost that for the paper in law school.  Before I started this thing, I had visions that I'd once again have thousands of followers within a few months when I got going. 

It hasn't worked out that way.

(Although I've done surprisingly well in Denmark!)

While my sports columns get those kind of numbers thanks to the forum Bleacher Report provides, this blog, where I can write about whatever I want, is lucky to get 25 hits per post (56, for my election column, is the all-time record) (Editor's note: one year later, these numbers are much higher.  The all-time record is currently the cicada column, at 250 reads).  It's just hard to find in a crowded cyberspace. 

So, with my expectations unmet and monthly hits on a continued downward cycle, I almost gave up in November.   

But I didn't. 

I was sure that this is what I was supposed to be doing, come what may.  And God calls us to be obedient, not necessarily successful.

After being inspired by a Chris Jericho autobiography, I came back to write again, and things are looking up.  In 2011, every month has been better than the last, and soon some more big things may be on the horizon.  More importantly, wherever this path leads, now I'll at least know I took it until its end. 

Everyone, I'm convinced, has their own unique path they are meant to wander.  Sometimes life gets in the way of actually following it, though.  If you haven't found yours yet, today, Good Friday, is the perfect day to think about where it might be.

Because whatever you think of the deity of Jesus, we can probably agree today is the day he showed a love for humanity so great that let himself be tortured to prove it.  If our lives were worthy of that sacrifice from, at minimum, the most influential person in human history, then it is worth considering whether we are using those lives to the fullest.  When he told us his purpose on earth was to make our lives more abundant, I think that was at least part of what he meant. 

If you are already on your path, take heart.  Just because it isn't easy doesn't mean it isn't right.  The journey from one destination to the next isn't always smooth, but that doesn't mean the trip isn't worth taking. 

Things will look up soon.  Probably even sooner than you expect.   

After all, Easter is all about unexpected good news.

The Frogs from Hell are Back

After several weeks of traveling, a busy weekend and several consecutive nearly sleepless nights, I spent all day looking forward to a Tuesday night with no plans. 

I had dreams of sitting on the couch watching tv until exhaustion overcame me, which would probably be by nine o'clock.  I'm pretty sure I even turned off my phone.  And then, somewhere around 8:30, the unthinkable happened.

What, you might ask, could possibly get in the way of my carefully planned evening of blissful peace, quiet and a good night's sleep?

The frogs came back.

The frogs from Hell.  Sent specifically from Satan to torture me.  For the third straight summer.

Some of you may recall that I spent last summer writing about the deafening evening sounds of the frogs that congregate on my neighbor's unkempt above-ground pool, that left me running on minimal sleep for a solid five months last summer, for the second year in a row.

I called the police with a noise complaint, and they literally laughed at me.  I tried to catch them myself with barbecue tongs.  I tried salt in the pool.  And bleach.  Nothing worked.  If anything, I think all those substances combined to cause a mutation that made them louder. 

I called the city code enforcement, but they referred me to the health department.  The health department referred me back to code enforcement, and so on, for several hot, sleepless weeks. 

Finally, the health department got so tired of my calls that they sent someone out to make them take the pool down, and all was right with the world.

Until they bought another pool a few weeks later.

You can read all about my summer frog saga here http://andrewsmithsthoughts.blogspot.com/2010/04/things-are-jumping.html

and

here. 

http://andrewsmithsthoughts.blogspot.com/2010/07/best-of.html

It is the kind of thing that sounds very funny.  If it doesn't happen to you.

And now, after a winter of hibernation, with the neighbor's new pool quickly becoming as disgusting as the last one, the frogs have reappeared with a volume vengeance on the worst possible night.  There's nothing I can do about it, which is why I'm writing this instead of dreaming in my bed.  I'm pretty sure they've had this planned all along, to torture me as revenge for all those frogging adventures from the last two summers.   And I'm powerless to stop it. 

I can hear them as I type.  In fact, if you listen closely, YOU can probably hear them too.   Even if you're in Denmark.

And there's nothing I can do about it tonight.  I have no remaining solutions, other than perhaps to sleep on the couch on the opposite side of the house from my neighbor's back yard with the television turned up.  But I can still hear them, even then. 

The only potential solace I can think of is to buy an old Atari system and the ancient "Frogger" video game.  You know, I was pretty good at steering those virtual frogs out of danger back in the day (even if their organic cousins don't seem terribly grateful now). 

But in this case, I can pretty much assure that those frogs will be coming to intentionally violent ends early and often.  I'll turn up the volume as high as it goes, and as I repeatedly plunge the virtual frogs into digital oncoming traffic, those type of croaks won't bother me one bit.

Tucson is a Ghost Town

Tucson has plenty of residents, but it turned out to be a ghost town nonetheless.

As you may recall, I left off last Tuesday night complaining about the lack of entertainment options in Tucson.  As you may recall, I wrote about how the dreary downtown, a very loud, historic hotel room (that preserved its 1920s feel by not having tvs), combined with a rock concert being held in the hotel bar, led to a miserable time for me last Tuesday night.  Unable to deal with the noise, I finally asked to be switched to a quieter room, wrote a quick blog post, and shut my eyes to go to bed.

And then things got much more interesting. 

I kept hearing noises in my new room (and not just the ones from the rock concert).  I knew it was probably nothing, but as I lay there, I remembered that as I was walking toward my newly assigned room, the shape of the walls seemed to shift as I looked down the hallway.  As I kept hearing little banging noises in my historic hotel room, I finally got up and turned on the lights.

I notice The new room had a very creepy feeling I couldn't fully explain.  The Victorian armchair directly beside the bed looked like something out of the Amityville movie.  The sink was on the opposite side of the room from the bathroom and seemed likely to turn itself on at any moment.  And the noises, both inside the room and from the street directly outside, wouldn't stop, and I was losing the ability to distinguish between them.  After about half an hour of trying to talk myself out of it, once the rock concert stopped, I finally broke down and asked if I could go back to my original, non-creepy room. 

I blamed it on the street noise. 

I crawled into bed and almost immediately went to sleep.  I heard a lot of yelling that night (someone repeatedly yelling "F- you, Hotel Congress"), but I mostly slept through it, assuming it was rowdy concert-goers not wanting to go home.  I wondered why no one was calling security or the police about it considering how long it went on, but I was too tired to let it bother me too much. 

The next morning, I had a few extra minutes after I woke up, so I googled "Hotel Congress" and "haunted" just to see if anyone else had ever had a weird experience on the second floor there, were both of my rooms were located. 

Sure enough, the second floor is widely reputed to be haunted, owing to a shooting that took place many years ago in Room 242, just down the hall from where I stayed.  And as I type this, it just occurred to me that all that yelling I heard through the night might not have been about the concert.  In fact, I wonder if anyone else heard it at all.  

I had no idea of any of of these legends until the morning after I experienced whatever it was I did.  I still don't know, or want to know, what phenomenon is going on that floor. 

But it's safe to say I won't be rushing back.

Sleepless in Tucson

I can't stand to fly
I'm not that naive
I'm just out to find
The better part of me

Wish that I could cry
Fall upon my knees
Find a way to lie
About a home I never see
...
It's not easy
To be me

Superman
-Five for Fighting

It's almost midnight at the Arizona hotel room where I've been sentenced to spend the night, which means its almost two in the morning according to my internal time clock.  This is my fourth consecutive week traveling away from home as part of my mission to save the world from the powers of evil, but frankly, I would almost consider letting evil win a few rounds if I could just get a couple good nights' sleep in return. 

Tonight, my room is directly above the bar and a rock band is playing.  Worse yet, my historic room doesn't even have a tv I can use to drown out the constant, pounding noise. 

Hotels are in the business of providing travelers a good nights rest.  I would love to hear the logic of the hotel manager who thought hiring a rock band to play in their lobby on a Tuesday night until 2 a.m. helps accomplish that goal.  Whoever had that brilliant idea should be drug out into the street and shot.  Or even worse, be forced to spend a night in a lower-floor room of the hotel they manage.  

I would walk the streets for a while just to escape, but I've already done three loops of the downtown Tucson streets and there aren't any available diversions for a lone traveler (other than perhaps being mugged by one of multiple local wandering vagrants or hooligans), even if I didn't have to be up before seven in the morning.  There isn't even a bar within walking distance where I can watch ESPN. 

I'll be happy to go home tomorrow. 

I'd be happier if society didn't make life miserable for those most trying to help it.  Teachers make almost nothing, and states across the Union are trying to take away what small perks they ever had.  Police officers and firefighters don't do much better.  Prosecutors in my office haven't had a raise in four years and get only about a third of the salary of the attorneys who, as I once did, shuffle thousands of dollars back and forth between billion-dollar corporations in hyper-technical disputes that are ultimately meaningless. 

I don't have the energy to do justice to a full debate on whether society should pay its heroes substantially more than its janitors, but suffice to say, it doesn't have to be this way. 

And my hotel room doesn't have to be this noisy. 

At my wits end, I just walked to the reception desk to ask about other available rooms and inquire as to the logic of the hotel providing beds for guests to sleep while simultaneously providing noise that would prevent even those clinically dead from resting in peace. 

The receptionist gave me another room on the same floor that turned out to be only 30 paces away from my original.  I was less than assured when I immediately saw a package of earplugs sitting on the dresser, but it is at least slightly quieter than the first one, which might as well have been inside the hole of the lead singer's guitar. 

I'm tempted to complain about the idiocy of this whole arrangement to the incompetent hotel manager tomorrow, but I doubt I would get anywhere. 

Besides, who am I to complain? 

The band probably makes more than I do.