The great thing about snail watching is that even if you see a big honking snail who is, in his or her own way, bolting away at top speed from the gigantic scary biped who suddenly appeared in the carport, you still have more than enough time to find your crappy camera phone, fiddle around fruitlessly with the settings to improve the photo quality, take and erase several crappy pictures and settle in exasperation on a blurry close-up. And, after all of that, the snail will have moved approximately three inches. But he or she made his or her escape during the night. Where on earth do they go?
Now, obviously (and this is will be explored in more detail in the forthcoming piece, which will be out this week), the public option was not a cure-all. In fact, the Democrats had in reality already managed to kill the public option by watering it down to the point of near-meaninglessness. But the notion that our president not only does not have any use anymore for a public option, but in fact “will be satisfied” if there is merely “choice and competition” in the market is, well, disgusting.
I’ll say this for George Bush: you’d never have caught him frantically negotiating against himself to take the meat out of a signature legislative initiative just because his approval ratings had a bad summer. Can you imagine Bush and Karl Rove allowing themselves to be paraded through Washington on a leash by some dimwit Republican Senator of a state with six people in it the way the Obama White House this summer is allowing Max Baucus (favorite son of the mighty state of Montana) to frog-march them to a one-term presidency?
Did you know most brake fluids have a dry boiling point of over 400 degrees Fahrenheit? What’s even more amazing is how quickly that temperature can be exceeded if you’re, say, using the brakes to keep a 5-ton camper containing your beloved mother, your only child and yourself from plunging over a 900-foot cliff on one of the Blue Ridge Parkway’s many terrifying, inadequately guard-railed hairpin turns.
It would be appropriate to illustrate a boxcar cocktail recipe with a picture of one of my boxer pups. However, I detest boxcars. So this thirsty pup ordered a far superior drink: a tangerine-vodka collins:
4 parts vodka
2 parts tangerine juice
1 part simple syrup
Pour into ice-filled glasses (about 3/4 an inch from the rim) and top with club soda. Stir and serve to a grateful public.
The Anchorage Daily News has a great reader-submitted photo gallery of Alaskan moose that Sarah Palin hasn’t killed yet. Here are a just a few of my favorites, but definitely check them all out. Great stuff. There’s even a photo series of a moose destroying a swing set in Wasilla. It is not the Palin’s swing set. I wish it was because I hate them so very much.
Storm’s a-brewin’ here in the Northeast, so dress accordingly. And remember, just because your first priority is to shield yourself from the elements, that doesn’t mean you can’t look Goddamned adorable.
And before you ask, yes, mine matches too. So in a sense we’re all neutered.
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A year or so ago, Ms. YAFB and I went down to our local pub for a drink and met one of our neighbors, John. “Aha! Just the people I wanted to see,” he said, ominously. “What are you doing next week?”
In retrospect, we should maybe have treated his enquiry with a little more suspicion. What he was driving at was that at the last minute some people had dropped out of a little sailing expedition he was running on the square-rigger TS Royalist, and they were now desperately short of crew. The fact that Ms. YAFB’s and my experience afloat had hitherto been limited to ferry rides, rowing a dinghy round fishing lochs, and the occasional powerboat trip on Loch Lomond was not an excuse he would brook. “Can we give you an answer tomorrow? - We’ll need to see if we can reorganize work,” we pleaded. Twenty minutes later, we were booked up.
This fledgling blue jay somehow ended up on the basket of my bicycle in my carport. (Yes, I have a basket on my bicycle. Don’t judge; it allows me to do carbon-free light shopping.) It’s been there for a couple of hours now, and I don’t think it can fly well enough to get back to the nest, wherever that is.
I’ve seen an anxious parent hanging about, but it seems as helpless to act as the little bird. Some of the neighbors have roaming cats, and I’m afraid the little one will come to a bad end. Is there anything I can do? I’m willing to capture worms for it, though I don’t think I’m up to masticating them and spitting them out in its beak. Any bird dilemma advice would be much appreciated.
UPDATE: After being faithfully fed by its parents for nearly a day, the little birdie found the strength to fly out of the carport (and presumably back to its nest). We’ve had a steady rain for quite awhile, and maybe that was what was keeping him or her on the bike basket—it flew off in a lull between storms a short while ago. The only unhappy thing about this episode is that the fledgling and parents shat all over my bike. Oh well.
Summer has come to the Rockies along with the annual migration of miller moths. Having had a lot of cats over the years, I have noticed that they have three basic reactions to these furry fliers and, coincidentally, each of the three cats we have now represents each point of view.
Clara, our little black and white cat pretty much ignores them. Ginger, the ginger cat (original name, no?) will bat them down and play with them until they quit moving, then walk off in a bored manner.
Twyla, though, the gray and orange tortie, she of the goofy tail and big paws, has only one thought when it comes to the millers. YUM! She will watch the moth fly around until it lights where she can get it, make a quick leap, scoop it with her paw and transfer it straight to her mouth. Chomp, gulp, settle back down with a satisfied smile. Kitty chocolate.
Sorry PETA, but it’s a cat eat bug world out there. And, yes, I have posted pics below the fold.
