A Compendium of Randomness to Shock and Amaze

Well, everyone watched as she torched the university
With pan flares and rockets and fluids,
And it was widely reported that Catherine Dupree
Had sought some revenge for her faulty degree.
--Will Johnson, "Catherine Dupree"

Been on a Will Johnson kick the past few days. Don't know why.

*****
The Texans were promised, but never delivered. The more I thought about them, the less I liked the way they fit into the narrative of "A Very Long Story," so, ultimately, I left them out. However, as a sneak preview of one of the special features that will be available on the DVD release of "A Very Long Story, The Musical Based on a True Story," here is the never-before-seen-treatment of the Texans.

The Texans (A Very Long Story, Part Unpublished)

Upon our arrival at the Cove Farm Inn, a strange little man greeted us in the sitting room. A slowly dying fire struggled to keep up appearances in the large hearth as he approached us, his head cocked to one side like an uncomprehending dog.

"Hello." His greeting was firm. He seemed comfortable in his surroundings.

Could this be MuffinMan's caretaker?

From behind us, through the kitchen, a child approached, shuffling her feet. Thin, scraggly curls shook on her head. She held a blue toothbrush to her chest like a shield. As she neared, it was clear to me that this was a woman, not a child, perhaps anywhere from 28 to 45. But so small. I half expected her to put on a curly-peaked cap, take first position, and begin singing in a scratchy falsetto, "We represent The Lullaby League."

"Um, yeah. Where's MuffinMan?" Obviously, Monkey did not ask for MuffinMan, but, I need to be consistent here.

"He's down at the house." Which was about forty yards across a sopping wet field.

"I'm George."

"Yeah, hi."

We left our bags and went to get MuffinMan.

Did you ever meet one of those people who, from the second you laid eyes on him or her, you were sure that something was just not right about him or her? Monkey and I had just met two.

They were guests at the inn, like us. They were married, like us. But, that's where the similarities ended. They were from Texas (as was previously reported). We ate breakfast with them four days in a row. They had two tow-headed kids, who, really, have absolute no chance to live a normal life. Oh, the wicked curse of odd parents.

They forgot maps, they got lost, they misremembered directions, she was too short to reach the rungs on a ladder trail. One of the boys kept playing some annoying handheld video game while MuffinMan was trying to explain something one morning. I was about this close from snatching the thing right out of the kid's hand and yelling, "Knock it off, Freakchild!" But, I was cool.

One morning, Monkey and I tried to break into their rental car's trunk. We were convinced there was a body in there, be it man or beast. They just struck us as your typical body-carting family, you know.

I don't think being from Texas had anything to do with it.

*****
This is my 100th post. I imagine that this has no significance whatsoever.

*****
Worked on updating my resume, today. Monkey and I are heading up to Lincoln, NE, for the weekend. I am meeting the English department head from one of the high schools up there on Friday. It's not really a job interview, but I thought it would be best to have a resume on hand, in case she asks for one. As a matter of fact, I am going to make her take one, whether she asks for one or not!

*****
Whistle pig status: no recent sightings. Did the close brush with dog jaws scare him/her off? Don't know, but I have seen a smaller marmot hanging out by the bridge around the corner. Relatives? Our resident groundhog in disguise? No idea, but the fact is, I have seen no large, slow mammals in my backyard since the day before yesterday.

*****
Due to the travelling, don't expect to hear from me until Sunday night at the latest.

Don't Make Me Go All Chester Crabtree on Your Ass

As many of you may already know, I have a special place in my heart for Groundhog Day. A recent discovery has brought me face to face with a dilemma, however. Living under my house (and having recently taken up residence--two weeks ago or less) is a large, slow groundhog. Contrary to popular belief, a groundhog is not a gopher (which immediately renders my Moose Miller title reference innacurate, but, whatever). It is, according to sources the same animal as a woodchuck (and is also known as a whistle pig). It's a marmot (which reminds me, as does many things, of The Big Lebowski--"Nice marmot").

Regardless of what it is or isn't classified as, the main point of emphasis for me is that this particular whistle pig is living under my house, tearing up dirt and insulation to make a cozy little woodchuck nest (and not, as far as I can tell, chucking one freaking piece of wood (but there is a conditional in there: "IF a woodchuck COULD chuck wood", so I guess I shouldn't expect to see that), and driving Ripken Ozark crazy. The squirrels, in there attempts to raid every last bird feeder in creation, have been scaling the walls and roof of the house to leap, with no regard for their own personal safety, onto nearby feeders, and driving Ripken "up a wall", so to speak, with their clatter. The marmot offers new torment for Ripken, since he knows now that this particular rodent is pretty easy prey. Yesterday, when we went out back, dog was about two inches from clamping down hard on some whistle pig spine. I yelled, "No!" That may have slowed the dog up just enough to save the groundhog. Now, I sort of wish I would have just let the dog do what he was about to do, but then I would have had to get a dead marmot away from my dog--gross and difficult, I am sure.

Let me tell you this: the whistle pig is a slow micky ficky. I guess, with its short legs and its ponderous girth, it is relatively impossible for it to get any speed, but I have never seen an animal move so slowly that wasn't a turtle. As a matter of fact, I may have seen a turtle or two with a faster time in the forty than Monsieur (or Madame) Marmot. It makes me wonder how they have managed to live so long (evolutionarily speaking). With such slow times, one would think that any fox or bobcat or coyote could have snatched up every last one of these slow-mo mammals that ever lived. I guess not. They must be crafty, these groundhogs.

So, my dilemma is this: the marmot must go, and Landlord is responsible for that. But, what if Landlord's brilliant plan for removing the groundhog involves poison, or squirrel-shaped plastic explosives, or a slug from a .22? I am pretty sure he's not the type to lay out a Havahart trap and drive the captured whistle pig off to the nearest groundhog refuge. So, what to do? Landlord has already been called, so I guess my dilemma is no dilemma at all anymore, but I still hope that Woody has a chance to carry on his slow, herbivorous life somewhere else. How would they treat Punxatawney Phil, after all?

Now, If I could just figure out how to get these damn squirrels to stop crawling all over my house, Ripken could live in peace.

*********
Note to JPB: I never did get around to the Texans, did I? Stay tuned.

Lawrence Obi Wants You

Which Nigerian spammer are You?

Found some more silliness by randomly floating in the Internet ether. This one struck me as funny, since, at work, I get at least two of these emails a week (from the Nigerian spammers, that is, fishing for a mark). I imagine it is wrong to assume that they are Nigerian. I mean, they claim to be in the email, but they could easily be Canadian, Australian, Tahitian, Paraguayan, from anywhere. How on earth I wound up on this spam list, I'll never know, since I don't do a lot of random website visiting at work (hey, I am all business when it's business time...well, mostly...when anyone's looking...usually...well, anyway). I think Lawrence Obi is an attractive pseudonym. I still like Pedro, that will never change, but, now I have Lawrence Obi in my back pocket, you know, if I ever need it.

You know, the one thing about this fishing scheme that really is a cause for concren for me is how will I know when someone who is completely unrelated to me dies and leaves behind tens of millions of dollars, and someone else who is completely unrelated to me, who is a bank manager thousands of miles away, across an ocean and the equator, on another continent, tracks me down to offer me a portion of the money, since he has nowhere else to turn for help in dispersing the money, how will I know when this is legitimate, now? I am assuming that all of these offers are a scam, but what about that one time when it actually is true? I'll never know.

Well, I am going to stop worrying about that and go buy my fifty dollars in Power Ball tickets for the week.

Prelude to an Epilogue

One has to wonder what it's all about. Each day goes by. Each life goes on. Decisions are made: the blue shirt over the yellow, the expressway over the boulevard, the salad over the sandwich, the semicolon over the period; a million little choices are made throughout each day. What does it add up to, when (if?) it's added up? Is there a value system that weighs one choice over another? Is the decision to have coffee over tea with breakfast of the same value as the decision to return the wallet with the money still in it?

At first blush, the answer, of course, is no. Whether to leave the money in the wallet or not is a form of ethical dilemma. There is no ethical or moral element to the choice of beverage, is there? There could be. Where and how is the coffee or tea grown? Who has toiled (or even suffered) to prepare the means of your morning cup?


And here is where my reverie takes me. This steaming cup of brown liquid, this coffee (that, at this point in my life, is no decision at all), comes to me from five thousand miles away. In the planting, growing, harvesting, roasting, packaging, shipping of this coffee, in the swirl of life around this commodity, someone had an idea that made them stop what he/she was doing for a moment. Someone had a memory that made her smile. Someone recalled something that made him frown. Someone had a bad day. Someone had a good day. Someone whistled. Someone sang. Someone made a mistake. Someone made a discovery. Someone had a phone call. Someone worked distracted by something that was happening at home. Someone flirted with a coworker, a stranger. Someone ate. The sun shone. It rained.

What am I getting at? So much of our time is spent taking things for granted, not realizing the story of how things come to us, not keeping in mind that a billion or more other worlds are being lived in beyond our own. I guess, today, I'm deciding not to ignore these things.

The Other Side of the River

I spent yesterday driving along the southern/western bank of the Big Muddy (that's the Missouri River, folks), visiting several National Wildlife Refuge's and Conservation Areas.

My first stop was Overton Bottoms North Unit, which is part of the Big Muddy National Fish and Wildlife Refuge. Overton Bottoms is a large area of flood plain that was purchased from farmers after the disastrous flooding of 1993. It is currently being "managed" in a manner that helps to promote a healthier river system. Having undeveloped flood plains helps to alleviate downriver flooding and avails native fish and other wildlife natural places too spawn or breed. Pallid sturgeon and interior least terns are only two endangered species that need a more natural Missouri River system in order to maintain viable populations. Anyway, the bottoms were flat, hot, and brimming with birds (and turtles). Two lark sparrows were the highlight of the stop for me.

From there, it was south on MO 179 to Marion Bottoms Conservation Area. This was another floodplain, located, in a southward bend of the east flowing river, near the confluence of Moniteau Creek. The floodplain, with its rich, black bottomland soil, is thick with stands of willow trees and cottonwoods. Typical Missouri River riparian habitat. A dirt field road meanders through the conservation area, squeezing through the willows, and it is covered in many spots (and closed) during periods of high water. It has been relatively dry this spring, so most of the road was easily passable, but one section was pretty muddy (and bottomland mud is some sticky, slippery mud, let me tell you); the Penguin, not equipped with legitimate mudding tires, did a little slipping and sliding, but made it through. Not knowing the road ahead, I decided to turn it around. I was not looking forward to getting stuck (even with the four wheel drive, the clearance on the Penguin is not that high). We (the vehicle and I) made it back easily. We didn't see much through the thick stands of willows, but the highlight of this spot was certainly the Baltimore oriole glimpsed in one of the few clearings.

I swung back north from there, looking for Plowboy Bend Conservation Area. I found it at the end of County Road Y, on the other side of the railroad crossing, after waiting for a train full of empty livestock cars to pass by. Plowboy Bend was basically just a lot of cornfields. I couldn't find a map anywhere (except on the posted signs (and one that I should have printed out before hand at the MO Dept. of Conservation website, but who knew?)), and I couldn't find any access to the levees or trails (but, obviously, it's there). It was really not much to look at from the access road: flat land with corn, white gravel raods intersecting under a hot, bright midday sun, a couple of turkey vultures wheeling on the thermals above. I think a return visit might reveal much more, especially if I can find the trails that lead down to the river, itself. I hung a right and headed back to Y, and, from there, home. Highlight of this stop, while technically occuring on the other side of the area's borders, was a male orchard oriole in an oak tree.

Back home, Joby, who was in town (from Lexington, KY) to defend his dissertation, called to say he had successfully defended. I met him for a couple of celebratory beverages. A little evening softball (Deadliners 10, High Flyers 5), and Monkey, Osculator, Timmy Ocean, and I met up with Joby again at the team clubhouse. It was good to see my old poker buddy again. He has a job lined up in Terre Haute, working as a staff psychologist at a Federal prison. It's work that he likes, but I don't know if I could do it. Congratulations, Dr. Joby!