“I have no doubt, none at all, that we are
in the midst of a global warming, or,
as I prefer to call it, spring.”

- Dick Cheney

They're up to something, I just know it. But what?

No, this isn't a post about Strommie the would-be polygamist who may or may not be being hunted by Kevin, but about another member of the family — our failing guinea pig, Piggy-Wiggy.

He's not eating which, given his normal appetite, is either a sign of the apocalypse or of ill health. He's not taken a morsel for two days, even when enticed with succulent dandelion stems, the crispiest greenbeans or even his favorite treat — a Tic-Tac (the sound of a shaken plastic dispenser half-full of mints usually brings him storming eagerly to the bars of his cage). I suppose if eating your own excrement was a regular part of your diet you might look forward to a Tic-Tac or two as well.

Don't misunderstand — this has been a well-fed piggy-wiggy. He recently finished chewing his way through an entire bale of Timothy Hay, and the Reverend Mother has always prepared him a lovely breakfast salad of fresh greens and cucumber, meanwhile our yard has never wanted for dandelions, which I think he liked because the little fuzzy seeds tickled his nose.

He's at least seven years old, which we've learned is a ripe old age for a guinea pig. We've had him for four years or so, and rescued him from a home with heavy smokers. The white parts of his fur were yellow when we got him and it took a couple of shampoos to restore his natural tones. He was especially lethargic this morning, which the Reverend Mother noticed and reported to the girls, along with the warning to prepare themselves. The Mall Diva and Tiger Lilly were distraught, and took turns sitting with him in their laps for over an hour this morning, working their way through a box of Kleenex in much the same way he used to work his way through a bag of baby carrots.

He's always been a paranoid guinea pig, convinced that everything wanted to eat him, dashing into his plastic pigloo at the slightest disturbance and acting as if a warm bath was in reality some kind of sinister marinade. This may have been hard-wired into his genes. My sister-in-law, who is from Ecuador, was bemused to find we had a guinea pig for a pet. She said her grandmother, who raised guinea pigs, would have thought we were as strange as someone who kept, say, a rooster for a pet. That's because her grandmother raised GPs for food, not companionship.

This morning, however, our pig seemed resigned and rested quietly with the girls, making an occasional grunt of contentment as they stroked his fur. They eventually had to put him back in his cage as they prepared for their expedition today, and I've been monitoring him since then; this is more of a hospice, not a hospital — I'll be sure he's as comfortable as can be, but there'll be no heroic life-preserving interventions.

Then again, he might just pull out of it, declare that he's feeling better and that he thinks he'll go for a walk. If he should, however, expire today it will be an odd Memorial Day coincidence to go along with our last cat dying on Valentine's Day earlier this year.

I'll leave it to the Diva or Tiger Lilly to provide updates, if they're able. No one likes to see his children cry, and I feel sadder for them than for Piggy-Wiggy, who - face it - has had a good run. Right now I'm reminded of a poem I came across and saved a couple of years ago right about the time our hamster took his last spin around the exercise wheel.

Forty-One, Alone, No Gerbil
In the strange quiet, I realize
there’s no one else in the house.
No bucktooth mouth pulls at a stainless-steel teat, no
hairy mammal runs on a treadmill—
Charlie is dead, the last of our children’s half-children.
When our daughter found him lying in the shavings,
trans-mogrified backwards from a living body into a bolt of rodent bread
she turned her back on early motherhood
and went on single, with nothing. Crackers, Fluffy, Pretzel, Biscuit, Charlie,
buried on the old farm we bought
where she could know nature. Well, now she knows it and it sucks.
Creatures she loved, mobile and needy, have gone down stiff and indifferent,
she will not adopt again
though she cannot have children yet,
her body like a blueprint
of the understructure for a woman’s body,
so now everything stops for a while,
now I must wait many years
to hear in this house again the faint
powerful call of a young animal.
— by Sharon Olds, from The Wellspring © Alfred A. Knopf.

Update:

Our beloved Piggy-wiggy died last night after a few seizures. I miss him so much right now. I feel really bad that he had to die alone in the dark. He was my baby, and if love could have saved him, he would have lived forever. Same goes for the cat.
TL.

YEAH!

The new Pirates of the Carribean is out!!! My father and I went to go see it today. Boy, was it worth the wait!

Characters:
Will Turner: Still interesting, with a side of smart-aleck to him.

Elizabeth Swann: She's a bit secretive this time around, but still sassy.

Tia Dalma: Your basic voodoo chick, but is something going on between her and Davy Jones?

Davy Jones: Man, I was sad when he died. He was one of the best characters!

Captain Jack Sparrow: His first scene is quite funny. But whatever happened to his hat? It was missing in a few scenes...

Then, of course, there is the old enemy from the second movie, Lord Beckett. His exit is pretty good, but I don't really understand it.

The suspense in the movie is really good, and in a few scenes you've gotta wonder what the hey is going on. I can't wait for it to come out on DVD!

For those of you going to see it, stay until the end of the credits because there is another scene. A short one, yes, but still...
Man, I really want to tell you all that happens, but I'd better not. Must...control...mouthfingers!

See the movie. You won't be disappointed.

Ciao for now!

File this under "Game Called On Account of Life": Batgirl is taking her blog and going home. Having recently moved out of state and given birth to future Twins star Dash, the demands of a long-distance love affair with her Boyfriends of the Day™ and child-rearing meant the blog was out of options.

I suppose every winning streak has to end sometime but I'll miss the often surrealistic game recaps and and passion for pluck. Count me among the fans standing and applauding, calling for Batgirl and her contributors to step back out of the dugout for a nod and a wave.

Going, going...gone!

"Finishing a book is just like you took a child out in the yard and shot it."
— Truman Capote

I don't have the experience, yet, of being an author finishing a book so I don't know if Capote's words are apt. It seems to me the writing-publishing experience is more like being a parent and having a child leave the nest. As the parent of a soon to be 19-year-old still in the nest but beginning to make her own way I marvel at how what I’ve “created” has taken on a life of her own; how the countless hours spent shaping and imagining and agonizing over just the right word has inspired dialogue with subtleties, nuances and complexities I never realized were possible, and how a true character has emerged fully-formed and bursting to go forth.

For years this book was mainly blank pages; pages that consumed my life and were never far from my thoughts no matter what else I happened to be doing. Day by day those pages were filled, and while there are things I’d like to go back and rewrite there’s no guarantee that the story would be even better than it is now; even so I wrestle with the temptation/obsession to continue to tweak and polish.

Will anyone else understand the humor of page 112, or appreciate how difficult it was to write Chapter 19? Certainly not at the level I do, but that knowledge is for my own book, the one written on my heart. Now, though, it is time to see this through; to be proud to see all the time, work and love realized in a tangible package; to admire not just the cover but the spine; to breathe deep the aroma of the fresh pages and the glue that holds them together.

It is good.

I knew there were such things as gay bars, but I didn't know there were gay cars until I read an article that today's Strib reprinted from the New York Times. Apparently certain cars are "known" to be vehicles of choice for gays: Subaru Outbacks for lesbians, for example, and Mazda Miatas and Volkswagon Bugs (among others) for the guys. Let me tell you, it certainly made me rethink the Disney movie classic "The Love Bug"! Do you think all along Herbie always had a thing for Dean Jones and not Michele Lee? Could the number "53" be some kind of code, maybe kind of like driving with just your left fog lamp on?

It just never occurred to me that a type of car could be "gay", though there's no doubt that we have long bought and marketed vehicles because of the kind of image they project, from "muscle" cars to minivans. Certainly there's a kind of manly brawniness with some trucks and SUVs — perhaps someone is just overcompensating? Frankly, I would have been mystified that a certain look or certain features could be construed as gay — though I must admit that the new Dodge Nitro does look rather "butch." I mean, what would you look for in a "gay" car: a liftback? Four-on-the-floor? A car that pulls to the left? A pick-up? And just what does the "PT" stand for in a PT Cruiser?

Let's not even think about what a leather interior suggests! (Well, okay: Grand Marquis de Sade?)

Is this true for other lifestyles as well? Do certain vehicles have certain connotations? I suppose minivans are universally recognized and mocked for being the vehicles of choice for soccer moms, and there's something about a Corvette that screams "mid-life crisis", but if you see someone driving a Golf, would they necessarily have to be a golfer? Do all Prius's come with a Wellstone! sticker as standard equipment? Do all bloggers have "Star Fleet Academy" lettering on the back window?

Is there such a thing as a "Christian" car? I know Dodge used to make a certain mid-sized car that I once thought might be kind of funny to own, if only so I could say, "Ok, kids — let's get in the Spirit and drive to church!"

And please, somebody tell me: what were you thinking when you bought a Ford Probe?

Uncle Ben tagged me with the "13 Predictions of When I'm Old" meme.
1. I will still be fit enough to do effective Tae Kwon Do.
2. I will have gone to Italy at least two more times.
3. I will have grandchildren.
4. I will not have a billion cats.
5. I won't sit on the front porch all day yelling, "Whippersnappers!" (what is that anyway?)
6. I will have some cute car, like a Bug or a Mini Cooper.
7. I will still be 25 when I'm old.
8. I will have written 3 successful books.
9. I won't be crochety.
10. I won't have more wrinkles than I can help.
11. I will have been on at least 5 different mission's trips. (I've already been on one, soon to be two!)
12. I won't be senile.
13. I won't be senile.

You know, I've never really understood why 'youth is wasted on the young'. Who else would it be wasted on? And I would like it if you would find out how many people enjoy being young before you start making assumptions that we don't appreciate it.

Ciao for now, you young whippersnappers!

The new bird, Chiquita, is starting to adapt to her new environs. She's sharing a cage with the other bird and chirping and whistling. The one thing she hasn't quite accepted is that I'm not going to eat her. I walk past the cage and she immediately flits to the farthest corner away from me in a panic.

So I said to her, "What's the matter, bird — ya yellow?

Well, you're WRONG! (No, I didn't get to hurt anyone.)

Yesterday after Tae Kwon Do (I was still in uniform), my loving and wonderful mother took me to Jimmy John's and sent me in by myself with ten dollars. I ordered my sandwich, and the guy behind the counter said, "Hey, can you do some crazy Tae Kwon Do thing outside so we can see it? I'll give you a free cookie."

I said, "Well, I don't think I'd want to do it outside, but I can do it in here." The cashier guy agreed, so I executed two kicks with appropriate yells. There were two men who were sitting at a booth, and when I kicked, they cheered. So, I got a delicious cookie. I was ready to leave, so I pushed the door open. But the guy behind the counter said, "Hold on, we'll give you something else!"

I also received a $5 gift certificate, which was more than what I had spent! It was amazing. Who knew that you could gain something of monetary value with Tae Kwon Do lessons, other than saving money by not having to go the hospital if someone attacks you in the middle of a dark alley with no-one around. But why would you be walking down a dark--sorry, getting a little off-topic there.

Ciao for now!

Senate halts Iraq pullout, cash cutoff
By S.A. Miller
THE WASHINGTON TIMES
May 17, 2007

The Senate yesterday overwhelmingly rejected a bid to pull out troops from Iraq and cut off funds for combat, a bruising defeat for Majority Leader Harry Reid that highlights the Democratic split over how far to go in opposing the war.

The amendment, which was co-sponsored by Mr. Reid, Nevada Democrat, died in a 67-29 procedural vote, with 47 Republicans, 19 Democrats and one independent blocking the plan to start a troop withdrawal in 120 days and cut off funds March 31 to most military operations in Iraq.

"We don't want to send the message to the troops" that they lost the backing of Congress, said Sen. Carl Levin of Michigan, chairman of the Armed Services Committee and one of several key Democrats to defect. "We're going to support those troops."

Only 29 votes to cut-off funding and withdraw from Iraq? And didn't the latest polls show the approval rating of the Democratic-controlled Congress at 29% - even lower than the approval rating for George Bush?

Senator Reid, it is time to admit that the rebels have won, whether they be insurgents, resurgents or those just plain looking for detergents to protect their election chances. Oh, I know you were led to believe that the Congress would welcome you with hearts and flowers when you you thought you had accomplished your mission after the 2006 elections, but you have squandered your technical, numerical and moral superiority. In fact, sir, it has clearly become a quagmire of your own devising. It is time for you to support our troops by withdrawing from your failed policies.

Saturday night the Reverend Mother and I found ourselves kid-free so we decided to go let it all hang out at our favorite tapas bar. Trust me, we usually get funny looks when we actually say that as opposed to typing it out.

Tapas are small plates of hot or cold Spanish appetizers that you typically order in a series. We like Solera in downtown Minneapolis because the tapas are a creative treat both in flavor and in presentation. While portions are small they are packed with flavor and interesting combinations of meats, vegetables and spices. Generally you choose several from the menu and they are delivered one or two at a time so you can fully appreciate each plate. One time when my wife and I went there we played a little game: she took the cold menu and I took the hot and then we'd each order something without telling the other what was coming. We went three or four rounds like that, sharing each dish as it came and deciding who had made the best choice (believe me, there were no losers).

We didn't get the inspiration to go to Solera this time until late in the day so when we called there was no way to get a table in the restaurant. But, we were told, there was plenty of non-reserved seating on the rooftop patio. Since it was a very pleasant evening we decided to leave our cozy little suburb to go downtown and dine al fresco. Of course, you've first got to change clothes to go downtown, especially on Saturday night. I don't have much that will pass for urban cool, but I put on some khakis, a blue silk camp shirt (untucked, natch) and my Margaritaville loafers — sans socks! The Mall Diva had given me some "Joe" pomade for the new 'do but I already had a stylish head of hat-hair going on from mowing the lawn earlier in the day and I didn't want to become too irresistible since the restaurant is directly across the street from The Amsterdam Hotel, the mecca of gay hospitality in Minneapolis (perhaps "Mecca" and "gay" shouldn't be linked like that). The Reverend Mother did her part to save some souls, wearing those snug jeans I like that could make Elton John look twice. Also, since it was less than 85 degrees, she wore a jacket.

When we got up to the patio there were only a few tables already occupied so we had no trouble finding a place to sit. Despite being on the roof the view isn't much to write about, but I will anyway. The four or five foot wall blocks any sight-lines to the street if you're sitting down, but you can see the top of the Target Center, a parking ramp, some duct-work for the restaurant and the big white screen on the patio where Solera shows movies after dark. You also can't see the two-story billboard for the Amsterdam that features four cute guys cuddling; I guess it's up to you whether that's a positive or a negative. Regardless, it ain't Applebee's.

We decided on the $25 "Tapas for Two" combination from the menu; six different appetizers thoughtfully portioned into even numbers so that you don't have that awkward, "No, dear, you take the last shrimp" moment. The first plate was some barbequed potatoes, very tasty and tangy. Then our black-clad waitress brought us some small grilled sausages and grilled chicken strips in a green chipotle sauce, all on skewers and served on a bed of rice with raisins and mint. The chicken was especially delicious; I told my wife that the chicken was too spicy for her and she wouldn't like it, but somehow she was onto me and didn't fall for it. Next up was a plate of lightly-battered, skewered shrimp the size of small bananas and a bowl of what I think was either acini or risoni pasta and cucumber in a minty sauce. I'm not much of a cucumber fan, but I surprised my wife by eating and enjoying this as well.

I looked around right about then and saw a waitress bringing a plate of what looked like miniature hamburgers to another table. "Oooh, those look good," I remarked to my wife, so I was delighted when our waitress appeared with a similar plate as part of our course. These were actually chorizo sausage patties with a nice cut of roasted red pepper on top, served on mini-buns. Very tasty indeed, and my puppy-eyes prevailed on my wife to give up half of her sandwich, for which I ceded the remainder of the cous-cous and cucumber dish. The finale was a plate of seared tuna slices. They looked rather raw in the middle, but smelled and tasted great and we've since had no ill effects.

We were too full for dessert, but still had a fun evening of great food and better companionship. If you're looking for something to spice up your dining out experience, go "tapas"!

...to the person who ran the red light right in front of me at the Hennepin and Central Avenues intersection at 6:08 p.m. last night. I regret if the prolonged honking of my horn made it hard to hear whoever it was you were talking to on your cell phone or otherwise distracted you from the task at hand.

We (Rev. Mother, MD, and I) have decided to live co-blog.
RM: Do you have any chocolate left?
MD: None that you can have.
RM: Why am I asking you? I got chocolate for Mother's Day!
MD: Do you have any chocolate that I can have?
RM takes computer because she types faster than the other two put together.
MD: I need to paint my nails.
RM: Why?
MD: Cause they're naked.
TL: LOL
MD: You have a fleur de lis on your butt.
TL: Thanks.
MD: Look, my legs are the same color as the sheet.
TL: You have to put exclamation points there.
RM: No I don't.
TL: Yes, you do.
RM: Hey! No co-typing.
MD: So today we were going to go to Target and buy a wading pool. One of those little toddler pools.
TL: Yeah, it was so hot.
DM: But we didn't, it was kind of anticlimactic.
MD leaves the chat room to go wash her hands so she can paint her nails.
MD: I'm back, what color? Tropical Punch. ChaChing Cherry. Las Vegas Strip Poker. (RM looks askance) Taupe-less Showgirls. Opus in Amber. Symphony in Gold. Malaysian Mist. Dinner for Two. Love Letter. Osaka to me Orange. Arctic Glacier. Vintage. I'm not Really a Waitress. Mrs. O'Leary's Barbecue. And Plum.
General laughter.
MD: What do you think?
RM: mmmm, what are you going to wear?
MD: I don't know.
RM: That red one, that shiny red one.
MD: I just did that one.
RM: Don't do orange, it's ugly.
TL & MD: It is not!
MD: It goes with my shirt.
MD: How about Tropical Punch. It's pretty, it's summery.
TL: Can you drink it?
MD: No, but you can try.
MD: I bet Dad never asks us to blog again.
LOL
TL: More like never lets us.
OHHHH, we should talk about Judy who's getting married in the salon.
TL: What about her?
MD: Uh..she's getting married in the salon
MD: Are you going to ask me some questions so it's more like a discussion, instead of a monologue?
RM: Where's the reception?
MD: At the salon. I get to be the cake server!
RM: That sounds like a very inexpensive way to get married. I mean, she's not paying any rental on the 'hall' right?
MD: Not that I know of.
TL: She's crazy.
MD: Yeah, she kind of is. No, she's eccentric.
RM: I think you should consider getting married there.
MD: I'd get the employee discount! Her wedding's on Saturday.
RM: How old is she?
MD: In her early sixties. This is her second marriage.
RM: How old is the groom?
MD: I think they're about the same age. It was his idea.
RM: Really?
MD: Yeah, Judy and Frank were out to dinner with Judy's friend Evelyn, and they were talking about where they could get married on short notice, and Frank said, "Why not the beauty shop"?
RM: So, I assume they're not having a sit down dinner.
MD: No, champaigne and cake and choc. dipped strawberries. The shampoo bowls are going to be filled with ice and they are going to be the coolers for the champaigne bottles. And my boss bought 30 yards of tulle to hang from the ceiling and drape everywhere. We're also going to have entertainment.
TL: So, are you going to be the entertainment?
MD: Not this time.
RM: What's the entertainment?
MD: It's this lady who the bride knows who's a professional jazz singer and she's bringing along a piano player.
RM: And a piano?
MD: Yeah.
TL: I think my bruise is fading.
RM: Do you want us to fix that for you?
TL: Not really.
RM: I'm hungry.
MD: Yeah, me too, I want ice cream.
TL: Let's go to DQ.
RM: No.
MD: I want cake.
MD: And how much did you pay for the rock and roll t-shirt/that proves you were there, that you heard of them first?
RM looks confused
MD: That's cake.
TL: Cake should be capitalized in that area.
RM: You're right.
RM leaves the room to get a snack.

MD: Well, that was fun. Join us next time for the wild and crazy randomness of the Night-Women.

TL: Ciao for now!

Update:

For more "team" blogging from two-thirds of this trio, check out this post.

I love golf and have certain positive (and selective) memories I like to share with others. What I'm about to relate, however, details one outing where I never took a swing or even saw a club swung.

I was fully intending to play, however, when I drove out to Minneapolis' F.A. Gross public course a few years ago to play in my company league. I wheeled my pullcart and clubs up to the clubhouse door and went inside to pay my greens fee and change into a pair of shorts. It took me five minutes, max. When I came outside my clubs were gone. Since it was a company league, I looked around to see if one of my "friends" might be playing a joke on me. There was no one I recognized or who even seemed to be paying attention to me. Certainly, if you were playing a prank on someone, you'd want to be where you could see the look on that person's face, right? After double-checking the immediate area to be sure my clubs hadn't been moved out of the way I went back inside and asked the guy at the counter and the ranger standing nearby if anyone had found it necessary to move my clubs.

The guy at the counter said that none of the staff would have moved my clubs, but suggested that someone might have taken them and he asked the ranger to drive me through the parking lot to see if we could spot the clubs or anything suspicious. We jumped into a golf cart and began a circuit through the lot.

I had a strange feeling as we patrolled; normally I might be more than a touch upset by the situation, especially since I had just bought new irons a few weeks before that and I knew my wife, The Finance Minister, was unlikely to authorize another disbursement of that sort. Instead, I felt calm and had a little talk with God. My point, essentially, was that He knew I tithed and that I expected him to kind of keep an eye on my things and finances. I stayed calm and when the parking lot search turned up nothing I headed back to the clubhouse where a thought came to me: if my clubs were stolen it certainly wouldn't be because another golfer coveted them (new irons or not); therefore the culprit's objective would be to sell the clubs. I believe that if I had let myself get angry my blood would have been pounding so hard in my head that I wouldn't have heard that little thought, or wouldn't have paid attention to it until much later.

I didn't have a cell phone then (and if I did, it probably would have been in my golf bag anyway), so I got a bunch of change at the counter and went over to the pay phone and Yellow Pages and started calling atll the Play It Again Sports and SecondSwing stores in the metro (after I called the police, that is). I started with the ones closest to the golf course and worked out to the 'burbs in case the thief was clever enough to try to put some distance between the scene and the sale. With each call I described my clubs and golf bag in detail and then moved on to the next store on the list.

After about 30 minutes of this I was talking to a store out in Burnsville when a police officer walked into the clubhouse and was pointed in my direction. He approached and I hung up. "You might want to hear this, " he said, pointing toward the radio on his belt. He spoke into his microphone and said, "I'm with the guy now."

Someone on the other end of the radio said, "Ok. The suspects are still in the store. We've got a unit out back, and we're about to pull up in front and hit the lights." A few minutes later we got another word: "We've got 'em. You want to bring the guy over to identify the items?"

Great! I got to ride in the police car (front seat) over to the Play It Again store in Roseville, the closest such store to the golf course and the first place I had called. Apparently the thief and his buddy had stopped off to pick up a girlfriend and then went to the nearest Play It Again (no one has ever suggested thieves are smart). In the interim the manager had received my call, took my club description and probably thought to himself, "Fat chance." Lo and behold, a few minutes later these three teenagers had come into the store wanting to sell a set of golf clubs. The manager later told me his heart started pounding when he saw the bag (a distinctive one).

He decided to stall the kids, so he said he had to go look up the putter in his books to determine it's value. He went back to his office and once out of sight had someone on his staff call the police. He then went back out and started vigorously negotiating with the kids, club by club, trying to stall. He was wondering where the police were and concerned that the kids would get frustrated and leave, when a squad car pulled up to the front door.

When I arrived on the scene the kids were sitting in separate squad cars and my golf bag and clubs were laid out on the asphalt parking lot, along with everything else that was in the suspects' car. One of the cops was taking inventory and needed me to help place a value on everything. He pointed to my driver; "What's that worth?" A few negative thoughts came to my mind, but I said, "Hard to say. My brother built that for me."

"Oh," said the officer. "Custom-made. That's gotta be $300 at least!" On we went through the contents. We got to the putter. "Now that," I said, "Is a known offender. Better take it in for questioning."

"Yeah," the cop said. "I had one like that."

When all was said and done I got my clubs back on the spot and had a chance to talk to the store manager and the officers from St. Anthony (where the theft occurred) and Roseville (where the arrest was made). Everyone, even the police, was charged up about being in on busting a case. I then got to ride in the police car again back to golf course, where it was much too late to get my round in. I went back to the Play It Again and bought pizza for the crew. (The criminal masterminds were all under 18 and were later shunted into an "alernative justice" program).

When I got home my wife asked how everything went. "Great," I said, "Wait until you hear this...."

According to today's Writer's Almanac,

On this day, in 1858 the state of Minnesota was admitted into the Union. It was from Minnesota that we got the stapler, water skis and roller blades, Scotch tape, Bisquick, Bob Dylan, F. Scott Fitzgerald, and Spam

Buffy brings the beau home —

Girl brings home suitor. Father tries to frighten suitor. For real or for jest. With harsh words. An intimidating stare.

Pa used arms the size of tree trunks and a highly arched brow. A friend’s dad employed over the counter drug tests. “Here. Pee in the cup.” The old codgers from Seven Brides for Seven Brothers used guns. Lined up the boys and whipped out the rifles.

Mine used dynamite.

T was the first and last guy I ever brought home to meet the family. I was 25. We’d been together for two years and it was his first visit to Appalachia. I should have been shocked by it all. I wasn’t. Not that I expected my father and his pack of dark-eyed brothers to blow up the mountain, close down the only road out and block any chance of escape for a good portion of the day. But I didn’t not expect it either.

Closest to the Heart

When the dust had settled,
He took it in His mighty hand,
and squeezed it close together,
and then breathed life into a man.
He saw that one was not enough,
that man alone was just a part,
so God fashioned woman from a rib,
closest to the heart.

That’s why she knows the rhythm,
of the Spirit’s inner work;
her ears hear its direction,
and to its voice she is alert.
Some call it intution,
when she perceives what God imparts,
but she’s only taken her position,
closest to His heart.

And now each life beginning,
grows from a tiny seed within,
nurtured by her body,
and all the hope that’s placed therein.
For God chose her to be the one,
to give this gift its start,
and to hold it safe against her breast,
closest to the heart.

With Godly counsel and support,
she helps her mate contend,
for by himself he’d be just one,
but she adds the strength of ten.
He’ll love her as he loves himself,
(at least he will if he is smart),
and exalt her second only unto God,
and closest to the heart.

And when her days are golden,
and she’s given all that she’s possessed,
many are the ones,
who’ll rise up and call her blessed.
And when she passes through that gate,
into the place that’s just like home,
they’ll clear a path before her,
and she’ll kneel before His throne.
“Arise my precious daughter,
for I’ve loved you from the start;
come now to the place I’ve made for you,
closest to my heart.”

- John Stewart

Judging by the title, you might have guessed what has happened. We have a new birdy in the household!

We are keeping the newbie for a few days to see if she (he? It's only 8 months old, not old enough to tell what gender it is) and Birdy-wirdy are compatible.

The sad part of the story is: my friend (Angelina) called me up and said that another of my friends (Olivia) had a bird that had died, so they were going to give away their remaining bird because it never got any attention, and it had bonded with the late birdy. So my mom called Olivia's mom, and last night I came home from Tae Kwon Do and walked into the living room. There was a white bird cage sitting next to the cage that Birdy-wirdy was in.

"Oh," I said. "New bird cage?" I went closer. AACCKK!! An adorable yellow face was looking at me. The new parakeet has bright yellow and green plumage (can you hear my dad in the background saying "Remarkable bird, the Norwegian Blue. Lovely plumage!") with black on it's back and tail. Mom said it's name is Chiquita, and Olivia's family thought that it was a girl. But I think it might be a boy, because it's cere (the area above its beak that's pink for a girl and blue for a boy) has a little bit of blue.

And mom said no more pets!

Ciao for now!

In my life I've had maybe five hairstyles. When I was a tyke my father bought some electric hair clippers, but the only style he ever learned was a buzz cut, which was what I had until about first grade (and for a short, traumatic time in 8th grade).

In first grade I made a stylish leap forward — a "regular boy" cut, parted on the left with a slap of Brylcream to make a debonair wave back from my forehead. Eventually I ditched the Brylcream and let the hair fall over my forehead, permitting the classic head-snap, shoulder-shrug move to clear it out of my eyes. By the time I got to college (and out of my father's sight) I let my hair grow out to about shoulder-length and even tried the part-in-the-middle thing. My hair was naturally wavy and drove the girls mad with jealousy but not much else.

I'd grown out of that by the time I went corporate and was back to the low -maintenance, part-on-the-left, just-over-the-ears-and-collar look. It was pretty much wash-and-wear, with no mousse or gel (or moose-and-squirrel) and definitely no Brylcream. It must have been ok because I was able to induce the not-yet-Reverend Mother to marry me. When I went to get my hair cut on the morning of my wedding day the stylist (perhaps at the behest of my bride) suggested I try something different.

Sure, on the single-most important day of my life, let's take a flyer — maybe it'll keep people from paying too much attention to the rented tux. On that day I converted to a no-part, combed straight back and moussed look, and I stuck with that for the next 19 and a half years. It may have even been stylish for a year or two of that period, but it was always neat and tidy and responded well to my comb. My hair was so used to that grooming that even if I skipped a day without the gel it would still go back that way; my wife called it "memory hair."

Naturally, life with a hair-stylist in the family brings a certain dynamism to the home that means change is inevitable. Last week I sat down in the Mall Diva's styling chair for a cut and mused that maybe I should try something a little diff- ... well that was about all I needed to get out before the she went into a blur of hands, clippers and scissors. Fortunately she knows a few more tricks than my father, but I ended up with short hair on the sides and a little bit longer than that on top. Instead of moussing it straight back however, I was told to put the gel on my finger tips and poke it into my hair, then tousle everything back and forth once or twice, leaving it standing up and pointing in every direction.

Wow. I figured people would think I'd either paid $90 to have my hair professionally zhooshed — or they'd think I'd just gotten out of bed. It's kind of hip, kind of now...and by the end of the day it's a little droopy. My daughter says that is because I'm just using styling gel; I need to switch to pomade. Pomade? I could see myself going into the drug store: "I'm a Dapper Dan man, I don't want Fop, I want Dapper Dan!"

It also feels kind of funny, especially when the breeze blows. When I catch sight of my shadow or my reflection I reflexively reach for my comb to get the strays back in formation before I remember there are supposed to be strays; if I've done it right I'm supposed to look like a durian fruit, or Sonic the Hedgehog. I leave my comb in my pocket, though truth be told I could probably just leave it at home.

I'm getting used to it, though, and no one's said anything to me about it. They probably figure it's just some mid-life crisis and they don't want to get involved.

For my wife's last birthday someone gave her a large coffee-mug printed with a collection of insults from Shakespeare — barbs from the bard, if you will. These colorful jibes are epically epithetical. Some examples:

• beetle-headed, flap-ear'd knave


• quintessence of dust


• canker-blossom


• poisonous bunch-back'd toad


• a fusty nut with no kernel


• clod of wayward marl


• roast-meat for worms


• infinite and endless liar, an hourly promise-breaker


• anointed sovereign of sighs and groans


• foot-licker


• lump of foul deformity


• highly fed and lowly taught


• all eyes and no sight


• all the infections the sun sucks up


• elvish-mark'd abortive, rooting hog


• veriest varlet that ever chewed with a tooth


• mountain of mad flesh


• light of brain


• bolting-hutch of beastliness


• not so much brain as ear-wax


• long-tongu'd babbling gossip


• thou are a boil, a plague sore


• I do desire that we may be better strangers

As I said, the mug was given to her. Yet she serves me my coffee in it. Methinks she's trying to tell me something.

I've been doing a bit of father-daughter bonding lately with Tiger Lilly via one of the Xbox games I received for my birthday: Justice League Heroes. In it mixed duos of superheroes fly and fight their way through a less-bloody version of the Baldur's Gate II universe (the games were designed by the same people). Though you can play individually, the game works best with a real partner and Tiger Lilly's just the person you want to take with you into a dark Gotham or Metropolis alley - fast thumbs, sharp eyes and a diabolical "heh, heh" when she unleashes a devastating A-B-A combo on a pitiable robot or para-demon, or — if she's playing as Zatanna, Mistress of Magic — when she turns them into white rabbits.

You start out with your basic A-list of superheroes: Batman, Superman, Wonder Woman, Zatanna, the Martian Manhunter, the Flash and the guy I'm kind of partial to — Green Lantern (who's secret identity is John Stewart). As you go along you can earn shields (points) that allow you to unlock more characters such as Aquaman, Hawkgirl, and the Huntress. On some levels you get to pick your character from the entire roster, but most of the time the duo is predetermined (to fit the cut-scene segues) and you only get to pick between the two — which means I sometimes get the opportunity to explore my inner Wonder Woman (laugh and I'll bounce a tiara-boomerang off your head so fast you'll feel like Jimmy Olson).

Each character has a different set of super powers and it's fun learning how to best apply them. Superman, for example, has a super-assortment that includes heat vision, freezing breath, a high-speed flying strike and the Super-Punch, which takes a moment to load up but does tremendous damage. Still, he can be a bit of an oaf. On one level where I'm playing as Superman and Tiger Lilly is Wonder Woman, TL takes great delight in letting me fly out to punch a laser-shooting creature...and then using her lasso to snatch the villain right from under my nose (or fist) so she can deliver a knock-out kick. The best part though, in my opinion, is the job the artists and writers did in getting the personalities of the characters into the game. Superman and Batman, for instance, don't really like each other (well, to tell the truth, Batman doesn't really like anyone) and trash-talk each other throughout the game and there's girl-talk between Zatanna and Wonder Woman (Z: "Just between us girls, don't you ever get cold in that outfit?").

As in Baldur's Gate, if you let your characters stand still too long they get antsy and let you know about it in ways generally true to their character. Zatanna, for instance, will say, "Hey! Pay attention to me!" or "Want to see a real magic trick? Pull my finger!" Her friend Wonder Woman will say, "You can tell that a man designed this costume," or, "If only I could remember where I parked the invisible plane." Superman, always the Boy Scout, will finally say, "I don't mean to be pushy, but 'places to go, people to save,' you know?" or "Have you ever noticed there always seems to be a lot of kryptonite lying around? Really, what's up with that?" My favorite, though, is the Batman: "Robin used to make me wait; ever wonder what happened to him?" — or the all-time winner, "What's the matter, Precious? Your mother kick you out of the basement?"

Besides having fun, I've even developed some super-powers of my own. For instance, Tiger Lilly can have her nose buried in a book, or be heading for a cuddle with Mom and all I have to do is interlock my fingers, raise my thumbs and twiddle them and she jumps up and runs at super-speed to the television. Now if I can only get that to work when it comes to mowing the lawn...SHAZAM!

Davin Arul has a great piece today about Spiderman - the superhero most like us and, perhaps, the one we'd most like to be like, doing battle both against evil-doers and our own personal weaknesses. Arul looks at the decisions that make a superhero:

You can't quit now: Every fibre of your being hurts: from the pain of those broken ribs, to the strain of holding up that collapsing ceiling while flood waters swirl about your waist, rising with each second.

You want to just give in, submit to the blackness that’s hovering at the edge of your vision. But Aunt May will die, because she'll never receive the medicine that's in your belt if you give up. And so you resolve not to.

No odds are impossible: The Sinister Six, a collection of your worst enemies, have beaten you down and they're now set to carry out their diabolical plans. Thousands could die if they aren't stopped. You're the only hero present, so it's all up to you. Individually, they're tough to handle – let alone all at once.

So you put that genius intellect of yours to work. You prioritise your targets, you formulate a strategy, you determine which enemy's strength you can turn against him. And then you get to work.

If about to crack ... just crack wise: The enemy you face is implacable, and has every desire to do you harm. Reasoning with him hasn't helped, and you feel little tendrils of panic tickle the back of your brain. So ... you let loose a stream of banter and wisecracks, and it keeps your mind off the seriousness of the situation.

Your foe scoffs at first, but then the banter gets under his skin. He starts to get careless, while your resolve grows and you can sense that you've won. Levity over gravity, my man.

You think you've got problems: Sure, the rent is overdue, Aunt May's medical bills are piling up, and that tightwad boss of yours is threatening to cut your photo rates. But that family you saved from a fire last week has to live in a community hall for the next six months.

And that elderly guy you grabbed just before a bus hit him - your keen senses picked up the rattle in his breathing that told you he was really sick. But he was genuinely happy to be alive.

Think you've got problems, hero? They don't add up to a hill of beans next to some other folks’ troubles. And if they can cope – then maybe you can, too.

Do the right thing: Even if it means admitting an earlier “thing” was wrong...

...When “moral” and “legal” decided on one of their frequent trial separations, you chose the former, determined to correct your mistakes and honour the sacrifices of your comrades.

With great power: And now we stand at your beginning. Something has changed inside you. Where you were once weak and reticent, you're suddenly brimming with vigour and confidence.

You're standing on a ledge, considering your future. It really isn't that far to the next rooftop, but it seems like a mile away. Just one step back and you'll be on familiar ground again, on firm footing, and life will go on as it always has.

One step forward, one leap of faith, and everything changes forever. Your life will never be the same, and neither will the lives of those dear to you. Yes, change can be disruptive, but it isn't necessarily a bad thing.

You hesitate because you are, after all, only human. You're standing on a ledge, considering your future.

And just like that, you go for it.

Great stuff. Of course, that all just applies to superheroes and comic books, right? Go read the whole thing.

I've noticed something unusual in my blog traffic the last month or so: I've been getting a lot of http://images.google.com referrals. Unlike the Google-search links I used to get where certain word-searches brought readers, these are driven by photos.

Ok, I've posted quite a few photos here in the last 2+ years, so that image searches shouldn't be too unusual — except there appears to be a certain pattern to the images being viewed: they're either people who want to view the "Loch Ness Monster Truck" evidence photo from last May...or people who want to see a picture of the Mall Diva in a prom dress.

It's hard to keep a thorough list since my Sitemeter account only registers the last 100 visits, but as of 15 minutes ago 77 of the last 100 visitors to this blog had come from image searches; 18 of these were Loch Ness Monster Truck driven and 16 were led to see a photo of the Diva and her cousin in their formal gowns. Another half-dozen or so wanted to see the photo of the bruise on MD's knee from last fall's Paintball outing. That's actually a significant decrease for that particular photo; one month recently my Powerblogs tracking tool showed more than 800 referrals to that image from a website in Taiwan!

Are there not enough lovely things to look at on the internet that people have to come looking for an oversized tire in a loch, a couple of well-dressed girls or a close-up of a naked, discolored knee? Are there that many fetishists out there living in their mom's garage, surfing the internet so they can ogle and drool over a photo: "Ooooh, it's a B.F. Goodrich!"

I know I should be glad for the traffic, but frankly it's beginning to creep me out.