Birds for All

Deer on the Road

2011-07-14T13:35:00.000-07:00

Heart Mountain, north of Cody, Wyoming, rises over 2,000 feet above the surrounding plain.

Not a big deal, but for the fact that the entire mountain is over 300m.y. older than the plain it sits upon.

How did that happen? No clue. Probably "slud", as Dizzy Dean said. Best explanation. Aliens put it there trails distantly in second place.

If it did slide, it traveled almost 50 miles, speed approaching 100 mph.

Wow.

If Heart Mountain were more picturesque, it would be a World Wonder. But it's much too close to the magnificent Absoraka Range, and is best known for the nearby eponymously named WW II Japanese Internment (prison) camp.

In 2000, either the last year of the previous millennium or the first year of this; depends on you, I went looking for Heart Mountain, see if twenty years improved my insight.

Couldn't find it.

What I found, at dusk, was 50 mule deer on the road.

Which raises a question only slightly less perplexing than Heart Mountain: what the hell were the deer doing on the road? No food there, no water. Seasonably warm, no need for reradiation from the asphalt.

One thing they were not doing is moving. Had to thread the car through and around them, often off the road. Took ten minutes to go a half mile.

There are two dead deer along the roads at Mississinewa. One has spots.

That is just wrong.

There is no sane reason to drive fast on those roads. There are roads for that very close by.

A redtail came up off a dead raccoon and, as I watched, two more flushed. So stunned, couldn't guess as to whether it was a family.

Then, what else?

Surely, more skilled, ardent, and experienced birdwatchers often see three redtails together. For me, the first and only.

As the Republicans continue the war on every thing sane and humane, one must wonder if all have sold a collective soul.

Reportedly, a New Hampshire legislator, voting to defund Planned Parenthood, said "We aren't paying for you to party".

Misogynistic, puritanical, self-righteous, hypocritical self-serving bullshit such as this has always led me to a profane invective.

Not this time.

I am stunned.

Monday I tried to cool my dogs by soaking towels in cold water and saddling them up. My big girl Abbe thanked me by shedding hers on 500 rounds of ammo. I spent all day Tuesday heating towels and spreading the rounds to dry them.

More gunstuff: guy wrote in a mag that it was easier to shoot .40 S&W in a polymer semi-auto than .357 mags in a revolver. That would be false. May have permanently damaged my arm shooting 180-grain rounds with my smallframe Glock. Pistol was jumping out of my hands, leaving bruises.

Next day fired my Vaquero, .357 mag, no problems, no pain.

The adage says "Don't believe everything you read".

Always trusted print, as there is a record.

And along comes a TV show, "Hard Copy". What?

Television is a collective lie. Infomercials, commercials, Fox News, campaign ads.

Marshall Mcluhan was right. It's a cold medium. You have no chance, you have no choice.

Except to turn it off.

Few do.

Dam!

2011-05-30T12:51:00.000-07:00

Four glacial epochs shaped the topography of the midwest; Wisconsinian, Illinoisan, Kansan, and Nebraskan. The last, the Wisconsinian, began to fade about 12,000 years ago.

But it took awhile. Maybe 2,000 or so years. Because the yearly average temperatures differed only slightly for the onset and recess of each epoch, less than +/- 5 degrees Fahrenheit.

All readers of these humble offerings are endlessly astute, and will instantly recognize that if such minute variations can cause a sheet of ice two miles thick to squat on Indianapolis, global warming is not a theory but a fact, tirelessly challenged and unrecognized by all who might change its relentless course.

The glaciers were 10,000 to 12,000 feet thick. They leveled mountains in Canada, and deposited fine sand and boulders the size of houses. All those rounded stones you find are glacial deposits. Nothing but limestone and dolostone (white and shaley yellow) are from here. Been here for 400 million years. Everything in north central Indiana, and much of Wisconsin, Ohio, Iowa, Illinois, and all the rest, came from somewhere up nort'.

If you go up a few flights in any tall building in Indianapolis and look to the south, you will see an unbroken line of low hills in a gentle perpendicular arc. This is the terminal moraine, the extent of all Indiana glaciation. South is hills and forests, much of it too irregular to farm, concentrations of caves and exposed fossils of animals and plants long gone, and coal.

Why should you care?

If you look at a river map of Indiana, note that the Mississinewa and White rivers are scant miles apart in Wayne County. But the White River trends west, while the Mississinewa, Salamonie, and Wabash Rivers all flow northwest. The latter three drain a vast area of glacial till, measured in hundreds of square miles, not acres. The rivers continue northwest to flood control dams, south of Huntington, east of Wabash, southeast of Peru. The flow continues northwest at short distance, turns abruptly west, before the confluenced flow turns south at Lafayette. The northwest flow is directed by an ancient feature known as the Cinncinnati Arch. This anticline runs from its namesake to Chicago, and is the sole reason for Indiana's gas boom, of a county named Wells, of a town named Petroleum, of working oil wells along SR 13 north of Wabash.

So what turns the rivers west? The Teays River. More correctly, its pre-glacial channel. Believed to be from 1 to 2 miles wide, 500 feet deep, it carved a huge valley very much in evidence today.

A river meanders. This is a result of the Coriolis Effect, imparted by the mad spinning of the planet. It's why rockets rotate, bullets drift, and whirlpools, even as you flush, always rotate in the same direction. It also causes a river, stream, or even a ditch to turn, in a predictable pattern (1 turn in 7 lengths), and erode either bank. Flow dynamics mean water with a further distance to travel must move faster. Water's capacity to carry a load, as sediment, is dependent on flow rate. Such that water in the outside of the meander erodes, as slower-moving water on the inside deposits.

The perfect exhibit of the majesty of the Teays is on display in Wabash.

You enter town through a 50 foot roadcut through Mississinewa Dolomite (400 my bp), cross the Wabash River, than climb across three distinct plateaus, formed from deposits from the slow-moving waters on the inside radius of the turn. And this ancient channel, scoured by the billions of gallons of melting ice, continues through Peru, turning all three great rivers.

Before Indiana senators convinced the Army Corps of Engineers to build the dams in the 50's and 60's, Huntington, Wabash, Peru, Logansport, and all points on the rivers were flooded regularly to an incredible degree by today's mild standard.

I have seen watermarks on buildings in all these cities fifty feet and more above today's regulated flow.

And that's the story of Mississinewa Reservoir, my personal playground.

For about seven years I was a vegetarian. Not a vegan. There are synthetic saddles, WinTec an outstanding value, but mine is a Heiser, over fifty years old. What to do with it? And I prefer leather shoes and boots, and belts, billfolds, and holsters.

I am convinced I cannot survive in this or any other climate that includes winter without wool. If there is a synthetic material that approaches the wonders of wool, I never found it. And now I lack the resources to look.

Following an accident in 2000, I was saddled with sleep apneas, undiagnosed until 2008. I was (and am) too tired to cook much, and I found myself living on cookies and candybars. No complaints, except unstoppable weight gain. It started with fish, and I couldn't unring the bell.

Today I didn't see much in the way of birds, but did see two groundhogs.

Even as I have killed nothing since before Clinton was president, only last week I had considered killing and eating a groundhog.

The recipe I found was detailed. And, rated difficulty was "Insane".

So much for pot hunting.

2011-05-27T17:53:00.000-07:00

Driving north of the reservoir, a county road. A redtail left the trees at a home and flew at us, 15 feet up. A big girl, she passed directly through our view. It was simply awesome. I could identify all the feathers, that close. A wonderful gift from a magnificent raptor.

And today, east on the Slocum Trail, nearing Red Bridge, seemingly from nowhere, a turkey vulture, perhaps even lower.

These are huge birds, wingspans averaging over 5 1/2 feet. That low, that close, the wingtips seemed to span berm to berm, shocking, disquieting, heartstopping, all there was in the world.

My collie puppy has a wonderful nose, the best of any of my dogs, ever. We were walking a canopied road, he about 35 yards ahead. He caught a scent, went to my left, whirled back to the right side of the road, circled the scent again, went left, then hit the brush to the right at speed.

It was dizzying just watching.

Later, he picked up something and crashed into tall weeds on the roadside. But there was a small, hidden ditch, and a tiny whump, and the least little yelp, then he was off, running.

Sorry, it was a banana peel moment. Had to laugh.

Saw my first indigo bunting this week. Don't want to wear it out, but can only describe that blue as iridescent. If you know a better word for that deep blue with a radiance of its own, share, and I'll use it the next few times I try to impart the beauty of a singular North American color of stunning clarity and beauty.

I have a problem with calling people pigs, as I think it an insult to all swine, wild, feral, and commercial. Okay, "commercial" is better than the practice deserves, as pigs grown for slaughter live out their "lives" shot full of antibiotics, packed together on a slotted concrete floor over a foul, reeking pit of their own waste.

Enjoy that tasteless pork roast, those bleached chops where the only flavor is in the fat.

So what do you call people who "litter"? That is a cute term for those who befoul the world with their trash and refuse.

And what to call soul-sold legislators who vote to deny women the most basic protections, to strip the aged of basic medical protection, to deny needy children health care, to perpetuate draconian definitions of "terrorism"?

Republicans? Too legitimate, for soulless, heartless, human stains.

What, then?

Bluebird of Happiness

2011-05-18T12:14:00.000-07:00

There were several Eastern Bluebirds doing birdwork in and about some low trees as I passed.

Beauty is transcendent, and the beauty of a bluebird makes me as happy as I'm apt to get that day. Love blue & orange paired, and the combination of such a vibrant blue back and deep orange breast is captivating.

There are several exquisite colors in our local birds, commonly the stunning red of a Northern Cardinal, the bright, cheerful yellow of the American Goldfinch, that iridescent blue of the Indigo Bunting, and the intensely bright head of the Red-Headed Woodpecker. No matter how many of each and all I see, I still hungrily anticipate more.

Yet the bluebird is just a joy, one, ten, or twenty.

Saw a sharptailed hawk, flying low and damn fast. 45 mph, easily. Wind assisted. Still awesome.

And a redtail cruising south along Red Bridge, maybe 30 feet up, and I at first thought she was a red-shouldered hawk, which I have never IDed. But nope, wrong tail underside. Disappointed? Hardly. Will never be let down seeing a redtail, ever. Love'emLove'emLove'em.

No indigo buntings, yet, but the aforementioned red-headed woodpecker, too close for glass, and a goldfinch just yesterday, already sporting a spring breeding gold jacket.

Some while ago, in the gloaming, I shot a bluejay in error.

When the subject is nasty birds, the bluejay has a full-time PR staff working to keep them, marginally, below cowbirds.

Didn't matter. That pile of blue, black and white feathers hung a guilt suit in my memory closet I try on several times each year.

I'm a largish (okay, fat) man, whose weight ebbs and flows like the tides. Unlike all my other clothes, that guilt suit always fits. Good cut, perfect drape.

I shot that bird over 20 years ago. Today, I have a nice collection of guns, and shoot one or more every day.

But I have never aimed any gun at any live thing since I killed that bluejay.

Lost Dog, Phantom Deer, Raptors

2011-04-25T12:04:00.000-07:00

Easter Sunday my big girl, Abbe, went lost.

My cousin has several acres on the far west side of Elwood, wooded, lots of water, and a creek out back.

Dog heaven.

Three large dogs had been going strong for over three hours. Then Abbe lie down beside my chair and went to sleep. And then she was gone.

Everyone tried to find her, walking, driving, calling, calling, calling, stopping to enquire of everyone they saw, for over two hours.

I grew tired, and frustrated, and went home, just to be doing something. Of course, when I got home there was nothing to do, so I quickly and quietly went crazy. My worry wasn't my loss: I had the rest of my life for that. It was that whoever took her in would find her much too large for a housedog, and put her on a chain or in a cage.

About an hour after I got home, my sister phoned and said Abbe had just come up the drive, and was trying to get in the cars, find someone to take her home.

Where she is, now.

The road from Pearson's Mill runs north from lakeside, up a long hill and levels out to the SRA sign. I like to walk it because it's wide, paved, and there is much of interest for my dogs on both sides. Plus there aren't many hills in north central Indiana: the Wisconsian glacial epoch of

10-12 thousand years ago levelled our part of the state.

As the hill crests, the woods gives way to an 80-acre field to the west. Today, as I passed the treeline, I looked west and thought, "There's deer back there". My second thought was I hadn't seen any deer in that field in over a year, and why should there be any now?

I am a lout. In touch with nothing: nothing spiritual, no sentiment, no emotions, and certainly not any -sides, feminine, gay, artistic.

Okay, I'm aware that everyone has a full set of X (Female) chromosomes: women have two.

Men, instead, have a set of Y's. Difference: that X-leg we're missing contains expressions for sanity, common sense, sound judgement, and nurturing instincts, plus a few others.

Instead, we have a penis.

So I have no explanation for what happened next. As I looked at some sparse cover in the same corner, a quarter-mile away, I saw movement, then more, then four deer broke, ran north a couple hundred yards along a fenceline, and turned west into cover.

The dogs were in a ditch, drinking fetid water, or I'd be hosing beanfield mud off them well into the night.

I saw a red tail soaring high on those warm breezes Saturday, hundreds of feet, higher than I've seen one. Not falcon heights, by any means. Those fabulous feathered missiles will "wait on" at what can only be termed altitudes, 2000 feet, and more, then power into the stoop (dive), reaching speeds estimated from 180 to 220 mph. And hit the target with razor-edge accuracy, striking a lethal blow without harming themselves.

Okay, It's impossible. Both prey and raptor are vaporized from the impact at speeds that will fly any aircraft.

Except not.

And anyone who says falcons do this "by instinct", I will personally come to your house and smack you.

Miles of Bad Road.

2011-04-08T13:09:00.000-07:00

The longest walks of my life were separated by over 20 years - a lot then, not much now.

18 and in the farthest north of Newfoundland, perched on a 600 m.y.o. mountain, peering across the North Atlantic with radar eyes, we identified and tracked aircraft coming over the pole and into Can-Am airspace.

At the bottom of our "hill" - not a lot of mountain left after 600 million years - sits St. Anthony, at coast side. The salient quality of the town was a hospital, which meant nurses, which, in 1966, meant young women.

Our site was about 3 1/2 miles up the hill, twisting, turning, climbing, falling, a landscape tortured by powerful erosive forces. We had a couple school buses ran up and down the hill periodically, to haul us, and the dear ladies.

One stormy, besotted night, I took the bus down to spend time with a nurse who was on call. Somehow, I missed the last bus back up. As I had duty that morning, I elected to walk up.

In the interim, the storm had turned into a fully-armed Nor'easter, and the hill was closed. Which happened one other time in my year there. When the winds pegged a 120-knot gauge for hours.

It was beyond brutal. My clothing was adequate, but hardly techno: the gear probably added over 30 pounds to my mass.

The wind was so intense, as I would finally get to the top of one of those many rises, sometimes crawling, as I stood, the wind often knocked me off my feet and I would slide back down the hill I had just struggled up. This went on for hours. When I got to the site, there was an old guardshack about 30 yards from the barracks door. I had to stop inside and sit on the floor, gather myself for that last 100 feet.

I was out of high school ten years before it occurred I needed more education unless I wanted to work for a living. Upon graduation, in the spring of 1980, a friend and I hitch-hiked east to see some friends. His visit went much better than mine. I can be a load, and was.

We were moved back off the road by Officer Friendly of the PSHP at Lancaster. At the onramp, we were picked up by a guy owned a couple record stores in Harrisburg. In the van, he had these three giant pickle jars full of caps. All colors. Like a jellybean guessing contest at a church bazaar, only pharmaceutical wonders.

He never offered to share, which was good. Because he fired a Jamaican fatty, and, after two turns, I was gone. I came too in Harrisburg, and remember two things only. One, Jim Salas immortalized and enshrined himself by terming people who live in row houses "row lifes".

The other: somehow, we agreed it would be a good idea to walk across the I-81 bridge at Harrisburg.

Your map will tell you it is only about a mile.

No way.

The bridge is over 100 feet high. There are 4 lanes of high-speed traffic, including trucks, with all that turbulence. The "guard" rail is for vehicles, the top below your waist.

If you have a sidewalk out front, it's probably 4 feet wide. The sidewalk on the northbound I-81 bridge over the Susquehanna is 30", maybe 36. It is narrowed repeatedly by infrastructure, and the only way past is to turn sideways and inch along.

Which walk was worse? The Newfoundland hillclimb presented much more opportunity for death or serious injury.

But I would do it again before I would cross that bridge.

My horse kicked the shit out of a pig this morning.

A stray found his way into the pasture, and Mister Buckles overcame his flight instinct at something he had never seen before and protected the others.

Of course I feel bad for the pig. He obviously wasn't afraid of the horses, or he wouldn't have gone through the fence.

But I have to be proud of Mister Buckles.

Driving a country road today, came on a mini-drama. Into view was a redtail flying low away from the road. On the road were two turkey vultures. One was standing over a roadkill raccoon, the other watching the redtail fly away. As we passed between them they rose, then settled back to their respective stations.

Always thought vultures were voracious, first-come, first served. (Queue theory, like at Wendy's: no one gets ahead by jumping lines.)

But the one watched while the other dined first.

Pity those who know everything.

This is Not Japan. Get Outside, Now.

2011-03-17T17:09:00.000-07:00

Bought a new rifle yesterday. Kind of a kick-around .22, synthetic/stainless, virtually indestructible, just right for shooting at trash on my walks.

Took it down last evening, for cleaning and lubrication. Of course I couldn't reassemble it.

As I lie in bed this morning, much too long, I worked it out. Then put it back together. And, again, it didn't work.

Took it apart, consulted the parts list and diagram, and tried again.

Worked fine. What would take a normal person about twenty minutes only took me a half-day.

This model has had a long, successful run. I traded a quality high-powered rifle for one in the mid-60's, about 45 years ago. Traded the Remington because there was absolutely no use for it in Indiana. Like owning a Ferrari. You never get to wring it out.

My only complaint then was the 10- shot rotary magazine was an asspain to load. Especially when it was cold.

This wouldn't be a problem, except a semiauto can empty a magazine in less than a second.

So I bought four additional magazines. I could load a box of cartridges before I left the relative comfort of my little house on the edge of the prairie (just for you, Britt).

I took it out this afternoon. It's odd. My Abbe is scared by everything, from loud noise to her own shadow. She usually goes to the closet, or the bathtub, during thunderstorms. Nearby shooting will send her to the car, or to the nearest barn. And she even tries to get in any house she can find.

To my surprise, my shooting doesn't faze her.

I put the windows almost down and left the dogs in the truck after our walk, then went back to try the rifle. I heard my collie yelping, which meant one of two things: we had company, or Abbe was out of the truck.

She came over the hill while I was shooting, and stayed, and led me back, albeit with plenty of gap.

On the other hand, my collie is nonplussed by anything. Okay, that's not true. He goes apeshit at the sight of cats and squirrels. An oddity: he has the farthest sight of any of my dogs, and it's phenomenal compared with my collies. It is scary.

He doesn't seem bothered by shooting, yet, when I shoot, he is disturbed for days after.

Dogs. Too smart for us.

There is a theory we didn't really domesticate the dog. That the dog trained us to feed him, shelter him, love him.

Think you're smarter than your dog? He's standing in front of you, barking. What's he saying? You're so smart, you tell me.

So that's why I put the dogs in the truck after our walk, and went back to shoot my new rifle.

I'm there to check if the rifle functions correctly. Five magazines, ten rounds each, a 50-count box of .22 ammo.

I can't find the "round-seated-in-chamber" indicator, if there is one. And the cocking handle doesn't lock open after the last live round is ejected. So I missed count, and ejected a live round.

49 rounds fired. The rifle functioned effortlessly for the first 48. The 49th stovepiped. It didn't clear the ejector, and stuck out straight away, looking like Lincoln's hat.

Shit.

How can one assess this? 48 without a malfunction, yet the last one...?

Shit.

Saw a nuthatch today, one of my favorite (know you're tired of this adjective) birds. The posturing and movement is fascinating, and they are a wonderful blue-gray.

And I'm a certifiable nuthatch myself.

My guess is a white-breasted nuthatch, a guess because I am too dull to put quality glass on my leaving-home checklist. An unscrupulous waste of an expensive tool. Too, while I presume to post about birds, my knowledge is growing, but surely limited. You are welcome to help.

And birds were singing everywhere, singing and calling, celebrating our warmest day of the year.

Great time to get out. The birds aren't just singing for birds, or me. They're singing for you, too.

2011-03-05T15:51:00.000-08:00

Rain changing to snow. The afternoon and early evening here in north central Indiana.

Paradise Found.

Was splitting some firewood when I heard a basketball being bounced on the playground behind my house.

It seemed odd to me. There was a snow cover from November through most of February, but the court was never shoveled.

Not even at Christmas. When I was a kid (a memory that, if it were a car, would be classified an antique by the BMV) Christmas was when you got a new football, a new basketball.

Now, I'm guessing it's sit on your ass and amuse yourself stuff, electronics and such.

Got my first baseball mitt (glove) in an Easter basket. It was a Rawlings 3-fingered model, a true anachronism. It was autographed by some Phillies turd.

The Phillies played at Cincinnati's Crosley Field in the first MLB game I attended. Of course, I took my mitt. Richie Ashburn hit a foul ball while I was engrossed in the box score card. It damn near hit me.

The Phillies have always been about class. Dick Allen, who played first base, used to write "trade me" in the dirt with the toe of his cleat. This was before Curt Flood, and players who signed signed on for life.

There are no sure things in science. Which is why virtually everything is called a theory. This concept seems to confuse Creationists, who refer to "Darwin's Theory" as a theory. Never mind it is proven by everything from the fossil record to the thousands and thousands of mutations occurring every second.

What else explains the 14 or 15 different finch beaks found on isolated Galapagos Islands(largely ignored by Chuck himself)?

Or how about the development of resistance of various viruses to antibiotics?

There are eight classes of antibiotics known. Eight. Resistance is widespread, and multiplying.

A reason is overmedication. Doctors routinely prescribe antibiotics after a cursory examination.

But, far and away, the major threat is animal husbandry, particularly, feed lots. Confined animals cannot survive without an antibiotic regimen. The antibodies are passed up the foodchain to the macroconsumers. You know who. Which makes trillions more opportunities for resistant mutations. There is every reason to suspect that some, maybe all, antibiotics will become ineffective in your lifetime.

The most exact of the sciences is rocket science, a bit of a misnomer. It's mostly math. It's been briefly explained here previously.

It requires needle-point accuracy. Yet, unaccountable influences, sunspots, improper estimates of a target's gravitational field, inaccurate determination of a target's mass, can mean a crash. Or a miss. And the miss might mean millions of dollars, lost to space.

Geology is so packed with speculation and theory, it is more philosophy than science.

When I visited Mt. St. Helen's in 2000, I purchased "the bible", a documentation of the science conducted before, during, and after the eruption. A goodly chunk concerned prediction by analyzing the gases escaping the various vents in the caldera. Despite all the data and analyses, later eruptions at other sites, particularly in Mexico and the Andes, proved these hypotheses useless.

Last Sunday, a new pastor at St Francis at Ball State scared the shit out of all the children by talking about an impending eruption from the huge caldera at Yellowstone. This has been characterized by television as a supervolcano, capable of cleansing life from the planet. Not such a bad idea.

Faith-based functionaries should leave science to realists.

TV science is a show, like a movie. The data used on the show are dated. They present a fast-growing "bubble" on the caldera. In fact, the growth has slowed dramatically in the last few years. The caldera lies about 100 miles below the surface, and the growth in the first several years of the new millennium has been attributed to an influx of magma into the chamber, not an incipient push towards the surface.

Supervolcano? Not anytime soon. Not in your lifetime. Not in your children's children's children's.

Father, stick with the New Testament. This ain't about to happen, but most of that stuff didn't, either.

Heard a cardinal with that distinctive call going most of yesterday morning. Also, the last couple of days, honking Canada geese overhead. Now, the thermometer is plunging and it's snowing.

Shit.

Spring. Please. Now.

2011-03-03T21:29:00.000-08:00

There is a road...no, wait, that's "Ripple".

Danny Burns plays and sings "Ripple" so well, Jerry Garcia sleeps easy.

513 runs north from Converse to the Slocum Trail, where it angles west. East from the curve is a short road that deadends near the lake. It's deep-cut, providing shelter from most wind. A nice, shaded, albeit short, walk.

I saw a big fox, just a glimpse, crossing the the old road. Maybe my perspective, looking uphill, enlarged it a bit, but not a lot. Thought it might be a coyote, but it was way too red.

I slowed a bit, quieted my steps, hoping for a better look. My collie caught the scent, and was off like a rocket.

Sunshine is a joy to watch. He looks faster than he is, and he leaps, and pounces like a coyote on a field mouse, even when there is no prey. There was no way he could see the fox, since my sightline is about three feet higher, and I was looking. Had to be scent. He started barking, a few hundred yards off in the woods, and I trusted that was all.

It was. I worried could he find his way back, but he came along in a couple of minutes.

Saw a small flock of Eastern Bluebirds in the same area a week back. That electric blue always amazes me, and brings a joy bonus.

Today, the dogs disturbed a female cardinal. They are a bit disparaged, the boys getting the attention. For good reason. That red is the brightest we see here. And, in the snow, breathtaking.

But this girl was a show. The colors, while muted, were in sharp contrast. Beautiful.

Tuesday, in an area of a square mile, I saw a Turkey Vulture, a vanguard, the first in months, and four redtails. Banner bit of driving. Through the winter, I have noted a few kestrels, and lately, the Cemetery redtail in and around town, but not a lot. Brutal winter. Not way cold, but cold a lot.

The robin is the king herald of spring, but the more widely acknowledged harbinger is the Redwinged Blackbird. Seen neither. But that lone vulture was an omen.

Good thing. We all need the break.

A Confederacy of Dickheads

2010-12-28T12:25:00.000-08:00

A question: why is a rifled slug gun a shotgun, not a rifle?

The reason Napoleonic tactics turned Civil War battlefields into savage killing grounds was rifling. The barrels of muskets were grooved on the inside to approximately one turn in seven lengths. Bullets were ever so slightly larger than the bore (interior diameter), and were compressed by the barrel, filling the grooves, imparting rotation, spin. Spin increased trajectory and velocity hugely, making lethal an armament with a range of tens of feet into a source of hell for two hundred and more yards.

In Indiana, modern rifles are not permitted for hunting big game (read: deer - go figure). One reason is bullets maintain lethal energy for over a mile, and our typical field of vision is much smaller.

Hunting is limited to black powder arms, large-caliber pistols, and shotguns. Whence evokes my question. Shotguns, "smoothbores", lack rifling because there is no way to compress shot, a bit larger than a BB to much smaller. In fact, popular belief is shot will "destroy" rifling.

Slugs were developed as an option to traditional "buckshot". A solid "bullet", in the large bore of a shotgun, has a lethal range out to about 40 yards (my best guess).

Then came rifling for "slug" guns, and these huge missiles were deadly to 100 yards, and beyond.

So why aren't they "rifles"? They certainly meet the principal criterion.

Horse racing is no longer a popular sport.

It is under attack by moralists (most of whom are despicable) and human rights activists (most of whom mean well).

There is scads of room for improvement in every aspect of our treatment of animals.

All of them.

Everywhere.

In fact, animals are in many ways smarter than we are. For one, their language lacks loose tongues, which means they don't waste large chunks of life apologizing for dumb shit they said.

Another, huge, difference is they are totally in tune with their surroundings, their environment.

Animals adapt to environments. If there isn't enough food, they move on. Or limit litter size to compensate.

Whereas we use everything up. Denude, despoil, take, take, take, until it's gone.

Our insatiable apatite for "stuff" has picked the oceans nearly clean, denuded thousands of square miles of rainforests, stripped away mountains in a lust for cheap energy.

We have made extinct the mammoth, the dodo, the passenger pigeon, and a host of other, lesser-known species.

Can you imagine a pride of lions running to ground the last wildebeest, the last zebra?

Of course not.

Our fascination with that flaming turd, the bible, has reaped living hell on animals of every size and stripe.

That "Dominion" bullshit has been the terminus of species, and will surely be the end of us.

People in the horse racing business are taken to task for their treatment of horses as a commodity, to be used, abused, and discarded after racing.

There are many exceptions, but they tend to be high-profile, and don't usually include the majority in the sport, who never see Churchill Downs, Saratoga, or Del-Mar.

There are tens of thousands paid to play baseball: only a few ever join the few hundreds at the

MLB level.

So horse racing.

Ferdinand, the winner of the 1986 Kentucky Derby and the 1987 Horse of the Year, went to stud in Japan. In 2003 it was learned he was slaughtered for food.

Okay, this sickens me.

Who the fuck needs to eat a horse?

I don't object to a source of protein being provided to those in need.

But horsemeat isn't. It is used in dog and cat foods, and in countries where it is on the menu (Japan, and for one other, Belgium) it is more expensive than typical domestic fare.

And the plight of hundreds and thousands of cattle and hogs, and millions (25 million chickens per day, commonly cited) is not taken lightly.

But, one distinction: a horse's use to man isn't as food. It is only after whatever use seen fit (racer, companion, showman) that horses are slaughtered.

Again, sickening.

In 2008, after years in court, horse slaughter was ended in the US. 2 plants in Texas were closed (by the TX Attorney General, citing law already on the books), and one in Dekalb, IL.

The Illinois case was interesting. The people approved the cessation of horse slaughter in a ballot referendum, the State Legislature approved the law, the governor signed it, and the fucking courts still kept the goddam place open for another two years.

The latest nutpunch was that kill buyers were frequenting BLM wild horse and burro auctions, then trucking our national heritage, our wild horses, to slaughterhouses in Canada and Mexico. By Federal Law, wild horses belong to us.

Montana and North Dakota have bills in State Government to open horse slaughterhouses.

I wish the most terrible and catastrophic calamity on anyone who supports this barbarism.

My Hero - Watanya Cicilia, Little Sure-Shot

2010-12-14T18:01:00.000-08:00

There are two photographs on my walls that are not of family members.

There is a picture of Brownsburg's Amy Brauman, driving past Dana Craighton of Warsaw in the semi-final game in the 1991 Girls State Basketball Championship.

Then, only four teams contested the championship. The photograph was from the Brownsburg newspaper, a print purchased from the paper's photographer. The photo was signed by Amy at the Top 40 workout at Marian College. It is framed with an unused ticket from the game. I have made some effort to get the picture to the family, without success.

Amy became special at the Southport Regionals the previous Saturday. During a timeout in the first quarter after a devastating run by Terre Haute South, she threw a spent tissue into the chest of another player, and the team cracked up. And loosened up, and played well. And won.

That is the meaning of "intangible".

The other photograph is of Annie Oakley. Born Phoebe Ann Moses in 1860 in Darke County, Ohio, adjacent Indiana, she had a ruthless childhood. Her father died in her earliest years. She shot a squirrel when she was eight, and became a market hunter, supplying groceries and restaurants, soon after. In addition to feeding her family, she helped feed the better-heeled by shooting, for instance, quail on the wing. With a .22.

There are many, including myself, who can't shoot flying quail with a shotgun.

It wasn't enough. At about age 12, Phoebe Ann was indentured to a wealthy family. She ran away, and was returned. She finally escaped at about age 14. She referred to the family as "The Wolves", and forever refused to talk of the abuse, which was most likely extensive.

She continued to shoot, and shoot well. At that time, shooting exhibitions and matches were extremely popular, and Phoebe Ann was unbeatable. At age 15, she trounced Frank Butler, an itinerant champion. Butler was smitten, and they later wed.

She got a spot in Buffalo Bill Cody's "Wild West Show", and became comparatively wealthy, comparatively in the sense she had no vices, was charitable, and didn't waste money.

She led an exemplary life.

At some point the Chicago Tribune published an article accusing (now) Annie Oakley of cocaine addiction. How this was accorded credence with a feat of breaking 943 glass balls (a common target of the day) with only a 1000 .22 shots is unbelievable. But the press was all-powerful, and it took years for her to clear up another sordid episode.

There has been criticism, then and now, that, given her position as one of the most famous women in the world, she did nothing to advance women's causes.

I know women, brilliant and learned, accomplished and successful, who are not political. Including women who have pushed through the "glass ceiling".

One reason is that, by an overwhelming preponderance, women's issues are inextricably linked with the right to abort pregnancy.

A 2010 Gallup poll indiates that, in the US, about 40% favor abortion on demand, another 40% feel abortion should be reserved on for special cases, and 20% are outright opposed. But the minority is most vocal, even maniacal, often rabid, too often violent, in their opposition.

The right to abort an unwanted pregnancy was found constitutionally sound by the Supreme Court in Roe v. Wade (1973), a decision constantly assailed.

Let me be clear: no man has a dog in this fight. Not one. Not the pope, not a husband, or a boyfriend. If you can't be impregnated, shut the fuck up.

Same with bluehairs. If you can't get pregnant, shut up.

Which should quiet most of those 20%.

Right.

The idea that a zygote is "viable" is absurd.

Here's a "viability" test. If an aborted fetus can exist without artificial support for 24 hours, then place it with someone sporting an "Abortion Stops a Beating Heart" sticker plastered on the bumper.

I'm afraid to guess how many lives are ruined by unwanted children. And the fact is, the blame falls squarely on the mother. "Single mothers on welfare" have long been targets for alleged moralists. What chances for the mother? For the children?

Nothing about birds.

Being smarter than most of us (including me), the cold weather has pushed them south.

No raptors. Only lazy birds, and town birds, are still about.

Who Do Voodoo?

2010-12-07T11:50:00.000-08:00

Sam Harris is the author of, among others, The End of Faith, a most eloquent examination of the crisis between faith-based and rational belief.
Recently he posted an interesting circle graph representing the overlap of terms used to describe three groups - Christians, Muslims, and Atheists.
To (try to) explain: the phrase "Why are Christians so", was entered into the Google search and the results from all three were collated and presented as overlapping circles, the "overlap" representing two or three shared terms.
Here are terms used for atheists: stupid, angry, intolerant, arrogant, hateful, mean, rude.
I've always been arrogant. As arrogant as someone with a self-esteem rating of 0.00 can be.
As in not very.
Intolerant - bullshit.
Rude - never.
Mean - yeah.
Hateful - never. Okay for groups, but not individuals, even in those groups.

Which leaves angry.
Angry with child beaters, wife beaters, adulterers, insurance scammers, and tax cheats telling me I'm going to hell?
Absolutely.
If child molesters, rapists, pornographers, slavers, sodomites (as in bestiality), and hypocrites are made in the image and likeness of god, I pick hell.
Bush (41) said atheists were not citizens, not patriots.
In that spirit, here is a site to tell you how to report them (me) to the FBI:

www.landoverbaptist.org/news0503/atheists.html

Even if you don't wish to report me, visit anyway. Surely you can use "5 ways to recognize an atheist." Yes, too, too can tell a book by its cover. Pay special attention to "Atheist have too many college diplomas. "

A Bullet For Your Thoughts

2010-11-11T18:40:00.000-08:00

So, here I sit, drinking myself into oblivion.

Veterans Day, and, with Memorial Day, the most important "holidays" of the year.

Reason: currency.

Everyone knows someone who has given his or her life in Service, or is serving now.

In Israel, military service is required. Age 18, two years' duty.

Here, it looks pretty good in peacetime.

That peace was strangled to death by Bush Jr.

Present estimate to withdraw from the Afghan quagmire: 2013.

Know this: it wasn't the pope, it wasn't Reagan, that broke up the CCCP, the Soviet Union. It was their personal hell in Afghanistan.

Hope you had a good holiday. Because people paid for it with years of their lives, and, too damn often, with their lives.

War is abysmally and abominably stupid. It points up what fucking morons we are. Because, like breathing, it's a fact of life. The Neanderthals were surely wiped out by the Cro-Magnons, who resented the "Thals'" intelligence, which was probably greater than ours.

Think we're individually that smart? Build a rocket and program it to hit the moon. Keep in mind our planet is spinning about 1,000 mph, and the moon is orbiting us at greater speed, and rotating on its own axis, and, once the rocket leaves our atmosphere, you will burn tons of fuel to adjust its path even minutely (that's why they call it rocket science).

Absurd? Okay, how about something you need, like a refrigerator?

How about a match?

Yeah, "we" can build cars, but you and I can't.

The bible is mostly about wars. The last 2,000 years are all about wars. And our recent ones, starting with Korea, have been gargantuan wastes of lives, resources, and money

But churches preach to ignore that "Thou Shalt Not Kill" stuff in the National Interest, which beats the shit out of me. Maybe I'm a black-and-white guy in a gray world, but do you really want some dickhead with a mail-order theology degree interpreting the "Word of God"? Or the pope, who's so full of self-interest shit he has to wear a big hat to hold it all?

Facts: killing is wrong. War is wrong. Heaven is empty, but for chimera and Mother Teresa.

Why is it that conservatives cling to and espouse theories long after they have dismally failed, or otherwise shown to be wrong?

Case in point: Reagan's "trickle down" economics. The idea that more wealth for the wealthy will provide wealth for all wrecked the economy for 15 years, until Clinton reined in the National Debt and actually, with the help of a Democratic Congress, began to pay it down.

Along came the Pinhead, with his antediluvian tax cuts for the rich, and the debt rose 10 TRILLION dollars.

That is public record, thoroughly documented. Nothing arcane.

Yet now the Republicans want to extend those cuts.

Pray, why?

The rich did not get rich by sharing.

Case in point: opposition to an assault weapons ban. The ban was not renewed by Congress at its expiration.

Why?

Who the fuck needs an assault weapon?

If the cornerstone of the Second Amendment is ownership of firearms for personal protection, why is an assault weapon necessary? Isn't "assault" an antonym of "defense"?

The answer is the NRA (National Retards Amalgamation) is married to another worn-out theory - the Domino Effect.

It's what got us into Vietnam. Over 53,000 Americans (about half 20 and under) died disproving it.

That should be more than enough.

The certifiably insane at the NRA still subscribe. The "idea" is if they cave on something as sensible as banning automatic weapons, it's the first step towards repeal of the Second Amendment. Which is as likely as flaming monkeys flying out of my butt.

It's the Bill of Rights. We live it. Too goddam many have died for it.

Good job, NRA fuckheads. Spread those AK-47's and Uzis around. Better to have a couple of cops armed with Glock 9's and a shotgun to square off with a handful of give-a-shit gangbangers with AK's.

Here's a fact: of all rounds fired in action by our Nation's police forces, only 30% find the target. Compare with the Kalashnikovs, which fire 600 rounds/minute, and you get two dead cops.

Rock on, NRA.

I hadn't seen any redtails for some time. Then last week, a female (as always, from size) flew across the road in front of me and hit something in cut beans. Either she missed, or didn't want company for dinner, as she flew as I passed.

Yesterday morning the cemetery redtail was on a wire along SR 18. I haven't seen him (see above) for weeks, but he looked hale and hearty.

Feels good to see an old friend in fine feather.

...The Way You Look Tonight

2010-10-24T07:26:00.000-07:00

I done you wrong: in my halfshit description of the battle of Antietam, I said the Union XII Corps was held in abeyance for the battle. In fact, the XIIth fought strongly and bravely on the Yankee right, and was soundly punished for its efforts

I sincerely apologize to the valiant XIIth, and to you, loyal reader, for this error.

Most of Fitz John Porter's Vth, and all of Franklin's VIth, were kept in reserve - 20,500 men.

Porter was a McClellan confidante, supporter, and lover. Okay, maybe not that last.

Shortly after McClellan spent a month sitting in Sharpsburg, while Lee not only withdrew but rebuilt his army, he was relieved of his command and sent to his house (literally). Fitz John Porter was court-martialed for disobeying Pope's orders during the slaughter of his army at Second Bull Run and cashiered.

Good riddance.

We have 22 close relatives (hominids) dating back some 7 million years. There are doubtless more, but the fossil record from about 8 m.y. to 6 m.y. ago is very sparse.

This is not linear descent: two or more species most often occurred concurrently. For instance, Neanderthals shared Europe with Cro-Magnons (now known as AMH's, Anatomically Modern Humans) for nearly 10,000 years. That's a bit. 10,000 years ago, Northern Indiana was covered in ice. 2 miles of ice. That ice "sheet" (a two-mile thick sheet?) brought every "granite" looking rock, from pea- sized to larger than a house (they're here) from Canada, from an area known today as the Canadian Shield. Big flat spot. Used to be mountains. Redistributed into the Midwest. By water.

By 1 1/2 m.y. ago, our appearance was distinctly human.

Think we are the be-all and end-all?

Please reconsider.

Neanderthal man had a larger brain. Maybe if we had larger brains, no one would vote Republican.

And no one has yet determined what, if anything, makes your brain different from Jeffrey Dahmer's, or Adolf Hitler's, or Charlie Manson's, or George Bush Junior's.

Except Junior's is the size of a walnut and cased in concrete.

Think that homo erectus is good stuff? Think our upright, two-legged posture is the cat's ass?

Well, we spent $17.2 BILLIONS on hip and knee surgery.

In 2009.

While our population grew at about one percent, hip and knee surgeries grew by almost 11%.

Useful tools, those joints.

What do you do with your arms when you got to bed? The best thing would be to take them off and put them somewhere handy, because they just aren't good slumber company.

And the way we look: you don't have to visit a jail, or a WalMart, to know we're a hideous lot. Surgery was developed to help the people most horribly disfigured, Joseph Merrick and such.

But what could lead to more normal lives became "elective", where vain darlings are nipped and tucked and tugged and pulled and smoothed, padding removed and transplanted and added. Like a fucking couch. All at the expense of those in desperate need of repair, who often can't afford procedures as the monied have priced them out of the "I am not an animal!" corrective market.

Hey, Cher! Make-up does wonders! Although it won't attach your boobs to your collar bone.
Ever seen Cameron Diaz au natural, as it were? My face would have made Joe Merrick feel better about his affliction, but Cameron couldn't pay me enough...

Does anyone doubt that, without a team of cosmetics artists, Lindsey Lohan wakes up looking just like every other crack whore in her cellblock?

So how do we look like tonight?

Like remodelled apes.

That it no way implies "improved". Want to see nobility, elegance, stoicism and serenity? Take a long look at a Silverback Gorilla. And hurry. We are hellbent to kill them all.

A last comment about McClellan and the battle of Antietam. Lee dictated a detailed timetable for all his troops for the days which culminated at Antietam, September 17th, 1862. Apparently, a copy of "Special Orders, No. 191", was recovered by Cpl. Barton W. Mitchell, Co. F, 12th Indiana, on September 13.

The Special Orders directed the movements of Lee's entire army. It was delivered to McClellan in late morning the next day. McClellan then provided resistance to Lee's every move, although not in sufficient strength to create much but harassment and hindrance.

In the hands of Lee, similar information would have led to a crushing blow to the Federal Army. With the caution and and delay which marked McClellans' truncated career, this historically singular opportunity was wasted. Lee was a bit befuddled that McClellan seemed to know exactly what he was doing, but, again, the damage was not critical.

Cpl. Mitchell was returned to his unit, where he was wounded on Tuesday, along with thousands of his brothers-in-arms, on the Bloodiest Day in US history, in a battle that could have been avoided.

In contrast, the sternest general in the war, Thomas "Stonewall" Jackson, sent Pvt. William Hood up a tall hickory to reconnoiter. He was told to count flags, and called them out to Old Jack, as Yankee Sharpshooters zeroed in. Some days later, Hood's comrades saw him riding a horse with the staff, having been promoted to brigade courier for his service.

The Union's cause was right: its leadership was woefully wrong.

Lost, Now and Then

2010-10-17T12:35:00.000-07:00

At an intersection of two country roads, neither of which anyone ever uses except for the very locals and the hopelessly lost, a woman in an SUV flagged me down.

She was trying to end-run the reservoir, and, particularly, the SR 13 bridge. She explained that following a stroke, she experiences vertigo (my term) when crossing high bridges.

She had come up from Paoli, and had been on the road over 4 hours. Her destination was just over the bridge, and several (less than 10) miles.

Here is a problem: Mississinewa Lake is a flood-control reservoir, and there is one bridge downstream, Red Bridge, which is higher, longer, and more narrow than the SR 13 span. And there is the dam, which is higher and twice as long as either.

Downstream is a morass of twisting, narrow lanes and gravel roads.

I finally convinced her to go back to the highway and give it a try. I led her out of the wilderness and back to SR 13, and then stopped and gave her the most helpful advice, to set the cruise control and close her eyes.

Of course, since I have nothing better to do than re-examine everything I say and do, today I came up with two better ideas.

One would be to go around to the bridge on SR 124, just east of Peru. This bridge is only a few hundred yards from where the Mississinewa dumps into the Wabash River, and is surprisingly mundane.

Still a problem: I couldn't give Rand or McNally directions to find this bridge, and driving there would have cost her about 30 minutes and me, 50.

The other great, late, idea would have been to park on the south end of the SR 13 bridge, drive her across, then walk back. Too bad for the nice lady that didn't occur yesterday.

She said she was going to turn the radio up and pray. Godspeed, ma'am.

As a Kindergarten Civil War student, I am almost embarrassed to comment on the people who history remembers. Scholars spend decades poring over century-old accounts and diaries.

I read a couple of books.

My opinions most surely mirror those of the authors of the contemporary tellings I have read.

Stephen Sears is my favorite, and he has a low opinion of the war record of Union General George McClellan, and so do I.

McClellan was a Philadelphia blueblood who was allowed to attend West Point at age 15 and graduated second in the class of 1846. "In the day", as they say on "Pawn Stars", West Point made engineers, not warriors. McClellan completed his bellicose education with an intensive study of Napoleon and his tactics, capped with a field trip to Europe.

McClellan was called the Young Napoleon, but there was a disconnect. Lincoln referred to his "case of the slows". A poem, "Tardy George" was widely circulated.

The Young Napoleon viewed war in terms of the decisive battles of his namesake. He required an overwhelming advantage, chose every battle as the end-all, the victory to end the war. He abhorred loss of life, and strove to limit it by careful preparation and tactics.

This last is admirable, but the advancements in weaponry (read: savagery) rendered Napoleon's proven tactics suicidal, the battle lines subject to annihilation.

The reason: rifling. Rifling is grooving the inside (bore) of the gun barrel to impart spin to the projectile, vastly improving accuracy. Prior to rifling, a 3" bullseye at 30 yards was perfect - everything worked. Misses were caused by imperfections in the ball, the same reason pitchers (using a baseball's stitches) can throw a curve.

Firing a Minie' (minnie) ball, even refitted muskets were accurate to 200 yards, 300 yards, and further. Overgrown BB guns were transformed into uber-efficient killing machines.

How efficient? Consider: the Revolutionary War accounted for an estimated 10,600 American casualties (killed and wounded). The Civil War battle of Antietam produced 12,600 casualties - in the Morning Phase. That's one of three phases. (The day's total: 22,700. Killed or wounded. One fucking day.)

Granted, two of the major Colonist victories were in terms of survival. One being the winter at Valley Forge, the other the successful withdrawal (retreat) after the defeat at the battle of Long Island (aka the battle of Brooklyn). Both were directed by General George Washington.

Battle lines are most basic: selecting a patch of ground to defend, and forming a line wide enough do it. Attackers must form in a line sufficient to confront the defensive line. To come up short on either end, or fail to protect those four ends, risks being "flanked", attacked on a "thin" end and rolled over. (Thin, because the lines were necessarily thin, as troops in the rear couldn't fire through their lines. Two, and, at most, three lines allowed volleys, fire and duck to reload.)

McClellan, as commander of the Army of Northern Virginia, devised an end to the war. Called the Peninsula Campaign, the plan was to sail the army to Hampton/Newport News, VA, then march to and seize Richmond, the Confederate capitol. Audacious, and might have worked, but Little Mac stalled on the approach, and the Rebel counterattacks took a terrible toll. McClellan was ordered to bring the army back to DC, where the Army was assigned to General John Pope.

Then Pope had his entire command nearly destroyed at the battle of Second Bull Run (Manassas), thoroughly drenching the already hallowed ground in much more blood, and, after at least two refusals (including Joe Hooker, where that term ensues), McClellan was offered the joint Army of the Potomac/Army of Northern Virginia.

(One mitigating factor at Second Bull Run was McClellan's alleged failure to move two of his divisions in timely support of Pope. The magnitude of this "lapse" was never persecuted, perhaps as the Federals attempted to downplay what was a total rout. I submit this supported by the fact that "press releases" of US battle casualties were halved.)

His reluctance to coordinate and order a simultaneous attack across the front of the outnumbered (56,000 Union soldiers to 34,000) Confederates, and his ultimate failure to engage an entire (XIIth) Corps, led to the bloodiest draw (and bloodiest day) in US history.

Antietam has been called a Union victory, with 12,4000 casualties to the Rebels' 10,300. Further, Lee was allowed to withdraw without pursuit.

Some victory, that.

The entire Army of Virginia was left to live and fight another day. So much for that singular victory McClellan believed he was called by God to deliver.

And, contrary to the belief of Pesident Lincoln, Secrretary of War Edwin Stanton, and General-in-Chief Henry Halleck, Lee's objective in crossing the Potomac River into Maryland was not DC, but Pennsylvania. And there he went.

But not before thousands and thousand more were killed and wounded in major battles at Fredricksburg, Chancellorsville, the Wilderness, and other, "lesser", battles.

Much is made about McClellan's popularity with the troops in his command. One point not made in any print I have seen is that, until Antietam, his reticence to fight kept them out of harm's way. Lee continually split his armies, a war no-no, trusting in that reticence to buy him the time to accomplish tertiary goals, such as overrunning the Federal Arsenal at Harper's Ferry, (now) West Virginia. McLaws' Division of Longstreets' Corps was still on the march from Harper's Ferry as the Confederates withdrew from the Dunker Church to bring to a ragged close the Morning Phase at Antietam.

To save the Union, a hard-drinking, harder-fighting, proven warrior from the West replaced McClellan, such that the Rebel invasion of the North was repulsed at Gettysburg. U. S. Grant delivered the decisive blow ordained on Little Mac.

The war began as a grand picnic. People from DC and Baltimore turned out en masse to watch the Union destroy the Seccesh at Manassas Junction. Two things intervened: that horrible rifling, and the fact the Union generalship, until Grant, couldn't lead a horse to water.

Just about anyone who has read Bruce Catton or the Time-Life Civil War series, or watched the Ken Burns documentary, would say had the Union had the Confederacy's generals, the war would have ended at First Bull Run.

As it was, those in attendance, looking to watch the equivalent of today's re-enactments, saw blood and gore beyond measure, then hid in their homes, expecting Johnny Reb to come knocking.

Re-enactments: how fucking stupid. These "players" must be guys who yearned for dolls as children, and were denied by "my boy ain't a sissy" dads. So now they dress theselves in period attire, and spend summer weekends sweating themselves silly in overblown woolens.

The only way I would go is if they used live ammunition.

This Stuff May Kill You

2010-10-15T16:33:00.000-07:00

Some thoughts...

Did you know? After the millions and millions of dollars spent to remove asbestos, particularly from schools and hospitals, it is legal to install asbestos insulation. Why? any sane person would ask.

Because of the friendship of W R Grace and the Bush family.

Grace, who operated the vermiculite mine in Libby, Montana, that sickened nearly a third of the town with mesothelioma and asbestosis.

Vermiculite is a particularly insidious form of asbestos. The relatively tiny size of the fibers renders every standard filter useless.

Grace resisted issuing even the most rudimentary protection to workers. To do so would be to admit they knew there was a problem.

Mesothelioma has been rendered a joke by TV ambulance chasers. In fact, it is a long, slow, painful death.

Conditions in Libby were so bad that the wives who washed the miners' clothes contracted the diseases.

The dumbest president (until #40, #41, and, the clown dunce #43, lowered the bar to people who can't work a zipper) was Warren G Harding. His Teapot Dome held the 20th Century record for scandal until Nixon made Teapot Dome look like a joke. Seriously, does anyone even know what state Teapot Dome (an oilfield) is in?

Fact: not only are the Bushes idiots, they have the morals of badgers.

Chances are, unless you specced your home, it contains asbestos insulation.

Whatever happened to radon? It was the Hidden Killer, until the easy dollars for remediation went away and, apparently, so the threat. Except it is deemed responsible for 21,000 lung cancer deaths annually

Lead paint? The only way to easily recognize lead paint is, as it dries, and cracks, the cracks are square, not long strips.

There is an elemental reason for this. Minerals, salt, for instance, have the same shape regardless of size. Crystals. A salt crystal, whether molecular, Morton's table, sea salt, or rock salt, is always a cube, representing its most basic elemental structure.

Same as lead, which is also and always a cube.

Fishermen who use live bait have for years used lead "sinkers", weights to keep the bait from floating. And the preferred method of attaching the smaller weights, called split shot, is to bite the sinker split closed on the line.

Actually ingesting the lead, not just inhaling the undetectable paint "fumes", for lack of a better term.

Saw a couple of bluebirds and a bluejay, blue day. Some vultures in the road, feeding on animals that would still be breathing if people wouldn't drive so fucking fast.

It will not happen, but a 40 mph speed limit on 2-lane hiways, 50 mph on limited-access 4-lanes, and 60 mph on Interstates would save tens of millions of barrels of oil and generate millions in speeding revenues.

Take your time. Even on a tabletop like north central Indiana, there is lots to see.

5,000 Years of Pollution

2010-09-19T17:12:00.000-07:00

In southwest Spain, near Huelva, there is a mine in operation for nearly 5,000 years.

Copper was extracted first, later silver also.

The so-called "metal ages" are not distinct, with, for instance, bronze (copper-tin) fading in- and out-of-use with the availability of tin. The Iron Age was concurrent in some areas, was sole in others, and non-existent in, for instance, North America.

The Riotinto Mine has a long pollution record. A 1.9 mile ice core sample from Greenland showed "unequivocal evidence"of massive pollution from mining around )BC/AD, with 70% of the lead with a signature composition from Riotinto. A site near the mine found heavy metal and sulfide deposits dating back 4800 years.

Two rivers that drain the area are void of life. No assessment of the intertidal and ocean water quality, but it can't be good.

The Romans ran the mine from 206 BC until the Visgoths had enough of them. During their time, the Romans used silver denarii as coin of the realm. Then the Mauri of North Africa invaded Spain in the late second century, closing the mine to Rome. The percentage of silver in the denarii was reduced from 97% to around 40%, causing outsized inflation. Rome went to a gold standard, which the Visgoths would have enjoyed.

The mine was closed in 1991, but has a new owner, who plans to reopen it in 2011.

To view the mine, go to Google maps, enter Minas de Riotinto, Spain, and there you are.

So what's this all about?

In "Empire of the Summer Moon" (#8 on the NYT Best sellers list) S. c. Gwynne points out that when the illegal aliens began arriving from Europe, the American Indians, all, were Stone Age people. While the Eastern Tribes did some farming, the Western Tribes were hunter-gatherers, not known in Europe for thousands of years.

Maybe all my brilliant readers were aware of this, but in nearly 40 years of intermittent studies of the American Indians, that they were Stone Age peoples.

This is one very large shock to me, and I still haven't recouched my understanding of Indians in this light.

Last week, along a road I don't usually travel, there was a big red tail girl on a power pole cross-bar with her back to me. And Friday I heard a persistent call of a red tail on the wing. Not enough sky to see him. If I was a birder I could chalk him up. What bullshit.

There were three kestrels working fresh cut beans in about a quarter mile stretch, and a rather stoic mourning dove, the only non-flyer of the bunch, even after being shot at for nearly three weeks.

When I visited Gettysburg, we were en route from Amherst, Mass to Lancaster PA. There wasn't a lot of time. I did some crawling around in Devil's Den. Odd, that from amongst the rocks it seems impregnable, but the only chance Lee had in the fighting was overpower the very light defenses there and roll up the Union line along Cemetery Ridge. As it was, Manny, Moe, Jack, Larry, Darryl, Darryl, Larry, Moe, and Curly held the position and the field.

I had never even heard of Antietam when I spent the day there with a couple from the neighborhood. It was totally overwhelming.You cannot go 500 yards in any direction without coming on another location where 2,000, 3,000, 5000 men were killed or wounded. There are something like eight points where the tide of battle turned. In one day.

Spotsylvania Courthouse. I walked the entire battlefield in about twenty minutes. From a church tower, you would have seen it all. And it was totally pointless. 3,000 killed, 20,000 wounded (about 3,000, average, died from those wounds) and the place looks like "Look at yonder enemy. Let's kill them fuckers!"

Later that same day I went to The Wilderness/Chancellorsville. I didn't understand any of it. I did see where Stonewall Jackson was fatally wounded. I was deeply moved. General Jackson was among the master battlefield generals of all time, along with Crazy Horse, Subutai, and a mere handful of others. But the battlefields are not easily distinguishable, certainly they weren't by me, and after reading a book about Chancellorsville, I'm still in the wilderness.

I got to Fredricksburg late in the afternoon, and walked around in the gloaming. There is a big hill from the river to the town ("The Heights") and General Burnside sent one brigade after another up the hill into withering fire from entrenched Confederates, with 12,000 ensuing casualties. What a total dumb ass. Lee would give you a fight: pick another spot.

What's So Civil About War, Anyway?

2010-09-14T13:32:00.000-07:00

My timing has been poor of late. Not many birds about when I am. Happens.

Several American kestrels recently. Always a pleasure to see our smallest falcon, overstuffed with a heart outsized and unmatched courage, enough for a small plane.

No red tails lately, a remonstrance against loving too much...

I was reading "The Lakotas and the Black Hills", by Jeffrey Ostler. The book is an examination of the Lakotas' claim to the Black Hills (South Dakota), based on the Treaty of 1868.

The first half of the book is Lakota history through Little Big Horn (June 24, 1876).

My eye isn't comfortable with the writing, but that's my problem.

One of the book's problems is that the Treaty of 1868 isn't included. References are cherry-picked, helter-skelter, incongruous.

For instance Article 12 of the 1868 pact is reported to contain the stipulation that any changes to the treaty would require 75% agreement from all adult male Sioux. But only 10% of said satisfied Congress, and in February 1877 they assumed ownership of the Black Hills.

The book would have benefited from an editor who actually read it, but Kevin Doughten maybe wanted to see his name in the acknowledgements for sitting around with his thumb up his ass.

It would seem both of Custer's forays into Lakota country, a reconnoiter of the Black Hills in search of minerals, primarily, and the attack on the massed camps along Greasy Grass Creek, the Little Big Horn, were in violation of that 1868 Treaty.

I have a special place, not in my heart but in my bowels, for Custer, and no matter my exertions, cannot seem to void him to the sewer where he belongs. More on this Vainglorious Ego Machine at another time.

What follows is all about the Civil War, focused on Virginia, Maryland, and Pennsylvania. If you are not interested, and that may be all of you, thanks for reading, and log off now.

With the problems I encountered in the much-anticipated book about the Lakotas, I dug out an old friend, Stephen W. Sears' "Landscape Turned Red", the Battle of Antietam.

Bruce Catton was an immensely popular and best-selling author of Civil War chronicles in the mid-20th Century. I never read any of them. I have read three books by Sears, on Chancellorsville and Gettysburg. There are new materials accessed by Sears, unavailable to Catton, and I tend to currency.

Gettysburg. Antietam. Spotsylvania Courthouse. The Wilderness. Chancellorsville. Fredricksburg. Manassas.

These are the some of the bloodiest battlefields in American history. The Civil War accounted for more casualties - 1,094,453, and more deaths (by far) - 623,026 - than any other conflict in our short, bellicose history. The mortality rate was horrific. In Viet Nahm, 1 in 120 subsequently died of battlefield wounds. In WW II, 1 in 50. In the Civil War 1 in 7 wounds later proved fatal.

And these battles: Antietam, 22,728 casualties on September 17, 1862, the bloodiest single day in US history. The 108th anniversary is Friday: fly your flags at half-mast, or burn them. For a tragedy like this, with everyone to blame, it's the same thing.

Second Manassas (Bull Run): 23,659 casualties in three days. This was a battle no one in Washington or the Union Army seems to have been aware of. There were 10, 100 Federal Troops who paid for a bona-fide FUBAR with their lives.

Chancellorsville, May 1 - 4, 1863. I can not at this moment recall what separates this battle from the Wilderness, as in my touring they seemed conjoined.

The Wilderness, May 5 & 6, 1863. Both sides stopped stumbling around lost long enough to inflict 25, 416 casualties.

The real mystery is that the two armies found each other, 10 miles west of Fredricksburg, with the only feature in the area, Chancellorsville, a large house, and still kill and wound 55,516 in five days.

And the granddaddy of mayhem, Gettysburg, with 51,112 casualties in 3 days.

The battle was done early, with Lee failing to realize that any Union weakness lay to the south and east.

The straight up (Pickett's Charge) attack was doomed before the advance order was issued.

Lee was totally out-of-sorts, with J.E.B. Stuart off God-knows-where. (In actuality, Stuart was engaged in his usual work, spreading havoc, fear and destruction on the Union supply line.)

Longstreet failed the General's order to advance, keeping his own counsel, and abetting the slaughter of tens of thousands, for with his refusal the day, in deep jeopardy, was surely lost.

My interest in these battlefields is not in the carnage.

Rather, these are battlefields I have visited: Gettysburg. Antietam. Spotsylvania Courthouse. The Wilderness. Chancellorsville. Bull Run (Manassas).

Only at Manassas did I spend the time to study the battles, tracing and retracing, walking the fields, reading and rereading the signs and the guide pamphlets.

There is an unfinished (then and now) railroad grade, with an approximately six foot bank, about 300 yards across a wheatfield from the road. I walked through the field to the grade.

Stonewall Jackson, a brilliant, driven military genius, had his entire division entrenched in the cut. To his left was withering, enfilading artillery fire 30 artillery pieces, paced by Lee.

There are markers in the field that record positions and quotations of Union survivors of that slaughter. The most moving is located barely 10 feet from the grade, where a soldier lay for "what seemed hours", too close to fire, to close to be fired upon, who, somehow, survived the uncoordinated, mass-stampede retreat of the few who survived this hell.

I was overawed.

Should anyone be interested, there will be more.

Coyotes and Vultures

2010-09-10T13:43:00.000-07:00

There's a road I favor in the summer, wooded on either side, gravel, lightly travelled. It runs east-west, which is poor going in winter - too many cold Westerlies.

I have seen several, or maybe the same, does often, crossing in front of or behind me.

Another country heard from: a coyote walked into the road and stopped and watched, continuing only when my dogs started barking at air. They never saw The Trickster.

It baffles me these magnificent creatures are available for hunting.

Dogs and coyotes interbreed, which requires identical genes.

Shoot a coyote, shoot a dog.

Who would possibly sport hunt coyotes?

Alleged men with spider eggs for testicles, who must be critically challenged by roadmaps, toasters, and of course, condom instructions. Else, where do these cretins come from? As a "fellow" human, you would like to think from under a rock. Walt Kelley's "Pogo": "We have met the enemy, and he is us".

The "dove hunts" last weekend seemed to have been well-attended. The DNR plants sunflowers in dove management areas, then allow hunters to draw for entry on the official opener, to kill fifteen...

This is a "bag" limit. God knows how many are killed. Years and years ago, when I participated, shooters were much more interested in retrieving spent shells (for reloading) than downed birds.

Which might help explain the turkey vultures circling the road we were walking today, near the Bowman Dove Management Field. Although when I looked it seemed the field had been cut, and the corpse evidence gone with it, to prevent bleeding hearts like me from kicking through some brush and finding hordes of unfetched carcasses.

The vultures were circling low, about 40 feet. Maybe circling me. Be okay if they were a bit premature...

As mentioned here several times, these birds are amazing gliders, soaring and rising and swooping and traveling miles with the barest hint of wing movement.

They are largely ignored, disdained, and there must be many, like sport coyote killers, who would favor an open season.

Why? Because they are ugly? Everybody lose their mirrors?

They hurt nothing, no one, and please let me know if you are not familiar with the crucial role scavengers play, as nearly 7 billion people turn the planet into an orbiting shit pile.

Rhinos are cool. Not pretty. Sea turtles? Absolutely love 'em, ugly all. Same with our turtles. Toads? So neat, ugly as a wrinkled butt.

Since we've overfished the ocean, check out what you're eating. "Rough fish" in freshwater means carp, suckers, buffalo fish.

Even Orange Roughy have been all but fished out. You are eating the ultimate ocean rough fish now, stuff dredged off the bottom. None of it pretty. Look up monkfish, need some eye candy.

Want to see an ugly bird? How about that darling of us EarthLovers, the California Condor?

Could be kissing cousins with our turkey vultures.

Ugly stuff needs our help.

This idea originated with my most wonderful and beautiful friend Anne, who worries the media stars like whales, sea turtles, and wolves are getting the money while Montana fluvial Arctic grayling and the Ozark hellbender salamander slide unnoticed into oblivion.

But all of us have limited money to help (thanks to Bush, very limited).

And,again thanks in large part to the inane policies of the Boy Scion, about 4 billion of our brethren need help.

Spread your donations wisely. Check every charity with Charity Navigator (http://www.charitynavigator.com/). No exceptions. The groups who have maneuvered into the most appealing redistributors of your money are often the worst mismanagers of donations.

If I may...the Republicans in Congress are in love with continuing tax cuts for the wealthiest. This is Reaganomics, pure and simple, predicated on the Trickle Down Effect, an abysmal failure.

One of the architects of Reaganomics, David Stockman, wrote a book (Triumph of Politics: Why the Reagan Revolution Failed), in which he admitted the total failure of the economic strategy.

Republicans can't read, won't read, don't comprehend, or are fucking morons.

Trickle-Down didn't work, can't work, doesn't work, won't work. These people stay on the horse, long after it's dead.

I would love to stop bashing these poor idiots. Would that they let me...

2010-08-31T14:04:00.000-07:00

The very first part of this month, a beautiful, intelligent, and usually insightful young friend posted a "Worst President Ever" sign, with currency.
I was mortified. I amassed statistics to show the ruination of our economy, from Reagan, Bush, and Bush again, noting the late years of the Clinton Administration, where a Democratic Congress and President worked to not only balance the Budget, but began to pay down the debt.
I ended with statistics enough to bore the most dedicated, stat-loving reader, and declined to collate them. If you care to review what your Presidents have done with Our Budget since President Carter, visit the US Treasury website at www.treasurydirect.gov/ . One item not to miss: When Bush 43 took office, the interest paid for assuming a portion of our National Debt was 6.594%. When he finally (I had doubts he would) left office, the interest paid to investors was 3.811%
Not only was the debt effectively doubled in those eight horrific years, from $5.73 trillion to $10.63 trillion, the incentive for the private sector to reduce it was cut in half.
Too much stats? One more set, please: when Reagan, The Antichrist, the 5th Face on Mt. Rushmore, took office, the debt was $997 billions. After 12 years of Reaganomics, the debt was $4.19 trillion.

Hope you waded through this enough to be amazed, as I was.
If not, by all means visit the US Treasury website and sort it out for yourself.

My sister, who is much (100+X) more in touch with young people than I, pointed out the young are particularly disenfranchised.
How could anyone who endured The Reign of Idiocy that began 1/20/01, when Reagan and the Stooge Bush 41 - appointed Justices named the Stooge Scion Ruler Without a Clue, not be disenchanted?
But to blame President Obama for this shitstorm is both myopic and moronic.
Now you know where Republicans come from.

Here's a heartfelt suggestion. Anyone who doesn't agree with the President and his policies and accomplishments, who do not consider him the First true Leader in the White House since John F. Kennedy, who are concerned with what you suspect is the President's "Real Agenda", please do this: take off your tin-foil hat, turn off the shitstream that is AM talk radio, and, for the love of all that's holy, turn FOX "news" the fuck off.
Think about it for a day or two, then send me what in your heart of hearts are any valid concerns about Your President.
DO NOT mention benefits for our poor. More stats: 13% - 17% of Americans are living below the poverty line. 40% fall under the line at some time during any 10 years.
These numbers are absolutely astounding, and emphasize beyond all doubt the inability of the Nation's poorest to "help themselves".
So many people in poverty are a shitstain on this, the richest in the world, Nation's soul. You got a solution that doesn't involve Federal Monies? No, you don't.
Reagan's "Trickle-Down" economics only widened the massive gap between rich and poor. (See "Federal Debt", above.)
Also, nothing from the "Zygote is Viable" idiots, please. You fucking ignorant bastards have ruined countless lives, and driven even more into a lifetime of poverty and need by forcing your half-shit morals on others.
Please. Find a rock and crawl back under it. Bake in the sun. Freeze in the ice. Either is better than you wasting more air and resources, destroying even more opportunity.
So help me. If you have a real reason to dislike President Obama's vision of an America for Americans, tell me.
If you are one of the 6.7+ billion who don't read this stuff, or would never admit it to anydamnone, I'll post the same question to my FaceBook directly.

The phograph shows hoe the Bureau of Land Management "rounds uo" wild horses. They drive them for up to 20 miles over the roughest land, into pens. It's a wonder only eighteen (or more) died in the most recent attacks on our netional heretaige. You have every right to be totally pissed. Contact Madeleine Pickens, see how you can help, at www.madeleinepickens.com/ .

Saw something Sunday I've never seen before. Know that doesn't mean it doesn't happen all the time. A Great Blue Heron was perched on a bridge rail over a ditch, facing away from the water.
Of course it flew as I passed.
That always makes me so sad, to disturb a being more beautiful, wonderful, and meaningful than some dud in his rusted out pickup.

All Our Raptors Are Overdone

2010-08-27T14:02:00.000-07:00

As has been mentioned here several times, the "Solunar Tables" are very useful in predicting when wildlife is moving about, on land or in water. The "Tables" are singular, in that they give you the best times for days better and worse, and, barring extraordinary circumstances (you know, howling summer or winter storms, forest fires, high winds blowing on-shore, very low or high pressure, and such) are almost sure predictors for times to look for wildlife.
These tables are meaningless to a hunter with the time to spend dawn-to-dark in the woods, or the electronic angler. The former will just be there, and the guy with the depth-finder and a fish-finder will drop enough hardware on the snouts of otherwise don't give-a-shit fish to keep some pace in the day.
Oh, yeah, and the crankers, the guys who emulate the Pros (yes, Virginia, there are pro fishermen. The fact there are professional recreational ((what the fuck?)) fishermen is why we are all going to hell. Even you, Virginia. Especially you.) The crankers try to cover every inch of the lake, casting and reeling furiously (cranking) for hours on end, until their arms need ice and cortisone.
I'm a cranker of some note, although not in this pursuit. Every "1-900" operator in every English-speaking country knows me as "Uncle Cranker".
Okay, this points up the fact many things are better left unsaid.
Driving east on Howard (Kokomo) Co. road 400N, I passed a large red tail atop a low pole next to the road. I went back and came past again, and she watched me closely, intently, but made no move to fly. None. I was awestruck by how close together her huge eyes were, like falcon, perhaps from a "knitted" brow. Magnificent.
That afternoon I came upon a red tail hanging by one talon from a wire next to a pole, macrowaved.
It is amazing, with all the superanal regulatory attention paid to even fucking raptor feathers, that utility companies are permitted to operate power poles that are not grounded.
I risk a fine for picking up a red tail feather and sticking it in my hat, but Duke can operate sub-standard equipment and bake that same red tail to a crisp without reprisal.
Never think for a second this is a country of the people.

Buckle Up

2010-08-19T17:10:00.000-07:00

Okay, all you bible whores - the antichrist has been and gone, and we're still here, although we're much the worse for it.
Ronald Wilson Reagan was born with the infamous "666" in red numerals an inch tall just below his adult hairline. Make-up (the epitome of his public persona) covered it in his life, as boot-black colored his hair for over 40 years. The country was dealt a sure death blow by his eight years of horrible and destructive policies.
Any chance of even a last-gasp recovery was smothered by G. W. Bush, known sodomite, who so ruined the economy that only about 250 million dead Americans could revitalize it. He was well down this road when his terms came to a blessed end.
Too late. The antichrist, followed by not just the worst president, but the worst leader of a first-world nation in 2000 years, has buried America, and covered the mound in coal overburden.

My heat-of-summer rule of thumb was, if you made the middle of August, things would turn the corner.
No more.
Coal is Big Money. Enough big money to keep Bill Clinton from signing the Kyoto Accords to reduce emissions (read: coal-fired byproducts) worldwide.
And W Bush: born with a birthmark very similar in size and placement to Reagan's but reading "For Sale", wouldn't have pissed off all that cash and signed even if god had told him to.
(God talked directly to him. For anyone but the over-moneyed, that's called "hearing voices" and indicates one is dangerously delusional. Our president.)
So now it will probably be 90 into November, until the thermometer bulb is smashed, and a freezer door is opened across the Midwest that would close roads in Alaska.

The other leg for my logic is the nights would lengthen enough to allow for evening cooling. Not now. Mitch Daniels ("It's MY state, goddammit!) took care of that. In a move as stupid as Class Basketball, in the face of overwhelming support for the status quo, Mitch ushered in DST. How we survived without it for over 35 years beats the shit out of me.
The only people who had trouble determining the time in other states were republicans. Go figure. Buy a man a watch and if he still doesn't know what fucking time it is, he's a republican.

I saw my first (for sure) red shouldered hawk Monday.
Like this: driving north on SR 13, towards Mississinewa Lake, and I saw this big bird standing face-on about 30 feet from the road in a yard. That behavior, size, dark breast - positive ID.
I'm not just a glass-half-empty guy, there's a hole in the bottom, too. But all the things that could have been better about this sighting must take a backseat to how the picture was just perfect. Even, at highway speed, noting the feathers on the legs.
A most wondrous sight.

Lots of raptors about. I thought I had seen an Osprey above the car through the windscreen. But it was the anti-moment. Know how you are driving down (any) road at the speed you need and someone comes flying up from WayBack (Thank you, Mr. Peabody) and then decides your rate is right and locks in about 40 feet behind you? Which made checking out the big guy impossible.
Years ago, I was on a gravel road up near Markle, looking for pollution, when a woman glued to my bumper. I sped up, I slowed down. Ditto. Finally I pulled over and stopped. Again, ditto. If given to such things I (like any normal person) might have been worried. Of course I was just angry. I was unbuckling so as to get out and eat her fucking car when she floored it around and on.
Hope her story was better than mine. She has an ad: she at least knew what one of us was thinking.

Please - A Shotgun

2010-08-01T17:35:00.000-07:00

Bird watching tip: do not look straight up for a bird while chewing tobacco, unless you want to re-examine your most recent repast.

Goodness. Quality information like this for free.

Driving the shore road to Pearson's Mill SRA yesterday, and a fox crossed the road from the lake to the woods.

I have seen few in my life, and regard them as the most beautiful mammals in America. All have their finer points, from the sheer enormity of a moose to the audacity of a squirrel, but a red fox is the whole package.

There is a shady gravel road on the upper east end of Mississinewa Lake I like to walk on hot days. Very little traffic, and about forty yards of woods on either side bordering a narrow strip of row crops, an edge break that attracts tons of birds I can't find and a doe that crosses the road most every day behind me.

There is a model plane airfield about a quarter mile up the road, where some really odd, unfriendly people fly loud droning models that drown out the birdsong. It is a hobby I do not understand.

I have a habit: whenever I see a "gazing ball" I want to shoot it. Now, I've added a desire to shoot one (or more) of these little planes down. Realistically, I need a shotgun. A 20 ga. would be ideal, and a 28 ga. an esoteric marvel. Even a 16 ga. would be just ducky. I don't need a 12 ga. They only really have two uses: deer hunting, which I would never do, and home protection. Except I see a guy with sleep-crusty eyes and one of those magazines like on a tommy gun, shooting up the inside of his house until it collapses on him. The only other use is clay sports, and I can't afford the shells or the clays.

A .410 caliber is great to kill rabbits or squirrels, and I'm not interested, thank you.

So if you have a 16, 20, or 28 gauge you're tired of dusting, I am prepared to give it a damn fine home. And I'll make sure you get photos of the wreckage.

Many years ago out west of Phoenix there was a guy flying a giant seaplane model around a big pond. The wingspan must have been eight feet. I stopped my car and watched for about fifteen minutes, but the guy kind of got hinky and left. At the time I was seeking religious and spiritual enlightenment and guidance from some popular hallucinogens, and the sight of a bear standing next to an ex-taxi brush painted hugger orange with substance drooling from his agape mouth might have been reason for some of the flier's disease.

Another time, a similar soul-seeking mission, and I was hard concentrating to keep the car on the pavement at a blistering 8 mph. I looked out the passenger window, and there, 200 yards away and 50 feet up, was the Goodyear blimp.

Sand slows you down quickly, and I had several minutes to clean myself up and recall that Goodyear, AZ was 4 miles down the road. At that time there were at least two blimps there, for promo use on the Gulf and West coasts.

Even without the awareness aids, the blimp that close is bigger than Dallas, and I probably would have been well startled in any case.

A guy out there trumped my story, saying he was driving and tripping and lightning struck a tree about fifty feet away, but he was so full of shit his breath stank, and I'm sure it didn't happen, just as I'm sure he told the story enough he really thought it did.

If you have ever been anywhere near a lightning strike, you know you damn sure feel it, uncomfortably so, car or no.

Trick of the Light from "Who Are You" by The Who rocks.

So when the geeks weren't flying the little buzzy toys, I heard plenty of birdsong, and it occurred I only know one bird song, the northern cardinal, and the only reason I know it is from the scramble light at Riverside and McKinley on BSU campus.

Oh, yeah, I know the mourning dove. And the bobwhite quail, and the catbird - unless it's really a cat, as the bird apes it that good. And I heard a whippoorwill once, unmistakable. And a peacock, which screams like Sasquatch with his pecker in a rat trap. And crows...

Okay, got it.

There was a pair of screech owls hanging out in the maple in my backyard last summer, but they never screeched.

Plus I'm tone deaf, so when I do hear a new song, I can't repeat it for ID help. I could as easily remake the Pieta from Play-Do.

My grand nephew is doing well, is out of IC, and will go home in a day or two. Thank all who helped.

And Now, Some Music...

2010-07-31T07:25:00.000-07:00

Every time I hear a Guns N' Roses song, I hate Axel Rose some more.

Exactly one new record in 17 years, Chinese Democracy, recoded without Izzy or Slash, two of the better guitar wizards (eat your liver, "Beck", you arrogant, self-aggrandized, overrated studio hack).

Axl has an incredible voice, beautiful even, which could transform anydamnthing into a classic. There's that line in the bible - don't hide your light under a bushel. Axl's talent is so huge, so bright, only he can hide it, and starve the world.

Why Axel, and not Sting? (Or, as Joe Walsh called him, "Stink".)

Have you checked out Neko Case yet? If not why not? Plan to live forever? If so, Neko Case will make every day worth living. If you only try one, make it "Deep Red Bells". If that voice doesn't move you, you have too much in common with Lot's wife. (The Morton girl.) Or, in the words from the beginning of Big Audio Dynamite's "E=MC (squared)", "I don't like music all that much".

Do you need software to use mathematical notation like "upshift 2", for quantity squared? Thank goodness that's all I have to worry about. Oh yeah, and Google's new image search has made it next to impossible to pirate "Public Image" photos for this blog, or to download quality porn.

There is a bird watcher's term - G.I.S.S. - General Impression of Size and Shape (much better than my Get It Straight, Stupid), pronounced, of course, jizz, and introduced to me by Luke Dempsy in the book A Supremely Bad Idea. The book is really funny and informative, he an a couple flying and driving about to various noted bird destinations.

Jizz is developed with familiarity, and is why you don't confuse, for instance, a red wing blackbird with a crow, or either with a turkey vulture. It's done without thought, and doesn't work at all for, say, a crow and a raven. It is helpful when driving to note an American kestrel, which are nearly the same size as mourning doves, but the shoulders, head and neck are enough to tell you whether to slow.

I have been wearing something black every day for several weeks now, as I haven't seen a belted kingfisher in some time. Yesterday I was on the highway (don't like it) and was looking for color in what was probably an indigo bunting. They sit vertically erect, and the small size completes the jizz, but the color is both conformation and endlessly beautiful.

Instantly what for me is the most distinctive silhouette in the bird world appeared just next to the bunting: belted kingfisher. Strong jizz. There was a ditch fifty yards on, but this was the furthest I had ever seen a kingfisher from water.

My birthday is coming up. Rather than send me wishes, please pray or send best wishes or keep in your thoughts my great nephew, who couldn't wait to set the world straight, and is spending some time in the Infant ICU, while his body catches up with his ambitions.

Thank you.

Amphibians and Reptiles

2010-07-28T17:19:00.000-07:00

Took a walk through the piney woods last week and a couple from Connecticut asked me how to get to the Seven Pillars. Turns out I was going there anyway, to get the dogs in some moving water. Which was good news for them, because they absolutely would not have found it, even instructed.
The Seven Pillars is a lovely dolomite formation in a cliff about thirty feet high, remnants of the Tethys River. On the facing side of the river the Miami have a campground, but there is access.
As we five were walking to the river, a frog jumped. The guy jumped about as far in the opposite direction, and I was, of course, six decades past getting to the frog. Good for it.

Driving home Sunday there was a turtle in the road just outside town.
I stopped and picked up the most bellicose, belligerent painted turtle ever.
She was on the large side of the species, which gave her clawed flippers full access to 100% of my hand and wrist. I turned her over and rubbed her belly, which really pissed her off. I put her in the truck bed, and she went crashing back into the tailgate.
Okay, she had traversed about two acres of lawn, and was about two feet onto a goddam hot asphalt road, when I interrupted her apparent bliss. On the other side of the road was at least another acre of lawn. There was no water, no shade, anywhere.
Excuse me.
I took her to a reasonably healthy pond, endured another vicious attack, and eased her into the water.
She dove, blew some bubbles, surfaced, threw me a flipper, and dove again. I left in some haste.
No good deed goes unpunished.
It is noted such behavior is a typical fear response, but every other painted turtle I have handled (not a lot, mind) has resigned itself and drawn up. Not this hellion.

I came staggering out of the pine furnace today, onto the closed road where I saw the bumblebee walking home (one of the amazing things I ever saw, armed with the knowledge why he was walking), and a 2 1/2 foot garter snake essed across the road so swiftly that recognition trumped reaction. And he was gone.
But he did remind me...
When I was in tenth grade, I usually cut through a meadow of sorts walking to school, and in spring there was often a garter snake available. Most were of a size to fit comfortably in a shirt pocket, and several went along for some quality Elwood Schools education.
Whether by chance or design, some became active during Latin class, with very gratifying results. The teacher, who was previously famous for dealing with balky or itchy bra straps, did not appreciate reptiles. Once the snake stirred, stuck his head out of my pocket, and began sampling the ambient air with that famous forked tongue, she would slam a chair into the furthest corner, mount it, and howl until the snake left the room.
It was pretty much a lock that no amount of study was gonna get me a grade. Also evident that I was gonna pass, because I sure wasn't coming back.
Would have been a great plan, except I didn't care at all.
We went to the Seven Pillars again in today's heat. On the road was another frog. I'd like to tell you what kind of frog it was, but Google has totally fucked up the Image Search, and I couldn't even find me.
Anyway, I backed up, pulled over, and the frog sat. I got out and up to him, and, as I reached, he leaped about sixty feet.
Okay, it was less than six, but come see, come saw. Much too far for a dick-wit with a body atrophied to dry cereal.
Cool frog though. Shit, at least I saw him.
I had planned this evening for days. It was hot, hotter than most, and I took the dogs to a closed stone quarry for a little dip. Me too. Except storms were coming in quick, scaring much hell out of Abbe. We all got down to the water eventually and I pushed out into the lake. My puppy stood with the water tickling his underneath and yelped, Abbe swam out to me a couple times, and we got resoaked with a driving cold rain getting back to the car.
Do I know how to have fun, or what?

Do Something

2010-07-25T06:31:00.000-07:00

Back in 1968 the Stones released Beggars Banquet and the song "Salt of the Earth". For the Brits, who insist on the antiquated, a "billion" is a million million. So in the song, the line "Let's drink to the two thousand million" means two billion. The approximate population of the third rock in 1968 was 3.7 billion
In 40 years, the total has doubled.
I became an environmentalist in 1972, reading Barry Commoner's The Closing Circle (1968). It predicted world-wide starvation in the '80's and was dismissed and ignored: too many fish in the sea.
Ahem.
In 2006, more than 36 million people died of starvation or diseases related to malnutrition.
1968 would have been an excellent time to ditch those two insane directives of the most perfidious book ever: go and populate the earth, and have dominion over all its creatures.
We have succeeded at the first such that it will take all four horsemen to rein in our rapacious herd, and a fox in the henhouse would be a far better steward.
For starters, there are too goddam many chriscons, those bastard children of manifest destiny who stole every square foot of this country and continue to deplete and denude every last inch. They rip the tops from the mountains in Appalachia, destroying the entire mountain in the process with the machinery and the wastes piled in the valleys. They drill from the Gulf to the Arctic, and spill, ruining square miles of oceans, killing everydamnthing, and ripping wilderness and irreparable tundra habitat to waste. They bottom drag the oceans for the last fish extant - over 90% of the world's large fish are fucking gone - they shoot whales, which may very well be smarter than we, with cannon, and set fire to the last remaining sea turtles to "clean up" a well still spewing. They kill our wild horses while "managing" them, then turn a blind eye while the auction buyers haul our wild horses, our wild heritage, off to meat slaughterhouses in Canada & Mexico.

It's your turn. Pick a cause, and fight back.

The population explosion must be smothered. Legislation has continued to fail the chriscon, even as judges were named to Federal benches for eight years solely on their professed christian conservative leanings, while abortion laws in this country soldier on with the approval of 70% of the populace. That hasn't stopped countless frivolous lawsuits attacking every phrase of the Roe v. Wade decision, costing millions.
But terrorists have done far more to limit free access to abortions, as guaranteed by Roe. Harassing and haranguing seekers, bombing clinics, killing doctors.
There are 3 (three) abortion providers listed in the Indianapolis yellow pages. The city is a whole damn county, 403 square miles, with a population larger than six states. And 3 abortion providers in the yellow pages. Maybe they're all on bus routes, so the poorest can have access to the degradation and scorn heaped on them by sanctimonious cocksuckers while they try to rectify one very bad mistake. Think it's an easy decision? For anybody?
You can help.
What about the PreCambrian notions of the Roman Catholic Church in regards birth control? A blight on the ass of the poor world, yet Haitian Catholics who survived flocked the churches the Sunday after what would have been the most destructive earthquakes in history, if fucking Haiti had anything to destroy.
You can help.
Suggestion: fire-bomb a Catholic church, preferably full, or you're only doing half the job.
C'mon, you are damn smart, or you wouldn't be reading this.
Hell, hand out condoms on high school & college campuses, downtown at bars, in poor neighborhoods. Huge impact. Take along a kielbasa to demonstrate. A finger leads to tragic conclusions.
You can help.
Several groups are trying to rein in big coal. They can use your help. Don't get carried away and go to Appalachia. You'll be carried home. This is not a joke. They eat their dead children.
Still, you can help.
The Exxon Valdez oil spill isn't even among the top 50 largest oil spills, was only 54th when it occurred, but was the most environmentally devastating until BP did it better.
This crap has got to stop. Oil companies receive government subsidies, as in your tax dollars, and log record profits quarter after quarter, while everyone worries about starving Mexicans working jobs no one else will take anyway.
Want cheap beef, chicken? How about you get rid of all the illegals in the slaughterhouses, people who lose fucking body parts and don't report the accidents, don't even miss work, for fear of being fired, and replace them with unionized meatpackers? How about $12.50 a pound for hamburger, $11 for chicken parts?
You can help.
Boycott BP, boycott Exxon - if you buy either, you're going to hell. Google, our best friend, can put you in touch with groups that will pressure the oil-owned Congress to rein in the runaway profits of these parasitic bastards.
Tough nut to crack, Big Oil, but it starts with you.
Whaling and fishing are almost impossible to regulate in International waters. Try Pew Trust for fishing guidelines, and the more stalwart will want to join Greenpeace, or surely support them.
When I was a kid, the Elwood A&P had fish sticks and canned salmon. Today, Marsh, Meijer, even Wal-Mart, has "fresh" fillets of whatever's left, which ain't much. BP just shut down Gulf shrimp and oysters, and I strongly suggest you learn to do without both, or be very, very disappointed. Southeast Asian shellfish doesn't make good garbage.
What else can you do? Develop a taste for farm-raised catfish. Mild, tasty, and easily prepared, every one's fish for the future.
There are sizable numbers of chriscons trying to pass legislation to reopen horse slaughterhouses in several states, after it took years to get them closed. Here's the story on the last three: one was in operation for over two years in Illinois after it was voted out by the people and the legislature and signed out by the governor, only to be kept open through stays issued by idiot fucking Republican-appointed judges. What the hell kind of system is that? One fucking guy thwarting the will of the entire state?
The other two were in the Lame State of Texas, which enacted state law banning horse slaughter in 1949, but it took Attorney General John Cornyn to enforce it in 2002. Another five years of idiot judicial decisions kept the charnel houses open, until the court of appeals finally upheld the by-then nearly 60-year-old law.
WTF?
You can help. The uber-nutcase Dan Burton is actually on target on this issue. Contact him, and the White House, about the the totally inept Bureau of Land Management and their abominable track record in caring for our wild horses. A recent stay on the Nevada roundup was lifted, and four wild mustangs died the first day. (The reason is the horses are "hazed", stampeded for up to 20 miles with helicopters, across arid wilderness terrain, to round-up pens for sorting and winnowing. Many too many just don't make it.) Do not entertain arguments about whether wild horses are "native". The very first horse, eohippus (eo meaning first, hippus meaning horse), is found only in the North American fossil record.
You can help.
Admittedly, this is weighted towards the horses, as I've been active with this issue for ten years. The BLM is so far a brick. But I'm working on it.
And you: pick one, or find another.
Do something.

Apologies.

2010-07-17T14:10:00.000-07:00

Sunday I saw a male cardinalis cardinalis on a wire. Some dope wrote in this very blog that Northern Cardinals do not perch on wires. Obviously, they do.

There was a red tail on a wire east of Oak Hill Schools, one that I have seen several times. He might very well be the cemetery red tail. Perched on the wire just above and slightly to (my) left was a redwinged blackbird. When the red tail flew, the blackbird immediately mobbed him.

Okay, I haven't a guess why smaller birds do this, except they can. No matter the size of either bird, the most efficient hunters in the world have absolutely no answer for mobbing.

I have straps for my two "larger" pair of binoculars which, through foam padding and a shock absorber, reduce the weight on the neck to practically nothing. One of the straps came off quite some time ago and today I spent twenty minutes getting everything perfectly aligned. And when I went to leave, I noted that one of the loops was backwards.

I threw the glass on the table and left, being ill-inclined to dick with it further.

Walking along the roads at Pearson's Mill SRA, I heard songs from about fifteen different birds, with one unifying phrase: somewhere, in each song, came the distinct sound dumb ass.

Driving home, there was a small hawk on a wire I couldn't get a good look at, as some dumbass left the binoculars on the table in a snit.

This may be the wrong post to make a guess like this, but I'm thinking Coopers Hawk, as sharp-shins prefer some greenery about them. Purely Speculation 101.

Last spring and earliest summer I watched a sharp-shinned in a dead tree for several weeks before his mate showed and identified a nearby nest. Poor health kept me from finding the nest.

This year they didn't come back, and the area is posted as a Wildlife Resting Area, No Trespassing.

At the intersection of Slocum Trail and Red Bridge road, there is a nest box nailed to a light pole.

Several years ago I stopped for the road and noticed some birds working around and in the box. It was incredible. The birds darted about, and flipped the bit of string or twig in the air and caught it. Or another bird would swoop in and grab it, which never bothered the first bird. Like they knew. These were tree swallows, subtly beautiful, and this was surely pure play. Sometimes we assume animals are having "fun", like when a polar bear in a fucking zoo in Memphis when it's 105 degrees is fetching carmelcorn bags out of the pool. Yeah, some fun. Except, you know, the temperature is about eighty degrees past their comfort zone.

These birds had no need to preform these amazing aerial acrobatics to get this job done.

Saw a couple goldfinches - one in the woods, one in my yard (why travel?) But no swarms or gaggles or herds or flocks. One reason could be the newbies have fledged, this spring's mate has flown the coop, and this is an Indiana summer bred in hell. So, if I could fly, I'd head due north until it cooled down a good bit.

Then again, I may not be looking hard enough.

The most frustrating thing in BirdWorld is to see a "new" bird with an obviously defining characteristic. Except, you get home and it isn't. Even. Close.

I saw a bird on a wire with several others, and the tail was completely forked, something I have never seen before. Three trips through Sibley's turned up nothing of the sort. Wish somebody had brought the binoculars.

A red tail came off a wire and flew along, and I was turning back, watching,and the pup started barking and the hawk wheeled away

Okay, I haven't won a computer chess game in over 5 days. There are 10 levels. The first three are for pre-schoolers, one for "Special Needs" or otherwise "challenged" children; the second is for so-called normal kids, aged 3 - 5; the third, for "advanced" tots.

I play at Level 2.

How To Melt Cheese.

2010-07-13T13:11:00.000-07:00

Fact is I do not know how to melt cheese.

Another fact: if I wasn't a glutton, I would starve to death trying to cook.

On occasion I fry a pretty good steak, or get bacon, eggs, sausage, or hash browns right. Never in any combination.

I cannot make a hamburger or cheeseburger to suit me.

I cannot stomach my own chili.

If I stay on track, I can fry a passable pork chop.

I have wasted hundreds of dozens of eggs on omelets, made some that were okay, and many fewer that were really good.

But the omelet problem has been redressed. I have been introduced to a way of making good omelets every time.

The key is reductionism. Two-egg omelets, in a large, sprayed & buttered skillet, never turned.

Stir the eggs, or beat them, if you are a tad sadistic, adding a splash of water. Pour into the gently-heated low-medium skillet: you're cooking, not reducing to carbon 12. Swish around a bit (the eggs, not you) and when the eggs bubble some, add your filling stuff.

S-P-A-R-I-N-G-L-Y.

Not much stuff: too much is about the only way to screw this up.

Add any cheese you like, and as everything sets up and the cheese melts, slide your treasure onto a plate, and use the pan to fold the beauty over.

Perfect, every time.

There are only two ways to mess this up: too much "stuff", because this omelet isn't much thicker than a crepe, and the package must be kept tidy, and overcooking. Trust me on the former, and fear the latter, always.

There is a turn-in to a few acres of pretty rough meadow on the south side of Red Bridge, about half way to the trail. If I have the patience to Z-weave Mister Buckles all the way there, that meadow is my favorite place to ride since we left Crooked Creek to their dealings.

Driving past yesterday I looked over and saw a coyote, full on, ears pricked, about 30 yards in. I slowly backed up, which was an exercise where false hope trumped reality. I have no guesses, sex, age, and stuff, because it's the first coyote I have seen not spread on some fucking moron's tailgate in quite some time.

What I really miss is riding Mister Buckles in that meadow. It exits up on a dead-end road. Once, coming out, there was heavy machinery digging a pond just at the south side of the road. And there was a doe, large, standing not 30 yards away watching them work. I have no idea what kept me in the saddle. Were it a moose the shock wouldn't have been greater.

Going east on the way to the reservoir last evening, I approached an intersection, and there was a male red tail atop the first pole past. I watched until traffic built, then turned north.

Returning an hour later, he was still there. I continued south, and 100 yards on was a big girl on the left, and she flew. I looked for her, and there was a big red tail in a big tree, many yards on and many yards back from the road.

I hate to guess, and do not ever pass along shit I don't know, but birds are every bit as territorial as you and I, and it as absolutely beyond imagining it wasn't the same bird, keeping an eye on me.

There are lots of big raptors about now, and you can find and study them from the comfort of your car. Lots and lots of Indigo Buntings too, on wires, and maybe you will be the one to capture that iridescence on film. At least you can appreciate it for what it is - as good as nature has to offer, and better than we can copy. Keep in mind that 20 years ago, indigo buntings were close to endangered status, given a sickening affinity for the grills of speeding automobiles. They seem to have outlived that, which may be why they perch high, and leave the wires away from the road.

I haven't seen nearly enough Goldfinches this early summer. Not panic time, but time to go to places I have seen them in numbers before. One in particular is about a mile east of Maconaquah's (aka Frances Slocum) grave and cemetery. A chore I'm sure I'll surely enjoy.

Bird Watching

2010-07-10T12:47:00.000-07:00

Okay, a frank, open admission: I am helplessly, hopelessly, totally in love with Neko Case.

She wasn't lost, or undiscovered, so I didn't "find" or "discover" her, except for me.

Just fucking wow.

A pox on any of you aware of her music who didn't clue me in.

I title-picked 10 songs from her iTunes library and there isn't anything but wonderful in the handsful.

In my seventh decade (Stinkin' in the Sixties), hearing her new is knowing I've wasted decades listening to some rather weak shit.

Beatles, my fucking ass. Neko brings more voice to the table than the Blab Four, in any combination.

Neko Case. Perhaps the only person in the world I would pay money to see.

The first indigo bunting I saw was dead in a road near Noblesville. There was a lunatic dab of feathers, and I got out to look. That incandescent, iridescent, high-amped electric blue was otherworldly, but much too there to be faked.

If you have never seen an indigo bunting up close, or through reasonably good glass in favorable light, you are in debt to yourself.

Luck is with you! Throughout north central Indiana, there is seldom a mile stretch of wire without indigo buntings perched. Not together. When you see a tiny wee bird, stop well ahead, inside the useful range of your glass, check it out. Be ready.

Should you think that the only place for photography to go is through more filters, manipulating and overlaying exposures, and digital enhancement, know that there is no photo extant that even begins to capture the the glorious color of the indigo bunting.

Northern Cardinals, our cardinals, do not perch on wires. They are more thicket types, but cannot begin to hide the pure red in most cover, even in summer foliage.

In the spring and fall, migration of a sub family, the wood warblers, passes through the state. Very active, with beautiful, distinctive songs, these are the "it" birds for many bird watchers.

There are 20 or so species en passage, and, like our cardinals, they mostly prefer thickets.

Unlike our cardinals, they are small, and mostly vary by the location of a yellow splotch the size of a dime. If you know the songs, and you have the time and patience, you are belly-up to the bar of outstanding bird-watching.

And if you don't? There is much consolation in the presence of a more or less equal number of sparrow species. While they lack the panache of warblers, they are distinctive, more readily found, and don't have different spring and fall colors like warblers. Forgot to mention that? Sorry.I would love to be a warbler man, but I feel that time has passed. I am attracted more to raptors, who eat warblers. There must have been a first guy who looked at a salad set before him and said, "This isn't food. This is what food eats."

It is most surely gratifying to identify a yellow-rumped warbler, then watch, enthralled, as he picks about after seeds, berries, bugs, and such.

I watch transfixed as an American Kestrel swoops down on a sparrow, not much the smaller, and drives it into the ground.

There have been models for over a hundred years now of what dinosaurs looked like.

If they had originally been drawn as birds, and fitted over dino skeletons as they were re-assembled, the picture would be all but clear.

It's not easy for me to look at my chickens pecking through the yard and think of Thunder Lizards.

But look into the crazy-insane red-burning eye of a sharp-shinned hawk, and 300 million years melt away.

2010-07-09T12:48:00.000-07:00

Okay, I'm going to dedicate this entire post to pro basketball.

Oops! WTF?

My brain just took a crap from my ears down my neck.

I was some befuddled yesterday by a website dedicated to Atheists. I was buying the horse on an examination of the wrong end. I am tired of being an "-ist", and there was never any influence from any individual or group in the my decision. Least a group of "atheists".

Danny Burns steered me around to the other end, the etymology of the term, and it's all so clear I'm too embarrassed to add.

I resent leftist and anarchist. Never spent any time with either, and can't say my politics deserved to be lumped together with theirs.

And I'm a bit of a "-path", socio- and maybe, measurably, psycho-.

What I am, totally, is a dumbath, and I'll share responsibility, along with nature and nurture.

A red tail sat on top of a pole in the humid furnace of yesterday, with plenty of birds for company on the wires to and from. (Okay, I know it's the same wire. What I can never be made to understand is that electricity doesn't travel in the wire, but sets up a field from one terminus to another, with the positive charge tending toward the negative terminus. By all means work that out for yourself. I have nothing to offer.) My guess is they felt safe in the near, as the beautiful giant would have no room to mount an attack, were he so inclined.

He had a variety of pickins. He could easily see a hint of movement for over a mile in any direction.

What's it like? Observe a drop of water through a good microscope. If you haven't in a while, prepare to be entertained. Step back and look at your drop, and what a small portion you are seeing, and know this is what the red tail sees. In every direction. From his perch. For over a mile.

I boarded my chestnut gelding, Mister Buckles, for some time at a facility called "Green Apple Stables', behind the Veterans campground on SR 22 east of Kokomo.

It emerged the owner was a fucking loonie, total literalist Christian, Home Bible schooling

three children.

The youngest child, a girl about 6, showed me a Silurian fossil she had picked up, perhaps from local, crushed stone. I told her that about 400 million years ago, this area was covered by an ocean, and this shell lived in it then.

I moved Mister Buckles because he had become agitated, even stepping on my foot and breaking some toes. Also, they were keeping bitches and litters in unused horse stalls, sensory deprivation I felt was unwarranted.

What little I knew.

E-mail and newspaper stories a couple years later noted that the little girl and her 8-year old brother were step-children, and being treated in every negative connotation of the word.

The worst was they were punished with confinement in a horse stall, for extended periods, to include overnight. They were taken in whatever they were wearing, even pajamas in the winter, and locked up, in an unheated barn.

The high sides of the stall had been wired up, to prevent them from climbing out.

Doing the Lord's work.

Prayer: "Dear Lord, protect me from your believers"*.

A problem I have (see "Shopping in the House of the Holy", Archive, Nov. 2, 2009) is the literalists with the no-holds-barred adherence to the word of god, and the realists, scholars and all other believers who accept the book as open to interpretation.

A simple dichotomy, for starters:Did god invent the world in six days?

Yes, out of nothing.

No, the genesis of the earth has been ongoing for billions of years.

Never mind, this is much too depressing.

I suppose evil, such as that loosed on those two little kids, would exist without god.

Prove it.

For Britt, whom I truly love. I could not be one iota happier for you and my nephew.

* The "prayer" is by Tim Dorsey, via Serge Storms, the absolute best anti-hero in all of creation.

Great Muic and Hell

2010-07-04T17:15:00.000-07:00

Music is purely subjective, its beauty lying in the ear of the beholder, and a lesser being would hesitate to suggest a playlist.

Not this blog!

Here are some wonderful songs, mostly stuff you haven't heard, and all can be yours from iTunes for less than $15. That, dear reader is a bargain.

1.) Pepper, Butthole Surfers. Their music is what you would expect, but this song is the exception that proves the rule, and is worth the entire $15.

2.) Trick of the Light, The Who. I like the Who more than I ever realized, and this one shows some angst you don't expect from Pete Townshend. It fucking rocks, start to finish, with powerful vocals by Roger Daltry. Daltry and David Byrne (Talking Heads) may be the best vocalists rock has produced.

3.) Little Red Book, Love. Almost 50 years old, and would be a re-release smash.

4.) The Killer in Me, Smashing Pumpkins. Why this is obscure beats the shit out of me.

5.) Talk Talk, The Music Machine. Another dusty record, this song influenced everything that followed.

6.) Watusi Rodeo, Guadalcanal Diary. Absolute fun.

7.) The Runner, Manfred Mann. If you are one, were one, or even know one well, this song is all over the nerve.

8.) Second Skin, The Gits. Find it, play it, love it. The good die young, and Mia Zapata was just getting started.

9.) The Passenger, Siouxsie & the Banshees. Great band, great vocals, limited audience. Do yourself a favor and change that last.

10.) Maybe, Collective Soul. For me this song is inextricably linked with Krystal Gingerich. Listen, and you'll know who it was meant for.

And two live cuts. I have seen one movie adaptation that I felt did justice to the book - Harper Lee's To Kill a Mockingbird. The book is one of my very favorites, and Gregory Peck's Atticus Finch made me wish he were my father. Okay, that might not be fair to my father, and were he around for my 8th or any subsequent birthday, I might reevaluate.

I mostly prefer album cuts to live records. If you've spent any time with the Grateful Dead, you know every live track of the same song is completely different, and such personalized music doesn't appeal to me, unless, of course, I was there.

That said, these last two songs are so much better in live versions that it really is striking.

1.) See Me, Feel Me, The Who, from the Woodstock album. I have always felt this is the best song of the show, and worth the price of the 2-record set, even used, even scratched. If you were there, and you weren't, and you stayed after this song, you wasted part of your life. Remember, this was from the first rock opera, and Woodstock was in 1968.

2.) Blood Makes Noise, Suzanne Vega. On the album this is a nice song. The live song is murder rock, and you'll wonder why you never paid her more aural attention.

Then go and listen to the album cut and that question is answered.

If I get any feedback, I'll trot out a few more for your inspection.

A red tail flew from a tree in a roadside woods and outpaced me for about forty yards, then banked back into the woods. My initial thought was I hadn't seen one in the area before, and it occurred I was thinking like a human. A red tail's range is defined not by miles but by available food. Several miles' flight is effortless, and burns up far fewer field mice than the dead dinosaur juice you use to move your 3000 pounds of plastic the same distance.

So then the big boy was familiar, with numerous sightings in an area unbounded by the sky.

There was a saying popular years ago - "hotter than the hinges of hell" - which certainly described today. "Hinges" suggest a door or a gate, and one should consider if it keeps people in or out. If "heaven" is eternity in the presence of a god that lets children starve to death, that allows rape and debasement of women believers, allows Mia Zapata to die on the streets of Seattle at the hands of a crazed Cuban boatlifter from Florida, that visits natural disasters on the very poorest, like Haiti, that follows up a devastating hurricane with an oil slick likely to denude Gulf coastal waters, then I think I'll need to stand in line to get into hell.

History and Basketball

2010-07-03T12:37:00.000-07:00

History, and especially American History, is not a good choice for my reading list. The outcome is not the story, but the flesh on another skeleton in our Nation's closet of horrors. I usually spend the last 2/3rds rooting on my good guys, who usually lose.

An exception are books about Little Big Horn, or the battle of Greasy Grass Creek (the "Creek" is dropped in discussions of a new Custer book - one expects so much better from the New York Times), where one can treasure every moment of Custer's denouement, in spite of the unnecessary deaths of hundreds of soldiers. The downside is too, too much information about this pompous, vain, arrogant, stupid peacock, he of the grandiose dreams and the rim-rider talent.

I am reading a new book about the Comanche, one-time rulers of the Southern and Midwestern Plains ("Empire of the Summer Moon", S. C. Gwynne, available at Amazon for $16.08). Despite being marginally well-written, the story is mesmerizing, except you know the end, and an "End" it is.

A very startling book is "The Mountain Meadows Massacre" by Juanita Parker. There have always been hints afloat about the dark doings of the Latter Day Saints: this darkness comes from the far side of the moon. Read this book ($13.57 at Amazon) and you'll keep a ballbat behind the door for the next visit from Mormon proselytizers.

A bit ahead of me, a female red tail left a wire and soared up to the north, banking, spotlighted by the sun. All I've seen the last few months are solo boys, and she looked enormous, and she was, and beautiful in the light.

A certain basketball blabbermouth has reduced a most singular and descriptive term

to comicbook status, and I fear the harm is irreparable, but the sight of this gorgeous beauty floating in the high bright sky was surely awesome.

Like a two-handed dunk, which scores exactly the same number of points as two converted free throws.

On a more urgent note: Dickie - shut the fuck up.

One of the Williams brothers won the Women's title at Wimbledon, and somebody is going to win soccer's World Cup, probably after a 0 - 0 tie and a shootout.

It seems to me that the "shootout" has shaved off the last peel of urgency in the game, and there is no incentive left in what was already a largely listless endeavor.

There is a market for soccer in America yet to be exploited. Promote sales of game tapes as insomnia cures. Complete with drool bibs. Instant riches.

A bird flew high and fast over the road at Pearson's Mill SRA, and the orange flashes could only have come from a Baltimore Oriole. Drink a toast.

And a blinding white patch on a black bird in flight that was surely a red-headed woodpecker. Beautiful. Drink a toast.

Okay, sot, that's three wonderful birds I have seen through my windshield in the last 24 hours.

What's stopping you? Lay off the juice for a bit, get out and take a look.

It's a wonderland out there.

BP Strives to Destroy All of the South Central US

2010-07-01T13:32:00.000-07:00

As much as the National Rifle Association would like to adopt a theme song by its poster boy - Ted Nugent - they remain forever hogtied to a Beatles tune: "Happiness is a Warm Gun", from the white album. In the day, albums were giant slabs of vinyl, and came cased in a 12" square sleeve, a perfect canvas for the great artwork that was a signature of rock & roll.

So the Beatles released their "last" album, a 2-record collection of mostly drivel, with a stone white album cover.

Why? Because they could, and it is forever remembered as "Te White Album".

I have never understood their appeal. None of their songs survived the 70's.

Rolling Stone, in some kind of huge joke, recently called "Hey Jude" the best R&R song of all time.

Bullshit. "Hey Jude" is an interminable dirge, more Gregorian Chant than rock, no backbeat, no fucking beat at all, a perfect loop tape to play in hell.

Try this: listen to as much Beatles as you can without puking, then crank some contemporary Deep Purple. Schlock and Rock.

By the way, the greatest R&R song of all time is "Gimme Shelter". No arguments entertained.

A kestrel flew from a wire today, the sun turning her underside into a glorious golden bronze, just stunning.

Days like today, the sun only 9 miles from the earth, cloudless, the light so brilliant that colors are either mesmerizing (the iridescent blue of an Indigo Bunting) or whited out, like the worst blowing snow on the same bright day. Most are the latter, so when you catch the right angle that lights up a bird, hold on.

The British Petroleum crude oil disaster in the Gulf of Mexico has continued since April 20. A deep-water blowout remains unchecked, puking crude into the Gulf, millions of gallons each day.

The Gulf is an intricate system, with vast estuaries created in the Mississippi River delta. So far, this area has been more or less "protected" by the massive June rains here in the midwest. As this huge flow subsides, the plume will encroach, dooming, for two, gulf oysters and shrimp. Hope you aren't attached.

But that's not all. A "dry" summer and fall will bring this shit up into the bayous, and they will not recover.

In 1991, the Iraqi army invaded Kuwait on a green light from Donald Rumsfeld, acting for Bush 41. Iraq claimed Kuwait had slant drilled into Iraqi oil reserves. As they withdrew, the Iraqis set fire to nearly 700 oil wells, and mined the area.

Oil Money Bush could not abide this turn, and ordered the retreating Iraqi column destroyed, all 24 miles of it, incinerating perhaps a million Iraqi soldiers.

Point: this annihilation left the Iraq Army completely destroyed, which made them pretty easy pickins in Bush 43's War, and he couldn't even win that.

Counting all the time it took to secure the area, clear out the land mines, get equipment in place, and finally get to work on the wells, Texas studs working for Red Adair (RIP - he created the science), Boots & Coots, and others, got the fires out in nine fucking months.

Serious, what are these Brit pussies doing? This isn't the North Sea. Put a couple of Red's cowboys in the Alvin II and send them down for a look. Should have it capped by Saturday.

A flash of the most brilliant yellow anywhere and I saw a goldfinch in full display. This is color at its most pure, like that indigo bunting, like the singular blue of the Eastern Bluebird, and the heartstopping red of the Northern Cardinal.

The cardinal is our State Bird, and every bit worthy. It is similarly honored by six other states, including Kentucky, Illinois, and Ohio. Our State Tree is the Tulip Poplar, regal, statuesque, and altogether a most appropriate representative. The flowers, found only in the crown, are truly tulip-like, green with the very most pale orange "trumpet".

Our State Flower is a miserable stinky bush, the peony. They aren't even Indiana natives.

My house came with a small flock which I dug up and foisted off. Then I put the Garden Weasel to work.

No difference. Still they come. I've thrown in the towel, and now just wait for a good rain or an ant herd to drive the ugly blooms to the ground.

While we've joined the crowd on a state bird, nobody else favors the peony - for very good reason.

We have several indigenous orchids, hard to find (why they're still here) but around in some numbers, roses wild enough and each with outstanding qualities, and violets. Don't sniff at violets - five states honor them.

Today I saw a large stand of black-eyed susans, good enough for Maryland, and me.

Did you know 41 states have a State Insect? Most are butterflies, honeybees, or ladybugs.

What should ours be? Deer tick? Mosquito? Housefly? Blood-sucking Republican leech? Oh wait. Leeches are annelids, but, like Republicans, they are hermaphrodites, which explains where Republicans come from.

How about a State Reptile/Amphibian? Fully half the states have one or both, and a dozen of those honorees live here. My guess is many states have reptiles and/or amphibians because few people know there's a difference.

Did anybody read where a turtle dove can fly 55mph?

Bumblebees and Teabaggers

2010-06-29T13:37:00.000-07:00

The closed road at Mississinewa Lake has access to a path through pine woods, cut for an annual fitness event the DNR holds there. Coming off the path onto the road, I noted a bumblebee walking west.

Put me in mind of a song - "Poor Little Robin" - ("walking to Missouri, he can't afford to fly"), by Sammy Kaye in 1952. I had thought it was by Perry Como, who became ancient history with the introduction of Valium.

That "he can't afford to fly" is perfect for our bumblebee, according to Bernd Heinrich, the bugworld virtuoso of the printed word. Writing in Bumblebee Economics, Professor Heinrich states bumblebees only store (as in eat) enough calories for the proposed roundtrip. Any reason at all - windgusts, interference from other creatures, misinformation from other mates - and the bumblebee walks home. As mine was doing.

Verily, if you don't find this absolutely incredible, you should lock yourself in your car trunk next weekend, do a goodly bit of reflection and reevaluation.

The birds on the wires all flew today, for no particular reason I could identify. The only sure ID's were a couple of redwing blackbirds, with that beautiful orange-and-yellow bar pattern on the upper wing, near the shoulder. A wildlife biologist once told me that researchers blacked out these colors on males, and they couldn't get laid with a blank check.

I picked a painted turtle off the road and took it to a creekside in a woods. It is amazing how good such a totally simple act made me feel. It takes a bit of convergence - you and the turtle, plus the cars that have missed it, and the cars that haven't tried to hit it. I'm not quite on the butterfly-farts-in-Ghana-tornado-in-Oklahoma train, but stuff lines up some.

Like intersecting my bumblebee at that point, "my" Pearson's Mill red tail dropping its catch just feet away, looking out a window as an oriole flies past, a turtle in the road I didn't hit but glimpsed enough to back up a couple hundred yards to "save".

I had wanted to post some comments on the teabaggers, but I'm just not up to it. This, though:

I tend to be the least bit liberal, am a strict constitutionalist, strongly in favor of the Amendments and the Bill of Rights, and especially sensitive to the guarantees of Human Rights, an atheist with a fondness for the Ten Commandments and that gem from Jesus' Sermon on the Mount: "Do unto others as you would have them do unto you". My feeling is that "Golden Rule" would solve just about every social dispute, if it were heeded.

Never mind that all the teabaggers are fucking idiots. What most especially gripes my ass is their usurpation of one of our hallowed moments in American History, the Boston Tea Party. How this in any way relates to the drivel and verbal drool they spew confounds me, except as an act of civil disobedience, also known as sedition.

Rave on, morons. The only people listening are Republicans, who fear a split in the flock, as anyone dumb enough to vote Republican could find your crap attractive.

Seriously, I cannot understand how airheaded gasbags like these don't blow away in a moderate wind.

Driving home this evening an oncoming car and mine nearly scissored a kestrel intent on roadfood. Clean miss, happily.

A kestrel on a wire is the same size as a turtle dove. The difference is the kestrel has no neck. The mourning dove has a long neck and a very small head.

Don't be fooled by that diminutive cranium. The bird has the brain power to propel those few ounces of feathers and hollow bones to speeds of 55 mph. Know how fast that is? Try this: buckle up, set the cruise control on 55, then open the door and look down.

Bird brain, indeed.

Time and Beauty

2010-06-26T16:59:00.000-07:00

Monday was the Longest Day of the Year, made even longer by Mitch Fucking Daniels, the same self-serving asswipe who gave away the Toll Road to, quote, Balance the Budget, endquote.

The woebegone State of Indiana had but two guaranteed money-makers - the Toll Road and the Hoosier Lottery. The above named fuckstain gave away the Toll Road and tried to privatize the Lottery.

Never mind the funds generated by the lottery aren't allocated as promised. That promise has been abnegated several times by the people you sent to State Legislature. And, if you didn't vote, the fault is yours.

Although Hoosiers had been opposed to DST for almost 35 years, Daniels kicked it up our collective ass for no apparent reason. Except, of course, because he could. Now, schoolbusses run the majority of their annual routes in the dark. Can you say "unsafe"?

Tuesday - Thursday was my worst three-day span not spent in ICU.

But the raptors are out in abundance. What a display, what great clean fun!

Got my softly larded self out the door before 8AM last Sunday and found "my" Converse Cemetery red tail on his usual perch.

The cemetery is an elongated rectangle, with one lane in the middle on the long axis. In the old, western third of the grounds, there are two evenly spaced pine trees of some age along this middle road, and the buteo perches high in a south-facing dead area in the inner tree. On Tuesday, I kept to the outer road, and he stuck around for my walk.

This is a first, and a Big Deal, a little bit of tolerance, the tiniest hint of acceptance. I never would have, could have, thought this could happen.

My pup was circling a three-foot wide headstone at Thrillkill Cemetery as fast as he could go, reversing once or twice, as I hobbled over. As I was getting there, he caught a little animal and threw it, and it returned immediately to making tombstone laps.

It was a baby chipmunk, completely out of its mind, ready to vote Republican, and I got the puppy away to give it a chance to live, should its heart slow to about eight thousand beats a second.

At Pearson's Mill, there is a nice steep road to the top of the hill above the him/hers. There is a ditch along a stretch, with a concrete lining, owing to the steepness of the hill and the massive amounts of dollars wasted on these three flood-control reservoirs. The bottom of the ditch is two and three feet lower than the road. As I was struggling up the hill, reading a book, my collie pup came thundering up the ditch, and, as I looked, saw "my" Pearson's Mill red tail at my waist level, leading the collie by scant yards, and he dropped what he had and made a hard right when the bank leveled and headed on up into the woods. After I found where my breath was hidden, I searched in vain for his lost prize, and guessed he hadn't killed it.

One day this past week was bluebird day, with at least three confirmed on wires along a stretch of road. The next day the Indigo Buntings had usurped those beauties, and I saw two for sure and three very probable (behavior, size: the light wasn't good for color, a stellar reason to learn your birds without it) along the same stretch.

I drove under two kestrels, sitting as close together (forty or so feet) as I've ever seen. They just about always fly, and the first one did, quickly, but the other spread her wings in balance, backlit by the sun, so beautiful, stunning, before she, too, flew. Take a look in your rear-view mirror. They alight in their own tracks.

And I saw a Baltimore Oriole just north and east of town, on the wing, in an area I have never seen anything. For me orioles are always major, as our paths so seldom cross.

"Baltimore" Oriole is one the taxonomists got right, changed to "Eastern" Oriole then changed back.

Not so brontosaurus. I learned this prehistoric leviathan when I was 5, from an older neighbor's dinosaur set. But, after I graduated college with a degree in geology, the name was changed to something I don't know to this day. Why? Again, don't know. It's not like it was named "sparrow" or "caterpillar" or "rugby", something confusing.

And Haileys Comet. At least we thought so, until it (sort of) showed up. It was a fizzle, and then there was supposed to be a typo, so after 75 years it became a.) not worth waiting another 75 years for and b.) Halley's Comet, although few cared by then.

Not at all like Hale-Bopp, which showed up like a death star, in the eastern sky and headed for us, apparently full on, early one morning in March 1997. It looked like the apocalypse, and it was for 39 members of the completely ridiculous cult Heaven's Gate, named after the worst movie in history, until Waterworld. Now that was a comet, unlike the abysmal Kohotuek, all but invisible to the naked eye, and no death toll. There have been eclipses did better than that.Remember the Neanderthal? Good for you. Except they're "Neandertahl". Guessing one showed up one day, said "All ya'all got it all wrong".

Two mink crossed the closed road I routinely walk at Mississinewa. They are all but indistinguishable from weasel at the forty yards my 60+ year-old-eyes spotted them, and I was inclined towards weasels, as mink stink, a very heavy musk, and the dogs didn't pick it up as we crossed their trail.

But they were just too dark, and mink they were, and mink they'll stay.

2010-06-12T06:23:00.000-07:00

Rooting around in i tunes I found a band named "Anal Thunder".

Feel free to preview any or all of their songs, tell me what you think.

Although I highly and strongly recommend Pepper by "Butt Hole Surfers". Don't be off-put by the band name, and don't miss this song.

I found the Thunder looking for another - "Band of Skulls" - improbably recommended in the New York Times Book Review.

The book review has long been one of my very favorite magazines. I subscribed for years, but recent financial adjustments have priced it out of my reach. I take this moment to Officially Damn to Hell the three people most responsible for this. May you all die slowly and painfully and burn in the hottest corner for eternity.

I read the book review online now. As does any pre-Korean War baby with achy bones and an unsuitable computer chair, I prefer a hard copy 87 to 1. Plus, my attention span could only be mapped using fractals (thank you, Anne), and sitting in my chair for more than a couple minutes is about as likely as if I had fire ants in my pants.

There are two new books about, one a chronicle of Custer, the other Quannah Parker and the Comanche Nation.

Custer has been rescued from ignominy and dereliction, making a judgement call that cost the US the lives of 257 men, good and true, and his flaming asshole self.

Custer was a moron with much charisma, graduating last in his class at West Point. (What recent idiot president does this bring to mind?) He was rather more successful as a cavalry officer in the Civil War (hell, even Bush nutz learned to fly a plane), but the review, by Bruce Barcott, whose "Last Flight of the Scarlet Macaw" I liked very much, gives credit to a Custer-led charge for turning the tide at Gettysburg. I am by no means a scholar, but I take issue with this particular assertion.

The Battle at Gettysburg was lost by the South because of rare tactical and field blunders of leadership by the officer staff, from Lee down. There was hesitancy to advance when an advantage offered, and the subsequent debacles, such as Pickett's charge, coming much too late and directed at a strong, easily defensible ridge, when the entire rear of the Union Army was all but undefended.

Lee picked the wrong battle to be indecisive, but may be forgiven some, as his best General, easily one of the very best generals of all time, Thomas "Stonewall" Jackson, had been killed less than two months previously. And, his most reliable scout and fire extinguisher, cavalryman J. E. B. Stuart, was caught up in the fun of easy pickings of supply depots 20 miles in the Union rear, costing Lee valuable reports of battlefield salients and weaknesses.

In my readings, Custer is mentioned only as being there. Much, much more is made of Stuart not being there, the only blemish on a stellar career, yet cited by some southern historians as "the" reason the South lost Gettysburg, and the war. But there is plenty of blame to spread around Lee's officer corps to make Stuart's absence all but meaningless.

I will absolutely pass on another book on Custer. The story of the Comanche Nations appear to be must-reading, and certainly a necessity is an upcoming release about the Lakota (Sioux).

Never mind those are the guys who kicked Custer's ass to hell. Crazy Horse belongs on any list with Jackson.

I spent this month in 1966 as a 17-year-old in basic training near San Antonio, Texas. Just the most wonderful place for a kid with the lowest self image and literally starving for approval.

We bunked on the second floor of our barracks. One beautiful June Texas morning, the DI (training instructor, or "Drill" Instructor) threw my foot locker out the window. The reason? So obvious, really. There was some toothpaste residue in the neck of my tube. In the interests of National Security, the neck of a toothpaste tube had to be cleaned, on the inside. Somehow, that morning, I must have missed some.

We had a few Negroes, and they kept together in a far corner of the barracks. Being from Elwood, Indiana, I had never spoken with a Negro. Ever.

(Note: this was before a race a thousand thousand shades of brown came to be called "Black". With all due respect, I will point out that the Jockey Club of America took the opposite tack: all dark horses are "dark bay or brown". This includes Sunday Silence, the beautiful velvety black stallion with the map of India on his forehead.)

So one evening I made my way down to the corner, and said something I thought was witty. The oldest guy of the group threatened to cut me if I ever came near him again. I left.

Later a couple of the other guys were there said not to worry about it, he was full of shit.

So I didn't worry about it, although I did consider beating the shit out of him for a couple of days. But, wisely, I let it go.

And stayed away.

At the railroad crossing next to the Converse Cemetery Thursday evening, a couple of meadow voles were scampering about, and quickly made the tall grass. According to the Princeton guide to mammals of North America, this is the most prolific mammal on earth. Easy to believe, as I'm almost 62 and I've already seen two.

2010-06-09T17:37:00.000-07:00

There has been a dearth of raptors about. "My" cemetery hawk, not seen in months.

"My" Pearson's Mill hawk - same.

So few American Kestrels, one or two, and too often, none. Like today.

This may be the season, for the natural reason, but I am derelict in manner, appearance, attitude, and in matters necessary to present even a mediocre blog, and really don't feel up to the research necessary in cross-referencing a half dozen and more books on the subject to provide dependable information.

So, yeah, they're all off screwing and hatching and fledgling and shit.

Except today I spotted a pair of red tails about a quarter mile away, high, about sixty yards apart, crossing an open field to a woods.

If you were with me and I pointed this out, you would tell me to roll down the windows, as it stinks in the truck because I'm full of crap.

Counting stragglers and lost strays, there are a few over 700 bird species available for viewing in our beloved country. There are about 200 here in Indiana in a given year, many for a very short time and in very spotty locales.

If you never thumbed a bird guide, never paid the least attention, you know about twenty birds by sight or song, about 10% of every species that dares to show face hereabouts.

A casual weekend with some glass and a guide or two, and you'll get to about forty, and you are ready to identify about everything you'll encounter in casual observation. As important you'll immediately know what you don't know, which saves oodles of time, should you find yourself interested in just what the hell you're looking at.

The First Rule of Identification, according to me, is, If it's not supposed to be here, it probably isn't.

Don't buy a Western Field Guide unless you are heading that way.

Petersen Guides are Biblical in the bird lover's library, a Rosetta Stone to put a name on a tiny bundle of feathers.

I don't own one. I have over 20 guides to birds (yeah, you're right, I've never actually read any of them), but none are Petersen's. Because the "range" maps, where the birds most always are, are in a different section from the identifications - descriptions, pictures, habits, etc. Which is in direct conflict with the First Rule: all those things may seem apropos, but if it ain't supposed to be here, it probably ain't here.

You can be an expert just by watching the birds you know a little bit. The term "birding" is in vogue, but I reject it. To me, it smacks of "tallying", adding a bird to your "list" and moving on.

Because if you watch birds, like the magnificent red tail hawk, you will know that the only other bird of this size you will encounter regularly is the turkey vulture, and, as noted here previously, these birds soar and glide, moving literally miles through the air without so much as a wing flap. Majestic, stunning, captivating.

Buteos, including red tail hawks, have a distinctive, tell-tale, flap-flap-flap glide flight, and the second time you see it you will know it for life.

Unless you are a hideously slow study, which begs the question Why are you reading this stuff, anyway?

Not convinced to take another look?

Find some swifts or swallows. Doesn't matter which. If you want to know which, one has a forked tail.

These tiny rocket ships will reset your appreciation for amazing. They fly at blazing speeds through the most crowded yards, often seeming to scorch the grass, and make turns, swoops, dives, and vertical ascents that would render one unconscious at the very onset, if on-board.

Here's a fun part: see if you can spot that fork tail.

Good luck and much sheer joy!

For Krystle, an Angel Driven Away

2010-06-04T14:08:00.000-07:00

Our system of measuring time is totally illogical, and may in fact be the stonewall keeping most of us from understanding modern physical assessments and definitions of the dimension we occupy.
Today "is" June 4, 2010.
On June 4, 2009, at about 10:40PM, in front of her darkened home, wrapped in a black shawl against a cool night, 14-year-old Krystle Danae Gingerich stepped into the path of an animal-transport semi-trailer rig, rather than face once again what waited for her in her own home, the kind of horror and degradation which should be the bane of any god, and never expected in the Amish Community.
That very community, with its literal interpretation of a book rewritten a hundred, a thousand times over the Centuries, at the whim and whimsy of anyone in position to direct a redaction, a deletion, an addition, a complete overhaul, left a muddled document with the Big X intact, but open to enough speculation to keep televangelists and other firebreathers, and that beached whale of the christian world, the catholic church, at sea for over 2000 years.
Along the way some moron gave "man" dominion over everything on earth - birds of the air, fishes of the seas, beasts of the lands, women. "Go forth and multiply." Well, we have. Billions upon billions, using the land and its resources as if our goal is to reduce the earth to sand. And very soon.
We are proceeding nicely apace.
And we are determining which of the Big X means more than the others.
Christian Nations waged the most lethal wars in the last 200 years, as we continue to become more efficient warriors. Some Christian Nations, even in the face of the unequivocally worded "Thall Shalt Not Kill" regularly exercise a death penalty.
"Honor Thy Father and Mother" is a joke.
The commandment isn't TO "Bear False Witness".
And somehow, in all this "confusion", Wesley Gingerich, a god-fearing amishman, raped and sodomized and humiliated his baby daughter until, a year ago, she found refuge under eighteen wheels.
Time has been routinely posited as another dimension, yet we cannot measure time in the most rudimentary sense.
The most pressing need is to measure night and day, but night and day are the same length only two times a year, and not where you are.
There is the year: a measure of the time it takes the earth to circumnavigate the sun, 52 weeks, 365 days.
But yesterday, Thursday, was the night Krystle died, June 4, 2009. So today is the anniversary, one year later, because there are 365 days required to make an orbit of the sun. But it takes 365 1/4 days to circumscribe the sun, so every fourth year, we have to add a day.
There are 12 months, each approximating a period of the moon.
But the months range over 4 different totals of days, none of which equal the 27 1/3 days it takes the moon to orbit the earth. So there are 12 months but 13 "full" moons, except in leap year, when there are 14. The hours in a day, which don't effectively measure the light/dark of a day, which changes every day, are made up of hours, which, actually, don't mean much. There are sixty minutes in an hour and sixty seconds in a minute, for no reason I know of. Much past cooking stuff, which should always be done to temperature anyway, neither seems to have intrinsic merit. Tenths and hundredths and thousandsths of a second are required for clocking most sporting activities.
The Official Clock used to be calibrated on the growth rate of hair on a lamb's testicular sac on a hill overlooking Dunforth, Scotland.
Okay I made that up. Now it's measured by rate of decay of a single aluminum atom. It is, according to NIST (National Institute of Standards and Technology) accurate to plus/minus 1 second in 3.7 billion years. Which should tell you everything you need to know about our "time". It is precise to about half the age of the earth, and apropos of absolutely nothing.
So if you have even a clue what time it is, or the date, or the Century, forget string theory.
You ain't gonna get it.

A beautiful blonde baby has been in the ground a year.
She can forget about justice. She ain't gonna get any.
Rest In Peace, Sweetest Princess. There was none in your life.

2010-05-25T16:48:00.000-07:00

Shortly before my self-imposed hiatus, I was driving north from Converse on Hwy. 513.

S.R. 513 was built by INDOT when the Mississinewa Dam was under construction in the '60's. State policy (at least currently) is that after 10 years, the road is offered free-of-charge to the nearest town or to the counties. Miami and Howard counties assumed the road, and the difference in the current road between the two counties is remarkable.

The roadbed is superb, built to accommodate the super-heavy machinery necessary to move millions and millions of tons of dirt to construct the 1/2 mile long, 40-foot high earthen dam.

The surface is another story, and, driving north, it is almost startling to pass from Howard to Miami County.
There are power poles on either side of 513 north of Converse. The line on the west side hangs from 30-foot high double tees, with a kind of Shepard's crook out the top supporting a fifth line. On the very top of one was a sharp-shinned hawk, enjoying a for-miles view, too high for even a wary sharp-shinned to pay attention to passing traffic.

Driving east on the trail yesterday, there was a sharp-shinned hawk just north, over the woods, flying west. A beautiful sight I hope to never forget.

So where are the red tails? Haven't seen my two "friends", from Pearson's Mill and Converse Cemetery, for weeks.

I only have about 115 books on the very subject, and must spend a few hours in research, both for my need-to-know and so I can make an entry that will take you about eight seconds to read.

Saturday I was driving a bit too fast (like so many preachers, practice is for others) and just caught sight of a Belted Kingfisher on a bridge rail at a wet ditch. These birds are so distinctive, and equally regal as befits a "king", that one mile-per-hour would have been much too fast to do him justice.
The next day, trying to make up for my transgression, I slowed to a crawl at the same loci and was rewarded with a Great Blue Heron in the ditch, but no kingfisher. There are places you are almost guaranteed a heron, but seeing them in places like this is truly great.

Mark Sodder, congressman first from Indiana's 3rd, then a redistricted 4th, District, became the umpteenth Republican (sorry if the upper-case R offends) "family values" hypocrite to succumb to pleasures of the flesh. Sodder was a warrior in the wholly inept war on drugs, pushing legislation that denied thousands of student loan applications in Indiana alone, rejected for admitted pot use.

Sodder ran in 1994 on the Neuter Gingrich agenda supporting term limits, then stuck (like dogshit on a shoe) around for an 8th term, only to have his family values compromised by a part-time staffer.

JFC, whatever is wrong with these creeps?

Sodder, in the truest republican chicken-hawk tradition, applied for C.O. status for the Viet Nahm war draft, but his number wasn't drawn, and his appeal was moot.

Little Krystle has a new companion. A three-foot high heart-shaped stone.

There is a problem. Her fucking father's name is on it.

The man has no shame.

He really needs to look up at six feet of dirt. Hope I can expedite that.

Little Nap Time

2010-05-16T12:38:00.000-07:00

Couple weeks ago I posted a "rant" (another's word) regards hate groups and hate in general, how completely sick and tired of it I am. Crude, vulgar, and profane terms were used freely, as they are uniquely descriptive and definitive.

There was much derision for hate groups and, as usual, for people who "believe" in anything.

I took it down the next morning.

Upon reflection, I determined that the post had no value whatsoever (except I felt good writing it). But it was very damn funny, and I mourned its loss. Just a little.

Taking down the post pulled a healthy tooth from the mouth of my soul.

I currently have no interest in writing anything.

Shouldn't last too long, and getting my foot drop/leg pain under control may help me refocus.

"Credo", the long distance/mobile phone company provider who contributes millions annually to social/environmental groups in five categories, the allocations based on member/user votes, noted last week that the first two weeks of failed Gulf Oil Spill clean-up cost AMACO-BP less than 4 days' profits. Kind of hard to miss that 30 cents/gallon raise at the pump.

Don't want to tickle that profit line.

An Apology

2010-04-25T07:49:00.000-07:00

Last evening (4/24/10) I posted a diatribe against hate that made me seem a hater.
I'm surely no 60's love child, but I am sick of all the hate.
And I'm sickened by all the wasted energy and passion hate demands.
I did not intend to offend anyone, but, upon reflection, I would be offended if I were a member of a hate group, along with being ashamed and embarrassed by that fact.

2010-04-18T14:08:00.000-07:00

My absolutely beautiful nieces.
I am surely not worthy.

Friday afternoon it was raining just enough to be uncomfortable. Had hoped it would mostly quit north across the lake, at Pearson's Mill SRA, one of my favorite walks because of the cardiac workout with the elevation changes, and because there's always plenty of trash to pick up, and lots of rotting discarded fish and deer parts to stink my dogs up well beyond skunk levels.

Rotted fish is a sure winner on the rancid scale.

Coming out of the east end of the parking lot towards the road along the top of the bluff overlooking the lake south, there were five turkey vultures in a dead tree on the bluff, and two more in a tree back across the road to my left.

It's a small dilemma: don't disturb the wild life, or watch the most superb gliders I have ever seen soar for minutes on minutes without a wing flap. This sounds like such a simple thing, and it might be, but only turkey vultures can do it, in my world. And they can and do soar and glide for as long as you watch and as far as you see, miles and miles. You should pay admission for such a spectacle.

What I mostly hear is how ugly they are. What? Carp are ugly, and most crustaceans, and hogs, and squid, and most of the world's humans devour any and all of these, given the opportunity.

And I'm not suggesting you eat turkey vultures: to the contrary, refrain from bothering them in any matter.

But grant them the respect and admiration they deserve for being total masters of even this smallest niche.

Driving to a doctor on Monday, I passed a cornfield being plowed, and there was a red tail patrolling. Don't know what she was expecting, but she certainly knew, almost ignoring the machinery, except to repeatedly sweep low into it's wake.

This is expected when hay is being cut, as rabbits pretty much drop them anywhere, especially tall grass, and it's just a feast.

Maybe mice in the little grain left.

This afternoon I was at the end of the road with no birds in particular, and as I slowed for the turn, noted a red tail closing on the wire. But he didn't alight, and so I watched him flap-flap-flap glide, and decided he wouldn't settle with me there, and went on.

Not much, but just enough.

2010-03-29T14:02:00.000-07:00

Driving down to the road into Pearson's Mill, there was a turkey vulture soaring along at eye level, moving downstream towards Red Bridge. There is a steep bluff between the access road, about 30 feet, and the bird was close, and startlingly real.

Vultures are have turned soaring and gliding into art, especially in light of the low altitudes they work. They make it look so very easy that one forgets nobody else, anywhere, can do it.

They are unfairly maligned as scavengers. Remember, legend has it Ben Franklin preferred the wild turkey over the bald eagle as our national symbol because the eagle is a scavenger. (As was Franklin, in his premier field of expertise, lust.) In truth, all carnivores are scavengers, choosing the low-hanging fruit.

Disabuse yourself of any notion humans are exempt from this link in the food chain. It's a matter of hunger. In New Orleans I saw a woman eating raw oysters from a dumpster, sawdust from the bar floor and all. I'm sure war zones see worse, but I never will.

Vultures perform a critical role in beautification. For proof, let me know the next time your county highway folk pick up anything smaller than a deer.

That was it for raptors, and there were no smaller birds about, but just south of Red Bridge there was a handful of squirrels.

At the intersection with the Old Trail (the Slocum name is on hiatus), there were two more in a tail-chase, which I assume is squirrel foreplay. Chasing tail is a timeless human male pursuit (pun intended, and necessary), which leaves little other room for explanation.

I admit to being fond of lists. They are fun, and it's easy to assess validity based on where your favorite is ranked. For instance, Rolling Stone ranked the 500(!) greatest songs. "Gimme Shelter", the absolutely best rock song ever, was listed at #38, while the lugubrious, meaningless dirge "Hey Jude", at least 8 minutes too long, came in at #8. How totally fucking absurd.

With that in mind, here is my list for some wonderful summer reading. All these books are as good as literature gets, totally without pretense (if you like Noman Mailer, John Updike, John Barth, or other such overinflated egos, log off now), and all-around excellent work.

1.) "Special Topics in Calamity Physics" - Marisha Peshel.

This book literally changed my life. I had little interest in women's lit, until this, easily the best book of the the decade. Too good for words.

2.) "The Monsters of Templeton" - Lauren Groff.

Multi layered, and you can enjoy the ones you want. Lauren grew up in Cooperstown, NY, home of the Baseball Hall of Fame, where you won't find the consummate asshole Pete Rose. "Temple" is James Fennimore Cooper, and Lauren makes a marvelous case for his skills being largely hack.

3.) Anything by Jenny Siler. These are tight, taut, seamless page-turners, all suspense. You can't do better.

4.) "PopCo" - Scarlett Thomas.

Superbly intelligent, a most entertaining story, masterfully told, by the best writer no one has ever heard of. If you are adventuresome, start with "The End of Mister Y".

5.) Anything by Tim Dorsey. Largely ignored as a master of fiction, and so much funnier than Carl Hiaasen, who's pretty damn good. His feature, Serge Storms, is the most lovable psychopath ever.

6.) "Incredible Edible Birds" - Lauren Groff.

If you only read one more collection of short stories ever, this is the one.

7.) "Johnny Got His Gun" - Dalton Trumbo.

W Bush would have become a pacifist upon reading this book. If the dumb sonofabitch could read. Not a diatribe or polemic, the story is so strong that the message makes you cry.

Some choice nonfiction:

1.) "The Canon" - Natalie Angier

Should you be a scientist, this book catches you up on other fields. If not, here is an overview, very accessible, and up-to-date.

2.) "Dominion" - Matthew Scully.

Never preachy, presented in orderly fashion, a rationale why you should never be responsible for an animal's death, even in the tiniest role.

3.) "Genome" - Matt Ridley.

Easy to read and follow explication of the primary function of each of the 23 chromosomes in every human. This book will wipe away all your fears of genetics and heredity.

4.) "The Extiction Club" - Robert Twigger.

Know this: there is at least one group of shitstains out there whose ultimate accolades go to the member who kills the last of a species. Of course they help the process along by killing Dall sheep, mountain goats, Mexican gray wolves, Florida panthers, and the like. Read this book and join me in declaring open season on club members.

There you are. You can't go wrong with any, or all. Should you read any of these, let me know what you think, by e-mail at dougalley@att.net, on Facebook, or as "Anonymous" - about the only way to respond on this blog I can figure. All are available on Amazon, if your library can't help you.

Don't delay! Start today!

Frustaration

2010-03-26T17:40:00.000-07:00

Spent several hours putting together an extensive post today, mostly about Tecumseh, one of the truly great leaders and statesmen this land has produced.
If you still want to read about him, let me know.
Saw a raptor in silhouette this week which could only have been a Prairie Falcon. Okay, it should not be here, and my first rule of ID is if it's not supposed to be here, it probably isn't. But there is nothing else that size and shape on the continent.
On 513, Miami CR 1050E, just south of the Wabash Co. line, there was a beautiful little kestrel.
A quarter-mile further, a red tail sat on the upper crossarm of a fifty foot power pole.
How people can fly by these magnificent hunters beats the shit out of me.
If hungry enough, the American Kestrel will take birds much larger than itself. And a red tail is hell on cottontails, which outweigh it on average a half-pound, or 20% it's body weight, for perspective.
Slow down and check them out, They are here, in the largest populations of your lifetime.
They are beautiful.
They are majestic.
They are awesome.

2010-03-19T18:16:00.000-07:00

Made several stops to the west and south Wednesday, and after a very unsatisfying visit at Krystal's grave, took a turn back east and got that all-too familiar stutter.

A quick reckoning put the nearest fuel about 11 miles, about a half-gallon, away.

I started driving about 1 mph and looking for farm fuel tanks, and saw some on a farm about two miles along. I parked the truck about 200 yards past, at the crest of a rise, just in case.

A very nice young Mennonite lady (past-the-calf skirt, long stockings, named Miller - what else you need?) accepted my $5 for a couple of gallons of gas and proceeded to pump in about 10. Would not take more money, even when I pinned her to the ground and stuck the business end of my Glock .40 S&W in her mouth.

Okay, I never even thought of that until my bitty-brain made fun while I searched out each letter on the keypad.

People are so wonderful...

That same afternoon I went to Sweetser to pay the cable bill for stuff I'm not watching. The gas prices had gone up nearly 20 cents that morning (why I didn't fill up, why I ran out) but hadn't been raised there, so I decided to top off the gift from the farm girl.

The first pump I couldn't make work, so I made a "U" and found one I could operate.

A lady in a van dicked around and made the machine I abandoned work. I was talking with her, and, if you have ever had a conversation with me, you know when I open my mouth my brain shuts down.

I drove back towards Converse, to the cemetery so the dogs could walk me. As soon as I got out I smelled gas, and saw that I had left the gascap at the station (not at the nice girl's farm. I remember the clicks as I sealed it for vacuum).

There are two big pines along the western (older) road through the middle of the cemetery, about two town blocks (15 per mile) apart. I park under the westernmost, and as we started east one of "my" red tails landed high on a bare branch in the other. He makes regular appearances in these posts, and would be on retainer, if there was any money around.

So I skirted his perch to the south, and even as it was twice as far as my approach brought me from the west, he took wing, as I pushed pebbles with my nose thinking about my gascap. I eventually picked him up in the sky southwest, a favored cruising haunt.

About 20 minutes later, I went back to the store and my gascap was gone.

*Warning: skip this part, as it is merely a self-serving rant.*

What kind of snivelling, lame-dick inbred piece of carp shit steals a fucking 20-year-old gas cap? The odds that someone came along to shit-hole Sweetser, Indiana, in those twenty minutes who actually needed that gascap are about the same as the pope fathering an out-of-wedlock child (you know the sanctimonious self-righteous hypocrite bastard would see to an abortion).

Shit's sake, the gascap had no value whatever. Some fuckstain who wipes his ass with his fingers then licks them clean took it for the same reason a mouse in a trap gets an erection.

So I wisely saved $1.60 by filling up in Sweetser, where the deranged don't cower in the light of day, then spent $9 at Advance Auto Parts, the World's Greatest Auto Parts Store (they don't got it you don't need it) to replace an essential item for my vehicle only.

This guy is too fucking stupid to cook meth, so I hope he gets a jones and tries.

For a single guy, I am simply overawed by my beautiful and wonderful nieces. Cara, one of my three best-ever friends, Ariel, so beautiful, smart, and witty, Olivia, a gorgeous super-athlete, Maddy, one of the very neatest people ever, beautiful and clever and affectionate, and Britt, my favorite nephew's wife: I'm only scratching at the surface of a lovely, interesting, and beautiful person.

Britt has a passenger, and I promised to put martinis out of their discomfort for her, in the process saving some gin from the insults of ice, condiments, and that horrid grenadine. As of yet, the juniper berries have not reached an optimum temperature for true appreciation, but I will keep my promise. In fact, I crave keeping this promise.

Saw my first Kildeer today. Kildeer are a Darwinian success. Shorebirds, they have adapted to a mid western terrain without shore and lay eggs in gravel, mostly along lightly travelled roads.

One of Darwin's rules was that to be successful, animals would adapt to changing environmental conditions. Because I'm already pissed off, let's revisit the "controversy" about the scientific term "theory".

Know that every time you add 2 + 2 you get 4. That does not mean that 2 + 2 = 4 every time.

For example, if you have 2 pies, and divide each into 6 slices, then 2 + 2 = 12.

Not a stellar exposition, but the truth should be apparent.

There are a distressing number of individuals so protective of an absolutely ludicrous belief system, one that is not just refutable on the most basic tenets but makes the most absurd and outlandish claims, who point to words like "theory" and say it's a theory, not a proven fact.

But their facts are an "Immaculate Conception", a virgin giving birth, walking on water, blind sighted, people risen from the dead, feeding 8,000 people with 3 fish and 5 loves of bread (not sliced - that came much later), rising from the dead, ascending bodily into heaven (this is a reprise, but if he was traveling at or above the speed of light, he'd be energy, not bodily in heaven. And if, as he must, he's traveling at less than the speed of light, Hubble would have picked him up. He'd still be in our galaxy.

And the Virgin Mary was assumed bodily into heaven.

Well, good for her. But what about James, identified in two gospels as Jesus' brother. Where does this leave that bastard? If the virgin is a virgin, he's out as a sibling, unless the same "Angel of the Lord" juiced up some local talent, then he and Jesus would be halfsies.

Okay this stuff is migraine-level stupefying. A belief system that throws in a fact every 1000 or so words would help some, but this is just so much bullshit my fact-checker is anorexic.

2010-03-18T17:08:00.000-07:00

Doing my biweekly channel surf this morning (okay, maybe not that often) and VH1 had the New York Dolls doing some dirge. Listened to about 3 couplets, finished the last line with them, some little rhyme from every third album by lower Second Tier groups since 1964. Moved on up the dial and CMT had Kieth Urban tearing it up in concert. Just great! Where was I when CW guys started rockin' like they invented it? Wow!

About 5PM I remembered the BB tourney started today. These four days have the best ball, with 48 games and about 30 equally matched teams playing for the 4 to 6 slots the powers leave for the other 50+ teams invited to the tourney.

That "invited" is routinely ignored by those who call this a college basketball championship. It is an Invitational, and there are roughly 20 teams invited to the "other" tourney as good as those 30 above. The idea the NIT is for #66 is absurd. Those 20 teams have a better chance of making the NCAA "Sweet Sixteen" than about two dozen "automatic" bids for the NCAA version.

But when I remembered it, I switched it on, and realized about four minutes later I didn't give a shit. Butler leaves me feeling as frustrated as some knight errant must have felt after pitching serious woo for several hours and finding a chastity belt.

In a Harris Poll around "Super" Bowl time people who identified themselves as sports fans ranked their favorite sports as NFL, MLB, and NCAA Football.

My own interpretations of these data are that MLB is not dying and that college football does not need a playoff system. Your interpretations may differ, but you'll need more data if they are to be entertained in this forum.

There are redwinged blackbirds and robins about in abundance. And a friend told me he saw a Baltimore Oriole today. And I have seen several turkey vultures, soaring masters, gliding across the skies at Mississinewa Reservoir the past several days.

Definition: for me, "several" means more than five but less than fifty.

Several years ago I was doing some light-duty birdwatching with a wildlife biologist at the dog tick capital of east central Indiana, Summit Lake Reservoir in Henry County.

Andy said that biologists had taped over the red-white-yellow marking on some male redwinged blackbirds, and they were not selected as mates. Surely a monumental scientific endeavor, but illustrative of the importance of conformity among species.

And the ticks: I picked about 15 off me after two or so hours in the fields, and found another in my moustache the next evening.

Nice place. Be prepared.

Lots of red tails, kestrels, and sharp-shinned & Cooper's hawks about. What else could a person want?

If you are not this easily appeased, and need truly heady stuff, I can put you on some bald eagles, guaranteed. Ask.

Ben Franklin was a homespun genius, turning himself into a lightning rod and shit.

He would have been a houseboy for Archimedes, DaVinci, Galileo, or Newton, but he was pretty hot stuff.

However, he is credited with two remarkably bad ideas.

While probably not true, possibly with tongue in cheek, he championed the Wild Turkey over the Bald Eagle as America's National Symbol. (Okay, this is so incredibly poor you really, really should skip it, but maybe he was all for Wild Turkey Bourbon as our national libation.) This would have fucked up hundreds of millions of Thanksgiving dinners through the years. Even I can bake a turkey, but wouldn't dare try making a decent cheeseburger for guests.

Franklin is also credited with DST, Daylight Savings Time, an abomination unto the eyes of the lord.

I am somewhat confused about this, but don't care enough to research it.

On November 18, 1883, US and Canadian railroads adopted Standard Time, and while trains were notorious for not running "on time" at least you didn't ride from St. Louis to Louisville and arrive two hours before you left.

The US Congress thought this a thoroughly brilliant and useful idea and swiftly enacted it into law. On March 19, 1918, the Standard Time Act was enacted. This act included provisions for DST.

Ben Franklin died in 1790.

Interested? Google awaits!

2010-03-06T18:30:00.000-08:00

In case anyone besides my best friend Joe played the game regards the best work of the greatest rock and roll band ever, here is a clarification: I said "(It's) The Singer Not the Song" was one of the best rock lyrics poems.

The best is:

In the chilly hours and minutes of uncertainty
I want to be in the warm hold of your loving mind.
To feel you all around me and to take your hand, along the sand,
Ah, but I may as well try and catch the wind.

When sundown pales the sky I want to hide a while, behind your smile
And everywhere I'd look your eyes I'd find
To love you now would be the sweetest thing, t'would make me sing
Ah, but I may as well try and catch the wind

When rain has hung the leaves with tears, I want you here, to kill my fears
And help me to put all my blues behind
For standin' in your heart is where I want to be, and I long to be
Ah, but I may as well try and catch the wind.

Catch the Wind, Donovan (Leitch)

Red tails look magnificent perched on a low wire , when you are driving slow enough to check them out. I've mentioned several times a buteo that appears to patrol the area including the Converse Cemetery, Mier, and, possibly that little ponded area up by Richland Chapel. This beautiful boy was along SR 18 just east of Converse, about a 1/4 mile from the cemetery.
The area as described sounds large, but a soaring red tail can patrol it in less time than you can drive it; his vision is that much better than yours.
I'm a little surprised. This hawk is almost a star, perching in totally vulnerable places, road signs, road sides, low wires on the highways, several spots on two state roads.
There is an overabundance of armed dumbasses about.
My belief is you eat what you kill, and I doubt a 30 -40 pound dog (coyote - the DNA is an up-and-down match) shows up as a roast on many tables tomorrow.

None of the coyotes I see on tailgates are killed on the killer's property, so, WTF? You're not eating the dog, he's not bothering your stuff. And you kill him?

That is just wrong.

Thus it surprises me none of these assholes have blown my neighborhood red tail to smithereens, two or so pounds reduced to feathers and ruptured bones.

And I think I saw a robin today, support and credence for the red-winged blackbird of a couple days ago.
I guess I'm not the robin fan I should be. Maybe because they are noted singers, protected songbirds, but they seem to sing maybe eighteen notes a year, in total self interest. I surely believe they could and should share such a lovely talent a bit more.
One should keep a shine on the gifts the Lord gives, and that's a dusky luster on the robin's songs.

Playing with a stick and my puppy in the pine woods this afternoon, I saw a broad-tipped arrow stuck in a branch, too high to reach. I have no idea why that arrow had been let fly that high. Kind of scary. Not an accident, it dug in pretty good. I'll get it tomorrow.

Okay, maybe. I was gonna mark it, but I walked out-and-back, and didn't see it.

What a drag it is getting old.

2010-03-04T18:00:00.000-08:00

In response to the reader request that poured in, my annual quota, here is a new rock song challenge, based on the early works of the Greatest Rock Band Ever, the Rolling Stones.
The Rolling Stones, who made much of the very best rock music in the '60's and '70's, have continued into the 21st Century with vapid, meaningless albums.
But I can't have it both ways. I constantly bitch about this year's versions of Journey and Kansas, touring from January 1 through December 31, no new songs for over 30 years.
I'm like a stinky old guy, and these guys are older than me, mechanically picking out and singing 30, 40-year-old songs, irrelevant for most of those years.
The conundrum is the Stones have kept making records, some of which attempt to evince a new social conscious, hard to adopt when the band you worshipped was arrested for public pissing, banned from entire nations for attempting to enter the country with that noted killer, marijuana. Okay, serious, you are an international star sells millions of records and sells out as big a venue you can book. And of the hundreds of groupies, roadies, and hangers-on, you can't double-bag an ounce and find someone to stuff it up their ass for customs? For these Rock Gods, somebody would have brought in Charlie Watts' drum kit stuffed in very orifice.
Okay, Brian Jones' junk might have required a cow, but he was an over the top boozer (think Kieth Moon, The Who's brilliant, doomed drummer) and alcohol killed more early rockers - Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix, Jim Morrison, Moon and Jones, than all the drugs Kieth Richards has consumed and subsumed in 50 years.
All these questions have been Google fact-checked, but using Google for answers is just plain wrong. And you know who you are.
And if you don't know the early Stones, early '60's & '70's, or don't care, save yourself some time and check your e-mail. Or page down to the para begins, "For several years now, bird watchers have argued..."

Part I
First lines of songs.
(All songs appearing in this quiz will carry a *, **, or *** rating, good, excellent, or outstanding.)
1.) "Everywhere I hear the sound of marching charging feet, boy" ***
2.) "I live in an apartment on the 99th floor of my block" ***
3.) "I was born in a crossfire hurricane" **** (not a typo)
4.) "If I could stick my pen in my heart, spill it all over the stage" ***
5.) "Well baby used to stay out, all night long
She made me cry, she done me wrong" ***
6.) "Well when you're sitting there in your silk upholstered chair
Talking to some rich folk that you know" ****
7.) "No good, can't speak wound up, no sleep
Sky diver inside her, skip rope, stunt flyer" ***
8.) "What a drag it is getting old" ***
9.) "You're the kind of person you met at certain dismal dull affairs" ***
10.) And, from the absolute greatest, no contest, rock song ever, *** *** *** ***
"Oh, see the storm is threatening my very life today"

Part II
Lines from songs.
11.) " Now she gets her kicks in Stepney
Not in Knightsbridge anymore" ***
12.) "Faith has been broken, tears have been cried
Let's do some livin' after we've died" ***
13.) "It's not the way you give in willingly
Others do it without thrilling me" *****
This is one of the great poems/songs ever and if you think you fully appreciate it 40 years later, good for you. The most insightful message in rock music, period.

14.) "Cause all you women is low down gamblers, cheatin' but I don't know how" ***
15.) "I can see that you're fifteen years old
No I don't want your ID" ***
16.) "I'm a cold Italian pizza
I could use a lemon squeezer
Would you do?" ***
17.) "Sweet cousin cocaine lay your cool cool hand on my head" ***
18.) "Got to scrape the shit right off your shoes" ***
19.) "And try as you may
You just don't feel good
You don't feel all right" ***
20.) And finally, once again, from the absolutely greatest rock song ever
"Burns like a red coal carpet" ***** *****
Take credit only if you know the next six words.
Extra credit: many of the early Stones song were written by Nanker/Phelge. Who are those guys? And what movie is that line from?
Goddammit, Joe, this took hours. You better like it!

For several years now, bird watchers have argued that the true harbingers of spring are not robins, but red-winged blackbirds. And I saw one yesterday, the first since October. It's been pleasant the last several days. Garrison Keillor said March isn't spring. God made March so people who don't drink will know what a hangover is.
There were two kestrels together on a wire, facing in opposite directions, doing what can only be described as necking.
Tis the season...

2010-03-02T17:51:00.000-08:00

Different seat for a Windshield Hawker - shotgun. Was being chaperoned to Muncie for a late afternoon doctor's appointment, riding on SR 22 (to locals; most everyone else calls it [US] 35) between SR's 13 & 9, when the driver says "Look at that big hawk" on the top of a south power pole. I was in the openings of "Probably a red tail" when we both said, a sexagenarian chorus, "It's an owl!"

And it was, a fine big beautiful Great Horned Owl, at 2:15 in the afternoon, highly visible, in a moderate traffic area.

Okay, that doesn't happen.

Except he was still there, still facing north, when we passed three hours later. My friend said the same scenario played out for he and his wife a couple weeks ago.

Long, strange winter.

Strange days.

(Quiz for those into Music Appreciation: "Strange Days have found us / Strange Days have tracked us down". There's the title: band?)

My puppy went today to donate his tools to the campaign against canine overpopulation.

When I picked him up early this afternoon, he was making cuddly with the vet, who did the heinous deed, and ignored me, the obvious perpetrator of this sacrilege.

Eight hours later, and I'm still shunned.

Think I'll wear a cup to bed.

There was a bright glow in the eastern morning sky, and there were clusters of born-agains on their knees preparing for rapture, and much fewer knots of my fellow heathens, also on their knees, waiting to anoint the new god in the sky.

(MA challenge #2: "Little Darlin', it's been a long cold lonely winter / Little Darlin', it feels like years since it's been here".)

One morning a few years ago I was walking the dogs, well pre-dawn, at the fairgrounds, and the eastern sky was dominated by a light must have been the Star of David the Magi followed to Bethlehem. Later Bob and Tom made some ado about what was comet Hale-Bop (really, I think) and how it might not be the end of the world.

Well, for some it was.

Featured was a group, the Raelians, pictured in colorless, shapeless, hooded robes and wearing Converse Chuck Taylors, who had been waiting since 1973 for this vehicle to transport them to heaven.

About two dozen prepared for the ride by drinking "Jim Jones Kool-Aid" (all apologies to Kool-Aid, because this is now the popularized term for the arsenic-dosed powdered fruit drink at Jonestown, the same shit you drank at summer camp and called "bug juice".)

A few years later the sect's survivors were legitimized with a several-page nude layout in Playboy, the surest way to gain acceptability both in the eyes of the Lord and those of other new-age reborns for your whacked-out fucking belief system.

Bringing my little Sun back home from his ordeal (even now he is printing up "Give 'em back, asshole" signs) early this afternoon I stopped to visit Krystil's grave. Time heals all wounds, but all time has done is convince me someone made it impossible for her to go into her home once more for the horrors and degradation that awaited her, and she walked into a speeding semi instead.

Maybe it's better for her now, but I feel more and more guilty for not figuring it all out sooner and attending to her despair.

Her religion and familial structure failed this beautiful, sweet, wonderful little girl, who never thought or said anything hurtful or even negative in her life. As per the bible, the man rules the household, and by canon accepts no challenge to his authority. The family is isolated, home schooled, with minimal contact with the world, or even the neighbors.

Where can a 12, 13, 14 year-old girl turn, when her home is a house of horror?

To her mother? Her mother knew, but in this disgusting patriarchal religion and way of life, she must choose, and she chose faith, in a god that allowed the world's sweetest child to be tortured to death.

An irony: Christian religions consider suicides as damned, because they have completely abandoned the healing power of god. Krystil had no time to "repent" as death came at 60 mph.

The responsible person, a subhuman, has the rest of his life to "repent", and go to "heaven", as god forgives, and vengeance is his, so poor little Krystil is off to hell.

Fuck this shit. As soon as I'm absolutely certain (wait, that's been months now) I need to settle this up, maybe grab the most innocent, sweet little girl out of the clutches of some stupid devil.

Okay, just a bit more to slake my rage and impotence: Miami County calls for an autopsy in cases of accidental death. Krystil's death was determined "accidental", but the County Prosecutor did not order one, even after it was requested (guess who), in respect of the wishes of, and respect for, the parents' religious beliefs.

So a rapist and murderer isn't even questioned?

Beer!

2010-02-26T17:14:00.000-08:00

"My" red tail at Pearson's Mill came in off the lake high, maybe 200 feet, over the small cliffs and the trees on the hills that rise to the north. Soaring into a northwest wind, flying as the master of the sky he is.

No jealousy, only admiration and the purest love.

Something of interest came to light today from its hidey-hole between the covers of a book, "Falconer on the Edge", by Rachel Dickinson. The eyes of the peregrine falcon are so large they are separated in the skull only by a membrane. The eye of the peregrine has two foveae, the small pit in the eye composed entirely of cones (of "rods and cones" fame) and responsible for the sharpest, clearest vision.

Your eye has one.

The bird goes into an accelerated dive (stoop) from up to several thousand feet in the air and strikes prey with an impact that explodes feathers off birds five, six, seven times its size.

The stoop isn't a long roaring swoop. The path describes a gentle spiral, as this awesome predator uses all four foveae and the constantly changing aspect of perception to provide true stereoscopic vision and enable the falcon to deliver a fatal blow to a usually flying (as in moving! as fast as terror can motivate!) large bird, with infrequent damage to itself.

Okay, quick lesson. You have never travelled at 200 mph, except in an airplane with no fixed point of reference. So get down to a speed you can work with, 50 mph, about 25% of the peregrine's impact velocity. Your homework: drive your car at 50 mph into a brick wall, obliterating it, but not so much as scratching the car.

Yeah, it's that amazing.

As some of you surely know, I am slightly unbalanced.

Okay, that's like saying televangelists and faith healers are slightly unscrupulous.

To paraphrase Richard Dawkins, I will pay attention when one regenerates a missing limb.

So this frozen world is starting to irritate me.

Everything is dirty, outside and in. Outside, there's not been enough rain to move the dregs of the past few months. And inside - I burn wood for heat, and it's been going full speed since I got home Thanksgiving Day. There's soot, ash, grime and dust on everything, everywhere. I can wipe down anything in the morning, and by evening a kleenex passed over it comes up blackened.

Thank the Blessed Sisters of Divine Mercy it's snowing again. Now.

I've always felt "brewing" was a deceptive term when applied to making beer. Maybe because my first exposure to the word was in reference to preparing proper tea, correctly "steeping".

The single most important step in making beer - not to minimize others - is fermentation. Where yeasts convert the sugars into alcohol, the soul of the matter.

There are two basic operators in this process: top-down and bottom-up, or cold, fermentation.

Top-down yeasts make a foam of activity on the surface of the wort (all the ingredients combined, before filtering) and the tiny used-up sugars give the beer a dark color as they settle - ales, pale ales, stouts, porters.

Bottom-up yeasts require much cooler fermenting temperatures, and all the stuff stays on the bottom. The beers, lagers and pilsners, are the classic golden color, and lager is the preferred beer in America, accounting for as much as 90% of the beer sold (my guess), maybe more.

So what, besides color, is the difference?

Why do some people prefer lagers and pilsners in the summer, ales, porters, and stouts in the colder months?

The body, or taste, of a lager or pilsner is in your mouth, making it more "refreshing" when you're thirsty.

The full flavors of dark brews release on the palate. Mix the sip in your mouth, there's almost no sensation. Swallow it slowly, and appreciate the craftsmanship that goes into a fine bottle of ale.

My home brew experience was a different beast entirely.

Home brewers necessarily start with ales, because most can't get a five-gallon bottle of wort to a consistent 40 degrees F.

Everything is easy until that all-important fermentation step.

The problem is sanitation. One must totally sterilize all equipment.

Household hint: if you sanitize with bleach, it takes a full 12 minutes to kill all the bad guys. No cheating. Time 15 minutes to be sure.

Yeast is a living, breathing organism. If there is enough remnant sanitizer, a portion of the yeast you add, at a cost, will die. When this happens, your high-priced homebrew will have a watery phenolic flavor, and it is all but unpalatable. Keep enough cash to get a store-bought box when you crack your first homebrew.

I spent about $300 brewing two cases of undrinkable bilge. I couldn't make a suitable habitat for the yeast to prosper. Couldn't figure how to clean stuff and leave it clean, not lethal.

Don't know what I was afraid of. Yeast infection? In my experience, that tastes awful. Makes you wonder if your Special Someone has been sleeping with a baker.

Successful homebrewers are fortunate, no tax, control of every ingredient, every step.

Amateurs must be prepared to "brew" bottle after bottle of home-made urine.

Question: would it be pure joy to launch a 1 1/2 lb. falcon from your wrist, watch it climb to a half-mile high in a clear blue sky, then see it streak down at speeds close to an Indy racer, and turn a hurtling duck into feathers and a roast?

Where to Fish, What Not to Wear, When to See Birds

2010-02-24T16:23:00.000-08:00

Asked a Bass Pro (read: anyone who ever entered a tournament) where he would go if he had to catch a largemouth bass.

Lake Webster.

There was a program on some stations that sold a magazine, Midwest Outdoors, neither of which I've seen for some time. Both may surely be around.

One segment featured muskie (not Ed) fishing on Webster. The pair of experts became frustrated as they caught nothing but bass. That would thrill all but meat fishers and guys filming a program about catching muskie. I don't recall them catching even one.

Know that muskies would test the patience of a herd of Jobs, that dedicated types may go a year without ever sniffing one.

I could never be a muskie fisherman, as my patience flees in terror in less than a minute.

I was looking down food aisles in a box store last week when my field of vision filled with a woman in chartreuse slacks and a bright orange hoodie. The slacks actually had the cut, drape and fit of pajama bottoms, and the hoodie was more a sack than a shirt. I laugh out loud in public about twice per year, so I'm paid up through June. Because the pumpkin orange hood was up.

When I was a youngster, 1960 and then abouts, I had a morning paper route. Okay, it started out mornings, up and out in the dark, but it gets light much later in winter, and, in winter, you have to see where you are going, and it got to where I had to have first period free to finish up.

At that time, the Sunday Indianapolis Star was so thick most carriers couldn't finish the route in one trip.

All the advertisements were print ads, not fold-ins. Thursday papers carried the weekend sales and specials (no malls), and the Thursday Star was thicker (heavier) than two weeks' copies of the paper today.

The carrier was given a bill weekly, and expected to collect enough money from customers to pay it, the balance being salary. The Star cost 40 cents weekly, 25 cents Sunday only. Extra service, such as putting the paper inside the storm door, was free as requested, tipping optional.

Unless you worked with this scheme, you cannot possibly believe how many people dodged this bill, some for months.

The carrier was not allowed to discontinue service, and was expected to develop the salesmanship skills to collect from recalcitrant customers, some of whom hid in their houses from a 12-year-old.

Monday, Tuesday, and Saturday papers you could fold and fly with accuracy up to twenty yards. Wednesday and Friday papers, some times, and Thursday editions, always, were rolled and rubber banded, which you bought. Sunday papers were delivered flat.

Those rolled Thursday papers were clubs. Plexiglas was a thing of the future, and long-time debtors could expect to replace some glass. Maybe not just once, depending on the carrier's judgement and patience.

A plus was the option to purchase monthly magazines at a weekly cost, like 12 cents each. I bought Argosy and True, two men's magazines of outstanding quality and dubious reliability, long since vanished.

I also subscribed to Field & Stream, the nation's first and best outdoors magazine. It contained articles about dream trips and things a kid could do, now. One feature was "Solunar Tables", which I assume they still run, but are also available on-line.

Theses tables list four periods daily, two "major" and two "minor", when fish and wildlife are active. The charts are extraordinarily accurate. For one, if you start catching fish, you may notice an increase in bird chatter and movement. I've tracked this for 50 years and it is amazing. You can check it from the comfort of home. Chart a couple periods then turn down all that noise and listen.

If you have unlimited time for outdoor pursuits, you don't need these data. But to maximize your chances for observation, hunting, or fishing, check the tables and be out and active when nature is, during the major periods.

A bird's day, sans breeding and migration, is four activities, repeated once. Not in order, they are resting, taking water, eating, and taking grit. That's about it. As you observe birds, they will be engaged in one of these, but not usually resting, which isn't a public activity, to maintain Homeland Security.

At Pearson's Mill SRA, a train of Northern Cardinals, four males then a female, crossed the road from the woods towards the reservoir. Gorgeous. Brilliant scarlet in the grey day.

And on the way out, a kestrel on a wire. Looking robust, and you really, really hope so in this weather, that he's not just fluffed to keep warm.

I've written of a low-spot pond just north and east of here. I ignored it for years, until I spotted a Great Blue Heron stalking it, never having guessed it held fish. This awful winter, a pair of red tails chose to ride it out there, and they were perched in the low trees this afternoon. I think they hunt Converse Cemetery - their potential territory would encompass both, with miles square to spare.

Oh yeah. The tortoise. Her first name is "Clia".

Vain Darlings

2010-02-20T19:51:00.000-08:00

Who are these media stars?

Glenn Beck, a bona-fide lunatic whose talking points no one in the universe is prepared to understand, and Rush Limbaugh, a homosexual pedophile so depraved he has to take dick stiffeners to sodomize little boys. They draw high approval ratings from comatose subhuman sheep, any of whom thinks he or she invented masturbation, and the thought process shut down soon after.

Limbaugh's fans are called "ditto" heads, because "fuck" and "shit" are much too descriptive for the FCC. The minimum age for an FCC watchdog must be "on life support". It's supposed to be information, not a day in church.

Walking the road at Pearson Mill SRA last week, I fetched a Coke can and a beer bottle up out of the snow-filled roadside ditch. What lowly-ranked lifeform in the category "dregs of society" would throw trash out the car window in an SRA? Given, the two suet brains mentioned previously. But after that?

I always called these "people" pigs, but my lovely friend Anne taught me to appreciate this is an unfair aspersion on swine universal.

The beer bottle was a micro-, formerly exclusive, by price.

The repeated reapplication/raising of the "sin tax", which crushes lower-income addicts of legal substances, tobacco and alcohol, destroy families daily, hourly.

Some of the brightest, strongest people I know can't quit smoking, and alcohol is a come-along on your brain, and you can wear your fingers to stubs trying to get some slack.

All the very best to those that make it.

Addiction is an inherited trait, and you get some, or a lot.

"Sin"? Where does this crap come from? How justify taxing an addict for a predetermined affliction, even as most are middle-to-low income, if any, trying to set aside enough money to support the family

Sinners? An addict can't be a sinner. A multimillionaire who buys dick pills so he can pay to sodomize little boys is a sinner.

Just my opinion.

Okay, that's not true. People should know about this crap. Except when they do they ignore it.

Ever wonder how jack-shit claims become popular? Supporters ignore the obvious.

I have a wonderful and beautiful sister who Limbaugh would call a Fema-Nazi. I refuse to label this "horseshit", which is totally organic and mostly odor-free.

She has an understandably myopic habit of adopting trite catch-phrases in regards important issues, such as "If breast cancer caused penises to fall off, a cancer cure would have been found decades ago."

According to the American Cancer Society's self-reporting, they took in $1.09 billion in FY 2008, and spent $1.04 billion.

Little room to ignore one cancer target zone for another.

Here are two cancer "facts", endorsed by me, only: the trigger for the onset of cancer should and will be found in our so-called "junk" DNA, where a string of undecoded sequence provokes rapid regeneration of malformed cells. Secondly, despite all the hype and all the criticism from people for whom zygotes are sentient beings, stem cells, with the capacity to generate countless cells for any tissue or organ, hold the quickest, surest cure.

People are constantly reminded here to slow down and observe, but the preacher doesn't always practice... As I passed a bird on a wire this morning I was sure was an American Kestrel, I knew I was wrong. A small hawk, not a falcon, surely a male sharp-shin.

Sharp shinneds are incredible little raptors, fearsome at an ounce to a pound of prey, and always a wonder to observe, except for a sixty-year-old man with his head so far up his own ass the real wonder is he saw the beautiful little bird at all.

This afternoon I saw another "old friend" red tail at the Converse Cemetery. On a bleak rainy day like today, the underside of a red tail passing overhead gleams, whiter than falling snow. Like Lennie in "Of Mice and Men" you want to hold and pet and stroke "your" hawks, but they aren't into all that.

Raptors are true Lords and Ladies, Rulers of the Air, and may accept you as a caretaker and provider in a captured state, but affection is out of bounds. You are not worthy. You are but an earth-bound lackey, privileged to attend the wants of Royalty.

And that is a privilege few of us get to appreciate.

2010-02-18T16:31:00.000-08:00

According to a recent Harris Poll (great fun! http//news.harrisinteractive.com/), Abraham Lincoln, whose birthday Monday was largely ignored, was the best president in history, with 32% of the votes cast by 2756, 18 years and older respondents.
Oddly, sadly, Ronald Reagan, the drugstore cowboy, was named both the second best in history and the best president since WW II, according to those polled.
Apparently the Iran-Contra affair, where weapons were sold to Iran through Israel to secure money to fund Sandinistas and other anticommunist forces in Nicaragua, has been conveniently forgotten. A selling point to secure Ronnie's approval was that Iran would then pressure Hezbollah to release some fifty Americans taken as hostages in Lebanon.
This program was hugely screwed when, after a botched delivery of Hawk missiles and a failed meeting, a wing of Hezbollah took down Arrow Air Flight 1285 after takeoff from Gander, Newfoundland, killing all 254 aboard, including 248 American soldiers returning from 6 months in the Sinai.
Reagan's response: deny and destroy. Deny any knowledge, destroy all pertinent documents.
To help you understand the conservative mind, consider: Oliver North, a staff-grade Marine Light Colonel, did time in prison for submitting suggestions no one should have even acknowledged, let alone approved. North has since become a conservative media darling, with best selling books and radio and television shows, the latter currently on FOX (surprise!).
In April 1983, 63 Americans were killed in a truck bombing of the US Embassy in Beirut.
And, on October 23, 1983, 241 US military personnel, including 220 Marines, were killed in the bombing of the marine barracks near the airport in Beirut.
President Hawk Reagan's response? all marines were pulled from Lebanon three months later.
This was the largest single casualty count for the USMC since Iwo Jima. All must be proud of that withdrawal.
The highest-stressed job in the US is an air traffic controller. Bleeding ulcers plague every one in his 20's, and ATC's are prone to all manner of addiction and total breakdown, including premature death.
On August 3, 1981, ATC's went on strike, ostensibly for benefits but primarily to get updates for their 20-year-old equipment, which reloaded once a minute and displayed airliners full of hundreds of people as fuzzy green blips every 12 seconds - as in they moved every five blips, terrorizingly slow when you have sixty hanging in the air awaiting your instructions.
So what does a ridiculously successful B movie actor do?
Why, fire 11,345 of them, and ban them from civil service for life, or however much of it this job has allocated them.
Washington, DC, recognized the depravity of this heinous action by renaming Dulles Airport "Reagan International". Any ATC who goes to work there is a fucking scab, every time he/she clocks in.

For the record, 1% of the respondents voted H.W. and W as the best presidents since The Big One.
WTF?
Name one thing either accomplished? (and if you say The Patriot Act, I will craptrap your porch.)
HW screwed around and killed about 24 million Iraqis, even though he encouraged Saddam to invade Kuwait. Soon after, he reneged on a promise to protect the Kurds, and Chemical Ali unleashed barrages of chemical weapons on them, killing 300,000 and terminally diseasing countless others.
And W, who stood at "ground zero" (a term I despise, as it cheapens its definition, the locus of the impact of a nuclear weapon) and swore to rebuild the New York Police and Fire Departments. How about you, just for grins, Google how many NYC Police Stations & Fire Barns have closed since that 9/14/01 day of typical Bush family bullshit.
Harris is a distinguished and reliable pollster, successful such that they can make these data available free of charge.
The question thus becomes "How fucking stupid are we?"
The results of that poll aren't in, but are sure to approximate "dumber than goatshit".

Despite the continued refrigerator temperatures (don't you wish you had stacked all that stuff in your yard and turned the damn thing off about three months ago?) I've seen a few warmbloods out and about. There was a cute little raccoon who stared at me from behind a small forked tree thirty feet away while I layered up a few days ago. My dogs didn't sense him, and he watched for the five minutes it took me to leave.

Last evening my collie pup found an opossum along the rail/trail. It was typically nasty, pink snout and a mouth full of teeth, a rat tail on the other end, and a dirty humped lump in between. My Sun was understandably disgusted, stopping and barking twenty feet shy.

The wild things are as tired of this cold and snow as we are, and anxious to get about with life's business.

"Maybe"

2010-02-16T16:59:00.000-08:00

The sky now divides
To bring you back into the fold
Welcome home

Still my need to recognize
Any comfort you might share
Only grows

Guess I'll learn to accommodate
While my heart just sits and waits

Maybe God you found
Maybe is all you can offer now

Where am I to take refuge
When the storms of pain release
Shelter me

This blessedness of life
Sometimes brings me to my knees
I call on thee

I have not the words to write
A farewell to you tonight

Maybe God you found
Maybe is all that you can offer now

I know hearts are weeping
While your pure voice is loudly singing
Angel on high, Angel on high

Saw "my" red tail at Pearson Mill SRA today. A bonus! He is exceptionally white down under and gorgeous even while flying away. The last two days he has taken wing out over the reservoir, a rare, unobstructed-view treat.

Since I have made efforts for over 35 years to overcome my "Woman-on-a Pedestal" Boomer mentality, I feel obligated to explain why I choose the pronoun "he".

In the Raptor World, male and female differences are expressed in relative size, not color. A female Northern Cardinal is a muted lavender, while the male is the brightest red.

And the females rule the roost, always.

That is a key.

If "my" red tail was a female, she would have ninety potential suitors crowding her day and night, until she drove off eighty-nine of them.

There was an American Kestrel on a wire along the access road to the SRA yesterday. First time I've seen one in the area, which I have visited routinely since last summer.
His (see above) colors were brilliant and beautiful, even on a cold, gloomy mid-winter day.

The song is "Maybe", written by Ed Rowland, a superlative singer/songwriter, who fronts a good band, Collective Soul.

This song was written for Kib Browning.

It is here officially rededicated to Kristal Danae, who chose, on a late, cool night in early June, to tackle a semi rather than face whatever waited for her in her bedroom.

I have turned this over and over since early June, daily, over and over again. It always comes back to one thing.

There is only that one thing that could force a beautiful 14 year old girl out of her house late on a cool June night and into the mouth of a semi.

I am haunted. I knew Kristal was miserable, as was her mother, and I failed her completely by not recognizing her despair.

I visit her grave often, a sorry substitute for not saving her.

There is a peace in the ground that had to be worth the taste of a 60 mph hog hauler.

Indiana Turns to Mushers

2010-02-09T18:45:00.000-08:00

Okay, just so you know, the Iditarod has been moved to Indiana, which has the snow and the ridiculous temps, and is much more accessible than Alaska, except for the totally demented who choose to live there. Which is everybody except the Inuit and other tribes, imprisoned in the most recent glacial period of the Pleistocene, the Wisconsin("ian", quite obviously unnecessary) and have been living (really, that's the term) above the Arctic Circle for 10,000 to 12,000 years. That's 8 - 10K BC, and 2 - 4K before the universe was created, according to some.

The Inuit would come on south and give it a go, except they know US History, and what happened to other original residents, and know if they leave for even a day their lands will be appropriated by developers and turned into game "preserves" (if anyone knows why this word is used in this context, please advise) so wealthy teeny weenies can shoot polar bear and caribou from the comfort of a private helicopter.

Susan Butcher and her ilk will no doubt compete in our 20's temps in shorts and tank tops, but it will be uber-cool to see them trekking through Carmel as their dogs run themselves to death.

Great sport.

I went to Pearson's Mill SRA yesterday for a somewhat truncated walk. The loop to the boat ramp hadn't been plowed or otherwise traversed, and I wasn't up to pushing snow. About 80% was open, and it was a pleasant walk. I had my coat open much of the way, and off the rest.

That kind of pleasant.

I saw one of my "friends", a red tail that I've seen since mid-December. He (guess) is a bit of a recluse, and I always see him flying away.

A couple of miles south of the reservoir, there's what started out as a creek that someone attempted to dam and cultivate.

An interesting study is to cruise the county roads after heavy spring rains. Relief features you have never noticed are now creeks, large and small, surface reflections of the water table.

In northern Indiana, from about 40 miles south of Indianapolis, that water table was built in the Wisconsin(ian) glacial period.

You know, before the universe was created.

No amount of applied modern agricultural technology can affect the subsurface contours of the water table.

By the by, that demarcation 40 miles south of Indy can be seen from any tall building there. It's a terminal moraine, the extent of the grinding, gouging leveling of ice 2 miles thick. South of that feature is karst topography, limestone, water soluble. All caves in Indiana are south of that moraine.

My little low spot failed to grow crops years ago, and there are several trees approaching maturity around its perimeter. I have no clue how deep it is, but it held water through the summer and fall, and my attention was first drawn by great blue herons, so there must be significant aquatic life.

As the soybeans and corn across the road matured, there were deer in the evening, exercise for my Abbe.

Now the pair of red tails from my town area are wintering there, and I saw one to the west end in a tree yesterday.

Another "friend".

I'm sure these were the hawks I watched all autumn around the Converse cemetery. I won't guess if this is the superpredator I twice saw on the roadsigns at Oak Hill Schools. There was a red tail a couple miles east much of the summer, and that territory fit better in my ordered mind.

Which means less than nothing to any self-respecting hawk.

FYI, the public domain red tail photo above makes a spectacular background on a bigscreen monitor. If my image doesn't work, let me know and I'll provide the public domain link.

Dick Butkus Shoulders

2010-02-07T16:28:00.000-08:00

There's a football game on, easily the most overrated, over hyped "event" in my lifetime. Proof: who finished second in the last five Super Bowls? If you're good enough to play a game for immortality, shouldn't you be remembered?

The Indianapolis Colts are playing, and I don't care enough to watch. When I earned my stripes as an NFL fan, they were the Baltimore Colts, and I didn't like them then, surely not Saint John Unitas, exalted as one of the greats, ever. Baltimore did play in two SB's in those years, but ChristInCleats (and you thought that was Joe Montana, who won four) only played in one. His back-up, Earl Morrall, played in the loss to the New York Jets, making a hero of the extraordinarily disgusting Joe Namath.
Unitas started in SB V, but left the game in the second quarter. Morrall finished the win.

There were a couple players I liked from those Colts teams. Tom Matte, a running back that played hard, always, and Mike Curtis, the best middle linebacker in the game until Mr. Butkus came along.

I wanted to refer to my little falcon as having Jack Lambert shoulders, but felt the best middle linebacker in the history of the NFL might have escaped the notice of some non-fans, while Butkus was in movies and at least one current television commercial.

Since American Kestrels sit tight on the wire in winter, they can be indistinguishable through your windshield on a drear winter day from say, a turtle dove (Mourning dove - probably mourning the thousands and thousands of doves, a symbol of peace, shot annually for "sport"). They are the same size, and colors fade in leaden skies, but a turtle dove has a long neck and tiny head. Don't fret over that "bird brain": they fly at speeds up to 55 mph, and if you doubt the thought and coordination necessary, put a typical 12-year-old behind the wheel of your car and press the accelerator up to that speed. Enjoy hospitalization, at best.

The kestrel has massive "shoulders" and, practically, no neck, and is distinctive in the bleakest conditions.

Admire, and enjoy.

Of course you'll have to slow down, and get off the damn cellphone. And do your part to save lives: never, ever, text message while driving.

Creationists "believe" the earth is about 8,000 years old. Belief, faith, are terms used to qualify irrational subscription to theories with no empirical proof or supporting evidence of any kind. 8,000 years isn't long enough to account for all the snow in Indiana.

On Groundhog Day, the sun shone brightly, but our groundhog couldn't see his shadow because he was snowed in, in the dark, hibernating peacefully.

Hibernation is a much-underrated activity, or lack thereof, a talent we lost the capacity for sometime in the 5 1/2 billion-year history of our planet. And check it, because in your lifetime that age will grow, as much as another billion years. Remember, the current estimate is based on evidence found and examined, namely meteors, and there are tons more to be found, analyzed, and dated.

Algae fossils five billion years old have been validated. You carry the DNA from that algae, with some other, in every cell in your body.

For sure.

8,000 years, indeed.

Neanderthals were gone about 30,000 years ago. They left with the largest brains of any hominid. I'm guessing they knew the earth was older than creationists "believe".

2010-02-05T18:19:00.000-08:00

Oh my, how I love the snow! And boogers and zits and snot and toe jamb and crotch rot and pit sweat and wet socks and cheese stains and toothaches and old rockers and, well, you got it.

Took a mile (signposts) walk this evening on the Sweetser rails-to-trails. My dogs and I were the only breathing bodies in the blizzard. It was beautiful. The wind was (mostly) blocked, and the bushes were piled with snow. Not all that cold, and the footing was the best it's gonna be the next several days.

Was up at Pearson's Mill earlier in the week, kind of moping along, trying to keep my dogs out of the carcasses and the real stinky stuff, when an Eastern Bluebird flew across the road about fifteen feet above.

Which put me about fifteen miles high. Confession: I lived well over 50 years without ever seeing a bluebird. And now I know what the to-do is about (Buffalo Springfield comes to mind).

Just a most totally wonderful bird.

I watched a little, probably pre-school, girl get out of a car, followed by mommy with a cigarette burning in her pie hole. What's a car interior, about eight cubic feet? How long does it take a lit cigarette to turn that space into a gas chamber? Two minutes, three tops? Cigarette smoke has been a known carcinogen for at least fifty years.

You can fit this mother's love in a box the size of a cigarette pack.

What kind of god lets people - mothers - do this to their children? If it's free choice, then this mother is not equipped to make the decision.

There are hawks hanging about, and becoming familiar, like they are my hawks.

More so the red tails, as their "territory" becomes evident to me.

The American Kestrels are always a surprise, more discreet than warm-weather birds. Summer kestrels always fly as you pass, circling back to the perch. Winter kestrels sit tight, and in this bleak winter there isn't enough light to see those beautiful colors, and you either note the distinctive shoulder set or you guess.

This morning I watched a red tail floating on a building east wind, maybe a half mile, before he (guess) flapped a bit with the breeze and began a descent, out of sight.

If you watch a soaring or gliding hawk, and, even with glass, can't detect any tail movement, remember a NOVA feature where they mounted a camera to focus on the tail of a hawk, to see what role that broad tail played in flight dynamics. This project, for this application, cost tens of thousands of dollars, and showed that the tail was critical for flight but moved almost imperceptibly. I think the researchers were very disappointed with the findings. And they missed the point.

Aircraft are designed with massive fixed wings. Birds use wings for every facet of flight, except aspect and balance. These two most critical functions are controlled by the tail, the bird gyroscope.

The researchers, who spent a lot of money focusing on the tail, were disappointed at the lack of activity (movement), and missed that the set of the tail is hypercritical for successful flight.

We spend billions and billions flying airplanes, and still haven't dissected the mechanics of the success of the "bird brains" who fly effortlessly.

And we are the smart ones.

2010-01-18T17:35:00.000-08:00

My farriers are Amish, and I went by their shop to schedule a farm visit to trim Mister Buckles. I found them in their butcher shop, father and sons, and stayed to chat a while.

I have no respect for religious belief, faith, but I have much respect for the Amish, and would convert, except for the god stuff, and all that hard work. Everything else, I'm good to go.

This respect has roots from junior high years, from passing through Eastern Elkhart County, and being completely subsumed with awe by the Amish farms and life I saw there.

And in the early 80's, there was an article in Rolling Stone. In those, and earlier years, Rolling Stone wasn't just a music mag, making a RockStar out of Annie Lebovitz. Incidentally, the last I heard, Annie was facing default on a $24 million(!) loan, that day. And it wasn't just the money. As collateral, Annie had posted rights to all her work, past, present, and future. The equivalent to mortgaging your soul.

In those years, the magazine had a social consciousness, long since gone, from society and the magazine. In the day, they gave Hunter Thompson his best voice, and printed a blazing expose' of the fraud Evel Knievel, by Joe Eszterhas. Joe went on to write screenplays, including the smashes Flashdance and Basic Instinct, probably best known for the view of Sharon Stone's mommy parts.

And the mag published A Quiet Killing in Adams County, documenting the killing of 8-month-old Adeline Schwartz on August 31, 1979.

This is the best piece of journalism I have ever read, and it drove a stake in my heart that remains.

Four turds were driving around Berne, Indiana, throwing broken pieces of clay tile at "Clapes", clay apes, Amish. Two were in the cab and two in the bed of a pickup, and they chucked some tile at a buggy where baby Adeline was a passenger. Here's a good time to remember some high school physics, where the velocity of an object thrown from a moving vehicle travels at a speed equal to the acceleration of the throw and the speed of that vehicle, that pickup.

The Schwartzes, when they got home and found Baby Adeline murdered, contacted Adams County Sheriff's Department, and the human garbage was apprehended almost immediately. Subsequently, the Schwartzes refused to participate in legal proceedings.

The four shitstains in the pickup were found guilty of numerous previous attacks on Amish, yet none did time for the murder of a baby. A judge, found competent by the majority of those who cast votes in Adams County, Indiana, ruled that guilt could not be determined between the two submorons winging lethal projectiles at defenseless people.

Justice served.

Become familiar with the Amish concepts of god's will be done and bible-mandated forgiveness. Witness the 2006 Amish school slaughter in West Nickel Mines, PA. Funds sent to the Amish were regifted to the family of the shooter.

I was troubled by this. As a non-believer I am more an eye-for-an-eye type, and don't hold with divine forgiveness. And I had sent a sizable (for me) donation, and I would sooner dig up the shooter (Charles Roberts, if you're keeping score) and shit in his skull than give money to his family.

Another, and for me, much, much larger difficulty with this spirit of forgiveness, fueled by the bible, and respected by local authorities, comes with "respect" for the closed community, and a hands-off attitude towards possible crimes.

The death of Krystle Danae Gingrich, late on a very cool night in June, 2009, stinks on ice. Krystle was a most beautiful 14-year-old, and chose tackling a semi to going into her home.

I visit her often, as the Amish ignore the buried, which is very convenient when your fucking "faith" makes you forgive a murderer in your house. And her death must have been a relief to a most troubled household.

There was a hawk perched on a fencepost behind the shop, and Mr. Otto called it a "chicken hawk", and it was most surely a sharp-shinned hawk.

And Ed asked me what he could do about a hawk after his chickens and I said "Take a very deep breath and yell 'Hey!' as loud as you can."

Yesterday we went to Pearson's Mill SRA. Some of the worst litterers, from Slim Jim wrappers to dead bait, are bank fishermen. I am baffled as to why someone can enjoy a few hours in outdoor sport, then soil and spoil the very spot you enjoyed.

So there is a a dead-fish deposit at the ramp-end at Pearson's Mill, and my puppy got into it the last time we were there. It is a stink you cannot believe, and almost impossible to get out of a long-haired dog. And the drive home is just too, too far.

I put a collar with a leash on Sun through the area, and Abbe took the challenge, and found the offal, and dove into it.

I took a towel and jammed it with snow and wiped her down, then used six hand-wipes on her, and she stunk up the truck cab past tolerance. So, instead of going home across Red Bridge, I retraced SR 13.

And perched on the roadsign for Mier, barely six feet off the ground and six feet off the highway, was a most gorgeous red tail. So very close I could fully appreciate the gold mottling in the white breast without glass, and surely as close as I've ever come to a red tail.

He sat stolidly, and was most surely the hawk I saw on the other side of the highway, on a speed-limit sign, a bit higher, a couple weeks ago.

I am absolutely amazed with what the surgical team did for me. Awesome is worn, but useful, and surely apropos. And I rejoice two and three times a day that I can walk again, for it's been the most enjoyable part of my day for years and years.

But you don't really need to get out of your car to see wonderful, beautiful, wildlife.

Just slow down. See those kestrels on wires, those red tails on the posts and power poles, in roadside trees.

You will surely feel blessed.

2010-01-16T12:34:00.000-08:00

How many times have you heard "Be careful what you wish for"?

Because I recently lamented the dearth of cottontails and coyotes, and, now, this:

The Mississinewa Battlefield, the beginnings of the end of the Miami tribe and the usurping of land from our native Delawares, is at the headwaters of the reservoir, where the Mississinewa is still a river. There is a road runs for a few miles along the east side of the river, the genesis of which would surely be 18th Century, certainly earlier. It is a lovely place to walk, much of the road canopied, and often practically deserted.

There are three access points to the road, and I took the middle, to walk a more open section in hopes the footing would be best.

On the way back, I heard beagles, then a 12-gauge shotgun report.

Abbe left for the truck, as she cannot tolerate loud noises.

A bend in the road (river) blocked the rabbit hunters, who drove in behind us.

My puppy went 'round the bend in full collie song, and I worried he would be shot. But for who knows why, he responded to my screams of terror and came back.

We came on two hillbillies, really good guys, one nearly my age and the other great-grandfatherly, a certain octogenarian (okay, he said). They were hunting from the road, for sure in deference to the man's years. It is illegal to hunt from a road in Indiana (this is primarily to protect deer from spotlighters - they literally freeze in the headlights). But the law isn't that specific. And I don't know if they were licensed, or had signed in, both requirements to legally hunt IDNR-managed land.

Then again, a hillbilly with a shotgun is a bona fide killing machine, so I skipped all the legalese and made nice.

They noted that Abbe had gone by at a fast trot, and didn't even look at them.

The younger man held a dead cottontail in his right hand, so I finally got to see one.

Oh, goody.

There is another trail, on the south or west side of the river, that runs, about 50% true, from Marion to the confluence with the Wabash River a few miles east of Peru. This is the Slocum Trail, named for Frances Slocum, taken by Delawares from her family at Wilkes-Barre, PA at the age of five and raised as a Miami in the Mississinewa area. After the most extensive, exhaustive, intensive "manhunt" in the history of the known world, her brothers found her some 59 years later, completely assimilated, named Maconaquah, living on a ridge five miles from the schools since named in her honor. And you can visit her there now, at the Frances Slocum Cemetery. Good luck defining the "ridge", but hang in there, you can do it.

At Jalapa, directly across the river from the battlefield cemetery, there is a ford in the river. You can see it most of the year, large slabs of limestone that amount to a near-bridge, and for much of the year you can wade it and not get your cuffs wet.

The Slocum Trail passes through Jalapa, and this ford creates a link with my much less well-defined trail. Further, at winter (low) pool, now, you can look upstream from the SR 13 bridge and see a road that ran butt up against the river, my trail.

You don't need to accept my trail, but know this: "my" trail is the access road to the Frances Slocum Cemetery, and I'll bet dollars to dimes Maconaquah knew "my" trail very, very well.

We were headed west on the Slocum Trail, about a mile past Red Bridge, this afternoon, when I noticed a red pickup pulled in to a Sign In/Out station. There were dog boxes in the back, and stretched out on the tailgate, a coyote.

Perfect.

In the late spring and early summer, coyotes can look mangy, as they shed that winter coat for the summer. This one was resplendent in a luxurious deep-winter coat of copper, auburn, rust, and burnished gold.

Resplendent, except for the dead part.

Why in the fuck would anyone shoot a wild coyote? They are harmless, beautiful, and a true joy to sight and watch. This legged turd keeps dogs, which are genetic Xeroxes of coyotes. Maybe he's one of those walking condoms crammed with vulture vomit who keeps his dogs in unheated cages in the farthest corner of his yard. If the dogs are that lucky.

Okay, here's a genuine proposal: except in cases of thoroughly documented depredation, hunted game must be limited to what the hunter eats. Period.

You can bet those hillbillies ate that rabbit.

This brainless shitstain may have the coyote mounted, either in taxidermy lexicon, or in the colloquial sense, and I'll pick the latter, although the odds are likely about equal, but it ain't food.

The wonderful people who bred my superdog Addie had a neighbor who was twice caught in his neighbor's goat barn. Everyone in this story should have relocated far, far away from one another. And, as an unnecessary aside, the goat packer was married. At least after the first time.

I am so full of crap I come across as having an answer for everything. But why shoot a coyote? And why do we allow it on our state property? Doesn't that mean these are our coyotes, not IDNR's, not hunters'? The Coyote has a revered status in American Indian culture and religion, known variously by many honorifics, such as The Trickster (a being of unmatched wit, wile, and guile), and God's Dog. Given the opportunity, I would have shot the genetic dead-end before he shot the coyote. There would have been purpose in that.

A guy who never, ever should have fathered two children lives on a corner in the next block north, and keeps beagles in elevated cages in the backyard. Which fits, as a cage adjoins rabbit hutches. This should be some excitement for the rabbits, as every time the hounds bay, it must boost the bunny heart rates to Indy speeds.

In the 15 years I have lived here, to the best of my knowledge, these dogs have never, ever been out of these hutches. The guy has no beagle boxes in his truck, and I would bet my house forensic scientists could not find a dog hair in the cab.

If this is livin', I'd be dyin'.

Cardinals Paint the Snow

2010-01-15T17:01:00.000-08:00

Okay, I've always been a sucker for a pretty face, and have made a fool of myself enough times to think it's a gift, and remain a fool, as I seem to be very good at it.

With every ounce of respect to my new pedestal dwellers, the Eastern Bluebirds, I was walking through the pine woods on the new trail when I saw a Northern Cardinal thirty yards on, below eye level on a deadfall branch, and was renewed in the glory and majesty that is a most regal red cardinal in the snow.

And there were others about, maybe to remind me that every one is a snowflake, with distinctive coloring, yet another proof that unless creationist god attends the birth of each male cardinal, Darwinian selection is at work, constantly searching for that most perfect of reds.

I saw a male last week almost burgundy, beautiful, but not even near that royal scarlet, or blood red, either. And he had a mate, which shows who was doing the selecting, not creationist god, not Darwin himself. Because with nearly every species in birdworld, the male is most glamorously appointed, while the female is often bland, and nearly indistinguishable to all but the most intent observers.

Girls rule, boys drool. Many stag beauties, but the drab females are all mated up, with much local fighting for the subservient position.

And that burgundy color? May persist, may not. Because just like you and me, baby birds get a full set of X's, half a set of Y's. Again, girls rule, boys spit in the ocean.

I once read that some birdwatchers in England (okay, never "birders" here. Sounds like hunters) would travel to the US to see a cardinal in the snow, as there are no such creatures in the U.K.

Some more about "birding". Kenn Kaufman makes this point in "Kingbird Highway" about his thumb ride crisscrossing America to establish a new record for species identified in a year: that he never actually "watched" the birds.

I can't help but believe his epiphany came when a late-season spring ice storm wiped out a sizable percentage of the Myrtle Warbler population on the Outer Banks of North Carolina as he stood most helplessly by. Whatever, subsequent to his "record year" of bird logging, Kenn began to observe, and become a sanctuary manager, producer of a top-shelf field guide, and a collaborator with others in print.

As mentioned before, "birding" is mostly checking a list, with distinctive calls or songs serving with visual recognition as positive identifications.

I had a friend, a wildlife biologist, who was paid to drive a prescribed route and count species at prescribed locations. This was useful, as someone paid him to do this chore.

Birdwatching?

Hardly.

And birders who recognize songs or calls and check a list are not birdwatchers.

I have had two hanks for years, one red, one blue. The red one has considered its lot in life, and disappeared. So I found "bandannas", and bought a four-pack.

My affair with snotlockers may be disgusting, except this: when I got these hanks (sorry, bandannas, or, rather sorry bandannas) home, I looked at the label: "Falls Creek".

Except there is no location on the label, only "Made In China", and the same on the bandannas: "Made in China".

It is so easy to admit I know nothing about International Trade that it seems I'm proud of my ignorance.

Of course I'm not. So will someone tell me when we began to allow China to free-market in the US? I surely missed that boat. And Google was no help, identifying "Falls Creek" as a Chinese Company.

Again, I've never known any country could free-trade on US markets. So we pick somebody, and it's fucking China?!

We have hogshit better regulated than goods from China. And they can hang a rack of snotrags, and much other shit, too, in the Marion Meijer? WTF?

Something I've noticed these last several days is a few American Kestrels overwintering. And an oddity: in the summer, unless you drive by at 80 mph (and who doesn't?) kestrels leave the wire, circle, and return, usually to that same spot. In the winter, they sit tight, one with back to the road scanning a snowy, picked cornfield, with stalks up, and two others watching the road, the last couple days.

One hand says the short flight would warm one up.

The other sees a waste of heat, of energy.

Whether intuitively, instinctively, or knowledgeably, birds and animals manage energy so much better than we, one wonders why we abandoned research.

It was because no one listened.

2010-01-14T16:57:00.000-08:00

SR 18 crosses Taylor Creek on the east side of town, as the road to the Converse Cemetery, and to Mier (pronounced "mere", for physical reasons, but mostly because we're just stupid. Like everyone who insists on pronouncing Favre "farve") splits to the north.

On a wire north, set back because of the intersection, sat a male red tail, who I've seen in and around since summer. Oh, sure, how can I tell? Well, never in my lifetime, but they are territorial, and there's been one in this territory for about eight months, and counting.

His plumage was resplendent, gorgeous, a healthy glow as we emerge from over three weeks in an icebox. The door opened today, with temps above freezing, but not enough to lift much snow, as the sunshine was was just above the low clouds.

You have wintered well to date, lovely friend.

We were up the road to Pearson's Mill.

Into the SRA, the road goes downhill to the south, then turns abruptly on the dolomite cliff, 15 - 25 feet above the lake, and follows along it west to the boat launch area. (Dolomite is much the same as limestone. The difference is the major element - mineral - in limestone is calcite, and dolomite features magnesium. Yellow to brown, while limestone is grey.) The road west hasn't been plowed, and I've been parking at the bottom of the county road and walking back to the launch area, then back and up the grade to the entrance sign, a very good exercise, with the elevation changes.

Walking in today I came on a clester of grey birds, dozens, working and swarming the trees ten, twenty and thirty feet uphill. Dancing in the trees.

They had those beautiful orange breasts.

Last summer I got hung up on a little grey bird with an orange breast for several days, then saw it fly down a swale.

Eastern Bluebird.

It is confusing, as females can display this grey coloration. But the larger consideration is the angle of observation (you are officially spared the term "incidence", which means so many things, and I lack the energy to describe this usage), and like the decidedly blue bird I finally saw last summer, they all hid blue except for the occasional minute flash, which I couldn't believe.

What gave these hidden beauties, all three or so dozen, away wasn't a break in the clouds, but those little lilly-white butts.

Only a naturenut can appreciate a bird for its butt.

Even stashed under three inches of crusted snow, my puppy managed to find stinking rotted fish, which infuses everything near it with a godawful stench, doesn't wash out, and makes the trip home in a little truck cab unbearable.

And there were two deer carcasses the dogs found, left by fuckheaded slaughter assholes who field strip the animals and leave the carcass in a ditch.

Hunter-gatherers began to be displaced about 8000 years ago by farmers. The few extant today are found in the most remote areas of the tropics, where an abundance of vegetation and wildlife can support them. Ain't much of that. Ain't many of them.

And the myth of the American hunter is truly a myth. Lewis & Clark's fabled expedition was nearly starved to failure because the hunters they hired flat couldn't hunt.

The people who denuded our prairies, here in Indiana and west, cleared land and plowed and planted. Most didn't own a gun. The forest and grassland they levelled held no game, anyway.

Check it: there are more whitetail deer in Indiana now than in 1830.

Which presents wildlife managers with a dilemma: how accommodate the five million people using land available only to wildlife 180 years ago?

Uhm, kill the the animals.

This is the only answer found acceptable by IDNR managers, who choose to allow slaughter in Indiana State Parks, supposed sanctuaries for all of natural Indiana, because they can't manage the herds they created.

And that perpetuates the fuckskulls who throw carcasses in ditches.

And walking brain-disease breeding laboratories who don't track the animals they shoot. I find dead deer, see them, or my dogs come up with parts all winter.

Seriously, what are these stains on humanity about?

There are many, many people who hunt responsibly, who view a day outdoors as time well spent. But what about the "people" Robert Twigger writes of in The Extinction Club? Those who spend tens and hundreds of thousands of dollars to shoot endangered species, and more, much more, in hope of killing the last of the species?

Hunting is a dying fetish in this country, and should be. There are better ways to manage wildlife than just fucking kill it.

Hunting will outlive me. So I'll always have decaying animal matter to enjoy.

How do you like yours?

2010-01-13T16:08:00.000-08:00

One of my very favorite places to walk my dogs is cemeteries. The occupants are quiet and never complain, visitor traffic is sparse, and the atmosphere is quiet, almost peaceful. Except for all the dead people.

I've been walking at the Converse Cemetery for at least 12 years. Tuesday evening, after supper, the west wind (been there for at least three weeks) made the walk nearly unbearable. And then, a thought: there is a hedgerow along the north (long) border of the grounds and a wooded creek on the west side. Every time I had walked here, I had walked clockwise, with no fore- or after-thought. Should I reverse directions, fully half the tour would be shielded naturally, and the wind would be at my back that last long stretch.
I tried it Wednesday afternoon, with mixed ratings. But better.
And there was something else: I saw most of the markers from the other side for the first time.
In the northwest corner, an old part of the cemetery, was a stone engraved "Clester".
The very first thing I thought was "clester feck".

Taylor Creek provides the western border. It's like a twenty-foot cliff. The reason is the natural contour of so many cemeteries has been backfilled to provide a more-or-less level "planting" area. In the mid 90's, Elwood moved the main sewer up out of Duck Creek with a $7 million grant from the feds. A thousand feet was relocated into the City Cemetery. The excavations piled mounds of old-time backfill 25 to 30 feet in the air. These piles were full of 60 - 75 year-old bottles, in various conditions.
Note that before plastics, bored into the skull of consumer America by "The Graduate", dumps were routinely fired to reduce waste piles, usually on an undesirable edge of town.
As towns grew, that "undesirable edge" became ultra-thin.
When the dumps were fired, sport was available for children, as the rats tried to flee. This also provided diversion for too many dim-witted adult males, who in an unholy alliance with some devil, found time to reproduce. You know them. Stand still in a box store for ten minutes, at your extreme peril. Earn a Merit Badge in "Quasi-Human Exploration".
Another by-product was the surviving rats, most necessarily the vast majority, found routes into all the new homes crowding the "undesirable edge".

An aside that helps delimit my tolerance: I will trade each rat in my home for a Duroc Hog, and pay all the difference.
I do not like rats.
And at some point, probably now, smoke and stench must be mentioned. There. It was. Because the downwind people welcomed the fresh smell of burning plastics.
The Fifties! What a great time! No A/C, so choose which is the least offensive, blowing through your screen on a swampy July night: burning rotten animal flesh or dioxins!
Aw, the 50's. Great music. Except you wouldn't listen to any of it for more than about eleven minutes.
Try the first three or four Stones albums (admittedly, the 60's). the very best rock band ever, and you're, WTF?
Because all these rock monsters were learning, and rock really exploded in '68, and most before is known only because it was recorded.

I was shuffling through the snow on the cliff edge, the cemetery overshadowing Taylor Creek, looking for my Abbe. Who was surely looking for open water in the creek, the temperature in the low 20's, to cool her heels, or just because she really, really likes to splash water.
The trees in the creek bottom are ten - fifteen feet high, and I saw what I thought was blue, and, as I watched, there was a clester of Bluebirds. Just totally gorgeous. And not the first time this winter I thought a bluebird in the snow was the most beautiful bird in existence.
And these Bluebirds jumping around in these tree tops, at eye level, flashing that beautiful blue in every light, and every bird a distinguishable hue, and the orange throats onto the white, was a spectacle to keep forever.

I am so glad I didn't have a camera, because I could never, ever, with tons of time and tons of film, capture the splendor of these few little birds dancing through these humble trees.

My sister has taken medical teams and supplies to Haiti for at least (so, so sorry if I shortchange this selfless effort) fourteen years, and these people are the poorest people in the Americas, and as besieged as any country in Africa.
For years Haiti was ruled by Papa Doc and then Baby Doc Duvalier, who never troubled themselves with Haiti"s Constitution, the earliest in the Americas, and wrung every cent out of every inch of people and land.
Now comes two days of earthquakes, and here's my new candidate for "Dumbest Motherfucker on the Planet", Pat Robertson.
I was gonna post his crap, but will not soil my blog.
Here's a link, if you want to know what a piece of shit that Americans support with much moola says:

Americans United Condemns TV Preacher's Callous Statement on Haitian Earthquake

Sorry. I have the strongest stomach in Indiana (size matters!) but I can't post this shit.

Know ye: Bluebirds, and Northern Cardinals, are hanging around, and available to the casual observer, and who's more casual than me?

Went on my longest trip since surgery to Sheridan, IN today. Wallace Feeds mixes a perfect sweet feed for my horse - 10-Os - 10% protein, oat based, and I made the drive. Less than 80 miles, but wore me way down.

Filled the feed barrel, and I cut up some Granny Smith and Macintosh, threw on 2# of fresh sweet feed, then stood in the cold while Mister Buckles ignored me, and shied away from my touch.

Studies have repeatedly shown horses don't think (okay, there are about 5 billion humans, with over 17 billion pounds of brain matter, who don't either) but they do remember. Horses have incredible memories, and, should you think elephants do better, you can observe several for a life-time and not prove it.

So after Mister Buckles let me know he wasn't happy with my extended absence, he started nuzzling about while he was treating himself

What I live for.

2010-01-06T16:51:00.000-08:00

The pure psycho Sarah! created a void when she found that the totally befuddled Republican

"Party" (serious, now: how far away from a party can you get?) adored her, grew too big for a mere governor's job (think: there are only 50 in the nation) that she abdicated that elected duty after only two and a half years. She took with her the title of "Most repugnant and repulsive slaughterer of useful and harmless wild life on the planet".

Into the gap jumps this buttbrain:

"Montana Governor Brian Schweitzer Brags About Buffalo Slaughter".

You can read it all at www.bfc-media@wildrockies.org but see if you can stomach this:

"No governor in Montana history has sent more bison to slaughter than this governor," Schweitzer said.
Okay, I need Murine to get the red out, but I'm not retyping.

I got an e-mail said, in part, Muslin gynecologists can't look at mommy parts, but must examine such with a mirror.

Be a good job for PeeWee Herman. Remember when he (Paul Rubens) got arrested in a Miami jackatorium - XXX theatre- loping his mule? How could anyone have been the least bit surprised? He hosted a kids show with mirrors on his shoes. How in hell does that happen?

By the way, has internet porn put all those sticky floor movie rooms out of business?

When I was at Pearson Mill SRA recently I heard a loud commotion I was sure were turkeys. Mississinewa Lake has hundreds, a very successful reintroduction program. But it was a flock of ducks, quite belatedly heading south for open water. I consulted my duck book (okay, I don't really have a duck book, but I do have about a dozen bird field guides, all with ducks and geese, so I put on a dust mask and actually opened one) and found the only duck listed with a suitable range of calls is the male mallard. The female just quacks.

I have no idea what all the racket was about, unless they were all bitching at whoever's idea it was to stay this far north this late, or cussing some slackers who were skipping their turns on point, hanging back in the draft.

The woods didn't allow much view - I heard them before and after I saw them - but it's worth your while to observe a flight long enough to see the vee roll out and re-form, as the leaders peel back for a bit of rest. Is there a duck school teaches that?

I was carping about all the women shortchanged of recognition for their contributions to the sciences, like Rosiland Franklin. One who received due recognition was Marie Curie (nee Skłodowska - she was Polish, not French). She coined "radioactivity", a field of study which modernized (and terrorized) the world. She also discovered radium and polonium (named after her birthplace).

She was decorated with the French Legion of Honor. She received the Nobel Prize in Physics in 1903, the first woman to be awarded a Nobel. In 1911 she was awarded the Nobel Prize in Medicine, the first person to merit two Nobel Prizes.

Madame Curie paid the price for working with radioactive materials. One cannot imagine the pain that accompanied her lingering, last years.

Less compensated were the thousands of young women who painted radium numerals on watch faces to "glow in the dark". Four hundred or so "Radium Girls" employed by a contractor for the US Army were told the stuff was harmless. So they painted the watches, painted their fingernails, even their teeth. But the killer was the very small numbers that required a very fine brush. The women were constantly wetting the camel hair with their lips to firm it up for each application.

The "Radium Girls" are famous because they brought a lawsuit, and won. There were thousands of others with the same job - notably, with Timex - who also sickened and died.

Sad story, but repeated lately by W. R. Grace who mined vermiculite, an asbestos product with an insidious, unfilterable crystal structure, notably in Libby, Montana, and continually reassured workers, saying the stuff was harmless. Now about the whole town has incurable lung diseases.

And what happened to W R Grace? Well, Mr. Grace is on sit-down-to supper terms with the Bush family, particularly Herbert Walker (41), so, essentially, nothing. Billions buys better lawyers than yours. And judges, too, with G H W Bush on your team. And Jr. (43) never rocked that boat.

And speaking of billions, the US has spent all of that removing asbestos from schools, hospitals, and other public buildings. But asbestos is still for sale. In every form. Whether your house was built 50 years ago or yesterday, there is asbestos in it. Some, or a lot, but unless you paid to have it removed, you still got it.

Why?
Why, indeed.

2010-01-04T15:37:00.000-08:00

The managers at Mississinewa Lake hit a home run when they cut a half-mile trail through a pine woods for the annual foot-race. What a pleasant place to walk. I was actually sad to see the road. Three deer cut across the trail about forty yards in front of me, really loading up my sightings checklist. Throw in a pair of Cardinals, a couple of nuthatches, a bluejay, and call it a success.
In the woods, I was recalling my writing that cottontails were rare, and it occurred coyotes are rare, also. The populations are inextricably linked away from settled areas, as coyotes have become very successful scavengers (and first-rate cat harvesters). I only saw one last year: contrast with three fox, always more shy, reticent.
On the (closed) road, towards the car, what do I see but a coyote track.
I am no, not even, a tracker, and couldn't track a slow snake through wet paint.
Coyote prints are the same as a dog's, which you would expect, as they are genetically indistinguishable. But a dog makes side and side prints, while all four coyote paws fall in a straight line.
If hearing a bird call serves as a sighting, then I'll surely count coyote tracks in fresh snow.

Today is Sir Issac Newton's Birthday. He was the founder of all things physics, true genius, but all accounts I've read depict him as a weird fucker, so Happy B'Day, Ike.
The 2 greatest scientific discoveries of the (19)50's and 60's were J. Tuzo Wilson's explication of plate tectonics in 1964, and Watson and Crick's Double Helix of 1953. (Aside: Watson received his doctorate from Indiana University in zoology. Okay, WTF? I don't know what zoology is, but assume it's the study of zoos? I can see a BS in that, but a PhD in zoos? Fucking zoos? Only in Indiana.)
Contrary to my previous post, we are much better educated than I had presumed. Nearly 75% of Freshmen graduate High School. (The drop-out rate for teens aged 15 - 19 is only 6%. Something sinister is happening to 1 in 5 high schoolers.)
So I must assume everyone is familiar with the Double Helix. Watson and Crick, and a guy named Wilkins, shared the Nobel Prize in Physiology or Medicine in 1962 for the model.
Largely ignored until rather recently was Rosiland Franklin. Watson and Crick had rendered several models of the structure. They used Franklin's radiological photographs (conveniently, without her permission) to identify the correct model.
Franklin died in 1958, aged 37, and, as the Nobel can only be awarded to the living, it was easy to ignore her contributions entirely.
That kind of crap would wear a soul to sand if one started finding each instance.

Okay, as sure as I am that most people are aware of the double helix, I am doubly certain that the vast majority of them cannot explain its significance.
Class?
Anyone?
The double helix provided the structure with which an entire yard (yep, three whole feet) of DNA pairs could be crammed into each and every cell in the human body.
There are anywhere from 10 trillion to 100 trillion cells in the human body (from subsequent Google replies), each with the complete human genome, the complete array of chromosome pairs. Each with three feet of DNA, and, if stretched, enough to make three round trips to the sun. Right there in little old you, and every one you know, except for conservatives, who lack a substantial amount of DNA coding for brain cells.
Without the Double Helix, there was no way to guess that the yard of DNA, which pioneer geneticists (well, maybe not Gregor Mendel, who starved an abbey full of monks growing sweet peas in the gardens) already had. But they could not posit how to get that damn much (again, three feet!) of the material in a single human cell. Into every human cell.
The Wright Brothers spent years carving wooden propellers, trying to find the right pitch for the blades to pull an aeroplane through the air. All trial and error. Hundreds of error.
Who knows when, if ever, Watson and Crick, and what's his name, would have found the correct of their models to pack three feet of DNA into a human cell? Paired, mind you, as every one knows the strands must be paired, for a single strand is just goo. Maybe years, maybe never, without the excellent crystallographic X-ray images prepared by Rosiland Franklin.
Rosiland Franklin never knew that Watson and Crick had access to her work.
Bastards.
As a footnote, this post also completely shortchanges Ms Franklin's work. For instance, she discovered there were two distinctly different strands of DNA, A and B, but could not put them together, could not pair them, without the double helix.
That was left to Watson and Crick, and that other guy, to steal her singular images and fit them to one of an array of models.
Crick has gone on to hell. Fuck Watson.

2010-01-04T07:40:00.000-08:00

This is an atonement post for yesterday's "What I Did Today" blah fest. "Nothing" would have told the story.
According to a Harris Poll conducted the first two weeks in November, 32% of US believe in UFOs, while a whopping 42% believe in ghosts.
The US is easily the most educated nation in the world, mandated to provide free schooling for everyone grades K - 12. And college is available to anyone who wants it.
Just about every nation on four continents educates most of their populations (except, you know, freedom-loving shitholes like Saudi Arabia, where women don't need no schoolin'), and provide degrees for the gifted.
But the US provides for all, even the challenged, and we damn well should be the smartest people on earth.
So how can nearly half the best-educated people on earth believe in ghosts? My guess is fewer than 1% of the US claim interaction with a ghost. That's the flagship for this raft of believers?
UFOs are more plausible. My skepticism lies in the majority of sighting are reported from the backwoods, swamps, and deserts, while the visitors shy from lights, which would seem what attracted them to the third stone.
The same Harris Poll claimed 45% approve Darwin's theory of evolution, but no one has ever given a satisfactory rendition to me. Other references cite as few as 25% adherents, but I'll stay with the Harris' percentile, which means over half of US refute what is self-evident. In keeping with my simplistic understanding of rudimentary science, I give you the sparrow.
Birds of Eastern North America, by Sterry & Small, lists 23 species of sparrows, living east of the Mississippi.
23!
That is an incredible amount of variation for the smaller half of the continent, and it defies any other explanation.
So why do nearly as many people in the US believe in ghosts as accept Darwin's Theory, which even I can prove as irrefutable with an example everyone but cavedwellers see every day?
Maybe no one's looking.

2010-01-03T18:01:00.000-08:00

A cold day, and much of my time was spent nursing the woodstove, trying to heat three rooms with it, happy for one warm.

Burning logs are mood pieces, relaxing, romantic to watch, devoid of significant BTUs.

Splitting down, and down, is the way to go, the only way to heat, but I haven't much been up to the task. It is cold outside, and bringing wood in to split donates too much effort to the floor. Need that irresistable force (mostly) of concrete outside.

My blood is 40-weight S.A.E. and I can't move in the morning chill. That's the morning chill in the house.

Thus it was after noon before I got out, getting on up to Pearson's Mill SRA. Sunny cold and windy - not much wind, yet enough to take the windchill below zero.

I did a short loop, skipped the boat ramp because of footing, or possible lack thereof, and made the trip up to the top lot, above the facilities.

Then back out on the road to climb the hill to the marker for the SRA.

Just down the road, I looked up to see a raptor cross the road south, towards the lake, then wheel back east along the cliff (okay, twenty feet) away from me. She (probably) stayed at eye level, as the trees along the road are necessarily low. The raptor showed much white, but I didn't make out head or tail, and surely not back. She alit in a tree about halfway to where the road breaks from the clifftop and turns up the hill.

I knew the hawk would fly again, and hoped to see her before she did, but the icy footing kept my neck bent and she was in the air before I saw her, eastbound, upstream.

Again, so much white, and because of her size and the way she flew (not the flap-flap-flap-glide of an accipiter) and the iced over reservoir (ospreys only feed on fish, and are long gone) I'm sure she was a red tail.

I've seen one up (east) the lake on the same shore a couple of times, so there's no surprise.

And immediately a pair of orange breasted birds I so wanted to be bluebirds, except, you know, they weren't blue, and were probably nuthatches, because of a noticeable crest, and wonderful, too.

Just before the turn up the hill, there were two woodpeckers, about forty yards apart, working very slowly. I couldn't find either.

Up the hill, and at the top a bitter breeze.

Don't know if there's a connection, but since my surgery my hands are cold. No gloves help, and I'm working them constantly. Feet are fine, core is toasty, while my hands stay cold. And get colder.

My big dog Abbe wasn't at the top of the hill, was nowhere to be seen. About halfway down, here she came out of a dump in a gorge at the bottom of the hill.

She came most of the way up, then found interesting dog stuff to do.

And there was water involved, because she came to the car with black decomposed organic goo up to her knees.

Homework.

Tonight there was an airing of Nature (PBS) featuring two of my very favorite animals - raptors and canids - gyrfalcons and wolves in the Artic summer.

My puppy scored a first, barking at the images of wolves on TV. My dogs have watched some tube, have sometimes reacted to a few sounds, but this was the first reaction to images.

Did McLuhan foresee this, too?

2009-12-30T15:47:00.000-08:00

My little old truck has been under the weather the last week, confining me to where I could walk from here.
Nowhere.
As soon as possible this afternoon, I loaded up the dogs (well, actually, they just jump up on the seat) and headed for Mississinewa Reservoir and Pearson Mill S.R.A. It has the most vertical relief anywhere on the reservoir, with two fairly steep hills, and the boat ramp, a climb when the lake is at winter pool.
Indiana is a fairly stable tectonic area, although it would be very much affected by any realignment of the New Madrid Fault. The 1813 quake, estimated as the US' second largest, changed the course of two of the nation's largest rivers, in places by miles. Kentucky gained some Indiana, but we got Evansville.
Oh, joy.
The quake spread the fear of the Lord in our once-proud nation (you know, back before the middle of the last century, when we could still win a war), prompting the most prolific church-building era we've seen.
The ground reportedly rolled three feet, up and down.
There are three types of waves generated by an earthquake. The third is a lab-measure, so the two of concern are the primary, p, and the secondary, oddly enough, the s wave.
The waves propagate at perpendicular to one another.
The p wave resembles a wave in the ocean, like any wave you see on an oscilloscope. The s wave moves side to side, and is much more damaging, responsible for everything from a cracked foundation to total destruction.
The s wave moves slower than the p wave, because of the resistance in the earth. The difference in arrival times for the two waves fairly accurately locates the epicenter (with the help of triangulation).
The s wave also loses energy faster, from the force expended to propagate through earth, while the p wave has to varying degrees only has total resistance in one direction - which is why it was so much easier to move the surface of the earth six feet.
The s wave does the real damage, though, and another 8.6 (estimated) shaker would turn St. Louis into a graveyard. Dams up and down the Mississippi, and up the Ohio, would just go.
And if you live south of the Soo, your house will be damaged.
So it came as a real shock to me that, in just the last nine days, there was seismic activity at Pearson's Mill. Today, the hills were steeper, and higher, than just last week.
I've been walking around the pool table that is Converse for a week, and I'm laboring on these little hills. Lordy, lordy, I'm in crappy shape.
I was kinda guessing about going back on SR 13 or going across Red Bridge, wondering how clear that road was. Being the adventure maven I am, I opted for the icy possibilities on the chance I might see something.
About a mile along west, a red tail rose up from the shoulder and flew across the road in front of me, low, low. After she crossed, she made a hard right and began a short, unhurried climb about thirty feet up into a tree and lit, maybe ten feet from the (smaller) male.
Okay, now I'm glad I went that way.
Across Red Bridge, just as the road turns to the south, there were two hawks in a tree about 40 yards off the road, perched two feet apart, facing each other. I have never seen this, as I'm a total novice, and maybe everyone else sees it all the time. If anyone knows, don't make me work for an answer.
Meanwhile, I'm guessing foreplay.
I'm going to hazard an uneducated guess here, and say they were red-shouldered hawks, because they were closer in size, and the red tails I have seen in the immediate area have much lighter, usually almost white, breasts.
Left turn: good choice.

2009-12-18T15:49:00.000-08:00

My life is currently dedicated to rehab, but there is too much happening not to comment on, with my insight, sarcasm, and humor (for those readers who can't figure it out, that's what that's meant to be). The three Upper Wabash Flood-Control Reservoirs are distinctly different, and a potential user would be well advised to consult this blog when selecting one for a visit.
The Salamonie tailwaters are a one-day-per-year fish harvester's Paradise, as the "fishermen" line up in the water, rubbing up against each other, and the IDNR releases 400 mature Rainbow Trout into the tailwaters. The harvesters then snag the trout in any legal manner.
This is the same as Ringneck Pheasant "put-and-take", where the gun harvester pays the appropriate fee, then attempts to kick the pen-raised birds into the air to shoot them, rather than, say, just pick one up and slit its throat.
But the busiest spillway, by orders of magnitude, is at Mississinewa, with Peoria on the NW side, a private campground and public access to both the spillway and the pool downstream, and Peoria SRA on the SE side, with public access to the spillway, pool, and river for several miles downstream.
There is a nice paved road to the SRA tracking down the dam. Years ago I ran it, but Tuesday I was walking, and when the steepest length began to mellow, a fox walked into the road about seventy yards ahead and turned, watching us.
Coyotes, as much as I admire and love them, can look scruffy and almost mangy.
Foxes, on the other hand, are like healthy cats, always well-groomed and looking sleek and clean like they just came back from the groomer.
Someone claimed you just don't get to see them, except I've seen at least five foxes since I last saw a cottontail rabbit, and that should disturb you.
I saw at least six generations of bunnies in my yard, and can't remember the last. I drive mostly secondary roads, and can't recall the last bunny pancake.
Where the hell are they?

There are a lot of red tails hanging around, and I'm seeing them in different places. Big white breasts hanging in the trees.
Driving north on SR 13 past Oak Hill Schools, there was a red tail perched on a Speed Limit 55 sign on the right, and, left, a red tail was working so, so low over a field. Lazy as I am, I would choose low-altitude hunting to hanging off the edge of a 6-foot sign in traffic.
Walking (Finally!) I came on a bunch of bark-feeders. There was a red-headed woodpecker, bright red and plump and beautiful, and two smaller, one I think was a downy and the other a hairy woodpecker, but that is a guess. They could easily have been both or either. And there were a couple of nut-hatches, incredibly cool, and you can have them in your yard if you have a tree and pack some crunchy peanut butter in the bark.
A red tail surprised me coming up off the edge of a road with the sun back-lighting, and the unworldly copper red glow through that tail went straight to the heart.
There are about 720 birds on the continent, so ignore none, but save a place for the red tail hawk. You will be much rewarded, much entertained, for the merest effort.

This must not pass unnoticed: too-long-lived piece of life-sucking shit Oral Roberts has died at the ludicrous age of 91.
How can this human tick have been allowed to suck money from the most gullible to build a monument to his miserable, loathsome self in the Oklahoma nowhere?
He created tele-evangelism, where a few ass pilots worked a warped medium and bypassed the sweat-soaked tent and all that bothersome travel, to suck billions from the least self-reliant, most dependent, most vulnerable, most gullible people in TVLand.
And these beautiful, caring creatures bundled up their money and sent this festering drain on all well and good money that could have helped needy neighbors, only to build a testament to Oral Fucking Roberts.
If Oral Roberts doesn't make god puke, god needs a different job.
There's that thing in the bible about all the wonders of the earth being created for man's dominion.
Since nothing in god's creation is more abominable than war, maybe he could get off his ass long enough to address that giant fuck up, before we only have each other for food.

Shopping in the House of the Holy

2009-11-02T09:50:00.000-08:00

WARNING - the following is bound to offend everyone in some way.

I was in the local Quik-E-Mart yesterday, buying lottery tickets and generally abusing the Sabbath. There was a mother-daughter there, at least the elder a Christian fundamentalist, the younger dressed in one of those skort-like things, except the pants hems were to her shoes, like skousers. The girl, Grade 8 - 10 age, was cute enough, except she was dressed like a fucking clown.
The skousers had straight legs, big like bells, except the same all the way down.
Denim, and I am telling you there is nothing quite so cute as a girl swaddled in about six yards of shapeless navy cotton.
I have no guess as to why the skouser legs were so outsized. They were like those old-guy suit-pants, big enough for another guy to stand in there with you. Come in handy for a Masonic initiation, plenty of room for the stuff they have to keep secret. All the rest of the rites are dog-and-pony stuff, a smokescreen for the rampant buggery that is at the heart of the "brotherhood".
Well, shit.
Mama's faith must be pretty strong, subject a little girl to the mockery and derision attendant with dressing like a circus chimp.
The bible (allegedly) hasn't added anything new in the last 2000 years. So where in hell do these fuckwits dig this shit up? There can't be much stuff more submoronic that a 2000-year-old dress code. Except snake-handlers. Those people take the whole cake. If one were of a rational ilk, wouldn't one be moved to ask if one guy did this and got really, really lucky, or if, just perhaps, the story might be the least bit apocryphal, to point up the strength of faith?
Snake-handlers are easy to spot - the only people in town with fewer fingers than butchers and sawyers. You find them at little bandbox churches in places like Hickfuck, W. Va, Noteeth, Tenn, and Sisterwife, Mo.
So where did they find this half-shit clothing prescription? The attire is not in any way traditional ("And the soldiers cast lots for Christ's Levi's"), so, what up?
Why don't they stop pansy assing and put her in a burqua?
Oh no, that would be extreme. It's so hard to attract attention when Mom's complexion is the color of cigar ash and the little girl is dressed in hand-me-downs from her 640-pound aunt.
Okay, it's so very difficult for me to be judgemental or critical, so I'll have to stretch out a little here: since this dress code can only be found in the margin notes of some jughead hillbilly's O. T.
why strictly adhere to it and yet ignore one of the Big X? You can find these listed in any courthouse south of the Ohio River, and all of them include "Remember to Keep Holy the Sabbath".
Uhm, yesterday was Sunday, and these living testaments to the Glory of the Lord were keeping the sabbath holy at the goddam Mini-Mart.
Religion: it's all about convenience.

2009-11-01T18:05:00.000-08:00

Today I was driving east just north of Red Bridge and saw a thoroughly massacred deer twenty-five yards into a cut bean field. A red tail stood with his back to me, selecting the choicest morsel. He may still be there, looking. That carcass was a deer in size only.
My dog Abbe hasn't been properly introduced, and since she is large and white and spayed, needs no introduction.
She looks like a white Lab, at least that seems to be the assumed consensus, even though most Labs could pass underneath her middle and not trade hairs.
She loves to chase whatever runs away, and freaks when they turn and face her, like, "Don't you know the rules?"
With most of the beans cut and most of the corn standing, there are a lot of deer moving just after sunset. Abbe is a true believer, ordained in faith that deer are on this earth for her to chase. (At this point I will say that I prefer her attitude to that shared by many others, that deer are here to kill. Thanks loads, Bible.) Last evening, in about thirty minutes, we found at least a dozen deer in the dark along a mile and a half stretch just west of Red Bridge. Abbe crashed out the cardoor into the road at full Abbe tilt seven times.
She can make a quarter mile run without panting.
After about four trips, she was really looking for new air.
Abbe is of a herd-guardian breed, so she has gifted vision, but very little scent tracking ability. A reason is she's so tall.
I am much too dim to consider this, but here's what I learned: when you bend your head to the floor and snap back erect quickly, you nearly pass out. Because the blood is rushing to and from your head unimpeded, and your brain is much too delicately balanced to accept this tidal ebb and flow.
So whither the giraffe? A giraffe can be munching leaves eighteen to twenty feet in the air, like at the top of a two-story building, reach down and catch a bug off its foot, and go back to feeding.
With no effects.
Why? The physics are the same. So why doesn't a giraffe blow its head like a melon off a truck when it's dropped immediately twenty feet?
Because a giraffe has a heart the size of a mattress, and it's built like a sponge. The giraffe's heart acts as a regulator, such that blood never moves rapidly through the neck.
Pretty cool, huh?
But Abbe doesn't have a giraffe heart, and when she drops her head to sniff, there are all these snort noises, as the essential air and fluids battle for the same necessary chambers. If she keeps her head down, like when she's on a critical mission to find something really disgusting to roll about in, everything gets where it needs to be and the snorting stops, ten to twenty seconds.
But when she is chasing a bouncing white tail, overdrive, should she attempt even a passing whiff of ground scent, the physics would kill her.
When deer make the woods, they lose her right smartly in the dark, and I think she spends more time looking for a way back out, and the chase is done quickly.
After four trips, she was panting good, and the next three times, she got off well but came back now, the spirit still strong and the body spent.
There are very few mammals in Indiana, less than a tenth of those in a North America guidebook. There are no ground squirrels, only chipmunks. There are only two or three mice.
This should be insignificant, but half of a mammal ID book is devoted to ground squirrels and mice, and we have maybe three.
With a bright moon last night, something went low across the road. Sorry, haven't done my homework, but my guess was a weasel. Even in headlights, I would expect better fur on a mink.
Mississinewa Reservoir is being dropped to winter pool. I've always wondered why fishermen don't pay a little more attention to this.
The exposed mudflats show that people drop anchor in less than two feet of water and sit there all day. Those shallows can be exciting for a bit at daybreak and for the last half hour of the evening, but summer sun heats them to a low boil. It would seem time well spent to take a look when the water's down.
I see a few American Kestrels, and an occasional red tail, but the "here we are" birds, goldfinches, cardinals, bluebirds, and most surely, indigo buntings, seem to have sought more hospitable climate. I did see a blue jay several days ago, only my second of the year. No one else has reported that problem.
It has been brought to my attention I am not on the NRA's Enemies' List.
This is not acceptable.
Here's how you can help, can make a real difference:
The next time you see Wayne LaPierre or Ted Nugent, tell them this blogger (me) claims that Wayne and the Nuge sleep with each other's mothers. When LaPierre lays some lame crap on you, like his mother's dead or some such, tell him that would only make things better for the Nuge.
Happy stalking!

2009-10-06T18:10:00.000-07:00

The Mississinewa battlefield reenactment was this past weekend. Three days' celebration of the extirpation of the Miami Tribes along the Mississinewa and Wabash rivers.

An irony: the staged encampment has the Indians sleeping on the ground in makeshift shelters, hogan-like.

The fact is the US Army slept in tents, in late December, on the ground, while the Miami lived in framed houses with shingled roofs.

Great "reenactment".

Today I took my dogs up to the area. There was a jail workforce out cleaning up. I thought it best to leave.

The drive north was uneventful, until I passed a fifty-foot stretch of wire. Must have been buried cable raised over a drainage ditch. I was paying little attention until an American Kestrel left the wire and flew overhead, looping back to this solitary stretch of wire.

There were six Great Egrets and two Great Blue Herons at Grant Creek. I am always awed by these big, beautiful birds, nearly extinct in the last century.

There is a "wetlands area" a couple miles north that usually held a heron, until the water table dropped with fall. Last evening I was driving by when a young buck, two or three years old, crossed the road into a beanfield. I let Abbe out, but the buck had a forty-yard headstart. The deer leapt through the beans, while Abbe bounced, and I don't know if she made ground, but the deer made corn 200 yards off and Abbe lost everything.

Abbe chases anything that runs, but, when whatever stops, she does too. Game over.

There was a heron in the water, which holds hope for some fish there yet.

We were walking a closed road at the reservoir (Old Slocum Trail, closed since 1955) when I heard a red tail, but there was too much foliage to find it. Nice to know it was about.

Again, the distinction between birdwatching and "birding". Birdwatching, at best, is observing and studying birds. "Birding" is checking off a list, whether an annual list or a life list, identification either visual or aural, and is more a game than an appreciation of birds.

Kenn Kaufman, who set an annual bird count record (since eclipsed), chronicled in "Kingbird Highway", a very readable book, makes this point with eloquence, and backed it up by becoming an expert on identification and behavior, with excellent publications that prove his dedication.

Birds are thinning significantly as the weather cools. There may be a migration of warblers, but I can't help you with finding these most wonderful songbirds.

But there are most cool birds everywhere (see six egrets, above). I apologize for not knowing the status of the Sandhill Cranes at Jasper-Pulaski SF&WA.

A few years ago I was hiking (well, I don't hike, really) the Seeney National Wildlife Refuge in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. Across a small lake, in the morning mists, I saw these great big birds begin to emerge. I thought I had discovered them. They were Sandhills, in the shallows near the far shore. They began making noise, the most prehistoric sounds, and I was in love.

Still am.

I'm not too happy about the "harvest" photo, which I found while searching for 'public domain' adornment for my most humble efforts. Shit. You can kill a Sandhill Crane with a slingshot.

Will research this a bit soon to try to establish WTF.