Ain't no cure for the summertime blog

I feel that I've used up all my prose over the last few days. I'm not a poet, so I'm not sure where that leaves today's post. I am committed to keep posting daily, at least until decide to stop doing so. I guess I could list some things. That'd be good, right?

Things in the yard (paired up to create interest):

fenceposts and a hose reel,
old clothesline posts and a brown dog licking my arm,
a black dog sleeping under the shady bush and freshly cut grass,
bugs and weeds,
chewed up sticks and tennis balls,
bean plants and a yellow-handled trowel,
sunshine and a gentle breeze,
a bowl of water and an air conditioner humming,
shadows and blue flowers,
butterflies and a brown dog dragging a big stick,
panting sounds and clover,
vapor trail above and a shovel hanging on the fence.
Why is it on the fence? We put it there - it has a little hook on it. It's not that "shovel" hasn't made up it's mind... it has... it's a shovel and it is on hand for shoveling. It is quite literally on the fence. It was my grandfather's shovel. He's gone now. I don't think of him every time I use the shovel. But I do think of him every time I see a freight train full of tank cars go by with GATX on them.
old closet doors and a black dog chewing grass,
dragonflies and activity,
thoughts and distance,
heat and time,
a black dog drinking water and a jet overhead,
perspiration and longing,
a smile and a lick,
flip flops and pale skin,
slow motion and a forest of trees,
a useless antenna and dogs ready to go inside.

Americana's Game

When baseball season rolled around growing up, it was time to sign up for Little League. We got the forms in school, maybe one of my friends was passing them out or maybe they were available in the main office, I'm not sure which. We'd take the signed form down to the hardware store on a Saturday morning to a table set up way in the back. I don’t recall how they chose the teams... I think maybe the coaches got together and had some sort of draft. We'd get a call from the coach a few days later and receive our schedule. It was always fun getting the schedule and circling the games, seeing which field we were playing at and picking out the biggest matchups. Games were either at the field above the middle school or out at the park. I preferred the cozy confines of the field at the park, the school field was very wide open. Neither had an outfield fence, so any homerun was an inside the park homerun. I think I hit one once... I was more of a singles and doubles guy.

We started with tee ball, then had a year where it was three innings off the tee + three innings pitched, then on to regular pitching. Games were six innings long. We weren’t part of the Little League, so there was never any thought of the national stage and playing in Williamsport for the World Series. It was all local. The Marcellus Optimist Club organized it all. I don't know who these optimists were, but I liked that they gave us a baseball league. All of our team names were regional tribe names... Iroquois, Crow, Oneida, Seneca, etc. No one wanted to be the Crappy Crows. I really like the local flavor. Iroquois vs. Tuscaroras sounds much better than the Marcellus Astros vs Marcellus Mets. We'd get colored tee-shirts and mesh hats. The hats were generic, but colored differently for each team - some got all gray, some got red white and blue, others got yellow, and to continue on, still others got other combinations of colors. At some point I decided I'd rather wear my fitted Yankees hat, that I believe was a hand-me-down. It was wool, just like the real thing. I didn't play long enough to wear the cool pants and stirrup socks, the full uniform. I don't think I ever wore shorts; I almost always wore jeans so I could slide and dive. If I didn't get dirty playing I would be disappointed. I never wore cleats.

There are pictures of me swinging a big plastic Snoopy bat when I was a toddler. I've always liked to play.

Another highlight of summer was playing softball at the King and King Architects office picnic. Looking back now, I imagine my Dad would have rather had a day away from the people at the office, but I was so psyched to play ball with a bunch of adults. I'd always bring my glove and bat and a ball. That was up there with Christmas... I always looked forward to it.

I don't know if the Optimist Club still runs the youth league in Marcellus. I assume they do. But I’m sure it's different now. And that's ok. There may be kids about 10 years old playing for the Marcellus Astros tonight. And that's ok, too.

How to change your transmission fluid

Not really. I'd rather not write about transmission fluid and you'd rather not hear about. At least, I'm pretty sure you wouldn't want to hear what I have to say about it.

Last September I took the train from Portland up to Seattle on Amtrak's Cascades Line... very nice. It was not very full, no more than half. They showed a movie, had little updates on train arrival times and had a snack car. I stared out the window, sometimes blankly, sometimes thinking. I watched that part of the world go by. I pulled out my laptop and did some computer work on Publisher to feel and be productive. I had moments of inspiration where I would break out a pad and write down ideas for song lyrics inspired by the sights and my trip. One line was a remnant from an idea I had on the plane ride into Las Vegas as a part of that same trip.

(cut to plane)
The angle of the sun was just so. There are brilliantly colored lakes on the approach to the Las Vegas airport. They are so striking against the forbidding terrain and manicured, lush, irrigated patches of green civilization. Brilliantly colored lakes... what color? I'm guessing blue, but it could have been green or aqua or a shade from far across the color wheel. Anyway, in the jet, flying above a cloud, you could see the cloud's shadow cast on the surface of the water. It was pretty neat. You could pick out a cloud, make out the shape and find its copy on the ground. Some clouds were bold, almost heavy, others were wispy and meek. One set of thin clouds caught my attention because I couldn't find their twins on the lake surface. "Clouds so light their shadows never reach the ground."

I'm off track...(literally?)... back to the train. The rail journey was three hours well spent, all for 29 bucks if I recall correctly. I highly recommend it because I thoroughly enjoyed it.

You can use your cell phone on the train. This has the upside of unlimited communication and the downside of unlimited communication. A semi-hipster guy was sitting across the aisle from me. About twenty minutes into the trip he got a call from his daughter. (There are many details I learned through his phone conversations not by intentionally eavesdropping, but as result of not being able to avoid listening. So any further facts and/or assumptions are a result of information I never wanted to learn, but could not avoid. All of which I pass on to you now. Back to it.) Her car had broken down up in Seattle. From what she told him he diagnosed it as a transmission problem. Specifically, she was probably low on transmission fluid. That is likely the result/symptom of a greater problem, but a transfusion of some transmission fluid would at least alleviate the problem momentarily. He got in touch with his ex-wife, the daughter's mother, and told her what the problem was. He then called his daughter back and tried to come up with a plan as he was still a couple hours away. She was not going to be able to get transmission fluid or know where to put it if she got. He called a couple others and related the story. Some unwitting folks called him for other reasons entirely, only to be told the entire story, which I got to hear yet again, yet again, and yet again. He told the women sitting across from him the situation. I avoided all eye-contact not wanting to be included in any of it. Why relate all this? Well... every time the semi-hipster Dad discussed the problem and the solution, he would say the words "tranny fluid." "I think she just needs some tranny fluid." "If we add a little tranny fluid we'll be able to get her home ok." "Tranny fluid... yeah, tranny fluid. I'm pretty sure it's tranny fluid." "What's that... right, tranny fluid." "I'll get some tranny fluid, I think that'll do it." Tranny fluid this and tranny fluid that. Tranny fluid ad nauseum, ad infinitum.

I couldn't take it. I tried to remove myself from it all with my ipod. No amount of volume could make it go away. No song was powerful enough. No spoken word forceful enough. No podcast was sufficiently podcastic. It was undeniable. It defined the moment. It was tranny fluid.

I scrambled to break loose from its clutches... its tranny clutches. But what could I do? I was otherwise comfortable in my seat. I wasn't going to move... I had a nice window seat with no one beside me. Hipster McTrannyFluid should move. Dear god, save me... just give me the tools to make it right. Then, while I was in the depths of my despair, when it seemed there was no way out... (cue chorus of angels) the clouds didn't part, no beams of light shown through and I heard no booming voice. But I did find deliverance. Salvation was sitting in my lap, spiral-bound. My only chance for escape was through words. Words on the page. Written words on the writing page. So I wrote...

Tranny fluid, tranny fluid, tranny fluid, tranny fluid, tranny fluid, tranny fluid, tranny fluid, tranny fluid, tranny fluid, tranny fluid, tranny fluid, tranny fluid, tranny fluid...

It became almost hypnotic. Typing it repetitively has a similar trance-inducing power. That is how you change transmission fluid. Transmission fluid turned into tranny fluid. Tranny fluid turned into an hypnotic escape vehicle. Tranny fluid powered my descent into madness and fueled my escape.

tranny fluid, tranny fluid, tranny fluid, tranny fluid,...

What ends in stars

The perimeter of the farmland has been breached once again. There is a line of little ant hills across the northern leg of the plot. They have successfully destroyed the remaining cucumber plant. I think they gummed up its roots like they did to the other. These may not be ordinary fire ants, there is no mound to speak of, as yet. I have yet to launch my counterattack, I think I'll do it on the weekend when they least expect it. They always let their guard down on the weekends. I guess they're all liquored up and busy gambling after pay day. They'll get theirs. There are a number of other colonies starting up around the property as well. They'll also get theirs. Everyone gets theirs.

Bean plants are the fastest growing... if fairy tales are at all based on truth, this should be no surprise, eh Jack? There is one lone squash plant trying to make it - not looking too promising. The lettuce plants are small but seem to be growing... I think they take quite awhile to mature. I remain optimistic. It's a mix of lettuce varieties, so they are already multi-colored. Very cool. Two tiny tomato plants have been about the same size (size small) for the last couple weeks... they may have fruit on them right now, but it would be impossible to see. There are similarly sized carrot plants that I don't expect to produce carrots. The peppers are a no show.

I'm outside as dusk is settling into night. The waxing crescent moon is about to slip behind the pine trees. It's got a prominent earthlight glow this evening. It did last night, too. There's a single bat flying overhead in a pattern only it understands, not that I'm studying it too closely. I wonder if it flies at a certain height and speed to get the most mosquitoes per minute. I wonder if it thinks about that. We've talked about building a bat house. I wonder if it'd like that. Insects are making a racket tonight. Frogs and birds too. I like to think the birds are Whip-poor-wills. I like to think the frogs are happy. I count seven celestial bodies - planets and stars.

Profuse Lee

I remember in bygone days when the height of basketball playing pleasure was found at the RAC (Roanoke Athletic Club). A full court, hardwood, usually pretty empty. We'd suit up in our Stromgren and Pumas and make a day of it. When you needed a break, you could go watch tv. Then, back to it. Some days there would be other kids playing, but usually if a game was to be had, it involved older guys... guys as a old as I am now... yes, that old. They were generally slow on their feet, had awkward looking shots and relied on backing you down then tossing up sorry looking hookshots. I now can relate.

As a scrawny lad, I always preferred to be shirts rather than skins (so as not to alarm anyone with my pale, bony physique, as if someone wouldn't know that I was pale and bony by seeing me with my shirt on - pretty sure they would). More often than not, I managed to manipulate events to keep my shirt on... so the old guys wound up being skins. This was to their advantage. They sweat so much that you would slide off of them. Combine that with their "back you down and body you up" philosophy and it made for a generally unfortunate experience.

I just shot hoops for about five minutes and I'm dripping. Yes, it's a little hot and sunny, but I am now that sweaty older man. damn.

Scott, one of my college roommates, said it best (though I'm sure he got it from somewhere else): "We become that which we despise." Maybe a bit strong here... but you get the idea.

I have rich, disturbing memories of the past. So, should I ever play ball with some teenagers, I refuse to sweat on them and back them down. Although... if I don't sweat on them and back them down, they may never learn the hard lessons that brought me to this point. Perhaps I owe it to them (and generations to come) to play old guy basketball. Who am I to break the chain? A great moment of truth awaits me sometime in the future. I know not what my choice shall be nor the ramifications thereof. therein. thereabouts. thereto. thereupon. there.

Now, for all you fashionistas:
click on image and it's like you're right there with me! dig it.

Day 6

This is a personal best... six straight days providing tantalizing blog posts. None have been a lame video link like some of mine in the past… and none are a cheesy clip show of my all time great posts. We'll save that retrospective for another time. Maybe we should look at some short clips of my all-time great upcoming posts. Who doesn't like a peak into the future?

April 12, 2013

‘The Liberty Tax service has stepped up its game big time. They’ve got the Statue of Liberty mascot, and in a visionary move they've added huddled masses to the street show. It's this kind of performance art that really makes you think. Well done.'
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April 13, 2013

'Correction. It turns out the "huddled masses" was a bag of trash gently blowing around near the Liberty mascot's feet. Garbage was strewn all across Market Street this morning… a whole lot of Hardee's wrappers.'
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July 14, 2015

'Another Bastille Day is upon us and I still don't know the appropriate way to celebrate. I'll stick with my usual singing of Aux Champs-Elysees and eating one dozen bagettes.'
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Autumn 2017

'My seasonal blogging has been well-received this year. The Spring and Summer posts both received ratings of 3.5 stars from my three readers. How the math worked out to average 3.5 stars I'll never know.'
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Smarch 13, 2020

‘Lousy Smarch weather...’

(Is it wrong quote Homer Simpson here? I could find no other relevant references to Smarch.)

Lax

Memorial Day weekend is the time that I watch college lacrosse. It’s final four weekend. Syracuse is normally in the mix for the National Championship, that’s why I watch. Lacrosse is pretty popular in the northeast, we played it in school in gym class but I never got too into it. The game originated long ago with the native American tribes up there - Mohawk, Oneida, Iroquois, Crow and so forth. They would play it ceremonially to honor their gods and to settle disputes. Teams had somewhere between 100 and 1000 players a side and the “field” could be miles long. Some of the games would last several days. It was not made for tv. Reality tv maybe… what with the tribes and councils and loincloths and such.

It’s a contact sport, no doubt about it… like hockey on grass with less padding and more scoring.

Cornell beat UVA to reach the final, Syracuse beat Duke. I’ll pull for the Orange just because that’s what I do, but a Big Red win would be pretty cool, too. The schools are about fifty miles apart. Picture Duke and UNC playing for the basketball title. Lacrosse is just about that big up there.

My pre-game meal will be a spicy turkey burger. Game starts at 1:00pm eastern on one of the ESPN’s.

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Basketball update:

Soreness has subsided. I took the basketball out back on the patio and had Mickey guard me - knowing he would try to get the ball. When I would dribble between my legs he would go through my legs too. He’s that fast and interested in getting/running with/mouthing/eating the ball. I won round one.

No love for the glove

I got out my old baseball glove last week. All the nostalgia about the “smell of the old glove” is bunk. It smells musty, feels dry and has atrophied. It’s been tucked away for ten or so years. If you find a truly old glove, in the range of 50+ years, it would smell no better. Old gloves don’t smell like well oiled leather, don’t smell like fresh cut grass of a childhood ballfield, don’t smell like “baseball,” they smell like mold. The idea of the old glove might bring back memories of past baseball glory, but the glove itself brings to mind grandma’s basement. And that’s ok. Instead of smelling the glove, go to a game... get a new glove. Seeing baseball alive brings back the past better than dragging out an old glove and trying to force bloated fingers into rough, sweat hardened leather.

An old bat, mini or otherwise, has a more timeless role. Grabbing an old bat brings it back right away. Nothing like the feeling when you get ol’ hickory on the ol’ roundhouse. I had a dream a few nights ago that I had a batting cage in my yard that I had never used. I was upset at myself because batting cages are fun and you can use old bats in them. But that was just a dream. If I had a batting cage, I’d surely use it. Waking Doug is smarter than Sleeping Doug when it comes to batting cages and fun.

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Basketball update:

He shoots, he's sore!

Gooooooooaaaaaaaaal!

As in, I got a basketball goal. The design of this one is pretty nice. The parts all nested in the molded plastic base in the box… good packaging. After some time assembling, which was a little trying with one set of hands, the job was finished. It has a nice spring loaded rim and a clear acrylic backboard. It’s none too fancy, but I’m quite pleased. We raised it up and I tried to touch the net. The earth’s gravity relented momentarily and I was able to touch nylon. I decided it must be half a foot too short. A double-check of the height confirmed we were at ten feet. Mad hops… I got ‘em.

The court leaves something to be desired, which is ok. What it leaves to be desired is flatness and hardness. Remember how the old Boston Garden parquet floor had all those dead spots? The Celtics players, especially Larry Bird, seemed to know intuitively the nuances of the floor while visitors were continually frustrated. My court is a lot like that, except after only an hour of court time, it confounds me while my imaginary foes seem to have it figured out already. It’s a gravel driveway, but solid enough for dribbling. Where the ball bounces, the rocks disperse and a little patch of dirt opens up, but the randomness of my ball handling should prevent any one spot from wearing out. But talk about dead spots… get out in the grass at all and you get the bounce of shotput. I’ve over inflated my ball a little to simulate a good bounce, with decent results. Other interesting court tidbit: the most difficult shot in sports is the “follow” from the left side at about 4pm, the sun is right there and, man, is it ever bright.

I’ve still got it… “it” being whatever I once had, which was not all that much. I like to play like I live, so I shoot from the hip. Yeah, that’s right. It’s fun to bounce around and shoot again. This fat man sho needs some exercise. I expect to work some muscles that have been neglected over the past few years - specifically the leg muscle, the arm muscle and the torso muscle. Also, many a frustration has been pounded out on many a basketball court over the years. Good stuff.

Basketball court - Therapeutic value of 8, Exercise value of 7, Blog topic value of 1 entry.

Me + Basketball = Happy.

Critter, Scooter, ...

I saw a gecko (actually an anole (Anolis carolinensis), maybe you call it an American Chameleon, but you shouldn‘t) friday on a piece of wood. There was something on its butt, but it ran off before I could investigate further. I’ll keep an eye out for him.

I also saw a guy on a moped riding with a weedeater. That can’t be easy. I remember when I was little trying to ride my bike with a bag on the handlebars. The bag had a 3-liter drink in it and some Doritos. My balance was seriously compromised. That guy is yet another who is getting the job done even if he doesn’t necessarily have all the right tools. I’m putting him in my Occupational Hall of Fame along with the Liberty Tax Service mascot. There’s a new roadside attraction down there now, a Super Cuts mascot. He’s wearing a giant black fur hat with white feathers on it. I think a big outrageous wig would be me more appropriate. Well, what would be appropriate? Maybe nothing.

I was pleased that the only email I received on the Friday afternoon before Memorial Day was a fantasy baseball trade offer. I’m considering the offer, it’s certainly fair. I’d like to see how Daisuke Matsuzaka fares coming off the DL before I decide on a course of action.

It sure is a nice day.

Cucumber Autopsy

"What do we have here, Scully?"

"On the surface it seems like the roots of the plant may have been choked off. The soil has a lot of silt and has compacted into a solid, cakelike substance. Mulder, roots need water, nutrients and oxygen. Water was not lacking as there was a full day of steady rain. After the rain, things turned ugly. Nutrients may have been lacking, but some sort of chlorotic appearance would surely have preceded death. There is no evidence of that. The silt could have choked off any potential aeration into the soil profile. The anaerobic conditions would have squeezed the life out of this helpless, struggling plant. But, look here."

(looks into microscope)

"What is it? What's on these roots?"

"It's a gelatinous film... I've never seen anything like it."

"What are you saying Scully?"

"What I'm seeing here is not carbon-based... I have no explanation... yet. Do I want to do some more research? Yes. Do I need your help? Not really."

"Do you think it's a government cover-up? Did these plants know too much? Tell me it's a conspiracy and I'll fly to Siberia and do some fact finding out there."

"No, Mulder. I know you want to rack up some more frequent flyer miles, but this mystery is on the smallest scale. The truth isn't out there... it's in here." (points to goo-covered roots)

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WE'RE BACK

"Scully, I've been doing some digging. Not literally. I talked to this backwoods yokel farmer, he calls himself Cunado. He told me that his farm was doing fine for about a week and a half. Recently planted seeds had germinated and looked to be thriving under his expert care. He happened to mention a pervasive ant problem."

"Ants, Mulder?"

"Yes, ants. He couldn't be sure that they weren't alien ants, so for the moment I think we should assume that they are extra-terrestrial."

"Yeah, that sounds like a good idea. Did you find their space ship?"

"Don't be ridiculous, Scully. All evidence of ant space travel points to teleportation. I documented several cases in an article I wrote for OMNI magazine back in 1986."

"Go on."

"I think I want to go back out to the farm, Scully. And I want to do it tonight when it's dark and the lighting is poor. I have some questions that still need answers, like 'what happened out there?' and so forth."

"You do that. I'll keep looking in this microscope, dissecting things and referring to old lab notes. Be sure to give me call when all hell breaks loose out there. Are you taking the Ford Taurus?"

"Yes."

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COMMERCIAL BREAK

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WE'RE BACK

(on cell phone) "Scully, I've been doing some digging... literally. I brought my FBI trowel and made some incisions where the roots perished. Remember the alien ants Cunado told us about?"

(also on cell phone) "Yes."

(still on cell phone) "I found a colony of them. An Alien colony. An alien ant farm. Not the Alien Ant Farm that covered Michael Jackson's "Smooth Criminal" with the somewhat entertaining video, but real live ants. They were deep in the ground. It's strange, Scully."

(cell phone conversation continues) "Ants live underground, Mulder."

(speaking into cellular phone) "But not alien ants, Scully. They tend to live in space. I'm convinced these are mutants. They wouldn't speak to me when I questioned them. Mute ants. Get it?"

(using mobile phone) "That's a good one. Listen, I think I've found something you should see. I could tell you on this cell phone, but I'd like you to see what I've found."

(final cell phone communication) "I'll be at the lab in a minute, I'll stop and get us some donuts."

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COMMERCIAL BREAK

This episode of the X-Files is brought to you with limited commercial interruptions by Krispy Kreme, Dunkin' Donuts and the National Coalition of Independent Donuteers (NaCoInDo!). Spokesman Sam Waterston: "If you're hungry..." (bites donut) "...eat a donut."

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WE'RE BACK

"Thanks for the donuts. They really hit the spot."

"So what have you found?"

(Walks over to microscope)

"Remember the gel that was on the cucumber roots? I think I've traced its origins. Look at this slide... now look at this slide. Do you see any similarities?"

"Not really, should I?"

"No, Mulder, you shouldn't. But I do. There is some faint mycelia on the roots in both slides, the beginnings of a fungal outbreak, fueled by ant saliva proteins."

"Are you saying some canisters from a cold-war chemical warfare program have fallen into the hands of agri-terrorists, who now have landed on our shores to wreak havoc on our subsistence farmers' cucumber crops?"

"Exactly. With your... uh... how do you arrive at that? Good god. What happened is this: Cunado tried to kill the ants... ordinary fire ants, not alien ants. Using some cut-rate pesticide from Home Depot we unwittingly created a resistant strain of super ants. They tend to be passive-aggressive. Rather than doing damage on the surface, with the mounds and the biting and the pain, they chew on the roots of his plants. The weakened plant dies, apparently due to poor management on his part. They hide at some distance and have a good laugh at his expense. And, Mulder, they'll keep on doing it... there's no stopping them."

"Poor Cunado"

(cut to grainy footage of Cunado planting new seeds, scary cello music plays)

(fade to black)

(Fade up image of Sam Waterston)

(fade to black)

2,110 word post

Click on picture for a closer look.

Grasshopper on the prowl. He's got neat eyes.

Timed right, a picture of Maggie in motion makes her look like she has teddy bear ears. It also shows a little pink tongue sticking out.
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There are bad things afoot in the fields and I don't think the ants are to blame. Questionable soil porosity and fertility are the main suspects - conventional wisdom supports this explanation. However, an autopsy of a deceased cucumber plant suggests a strange cause of death worthy of an X-Files episode. No, an X-Files movie. No, an X-Files post in the next day or two. Remain on the edge of your seat.

The Battle of Little Big Farm

Sunday morning started peacefully enough. We were one dog short, so we all got to sleep in a little bit. Being gone a couple days made the anticipation of seeing the vegetables progress extra anticipatory. I was sure that the beans would be quite prominent and we all remember the impressive lettuce plants of a few days ago, but what other wonders were waiting for us?

Walking through the dew laden grass I could see greenery of all sorts. Cucumber plants, squash, zucchini, green beans, lettuce and even a couple tiny tomato plants were rising above the fruited plain. A few steps closer.

I saw the the sight that I hoped I'd never see. In my absence, the hated fire ants had reinforced themselves and were laying siege to the farm. Bastards! A convoy of fire ants were marching through the grass from an old mound and were apparently relocating their colony on the edge of the lettuce field. Hundreds of them, some carrying eggs, others carrying nothing, moved through the farmland and over the eastern carrot patch to their new outpost. I could not let this stand, I would not let this stand. I made the tough decision. As the farmer, I knew it was up to me. I had to use chemical and biological agents to rid the land of this red menace. I rushed back to the house and got the ant killer. I powdered the multitudes from high above with an aerial attack. From up high, they looked just like little ants.

I felt terrible, but it was necessary. I hated to do it. I had seen plenty of death the previous couple days. For some reason, dozens of turtles were trying to cross highways and byways throughout North Carolina. I don't know how many made it... but I know many didn't as I saw their carcasses on the roadside. Some upturned, some squashed, all expired. Poor guys. And gals, I assume.

I wandered about the yard and found more mounds of active fire ants. Five or six mounds dotted the landscape, full of thousands more little militants (ha! pun). They were positioned to make the next move. One mound far to the south was filled with winged ants who must have been in place for air support in a future ground attack. I had to eradicate the threat, or it least minimize it. A preemptive strike. We'll see how successful I was. It rained like crazy later in the day, so it's hard to say if it worked. Today I saw no ant activity at the farm. I didn't check any of the other mounds because I forgot.

Who knows what their plan was? Why couldn't they leave us alone? I assume they were trying to drive us out by cutting off our food supply. If that was the case, a better strategy would have been to take out the Food Lion.

Stupid ants.

Richter

Went up to Roanoke for a quick overnight visit. Caught a baseball game and generally relaxed. Until... dun dun dunnnnnn.

A little after 4am Friday night, the earth shook with a mighty vengeance and the gods in angry earthly reprisal woke me from my slumber. An earthquake. In Roanoke, VA. Centered in Cave Spring. True. All true. A whopping 3.0 on the Richter Scale. Certainly 3.0 is whopping for the hills of Virginia. I survived. But my sleep was undeniably disturbed. As other accounts trickle in, the general consensus was that someone had fallen out of bed or that a tree had fallen. But no, the tectonic plates of the earth shifted beneath our sleeping bodies. Most of us made it through with only emotional scars and an undeniable desire for a nap the next day. We will forever be bound by the invisible ties that shared experience (shared traumatic, life changing experience) bring. Others slept right through it.

An earthquake between 3.0-3.9 is often felt, but rarely causes damage. An estimated 49,000 per year of this magnitude occur. But, an estimated zero per 35 years have occurred with me in attendance. That's why the great 'quake of aught nine was, and always will be, so very cool.

For the non-believers... go here.

Hurricane? Check.
Earthquake? Check.
Locusts? Check.
Tornado? No thanks.

Tomorrow, we'll analyze the fire ant's May 17th offensive against the emerging food production complex at 980 Northwest Avenue.

Topical Paradise

The Day in Farming

Clarification: The plant previously identified as either a zucchini plant or a weed has been positively ID'd as a weed. A weed in that it is not the desired plant. A zucchini plant in the middle of the lawn would be a weed, too. Weed = a plant out of place.

Lettuce celebrate: Every farm report will have one unfortunate pun, see if you can you find one somewhere in this feature. Sprouts of lettuce have emerged on the back 40 (see photo, click to enlarge, the seedlings are just below the quarter, they're green and look like little lettuce seedlings). This is exciting news for St. Helena Agribusiness. Cucumber seedlings are about to push through as well. A bumper crop is guaranteed. Gentlemen, start your salad spinners.

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The Day in Rock

I was wondering when hard hitting, yet melodic rocktastic music would make it's way to Kearney, Nebraska. I can now report that it will happen in June. The Midwest has been waiting a long time for this. By Sunlight's Miles of Smiles tour takes a swing through the heartland of 'merica in search of fresh corn pone and johnny cakes. Attend if you can, it's just a couple days journey from here. I will likely wait for the By Sunlight Huck Finn Mississippi Riverboat Tour tentatively scheduled for Spring 2010 starting in Cairo. Opening bands Paddlewheel and Fludplane round out the bill. I should have some room on my raft if anyone cares to join Jim and me.

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The Day in Dental Care

Novocaine tends to last a solid six hours. Expecting to speak effectively before those six hours is up is unwise. Also, despite repeated constructive criticism, the following dentist office pet peeves remain. 1) The headrest is guaranteed to mess up your (my) hair, inserting cowlicks where none should be. After a solid scraping and angry flossing, I leave feeling slightly violated and my hair a mess. It's not right. 2) There is no readily available mirror to check your (my) face following your (my) visit to notice that you (I) have a big blob of toothpaste or other substance on your (my) cheek. This is also not right. 3) Etc.

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Pay it Forward

I held the door open for a guy going into the dentist's office in hopes that he would pay it forward.

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In the News

NBC Nightly News really seems lost without any Swine Flu stories. The clear and present dangers of frozen chicken pot pies was the juiciest story on the broadcast. It's true.

Plants and Ants

Most people will tell you that an obedient dog is the result of a consistent, well-trained owner. I would agree. Problem dog (Mickey) and his owners were given two full rounds of professional dog training. Issues of of fear, food aggression and listening were taught to all parties with varying degrees of success. Despite having gone through these dog training classes and learning proper techniques for giving commands, I still find that I expect our dogs to obey "Don't be so stupid" as if they should understand that. Bad owner. Mickey usually gets it, Maggie usually doesn't.

There is a plant peeking through the soil out on the farm. It may be the first sprout of one of the zucchini plants. It may be weed. At any rate... something is growing out there.

The fire ant issue is generally under control. It only took several bites on my flip-flopped feet to realize it was a problem... but realized it was and dealt with it was, too. If you've ever poked at a mound you've seen the flurry of activity it creates. I guess they are all under orders that when the mound is disturbed, go out and find something and bite that something for as long as you can, then return to base for further instructions. I hope they're not more organized than that, but they may be. Look what they accomplish, some of these mounds are huge. Management must have a pretty good relationship with the ant union because they do a hell of a job. Although I guess it's more of a queen/monarchy thing. All the ants are subjects. Just like they're the subject of this paragraph.

The lawn has gone native for the past week and a half. It looks lush. Lush and unloved. It has to be confused by these cool nights and temperate days... we all were settling in for the heat of summer, and here we get a nice dose of spring. This give me great joy.

Blogger and Google suggested that I ask all of you who follow my blog to "follow" my blog. To "follow" my blog, you click on the "Follow" button to the right. It will help you keep up with all your favorite blogs, and mine as well. I don't think they suggest this merely for my own ego boost, but perhaps they sensed I was a having an off day and needed a little love. Sometimes this interactive help can be pretty sensitive to your needs. I wouldn't put anything past Google. If you do "follow," I suggest using impossible to trace screen names/profiles/pictures to protect your anonymity. Unless you're ok with who you are, who I am and so forth.

And that's all. If anyone has any topics they'd like me to cover, please let me know. I'm toying with the idea of a feature called "Technology and You: Personal Computing in the Early 90's" that would likely be a five-part series to cover the breadth of insight I have regarding this timely subject.

bye now.

Pictureless mini-blog

This is the exciting prequel to an assortment of upcoming blogs. If you read those future posts first, that will (or will have? future perfect, past participle, conjunctive adverb, remainder of 3) legitimize(d) my use of the word prequel. What? Exactly.

Things I saw driving home:

Horses grazing with cows in apparent peace and harmony. Deep down I think one of the two groups is not happy with the arrangement. But, I bet neither will say a word.

Baby horses in the field.

Baby corn plants in the fields.

A sticker in the rear window of the car in front of me that said satan sucks. I had no comment. Probably true.

Nothing else of note was seen today.

I'm glad that the criminally partisan are out there and get to express themselves, but I wish they would do it more quietly and let reasonable people lead the debate. Very little is black and white... and gray doesn't begin to cover everything. Vibrant, balanced technicolor is the only fair approach. There are smells and sounds, too.

Embrace exceptions, not rules.

- Anonymous Lee

Various Blogged Topics

A few things today.

Hockey. I almost always root for the team from farther north. In keeping with this, always go with a Canadian team over an American team. And no question I prefer an American team over a Mexican team. Current exception is Chicago over Vancouver. The Blackhawks have been so bad for so long, it's really about time for them to make another push in the playoffs.

Geography. Seattle is in the Pacific Northwest. Is Vancouver in the Pacific Southwest? Ask your Canadian friends and get back to me. This could keep me up at night. I'm not sure this one can be resolved. My mind has been blown.

French. (Some of the following is true) Pamplemousse = Grapefruit. Pomme = Apple. Pomme de terre = Potato. I thought this was going somewhere, but it's not.

Bob Costas.

Trent Jewett. Former Salem Buccaneer catcher who I watched play back in the day (late 80's... yes?) has won his 1,000th game as a minor league manager. There's something a little Crash Davis-y about this accomplishment.

Movie. We (the collective) need a new good baseball movie. I haven't seen "For the Love of the Game" and wonder if I should. I wonder if any of you will tell me. I'm full of wonder.

The Curse of the Blue Pearl. I have a blackberry. Sadly, a blog that I like-like is not readable on it for technical reasons I can't begin to understand. This blog works on it... which is not the result of conscious effort or intentional actions of this author. I tried many times to make that sentence grammatically approximate, I think I did very, very well.

Good baserunning. Is about having a clue. Is not about having speed.

Nickname. Another one for Mickey is Funbutt Fannyslap.

Good. Night.

Back to Fluff

Back to the lighter side of things. I must have had a bee in my bonnet yesterday. I stand by it all, but we don't need that everyday. No... no we don't.

I began working on my farm last night. I call it a farm because garden doesn't really capture its essence. It sits on .003 acres surrounded by a 28 inch high security fence. The fence is designed to keep out all manner of critters - the label said "Rabbit Fence." I'm more concerned about "dogs" at this point. I've got a bit of the turf removed and have some pretty decent looking soil waiting for seeds to be sown. It's not easy work, this centipede grass is pretty gnarly (in a bad way). It wants to stay in the ground. Once I've forced it out, it really wants to hold on to the dirt clinging to its roots. Next year it should be a lot less work. As I have become increasingly fragile in my advancing years, this work is some good exercise for me. It's also giving me a reason to be out in the heat and sun... which is good too.

The plan is to get some seedlings started in the next few weeks, take the best looking plants of the bunch and make them yield bushels and oodles of food. Prospective veggies (and fruits) include: Yellow Squash, Green Zucchini, Red Tomatoes, Green Lettuces, Green Beans, Multi-colored Peppers, Orange Carrots and Green Cucumbers. Should all go well, I will have some fresh food in about 75 days. By then I should be pretty hungry. I think I'll also look into a fruit bush or two. I miss picking blackberries. Even more than that, I miss eating blackberries. Perhaps such a bush that produces blackberries with great frequency is in my future. Mmmm, blackberries.

Yes, I wore sunscreen. It was sunny and already in the 80's by 8:30 this morning. Protection is so important. Up in the nineties this afternoon. I did work some in that crazy heat, but then decided sitting in the shade was a better option. It's almost always the better option. It would be the best option if there were more options on the table, but there ain't. Ain't. There's a nice breeze. Nice for me.

I'm glad the farm is taking shape. The back yard tends to be a big boring rectangle, so anything that breaks that up is a good thing. My average weekend tends to be a big boring rectangle, too... so I look forward to my continued adventures in micro-farming. I'll do my best in the coming weeks to regale you with only the most choice and extreme moments in my agricultural endeavors.

F-A-R-M- Farm!

Summer Summer Summer

It’s pretty quiet around here. Not literally. Figuratively. The air conditioning is struggling to keep up with a hot sun and temps in the upper 80’s. The sun seems to be at a high noon position from 9am to 3pm. It’s still early in May... so this will continue on for a while. Summer is unofficially here for the next four and a half months.

I liked summer growing up. School was out and baseball was played. In later years, school was out and basketball was played. Later still, school was out and rock and roll music was played. From 2000-2005, summer meant the stress of keeping grass that is cut down to an eighth of an inch high alive and green. All environmental conditions are trying to convince these tiny little grass plants to give up, turn brown and fade away. It’s not always easy, there’s conflict. Man vs Nature. Man vs Mother Nature. Man vs Nature so that another man can putt his golf ball on a lush and true surface. Expectations, reasonable and unreasonable. It can get to the point where it’s Man vs Man and Nature is just a point of argument. Stressed out plants. Stressed out people. Stressed out resources. Some people thrive on it. Some people thrive on it for a while. Some people really, really care. Others really don’t. Some people understand. Some people won’t.

Pretty universal. Pretty universal in our western developed world. Go to the third world (or poor niches of our world) and survival is the greatest priority. I don’t see too many Afghan folks concerned about on the job stress or an upcoming performance review. That’s all us. We have it so easy we can bury ourselves under our own trivialities and contrived contrivances. Not that they’re not real, these trivialities (some probably are), they are real… real pitiful (Man up! and Woman up!). I write this for my own reality check as much as anything… we are lucky to be born here. We have it so very easy. They don’t have to create conflict, it finds them. Armed conflict, even. I dare say it haunts them in their dreams at night as it haunts them during the day. I’m haunted by things far less daunting. Like that dream where I have one class left in college that I need to graduate, but I haven’t gone to class all semester or read any of the books and I can’t remember my locker combination and all the toilets are overflowing in the bathrooms and I can’t get to sleep because I can’t find my bed in the dorm. That one’s brutal. People in the third world would love to have that dream. I hope they get to one day. Then we could all move on to more important matters, like Miss California.

Walk man

Imminent thunderstorms are looking less imminent. The downside is that I can't watch and listen and smell a big spring storm. The upside is, I'm outside and the dogs can wander and chew and frap at will. And dig. And dig. And dig some more.

I turned on ESPN radio on the ride home in hopes that a game would be on. They often broadcast Yankees games and I often do not listen. No game on. Instead, it was sports talk radio. Not just any sports talk radio... relatively local sports talk radio, maybe it was from Charlotte or Raleigh. The last time I happened upon this show one of the hosts was explaining how much women like hockey players. It was fascinating. I then changed the channel. I find most call in radio to be chock full of the two things I can't stand... complete unwavering agreement and complete unwavering disagreement. It must make for good ratings, but it makes for bad DougRadio. Sports talk is bad. Political talk is only better because it's more relevant, but it's no less painful. Now a call in show where the callers ask a guest questions and want to hear the answers... I can get into that. Larry King on radio was once that, and maybe still is. That was fun to listen to on my WalkMan late at night in the dark. Larry King on TV doesn't do it for me. Probably the content and everything isn't much different... but it borders on unwatchable for me. I could try listening to just the sound of Larry on TV, but my desire to explore this fairly or scientifically just isn't there. Sorry, Larry.

I'd even listen to NBA Finals games on my WalkMan. Now I rarely make an effort to catch an NBA game. However, the recent Bills-Celtics series was pretty cool. I gave up on the triple overtime game with about 6 minutes to go in the 4th quarter. I didn't regret my decision the way I did when I missed Vince Young's awesome comeback in the BCS Championship game or even that great Monday Night Football comeback by the Jets or Bills or whoever it was about five years ago.

The smell of honeysuckle is nice on nights like this. The invasive, pervasive vines of honeysuckle are a bit of a nuisance... but it's a fair price to pay for sweet smelling air. I wish fireflies liked living down here, but they don't - at least not in large numbers. Good luck filling up a jar in my back yard.

Something has Weenis all fired up. I don't know what it is or where it is. I don't think he does either.

Bugs are a bitin' - so I'll be a gittin' inside.

Weenis: an introduction

First off, I enjoy blogs about Ludicris, derby hats, manicured gardens and baseball games. I'm down.

It's humid. I like tall trees and short trees, they surround the yard in a dense cover. Now that the leaves are out you can occasionally see a flood light from a neighbor's house, but privacy prevails under spring's greenery. Squirrels squirrel around where I can't see them. Making quite a scene nearby, another domestic squabble.

Sniffing. Around. Mickey walks softly and carries a big stick in his big mouth. His tail wags a lot, and with great force. Surely that thing is bruised end to end. He pants. Pants loudly as his mouth is formed perfectly to amplify it all. Short pants. Long pants. Loud pants. Hot pants. Always hot. He chews. The Harrier Jump Jet Mosquitoes are back in force tonight. His mouth occasionally makes an attempt at them, but the stick is the priority. Clutches the stick. Chews the Stick. Up again. Pants. Pants. Down again. New stick. Longer and thinner. Working the end, he will chew and swallow what he can break free. Some know of his epic feat of swallowing a catnip mouse one Sunday a couple years ago. It remained somewhere inside him (or journeyed inside him) for 6 days and then returned to the outside world in his crate on a Saturday. The mouse was completely intact, little eyeballs still on, little tail in place. So I'm not sure he can digest everything he eats, but it all gets through some way or another.

He is a poster child mutt. Poor childhood. Broken family. Ran away from home in the dead of winter. Wandered the streets (or street) looking for something to do. He had a brother, Brownie. Big brother was bigger and tougher looking but seemed to have the same demeanor. Mickey was scared of anything. Quick to cry and snarl and bite, but quicker still to bounce back with a wag and a pant. Always ready to play. Walk him long enough and he won't start to lag or drag. He'll keep pace then promptly lay down. Enough is enough. He's taken on several names since his arrival. Munster (as in Eddie Munster), Mickey, Mick, Brown, Weenis, Mick Weenis, Shamis McWeenis, Seamus McWeenis, Wiener, Wieiner boy, Mister cute, Super Dog and probably others that escape me at the moment.

He has a problem with empty bowls. He barks at them until they are filled or until he gets tired of barking at them. He is a world champion licker. He gives more baths than he gets. He is half German Shepherd and half anything else you can imagine. He had one white whisker on his left cheek that fell out several months ago. I thought it was quite distinctive and was sad to see that it had gone missing. Happily he grew a new one. His toenails are all black, save for three white ones. He is happy in his crate. He's happy anywhere. He's happiest when he has anything in his mouth. He's a good jumper. He can get a basketball in his mouth.

Twice he has had to wear a big lampshade collar following "incidents." One time his ear got caught in Maggie's mouth. It would not stop bleeding as a little flap of skin kept flopping about drenching everything in blood (primarily the kitchen). As a result, he has a half-moon portion missing from his left ear. Another time he jumped up and knocked over a pot of boiling water from the stove which fell on him. He bit himself trying to fight off the painful attack. He has a few black patches of skin that will never have fur again. In the middle of one patch is the spot where he bit himself. For a time it had healed into the shape of a bone. An apt tattoo for this scrappy little dude.

He loves it when I grab my guitar because he knows we're all going outside. We have plastic Adirondack chairs in the back yard. When they blow over, he chews on the feet and I assume he has eaten at least 5 of the non-skid pads on the bottom of them and a decent amount of plastic as well. He is gangly and fast. He is almost always on the move. He stops for peeing but will will not stop to poop. He eats dirt. He poops dirt. Once he stuck his mouth in a fire ant mound and came inside going absolutely nuts. He doesn't go near fire ant mounds anymore. He's a good learner. There's more. There's always more. It's dark outside now.