a cringing child makes up for a lot

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like that, only sadder

X and I went with Lorne to see a couple of bands at Hailey's on Saturday. Actually there were four, although we saw only three.

First up: Porcelain, a band you could charitably describe as excreable, unless you're a big fan of Creed and Jars of Clay, in which case you're stupid.

Next was the Lovemakers, a band from Oakland. They were extremely fun - not doing anything especially original, but having a blast playing really good electroclash-y post-punk and new wave.

Finally, Veruca Salt. Poor Veruca. You know, if Kurt Cobain hadn't brushed his teeth with a shotgun, but instead had gotten old and fat, and then disappeared for years, and no one cared, but still made a comeback album and toured tiny venues all over the U.S., playing the exact same grunge that he was playing in 1991, that would have been really sad. Sort of like Veruca Salt was sad, only sadder since Nirvana was great and Veruca Salt sucked.

possum vortex

X emailed the following (true) story to my mother today as a postscript to a heated exchange over whether Florida's new law allowing a person to shoot anyone who looks at them wrong is a good idea. Mom took the view that it's a terrible idea; X's opinion is that it will encourage everyone to be extra polite, like Miss Manners with a .45.

P.S. - Have you heard from dV today? If so, did he tell you about the visitor we had in the house last night about 10?

dV was closing windows back here in the office when Leo starts getting wiggy and excited, sniffing and scratching around behind this little guitar amp, next to the office filing cabinet with the fish tank on top.

Then we hear moaning.

Real steady, soft moaning. From behind the guitar amp.

dV looks, and it's a flipping baby possum. Maybe eight inches from tip of his snout to the beginning of his tail, and maybe 13-14 inches total. He is not happy, probably because the lights are now on and dV's is now shrieking "Possum!" (dV is not happy either.)

So after taking a couple of quick pictures and after locking Leo in another room, I've gathered gear: One fairly large net, normally used to retrieve dead fish from the tank, one shoe-sized Tupperware (TM) storage box, and one large bath towel. The hunt is on.

Naturally, as soon as dV goes after him, the possum squeezes behind the filing cabinet, which was last moved during the Clinton Administration. So I move it. Now he scurries out the other side, but as soon as he spies the net, he's back behind the cabinet. Finally he comes out the other side again, at which time dV nets the the now hissing little bastard, and between the two of us, we get him in the shoebox, snap on a lid, take him out back behind the garage, and release him. But not before he craps in my storage box.

I named him Petey, and I just can't for the life of me figure out how he got in the house. In 11 years here, we've only seen possums twice, both in the past couple of years: one night we surprised one rooting in a bag of garbage as we pulled into the garage, and the other time just the other night, when dV ran across TWO of the things frolicking in the front flower beds. Until he put a flashlight on them - at which point they hissed and charge him - he thought they were just really happy cats.

So, do you or Wayne have any expertise here? Like: A) How *do* possums get in a house, AND B) Is this website correct? Is the only way to get rid of them really just to call professional animal trappers? ("Uh, yes ma'am I realize we live in the city, but I need to hire a rofessional trapper.")

He was a cute little feller though.

For Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom, this is...

X

sorry, did i wake you?

Occasionally, I have nightmares. Sometimes, they wake X up. Such as, for instance, when I started screaming my head off at about three in the morning last night. Here's how it went:

Me: Ah! AH! AAAAAUUUUGHHHHHHHHHH!!!
X: Jesus Christ! Wake up!

i am mother nature, and you are not to fuck with me

Last night, when I got home from a (very) late night at work, I changed into the usual shorts, t-shirt, and sandals (mules, as Lorne calls them) and went out onto the front porch with a glass of wine. It was already dark.

After sitting there for a few minutes I heard a rustling coming from the bushes in the flower bed in front of the porch. I should explain that our white-trash neighbors make it a habit of feeding every feral cat in the neighborhood, which is a nice symbiotic relationship for them, what with all the vermin they must harbor - they get pest control and the cats get food. Over the years, the feral cats have bred feral kittens, and now you can hardly pull into my driveway at night without having to slow down (or speed up, in X's case) for the slinking shadows darting around.

So I assumed the rustling was coming from cats busily trying to fill the flowerbed with poop and hairballs, as is their wont. I got up and leaned over the porch and hissed "scat!" and two shapes took off. But instead of running across the street like they usually do, they ran down my driveway and into my back yard.

This pissed me off. It's bad enough that X and I occasionally have to clean up ripped-open garbage bags and frequently have to wipe pawprints off our windshields - no, now the bastards think they can reach safe haven in my garage! It was just too much.

I gave chase, following the cats into the backyard. Suddenly, both of them reversed themselves and came running back at me. I kicked out at one of them, sending my sandal flying deep into some nearby bushes.

Surprisingly, they didn't break and run. Instead, both of them stopped and started emitting a very strange hissing, moaning, snapping noise. And then they started advancing slowly at me.

Just then, the moon came out from behind a cloud and I could see that these creatures I was doing battle with weren't cats at all, but a pair of very large, pissed off opossums. And I'm standing there like an ass, wearing one sandal, standing in a gravel driveway, about to get mauled.

It's funny the way the mind works. I think I read somewhere that when faced with an agressive animal, the best advice is to make yourself look as big as possible and to make a lot of noise. It seems like maybe I read that about bears right before I went to Wyoming a couple of years ago, and it came right back to me, although I only got it half right; I screamed, waved my arms, and ran like a girl.

but i don't want to smell like a black magic woman

And here I was, thinking that Britney Spears' cheetos-and-red-bull inspired perfume was going too far. It turns out that there is, in fact, something even worse. What must this smell like? Is it inspired by his classic A-1 Funk? Or Chunk a Funk?

ACHell

The Dallas Morning News (link, registration required) provided an excellent reminder this morning of why X and I didn't go to ACL this year:

The hot, dry conditions caused a huge cloud of dust to gather in the air every day. It wasn't that noticeable until it got dark, and then it was hard to see anything over 6 feet away. We're still thankful for the wind, but we could have done without the dust.

Yeah. Either dust or, as I preferred to think of it, microscopic particles of hippie stink. Last year it was the same thing. When we got back I developed a wicked sinus infection and spent days sneezing patchouli-tinged pus out of my nose. And there was this:

The Austin City Limits Music Festival ended Sunday with the hottest day in its history. At 104 degrees, it felt like the hottest day ever . Seriously. We should be in the medical tent right now.

Exactly. See, on my best day, I have a low tolerance for being around sixty or seventy thousand of my fellow human beings. If it's 104 degrees outside, it's not my best day. Sooner or later, maybe the ACL organizers will get a clue and move the freaking thing to October, UT football be damned.

punk from O.C. threatens L.A., melbourne

This morning, Drudge had a big headline reading "New Tape Threatens Attacks on Los Angeles." I clicked on the link and was taken to an ABC News story that describes the tape's contents; really, just the usual Al-Qaeda claptrap, written as if they have a terror communique checklist of some kind:

1. Warnings about burning lakes of fire? Check.
2. Gratuitous use of 'infidel?' Check.
3. Scary ay-rab in a turban and identity-cloaking mask? Uh, no.

No, it turns out that this masked muslim is none other than Adam Gadahn of Orange County, California, who until recently was "a southern California teenager with interests in the environment and heavy metal music."

I did a little more research and found his "manifesto" posted on a USC website, in which he says, (ironically, one assumes) that "Having been around Muslims in my formative years, I knew well that they were not the bloodthirsty, barbaric terrorists that the news media and the televangelists paint them to be."

Anyhow, reading his post, I decided not to get all worked up about the threat level. Although I have to say, it is a grim reminder of the dangers that goat farming, home-schooling, and heavy metal pose to our children.

(un)intelligent design

This is why I can't always dislike John Derbyshire: he sometimes talks good sense.