Bonobo see, Bonobo do

These Bonobo apes are pretty amazing. If you got a few extra minutes this documentary on Susan Savage-Rumbaugh's work with primates is definitely worth a watch.

Apes that write, start fires and play Pac-Man

Orangie helmet and roving eye

Roy requested documentation that my helmet is, in fact, the Ugliest Colored Helmet in the World. Now you see. I exaggerate not. It is a good helmet but just a I described, a horrible "overly orangie shade of deep turmeric".



And as this post is filed under Local News, I'm including a couple of photos of things that recently caught my eye during my adventures around town.

Mother and son enjoying a shopping break goodie .

Sad Jane Doe.

I'd hate for my head to end up in a load of junk bound for the dump
but actually, that is what happened at one point in my life.

Parallel world

I'm melancholy tonight so I came here to sit under the palm fronds and tangled wisteria vines embracing the cafe terrace just off the boulevard. I am barely visible to others but from here I can see the street and the beach and the stars and for the moment I have found a measure of peace among the nuanced conversations wisping in the breeze.

Titles and nonsuch

Roy got me to thinking about titles with his post Cement Blocks and now I feel compelled to confess my scandalous past with them (titles not cement blocks) and therefore waste what began as a lovely Saturday morning full of promise. Thanks a lot Roy. They say confession is good for the soul but fail to add that it can be a little hard on the reputation, in this case the legend that I am in my own slavering and slavish mind. I'm going to make this as brief and painless as possible. Just the facts, mam.

In the days when I labored over a typewriter and burned through bottles and bottles of whiteout to come up with the ever illusive Perfect Copy, SkyRiver was a letterpress operation and I would sit amidst the half ton of antique machines and dream up titles for the books I was going publish on them, by setting my poems one backward, upside-down letter at a time. Actually I hated typesetting. The task made me very nervous and therefore the prospect of setting a page required a lot of alcohol to ready myself for the ordeal. As I prepared to begin, I enjoyed a delicious reverie over how I would slab thick black ink over the old black rollers and indent wonderful thick paper with my words. Unfortunately, by the time I felt ready to charge, I was often too drunk to focus. After a few years of that, my then partner and I split and sold the presses. I had only managed to print a few pages with a couple more set and ready to go that never got inked. But, I'm great with titles.

At the same time I had an acquaintance by the name of Cosmo who read at the same open mikes I did. He liked my writing and one night leaned over and muttered that he had recommended my name to some Who's Who list that he was on. I, of course, thought that was appropriate and showed my approval by a quick nod and mumbled something like Cool. Thanks. A few months later I got an invitation from a publisher in the UK. I was to submit my bio and list of published works for inclusion in two separate upcoming editions of Who's Who, I think one for poetry and the other women writers. I can't remember clearly.

And I don't remember who the publisher was. They were in Cambridge and their presentation was nice but I figured that if they were willing to include me sight unseen, it must have been a scam; one of those offers where they put your name in their big expensive book and then sell it to you so that you can leave the garish, gilded volume laying casually on your coffee table so your friends will notice it. I filled out the forms anyway and I'm sure you have already guessed my dilemma. Should I be a literalist and include only the things that have already made it into print (at that time individual poems mostly published in the local alt newspaper) or include titles of upcoming books I was planning to publish on my letterpress? I did wrestle with the question for at least minutes and then decided that, after all, I need to demonstrate faith in myself and so hurriedly jotted down the future titles and dashed the letter to the box before I could change my mind. So titles I've got.

To date in ... um .... reality? ... I do finally have a (draft) edition of a chapbook titled After Hours. I printed it years after SkyRiver Press died and resurrected as a digital entity but those old titles for the Who's Who are a wash. I listed several but only remember one, Watch Fire, and cringe as I write it. Obviously, I was not on the moral high ground at the time but what the heck? That is proven slippery ground for mortals such as I.

Ah...somebody worse than me

Unless you are a regular reader here, you might not be aware of just how much I agonize over the irritation my Bird Park causes Mr. Lee. I feel bad. I really do. It's too much for this kind of neighborhood. We should move to a funky place in the country. I even feel bad for my fussy neighbor when he runs the birds off so recently I cut the seed back by 2/3s to reduce the visitors I get in a day. So far, I just can't bring myself to stop feeding them altogether. I would be very lonely without them hopping around looking for goodies, feeding their squawking babies, taking cold tubs, dirt baths, singing. Even the little skirmishes that break out are entertaining because nobody really gets hurt. Now Mr. Lee has stopped bitching so much and I haven't seen old Dick out there shooing everybody away so, for the moment, we are back in a groove.

I don't want to sound like a bad neighbor but I'm not too worried about Dick anyway. He lost the moral high ground while we were gone by doing his own bad neighbor thing. He nailed an ugly towering pole to his side of the fence and it is directly and exactly across from my office window. It has to stand at least 12 feet above the fence. Tacky. This is not the first time Dick has infringed on the fence line in our boxed in, back to back little piece of burb heaven. A few years ago the people over his back fence demanded he take down the row of corny brilliantly colored faux birdhouses that he builds in his garage for god knows who. They are the kind of thing you might consider cooling a friendship down over just to avoid getting one as a Christmas present and certainly no self-respecting bird would ever consider living in one.

At first I thought the stick was some kind of rattle that he could shake from his back porch and scare all the birds out of my yard whenever he felt like it but now I don't think so. I suspect it's just part of his ham radio operation. Okay. Fine. He used to use a frequency that broadcast over our computer speakers. At random hours of the day and night we'd startle to a crackly "This is Lazy Dog in Northern Nevada, Northern Nevada" ... (always very drawn out on the Northern) ... over and over again blindly groping the airwaves for someone to talk at. The guy is an incessant talker. Even his own wife avoids him. That was annoying. I wish he were the deaf one then he wouldn't notice the birds so much but the deaf neighbor lives on the other side of us.

Anyway, I just learned today there is at least one person in the world who, when it comes to feeding wildlife, is more incorrigible than me; the wife of a friend of ours who recently turned her backyard into a Bear Park.

He always complained about how crazy she was and how hard he worked to contain her obsession with feeding everything that walks, crawls, or flies within a half mile of their place. That's why it was a bit surprising when he told us that she told him that the local rangers told her to put nuts and berries squirted with fish oil out for the bears and he is going along with it. Now bears are cavorting around their backyard all day long, lounging and napping and waiting for the next meal and, of course, more and more bears are showing up all the time. I sympathize because it's been a bad year for the bears, not enough berries, and they are starving and getting killed by cars as they wander further and further down the Sierra in search of food ... although a friend of mine who works for the Nevada Highway Division assures me that, in general, the garbage bears are doing well because people don't bother to get bear-proof garbage cans like they are supposed to ... but this ... the Bear Park ... this cannot end well.

Blumenthal on Bush's decadent perversity

Sidney Blumenthal's Salon.com article on Pres. Bush's decline into decadent perversity (I suppose from sheer madness and hubris) casts interesting dramatic footlights on the players, Bushie, Big Daddy Bushie, Rummy, Cheney, Prince Bandar etc. and made me lament that Shakespeare isn't around to write a play about them. Although Bushie himself plays The Fool, the chemistry of the overall angst and internal conflict and what is at stake for us all is the stuff nightmares and great theatre. In lieu of such a delicious treatment, you'll have to let your own imagination do the work. Bush's stairway to paradise.



Bush Blumenthal madness Cheney