Support Your Local Wildlife.

One thing about Idaho is that you feel closer to nature here. Even in the center of the city. This morning. traffic stopped downtown to allow a gaggle of geese to waddle across the street. The birds weren't in a hurry, either.

But that's just the beginning. Idaho may be slashing pay for teachers and cutting off support for low-income people, but it seems that there's no shortage of support for the local wildlife.

Apparently the state's runaway meth problem is now affecting
its vulnerable ruminant population. But not to worry,
there's a support group for them!

Human unemployment may be high, but ursine citizens
can still find ways to make a buck selling RVs seized from
terrorized tourists. Good prices, though, if you're
willing to overlook the clawed-up interiors.

Even man's best friend can find a place to drown his sorrows
when the toilet seat is down.

Even exotic species have spots where they can congregate.
Boise sometimes surprises me with its broadmindedness.

P.

Some Enchanted Evening.

Suddenly, we have evenings again. With daylight savings in effect, it doesn't get dark here until around 8:30, so O. and I decided to celebrate with a post-prandial stroll.

It may be spring, but the trees are still bare.

Like hope, the crocuses spring eternal.

At one point, we were joined by a fat, friendly gray cat
(easier to see if you click the picture),
but otherwise the streets were deserted.

The sunset tipped the stark branches with a hint of crimson.

As much as we crave the coming of spring, we will miss the bleak beauty
of these skeletal trees.

P.

Economy Size.

One good thing about this recession is that you can get screaming deals on those major purchases.

It does help to call first, though, because supplies are limited.

P.

Power Walking.

I guess that when Grannie isn't crouching behind her automatic weapon defending the clan compound from the anticipated onslaught of liberal zombies in the imminent Obamapocalyse, she can use some help powering her way through the crowds at the local gunshop on her weekly run for armor-piercing ammo, elk jerky, and Skoal menthol.

P.

Ah, Idaho!

On the first day of spring we had cabin fever, so we decided to take a drive south toward the Owyhee mountains. The day was gray and blustery, and the area turned out to be less photogenic than we'd hoped, especially since the mountains themselves were obscured by drizzle and grizzle. There is a sort of bleak grandeur to the high desert, the gray scrub hugging the gray dirt and stretching tediously toward the gray horizon, its flatness broken only by the slewed shoulders of a few low buttes. But it doesn't make for particularly compelling photos.

Still, it was good to get out of our tiny apartment, even though it was far too cold and windy to get out of the car for long. And we did get a good look at the wonders of rural Idaho.

Including a great spot to pick up the three essentials
of rural Idaho life: beer, bait, and bullets.

Out here, it's all about cowboys. And Spider-man.

And, of course, grannies with machine guns.

Ah, Idaho!

P.

Peace Of The Rock.

As the weather begins to warm up, we're starting to get out and about more. We decided to take a walk in the foothills that were, until recently, covered in snow.

We started at the old penitentiary, which was established in 1868,
expanded in the 1880s, and closed in 1973. The grounds
are now home to the Idaho Botanical Gardens, and host
an outdoor concert series every summer.

In the distance, you can just make out (if you click on the photo)
the snow-covered peaks of the Owyhee mountains, to the south of Boise.
Owyhee, oddly enough, refers to Hawai'i. From Wikipedia:

The name of the river is from the older spelling of "Hawaii".
It was named for three Hawaiian trappers, in the employ
of the North West Company, who were sent to explore
the uncharted river. They failed to return to the rendezvous
near the Boise River and were never seen again.
Due to this the river and its region was named "Owyhee".
About one-third of the men with Donald MacKenzie's
Snake Country Expeditions of 1819-20 were Hawaiians, commonly
called "Kanakas" or "Sandwich Islanders" in those days,
with "Owyhee" being a standard period spelling of the proper
Hawaiian language name for the islands, hawai'i, which
then was otherwise unused in English. The three Kanakas
were detached to trap on the river in 1819 and were
probably killed by Indians that year. It was not until
the spring or early summer of 1820 that MacKenzie learned
the news of their deaths (probably at the hands of men
belonging to a band of Bannocks led by a chief named The Horse).
Indians led other trappers to the site, but only one skeleton was located.
The earliest surviving record of the name is found on a map
dating to 1825, drawn by William Kittson (who was previously
with Donald MacKenzie in 1819-1820, and then with Peter Skene Ogden
in 1825), on which he notes "Owhyhee River" [sic]. Journal
entries in 1826 by Peter Skene Ogden, a fur trapper who led
subsequent Snake Country Expeditions for the Hudson's Bay Company
refer to the river primarily as the "Sandwich Island River",
but also as "S.I. River", "River Owyhee" and "Owyhee River."

Another odd thing about this is that there's some kind of strange affinity between Idaho and Hawai'i even today. No only did John and Emily move here from Maui, but O. and I have noticed that many of the cars here have stickers that mention Hawai'i and there are quite a few Hawaiian restaurants here as well. I guess there's something about a tropical paradise that appeals. Go figure.

The hills around Boise are a dry, dun expanse almost year-round.

We're hoping for a brief efflorescence of greenery in the spring,
but this time of year has its own bleak beauty.

We were especially drawn to the calm power of the weather-worn rocks:

We called this one Frog Rock.

On closer inspection, the vivid hues of the stone and
the many varieties of lichen belie the superficial
colorlessness of the landscape.

(Click the pictures twice to get the full effect.)

It reminded me of a profusion of brilliant corals
blooming on a tropical reef.

P.

Spring is Sproing!

It's here! Almost two months later than we're used to,
but we're glad to see a little green at last!
Of course, it did snow yesterday, but it didn't stick.

P.

"...After What That Robot Did To Me."

Another gem of a series from HiLowbrow. This one collects just a few of the many double-entendres (unintentional or otherwise) from the comic books of the forties and fifties. One has to feel sympathy for poor Lois Lane:

Because who hasn't had that happen to them?

And who wouldn't want to give Archie a hand?

But Batman and Robin are a little too much to swallow.
Oh, they just don't make comics like they used to.

P.

The Evil That Is Fluffypoopy.

He looks so sweet, as befits one of Luciya's favorite familiars,
but that beneficent exterior, we were shocked to discover,
hides an inner core of pure evil.

It all started when we began to babysit Mirabel and Luciya on Wednesday nights. John works that night and Emily wanted to start going to dance class, so we stepped up to our grandparently duties. Of course, L. wanted to introduce us to her newest stuffed animal, who she had named Fluffypoofy. Naturally, I insisted on mispronouncing this as Fluffypoopy and general hilarity ensued.

All was going swimmingly, until L. started telling us about Fluffypoopy and mentioned, rather casually I thought, that I should be careful because he had a tendency to burn people's faces off. Trying not to alarm her, I asked if he had done this often. She assured me that he had, and confided that he had "fire in his fingers."

Now this was weeks before we found out about Charlie Sheen's "fire-breathing fists," but I'm sure they're related.

Since then, whenever we play with Fluffypoopy, I tell L. that I'm a little frightened by his fiery fingers. She always assures me that he has said that he will be good and not burn our faces off, but inevitably he reneges on this promise and tries to burn us. We have to hide from him until L. reports that he is dead. The problem is that, even when she assures me that he's "dead for eight years," he is usually resurrected within a few minutes and starts threatening us again.

I'm not quite sure what to do about this. We're going over there again tonight. Pray for us.

P.

Jack Kirby--God Of The Comic Book.

Click pix to embiggen. Totally worth it!

Well, of course everyone who loves comics recognizes the crazed manifestation of the divine known as Jack Kirby as one of the great masters of the form. His ground-breaking work is such an eye-bursting mash-up of wonder, novel composition, and pure corn that decades later it still bears close study. And that's just what it's being given at one of my favorite sites: Hilobrow. Check out their series "Kirb Your Enthusiasm" in which 20+ artists and others each deconstruct a single panel from Kirby's work. Silly, insightful, and hilarious. Then be sure to check out the rest of their site. Enjoy!


P.

Sequiters? We Don' Need No Steenkin' Sequiters!

We're watching Mirabel and Luciya this weekend while John and Emily are in Seattle having a lovely weekend on their own. Unfortunately, Luciya isn't feeling well. This morning she was up at 4, then 4:30, then finally at 5:30, complaining that her tummy hurts. O. got up and soothed her while I went to get coffee in the cold dark.

When I got back, O. was rubbing L.'s tummy with lotion. Apparently, this helps. I kissed L. on the forehead and told her I was sorry that she was feeling so miserable. She looked up at me with tragic, pain-filled eyes and said: "Grandpa, in the summer, you have to wear short-sleeved shirts."

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