It's A Living.

From Wikipedia:
Cymothoa exigua, or the tongue-eating louse, is a parasitic crustacean of the family Cymothoidae. It tends to be 3 to 4 centimetres (1.2 to 1.6 in) long. This parasite enters through the gills, and then attaches itself at the base of the spotted rose snapper's (Lutjanus guttatus) tongue. It extracts blood through the claws on its front, causing the tongue to atrophy from lack of blood. The parasite then replaces the fish's tongue by attaching its own body to the muscles of the tongue stub. The fish is able to use the parasite just like a normal tongue. It appears that the parasite does not cause any other damage to the host fish.^[1] Once C. exigua replaces the tongue, some feed on the host's blood and many others feed on fish mucus. This is the only known case of a parasite functionally replacing a host organ.^[1]

 ^{Sometimes finding gainful employment requires thinking out of the box.}

^P.

The Joy of Poop.

So O. decided to turn the tables on Luciya.

O: Luciya, I think I'm going to call my poops Luciya!

Luciya: (running from the room) Mommy! Mommy!

Emily: What, Luciya?

L: (jumping up and down with excitement) Gwams is going to call her poops Luciya!

P.

Uh, Oh! This Explains A Lot, Too.

Pop-up ad on Salon.com today.















P.

Explains A Lot.

P.

Sixfinger!

Now back to the funny stuff.



P.

Too Late?

The times that I grew up in were, like all times, filled with inequities and injustices. The rich have always lived in a world of their own, insulated from and mostly indifferent to the economic necessities that loom so large for the other 99% of us. But it does seem that these days even the pretense that we're all in this together has fallen out of fashion among our owners, replaced with the Randian idea that everyone who isn't rich is a greedy parasite leeching off our betters.

This change in attitude is the subject of an article by one of the country's leading economists, Joseph Stiglitz, in Vanity Fair. I recommend the entire article, but here are some of the main points:

America’s inequality distorts our society in every conceivable way. There is, for one thing, a well-documented lifestyle effect—people outside the top 1 percent increasingly live beyond their means. Trickle-down economics may be a chimera, but trickle-down behaviorism is very real. Inequality massively distorts our foreign policy. The top 1 percent rarely serve in the military—the reality is that the “all-volunteer” army does not pay enough to attract their sons and daughters, and patriotism goes only so far. Plus, the wealthiest class feels no pinch from higher taxes when the nation goes to war: borrowed money will pay for all that. Foreign policy, by definition, is about the balancing of national interests and national resources. With the top 1 percent in charge, and paying no price, the notion of balance and restraint goes out the window. There is no limit to the adventures we can undertake; corporations and contractors stand only to gain.

America has long prided itself on being a fair society, where everyone has an equal chance of getting ahead, but the statistics suggest otherwise: the chances of a poor citizen, or even a middle-class citizen, making it to the top in America are smaller than in many countries of Europe. The cards are stacked against them.

Alexis de Tocqueville once described what he saw as a chief part of the peculiar genius of American society—something he called “self-interest properly understood.” The last two words were the key. Everyone possesses self-interest in a narrow sense: I want what’s good for me right now! Self-interest “properly understood” is different. It means appreciating that paying attention to everyone else’s self-interest—in other words, the common welfare—is in fact a precondition for one’s own ultimate well-being. Tocqueville was not suggesting that there was anything noble or idealistic about this outlook—in fact, he was suggesting the opposite. It was a mark of American pragmatism. Those canny Americans understood a basic fact: looking out for the other guy isn’t just good for the soul—it’s good for business. The top 1 percent have the best houses, the best educations, the best doctors, and the best lifestyles, but there is one thing that money doesn’t seem to have bought: an understanding that their fate is bound up with how the other 99 percent live. Throughout history, this is something that the top 1 percent eventually do learn. Too late.

I don't believe that it is too late, not yet. But it's going to take real leadership from politicians committed to something other than raising money from the rich and corporate interests to ensure their own re-election. And that only happens when people stand up and decided they've had enough.

P.

Our Three New Granddaughters Have Arrived!

 John is building a chicken coop in back of his house and its denizens have 

already made their appearance. Meet Shybone, Pokey, and Heena, 

our newest granddaughters.

P.

Everything Moves A Little Slower Here.

We're so used to spring appearing in mid-January and taking just a few weeks to reach full bloom, that Idaho is discombobulating our sense of time. Here it is mid-April and things are finally beginning to actually blossom. It's taken almost a month for the buds to open, and still many trees are still as bare as they were in January. It's a much more leisurely unfolding than we'd expected. We're definitely ready for it.

P.

It's Joe Albertson's Supermarket.

And it's just a block from our apartment.

It turns out that the memorable campaign referenced above 

was the idea of a Boise ad agency. Who knew?

P.

Growling Halibuts, Stomach Snakes, And Poops Named "Gwams.".

It's rare that we watch Luciya and Mirabel without being treated to some new expression of L's wild imagination. Last night, she decided that her sister was a "growling halibut." Later, she told me that I had to read her book louder because she couldn't hear very well. Why couldn't she hear? "Because I have a long black snake in my tummy." It's apparently a serious problem, because she later told us she was having trouble walking because there was a pink and purple snake in her tummy.

And she still hasn't forgotten that she wants to call her poops "Gwams." But this time she was clearer with her granny about why: "Because I love my poops, and I love you."

Sometimes life's just that simple and lovely.

P.

Back To Vietnam.

Part of getting new phones is letting go of the old phones. That's not usually difficult to do, but mine had been with me in Vietnam and had all my Vietnamese phone numbers in it. Not to mention several photos that I had never been able to transfer to my Mac. My old Sony phone came with PC-based sync software, and although I had managed to transfer a few photos initially, after that first time it didn't work. As a result, I had several irreplaceable photos on the phone that I despaired of ever being able to access. So when I switched phones, I asked the sales people if they could transfer the photos to my new phone. Of course they could, but nothing they tried seemed to work. At last one wise old tech-head was able to use Bluetooth to effect the transfer.

This is the only shot I have of the bottled water delivery man.
It was amazing how many bottles these guys could carry.

A particularly lovely dragon crowning the lintel above
the main entrance to a temple several blocks from our house.

The only shot I have of one of my favorite temples on busy Kim Ma street.

An especially creepy pair of maimed child mannequins
in front of a store on dear old Doi Can.

A man and his ladder. I actually have no idea why I took this shot.

We saw this old man squatting in his doorway almost every day.
He was toothless and clearly not all there, and I didn't want
to embarrass him (or myself) by obviously taking his picture,
but I managed one shot surreptitiously.
Not great quality, but a vivid memory of our old neighborhood.

We were out of town during Tet, so we missed all the celebrations,
but before we left I managed to get this shot.
These kumquat trees (and many other ornamental trees) are considered
good luck for the new year, so for a few weeks,
they're as ubiquitous as Christmas trees at Christmas in the U.S.
In fact, a really old tree can rent for up to $10,000
because of the luck it's supposed to bring.
Every business has some kind of tree, as well as most homes.
I used this shot as the wallpaper on my old phone.
I'll miss it.

P.

Getting Smart.

We finally did it. We took the next step into the 21st century and bought smartphones. We are giant Mac fans, but the price/performance of the Android platform was too compelling to pass up. Half the price of the latest iPhone and more capable, and 40% less a month for service than our old phones, the new phones will pay for themselves in just a few months. In the meantime, we'll be holed up playing with our new toys.

The Android of our eye.

P.

Chupacabra From La Habra.

I am in the process of reclaiming my creativity. It started with this blog, then started to include my photos, which I'm about to start marketing. I'm also about two-thirds of the way finished with a book about our time in Vietnam. I'm going to publish this on Kindle and also as an iBook that includes photos and the original blog. And I have a lot of other projects in various stages of completion.

I've been a little scared of doing all this, because what if it doesn't work. But screw that; I love doing it, so I'm going to do it. As I realized the other day, really, looking back at my career, what I've been able to earn from my creative work over the years makes me a very successful writer already.

As part of this process I'm trying to get my writing out there as much as possible--increasing the number of blog posts, etc. So when I saw a contest for a piece of spooky, kooky microfiction (500 words or less), I entered. I didn't win, but I had fun putting together this little story. I hope you enjoy it.

Chupacabra From La Habra

We really fucked up, mi carnal Danny and me.

It started with that pinche corpse apple pie abuelita Rose made for mi hermana Josie who was having female spells. Abuelita believes that old-time bruja shit. I didn’t used to.

A corpse apple pie is made with apples from a tree growing in a graveyard. But finding an apple tree in a cemetery ain’t easy. Not in La Habra, CA.

One day this old guy brought Abuelita a sack of apples. He looked about 400—a couple yellow teeth, droopy bloodshot eyes, mustache singed brown from smoking these sick-smelling hand-rolleds, sub-kmart plaid shirt and cowboy hat—“puro indio,” whispered Danny sarcastically.

Danny was imitating this guy’s geezer walk, and we’re laughing so hard we never saw him come out of the house. “Pinches changitos,” he muttered as he walked by.

Danny got pissed. “Vete a la chingada, you old fuck!”

The old guy waved his stick at us, spewing words and spit, and gimped off.

Later, a delicious burnt sugar, brown butter, and cinnamon smell lured us. Abuelita warned us off. “This pie is just for Jovita. Hands off.”

But we were hungry, and anything that was just for Josie just had to be fucked with. So when Abuelita watched her telenovelas, we grabbed the pie and ran.

That night I dreamed of being chased by a man, an indio, who was naked except for a cape of human skin with a man’s face attached. My face.

The next day, it was like my insides were drying up and rotting. I felt hollowed out and squishy, like a Halloween pumpkin that’s been sitting out on the porch for months. Danny did, too.

Abuelita shook her head. “It’s a maldicíon. You offended Señor Alucardo. And when a brujo gets offended, híjole! I can save your life, but now you belong to him.”

“And Danny?”

“There’s got to be a goat, a scapegoat. And, mijo, you have to do it. As a chupacabra.”

“I can’t suck Danny’s life.”

“He dies anyway. And so will you if you don’t.”

So I did, eventually. What took the longest was the embarrassment of asking Abuelita how to do it. It felt like asking her to explain how to jerk off or something.

I stood over Danny as he slept. My stomach jerked, and I vomited a thin transparent tube that plunged into his chest. I gulped chunks of liver, shreds of heart and lung and gallons of thick, delicious blood, and I was crying and laughing with remorse and relief and the joy of being fully alive for the first time.

Afterwards, Abuelita wanted me to go to México with Señor Alucardo, but I said no. I don’t speak Spanish, and I don’t want a bunch of indios laughing at me like I’m some pinche gringo—la chupacabra de La Habra.

Maybe when Abuelita goes, I’ll go, but until then I’ll just hang.

I really got to try me some cabrito one of these days.

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."

P.