Oh u just mad cause I’m stylin on u

Ok so the other day I learnt that my former secondary school had received an official complaint about my facebook conduct. Because that’s a thing now. Facebook conduct. That’s a thing that exists. That’s something that can be complained about to educational establishments. Yes. The complainant was a woman who we’ll call ‘Jane Simpson’ (name changed to protect the reactionary and moronic), who was absolutely outraged about a poem I’d reposted onto a group about famous dead baby ‘Baby P’ (it’s like a codename to protect his real identity, like Captain Scarlett. Or Prince).

The group itself was a satirical group called JUSTICE FOR BABY PEA. Now let me explain: the joke in this case is that the ‘P’ in ‘Baby P’ sounds very similar to the word ‘Pea’, referring to the small green vegetable. So it’s like a pun. You know, satirical, because a lot of groups are all like ‘Justice for baby P!!!’ and this one is ‘Justice for baby Pea’, and then there was a picture of a baby dressed like a pea as well, so frankly the whole thing was a nice idea, cleverly put together, a perfect combination of opportunity for verbal wit followed up with the correct brain response and satirical nous to successfully carry through the idea, andYES I KNOW IT’S NOT VERY CLEVER and neither was the poem I reposted, which was the Fresh Prince of Bel-Air lyrics but instead of talking about a young rapper being relocated to his stuffy posh Aunt and Uncle’s house in Florida, and I’m willing to accept that fact.

However.

This was the email sent.

Dear *mr headmaster*
I thought you might like to be aware of the above student's idea of a joke, as I presume if he is to be believed a student at your college. He has joined a Facebook group which has been set up to mock the death of a 17 month old baby after months of torture and has very kindly added a poem for other members' amusement. Perhaps you may not feel that this is anything you would wish to be involved with, but it may be interesting to you that this sick individual happily states that he is student at your school - which is something I presume you would not wish to be linked with. Several of the members are students at various universities - it is sickening to think that these are some of the young adults that are supposed to be also our privilaged ones.
I leave it with you to deal with as you deem necessary
Regards
Jane Simpson (a sickened campaigner for tougher measures against child abuse).

See, I like this. I like the way it’s structured. I like the way that Jane plays with conventions of language – such as in her premodifying of ‘joke’ with ‘the above student’s idea of a…’ to imply that she, indeed, doesn’t think a poem about child abuse written in the style of the theme music from a Will Smith sitcom from the 90s is any sort of thing to be laughing about. I like the dark, biting globules of sarcasm that drip like tar from ‘has very kindly added a poem for other members’ amusement’. I like the three different variants on the word ‘sick’. I like the use of dramatic irony – the build up of describing my crimes, then the sudden thematic u-turn as it hinges, swivelling the sights of criticism purely on the school who have been made guilty by association of my own misdeeds. I like the places where it formally parts company with fact. I love the fact that Jane describes herself as a ‘campaigner’, as though there’s a huge political movement dedicated to preventing ‘tougher measures against child abuse’ and she’s the one solitary firebrand left to stand up for the kids, waging a ceaseless war against the twin evils of ironic poetry and no-good beatnik teenagers, using well-aimed molotov cocktails of passive-aggressive emails and tattling to old schoolteachers.

I like to imagine the creation of this email. In my mind’s eye I see Jane surfing Facebook in the middle of the night, her jowls glittering in the darkness of her empty flat, going through every dead-child related group one-by-one until by some horrific mistyping she inadvertently lands on an ironic group. I can imagine the look on her face. It would be somewhat similar to this smilie:

D:

I can imagine the thoughts that flowed sluggishy through her mind. ‘This is it. I’ve seen moral standards slipping in my time. I’ve seen them letting homosexuals give heart transplants, lesbians drive buses, blacks present Blue Peter, and I’ve said nothing. Because things move on. But no more. NO MORE. For too long I've made myself a sacrifice to the altar of progress, but this is it. These little bastards have gone too far. I’m drawing a line in the sand HERE.’ And then I imagine her pushing the eight cats off of her computer to write the email, laughing derisively as she poured forth her bitter and unrelenting scorn, thinking ‘yeah that’s how privileged is spelt’, then concluding with the frankly bizarre linguistic and orthographic gymnastics of “these are some of the young adults that are supposed to be also our privilaged ones” and sending the email off to a schoolteacher. JOB WELL DONE. MISSION ACCOMPLISHED. THE CHILDREN ARE NOW 6% SAFER THANKS TO JANE SIMPSON. YES

Now let’s get something straight. I am All For small children not being tortured to death. I think that what happened to Big P was horrific and naturally as soon as I heard, I sprinted to my computer, logged onto Facebook and joined “Justice for Baby P”, “Remebrance for Baby P”, “Baby P' .. we want justice!!”, “SIGN BOOK OF CONDOLANCE FOR BABY P”, “Baby P Killers should be hanged Drawn and Quartered”, “PETITION GROUP TO GET " BABY P" A MEMORIAL PLAQUE” “'Baby P' another child left to die by our so called public services!”, “Join The Petition To Get The Parents of Baby P Life In Prison!” etc, just to clarify my righteous sense of morally-absolutist anger. And yeah, I do believe that there are certain things that shouldn’t be laughed at, such as the mental image of thick craft-paper papercuts on the head of an erect penis, the increasingly-unhideable nature of the scars on my legs from my rampant self-harming, and – indeed – the sadistic murder of small children. Now my longtime blogging audience might find that last one difficult to reconcile with my output so far – after all we all know that there are some epic lulz to be gotten out of dead baby jokes HOW DO YOU MAKE A DEAD BABY FLOAT TWO SCOOPS OF ICECREAM ONE SCOOP OF DEAD BABY LOLolol, and yes, I’m unlikely to win an award for not inadvertently saying offensive things to girls and the disabled, but you have to realise that what’s funny in these jokes is not the actual act of the baby being cut into pieces. You idiots. What’s being mocked is the sense of disgust felt by the listeners; in imagining these perverse acts of horror, we’re transported out of our comfort zones and forced to react. It’s either LAUGH CRY FIGHT OR RUN and the easiest option is to laugh. We’re turning round and laughing at our inabilities to reconcile the horrors of the world with our own delicate sensibilities. Which is where the entire point of shock comedy comes from, and it’s why Jimmy Carr still has a career. And so we made a facebook group to make fun of the Baby P Facebook groups and we had an ironic laugh by combining the banal with the horrible. My natural reaction was to laugh. But laugh ironically, which means that I had to do air-quotes and actually pronounce the individual ‘ha’s.

Jane Simpson’s natural reaction was to cry. Actually her natural reaction was to throw her hands up in the air in an ineffectual display of horror, fall of her chair, and, in an act of self-righteous morally convenient rage, spasm every muscle in her body and suck her crusty tampon up through her uterus into her poisonous and fetid womb where it will hopefully give her some kind of ulcer. And then write an ineffectual email. And then my school formally asked me to cut all public ties to them. And my mum said that she was disappointed in my lack of morals. And you know what? All this makes me sort of wish that that baby hadn’t even been killed at all. Seriously.

This all raises a question though. Why does this sort of thing always happen to me? I’m not the only person I know who has a blog or who is on facebook but I’m the only one getting accusatory hatemail and being called ‘sick’ by middle-aged women with millipedes crawing out of their vaginas. The other kids have blogs that are objectively of a lower standard than this one, and THEY don’t have get 50 comments accusing them of massive self-harm and of having ‘less than below average looks’ which to be honest is such a diss if you think about it. Perhaps all of this is just the beginning of the anti-Tom backlash. It’s not like I haven’t expected it coming; after all you can’t fly as high and burn as brightly as I’ve been doing without being aware of the sword of Damocles hanging ever more dangerously above your head. I just guess that I’m one of those people who makes other folk Sit Up and Take Notice. I’m not like Darfur: you can’t ignore me and hope I’ll go away. I’m like Israel – people are on the streets protesting both for and against me. Arabs are dying in foreign countries over my right to exist. It’s the best and brightest flowers that are the first to get picked, after all, and if you’re a young agent provocateur like me you are BOUND to get in the face of ‘the man’ and the rest of his fat-cat blood-for-oil cronies. They’re all like ‘what do you think you’re doing’ and ‘you young rebel, put on a tie and get a job in an office and be a nine-to-five wage slave like the rest of the corporate drones!!’ and ‘you’re self pitiful, self loathing with less than below average looks and a childish attitude towards life’ and I’m just going by on my fixed wheel bike with my keffiyeh and an my American Apparel hoodie and my sweet Nikes and I’m like ‘chill out man, anyway gtg I have some more bourgeoise power-structures to deconstruct with my cutting wit and inflammatory prose’ and they’re all left wearing their brown raincoats standing in the terraced streets of Brixton and waving their fists ineffectually after me while I go off and probably hook up with some babes or something.

And really I won’t consider myself any sort of success until I’m officially branded ‘sick’ and possibly ‘vicious’ by the Daily Mail, and I suppose that this is a good start. Overall a good day’s work, all told.



* * *
in other news
SELF HARM UPDATE
so I was in the kitchen and was pretty drunk on gin and the crashing inadequacies of my life were pressing down upon me from all sides and I didn’t know what to do because my cutting blades were downstairs so I just leapt into action and took a cheesegrater to my calves for like twenty minutes until the back of my legs looked like Ronald Macdonald’s hairdo

Still alive, still birding!

Despite our ridiculously low temps (in the teens and single digits), I've still managed to log a few birding adventures in the past week. Last Saturday, Laurie and I went to the duck pond near Centre Furnace Mansion, hoping to see two snow geese that--according to the local listserv--had been visiting the pond on a fairly regular basis for the last week or so. As I've never seen a snow goose, I was excited. Here's what we saw:Um--those are ducks. Domestic, albeit perhaps not from someone's farm, ducks. Quacking along with the other ducks. Hmph. I know that the people who'd reported seeing the snow geese are good birders, so my guess is that Earl Cootie's Bird Goddess decided to play a little trick on me. She's like that.

She did grant me a couple of treats, however. If you look closely at that white duck photo, you'll see an interestingly shaped duck silhouette on the upper left.

It came a little closer:And then a little closer:A WOOD DUCK! Granted, not exactly a breeding-plumaged male or anything, but still a wood duck! I always used to try to get photos of these guys back on the marsh, but I would spook them before I could get a decent shot. Yay me! I'm guessing this is a female, what with the white eye ring, but her plumage is still beautiful. Here's another shot:Isn't she beautiful? I didn't see her hubby anywhere; perhaps she was single and lookin'?

UPDATE!--my eagle-eyed commenters pointed out that I got both the drake and the hen wood ducks in that dark picture of the white ducks! here's a crop:
Cool!

We then walked a little to try to see some ducks farther out on the pond:That's a bufflehead waaaay across there. I've only ever seen those when I took the ferry from Lewes to Cape May a few years ago. I tried to get a better shot, but I ended up falling on some ice. (If you're on Facebook, you'll know that I fell THREE TIMES last weekend. This was my first fall.)

Here's a crop:I really like birds with funky-shaped heads, like wood ducks and buffleheads and mergansers. Anyway--it was neat to see one of these again, especially right here in town.

And here's one of those crazy-ass Muscovy ducks, probably an escapee (perhaps from the same place as those white ducks) who's "gone native," as they say:Check out the talons on those feet! I'd hate to have to scrap with this guy. His plumage was a beautiful emerald-black, though it's probably not visible here (it was getting late). And look at the bare patch of red skin, along with that big old wart thingie, on his face. Is that technically a wattle if it's on top of his bill? Oh--Peterson calls it a "knob."

I also saw a duck I'm a little unsure about:I know it's not a female mallard, as the bill is white/orange, it's darker and less streaky than they are, and the wingspot is a different color. Here's a comparison collage:That is definitely not a female mallard. The bill reminds me of the wood duck's bill, but the head isn't right. I just checked my Peterson's and I think I'm gonna go with my initial guess, made pond-side: that's an American Black Duck, isn't it? Not a lifer, but it's my first photo of one!

That's enough of the duck pond. Here's a pic of a recent sunset:It may be freezing here, but we still get some nice sunsets.

(By the way, for those who are keeping score at home, I fell a second time at the bowling alley where I was working part-time for moving money, and then a third time on some stairs at my friend Joche's house--but I think I told you about that one. My concussed noggin is feeling better, though my shoulder is still very stiff and sore.)

My next birdy adventure happened yesterday. Despite the irruption of white-winged crossbills in the state, I've yet to see one, so when I saw a report of some crossbills right on the Penn State campus, I had to check it out! However, the Bird Goddess was in a bad mood again, and I didn't see anything but a few noisy crows. Oh well.

Today, I saw some reports of redheads out there yesterday, but Gretchen and I are leaving right after work for Pittsburgh, where we'll be visiting THE NATIONAL AVIARY! so I won't get to go out there and see them. I hope they're still around next week, as that would be another lifer for me.

When I get back to my computer on Monday, I hope to knock you all outta your seats with some kick-ass photos of all kinds of groovy birds from the Aviary. I know they don't count on my lifelist, but it's going to be such a thrill to see these birds live, not just on The Life of Birds or whatever. Gretchen and I are both so pumped to go, plus we'll be watching the last disk of The Life of Birds as well as Season 7 of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. (I've been shepherding Gretchen through all the seasons, and we're finally to Season 7.)

I know--how can my little noodle hold all this crazy-fun-time-ness!? I'll answer that question next week. Have a great weekend!

Plink on the windowpane

Slate sky

murky cold haze
wind chill
ekes through fibers
coat to sweats to underwear

blasts aching bones
limping feet
hobbled knees
crippled hands

feel the gray
wall of pain

The ice storm began on Tuesday around 6 pm in Bedford. The plink of freezing rain on the pane. An extra shine on the pavement and the exagerated fervor of the weathermen, with maps in white and pinks, heightened the frenzy Ray and I call the Blast of White Death. Indeed, we awoke to a Wednesday world encased in a sheet of ice. No need to shovel. We don't own one.

Instead, Ray trudged out to make the long slow drive (1-1/2 hours) to work, and I limbered up my fingers for a day of writing and editing. Ray arrived at his job safe and sound, and I was comfortable knowing I need not drive anywhere. Donning a sweatshirt over my black long sleeved shirt, I wrapped the afghan around my feet, and typed away.

Now, everything has melted and we'll be up to 60s by the weekend. However, an ice day in Texas brings back the little kid in me who loved the freedom of a snow day.

Niblet update

FINALLY UPDATED! But not with pics from the vet--I was too busy being worried about my little Son, Moon, and Stars ™ to take pics there. But here he is the day after, running around like nothing had happened.

My prediction of an abscess (finally looked up how to spell that; I knew I had it wrong but was just too lazy to check) was correct. My baby boy and I made it to the vet on Friday, and Dr. Sayre confirmed it.

Niblet was so good and so brave throughout the exam and procedure. First, Dr. Sayre used a flea comb to pull some of the scab-crusted fur out. Niblet didn't even flinch! Then she examined the area and got a little sample of the fluid that was seeping out of the lump for microscopic examination: bacteria.

So she put a numbing gel on the area, then gave him a shot of novacaine. She then took him in the back after he'd numbed up and lanced the lump. She said she cleaned it all out. He had two tiny (1/8") incisions, and the lump was gone.

Little Nibble and I came home, and I have to dose him with antibiotics twice a day for ten days, and a pain med once a day for five days. Both are liquid, and I have to do a Steve Irwin-style jump onto Niblet so I can hold him between my knees/thighs and put a little needle-less syringe into his mouth and squirt in the meds. He doesn't much like it, of course --- but I do reward him with a baby carrot or a dried banana chip, which he does like.

You can kinda see some of the medicine stuff she put on there in this photo. By this point, he'd done a little comb-over action and you couldn't even see his bald spot.

He's still just as bouncy and energetic as before, for which I'm thankful. He's just such a brave little man-bunny. He should make a full recovery soon.

Thanks for all your good wishes for him!

A phrase or image inspires

Where do I get my ideas? From anything and everything. A phrase here, a mentioned incident there, or a memory blast from the past. I read the paper thoroughly and the teensiest news items can trigger a flash fiction. People watching can inspire the creation of a character for a book. Or sitting in line at a Taco Bell and watching a piece of scrap paper cling to a chain link fence gave me a poem.



No Escape


Scrap paper whooshes past me
clings to chain link fence
splatted flat, it wavers


frays

disintegrates


And there's the deck chair in the backyard (see picture)
Ancient deck chair

leans closer to earth
attracts bird splatter

sticky spider web slats
creak, groan
screws rattle

age spots
slurp spray paint
gasps for more

seat wiggles
another season

It's all word play. Some folks play computer games. Others niggle at words. I've re-read the first chapter of my book a zillion times and probably change a word, a comma, or delete a paragraph every single time. Depends on the mood of the day. That's the challenge and the journey.

Then there's the day when the sky is gray, the page is blank, and I've got nothing........until something triggers a fresh bout of word splash.

Joanne

New River Wishlist Post #3: Blue-winged and Golden-winged Warblers

In which I continue my series of posts potential lifers I might see in Virginia at the New River Bird and Nature Festival in April 2009. Much of the Flock will be staying the entire week of the festival; I will do only the second half of the week, arriving on Wednesday night in time for dinner, then birding Thursday through Sunday morning.

Thought I should combine these similarly named birds in one post, especially because the two often interbreed, resulting in the "'Brewster's and 'Lawrence's' warblers. Brewster's looks like a Blue-winged Warbler with a white chest, and Lawrence's looks like an all-yellow Golden-winged Warbler. Backcrosses of hybrids to pure parental types result in many intermediate-appearing birds." That's a lot of interbreeding; quotation courtesy of the Cornell site.

First off, let's look at the Blue-winged Warbler.Now that's a brightly colored bird! Despite this fact, the Cornell site says it's "often overlooked," perhaps because it hangs out in "shrubland and old fields." Boy, that pretty much describes Central PA; why haven't I seen one? Guess I've "overlooked" it.

The female is similarly bright:So purty.

This is, like most warblers, a tiny (4-5 inches) bird, with a yellow head and underparts, a black eye line, and gray-blue wings. Note the two white wingbars (on both male and female) as well. Black legs and feet, beak, and eye.


I love warbler beaks, especially the super-sharp ones like the BWWA's here. They look like they could fly right through you, their stabbing little beaks leading the way. Ouch!

Their call is described as a "bee-buzz." It seems to me that a lot of warblers have these high buzzy songs, you know? I guess it's a good thing they look so distinctive, especially in the spring. Of course, you'll get a mean case of Warbler Neck looking for them, given their size and activity level. However, Dave Pollard from the festival says there's a nesting pair of BWWAs outside the cabin in which most of the Flock will be staying, so this one should be a sure thing!

These birds eat insects and spiders. I am imagining this little guy coming across one of those dewdrop-covered spiderwebs in the early morning; he sticks that fine little tweezers-like bill out and snip! no more spider. My birding pal Gretchen would like that, given her fear of spiders.

According to the range maps, I really shouldn't be surprised to see one of these puppies, even in Pennsylvania, as their breeding range includes points north, south, east, and west of PA and WV. The same holds true for our next bird, the Golden-winged Warbler.
Pretty clear on the field marks here as well--a yellow/orange cap, a black (sometimes gray) mask surrounded by white outline, a gray body, yellow patches on the wings, and whitish underparts. The bill, eyes, and legs are black.

According to the Cornell site, the female looks similar to the male except that her mask is gray rather than black, and her wings will have either a smaller yellow patch or two bars rather than the patch. Interesting. It's not often that the female retains similar colors to the male, but hey--more power to her. Still, the USGS bird site shows her looking a little more gray-green than the gray-blue male:Kinda greeny, don't you think? A result of the yellow on gray. Note those nice white feathers on the tail edges too.

My birdJam shows that the GWWA's song is a "zee-bee-bee-bee." I have a feeling there's going to be a virtual din of zees and bees and buzzes all around us in the woods of West Va. We'll just have to keep our eyes sharp.

Speaking of eyes, I'm getting a little concerned about my vision. It seems like I can't see up close anymore without readers (and I might need more powerful ones soon), and I can't really see far away that well either. I know my eye doctor has told me that this is the result of my right eye's having a "slight" case of astigmatism, but not enough to correct for. The last few times I've gone, my contacts prescription has stayed the same, but I haven't gotten a new pair of glasses in probably six years. Maybe I should do that, just in case. It seems like I'm always having to blink and kind-of adjust my eyes a lot when distance-viewing (close-up viewing too), and they're sometimes kinda teary-feeling or even gummy-feeling (eeeww). I'd hate to miss out on a great bird or a great view because I just plain can't see it well enough. Hmmph.Another medical note: Niblet has developed some sort of lump (absess?) where his right ear used to be. The vet had always said it was healed over, but it seems like something is seeping out of there, and on Tuesday night, I noticed he had developed a sort of bollus under the skin there. I'm taking him to the doctor today, where I'm hoping they'll just say it's an absess, drain it, and give him a little shot of antibiotics. I just hope it's nothing serious. I'll keep you posted.

Bookish thoughts: "In Search of the IBWO"

Arthur Allen took this photo, probably in the 1930s

Or however you would abbreviate "ivory-billed woodpecker."

I finished reading Jerome A. Jackson's In Search of the Ivory-Billed Woodpecker, and to be honest even I'm a little surprised at how much I liked it. I never really read many of the stories about the searches for the bird (though I don't know why), except for Birdchick's accounts of her participation in a Cornell-sponsored search (I can't find the link now--but it was back in 2005-2006, which is actually when I started reading her blog, and the rest of my birding and bird-blogging is history!).

If you like to read about birds or history, this book will satisfy both your cravings; my only problem was the incredible sadness and frustration that gripped me throughout. Greedy logging companies, chopping wood for everything from sewing machine cabinets to our WWII efforts, pretty much caused this bird's extinction (if it really is extinct). I realize that species go extinct every day thanks to humans, but learning so much about so magnificent a bird, only to be denied the chance to ever to see one--well, it was really sad for me.

Still, the book was filled not only with details about ivory-billeds but also the birding history of the United States. I found out some fun facts like these:

--in one of the quoted passages, Audubon called mating season "the love season" (tee hee)

--red-bellied woodpeckers are attracted by the sound of a pocketknife tapping against a plastic hotel key tag; downys are attracted by the sound of a metal key tapped against a quarter cupped in the palm

--Audubon once saw five IBWOs feeding together; another guy (W.E.D. Scott) saw a flock of 11 in 1905!

--the largest woodpecker in the world is Mexico's Imperial Woodpecker, which shares a common ancestor with the IBWO

--there are only five sets of "probably authentic" IBWO eggs (kept in several museums). There are a little over 400 known IBWO specimens (stuffed) in existence today. Most were collected in Florida.

--Roger Tory Peterson had a stuffed IBWO specimen he got from someone; the specimen had been collected in 1881. RTP saw two female IBWOs on May 9, 1942; it would be the last time he'd see an IBWO.

--Arthur Allen, who founded the Cornell Lab of Ornithology, thrilled when he finally saw one, saying he'd found "that which they said could not be found." He started recording bird sounds with his grad students in 1929.

--James Tanner, who spent lots of time in the Singer Tract area of Louisiana (which is probably a mall by now) studying IBWOs, was the last to photograph one, and the only one to photograph one in color. He even has photos of young IBWOs on his arm and his shoulder. (I'm crying a little bit at this point)

--the last person to paint an IBWO from life was Donald Eckelberry, in April of 1944. When I went looking for an IBWO image for this post, I found this one by Julie Zickefoose, and I noticed she noted "not from life" there. It made me sad.

--fellow Flocker Julie Zickefoose helped Jerome Jackson (along with Christopher Cokinos) review some of the searches for IBWOs, "chronicling the difficulties and lure of the hunt for this bird" (here's the link to Cornell's site about IBWOs)

Some not-so-fun facts I learned:
--"Birds continued to be shot for collections long after it was realized that they were in danger of extinction." The "scientists" of the day didn't have a problem with collecting IBWO specimens for "scientific" purposes; they only begrudged the "commercial rather than scientific purposes."

--the Singer Tract, where IBWOs were seen into the 1940s, was not preserved until June 1980--pretty much after every damned tree had already been cut down. This seemed to be the case with most of the habitats; many were preserved long after it was way too late and all the trees attractive to IBWOs had already been cut down

--the author has searched far and wide in America and Cuba but, aside from possibly hearing some possible IBWO calls and finding some possibly promising habitat, he never saw one. He remains hopeful that there are some still alive, and he even recommends some good potential areas for future searches, but he warns, "Don't get your hopes up."

If you haven't read this book, read it. Read it and weep.

Strikeout Contest - 2nd place

Rejections hurt, but I am getting better at accepting them. A LOT better.

In 2008, I had 188 rejections. I'm pleased to announce that earned me 2nd Place in the Jack Fryrear/Babe Ruth Strikeout Contest for 2008 - sponsored by Barbara Fryrear, longtime member of the Trinity Writers' Workshop. The "winner", Sheryl Nelms, had 252 rejections.

The idea behind the contest is that while Babe Ruth was a Home Run King, he was also a Strikeout King. If you don't go up to bat at all, you'll never know what could happen - a swing or a miss. Thus, the more writing you submit to journals, etc, the more chances you have of being published. Indeed, I did have 23 acceptances last year, so I hit at a decent 10% success rate.

Quickest rejection - 1 hour. I consider that cold. I emailed a submission and was rejected in one lousy hour. At least let my words simmer for awhile and then fizzle out. There should be a 24 hour rule - don't slap someone down in one hour. Harsh, very harsh.

Longest time to rejection - 1 year. Yep, I received a letter of rejection, didn't remember the journal, looked back in my records, and it had been one year. Now that's a lot of fermentation. I like to think my piece was pushed out of the running by someone like Joyce Carol Oates.

Hard to understand rejections - I receive some nice notes that say the editor "enjoyed the humor and liked the piece" ( my hopes are up) but..............that's the kicker...........the but, "we aren't going to use your submission." (dashed to the ground) Sigh.

Publishing is a wacky business. I need to hit the right piece at the right time to the right person in the right frame of mind. Then it's a home run.

2009 - I've sent out eleven cherished pieces to find a home, and one has been rejected already. I'm coddling it, reworking it a bit, and shall send it on its way again soon.

Wish me luck.
J

Bad bunny!

Yes, he nibbled holes in my pants this morning, while I was in the shower. I always lay out, on my bed, the clothes I want to wear for the day. Nibble jumped on the pants and even though I saw him, I just didn't think he'd do anything. Which is ridiculous because he LOVES to nibble holes in my clothing.

The worst part? I didn't notice 'til I got to work how big the holes were.

Sixy meme

More memes to clutter up these days when it's too freakin' cold to go birding...

My musical pal Beth at Cup of Coffey tagged me with Six Random Things meme. So here we go. Don't feel obligated to comment, as many of these "random" things about me are probably pretty obvious if you read the bloggy. Also, I'm not bothering to tag anyone. But then--"I'm a loner, Dotty. A rebel."

The Rules
1. Link to the person who tagged you.
2. Post the rules on your blog.
3. Write six random things about yourself.
4. Tag six people at the end of your post and link to them.
5. Let each person know they’ve been tagged and leave a comment on their blog.
6. Let the tagger know when your entry is up.

1. Right now, thanks to Beth's #1 thing, I have Devo's "Whip It" going through my brain.

2. In college, I thought Boy George was just the purtiest thing in the world. Perhaps I should've known then that I was gay.

3. I have one of those plantar warts on the ball of my left foot. I tried that freezy stuff you can buy at the grocery store (I believe it was called --ahem-- Wartner) but it didn't work. It's not painful. Just kinda annoying.

4. One of my pet peeves: when people make "astigmatism" into a plural thing, like "I have an astigmatism in my right eye." No, you have astigmatism, a condition, in your right eye, annoying person! BTW, I have astigmatism in my right eye, but my eye doctor tells me it's too slight to bother correcting for. However, seeing as how I can't really see close-up anymore because my contacts are so strong and I can't really see faraway anymore (for some reason), I'm wondering if maybe that astigmatism isn't so slight after all. I just plain can't SEE anymore.

5. I'm very impatient, so you'll often hear me say, "I can't wait!" about anything and everything that isn't happening right this second.

6. My work pal Niki and I are taking tomorrow off to go shopping. Of course, we're both broke, so we're just going to a bunch of stores and looking around. Anything to NOT be at work, right? We always go to places like B&N, Bed Bath and BEYOND!, Pier 1, etc. Silly fantasy shopping and fun.

I tag whoever feels like doing a little revealing.

Slippery Silence

Frigid water and frozen logs with a sheath of ice. Tiny tendrils of ice drip tenaciously. Little fingers of glacial liquid, a calm scene captured by keen eyes. J.B.Harlin and his wife, Susan, are artists who trek our wild west, Zion, Moab, Canyonlands, and more to photograph nature in the finest black/white images possible. Patiently they ponder a scene, exact a detailed set-up, and execute flawlessly.

I'm privileged to call them friends, and I'm pleased to share their talents on this blog. See more at http://www.jbhphoto.com/ or click on the permanent link listed in the sidebar.

It's a cliche, but a picture is worth a thousand words. Revel in their artistry.

Thanks
Joanne

My Side Career as a Movie Critic

For three years now, I've been the movie critic for The Little Paper of San Saba. I do have an "in". Ray's Aunt Pat is the Patty Hearst of publishing in San Saba, Texas and she needs filler. Hey, writing is writing and being published in print is awesome. The circulation is a tad limited (feed stores and a diner), and there is no movie theater in San Saba. Why let that stop me?

My reviews are sporadic and they certainly don't cover a lot of genres. No teen romps, minimal Seth Rogen exposure, no slashers, and no Jim Carrey. I enjoy a lot of the independent films. Because I get to pick and choose, I obviously attend films that I'm fairly predisposed to like. Thus my reviews lean towards the positive.

I also prefer to pay four dollars ($4) at the Tinseltown Cinema in Grapevine, TX. For four bucks, one can be entertained and amused by trash. Perhaps my standards aren't incredibly high after all. If I say a movie is worth full price, then take notice and head to the theater. Full price AND popcorn (smuggle in your soda) means the flick is a doozy. Believe me, there aren't many of those around.

So, below is an example of one of my film critiques. This does not take days to write. I slapdash it off to Pat in an email and she's happy because she doesn't have dig up filler jokes.

Ray and I both enjoyed our Saturday matinee. Hope you get a kick out of the review, and go see this movie. Don't wait for DVD.

***********************

One curl of the lip and one growl. That's all it takes to know Clint Eastwood is in fine form in the movie Gran Torino. He directs it with a sleek touch and, as a star, he shines bright. We first meet him at the funeral of his wife. He's annoyed by his sons, annoyed by his grandkids (the teen girl is in a midriff, for pete's sake, and the boy's wearing a football jersey), and he's annoyed by the very youthful priest.

Further annoyance occurs back at his old house. It's in a "dying" neighborhood, now filled with an ethnic community and gangs run roughshod. Walt (Eastwood) fought in Korea and is perturbed by his Asian neighbors. Foul mouthed, Walt uses every derogatory word possible as he slouches through his days, drinking beer and obviously feeling rather lost without his wife. He's awakened one evening by a sound in his garage. He finds the neighbor Asian boy, Tao, trying to steal his prized possession - a 1972 Gran Torino. The boy's lucky Walt doesn't blast him with his M-1 rifle, and he manages to escape. In the next day or so, the local gang comes back to continue to recruit Tao, who tries to resist. The commotion brings Walt out front ready to shoot them all. The gang leaves and the neighbors are grateful to Walt for saving the boy's life. They bring him gifts and slowly weasel into his life.

Tao's sister, Susie, is a bright intelligent young girl and she's determined to win Walt over and teach him her people's (the Hmong) ways. She puts up with his guff and dishes it back. The family wants Tao to pay back his life debt, so the teen does chores for a week for Walt. The kid is smart and needs a man to show him how to fix things, how to stand up for himself, and how to gain some self confidence. In the meantime, the gang keeps poking and picking, and Walt fights back on his neighbors' behalf. Unfortunately the situation escalates out of control.

The interaction between Walt, his neighbors, his family, and the priest is all intertwined with the seedy neighborhood and gang wars. Walt's history and demeanor are a torch ready to be lit. As Walt grows to appreciate Tao and Susie and to actually care about their lives, he realizes how much he hasn't opened to his family or to much of life. He's lived with a sense of duty and a nagging guilt. The buildup of tension is palpable and silence filled the theater as we all braced ourselves for the detonation.

Gran Torino is a hard R with foul language and violence. However, it is an excellent film, filled with strong characters, humor, and a very current story line. Clint Eastwood is at the top of his game, at age 78, and should be nominated for an Oscar. This movie growls just like Walt and his sublime Gran Torino.

*****************************

I enjoy movies and my side career as a critic is a bonus.

Will write for popcorn!
J

2008 in review, list-wise

Got this idea from KatDoc.

2008 was a pretty mediocre birding year for me, in that I saw few lifers. But then, I only went to Cape May for a day, and we spent most of the time just giggling. The rest of the time, I saw a lot of birds but not many lifers.

My 2008 lifers, and where and when I saw 'em:

Out on the marsh behind my former home, I saw
Rusty Blackbird (March)
Prairie Warbler (May)
Warbling Vireo (May)

At the Coburn Rail Trail (where I think I'm gonna bird this weekend), I saw
Hooded Warbler (April)

On a trip to the Big Valley south of here, I saw
Pine Siskin (January)
Horned Lark (January)

On my way home through Penns Valley, I saw a
Ruffed Grouse (April)

In Cape May, I saw
KatDoc (October)
Lynne (October)
Yellow-crowned Night Heron (October)

In the big city of State College, I saw
Common/Northern Raven (December)

During atlasing runs, I saw
Louisiana Waterthrush (June) (forgot I'd seen this!)
Veery (June)
Hairy Woodpecker (June)
Black Vulture (June? July? can't remember, and I didn't write it down!)
House Wren (June)

While camping, I saw
Eastern Kingbird (July)

I think those are all the lifers I got last year. That's only 15. In 2007, I probably increased my lifelist by like 40 or more birds, especially after the first Cape May Flock Invasion.

2009 will prove to be a HUGE year for me, as I'll be trying to round up east-coast lifers by July and then moving to the west coast to get bunches of new lifers! It won't be long 'til I get my 200th bird. Who knows? Maybe I'll even hit 300 in 2009? That's a lot of lifers, though. We'll see what happens.

Listing nightmares

Eastern Towhee, Little Buffalo State Park, 2008

I was lying on the couch the other night, perusing my new Peterson's Western field guide, when I realized that--while I am going to get the chance to see a bunch of new birds once we move to California--there will also be a bunch of birds I will NOT get to see out west. NO FAIR!

Those of you who know anything about me can probably predict my response to this little realization:
1. Panic.
2. Make a list.
3. Repeat 1 and 2 as necessary.

So--I present my first list, Eastern birds I haven't seen so I better hurry up and see them either here or in Texas when I visit in February:
Common Redpoll
Bobolink
Snow Bunting
any kind of Longspur
Scarlet Tanager
Summer Tanager
any Waterthrush
Whippoorwill
Yellow-billed Cuckoo
Black-billed Cuckoo
Northern Bobwhite
Yellow-crowned Night Heron
Tricolored Heron
Little Blue Heron
Least Bittern
Dickcissel
Painted Bunting
Purple Gallinule

I'm sure there are more, but those are the ones I noticed as I flipped through the range maps in the back of my Peterson's. I sure do have my work cut out for me this spring!

Eastern Bluebird, Little Buffalo State Park, 2008

After repeating Step 1 a few more times, I made another list--Birds I have seen and/or take for granted over here but which I probably won't see in California:
American Tree Sparrow
Field Sparrow (but I love that call!)
Bluejay (no freaking bluejays!?)
Northern Cardinal (seriously--what is wrong with the West Coast?)
Ovenbird (I may pass out if I don't hear the "teacher teacher" call of an ovenbird in the spring)
Blackburnian Warbler (my favorite! But only rarely do these guys stray into Cali--but Varied Thrushes have that same fiery orange, so...)
Palm Warbler (the tail bobber!)
Black and White Warbler (I love them!)
Red-eyed Vireo (get outta town--literally. I'll have to go farther north than Rohnert Park to hear these guys)
Cedar Waxwing (again, a rarity)
WOOD THRUSH (reconsidering move altogether now, because you know this is my favorite birdsong)
Gray Catbird (wow)
Brown Thrasher
Eastern Bluebird (but the Mountain Bluebird might make up for it)
Carolina Wren (I'm sad)
Black-capped Chickadee (I'm more sad)
Eastern Wood Pewee (I love their call!)
Eastern Towhee
Slate-colored Junco (on my list of Cutest Birds, I'll really miss these)

Boy. You'd think I was moving 2,699.47 miles or something. Sometime after the New River festival in April, I'll really get into my Western guide and start highlighting some birds I'll make a point to seek out in California. Until then, I'll just try to soak up as much Wood Thrush and Catbird as I can.

P.S.--I have realized that my friends are already getting sick of my "When I move to California, I'm gonna..." pronouncements, so I started a new little bloggy so I'd have a place to pour all my most listy, anal-retentive, living in the future kinds of thoughts about the wonders of the Golden State. If you live or have lived in the San Francisco area, please visit and leave comments on more cool Cali stuff so I'll be sure to drive myself insane with impatience for the move!

hilton, paris and more

I received an email from my brother, David. I think he was so excited about my blog that he forgot to use a comma. He wanted to know why he should continue to read this blog if nothing was written about Paris Hilton.

I assume he wanted tales of my high school trip to France. Indeed, a week in Paris and London was divine. From the la Tour Eiffel to Montmartre to Versailles, I was enthralled. Drinking champagne at the Moulin Rouge (ooh-la-la) at age 17,no less, felt tres naughty. I fully intend to return some day, with Ray, to ride les bateaux past Notre Dame, and stroll the Left Bank. Drink wine at a cafe and eat fresh bread with REAL butter.

Indeed, as Rick said to Ilsa in "Casablanca", "We'll always have Paris." I certainly hope so.

Sticking closer to home, last January, Ray and I stayed at the Fort Worth Hilton and played tourist. That's a fabulous way to enjoy a weekend - see your local city through sight-seeing eyes. The Hilton was newly refurbished and quite lovely. It was the last place President John Kennedy and Jackie stayed prior to that fateful trip to Dallas.

Anyway, the concierge was helpful and loaded us with coupons and maps. We strolled Sundance Square, browsed through stores, admired western art at the Sid Richardson Museum, ate hors d'oevres at Reata, and BBQ later. Wandering the Ft.Worth Water Gardens is a treat - an oasis amidst the bustle of Cowtown.

Slept well at the Hilton and appreciated the Sunday brunch. If you can't manage to fly to Paris ( and no, I don't mean Paris TX), then head to Fort Worth for atmosphere and activities.

I hope this post satisfies David's request.

And because he appreciates poetry so much, constantly clamoring to read anything I'm able to get published, I shall finish with the piece below. It fits considering the crazy wind that has howled here for months.


No Escape


Scrap paper whooshes past me
clings to chain link fence
splatted flat, it wavers


frays

disintegrates


Joanne

Tuna Riff

I had far too much fun from October 2008 ( my birthday month) until the end of the year, and yes, until Sunday January 4th. Carb load extraordinaire. That came to a screeching halt Monday morning, January 5, 2009. Like Oprah and most of America, Ray and I began our diet. We aren't gnawing on our furniture yet, but it's a challenge. The extra hard part is that I didn't finish my pint of Haagen Dazs - white chocolate raspberry truffle - prior to Monday. It is calling my name from the freezer. But I digress.

An integral part of any diet is tuna fish. Here's a short essay I wrote last year about tuna. (It is possible to conjure up words on any subject) :
A can of tuna fish appears simple. A neat little tin, compact, and seemingly ageless, it lounges on the grocery store shelf and provides lunch for millions. Tuna packed in oil. Open the can and get rid of the gooey oil spill, mop up hands that smell like fish for days. Now, and this is progress, there are cans or bags of tuna in spring water, solid chunk, albacore, solid albacore, and some kind of gold medal albacore tuna. What? Did they play classical music for our little fish in their cushy watery environment?

Preparing tuna is a very personal experience, and frankly I cannot fathom ordering tuna sandwiches in public. Any tuna I see at a deli or restaurant looks awfully mushy for my taste. The key to tuna is a well-drained can. When the tuna plops out onto the plate it should not still be swimming in water or oil. With a fork, I fluff and stir it around on the plate. Then I open the Miracle Whip and whisk out a mere forkful. Not a glob, not a scoop, not more than one forkful of this white concoction gets mixed into my tuna. I am disappointed if I have somehow over measured and the tuna ends up gushy. I will eat it, but it will not satisfy. However, if the dry tuna is delicately touched by the whipped dressing, and spread upon toast or a cracker without seepage, then my tuna meal succeeds.

My husband has no boundaries when it comes to the Miracle Whip application. He splatters his tuna in a bowl after a quick drain, plunges his fork into the dressing, and dumps a huge glop onto the tuna. He then, oh the horror, mixes the tuna whipped fork into his sweet relish jar and introduces green flecks. Tuna itself has a weird consistency, but having extra mysterious crunchy items makes my mouth pucker. My mother chopped up celery, another useless vegetable, thus adding a crunchy wet green stringy item into her tuna. Fortunately, grown up and now in my married life, Ray and I respect our tuna privacy and do not proffer a community bowl.

A tuna discussion can be rewarding. Everyone has an opinion. Folks argue for mayonnaise over Miracle Whip. Others add apples or other fruits, along with walnuts or pecans to make a tuna salad. People serve tuna on crackers, bread, rolls, or on a bed of lettuce. They might top it with tomato or hard-boiled egg slices. For such an enduring staple of life, tuna preparation is an art form. I prefer to think of myself as a purist, dedicated to enjoying the flavor of tuna without extraneous factors mixed in, other than my single dollop of Whip!

Feel free to comment on your tuna creations. Also, what ice cream flavor is calling your name?

Joanne

Santa Gretchen

No sooner did I confess that I was a little distracted from birding and thus hadn't gone out anywhere, than I spent this past weekend out in nature and looking for birds! I didn't see anything too exciting--the hawk in the post below, an American Kestrel, some bluebirds, and a whole lot of Canadas, starlings, and crows--but Gretchen came back from her winter holiday bearing gifts for me! (I got her a camping mess kit, because we looooove camping and are planning to do a lot of it this spring.)

Gretchen said a new Half-Price Books, a chain I loved when I lived in Texas, opened in Pittsburgh, and here's what she found:

1. Why Birds Sing: One Man's Quest to Solve an Everyday Mystery, by David Rothenberg

2. In Search of the Ivory-Billed Woodpecker, by Jerome A. Jackson

I haven't started on either book just yet, as I'm finishing up another couple of books, but I'm so excited to start reading each book. Why Birds Sing was written by the guy who played his clarinet out in the Australian forests, and the IBW book is of course about the search for the Grail Bird. As I always do when confronted with an impossible choice of which book to read first, I'll go alphabetically. Grail Bird ho!

Not that kind of ho.

Words Rain Poetry

Here's a wacky assortment of poems for any January mood:

Note - somehow there were more snowfalls back in the day and nothing was better than a snow day!

Jenkins Lane Snow

nose against frosty windowpane
eyes squint at snow reflections
yesterday’s gray bitter blur
erased by blue skies
radio babbles school closings

yank on thermals, match gloves,
tuck slick blue pants into boots
bound outside
crisp air energizes
tang of chimney smoke
tink and thunk of shovels echo
snowplows hum a chorus

pack a snowball firm
crunchy Frankenstein footsteps
one ear pops from ski cap
re-adjust, grab rope, pull sled
toward muffled yells
kids in line
trudge to the hill

steep, daunting
swerve left or right
avoid creek
sled runners trace snow
packed tight underfoot

exhilaration, tears, exhaustion
only the hill wins.


Note - This one came after I proved to be very un-Wii fit. Had fun, but my scores were pitiful.

Wonder Which

teeter on Wii board
respond, react, rebound
results indicate
unbalanced

physical

or

mental?




Note - Always sad to hear of an unnecessary death:

Somber

Crooked ties and too tight shirts
pants pulled up and belted
no sag, no underwear shown
cowlicks slicked down
somber eyes blink back tears
no flash of braces, no goofy grins
hands stuffed in pockets
another's arms crossed
controlled movement

shoulders slumped
boys, young men
shuffled too large feet
past a casket
glimpsed life’s fleeting
moment

aware


January is a rather schizoid month. Especially here in Texas - go from 80 degrees to ice and 30s. We'll see what the rest of the month brings - weather and words.

Joanne

Super-cool super-hawk and more

The hawks around here are all aflutter these days, as it's apparently time for them to start courting potential mates. On Rt 220 between Bellefonte and State College, I've seen at least four or five redtails at any given time--some alone, some within spitting distance of others. I guess the hormones are firing up and it's time to check out the prospects!

Here's a raptor I saw on Friday:

Am I correct in thinking that this is a female red-tailed hawk? The tail doesn't seem too red in these photos, but it was redder in real life. I'm sure Susan or someone will correct me if I'm wrong. It seems like whenever I think I've got a hawk ID, it always ends up being a Cooper's Hawk. But this one definitely doesn't have the long Coop tail. So--redtail?

Other sightings as I drove around Bald Eagle State Park on Saturday:

It's so cool to see water seeping out of the hillsides and freezing into these beautiful scenes. Here's another: Saw some ducks and geese, but nothing new.

Finally, some scat Gretchen and I found on Sunday at Colyer Lake:

Click to embiggen, and note the fur and seeds. I'm guessing the fur is squirrel fir, as it was stiff and kinda wiry looking. But the seeds? Is this coyote or wolf poo?

humorous memoir

As an animal fearing woman, I write about my acclimation to an animal loving world and manage to stare down swans in Sweden and a guinea pig in my washroom. I do avert my eyes for the wombat in Australia.

“If All Dogs Go to Heaven, Then I’m in Trouble” is a humorous memoir of animal encounters with a twist. Among published animal tales, very few are skewed with a touch of fear and laughter on every page. Unlike books written by pet-loving authors, my twenty eight chapters introduce the reader to a variety of animals: a snapping Shetland pony, a bowling ball playing pit bull, and a terrified turtle that tolerates my distress.

Here's a chapter list:
If All Dogs Go to Heaven, Then I’m in Trouble

Mere Kibble Prologue
Goats, and Llamas, and Puppies, Oh My!
Mercy, Mercy Me
Farm Fresh Follies
Squawk Box
Pixie and Poodles
Pixie Weighs In
Stuffed in a Closet
Old Buttercup
Thunder Daze or I Miss Old Buttercup
Future Guard Dog for Hell: Roseanne
San Saba Snakes or Far From a Mall
Who Was That Masked Turtle?
Is That Chirping I Hear?
The Guinea Pig Surrenders
There’s a Pit Bull in My House
The Swedish Swan Incident
Don’t Stare Down the Wombat
The Workplace is Going to the Dogs
A Bunny Explosion
Animal Shenanigans Entertainment
Benji Loves Aunt Joanne
Dogged Pursuit
Bubba
Hey Stupid, the Baby’s Crying
Animal Humanitarian Efforts (You Never Have to Clean Up Poop)
I Can’t Count Sheep, They Could Attack
My Torturous Final Days on Earth

Do you want to read this book? I'm throwing it out to the publishing world. Surely, the world at large needs a laugh or two.

Last bird of 2008; first bird of 2009

I got a lifer as my last bird of 2008. I was leaving Target over in State College (the big city) when I noticed a HUGE bird on the ground, pecking at something. This bird was the size of a terrier, with a beak thicker than my thumb. I took pictures with my lame phone camera:

So this is a crummy picture taken on a dark cloudy day. Oh well. The cool thing was that there was just NO MISTAKING that this was a raven and not a crow. This guy was HUGE.

The first bird of 2009, fittingly enough, was a plain old American Crow. No photos, though.

Do you recall your last 2008 bird and/or your first bird of 2009?

words

Ripples on a pool, waves on the ocean, or a burbling, gurgling creek. Like water, words ebb and flow. Sometimes, they gush. Sometimes, they sputter. I hope, with this blog, to splash words on a page and see what happens.

Joanne