So far, the flock for the First Birder Blogging Conference at the Cape May, NJ, Autumn Weekend (October 26-27-28, 2007) includes:
Mary at Mary's View
Lynne at Hasty Brook
Laura at Somewhere in New Jersey
Susan at Susan Gets Native
Birdchick at Birdchick.com
and me!
This will be my second birding festival, and I'm totally pumped! Join us!
For more info, click here!
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
Thursday, July 26, 2007
The younger me was a weird kid
While randomly going through old files on my computer, I found a load of short (very short) stories that I wrote when I was about 15. They tickled me so much that I decided AGAINST writing the long complicated blog that I definitely would have written, and have instead decided to copy/paste some of these stories instead. Enjoy.
Dinner at La Madame
Frederick wiped his lips delicately with a napkin and glanced out of the window for the fifth time that evening.
“I’m going to help him,” he said resolutely, and took another sip of wine. (Chateu De Gauche ’49, an excellent year). Franz, sitting at the other side of the table, sighed and dipped a piece of bread into his stew.
“Fabian, stop being such a saint! Why bother? There are plenty of homeless people on the street. There’s lots of stew, old boy, just settle down and have another ladleful. Fabian! Another portion for Mr Hopkins here!”
The waiter sidled up and heaped another serving of stew onto Frederick’s plate. That was all that La Madame served; the stew. But what a stew it was! Although, at €1499 a pot, it was certainly pricy. Worth it, though. It was probably the only joint in Paris that served stew of this quality.
Frederick looked out the window again at the tramp sitting in the snow. Covered in newspapers, freezing, shivering, he was a pitiful sight. His heart bled for him.
“I’m sure that somebody should go and get him,” he murmured. “It doesn’t seem right to just leave him to die in the road. It’s… a waste.” He stood up, smoothed his designer trousers, put on his designer hat, picked up his designer cane, and slipped into his designer jacket. “I’m going to get him, bring him in.” He picked up a glass of wine as he got up. And some bread.
“Don’t bother!” sighed Franz whistfully, although he knew it was a lost cause. Frederick was always picking people up from the street; bums, the unemployed, lost children, and taking them home for dinner. It was probably why he enjoyed La Madame so much; it catered only for the rich, the charitable, those who could afford to look after the poor for a few months, feed them, put some meat on their bones. Very exclusive.
Frederick pushed open the heavy iron door of the restaurant, to the amusement of the other two diners, and wandered out into the dark, freezing, abandoned street. Franz watched idly, chewing on a lump of meat, as he crossed the road over to where the man was lying. He reached him, talked to him, gave him some wine. The bread. A little money. A cigarette. A crack on the head with his cane.
The tramp slumped over without a fight. There was a little applause from the diners, and waiter sprinted across the road to help Frederick carry him back into the restaurant. Carefully, like you would with a big piece of meat.
“Phew! A bit smelly, isn’t it?” said Franz jokingly.
“It will be deliceuse with a petite vin rouge, Monsieur!” called the waiter as they carried him into the kitchen.
A few seconds later, Frederick re-appeared, wiping his hands with a napkin.
“Well, that’s dinner for tomorrow sorted, then,” he said, and ate another forkful of stew.
The End
Over the years I must have written about 4 stories about cannibalistic restaurants. They always amuse me.
The Rat
“Honey, I’m home!” called George in his 1950’s American sitcommy way. Silence. The house was dark. Empty. Frowning, he put down his briefcase, hung up his hat, and strolled down the hall.
“Honey?”
Silence.
“Where’s my dinner?” George was a modern man; he allowed his wife independence, just so long as his steak was on the table when he got home. He sauntered past the thick wooden pantry door, and into the kitchen. If Mary were anywhere, she’d be in here.
She was. And she was crying; her mascara was running down her face. She ran to him with a cry.
“Oh, George!” He put his manly arms around her and sniffed.
“Honey, what’s wrong? I don’t smell anything cooking. What’s for dinner?”
“George!”
“What?”
“I can’t… I can’t get into the pantry. I locked it in there.”
“What?”
“The RAT! There was a rat! It was huge!”
George laughed in his manly way. Women! Can’t live with ‘em, can’t eat without ‘em.
“Deary me. A rat, eh?”
“A huge one!” Mary burst into tears. “I came back from the market, and it was in the pantry! I saw it and I locked the door before it could escape. Now I’m too scared to go in.”
“Why? It’s just a little rat.” He disentangled himself and walked over to the pantry door. He reached for the handle. Mary threw herself in front of him.
“No! George! It wasn’t a little rat! It was huge! I swear it nearly battered down the door! It’ll kill you!” She screamed hysterically.
George slapped her. She stopped.
“Don’t be stupid, woman. It’s a rat. I’m bigger than any rat, and I’m hungry. So I’m going to go in there and kill it.”
He thought for a moment.
“Fetch my gun.”
Meekly, Mary obeyed. George stroked the barrel lovingly.
"Now, don’t be afraid if you hear any loud noises. It will probably be the gun going off. I’m going to shoot that mean old rat and you can make me my dinner. Alright?”
“Yes, George. Be careful. It’s huge!”
“Mary, don’t be silly. Go upstairs and darn my socks, or something. The nightmare will be over soon.”
“It’s huge!”
“Mary.”
She obediently went. Right, now for the rat.
Bravely, he kicked open the door and ran in, waving his weapon. The door swung shut behind him. The rat was sitting on a stool, eating a potato. Mary had been right. It was HUGE! In fact, it was nine feet tall, looked to weigh about fifteen stone, heavily muscular, wearing an eye patch, and smoking a cigar. It fixed George with its one beady eye and growled menacingly.
Panting with fear, George raised his gun. He fumbled with the safety catch. The rat slowly reached forward and plucked it out of his hand with one scabrous paw. George squealed and ran for the door.
Mary heard the gunshot. She smiled. George was so brave! How silly she was, being scared of a rat! Although, it HAD been rather big…
The End
Beats me.
The Park
The paeophile and the child stared at the corpse of the mother. She was as dead as a doorbell – but you couldn’t tell. She could have been sleeping. The child looked at the corpse with emotionless eyes. The paedophile at the child and licked his lips. It was a good job he didn’t know what had just happened; the truth would have scared him off.
“So,” whispered the paedophile, “That your mummy?”
The child stared at him. Nothing. The paedophile coughed out a lump of brown phlegm and withdrew a bag from his anorak pocket.
“D’ya want some sweeties? I’ve more sweeties in my car if you wanna follow me.” He was anxious to get out of here. His mind flashed to the newspaper headlines. CANNIBAL MURDERS IN LONDON – MADMAN ON THE LOOSE. With all those grisly child murders in the area, the police were extra vigilant. Wouldn’t do to have a copper wandering past and looking too carefully at what was going on. The park was abandoned (nobody went out with kids with a cannibal-murderer on the loose), but you never knew.
The child took a sweet and popped it into his mouth. Chewed. Spat it out and tugged slowly at the corpse on the bench. Hurredly, the paedophile pulled his hand away, enclosed it in his own.
“Heh-heh,” he muttered in his paedophilic way, “Let’s not… wake… mummy, shall we? Let’s go for a walk.”
The child looked at the mother on the bench longingly, but was pulled away.
“Lets go to my car. I have nice sweets there.”
The child followed silently, unwillingly. He hadn’t seen (he was in the playground at the time) the sudden, brutal attack. The woman hadn’t had time to scream, to call for help, to warn. Nobody had seen what’d happened. Well, he had to forfill his urges, didn't he? The paedophile scratched at his acne-covered skin and glanced around. Why was he so nervous this time? This kid wasn’t the first and probably wouldn’t be the last. Anyway, he’d already gone way too far, he couldn’t go back. The mother wasn’t gonna be getting up from that bench any time soon. Still, leaving her there… seemed a little risky.
A newspaper blew past. He just caught the headline out the corner of his eye and shivered. He looked around again (STILL NO POLICE!), and led the child to his car, a maroon piece of rust that was filled with candy-wrappers and toy teletubbies.
“Here we are. What’s your name?” he said lustfully, drooling at the touch of the boy’s soft skin, his beautiful hair. The child looked up at him and grinned, revealing a mouth of razor sharp teeth. Suddenly, he didn’t look quite so attractive.
“That is not important, Earthman,” boomed the child in a baritone drawl, and bit off his face.
The End.
HAHAHAHAHA. That is called 'misdirection'.
I amuse myself far more than is appropriate.
Dinner at La Madame
Frederick wiped his lips delicately with a napkin and glanced out of the window for the fifth time that evening.
“I’m going to help him,” he said resolutely, and took another sip of wine. (Chateu De Gauche ’49, an excellent year). Franz, sitting at the other side of the table, sighed and dipped a piece of bread into his stew.
“Fabian, stop being such a saint! Why bother? There are plenty of homeless people on the street. There’s lots of stew, old boy, just settle down and have another ladleful. Fabian! Another portion for Mr Hopkins here!”
The waiter sidled up and heaped another serving of stew onto Frederick’s plate. That was all that La Madame served; the stew. But what a stew it was! Although, at €1499 a pot, it was certainly pricy. Worth it, though. It was probably the only joint in Paris that served stew of this quality.
Frederick looked out the window again at the tramp sitting in the snow. Covered in newspapers, freezing, shivering, he was a pitiful sight. His heart bled for him.
“I’m sure that somebody should go and get him,” he murmured. “It doesn’t seem right to just leave him to die in the road. It’s… a waste.” He stood up, smoothed his designer trousers, put on his designer hat, picked up his designer cane, and slipped into his designer jacket. “I’m going to get him, bring him in.” He picked up a glass of wine as he got up. And some bread.
“Don’t bother!” sighed Franz whistfully, although he knew it was a lost cause. Frederick was always picking people up from the street; bums, the unemployed, lost children, and taking them home for dinner. It was probably why he enjoyed La Madame so much; it catered only for the rich, the charitable, those who could afford to look after the poor for a few months, feed them, put some meat on their bones. Very exclusive.
Frederick pushed open the heavy iron door of the restaurant, to the amusement of the other two diners, and wandered out into the dark, freezing, abandoned street. Franz watched idly, chewing on a lump of meat, as he crossed the road over to where the man was lying. He reached him, talked to him, gave him some wine. The bread. A little money. A cigarette. A crack on the head with his cane.
The tramp slumped over without a fight. There was a little applause from the diners, and waiter sprinted across the road to help Frederick carry him back into the restaurant. Carefully, like you would with a big piece of meat.
“Phew! A bit smelly, isn’t it?” said Franz jokingly.
“It will be deliceuse with a petite vin rouge, Monsieur!” called the waiter as they carried him into the kitchen.
A few seconds later, Frederick re-appeared, wiping his hands with a napkin.
“Well, that’s dinner for tomorrow sorted, then,” he said, and ate another forkful of stew.
The End
Over the years I must have written about 4 stories about cannibalistic restaurants. They always amuse me.
The Rat
“Honey, I’m home!” called George in his 1950’s American sitcommy way. Silence. The house was dark. Empty. Frowning, he put down his briefcase, hung up his hat, and strolled down the hall.
“Honey?”
Silence.
“Where’s my dinner?” George was a modern man; he allowed his wife independence, just so long as his steak was on the table when he got home. He sauntered past the thick wooden pantry door, and into the kitchen. If Mary were anywhere, she’d be in here.
She was. And she was crying; her mascara was running down her face. She ran to him with a cry.
“Oh, George!” He put his manly arms around her and sniffed.
“Honey, what’s wrong? I don’t smell anything cooking. What’s for dinner?”
“George!”
“What?”
“I can’t… I can’t get into the pantry. I locked it in there.”
“What?”
“The RAT! There was a rat! It was huge!”
George laughed in his manly way. Women! Can’t live with ‘em, can’t eat without ‘em.
“Deary me. A rat, eh?”
“A huge one!” Mary burst into tears. “I came back from the market, and it was in the pantry! I saw it and I locked the door before it could escape. Now I’m too scared to go in.”
“Why? It’s just a little rat.” He disentangled himself and walked over to the pantry door. He reached for the handle. Mary threw herself in front of him.
“No! George! It wasn’t a little rat! It was huge! I swear it nearly battered down the door! It’ll kill you!” She screamed hysterically.
George slapped her. She stopped.
“Don’t be stupid, woman. It’s a rat. I’m bigger than any rat, and I’m hungry. So I’m going to go in there and kill it.”
He thought for a moment.
“Fetch my gun.”
Meekly, Mary obeyed. George stroked the barrel lovingly.
"Now, don’t be afraid if you hear any loud noises. It will probably be the gun going off. I’m going to shoot that mean old rat and you can make me my dinner. Alright?”
“Yes, George. Be careful. It’s huge!”
“Mary, don’t be silly. Go upstairs and darn my socks, or something. The nightmare will be over soon.”
“It’s huge!”
“Mary.”
She obediently went. Right, now for the rat.
Bravely, he kicked open the door and ran in, waving his weapon. The door swung shut behind him. The rat was sitting on a stool, eating a potato. Mary had been right. It was HUGE! In fact, it was nine feet tall, looked to weigh about fifteen stone, heavily muscular, wearing an eye patch, and smoking a cigar. It fixed George with its one beady eye and growled menacingly.
Panting with fear, George raised his gun. He fumbled with the safety catch. The rat slowly reached forward and plucked it out of his hand with one scabrous paw. George squealed and ran for the door.
Mary heard the gunshot. She smiled. George was so brave! How silly she was, being scared of a rat! Although, it HAD been rather big…
The End
Beats me.
The Park
The paeophile and the child stared at the corpse of the mother. She was as dead as a doorbell – but you couldn’t tell. She could have been sleeping. The child looked at the corpse with emotionless eyes. The paedophile at the child and licked his lips. It was a good job he didn’t know what had just happened; the truth would have scared him off.
“So,” whispered the paedophile, “That your mummy?”
The child stared at him. Nothing. The paedophile coughed out a lump of brown phlegm and withdrew a bag from his anorak pocket.
“D’ya want some sweeties? I’ve more sweeties in my car if you wanna follow me.” He was anxious to get out of here. His mind flashed to the newspaper headlines. CANNIBAL MURDERS IN LONDON – MADMAN ON THE LOOSE. With all those grisly child murders in the area, the police were extra vigilant. Wouldn’t do to have a copper wandering past and looking too carefully at what was going on. The park was abandoned (nobody went out with kids with a cannibal-murderer on the loose), but you never knew.
The child took a sweet and popped it into his mouth. Chewed. Spat it out and tugged slowly at the corpse on the bench. Hurredly, the paedophile pulled his hand away, enclosed it in his own.
“Heh-heh,” he muttered in his paedophilic way, “Let’s not… wake… mummy, shall we? Let’s go for a walk.”
The child looked at the mother on the bench longingly, but was pulled away.
“Lets go to my car. I have nice sweets there.”
The child followed silently, unwillingly. He hadn’t seen (he was in the playground at the time) the sudden, brutal attack. The woman hadn’t had time to scream, to call for help, to warn. Nobody had seen what’d happened. Well, he had to forfill his urges, didn't he? The paedophile scratched at his acne-covered skin and glanced around. Why was he so nervous this time? This kid wasn’t the first and probably wouldn’t be the last. Anyway, he’d already gone way too far, he couldn’t go back. The mother wasn’t gonna be getting up from that bench any time soon. Still, leaving her there… seemed a little risky.
A newspaper blew past. He just caught the headline out the corner of his eye and shivered. He looked around again (STILL NO POLICE!), and led the child to his car, a maroon piece of rust that was filled with candy-wrappers and toy teletubbies.
“Here we are. What’s your name?” he said lustfully, drooling at the touch of the boy’s soft skin, his beautiful hair. The child looked up at him and grinned, revealing a mouth of razor sharp teeth. Suddenly, he didn’t look quite so attractive.
“That is not important, Earthman,” boomed the child in a baritone drawl, and bit off his face.
The End.
HAHAHAHAHA. That is called 'misdirection'.
I amuse myself far more than is appropriate.
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
Still alive and kicking
It seems like weeks since I posted on my blog, but the absence wasn't intentional. I've just been really busy with the new job and some house projects. I've also been enjoying our relatively mild summer, drinking in the early morning fogs and the bright sunny days. Here are two pics I took of the marsh one recent morning:
9:03 am
9:24 am
The biggest changes have involved our home office situations. Kat's office is now in the crazy uncle house, and mine is now upstairs in what used to be her office. If you remember the crazy uncle house, which was once a chicken coop then was converted (by previous owners) into a two-room "cottage" (imagine putting up drywall in a barn, adding some plywood for subfloor, then covering that subfloor with linoleum from circa 1963). We'd worked on beautifying the outside, and now we've started on the inside. Here's a Before:
That's Em's friend Sarah, wondering what the hell we're thinking, converting this glorious space (painting by Em, stamp-painting by Em and Sarah) into a staid old office. I would show you the After but it's still in progress. I'll only say that you will not believe it! Give me another week or so; Kat and I are working as fast as we can!
This afternoon I looked at the garden and thought, "they've got to see this jungle!" So here are some photos of what the veggie garden looks like now. I won't bore you with the usual pics of little green peppers or yellow baby squash; instead, I'll show you how a little neglect can--er--pile up:
The morning glories and moonflowers, which we planted in the hopes that they'd act as a fence cover, have completely taken over! I don't even know if you can open the gate anymore; it was pretty tough last week, and I've watered since then, so I'm guessing I might need a machete.
A lettuce tree, about four feet tall.
The giant sunflowers. I'm taking this from my eye level; I'm about 5'1". Giant is right!
Somewhere up there in the upper atmosphere, I believe we're getting some flowers! I could hire out a helicopter and do a flyover to make sure, or I could just use the zoom:
I think Em is afraid to even go out there. I saw a zucchini the size of a man's leg out there earlier.
Meanwhile, the tomatoes are doing well, though I'm anxious to eat some of the other varieties besides 'Early Cascade' and the 'Sweet Million' cherry toms. The 'Cascade' are rather small, though they do indeed grow in cascading bunches; their flavor is decent, but I wouldn't choose them again. The 'Beefsteak' and 'First Lady' have a lot of medium to large green fruits on them, and those are the ones I'm dying to sink my teeth into. If I had to live with only one veggie for the rest of my life, I'm sure I'd pick tomatoes--right off the vine.
Photo contest! Can anyone guess what plant this is?
Your hint is that I planted it last year; it's a leftover now. The prize will be the satisfaction of knowing you guessed right.
Birding-wise, not much has happened lately other than the usual yardbirds and stuff. Now that the atlas safe dates are mostly past, Roana and I aren't going birding anymore, and I've been working so hard on the house that I've just been too tired to go out in the evenings, much less super-early on the weekends. Still, I've enjoyed seeing the babies growing up around here, testing their wings and their independence. I'm now starting to anticipate the fall migration and winter's bounty of feeder birds, though I'll admit I'm not quite ready to shovel snow yet....
I had a mama robin who had laid an egg in what might've been a second brood, but the egg--and Mama--disappeared. I hate it when that happens. She had woven some rather long cord into her nest; I'd chopped some smaller pieces for her, but she took the small ones and the long ones:
I began to suspect that her egg had been taken, though, when she didn't come back for a couple of days. Sure enough:
Such a nice sturdy nest, and nothing to show for it. It's not like robins are endangered or anything, but I felt sad for Mama Robin. You know I don't deal well with that whole "circle of life" thing.
9:03 am
9:24 am
The biggest changes have involved our home office situations. Kat's office is now in the crazy uncle house, and mine is now upstairs in what used to be her office. If you remember the crazy uncle house, which was once a chicken coop then was converted (by previous owners) into a two-room "cottage" (imagine putting up drywall in a barn, adding some plywood for subfloor, then covering that subfloor with linoleum from circa 1963). We'd worked on beautifying the outside, and now we've started on the inside. Here's a Before:
That's Em's friend Sarah, wondering what the hell we're thinking, converting this glorious space (painting by Em, stamp-painting by Em and Sarah) into a staid old office. I would show you the After but it's still in progress. I'll only say that you will not believe it! Give me another week or so; Kat and I are working as fast as we can!
This afternoon I looked at the garden and thought, "they've got to see this jungle!" So here are some photos of what the veggie garden looks like now. I won't bore you with the usual pics of little green peppers or yellow baby squash; instead, I'll show you how a little neglect can--er--pile up:
The morning glories and moonflowers, which we planted in the hopes that they'd act as a fence cover, have completely taken over! I don't even know if you can open the gate anymore; it was pretty tough last week, and I've watered since then, so I'm guessing I might need a machete.
A lettuce tree, about four feet tall.
The giant sunflowers. I'm taking this from my eye level; I'm about 5'1". Giant is right!
Somewhere up there in the upper atmosphere, I believe we're getting some flowers! I could hire out a helicopter and do a flyover to make sure, or I could just use the zoom:
I think Em is afraid to even go out there. I saw a zucchini the size of a man's leg out there earlier.
Meanwhile, the tomatoes are doing well, though I'm anxious to eat some of the other varieties besides 'Early Cascade' and the 'Sweet Million' cherry toms. The 'Cascade' are rather small, though they do indeed grow in cascading bunches; their flavor is decent, but I wouldn't choose them again. The 'Beefsteak' and 'First Lady' have a lot of medium to large green fruits on them, and those are the ones I'm dying to sink my teeth into. If I had to live with only one veggie for the rest of my life, I'm sure I'd pick tomatoes--right off the vine.
Photo contest! Can anyone guess what plant this is?
Your hint is that I planted it last year; it's a leftover now. The prize will be the satisfaction of knowing you guessed right.
Birding-wise, not much has happened lately other than the usual yardbirds and stuff. Now that the atlas safe dates are mostly past, Roana and I aren't going birding anymore, and I've been working so hard on the house that I've just been too tired to go out in the evenings, much less super-early on the weekends. Still, I've enjoyed seeing the babies growing up around here, testing their wings and their independence. I'm now starting to anticipate the fall migration and winter's bounty of feeder birds, though I'll admit I'm not quite ready to shovel snow yet....
I had a mama robin who had laid an egg in what might've been a second brood, but the egg--and Mama--disappeared. I hate it when that happens. She had woven some rather long cord into her nest; I'd chopped some smaller pieces for her, but she took the small ones and the long ones:
I began to suspect that her egg had been taken, though, when she didn't come back for a couple of days. Sure enough:
Such a nice sturdy nest, and nothing to show for it. It's not like robins are endangered or anything, but I felt sad for Mama Robin. You know I don't deal well with that whole "circle of life" thing.
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