Shocked

And here I didn't think I could be shocked anymore.

Here's what I learned in the past 24 hours:

1. South Carolina is like its own country. One where you CAN arrest people in secret.

2. It's OK to keep doing something wrong, because it's always been done like that.

3. There is a very, very large spider living just outside my back door. VERY large.

4. Joel, who introduced me to The X-Files, has not gone to see the movie yet.

Dear Joel: Yes, you should go see it. It's like a decent stand-alone episode, no aliens or alien conspiracies, and it's great to see Mulder and Scully again, though Mulder's snarky little twinkle seems to have been replaced by a very serious tone. Of course, some of that might have to do with his and Scully's baby, whose absence is never fully explained. All in all, there are some flaws in the script, but it's still fun to see them again and worth watching. Don't take the kids though.

Your friend,
Ms. Ebert.

Roo'd Behavior

I know this isn't really funny, and I'm sure this zoo worker was pretty bruised, but this kangaroo served her. It makes me wonder what memories were triggered when Kanga saw her come into the pen with that shiny shovel.

Yikes. This video put some people off kangaroos, but I am not scared. Just don't withhold their snacks.

And no, the photo isn't from the video. It's just a picture I found.

The Bear of Friday

I had to pick something extra cute to banish the image of Heath Ledger's ultra-scary Joker from my head, so I chose Paddington having a little san.

Holy cats. X-Files: good; Dark Knight: great. Popcorn: not so much. Made my stomach hurt. Or it might have been the Joker. Waaaaay freakier than any other. But I still miss Michael Keaton as Batman.

Double-header

Tomorrow is my day off and I have a movie double-header planned. The Dark Knight and The X-Files. Part of me wants to say "hell yeah!" around a mouthful of popcorn, while another part of me is thinking about how I'm going to get my laundry done and clothes ironed and house cleaned up and still get my rest in this weekend.

God damn, getting older is boring.

But it has been a long, long time since I've done a double-header -- since back when Ms. Schnakenberg and I lived in Little Rock and both worked second jobs so we could pay for our day-off nonfat-frozen-yogurt-lunch-then-movie-dinner-cocktails indulgences. Well, we also used that second income to pay for shoes, too, my favorite pair of which might still be under a hotel bed in Rochester, Minn., where I left them when I was driving from Chicago to Seattle.

See? You start getting old and your mind wanders, too.

Hurricanes and sleep

It turned out to be more of a storm, really, when Bertha passed by over the weekend. We got some good rain, nice dark clouds, but it wasn't really more than breezy.

But hurricane season has started. I'm not trying to sound gleeful about it, either. Maybe I'm just a little snarky from listening to a manager explain what a news story is to someone who thinks they are a seasoned news veteran. That does make me a little gleeful.

Ahhh, cubby reporters. A little like hurricanes themselves. Sometimes they turn out to be whoppers and sometimes, well, they just blow a little rain and fizzle out.

I have to be at a meeting at 8:30 a.m., and am already planning my early morning Starbucks assault. Lately, sleep is not my friend. I either can't go to sleep or can't stay asleep, and by the time I realize it's going to be a problem, it's too late to take a sleeping pill that will knock my ass out for eight or more hours.

Or I get a really good night's sleep, but it's not enough. I wake up at 7 and think I can sleep for another half hour, then end up waking up at 8:15 and having to take a record-breaking fast shower and rush out the door. Plus, that last hour and 15 is like the best sleep I get all night -- I find the sweet spot in my bed, everything is at the right temperature, my pillows are comfy and I actually dream.

I'd really like to sleep a normal eight, get up with time for coffee and breakfast and not have to multitask in the shower or forgo shaving my legs to make it to work on time. On weekends, when I tell myself I'm going to sleep in, I don't. I'm up at 7 and feeling very productive. It's only a problem on work days.

Anyone have any good ideas/advice that don't involve an Ambien addiction?

Bears of Friday

Here's a picture Joel sent me of his children, Finn (on the right) and Harper, checking out zoo bears. I'm assuming this was taken somewhere in Wis. Maybe near the Wis. Dells?

Anyway, it's cute! Thanks, Mole!

It's shaping up to be a stormy weekend, with a storm called Bertha hanging around the Georgia Coast. Kind of wish I was going to be in Savannah this weekend...

Getting Lucky

Thanks to Kev for the news story about Lucky the koala, who miraculously survived being hit by a car going about 60 mph and dragged seven miles.

Lucky hung on with one arm and because his head was stuck in the car's grille, and had to be freed, jaws-of-life-style, with a pair of household scissors.

He's doing fine, the story says, now that he's had a little rest and some food, but is staying at a vet hospital founded by Steve Irwin. He'll be there for 45 days to recuperate from his car trauma and -- yes -- chlamydia.

A) Who knew koalas could get chlamydia?
B) The story made me wonder what would happen if I could adopt Lucky. My roommate's temporary dog, Frank The Temp, who's still "hanging" (nudge, nudge, wink, wink) and is noticeably lacking in conjugal visits would see that bear as fair game and force Lucky to be his date. Then we'd have a flea-ridden chlamydia factory in the house.

Probably it's a good thing I can't get Lucky.

This is amazing

I don't know what you believe about innate talent, but this video clip of a little girl who can play any song on the piano after only one hearing is pretty amazing.

It would be interesting enough considering she's blind, but consider that she's never had a lesson and she's only 5 years old. Then it becomes outrageous. Five. Imagine how great she will be when she's had lessons and her hands are big enough to reach further.

I guess it's a good thing not everyone can do something like this, or there would be no reason to be awed.

The Many Bears of Friday

It's pandamonium. Get it? It's my sixth day of work this week and the 720,000th story I've written about the May motorcycle rallies. I got nothin' else. Happy Friday!

What is it?

Have I ever mentioned how much I love Anthony Bourdain? Not long ago, I finished "Kitchen Confidential," brilliant, and "A Cook's Tour," just in case I ever get my own TV show.

A couple nights ago, Bourdain's "No Reservations" episode was filmed in Vietnam and in it, one of the Vietnamese Central Committee members takes Bourdain into previously forbidden hills to tour the countryside.

They stop along the way and the committee member convinces a local restaurauteur to open her shop and feed them. She agrees, but what she is serving is some kind of woodland creature for which no one seems to know the American word.

The committee member, who speaks very good English, says the cook will be preparing "squeasel."

It is weasel? Weasel that's been squeezed to death by a boa constrictor? I dunno, but I can't wait to find out.

Bourdain wants to know, too, and he's willing to eat it, even after he sees the cook chopping it up and cannot identify it by sight. It looks nothing like any kind of meat you, I or Bourdain have/has ever seen.

It looks disgusting.

Raw meat isn't one of the world's prettiest things, anyway. Probably why Michelangelo never sculpted it, DaVinci never painted it and Dante never wrote poetry about it. It's just meat.

But squeasel? That's a whole different kind of ugly. Even cooked, it looks nast.

Long story sort of short, it turns out squeasel is porcupine.

But from here on out, "squeasel" is going to be the word for anything that cannot be immediately identified and looks suspect.

It's my new favorite word.

Uh-oh... cuter overload

Pete sent me baby ferrets in a glass. Look at their little feet. I want them! The ferrets, not the feet. Too bad they grow up to be smelly, musky little weasels. Sweet, but still stink-o-rama.

Plus, I found this yawning baby lemur.


And this pile of pandas.

And these red panda babies.

For your happy Monday enjoyment or, you know, cuteness overload.

The sacred and the propane

I love malaprops. In a police report today, an officer "expounded" to the scene. Brilliant. I wonder how the scene reacted. Perhaps a standing ovation?

The Tardy Bear of Friday

This little guy looks like he needs a cuddle. Perhaps the sound of fireworks frightened him. Hope everyone is having/had a great Fourth of July. Reading David McCullough's biography of John Adams made me enjoy the MB fireworks a little more than I usually do, which is already a lot.

Now it's too quiet

There have been stories lately about the MB bike rallies, none written by me (at least not this week), which means -- to my great relief -- that I do not get 10,000 phone calls a day, plus 10,000 more voicemail messages, many of which contain racial slurs and maniacally ridiculous leaps of illogic.

But no one is calling me today except my city spokesman. I've taken to picking up the newsroom's main line whenever it rings more than twice, just so I can hear voices that aren't in my head.

But people are so rude sometimes.

Caller: "Steve there?"

Me: "What's Steve's last name?" In my head I'm wondering if this guy realizes there are hundreds of people in this building, and Steve is a pretty common name.

Caller: "Steve." Like maybe if he says it with more emphasis, it will reach my clearly feeble brain.

Me: "Do you know which department he's in?"

Caller: "Nah. Maybe news."

Huh. OK.

Not that I miss the crazies.

Well, maybe just a little...

By the way, that is a picture of a velvet-covered -- yes, velvet -- princess phone, with a rotary dial, for those of you who do not remember what one looked like. They didn't have ringtones. If you don't know what a rotary dial is, you're too young to be reading this blog. Go away.