#poor turkey buzzards

[lanfykins]

Me: I’ll just have a quick look at the Library of Congress newspaper archives to see if there are any useful articles I can blatantly plagiarise for my fic.

Me, ten minutes later: There was a guy in New Orleans doing WHAT to Turkey Buzzards?!?

[rotationalsymmetry]

Animorphs book 3 part 1: Fly Like A Red-Tailed Hawk

To the sea

Since I have accomplished the daunting task of putting food into my body, and my partner is occupied with reading what I've already posted, you get more Animorphs-posting.

Reading Animorphs 3… on my laptop, here goes.

Laptop screens are just not conducive to reading actual books.

They really do start every book with “I can’t tell you my last name”, don’t they.

Hang on, going to check book 2, Tobias seems just as ridiculously overwhelmed as Jake, in the opening section, I want to see if Rachel did too.

Yeah, Rachel has much more of a “this is intense and fucked up but also kind of cool and I can handle it” vibe, whereas Jake and Tobias have more of a “I want to hide under my bed, why can’t an actual grown-up take care of this” vibe. (This isn’t dissing Tobias or Jake, that’s a pretty appropriate reaction to realizing you and your four teenage friends are all that are stopping the complete enslavement of humanity, and also your family will get tortured if you’re caught. On that note, can’t wait to see Marco’s reaction to all this.)

By the way, I am headcanoning that Tobias stayed in hawk morph on purpose and didn’t even try to morph back before the two hour mark. That doesn’t make it even slightly less fucked up of course, arguably it makes it more fucked up.

Heh. Sure, the world is endangered from the Yeerks, but we’re going to get sidetracked by rescuing a single hawk because we’re people and that’s how people are.

I wonder if swapping a human life for a different species is closer morally/conceptually speaking to suicide or just, like, moving. Starting over.

Saving the world and getting around on the bus.

Freeeeeee the hawwwwwwwks



What is “the encounter”, and do we get Ax in this book?

I still haven’t figured out who "the visitor" was in the last book. Rachel was visiting Melissa? Jake was “visiting” Rachel by being a flee? Innis Whatever was “visiting” Chapman’s head? Who is the visitor? Does visitor have some non-standard meaning here, is it about possession?

Something something Tobias stuck in hawk morph as a metaphor for disability something something

(Edit: ok, I'm annoying myself by not providing adequate context now. I think this was about, y'know, how Tobias getting stuck in hawk morph is vaguely analogous to someone losing a foot or getting a traumatic brain injury or something in battle. It's Sacrifice and Cost of the Fight but...without anyone flat out dying.)

Oooh cloaking technology! Awesome.

The kids have, like…no character. I realize they’re supposed to. I don’t think they actually do.

Which I’m not really complaining about. Just noticing.

The Generic Kids is strong with this team.

“I hated the way they all felt sorry for me” Tobias stuck in hawk morph as a metaphor for disability.

Turkey buzzard appreciation.

Oh ffs let Tobias eat a mouse already.

Tobias stuck in hawk morph as metaphor for pets. (Edit: in the sense of, humans kind of preferring to feed their carnivorous pets food that's as far away from live animals as possible. Of course some of that's a cost/convenience thing. But I'm pretty sure some of it is the squick factor.)

(Tobias having a big empty day with nothing to do) Tobias stuck in hawk morph as metaphor for homelessness.

“each of them (Tobias’ aunt and uncle) thought I was staying with the other” ok well at least it’s hand-waived.

Poor Tobias. Eesh. They don’t even care enough about him to call or text (ok, this was before texting was common, still) when he’s with the other Responsible Adult.

I do appreciate the, for lack of a better term, family diversity in this series. (Edit: I know I said this already. I still appreciate it enough to mention it twice.)

How come Tobias can sense the ships but the geese can’t?

Is “the encounter” an encounter with a Yeerk ship?

I see why everyone uses book numbers, these titles are useless. The Invasion made sense of course.

Yay wolf reintroduction!

I get the sense that Applegate is even more of an ecology nerd than she’s letting on.

There’s…a lot of difficulty with writing a compelling story about environmentalism. It just doesn’t fit well with what kinds of stories are the norm in our culture. I mean, yeah, Fern Gully, Wall-E…it’s still really hard and there aren’t many of them.

 Not compared to, say, fighting stories, heist stories, cop or medical dramas, spy/political intrigue stories, romances... “(Cassie) was working as we talked, cleaning an empty cage with a brush and a bucket of sudsy water.” Cassie is the best. The rest of y’all should help her clean the animal cages. The one best thing about Captain Marvel was when Carol Danvers and Nick Fury were washing the dishes at the end (and apparently having a great time doing it), so that Maria Rambeau wasn’t stuck cleaning up alone.


(I love Cassie's character but I really hope she gets some chances to just be a kid who makes bad decisions some of the time, and isn’t always The Mature One Who Patches Up Everyone Else’s Fights. I want her to have a moment like Bubbles in that one episode of the Powerpuff Girls where she just completely loses her shit. Let Cassie Have Flaws.)

Edit: after having read book 4, what I want is for Cassie to do something selfish, something just for her, preferrably something that people she cares about don't understand or approve of. Cassie has flaws, they're just almost certainly flaws that hurt her more than anyone else.

“I just got this feeling about it.” The worst thing about Captain Marvel was the “sometimes you can’t trust your senses, but you can trust your feelings” nonsense. They brought back that theme with Spiderman: Far From Home. This is the absolute worst fucking time to tell people that their intuition about what is true is more important than fact-checking.

Feelings are information and they’re great about telling you things about yourself. “I really wasn’t ok with that.” “I used to want that goal a lot when I was younger, but I’ve changed and it just doesn’t matter to me any more.” “I have good feelings when I'm around this person/I don’t really want to spend time with this person.” “I need to be told, verbally, that I’m appreciated in order to feel appreciated.” Feelings are shit about telling you things about the outside world though. “They’re ignoring me” maybe there’s something else going on? “They don’t appreciate me” maybe they’re just not showing it? “It’s definitely a Yeerk ship, I have a feeling” I’m sorry what? 



This is how so many people believe QAnon nonsense and Satanic Panic conspiracy theories. They feel right.

Feelings get hijacked by all sorts of things, and implicit bias is real.

(Also... sigh, do I really want to bring this up? A lot of learning to live with a mood disorder such as anxiety or depression is recognizing when your feelings are lying to you, and recognizing that sometimes your feelings lie to you. "They hate me!" do they? "I can't deal with this." That's a feeling, that's not a reality. Sometimes feelings have important information. Sometimes they don't. Discerning which is which is a big deal, and "eh, any time I have a feeling it's probably true, no need for reality checking" is not how you do that.)

“Have you suburb-dwellers ever been to the mountains?” so…most of them live in the suburbs but Marco lives, I guess, in the city itself? How are they all going to the same school? Is it a private school? Magnet? (Weird enough if it’s a high school, orders of magnitude weirder if it’s a middle school.) Why would a typical neighborhood school have some city kids and some suburban kids? Did Marco’s family used to live in the suburbs and then they moved but Marco stayed at the same school for continuity? Suburbs do have their own schools, right, it’s not like suburban kids have to commute into the city to attend class?



Wait, why would people who live in suburbs be less like to go into the mountains? I’m so confused.

Cassie urging caution: wrong in context, entirely sensible voice of reason if the heroes didn’t have plot armor.

Marco, who assumes they don’t have plot armor: voicer of reasoner. 

“You (Rachel) get off on the danger” Marco is not wrong. Well, he is wrong, that’s not why she’s doing it, she had her whole “I have to help kids like Melissa whose parents stopped loving them” hero moment in the last book. But she does get off on the danger.

It makes sense that Tobias is the one most willing to go “you all do whatever you want, this is what I’m doing.” He’s used to being alone. 

“How long until the five of us were four…” I do, on some level, want stories to be relevant to people’s lives. It doesn’t have to be in a direct “fighting the forces of evil by turning into elephants and tigers” way. But…in some way. If Frodo takes the ring to Mordor, I want it to be actually a good idea for real-life people to attempt to do things that seem hopeless even though it’s terrifying. If Katara challenges Master Paku to a water bending duel because she’s mad that he won’t train her, I want it to be worth it for girls to stand up to adult men who tell them they can’t be on the hockey team. If the kids are risking their lives to fight evil, I want how they do it and how they decide what to do to be in some way relevant to, idk, people protesting an oil pipeline or whatever.

And what’s relevant to people protesting an oil pipeline is acknowledging that some people (like Marco) are not arrestable and still have useful roles in the struggle, and I do not think we are going to get that here. But we’ll see.

(I think ATLA kind of does that? Sure, the main characters are fighters and the big climax is fighting (although…there’s not just physical fighting going on in either of the big climax fights), but you see so many glimpses of ordinary people’s lives. That kid who connected with Appa when he was held captive by the circus. The prison guard who brought Iroh nice tea. Jeong-jeong the deserter. What’s his name who just wanted to get himself and his girlfriend out of Boiling Rock Prison and we don’t even know how he got there and it’s presented as not being relevant. You see multiple ways of people attempting to have kindness and decency in the face of oppressive societies.) (and…I’m not a huge martial arts person, but I’m guessing “mastering the four elements” is supposed to only partly about learning how to fight and actually more about…developing your character in certain ways. For instance, Aang couldn’t learn earth bending without learning to stand his ground, Korra couldn’t learn air bending without learning to be flexible and adaptable, and Aang couldn’t learn firebending properly without that whole “fire is life” thing. The fighting is one manifestation of the character development, but it’s not the point. And that’s why Aang couldn’t shortcut the process by just going into the Avatar state.)

(Animorphs could be following this pattern if it wanted too, and maybe it is, I’m not sure. Maybe the elephant isn’t just good for tossing Hork Bajir Controllers around with your trunk, maybe it’s about learning strength. Maybe the cat is about learning a tough attitude. Maybe the hawk is, idk, freedom or something. I’ll keep an eye open for Metaphorical Character Growth.)

[vulturent]

@gravtae.

     blake isn’t sure how he feels about being ‘ handed off ‘ to an individual that ISN’T miss miruko. the aforementioned woman knew him like the back of her hand after having been his handler for so long, rumi knowing the in’s and out’s of the buzzard’s behavior.      physical, verbal, emotional.      some might say that the rabbit was maybe a little TOO well-acquainted with the oversized turkey.       still, the snowy-haired hero had told him to PLAY NICE, the mere notion that he was anything but making him SCOFF. the commission had dutifully drilled ‘’ social laws ‘’ and such into him the moment they’d all but SNATCHED him away from the hell that was his mother. the thought alone is enough to make blake’s feathers flex in place, the dark plumage snapping tighter against the folded-up appendages.

     if rumi had been there, she’d tell him to loosen up... or well, ‘ get that stick outta yer ass ‘ was a more accurate way of wording it, but either way, it held the same meaning. a manilla folder is clutched within his talons, sharpened tips digging into the thick cardboard-like material that protected the important documents within.      kidnappings. a briefcase intercepted full of documents that, at first glance, looked like gibberish... but was actually a massive map of the underground subway station within the area. various colored lines ran amongst the papers ( the markings of the subway routes ), paired with dots at seemingly random intervals. the two were likely connected, and now it was up to him and his new handler to find out.      with miruko’s fingers already in enough pies, she handed the case ( and blake, with it ) off to ‘ uravity ‘. uraraka ochako. ua high graduate. quirk: zero gravity. quirk type: emitter.      an interesting file to read. he can see why his handler trusts this new woman with him, but he questions if she’ll be able to play the role entrusted to her. or if rumi even bothered to give the poor girl the ‘ run down ‘, as she’d called it when the commission had first granted her ‘ ownership ‘ of blake.      golden eyes focus out the floor-to-ceiling windows lining the wall opposite of the door, blake’s back ( and wings ) the first thing one would see should they enter. it’d be more polite to perhaps sit and wait patiently, but he could never help but ( longingly ) glance out towards open air spaces. the bird within him, as grounded as it was, all but CRIES to be aloft.      dammit. stay focused.

[ducktracy]

130. let it be me (1936)

release date: may 2nd, 1936

series: merrie melodies

director: friz freleng

starring: bernice hansen (emily, hens)

this has an interesting backstory. bing crosby has actually SUED warner bros over 2 cartoons. it’s common knowledge that he’s at least sued over one cartoon, which is bingo crosbyana, also released in 1936. however, he also sued over this one too—and lost both. you’ll see why, but he sued over unflattering depictions of him. bing would be a common celebrity featured in many a cartoon, as well as fellow crooner frank sinatra. if i remember correctly, i had heard that he didn’t like his portrayal in frank tashlin’s iconic swooner crooner, the only porky cartoon to get nominated for an academy award. so, with that! crooner bingo has won the hearts of millions, including country bumpkin emily. emily’s husband isn’t too enthused when bingo and emily start hanging out with each other and get too close for comfort.

a gaggle of lovestruck hens crowd around the outside of a radio station, all trying to listen to the warbly strains of bingo crosby’s (as he’s not so subtly named in this cartoon) voice. sure enough, mr. bingo is recording the title song “let it be me”, cozying up to the microphone and putting on his shtick.

no hen is immune to bingo’s charming voice. a flock of adoring hens crowd around a radio, complete with a framed photograph of bingo on top, as if the radio is some sort of shrine to a feathery, crooner god. one hen in particular struggles to join in with the crowd, almost like a kitten trying to squeeze in with the rest of its litter to get some of its mothers milk.

elsewhere, a scene reused from i wish i had wings (and would again be tailored in wise quacks to fit daffy and his wife) has an adoring hen embracing her own personal photo of bingo while listening to the radio. her husband walks in, and quickly she hides the photo behind her back. the husband demands to see what it is she’s hiding, turning off the radio so she can give him her full attention. she eventually gives up and peeks out of her hands in giddy embarrassment as the husband ogles at the photo. to say the least, he isn’t too pleased—he throws the picture on the ground and stomps all over it for good measure, leaving her in tears. the plight that is bing crosby!

bingo wraps up his recording session, and struts outside of the radio shack, parting the waters that is his adoring fans. he tips his hat and tugs on his bow tie, bidding them a sly “good morning, girls.” the hens giggle and guffaw and blush in response, as if every single movement he makes is the funniest thing in the world. bingo meanders along his way, accompanied by a lovely underscore of “i wanna woo”, which would be prominently featured in the opening portion of porky’s romance. bingo, ever the charmer, coyly tosses his boutonnière to his fans, and a cock fight ensues as the hens tackle each other for the flower. an oldie but goodie for sure.

some nice juxtaposition: we fade out on the calm, cool, and collected bingo crosby and fade in on a hayseed, dopey farmer who is clearly the opposite in every which way of the former. he merrily struts along with a bouquet of handpicked flowers. he knocks on the door of a rural house, and out comes a quaint little country bumpkin hen. a precursor to the dopey voice kent rogers and later mel blanc would perform in their cartoons (very beaky buzzard-esque), the rooster guffaws “ah-i-i bought you some posies, emily,” dragging his feet around as he giggles while emily smells the bouquet. emily squeaks out a “thank you!” as the two yokels flirt together.

there’s a lovely undershot of a long, fancy, quite frankly intimidating orange car rolling down the dirt road. it’s none other than bingo, honking his many horns (each imitating his voice, giving a “booboobooboo”—a favorite to use amongst all WB directors with their interpretations of bing) to mark his arrival. emily cries “ooh, there’s mister bingo!” and drops her flowers as she rushes over to the end of the driveway, her husband obviously hurt.

bingo screeches to a halt at the front of their driveway. emily is tickled pink to see him, and her husband... not so much. bingo tips his hat and croons “good morning, my pretty maid.” she giggles and covers her face as bingo checks her out for a prolonged amount of time, evidently to his liking. a great visual as emily’s husband (i guess moreso boyfriend, but we’ve gone this far already so i’ll just keep it as husband loosely) literally turns green with envy, kicking the ground in aggravation. “how’d you like to go for a ride, baby, and i’ll show you the sights of the city?” a country bumpkin going out into the city—joy! emily eagerly accepts bingo’s invitation and hops right in his car. with that, the two speed off and the poor rooster is left to his own devices.

a very creative transition: fade out on the bewildered rooster. soon enough, the black screen is showered with balloons, confetti, and noise. fade in to a nightclub filled with rowdy patrons. emily and bingo are situated in the back, eagerly surveying their surroundings. bingo offers emily a glass of wine, but she refuses, shaking her head no. instead, bingo resorts to charming emily with a few “booboobooboo”s, and she’s wooed enough to take a sip. wow, what a lovely guy. just a great guy. regardless of bingo’s nefarious intentions, emily coughs and sputters after just one sip.

enter a curvaceous, beautiful turkey with an impressive fan. my first instinct was that she was a mae west caricature, at least by looks, but she appears to be french, and the mae west caricature would have played much heavily on her voice. a doppelgänger, perhaps! regardless, the singer launches into “i’ve got my eye on you”, and bingo is immediately taken with her. she approaches bingo and they flirt together, much to the chagrin of a neglected emily. she gives bingo’s sleeve a few haughty shakes, to which bingo motions at her to buzz off. thusly, emily breaks down into tears, bingo summoning a waiter to kick her out. what a charmer!

indeed, emily is booted onto the streets, bearing an imprint of a foot on her behind. “TIME STAGGERS ON” bellows a time card, and we’re transported to the wintry city streets. emily attempts to peddle some violets in the midst of the harsh storm, but receives no takers.

meanwhile, her hayseed rooster husband(?) paces around in his home anxiously. he sighs longingly at a framed portrait of emily, unable to discern what she sees in that stupid crooner. his thoughts are echoed as the radio broadcasts the vocals of mr. bingo himself, once again warbling “let it be me”. the rooster is furious and slams the radio to the ground, the radio giving a few last dying “booboobooboo”s.

time to take action. the rooster courageously wraps a scarf around his neck and prepares to brave the storm as he opens the door. however, the storm is much stronger than the rooster’s determination, the wind blowing him back through several doors in the household and out of the back door. instead, the rooster marches out into the streets from the back of his house. his march grows only more hurried and vitriolic as visions of bingo dance in his head—visions of wringing him by his spindly little neck.

the radio shack pops up in sight, and the rooster storms right in. bingo’s croons are put to a halt and are replaced by the sounds of offscreen, comical violence as the rooster pummels him behind closed doors. i wonder why on earth bing tried to sue them. hmmmmmm. the rooster takes care of his duty, but is hardly fulfilled. he treks glumly along in the snow, still longing for his dear emily.

he can only sulk as he treads on, ignoring the squeaky voice of some random woman selling violets on the street. he halts. sure enough, it’s his beloved emily, freezing her feathers off. he bellows “emily!” with outstretched arms, and emily happily responds “clem!” (clem kadiddlehopper?) as the lovebirds embrace.

time marches on, and our heroes now have a happy family. clem reads by the fire while emily knits, both watching adoringly as their chicks playfully cheep and chase each other, a fitting underscore of “home sweet home” furthering the coziness of the scene. relaxation is disturbed when one of the chicks begins to sing, sounding awfully similar to a familiar crooner as the chick gives out a few “booboobooboo”s. he’s quickly shut up as an offscreen book is hurled at his head. iris out.

i enjoyed this cartoon! friz’s cartoons are getting better and better, and this one made me smile. just knowing that bing tried to sue warner bros for this cartoon definitely adds to the appeal. it seems he wasn’t too great of a guy himself (which is a shame, i love his music), so this is almost cathartic. bernice hansen does a great job of voicing emily (like always), and whoever did the voices for bingo and clem also deserve recognition. lots of funny gags, such as clem turning green with envy and the bastard child at the end. i’d say go watch it! if anything, it’s worth watching knowing it sparked a lawsuit.

link!

[mycarlos2019]

The Doris McCarthy Trail

window.dataLayer = window.dataLayer || []; function gtag(){dataLayer.push(arguments);} gtag('js', new Date()); gtag('config', 'UA-13221846-3');

One of Toronto’s features that the city’s boosters like to promote is ravines. Toronto has many ravines and people often say that, in order to feel like you have left the city behind, all you need do is go down into one. It’s kind of true, but, with a few notable exceptions, you never really feel that you are completely out of the city. You feel that you are in a small, natural setting outside of which is an urban Gargantua. One notable exception, and it’s one that I only recently discovered, is the Doris McCarthy Trail.

Doris McCarthy was a Canadian artist who lived nearby, in a large house on top of the Scarborough bluffs called Fool’s Paradise. There is also a piece of artwork called Passages at the end of the trail which was commissioned by The Friends of Doris McCarthy. Apparently, she also donated two hectares of the ravine to the Toronto and Region Conservation Authority, so it seems appropriate that they named the trail after her. To get to the trail head, take the 102 Bus from Warden Station and get off at Kingston Road and Bellamy, in front of the Pioneer gas station. They sell soft drinks and snacks inside so if you haven’t brought any refreshments, you can stock up there. A large bottle of water is the minimum I’d suggest having with you. If it’s a warm day you’re going to be guzzling it like crazy on the way back up the trail. There really isn’t any obvious place to park, so, in this case, public transit really is the better way. Simply walk from the gas station down Ravine Drive for about two hundred feet and you will see the entrance to the trail.

I guess I should mention that riding a mountain bike down the trail seems to be acceptable to the powers that be because there are signs advising cyclists to walk down the steeper sections.

The problem with that is getting back up. Even in your lowest granny gear, it’s going to be a tough slog and you’re pretty much eliminating your chances of seeing any foxes or other wildlife. Once past the barricade, you will find that the path immediately plunges downward and you are, seemingly, enveloped in nature.

Bellamy Ravine Creek or brook burbles to your right over what is obviously a series of man-made cascades, installed, presumably, to keep the newly upgraded trail from being washed away by spring run-off. I believe the trail had to be closed recently due to just such an event. So okay, it’s not 100% natural, but it’s close enough. You’re completely enveloped in a deciduous forest and there is nothing to remind you that the houses on Bellehaven Crescent are only a few hundred feet away, even though they are.

You might find it interesting to reflect upon the fact that you are following a path used by natives as long ago as 8,000 B.C. This is known, apparently, because some arrowheads dating to that period were found in the ravine. Corroboratory evidence of there being large numbers of natives in the area, prior to the arrival of European settlers, is the Tabor Hill Ossuary just 4.5 kilometeres to the north. Dating to the 1400s it is estimated to contain the remains of 472 Wendat natives. Two kilometres to the west, on the north shore of Highland Creek, was the village, four hectares large, that these people lived in. Both the ossuary and the village were excavated in 1956 by archaeology students from U of T.

If smuggling and skullduggery are more your cup of tea, then you might choose to imagine all manner of illegal imports from the United States being brought up this path as recently as the 1830s, tea and tobacco being two of the most popular products. It might seem harmlessly romantic, but getting caught could result in hanging, so smugglers would sometimes dump their entire cargo overboard if they thought there was a chance of that happening.

And then there’s the gold. It is said that, during the war of 1812, American soldiers buried some looted gold here in the ravine, and it was never recovered. Highly unlikely, but the story does add to the trail’s allure. Primarily, however, the Doris McCarthy Trail is a nature trail that takes you down through a cleft in the Scarborough Bluffs to the shore of Lake Ontario.

Enjoy the lush forest, the birdsong, the burbling brook and the blue sky overhead if have been so fortunate. About two thirds of the way down you may begin to notice a slightly strange phenomenon. The horizon of Lake Ontario appears to too high in the sky. This is, I think, an optical illusion of sorts caused by the fact that you are still fairly high above the shoreline but still looking straight out at the horizon. Or maybe it’s just me. Have a look and see what you think.

When you reach the bottom of the path, you are presented with a piece of artwork called Passages. Depending on your point of view it either looks like the rib cage of a large fish or the hull of a boat.

Maybe you see something else. In any case, it’s meant to commemorate the life of Doris McCarthy and place that life within the much larger context of the bluffs, which, as the explanatory plaque will tell you, were formed 23,000 years ago.

In fact, if you just look at the layers of clay and silt in the bluffs you can see the history of how they were formed. The top layer is glacial till, a hodge podge mixture of everything the ice sheet has ground up on its way south, but basically clay and small boulders.

It’s easy to tell the difference between this and the layer of sediment below it because the lines in the till are vertical and the lines in the sediment are horizontal. To get a sense of how old the layers of till and sediment at the bottom of the bluffs are, start with the top layer of till. It was deposited here somewhere between 25,000 and 40,000 years ago.

Then realise, as you scan down the cliff face, that each succeeding layer was deposited much earlier. What you can see at the bottom was left there as long ago as 2.5 million years maybe. In between the time the bottom and top layers were deposited, woolly mammoths inhabited the region. The bluffs, in short, are really old and were formed over a long period of time. Their erosion, however, has taken place over a much shorter period, 1.62 feet each year. Scant wonder then that a summer house built on the edge of one of the properties above has almost fallen right off that edge. Ironically enough, it used to belong to a comedian called Billy Van who starred in a TV series called The Hilarious House of Frankenstein. So, if you think the city has destroyed the natural look of the area at the base of the bluffs with its new breakwaters, I would encourage you to spare a thought for the poor homeowners on top of them. How did they know that by building a string of monster homes right next to an eroding cliff they were being perhaps overly optimistic. Seriously though, the breakwaters were obviously needed to slow down the rate of erosion and allow future generations of Torontonians the opportunity to marvel at this geological wonder.

Once you have satisfied your curiosity about Passages, there are two directions you can head, obviously. To the west lies a long service road which will eventually (a little less than a kilometer) bring you to Bluffers Park Beach, where you can lie in the sand and maybe even go for a wade in the water.

To the east, the path stretches out a good long ways along the shore, but just remember, for every kilometre you hike in that direction, you’re going to have to come back to Passages and then hike back up the hill to the bus stop. One particularly interesting thing to see in this direction is only a couple of hundred metres away, however. It’s the remains of the steamship Alexandria, which ran aground here in 1915. All the passengers on board escaped and climbed up Gates Gully to Kingston Road. If you walk to the first rock protrusion of the breakwater, you should be able to see the top of the ship’s smoke stack because the waves break over it.

So that’s pretty much all there is to this outing. A nice walk in nature. Some historical and artistic curiosities. And couple of million years of geology. The day of my visit, there was one more thing to take note of. Turkey vultures, aka buzzards. These birds have an awesome wing span, five-and-a-half to six feet in length, which allows them to ride the updraft at the top of the bluffs. Only occasionally do they need to flap their wings to stay aloft. And what are they looking for while they circle? Dead squirrels. The occasional seagull carcass. Washed up fish and the like. Just anything that’s already dead but not yet in a state of putrefaction. Even a buzzard has to have some standards. The thing about these buzzards, however, is that they could also serve as a nice exclamation mark at the end of some kind of sentence about the brief, transitory nature of all living things, while they circle over a 2.5 million year old cliff face looking for their next meal.

To get back to Kingston Road and the bus back to Warden Station, simply trudge your way back up Gates Gully. Take your time, and rest as often as you need to. If it helps, you can imagine yourself being a smuggler in the early Victorian era with a big payout waiting for you at the top.

[zjjunronj]

The politician’s approach

“Dear Columnist, Recently the word ‘butt’ was used in one of your columns. That word is inappropriate, in poor taste, crude, and offensive. The fact that it is used on tv does not change a thing. I appreciate your being able and interested in writing and would like for it to be above reproach. Best to you. Ward Cleaver” She wants to know what I think of it, and what would be the most appropriate way to respond. As I sit here pondering her request, the full range of potential responses seems to be these: 1. The immature response. This is the one you’d go with if you fired back an immediate, gut check-like response. You’d tell the guy that he should find some “Barney” reruns to spend his time watching and then imply that he must be a real firecracker in most other aspects of his personal life. You’d then close it out with a reminder that camshaft makers this is a free country and that he was free (and encouraged) to read something other than your column in the future. 2. The sarcastic approach. Tell the reader that you’ll try to do better in the future, and that the slip up in the column is easily explainable.

Then, go into how you and your friends went out drinking the night before, entered a “Who Can Cuss The Best” contest at a local bar, and that the carry over from that slipped into your column when you wrote it the next day. Promise your reader that it’ll never happen again, as you definitely want to live your life “above reproach,” and then swear to watch twenty episodes of “The Brady Bunch” as penance. 3. The politician’s approach. Take no responsibility for your wording by telling the reader that you actually wanted to use the term “heiny,” “tookus”, or “twin pink apples,” but were prevented from doing so by your editor. Then, go into great detail about your “poor as Job’s turkey” upbringing, adding that it was hard for you to learn proper language usage skills because you grew up in a shack with seventeen brothers and sisters. Close by offering to let the offended reader write a guest column in place of yours the next week, recommend to them some web sites offering free government programs and money, and each Arbor Day from here on out faithfully send them a pine tree seedling. 4. The avoidance approach. Email back a terse two-liner, telling them that you appreciate the feedback but that your schedule is so hectic that you can’t possibly respond to it. Wish them eternal peace and happiness in the closing line. 5.

The mature approach. Email your reader back, let them know you appreciated them giving you feedback, and never comment on what you personally thought of their message. Then thank them and close it out. Sweet, simple, and very mature. It looks like my friend is going to choose the last option, which is certainly the best one to take. But a thought now occurs to me - maybe, instead of these approaches, her good writer friend should just tell her that she’s doing fine, and not to let stuff like this bother her too much. He should also take the time to remind her that not everyone is going to like everything that you write or say, and all you can do is your best and gracefully accept whatever comes along as a result. Finally, maybe her writer friend will simply remind her that her stuff is good, much better than some of the writing being done today by columnists that’s so lame that a South Georgia tree buzzard could do better... On second thought, I might better leave that last one out...she might start looking at me sort of quizzically after she reads it...

[jfastereft]

“GUESSING AT GOD!”  a poem  a.k.a.: “God CAN Be Like Facebook, Inc.: No Heart To Appeal To - And No Arse To Kick!  Kinda Like An Algorithm!”  October 22, 2018: Monday!

All-you(we)-can-do- is - GUESS AT GOD,

‘Cause we is even!  and IT - is odd!

There’s (just) no way - to pin IT down,

BUT!  Also-NO-reason to wear a frown,

For “GOD” can never be like us,

‘Cause we-wouldn’t-throw-us “under-The-Bus,”

And That’s-just-what-God-apparently-does,

TO HIS (Her) SONS-&-DAUGHTERS!  Just because!!!

There ain’t no reason!  and-there ain’t no rhyme,

And NO WAY to-describe-GOD - and IT ain’t no crime!

It’s just the way - that things are HERE,

With humans-filled: with-anxiety-and-fear,

AND - GOD’S - GOT - NONE-O’-THAT!  (pause) -

Except!  as-(s)he manifests!  through a dog or cat,

Or a girl or boy or a plague-filled rat, 

Or a brown recluse!  (under your (Welcome) Mat),

Or a-poor-deer-in-your-headlights!  Oh-yes!  What JOY,

Death!  Disease!  Distress!  What-a-wondrous-decoy,

We get to experience - in this 3-D Play,

“THE PLAY’S THE THING!”* - and GOD’S OK, 

With whatever we do, in this play of fools,

Forcing human beings, into mold-infested schools,**

Into FRONT LINE ACTION*** - and debates on The Floor,****

GOD DON’T CARE - FOREVERMORE!

Except AS GOD SEES IT - through OUR eyes;

To God - no-existence - is much-of-a-surprise!

For GOD don’t care - IF we ALL die off;

To God, our demise is like a little cough!

So, f - - - You, God - ‘cause I love my Sheila,

And, y’know?  Yea, God!  I-kinda-feel-Yah,

& I’m SURE!  You’ll be STANDING-LONG-AFTER-I’M-GONE,

And, maybe I AM - just a hapless pawn,

But I’ll do what I can - to resist your complacent MIND,*****

And!  If-I-get-a-chance!  I’ll-kick-you (hard) in-The-Behind!!  

fin  <3   

:) - Shalom, God!  (You Turkey Buzzard!!)   

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Bl4dEAtxo0M

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AaEGwph2Qr4

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KecjWsyCOoY

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GOwachalNNw

* - Wm Shakespeare!

** - Case in point - Alpine High School, Alpine, Texas, U. S. A.

*** - You can’t have too much war, since “There’s a time for everything under Heaven!!”  (famous, stupid Biblical statement!)

**** - Politicians LOVE to argue - and ALSO The Rest of Us!  - It is just that some folks enjoy FOCUSING on arguing about EVERYTHING!  :) - like me?

***** - Just like Neo, who resisted The computer-generated “Agents” in the film “The Matrix!”

[thedesperatehousehusband]

The people in our (vacation) neighborhood

On trips, we tend to give names and then create narratives for people we see with frequency. This is a very enjoyable and hilarious way to pass the time on beach trips because you stay in one place for extended periods of time. So you have the tendency to see a lot of the same people over and over again.

Let’s get to it.

First, we met Weston and his parents. This child was delightful and so polite. The next day Charlie and his parents arrived. Charlie and Weston became resort chums while 75% of the parents drank a lot of drinks. The fourth parent was Charlie’s mom and she was painfully pregnant. Like ready to pop. Potentially dilated. We decided she was scoping out which pool to use for a water birth. Very cute families.

Toalla de Dinner was another early favorite. I know it’s the beach and things are informal but it’s still the W and this shit ain’t cheap. There is no need to show up at a fancy restaurant with a damn towel on your head. This gal had also been under the knife and the Botox and the collagen and had the strategically placed tramp stamp and fuppa-too. She had it all.

Golden Oldie was an elderly man so bronze he resembled a Thanksgiving turkey. He also wore puka shell anklets. He was basically Stan Zbornak and his muuuuuuch younger Numero Dos completed the picture.

La Booby was a lady who very clearly paid fot her boobs and she her intent was to show off utter good. If you bought ‘em, flaunt ‘em.

La Nueva Booby was the “new” La Booby after the first La Booby left.

Los Pelos Púrpuras was a woman who still used Miss Clairol home coloring. And it turned out purple.

Gay December was a gay couple with an age difference of significant decades. They also did not interact with one another. They were on their phones almost 100% of the time. Even in the pool.

Soviet May December was a straight couple with a man who looked like Boss Hogg from The Dukes of Hazard and a much younger woman from the Eastern Bloc who had brought along her mother and her mother’s yappy little awful dog. I so hoped that a hovering buzzard would swoop down and eat that damn dog. Also, this couple was experiencing significant strife. She wanted him to pay for pharmacy school. He reminded her that if they wanted to continue to travel like this he couldn’t afford pharmacy school. It was all very stressful.

Fraggle Top speaks for itself. Hair so wild it resembled a Fraggle.

Po Derek was the poor man’s Bo Derek. Po was trying reeeeeeal hard with the lacy coverups and the barely there bikinis but it wasn’t working. Her manpanion was also quite special. He still wore trucker hats and was not being ironic. Juan decided that Po turned into a sardine at night and lived in the sea.

Our final pair of pals were too good to be true. They were characters from an SNL sketch but weren’t. They were very real. Like unbelievably real. We dubbed them La Hoocha and La Coocha. La Hoocha resembled Snooki crossed with a potato then had gone the extra mile by getting braids. Like full head of hair cornrows and the cruel reality is that they sure don’t work on wispy hair. La Coocha was channeling Cardi B but somehow figured out how to do it with even less class. Her nails were bananas but thankfully she had a coke scooping nail for when she needed a pick me up. They posed a LOT to create content for their “followers”.

And these are the people that you meet when you’re walking down your hotel street. They’re the people that you meet each day.

[nateaz]

Like everyone who loves life, I have a healthy fear of dying. The thought of death scares me especially accompanied with the thought of being buried six feet under. I'd rather be cremated but even more of a happy thought would be coyotes, ravens, turkey buzzards eating me out in the desert. I could imagine a poor starving mother coyote stumbling upon my remains, and going back to a den of hungry pups and regurgitating me so they don't go hungry. Then what was once me flows through the blood veins of wild coyotes and everything else. My bones would bleach in the desert sun... All of this is more of a happy thought and make me not worry about death so much. I have always eaten meat and I want to give back! #CircleodLife #death #life #igarizona #arizonagramadventureculture #tbirdnation (at Gila Bend, Arizona)

[desimonewayland]

Timely thought....from 152 years ago.

P.T. BARNUM MIGHT HAVE RUN THE GREATEST SHOWS ON EARTH, but one thing he could not abide was a humbug: a man who tricked and swindled others for naught but his own gain. In Humbugs of the World, he outlined the various types, with none being singled out for such ire as the humbug who believes nothing at all.

1865 | New York City Pronouncing a Fool The greatest humbug of all is the man who believes—or pretends to believe—that everything and everybody are humbugs. We sometimes meet a person who professes that there is no virtue; that every man has his price, and every woman hers; that any statement from anybody is just as likely to be false as true, and that the only way to decide which is to consider whether truth or a lie was likely to have paid best in that particular case. Religion he thinks one of the smartest business dodges extant, a first-rate investment, and by all odds the most respectable disguise that a lying or swindling businessman can wear. Honor he thinks is a sham. Honesty he considers a plausible word to flourish in the eyes of the greener portion of our race, as you would hold out a cabbage leaf to coax a donkey. What people want, he thinks, or says he thinks, is something good to eat, something good to drink, fine clothes, luxury, laziness, wealth. If you can imagine a hog’s mind in a man’s body—sensual, greedy, selfish, cruel, cunning, sly, coarse, yet stupid, shortsighted, unreasoning, unable to comprehend anything except what concerns the flesh, you have your man. He thinks himself philosophic and practical, a man of the world; he thinks to show knowledge and wisdom, penetration, deep acquaintance with men and things. Poor fellow! he has exposed his own nakedness. Instead of showing that others are rotten inside, he has proved that he is. He claims that it is not safe to believe others—it is perfectly safe to disbelieve him. He claims that every man will get the better of you if possible—let him alone! Selfishness, he says, is the universal rule—leave nothing to depend on his generosity or honor; trust him just as far as you can sling an elephant by the tail. A bad world, he sneers, full of deceit and nastiness—it is his own foul breath that he smells; only a thoroughly corrupt heart could suggest such vile thoughts. He sees only what suits him, as a turkey buzzard spies only carrion, though amid the loveliest landscape. I pronounce him who thus virtually slanders his father and dishonors his mother, and defiles the sanctities of home, and the glory of patriotism, and the merchant’s honor, and the martyr’s grave, and the saint’s crown—who does not even know that every sham shows that there is a reality, and that hypocrisy is the homage that vice pays to virtue—I pronounce him—no, I do not pronounce him a humbug, the word does not apply to him. He is a fool.

via: Lapham's Quarterly

[2muchfor2long]

I've spent a lot of time thinking about happiness the last few days. It is a complicated subject, with a lot of intricate, moving parts, meshing, turning the whole machine, carefully balanced . It could be something you do, or it might be the way you do something. It might be something you see, or it might be how you see something. It's probably all of these things in a mixture that changes every day. You have to make an effort, I guess.

Yesterday I went kayaking, something that makes me happy. For some reason the ramp into the water was covered with some sort of slippery moss. I fell right on my bottom, with some minor cosmetic damage to my hand and injured my pride. It should have made me unhappy, maybe even a little angry and certainly humiliated. Nobody was there to see it, so I could laugh it off, climb in my boat and go, smiling about my good fortune. It might have made me angry, but I was able to see it differently.

Straight out from the dock is a small, almost square island. On a sandy point that juts out from the northeast corner were several turkey buzzards, fascinating birds. They float so gracefully in the air, drifting majestically, soaring in wide, almost perfect circles. But, on the ground they look, clumsy, cruel, malignant. The contrast is irresistible, it makes me smile, kind of like life. If you look at it from a distance it is perfect, get closer and the cracks, blemishes and scars begin to show. As I paddled closer to get a picture they turned and glared at me. They were probably thinking "come back when you're dead." My cousin and a friend from New Zealand thought they might have seen my watery flop and thought I was a goner. Which would have explained the baleful look. Nothing quite so disappointing as watching your dinner get up, rinse the mud of his pants with lake water and paddle away. Unless it comes over and wants to take a few photos.

After getting several blurry, out of focus shots (I carry my phone in a water proof floating case and it makes the photos a little filmy, plus I am a lousy photographer)  of my bird friends I took off for the open water. It was amazing, I just cruised. I thought "man, all this kayaking is really starting to pay off," It was smooth sailing. I felt invincible, a machine, Hercules with a double bladed paddle. One powerful stroke sent me shooting silently across the muddy water. It was bliss. Until I turned around and started heading back.  All of the current was flowing out, into the lake, away from the slippery dock and the carrion birds. Every inch was a struggle, and if I stopped for a drink the flow would turn my little boat around and start pushing me out and away from my car, from my home, my family on to a life of a watery nomad, destined to drift across Hoover Reservoir for all eternity. I moved closer to shore, thinking it would be less work there. Not close enough to be under the trees, where snakes, spiders and ticks were waiting to drop and feast on a poor tired paddler. Finally, I made it back, carried my boat to my car, sat down and had a cold bottle of carbonated water, so cold there were tiny chips of ice floating in the bottle. It was Ice Mountain, one of my favorites, calorie free, sugar free, no caffeine and a taste that made falling into the water seem worth it. And I was pretty happy.

In a span of a couple of hours I slipped and fell in brown, filthy looking water, tore a piece of skin out of my finger, scraped my palm, saw some of the most beautifully ugly birds, paddled like a god, and a clown, and it all made me happy. Even though there were difficult parts I just kept going, and I guess that’s kind of the secret, love the good stuff, embrace the bad stuff and stay away from ticks, spiders, snakes and poison ivy, wash the cuts and treat them with antibiotic cream and make everything sound more important than it really was. Maybe. I’ll have to think about it for a while.

Today we’re going to try something a little different for our happy song. I’m not sure it’s a happy song, but I’m not sure it isn’t. I am certain it is a cool song, with a universal message, something we all need.

“Lido be running having great big fun til he got the note,

Sayin’ toe the line or blow and that was all she wrote,

He be makin’ like a beeline headin’ for the borderline going for broke”

It makes me smile just thinking about it.

[ameliafmckenzie-blog]

There was an injured turkey buzzard in my yard today. Poor thing was hit by a car yesterday and Animal Control couldn't find him at first. I'm glad we were able to help. Hopefully he'll get that wing fixed and he'll be good as new.

[snsmissionaries]

5/29/17 -- Elder Del and Sister Sue Ballard, Illinois, Nauvoo Mission

Will, the rain and cold weather EVER go away?

Dear Family and Friends,

THIRD WEEK….Well, another few weeks and once again, we have a few nice days (75-85) and then the wind, rain and cold come back along with tornado warnings and damage in areas all around, but we are SAFE and SOUND!   As we drove to our Branch in Canton on Sunday it is amazing all the standing water in the fields but the corn, etc. gets higher each week, so that is a GOOD thing for the farmers.

It has been another busy few weeks, with long Temple workdays,  various meetings, volunteer planting, Family Home Evening activities, as well as, trips to grocery shop and some sight-seeing trips on P-Day, plus speaking in church (my least favorite thing in the world to do). 

On P-Day we decided not to go with our group this week because they were doing some climbing at the mounds and not sure how much I would make so we went off on our own.  We decided to go to Carthage so we put it in our GPS and it took us instead to a little town called Ferris so we had a nice little side trip before we finally made it to Carthage (only about 7 miles out of the way for our 70 mile round- trip).  We tried the Mexican restaurant that was highly recommended to us and all we can say is “it was slightly better than the other one we tried but definitely NOT Arizona style Mexican food.  From there we went on to visit some of the sites in Carthage.  We were most struck by the jail where the Prophet Joseph and his brother were killed by the mobs.  There were two sweet sister missionary’s that made the presentation plus they showed a video and played audio tapes so it was truly a humbling and solemn event.  We enjoyed looking at the beautiful scenery as we drove through various towns and sites and even walked through a number of small stores in the area.   The flowers, especially the peonies, iris’s, poppies are simply breathtaking.  But that is no wonder everything is so green with all the rain they get as they seem to have no irrigation systems or watering systems anywhere they just count totally on rainfall (it is definitely NOT Arizona!) and this year for sure there has been no shortage of rain or snow.

Friday and Saturday it picked up at the Temple so we did have things to do which certainly makes the day go faster.  Most of the time, however,  there are very few attending the temple so often we sit at a scheduled post for an hour with nothing to do but read scriptures.  We have been told that just after Memorial Day it will pick up and we will be full every day and night.  They apparently come by the bus loads sometimes 100-150 at a time.  Wow, that should overwhelm ALL of us! 

Sunday we headed with the Mabey’s (another missionary couple) to our Branch in Canton where a sweet lady (Sister Jensen) in her early 80’s invited us to lunch and to show us the city of Canton.  We left at 7:30am and got home that day at 5:30pm.  It was a long day but she was so much fun.  She made us a wonderful lunch and showed us the “town”.  It is a town of about 18,000 and has the old vintage homes, the rundown areas and then some new areas with lovely large homes.  They have a Super Wal-Mart, a Krogers, J.C. Penney’s and a few other stores, plus a number of various types of restaurants which is a whole lot more than most of the areas around here have.   We enjoyed our day and she was a lovely hostess, with a wonderful sense of humor and a joy to be with.

FOURTH WEEK…. Monday  for Family Home Evening all the Temple missionaries  got together for a square dance activity (see picture-we are the ones hiding in the background).  There were about 80 or so of us there and we had a good time, just a little STIFF the next day!   The caller was one of our Temple missionary’s and they are from Snowflake, AZ.  He did a great job and we actually learned all the dances without too many mistakes or mishaps (one sister in our square fell and hit her head pretty hard on the concrete floor but was OK).  After that we had appetizers and then headed to a meeting  with the Temple President from 6-8pm (never a dull minute).   After that a small group of us went to Annie’s

Custard and enjoyed some homemade ice cream (custard).

Tuesday and Wednesday were once again, slow days at the Temple with a couple of sessions being cancelled because no one showed up (rainy day).  On Wednesday morning we received a call that our group (4 couples) were assigned to work in the gardens so we went and mulched for several hours getting all the beautiful garden areas ready for the tourists to arrive.  It was a nice day and it was fun to get in the “dirt” (see picture-don’t we look like a bunch of OLD gardeners.)  There are so many gardens and flowers it is just amazing (see pictures)   Afterward we came home and showered, ate lunch and got ready to serve in the Temple for our 2:45-9:00pm shift.  We definitely needed the shower as we smelled like “manure” and they strongly discourage us from wearing “fragrances” of any kind!!

Well, we made it to another  P-Day and had plans to go to Quincy but that quickly changed when we were called to attend a 2pm meeting.  Oh well, maybe next P-Day (as Quincy is about 1 hour away and they have a Sam’s Club and a shopping mall and some great museums and historic sites so we need the WHOLE day!)  Instead we went to Keokuk and did some grocery shopping (Del wanted a tomato plant for our yard and we bought a small BBQ as we miss that a lot).  We ate at of all places, Taco Bell, now that goes to show you how poor the eating places are here!  When we came home our upstairs neighbors where in a panic as their refrigerator and freezer where out and everything had defrosted.  We spent the next little while stacking and stuffing things anywhere so they could get there stuff into ours until the repairman came.  After about 5 hours they ended up getting a new refrigerator and came and took their stuff back (now we have a broken front screen to get repaired).  After we went to our meeting ,  we decided to stop by the Women’s Garden (pictures) at the Visitors Center and looked at all the statues then we went inside and watched a wonderful movie about Joseph Smith and the Book of Mormon.  So all in all we had a great day. 

Friday and Saturday were both fairly busy days and there was a lot going on in Nauvoo for Memorial Day.  In front of the Temple on Saturday was the starting point for a Marathon that was going to Carthage (not sure how many ran but there was rain off and on throughout the day so I am sure it was not an easy race-about 30 miles).  Our Temple President went to the opening ceremonies and said Rudy Ruettiger, the former University of Notre Dame walk on whose story become a movie was  in attendance. He is now 68 years old and lives in Las Vegas and is a motivational speaker. He recently joined the Mormon Church and told our President he is anxiously awaiting the day he can receive his endowments and come to the Temple.

Sunday we again headed for our 4 hour drive to Canton where Del and I spoke (so glad that is over)!  It was an enjoyable day and although they had rain all week it was a nice sunny day.  Some of those country roads from all the rain, snow, etc. are really in bad shape and so it does get a little bumpy.  One of the highlights of the trip is counting all the “road kill” and the turkey buzzards cleaning it up along the way.  YUCK, right!! 

Well, next Sunday we get to Host our Break the Fast group (4 couples-it will be cozy all of us fitting around our little kitchen table) and you all know how much I just love to cook and ENTERTAIN so that is my upcoming challenge.  What to cook!   Good thing we have the internet to look up recipes.  Wish ME luck!

Well that is about as exciting as it gets in the “Ballard Mansion” in Nauvoo, Illinois so we will just say, we love you all, miss you and hope all is well with you and yours.  Take care and we will be back with more EXCITING news from Nauvoo in a few weeks.

Love,

Elder and Sister Ballard

PS:  One month down and 5 more to go!

[theadmiringbog]

Turn up, shoo-in

The modern sense of the bookmaker as a man who takes bets originated on the racecourses of Victorian Britain. The bookmaker would accept bets from anyone who wanted to lay them, and note them all down in a big betting book. 

Meanwhile, a turn-up was just a happy chance. A dictionary of slang from 1873 thoughtfully gives us this definition: 

Turn up an unexpected slice of luck. 

Among sporting men bookmakers are said to have a turn up when an unbacked horse wins. So, which horses are unbacked? Those with the best (i.e., longest) odds. 

Almost nobody backs a horse at a thousand to one. This may seem a rather counterintuitive answer. Odds of a thousand to one are enough to tempt even a saint to stake his halo, but that’s because saints don’t know anything about gambling and horseflesh. Thousand-to-one shots never, ever come in. 

Every experienced gambler knows that a race is very often won by the favourite, which will of course have short odds. Indeed, punters want to back a horse that’s so far ahead of the field he merely needs to be shooed over the line. Such a horse is a shoo-in. 

So you pick the favourite, and you back it. Nobody but a fool backs a horse that’s unlikely to win. So when such an unfancied nag romps over the finish line, it’s a turn-up for the books, because the bookies won’t have to pay out. 

Not that the bookmakers need much luck. They always win. There will always be many more bankrupt gamblers than bookies. You’re much better off in a zero-sum game, where the players pool their money and the winner takes all. Pooling your money began in France, and has nothing whatsoever to do with swimming pools, and a lot to do with chickens and genetics.

--

Pool your money, the pot, a stone’s throw

Gambling in medieval France was a simple business. All you needed were some friends, a pot, and a chicken. In fact, you didn’t need friends—you could do this with your enemies—but the pot and the chicken were essential. 

First, each person puts an equal amount of money in the pot. Nobody should on any account make a joke about a poultry sum. 

Shoo the chicken away to a reasonable distance. What’s a reasonable distance? About a stone’s throw. 

Next, pick up a stone. 

Now, you all take turns hurling stones at that poor bird, which will squawk and flap and run about. 

The first person to hit the chicken wins all the money in the pot. You then agree never to mention any of this to an animal rights campaigner. 

That’s how the French played a game of chicken. The French, though, being French, called it a game of poule, which is French for chicken. And the chap who had won all the money had therefore won the jeu de poule. 

The term got transferred to other things. At card games, the pot of money in the middle of the table came to be known as the poule. English gamblers picked the term up and brought it back with them in the seventeenth century. They changed the spelling to pool, but they still had a pool of money in the middle of the table. It should be noted that this pool of money has absolutely nothing to do with a body of water. Swimming pools, rock pools and Liverpools are utterly different things.

--

Milton adored inventing words. When he couldn’t find the right term he just made one up: impassive, obtrusive, jubilant, loquacious, unconvincing, Satanic, persona, fragrance, beleaguered, sensuous, undesirable, disregard, damp, criticise, irresponsible, lovelorn, exhilarating, sectarian, unaccountable, incidental and cooking. All Milton’s. 

When it came to inventive wording, Milton actually invented the word wording. 

Awestruck? He invented that one too, along with stunning and terrific. 

And, because he was a Puritan, he invented words for all the fun things of which he disapproved. Without dear old Milton we would have no debauchery, no depravity, no extravagance; in fact, nothing enjoyable at all. Poor preachers! People always take their condemnations as suggestions. One man’s abomination is another’s good idea. This is the law of unintended consequences, and yes, Milton invented the word unintended.

Whether you’re all ears or obliviously tripping the light fantastic, you’re still quoting Milton. 

“[T]rip it as ye go, / On the light fantastic toe” 

is from his poem L’Allegro.

--

Enough room to swing a cat, letting the cat out of the bag

Tudor archery was not necessarily a pleasant business. There are two theories on the origin of the phrase enough room to swing a cat. 

The first is that the cat is a cat-o’-nine-tails and that it’s hard to whip somebody properly in a small room. 

The other theory is to do with marksmanship. Hitting a stationary target was just too easy for the Tudors. So the best archers used to test themselves by putting a cat in a bag and hanging the bag from the branch of a tree. The ferocious feline would wriggle about and the sack would swing, and this exercise in animal cruelty provided the discerning archer with a challenge and English with a phrase.

Incidentally, this has nothing to do with letting the cat out of the bag. That’s to do with pigs, obviously. In medieval markets piglets were sold in sacks, so that the farmer could carry them home more easily. This was a pig in a poke. A standard con at the time involved switching a valuable piglet for a valueless cat or dog. You were then being sold a pup, or, if you discovered the trick, you would let the cat out of the bag.

--

Talking turkey, cold turkey, cold shoulder

Once upon a time, a white man and a Red Indian went out hunting together. They killed a tasty turkey and a buzzard. So the white man said to his companion: “You take the buzzard and I’ll take the turkey, or, if you prefer, I can take the turkey and you can take the buzzard.” To which the Red Indian replied: “You don’t talk turkey at all.” 

This joke was immensely popular in nineteenth-century America. It was even quoted in Congress, though history doesn’t recall whether anybody laughed. 

But it was popular enough to spawn two phrases. By 1919 talking turkey had been altered somewhat: people had started inserting the adjective cold. Talking cold turkey is like talking turkey only more so. You were getting beyond the brass tacks and down to the barest of bare essentials. Talking cold turkey was the bluntest, directest form of speech. And a couple of years later, in 1921, people started to use the phrase cold turkey to describe the bluntest, most direct method of giving up drugs. 

So going cold turkey has nothing whatsoever to do with the miserable leftovers so sorrowfully consumed in the week after Christmas. Cold turkey isn’t a food at all, even though it sounds like one. It’s a blunt way of talking, and a blunt way of giving up drugs. However, when you give someone the cold shoulder, that is a food.

--

Before you can say, “Jack Robinson”

There are three main theories on why things happen before you can say Jack Robinson. 

The first is that Robinson used to be the French term for an umbrella (because of Robinson Crusoe, in which the hero has an umbrella and very little else), and that French servants were usually called Jacques. This meant that when rich Frenchmen visited England and were surprised by the inevitable shower of rain, they would shout, “Jacques, robinson!” There is, though, no evidence for this theory at all. 

The second theory is that there was an eccentric fellow in early nineteenth-century London who would walk out of parties without warning, often before you could even say his name, which was Jack Robinson. However, there’s no contemporary evidence for this strange Jack Robinson’s existence, so the second theory looks as dicey as the first. 

The third and most plausible theory is that the phrase comes from Sir John Robinson, who definitely existed and was constable of the Tower of London from 1660 to 1679. He was therefore in charge of executions and was a stickler for efficiency rather than solemnity. The prisoner was marched out, put on the block and shortened without any opportunity for famous last words or blubbering. He didn’t even have the time to appeal to the overseer of the execution. He was beheaded before he could say Jack Robinson.

--

Movie buff

Some people really did dress in buff leather, as it’s a good strong material. For example, in the nineteenth century the uniform of the New York firefighters was made from buff and the firefighters themselves were often called buffs. The firefighters of New York were heroes. Everybody loves a good conflagration, and whenever a New York building started burning the buffs would be called and crowds of New Yorkers would turn out to cheer them on. People would travel across the city just to see a good fire, and schoolboys would become aficionados of the buffs’ techniques for putting them out. These devoted New York schoolboys became known as buffs. Thus the New York Sun said, in 1903, that: The buffs are men and boys whose love of fire, fire-fighting and firemen is a predominant characteristic. And that’s why to this day you have film buffs and music buffs and other such expert buffalos.

--

A linguist at the University of Buffalo worked out that if bison from his native city, who were bullied by other bison from his native city, went and took their frustration out on still other bison from his native city, then: Buffalo buffalo Buffalo buffalo buffalo buffalo Buffalo buffalo. 

Confused? 

The grammar is easier if you compare it to this version: Buffalo bison [whom] Buffalo bison bully [then] bully Buffalo bison. 

It’s the longest grammatically correct sentence in the English language that uses only one word.

--

Ring finger

There is a vein that runs directly from the fourth finger to the heart, or at least that’s what doctors used to believe. Nobody is quite sure why, as there isn’t actually any such thing. Yet it was this belief that made the fourth finger vital in medieval medicine. Doctors reasoned that if this finger connected directly to the heart, then it was probably possible to use it as a proxy. You could cure heart disease and treat heart attacks simply by doing things to the fourth finger of the patient’s hand. The medieval word for a doctor was a leech,* and so this digit used to be known as the leech finger. Who would be so silly as to believe anything like that nowadays? Well, anybody who’s married. You see, we put the wedding ring on that finger precisely because of that non-existent vein. If the finger and the heart are that closely connected, then you can trap your lover’s heart simply by encircling the finger in a gold ring. Hence ring finger.