My eyes were riveted to the headline in the newspaper (which, as John Mulaney, comedian extraordinaire, would say, “is a very old-fashioned sentence”): Man Accused of Tossing Gator at Drive-thru. I didn’t have to wonder which state this happened in, just which town—but really aren’t all Florida towns as crazy as the next?
So I read on. It seems one Joshua James, age 24, tossed a 3 ½ -foot-long alligator into a Wendy’s drive-thru window at 1:20 a.m. and drove off after the employee handed him his drink. Of course, this begs the question: where did he get an alligator? Well, this is Florida, home of the NRA (No Registration for Alligators), so James just picked up his alligator on the side of the road.
Police later located James through video surveillance and a purchase at a nearby convenience store, where he had refilled his supply of Burmese pythons, brown recluse spiders, and fire ants. The cops charged him with assault with a deadly weapon without intent to kill.
But was it all just a harmless joke? Joshua’s mother says yes. “He does stuff like this because he thinks it’s funny,” she said. It was just a “stupid prank.” She went on to assure the public that “he had no trouble turning himself in.” Florida residents can also comfort themselves knowing that he has been given a restraining order that includes “all animals.”
In the aftermath of this attack, membership in another NRA group (National Retaliatory Alligators) has shot up. After all, if everyone carried alligators, events like this wouldn’t happen.
What can I say? Ticks dig me. It’s been this way as long as I can remember. I suppose my story is a bit cliché, but I’ll let you be the judge.
I was discovered at the age of three in a little town called Hollywood. Yes, that Hollywood! Is there any other? California, you say? Huh! But I digress. I was in the yard, romping around the coconut palms and through the croton bushes when I was approached by an agent looking for new blood. I was sucked in by the idea that I had something special, something that set me apart from other people, something—dare I say it?—in the very life source that flowed through my veins.
Before I knew it, the bug had gotten under my skin. I was the host of the town— living large, the meals and drinks always on me. Soon, not only ticks but everyone wanted me. Sure, it was attractive at first; I felt needed, as if I truly had something to offer. Admirers swarmed around me everywhere I went. A buzz of excitement erupted whenever I stepped outside.
But over the years I discovered I couldn’t satisfy everyone. I took to staying indoors, covered up when I went out. Then the whining started. I couldn’t escape its insistent droning in my ears, reminding me always, always that I had to perform, had to give my followers what they wanted—the little parasites. I tried shooing them away, but it didn’t work. They only flew at me with greater force, poking and prodding. And then they started on my children. We couldn’t go to the playground, walk to school or plant a garden like other families. The pests were relentless; they were eating us alive. I even employed a SWAT team, but our protection was only hit-and-miss.
I was drained and had the scars to show it. I decided to quit. I dropped out of sight, and the clingers-on forgot about me. At least, I thought they did. Recently, I felt that old, familiar itch. I returned to my roots, plowing the fertile soil of my comeback and planting seeds I hope will flower and bear fruit. As I’ve toiled I’ve reflected on those long-ago days. Had they really been that bad? Hadn’t the wounds healed?
The answer has come swiftly. I’ve been back in the Lyme light for only a week and already the ticks are in my hair, clutching at my arms and legs, sucking up to me. In the intervening years, though, I’ve learned a few things, and this time I’m DEETermined to dump these ticks before they burrow too deep.
I never thought I’d be one of those people. You know, the ones who leave their outdoor Christmas decorations up all year round so that when you drive by you wonder with a shudder what it looks like on the inside: Are there elves on all the shelves? Is an avalanche of Saint Nicks standing in perpetual jollity around every corner? Do tinderbox trees bowed with dusty ornaments dominate each room?
But this year, I am chagrined to say, I have joined their ranks. My Christmas wreath still hangs on my front door, and festive candy canes, packages, and snowmen continue to cling to the sliding-glass back door. This deplorable state of affairs is not entirely my fault, but the result of several unforeseen circumstances colliding with a couple of Connecticut quirks.
First, Connecticut has an unofficially official wreath removal date of Valentine’s Day, when Cupid shoots arrows not of love but of intense cabin fever, which turns our thoughts toward spring with every tiny thaw. But this year the thaws never came. The chill of February turned into the frost of March, which became the pall of April. Heck, the trees never even sprouted leaves until the third week of May!
Second, no one in Connecticut uses their front door for anything but welcoming trick-or-treaters and—from late November to December 24—as a package drop. Even this last use is fading into oblivion as delivery people no longer have time for the long sprint from the driveway to the front door. Now, they carefully lean the package up against the garage door, where you are sure to…run over it when you back out of the garage. Seems a bit passive aggressive, no?
Since I’ve been preoccupied with other things lately, February then March then April came and went without my ever giving the front door a second thought. In fact, it was only a week or two ago that I walked through the foyer and saw a shadow darkening the frosted windows of our door. With a start of embarrassment, I realized this foreboding shape was not a salesman, a tract-carrying religious caller, a political canvasser, or even a cookie-selling girl scout, but my own bedraggled wreath.
Quickly, I swung the door opened and lifted my hand to unhook it. When I did, though, I brushed aside the still vibrant red bow and discovered:
I give this mom props for finding a clever hiding place for her nest.
So the wreath stays—even though it’s so brittle it might spontaneously burst into flame and its piney aroma is as concentrated as a room air freshener—until these little guys are out of the nest and on their own.
What about the clings on the back door?
If the door does not sport these Jello-like decorations, the starlings, preening and swooping through the air, knock themselves silly flying into what they perceive to be a safe haven or receptive friends—not unlike Kanye West imploding at the Grammy/Billboard Music/MTV Video Music/American Music Awards….This year, though, I missed buying the spring clings, so the holiday ones stay in place until the summer ones appear in the stores.
Maybe I have been neglectful this year, but to all those who judge, I say, “Bah Humbug!”
We’ve all seen them—those sad, dejected puppy and kitty eyes gazing out at us from our TVs or computer screens begging us to care. Even the forlorn bunnies and ferrets can melt the iciest of hearts. Well…maybe not the ferrets. And when we hear of a shelter animal being adopted into a loving family after a hard knock life, we get a warm, fuzzy feeling and even think about adopting one ourselves.
In that same spirit, today I’d like you to consider another group of forgotten creatures—rescue plants. You’ve no doubt seen them at nurseries and other stores and thought, “Yikes!”: the droopy tomato plants left over after the initial rush of gardeners; the bruised and blighted roses; the trailing ivies with brown, curling leaves tangled like kite strings; the hard-bitten cactus with nothing left to lose that pricks you as you walk by. These poor souls deserve better than to be relegated to the compost pile. They need our help.
A rose still smells as sweet?
That’s why I’ve made it my mission to embrace as many rescue plants as I can. I believe that given enough light, loam, and love, any plant, however scraggly, can be restored to its original majesty and bring delight to any home.
I’ve found most of my rescues at Stop & Shop, waiting with hopeful expectation right inside the entrance. Since I hate to see any living creature caged up, I’ve been instinctively drawn to the sad spectacle of shriveled leaves clinging to the cruel bars of a shopping cart, and once I’ve become emotionally attached, how can I abandon them?
These roses deserve to live in the sun–not under fluorescent lights and behind bars.
I load them into the child seat of my cart, and they become my companions as I wait at the deli, pick up more macaroni and cheese (do people ever outgrow this delicacy?), hoof it to the far, far aisles for bread and milk, and trudge back to the front of the store for the garlic, cereal, honey, carrots…that I forgot the first time around (seriously, when did the grocery list become some kind of Mensa quiz?). By the time I finally exit the checkout lane and return to my car, these little guys have become my new best friends.
I’m proud to introduce a few of my new family members:
These were some of my first rescues. They brightened our kitchen for several months…
…now their once bedraggled leaves are shiny and strong.
These orchids had few leaves and dying blooms….
…Now they accompany me at my desk, basking in the glow of my lamp. They’ve acquired new leaves, and one has an ambitious little root that, curious, pokes its head over the rim of the pot. Every day it grows a little longer, a little braver.
New buds on a rescue orchid prove that beauty sprouts when love is given.
This is Buddy. When I discovered him at Stop & Shop last fall, he was pale and had raw patches…
…but a tiny shoot appeared…
…and it grew….
…and now look!
Buddy is one of the lucky ones. Won’t you join me to ensure no plant ever goes unloved again? Please open your heart and your window box, garden, desk, window sill, plant stand, or terrarium to a rescue plant. Remember:
By now you have probably seen the deplorable photograph of Steven Spielberg posing and grinning in front of the Triceratops he bagged. If you haven’t I urge you to Google it. I would display the photo here, but I don’t want to promote this kind of despicable “sport.” You know how it goes—the more publicity something gets, the more people take part, and before you know it we’ll be seeing photographs of George Lucas standing triumphantly over a deceased Wookie and a mounted Ork head on the wall of Peter Jackson’s man cave.
There are many theories as to why Spielberg killed the Triceratops. Was it for the thrill? Maybe. As the director or producer of such high-adrenaline hits as Raiders of the Lost Ark, Poltergeist, Back to the Future, Men in Black, and many others, he does seem exceptionally drawn to extreme adventure.
Or could he have done it for the money? It’s possible. He’s only a paltry 151 on the Forbes list of the richest Americans. One wise pundit noted that he probably did it for the horns. After all, the medicinal benefits of powdered Triceratops horns are well documented from cave drawings (∆∆∆ 🙂 ) to oral Neanderthal lore (“Hohgn, hohgn, hohgn, gooohgd) to the texts of medical professionals around the world (∆∆∆ 🙂 ). There’s no telling what kind of fortune could be amassed through the sale of these beneficial horns.
Perhaps the horns are what Spielberg was after, but I believe there is a more sinister explanation to the death of this beloved beast. Before we tackle that, however, we must address the elephant in the room (address it—not kill it). If dinosaurs are alive now—and they most clearly are (well, except for…)—where are they?
I believe we have all been duped for a very long time. While the official story is that the dinosaurs became extinct after an asteroid hit the earth in what was until recently called the Cretaceous-Tertiary Mass Extinction Event or K-T event, I think the evidence demonstrates that it is all an elaborate hoax.
Images from Wikipedia
Exhibit 1: While the name of the “asteroid hit” was once the Cretaceous-Tertiary Mass Extinction Event, the abbreviation is K-T event. Back in the day when Proofreaderasauruses still existed (I suppose they also were made extinct by an “asteroid hit?”), this kind of mistake would have been caught by a pterodactyl-eyed professional. Today in the Internet Period, however, errors like this roam both print and digital pages unchecked. Clearly, this “mass extinction” story was concocted recently.
Exhibit 2: The space-themed idea of the extinction event is no coincidence. I believe it came from the fertile mind of Steven Spielberg himself! Doesn’t it seem suspect that the extinction event is called K-T and one of Spielberg’s biggest theatrical releases is titled E-T? Obviously, Spielberg is up to his neck in the dinosaur extinction conspiracy. Flush with the success of his earlier movies Jaws and Close Encounters of the ThirdKind (does anyone else see the pattern?), he never thought anyone would make the connection between E-T and K-T, and he allowed himself this little slip in originality.
So this leads us to the big question: Where are the dinosaurs? I suggest that instead of becoming extinct, they have all been captured and are being held hostage to an insatiable movie industry. They are being exploited for our enjoyment. How else can you explain the plethora of dinosaur movies dating back to the very beginnings of cinema? Did they have CGI technology back then? No! If, as we have been led to believe, all these Tyrannosaurs, Triceratops, Stegosaurus, Pachycephalosaurus, Ankylosaurs, and more died out eons ago, how have directors and cinematographers created the video for every dino film from 1914’s Gertie the Dinosaur to 2014’s Transformers: Age of Extinction (produced by none other than Steven Spielberg)?
A glance at some earlier films exposes a dark chapter in our nation’s history—one that continues to this very day. You only have to watch a few moments to wonder: If dinosaurs are really as simple and violent as the movies portray, would their fight scenes be so stilted? So transparently choreographed? Or are these traits merely stereotypes fostered by the movie industry to line their pockets?
Before you watch, I must warn you that some of the content is graphic.
Gertie the Dinosaur by Winsor McCay – 1914:
Here Gertie suffers pain and humiliating dance moves just so we can have a good laugh.
The Dinosaur and the Missing Link by Willis O’Brien – 1917:
In addition to a fight scene between a gorilla and an Apatosaurus (beginning at 4:47), this film contains the first known video of break dancing (at 4:07). And wouldn’t it have been funnier if “the drawing room of the country home,” as it is described in the film, had cave drawings on the walls?
The Ghost of Slumber Mountain by Willis O’Brien – 1918:
In this long film, an uncle tells his two nephews the story of when he, a companion, and their dog went camping on Slumber Mountain. There the uncle visits the abandoned cabin of Mad Dick, which contains books and bones of prehistoric animals. It is also haunted by Mad Dick’s ghost. In the cabin the uncle discovers a strange pair of binos, through which he can see dinos. At the 10:14 mark, the dinosaurs make their appearance. At the 14:00 mark the Triceratops enters. The action really gets going at 15:30, when a T-Rex joins the scene (if dinosaurs actually moved this slowly, they really would be extinct). A terrible struggle ensues, and once again the Triceratops is the loser.
If you read closely, you will see that the last frame at 17:57 could have used a Proofreaderasaurus. You will also see that this film employs that old dinosaur of a plot device: “it was all a dream.” Of course, since this movie is from 1918, perhaps it was a comic revelation.
The Lost World by Harry Hoyt from a story by Arthur Conan Doyle – 1925:
In this first scene, the Triceratops gives the Allosaurus his just reward
But once again the unfortunate Triceratops, after tasting a brief moment of triumph, is himself tasted.
1 Million Years B.C. by Ray Harryhausen – 1966:
In this scene a Ceratosaurus battles a Triceratops while Raquel Welch (wearing “mankind’s first bikini!”) and John Richardson (in his most defining role!) look on in horror. The most shocking thing about this clip is: who knew they had Bumpits! hair enhancers 1 million years ago?
So you can see that throughout history dinosaurs have been forced to wander forbidding landscapes, don preposterous colors, talk in ridiculous voices, hawk gasoline, perform hard labor at stone quarries, fight and “kill” one another, and, in the ultimate degradation, act alongside Jeff Goldblum. And now with Jurassic World coming hot on the heels of Spielberg’s Transformers: Age of Extinction dinobot travesty, I think the dinosaurs have said, “Enough is enough!”
Images from Wikipedia; Flintstones clip art from picgifs.com
I think they threatened to boycott the filming. Perhaps they even broached collective bargaining. Some dinosaurs may have brains the size of walnuts, but they’re not stupid. Over the years they have earned the studios, directors, producers, and investors billions of dollars, and they deserve respect, not oblivion. Is that too much to ask?
The photograph says it all. Yes, it was. When the Triceratops came to negotiate with Spielberg in good faith, he met his end. He made the ultimate sacrifice fighting so that all his kind could live a better life. Well, I say, “You go, dinos! Let’s see them make another dinosaur movie without you.” Won’t you join me in the quest to Free the Dinosaurs!? Don’t let Tricee have died in vain.
January 1st ushered in a new wave of laws across the country, many of which involve distracted driving. It’s no different here in Connecticut, where our politicians have begun cracking down on unsafe motoring practices.
One such law aimed at eliminating a common winter hazard states that drivers must now remove all snow and ice from the hood, roof, and trunk of their car or face a fine of $250 to $1,250. This is a good thing. After a snowstorm here, it’s not unusual to find yourself driving video-game style, swerving left and right, to avoid the home-plate-sized chucks of ice launched from the vehicle in front of you or plowing ahead temporarily blinded by a Star Wars-brilliant blast of the white stuff or both at once.
Image courtesy WTNH
That’s why I’m glad to see our representatives finally recognized these obstacles for what they are: a detriment to maintaining optimum commuting speed. I mean, how can drivers tool along at the unposted but generally agreed upon 80 miles an hour when they have to worry about an unexpected avalanche? 75 maybe, but 80? no way.
While this law is a good beginning, it doesn’t go nearly far enough. Due to the quirks of our highways and byways—from super raceway I-95 to the narrow, hilly, winding back roads—there are many other harrowing and absurd driving distractions I’d like to see our state government deal with. One concerns Connecticut’s diverse population.
On any day at any given time, you may encounter on our roadways deer, chipmunks, turkeys, groundhogs, raccoons, possums, crows, seagulls, and of course squirrels. Each of these denizens of our great state has their own rules for the road, but I think it’s time for them to be rounded up and formally instructed by the DMV. Their punishment for noncompliance? No free access to bird feeders ought to put a little fear into ‘em.
Chipmunks, however, get a free pass. They already know how to run pell-mell across the road without looking right or left to avoid an oncoming car. Deer, on the other hand, would need to take the advanced course as they seem to have a “surprise party” mentality to the road—hiding patiently in the woods and then leaping out in front of unsuspecting drivers. Groundhogs and possums? Come on, guys. Let’s hustle! You can waddle when you get home.
After taking the Advanced Safety Course, this deer learned the rules of the road.
Birds may take special handling. The big ones—crows, seagulls, and geese—know they can bench press your car if they have to. And they know you know. So they take their sweet time strutting across the road, occasionally pausing to toss you a haughty look before finishing their stroll. I once even had an extra supercilious seagull bombard the road ahead of me with clam shells that broke upon contact. I could hear his echoing laughter all over the neighborhood as I drove into my mother’s driveway with a flat tire.
And then there are the squirrels. What can I say? Just make up your mind already!! They start out. They stop. They go again. They dart to the middle of the road and sit up. They survey their surroundings. They quiver and sniff. Aghh, a car! They look. They run. But which way? Back—no, forward. Forward? Maybe back is better. Their talents are truly lost in the wild. They should run for office.
But animals are not the only trouble makers you’ll spy through your windshield. There are all those other nut cases behind the wheel—or handlebars—as the case may be. One day last summer during a pleasant drive along Route 9 to Barnes & Noble, Jenny’s and my witty banter and rockin’ tunes were suddenly eclipsed by a full moon. Passing by—way too slowly—was a motorcyclist whose pants were so low we could tell he didn’t listen to his mother’s advice to wear clean underwear or even any underwear at all.
As with any eye-searing astrological event, I warned Jenny to avert her eyes, but too late. If we’d had a piece of cardboard with a pin hole in it, we could have used that, but lacking this we both suffered damaging effects that linger in our nightmares to this very day. Thus, I’d be the first to support a law banning such posterior posturing. In fact, I can see the digital billboard now—COVER YOUR TAIL OR GO TO JAIL.
Maybe that motto could replace the outdated DRIVE SOBER OR GET PULLED OVER signs. Why do I say outdated? Because Wisconsin has found a way to accommodate drinking drivers, and I’m sure other states will soon follow suit. Recently, Governor Scott Walker signed into law “Peddle Pubs.” Yes, one of Hammacher Schlemmer’s “The Unexpected” and one of my very own “If I Win the Mega-Millions Lottery Wish List” items (https://www.facebook.com/kathryn.f.carroll/media_set?set=a.10201524979110529.1073741830.1358367119&type=1).
Peddle pubs are rolling bars powered by 16 happy imbibers, eight on either side of a gleaming counter where they can rest their elbows and their pints while making their way around town. Perhaps these pubs could even hang dart boards from the roof to further entertain their customers and provide a bit of excitement for passersby. My fear, though, is that these vehicles will just become the human equivalent of the squirrel. Getting 16 bleary peddlers to agree on one direction? “Let’s go right.” “No, left!” “Straight ahead, straight ahead!” “Backward!” “To a restroom!”
You know, now that I think about it, until the Connecticut General Assembly resolves these many road risks, I’m going to walk.
Wit Love, Kath 