Yup, Saving the Skies from Ninjas

Prepping for my trip to NYC, I checked the Transit Authority's website. I think you all will be relieved to know that billy clubs, nunchakus, and throwing stars must be in checked bagage, not carried on board. But what can they do about my fists of fury?!

I Laughed Aloud...

...At this poem by Billy Collins, from his latest collection, The Trouble With Poetry. I have no formal permission (or any form, actually) to reprint it here, and will remove it immediately if asked, but I think it is too wonderful not to share.

The Introduction

I don't think this next poem
needs any introduction--
it's best to let the work speak for itself.

Maybe I should just mention
that whenever I use the word five,
I'm referring to that group of Russian composers
who came to be known as "The Five,"
Balakirev, Moussorgsky, Borodin--that crowd.

Oh--and Hypsicles was a Greek astronomer.
He did something with the circle.

That's about it, but for the record,
"Grimke" is Angelina Emily Grimke, the abolitionist.
"Imroz" is that little island near the Dardanelles.
"Monad"--well, you all know what a monad is.

There could be a little problem
with mastaba, which is one of those Egyptian
above-ground sepulchres, sort of brick and limestone.

And you're all familiar with helminthology?
It's the science of worms.

Oh, and you will recall that Phoebe Mozee
is the real name of Annie Oakley.

Other than that, everything should be obvious.
Wagga Wagga is in New South Wales.
Rhyolite is that soft volcanic rock.
What else?
Yes, meranti is a type of timber, in tropical Asia I think,
and Rahway is just Rahway, New Jersey.

The rest of the poem should be clear.
I'll just read it and let it speak for itself.

It's about the time I went picking wild strawberries.

It's called "Picking Wild Strawberries."

Isn't that marvelous? I think it perfectly captures The Artist--full of self-aggrandisement while struggling to communicate simple truth in new ways (new ways which can "only" be told through obscure cultural and historical references). And, of course, being a music nerd, I was stoked that Collins' first reference was "The Five" (whose inclusion, I have already convinced myself, adds to the poem because they were largely untrained musicians, grand experimentors of their time).

It's Sunny Today...

...Which gives me great, warm, fuzzy feelings after all the rain. Yet I don't seem to be able to wax poetic on the subject. But I thought I would put something positive down.

Basically, I don't want y'all to think I'm just a whiner.

Mmmm....sun on my face, not too hot, not too cold, little wind...sometimes there's a lot to be said for mediocrity.

Science From The Gut: Female/Male, Part I

I just read an article on CNN.com about the killing of a female Amur leopard in eastern Russia; she was shot in the tail bone, then bludgeoned to death. The estimated population of these Cats is a mere 25-34 remaining in the wild, and only seven (now, six) of these are female. Apparently, in times of stress, only male cubs are conceived.

Now, most of you know how I feel about cats (see my sidebar: Things That Are Never Cool), so you know that was not what piqued my interest. And although my ideological self is appalled by the environmental damage (save the earth, we are God's stewards, blah blah blah), what grasps me is the fact* that breeding during stress results in male offspring.

Obviously, the production of solely male cubs is meant to ensure greater protection [more + muscles = more muscles]. Biology, however, is no match for Nature--and the current endangerment of the species [endangerment = humans are cool!] means that its own protection mechanism is its death warrant. Survival of the fittest, muthafuxr. You just sit there and think about that for a bit. I'm going to go make myself some coffee.

Coming soon: the part where I take wild stabs about how Amur leopard biology casts light on human gender issues.

*Look it up, it's real. You can Google that shizz.

It's Raining Today...

...Which shouldn't be a surprise: springtime in Portland is known for its dampness. What makes me grumpy is the fact that Nature has been jerking us around this Spring. Mornings are tantalizingly sunny, the kind of sun that makes one plan all sorts of afternoon activities; and then the rain happens--clouds blow in from somewhere cruel and I suddenly need to don a sweater over my optimistic T-shirt.

Rain makes me want to hibernate. I want to spread out in the middle of my bed, duvet tucked up to my ears, and drowse. The thrumming of rain-on-roof gentles my mind; it's the perfect napping season.

Anyway, the sun is never out long enough to dry my backyard and let me deal with dandelions or dog crap.

Happy Birthday, Bear!

My littlest brother celebrates 26 years on earth this day. He's a cop-dude in Atlanta, GA now, but I can remember when he was Batman, complete with cape and mask.

May your 27th year be the best one yet, li'l bro! Love, Biffy

P.S. Embarassing pics to come, just as soon as I scan them :)

My Bubbly Hubby

I love my husband, Micah. Just now he came into the room singing "La Calunnia" from Rossini's Il Barbiere di Siviglia. He has been practicing this aria for months, preparing for a competition in the nearing future. What made this occasion special, however, was his transference of the piece from an early 19th-century opera house to 1970s disco lounge, complete with bobbing hip action. Opera nerdly perfection.

Impetus

Blogging is like wearing your underwear outside your clothes. Or maybe it's like wearing only your underwear--no clothes, but not quite nude. Either way, I guess I am too much of an emotional exhibitionist not to blog.

Of course, I am nervous. My palms are sweating as I type. I am comforted, though, by my belief that everyone is neurotic in their own special way. I can only hope that is not cold comfort.

So. Blogging. Hmmm. What do I hope to accomplish? Well, it's a central spot to jabber about things that influence my world view, hence the title: The Blatherscope. Think of it as a kaleidescope...a kaleidescope of, um, blather.