Month: November 2022

We had some wild times in Alaska.

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11/30/22

Earlier this week in a post titled, “Real Estate the Hard Way,” I talked about the great work Donna does helping first-time homebuyers find their dream home. As evidence of that, she told me this morning that our friend Riley closed on her house yesterday, a deal that Donna helped broker. Riley is one of Leah’s high school friends and works for the National Park Service. How the two of them convinced Donna to fly us across the country for an Alaskan vacation in 2019 I will never know.  But photos don’t lie. We were there. Although there was a point at which I feared we might not be coming back with Donna.

It would take a week’s worth of posts to retell our adventures in Denali National Park and Preserve, where Riley worked at the time, but I’ll just start with that infamous day that shook Donna up so badly. The entire week had been rainy, but the tours that take you into Denali are led by a hardy bunch. Nothing bothers those Alaskans. Our bus driver was particularly stoic. As we rose up the mountainside on a narrow dirt road without guardrails, she couldn’t have been calmer. Donna, on the other hand, couldn’t have been more unnerved. She pulled her jacket hood tight over her head and hid her face with a map.

“Let me know when it’s over,” she said to me.

I tried not to laugh. But like I said, photos don’t lie (see below). Meanwhile, our bus chugged along at a modest speed, allowing other buses and trucks going the other way to pass us. Inches separated us from the rockface. If Donna was freaking out about our ascent into Denali, when our bus was traveling on the inside of the road, how would she react on our way down, when we’d be on the outside looking down into the valley? We would just have to cross that bridge when we came to it. In the meantime, we saw so many spectacles as we got further into the park.

Every time someone on the bus spotted wildlife, the bus driver stopped to allow photos. There were bears everywhere. The other animal we saw in plentiful herds were hikers. They seemed oblivious to the dangers all around them. The bus driver would flag down the hikers and offer them rides, but the most useful thing he offered them was information.

“I just passed a bear headed your way. He may have caught your scent.”

The grass was tall and the hills rolled in waves, so I can imagine being very close to a bear and not being aware of it. Donna’s eyes bugged out at me from the hood of her jacket.

“Are those people crazy?”

“Yes,” I said. “If someone gets mauled, I’ll tell you when to look away.”

And onward we trekked, stopping at various waystations for souvenirs or photo ops. All day the clouds hid Mt. Denali from us, but we enjoyed the opportunity to be in such a wild place. Donna and I have spent most of our lives growing up in New York. Prior to arriving in Alaska, the NYC subway was the wildest place we’d been. We were both charmed and alarmed by Denali. But nothing could’ve prepared us for our trip out of the park.

We heard the bus driver chatting on her CB radio. She sounded annoyed. She informed us that there would be a delay leaving the park.

“There’s been a landslide at Polychrome Pass. They’re trying to clear it up. We could be delayed.”

As I feared, descending the mountain pass was a more daunting experience.  Donna’s fingernails dug into my arm, and at one point I thought she’d passed out as we inched along, our driver fielding reports from a bus in front of us.

“They’re closing the road? Were at?”

The thought that we might be trapped on the only road in or out of the park was chilling. But our driver remained as cool as a cucumber. This wasn’t her first landslide in Denali. We stopped as bulldozers worked the road in front of us.  Finally, we were cleared to proceed.

As we exited the park, we heard that the road was being shut down. Buses that had been behind ours had been forced to turn around. Night was falling and all I could think about were those people, forced back up the mountain. I don’t think Donna could’ve endured that. I don’t think she could’ve survived being among the bears at night. Heck, we were safe in our cabin, and I couldn’t even get her to lower her hood. It was hours before we got word that all the buses had arrived back from the mountain safely.

The next few days did wonders to Donna’s nerves. We sampled the locale cuisine and bounced along on a wild ATV ride. And then the sun popped out from the clouds. We got our first look at majestic Mt. Denali. It stood off at a distance, beckoning us.

“Come be explorers and live in the wild.”

Donna politely declined.

“Just point me to the nearest pizza shop.”

Denali National Park and Preserve is only one of the parks our friend Riley writes about on her website. For a complete list of National Parks and information on planning a trip to a National Park, please go to https://parksexpert.com/.

#someexperiencesshouldonlybehadonce

A good excuse to walk around in the dark.

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11/29/22

The Asian Lantern Festival: Into the Wild is advertised as the only event in Central Florida celebrating the culture, art, and beauty of traditional lantern festivals throughout Asia. It’s also one of the darkest events. So, not only are the lanterns aesthetically beautiful, they are navigationally essential, providing that perfect balance of form versus function. The lanterns lulled me into a state of serenity. But the stars of the show were the animal displays, which were breathtaking.

And then I heard a blood-curdling scream off in the darkness, which really took my breath away. Naturally, I jumped.

That’s the way darkness works. We fear what we can’t see. It’s a defense mechanism. The more fearful we are, the more vigilant we are against possible danger. I looked at Donna, she looked at me. We both wondered if we could outrun each other?

What was that? We said it at the same time. The scream, which was 100 percent animalistic, vibrated the hair on my arms. A short distance away, two Sanford Zoo employees offered reassuring smiles to passersby. Then again, the smiles could’ve been terrified grins in the darkness. But from what I could see, none of the men appeared to be armed with tranquilizer guns. (Has no one seen Jurassic Park?) I asked one of them where the scream had come from and why it had come at all.

“That’s the amur leopard.”

He looked over his shoulder.

“He’s back there.”

Only a thin barrier of lanterns separated “back there” from up here. I didn’t like that. The leopard had sounded very annoyed. The amur leopard is, unfortunately, also critically endangered, with fewer than 70 believed to be remaining in their natural habitat.  And we’d just disturbed it.

It’s easy to forget that the Asian Lantern Festival takes place inside a zoo because visitors don’t see any of the animals. They are sequestered away from the public while soft music and the smell of General Tso’s chicken floats from the food stands to the parking lot. But there was something else in the air too, smells that said the empty enclosures we’d passed had been in use a short time before our arrival. Maybe they hadn’t even been hosed down yet. All around us, animals from around the world were trying to catch some shut-eye while we talked excitedly about illuminated animal sculptures.

But we just couldn’t help it. The Asian Lantern Festival features more than 30 larger-than-life displays depicting animals, plants, and traditional Chinese elements, like lanterns and dragons. I took photos of every animal I saw: pandas, and blowfish, and sea lions. But a leopard display was noticeably absent.

I heard the leopard scream again, still ticked off, maybe about the lack of representation. (I didn’t see any big cat displays.) Thank God for the light shed by the lanterns. Even a leopard would have a hard time sneaking up on us. Our prehistoric ancestors would’ve killed for a good lantern. It might’ve come in handy when venturing out of the cave for a fistful of water. Meanwhile, Donna and I won’t even splurge on wine when we stop at a concession stand. We stalk the stand for five minutes before deciding that $10 a cup is too great a hurdle. How times have changed.

#Sandythesandhillcranewasn’trepresentedeither

Back in the day, sidecars were all the rage.

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11/28/22

In yesterday’s post I presented the tale of a bandit with tons of gall, and the ice-cream clerk who took him down. After the tale, I posted the following question: Fable or fact? The newspaper clipping above reveals the truth of the matter.

The story was relayed to me by my good friend Jack Recker, who is the son of the ice-cream clerk who was robbed in Covington, KY in 1936, not once but twice (and nearly a third time) by the same robber, whom the above clipping refers to as an “armed bandit.” I would’ve called him an obsessed bandit, considering how fixated he was on repeatedly robbing the same store. I am, of course, infinitely grateful that the bandit didn’t pull the trigger on any of the occasions he robbed the ice-cream store or I wouldn’t have my friend Jack.

Those of you who read yesterday’s post know the story only gets weirder, with Jack’s dad helping to bring the perpetrator to justice when he returned to the scene of the crime while riding in a policeman’s motorcycle sidecar. The mention of a sidecar probably struck readers as odd yesterday, but what self-respecting cop on the beat in Covington, KY in 1936 would’ve been caught without one?

Sidecars have a rich history in America dating back to the early 1900s when Harley-Davidson began to fit frames with sidecar mounting lugs to their motorcycles. In 1914 the first sidecar was made available in catalogs. A few years later, the U.S. Army ordered 12 Harley-Davidson motorcycles with machine gun-mounted sidecars for General Pershing’s 1916 Mexican Excursion.

But getting back to the story, the newspaper clipping below sadly reports that the ice-cream bandit, a Mr. Clem Richards, evaded justice by claiming he was falsely charged. (“Your honor, I’m lactose-intolerant. I would never have gone into a store like that.”) Mr. Richards’ attempt to collect $10K in damages really speaks to his dedication to larceny and would’ve driven Covington’s ice-cream industry to financial ruin. Thank God for the two-fisted might of that Kenton Circuit Court jury who returned a fair and just verdict. (“We the jury, deny Mr. Richards’ suit on the grounds that ‘Stupid is as stupid does,’ your honor.”)

I do, however, wish I understood why an ice-cream store would’ve been open at midnight in 1936. Those must’ve been some wild times in Covington, KY. I also wonder why the above article gives Jack’s dad’s address. Did they think the acquitted robber would have no interest in knowing the address of the person who turned him in?

And, lastly, l wish I knew whether the felonious Mr. Richards ever mended his ways. It would be ironic if his children went on to form an philanthropic organization in support of startup ice cream and frozen yogurt companies nationwide. I think that would be justice.

#freeicecreamdayshouldnotbecelebratedatgunpoint

The turns and twists of this tale render it unreal. So, is it?

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11/27/22

One of my favorite shows on NPR is called “Wait, Wait. Don’t Tell Me…” During one part of the show, guest speakers present three far-out, hard-to-believe stories to a phone-in contestant who’s tasked to figure out which of the three stories is true. Each of the stories is as detailed and detached from reality as the next, so it’s never a simple proposition.

I have one of those types of tales to tell. Your job, dear audience, if you decide to accept it, is to figure out: A) Did I make it up? B) Is it true? C) Did I get it from NPR (whether true or not)?

Here it goes:

An 18-year-old is working the midnight shift behind the counter at the Monarch Ice Cream Company store when a man enters the happy creamery. When asked what flavor ice cream he’d like, he pulls out a gun and indicates he likes his ice cream with a taste of steel. The clerk empties the cash register, and the dessert-averse bandit departs with his loot.

The clerk is traumatized by the incident but is stout of heart. He returns to his job instead of getting another job (any other job) as his friends urge him. Two weeks later while he’s behind the counter again, head down, focused on the frosty treats in his charge, a voice addresses him. He looks up to find a gun in his face. It’s déjà vu all over again.

Same man. Same gun. Same outcome. Robbery number two. There’s only so much an 18 year old can take. But this young man is no quitter.

He can’t stop seeing that big gun in his face, but off to work he goes again. But before he gets there, Lady Luck shines down on him. He spots the man who’s twice robbed him. On this occasion, the man is standing outside the store, casing the joint, most likely wondering where his favorite ice cream clerk is. That’s when our hero springs into action. He can’t let the robber pull off a third robbery.

Racing to get help before the ridiculously repetitive robber can strike again, he encounters a police officer mere blocks from the store.

The police offer is on a motorcycle….

Great.

…with an attached sidecar.

Huh?

The officer gestures to the sidecar and says, “Hop in.”

How often in life do you get an invitation like that? How often do you get to ride in a motorcycle sidecar and bust up a crime like Batman and Robin? Our hero clerk can’t resist and off they ride to the scene of the impending crime.

Imagine the look on the robber’s face when he hears the roar of the motorcycle. Imagine his surprise when it pulls into view, officer at the helm and the robber’s favorite ice cream clerk in the sidecar. Caught red-handed, the robber groans like a kid who’s made one too many trips to the ice cream store. And nine out of 10 times, this is where the story ends.

But what happens to bandits who don’t plead guilty to their crimes? What happens when the bad guy says he has an alibi and witnesses to boot? Imagine the surprise of the community when the robber flips the script and promptly sues the city to the tune of $10K in damages for false arrest? Does crime pay in this tale of the redundant robber?

Tune in tomorrow for the answer to this and other scintillating questions. But first, however, revisit that question I asked earlier. Did I make this story up? Is it true? Have you just been entertained by fable or fact?

#Iloveagoodcrimedrama

Everyone dreams of moving on up.

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11/26/22

This tale takes us south, to South Daytona Beach to be exact, where even the names of the streets give evidence to Florida’s Southern allegiance, although Florida can hardly be called the South. A frightened dog barks from behind a fence, telling me what I already know. It’s too hot a day for a stranger to be hanging out on the block. But at least the large oak tree I’m parked under provides shade and the breeze teases with promise. I won’t be here long, doggy.

The wood-frame house I’m parked in front of is for sale. Where can homebuyers still find a deal in Florida? Try right here. Try right now. Try finding a house for less. In this neighborhood, houses have been selling for less than $100K. Daytona Beach can be a little rough (it’s ranked among the top 9 most dangerous cities in Florida). But Donna services the real-estate needs of the people. And on this street the owner of this house has a big-time need. She wants out. She wants a chance at another life. And Donna wants to give it to her.

She’s done it before. As her trusty sidekick and chauffeur, I’ve seen her come to listing appointments like this one and work miracles. She likes to think of herself as a matchmaker. Someone wants to move on. Someone wants to move in. Houses need soulmates too. Donna matches everybody up. But sometimes it takes some tears. Sometimes it takes hard work. Sometimes it takes a miracle.

Not far from where I’m sitting, Donna performed one of her greatest miracles. It was about five years ago, when the housing climate was a lot different than it is now, and programs to help first-time homebuyers were a real thing. The man who came to Donna for help, however, looked like something out of a Brother’s Grimm fairy tale, due to being blind in one eye. He had nothing to speak of in the bank. No collateral. No down payment. And he rented a trailer in one of the worst parts of town, where the drug dealers and the street walkers hawked their wares nightly, and the sound of gunfire was a regular occurrence. But he was just another day at the office for Donna.

“I want to give my two daughters a better life,” he said. “I share custody with my ex-wife. But I can’t have them living here with me. Not like this. I need something better.”

Donna called around for him. Before she could show him homes, he needed to be preapproved. To do that he needed to show he was worth taking a risk on. He couldn’t read or write, but he filed his taxes every year, and his disability checks were a steady source of income. Because he didn’t drive, we drove him to every house showing. Donna even drove him to the I.R.S. office to get copies of his tax returns. He bowed his head each time he got into our car and thanked us profusely.

During one house showing, just as he was about to step out of the car, he made a serious confession to us.

“I’m carrying a gun,” he said.

I locked eyes with him through the rearview mirror. You never know the way the day is going to go, I thought. Donna was much more relaxed.

“You know, you can’t go into this house with a gun, right?”

“I know, I know,” he said apologetically. “I just wanted to let you know I had it. It’s in a holster under my shirt. Also, one more thing….”

Donna cast a patient nod at him.

“Yes, go ahead.”

He swallowed hard.

“I have another gun strapped to my ankle.”

Donna continued to nod as if what he’d said was perfectly logical. But, still, she had to know.

“And why do you carry TWO guns?”

He gave Donna a puzzled look.

“Heck, in case someone takes the first one off of me. You have to be prepared.”

I shuddered to think what some people grow used to. Our friend strapped on his guns in the morning the same way he pulled on his pants, without thinking about it. But he left his guns under the car seat when he went inside with Donna. I would have a lot of explaining to do if the police found two guns in my car.

Long story short, thanks to Donna’s heroic efforts, our down-and-out friend became a homeowner a short time later. No more living in shame and hopefully a better life for his daughters. And all it took was a dedicated realtor like my wife. You’re a gift to the world, honey.

I’m still parked under the oak trees and the dog is still barking as Donna comes out of her listing appointment. She’s all smiles, so I assume all went well. She’ll help this person like you did the last. And I get to witness it all.

P.S. Donna just looked up the value of the home where our gun-toting friend still resides. It’s worth twice what he paid for it.

#therightrealtorcanworkmiracles

Wakanda Forever, Avatar, and other movies as good as the one I made.

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11/25/22

As I watched Wakanda Forever the other day, I marveled at the production value, the superb character development, the emotional musical score. It reminded me of another movie I liked, something also Oscar-worthy. My mind scrambled, as it often does, to remember. Then it hit me. The movie I was thinking about was the one I’d made in the late ’80s.

Oh, yeah. The Great Outlaw Caper, the movie I made about my softball days. I wrote, directed, produced, and sound engineered that one in record time. But the world wasn’t ready for it, I said to myself. So, I put it in a safe place. Hmm. I wonder where that safe place is.

Anyway, we had an enjoyable time at Wakanda Forever, the sequel to Black Panther and a tribute to that first movie in so many ways. It’s going to be a blockbuster movie, mostly for Marvel fans, but there’s enough in the movie to entertain even the most skeptical viewer. Blockbusters are so rare nowadays, outside of a Marvel movie, of course. Speaking of anti-Marvel sentiment, did you know that Quintin Tarantino said he would never direct a Marvel movie?

“…you have to be a hired hand to do those things. I’m not a hired hand. I’m not looking for a job.”

But there’s another director who’s got a good job, and you can count on him to score big every time.  I’m talking about James Cameron. Before Wakanda Forever, we watched a preview of his next movie, which opens December 16. It’s called Avatar: Way of the Water. But they could’ve called it Blue-topia, or Blue Bayou, or Rhapsody in Blue and we’d all still want to see it. That’s what blockbusters do to us. They make us want to bust our blocks as we run to the nearest theater. James Cameron has had us running to the theater for years now to see movies like Aliens, Terminator, and Avatar.

He also did this little flick called Titanic. Never heard of it? If you thought the coming attractions for the new Avatar movie looked wet, there’s not a dry eye in the house at the end of Titanic. Literally, nothing is dry. As an avid cruiser, I understand why Titanic is never shown aboard cruise ships. Bad karma, I suppose. Also, I’m sure the cruise ship band doesn’t want you thinking they’re going to continue playing if the ship sinks. Those instrument cases are very buoyant I hear. They’re also airtight. Speaking of airtight, I remember sealing the movie I made in a container of some sort. Was it a time capsule? Did I bury it? No worries. It’ll come to me.

Now where was I? Oh, Titanic. Did you know that Donna has never seen Titanic. She refuses to. I think she could start her own TikTok challenge about it. Maybe she could challenge people to sit in front of their TVs while the movie is on with their eyes closed saying, “la la la la la la la la la la la la la la…” (Anyone who hums “My Heart Will Go On” automatically loses.)

Titanic is three hours and 14 minutes long. That’s a lot of la-la-la-la’s. But I think Donna could do it. She’s a very willful person. Do not challenge her on anything.

Me: Donna, you know you’re not supposed to eat peanuts.

Donna: You saying I’m banned from eating peanuts…in my own house, no less.

Me (getting a little scared): No, I just meant that they’re not good for you. You get those terrible stomach aches afterward.

Donna: So, you’re saying that if I grabbed one right now, you’d slap it out of my hand?

Me: Um.

Donna: You’re saying that you would reach out and disarm me of any peanuts I might be holding?

Me: Um.

Donna: You’re saying that you would physically restrain me from eating peanuts that I purchased with my own money?

I usually run out of the room at that point and hide in a closet. Wait. Speaking of closets. Is that where I hid my one and only VHS copy of The Great Outlaw Caper?

I’ve got to get that thing digitized. I’ve got to get that thing out to the public. I can’t let the James Camerons of the world dominate the cinematic conversation. I’ve got to track that thing down and have it ready to preview at the Cannes Film Festival.

But first I may have to get Donna some TUMS. For some reason, her stomach is hurting.

#Ireallydohavetolocatethatmovie

Take the day off to give thanks and be with family.

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11/24/22

Here’s what The History Channel has to say about what we know and don’t know about how Thanksgiving got started.

Haste makes waste and leaves a bloody trail.

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11/23/22

My shed is crammed with lawn mowers the way Jay Leno’s garage is crammed with classic cars. But maybe I shouldn’t compare myself to Jay Leno. Sure, he got injured tooling around in his garage, but I’m not half as clumsy as he is. But maybe I shouldn’t say that I’m not clumsy. I just have the occasional mishap whenever I rush around. But maybe I shouldn’t say occasional… Ah, this intro is taking too long.

My point is that my lawn has been looking bad for weeks. In Florida the grass grows incredibly fast in the summer (sometimes you have to mow twice a week). But that growth comes to a grinding halt in the fall and winter, which encourages a lot of bad mowing habits, namely not mowing the lawn. I’ve got more weeds than grass right now. It looks so bad that even Sandy the Sandhill Crane refuses to eat off it. (Yeah, the bird has come back. More on that later.) I have to get out there and start mowing, but I’ve been procrastinating. In my mind I keep saying to myself, “Just mow it fast to get it over with.”

But I can’t do that, not fast anyway. No, the last time I did a fast mow was a disaster. I remember it like it was yesterday. I was standing around, trying to look helpful, while Donna was in the kitchen, happily chatting away about our upcoming trip to DC.

“Oh, it’s going to be so great. We’ll walk to all the museums, then we’ll walk to the Mall, then we’ll walk down to that spot where they have the cherry blossoms…. So, don’t forget to pack your good sneakers.”

She may’ve actually said SHE was going to pack my good sneakers. Donna is a very take-charge kind of person. But what I heard above everything else was that I should be prepared to walk. There was going to be little time for sitting around on the trip, which is a shame because sometimes I like to sit around.

I looked at the lawn and said, “I better hurry up and mow that lawn while Donna is packing. If I do it before she asks me to, I’ll get credit for the idea.”

So, off I rushed. Zip, zip, zip. Mulch, mulch, mulch. Snap, crackle, pop. Wait. What was that pop? Grass is not supposed to pop. I had been mowing my grass in my usual manner, maneuvering the mower like it was a vacuum cleaner when I got to a corner, you know, with a pushing and pulling motion. Toward me, away from me, toward me, away from me…. The sound I’d heard had come during a toward-me motion. Had my foot gone under the lawn mower? I shoved the machine away from me and waited for the pain to catch up with the shock.

I refused to look down. In fact, I looked everywhere but down. I looked up at the beautiful, sunny sky. I looked around at the excellent job I’d done mowing the rest of the lawn. I even looked through one of the windows of the house to see where Donna might be. Finally, I looked down. My right sneaker had a tear and a dark mark across the big toe.

I was so relieved to find everything still attached. But I felt pain. Okay, okay, I said. That’s a sign that something’s wrong. I must’ve bruised myself or something. So, why did my foot feel squishy? I checked to see where Donna was one last time, then moved to a location away from the house where I could assess the damage. When I removed my sneaker, I noticed that my white sock had been replaced by a slightly more colorful sock. Okay, okay, That’s another sign that something’s wrong. I’m not supposed to be bleeding. I kept track of all the warning signs while I decided what to do next. Should I tell Donna? I thought that was a silly idea. Instead, I finished mowing the lawn and put the demon lawn mower away.

Then I walked into the house.

“Why are you walking funny?”

“Am I? Or is it more of a sexy swagger that you can’t get enough of….”

“You’ve hurt yourself, haven’t you?”

“Ha! The ideas that pop into your head. I just don’t know where you get them from. But, yes, I think we should go to the hospital right away!”

Donna took one look at my tattered sneaker and slapped my down into a chair. She stabilized my bloody big toe, which had lost its nail and had taken on a purplish hue, and then cleaned and bandaged the wound.

“How long were you planning to hide this?”

I shrugged.

“Labor Day maybe. I hadn’t thought it through.”

The X-rays at the hospital revealed a broken toe. No amputation required. But I did have to wear a special open-toe shoe until it healed. My relationship with lawn mowers hasn’t been the same since. On the plus side, our trip to DC that year went off without a hitch. Due to the broken toe, however, I did a lot more sitting around than I would’ve liked. So, the next time you think you might enjoy more time sitting around, be careful what you ask for.

#mytoebone’sconnectedtomyclumsybone

We spent three hours with an injured sandhill crane.

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11/22/22

Yesterday afternoon we had an unusual visitor. Sandhill cranes aren’t a rare site in Florida, but this one was different. Let’s just call her Sandy the Sandhill Crane. We saw her on the side of our house, doing her best impersonation of a flamingo with one foot in the air. That was unusual enough, but she also made no effort to flee from us when we approached her.

Anyone familiar with sandhill cranes knows their typical behavior is to search the ground for food. They walk slowly, planting one foot at a time, doing a slow motion surveillance of whatever is around them. But Sandy remained as still as a statue, holding that back leg up. As we edged closer, she met our gaze, then looped her neck backward. With her bill, she tapped insistently on her back leg as if to say, “Instead of staring at me, could you do something about this broken leg? I called 911 hours ago.”

We hated the idea that a car might’ve hit her, so we jumped into action. Here’s a timeline of the events:

2:20 PM: Donna called a professional animal rescue center, who professionally told her there was nothing they could do for Sandy. They advised us to offer her food and water. Annoyed that Sandy was being abandoned, we set up a picnic for her instead. If this was going to be her last meal, it was going to be fit for a queen.

2:30 PM: I tried my hand at a phone call and called a different agency. Someone from Animal Control promised they would come right away. I started filming Sandy. She flapped a single wing at us to tell us she didn’t feel like being a YouTube star. She was also telling us she couldn’t fly.

3:00 PM: Animal Control arrived just as we were losing hope. They sized Sandy up and down and said, “Yup. That back leg is a goner. They best thing we can do is provide her some comfort and then euthanize her…if you want.”

How would euthanizing Sandy provide any comfort? Why couldn’t they have told us they don’t rehabilitate birds when we had them on the phone? And why were we being provided options like Sandy had DNR orders and we were her next of kin? We were told that Sandy’s best chance was to mend herself before nightfall. After nightfall she would most likely be devoured by predators and become part of the circle of life. Animal Control is really no good at dispensing comfort.

3:30 PM: Donna drove to the supermarket to buy more food for Sandy and to make her last hours as “comfortable” as possible. I took more photos and told Sandy I would never forget her. She didn’t appear impressed by my sentiment. Her eyes continued to say, “Fix my damn leg!”

4:00 PM: Donna returned from the store with everything Sandy might’ve bought herself if she weren’t a bird and she could actually walk down the aisles picking stuff out. Sandy wolfed everything down. Our neighbor came over and offered Sandy some Cheerios. A short time later, Sandy hopped a few steps.

4:00 PM to 5:00 PM: We discussed how we could help Sandy survive the night. We decided that we needed a cage and more Cheerios. A prosthetic bird leg would also be helpful. We went back inside the house and told the dogs they were getting a new sister.

“You’re going to love Sandy, guys. She’s a couple of feet taller than you, and she doesn’t get around very well. But you’ll love sharing the backyard with her. No, Pete, we don’t want you to chase her away like you do the squirrels.”

5:20 PM: As Donna was deciding whether Sandy would need any blankets, she saw Sandy hop into the air and fly across our cul-de-sac. We ran outside. The sky was a heavenly mix of gray and pastel colors. Just above the treetops, Sandy dipped a wing at us and took off to find real help.

I hope she finds it. I hope she can survive in the condition that she’s in. Animal Control told us that maimed sandhill cranes can still live comfortable lives. There she goes using that word “comfort” again. I hope Sandy can find real comfort, near a pond with plenty of her own kind to keep her company. But mostly we hoped that, if she had been hit by a car, she tracks that sonofabitch driver down and pecks them like they’re the last bowl of Cheerios of Earth.

Here’s the YouTube video of Sandy the Sandhill Crane:

#thesupermarketshouldsellmoresandhillcranefood

What it takes for me to be me.

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11/21/22

There’s this certain character that I like to draw. In fact, I’m kind of obsessed with him. I do, however, wish he didn’t take up so much of my time, even though I do enjoy drawing him. He’s a bit of a bumbler but we’ll intentioned. He loves his wife and his dogs Pete and Sophie, although he’s afraid of Pete. And he loves to try new things. But he’s too one dimensional. My fear it that my art will never be taken seriously if I stick with him. So, what do I do? Should I kill him off?

Maybe he just needs to evolve.

I’ve been drawing caricatures of myself for years now. Only now has the character started becoming easier and easier to draw, thanks to a gift Donna bought me about a year ago: the Wacom Intuos Digital Writing Tablet. I didn’t even take it out of the box until a few months ago. But it’s made a big difference with my digital creations. Before Intuos, dragging my mouse around the screen was the only way I knew how to create. I’d never even drawn with a stylus before. And the Intuos works perfectly with Paint, the program I prefer to use.

The Intuos makes drawing on paper and scanning my creations seem primitive in comparison. In fact, the New York Times wrote a review that seems oddly specific to my experience:

“After interviewing five professional artists, researching 64 drawing tablets, and testing eight tablets, we’ve found the Wacom Intuos to be the best drawing tablet for beginners. The Intuos is easy to install and it offers the most precision and control for the least amount of cash.”

“But that’s not all. If you’re fond of drawing sweet but out-of-touch retired workers who have no perspective on reality, this product may just be your speed. But for optimal performance, please be sure to pair your sweet but out-of-touch character with a more grounded character that knows what she’s doing.”

And that’s why, ladies and gentlemen, you should never leave your Alexa on when not in use. Apparently, she’s taken to writing product reviews in her spare time.

#foralaughaskAlexahowhighshecancount