the king of birds

[yamamanama]

The great horned owl I thought was released was still there, lurking behind a towel. Jessica got to see him but he wasn't peeking out when Devin was there. A kid and her nanny saw him too. Not the Penelope variety of nanny, the Mary Poppins kind of nanny. Homo sapiens, not Capra aegagrus. She had a crescent moon and clouds tattooed on her foot.

Christina thought Leopold (the Russian tortoise) needed to get a little closer to his food dish, because it looked like he was just grabbing air.


This raccoon is not pleased at all about being weighed. Here's something I learned: the reason we lubricate tubes and stick them down the young raccoons' throats while the bunnies and squirrels lap it up is because raccoons tend to get attached to people if we don't make it uncomfortable but not painful for them. Also, hawks tend to take a dump before they fly, to reduce their mass slightly.


Here are the goslings. I took about ten pictures and this is the best one. Devin wants a guard duck, because intruders would know how to react to a dog but not to a duck. Maybe a swan.


So I asked her "Is it dead."
She says it's just sleeping. They like sleeping on their sides in plastic bags.
I don't think it would voom if I put four thousand volts through it. It's passed on. It's no more. It has ceased to be. It's expired and gone to meet its maker. It's stiff, bereft of life. It's run down the curtain and joined the bloody choir invisible. This is an ex-robin.


FONS diets stink.


There was an intern from Japan, where they have monkeys and owls and (non-indigenous) raccoons but not opossums, who reminded Devin that she can not use chopsticks.
I want to see Pakistan for myself, because it's pretty cool that a rather small country has both frozen wastelands and subtropical beaches. Jarvis Island seems cool too. Ruins, decayed airplanes, and a whole lot of boobies. One of the interns knew exactly what I meant by boobies, but Devin found that dirty. It's like Bikini Atoll. Cinemax lied to you.

Nina doesn't even want to think about that idea I had last week. Please refer to "in another part of the forest"

I'm bad at essays but good at prose. In fact, I have a bunch of short stories in mind, including one where I have a title but don't know what to make of it. Thing is, I'm not a technical writer or a persuasive one, I'm an expressive one. I brought this up because I didn't get to sleep last night. Plans for the assassinations of fictionalized versions of Peter Brimelow and Reynard Heydrich.
Emphasis on fictionalized.

Josef Gabčík and Jan Kubiš killed the real Heydrich anyway.

I was talking to a woman who designed clothing and had a pet guinea pig about art, mine and Christina's and the random people at the Museum of Bad Art. There's some stuff from the MOBA collection at the Catbird cafe. I'll post it in a future entry.

burning question: I was wearing a long-sleeved shirt and jeans. It was gray-skied and 60 F when I left home. It was overcast and 65 F At 2 PM, when I left the wildlife center, it was 82 F. What the hell was I thinking?
Maybe because it was overcast and yesterday afternoon was so cold some girl was doing the "I'm cold" dance, I thought it would be cooler. Christina thought the same thing. Devin and Jessica arrived in the afternoon and were thus more sanely dressed.