How does a tick know when it has reached the back of my dog's neck?
The best suggestion yet, from my friend Massimo, is that ticks feed on arterial blood and they use some sort of heat-seaking mechanism to go where the vessels are nearest the surface. Plausible, but I don’t buy it. Not yet. Not...
This post is number 41 in a series.
Blue Girl breaks new ground by embedding a video in a 50 x 100 x 50 post. Just don’t watch it, unless you like being manipulated into an eye-blinking, lump-throated slump. I like to think that my own paltry genre-extension -- doubling up on words after I’d m...
This post is numbers 39 & 40 in a series.
”It’s terrible. It’s not even good.”
“Well you can just go fuck yourself.”
“I love that woman, I just can’t help it.”
“I’m deleting this. You’re OK with that?”
“You don’t need more wine. You need a sausage.”
“Dude, what did you just throw at me?...
It’s funny how little links grow into a chain. A couple of days ago I was reading a post on Paul Butzi's blog in which he quoted a stanza from his favourite poem, Robert Frost’s Two Tramps in Mud Time. I know very little about poetry; I don’t even know what I like. But the piece was enough to se...
This post is number 38 in a series.
I had seen one or two, but that’s no summer. This evening on the terrace, fresh from sticking stolen Bruggmansia cuttings in some soil, I sat back and watched a dozen or more swallows shrieking as they hawked beneath a mottled blue-gray sky. It’s odd how the...
