Wednesday, January 21, 2026

Web Log for 1.20.26

Two memes. 

Computers 

Your computer should not be your "co-pilot." Or "co-author." Or anything else but a tool you use, at your convenience, to serve your purposes. 


(Google finds lots of similar cartoons, but nobody claiming authorship of this strip. I'm not surprised.)

Weather


Hell is in Michigan and is pretty solid by now. Google traces this meme to "Adventures of a Nurse" on Facebook; the original post attracted comments on Michigan weather.

Book Review: The Carbohydrate Addict's Healthy Heart Program

Title: The Carbohydrate Addict’s Healthy Heart Program

Author: Richard F. Heller, Rachael F. Heller, Frederic J. Vagnini

Date: 1999

Publisher: Ballantine Books

ISBN: 0-345-42610-X

Length: 314 pages plus 25 pages of references and index

Quote: “When compared to other risk factors, insulin levels were the most statistically significant predictor of heart attack risk.”

Do non-diabetics need to think about insulin and blood sugar? Increasingly, research suggests that they do. Blood sugar reactions can produce emotional mood swings. Insulin can interact with other hormones to affect people’s ability to have children. Insulin reactions may create predispositions to weight gain and cardiovascular disease. Adult-onset diabetes is part of some people’s cardiovascular disease pattern and not others’, but in the long run the same lifestyle choices determine whether people are likely to develop diabetes or a stroke or heart attack first.

People who have diabetes need a more precise regimen of diet, exercise, and medication than the simple program this book presents for people who are not currently diabetic,. The Carbohydrate Addict’s Healthy Heart Program may help prevent diabetes, but won’t cure it.

The bad news is that we haven’t placed all the pieces in the puzzle yet. Different doctors have taken different approaches to treating cardiovascular disease through diet. Each program seems to be working for some people who had been at risk for diabetes, cardiovascular disease, and other bad things. Each program seems to be a viable approach for those who want to enjoy as many “mature years” as possible, but how do you know which one’s best for you? The Hellers suggest that genetic factors may determine which cardiovascular program will be most helpful for you, but DNA testing has not reached the stage where the question can be answered before you’ve tried one that may not work.

The Hellers offer a short test to help readers determine whether we can benefit from their system. The test isn’t perfect. Basically, if you’re middle-aged and not skinny and hyperactive, the test will suggest that you could be a carbohydrate addict.

If you are not yet middle-aged and are already concerned about your health, you might also be sensitive to some of the proteins the Hellers recommend you eat more of. Probably two thirds of humankind can benefit from using more whole wheat, oats, and barley. The rest of us feel worse, and some of us will develop stubborn, debilitating, even deadly chronic diseases, if we don’t avoid whole wheat, oats, and barley. Any of the cardiovascular health programs can be adjusted for people with food intolerance. Since the Heller program involves a higher-protein diet, tweaking the Heller program may be harder than tweaking the others if you need to avoid gluten, casein, or other proteins.

The good news is that Doctors Heller, McDougall, Pritikin, Sinatra, and even Adams agree on several points that are likely to do almost any body some good. Even if you’re genetically predisposed to get better results from one approach than from another, you’ll probably get better results from working any of their programs than you would from the unenlightened “junkfood, beer, and TV” lifestyle. All cardiovascular health programs basically involve eating more fresh fruit and vegetables, eating complex carbs instead of simple carbs, getting more exercise, and getting less “excitement” or “comfort” from drugs and drama.

Working the Hellers’ program may be easier than working the others. The Hellers don’t prescribe menus. To minimize blood sugar swings, you eat high-carb foods during one hour of the day, along with fibre and protein foods; you get to choose at which meal the carbo-load will be, and it doesn’t have to be the same time every day. During the rest of the day you eat high-fibre, low-fat, low-carb foods. If you are a true carbohydrate addict, they predict you’ll feel better and start to lose weight in days.

More Humorous Book Titles

Long & Short Reviews asked reviewers for lists of humorous book titles before, and this week they're doing it again. Can I think of a new list? I can try...These are books I've read. Not all of them are primarily comedy. The titles are not the only funny lines in the books. 

Scott Adams, Dilbert and the Way of the Weasel

Maya Angelou, Singin' and Swingin' and Gettin' Merry Like Christmas

Dave Barry, Babies and Other Hazards of Sex

Lesley Conger, Love and Peanut Butter

Cathy Crimmins, When My Parents Were My Age They Were Old

Will Cuppy, The Decline and Fall of Practically Everybody

Hildegarde Dolson, Sorry to Be So Cheerful

Joseph Epstein, With My Trousers Rolled

Cynthia Heimel, If You Can't Live Without Me Why Aren't You Dead Yet

Stilton Jarlsberg, Johnny Optimism (the series)

Florence King, Wasp Where Is Thy Sting

Sam Levenson, You Don't Have to Be in Who's Who to Know What's What

Merrill Markoe, What the Dogs Have Taught Me

Patrick McManus, Never Sniff a Gift Fish 

P.J. O'Rourke, Eat the Rich

Ishmael Reed, The Free-Lance Pallbearers

H. Allen Smith, Life in a Putty Knife Factory

James Thurber, Let Your Mind Alone

P.G. Wodehouse, Love Among the Chickens

Bryan Woolley, Home Is Where the Cat Is

Tuesday, January 20, 2026

Book Review: Refuge

Title: Refuge

Author: Terry Tempest Williams

Date: 1991

Publisher: Vintage

ISBN: 0-679-74024-4

Length: 304 pages, including a bird checklist

Quote: “The understanding that I could die on the salt flats is no great epiphany. I could die anywhere.”

When does a young, healthy, happily married birdwatcher look at a favorite bird refuge and think about her own death? When family members, old and young, are dying. Terry Tempest Williams wrote, “I have known five of my great-grandparents intimately,” before years when one funeral followed another and “At thirty-four, I became the matriarch of my family.” The good news is that Refuge is not exclusively about mortality. It’s also about birds, and natural events that threatened the bird refuge, and a mother in her early fifties who doesn’t expect to have grandchildren but, if she does have them, wants them told that she is “the bird’s nest beyond the waterfall.”

Mrs. Tempest, the author’s mother, was one of a lucky few. After a diagnosis of breast cancer, she lived more than ten years before cancer appeared in a different part of the body. Observing the impact her cancer had on the rest of the family, Mrs. Williams thought that individuals don’t get cancer; families do. This observation moved past its intended meaning and became literally true as other relatives developed cancer.

The slow, painful death scene in Refuge is not allowed time to dominate the reader’s memory. The book moves us on. Bereaved people normally go through a stage of wanting to blame someone for the loss; Mrs. Williams found that blame for her extended family’s years of funerals could be assigned reasonably.

A popular protest song refers to “gentle, angry people...singing, fighting for our lives.” Terry Tempest Williams was such a person; Refuge is a gentle, angry, True Green book. It’s recommended to all who appreciate good nonfiction writing; and to all who care about the environment; and to all who think that environmentalism may be turning into a religious cult; and to all who have living parents, and need to be reminded to enjoy them while they can. 

Cat Drama at the Cat Sanctuary

I still think it came from the laundromat...The insta-slum in Kingsport has caused great deterioration in the quality of local laundromats. I washed some laundry in one early on a Sunday morning when the insta-slum people weren't around. Several machines showed damage from where insta-slum people had tried to break into the cash boxes, though, and after I'd been wearing one shirt for a few hours the shirt began to smell of live, growing bacteria and I broke out in a rash and even felt fluzly. Well, the long and short of it is, I've got shingles. Anyone who has not had chickenpox, or had a terrible time with it and is afraid of having it again, should stay clear of me through February. 

It's not painful. The rash itches at times but is more of an embarrassment than anything else, just the way I remember the original chickenpox being. Most of the little blisters don't even itch; all they've done has been to form that "shingly" crust of dried serum that flakes off and re-forms after bathing. The unpleasantness of shingles has, I think, been greatly exaggerated in order to sell vaccines and medications. Like chickenpox it looks a great deal worse than it is. It has reacted well to the two antiviral medications I use: garlic (taken internally) and Listerine (applied externally).

Shingles is caused by chickenpox virus, which lingers in the body and reactivates in this new form if the body is exposed to stress. I would have expected to have had it sooner if I were going to have it, but there's a first time for everything. My days have been relatively mellow compared to the stress I felt when I was paying rent and dating and living with teenagers. Physical stress is a different thing from the emotional kind. I suppose all those reactions to "New Roundup" have taken their toll.

Anyway...one night when the overnight temperature dropped to 18 degrees, I didn't call Silver to come in immediately after she'd used the sand pit. Some neighbors do a lot of laundry, using a lot of scented dryer sheets, in a basement with a vent under the porch. Silver is a small cat and can get into places where larger cats, like theirs or like Drudge and Serena, can't go. She came in, when the air warmed up the next day, smelling like dryer sheets. Serena was out hunting that day and smelled, when she came in, like a recently dead squirrel. When they came in and started to snuggle up together for the night each cat nonverbally said the other one stank.

Next day, they hunted as a team. Silver occupied a position indoors that Serena can't easily reach. Serena went outdoors. Apparently Serena caught a big fat squirrel that was trying to get into the house; they sometimes do that in cold weather, and people have remarked on the squirrels venturing as close as they've been doing to the cats. She came in briefly, nibbled at dinner--she was visibly stuffed--and went out to the sand pit. I went back into the office and fell asleep. 

When I woke, Silver was curled up on top of the blanket beside me. She soon woke up and wanted to go out. I called Serena. She didn't come. I called her a few more times, at half-hour intervals. No sign. I walked down the road calling her. Drudge and Silver followed. 

"Let me show you this wonderful warm place I've found!" Silver nonverbally said as we approached the neighbors' house. "You should come to this house too!"

"Don't be silly," I said. The neighbors were bustling about. It looked as if they were packing for some sort of trip.

"This house is also good," Silver said, positively leading me up the next driveway. "They have a big dog but I can keep out of his way and eat his leftovers. The sun shines bright and warm in the driveway."

"It is certainly an improvement," I said. "When we left the house the temperature was ten skinny, shivery little Fahrenheit degrees. Down here in the sunshine it might be up to twenty degrees already. But we can't stay here. We should catch those other people before they leave the neighborhood." 

We hurried back past the first house in time to catch the neighbors outside and report that Serena was missing. Silver and I did, anyway. Drudge was not in the mood for a fight and didn't follow us across Wild Thyme's territory. As we walked back up the road he ran down the road a few yards to meet us.

"Serena is at home, waiting for you," he nonverbally told us. "She thinks it's a good joke that you're worried about her."

"How mean of her," I said. "I wouldn't have worried about her, knowing she can always go down cellar for a nap, if youall hadn't checked the cellar and reported that she wasn't there, and it hadn't been so cold, and she and Silver had been on better terms...and if she'd come when called to breakfast! Serena almost always comes when called and she NEVER misses breakfast."

"There was another squirrel," Drudge explained, rubbing his full side against my leg. "She was hunting. She'll come in for breakfast as a favor to you. Then we'll all go and hunt squirrels."

Our ancestors got much of their protein from chestnuts, black walnuts, white walnuts (butternuts), and hickory nuts. The chestnuts are probably gone forever and we never managed to raise a butternut tree but my parents let black walnut and hickory trees grow wherever they would. Where there are walnut and hickory trees, there are squirrels.

Serena was indeed waiting for me, sitting on the front porch. She was cold, and let me snuggle her against my shawl and bring her indoors. This time neither cat had any complaint about the other's smell.

Petfinder annoyed me once again by trying to find out too much. I like a web site not to try to find out where or who I am. The Internet is a healthier place when nobody knows who might be a child, a bully, a homeless person in a public place, or their employer. The thought that "This person might actually be a dog. Or my wife. Or my boss who allows me to use the computer for business only" has a salutary effect on cybercommunication. 

The site wanted me to look at animals in local shelters first. Well, some readers may be local, and in fact a new arrival at a local shelter does deserve to be highlighted. Unfortunately the quality of the photos cannot be presented as a contest winner. Maybe that is no reason for this web site not to promote a deserving pair of animals' search for their Purrmanent Home. Readers can decide. First, the contest winners...Since the local pair are Siamese-mix, let's consider Siamese cats. To go with the theme, on the dog side, let's consider hounds.

Zipcode 10101: Apple Jacks and Lucky Charms from New Jersey 


These brother kittens are described as shy, gentle, and playful. Give them a chance to get to know you and they'll be trailing after you around the house. Both are part Siamese, though only one has the Siamese look.

Dusk from NYC 



As of yesterday this "dusky"-colored Coon Hound mix was four months old and weighed 24 pounds. His ideal human would have some experience rearing and training puppies. Coon Hounds are smart, tough, and usually willing to please, but they can get large and rambunctious. If you can handle a dog who is likely to make lots of mistakes just because he's full of adolescent energy, and to be big enough that his overenthusiastic greetings may literally knock someone flat, adopt Dusk. If not, well it's not as if there aren't a lot of other hounds looking for homes in the Big City. If you're not sure, Dusk is available as a foster pet--they'll provide food and veterinary care while you give him a homelike environment and try to market him to someone who's ready to adopt now, or, more likely, scrape up the money to make the commitment and keep him.

Zipcode 20202: Freyja from DC 


Freyja is a largish cat, thought to be eight years old. She's been an indoor pet and is comfortable with that, watching wildlife on "cat television" perhaps, not hunting. She wants to have a close relationship with a well trained human whom she can follow around the house, sit beside, and pat when she wants attention. They think she'd do better as the only pet for someone who works from home than in a house with other animals and children. She is described as gentle, affectionate, and well behaved. About Serena's age, she's probably making the transition from brief naps to long deep sleep.

Sadie from DC 


She's photographed in a big fenced yard to emphasize that they want her to be adopted by a family who have a big fenced yard. Sadie is on the nervous side, as Beagles go, and is most likely to fit in with a family who keep friendly Beagles a little smaller than she is. (She weighs 45 pounds.) She is not recommended for families with small children. She likes to be petted and is described as "sweet as can be" when she decides to trust people. She's run up a substantial vet bill but not had real training--this is the organization that like to recommend training courses, and, naturally, they think she can benefit from a good training course. The adoption fee is high but does cover a lot of veterinary expenses.

Zipcode 30303: Hope from Atlanta 


When they were little alley kittens, Hope was trapped in the wall of a building. Practicing the virtue for which she was named, she kept yowling until rescuers were able to open a hole in the wall and bring her out. Now she's a half-grown house pet who likes to "jump into the cuddle puddle" when people are cuddling with other cats. So she gets on well with other cats, but she will be the Queen...plan accordingly. (That is: I wouldn't try to bring a developing Queen Cat into the same house with e.g. Serena.) If you want to be gently dominated by a sassy kitten, Hope is for you.

Piston from Decatur 


Piston has been a pet. His human became ill and is offering him for adoption or foster care, but while able Piston's human trained him to sit, lie down, give a paw, sleep through the night in his crate, tell his human when he needs to go out, and, most important of all, go out rather than making a mess in the house. He's friendly with other dogs and humans and even polite with cats. Part Pointer, his ancestors were hunting dogs, but he doesn't demand that his human hunt. Lots of love, lots of dog food, and lots of long brisk walks will do. Piston is two or three years old and already, though slim, weighs 45 pounds. You can find out whether you're the right human for him by boarding him, at the organization's expense, as a foster pet--but be warned: if you think you might be the right human for him, you probably are and you'll not want to "market" him to someone else.

Bonus Cats: Zipcode 37660: Pretty Girl and Jack 


She's four years old. He's nine. They are a bonded pair and must be adopted together. They've already been altered and no doubt very well trained to fit into...a home that has been broken up. Their human died recently. They are grieving, and they need a place to live. They are Siamese-American mixed breed. Pretty Girl has some vision problems; they're used to being indoor pets and should be indoor pets again. The pair are currently being sheltered in Petworks. 

Monday, January 19, 2026

Web Log for 1.18.26, with Free Poem!

Animals 

Dog photos with comedy captions:


Astronomy 

Someone paid to register an asteroid name in honor of John Scalzi. It has since been upgraded to "minor planet" status, and it really is officially called Johnscalzi. Some people think of the darnedest ways to publicize their books...


Books 

Another look at The First Four Years, which is as different from the rest of the Little House books as is its own happier sequel, On the Way Home:


Both are posthumous collections of notes, never polished for publication. One has an overall grim emotional tone, though I don't read it as altogether "depressing." When Laura Ingalls married Almanzo Wilder, she never promised to obey him. She wanted a more secure lifestyle than they'd grown up having on the prairie. They didn't want to quarrel so they made a sort of bet: She gave him four years and a "year of grace" to convince her he could earn enough as a farmer to keep them secure on the prairie...leaving the final decision to chance. If the first four years had gone well, Almanzo would have won, fairly and squarely, and Laura would have had to deal with it. Laura was not a depressive woman and does mention the good times in those five years, but the bottom line was that Laura won their bet. They went back to Missouri and, although Laura didn't write a great deal about their Little House in the Ozarks (Rose Wilder Lane's protege did that, much later), they'd found the home where both of them were reasonably content for the rest of their lives. 

Poem, That Free Bonus 


So I linked my "Folsom Childhood Blues" poem to the open link-up at dVerse. This obliged me to read other people's poems right on the screen and post comments. Given my luck you know this would mean a super well attended link-up with about fifty poems to read on the screen...I chose to do it, so no more whining about it, though it's not something I plan to do regularly. Anyway the "optional prompt" was the suggestion that people write about the painting you see shrunk above. If you look at it the right way you can see a face. The eyes are closed. The face may be sleeping, or weeping. It's not smiling.

The back-story about the painting is: The painter, Frantisek Kupka, had already painted a conventional portrait of his wife, in a formal, frilly, late nineteenth century white dress, probably more elaborate and uncomfortable than most wedding gowns are today. Years later, he painted her face into this blob of vertical brush strokes. 

People had lots of different views of this painting. Because the woman wasn't smiling some people predictably saw her as trapped in a stifling historical era, a bad marriage, or both. Because her face seems to float in the brushstrokes some saw her face as a memory floating on the edges of moods. Because she seems to be blocked off by bars of bright color someone even saw her as an image of today's gender-confused teenagers. (The picture was painted more than a hundred years ago.) 

Nobody else seems to have seen this:

"You have already painted me," she said.
"One time, and that was tedious enough."
"This time I vow I'll only paint your head,"
He pleaded. "And I'll buy you lots of stuff."
The whole time he was working on her eyes
She haggled over gemstones, works of art.
"I'll never get your mouth right, realize,
If you keep talking, treasure of my heart."
"Let it look green, for lots of good green cash,"
She said impatiently. "My foot's asleep.
You could just give me a great big moustache!
Who cares? I've other promises to keep!
Just fashionably fill the canvas in
With Abstraction." He did--the prize to win.

That's a Quatorzain, a fourteen-line poem that's not quite a sonnet, but my writing mind ran on:

He took each tube he'd squeezed on the palette
And squeezed more on the brush, in turns, until
The colors that mixed into fleshtones, wet,
Dried in long bricks of vertical ground-fill.

That's an Out-Take.

Book Review: Archy and Mehitabel

Book Review: Archy and Mehitabel

Author: Don Marquis

Date: 1927

Publisher: Doubleday

ISBN: none

Length: 252 pages

Illustrations: drawings by George Herriman

Quote: “We...discovered a gigantic cockroach jumping about on the keys...We never saw a cockroach work so hard or perspire so freely in all our lives before. After about an hour of this frightfully difficult literary labor he fell to the floor exhausted, and we saw him creep feebly into a nest of the poems.”

My regular readers are already acquainted with Archy, the cockroach reincarnation of “a vers libre bard” who wanted to go on writing free verse, and with his good buddy Mehitabel, the alley cat who lives for the moment. Normal cats flatten cockroaches; Mehitabel made a pet and confidante of Archy. What can I add? At the time of writing this review I had for sale a 1930 copy in good condition. It's been sold. I can get another copy.

If you’re not familiar with Don Marquis’s animal characters, I’ll add that Archy had clear memories of being human and took an interest in human affairs. Of course, being an animal, he was particularly interested in the way humans treat animals. He wrote on behalf of chickens “that a hen regrets it / when they wring her neck / as much as an oriole...” and transcribed a “Song of Pete the Pup,” “o master let us go again / and play beside the sea,” and so on. And, in human life, Archy had been an opponent of Prohibition (like Marquis), so he wrote on that topic too...but you have to read the book. 

Butterfly of the Week: Pogge's Lady

Graphium poggianus, Pogge's Lady or Pogge's Graphium, is a name found on lots of older lists. Not much information about it is available online, though, because scientists are questioning whether it's really a distinct species.


Specimen in Belgium's Royal Museum of Central Africa; photograph found at Funet.fi. The individual shown is male. Gender differences, if there are any, are not discussed in available documents.

There is some controversy about what else it might be a subspecies of. It is a little larger than Graphium deliae, not much, and some scientists write about Graphium poggianum deliae while others write about Graphium deliae poggianus. G. poggianus is also similar enough that some authors identify it with G. kigoma, G. almansor, G. fulleri, G. auriger, and G. rileyi. As noted in previous posts, these species all have a similar look, with enough room for variation to make it hard to tell species from subspecies variations. There is room for African students to become famous by sorting out exactly how different these butterflies are from one another.

The name Papilio poggianus was given by Eduard Honrath, in 1884, to a butterfly found in the upper southern part of the African continent--below the westward bulge, on the map, but not extending to the tip. It was found in what are now called Angola, Congo, and Zambia. Honrath also said it was found in Guinea; this seems to have been an error. Honrath said its wingspan was on average 7.8 cm, a little over 3 inches. 

He described its spots at some length--in German--suggesting that they were its distinguishing feature. 

"
Larger [than related species], the length of the forewing about 48 mm., the markings whitish; forewing without submarginal spots; in the cell, opposite to cellule 3, a large transverse spot which reaches the front margin of the cell and is united with three long discal spots in cellules 2-—4; the discal spot in cellule 2 is very long, almost reaching the margin, but narrow, so that it only covers the anterior part of the cellule; the discal spots in 1 a and 1 b consequently form a free hindmarginal spot, which almost reaches the margin, but is rather far removed from the base; the discal spots in 6 and 8 arranged almost exactly as in the other species; the transverse band of the hindwing broad, almost reaching the base and the apex of the cell; the broad dark submarginal band in each of cellules 2—-5 with two long whitish, somewhat irregular streaks. — Angola.
"

Is that an exact English translation of Honrath's original description, or Seitz's "corrected" description, or both? I don't read German well enough to say. 

Anyway, although Graphiums with white and red-brown spots on their wings are widely distributed throughout most of Africa, this particular pattern turned out to be rare. People have found specimens that fitted the description, but not often. The scarcity of Graphium poggianus led scientists to suspect that it might not be even a subspecies, but an occasional mutation--and they've guessed, but not confirmed any guesses, about what it's a mutation of. 

The main argument for keeping poggianus on the lists as a separate species was that the caterpillars looked different from those of similar-looking butterflies. Adam Cotton summarizes the argument that even this may be a variation produced by weather conditions:


African scientists discuss the possible reclassification of African Graphiums:

Sunday, January 18, 2026

Web Log for 1.16-17.26

Surfing the'Net is less fun when there are rumors of war...Well, there are reliably pleasant things on the Internet, here and there. There is, for example, Vince Staten.

Animals 

For no obvious reason we say "one goose, two geese," and we say "one moose, two moose." Is this right? Should we say

(a) One goose, two gooses
(b) One goose, two goose
(c) One goose, two geese
(d) One moose, two mooses
(e) One moose, two moose
(f) One moose, two meese
(g) One half moose, the back half = Ed Meese (old political joke you can tick if you remember it)

Anyway here are photos and videos of three moose:


History, Local 

Vince Staten:


Men's Issues 

They whine that they never know when women are looking for "better" men, over their shoulders? Why should they know? Women don't know that about men, either, but we do know that, in spite of everything, men are more prone to "cheat" and "stray" than women are. If only because most men prefer to ask and most women prefer to be asked.

But we can say that if men pull down their stupid vanity and make the level of commitment they want (because doing what makes babies is a total commitment), and build love by acting out love in everything they do, women are less likely to think other men are "better." There are reports of women who felt adequately loved and respected by one man and still wanted the excitement of another "conquest," but I suspect those stories are widely reported because they are rare, man-bites-dog kind of stories. Men generally get dumped because they act as if they and their mates are garbage.


Mental Health Issues 

In a well run mental health facility, patients are monitored to make sure they make "no physical contact" (No-P-C) at any time. Somebody must have thought it was funny, in a "news of the weird" way, to admit a small, young person claiming to be male to a locked ward for men and let not one, but two, men attempt to sodomize "him" and discover that, physically, it was a "her." They raped the little headcase anyway. 

News flash, girls: Boys hear less garbage about being in danger if they ever go outside alone or stay home alone, but boys get raped, too.


Minnesota 

The b.s. (that's boys' stupidity) accumulates. 

Why is Ilhan Omar not easing her people's transitions as all of them, blamed for the scams only some of them were running, are being deported? (Even after some of them thought they'd achieved citizenship, which adds a deeply icky plot twist to the story and ought to be settled on a case-by-case basis in court.) Because Ds wanted to crank up the melodrama. A political compromise will seem like the natural thing, eventually, and that compromise will let the Ds bring in some second-class citizens to prop up their own retirement and (they think) to vote D for twenty years

My guess is that Trump could answer that, if he could let go of his own family issues, by letting the amnestied immigrants start their own businesses, the way they do in the countries of their origin, in the neighborhoods where these Ds live. To keep those votes in their party the Ds would have to be good customers. Gavin Newsom could buy lunch at least three times a week from the pupusa wagon that's going to be parked at the other end of his block! Ketanji Brown-Jackson could get her hair braided the authentic Nigerian way, in the flat downstairs from hers! Or those people would be voting R! Well, it would be entertaining, anyway. Visualize Nancy Pelosi whining, "Oh, my property values," as she checks herself into the new Somali-run day care for adults in her neighborhood--"Salaam alaikum, Mrs. Pelosi! Can you say As alaikum salaam?"

But anyway these Ds want to milk every minute of every brain-damaged Somali's panic and every possible abuse by ICE agents. So they've encouraged large-scale protests. All the little old ladies in Minnesota are apparently being trucked into Minneapolis to vent all the frustrations they ever hid behind their "Minnesota Nice" manners, all their lives. You have to wonder how many of them sat up late, the night before, practicing saying the words they're going to scream at ICE agents in the morning. In the dreams of Democratic Socialists lots of ICE agents will lose their tempers and shove a lot of people's grandmothers headfirst into snowdrifts. Somali grandmothers, for choice, though they'll take Swedish-Minnesotan grandmothers if that's what they can get, which so far seems to be the case. No link here to a video compilation of old White ladies screaming at ICE agents, though it exists, but Democratic Socialists certainly aren't worried about their grandmothers breaking hips, catching pneumonia, or having their skulls cracked by panicking brain-damaged Somalis with snow shovels.

Or their grandfathers--though there just aren't as many grandfathers walking around in the snow as there are grandmothers, because, even if there are "events" where the stars of high school boys' sports "easily" beat the champions of Olympic women's sports, it's also true that women are built to last longer than men do. After about age 50 men are a frail and pitiable minority. All that strength and energy dissolves into a desire to lie in front of television sets and rot--if they're still breathing at all. One reason why it's so hard for middle-aged widows to remarry, as the Bible directs us to do, is that even if men our age are still capable of doing anything useful or interesting on a date, we have to wonder how long that will last and what they're going to be like as patients, and let's just say the short, compact models are definitely at a premium. But I digress.

Anyway the provocation for this rant was the annoying complacency of Stephen Kruiser, gloating that the Democratic Socialists had really tried to get cute college students out into this protest, but hello, the colleges had reopened their classrooms. Winter break is over. The students have classes to attend. The classrooms are heated. The students may be good at emoting on cue but none of them wants to participate in this particular charade. As a guess even the grandparents are telling them: "You go to your classes. We'll do the protest for you." As a result the protesters look "old" to Kruiser, who is sixty. As a guess they look so much "older" than he is, while being about the same age, because they're freezing, though genes may also be a factor. Anyway Kruiser is sneering about the protesters' age being proof that the young agree with him that the Democratic Socialists have become irrelevant. However annoying Kruiser is about it, this would be a good thing if it were true...but my guess is that the students feel guilty about letting their grandparents do this protest for them, in classic young-keyboard-warrior style, and are already planning to compensate by spending Election Day driving from poll to poll and voting under different names. Because in their religion their grandparents don't matter; only the election does.


And either Ilhan Omar is scrambling like a whacked mole, behind the scenes, to help the deportees, or she is a traitor who will probably be burned at the stake when she's deported after them. I hope it's the former.

Poetry 

I play with a silly, but habit-forming, modern verse form at Substack:

Politics 

The name of Gavin Newsom should bring this video to everyone's mind:


Women's Issues 

Attention women on all political sides: If you have a baby, and you are in the habit of hauling baby out into public places in order to manipulate the feelings of audiences there, STOP. For baby's sake, you need to stay at home with baby until baby is old enough to toddle into Grandma's or Auntie's house. Political issues will still be here, probably about the same since we as a nation don't seem to learn, five years from now. Baby's first years will never be here again. Stay active, stay current, stay in contact with adult minds--that's what the Internet is for. Babies sleep a lot, giving you time to be a keyboard warrior. But don't miss the chance to protect baby even from germs, and bond with baby as baby grows up, at home.


Words 

The New York Censored Times (no link) reports a new word: "Awful," used to combine its traditional meaning of awe-inspiringly bad with an acronym for "Affluent White Female Urban Liberals." The NYT officially does not like this word. That's a point in its favor.

As a feminist, I think the deliberate deployment of loud, ugly-acting women in the current wave of protests is exploitation intended to bully women into smiling complacently at real abuses. When women call out cheating employees or employers, abusive employers, street harassers, etc., too many of us can be stifled with the claim that we're looking or sounding like Renee Good. Women who believe we deserve respect or appreciation or honesty are what's destroying civilization. We need loudly and indignantly to call out that lie. We need to stand together, affirming, whenever women speak out for their legitimate rights, that they're Righteous and Public-Spirited and Beautiful. 

But yes. Calling indignant women "Karens" is hateful in every way. Calling the ones who are nasty, dishonest, foul-mouthed, sexually abusive, and violent "awful" is, frankly, charitable.

I think women should be willing to use "awful," and own it if necessary. Renee Good's behavior was awful and she deserved what she got. Tweaking at a man's hat and mask while yapping, "Are you an ICE piece of" (rude word), is an awful way to behave. Don't mess with me, boy, I might go awful on you. God made us awesome, and part of that includes the potential to be awful! I think this word has potential.

Book Review: Mi Primer Libro de Musica

Title: Mi Primer Libro de Música

Author: Karyn Henley

Translators: Lilia Pardo and Sarai León

Date: 1994

Publisher: Sparrow Press

ISBN: 0-917143-44-2

Length: pages not numbered; 75 songs

Illustrations: colorful cartoons by Dennas Davis

Quote: “Oro y plata no tengo Pero lo que tengo te doy...”

Mi Primer Libro de Música was originally compiled in English, but published simultaneously in English and in Spanish. It’s a Sunday School songbook aimed at bilingual children, or children whose parents hope they can become bilingual, up to age twelve. (The Spanish edition is the one you can buy from me because, although my brother and I appreciated our monolingual parents’ attempts to raise trilingual children, my hearing-impaired sister isn’t up to it.) Most of the songs are familiar and in the public domain, with a few original compositions by the people who put the book together. Songs are printed with very clear, easy-to-read musical notation for the melodies only; no harmonies, no guitar chords.

For adults who can read music, the book can probably be enjoyed in either language. If you don’t recognize the English words by looking at the Spanish words, since the translations aren’t always literal (“Deep and Wide” comes out as “Hay en mí, hay en mí una fuente que fluye sin cesar”), you’ll probably recognize the tune. And for those who can’t read music, a teaching tape in each language is also available.

These books score high on visual appeal. At least one of every two pages contains a cartoon-type drawing. Colors are saturated, as if done with Magic Markers.

They also score high on portability. Lightweight paperbacks with thin glazes of plastic on the covers, they can be tucked into backpacks, guitar cases, or even coat pockets as necessary.

Favorite songs in these books include: This Little Light of Mine, Father Abraham, Zacchaeus Was a Wee Little Man, Who Built the Ark, Rise and Shine and Give God Glory, I’m Going to Sing, The B-I-B-L-E, Come Bless Ye the Lord, Down in My Heart, His Banner Overr Me Is Love, Oh How I Love Jesus, Jesus Loves Even Me, Jesus Loves the Little Children of the World, Peace Like a River, Kumbayah, Jesus Loves Me, God Is So Good, I Stand at the Door and Knock, and many more.

Recommended to all Sunday School classes, and to every Christian family with children in it. 

Bad Poetry: Good Combinations


[Photo from Birds & Blooms]

Love is like a butterfly
and for a butterfly it's rare,
fleeting and flitting in the air.
Most butterflies don't even care
who flits beside them; if they do
it's to avoid their families, who
would lay their eggs on the same leaves
where all the young would starve and die.
Once or twice in their lives they fly
together, and no doubt they feel
a love that, while it lasts, is real.
So music's Lady Butterfly
sang sweet harmonics with a guy
for seven years; then off she flew,
for greater heights were in her view
than he, or you or I, ever knew.
Some combinations last for life.
Some people find "husband" or "wife"
a job description to live by.
If you're one of them, don't be shy.
To work in synergy is great;
the culmination of life's fate
it seems, when one has found a mate.
But time will pass, and loved ones too;
go on without them one must do,
whether because they chanced to die
or our own calling's passed them by.
Who'd be Comte, sunk in melancholy,
when life's called them to be like Dolly?

This is the cut-off point for tired eyes. End of the poem. Reading further is optional.

-----

Yesterday Magaly Guerrero invited the Poets & Storytellers United to write about "great combinations." 

At the same time, Vince Staten reminisced about how Dolly Parton and Porter Wagoner had seemed like a great combination--both liked to wear crazy costumes while singing good oldfashioned country songs--but turned out not to be one. Wagoner doesn't seem to have been a good business partner for anybody, or able to sell music on his own, either, but Parton made a point of telling everybody that they were still friends and her song "I Will Always Love You" was for him. (Nobody even tried to claim it was the kind of love her husband needed to worry about, either. And if there'd been a scrap of evidence to support that claim, at the time, we could be sure it would've been made.)

Dolly Parton does not dress like a Real Southern Lady, on stage, but apparently she is one at heart. Still, that doesn't mean needing to be part of a combination. She's avoided other partnerships, even with Stella Parton, who is a professional musician with a congenial voice and style (and her natural sister). The rare butterfly that is Dolly Parton's voice flies alone. 

If you can be a soloist, I say, flaunt it. More of us sing better with other people. The trouble with a lot of popular music today is that people who have neither the vocal quality to make a recorded solo beautiful, nor the enunciation to make it understandable, are out there singing solos.

Anyway, the combination of reading these two posts close together reminded me of times when I've had the joy of working synergistically with another person. 

My brother, for the last five or six years of his short life.

A fellow writer, for about a year while she was sober.

The other "foster mother" of my adoptive sister, for the years when that sister was legally a child.

My adoptive sister, when she was my business's big asset.

My husband, when he was its even bigger asset.

Writers with whom I've worked on long-term writing projects; memorably, Zahara Heckscher and George Peters, whose names I can mention here because they're no longer alive.

The man known to cyberspace as my Significant Other, during the years when I was doing home renovation with him, for money, and not trying to depend on writing.

Many people seem to think of synergy only in terms of sex. Well that's natural. Bodies can feel pleasure alone but they feel so much more pleasure together. I feel very sorry for those who know no pleasures that last longer than the sexual kind does. Highly Sensory-Perceptive people know several, and it works the same way; doing things we enjoy doing in synergy with other people is much more fun than doing the same things alone. Cerebral pleasures like writing turn into hours of transcendent joy. We love the people who share these pleasures just as people love those with whom they've merely shared good sex. Arguably it's a different kind of love--I've never wanted to touch anyone with whom I've co-written anything--but I'd hate to try to commit to marriage with anyone with whom I didn't feel both kinds of love. 

But of all those partnerships that brought me so much joy, none's lasted very long. Time's passed, and the only loved one with whom there'd been a lifetime commitment turned out not to have much of a lifetime left when that commitment was made. (We thought he'd outlive me. We were so wrong.) 

So...this thought needed some sort of conclusion, and I thought of Auguste Comte, who made such a brilliant start as half of a writing team, then drifted off into what even his fans called premature senility, depression, and suicide attempts when the team broke up...and there was the poem. 

Friday, January 16, 2026

Book Review: Banana Blitz

Book Review: Banana Blitz

Author: Florence Parry Heide

Date: 1983

Publisher: Holiday House

ISBN: 0-8234-0480-3

Length: 119 pages

Quote: “‘And it’s so nice that your friend from the apartment building will be your roommate,’ said Mom.”

Although Banana Blitz was published in 1983, its protagonist Jonah Krock is a boy of the twenty-first century. He doesn’t play sports. He doesn’t want friends. All he needs for happiness are a TV, some junkfood, and his parents off his case. His parents want him to get some exercise and have a friend.

Last summer, in the first volume, Banana Twist, Jonah met a guy close to his age whom he could visit without actually walking around the block—nerdy Goober Grube, whom he doesn’t like. While trying to get into Fairlee, the boarding school whose admissions official told him the dorm rooms were equipped with TV sets and refrigerators, Jonah quoted some of Goober’s remarks for the admissions questionnaire. Now he’s been admitted to Fairlee...and assigned Goober as a roommate. Goober doesn’t like television, and although he was looking forward to the refrigerator too, he wants to fill it with fish and yeast.

Jonah persuades Goober to watch a TV show and count the number of times the word “banana” is used in each commercial in order to win a contest. However, as in Banana Twist, the comedy has less to do with bananas than with communication. Jonah and Goober miscommunicate with almost everybody, almost all the time. The result is naturally a mess of misunderstandings (and banana jokes).

Banana Blitz is easy to read, with large clear type and short simple words. It can be enjoyed by determined second grade readers, but adults are likely to chortle over it as much as kids do. 

Folsom Childhood Blues

(A DVerse writing prompt earlier in the week asked for poems inspired by the song "Folsom Prison Blues." That link-up has closed, so this post is being linked at https://dversepoets.com/2026/01/15/its-open-link-night-and-our-live-session-is-just-around-the-corner/ .)

Los Anglos generally think that Johnny Cash owned that song, and he certainly did sing it well, but a fun fact (that I actually learned later, in college) was that it was written for and recorded by Freddy Fender, who had been in the Folsom Prison for longer than it took to do a concert. I wanted to give this post a link to the Fender version, which los Mexicanos y los Indigenes in California consider the classic version. I did not find such a link. Here is a version by Los Hermanos Mendoza that comes closer to Fender's version than to Cash's.


The town called Folsom, California, has more attractive features than the prison. It has Folsom Lake and various parks and trails, not all of which lead to the lake. It has a library, schools, stores, hotels and all. It has a business district, now considered historic, where my mother once leased a shop. It has residential streets like this one, where we didn't live, but our street looked more like this than like any other public-access photo on Google; the street had four lanes, and the house we rented for almost two years was made of red bricks. My brother was born in Folsom.

All images came from Google.)


Folsom, California, is a pretty place.
If you are a child, it's best that you not show your face.
Gravel's all lots of people have even in front yards.
Play in the back where you're safe and fenced and barred.


Playing with the gravel, look up at the fence.
Ten-foot square on either side is all the land she rents.
The fence is made of redwood like trees that touch the sky.
Somewhere trees are still living; you might get there by and by.


Grass in front of this house will raise welts on your skin.
Sun will make your nose bleed. You might as well stay in.
Worst thing in the front yard is the traffic roaring through.
Drink and drive, smash people's cars just like they might smash you.


(One way to tell that that's not Mother's car is that she never parked hers across a cul-de-sac like that. It was sitting inside our driveway when the drunk driver ran out of the road and smashed it.)


The haze of all those cars' exhaust hangs in the morning air,
Corrodes the brains of people who had not one cell to spare.
Oh I want to get out of Folsom while I am still alive.
If we stay here any longer I might never see the age of five.


Well, the baby is behind bars just so that he doesn't fall.
Even baby likes to smash his bottles on the wall.
(That's why babies' bottles are made out of plastic today.)
Oh get us out of Folsom town, and take us far away.

(To be fair, a lot of people liked living in Folsom, and still do. But I don't think those people were four years old. If they were, they hadn't lived on a farm when they were three years old.)

Thursday, January 15, 2026

Web Log for 1.14.26

Status update--Today the Virginia Legislature opens to discuss bills that plumb new depths of badness under the leadership of a Governor who will insist that at least some bad ones become law. Our national leaders think we've done enough damage in an undeclared war on Somalia that we can afford to have armed Feds chivying Somali immigrants, some of whom show horrible damage from having been born in a war zone, such that any decent person would approach them with more than the usual patience and gentleness, but our Feds are chasing them around on the ice with firearms, to encourage them to go home after some of them thought they'd achieved citizenship, that some part of the US was their home. We have a Somali-American in Congress who ought to have volunteered to persuade her people to go home, who for some reason isn't doing that. (In polite speech it might be "Madame Omar," but her Twittername, or whatever they're now called on X, is @Ilhan or @IlhanMN. Just in case you want to lean on her.) We have a President who thinks the only alternative to letting nasty Nico Maduro destroy Venezuela is for him to take it over and call himself its President, which is a source of shame to many Americans, even to many Trump voters, or anti-Harris voters. We have Microsoft, so far unchecked by federal law, actively sabotaging "older browsers" in the insane idea that this is a way to sell Windows 11. On the weather front we have another cold front rolling in, with potential snow. On the sports scene the U-Tenn Vols are on a losing streak. And Scott Adams just died of cancer, almost but not quite live-on-the-screen, yesterday morning. He literally did one last podcast and then collapsed. I am sooo tired of all this cancer!

Perhaps you, like me, could face your computer this morning only if it brought you a burst of profoundly stupid comedy. Kate at Small Dead Animals rides in to the rescue with a performance of the Canadian national anthem on squeaky toys.


I hope that helped, instead of making you think about the current political situation in...I didn't say it.

Books 

Little Town on the Prairie is my favorite volume in the series.


Gifts, Re-Purposing 

When a gift was too special to re-gift on Boxing Day but you're never going to use it as intended...well, if it happens to be a fabric tote bag, this is a lovely idea.


I'm going to pin yarn balls into one, put a few layers of rags and plastic over it, and give it to Serena to have kittens on.

RIP 

First best tribute to Scott Adams from a fellow cartoonist. This is actually the first one I've read from a fellow cartoonist.


(I will have nothing much to add. Apart from the fact that I discovered him in the 1980s, when you couldn't have told me that shopping for things to amuse the sisters was not part of my job so I often spend a couple of hours on malls in the middle of work days, all I know about Scott Adams I've already posted here. Mostly in the link logs.)