Nick and I often talk about how there is not enough shunning in society today. People (mainly young men and women of my generation who are currently attending undergraduate school) go around doing horrid things, and they are never shunned. Sometimes they pay a fine, maybe spend a night or two in jail, but there are not enough societal repercussions in store for them to really hedge their sociopath(et)ic behavior.

This post is in response to the recent theft and subsequent torturing to death of a pet bird (an itty bitty zebra finch) by three 21-year-old juniors at Clarkson, which is basically across the street from my college. Their names are:

John E. Breckels III, of Red Hook, NY
Matthew O. Lyndecker, of Copenhagen, NY
Alan D. Grove, of Bothell, Wa.

I wish that I had pictures to go with this.

They recently decided to steal the bird from another student, then having heard that just holding it might frighten it to death, they decided to see what else might kill it. First, they locked it in the trunk of a car, with the stereo turned up all the way, exposing it to the high amplitude, low frequency signal of the car's sub-woofer. That didn't do it, so they decided to shoot it repeatedly with a blow gun. That STILL didn't do it, so they electrocuted it. When it was still barely alive, they shot it twice more with the blow gun, and, upon ensuring it was really quite dead, they dumped it and its cage into the trash. In the statements they have made, they show no remorse. In fact, they still seem to think that this is funny or amusing somehow.

They are only being charged with petty larseny, for stealing it in the first place, but in Potsdam, there is no protection for the bird under the law, evidently. So that's fine. These are JUNIORS at Clarkson, that they would indulge in such inhumane and grotesque behavior is completely unacceptable. I am asking that we SHUN them. I suggest that you e-mail this, or a link to the article (below), to everyone that you know, or that you know who might be interested in shunning. Remember these names, and if you should ever meet them, SHUN!!!

Peace and Love,

A. Toad

By the way, here is a link to an article about the incident.

http://www.watertowndailytimes.com/article/20090430/NEWS05/304309958/-1/NEWS

I would like to trademark/copyright some inside running-joke junk before I get into trouble for making myself t-shirts of it online. Then NOBODY can ever use it again! It will be MINE all MINE! MWAHAHAHAAAAAAA! Anybody familiar with US law regarding that?

Now to handle a bit of Errata:

1) BigMike is not Ja'ar, and even if he were, Ja'ar is not affiliated with this blog. Therefore, the removal of the t-shirts and mugs and bumper stickers etc. (which was right after the first message I recieved, by the way), had nothing to do with his willingness or unwillingness to remove them. That's all on me.

2) The decision to name Toad Pizza "Toad Pizza" has to do with several things. The first is obvious. I am called Toad. You may call me Toad. The epithet connotes having a relatively small torso but burly legs, without implying the cuteness and friendliness that "frog" would. I am not cute, and I am rarely friendly; I am funny-looking and decidedly surly. I have been referred to as Toad for nearly a decade. Road pizza is an unfortunate condition that frequently befalls wild toads, as well as the occasional cyclist. Thusly (a preposition that never quite got its day in the sun), I find that I am often in twice the danger of the average cyclist or toad when I am near the road. In danger, that is, of becoming Toad Pizza, which also conveniently rhymes with "road pizza." I am very clever.

I hope this clears things up a bit.

Hey! Don't you go getting all Miss Thang up in here, TooNuts! You started it. Put yourselves in my posish. How'd you like to get some random, possibly phoney, legalese jargon about taking your hard-loaned money? What if I sent you a thing saying, "Hello, I am a powerful Doctor in Florida, this is my company: (insert made up front company here). You should know that I can get you for a million billion Euros (about a billion trillion US dollars), and also eat your soul. Please contact me and we'll talk (meaning I will take down your personal information and use it as I please... did you say you are a twenty-some college girl living ALL alone in the woods? That's very good; we will be able to find some sort of compromise, I'm sure). What if I sent it to your Myspace? Pretty sure you'd delete that. Things like that are right up there with "**~$$SeXiiiMoNiE$$~** sent you a friend request. Do you accept?"
 
And that's no bouffant. That's how my hair grows. That's right; it's a birth defect. Have a nice, steaming cup of guilt.

Annnnyway. I'm glad we've all gotten our feelings out in the open now. Perhaps we can finally move on from the pain of this whole experience, and, someday, maybe even eat fondue together. For now, however, I need to go practice.

Ta,

yours, etc.

TOONUTSPRODS June 07 9:46 AM Please contact us immediately.  You are using"Toad Pizza" in violation of our copyright and trademark via this site and by engaging in commerce selling goods bearing the name and likeness of our intellectual property at Cafe Press.  We have attempted to contact you previously but our communications thus far have been ignored.  Please treat this as a serious matter.   We would prefer  to settle this amicably rather than have to pursue further action.   Thank you for your prompt attention to this matter.  We look forward to your anticipated and timely response.   TOO NUTS PRODUCTIONS, L.P. PH: (310) 967 4532 E: info@toonutsproductions.com

I can't tell if this is a scam or not. I feel like it must be, given the weirdness of it all. Therefore, I don't want you to have my proper email address or other contact info. The last thing I need is to end up naked in a ditch wrapped in a garbage bag or something. I am too busy with school and getting married in a year for all that. So, here we are, under the watchful eyes of observers across the U.S.A. and even in Austrailia, where we can all see everything that goes on. Nonetheless, the shop is toast. Actually, I tried to get rid of it before-- it was only for Ja'ar and me to mess around with, and we've both long-since outgrown the novelty of it all-- but I couldn't figure it out. I did take all the little dealies that said "Toadpizza" off, but I guess that wasn't good enough. I put the link to it on this blog years ago, when I first made the shop, because it was easier for us to find it that way, and, before it was gone, I had even said as much in the description. Anyway. You guys are mean. If you're for real, then I can't believe you are so out to get me, especially when, there is a band out there with a song called "Toad Pizza," presumably making them money. Truthfully, I've never heard of you before you first contacted me, but I did buy their album. I'm not going to tell you their name, because you'd just attack them. Or I will happily sell them out if you will stop periodically threatening me. HAH.

O'Blogoshpere, if you think I sound a bit frivolous, please note that as amicably as NUTS may want you to think they are behaving, the last message they sent (which like this one, I had NO CLUE about because they sent it to the blog, and MSN doesn't contact you like Facebook or Myspace when you get spammed), was quite threatening in tone (heh, not that this one isn't... but it IS a bit more veiled, I suppose). They were bandying about terms like "$50,000 in damages," "lawsuit,"  and other outrageous nonsense. So outrageous, in fact, that I assumed it was some sort of phishing scam to get my personal info. I went to their website and was not impressed. Consequently, I deleted their message. I even tried to delete this blog, figuring that, since I never even use it anymore, I might as well get rid of it if it was going to be trouble. But alas! In a fit of pure nostalgia, I couldn't bring myself to delete all of the entries I'd written, not to mention all the comments by my web-chums, some of whom have since passed. Also, I couldn't figure out how to delete the balmy thing in the first place.

[Deleted: A scathing bit of pointless diatribe. Unfortunately, civility has once again won out in me.]

It is past two AM. I am tired. I have a final exam tomorrow. It is hot. I am irritable.

The shop is done with. You have no more beef with me. Congratulations! You're litigious bullies, how nice. You have tilted at the most benign windmill on the web, Quixotic TOONUTSPRODS. It is a hollow victory, isn't it? Not to mention whatever this all just did to your collective karma.... sheesh. Lessee, it's been a while since I lived in LA, but I still speak a bit of 310, I think: Yo. You dudes need to chillax hella. Yo.

KISS KISS,

A. Toad

PS: Oh GAWD, I sure hope KISS doesn't come and say legalese words at me for using the caps lock on the words "kiss kiss."

PPS: Am I bitter with you, TooNuts? Oh yeah. I am a recovering cynic. You have single-handedly caused one hell of a relapse. So yeah, I'm bitter. Am I spiteful? Yep. I don't know what exactly it is you sell, but I never ever want any of it, and I will definitely tell this story to everybody I know. Though I'd tell the story to everybody I know mostly because it's funny in a sad sort of way.

UPDATE: Okay, I'm not bitter anymore. You have redeemed yourselves moderately by posting an irascible and humorous retort to BigMike's call to arms.

OH MSN! You really do care!  Huzzah!

...

..


.

.



.

Now why does that dealie on the far left say I'm still 20? I wish I was still 20. Pfft. Blatant flattery gets you nowhere MSN.  Nonetheless there shall be catching up in the near future. Yours, etc.

Mostly, this is just a test. It is only a test. Do not run for cover, do not adjust your dial. I just want to see if MSN will let me make entries again, since I couldn't even log in or create/edit entries (and it would be nice to have basic formatting tools in them, like separation between paragraphs in particular. A single, massive block of text is wicked ungroovy). Thus:

(there should be a space here)

Testing, testing, testing.

(And a space here)

My mother said to pick the very best and I pick...

(Here too)


This concludes our test of the emergency broadca-- er-- the formating capabilities of the MSN Live Spaces text entry field. Malocchio on MSN if it doesn't work.

Hallo all. It's been a while. I have no excuses except that natch, when one is as important and in demand and busy as I (and I am very important and in demand and busy), one does tend to run short on time. Ahem.... Seems like I've had more gigs than usual lately. To bad they're always either for free or next to it, and there has been as trend of each possessing some demoralizing, degrading quality. I refer you to the musical of earlier this summer, and now to a conccert band that I am doing. The band is good times, really. Ostensibly, it's got something to do with an art festival, but it's purpose is to give middle and highschoolers to have a chance to play with more experienced musicians. Mr B asked some of his students to participate. It's just that it's a voluteer deal, in Gloversville, about forty-five miles from here, twice a week. There's my grocery money buring up into the atmosphere. Oh yeah, and there's T-Shirts. Bright, orange, t-shirts. They want us to wear them over khakis. Unfortunately, the only khaki I have is in the form of hiking shorts, two sizes too big. Mm-hmm. I look like a jackass. For you, Mr B, I do it for you. Mr B inspires loyalty like I have never seen before in his students, including me. If he asked me to play wearing a roll of Saran-Wrap with an aluminum foil hat, using my credit card to pump gas into a flushing toilet, standing barefoot on piles broken glass, in a puddle of lemon juice, while being lightly dusted with mange, I'd only want to know how soon he could get me the parts I needed to learn, and whether or not there was any good treatment for mange on the market these days. In other news, I'm on a kickball team. We're called the Hornets. Bzzzzz! We're awesome, it's true. Granted, it's questionable whether any of us actually know how kickball works but we do have Hornets jerseys that our captain silk screened last night. I feel like if i can actually connect with the ball when it is pitched to me, I should do all right.

Playing the Allegro from Faure's Fantasie for Flute and Piano makes me nervous like a chipmunk on PCP. No idea why.

Before I start today's entry, there's something you'll need to understand. I, Toad, have fallen under the spell of The Gym. I used to be a non-believer, brushing the Gym off as a mere haven for human-sized gerbils. Turns out that I love it. I love going to the Gym, I love thinking about going to the Gym, I love watching the TdF on the flat plasma screen TV that's attached to the ARC machine that my trainer has assigned to me for my warm-up at the Gym. But I don't yet consider myself a gym rat, as I still ride every day that weather permits, and while I am not a great endurance road cyclist or anything, my rides average around forty miles, whether I go to the Gym or not.

My love affair with the Gym started in Texas a few weeks ago, when, stranded at a Motel in the Desert without my trusty Bianchi, Salt Peanut, to abate the itchiness of Cabin Fever, I started working out everyday in the crummy motel "gym." It was dull, there were only three machines, a stationary recumbent bike, a treadmill, and a busted four-in-one weight machine. Most days I would wake up and think, 'Enh, I'll just ay in the sun by the pool today, that gym sucks." But, try as I might to spend an entire day lounging, after a few hours I'd wind up twitching with nervous energy, and, in shame, I'd sneak away to the gym room to take a seat on the stationary recumbent. When I returned to my hometown in Upstate, NY and was greeted by nothing but torents of rain and massive flooding, I soon began to feel the familiar twitches and itches. To my horror though, it was no longer just faceless cabin fever; it was a craving. For Gym.

I joined a gym around here, rationalizing that this way I'd have something to do on the days when I couldn't get out on a ride. I was worried that there'd be no way I could afford it, but, happily, I get a student discount that brings membership down to about forty dollars a month. Now, only three weeks later, I spend over two hours, four or five days a week at the Gym. Most of those days I've already gone for a long ride, but I just can't help it. It's-- It's just so cool. I mean, there's just so much stuff. I like stuff.

There's all these different cardio things you can climb on, each of which is equiped with a personal flat screen TV with basic cable. There are weights, classes (from Yoga to Ninjitsu), a room called the Cinema, which is basically a theater where they've replaced the seats with treadmills, ARC trainers, and stationary bikes (so cool), and, ahem, a sauna. Oh sauna.

The coolest thing though is probably that I've got a personal trainer, Colette. Gym lessons don't come with membership, and they're pretty far outside of my budget, even with the student discount, but I'm only going to do one lesson a week during the summer, and then one every other week once school starts. Basically, the way a personal trainer works is the same way a studio music instructor works. The first lesson is more or less a consultation to find your strengths and weaknesses, and then the instructor gives you a series of exercises to do to improve yourself as a well rounded musician, or, in this case, human. So I dunno, I'm just pretty excited.

I guess that's all for now. I need to practice some new stuff for tonight's show. With my trusty coleague (a flutist who was covering the first violin part) gone to have her wisdom teeth out, I now am covering both Violins I and II, Bassoon I, and Celli I and II... On flute. Gah... so. totally. over. this. musical.

 

LANCE ON... Being so totally over a musical.

Well, I can't say that I've ever been particularily "over" a musical. You, uh, you know that before I retired I was a professional cyclist, right? Won the Tour de France, like, mad times.... Right.

....

There was this one instance where somehow, Johann wound up booking the entire US Postal team as a last minute substitute pit orchestra for the podium ceremony in Paris. I think that must've been in 2001? Yeah. 2001. Sheeze... That was pretty hard, because I was on lead flugel horn, so George, who was on second, covered my part while I presented, and then I had to leap off the podium and dive into the pit. Hahaha... good times.... good times.

Just when I was starting to feel all right about this gig, having seen that the audience seemed quite happy the first night, and on the second having become familiar enough with the conductor and the way the musical runs that I am finally getting comfortable in the uncomfortable provided setting (did I mention before that the "pit" is a tent about ten feet downwind of the two skankiest out houses that side of the Mohawk? And that they make us literally ill, with headaches and nausea?), I learned last night, to my shock and dismay, that we, the Pit, need to "clean up your act, we can hear you talking and laughing when you make mistakes, and it's just completely unprofessional, you all should be ashamed! We've worked too hard on this ffor you guys to mess it up-- Cut the crap!" Quoth the actress playing Wicked Step Sister No. 2.

Now, at the risk of waxing cynical, the whole purpose of this production is to give amateur actors two weeks in which they can prove to the towns people how great they really are. In other words, this is a huge ego-fest that is so out of control that they actually needed to "hire" musicians to come play music for them to sing, badly, over. We have all been treated like hired help, domestics, subjected to conditions and work parameters for which actual Help would demand extra pay, and, hour for hour are making under twenty-five percent federal minimum wage (we're being paid about 1.22 USD per hour). I guess I have to say it: You're gonna need to pay me a little more to care.

Honestly. I'm not even going to address the all ridiculousness she said, because there was quite a lot of it. But ironically, while she was yelling at us about language, she herself was cursing much louder and more audibly than any of us had, and she was cursing AT people, much worse than the occasional slip of the tongue. Unprofessional? Honey, we're working in ALL BLACK SEMI FORMAL in JULY. If we're talking, it's because the conductor is having to shout last minute adjustments because you people can't count to four in your heads without hurting yourselves. The only thing that's not professional is that we took this gig in the first place. Professionals would've been insulted. And furthermore, if by "crap" you're talking about our morale in general, maybe that's because you're looking at a group of musicians who've worked very hard at being musicians, who've been suckered into this moronic Mickey Mouse production so that YOU can strut around on stage and feel important for a while. Why don't YOU cut the crap. There it is! Like ten feet upwind of the pit. In fact, we'd really appreciate it if you could cut that crap, because it's making us ill.

Whew.

All right. I am sorry that you've all borne witness to this ranting. But there is little else for me to report, as this stupid thing is taking up just about all my free time for the next nine days.

In other news, my cat, Albert, who is wonderful, has gotten a hair cut. I hope to have pictures soon.

CORRECTION: It turns out that we're actually being paid 150 USD, not 50, which works out to about 3.66 an hour or about 71% minimum wage. Still not much, but at least now I am not going to lose money on this gig. (Gas is going to cost about 65 USD, so before I was actually working for something like negative thirty cents an hour. This is much less of a bummer now.)

So the last day of my jury duty, I get an "urgent" call from a girl that I have a notoriously hard time saying "no" to asking if I could please do this musical for a couple weekends. They need a person to fill in first violin. "Um." I said, "I play flute." But they wanted me to play the part anyway, just on flute. She says it's a paying gig, and I need money, so I say, "sure." This is because I'm stupid. I need money because I'm stupid, and I took the gig because I'm stupid.

It turns out that there are rehearsals practically every night of the week from seven o'clock to midnight, with the show running from 7:00 to ten-ish Thursday through Sunday this weekend and Friday through Sunday next weekend. And the pay is fifty bucks. That's not going to cover the cost of gas. There are mosquitoes everywhere, because it's outside, the director has no down beat (e.g. everything looks like Beat One, so there's no telling where in a measure you are), the pit orchestra is choking on Deet, and the music itself is not terribly interesting. The only redeeming quality about this gig is that peridically, one of the keyboards (there are three; we don't have a full orchestra, so the keyboards have to fill in a lot) will get out of hand and start beat boxing, or repeating the sound byte "Dictionary." I mean, this is a terribly Mickey Mouse production. If it weren't for the fact that the girl who is putting the show on IS, in fact, the girl who is putting this thing on, the whole thing would be stupid.

I'm in love. Love at first sound. I know that might seem a bit odd, but I believe that perhaps being a musician makes my ears more finely tuned than my eyes. (Not that my eyes are reliable in the first place; -6.25, -7.00 is my prescription. I'm blind.) "Who are you in love with?" You may very well ask. I'll give you a hint-- I've spoken to this person everyday this week, it's some one who always is there to tell me what I need to do, in short, some one to watch over me. Monday, I called her twice, just to make sure that I had understood all she said during the first call. Her voice is a little bird's; delicate, cheerful, a song in itself. Sure we got off to a rocky start, but now I feel like I really know this person, you know? Like maybe we'll be seeing a lot of each other if things go our way.

"But, damnit, Who, Toad? Who is this wonderful being of which you speak so fondly?" I'll tell you: I am in love with the County Commissioner of Jurors' secretary. She's the woman on the recording that I have to check in with everyday to see whether I am needed to report to the courthouse. I've never seen her, don't even know her name, and to her I am just one of the jurors numbered 200 through 299, not even Juror Number 272, which is my personal number, but in my heart I know that it is meant to be.

I have written the following little poem for her.

 

O' Jury's Secretary girl, how much

Do I adore your pleasant silvery tone?

I'd listen all the day, you'd be my cruch,

My one and all, on touch tone telephone.

 

On hold I hold only for you alone

This record of you is all that I want

I cling to it like a dog to a bone

And on just this my heart grows lean and gaunt.

 

But though you say "Away!" believe I shan't,

You say "Jurors one up to ninety-nine"

Reject me all you like you cannot daunt

The truth, that is, it is for me you pine.

 

What will it take this poor ol' Toad to do

For you to call Juror Two Seven Two?

Say it ain't so Jan, Say it ain't so... I'm so freaking sad right now. I just... I dunno. I mean.... WTF man? Ya root for a guy for nearly a decade and then.......sniff......

 

I've been delayed in posting because the cable was out for a while, and everything-- phone, T.V. and Internet-- are through the cable company. It's been a bit damp here in Upstate NY these past days.

Note: The river was so swollen when I went out the other day that the waves were lapping up onto the path. Totally thought I might die. Lightning, thunder, rain so heavy and thick that it was like getting sand blasted and I couldn't keep my eyes open, and, I found out later, 65 mile-per-hour winds. It was a thirty-eight mile ride, and I had planned to call a cab at the turn around point, but when I got there the sun came out and it was nice so I started back. Natch, it happened that that was same the direction the storm was going, so I had it the whole way back too. I was SO burned out after that. I slept most of the next day.

I'll be back to post the Tejjjas Album later. Right now, I just want to go sob awhile.

 

Oh Jan... Why? WHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHY? GAH!

Texas.

I just found out that I am going to Texas. Saturday. For about a week and a half.

Why?

Ja'ar@Ja'ar's E-mail.com: Come visit me while I am in Texas for three weeks training.

Toad@Toad's E-mail.com: No.

Ja'ar: PLEEEEEEASE come visit me while I am in Texas for three weeks training.

Toad: Buy the tickets, And I'll come visit you. Hah.

Ja'ar: "American Airlines: We're writing to confirm your flight out of Albany International Airport on Saturday the 17th at 9:30 PM to San Antonio, Texas, returning Monday, the 26th at 10:46 PM."

Toad: What.

 

You all realize what this means, of course. Toad Pizza, sponsored by Team Three-Day-Old Enchiladas, shall be broadcasting Live from the Best Western in San Antonio, Texas for a while.

 

Definitely Muskrats.

Thanks to all the sleuthing of the commentators, especially Serf 'Rett, I have postively ID'd the Things from my last post as Muskrats. Look at 'em. Flithy, stinking, buck-toothed, dirty, hairy, unclean, vermin! Bruti! I-hate-'em-I-hate-'em-I-hate-'em!! GAH.

Wedding Ringbearer Pillows.

A few months ago-- Okay, last year, one of my old chums from the Seattle era called to inform me that she was tying the Big K. She wanted me to fly down for the wedding (which is the seventh of next month), and also asked me to make the Ring Pillow. "You're Artsy," Said she, "I know you can make one better than what we could buy." I write, I play a flute, and I sketch. I offered to write a screenplay for her about the most beautiful pillow ever, for which I would do the soundtrack, and draw the movie posters, but she said that she kindly would rather the pillow.

In the end, it wasn't hard, though I spent all of last year procrastinating. It only took about three hours, plus roughly a week to find a little silver dolphin charm with some kind of blue in it (either a gemstone eye, or inlaid, or whatever). I wanted to add that to make it a more personalized thing. I recall that she really has a thing for dolphins, and then, you know, the blue.... Something old, something new, some borrowed, something blue. The way I did it, I used a really nice silver chain for putting the rings on, so that she'll be able to take the dolphin and chain off and use them as a necklace.

 

My New Saddle.

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh..... Much better.

 

Six Items I worry about before a "Date" Are....

...The time. I am never correct as to the time that a "date" is set for. Usually this means that it's noon and I'm ready for a matinee at The Mall, when, in fact, I am supposed to be going to a nine o'clock showing.

...What the date actually is. Because =sometimes= it turns out it isn't a movie at all, rather Put-Put golf and dinner. And it's not nine, but five.

...Do I look like a Scumbag? My grandmother says "Yes."

...Do I look like a man? My grandmother says "Yes." But this might have more to it than my general scumbagginess. Seven different people on seven different occasions, independently of one another, have said that I look like a cross between John Lennon and Yoko Ono. Independently. How can this be? Well, I went to this online website where you upload a picture of you looking straight at the camera with a deadpan expression, and the Site matches your facial structure to those of celebrities. I had hoped to settle the issue once and for all. Not only was every match a man, excepting the very last one (54%) which was Hillary Clinton (I'm not bagging on Hills here, I love her dearly, but this is really what it said), but the number one hit (87% match) was John Lennon. The next were John Cusack, Keanu Reeves, David Schwimmer, and some East Indian guy named Rangeesh or something. I guess I'm just that butch. Gah.

...Did I lock up my bike? (Ok this is after I have already left.)

...Is it ethically wrong for me to post about said "Date" in the morning? Hmmmm....

 

Mr. S, the Aural Skills/Theory Prof. from Last Year who sometimes reads this blog.

Random thought? Yes, but actually not so much, as I think that L, whilst celebrating his 21st, may or may not have erm... Called everybody on his cell phone list, including Mr. S, at three in the morning about five nights ago.

Sorry Mr. S.

I was going to write about how much I like my new bike, Salt Peanut, today. Instead, I can only ask:

What is this????

(This is an official rendition, based on my description, by famed police sketch artist, Zelda Dinwitty.)

 

Until I had moved to the East Coast I had never seen one of these, and even then, only once in a great while. They look a little bit like huge hamsters, only with short rat tails. Or perhaps diminutive wombats. I tried to describe them to my esteemed colleagues here, but they too were at a loss.

These mysterious critters were out in numbers today. I saw, like, a hundred and seven of them. A veritable army of steroid enhanced hamster-wombats. And, when normally they have been passive, slow creatures, today, they were fast, skittish, squirrel-like, even. Especially in that they thought that I was a large predator coming for them, and if they ran directly at me, in a zig-zag pattern, they would confuse me and I would leave them intact and unharmed.

If only they might take better care to do me the same courtesy. I have never had a more stressful ride than today's, as not only did I have the regular kamikaze fauna to deal with-- the squirrels, rabbits, and chips I documented some months ago-- but now these whopping big vermin. One finally got me just a few miles from home. When he leapt from the brush, I had about point-oh-three seconds to decide on a course of action. Natch, I wrecked as fantastically as possible.

But listen. These things; they're bigger than bowling balls. The one that finally did me in, big he was, and even then, only medium-sized-- easily a pineapple. Some of them are almost small dogs. Mothers, watch your children lest they be devoured by the EPO Gerbils of Bog. Gah.

 

 

By The Way: Here's a picture of Salt Peanut, for scale.

 

 

Links:

Bat.

Endangered.

Missing.

Awesome Programming.

Every six years my foot. I've only been voting two years and the Jury Duty got me. Not even, because they actually got me...um... it might have been last May. "Dear Toad. [They said] You're up. Be there or die. Your number is 270." But I had tests or something, so I wrote down the number I was supposed to call, and left it at that. When I didn't die, I just sort of forgot about it.

Fast forward to March. "Dear Toad. Be there on the 23rd or you're in for it." I couldn't make it then. I had midterms, so Jury Duty was just not acceptable at the time. Something had to be done. I called the number. "Jury Duty," I said, "It's just not going to happen." "All right, we'll put you down for June instead." "When in Ju--?" But the Jury Dutieer was already gone.

As it happened, Jury Duty sent me another letter. I had been rescheduled for the week starting June Fifth. I have Two rehearsals and a concert with the Capital Region Wind Ensemble that week. That's Mr B's pro version of the S College WInd Ensemble. Like, Wind Ensemble 10.3.9 or Wind Ensemble XP or something. Sigh.

"NO JURY DUTAW!!" I called back in my best Cartman, "Bad Jury Dutaw! You know ah kent git awnmyah jhat week. Nah stop it! Bad Jury Dutah!"

I ground my teeth in anticipation until the next letter arrived, which it did just now. Well, today-now. Right now is almost midnight so that would be kinda silly. For the mailman to have delivered it right now. Right-O.

"Dear Toad." I held my breath. "The week starting July Third, and that's final. We know where you live."

"Listen. Jury Duty, dahling, I don't need this. I have classes starting soon, and that week is sure to be midterms (everything's twice as fast in the summer). I'm supposed to fly down to a wedding in Florida on the seventh (well, actually, I can't anyway because I'm poor, and in college... is that redundant?). Ja'ar is going to be in the states then. I'm painting my bedroom. I have to reshingle the Grand'rents' Camp up on Sacandaga. My kidneys are failing. I have a club foot. I won't be a fair juror. I am prone to violent outbursts in courtrooms. My leg is broke-- I can't see well-- I have small pox-- T.B.-- I'm a Leper! A Leper!"

"No. July third or else."

This better not run over more than a week. I feel so used. Like Jury Duty tricked me. "Don't you want to vote? C'mon, have a say in the political world... Just, just sign there, yeeeeah... don't worry, we won't need you for at least six years.....mwahahhahahaa...ha." Touché, Jury Duty, Touché.

 

LINKDOM:

The Jury Duty

In Belgium

The Movie

No Exemption For You.