Vegetation monitoring

I left Angleton at 0500 for the Trinity NWR HQ and arrived about 0650, not far from the little town of Moss Hill.  Biologist Laurie Lomas and her field tech, Catharine (Cat) who was just out of high school.  They had the UTV loaded and ready to go.  We left for the monitoring unit 15 minutes later.  I followed in trace for about 15 minutes where we pulled off the side of Hwy 105 W onto an old, partially asphalt road to a gated bridge over a creek where we rode into the unit.  This was a forested unit much like any representing most areas of east Texas near the Big Thicket.  We were monitoring 40 sites where Laurie conducted her bird counts and this vegetation monitoring will be used in the data to analyze populations of migrant and resident birds .  

 

And the rains kept a'coming.  We were wet immediately and stayed that way for the next 3 days in the field.  If it wasn’t for Write in the Rain paper there would be no way we could document the vegetation at every transect.  Pencil or Pen, it worked nearly flawlessly in the torrential rains.  Temperatures in the 80’s and walking kept us from hypothermia.  In short, this is how the monitoring went:

Thomas: FRPE, section 1, section 3.  FRPE was the botanical code for Green Ash (Fraxinus pennsylvannica), section 1 indicated a diameter of 0-5 cm, section 3 indicated 2-12 m height. 

Laurie: Smilax species, RUTR?  Smilax is green briar, RUTR is the botanical code for dewberry (Rubus trivalis). 

 

Cat was my transcriber.  I think we peaked the Bell Curve at 75 species.  Cherokee sedge was the dominant ground species. Deciduous holly, green ash, parsley hawthorn and Post and Texas oaks were the dominant trees.

The rains never let up for long over the next 3 days.  Day 1-2 was 9+ hours and Day 3 was 6+.  Everything and anything out there stung, bit, grabbed, pulled and stuck you.  We wore Carthart trousers which offset most thorns and prickles but it was like walking with wet canvas around your legs.  Eventually that hard canvas starting rubbing holes in your skin. Each site had 4, 46 meter transect lines with 4, 3x10 meter blocks to identify the species within them.  It looks like I’ll do this again next week.  

The Rogue Botanist and the Zombies of Dungpileton

 All characters, living or dead, and locations or events in this web novel are entirely fictitious or merely coincidental. 

 Chapter 2

Both of Banner’s parents were CIA Spooks and maintained strict privacy in his small house outside Langley, Virginia.  By his teenage years it was obvious to Race his parents’ so-called jobs as computer technicians was a ruse but he never questioned it.  As an only child he benefited from their doting; giving him the best education and training in the martial arts and leading to degrees in Middle Eastern studies and philosophy by his 18^th birthday.  Race shunned his well-to-do peers who would give birth to another generation of lazy, self-entitled children.  He knew where he wanted to be and it wasn’t in a suit figuring out how to sidestep toothless banking regulations.   Fluency in Arabic and Farsi proved advantageous when he enlisted in the Marines before the first Gulf War.  After the rare promotion to Staff Sargent within four years, it was a natural progression to acceptance as an NSA operative when he retired from the Marines.  He never looked back.

Had Race spent more time at Ft. Meade he would have full knowledge of General Langefords’ background leading up to his appointment as director, his numerous commendations and medals for valor and leadership from the Vietnam Conflict to the second Gulf War.  Unbeknownst to Race was Langeford's internal NSA battles to save his career and maybe his life during the purgings by The Family.  Likewise, with the myriad of covert operations every year to keep track of there was no time for Langeford to read of Banner’s connection with Dungpileton and what transpired there in May 2003.  

May 2003

As a field agent, Race had the luxury of avoiding the tedium of administrative responsibilities.  At least as far as supervision was concerned.  Nevertheless, he was not oblivious to the recent influx of new agents with scant covert skills or basic operatives' acumen.  Also not lost on him was the connection between these agents and their relationship with powerful congressmen and large donors to President Bush’s 2004 reelection campaign.  So it came as no surprise (but much agitation) to him to receive orders to babysit a newbie agent for two weeks on a mission in Dungpileton, TX.  He had two hours to review agent Jim Corning’s dossier before picking him up from Houston's Hobby Airport.   

Jim Corning

·         Nephew of John Corning, republican senator from Texas. 

·        Yale graduate.  Graduating at the bottom of his class with a degree in political science. 

·        No second language skills

·        Rudimentary computer skills

·        Three DUIs

DUIs?  Race muttered to himself.  “That alone would not get a call back from the recruiting agent.   

He continued to read.

·        

           DUIs dismissed after judicial review

·         Prostitution solicitation dismissed after judicial review

·         Internal review by Yale board of directors on suspicion of employing a student to attend his classes and take his exams - dismissed for lack of evidence.

“Holy shit!”  This guy is the mirror image of the president during his years at Yale.  If Dan Rather had the Agency’s report on Bush, he would never have resigned in disgrace from CBS News.  It was not his call to leak to the media the whoring and cocaine use by the president and besides history would judge Bush and it would not be kind.  He was grateful agent Terrance Ford was joining him for backup.  Ford, a retired Marine lieutenant, joined the Agency soon after Banner and both careers took similar paths.  In Banner’s opinion, Ford’s legendary success with cracking the Chinese’s submarine launch codes was reason enough to make him director.  It shouldn’t have mattered that Ford was black but it did to the republican dominated Senate Intelligence Committee.  His nomination never stood a chance. 

“Terrance! Over here” Race spoke up as he waved his arms about the airport crowd.  He wasn’t hard to spot in a crowd at 6’4 with an athletic build of a man half his age.  The men greeted each other with powerful handshakes and hugs. “How’s it going old man?” were Terrance’s sarcastic first words though both men were only in their mid-forties.  “Not bad, old fart” Race replied.

Terrance cut to the chase.  “Well, let’s get on with it Race”.  Since Terrance was flying out of Houston to Istanbul in two days he took the opportunity to see his old friend and maybe get in a little ribbing about the baby Race had to sit.  Besides, he was curious to meet Race’s Goner contact in this region albeit it wasn’t germane to the case.  A Goner was Agency slang for unofficial operatives which by all rights should be agents but were too far gone to pass the strict guidelines for mental stability.  Nevertheless, they served an important role in the security of the United States with loyalty beyond reproach.  All Terrance knew was the goner was known as the Rogue Botanist. 

Corning’s fight arrived thirty minutes later.  With Jim’s photo in hand the men waited at the arrival gate, looking for a doughy, pasty faced individual with thinning black hair.  Jim entered from the gate scanning the crowd and locked eyes on the two men.  He greeted each with a flaccid, sweaty handshake followed by a knowing glance from Race to the smirking Terrance. 

Race told both men there wasn’t much time to check out leads in Dungpileton and suggested they all spend time tonight looking over the mission at the Best Western hotel.  The mission was a favor owed to the Director from the FBI Director.  Domestic counterintelligence was the FBI’s forte but this case had world reaching consequences which heavily involved the NSA.  Computer hackers traced to Dungpileton were overriding protocols at the port of Houston leading to a lack of high security designation for sophisticated guidance missile motherboards destined for the United Kingdom.  These motherboards were reclassified as obsolete computer parts to be recycled in Malaysia but ultimately would fall into the hands of the Chinese government.  A chance double check by custom agents alerted authorities to the operation before the parts left the United States but the trail was still hot.  Jim was annoyed at the abrupt meeting tonight.  He was hungry and a little antsy for cocaine and a hooker. He agreed to the timetable while simultaneously plotting to take care of business.

The mission ended abruptly five hours later.  More often than not plans are always evolving and timetables changing.  Such was the case tonight at the hotel.  Race received word the hackers were on the move and quickly informed Terrance and Jim.  Race and Terrance were veterans of changing plans; always keeping the bare minimum of clothes and toiletries out of their luggage and therefore always packed and ready to go in minutes.  Annoyed at Jim’s foot dragging, both men approached the door of his room and, drawing closer, heard the angry yelling of a woman.

“You asshole, the deal was one-hundred for the coke and fifty for the fuck”.  “Keep it quiet bitch” replied the voice of Jim followed by a loud smack of skin on skin.  Race looked at Terrance and without a word threw his body against the door, splintering it from the jam and propelling him into the room.  They found Jim naked standing over an equally naked woman sobbing and spitting blood on the carpet from a large gash on her lip.  On the night stand, in three rows, was a powered substance.

Jim, what the fuck is going on here was Race’s first words although he knew the answer before speaking.  Rather incredulous, Jim responded, “Stupid bitch is trying to rip me off” and with a cocaine-induced bravado approached Terrance and Race to confront them about the sudden entrance.  This was the last of his mistakes that night.  At arm’s length Terrance shot out his massive hand, throttling Jim’s neck. Thick, corded muscles flex throughout Terrance’s arm as his continued to squeeze until Race intervened. 

 

“Alright Terrance, let him go” and with that Jim was released, crumpling to the carpet.  Race looked at the hooker and with a slight, wordless motion of his head towards the door indicated she should leave now. She gathered her clothes and raced out of the room.  Regaining his breath Jim concentrated his anger on Terrance.  “You fucking nigger, when I tell my dad what you did the Family will cut up you and feed you to the sharks”.  A threat from a piss-ant like Jim barely solicited  notice from Terrance.  He tuned to Race, “I guess this mission is scrubbed, want to get a beer?”  Race agreed and both men walked out of the room, glad to not deal with Jim for the moment.  The threat about the Family intrigued them neither man knew of the festering influence it had throughout the intelligence agencies.  Later that night Terrance received an abrupt mission statement to take a plane out of Houston for South Korea.  Not unusual and not warranting suspicion.  Brief goodbyes were the norm followed by a promise to meet again when there was free time. 

In the morning Race put in a five mile run to mulled over what to do about Jim.  When finished, he entered his room to the sound of his cell phone ringing on the night stand. The number indicated it was straight from Ft. Meade.  “Agent Banner”, the unknown voice said with no emotion, “Agent Ford’s body was retrieved from the Gulf of Mexico by the Coast Guard this morning.  The body was headless but the implanted tracker confirmed it was him”.  Race stood stoic, replied with a “thank you” and hung up.  Someday the accumulation of friends and love ones who perished during his 14 years of service would come forth in a volcanic outpouring of grief but not today.  In his business it was rare to know the identity of an agents’ assassination but this time he had no doubt who instigated the hit.  Calmly, he dressed, packed his clothes and walked to Jim’s room. The door was askew and partially closed.  Knocking, Race called out to Jim.  “Jim, we have a new assignment and need to fly out in an hour”.  Expecting no reply Race pushed the door open to find Jim asleep.  The white lines on the night stand were now a faint white trace.  Shaking Jim awake Race repeated himself.  Groggy, Jim acknowledged and after taking an hour to shower and pack joined Race at the rental SUV. 

Driving on state highway 523 out of town, Race turned onto Hitchin's Hill road towards the Victoria National Wildlife Refuge.  During this time he filled Jim in on the mission but kept details vague. 

“Jim, we are to rendezvous with a helicopter at a driving tour loop on the Victoria Refuge.  That’s all I know for now.  We’ll get details in route to the area of operation.”  Twenty minutes later they turned onto a three mile stretch of road to an education center and continued on a gravel road designated as the tour loop.  Signs on the roadside pointed to shallow ponds populated with wading birds and the occasional alligator.  When Race was sure there were no vehicles present he pulled into an enclave of salt cedars where an historic monument described the planting of these trees as part of a homestead in the 18^th century.  Here, he told Jim that this was the rendezvous site.  Jim left the car, peering between the cedar groves to a sweeping vastness of prairie grasses but couldn’t envision how a helicopter would land among the knee high mounds. 

“Race, there’s no clearing for the…”  He never finished his sentence.  Race had approached from behind with a garrote over Jim’s head and around his neck, slicing into his windpipe.  Jim clawed at the wire, trying to get his fingers between it and his neck.  Unable to do so, he frantically swung his arms backwards in an attempt to hit Race.  In less than twenty seconds he was losing his breath and blacking out, arms falling limply to his side.  Race maintained tension on the garrote until he was sure Jim was either dead or soon to be dead from having his trachea sliced nearly in half.  It was messy, blood still running in streams down Jim’s neck and staining the sleeves of Race’s shirt but it was quiet and there no tourists, especially the birdwatchers who were gathered in groves to observe a rare sighting of a black-tailed godwit in another area of the refuge.

Taking out a joint from his silver cigarette case, Race lit it and took a long drag before calling the rogue botanist on his phone.  The death was prearranged therefore; all Race had to say was “time for the cleanup”.  No words other than “OK” were spoken on the other line.  In thirty minutes a late model Toyota 4-runner rambled down the gravel road to parked alongside the SUV.   A balding, fit looking Caucasian male in his fifties got out of the car and approached the back of the SUV where he found Race halfway through his joint.  Jim was at his feet, the last of his blood staining the grassy ground.  The botanist was in the uniform of his federal agency, the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service.  Wearing the uniform would allay suspicions from tourists.   It was 0800 and typical of coastal weather; balmy and already 85 degrees.  Mosquitoes swarmed around the men and Jim's now dead body.  Both men gave no indication of a greeting for there would be time for that another day.  The uniformed man had down pat the protocol from past cleanups for Race, allowing Race to leave the scene with only a nod and giving rest of the joint to his goner.  As he drove away he glanced in his rear mirror to see the botanist drag Jim’s body to the back of his vehicle.  At a location off limits from tourists the botanist ate a  cold breakfast burrito and finished the joint.  He was waiting on the Fixer. Fortunately events occurred at the right place and time because the Fixer was in Houston as a representative for Great Britain’s MI5; teaching agents on the permanent disposal of bodies.  Two hours later the Fixer arrived at the given GPS coordinates in a pickup truck with one 55 gallon blue plastic barrel in the bed and fifty boxes labeled “Fluorosulfuric acid (HFSO₃)”.  In the cab was his wife Chelsea whom he first met when she was on an operation for the CIA in Burma.  They left the truck to find the botanist hunched over a plant. 

“Dig this! Spiranthes vernalis, one of my favorites” said the botanist as he inspected the orchid. The Fixer replied in his coarse, working man’s British accent. “Are you done wanking off to that plant because I have classes to teach back in Houston?”

Nick! Keep it professional, Chelsea implored..  To say Chelsea was “striking in her beauty” would be a disservice.  It was a sore point with Nick because Chelsea prompted the longing, body length gazes of every man she encountered.  But she and Nick knew this was not the case with the botanist.  According to NSA records he was a classic nymphomaniac yet to the chagrin of Chelsea also abided by a code to never let his eyes stray from the face of a married woman.  Just once she wanted to tell him “Hey, my eyes are up here!” 

The botanist pulled himself away from the orchid.  “Hey y’all, this looks like an easy cleanup”.  Nick and Chelsea concurred.  The barrel was removed from the truck and as Chelsea held it secure on its side, the men heaved Jim’s body inside it.  After lifting it up onto the truck bed the men donned goggles, gas masks, rubber apron and gloves and removed the jugs of acid from the boxes.  As each man pour acid over the body, the resulting reaction with skin and water released gases of hydrofluoric acid which were carried away downwind.  Chelsea maintained a position upwind, complimenting herself again on the wise decision to bring a hooded mosquito jacket but forgot about the fire ants swarming about her shoes and making their way up her legs.  Both men took a few seconds to entertain themselves at the site of Chelsea cursing and slapping at the ants as they injected stingers laded with formic acid into her legs.  “Fucking ants, if it isn’t the mosquitoes it’s the fucking fire ants or chiggers or some other little bitch bug”! 

When the last jug of the acid topped off the body, the barrel lid was snapped shut and secured with side clamps.  The men disrobed their protective garments and within a moment the truck with its two passengers and a soon-to-be slurry mix of Jim was on its way back to Houston.  The barrel was destined for filtration to reuse the acid and what was left of Jim, maybe only teeth, would be buried in Mt. Trashmore, the local landfill and highest point in Brazoria County.  With the mission completed on his end the rogue botanist went back to his latest plant fixation; contemplating how to extract N,N-Dimethyltryptamine (DMT) from nearby species of acacia.

Zombies of Dungpileton - Chapter 1

A meeting with the Director of Intelligence of the National Security Agency (NSA) couldn’t fully occupy Race Banner’s thoughts at this stage in his life as he drove to the headquarters in Fort Meade, Maryland.  He was one month away from retirement and in no mood to chit chat with another bureaucrat.  After thirty years in obscurity with the NSA, behind the scene involvement in some of his country’s darkest operations, he was ready to live life as a normal citizen.  Jokingly called the Nerd Assassin by his friends, Race was the go-to man with the knowledge to infiltrate the world of rogue governments and take out their scientists.  Now he was one month away from a new life cultivating medical marihuana on his farm south of Santé Fe, New Mexico. This thought always solicited a smile; his little secret, an act of defiance to counter the thirty years of blind allegiance to his country.  It was his time to call the shots now, to have the final say in the direction of his life.   His vehicle’s presence was detected one mile from the NSA headquarters after entering the fort.   Pole mounted cameras followed his movement into the parking lot and instantly scanned his retinas for identification. Fingerprint scans and voice analyzer allowed him access beyond the receptionist at the front desk.  This was level one entry for the basic NSA operative.  To gain access to the bowels of the headquarters, to the offices that don’t exist, required the swabbing of his inner cheek for an instantaneous DNA identification that was undeniable. 

   

At this level it was not unusual to meet in a spartan office with only one table and two chairs.  It sent a message of getting to the point.  What was unusual was the team of 4 lab-coated scientists standing behind the Director, Lt. General Michael Langeford (Ret.) as he sat facing Race.  Race had only the vaguest recognition of one scientist, someone he recalled working with on a failed mission to clone Kim Jong-il and replace the North Korean despot after he was kidnapped by Navy Seals.  As he sat, Race still believed it unlikely he would get another assignment so close to the end yet that notion faded when Langeford slid a folder towards him with Level 5 Top Secret stamped on its front; the highest security level.

Langford broke the silence. “It is a pleasure and an honor to meet you agent Banner.  He dispensed with introducing the scientists.  Despite the general's efforts, Race easily detected in his voice a dreading mannerism.  This was serious, more than the typical assignment to remove another lab rat in Iran or China.  The scientists remained silent as the general continued.  “You are familiar with the Zombie Parasite?  Race nodded.  The Zombie Parasite was a genetically modified variant of Toxoplasma gondii, a parasite with the remarkable ability to alter the brain of infected rats, making them attracted to the urine of cats and in the process inclined to be captured and eaten.  When eaten, the parasite finds its way to the gut of the cat where it flourishes and lays eggs which are expelled in the urine to continue the life cycle when new rats detect and lick it up.  Race had peripheral knowledge of the project’s success of altering the parasites’ DNA to make it seek out the brain of people who unknowingly ingested it in food.  Preliminary results showed that once infected, the human entered a zombie state and immediately imprinted on the first person in its sight.  In this state the zombie followed every order from its master without question.  There were rumors that Al Qaida prisoners were infected with the parasite and once imprinted, were fitted with a vest of C4 explosives and a detonator and allowed to rejoin their brethren in Pakistan.  Success was spotty as detonation of the vests occurred more often than not in public areas but this was explained away as callousness on the part of militants.   There was no concrete answer as to why the zombie blindly obeyed its master to the detriment of its own life.  Speculation had it the parasite accepted this as a symbiotic relationship where eventually it would encounter a large population and enhance the odds of passing on eggs through its urine. 

Scientist no. 1 spoke up.  Mr. Banner, we are at the point where there is a need to observe the parasite’s interaction with other infected individuals in a large population, say 20,000 people.  Scientist number two explained further.  To infect a large population in an aggressor’s country would not allow us to tightly monitor or control the movement of the infected.  In short, we could not guarantee that imprinting would occur with a reliable master.

What we need from you, the general interjected, is to recon a town in the United States that is a perfect laboratory for the next level in this experiment.  A town where the citizens average IQ is below the national standard.  Where people would be oblivious to manipulation or not have the wherewithal to question any change in their pathetic existence. 

“Have you found such a town?” Race asked. 

Yes replied the general.  The town is called Dungpileton, Texas.  Noting that Race raised an eyebrow upon hearing this, the general asked “Have you heard of this town?” Race replied that he did and thought to himself, “who hasn’t”?

Epilogue

Dungpileton, Texas.  A mid-size town of 20,000 residents on the Texas Gulf Coast, fifty miles southeast of Houston.  Founded in 1890 by Thaddeus Angleton, the town took its name from the byproduct of  cattle and horse feedlots throughout the county of Brazoia which used the city as its repositories. Periods of boom and bust followed for decades thereafter until the state sent in the Texas Rangers to set fire to the mountainous piles of dung in an attempt to eradicate diarrhea, typhoid, scabies, cholera, and intestinal parasites which ran rampant within the ghettos of the dung workers or dungies.  With their livelihood destroyed the dungies regrouped to build the low paying, non-union businesses now prevalent in modern Dungpileton or what passes for modern.  The denizens however, never lost their love for dung.  It is their city motto - “Fimus est rex rgis. Porro ago rex”!  Translated, it means “Dung is king.  Long live the king”! 

Even by East Texas standards, dungies are crude and backwards thinking dullards.  This reputation is a source of pride and exploited as a huge source of revenue by way of tourism.  The annual Dung parade and crowning of Miss Dung draw in tens of thousands of paying tourists so it is imperative the city keeps up appearances.  The true power behind Dungpileton is a consortium of families that decide who will be mayor and city council members (always men) because family members are the only ones who remember to vote in general elections.  Keeping in line with females of the state Republican Party, the women of Dungpileton are born into a Stockholm Syndrome of acquiescence to the patriarchs of the ruling families. The families also decide who will be clergy of the churches and members of the police force with the latter paid with stock in national donut chains.  If one looks at Dungpileton as if living in a bubble then it is fair to say there is no corruption.  The tightly controlled gambling, prostitution and meth businesses are seen as matter of fact because the citizens believe this is the way it has always been.  The arrangement is not without its consequences.  With a wink and a nod from the Texas Education Agency, the Dungpileton independent school district produces an assembly line of graduates with a thinking capacity one could posit as functionally retarded.  In a state that is number one in health uninsured, Dungies have the highest per capita rates of diabetes, heart disease, obesity and communicable diseases.  The mayor, Thad Angleton IV, never forgets to tell any stranger he holds the patent for a padded arm rest on shopping carts to allow Dungie shoppers some measure of comfort as they lean on their carts for support; a walk popularly known as the shopping cart shuffle.    

Road Trip

I would not call this a vacation, more like an exercise in endurance to cram as much as possible into a week and 3000 miles which included 2 days of driving.  

Dungpileton to Lubbock, TX (maybe just as bad) to Grand Junction, CO.  I make the same trip to Lubbock ~ 3-4 times a year for the last 13 years to visit Andrea Hurlow and her son Josh Carpenter.

 I always expect hiking when I visit Rob and Sue Graham in GJ.  With my fibro under control I'm in better shape to hike despite coming from the flat lands.  This was in the Colorado National Monument.  Rob and Sue are fittness trainers at Mesa St. University.  I learned from Rob the muscle I strained on our hike was the Soleus - below the calf.  I got over it.

Plants, always plants along the way.  On the hike it blew my mind to find a columbine on the dry slopes because I've always encountered it in cooler high elevations, the shade or on moist north slopes.  The flower turned out to be Mancos Columbine, an endemic to this area.

In Closing:

                                                
                                                                       Joshua Carpenter

                                           

Gay Day in Houston

What started out as volunteering at an information table for the Houston Atheists morphed into a nascent observation of the LGBT crowd on Saturday at the Houston Gay Pride Parade grounds adjacent to Montrose St., the main route of the parade.  As much as I wanted to otherwise, the constraints of time and distance from Angleton, TX (70 miles) necessitated spending only four hours at this celebration and long before the actual parade at 7:00 pm.

As I neared the the Montrose District there were signs of festivities as young, uninhibited men walked about; toned, shirtless and wearing speedos.  Parking the vehicle several blocks away, I walked into the main venue where dozens of tables were set up including that of the Houston Atheists.  I introduced myself to Julie and in a few minutes to Mellie and Jimmy, the latter being the table organizer and a proud Gaytheist.  I settled in, parroting Julies’ spiel to the curious about the Houston Atheists being the largest community in the country and a social organization for atheists and freethinkers who could enjoy the company of like-minded folks without the stigma of being labeled everything from immoral to Satanists by forgiving believers.  From here I could people watch, taking in the diversity of the LGBT community for the first time in my life.  My encounters with gay Americans I could count on one hand.  They were always somewhere I wasn’t and my somewhere was usually in an intolerant community which adhered to the stagnant malaise of religious edict.  As an atheist and an outsider I felt a common struggle with the LBGT community.  Only now is society accepting them as legitimate Americans, free to love and marry whomever they wanted in a growing number of states and also free to defend my country in the military.  I couldn’t help but wonder if Atheists now are the recipients of the last great prejudice in this country.  After all, Houston has a lesbian mayor.  Would the denizens of Houston be so inclined to elect an atheist for mayor?

After an hour and a half of handing out information I ventured out, observing the crowd and every shape and size of people therein no matter straight or gay.  Despite the boldness of attire or lack thereof the same cultural rules applied – those with great bodies displayed more skin and those, shall I say less toned chose to wear more apparel.  Yes, there were the stereotypical flamer but other men you would not give a second look walking down the street.  In what was considered bold for me, I sought out gay men and lesbians who were sitting in the shade to ask their views on the current state of acceptance in this country.  All were cordial and polite and the replies centered basically on the same opinion that the country is moving towards acceptance of the LGBT community, albeit slowly, as equal Americans and in the near future same-sex marriage will be legal in all states.  

   

Some of the vendors hawked merchandise, some solicited petitions to give the poor more rights but one I happened upon was as paradoxical as you could encounter – The Log Cabin Republicans.  According to their website the LCR are conservative, moderate and libertarian Republicans, including LGBT Americans and our straight allies.  They are united by the belief that inclusion wins and that the GOP is stronger when it does not alienate LGBT people or their friends and family through antigay rhetoric and policies.  The men at the table were smartly dressed, well groomed and very much with an appearance counter to their brethren walking about.  I resisted the urge to debate Roger, gay and black and truly a minority within a minority within the Republican Party.  Instead I asked how he reconciled his core beliefs with that of the anti-gay national platform of the Republican Party.  He echoed nearly verbatim from the LCR web page; a mishmash of statements that would make the reader believe they were in a perpetual state of Stockholm Syndrome. Roger cited his concern for national security and the failed fiscal policies of President Obama.  You would get a repeated reply from any republican but I couldn’t wrap my mind around why this organization existed at all.  Shifting the ideology of the Republican Party to accept gays and lesbians as equal citizens was noble enough but why affiliate with a party determined to keep them as second class citizens?  Later I explored the LCR web page further; looking at an interactive map of the states which gave information on LGBT public officials or as they were called: “Out” LGBT Public Officials.  According to the map Texas has 27 but none in the U.S. congress.  Looking over other Red States I saw the following:

                                    OK      UT       KS       MS       AL       MT      AZ       LA       WV

US Congress:              0          0          0          0            0          0         0          0          0

State Legislature         1          0          0          0            1          3          5          0          0

State Executive            1          4          1          0            1          0          3          1          1

Other                             1          2          1          1            0          3          6          2          2

Missing from the map is which LGBT public official is a Democrat, Republican or other party affiliation.  I’m willing to bet there are no republican LGBT public officials.  Granted, the affiliation of Democratic LGBT public officials may be paltry but there is not a concerted effort by the Democratic Party to purge all LGBT candidates from its ranks.

   

What I saw today was a microcosm of our future society - inclusion of same sex men and women as equal loving partners.  Despite the money and power of haters wanting to turn society's clock back , there is no turning back.  Time is on the side of the LGBT community. 

Ode to Bill Miller Fried Chicken

I was in San Antonio recently - the headquarters of Bill Miller Fried Chicken.  I grew up near the 1st of many of this fine establishment.  In all my travels I have yet to eat any fried chicken that compares to this food of the gods.  This is my tribute.  Sung to the tune of "I Don't Need No Doctor" by Humble Pie.  Circa 1971.

I don't need no pork chops
'Cause I know what's ailing me
I don't need no pork chops
'Cause I know what's ailing me
All I need is my chicken
You don't know I'm in misery

I don't need no pork chops
I don't need no pork chops

I don't need no sushi
My taste buds tells me that
I don't need no sushi
My taste buds tells me that
All I need is that chicken
You don't know I'm in misery

I don't need no pork chops
I don't need no pork chops
I don't need no sushi
I don't need no sushi

Well Bill Miller said I need this- ooh ooh
It took me off the critical list- ooh ooh
Keeping my veins running free- ooh ooh
And my heart pumping happily- ooh ooh
I ate that deep fried chicken and it soothed
Ooh, yeah my addiction, oh yeah

I don't need no T-bone
I don't need no pork chop
I don't need no sushi
I don't need no lamb chop

Fascination is right outside your door

In the podunk town of Angleton I drive by churches with full parking lots every Sunday and Wednesday; air conditioned worshipers enthralled by a lifelong neurosis.  Streets are empty of kids fattening inside in front of the TV.  The town borders thousands of acres of forests and prairies but the population is a sluggish morass of denizens waiting for their last artery to clog.

The wonders of the outdoors are limitless.  A day may bring the familiarity of a plant or animal seen a thousands times or you may come across a creature you've never seen.

Beautiful Wood Nymph Moth (Eudryas grata) mimicking a bird dropping.

AMAZINGLY SIMPLE HOME REMEDIES

Many thanks to Suzanne Gautney for these timeless remedies!



1.      AVOID CUTTING YOURSELF WHEN SLICING VEGETABLES BY GETTING SOMEONE ELSE TO HOLD THE VEGETABLES WHILE YOU CHOP.
2.       AVOID ARGUMENTS WITH THE FEMALES ABOUT LIFTING THE TOILET SEAT BY USING THE SINK.
3.       FOR HIGH BLOOD PRESSURE SUFFERERS ~ SIMPLY CUT YOURSELF AND BLEED FOR A FEW MINUTES, THUS REDUCING THE PRESSURE ON YOUR VEINS. REMEMBER TO USE A TIMER.
4.       A MOUSE TRAP PLACED ON TOP OF YOUR ALARM CLOCK WILL PREVENT YOU FROM ROLLING OVER AND GOING BACK TO SLEEP AFTER YOU HIT THE SNOOZE BUTTON.
5.       IF YOU HAVE A BAD COUGH, TAKE A LARGE DOSE OF LAXATIVES. THEN YOU'LL BE AFRAID TO COUGH.
6.       YOU ONLY NEED TWO TOOLS IN LIFE - WD-40 AND DUCT TAPE. IF IT DOESN'T MOVE AND SHOULD, USE THE WD-40. IF IT SHOULDN'T MOVE AND DOES, USE THE DUCT TAPE.  (To this group I would add parachute cord).
7.       IF YOU CAN'T FIX IT WITH A HAMMER, YOU'VE GOT AN ELECTRICAL PROBLEM.
DAILY THOUGHT:  (SOME PEOPLE ARE LIKE SLINKIES - NOT REALLY GOOD FOR ANYTHING BUT THEY BRING A SMILE TO YOUR FACE WHEN PUSHED DOWN THE STAIRS.

Turtle Rescue

This year I have saved 21 turtles from imminent road squashing.  The rains of the past months may have made them more incline to migrate; either for permanent water or breeding.  Unfortunately they are easy targets for the Texas Redneck (Retardus texensis) and his truck.

Species:


3 Common Snapping Turtles (Chelydra serpentina)

16 Red-earred Sliders (Trachemys scripta elegans)

2 Three-toed Box Turtles (Terrapene carolina triunguis)

Turtle Release:

Wrong Release!

Remember this one?