Earlier in the week tim issued a challenge to any and all who fancy themselves poetic:

dale i think we need the writers blog for poems haiku bawdy drinking songs and bear laments as well as limericks

there once was a bear from nantucket
whose tounge was so long he could suck it
he said with a grin
as he wiped off his chin
oh look theres some mud in my bucket

cooking book club and writers den. up to it?

Well, I say why not? In poetry and food, not every dish pleases all diners.
If we can collect recipes for the purpose of filling that empty spot inside, why not stash away some silly and serious poems for the same purpose?

We’ll call the new addition “Rhyme Wave“.

I have given it a dark, poetic background, and I’ve posted tim and Clyde’s bear verse, along with our espionage limericks. There is no jury to decide about worthiness. If a poem appears in the comments, I’ll include it.

Down the road I’ll comb through previous posts to find other offerings. If you have a favorite and know how to find it, please leave it in today’s comments! This post will stay up through the weekend and we’ll start with something fresh on Monday.

Idea man Spin Williams loves the Solar Impulse, the plane that flew for 26 hours this week only using energy from the sun.

I know there’s been coverage of this story, but I don’t think people truly get the importance of what has happened. Since it began, the duration of any single manned flight has been limited by the amount of fuel we can put in the plane. Now, with the realization that we can collect solar energy during a daytime flight, store that energy in batteries and then continue to fly through the night until the sun re-appears to charge our batteries again, all that changes!

Just like a meeting that never ends, the Solar Impulse offers us the promise of a flight that never ends. And ask anybody who uses airplanes to get anywhere – they all have a dream of someday stepping aboard a flight that never ends!

Ha ha. I’m kidding. What I meant to say is this: Ask anybody who uses airplanes to get anywhere. They all feel like they’ve already been on a flight that never ends. So duration isn’t an issue.

Official observers and popular predictors say we won’t have solar powered commercial flights anytime soon, but at the meeting that never ends, we call that kind of talk self-limiting small-think! The Solar Impulse could re-shape the way the aviation industry works, helping us finally achieve the goal of low cost air travel by eliminating the need for jet fuel.

Now each major airline can put a sun powered fleet aloft and keep it there perpetually! No more stressful landings and take-offs – all you’ll have to do is check the schedule to see when the next flight is coming by! Going from L.A. to New York will be like stepping on the moving walkway at the airport.

Cynics will say there’s in insurmountable problem with getting people on and off a plane that never stops moving, but that defeatist attitude will only limit us. Naysayers forget that a commercial jet goes 600 miles per hour, but the average speed of the Solar Impulse is about 43.5 mph. This is a great advantage. College kids regularly stand up and wave their shirts over their heads in convertibles going twice that speed.

I’m not saying that grabbing on to a rescue basket and screaming like a maniac while your friend Howie steers dad’s Miata down the runway is the most practical way to board a perpetually airborne plane, but for some travelers this scenario is not entirely out of the question. For deplaning those in daredevil class, a slow flying aircraft could make use of strategically placed hay bales.

All I’m saying is that there are solutions out there if we can only free our minds to embrace all the possibilities. So here’s to the Solar Impulse! She is leading the way to a glorious future!

Make a prediction about the future of air travel.

This video is two and a half years old and has been viewed over five and a half million times on You Tube, so it hardly qualifies as “news” and yet I was completely unaware until yesterday that dolphins at Sea World in Orlando can blow bubble rings out their blow holes and then play games with them.

Some who have viewed the video say this is tragic – they conclude that the dolphins are bored. Others react by saying it is wonderful – this is evidence that dolphins have souls (and like games).

Either might be true. I suspect the producer of the video falls into the second camp, based simply on the music chosen to accompany the images – “No One Is Alone” from Stephen Sondheim’s “Into The Woods”. Just when you thought you were finished with people, you find out your REAL friends are underwater, playing stick-your-nose-through-the-bubble-ring.

I know that if I could shoot air out of the top of my head and manipulate spinning bubbles for the entertainment of appreciative crowds on the other side of a glass panel, I would probably do it. I’m that much of a ham.

But dolphins aren’t hams. Or are they?

My father once suggested while watching this show that we get a pet dolphin to keep in the bathtub. He was kidding, but I worried that he might find a way to pull it off. I’d never seen him fail. But I knew, even at age 11, that having a dolphin in the bathtub would be terribly difficult for us and absolutely no good for the dolphin. Cooler heads prevailed. The tub stayed dolphin-free.

If you were a dolphin in captivity, what would you do to keep things interesting?

Former mainstream journalist Bud Buck has been searching for his niche the past few years, trying desperately to re-launch his fading career. With reluctance I have agreed to let him write an occasional column about events in the news – a column that “will say awkward things that ‘no one else will say’”.

He calls it “A Voice In the Wilderness”.

The Republican’s endorsed Gubernatorial candidate has been ridiculed for something he said in a restaurant this week, but I commend Tom Emmer. He is the only politician on the scene with the courage to confront one of Minnesota’s major problems – obscenely overpaid waiters and waitresses.

In a state that expects to struggle with budget shortfalls and crumbling infrastructure every single year for the foreseeable future, our political leaders have been more than happy to overlook the growing tycoon server situation. But Emmer has boldly stepped up to the plate (a royal blue plate special in this case) and called out wealthy wait staff for their crazy, out-of-control compensation.

I don’t have to tell you how bad it is.

Anybody who has gone out to lunch in Minnesota can see the imbalance the moment they sit down at an establishment where the fabulously rich come breezing in to don their money aprons so they can continue to rake astonishing piles of dough.

Waitress apologists will throw numbers at you and claim that the hundred grand a year server is some kind of myth, like bigfoot. But I have been to the places where these gluttons grab their gold, and believe me, trying to explain it with ‘math’ and ‘facts’ will only confuse you.

Here are the details that haunt me:

That haughty look the waitress gives you when she approaches the table to announce that she ‘will be your server.’ The way she looms over you like some petty tyrant as she dictates a few items that will be the ‘specials’ of your day. Her terse translation of your hopes into a single line on a flimsy sheet of paper. The incessant demand – fries or coleslaw? Fries or coleslaw? As if this is the only choice available to you – the little people. The seated people. And then, having summed you up, she walks with impunity from your table back into the kitchen, a place of power and influence where you are forbidden access, a place where, I assure you, they have fries AND coleslaw.

How bad is it? In recent years when I’ve gone into some of the more successful restaurants, the waitress has had other people – “her” people – bring the actual food to me. Who are these confused minions who don’t know where the tilapia is supposed to go? They are the waitresses’ waiters. She said at the outset she would be my server, but when the real serving happens, she sends an underling! Where is she while my BLT is being placed on the other side of the table? In her Cadillac, I suppose, receiving a pedicure from a poor stockbroker who is just trying to make ends meet! And then later she breezes by the table to blithely ask if everything ‘is OK’?

I’m sure everything looks more than OK to a person who gets to walk around all day long collecting both minimum wage AND tips!

Thank you Tom Emmer, for saying the thing no one else would say!
This is Bud Buck!

How do you compute an appropriate tip?

Here’s a note from an old friend – Bart the Bear! His comments have been translated into English from the original Usus Textish.

Hey, Bart here.

This is my most favorite time of year in the woods – the stretch that comes after the 4th of July and before the State Fair. We get families on weekends and there are loads of kids with different camp groups up here the rest of the time. It used to be there was only one place nearby – Camp Shortsheets – where kids went to get harassed and abused by each other. But now they can harass and abuse each other just about everywhere, so you don’t have to go to camp for that. Instead, camp has become more of a career opportunity where you can work on the thing you love most, like writing novels or playing the piano or grooming cats.

That worries me – all the specialists up here in the woods nowadays.

We bears are all pretty much generalists. Gotta be. Everybody is good with scattering garbage. We all like to pull open the doors of cars. And you can’t last very long up here if you don’t know how to lay waste to a campsite.

I do have a talent for looking fearsome and it works pretty well as long as I don’t forget myself and crack a smile. But I wouldn’t want to be a “scary” bear all the time. “Scary” is just too one-dimensional. So I try to seem “nice” and “friendly” every now and then. And at least a couple of times a year I’ll go for “pensive”, which is a feeling most bears don’t know how to do. Variety is the spice of life, they say. And I do like my spice!

I didn’t think I would but there was a family up here just last week – the Patels from Fridley (I managed to nab a wallet along with the dinner). Nice folks. Not too careful about cleaning up, which is good! I like people to leave a little bit of a mess. And this mess was wonderful and tasty and talk about spices! Exotic stuff. Not your average mushroom soup in the hot dish, I’ll tell ya. I felt like I’d bitten into a nest of bees, and I mean that in the best possible way.

I’d like to follow the Patels wherever they go but I don’t want to seem like I’m stalking them. Bears who look like they’re stalking people wind up with a dart in the neck. Then they throw you in the back of a truck and you wake up in the Boundary Waters with a headache and a whole bunch of new problems.

Oh yeah. The tranquilizer gun. We know all about it. It’s those wilderness shows on TV. Word gets around.

If you were going to be tranquilized and transported to a new location to make a living with only the clothes on your back, where would you want to be taken?

Here’s a word for everyone at the lake from your elected representative.

Greetings Constituents!

What a glorious 4th of July we had yesterday in the 9th Congressional District, which encompasses all the water surface area in Minnesota.

Thanks to all the visitors who behaved themselves and acted responsibly by boating safely and not littering or drinking too much. To the rest – we want to be welcoming but please don’t be so obnoxious the next time you visit.

This is not just a warning. It’s a way of life. We 9th districters try to be good guests when we come ashore. We put on clothes and rinse off our feet and clear our pockets of zebra mussels and Asian carp before we visit your coffee shops, museums and sporting arenas. That’s just good, considerate behavior and we expect the same from you. So don’t transfer invasive species from an infested body of water to, say, the fountain at the center of the local shopping mall. That’s careless. Check your toddlers for milfoil before you let them go splashing anywhere!

Imagine for a moment what it would mean if milfoil clogged up that nice fountain – the mall would begin to smell like a stagnant, stinking pool and people would stay away. The local economy would decline. Retailers would feel the pain. Jobs would be lost. Our government would be starved of cash due to falling tax revenue and it might be unable to finance the military and intelligence efforts we must make against outside security threats! All because someone didn’t check the cuff in little Jacob’s overalls for a hitchhiker!

And that’s not the only threat we face. Algae blooms are choking off much of the 9th district – the result of the leaching of extra fertilizer into the water. This is an ongoing problem that, if not solved, may someday lead to vast reductions in the size of the district, and perhaps it will cost me my job when the population of the 9th drops so low it can no longer support a Congressman.

Picture that if you will. A native Congressman, forced out by algae.
I realize that many people have no love for politicians, but Congressmen are mentioned in the Constitution and algae is not, so I ask you to consider – which is more American?

I’m pleading with you to cut the sources of phosphorus that feed into our waters.

If you have a lovely lakeside lawn, I recommend that you make your chemical runoff into a stay-at-home cocktail of growth promoting compounds by directing that yard sludge into a holding pond on your property. It’s yours. Keep it and use it! Who knows what sort of new and unusual biological blasphemy might emerge from the nutrient soup? You could get a Bigfoot, or a Super Turtle, or something simple like a beanstalk that stretches to the clouds! And once you have that, you are that much closer to the goose that lays the golden eggs.

And if you have livestock, please. Toilet train them. It’s that simple.

You’ll be doing the fulltime residents of the 9th district a favor. You’ll be saving the job of a constitutional officer, and you’ll be taking responsibility for something that I would otherwise have to deal with by promoting unpopular legislation. That’s a win-win-win solution (for me)!

Thank you for visiting the glorious 9th district. In any case, we want you back next year, but especially if you’re nice!

Kind Regards,

Hon. Loomis Beechly, Congressman, Minnesota 9th district.

Name your favorite body of water.

It is the Fourth of July, a day to celebrate our independence and the many freedoms we take for granted.

One of the latest is this: Freedom from Blogging.
Blogging is a right but not an obligation.
We do not have to do it if we don’t want to, and today, I choose to be free.

Of course you are free to comment away because I am not the boss of you.
God Bless America!

I admit to having a complicated relationship with fireworks.

I like pretty lights in the sky but I’m not fond of loud noises and am unnerved by exploding things. Fire is O.K. in a hearth or a pit, but not so attractive at the end of a fuse. While the other boys were trying to shred tin cans with M-80s, I was getting plenty of adrenaline just igniting a sparkler and holding it at arms length with my eyes closed.

As a teenager I had the misfortune to live alongside a country club golf course overlooking the exact spot where the annual Independence Day fireworks were launched. The display was set up at a low spot alongside a creek between the 16th fairway and the 18th green. People filled the slope on either side of the valley. My house was on the side across from the country club’s main building, so the rockets were angled a little bit in our direction. My father celebrated the holiday every year by standing in the side yard with a water hose directed at our roof – just in case. And we did get flaming debris every now and then. I believe he enjoyed grumbling about it and fantasized about suing the rich people some day over the smoking ruin that was once our home. It never came to that, but there were close calls.

One year a wayward charge misfired and landed in the middle of all the other explosives that were waiting to be loaded and lit. It took about 30 seconds for absolutely everything to go off all at once. The valley was illuminated during the shortest and most violent display Decatur ever saw. The crowd turned and ran, and crew dove for cover, and miraculously no one was hurt. I remember grabbing the blanket I was sitting on and heading for the house, although afterwards I wondered why in the world I thought I had to grab the blanket. The smoke seemed to hang in the air for days. The grass alongside the creek didn’t grow back for a couple of years. It was an expensive and dramatic way to scar the land and foul the air, but I’ll never forget it.

The lesson? Fireworks are dangerous. And yet I will go out to see a sky show on the 4th of July. How can I skip it? It’s a birthday party!

How do you feel about fireworks?
Where do you like to go to see them?

All the precincts have reported. Trail Baboon readers voted yesterday on the true identity of a mystery commenter. Every chad has been accounted for and the people have spoken about the widely quoted speaker who explained herself on our blog.

“Jessie Gugig” is, in fact, Jessie Gugig.

She got 46.2% of the vote, so now she has officially become herself.

That’s also more than enough to be elected president of the U.S. or even Governor of Minnesota, as suggested by DanT.

“Other” was a distant second in the commenter ID balloting, followed by Jesse Ventura and Jesse James, two outlaws tied for third. Each of those Jesses would find the other fascinating, I believe. And both would respect Jessie Gugig for her sharp wit and a tenacious defense of her public image.

I admit to being skeptical at first when the age 15 wunderkind appeared as a commenter on our blog to verify that the Times reporter who heard her say about the espionage suspects next door, “They couldn’t have been spies. Look what she did with the hydrangeas,” considered this statement to be “the money quote” of the story. Of course.

Jessie and the adults around her got busy when the story appeared online. The reporter misspelled Jessie’s name and the way the quote was used made her look like more clueless than clever. Jessie and her grandmother have described their efforts in blog comments over the past two days.

Here’s part of a late one from Wednesday that you may have missed. It came from Jessie’s grandmother.

First of all, yes indeed it was the real Jessie who posted that note to the group. Second, you are the only group or news outlet she’s responded to. Third, she is brilliant, funny, and a voracious reader. She needed no help at all to come up with the word “Glasnost.” In fact, Monday night when her teenage angst was about a 6 on the Richter scale, she kept using the word “vapid.” OMG = my BFF’s will know I was kidding, but everyone else is going to think I’m vapid!!!! Thus, the Newspaper of Record was persuaded to revise the original version. It was helpful that her mother is a lawyer and pointed out to the editor that he’d quoted a minor and used her name (not spelled correctly in the first version that went to print) without asking permission.
And finally, all of us who love her are doing Internet searches to see how many times she’s been mentioned in connection with the nest of suburban spies living in her neighborhood. On Monday night, there were just 6 references Now there are thousands, including one from Vietnam and at least one from Germany. All the writing unintelligible to us, except the words “Jessie Gugig” It’s a cheap shot that’s being heard around the world and we are beyond proud of her. We found your delicious group by a simple search.

So yes, I believe.

A salute to Jessie for being so bright and for standing up for herself, and hats off to the Babooners for having a discussion so civilized that Jessie would feel comfortable joining in.

Have you ever been misquoted, or quoted out of context?

Yesterday I saluted 15 year old Jessie Gugig, who, with a single quote in the New York Times, struck a blow for all lovers of absurdist humor and hydrangeas. I used her clever observation about the nature of undercover espionage in suburban neighborhoods to launch a bad limerick, and I thought that would be the end of it. But no.

Late in the conversation last evening, a provocative post appeared in the comments section:

Hi, this is Jessie Gugig. Yeah, I don’t know if you were expecting to hear from me at all, but here I am. Wow, just, wow. You just summed up exactly what happened to us on Monday night after the media circus came through. I said it as a joke to a small group of paper reporters, not thinking it would go anywhere big, since I said a bunch of other things along the same lines which it feels corny to try and write out again. Later, my mother got a call from our local newspaper asking who had spelled my name wrong; the local news, or the New York Times? Cue incredulous disbelief from my mother when the local reporter directs her to the internet. Now, I had no idea this was going on when it happened, but my mother went to the Times right away and gets my name corrected by virtue of being the mother of a minor. While this is going on, I get my own call from a friend; did I know that the Times misspelled my name? No, I did not. After that, we called the news desk at 9:30 and went through about 5 layers of people including the security desk in order to talk to the foreign news editor to get my name corrected (which they did done immediately, to their credit), and then to insert “jokingly,” which at first they really didn’t want to do. They said that this was the “money quote,” that it was the quote that was going to be reprinted all over the globe. And now it is, so I guess they were right in the end, as I seem to have been translated in several languages as of this morning. I wound up pleading with the foreign news editor, explaining that people who did not know me would simply think that I was incredibly stupid or just more of suburbia, here to look ridiculous for the cameras. The editor told us that the quote was going to be like a litmus test for intelligence; I responded that when it’s a litmus test that 90% of everyone in the planet is certainly going to fail and if only a 10% margin of readers are going to understand the quote’s meaning, then they’re doing it wrong. After the no small amount of brouhaha and near-tears on my part, the foreign editor very kindly agreed to humor me, even though he said he had to go up 2 editors higher to make that change. They called back just before 11:30 pm and said it was changed. This is the point where I started crying for real. Sure enough, when it went to print, it was the way I wanted. Thank you again to the New York Times for being so kind to me. And many thank you to you for this nice post and all the limericks. I hope you don’t mind; I’m an aspiring writer, so I made my own:

Glasnost? What Glasnost? The teenager said,
Russians from her house, saw their flower bed
Then the guys-in-ties came
Neighbors were mostly inane
And the girl is now hiding her head.

True to their generous nature, some Trail Baboon readers responded with compliments and bouquets for 15 year old Jessie. That open and welcoming spirit is one of the things I love most about this community.

However, others felt the writing betrayed a hidden identity. Steve observed that the word “Glasnost” is an unlikely choice to begin a limerick, especially one written by a teenager, even a brilliant teenager like Jessie. Deception is suspected. Imagine that.
Someone commenting on the spy story may be using an alias!

I took a look “behind the scenes” and did not recognize the e-mail address from whence the comment came. So I don’t know if Jessie (or her impersonator) will step forward today. But I ask you to examine the above quote and vote for one of the possible author identities. If we can never learn the truth, at least we should be able to agree on an attractive lie. If you vote “other”, please name your choice in the comments.