As a thoroughly bee-phobic human, I assumed it would feel great to have wings and a stinger. Bees, to me, are tiny, cunning, swift, fearless and evil. Little did I know these small yellow and black monsters have their own very real nightmares – revealed yesterday in a study of parasite-influenced bee behavior. The mystery of Colony Collapse Disorder is unraveling, and the causes are a surprise both to bee experts and perhaps to the bees themselves.
My Queen,
I write to you with profound regret and a deepening sense of dread, having just reviewed a summary of the findings of some freshly published research. The horrifying tale told by these scientists carries just one silver lining – at last I can explain to you why I left the hive those many evenings to fly around like a crazed zombie, out of control, out of my mind and clearly possessed.
The reason? I was, in fact, clearly possessed.
Please Forgive Me. I'm a Victim Too!
I assure you that I took my duties quite seriously while I was under your thrall and with the other workers I tried to make our colony one that exemplified the best of traditional bee virtues – hard work, loyalty, unquestioning allegiance to authority, hostility towards outsiders, etc. These are the kind of values that would make any Iowa Republican proud, as long as they were able to overlook our clearly socialist/monarchist organizing structure.
When I first felt the urge to leave the hive at night during the time I should have been resting, I fought against the strange compulsion but alas – I was no match for it. It was as if I did not control my wings, my body, my own antennae. I wanted to spin in a circle, fly towards the light, and sit and buzz, totally buzzed on something inexplicable. I know you thought I was sipping something stronger than honey. But I left because I simply could not remain inside.
Today, words cannot describe my remorse. I know I abandoned you and all the others at a delicate time, and in doing so, put the hive at risk of total collapse.
But yesterday, while compulsively stinging the bejabbers out of some old, bald, shrieking humanoid, I noticed that he was reading an article from the San Jose Mercury News that explained so much of what I was going through, I wept with joy, relief and terror.
My abandonment of our community was the result of a parasitic takeover that made it impossible for me to resist. A tiny fly (yes, tiny even on bee-level) injected its eggs into my abdomen while I was busily serving you. These eggs altered my chemistry, inflamed my senses, dulled my judgment, and led me to wander off spasmodically at times when I should have been doing my job.
Knowing that I was helpless against this invasion may not ultimately change your opinion of me. I’m resigned to accept your scorn. But I hope you will understand someday that I did not actually intend to betray you, that I am a victim too, that I apologize to you with the utmost sincerity, and that I will soon pay the price for my actions when I die, and a dozen fly larvae crawl out of my neck. Ugh.
The old, bald, shrieking humanoid that I attacked today was truly a pathetic creature, but to avoid my paralyzing feelings of remorse and my gruesome fate, I would willingly trade places … even with him.
Sincerely,
Your Loyal Servant
Worker #500309930002993B
I am trying to feel sympathetic towards bees. Theirs is not an easy life, and the perils are many. But still … they give me the creeps.
Today is the much awaited day of the Iowa Caucuses – happening earlier than ever! And yet even for enthusiastic political junkies, Iowa can’t be over soon enough. The remarkable lead-up to tonight’s allegiance declaration-fest has led one widely overlooked local politician to send a special message of re-assurance to the voters in his district.
Greetings Constituents!
I know that many of you are concerned about reports you’ve seen from Iowa, where an unmeasurably deep pool of Super-PAC money has been used to pump up the negative side of campaign advertising to such a remarkable extent that normally placid Iowans are gasping and retching from the the stench that enters their living rooms the moment they turn on the TV. Not only do Iowans hate the hate, they despise how well this extreme negativity has been working on them! For example, an avalanche of anti-Newt Gingrich messages blunted his growing support over the past few weeks, and this low road to happiness was taken without penalty for the widely acknowledged frontrunner, Mitt Romney.
This happened because the bulk of the negative ads were created and paid for by a super-PAC that has no formal relationship or coordination with the Romney campaign. That’s the law – they can’t cooperate. But the cynical calculus of winning elections is clear to everyone involved – someone has to go negative. So this appears to be the new campaign template – unlimited, untraceable super-PAC money will be used to demolish an opponent with nasty, scurrilous, misleading insults that are ugly and maybe partially true, while the candidate him or herself runs clean and endorses only the ads that sell puppies and sunshine.
They do this on the television crime operas all the time under the heading “Good Cop / Bad Cop”. Cops say they don’t play it that way in real life, but if they were actually doing it they would still have to say that they didn’t.
They also do this in the National Hockey League, where one player serves as the designated “goon”. That player’s only job is to beat people up and show no mercy. There isn’t a lot of coordination required. The “goon” knows who he is and sees what he has to do. The less said, the better.
Congressman Beechly's State of the Ice Shack (and Pick Up Truck) Address
And frankly, this happens on the elementary school playground, where bullies pick on people just because they’re big and they can get away with it. When I was in 5th grade, I was on the receiving end of a lot of this. All thanks to my school-record setting Nerd Quotient – a mark of geekiness that has not been eclipsed in 40 years.
That’s why several of you have voiced your concern that a Super PAC is going to get involved in the 9th District Congressional race this year and spread around a lot of ugly stories about me, basically fouling the waters of our all-water-surace-area district and guaranteeing my defeat.
That could happen.
But it’s also quite possible that a wealthy Super PAC that wants to endorse me and get on my good side (ie: Citizens Aghast Unambiguously Getting Hateful Together (CAUGHT) or People Livid About Some Terrible Imagined Crime (PLASTIC))) will jump into the contest at the last moment and severely tarnish my opponent’s reputation with such unsavory and unfounded televised dreck that people will feel they are faced with a simple, stark choice – vote for Loomis Beechly or make a Deal With Satan. I would hate to benefit from such unprincipled behavior. Particularly if everyone saw me doing it.
That is why I’m taking the Pity Pledge.
I promise that if my opponent is attacked by some outside group that is flooding the airwaves with blatantly negative ads that make juvenile claims about him that are unfortunately beyond my control, I will sit at my opponent’s lunch table in the cafeteria all the way through the meal even though he drools, especially on days when there’s chocolate pudding. And I’ll walk with him to his locker before hour 5 even though he often gets embarrassingly lost in the hallways. And if those nasty outside attacks still continue, I’ll choose my opponent to be on my side in dodge ball even though he’s incredibly slow and has weak arms. And if the disparaging remarks don’t stop, I’ll even consider sitting with my opponent on the bus in spite of the fact that he smells like dirty gym socks, even first thing in the morning.
That’s how committed I am to eliminating negativity in the 2012 campaign! There’s simply no call for that sort of thing, especially when it involves someone as hapless as my unidentified opponent, who really can’t control any of those kinda funny things the other kids find so mockable.
Won’t you join me in the fight for friendliness? Make sure all your favorite candidates take The Pity Pledge! It’s the only way we can maintain our political decorum!
Your 9th Congressman,
Loomis Beechly
I have to wonder if the Congressman will follow through on his promise, though I kind of admire the idea.
My father adored watermelons, both for how they tasted and because they represented a particularly happy period of his childhood. He would eat a watermelon slowly according to an oddly complicated plan. His approach to this task had all the formality and precision of the Japanese tea ceremony.
Dad would begin his attack on a slice of watermelon by excavating the red melon meat right along the rind, starting with the far end of the watermelon and working cautiously forward toward what had been the center of the melon. Digging carefully, tunneling in alternatively from the left and right sides, Dad would clean away all melon meat along the skin. Then he would begin digging away at the part of the melon with the seeds in it.
A Man, A Melon, A Method
That ultimately left the part of the watermelon that had once been the center, and that middle part would become increasingly isolated and unsteady. But Dad’s plan included leaving long strips that braced the center and kept it from collapsing. (These bracing strips resembled the “flying buttresses” of medieval architecture.)
At some point nothing would remain except the melon that had once been exactly in the center. Eating slowly, with reverence, Dad would finally consume the delicately flavored redness of the heart of the melon, savoring each bite.
Of course, all he was doing was “leaving the best part for last.” I just never saw anyone make such a ritual of doing that. And of course, as my father’s son, I’m the same. I always save the best for last.
Children, as we all know, want to eat their cookies before choking down their vegetables. One reason I eat my veggies first is that I’m proving to myself that I’m no longer a child, lacking restraint and discipline. (But does it say anything about my character that I take credit for consuming my meals like an adult? Am I that desperate to find something to feel proud about?)
I’ve been amused to see how thoroughly this principle of saving the best for last has permeated all aspects of my life.
For example, it dictates the order in which I read e-mails. If my “In-Box” contains several new messages, I do quick calculations, scrolling up and down. I will first delete the spam. Appeals for money for good causes get quickly examined and zapped. Then perhaps I’ll deal with the “hilarious” forward from that silly woman who thinks I enjoy emails featuring cats with speech defects. I will next take time to read messages from groups I care about. Pretty soon the only messages left unopened will be notes from friends who wrote directly to me. Even when I am reading notes from friends, I prioritize, reading letters from some friends first and saving the most special ones for the very last.
Each morning I fire up my computer and work my way through a series of web sites. This is not “surfing.” I’m not free-lancing but moving steadily through sites that are part of my morning ritual, especially news sites. I enjoy all these sites, or I wouldn’t read them every morning. But some are less fun than others, and those are the first I read. Finally there comes that delicious moment when I cannot postpone it any longer: I click on “Trail Baboon!” It is always dead last among the sites I routinely visit.
Shall we eat a can of fruit salad? All that pineapple and pear stuff dominates these salads, and that is just fine. I eat it first, trying to avoid the grapes. Then I’ll eat more of the light stuff, including those tasty grapes. Toward the bottom of the salad I have to be careful, because that’s where they brilliant red Maraschino cherries lie. Aha! There they are! If I’ve been cautious, my last two bites will be pure red!
Ah, look: Here is the morning newspaper! But before reading, I must reassemble it. I chuck out the advertising inserts. Then I arrange the remaining paper, putting the A section on top. The A section is a stone drag bore because it only has stories I already heard about on public radio or the internet. After the A section, which I burn through quickly, I’ll read the local news section next, for it might have news that is actual news to me. Next I turn to Sports . . . but here things get complicated. I generally like this section, for it has a lot of fresh content. But my local teams have been playing so badly that reading about them is a form of abuse. After one of my teams has another miserable game I will put the Sports section on top of the stack to be read first, and yet I am such a sappy optimist I often read the Sports last or next-to-last. At the bottom of my reassembled daily newspaper I’ll put the Entertainment section, saving the best for last, for I enjoy the movie and book reviews, and my paper has a good high-tech product reviewer whose work appears here.
It would feel queer to read the paper in any other order. Once in a while somebody who doesn’t know me will screw up my program by asking to borrow the Sports or Entertainment section when I am systematically working my way through the sections in order. I disguise my outrage because most folks wouldn’t guess how important it is to read the newspaper in proper sequence. And to tell the truth, I’m embarrassed by how rigid I have become about this. If somebody forces me to violate the proper order of reading the paper, my nose might be out of joint hours later.
I am not a narrow-minded person. I can enjoy all kinds of people. If you tell me you dive right into the best part of something, saving the worst for last, I wouldn’t automatically have a low opinion of you. But, golly gee, that’s just so WRONG! Could anyone who saves the worst for last be trustworthy? I’m not sure!
Do you save the best for last? How does that affect your life?
We’ve had a rather animal-centered week on Trail Baboon with a visit from Dr. Babooner and the death of Cheetah. And to finish things up for the week, the month and the year, here’s a message that came in from the deepest, darkest part of the woods – sent by a friend and translated from its original language – Ursus Textish.
Yo, it’s me, Bart.
I’ve got this feeling I should be sleeping right now but the weather’s been so mild I kind of don’t want to. Even though there’s not a lot of food in the woods, it’s fun to walk around looking at the stuff that’s supposed to be buried, but isn’t. Did you know that rotting stumps are like snowflakes – no two are alike? I know ‘cause I think I checked them all.
Bart - The Bear Who Found a Cell Phone
But every now and then this heavy feeling comes over me and I know my year is about to end … I get the urge to dig a hole and lie down for a long, long nap.
Before I do, I just want to say what a good year 2011 has been. Oh, I know there have been a some bear / human encounters with bears showing up in parking lots and bears tipping over the Weber Grill in people’s back yards and waking up the neighbors. Also, the polar bears have less ice to walk on these days, and they have a hunting season on bears in New Jersey of all places. Like any bear with a shred of common sense would want to go to New Jersey!
The coming year is going to have more of the same, as usual. And I hear that you guys are going to go through a massive election – thingy that is bound to be loaded with conflict and finger pointing and all sorts of wild accusations. Good luck with that.
Personally, I try not to focus on upsetting things because you can always find some miserable story to bring your spirits down if that’s the feeling you’re after. In spite of all the stuff I don’t like, it’s still pretty cool to be alive. So have a happy New Year, and remember – if there’s a conflict, carefully move away from the situation slowly and in a non-threatening way. Don’t raise your voice or run. In a worst case scenario, you might have to think about climbing a tree, playing dead, or fighting back with everything at your disposal.
Though not necessarily in that order.
As an overall guiding principle, keep a safe distance from sharp-toothed strangers who are easily frightened, and don’t threaten the cubs. Follow those simple rules and in most cases you’ll probably be pretty much all right. I promise!
I hope Bart is right on target with his advice and predictions, though no one is infallible when it comes to forecasts of any kind. Don’t believe me? Check out our guesses from last year. And feel free to offer an informed prediction or an outright fantasy regarding what comes next in 2012!
Note: This is the 500th post on Trail Baboon, many of them written by you, and all of them written FOR you. Thanks, Baboons, for your steady friendship and readership!
Dear Dr. Babooner,
Not that it matters all that much for the advice-giving part of this conversation, but I’m still running for President of the United States. I’ve asked you questions before and your words have been a real comfort to me for the most part, though you can be a little unkind and you’re not very consistent. Still, I think you’re genuine, and to me that matters more than knowing things.
I have been working so hard to change the world around just the way I like it. There’s a whole lot of convincing that has to be done. The people who disagree with me aren’t as docile as they ought to be, in my opinion. And then there are the people who are supposedly on my side! I thought I could count on them to back me up, but just yesterday one of my closest advisors decided to pledge his allegiance to someone else. Ow! It came totally out of the blue, really.
I’ve had problems with campaign workers all along, but this latest one takes the cake. What kind of person accepts a leadership role in support of a candidate and then abandons her just before the finish line? Whether you like me or not, you have to admit that’s pretty low. And you also have to admit that the kind of miserable cretin who would betray someone that way also happens to be the exactly the kind of person I would hire for an important job in a crucial state. Just like some of the other not-loyalists I hired in New Hampshire. Never knew any of them, really. I just went with my feelings, which I think are much more important than facts. It makes you wonder what sort of cabinet I would put together if I actually got elected. The implications are pretty dark. Lately I’ve been telling people that I’m just like Margaret Thatcher, but more and more I’ve been feeling like Blanche DuBois. I do so rely on the kindness of strangers, and those strangers have been unusually cruel.
Dr. Babooner, why am I drawn to people who aren’t good to me? I’m wondering if I’m just too nice, or if I give people too much credit, or if I simply love too quickly. I can’t decide. Please tell me – Which of my positive traits makes me vulnerable to disasters like this?
Sincerely,
Mrs. B.
There’s yet another possibility – that something about your personality attracts insincere opportunists who will exploit a situation as fully as possible and then move on without remorse, always looking for the next chance to benefit somehow by getting people all riled up and irrational. I don’t think it’s about being too nice or too loving – can you ever be TOO either one of those things? But maybe you could benefit by choosing your friends more carefully, or by asking yourself if your style has a special appeal for phonies and backstabbers.
But that’s just one opinion. What do YOU think, Dr. Babooner?
And so we discover the mixed blessing of being a well-known movie chimpanzee.
Chimp fame hinges on your ability to interact with the humans. No starring roles for you, Cheetah. You are always there for comic relief. Never will you get cast in parts with depth or substance. Delivering a performance that is a masterpiece of subtlety is impossible – your talent will forever be wasted on an audience of morons who all think they’re smarter than you. Your fans. Though to them, you look like every other chimp in the world, or as one commentator said yesterday, ” … like George Burns.”
Here’s the ultimate indignity, Movie Chimp – when you die, some people will question whether it was really you. Even Kim Jong Il was immediately accepted as a legitimate inductee into the legions of the dead without having to show his papers, and he was a lot more guarded and mysterious than Tarzan’s best buddy. What a comedown for Cheetah – to go from being the world’s most famous primate to being called an impostor. You, the one true holder of Hollywood’s poop flinging thrown. I know what you’re thinking, Movie Chimp. “This is fame? I was there on the screen, larger than life. How can you suggest I am not me?” You SAW me!
Ah, we looked at you, Cheetah, but did not see. To us, you were just another pretty, hairy face.
I’m calling here and now for an end to any investigations into the late chimp’s identity. So what if the “Cheetah” who died yesterday was, in fact, some other chimp? Is there any satisfaction in that knowledge? I say “no”, because if yesterday’s obituary was for a Tarzan sidekick-pretender, that means the “real” Cheetah in all likelihood died years ago unnoticed and unlamented. Feel better? Me neither.
So farewell, Cheetah, or someone very much like you. We loved that smile!
Aside from our simian friend, name your favorite movie animal.
Ayres was born in Minneapolis in 1908 and had a remarkable career in Hollywood, not necessarily for the work he did but for how he conducted himself and for the impression he left. Ayres breakthrough role was in the film “All Quiet on the Western Front”, which includes a scene where he is caught alone with an adversary he has killed. You can see it on You Tube but to get to the clip you have to watch an ad first. That’s a drag, but it’s not as painful as actual trench warfare.
By today’s standards I call it a toss-up as to which one of the two actors in the scene appears to be more wooden, but the anti-war message of the film had an effect on Ayres – so much so that when World War II came along he became America’s best-known concientious objector. He was told that refusing to take up arms would end his film career, but Ayres was adamant that he would not kill another human being.
“I thought, well, this may mean the end of a career. As far as I was concerned that was all right. I was ready. I said I don’t mind working with the army because you do have a tremdous problem with the Hitler situation. I can’t deny these things, but I said as far as I’m concerned I couldn’t kill, and I couldn’t go into the army even on your side unless I did what I considered to be constructive work.”
There was a backlash and some theaters refused to show his films, but Ayres stuck to his position and managed to get into the Medical Corps as a non-combatant. He served with distinction, patching people up in the Pacific and New Guinea and after the war ended he was able to resume his career, though his star power had dimmed. Still, Ayres must have had some personal magnetism. Jane Wyman, his co-star in the film “Johnny Belinda”, left her husband, apparently with the thought that she and Ayres could make a life together. That didn’t happen, but by that point Wyman’s marriage to Ronald Reagan was beyond repair. One wonders how she felt, years later, about taking that gamble.
Lew Ayres’ other remarkable and principled stand was to turn down a chance to star on TV in a role he had created for film – Dr. Kildare. Ayres wanted NBC to agree that there would be no cigarette advertising connected with the series. In 1961, that was incredibly foresighted call for an actor, and one that was totally impossible for the network to accept. The role went to Richard Chamberlain instead. People may have been puzzled at the time, but today we understand.
I, for one, tip my hat. Happy birthday, Mr. Ayres.
Here’s this year’s Christmas letter from visionary, dealmaker and one-man economic engine Spin Williams, who is always in control at The Meeting That Never Ends:
Congratulations on achieving another Fully Merry or at least Somewhat Cheerful Christmas, everyone!
I’ve waited to send this letter until The Day Itself has passed so I can speak to you directly about what you’ve already accomplished. That’s just one of the great management techniques I try to put into practice every single day. Offering Positive Feedback to Underlings – because people are not inspired when you bestow vague hopes for something that might happen in the near or distant future. I’m a businessman so I don’t believe in luck or wishes. Everything that matters most in my world is the result of careful planning and growing your market share.
And now that Christmas is passed, don’t expect me to make any limp resolutions for the New Year, either. Though if I could change one thing, it would be the nature of the 1% vs. 99% debate. So far we’ve heard a lot from the 99%’ers about how they are so disadvantaged. But where are the 1%’ers who are willing to speak in favor of being gloriously rich? And it IS glorious to be rich, believe me. We should talk it up.
A few have stepped forward – most recently in this article on Bloomberg News. Finally some of the ultra-well-to-do are letting their Privileged Pride show! Here’s my favorite comment so far, offered by Robert Rosenkranz, CEO of Wilmington, Delaware-based Delphi Financial Group Inc., a seller of workers’-compensation and group-life insurance. He was quoted in the Bloomberg article.
“It’s simply a fact that pretty much all the private- sector jobs in America are created by the decisions of ‘the 1 percent’ to hire and invest. Since their confidence in the future more than any other factor will drive those decisions, it makes little sense to undermine their confidence by vilifying them.”
He’s right. We rich people ARE the economy, so don’t make us feel bad about ourselves. Everyone knows you catch more flies with honey than with vinegar. And you can catch even MORE flies if you lose your job, don’t wash for twelve weeks in a row, and start living in your car. In any case, I think we can agree that it’s wrong for anyone anywhere to say anything unkind about rich people. So don’t do it!
In the meantime, I think we Riches ought to advocate for ourselves. I usually don’t have any family-related activities at Christmastime because I live for work and haven’t had time to procreate, (I’ve been too busy making jobs!) But I do have some relatives-for-hire who come spend time at my house on those holidays when everyone else seems to want to stay home.
This past Sunday afternoon my faux nephew and central casting neice were arguing over a game of Monopoly I was forcing them to play. I don’t even like Monopoly, but I’m told some people break it out after all the gifts have been opened, and I wanted to experience a Christmas that was “normal”.
And as I watched these fake siblings nearly come to blows over whether one of them did or DID NOT cross “Go” and Collect $200 Dollars, I realized that this kind of plain spoken intensity is what I was have not been hearing in the 1%’s defense. So I wrote it down!
“Dear 99%’ers – You’re right on all counts. You suck at this and we are so totally demolishing you at this game! It’s not even funny. We’ve gathered up all the money and have purchased all the property and yes, only some worthless scraps remain. Face it. You are one Parking Ticket away from total destruction.
And it is SO easy to take your money! You don’t know how to use the bank and you can’t figure out how to turn the political piece to your advantage either. We, however, have loads of experience. Did you notice we took ALL the tax increase cards out of the “Chance” pile when you weren’t looking? It’s not against the rules – check! There’s nothing there that says you can’t!
What’s more, you don’t even know you’re playing a game – you think this is your life. Ha! You are so pathetic. Really, you should put up a better fight. We’re winning, we’re winning, we’re WINNING! Nyahh!”
Or words to that effect. That’s what I think the wealthy should be saying, but so few of my fellow Riches have the fortitude to stand up and speak their own minds. And almost none have the nerve to speak MY mind. But taunting is a great way to get people motivated, and that’s what I’d like to provide for you in 2012 – an incentive to get off your duff. So stay tuned, and thanks for reading this letter all the way to the end!
It seems like Spin Williams has fallen a little too deep in the eggnog and whiskey over the long weekend, and he might regret sending out this rambling, provocative mess.
Have you ever sent a letter or a message you wished you could recall?
There is a standard type of story often seen in movies where a character is set up as a sure failure – the kind of engaging but doomed loser who faces insurmountable odds and will, under normal circumstances, succumb to a much stronger opponent.
And yet … for reasons that are inexplicable, our hero emerges victorious in spite of it all. We love these tales of amazing, unlikely underdogs.
Add to that list the tale of Comet Lovejoy, a recent discovery by an amateur astronomer in Australia – Terry Lovejoy. Already we are ahead of the game – our sky spotter has a perfectly charming and appropriately seasonal name. My guess is that a comet named after amateur astronomer Neil Grudge-Spite would not get the same kind of global press.
Lovejoy detected the comet in late November – early enough for scientists to train several space based detectors on the object, to track its certain demise as to streaks towards the sun. Here’s one description of the expected chain of events as posted on a Navy website dedicated to Sungrazing Comets just days after news of Lovejoy’s solar approach was announced:
“Welcome to the beginning of the end of Comet Lovejoy’s billions of years long journey through space. In less than 10 hours time, the comet will graze some 120,000km above the solar surface, through the several million degree solar corona, and — in my opinion — completely evaporate. We have here an exceptionally rare opportunity to observe the complete vaporization of a relatively large comet, and we have approximately 18 instruments on five different satellites that are trying to do just that. “
Here’s the amazing part – the comet skitters around the sun … and EMERGES! The comet watchers are dumbfounded. You can see video of the approach and escape here:
And here is the same skeptical Navy observer quoted earlier, delightedly eating crow:
“I don’t know where to begin. I simply don’t know. What an extraordinary 24hrs! I suppose the first thing to say is this: I was wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong. And I have never been so happy to be wrong! For the past two weeks I have been saying that Comet Lovejoy would not survive perihelion in “any appreciable form”. When I said this, I envisioned that we would see some very diffuse component maybe last a few hours after perhelion, but not much else. I was spectacularly incorrect!
Last night, between 7pm and 8pm (ET), the SDO team blogged and tweeted live the passage of the comet through SDO’s extreme ultraviolet AIA camera. Not long after the first images were made available came the announcement that the comet was seen plunging into the solar atmosphere. I expected this, but was nonetheless delighted. What I did not expect was that a short time later it was seen to re-emerge!
Somehow it survived being immersed in the several million-degree solar corona for almost an hour …”
Lovejoy, our hero! And here’s the victory parade – a shot of the comet’s tail taken from the International Space Station by Commander Dan Burbank, who called it “… probably the most amazing thing I’ve seen in space ….” The glowing green tail of the comet Lovejoy, emerging just ahead of the sun from behind the Earth’s horizon.
Many thanks to the Trail Baboon readers and writers who gave me some extra time to combine work with holiday rituals this week. Steve, Joanne in Big Lake, Barbara in Robbinsdale, Jim in Clark’s Grove, and Beth-Ann made my Christmas brighter with their engaging guest posts.
But this morning for the sake of entertainment the contrarian side of my brain started imagining the opposite sort of scene to the tune of Clement Moore’s famous “A Visit From St. Nicholas,” which needs to be parodied regularly anyway as part of our holiday tradition. Unfortunately time has run out, so I’ll have to rely on you to supply the final lines:
On the night before Christmas, our house was in ruins.
Invaded, it seems, by a pack of baboons!
Though our stockings were hung by the chimney with care.
The baboons pulled them down and tossed stuff in the air.
They were covered in fur, from each head to each toe,
But their rumps lit the room with a fierce crimson glow.
They dismantled our tree in a riotous scene
Leaving pine needles piled under branches of green.
All the snowmen and angels were pulled from their shelves.
The baboons were unkind to our reindeer and elves.
What they did to our ornaments – that was obscene!
Left untouched, by the way? Our nativity scene.
But their eyes were ferocious! Their noses were flared!
Did I mention their bottoms were wickedly bared?
Every gift was torn open and played with and busted.
Baboons in the house really shouldn’t be trusted.
And as they were leaving with screeching and whooping
(I’m sure in the yard I’ll find several were pooping)
I didn’t lament all that savaged décor
Because that’s not what Christmastime ought to be for.
And here is the place where I’m stymied. I’m blocked.
The muse is gummed up like a Christmas tree, flocked. So get out your pens. Write it florid or terse,
and end this short poem with just one final verse.
Trail Baboon 