Critique Before Pancakes
Bernadette walking down 1st Ave. just above Houston began foot-tapping her niece, Sofia, and me on the other side, in the ass, with an alternating back kick while still moving forward, and in doing so resembled a member of the ministry of funny walks. Bernadette earlier in a lapse of cognitive prowess had asked the cashier at the movie house how old one had be to qualify for a child's ticket. Sofia, a few years shy of being old enough to vote, suffered this patiently. After the third kick in the ass Sofia asked Bernadette--"and how old are you?" Bill Macy walked a few strides ahead, easily pretending he did not know us.
We had seen Persepolis, an animated recent history of Iran over the last 35 years as seen through the eyes of a child progressing towards adulthood.
A central theme in the movie is pride in one's heritage, under adverse conditions.
This morning, after picking up a paper on Clinton I walked a couple of blocks west to a diner on Houston and just as I approached the restaurant, coming from the opposite direction were three mean ass looking, wife-beater wearing, Puerto-Rican restaurant critics. They all looked to be in foul spirit but the middle critic was the most vocal about it. "Don't ever eat here," he said to his buddies while motioning to the door handle I was ten seconds away from grabbing. I am not one to ignore the opinions of others so I paused and waited for more, but hoping they would quickly pass so I would not seem to be a direct threat to this man's contention that the restaurant was unworthy. I did not want him up in my face saying, "you calling me a liar?" and me thinking, hopefully not out loud, "certainly not my good man; puffed up, aggressive, a foul-mouthed belligerent asshole, perhaps, but liar? No, really, I haven't a shred of evidence to support the idea of you as single-parent prevaricator, a lying bastard, if you will."
The apoplectic critic spewed on as I looked for an imaginary something in my coat pocket, then feeling a likely prop, extracted my cell phone and checked for messages which were unlikely to exist nor in any case could I see, as my glasses were hanging around my neck.
I waited for his specific critique of this restaurant, although I already knew the place to be not really all that good. In the end he surprised me by saying, "it's...it's full of fucking white people." Lucky for me I was born with a chameleon-like speckled complexion, but still I hesitated to enter the restaurant, right in front of these guys now, because to be casually inspected I certainly do appear to be white. In the end though I manned up and entered, pretty much a straight up white guy, my dominant Arab blood hidden for better or worse behind a very successful assimilation into the world of white middle class America.
...more recent posts
Shooting Fish In A Frying Pan
In the mid nineties in New Orleans on the night of New Year's Eve the sound of celebratory gunfire in the ghettos was so astounding it defies description. People in war zones have certainly heard such noise but in an American city not at war (or maybe at war with itself), the range of weapon caliber and the stacatto of automatic machine guns combined with the methodic emptying of 9mm thirteen round clips and .38 caliber 6 shot revolvers, all overlapping each other and then reaching impossible crescendoes, is something I cannot seem to get out of my mind.
Some eighty years previous, the young Louis Armstrong had shot off a gun on New Years Eve, gotten arrested for it, and then was sent off to spend time at the New Orleans Home for Colored Waifs. There, a regularly visiting Professor Peter Davis taught him a few things about the trumpet, and discipline, and the story of one young delinquent's life turns out pretty well.
In the nineties a tourist fell dead in the French Quarter from one of the thousands of rounds flying through the air that night and in subsequent years a crackdown occurred in an effort to curtail the danger of falling bullets. The campaign was called Falling Bullets Kill.
Yesterday, beloved New Orleans chef, Paul Prudhomme, while sitting on a New Orleans golf course blackening fish for PGA golfers, became front man for a new campaign known as Falling Bullets Scratch. While his fish sizzled in a pan under the noonday sun, Prudhomme felt a sting on his arm and when he lifted it to see what had stung him, a piece of .22 caliber lead fell from his shirt. It is not known who fired the gun but investigators surmise that it could have come from as far as a mile away. We are probably to be left in the dark as to whether or not the shooter is a prodigy of music, or just some guy in his backyard shooting at a squirrel in a tree.
In the mid nineties in New Orleans on the night of New Year's Eve the sound of celebratory gunfire in the ghettos was so astounding it defies description. People in war zones have certainly heard such noise but in an American city not at war (or maybe at war with itself), the range of weapon caliber and the stacatto of automatic machine guns combined with the methodic emptying of 9mm thirteen round clips and .38 caliber 6 shot revolvers, all overlapping each other and then reaching impossible crescendoes, is something I cannot seem to get out of my mind.
Some eighty years previous, the young Louis Armstrong had shot off a gun on New Years Eve, gotten arrested for it, and then was sent off to spend time at the New Orleans Home for Colored Waifs. There, a regularly visiting Professor Peter Davis taught him a few things about the trumpet, and discipline, and the story of one young delinquent's life turns out pretty well.
In the nineties a tourist fell dead in the French Quarter from one of the thousands of rounds flying through the air that night and in subsequent years a crackdown occurred in an effort to curtail the danger of falling bullets. The campaign was called Falling Bullets Kill.
Yesterday, beloved New Orleans chef, Paul Prudhomme, while sitting on a New Orleans golf course blackening fish for PGA golfers, became front man for a new campaign known as Falling Bullets Scratch. While his fish sizzled in a pan under the noonday sun, Prudhomme felt a sting on his arm and when he lifted it to see what had stung him, a piece of .22 caliber lead fell from his shirt. It is not known who fired the gun but investigators surmise that it could have come from as far as a mile away. We are probably to be left in the dark as to whether or not the shooter is a prodigy of music, or just some guy in his backyard shooting at a squirrel in a tree.
Poisonous Campaign
I woke up this morning to find a severed horse's head at the foot of my bed. This morning I awoke at dawn and there was a chill in the air. The pine boughs outside my window are weighted heavily with chirping birds. The sky is blue. Winds have shifted from the north to the southwest. Chainsaws churn against heavy lumber in the distance.
Yesterday I received two packages. In one package was a clear plastic bag knotted at the top and containing one dozen mouse traps. Also in the box were three plastic imitation granite boulders, hollow, with hinged lids and two entrance holes and four metal rods for each on which to thread chunks of poison. These I have loaded up and placed around the perimeter of the bighouse, with some of the contents of the other package, four pounds of rat and mouse poison. The other item in the second box was non-odorous deer repellant concentrate, as compliment to the locally purchased odoriferous deer repellant.
I placed poison chunks throughout the inside of the house too. I don't know if this battle is any more winnable than certain Mideast conflicts but the war is on. Told recently that two-thirds of the rodent population are against my methodology I was heard to respond--"So?"
Arrogance is rarely justified.
This morning I awoke with an imitation fur covered plastic mouse resting on my crotch.
Somehow they have gotten to her. I thought she was a trusted ally but clearly she has gone double agent on me. Maybe she is still sore about the ovary removal procedure. This cat won't hunt.
I'm heading out soon, across the DMZ to check my IEDs.
War is hell, for the losers, and the writers, and the photographers, and the families of the dead.
I woke up this morning to find a severed horse's head at the foot of my bed. This morning I awoke at dawn and there was a chill in the air. The pine boughs outside my window are weighted heavily with chirping birds. The sky is blue. Winds have shifted from the north to the southwest. Chainsaws churn against heavy lumber in the distance.
Yesterday I received two packages. In one package was a clear plastic bag knotted at the top and containing one dozen mouse traps. Also in the box were three plastic imitation granite boulders, hollow, with hinged lids and two entrance holes and four metal rods for each on which to thread chunks of poison. These I have loaded up and placed around the perimeter of the bighouse, with some of the contents of the other package, four pounds of rat and mouse poison. The other item in the second box was non-odorous deer repellant concentrate, as compliment to the locally purchased odoriferous deer repellant.
I placed poison chunks throughout the inside of the house too. I don't know if this battle is any more winnable than certain Mideast conflicts but the war is on. Told recently that two-thirds of the rodent population are against my methodology I was heard to respond--"So?"
Arrogance is rarely justified.
This morning I awoke with an imitation fur covered plastic mouse resting on my crotch.
Somehow they have gotten to her. I thought she was a trusted ally but clearly she has gone double agent on me. Maybe she is still sore about the ovary removal procedure. This cat won't hunt.
I'm heading out soon, across the DMZ to check my IEDs.
War is hell, for the losers, and the writers, and the photographers, and the families of the dead.
Turn It On High
I suffer from the cognitive bias that the full moon effects my mood. There is no hard science to support the full moon being a mood affecter and I don't look forward to the full moon as a reason to expel stored up erratic emotions but occasionally I blame my unstable behavior on it anyway.
The night before Bernadette leaves I petition angrily--could I just have a few more inches of the bed? She says I am taking up one half of the bed but I think I am only taking up one third. I only want enough room to support my skinny left arm which is hanging over. She gave up a couple of inches and I reached up and closed the blind behind me to block out that goddamn full moon shining on my head and then burrowed myself into Bernadette's neck. The next morning I made eggs over medium with microwave-heated left over scalloped potatoes. Bernadette said I needed to reheat them in the oven when I made them for myself next time. The number of points on the list of reasons why I would not do that were so numerous the math of it all made my head explode right there at the breakfast table (number one--I am pro molecular structure distortion). Bernadette said you wanna fight and I said yes, but we didn't put the gloves on.
I dropped her off at Dulles and drove home in heavy traffic, wishing we could fight some more.
I stopped at a bookstore in Warrenton and bought the new Richard Price in hardback, which is a thing I rarely do, buy hardbacks. At the pizza joint next door I read the first sentence. Some cops in Lower East Side New York are staked out one diagonal block from Bernadette's place, looking for street dealers to bust. I transport there and watch. Richard Price comforts me. I walk up to a restaurant at the next corner and sit at the bar. A man named James, without asking, puts before me an astoundingly good Bloody Mary.
At the bookstore while in the Ps I also picked up a Richard Powers, an early one, The Prisoner's Dilemma. I was good to go when a young woman carrying a miniature tray of coffees walked by and offered me one. I enjoyed it and moved over to survey the state of PK Dick in the modern book world and it appears to be healthier than it ever was. Pretty much every novel and some new collections are shelved and although I think all of the "previously unpublished" stuff is already out, there seemed to be some new arranging of it. I don't buy his stuff anymore I just like to see so much of his collection on the shelves, which was never the case when I was avidly reading him years ago.
I would have picked up the Ulysses Simpson Grant memoir but it was not available and I already have too much to read anyhow.
At the bargain books section I picked up a shiny new copy of Strunk and White, which I do periodically out of some vague sense of sentimentality (did my father give me my first one?), and although I haven't ever really studied it, I probably should, and hold onto the hope that I will. If you need a copy you can have one of mine. I leafed through a TS Eliot and found it to my liking so I added it to my stack and went to stand in line at the checkout.
There waiting I saw a tabletop bowling game and picked that up too so I can play in the future with Bernadette, who suffers from my lack of original excuses for not wanting to bowl.
The next day was yesterday which was Easter Sunday, all day long. I collected some garbage and took it to the dump. On the way out the driveway I saw a Blue Heron over by the pond so I reversed back up and across my front yard and went inside to get my camera. I crept up on it and took some pictures. Eventually it took flight towards the next door neighbors house while I blindly let the auto shutter click away. After the dump I came home and performed a few outdoor chores.
I wasn't sure I was ready to be into college basketball madness yet but while surfing the Internet I discovered that CBS was streaming all the games live so I checked in and got hooked, switching between three games going on at once and the early games were some humdingers and the later Memphis v Mississippi St game was not too shabby either. I spilled half a beer on the bed and then later some Maker's Mark and still later I spilled some bottled water on the floor. So my bed is like a boilermaker, with water on the side.
I have some sardine pasta which I am going to heat in the microwave for breakfast, although look at the time, how it flies forward when we relive the past.
I am not that stubborn about molecular structure distortion. I have ordered a new Swedish made portable barbecue grill to facilitate cooking in an approaching future which has me moving back and forth between North Carolina, Virginia, and New York and in that future I will probably wrap my leftovers in foil and heat them on the grill. Aluminum foil causes madness. Perhaps there is no way around madness. Or maybe I will give in and wad up all my aluminum foil and put it in the microwave and turn it on high.
I suffer from the cognitive bias that the full moon effects my mood. There is no hard science to support the full moon being a mood affecter and I don't look forward to the full moon as a reason to expel stored up erratic emotions but occasionally I blame my unstable behavior on it anyway.
The night before Bernadette leaves I petition angrily--could I just have a few more inches of the bed? She says I am taking up one half of the bed but I think I am only taking up one third. I only want enough room to support my skinny left arm which is hanging over. She gave up a couple of inches and I reached up and closed the blind behind me to block out that goddamn full moon shining on my head and then burrowed myself into Bernadette's neck. The next morning I made eggs over medium with microwave-heated left over scalloped potatoes. Bernadette said I needed to reheat them in the oven when I made them for myself next time. The number of points on the list of reasons why I would not do that were so numerous the math of it all made my head explode right there at the breakfast table (number one--I am pro molecular structure distortion). Bernadette said you wanna fight and I said yes, but we didn't put the gloves on.
I dropped her off at Dulles and drove home in heavy traffic, wishing we could fight some more.
I stopped at a bookstore in Warrenton and bought the new Richard Price in hardback, which is a thing I rarely do, buy hardbacks. At the pizza joint next door I read the first sentence. Some cops in Lower East Side New York are staked out one diagonal block from Bernadette's place, looking for street dealers to bust. I transport there and watch. Richard Price comforts me. I walk up to a restaurant at the next corner and sit at the bar. A man named James, without asking, puts before me an astoundingly good Bloody Mary.
At the bookstore while in the Ps I also picked up a Richard Powers, an early one, The Prisoner's Dilemma. I was good to go when a young woman carrying a miniature tray of coffees walked by and offered me one. I enjoyed it and moved over to survey the state of PK Dick in the modern book world and it appears to be healthier than it ever was. Pretty much every novel and some new collections are shelved and although I think all of the "previously unpublished" stuff is already out, there seemed to be some new arranging of it. I don't buy his stuff anymore I just like to see so much of his collection on the shelves, which was never the case when I was avidly reading him years ago.
I would have picked up the Ulysses Simpson Grant memoir but it was not available and I already have too much to read anyhow.
At the bargain books section I picked up a shiny new copy of Strunk and White, which I do periodically out of some vague sense of sentimentality (did my father give me my first one?), and although I haven't ever really studied it, I probably should, and hold onto the hope that I will. If you need a copy you can have one of mine. I leafed through a TS Eliot and found it to my liking so I added it to my stack and went to stand in line at the checkout.
There waiting I saw a tabletop bowling game and picked that up too so I can play in the future with Bernadette, who suffers from my lack of original excuses for not wanting to bowl.
The next day was yesterday which was Easter Sunday, all day long. I collected some garbage and took it to the dump. On the way out the driveway I saw a Blue Heron over by the pond so I reversed back up and across my front yard and went inside to get my camera. I crept up on it and took some pictures. Eventually it took flight towards the next door neighbors house while I blindly let the auto shutter click away. After the dump I came home and performed a few outdoor chores.
I wasn't sure I was ready to be into college basketball madness yet but while surfing the Internet I discovered that CBS was streaming all the games live so I checked in and got hooked, switching between three games going on at once and the early games were some humdingers and the later Memphis v Mississippi St game was not too shabby either. I spilled half a beer on the bed and then later some Maker's Mark and still later I spilled some bottled water on the floor. So my bed is like a boilermaker, with water on the side.
I have some sardine pasta which I am going to heat in the microwave for breakfast, although look at the time, how it flies forward when we relive the past.
I am not that stubborn about molecular structure distortion. I have ordered a new Swedish made portable barbecue grill to facilitate cooking in an approaching future which has me moving back and forth between North Carolina, Virginia, and New York and in that future I will probably wrap my leftovers in foil and heat them on the grill. Aluminum foil causes madness. Perhaps there is no way around madness. Or maybe I will give in and wad up all my aluminum foil and put it in the microwave and turn it on high.
Cat Love
You can't really raise a cat without sometimes engaging in tough love tactics. My cat is coming up on eight months old and I just had her spayed the other day. The doctor told me a couple of things to be on the look out for that would warrant bringing her back in. When she didn't eat the first evening I didn't worry too much about it. Midway into the second day I got a little worried but decided to try her on some soft food, which she has never in her life had before. Oh she ate that right up. No appetite problems here at all. I explained to her that you're not getting this everyday. We'll finish up this can and then you go back on the dry. I got you that big bag of Science Diet kitten formula and there's still pounds and pound of it left. That's your food. That's what you're going to eat. The next day I put the dry out and she wouldn't touch it. You damn well better eat that food missy. Bernadette and I agreed, oh she'll eat it when she gets hungry enough. 24 hours later she still wasn't eating so I mixed some of the dry in with a few tablespoons of wet. She seemed to begrudge the crunchy bits but she ate it up anyway. Later in the day I put a small bowl of dry on the ground and she walked right by it like she's blind in both eyes. You can be that way all you want but when this turkey and gravy stuff is gone there ain't no more wet food in the house. And even if I were to get you some more you're not eating it every meal. You hear me? You've got to meet me halfway. You eat this delicious, and I might add, rather expensive, dry food and I'll give you some of this disgusting wet stuff once in awhile. Like once a week. But not everyday. I don't know how long I should withhold soft food from her if she won't eat the dry. I think one or both of us maybe has some kind of emotional or behavioral problem. I don't know if maybe I should schedule us for an outward bound program for troubled fathers with troubled pets. My Vet alluded to a pet psychic that she consulted with about her own pets. Honestly though, I don't think I love my cat enough to consult with a pet psychic. I think I'm having a breakthrough here. I think admitting you don't love your cat enough is half the battle. The other half of the battle will be getting that funnel in her mouth.
You can't really raise a cat without sometimes engaging in tough love tactics. My cat is coming up on eight months old and I just had her spayed the other day. The doctor told me a couple of things to be on the look out for that would warrant bringing her back in. When she didn't eat the first evening I didn't worry too much about it. Midway into the second day I got a little worried but decided to try her on some soft food, which she has never in her life had before. Oh she ate that right up. No appetite problems here at all. I explained to her that you're not getting this everyday. We'll finish up this can and then you go back on the dry. I got you that big bag of Science Diet kitten formula and there's still pounds and pound of it left. That's your food. That's what you're going to eat. The next day I put the dry out and she wouldn't touch it. You damn well better eat that food missy. Bernadette and I agreed, oh she'll eat it when she gets hungry enough. 24 hours later she still wasn't eating so I mixed some of the dry in with a few tablespoons of wet. She seemed to begrudge the crunchy bits but she ate it up anyway. Later in the day I put a small bowl of dry on the ground and she walked right by it like she's blind in both eyes. You can be that way all you want but when this turkey and gravy stuff is gone there ain't no more wet food in the house. And even if I were to get you some more you're not eating it every meal. You hear me? You've got to meet me halfway. You eat this delicious, and I might add, rather expensive, dry food and I'll give you some of this disgusting wet stuff once in awhile. Like once a week. But not everyday. I don't know how long I should withhold soft food from her if she won't eat the dry. I think one or both of us maybe has some kind of emotional or behavioral problem. I don't know if maybe I should schedule us for an outward bound program for troubled fathers with troubled pets. My Vet alluded to a pet psychic that she consulted with about her own pets. Honestly though, I don't think I love my cat enough to consult with a pet psychic. I think I'm having a breakthrough here. I think admitting you don't love your cat enough is half the battle. The other half of the battle will be getting that funnel in her mouth.
Pruning With Poncho
As it turns out the rain has not stopped. I have headphones on and am listening to Diana Ross but was listening to Gillian Welch when by sense of vision I thought the rain had stopped. When I took the headphones off I could still hear it though. I went outside to feel it. It's wet. I have a rain poncho but I got to be straight with you--I am not that dedicated. Sometimes I wish I were but I spend most of my energy just trying to be happy with my imperfect self.
I am eating bread. Mr. BC came out to see my visiting siblings just before Bernadette and I returned from NY on Friday and pulled a Rodney Dangerfield at the local gourmet market. I'll take two of those, one of these, give me three of those thingies, some of that cheese, one each of every kind of bread you have and one each of everything you can put in a container and two of those ice creams (the pistachio one my bastard nephew must have eaten for breakfast, he's not really a bastard, he has two parents, but you know what I mean) and BC brought almost a whole case of wine from the Napa vineyard of Adman's friend, Spence. We had to drink three, or maybe four bottles before we decided that yes it really was a pretty tasty offering from Spence's nascent vineyard. I'm pretty good at pretending ignorance so I could pretend that I don't know what it costs but Adman told me what it cost when we drank it at his place in PA so I'm not drinking any more of that Spence, unless I run out of things to write about and feel the need to once again make fun of BC for his abundant and ongoing generosity and misplaced trust in me to leave his wine alone. No, I'll save that wine for a rainy day. Ha, get it, Mr. BC?
I don't know, it's not raining that hard, maybe I should put the poncho on. Bernadette is illustrating all day and the cat is sleeping (probably trying to figure out why her belly is shaved and where the hell did her ovaries go). I don't think I can sit here any longer. The cat woke up. She hears a bird outside but is supposed to stay inside for 5 more days. I'll give it a try anyway, with the poncho.
As it turns out the rain has not stopped. I have headphones on and am listening to Diana Ross but was listening to Gillian Welch when by sense of vision I thought the rain had stopped. When I took the headphones off I could still hear it though. I went outside to feel it. It's wet. I have a rain poncho but I got to be straight with you--I am not that dedicated. Sometimes I wish I were but I spend most of my energy just trying to be happy with my imperfect self.
I am eating bread. Mr. BC came out to see my visiting siblings just before Bernadette and I returned from NY on Friday and pulled a Rodney Dangerfield at the local gourmet market. I'll take two of those, one of these, give me three of those thingies, some of that cheese, one each of every kind of bread you have and one each of everything you can put in a container and two of those ice creams (the pistachio one my bastard nephew must have eaten for breakfast, he's not really a bastard, he has two parents, but you know what I mean) and BC brought almost a whole case of wine from the Napa vineyard of Adman's friend, Spence. We had to drink three, or maybe four bottles before we decided that yes it really was a pretty tasty offering from Spence's nascent vineyard. I'm pretty good at pretending ignorance so I could pretend that I don't know what it costs but Adman told me what it cost when we drank it at his place in PA so I'm not drinking any more of that Spence, unless I run out of things to write about and feel the need to once again make fun of BC for his abundant and ongoing generosity and misplaced trust in me to leave his wine alone. No, I'll save that wine for a rainy day. Ha, get it, Mr. BC?
I don't know, it's not raining that hard, maybe I should put the poncho on. Bernadette is illustrating all day and the cat is sleeping (probably trying to figure out why her belly is shaved and where the hell did her ovaries go). I don't think I can sit here any longer. The cat woke up. She hears a bird outside but is supposed to stay inside for 5 more days. I'll give it a try anyway, with the poncho.
Spring
I ran across the property dodging raindrops. I was on rosebush 81 when the rain started. Pruning them way back in an attempt to correct the deformity of their growth caused by hungry deer. There are about 200 more around the bighouse but I won't have to prune all of them severely. I have two different kinds of deer repellant I will be trying this year. One is made from putrid egg concentrate, garlic, pepper, and other essential ingredients. The other is supposed to be odor free. I have weed killer. I have rose fertilizer. I bought two bags and then got them home and read they treat 100 square feet. Make me laugh with your 100 square feet of coverage. I need a bag that covers 5,000 square feet. There's a thousand square feet of yellow roses just by the bocce court alone. I ordered 4 pounds of single feeding, strongest on the market mouse killer from Gemplers and a dozen of their high quality spring traps and three faux rock outdoor bait stations. I am preparing for a massive campaign of death to all rodents. There will be the smell of death in the air, make no mistake about that. I tried to make friends with them but that hasn't worked out so well. I am not a hunter or a murderer by nature but evidently circumstances arise in life where you have to play out roles that you did not foresee. I will survive it and remain primarily a pacifist. My apologies to the souls of a hundred dead rodents. Looks like the rain has stopped. Let me get out there to rosebush 82.
I ran across the property dodging raindrops. I was on rosebush 81 when the rain started. Pruning them way back in an attempt to correct the deformity of their growth caused by hungry deer. There are about 200 more around the bighouse but I won't have to prune all of them severely. I have two different kinds of deer repellant I will be trying this year. One is made from putrid egg concentrate, garlic, pepper, and other essential ingredients. The other is supposed to be odor free. I have weed killer. I have rose fertilizer. I bought two bags and then got them home and read they treat 100 square feet. Make me laugh with your 100 square feet of coverage. I need a bag that covers 5,000 square feet. There's a thousand square feet of yellow roses just by the bocce court alone. I ordered 4 pounds of single feeding, strongest on the market mouse killer from Gemplers and a dozen of their high quality spring traps and three faux rock outdoor bait stations. I am preparing for a massive campaign of death to all rodents. There will be the smell of death in the air, make no mistake about that. I tried to make friends with them but that hasn't worked out so well. I am not a hunter or a murderer by nature but evidently circumstances arise in life where you have to play out roles that you did not foresee. I will survive it and remain primarily a pacifist. My apologies to the souls of a hundred dead rodents. Looks like the rain has stopped. Let me get out there to rosebush 82.