She’s Italian, so far hasn’t complained about the mess, is in no way associated with the mafia and has a high tolerance for bad jokes. I think she’ll go far. Her obsession with Vampires (sparkly Twilight types, that is) may be a bit much, although so far she hasn’t put up any Edward or Bella posters.

So, let’s focus on the important stuff, shall we? Birds. It’s hard letting go, but I am trying. I’ve let him loose, he’s come back, and I sent him back into the world yet again. Sure, I have to step out onto the deck every few hours for a feeding, but el birdo is doing quite well outside. Okay, I haven’t a clue how well he’s doing, but he hasn’t been eaten by a cat, so that’s pretty good in my book. Yes, my book is short, and mainly full of pictures.

This:

Has become this:

He still stops by several times a day for some cat food, a mealworm and some seed. Someday he (she?) will realize that I am not a bird, though, and I will finally be free. Sniff!

So, what am I doing now? Working. And listening to Beige Curtains, by Riki Lindhome. And thanking hulu for getting rid of their rtmpe-only streams. Thank you, hulu. Now I can watch an endless stream of crap again. My life is full.

Tomorrow I have to battle the dmv. Apparently, Idaho doesn’t believe in notifying people when their licenses expire. I discovered this while attempting to get past TSA on Friday. They prefer you to have a valid license or some form of current id when you board a plane. Rather an uptight bunch, really. Does having an expired license make you more likely to commit acts of terrorism? Or was it just my muttering of “By Allah’s will, it won’t be a problem much longer” when they pointed out the expired license?

And finally, because I seem to lack a point, here is my explanation of why we have so many Mary Kay Letourneau wannabes these days: Three O’Clock High. More evidence of how us eighties teens fucked up the world. Somehow I missed this movie when it first came out. I think I was doing something stupid like jumping out of airplanes and training to kill Ivan. Poor Ivan, just a faded memory now that we are supposed to hate Muslims rather than Russians. Le sigh . . .

If I start twattering, just f*@%*ing kill me.

We originally tried just putting the little bugger in a nest, but it wasn’t happy and kept climbing out. Once I added the monkey and the little blanket, it settled right down. Now it gets pissed if you take its monkey away. I have to feed it from between the monkey’s appendages or it just sits there, mouth closed. Maybe if momma-bird hadn’t been so cheap, this baby wouldn’t have thrown itself from its original nest.

So, does anyone know what type of fledgling this is? Besides noisy and somewhat lacking in feathers?

Update 5/21: As the chick fledges, it is looking more and more like an English House Sparrow. I’d say great, at least it’s not another damned Starling, but the House Sparrow is just as bad an invader as the Starling, killing native birds and taking over prime nesting areas. Just once, I’d like one of the birds I raise to be something that’s actually worth setting free. Well, maybe he’ll want to stick around and spend his days in my office, crapping on my shoulder and staring at the great scary world outside my window.

Cimarron's First Lamb

We’re still waiting on a name for the last one, so obviously this one is also nameless for now. Good news on the name front, though: Jennie’s decided that the Scottish Gaelic translation of Baa Ram Ewe was too long, so now we’re Gaoth Allamaugh Farms or Gaoth Maugh Farms, depending on whether we want to be Windy Wild Field Farms or just Windy Field Farms. I was shooting for Desolate Hellhole Farms, but Jennie’s opposed to that one for some reason. And for anyone who wants to be able to pronounce it, those woud be either Gway Allaway or Gway Way Farms, in good ol’ murican. The latter sounds like I’ve got a speech impediment.

Okay, just checked, and considering that Gaoth also means flatulency, we’re going to hold off on the farm naming as well. Who the hell wants to spend time at Flatulent Field Farms?

Whatsitsname just born

Cute little bugger, but I am squeamish. Stepping back and giving them some bonding-time is in order.

Okay, let's step back and avoid the ickies.

And there we have it, a clean lamb. So what am I supposed to do now? Look under the tail and see if we’ve got a boy or girl? Or can I go fire up the barbeque?

There, all clean. So tasty . . .

It’s been busy around here lately, which explains why the poor piggies have been neglected, photo-wise. Just in time for the swine flu outbreak, the girl-child’s 4-H group sent home piglets Monday evening.

MMM…this bucket tastes like bacon!!!

Our two have been behaving just like teenagers: Sleeping until noon, eating just to the point of bursting, making a mess of their house and eating the occasional turd. Oh, and a lot of sunbathing in the nude. They’ve doubled in size over the past three days.

Does this snout make me look fat?

The Whole Gang

Leading the herd is Monica (preggers), who is the old gal at two. She is the friendliest of the bunch, willing to come up and sniff your fingers in the hopes of finding something tasty. Considering she is a sheep, tasty is pretty bland.

Dirty Monica

In the middle is Cimmaron, a sprightly (and, of course, knocked-up) one-year-old. She already lost her winter coat, so she looks much smaller than the others. She is also the most skittish of the bunch, usually staying in between the other two. Maybe she realizes I’ve been thinking of how good her lambs are going to taste as barbeque . . .

Cimmaron

Following behind is Mister Studly, aka Luxor. He thinks he’s so cool. If he ever gets brave enough to butt me, I’m drop-kicking him over the fence.

Mr. Macho

So, that’s the herd. The lambs are due sometime between May 1 and June 30. Should be fun. In the meantime, I am following my gut instinct and reducing my mochas from six shots to four. It’s nice to finally have decent espresso at home, but the hole in burning through my stomach lining is somewhat unpleasant. Yeah, I know that has nothing to do with sheep.

Red Rock is beautiful, even with a giant home TV antenna almost at the top of Calabasas Peak. An alligator lizard lay twitching in the road, fatally injured. I have no memories of this part of Topanga, the home of infant me. My mother remembers it though, of once giving a ride to Charles Manson, and throwing him out of the the v-dub once he started rambling. His race riot fantasies are the wet dreams of today’s GOP. How sad to go from one crazy motherfucker to an entire political movement full of them.

I love the shade, but wish for wider roads. Topanga was a refuge for the beatniks and hippies. It’s a good thing they got rich, because there is no way they could afford to live here now. Rattlesnakes and earthquakes, hillsides and mudslides, brush fires sweeping through the canyons. This is my childhood.

Moonstone on a foggy morning

A few days in Humboldt, enjoying the September weather. Warmer than home, and much more moist. A walk in the woods is an adventure in furry feces. Every pathway is dotted, clotted with turds in various states of decay. Curbing your dogs is not a concept embraced in the mildew-encrusted wilderness of Humboldt. Westhaven has changed so much, but is still home for me. Someday, when I am willing to assault my sinuses daily with the spore-filled air, I will return on a more permanent basis.

Egrets on Little River

New construction is popping up everywhere. Or maybe I just don’t remember the houses that used to be there.

Blue House

Had I been more motivated, I could have done an entire series of these fuzzy little wonders. Alas, my laziness kicked in and all you get is the one.

What can brown do for you?

Okay, two.

Fern and Fuzzy Turd

The trees on my parents’ property have been suffering lately. An apple tree had cracked down the center and was being held together with Gorilla Glue and ropes. A plum had been sat upon by a bear, who then proceeded to crap all over it. Thanks, bear. And here is a redwood that my dad backed into with a tractor.

A taped tree is a happy tree

I wish I were a whale

I missed a few things while in Humboldt, apparently. There’s a BMW dealership in McKinleyville now, which just boggles the mind for those of us who grew up near there. I’m sure there is more, but I was busy and not all that observant.

Oooh, look at the pretty butterfly!

I shall call him lunch.

Tastes like chicken!