Punctuation counts--even in soup!!

DNA Just Revealed Who the Aztecs Really Were | Graham Hancock Was Right?

TRADES CAREER Tier List (Trade Jobs Ranked)

Zoe, the rare zebra

 This was Zoe. She was a zebra, but born with a rare pigment disorder that masked the true colors of her markings. This rare beauty isn’t the result of albinism, but of a genetic condition called leucism, which causes a partial loss of pigmentation. Unlike albino animals, leucistic creatures like Zoe still retain some color — in her case, the stunning golden patterns that set her apart. She lived on the island of Hawaii in a specially-protected area for animals with rare conditions.

NEW DOMINO RECORD + Most INSANE Spiral Ever! (32,000 Dominoes)

Wintergatan - Marble Machine (music instrument using 2000 marbles)

Most Satisfying Glass Blowing You’ll Ever See! Amazing Glassblowing Art ...

Woodturner Transforms MASSIVE Redwood Log into a MASTERPIECE | by @Woodw...

Legendary Curve Goals

The BEST Ever Catches | Cricket's Greatest 40 Catches As Voted By You!

Rick Ankiel throwing out runners

Flawless Moonwalk: High School MJ Impersonator Dances to Billie Jean 2014

Attenborough: the amazing Lyre Bird sings like a chainsaw!

Around the World in 5 days

 I made this for a summer class lesson in Nanning, China, down near the southeastern coast, in 2015. 

J. Geils Band - Full House (CD review)

 

(Before there was ADHD, there was Peter Wolf. They didn’t make fire-breathing dragons any better than the J. Geils Band in concert.)

 Crash-bam-boom! An auditory blast in its own right, this is the musical equivalent of a 4th of July fireworks display by one of the hottest groups ever to soar onstage and one of the most ferocious shows of its time. If crackling energy is what you need and explosive rock ‘n roll is your medicine, this band was made to order. Recorded live in 1972 at Detroit’s Cinderella Ballroom on two steamy nights, the place jumped like a pogo stick with mad springs as Peter Wolf lived up to his name and yowled, yelled, screeched, and bawled alongside his five locomotive bandmates.

This Boston-based band plays like they are trying to sprint a marathon, and it’s absolutely magnificent to hear these guys work out their love for R&B smokers. “First I Look at the Purse” leaps for the jugular as the band takes no prisoners at the opening signal onslaught of Stephen Jo Bladd’s rollercoaster drumming, and Seth Justman whips up a thunderstorm on shrieking organ. However, they just toy with your excitement, because Magic Dick jumps in (yes, that’s his stage name) to kick down the door and demolishes the place with raging harmonica. Crunching mega-ton choruses pound away as Wolf hammers relentlessly on vocals, and without a moment’s hesitation, they zoom straight into Otis Rush’s “Homework.” I’ve heard Peter Green’s Fleetwood Mac do this, but not this volatile, and this is definitely street-wise schooling from the rough end of town that can’t be found on any diploma. Wolf and Dick pair off like two angry cats, J. Geils throws some darts with quick guitar licks, and Justman spray-paints clouds again on the organ. Hot, hot, hot!

All Peter Wolf needs is to hear the audience goading him on, and he gives it right back, tantalizing them: “This is called ‘Take Out Your False Teeth, Momma—I wanna Suck on Your Gums!’” Justman bangs out piano boogie like Jerry Lee Lewis and races ahead of every-one as “Pack Fair and Square” hoots and squeals. Do these guys ever come up for air? It’s not possible, especially when Wolf is feeling his adrenalin rushes, jabbering on the edge of pure gibberish to signal Dick’s virtuoso special, Juke Joint Jimmy’s “Whammer Jammer.”

The audience immediately picks up on the coming storm with handclaps—a hip black gal beckons “Come on!” to get everyone into the mix, and what follows is a kaleidoscopic squall by the man “on the lickin’ stick.” The rhythm section is towed along like a game fish running the line with the hook and bait, and everyone grinds to a finish when they bring the ending onboard. What a fight! No time to look back: here comes more boogie, as “Hard Drivin’ Man” is in town and there’s no brake pedal on this machine. Justman dances wildly on the piano as Wolf cavorts behind the mic and J. Geils struts on guitar behind Danny Klein’s bass and Bladd’s thrashing percussion. Wolf lashes the crowd for yet-more momentum, and the only thing that can stop them now is a brick wall.

They have that looming dead ahead, and it’s the size of a mountain: John Lee Hooker’s “Serves You Right To Suffer.” Ghostly, dark organ rises and falls like a specter in the gloom as Wolf begs for mercy, and Bladd and Klein are framed against Dick and Justman’s Chicago-style moaning and wailing, mocked by guitar. There’s room for one more, and Geils comes in with a banshee solo that batters anything and anyone left standing. However, this band believes in redemption—they’re already “Cruisin’ for a Love,” and Dick’s cheerful harp whoops-and-swoops provide forgiveness, followed by an exuberant Geils. Stand back—the prey is in sight, and like a pack of wild dogs, they give chase in a classic Canned Heat groove.

The winner—and they are all first-place champs—is Stephen Bladd, because he runs away with “Looking for a Love” as his partners carry him off on their shoulders. Imagine a team of football players doing acrobatics on the high wire and trapeze while playing some monsoon-style rock ‘n roll, and that’s how this show ends. It’s all muscle and power, and they come back for a raging finale—twice!

These guys were the late Bill Graham’s real favorite band at the Fillmore East—it’s right there in his autobiography. When a band plays like they’ve got nitroglycerine in their veins and it’s about to blow, then there’s no doubting that this must have been one helluva show. By the way, I can vouch for them: I saw—honest—U2 open their show in 1982 in Phoenix, AZ. They owned the town that night—just give them the keys to the city and let the music run away with your ears and backbone. You’ll have the nail your furniture to the floor before you finish this CD, but it’s worth every minute of the show. Awwoooooooo!!!!

Conned in a game by two con men - The Sting (Revisited) scene and analysis

 Sometimes...what you think you see isn't as real as it seems:

Chapter 2 - The Bait-and-Switch 

(From The Sting - Revisited - A Review of a 7-Oscar-winning film)

 Flush with cash and the responsibility for it, Mattola straightened his tie as he exited the building. As he descended the stairwell, a blonde man who looked rather ungroomed carefully crossed the street across the way. He badly needed a shave and a haircut beneath the cap he wore, and he carried a large suitcase. Mattola gave him a casual glance and then turned his head: someone was shouting for help.

 It was an older black man with gray-white hair, limping in the effort, and he was yelling for someone to stop a younger man who was barreling his way through a dirty alley that led to the street in front of Mattola. “You, there! Hey you, stop him. Stop that man—he’s got my wallet!” The blonde stranger pulled up short, to sum up the situation as well, and Mattola stepped back too. The black man continued to yell for help: “Stop him! He’s got all my money!”

The blonde man immediately sized up the speed and pace of the thief and aggressively threw the suitcase so that it smashed into the man’s left thigh. He went sprawling into the garbage cans that lined the side of the alley. In another motion, he kicked the dropped wallet across the alley toward Mattola. The thief winced in pain and bent over to grab his injured leg. He pulled a knife and waved it at the blonde man. “Goddamn nigger lover!” he swore. He made an oncoming gesture as if to stab at the intruder, but the blonde man quickly pulled over a garbage can to block the move and also grabbed an empty wooden crate as a shield.

 Mattola bent to pick up the wallet and his hat fell off. His efforts at revenge now thwarted along with his attempted prize, the wounded man grimaced. “I’ll get you for this, sucker egg!” the thief vowed in anger, and then he turned and fled around the corner, empty-handed.

The black man continued to holler, “Don’t let him get away! You gotta go after him! My wallet! He’s got my wallet! He’s got all my money!” He kept yelling as the blonde man and Mattola trailing behind with the wallet, came up to him. The blonde man said as he came to a stop, “We got it. We got your wallet.” The man stayed on one elbow, unable to move without pain or effort. “Give it to me, please!” he begged, and reached out for it. The blonde man bent over his prone form and examined a bad bloody wound on his upper left leg. The fabric on the man’s gray-and-black pinstripe suit was clearly torn by something that had caused a serious injury—likely by the knife that the thief had brandished against the blonde man for interfering in the robbery. The blonde man asked, “What happened? He hit you with the knife?” He continued to check the injury and then replied, “Now you sit tight, old man, you need a doctor. I’ll call a cop!”

The injured black man gestured frantically, “No-no-no, no cops!” The blonde man turned in surprise and stared. The black man opened the wallet and examined its contents: a few bills and a large yellow envelope. The blonde man watched in growing suspicion. “You wanted by the law or somethin’?” The black man shook his head. “No, it’s okay.” He opened the wallet to reveal a large yellow envelope filled with bills and a rubber band wrapped around it.

The blonde man shook his head in disbelief. “Are you nuts carryin’ around a wad like that in a neighborhood like this?—no wonder you got hit!” The black man ignored the comment. “Thanks. I’m obliged to ya, but I gotta get goin’.” He tried to push up off the ground on one hand but fell back in pain and groaned in the effort. “You ain’t goin’ nowhere on that leg.” The black man persisted. “I gotta! I gotta run some slots for a mob down in West Bend for a mob here. I got a little behind on my payoffs so they figure I been holdin’ out on them. They gave me to 4:00 to come up with the cash. They don’t get it, I’m dead!” His words carried the fear of the mob doing just that. The blonde man stared back into his eyes. “It don’t look good, Gramps, it’s almost 4:00 now!”

 The black man’s eyes swung back and forth from the blonde man to Mattola. “I’ll give you and your friend a hundred bucks to deliver it for me. Mattola and the blonde man glanced back and forth in silence. “I dunno,” the blonde stranger hesitated. “That little mug that got ya is mad enough at me already—what if he’s waitin’ around a corner with some friends?” The black man shrugged off his doubts. “He won’t know you’re carryin’ it! Come on, you’ve gotta help me out!”

The blonde stranger was having none of it. “Sorry, pal, I’m gonna maybe help you get fixed up, maybe get to a doctor, but I ain’t gonna walk into no knife for ya!” The black man swung his attention to Mattola in desperation. “How about you? All you gotta do is put it in the nose slot. I’ll give you the whole hundred!” The blonde stranger bristled at this offer. “Hey, what makes you think you can trust him? He didn’t do shit.” Mattola flared up, “Hey, butt out, chicken liver. I gave him back his wallet, didn’t I?” He turned to the black man: “How far is this place?”

The black man urgently replied, “1811 Mason. Put it in Box 3C. You won’t have no trouble. There’s five thousand dollars there and here’s a hundred bucks for you!” Mattola accepted the envelope plus the $100 bill. “All right, old man,” he said in a confident voice.” I’ll make your drop for you. And don’t worry—you can trust me.” He smiled and bit down on the match stick, and the blonde man watched in silence.

 As Mattola stood up and began to stride away, putting the envelope in his jacket’s top inside pocket, the blonde stranger called after him. “Hey, hey! If those goons decide to search ya, you ain’t gonna get far carrying it there.” The black man looked up: “What’ll we do?” The blonde man staggered to his feet and asked, “You got a bag or somethin’? How ‘bout a handkerchief?” The black man fished in the left front pocket of his slacks and pulled one out. “Here’s a handkerchief!” The blonde man reached over and said, “Give it to me.” He walked over to Mattola and said, “Gimme the money. The black man looked up and spoke urgently. “Just hurry, will you?”

The blonde stranger took the money and placed it in the middle of the envelope. Mattola put back the numbers money into his front suit’s inner chest pocket, but the stranger insisted, “You got any more? You better give it all to me if you wanna keep it!” He snapped his fingers insistently, and Mattola slowly pulled it back out and handed it to him. “They think I’m holding out on them,” the black man continued. “My wife got sick and I had to pay the bills.” The blonde stranger wrapped up the handkerchief with all the money into a neat bundle and shoved it down the front of his slacks, demonstrating to Mattola that this was the safe way to conceal it.

The black man continued as he watched them, “I always been good for the money before, but this time, they gave me a deadline.” As he rambled on, the blonde stranger continued to address Mattola: “Stuff it down your pants here, like that, got it?” Mattola nodded, “Yeah, uh-huh.” The blonde stranger added, “Ain’t a tough guy in the world gonna frisk you there.” Mattola grinned in compliance, and the black man urged, “Just hurry, will ya?” The blonde man pulled the bundle back up and handed it to Mattola, who straightened his jacket and mumbled “Thanks.” The blonde stranger muttered “Yeah” and turned back to the injured black man. Both of them turned their attention to Mattola as he hurried down the dirty alley and went out of sight.

Holding the bundle securely with his right hand outside his waist, he scurried out of the alley into the main street and crossed over to a waiting, idling cab. He pulled open the back seat suicide door and jumped inside as the cabbie fired up the engine and asked over his shoulder to his new fare, “Where to?” Mattola leaned forward and placed both hands on the back of the window space dividing the driver from the passenger seat. “Which way is Mason?” he asked urgently. Mattola turned around to look over his left shoulder to see if anyone was following him. “Twenty blocks south,” the cabbie replied. Pleased to see that he was not being watched, he leaned forward and said with excitement, “Go north. Joliet Station! Fast!” The cabbie understood: “Right!” and gunned the cab into gear.

Mattola sat back with a satisfied smirk on his face and cackled with glee. The cabbie, startled at the sound, looked in the rear-view mirror at him. “What’s so funny?” Mattola shook with delight and his voice quivered, “I just made the world’s easiest five grand!” He reached down his waistband and pulled up the bundle and snickered. Now it was time to examine his treasure! He opened the bundle and found a pile of thick tissue paper. He burrowed through it quickly, looking for what he assumed would be a stack of thick money. There was nothing at the end except the back of the handkerchief. He looked up in surprise and shock: he had been taken in a scam by the two men and lost the entire thing.

 

Holiday (Horror Day) High School - Chapter Two

(From my book Welcome to Holiday (Horror Day) High School) (On Amazon.com)

 Chapter Two

“Werewolves and Vampires have to go to school too”

          On the other hand, it was Wally Mendoza’s idea that gave the school our special pet name: “Horror Day.” That’s because Wally had a fear of tests that made him scratch and itch whenever the teacher in that class put a paper in front of him. He’d say, “It’s a horror each day I get tested,” or “I feel horrible about how I did on the exam.” We just shortened the phrase to fit the school identity. It was bad enough that Wally was the hairiest boy in school. It was something about his genetics: his family came from Mexico, and they had cousins who worked in the circus as “the wolf people.” It’s a medical fact: Wally’s family had something different in their DNA that caused hair to grow all over. (For the record and for anyone who is into unusual and unique medical genetics, it’s called “Hypertrichosis.”) Wally was the only kid in second grade who had a full mustache. By the time he was with us in 10^th grade, he had a full beard—and I mean ALL over his face—and his arms and back and chest looked like a thick black rug had been stitched onto his body. Naturally, we called him “Wolfie” for fun, but he also had a strange way of verbally letting out his frustrations when he got his grades.

   

Wally would let loose with a long “Oh-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o!” when he didn’t do well on an exam. He really howled—like a wolf! Well, it was more of a wail of distress than a true wolf’s sound. Of course, this was on a regular basis each semester in just about every class. I think the teachers fudged his real report card grade just became they felt sorry for him. And it also unnerved them to hear him let loose like that. It just came naturally to Wally to let out this agonizing groan of dismay. So when he howled, we all joined in with him. It drove our teachers nuts. We didn’t care if we had better grades—it was just fun to groan and howl with Wally.

          The weather itself also made it difficult for some of my friends to manage themselves in the blazing heat that really took off in May and lasted through September. Like I said: we were from Las Vegas, and believe me, there were and still are some scorching summers!

I mention the weather because Igor Danielovich had a real serious problem with sun exposure—which is one reason how he ended up so pale-looking. And he was lacking the natural skin color to protect himself: He was also medically supposed to stay out of the sun because he didn’t have the natural pigment in his system. Igor was an albino, and he had blonde-white hair too—which he later dyed dark brown. (“Why did you do that?” we asked him. He replied, “I wanted to look like I fit in with everyone else.” We just looked sideways at him, but at his height, he never noticed.)

It’s also one reason we called him “Dracula,” but in all fairness, Iggy (which is what we called him on a good day in his view) was also 7’0” and 120 pounds when he was sixteen. He didn’t gain much weight after that, and he was the longest, tallest beanpole of a boy I ever saw.

He also had a strange way of eating an orange. Actually, he didn’t actually eat it with his teeth—he drank it. With a straw. Igor had a way of putting a thick straw into an orange and then sucking out the juice. We didn’t call him “Dracula” for just one reason, see?

We also called him “Casper” like the friendly ghost because Iggy really was a great guy and very funny to know. Iggy didn’t like the vampire nickname, but he wasn’t too fond of being known as a ghost either. It was okay when a girl said it to him—but it made him blush.

And THAT, I assure you, was a sight to behold. It was like watching a big vanilla milkshake turn into a strawberry float.

LARGE pine cones

That's an 18-inch laptop. And a pine cone. Welcome to my neighborhood. PS: those spikes are SHARP. You need work gloves to handle those things.
 

The large pine cones in the San Bernardino National Forest come from the Coulter Pine (Pinus coulteri), also known as the Bigcone Pine. This tree is famous for producing the heaviest and largest pine cones of any true pine species in the world, which can weigh several pounds and are known locally as "widowmakers" because of their dangerous ability to fall with lethal force.

"I Want to Push a Tractor," she said

 I Want to Push a Chicken Tractor,

(from my book, "The Surprised Cow...")

============================================= 

        (My then-wife and I lived on a mini-farm in Boaz, Alabama for two+ years. We raised chickens for eggs and food. During that time, this conversation between us took place: She’s ‘C’ and I’m ‘M’. It was the City Boy and the Country Girl.)

 

        When she first told me she wanted a tractor, I was a bit taken back. We only had a 3-acre pasture, and it wasn’t for growing anything; rather, it was for some large animals if we had them—which we later did, with llama and some horses. But it was the dialogue that followed which had me floored: She wanted a tractor. And she said she wanted to push it!

 

        She was tall but not obviously that strong, I thought. And besides: what was a chicken tractor? It was when she told me why she wanted it—and what she was going to do—that had me totally bewildered. “I want to put the chickens in the tractor. And then I’ll push it around.” I thought, “She can push a tractor? By herself? What superwoman strength does she have?!”

 

C: "But I want a tractor for the chickens."

M: "A what? A tractor?"

C: "Yes, a chicken tractor."

M: "What do the chickens do: operate it and plow the field?"

C: "No, they go inside of it."

M: (Desperately) “Are these mechanical chickens or something?"

C: "No, I can move them around the back yard."

M: "You can drive a tractor?"

C: "No, I can push it. It has handles.”

M: (Incredulously):

“YOU CAN PUSH A TRACTOR??!

BY ITS HANDLES??!!”

C: “You don't understand. It's a box, with wire around it, and handles.

I can keep the chickens inside.

I can move it.”

M: "But it doesn't do anything else."

C: "That's right."

M: "It's just a box."

C: "Yes. With wire."

(That part made sense at last, but she really had me cooped up there for a minute.)

(Know what's REALLY strange? I don't know that woman in the picture, but I can sure tell those are Alabama pecan trees. And that SURE looks like it could have been my home.)

 

Oh, look at the...wait, what? Who?

 I know what you THINK you see at first, but I'll bet nine-out-of-10 that you were wrong.