One year without Al

Al Scaduto, the final artist and writer for the long-running strip They'll Do It Every Time, died a year ago today.

There was something timeless about Al Scaduto's work, mainly because his characters existed in a world out of time, where clothing and hairstyles from the 1940's collided with computers and flatscreen TVs. Over at The Comics Curmudgeon we loved to snark at this weirdly anachronistic strip, but after a while we came to snark lovingly as more and more of the daily strips were actually based on submissions by the regulars at The Comics Curmudgeon.

There was one submission that I always meant to send, but never did:

Snarkly and his friends make fun of that anachronistic old strip that runs in the funny pages...
(Guy looking at paper, saying something like "Couldja believe they still print this stuff?")
...and then talk about it online for hours every day!
("Voices" from computer: "This is the eighteenth time he's mentioned squid this year." "Yet another character in a black sweater-vest!" "How many different jobs has Lula Patoot had in the entertainment industry?")

That was us. Comics Curmudgeon regular Squid Countess actually kept track of the mentions of squid, a favorite meal of Al's characters. I was big into the sweater-vests. And everybody was following Lulu Patoot's illustrious career.

Al never knew. According to his daughter, he didn't even know how to use a computer - she handled all the incoming e-mail for him. I guess our cover was never blown. Which is really a tragedy - it would have been a lot of fun to have had him hanging around the site.

They'll Do It Every Time continued for a few weeks after Al's death - my submission was one of the last to be published. The syndicate announced that no one else would be taking over the strip, which had passed through the hands of several artists and writers through the decades.

It's gone now. No longer do Al's anachronistic characters react with bewilderment to a universe they cannot quite grasp. Squid is off the menu. Lula Patoot has retired for good. And the black sweater-vests have been folded neatly and placed in a drawer. The funny pages are a little less funny.

We miss you, Al.

Snow on a Sunday morning

It snowed last night. The snow actually started yesterday while we were in church, sometime between 5:30 and 6:30 PM, and left a thin but slippery layer on the streets, enough to be a danger to the unwary - or even to the very wary. I only lost control once on the mile-long drive home. But the scanner was full of reports of accidents last night, and of warnings to emergency personnel to be careful.

This morning the world (or at least the part of it directly outside my windows) was covered in a thin blanket of snow, maybe a quarter of an inch. Enough to be pretty, not enough to be a major concern.

There are different responses called for different sorts of snow accumulations. Some are best dealt with with a snowblower, some a shovel, some a broom. Some require salt to melt the dreaded ice that lurks beneath. Some are a deadly, snowblower-breaking, heart-attack inducing layering of snow, slush, ice, and snow, like the Valentine's Day storm of 2007, and can only be dealt with through brute force and plenty of muscle.

And some are best dealt with by sitting down, having another cup of coffee, picking up the Sunday Funnies, and letting the sun melt the thin layer of snow in a few minutes.

Today's snow fell into that last category.

So I was a little annoyed when my peaceful Sunday reverie was broken by a sound very much like this:

(That's the Big Dog robot from Boston Dynamics.)

At first I assumed it was the neighbor who used to have all of his rain gutters directed onto our property until a visit from a city official who sank in our saturated side yard nearly up to his knees while investigating a complaint - he loves his noisemakers, and nothing gives him greater pleasure than shattering the quiet of a Sunday afternoon with a three-hour ride on his smoke-belching riding lawnmower. But it wasn't. It was the people another neighbor hires to clean her sidewalks when it snows. Only instead of making quick work of things with some brooms - or, better yet, ignoring the problem entirely and letting it go away on its own - they were slowly, methodically, going over every square inch of her sidewalk and even her car with leaf blowers. Not that the leaf blowers were doing a very good job: a lot of melted-on snow was getting left behind clinging to the sidewalks. But, hey, they were doing something to justify the bill they were going to send her.

Finally, after what has seemed like at least an hour, they have stopped. Now I can get back to ignoring my sidewalks and reading the Sunday Funnies.

The Virtual Refrigerator: Jeff Dunham

When I saw these pictures, drawn by my six-year-old nephew a few weeks ago, two questions crossed my mind: Who the heck is this guy? And what does "Jeff Dun Ham" mean?

I had to ask my nephew to explain. And then, with the help of a few quick searches, I learned a lot more about ventriloquist Jeff Dunham, and Guitar Guy (pictured with Jeff, above), and Jeff's pals.

Apparently my nephews had watched Jeff Dunham's Very Special Christmas Special on Comedy Central. Note the dialogue below from Achmed the Dead Terrorist:

Compare Jeff Dunham's face in the first picture - where he was addressing the audience as himself - to the tight-lipped, dead-faced version in the other pictures. Then watch the trailer (linked above) and see how Jeff Dunham holds his face while speaking through his characters. (Note also the detail of Jeff's arm reaching into Achmed's back, where the controls are located.)

Here is the character Walter. Note the elements in this picture - the coffee cup, the Christmas tree, the microphone. There's probably plenty of other stuff I'm not noticing.

When I was a kid I used to watch Edgar Bergen on TV and marvel at his skill at creating characters like Charlie McCarthy and Mortimer Snerd. There were other ventriloquists active back then, like Wayland Flowers and Madam, Shari Lewis and Lambchop, and Rod Hull and Emu - some technically better, some who made no effort to keep their lips from moving. It's good to know there are people still carrying on this art, and that kids still find it fascinating and funny.

Ednaswap: Torn

This song has been intruding into my thoughts a lot lately - not the Natalie Imbruglia cover version which was ubiquitous on pop rock stations back in 1997, but the original version by Ednaswap that I was listening to on a CMJ New Music Monthly disc back in December of 1998.

(Dammit, embedding of this video is disabled. The video is actually just the Natalie Imbruglia one with the Ednaswap music laid over it, so you would be just as well off opening it in another tab or window and experiencing the audio only.)

Other songs from back then will also start to figure in my memory soon, including R.L. Burnside's dance version of Rollin' Tumblin' and several songs from Mazzy Starr's Among My Swan. The music I was listening to back then. The music I was listening to on that day.


Ten years soon. And it's all coming back to me.

Sunset over Nanticoke, December 5, 2008

Two views of flaming pink clouds over Nanticoke at sunset (4:49 PM - 4:50 PM) on December 12, 2008.

And here I was, thinking that we had just entered a period of bleakness in between the glorious riot of color that is Autumn, with its crisp clear skies and brilliant leaves, and the glacial beauty of Winter, with crystalline skies over frozen white landscapes. Now we're just dealing with a lot of denuded trees and brown, dried groundcovers. But the sunsets can still be spectacular.

WNAK is gone

Originally posted on A Blog of Nanticoke, Thursday, December 4, 2008.

A few days ago I received this comment on my post about Nanticoke's radio station, WNAK:*

As a former employee of WNAK it saddens me that Neilson sold the station. I enjoyed the eight years I was there on-air, and the Nightwatch was like saying "goodbye" when the station would go off the air. Mr. Neilson passed away a few years ago but he told me how he made a mistake in the sale and wished we could have all worked together to keep the station alive. Time ran out for all of us and, well under different ownership things changed.

Some good news perhaps, as of Dec 1, 2008, I hear the old sounds could be coming back to WNAK? Let's all hope and prayer!!

I do not know if the format has switched back yet - I haven't tuned in in a very long time. But as of yesterday, the former funeral home that housed WNAK from 1982 until the new owners relocated earlier this year no longer exists.

Former home of WNAK razed for church parking

BY BOB KALINOWSKI
STAFF WRITER
Published: Thursday, December 4, 2008 4:06 AM EST

The residential Nanticoke building that was home to the small, but popular WNAK radio station for decades and launched many successful media careers was demolished Wednesday.

The building at 84 S. Prospect St. has been empty since early this year, when the station’s new owners, West Chester-based Route 81 Radio, moved operations to a multi-station headquarters in Avoca.

You can read the rest of the article here.

Sadly, when I was taking pictures of the churches in the area of WNAK - including the Nebo Baptist Church, which purchased the building and had it torn down to build additional parking - I didn't bother to take any of WNAK itself. I'm not sure if the sign indicating that it once was home to the radio station - an old-style NBC "N" logo, a holdover from the brief period when the station was an NBC affiliate - was still there. (Owner and broadcaster Bob Neilson would refer to the station on-air as "NBC" long after this affiliation ended, saying it stood for "Nielson's Broadcasting Company.")

Another piece of Nanticoke history is gone.


UPDATE: Yes, it's true. The "old sounds" have returned, at least in the form of easy-listening Christmas music. After the season, who knows? But it will never be the same as I remember it, with Hymn Time (an hour of religious music) every day, and commercial-free Sundays (with the special Sunday jingle "There's something missing from this station...it's WNAK!"), and Bob Neilson giving a daily editorial called "Another Point of View" (with the sound of a chattering ticker-tape behind him) and ending it with the disclaimer that the station would broadcast other viewpoints from "responsible persons," although this always seemed to mean only one person, a woman named Marion Dunstan Karsten of Kingston, PA, and of course, Night Watch ending every day's programming.


UPDATE 2, 12/7/08: Jan Souther, in his column "The Wax Museum" at the Wilkes-Barre Citzens' Voice, confirms that these really are the "old sounds":

The station’s owners realized that what Luzerne County really needs is Adult Standards radio and they wisely kept the music library we listened to for so many years, with a little updating here and there.

*This blog entry was originally posted here.

Done

With this truncated rotation at work, anyway. And it looks like I'm on layoff for the next rotation, which means twelve days to recuperate and plan my next steps. After that, who knows? I don't think the global economy is going to recover anytime soon.

I should get myself a new pair of Dr. Scholl's work insoles. Just in case.

Tired, but surviving

(Which should really have had the title "The Things That You Think About While Driving." Oh, well.)


One of the worst aspects of the job that I'm currently doing and the schedule that I'm doing on is that for four days I pretty much have no life outside of working, sleeping, and eating breakfast and dinner. I'm basically cut off from all other inputs. Even the news that I get is skewed: I can watch World News Now, ABC's long-running overnight news show, over breakfast at 3:30 in the morning (and typing that actually just kinda stunned me: I eat breakfast at 3:30 in the morning?!?), but that show tends to devote as much time to fun stuff as to actual news; or I can read the previous day's papers, which arrive after I leave for work.

So that means I'm not only tired and drained during the hour I have allocated for evening online time, but I also have a dearth of ideas for things to blog about.

I've been getting a quick refresher course in DVD press operation from someone who started in the department in August 2007, same as me, but has been working there continuously since then. (I had been on a "special project" doing data analysis from the end of January through the end of November.) One thing she stated is that she doesn't find the work very challenging at all. For me this was astonishing, since I have a hell of a time just keeping up with the machines even when they're running at their best.

Twenty years ago, in a different factory under very different circumstances, someone commented to me that my stream-of-consciousness banter during the long, hot shifts inspecting TV faceplates reminded them of "the things that you think about when you're driving." I didn't understand this. When I drive, all I think about is driving: where I am, how fast I am going, how much fuel I have, where my car is relative to the other cars around me, what potential hazards could exist outside my immediate limits of perception...I'm constantly scanning ahead, and behind, and to the sides, working under the assumption that all the other drivers are idiots who are trying to kill me, and the deer and other woodland critters have it in for me, too.

But apparently it isn't like this for everyone. Other people will begin woolgathering, daydreaming, letting their thoughts go on random walks. Not me. If I let my focus drift for more than a few seconds, I'm going to plow straight into the nearest wall.

But now I'm winding down. Time for bed, and then a 3:00 AM wake-up, a 3:30 AM breakfast, a 4:00 AM shower, and a commute starting at 4:45 to a twelve-hour job that officially starts at 6:00. One more day of this, and then I'm off for four - or possibly longer.

Conjunction of the Moon, Venus, and Jupiter: I saw it!

I was walking out of work today at 6:10 or so at the end of my new twelve-hour shift, and I was happily surprised that the cloud cover had broken enough to give us a clear view of the Moon, Venus, and Jupiter forming an inverted triangle in the West. I pointed this out to the guy I happened to be exiting the building with.

"Oh, is that what those bright things in the sky are?" he responded. "If you hadn't told me, I wouldn't have known."

I had the celestial trio in front f me most of the way home, so I was able to note the slow but steady motion of the Moon as it gradually pulled away from the two planets. By the time I got home, it had sunk out of easy view, so I didn't even try to get a picture. (We'll see how well a cell phone photo comes out.)

**************************************

Time for bed. 3:00 AM will be coming around soon. I may not be keeping this schedule for long...though after it ends, I have no idea what happens next. More later.

Reminder: Conjunction of Moon, Venus, and Jupiter November 30 - December 1!

Don't miss it! Right after sunset, with the Moon passing in front of Venus on December 1 for viewers in parts of Europe!

Go here for more details and an animation:
Another Monkey: Conjunction of Moon, Venus, and Jupiter, November 30 - December 1, 2008

The Stained Glass Project: St. Hedwig and St. Edward

This is part of an ongoing series called The Stained Glass Project, in which I am attempting to photographically preserve the stained glass windows of my parish church, Our Lady of Czestochowa (St. Mary's) in Nanticoke, Pennsylvania.


The third portrait window from the back of the South wall of St. Mary's church in Nanticoke, PA features portraits of Saint Hedwig and Saint Edward. Both stand against the "cathedral" backdrop, discussed previously.

Saint Hedwig has a long and complicated biography, and it would be tedious to try to relate it here. So I direct you to these online sources of information:

• The Catholic Encyclopedia entry for St. Hedwig
• Catholic Online's brief biographical sketch of St. Hedwig
• An even briefer outline of St. Hedwig from the Patron Saints Index
• St. Hedwig's Wikipedia entry

Nothing in my admittedly cursory reading of these biographies really explains the one thing that since childhood has stuck in my memory about this portrait:

What is that object?

To a kid, certain things about this images stuck out: Monsters. Weapons. Toys. Saint Hedwig holds what I always thought of as a toy schoolhouse, maybe even a toy church. Why? As I began my research I assumed that she was responsible for the founding of schools or construction of churches. But I am not seeing that. Instead it seems that she was heavily involved in the founding of monasteries. Is this object meant to represent a monastery?

And what did she do to earn a crown? Certain portraits show saints wearing crowns, while others do not. Is there a code here, like the alleged code involving the number of horse's legs that are raised in a statue? Or could this simply be in recognition of her status as a Duchess of Silesia?


The second portrait seems a little more straightforward: St. Edward the Confessor was a king of England, renowned (if the stories are to be believed) for his healing touch. Unfortunately, he was also uncle to St. Edward the Martyr, who was also king of England. Which one is this? I have no idea. The youthful appearance could mark him as the latter, who was only sixteen or seventeen when he died. The spear could be a clue - Edward the Martyr died, according to one account, due to injuries received in a stabbing by an assassin while he was visiting his wicked stepmother during a hunt. Have a look at this source material and see if you can figure it out:

• The Catholic Encyclopedia entry for St. Edward the Confessor
• Catholic Online's biographical sketch of St. Edward the Confessor
• Patron Saints Index entry for St. Edward the Confessor
• Wikipedia entry for St. Edward the Confessor
  
  
• The Catholic Encyclopedia entry for St. Edward the Martyr
• Catholic Online's biographical sketch of St. Edward the Martyr
• Patron Saints Index entry for St. Edward the Martyr
• Wikipedia entry for St. Edward the Martyr

The lines across St. Edward's body and the dark blotch on his head are not cracks, but are the chain once used for opening and closing the vented window above the portrait.

The upper round window is the one I have dubbed the "Temple." The calligraphy on the scroll at the bottom is not readable in this image.

The person who presented both of these windows has a name immediately familiar to the people of Nanticoke: K.M. Smith, the namesake of the K.M. Smith Elementary School. Unfortunately, almost all references to "K.M. Smith" that I can find online refer to this school, not to the person. I may need to go to the Nanticoke Historical Society for more information.

Communication: the key to success

I got my affairs in order yesterday. Picked out the clothes I would be wearing to work today, clothes that would be comfortable for working on four DVD presses for twelve hours at a clip in an environment which could possibly run hot and cold at different times of the day. Made my lunch, all assembled and bagged and ready to go. Set my alarms for 3:00 this morning. Called the overtime/layoff information hotline to confirm that may name was not on the layoff list. Got to bed by 9:30, though I tossed and turned and didn't finally fade into unconsciousness until well after 11:00. Had a dream that involved going to some sort of a convention with a bunch of my friends, including friends from the Internet. I was climbing the stairs of the hotel when a horrible noise pierced my consciousness.

What the hell is that?, I wondered.

Of course, it was my alarm. I bounced out of bed, made a pot of coffee, ate a bowl of cereal and had a mug of coffee and a glass of juice. Took a shower, started the car so it could de-ice, came back inside for a second mug of coffee. Called the layoff/overtime recording again to verify that my name was not on the layoff list. Was on the road by 4:50 so I could get to work well ahead of my 6:00 AM start.

Obeyed the speed limit the whole way there, especially through the construction zones. Not much traffic anyway. Got to the plant around 5:35. Killed time for a bit. Went in. Put my lunch in the refrigerator. Punched in at 5:42. Went to the office to get my assignment.

Punched out at 5:52 and headed home. Seems nobody in the office knew I was coming back today, and they were fully staffed without me. So I'm on layoff today. Maybe tomorrow, too, and the rest of the rotation, and the rotation after that.

***************

Speaking of communication, the DTV changeover is still being planned for February 17. After the collapse of the economy, I kinda thought that this transition might be postponed a bit.

Let's do a Fermi estimate of the economic impact of this transition:

• Say there are 100 million households with TVs in the U.S. I have no idea if that is high - assuming on average three people to a household - or low.
• Now assume 50% of those households never ever draw any signals from the air. So that leaves us with 50 million households that sometimes get signals from the air.
• Now assume half of those households have relatively new televisions that are capable of receiving DTV signals. (Even if these televisions are so equipped, are they connected to antennas capable of picking up the DTV signals?) So now we are left with 25 million households that get signals from the air at least some of the time and are not equipped to get DTV signals.
• Now imagine that every one of these 25 million households buys one converter box. How much are the converter boxes? I don't know. But the coupons are good for $40 off the cost of the box, so let's assume the cost of the converter boxes is somewhere from $50 for a basic model to $100 for a fancy one, requiring a consumer outlay* of $10 - $60. Let's guesstimate very conservatively (and for the sake of an easy calculation) that the average cost to the consumer is $20.
• So this leaves us with a consumer outlay of $500 million for the privilege of continuing to watch "free" television over the air.

Is this high? Low? I don't know. It ignores the cost of new televisions and antennas, and of getting connected to cable and satellite providers to avoid the issue entirely. It ignores the landfill space that will now be occupied by all the handheld and portable televisions that have internal antennas and cannot be connected to converters and will effectively become paperweights and boat anchors next February 17.

Now for the fun part: Who the heck gets signals from over the air, anyway? A lot of people, actually. They tend to come from the lower economic strata of society - the poor, the elderly, the people living in places that are unserved by cable. How many residents in nursing homes have their own televisions to keep them company in their waning years? How many of these televisions will go to static on February 17, cutting off the residents' last connection to the outside world? How many coupons will be assigned to each nursing home? Who will go out and buy converter boxes for the residents? Who will connect them? Who will bear the cost of this?

It's coming. Nobody is planning on putting the brakes on this thing until after the economy recovers. Are we ready to make this investment?


*And who do you think funded the converter box coupons in the first place?

We interrupt this blog for four days of work

In case you're one of the people who I haven't already told about this: surprise! I'm back on the press floor as of today tomorrow* (Sunday, November 30), running four DVD presses and asking myself what the hell this has to do with that degree in Physics I got nearly twenty years ago. (Once upon a time I had an answer to that question. Now I don't.)

I'll be on the 4x4, working four twelve-hour days and then (in theory) getting four days off. Depending on how things are going, I may be forced to work overtime on those days off, or I may be laid off on my next rotation. Heck, I may even get laid off before the end of this rotation.

I fancy myself a writer. This blog represents the bulk of my writing output, so you can judge for yourself what sort of writer I am. But I am reminded of a story I read about someone being stuck in an airport while he was travelling with a science fiction writer friend. As he sat there and cursed the airline and its delays, the writer pulled out his notepad and began jotting down notes. The man asked the writer what he was doing, and he replied "I'm a writer. This is all research."

I'm going to keep telling myself that as my feet ache and my back aches and my head spins while trying to deal with the demands of four DVD presses and their associated systems, all of which serve to remind me how mechanically incompetent I am. It's all research, it's all research, it's all research...

Maybe someday something will come out of it.


*Crap. I meant to delay this post until tomorrow. Oh, well.

Macy's Parade gets Rickrolled!

I missed this when it happened, and I've missed any references to it in the mainstream media or on the Internet until I read about it at Dr. Isis's place. The float from Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends got Rickrolled by a very special guest star!



Rick Astley, FTW!

Squidgy things

So I'm working on a post that will basically be the equivalent of jamming a stick into a nest full of racist hate-spewing hornets. But silence in the face of evil equals consent.

As you may recall, the last time I dealt with hornets it was with a ridiculous overabundance of caution. I defeated them. But these hornets do not slow down when the sun sets, nor are they vulnerable to an attack from an oblique angle. Dealing with one or two trolls was bad enough. Do I really feel like dealing with a well-organized army of them, and their irregulars throughout the world?

I'm going to need backup on this one. I had backup last time, both moral support and expert technical guidance. I expect I will need a lot more of each this time.

****************************************

I've migrated away from MySpace, mostly. There are a few people I'm friends with there who are very active, but most of my friends have moved on from there. Even the "false friends" have moved on, meaning I'm not getting contacted by slutty girls in bikinis who really, really want to be my friend.

No, now I'm getting contacted by fourteen-to-seventeen-year old boys and girls from random spots in the world who really, really want to be my friend.

So, like, what's up with that? Is this happening to anyone else who has a MySpace account? Does anybody else still have a MySpace account?

Buddy List disaster

There are a few reasons you shouldn't vacuum your keyboard while your computer is running. For one, you might send a static discharge through the keyboard that can fry things you'd rather not have fried. But for another, you might do something dumb, like accidentally delete your entire "Friends" Buddy List from your AIM window.

Like I did.

So if you were one of the people I used to chat with using AIM, contact me through the comments or send an e-mail to the address listed on my sidebar, and I'll re-add you right away! And I'll have to remember to never, never do something so dumb again!

Holiday Reruns: The Littlest Turkey!

Because I am lazy, here yet again is the repost of the complete version of The Littlest Turkey.


What's more traditional during the holidays than reruns of your favorite holiday specials? In that spirit, and the spirit of not having very much time this year, I present to you The Littlest Turkey complete in one post!

The Littlest Turkey was originally posted November 16 (Part 1) and 17 (Part 2 and Conclusion), 2005, and was originally posted complete in one post on November 24, 2005.

THE LITTLEST TURKEY
by
D.B. Echo

Once upon a time there was a farm where turkeys lived. All of them were young and plump, big and strong and proud. All of them except one. He was smaller than all the other turkeys. He was called the Littlest Turkey.

The Littlest Turkey wanted to run and play with the other turkeys, but they didn't want to play with him. "Go away, Littlest Turkey," they would say. "Come back when you've gotten bigger."

But the Littlest Turkey was sure he was as big as he was going to get. He tried to eat as much as he could, but he never seemed to get as big and plump as the other turkeys. And he knew that unless he got big and plump like the other turkeys, he would never get to go to the Laughter House.

The Laughter House was a wonderful place. The Littlest Turkey had never been in there. He knew that only the big and plump turkeys would get to go inside the Laughter House. He had seen them go in once, and had heard their squawks and gobbles of laughter for a little while. It must be wonderful in there, the Littlest Turkey thought. All those turkeys go in to laugh, and none of them had ever come out again. How much fun they must be having!

The Littlest Turkey decided that, big and plump or not, he would get into the Laughter House the next time they let the turkeys in.

*********

THE LITTLEST TURKEY
Part 2
by
D.B. Echo

The weather started getting cooler, and the leaves on the trees started to change colors. All the turkeys knew that soon it would be time for the biggest holiday of the year, Turkey Day.
"Just before Turkey Day is when they take the big and plump turkeys into the Laughter House," thought the Littlest Turkey. "But this time I'm going to get in there, too!"

It wasn't long before the big day came. All of the big and plump turkeys lined up to go into the Laughter House. The Littlest Turkey waited near the entrance of the Laughter House, then squeezed in between two very big and plump turkeys. No one noticed him because he was so little.

The Laughter House was dark inside, and there was a sort of moving sidewalk there that was taking turkeys into another room, where he could hear gobbles and squawks of laughter. One by one the turkeys hopped up to ride the sidewalk. The Littlest Turkey hopped up, too.
The turkey in front of him, whose name was Tom, turned around. "Go away, Littlest Turkey," he said. "Come back when you are bigger."

"Yes, go away," said the turkey behind him, whose name was also Tom. "They do not want little turkeys at the Market. Only big and plump ones."

"No," said the Littlest Turkey. "I want to go to the Market with you." He had never heard of the Market, but he realized that it must be even better than the Laughter House.

A Man spotted the Littlest Turkey. "Go away, Littlest Turkey," he said. "Come back when you are bigger."

"Oh, please, Mr. Man," said the Littlest Turkey. "I do so want to go to the Market with the other turkeys."

"Very well," said the Man. "We've got a quota to meet, anyway."

The Littlest Turkey rode the sidewalk into the other room. He wondered what things would be like at the Market.

*********

THE LITTLEST TURKEY
Conclusion
by
D.B. Echo

The Littlest Turkey was cold. He was colder than he ever remembered being before. But then again, it was hard to remember much since they had chopped his head off.

He was in a case with the other turkeys, the big and plump turkeys. Turkey Day was coming soon, and people were coming to the Market to pick turkeys to take home.

They always seemed to want the big and plump turkeys. One time a little girl had seen him in the case. "Mommy, mommy, look at the little turkey," she said. "I want to take home the littlest turkey."

"No, dear," her mother said. "We are having many people over for Thanksgiving. We need a big, plump turkey."

One by one the other turkeys left the Market to go home with people. Turkey Day was coming soon, and people were taking away more and more of the big and plump turkeys. But no one wanted the Littlest Turkey.
Finally, the day before Turkey Day came, and the Littlest Turkey found himself all alone in the case.

"How sad," he thought. "No one wants to take me home."

It was late in the day, and the Manager was about to close down the Market for the night. Suddenly a Man came into the store.

"I have a coupon," he said, "for a free turkey. Do you have any left?"

"You're in luck," said the Manager. "I have one left." He showed the Man the Littlest Turkey, all alone in the case.

"It's a little small," the Man said. "But I guess beggars can't be choosers. Besides, it's just me and my wife this year. A little turkey might be just what we need."

The Manager took the Littlest Turkey out of the case and traded him to the Man for the coupon he was holding. "Happy Thanksgiving!", he said to the Man.

"I'm not going to be left behind for Turkey Day," thought the Littlest Turkey happily as the Man put him in the trunk of his car. "I'm so happy. But I'm so cold." He rolled around a little as the car pulled out of the parking lot. "I sure hope I'm going someplace warm."

THE END

Turkey Pardons

Once again President Bush pardoned the official White House turkey, a monstrous 43-lb. beast who will, most likely, die within a year as a result of the deficiencies bred into it in the quest to develop the biggest, most delicious birds for the market.

Turns out the tradition of turkey pardons is a lot more recent that most people think - according to Snopes.com, dating back only to 1989:

http://www.snopes.com/holidays/thanksgiving/pardon.asp

By now you've probably seen the Sarah Palin post-turkey pardon interview, in which a turkey slaughter is carried out in a conveniently set-up shot. Even my most liberal friends regard this as an obvious case of "gotcha journalism."



And besides, this was a turkey farm where turkeys are bred and raised for slaughter, destined for the tables of Americans who indulge in the annual tradition of gluttony. Why should anyone be shocked to see that they actually kill the turkeys there?

Enjoy your Thanksgiving dinner. And if you're feeling guilt over the fact that you're eating a dead bird, consider a Tofurkey next year.


More on Presidential turkey pardons:

Another Monkey: Talking turkey

The Tattoo Thief

OK, one tale I haven't told from the Sideshow Gathering until now: It was robbed on its opening night, Halloween. Here's a video of the guy who did it. If you can identify this guy, Marc's Tattooing - the sponsor and organizer of the event - is offering a reward.


From: Inkin The Valley
Date: Nov 25, 2008 9:20 PM

GET TATTOOED FOR FREE IF YOU CAN IDENTIFY THIS GUY!!!

Do you know this guy?


He stole a bunch of equipment from the Inkin' the Valley Tattoo Convention in Wilkes Barre, PA, Halloween night at the Woodlands. Email marcstatu@comcast.net if you have ANY information.

PLEASE REPOST if you’re in our area.

We'll tattoo ANYTHING you want if you give up information that helps us find this person.

Thanks, Marc's Tattooing

Sometimes they come back

My mom was putting food out in one of the shelters that we've set up for the neighborhood stray cats when she got a surprise. This shelter is an old wheeled plastic garbage can, cracked and no longer useful for its original purpose, tucked under a Rhododendron with several old plastic tablecloths on top for waterproofing and a bag of leaves for insulation. This one also featured a critter who stuck its pointy nose out of the covered entrance to the shelter when my mom went to set some food inside. She recognized the nose as belonging to an opossum, but asked me to check it out. After three tries I managed to get the photo above.

I assured her - incorrectly - that opossums are insectivores who do not stay in one spot for very long. If the Wikipedia entry is to be believed, they are opportunistic omnivores who will stay in one area as long as food - including pet food, and occasionally small (kitten-sized?) mammals - is readily available.

I didn't just go out with a camera, but with a garden rake as well, to encourage the intruder to leave the area. But I looked at the wet, frightened, and bedraggled creature in my picture and took pity on it. It was, after all, a cold and rainy night, and we knew the cats had other accommodations available. And my laziness one hot Summer day last year put another opossum through a lot more distress than it should have experienced. Yes, I know this is almost certainly not the same opossum, but I still feel bad about the last one, slowly cooking in a cage in the scorching midday heat that it naturally avoids. I decided to leave this one unmolested.

This morning the lid protecting the entrance to the shelter was pushed aside, and the opossum was gone. The cat food was still there.



Title Reference: The creepy Stephen King short story Sometimes They Come Back.