View allAll Photos Tagged skittering
ambedo n. a kind of melancholic trance in which you become completely absorbed in vivid sensory details—raindrops skittering down a window, tall trees leaning in the wind, clouds of cream swirling in your coffee—which leads to a dawning awareness of the haunting fragility of life
a biiiig expansion. view large.
The cats did a lot of running up trees when they were younger. They would just skitter up there like it was nothing. This is Braveheart.
I was watching the behavior of this little Kildeer skittering along the shoreline this afternoon and thought about our "Bird's Eye View" challenge. This little bird kept turning it's head to look back at me. It looked with its right eye, then shifted to look a me with its left eye. This is because this bird has monocular vision. This is how they must gauge the depth of their environment.
It's easier for us because we have binocular vision. We can see complete images with both eyes at the same time.
From the Science of Birds - dot - com:
Binocular vs monocular
Picture a chicken or a pigeon. The eyes of these birds are positioned on the sides of the head. Each eye is looking out at the world to the side of the bird’s body. Each eye sees a different image. This is monocular vision. The advantage here is that the bird has a wide field of view. It can see a large portion of its surroundings.
You’ll often see birds with monocular vision moving their heads around and switching from one eye to the other as they inspect something. This is how they must gauge the three-dimensionality, the depth of their environment.
Compare that to humans. Our eyes are both looking forward. Humans have superb binocular vision. We see the same image, or at most of it, with both eyes. This makes it easier to perceive depth. This is why predatory birds with binocular vision—such as hawks, eagles, and owls—have such great depth perception.
Well, it was bound to happen sooner or later... I was shooting from the Kitty Hawk Pier this past weekend at the coast. I stumbled on some of the old decking and fell head-over-teakettle into the Atlantic. This is the last image I got as I came up for air... and if you believe that story, perhaps you need to come up for air. Actually, this was taken at my last stop at the Outer Banks last Sunday... the North Carolina Aquarium at Roanoke Island (www.ncaquariums.com/roanoke-island). Their new shark tank is pretty impressive, with several varieties of sharks, as well as a number of other fish species. I didn't notice any of the other species dwindling in number, so the sharks must be fairly satisfied with Purina Shark Chow.
This is a sand tiger shark, also known as a nurse shark, one of two in the tank, both of which are about 9 feet (2.75 meters) in length. They are prevalent in the waters off the Carolina coast and often hunt close to shore. They are not known to be greatly aggressive toward humans, though I wouldn't be too overly enthusiastic for an uninvited encounter, just the same. No, thank you.
Many moons ago, a friend and I were body surfing off Topsail Island. It's oodles of fun... you just swim out to where the waves begin as swells and swim it out to position your body into the curl... if you do it right, you can ride the wave all the way back to the beach where it dumps you unceremoniously (and with some velocity) headfirst into the sand. Then you spend the rest of the day picking grit out of your teeth (as well as various and sundry other places)... like I said, fun! We kept moving further away from shore in an attempt to hit some bigger waves. About the time we could barely make out the shore (which was way too far out for body surfing), I noticed a shadow about the size of this critter circling both of us. I called out to my friend, "What do you say we break for lunch before something else does?"... and a good time was had by all, except, perhaps, for the "shadow". Later that day, I was walking barefoot in the surf, having a discussion with another friend (yes, I have at least two friends!), when I inadvertently stepped on a good-sized crab hunkered down in the sand. It let me know of its displeasure by clamping down on either side of my foot. My friend said I was there one second and about 10 feet in the air the next second. The crab, which apparently didn't like heights, loosened its grip and dropped back into the water... I'm pretty certain that it made a rude gesture as it skittered off to the depths. On the way back, our conversation turned to the realization that it only took lowering a toe into the Atlantic to lower one's self on the food chain. I'm a believer!
By the way, the aquarium has a program allowing you to dive with these sharks. Here's the link: www.ncaquariums.com/roanoke-island/aquarium-shark-dive You must be open-water certified to 60 feet. I would need to be re-certified, but this does seem like quite the adventure... I have had experience with lemon sharks off the coast of Mississippi, a similar species with this shark. The dives last for 30-40 minutes, depending on how hungry the sharks are. The aquarium provides the dive gear, including wet suits with the words "Purina Shark Chow" emblazoned across the back. Just kidding!... or am I? You need to visit and find out!
Spoiler alert
Michael Richardson "yarp "
Hooded figure
Simon skitter
Frank butterman
The priest
Another hooded figure
Father Christmas (peter Jackson cameo)
Nikon D40, 200mm Micro-Nikkor f/4.5 AI-S lens focused at infinity, aperture f:32, with a 38mm f:1.9 Soligor Elitar lens from an 8mm movie camera reverse mounted on the 200mm. Flash lighting from a Nikon SB-23 speedlight bounced off foil reflectors.
The arrival of September and cooler evenings brings an increase in the number of male funnel weaver spiders that decide to explore my basement looking for females. There are definitely more ladies outside than in, but that doesn't seem to matter. I found this guy on my basement wall, captured him in a small plastic food container and examined him under a 40x stereo microscope. He had evidently been in and out of the kitty litter box because he was dusted with "Feline Pine", my picky cat's choice of litter box filler. Wanting to get some close-up pics, I put him through the same cleaning procedure I used on a wolf spider several years ago... but this time without complete success. Here he's in the cup after removing all but one last stubborn piece of litter that was stuck firmly to one eye. I was using a probe made from a cat whisker taped to a toothpick, along with a small blower bulb. This worked well in the past, and the plastic cup did a good job of preventing him from sprinting away. But... the harder I worked to remove that last bit, the more frantic his panicky movements became. Long minutes of him jumping, tumbling, and skittering around the cup while dodging the whisker yielded nothing. The speck of litter was seemingly super-glued in place. I decided to try to "chill him out" by putting him in the fridge for few minutes. I really didn't like doing that, but there was no other option available if I wanted to get a good shot... without resorting to removing it in Photoshop. A few minutes later he was in the cup under the scope and I was positioning him for good access to the stubborn piece of litter. The tall sides of the cup were preventing a "low angle" attempt to pry it off with the whisker, so I moved him to a food container lid, its low lip giving me a much better shot at removing the speck. A very slow movement of the tip of one leg should have prompted me to hurry. With one leg held gently in needle-tip tweezers and the cat whisker just about to touch the speck, he "exploded" into life. My view of him through the scope was far larger than what you see in this pic, so his abruptly coming to full violently animated life was enough to cause me to lurch backwards away from the bench. Although I like photographing spiders, I really don't want them on me or in my clothes. Looking quickly around, I found he had bolted from the lid, the very low sides not even slowing him down, and was just disappearing off the end of the bench where it nearly touches the wall. Twenty minutes of hunting for him on my hands and knees with a flashlight turned up nothing. Hours later I found him on a notebook and immediately chucked him in a terrarium I keep ready for visiting spiders.
Certain spiders have modified hairs closely resembling feathers on their body somewhere. Here, tiny "feathers' are visible just below the eye with the speck of kitty litter stuck on it. The best view is at the largest size.
DSC-8669-N
The long boardwalk stretches out, inches above the sea grass and mud of the salt marsh on Hunting Island at low tide.
This oasis of pines and palms juts out of the muck as a tiny dry spot. It breaks up the path out to a fishing pier that stands above a creek that winds its way from the island interior to the ocean.
Thousands of tiny crabs were crawling about in the low-tide mud. Seeking food and protecting their holes in the mud which are just holes. Twice a day, the tide opens up their world to the sun and allows them to skitter about.
It was a warm day, the are was fairly still, wafting the rich muddy smell of the uncovered marsh around us, reminding me that we're intruders in this place.
The sky was a delight of wispy white clouds on a deep blue background.
A good day for a walk among the crabs and other creatures of the marsh.
I managed to rumble on down to the Daymark tower in East Devon during last week's visit and hit some really fine clouds and light over the sea.
I've wanted to visit this location for the last two years and couldn't have really wished for better conditions on my first visit. It really was an amazing half hour just watching showers in the distance and incredible clouds skittering past.
This light was actually a deep twilight blue, I'll post one of those with a different composition soon
The city cooled its heels down below.
People skittered along like ants with a crumb of bread on their backs. Taxi horns let out yelps of indignation.
It was that time of the day when one clock was winding down, and another started to tick.
The gamblers and the grifters. The pistol men and the shysters.
The misters and the ministers. The kittens and the mugs.
All getting reading for another night on the town.
All going to work that same line.
It’s in these small hours where you take your breathe, try to be an honest man.
Is it time to make your honest play?
Not tonight.
Tonight is the time to inherit the flames in those faraway eyes.
Time to dance around this dirty town till the night is all gone.
Into these shadows you pass.
Walk softly tonight through these small hours.
Before you try to hold back the dawn.
Jersey Noir
© Mark V. Krajnak | JerseyStyle Photography | All Rights Reserved 2013
It has started...
My favourite time of year rustles and skitters across the landscape bathing the world with brilliant colours and mysterious earthy smells.
Autumn is here.
Seen at Örebro, Sweden September 2, 2008
View Large On Black -- Recommended
It isn't long before yet another fight breaks out, with Match leaping towards me, and Galatea flying at me. Really need my brother to wake up, because handling one clone by myself is already hard enough. When you add another in, it just increases the amount of pain. Alicia tries her best to try to help, but is easily swatted away by Match. Galatea's able to get the first hit off, punching me into the ceiling. Nice thing about fighting clones is that I don't have to hold back. I try wrapping my cape around Galatea's arm, but she's able to block it by raising her own cape. Well, it was worth a try.
"Yes, raise your fists, and fight. She's trying to take everything you've ever worked for! The villain of your story. Use that anger you feel towards her. Take her down, and protect the Red Mercy. If the Red Mercy falls, millions will perish.. You don't want that, do you?" Psycho Pirate urges. The clones nod in agreement, as they continue to pound on me. It isn't long before I'm coughing up blood. I've definitely improved since our last fight, being able to hit both Galatea and Match at several points within the fight.
"He's lying to you! He doesn't care for you at all! He's just using you, for his enjoyment." I manage to hit the Red Mercy with my heat vision, which loosens its grip on Chris just a little. Looks like it actually works.. Good to know.
"Don't listen to her! She's trying to turn both of you against me. She knows that it's the only possible way for her to win against me. But no matter, the love you two have for me is too strong to be overpowered by such lies. You love me.. Always have, always will." His voice screeches, as I notice the expression of his golden mask change. Not that I can really do much about it, as seconds later, we're up and out of the facility, onto the streets of Leavenworth. Civilians, running fear, as the fight continues. I do my best to lure them away, to the outskirts of the city, but unfortunately, Match grabs my ankle as I'm about to fly, tossing me down towards the ground. I hide the ground hard, and he lands from his leap soon after.
"Not today!" He taunts. He's about to punch my jaw, but luckily I'm able to raise my hands up in the nick of time, catching his fist in my hands. I use the slight momentum I have to toss him off me. The arc of the toss sends him straight into a light post. Unfortunately, it leaves me vulnerable to Galatea's attack, which is heat vision aimed straight at my ribcage, which sends me deeper into the ground. I can't help but yell out in pain, with my whole body just throbbing from the pain.
"Just when I thought you had learned from our last fight. Still just a pathetic little girl. New cape, cute. You got lucky we had to leave last time. But now? You're done for." She smirks, as she continues to taunt me.
"You just made a big mistake. Sometimes, you really just need to shut up when you're ahead." I grin, taking advantage of her big ego. I use this chance to fly out of the crater I've created, hitting her multiple times, before she's able to react. Match rips the fire hydrant out of the ground, and tosses it at me, to which I freeze breath it. Though I notice a kid running through the impact zone. Having only a few seconds before Galatea flies back, I dive down, landing beside the little girl. I cover the both of us with my cape, as the hydrant shatters upon impact, the debris flying everywhere. The girl gives me a hug, as I lower my cape.
"Go get em Supergirl!" She whispers into my ear, before letting go, and running as fast as she can away from danger. I smile, giving her a thumbs up, before I fly towards Galatea. We each fire off bursts of heat vision, which upon impact, sends the both of us backwards a few feet. Match takes the opportunity to leap behind me, kicking me in the back, while Galatea flies towards me, her arms stretched out in front of her. The force of Match's kick sends me straight into Galatea's fists. My brother would say that it's a combo attack or something. Really doesn't feel as good as it sounds. The property damage rises, as I proceed to soar through a window of a nearby building. Galatea follows behind, grabbing onto my costume moments later. I'm able to block her oncoming punches, while we fly through the building. The office workers sprint out-of-the-way, noticing us crash through. I'm able to break free of Galatea's hold on me, kicking her off me. I'm able to save a few workers, grabbing them right before the debris came falling down. Another second, and they would've been crushed. I lead them out of the building, but the damage has already been done. Thanks to our brawl, the top half of the skyscraper is now in shambles, as it all comes falling down.
"This is what you wanted, right? To be Superboy and Supergirl. To take down the big bad villain, and save the day. Well here's your chance. You can go ahead and kill me, if that's what you really want. Just know, that you can never come back from that choice. You'll be just as bad as me. But those people down there are scared, and they need help. There's no way I'm turning my back on them. Be better." I snap, my voice filled with anger, before diving down, flying as fast as I can to get there. To my surprise, they aren't trying to stop me. Instead, they fly down beside me.
"She's right sis. Everyone's so scared of us. What we did. Not a hero move at all. We've been played big time, by our so-called master." Match replies, dropping his head down in shame. Moments later, the three of us collide against the falling structure, our hands stretched out in front of us, pushing the structure. Thankfully, with our combined strength and flight speeds, we're able to push the structure with little strain on our muscles. It isn't long before it's in space. Phew, that was a close one.. A little too close for comfort, if you ask me. I don't really have the time to rest my aching body, as the Red Mercy is still attached to my brother.
--------------------------------
Meanwhile, at Agenda's HQ
Nice one Alicia.. Now Kara's all by herself, to fight the clones. Not that I can really do all that much against them anyway. Ended up getting swatted into a wall last time I tried anything. So useless.. I can't stop myself from groaning as I teleport myself from the imprint I've created in the wall. I appear beside Chris, and I try teleporting this so called Red Mercy off him. It's of no use however, and the Red Mercy stays attached to him. C'mon Chris, wake up..
"Nice try. Unfortunately for you, the Red Mercy is quite the specimen, unable to be removed by such pedestrian means. Oh no, did you just lose a little bit of hope? Yes.. All those emotions you feel. Your disgust, and anger towards me is well justified, after what I've done to your boyfriend. And yes, I know who you are Flux. Just know, that what you're feeling? I live off it. One could even say I thrive off it. Ah there it is.. Sadness. Yes, you feel so very sad. So sad that there's no way you could fight me. Oh would you look at that, cavalry has arrived! " Psycho Pirate continues to taunt, as I notice the eyes on his mask glow. Entering the room, is some creature you'd see in a monster movie. Yellow slitted eyes, with a tail, and claws. Definitely a reptile of some sort, with green skin. Though it's not instantly recognizable. It starts crawling towards me on the wall.
"You're right. I can't fight you. I'm just too sad." What am I saying? No matter how hard I try to resist, all I can feel is my own sadness. A tear forms from beneath my hooded mask, dripping down my cheek, not that anybody can see it anyway. Psycho Pirate can't stop himself from laughing, clearly having the time of his life with this.
"My loyal servant, the Kanima. A weapon of vengeance. One who would do anything for his master.. Isn't that right? Your love for me is unmatched. You owe me. Kill the girl, for she has killed your family. Match and Galatea, are dead, cause of her. Do it for me. Kill the murderer. " His voice screeches in excitement, clapping his hands together, as the Kanima only snarls in response, before skittering after me, leaping off the wall towards me. Once again, the eyes on the mask glow. Landing in front of me, the Kanima whips its tail at me, to which I teleport out-of-the-way, appearing behind the creature. I'm able to punch it multiple times in the back before it reacts, swinging its arms at me, claws extended. It's then that creature shifts into Tycho?! What the hell?
"Tycho? Why?" I ask, my voice trailing off. Moments later, with the creepiest smile, the creature now as Tycho, slashes at my chest. I'm too shocked to think of moving out-of-the-way. Falling down to the ground, with the creature shifting back to its regular form, standing over me, ready for the kill.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you.." I know that voice all too well. Looking over, I see that Chris has broken free from the Red Mercy, and is standing."I've had to watch you die far too many times for one lifetime. That nightmare sure takes its toll. But I won't stand by and watch it happen again. "
In his own words, Yosemite Sam was “The meanest, toughest, rip-roarin-est, Edward Everett Horton-est hombre what ever packed a six shooter!” If you have no understanding of the Edward Everette Horton issue there, it was Mel Blanc’s tribute to another actor who also gave voice to many cartoons. Sam cussed… a lot, though instead of using expletives, he employed what I refer to as impletives. “Rackin’, frackin’, pulveritise, rattin’, fraudin’, squatty…” How do you holler and mumble at the same time? He obviously was quite skilled at that and managed to get all that and more expressed while falling from a great height… twice! I have no idea what any of that meant. He seemed to get his point across, nonetheless, that the sudden stop was going to be monumental. A headstone is a monument if you’re wondering. "Great leapin' horny toads," was a common Yosemite Sam expression. For all his meanness, Yosemite Sam would likely blush at today’s typical language, with folks letting epithets fly like the F-bomb without the slightest of provocations. Unlike Sam, there’s no meaning or purpose to it. “That P-es me off” is yet another one. It’s suggestive of anger that cannot be assuaged, as forgiveness is never a part of the process. There seems little of gentility left to society, yet those with such proclivity seem to think they’re along a path to make society better. Without forgiveness, you’re only trodding a slippery slope. If any of this describes you, I encourage you to consider a deeper introspection.
The only slopes I found even close to slippery in Death Valley were covered in deep gravel. There were a couple of times that I must have looked quite like a cartoon, just spinning my wheels trying to chase such critters as pictured here up gravelly slopes. This tiny horned lizard, aka hornedtoad, or as Yosemite Sam states, “horny toad”, didn’t leap so much as skitter effortlessly across the gravel. They were fun to watch, though you had to look closely to find them. I’d love to have some for my cactus garden here in North Carolina, though there’s no way they would stay there. I tried to find sidewinders and rattlesnakes to shoot in Death Valley, though to no avail. I was happy to find a few lizards, however.
...just add orange juice on the side!
Want to learn more about pancakes (and other similar items around the world, such as crêpes, blinis, and so on)? See BBC's special on "pancake day".
The Simple but Perfect Pancake Recipe
This recipe is from King Arthur's All-Purpose Baking Book. They have a spongy texture and soak in the syrup.
2 large eggs
1 1/4 cups milk
2 teaspoons vanilla
3 tablespoons butter, melted or vegetable oil
1 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
3/4 teaspoon salt
2 teaspoons baking powder
2 tablespoons sugar or 1/4 cup instant malted milk powder (for diner-style pancakes)
Yields: 4-6 Pancakes
15 minutes 5 mins prep
Beat the eggs, milk, and vanilla until light and foamy, about 3 minute at high speed of a mixer (I do this step in blender and mix the rest in bowl with a large whisk).
Stir in butter or oil.
Whisk the dry ingredients together and gently, but quickly, mix into the egg and milk mixture.
Let the batter relax while griddle is heating (or overnight in refrig.) The batter will thicken upon resting.
Grease and preheat griddle.
The griddle is ready if a drop of water will skitter across the surface, evaporating immediately.
Drop ¼ cupfuls of batter on the lightly greased griddle.
Cook on one side until bubbles begin to form and break (this is the time to add anything like berries, choc. Chips, etc), then turn the pancakes and cook the other side until brown (turning only once).
These lambs were having a wonderful time, playing together. I'd watched them dashing up the path, then they came charging back down towards Flynn & me. We moved out their way but when they noticed us, they came to a sudden stop, before all skittering off again!
Splash landing on the water after jumping off a log is a Chocolate Barred Muscovy duck in Robson Creek at Robson Park in Surrey BC Canada
Muscovies are quiet (a quack-less duck!) and humorous companions, and they are native to Mexico, Central, and South America. They are also known as a Common Duck, Forest Duck, and Greater Wood Duck. They have a reputation for being cranky. Muscovies raise their own young effortlessly, forage beautifully and will keep both the skitters and the slugs down in your garden. The original (wild type) coloration is black and white, but domestication has produced many more colors, including white, black, chocolate, and blue. The red puffy parts on its face are called wattles. The males are large, weighing up to twelve pounds, with the smaller females reaching only seven, A male will have a pronounced knob of skin at the base of his bill, the female does not. Both sexes have a domed crest on top of their heads which they can raise and lower depending on their mood. They prefer forest habitats near water, roost in trees at night, nest in tree cavities, and don’t like to swim as often as other ducks due to their underdeveloped oil glands, but they will dabble (half submerged and pointing its tail feathers upwards). They are, however, very personable, and quite intelligent. They fly fairly well, especially the smaller females, but are known more for flying around than flying away!
Also see:
Here are Bella (Tortie) & Bonnie (black) getting used to each other.
Despite being 13, Bella is still quite playful & I hoped a kitten would be a playmate for her, but so far - both with Dillon & now Bonnie - she's too cautious to play with the little skitters :D
(PS- forgive the horrible carpet. My husband refuses to change it whilst we have cats to ruin it, & since we'll always have cats.... It's a circular problem! He does have a point - see what a succession of cats have done to the corner of the sofa!)
"Alicia!!" I yell, flying straight at the Kanima. The impact of my fists on its chest is surprisingly enough to send the creature flying across the room. Finally, the hellish Red Mercy nightmare is over. But that, combined with the lack of sunlight, has left me feeling exhausted. Definitely not feeling 100 percent right now. I land beside Alicia, as she's holding her hands over the wound. I'm able to cauterize it with my heat vision, which causes her to scream pretty loudly. I do my best to comfort her through the pain.
"Young love.. Awh, how adorable. It's a pity you were too late." Psycho Pirate cackles, taking this time to move up to the observatory deck.
"Chris it's the mask. Don't look at th--" Is all she's able to say, pointing at the Psycho Pirate. Unfortunately, the cauterization doesn't stop her from becoming completely paralyzed. I promised I would take care of her.. She needs to get to a hospital, fast. But if I leave with her now, who knows what else that psycho will do with that creature. What he'll command it to do. Just the thought of it gives me goosebumps. As fast as I am, I can't be two places at once. It doesn't take long for the Kanima to recover, skittering towards me along the wall. It's able to avoid my bursts of heat vision rather easily. It leaps onto me, trying to slash at me with its claws. Luckily, I'm able to raise my arms up in time to block the oncoming strikes. I swing my fist, which the creature is able to counter, grabbing my fist before it has the chance to hit. After a couple of seconds of inhaling air, I exhale. My "super breath" as Clark likes to call it, blowing the creature up into the air, going through the hole Kara and the clones made earlier. It takes a few extra seconds, before I can see the Kanima. There it is, falling down to the ground. But it's not the only thing, as I notice the evil clones, and Kara soon after descending through the air, floating down to the ground. The Kanima crashes into the ground, making a small crater with the impact.
"What are they doing here?" I scoff, glaring at the evil clones.
"Saving you, and your girlfriend." Match says with a smirk. I look over at Kara, and she just shrugs.
"They're here to help. What happened to Alicia?" She asks, looking over at Alicia.
"Honestly sis? I'm not exactly sure. Only that she's fully paralyzed. As for those two helping us? That's hard to believe, considering everything they've done." I reply.
"And they'll have to live with that for the rest of their lives.. But for right now, they want to help. Just trust me, okay?"
"Okay.." I nod. I don't have the energy to argue with her, or anyone else for that matter, right now.
"What are you doing?! You're supposed to kill them! You hate them. You're so angry with them for taking what was rightfully yours! You're the heroes of this story, not them! No, no, no!" Pirate screeches, as he slams his fist down on the metal railing in front of him. The expression of his mask shifts once again, the eyes glowing green.
"We weren't being heroes. So many innocent lives were at stake, just for your own amusement. Pathetic if you ask me." Galatea snarls, as she's just about ready to fly after him.
"It's that mask of his. I should've realized this sooner. We should've realized this sooner sis." Match says, eyes glowing red, about to fire off heat vision. "You manipulated us. Years of our lives, we'll never get back." His expression quickly shifts back to his usual, smugness.
"Please tell me you guys got this, now that we all know his shattering weakness? If I don't get her to a hospital quick-- "
"Go! We've got this in the bag." Kara replies smugly, giving me a thumbs up. With that, I leave, scooping Alicia up into my arms, and start to fly. It's then, that I notice the sunlight peering through. Let's hope I get there on time.
-----------------------------------------
POV Change
My brother leaves, and the Pirate starts to back away, narrowly avoiding Match's burst of heat vision. He starts frantically running for his life, with the three of us chasing him moments later. The Kanima went down pretty easily, between the three of us. He has a head start, though we're able to close that gap pretty easily.
"You love me! After all, I gave you everything! Without me, you wouldn't even exist! You don't want to fight me. You really don't!" He says frantically, turning around so we're facing the mask. Not that it does him any good, as we shield our eyes from the masks view.
"Heh, nice try. Better luck next time!" Match cheers triumphantly, as he pulls the mask off Psycho Pirate. Beneath the mask, is just a man. A man so clearly frightened for his own life as his own creations have turned against him. As angry as they are with him, they aren't doing anything drastic. Making small steps forward, but still steps nonetheless. With that, this fight is over.
-------------------------------------------
One Month Later
Here I am, writing in my journal. Yeah, I have a journal now. As part of a recent assignment for school, it's a way for me to reflect on everything that's happened. Weeks have already gone by since being rescued from the clutches of the Red Mercy, and Psycho Pirate. Physically, I'm in perfect health. Thank Rao Alicia's alive and well.. Fully recovered from the paralysis. So we've definitely been making the most of the free time we have. Whether it's going out for coffee, or just sitting on the couch at home, binging anything and everything on Netflix. I've learned not to take anything for granted.
As for Psycho Pirate, he's locked away, presumably in the same prison as Harvest is. Turns out he has a real name after all. Roger Hayden. The source of our troubles for the past two months. I guess it was more the Medusa Mask, than Hayden himself. And yes, that's the official name for it. An artifact, with its origin in Santa Prisca. At least, that's what endless hours of research told me. The Kanima would be transported to various facilities, before winding up in Belle Reve. It killed so many people, including dozens of D.E.O agents. That's not even mentioning how it pretended to be Tycho for many years. Yeah, I'm still slightly bitter about that. The Kanima would find a new master in Amanda Waller, presumably for her newest Suicide Squad.
Then there's the clones, Match and Galatea. Kara, and Clark, found and reached out to Tess Mercer, the human DNA donor for Match, about taking the two of them in. It didn't take much convincing, as Tess Mercer welcomed them with open arms. Apparently, she was already looking to adopt, so it was sort of perfect timing. It was clear, that the clones' emotions had been manipulated by Hayden, along with their memories. It's hard to forgive all they've done though. They almost killed Kara, amongst putting other innocent lives at risk. But as it wasn't actually their fault, they were given a second chance. Now they live in Smallville, taking the names Conner, and Linda. Kara talks to them often, while I've kept my distance. Still haven't really found it in my heart to forgive them. Anyways, they too are doing the hero thing, as Power Boy and Power Girl, as a way to atone for what they've done. I can only hope that this sticks. Oh and there's my alarm. Guess I better get going. School waits for no one.
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Elsewhere
"C'mon guys, we gotta move!" I yell, as I run out of the bank, my hands clutching the dufflebag. I weave through the streets, making my way back to our hideout. Unfortunately, as I enter a nearby alleyway, I trip and fall flat on my face. For some reason I can't get back up. Suddenly I hear laughter. And sure enough, four figures come from around the corner, one of them laughing.
"Can you believe how stupid they were? Like what did they think would happen? They have pea shooters for crying out loud!" The girl continues to laugh, until the 4 of them notice me.
"Would you look at that! There's the one that almost got away! I almost feel sorry for the guy." Another one of them retorts.
I'm about to get up, only to fall once more.. I'm getting so sick of this shit.
"What do you want with me?" I yell, but it doesn't seem to phase them.
"You made a mistake, stealing from that bank. Did you really think you wouldn't get caught?" The hooded man asks, avoiding my question.
"I'm just trying to earn a living!" I respond, spitting on their boots.
"By stealing everyone else's livelihood. Yeah, you're a real stand up guy! Criminals like you never learn."
"I'm getting bored. Can we just kill the guy already? Enough playing around."
"Kill me?! But I though-
"Thought what? That we would let you live? We're not like those aliens 'heroes', Supergirl and Superboy. They don't know what's best for us. They don't go far enough to eliminate the crime of this city. This is the birth of a new age. The age of the elite."
BANG!
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Just like that, Volume 2 is over. Wow. 20 issues, and it took a year to complete, but it's finally over! Hope everyone enjoyed reading this Volume. I honestly believe I've vastly improved in many areas thanks to this series, and especially this volume. So many issues I'm really proud of. Thank you so much for the constant support! Your feedback really helps, so I appreciate you all taking the time out of your day to read these issues. Anyways, Vol 3 will hopefully come soon. Though, I won't guarantee anything, as I want to focus on the stories I haven't done issues of for a while. Cheers!
Black Friday when we lost this beautiful talented singer
Selena as her fans knew her by. Terrible tragedy but
remembered by all who loved her and still listen to her music.
April 16, 1971 – March 31, 1995
Selena Quintanilla - Como la flor - Acapulco 1994
www.youtube.com/watch?v=OHV19QL8HcA
Selena Quintanilla - Si una vez - Padrisimo 1995
www.youtube.com/watch?v=-NePA1TAS_U
The tragic news arrived the way tragic news often does: by phone. The call came just after lunch from my friend David Bennett, a reporter at the San Antonio Express-News. “Selena has been shot. In Corpus Christi at a Days Inn motel. The woman who did it is sitting in a pickup in the parking lot, holding a gun to her head.” I waited for Bennett, a font of sick jokes about current events, to deliver the punch line. It was, after all, March 31 — the day before April Fool’s. But no punch line came when he called back a few minutes later: “She’s dead. She passed away at 1:05 p.m. at Memorial Medical Center.”
I had met her only once, but it was as though someone close to me was suddenly gone. Selena Quintanilla Perez was a 23-year-old Grammy award-winning singer and the undisputed queen of Tejano music, a Texas specialty that is enjoying unprecedented popularity around the country and the world. A year ago, I’d talked with her on a tour bus in Austin for a Texas Monthly story. For most of the interview, she sat next to her mother, Marcella, who often traveled with her band, Los Dinos, and her father, Abraham, the band’s manager. At one point, her husband, Chris Perez—who was also her lead guitarist—stopped by to say hello. Around midnight, Selena’s sister, Suzette—her drummer—and her brother, A.B.—her bass player, chief composer, and producer—would join her and the rest of the band onstage.
Selena’s family crossed my mind when I heard about her death. She may have dressed provocatively onstage, but after sitting face to face with her in the company of her kin, seeing her without makeup or her sexy costumes, I pegged her as a good girl—not the sort of person who would be involved in a shooting, especially a shooting involving a jealous woman in a crime of passion.
That, of course, was what the early rumors suggested. A radio deejay somewhere wisecracked that the assailant was “Emilio’s wife”—the spouse of Emilio Navaira, the popular Tejano singer who was Selena’s only real box office competition. That scurrilous suggestion spread so fast that Navaira’s office and home were besieged with death threats. To get the truth, I tuned in two of San Antonio’s Spanish-language stations, KXTN-FM (Tejano 107) and KEDA-AM (Radio Jalapeño), and stayed close to the phone. Soon, another friend called to say that Ramiro Burr, the Express-News‘ syndicated Tejano columnist, had heard from Selena’s record company, that the woman in the pickup was Yolanda Saldivar, a 34-year-old nurse whom everyone knew as Selena’s number one fan.
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By five that afternoon, San Antonio TV stations—including the affiliates for the Spanish-language Telemundo and Univision networks—had reporters and satellite uplinks at the crime scene. Selena y los Dinos songs were all over the radio. Grieving callers to radio stations read poems on the air. Other Tejano artists, such as Stefani, the All-American Sweetheart, phoned in to share memories. Dances at Tejano venues were called off in cities across Texas.
When I heard that Tejano 107 would be holding a candlelight vigil at the open-air Sunken Gardens Theatre in San Antonio at seven that night, I jumped into the car. My first stop was Selena’s boutique and salon, Selena Etc., on a tiny strip of Broadway by Brackenridge Park. Last year, Selena had opened this boutique and one in Corpus Christi; music may have been her living, but fashion was her life. When I pulled into the parking lot, four other cars were there. Two had messages painted on their windshields in white shoe polish: One read “Selena Lives On,” the other, “Missing You Selena.” A bouquet of flowers had been placed by the door of the boutique, alongside a picture of a smiling Selena and several notes. A few adults, four teenage girls, three younger boys, and an abuela (“grandmother”) were milling about, studying the flowers, reading the notes, peering in the boutique’s window at the photos and posters of Selena that hung among the designer outfits. Their faces were not animated or emotional but solemn and blank. They wanted to see, to touch, to connect somehow.
Across the park, Sunken Gardens was filling up fast. A small truck, the Tejano 107 mobile studio, was parked in the middle of the stage. Two life-size cutouts of Selena holding a Coca Cola were placed nearby. The event had been haphazardly organized—when someone from the station began handing out candles, a small stampede broke out—and at first, it seemed as though it might never come together. Then disc jockey Jonny Ramírez emerged from the truck to tell the nearly five thousand people in attendance that they were there because “somebody stupid had a gun.” A few people laughed when he recounted first meeting Selena (“I said to myself, ‘Yes! This lady makes me want to go home and take a cold shower!’”). Then he said what almost everyone else who had ever known her had said: “She never behaved like a superstar.”
By seven-thirty, candlelight illuminated the whole place. Kids still skittered under their parents’ legs, and friends still greeted friends with smiles. But a sober, respectful serenity prevailed. Facing the stage, a teenage boy and girl (brother and sister? boyfriend and girlfriend?) stood rigidly, holding a candle and clutching a white banner that read “Honk If You Love Selena.” I didn’t realize it then, but the veneration had begun.Selena is Dead - 0009
Who She Was
On Saturday Selena’s death came up during a conversation with a neighbor in my predominantly Anglo Central Texas community. “I never heard of her,” she told me, “and I’m from Refugio. I grew up around those people.” Her reaction echoed that of many Texans, who saw this as just another senseless shooting.
Yet to “those people”—the five million Texans of Mexican descent—March 31 was a darker day than November 22, 1963. To “those people,” Selena was more than a celebrity. She was an icon. Her status as an entertainer who was a millionaire at age nineteen; her positive personality; her devotion to God, family, and home; and her willingness to talk to kids about staying in school and avoiding drugs made her a hero to brown-skinned people—especially Hispanic girls—who had precious few role models.
Her music validated the cultural duality of the majority of her fans, proving you could embrace the traditions of the land you came from while still being hip and modern. Like most Mexican Americans who have assimilated into the mainstream, Selena’s first language was English—and yet she opted to sing in the native language of her parents, proving that who you are and where your family came from are sources of pride, not sources of shame.
Selena was a total package. She could work a crowd. She could dance. She was sexy. She knew how to make time for industry types backstage. And, of course, she could sing. She was equally comfortable with the fancy streamlined polkas that are the backbone of all Tex-Mex music, the histrionic boleros from Northern Mexico (such as the “Que Creias,” in which she scorches a lover who has taken her for granted), and the mambo-derived cumbias popular throughout Latin America. She reinterpreted the sixties-era Japanese pop song “Sukiyaki” into a sentimental Spanish-language version. She re-worked the Pretenders’ eighties rock classic “Back on the Chain Gang” into “Fotos y Recuerdos” on her latest album, Amor Prohibido. She was savvy enough to write and record the nonsensical but eminently hummable, “Bidi Bidi Bom Bom,” which received heavy airplay here and in Latin America last year but would have been a hit in any language.
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Despite those accomplishments, it was the forthcoming release of Selena’s first English-language album that had her fans and business associates giddy with anticipation. Instead of competing with Emilio Navaira (Tejano’s George Strait), La Mafia, Grupo Mazz, La Diferenzia, or Gary Hobbs (Tejano’s Vince Gill), she would be taking on the likes of Whitney Houston, Gloria Estefan, and Madonna. Her rivals were cheering her on. She was going to lift all of Tejano with her.
Then the dream ended—at the hands of the one person outside her family who stood to benefit most from her success.
The Killer
Yolanda Saldivar fit the classic stereotype of la dueña, the faithful chaperone or assistant. Neither attractive nor charismatic, the short, pudgy registered nurse from San Antonio was Selena’s constant companion. Her devotion and loyalty were beyond question. With the Quintanilla family’s blessings, Yolanda founded the Selena Fan Club in 1991. Whenever Selena y los Dinos played San Antonio or nearby communities, Yolanda was at Selena’s side. She was Selena’s eyes and ears, friends said—so trusted that she gave up her fan club position last fall to run Selena’s boutiques.
But some members of Selena’s circle spoke of another Yolanda. She was possessive and controlling, says Martin Gomez, who designed fashions for Selena until, he claims, Yolanda’s obsessiveness drove him to quit. She was a loner who had lived with her mother until recently and had few friends. She had once been accused of embezzling funds from a previous employer, and she had defaulted on a student loan. A woman who moved into an apartment with Yolanda discovered that Yolanda didn’t just have pictures of Selena on her walls—the whole place was “like a shrine.” Spooked, the woman moved out after two weeks.
Word reached Abraham Quintanilla in January that something had been amiss with the fan club. Several fans had complained that they had sent in their $22 but had never received the promised T-shirt, CD, picture or biography. About the same time, employees at the boutiques began to raise questions about Yolanda’s actions. Abraham began quietly investigating the matter and didn’t inform Selena until he felt he had concrete evidence.
In early march, Abraham, Selena, and Suzette met with Yolanda and demanded a full accounting. Yolanda denied the accusations and said that others were intent on making her look bad. Still, she must have seen what was coming. The person she had devoted her life to was going to cut her loose.
On March 13, after undergoing a background check, Yolanda bought a snub-nosed .38-caliber pistol from a San Antonio gun dealer. She then traveled to Monterrey, Mexico, where Selena planned to open a boutique, taking Selena’s business records with her. At some point during Yolanda’s trip, Selena phoned her and told her to bring the records back.
Subsequently, Yolanda resurfaced in Corpus Christi. On the night of Thursday, March 30, Selena and her husband, Chris, went to room 158 at the Days Inn, where Yolanda was staying, to pick up the records from her—despite the fact that Yolanda had asked Selena to come alone. When Selena got home, she realized some bank statements were missing, and she made arrangements with Yolanda to pick up the remaining records Friday morning.
On the morning of March 31, Yolanda asked Selena to accompany her to Doctor’s Regional Medical Center, claiming to that she had been raped in Monterrey. When test results were inconclusive, Yolanda changed her story: She hadn’t been raped after all. Selena and Yolanda then drove back to the motel.
Once again, Selena asked for the bank statements. Apparently, she also attempted to sever their professional relationship. Harsh words were exchanged. Yolanda demanded that Selena return a ring she’d given her as a gift from her employees. As Selena removed the ring, Yolanda pulled out the gun. When Selena ran out the door and yelled for help, Yolanda screamed, “You bitch!” and shot her in the back.
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Selena crossed the courtyard and collapsed. The bullet had entered her right shoulder and severed an artery. By 11:49, when she crawled to the lobby door, she was bleeding to death.
“I’ve been shot,” she cried.
“Who shot you?” asked a motel employee.
“Yolanda.” Selena said. Then she passed out, clutching the ring in her hand.
An ambulance arrived within three minutes to take her to Memorial Medical Center. Notified almost immediately that Selena had been in “an accident,” Abraham and his family raced to the hospital, but the message had gotten confused: They thought she had been in a car wreck. A doctor met them in a waiting area near the emergency room and told them she had been shot. When he said he had administered four units of blood and had been able to restart her heart, Abraham became frantic and interrupted him. Because of her religious beliefs, he said, Selena would have objected to the transfusions.
But it was too late. The transfusions hadn’t helped, the doctor said. Selena was dead.
The Crime Scene
I woke up early on the morning of Sunday, April 2, with an urge to be in Corpus Christi. The outpouring of emotion on the news the night before was unlike anything I’d ever seen.
On the way to pick up David Bennet, who would come along for the ride, I tuned in KEDA-AM’s weekly Spanish-language mass from San Fernando Cathedral in downtown San Antonio. The priest was talking about Selena. “It isn’t the woman who senselessly killed her,” he said. “It is the whole culture of death we’re promoting.” He criticized the urge to retaliate. He begged the congregation to “say no to the spirit of getting even.”
When we got to the Days Inn in Corpus, we met up with about one hundred people, almost all of them Hispanic. Some were taking photos of themselves in front of the motel’s marquee, which read “We Will Miss You Selena.” Others were hanging around the lobby, where Selena spoke her last words. Still others were standing stoically near room 158, posing for cameras and video recorders. At the foot of the door were a bouquet of carnations, some roses, a pink oleander blossom, a votive candle, and several notes.
Many people seemed to be combing the site for something—evidence, perhaps, or a memento. Several young men hovered around the wooden trash container by the lobby, inspecting every square inch for flecks of dried blood. Two teenage boys in Dallas Cowboy jerseys ran their fingers through the thick blades of grass in the courtyard, where Selena had collapsed. Near room 158, three boys carefully picked up wood chips from the flower bed, studying each one for traces of blood.
Retracing Selena’s final steps, I felt the same cold chill I’d felt at Dealey Plaza in Dallas. I looked around for David, who had wandered off. I found him kneeling near the lobby, joining two men in silent detective work. After peering underneath an empty planter, he rose, his face paler than before. “I think I’m going to lose it,” he said. He had found a rust-colored spot that the cleanup crew had missed.
Selena is Dead - 0010Home
From the motel, we drove south on Navigation Boulevard to Bloomington Street, where the Quintanilla clan lived. Traffic was stalled for five blocks as motorists lined up to cruise by. The three modest brick homes, surrounded by a single chain-link fence, were among the newest structures in the blue-collar, largely Hispanic neighborhood, and each had a paved driveway that took up most of the front yard. The house on the corner was Chris and Selena’s. It was small and unassuming — not the sort of place you would identify as the domicile of a superstar. The two-story house next door was Abraham and Marcella’s. The next house belonged to A.B. and his wife, Vangie.
Scores of fans stood in front of the fence, which had turned into a canvas of poster boards, banners, photos, flowers, colored ribbons, balloons, and teddy bears. There were flags of the United States, Mexico, and El Salvador. There were messages from Puerto Rico and Wisconsin, Dallas and Deer Park, Laredo and Three Rivers, and La Feria. One especially touching note was simply addressed, “To: Heaven, From: Houston.”
Staring at a picture of Selena on the fence, a toddler gleefully tugged at his mother’s skirt: “Look, Mommy. Bidi Bidi Bom Bom.”
The Long Good-bye
Downtown, for nearly a mile, people lined the sidewalk of Shoreline Boulevard on their way to Bayfront Plaza Auditoruim. They were waiting to see Selena’s closed casket, which was surrounded by five thousand white roses—Selena’s favorite.
The fans started showing up as early as four in the morning, though the doors didn’t open until nine. Still, things went smoothly until a rumor spread through the crowd late in the afternoon: The coffin was empty; Selena’s death was a publicity stunt. To calm the well-wishers, the family had the casket opened. The body was Selena’s. Her hands, folded across her chest, clutched a single red rose. By ten, when the doors finally closed, almost 60,000 people had paid their respects.
I drove home that night but the next morning impulsively decided to drive back to Corpus. It was too late to attend the private funeral service, but since it was being broadcast live by San Antonio TV and radio stations, I listened while driving down the highway—with my headlights on. Minister Sam Wax, a Jehovah’s Witness, preached in English about the resurrection of Jesus according to the faith. “Jesus said, ‘Do not marvel at this.’” The service lasted less than twenty minutes. At the family’s request, each of the six hundred mourners placed a white rose on the coffin. Before long, a two-foot pile of roses rested atop the casket, which was eventually cleared and lowered into the ground.
I pulled into the parking lot of the Days Inn precisely 24 hours after my first visit. Just as many people were walking the grounds and searching for traces of the crime, but the façade of room 158 had been transformed. Messages scribbled in ink, pencil, and felt-tip marker covered the door, the window, the sidewalk, even the limestone block interior. From a distance, room 158 looked like an altar.
When I first heard Selena had been shot, I thought I was witnessing the end of an era and the shattering of the great American crossover dream. Now I wasn’t so sure. At the very least, my Anglo friends finally knew how to properly pronounce “Tejano.” And I was getting a life’s education in the art of grieving, the power of family, and the cycle of life and death. How sad it all was—and yet how vibrant and full of life this send-off was. These people, most of them strangers to Selena, had gathered to say their good-byes. I heaved a deep sigh, wiped the tears from my eyes, and took one last look around.
The Wisdom of Abraham
It was midafternoon when I arrived at Q Productions, an old auto body shop along Corpus Christi’s Leopard Street industrial strip that the Quintanillas had transformed into a company office and recording facility. Most of the mourners had already cleared out, and Eddie Quintanilla, Selena’s uncle, was happy to regale me with tales of his childhood and of his brother Abraham’s high school group, Los Dinos. Abraham loved street corner doo-wop music and rhythm and blues, Eddie said, but he played traditional Tex-Mex fare—polkas and waltzes with Spanish lyrics—to pay the bills. He recalled how Abraham took a good job, working for Dow Chemical in Lake Jackson, to support his family. With money he saved, he opened a nice Mexican restaurant, quit the plant, and re-formed Los Dinos with his older children. Selena began singing in the restaurant when she was eight. Then oil prices slumped, people quit eating out, and the restaurant went under.
In 1982, Eddie said, Abraham moved the family back to Corpus Christi. Music provided them with sustenance as they traveled across Texas and the United States in a battered van pulling a broken-down trailer. “That was a long, long time ago,” Eddie added with a smile.
I found Abraham Quintanilla sitting in a chair in the studio control room while a TV crew packed up its gear. A broad bull of a man, Abraham had impressed me as a classic band manager, a streetwise type who instantly sends the message that he’s not to be trifled with. He certainly knows the rules of survival on the tejano dance hall circuit: how money at this level of show business is generated (in gate receipts and merchandising, not CDs and cassettes), who was most likely to steal it from you, which disc jockeys can sell an extra 10,000 copies of an album, which promoters skim off the door.
Above all, he knows talent. Even when the shy Selena was singing country music in English or, later, when the members of Los Dinos were jumping around in shiny space suits, Abraham saw something. And, indeed, in 1989 he managed to sign a breakthrough six-figure deal for the band to cut Spanish-language records for EMI’s new Latin division. Then came last year’s English-language contract with SBK records. The beat-up van and rickety trailer were replaced by a tour bus, and a semi full of production and staging equipment. Selena y los Dinos had become a mini-empire. I couldn’t help but wonder then if Selena would someday ditch her father and sign with a big-time management firm in New York or Los Angeles. Now, that was beside the point.
Since Selena’s death, Abraham had been on automatic pilot—talking to reporters, overseeing funeral plans, conceding that he had always been wary of Yolanda Saldivar, even lamenting the death threats that Emilio Navaira’s wife had received. But as the crowd began to leave, he spoke with dread abut the future. “When I see that empty place and I know she’s not there, I’m going to start missing her,” he said. “It’s a tragic thing that happened. It’s a reality.”
We talked of respect, of family, and of the senselessness of the crime. Abraham railed against the concealed-weapons bill that the Texas Legislature would likely pass: “We live in a dangerous world. Why make it worse? My God, everyone’s armed to the teeth. Anybody is liable to kill you for a minute thing.”
But life would go on, he vowed. He manages six other bands, and his other children are certainly gifted enough to perform on their own. Selena had already recorded four tracks for her English-language debut, and four more songs in English are on the sound track of the new movie, Don Juan DeMarco, in which she has a cameo appearance. There was enough material for a new album. “Of course, it would never be the same,” he said. “There will never be another Selena. But we’ll go forward with it.”
I told him what I had seen, how people were looking for answers. Were there any lessons they could take from the tragedy?
He paused deliberately. “Parents, it’s time to go back to the old-fashioned way of teaching our children,” he said. “About morals, about the dangers of life. They’re too trusting. They don’t think there are bad things out there. I hope that a lot of young people see this and grow cautious. I don’t think Selena knew how popular she was getting. I would tell her, ‘Mi hijita, don’t go to the store by yourself at night. Don’t go to the mall alone. There are people who will kill you for no reason, just because you are famous.’”
Abraham Quintanilla knew all that, but he also knew his daughter was old enough to make her own decisions. She would listen, then tell him, “Dad, you think all people are bad. I can take care of myself.”
Abraham talked about the band’s first Mexican tour. The promoter warned them that the media there thrived on sensationalism. Yet Selena disarmed everyone at Los Dinos’ first Mexican press conference by walking in and hugging every single journalist. “By the time she started doing interviews, they were in the palm of her hand,” Abraham said, smiling. “The next day, all the articles praised her. They said she wasn’t some prefabricated blonde. Several remarked about the color of her skin.” It was the brown tone of the masses not the pale white of the Castillian Spanish. “They called her una mujer del pueblo—a woman of the people. She never forgot where she came from.”
You may soon have a problem, I told him. The veneration of Selena was taking on a life of its own.
He shook his head. “Selena wouldn’t want that. She believed worship should go only to the Creator. Just remember her as a good person who loved people and loved life. I don’t think Selena would be pleased to be part of any form of idolatry.”
I told him how sorry I was for him and his family and hugged him in an abrazo.
Moments later, I was back on the highway, holding back sniffles, ready for the long weekend to end. I turned on KEDT-FM to listen to the news when an announcer broke in, saying there had just been a shooting at a refinery inspection company in Corpus Christi. Five people were shot by a former employee with a pistol. The company was only about five miles from Q Productions. It happened at the same moment Abraham Quintanilla and I were talking about guns and violence.
This golf course in Sebastopol, CA is where my wife, Sammy, and I spent Thanksgiving. It was the first day back on the golf course since her shoulder replacement surgery in July, and even though she doesn’t have full use of her right arm, she played amazingly well. For her, it truly was a wonderful day of thanksgiving.
This pond is just shy of 200 yards from the tee, and it borders the green on the far side. Just beyond the green is the woods. Intelligent golfers go around the pond and sneak up on the green via the side door. But, then there’s me... I have to go over the pond, but not by too much because there are those woods waiting to swallow up my ball if I go too far. So, I have to nail the green, or it’s bye bye golf ball. The pond usually wins, but on the rare occasions, when I hit the green and the ball doesn’t go skittering off into the woods, it makes it all worthwhile. It’s the littlest of victories that keep golfers addicted.
Thanks to all re the recent Ident on this Sanderling
Here's a trio of shots as it skittered up and down the shore-line whilst keeping tabs on me
IMG_1304, 1309 & 1310
...keeps the blues away. I'm not sure if there is another bird who likes to get their picture taken as much as a Robin. This bird went from skittering on the over-grown path up to a branch that had the only decent light What a good bird!
Thank you for taking the time to view my images. Any faves and comments are deeply appreciated!
A curious Indian skipper frog steps out of the puddle to investigate what we were upto.
Explored - #424 on November 28, 2013
9700 Orland Park Rd.
What’s left of Aqualand and Storyville USA, a 1960s resort, casino, and kiddie park. Now the site of Aqualand Marina and Campground.
Some history in this 1996 article from the Baltimore Sun.
www.baltimoresun.com/news/bs-xpm-1996-09-10-1996254005-st...
A grand dream gone awry Park: In 1960, developers created Aqua-Land and its surrounding community with a vision of fun and fantasy. Now the Charles County gambling palace is crumbling and deserted.
By Ellen Gamerman
Baltimore Sun
Sep 10, 1996 at 12:00 am
A mini-castle, its rusting turrets rising from a dingy facade, is the last great remnant of Aqua-Land Park.
The 400-acre gambling palace and amusement park on the Potomac River is barely recognizable these days -- at least not as the all-night entertainment hub that pulsed and profited at the southern tip of Charles County more than 30 years ago.
Instead, the land and the strip of U.S. 301 that leads into it through Charles County have become awkward reminders of the state's gambling days. Like the dilapidated motels that crumble by the side of the road, Aqua-Land has come to look like a big idea gone bad.
The scenario is much the same at the surrounding community of Cliffton on the Potomac, built by the same developer to turn the shoreline getaway into a year-round neighborhood.
It was based on what remains today a popular concept for coastal development. That is, to create not only a vacation spot or a neighborhood -- but a mixture of both.
"The idea of living at a resort is an eternal interest in our culture -- where life becomes a vacation just by implication," said Ralph Bennett, an architecture professor at the University of Maryland who has tracked the development of such communities. "It's very attractive."
Vacation-style communities are part of a greater architecture and development trend called "theming," in which communities are engineered to create a more enchanting atmosphere than typical suburbs, he said.
This vision of fun and fantasy was exactly what the Conner brothers, Dennis and Delbert, were after when they began carving Aqua-Land and Cliffton from the rural coast in Newburg in 1960.
Flights with free champagne brought Washington and Baltimore visitors to an airstrip at Cliffton for 24 unreal hours. Tigers and bears prowled in a petting zoo, a giant Humpty-Dumpty welcomed visitors to the children's theme park, Storyville U.S.A., and guests traversed the grounds via mini-trains.
The Conners dreamed of creating a "Las Vegas of the East" and building thousands of homes at their Cliffton on Potomac community alongside it. If visitors bought lots and stayed for good, the Conner brothers gave them free kitchen utensils.
"One fed the other," said Dennis "Dennie" Conner, 72, who now lives in Palm City, a retirement community in South Florida. "We did fly-ins and boat-ins and crab feasts that helped the whole development. We did a lot of promoting."
But the disappointments started coming early. First, they lost a choice spot on the shoreline to a PEPCO power plant. Then, they were denied a permit to dig a moat around the property for Jungle-Land. And after it was built, the biggest setback of all: Maryland began phasing out slot machines in 1963.
The community's reason for being withered and Aqua-Land died. It was just a bit too far from Washington or Baltimore to attract summertime crowds, too cold in the winter to attract retirees and too isolated for families searching for suburban conveniences.
The Conners sold the property in 1972. A series of owners went bankrupt throughout the next two decades in efforts to develop the land. Now, the county owns roughly 100 lots and scores more are scattered among different owners.
The land is all but deserted. Where a campground now sits, one dirty pet peacock scratches in a cage surrounded by RVs. Muskrats skitter across what used to be an airstrip. Honeysuckle grows over a cracked park pavilion. And brittle reeds fill the meadows where sky divers performed tricks in Aqua-Land's heyday. A marina built by the Conners is still open, but it does only a fraction of the business they had hoped.
At Cliffton on the Potomac, the neighborhood seems largely forgotten. The community's welcome sign on the riverbank reads "CLIFFTO." Nobody bothered to replace the N when it fell into the river.
Although 2,200 homes are allowed at Cliffton, only 200 are standing. Roads begin but turn to dust, ending abruptly. Streets meant to hold dozens of homes hold only a few -- and some of those houses are for sale. The community swimming pool is gone -- a resident paved it for his back patio -- and views of the water are hidden behind acres of scrubby underbrush long abandoned by gardeners.
Chances are, Aqua-Land won't be getting any help from the county. Murray Levy, head of the Board of County Commissioners in Charles, said if the government were to spend a million dollars it would go toward growing urban hubs -- not Cliffton.
"This place had become a problem by 1971," said Levy, a Democrat who has sat on the board for the last decade. "It might sit there indefinitely."
A few residents are trying to hold on to Cliffton, even though only two people belong to the residents association and the community may lose its front gate because homeowners aren't paying the group electric bill.
"Someday, we'll get discovered again," said Corrine Hilton, 67, who lives on a street full of unbuilt, overgrown lots. "This is a place where eagles fly. This is beautiful land."
But the sight of the overgrown place pains many, especially Conner. His brother has died, and he suffers from cardiac problems, but Conner still cannot keep himself away. He visits what is left of Aqua-Land every summer.
"My heart breaks," he said. "This was my dream."
Closeup of character Skitter from the novel Telaria River (story, design, artwork, photography by Jeff Knowles)
i dream of you, i dream of you, i can't breathe around the ache for you, for your fingerprints left on my skin, skittering, delicious, for the way your breath against my ear curves my spine, for my throbbing heart as you wriggle through my defenses until i can't talk around you without coughing up my soul.
your hand brushing mine.
your hand.
but they'll see.
so i'll wake up and live without you,
my dream
My dream.
A very light scouting mech known for its bug-like eyes.
Getting back into rendering Lego mocs with some of the new (to me) tools available.
On 16th of May, 2021, I was chasing Thorn, the little bunny rabbit ravaging my garden, across the yard to his home under the shed. As I came around the shed, after being outrun, I saw movement out of the corner of my eye. I paused to see what had moved and discovered this male Five-Lined Skink moving across the front of the shed. He skittered across the wall, got behind the peg that keeps the door closed, and froze there. Of course, I had my camera! I guess he thought he was hiding from me! Check out the orange color on his head...that's how to tell he is a male during breeding season.
Where are you off to, Flynnie?
Hmm? Oh... just over there.. erm, I mean, nowhere in particular... I'm just taking in the scents on the breeze...
Oh yes, and which scents would those be?
We-ell... I might have caught the whiff of sheep...
Flynn, what have I told you about sheep?
They're woolly-headed idiots?
NO! Flynn, I didn't say that!
Oh, yeah, sorry, no that was Barney.
Hmph, I don't need to hear what your brother said. What did I tell you about sheep?
You told me... you told me: 'sheep are herded by sheepdogs'...
I did say sheep are herded by sheepdogs but -
And hooman, I AM a sheepdog! So, maybe I should go herd those sheep I can sniff?
You didn't let me finish! I told you sheep are herded by sheepdogs... who have been TRAINED to herd them, by a farmer. I'm not a farmer Flynn and you've not been trained, have you?
But we could learn together... hooman and dog... and sheep!
Not today Flynn.
Pfft, that's what you always say! No fun!
I've got a ball?
Ball?!!! Yay!!
As we approached the hilltop, I spied a small flock of sheep grazing. They were flighty hill sheep & skittered away the second they realised we were coming. I'm not even sure Flynn saw those sheep but I know he knew they had been there & he knew where they'd gone; he lifted his nose to the wind & began to follow them. Unluckily for Flynn, he was already on a long line (cloned out here) & prevented from having any fun. Luckily, I did have a ball to distract him with.
Keeping an eye on the umbrellas as they skitter across the snow in a blowing wind before we turned downhill through the trees and brush.
The Saxicoline Sunskink hops across rocks and boulders, often in creeklines. They are curious and often approach people in their environment, skittering quickly away at movements.
"Worlds can be found by a child and an adult bending down and looking together under the grass stems or at the skittering crabs in a tidal pool."
- Mary Catherine Bateson
www.youtube.com/watch?v=XCBDlC0N8Rc
0018=14052005
I'm not a morning person by nature.
I have adopted early rising at times in my life. Those times have been of necessity not desire. For example, I used to get up and help my son with his paper delivery route. 4:30AM was and remains way too early for my tastes.
Karen, my beloved bride, is an early riser by nature. One of her very favorite things to do is arise before the sun and walk on a beach that faces the sunrise. On our last two week stay on Hilton Head Island, I don't think that she missed a single day's first light.
This was from the day that I got up with her. Part of what pushed me to get up that early was seeing Karen's spectacular sunrise photos. There was fog on this day. The sun quickly burned it off, but there was no spectacle in the sky.
Finding the unique and special in any moment is not Nature's problem, it is mine. My attitude in the moment defines my sight.
I can recall standing there, listening and watching the waves roll in, seeing and hearing the birds as they flew by or skittered on the sand in search of a morning morsel. Smelling the salt tainted breeze. I took it all in and let it direct my camera's eye.
This world is teeming with delight. My eyes cannot see what I don't take time to take in.
all right .. i've promised you his story ... this'll probably be long-winded ...
over three weeks ago someone sent me an ad on Kijiji (like Craig's list). i can't remember what it was for, but for some reason i plugged "wire haired" in the search and found this pathetic dog. it wasn't until after i'd made initial contact that i discovered the link to the "Poster's Other Ads". wirehaired JRT pups for sale, a GSD-border collie cross up for stud or instead of fees will trade for a large female dog "unspayed of course" ... same story with a bichon. clearly a puppy mill, or - at best - a barnyard breeder. and yes, mennonite. (80% of puppymills in Ontario are run by Amish or Mennonite, for those who aren't aware.)
i'd initially sent the ad to another friend who had talked about getting a family dog but was told they'd changed their mind ... and i just let it go. but last week i found myself thinking about this little, 5 yr old guy again. morley doesn't have long with us and although he's comfortable, i don't see a lot of zest for life or happiness. nothing in this world makes morley happier than another terrier, so i thought: why not get morley a dog?
almost an hour drive, we arrived at the farm ... morley in tow. the wife and their 8 yr old daughter brought the dog out while the farmer talked a bit to us. the dog's belly never left the ground and his head was hung low. at the feet of the daughter, his eyes darted wildly from the ground to the girl, to the parents, to the ground again ... utterly terrified. if anyone shifted on that icy, wet, snowy laneway, he ducked even further and skittered to the side, no doubt expecting a boot.
from the moment i laid eyes on him i knew he was the worst fear case i have personally seen ... and i knew we had to get him out of there. even though i'd sworn ahead of time that we wouldn't be bringing him home that same day (we needed a crate and to set stuff up, including me having to arrange with a friend to help me with the integration with matea), we couldn't leave him there. we toyed with the possibility of putting down a deposit and picking him up the next day, but the more i talked w/ the "owners" the more i knew we just had to get him out.
his belly never left the ground as we walked him down the drive through slush and ice water ... only with morley did he perk up a bit. i checked his teeth, his ears, played with his paws just to see how he was ... i've never encountered a more fear-based submission before. in fact, when i first went to pet him, i truly believed he was going to bite me. as it turned out, i even got a kiss when i picked him up for the second time.
we walked him down the long drive several times ... partly so that i could talk to j about it, but mostly to get the hell away from his abusers and get some kind of an idea what he was like.
i didn't try to negotiate a better price ... i was too sick to my stomach. i paid $125 to get him the fuck out of there. now, i do realize this is a slippery slope ... giving my hard-earned money to these people to get this dog out of that situation, but i KNEW that no one else was going to do it. he was going to end up drowned or - at best - sold to another breeder ... and this little guy deserved a lot more than that.
during the drive home, i was literally shaking and working hard not to throw up ... i was so upset. partly from fear of not knowing we had just gotten ourselves into, but mostly because the thought of me contributing to a profit for a dog - much less one in this condition - is sickening to me.
once home, j and i took him and matea on an hour pack-walk. i'll talk more about his rel'shp with matea as it develops. until his neuter he got several long pack walks with her and me, and fortunately he is so meek that he barely registers on matea's radar ... and for now their interactions are controlled and carefully choreographed. yesterday afternoon i even had them lying on the deck together in the sun while i massaged both of them and they snoozed. i have faith that their relationship will be fine with time and management. right now he is too groveling and submissive even for her ... she knows he's unstable, and matea is pure dog ... she'll not tolerate that weakness, even though she's endured several puppyish licks to her chin from him.
he has just been neutered, is fighting a high load of roundworms and a urinary tract infection. he's underweight, has scabs in places that suggest he'd been kicked around, smacked with a barn door, and possibly even some old bite marks. i have not started him on raw yet because when he gets the runs or starts itching, i want to know that it's from the drugs, not the particular protein i'm introduing. fortunately, i was able to get vaccination records from the farmer ... his last full vaccines were given last August ... so i didn't have to give the poor guy more vaccines on top of all the other crap his system is dealing with.
a note on puppymills and vaccinations ... dogs and puppies sold between breeders or at dog auctions (yes, they have them) have to be vaccinated before sale. so i'm pretty sure this farmer had merrick since august, even though he kept saying he'd gotten him from a friend a month ago. the puppies he had for sale were very obviously merrick's. and there were other comments that made me certain he was breeding many dogs ... "so you like the wire coated? not many people like them" ... right, so that's why he's selling his stud dog. later in the conversation i was touching merrick and asked him: "he's such a good looking dog. why wouldn't you want to breed him?" "i like the shorthaireds JRTs better" ... i.e. they sell better. and in answer to: "so why are you selling him?" i received two different answers, but each had to do with having too many dogs ... all the while you could hear the barking in the barn.
i even asked the little girl: "so do you play with him much?" "is he your favorite?" to which she responded that she liked the puppies better.
also, i called the vet on record as having given him his shots in august. only after i assured her i wasn't out to get anyone in trouble, just wanted to help this dog, she admitted that he'd belonged to this other farmer first, way up north where she is, and "they've got a lot of dogs, and yes, they're breeding. you do what you can."
anyway, as i said, he's the worst fear case i have personally encountered. they always say that you get the dog you need, not necessarily the one you want. merrick is totally that case. i will learn much from him as i work to build his confidence in the world and with people. honestly, once this boy is rehabbed i'll have dealt with just about every dog issue out there except for people-aggression. so, we both have much to learn, even though i can't imagine a better place for him.
as for morley ... morley loves him and at the same time tolerates him when merrick gives him tons of kisses ... and merrick certainly needs morley to show him how to be confident in the world, how to sniff things like a dog and move away from cowering at my ankles all the time. i've haven't seen morley this animated in weeks. i only pray he sticks around long enough to show merrick so much more.
so ... that's merrick's story for now. it's going to be a long road ... and on that note, i have to get him out for a pee.
The Franz Josef is a 10 km long glacier (as measured from Conway Peak to terminus) located in Westland Tai Poutini National Park on the West Coast of New Zealand's South Island. Its neve (snowfield at the glacier head) covers 29 km2 and the glacier tongue, which extends approximately 4 km, descends to its terminus to less than 300m above sea level. The fact that the terminal face is less than 300m above sea level, and that Franz Josef is one of three glaciers in the world this close to the coastline, is remarkable on a world scale. Some 18,000 years ago the Franz Josef Glacier stretched to the sea and beyond. A slight increase in atmospheric temperature has meant a glacial retreat on the West Coast over the years with periodic and short-lived advances.
TERMINAL FACE
The precipitous rock walls that flank the glacier are over 1 km high and create an optical illusion that the terminal face is not very high. At the glacier’s terminal face viewpoint, the blue ice looks like polished marble, and the crevasses, where the dynamic flow of ice has literally been ripped apart, are just visible. Underneath the terminal face, the melt water is milky with rock dust and countless boulders skitter of the ice, to be carried downstream by floodwater. The river emerging from the glacier terminal is known as the Waiho River.
NAMING
Leonard Harper crossed Harpers Pass in 1852 and then named Franz Josef glacier Victoria and the Fox Glacier Albert, after the monarchs that were ruling the British Empire at the time. Sadly the 19 year old Leonard did not formerly register this name. The glacier was first explored by Europeans in 1865, with the geologist and explorer Julius von Haast naming it after Emperor Franz Joseph I of Austria-Hungary.
The Māori name for the glacier is Ka Roimata o Hine Hukatere (Tears of Hine Hukatere, the Avalanche Girl), arising from a legend of the Makaawhio people (a sub tribe of the Ngai Tahu): Hinehukatere, who was extremely strong and fearless, loved climbing in the mountains and persuaded her lover, Wawe, to climb with her. Wawe was a less experienced climber than Hinehukatere, but enjoyed accompanying his beloved. Disaster struck when an avalanche swept Wawe from the peaks to his death. Hinehukatere was broken-hearted and her flood of tears flowed down the mountainside. The gods froze them in the form of the glacier as a reminder of her grief.
ADVANCE AND RETREAT
The glacier is currently 10 km long and terminates about 21 km from the Tasman Sea. Fed by a large snowfield at high altitude, it exhibits a cyclic pattern of advance and retreat, driven by differences between the volume of melt water at the foot of the glacier and volume of snowfall feeding the névé.
The glacier advanced rapidly during the Little Ice Age, reaching a maximum in the early 18th century. Having retreated several kms between the 1940s and 1980s, the glacier entered an advancing phase in 1984 and at times has advanced at the phenomenal (by glacial standards) rate of 1.5-7m a day. The flow rate is over 10 times that of typical glaciers.
This cyclic behaviour is well illustrated by a postage stamp issued in 1946, depicting the view from St James Anglican Church. The church was built in 1931, with a panoramic altar window to take advantage of its location. By 1954, the glacier had disappeared from view from the church, but it reappeared in 1997. This is due to the highly variable conditions on the snowfield, which take around 5–6 years before they result in changes in the terminus location.
The glacier was still advancing until 2008, but since then it has entered a very rapid phase of retreat. As is the case for most other NZ glaciers which are mainly found on the eastern side of the Southern Alps, the shrinking process is mainly attributed to global warming. Since April 2012 all glacier walks require a helicopter flight past the unstable terminal face and specialised equipment, namely ice axes and crampons that latch onto a sturdy boot.
Sources: Wikipedia, doc.govt.nz
After some crazy rain that kept us in the cabin drinking and eating junk all night, it was necessary the next morning to go for a walk and try to wear some of it off. I went for a stroll down the road to check things out at Damn Lake with my sister-in-law and family. The skitters were out in full force, but we stood our ground long enough to capture a few shots. With the sky full of clouds, I thought it would be worth pulling out the Lee Big Stopper for a long exposure.
Nikon D7000
Nikkor AF-S 10-24mm
Kenko Pro 1D Circular Polarzing Filter
Lee Big Stopper
Lee .9 Soft Graduated Neutral Density Filter
Four of these fall visitors were back on the Tsawwassen Ferry Jetty this weekend. The longspurs seem to enjoy the spits along the ocean. When your looking for them, they look more like mice skittering across the open spaces in the grass. It is a very effective camouflage tactic. Nice to meet Nigel in person finally and sorry I missed Doug.
Michael Klotz - TheBirdBlogger.com
Wouldn't you know, I've searched for years for a Wood Duck, the few I found would skitter off the moment they caught sight of me. This one swims right up to me at the local park :- ) ! They have been there a few years now, guess they are settling in.
They are found at wooded swamps, shady ponds, and quiet rivers. Common in parts of the east and northwest, they are uncommon elsewhere.
Arachnis Deathicus
While making my morning omelette I saw this beast outside the window over the kitchen sink (and of course had to call my girlfriend over to look at it.) We got to watch as it noticed the vibrations of a tiny fly-or large gnat at the edge of its web. It ran over and grabbed the insect, skittered back to the center of its web, and seemingly swallowed it whole. (Can they DO that?) In my mind, it was all narrated by Ozzyman of YouTube fame.
Since it's a rainy and overcast morning, I pulled out the SB-600 speedlight to help get the color of this monster, and used my el-cheapo brand 300mm with the macro switch in the hopes of getting a little detail. The omelette in my stomach becomes uncomfortable when I view full-size. After about five minutes of careful observation I believe I've developed a new scientific theory. Whether something is fascinating or terrifying depends entirely on if there is a piece of glass between you and it.
Based on comparison to a tape measure (from behind the window) this thing is larger than two inches from tip to tip, in its relaxed state. Even its web pattern and legs cast a shadow from the speedlight.
If anyone out there in the Flickrverse can name this spider, I'd love to know! Share in the comments!
BONUS POINT to Steven Bennett, who found my shot and identified the spider in less than an hour. Thanks!!
PLEASE, NO GRAPHICS, BADGES, OR AWARDS IN COMMENTS, they will be deleted.
the sun was lowish from the east this evening skittering through the haze! 4pmish as i was wandering through the low tide in dublin harbour,water squelching in my wellies
Wow! This is a very strange duck to have in an urban neighborhood, for 3 days now. It's at least part Muscovy duck it, which is native to Mexico, Central, and South America. The red puffy parts on its face are called wattles They are also known as a Common Duck, Forest Duck, and Greater Wood Duck. This one is very tame, and while I took pictures it flew up and landed on the balcony of the pathway bridge at Robson Park this morning, everyone got an up close look at this unique bird. Walkers, joggers and dogs all passed by while it sat on the railing.
Muscovies are quiet (a quack-less duck!) and humorous companions, and they are native to Mexico, Central, and South America. They are also known as a Common Duck, Forest Duck, and Greater Wood Duck. They have a reputation for being cranky. Muscovies raise their own young effortlessly, forage beautifully and will keep both the skitters and the slugs down in your garden. The original (wild type) coloration is black and white, but domestication has produced many more colors, including white, black, chocolate, and blue. The red puffy parts on its face are called wattles. The males are large, weighing up to twelve pounds, with the smaller females reaching only seven, A male will have a pronounced knob of skin at the base of his bill, the female does not. Both sexes have a domed crest on top of their heads which they can raise and lower depending on their mood. They prefer forest habitats near water, roost in trees at night, nest in tree cavities, and don’t like to swim as often as other ducks due to their underdeveloped oil glands, but they will dabble (half submerged and pointing its tail feathers upwards). They are, however, very personable, and quite intelligent. They fly fairly well, especially the smaller females, but are known more for flying around than flying away!
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