Bigfoot, Sasquatch, Yeti or whatever. The superstar of cryptozoology leaving tantalizing clues in the wilderness. A footprint. A tuft of hair. A shaggy shape disappearing into the underbrush. Eyewitness testimonies. Ooo, there’s something out there. But let’s talk about the evidence the Bigfoot believers aren’t finding.
The various versions of Bigfoot depict a missing link creature. Somewhat human, somewhat ape. Some type of primate, right? Okay, what do we know about primates?
First of all, they reproduce sexually. That means there should be female and male Bigfoots, along with infants and juvenile offspring. Families. You can’t have just one Bigfoot, otherwise you have the very last Bigfoot.
Secondly, primates travel in groups. They and we are social animals. Chimps, gorillas, hunter-gatherer humans and so on, moving together from food source to food source, stopping in a suitable spot to eat and sleep, then moving on again. Yet all that's ever found are tracks of a single animal, not the tramplings of a pack. No spots of mangled plant life littered with foot, hand and butt prints and the aftermath of a day’s meal, with droppings around the perimeter. Even if no one ever saw a band of the super-stealthy Bigfoots, one would eventually stumble upon where they (not it) had been. So where is this evidence? That’s the mystery.
Until such evidence it produced, I think it’s safe to say Bigfoot is a myth kept alive by wishful thinkers, hoaxers, opportunists and guys in gorilla suits.
Hmmm, but Leviticus 19:28 forbids tattoos.
For years I've complained that most of the Mexican food served in the US wasn't really Mexican. Or that it was Mexican food dumbed down for American tastes. Or Tex-Mex. Or Mexican food appropriated by American businesses. I wanted la auténtica comida. Mexican food made by Mexicans for Mexicans.
But my thinking got rearranged when I read Taco U.S.A. by Gustavo Arellano. He makes a great case that there is no single authentic Mexican cuisine, just like there's no single American cuisine. He celebrates the various intercultural adaptations and culinary misegenations that led to what we call Mexican food today. And what Mexicans call Mexican food. It seems Arellano's code is all that really matters is that it tastes good, whether handcrafted by old mujeres according to an ancient Mayan recipe, or mass produced in a Norwegian factory for vending machines in Taiwan.
So I'll pack up my Mexican food snobbery and just enjoy the fact I'm not stuck with only the culinary choices of my anglo-nordic ancestors.
Getting smacked for forgetting the Friday Photo until Saturday.
I get the "natural" type of peanut butter. Just peanuts and salt. No sugar, no other oils, no emulsifiers or whatnot. That means the peanut oil and the peanut paste separate. I used to try to stir it up in the jar, but it sloshed oil over the lip and made a mess of things. And the overall mixing results weren't that great.
So now, when I get a new jar, I scoop the peanut butter out into a bowl where I can really go to town. Then it goes back in the jar and into the fridge to keep it from separating again.
Sure, the peanut butter gets stiff when it's refirgerated, but I work it around in the jar a little with the knife to warm it up before spreading it.
Mmmmm, peanut butter. One of my favorite proteins.
I wanted to go to Target to refill a prescription before the long weekend. I am Point A. Target is Point B. As you can see, Target is tucked in amongst some main streets. As you can also see, those streets are in dark red, which is Google's code for very slow traffic. Google is optimistic, because in this case, traffic is totally stopped.
Silly me, I didn't think to check the traffic map before leaving the house. Why should I? It's a drive I make often. No problem. Except today.
I went one way and learned traffic was stopped. People up ahead were turning around. I thought they were just very impatient. Then I became impatient, too, and decided to turn around and go the alternate way.
It was stopped too.
I inched forward as space was made by people ahead turning around. U-turns were easy because no traffic was coming the other way either.
Thanks to the wisdom of our road planners, there are few streets here that actually connect to anything, almost zero shortcuts or connections to alternate routes. So, in situations like this, there are few options that don't just take you back to the same clogged street, or one just like it.
I got a peek at a policeman up ahead. He seemed to be diverting traffic rather than trying to expedite it. Aw, crap.
I turned around.
Now the return route home was clogged with people who had turned around. Most of them were trying to get to the street I had taken first. They will be unpleasantly surprised.
Why the problem? It could be that it's Speed Street downtown. But my fellow drivers didn't look like the NASCAR type. They just looked pissed. Maybe I missed the announcement that Target was giving everything away. Or maybe I messed the evacuation order.
Oh well. I'll try later this evening.
When I buy weiners I usually get the all-beef kosher kind. Better quality, right? But, to me, they have sort of a metallic, acidic aftertaste. And they cost about twice as much.
I saw these turkey-chicken-pork weiners and figured they were worth a try.
Whatta ya know, I like them better. Purists might say they lack flavor, but I see hotdogs as a delivery system for condiments. These don't get in the way.
Also, kudos to Oscar Mayer for selling these things in a bundle of two 4-packs with zip top seals. Those of us who aren't going to be serving all eight dogs at once thank you.
Commercial vehicles and heavy equipment must have a back-up warning signal, right? I wonder how the people responsible for that regulation feel when they're subjected to prolonged beeping. Do they get annoyed, like the rest of us, or do they beam with pride the way that, say, an architect looks lovingly at a building she designed? "That's mine! That's my legacy to the world! Back it up again, mister. Oh yeah, music to my ears."
One street where I ride my bicycle has a deep dip. Ordinarily, a cyclist could blast down one side and have enough momentum to make getting up the other side much easier. Hurray for the laws of inertia.
But the city has placed a speed bump at the bottom of the hill (arrow). So, instead of being an object in motion that tends to stay in motion, one becomes more like an object at rest that tends to stay at rest. This is especially true if one hits the bump at speed, taco-ing the front wheel and launching oneself into the pavement.
The speed bump is intended to keep motor vehicles from speeding, but I suspect some fitness fanatic at the street department put it there to give cyclists a better cardio workout. Um, thanks?
For seventeen years I've been using the steps than go down to the driveway and garage. For seventeen years I've been developing unconscious muscle memory of how many paces and how long a stride it takes so that one foot is in the proper position to make the first step down. No looking, no compensating half strides.
But something has changed. Now I need to make a last moment adjustment about half the time. Are my strides too short? Too long? Is it both legs or just one? Trying to fix the problem is like consciously thinking about tying your shoes. (Wait, do I loop the left lace over the right, or right over left? Um... crap.)
Well, as long as I don't fall down the stairs.
Since the stairs were built in 1954, before the age of safety paranoia, there are no handrails, as you can see. Just unforgiving, sharp cornered brick waiting for my brain, legs and feet to mess up. Bwah-ha-ha!
Guess what's going on during those long cold winters when folks are snuggled up in bed. The arrival of Spring weather in April also seems to get some couples feeling extra frisky (though they seem to avoid delivering around Christmas but still try to make it before the end of the year so they get another tax deduction).
