Flaming deer.

One of the curious things that happened while this blog was on hiatus was the bear invasion. A black bear was seen multiple times, and his explosive assaults on garbage cans were also seen multiple times. 

Have not seen him in a bit, but it's March. He may still be around in the neighborhood, sleeping it off. 

I avoided him by putting my garbage out after sunrise, but my neighbors did not always follow this strategy. 

Racoons will make a huge mess, tipping over the can and scattering food debris, but for a real trash-saster you need a bear. Because when they get to the bag they want, they drag the ripped bag hither and yon, spreading joy where'er they go. 

Which brings up the deer. 

At one point the bear grabbed a trash bag from across the street and dragged it along my nextdoor neighbor's yard. There's no fence, so bits got on my side, but the bulk stayed over yonder. However, I was out there with the dog that day and came face to face with a large deer. 

Normally deer might bound away, or freeze, hoping to be invisible. But not this deer. He was licking the wrapper of some product and was so intent that he didn't budge when we were within five feet. He was obsessed. I mentioned to him that he should remove himself, but he did not care. He was going to town on this wrapper and did not care who knew it. So we let him be. 

I was very surprised later when I found out what the food was that had him so entranced: 

Spicy hot hispanic snack food?

Sabritias, which makes Turbos, is a Mexican snack company owned by Pepsi. I've never tried any of their products, but if this is sold in Mexico and claims to be hot, I believe them. And yet the deer just thought it was the bee's knees. The bee's flamas knees. 

Critters need salt too, which is why mineral licks are used, so I could see the attraction of the deer to the saltiness of the snack. But the hot pepper is what surprises me. It's taken me a while to get my Scoville tolerance up, and that's after a lifetime of exposure; this deer took to the Turbos like a duck to water. I expected to see cartoon smoke coming out his ears. 

Who knows. Deer are nutty. 

This ends today's episodes of Animals Are Weirder Than We Think. I'm sure we'll have some more fun and games if the bear shows up in spring, so stay tuned.  

When it's bad, it ain't bad enough.

The bear situation has been getting to me. 

If you're just joining us, there is a black bear that has been roaming the neighborhood, making himself quite at home in daylight hours as well as in dusk and dawn. It was seen most recently by me from the porch last Wednesday as he sauntered down the street. 

My wife wants me to call the state fish & wildlife office. The local authorities have no interest in bear matters, so it must be referred to the closest state office -- one county and forty miles away. So you can bet they'll just come racing down here with sirens wailing, ready to capture a big ol' bear. Yeah.

Every time I take out the trash or take out the dog in the dark, I also take out my big ol' cop flashlight, the kind you can use to beat the fight out of a fleeing felon. Probably would not give me the edge in a fight with the bear, but it's better than nothing. I believe it when they say bears would really prefer not to get too close to humans -- but this guy is already taking liberties. 

Meanwhile, we have Eastern Coyotes again all of a sudden. Do they follow bears, looking for scraps? I don't know, but my wife has heard them howling, and I'm pretty sure I saw one in hot pursuit of three deer through the gloaming.

So last night I dreamed I was outside the house (not my actual house) and looking into the backyard (way larger my actual backyard) while on the phone with my friend Will (my actual friend). Dog Izzy was in the back. Suddenly through the high grass bordering the yard came a multitude of wild critters -- a rhino, cheetah, a gigantic African elephant, and other assorted miscreants. Izzy froze at the sight. I said, "Will, I'll have to call you back," and got the only useful-ish thing at hand, my three-pound sledgehammer. I wished like the comic book Thor I could use it to shoot lightning, but I figured if I screamed enough and bopped the right people in the snoot, I could give Izzy a chance to run for it. Just as I made my move, I woke up. 

I have to say I was a little proud of my dream self, ready to plunge into danger to save my beloved dog. Most of the time I consider myself the kind of guy who, in a crisis, looks around to see who else is stepping up to solve the problem, and if no obvious problem solver appears, to kind of shuffle sideways out of the area. So, yay for dream me, I guess. 

Yeah, there I am.

Should I call the government about my bear problem? Not because of my own worries, but because it's dark when the teens are on the school bus stop now. Plus Halloween is coming, and that means little kids at dusk carrying sweet, sweet candy. I'm afraid our bear will think it's like a frozen dinner with the dessert in a separate compartment. 

Have you had to deal with bear business like this? Anecdotes and advice are welcome. 

The memeing of life.

It's Monday! Of course I'm relying on memes to see me through the blog this morning. They're part of a complete breakfast! 

Not one of mine, but sadly, true

Thanks for the pic, Stiiv!

Bear joyride.

Once in a while there is some news that actually makes me smile, even if I know it means someone suffered some fear, distress, or discomfort. Hell, Fear, Distress, and Discomfort could have been the name of the long-running America's Funniest Home Videos, of which I remain a fan.

The story in question this week is this one:

A (human) family’s vacation took a bizarre turn when they found out that a family of bears had infiltrated their car.
     It’s a story that sounds made up, and we have to admit we were skeptical ourselves, but there’s some pretty solid proof: photos were taken of the bears during their attempted theft.
     They’re definitely in a car, and definitely causing some mischief.

Yep.

Eventually the three bear cubs got out of the car, went to another car, and rejoined their mother nearby. So no one was harmed, and the car only suffered a small amount of ursine damage.

Naturally I imagined that the entire scenario would have gone very differently if A) the keys were in the ignition and B) they could have talked Mom into joining them.

🐻🐻🐻🐻

BEARS ON A TEAR

Carl Cub: Come on, Mom! Let's go! Look! [jingles keys]

Cal Cub: Yeah, Mom! Don't be a stick in the mud!

Carly Cub: Shotgun!

Mom: Well... all right. Just this once.

[car backs out, hits seven other cars, takes to the road]

Carly: Gangway, world! Bears comin' through!

Cal: Hey, move over to your side!

Carl: I just want to see the truck driver! Did you catch his face?

Mom: Boys, no shoving or I'll turn this car right around.

Carly: Uh-oh!

[lights flashing behind car]

Officer: Ma'am, you were a little wild back there.

Mom: Sorry.

Officer: Have you been drinking?

Mom: No, officer. Although I am a mother of three, I am only eight years old.

Officer: Very well. You drive safely and have a nice day.

Mom: Thank you.

Cal: Wow, that was a close one!

Mom: Everyone be quiet until the nice man leaves the area.

Carly: Hey, look! There's an old-fashioned map in the glove compartment!

Mom: Huh. When I was a little cub, raiding cars, I used to see them, but that was seven years ago.

Carly: Look at this! Next exit up the road -- Hunny Ⓡ Us!

Carl: Can we go, Mom? Can we huh huh huh huh huh?

Mom: Well, why not? It's such a nice day. But you have to behave. No raiding the dumpster unless I say it's all right.

Cubs: YAY!

🍯🍯🍯🍯

That's a lot of bears.

Today is the birthday of the late co-creator of one of the most beloved and famous children's book series, Jan Berenstain of the Berenstain Bears. She and her husband, Stan, met in 1941 at the Philadelphia Museum School of Industrial Art. Wikipedia tells us, "During WWII, Stan served as a military medical illustrator while Jan was a draft artist for the Army Corps of Engineers in addition to working in an aircraft factory. Jan fashioned a pair of wedding rings from spare aluminum collected at the latter job, and the two married on April 17, 1946." They were married for 59 years until Stan's death, in 2005. Jan died in 2012.

They created more than 300 books featuring the Berenstain Bears, a family of cartoon bears that faced typical family dilemmas such as having a new baby, entering a science fair, watching too much television, and playing sports. That's a lot of bear books. I can't think of a single series produced by the same creators that had that many titles. And it hasn't stopped; Berenstain Bear books remain in print and seem to have acquired a more religious bent of late, with a series published by Christian publisher Zonderkidz. Their son Mike seems to have taken over the creative duties.

It's a remarkable run, and the thing that puzzles me is that I don't recall ever seeing any of their books when I was a kid. The only classics I remember are series and books like Curious George and Babar the Elephant and Frog and Toad and Frederick (great name) and Katy and the Big Snow and the awful ones by Dr. Seuss and Maurice Sendak and a bunch of others I was supposed to like but scared me. I don't think I saw a Berenstain book until I was an adult, but they'd been around my whole life.

A lot of kids grew up surrounded by Berenstain Bear books, and while they're often Photoshopped for cynical humor like Family Circus strips, they obviously have a lot of appeal. So good for you, Jan, and happy birthday to you in the Great Beyond.

Sic Transit Gloria Mundi Department: Today is also the birthday of author George Barr McCutcheon, who you and I never heard of but was well known in his day, that day ending with his passing in 1928. He wrote many novels and plays, but one that may ring a bell is Brewster's Millions (1902). That story had an irresistible catch -- the title hero must spend a fortune within one year, getting nothing of value for his money, if he is to inherit a much larger fortune at the end of the year. Readers found the idea so appealing it was adapted for the stage, and made into thirteen films starting with a Cecil B. DeMille silent in 1914. It has been very popular in India. The most recent film was a Chinese adaptation in 2018. The most recent American film was 1985's Brewster's Millions with Richard Pryor, which was pretty good. And yet its original author has fallen into obscurity.

Ah, but the good folk at Gutenberg, like our friend Mongo, keep the fires of civilization burning by making many of McCutcheon's works available for free online, including Brewster's Millions. Big hand for the gang at Gutenberg!

2020, on the hoof.

Was that a toy in the backyard? I can usually account for all of the dogs' playthings, because I'm the one who throws them and most of the time they remain there, being ignored by the dogs, who want to sniff and gnaw weeds instead. So yesterday morning when I spotted a long, white object off in the distance, I couldn't place it. I had Nipper with me, so while he was distracted by a weed or two, I went to check it out.

It was not a toy. It was the foreleg of a fawn, ripped off, the bloody thigh bone protruding from the knee. I gasped like a little girl.

And I'm really glad Nipper didn't key on it first.

I'm not particularly squeamish, especially about an animal I would and have eaten. Like a lot of people who are being honest, I'm mostly in favor of protections for animals in the genus Cutiepie. Like the little ducklings.

I love ducks -- on my plate -- but I have to admit ducklings are adorbs. My wife and I were sitting on the porch a few weeks back when a small army of ducklings, five in all, waddled and bonked their way toward us from the pond across the street, heads swinging right and left. Seemed like they'd gotten separated from their mother. I imagined us raising them like a family of ducks in a sixties Disney movie, but I knew it was best to get them back to their mother if possible. So I went toward them, and they literally turned tail and ran, or rather waddled and zigzagged back to the pond area.

I never had the heart to tell my wife that a couple of nights later, out with Nipper, I heard ferocious screeching and yowling across the street. I've heard lots of intramural bird fights over there, but this was different. This was the damnable circle of life in action. I figure we'll not see those ducklings again.

I was surprised though about this fawn, though. We get a good amount of foxes around here, and a few raccoons, but this was coyote or bear work. I hadn't seen any of them around, but a couple of the neighbors' trash cans had gotten the business last week, knocked over and ripped apart. I can only suppose that my can was left alone because of the large quantity of dog poop in it.

I had to get the fawn leg away from the dog, so I picked it up by the little hoof -- barely bigger than a quarter in diameter -- and chucked it in a trash bag that was waiting for the garbage truck. If it had been the leg of a full-size deer, it would have been harder to get rid of, but it would have made me less sad. Fawns and ducklings are cute, and dumb, and I just hate to see one get murdered so young. Life is hard on the little ones.

Well, be glad I didn't have my phone with me, or I might have taken a photo of the remains for a Very Special Movie Event of Bacon's Beat, reviving my mouse detective Bacon, investigator of all the roadkill I've seen around here.

That evening, by the way, I went into the back again with Nipper, and sure enough a dark coyote was making his escape through the tall grass as we entered. Come back for the foreleg, I guess. I'll be watching for him.

Oh, well. Sorry, little fawn. Just another damn creepy thing to happen in our annus horribilis, 2020. At least the coyote got to eat something he ought to eat, rather than leftover pizza crusts and tuna casserole.

Ferocious bear adventure!

Yesterday afternoon I went on a secret bear mission in honor of the dead. I had to brave danger, come face-to-face with the bear itself, penetrate a structure in which I did not belong that was intended to keep out the likes of me, and escape quickly, all to keep a sacred promise to a friend.

Sounds pretty great, huh? Such high adventure!

I wish I could thrill you with pictures of the ferocious beast I wrestled, but I was unable to get a good photo. That's because he was wrapped in plastic. I thought it was best to keep him that way. Here's one of his relatives.

My friend's grandfather started a charity that collects teddy bears for children who will be hospitalized over Christmas. Although the grandfather has passed away, his family keeps his charity and his memory alive by collecting bears for the kids. So I ordered a bear, coming nose-to-nose with the monster when I got it out of the box, and the fight began -- the fight to fulfill my promise or to keep the cuddly bear myself, acting like the Winter Warlock with his choo-choo.

But no, my word is my bond, so off we went to the drop-off box at the American Legion. As a non-veteran, I am not entitled to join the Legion, which is why I describe the place as closed off to my kind. Indeed, the members' room seemed to be locked with an electronic key when I arrived, and I couldn't get in. One of the guys at the bar saw me through the window, though, and opened the door. The door was just stuck, not locked. He pointed me to the collection box, near the pool table, and my ferocious bear joined his ursine fellows in its depths. Then I got out quickly -- I had work on my desk to do.

So that was yesterday's big adventure, and jolly good it was. I was happy to help out, and I know that bear will be a great comfort to some boy or girl who needs comforting.

Oh, the danger part? Meh, still some icy spots on the roads out there. Had to drive carefully.

Bear bites.

I would appreciate it greatly if you would all write to the gentleman across the street and tell him he needs to keep his garbage can inside the garage until the morning of collection day. Thank you very much.

I had to be up early Saturday morning, and thus, so did the dogs. We went out the front door and Holy Toledo! A black bear, had to be 300 pounds, was having a Bear Smorgasbord on the contents of the garbage can that the gentleman mentioned above will not keep in the house.

I understand the issues involved. My garage is connected to the cellar, where any odors are well contained; his garage is right by the kitchen. It's also stuffed to the rafters with toys and luggage and things. But he has two little kids, and if I were him I wouldn't want a big bear hanging around the yard where a kid could become a snack.

For that matter, he probably didn't enjoy being awakened by two insane dogs barking toward his house at 5:15 on a Saturday morning.

I suppose the bears have started their fattening-up rituals and we should expect this kind of thing. My neighbor especially should expect it, because his can and another guy's got nailed last Tuesday on trash day. I believe they both put out the trash on Monday night. I didn't see the bear that time, but his can was knocked over and a bag dragged out halfway across the lawn. Raccoons don't bother doing that.

Anyway, nothing we've said around here seems to have changed his habits, so now I have to resort to asking outsiders to send him a message. Feeding bears by leaving around garbage is bad for the bears and dangerous for everyone else. It can't be helped on garbage day, but it can be helped the other days of the week. He either gets his act together or we have to pitch in to buy him a secure anti-bear disposal unit. But if those are tricky enough to outsmart the bears, they might be too much for him as well.

It happens.

"Oh, Mom, you know what kids are like. She won't go anywhere without her bear."

They always figure it out.

Good morndkjksjszzzzzzzzz

I mentioned a few days ago that I had a tough week coming up. It looked impossible, actually, and while I'd like to say I'm the kind of guy who looks at an impossible situation as a challenge against which I may test my mettle, I'm actually the kind of guy who looks at an impossible situation and either whines or goes back to bed.

So I have options, anyway.

It was all about deadlines, plus a yard that was going to have to be mowed if it ever got mowed at all, plus a lunch meeting on Tuesday, and blah blah blah. The mowing had to be done on the brief window of Wednesday, the only rainless day we had, and the grass was so thick and wet it made another difficult situation for the battery-powered mower.

All that aside: I nailed one huge deadline Monday, another soon after, then a third!, and things were starting to look possible.

Then... daaawwwwwwWWWWG FREAKOUT!

le freak, c'est chic

Actually it started on the weekend, to a lesser extent. The big dog, Tralfaz, started whining and yelping and running up and down the stairs in the dead of night, and could not be comforted, could not be soothed, could not stop mouthing off. He was shaking in fear, it seemed.

This happened last summer, and at the time the problem turned out to be the cable box rebooting itself in the dead of night -- a problem only solved by unplugging everything from the wall and turning off the juice. We tried all that this time and he didn't calm down. Took him outside a couple of times; the first time he peed; an hour later he did nothing, but he did not want to come back inside. Was it some noise in the house? A mouse? We checked everything. I camped out downstairs with him and he ran upstairs and started whining up there. Nothing worked and he wouldn't shut up. Whatever it was, it wasn't bothering the little dog, Nipper. The only thing bothering him was Tralfaz.

It happened again the next night, and the next. We were all feeling zombified during the day and starting to dread the night. Finally, yesterday evening, busy as I was, I took the big knucklehead to the vet. Maybe it was an infection or something. Maybe we needed an exorcist. I was tired enough to try anything.

Tralfaz checked out physically healthy, so the vet suggested we first try melatonin to help him relax and break the cycle of fear -- being afraid of something at night leading him to be afraid of the night, in other words.

That got us thinking... thinking about the bear.

A neighbor around the corner said a mother bear and cubs had been spotted in the area a couple of weeks ago. We had thought that maybe Tralfaz was smelling the bears going about in the nighttime and that that was what was freaking him out. But why would he be willing to go outside, then? Why give us trouble about coming back inside? Why would he not be comforted by our presence? Why isn't Nipper going nuts if the whole joint stinks like wild bear?

When you're constructing a theory you reach for clues that support it; I supposed detectives and district attorneys work that way. My wife remembered taking Tralfaz out back one night before we'd heard about our ursine friends, a night he dashed into the darkness of the far backyard and dashed back out quickly. This isn't unusual, as he enjoys telling the local deer to buzz off. But maybe he had a close encounter of the bear kind, just close enough to terrify him. It would have taught him to fear the bear, a hard-won knowledge Nipper would not have gotten yet.

This also fits the rest of the behavior, as Fazzy has always been most protective toward my wife, and in a time of threat he would not be happy without all of us clustered around. So the sequence: he's downstairs alone whining, I go to camp out with him, and rather than reassure him, he now fears that Mommy has been left alone, and now he has to run upstairs and whine at her closed door, which wakes up Nipper, and later she tags me out so I can get sleep, and the pack is still not united, and once again everyone has a crappy night of sleep.

So last night we decided that if he started acting up again, we would just get him upstairs with us and bring Nipper into the area too, and see if just having the gang together would be enough to calm him down. He would be able to protect us all, and we would all be ready to beat up on the bear if necessary. (And if that didn't work, we could still give him a cluster of canine-chewable melatonin treats and dope him up. Or call an exorcist.)

Friday morning: Tralfaz slept soundly through the night and so did everyone else. Thank God.

So what happened? Well, we had heavy rain that may have washed the bear smell away. Or Fazzy was just completely exhausted after three bad nights of sleep and a trip to the vet's office, which gets him so worked up it's like five hours at the gym. Or maybe he's been sensing a lot of stress from me, stress that I was too tired to feel when I fell into a coma at 10:30 p.m. So we shall see how it goes tonight.

Poor doggies -- they can't tell you what's wrong, and even for an experienced vet like mine, absent any clinical signs of illness, it's all a guessing game. Let's hope this is the end of this particular issue.

I'm keeping the exorcist on speed dial, just in case.

Bear up under it.

Okay, I promise, last snack-related entry for a while.

Something from the local Target: Gourmet Gummies from Project 7, birthday cake flavored. "Live. Give. Smile."

Project 7 is a brainchild of Tyler Merrick, an entrepreneur with a social conscience, they say. Just look at the back of this package:

Your purchase of Project 7 foods (and there are a number of them) plants trees, treats malaria, provides meals, educates dummies, etc. etc. Seems like a big responsibility for a little gummy bear, but they're bouncy.

A lot of things these days are supposedly flavored like birthday cake. Oreos has some birthday cake flavored cookies. Pop-Tarts tried it too. The first time I came across this phenomenon was at an ice cream stand that sold Perry's, and I saw one called Birthday Bash.

"What's that taste like?" I asked the girl.

"SOOOOO good!" she said.

"But... like what?" Meaning, did it taste like cake icing? Wrapping paper? Clowns?

"It's SOOOO good!" she repeated.

So I tried it. It was SOOOO good. Like a vanilla cake with icing. Not like clowns.

I therefore had high hopes for these Project 7 gummies. And I was crushed, because they tasted like the rubber stopper on a bottle of eye drops. Whuh?

At first I thought the lack of flavor was caused by their dedication to all-natural this and organic that, but as I gnawed on a second tasteless bear, it occurred to me: They just don't give a damn. The folks at Project 7 are not selling treats; they are selling ease of conscience. They can't or won't do the #1 job of a food manufacturer, which is make things people want to eat. They reminded me of government clock watchers and Soviet apparatchiks, soulless tools whose job is not to make something people will find useful or enjoyable, but whose job is to preserve their jobs and report on the number of reports reported. This candy is a waste of good calories, and an insult to bears.

I think I'm going on strike against companies that exist only to support their causes. Just as it's my standing policy not to give to charities that mail me unsolicited presents (tote bags or coins or whatever), so too will I not buy products from companies that try to bamboozle me with their good acts. You're not a blasted lemonade stand; you're a company. If you can't figure out a way to make a gummy candy that doesn't taste like Grandma's wart, you aren't an entrepreneur, you're a panhandler.

It's a tough call, because I like some of the Newman's Own stuff. Your thoughts would be appreciated. Meanwhile, watch out for those bears.

Interesting facts.

This block's juuuuuuust right.

Fellow in the neighborhood sent out a warning:

"That block's too sunny. That block's too clean. This block's juuuuust right."

He didn't say whether he thought that the bear was my very large dog, Tralfaz, who has been compared to a bear before. (Quote from a county sewer employee as I was walking the dog: "Hey, it's a bear! Ha ha ha! It's a bear!")

But this was a real black bear that was seen wandering around the block in broad daylight.

I know that the American Black Bear is considered something of a joke compared to other bears in American territory; with a weight of around 240 pounds (cf. Grizzly, up to 800; Kodiak and Polar, well over 1,000), the black bear is smaller than many guys and even some dogs. Compared to other bears, the black bear is more like a super-size raccoon. Still, I would prefer not to wrestle with one, and I would suggest you not try it either, even if you are feeling kind of buff because you've been, like, hitting the gym.

We don't get a lot of bears in my part of the scenic Hudson Valley, even though we're not too far from Bear Mountain. Every now and then one pops up in town, gets a little too chummy with someone's trash cans, and then you get the cops and the animal control guys and the sleepytime darts and the bear is magically transported back to the woods, scores of miles away.

So far the presence of the bear has not led to any mysterious maulings or disappearances of small pets, but there have been odd incidents involving us. When we've taken the dog out before sunrise or after sunset, we've gone with my big police flashlight and an air horn. A couple of weeks ago the flashlight caused my wife to be mistaken by a neighbor for a burglar; fortunately the truth was discovered before the police were called.

I'd rather be mistaken for the bear than a burglar, myself. It'd be embarrassing to be arrested for being bear in public.

Goldilocks.

At home the next afternoon, Goldilocks was surprised to find that the bears had taken matters into their own paws.

Bear.

I was thinking about the old joke with the two hikers, one in good sturdy boots and one in running shoes. The boots guy makes fun of his pal's inappropriate attire. His pal says it's in case they meet a grizzly.

"You can't outrun a grizzly," laughs the boots guy.

"I don't have to outrun the grizzly. I just have to outrun you."

I used to work in consumer magazines. The pay was better than in book publishing. But magazines are dying. Several of my old friends have left the field.

One shocker was when Ladies' Home Journal packed it in after 131 years in print last April. In 1999 LHJ crowed about having its biggest issue ever, which (since only half the pages of a consumer magazine sold by mail are allowed by law to be ads--but economic sense dictates that no more than half will be content) meant they had sold more advertising for that issue than any other single issue. Yes, they partied like it was 1999. Fifteen years later, dead.

Was it run by boneheads? Probably. Other similar magazines have remained afloat. Boneheadedness is one great way to make sure the bear gets you instead of someone else.

It all comes down to the ads. For a hundred years magazines have been sold at less than cost, paid for by advertising, but now those ads have gone elsewhere. Readers' eyes have gone elsewhere. In the 1990s it seemed like it would be a wash at worst, maybe even a boon---so readers will go to the magazine Web site instead, which costs less to produce, and see the ads there. Win! But it didn't work out that way. You couldn't charge enough for Internet ads. People read online magazines differently than paper magazines. You would sit down with a paper magazine and could spend an hour or so going cover to cover. Who does that with an online publication? The experience is a lesser thing online, and so the money is too. Meanwhile, people's eyes are on the Internet, or watching TV shows on their phones or tablets, and they're not on magazines, and you can't charge the same money for fewer eyeballs.

That bear is a hungry fellow.

There are several stages in most businesses that are new or severely changed by technology:

No Bear - Everything is new and everybody wants in; the field is flooded with money; people are getting rich left and right even if they produce crap.

Small Bear - Early money dries up; weak competitors show their flaws and are eaten.

Bear - Companies are folding. Everyone has to own a niche or keep out in front of the others in some way. The tighter the race or the lower the margins, the quicker the bear dispatches the foolish.

Very Hungry Bear - New technology or markets are taking customers from the industry away in droves. Some look for government handouts. Feels like only a matter of time before the bear catches up.

Bear Feeding Frenzy - The field is dead as a commercial enterprise. Some look for government takeover. Cannot be run at a profit at any cost. No one survives.

Magazines are in Bear territory; probably at least halfway into Very Hungry Bear. Newspapers are definitely in Very Hungry Bear.

Whatever your industry, things can go to hell faster than you probably expect. Even when you don't see him, there's always a bear.