Springshots.

Ah, spring! What joy! How well the great poet Chaucer put it: 

Whan that Aprille with his shoures soote, 

The droghte of March hath perced to the roote, 

And bathed every veyne in swich licóur 

Of which vertú engendred is the flour; 

Whan Zephirus eek with his swete breeth 

Inspired hath in every holt and heeth 

The tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne

Hath in the Ram his halfe cours y-ronne...

Yeah, dude. Righteous.

You gotta love spring, if only because winter sucks so much. Yeah, the bugs are back, and some of the birds make a lot of noise, and some of the neighbors make a lot of noise, but it's okay. Why, I saw a pileated woodpecker the other day, not twenty feet away! Almost fainted with excitement. 

The bird was camera-shy, alas, but I offer these simple pictures of spring in her splendor. 

Okay, so this doesn't look like much. But when I see long, dead grass strands under my deck, I know what it means...

Construction time for the Robins again. 

The blooms look so wonderful that I hope we don't get snow in May again this year. Kills flowers dead.

The dogwood's already losing its petals. Lazy, that's what I call it. Well, let sleeping dogwoods lie. 

The maples are finally unfurling their leaves. Baby steps, maples. 

This tree always looks great. Except the year we got a late blizzard and it had so many leaves up already that the weight tore down several limbs. But it bounced back after a decade or so. Can't kill this guy.

And finally, daffodils. Maybe my favorite flower.
You forget the bulb is there and suddenly: Bing! I'm back!

The sunlight colors always look like hope. 

Ain't I a stinker?

You're never too old to learn, and I learned something I did not know about skunks the other day. Actually, I learned a few things. 

Things I did know: Skunks are rare in the mammal world for their odiferous defense, but not alone; wolverines, for example, also have a smell-secreting defense. (The Marvel hero would have been a lot different if he'd had that superpower.) Skunks are very good at deploying that sulfuric spray, especially the one that shot our dog Fazzy all those years ago, the big galoot. 

Things I did not know: The spray of a skunk is composed of thiols and thioacetates, which bond really well to other atoms, which is why the stink is so pernicious. When you (or you dog) get nailed by a skunk, you stay nailed. 

Not surprising, skunks have few predators. Sure, a bobcat or a wolf might try his luck, but only if he's really hungry. Snakes have too good a sense of smell to get involved; in fact, skunks not only eat snakes, but they are virtually impervious to snake venom. Rattlesnake bite? Pepe shakes it off and eats the damn thing. He don't care. 

Skunk, not caring

I wondered if there was a chemical similarity with the skunk spray to snake venom, causing the immunity, but it does not seem to be the case. I'm sure some biologist could explain it to me.

The great horned owl does not mind getting skunked. He has a poor sense of smell but he thinks skunks taste awesome. A great horned owl can take out a skunk larger than he is and fly off with it. Then shoot back to the wildlife preserve and give his minders something to regret, I guess.

Memo: If you are enrolled at Hogwarts and your owl is a great horned owl, learn a destinkification spell immediately. Odiferamus departicus!

Getting back to the topic of snakes: About 90 miles off the coast of Brazil is Ilha da Queimada Grande, or Snake Island, a tropical paradise but for the thousands of golden lancehead pit vipers. The golden lancehead pit viper is among the most venomous, sneaky, dangerous snakes on earth. No one is allowed to go to the island, but no one wants to, either, except I guess the most foolhardy herpetologists and nature photographers. 

The snakes have been there since the last Ice Age, and that's as well as may be, but do we really need them? Sure, they're critically endangered, because vicious snakes need private islands or they'd be slaughtered. (Cf.: Jeffrey Epstein.) But a small island in a lovely part of the world would make a heck of a resort. 

Of course, you know what we do need. We need Chuck Norris to lead an army of skunks onto Ilha da Queimada Grande and wipe out the vipers. It's the right thing to do and the right time to do it. So Chuck, if you're reading this, give me a call. I happen to know quite a few skunks who might be available for daywork. 

Dominant species.

I hate to keep krexing about nature, but I've come to think that the dominant species on Earth ultimately will not be humans nor cockroaches nor mosquitoes nor bacteria. I think it's going to turn out to be crabgrass. 

As far as grass goes, this stuff is mean. You try to pull it, you can't get it all. You try to poison it, and half of it stays green. You put down all kinds of chemicals, and back it comes next year. 

When all of us are gone, and our Kentucky bluegrass, our fescue, our Bahia, our buffalo and Bermuda and creeping bentgrass are toast, the crabgrass will still be here, annoying whatever mammal still lives. 

I can see it becoming an evil species, like the giant carrot man from the vegetable uprising episode of Lost in Space. 

Yeah, that guy.

While retaining its evil crabgrassy ways, it will leave Earth to go pester other life forms throughout the galaxy, impossible to ignore, get rid of, or isolate. It won't take over planets or displace other sentient life; it will just move in and not leave, like the galaxy's unemployed brother-in-law. 

At least that's how it looks to me today. Is there no hope? Why, yes, there might be, thanks to our friend BG Bear, who posted this: 

Kill it with fire! I'm not sure if this little number is available anymore, but flaming weed killers can be bought at large hardware and yard outlets. 

It's either that or we nuke the crabgrass from orbit. Easy choice, you ask me. 

Out & about.

Or, as our Canadian readers might say, oot & aboot. 

In other words, it's another Pictures from the Road entry! 

This day started off with a pleasant sky; a friend I showed this to said it looked like a macaroni and cheese morning, but I think it's more like a customer got a little crazy at the pizzeria with the Parmesan.  

Someone set up a cute li'l deer sculpture, but as I noted some time ago, most lawn statuary represents things you don't see normally, and we got deer out the bazooty around here. Why put up a statue to one? We know what they look like. Why not a gnome, or a jockey, or a saint? I've never met one of them. Well, maybe a saint or two.

Ouch! This house got it but good. I hope I think of this anytime I dream of a peaceful cottage nestled in the woods. One of those trees gets a little ancient and bam! Tarps and Tyvek and insurance claims, and God I hope no one got hurt. 

Over the in sewer department, looks like the guys halted progress on a job for the weekend. I don't know what that green thing is, but it's a new one of the rusted thing. 

And finally, off to Walmart for the big Back to School extravaganza! On July 9! Go ahead and cry, kids; the days are getting shorter already. 

Butterfly.

Butterflies are free! Bumblebees, three for $1.

I saw this majestic butterfly the other morning. It was so large I was sure it would fly into my face if I disturbed it, but I'd hoped it would stay still long enough for the photo. 

I'm enjoying spring, or at least I keep telling myself how much more I like it than winter. But the gnats are getting quite rude, and I've already donated a pint to the Mosquito Annual Blood Drive. Now it turns out we have poison ivy among the bordering weeds, for the first time in all the years I've been here. 

In my mind I'm renaming the seasons; instead of Spring, Summer, Fall, and Winter I will say Itch, Burn, Mold, and Shatter.

So yesterday morning I stopped at Home Depot and got a big ol' jug of weed killer, one that specifically lists poison ivy and poison oak on the front. The cashier asks, "Does this kill poison ivy?" I said if not I'd be back for something stronger. Agent Orange, perhaps, or napalm. 

I couldn't use it yet, though. Saturday turned into a day-long rainout, but not without advantages. It appeared that my wicked neighbor, the one that will be arrested by the feds, was going to have his annual cookout and pool-opening party. How do I know? Because his wife's sister was over the day before to help clean the house. I don't think they let her stay for the party. Well, every family is weird in its own way, and some are weirder than others. 

Anyway, it looks like the party was a bust (one car showed up). 

On the whole, though, the weather has been pleasant enough this May, and helpful to my new tree. A friend asked if I've been watering it once a week, as the nurseries suggest, and I pointed out that I haven't had to bother since we've had lakes of rain this month. 

One last thing: About that huge butterfly?

So I lied a little. Cute, though, ain't he?

I take it back.

All right, all right, I take it back. I'm not going to go out and kill everything this spring. It seems Nature has been reading this blog and decided to teach me a lesson yesterday. 

If nothing else, the rhododendrons have been spectacular this year. Further, though, I've hardly seen a single wasp on them -- but I have seen plenty of bumblebees. We're fond of those guys; they actually rated a hard B on my grading of backyard bugs some years ago. 

They've been called flying pandas, and it's hard to disagree. 

Next, I was with Izzy in the backyard when we saw a little ball of gray fuzz. Was it some weird and likely poisonous fungus? No, it was a tiny mouse that skittered away from us, but not very far. He didn't seem to be very good at being a mouse yet. I mean, the dog isn't so likely to see him when he's still, but I could, and Izzy could surely sniff him out. But I let the mouse go because he was cute. That's how they get you, you know -- one tiny one is cute, 500 tiny ones or one huge one are a nightmare. But let it be for now.

The last event of the day also happened in Izzy's company, as we emerged from the front door and saw traffic stopped in both directions and a couple of guys milling about. It seems there was a huge turtle in the middle of the road. He likely was heading for the pond across the street, and ran out of gas on the meridian. Fortunately I had not put my snow shovel in the garage yet (yes, we've had snow in May) and I managed to get the chap off the road and into the grass on the other side. Only flipped him over twice. Not that he looked particularly grateful. 

So there's my wildlife story --  Mutual of Omaha's Suburban Kingdom -- but rest assured that while I no longer wish to kill everything out there, there are many things that will perish if they cross my path. Yellowjackets, you've been warned. 

CSI: Porch.

I was inside the house with the dogs, and yet none of us heard what almost certainly was a battle to the death raging outside on the front porch. 

Not sure if the fight knocked over the shovel, 
which I have left out to prevent any 
further snow. You're welcome.

Our preliminary examination shows two different kinds of bird feathers -- larger, well formed wing feathers and smaller, fluffier down ones. Also, we immediately notice that blood was spilled here. 

By far the smaller feathers dominate, in the area around as well as upon the porch. 

Because, in truth, I know nothing of ornithology, I have had to guess that either a large bird got hold of a smaller one that fought like hell, or a large bird got hold of a mammal that may have even successfully fought to escape, leaving different types of bloody feathers from the same bird behind. Anyone who actually did pay attention to this in Cub Scouts is invited to tell me what you think in comments.

Of course, Baby Dog Izzy zeroed in on the blood like a kamikaze. Once I wrestled him away, I swept off the feathers and washed off the blood with soapy water. Dogs, like other carnivores, know that blood = good eats!

And alas, I am reminded of Tennyson's immortal words: 

Who trusted God was love indeed

And love Creation's final law

Tho' Nature, red in tooth and claw

With ravine, shriek'd against his creed

Personally, I think there's no problem believing in a loving God and yet knowing nature is cruel. It's only wibbly wobbly types who walk up to grizzly bears to say hi that worship Nature as an all-benevolent goddess, dispensing kindness to all. They may get corrected suddenly and effectively.

Spiders from Mars.

There we were, complaining about 2020, as if once we got through that stupid and miserable year everything would be better. Instead we got worse government, psychotic Russian warmongering, Canadian dictatorship (!), and now, gigantic parachuting spiders.

I get the feeling that this decade is going to suck pretty hard all the way to the end.

The spiders in question are the Joro spider, a brightly colored nightmare that comes to us from Asia, like so many bad and really weird things. According to the New York Post, from whence I borrowed the alarming photo below, "The massive Joro spider, an invasive species from Asia, has descended on southern states — particularly Georgia and South Carolina — and is now due to spread rapidly to Alabama, according to the University of Georgia’s Odum School of Ecology."

Surely such a huge bug would never survive our northern winters, right? That's for tropical places, the price they pay (along with cyclones) for gorgeous weather. But no, according to spiderologists: "The spiders were exposed to below-freezing temperatures for minutes at a time — about as long as they’d need to find a warm place to hide."

And what's this about parachuting?

"Indeed, bug-watchers have spotted the Joro using their webs as parachutes, transporting them by wind."

Uh-huh. 

I'm not a victim of arachnophobia, in that I am not panicked thinking about spiders or go into frozen terror looking at one. I know what phobias feel like, being inclined to acrophobia, and my feeling about giant spiders is not like that. However, I have a strong repulsion from giant spiders, and this one looks particularly bad. The Joro has a minor venom that isn't a real danger to humans, unless one has an allergic reaction.

I do not intend to let one of these bastards get close enough to me to find out.

Research scientist Andy Davis says, “People should try to learn to live with them. If they’re literally in your way, I can see taking a web down and moving them to the side, but they’re just going to be back next year.”

And I say: No. I say: I'm going to murder every one that I see. I say: These arachnid sons of bitches had better turn out to be a bigger bust than the murder hornets. And if not, I say: Nuke them from orbit. It's the only way to be sure. 

Putting the fun in fungus.

Isn't the autumn so lovely? The trees, slackers that they are, spend half the year naked, but we must admit they go out with a bang. 

And of course one mustn't forget the DEVIL WEENIES COMING UP IN THE MULCH! 

All right, so it's not actually an evil supernatural phenomenon, although I can imagine someone being scared silly the first time this appeared. And it does seem to fit October, Halloween, and 2020 pretty well. 

What we have here is -- like so many things and people that are repellent -- a fungus. Stinkhorn is the vivid name for the obscene beast, "so called because the slime on the end of its fruiting body gives off an unpleasant odor," according to HGTV. I have not gotten close enough to verify that, nor do I intend to. Life has enough unpleasant odors without going out of one's way to sample more. 

The dogs tend to like things that stink to high heaven, unfortunately, but this is a fenced-off area. They also have not shown any interest. Possibly because I've left the fungi alone to fung-die. The Penn Live site informs us that "They’re called 'stinkhorns' because of their odor when you knock them over." So we won't be doing that. Also, "From a gardener’s viewpoint, stinkhorns are actually beneficial in that they’re helping to decay wood and organic matter into nutrients that plants need to grow." Creative destruction, in other words. 

It only seems to come up in the red mulch I use around the dahlias and rhododendrons and the mums and the one baby azalea. (Don't get the idea that I'm Joe Garden here; those plants all fit neatly along the front of the porch.) I'm sure black mulch has its own fun fungus, but we use the red stuff, so: devil weenies.

It'll probably all be gone by Halloween, which is too bad. I would display the evil stinkhorns with clip-on lights and encourage them to grow. That'd scare the kiddies. Although Governor Corleone might still shut down all the trick-or-treating in New York if he feels like it. Speaking of evil. 

Voices from the sky.

"Mother Earth is angry," the Speaker of the House declared last month. Well, that's a very interesting proposition. I'm impressed that Ms. Pelosi is able to receive intimate messages of emotional content from the Earth Spirit Gaia. Interestingly, it does not seem that Mother Earth had very much to say about wildfires and hurricanes and tornadoes and whatnot before Mr. Trump became president of these United States, but perhaps Mother was holding her tongue, trying not to interfere, as a good mother often does.

Be that as it may, I -- like Ms. Pelosi -- am an expert in interpreting messages from nature. In fact, I have some small renown in being able to get such messages from my observation of the sky. Here are some photos from recent weeks and the messages that are being sent from Mother Nature, courtesy of my interpretive powers.

"Everything is on fire. This year sucks."

"Lex Luthor is attempting to turn the sun red to deprive Superman of his powers. Alert Batman."

"Shoppy Mart has swordfish steaks on sale, $8.99 a pound."

"Your finances are a mess. Consider moonlighting. How about Lyft?"

"Your fly is open."

"Cannot predict now."

On the passing scene.

I said to myself, "Self!" I said, "That's an old Emeril Lagasse gag." "It predates him," Self replied. "In any event," I said, "I hate to do a Random Thoughts type column, but I have all these little bits that don't cohere into a solid blog post." "Hey, Thomas Sowell did them frequently for years before his retirement," Self said. "If it's good enough for him, it's good enough for you." I agreed.

Item 1: Via Instapundit -- have we reached peak 2020?

One can hope, but we still have a presidential election to decide, and the mobs are still running the streets in some cities (except by the mayor of Chicago's house, because shut up, peons).

Obviously we need Batman now more than ever.

Item 2: I wish we could box up some water and send it to California, because this has been an unusually wet summer here. Foggy mornings and rain. Usually by mid-August the grass stops growing for a while because it gets scorched, but that never happened this year.

This morning's dampness featured the visit of a stink bug on the kitchen window. The brown marmorated stink bug is yet another damn invader from Asia, like the Chinese Death Virus, first spotted in the United States in Allentown, Pennsylvania in 1996. Hmm... Isn't that around where our friend Stiiv lives? I'm sure it's a coincidence.

I wrote our little stink bug friend a haiku.

Stink bug under glass
Kindly leave my country now
Take the 'rona too

Item 3: While we have no wildfires here, we did get one wild, fiery sunrise this week.

That looks like Wrath-of-God stuff.

Item 4: The Indianapolis 500 runs today, weather permitting, before a 25% capacity crowd. Certain persons in the house here are very excited. I'm not a big racing fan, but I'll watch; I watched it a couple of years ago and enjoyed it. I hope they don't do any politically correct bows to the current crisis in the run-up to the race. A sport where people burn fossil fuels while speeding around in circles is never going to get the approval of the PC crowd, no matter whose rings they kiss.

Item 5: Autumn is knocking at the doors, and I'm not just saying that because of the Halloween candy in the supermarket. Saw a big Canadian goose V in the sky this morning. It was not heading south, though; actually, it was heading east. Maybe these were Canadian geese with poor sense of direction.

Also, the chestnuts are on the way:

But the dahlias haven't given up yet.

Item 6: My favorite online gags of recent note:

And with that, I hope you have a lovely Sunday, and keep your sense of humor whatever happens next. Good luck, Karen Doe; I hope Higgins comes home soon.

It's for the kids.

My wife was watching something on TV the other night that I'm glad I missed. But that's okay, because she told me all about it, ensuring I got to enjoy the nightmare fuel. Now it's your turn.

It was a documentary show that profiled the friendly little jellyfish known as the Irukandj. This cheery little transparent chap, only about one square centimeter in size, carries enough venom to kill a grown man, who might never even know that he got stung. It's so hard to see in the water that you might offend its sensibilities unawares, at which time the little bastard will kill you.

Do I even need to mention he hangs out in the waters of Australia? That'll put a crimp on your hols. No wonder they pronounce "holiday" and "holi-die" the same way.

This inspired me to create a new series of educational books for the wee ones out there. Children, probably boys the most, like picture books with deadly animals, gross creatures, and things like that. They are fascinated. They like to freak one another out. So my idea is not terribly new; what puts it over the top is the celebrity endorsement.

We can do a lot of these, because wherever you are -- forests, deserts, rivers, lakes, mountains, glaciers, cities, your own backyard -- there's always some s**t trying to f**k you up.

So Mr. Jackson, if you're available, have your people call my people. We'll write the books; we'd just ask you to add your irrepressible flair to the introductions. Also the info boxes ("LISTEN UP, M***ERF**KER") that share particularly juicy factoids about murderous wildlife. Wouldn't you like a Robert F. Sibert Informational Book Medal to go with your many other awards? Of course you would!

April is the coolest month.

We dipped below freezing the other night -- unusual at this time of April. Yes, April is the coolest month this year so far, meaning unseasonably chilly. And that damn windstorm that came through peeled a stack of shingles off the roof four inches thick. This morning is as foggy as a hangover.

Spring is like pizza, though, in that even when it's bad it's still pretty good. It's also like that crazy girlfriend who made you a basket case and dumped you but you couldn't shake for the longest time.

In years to come -- unless China keeps sending us more contagions -- we may look back on 2020 as having "the spring that wasn't," But rest assured that no matter what, spring was here.

Sometimes the seasons don't give us much, but sometimes it's enough.