Penguin Wetsuit

I've been called a tree-hugger. I've been called a namby-pamby, puppy-loving, kitten-coddling wuss. Ask me if I give a hoot. Nature, and creatures great and small thrill me to my toes. So see if this doesn't tickle you.

Balding is not limited to humans. Apparently it's an affliction known to strike even birds, particularly a Jackass Penguin named Pierre (no I'm not calling him names, the species is called that due to the donkey-like sounds they produce). Pierre, aged 25 (!) suffered from the chilly condition of a bald behind. The wee bird refused to play in the water since his hair-less exposed his pink ass to the frigid water. Apparently, penguins (which are NOT almost chicken) do not have a coat of blubber and depend on feathers to protect them from the elements. Holy shit! Those must be some feathers covering the bodies of the penguins in the Antarctic.

Little Pierre would sit on the sidelines when his companions would frolic in the pool. What's an Aquatic Biologist to do? Apparently Pam Schaller of the California Academy of Sciences did do something. She had a wetsuit created for Pierre, figuring if the gear protected divers from frigid waters, they could do the same for Pierre.

Oceanic Worldwide created the wetsuit enthusiastically. Said Teo Tertel, company marketing specialist "We were really excited to do it. We heard most of these penguins only live to 20, and our little buddy there was already 25. Anything we could do to help them, we were all for it." Teo Tertel, whoever you are, I love you man.

Schaller's not too bad herself. "I would walk behind him and look at where there were any gaps, and cut and refit and cut and refit until it looked like it was extremely streamlined," she said.

Pierre was outfitted with the suit about six weeks ago. Since then, he has gained weight, grown back feathers on his hind parts and is again acting like his feisty, alpha-male self, reports Newsweek.

Now all we need to do is hook Pierre up with a hot penguin chick. Can't you just see the classified? Wanted: beta female with white and black plumage attracted to experienced males. Must love water, fish and dressing up in a wetsuit.

When Ladies Lunch

It's a business day lunch. 4 ladies of well repute dine in a busy suited outpost. One good woman, the Bahama Mama will be departing the next day for her homeland. Festive wishes pass around the table.

While ordering lunch, I am reminded of a scene from Airplane! the movie. (Hey, I don't ask where these non sequitar thoughts emerge, I just live this life!) Where the two men of African descent (how's that for PC?) are speaking jive. Hence my all time favorite line from that movie, which is saying a lot since there are so many zingers.

Passenger 1 to Passenger 2: Lay 'em down and smack 'em jack 'em.

This memory causes one of the ladies, shall we call her Carmen? to fondly recall her favorite scene from a Cheech and Chong movie. You won't be surprised to hear it's Up in Smoke

This reminds me of a recent ad recently run by the kind folks at Comedy Central Harold and Kumar Escape from Guantanamo Bay.

Al the fun talk has gotten one of the ladies all riled up. She, let's call her Scorpia, regales us with a tale of weekend exploits at the Pink Pussycat. For those not in the know, it's a fine store in the NYC West Village that sells a vast (and largely pink) plethora of articles de pleasir. Sex toys. Scorpia weighs in on dilgoes, exercise balls (no these are not large and inflatable) and the much acclaimed Rabbit. From Scorpia's gushing retelling, the Rabbit appears to be the winner. Apparently there IS a rabbit you can pull outta a hat...

While we're lunching, and talking and giggling, a parade of waiters scurry around our table. For the record, we ordered very tame fare; sodas and water for libations, salads for entrees. A waiter's dream. Matter of fact, we were apparently quite the waiter's dream for men kept flocking to our table. Of course we were asking these fine gents for assistance.

Oh yohoo. Would you mind taking our picture?

Could we get a refill?

Would you mind bringing 4 spoons?

It's an interesting phenomenon. Regena Thomasauer contends that men want a job. They want to DO things for women. The ladies a-lunching can attest to this truth. Perhaps it was the glint in Carmen's eye. Or the blissed out look on Scorpia face. Or the rejuvenated smile Bahama Mama wore.

Whatever the case, ladies lunch was a hoot!

Farewell Moses

I don't have the heart to tell my parents Moses died. And by Moses of course I mean Charlton Heston. Easter wasn't exactly a festive affair in my childhood. As Protestants we weren't subjected to the self denying ritual of Lent. Matter of fact I doubt my family even knew of Lent, or else they would have gladly embraced the practice of publicly renouncing a worldly pleasure for the designated 40 days.

My family LIVED for self denial. New car? No no. We can do with that 2nd hand 1968 Chevy just fine. Mom actually denied herself food Friday nights in hopes of inducing a pious, penitant state for Sabbath the following day. I think all it induced was fatigue and hunger so rampant that she sat in a dazed hypnotic trance all through Church. When lunchtime arrived Mom would finally eat, and then collapse into the sofa while we did 'sabbath like things'. Such as listen to talk radio, play nature card games or take long naps.

All which explain my rampant hunger for all things wicked and pagan. Self denial, moi? Forsooth. Which is why I snack on teeny dense dark chocolate brownies for breakfast. Why I sip a glass of Kali Hart Chardonnay (or three) while I cook lunch, or dinner, or vacuum for that matter.

Artistic Elephant

Those of you who know me well know I have a thing for elephants. Love them for their complex martriarchal social structure. For their emotional capacity (they mourn still births). For their memory capacity (bones of long dead elephants evoke memories). For the symbolism they evoke in history and in ancient religions.

I rode an elephant in an Indian zoo when I was a wee little lass. Sadly, that is the closest I've been to one in my life. More's the pity as elegant creatures could teach us a good deal about motherhood, parenting, complex societies, and now art! That's right, an amazing video surfaced on uTube of an elephant painting a self portrait.

Yes, I am a sap for dogs and penguins and the occasional Tasmanian Devil. But these creatures are remarkable in their temperament, social skills, and dare I say it, in their humanity as this video vividly demonstrates. You can purchase an elephant painting at Exotic World Gifts

Earth Hour

Lights out time is approaching. That's right, earth hour strikes at 8:00 pm 3/29/08. Earth Hour blog reminds us of the partner cities (only 4 in the US). Check out Ideas of reducing carbon footprints at home, business and at school. Of course the World Wildlife Fund, originators of the movement offer way's to get involved.

Mexico

Whoa Mexico
It sounds so simple I just got to go
The sun's so hot I forgot to go home
I guess I'll have to go now - James Taylor

Of course I've been there many times. Cancun, Acapulco, Taxco, Cozumel. But this winter's been brutally cold, indoors and out, with no comfort in either. So I took meself south of the border way with a travel worthy friend. The resort hosted mostly Europeans (thankfully!) who were friendly and, hailing from colder climes like Poland and Germany, so damn grateful for the hot Mexican sun. And while I did indulge in a day trip or two. How could I pass up the ancient Mayan pyramids in Chichen Itza during the Spring Equinox when a serpent is supposed to slither down the 91 steps where (history tells us) blood used to flow from the virgin sacrifices?

I do admit feeling a twinge of Bourdainian cynicism at one of the daytrip sponsored lunches. I'm sure the boys and girls of that Mayan village dress in colorfully embroidered Guayabaras and blouses. And come on! I'm sure they sometimes dance with half filled bottles of Corona on their heads. And so what if we ate in a buffet-style restaurant that sold Coke Lite. And so what if the chicken dish was too lustily dowsed in crema? The heat from the deep red chili sauce warranted a little milding down, right? Right?

My travel-worthy companion, Damarys had a penchant for water. I don't just mean lounging around in salty aquamarine beaches with a margarita decorating your hand. Snorkling! Diving! Kayaking! I figured snorkling was the safest bet as I could remain on the hobiecat AND indulge in my napping pasttime while the rest of the ocean hungry gang dumped overboard. The crew consisted of 3 men. El Capitan, a non verbal man with skin the color of polished Brazilian cherry. Joel, a Mayan descendant who served as our tour guide for 5 hours and spoke English peppered with jokes appreciated by jocks, Americans and misogynists. Last and most importantly came Cesar the dive/snorkle master, a stern man with hair cropped as short as a marines.

For 2 decades I've tried to snorkle. First in Cancun, then in Jamaica, and Miami. Italian snorkling ended almost as badly as the relationship I took to Italy. The most successful snorkling I did in Bahamas was at Atlantis in the 360 underwater aquarium, watching fish from INside the tank. You see I have this thing about water. Love to drink it, cold and refreshing. Love the hues of it as it sweeps against beaches and rocks. Azure, turquoise, muddy green, black blue. Love to frolic on the shore, ride sweels on a bogie board amid pounding waves. Those waves have taught me a lesson or two - all of them terrifying. There was the time I was playing in the water and a dead body washed shore by my feet. Another time my brother and I got dragged out hundreds of feet by a rip tide. We'd both have been goners if not for a passing surfer who yelled, "Hey there's a really bad rip out here. Need help?"

The thing about snorkling, about the ocean, about anything so majestic and powerful is that you can't fight it. Once you concede and admit, mighty ocean thou art more fearsome than a pride of lions loosed at a 6 Flags theme park. That's when respect surfaces and fear begins to recede. You see I had never done this. I had boasted to anyone who would listen, yeah that water's mighty wet. Or wailed about my past lives in which I had tragically drowned - either accidently or intentionally as a witch. What is it about the pursecution of witches? Those poor gals bought it either burned at the stake in raging flames or drowned in water. Couldn't they just be banished to the forest and live in isolation with nature which is probably what they really wanted?

When I tried snorkling this time around, just like in the past I floundered and flailed like, well...like me. The rest of the gang had moved toward the reef with Cesar. It didn't help that this was the second largest reef on the planet next to the Great Barrier. Nor did it help that after viewing my gasping and inefficient swimming motions (oddly resembling Don Knotts impersonating a Ninja) Cesar beckoned his 2nd mate to drag me through the water with a bright red life saver. The only other person incapable of navigating the reef was an older woman, quite heavy and admittedly "not such a good swimmer." So Betty and I got the snorkling loser treatment.

The second site we visited was much calmer. Joel informed us we had free time to do as we please. Some prefered to sun onboard, others like my travel-worthy companion dove immediately into the water only to be surrounded by hosts of striped blue and yellow damsons nibbling at her arms and fingers. The water was languid and the hobiecat bouyantly drifted over coral and schools of fish. I felt hot under the sun and thought a dip would do me good so in I splashed, flippers, goggles and breathing tube. Since I didn't have anywhere to go I paddled in circles around the boat, safe in the security of my flourescent orange lifevest.

In moments of fear and confusion, stillness is the only guide. For only after you stop whining and blubbering like a little girl who's broken her Jonas Brothers CD can you hear the answer. In this case the answer was to listen to the whooshing sound of my breathing. Not the waves sloshing over me or the occasional shriek of a diver. So I listened, breath in... breath out. Simple and so not threatening. Matter of fact, it was relaxing and rather idyllic. For as soon as I stopped struggling I began to see what was around me. Fish - Damsons, Pampanos, Butterfly fish and velvety black Tangs. One Damson flitted by at eye level. Such a darling! so I gently rubbed his side with a finger. He turned around and bared his teeth at me. So un-Nemo-like! I drifted over a huge earthen pot, intentionally dropped into the water to serve as a home for the sealife. I glided over coral with lavender arms and bright yellow buds at the flimsy tips. Nobody bothered me, nor I them. I was snorkling!

Say what you will about past lives. About phobias and deeply embedded fears. After this recent trip to Mexico I believe that nothing can't be overcome with a little respect, courage and silence.

Wombats R Us

While the writers strike ran its course, last year's guilty TV pleasure - Ugly Betty - has been conspicuously missing. Lucky for me a high definition channel called Equator HD offers entertainment in the form on my new fave show: Wildlife Nannies.

As the name would indicate, it does feature wildlife caretakers. And yes, the baby animals under their care. The surrogate caretakers take on the parental responsibilities when the offspring is abandoned, when the parent rejects offspring or when a parent dies.

Claudia feeds sardines to baby killer whale Skyla and trains her using enthusiastic hand signals and vocal encouragement. Nanny Peter - a big cat surrogate doesn't let the fact that he looks like Captain Von Trapp in drag prevent his duties to Alvin, a lion cub.

John, Wombat nanny and friend to Tasmanian Devils shares a few secrets from down under in the care and feeding of the pudgy rodent-like creature. For instance to soothe a raging wombat simply blow on it's nose and it will doze off faster than you can say Waltzing Matilda.

Scoff all you want, but there's nothing like a few episodes of Wildlife Nannies to take the edge off the winter day and woo me into a state of goodwill, if not somnolence.

Now that's a Spice shop

You might remember the book by Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni about a decade ago. I didn't even realize it became a movie till I discovered the DVD nestled between Mischief and Monty Python's Personal Best. A movie it did become starring none other than the impossibly gorgeous Aiswarya Rai as the mystical Mistress and Dylan McDermott as the object of her affection.

Critics panned the movie when it debuted in 2005. Rotten Tomatoes said: "Imagine Like Water for Chocolate without the passion" and "It's acted with the artificiality of an After School special". Desi reviewers such as Lotus Reads , a Canadian book-hound blogger are likewise underwhelmed.

"...this movie is as bland as milk"

In truth, all true with the exception of one aspect of the film - the set of the spice shop. Chili garlands hanging off hooks, obligatory mounds of crimson, yellow and green condiments, sheafs of herbs, incense sticks smoldering in every corner, clear bottles stuffed with dried and fresh spices. Holy cow, I wanna shop there. The movie might lack fire despite the casting of Mrs. Bachchan and Dylan, but the set made my mouth water.

As I'm fond of saying - don't forget to use condiments!

After all, the Grammys are about music not shiny lights

Given the crack-smoking press of late, I was more interested in whether Amy Winehouse would MAKE it to the Grammys then whether she would win for her richly deserved album - Back to Black. I was already aggravated by the US Embassy denying the beehived songstress a visa to attend the 50th Annual Grammy awards. (If you're feeling plucky, ask me about my thoughts on the US tendency to deny passports or threatened deportation to innocent non terrorists). Then Kanye West's self puffery goaded me even further.

I will say his Blue Man Group inspired performance of "Stronger" was fun. And the anticipated tribute to his angelic mother was touching. Mr. West's self aggrandizement wears thin in the company of Tony Bennett, Stevie Wonder, Aretha Franklin and Ringo Starr. Vince Gill adminstered the most appropriate bitch slap to Kanye's pouty face when accepting his Grammy from Ringo. "I just got a Grammy from a Beatle. Can you say that Kanye?"

But annoying little rappers were worth it in the end. Around 10:30 pm EST (4:30 am in London) Amy Winehouse performed both I'm No Good and Rehab. Looking a bit demure in front of a tiny club she cranked out that amazing voice that doesn't apologize for being an imperfect woman in love, in trouble and unabashedly talented. Shortly after she received the Grammy for Record of the Year and Song of the Year.

I never got a chance to see Dinah Washington, Chet Baker or Billie Holiday sing live. Like Winehouse they were gifted vocalists/musicans who shared their talents and addictions with the public. Winehouse is poised to address both. Will she dive the swampy depths of overwhelmed emotions into a dreamy deadly haze or share her gift with clarity and self compassion?

The world waits.

Super Tuesday Eclipse

My pricking thumbs this morning knew something was in the air, and it wasn't the Giants victory parade. As voters in 24 states (New Jersey included) head to the polls on behalf of both parties, certainly a big event but only when I consulted the calendar did I realize the enormity of today. Mardi Gras. Fat Tuesday, on which Catholics and New Orlean natives gorge in excess before the penitent rite of Ash Wednesday.

Not only is the morrow Ash Wednesday and might predict the future of the USA politically, but it heralds the first Eclipse of 2008, in which the new moon and Chiron converge in Aquarius.

Simone Butler of Mooncircles says:

Chiron lances personal, social and political wounds, releasing whatever has been repressed. We can see this at work in the fight between the front-running Democratic presidential candidates. How perfectly Aquarian is it that two “underdogs” — a white Scorpio woman and a black Leo man — would square off against each other in 22 key primaries on February 5, just hours before the New Moon/Chiron convergence in Aquarius? Mudslinging notwithstanding, it shows how far our society has come.

Indeed. Even in the last election I never would have dreamed a female AND a person of African descent as the front-runners for president. Unfortunately to many, this pairing seems to cross each out, implying that both candidates are both equally, negatively handicapped.

However, as this eclipse reminds us that we are all one, perhaps unity might pervade. And dare I predict a dream ticket will emerge heralding the first female president with the first black vice president?

It's all in the dreaming.