Yeah, it's me. Halfway through my sentence. Six weeks in the Phantom Zone for mocking Superman seems a bit extreme. But hey! No kids, it's quiet, and I can jump from one place to another....

Who are YOU looking through?

We don't see this too often....I wish we could have heard it...

 The river is running hard, putting a lot of strain on that bouyed cable.

The Coast Guard Cutter Cobia, a Marine Protector Class cutter, is 87 feet long.

...And then we jump right into the woods

For a shy bird, this Pileated Woodpecker made a helluva racket

 Oaken Hydrangea, starting to flower

 I grew tired of picking the blueberries by hand, and eliminated that step entirely.

 I know everybody says this about their herbs, but our basil is really special

 Recombinant DNA engineering is not for the faint-hearted, or rank amateurs, for that matter.

        These guys apparently hatched from this segmented egg sac, and are reluctant to leave home.
This picture sorta reminds me of the overhead shots of the June Taylor dancers on Jackie Gleason's old show.

My friend George has had great success in propagating Sarraceniaceae...

...the genus of carrion-eating plants, such as these pitcher plants

 If I remember George's dissertation correctly, this is the seedhead of a pitcher plant

 He does well with other plants, too. Such as this rose...

 ....and this amaryllis

 His lady, Sherrie, is a stained-glass designer as well as a photographer and gardener

 The couple share a quirky sense of humor...

 ...which influences their interior decorating as well

 Well done, George of the Sarracenias!

This party is invitation only, gullface!
 
Don't wanna see your face, you better disappear..

Get down, get down...!

...no parking on the dance floor...

 ...drive by the people as they stop to look and stare

 
....no more rehearsing, and nursing a part...

Let's get it started, let's get it started 'round here...

Do The Hustle!

We can dance if we want to, we can leave your friends behind...

 'Cause your friends don't dance, and if they don't dance, well, they're no friends of mine

 Jump in the line, rock your body in time.....

Frank barely heard the soft, arrhythmic tapping on the front door over the bedlam of the cartoon show Davey and his friend were watching. He picked up the pistol, which lay on the table between his beer and ashtray. The young ones ignored him as he stood up, walked over to the door and put his eye to the peephole. It was zombies, two of them. Frank pulled the door open with his free hand, keeping the gun pointed low and his finger off the trigger.

The first creature extended his arm towards Frank, and slowly turned his palm up.

"You finished, already?" a slow shake of the head, accompanied by a death-rattle of a breath, that Frank took as a yes.

"Front and back? Another painfully slow nod.

"You trimmed the hedges? Cleaned the gutters?"

"rattle"

"OK. Honey!" Frank yelled down the hall. "Can you bring me the package of synth-flesh on the counter?"

While he waited, he looked over the twisted shoulder of his gardener, and assessed the one behind him. "You brought help this time."

'Rattle, sssss'

"Not with you?" Gina handed him the paper-wrapped square with the US FDA approved sticker. It was still cold. "We are down to three kg's, hon. Should we order more?" Frank grunted a yes.

Frank passed the package to the zombie, whom he caught looking at his wife's neck. He brought the gun to bear on the undead-American's rotting cheek. "Don't even think about it."

It hissed and twisted its mouth; what may have been a growl escaped the loose, spittle-shiny lips. Then it quietly turned and shuffled down the walk, past the second of its kind who carried an axe in one greenish hand.

"Yes, what is it?" The news was coming on, Frank wanted to hear if the Supreme Court had decided the case of  gunther vs. gomez. If they decided that zombies were entitled to the rights and assets they held at the time of their conversion, lawyers will have a cash cow on a verdant pasture.

Frank noted that two fingers were missing on the hand that pointed at one of his maple trees. "No, I don't need any trees cut at this time. Not today, not next week, okay?"

A nod of understanding, then out came an expectant hand. "We're short, sorry." Frank backed into the house and began to close the door.

""RATTLE!" The flesh-eater had inserted the axe in the doorway, preventing Frank from shutting it completely. Frank opened the door wide enough to allow the axe-holding arm all the way inside, then he kicked the door shut, pinching the arm between wrist and elbow. The hissing scream started just before the axe hit the faux-wood floor. The hand formed into a fist and beat the wall. One more solid kick, and the limb fell beside the axe, the still-twitching hand seemed to be trying to grab the handle. Frank managed to lock the door as the zombie repeatedly threw himself against it.

"Should I call the police?" Gina was in the hallway with a shotgun. Behind her the young ones had stopped watching a coyote getting flattened by a steamroller in order to check out the real-live action.

"Kids! Go watch TV! It's all over!" More quietly, to Gina, he said, "Get another pound of synth-flesh. No, make it two. I'd rather he split than mess with all the damn paperwork the zigger-lovers require."

Gina came back with the flesh-substitute. She chastised him for using that slur, a corruption of Zombie re-Integration Act. "Especially in front of Davey and..."

He cut her off, it was an old argument. "Yeah, sorry." The thumping had stopped. Gun ready this time, Frank opened the door, and whistled to get the retreating figure's attention.  He threw the package at the zombie's feet, noting that only one was shod.

"Tomorrow.  When you walk by tomorrow, there will be an old pair of shoes for you by the street. Understand? Don't come in the yard, just take the shoes, keep walking."

The screaming had stopped, it, Frank saw that 'it' had been a woman at one time, held her good hand over the wound, which had already stopped bleeding. Their wounds don't heal, exactly, the zombie just keeps going until it becomes structurally unsound.  "The axe will be there too." Last year,  romero vs. krueger had established their right to own property, as long as it wasn't used to 'procure, steal, bargain for, or in any otherwise obtain human flesh for the purpose of consumption...' One last snarl and, the government package tucked under it's shortened appendage, she/it walked across the yard to the street. Two houses away, Frank saw the gardener pushing his mower with one hand as it tore off and swallowed hunks of the test-tubesteak that it held in the other.

Frank sighed. The world was changing too fast for his taste.

First there had been the accidental release of the zombie-virus, and humanity's existence had been threatened before a vaccine was invented. Then, advances in recombinant-DNA engineering had led to the development of an alternative source of food for the zombies, whose numbers were astronomical. They took to the synth-flesh readily, as it beat chasing down emaciated prey that fought back.  And slowly the bartering system had developed; was still developing, as the afternoon's events showed.

He went back to his easy chair, set the gun down on the table again. He no longer had a yen for zombie news, so he left the TV on the cartoon channel, and settled back as a car of some sort transformed into a robot of some sort. On the floor in front of him, Davey and his friend were eating from a tray of snacks Gina had brought out. Davey, transfixed by the action, absent-mindedly ate a cookie. His new pal rasped out a hideous laugh as he dipped a synth-flesh nugget in a glass of synth-blood. Yes, things are just changing too fast, he thought, and upended his can of beer until the contents had settled in  his stomach.

                 WORKBOATS PLYING THE MISSISSIPPI,
                                     and adjacent waters

I have the occasional nightmare, wherein I look in the rear wheelhouse window and see something like this
 

.....coming up behind me, moving fast.

The m/v Plovdiv is registered in Bulgaria. It is 480 feet long, 72 feet wide, and is at anchor, most likely
waiting to take on a load of American grain or soybeans.

The harbor tugs get a little rest between jobs. It usually takes three tugs to either dock a ship, or to top
one  around, so she is pointed downriver towards the Gulf of Mexico

 Crescent tugboats, waiting for a job 

 
The m/v MSC Vanessa, registered in Panama. 904 feet long, 123 feet wide. It was in Le Havre, France,
six weeks ago.

 
The Coast Guard Cutter Bonita, plying the waters of Mobile Bay

Ships hire river pilots to board the vessel and guide them up to their destination. Pilots know sections of the river
like the back of their hand, and are relieved by new pilots  as the ship moves upriver. The transfer is made using
these pilot boats, which carry the pilots, and sometimes crew, out to the vessel.

 The m/v Assault is the lead boat at Azalea fleet. Boats like this, with no second cabin, are called spider-boats
I like the logo on the stack. 

 
When we have too many barges to fit the whole tow into a lock, we need to hire a "trip boat" to bring the
second cut through the lock for us. Often, that boat is the Wendy C, pictured here.

 Get out of the picture, you missed your photo-shoot!

 
Mark, on the left, gave Ronnie a hand building our tow after Chad hurt his back.
Chad's all better now, by the way.

Good Day, All!

The mission was greenlighted. Finally, the training and the waiting was over. From far and wide
they came, furloughs canceled, family time interrupted by the call to action

 He knew what was coming would be no simple exercise; these could be his last jumping jacks ever

When the call came, they dropped whatever they were doing.....

Waved a few quick goodbyes....

From all points of the compass they flew in to the jump-off point

Each kept their fears, their doubts, to themselves

True, some lost their nerve......

.....and took the coward's way out.....

To others, it was just another payday

 But Curly knew what was at stake. More importantly, he knew the odds of coming back alive were slim.

History will record the winners and losers, I have attempted to see inside the warrior's hearts, to gauge their
commitment to the success of the mission. The steadfastness of the beat of their wings, the earnest set of the beak,
 the grim determination in their eyes, all this and more tells me that, to quote the motto of the squad, "It's All Good!"

The 1st grade was boring me to tears. "Class, take your red crayon, color the bottom half of your paper red, then write..." And Mrs. Goodhart turns to the blackboard and writes R_E_D...  "on the  top half of your page, then...

By that time, I had drawn a plane, one that only Picasso could love, and shown it to the blonde sitting next to me. She was suitably horrified, and I got an 'n' for 'needs improvement' in correctly doing assignments. Soon afterward,  however, I had started my own course of study.

Mother and I were in a store in Yakutat, Alaska. She was buying cigarettes, and I was looking at a comic book whose cover featured two monstrous aliens about to fight. There was a very anguished aryan-looking guy  between then, who obviously was trying to prevent the battle, the reason being that, in the background was a destroyed city. I sounded out the title, No  Man's Land. I got it; the monsters were using Earth as a dueling site.

"Mom, can I get this? Mother hardly glanced my way, and said yes. I put it in the bag before she saw the cover, a smart thing, it turned out.

When we got home and she saw the cover, Mom said, "I wish that I had seen this before I let you buy it." But she let me read it, and answered all my spelling questions. "Mom, what's d_e_s_t_r_u_c_t_i_o_n? What's that mean? Oh, what's P_e_r_i_l" and so on. Two weeks and several comics later (Mom was no dummy, not really prudish about comics, and she saw how fast I was learning {don't tell your Father just yet, ok?}), I was helping kids in my class with spelling and pronunciation.

Comics gave me a good head start on my classmates, who were stuck with Dick, Jane, and that damned Spot, and I suffered no ill effects. Well, I still say 'Sigh!' when I sigh, and 'ai-eeeee!' when I'm scared......

---------------------------------

"Teacher's coming!"

I quickly put my stash back in my bookbag, and pulled out my geometry book, leaned against the brick wall of Everitt Jr. High, pretending to be enraptured by scalene triangles. When Mr. Holman came around the corner and looked into the breezeway, he saw three seventh graders walking away from a tall skinny guy, me, trying to look shorter by bending his legs and hunching his shoulders, so as not to be identified as a ninth-grader with no legitimate business here, where the 7th-graders wait for the morning bell.

"Boys, come here." He said to the retreating backs. No response.

"Darrell! Mike! Talley!" his gym-filling coach voice, and the use of their names stopped them. He looked at me, the book I was holding. Geometry was not offered to 7th graders. "Stay right there," He told me, and went over to the three frightened youngsters.

"What's in the sack, Darrell?"

"Nothing."

"Looks pretty full of nothing this morning. Open it."

Holman repeated the command, and Darrell sullenly complied. Holman made such a face as he reached in the bag, one expected him to pull out a dirty diaper instead of the stack of comic books that actually appeared. Pete handed each boy a comic, and pointed towards the trash can. Talley walked over and threw an issue of Batman on top of the paper sacks and discarded tests.

"No, Talley. Pick it back up". Talley did. "Now tear it in two. Talley tore it down the middle, leaving Robin, the Boy Wonder, to fight the Joker alone. I put the book back in my bag while Holman watched Tales of Suspense #42 torn apart before Iron Man could prevent the Red Barbarian from committing world mayhem. I didn't see what issue of Archie Darrell destroyed (not that I cared for Archie, mind you), because I was sliding along the wall to the opening. Holman had grabbed the remaining mind-destroying illustrated contraband and was tearing them all at once. Even from my vantage point, which was behind and moving away, I could see that he was turning red with the effort.

I heard him yell as I rounded the corner of the building. I slowed to a stroll as I passed the main entrance, and I blended with a group of students getting off a bus. I was certain Holman did not know me; he was fairly new, and had never had me in his class. Still, I would have to avoid the 7th grade side until next week, when another teacher had morning monitor duty. That would definitely cut into my earnings, but at least I had finished transacting business before we got interrupted.

I caught up to Steve five minutes before the bell sounded. "Got somethin' for ya'."  I pulled an issue of Sgt Fury And His Howling Commandoes far enough out of my bag to let Steve see the #3 in the corner.

"Oh yeah!" We sat down on the steps. The other students blocked any adult eyes as we made our trade. Another benefit of this subterfuge occasionally a gust of wind would blow up a skirt, and from our sitting position we would see a little thigh action.

Steve handed me a dime, and reached for the comic that would complete his collection. I moved it out of his reach.

"A quarter for this one."

Steve almost whined when he asked why.

"I paid fifteen cents for this one." I lied.

The 7th-graders always sold their comics for a nickel. No one knew that but I, and I kept that fact from the 8th and 9th graders, who valued comics at a dime apiece. I would take my lunch money, 35 cents, and hit the seventh-grade traders in the morning. I would buy seven comics, keep one or two for myself, and sell the rest on the big-kid side of school. I usually ended up with my original stake, a couple of good reads, and a nickel or more in cash. Hey, in 1967, a nickel was good money to a schoolkid whose allowance was a mere dollar a week. That dollar, and the profits from my dealing, went to buy new comics, which were 12 cents apiece, a quarter for special issues and annuals.

"Twenty" he countered.

" OK, deal. Twenty, and I want you to get that copy of Spider-Man #1 from your cousin."

"Okay," he handed me the money. "But they just moved, and he can't find which box it's in."

This was why I did not mind gouging Steve. He had been stringing me along for two months, telling me how his cousin had Spider-Man #1, and would sell it to Steve for the cover price, and he would sell it to me for a small mark-up. Finally, a mutual friend told me that Steve had made the story up, but made me promise not to tell Steve. I never did, Steve are you reading this, you miserable, low-born liar? How's the family?

Stashes, secrets, busts, it all prepared me for the seventies, throughout which I successfully dealt the 'love-grass', the 'wildwood weed'. By successful, I do not mean that I got rich, but I never got busted, and I found out that chicks dig dealers. Plus, it paid for my comic habit.

I almost hate to do it, and if I had any prose or poetry worth a fig, I wouldn't do it. But I have no choice, I must blog with the material I have, I must post more pics of my favorite fowl, my most admired avian, that winged wonder, the beaked beachcomber, my nautical neighbor,......

                                                THE PELICAN

Gosh almighty, the pelicans were active yesterday. As you will see, I got some shots of the suckers diving for dinner. However, I also photographed evidence of plunder and pillage perpetrated by seagulls, leeches and parasites that they are. Put the children to bed, take your heart medicine, and read on...

Pelicans were active all day yesterday. The south wind had apparently blown in copious
schools of fish, and the feathered anglers jump-started the weekend, told their wives they'd be working late.

The building in the background is a frozen-storage warehouse, a last stop for chicken being shipped overseas.

Let the feeding begin!

 
Pelicans flip over just before they hit the water, not that you can prove it with my pictures

 
The judges gave him two 8's and a 9, not enough for the bronze medal

Here's a nice entry, wings symmetrical, feet tucked in...but why is that one pelican hiding his beak?


....and what is that seagull up to?

 
Pelicans are good at catching fish, but they have a vulnerable moment when they raise their bill and swallow,
as that is when a seagull will attempt to snatch the food right out of the pelican's beak.

 ....so the pelican keeps his catch underwater, away from the thieving little feathered rats, until he sees a chance to
work his catch down his gullet.

As a matter of fact, I am going to eat that! 

 Check out this shot. His feet have just entered the water as he touches down

Can you see why birds are believed to be the descendants of the dinosaurs?

I got a couple hours of liberty while we were standing by in Mobile. Naturally, I headed for the nearest woods..

Mobile Harbor, looking south from atop Cochrane bridge

Chickasabogue Park is 1100 acres of trails and forest, all within Mobile's city limits

A yet-to-be-unfurled fern

As much as I enjoyed the walk, when we departed later that day, I found many better photo opportunities

            Many ships have the bulbous bow seen here; they reduce drag
             and can reduce fuel consumption as well, up to 15 per cent

 The Caesar is a deepwater pipelaying ship. With its dynamic positioning capabilities, including
five propellers to keep it perfectly still, it can handle pipe-laying jobs in water almost two miles
deep, using pipe 4 feet in diameter.

 This may be the last ship of the carnival Line to depart Mobile, as they are not getting the financial
results they were expecting.

I got a good series of shots of this guy taking flight....

......And this fella came by on his way home

.....and these White Ibis made a rare appearance

That's it for now, time to drag these droopy old wings to bed

I went into a chat room, for I had some time to spare.
But the mood was dark and ugly, I got the heck outta there.
The emoticons were livid, the  font was quite irate
the text was vexed because Barack is not from any state!

The President is a commie, and a Kenyan, that's a fact
A democrat and a muslim, did you notice that he's Black?
A community organizer and Chicago gangster all in one
He taxes the rich, his wife's a bitch, but take a gander at her guns*.

Now, that was just a warm-up, the best was on its way
Did you know that rock and roll is making teens turn gay?
That rappers' native rhythms enslave our naive daughters
Scientists used hypnosis, so we'd think the globe is getting hotter

Now, you know I like to argue, and I love a good debate
I want to hear the facts, man, not why or whom you hate
If you swear, use 'their' for 'there', and climb up on a 'latter'
if you won't use commas, period, 'than' your opinion doesn't matter

Those vapor trails behind jet planes are getting out of hand
the feds use 'em for spreadin' barium across this oppressed land
Though it lacks rhyme or reason, we know it to be true,
just like we knew Saddam had nukes, and Roosevelt was a Jew.

*guns = big, muscular biceps.

One of our deckhands hurt his back, so I had to take his place on the tow as we transited Industrial Lock eastbound. Each deckhand takes a position on opposite sides of the head of the tow, and feeds, via VHF radio, a steady stream of info to the pilot. Our tow is 70 foot wide, the Lock is 75-foot wide. Each locking takes about an hour. The river is high right now, we will be dropping 11 feet in the chamber. So, if you are ready, let the locking begin.

St. Claude Bridge spans the western approach to the Lock, and opens, except during curfews, upon request of a vessel

 The bridge lifts once Industrial has opened their gates on the river side.

....once the westbound traffic clears....

 
.....the ever-alert Ronnie and I guide Jerry as he steers the tow into the Lock.

 You can see the difference in water levels as we look east

That isn't a dead animal on the deck; it's a bumper made from an old line. We drop them between the barge
and the Lock wall to minimize damage when they make contact.

 
 Pushing out of Industrial eastbound

There is almost always a crowd of onlookers, fascinated by the precision, daring,
  and just plain manliness of our occupation

Those beams are made of an artificial rubber, and can stand up to some pretty punishing hits, much better than wood

Our roses responded rather well to the improved weather....

This is our antique vining rose. I think it is the prettiest one. 

A single antique rose

 A variety of Knockout Rose, a very hardy plant, and very profuse

 Our roadside rose, the oldest one in the yard. We alternately abuse and neglect this poor fellow,
 and still he rewards us with wonderful blooms

All three of my loquats are full of fruit this year. Some, like the one on the end, are days away from picking

Do NOT talk to him until he's had his morning coffee!

How many times now have you braced
for an end to our civilized human face?
From a comet's tail or a nuke-plant failure,
to an asteroid that might strike us earlier

Is there enough butter in your larder,
did you read those books on barter?
Will you hunker in your bunker, man, 
a Bushmaster Carbine in your hands?

And no matter what cataclysm we face,
fire, plague, socialism, some angry race
Outside you'll peek, in a month, a week
and find the crisis has passed, or peaked

The sun will still shine, the air will be fine
the geiger's low count will ease all minds
that we might start gleaming or glowing
or on brand-new sea we might be rowing.

But have you pondered, what if it was worse?
No responders at all, much less a first
no army handing out clean water and tents
no TV to tell us just what it all meant?

After the disaster, and the departed are mourned
would you infect with your hatreds, the country re-born?
would you take the Constitution, make a few amends, 
Ban the Koran, people with accents and too-dark skins?

Or, when you run low on ammo and gas,
and the generator has sputtered its last
Will you find your self-reliant island  in need 
Would the neighbors of your plight take heed?

Or, will they remember a man who kept to himself 
answered smile with grimace, who helped nobody else?
Maybe you survived too well, and they would say
He was always a loner, he can just stay that way?

I got an early start on heading to the woods the other morning, so naturally, I lost time by stopping on the
Bailey Bridge to catch this sunrise shot.

They say no two are alike...

 
A  Cypress Tree plays host to some Poison Ivy

A ship in General Anchorage, south of New Orleans. It is waiting for either dock space upriver,
or for the fog to completely lift so she can top out and head downriver to the Gulf

The seemingly perennial widening of the Huey P. Long Bridge proceeds apace, as they say

 
Talk about a skyhook!

Didn't know that seagulls fielded a formation flying team, did you?

 
It's getting late, go home!

• "Termites, all right. Wood's softer than oatmeal."
• "Would you step out of the car, please?"
• "Bob, times are hard, and...."
• "Nurse, call Dr. West over here, he'll want to see this!"
• "You'd better sit down."
• "I hear it, too, but it isn't raining."
• "Honey, we need to talk"
• "A reporter from 60 minutes is here to see you."
• "Guess who's going to be on Springer next week?"
• "The IRS doesn't joke, sir."

Seven Pelicans came floating by my wheelhouse window this afternoon, and boy, did that tick me off! Why? Because, of course, they only do that sort of thing when their x-ray vision tells indicates that my camera is turned off or downstairs. One fellow did not get the memo, however, and while he didn't brush the window pane with his wingtip, he did get in close enough for this shot.....