How to catch a lizard

Sceloporus occidentalis; How to catch a lizard.

While in Africa with cousin Ty, he showed me a jury-rigged lizard catcher he made from a long, pliable twig and a piece of dental floss. I was impressed. I didn’t realize how much better it could be.

Ty took a group of us on a lizard-catching hike in the Malibu hills. Standing in a patch of tall Mediterranean rye grass, he plucked a suitable specimen: long, soft, and green. He explained the importance of stripping off all the leaves downward, so they’d leave the stalk smooth.

How to catch a lizard

Ty looped the end of the grass and made a tiny slip knot. He bent to help almost-9-year-old Dax strip and knot his stalk. As he turned to find a lizard to catch, I wondered how long it would take to find one. But Ty already had his eye on a beauty. Like thiefhunting and mushroom hunting, you only need to train your eyes.

Hot to catch a lizard. Ty strips a single stalk of grass.
Ty strips a single stalk of grass.

It was a blue-bellied western fence lizard, Sceloporus occidentalis, on the wall of a small building at the trail head. Ty extended his long lizard-catcher with a steady hand, slipped the loop over the creature’s head, and jerked it a little—not too hard.

The lizard came off the wall and dangled at the end of the grass, but not without a fight. It wiggled and kicked wildly, so that it was impossible to photograph. We all laughed, amazed to see success on the first attempt.

How to catch a lizard: The lizard doesn't seem to see the stalk of grass, or even mind being hit on the head with it.
The lizard doesn't seem to see the stalk of grass, or even mind being hit on the head with it. Numerous times.

Ty reached to steady the lizard, but instead of standing nicely on his palm, it bit into his flesh and dangled by its jaw. Ty worked it free as he explained the rules of lizard-catching. Don’t hurt the lizards. Release them exactly where they were caught. Continue reading

Humor in the book business

The nine-year-long consideration.
The nine-year-long consideration.

Is it humorous, or just pathetic? I got a letter in the mail this week from a literary agent. His letter was dated and postmarked April 2009. He was replying to a query I wrote in June of 2000. Yes, almost nine years ago.

My book was published in 2003. Lucky for me, I didn’t need the Regal Literary agency. But I can’t help wondering about other writers who hope for, or have, representation by Regal Literary. How sloppy are they? Even if they don’t lose mail, or tend to reply after long delays, what about their judgment? Or their attention to detail? Did they fail to notice the date on my letter? Did they decide “better late than never”? Did they have a very large slush pile to plow through? Or were they agonizing about how to break the bad news to me.

I wonder, too, about my SASE. I recognized it immediately: my expensive, 100% rag, gray felt envelope, my own return address in my favorite font, favorite color of laser-printed toner. All designed to impress, and still beautiful today. But what about the stamp? The first class stamp I put on that envelope so long ago was worth only 33 cents then. A letter costs 42 cents to mail now. Still, the letter arrived, and without postage due.

When I lived in the Bahamas, I received a letter bearing a two-year-old postmark and the rubber-stamped message: “Found in supposedly empty equipment.” And today, as I write this, I see a story on a postcard arriving after 47 years, good as new, except for the fact that both sender and intended recipient are dead. In the case of Regal Literary, though, they chose to reply after nine years. WTF?

bv-long

Freak accidents (involving projectiles and trash cans)

pic21

1. Traipsing through another airport—where were we, passing through Chicago, maybe?—we mounted a mile-high escalator, going up. (Which is the only way escalators should go, really, otherwise, you’re on a de-escalator? lowerer? why not just moving staircase?) The escalator was at least 100 feet long, maybe more. A man got on the parallel one beside us, going down. Somehow, somewhy, he had his roll-on in front of him, or beside him, and it tipped over, extended-handle first, and shot down the long length of the metal stairs, picking up speed. As he passed us, the man hunched his shoulders in guilty, apologetic mystery.

Lucky no one else was on that escalator.

Lucky no one was passing by the bottom of the escalator. When the suitcase hit bottom, it shot across the shiny floor like a freight train, like a forty-pound bullet, hit a trash can across the hall, and knocked it over.

pic31

2. My sister bought a little purse-sized umbrella one recent rainy day in New York. Unwrapping it in the rain, she must have inadvertently pressed its release button. The umbrella became a lethal weapon. Its handle fired off like a missile, flying right between a nearby man and woman. My sister ran over to apologize to them, though neither was touched, and dumped the launcher into the nearest trash can.

pic11

3. Bob and I were driving from Florence to Naples. We pulled off the highway for a quick lunch. In a bit of a hurry, we were soon ready to continue our journey. Wait, I said. let me get rid of this garbage. I gathered up some papers and drink cups and walked it over to a trash can. Lucky delay.

Back on the highway, traffic after only a minute, then stopped. Cars began to creep forward. There were shoes on the road. Lots of them, sprinkled evenly over the surface. Shoeboxes, too. Soon we came to the accident. A car had just fallen off the top level of a car-hauling truck. The car driving behind the truck crashed into the fallen car. A delivery truck next in line swerved to avoid the crash, but rolled, spilled it’s load of new shoes, hit the guard rail of the overpass it was on, and lodged cantilevered over the road below. The driver went through the windshield and lay on a grassy hill, below.

4. Close to the same time that the car fell off the car-carrying truck, an escalator at Rome’s Tiburtina train station collapsed, killing a rider, and an elevator in a Texas hospital malfunctioned, decapitating a doctor. We tend to trust things like car-carrying trucks, escalators, elevators, and automatic umbrellas. Should we worry more?
©copyright 2000-2009. All rights reserved. Bambi Vincent

Golden silk orb weaver spider

Golden silk orb weaver spider
Golden silk orb weaver spider, 4-5 inches toe-to-toe.
Golden silk orb weaver spider, 4-5 inches toe-to-toe.

Mala Mala and Kruger National Park, South Africa— Spiders were an everpresant danger to a number of our safari group, to the extent that they’d rather lose a leopard we were tracking than drive through the web of a golden silk orb weaver spider. Conversely, other members of the group designated one of our four Range Rovers “the bug car,” devoting significant time to examining insect and reptile life under rocks and logs.

The golden silk orb weaver spider

The golden silk orb weaver spider spins its web between two trees or shrubs—seemingly every two trees or shrubs in the bush. So plowing through its webs was unavoidable on our off-road hunts. Our vehicles, lacking windshields, had only an antenna to break the webs—and our faces, of course.

Female golden silk orb weaver spider's web catches a praying mantis. Male comes running...for dinner? Good example of sexual dimorphism: large female, small male.
Female weaver's web catches a praying mantis. Male comes running...for dinner? Good example of sexual dimorphism: large female, small male.

The screams and wails of the fearful ones were a contrast to their calm excitement five feet from hungry lions, a yard from a hunting leopard. One of the arachnophobes easily handled a six-inch millipede, and tasted a fried grub. I guess for some, spiders are just directly hot-wired to the ick response, and no logic applies.

The golden orb spider is a large, striking arachnid that spins an impressive web of strong yellow silk. Its main bridge line can span 30 or more feet, and feels like fishing line. African kids wrap and roll it into yellow rope bracelets.

Red bill quilia trapped in a golden silk orb weaver spider web.
Red bill quilia trapped in a golden orb web.

Twice, we came upon a bird caught in a web, flapping helplessly. Caving in to pleas from some of our group, our rangers, two different ones, freed the birds. Yes, they’d otherwise be spider dinner.

The web is so strong and sticky that fishermen use it to make nets. They bend a branch into a teardrop shape and wave it back and forth through the golden silk orb weaver’s web.

Despite those who scream eek, we drove through hundreds of webs. Only a few spiders got into the vehicle. None clamped onto anyone’s face. None climbed into anyone’s shirt. Etc.

Instead, most of the victimized spiders ran into the shrubs at one end of their bridge lines. They would then eat the silk of their ruined webs and spin new ones with recycled material within hours.

See some images of fabric made from the undyed silk of the golden silk orb weaver spider.

Golden silk orb weaver spider; Spiders seeming to hang in mid-air. The webs are easy to walk into.
Spiders seeming to hang in mid-air. The webs are easy to walk into.
Golden silk orb weaver spider; Photo by Josh Oakley
Photo by Josh Oakley
Golden silk orb weaver spider
Strong, sticky, yellow web silk.
Golden silk orb weaver spider
Scariness in proportion to size.

©copyright 2000-present. All rights reserved. Bambi Vincent

How to cut down a tree; Requiem for a tree

How to cut down a tree
How to cut down a tree
My brother-in-law in a treebone.

[dropcap letter=”I”]t was a mesquite, 35 or so feet tall, graceful in an awkward way. Craving light, the poor thing crooked its trunk this way and that, having been stupidly planted under a roof and beside a wall. I’ve liked the tree a lot all these years, for its lush green foliage and shade—rare commodities in Las Vegas.

For various reasons, it had to go. And there was only one man for the job.

My brother-in-law, the self-proclaimed Swedish Okie and country bumpkin whom I’ve written about before, single-handedly brought the tree down.

Now you can’t just take a buzz saw to the trunk of a tree in close quarters and yell “timber!” There’s no safe place for the tree to fall, and it’s weight is enormous, full of life juices and wearing a lush canopy of green. There are windows in the proximity, fences, landscapes, tiles, other trees, all of which would suffer damage.

How to cut down a tree

Brother-in-law started with the canopy, removing all the light branches and a great deal of weight, using a hand saw. He did this while standing on a 10-foot ladder he had strapped onto a 16-foot ladder. Each branch was tied, cut, and lowered to the ground. Bob threw them over the wall. I bundled. When I began, the mound of branches was taller than I am. When I’d tied up a dozen bundles, the mountain of branches was just as high.

How to cut down a tree
Half the canopy, bundled, bones behind.
How to cut down a tree
The pulley system: easy with the small limbs.
How to cut down a tree
Brother-in-law’s country house, still under construction.
How to cut down a tree
A ladder tied to a ladder.
How to cut down a tree
Former mesquite. Future fire.

When it came to the hefty limbs, the lumberjack needed an assistant. The tree was to be dismantled from the top down in bite-sized chunks. A limb was tied, and its rope wound around a lower piece of trunk, pulley-fashion, and Bob was to keep pressure on the rope until it was cut through. When the new log was free, Bob lowered it gently to the ground with the rope. Brilliant system.

My brother-in-law knows all this because, like any good Swede who has the time and money, he has a country house. That is, he built a house in the forest outside of Stockholm. After clearing the land. Most of it he did himself. He’s still working on it, bit by bit, every summer.

The trunk of the mesquite was sawn into 23 gorgeous logs.

Something seems a little missing from my front courtyard now, but only a little. Other than the trunk, the tree’s glory was above the roof. I miss it anyway.

©copyright 2000-present. All rights reserved. Bambi Vincent

Fooling a monkey

An entertainer friend of mine practiced magic as a kid. One day he went to Busch Gardens amusement park with his family. There he saw an organ grinder with a monkey trained to take coins from people and put them into a cup. My friend, a proud young magician back then, said with a wink to his family “Watch this!” He offered the monkey a coin, but palmed the coin—made it disappear in front of the monkey’s eyes. The monkey went berserk. It shrieked and started slapping the child-magician’s hand. It kept on screeching and looking around wildly until the poor kid, surprised and frightened by the monkey’s reaction, gave up the coin.

Foreigners in Las Vegas

Claes Munthe
Brother-in-law
Brother-in-law

My Swedish brother-in-law came to visit us in Las Vegas. While Bob and I were off on a trip, he decided to upgrade our garden. He drove our car to the local nursery to buy some plants. As he approached the nursery, driving slowly, the car was suddenly rushed by a gang of shouting Mexicans. My brother-in-law went cold, he told us later: cold sweat, pounding heart, racing thoughts. The Mexicans were all shouting as they surrounded the car. “If I stop, it’s all over,” my brother-in-law thought, “I’ll lose the car.” So he inched forward, knuckles white on the wheel, staring straight ahead.

The Mexicans fell back and my brother-in-law turned into the nursery, parking safely. He leaned back and let out a huge breath, wondering how this could happen, or almost happen, in Las Vegas, in broad daylight, in a busy street. He sat in the car for a few minutes, gathering his composure. As another car approached the nursery, he watched the scene repeat itself from a comfortable distance, and realized that these were men seeking work. Choose me!, they must have been shouting, in competition with each other. Let me dig your hole!

He now goes into hysterics remembering his misinterpretation of the incident.

It’s not for nothing that my brother-in-law calls himself a Swedish Okie and a country bumpkin. This is the man we brought to a Chinese restaurant once, who scrunched up his face and pulled “some trash” out of his mouth when eating a fortune cookie.

Video surveillance

Who’s looking at you when you buy a coffee? It’s creepy, when you know all they can see.

At the World Game Protection Conference in Las Vegas earlier this year, where Bob was a keynote speaker, I saw SmartConnect‘s live demo of actual video surveillance. The client we spied on was a coffee chain store at McCarren Airport. No surprise that I saw the employees and customers, but I also saw an image of each customer’s itemized receipt—as it was generated. I could see all stats pertaining to each transaction in real time, as if I were there. Did the cashier apply an employee discount to the sale? Did she leave the cash drawer open for more than x seconds? Just how many employee discounts did that cashier register today, anyway?

It was all there, laid out on one big screen, along with multiple video images of the employees and customers as they interacted. On a giant plasma display with almost life-size images, it truly felt like peeking over the shoulder of the employees.

Release gripes

Thanks for the invitation, don\'t mind if I do.I did not intend to dwell on random negativity here, but when I came across this sign a few days ago, I took it as an open invitation. So here are a couple of gripes aimed against a new trend in corporate mentality.

1. “Yes, we owe our customers money, but make it difficult and they’ll go away.” This seems to be a growing, despicable, yet profitable attitude. Real examples:

a. Rebates. You send in all required forms and original box parts, but no rebate arrives. After many months, you are given endless runarounds, required to make endless phone calls, and send more letters re-documenting your claim. This has happened to us more than once. It really isn’t worth it. And who has time to fight for the principle?

b. Airlines. Due to mechanical problems, a flight is canceled and we are told to book a hotel. Send in the receipt with this form, and we will be reimbursed this (minimal) amount, and this (insufficient) sum for taxi. Took nine months of letters and phone calls to get our lousy $120.

c. Insurance. A mistake was made by a pharmacy, which resulted in the repeated denial of claims. Send in a form, document everything with originals etc., and the claims are denied again, except a check for $8.11, and instructions on how to appeal. Appeal. Denied. Write more letters, get another $150. Write more letters, get a promise of payment. This situation, ongoing for six months now, has not played itself out.

2. Front desk stoneface. I don’t know this, but I believe there must be some sort of staff training program making the rounds which trains front desk and customer service employees how to be helpless. They do not have access to billing records, a supervisor is not available, they will pass along the complaint, etc. Worse, I believe they are taught to document everything in reports, in which they are told to include random generic character attacks, in order to cast aspersions and denigrate the customer, the better to CYA. I have fresh evidence of this theory, too. They try to sidestep responsibility by accusing the complainant of spurious, irrelevant minutia. What happened to “the customer is always right”?

Getting used to robot speech

I’ve been listening to essays by George Orwell. Terry, a voracious reader, devoured Orwell after Proust and Vidal, and he’s now working on Paul Bowles. I downloaded some Orwell essays here, but I find that when I’m in front of my computer (which is a lot), I’m either working or making use of the internet, rather than reading material safely stowed on my hard drive. I can read those documents any time. Somehow, though, I don’t.

Then I ran across this hint, which makes it a cinch to convert text to an iTunes audiobook. The hint contains a downloadable script that practically installs itself, then shows up under the Mac’s Services menu. (Although this hint is for Leopard only, it can be tweaked for Tiger.) I’m sure my programmer friends are privately chiding me, but I’m glad that someone wrote and provided a script to make the text-to-audiobook conversion dead simple.

With the stories on my iPod, they’re sure to be listened to, and planes are the ideal place. I can only read so many hours in the dry air of airports and airplanes, before my contacts start sticking to my eyeballs. Right after converting a few files, I flew to Ireland.

At first, the pleasure of listening was only about half the pleasure of reading. I expected that for two reasons. First is that I prefer to read good writing, linger over it, reread lovely phrases. But okay, there’s deep-seated pleasure in being read to, too. I’ve listened to a few audio books lately, all read by their authors, and I enjoyed them, though more for their stories than their writing.

Listening to synthesized speech is not the same as being read to by an author. The lauded new Leopard voice Alex is synthesized and, though his diction is not bad, Alex lacks style, grace, sensitivity, timing, mellifluence, drama, and every other quality that makes George Guidall, my sister’s uncle-in-law, an award-winning reader of audiobooks (more than 800 books to his credit). But…

I got used to Alex’s style. And though it’s not like reading, nor the same as being read to, it’s better than osmosis. It’s better than not knowing the texts at all. It’s like the Cliff Notes version, but delivered slowly, a fleeting association to reunite with later. Maybe.

And now, after listening to a few more essays, I’m happy enough with Alex. I found that slowing his speech by about 15% improves the experience. I’ve converted a 13,000-word article on cybercrime to digest on my next flight.

Later: The cybercrime article was good, but I didn’t listen to it on a plane. I listened during a 2+ hour taxi ride from the south of England to London. It was too bumpy to read, too much strobe effect from the shade of trees on a rare sunny day. The cybercrime article, from Wired, was an hour and 22 minutes long. Perfect for the drive.

And: My computer suddenly lost all input and output audio devices. After a little troubleshooting, I removed the SpeakToItunesAudiobook.service from my system and all’s well again. If that was not an anomaly, I will just drop the service in when I need it.

Lastly: In his essay “How the Poor Die,” I was delighted to hear Orwell mention Axel Munthe’s The Story of San Michele.  Axel Munthe was a great-grand-uncle of Bob’s, and The Story of San Michele is a great grand-read.