With Twitter Abuzz About Keys of Bees, 'Twas Time to Channel Stevie and McCartney

This scientific fact has recently been making the rounds on Twitter: “Bees normally buzz in the key of A, but when they’re tired, they buzz in the key of E.”

No, I neither own a piano nor play the piano—but that didn’t stop me from tickling the Ebony and Ivories about this bee-musing fact and writing a song that goes a little something...like this:

Every bee that I can see
Buzz together in the very same key
Side by side in their hive or swarming, oh lord, they’re after me

We all know that bees bring the news in Sacramento
There is good and bad in every bee
Some are humble, some will bumble
But they won’t bother us if we mind our own beeswax, that’s a fact

Every queen in Ulee’s apiary
Could breed drones for a ten-pound beard of bees
Side by side in their hive or swarming, oh lord, they’re after me

We all know that bees buzz in “A” ’less their lids are low
There is sweet nectar in every bee
Some make honey, some cause you fright
“E” is the key when bees don’t have the might to take flight


Every bee has got no knees
It’s a phrase that was made up falsely
If Sting got stung, the bee’d die and he’d cry profusely
John Belushi was killer singing “I’m a King Bee”

Every bee that I can see
Buzzing together in harmony
Ruth Buzzi so funny
As angry Gladys Ormphby
Ruth Buzzi socked it to me
When whacking dirty, old Arte

(Fade)

(Image of Bumblebee Man copyright Fox Broadcasting; image of John Belushi copyright NBC.)

Carl Spackler's Lifetime of Learning to Think Like an Animal

This U.S. Department of Agriculture bulletin was published in January 1940. No wonder the United States was so unprepared for Pearl Harbor and the Second World War: While the Axis powers were running rampant across Europe, Asia, and Africa, Franklin D. Roosevelt’s administration worried about relatively harmless mammals that, although endangering American lawns and golf courses with their burrowing, certainly posed less threat to democracy than Hitler, Hirohito, and the other guy.

Geopolitical commentary aside, I believe that very well might be little Carl Spackler learning greenskeeping tips from his father. Carl’s age is never indicated in Caddyshack, but he could well be in his mid-forties. A life of golf-course maintenance in the unforgiving sun and liberal indulgence with northern California sinsemilla cannonballed by white wine likely has weathered Carl beyond his years, so being the youngster pictured on this 1940 cover is not beyond the realm of possibility.

Sure, as assistant greenskeeper at Bushwood Country Club, Carl’s primary task is to keep the course free of the destructive gopher, but its burrowing brethren, the mole, poses just as much threat to the American way of pretending to be athletic—so don’t think for one minute that the mole isn’t also Varmint Cong, even if it doesn’t prefer dancing to folk-pop as much as its tunneling counterpart. Thus, there is no reason that an experienced groundskeeper such as the man pictured on the “Mole Control” cover—as well as his apprentice son—wouldn’t also know how to deal with the pesky gopher that decades later would plague Bushwood and its upper-crust members.

True, one would think that a greenskeeper training since the 1940s wouldn’t still be six years from the position of head greenskeeper in 1980, but who knows how long Carl spent in Tibet caddying for the Dalai Lama as well as practicing to become a Cinderella-story Masters champion, himself? And let’s not forget that Carl devoted a lot of time to broadening his education on chinch bugs, manganese, and nitrogen, not to mention inventing and registering his own kind of hybrid grass. So even though he’s got that going for him—which clearly is nice—Carl’s career development might be lagging...

Au revoir, mole...

(Image of Carl Spackler copyright Warner Brothers Pictures.)     

Ian Anderson, My Friend, Is Blowin' in the Wind...

Hurricane Sandy's wind is really beginning to howl through the trees right now...and I'm thinking that an accurate gauge of hurricane strength would be how the wind would affect Ian Anderson, were he standing outside, playing his flute in his trademark one-legged stance. For example, if he gets blown over, the wind is indeed of Category 1 force. In fact, I propose the following Ian Anderson–based grading system for hurricane-force winds:

Category 1: Ian Anderson, in one-legged, flute-playing stance, blown over but able to retain place once back on both legs.

Category 2: Ian Anderson blown over and rolled across parking lot.

Category 3: Ian Anderson either blown into an open dumpster or smashed against it with force enough for the thud to be heard at a distance of 100 yards.

Category 4: Wind powerful enough to shear Ian Anderson's long, wild, minstrel-in-the-gallery locks down to the businessman-like, salmon-farming buzzcut he has donned since the late 1990s.

Category 5: Ian Anderson taken airborne by wind and never seen again; flute also taken airborne, and force of wind coarsing through it causes the flute to play the intro to "Nothing Is Easy" while it, too, disappears from view.

Another excellent gauge of Sandy's power would have been to put Gary Sandy ("Andy Travis" of WKRP in Cincinnati fame) outside during the storm and observe if Sandy's wind had any adverse effect on his perfect, unmussable hair. Of course, this Gary Sandy–based measurement would be pertinent only for Hurricane Sandy.

Or a future Hurricane Gary.

The National Weather Service would do well to adopt these measurements...

(Photo of Gary Sandy copyright CBS.)

Knowing: The Rabbits Are Coming, Doomsday! Doomsday!

So I watched some of the Nicolas Cage science-fiction thriller, Knowing, last night. I saw it in the theater, in 2009, and really liked the film’s concept, although I thought it bogged down into the formulaic traps of many recent end-of-the-world movies. But last night, I noticed something that eluded me upon first viewing: Even though the whispering aliens provided for humanity to survive—our species is still doomed.

As shown in the last scene, on the “Eden” planet, there are about half a dozen ships departing after dropping off their presumed pair of children. So, including Caleb and Abby, there are maybe five other pairs of “Adam and Eves” to rekindle humankind. (Even if there are more ships across the planet, and thus more pairs of children, you will see that this is essentially irrelevant...)

We are doomed because the aliens foolishly—and without the foresight one would assume superior beings to possess—allowed Caleb and Abby to bring that pair of rabbits with them. Forget that the rabbits are likely no more than an afterthought to the aliens, and merely an on-screen symbol of the fertility that these children will one day need to regenerate the human race—we all know the rabbit’s well-deserved reputation for rapid breeding.

According to Dana Krempels, PhD, of the University of Miami’s Department of Biology, a single female rabbit can birth up to 14 bunnies. Dr. Krempels then goes on to base her estimates (http://www.bio.miami.edu/hare/scary.html) of rabbit reproduction on just three female offspring (rather than at least six to eight of that litter likely being female), using, again, a very conservative time frame of six months (a female produces a litter one month after impregnation and, in contrast to Krempels’ six-month parameter, can become pregnant again almost immediately after giving birth).

By the end of the first year on planet “Eden,” there would be approximately 37 female rabbits. By the end of Year Two, more than 1300 rabbits. Within three years, more than 50,000—and Caleb and Abby haven’t yet even reached their teens...

So...keeping in mind that Caleb and Abby—and, likely, the rest of the young Adam and Eves—won’t reach childbearing age for at least five years after arriving on “Eden” (probably longer), the rabbit population will be growing exponentially, with no competition from humans. By the time that each pair of “Adam and Eves” can produce one child—making, at most, a half-dozen offspring across this “Eden” planet—rabbits will outnumber humans by the tens of millions, and, as you can see from Dr. Krempels’ Year 6 and Year 7 estimates, the population will further explode into the tens of billions, with no end in sight. The ecosystem will be overrun, and eventually destroyed, by rabbits, forcing humanity into extinction. Even if the kids learn how to construct rabbit traps and acquire a taste for hassenpfeffer, they won’t put a dent in this leporine ascendancy. Besides, enjoying such dominance, rabbits will probably grow to gargantuan proportions, as in Night of the Lepus, and begin to feed on the humans. Regardless, all traces of human existence would be gone from this rabbit-packed planet in a handful of years.

This nightmare scenario was literally drawn for us in 1946 by Looney Tunes. In The Big Snooze (Dir. B. Clampett; Reg. U.S. Pat. Off.), Elmer Fudd’s serene dream is invaded by Bugs Bunny, wreaking his rabbit-based havoc. We can see the sleeping Elmer physically shaking in distress as, in his dream, he is trampled by a parade of neon rabbits. Within the dream, Elmer laments, “Ziwwions and twillions of wabbits! Where are they all coming fwom?”

At an adding machine, the quick-witted, and quick-breeding, Bugs retorts, “From me, doc! I’m multiplyin’, see? I’m multiplyin’!”

Soon after, Elmer, bound to railroad tracks, cries in a-go-NEE as he’s run over by the “Super Chief,” a seemingly endless train of rabbits.

Like the 50-year-old page of apparently random numbers that serves as humanity’s warning of its doom in Knowing, The Big Snooze, itself, serves as a warning for those to be spared in Knowing. Of course, Caleb and Abby might be too young to ever have seen The Big Snooze—and certainly too young to have grasped its message even if they had—but John Koestler (Nicolas Cage’s character), like anyone of his generation, almost certainly had seen The Big Snooze at some point in his life and, being a professor of astrophysics at MIT, unquestionably should have understood its dire warning of a race that humanity simply cannot win.

Thanks for nothing, benevolent aliens!

(Images from Knowing copyright Summit Entertainment; images from Looney Tunes copyright Warner Brothers.)

Why Wait for the Shake?

One never knows how one will react in moments of great stress or risk. The meek might summon unanticipated strength, and the strong may cower like a frightened dog. Either way, character is often defined at such flash points.

Just such an experience found me today when the 5.8 Virginia earthquake that shook much of the East Coast rumbled through the Philadelphia area—the first true earthquake I, and most in this neck of America, have ever endured.

I was sitting at my desk when the temblor struck. Truth be told, I was looking at porn on the computer and in the midst of self-satisfaction when the ground began shaking. Feeling the floor move and seeing the walls sway, I realized almost instantly that an earthquake was taking place. It felt a lot like when I suffered vertigo ten years ago, my sense of balance once again awry and my body momentarily helpless. Hardly in a state to rush out of my apartment building—what with my manhood exposed—I felt no such compulsion anyway. Rather than overcome by fear, I remained completely calm, as the curious novelty of the moment suppressed any trace of panic. Frankly, all I could think about once the shuddering ceased was finishing what I started. Why should plate tectonics rob me of an orgasm? Besides, if my death is imminent, I can't think of a better way to go out of this world than blowing my top to high-resolution pics of a nude, glistening Ariana Jollee spread-eagle at pool-side. Would it really make a hell of a difference that my lifeless body will be uncovered from the rubble with my pants open and my dust-covered pride hanging out? That I got right back to business instead of checking for damage, turning on the news, or escaping a potentially crumbling structure probably doesn't speak to my legacy, but I was operating on primal urge—and I remain steadfast that I did the right thing.

So much so that, like taking shelter in a basement during a tornado, perhaps I have proven that masturbation is the safest course of action during an earthquake.

Frankly, I found that the shaking so added to the pleasure—perhaps in a fashion similar to how autoerotic asphyxiation reputedly heightens orgasm—that I'm now wondering if it might pay to move to a more earthquake-prone country, such as Indonesia or Turkey, to enjoy this newfound enhancement more regularly.

Death From Above: No Laughing Matter

This month marks the twenty-fifth anniversary of Dr. Peter Barss’ landmark paper, “Injuries due to Falling Coconuts,” published in Journal of Trauma 1984;24(11):990–991. Although this paper received an “Ig Nobel Award” from the Annals of Improbable Research in 2001, its “ignominy” should not overshadow the fact that it stands as possibly the most recent literature to deal with this isolated, yet dangerous, phenomenon. Sadly, the very antiquity of Dr. Barss’ article reflects the medical discipline’s unfortunate neglect of such tragic injuries.

As Dr. Barss noted, considering the Cocos nucifera’s normal height (24–35 m) and its fruit’s weight (1–4 kg unhusked), a coconut falling at 32 ft/s² can exert a crushing force exceeding 1 metric ton.¹ With an annual yield of anywhere from 50 to 80 nuts per tree,² it is evident that to stand in the general proximity of a coconut tree is to stand in a death zone. Personally, I wouldn’t get within half a mile of a coconut grove without donning a steel army helmet and the very latest in foam-insulated crash pads. It is a wonder that Pacific Islanders have managed to survive for millennia under such potentially lethal bombardment. Indeed, anecdotal evidence from combat soldiers at Bougainville states that the devastating effect of coconuts plunging on the enemy had as much to do with taking the island as did armored infantry. (“It was like the Japanese were sitting in an upside-down minefield,” recalled one GI. “They never had a chance.”³)

My concern is that the potential increase in coconut-related injuries and fatalities since Dr. Barss’ paper has yet to be addressed. The present population of Papua New Guinea—a segment of which on whom Dr. Barss based his data and case studies—is now 5.67 million inhabitants.⁴ Furthermore, the current total population of Oceania is approximately 31 million.⁵ Dr. Barss’ 2.5% rate of hospital admissions in Papua New Guinea for coconut-related injuries2 may seem trivial at first glance, but when extrapolated across the whole of Oceania, a region thick with coconut palms, the numbers of potential dead and injured become alarming—even pandemic.

This is not a hazard indigenous only to a far-flung corner of the world. The southern and western United States, of course, is rife with coconut trees, as is much of the Western Hemisphere in general. Transplanted coconut palms have even become abundant in such unlikely locales as Ireland, continental Europe, and Canada. Untold millions now live in close proximity to the coconut palm’s murderous canopy.

We stand at a critical juncture in the treatment and prevention of coconut-related head trauma. Perhaps for the first time in the history of medicine, we not only possess the understanding of such a natural threat to human existence, but also hold at our disposal the armamentarium to effectively strike at the root of this threat.

But to do so, we need more research into the mechanics of free-falling coconuts and their high-speed impaction into the human body. We need more awareness so that government offices will fund these studies, and so that they will educate the public as to the dangers of the apparently tranquil coconut. We need warning signs adequately lining coconut groves and, at bare minimum, first-aid stations close enough to treat unfortunate victims.

We can render nil a lethal threat in our lifetime—a medical rarity for any era. We can save untold lives and preserve life for those few who still fall prey to coconut-inflicted tragedy. But we cannot do so if we allow twenty-five years to elapse between studies and permit such threats to fade into the background until wide-scale calamity illustrates our ignorance. Let ours be the generation that stamps out once and for all the carnage of the coconut.

REFERENCES
1. Barss P. Injuries due to falling coconuts. J Trauma. 1984;24:990–991.
2. Chan E, Elevitch CR. Specific profiles for Pacific Island agroforestry: Cocos nucifera (coconut). April 2006, v.2.1. Available at: http://www.agroforestry.net/tti/Cocos-coconut.pdf. Accessed November 2, 2009.
3. Franks M. Personal communication, June 2009.
4. WorldAtlas.Com facts and figures. Available at: http://www.graphicmaps.com/webimage/countrys/oceania/pg.htm. Accessed November 2, 2009.
5. Caldwell J, Missingham B, Marck J. The population of Oceania in the second millennium. Paper from the Australian National University, Canberra. Canberra, Australia, September 26, 2001; p 1. Available at: http://htc.anu.edu.au/pdfs/Oceania%20manuscript.pdf. Accessed November 2, 2009.

(Article cover page copyright The Williams & Wilkins Co.)

For the Stick, It Should've Been Automatic

We ate dinner last night at a Red Lobster in Long Branch, NJ. I had parked the car in the only available space in the main lot: at the end of a row, where stood some large bushes on the adjacent curb. Several of the bushes' branches protruded to within about a foot of the car. Upon returning to the car after our meal, I discovered a four-inch-long stick insect perched motionless on the driver's-side window.

Over aeons, stick insects have, of course, evolved as masters of camouflage. Most species' primary defense is to look so much like a twig that hungry predators never detect them. Obviously, it's worked well for millions of years.

Needless to say, I was surprised to find a stick insect on the car window—a surface that offers no visual protection and fully exposes such a large insect to both predator and perturbed human. Now, I have respect for life and gently shooed the creature off the window. But many people—especially after the adrenalin rush of cracking open a crustacean—would have reacted harshly and swatted, slammed, or squashed the stick insect to death. Frankly, the stick insect's behavior belied its reputation for cleverness, and it was lucky to have survived such a stupid decision.

In all fairness, a stick insect possesses a brain of, maybe, half a nanogram—but such foolish behavior should be an instinctual no-no. Like opening an umbrella stand in the middle of the Sahara...it's something you just don't do. So even though they have carved out a highly successful ecological niche across the ages, it's no wonder that stick insects have failed to evolve beyond their twiggy exoskeleton: they're simply not that bright. According to fossil records, stick insects have been around for at least 23 million years, so you'd figure that, following the normal pattern of evolution, they would have made something of themselves and, by now, at least resemble trees...or have even progressed toward something of higher intelligence—I daresay, perhaps even a bipedal form. I'm no genetic entomologist, but a simple change of diet from leaves to meat would have—as in early humans—enlarged their microscopic brain and put stick insects on a much more rewarding evolutionary course. Even noshing on a katydid once in a while could have made all the difference. Is biophysiological improvement so unpalatable? Instead of being stuck as the pansies of the bug world—playing dead or remaining perfectly still whenever a predator enters the neighborhood—stick insects perhaps could now be our evolutionary counterpart:Although this theory* has met with criticism ranging from "That's impossible" to "Stop calling, you idiot!" we've all seen what a switch to a protein-rich meat diet did for Robert DeNiro in Raging Bull. You don't get the Oscar for Best Actor by eating privet leaves.

*For a detailed analysis of this theory, see Why the Steak at Red Lobster Is Pretty Good and Other Thoughts: A Text Message to the Corporate Office (personal communication; September 6, 2009).

But that's not all for the animal kingdom.

I further posit that the llama—long believed South American in origin—in fact migrated to South America from Wales. My proof? Did you ever look at a map of Wales? The double-l—so characteristic of the llama—is found all over the Welsh nation: Llandrindod Wells, Llangollen, Llandovery, Llangefni, and at least 267 other towns and villages. True, the digraph ll as the first two letters of a word or place-name is also charateristic of Spanish and several of Spain's regional dialects, and a multitude of villages beginning with Ll are found throughout South America, but Spanish and related dialects have only been spoken in South America since the arrival of the Conquistadors, whereas the llama has been roaming South America for several million years.












So how did the llama migrate from Wales to South America? Similar to Beringia, a land bridge between Wales and the east coast of South America may have existed during ice ages, when sea levels dropped dramatically. Admittedly, my calculations show that for the extreme distance between Wales and South America to have been exposed, the Atlantic Ocean would have had to dissipate to the volume of a half-gallon container of Deer Park, but I may just be remembering the tables of measures incorrectly.

Further supporting this claim is the not-insignificant fact that Episode 9 of Monty Python's Flying Circus begins with "The Llama Sketch," in which John Cleese sings (in Spanish) about the virtues of the llama, backed by Eric Idle and Terry Jones. Terry Jones (on right) is from Colwyn Bay, Wales. That the three Pythons are singing in Spanish about the llama may be irony far over the heads of anyone not in the know.

And if that weren't enough evidence, the final twenty seconds of the opening credits of Monty Python and the Holy Grail (which were completed in an entirely different style at great expense and at the last minute) are replete with llama references. The Holy Grail was directed by the Welshman Terry Jones, and since he had final say in the content of those llama-laden credits, I can only surmise that Jones has a strong affinity for the animal that is ostensibly native to his land.

In phase II of these studies, empirical data will be collected from my couch with the aid of a six of Buckleys Best Bitter.

Future anthropological topics on Mount Drinkmore may include the cantaloupe's evolution to the antelope as well as a review of back pain in invertebrates.

(Second photo of stick insect copyright National Geographic Society; photo of llama copyright National Picture Library; photo of "The Llama Sketch" copyright Python (Monty) Pictures.)

Morning Redwood

This photograph was recently e-mailed to me. Not only is it a fine example of reproductive phenology, but it proves the common myth about sequoias.

I've been trying to determine where this photo was taken. I figure either Sequoia National Park...or on the set of the porn film, Lord of the Cock Rings, since this shapely lass appears to have been a fluff girl for the Ents.

On the Fast Track to Apathy

In the early hours of March 2, an asteroid between 70 and 150 feet in diameter missed Earth by a paltry 49,000 miles. That's a near-miss. Scientists estimate that it was large enough to have caused damage on par with the Tunguska event that obliterated 800 square miles of Siberian forest in 1908.

Among the flurry of reports peppering Internet news sites in the wake of Earth's near-miss was the link to an article published in Geophysical Journal International in 2003. This article reports that a 1.1-kilometer-diameter asteroid named 1950 DA has a 0.0% to 0.3% chance of impacting Earth on March 16, 2880. Sure, an impactor that size would cause catastrophic regional damage and result in a massive death toll for whatever is roaming the planet in the 29th century—long after even Duck Dodgers is dust. But as can be seen in the article's top left corner, this was a "fast track paper," which means that its importance and timeliness were great enough that the journal bumped it ahead of other articles so that its information could be disseminated as quickly as possible.

What fascinates Mount Drinkmore is not the possibility of a cosmic collision with the earth, but the fact that this article was fast-tracked 877 years before it's expected to become a relevant topic. Yes, the editors' confidence that their journal will still be publishing in 2880 is admirable, especially considering that the last tree on Earth is scheduled to be cut down in May 2017, effectively ending the age of print media. And it's always crucial that scientific journals remain on the cutting edge.

But to publish something nearly nine centuries in advance? Scores of generations will pass without panicking. Our great-great-great-great-great-great-grandchildren will dust off yellowed copies of this article, see that the asteroid is still 400 years away from possible impact, and return unconcerned to their hover-beds or astro-juice. Continuous complacency across unaffected generations could genetically predispose our remote descendants toward apathy for the asteroid—similar to how the interminable delay of Guns N' Roses' Chinese Democracy album permanently deadened the public's interest in Axl Rose. (Imagine if Chinese Democracy wasn't released until 2880—the Chinese might actually have democracy by then and be able to listen to the album...but who among their recently liberated populace would care after nine centuries of jading from the wait?)

I can understand Geophysical Journal International's desire to sell issues with such articles—and let's face it: an issue that includes news of a potential Earth-impacting asteroid essentially is a science journal's annual swimsuit issue—but an Editor-in-Chief has got to have a cutoff...say, a maximum of 100 years in advance.

Otherwise, a journal's impact factor goes right to hell.

The entire article can be accessed here:
http://es.ucsc.edu/~ward/papers/gji_final_35N.pdf

...but don't forget to return to Mount Drinkmore!

(Title page of article copyright Royal Astronomical Society.)

Trick or Heat?

October 23. Eight days until Halloween. The temperature today is once again expected to break 80 degrees.

And it's humid.

Indian summer? Global warming? As the pundits battle over the cause, have those air-conditioned fat cats in Washington stopped to realize that America is eight short days from crisis? If this autumnal heat wave does not abate, untold Halloweens will be ruined as trick-or-treaters' chocolatey loot melts in the street, not in their mouth.

I needn't stress the importance of Halloween on the child psyche. We've all experienced the joy and the succulence of costume and candy, the emotional release from the relentless grind of homework and the ever-present dread of pop quiz.

Fistfuls of free candy is all that keeps a kid going. Without it, they may as well quit grade school, get a dead-end job, settle down, and prepare for old age.

If autumn doesn't come soon, we're in for a messy All Hallow's Eve and a long winter of discontent.

Al Gore...where are you???

(Photo of jack o'lantern copyright Encyclopaedia Brittanica Online.)

Why Did the Owl Cross the Road?

So I'm driving into work this morning when traffic comes to a dead stop near I-95's Academy Road interchange. But I'm driving north—there's rarely major congestion driving away from the city during morning rush hour. An accident must lay ahead. As cars inch along in their maddening dance and the minutes tick toward a late arrival at work, I see that the southbound lanes are also at a standstill. In the distance are parked police cars in the left-hand emergency lanes straddling the median. Though their red lights are flashing, there's no apparent disturbance—no disabled or wrecked car, no apprehended violator, no sign of distress whatsoever. What's going on?

Two policemen are standing on the other side of the median, in the emergency lane, seemingly doing nothing. For a second, I thought they might actually be conducting a really-ill-conceived seatbelt check. But as I slowly approach the police cars, I see that the two officers on the other side of the median are positioned about six feet from an owl standing on the side of the road. They're safeguarding it...and presumably awaiting the arrival of animal-protection personnel.

I believe this to be the first owl-related traffic jam in the history of the Pennsylvania highway system. (Unofficial confirmation has come from PENNDOT...if you consider their response of "You're an idiot." as verification.) Although this lazy bird of prey added fifteen minutes to my commute, I suppose I should feel a part of history...not to mention a bit of kinship—as a Temple Owl, I once interrupted traffic by lying down on Broad Street to show my solidarity for Switzerland's struggling longshoremen.

And as owls are not normally indigenous to interstate roadways, I suggest this to be a new species of owl, whose name and taxonomy I submit as the "speckled commuter owl" (Ninox commuterii).

(Photos courtesy of PDPhoto.org)

Return of the Beavers

"Beavers return to New York City after 200 years

NEW YORK (AP) -- Beavers grace New York City's official seal. But the industrious rodents have not been seen in the flesh here for as many as 200 years -- until this week.

Biologists videotaped a beaver swimming up the Bronx River on Wednesday. Its twig-and-mud lodge had been spotted earlier on the river bank, but the tape confirmed the presence of the animal itself.

"It had to happen because beaver populations are expanding, and their habitats are shrinking," said Dietland Muller-Schwarze, a beaver expert at the State University of New York College of Environmental Science and Forestry in Syracuse. "We're probably going to see more of them in the future." "

(Excerpt from http://www.cnn.com/2007/US/02/23/beaver.bronx.ap/index.html)

New Jersey Wants People To Eat Less Squirrel

Squirrels fight back, with lead contamination!

"A letter sent Tuesday to Ringwood residents advised them that children should not eat squirrel more than once a month; pregnant women should limit their intake to twice a month, and adults should not eat squirrel more than twice a week."

(Photo courtesy of Funnyhub.com; text courtesy of Associated Press.)

Camel Spiders: Setting the Record Straight

There have been a lot of Internet rumors going around related to this picture of the notorious desert "Camel Spider" found in the Middle East, Southwestern U.S., and Mexico (where they are known as "Deer Killers"). Yes, they are huge. Yes, they can be harmful to humans. But rumors such as the ones listed below are false:

Some common Camel Spider Myths

1. Camel spiders can move at speeds over 30 mph, screaming while they
run.

2. Camel spiders can be as large as a frisbee.

3. Camel spiders' venom is an anesthetic that numbs their prey.

4. Camel spiders can jump three feet high.

5. Camel spiders get their name because they eat the stomachs of
camels.

— from Camelspiders.net

They can, however, eat a tank whole.

(Photo copyright Camelspiders.net.)

The Second Coming?

Keeping in tune with the themes of both Christmas AND dragons:

"CHESTER, England - As Christmas approaches, a virgin mother is anxiously awaiting the arrival of her offspring. She’s Flora, the Komodo dragon.
In an evolutionary twist, Flora has managed to become pregnant all on her own without any male help. It would seem the timing is auspicious: The seven baby Komodo dragons are due this festive season.
'We were blown away when we realized what she’d done,' said Kevin Buley, a reptile expert at Flora’s home at the Chester Zoo in this town in northern England. 'But we certainly won’t be naming any of the hatchlings Jesus.'"

(Excerpt of Associated Press article by Maria Cheng, Copyright 2006.)