Have You Seen This Bird?

Well, have you?


There's a cool post up on a Disney nostalgia blog called Passport to Dreams. It details the Orange Bird, probably one of the rarer Disney characters to ever grace the Happiest Place on Earth. The Orange Bird, according to the post, was once the mascot of the Florida Citrus Growers, who sponsored Disney World's Sunshine Pavilion. Disney has since released the apparently once-beloved Orange Bird from its employ, though the post's author notes that the character would seem based on its resemblance to other "super deformed," big-headed, Japanese-spawn mascots like Hello Kitty.

Always heartening to see other people dwell on pop culture minutiae.

Portions of Foxes and the Lagomorphic Vases

Before houses conquered the expanses of great, wild nothing in the grassy "neighborhood" of my childhood, I would go walking, with a stick in hand and with no more pressing goal than seeing some creek, some valley, some literal hole-in-the-ground that had previous escaped my detection and — to my small brain — the detection of any other human who could truly appreciate it. Once, on one of these journeys, I came across an unusual bush I had never seen before. No taller than a soccer ball, flat-bottomed and round-topped, this bush stood out against the dry grass by virtue of being a reddish-gold. (Outside of autumn and poison oak, red does not figure largely into the palette of rural, central California.) The bush had spiky, thin leaves one might associate with an evergreen or some hearty cactus, yet it still looked soft. A second bush was growing a few yards away, I soon saw. Curious and intent on being the first to observe these plant specimens — which had seemingly sprouted up overnight and which I'm sure I intended to dub "Drewshrubs" — I approached them. A few steps away from the first, however, a canine head shot from around one side and bushy tail from around the other. Within moments, a similar head and tail appeared around the second bush. Before I could process what I was watching, both bushes had leapt onto their paws and darted into the distance.

Since that day, I've never stepped closer to wild foxes. Whenever I see one trotting about now, I think "There goes another one of those bushes."

Monday morning, when I awoke before dawn to make the drive from Hollister in time for work in Santa Barbara, I groggily walked around the new additions that have so radically changed the house I grew up in. These include a new window that faces out onto the side lawn. Looking through this window and onto this part of the yard newly visible from inside the house, I saw what initially looked like three brown vases arranged symmetrically on the lawn. Each of the three had narrow bases, bulging midsections and odd tops that tapered thinner and thinner before forming tips at the end. In my sleepy state, I had to consider what I was looking at for a moment before I realized that the vases were actually three hares enjoying a good, motionless sit at the start of their day. They looked a lot less like inanimate objects when the dog rounded the corner and chased the three in different directions. Vases, it turns out, can move pretty quickly when properly motivated.

As I pulled out of my parents' driveway and down the hill, I saw one brown hare sitting on the other side of the fence — again motionless and again, I'd guess, looking like a jar if a half-awake person not wearing glasses saw it from behind.

I'd like to think vase mimicry is a common hare hobby. Apparently mistaking woodland creatures for inanimate objects is my hobby.

Portions of Foxes are headlining a show downtown on Saturday, with The Lagomorphic Vases opening. I know the bands from way back and can totally get you tickets.

Starting on the Right Foot

I never thought I'd be such a fan of a blog titled "El Toilet," but it really keeps delivering the goods. Die Wunderkammer lives on.

Pulling My Mahogany

From Spencer comes the tale of a Wikipedia, which, in turn, tells the tale of Harvey Stanley Hyde Blackburn, who earned every one of his four names by tricking doctors, friends and the entire Australian army by hiding the fact that he only had one leg.


After his left foot was crushed in a railroad accident, Blackburn was fitted with a wooden prosthetic from the knee down. Having already been enlisted at the time of the accident, Blackburn did not tell his superiors that he was now an amputee because he still wanted to serve. He then fooled his doctor with what he later called a "one-in-a-million ruse" — after telling the examiner that he was "shy," he took his pants off only his right leg. After his still-intact leg was given a once-over, Blackburn distracted the doctor with questions long enough that he could present the good leg again. The doctor didn't notice and Blackburn was told he was fit for service. Eventually, the medical staff realized the trick, but Blackburn protested to the point where the doctors agreed he could serve. He did so throughout World War I.

Stories like this amuse, especially when the come with good epilogues. Blackburn applied again for service in World War II, but was rejected. He lived to be 90 years old. His leg now at the Australian War Museum in Canberra.

As it should be.

[ More: Blackburn's Wikipedia page ]

He's a Bicycle, She's a Baha'i

Yet another word-of-the-day from Wordsmith that leads me to believe that someone their has dirty sense of humor.

bissextile (by-SEKS-til)

adjective: Of or pertaining to the leap year or the extra day in the leap year.

noun: Leap year.

[From Latin bisextilis annus (leap year), from Latin bissextus (February 29: leap day), from bi- (two) + sextus (sixth), from the fact that the sixth day before the Calends of March (February 24) appeared twice every leap year.]

Also: previous speculations into Wordsmith's alluded-to perversions.

Sodas That Should Not Have Been

I've been meaning to get this up for a while now: a simple link to a series of articles at X-Entertainment on bygone soft drinks — those that were widely distributed and then yanked due to customer revulsion as well as those that never made it past test markets. Crystal Pepsi, Coke II, Strawberry Burst Pepsi, Surge, Pepsi Blue, Pepsi Fire and, of course, Orbitz.


What a freakish, partially digested, suspended animation abortion of a beverage. I actually think I have some Orbitz somewhere in my closet at home. Clearly, I realized how short-lived the product would be and thought to hold onto a couple for kitsch value. And is it odd to anyone else how the online travel company just kind of swooped in and stole that brand name? Am I the only one who thinks about gelatinous balls suspended in sugar water when I see their ads on TV?

The same guy who wrote the dead sodas article has also written separate entries on rarities like Pepsi Holiday Spice, Mountain Dew Pitch Black, and the Jones Soda Holiday Pack. I was surprised to learn that in addition to the infamous Turkey and Gravy flavor, the pack also includes Cranberry Sauce, Mashed Potatoes, Fruitcake, and Green Been Casserole.

Somehow, these little bits have slipped past my pop culture awareness. Little, Orbitz-like bitz.

Hiding Your Dinner From God

From Spencer, a random and moderately disgusting item of food trivia: The Ortolan Bunting, despite being a protected species in France, is a culinary delicacy. The details of eating in strain believability.


The eating of the bird, from The Stranger:

You catch the ortolan with a net spread up in the forest canopy. Take it alive. Take it home. Poke out its eyes and put it in a small cage. Force-feed it oats and millet and figs until it has swollen to four times its normal size. Drown it in brandy. Roast it whole, in an oven at high heat, for six to eight minutes. Bring it to the table. Place a cloth—a napkin will do—over your head to hide your cruelty from the sight of God. Put the whole bird into your mouth, with only the beak protruding from your lips. Bite. Put the beak on your plate and begin chewing, gently. You will taste three things: First, the sweetness of the flesh and fat. This is God. Then, the bitterness of the guts will begin to overwhelm you. This is the suffering of Jesus. Finally, as your teeth break the small, delicate bones and they begin to lacerate your gums, you will taste the salt of your own blood, mingling with the richness of the fat and the bitterness of the organs. This is the Holy Spirit, the mystery of the Trinity—three united as one. It is cruel. And beautiful. According to Claude Souvenir, chewing the ortolan takes approximately 15 minutes.

The bolding is mine, to maximize the creepiness and weirdness.