Little Bird Attacks Big Bird

Whilst fiddle-abouting yesterday I saw a large bird glide by, and there was a smaller bird flying parallel to it, just a few inches above its neck.  My first thought was that this was like a pilot fish and shark* situation, but then I saw the little bird pecking at the big bird and realized that it was attacking the big bastard.  Oh, yeah.

* Dangerous, Cannot Help



" . . . to ignore the apparently insignificant was to admit that one was condemned to sit defenseless on the parapet connecting the rising and falling members of the bridge between chaos and comprehensible order."

László Krasznahorkai
Satantango

Biking / Scribd Audiobook Coincidence Number 3

So this morning . . . a Sunday morning, in case you didn't notice, which could add to the oddness of this coincidence . . . I set off for a bike ride at 9:33.  I have been listening to (and enjoying) Michel Faber's The Book of Strange New Things on my most recent bike outings (or boutings  as we Bikers say).  Been meaning to get back to Faber ever since I finished The Crimson Petal and the White.  And did get a few nibbles out of a short story collection, Some Rain Must Fall: And Other Stories--and was enjoying it--but got caught up in the whole Béla Tarr / László Krasznahorkai thing.  (Which I'm not yet finished with.  I have seen all of Tarr's films and have almost finished reading my third Krasznahorkai book (plus that little pamphlety thing, "The Bill"), but I've still got one more novel to read (been on request at LFPL for a long time), one more pamphlety thing to read, and one more book coming out January 15, 2016.  Which, had we not gotten divorced, have been the 33rd wedding anniversary for me and Jo Ann.  Wow.  But enough about me.)

So there's this company in the novel--The Book of Strange New Things, if you've lost track midst all of these twists and turns--which was called USAC . . . or so I imagined.  Because the narrator has a British accent.   And I was biking down Willow Springs Drive, and as I rounded a corner I saw a truck parked (and empty) on the side of the road.  As I passed it, I saw what was written on the door:

USIC

Which is pretty odd, right?  And why was that truck (from USIC's website:  "USIC is North America's leading underground utility damage prevention firm.") out on a Sunday morning at 10 am-ish?  (It was about 3/4ths of the way through my bouting, by the way.)  When I got home I went to Amazon's Look Inside for The Book of Strange New Things, and look what I found:

     "The Slavic-looking young man shook his prognathous face slowly to and fro.
     "Too late, bro."
     "Too late?"
     "Twenty-four-hourly stock appraisal, bro. Began an hour ago."
     "I was told by the USIC people that food is provided whenever we need it."
     "Correct, bro. You just gotta make sure you don't need it at the wrong time."



So what do you think about them apples?

Thought for the Day: Being a Brief Meditation on the Veracity of the Advertisement and Presentation of Various and Sundry Brands of Mixed Nuts, Specifically as This Pertains to the So-Called "Peanut"

Since a peanut is actually a legume, and since all attempts to have it re-named "pea-legume" have come to naught, doesn't this mean that truth in advertising requires that labels on such products should read

Mixed Nuts & "Peanuts"?

And maybe even a little * after the "Peanuts"

with the legume information.

This reminds me of two "nut" jokes.

The first is from The Simpsons.  Homer has been kidnapped and taken to Brazil.  As they are tooling down the Amazon River, he says to his (Brazilian) kidnapper,

Homer Simpson: Listen, I really need a rest stop.

Kidnapper #2: Again? 

Homer Simpson: I have a bladder the size of a Brazil nut.

Kidnapper: Uh... We just call them nuts here.

Is that funny or what?

The second isn't actually a nut joke, come to think of it.  But it is a Brazilian joke, so you see there's just that one degree of separation. Okay.  It goes like this:

George Bush was receiving his daily report from his Defense Secretary, Donald Rumsfeld. 

During the report, Rumsfeld said; “And yesterday, three Brazilian soldiers were killed in Iraq.” George suddenly went pale, put his head in his hands and began to sweat profusely. 

His staff were astounded. They had never seen the president react like this to such a small loss. Then, after he had recovered slightly, the president brought his head up and quietly asked the aide next to him, "Just how many is a brazilian?" 

Good times.

The Melancholy of Resistance by László Krasznahorkai: 2 Things

Thing 1:

" . . . he decided to demolish the few rarely used rickety old bridges that still existed between him and the world, to apply the rules of his earlier self-distancing from an ever more lawless society with even greater rigor, to leave this fatal stew to rot by itself and withdraw completely with only his friend for company."

Third try to comment on the above.  None of it quite right, so just this:  I know the feeling, but haven't started burning in earnest.

Thing 2:


" . . . his home . . . where the tiniest thing possessed some significance . . . . "

What a lovely way to describe the importance and meaning of home.  Yes, as a matter of fact, I DO need that broken Gorton's bobblehead.