Dozing polar bear, Indianapolis Zoo

Friday, February 29, 2008

The answer for what ails us all: sidewalks

What is it with this country? Why is the thoughtful placement of those technological stumpers called sidewalks apparently beyond our ken?

I'm a coffee addict. I've been cold-brewing my joe lately, which is just as well since my coffee maker carafe busted last week. Well, for a variety of reasons, most of them related to my own personal failures, I'm out of cold-brewed coffee extract. So I decided to grab a cup from one of those teeny little espresso stands near the gas station just outside my neighborhood.

I walked. Because it would have been absurd to get into a car to go there. It is impossible to overstate how short this walk is, people, and how easy it should have been. But I found myself picking my way through a muddy field just to avoid taking my chances on the busy road that would have taken me to Microscopic Espresso Stand had I been silly enough to climb into my car to go there. There is an overwhelming sense, when you try to walk somewhere in settings like this, that you are some sort of vagabond operating outside the bounds of social acceptability.

Bill Bryson said this in A Walk in the Woods:

It was a warm afternoon, and it felt wonderful -- you can't believe how wonderful -- to be at large without a pack, bouncy and unburdened. With a pack you walk at a tilt, hunched and pressed forward, your eyes on the ground. You trudge; it is all you can do. Without, you are liberated. You walk erect. You look around. You spring. You saunter. You amble.

Or at least you do for four blocks. Then you come to a mad junction at Burger King and discover that the new six-lane road to Kmart is long, straight, very busy, and entirely without facilities for pedestrians -- no sidewalks, no pedestrian crossings, no central refuges, no buttons to push for a WALK signal at lively intersections. I walked through the gas station and motel forecourts and across restaurant parking lots, clambered over concrete barriers, crossed lawns, and pushed through neglected ranks of privet or honeysuckle at property boundaries. At bridges over creeks and culverts -- and goodness me how developers love a culvert -- I had no choice but to walk on the road, pressed against the dusty railings and causing less attentive cars to swerve to avoid me. Four times I was honked at for having the temerity to proceed through town without benefit of metal. One bridge was so patently dangerous that I hesitated at it. The creek it crossed was only a reedy trickle, narrow enough to step across, so I decided to go that way. I slid and scampered down the bank, found myself in a hidden zone of sucking grey mud, pitched over twice, hauled myself up the other side, pitched over again, and emerged at length streaked and speckled with mud and extravagantly decorated with burrs. When I finally reached the Kmart Plaza I discovered that I was on the wrong side of the road and had to dash through six lanes of hostile traffic. By the time I crossed the parking lot and stepped into the air-conditioned, Muzak-happy world of Kmart I was as grubby as if I had been on the trail, and trembling all over.

The Kmart, it turned out, didn't stock insect repellent.

Sidewalks, friends. If communities were intelligently connected with a reliable network of sidewalks, imagine the problems solved. Less gas consumed, and less carbon expelled. Fewer of us dropping dead of heart attacks and strokes. Fewer pedestrian fatalities. Greater feelings of well-being.

Tell me not of how this goes against the interests of the establishment. I know that already; if sidewalks put money into the pockets of the oligarchs, I wouldn't be able to swing a cat without hitting one. I have a radical suggestion -- probably the exact sort of thing that got my Dad accused of being a Communist sympathizer by one of his grade school teachers in the 40s: Let's structure society around what's good for ordinary folks just trying to get their hands on a little bit of coffee in the morning. What say?

Thursday, February 28, 2008


If you had no practical issues, financial, familial or otherwise, to worry about, where would you live?

I have this odd notion of finding an abandoned citrus farm in south central Florida with a beat up old house on it. I'd live in Montana from May to the end of October, and in the month of December. The rest of the time I'd spend on the orange farm, renovating the old beater house with green building materials and growing organic lemons, oranges, grapefruit and Key limes. Throw in a bunch of mango trees and a couple of avocado trees and we're good. (I don't even like avocados, but they're beautiful.)

I think that comes from the time I spent with my grandparents in south Florida as a kid after my parents split up. They had a huge lemon tree, a Key lime tree that eventually got uprooted by Hurricane Andrew, an avocado tree, a carambola tree, two prolific mango trees and a grapefruit tree that produced two grapefruits in its entire life. That is the deeply rooted symbol of abundance for me, etched into my old brain.

Of course, my citrus farm will be underwater in less than a hundred years.

Wednesday, February 27, 2008

Homesick today

I get these occasional bouts of homesickness for Indy. Today it was when my brother called to tell me you can get takeout from the lunch buffet of our favorite Indian restaurant for four bucks. And that he had done that today, and had just been dining on nav rattan curry before our phone call.

Usually these moments hit when its time for me to go back and spend sufficient time to remember why I moved in the first place. But I'd really rather go to the Everglades and do some bird photography.

Life as a transplant, I guess.

Monday, February 25, 2008

Rejected by my stock agency

This is going to be a new category. Because once an image gets dinged, this is a way to soothe my injured artistic feelings. Since it's just stock, some images I have no emotional attachment to at all (like the eggplants in the sidebar). But the ones I am attached to in some way will go here.

I really like this one, even though it's outside my standard nature photography. The eagle looks so indignant. It could have been a technical reject -- the light is marginal and the exposure tricky. I'll probably try the same shot next year in better light.

Update: Eh, my sister just responded saying, "I'm not sure I get it." Well, I guess that's the reason. It's one of those things I see that no one else does. Which happens from time to time. **Cough**

Saturday, February 23, 2008

Thomas gets appeased

The newly calm Thomas enjoys a good California chardonnay on a cozy winter night.

His PR people are going to kill me for writing this -- they've worked so hard after all, to keep the secret from the public -- but I feel like its really time to come clean now, so others can be helped.

Thomas is totally neurotic.

There. It's out. Now maybe other dogs won't be afraid to go public with their struggles.

Except for perhaps the week or so he spent in the shelter, we don't have the excuse of a traumatic puppyhood. We got him when he was only eight weeks old. He was pretty fearful back then, a little tiny scared pup who would curl up in our hands and try to bury his face in our armpits. But after about two days, he got used to us, realized he was home and let his fur down.

But he has this odd sort of uncertainty about his place in the dog world. He is thoroughly attached to me -- I can't get up to go the bathroom without him following -- but when he interacts with dogs, he gets confused. On his own turf he tends to be a real asshole. You can tell he assumes that any dog coming near is doing so for the sole and express purpose of taking What's His. Which he defines as everything, including and especially me.

Off his own turf, he's a great deal more inconsistent, alternating aggression and dominance with shows of submission, sometimes with the same dog. It's like he can't decide. He's had an ongoing psychodrama with the German Shepard down the road in Montana, who is bigger than he is and very dominant. She doesn't put up with a lot of crap, but she's gone fairly easy on Thomas. Still, he freaks out every time he sees her. Every time Bella and her comrade, an easygoing, sofa-sized Newfoundland, appear down by the road, Thomas lets out this tormented howl. Back legs stretched out, nose pointed to the sky, he yowls out a warning. He'll also do this if we simply mention their names.

Fortunately, none of this happens with people. He is uniformly submissive with people, to the point of peeing himself in anxiety when he meets people for the first time. And then there's the herding behavior.

I chalk up most of Thomas's issues to the fact that he's half Border Collie. Let's face it. Lots of Border Collies are nuts. Properly trained, managed, and worked, they can be great dogs. But they come with some mental challenges.

When we went to a new vet in Coeur d'Alene a few weeks ago, it was the first time Thomas had been to a vet as an adult. (He'd had all of his shots as a puppy, and there had been no illnesses requiring veterinary attention in the intervening year.) So the vet was able to view Thomas's neuroses in their full flower. I've done a lot with training, but sometimes I can tell he's just lost the thread of coherence and his anxieties are getting in the way. That's what happened at the vet.

So he suggested we try a Dog Appeasing Pheromone collar. It's a black collar impregnated with a synthetic version of the pheromones a nursing mother produces when she's feeding her pups. The idea with a DAP collar is that it ratchets down an anxious dog by several degrees, and allows them to face the world a little better, and also allows an opening for further training. One collar lasts for thirty days. I was skeptical. But it was only thirty bucks, so I decided to try it.

It didn't take long. The first day was remarkable. He was noticeably calmer and more reasonable after the first hour. I almost took it off the second day, because he seemed more like a sullen teenager, having lost most of the goofy charm that makes him who he is. But I decided to give it another day. And wow. We've gotten to the point where training is able to take place. He still herds, but has learned to respond quickly to the "off" command. He's less of an asshole to our other dog (free feeding helped that a lot too), he gets used to strangers much more quickly, and today he played with Bella the German Shepard.

When we take a walk down the road, it's not uncommon that one of the neighbor dogs will join us. This was always a source of angst for Thomas, especially when it was Bella. But today she joined us and they played. Hard. I was able to see for the first time what was going on -- Bella engages in a very aggressive play -- but it's just that. Play. But Thomas wasn't interpreting things that way before. Today he did, and they had just the kind of play session he's been needing -- lots of running, wrestling and jumping. We'll see if it happens again.

I'll be interested to see what happens after the thirty-day mark. The vet says that by the time the collar wears out, many dogs have learned a new way of thinking and experiencing the world
and don't need to wear another one. If you have a dog with anxiety problems, or is just generally kind of nutty to the point that its interfering with behavior or training, I'd talk to the vet about a DAP collar. I did a bit of research and in a small number of cases, the collar has the reverse effect -- more anxiety and/or aggression. So I think its something you want to watch carefully. But I can say pretty confidently that Thomas is a data point in favor of the collar.

Friday, February 22, 2008

You know what's not fun?

1. Getting to your mountain house after dark on a cold February night and discovering that the roof, which has upon it two feet of rapidly melting snow, is leaking into your solarium.

2. Discovering shortly thereafter that your internet isn't working and the internet people have to come out and fiddle around with the doohickey while you twiddle your thumbs waiting to feed your addiction.

3. Downloading pictures from a brief snowshoe trip up the mountain and finding a persistent dust mote on the digital sensor.

4. Opening the refrigerator door and noticing that, just to add insult to injury, the refrigerator light is out.

None of this is fun. Nope. Not fun. Not even a little.

It's still better than being anywhere else.

Thursday, February 21, 2008

Stock photography

As you can see, I've just put up a thingie displaying some of the photographs I've placed with my stock agency. The "buy this image" button is prominently displayed, but please note I am not intending to hawk my photography to my regular readers. Stock photography is generally purchased by more commercially oriented outfits anyway.

The purpose of the thingamabob is twofold: 1) to remind me to get my butt out and shoot and 2) occasionally purchasers of stock photography will trawl the web looking for certain images. I don't usually post the better high-res stuff here (I need to get a watermark going so I'm more comfortable doing that), so if you are interested in what I'm shooting, feel free to click through and take a look. And if not, you're quite free to stay here and read my scintillating thoughts about moose, otters and my occasional existential crises.

Sunday, February 17, 2008

What we did Sunday or, Why the long face?

How many times have I driven around the back corners of northwest Montana, keeping my eyes open for a moose? And then in the last month I've seen three, all in fairly well-traveled
areas of Idaho. The first was along the highway south of Bonners Ferry about three weeks ago. The other two we saw today, a cow and her yearling, pictured above. They were munching on some plants just off the side of the road, near the Spokane River in Post Falls. Next to a house.

(Out of about 150 shots, I got one worth keeping. The ones above aren't sharp enough, and the snow is overexposed.)

Thursday, February 14, 2008

Essay Question One

The good professor saves me with an essay question on this post. He writes:

This essay test involves two questions. There is no time limit; however, each individual answer may not exceed 750 words.

1. Valentines Day: Love it or hate it? Explain.

2. The phrase "guilty pleasure" has been defined as "something that you enjoy[, but] that you think you shouldn't enjoy, either for personal reasons or because of the possibility of other's [negative] reactions." Describe your foremost "guilty pleasure" and explain why it fits the definition.

In grading your answers, a premium will be placed on irreverance and wit. Seriousness, soul-searching, and self-reflection should be avoided at all cost.

I turn in my blue book:
1. Love it, of course. But not for the reason you might think. And to that end, a question: How did the jewelry industry come to clutch the Valentine's Day narrative so tightly in its gold-plated fist? I suppose it happened in the same way most of these things do -- by endless repetition. For the last two weeks I've noticed the standard exhortations to Mr. T that he buy me baubles in order to get the sex we're going to have anyway. Although Mr. T has lovely taste in jewelry, he knows I'd rather spend the money on travel or a new piece of outdoor gear for us.* And vice versa. But really the nugget of it all is this: Once rampant consumerism takes over a holiday, it starts to feel forced. This is one reason I like Halloween; because it still has elements that can't successfully be consumerized.

So, no. I don't love the standard Valentine's Day narrative, which I find kind of boring. But what I do love is the quirky, authentic parts of it.

Like this (via):

Everything was on the table -- more accurately, on a video projector -- at Miami Metrozoo's Sex and the Animals event, a Valentine's Day tradition.

Hosted by zoo ambassador Ron Magill, the popular lecture attracted more than 400 people to see and hear the intimate details of how wild things do the wild thing.

(No, not Enumclaw. Miami. That's because it's about how animals have sex with each other.)
This is the sort of thing Mr. T and I would do on Valentine's Day if we lived in Miami. And we're not the only ones:

''This is the fifth time in a row this thing has sold out,'' Magill said.

And really, where else can you learn about the exhibitionism of pink tropical birds?

Magill dropped plenty of nuggets of who-knew? information, such as:

Flamingos like to have sex with others watching them. Two of the birds will get down while 30 others look on.

Frogs sometimes do it with two or more partners at a time. Most animals are not monogamous, Magill said.

Female pandas only have a three-day window each year to get pregnant. Zookeepers have shown the pandas films of other pandas having sex to get them in the mood.

Tigers in captivity are implanted with birth-control devices so they don't over-reproduce.

Some animals are gay, too. ''Homosexuality is found throughout the animal kingdom,'' Magill said.

I suppose the entire kingdom Animalia Sodomitica is going straight to animal hell. Ahem.

In sum, I like this part of Valentine's Day. I like the graphic on Google today. I like the Fifth Circuit Court of Appeals' impeccable timing in striking down Texas's law against the sale of sex toys. (I like it all the more because the Fifth Circuit is one of the stodgiest, most conservative circuits in the country.)

Happy Valentine's Day! More dildoes, less jewelry!

2. I had to reflect on this one for quite awhile to really consider what I think of as a "guilty pleasure," and I realized that my difficulty stemmed not so much from a lack of pleasure as a lack of conscience. I had to reframe the "guilty pleasure" concept to "something I engage in that I know I shouldn't because doing other things would be much more productive."

And in the process of reframing it, I named it. My biggest guilty pleasure is anything I do to avoid work. Which feels increasingly like what I do for most of the day.

I should be researching the theory of collateral estoppel right now, but guess what? I'm writing this post instead. And when I consider my hourly rate, it's kind of stunning to realize just how much blogging and reading about politics on the internet is worth to me. I make a paltry yearly salary considering the earning potential reflected in my hourly rate.

This would, of course, surprise no one at my former law firm. Particularly my supervisors, who received my monthly timesheets with no small measure of frustration. Back then, though, what I did to avoid work was interact. I'm an ENFP, so interacting with people is fun to me. It was so much more pleasurable to be gabbing with someone, even if it was about strategy in a case or something, than actually doing the scut work of lawyering, which always must be done in isolation and quiet. (That kind of scut work now constitutes 100% of my work now, unfortunately.) So billable hours were and are a challenge for me. And perversely, those with the biggest interest in my achieving those hours often enabled my avoidance.

You see, people seem to find it easy to talk to me. They will often reveal sometimes striking personal details to me, unsolicited, very early on in our acquaintance. When I was at the firm, this led to a parade of people in my office, chatting with me about one thing or another. Half of them were partners. They'd talk about uncertainties about their career choice, their kids, whatever. Some of them would drop by for an hour to yak under the guise of "getting the associates' take" on some act or another taken by firm management.

Had they made me the Firm Ombudsman, I'd still be there. But alas, there is little upside to having such a position in a large law firm, and I burned out and left. If I could go back to my early twenties and do it all over again, I wouldn't become a lawyer again. I loved law school, but the actual practice of law goes so contrary to my temperament that it's frequently painful. It's purely an income thing, these days.

If I had a clear expanse of time in front of me as I did in my early twenties, I'd probably become a therapist instead. I don't really want to do that now, in my late thirties, but it's probably what I should have done to begin with.

These days, since I'm holed up in a home office like a fricking hermit, I avoid work through the internet. Political blogs, personal blogs, the news, e-mail, IM -- it's all good. I just wish someone would pay me my hourly rate for doing that instead of legal work.

But they don't. Back to collateral estoppel.

*I won't even go into the social issues involved with the production of certain kinds of jewelry. That's another post for another time.

Wednesday, February 13, 2008


I'm in a bit of a funk. Doesn't anyone have any good memes or something? Clearly I need an essay question.

Tuesday, February 12, 2008

Hear ye

Lewis has issued a protest about the dual uses of word verification and comment moderation. Like I said over at his place, I don't moderate, because I don't get very many nutjobs in the comments. But I do get spam. That said, I'm going to try and turn it off for awhile. I hate word verification myself, so if I can avoid inflicting it on you, then I will. But I'm also somewhat obsessive, so if my comment threads start sporting a lot of "This post has been removed by the blog administrator" comments, then I'll turn it back on.

From Trailheadquarters

At dinner last night, the Kid said:

"I'm looking forward to turning six. So I can drive."

What's ten years to the DMV but a minor detail, really?

Monday, February 11, 2008

The Year of the Rat

Chinese New Year in the conservatory at the Bellagio.

Thursday, February 07, 2008

Just because I find the defining principle of a place revolting doesn't mean I don't want to spend time there

Well, Rose and Kris basically wrote my last post about Vegas for me in the comments to this post. Kris touched on one thing that kept getting to me while I was there -- the excruciating loveliness of the surrounding setting. I'd go back to Vegas for the mountains alone. I spent lots of time gazing beyond the city to the snow-dusted mountains, dying to explore them.

Rose mentions something else -- the better hotels have a distinctly better atmosphere, both literally and figuratively. It's worth mentioning that there was a shakeup in personnel in Mr. T's company that led to us staying in one of the, ahem, less "luxurious" hotels. The difference in indoor air quality was one of the first things I noticed upon exploring other hotels.

Finally, as much as I dislike some of the faux outrageousness of the Las Vegas "scene," I left feeling that I hadn't even scratched the surface of the things available to do that I do find worthwhile. It was a quick trip, so we didn't see a show. There are scores of restaurants I still want to try. I didn't even get to see the shark reef at Mandalay Bay and there are two other aquariums at the Mirage and at Caesar's. And as Rose mentioned before I went, there are circuses and midways and a fair amount of things to do with kids. And even more to do without them.

So, yeah, I'll go back. I will be grossed out by certain aspects of the place, but next time I won't be obligated, as on a first trip, to do the Full Immersion Experience. And I won't. And at that point, it becomes like most cities -- you just separate the wheat from the chaff.

I'll say this. Anyone who is seriously interested in the concept of place should visit at least once. Las Vegas has a strong character. The process of observing it and analyzing it is even more fun than the things that are supposed to make Vegas fun.

Wednesday, February 06, 2008

First, what I hate about Vegas

It’s no secret that everything is arranged in Las Vegas to facilitate gambling. The floor plans and signs in the hotels direct the unwary along the most circuitous route possible, winding through endless rows of blinking and bleating slot machines. Restaurants play loud, grating music, ensuring that patrons don’t linger too long over their meals. The casino area of one large hotel I walked through was ringed with several Starbucks – just in case you get sleepy before you make your money back again. You can even gamble in the swimming pools, and play Keno at the coffee shop. I eagerly await the advent of toilet slots.

In fact, there is almost no place where one is safe from the temptation to transfer money to the casino owners. From the moment you step off the plane to the moment you go back through airport security, you are forcibly entertained. Even the TSA video educates travelers by showing various hypothetical Vegas characters going through security. You see a showgirl stuffing her massive headpiece thingie through the X-ray machine. Visitors are allowed no opportunity for reflection or introspection. That might interfere with the ability to relieve them of their money.

Mr. T and I used to gamble occasionally back in our 20s, before my populist worldview hardened sufficiently to realize that gaming – at least in Vegas – is the most effective means, short of simple force, to transfer wealth to the super rich from the rest of us.* And all without giving anything in return except the frisson of imminent loss.

And when someone does manage to wrest some lucre from the clutches of The House, she need only walk a few steps to the stores waiting just beyond the casino area to give it all back again. I suspect that very little money actually leaves a given hotel, and even less leaves the city. This is a clever strategy, to be sure, but a dreadfully cynical one nonetheless.

In short, this industry preys on hopes and manipulates desperation for the gain of the corporate or the already wealthy. And while most people escape with no more than a headache and a bit of lingering self-disgust, others suffer more. One of the most appalling things I saw with some frequency were signs depicting an adult hand holding a smaller hand, with the caption: “Don’t leave your children unattended while gaming.” Dear God. It was enough to make me gather The Kid protectively in my arms.

But what really got me was the artifice of it all. As I walked through the airport on the way home past the zillionth public message congratulating me for my numerous acts of unrepentant decadence, I couldn’t help but think: Okay, I get it. You’re Vegas. You’re outlandish, outrageous, and totally transgressive. Whatever. Now show me something that's actually interesting.

But the thing of it is, there is nothing about Las Vegas – at least the famed Vegas that you find on the Las Vegas strip – that is remotely subversive of the establishment. Here is the order of things in Vegas: 1) First we’re going to get you to give us money by tricking you into thinking you have a good chance to take money from us; 2) If that doesn’t work, look over here at this nearly naked woman!!! 3) Be sure to smoke and drink a lot, too!

Perpetuation of the existing economic power structure through heterosexual sex, smoking and drinking. How original.

I kept comparing Vegas to Key West, which actually does have some genuinely subversive elements. I’m not a huge partier – I prefer ocean kayaking and scuba diving to doing the bar scene when I’m there. But I have no real objection to it, and people doing it in Key West aren’t being fed a line about it – they’re just doing it. By contrast, Vegas congratulates you for your edginess when you’re not really being edgy at all.

This is not to bash on people who like Vegas, and enjoy doing all the things that Vegas tries to get people to do. It can be fun, in its way. But look through the artifice so you can do it with a clear understanding of the elements in play.

Next: It's not all beer, babes and blackjack, or: Would I go back? You bet. So to speak.

*Except, perhaps, the credit card industry and our current taxation scheme. But the latter qualifies as a form of force, I think.

Tuesday, February 05, 2008

Wherein I break from slagging on Vegas to observe a happy occasion

Congratulations to Lewis! He and his partner were the 106th couple to enter into a domestic partnership in Oregon, on the first day those partnerships were allowed to be registered.

May they have many years of happiness.

Las Vegas: When you build a city entirely around appealing to the worst in people, that's usually what you get

I am an extrovert, so why shouldn’t I like Vegas? Isn’t Vegas an extroverted city?

Well, not really. Vegas is extroverted the way a mugger is extroverted. Despite the unceasing hustle and bustle, the shows and the food and the endless displays of human endeavor – I mean, there’s a show dedicated entirely to demonstrating one’s skill creating soap bubbles, for crying out loud -- Vegas doesn’t really like people. This is, I think, the most cynical place I’ve ever been. Common courtesies that you take for granted elsewhere are frequently absent here. People either behave differently while here, or this place attracts a certain kind of person.

I started noticing this on the plane from Phoenix. The three of us were seated apart – each of us in a middle seat. We approached the flight attendant and asked for help getting one of us seated with The Kid. Usually we have at least one aisle or window seat to barter when this happens, and it’s easy to get the seats arranged. We knew it would be harder this time, but a five-year old shouldn’t be required to sit between two strangers on a plane, sorry.

“These are our seats,” snapped a woman who looked like she’d swallowed a lemon. The flight attendant explained the situation. She looked over at me, sneering. (Me, of course, never Mr. T – it’s always the brood mare on the receiving end of the hostility in these situations). “Well, he has to have an aisle seat,” she spat, pointing at her partner. “Fine,” I said coolly. “Only one of us needs to sit near him,” I observed. “So it’s either that,” I said pointedly, “or you have an unattended five year old between the two of you.”

She cast me another withering glance, and addressed the flight attendant. “I hope you have some comps or something for this,” she sniffed.

At first I thought this might have nothing to do with Vegas per se – there are assholes everywhere, and this is hardly an unusual event when you fly anywhere with a kid. But after spending some time here, I noticed the same sort of attitude again and again. We were walking down the hall to look out the window near the elevator one morning. The elevator had arrived and there was someone in it. They must have mistakenly assumed we were coming to board the elevator. Well, the occupant of the elevator was courteous enough to hold it, but not courteous enough to be patient.

“HURRY IT UP!” she bellowed. I ignored her, appalled. Apparently we were unforgivably delaying the loss of all her remaining money on nickel slots.

In sum, I find the attitude of many people here ranges from indifferent to nasty. I suppose that’s what you get when you combine greed, desperation and soullessness.

Next: This would be a great city if they got rid of all the casinos.

Sunday, February 03, 2008

Here, kittykittykittykitty

Someone went to the Lion Habitat at the MGM Grand. And no, I don't particularly approve.

Big rawhide, huh?