Winter Solstice, Lunar Eclipse

Tonight (by which we mean after midnight, or Tuesday the 21st) is the longest night of the year, darlings -- the winter solstice. And tonight, in case you haven't heard, the moon will go into full eclipse, starting at 2:41 AM Eastern. When was the last time a total lunar eclipse occurred on the winter solstice? Oh, not long ago, as the universe reckons such things -- December 21, 1638, according to NASA by way of WaPo, which is where we picked up that pretty pic of a 2001 eclipse by AP photographer Heribert Proepper. We'll take NASA's word for it -- There were no photos in 1638 and no Intertoobs for speedily transmitting them upon. 1638: The Thirty Years' War ended in March of that year, and Anne Hutchison was banished from the Massachusetts Bay Colony for heresy, also in March. We learned that on the Intertoobs, with a little help from our faithful research assistant, Wick E. Pedia.  Oh, and King Louis XIV of France was born, on September 5.

What does it mean, this remarkable convergence of astronomical shenanigans? Two things at least, my pretties: 1. As of tomorrow, the days start getting longer, which dramatically increases the possibility that life will start sucking less. 2. My typist has a certain cheesy song from 1983 stuck in her head, and the only way to get it out is to pass it along to you. I am so very sorry for subjecting you to it, but it's a bitterly cold night and her grades aren't finished yet. We simply must get the cheesy song out of her head.

Peace out, darlings. Snuggle up to something, for dog's sake, lest you freeze to death -- or fall apart.

Noted, While Walking

Or, One More Reason We Totes Heart Our Neighborhood:

(Photo Credit: Moose, on her iPhone, 6/15/10)

Where else do you get a call to environmental conscience and collective action through a clever revision of a famous American poem -- on a home-made sign gone drippy in the rain?

Welcome to the People's Republic of Takoma Park, comrades. There's no place like home!

Peace to all living things, except for kudzu. Kudzu must die, even in Takoma Park. Have a nice day.

Facing South

On Monday in this space, we looked west and showed you pretty pictures of bright sunshine, sparkling waters, and pristine beaches. Today, with heavy hearts, we turn our eyes to the south and show you some of the ghastly images coming out of coastal Louisiana. All three of these photos are by Charlie Riedel, Associated Press and are dated June 3. The top two are on the front page of this morning's Washington Post; the third is in an online photo gallery of images going all the way back to early May.

Had we the power, we'd award Mr. Riedel with a Pulitzer Prize this instant for so compellingly documenting the ecological horror unfolding in the Gulf of Mexico. These are images that arrest the eye and perhaps the heart. One's first reaction is likely disbelief: This can't be real. I am looking at stills from some cheesy dinosaur flick. Slowly the truth sinks in: This is real, and the oil is still gushing, BP's optimism about last night's "Top Hat" maneuver notwithstanding . . . . The question, of course, is whether such images can stir the conscience of a nation that thinks "Drill, baby, drill" is a perfectly fine energy policy.



Our world, darlings -- Welcome to it. Or is it BP's world and we are just gas-guzzling guests? Surely that isn't the case. We can't permit ourselves to gaze at these pictures and become depressed, use them as an excuse to become further mired in the muck of our own lassitude: Oh, dear, what can I do? I'm just one little person. I can't save all those birds! Go read our pal Margaret Swedish over at Spirituality and Ecological Hope for some thoughtful analysis of the Deepwater crisis and its implications for our politics and our ways of life.

One little person can't save the world, but that doesn't mean you get to opt out of thinking or trying. Up and at it, ye righteous citizens of Petro Nation. We've got one helluva mess to clean up. Pass me the Dawn, and let's get started.

World News Roundup

(Image Credit: An artist's rendering of what some of the 32 planets recently discovered outside our solar system might look like. From European South Observatory, via AP and Wa Po, 10/19/09)

Contrary to what my typist seems to think, there is a lot more going on in the world than hikes, hot tubs, and the moral/economic puzzle of the value of art in the age of academic furloughs. Just to let you know we've been paying attention back here at the global headquarters of RW Enterprises, LLC, we've compiled a list of highlights and lowlights we've noted in recent news coverage and commentary. As always, we welcome your thoughts, snarky or otherwise.

Quote of the (Yester)Day:

It’s hard to see how any public official can challenge a culture that he is marinating in, night and day.

(Frank Rich, explaining why Treasury secretary Timothy Geithner has done such an underwhelming job of regulating the financial industry.)

Specious Analogy of the Week (and it's only Monday!):

[W]e should view the privilege of a higher education much as we did the privileges that we enjoyed as children. We knew we couldn't get ice cream if we didn't help wash the dishes — we worked for the privileges that we enjoyed, and we shared in the responsibility of earning them. Those special activities were available to us, but we did not enjoy them as a "right." We were expected to contribute.

(Cal State Stanislaus President Hamid Shirvani in The Chronicle [access by sub only] calling for an end to what he sees as a culture of entitlement in higher ed. Why do we get the feeling that diversity programs and the humanities would be considered ice cream in the outcomes-obsessed, low-fat diet Shirvani advocates? Go over to engineering, kids, and get your spinach!)

A Vastly More Fun and Promising Idea for Saving Higher Ed: Female profs as bodybuilders! C'mon, Historiann, flex those muscles! I will let you use my laptop if you will let me use your self-tanner, 'kay?

Understatement of the Millennium:

Everybody hates me.

(From Keith Bardwell, justice of the peace in Tangipahoa Parish, Louisiana, who has drawn just a wee bit of criticism for the constitutionally questionable move of denying a marriage license to an interracial couple due to his selfless and obviously devoid of prejudice concern for the offspring of such unions. You know, offspring like this guy. And, oh yeah, this guy. By the way, Justice Bardwell, you are right on that point at least. Everybody does hate you!)

Grotesque Misstatement of the Millennium, Brought to You by the Department of We Are All Post-Racial Now:

Absolutely not.

(The same Keith Bardwell, responding to a hypothetical question about whether or not he is a racist. Bardwell goes on to explain that his definition of a racist is "to hate black people, or treat black people different" than anybody else, which, in his judgment, he does not do. Oh, no, sorry, Justice Bardwell, you are wrong on that one, which means you only scored 50% on our cultural literacy and sensitivity quiz. That's a big F, sir. Bye-bye! You might spend your retirement reading up on recent -- as in, you know, within the past 40 or so years -- developments in marriage law in the United States. Start here, and call us if you have any questions, all righty?)

Best News We've Heard All Day: 32 new planets discovered. (See artist's rendering above.) Beam me up, Scotty! I need a new world to conquer. Or some quiet, unsullied alternative to the mess we've made of this one.

Thoughtful Piece on Marriage Equality You Should Read Unless the Idea of Reading One More Piece on Marriage Equality Takes You Right to the Edge of Vomiting or Violence: by Princeton's Melissa Harris-Lacewell in The Nation. She's smart, and we dig her support for the cause, though we also think this piece, which glances at a forthcoming book by Frances Smith Foster on the history of African-American marriage, is just a little bit starry-eyed on the emotional and spiritual benefits of marriage.

Best Book Moose Has Read in Her Undisclosed Location: Marilynne Robinson's Home. It kept her up late. It made her weep. It brought back the beautiful, brutal, laconic Midwest of her misspent youth with a clarity and truthfulness that took her breath away. It almost made her want to go back to teaching so she could put together a seminar on Robinson, Toni Morrison, and the Whole, Hot, Tangled Mess of American Culture.

Almost, darlings. You know Sabbatical Girl is going to put many more miles on her hiking boots before she trades them in for her black Naots and returns to the classroom. Hope to run into you out on the trail. Meantime, let us know what's happening in your neck of the woods. Peace out.

What Kind of Dog Are You?

("Speed Bump" by Dave Coverly, December 2, 2006, Washington Post)

I am definitely a toilet bowl half-full kind of dog. Visitors to our house quickly learn that toilet seats are always left UP so that I can have unfettered access to my favorite source of fresh clean water. Some humans are unaccountably horrified by this habit and by the fact that my moms cater to it, but we view it as a practical aspect of inter-species co-habitation. Dogs are thirsty animals. Humans for some strange reason have very fancy water bowls on every floor of their homes. Seat up, and these high-falutin' waste management devices do double duty. Both species are happy. All's right in Roxie's World.

Of course, I also drink out of the pond in our back yard, which is how I came to tumble into it yesterday while Goose was cleaning leaves and other autumnal detritus out of the pump. Pond-cleaning is one of my favorite household chores, because it gives me an opportunity to visit my fish (John, Paul, and George-Ringo [we used to have four fish, but one of them disappeared--either George or Ringo, but they looked a lot alike, so. . .George-Ringo]) and to supervise work that involves a high degree of messiness. While Goose hoses the gunk out of the brushes and netting in the pond, I play in the mud and walk around and around the edge of the pond looking for the ideal spot to pause for a drink. This task has gotten a little more complicated recently because the rocks around the pond have been re-arranged and the footing has gotten a bit precarious for us quadripeds. (Close readers will have noted the use of the passive voice in that last sentence. You are correct to assume that my lawn-and-garden-impaired moms were not the ones who re-arranged the rocks to look more beautiful and natural. That was done by trained specialists.) Long story short, mid-drink I lost my footing and went head-first into the pond. Fond as I am of drinking water, I am not especially fond of being in water, terriers not being among the dive-and-fetch breeds, thank heaven. I was momentarily stunned to find myself swimming with my fishes. I looked at Goose as if to say, "Help!" and she looked at me as if to say, "Well, dear, you got yourself in here, so I suggest you figure out a way to get yourself out." Which, as it turned out, is exactly what I did. She laughed, had Moose fetch a towel, and I got a brisk rub down as a reward for my efforts. And soon enough, all was again right in Roxie's World.

Speaking of water, the Post had an amazing story this morning on how the insurance industry is reckoning with the realities of climate change. More and more, insurers are refusing to insure properties near coasts, as far north as New York and New England, because they assume that hurricane seasons are likely to be as intense as last year's (the season of Katrina, Rita, and Wilma) was. Our coasts have been over-developed, making them more vulnerable to catastrophic storms, and now homes and businesses are uninsurable, making them economically vulnerable if not worthless. How smart is that, people? I bet my friend Margie over at Ecological Hope will blog on this subject soon, because she brought it up over coffee with Moose the other day before the Post story was published. (Read the Post piece here.)

Half-full or half-empty? That's up to you, fellow earthlings and friends of Roxie's World.

Hot Dog

I've been helping my moms recover from their jetlag. They had a great time in Paris, which you can read about on their travel blog, M&M in Paris. Turns out Moose is a pretty good blogger. I'm thinking of giving her designer access to Roxie's World, now that I've forgiven her for the premature obituary she wrote for me when I had pancreatitis. Moose has a slight hysterical tendency, so her emotions run ahead of the evidence from time to time, but on the whole she takes good care of me and Goose and nobody makes us laugh like she does.

There's a lot on my mind right now. It's really hot for one thing, here in Washington and throughout the lower 48 states. That makes it hard for me to breathe, which makes my moms worry. Plus, they finally went to see An Inconvenient Truth, the documentary about my guy Al Gore's crusade on climate change, so now they also worry that our air-conditioning is going to destroy the planet. I worry about that, too, but dogs don't sweat. I need to be able to curl up next to my favorite register in the living room and bask in the artificial chill generated by the giant electricity hogs in our basement. I promise to help my moms and fans of my blog make small changes in their daily habits that can reduce energy costs and contribute to the fight against global warming, but I'm not budging from my register until night-time temperatures are below 70. In the meantime, though, I want all fans of my blog to pledge to see An Inconvenient Truth:

My broken heart is also heavy with concern for the deepening chaos of the situation in the Middle East. While some are making grim jokes about the apocalypse, I watch in horror as the "leader" of the "free" world stuffs rolls into his mouth and pops off about how Syria should just get Hezbollah to "stop doing this shit." Brilliant suggestion, Mr. President, and by the way there's a little chunk of butter in the corner of your mouth. Maybe if you just took this napkin and stuffed it in there. . . ? To some, this incredible Stupid Human Trick is further proof that Bush is a plain-spoken man who calls things as he sees them. To me, it's proof that Bush doesn't see nearly enough. His judgments are quick, shallow, dim--and dangerous. I can't imagine how you humans put up with such a lame leader of your pack.

Goose's home state of Texas seems to be doing penance for launching George Bush into American politics by staging one of the wackiest governor's races in the history of democracy. The Washington Post has a delightful profile today on Kinky Friedman's weird-yet-compelling bid to replace Gov. Rick "Good Hair" Perry. Given that the office of the governor in Texas is one of the weakest in the country, I think the Lone Star state might as well elect someone who has the guts to campaign in stinky shirts and to offer up this taped greeting to fans of the WNBA's Houston Comets: "Houston Comets basketball -- it's not just for lesbians anymore!" Moose liked that one so much that she nearly spit her coffee across the breakfast nook. That's the kind of plain talk she admires. It's verbally quick but not at all shallow. It names a truth that is ordinary yet in some ways discomfiting. It breaks a silence that ought to be broken and creates possibilities for laughter and connection across lines of difference without scapegoating anyone. George Bush doesn't know a word of that plain-spoken language.