Leaders of the Floogle Street Gang.
I can watch a piece of grass grow for twenty years. That's why I like to view the invisible blossoms each spring. These are on trees that most people claim have no blossoms. Larches. Yews. Spruce. And redwoods. The scientific community, in their overweening overconfidence, claim that such trees do not flower. And the public seems to accept this balderdash. Since there are no springtime tours to admire the larch blossoms or the redwood blooms. Not like those upstart cherry trees. They get all the attention. Which they hardly deserve. But I won't get started on that . . .
The larch blossom, it's true, is extremely small and dull. It looks like a grey pimple on the larch branch. And when it is done blooming (just two short hours) it starts to drip a black tarry liquid that can stain the windshield of your car. Still, it's a blossom and deserves some respect for being just that. Not every blossom is a show stopper; not every bloom is a work of art. Which doesn't mean we should ignore or denigrate those more modest unspectacular flowerings. I've always admired the way the redwood blooms. It sends out a thin green finger, about 200 feet above ground, which gradually turns into a tiny octopus-shaped translucent flower. Which turns to powder during the night and blows away. It smells awful. Like burnt popcorn. But I think there's a need for people to see these disappointments of nature, so to speak. People should be forced to go on tours of larch forests and stands of redwood in the early spring, when it's still damp and cold and muddy, to view these tiny things with telescopes and magnifying glasses. The federal government should get involved. But I won't get started on that . . .
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