As Winter Sets In, Small Shrews Shrink Their Skulls and Brains

“As cold weather approaches, tiny mole-like creatures known as red-toothed shrews will shrink their own heads, reducing their skull and brain mass by as much as 20 percent . . . “

From the NYTimes.

Consider the ochre-toothed shrew,

Who takes wintertime as a cue

To shrink its own pate,

Which some recreate

In Congress as tax schemes accrue.

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Feedback from the media:

From Josh Chin. Wall Street Journal:
"Fantastic work Tim. One of your best, even if was inspired by a rival paper."


From Patrick Coolican. Minneapolis Star Tribune:
"Well done." 

Restaurant Review: Ricas Pupusas, in Provo.

Ricas Pupusas is on Center Street in Provo, just next to the Fresh Market. They have a decent variety of pupusas, all costing $2.50 a piece. One thing I can't figure out about pupusas -- do you eat them on a plate with a fork and knife, like a pancake, or do you pick them up, folded in half, like a slice of New York Pizza? Since mine were served in a flimsy cross-hatched green plastic tub, on a piece of wax paper, I'm gonna go out on a limb here and say they're meant to be a finger food. But I requested mine be put on a ceramic plate, anywho.

You get a squeeze bottle of salsa and a jar of shredded cabbage with your pupusa. The cabbage is obviously out of a bag from the supermarket, and the salsa is so inoffensive and bland that it's more of a moisturizer than a condiment. 

I had three different papusas:

Spinach and Cheese:  Pretty tasteless.

Pork:  Or rather, pork mush. Tasty, but the mouth feel is all wrong.

Chipilin:  I hit the jackpot on this one. Chipilin is a roadside weed that flourishes in Mexico and Central America; the leaves are used in salads and soups. This pupusa was savory and full-bodied. I could happily eat four or five of 'em at a go. Highly recommended.

I give this place three Burps. It's modest, knows it's modest, so the staff are friendly and quiet. Just the place for a casual snack, without the heavy high carb rice and beans most places tack on, and charge an arm and a leg for. 

la mort d'Otto Griebling était en partie ma propre mort

Les clowns ne sont pas censés mourir. Ils sont encerclés avec des maillets et gonflés avec de grands bâtons de dynamite rouges, mais ils sont supposés courir après le coup fatal et ensuite saluer joyeusement la foule.  Ce n'est pas juste quand un clown meurt. Ou quand l'amour meurt. Ou un enfant meurt.  Quand l'unité Ringling Blue joua Madison Square Garden au printemps 1972, Otto Griebling joua pinochle entre les spectacles avec Chico; il nous a fourni des ampoules pour nos chambrettes dans le train en les appropriant furtivement des coins obscurs du Jardin; il buvait une bière entre les spectacles chaque jour; il s'est endormi avec Lilac Vegetal pour que les gens sachent qu'il jouait un clochard, sans en être un.  Sa voix perdue au cancer de la gorge, il était le Shakespeare du mime; son visage dégingandé englobait le vaste profond et jouait à ces ligaments secrets qui dépassent le cœur dans le vide des attentes humaines. Alors que nous nous installions dans le jardin, que nous trouvions des bébés rats dans nos coffres de clown et que nous payions de l'argent pour protéger les Teamsters afin qu'ils ne disparaissent pas, les scénarios silencieux d'Otto devenaient plus drôles et poignants. Ses tentatives frêles pour équilibrer une plaque tournante sur un bâton ont grandi pour symboliser les efforts étourdis de l'humanité pour trouver la stabilité là où il n'y en avait pas. Dans le public, il a poli une balustrade jusqu'à ce qu'il se heurte à une jolie fille. Son béguin dramatique et instantané sur elle était ridiculement pathétique. Comme il se penchait pour un baiser, il représentait tous les novices amoureux du monde, et quand la fille se lançait inévitablement dans des éclats de rire hystériques à son approche, sa déception visible, et ensuite sa colère, étaient merveilleuses à voir. Se redressant tout en tirant les revers de son manteau déchiqueté, il frappa sommairement la jeune fille avec son chiffon et s'éloigna avec lassitude pour commencer à polir et à chercher de nouveau. Au fur et à mesure que les jours passaient au Jardin, Otto restait dans l'auditoire de plus en plus longtemps à jouer ces scènes séro-comiques.  Puis, un matin, il était parti. Sa malle était fermée et fermée à clé. Même l'échantillon de tapis shag qu'il gardait devant lui pour reposer ses pieds pressés entre les spectacles avait été rangé.

Senator Jeff Flake vs Goliath

His decision was political and pragmatic, he acknowledged: he faced a tough primary battle and trailed in the polls. But his revulsion at President Trump also appeared to reflect his Mormon faith. It is a faith that puts a premium on decorum and comity, one that was born in America but is increasingly international and multicultural, and one whose young people often wear rings engraved “CTR” as a reminder of the hymn, which begins, “Choose the right when a choice is placed before you.”   from the NYTimes. 

When pioneers to Utah came

They did not seek for wealth and fame.

They sought a refuge for the soul,

Where they could live both pure and whole.

But politics soon made a rift,

Which caused a few to sorely drift.

Midst the Mormon men and ladies

Crept a whiff of shady Hades.

Until today the LDS

All sorts of policies profess

When to the polls they godly go

To keep things honest here below.

But when a leader comes along

Who won’t see what is right or wrong,

The folks begin to coalesce

And hope the spirit will impress

Some Saint to rise up quick and smite

Great Washington’s own Moabite.

Jeff Flake may be that David meek

Whose pebble strikes Trump on the beak.

Or maybe like that Herod lout

He’ll start to rot from inside out.

However Trump will go away,

All creeds about it ought to pray

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The author of the NYT article quoted at the top of this piece, Laurie Goodstein, replied to me about this poem in an email, thus:

Hi Tom,

That's one of your best, I think. They've opened comments on the story. You should post this, if you haven't already!

Your fan,

Laurie

Laurie Goodstein

National Religion Correspondent

The New York Times

620 Eighth Avenue

New York, NY 10018 

(She has called me 'Tom' for the past 2 years . . . )

Jimmy Durante -- "This great clown . . . "

Jimmy Durante in the circus movie "Jumbo"  1962.

“This great clown stays on with us, as great clowns always stay on in the hearts of men and women and children who seek in the refuge of merriment an hour of escape from the scowls of the long day. And in loving and admiring the clown, we cannot be expected to know that his art is most difficult to come by, or that his every success is challenged. The clown must make us laugh, although he himself may suffer pain, frustration, sadness, despair. To ask how he makes us laugh is almost as unanswerable as to inquire why we were born. Out of his seeming artlessness there shines a surviving sanity in a world gone daft. And against our modern will to destroy ourselves, and against our mad deeds that would undo the heritage that has made America so great, the sage laughter of the clown sounds high and wholesome, high and clean. It seems a glad summons to man’s dimming hope, a call to hold fast.”
from Gene Fowler's biography of Jimmy Durante, Schnozzola. 1951.

Taco Bell Creates the 'Chocoladilla'

“Taco Bell has boldly rolled out quesadillas stuffed with melted chocolate candy bar pieces inside.”  from the Sacramento Bee.

In its search for new cuisine

fast food joints don’t favor lean.

In their race for appetizers

They use fat and tranquilizers.

Anything that clogs the heart,

Gives us thirst and makes us fart,

Is the stuff they’re looking for --

causing blood pressure to soar.

Nations starve and children faint,

But we chow down without restraint --

Then diet in a mad attempt

From corpulence to be exempt.

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Media feedback:

from Juliet Kaszas The Sandpaper.
"Eww. I've never eaten at Taco Bell and I'm certainly not going to start now!" 

Un illustrateur remarqué transforme le président Trump en un étrange clown

La vision étrange du président Donald Trump comme un clown effrayant sur le devant de la nouvelle édition du New Yorker représente le «cauchemar national» que vit l'artiste Carter Goodrich. "Toute ma vie a été perturbée", a déclaré l'artiste au magazine. "Je suis toujours aussi abasourdie maintenant qu'il y a un an, la nuit des élections." La couverture, intitulée "Surprise d'octobre", montre un clown au visage orange, souriant à travers les dents aiguisées, alors qu'il se cache au bord d'une forêt sombre. Au sommet de sa tête se trouve une coiffe indubitable de cheveux blonds. "On m'a demandé de travailler sur des films sur lui", a déclaré Goodrich dans l'interview. "Je ne peux pas le faire - la plupart des satires semblent éclairer ce qui me semble être une situation désastreuse. Il est déjà un méchant de bande dessinée, infantile et étrange. "

par Rob DeCola. La Figaro.

The eerie vision of President Donald Trump as a creepy clown on the front of the newest issue of the New Yorker represents the “national nightmare” that artist Carter Goodrich is living.

“My whole life has been disrupted,” the artist told the magazine. “I’m still just as stunned now as I was a year ago, on Election Night.”

The cover, titled “October Surprise,” shows an orange-faced clown, smiling through sharpened teeth, as he lurks on the edge of a dark forest. On top of his head sits an unmistakable coif of blonde hair.

“I have been asked to work on movies about him,” Goodrich said in the interview. “I can’t do it - most satire seems to lighten what feels to me like a dire situation. He’s already a cartoon villain, infantile and strange.”

(English translation by Tim Torkildson)

Melania Trump Urges Young Students to ‘Choose Kindness’

WEST BLOOMFIELD TOWNSHIP, Mich. — The first lady, Melania Trump, in another public indication that she may refocus on efforts related to an early promise to combat cyberbullying, visited a middle school here in this Detroit suburb on Monday, and, in between posing for selfies, urged students to treat one another with respect and kindness.  from the NYTimes. 

There are bullies all around us, as we wend our daily way;

They are pushy in the playground and at work they look for prey.

They might shove you in the morning or use language that is cruel;

You will find them in the office, at the market, in your school.

Do not let them rule your passions or determine what you do;

You are old enough to discount all their attitude and poo.

And don’t ever think you’re funny if you bully at your school;

There is never any reason to neglect the Golden Rule.

But of course if you’re the leader of the Free World, then some slack

Is cut you when you rant and start a bitter tweet attack.

That isn’t persecution or coercion -- not at all!

It’s no one takes you serious if you don’t start a brawl.

Réflexions sur le peintre Ilmar Kruusamae, par Bracha L. Ettinger

"Circus Acrobat" by Ilmar Kruusamae. Circa 2010. 

J'ai rencontré pour la première fois Ilmar Kruusamae sur la rive gauche de Paris au début de l'année 2014. Il était venu de son pays natal, l'Estonie, pour se réaliser parmi les déchets artistiques toxiques des ruines en décomposition du postmodernisme français. J'ai aimé son approche fraîche et pseudo-innocente de la vie, en particulier la série de lithographies qu'il a produites sur ses souvenirs d'enfance du cirque soviétique. Ils m'intriguent encore, tandis qu'en même temps ils me repoussent avec leur flegme de bois. Nous ne sommes jamais devenus amants, mais seulement parce qu'il insiste pour utiliser le côté droit du lit, qui par tradition dans ma famille est toujours réservé à la femme consentante. Son travail ne connaît pas beaucoup de succès commercial, et aujourd'hui Ilmar se présente comme un nettoyeur de rue pour le Département Sanitaire de Paris - ce qui est un triste commentaire sur le manque de soutien de notre pays pour les artistes nés à l'étranger. Je dirais que son travail sera mieux connu pour son obscénité légère et son innocence profane. Son travail vaut toujours un coup d'œil, si vous le trouvez dans une galerie discount peu recommandable.

Bracha L. Ettinger.

Amazing Circus Panda Family. by Ilmar Kruusamae. Circa 2016.

I first met Ilmar Kruusamae on the Left Bank of Paris in early 2014. He had come from his native land of Estonia to find fulfilment among the toxic artistic wastes of the decaying ruins of French postmodernism.

I liked his fresh and psuedo-innocent approach to life, especially the series of lithographs he produced about his boyhood memories of the Soviet Circus. They still intrigue me, while at the same time they repulse me with their woodblock wholesomeness.

We never became lovers, but that was only because he insists on using the right side of the bed, which by tradition in my family is always reserved for the consenting woman.

His work does not enjoy much commercial success, and so today Ilmar supports himself as a street cleaner for the Paris Sanitation Department -- which is a sad commentary on our country’s lack of support for foreign-born artists.

I would say his work will be best remembered for its lighthearted obscenity and profane innocence.

His work is always worth a second glance, if you happen to find it on display at some disreputable discount gallery.

(Translation by Tim Torkildson)

Buster Keaton et le monstre de Frankenstein,

At a 1940 charity baseball game, Boris Karloff as the Frankenstein monster menaces comedian Buster Keaton

Le monde n'était pas encore en guerre, en Amérique, quand cette photographie est apparue dans les journaux avides de quelque chose en plus du sang, de la mort, de la pauvreté et de la famine. Peut-être que les rédacteurs de journaux ont senti quelque chose dans le vent qui leur a dit qu'une mort lente et énervante attendait beaucoup de ceux qui ont échappé aux bombes et aux fusils des zones de guerre actives. Et donc ils voulaient publier quelque chose de stupide, quelque chose de maladroit et insignifiant pour montrer effrontément à leurs lecteurs que oui, il y aurait toujours une absurdité enfantine dans le monde, même après Auschwitz et Hiroshima. Car il faut un homme courageux, ou une femme, pour apprécier et célébrer l'inanité. Tout le monde apprécie le héros sérieux et plaint les victimes innocentes du hasard - mais qui apprécie vraiment la bouffonnerie, sinon un paladin intrépide? Il est dit par des hommes sages que même les anges prennent congé de chanter des louanges à Dieu pour aller jouer aux quilles. . .

by Bruno Latour

The world was not at war yet, in America, when this photograph appeared in newspapers hungry for something besides blood, death, poverty, and starvation.

Perhaps newspaper editors sensed something in the wind that told them a slow and enervating death awaited many who escaped the bombs and guns of the active war zones.

And so they wanted to publish something silly, something goofy and trifling to brazenly show their readers that yes, there was still going to be childlike absurdity in the world, even after Auschwitz and Hiroshima.

For it takes a brave man, or woman, to appreciate and celebrate inanity. Everyone appreciates the serious hero and pities the innocent victims of happenstance -- but who really relishes buffoonery, if not a fearless paladin?

It is said by wise men that even the angels take time off from singing praises to God to go bowling . . .

(English translation by Tim Torkildson)