Burning Bridges Like Matchsticks

One of the more charming habits of entomologists is their habit of keeping particularly large and showy insects as pets. One of their less charming habits is the way that said pets inevitably end up pinned and labeled in a Cornell box upon scuttling off this mortal coil. Thank goodness that mammologists don't do this.



This is a former pet of mine. I used to feed him baby yellow perch every week. Very well behaved, but he never learned to play fetch or roll over.

You don't need a camera to take snapshots, but it has its place. The "taking pictures of little flies" place.

In a brief moment of imitative patriarchy blaming, I'd like to present the postcard I received in the mail recently...

The intersection of mushroom season and my new found enthusiasm for early mornings has birthed a handful of meals. When I ride to work in the morning, I pass empty playing fields, railroad beds and endless yards, some more manicured than others (Madison being the oasis of liberal thinking that it is). Sometimes the greens are dotted with white sprouting phalluses. They stand like discarded clumps of styrofoam in the dewy grass, shocking white underneath a crust of dirt, the oldest and largest already starting to deliquesce. From two lots away their club-like profile is distinctive, and I've never been gone unrewarded for my sodden sneakers.