Confused malcontents swilling Chardonnay while awaiting the Zombie Apocalypse.
Join us if you dare! Expect no quarter!
. . . and be forewarned . . .
. . . science is never settled.
Was that "too much science" or "too much glue sniffing?"
Once again, I assume those thinly veiled swipes are not directed at me.
After all, I certainly am not guilty of any of those charges.
"I have sworn an oath of solitude until the pestilence is purged from the lands!"
For some, there isn't much of a distinction.
Oh, never you *chuckle*. You still muster the courage to stick a toe into DiverseCity now and then, I only wish you'd participate more.
Yes, it is rather good, isn't it? Of course, we probably have different pestilences in mind . . .
Did you enjoy the man in the croc picture?
Here's the backstory:
A particularly famous photograph by Peter Beard (characteristically individualized) shows Beard writing in his journal from inside the jaws (of a freshly deceased) crocodile. Apparently, there was a price for the photo. The croc went into rigor mortis, its jaws tightened and the camp servants had a lot of difficulty getting the suffering Beard out from between the now painfully clamped jaws.
From the lack of comments on the previous postings about Peter Beard, I take it that many readers are unacquainted with the works and colorful career of that illustrious writer, photographer, adventurer, and womanizer. I figured I ought to do something about that.
When I was an undergraduate at Yale, in my residential college (Berkeley), there was a strikingly handsome upperclassman who had a considerable physical resemblance to Peter Beard (Silliman ’61). This fellow had parked outside the college on Elm Street a new bright red Alfa Romeo Duetto Spider, which he had received as a gift from a female admirer. While most of us worked summers on Construction or other disagreeable jobs, this particular escapee from Valhalla raised his annual Yale tuition by working as a gigolo on the French Riviera. He was always happy to tell the rest of us all about it, and he always suggested firmly that we really ought to go and do likewise. Of course, just ask yourself: how many undergraduate males look like Peter Beard?
In Outside, Roger Pinckney XI, gave Peter Beard a proper send-off.
Peter Beard was a hard man to peg. A photographer of wildlife and beautiful women, a writer, an ethnologist, explorer, hunter, naturalist, conservationist, ladies man, married man, wise man. Good work if you can get it. But if you’ve ever seen the video of him being trampled by an elephant, you might want to add “fool” to that considerable list. But however you cut it, you’ll run dry of adjectives long before you ever had Peter Beard nailed down.