Well of course, being a tail-end child of The Sixties (“the part that went over the fence last,” as they used to say) you’d assume that I might like something quite so trippy as this marvellous short piece by Beryl Allee. This is not, however, some pharmaceutical double-entendre lead-in to a few minutes of visual drug paraphernalia. No! No! No! Don’t mistake the sizzle for the steak. There is so much more here. We are all frogs; it is a parable for our times:
Frogs and boiling water.
Photo by Roman.
Photo by Roman.
Whachewlookinat?
Just like the movie did, the title of this post promises lascivious scandal and delivers… grasshoppers? Well, the movie had Annette Funicello and Frankie Avalon… and Buster Keaton but rather less sex and more prurience than this post has… from one day at Leone Beach Park:
.
Plastic knots: the topology of disaster.
Photo by Roman.
I could probably actually afford the rent for a place that size, not much larger.
Come along. Mind the police tape, though; it’s the scene of a tragedy.
One egg, the size and color suggesting a Robin, so there should have been more and the end of July is far too late for just eggs in any case. My feeble forensics can find not a clue, Sherlock; the possibilities are numerous and multiply. Such a flock they are!
But I would favor a tale including shoddy construction on an unstable platform but there could well be more to it.
Like I said: I could probably afford a place like that.
The terrible elegance of the average plastic spoon:
One lone bird at
Dawn calls in the silence
Without reply.
Why do I hear the word
“Survivor”?
— Yip
Roland Hedley here reporting:
Photo by Roman.
Serious trench warfare in a tiny corner of the world. Is it something in the air, a miasma of fear, a mind-altering parasite, or a pheromone of aggression?
Photo by Roman.
Yip Abides 