Toad in the Hole

Another Dem Genius Moment

I hear the Democrats are buying attack ads against Ton DeLay. Great timing, folks. Look, his own base base is turning on him; the “conservatives” are making ominous rumblings about his contribution to the Schiavo mess. A perceived attack from the other side could only help him now—these people thrive on a pouty and aggrieved sense of being persecuted.

I’m thinking they should stand back and let nature take its course. Sort of like what ought to have happened long ago with Terri Schiavo.

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Back from the Death Valley

We’re back, and I thank whatever gods may be for Motel 6. If we’d camped, we’d have enjoyed high winds, sandstorms, and rain by turns. As it happened, though, we got to frolic in the flowers, brave the flying sand in the car, and at the end of the day drive through the rain, which was strong enough to wash the bugs and ichor off the front of the car besides.

And the place was gorgeous. I’ll post a few more grafs on it later.

We were lucky enough to be caught in the middle of a butterfly migration. Painted ladies migrate as spectacularly as monarchs, though I guess they don’t congregate as densely when they get south. They were coming north from Mexico in their millions the two days we were in Death Valley, riding those stiff winds, sailing by in an aerial flood, a blizzard of butterflies.

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And Away!

We’re off to Death Valley for a few days, feeling only slightly guilty about leaving the housesitters in charge of a lovelorn snake. (I thank whatever gods may be that the Vivarium has a liberal return policy on feeder rats.)

Amd I promise not to think about Terri Schiavo and that pack of hyenas in DC even once.

here’s the scary thing, though: her parents reportedly said that even if she had left her wishes in writing, they’d have ignored them unless it meant keeping her breathing. The consolation is that it probably would have been harder for them to do so, and this mess would be long over by now.

Me, I’m donating to Body Worlds if they’ll have me. I figure I’d look better without my skin anyhow.

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Homebank Screwcurity

So the last three times Joe has tried to deposit our piddly free-lance writer paychecks (and my slightly-less-piddly editor’s paycheck) in the bank, he’s had a problem. They didn’t want to accept checks made out to Ron Sullivan and Joe Eaton for accounts in the names of Veronica Sullivan and Martin Joseph Eaton.

This is new. We’ve banked with that same branch of Union Bank for, oh, 15 years or so at least, and handed over such checks regularly for that long, without any quibbles. They know us, theoretically; they’ve presumed to offer us financial advice; they call and offer gilt-edged banking services now and then, etc. And we’ve established that we are the people to whom the checks are made out, and why they come to those names—the names we publish under.

First a young female clerk gave Joe a hard time. Then Joe dragged me in to partake of the pleasure, and the late-30s? white male clerk—or demi-manager—gave us both a hard time. He said the policy had been in place since October of 2003, which is odd, as we’ve been depositing these checks in person at least monthly since way before then and three visits ago was the first we’d heard that something might be off. He said we’d got notice of it along with our regular statement… oh, sometime around mid-2003.

Maybe. We actually do read the crap that comes with statements most of the time. This didn’t ring a bell.

He said it was a Federal requirement, part of the Homeland Security regulations, that a bank had to know who was depositing money in every account. That we’d each have to get a legal declaration of alias drawn up.

Yeah right. I’m going to pay to have the bank accept my earnings, as they have for years and GODDAMN WELL KNOW WHO I AM.

So instead we asked our various venues to please make out paychecks to our formal names, which they have agreed to do. I think. But one more check came from the Berkeley Daily Planet, made out to “Ron.”

Joe went in to deposit it without paying much attention, and encountered the same male demi-manager. DM gave him the same hard time. He did not, however, give Joe a hard time about another check in the pile, made out to “Joe.” Joe asked about that little detail.

“Well,” said the DM, “I can see where you get ‘Joe’ from ‘Joseph’ but I can’t see how ‘Veronica’ is ‘Ron’.”

Somehow I don’t see his problem. When I introduce myself, I sometimes get asked, “Rhonda?” I explain—it’s a tagline by now—that it’s a heavily pruned Veronica. Gardeners generally get it. This dude has been looking at my name for months now, apparently, and has met me in person, where I’ve explained who I am and where he can find my byline—the same publications that send the checks, duh. Bur somehow he doesn’t see the second syllable of my baptismal name. (I note that “Joe” appears nowhere in “Joseph.")

A very odd kind of dyslexia, I think—and one more way for tin-eared martinets to jerk people around, in the name of national security no less. He seems to be inventing rationales as fast as he’s asked about reasons. Quite a little dance, especially the most recent step. No one gets more power in this atmosphere of crapola than petty tyrants passing out bullshit, to mash a metaphor.

We’re thinking, if we’re going to be so damned patriotic, maybe we need to move our modest assets to an American-owned bank, PDQ. I’m only sorry I entrusted my 401k to these clods.

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The Sedentary Adventurer

No, not TV.

I was sitting at the keyboard here in my bathrobe… OK, I was playing 19th-level Trogdor. Joe was at the library, Matt the Cat was out somewhere, and Shep the snake was still mooning about his cage, all lovelorn with the season.

I heard a tip-tap in the dining room. Not clunky enough to be the turtles, maybe the rats (lovelorn snakes lose their other appetites), maybe… ?

I looked over my shoulder into the dining room. There was a California towhee on the rug, a couple of feet from the office door. It hopped and pecked in the casual irregular rhythm they have, cocked its head this way and that, kept hopping over to a spot under the dining room table.

Hmm, maybe I should vacuum more.

Kept hopping and pecking at the floor, disappeared behind the table.

I got up and very quietly walked to the office door. I knew the back door was open, and worried that Matt might have come in too; also worried that I’d panic the towhee and it would fly into a window or something. No, it came out between the table and the ugly heater, still hop-pecking, cast an eye on me, never broke stride.

Kept on at the same pace across the dining room, into the kitchen; meandered across the kitchen and through the back hall, out the back door.

We used to see the occasional towhee in the back hall at our last place, where they’d come in to inspect the dust bunnies under the storage shelves. But that was a first-floor flat; here, we’re in the second floor. I also used to think it was the inexperienced young, maybe birds hatched that year, who were so tame. I guess not, as it’s only March and this year’s birds haven’t fledged yet.

I wonder who’ll come in if I get to the 20th Trogdor level.

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