If you're still not seeing all the images on the Gazette, please leave a message to that effect in the comments. I've changed a setting in the server configuration that I guessed might have contributed to the problem, but since I never could replicate it, I also can't tell if it's solved.

Thanks!

My pal Gregg emailed me this link to a YouTube video showing a skydiver towing an American flag the size of a basketball court*. It's certainly inspiring, but not unique, as we witnessed something similar last Thursday just forty miles down the interstate in Big Spring.

The occasion was the 11th annual "Pops in the Park" featuring the Big Spring Symphony and Chorus**, a surprisingly impressive fireworks display (more below), and an aerialist with a large US flag trailing behind. The flag obviously wasn't as big as the one in the video, but the scene was appreciated by the large crowd seated in the amphitheater and across the city park.

The Symphony and Chorus performed a full program of patriotic standards, plus some familiar medleys (salutes to Irving Berlin, George Cohan, and Andrew Lloyd Webber, for example). But the real treat came after nightfall, when we entered the "Fireworks Music" portion of the program.

I freely admit that we traveled to Big Spring with lowered expectations about what we'd see. After all, a town of 25,000 or so surely has limited resources to apply to something like this. Were we ever wrong! The fireworks display, in conjunction with the music of the symphony, rivaled and then exceeded anything we've seen in Midland.

It's difficult to adequately capture the impact of such a performance, especially on a point-and-shoot camera in movie mode, but here's a brief sample of the production, featuring the finale to the 1812 Overture. Perhaps it will give you a taste of the experience.

It didn't hurt that the weather was flawless and the crowd large, happy, and well-behaved. The city's amphitheater and park are a wonderful venue for an event of this nature, and it's obvious that the entire community turned out to support it. Even if it didn't take place on the Fourth of July, we left with a renewed sense of the awesome privilege of living in a free and prosperous nation. Thank you, Big Spring, for giving us that reminder.

*The analogy is surprisingly apt. According to this website, a regulation basketball court is 94' x 50', which gives an aspect ratio of 1:1.88. The US Flag Code specifies that the American flag will have an aspect ratio of 1:1.9. I doubt that James Naismith had this comparison in mind when he invented basketball, but it's a comfortable coincidence for an American sport. (Oh, and "thank you" to Larry and Deborah Hendrick [she of the exquisite Glove Box Stories], proprietors of Flags Bay, for the excellent source material for the dimensions and rules for handling the American flag!)

**You didn't realize that Big Spring had a symphony? Join the club. Turns out that they have a quite good one, although many of the members are also in the Midland-Odessa Symphony. The conductor, Dr. Keith Graumann, is a Big Spring resident.

Some people have complained (rejoiced?) that some or all of the images associated with the Gazette are not loading. I can't replicate the problem in my browser, but I do see it happening on my wife's computer. Please bear with me while I perform some incantations and possibly a live animal sacrifice or two* in order to bring the Gazette's graphic glory back into focus.

*Not really. But I might be really mean to a Beanie Baby.

Note, or rather, confession: I was going to use that post title for a description about how I re-injured my knee running with my wife so she wouldn't have to go out alone, but the moment passed (unfortunately, not the injury). It doesn't fit as well here, but by gosh, ill-fitting content has never stopped me before!

Continuing with the whole neighborhood-overrun-by-big-black-and-hairy-spiders theme that we launched yesterday, I had the opportunity this morning to educate a neighbor on the logic of not being afraid of tarantulas.

MLB and I were finishing our walk with Abbye (MLB took the day off) and we were passing in front of our neighbor's house as she came out to retrieve the newspaper. We exchanged greetings and she headed back to her front door, then paused, uttered a plaintive cry of dismay and jumped back a few inches. I knew without asking the source of her concern.

"Oh...that's the biggest spider I've ever seen!" she exclaimed. I walked up and tried to soothe her feelings. "Has a tarantula paid you a visit?"

It had, and she was accepting no soothing. I asked her if she'd like for me to sweep it off her front porch and she gratefully accepted my offer – pending her running inside to grab her camera to document one more indignity heaped upon her by the West Texas ecosystem (really, don't they have tarantulas in Denver?).

She took the photo, and I swished a broom toward the spider. But it evaded the bristles and scurried behind the bags of cypress mulch stacked against the front porch wall. I dragged the bags away from the wall, broom at the ready – and exposed both the original fugitive plus a compatriot. That was just about more than our neighbor could take, but she composed herself long enough to get another photo of the two spiders, one of which had assumed the aggressive stance, front legs in the air and prepared to urticate (you did learn that word, didn't you?), that makes them look more fearsome than they are.

I opined that this was probably one good reason for not stacking mulch on the front porch, and she assured me that her husband would ensure that the bags were gone as soon as he got home from work. I suspect he'll be presented with visual justification for his impending household chores.

I quickly and firmly swept the two spiders off the porch and onto the driveway. However, each time the little rascals came to a halt, they immediately made a beeline..um...spiderline back toward the front door. I had no choice but to terminate their operations with extreme prejudice in order to salvage our neighbor's psyche.

She was quite grateful for the assistance, obviously taking my assurances that the spiders were harmless as simply more evidence that I was at best a useful fool.

Ironically, when we arrived back at our house, my wife found some black stick-like things laying on the flowerbed border. Upon closer inspection, we determined that they were bits and pieces of tarantula legs. Did I mention that birds eat tarantulas? (I imagine they think they taste like chicken.) It was kind of sad to think that one of our spiders, having escaped unscathed from the aborted Great West Texas Spider Smackdown of 2008 apparently wandered straight into the sights of a mockingbird or grackle. Such are the daily life and death scenarios on the plains of Texas.

Last week's rain was welcome, but it brought out critters that some folks around here would just as soon stay out of sight. I'm referring specifically to tarantulas, and contrary to this report (which is worth reading if only to add "urticating" to your working vocabulary), those hairy eight-legged freaks are in abundant supply in our neck of the Woodland.

There were two in close proximity of our front door Saturday morning, one right on the threshold (trying to find the doorbell, no doubt; they're quite polite, you know) and another trying to hide under the brick overhang of our front flowerbed. I was curious to see how they'd react to one another, so I herded the porch-dweller (I knew that leather bullwhip from Juarez would come in handy!) over to where the shy one rested. When they came in contact, both froze for a few seconds, and then they mutually agreed to have nothing whatsoever to do with one another. Try as I might, I couldn't get them to even acknowledge each other. So much for the Great West Texas Spider Smackdown of 2008.

Tarantulas look creepy. The ones we have are about 12" in diameter and can achieve speeds of 40 mph on flat ground. They've been known to leap onto unsuspecting bicyclists; they'll tear your ear off if you're not alert. OK, I made most of that up. They're actually harmless – other than causing minor heart attacks by appearing when and where you don't expect them – don't jump, and while they can skitter pretty quickly over terrain, they're usually trying to get away from you. They still give me the creeps, but I won't go out of my way to smush one.

***

This morning, sandwiched between multiple trips to the vet for Abbye's blood glucose tests and a meeting with a client, I managed to squeeze in a 30-minute bike ride through the adjoining neighborhoods, and I spotted the biggest coyote I 've ever seen in these parts. It looked bigger than a German Shepherd and it was wandering in the vacant lots between Solomon Lane and Mockingbird.

It spotted me at the same time I saw it, and broke into that deceptively casual lope unique to coyotes, covering territory faster than you think is possible. (No wonder the Indians thought they were magic personified...or animified.) I figured I'd seen the last of him (or her?) as the animal disappeared over a slight rise.

But I decided to check, just to make sure, so I wheeled around and rode in the general direction he'd headed. Surprisingly, I saw him a couple of blocks ahead, and I attempted to cut off his path to the open fields around Midland Country Club.

I also hauled out the camera that I've started carrying, a very cool little Sony DSC-T300 that my wife gave me for my birthday last week. I looped the lanyard around my left hand, and started the chase.

Again I was surprised by his behavior. Instead of cutting across the field, he stayed in the middle of the street, running a block or two ahead of me, craning his head around occasionally as if to confirm that there really was a strange contraption following him. For my part, I flicked open the camera's lens cover and started shooting one-handed, without looking at the viewfinder, pedaling furiously but not gaining any ground. I was counting on blind luck to get a good shot before he disappeared. I was also counting on blind luck to ensure that I didn't crash into a curb or hit a patch of sand or otherwise find myself in a position unbecoming a bicyclist.

This is the part where I'm supposed to reveal the results of my wild camera waving, right? Umm...well, I got something on "film," although it's hard to tell what it is, and it's certainly not proof that we have the world's largest coyote hanging out in our 'hood. In fact, I did get one quite excellent shot of the sky and some very lovely clouds, and if you stare at the clouds long enough, you might begin to think you see a coyote. Or, perhaps, Wesley Clark. But, that's another story for another day.

Sorry about the extended absence. I've been doing extensive research on a wide variety of important topics, and reading Somerset Maugham short stories (I now know the definition of a "rusk," and can approximate the correct usage of the phrase "scraping acquaintance"). As a result of these concentrated intellectual efforts I feel confident that the result will simultaneously stimulate and challenge you, no doubt on a very visceral level.

Oh, I'm sorry...you don't read Korean? Well, it translates as "Black Gold," and here's the South Korean version of the TV show, filmed right here in the Permian Basin.

It's a lot like the TV show, only without any drunk roughnecks or bleeped words. Well, as far as I know.

Tip o'the hard hat to the Permian Basin Petroleum Association

If you live in the Permian Basin and watch TV, you've undoubtedly seen the ads for Woodland Park with the crawler announcing the "open house" this Saturday from 11:00 am to 3:00 pm. It's open to the public (of course) and there will be free hot dogs and drinks, plus all the builders will have model homes open for touring.

Here's an aerial view of the development taken last Sunday afternoon; click the image to see a larger version. If you're having trouble getting your bearings, that's A Street roughly bisecting the photo from left to right; a portion of the polo field is in the lower right corner, and Midland Country Club is near the top on the right. Our house is in the lower left portion of the development. If you look closely, you can see MLB working in the yard, wearing a halter top and hot pants. I'm not sure why she insists on doing that, but the neighbors haven't complained*.

I'm all for this, for a number of reasons, not the least of which is that it's provided motivation for the developers to clear the vacant lots of the randomly scattered piles of construction material, pick up the litter along the roadways and around the common areas, and mow the weeds everywhere.

I was considering retrieving my sailboard from storage and putting on an exhibition during the afternoon, but after seeing the main pond from the air, I think I'll pass. The whole thing looks way too much like a human digestive tract to me, and I'm pretty sure that circle thing floating in it was featured in a Sci-Fi Channel movie last month.

OK, that's really just moss. The hot weather combined with the runoff of nutrients from all the new plants makes the stuff literally explode; it's a real challenge to keep it under control. This shouldn't be so much of a problem in the future (he said without a real sense of enthusiasm).

If you're in the market for a new home, or just curious about what's going on out at the end of A Street, stop by on Saturday.

*You cannot even begin to imagine the trouble I'm now in.

I figure I already have too much junk in the sidebar to accommodate this, but it is pretty cool:

If you'll check this post every day, you'll see that the calendar really works. And my visitor stats will be huge! Or, not as teensy.

It's the Human Calendar®; you can learn more about it here, and grab one of the code variations here. There's even a variation that will run on a Chumby, whatever the heck that is (my new mantra: Intentionally Ignorant).

But, more interesting to me than the human calendar is the Human Clock project, conceived by the same guy. Go to this page, click on "View the Clock," and start playing around with it. You'll get the hang of it pretty quickly. The fact that the guy convinced Lance Armstrong to join in validates the concept, I'm sure you'll agree.

I'll be more impressed if the organizer ever gets his clock to display seconds.

And, once again we see that the simple fact that something can be done is quite sufficient justification for actually doing that thing.

Another week, another server migration. Kudos to my webhost for taking an unreliable server off the grid, and for warning me that the transition wasn't likely to be seamless.

If you're reading this, then at least one problem has been diagnosed and corrected.

I'm still working on the issue of quality posts around here, but I'm pretty sure I can't blame the host for that one.

Deborah Hendrick crafts original fiction with an authentic Texas accent; you'll be hard-pressed to find better on the web, and it broke my heart when she stopped publishing Glove Box Stories early in 2007. I'm pleased to report that she's returned to publishing, and the resurrected Glove Box Stories is back with a cool new design but the same seductive prose.

Be sure to read Deborah's "I'm back...but here's where I've been" post, and then get caught up on the fascinating folks who inhabit her imagination. But let me warn you – sometimes a pleasant drive ends with a Hill Country buck coming through your windshield, and you never see it coming.

Welcome back, Deborah!

OK, first let me apologize for the post title. I was attempting to riff off Snakes on a Plane, and obviously grew desperate. I'm still kicking myself (which, by the way, is quite painful, whether you connect or not) for failing to come up with "Snakes on a Plain" for a serpent-related post that I wrote not long after the movie was released; a reader suggested that title.

Now, where were we? Oh, I know. Remember that scene in the excellent Breaking Away where Dave had caught up to the Cinzano cycling team during a road race, and to express their ire at being schooled by an American kid, one of the Italian riders stuck a tire pump through Dave's front wheel, sending him head over heels, ending his race (and his reverence for the foreign racers)? Well, it could have been worse. Those Italians could have been toting snakes!

I waited until things dried up a bit before going for a ride this afternoon, and while cruising the streets of a new undeveloped neighborhood about a mile from our house, I came across this four-foot-long bull snake stretched across the asphalt. I braked in front of him and snapped a couple of photos with my phone, at which point he grew tired of the hoopla and resumed his journey. My bike's front wheel posed no obstacle for him.

I can't see a darned thing on my phone's viewfinder in bright sunlight, so I pointed and shot hoping that I was somewhere in the neighborhood as the snake slithered through the spokes. As luck would have it, of the half dozen shots I took, the most interesting one also turned out the best.

We've been held captive this week to the meteorological equivalent of the dry heaves: uncomfortable and futile. Each evening (or early morning), we're brushed by the the edges of thunderstorms on their way to deliver rain to other places, providing us with brutal winds and stampeding tumbleweeds, and just enough moisture to waterspot windows and turn the dirt they deposited into a dull ochre paste on the porch.

But this morning – ah, this morning! – is different. The past hour was filled with a steady rainfall, one that came straight down rather than coming in sideways. We got the best of the thunderstorm, without hail, high winds, or even power surges or blackouts.

Being the fortunate soul I am, I was able to abandon my workplace and relocate to the front porch to observe the neighborhood under these unusual conditions. As thunder echoed in the distance, I watched a cottontail rabbit make its way across the vacant lot, followed by a pair of blue quail, silly in their self-importance. The barn swallows from next door were engaged in their morning commute, flying at slow speeds and at eye level back and forth in front of me. I became aware of the percussion of raindrops hitting various surfaces: a steady dull patter of the stream from the roof onto the cedar mulch in our flower beds, the sharper tat tat tat as the drops bounced off the fanned fronds of the small palm tree, and – best of all – the plop of drops into the stream running vigorously down the gutter, affirming that we'd gotten enough rain to make a difference, at least for today.

Today's the first day of summer. Or is it? I can never remember whether it's the 20th or the 21st, and in light of previous discussions on these pages about the pervasive effect of the internet, I'm choosing to remain intentionally ignorant. Rainy West Texas mornings will do that to a person. I hope you'll join me.

Scattershooting* while pondering what kind of hangovers Phil Mickelson, Ernie Els, Vijay Singh, Justin Leonard, and the rest of the mortals on the PGA Tour are enduring this morning after what must have been a huge celebration last night following Tiger's announcement that he'll miss the rest of the season due to knee surgery. Likewise for the PGA and TV network officials who surely drank themselves into oblivion, albeit for a different reason: despair over what will likely be a huge drop in broadcast ratings for upcoming tournaments.

• My wife had the best line following the revelation that Tiger played the US Open on a torn ACL and with a double stress fracture: Rocco Mediate must feel even worse now, knowing that he was beaten by a guy with one leg!


• Speaking of Tiger Woods, and building on yesterday's post about the impact of the Net on the way we think, New York Times syndicated columnist David Brooks has an excellent piece about the golfer's otherworldly ability to focus. To more fully appreciate this skill (gift?), read Christine Rosen's essay, The Myth of Multitasking" (hat tip to Nicholas Carr).


• A local woman was quoted in this morning's newspaper about the importance of Juneteenth: More so than the Fourth of July, that's something we should never forget. Given the highly-charged emotional implications of that sentiment, I wonder why the newspaper chose to make it the pull-quote for the article? Or, did I just answer my own question?


• Did you catch the premier of Black Gold last night? Neither did I. Tru-TV is on a higher tier channel lineup, and isn't included in our subscription. That's a shame, because I'd love to blog about it, given that it's shot in our backyard and features people we run into every day. I'm hopeful that other local bloggers aren't as chintzy with their cable budgets and will provide recaps of the episodes. Update: According to George (whom I knew I could count on!), "Black Gold" episodes will be re-broadcast on TNT. Last night's premier will be re-run tonight at 9:00.


• I'm on the mailing list for news releases for a software company called Akvis. The company makes image processing software, and I've tested some of it in the past. Anyway, I received their latest release this morning in which they announce the relocation of their corporate headquarters from Russia to Canada. I was amused by some of the statements in the release.
  • The company changes its corporate style after moving its head office to Vancouver, BC, Canada. - Translation: We'll be drinking less vodka and more Big Rock.
  • AKVIS establishes presence on the North American continent and opens direct access to the wide North American software market. - So, the location of a software company's HQ is a major decision in deciding whether to buy its products?
  • ...while dipping into the highly qualified Canadian labor market will undoubtedly improve manufacturing quality. There's probably a way to be less flattering to the Russian labor force, but I'm at a loss to think of it.
  • To underline the importance of the move, AKVIS changes its visual identity and accepts a brand-new logo. - We may be moving to North America, but we're still using ESLers to write our press releases.

  OK, I'm off to watch the new batch of baby killdeer in the park. They're at a developmental stage equivalent to that of human teenagers, so clumsy that if they were driving, they'd be hitting every dumpster in sight.

  *As always, a debt of gratitude is acknowledged to Blackie Sherrod

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