paperhaus May 4th, 2007
Meet the latest fan of the Los Angeles Public Library, Bookduck. She and her boyduck (that’s his name, from what I can tell) have decided that the shallow fountains in front of downtown’s central library are, yes, just ducky. They are not shay about asking for snacks — in order to get this photo, I had to offer her my fingers, which she tried and rejected.
There are many pigeons and swallows in the garden plaza in front of the library, but these may be the first ducks to really hang out — library staff were charmed, and chased them around with a camera of their own.
paperhaus March 2nd, 2006
I have no idea what that subject line means. It’s part of the theme song to HR Pufnstuf, one of the many acid-laced 1960s TV creations of Sid and Marty Krofft that I adored as a kid. Small children and people doing excessive amounts of LSD connect in the trippy lands of the Kroffts, like Lidsville. And HR Pufnstuf.
What I loved the most about HR Pufnstuf was the human being among all the puppets and foam creatures: Jack Wild. He was a boyish teen who had this little British trill that made his Rs sound like Ws. He had a megawatt smile. He had… a magic flute.
I never knew he was in reruns. I just knew he was my first TV crush.
My crush was solidified when I saw Oliver, in which he played the Artful Dodger. He knew the city, was a masterful pickpocket and wasn’t quite trustworthy; in short, he was eminently cooler than Oliver, who struck me as a whiner and a follower. Charmers with wicked smiles and bad habits: you’re beginning to see my downfall.
Anyway, Jack Wild’s bad habits were those of your basic child star: as he got older, he indulged in too much alcohol and who knows what else. Sometime in the 1990s or so he cleaned up and got himself back together, but in 2004 he was diagnosed with mouth cancer. His radiation treatments left him literally speechless, and he died yesterday. Jack Wild was 53.
I wish I’d had the heart to write him a fan letter when he was sick and not so old, instead of now. I wish I could say thanks for letting me know, early on, that life didn’t have to be full of Olivers; I could, for better or worse, find a few Artful Dodgers.
paperhaus December 2nd, 2005
This is not about books.
This is about squirrels.
Today Boing Boing said that a pack of treed squirrels skittered down to gut the dog that was barking at them. This happened, ostensibly, in Russia. As a former Weekly World News subscriber, I know that suspect stories are often sited east of Europe (you know, aliens, BatBoy, Marilyn Monroe’s ghost). But this is not the only mad squirrel incident of the fall.
Early in October, squirrels in South London were spotted cracked out of their little furry skulls, according to the Guardian. They may have dug up buried stashes, or nibbled at discarded pipes. The Brits paint the squirrels on crack scene so well:
If they are not launching
themselves at you in drug-fuelled desperation, their bloodshot eyes are
searching for their next fix, pink paws scrabbling in the ground.
I was hoping that these mad squirrel stories might be fiction. Alas, a fairly diligent google search seems to show that the little guys are indeed working though some anger — pretty destructive ways. Poor little dog-icidal crack squirrels.
This non-literary message was brought to you by someone plowing through Writing and Sexual Difference, with The Derrida Reader on deck. Aren’t crack squirrels more fun?