Your headline of the day

Frisky moose picks unlikely partner. Said partner just happens to be a red Ford F150.

And Zim would appreciate this possible explanation of said moose's romantic misadventure: “It is possible that the behavior is associated with a neurological disease that sometimes affects southern New Hampshire moose. It’s called brain worm and can result in lethargy and other behaviors out of the ordinary.” And now I know what to call in sick with next week.

A real American hero

On scans_daily, the beginning of the G.I. Joe comic book.

I'm not sure if any person I never met has been as influential on my life as Larry Hama. (Maybe Isaac Asimov. Maybe Dan Fouts.) These were the tales that engaged my imagination like no other -- the characters were so distinct and the situations dramatic while still retaining a current of humanity about them.... I was young enough to approach them blind to politics, idealistic enough to accept many beliefs unquestioningly, confident that in the struggle of the right versus the wrong, the right would prevail, and I always knew which side of that equation I was on.

Revisiting them is hard -- not just for reminding myself that life was much better and much simpler when insulated from perplexing and complicated reality. I remember the family that lived down the road from my grandmother's place, kid named Terry, few years older than me, and a girl named Tammy, few years younger than me. The family lines go back far enough that they get invites to our family reunions, and they never miss them. Part of the same flock, even if the genes don't really mingle. Terry was huge into G.I. Joe at a time I didn't know anyone else who was. And hell, at eight miles away, we were almost neighbors. He was pretty smart and not at all socially awkward in the same way most of the interesting people always were -- are. Fireworks, videogames, climbing windmills and hopping over streams, and he had the entire run of G.I. Joe, and I was lucky enough to get to read them.

And then one summer day as he was driving the tractor for his dad, plowing the field, he took a turn a bit too sharp and rolled the tractor on top of himself. He was 14.

So it's been this long and I'm looking back, reading these issues through postmodern lenses, watching the political veins throbbing through some stories and I feel sorry for myself because I got older. And he never will.

In Soviet Russia....

Oh, and here's the deal with the Russian friending-spider LJ accounts, btw. Via cleolinda. (And moar here, via gynocide.) I've seen them stepping through my f-list in the exact same pattern every time. Spaciba, Russia.

(Now we know what the Russians are up to. And knowing is half the battle. Apparently the other half is not getting shot.)