I’ve sat out the Edwina Rogers fiasco since the Secular Coalition of America announced they’d chosen her as their new Executive Director, waiting to see if my initial revulsion would pass. It hasn’t. I read the transcript of the interview she did with Greta Christina, and the entirety of her Ask Me Anything on Reddit, hoping she could somehow allay our fears and prove she’s capable of representing us effectively, despite her sordid history in Republican politics. But I didn’t have high hopes. Put it this way: I’ve learnt over the last decade that when one trusts Cons not to kick them in the teeth, they’d best have an excellent oral surgeon on speed dial.
Edwina’s managed to meet expectations: she outright lies, she avoids the hardest questions, she babbles nonsense in reply to most of the questions she deigns respond to without bald-faced lies. She is exactly what I suspected she was when I heard some absolute morons had chosen a Republican operative neck-deep in the Bush administration, yammered on Faux News, and who has donated generously to Rick bleeding Perry, to become executive director of the Secular Coalition of America: an unmitigated disaster.
Not all atheists are liberals, and I suppose it could be a good idea to get some secular conservatives on board at times – if they don’t end up compromising the values held by the vast majority of us. As several people have noted, a Republican lobbyist as part (not head) of the SCA isn’t such a horrible idea. And I rather think it would be nice to give the Rabid Right something to worry about from within its own ranks, so the idea of developing a coalition of secular Republicans and siccing them on the fundies actually tickles me. So no, I have no objection per se to having a Republican working with the SCA.
But surely, surely, the SCA could have chosen a better Executive Director than this Bushie. She can’t reach across the aisle to elected Republicans – the bunch currently in office here, there and everywhere are, overwhelmingly, theocratic freaks frantic to install god as our ruler. They’ve already demonstrated that they’ll abandon their own policies if a liberal expresses approval. And I cannot dismiss the fact that she actively supports some of the worst of them.
Not to mention she thinks she can pull a fast one on skeptics by outright lying to them, thus demonstrating a spectacular inability to understand the people she’s supposed to represent.
What good is she? How can she possibly represent our interests?
I swear to you, birds mock me. Even the East Coast birds are in on it, so I assume some of their West Coast cousins passed the word along: “Hey, this chica with a camera’s coming your way. She needs birds for her UFD thing. So what you’ve gotta do is, show yourself for a split-second, then fly into the bushes and sing at her really loud. She’s hilarious when you do that!”
At one point, in Massachusetts, I caught a glimpse of some little brown birds nibbling on things in the path, so I abandoned Evelyn and left her marking dinosaur trackways whilst I hared off after birds. And the fuckers flew off into the bushes the instant I approached. All I got was the arse-end of a robin.
I despaired. I could hear them everywhere: little songbirds, and woodpeckers, and even mourning doves, which I haven’t heard since living in Phoenix. There was some weird bird Evelyn mentioned the name of, made a really bizarre sound, but I can’t remember what it is now. Why? Because I never bloody saw it. All I saw was fleeting glimpses of perfect candidates, and bold robins puffing out their red breasts at me, because they know I don’t need robins.
Then came the day we sat on the deck in the afternoon sun with cheese and crackers, the dog flopped down beside us, the lake sparkling gently in the breeze, and behold! A bird!
I must first swear you to secrecy: If Cromm ever finds out I went kayaking with a dog, I’ll never hear the end of it. And if my cat realizes I spent time with a dog and liked it, my life is forfeit. So keep this on the down-low.
Evelyn’s a champion kayaker. The cabin we were staying at is right on a lake. And so, she said, we should go kayaking. And I had immediate flashbacks. The last time I tried to do something in a rowboat on a lake, it involved chasing an inflatable raft as it bounced end-over-end down the beach in a high wind. We never even got the thing in the water. And, yeah, I had a little canoe – when I was two. I have this theory about rowing: it’s something that happens to other people. I have upper body strength: equivalent to a 98lb weakling (which is pretty much what I am). I could envision what would happen if I attempted a kayaking adventure: after dumping myself in the water and overturning the kayak, I’d proceed to paddle in a circle near the boat dock for about ten minutes, then I’d go into the drink again, and the adventure would be over with Evelyn trying not to laugh hysterically.
One thing among many that I love about adventuring with Dr. Evelyn Mervine is this: much like the Doctor, she loves goofy fun and doing things on a whim. Even when we’re doing serious geology, we’re not doing it seriously, if you know what I mean. When we needed items for scale, we ended up with plastic dinosaurs and a knight. When we wanted to have a look at minerals, we went to a rock shop that doubled as one of those kitschy tourist traps, complete with duct-taped dinosaurs. And she encouraged me to find twu wuv.
I can’t pretend I’m serious all the time, either. So the two of us sort of caused… escalations. When you’re a ripe 37 and running about with someone who just became a doctor, that’s glorious.
So there we were, in the rock shop, and Evelyn discovered the children’s section. They had plush dinosaurs from the Natural History Museum. The dinosaurs had protofeathers on. Not as many protofeathers as they should, but still, an effort was being made. Educational and accurate! Evelyn picked up a good-sized velociraptor, and then found a wee little thing, which she thrust my way for an assessment of its relative cuteness.
Adorable tiny dinosaur plushie with protofeathers on
“It’s a Utahraptor!” she said. And I allowed it was the cutest Utahraptor ever, and she should totally get it, because then she could name it Utah Carol. I’d have to explain later why naming it Utah Carol would be so appropriate.
Substantial posting will resume shortly, but today, I want to talk about wuv. Tw wuv. The kind that “will fowow you foweva…”
Wuv wiv wex
The rock shop is a place where one can fall in wuv several times in an afternoon. So it’s interspecies. Don’t judge me.
Wex was just a fling, though, a passing fancy, two ships passing in the night (one with rather larger teeth than the other). Twu, enduring wuv can be found with a bodiless reptilian head, granted. But there’s something to be said for someone who can do more than bite.
I wanted to introduce my latest love interest.
I don't know what species he's supposed to be, but I wuv him.
I know he’s no fashion plate. But he’s certainly manly. And who can resist a skull-topped stick held together with duct tape? Very chic.
So happy together
I’m afraid this romance shall be short-lived, however. Now that Obama has admitted that same-sex marriage is not an abomination (do you see what I did there? This is how humorous I am when I’m still discombobulated), I’m afraid I’ll be leaving him for another woman. Nothing personal, it’s just that the rabid right assures me that love, marriage and civilization itself are ending because two people of the same sex have been told by the President of the United States that he doesn’t mind if they make their love official, and who am I to question their judgment? So I’ll be haunting kitschy tourist traps looking for that special someone, a cavewoman after my own heart, so that we can get gay married and help move America “one step closer to becoming like secular, post-Christian Europe.”
I’m so sorry, Grog, but I want America to become more like secular, post-Christian Europe, so sacrifices must be made. But I will never forget the special times we had.
I found this lovely flowering bush near the Dinosaur Footprints on the Connecticut River in Massachusetts, and immediately thought of you. So I left Evelyn marking tracks and snapped a few quick pics.
Mystery Flower I
My basic first thought was, “Thank fuck it’s not a fruit tree!” I love fruit trees, I do, but I’m a little tired of them. Luckily, other things are beginning to bloom.
Mystery Flower II
There’s a full view for ye. These were dainty but tall bushes, and reminded me a bit of honeysuckle, although they smelled nothing like it. I don’t recall any particular scent at all, actually.
Mystery Flower III
There was this picturesque culvert, with these flowering bushes on both sides, and although all of this ran right alongside a fairly busy highway, it felt all peaceful and rural. I saw this and thought Cujo would like it. There were several times when I felt a bit guilty about not dragging him along. Then there were times when I was glad I hadn’t, namely during trips through airport security and stuffed on planes. But right here was one of those places I like to take him, because it has a little of everything.
Mystery Flower IV
And there was this little stream dashing down the tilted sedimentary beds. Evelyn and I are still working on determining what they are. The website swears it’s sandstone, but it seemed too fine-grained. I chewed on a bit, but I’m not adept yet at geology-by-taste-test, so I’m not sure what I should be looking for. I’ll report back in a few days with more definitive results and slightly smoother teeth.
Mystery Flower V
I can report it’s slippery when wet. Nearly broke me neck walking round looking for any dinosaur tracks along that streambed. But I’m very good now at regaining my footing in streambeds. Have to be, living in Seattle and doing geology. And it was worth it just for the chance to see these lovely bushes overhanging the water.
So there you are: a mystery flower that isn’t northwest-centric. Enjoy! I’m going to go back to missing Evelyn now. Sigh.
So I get home from this awesome geology trip with Dr. Evelyn Mervine. I’m back at work after an all-night comatose state, feeling a little confined, so I have a wander over to visit that nice rock wall where Amanda took pictures of me last week. And I discover that some unutterable bastards have planted bushes all in front of it.
Gorgeous limestone (or dolomite) wall, now hidden behind rather boring vegetation. Gah. As if Seattle didn’t have enough greenery clogging up the geologic scenery.
Sigh.
Anyway. I’ll have a post of substance up soon regarding the adventures the Doctor and I enjoyed, complete with lots of fun pictures and so forth. I’ll also have a little something to say about the new executive director of the Secular Coalition of America, because I never did absorb my mother’s lessons about not saying anything at all if I can’t say something nice about someone. And I’m sure there will be other posts of substance coming up. But for the next day or so, there’ll probably just be a few outtake photos with a sentence or two which may or may not be coherent, as I’m still recovering from being stuffed on a plane for a total of two days for the first time in several years. I miss my bed. And my cat. And the cat has apparently missed me and is fine with the idea of hanging round in bed with her mommy, so I anticipate the next two nights will be spent lying abed with teh kitteh being magnificently lazy. Not to mention crying softly into my pillow because landscapers hate geology.
I’ll make up for some of it by linking to Evelyn’s reports on our trip.
I just have one thing to say if Evelyn ever invites you on a georney: go. No matter whether it’s New Hampshire, South Africa, or elsewhere, you’ll have a blast. She’s enormous fun. Also, you’ll be running around with the Doctor – how much more fun can you have?
My first visit to New England has led to some new discoveries that could change the entire paleontological paradigm, as George Wiman so aptly pointed out:
You can see for yourself at Dinosaur Footprints near Holyoke, MA. Alas, should these results survive rigorous peer review, this will mean the creationists were right: humans and dinosaurs did live together. Well, I say lived together. More like fought to the death.
Reconstruction of epic battle
I myself made only a narrow escape from the clutches of a raging therapod.
Oh Noes! I'm being attacked by a nekkid dinosaur!
If Evelyn hadn’t turned out to be a bonza dinosaur whisperer, we might have perished.
Evelyn tames the savage carniverous head-chomping beastie.
We are still processing our data. More preliminary results to follow.
Right now, if all has gone according to plan, I should be in a quite beautiful place with one of the most beautiful people I know. And I’ve seen and heard some beautiful things already this week. Got me thinking about gardens, actually.
I know I’ve posted a lot of Secret Garden before, but what can be more appropriate for garden photos?
Right. Get that playing, and let’s have a wander through the gardens at Brown’s Point Lighthouse, shall we?
Browns Point Heritage Garden I
So it seems “Keeper Brown also… maintained a flower garden featuring daffodils, tulips, peonies, and roses.” We’ve definitely got tulips.
Browns Point Heritage Garden II
The Dash Point Garden club planted and maintains the Heritage Garden now. Here’s a bit about it:
Oscar and Annie The two gardens in front of the house are named in honor of the first lighthouse keepers, Oscar and Annie Brown. Oscar’s log of their 30 years at the lighthouse includes descriptions of the various plants the couple cultivated. Mavis Stears, curator of the Points Northeast Historical Society, combed through the log and compiled a list of plants that Dash Point Garden Club members try to incorporate in the gardens.
Oscar’s Garden includes several types of hebe, mahonia, roses, bleeding heart, foxglove and columbine. Annie’s Garden includes peonies, lavender, hardy fuchsia and a couple of trees to represent the apple orchard she once tended.
I don’t usually go gaga for gardens – I like stuff growing wild – but these were truly beautiful. Especially the bit with the bleeding heart.
Browns
Wandering through there, I’m reminded that gardens are quite lovely. There was an English garden in front of one of the old Victorian houses in Prescott, Arizona that I always slowed down to view on the way by. Serene and lovely. I determined right then and there I’d have an English garden if I ever had a garden at all, but that was before I discovered Zen.
Browns Point Heritage Garden IV
Japanese gardens in general are my cup of green tea these days. I like how they evoke the natural world while being something more. Pure art, those. I find a serenity there I find in no other garden. But the gardens here evoked another kind of tranquility, and moreover didn’t try to regiment the plants like so many gardens seem to do. A little order, coaxed rather than imposed, and juxtapositions of form and color that draws one in.
Browns Point Heritage Garden V
When I am an old woman, I hope I shall have gardens. I like getting my hands down into the good earth. I like giving things room to grow, and watching them flourish. It’s just too bad I have a black thumb. Perhaps by the time I’m older, I shall be wiser in the ways of green growing things with brilliant blooms. If not, I’ll cultivate rocks. That I can do. And I’m apparently quite good at moss, judging from the carpets of it growing where my fuchsia plants lived their brief lives. I can’t claim much credit there. Moss round here will grow anywhere you don’t make a determined effort to kill it. I’ve even got some growing happily on the bare deck. I’ve left it alone. I find moss lovely and fascinating, and it’s soft and springy, and it was rare where I grew up. I could do a moss garden. Moss, and rocks, and patterns raked in gravel, and perhaps, if I’m very lucky, a flower or two: that will be my garden, when I grow old.
You want to know about Dana Hunter, then, do you? I'm a science blogger, SF writer, compleat geology addict, Gnu Atheist, and owner of a - excuse me, owned by a homicidal felid. I loves me some Doctor Who and Roger Clyne and the Peacemakers. Sums me up. I'm a Midwest-born Southwesterner transplanted to the Pacific Northwest, which should explain some personality quirks, the tendency to sprinkle Spanish around, and why I'll subject you to some real jawbreakers in the place names department. My cobloggers, Jacob and Steamforged, and I are delighted to be your cantineras y cantinero. Join us for una tequila. And feel free to follow @dhunterauthor on Twitter. Salud!
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May 15, 2012 at 1:30 am 
Dana Hunter 
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