Nature's mistakes: oops, I did it again

 

Be aware that I don't choose these things. In my never-ending thirst for knowledge, they come to me, attracted, no doubt, by a mixture of curiosity and disbelief.

This thing, this, I don't know, this whatever-it-is, like a shrimp shell with fur, or a hamster trick-or-treating in a lobster suit,  it scares me to think that these things are scampering around, apparently cute except for the four-inch talons that could probably rip your throat out if you looked at it wrong. It was hard for me to believe it was real, so I had to dig around for more images, sort of like turning over rocks in your back yard to see what slimy things you can find.

This looks like a sea monkey, only bigger. It looks like a sea monkey might look if it actually stayed alive and grew into something, rather than dying in the first week and turning to stinky brown scum on top of the water. Bleahhhhhh.

The larval form. Just not possible, whatever it is. Then I found one that moved. . .

These must actually exist, then, or else animatronics has been taken to a level far beyond what I imagined. This primitive, struggling, fur-clogged thing, this thing that looks like it should have died out millions of years ago with the trilobite (in fact it even looks like a trilobite) is an animal so primitive, so small-brained, so stupid, that when you lift it off the ground it keeps working its feet because it thinks it's still walking.

OK, so having proven it exists and isn't just some taxidermic nightmare, I had to Wiki it (my main source of knowledge because I am incredibly lazy), and found the following:

Pink fairy armadillo

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Pink fairy armadillo[1]
Conservation status
Data Deficient (IUCN 3.1)[2]
Scientific classification
Kingdom:	Animalia
Phylum:	Chordata
Class:	Mammalia
Order:	Cingulata
Family:	Dasypodidae
Subfamily:	Euphractinae
Genus:	Chlamyphorus Harlan, 1825
Species:	C. truncatus
Binomial name
Chlamyphorus truncatus Harlan, 1825
Pink fairy armadillo range

The pink fairy armadillo (Chlamyphorus truncatus) or pichiciego is the smallest species of armadillo (mammals of the family Dasypodidae, mostly known for having a bony armor shell). It is found in central Argentina, where it inhabits dry grasslands and sandy plains with thorn bushes and cacti.

The pink fairy armadillo is approximately 90–115 mm (3.5-4.5 inches) long, excluding the tail, and is pale rose or pink in color. It has the ability to bury itself completely in a matter of seconds if frightened.
It is a nocturnal animal. It burrows small holes near ant colonies in dry soil, and feeds mainly on ants and ant larvae near its burrow. Occasionally, it feeds on worms, snails, insects and larvae, or various plant and root material.

The pink fairy armadillo spends much of its time under the ground, as it is a "sand swimmer" similar to the golden mole or the marsupial mole.^{[citation needed]} It uses large front claws to agitate the sand, allowing it to almost swim through the ground in a manner reminiscent of swimming through water. It is torpedo-shaped, and has a shielded head and back.

It took me a long time to figure this one out. This isn't a pink fairy armadillo, or any sort of armadillo.  AT ALL. This is some sort of Peruvian jello mold. Take a look at those feet - they're made out of cantaloupe spears. Carmen Miranda could wear this thing on her head! Such internet hoaxes should be outlawed, as they only choke my evenings with dross.

Worse horrors awaited me. Salamanders. Giant salamanders. Giant salamanders that thrashed violently in people's arms. Salamanders that attacked. This one looks like a mammoth Chee-toh or a pizza gone terribly wrong. Except it seems to be made out of some sort of vinyl.

These things are so primitive they haven't changed in a few gazillion years, and were already sliming around (why??) when the dinosaurs roamed. One does wonder, at times, how all this stuff happens, all the different species, some of which are so damned odd, if it's really all due to natural selection or some kind of sorcery.

A giant salamander on the dinner table.

There's even a corporation looking after these guys.

When I was a kid, I always wanted a newt, a toad, whatever I could catch that crawled or slithered. I would have loved to collect a salamander, but I never saw one, just read about them. Now I realize I was saved by the grace of God, by a divine Providence that snatched me out of the path of the Behemoth. What would these things eat? Why do they exist at all? What is evolution all about, and why is ANY of it here, when we started off as nothing?

If the salamander knows, he's not telling us.

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FOUND (Keaton Laughs!)

I have to thank Annette Lloyd for posting this on Facebook. I found this photo (taken in 1955)  long ago while researching Harold Lloyd for The Glass Character, then completely lost track of it. In fact, for a long time I wondered if I had imagined it.  I've never seen a picture of Buster Keaton smiling, let alone laughing. And Harold, at age 62, looks as dishy as ever. He never really lost those good looks.

Just a bunch of funny signs. . .

(This one is so gorgeous that I must transcribe it: "Do not fuck the gum, defend the false trademark,PP ,PE,PVC...etc.packing bag,Honored guest's card,the card of gold,copper,aluminum quality mark card,gift box,laser,have no the spinning cloth etc.Handbag." Got it!

Bean Boozled Challenge: VIEWER DISCRETION IS ADVISED!

Frankie Valli and the 3:14 conundrum

I wish I could find a video with a better cover image than the Jersey Boys, a pale imitation of the original who seem nonetheless to be seducing the public all over the place (including in a soon-to-be-released feature film).  But them's the breaks: this is the version with the best sound, and that is what matters.

When I was a kid, the Four Seasons were just sort of "around". They had hit after hit, and I thought they were sort of annoying, this guy singing in a really high voice, but at the same time sort of tough, a greaser. Every time I turned around, there was another one. What bored or annoyed me then impresses the hell out of me now: Big Girls Don't Cry, Walk Like a Man, Rag Doll, Dawn, My Eyes Adored You, Let's Hang On, Ronnie, Sherry (those two being current favorites of mine, as I love it when Valli addresses a wayward or unattainable girl personally), Can't Take my Eyes Off of You, and the irresistible Working my Way Back to You Babe (with a burnin' love inside!). And that is not by any means a comprehensive list.

Today I re-listened to a couple of the "straight" songs Valli recorded (meaning, in normal tenor range rather than falsetto). Blow the dust of the years away, and you've got a great singer with impeccable phrasing, deep understanding of a lyric, and a tremendous knowledge of how to use his voice. These Jersey Boy impersonators are completely incapable of cat-leaping from lyric crooner range straight up into countertenor range without a break.

Yes, I thought Valli was a greaser back then (when I thought about him at all), but today I found a clip of him singing live on TV in 1975 that blew me away. I don't know how old he was then, but he was very good-looking, not tough-looking at all. Almost dreamy.  At one point he does what I call a "BAM" - very few people know how to do it - and makes eye contact with the audience in a way that is so seductive, it takes your breath away. I have no idea if this is true or not, but there's something about Valli's persona that suggests heartbreak, being bashed around, having to keep his fists up. How this can mesh with singing Walk Like a Man in high descant range is anybody's guess.

Anyway, today, mucking around in all this, and listening to the breathtaking arrangement of Under my Skin that blows Sinatra out of the water, I suddenly found myself sobbing. Just breaking into real tears, and I didn't know why. Being ten years old, or whatever I was then, and Caitlin being ten years old now, and all that I have not accomplished and never will, and my ever-expanding hunger for musical treasure that can be found in the strangest places, such as right under my nose - ? Or is it none of this? 

There's something completely outrageous about the setting for this dark jewel. Violins soar to the heavens, chimes ring, and percussion beats almost urgently - there's a lot of drive in this, for a romantic song. And several times, eerily, it comes to a full stop, before Valli's lullabye voice swoops back in to revive it. You don't do that to a song, make it die like that, then bring it back, but somehow it works.

One of the greatest mysteries of this recording is the "3:14" conundrum. In every version I have ever heard, at exactly 3:14, under all the lavish strings and powerful brasses and that incredible tight-crunched choir of male voices, somebody says something. Only a couple of words. Indecipherable, though it could very well be in Valli's voice. It sounds almost like German. Oh, God, I hope it isn't something backwards, though I guess that's a possibility. I suppose someone could have just dropped this in, for in the land of YouTube, anything is possible, no matter how illegal. Or it could be a code, or a message for a specific person. I don't know. The thing is, these songs were recorded for a.m. radio and for the 45 r. p. m. record with the little plastic thing in the centre. You wouldn't even hear nuances like this. I think that's why the best pop songs were those that soared above sound limitations: the artists knew on some level that they had to hit the sweet spot, above distortion and below static. They had to surmount that loose-wires sound, and hit exact frequencies that forced people to pay attention. 

It was said that Phil Spector's infamous Wall of Sound was just a way to make mono recordings sound more like stereo, to densify and fatten them out. Spector was (and is) a crazy sonic science fiction wizard with demonic tendencies, and what he did to sound was almost criminal: it may never recover. People are still trying to figure out what exactly he did, trying in vain to replicate it. Today I listened to some Ronettes and some Chiffons and some Crystals and some Shangri-Las, and some of it was good and some of it was great, but there was also a lot of dreck, stuff so bad I had to click it off. Not many people remember You Can't Take My Boy Friend's Woody by the Powder Puffs, Chicken Chicken Cranny Crow by the Jaynettes, Waddle Waddle by the Bracelets, or Frankie's Out on Parole by the La Dell Sisters (though I was very disappointed not to find that one on YouTube). 

The really wizard stuff sparkled on top of the water, evanescent. And when you re-listen to it now with completely different sensibilities (i. e. as a kid, I had no idea what "under my skin" could possibly mean, completely missing the sexual connotations of it), you still get it, the sparkle. It dazzles your eyes. It's a sort of auditory "BAM". 

But I'd still like to know what he says at 3:14.

(The last gif is a live performance in the most primitive setting, with ONE microphone, a tiny stage, and a camera distance that never varies: it's all in long-shot. And they KILL it. Frankie Valli sings Big Girls Don't Cry (my least favorite back then, or was it Walk Like a Man) in a snarly kick-ass voice that far exceeds the studio version. The poor guys have to stand close as sardines to be heard, however -  I mean, this wasn't 1930, so couldn't they set up more than one mike? But there it is. Too bad there's no sound to this - go look it up yourself.)

The boys in slo-mo, resplendent in after-dinner-mint colors.

"But why should I try to resist, when darling, I know so well. . . "

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You can't go home again (and that's called. . . sad)

I'm gonna hide if she don't leave me alone
I'm gonna run away

Don't!

'Cause you can never go home anymore

Listen, does this sound familiar?
You wake up every morning, go to school every day
Spend your nights on the corner just passing the time away
Your life is so lonely like a child without a toy
Then a miracle-a boy

and that's called "glad"

Now my mom is a good mom and she loves me with all her heart
But she said, I was too young to be in love
And the boy and I would have to part
And no matter how I ranted and raved, I screamed, I pleaded, I cried
She told me it was not really love but only my girlish pride
And that's called "bad"

Never go home anymore

Now if that's happened to you, don't let this
I packed my clothes and left home that night
Though she begged me to stay, I was sure I was right
And you know something funny?
I forgot that boy right away, instead I remember
Being tucked in bed and hearing my mama say

(Hush, little baby, don't you cry
Mama won't go away)
Mama!

(You can never go home anymore)
Mama!

I can never go home anymore

Listen, I'm not finished
Do you ever get that feeling and wanna kiss and hug her?
Do it now
Tell her you love her
Don't do to your mom what I did to mine
She grew so lonely in the end
Angels picked her for a friend

(Never)

And I can never go home anymore
(Never)

And that's called

"sad"

Blogger's comments. As is so often the case, this started off as something, then turned into something else. I got listening to pop songs of the early '60s - that awful sobby one about I Wish That We Could Be Married (which was just as bad as I remembered), among others, but then this one came up and hit me right between the eyebrows.

This isn't a song so much as a narration, a soliloquy, and one wonders if it actually stopped any young girls from bolting. It has the power. The Shangri-Las weren't known for their emotional depth, mostly for high hair and go-go boots and gigs on American Bandstand. But then this song came along, and whoever narrates it is compelling.

I thought originally of comparing and contrasting this one with other songs about leaving/running away from home. The only song remotely close to this one in intensity is Tar and Cement, which I've never much cared for. Then there is Del Shannon's Runaway, and Leaving on a Jet Plane, and the Beatles' She's Leaving Home, and blah blah blah.

None of them touch this one.

I guess I must have been about in Grade 9, awkward, baffled at my changing body, fascinated and terrified by boys. Running away was never an option. But I do remember listening to this song a lot (it came on CKLW Radio every 5 minutes, it seemed). Changing out of their godawful gym bloomers, the girls talked about it in hushed tones. "Didja hear that one about. . . " "Yeah. The girl that runs away."

It was a different sort of song, the kind where you stop what you're doing and really listen, because there's a story here, a riveting one. The girl who narrates - and it really is a girl, not a woman - has a slightly nasal Bronx accent that is somehow endearing, in that it makes her more real. It could be anyone, really. It could be us.

I was not a runaway. I survived Kelly green gym bloomers, penny loafers, unrequited crushes, bullying, being heckled at school dances, having a tampon fall out of my purse in front of my friends, being groped by drunken married men at "family parties" that were a million laughs for me, and got the hell away from it all as soon as I could. This was partly on the advice of a psychiatrist, whom I remember now saying, incredibly, "You must get away from your father".

So I didn't bolt, I didn't run away, I walked. With measured pace. But I was eighteen, and I never really did return. A year later, I was married (not pregnant, by the way, in spite of people's snide remarks). I'm still married, to the same person, with no regrets. A miracle? Miracles are acts of God. WE made this happen, with effort and love.

And I never had those feelings about my mother because my mother was like a missing puzzle piece, a non-presence, at least towards me (though my eldest brother was highly favored: she always cooked his favorite dishes when he came home from university).

So you can never go home any more. Especially if you've never really had one.

Sad.

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Marimba Queens

I don't know how it is that I keep finding this stuff. . . usually late at night. . . when I probably should be asleep. . . I mean, it's been a good day and all, but I'd like to collapse for about 100 years now, and here's this fat guy, I mean this REALLY fat guy from the 1930s playing a xylophone. . .

Like he's the Pavarotti of the xylophone or something, but you ain't seen nothin' till you've seen this. . .

There's this weird chick band of all xylophones, or marimbas I think they're supposed to be, and this guy, I mean! He thrashes on his bass like he's trying to kill it or something!

This isn't family viewing. Too much violence. But I do like that bubbly thing at the end. This is a silent music video, so to get the sounds just pick up a popsicle stick and hit it on something wooden.