Just when you think ...

... something small and furry can't get one bit cuter, there's a YouTube of a chipmunk grooming himself ...

... in slo-mo.

Hat tip to Audrey and Erica, who are looking out for dear old mom.

Pay no attention to the guy behind the curtain ... or the gate

I don't know if you know this about me, but sometimes I gets me pirate dander up.

Even so, higher-than-usual dudgeon was attained earlier this week when I was challenged in a way most bizarre by the good folks at Find A Grave.

If you've been paying attention, you know I'm an enthusiastic supporter of this unique site that features millions of grave records and memorials contributed by volunteers.

Membership is free but you have the option of paying a mere five dollars to "sponsor" the page of a friend or loved one -- or even a total stranger -- so that aggravating pop-up ads disappear from said page right into perpetuity.

So far I've sponsored eight memorial pages. I plan to sponsor more as funds allow.

I've also fulfilled thirteen requests for photographs of graves in the Midlands of South Carolina, where I live. In the eight months and seventeen days I've been a member of Find A Grave, I've created sixty-three memorials and added two hundred and fifty-three pictures.

Put another way, I have what Chairman Maobama likes to call "skin in the game."

On Find A Grave (or FAG for short) there are countless cemeteries represented, from all around the world. Each cemetery has its own page from which you can search for someone you have reason to believe might be interred there.

Most of these pages feature a picture of the cemetery or at least its entrance, whether it be a gate or a sign or what have you.

When I visit a cemetery, I often take a picture of the gate if it looks interesting to me. The more ornate and impressive, the better.

The materials used and the design of the gates themselves often hint at the gravity of what lies beyond.

What lies beyond the gate, I mean.

(What can I say? I'm a sucker for wrought iron as a portal to the afterlife.)

Such was the case last weekend when TG took me graving at Centerville Cemetery in Ridgeway, South Carolina.

The cemetery turned out to be a charming and well-cared-for place pretty much out in the middle of nowhere. 

And the gate! It was a real beauty. I got several shots before moving on to the immaculately manicured graves.

On Monday I decided to submit a picture of the gate to FAG for inclusion on the Centerville Cemetery page. These types of photos have to be approved.

This is the part where I got irked. You won't believe this but my photo was declined and the reason given was that some viewers might find it "disturbing."

Specifically, "parents and schoolteachers" had asked FAG to omit "images such as this."

I might've freaked out a little bit. Just being honest here.

First of all, try as I might, I couldn't understand why parents and schoolteachers as people groups would be disturbed by anything they might see on FAG.

I mean, hello ... if you don't like pictures of graves and cemeteries, you may want to avoid this particular site.

And even if they do find some images disturbing, why would FAG cave in to demands -- or even suggestions -- to remove or disinclude photos deemed offensive by a few select people?

So since neither of the above scenarios made a lick of sense, I assumed that the parents and schoolteachers -- they who apparently wield great influence with the powers-that-be at FAG -- objected to some photos because they might be disturbing to children.

Which made no sense either.

While I am sad to report that FAG features thousands of children -- all of them deceased -- it is unlikely to be construed in any context as a site geared toward children.

Even if it were, it's fairly ludicrous that a picture of a cemetery gate could be disturbing to a generation that cut its teeth on the likes of the Harry Potter and Twilight franchises.

Not to mention the veritable religion most parents and schoolteachers have made -- especially in recent years -- of the "holiday" we know as Halloween.

But before analyzing the situation any further, I decided to find out who might have designed the stunning gothic gate at tiny Centerville Cemetery in diminutive Ridgeway.

One phone call and I had a name: Becky T., who happens to be President of the Ridgeway Cemetery Association.

And an active member of FAG.

I gave Becky a buzz and told her why I was calling. I asked if she knew who designed the gorgeous gate.

"I designed it," she said.

Oh boy. I thought that was some news the folks at FAG could use.

So, you know me ... I favored AJ with a reply that might have been a teensy bit -- ahem -- detailed.

You might say I left no headstone unturned. When all was said and done, he couldn't have had the slightest doubt as to how I felt about the rejection of my photo of Becky's gate.

Plain talk is easily understood, I always say.

I got an immediate reply. Oh, it was all a mistake! He claimed. He clicked when he should've clacked, zigged when he meant to zag, and I received the disturbing "auto-email" in error.

(I had visions of the great and awesome Wizard of Oz, sequestered behind his drapery, obscured by fog, pulling levers and pushing buttons.)

AJ elaborated that instead, I should have gotten an automatically-generated form email enlightening me that my picture was declined because it had a border around it.

???????????

I was not offered an explanation as to who might be disturbed by a border. Illegal aliens, perhaps?

One can only speculate.

The subject picture is at the top of this post.

And if you believe AJ's excuse, I have an underwater cemetery plot I'd like to sell you.

(He's actually a very nice guy, like everyone at FAG. I don't mean to be snarky. Much.)

I danced to FAG's tune and removed the offending border. My picture was added to the Centerville Cemetery page. All's well that ends well.

Bygones.

If you're interested, you may see my downright macabre picture in its proper context -- appropriately borderless -- here.

Wordless Wednesday: Counting

Bombs bursting in your hair

As it turns out I didn't see it or hear it, but I heard about it.

One would have to live under a rock -- make that a whole pile of rocks -- to have not heard about it.

In those sorts of situations, one turns to YouTube.

I refer to the ignominious and disrespectful mauling of our National Anthem at the start of the forty-fifth Super Bowl on February 6, 2011, by one Christina I-Think-My-Knickers-Are-Too-Tight Aguilera.

Her "performance" can be summed up in a single word: shameful.

I mean, who knew the words "wave" and "brave" had fifteen and seventeen syllables respectively?

And then there was the fact that she flubbed a line.

Ms. Aguilera at first made a valiant effort to ignore the wholly justifiable uproar caused by her gaffe.

Eventually -- say, by halftime -- thanks to social sites like Facebook and Twitter, the universal furor had escalated to the point that she could no longer act as though her faux pas had never occurred.

Ms. Aguilera had her people issue a statement to the effect that she was sorry, she was just in the moment or whatever, and she sure hoped her love of country shone through her unorthodox rendition of our sacred anthem.

(I don't think she ever apologized for the willful and very nearly criminal perpetration of her tortured cats-fighting-in-a-bag vocal stylings upon millions of innocent viewers.)

(Fortunately for them, having downed their first six-pack earlier that afternoon, most were already drunk by the time she "sang.")

It made me wonder: How many times has Ms. Aguilera forgotten the words to her "songs" when she is in concert? 

Something tells me the fans who pay ridiculous amounts of money to see her perform in person expect her to remember them.

As if shay shay boom boom wiggle writhe do me right now boy were remotely memorable.

And although I've never sung the National Anthem in public and it's not likely I ever will, I think before I would run the risk of botching it, embarrassing both myself and my country, I'd memorize the lyrics and practice until I knew I could sing them flawlessly.

To do less would be unpatriotic. The Star Spangled Banner is to Americans what Amazing Grace is to Christians.

You don't mess with these songs. You sing the timeless words with reverence out of respect for the millions of heroes and martyrs who, throughout human history, have laid down their lives so that you could have the privilege of singing them in public.

I know the progressiliberals in our society, by and large, do not agree. But then, as we have established, they are mentally ill.

Long before the brouhaha surrounding Ms. Anguishedlera's singularly pathetic attempt to sing the Star Spangled Banner hit the headlines, "journalist" Michael Kinsley at The Washington Post weighed in on the subject. 

You'll know you're a patriot if, upon reading his article, your blood boils. At any rate, have a trashcan or a barf bag at the ready.

Because Mr. Kinsley opines that our anthem is "notoriously unsingable" and full of "empty bravado." He says there's not one iota of common values in the lyrics, except maybe "land of the free."

He says "home of the brave" is essentially a lie because it's never been demonstrated that Americans are brave, much less any braver than anyone else.

He suggests we use communist Woody Guthrie's This Land is Your Land or rocker Bruce Springsteen's Born in the USA instead. Even if we make it Three Blind Mice, he's okay with it as long as we rid ourselves of our cumbersome, inaccurate, outdated, warlike National Anthem.

His parting shot is that "Anything would be better than those 'bombs bursting in air.'"

Is it lost on this traitorous jerk that he enjoys the glorious and voluminous spoils of freedom BECAUSE of the brave men and women who gave the last full measure of devotion so dolts like him can sit there all condescending and smug, writing about it?

Apparently so. He's too busy slurping lattes and punching out treasonous "articles" on his iPad to worry about the fine points of what had to happen in order for him to make a good living as a depraved parasite in the land of the free and the home of the brave.

It's too bad that, like ninety-nine point nine nine nine nine percent of Hollyweird types, my beloved Josh Groban is also a flaming liberal.

He's young yet! Still time to reform.

While there's life there's hope.

But at least he has enough class and patriotism -- not to mention talent -- to render our beloved anthem with grace and humility. He's made millions on his fabulous voice and is smart enough to know that when singing this song, it's not about your voice. It's about the song.

It happened at the NBA All-Star game this past weekend.

I hope you didn't miss it. If you did, here he is in all his sweetness -- the great Josh Groban who, liberal or not, has more vocal ability in his pinkie finger than all the pop singers in the world have in their collective sorry carcasses.

Make sure you throw Christina Aguilera and the Black Eyed Please, Please Make Them Stop on top of that noisome heap.

I heart the Neelys

Until recently my list of celebrities I would like to meet in person -- however briefly -- consisted of one name.

Can you guess the name? If you can, I will send you an autographed copy of my first book.

Now, though, I have added two more names: Pat and Gina Neely.

They of The Food Network's Down Home With the Neelys fame.

I realize the Neelys have several restaurants in Tennessee and it probably wouldn't be all that difficult to meet them if I put my mind to it.

So that's a possibility but as I have no immediate plans to visit either Memphis or Nashville, y'all don't go holding your breath or anything.

What I love about the Neelys is not just their prodigious cooking skills and mouthwatering recipes -- admirable though they be.

It's Pat and Gina themselves, demonstrating once again that the best romance in the whole wide world is the married kind.

I love they way they shamelessly flirt while they saute and simmer and chop and peel and grate and dredge and bake and fry and grill and oooh-aaah taste everything.

She bats her lashes, coy as an edible violet, and he comes running to help her stir and pour and measure and mix and mash and marinate.

He flexes his biceps or shoots her a smile and she may feign turning to jelly, but the devotion writ large on her pretty face is genuine.

Yeah y'all, that's what I like: the inescapable allure of a shared passion. Good old-fashioned teamwork ... with plenty of spice to keep things interesting.

Vive la romance! In the kitchen and everywhere else.