Hopefully for only a 23 hour observance.  But I doubt it.  I am blogging from Clear Lake Regional.  I shocked the heck out of the orderly; he took my BP when I first checked in and it was 194/122 with a HR of 118.  The look on his face was priceless.  He went out and told the charge nurse--who made him take it again.  Similar results, both with the BP and the look on his face.  It was pretty funny.

I am still waiting to find out when they are sticking the IV in me.  I have been waiting since I checked in around 4 PM.  All the needles and such are sitting next to the laptop, staring at me.  I don't like IV's.  They don't like me. 

Ron can be a pretty fearsome guy when he needs to be; usually without even raising his voice.  Just ask any of the hundreds of employees he has managed over the years...

So it isn't surprising to me to learn that a man, Bill DiPasquale,who was in a coma woke up when his ex-boss, a restauranter named Charles Sarkis, told DiPasquale's friend Ralph Nash to tell DiPasquale to "get his ass back to work".  Five minutes later, DiPasquale awakes and says he has to get to work.

Per Silflay Hraka, the French sold Saddam artillery shells filled with concrete.  Leave it to the French to screw everybody, up one side and down the other....

Per ABCNews,the Florida Tomato Commission won't let UglyRipes to be sold out of state because they are too ugly.  The tomatoes in question are fat, squat, ridged, scarred, but apparently taste great.  This sounds like a familiar refrain to me; my dad used to work for Meyer Tomatoes many years ago and he and the accountant would get in each other's face over the breed of tomatoes being sold.  My dad liked tomatoes that tasted good and packed well, even if they weren't as pretty.  The accountant didn't give a damn about the taste, he just wanted tomatoes that were pretty and could be packed like stones.  My dad lost.  As Patricia Unterman notes:

If you shut your eyes and eat a Bob Meyer tomato, you might be hard pressed to identify it. Uniform in size with thick, waxy skin, these tomatoes are bred for appearance and durability, not taste, and are harvested for successful shipping.  

Didn't make much difference to me; I didn't think any of the green tomatoes were pretty.  But, of course, the tomatoes were gassed before they ever reached the markets, so they were red by the time they got there.  Which also means that the sugars and acids that happen naturally in a red ripe tomato aren't there--there goes the taste...

I prefer the little home grown Romas for eating straight; for hamburgers, I like the Beefsteak (they make really nice big slices); for salsas, again the Romas. 

We have a little packet of tomato seeds for a potted tomato plant that I am going to try this year.  Ron doesn't seem interested in the garden any more, so that is about the speed I can go.

I will be on and off line in the next couple of weeks.  I am pretty sure I had a heart attack on Christmas Eve, but it was snowing and I couldn't get in to the hospital.  By the time we were able to travel, the pain had eased up--and I got stubborn and wouldn't let Ron or the kids take me in.  I hate hospitals, but if the pain comes back, I am going in.  It is hard to post or do anything online when I am in the hospital.

Glenn Reynolds has a post up about Jonah Goldberg's take on Rudolph, the Red-nosed Reindeer.  I agree with their bit about the other reindeer being jerks until poor Rudolph's mutation made him popular. 

What they didn't mention was the mulitude of parodies on the Rudolph song.  My favorite has always been Randolph, the Bullet Cowboy (even if it is misogynistic and weird):

Randolph, the Bullet Cowboy, had a very shiny gun.  And if you ever saw it, you'd pull down your pants and run.  All of the other cowboys used to laugh and call him names.  They never let poor Randolph play in any poker games.  Then one foggy Saturday night, Sheriff came to say, Randolph with your gun so bright, won't you shoot my wife tonight?  Then all the cowboys loved him, and they shouted out with glee, Randolph the Bullet Cowboy, you'll go down in history.

I remember getting trouble for singing that at school when I was in third grade.  It ranked right up there with the "pea green soup" joke...

Before my page changed, I had blogged about the "lost" whale.  I can't get the image of this whale out of my head.  Like something out of The Deep Range, the whale has roamed the Pacific for twelve years--all by itself.  There is no other whale with a similar song.  There is no other whale using the same pitch.  This giant baleen whale, of unknown species, is either the last of its kind or the first of it's kind; a possible hybrid of other baleens.

But think about this for a moment.  This animal is truly alone.  It doesn't sound like anyone else out there, it probably doesn't look like all the other whales out there, it doesn't even follow a known whale migration path.  Whales are intelligent, emotional creatures.  What must this whale think of a world where it is so alone?

Is it possible to locate this animal using a replay of it's own song?  If we did locate it, what would we find?  Animals that have been isolated from birth are usually anti-social--but this animal hasn't just been isolated, it is the only member of it's kind. There hasn't been anyone available for it to be social with. 

If this is a different species and not a hybrid, wouldn't it be in the best interest of science if we at least got a genetic sample?  Then, if it ends up as a "scientific sample" taken by the Japanese and eaten, at least we might be able to figure out what to call their dinner course.  (I love the Japanese and most of their culture.  But I hate how they treat marine mammals.)

The lonely, singing giant cruising through the blue waters of the cold Pacific must see many majestic and wonderful things in it's travels.  It is sad that it has never met another life like its own to share the trip.