For a long time, I couldn't DJ without someone coming up and requesting "that Scientology song," which is sung by children telling the bizarre founding myth of Scientology (little girl's voice introducing the song,"The following is completely secret and absolutely serious. It is the story of the universe as described in the most sacred literature of the Church of Scientology"). People couldn't get enough of Prince Xenu and, as a result, this song is readily available in the sound library of my brain.

Well, the musical from which that comes is playing in Fort Worth at the Circle Theatre, 230 W. 4th St. through December 20. I don't know about you, but I will definitely be going to see A Very Merry Unauthorized Children's Scientology Pageant.

Who's bringing the E-meters?

Check out the entire skinny in Wikipedia: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/A_Very_Merry_Unauthorized_Children's_Scientology_Pageant

I just got my new iPhone as one of my many glorious work-perqs.

"You aren't worthy of that phone. It will be sad with you," Luz told me, implication being that I am an unrepentent Immediatist Luddite. And sure, in the oft-missed historical sense that Luddites weren't reactionary anti-technology primitives, this may be true. Luddites, in fact, advocated a careful assessment of technology's impact on humanity, something that was largely phased out with the so called Enlightenment.

I have to go now and smash a mechanized loom.

If you haven't checked my external blog lately (link on my main profile page), today's post celebrates this Hallowe'en's 70th anniversary of Orson Welles' panic-inducing War of the Worlds broadcast, with all its implications for our own troubled times. It's paired with another post containing recently declassified UFO information concerning the targeting of a battleship-sized UFO by an American fighter-pilot stationed in Great Britain during the Cold War.

I have, as mentioned there, compiled a 69 minute plunderphonic review of the War of the Worlds broadcast, comparing and contrasting it to the great hoax/ media frenzy that ignited the Iraq war. I'm looking for a place to spin this or post it as a sound file during this Hallowe'en season.

My friend Randy was kind enough to share the URL of a remarkable collection of texts in pdf. It's a crazily comprehensive selection of esoteric texts that must be reviewed to be believed. There are treats for rationalists, too. Check this out:

http://aiwazzsaying.blogspot.com/

Over the weekend, Luz and I went to Dinosaur World and Fossil Rim Wildlife Center down in Glen Rose. You know that warm and happy feeling that comes with seeing a fiberglass dinosaur on the side of an old highway? Well, Dinosaur World is nothing at all like that. Granted, seeing life-size plastic prehistoric reptiles is, or should be, one of life's little pleasures. And I certainly have nothing against tourist traps. But about halfway through the walk it begins to get a little tedious. This is on the lighter side of infotainment, too. The on-site "museum" is a warehouse that seems to be filled with plastic copies of real saurian artifacts, sparsely described. There are still tractor tracks on the floor from setting the place up, giving it a haphazard atmosphere. Two plastic dinosaur skeletons greet you at the exit. The use of the word "museum" here is tortured, to say the least. Dunno, I might have gone apeshit for this when I was four but it was hard to overcome the cheese factor as an adult. Perhaps if they had moved...

Fossil Rim, on the other hand, is a lot of fun. The park isn't just brimming with animals. They are are anxiously trying to insert their heads into your car to eat the treats one can buy at the front gate. At one point, as we stopped near the giraffes, I opened the moon-roof and a giraffe stuck his head down into the car so that I could feed him by hand. Thick, ropy strands of giraffe saliva dribbled on my hands and the upholstery. It was great fun. Later, we dined at the park's cafe. Food was pretty good and the view was panoramic.

We spent much of the rest of our time soaking in the Jacuzzi located behind the private cabin we rented. There was nothing else around us for miles and miles. At night, the Milky Way was clearly visible. A family of lamas had the run of the place and we were frightened during our bathing by what turned out to be an explosive lama-fart. Ramalamadingdong, the Lama patriarch, was lurking around our cabin. The night that we arrived, we were so far from anything that for dinner we ate the breakfast left for us to cook the next morning: eggs laid by the chickens from our ranch and bacon from local swine with biscuits and coffee.

On Saturday night, after a lot of driving around curvaceous highways without even the benefit of moonlight, we settled at a roadhouse called Loco Coyote for catfish and chicken-fried steak. During our drive, we had a KLF Chill Out moment as the local radio station played Elvis's "In the Ghetto" as the North Texas Hill Country went by in the darkness.

We came back from this trip recharged and with a fresh enthusiasm for Texas road-tripping. There are cabins where we stayed that can accommodate up to six people, so a group hot tub road trip is conceivable...

I had the pleasure of attending the grand opening of the King Spa today, a 34,000 square foot facility that looks like a combination of Medieval Times and the interior of the alchemical tower from The Holy Mountain. I sat in one of hundreds of easy chairs lined up for the presentation. Yes, it's situated a stone's throw from all the Korean "happy ending" spas but, in the words of a speaker at today's event, "those seeking the amenities that the other bath-houses in the neighborhood offer will be immensely disappointed." That's all you'll be immensely disappointed about, though. This place is a world-class Korean spa, completely unlike anything I've seen. It's an incredible addition to Dallas.

The entrance was festooned with flowers and tropical plants from neighboring businesses in Little Korea. Once inside, you will be treated to an atmosphere that is cheesily elegant and immaculate. You will walk past the reception desk and an immense chrome horse sculpture that looms over the locker-room entraces. Pass by suits of armor, lion statues and even a model of the HMS Victory in a glass case. But the real attractions are the saunas, lots of them:

* A salt room, walled with rock salt.

* An ice room.

* A pyramid room, for those who want to get inside a pyramid shape for the good New Agey vibes that accumulate there. Plated in real gold. Is it an orgone accumulator? You decide.

* Yellow Soil Ball Crystal Room: I'm not sure how this one works. There are millions of baked, marble-sized balls. Do you roll around in them like a spastic toddler at Chuck E. Cheese? I don't know but you will be bombarded by infra red radiation in this room as a special treat.

* The largest fire sudatorium in the world. Hot sauna wonderland.

There were a few others that were interesting, too. I was a bit overwhelmed.

The baths, sadly, are segregated. However, they have a variety of hot tubs with varying temperatures, accesssible through the men's and women's locker rooms. They range from mild up to crab-cooker temperatures.

There's a grill there, if you get hungry, and a karaoke room that seems like the place to dump the little ones.

Your cost for everything except accupressure and massage is $30. That's access all areas. We were told that those getting massages will be massaged by nude attendants from Korea. Women get massaged by nude women. Men get massaged by nude men. I'll stick with the baths and saunas.

King Spa is located at 2143 Joe Field Road, just off of Royal Lane. All epopts of the Hot Tub Mystery Religion and other bath-freaks should check this place out soon. Even weirder, Phase II of this operation will be a 10,000 square foot indoor water park. Phase III will be an indoor skiing facility!

http://buildthehotel.com/

Pardon me for addressing a more pragmatic/ political issue than usual today. Fellow Dallasites may have recently been approached by the Harlan Crow Army and their paid petitioneers. Crow is the owner of the Hilton Anatole and perceives the new Convention Center Hotel as a threat to his business. That nothing could be farther from the truth is attested to by pro-hotel stances from the Dallas Chamber of Commerce, Dallas Black Chamber, Dallas Hispanic Chamber, North Dallas Chamber and the Dallas Hotel Association, among many others.

The Crow-led effort is dishonestly claiming that the hotel will be paid for by tax-payer dollars. Nothing could be farther from the truth. In fact, if the hotel is as sucessful as other convention center hotels (Dallas is the one major city without one, something impeding our growth), it will generate funds that can be used for Dallas city infrastructure. It will provide new jobs and allow our city to bid on conventions that Dallas can't acccommodate anymore because we have no convention center hotel. Austin, Houston and San Antonio all do. Fort Worth is building theirs. It's pathetic that a special interest group is trying to derail ours.

If you're interested in the details, please visit the website above for more information. Don't take my word. Look for yourself and measure what's there against the Crow coalition's claims. I have no doubt that anyone who takes the time to consider the full story won't sign the petition for a May vote that will cost tax-payers $1.5 million.

Please be informed on this issue. Please don't sign the misleading petitions without considering the entire story.

A little more than a decade ago, I worked with friends to create an April Fools Day warehouse-party/ ritual. Guests brought clocks and maps, which were smashed and burned respectively at a site close to Fair Park. A Stromberg-painted banner was raised depicting a hammer-handed Sun Wu Kung, the mischievous handsome monkey-king of Chinese literature, ready to smash a clock under the legend, "Smash Please Eigenstates." In drunken, revolutionary zeal, our party declared 1996 E.V. to be Year Zero of the Monkey King, while declaring Fair Park to be the psychic center of Dallas.

Fair Park with its gold-tipped obelisk and unblinking Masonic Eye-in-Pyramid is a hotbed for psychogeography. The Texas Star, North America's largest ferris wheel, was, for intents and purposes of our ritual/ rupture, the central symbol on our map, a theme-park glyph of the Wheel of Fortune Tarot trump. One can easily romance about esoteric Fair Park at length, with secret maps chock-full of provocative symbols drawn from art and life there.

Into this wonderland, in time for this year's State Fair of Texas, a larger-than-death sized idol of Anubis is being introduced. In size he is more than a match for Big Tex in any potential war of gargantuans. In demeanor, he is dark, brooding and sinister; the Egyptian god of the underworld and the dead.

Why is he with us this year? Ostensibly, Mark Hull's sculpture of Anubis is here to promote the touring remains of King Tutankhamun who will be briefly, publically interred in a display case, along with his fabulous relics, at the Dallas Museum of Art.

http://www.star-telegram.com/state_news/story/927121.html

So welcome He-who-is-in-the-place-of-embalming to Fair Park. Perhaps there will be a Guess the Weight of Your Heart booth on the Midway this year (bring your own Feather of Maat). Note that Anubis, in later times/ cultures, was identified with Hermes as Hermanubis, so one might easily interpret this immense idol erected in the Bible Belt's buckle as a sign of magick and Hermetism. How will Dallas respond to such a shockingly huge pagan god, idolatry-ready for the Fair?

I'll leave you to your own psychogeographic ruminations as cotton candy melts in your mouth in the shadow of a jackal-headed death god. If there is any secret meaning wrapped in this promotional meme, unravel it at your own risk!

See you in the Underworld.

"Whatever the situation whatever the race or creed,
Tea knows no segregation, no class nor pedigree
It knows no motivations, no sect or organisation,
It knows no one religion,
Nor political belief."

-The Kinks

If I could be granted a wish, one would be to have a new teahouse open in my neighborhood. Ideally, it would be cozy, friendly and have an intriguing garden where one could sip one's Oolong in peace or fellowship. On Saturday and Sunday morning, I would rub the sleep out of my eyes, fall out of bed and wander up the block to have a breakfast taco or to peruse the fresh vegetables brought in from the Farmer's Market. Maybe the place would be liberal enough to let me bring my more socialized dog in so she could catch some rays. Perhaps the teahouse would have an ever-evolving look, with seasonal accents.

Well, scrap the speculative part- it's all true. Another Byte opened last Saturday on the corner of Ocalla and San Benito, owned by two friendly neighbors, Steven and Marukh. If you're lucky, you'll catch their size-plus rat terrier Moses, who has personality to spare. The couple runs a landscape business out of their teahouse/ office, so a gorgeous garden is in progress with a nice-sized ditch dug for a pond and waterfall. They will sell you plants for your yard and, before all is said and done, you'll be able to enjoy free web access there, plan catering, have meals delivered and relax with some live music now and then. And yes, every weekend a trailer from the Farmer's Market pulls up to sell fresh fruits and produce.

Luz and I checked the place out over the weekend. During the storm, we ordered hot tea and chocolate by the gas fireplace and chatted with one of the owners. We came back early the next afternoon to enjoy the gorgeous weather and mingle with the neighbors. Finally, there is a great place to meet and mingle with all of the eccentric and fascinating folks who make up Little Forest Hills.

Granted, it's still early in the game. The drink selection could be enhanced a bit and they still seem to be working on the menu, though cooking and offering spontaneous specials in the meantime. But I couldn't have dreamed up a place that would be so pleasant, surprising and fun- all a block away from Disco Hospital. Check it out soon! They're already bustling with business but could still use your support.

Entrepeneurs take note: the old exterminator's office across the street from Another Byte is for lease. It looks like a place that might have employed William Burroughs. It might make a good bookstore...

*  *  *  *

On the health front, I seem to be cleared of all horrible possibilities, presently. Thanks to all who sent me words of support. I still have to have a few things checked but it's looking pretty good.

Today I had an ultrasound scan and was able to hear the sound of my own rhythmic circulation. It's true- there is a party in my pants.

This has been such a weird week in so many ways and it seems fitting that it should end with lashing rain and forceful winds. A storm as big as Texas is something difficult to imagine. It will be interesting to see how much of its force is spent trying to cover said state.

It's not really any confession for me to express my love of water, particularly when it is hot, volcanically filtered and cooking me slowly in a hot spring. Some people, like those who host and attend events like Flipside and Mychievia, are fire people. They will juggle fire. They will spit fire. Sometimes they set their puppets on fire. I love it all, but when all is said and done, give me water. When storms rock the house, I feel alive and brilliant. On the several occasions in my life that I have seen flash floods, my reaction has been visceral, something akin to religious awe at the elemental power of nature. I have seen such floods lapping at my back door as my mother rescued our dog who was standing atop her partially submerged doghouse. I have watched rising waters fill buildings at a hotel where I worked in the '80s. Driving through a West Texas thunderstorm, I have been chased by water spewing up over guardrails, erasing the road behimd me. In did some of my best live culture-jamming in Euless, Texas during a massive thunderstorm that generated widespread flooding. As a gardener, I yearn for rain. As an epopt, I look forward to the promise of a hot tub even as I know that there are some baths in which one does not get wet.

This is not to say that I would want to be in the direct path of this monster storm, as Luz's folks are, battened down in Sugarland. Nor is this to suggest that I lack compassion for those victimized by floods or storms. Nor is my fascination confined to destructive manifestations of water. Seeing the Mississipi River for the first time was like a religious experience to me. But while the ocean fascinates and lulls me, it's fresh water that amazes me.

No one could ever say it like the Bard, though. May your wet weekend be merry!

*  *  *  *

Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! rage! blow!
You cataracts and hurricanoes, spout
Till you have drench'd our steeples, drown'd the cocks!
You sulphurous and thought-executing fires,
Vaunt-couriers to oak-cleaving thunderbolts,
Singe my white head! And thou, all-shaking thunder,
Smite flat the thick rotundity o' the world!
Crack nature's moulds, and germens spill at once,
That make ingrateful man!

  -William Shakespeare

After fasting overnight on Thursday night, I had to wake up Friday at 6:15 a.m. to drink a "berry" barium smoothie, followed by another one an hour later, in preparation for the morning's C-T scan of my pelvis. If you mixed chalk and paste with Pepto Bismal, you'd  have a close analogue of the "berry" goodness of this stuff, which then seems to settle in my viscera like wads of spackle. When I get to the imaging center, I'm scanned once and then given an iodine drip. The technician warns me,"You may feel burning, dizziness or the sense that you have gone to the bathroom on yourself. Or none of these things may occur." As I lay on the platform, it slides in and out of the short tube as I hold my breath off and on. I only feel the sensation of floating and detachment.. Something in the rim of the tub spins at high speeds, making me feel like I am being fed to a turbine engine. I close my eyes.

This isn't an ordeal in the usual sense. I don't feel anxious or afraid. Rather, my detachment stays with me and numbs me even after the scan. I return to work but my head feels empty. For much of the day, it seems that everything I attempt is thwarted and there are few consolations to be had but I'm not involved enough to care one way or the other.

I never used to feel this way. This kind of vacancy was alien to me before the dissolution of my marriage and subsequent divorce. At that time, I felt as if I had been knocked outside of myself, that I was a ghost in my own life. People were quick to dignose me as having depression, but it felt more to me as if I had made room in which a new life could gestate and grow. In this instance, chronic discomfort of the barium paste keeps me somewhat centered in my body. I listen to dissonant music from decades ago: Cabaret Voltaire, Nocturnal Emissions, Deutsch Nepal, Zoviet France. There's some strange comfort there. I lose myself in Steven Hall's The Raw Shark Texts until Luz arrives and the dogs, happy to see her, fly into mock combat with each other. We spend the evening waiting for a visit from a friend who never shows up. She works on beading, I build and paint a scale model of Jules Verne's Nautilus. We have dinner sent over from the neighborhood Italian joint. It's a pleasant, quiet evening.

On Sunday, we get ready to go to a party/ potluck in Reverchon Park. We bring the dogs, but Ruby, the new one that we had hoped to introduce to friends, can't stop barking at the bigger dogs and we decide to leave after a few minutes. I meet a friend whose assistance I had solicited in making a documentary, but he wants nothing to do with it and responds with hostility to the concept as I am wrangling the agitated Chihuahua.

Tomorrow I may find out what is or isn't wrong with me or I may be sent into another round of tests. I'm aware of the problems that many of my friends and family are suffering, all of which seem more pressing than my own. My own dilemma is one of inertia, of not knowing how to feel pending the receipt of more information. But then that's the dilemma of much of life, despite the efforts of our wills and the strength of our desires.

I will readily admit that I have mourned for my late, lamented Chihuahua, Diego, for more than two years now. Even now, a sudden sadness will overcome me that is an echo from time spent with one of my best friends ever. When he died, it was like a flower was plucked from the soil of my heart.

But life does go on and my longtime promise to secure a new canine friend for Frida has been fulfilled. Luz found a likely candidate at Petco adoption day: a red and black haired Chihuahua/ terrier female. On Saturday, we set out so that I could meet her. The animal rescue people gave us bad info, causing us to drive all over the place until we found the Petsmart at I-20 in New Bumfuckt where she was waiting adoption. While we waited to have her removed from the community tank, a dogfight broke out, something like a little hairy prison riot. But "Lucy," the object of our quest, sat cool-as-a-cucumber gnawing on rawhide as the fur flew and the canines were bared.

"Lucy," who has since become Ruby, had been tied to a tree in a Target parking lot and abandoned. She is very sweet, playful and smart. When I signed the papers, one of the pet rescue guys said, "Oh, good! Target has a new home."

Ruby took to her new home quickly. She and Frida got along. She turned out to be (mostly) housebroken. She thinks Luz hung the Moon. She has some understandable separation anxiety but I think this will pass as she gleens the rhythms of the household. I set up a bed for her in the living room and she took to it without incident. The next morning I saw that she had dragged a couple of my athletic socks to her bed.

The adoption agency said that she is two-years old but she seems to have a lot of puppy behavior for that age. I think she may be younger.

So I hope that you will look forward to meeting the newest canine at Disco Hospital. She is affable and very funny. She looks forward to meeting you!

The garden is thriving. A few weeks ago, the night before the rains came, a chorus of frogs kept me up half the night, as if the frog jamboree had come to town. It seemed to be a one-night event since they have been largely quiet since then. Frida has acquired a frog-sensing ability, which is useful since she's putty in the face of rodents, so I am embarking on a system of frog-relocation. I've done my part and my pond has spawned generations of them. Now it's time to catch a few and relocate them in areas that are close to water. The first volunteer went this week, in the bottom of a red bucket.

David and Amanda brought a frog-whisperer to the house for last week's Hootenanny. Sure enough, she called to a frog and was able to charm it out of the pond into the clearing. Not being on hand at that moment (there was some sort of impromptu jump-roping game/ obstacle going on in the back of the house that was occupying my attention) I was unable to catch the enchanted frog for relocation. Perhaps he was the one I got later, maybe even a ring-leader since the pond has been quiet.

Our hootenanny was just what the Root Doctor ordered. We kept the TV off, let people jam or callithump in the garden, played mostly '20s and '30s field recordings of old jug bands, skiffle, hokum and hollers. Lots of neighbors came through, including one who has complained chronically about not being invited to my previous parties and, finally having been invited to one, still couldn't stop complaining about the previous instances. We had a pretty full house, which left me more in the position of waiter/ manager than relaxed host. It was a beautiful night, though, and everyone seemed to be in marvelous spirits. While we lost a few guests to some late-night techno extravaganza, things went on pretty late with singing, strumming, bullshitting and high-hopping.

Thanks to all those who brought a chef's assortment of incredible blackberry dishes. Monica worked for hours over a hot oven to be sure that there was plenty of chicken to offset the sweetness. Sadly, I didn't get to sample any of the blackberry wine that came through- it went fast!

A ton of hats, cookware, a jug, a cane and more were left at the house. If you forgot something, let me know and we'll arrange some sort of hand-off.

Luz and I have planned a weekend getaway for the end of September. A place where there are thousands of stars to be seen from a secluded hot-tub. Can't wait!

To keep the midsummer doldrums at bay, I took my first long walk since I ripped my ankle ligaments back in May. After work, depressed by the roasted vegetable quality of my garden, I spent over an hour root-doctoring and decided to attack the Biggest Problem: the pond. The pond is 4 years-old and had started to bog-out and emit a foul stink. A thick, fibrous mass of roots from all of the water plants had choked it. When I pulled on the roots, the entire pond shifted. Since there were a couple-hundred pounds of water-logged roots, I had to use a strange hooked and forked yard implement that I scored at a garage sale. It was good for severing roots while gathering them up, and I worked at this until the handle cracked in half. After that, I had to go after the roots with my bare hands. This wouldn't have been so bad except for the immense quantity of pond-scum that came with them; jet-black, fetid slime that smelled like a violated crypt. Fortunately, there just isn't any other fertilizer like pond scum and I was able to scatter it liberally around the garden plants and inadvertantly all over my clothes and skin. Smelling like the turd of a sea-monster, I went inside to scrub and rehydrate, just as there was an insistent knock on the door. A young woman from the Texas Campaign for the Environment was there and I tried several times to get her to come back at another time which, considering my vile stench, shouldn't have been as difficult as it was. "What I'm trying to tell you is that I'm covered in pond-scum and need to go deal with it," I finally explained. That did it. She would come back "in six months." At least she wasn't left thinking that I had shat my pants.

After so many weeks of injured inertia, this was an exhausting day and my ankle was starting to throb, so I topped off the water-features and staggered inside. Otherwise, though, I felt wonderful. Garden-work is akin to meditation for me and I had forgotten that the garden is a kind of calendar/clock. I saw the first passion-flower blooms yesterday and, on venturing out in the morning, saw a couple of lethargic frogs lying on a stone. In the evening, countless tiny grey frogs scattered into the undergrowth as I worked. 

Death is fertilizer. Death makes the garden green. The gardener, in selectivity, kills some plants and small animals while nurturing others. The stench of decay is the perfume of revivification. To paraphrase Rumi, when we lose something to death, it returns to us in another form.

I seem to be pretty fully recovered from my ligament tears and I am starting to take longer walks. In order not to be overwhelmed, I am picking out small areas of the jungle/ desert that is my yard and working on the details as time allows. Yesterday I cut a path through the holly and wiped out a wasps' nest to make life easier for the postman. The pond is needing a thorough cleaning and seems more like a bog presently. This and other cumulative messes await.

Luz and I had a fun 4th, gorging at my family's feast at my niece Lori's house on a lake, northwest of Ft. Worth. Everyone was in a mellow mood. I ate too much and crashed on the upstairs sofa for a while. My mom fussed over Luz. My sister gave me Into the Wild on DVD as a late birthday present. My niece is separated from her husband but is dealing with things like a trooper. Luz and I walked down to Marine Creek Lake's edge with my sister and niece, but it was too hot to linger. Later, Luz and I drove down East Grand to see one of the nation's 10 best fireworks displays by just pulling over an parking with a crowd of people. It was low impact and the view was great. We listened to the simulcast for a while before switching to Nurse With Wound.

The 4th of July makes me miss rock and people who rock, if that even means anything to anyone anymore. Give me a warehouse by a field with a keg. Play loud anti-social, vitriolic music and mix. Good rock or punk scours the brain and smooths those troubled wrinkles. Spin it stripped down or bombastic.Salve to my soul has been the acquisition of many hours of New Wave Theatre, that place-and-time show that showcased early 80s garage (when garage meant garage).

You can tell that it's summer. People are pre-Dog Days weird. Their brains have been cooked too long. They stress when they should seek a cool, soft place and not think for a while. I received a really unpleasant (and unnecessary) phone call at work that utterly disrupted my rhythm yesterday. The economy is slow and I am behind on my goal for the year. Being in sales means being the careful custodian of a positive mood, and it has been a long time since anyone shook me out of mine. I resented the intrusion.

Wildlife has invaded the house while I am considering harm-reduction models of pest control. I have a healthy stock of bug-eaters that I don't want to kill: frogs, geckos, lizards, spiders and even a community of walking sticks. A tiny one came into my house about a month back. Last week, a tiny one riding on the back of a larger one showed up on my counter. They are fearless and will climb into your palm, so it's easy to relocate them. They are beautifully colored and I feel a strange affinity for them. Two years ago, while breaking camp at Flipside, one rode on my hat for several hours and didn't want to go back into the brush. I relocated a grass-snake that I found slithering across the floor last week. Luz was not pleased by this news. She doesn't like most of the friendly predators, least of all snakes.