The Laboratory Monks tell us that a huge portion of the genes that spell out what we appear to be (Yeah, I’m a phenotype, just like you. Except I’m less inhibited.) are exactly the same. Okay, lets say that I share like maybe 90% of the genes with my dog, Sheba. That could explain a lot. But, we don’t look much like each other. Chimps are even closer, something like 98%. Don’t take these numbers seriously, I’m not checking them. I’m just sketching the general sketch here. In one sense, I’m nearly as mousey as a mouse, as moosey as a moose . . . you get the picture.

But, when you go into the ocean . . . wow . . . There be monsters there. HARRRGGHH!

When did you ever see anything like this in your front yard?Well, any fool knows that it’s just a cuttlefish, specifically a Broadclub Cuttlefish, technically a Sepia latimanus.  But, have you ever stopped, maybe after a stiff Scotch or two, and pondered just how different  it is? If you think about it long enough, you go all funny. People are always telling me that I think too much. Maybe they are right.

But, how do you shut it off? I mean, look at this thing:You can’t see it here, but it was flashing  me. No, not that way. Waves of brilliant colours were sweeping over its body. If that were not enough, it was growing lumps even as I watched. Check out cuttlefish flicks on YouTube if you want to blow your mind.

They also have this funny (not ha-ha, I mean hair standing up on the back of your neck funny) thing that they do with their arms that seems chillingly communicative. It’s like, “Hey, stupid! Yeah, you. Cat got your tongue? Can’t you see I’m talking to you?” I’ll demonstrate at the end of the post. You’ll be amazed.

As if that’s not bad enough, we have the cloaking devices. You see the alien? I’m one up on you, because I know its secret:Here on Earth we call it the Longsnout Flathead. The Men in Black call it a Thysanophrys chiltonae.  (Thy Chi  for short). I can’t pronounce what their cousins call themsleves back on Betelgeuse XVI.

Okay, now  do you see it? Unlike in outer space, the cloaking device fails to be 100% effective underwater. I think has something to do with refraction angles or some such tomfoolery:Still pretty effective, eh? The eyes are the problem. If they cloak their eyes, they can’t see you. It’s a sort of self-defeating defense. Not much use. The eyes always give them away. They need to work on their technology. Maybe they should feed a few of their theoretical scientists to us. That would give them an incentive to come up with a fix.

Here I have used my soon to be patented MadDog Alien Disclosing Anti-Cloaking Ray Dispenser on this Flathead (a close cousin of the Coneheads, in case you were wondering) to display it in its fully disgusting not-like-me-at-all splendor:I should warn you not to stare into its eyes too long, especially if you click the image to enlarge it. I recently heard of a teenager who did that. It was horrible. He stopped cutting school, quit smoking pot, finished all of accumulation of 1,600 hours of his court mandated community service and stopped saying, “Whatever.” If these things have that kind of power they could take over any time they darn well please.

So, as I always play the safe side and don’t look for trouble where it doesn’t sound like fun, I’m publicly communicating my good intentions to any and all aliens, above or below the Dihydrogen Monoxide interface:

I’m using the same creepy hand signal that the Cuttlefish and Mister Spock use. You thought it was Hollywood, eh? Sucker!

Sheesh, I look like I’ve been raised from the dead. Call me Lazarus. You like my Lieutenant Dangle shorts? I cut the pockets off so people wouldn’t think I was a cast member of Reno 911.  That’s a genuine Harley Davidson belt buckle, by the way, given to me by Trevor Hattersley and Karen Simmons for some event, my birthday or Christmas or something. I can’t remember. I have to keep saying this, because I once attributed the gift to someone else and I’m still grovelling for forgiveness. Ooooh, I’m digressing severely.

Anyway, to all you aliens out there:  I’m a nice peaceable guy. You don’t get in my face, I won’t get in yours. My motto is live and let live or whatever it is you do.

In short:  Live Long and Prosper.

I’ll try to do the same.

I spent a major part of my “Communication Time” today working with Eunie on a post for our Messersmith News site, which she has a very difficult time updating, mainly because her job is a lot more important than mine and she has a corner office with windows. I hide back in the IT dungeon, so my time is a little more, uh . . . flexible. As long as I keep things perking along, nobody seems to care much what I’m doing. Don’t ask, don’t tell.

Anyway, pop on over to Madang – My New Home Town for a little sweetness and love. The whole purpose of this post is to lure you over there, so don’t disappoint. The rest of this is a product of a mis-spent youth.

Since I was pressed for quality time to produce something that would blow your mind, I had time only to blow my own. I shot four image on the way to work this morning and that’s all that I had to work with. So, I decided to let what passes for my mind to wander to those forbidden places my ancestors used to visit while experimenting with pre-industrial chemistry. Five solid hours of Steely Dan have aided the process.

In case you’re puzzled, this one is titled Tripping Out at Coconut Point:I can easily imagine flying at supersonic speed to this very spot and landing on my bare feet on the mossy rocks like a droplet of water flicked from the tail of a passing mermaid. Am I getting through to you?

A violent wave of vertigo from my superglue-filled inner ears caused me to stumble and I was blessed with this vision of a tiny, glowing rock garden at my feet:I took its picture. It said, “Dacă-mi dai de apă, eu va iubesc.”, which is, of course, what any sweet little rock garden would say. Unfortunately, I had none available, so I had to sorrowfully decline.

Even before I left the house this morning I had the G11 out and was letting it exercise its muscles. This one is called Freaky Kar Kar:Some day that baby is going to blow. I just hope I’m looking straight at it with my camera in my hand when it does. I’ll be one of the most posthumously famous photographers in all of history if my camera survives. You can just see the top of it lurking over on the right side of the image.

I finally pulled out all of the stops and produced Funky Foreshore:It has been sublimely massaged with various filters, shadings and secret MadDog incantations to within an inch of its life. It’s panting from exhaustion.

It’s a victim of tough love.

Still toppling over occasionally because my inner ears have been stuffed with fast-setting concrete, and wheezing like a steam-powered thresher, I went today with my partner, Eunie, for my first job interview since the ’60s. I’d say that my new boss was already predisposed to give me a go, so it was all very cordial and agreeable. I’m now, probationally at least, the (some kind of) Editor of Niugini Blue  and Our Way  magazines. Those outside PNG won’t recognise these titles, but here “in country” they are top-drawer reading material.

I’ve got until the end of the year to prove myself a wunderkind  who will be indispensable and therefore worthy of further consideration. It’s a great opportunity and it helps to replace some of the money that we’ve lost from churches who, for one reason or another, have decided that we’re no longer suitable candidates for financial support. My new employer understands that I will keep my position (mostly hiding in the IT dungeon) at PBT as well as taking on the editorship of the two magazines. I’m going to be a very busy boy, indeed. Stay tuned.

When I got home, I collapsed in a deep stupor for a few hours. I then awoke at about 15:30 and was horrified that I’d not yet written anything to satisfy my compulsion to glorify myself on your computer screen daily. Having no other ideas, I fell back on my favourite disguise – MadDog the Artist.

My three great (okay, only ) ambitions in life were to be (1) an actor, (2) a musician and/or (3) an artist. I’ve failed miserably at all of them, not that it bothers me much. As for the acting, I simply never got a break. I know I could be a movie star, if I could just manage to get discovered. As for two and three, I’m simply too bone lazy to practice enough to gain the skills. I peck at the guitar and keyboard and I sketch stuff which is immediately fed to the office shredder. In short, I’m a dilettante.

So, I ran through my Big Pile of Images looking for pixels to massage. Being temporarily more brain damaged than usual, I hope your expectations of me will not be too high.

This one I call Falling Angels:

You’ve seen it here before is a less jazzy form.

Here’s a couple of different treatments of everybody’s favourite fish, Nemo the Clown Anemonefish, or as he is known to his intimate friends, Amphiprion percula:

The one above has simply been brutally massaged by Noise Ninja Pro, which if nudged in the right direction, can produce some nice artsy effects.

Here I gave the same image a severe beating with the Photoshop Watercolour filter. The effects probably won’t be too noticeable at the thumbnail resolution, so indulge me by clicking to enlarge:

This has always been one of my favourite images. I snapped it many years ago with my first underwater camera, a giant film rig which nearly drowned me on several occasions.

Warming to my work at hand, I found another of my favourites, a very pretty Spincheek Anemonefish known as Premnas biaculeatus  to fellow fish freaks:

I gave it a thorough thrashing with the Photoshop Poster Edges filter.

Here’s another Spinecheek which I smoothed and polished with Noise Ninja Pro:

And here is the same image treated with the Poster Edges filter:I like the “cartoon” effect of the Poster Edges filter.

Here’s another one Poster Edged – three pretty yellow Anthea of some kind. I think that this was my best effort of the couple of hours I spent waiting to fall unconscious once again:

The more I look at that one, the better I like it. I remember being affected the same way by Elke Sommer.

Well, I think I have a couple of minutes to go before I fall out of my chair. Incidentally, I’m posting this from my house, so my war on TELIKOM must be going well while I convalesce. It’s another happy little Clown Anemonefish, Nemo’s brother-in-law, Fredrick:

Freddy also got the Photoshop Watercolour treatment. It seems to agree with him.

And now, forgive me while I pass out.

Along with all the fun which I derive from providing you with the finest daily entertainment on the planet comes a Public Responsibility. This is my burden. One might call it “The Funnyman’s Burden.” This gigantic ironwood cross which I bear daily as I trudge to the office to pound out yet another jewel of jibber-jabber is the burden of responsibility to inform  as well as to entertain. After all, entertainment void of information is as empty as Britney Spears’ head. (Oh, I’ll get comments on that one! ).

Which causes me to momentarily digress to inform you that the two posts, out of 736 so far, which have drawn the most comments were one in which I showed an image of Britney Spears with my dog, Sheba’s, tongue hanging from her mouth and another in which I featured an astonishingly stupid product called “Yoga Toes” which had absolutely nothing  to do with yoga. (Justin Friend, do not  comment on this!). At the risk of offending you, gentle reader, this fact does not reflect well on the sophistication of my audience.

My first informational item, as have all the others, comes from the astoundingly classy The Atlantic Monthly  magazine, a rag which I study with religious fervor. This amazing offer allows one to acquire an entire stamp collection (1 collection per order, please) at no cost whatsoever:

You should probably note that the stamps shown, while not exactly pricey, are still a teesny bit on the collectible side and therefore are probably not  the ones you will receive. They also fail to mention that any decent hobby stamp store will have bins of thousands of 50+ year old stamps which you can purchase by the wheelbarrow load for one cent each. Nevertheless, if you know absolutely nothing about stamps and want to get the worst possible start collecting them, why pass up the offer. They’re free,  for pity’s sake! And, you’ll have hours of fun pouring over the “sucker” catalog of over-priced stamps which you will suddenly crave to “complete” your collection.

This one is, really, so funny that I’m nearly at a loss for words.

My understanding is that Crusty the Clown is the founder of the Bow Tie Club, but my recollection may be erroneous. I have, on occasion, worn a dead-black bow tie, but only with a black dinner jacket, cumber-bun, diamond studs and a Walther P-38 tucked snugly under my belt in the small of my back, just where the ladies can feel it when I tango them into a swoon.

Speaking of swooning ladies, lay one of these on your main squeeze and see what happens:

You can honestly tell her that it is a genuine Diamondmumble.  It’s very important to mumble the Aura  part, unless, of course you simply want to lie about it. I’d be a little cautious about that, however, in case she ever decides she needs some quick cash and takes it to her favourite pawn broker. Most hock-shops also sell pistols – the nice little nickel-plated jobs that fit neatly into a purse or a dainty hand.

By the way, you can click on any of these to read the fine print. It’s intensely amusing.

And now for The Smartest Stupidest Watch on the Planet:

Really, come on! US$945?

You know, I never wear a watch unless I’m in the USA where you can be shot for not doing so. Upon arrival in America, I march as fast as my short little legs can carry me to the nearest Wal-Mart and buy the biggest, flashiest watch that I can find for less than $10. I tell people that it’s a Rolex while conveniently scratching my head so that they can’t really see it. Nobody ever asks, “A Rolex, eh? Let me have a look.” I usually end up paying about $6.99. That seems to be the price point. When I’m on the way to the gate to board a plane leaving the U. S. of A., I get rid of the watch. I used to try to give them away, but people started looking for the nearest security guard. Now I just toss it into a trash bin. Perhaps I should mention that, in Papua New Guinea, a watch is one of the least essential bits of personal paraphernalia.

Oh, how I love it when companies in the business of making us money on our precious retirement funds tell us how wonderful they are:

I call this one The Train to Nowhere.  If I need to explain, then you obviously have been dead broke for the last five years, eating out of dumpsters and sleeping in cardboard boxes under railroad trestles and have therefore been mercifully spared the agony of seeing your life’s savings dwindle to “Dinner at McDonald’s” proportions. Lucky you.

Okay, I’m the last guy who should be making fun of old folks. But, the stuff they buy! I mean, look at this thing. Does it look safe to you? Thank heaven it’s battery operated. I wouldn’t want to sit in the bath in something that looks like this which was plugged into a power socket:

Does it eject you from the bath? If so, with what force? You know, I was water boarded three times in my former career about which I can say nothing (whoops, I may have just done so). The guys used a device which looked very similar to this, although somewhat more crude. It wasn’t  battery operated. They were remarkably humorful about the whole thing. I haven’t heard such uproarious laughter since the time I shot myself in the leg with a .38 Special. Now that  was funny!

There’s something else vaguely discalming to me about this ad. How old were you when adults stopped giving you a bath? I seem to remember locking the bathroom door by the time I was five.

I have to admit that this is my sentimental favourite. This poor bumpkin has been holding this box of Italian lessons and scratching his head for at least two years. Not to be cruel – he is a hardworking farm boy  and in the Great American Dream he richly deserves  to be intimately associated with all manner of supermodels,  especially with those who speak only Italian. If only he could speak Italian, he could have his big chance. It’s a terrible thing to waste a massive libido:

The folks at RosettaStone will, in  a matter of days, have him Skyping her and whispering sweet nothings into her shell-like ears (she’s wearing a stereo headset). His rich baritone voice, roughened by years of tractor dust to a masculinity exceeded only by the likes of Charlton Heston, the late and much lamented former President of the National Rifle Association, will melt her with his quickly acquired Tuscan accent.

She will arrive at the family farm. They will marry with much fanfare. He will give up farming to sell insurance. She will, in an astonishing short period, gain 80 Kilograms. They will live happily ever after.

Ain’t life grand?

I’ve seen a lot of stuff percolating on the web recently about the “amazing” Victoria Crowned Pigeon. Well, I’m here to tell you today, friends and neighbors, that that are absolutely delicious. However, before we get into recipes, let’s have a look at this morning’s rapturous sunrise:No, I wasn’t “taken up” or anything like that, but I do think the sky may have rolled back a little at the corners. Better be safe than sorry.

So, setting off to fulfil a promise to some Facebook friends to unveil the secrets of the aforementioned pigeon, which, by the way is the largest pigeon on this planet (frankly, I’ve seen larger on other planets – I’m only visiting here, you see), I walked over to a rather large and pretentious hotel where an impressive flock of our huge, magnificent flying rats abide. As luck would have it, some enormously fat dignitaries were arriving for some sort of mighty pow-wow and a small, timid group of local Sing Sing performers had gathered to present their modest contribution to the pompous festivities:One of them was about to offer me a pillowcase full of Mary Jane for K20 when I reckoned that I’d had enough of the war paint and decided to begin my stalk for the rare Goura victoria.

I didn’t have to stalk far. They are, after all, merely chicken-sized pigeons. Yeah, they’re pretty, but they’re still just pigeons. If you get enough of them together in one place and don’t overly molest them, they’ll multiply until you can’t swing a dead cat without knocking the top-knot off of one of these haughty buzzards:The Tok Pisin  name for these fat show-offs is guria,  which, oddly enough, is the same word for earthquake. For a long time I thought that the coincidental monikers was because of the deep booming noise that the males make when giving the come-on to their lady friends. As it turns out, when I looked up the taxonomic name, the genus is, of course, Goura,  which explains the sameness of the words. Or does it? I asked three local people today why they call the pigeon the same thing that they call the earthquake. The all looked at me as if I were stupid, something that you get used to very quickly here. “Because they make that earthquake sound when they are . . . you know . . . laikim meri.”  (That’s a polite way of saying, well . . . you know.) So, the mystery remains. [See UPDATE at the bottom of the post.]

Anyway, my first contact with a G. victoria  was at the National Zoo in Washington DC. Our son, Hans, of tender years, proclaimed it the most magnificent of God’s critters. We were inclined to agree. The next time that we came in contact with G. Victoria  was in a dugout canoe motoring up the Clay River  in the Sepik area. On that occasion, we stopped briefly at the river side where the canoe driver’s wife, with little ceremony, wrung the neck of a G. victoria  which she had caught in a snare. Hans was stricken. We had to remind him that to our guests, the wondefulest pigeon is just a hunk of meat.

Here’s a Sharp Dressed Man  (ZZ Top is playing now) jazzing it up in hopes of getting lucky:She didn’t look very interested. I didn’t stick around to watch.

In case you think we’re running short of Victoria Crowned Pigeons, I snapped this shot to show you a small platoon of them out foraging for the local farmers’ crops:Their apetites are voracious. They’ll eat fruit, berries, nuts, flying fox feces (a bit like jam, actually), small dogs and pretty much anything including rocks.

Oh, I nearly forgot the recipe. Here’s my favourite: (Sorry about the non-metric measurements. I was educated, if that’s what you could call it, where “The Metric System” is considered a despised foreign influence.)

UPDATE: Facebook friend Justin Friend (funny coincidence, that) just left me a message saying:

My understanding of the name Guria pigeon, is based on the way they almost shiver and all their feathers shake and vibrate as they do it, and that the Genus name was actually a direct link to the name “Guria” when they were first described in New Guinea, having heard the birds described as “Guria” when they do that shiver-shake thing…..but I could be wrong….but thats my understanding…. and give me a good ‘ol BBQ Tree Kangaroo over a BBQ Pigeon any day!

Thanks for that very nice clarification, Justin.

I’m much the same as Bill Gates in one respect. Bill had little formal training to facilitate his transformation from pimply-faced geek to gozillionaire geek. I have had little formal training in my transition from uneducated trailer-trash lout to the internationally recognized know-it-all that I am today. Yet, we both somehow get by.

I owe much of my success as a bore to my lifelong pathological obsession with reading science journals. I succumbed to this disease before the age of ten, when I began pilfering copies of Scientific American  from local newsstands. After my first introduction to law enforcement, I got a paper route and subscribed. While other illiterate preteens were looking at the pictures in comic books, I was looking at much more interesting pictures in my carefully preserved and continuously expanding library of science journals. At that point my comprehension level was approximately -97%.

Now that you have sufficient background information, I shall proceed with my tirade.

As I have previously bragged about, I am a card-carrying PROFESSIONAL  member of the American Association for the Advancement of Science. How this came about, I have no idea. I suspect that the organization conducted a random search for suckers and my name popped up. I received my membership card, which I have proudly displayed to hundreds of perfect strangers and a one year subscription to Science,  the mouthpiece of the organization.

The gotcha, of course, came at subscription renewal time. I was torn between (A) forking out about Two Hundred U.S. Bucks to renew the subscription or (B) carrying around a membership card that was clearly expired, exposing me as an EX  Professional Scientist. I considered carefully modifying the expiration date on the card, but I’m far too ethical to do anything so shady . . . mmmm. Eunie, finally tiring of my whining, said, “Write the cheque and shut up!” I sighed a sigh of pure love. I like the rough stuff.

Anyway, I continued to wade through Scientific American,  for which my comprehension level was approaching 93% (more about that later) and added Science  each week, beginning at a CL (I’m getting tired of typing) of about -17%.

However, I’ve noticed lately that my CL has been rising exponentially. I attribute this not to any elevation of my brain power, since this is clearly not the case, as I’m reminded daily by my friends. I lay the blame directly on the publishers of science journals. I’m not a conspiracy geek, but I am  beginning to wonder . . .

As a case-in-point, I present the cover of Science for 27 November 2009:*

Aside from the fact that I do not believe that it’s seemly to portray living cells as if they were Simpson characters (a little compass?  come on!), the shameless use of Alfred E. Newman’s likeness on the cover is an obvious ploy to capture the Budweiser-swilling teenage crowd.

Not wishing to portray Science  as the originator of this massive dumbing-down of science, I should mention that Scientific American  was, indeed, the perpetrator, commencing with it’s infamous “Toy Boat” issue of August 1987:

To illustrate my premise I present these atrocities from that very issue.

Here we see, in this astonishingly cheesy Nikon ad, Albert Einstein equated to The Three Stooges:

This exposes the shameless money-grubbing attitude of the rag. But, wait! There’s more.

A few pages later we’re confronted by the ineptitude of Scientific American’s copy editors:

Is this a simple failure to comprehend the principles of editing? At the time, I heard an alternate theory bandied about. Some claimed, quite reasonably I believe, that this was a coded message from the notoriously leftist scientific community (all college graduates) to their Commie brethren cowardly hiding behind the Iron Curtain and lending succor to the nefarious masters of the Axis of Evil. Decoded by IBM’s Blue Canker Sore, the most powerful computer of the time, it reads (paraphrasing), “Get out now or you’ll soon be sweeping floors for a living.”

Okay, I have flogged Scientific American  enough, already.

Let’s get back to flogging Science.  Here is example of the silly pandering that’s dragging science down to the least common denominator and artificially inflating my CL:

Science’s increasing use of video game screenshots is a foolish attempt to simplify complex concepts to the level that any fool with a Nintendo can understand them. This goes against the entire history of science, which clearly discloses a philosophy that espouses the principle that nobody  who does not receive massive grants should be allowed to understand anything.

As further evidence, I present a mystifying illustration which had nothing whatsoever to do with the content of the article:

I call this the “Distraction Ploy”. It is clearly designed to distract the reader from the opaque complexity of the arguments in the text so that the author can pretend that he has actually explained something. “Hey, what do you want me to do? Draw Pictures?”, the author can claim.

Speaking of drawing pictures, here is a suitably illustrative example of what I’m talking about. Has anybody yet figured out what I’m talking about? No? Good, that’s my point exactly:

Now, instead of pondering imponderable mathematical equations which I comprehended not in the least, I’m forced, because of the fancy chart, to spend hours to achieve the same result – total bafflement. I prefer to arrive at total bafflement by the more elegant and traditional method of indecipherable equations with lots of curly lines mashed up with sharp angles and tiny little numbers.

Another area of concern is the use of famous personalities to try to convince us that science is “easy”:

Here, in this image, Mister Bean is preparing to inject a radioactive substance into the heart of a doubtlessly uninformed patient. The implied message is, “If Mister Bean can do cutting edge medical science, any boob can do it.” This goes against every cherished principle of science. Science is supposed to be hard,  that’s why they call it science. Duh! Haven’t you ever heard of Rocket Scientists? It’s all about job security. The Americans and Russians were falling all over themselves to hire the previously-evil Nazi scientists after the second humiliating surrender of Germany. Why? (one might ask) Duh! (I say again) Because science is hard!

Patience, I am nearly finished.

As a final, and I might add, convicting bit of evidence, here is a complex graphic that claims to explain the previously mysterious principles of “up”, “down”, “right” and “left”:

It also, once and for all, scientifically establishes the location of the human armpit. Hey, man. You don’t have to draw me pictures!

Give me an equation!

* There may be individuals who are so humourless that they fail to recognize the forgoing as a fun-loving jab at a prestigious organization. If you are one of those individuals and you are feeling litigious, I refer you to George Carlin’s lawyer.

I have some serious business to discuss this morning, but first I want to convey to you this light-hearted missive from reader John Burke of Queensland:

I have been reading your journals for some time and enjoy them.  I spent 12 months in Lae in 1965 then 5 years in Mt. Hagen.  My home is now in Burpengary, Queensland, Australia.  Our local General Practitioner [doctor - ed.]  asked me one day if I had any pictures of spiders in PNG.  I saved copies of the ones you placed in your articles and gave them to him. Looking at the first Pic the Doctor reeled in horror.  It turned out that the man had a Phobia and was trying to come to terms with it.  All the photos of spiders I have given to him.  It think it has helped him.

Sincerely, John Burke.

Thanks, John, for that sweet bit of country humour. My only question is, who is Gary and why is he burpin’? But, seriously folks, it is nice to see that my daily toils might ultimately serve some more noble purpose than providing yet another tactic to while away a few more minutes of a tedious day at the office.

Now, down to the business at hand.

The Green Tree Python (Morelia viridis)  is one little sweetie of a snake. My old buddy at Nob Nob Mountain, Tag Tap, called me to tell me that he had a green snake for me. We’ve enjoyed many bush walks together and he shares my love for all of nature’s creatures. I asked him to send it down to Madang for me, since I’m tied up all week in our Annual General Meeting and could not get up there to take photos of it.

Here is the little beauty getting comfortable on my hand:Every experience that I have had with this species has been highly pleasant. If it has been in the shade, it will feel cool to the touch and will be very sluggish and placid. As it warms up in the sun it becomes a little more active and may attempt to escape. It soon gets comfortable with being handled. Its skin is very smooth and soft, feeling much like human skin.

Here is another shot of me holding the snake:It looks as if I’m strangling it, but my hold is very loose. The snake, however, will surprise you if it gets snugly wrapped around a finger or wrist. It can squeeze very hard. It got a single coil around one of my fingers and it constricted so tightly that my finger began to turn blue. I had to get someone to help me to gently unwrap it.

Here I am looking more ridiculous than usual:

My friend Carol Dover calls the outfit my “little gay-boy shorts”. This shot reminds me of the character Lt. Dangle from Reno 911.  Hey, they’re comfortable and breezy. I’m happy and firmly fixed in my gender and don’t mind looking silly. I’ve made a career of it. I do admit that my legs look too skinny, but that ’s the camera angle.

But, this about the snake, not me. Here’s my old friend and co-worker Steve wearing a Green Tree Pyton and firmly grippnig the handle of a pint of Guinness:

No, I lie. It’s coffee. I can tell because there is no delicious creamy head on it. Besides, I’ve never known Steve to imbibe.

I can’t wrap this up without showing you a close-up of the head of this beautiful creature:

It looks ferocious, but I’ve never, as many times as I’ve handled this species, seen the slightest inclination to bite. Your mileage may vary.

I had considered taking this voracious rat eater home and letting it loose in my garden, where it’s services would be greatly appreciated. Unfortunately, given the (understandable) paranoia among nearly all Papua New Guineans concerning all snakes I was worried that it would not survive its first encounter with a human. That’s not even considering the reaction of our dog, Sheba. So, being mindful of the snake’s welfare, we packed it back up and sent it back up to Nob Nob with a request that Tag Tap release it again to it’s natural home.

I’ll wrap this up by announcing that my sweet Eunie, my wife and best friend for over 45 years, was yesterday elected Director of The Pioneer Bible Translators Association of Papua New Guinea, Incorporated. Her previous position was Director of Support Services, meaning that she was my boss. She’s now the Big Cheese, the Head Honcho, The Boss, the Capo di tutti capi.

My situation hasn’t changed.