Why Is a Mouse When It Spins?

Please note: The following photographs may be disturbing to sensitive viewers.

Joe always joked with his friends that he emerged, fully formed, from a palm. But was he joking? Were his parents devotees of the love that dare not speak its name, for it hath none?

Emma and Ira defied convention at every turn.

Lola Plangten of Los Angeles knew her client base well, and wasn’t afraid to get her hands dirty.

Solveig Eriksen, pictured above with her husband, found love in a most unusual place. Her sisters did not understand, but Lola may have.

During the early part of the Twentieth Century, a majority of Americans had their photos taken while posing in bushes. Nobody knows where or why this came into fashion, but in fashion it was, and why? Nobody could say.

Emma Qualten in her mock orange.

All across the country, people posed in shrubs, trees, and decorative borders.

Gina Esperanto

We have only snapshots and hearsay to account for this lost generation, these so-called Tree-Standers.

Zima Cramdall in her pine.

Was this just a short-lived fad, or something more?

Swanetta Johnson in the shrubs.

If we had to stand in their shoes, would we do as they did? Would you? We can’t say for certain, but it surely looks pleasant, standing in the bushes.

Jessica Triecorner

Jack Frenshaw

Henrietta and Gloria near the bird house.

Throughout history, people have found advantages and disadvantages in being serious. The serious-minded scholar is often rewarded with knowledge and a proclamation of excellent studiousness. The serious judge inspires trust. The serious baby is so funny.

A small town in Illinois, a town I was told never to name, is home to a group of very serious individuals, pictured below.

I don't think you understand just how serious we are about this.

If you encounter such a group of seriously dressed and seriously intentioned individuals, my advice to you is to nod seriously and continue on your way. These people do not have time for your ham-fisted fruit juggling.

fluorescent lights
shiver
cold green room

life inside a membrane
nothing chases    down my spine

Since you’re gone, I’m all pulled together
a net full of gleaming minnows

And they’re all facing
the same direction

And they only want
to swim back home

time has no meaning here

it’s a trap and a tumble, but it’s poorly made

we’ll fall out, I expect

and when day once more breaks,

the tune of it will drown out

the ticking

of all these

clocks

The insides of a person rarely reflect the dreams, hopes, and outsides of a person. But sometimes, if we’re unusually lucky, we can find a way to make the outside resemble the inside. This process, approached variously through surgery, cosmetics, or chemical injections, usually results in horror and dismay. But when one has the tools and the means to hand, and a scientist willing to put it all on the line, one can truly make a difference.

Observe the case of Wilhelmettie Olfrango, Fig. A, below. We all have dreams, and hers were modest. She did not wish to walk on the moon or slaughter thousands in the name of comedy. Sounds simple, but is it, really? And the gentleman in Fig. B, below. What of him? Aren’t we all hoping for the ‘after’ of our dreams? I put it to you, gentle reader.

I have no answer for you this day. All I can say is that we have a photo of a woman and a photo of a man, with the word ‘after’ written in marker. Seems to me that, if you suspend your disbelief and let it float unsupported for a while, you’ll find something delightful to ponder.

Fig. A, Before

Fig. B, After

The suburb Corlsperg, CO, may have been poor, but they knew style. They knew that to have a truly stately home, one needed only the pride that comes with a job well done, a well-tended garden, and a fashionable porch ornament.

Lion, Entrance to NY Public Library

Some architects, sculptors and historians would have you believe that the New York Public Library, the Molly Brown House, or even the ancient Scottish hut-builders were the trailblazers in Porch Ornamentation. Corlspergians know the truth. They started it, and they did it the old fashioned way: with babies!

Yes, babies!

If you are a regular reader of Why Is a Mouse When It Spins?, you know that we’ve done a lot of research into the role of babies in this nation’s great history. Here, we believe we’ve found evidence of the baby as taste-maker:

Perhaps the baby does not project the stately menace of a lion, or even a camel, but it projects a sense of cuddlesomeness and cutiepie, and isn’t that even more important?

If we look not to the babies, but look to the lions and the camels, will we not find ourselves in the desert? And clearly, we do not want to go to the desert, unless it’s for Burning Man. And babies? They don’t want to go to Burning Man. Seriously, don’t bring them.

In conclusion, if you want to put lions and cats, and even camels on your porch, feel free. But if you want class, do as the Corlspergers do: put a baby out there instead.

Breaking news: Young People Obsessed with Flowers.

"It's not about how old you are, it's about how many flowers you have."

When people talk about love, they sometimes talk about the love between a woman and the hot person working behind the counter at the coffee shop. Or between two birds of different species, who can never make it work because all their stupid bird friends are bigots. Other times, people talk about love and are really talking about the foods they enjoy, such as chocolate, or nougat. But love is something that can’t be explained, and is outside the scope of this posting.

The Love of a Person in Iron-Rich Surroundings

Today’s True History centers on the small, iron-rich town of Crawlton, LA. Nobody quite knows where the name came from, but some say it’s a Cajun term meaning “iron-rich, but otherwise without redeeming qualities.” Others just shake their heads and say, “you’re spelling it all wrong.” Who knows what the real answer is, and if it really matters? The gas station attendant can’t or won’t say.

The star-crossed lovers Jane Mersa and Alfrango Pepes could tell us a thing or two about love, if we cared to listen. Their love might tell of a high RBC count, and an allergy to scented soy candles. Or perhaps about the fickle hand of Aphrodite, trickster God of Northumbria.

Jane and Alfrango were born mere blocks from one another, in the Crawlton hospital, which was housed in two adjacent buildings. They grew up together, attended the same schools, and even lived in the same apartment building. But they never spoke, until one day at lunch when the Fates intervened. They were lunching at a local pasta manufacturing facility, each eating opposite ends of the same strand of spaghetti. As they chewed, by necessity they moved closer to one another. They moved so close that Alfrango had to get up and walk over to Jane’s table. Sadly, Alfrango was tripped and fell to the floor. He was knocked out.

To make a long story short, Al woke up in the hospital with no memory, many bandages, as well as a black eye. Jane came to visit, and to apologize for tripping him. They fell in love on the spot. And though Al could no longer speak English, and Jane was something of an adrenaline addict, they somehow made it work.

Some people say they moved to New York. Others say they live in that house over there. If we could talk to them, I wonder what they’d tell us? Would they call the cops, or just keep throwing things at us? We may never know. And might it be better if we don’t? Still, sometimes, in the Louisiana rain, the iron-rich ground tries to tell a story. A story about spaghetti, aphasia, and the enduring power of lunch.

The people of the town of Iollinship, NC, have a secret in their past. It’s a secret closely guarded by the elderly townsfolk, and one that is barely hinted at in lullabys and nursery rhymes, such as The Bedtime Song of the Terrible Thing That Shall Not Be Named, Go To Sleep, Baby.

Do not speak her name.

To hear people tell it, it all started with a woman named Rose Lasellvie. She lived in a bright yellow house on the edge of town, kept a neat and tidy garden, and cursed people for a living. People would go to her in secret, some say, and ask that their rivals be stricken with embarrassing body odors, chronically cold extremities, or crippling hair issues. Nobody ever admitted to doing this, but there was heavy suspicion and acute speculation.

Rose kept to herself, they say, and kept odd hours volunteering at the local library. People rarely saw her except in town, which piqued curiosity and suspicion.

After a particularly bad winter, during which many people developed cabbage-like odors, the townsfolk began to suspect that Rose was behind it. (Rose was not her given name, but the townsfolk feared speaking her name, as it was of Finnish origin and very difficult to pronounce.)

One cold, October night, the people of Iollinship witnessed an event like no other. Wearing only a gingham dress and a light summer hat, a group of cats drugged the Postmaster and forced him to bake fresh wheat bread “to attract pigeons, meow.” Though Rose was not anywhere near the event, her absence was clear, as was her habit of purchasing large amounts of fish.

Though we may never know what actually happened that night, the town of Iollinship remains, to this day, a bastion of controversy. Nobody will speak of it, and the Postmaster was found unharmed in his bed the next morning, and so no proof exists. But the people know that something happened, and isn’t that enough?