Today's the natal anniversary of longtime Crapper, rugged Plainsman, and rough-hewn son of the Chicago railroad yards, Heydave (insert Walt Whitmanesque yawp here). In remembrance of the moment he emerged, squalling and gooey from his mother's loins, or Zeus's forehead, or wherever -- I don't have every petty little detail of his birth at my fingertips, although I stand by the gooey part -- Southern California has turned into an unsafe and insane firework -- possibly a Glowworm, or perhaps a Smokey Joe. Anyway, we're aflame, and ashes are falling from the sky, so after you wish HD a very happy birthday, full of fun gifts, tasty cake, and perhaps an adult libation or two, you might want to run to your local church and repent. But hurry, because ours is already swathed in brimstone...
The ash was thick in the air and we were advised to stay indoors, but I wanted to photograph this phenomenon for pretty much for the same reason people in small towns used to follow the fire brigade and watch their neighbor's house burn: because TV hadn't been invented yet, and even when it had, your wife was monopolizing it to watch Bones reruns on TNT.
So I wandered around with my phone, and not only got a few decent shots, I think I also gave myself Black Lung.
Eventually, Hollywood was entirely covered with a ceiling of smoke and ash, which was terrifying, but more scenic than that acoustical cottage cheese stuff we've got in the bedroom;
fetus shamans tell us, a Blood Sun foretells famine, earthquake, or a new Adam Sandler movie on Netflix.)
[Note: I started this post yesterday, while the End of the World was still in progress, but apparently the wind shifted during the night, or Idris Elba succeeded in canceling the Apocalypse, because today it's nuthin' but blue skies.]
Anyway, here's hoping Heydave has a wonderful birthday, and that his local cornfields are not currently ablaze. I like to customize the Sexy Birthday Lizards, but there don't appear to be a whole lot of four-legged reptiles indigenous to Iowa. However, a Northern Prairie Skink has agreed to pose for Dave's party, so long as doing so does not require it to stop tasting the photographer: