Thursday, March 20, 2008

The Fightin' Violets

March Madness can be a lonely time for the NYU alumni. New York University is many things, but it is not what you might call an athletic powerhouse. Sure, we have some fairly impressive Division I fencing and volleyball teams, and a pretty good Division III women's basketball, but really nothing that you'd see on ESPN (or ESPN 2, or 3, for that matter).

Part of NYU's problem is that we have a famously bad team name: the Violets. It's hard for an opponent to take you seriously with such a puss name. To rectify this, someone somewhere down the line made the decision that NYU needed a more virile mascot at team games, so they instituted the Bobcat to cheer on the fighting Violets. That seems okay enough, until you realize that the bobcat was chosen in honor of (and I kid you not) the catalog system at Bobst Library -- BobCAT. Not so tough now, are we?

My friend, and fellow Violet, Lindsay and I were discussing this while the rest of our friends are busy losing their collective minds over the NCAA tournament. We decided that if we have to have a wussy nickname, then we might as well just own it. So we came up with some ideas to take back the Violet. Our humble suggestions are as follows:

Pansy pride.


Saturday, March 15, 2008

Life, Death, Sex and Sparrows

DC is having some very springlike weather this weekend, with temperatures in the 60s, cherry blossoms budding and alternating sunshine and showers that make everything nice and green. I'm pretty sure there's at least one cold snap left for the season, so I'm not getting too comfortable just yet, but it's nice to know warmer weather is on the way.

One sure sign of spring is the renewed presence of little songbirds, or, to put it more precisely, little songbirds boinking. Those shameless little birdies are everywhere -- twittering about, cavorting in mid-air, displaying on the sidewalk. Horny little devils, those sparrows and such.

Which I mention only because I came across a sad sight in the driveway of OneTwoThreeFour Mass Ave today. Two little house sparrows, a male and female, lay squashed along the curb, where people usually idle their cars for short-term parking. The first thought I had upon seeing them was, "Gross! I almost stepped in that!" The second thought was, "Man, that must have been some hot sparrow sex."

I mean, think about it. Neither one of these little things had the presence of mind to move out of the way of whatever was bearing down on them. Surely, you'd think at least one of them would have been all "Um, Herb, I hate to be a noodge, but can we move it over to the landscaping?" Nope. Such was their wanton abandon that one second they were busy propagating the next batch of sparrows-to-be, and the next they were smooshed under a Prius, or whatever. They probably never knew what hit them.

Which, when you think about it, really isn't a bad way to go. Well played, little sparrows. Well played.

Now if the maintenance people could kindly scrape them off the driveway, because, honestly, I almost stepped in them again coming home tonight, and it's kind of disgusting.


Tuesday, March 4, 2008

Life with Bun

It's been eight months since we acquired our little foundling rabbit Bun Scott, rescued from a Connecticut Avenue stoop by officemate extraordinaire Paul. For the most part he's a perfectly charming little bun. He's relatively tiny, very personable, and never seems to have a bad day. He's a very happy little animal. He does however, have one less than savory habit. I'm not bugged so much by the occasional accident on the floor. I have four pets, and I volunteer at an animal shelter, so I'm well acquainted with the odd errant turd or piddle. With Bun, it's more the manner in which these accidents occur. In a phenomenon he seems to reserve only for my benefit, he'll sometimes be hopping along, then suddenly stop, seize up and explode in a little bunny pee-bomb, dousing everything in a three-foot radius. Usually, this includes myself. It has yet to happen with Mark. I had a rabbit for 13 years growing up, and he never exhibited this behavior (though he had a knack for projectile pooing at heights up to eight feet, usually when we were asleep). I realize that mere words might fail to articulate exactly what I'm talking about, so I'll let the Crayolas do the talking: