Bloodsuckered

New research by scientists in Louisiana suggests that alligator blood could serve as the basis for new antibiotics... Uh-oh. Researchers warn that drinking untreated alligator blood isn't healthy for humans, and I'm guessing not so good for the gator, either. Even though my favorite prehistorics aren't supposed to be killed--Step 1, catch gator. Step 2, extract its blood before it extracts yours--this brings up sanguine visions of shark fins or rhino horns lopped off, bull blood drunk hot from the trembling carcass right after the gory bullfight.
When did humans decide that they can torture animals and each other? Let's not forget the practice of eating the heart of your valiant enemy to grow stronger.
Wait, there is reciprocity--
Leeching, having your blood "cleansed" by live bloodsuckers directly injecting natural anti-coagulants, is seeing a revival. At least two famous actresses are sporting leech-induced bruises that supposedly add to a person's well being.

Think of the business possibilities. Artisans can create elegant little vials of gator blood to wear as a pendant. Or how about a portable fetid environment in which to carry your leeches or maggots?
Have you heard about the companies that will take a spoonful of cremains--that's the ashes of your beloved--and make glass jewelry so you can always keep Fido or mom close? Just what I always wanted--to live on as a chachkie that will eventually show up at a yard sale. There's a medieval flair, a touch of the relic, that one-born-every-minute sense of history that smacks of the Florida weirdness that writer Carl Hiaasen celebrates so well.
I'm not professing disbelief in the potential power of the blood of the alligators I spend time with on the river. But since irony is my boon companion, I definitely believe in the foolhardiness of humans.

Today's painting, which I designed from a combination of patterns of striated rock, wood, and pheasant feather, I named Fossils and later, Lifeblood, when a nurse described it as veins and capillaries, blood flowing...the essence of life. The original is available, as is Green Scattered Fossils. Trawl my blog for more wild life art and essays to meet Gator Girl and Mr. Stinky. Visit http://www.bethsurdut.com/ for your mind and body.

The enigma of no tits at the Ritz

The Mermaids Return now swims with ambient music of indie film composer Conrad Praetzel. Suggestions for music poured in, but we heard the dolphin chatter and hints of gamelon in the deep blue and knew we were home.

Florida, surprisingly, aims to subvert decadent public displays by mermaids. (Guess they're easier to control than those pesky voting machines.) I have been told by a representative of the state arts commission that there is a no nipple law, that this series of magical mythical creatures are considered (deleteriously) to be nudes. I refuse to add the accoutrement of clamshell bras (ouch) or strategically placed locks (read that however you want), as suggested by an apologetic buyer for the Ritz Carlton, which has a "no breasts" rule. There we stood in the spa, where most, if not all, of the clientele either had breasts or had obviously purchased a pair (ahem, God doesn't start them at the throat) and the buyer said to me in the hushed voice of someone sharing secret wisdom, "You know, most of our clientele is from the midwest."

Just when you think you know about your own country, like thinking your vote counts or that your government representatives actually represent you, there's a moment of enlightenment. "Oh, I grew up in New England, I didn't know that midwesterners don't have breasts!" I blurted out. No wonder the current series is called Enigmatic Paradise.