Grinch Population Increases by Two

Your Grinch is somewhat less grumpy that usual this week due to the arrival of his first pups, a male and a female, who emerged into the harsh light of day seven weeks earlier than expected on January 14.
In the manner of their species, they will henceforth be referred to as Boy and Girl, until such time as they are old enough to chose a name for themselves.
Fraternal twins, they bear almost no resemblance to each other which is merciful because who wants to waste the brainpower trying to sort out one spooky identical twin from the other. I believe the Girl most resembles me:



The jury is undecided about the Boy. It is worth noting that anthropological geneticists posit the reason pups most often resemble he what sired ‘em, is a holdover from a more primitive era when fathers were known to eat newborns who’s lineage might be in question (rather than fattening them up for a later date as is now the case).
The missus and I brought the Girl to the den today for the first time, 11 days after she rent the pre-dawn skies with her Grinchy wails. The Boy will remain in his toaster for some more days in a secure facility well away from vulnerable life forms with inferior innate survival skills, like fawns, bunnies, Who-manoids and other bite-sized aperitifs masquerading as sentient.
Herself and I are of course moderately not-unhappy about this event and look forward to sharing our multiple 3-4 a.m. feedings with residents of neighboring den units. The Girl’s viewing hours will be restricted for the next few days, but once the bars of her cage are properly welded she will pose no danger to our guests.

RIP Tor Norling: Pengeskap reiser, meg venn

Inside a broken clock
Splashing the wine
With all the Rain Dogs
Taxi, we'd rather walk.
Huddle a doorway with the Rain Dogs
For I am a Rain Dog, too
Oh, how we danced and we swallowed the night
For it was all ripe for dreaming
Oh, how we danced away
All of the lights
We've always been out of our minds.
The Rum pours strong and thin
Beat out the dustman
With the Rain Dogs
Aboard a shipwreck train
Give my umbrella to the Rain Dogs
For I am a Rain Dog, too.
Oh, how we danced with the
Rose of Tralee
Her long hair black as a raven
Oh, how we danced and you
Whispered to me
You'll never be going back home
You'll never be going back home
Rain Dogs
Tom Waits - from the Album Rain Dogs

Learned this morning of the tragic and untimely death of my old friend, Bangkok-based Norweigan freelancer, Torgeir Norling.
Tor, 37, was killed early Sunday morning when he was hit by a bus while walking with friends.
A droll, soft-spoken fellow with a taste for the brew, we'd pooled resources and contacts on several occasions over the years, including East Timor, Afghanistan and a couple of times in Aceh, including in 2001 when he was detained and harassed by Indonesian intell in Lhokseumawe. We always wondered if it was the same braindead guys who busted and interrograted my wife and I for several hours in 2004.
Though we'd fallen out of contact the past couple of years we managed to hook up for beers at the Bangkok Foreign Correspondent's Club a few months back, shaggy, wild-eyed and chain-smoking, to rehash old stories and mull the future. He'd become a dad in the interim & the way he described it, he seemed to relish the part.
I was surprised to learn he's part-owner (dunno exact role, actually) in Rain Dogs bar off Rama IV Road: a suitable name for a man whose cleareyed reportage rested heavily on the little guy, the monk, the activist, the refugee.
Suitable offerings to Ullr, Odin and Freya tonight, my friend.