American Herpetologist and Curator of Herpetology for the Museum of Zoology at the University of Michigan.

 Detail.  Copyright Bianca Dorso 

As my friend Robert says, most herpetologists don't live very long; at some point they forget what they're dealing with.  Then one day they get distracted and think, "oh look, how pretty," and there it is, curled up asleep at the bottom of that glass box and they lift the lid and lean in to get a good close-up look and ...

Lately I am waking up with limericks.  Not good ones, but there's a contest at Metamorphosism and my attitude is if an urgent need to scribble down a rhyme gets you out of bed, you go for it.  Witness this morning's effort:

As Eve must have said to the Snake,
"You are SO not my type, but I'll take
This gift that you proffer
Since no better offer
Has come from my boyfriend -- that flake."

A Google Search for "snake + 1904" came up with Norman.  I wanted to do Serpent Mound in Ohio but, well, I think you'll agree I could've done worse.

This is not a political blog.  Yes I know I could've done something about the equally fascinating 1904 election, but I'm too exhausted from Super Tuesday if you want to know the truth.  And no, there's no subtext about politicians and snakes either, except I've been told a certain Arkansas family likes to hunt and skin 'em.  The governor's wife at least.  Cabin getaway on a lake, little snake huntin' -- good times.

And no, I didn't  "dream about snakes" either ... jeez, Come on.  I'm just saying, remember who you're dealing with.

Like a friend of mine who prefers to date a certain type.  You know the type.  It's the kind of guy who looks like he has a couple priors at least.  When he's finished, the place looks like a crime scene.  You wake up and want to make sure there's no chalk outline anywhere.  As in, near your person.  

You can pretend to be surprised about it afterward, of course, if you see what I mean.  But, I mean, come on.