You know what this means don't you?

Fodder, like the enormous turkey dinner you ate on Thankgiving is fodder.

I have it on good authority that Jeff got Judd the gig.

Me? I'm looking for the armadillo scene. It's an homage...

I really did start this last Friday. Took a little longer than I expected. Research you know.

It should be a slide show. Until then, enjoy.

Click just below to continue...

No, this isn't that Friday post that I normally do to blatantly shadow Jeff's little guy. This is about some real, honest to goodness Armadillo research turned in by my intrepid father, who, for some reason, all of his own volition, recently toured the country to come up with some obscure 'Dillo lore.

In the Genesee valley in Western New York, there is a state park bequeathed to New York State by William Pryor Letchworth, a notable businessman and philanthropist who acquired the lands around 'Glen Iris' and preserved them for posterity. It is appropriately named: Letchworth State Park. This remarkable man had the foresight to preserve some of the most beautiful natural wilderness in the country for the enjoyment of future generations.

This is a fascinating place for historical Americana - from early construction and engineering, to natural artifacts, to Native American history - there are enough fascinating stories associated with this park and this region that one could stay very busy for a long time just doing their telling.

One of the most fascinating parts of the park is the museum - the William Pryor Letchworth Museum. Which brings me to the telling of this particular tale. There are a great number of artifacts of all kinds, along with art and other memorabilia in this decades long snapshot of 19th century American history. And just beyond and around the corner from the Pike Mastodon (left) is one of the best preserved examples of early American metallurgy as art. It also just so happens that this particular piece provides in itself a most incredible record of a beloved species from our earliest history...

This sewing basket - that's what the museum calls it - was made sometime in the mid-1800's. It is made from several pieces of worked metal welded together. Metal working tools were used to flawlessly produce a beautiful rendition of the shell, tail, and head. It is clearly a masterpiece. My father asked the curator for a picture - they subsequently photographed this fellow, scanned the photograph and shipped it off to my father, who in turn sent it my way saying "thought you'd be interested."

My friends, I assert to you that everything I have written to this point is the absolute truth (well - except the part about my father traveling around just collecting Armadillo lore - he was in New York on other than exclusively Armadillo business.)

Thing is, Jeff and all the PW folks, like me, will instantly recognize that this is no sewing basket. No, no, this is nothing other than a beloved record of the famous spinning that we've all come to covet every Friday.

I showed the picture to Jeff's little guy - and he wept. (I don't really know if that was because of the picture or the line drive.) He was clearly moved. For all of us, there comes some point of epiphany when we realize that something that we do, some way that we are, is rooted in our very nature - that it is passed like a life torch from those that came before us. That's the way the little guy felt today.

There is a place, in the Genesee Valley in upstate New York, near the Glen Iris Estate, not far from the grave of Mary Jemison (Dehgewanus), and near the beautiful middle falls near Portage where there is an eternal commemoration of the Dance of the Armadillo. Among our forefathers are those that loved the dance so much that they commissioned this work so that - like the museum and the park that surrounds it - everyone would know how treasured these little friends are and that spinning like a dradle is an ancient dance that works its blessings from generation to generation.

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Uh, oh. The little guy has figured out how to travel in cyberspace.

Heretofore, Jeff has just sent him wherever the Protein master's whims have taken him - poof - there he was. Now, for some reason only known to the little guy - some primal urgency, he has learned to navigate - and we mean physically - between sites. Jeff has feared this eventuality.

We were exclusively able to capture the little guy's latest acquired skill in action late Friday evening and the picture has just now come in:

The Force is strong with this one.

Rumors abound - after Scribal Terror, where is he headed? What drives this little spinning genius? Why must we suffer this recursive 'space warp?

No one really knows. His fans all believe that wherever he goes - a dance is possible...

Jeff talks like the invisible robe was his idea, but it was really the little guys'.

Turns out the little guy has been begging him all week to get it done - and we all know that Jeff won't wear a robe anyway.

Here's what happened: The little guy saw a new menu offering from the Palomino in Denver that Jeff had laying around. The chef from the Palomino had been to New Orleans recently and was impressed with his trip to Mulate's. He wanted to introduce something that would meet their format but be reminiscient of the fried crawfish, crawfish etouffee combination so famous there.

What he came up with, as a French and regional American dish, is their new half escargot, half baby armadillo combination (UPDATE: and as Diana points out, it is served sashimi style.)

Problem is when the little guy looked at the menu item, he was immediately convinced that the armadillo portions were more of the sweetbreads variety. Hey, he's not afraid to serve in Iraq, but given his experience in Japan, the prospect of losing some precious body parts has sent him into hiding in the invisible robe.

Now Jeff has been explaining that those are not armadillo cajones that the Palomino is serving up, but the little guy is still wary. We're hoping for a dancing appearance next week.

Poor little beggar.

Hey, we all know the little guy is up for a pint or two but when you ask "Darts?", he'll say "Darts? Well, I'll give it the old wanker try...".

Little would you know that he's been playing darts in Jeff's basement for almost four years.

Little guy is as deadly with darts as a Mossad agent is with an Uzi.

But, is he going to tell you that? Noooooo. He'll play along for a couple of games like he's getting the hang of it. Then he'll take everyone's money.

His last name ain't Goldstein for nothin'. And if you don't like it, well he knows people.

Of course, given that he's Jeff's little guy, he'll take your money that you foolishly risked against the world's best and donate it to a good cause.

Jeff is just too humble to say - but the little spinmeister just got back from his second tour in Iraq today - for which he has been awarded the Silver Star.

Until now, no one has known about this but Jeff and his family.

What role did he play?

You've heard about the structural weakness in some of the armor for the military Hummers? Well, Jeff's little guy volunteered to be a portable bona armatura - meaning he spread his body plate out on the vehicle that he was assigned to protect - and he always presented himself on the most vulnerable part of the vehicle as it carried out its missions.

He was always in the most dangerous of circumstances - he was assigned each day to the most risky missions. He took several direct hits from rocket propelled grenades and saved the occupants inside the vehicle on those occasions (most people know that you can crush a 'dillo by running over them on the road - most don't know that you can't blow a 'dillo up with anything). On two occasions, he personally blew up insurgent positions by accurately flipping grenades into their bunkers with his powerful tail - all the while clinging to the side of the vehicle and protecting its occupants.

Donald Rumsfeld himself pinned on the medal today and said "This army needs more species like you. You were an animal during your tour! Congratulations!"

The little fella took this all in stride like all true heroes do (It hurt to get that medal pinned on his chest you know - since he wasn't wearing a shirt!).

And you'll never hear him - or Jeff - ever say anything about it.

<serious>

Some people think that you must serve to comprehend and must serve therefore to have the right to make an offering of your understanding to the rest of the world.

Others, like Jeff and his little friend, can look at the bleeding feet at Valley Forge, at the brothers in embrace at Manassas, at the frozen men on the Maginot, at the grim faces on Iwo Jima, the battered bodies on the beaches of Normandy, and all that followed each step even to the sand and cities in Iraq. They hear their voices. They read their words. It is those that have firmly planted freedom's tree that teach them. And they listen, they listen very closely and hear them all say (in a seargent's voice): "Pass the word. Never forget."  And they must speak.

They must speak - if they did not the very rocks across this land would cry out: "The price of freedom is incalculable! All who went before gladly paid the price - and they did so that you might not have to. And they - all of them - are physically or spiritually your brothers and cousins and fathers and mothers and grandfathers and grandmothers and their blood and their very souls demand that you speak! Because we do not know what the cost may be, we can only be committed to pay it. All we can do is pay the price. Those that argue with the price are already lost. It is left to those who hear our voices to pay its wondrous and terrible cost."

And pay it we must.

</serious>

It has been rumored that, because of certain actions the little guy took - that involved spinning at some furious rate and other amazing feats  - which saved the lives of a British patrol and took out a band of insurgents - that he is going to be knighted. But that's another story for another day. For now I can say:

Sir Armadillo, I salute you!

Well in New Zealand they toss a variety of erstwhile fauna.

There he was. Little guy spinning like a dradle. Next thing you know some drunken Kiwi has nabbed him and starts tossing him around like a pithy Ardolino comment.

Problem was, he had shown up at the Armadillo restaurant - featuring late Friday night 'Dillo tossin'. Poor little beggar.

but when your beer gets stuck to your nethers - you'll wish you had danced.

I know it's early in Colorado, so maybe we can call this a 'pre-post' trackback. I beg Jeff's forgiveness for being off topic - this has nothing to do with burnt broccoli, a Scotch-Irish woman's feet, or educational English lessons from Mrs. Hapke ...

I was just coming in to Narita Airport to head back to Seattle, when I noticed a new addition to the 'endangered species' case. I could have sworn that last time I looked at this there was an Ocelot or Manx or something - this time, be still my heart - there's Jeff''s Armadillo.

Now, I know that Fridays, Jeff usually promises to trot out that Armadillo - but for the last many, many weeks, there has just been excuse after excuse proffered like like so many Michael Jackson missed court appearances. I know that it has been rumored that the little guy has been on the lamb, and, occasionally, sad pictures have been offered up as to one fate or another.

This time it looks like - now I'm just saying it appears to me - the little guy has given his life for others of his kind to stop the callous importation of the many coveted Armadillo parts.

Last time I looked into it, there were 1,432 Armadillos per capita in Texas, and 1,107 per capita in Alabama, so I surely hope that the little guy didn't become some messianic armadillo offering for nothing.

I'll grant that it is possible that Jeff has another explanation - but, sir, you must produce the Armadillo and he must dance, dance, dance or he will be oft remembered as the one that landed in an endangered species case - displacing a more common feline species - because no one in Japan had ever seen anything like it in their entire collective experience.

UPDATE: So no dancing armadillo today... It's called denial.