Happy Birthday Dear Robden of Solway Firth

According to the blog of my wonderful friend Alice, this week is the birthday of the poet Robert Burns. That reminds me of a joke that I love but can never remember well enough to tell, since I don't really know any of the man's poetry. Here's the joke:

Some startling facts about snails

...taken from Green Harvest (research for my continuing war on gastropods):

• 'They secrete mucous to move about and by using the same trail and sharing trails with other snails they save on mucous production.'

• 'During cold or dry weather, snails can seal their shells, and remain dormant for several years.' Like tiny, gross volcanoes.

• 'Australia has 6,000 species of native snails.'

• 'Handpicking, will over time, greatly reduce the number of snails... The best time is 2 hours after sunset by torchlight.'

Audioficionado

This avid podcastee has found her audio diet taking an increasingly American turn. Here is the summer menu...

To start on a sycophantic note, Dan Savage’s Savage Lovecast remains a staple. In the crudest and most bullshit-intolerant terms, Dan Savage - potentially the first actual sex-positive-and-feminist relationship advice columnist - encourages us all to just, please, just be good to each other. (Or, to be GGG to each other.) His reach extends into the mainstream through his recent web initiative, the It Gets Better Project, with video messages reaching deluge proportions, posted by everyone from everyday webcammers to the likes of President Obama and Janet Jackson.

The hosts of Slate’s Cultural Gabfest are erudite and curious and have a listenable rapport with each other. WNYC's Radiolab, which is fancier - more scripted, less gabby - has the same satisfying warmth and pace.

Postcards from Albert Street

This weekend we came very close to bidding our final adieu to the old place – smearing the last fingerprints off the windows, wriggling the last clinging weeds from cracks in the brickwork, watching locals on bicycles wobble off with the last of the crap we left on the curbside. A framed print of two moon-eyed kittens. Two plastic chandeliers. A synthesizer whose absent power cord could probably be replaced by one from an electric kettle. A diabolical, electric blue velvet armchair threatening back injury. Two televisions and several remote controls. A bike with no pedals. An unassuming set of purple plastic free weights, with stand.