This year’s cherry crop is in, but a good quarter of the fruit this year shriveled and rotted just as it began to ripen. Some of the cherries on the edge of this rot zone had tiny little holes in them, which were being exploited by opportunistic ants, gnats, and beetles, as well as providing the entry points for the rot.

Argentine ants and gnats don’t bore into healthy fruit, and there was no trace of any larvae that might account for the beetles being the culprit (the mature ones being far too large to make the holes). I had no idea what was causing those initial punctures, until I saw this bug I’d never encountered before:

I took a few pictures and a short video over to the very helpful senior scientist Steve Heydon at the Bohart Museum of Entomology and he had the answer for me almost instantly: the “leaffooted bug”, or Leptoglossus, most likely to be specificically either L. clypealis or L. occidentalis, which apparently has very wide tastes and has arrived in my yard (or, perhaps, is simply in larger numbers this year; when I worriedly told Mr. Heydon I’d never seen the pest before he just shrugged and said, “it’s around”).

Working at the University has its unique perks every so often. Now all I have to do is figure out how to keep the bastards out of the upcoming plum and apricot crops.

I know I haven’t been posting nearly as prolifically as I once did, and certainly these last three weeks or so have been something of a particular nadir (thanks to house renovations, the dojo, and the thrice-cursed vortex of time men know as Facebook), but this week it will sink to an all-time low of zero posts; I’ve got the week off and am heading out with the family to Disneyland. Catch you all on the flip side, at which time I promise to be a little more verbose.

The six-year-old has a thing for the ladies, and they seem to reciprocate. A few weeks ago, he was called a “chick magnet”. Puzzled by this new term, he asked for its meaning. This was supplied, and he was asked if he thought he fit the definition. “Well obviously!” he said. “I’m beautiful! Look at my eyes! I’m hip-hop!” (I have no idea what this last bit means, especially coming from a corn-fed, whitebread, towhead kid like him).

Wednesday night at the dojo, he appeared to be quite smitten with Regina, an adorable little girl about his age. It was obvious that he was fond of her; he shadowed her around the room, and kept up a stream of small talk (doubtless mostly about superheroes, as his obsession dictates) while she smiled and giggled. When asked, after training, if he liked her, he said “she can kick me in the cup anytime.” It was such a sweet and silly thing to say, I’m still marveling at it, and at him, two days later.

It seems the town I live in was built atop an immense Argentine ant supercolony. My house, my neighbors’ houses, and houses of acquaintances that live just a few miles away are all continually plagued with invasion, and not just for the usual tempting reasons like a stray dollop of jam falling to the floor unnoticed.

Whatever these other reasons are, they’re a mystery to me. The other day I sat down in the den to discover a veritable cloud of ants milling around the desk, with no particularly apparent aim in mind. No food ever enters that room, since I have a long history of ruining keyboards with beverages. Maybe they were going through my papers? Did they want to play TF2? I’ve no idea.

They also appear, from time to time, on a dresser that stands in the entryway. Why? I’ve no idea. There’s no food there, either. Maybe they get stupid in the winter; in the summer, they like to squeeze through the back door to assault the pantry. You’d think they’d keep attacking someplace that actually contained sugars and oils instead of electronics and gloves.

Maybe their goal is simply to vex and confound. If so, they’re doing a bang-up job of it.

The other day a pair of Mormon missionaries came to my door. I was stunned to find them there, since they’d never once deigned to visit me. I’ve seen them pedaling around my whole life, and even lived in some pretty Mormon-heavy areas where squads of the short-sleeved bicyclists seemed to patrol the streets, but had never actually seen them going door-to-door, much less showing up at mine. I had figured the whole “missionary” thing as an open secret of shirking a boring, thankless duty, involving a couple of months of idly biking around in circles for hours, then reporting back to the church, with a sly wink, that they’d been out spreading the word.

In any event these two young fellows came up to spread the good word to my household. One thing struck me as odd about them: they held the title of Elder. While the Mormons can use any titles they like within their congregation, it just struck me as odd—faintly disingenuous, even—to see two teenagers, whose ages combined didn’t add up to mine, called Elders of a church. It’s just sort of weird.

Flying down the freeway yesterday on the way home from work, the car started handling funny, as if the parking brake was on just a little bit. As I checked to make sure I hadn’t left the parking brake on (erm.. again) I heard an all-too-familiar blupbupbupbupbup sound alerting me to the fact that once again, I’d lost another tire. A cursory inspection revealed a nice, fat wood screw embedded in the thing. Great.

I’d just loosened the nuts on the flat tire when the FSP showed up, helpful as always, and I was soon crawling down Interstate 80 on the toy spare, to the consternation of all who had to pass me in the slow lane. Not only had I lost a tire, it was one of the newer tires I’d had to buy after the last incident.

Despite my bewilderment and vexation at having to replace the tire, it could have been worse: as the mechanics were examining the front alignment, one of them noticed that the front right tire had a roofing nail driven into it, but though it had punctured the tire, it held fast, so almost no air had leaked out. Regardless, I’m really starting to wonder if a set of run-flats would actually pay for itself at this point.