What's New At The Zoo

I read somewhere that 80% of the Earth's species have yet to be discovered. Or as one of the undiscovered species likes to put it, "I'll be waiting next time you take the garbage out at night, home boy."

After a recent trip to Central Florida’s Brevard Zoo, I’ve got good news: the missing species search can be cancelled. They’re here. Okay, maybe not every single one of them, but excluding Big Foot and the Loc Ness Monster, the zoo is teeming with obscure and exotic creatures. Skeptical? Let me introduce you to a few.

White-Nosed Coati. Resembling a cross between a raccoon and a opossum, these omnivores have long supple snouts well suited for foraging in crevices, holes and, if given access, couch cushions. Female coati band together in groups while the males live solitary lives, except during breeding season when they can be found hanging out at bars reeking of cologne and waving their tails seductively.

Black-Crowned Cranes. Hailing from West Africa, these rare birds are known to form loving, exclusive relationships with a partner. Royal and Goose, the Brevard Zoo’s resident black-crowned fun couple, can often be seen dancing and flirting with each other. When their habitat wanderings leave them temporarily separated, they let out loud squawking sounds to make sure the other is still nearby. Once reunited, they taper off to a soft clucking noise and downplay their previous panic saying things like “just playing” and “I really had you going there.”

Two-Toed Sloth. There’s slow and then there’s sloth slow. These laid-back mammals spend most of their lives in trees, and because their metabolism is so sluggish, they don’t come down for days on end before needing to eat or relieve themselves. During our visit, a zoo worker told us that an 18-year-old sloth named Sammy we were looking at was pregnant. “Pregnant!?” I blurted in mock disbelief. “I didn’t even know she was dating!”

Alligator Snapping Turtle. Look, it’s an alligator! No, it’s a snapping turtle! Wait – is there such a thing as an alligator snapping turtle? The answer is yes, his name is Capone and he’s swimming right toward you with his bone-crushing jaws and dinosaur-like tail. Good thing he’s incased in his aquatic habitat and you’re on the outside wondering how you could get a selfie with him and live to tell about it. According to one of the animal caregivers at the zoo, Capone is “smart, engaging and silly,” much like a reptile Ellen Degeneres.

While getting to know all the zoo’s colorful creatures, it’s required that visitors follow a few basic rules of the wild.

-  Do not make animal sounds that mimic wildlife in an insensitive way. (In my defense, I thought my orangutang impression was spirited but respectful.)

- No feeding the animals unauthorized food. Translation: Spare them the disgusting slop you shove down your pie hole on a daily basis.

- Leave your pet at home. The zoo’s animal population has plenty of diversity without adding your cockapoo or blue tick hunting hound.

- No shirt, no shoes, no zoo admission. Unless there’s a Tarzan lookalike contest that day, then a tasteful loincloth and body oil is permissible.

- When petting a female kangaroo, refrain from saying things like “is that a baby in your pouch or are you just packing on the pounds.” (They won’t get a kick out of it, but you will. A nasty bite, too.)

- Visitors who carry a journal with them to take notes should guard it closely around the spider monkeys. They will snatch it and read embarrassing entries out loud, such as: “My Dearest Darling, Oh how I ache for your tender touch, your hairless face against my tattooed neck.” (Real funny, Coco. Hope you never have a journal go missing.)

- If you think an animal has whispered the words “get me out of here” to you, you may be experiencing a heat exhaustion hallucination. Seek shade and hydration immediately, preferably away from the alleged disgruntled animal. They are either a figment of your imagination or an ungrateful troublemaker – either way, your best move is to sever ties.

Keeping these sensible guidelines in mind, you owe it to yourself to plan an outing at the zoo soon. The confining cages of the past have given way to energizing open-air habitats where wildlife of all kinds can thrive.

Chances are, you will discover some animals you never even knew existed. And trust me, it’s better to meet them at the zoo than the next time you take the garbage out at night.

A Word About Wordle

When debating the single greatest invention of all time, one could make a good case for words. If they’re not number one, they would at least have to be in the top five. Think about it. Without words, our attempts at communication would be reduced to a series of grunts, gestures and facial expressions. Such primitive methods would leave a lot open to interpretation.

For example, without the words “Will you marry me,” a proposal delivered with grunts and gestures might result in two people training for a half marathon together. Conversely, without the words “What are your plans for the weekend,” a confused couple could jump into a quickie wedding presided over by a heavyset Elvis impersonator.

A working command of words took on even more importance a few years ago when the game Wordle caught fire and won a following that made Taylor Swift fans look like a small cult. For those who don’t know (both of you), Wordle is a web-based game developed by a sadistic software engineer named Josh Wardle. Every day, the diabolical Wardle grants players six attempts to guess a five-letter word that has no tie-in to any theme, trend or topic.

After every blind swing to hit on a random unfathomable word, each letter is marked either green, yellow or gray. Green means the letter is correct and in the right position; yellow means it is part of the answer but in the wrong spot; gray means it is not in the answer at all. Sound like fun? That depends. Do you like the challenge of a spelling bee where no one gives you the word you need to spell?

This Is Your Brain On Wordle

Try as you might to resist it, Wordle has a powerful ability to keep you coming back for another crack at five-letter glory. For me, it starts each day minutes after waking up. I grab my tablet and stare at the screen while the coffee brews, waiting for the inspiration to tap in a starter word. Since your brain has no way to logically or strategically uncover the word in question, the possibilities are wide open. RIVER? ONION? PANTS? LOOPY? It could be any of these, just not on the day you guess them.

I have certain go-to words I frequently start with such as DREAM, LEARN, FRESH or SMILE, but they’ve been no more effective than looking at my elbow and typing ELBOW. Sometimes I convince myself that because I had pasta the night before, I need to start with the word PASTA. I’ll type in PASTA, eagerly anticipating that I’m about to hit the target on my first try only to go 0 for 6 and find out the word was GEESE.  

One of the first tips seasoned Wordle players give you is to always include two or three vowels in your guesses. The theory being that even if the vowels are in the wrong sequence, there’s a high probability they are building blocks for the answer at large. This sounds like a reasonable approach until you plug in something like IRATE and the word comes up GYPSY.

The Need For Speed

Part of Wordle’s addictive appeal is that it’s a game that can be played quickly, returning you to your regularly scheduled life in just a few minutes. Except when the brain tease becomes a brain freeze and five minutes becomes 25 minutes. When this happens, I reach deep within me to find the tenacity and grit to keep trying no matter how long it takes.

Okay, I wish that were true. What actually happens around the 20-minute mark is I take my last incorrect guess (FROCK) and repeat it several times (FROCK, FROCK, FROCK) until I reach the six-attempt limit that triggers the correct answer. Tanking a game is not something I’m proud of, but on the other hand, I know that the answer that eluded me was AGONY and mine ended sooner rather than later.

Bragging Rights

In my family, there are recognized Wordle standards of performance to guess the winning word that stack up as follows:

Two or three tries:  Woo Hoo worthy.

Four tries: Fair but 4-gettable.

Five tries: Nothing to high five about.

Six tries: You stunk, but survived shutout shame.

My mom, a retired librarian and voracious reader, regularly tops my daily score. If I get it in four, she gets three. If I get three, she gets two. If I get two, she gets two faster. She’s also a willing partner to my grumbling about the game’s self-perceived shortcomings.

Me: “Since when is CRONE a word?”

Mom: “Exactly. I’m so sick of these words I’ve never heard of.”

Me: “I just looked up the definition: ‘A cruel or ugly old woman.’ Seriously Wordle?”

Mom: “They must be running out of five-letter words.”

Me: “I’ve got one for them: BOGUS!”

My petty complaints notwithstanding, Wordle has added a nice little routine to my mornings that jump-starts my brain and gets my juices flowing for the day ahead.

And when all goes well and the right letters some early and easy, there’s one five-letter word that perfectly describes my flashes of brilliance as a Wordle player: LUCKY.

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Home Boy Hits The Gym

The number on my blood results jumped off the page: Total Cholesterol 246. It was the latest in a series of reality checks that appeared to indicate a decline in overall health. Other red flags over the last nine months included a 12-pound weight gain, the energy level of an aging panda, and a tendency to count the extra steps taken by parking farther from a store as “high-intensity exercise.”

“I have to start working out again,” I announced to my wife, a bag of potato chips in one hand, the TV remote in the other.

“Just start slow and don’t overdo it,” Sherry cautioned. “You’ve been pretty inactive, and you don’t need to try all the equipment at the gym the first time out.”

 When she said the word “gym” I cringed. The 55-plus community we moved to 6 months ago has a perfectly fine fitness center, but I had been working out at home for 20 plus years. My gym was a spare room in our house featuring a lat machine, weight bench, dumbbells, and a membership of one: me.

Working Through Workout Worries

The idea of using a gym open to others filled me with angst and unanswered questions.

How can I learn to use unfamiliar equipment without looking like a newbie? 

What’s an acceptable amount of talking, grunting, flexing or moaning?

What do I bring? A towel? Two towels? A gym bag? A backpack? A workout log? A log from a tree for bicep curls?

Should I hire a personal trainer or be my own trainer barking nonsensical orders at myself like “blast those lard barrels!” and “squat till you squawk!”

Putting nagging questions about gym etiquette aside, I decided to follow the lead of writer Joseph Campbell who said, “The cave you fear to enter holds the treasure you seek.”

A Trip To The Cave… a.k.a. Gym.

As I entered the fitness center for the first time, I was whisked into a world where sleek, high-tech equipment stands ready to rejuvenate the tattered, time-beaten bodies of me and my fellow youth seekers.

Where does one start? The pec deck? The power rower? The cable crossover station? Let’s get real. I headed straight for the rack of dumbbells, secure in my knowledge of how to use these basic muscle building tools.

As I did some warm-up shoulder presses and hammer curls, I scanned my surroundings to survey the activities of my gym mates. All three of them. One man sat on a weight bench recovering from whatever he had just put himself through. Another roamed the floor, looking like someone in search of motivation… or possibly a misplaced water bottle. A woman worked out energetically near a mirrored wall, swinging some light weights and swaying to the sounds of a private playlist embedded in her musical memory.

The man on the weight bench walked by on his way out and offered some friendly advice: “Be careful on the ab machine. It kills your shoulders.”

“Thanks for the warning,” I replied watching him shuffle away, his drooping shoulders a pitiful casualty of my gender’s misguided pursuit of six pack abs. To my fellow man I say forget six pack abs. Ditto buns of steel. Be grateful for the camouflage of clothes and opportunities to impress others with attributes independent of the body.

Pumping Iron, Popping Advil

Emboldened by my all-access freedom in a nearly empty gym, I headed to the chest press machine and locked in the weight stack at a level that seemed appropriate. Guess again, home boy. I could barely budge the weight, and after moving the pin down another notch, not once, but twice, I became intimately acquainted with the backsliding price of my recent inertia. I would have to downshift my workout regimen to Plan B: Cut the Bull and Build Back Slowly. Okay, it’s more like plan BBB, but that acronym has other frames of reference that I’m not willing to butt buns of steel with.

For 45 minutes I meandered from machine to machine, reading instructions and trying out exercises. I did squats, presses and rows. I did pull-ups, curls and dips.  I was feeling right at home in this formerly unfamiliar world, a place where steroid-fueled he-men and narcissistic super women were noticeably missing in action. But what was also missing in action was my wife’s commonsense suggestion to take it easy my first time out.

“How’d it go?” Sherry asked as I came through the door.

“Really good,” I reported. “But I’m going to need a lot of ibuprofen the next few days.”

“What happened?”

“Remember when you said take it slow and don’t overdo it?”

“Uh huh.”

“Well, I got caught up in the moment, went all out and completely overdid it.”

As Sherry shook her head in disbelief, my mind raced for something to say to redeem myself.

“At least I’m not like the guy who killed his shoulders misusing the ab machine,” I ventured lamely. “Now he can’t lift his arms and his poor wife has to feed him by hand.”

“You would lose a lot of weight in that scenario,” Sherry predicted.

My wife. She would make an excellent personal trainer. I wonder if she’s accepting new clients?

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