I want so much to write about the weekend, but I'm afraid this isn't that kind of blog. I used to have a blog which once promised, among other things, 30% more public bashing (than other blogs? Than previous blog entries? I didn't know). Usually what this amounted to were frequent links to a certain twit's blog (I don't do that anymore; it's more annoying than it's worth) and weak excuses to mock this guy.

Needless to say, founding a blog on a No Moping principle is some little Shmuck's safety net. If it wasn't for the Principle of No Moping (hereafter referred to as B's Principle, because it makes me sound like a scientist or great thinker*), you'd all be reading an entry about dinner with my freshly-exed ex. Seriously, Stumblers, you don't know how good you have it.

Instead of all that, I have two (2! II! deux!) bat-related stories, both equally tragic and terrifying:

Story the first:
I was at the ROM last weekend. It was great. I hadn't been there in years. What I was most excited for was the Bat Cave, a simulated bat-experience much more fun than the real one I was in once (both caves, in equal part, inspired this blog). But the bat cave was closed for construction, and now that the ROM has all these huge renovations planned the Bat Cave would have to be broken down (something to do with walls and moving them). My date was surprised, but I was shocked. Shocked! I wasn't ready to let go of it.

Story the second:
Graham, a friend who likes the ROM's Bat Cave equally, was sweeping an abandoned warehouse (for money!) when he heard a squeaking sound. It was an injured bat stuck in the broom he was using. Broken wings. He picked it up with a stick and perched it in a tree and left it there, not wanting to kill or trash or leave it. Later we wondered if the bat was dead. It probably is by now. You never forget the first time you see a real bat.

Note:
*a scientist or great thinker: Sometimes when I want to feel smart I just yell, "science!" It works.