In today's New York Times, we read about Werner Herzog's emotional involvement with a vain albino turkey. There is also the time a book made him so upset that he took it out and buried it. As a bonus, I found a pleasingly stiff phrase of the kind that delights me. It was a description of a performer named Lady Gaga (a hazy abstraction of whom I am far too old to have any substantial knowledge) "writhing atop a piano and pyrotechnics bursting from her costume."
