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How are you spending Christmas Day?
At the moment, I'm letting My Lovely Wife take a much-deserved catnap with one of our dogs (dognap?). We started the day by going to the home of one of my brothers for a HUGE country breakfast with most of our family. We watched their kids play with recently opened toys while we stuffed our faces. Soon, I'll wake MLW so we can go to Christmas dinner at my parents' house -- yes, the face-stuffing will resume until morale improves -- then, I imagine, we'll hang out for a bit, reflecting on our past, present, presents -- hee -- and future. Then, I'll give my mom a hug and, I hope, MLW and I shall return to our home, where I intend to fix a nice bourbon beverage, tell the missus how much I cherish her and ... probably watch "Reno 911: Miami."
Hope everyone enjoys their day half as much as I know I will mine.
Really, HP. Don't you think there's enough wrong in the world without you trying to convince impressionable Americans that they should give a flying fart what you say Gwen "I wish I'd been born an anime character" Stefani does with your products? (I say "what you say" because anyone with at least half a brain stem knows she's too busy herding her Japanese harem into stretch Escalade limos for yet another Rodeo Drive shopping binge to spend time before a keyboard.)
Damn, I hate advertising. I understand some folks make a living at it, but fuck me in the brainhole, it hurts me widdle noggin. I can't help but think Ol' Bill was right: "By the way, if anyone here is in advertising or marketing, kill yourself. ..."
Merry fargin' Giftmas! Now go hump that pile of shredded wrapping paper in the corner of yer living room.
P.S. Happy Arbitrary Gregorian Calendar Flip Day, too.
P.P.S. If you ARE in marketing or advertising and you do off yerself, please do me and the estate of Bill Hicks a favor and make it undeniably clear in your suicide note that you came to the realization that there was no justifiable reason for what you were doing professionally, and you just had to end it all. Donkey chain, mon fritters!
Well, almost. We still have to clean everything and put it all away, but the milling and cooking is finished. Two friends from Lawrenceburg, Ky., came by Saturday and documented our making, so here's a link to a short video clip from them:
I'll post more shortly, after I finish up with this sticky mess ...
Hope all are well!
Should driving while talking on a cell phone be outlawed?
Submitted by Soup.
I don't know whether it should be outlawed -- generally, I'm for fewer laws, not more -- but driving talkers (or talking drivers, which seems more appropriate because in most cases the talking takes precedence) should all have to drive on the same road, one reserved just for them. That way, their crappy driving will affect only them. Heh.
But seriously, if you have an accident while talking on a cell phone, you should face penalties similar to those drunken drivers face. Negligence is negligence, after all.
Sorry for my absence (absinth?), but I've been busier than that proverbial one-legged man in the ol' ass-kicking contest.
Our summer garden is about finished, which means it's time to plant turnips, kale, spinach, collards, mustard and maybe oats (mainly as a cover crop). Our Pontiac red potatoes are still in the ground, but I'll dig those up in a week or two (fingers crossed for a good harvest on them, since My Lovely Wife and I are such tater munchers at heart). We also have pumpkins and melons still in the garden, but those are summer/fall crossovers anyway. We've put up all kinds of beans, corn, onions, carrots, broccoli, peas and zucchini, not to mention strawberry and blackberry jelly. So, we might not be rich, but as the old folks say, they'd have a hard time starving us out!
We've had some more company from Florida -- a short visit from one friend, nice enough time. MLW's mom and her boyfriend are coming back this weekend, bringing the long-lost Honda Civic with them. (Woohoo! We'll be a two-car family again, and I can stop having to borrow vehicles all the time and return the Blazer to full-time farm and lawn duty!) Then, next weekend, we have two more visitors from Florida, plus my family reunion. It has been rather hectic trying to get ready for everything along with maintaining my clients' yards ... and working in the garden and cane field ... and hauling in and cutting up firewood for the cane furnace and our woodstove. But we're still going, despite the crazy-brutal heat. (Or, to be blunt about it, "I ain't dead yet, mafuckers!")
This is a far, far cry from corporate journalism and its easy money, and it certainly isn't some perfect, lazy, bucolic life, but I have my wife and our dogs, and I love it.
The sorghum cane is up, although we already need to till and cultivate and spray for weeds and vines -- including poison ivy. Aww, poop.
But, hey, the Dale cane seed has germinated into discernable rows (not too straight, although Casey's were straighter than mine) of the first real cash crop Jennifer and I have sown on the farm. (Photos, as usual, are to come when I have more time.) Here's hoping we can control the weeds, raze my great-grandfather's house, gather the firewood for the furnace, clear the lot and build our processing site in time for an October deheading, stripping, cutting, crushing and syrup-making.
Check in mid-October to see where we are, eh?
Not much time, but we received our first significant rainfall in weeks today, and only three days after I planted 2 acres of sorghum cane. Woohoo! Our gardens and crops are gonna love it!
Wheeeeee!
(More later.)
We've moved to Kentucky, but we're still trying to get settled (and get DSL, which should be installed in a week or so). Being without Web access seriously cramps one's writing, so be patient. We should be back online within a couple of weeks, with photos and words about the big move and other info about how happy we are (and how trying things have been, heh).
Stay tuned ...
When I was 9 years old, my parents had planned a quick summer vacation to Knoxville, Tenn., for the World's Fair. (This is the same World's Fair made even more famous by "The Simpsons" -- once when Homer fires up a "Knoxville World's Fair" cigar in a movie theater, then again a few years later when Bart, Milhouse, Nelson and Martin travel to the former Underwear Capital of the World under the misguided notion that the 1982 World's Fair is still going on.) Mom and Dad already were loading the car, and the family was all fired up to see the fair and explore its theme: "Energy turns the world." (I'm guessing they didn't talk much about peak oil back in 1982, eh?)
However, my family didn't make it to Knoxville that summer. One day -- one stinkin' day -- before we were supposed
I called on Andrew for help, but instead of coming to my aid, he stood, pointed and laughed with the other boys, trying to impress them with his indifference and apparent cruelty, I'd wager. Arseholes, each and every one of them. As I struggled to grab anything to catch myself, my slow, inexorable slide into the muck continued. Soon, I was wet and covered in mud, no thanks to my older brother or the two neighborhood scalawags -- both of whom, I am quite sure, are now in prison somewhere for some meaningless crime that they no doubt thought was incredibly important at the time. ("Hey, Earl! We gots to steal this cigarette machine, then we'll be HEROES down at the pork rendering plant, and Chlamydia and her sister Syphillina will HAVE to go out with us!" "Yeah, dibs on the one with the hook hand!") Bastards!
After wading upstream a bit to climb out the shallower slope, I started trudging back to the house, but not before grabbing a good chunk of rock, about the size of my wee little 9-year-old fist. As the cackling continued down by the creek, I felt my anger building to Bruce Banner-like proportions. Finally, I couldn't stand it, so I turned and chucked that rock about 50 feet ... and it hit the ground, bounced a time or two and struck Andrew right on the ankle. Ouch.
Within hours, his ankle had swollen to twice its normal size. Doctors orders? Stay off his feet and soak his ankle every few hours. Obviously, there would be no traipsing around greater Knoxville, gazing at the wonders of the globe and eating funnel cakes, corn dogs and oh-so-many other deep-fried delicacies. (Why didn't that bloody sawbones son of a bitch just say: "Well, Mr. and Mrs. Castle, it seems your 9-year-old son has tried to slay your 11-year-old son in a rather Cain-like fashion. He has ruined your family's vacation, and if I were you, I would lock him in the cellar and feed him table scraps before he succeds in one of his homicidal rages. Once he is 18, you can have the would-be murderer locked away in a gulag or proper insane asylum. Here's a list of a few Dickensian workhouses to get you started ...")
No World's Fair, no vacation of any sort that summer -- all because my temper and thirst for vengeance (I reluctantly stopped calling it "justice" a few years ago) for just a moment overwhelmed my gentle, kind-hearted spirit.
Who gives a damn, though? The Sunsphere was overrated anyway, and I'd rather go to Dollywood.
We saw The Who (or at least Pete and Roger, with some help from Ringo's boy Zak and noted Brit bassist Pino Palladino) in concert last night. Great show, at least to my biased eyes and ears. So much good music, plus some applicable and entertaining visuals (i.e. clips from "Quadrophenia," various other projections). Wish we could've seen Keith and John as well, but what are you going to do, eh? Booze and blow are tricky pals, especially when you live with them. Anyway, I know that most legacy bands such as The Who are far past their rebel-rebel days, but it's still good to experience that music again.
But here's the rub: What's one to do when he has to wade through the muck and mire of America's capitalism, v5.0, to access the rebellion of formative rock music? You can't see a band like The Who (or anyone else who's sold more than a milk crate full of records) these days without feeding piles of cash to Ticketmaster, Clear Channel, Budweiser, Ford and friends. While we're watching and listening as Daltrey and Townshend wail about teenage wastelands and substitutes and not getting fooled again, I'm drinking an $8 beer. Jennifer and I couldn't help but notice all the fat bastards from various marketing and advertising departments across the Tampa Bay area, teetering back trying to look cool while while trophy wives (or diversionary girlfriends) mangle the lyrics. ("Oooooh, I just LOVE 'Wasted Teenager'!")
During one of my trips to the piss trough, I overheard one dude exhorting his peers to "piss fast" so they could get back to the show. I bet he doesn't know how right he was: I know there's music out there worth hearing, with more stuff coming out every day, thanks to the the further digitalization of the artform, but the rebellion seems dead. I guess that's been a common lament since the rebellion started, but tell that to the douchebags speeding through the parking lot in their luxury SUVs, ignoring the parking dudes and nearly running down pedestrians, or the jackasses hawking "blinky toys" on the walk to the amphtitheater, urging people to "get 'em while they can." (What, did Congress outlaw cheap, crappy, overpriced LED toys from China? Is that the new front in the war on terror: plastic light-up junk from Asia? Bah!)
Better piss fast, folks. The show's almost over, and we're all wasted.
