FAR Future, Episode 29: Battle Lines

I hope I can find a chance to post next week. Hold on to your water bottles…

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Monday, September 2, 2013 (1:40 p.m.)
Battle Lines

The hike down-canyon made for dramatic footage. Somebody started singing “Onward Christian Soldiers,” and pretty much the entire militia took it up. I also got a good segment of a couple medics tending to a guy with a sprained ankle. It was a difficult hike, and a lot of people had top-heavy packs that didn’t help matters. I got a good clip of a guy going down and sliding about 10 feet. He wasn’t hurt, fortunately… but it took him a minute to get turned around and back on his feet. Then he almost fell again. I skidded a little once, but managed to keep my feet. I don’t know if I could have stayed upright if I’d been as weighed down as some of them.

All of us who made it down in one piece finally made it down, though, and Sgt. Pepper gave me leave to go up to the front and get some more footage. Most of the sergeants were explaining the rules of engagement to their platoons — “Under no circumstances will the Citizens’ Militia fire the first shot in this war! Is that clear?” “YES SIR!” — or marching their troops up the road at the bottom of the canyon. The road ends at an east-west road that marks the old border, and the Tennessee National Guard was deployed on the north side of the center line, shoulder to shoulder, standing at ease and right shoulder arms. Many were engaged in a stare-down with the militia; there were a few taunts from our side of the line but they were quickly shushed by the sergeants.

On a whim, I crossed the road (hands in the air) and approached one of their sergeants. “Who’s your commanding officer?” I asked him, identifying myself. “I’d like to interview him, if he’s willing.”

The guy looked uneasy. “Down the road,” he gestured east. “Dunno if he’ll talk to you or just shoot you.”

“Like he’s chicken$#¡+ enough to shoot a non-combatant,” I said, and hiked it. That was one of the most nerve-wracking walks I’d ever taken: right up the middle of a military stand-off, and it felt very much like running a gauntlet. A couple of militia people stopped me to ask what I was doing, but let me go when I explained (and winked, as if I was going to get any intelligence even if the guy was willing to talk).

“Amateurs, all around,” the Tennessee CO said when I explained my status. “Why not? You know you’re like as not to end up in a firefight here, right?”

“There’s always a chance of that,” I said. “I could get killed in traffic going to work, too. I almost have a couple of times. But I heard some sergeants telling their men that the militia will not fire the first shot… so does that mean you intend to start the shooting?”

He laughed grimly. “Touché. No, we’re operating under strict rules of engagement, too — no shooting except in self-defense.”

I conducted a brief interview, just running through a basket of questions that came to mind as I was walking the gauntlet, then closed it up. “One last thing,” the CO said. “Anyone who crosses the centerline without leave will be arrested for criminal trespass. You might want to pass the word on to your folks over there.” Then two guards frog-marched me back to the road and shoved me roughly across the centerline — perhaps for my own good, since I got some sympathy from the militia for that. I spat at the retreating guardsmen, for show, and that didn’t hurt either.

Colonel Mustard was waiting for me when I got back to my platoon near the rear. “That was a dam’fool stunt you pulled there, but let’s see the video. There might be something we can use.” I shrugged and pulled up the video for them. I doubted there was anything useful for them, but the colonel wasn’t so sure — he flipped out his cellphone and walked away, talking to General Mayhem in low tones. He stepped back long enough to give my phone back, then dismissed me. It was time for lunch, maybe a little past time, so I found a shady spot to eat and write up this part.

I’ve uploaded all my video so far to a couple of email accounts; I should be able to grab it & edit it down tonight. I was going to do that right here and post it to a wire service, but the battery on my laptop is getting low. I’m just going to post

I hear shooting.

continued…

All Week Long…

…this has been Daughter Dearest:



She and Mrs. Fetched leave tonight for a long weekend at the aforementioned tourist trap/wallet cleaner. Tomorrow after work, I head to the coast to check into the place we’re staying and visit with the family. Solar is taking me to his autocross meet Sunday, so I’ll have Saturday to recover from the drive.

And I’ll post the second episode of FAR Future tonight. I don’t know if I’ll get the next one out before I get home or not, though.

FAR Future, Episode 28: On the March

When I finished this episode, it ran nearly 1800 words. That’s a short story, but a heck of a long blog post! So I split it in two, and I’ll post the second one tomorrow to deliver the promised two-fer this week.

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Monday, September 2, 2013 (10:47 a.m.)
On the March

Mrs. Fetched thinks I’m nuts. I think she might be right. But she’s the one who was born on Planet Georgia, is 100% loyal to her state, and thinks this “militia” march is right & proper — so I’m not sure why she would object to me joining in.

Anyway, I actually emailed the guy who sent the spam and told them I was a non-combatant but would be willing to act as an embedded journalist for the march if none of the mainstream media was interested. I got a terse response: “call me,” a phone number, and a first name. When I called, he didn’t act surprised that I was a blogger, nor was he put off at my not being sure they were right (and thinking they might be a little crazy). “I get people tellin’ me they got Silver Stars in Iraq and all that $#¡+ — and that stuff’s easy to check out,” he said. “I’d sooner have an honest enemy with us than a gung-ho liar, ’least you know what to expect. Gimme your address and I’ll send you your credentials and some local people you can hook up with.”

Sure enough, in a couple days I got a large envelope with a letter, saying I was duly appointed as an embedded journalist with the Georgia Citizens’ Militia, some contact numbers, a white armband, and a list of things to bring. Guns, ammo, first aid kits, water, and food top the list. The white armband marks me as a non-combatant; there’s a list of armband colors and what they mean… these guys are more organized than I’d expected.

I arranged a ride with my local contacts, one that I know well enough to talk to. He was surprised, and a little suspicious, that I was going to be joining them — he knows my general political bent. When I told him I was the embedded journalist, he nodded and relaxed… that was more in keeping with what he expected. We agreed to split gas money and ration tickets, and they came by FAR Manor to pick me up before dawn. I ran a warm-up interview with the other riders along the way; we had a couple of hours to kill and I figured it would be a good start — their armbands marked them as grunts, so it was good to get an idea of what motivated them. The answers were both banal and surprising: it was an excuse to get away from the homestead, they believed in what they were doing, that kind of thing. Of course, they wanted to turn it around and ask me why I was going, especially since I wasn’t a gung-ho supporter — fair enough. I told them I was personally curious about them and their mission, and thought it was worth sharing with the world — and, like them, needed an excuse to get away for a day. They all laughed, and there was a certain tension in the car that I hadn’t noticed until it evaporated.

About the time the sun came up behind us, the talking-head radio told us that the Tennessee Highway Patrol was running roadblocks at the old border and searching for, and confiscating, weapons. It wasn’t affecting the militia, because most of us were coming up 136 to I-59, then north to Cole City. That the Tennessee Guard was at the “wrong” border was taken as a direct provocation by the others in the car — “once we set ’em straight today, I guess we gotta work our way right across the top of the state and fix the line, county by county,” one of them said.

“You think it’ll come to that?” I asked, back in journalist mode.

“Looks like it,” he said. “You heard their governor — he as much as said it was gonna be war. He wants a war, there’s people who’ll be glad to give it to him.” The others nodded.

At last, we reached the exit… cars were parked everywhere. I figure the smarter ones arrived last night and slept in their cars or camped out. A guy at the top of the exit was directing people to parking places, and pointed at the check-in/inspection/mustering station in an old gas station. There were some busses parked there — mostly from points south like Valdosta and Albany — and even an old Hummer, decked out in camo and chrome. It’s a really pretty day, bright sun, a little cool, just a few clouds… a great day for barbeque. (I just hope we’re not going to be the ones on the spit.) Our driver dropped us off and went to park, about a mile down the road, and we got in line to check in.

I presented my credentials, and the guy at the table nodded. “You’re with my platoon,” he said. “You’ll want to interview some of the officers too, I suppose?”

“Sure, if they’re willing. You too.”

“I can give you a few minutes once we’re done here. They’re expecting you now, though. Go to that tent —” he pointed to a big open tent, just visible behind a bus — “and show them your papers.”

“Here’s the journo,” one of them said as a guard confronted me at the tent and made a big show of studying my papers. “Send him along, Private.” The guard stepped back, saluted (a journalist?) and I took a chair across a pair of card tables.

“First off: no names, no faces,” the head honcho told me.

“I kind of expected that,” I said, pulling out my cellphone. “Let’s try this: pull your hats down so I can’t see your eyes. I’ll take a little footage, let you look at it, and delete it if it’s too revealing. Then you know I can’t ‘forget’ to pixelate your faces and give you away. As for names… how about this? You’re General Mayhem, your second there is Colonel Mustard, and my platoon leader is Sgt. Pepper?”

I wasn’t sure how they would take that, but they thought it was funny. “Good enough.” They pulled their hats down, I took some footage, and they were OK with the results. I did the interview and emailed the video home, so that’s safe anyway… and I’m writing about doing the story here, not the story itself. ;-)

I spent the next hour or so walking around and taking video, interviewed a few random souls (interchangeable pretty much), and gawked at the spectacle. I saw a few other white armbands; mostly younger guys. I caught one and interviewed him — it turned out they were couriers, carrying dispatches up and down the road. Some of the platoons had already moved out; as Sgt. Pepper was running check-in, we were bringing up the rear. I shouldn’t have been surprised that “my” platoon was mostly non-combatants — couriers, medics (yes they had some EMTs!) and the journalist (me). I had one of the couriers take me up to where they were marching so I could get some footage. There was a nice breeze coming in, and people’s mood suited the weather. I got a lot of guys waving, a few “Hi Mom!” gags, and just about all of them were smiling.

Helicopters were already making passes. Several people had packed binoculars, and identified most of them for me as I took video. “That one’s State Patrol.” “That’s Fox5.” “That’s Channel 46.”

I called Mrs. Fetched when the “move out” call came, and told her we were moving. “BE CAREFUL!” she yelled, and hung up. Stressed much?

continued…

Revenge of the Pines

It’s that time of year again.

Planet Georgia, being one of the original 13 colonies, has a long history of environmental abuse. The old-growth forests of Southern Pine or hardwood are long gone, with the exception of some truly impressive hemlocks I’ve seen along the Appalachian Trail.

Development, especially in the Atlanta area, involves mowing down every single tree as a first step. Sometimes they’ll plant replacements. Sometimes. Usually ornamentals, lashed down with guy wires and surrounded by pavement to prevent them from escaping.

Somewhere around 1985, we hit a tipping point of sorts — and the pines started to fight back. Atlanta has never been The Place To Be for allergy sufferers during the spring, and things have only gotten worse since then. The official pollen count can get crazy this time of year. A pollen count over 120 is “extremely high” — and during dry spells it regularly soars above 1000, 3000, or even 5000. I think it actually hit 10000 once or twice. I think they need to add some ratings to the scale: “Ridiculous” up to 1000; “Judas Priest!” up to 3000, and so forth.

Pine trees are, as a matter of vengeance, a major contributor to the pollen count. On windy days, I’ve seen yellow clouds of pollen flying from the trees (you can grab a limb and shake to get the same effect). It doesn’t matter what color your car is — around here, in springtime, it’s yellow. Don’t bother washing it off; you’ll just have to do it again tomorrow. And every spring, they’re standing along the roadside, giving us all the finger.

I’m not allergic, thank God, but I still feel it when the pollen count gets above 5000 or so. Fortunately, rainy days like today rinse out the pollen and bring relief to the allergic.

FAR Future, Episode 27: Here We Go Again!

Short one this time. I'll make up for it with a two-fer next week…

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Sunday, August 11, 2013
Here We Go Again!

Remember these guys? They’re at it again.

I guess printing up flyers was too much effort (or expense) this time though; they’re spamming every email they can find on Planet Georgia. (Misspellings left intact, as always!)

Thank you to ALL those who BRAVED THE COLD AND HOSTILEITY and MARCHED on the Capitol and SENT A MESSGE to those who would DRAG DOWN the SOVREIGN STATE OF GEORGIA! Thanks to YOU, they now know that THE UNALIENABLE VALUES that our Great State was founded upon are NOT FORGOTTON and CHERISHED and will not be GIVEN UP lightly!!!

But once again, WE NEED YOU to defend our BELOVED HOME!

Over 200 years ago, an INJUSTICE was foysted upon our SOVERIGN STATE by an incompetant survey crew! Recently, the SUPREME COURT OF THE UNITED STATES reversed that injustice, and RESTORED to Geogia her bounderies! Yet, LAWLESS FOLK would DENY JUSTICE to our Great State!

THEREFORE, once again, dear brethren of the GEORGIA CITIZENS MILITIA ---

TO ARMS!

On LABOR DAY, SEPTEMBER the 2nd, all ABLE-BODYED MEN who can make the trip should MUSTER at the COLE CITY EXIT off I-59, prepared to MARCH over RUGGED TERRANE to the southern bend of NICKAJACK LAKE, that we may DEFEND our GOD-GIVEN TERRITORYS! LABOR DAY will be the DAY we CLAIM the HARD WORK of our FOREFATHERS!!!

Please respond to this email for directions or to share rides. PLEASE bring adequate CLOTHING, FOOD, and FOOTGEAR for the march! If you cannot muster with us, RATION SWAPS will be APRECIATED!

I had a look at the likely route they’re going to take: rugged, indeed! The extreme northwest corner of the state is cut off from the rest by a canyon of sorts — you actually have to drive into Tennessee or Alabama to get there by road. Google Earth shows a road and a power line cut running down the east side, but the elevation drops like 600 feet in a pretty short distance and I think the road is one of those “used to be” roads (it doesn’t show on Google Maps). Interestingly enough, Google Earth also shows the state line where it was supposed to be in the first place (the 35^th parallel), putting the river well inside Georgia — but Google Maps shows the line where it was actually drawn. It didn’t take long to check out… which was fortunate, because both power and Internet access are getting spotty as usual through the summer (although it’s not as bad as last year, yet). I suspect they’re giving priority power to cellphone towers, or perhaps the carriers have beefed up their backup power systems, because the cell network has been mostly well-behaved all summer… which is good; they might be able to call an ambulance when people take the inevitable tumble down that drop.

I wonder how news crews are going to cover this. Probably from helicopters. I might email the militia to see if they want an embedded journalist with them if none of the mainstreamers are interested.

continued…

Flowering trees

More sproing! — these are trees at a nearby church. There are similar trees in a traffic island on the way to work; I was going to grab a shot of those last week from the motorcycle, but the light turned green before I had a chance.

If anyone is keeping score, I took this one with the cellphone… the light was strong enough that I felt confident about getting something usable.

These Are the Good Old Days

A rant I wrote back in August and never got around to posting

There aren’t too many ways to get on my nerves, but one thing is almost certain to set me off: start whining about how much worse things are nowadays than they were 40, 50, how-many-ever years ago. Anyone, who didn’t sleep through every single moment of every single history class they ever had, should know better than to barf up that kind of slop.

“Morals have deteriorated in this generation,” is a perfect example. Um, no — or not nearly as much as blue-noses wish us to believe. The world has always harbored child molesters, adultery, teenage pregnancy, incest, and all the other nasty stuff on the other side of the line. I doubt it’s much more prevalent than it used to be, but we are more honest about its existence. Personally, I think it’s better to have this kind of stuff out in the open — sunlight, after all, is a disinfectant. Is it better to pretend your kid didn’t get molested, as was likely a generation ago, or to make a public legal example of the perpetrator? I hate to bring up the Catholic child-abuse scandal, but it was a scandal precisely because it had been covered up for so long. If the rogue priests had been immediately defrocked and turned over to the authorities 30 years ago, it certainly wouldn’t be an issue today. Another example: is it better to pack your pregnant daughter off to a relative’s, or to the abortion clinic; or would being there for her and helping her to cope with the situation be more like a… parent?

Pick a time in history, and just try to convince me that it was morally superior to today. We had Jim Crow from 1876 to 1964 and beyond, and slavery before that. Abortion, pornography, prostitution, and gambling were all legal and widespread until the Comstock laws of 1873. (They remained widespread after that, but went underground, enabling organized crime syndicates.) It took over 100 years of trying — from 1832 to 1938 — to get child labor laws on the national books. And if you think eminent domain gets abused today, study up on what the railroads did to people who happened to be in their way. Don’t even get me started about the abuses of feudal lords during the Middle Ages. No, morals are no worse than they’ve ever been — but we have correctly decided to talk about the problems and make them more visible. Being honest with ourselves probably makes us more “moral” than our ancestors.

What is happening is that people aren’t going to church nearly as much as they used to — and some of those who continue to go conclude that everyone else is morally inferior these days. But 60 or 70 years ago, church was often the only social connection available to common people, especially outside urban areas. In other words, people went to church because that was all there was to do after the chores were done. Nowadays, churches have to compete with lots of other ways for people to connect — including the Internet — and, as usual, conservatism (i.e. the inability to cope with change) has left far too many churches stuck in the 19th century. Look at the churches that are growing: they usually include more modern music styles, no dress codes, and outreach programs that are relevant to the world we live in. None of that is “diluting the gospel,” which is how most conservative church-goers dismiss any attempt to introduce something into worship other than what they grew up with.

Here’s another howler: “Kids (or pick a minority) have all the rights these days.” This is usually followed by an extreme (and rare) example, made to sound like it happens all the time. The people spewing this kind of garbage are usually the ones who enjoy(ed) abusing their kids, or lording it over minorities, and resent the very thought that those low-lifes could be their equals. And from what I remember about school, if “teachers don’t have any rights” nowadays, they (or their previous generation) brought it on themselves. In the not-so-good old days, any conflict between a student and a staff member was automatically resolved in favor of the staff — regardless of who was truly at fault. The only exceptions would be if the kid’s parents were on the school board or had other political connections. Disputes between students were resolved in the most expedient manner possible — in other words, the easy way instead of the right way. Don’t try to tell me it wasn’t so; I was there and saw it, several times from the wrong end.

Oh, and God help you if you caught out the teacher in class. Somewhere back in elementary school, we were studying inventors. The teacher had made a poster of different inventions and their inventors. Unfortunately for me, her poster said that Henry Ford invented the automobile and I knew he didn’t… and made the mistake of saying so. When she insisted, I started naming autos that preceded Ford and she started screaming about me contradicting her. I guess that’s when I realized that school was about something other than actually learning. There was never an apology or admission that I was right — and as a mere student, I never expected one. From then on, I pretty much coasted from (I think it was) 4th grade right on to graduation. Getting good grades was easy enough; just keep your head down, read ahead, and knock out the homework while the teacher was going on about something you’d already learned on your own.

I do feel for the teachers who are actually trying to make a difference with their students, but they’re usually the ones who aren’t going to have the worst problems anyway — even the bad kids know who’s phony and who isn’t. I also feel for the kids, like The Boy, who couldn’t cope with the boredom and conformism and drop out (which is not to say I approve, but I understand the motivation). Is it really asking too much to find out where a student’s talents and interests lie, and try to help them develop them? Oh yeah, that would mean increasing school taxes. Not on this planet… God forbid you pay another $10 a year in school taxes to improve the local schools. It was a bore-a-torium for your generation, why should it be interesting for the next? The only idea that seems to be gaining traction these days is to make school a year-round prospect. Daughter Dearest has just two more months of this; I hope she can avoid flaming out.

Is it any wonder that people are simply opting-out? The deck is stacked, the casino’s rigged, and the smarter ones are simply choosing not to play the game. “It builds character” is something I’ve never heard said by anyone who actually had to do whatever onerous chore someone else was stuck with. If you’re not going to help: stick your smarmy platitudes where the sun don’t shine, waddle away, and let me either deal with this on my own terms… or not.

Carole King said it back when I was a kid: “These Are the Good Old Days.” They are now, anyway. Enjoy them while they last.

Hi ho, Hi ho, it’s Home to Work I Go

Not many opportunities for rest at FAR Manor, especially on weekends.

The light fixture in Mrs. Fetched’s closet croaked last week, and she’s been on me ever since to change it. I’d put it on my to-do list, and planned to tackle it this weekend anyway. Naturally, the standard ceramic closet socket is unobtanium these days, so we ended up with one of those two-bulb sockets with the square glass dinner-plate diffuser. I put that up in the last hour, and all is well in the closet once again.

But, of course, that’s only the beginning. Mrs. Fetched has assigned to me: replacing a toilet seat (sorry, wrong size); taking out some saplings out front (which ones?); inspecting the roof in the back near a big oak tree (limbs coming off), and general clean up the house stuff to absorb any free time I manage to end up with. I suppose I could go pick up all the limbs blown off trees in last week’s wind storms, to provide enough wood for the week.

I need to: drain a little oil out of the Virago (not sure how I overfilled it); change the oil in the Suzuki; take the Suzuki out to scrub in the new tire ← very important, you understand!; work on FAR Future (I’m 2/3 done with the next+1 episode and have a pretty good idea for next+2, next one’s pretty much done).

Off to early lunch. Mrs. Fetched is hungry & cranky.

FAR Future, Episode 26: Let the Water Wars Begin

Turbulence ahead. Please cap your water bottles tightly.

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Wednesday, July 24, 2013
Let the Water Wars Begin!

I hope you’re enjoying the Southeastern Political Theater Special, “Water Wars,” this month. Laugh-a while you can; it’ll be going on tour soon enough.

OK: I was utterly gobsmacked when the Supreme Court ruled in favor of Planet Georgia last week. Tennessee did everything they could, but the Court ordered all injunctions lifted. I knew nothing good would come of that stunt where they sent a truckload of bottled water to the Capitol when the whole thing got started back when.

“Our” governor attempted to calm the situation, saying something about continuing to honor the injunction with regard to Hamilton County and the City of Chattanooga. “Their” governor wasn’t having any: “Of course they will. This has never been about fixing the border — it’s never been about anything but a blatant water grab, by a state that has consistently refused to get a handle on over-development or water usage. Know this: we will not lie down, even at this point, but we will fight on to protect the resources of our citizens.” A reporter asked how far he was willing to go, and he pointed straight at the camera and said, “As far as we have to.” Ominous.

That gave the national laughingstock, that some here call the “state legislature,” a rare opportunity to look and sound reasonable. “The State of Tennessee has been a good neighbor for over 200 years, and we see no reason for that to change,” the Speaker said. “We’ll review all border changes on a case-by-case basis, with an eye to minimal disruption. As for the water issue, we don’t intend to draw water from the Tennessee River any time soon — we’re just securing an emergency supply for the next drought. Anyone who lived through the 2011 drought can understand that we are looking out for the needs of our citizens.

“But in the long run, the entire Southeast can expect wetter summers, so any draws from the river in question will be temporary at worst.”

Don’t watch the mouth, watch the hands. That goes double for Planet Georgia politicians. The state has actually secured easements for a water line over the last few years, all the way from Lake Allatoona to the old border, and they started work on the right-of-way the day after the Supreme Court ruling. Now they’ve already started on easements for that last 300 feet to Nickajack Lake, which the landowner (backed by the Tennessee State government) is already fighting. There have been threats by various individuals on both sides, and both governors have threatened to call out their respective National Guard units…

If you grew up in Michigan or Ohio, you may remember hearing about the Toledo War in 1835, brought on by a similar surveying error. Michigan was bought off with what’s now known as the Upper Peninsula, which turned out to be a mineral-rich prize. But with no unallocated territory next to Georgia, how will our planet be bought off? It’s amazing to me, sometimes: all this history, all this bloodshed even, that people have been willing to risk to be king over a little patch of dirt. Did they ever ask the people living on that land which king they would rather have?

Ah well. There will certainly be plenty of this to come. Meanwhile, Daughter Dearest’s boyfriend made it to FAR Manor. He took the bus from Savannah to Atlanta, then rented a scooter for the last so-many miles. Man… it doesn’t seem that long ago when riding a scooter up the freeways was suicide. Then again, that’s when people were bitching about $3/gal gas and still “walking” the dog by holding a leash out the SUV window (as Billy Joel said, “the good old days weren’t always good”). He seems like a decent fellow, but he isn’t around much — he’s one of what the techie media calls “Sailor 2.0,” the people who crew the new Auto-Sail freighters. The skill set these people have is amazing: you have to be familiar with both computers and mechanics, have the classic “weather eye” to understand weather patterns and make the most of wind conditions, read sea conditions and adjust course, navigation… I might have been good at it, if I’d been born 35 years later and had enough confidence in myself to try it. I’m trying not to monopolize his time, but it’s hard to avoid the temptation — we’ve had a good time talking into the last couple of nights about different things.

The Auto-Sail ships are pretty amazing too — built from the newest composite materials, lighter than a wooden ship and about as strong as an iron one. But the real fascinating part (to me) is the propulsion. They’ve evolved a long way from the part-kite-mostly-diesel ships first trialed only a few years ago; they use a combination of kites and sail-wings, all computer-controlled, to move the freight. They have small diesel engines (“trolling motors” is what the sailors dubbed them) for maneuvering in the harbor and to keep moving when they’re becalmed. All in all, according to Paul (the boyfriend), they use less than a fifth the fuel of a traditional all-diesel freighter, on average. His ship, the Magnolia, has a crew of four — enough to manage the ship in emergencies and more than enough under normal conditions — and sails between Savannah GA, San Juan, Puerto Rico, and Santa Marta, Columbia (The Three S’s). They carry a lot of coffee, cocoa, and bananas north, and various stuff (usually equipment and electronics) south. They have a lot of time to kill; they work eight-hour shifts that overlap the previous and next shift by an hour, so they spend six hours on their own each day. They need satellite feeds for their weather station, so they always have decent Internet access and plenty of time to take advantage.

And they have no lack of water. Desalinization supplies all they need. I told Daughter Dearest that if we get another major drought, she should just sail away with the guy.

continued…

Sproing!

I had gone into the studio Sunday to grab a couple of tools I’d left in there, and saw no sprouts in the starter pots.

What a difference a couple of days makes. I checked again yesterday evening, and nearly all the tomatoes have sprouted — one tray has Rutgers, another Tommy-Toe (seeds from some friends), and the third is the little yellow pear tomato that volunteered from nowhere in the herb bed last year (the latter are very sweet and keep for a long time). The sprouts are bent over because they were covered in plastic (on the advice of Mrs. Fetched’s mom) and weren’t able to push the plastic out of the way on their own. Naturally, I didn’t mark them and have no idea which one is which. The peppers are still thinking about things and remain covered.

At the bottom left are some basil and cilantro I planted from saved seeds. I see one in each tray, so they’re beating the peppers up…

The (Other) Storms of Spring

As usual, I wasn’t in on the initial “fun.” In fact, I was absorbed in working on FAR Future last night, posting Episode 25 and filling in pieces of the next episode, when I heard a BANG. That’s usually an “intervention urgently requested” signal, so I walked into the empty living room. “What was that?” I called toward the kitchen.

“The Boy,” Mrs. Fetched said, but without the usual heat that comes with a TB04. Then I heard a car revvvvvv. “Oh!” she gasped. “Stop him. I need to talk to him, go out front!” She sounded worried, and I got moving — this wasn’t the usual head-butting aftermath, so something was significantly amiss.

I dashed out the front door and reached the driveway with a little time to spare. The way The Boy came around the side of the house, though, had me ready to jump… but I waved wildly and he stopped with a few feet of margin.

“I’m taking EJ to work,” he said.

“Wait a minute. Your mom wants to talk to you.” She came out the front door even as I spoke, after trying to catch him at the back.

“What happened?” she asked, and the agitation he’d barely held in check poured out: it was dark, so I couldn’t see that he had been seething.

“Snippet pissed me off!” he yelled. “She’s always pulling $#¡+ like that!”

“What did she do?”

“EJ wanted to ride in front for once, and Snippet threw a fit about it. She started in on me again — and then she hit me — and I’ve had it with her $#¡+!” He was almost crying at this point. “She’s outta here tomorrow — I’m going to take her back to her mom, and that’s it!”

That didn’t take long, I thought. Aloud I said, “Look, you’re really worked up — you want me to take EJ and you can settle down a bit? I don’t mind taking him.”

“That might be a good idea,” Mrs. Fetched said. “You’re really not in a good frame of mind to be driving. How’s your blood sugar?”

The Boy pulled himself together — “with a visible effort” is an old writing cliché, but that’s exactly what he did — and shook his head. “My blood sugar’s fine,” he said (he gets completely non-linear when it’s way high, like 300). “Snippet just pissed me off. I need to get away from her for a little while. I’ll be OK.”

“You sure?” I asked.

“Let your dad drive,” Mrs. Fetched said. “You can ride along. I’m just afraid you won’t be paying attention to your driving, and you know how that can go.”

“No, I’ll be fine,” he said, getting a little calmer. His blood sugar was obviously OK — he’s completely incapable of getting it together even that much when he’s gone off the rails.

“Well… drive safe, then,” Mrs. Fetched said, seeing it too. “And come back safe,” I added. He nodded and rolled away, leaving the driveway without the usual “enthusaism,” and we went back inside.

I went back to writing, wondering what had become of Snippet, when I heard voices in the guest room (next to the master bedroom). I poked my head in, to find Snippet teary-eyed and pouting on the bed, talking to Mrs. Fetched.

“Girl talk?”

“No,” Mrs. Fetched said, and I stepped in — then realized I had nothing helpful to say (stop manipulating him, you little twit wouldn’t have been well-received, I expect) and left. They continued to talk for a good long while, and then we talked to The Boy for a while when he returned.

“23 years from now, do you think you could stand living with Snippet the way she is?”

“No way. And I told her, if she does that even once more, we’re through. She just keeps pushing, and pushing, and I don’t know why.”

“Because it works,” she said. “She just wears you down until you do what she wants.” (She should know, that’s why FAR Manor owns us, after all.)

“And when she pushes you like that, and makes you mad, she wins,” I said. “When you’re mad, you’re not thinking. You just re-act, and you can’t get past reacting to planning.”

We talked a little more, then went to bed. We could hear Snippet on the phone to her mom.

This afternoon, to Mrs. Fetched, it looked like the two of them were going to try papering over their differences and going on without resolving a very serious issue… but the fault lines were very visible when they got to Wendy’s (they were running various errands).

“I’m kind of hungry, too,” Snippet said. How this kid manages to keep a figure like hers, eating almost nothing but junk food, is a mystery to me. Probably involved pricking her finger and signing a piece of parchment in blood, but I digress. “Can you get me a bacon cheeseburger?” (I can has cheezburger?)

“Yeah, Mom, can you get her something?” Mrs. Fetched said nothing and ordered only her own chow. The Boy shrugged and got her the requested burger and drink; he got a Baconator, large fries, and drink (his mom’s side of the family processes fat better than carbs, I’m the opposite).

“I’m still hungry,” Snippet said after finishing her burger. “Can I have some of your fries?”

“All you ordered was the sandwich. If you wanted fries you should have asked for some.”

“That’s a lot of food,” Mrs. Fetched intervened. “You can share some of your fries.”

Mrs. Fetched said that Snippet started another round of continuous low-level sniping pretty much the rest of the afternoon; The Boy mostly ignored it but I don’t know for how much longer. They’re visiting a friend of his right now; if she keeps her mouth shut things might get better… but as EJ said, “that would be hard for her.” There’s not a while lot of love between EJ and Snippet… it reminds me of Lobster and M.A.E. back when, although Lobster was simply jealous that The Boy was getting some female attention and Lobster wasn’t. I also don’t expect that the two of them will start spending a lot of time together complaining about stuff like Lobster and M.A.E. did. History doesn’t repeat, it just rhymes, after all.

FAR Future, Episode 25: So Far So Good

A weekend away from the intertubes might have done me some good. I’ll make up for the long delay on this episode by putting up the next one (mostly written already) later this week.

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Monday, June 17, 2013
So Far So Good

The rolling blackouts of summer have started, but so far they only last for a couple hours as intended. That means my home-grown electricity is enough to run a fan or three plus the computer and network while I’m working at home. Now if I could get a wireless signal to the creek, and a waterproof laptop, I’d be set!

Speaking of laptops, I’m drooling over Apple’s new MacBook Sunlight. Nice commercial, naturally, with the guy using one in front of a window all day, then winding up the (optional) charger when evening comes. The entire lid is covered with solar cells — great move for anyone working at home. If my job continues to hold up, I’d love to get one for myself. But even if I can’t get a new laptop, I can be really happy. The chicken houses are, now and forever, past tense. They’re already becoming hay barns and storage for various junk that accumulates on a farm. Even better, Daughter Dearest is home for the summer. Her latest online beau is a little closer to home this time — he works on one of the new Auto-Sail freighters out of Savannah. She told us about their meetup, and how it went well, even if she didn’t get a chance to bring him here. She said he’ll be back in late July and maybe we’ll get to meet him then.

Plenty of sun so far this summer — good for solar panels, not so good for gardens (lack of rain). I sure hope we’re not going back into another drought cycle. We did pretty well rain-wise last year, but that doesn’t do much for us now. The really amazing thing is how this border dispute with Tennessee has gone on for so long… I figured it would die years ago. But the Supreme Court agreed to hear the case last week(!) — so one way or another, that should be over with next month.

But I digress. The libraries have gone back to summer hours, of course — and the right people are making sure the lights (and A/C) stay on all day. The only complaint was from parents who wonder why they didn’t go to summer hours as soon as school let out.

The local library is presenting an “Energy Saving Tips for the Family” series that’s been well-attended. I had to slip away from work for a couple of hours to check out the presentation last week, on “comfortable outdoor summer spaces.” It was sponsored by Home Depot, which made sense, but the presenter did a pretty good job of keeping the “new stuff” pitch to a minimum. There was a lot of focus on selecting the site — shade, breeze, soft ground cover, furniture, view — all that stuff. They suggested getting a neighborhood together to plan either a community space or ways to connect individual spaces, and offered a break on delivery charges for group orders, yadda yadda. :-) She had to put in one plug, anyway!

I asked about creek sites, and she suggested that a neighborhood group might be the way to go there. There are special considerations, she said, for creekside sites: depending on the slope of the bank, you may need to do some earth-moving. Erosion control is a big deal, too, especially when you have people tromping around it all summer. There aren’t too many neighbors in the pasture, unless you count the cows, so I guess we’ll stick with the lawn chairs and plastic table. When it really starts getting hot (like next week), I have some ballast to hold down the table and we can sit in the creek and still have our magazines and lemonade.

Someone else brought up the idea of integrating a “space” with a garden. She laughed and asked if there were any kids involved — a kid taking a tumble in the wrong place could wipe out a lot of your crop! But there are ways to do it — waist-high beds (which reduce bending and squatting anyway) are one possibility.

I should have asked about moss… it’s soft and it likes shade, after all. And I have a bunch of it growing in half of the front yard. Maybe I should just put some furniture out there and call it good enough.

Nah. I’d rather have it down at the creek.

continued…

Spinning Wrenches, Spinning Air Columns

Ah, spring… when a young man’s fancy turns to— HOLY $#!+A TORNADO!!!!

The first Big One of spring paid a visit to downtown Atlanta, and took in many of the tourist sites: the Georgia Dome, Phillips Arena (interrupting a Hawks game in overtime), the CNN Center, and many many more. The usual Saturday cartoon fest was thrown aside for a wall-to-wall news orgy of the Disaster On Our Doorstep (DOOD!).

But more storms were on their way for the afternoon, and we had stuff to do, so we turned off the TV and got to it. The Boy miraculously showed up in the morning when he said he would, which took the pressure off me to once again throw my plans in the dumpster and tend to the chicken houses (wasn’t gonna happen anyway). Big V’s husband came by with his trailer; we rolled the red Civic (which has stopped shifting) onto it and took it to the mechanic. From there, I went on to the motorcycle shop and their “sidewalk sale,” shopping list in hand and rear wheels from both motorcycles in the trunk. As I’d hoped, heated gloves were in the discount bin, so I found a pair that fit me and scratched that one off my list. Then it was off to the parts counter for some serious denting of the checking account (recently augmented by the addition of a bonus check). I came home with:

- a cargo rack for the Suzuki (a miracle: they had it in stock!)
- heated gloves
- brake pads for the Virago
- the Virago rear wheel, with fresh rubber
- fresh oil for both bikes, filter for the Virago
- chain lube
- cable lube (plus a lube tool)

Stuff I’ll be picking up later in the week:

- Suzuki rear tire, with fresh rubber
- Acerbis 4.25gal tank for the Suzuki
- garage stand

I got home just in front of the rain, and found the all-day news-orgy had shifted from the past to the immediate future: a pair of strong storms were heading in from Alabama, killed some people in Polk County (terrible news there), and continued almost due east at 50mph (those spring storms move FAST) in single file. The weather dudes were waxing poetic over their new technology, that allows them to build 3D models of storms and display them in different ways, and to zoom in on the immediate area and show roads and locations that were in the path of the storms. This particular storm was highly radar-genic, so they were having all sorts of fun showing us just about everything they could do. As it turned out, the really bad parts of the storms (F2 tornadoes, 2" hail, 70mph winds) went 10 miles south of us. After things died down a bit, I headed to the garage to work on the bikes.

I got the wheel back on the Virago, with only the usual difficulty plus a brain-fart (where’s the spacer? duh, I left it on the axle so I wouldn’t lose it!), then put the cargo rack on the Zook while draining old oil out of the Virago. I was about to tackle the brake pads, when Mrs. Fetched asked if I was interested in food. Being 6pm (already?), I realized I was ready to eat. Of course, Mrs. Fetched rarely delivers the whole story: we had to stop at a couple of places to pay bills. The second place was Home Depot, and we picked up a couple minor things while we were there — including a new light fixture for her closet. We ate (at Up the Creek) and then got to Office Max, five minutes before closing, to pick up card stock for Daughter Dearest’s graduation invitations.

After church, I’ll finish up the Virago brakes and wire in the heated gloves, then perhaps I’ll take a (ahem) short ride! The Boy came in with Snippet a few minutes ago, “disappointed” that he missed his shot at the chicken houses, but willing to come to church. Time to jump in the shower and get ready…

Weekend Cinema

Daughter Dearest gets a hat tip for this weekend’s flick.

I don’t know about you, but I was almost ROFL at this particular video. These guys remind me of two of my nephews, and Daughter Dearest had the same thought… and it’s definitely worth sharing the antics of the Crazy Frog Bros.

Oh, and the original video if you haven’t seen it.

(Basil) Survivor: Winter

I brought three basil plants in for the winter. As you can see, one managed to make it to spring. But it looks like it will live long enough to go back outside when it stays warm.

I’ve got plenty to do and not enough time to do any of it. At least Daughter Dearest’s car (which has been spewing oil) turned out to have the cheap problem: a bad oil sensor gasket.

FAIL, Chicken House Style

Or: How My Saturday was Shot to Hell for Me

I knew it wasn’t a good idea to agree to help with the chickens today, but Daughter Dearest and The Boy were both ready to help so I was pretty much stuck. When I got to the back of #2, one of the feed line motors wasn’t running and I assumed it was electrical. Mrs. Fetched told me different: a bolt had gotten into the feed line (sloppy maintenance at the feed mill) and we were pretty much stuck doing something about it. Amazing, how she manages to “forget” about these things until I’ve already signed up for a quick morning tour. Scope creep isn’t just an engineering plague.

After figuring out that it wasn’t electrical, we took the guard off the motor reset switch and Mrs. Fetched managed to finally make it click. “I’m going to just plug it in for a second,” she told me. “You listen and see if you can figure out where it bangs.” It took all of two rounds of that to find it. When we started looking, it was obviously b0rk3d.




Naturally, this couldn’t be close to the motor. After dorking with stuff for a while, and not solving anything, I asked Mrs. Fetched, “So what do we do?”

“We call Wesley,” she said. Wesley is a chicken house repairman — yes, there is such a thing. It requires electrical, welding, and mechanical skills, as well as a high tolerance for ammonia and dust. We broke for a late lunch (since we had a late breakfast) and Wesley showed up just as we were heading back to try to prepare for battle.




With a little help from us, they took the feed line apart at the break (it's a series of tubes, with a twisted screwy thing inside — you know, like the Internet) and pulled the auger out. We quickly found the auger was pretty seriously kinked — again, the Internet similarities are amazing. (And look! they both eat up all your free time!) After attempting to straighten it, he got the tools.





I assumed that we’d have to replace the entire auger. Fortunately, that wasn’t the case. Cut out the kinked part, braze in a new piece, and put it all back together. But first things first: cut the sucker. A Dremel tool with a cutting wheel did the job, with plenty of drama.





They had brought a piece of replacement auger line with them, along with a brazing rig (large oxyacetylene torch) and a jig to hold it together while putting it to the torch. The actual repair actually didn’t take very long — indeed, it was probably the quickest part of the entire procedure. Isn’t that usually how it goes?

Once the auger was repaired (and cooled off), the rest was anti-climatic. Replace the broken pipes, feed the auger line through, and hook it back up to the motor.


It’s always best to test your repairs before buttoning it all up… otherwise, something is sure to go w0rng. Fortunately, everything was doing what it was supposed to:


And that was how my Saturday afternoon went. I could think of a couple zillion things I’d rather have been doing… and at least three or four that I actually could have been doing. All indoors… it was cold and windy with snow flurries and at least the chicken houses are warm.

Odds and (week)Ends

Yet another collection of happenings and items that didn’t merit their own post. I thought that I wouldn’t have to do these anymore when I started using Twitter, but I don’t always tweet these things and sometimes there are pictures involved. I’m not sure how many of you read the Twitter box (in the margin to the right) anyway — and if your employer has weird IT people like mine does, they block Twitter and you might not be able to read them anyway. But if you join Twitter and follow me, then you’ll get up to the minute updates (when I think to send them).

I had a brief HEFOD (Hardware Engineer Freak-Out Dance) at work yesterday — fortunately, it only took a couple hours that I had to spare. I cleared a couple of major milestones this week, and several minor ones, so I’m pretty content with my work-related productivity this week.

Nine Inch Nails has released a four-CD instrumental compilation they call Ghosts I-IV. They put up the first CD in the set as a free download — I figured if I didn’t like it, The Boy probably would, and grabbed a copy. (If you tried earlier in the week, when they first announced it, they’ve added servers and bandwidth to handle the load.) I’m listening to it now; it’s definitely not what I’d have expected from NiN. I expect it will get airplay on Space Station Soma or other ambient stations before long. I’m keeping it. I doubt The Boy will be thrilled with it though.

WANT!!!
(I don’t mean the truck, or the ribbon sticker. I want the oval sticker.)

But seriously, I’ll make sure the proceeds are actually going to breast cancer research before I buy one.

Going around to visit some of my blog-buddies… stop by and wish Beth a Hippo Birdie! Meanwhile, Nancy P has gone dark until she finishes writing her next book, so send productivity vibes her way. For that matter, Beth and several other of my writing pals need some productivity vibes as well. Until Nancy’s ready to come back, Kimberly Frost is hosting the “cafe.”

Meanwhile, I’ve got some writing of my own to do (ahem FAR Future ahem), so I’ll be getting on that shortly. Actually, I wrote at least half of the next episode at lunch yesterday, and the three or four episodes after that are already written, so I’ve just got to hook it all up and I might go twice-weekly for the next two or three weeks to make up for being slow on this one. I could use a few productivity vibes as well, as long as Olga (my imaginary BSDM Muse) doesn’t decide to send too many vibes. Right now, I’m typing at a long-ish story that centers around a teenage couple and a mysterious cornfield.

Amazing, how quickly one can type (and accurately!) when squiffed. I’m actually preparing this post Friday night, but jiggered the relative dates (“yesterday” et al) to work with the actual posting time. I hope everyone has a relaxing and/or exciting weekend, depending on how you like it. Lurkers, feel free to say hello and share your weekend plans…

Weekend Cinema

Welcome back to Weekend Cinema, where you can sample both old and new, long and short (but mostly short) animations!

I didn’t even have to think about tonight’s selection — as soon as I saw it, I marked it for this weekend. So sit back, grab a handful of popcorn, and cheer on the hapless bunny who’s caught on Theme Planet…

TB02 and Other Stories

It seems like the entire blogosphere is talking about Gary Gygax’s demise. This is fortunate (the chatter, not the event, jeeeeez), because I have stuff to talk about a little closer to home. I was an avid D&D player in college, and still have all my books & figurines & so forth, but I haven’t played seriously since graduating, too long ago to comfortably think about. So after the customary moment of silence, followed by noting “DEAD-NO RES” on the character sheet and moving it to the back of the notebook…

I must have rolled snake eyes on my luck throw (or used it all up last week, more likely). Last night, we made official what I’ve suspected all week: TB02 — The Boy has come back home. AGAIN. And not by himself. There’s Snippet, of course; her mom has been living in a camper for some months (verified by Mrs. Fetched) and she is out of options, and I’m not exactly thrilled with the idea of putting a 17-year-old female on the street. A happier circumstance is EJ, The Boy’s long-time friend and probably one of the better influences in his life. EJ works at the hospital and offered to pay rent (we accepted of course). Snippet, who was “home schooled” (NOT) for several years, is signing up for GED classes and Mrs. Fetched will make sure she gets to them. ;-)

Well. The nest that was getting empty has filled right back up again. Mrs. Fetched is actually happy about it, partly because we like EJ and partly because Snippet has some experience working chicken houses, and partly because The Boy really isn’t prepared for living on his own just yet. She said something to the effect that it may work out the same as with M.A.E.: after having her around for a few months, he’ll get tired of her & ditch her as soon as she (or he, as in the case previous) can find another place to go. snort Accepting her will probably help the breakup. snort Or maybe Snippet will get tired of his ego and bail on her own. Either way, they both win.

Something ugly went down at the place he & Snippet were staying, but beyond Snippet’s friend BB (a known drama queen) trash-talking The Boy, I’m not completely sure what was going on there yet. It might be once of those “ignorance is bliss” situations, so maybe I’ll just leave it at that. EJ wasn’t living with them, but there was some kind of row between EJ, his mom, and his step-dad the same weekend The Boy and Snippet came back home — not too bright on the part of the elders, as EJ was dishing over much of what he makes at the hospital. He’s actually going to come out ahead paying rent here, which should allow him to get his own car & place by summer. The Boy is looking to start working at a nearby convenience store, and also hopes to be ready to have a more permanent TB01 by July. With any luck, Snippet will be out of the picture by then.

So let’s welcome the new cast members. Feel free to start a betting pool on how long each of them will stay around.

Bad news, good news

The DSL started crapping out on me this morning around 11. Now it seems to be flaked out entirely. I’m sending this from my cellphone.

I took a brief walk a few minutes ago, and found a sprout in the pepper bed... maybe it’s a bell pepper volunteering.

Still Dim, Still Life

Life goes on, even (or especially?) when not blogging. The work that followed me home for the weekend pretty much rolled over and gave up after a few hours. That didn’t leave me a lot of free time anyway; there was wood to split & stack and chicken houses that demanded attention. But the work stuff went OK; I had some late stuff come in this morning, one sticky comment (from my boss) was deemed OK to let slide for the beta phase. I spent much of the work day today updating screen shots and verifying CLI commands; the later is not difficult but rather tedious. Things change, even when they’re not called out in the spec, so it has to be done.

On the way into work this morning, I was thinking about The Boy and his focus on things. With a little reflection, I realized his wasn’t a laser focus — more like an electron gun in a CRT. Very sharp focus, but easily deflected. Girlfriends have not been good for him… three summers ago, he had a job, a car, and good prospects. He hooked up with M.A.E.… and a year later, the job was history, the car was trashed by a criminal who thought to use it as a getaway car & put diesel in it, and he’d dropped out of school. In some ways, he hasn’t recovered from that. Interesting that when I got home, he was at the manor (and Snippet, of course). He’s going to try to get back that job he had before, and helped out a little bit (hoping for cigarette money). Mrs. Fetched told me that on the way to do some of that work, she asked him, “Are you happy with your life, the way things are going?” He didn’t answer. I hope he reflects on it. She thinks he’s not terribly thrilled with his apartment life; he told me he and EJ (and Snippet, of course) are going to try getting their own place. What he really needs to do is put her aside & redirect his focus — but being a guy, he’ll let his nuts do the thinking until he’s 30 or so.

Some consultant invited me to join his group on LinkedIn a while back. It’s a social networking site geared toward professionals, if you haven’t heard of it. On a whim, I typed in my old college roomie’s name, and there he was (waving at CS if he’s reading). We hooked up on IM today, traded pix of our kids, and commiserated about being almost 50.

The first of several “stimulus packages” is going to arrive soon: the annual work bonus. Mrs. Fetched and I have made a list of stuff we want to get taken care of, including taking care of the cars and motorcycles. I think we’ll have a fair amount left over after the essentials are taken care of, which will take care of the Spring Break vacation in Florida. Daughter Dearest’s chorus is singing at Dizzy World, and recording part of a movie soundtrack. They’re going to spend a lot of time backstage, and Mrs. Fetched is going to be there to video things. Meanwhile, we have a condo set up near Mom’s place (with Mom’s help) and I’ll have a couple of days to air it out before they finish up their “work” in Orlando and join me. But before that, Beth is coming this way for a day or so, then continuing a dizzying travel schedule that ends up in a new home in Colorado. I’ll have to make cinnamon rolls.

Speaking of rolls, a woman at our church runs a no-kill animal shelter. I don’t know how this connects, but she gets large packages of freebies from the grocery store and brings it for everyone to pick out on Sundays. I usually grab pastries or doughnuts and take them to work; plenty of engineers are happy to dispatch the goodies. What doesn’t get eaten in the meetings gets taken to a certain filing cabinet in the office, where it has a (ahem) shelf life of about two hours. I kept the coffee cake and English muffins for ourselves, though.

And speaking of bread… seeing that wheat has gone up like 40% in the last year, and is set to double in the next year, I figured this would be a good time to stock up on flour. We went to BJs, and found 20lb packs for $6.57 — about 2/3 what you’d pay at the grocery store. I bought two packs, which will last us a little while, and tossed in a 3-liter bottle of Berio olive oil. Meanwhile, the girlies wound up getting a bunch of other stuff. Daughter Dearest found Stephanie Meyer’s second book (Eclipse, hardcover for $10) and has already read it (and the first one) twice. I guess she’ll get the next one when she gets paid.

I’m hoping things will ease up a little later this week, and maybe I can get a FAR Future episode up. One more month to vacation!

FAR Future, Episode 24: Interlude

With this post, I’ll be going dim again for a while. Work followed me home this weekend. I should have the next episode up on schedule, which means “some time late next week.”

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Sunday, May 5, 2013
Interlude

It has been pretty quiet lately at FAR Manor. I wouldn’t say the calm before the storm — I hope not, anyway — but who knows these days?

The chicken houses are winding down; after they haul this bunch away (11 days, and yes I’m counting), that’s The End. We’ll use the litter for the pastures as needed; we won’t tear the houses down right away (although I have a couple of crowbars just itching to get at it) but we’ll be selling the equipment in the market bulletin… if there are any takers. Chicken ranching just isn’t what it used to be, if it ever was; the fuel required for a factory operation is killing the industry (and good riddance). Poultry companies are actually making more money selling birds to backyard operations now. A thousand homes with backyard flocks produce as much chicken as a single chicken house, give or take, and they can also provide eggs. The margins are better for the companies, they don’t have to worry about fuel subsidies, and a loose dog means more business.

The in-laws have been taking it easy for a while; Mrs. Fetched has been managing the day-to-day operations of the farm for — well, since before I started blogging, and that’s been a while. Her mom has been helping some of the county subdivisions with their community gardens; she did organic gardening before there was any other kind, so she just had to reach a little farther back in her storehouse of memories. (Did I ever mention that she helped dig a well by hand when she was a teenager? ’Tis true.) A lot of her generation, the ones left, are finding themselves quite popular these days — they remember what it’s like to live without electricity, running water, and all the other stuff we’ve taken for granted all our own lives. Even the folks with Alzheimer’s seem to do OK; researchers found out a long time ago that recreating the environment of their prime years helps them cope, and that’s pretty easy to do these days. Some of them think it’s the 1930s, and (minus Jim Crow) it could well be.

Anyway, as poultry farming has decentralized back into backyard operations, beef is becoming a luxury item. Prices are way up — some people are saying it’s going to get to the point where selling two or three cows a year could pay all the farm-related expenses (diesel fuel, taxes, feed) before too much longer. We’ve contracted to sell whatever peppers and herbs (mostly oregano) we grow to local outfits these days. Good thing… sales have dropped off at work quite a bit, what with households “consolidating,” so I’m not sure how much longer I’ll be gainfully employed. If I can survive as a gentleman farmer, especially after taking the mortgage moratorium, I don’t have a problem with that. Some of the old-timers have gone back to making moonshine, especially since it’s not as illegal as it used to be. Now I know why the Indians called it “firewater.” Whoosh.

Daughter Dearest will be done teaching classes in a couple weeks, just a few days after the chickens are gone, in fact. We’ve already opened up her old room for her, so she’ll be all set. I’m looking forward to having her around again… but I think I mentioned that.

Can you believe it’s almost summer already? We’ll be going back to rolling blackouts any day now. :-P They’ve been running PSAs almost non-stop on radio and TV, encouraging people to minimize A/C usage as the weather warms up. Those voltage sensors the power company passes out are an interesting experiment: when they get plugged in, they set a random voltage to watch for and cut off the A/C for an hour when the incoming voltage goes below that — it might be enough to stop the blackouts, or at least reduce their duration. Mrs. Fetched and I have been talking about moving our bed onto the screen porch, where we can take advantage of cooler air through the night. If we’re really careful how we use what the solar panels give us (the windmill is mostly useless from May to September), we can run the ceiling fan on low all night. I’ll probably put it on a timer, though, to cut off after a couple of hours. The vented skylight in DD’s room should help her quite a bit, as long as we leave windows and the doors to the upstairs open.

So things have been quiet for a little while. But if The Prophet is right, not for long: “The day is soon coming, Jerusalem, when your enemies of old will gather together and say, ‘We have thrown off the yoke of our king; now let us oppress the people of the city, as we did before. For we have not forgotten the old times, nor our enmity toward the people of Jerusalem.’ And when the Lord closes the heavens once again, and the land will be parched, there will be wars and rumors of wars, until He takes pity on the people and opens the heavens anew.”

Oh great. More drought.

continued…

Bumper Cars, or (Tell Me Why) I Don’t Like Mondays

When I first moved to Planet Georgia in March 1983, my first thought upon entering metro Atlanta was, “don’t these people know what traffic cops are?” In college, I watched The Dukes of Hazzard for entertainment… not realizing that people really do drive like that here.

So this morning, me and a few dozen close personal friends (none of whom I’ve met, but anyway) are all cruising down the freeway, when traffic starts knotting up. That’s not unusual. Flip the car out of gear, cover the brake, and erode the generous cushion I’ve given the car ahead of me. About the time I’d used my cushion, the cars ahead started speeding up and the cushion opened up again. I got it in gear, but I must have seen something sub-consciously that made me cautious. I accelerated, but slowly, and let the cushion build up again.

When things start getting thick like that, I try to watch as far ahead as I can — looking through windows, around, over, whatever it takes to get a read on what’s happening. I saw some brake lights again, and got ready: plenty of room in the median (I was in the left lane, passing a transfer truck) and the guy behind me was close but not drafting. This kind of scenario presents itself probably once a week, and usually amounts to nothing.

But our lucky lotto number came up this morning. Brake lights came on several cars ahead, then the guy in front of me hit his brakes hard (judging from the way his back end came up). I put one eye on him and one on the rear-view mirror, hit the brakes, and got ready to dive into the median if necessary. As the situation in front of me started sorting itself out, I saw several cars behind me weave toward the median, then saw a big cloud of steam and all hell broke loose. Two cars went into the median, and a bronze Explorer came up beside me on the right: BACKWARDS, nose to nose with the transfer truck. I bellowed a prayer, moved left, and gassed it — and God saw fit to cut me a break, because I was clear a second later. It really looked like one of those replays from a NASCAR in-car camera; one where the cars going every which way but somehow the driver in the middle of it all manages to get through it unscathed.

About a hundred yards up the road, I pulled into the median and ran back to check on the others who weren’t so lucky. There were four vehicles involved; all the drivers were on their phones or chatting amongst each other. One guy was surveying the tangled mess that was once the front end of his car, shaking his head, and making his phone call. Nobody was hurt at all, thank God, and a guy in scrubs came running across the median from the northbound side to make sure. I offered several of them an “anything I can do?” and got a chorus of “no thanks,” so I figured I should just get back to it. But I’ve smelled the radiator fluid from the smashed-up car, on and off, all day.

I really wanted to be retired by now. :-P

A Quiet Improvement

Oh grey water, keep on flowin’
Planet Georgia moon, won’t you keep on shinin’ on me…

As I’ve mentioned before, we’ve had some issues with the septic system (we’ve had to have it pumped a couple times since then). A few months ago, it occurred to me that if we could divert the non-toilet drains into an irrigation system, we could take a lot of non-essential load off the septic system and, if not solving the problem entirely, at least put off replacing the field lines. My father-in-law and I put in the field lines at our old place; it wasn’t too difficult but he no longer has a backhoe — so it’ll be a multi-thousand dollar fix now.

Since the in-laws have a handyman living & working on the farm at the moment, Mrs. Fetched’s mom decided to jump into the project with both feet… or at least toss the handyman into it. It was the work of a morning for him to punch a hole in the foundation, run a 2-inch pipe through it, and divert the kitchen and laundry room drains. I consider the job half-done — ideally, I’d like to divert everything but the toilets — but this may be all we can do practically.

This project may have also decided for me where I’ll locate the forest garden. I like the idea of using water twice, especially if we’re going to have more drought… which doesn’t seem likely at the moment, but you never can tell. I also like the idea that being less wasteful could save us some money (like with the fireplace insert). There’s still a little more work to do once I’ve figured out where the water will go, a bit of ditch-digging and pipe-laying… nothing I haven’t done before.

Weekend Cinema

A blah ending to a crappy week… but hey, blah is an improvement, right? Things are getting better going into the weekend! We hope.

I always get a chuckle out of this video, even if I don’t understand the lyrics. The only question I have is, are those Mao jackets or Meow jackets?

Lunar Eclipse [UPDATED]

Of course it would be a cloudy night,
with a lunar eclipse happening tonight!

This was the best I could do. I had better (less) cloud cover earlier, but all I had then was my cellphone and that didn't work so good.


UPDATE: About an hour and a half later, just past totality, it cleared up and I got another shot that I didn't have to fight the clouds for.

FAR Future, Episode 23: The Prophet

I’ve been debating about whether to include this episode, or just work it in sideways. But if I don’t post something, who knows how long before I’ll get the next one done? Sometimes, you just have to go with what you got.

---

Friday, April 19, 2013
The Prophet

There is a prophet in Atlanta. Or so they say.

He surfaced (is that the word?) early this year, standing and preaching on street corners like so many more before him. But some people have made a pastime of capturing his sermons with cellphone cameras, and there’s a website dedicated to gathering and collating those pieces of video. It makes for some interesting watching.

Fortunately for The Prophet’s “chroniclers,” he tends to preach the same sermon for several days, then change only parts of it. That gives them a chance to piece together most of an entire sermon. They still haven’t caught the beginning of any of them, though, so the site has to go on eyewitness reports to provide complete transcripts.

In the videos, The Prophet is a black guy, maybe 5-foot-9, and looks bulky (although that could be the coat). He has a buzz cut, a ratty trench coat, and of course he carries a Bible. He has a big knot on the right side of his forehead, like someone clubbed him a good one. In the videos, he refuses cash donations (which sent my respect for him up about six notches) but blesses anyone who leaves food or bottled water. He has a refrain when people put food or water bottles in a cardboard box at his feet: “Those who leave so much as a glass of water for the servants of God will not lose their reward.”

The mainstream preachers aren’t exactly thrilled with the attention he’s getting. The kahuna at the big Baptist church down in Atlanta gets this sour look on his face every time a TV reporter asks him about the Prophet, but he says mostly neutral stuff like “preaching The Lord’s word and doing His work is always honorable.” But there’s a big contrast that he can’t paper over, and the TV reporters don’t overlook it — the wealthier churches have set up soup kitchens where you have to go — when people give food to The Prophet, he takes it to where it’s needed. (People have followed him a few times.)

He was recently giving a 21st Century Beatitudes (cut & pasted from the site):

“Blessed are those, who open their homes to neighbors and sojourners in Jerusalem, for the Lord shall open the gates of heaven to them.” (He refers to Atlanta as Jerusalem, according to the site.)

“Blessed are those, who bring firewood to the cold, for they shall be warm in heaven.

“Blessed are those, who bring food to the hungry, for they shall feast in heaven.

“Blessed are those, who look after their neighbors, for the Lord in heaven shall look after them.

“Blessed are those, who continue to work and pay their debts, yet all debts will be erased. Their faithfulness is written in the Book of Life.

“Blessed are those, who make peace with their enemies, for they shall live without fear.

“But woe unto those who hide away from the stranger at their door! for the Lord shall shut the gates of Heaven against them!

“Woe unto those who hoard their fuel, for the fires of Hell will be bitter cold to them!

“Woe unto those who withhold their food from the hungry, for Hell shall not feed them!

“Woe unto those who say, 'I have earned my ease, let my neighbors look after themselves,' for the Lord will surely turn His back on such!

“Woe unto those who say, 'Why should I pay my debt, even though I can?' for the Lord will surely blot out the names of the faithless from the Book of Life!

“Woe unto those who take up arms against their enemies, for ever shall they live in fear of their lives!”

There are some videos of people coming to his cardboard box altar for salvation and baptism. He opens a bottle of water and baptizes them on the spot. :-) Some of them look like they're dressed pretty well, so I guess the Prophet is reaching more than just the poor in town.

Heavy stuff. I'll transcribe more if something jumps out at me.

continued…

Weekend Cinema

When you don’t have much time,
When you got you no money,
You want that Weekend Cinema
To bring you something funny!

Archive.org is a treasure trove of old stuff. Some of it you have to see to believe.

Some of you may be old enough to have seen this in school; I think they stopped showing it shortly before my time. Or maybe I blocked the memory. In any case, it’s worth looking at — first for the laugh, and then the sobering “what if” that is Duck and Cover. (10 minutes)

They have smaller versions for dialup users, although it still runs into some heft (like 10MB worth). Try one of the "64kB" links to the left if you need it.

TB01 (Maybe this one will last)

Mrs. Fetched is getting better now. [cue SFX: stadium cheer] She wasn’t quite up to prom dress shopping with Daughter Dearest as planned, but she did get out of the house with DD to pay some bills and the like. Seeing that her world of the previous 48 hours was the living room, hallway, and our bedroom (mostly the living room), this is a big improvement.

But that’s not what I’m here to tell you about. I’m here to tell you about The Boy.

The Boy, as always, was gone all last weekend. But come Monday, he didn’t show up in the evening as usual — with or without Snippet. He swung by late Wednesday evening, when I would have been at choir practice except that I was looking after Mrs. Fetched.

“I got an apartment with [two other guys],” he told me. “I’m just here to get some clothes and stuff.”

[cue SFX: stadium cheer with The Wave] TB01!

It was pretty cold that particular night, and I found his heavier jacket for him and made sure he took it along. He also picked up a loaf of bread (not a problem) and some CDs (ditto). I didn’t think to ask him if he’d found a job, and he didn’t volunteer the information. He had said last week that one of his friends’ grandparents were going to pony up for an apartment, so he may have been straight with us. If so, they could be on the hook just for food & utilities. I hope they know (or learn) how to cook. This time of year, it would be ridiculously easy to cook: buy a crock pot, dump meat & veggies in it in the morning, come in & eat it for supper. I never could get him & M.A.E. to stand still long enough to show them how to eat cheap & healthy; maybe if he comes by and complains about groceries, he’ll be willing to listen.

I really hope this works out for him. Taking care of himself will teach him responsibility more effectively than we ever could.

Mrs. Fetched is Sick

Mrs. Fetched decided this morning that she had me take her to the doctor about whatever it is she has.

He isn’t sure!

It’s not the flu, and it’s not strep throat. Probably a bacterial thing, but who knows? A couple of prescriptions and she’s actually getting some rest for a change. I just wish she was healthy and getting some rest.

Forgot what I was gong to write about

I had something kind of knocked together in my head yesterday that I wanted to put here, but then I forgot to post it last night and it’s completely gone this morning.

Oh well. I need to go rebuild the fire in the insert. Mrs. Fetched has the flu, I think, and she’s not in any condition to go out and gather firewood.

Weekend Cinema

“WTF?” — FARfetched

“That’s just WEIRD.” — Daughter Dearest

So some guy who calls himself “Buffalax” took a music video from India and added subtitles consisting of English that sort of sounds like what they’re singing.

So grab some popcorn, but put down the drinks for this one… and maybe you’ll figure out who put the goat in there.

FAR Future, Episode 22: Why Are We Still Here?

A brief interlude as part of the story. I’m about ready to start the next cycle.

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Sunday, April 7, 2013
Why Are We Still Here?

It’s a nice spring afternoon out here today. I’m sitting out front with the laptop. Stuff is growing, the sun is shining, the windmill is turning slowly… I’m not exactly feeling gloomy, but I’m not nearly as sunny as this day has turned out to be. I guess the word is “introspective.”

The right-wing spins one way or another these days, like an old Chevy stuck in the mud, looking for traction wherever they can find it so they can get back in the race. They end up slinging mud everywhere, spinning their wheels, and sliding around. Their talking points still work with the most delusional among us, but not even their old crazy base is safe territory anymore. The opinion polls that came out after the bill to kill heating assistance last winter, for example, showed a 3-point drop in support for the goplets.

Even the most un-evolved knuckledraggers seem to have accepted that “they” just can’t pump more oil now, or enough more to make a difference. Therefore, rationing makes sense — nobody gets all the gas they want, but everyone gets some and there’s a way to get more if needed (on the exchange). They accept not driving the SUV unless they need the cargo capacity, and that their beloved NASCAR is changing their format to reward the most fuel-efficient vehicles. They’ve even (on the whole) accepted climate change and the need to address it, although many believe that declining fossil fuel usage will do the heavy lifting.

So it’s been a rough couple of years for the Spewers of Spin. The latest attempt to gain a little traction goes, as Shotgun Sam put it yesterday: “We’re interconnected, more than we’ve ever been in history. Push on one thing, and you create a ripple of push one way, and a ripple of pull the other. And this so-called ‘peak oil’ is, if you believe the liberal liars, is a mighty big push. They tell us that oil is the lifeblood of our economy, and we have to do all these Big Brother type things — rationing, h– [I think he barely managed to catch himself before saying heating assistance, which would have turned off his listeners big-time] mortgage relief for people who weren’t responsible enough to live within their means, tax hikes, draconian regulations on our automakers, all that. It’s killing jobs, it’s killing your jobs, and if we’d just let the free market handle things, we’d be fine.”

Predictably, this didn’t exactly resonate with the listeners. You can’t train people over the years to not think very hard about what they’re hearing, then hit them with something that complex. All the callers were nit-picking about whether the free market would have supplied enough gasoline for everyone, or why it was so bad to keep people in their houses, and completely missed the first point about how everything is interconnected.

Sam’s was a classical tactic: start with the truth, say “therefore,” and then tell a pack of lies that have little or nothing to do with the first part of the statement. Yes, this is a highly interconnected world — and yes, dwindling oil supplies gave it one hell of a push. But every time I hear the word “interconnected,” I think back to the good ol’ days of the Y2K wars. Among those who were paying attention, there was a pretty solid rift between “doomers” (Y2K is going to kill us all) and “pollies” (Polyanna, maybe a few disruptions but nothing earth-shattering). It would have been easy — but facile — to put right-wingers on the doomer side and lefties on the polly side. As it turned out, there was some weighting in that direction, but you could find plenty of people representing the entire political spectrum on both sides. I met CPR after I came over to the polly side, and he was a bulldog & a major Bush-league supporter. I participated in the endless flame wars, and watched and listened to arguments on both sides, and finally identified the dividing line:

Y2K doomers considered interconnections to be a weakness.
Y2K pollies considered it to be a strength.

Of course, it turned out the pollies were right — a domino falling was caught and supported by its neighbor, rather than knocking that neighbor into the next domino. But we’re not dealing with a fixable bug in a computer’s date programming, we’re dealing with something much deeper and more far-reaching. Fuel shortages have knocked over a bunch of dominoes. Fortunately, there’s still enough resilience in the system to keep things (mostly) upright — most people really didn’t feel a direct pinch until we had to give up almost a fourth of the fuel we used to consume back in Y2K days.

What’s falling, is falling slowly — small comfort to those who froze to death last winter, or died of less direct causes — but it’s up to all of us to make sure those people didn’t die in vain. Go look up that “Coming Together” article that ran on Time’s website last month — unemployed people went around to check on their neighbors, offering to “share the fire,” or brought chunks of a dismantled house to people who couldn’t get firewood for whatever reason. Some lives were saved, probably thousands more than what the media wrote about. Others pooled their grocery money, sent one or two cars to get groceries for the entire neighborhood, and made sure everyone had food. From what I’ve seen and heard, the bonds forged in winter’s cold furnace aren’t being broken now that spring is here — in what’s left of the 'burbs, they’re starting community gardens.

That’s a huge difference nowadays: people are getting to know their neighbors and make sure they’re OK, then work together for something — anything — instead of whining about someone painting their house the wrong color or having too big an antenna on their rooftop. When energy was so plentiful that anyone could drive their own car, nobody needed anyone else and the far-right was able to exploit our selfish streak to their own ends. But now, people know they have to depend on each other to get by… and selfishness has gone out of style. Way out.

One of the major chains down in Atlanta has started a “neighborhood pickup” program — the neighborhood picks an abandoned house and leaves it intact. People pool their grocery lists, and the store delivers to the pickup house. Then everyone walks in, pays the driver, and collects their food. It’s proving to be wildly popular, and the other chains are trying to get in on the action too. (How many people live within walking distance of a supermarket?) A lot of large developments are encouraging dwellers to park their cars near the road and leave the interior streets to bicycle and foot traffic now. You don’t have to convince the kids that it’s a good idea, and the parents are slowly coming along. One of the stories in that Time article talked about some kids who realized a particular geezer wasn’t chasing them off the sidewalk; they told the parents, who ran over to find the guy fighting for his life with the flu. He lived, and the kids were heroes. Doesn’t mean the geezer is any nicer to them, though. :-)

So in the long run, I still have a lot of hope. That doesn’t mean I don’t expect major trouble ahead, or that I’ll get through it personally, but things will be OK in the future for our descendants. Speaking of which, Daughter Dearest wants to “vacation” with us this summer after school’s out. It’ll be nice to see her here again.

continued…

Another fire

This is pretty much all that’s left of the house just down and across from FAR Manor. It seems the old guy was cooking in the kitchen and something got away from him. His grandson came in and got him out, so nobody was hurt. But the house… well, you can see it. There’s not much left even to clean up.

Daughter Dearest said she heard the car (one of which you can see through the trees) blow up.

I’m not sure where the former residents went. They put up a “caretaker” trailer (going behind the zoning board’s back), but the grandfather is in a wheelchair.