The Barge Capsizes

We had a little excitement Tuesday evening. But I'll let Daughter Dearest tell you about it. In her own words, with no editorializing…

Well, I was told to write a guest blog, about the car I probably totaled... So yup. I’m DD. Sometimes I leave sarcastic comments on Father Dearest’s blogs. You might have seen some of them. Anyways, from my point of view, I thank God that I’m alive, as well as the well-being of my passengers in the crashed SUV (also known as ‘the barge’) that were with me.

Well, it’s 12:25 AM, and I’m writing this on my computer so that I can transfer it to Father Dearest’s computer sometime today. I can’t sleep, as I keep seeing the horrifying images of the car crash in my head.

So I suppose I’ll start off by telling it from the beginning. We’ll call passenger 1 “Light Bulb” as he seems to need a couple screwed in. We’ll call passenger 2 ‘FTC’ as that’s the acronym we’ve come up with to describe what girls are like when it comes to him.

Monday, I had to take a trip to the dentist because I thought I had a cavity on one of my molars. Afterwards, Mom and I went to eat breakfast, upon finding out I did NOT have a cavity (yay!) and then we went to pick up Light Bulb to help us work on the dreaded “7th layer of hell” as FTC likes to call it. (Also known as the chicken houses for you slow middle-aged folks ;) just kidding. ) So, after we pick Light Bulb up, we return home to change into more suitable clothes for the chicken houses. Mom had mentioned something about going to the cannery to help Maw-Maw (grandma) can some vegetables and make applesauce.

We drove down to the grandparent’s and Maw-Maw is about to go to the cannery, so Mom tells me to go with Maw-maw, and Light Bulb can help her with the chickens. In between the process of home to grandparents, I set my cell phone on my very cluttered, in-between-cleaning-and-moving bed, so it wasn’t with me the entire day. (I will reference to this later.) So, Maw-Maw and I go to the cannery to get our stuff done. We arrive at our destination at 12:30 PM or so, and The Big Man (one who runs the cannery) isn’t supposed to be there until about 1:00 PM.

Long story short, Light Bulb and Mom show up, and we finally get everything done around 8:00 PM. We all go to eat at our favorite place in the world (we being mine) and I don’t get home until around 9:00 PM. At this point, I figure I have maybe 2 missed calls on my phone that’s on my bed, so I run upstairs to get it.

I had 7 missed calls and 3 voicemails, which was pretty much shocking, as I never have so many calls or voicemails. 6 of the calls were from FTC and 1 was from Father Dearest. The basic messages were as follows:

VM 1: FTC: Hey, I just wanted to know if you wanted to go psssshmming. Call me back.

VM 2: Father Dearest: Hey, where is everybody?

VM 3: FTC: Hey... are you okay? You haven’t answered your phone all day... Please call me when you get this...

Well, I did call him back, and he had said he had been worried that I was in a car accident or something (ironic, no?) and couldn’t get to my phone, or that I was really really busy, which I was. He also said he wanted to know if I wanted to go swimming earlier in the day. This, of course, was sprung off of me chewing him out because he hadn’t called me or sent me an e-mail just to say “hi.” for a week, and I was kind of upset as I was under the impression that best friends usually checked in every couple of days or so, like we had been for the past several months. This is the basic conversation:

“Do you want to go swimming tomorrow?” FTC asked me.

“Um, I’m not sure. I’ll check with Mom to see if it’s okay.” -Me

“Okay. I have to work but maybe we can go afterwards.” -FTC.

“All right, I’ll call you when I know that it’s okay.” -Me.

So Tuesday morning, I asked Mom if we could go swimming, and she said sure.

That afternoon, she gave me $20.00 to put gas in the barge, and that we could take it because my car is in the shop. I found $5.00 in my pocket, and contributed to the gas, which filled it up to about half a tank. It took a while for FTC to call me that afternoon, and I figured he’d be too tired, but ‘lo and behold around 3:30 he called me.

So, Light Bulb and I were off to swim with FTC. We went swimming, and while we were there I had to call mom to see what time we needed to be home. We decided around 6:00, which was perfectly fine with me. I told the boys, they complained, and they took a while to get out of the water and to the car. After that ordeal we had to stop by FTC’s house so he could get some dry clothes. It was 6:00 when we left his house, and I checked my phone as I was waiting for them to get in the car.

Mom left a message saying we needed to meet Father Dearest at the AT&T store, so I told them to hurry up and get in the car. We started off down the dirt road, and everything was fine until we turned onto the second dirt road. I was going about 20-25 miles an hour when we reached the curves in the road, and I hit a bad rut that gets in the curves from the stupidity of the teenagers who drive too fast around them.

Upon hitting this rut, the Pathfinder started to fishtail, off of the said path I wanted it to find, but I controlled it until my foot slipped off of the brake and hit the gas pedal, in which the speed was probably 30 mph at that point and we hit the embankment really, really... REALLY hard. I saw it coming, so I was the one who tensed up really bad, and all I could think was “OH SH**, OH MY GOD HELP US PLEASE* at the same time. I thought maybe after the impact of the bank, we would stop, but it seemed like it lasted forever because it DIDN’T stop. Once we hit the embankment, the car had done a complete 180 and decided to topple over on my side of the car. That was an *OH DOUBLE SH** moment, and then I thought *God I hope everyone will be okay*. But I heard the words “It’s going to be okay,” in my ear as God spoke to me, keeping me from going completely insane. After a few seconds, of finally realizing what had happened, and my eyes adjusting to the sudden dark and disorienting situation, I looked over towards Light Bulb and said “Is everyone okay?”

My heart stopped pounding so hard when I heard both of them say “Yeah..” in the way that we were all in shock and pain. Prior to asking, I had looked up, and the sunroof fell out just as I had done so. My thought was “Oh, that’s nice. Guess that’s how we’ll get out.”

I unbuckled my seat belt, I think.. I don’t remember... but then I crawled out through the sunroof. (Did you know it’s very disorienting sitting in a car that’s turned on it’s side?)

When we all escaped from the Pathfinder, which was now toppled over on the driver’s side I started looking for my phone, because it had been between my legs when I had driven, so I could feel it ring if I need to answer it. I realized my phone was in my hand a few minutes later when I actually looked down at it, and the ghost white knuckles surrounding it. It was then that I started crying, both in relief and despair as thousands of thoughts went through my mind:

“Oh God, Mom’s work car.”

“Oh God, the insurance.”

“Oh God, what if I get a ticket, although I didn’t do anything wrong?”

“Oh God, what if they’re more hurt than they look?”

“Oh God, what’s going to happen?”

I was shaking so hard, I didn’t believe I would be able to hold myself up. It was at this point, that I fell on the ground just out of the edge of the glass all over the dirt road, and just cried. FTC called his mom and told her to come because he knew she would want to anyway since she was only minutes away. I looked at my phone and I was going to call my mom, but FTC pried the phone out of my hand and said I was incapable of calling my mom in relation to the condition I was in, which was correct.

However, he didn’t handle the conversation with my mom like I wanted to handle it:

“Hello? Okay um... Don’t panic, everyone is okay. [DD] rolled the car, but everyone is okay. Umm.. Uh... we’re on... uh.. [Such and such] road. Yeah, not far from my house.”

And then I quit listening, because I knew mom was on her way. I didn’t really know what Light Bulb was doing. I think he was thinking about calling his mom and dad. I didn’t worry about him while I was on the ground, just so he didn’t step in the glass.

FTC’s mom got there just a few minutes after he had called her, and Light Bulb was walking around without his shoes on the gravel in which we told him to be still because he was going to step on some glass or something. It was when I saw FTC’s mom that I realized I couldn’t really see. Everything was blurry. In the crash my glasses had flown off and were in the unknown rubble of the toppled Barge, or so I thought.

I got up from the ground and looked at my hand as a small twinge of pain caught my attention. A small piece of glass had punctured my hand and it was bleeding slightly fluidly. The glass had fallen out and I wiped some of the blood off. FTC saw it and wiped the rest of it off on his shirt, which was sweet. Yes, he may be air-headed, but he’s sweet too. He hugged me after I got up and cried and kept telling me everything would be okay.

I believed him, I just was so shocked, and my chest had started to hurt at that point. Finally, Mom and Maw-Maw came around the next curve and stopped. Mom got out and hugged me and I cried some more. She told me to go sit down in the van, so I did. I was very distraught as the full fledge of reality hit me as I looked at the car while everyone picked up the random farm utensils that were inside and now on the ground and still were inside. FTC found my glasses, which were behind the rear wheel, folded and unbelievably unscathed. YAY! I could see again! Not that that was a good thing...

FTC, Light Bulb, and I were very very lucky we weren’t hit by those things in the back of the barge and that we left with only minor cuts and bruises, which I still seem to find other random ones every day.

There was Barbed wire, nails, hammers, staples, huge tool boxes, hard plastic pipes, screens, and a bunch of other farm-related equipment in the back of her Pathfinder. I believe Mom as she told us today our guardian angels were all over that car. I think mine had to work super hard to keep my arm from being broken, as my window was down and my arm could have gotten caught under it, as well as I could have hit the steering wheel, and everything else (other people) that could have fallen on top of me.

Several people tried to come around the curves, but we stopped them and made them turn around as they stared in awe at the broken glass and toppled car. I think it was more awe as they found that everyone was okay. It looked pretty bad.

Mom had called Father Dearest and told him to just come on home, that something had come up and we couldn’t make it. After she saw me, and that I was okay, she called him back and told him to come to [SAS (so-and-so)] road. Mom said Father Dearest had said “Is she hurt?” so he had jumped to the right conclusion.

While this was going on, Light Bulb got in touch with his mother and father, and said that he was all right, but his dad was on his way to the accident scene anyway. When he got there, I honestly thought he would have yelled at me or something, but he was okay once he found out everyone was okay, and he kept checking on me to make sure I could breathe deep because my chest was bothering me.

Finally, the policeman got there. He was very nice, and didn’t treat me disrespectfully like some cops do treat teenagers. He asked FTC and I what happened but not Light Bulb. I supposed that was because Light Bulb seemed rather disoriented still. Our stories were the same, so there wasn’t any further investigation. Within the time that the police got there and had gotten our statements, Mom had called a towing truck.

The policeman went around to the back of his car and pulled out a black box, in which my heart almost stopped, as I thought I might be in huge trouble and be handcuffed (I thought they might be in the box), but he pulled out a camera to take pictures. As it turned out, the road wasn’t graded properly, which also contributed to my monstrous crash.

While the policeman was taking pictures, I asked Father Dearest if this crashed topped “The Boy”’s other ... six?

“Well, The Boy has always managed to keep all four feet on the ground, so this one is by far the most spectacular.”

I smiled, and finally got the nerves away enough to laugh at something someone had said while we were waiting for the tow-truck to get there. Afterwards I thought about looking for my iPod, and mentioned it to Father Dearest as most things had fallen out of my purse and on top of me. We (FTC, Light Bulb, and I) were going to take a picture in front of the car, which would have shown you the underside of the beast with us in front of it, but mom disagreed to it, saying “This is not something to be proud of.” I looked around at the other people’s faces and saw them trying not to laugh at the situation. I, on the other hand, thought it was very acceptable to be proud of having survived hell.

When the tow-truck got there, we waited to watch the car be turned over before we went home. The guy hooked up the cable to the car and started to turn it over, but it started to slide. I had forgot to mention that, the car was still running when we each emerged from it, and I had to turn it off. I didn’t put the emergency brake on, or put it in park as it was the absolutely LAST thing on my mind that was reasonable enough to do, besides turn off the car. So Mom suggested that we put the E-brake on. The tow-guy said that was a good idea, and after a few cracks and pops and a little persuasion, the car was on all four feets again. (Yes, I said feets, deal with it.)

By this point, I was exhausted, as the adrenaline was starting to drain, and the pain in my body became more apparent. Maw-Maw took me home while Mom and Father Dearest took the car to the repair man. It was amazing, I thought, that of all the things that DIDN’T fall out of my purse, were my keys. I thought maybe they had also been lost in the rubble of the vehicle.

Before Maw-Maw took me home, she asked me if I wanted to drive.

“Are you kidding me?” I really thought she was.

“No, the best thing you can do is get back behind the wheel so you aren’t too scared to drive again.” What she said made sense, but I’m pretty sure I’ll be able to get behind MY car wheel and have no problem. SUV’s however... well... That’s a different story.

When I got home, I don’t remember putting the keys in my jeans pocket. I waited for everyone else to get there, and after the boys (FTC and Light Bulb) got there, I went upstairs to vacuum, which I was in the process of getting ready for when FTC called to go swimming. I didn’t want to be still, and I knew I’d just be sore the next day, so why not do it now when I wasn’t terribly sore? I knew my chest hurt, but it hurt a lot worse on Wednesday.

Now, I’m hoping I’m tired enough to get some sleep. Maybe the images won’t be so bad, and I won’t start shaking like I did before I came downstairs to get my mind off of the accident. I’m also completely sore, and I have a huge bruise on my chest from the seat belt. I would rather have gained a bruise than lost a life though.

I can say it was an experience that changed slightly how I look about life. I already know that life is precious, and I wouldn’t stand a chance if God wasn’t here watching over me and the two passengers that were in the barge with me. Oh, by the way, it’s 2:28 AM. So, hope you enjoyed! It was quite the adventure for me, and everyone else.

FAR Future, Episode 47: Young Love in the Time of the Junta

Katiebird suggested a romance long ago, and I said it would happen eventually.

Saturday, July 18, 2015
Young Love in the Time of the Junta

Hm. That would have been a good name for a movie or something. Directed by nobody, and I once again end up a spectator.

For the summer, we’ve moved our bed to the screened-in porch, and the kids to screen tents (boys in front, girls in back). Guillermo and Maria remain in what used to be the guest bedroom — they say they don’t mind the heat, and they leave their window open so they can hear (and shush) the boys. We do the same for the girls, of course.

So last night, I woke up from a nightmare about a guard dog at some kind of camp (seems like most of my nightmares involve a dog attacking me). I don’t get back to sleep right away from one of those, so I figured I could grab a beer and sit out in the driveway with a dog that would only lick me to death. I was trying to be quiet, because I didn’t want to wake Mrs. Fetched or spook the kids outside (or the dog, who would wake everyone up with the racket he’d make), so I used the flashlight to see where I was going. But when I got in the garage, I saw another light through the open door, so I turned off my flashlight and stayed quiet.

It was a new moon night, so it was dark otherwise. But I could see Kim sitting on the edge of the driveway, shining his flashlight down toward the girls’ tent. It wasn’t long before Christina walked up, following his lighted path, and plopped down beside him. Kim turned the flashlight off, and it was dark and quiet again. They talked quietly in their own Spanglish argot, which I’ve learned mostly in self-defense. Translated:

“I can barely see,” Christina said softly.

“If you can see at all, you’re doing better than me,” Kim replied. “I can barely see you and you’re right here next to me.”

“That’s OK. We don’t need to see, and besides, nobody can see us.”

“Makes it hard to see anything to draw.”

Christina laughed, Kim snorted, and they were quiet for a few minutes. Finally, Christina said, “Hey. Did you ask Farf-Dad about getting a scaffold?”

“Not yet. We won’t be doing much inside until it cools off anyway, September or maybe October. We have plenty of time.”

“It’ll be so cool. Don’t you think?”

“Yeah. I think they’ll like it.”

“Maybe we’ll be famous artists some day, and it’ll make the house worth a lot of money to have our painting in the stairwell.”

“Maybe.”

They were quiet again for a while. I recognized it: people who are completely comfortable with each other might take long pauses in their conversations, but (and it’s heresy for a writer to admit) words aren’t everything. Finally, Christina took a deep breath. “Kim?”

“What?”

“You wanna kiss me?” She said it fast, probably nervous.

He laughed. “Sure.” Smack — he landed one on her temple or maybe her forehead.

Christina huffed, and was quiet for a moment.

“What?” Kim asked.

“That wasn’t what I meant.”

“Um… what did you mean then?”

“I meant like this.” It got quiet again, except for the breathing. Given the time it went on, she had put a serious lip-lock on Kim, and he wasn’t exactly struggling to get loose.

They finally broke it, and Kim’s voice was muffled — maybe he’d buried his face in her shoulder. “We shouldn’t do that. You’re still eleven.”

“So what? I wanted to kiss you when I was ten. And I’ll be twelve in December — is it that big of a difference?”

“It probably is to our parents.”

“I don’t care. I’m smart for my age; they tell me that all the time. That should count for something.”

“Yeah, but still.”

“You’re not going to do anything I won’t let you do.”

“I know… but that’s what scares me.”

“I love you, Kim. You’re… I trust you.”

He sighed. “I love you too. I wish I knew why, though. I thought we’d be like partners, working on our drawings and stuff.”

“We can still do that, you know.”

“Yeah, but… I don’t know. I guess it’s going to be different now.”

“It’ll be better.”

“I hope so. We need to get back to our tents, though. It’s late.”

“OK. After you kiss me one more time.”

“Christina—”

“It’ll be OK. One more time, then I won’t ask you again until after my birthday. I promise.”

“Well… all right.” Again, the quiet breathing, and even longer than the first time. I was starting to consider making some noise, when they finally broke it off. Kim turned on his flashlight again, and pointed the way for Christina to get back to her tent, before standing and walking back to his. I went back inside and got the rum… nightmares got nothin’ on reality (or potential reality) at FAR Manor.

I guess it’s time to have The Talk with all the kids, one at a time.

continued…

WTF of the Week

Okay… I’ve known that Planet Georgia is full of moonbats, and they’ve been running the place since 1984 or so.

But finding a dead Bigfoot here? That goes above and beyond the call of the weird.

Albums and Insanity

I mentioned The Boy coming to church Sunday, but neglected to mention that he had a stack of his band’s demo CD to give to me and a few of his friends. I had to take the car to work yesterday, since it looked like rain and I wanted to bring the work laptop home so I work at home today, and that gave me a chance to listen to the CD.

Like many albums, there are actually one or two decent tracks on there. One was “Hair Piece,” about a guy who’s losing his hair and getting flak from his SO over it. Another was “Cell Hate,” which is a lot shorter than it needs to be… there’s so much to hate about cellphones that it should have been easy to fill up an entire CD with one track.

Which brings us to last night: Daughter Dearest was meeting someone at MalWart who’d borrowed one of my monitors to get it back. Someone else asked her if she could get them some food. She would have, but left her debit card at home (always a good strategy when going to MalWart)… the woman said she’d wait, and DD called us (while the rest of us were picking in the big garden). Mrs. Fetched smelled a rat and decided to come along. We met in town; I took DD’s car home because my monitor was sitting in the front seat and the girlies went back to MalWart. The woman was gone, but they saw a Suzuki Reno for sale and Mrs. Fetched decided DD needed a new vehicle (her Civic is leaking oil again). She called me at home to tell me all about it.

“What do you think?” she asked, as if my input means anything.

I sighed. “Well… if you can figure out how to get that, pay for DD’s college, keep the mortgage up, and all the other bills we have, let me know. Or we can just chase the renters out of the trailer, move back in there, and let them foreclose on this place.”

She laughed. I’m not sure what she found funny about that… with the kids out of the house, I wouldn’t shed a tear over losing this heap.

The only good that came of it was when we were eating lunch in town today, and she started nagging me about looking up the gas mileage on a Reno (nowhere near as good as a Civic, but reason and logic are unwelcome when they clash with the decision already reached). I pulled out my iPod touch, and lo! there was a signal! The county is actually doing something useful with some of our tax money and has wifi available around town “for occasional use by residents and guests of the county,” as the entry page put it. There was some mumbling in the ToS about responsibility, which I took to mean they wouldn’t appreciate people downloading pr0n or warez (or large system updates). Since I was only interested in hitting fueleconomy.gov, checking the weather, and a little Twitter’ing, I was OK.

So that’s the third open wifi I’ve run across out here. Maybe when we go bankrupt, I’ll just do all my net access in town.

Phony to the Gills

Gosh. Who could have ever suspected that China would ever stoop so low? Talk about insecure.

First, China Brings Bullshots to the Olympics exposes the “fireworks display” in which the footprints march from Tiananmen Square (after stomping dissidents flat, no doubt) to the stadium as computer-generated. (A “bullshot,” the article explains, usually refers to a screenshot from a game that's been Photoshopped to make it look more impressive. It works quite well for video, too.) If China makes anything better than the rest of the world, it's fireworks… so they must have (correctly) assumed they wouldn’t get Beijing’s toxic hot-sour soup air cleaned up in time.

Now, we learn that the little girl who sang at the opening ceremonies was lip-syncing. The girl with the real golden voice was not considered pretty enough by the organizers… so they set up this sham.

Beijing hasn’t just lost face, they’ve lost their entire head and half their neck. This stuff is childish… it reminds me of a 12-year-old girl stuffing her shirt and telling older guys she’s 18. C’mon, China, if you think you’re all growed up at least act like it.

FAR Future, Episode 46: Reporting In

Monday, May 11, 2015
Reporting In

Giving this new blog-by-email thing a shot. It’s supposed to be more reliable, being store-and-forward, but we’ll see. It makes sense, being an offshoot of the “mobile blogging” feature that (given the junta’s interference with the cell network) is even less reliable than interactive Net hookups these days.

So I was right — they do have a file on me. I got the info straight from the horse’s ass mouth. Hm… probably not a nice thing to say: whoever it was that tipped us off must be pretty close to the local tentacles of the junta. But I’m getting ahead of myself. Rene gets to go first this time, since he has his ducks in a row:

Holá, y'all. We had a bad scare a month ago. The government wanted us for some reason, and I can't get anyone to tell me what for. We haven't done anything wrong. If they just want to send us back to Mexico, they could have done that before I guess. But all the grownups think there's something else going on, but they don't know what or won’t say.

So Dad and Farf-Dad had built a hiding place for us a while ago. I guess they knew we'd need it. Someone told us the patriot people were coming, so we got all our stuff and put it in there, and got in and and closed it up. We had mattresses on the floor and blankets and stuff on the wall so we wouldn't make noise if we moved. We had water and a little food, because they didn't know how long we'd have to be in there. I'm glad it was only two hours. Using the bathroom in the bucket would have been stinky!

We heard them in the closet, trying to get to the attic, and Christina got really scared. I think Mom and Dad were worried too, but I saw the way they covered the hiding place and I didn't think they would figure it out. Then the patriot people got all excited about something, and then Farf-Dad said something funny about a Mexican squirrel. After that, they came back to the closet and left. Farf-Dad made us wait a little bit, he said because he wasn't sure they wouldn't turn around and come back after a few minutes. But we got out and we were happy.

Then Christina did her crazy thing with Kim. I think it scared Kim, and Mama and Papa got upset about it too. Mama asked me to keep an eye on her when she's around Kim, but they don't do anything weird. The only thing they do is sit on the steps at night and talk real quiet. I think they want to paint the tall wall in the stairwell, and they're trying to figure out what to paint. But I guess she wants to be Kim's girlfriend too, and that's what got the grownups upset. Kim's 13 now, his birthday was last week, and Christina's 11. I asked Kim what he thinks, and he said Christina's like his partner. He likes her a lot, but he's afraid the grownups will get all crazy about stuff and not let them draw together, and he doesn't know what to do.

Serena and I talked about it a little too. She thinks it's romantic, and wants to write a story about it. But she's too busy with her play. I wrote a scary story but it needs a lot of work. But we don't know if we're going to be "romantic" later or not. We don't write together the way Kim and Christina draw together. They do lots of that, and maybe that's why they're how they are. Farf-Mom says we can meet other people our age, and we're not limited to the people in our own house. But if Christina or I go out, the patriot people might get us, so maybe we won't get to meet anyone else. I guess it wouldn't be bad to marry Serena, even if we're not in love, but it would be good if we could meet more people.

I guess I need to talk to Kim and Christina about a few things, or maybe all of them. I did ask Rene if he meant to spill the beans to us (as in, “the grownups”) with his report here. “You guys know about it anyway,” he said.

“Not the part about talking on the steps at night.”

“Yeah, but they don’t do anything. They just talk.”

“As far as you know, that’s all they do.”

“I peeked at them a couple times. They just sit and talk is all. Maybe they hold hands, I don’t know.”

“Do you ever sit up at night and talk with Serena?”

“Um… well, yeah, but we just talk too.”

“So when do any of you get any sleep? Seems like all of you are up wandering around at night… and I hear you sometimes.”

“Sometimes we just aren’t sleepy.” Hm. Seems like I’ve heard that one before. Oh yeah. I have: from my own kids, way back when.

I was in town Saturday for groceries, and came back to find an envelope taped to my handlebars. It was sealed up, so I put it in my jacket and waited until I got home to open it. Inside was a copy of a report on our “case” with the Pat-riots last month — it had a reference number to my file and a bunch of other info. When the 'Riots do one of their “investigations” (as they call it), the local office debriefs them and writes a report. They mentioned an informant (whose reliability score was downgraded, awwww) and they ran the number on Guillermo’s truck… turned out MARTA impounded it and towed it off a few weeks after we abandoned it at the North Springs station. Since they never applied for the travel permit, the Riots assume that Guillermo and his family left it there, took the train into Atlanta, and went to the underground (an interesting thought, Underground Atlanta isn’t a retail district anymore). They concluded that they shouldn’t bother me anymore because I don’t make trouble and try to help people. Hooray!

Of course, that doesn’t mean they’ll destroy my file. I guess I should consider it a badge of honor.

continued…

A Visit to The Boy

The Boy came to church today, and heard me do the sermon (White Knuckle Sunday on Planet Georgia!). He wanted me to have a look at his friend’s laptop, which has a problem with its power connector. I’m not sure I can do anything useful with it, given the shape it’s in, but if we can get a small Phillips screwdriver on it I’ll give it a shot.

This sign greeted me as I entered the kitchen, which is just to the right of the front door. I found it extremely entertaining. Snippet’s calligraphy is better than her spelling. There was a similar sign on the refrigerator, suggesting a minimum $5 “donation” for people eating their food. Hm… amazing what you learn when you have to pay for stuff yourself.


Speaking of food, it looks like Mrs. Fetched’s mom planted yet another garden right next to the trailer. Not much weeding has been done in there, but there were plenty of ripe tomatoes and some snow peas (woohoo!) and green beans, with corn and okra on the way. I tried to put across to The Boy and Snippet how much money they could save by growing some of their own food, and how much healthier it is. I think the saving money part appeals to them, at least.

I’m not sure you can see it here, but one of the green bean vines was happily climbing a utility pole guy wire.

Awwww

M.A.E. came by today to visit for a while, and brought her baby along. She's a real cutie (the baby, and I'm sure M.A.E.’s boyfriend thinks that of them both), ain’t she?

Da girlie is already figuring out that being cute can get her out of a car seat.

The Odd Saga of the Missing Glasses

Getting myself together this morning for the ride to work, my glasses came up missing. Mrs. Fetched was off early to a video shoot, so she couldn’t help me find them. I looked all around the bed and dresser, using a flashlight in the dark corners, and came up completely empty. Needing something, I finally grabbed an older pair of glasses I had laying around — the prescription has changed, but they were good enough to see the road — and got moving. Daughter Dearest, always supportive, said they made me look like a dork. She’s such a sweet thang.

Close to lunch time, a thought occurred to me and I called home to ask Daughter Dearest to check the laundry basket. I remembered picking up a handful of dirty clothes in front of the dresser this morning, and putting the glasses on the dresser in the dark the previous night, so I thought I might have scooped up the glasses with the laundry and dumped them in the basket. DD said she needed a nap, but would check the laundry before I got home. I spent the afternoon using the old glasses as little as possible, hoping to keep from straining my eyes too much.

At last, I headed on home… to learn that my glasses had been sitting on the bed. On Mrs. Fetched’s pillow. I have no recollection of picking them up and putting them there this morning, but that had to be what I did. I looked all around the bed, but never thought to look on the bed.

It’s definitely August.

Food, Coming and Going

If you’ve ever done (food) gardening that consisted of more than a couple of 4x8-foot beds, which I’ve done a couple of times, you’ve learned that Harvest Time isn’t a single week in October. My mother-in-law is a serious gardener, which means a couple acres at a minimum — and she plants not only a lot of different veggies, but several varieties of each so there’s a steady stream of fresh food from July on into October. Or whenever the first frost hits, which on Planet Georgia can occasionally wait until November. So yesterday, we were picking in the tomatoes — if I have it right, there’s no less than six varieties of tomatoes: beefsteak (and she says, “Don’t plant a tomato whose name starts with B”) and one I forgot, which were what we mostly got last night; Romas (my favorite for dehydrating) which are just now starting to ripen; yellow pear (ditto, and they can sit on the counter for a month at a time without getting soft); Rutgers, and Tommy Toe (both of which are still green).

So we took a collection of buckets with us, and filled six of them before it got too dark to tell the ripe ones from the not-so-ripe ones. She spent a large part of today at the county cannery, putting up those and other harvested food — it’s only in the last year or so that I’ve really begun to appreciate the magnitude of what she does. We spend maybe $200/month on groceries, and that was typical when The Boy and Daughter Dearest lived with us, and griped about $400 food bills when we had Lobster and M.A.E. living here a couple years back. That turns out to be a rather paltry food bill — I’ve been reading articles lately about how a family of four ends up dumping $1600 at the grocery store (what are they doing, buying complete prepared meals?). Then there was yesterday: “I put up 60 quarts of veg-all,” she told me as we brought the tomato buckets back to the house. “Big V helped some.” I wouldn’t quite say we have complete food sovereignty here; but if the entire food distribution system went down tomorrow, we wouldn’t starve for a while.

We went up to North Carolina over the weekend to visit my mom — she was glad to be at the summer place, after “six weeks of living out of suitcases” in Michigan and Wisconsin. Daughter Dearest came along, which was a pleasant surprise for Mom, and we vegged out for the most part. But while we were there, M.A.E. called Mrs. Fetched (a relief… I was afraid something was amiss with The Boy again and we would have to leave early) with the latest. She and her SO are sharing a house with her sister and her sister’s husband; both of them have kids (the sister’s is 9 months old, M.A.E.’s is 3 months old and a cutie). But the sister-couple both quit their jobs shortly after they moved into the place, the summer electric bill is running around $200, and they needed a little food relief so they could deal with the rent and electricity. Way-ell, like I said, we can help with the food situation: we loaded up a case with 12 jars, some miscellaneous stuff kicking around in our pantry, and ran it over to her place last night. That should keep them going for a little while.

I don’t know if M.A.E. has developed any cooking skills or not, but this is pretty simple: put a jar in a pot, put it on the stove, let it get hot. One meat, one veggie, and we left them a loaf of bread too. We shall see, I guess.

FAR Future, Episode 45: High-Stakes Hide & Seek (part 2)

I’m not a big fan of cliffhangers, but I suppose there’s times when you have to do stuff you don’t like. (In my case, that’s at least every other day.)

Sunday, April 5, 2015
High-Stakes Hide & Seek (part 2)

Synopsis: Having been warned about a Pat-Riot group wanting to round up Guillermo’s family, we decided to make it as difficult as possible for them. They weren’t ready for my claim that their quarry had left back in October. One of the 'Riots let slip a clue about an informant.

After some back-and-forth, and Kim barely managing to keep our dog from attacking them, I agreed to show them my own proof of citizenship then escort them through the manor…

I came back out with my birth certificate, driver’s license, and a video camera.

“Hey!” Bad Riot barked, which got the dog barking as well. “You can put that fuckin’ thing away. You ain’t takin’ no video.” Good Riot didn’t look pleased, either.

“Why?” I said to Bad Riot. “If you ain’t got nothin’ to hide, you shouldn’t have a problem with it. Right?”

They squirmed. I love hanging belligerent idiots on their own words. “Dammit, Bobby,” Good Riot finally said, “let him take his video. It ain’t gonna do him any good.”

“Well, let’s get going, then,” I said. And just to tweak them a little more: “Bienvenidos a mi casa.” Good Riot snorted and returned my birth certificate, and we went in the house. I led them to the guest bedroom, with Mrs. Fetched right behind. “Here’s where they slept.”

I pointed the camera and they poked around, pulling boxes out from under the bed and asking “whose are these?” about a zillion times. The closet was full of Mrs. Fetched’s old clothes, stuff she never wears anymore. The desk sported an old Mac and the network boxes, with backup batteries underneath.

“Did they use this computer?” Good Riot asked.

“Yeah, it’s the guest system,” I said. “I wiped their accounts after they left, though.”

“Why’d you do that?” Bad Riot rolled his eyes.

“It’s an old computer. I needed the hard drive space.”

“What’s that room at the end of the hall?”

“My bedroom.”

“I don’t want you in there,” Mrs. Fetched said. “I haven’t cleaned it up.”

“We just need to check the closets,” Good Riot said. “And maybe look under the bed.”

“Fine. Do whatever you need to so you can get the hell out of my house!” she snapped and stomped away.

They went in the bedroom and looked around. “This ain’t so bad,” Good Riot assured me, “you oughtta see my bedroom.” He chuckled and looked under the bed, pulling out a box to make sure there wasn’t anyone behind it.

“Jeez,” Bad Riot said, coming back in the bedroom door, “the bathroom goes around to the hall. Why didn’t you tell us?”

“Sorry,” I said. “I didn’t think about it. Anyway, the kids’ rooms are upstairs. Do you want to check those too?”

“We got to,” Bad Riot said, beginning to drop his belligerent attitude. “Let’s get it done.” He sighed, as if he was resigning himself to bagging no Latinos on this outing.

They checked out The Boy’s old room, which was now Kim’s and Rene’s. “Lots of books up here,” Good Riot said. “Your kids read a lot?”

“It was my library before Kim and Serena came around,” I said. “You heard about that, right? People were dropping off their kids last winter? They’re some of those.”

“That was bad,” Good Riot said. “Least we got a government that protects those kids now.”

I said nothing… maybe that was payback for the Spanish welcome downstairs. We moved to the girls’ room, and they finally found something to pique their interest.

“Hey,” said Bad Riot, trying to dig his way through the closet. “Where does that hatch go?”

“Behind the bedrooms to the attic above the garage.”

“C’mon, Mike. We gotta check this out.” Bad Riot started tossing stuff aside until I cleared my throat and pointed at the camera, then he got a bit more careful, muttering under his breath. Mike, aka Good Riot, crowded in and they finally managed to clear a path through Daughter Dearest’s old toys and treasures. They opened the hatch and Bad Riot looked in. “Damn, it’s dark.”

“Light switch inside to your right,” I suggested.

“Um…” click “Yeah. Thanks.” He crawled in.

“Hey! Be careful. You’ll put a foot through the ceilings downstairs if you get off the wood!” I yelled.

“OK!” Bad Riot crawled in, followed by Good Riot. I figured I’d better follow, to minimize damage if nothing else. Good Riot had a wind-up flashlight, and he put it to use as we got past the light.

I heard a thumping noise in front of me, and Bad Riot yelped. “Mike! Gimme the flashlight! Someone’s up here!” Bad Riot reached back, grabbed the light, and scuttled forward. I heard a rasping noise and more thumping, and we joined Bad Riot in the attic. He played his flashlight around, and swooped back as a pair of lights winked back. A squirrel thrashed its tail and chattered at the light, then leaped for a corner.

“You found him, guys!” I laughed. “If you can get that Mexican squirrel outta my attic and deport him, I’d owe you one!”

Both of the Riots just shook their heads. “C’mon, Bobby,” Good Riot said. “They’re gone, just like he said.”

We made our way back to the hatch, then back outside. I helped them get the Dummer turned around, and they drove off. I waited for the engine noise to fade, then pulled out my phone. Meeting in 10 minutes, I texted.

Ten minutes passed — I wanted to make sure the 'Riots weren’t going to pull a head-fake — then I went back to the girls’ room, opened the hatch in the closet, and rapped on the false wall covering the hidey-hole. Guillermo pulled the pins holding the false wall in place, and they came out. Group hug! then downstairs. (“Mexican squirrel?” Rene gave me a look. “That was baaaad.”)

“You heard that?” I said. We all laughed.

We came downstairs, and Christina ran to Kim and hugged him hard, whispering something I couldn’t hear. Kim gave her an awkward hug and me a deer-in-the-headlights look.

Guillermo cocked his head at the two, then looked at me. I just shrugged and suggested, “Just relieved, I guess.” But Christina wouldn’t unwrap until her dad cleared his throat, then she let him go and sulked away while Kim just stared. Maria gathered her up and took her back upstairs to bring their things back out (and perhaps a few words of motherly advice on the side).

Meanwhile, Rene trotted over to Serena. “You’ve got to put this in your play,” he said. “A magic squirrel who can hide people.”

“Sounds nutty to me,” she retorted, and they laughed.

We’ll need to be careful for a while. I’d hate to have Guillermo’s family more or less prisoner here, but I guess it’s a better place than where the 'Riots would send them.

continued…

New Toys in the Manor

As part of Daughter Dearest’s preparations for college, she decided she needed a new laptop. The used G4 PowerBook we got her a while back is getting creaky, and (as G4s do) runs a bit hot. Fortunately, she had been saving her money for a while and realized she had enough for a new MacBook… especially since the stars aligned and she could get a $100 student discount, and Planet Georgia is in its “tax-free weekend” phase where they waive sales tax on school supplies (including computers). Apple is also running a rebate program in which they’ll rebate the entire price of an iPod nano or touch if you buy one with a computer. She is happy with the nano she got for Christmas, and I’m happy with the 5G iPod I bought a couple years ago, but I have no problem getting a Touch if I only have to temporarily pay for it.

So DD is migrating her files over to the new computer, and I’ve been fiddling with the Touch’s wifi capabilities. She’s going to pass the PowerBook to The Boy, who has been wanting a laptop “for school” and has borrowed both the PowerBook and my own MacBook on occasion.

FAR Future, Episode 44: High-Stakes Hide & Seek (part 1)

I knew a long time ago that I would be writing this episode. I just didn’t realize how long it would run.

Sunday, April 5, 2015
High-Stakes Hide & Seek (part 1)

I’m sure the junta has a file on me as a “member of the opposition.” But I’m more interested in helping people on an individual level than tearing things down at the governmental level — so local officials (I presume) give me a little leeway. Pat-Riots don’t make fine distinctions… but even while they don’t put many people between “us” and “the enemy,” the category of “people who don’t share my views but helped out my kin” lands pretty close to “us.”

Being a Pat-Riot, I have to say, has its hazards, especially outside the South. Here, there’s a long tradition of vigilante groups getting up in other people’s business, but that doesn’t make them universally loved. Sammy has told funny stories about 'Riots falling off ladders or even getting frozen to ladders, as they try to peek into “suspects’” second-story windows. Needless to say, the spied-upon can be rather slow to call 911 when they find a 'Riot injured in the bushes or stuck 10 feet off the ground… if they even go outside to check on what the commotion is all about. Even those who otherwise support the junta and their agenda often (privately) think the Patriot Clubs are an exercise in overreaching.

So when a Pat-Troll came to round up Guillermo’s family yesterday, several people let us know in advance and we were ready.

Our first stall tactic was to hang the steel cable across the driveway. The Riots skidded in the gravel, blared their horn for a few seconds, then one of them got out and unhooked it. Up the driveway they came, slinging gravel… in an old green H2 with a flashing red light bar. They had magnetic signs reading “OFFICIAL BUSINESS” slapped on the sides. Going for impressive, managing only pathetic.

They stopped at the front door and climbed out, leaving the light bar going and carrying crowbars. I pointed and laughed at their vehicle. “What junkyard did you find that piece of crap in?” I asked. “I hope you pushed it here. I’d hate for y’all to waste my tax money gassing it up!”

“Look you—” the smaller one snarled, raising his crowbar. He got one step before his partner put a hand on his shoulder.

“Not now,” he murmured; maybe he meant for me to hear it. He looked at me and said, “We are here on suspicion that you are harboring a gang of Mexicans, in violation of the Latino Repatriation Act of 2014.”

“Yeah,” the other one chimed in. “We’re authorized to search this house and detain anyone who can’t show proof of citizenship. I guess we can start with you.”

“You don’t have to search this place,” I said, twisting my hand and waving. They just looked at me… too young to be Star Wars fans, I guess. “There’s me, and I’ll bring out my birth certificate in a minute. My wife was born here in the county, and Kim and Serena were assigned to us as wards last winter. Und I vill get zee paiperzz for us shortly.”

“We’re gonna search, all right,” the little one said, slapping a palm with his crowbar. “And we’re gonna have a real close look at your proof of citizenship. Disrespect us and see what happens.”

“I don’t know if I’ll let you in my house or not,” I said. “Who ‘authorized’ this search? Do you have proof of your authorization, maybe a warrant or something?”

The little Riot got his response cut off by his partner. “Look,” he said. “I can understand you want to protect them — they’re your slaves, or servants, whatever. But the law’s the law, and we’re deputized to investigate violations of the law.

“And you’re right — we don’t have to search. Just bring ’em out and we’ll take them off, and we’ll forget the harboring charges.”

I’m still not sure if they were deliberately doing a good cop-bad cop routine or not. The little guy didn’t look like he had the brains to put on an act, anyway. “So who are these people I’m supposed to be harboring?”

Good Riot sent Bad Riot to the Dummer, and he returned with a clipboard. “Guillermo Cardenas, approximate age 34, male. Maria Cardenas, approximate age 32, female. Rene—” he pronounced it Reen “—Cardenas, age 12, male. And Christina Cardenas, age 10, female.”

“Oh, no wonder I was confused,” I said. “You mentioned a gang. They’re a family. Yup,” I nodded. “They were here. But they cleared out last fall… um, in October, I think.”

“What?” Bad Riot nearly dropped his crowbar. “What kind of horseshit is that?”

“Guillermo said he didn’t want to cause any trouble,” I said. “Said they were going to Atlanta to get an exit permit, or whatever they call those things. It was supposed to let them travel to the nearest border point… I guess in Texas somewhere.”

Bad Riot shook his head, and Good Riot started at the clipboard. “Well…” Good Riot stammered, “um… our infor— our information must be a little out of date. In that case, we could just look around and verify they’re gone?”

“Yeah,” Bad Riot said, getting back on familiar territory. “If you ain’t got nothin’ to hide, you shouldn’t have a problem—”

At that moment, Mrs. Fetched came around the side of the house with Kim, Serena, and the new herd dog (Butthead went to the Great Porch in the Sky a couple months ago). The dog took one look at the 'Riots and went into attack mode, and Kim barely caught his collar. The dog barked and thrashed, trying to get at the 'Riots, and the way Mrs. Fetched held her hoe suggested that she wouldn’t mind weeding out a couple of 'Riots herself. Serena put down her bucket and took a “ready” stance that I recognized from long-ago karate lessons. Kim looked at me and then at the dog.

I shook my head at them. “Ah,” I said to the 'Riots. “Here’s my wife and the kids I mentioned earlier. Are they white enough for you?”

Good Riot sighed, keeping an eye on the dog. “That’s not what we’re about,” he lied. “But this is already taking too long. We’ll waive proof of citizenship for y’all, if you’ll let us search the house now.”

“Well… you’ve already requested my papers, and I agreed to get them. After all, I’m a little more tan than the rest of my family, and your informant might have mistaken me for a Latino. After you check it, if you leave the crowbars in the shitmobile there, you can have a look around. I don’t want any ‘accidental’ holes in my walls.”

Good Riot cut off Bad Riot’s protest. “Fine. Get your certificate.”

“Will do. Let me tell them what’s up though. It’ll only take another second.” I trotted over to the corner. “Go over there and keep them entertained for a minute,” I told Mrs. Fetched, jerking a thumb at the 'Riots as they tossed their crowbars into the truck. “Kim, Serena, you kids stay back here. But if they try any funny business…”

“Cry ‘havoc’ and loose the dog of war?” Serena chuckled. She looked at the dog, no longer trying to get loose but still growling at the 'Riots.

“Yeah.” I trotted back to the front door. “Back in a minute,” I said as Mrs. Fetched ambled over.

continued…

Eating Local

What with the media hype about E.coli and salmonella in produce these days, the idea of a 100-mile diet seems like a smart idea. But yesterday, we managed to go a couple orders of magnitude better than that.

After a quick Saturday morning fence repair, Mrs. Fetched’s mom handed me a plastic bowl. “Can you grill this catfish?” she asked. “[someone] caught it out of the pond down below the house. I don’t want to heat up the kitchen but it needs cookin’.”

I thought for a moment. “I can give it a try,” I said. “I'll wrap it in foil with some onion and peppers.” She handed me a big bell pepper from the garden, and I took them home and added some basil and oregano from the front yard. If I had to do it over again, I would have used more foil and sealed it properly, but I had two pairs of tongs and didn’t lose anything. The body cavities were a little smaller than I expected, so I ended up putting stuff around the fish more than in it.

Side dishes were fresh corn and fried squash, both from the garden. In fact, the onion was the only ingredient that didn’t come from the farm. Next year, we might get the onions from the garden too.

Late-season Lilies

We’re all tired of looking at the chicken houses this week. Fortunately, they were renditioned last night, and they should all be Good Chickens by now… in your local grocery or on the way. No more looking at broken breakers, no more piles of feed caused by a malfunctioning system, no more die-offs in power failures.

For a couple of weeks, at least.

Something a little more pleasant to look at showed up earlier in the week — some lilies decided to hold out for a month and gave us their own version of the Late Show. You know, that allium never did really bloom out — it’s making little seeds already. Maybe it was a short show and I missed it.

FAR Future is set for the next two Mondays — the upcoming episode ran huge, so I split it up. That gives me a little cushion, and I don’t intend to waste it.

FAR Future, Episode 43: Wallyworld Rising

Life has a tendency to get in the way of important stuff, like writing. I expect to be back on the normal Monday schedule next week.

Friday, February 13, 2015
Wallyworld Rising

Poor Rene. I told him he was welcome to write up something for this month, and I’d either write around it or just give the whole post over to him, depending on how much he had to say. He got about a paragraph written up and met Mr. Writer’s Block. He was nearly in tears about it, even after I told him that it happens to everyone no matter how long they’ve been writing. After he calmed down a bit, he wrote a little more and told me to just use it if I wanted… but of course! Here he is, folks:

Holá, y'all! (that's how we say hello at the manor, at least us kids do.) Farf-Dad said I could say whatever I wanted, but I couldn't think of anything. So I guess I'll talk about our nights. Farf-Dad helped with the spelling some.

In the winter, we sleep downstairs in the living room by the woodstove. We put down two mattresses, one for me and Kim and one for the girls. The Mom's say stuff about us being in the same room with the girls but I don't know why. We lay down so our heads are all together, so we can talk if we're real quiet. Sometimes Kim or Christina will say something funny, and we have to put our faces in the pillows to laugh so the grownups don't come out and tell us to hush. We've got a wind-up flashlight if we need to see to go to the bathroom, and Serena's really good at making shadows on the ceiling. We have to put it under all the pillows to wind it up though or the grownups will hear. One of us has to get up in the middle of the night and throw a log in the stove, usually Kim because he's the biggest. Christina likes to hold the flashlight so he can see, if she wakes up too.

I don't know why we can't always sleep downstairs like this. Just because the girls will get boobs won't make us estupidos or anything. [I’m trying not to editorialize; but kid… you have no idea. —FARf] We don't go right to sleep like they want us to, but we get up to help Mom with breakfast in the morning. Sometimes Kim has some problems getting woken up, but that's because he puts the wood in at night. He only burned himself once, on his arm, because he was trying to go too fast. It really upset Christina, but it wasn't bad.

I can't think of anything else.

I got him a spiral-bound notebook and told him to start writing stuff down in it as it comes to him, even if it he runs out of steam in the middle — he might pick it up later and then he won’t lose what he wants to write here. :-) He and Serena, of course, are the ones who do the best in English and the composition stuff I slip into their lessons. They’re all passable at basic math (except Kim, who’s pretty good at it) and biochemistry — but Christina (the youngest) grasped biochemistry faster than the others, making leaps into material they’re not even covering this year. If she gets much farther, she’ll get beyond anything I can teach her by summer. Not bad for a 10-year-old Mexican girl (sorry, I had to say that to raise the blood pressure of any Pat-Riots reading). Between that and her artistic talents, I get some rather interesting flow diagrams for her homework.

Down in Gwinnett County, some folks got together, took over an abandoned Wal-Mart and named it “Wallyworld.” I laughed for a long time over that one. I must not be the only one… it’s already starting to get used as a generic term. Some of the more serious people want the generic term to be “enclosed community,” but you know that won’t win — they’ll be called wallyworlds until the last one’s abandoned. They’ve even picked up on the name out in Pacifica, where they tend to be a little more organized about setting them up. Some of the Pacifica wallyworlds created an Enclosed Community Housing Organization (ECHO, bleh) that passes “best practices” info around and at least tries to suggest a few minimum standards for living conditions. Some of these places already have several hundred people in them… and I imagine the funk has claws if the ventilation isn’t good. ECHO’s website — one of the few Pacifica sites that the junta doesn’t interfere with — has plans for wind-power systems that have enough oomph to run LED lighting indoors. They keep the windmills cheap to build, but good enough to mark out main routes at night when it’s dark in there (the Wal-Mart buildings at least have skylights for daytime). I’m thinking about trying out the design and adding another windmill to FAR Manor, but I’d have to expand the battery bank and that’s expensive.

Each wallyworld seems to be developing its own flavor, depending on the people inhabiting them. All of them are trying different things to keep the great indoors warm through the winter, or at least not cold: indoor houses, closing off un-used sections (which involves lots of tarps), or suspended ceilings (more tarps). Even the junta, which mostly couldn’t care less about homeless people, is rounding up tarps for them.

At least they’re doing something useful with those big-box buildings.

continued…

The Boy Sees Life from the Other Side

After yesterday’s debacle, there were a thousand (actually 1015) dead chickens to pick up. I was long gone to the job that pays something (but I had to ride home through thunderstorms, so it’s all even), so Mrs. Fetched rounded up The Boy and some other denizens of the trailer to help out. Afterwards, he came up to the manor and Mrs. Fetched asked him how things were going. He delivered himself of a laundry list:

1) A friend of his asked if he could stay there too, and he agreed. A week later, he’s told the guy to “get off his ass and get a job, he’s not freeloading off of me.”

2) Snippet skipped school today, complaining of “heavy cramps,” but was somehow OK to go swimming.

3) “I’m the only one who cleans up the place, and I’m tired of it!”

Yes, that hysterical cackling noise you might have heard this evening was probably Mrs. Fetched and me…

Blitzed

The #4 chicken house ate a main breaker this evening. As usual, I had to waste an entire evening doing nothing to solve the problem. Well… I tried, anyway. The in-laws really need to standardize on equipment — like using the same type of breaker panel in all four chicken houses, so they only have to have one kind of main breaker in the spares kit.

This was the first time I was stuck trying to replace a 200-amp main breaker. It wasn’t pretty. Now if they’d actually had the right kind of replacement, I might have been able to swing it. But the closest thing they had was a breaker that ASSumed the “service” cables came in from the top, and the broken breaker was a side-entry type. After wasting about two hours of my life, a real electrician came by and jury-rigged the top-feeding breaker to work. Maybe, just maybe, the whole barking thing won’t burn down tonight or tomorrow (“they” carry the chickens off come Wednesday).

So I’ve crawled into a bottle of rum for the evening, and it’s getting hard to type. Consider this a placeholder until I get the next FAR Future episode done… which, if there isn’t Yet Another Major Problem, should happen tomorrow (Tuesday) evening. (Dang, it’s already 1 a.m. Make that this evening.)

Daughter Dearest Gets Orientated

When things happen, they happen quickly. DD settled on a college: Reinhardt, a flurry of paperwork ensued, and yesterday was the orientation session (which they call SOAR, for Student Orientation And Registration — since their mascot is the Eagles… hey, I didn’t make it up).

Students and their entourage were greeted by a dancing eagle mascot out front of the student center, giving hugs and high-fives… so of course I had to get a picture. DD went along with it, but claimed I was embarrassing her. Maybe it was because I danced with the eagle a little bit (and she didn’t have the camera).

After a brief sign-in, we went downstairs for the greetings. After about 20 minutes, they split the students up into 5 groups and took them around for tours and info. The parents stayed put and got our own version of info-glut. They had the A/C up way too high, and more breaks would have been nice (they kept us for nearly two hours at one point, moving right from one session to the next). We broke for lunch, which was actually quite good (tons better than the dorm food I remember) and then a tour of the dorms. This was well-received by many of the parents, who were itching for an excuse to get out in the sunshine and thaw out.

First stop was one of the men’s dorms. The girls, and the parents of same, hung out in the lobby while the guys went to check things out. We “admired” the seriously ratty pit group in front of the TV. Only one of the girls had the guts to sit on it, and she took a corner. Daughter Dearest’s observation: “It smells of drywall, bricks and men. That’s comfort for a guy.” Ah, dry(wall) humor. On the way to the women’s dorm, I heard one of the guys opine, “my room has a great view of an electrical box,” which reminded me of some of the dorm views I had (a concrete wall, a cafeteria roof). We got to see the room that DD is assigned to: two rooms, one bath, four people. The big picture window looks out into the courtyard — not over the courtyard, into it. Where people can look back in. I think the blinds will be closed a lot. Her dorm is one of the last two that doesn’t have wireless, but does have Ethernet, so I’ll have to send a cable with her. She’s been trying to get in touch with her roomie, to see if she’ll bring a refrigerator or if DD should bring one.

Back to the student center for more sessions afterwards. Someone must have gotten the memo about the A/C, and the room was much for comfortable. We got to split into groups and discuss various situations that students have been known to get into. Our group got to talk about a student getting (and maxing out) a credit card, on music and unnecessary clothing.

Move-in day is August 23, starting at 8 a.m. The dean of the music department will be having a rehearsal that evening, so it’s going to be a looooong day for her. I figure we’ll help her get her stuff in the room, then get outta there and let her get started.

We'll need to pull $5000 our of our @$$ to pay for this, but it’s worth it. Without FAR Manor, it would be pocket change, but you’ve heard enough of that tune by now…

Silly stuff for Tuesday

They named their church after a Star Wars episode! How cool is that?

I’ve been thinking about printing up the following haiku on stickers & putting them on gas pumps:

Here at the gas pump,
I filled my motorcycle.
It cost 10 dollars.

Speaking of which, I had a couple people encroach in my lane this evening, within a minute of each other, ironically on the way to the gas station. First was a mini-van, then a dualie (aka Tiny P***s Compensator). I'm thinking air horns should be my next accessory. I’ve had this happen on a much larger bike and emptier road. It’s amazing how people don’t see the bike, they don’t hear the horn — but somehow or other, they see you hoist your boot off the peg to kick a dent in their door. :-P

There was a minor head-on collision in front of the gas station. One person was turning left to come in, the other turning left to come out, and they both tried to occupy the same space at the same time. Doesn’t work. Nobody hurt, fortunately, and it gave me a little cover to make the turn myself.

Then another minivan pulled off the road in front of me, about 10 miles from home. I stopped and asked him if everything was OK. He pointed at the hood and said, caliente. By the time I got back his way with a gallon of water, his motor must have cooled down… I hope he got where he was going.

FAR Future, Episode 42: Holidays and Happiness

I’ve always cringed at “Christmas in July” events, and here I am doing one myself. Life is like that…

Monday, January 5, 2015
Holidays and Happiness

Happy New Year. Or a reasonable facsimile of happy. We managed to enjoy the holidays at FAR Manor, even if Christmas is no longer the commercial orgy it used to be. Even the kids were pretty happy, even though their only gifts were notebooks and sketch pads, with good pens and pencils to go with them. I told them that they weren’t to be used for school, just their own writing and drawing. Me… I got a great gift in email, and I’ll mention that shortly. Serena’s working on a play now, and Rene started a diary. He found out what I’ve been doing online forever and “expressed interest.” He might write an entry here on occasion. Kim and Christina are drawing stuff, both separately and together. It’s really fascinating to watch them work, each on one side of the paper; they switch sides every so often to make their stuff blend together and look like a single artist did the whole thing. I’ve never been able to draw, and it’s always amazing to me how other people can. Mrs. Fetched loves her Christmas present — Beth sent her a copy of her new book, and she’s already hoping the third book will be out soon.

Working backwards: we invited the neighbors for a Thanksgiving potluck again. I think it’s going to be a tradition. We had steaks, fish, chicken, and gobs of fruit and veggies. And bread, of course. The pasta, goat cheese, tomatoes and onions that a lot of us enjoy through the summer made an appearance as well.

Now that rationing is “by the market,” as the junta mouthpieces insist on calling it, people are buying and hoarding again… and catching things on fire again. Think of it as evolution in action… and proof of sorts, too. I’ve always said that people don’t believe in evolution because they haven’t evolved themselves, and they tend to be the ones losing property to hoarding. The anti-hoarding laws passed before the coup are still on the books, but they’re only enforced when someone’s stash burns something down — and usually not then, given that they’ve already punished themselves.

My Christmas present came in email, and I don’t know whom to thank it, but it was “totally awesome, dude.” Like I’d mentioned before, some of the metro-area Pat-riots have been gunning for The Prophet, and one bunch decided they would set him up and get it all on video. They wrapped a $10-spot around a bottle of water with a rubber band, and dropped it and a can of tuna in his box while they taped it. The Prophet has always refused cash donations, you know. So he looked straight at the camera and said, “You brood of vipers, your ancestors thought to entrap The Lord with their clever schemes, but their plans were laid low. So will it be with you. I say unto you: follow me, and see what The Lord is doing.” And he picked up his box and started walking.

You can hear them on the recording, discussing what to do, and one of them says, “Hey, this is why we came. If he wants to make it easy on us, who cares?”

The video jumps to the inside of a MARTA train. The Prophet appears to be praying (“or napping,” one of the 'Riots suggests). It jumps again; The Prophet steps off the train and waits for the 'Riots to catch up. “Decatur,” the cameraman says. As they step off the train, he leaves the station.

Another jump: The Prophet climbs the steps of a boarded-up church. People from the surrounding area are approaching; the 'Riots whisper among themselves about their safety but stand their ground. One guy comes and talks to them, but off-camera (they’re watching The Prophet).

“Hey, are you the guys that were putting videos of his sermons on the net?”

“Uh, yeah,” one says. “Some of them, anyway,” says another.

“Cool. You think you’ll be able to upload your video now? The dorks screwed up Internet pretty good.”

“Um… we’ll manage.”

Their visitor starts to say something else, but The Prophet starts preaching at that point and he shuffles away. The sermon rips the junta in just about every way you can imagine: Pharisees, den of thieves, brood of vipers, you name it. He saves a few choice words for all the churches that have thrown in with the “godly men” in the junta. “We can turn him in on a sedition charge,” one of them whispers. “He’s giving us all the rope we need to hang ’im.”

“If they can find him,” another says. “Seems like every time someone tries to grab him, he’s just not there.”

Somebody shushes them, and The Prophet goes on speaking. Finally he lifts his box over his head and says, “Let those who are in need: come. He who drinks of the Living Water will never thirst, he who eats of the Bread of Life will never hunger. Come to The Lord’s storehouse, see what He has done through His enemies.” He puts the box to the side, and the crowd moves forward, but orderly.

“Like zombies,” one of the 'Riots whispers.

Then The Prophet starts reaching into his box and pulling out grocery bags, one or two for each person. (“Where’d all that shit come from?” one of the 'Riots whispers. “The box was empty when I dropped our stuff in!”) Then he pulls out a huge wad of money and gives it to a woman, who cries and hugs him. She steps off to the side, but still in view of the camera, and pulls out a cellphone.

“I’ve got the mortgage,” she says. Her voice is steady, but you can see her tears. “All of it, I think. $2400? … Cash. Yeah, I’m gonna want receipts, and I want papers, signed! Saying you’ve cancelled the foreclosure because we’re paid up.” Meanwhile, The Prophet is still pulling bag after bag out of his cardboard box.

The camera tilts, dips, shakes, but doesn’t go off target; the 'Riots are swearing and murmuring things like, “I’m not believin’ this,” and “Where’s it all coming from?” Finally, the last person gets his bag and walks away.

The Prophet looks at the camera again, says, “Bear witness to what you have seen today,” and walks around the side of the church, leaving the box on the steps. One of the 'Riots runs over to the box, picks it up, and turns it upside down. Something flutters out, and he stoops to pick it up.

“It’s the ten we wrapped around the bottle,” he says. “I marked it.”

“He’s gone!” another one yells from off-camera. “No way he coulda moved that fast! We gotta catch him!”

“Forget it,” the cameraman says. The camera droops, points at the ground, then cuts off.

I’ve watched it over and over, and showed it to Mrs. Fetched. Moved us both to tears… it still does, to me. She only watched it once, said, “We know whose side He’s on,” and walked away. Not really much more you can say about that. Except: whoever sent the video gave me the best Christmas present this year.

continued…

Weekend Cinema

If it’s short, strange, and free, it must be Weekend Cinema!

Now I put a lot of miles on my motorcycle, and I’ve gotten pretty comfortable riding it. But this guy is a lot more comfortable than I’d ever want to get!

Raining Buckets… Literally

As I said in the last post, I rode home in the rain. The bike gave me no trouble, and I gratefully pulled into the garage, got my wet things off, then wiped down the bike (the only cleaning it’s had since I bought it). The rain was on and off until bedtime, at which point it stayed on… in spades. It poured most of the night, with lots of ground lightning really close to home. I was really grateful about not having to ride in that… I’ve done it once before and have no desire to repeat the experience. And I should write about that some time, but not now.

Wednesday rolled around, finally. Mrs. Fetched said there were buckets standing in the open that were brimming over. Her dad's rain gauge had overflowed, so we got more than 6 inches of rain. Lord knows we needed the rain, but catching up all at once? It was still raining on & off, but I’d planned to work at home so I didn’t worry about it.

Thursday morning, more (light) rain. I needed to take some stuff that I’d photographed back to work, so Mrs. Fetched let me take her car… the first time I’d driven to work for about a month. I had to repeat the experience Friday morning, since the motorcycle battery was drained — some moisture must have gotten into the ignition switch or other places where it could do unwelcome things. There was also water in the fuel, which was easily fixed by draining the float bowl.

So Jimmy, a guy who helps out with the farm stuff from time to time, has been getting tired of gas prices and bought a Lifan motorcycle — it’s basically a Chinese 200cc Honda clone — and got it plated with just a little effort. After we took care of a tree down across the fence, we brought his bike up to my place to check over. His chain was pretty loose, so we tightened it up a bit and lubed it (which it also needed), then he let me take it for a short putt. The rear sprocket on this thing is a lot bigger than it needs to be, even on a 200cc bike — it would pull from zero in 2nd gear without any trouble, and I joked about using it to pull stumps.

We decided to buzz down to the creek to see what needed to be done about the log barricade (to keep the cows from going around the fence). I learned very quickly that my habit of using the front brake so much was a bad one on dirt, but fortunately it was just pucker-inducing rather than surrender-to-gravity. But I rounded a corner in front of the pond and stopped at the gate… and no Jimmy. I was just about to go back to see if he was OK, when I heard him coming. He came around the corner a little faster than I would have thought comfortable, straightened it out, then went down. I ran back to him; he’d mostly landed on his shoulder but was only scuffed a little. The amber bezel on one of his turn signals broke; you can see it in the picture if you look carefully.

We continued down to the creek. The heavy rains had washed out the bank where the logs were, and they’d floated sideways… but they were there. We’d just need to get the tractor to pull them back into place. By the time we got back to the house, Jimmy was starting to feel a bit shocky from his get-off, so he sat it out while my father-in-law and I took care of it.

I guess you don't just dust yourself off and keep riding, like you did as a teenager, when you’re pushing 60. “He’s gonna be sooooooore in the morning.”

Bike Night

The local bike shop has a “Bike Night” once a month, and they’ve recently added a Vintage Bikes segment: bring in your old bikes, and everybody votes on Best in Show for prizes. They also have a dyno with a horsepower shootout, which is mostly a curiosity when you have a stock DR-Z400 (rated 34 HP) and several bikes there made well over 100 HP.

This was one of the vintage bikes, a Honda Passport C70 with… a NOS canister???? Someone has got an even weirder sense of humor than me, and that’s saying a lot!

I came for the free food, primarily, and to see how much a new front tire is going to run me ($120) when I need to replace it, probably next month. But the good thing about these gatherings is getting to meet up with other people who love motorcycles and talk about them. Two other guys came in (together) on bikes like mine, and so we hit it off pretty quick. Turns out they live in Buford, but come up this way often to ride both on & off road. One guy was laughing about my milk crate, and even offered me a tank bag if I’d get rid of it, but it was a magnetic bag and I have a plastic tank… then we all laughed about the 70cc scooter with the NOS canister.

There was a chance of rain, and I’d brought my rain suit… and it turned out to be needed. A few drops were enough to get the staff moving their bikes inside; some of the sporties clustered under the awning provided by the dyno truck and some of the visitors boogied on out. The few drops turned into an impressive downpour, which was kind enough to wash a lot of the grime off my bike, and those of us who waited it out alternatively watched the owner’s video of a Colorado ride or stood under one of the large metal awnings and watched the rain wash our bikes.

The rain finally let up, so I put on my rain suit and headed home. It didn’t take long to find some more rain, although it looked as if I might get a break closer to town… and in fact, it stopped for a couple miles. But after that, it pretty much rained all the way home. My hands and feet were soaked, but the rain suit did its job well and kept the rest of me dry and comfortable.

FAR Future, Episode 41: Maximum Disruption

It’s kind of eerie when stuff starts happening that you write about happening in the future…

Ghostburbs (video)

Monday, November 24, 2014
Maximum Disruption

The Beltway pundits have largely been sidelined, due to the tight media controls and spotty electrical service… such is their reward for going along with the coup, or at least not taking a stand against it. Serves them right, IMO; if they hadn’t been tut-tut’ing everything the real government did to try holding things together, maybe it wouldn’t have emboldened the militias. If I’ve learned anything over the years, it’s that you can’t reason with a conservative, you can’t compromise with them, you can’t negotiate with them. You can only prevent them from harming you or everyone around them. You can only wait for a few of them to fall into the pit they dug and wait to stop digging it even deeper. I’ll admit, a few people — even one or two I remember as GCM’ers — have told me (in private) that ‘I never supported anything like this.’ Good for them for finally waking up… too bad it’s too late to make a difference.

But if the Rumps were looking for maximum disruption, they couldn’t have come up with anything much more effective than the “Latino Repatriation Act” and all the riders that went along with it. With no president to sign or veto bills, anything passed becomes law after 10 days… but nothing gets introduced without the blessing of the junta. The LRA has really made a mess on this part of Planet Georgia. There are a lot of people directly affected by the law here; many of them came to work in the poultry business, and landscaping, and restaurants, and anything nobody else wanted to do. And if they have less than five years of “legal residency,” they have to pack up and find their way back home. Of course, the junta wants them to leave, but doesn’t want to have the expense of sending them away.

The whole “must carry proof of citizenship” BS is a little more than a backdoor version of a national ID card. It’s also an obvious invitation to profiling — you can bet Ms. Lily White will never be asked to show a birth certificate or voter registration card (unless she’s voting). I expect I’ll probably be carded more than once, not exactly being blonde and blue-eyed myself.

School started in October, but we yanked the kids out after a week — the junta has rolled out a “universal curriculum” that’s indoctrination and nothing else. About a third of the teachers, even in this Red neck of the woods, quit over it. Daughter Dearest, who plans to come home after her school year is over, pointed us to some good materials and we’ve started home-schooling. I’m working at home all week now, for however long the company going to last, and we’ve set up school time for the afternoon and early evening. It seems to work well for us: the kids help with the chores and gather deadfall in the morning, do their homework in the afternoon, and we go over lessons in the evening. Guillermo and Maria are more than a little concerned about this repatriation thing, but I’ve talked them into sitting tight for now — I’m kind of counting on my ambiguous relationship with the GCM to shield them, at least temporarily. Besides, if they left, I think Kim and Serena would try to go with them; the kids have turned into some kind of eight-legged composite creature. :-)

Down in Atlanta, The Prophet has been busy with ministry. A lot of people are getting thrown out of their houses, even though nobody else wants them. Between that and some draconian laws about vandalizing foreclosure properties, the banks are ending up with a lot of real estate. Like as not, the junta is forcing counties to “overlook” taxes on the houses, so the bankers aren’t getting hurt. It’s not just Atlanta, either. But The Prophet is almost daring the junta to come after him; he blasts them from his cardboard pulpit and continues to gather food donations. A suburban Pat-riot Club has vowed to take him down, and I’m seriously worried.

The big-box joints have taken a pounding in the last couple of months. Sales, clearance sales, “store closing” sales, then people break into the stores and swipe what little is left. Some homeless people outside of Springfield, IL took up residence in an abandoned Wal-Mart to get out of the cold, and it was nearly a month before anyone realized they were there. Not much in one of those stores that would burn, especially if the merchandise was cleared out, but trash is free for the taking (who can afford trash pickup now?) and they built some walls inside out of scrap materials, for privacy and to trap heat. A lot of people are picking up on the idea, especially since nobody cares too much about those old buildings anymore… and people have to have somewhere to go. Sometimes it’s slot campers rolling inside from the parking lot; others come from the street. Somehow or another, they’re building a new kind of home.

Winters really suck when people can’t stay warm.

continued…

Weekend Cinema

Moving a church (with music by the choir)

Blackberry Harvest

No, not the fancy phone, the kind you eat or make into jelly or pies.

I was kind of surprised at how good they looked this year, given the drought. The cool spring and summer (so far) must have done them some good.

Now for the fun part: jelly, jam, pies…

Splat! [UPDATED Jul 6, 9pm]

Daughter Dearest (with our blessing) invited her friend Sasquatch and his family over for a 4th of July cookout. Three of us, three of them… six people? No problem. Them Mrs. Fetched invited her parents (eight). The Boy and P.O.D. (Snippet has to work this afternoon, so that’s ten). Not enough? Not for Mrs. Fetched — she invited another family over… fourteen total. (Somehow, I had thought there were 17, but 14 is plenty.) Ummm… we need groceries. Off to the supermarket.

Eventually, we got to the dairy section in the far back corner of the store, and Daughter Dearest said to me, “Look at this fly.” It was a rather large housefly, walking around on the glass in front of the name-brand milk. Next thing I know, she’d removed one of her flip-flops: “Should I whack it?”

“Sure, squish that sucker!” I said.

WHAP echoed all over the back corner of the store. I was surprised an employee didn’t come over there to investigate; it was fairly loud.

Daughter Dearest quickly walked away from the scene of the crime, and then turned to look and started giggling. “It’s smashed on the glass!”

I had a look… sure enough, this big fly was now part of the display. I would have gotten a picture, but A bunch of people suddenly showed up, completely oblivious to the fly, and I didn’t want to call their attention to it. But DD and I laughed and wise-cracked about it {“It was this big,” DD said, making a dime-sized circle with her finger & thumb. “Yeah, but now it’s this big!” I said, making a two-inch circle with my fingers} until we got to the checkout line, with Mrs. Fetched clucking and eye-rolling in counterpoint. On the way out, she swung by the service desk and told them about the fly, omitting our complicity in the situation.

It’s not like people are buying milk anyway, at $4.50 $5.89 a gallon.

[UPDATE: We swung over that way this afternoon for a couple of errands. The fly is still there, and I got a picture. I guess Mrs. Fetched’s message didn’t get passed along.]

You Go, Girl. To Some Other School.

Lovely… and it’s the school I graduated from.

This is a story that sucks on several levels.

Lordy, but I was glad to get out of high school. I blew that town and didn’t go back for a long time. When I did, I took Mrs. Fetched to the Farm House, a restaurant I worked at for a while. I told the waitress I wanted to say hello to the owner, and she got a funny look and said, “Oh… he moved to Grand Rapids with his daughter. And nobody knew he had a daughter.” oooooops

Summertime?

July came in like early April. 55°F this morning and very low humidity, something quite unusual for Planet Georgia in July. Usually, this time of year, people are considering turning on the car A/C during the morning commute. DD’s pal from Norway would have approved.

A more reliable indicator that summer has arrived: The Boy moved out a couple weeks ago. A few weeks ago, he showed us the place he and his friends were looking at: a double-wide with rotting siding (not well-hidden under fresh paint) and a missing central A/C unit. The place was locked, so I can only imagine what the roof & floors were like. So they ended up renting a trailer from Mrs. Fetched’s mom… they agreed to a bunch of stipulations about alcohol and parties (none), although I’m sure they’ll have some booze hidden away somewhere. Snippet is there (of course), along with one of the other band members and his cousin P.O.D.

Speaking of P.O.D., his commute to Canton is eating him alive — why he can’t find an apartment closer to work is beyond me, but he’s Big V’s son and I’ve long given up on trying to untangle what passes for logic on that side of the family. So he started nosing around to see if I’d “loan” him my Civic (which I bought from him so he could get a truck), but it picked this last week for the speedometer sensor to start acting up. Not thinking he’d take me up on it, I offered to loan him the Virago and he jumped on it. I didn’t think a crotch rocket pilot, even a former one (he sold it after a large speeding ticket some time back), would be interested in a large cruiser. But he figured he could save $30/week in gas alone, so maybe it’s not a big surprise.

I let him borrow it over the weekend to get acquainted with it, and he brought it back complaining of it missing and acting weird. I wasn’t in any shape on Sunday to deal with it, but I checked it out last night and it acted just like it had once before, a couple of years ago, and hadn’t done since. Using the strategy, “check the cheap stuff first,” we (P.O.D. helped) quickly stunk up the garage with spilled gasoline and found that the fuel filter was beyond dirty. Mrs. Fetched picked up a new one today while I was at work, and I got it in tonight. I haven’t refilled the gas tank yet, but I’m pretty sure that will fix the problem. I figure he’ll pick it up while I’m at work tomorrow.

The blackberries are already getting ripe — and I’ll definitely be out picking this weekend when it’s not raining. There’s a new stand, where the timber people cleared an ingress point, that looks nearly as big as the one in the pasture I raided last year. There’s a smaller stand in the front yard, and that’s getting picked first because I won’t have to walk as far. :-) I’d like to get 3 gallons total, which would keep us in jelly for a while. If The Boy and Snippet aren’t too lazy to do a little picking, they could get some free food.

In any case, I’m looking forward to a three-day weekend.

FAR Future, Episode 40: What Comes Out of a Rump Congress?

Wow, episode 40… near the halfway point, I think. I appreciate everyone who’s stuck with it and left comments so far!

Wednesday, October 15, 2014
What Comes Out of a Rump Congress?

About what you’d expect: crap. The oil companies are having a party though, after which they will start drilling pretty much anywhere they please. And to hell with environmental concerns, of course.

Their first act — and here’s something you didn’t need me to tell you — was to kill the rationing system. With gas taking a flying leap to $10/gallon, people aren’t exactly lining up at the pumps — it doesn’t stop gas stations from running out, though. The local stations are already putting purchase limits up: 5 gallons at a time for now, which of course is more than enough to fill a motorcycle…

We’re back to 4-hour rolling blackouts; with natural gas production falling, the junta wants to have it available for winter. I have to agree with that, but of course they’re simply continuing the policy of the legitimate government. Of course, I have to wonder whether they’ll actually follow through and deliver the goods. We went ahead and blew our budget to fill our gas tank, in case we need it for some reason this winter.

Are you seeing “Patriot Clubs” in your locales? Around here, they’re springing up like maggots on roadkill. “Upholding our nation’s moral standards,” which means they feel it’s their right to poke their noses in everyone’s business. They’re meeting in some of the local churches here, and Sammy says that’s pretty normal. We had a couple of them try to set up at our church, and I made enough of a stink about it that the board tabled it (permanently). That probably painted a big fat target on my back, but they know I’m somehow associated with the GCM, so they aren’t too keen on taking shots at me. Still, it’s a good thing Guillermo’s not huge… we took his truck down to the North Springs MARTA station, drained the last gallon out of the gas tank, and took the motorcycle (which rode down in the truck bed) back home with him on the back. Call it a hunch.

While most of us are lying low, The Prophet has emerged once more, saying what most don’t dare to say: “Alas for you, you Pharisees, you hypocrites! For you have more than a beam in your eye — how will you take the speck out of your neighbor’s eye when the whole roof is in yours? Woe unto you, for the judgement you visit on others will be paid back unto you as you stand before The Lord on that day! You accuse men, but God will accuse you! Repent of your pride and your false witness, come out of the belly of the wolf that wears the sheep’s clothing, and you will be forgiven. The wolf may devour you in his time, but you will stand with the worthy on The Day.” That has stirred up the local Pat-riots (as the opposition has started calling them) in no small way. I can’t count the number of times some Pat-riot Club has mowed down some poor black guy in Atlanta who was in the wrong place at the wrong time, and crowed that they have taken “The Heretic.” This is not going to end well.

Speaking of not ending well, the big box chains are having serious financial issues. Stores are closing left and right — as much because they can’t get merchandise as not being able to sell it. In fact, the local Wal-Mart died (and there was much rejoicing, but quietly so as not to attract the Pat-riots). The only growth outside of food and fuel is RVs… sounds crazy until you learn that people are buying them, towing them to their parking lots at work, and living in them through the week so they don’t have to drive back to the burbs or wherever. The really popular sellers are “slot campers,” so called because they fit in a parking slot. The hitches retract or fold out of the way, and they’re comfortable enough (or can be made to be) for one or two. Some couples who are falling behind on their mortgages (yes, that’s still happening despite all the happy talk from official channels) are blowing off all their other payments long enough to pay cash for the RV, and leaving everything else behind. Sometimes intact, often not. Of course, you can about buy a used SUV for little more than what it would take to fill the gas tank, and some of the “drive-offs” are buying them to tow the RV to wherever it is they’re going. Often, they end up in the parking lots of closed big-box stores or vacated office buildings. Most office park managers let them stay if they don’t make trouble… in fact, the empty building next door to work has a couple dozen RVs in the parking lot and we have a dozen or so in our own lot.

Wonder of wonders, the cell network was up last night, and we were able to reach Daughter Dearest for her birthday. She now has official “refugee status,” which means she gets dibs on a cot in a gym, a shot at a residence (often an abandoned suburban house, shared by several refugees), and a job teaching in a refugee center outside of Seattle. There are several hundred kids in the school, and they organized it like the old one-room schoolhouses of old; the more responsible older kids help the teachers with the younger kids. There are a handful of other teachers, some are local and some are refugees like her. A few of the parents don’t have teaching degrees or skills, but volunteer as assistants… probably to give them something to do as much as any other reason. Refugees are still working their way west (or north), and the junta seems content to let them leave. Why not? Let the dissidents blow off steam from the outside, instead of making trouble at home, right?

Official story: weekend uprisings in NYC and Boston quelled. Sammy’s side: a coalition of gang-bangers, cops, and random interested parties blew the junta right out of both cities. In Boston, they managed to capture three of the junta’s local leaders, and the “Northeastern Coordinator” escaped New York with possible gunshot wounds. They’re supposedly fanning out to eradicate any remaining junta activity (i.e. rounding up Patriot Clubs) throughout the NY/NE region, although I suspect borders will be fluid for a while. Of course, the southeast and much of the southwest is safe junta territory. Outside of those places, people are starting to realize that junta has little muscle to impose their will much outside of Washington (which might be the whole point of the Pat-riots).

The country is balkanizing. And I’m in the wrong piece.

continued…

Weekend Cinema: The Boy, in Concert

Welcome back to Weekend Cinema, where the time is short, movies are free, and you decide how entertaining it all is!

This time, we’re making an homage to Woodstock, with a home-grown concert video… but not just any concert. This is The Boy’s first performance with Ether, a local-ish punk rock band. Here they are: Ether at Gardner Lake (rather huge, sorry about the bandwidth issues for the dialup folks). The lyrics are… well, not suitable. But I know a lot of the regular readers don’t care too much about that.

The Boy is the one farthest from the camera, wearing white & playing the bass. I stood where I did because that’s where the lighting was best.

The Tale of a Temporary Boarder

Daughter Dearest, like her mom, doesn’t do anything halfway. My online buddies hail from exotic places like South Carolina or Idaho… DD brings 'em in from Norway!

I have to wonder what impression someone visiting the US for the first time would get of the country by visiting one of its crazier corners. Late June on Planet Georgia, even a little less hot than normal, didn’t exactly agree with someone who is used to highs below 70°F in the summer. It was in the low 90s Friday afternoon when I got home and met him… I’d checked the forecast and when I told him this was the high for the week, he said, “Thank God!”

He was very quiet, almost too quiet. One good thing was that he got me to poke the G3 one more time, and this time I got Linux to come up (which made him happy). He’s not exactly an Apple fan, but I like Linux too so this was a quirk I could live with. He's in college, majoring in computer science… and like many CS majors, hacks for fun as well as credit.

DD’s friend Sasquatch was around a lot, and after they finished sizing each other up everyone got along pretty well. Those guys are nearly opposites; one's large and extroverted, the other slight and introverted.

But many things are a matter of perspective: I knew that our gas (even at $4/gallon) is cheap by comparison to Europe’s, but most everything else — food, restaurants, WalMart (can’t visit Planet Georgia without taking in the state religion) — was cheap to him as well. Even the $5 million price tag on a Lake Lanier estate didn’t faze him much… and at this point, Mrs. Fetched was ready to take him and DD to a justice of the peace…

I didn’t get to spend much time with him, which is probably how it’s supposed to be. At this point, I don’t know if he’ll come back or not. DD could probably tell more, if she’s willing. Or maybe she’s gearing up to receive a friend from Australia next!