Wednesday, September 3, 2036
The Boy Goes to Washington (and Beyond)
Anybody who watched the President’s special address last night probably saw The Boy in the gallery. It’s up on the video sites, the tag is [media.video.gov.DCSpecAddr20360902] if you’re like us and have to get media overnight.
I wish Mrs. Fetched would have been here with me to see it… “two musicians not only defused a potential riot Sunday night, but they may have uncovered a plot to divide the American people — and the word that often follows ‘divide’ is ‘conquer.’” The Boy nodded and waved at the camera as Congress began applauding; Cal just grinned. They were both wearing dress shirts (what I used to call polo shirts) and jeans… dressed up pretty well by today’s standards, especially for musicians. I’m sure Mrs. Fetched tuned in from heaven, just as proud as possible up there, but like I said I wish she could have been here physically.
A couple of things stand out… one was how the President vowed to have this “incident” investigated and follow the trail all the way to the end. That’s something I remember just wasn’t done back before the blackouts or even during the Restoration, no matter how many of us wanted it to happen. At least they found Palmer “Swamp Thing” Lanois in a house outside Baton Rouge, along with a handful of co-conspirators, so I suppose that’s a start. It might have been a different world now if we had really gone after the junta’s ultimate backers… or not. We may not have had the junta, but historians are saying that was just a detour. Things now might have been pretty much the same had the putsch never happened.
But I think this was the central part of the speech: “About 250 years ago, Thomas Jefferson wrote, ‘the price of freedom is eternal vigilance.’ It has always been true, but perhaps we have only this week learned just how true it is. 22 years ago, we allowed a coalition of extremist militias and Dominionists to seize the levers of power in this country. As Fate would have it, they were not capable of governance, but the people were not vigilant and the junta clung to power for nine long years — years that we will never recover as a nation. The phrase coup d’etat literally means ‘a blow against the state,’ and America suffered a tremendous blow, one whose echoes still reverberate around us, because we were not vigilant.
“The junta was eventually pushed out, first from Washington and then from Dallas, but many people thought the job was done with the success of the Reunification. The opposition was largely transformed to a loyal opposition, something required for a healthy democracy. We followed the trail from the militias to religious extremists, to at least some of the shadowy figures behind it all… but then we declared the work to be finished, the breach sealed, the Great American Experiment back on track.
“We were wrong. The work half-done was nearly undone again. The breach half-sealed began to open anew. Those who desire power, but can never find it in the ballot box, made their plans and waited for an opportunity. While we slumbered, they prepared. Late last summer, the opportunity they awaited finally came. A new division — refugees and those living near the camps — started perhaps with a small tear, but they meant to rip it open as wide as they possibly could. And only by chance, or what an earlier generation called Providence, were they thwarted at the very beginning. If our friends here tonight had not been in the right place at the right time, their plans may well have succeeded.”
She went on to a series of initiatives that should get refugees out of camps and settled into new homes — setting a really ambitious goal of closing the last camp on the East Coast by March of next year. But I was kind of surprised at even the hint of a mention of faith in her speech. I know the Association of Penitent Churches has been trying to ramp up a program to get people re-settled; I don’t know if we’ll get help or be absorbed into a more official effort, but as long as the work gets done I really don’t care.
But The Boy and Cal are now on the westbound train. Given the usual delays with waiting for a train to fill up, it might be a while before he gets to California — which is fine with him; he’s already planning to fill layover time playing at whatever venues seem convenient. He told me he drew a pretty decent crowd just sitting on the steps on the Lincoln Memorial and playing some tunes, and wound up with a hat full of cash. He says he plans to just find a likely place and start playing, maybe it will buy him better accommodations and chow as he works his way cross-country. In a post-powerout, left-handed kind of way, he’s finally going on tour. Cal is coming with him to provide percussion, and they’ll watch each other’s backs when necessary. Their temporary celebrity and National Hero status should help with drawing crowds.
He might be back around New Year’s. What happens after that… I guess we’ll find out.
continued…
Monday, June 15, 2009 4 comments
Thursday, June 11, 2009 13 comments
[EDITED] Ch-ch-ch-change
Note: the comments link is now at the TOP of the posts. I've been fiddling with stuff but haven't figured out how to move it to the bottom yet. Just look up instead of down, you’ll see it.
I was recently mulling giving TFM a makeover, then Blogger Buzz helpfully posted an article to Spruce Up Your Blog.
After devoting a whole ten minutes to it, two styles jumped out at me:
Abrasive, by btemplates.com
Inove, a converted WordPress template from deluxetemplates.net
For anyone who’s interested, I was using Thisaway Blue, one of Blogger’s standard templates.
Thoughts? iNove is a nice clean look, while Abrasive does a good job of representing the general deterioration of an older house that I must constantly combat, and I like the way lists look. If anyone has other suggestions, I’m all eyes.
I was recently mulling giving TFM a makeover, then Blogger Buzz helpfully posted an article to Spruce Up Your Blog.
After devoting a whole ten minutes to it, two styles jumped out at me:
Abrasive, by btemplates.com
Inove, a converted WordPress template from deluxetemplates.net
For anyone who’s interested, I was using Thisaway Blue, one of Blogger’s standard templates.
Thoughts? iNove is a nice clean look, while Abrasive does a good job of representing the general deterioration of an older house that I must constantly combat, and I like the way lists look. If anyone has other suggestions, I’m all eyes.
Tuesday, June 09, 2009 7 comments
Allium-oop!
A fitting name for this guy; it shoots straight up about 5 feet:
The sheer height, plus the poofy looking ball on the end, means that you really can’t do this plant justice with a single photo. The one I had last year did some really weird loops with its long stalk before heading straight up. The ball smells like an onion and is a bit smaller than a baseball this time.
The sheer height, plus the poofy looking ball on the end, means that you really can’t do this plant justice with a single photo. The one I had last year did some really weird loops with its long stalk before heading straight up. The ball smells like an onion and is a bit smaller than a baseball this time.
Monday, June 08, 2009 4 comments
FAR Future, Episode 91: The Boy Saves the Day
Monday, September 1, 2036
The Boy Saves the Day
The power went down right on schedule. It wasn’t long before people began streaming into the assembly area, lighting the way with wind-up flashlights, grumbling among themselves. As most of the people streamed in, Slim slipped up onto the stage. He flipped on a bullhorn and started haranguing the crowd:
“Fellow citizens! I stand before you tonight to speak of injustice!
“Through no fault of your own, you were forced out of your homes. Sure, the government told you that they would resettle you — but is this what you were promised? Life cramped in a tiny trailer, pathways that turn to mud in the rain — and the unearned hatred of those who still have their homes?
“This is no regular power outage, my friends: it was cut off! And who do you think cut it off? The so-called ‘good citizens’ of Suffolk! They have resented your presence outside their comfortable little town, reminding them that there are American people out here, even if they have no intent to welcome you onto their streets, let alone their homes!” He paused to let the crowd murmur and growl a little.
“You’ve heard the stories. Some of you have lived them. If you walk into town — the glares, the stares, the rudeness from people who are supposed to be serving you?” More growling.
“So why do you think they cut off the power? It’s likely that their little citizens’ militia is on the way right now to sow terror and blood, when all any of us ever wanted was a home!
“Are you going to stand for this?”
The crowd bellowed No! — and that’s when The Boy stood up on the stage overhang, flipped the switch on his amp, cranked the volume to 11, and hit a power chord — “just to get their attention,” he laughed. “You shoulda seen Slim jump; I thought he was gonna land up on the roof with us!”
He followed the attention-getter with an old familiar riff and a primal scream — the opening bars to the Beatles’ “Revolution.” Cal, one of the chautauqua drummers and The Boy’s best friend in the troupe, came in right on cue, and they started singing the old classic. Slim tried to recover, shouting into his bullhorn, but the old amp was more than adequate to drown him out. Then The Boy hit the break chord, pointed straight at Slim, and sang: But when you talk about destruction / Don’t you know that you can count me out! The crowd laughed and cheered — at this point, it was obvious to them that Slim was just the warm-up act for the real performance. “On the last verse,” he said, “I changed ‘Chairman Mao’ to ‘General K’ just so they could relate.” General Kimbrell, of course, was the front guy for the junta. Probably a good choice on The Boy’s part.
As for Slim, he threw the bullhorn at The Boy — it never reached the roof — and bolted off the back of the stage. Cops from town and the camp security people were waiting for him on the ground and grabbed him. One of them said they almost caught him out of the air.
The lights came back on just as he finished the opening number, and the cheers redoubled. But The Boy was just getting started — there was no way he was going to pass up this chance. He played for two hours straight, stopping only to drain a water bottle from time to time, working his way forward from the 1960s up to Minima Metal from the 2020s. Fans of each genre took to the stage and danced until he moved on to the next decade. At last, he finished up with a few tracks from “Optout Beach,” which is somewhat popular in the camp (and I suspect will be more popular now).
The interesting part this morning was the dueling headlines on the news sites, things like: “Riot in Suffolk Camp Spotlights Refugee Program Flaws” followed by “Chautauqua Performers Defuse Tense Situation with Music” and “Bomb Squad Saves Power Station.” Dozens — maybe hundreds — of op-ed pieces about a riot that never happened flooded the news sites, written ahead of time, targeted toward townie and refugee alike. Most of them have been pulled, but the Fibbies are already investigating the posters. It seems that Slim was part of a coordinated plan (the word “plot” or even “conspiracy” isn’t too strong here either) to provoke a riot then exploit it to further divide townie from refugee. It might not even be paranoid to consider the possibility that the rumors from both sides were part of this. But the West Coast is starting to have problems now, and there are a few million people just in the US who will be displaced before it’s over — the chaos abroad is at least as bad, and don’t even talk about the Charlie Foxtrot that Bangladesh is becoming even before the flooding starts. Like I’ve said before, it’s really a shame that more people aren’t opening their homes. John’s Creek was a welcome exception, but they took all they could and it was just a drop in the bucket.
Too bad The Boy never got into Crosby Stills and Nash. They did a great song back when, “It Won’t Go Away,” that spoke exactly to this situation: Somebody wants us divided / Someone of evil intent. But he got the job done. At least I was able to talk to him today; he took a little time in between newshound interviews to let me know what was going on.
continued…
The Boy Saves the Day
The power went down right on schedule. It wasn’t long before people began streaming into the assembly area, lighting the way with wind-up flashlights, grumbling among themselves. As most of the people streamed in, Slim slipped up onto the stage. He flipped on a bullhorn and started haranguing the crowd:
“Fellow citizens! I stand before you tonight to speak of injustice!
“Through no fault of your own, you were forced out of your homes. Sure, the government told you that they would resettle you — but is this what you were promised? Life cramped in a tiny trailer, pathways that turn to mud in the rain — and the unearned hatred of those who still have their homes?
“This is no regular power outage, my friends: it was cut off! And who do you think cut it off? The so-called ‘good citizens’ of Suffolk! They have resented your presence outside their comfortable little town, reminding them that there are American people out here, even if they have no intent to welcome you onto their streets, let alone their homes!” He paused to let the crowd murmur and growl a little.
“You’ve heard the stories. Some of you have lived them. If you walk into town — the glares, the stares, the rudeness from people who are supposed to be serving you?” More growling.
“So why do you think they cut off the power? It’s likely that their little citizens’ militia is on the way right now to sow terror and blood, when all any of us ever wanted was a home!
“Are you going to stand for this?”
The crowd bellowed No! — and that’s when The Boy stood up on the stage overhang, flipped the switch on his amp, cranked the volume to 11, and hit a power chord — “just to get their attention,” he laughed. “You shoulda seen Slim jump; I thought he was gonna land up on the roof with us!”
He followed the attention-getter with an old familiar riff and a primal scream — the opening bars to the Beatles’ “Revolution.” Cal, one of the chautauqua drummers and The Boy’s best friend in the troupe, came in right on cue, and they started singing the old classic. Slim tried to recover, shouting into his bullhorn, but the old amp was more than adequate to drown him out. Then The Boy hit the break chord, pointed straight at Slim, and sang: But when you talk about destruction / Don’t you know that you can count me out! The crowd laughed and cheered — at this point, it was obvious to them that Slim was just the warm-up act for the real performance. “On the last verse,” he said, “I changed ‘Chairman Mao’ to ‘General K’ just so they could relate.” General Kimbrell, of course, was the front guy for the junta. Probably a good choice on The Boy’s part.
As for Slim, he threw the bullhorn at The Boy — it never reached the roof — and bolted off the back of the stage. Cops from town and the camp security people were waiting for him on the ground and grabbed him. One of them said they almost caught him out of the air.
The lights came back on just as he finished the opening number, and the cheers redoubled. But The Boy was just getting started — there was no way he was going to pass up this chance. He played for two hours straight, stopping only to drain a water bottle from time to time, working his way forward from the 1960s up to Minima Metal from the 2020s. Fans of each genre took to the stage and danced until he moved on to the next decade. At last, he finished up with a few tracks from “Optout Beach,” which is somewhat popular in the camp (and I suspect will be more popular now).
The interesting part this morning was the dueling headlines on the news sites, things like: “Riot in Suffolk Camp Spotlights Refugee Program Flaws” followed by “Chautauqua Performers Defuse Tense Situation with Music” and “Bomb Squad Saves Power Station.” Dozens — maybe hundreds — of op-ed pieces about a riot that never happened flooded the news sites, written ahead of time, targeted toward townie and refugee alike. Most of them have been pulled, but the Fibbies are already investigating the posters. It seems that Slim was part of a coordinated plan (the word “plot” or even “conspiracy” isn’t too strong here either) to provoke a riot then exploit it to further divide townie from refugee. It might not even be paranoid to consider the possibility that the rumors from both sides were part of this. But the West Coast is starting to have problems now, and there are a few million people just in the US who will be displaced before it’s over — the chaos abroad is at least as bad, and don’t even talk about the Charlie Foxtrot that Bangladesh is becoming even before the flooding starts. Like I’ve said before, it’s really a shame that more people aren’t opening their homes. John’s Creek was a welcome exception, but they took all they could and it was just a drop in the bucket.
Too bad The Boy never got into Crosby Stills and Nash. They did a great song back when, “It Won’t Go Away,” that spoke exactly to this situation: Somebody wants us divided / Someone of evil intent. But he got the job done. At least I was able to talk to him today; he took a little time in between newshound interviews to let me know what was going on.
continued…
Friday, June 05, 2009 5 comments
Flowery Friday
We've got these really gaudy lilies out front, that have been looking like this for a week or so now…
Here’s to a bright, colorful — shall we say loud? — weekend.
Here’s to a bright, colorful — shall we say loud? — weekend.
Thursday, June 04, 2009 2 comments
Pollin', pollin', pollin'…
Time for a new poll, which of course means taking one last look at the old one:
Looks like most of you are realistically pessimistic… on Planet Georgia anyway, gas prices have already crept into the range that the vast majority of you picked. Nobody, at least nobody who voted, thought that prices would go down — neither do I, but I expected someone would pick it on a lark.
There are several paths to TFM, and any blog for that matter — the new poll asks what paths you like to take to get here. There's no right answer, but (depending on the answers) I might change some of the things I’m doing. If you check “other,” be sure to leave a comment to explain it.
Looks like most of you are realistically pessimistic… on Planet Georgia anyway, gas prices have already crept into the range that the vast majority of you picked. Nobody, at least nobody who voted, thought that prices would go down — neither do I, but I expected someone would pick it on a lark.
There are several paths to TFM, and any blog for that matter — the new poll asks what paths you like to take to get here. There's no right answer, but (depending on the answers) I might change some of the things I’m doing. If you check “other,” be sure to leave a comment to explain it.
Monday, June 01, 2009 10 comments
FAR Future, Episode 90: Dropbox
Things are supposed to be cooling off by September. No such luck for The Boy. Actually, in real life, things are fairly cool. We changed the brake pads on (my) Civic yesterday.
Monday, September 1, 2036
Dropbox
Dueling headlines this morning… and The Boy was right in the middle of it. I think I’ve managed to piece everything together, from what he told me and from what was on the news sites.
The chautauqua charter is to bring art to the community — and the opt-outs are definitely a community. They have accepted The Boy, partly because he was close to joining them a few times and partly because he smokes too — they understand each other. He’ll take his acoustic guitar with him, play them some music, smoke with them, maybe play a few more tunes. The chautauqua approves of this, because he seems to have better luck reaching them than do their plays and on-stage concerts. He brings it to them, after all.
Yesterday afternoon, he was playing them a few tunes out behind a power distribution station when they heard gravel crunching. “Those guys can just melt into the brush, I’ve never figured it out,” he said. “They’re with you one minute, the next they’re just gone.” He put down the guitar and ducked down as best as he could, which turned out to be enough to stay hidden. He could see them, though: a Heehaw, electric-quiet, entering the station. Four men in coveralls dragged a large metal box off the back of the Heehaw and lugged it into the guts of the station. A fifth man, slim and dressed in denim, directed them and selected a spot for the box.
“Careful!” Slim hissed at the others. “Make sure you get it lined up.”
“What’s the big deal?” one of the carriers griped. “You said nobody was gonna find this anyway.”
“Yeah,” said another. “Easy enough to give the orders when you ain’t doing the work.”
“You’re getting paid for your work — the better lined up it is, the less likely anyone is to think it doesn’t belong. Besides, I do my part tonight. Now let me set the timer.” He knelt, lifted a hatch, and fiddled inside for a few seconds before closing the hatch. “And that’s that.” He stood and took a folded envelope from a back pocket, then counted out money to each of the big guys. “You won’t have any trouble getting back to Smithfield tonight?”
“Nah,” one of them said. “It’s only 20 kims, and I got a gallon of diesel if the cell goes out.”
“Good. I’d advise staying home tonight and keeping an eye on things. You shouldn’t have any trouble, but sometimes these things get away from you.”
“Yeah.” Slim climbed into the Heehaw’s shotgun seat; one of the big guys took the wheel and the other three raised the sides before climbing into the bed. They spun away, and The Boy waited for them to whirr up the road before climbing out and taking a look at what they’d left behind.
“It was like those boxes you see on street corners—”
“Pedestals,” I suggested.
“Yeah. Just like that. Brown, rounded corners, the only difference was this one had handles for the guys to donkey it in there.” He lifted the lid, and saw 4:37:53… 52… 51. He carefully closed the lid, tiptoed away, and grabbed his guitar. By then, some of the opt-outs had come back.
“What’s going on there?”
“I don’t know,” The Boy said, “but it sure as hell looks like they just left a bomb in the power station. If it is, you don’t want to be here around…” he pulled out his gadget, checked the time, and did some figuring: “20 after 9 tonight. You guys are camped a ways back from this thing, right?”
“Yeah,” one said. “Hey, wasn’t Gib in demolitions during the Oil War? Maybe he could defuse the thing.”
“Or he could set it off early,” another said. “I don’t think Gib would try it… and if he did, I wouldn’t want to be anywhere near.”
“You guys move your stuff,” The Boy said. “I’ll call the sheriff and let the cops blow themselves up. I won’t bring you up so you don’t get involved.”
The opt-outs were amenable to that idea, and got right on it. The Boy shouldered his guitar and headed back to the camp, already punching up 911. Now you have to remember, The Boy has been highly suspicious of cops since he was a teenager — and the incident that sent him to Colorado did nothing to improve his attitude — so he obviously thought this was bad enough that he needed to interact with them. Not that he has much to worry about these days: his teen vice of choice (weed) is still technically illegal, but nobody ever enforces it. His appearance is pretty normal for a traveler, too. But old habits and attitudes are the hardest to shake.
The cops arrived in a two-seater Zap, modified for police use, and The Boy led them to the box. Seeing the timer was enough to convince them, and they called for a bomb squad (which comes out of Richmond in an emergency vehicle, burning fuel by the bucketful). They gave The Boy a lift to the camp, and consulted with the camp director about the situation — the power station served both the camp and Suffolk.
“Yeah,” The Boy told them, “the skinny guy said ‘my part is tonight.’ They’ve already planted a bomb that’ll knock out the power to the camp and town. So what else is he gonna do?”
“Good question,” the camp director said. “With these people spreading rumors and discord, perhaps he’ll incite a riot.”
“Here?” the cop said.
“Here or in town.”
“If he tries startin’ anything in town, we’ll be on him like grease on bacon.”
The Boy snorted.
“We’ll leave a couple of guys out here too, just in case he tries startin’ it here,” the cop continued. “You think you guys can handle things?”
“We might,” The Boy said. “I got an idea.”
continued…
Monday, September 1, 2036
Dropbox
Dueling headlines this morning… and The Boy was right in the middle of it. I think I’ve managed to piece everything together, from what he told me and from what was on the news sites.
The chautauqua charter is to bring art to the community — and the opt-outs are definitely a community. They have accepted The Boy, partly because he was close to joining them a few times and partly because he smokes too — they understand each other. He’ll take his acoustic guitar with him, play them some music, smoke with them, maybe play a few more tunes. The chautauqua approves of this, because he seems to have better luck reaching them than do their plays and on-stage concerts. He brings it to them, after all.
Yesterday afternoon, he was playing them a few tunes out behind a power distribution station when they heard gravel crunching. “Those guys can just melt into the brush, I’ve never figured it out,” he said. “They’re with you one minute, the next they’re just gone.” He put down the guitar and ducked down as best as he could, which turned out to be enough to stay hidden. He could see them, though: a Heehaw, electric-quiet, entering the station. Four men in coveralls dragged a large metal box off the back of the Heehaw and lugged it into the guts of the station. A fifth man, slim and dressed in denim, directed them and selected a spot for the box.
“Careful!” Slim hissed at the others. “Make sure you get it lined up.”
“What’s the big deal?” one of the carriers griped. “You said nobody was gonna find this anyway.”
“Yeah,” said another. “Easy enough to give the orders when you ain’t doing the work.”
“You’re getting paid for your work — the better lined up it is, the less likely anyone is to think it doesn’t belong. Besides, I do my part tonight. Now let me set the timer.” He knelt, lifted a hatch, and fiddled inside for a few seconds before closing the hatch. “And that’s that.” He stood and took a folded envelope from a back pocket, then counted out money to each of the big guys. “You won’t have any trouble getting back to Smithfield tonight?”
“Nah,” one of them said. “It’s only 20 kims, and I got a gallon of diesel if the cell goes out.”
“Good. I’d advise staying home tonight and keeping an eye on things. You shouldn’t have any trouble, but sometimes these things get away from you.”
“Yeah.” Slim climbed into the Heehaw’s shotgun seat; one of the big guys took the wheel and the other three raised the sides before climbing into the bed. They spun away, and The Boy waited for them to whirr up the road before climbing out and taking a look at what they’d left behind.
“It was like those boxes you see on street corners—”
“Pedestals,” I suggested.
“Yeah. Just like that. Brown, rounded corners, the only difference was this one had handles for the guys to donkey it in there.” He lifted the lid, and saw 4:37:53… 52… 51. He carefully closed the lid, tiptoed away, and grabbed his guitar. By then, some of the opt-outs had come back.
“What’s going on there?”
“I don’t know,” The Boy said, “but it sure as hell looks like they just left a bomb in the power station. If it is, you don’t want to be here around…” he pulled out his gadget, checked the time, and did some figuring: “20 after 9 tonight. You guys are camped a ways back from this thing, right?”
“Yeah,” one said. “Hey, wasn’t Gib in demolitions during the Oil War? Maybe he could defuse the thing.”
“Or he could set it off early,” another said. “I don’t think Gib would try it… and if he did, I wouldn’t want to be anywhere near.”
“You guys move your stuff,” The Boy said. “I’ll call the sheriff and let the cops blow themselves up. I won’t bring you up so you don’t get involved.”
The opt-outs were amenable to that idea, and got right on it. The Boy shouldered his guitar and headed back to the camp, already punching up 911. Now you have to remember, The Boy has been highly suspicious of cops since he was a teenager — and the incident that sent him to Colorado did nothing to improve his attitude — so he obviously thought this was bad enough that he needed to interact with them. Not that he has much to worry about these days: his teen vice of choice (weed) is still technically illegal, but nobody ever enforces it. His appearance is pretty normal for a traveler, too. But old habits and attitudes are the hardest to shake.
The cops arrived in a two-seater Zap, modified for police use, and The Boy led them to the box. Seeing the timer was enough to convince them, and they called for a bomb squad (which comes out of Richmond in an emergency vehicle, burning fuel by the bucketful). They gave The Boy a lift to the camp, and consulted with the camp director about the situation — the power station served both the camp and Suffolk.
“Yeah,” The Boy told them, “the skinny guy said ‘my part is tonight.’ They’ve already planted a bomb that’ll knock out the power to the camp and town. So what else is he gonna do?”
“Good question,” the camp director said. “With these people spreading rumors and discord, perhaps he’ll incite a riot.”
“Here?” the cop said.
“Here or in town.”
“If he tries startin’ anything in town, we’ll be on him like grease on bacon.”
The Boy snorted.
“We’ll leave a couple of guys out here too, just in case he tries startin’ it here,” the cop continued. “You think you guys can handle things?”
“We might,” The Boy said. “I got an idea.”
continued…
Friday, May 29, 2009 4 comments
Weekend Cinema
Tuesday, May 26, 2009 10 comments
Honest? Me?
While on vacation, I was awardified by my bud Wooly:
Kind of nice, actually. The easy part is the acceptance speech: I have to say 10 honest things about myself. The harder part is picking out 7 other people to pass the award to — I mean, my blog-buddies are all an honest bunch, how do I pick? Oh well, first things first.
1) I don’t let it all hang out here because my family (mom, dad, daughter, etc.) read it.
2) I don’t feel like I’m 50. I have to agree with Stephen King, who said, “I can’t feel like this, I’m still 19!”
3) I’m a little vain about my hair. Even if it is mostly grey and starting to thin out. I like to grow it a lot longer than Mrs. Fetched likes it.
4) Often, I have trouble finishing things. I wonder sometimes if I’m afraid to succeed.
5) My idea of a perfect day is walking/sitting/wading on the beach, otherwise doing absolutely nothing. I’d probably look for something to do on the second day, though.
6) I am both appalled and excited about the prospect of a grandson. (see #2, see also below)
7) I consider watching TV to be a complete waste of time. Of course, I spend a lot of time online, which is only a 90% waste of time. :-)
8) Living next to a farm has taught me that chickens & cows are evil creatures that deserve to be eaten. And yet, it wouldn’t bother me much to not eat meat.
9) I will spend more time getting my computer to do something for me than I would if I did it myself. On the other hand, the second time around I don’t have to expend much effort at all.
10) I have to constantly remind myself to not obsess over stuff I can’t do anything about.
OK, now comes the hard part. Seven people? Tell you what, if you’re not listed below, you get the award anyway. I did the work, I get to pick. :-P
Beth doesn’t shy away from the low spots in life. We want to have each other’s life. ;-)
Nudge has an opinion, and she ain’t afraid to express it. Gotta love that.
Move Atlanta Motorsports Park wasn’t successful in their effort to stop a Complete Waste of Effort, but they gave it their best shot.
Family Man tells many stories, old and new, all true. He definitely deserves this one.
Joe Vecchio chronicles his struggle with both trying to find decent (honest) work that will allow him to support himself, and trying to understand the nutbars on the far right.
Jen deserves this too, even if she shut down her blog. I learned a lot from her rants.
Finally, you get the nod. Enjoy!
Kind of nice, actually. The easy part is the acceptance speech: I have to say 10 honest things about myself. The harder part is picking out 7 other people to pass the award to — I mean, my blog-buddies are all an honest bunch, how do I pick? Oh well, first things first.
1) I don’t let it all hang out here because my family (mom, dad, daughter, etc.) read it.
2) I don’t feel like I’m 50. I have to agree with Stephen King, who said, “I can’t feel like this, I’m still 19!”
3) I’m a little vain about my hair. Even if it is mostly grey and starting to thin out. I like to grow it a lot longer than Mrs. Fetched likes it.
4) Often, I have trouble finishing things. I wonder sometimes if I’m afraid to succeed.
5) My idea of a perfect day is walking/sitting/wading on the beach, otherwise doing absolutely nothing. I’d probably look for something to do on the second day, though.
6) I am both appalled and excited about the prospect of a grandson. (see #2, see also below)
7) I consider watching TV to be a complete waste of time. Of course, I spend a lot of time online, which is only a 90% waste of time. :-)
8) Living next to a farm has taught me that chickens & cows are evil creatures that deserve to be eaten. And yet, it wouldn’t bother me much to not eat meat.
9) I will spend more time getting my computer to do something for me than I would if I did it myself. On the other hand, the second time around I don’t have to expend much effort at all.
10) I have to constantly remind myself to not obsess over stuff I can’t do anything about.
OK, now comes the hard part. Seven people? Tell you what, if you’re not listed below, you get the award anyway. I did the work, I get to pick. :-P
Beth doesn’t shy away from the low spots in life. We want to have each other’s life. ;-)
Nudge has an opinion, and she ain’t afraid to express it. Gotta love that.
Move Atlanta Motorsports Park wasn’t successful in their effort to stop a Complete Waste of Effort, but they gave it their best shot.
Family Man tells many stories, old and new, all true. He definitely deserves this one.
Joe Vecchio chronicles his struggle with both trying to find decent (honest) work that will allow him to support himself, and trying to understand the nutbars on the far right.
Jen deserves this too, even if she shut down her blog. I learned a lot from her rants.
Finally, you get the nod. Enjoy!
FAR Future, Episode 89: Making the Call
And here’s this week’s bonus episode…
Wednesday, August 20, 2036
Making the Call
“Right.” I filled Rene in on what Col. Mustard told me. “Do you think you can dig up anything on Palmer Lanois, or any of his assistants? One of them might be who’s behind this Talon thing, and all the other stuff.”
“Probably.” He sat down at poked at his gadget for a few minutes. “I can get started now. The evening drop should give me something to work with tonight. Ready to go?”
“Yup. The pipes are clear and everything’s in place.” I wish I was that sure about everything besides the pipes.
We hiked up to the house, and Rene started banging away at the computer. “Anything turn up?” I asked after a few minutes.
“Yeah,” he said. “Lanois walked away from a mental hospital in Baton Rouge on September 1st last year, and just vanished.”
“The puzzle coming together?”
“This was definitely a missing piece. I think it’s time we share what we know.”
I rummaged around in my old contacts, and found the phone number from the Fibbies who interviewed me after the junta fell. I’ll refer to them as Mulder and Scully (and you probably have to be over 50 to catch that reference). I had no idea whether they were still with the Feds or not; they could have retired or moved on to some other department or section. But this was the number I had, and they told me to call if I ever learned any information.
“Director Mulder’s office,” the receptionist said. “Can I help you?”
I identified myself. “Mr. Mulder visited me some time ago, back when he was an agent, about a tenuous connection I had to the junta, and said to call me if I thought of anything. Something, maybe important, has fallen into my lap, and I think you guys need to take it from here. Oh… he wrote on the back of his card, ‘E317,’ does that mean anything?”
“Hang on a second, Mr. Fetched,” he said, and I heard taptappytappitytaptap. “Yes sir. Hold, please, I’m going to transfer you.”
I had the speaker on, and Rene and I looked at each other. “You think —”
“Director Mulder. You say you’ve learned something?”
“I may have. One of the people living with me, Rene Cardenas, he was in EDID in the war and —”
“Is he with you now?”
“Yes,” Rene said. “Is that all right?”
“Certainly,” said Mulder, and I heard tappity tap once again. “Oh… that Rene Cardenas?”
Rene sighed. “That’s him,” I laughed. “He’s a little modest about the war, but he does know how to go digging for info. You’re aware of the flood of flamebait coming down the newsfeeds, right? We might have connected it to Palmer Lanois, somehow.” I nudged Rene, and let him fill in Mulder on the visit from the Talon people, my relationship with Col. Mustard, and some connections that I hadn’t even been aware of.
“We’ve been watching these people too,” Mulder said. “But I have to admit, there are a couple of things we weren’t aware of. Mr. Cardenas: do you think they have some way to communicate off-net? We haven’t seen anything that looks coordinated on the net — or actionable.”
“Encrypted radio transmissions,” Rene said. “Send small packets, maybe over shortwave. You get a low bitrate, but for text that isn’t a huge problem and you don’t have to worry about routers. I don’t know if that’s what they’re doing, but that’s one way to do it. Sunspots are pretty high right now, so the higher end of the band is open a lot.”
“Right. I really appreciate this information. We’ll see if we can find anything suspicious on the air. If we’re lucky, it’ll lead us to Lanois. Thanks for your time.” He hung up.
“That was a little rude,” Rene said.
“He’s probably excited. I suspect getting Lanois back on the reservation is their Number One priority at the moment.”
“Probably —” Serena and Pat walking in broke that train of thought.
“I was starting to get worried,” Serena said. “It would have been nice if you’d let us know what was going on.” Pat gave me his what’s going on anyway? look.
I looked at the clock on the computer. “An hour and a half? I’m sorry, Serena. I got a call from Col. Mustard and he gave me a name. Rene found out the guy — Palmer Lanois, the one we called Swamp Thing back in the junta days — has been loose since last September, and —” Too late, I realized Pat was still there, taking it all in.
“Pat, why don’t you head on back?” Serena suggested. “Let the others know everything’s OK.”
“What’s going on?” Pat said. “I want to know.”
“Rene could tell you,” I said, “but then he’d have to kill you.” Serena snorted and Rene gave me a puzzled look. Pat just shook his head and left, poking at his gadget as he went. I waved at Rene and Serena to carry on, and caught up to Pat as he was going out the door.
“There’s some stuff going on,” I told him, “and we might have figured out where it’s coming from.”
“You mean with the refugees? I hear stuff all the time, but they’re not like that. We have two families here, and it’s been fine.”
“I know. But somebody’s making a bunch of noise, trying to get people stirred up, and we’re trying to find out why.”
“So who is it?”
“Some people, at least one of them anyway, who were associated with the junta back when.”
“Gas. I wasn’t even born when they got thrown out. They ’re still around?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “It might be some other group using one old junta guy.”
“Yeah.”
I took advantage of the pause: “You making any headway on your new clatter track?”
He pulled it up on his gadget. Knowing how to change the subject is most of the battle.
continued…
Wednesday, August 20, 2036
Making the Call
“Right.” I filled Rene in on what Col. Mustard told me. “Do you think you can dig up anything on Palmer Lanois, or any of his assistants? One of them might be who’s behind this Talon thing, and all the other stuff.”
“Probably.” He sat down at poked at his gadget for a few minutes. “I can get started now. The evening drop should give me something to work with tonight. Ready to go?”
“Yup. The pipes are clear and everything’s in place.” I wish I was that sure about everything besides the pipes.
We hiked up to the house, and Rene started banging away at the computer. “Anything turn up?” I asked after a few minutes.
“Yeah,” he said. “Lanois walked away from a mental hospital in Baton Rouge on September 1st last year, and just vanished.”
“The puzzle coming together?”
“This was definitely a missing piece. I think it’s time we share what we know.”
I rummaged around in my old contacts, and found the phone number from the Fibbies who interviewed me after the junta fell. I’ll refer to them as Mulder and Scully (and you probably have to be over 50 to catch that reference). I had no idea whether they were still with the Feds or not; they could have retired or moved on to some other department or section. But this was the number I had, and they told me to call if I ever learned any information.
“Director Mulder’s office,” the receptionist said. “Can I help you?”
I identified myself. “Mr. Mulder visited me some time ago, back when he was an agent, about a tenuous connection I had to the junta, and said to call me if I thought of anything. Something, maybe important, has fallen into my lap, and I think you guys need to take it from here. Oh… he wrote on the back of his card, ‘E317,’ does that mean anything?”
“Hang on a second, Mr. Fetched,” he said, and I heard taptappytappitytaptap. “Yes sir. Hold, please, I’m going to transfer you.”
I had the speaker on, and Rene and I looked at each other. “You think —”
“Director Mulder. You say you’ve learned something?”
“I may have. One of the people living with me, Rene Cardenas, he was in EDID in the war and —”
“Is he with you now?”
“Yes,” Rene said. “Is that all right?”
“Certainly,” said Mulder, and I heard tappity tap once again. “Oh… that Rene Cardenas?”
Rene sighed. “That’s him,” I laughed. “He’s a little modest about the war, but he does know how to go digging for info. You’re aware of the flood of flamebait coming down the newsfeeds, right? We might have connected it to Palmer Lanois, somehow.” I nudged Rene, and let him fill in Mulder on the visit from the Talon people, my relationship with Col. Mustard, and some connections that I hadn’t even been aware of.
“We’ve been watching these people too,” Mulder said. “But I have to admit, there are a couple of things we weren’t aware of. Mr. Cardenas: do you think they have some way to communicate off-net? We haven’t seen anything that looks coordinated on the net — or actionable.”
“Encrypted radio transmissions,” Rene said. “Send small packets, maybe over shortwave. You get a low bitrate, but for text that isn’t a huge problem and you don’t have to worry about routers. I don’t know if that’s what they’re doing, but that’s one way to do it. Sunspots are pretty high right now, so the higher end of the band is open a lot.”
“Right. I really appreciate this information. We’ll see if we can find anything suspicious on the air. If we’re lucky, it’ll lead us to Lanois. Thanks for your time.” He hung up.
“That was a little rude,” Rene said.
“He’s probably excited. I suspect getting Lanois back on the reservation is their Number One priority at the moment.”
“Probably —” Serena and Pat walking in broke that train of thought.
“I was starting to get worried,” Serena said. “It would have been nice if you’d let us know what was going on.” Pat gave me his what’s going on anyway? look.
I looked at the clock on the computer. “An hour and a half? I’m sorry, Serena. I got a call from Col. Mustard and he gave me a name. Rene found out the guy — Palmer Lanois, the one we called Swamp Thing back in the junta days — has been loose since last September, and —” Too late, I realized Pat was still there, taking it all in.
“Pat, why don’t you head on back?” Serena suggested. “Let the others know everything’s OK.”
“What’s going on?” Pat said. “I want to know.”
“Rene could tell you,” I said, “but then he’d have to kill you.” Serena snorted and Rene gave me a puzzled look. Pat just shook his head and left, poking at his gadget as he went. I waved at Rene and Serena to carry on, and caught up to Pat as he was going out the door.
“There’s some stuff going on,” I told him, “and we might have figured out where it’s coming from.”
“You mean with the refugees? I hear stuff all the time, but they’re not like that. We have two families here, and it’s been fine.”
“I know. But somebody’s making a bunch of noise, trying to get people stirred up, and we’re trying to find out why.”
“So who is it?”
“Some people, at least one of them anyway, who were associated with the junta back when.”
“Gas. I wasn’t even born when they got thrown out. They ’re still around?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “It might be some other group using one old junta guy.”
“Yeah.”
I took advantage of the pause: “You making any headway on your new clatter track?”
He pulled it up on his gadget. Knowing how to change the subject is most of the battle.
continued…
Monday, May 25, 2009 2 comments
FAR Future, Episode 88: Heat Wave
Sorry folks, vacation and the following three-day weekend threw me off. Let me make up for it with a two-fer. Come back tomorrow for the next one…
Wednesday, August 20, 2036
Heat Wave
The Boy sent me a track of his raunchy new song, “On the Centerline.” It’s about a chance encounter with a woman on the road, which he says an opt-out told him about (saying “an opt-out told me about it” is like “the dog ate my homework”). The third verse, which gives you an idea without being completely offensive: Her skin was tough and wrinkled / weathered by the road / But her eyes still twinkled / with stories she had told / Despite her rough appearance / she still looked sorta fine / 'Cause woman are few and far between / Out on the centerline. The storyteller ends up with an itchy souvenir of his encounter…
It’s getting hot, in more ways than one. It’s been really pleasant this summer — temps around 30 most of the time, breezy (not enough to turn the windmills, but still feels good), humidity reasonable. That all changed Monday… it jumped to 35+ and that good ol’ Planet Georgia humidity has returned. We handle it like we did last summer: get the things done that need to get done as early as possible, and spend the rest of the day at the creek. Bobby and Martina have been a huge help in that regard, since they’re up even before the chickens and get a lot of things done before breakfast. We have a screen tent, picnic table, cooler, all the conveniences of modern life down at the creek (the cooler has a small refrigeration unit that runs off a solar panel). Since it runs alongside the pasture, we can send someone to check on the cows every so often and it’s actually more convenient than doing it from the house. Mini-vacation for a baker’s dozen.
If it’s hot outside, it’s getting even hotter on the newsfeeds. The New Talon bunch surfaced again, this time online, newsbombing refugee-oriented sites with fakeumentaries, opinion pieces, and breathless snippets of supposed news. The theme seems to be how the refugees are mostly being neglected by the feds and treated as second-class citizens (if that) by the surrounding populace. There are three or four different “organizations” flogging this goop, but it all sounds like the same stuff written by different people. On “local news” sites, it’s just the opposite: wild-eyed reports of refugees inflicting illegal drugs, crime, and general disorder on everyone around them, while getting lavish handouts from the feds. Both sides carry horror stories about adopted refugee families… the Talon video featured two people who were obviously Sean and Mary, although their faces were blurred out, the names were assumed, and the voices were completely different even accounting for the deliberate distortion “to protect our sources.” Sean shook his head, but Mary was incensed about having words literally put into her mouth and wanted to recruit Serena and Daughter Dearest to help her wreak some mayhem on their offices.
Serena got Rene to spill one bean. “That address is a dropbox,” he told Mary. “I really didn’t want to say anything until I finished working this puzzle, and I’m missing a couple of pieces. But it won’t hurt to tell you that much.” Knowing Rene and what he’s capable of, he probably has the home addresses for Fred and Barney, but would consider that need to know. The government is a lot less intrusive than it used to be, thanks to a reduced energy supply, but can still get very intrusive on an individual basis if provoked.
While we were eating lunch, I got a ping from Col. Mustard down in John’s Creek. Call me. Ears only. I made up an excuse — it was my day to check the greywater irrigation and I’d forgotten to do it — and hiked away, calling once I was sure I was out of earshot.
“Thanks for getting back to me,” he said. “Did you see the stuff popping up on the newsfeeds today?”
“Yeah. One of the videos had Sean and Mary, but they dubbed in what they wanted them to say and blurred their faces.”
“Right. Did you get the idea that it all looked… coordinated?”
“Seems like things blew up overnight. I was seeing occasional rumor-mongering before, but it’s like… I don’t know.”
“Turning up a leaky faucet,” Col. Mustard said, getting a laugh out of me.
“Coordinated. Any ideas who’s doing the coordinating?”
“If I didn’t know better, I’d say it looks a lot like the kind of job Palmer Lanois would’ve done.”
I’d not heard that name in a decade, and it still made me shiver. “Swamp Thing? Wouldn’t he have gotten a life sentence?” Lanois was an Evil Genius with propaganda, perhaps the Goebbels of the 21st century; he made Karl Rove look like an amateur. Whatever harebrained idea the junta came up with, Lanois put frosting on the crap and served it up to the people as cupcakes. “Please don’t tell me he talked his way out of prison.”
“Not necessarily. It was pretty well-known even in the outer circles that he was a nutter. He wouldn’t have been safe in general population, and they wouldn’t have put him with junta symps because he’d have organized them into a riot squad. I think he ended up in a mental hospital.”
“And probably walked away not long ago,” I suggested. He wasn’t violent himself, so he wouldn’t be watched carefully… after a while, even famous inmates don’t engender much fascination, especially when they aren’t doing anything eye-catching. He could have simply stood up one day and checked himself out sans paperwork.
“Could be. It could be someone else, someone who studied under him. Or someone who came along later, who studied his methods.” He paused. “Damn. They caught somebody poaching our garden. I gotta process him. Call me later, if you need to.”
“Sure. Thanks much!” I hung up and called Rene. “Hey, could you come up here and — ahem — give me a hand? I think we can do it ourselves, no need to bring anyone else.”
“Um… sure,” he said. About five minutes later, he came jogging up the path. “What’s up? It ain’t the pipes, is it?”
continued…!
Wednesday, August 20, 2036
Heat Wave
The Boy sent me a track of his raunchy new song, “On the Centerline.” It’s about a chance encounter with a woman on the road, which he says an opt-out told him about (saying “an opt-out told me about it” is like “the dog ate my homework”). The third verse, which gives you an idea without being completely offensive: Her skin was tough and wrinkled / weathered by the road / But her eyes still twinkled / with stories she had told / Despite her rough appearance / she still looked sorta fine / 'Cause woman are few and far between / Out on the centerline. The storyteller ends up with an itchy souvenir of his encounter…
It’s getting hot, in more ways than one. It’s been really pleasant this summer — temps around 30 most of the time, breezy (not enough to turn the windmills, but still feels good), humidity reasonable. That all changed Monday… it jumped to 35+ and that good ol’ Planet Georgia humidity has returned. We handle it like we did last summer: get the things done that need to get done as early as possible, and spend the rest of the day at the creek. Bobby and Martina have been a huge help in that regard, since they’re up even before the chickens and get a lot of things done before breakfast. We have a screen tent, picnic table, cooler, all the conveniences of modern life down at the creek (the cooler has a small refrigeration unit that runs off a solar panel). Since it runs alongside the pasture, we can send someone to check on the cows every so often and it’s actually more convenient than doing it from the house. Mini-vacation for a baker’s dozen.
If it’s hot outside, it’s getting even hotter on the newsfeeds. The New Talon bunch surfaced again, this time online, newsbombing refugee-oriented sites with fakeumentaries, opinion pieces, and breathless snippets of supposed news. The theme seems to be how the refugees are mostly being neglected by the feds and treated as second-class citizens (if that) by the surrounding populace. There are three or four different “organizations” flogging this goop, but it all sounds like the same stuff written by different people. On “local news” sites, it’s just the opposite: wild-eyed reports of refugees inflicting illegal drugs, crime, and general disorder on everyone around them, while getting lavish handouts from the feds. Both sides carry horror stories about adopted refugee families… the Talon video featured two people who were obviously Sean and Mary, although their faces were blurred out, the names were assumed, and the voices were completely different even accounting for the deliberate distortion “to protect our sources.” Sean shook his head, but Mary was incensed about having words literally put into her mouth and wanted to recruit Serena and Daughter Dearest to help her wreak some mayhem on their offices.
Serena got Rene to spill one bean. “That address is a dropbox,” he told Mary. “I really didn’t want to say anything until I finished working this puzzle, and I’m missing a couple of pieces. But it won’t hurt to tell you that much.” Knowing Rene and what he’s capable of, he probably has the home addresses for Fred and Barney, but would consider that need to know. The government is a lot less intrusive than it used to be, thanks to a reduced energy supply, but can still get very intrusive on an individual basis if provoked.
While we were eating lunch, I got a ping from Col. Mustard down in John’s Creek. Call me. Ears only. I made up an excuse — it was my day to check the greywater irrigation and I’d forgotten to do it — and hiked away, calling once I was sure I was out of earshot.
“Thanks for getting back to me,” he said. “Did you see the stuff popping up on the newsfeeds today?”
“Yeah. One of the videos had Sean and Mary, but they dubbed in what they wanted them to say and blurred their faces.”
“Right. Did you get the idea that it all looked… coordinated?”
“Seems like things blew up overnight. I was seeing occasional rumor-mongering before, but it’s like… I don’t know.”
“Turning up a leaky faucet,” Col. Mustard said, getting a laugh out of me.
“Coordinated. Any ideas who’s doing the coordinating?”
“If I didn’t know better, I’d say it looks a lot like the kind of job Palmer Lanois would’ve done.”
I’d not heard that name in a decade, and it still made me shiver. “Swamp Thing? Wouldn’t he have gotten a life sentence?” Lanois was an Evil Genius with propaganda, perhaps the Goebbels of the 21st century; he made Karl Rove look like an amateur. Whatever harebrained idea the junta came up with, Lanois put frosting on the crap and served it up to the people as cupcakes. “Please don’t tell me he talked his way out of prison.”
“Not necessarily. It was pretty well-known even in the outer circles that he was a nutter. He wouldn’t have been safe in general population, and they wouldn’t have put him with junta symps because he’d have organized them into a riot squad. I think he ended up in a mental hospital.”
“And probably walked away not long ago,” I suggested. He wasn’t violent himself, so he wouldn’t be watched carefully… after a while, even famous inmates don’t engender much fascination, especially when they aren’t doing anything eye-catching. He could have simply stood up one day and checked himself out sans paperwork.
“Could be. It could be someone else, someone who studied under him. Or someone who came along later, who studied his methods.” He paused. “Damn. They caught somebody poaching our garden. I gotta process him. Call me later, if you need to.”
“Sure. Thanks much!” I hung up and called Rene. “Hey, could you come up here and — ahem — give me a hand? I think we can do it ourselves, no need to bring anyone else.”
“Um… sure,” he said. About five minutes later, he came jogging up the path. “What’s up? It ain’t the pipes, is it?”
continued…!
Monday, May 18, 2009 5 comments
FAR Future, Episode 87: Virginia Slam
With the story itself finished, I’m busying myself with filling in some of the background stuff. Song lyrics, one of Serena’s plays, maybe a few “ePedia” entries later on. Now that the main job is done, some of this is clamoring to get out too.
Thursday, July 24, 2036
Virginia Slam
The Boy gave us a call today from the camp outside of Suffolk VA, between Richmond and Norfolk.
“Hey! Guess what?”
“Um… you got married?” I laughed.
“Ha. I was at a salvage shop in Suffolk today, and I found a Les Paul and an amp — 80 bucks!”
“Why so cheap?”
“Everyone’s going acoustic these days. Don’t have to worry about the power going out, and some bars don’t even have electric except to keep the beer cold. I’m chopping the amp, converting it to run on a fuel cell.”
“Does it all work?”
“Yeah, the guy let me try it out. He even threw in some strings he had laying in a whatever bin.”
“So what are you going to do with it?”
“Play some old stuff. I figure with a full fuel cell, I can play all night if I want.”
“As long as you can recharge it.”
“Yeah, there’s that. But they got genbikes everywhere here in the camp, and I can pay a kid to pedal for me. It’ll go about the same amount of time you charge it — pedal an hour, play an hour.”
“Good luck with that, then. How is everything else going?”
“It’s a job. But people are getting real weird. I keep hearing stuff that’s just bullshit.”
“People are always gonna give you a line if you let them,” I said.
“Yeah. But some of this — it’s just whacked. Townies are sayin’ the refugees are running whee and zone labs and sellin’ the shit to kids —”
“Both? And no turf wars?”
“Yeah. Like I said, whoever’s startin’ this stuff don’t know jack. And the refugees are sayin’ the townies are raisin’ a militia to come shoot up the camp and get ’em all to leave.”
“And you’re hearing both sides? How?”
“Yeah. I go into town and eat sometimes. Some of the townies are real assholes, they thought I was an opt-out because I smoke, then they think I’m a refugee, but then they apologize when I tell ’em I’m with the chautauqua. Then they start sayin’ that crap. I try to tell ’em different and it’s like they don’t want to hear it.”
“I’m surprised you bought that guitar, then.” The Boy has never been one to laugh off an affront — which is how he ran afoul of the junta and won a trip to Colorado.
“That guy at the shop, he was cool,” The Boy said. “He deals with refugees and opt-outs all the time. He hears the stories too, but he knows they’re crap.”
“So how long are you going to be there?”
“About a month. We’ll run out of material before then, so we’ll do a few shows in town before we move on. The townies don’t go out to the camp, so they won’t know we’re playing the same stuff we did in the camp.”
“I guess. Have you seen any of those news crews like the ones that came by here in March?”
“Everyone hears about ’em. But nobody ever sees ’em. What’s with that?”
“I wish I knew.”
He asked me how things were going at the manor, and said to thank Serena for the script. She still has a certain cachet in the chautauqua movement. Things here go as they often do in the summer… just not as hot as usual. We still sleep on the porch or in screen tents, except when there’s heavy rain, which we’ve had more often than usual this summer. The kids love sleeping outside, as they always have, and they have a tent of their own so the couples can have a little privacy. Bobby and Martina continue to show no signs of early romance — and believe me, everyone has been watching carefully! — so it hasn’t been a problem. Then again, they have to share the tent with Pat and Ray, and Pat’s more or less in charge. He put them on opposite sides, Ray next to Martina.
Speaking of Pat, he submitted a clatter track to a music sharing site, and get reasonably positive feedback. The criticism has all been along the lines of “too derivative, sounds like Klappernwerk” or some other group. Then again, anyone not into clatter says it all sounds the same, so Pat (like any clatter artist) is trying to come up with something sufficiently different to be his own but still be clatter. Samples of non-metallic instruments are cropping up in some tracks these days… purists frown on anything that isn’t an improvised percussion instrument, but new genres always go through a phase of defining themselves (or expanding their audiences). Lyrics, or at least vocals, are the newest frontier — “Bang Out the Beat” (track, album, and artist all share the name) was #5 on the clatter download charts last week, and looks to be around a while.
Ray’s into everything, now that he’s gotten familiar with the various routines around here. The dogs absolutely love him, and will do anything for him in the pasture… it’s really amazing. He can point to a calf, tell the dogs to put it up, and they’ll cut it out of the herd and chase it into the holding pen. We talked about entering him in the next stock dog trials, but his parents nixed it. Not sure what the deal is there; maybe they don’t want to be too tied to this place.
There was a time I could relate.
continued…
Thursday, July 24, 2036
Virginia Slam
The Boy gave us a call today from the camp outside of Suffolk VA, between Richmond and Norfolk.
“Hey! Guess what?”
“Um… you got married?” I laughed.
“Ha. I was at a salvage shop in Suffolk today, and I found a Les Paul and an amp — 80 bucks!”
“Why so cheap?”
“Everyone’s going acoustic these days. Don’t have to worry about the power going out, and some bars don’t even have electric except to keep the beer cold. I’m chopping the amp, converting it to run on a fuel cell.”
“Does it all work?”
“Yeah, the guy let me try it out. He even threw in some strings he had laying in a whatever bin.”
“So what are you going to do with it?”
“Play some old stuff. I figure with a full fuel cell, I can play all night if I want.”
“As long as you can recharge it.”
“Yeah, there’s that. But they got genbikes everywhere here in the camp, and I can pay a kid to pedal for me. It’ll go about the same amount of time you charge it — pedal an hour, play an hour.”
“Good luck with that, then. How is everything else going?”
“It’s a job. But people are getting real weird. I keep hearing stuff that’s just bullshit.”
“People are always gonna give you a line if you let them,” I said.
“Yeah. But some of this — it’s just whacked. Townies are sayin’ the refugees are running whee and zone labs and sellin’ the shit to kids —”
“Both? And no turf wars?”
“Yeah. Like I said, whoever’s startin’ this stuff don’t know jack. And the refugees are sayin’ the townies are raisin’ a militia to come shoot up the camp and get ’em all to leave.”
“And you’re hearing both sides? How?”
“Yeah. I go into town and eat sometimes. Some of the townies are real assholes, they thought I was an opt-out because I smoke, then they think I’m a refugee, but then they apologize when I tell ’em I’m with the chautauqua. Then they start sayin’ that crap. I try to tell ’em different and it’s like they don’t want to hear it.”
“I’m surprised you bought that guitar, then.” The Boy has never been one to laugh off an affront — which is how he ran afoul of the junta and won a trip to Colorado.
“That guy at the shop, he was cool,” The Boy said. “He deals with refugees and opt-outs all the time. He hears the stories too, but he knows they’re crap.”
“So how long are you going to be there?”
“About a month. We’ll run out of material before then, so we’ll do a few shows in town before we move on. The townies don’t go out to the camp, so they won’t know we’re playing the same stuff we did in the camp.”
“I guess. Have you seen any of those news crews like the ones that came by here in March?”
“Everyone hears about ’em. But nobody ever sees ’em. What’s with that?”
“I wish I knew.”
He asked me how things were going at the manor, and said to thank Serena for the script. She still has a certain cachet in the chautauqua movement. Things here go as they often do in the summer… just not as hot as usual. We still sleep on the porch or in screen tents, except when there’s heavy rain, which we’ve had more often than usual this summer. The kids love sleeping outside, as they always have, and they have a tent of their own so the couples can have a little privacy. Bobby and Martina continue to show no signs of early romance — and believe me, everyone has been watching carefully! — so it hasn’t been a problem. Then again, they have to share the tent with Pat and Ray, and Pat’s more or less in charge. He put them on opposite sides, Ray next to Martina.
Speaking of Pat, he submitted a clatter track to a music sharing site, and get reasonably positive feedback. The criticism has all been along the lines of “too derivative, sounds like Klappernwerk” or some other group. Then again, anyone not into clatter says it all sounds the same, so Pat (like any clatter artist) is trying to come up with something sufficiently different to be his own but still be clatter. Samples of non-metallic instruments are cropping up in some tracks these days… purists frown on anything that isn’t an improvised percussion instrument, but new genres always go through a phase of defining themselves (or expanding their audiences). Lyrics, or at least vocals, are the newest frontier — “Bang Out the Beat” (track, album, and artist all share the name) was #5 on the clatter download charts last week, and looks to be around a while.
Ray’s into everything, now that he’s gotten familiar with the various routines around here. The dogs absolutely love him, and will do anything for him in the pasture… it’s really amazing. He can point to a calf, tell the dogs to put it up, and they’ll cut it out of the herd and chase it into the holding pen. We talked about entering him in the next stock dog trials, but his parents nixed it. Not sure what the deal is there; maybe they don’t want to be too tied to this place.
There was a time I could relate.
continued…
Saturday, May 16, 2009 2 comments
Crazy Rhodo and the Flower Power
Sounds like a good name for a rock band, huh?
She has her accompanists…
Like Sage.
Sage adds a little spice to the music. She's pretty strong, and likes to spread out. She’s been around for a while.
Then there's the wild child of the band, "Mountain" Laurel:
Laurel’s a big girl, which is how she got her nickname. But she sure dresses up nice…
Then there’s Rose:
Rose is a thorny one, and has an attitude. She pretty much takes over wherever she’s planted. Pull her up and she comes right back.
Finally, there’s Iris:
Iris is a thin, shy girl. But she’s pretty and all the fans wish they could be her.
Meanwhile, in real life, The Boy and his band were here playing their own music today. Mrs. Fetched is cooking sausage for a breakfast casserole tomorrow, and the aroma is somewhat distracting…
She has her accompanists…
Like Sage.
Sage adds a little spice to the music. She's pretty strong, and likes to spread out. She’s been around for a while.
Then there's the wild child of the band, "Mountain" Laurel:
Laurel’s a big girl, which is how she got her nickname. But she sure dresses up nice…
Then there’s Rose:
Rose is a thorny one, and has an attitude. She pretty much takes over wherever she’s planted. Pull her up and she comes right back.
Finally, there’s Iris:
Iris is a thin, shy girl. But she’s pretty and all the fans wish they could be her.
Meanwhile, in real life, The Boy and his band were here playing their own music today. Mrs. Fetched is cooking sausage for a breakfast casserole tomorrow, and the aroma is somewhat distracting…
Monday, May 11, 2009 13 comments
FAR Future, Episode 86: Generation 3
I’ve finished up the first draft in real life, but even at two posts a week it will still be a while… and I’m not going to put up two posts every week…
Saturday, June 28, 2036
Generation 3
The tradition continues…
I’ll have to say, he has good penmanship. Mine was never that good, even before I learned to type.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen two earlier-rising kids than Bobby and Martina… ever. But when you’re a kid, the greatest treasure of all is having a friend who’s completely simpatico. Rene and Serena and I had a little powwow one evening about them. “So how’s it gonna go down?” I asked them. “Like you two, or the Kim/Christina extreme? Or something in between?”
“More like us than them, I think,” Serena said. “Even when we were that age, the dynamics of the relationships got established pretty quickly. You just had to be looking for it.”
“I saw it,” Rene said, “but I didn’t realize what it was at first. I wasn’t thinking of my little sister being in love with Kim… I just thought she was acting weird.”
I laughed. “So we have like ten years before we need to start worrying?”
Sean and Mary, Martina’s parents, are less sanguine about the situation… which is normal for the parents of daughters. But it should be at least a couple of years before the hormones start flowing, and even they have to admit that the two of them act like a normal pair of kids. Serena told them about Kim and Christina, and the ways that Bobby and Martina are not like them, and that seemed to help.
“And when they get to be teenagers, they’ll probably start sleeping in,” Sean suggested. “Early morning’s the only time I know of that they’re not being supervised.”
“That and when they’re hunting up firewood,” I added. “But we can always put them on a different job if we have to.”
The kids will be getting The Talk in a couple of years, I think, whether they need it or not. At least I won’t have to be the one to do it this time. God willing, if it comes down to it, I’ll be around to perform the initial wedding service though.
continued…
Saturday, June 28, 2036
Generation 3
The tradition continues…
Hi everyone. I'm Bobby. I found Granddad's printed blog, I guess that makes it a diary. Mom and Dad both said he would probably let me write something for it. I said I couldn't think of anything, and Dad laughed and said that happened to him the first time too. Granddad said that it happens to everyone, just not all the time. Mom said to just talk about what we do during the day, because people like to hear about that. She said not everybody lives like us, I guess she meant Uncle Kim and Aunt Christina and Little Mo and Robin, down in Atlanta. So this is what our days are like.
Me and Martina get up before everyone, most mornings. I don't know why, but we both wake up around 5:30 or 6 and we're just not tired anymore. So I go downstairs, and Martina comes in from her place, and we talk or read or do our homework until someone else comes in. Sometimes we play checkers. As long as we're quiet, nobody minds. We only woke everyone up once, in February when we got 10 whole cm of snow! Martina had to walk through it to get in the house, and she told me about it, so we ran outside and got a little noisy. When it was still cold out, we also brought in firewood to keep the heater going. Mom said we should fix breakfast for everyone, but she was just kidding. She doesn't want us getting cut or burned or something.
Sometimes, Martina wants us to make a story, so we have to go outside. That's OK in the summer anyway, because we can see and it's warm out. If it's our turn to weed the garden, we do that while we make the story. The grownups don't like when we go to the garden ourselves, but we take the dogs and there's never been a problem.
Whatever we do, when the grownups get up we have breakfast. Martina's place, and Ray's, have kitchens but mostly everyone eats together in the big house. Granddad gets out what he calls the duty roster, which is what everyone's supposed to do that day, and sometimes the grownups trade jobs if they want. If we got a head start on our job, they tell us if we have to help someone else. But most of the time, we go looking for fell-down trees for firewood. We mark the big ones on a GPS and drag smaller ones out if we can. Robin and Little Mo get to come with us sometimes, but they’re not used to how we do things so sometimes they’re just in the way. But they’re a lot of help when we drag trees out of the woods.
In the afternoons, everyone goes down to the creek. It's not as hot as last summer, but that's OK. We just take our clothes off and jump in. Sometimes the grownups jump in too, but they don't always take off their clothes. That's so weird, they have to walk back with their clothes all wet! Ours get a little wet, but we mostly dry off first so we don't squish in our shoes. Martina says the grownups are embarrassed, but that's silly. What do they have to be embarrassed about? Clothes are to keep warm or keep from getting scratched up when you're outside.
The other weird thing grownups do is spend a lot of time on computers or watching TV when it comes on. Granddad thought I was going to type this into his computer, but that's what old people do. I can use a computer, but I don't do it for fun.
I’ll have to say, he has good penmanship. Mine was never that good, even before I learned to type.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen two earlier-rising kids than Bobby and Martina… ever. But when you’re a kid, the greatest treasure of all is having a friend who’s completely simpatico. Rene and Serena and I had a little powwow one evening about them. “So how’s it gonna go down?” I asked them. “Like you two, or the Kim/Christina extreme? Or something in between?”
“More like us than them, I think,” Serena said. “Even when we were that age, the dynamics of the relationships got established pretty quickly. You just had to be looking for it.”
“I saw it,” Rene said, “but I didn’t realize what it was at first. I wasn’t thinking of my little sister being in love with Kim… I just thought she was acting weird.”
I laughed. “So we have like ten years before we need to start worrying?”
Sean and Mary, Martina’s parents, are less sanguine about the situation… which is normal for the parents of daughters. But it should be at least a couple of years before the hormones start flowing, and even they have to admit that the two of them act like a normal pair of kids. Serena told them about Kim and Christina, and the ways that Bobby and Martina are not like them, and that seemed to help.
“And when they get to be teenagers, they’ll probably start sleeping in,” Sean suggested. “Early morning’s the only time I know of that they’re not being supervised.”
“That and when they’re hunting up firewood,” I added. “But we can always put them on a different job if we have to.”
The kids will be getting The Talk in a couple of years, I think, whether they need it or not. At least I won’t have to be the one to do it this time. God willing, if it comes down to it, I’ll be around to perform the initial wedding service though.
continued…
Saturday, May 09, 2009 9 comments
FINISHED!
After nearly two years of on & off, I’ve finally completed FAR Future!
Well, the first draft, anyway. The way I’ve been doing things lately, I’ll be back in there tweaking and poking almost right up to the moment I post each episode. I might even stick one more episode in toward the end… just depends.
At a post a week, it’ll run until August; there’s going to be at least a few two-fers though. But I also have a few "deleted scenes" and an alternate episode that I’ll post after The End, and maybe an appendix of future history.
Celebrate today. Tomorrow, I’ll start turning it into a novel.
Well, the first draft, anyway. The way I’ve been doing things lately, I’ll be back in there tweaking and poking almost right up to the moment I post each episode. I might even stick one more episode in toward the end… just depends.
At a post a week, it’ll run until August; there’s going to be at least a few two-fers though. But I also have a few "deleted scenes" and an alternate episode that I’ll post after The End, and maybe an appendix of future history.
Celebrate today. Tomorrow, I’ll start turning it into a novel.
Friday, May 08, 2009 6 comments
Post-pourri (including Weekend Cinema)
The usual collection of stuff that kind of kicked around all week but I never got a chance to post. And since it’s already Friday, a short-and-silly video awaits…
From the “Stupidog is one word” files: Mrs. Fetched decided she wanted to breed Crissy, her thoroughly obnoxious Austrian Shep mix who happened to be in heat, and got Luke (another shep) from her mom and put him in the pen with her. And he proceeded to… do nothing. Well, that’s not completely true: he forced his way out of the pen through a hole in the gate. I got him back in and wired the hole shut. He proceeded to open the latch (he knows how to do that) and ran home. (Maybe he’s gay?)
After most of a week of not seeing Sasquatch around, he came by Wednesday evening with Jar Jar in tow. The latter needed to get away from his family for a while, so naturally he came to the manor. :-) He was hoping for a chance to work and earn a few bucks, but all he got was raking up the grass in the (small) front yard after I mowed it yesterday afternoon. At least Jar Jar managed to not do anything spectacularly clumsy this time — about the only thing that went w0rNg on his watch was DD’s computer’s audio cutting out for a few hours overnight. He’d been using the laptop a lot, so I figured it overheated then brought the sound back after it cooled off a bit. He, Daughter Dearest, and Sasquatch played a fair amount of Magic: the Gathering while they were here. Sasquatch also managed to clear a clog in the upstairs sink; he used a bent hanger to fish out the clog and an earring that got caught in it. He said, “it looked like an Amish guy’s beard fell off and went down the sink.” YUCK GAG GAG
Speaking of Sasquatch, he got so hooked on the “Mouse Hunt” game on Facebook that he started playing in meatspace. Using a really simple string/stick/box setup, he managed to catch six specimens of Mus musculus (aka the common house mouse) at his place. He has them in an aquarium, with a screen lid they jump onto and walk around on like flies on a ceiling. He’s so excited about his new pets, that’s pretty much all he wants to talk about lately… which is annoying the living foo out of Daughter Dearest. Personally, I’d find a snake owner who wanted some free chow… or at least release them somewhere far away. Maybe in the Atlanta Country Club, where they could aerate the golf course.
Silly me, putting up a gas price poll: prices have jumped from $1.89 to $2.15 here in the last couple of days. (If you haven't voted in the poll, you have plenty of time. I’ll wait.) Of course, the rain has mostly kept me off the motorcycle. Both Little Zook and the Virago are running happy, so all I need is a shot at some dry pavement. That, or find the bottom of my rain suit.
Vacation is postponed for *another* week… we were talking about going this week, but we have to shoot the community chorale tomorrow night. Next week didn’t work for various reasons; we were planning for the week of the 18th but now something else has come up. Maybe the week after… which would let me stretch it an extra day for Memorial Day. Not all bad.
And now… Weekend Cinema! With a hat-tip to Faboomama, who linked to this on Twitter. De Prez and his crew set up nuclear talks with “My Man” Mahmoud:
From the “Stupidog is one word” files: Mrs. Fetched decided she wanted to breed Crissy, her thoroughly obnoxious Austrian Shep mix who happened to be in heat, and got Luke (another shep) from her mom and put him in the pen with her. And he proceeded to… do nothing. Well, that’s not completely true: he forced his way out of the pen through a hole in the gate. I got him back in and wired the hole shut. He proceeded to open the latch (he knows how to do that) and ran home. (Maybe he’s gay?)
After most of a week of not seeing Sasquatch around, he came by Wednesday evening with Jar Jar in tow. The latter needed to get away from his family for a while, so naturally he came to the manor. :-) He was hoping for a chance to work and earn a few bucks, but all he got was raking up the grass in the (small) front yard after I mowed it yesterday afternoon. At least Jar Jar managed to not do anything spectacularly clumsy this time — about the only thing that went w0rNg on his watch was DD’s computer’s audio cutting out for a few hours overnight. He’d been using the laptop a lot, so I figured it overheated then brought the sound back after it cooled off a bit. He, Daughter Dearest, and Sasquatch played a fair amount of Magic: the Gathering while they were here. Sasquatch also managed to clear a clog in the upstairs sink; he used a bent hanger to fish out the clog and an earring that got caught in it. He said, “it looked like an Amish guy’s beard fell off and went down the sink.” YUCK GAG GAG
Speaking of Sasquatch, he got so hooked on the “Mouse Hunt” game on Facebook that he started playing in meatspace. Using a really simple string/stick/box setup, he managed to catch six specimens of Mus musculus (aka the common house mouse) at his place. He has them in an aquarium, with a screen lid they jump onto and walk around on like flies on a ceiling. He’s so excited about his new pets, that’s pretty much all he wants to talk about lately… which is annoying the living foo out of Daughter Dearest. Personally, I’d find a snake owner who wanted some free chow… or at least release them somewhere far away. Maybe in the Atlanta Country Club, where they could aerate the golf course.
Silly me, putting up a gas price poll: prices have jumped from $1.89 to $2.15 here in the last couple of days. (If you haven't voted in the poll, you have plenty of time. I’ll wait.) Of course, the rain has mostly kept me off the motorcycle. Both Little Zook and the Virago are running happy, so all I need is a shot at some dry pavement. That, or find the bottom of my rain suit.
Vacation is postponed for *another* week… we were talking about going this week, but we have to shoot the community chorale tomorrow night. Next week didn’t work for various reasons; we were planning for the week of the 18th but now something else has come up. Maybe the week after… which would let me stretch it an extra day for Memorial Day. Not all bad.
And now… Weekend Cinema! With a hat-tip to Faboomama, who linked to this on Twitter. De Prez and his crew set up nuclear talks with “My Man” Mahmoud:
Tuesday, May 05, 2009 6 comments
FAR Future, Episode 85: An Old Friend
Friday, May 30, 2036
An Old Friend
“I thought I recognized you!” he grinned. “It’s been a long time since Nickajack, hasn’t it?” He steered me out the door and up to the street.
“I got your message when you were in Dallas. And I checked on you afterward, but I never heard from you and pretty much lost track.”
“So you know about General Mayhem and Sgt. Pepper.”
I nodded. “They didn’t make it.”
“Yeah.”
We walked in silence for a while, passing a once-empty lot that was now one of many thriving gardens. “What about you?” I asked. “You took the amnesty — what happened after that?”
“Not much. The interesting stuff happened while I was doing my jail time. All that time, we thought the televangelists were the ones behind the junta, the RoT, all that. I guess they were… but nobody I know of thought to ask who was behind them. We weren’t much for questioning our leadership, you know, at least the kind we liked.
“So those FEMA camps. The junta sent a few people to those, mostly the D1 people — non-violent agitators. After we redeployed, the old government let those guys go. But that’s where they sent us. Justice.”
“Symmetrical, anyway.”
“I guess. One of the people in there with me was an assistant to one of the big shots there in Dallas, and he wasn’t taking prison camp too well — he’d had access to a lot of power, and now he was in a cage. He spent pretty much all day walking a rut around the fence line for most of the first month.”
“So what happened?”
“Sooner or later, everyone in the program got ‘counseling.’ I guess they kept an eye on everyone and waited until they were ready. They might have waited a little too long in Kenneth’s case.
“Anyway, it was probably obvious that what this guy wanted, more than anything, was to give advice to the powerful. They told him he’d have the ear of the very top if he had something interesting to say… and by God, did he ever.
“Turns out the televangelists were taking orders from the one-percenters — the richest of the rich. God didn ’t have much to do with the junta, unless His name is Mammon.”
We got quiet for a while… two old men lost in their own thoughts. He stopped in front of the building in the cul-de-sac we were walking through; I remembered a name, or part of one: “Something Science. I have no idea what they made.” The next building was where the office park maintenance people worked from. After a while, we picked up where Col. Mustard had left off. “So your eyes were opened, or something?”
“It was pretty hard to take,” he said. “Have you ever built your entire life — your entire outlook — on something, then found you’d been used?” I shook my head, but I don’t think he noticed. “I tried not to believe it. I know some of the guys there refused to believe it. Some of them tried to kill themselves, and one or two did it. I know a lot of guys opted-out. I thought about it.”
“You’d think the counselors would have known what kind of bombshell that would be.”
“They didn’t do it. When Kenneth started talking, it was like a dam broke. He went around and told us all. A couple of guys beat the hell out of him, and they moved him after that.
“Soon after, I got my own turn at counseling. They helped me accept what I’d let happen to me, then they gave me a train ticket to Atlanta and a voucher for three months of lodging. They were having a bandit problem up here at the time, so I offered to help with security. Been here ever since.”
“You got any idea whether they got the people who bankrolled the junta?”
“I’m sure they went after them. Maybe they put a dent in their operation. But I doubt that it was more than a dent. Those guys had assets offshore, sure as sunrise.”
“Lay low for a while, wait for something to happen, maybe make something happen, take advantage,” I said. “That’s how they played it with the New Deal, right? You know some of those guys were backing the Nazis in World War Two. That didn’t quite work out as planned, so they got the Cold War going with the Soviets and made out like bandits selling arms to just about everyone. Eventually, they co-opted the southerners and the religious authoritarians… and you know the rest. At least up to now.” I told him about the visit from the newsies. “You think those guys might be a new tentacle?”
“Maybe. But it doesn’t make sense. At least by itself. There must be more to this than we’ve seen so far.”
The rest of the walk (and the entire trip) was uneventful. Col. Mustard was intrigued that one building used to be a firearms training site, but it didn’t matter much to the task at hand (which was to identify potentially toxic areas for the farm crew). The trip home was pretty much like the trip down — shuttle, RoadTrain, get a ride home — except that there were three of us to keep each other company. Robin and Little Mo barely noticed that their parents (and granddad) were home; they were busy with all the other kids. Some things never change.
continued…
An Old Friend
“I thought I recognized you!” he grinned. “It’s been a long time since Nickajack, hasn’t it?” He steered me out the door and up to the street.
“I got your message when you were in Dallas. And I checked on you afterward, but I never heard from you and pretty much lost track.”
“So you know about General Mayhem and Sgt. Pepper.”
I nodded. “They didn’t make it.”
“Yeah.”
We walked in silence for a while, passing a once-empty lot that was now one of many thriving gardens. “What about you?” I asked. “You took the amnesty — what happened after that?”
“Not much. The interesting stuff happened while I was doing my jail time. All that time, we thought the televangelists were the ones behind the junta, the RoT, all that. I guess they were… but nobody I know of thought to ask who was behind them. We weren’t much for questioning our leadership, you know, at least the kind we liked.
“So those FEMA camps. The junta sent a few people to those, mostly the D1 people — non-violent agitators. After we redeployed, the old government let those guys go. But that’s where they sent us. Justice.”
“Symmetrical, anyway.”
“I guess. One of the people in there with me was an assistant to one of the big shots there in Dallas, and he wasn’t taking prison camp too well — he’d had access to a lot of power, and now he was in a cage. He spent pretty much all day walking a rut around the fence line for most of the first month.”
“So what happened?”
“Sooner or later, everyone in the program got ‘counseling.’ I guess they kept an eye on everyone and waited until they were ready. They might have waited a little too long in Kenneth’s case.
“Anyway, it was probably obvious that what this guy wanted, more than anything, was to give advice to the powerful. They told him he’d have the ear of the very top if he had something interesting to say… and by God, did he ever.
“Turns out the televangelists were taking orders from the one-percenters — the richest of the rich. God didn ’t have much to do with the junta, unless His name is Mammon.”
We got quiet for a while… two old men lost in their own thoughts. He stopped in front of the building in the cul-de-sac we were walking through; I remembered a name, or part of one: “Something Science. I have no idea what they made.” The next building was where the office park maintenance people worked from. After a while, we picked up where Col. Mustard had left off. “So your eyes were opened, or something?”
“It was pretty hard to take,” he said. “Have you ever built your entire life — your entire outlook — on something, then found you’d been used?” I shook my head, but I don’t think he noticed. “I tried not to believe it. I know some of the guys there refused to believe it. Some of them tried to kill themselves, and one or two did it. I know a lot of guys opted-out. I thought about it.”
“You’d think the counselors would have known what kind of bombshell that would be.”
“They didn’t do it. When Kenneth started talking, it was like a dam broke. He went around and told us all. A couple of guys beat the hell out of him, and they moved him after that.
“Soon after, I got my own turn at counseling. They helped me accept what I’d let happen to me, then they gave me a train ticket to Atlanta and a voucher for three months of lodging. They were having a bandit problem up here at the time, so I offered to help with security. Been here ever since.”
“You got any idea whether they got the people who bankrolled the junta?”
“I’m sure they went after them. Maybe they put a dent in their operation. But I doubt that it was more than a dent. Those guys had assets offshore, sure as sunrise.”
“Lay low for a while, wait for something to happen, maybe make something happen, take advantage,” I said. “That’s how they played it with the New Deal, right? You know some of those guys were backing the Nazis in World War Two. That didn’t quite work out as planned, so they got the Cold War going with the Soviets and made out like bandits selling arms to just about everyone. Eventually, they co-opted the southerners and the religious authoritarians… and you know the rest. At least up to now.” I told him about the visit from the newsies. “You think those guys might be a new tentacle?”
“Maybe. But it doesn’t make sense. At least by itself. There must be more to this than we’ve seen so far.”
The rest of the walk (and the entire trip) was uneventful. Col. Mustard was intrigued that one building used to be a firearms training site, but it didn’t matter much to the task at hand (which was to identify potentially toxic areas for the farm crew). The trip home was pretty much like the trip down — shuttle, RoadTrain, get a ride home — except that there were three of us to keep each other company. Robin and Little Mo barely noticed that their parents (and granddad) were home; they were busy with all the other kids. Some things never change.
continued…
Monday, May 04, 2009 6 comments
FAR Future, Episode 84: Office Revisited
This and the next episode are two parts of the same day, so (for the first time in quite a while), I’m going to post them back-to-back. Come back tomorrow morning for Episode 85!
Friday, May 30, 2036
Office Revisited
Kim and Christina scheduled a consulting job for Tuesday, the first day after college closed for the summer. A community in the John’s Creek area was taking in a big group of refugees from the coast and asked Christina for some advice for upgrading and expanding their digester and composting facility. Methane from sewage is a big source of cooking fuel these days, of course, and people depend heavily on these systems now. Kim knew I used to work down that way, and invited me to join them. Being gone for a few days wouldn’t hurt anything, since Serena doesn’t let me do much anyway, so why not?
A 60km trip to John’s Creek (and back) used to be something I did five times a week without thinking much about it — I ought to bring up the word “commute” in history class this fall — but these days it takes a little planning. I could have grabbed the Heehaw and been there in an hour and a half, maybe two hours, but the farm needs it for all sorts of things and it would be horribly selfish of me anyway. (Which isn’t to say I didn’t think about it for a minute.) But doing it the right way, this trip is done in three parts: 1) Rene and Maria take me up to the old retail district; 2) RoadTrain down to the stop at the old exit; 3) Norcross shuttle to John’s Creek. Thanks to good old gadgets, I could keep Kim and Christina apprised of my location and they were at the stop to meet me. Including layovers, it only took half the day to arrive. Part of trip preparation involves packing some chow and reading materials, of course.
Kim and Christina were pretty tolerant of me rattling off names they’d long forgotten — “that was a Kroger’s, that was a Wendy’s,” etc. What they cared about was if there was a Fry Guy franchise in the area. “20th Century Comfort Food,” they tag themselves, “cooked on the spot.” All of it horribly unhealthy, but it’s probably OK for the occasional celebration or whatever. It’s no surprise that all those chains were long gone and the buildings repurposed; but there were a few surprises waiting for me.
The first one was when they took us to where we were staying — which happened to be the building I worked in back in the early part of the century! All the cube walls and furniture were long gone, of course — taken off to be recycled or repurposed — but the old cabinet with the mail slots by my old cube was still there, so I could show them where I worked. As often as I joked about living in that office, this was the first time I’d actually spent the night in the building. We were given an old conference room that was now the guest quarters. Back when, they named all the conference rooms after elements (in the periodic table), and they had left the old sign up by the door: “Lithium Conference Room.”
“It's a good room for a guest quarters,” I told Kim and Christina. “The meetings I went to in here could knock a caffeinated insomniac out cold. There’s probably enough residual boredom here for me to sleep really good tonight.”
They laughed, but I wasn’t joking. I yawned and dropped my bag on one of the beds.
“Hey,” I said, “who has Little Mo and Robin?”
“They’re on the RoadTrain,” Kim said. “Or were. Rene and Maria were going to do some business and wait for the kids after they dropped you off.” Like I said, the Heehaw doesn’t sit idle much. I drew a complete blank on the plans though, and I should have known. I don’t worry much about memory lapses; I’ve had them all my life. As long as it’s nothing truly important, like if I were supposed to have waited for the kids, I’m fine.
Next morning, they invited us to breakfast… which was combined with a meeting to discuss the agenda, who would be escorting whom and where. Here was the next surprise: I was included in the agenda, as someone who knew the area from before the blackouts. Breakfast in the burbs isn’t as “meaty” as a country breakfast — they have a few pigs, but hadn’t slaughtered any lately. No matter: pancakes and eggs are always good enough, even if I take just a little egg. Cholesterol, high blood pressure, and diabetes all are much less common than they used to be; the sedentary lifestyle and over-processed food have mostly gone away in the last 25 years and took most of those problems with them. But I still try to keep a rein on things, especially since I’m not as active now.
The third — and biggest — surprise was after breakfast. I was assigned to an “inspection tour” and my escort looked to be about as old as me, but he looked familiar. Then he introduced himself, and I remembered.
“Col. Mustard?” I gaped.
continued…
Friday, May 30, 2036
Office Revisited
Kim and Christina scheduled a consulting job for Tuesday, the first day after college closed for the summer. A community in the John’s Creek area was taking in a big group of refugees from the coast and asked Christina for some advice for upgrading and expanding their digester and composting facility. Methane from sewage is a big source of cooking fuel these days, of course, and people depend heavily on these systems now. Kim knew I used to work down that way, and invited me to join them. Being gone for a few days wouldn’t hurt anything, since Serena doesn’t let me do much anyway, so why not?
A 60km trip to John’s Creek (and back) used to be something I did five times a week without thinking much about it — I ought to bring up the word “commute” in history class this fall — but these days it takes a little planning. I could have grabbed the Heehaw and been there in an hour and a half, maybe two hours, but the farm needs it for all sorts of things and it would be horribly selfish of me anyway. (Which isn’t to say I didn’t think about it for a minute.) But doing it the right way, this trip is done in three parts: 1) Rene and Maria take me up to the old retail district; 2) RoadTrain down to the stop at the old exit; 3) Norcross shuttle to John’s Creek. Thanks to good old gadgets, I could keep Kim and Christina apprised of my location and they were at the stop to meet me. Including layovers, it only took half the day to arrive. Part of trip preparation involves packing some chow and reading materials, of course.
Kim and Christina were pretty tolerant of me rattling off names they’d long forgotten — “that was a Kroger’s, that was a Wendy’s,” etc. What they cared about was if there was a Fry Guy franchise in the area. “20th Century Comfort Food,” they tag themselves, “cooked on the spot.” All of it horribly unhealthy, but it’s probably OK for the occasional celebration or whatever. It’s no surprise that all those chains were long gone and the buildings repurposed; but there were a few surprises waiting for me.
The first one was when they took us to where we were staying — which happened to be the building I worked in back in the early part of the century! All the cube walls and furniture were long gone, of course — taken off to be recycled or repurposed — but the old cabinet with the mail slots by my old cube was still there, so I could show them where I worked. As often as I joked about living in that office, this was the first time I’d actually spent the night in the building. We were given an old conference room that was now the guest quarters. Back when, they named all the conference rooms after elements (in the periodic table), and they had left the old sign up by the door: “Lithium Conference Room.”
“It's a good room for a guest quarters,” I told Kim and Christina. “The meetings I went to in here could knock a caffeinated insomniac out cold. There’s probably enough residual boredom here for me to sleep really good tonight.”
They laughed, but I wasn’t joking. I yawned and dropped my bag on one of the beds.
“Hey,” I said, “who has Little Mo and Robin?”
“They’re on the RoadTrain,” Kim said. “Or were. Rene and Maria were going to do some business and wait for the kids after they dropped you off.” Like I said, the Heehaw doesn’t sit idle much. I drew a complete blank on the plans though, and I should have known. I don’t worry much about memory lapses; I’ve had them all my life. As long as it’s nothing truly important, like if I were supposed to have waited for the kids, I’m fine.
Next morning, they invited us to breakfast… which was combined with a meeting to discuss the agenda, who would be escorting whom and where. Here was the next surprise: I was included in the agenda, as someone who knew the area from before the blackouts. Breakfast in the burbs isn’t as “meaty” as a country breakfast — they have a few pigs, but hadn’t slaughtered any lately. No matter: pancakes and eggs are always good enough, even if I take just a little egg. Cholesterol, high blood pressure, and diabetes all are much less common than they used to be; the sedentary lifestyle and over-processed food have mostly gone away in the last 25 years and took most of those problems with them. But I still try to keep a rein on things, especially since I’m not as active now.
The third — and biggest — surprise was after breakfast. I was assigned to an “inspection tour” and my escort looked to be about as old as me, but he looked familiar. Then he introduced himself, and I remembered.
“Col. Mustard?” I gaped.
continued…
Friday, May 01, 2009 6 comments
Friday Follies, New Poll, etc.
Well. Now that the thunderstorms have passed through — and God knows we needed the rain here — I can say hello once again.
It has been a week. Actually, it has been a month. In terms of time sinks, April was almost as bad as August usually is, although it (mostly) didn’t involve chicken houses. I’m less than 3,000 words short of completing FAR Future, which is maybe 1,000 words less than where I was at the beginning of the month. But at a post a week, I could sit on my hands all the way through July before I really have to start worrying. Next week will have (for the first time in quite a while) a double feature of FAR Future, because it’s really a single (long) episode split into two pieces. They’ll come out on Monday and Tuesday mornings, respectively. What I’m saying is, I want to get it done so I can start in on the next project… but there’s no pressure otherwise.
I’ve finally gotten started in earnest on a little garden here at the manor. I bought some yellow pear and Rutgers tomatoes last week, along with some jalapeños (my cash crop) and various herbs. The tomatoes, peppers, and lemon balm are now planted (the latter two just before the rain). The lemon balm was starting to wilt, so I knew that had to be addressed pronto; I picked one of the areas where the butterfly bushes were uprooted, then got rid of the violet-weeds. I'm trying to figure out where to put the two oregano plants; the one I have now is turning invasive, so they need to be out of the way but close enough to harvest. Wherever I decide to put the mint and rosemary, it won’t be anywhere near the oregano.
A couple of news articles caught my eye, besides the whole swine flu thing. One was about Congress starting to put a leash on credit card companies (especially since they’re taking bailout money). It doesn’t go nearly as far as I’d like, but it’s a good start. Another was about how an open-source programmer cussed out Adobe over the Photoshop PSD format. Personally, I think Adobe needs to be cussed out (and more) on a daily basis, but that’s just me.
Moving on to the poll gone by… here’s the final tally.
Most of you guys are efficient tax-filing machines… January and February indeed! Those of you who filed in April — the last two weeks before the deadline — I can relate, that’s where I landed too. I really wanted to file right away, joining that Jan/Feb majority, but one thing led to another and next thing I knew it was April. The latest poll is more of a fun little guessing game… let’s all try to guess where gas prices are going to go.
Daughter Dearest is nominally done with college — her last final was Tuesday — but she had to go back this evening to sing at the baccalaureate, and I have to take her tomorrow morning to sing at the graduation. She’s going to be nice enough to give me her network password so I can get some surfing done tomorrow (I don’t have a ticket to the ceremony)… if I really get inspired, I might finish FAR Future right there in the performing arts center.
It has been a week. Actually, it has been a month. In terms of time sinks, April was almost as bad as August usually is, although it (mostly) didn’t involve chicken houses. I’m less than 3,000 words short of completing FAR Future, which is maybe 1,000 words less than where I was at the beginning of the month. But at a post a week, I could sit on my hands all the way through July before I really have to start worrying. Next week will have (for the first time in quite a while) a double feature of FAR Future, because it’s really a single (long) episode split into two pieces. They’ll come out on Monday and Tuesday mornings, respectively. What I’m saying is, I want to get it done so I can start in on the next project… but there’s no pressure otherwise.
I’ve finally gotten started in earnest on a little garden here at the manor. I bought some yellow pear and Rutgers tomatoes last week, along with some jalapeños (my cash crop) and various herbs. The tomatoes, peppers, and lemon balm are now planted (the latter two just before the rain). The lemon balm was starting to wilt, so I knew that had to be addressed pronto; I picked one of the areas where the butterfly bushes were uprooted, then got rid of the violet-weeds. I'm trying to figure out where to put the two oregano plants; the one I have now is turning invasive, so they need to be out of the way but close enough to harvest. Wherever I decide to put the mint and rosemary, it won’t be anywhere near the oregano.
A couple of news articles caught my eye, besides the whole swine flu thing. One was about Congress starting to put a leash on credit card companies (especially since they’re taking bailout money). It doesn’t go nearly as far as I’d like, but it’s a good start. Another was about how an open-source programmer cussed out Adobe over the Photoshop PSD format. Personally, I think Adobe needs to be cussed out (and more) on a daily basis, but that’s just me.
Moving on to the poll gone by… here’s the final tally.
Most of you guys are efficient tax-filing machines… January and February indeed! Those of you who filed in April — the last two weeks before the deadline — I can relate, that’s where I landed too. I really wanted to file right away, joining that Jan/Feb majority, but one thing led to another and next thing I knew it was April. The latest poll is more of a fun little guessing game… let’s all try to guess where gas prices are going to go.
Daughter Dearest is nominally done with college — her last final was Tuesday — but she had to go back this evening to sing at the baccalaureate, and I have to take her tomorrow morning to sing at the graduation. She’s going to be nice enough to give me her network password so I can get some surfing done tomorrow (I don’t have a ticket to the ceremony)… if I really get inspired, I might finish FAR Future right there in the performing arts center.
Monday, April 27, 2009 8 comments
FAR Future, Episode 83: The Boy on Tour
Meanwhile, in real life, The Boy informs me that Ether (the punk rock band he was in) is re-grouping.
Saturday, April 11, 2036
The Boy on Tour
Got another letter from The Boy. Sounds like good news:
Dreams long deferred… I’m glad he’s finally getting to try out the life of a professional musician, even if it’s not quite what he’d envisioned 30 years ago. I ought to bring up the “rock star” concept in history class… and connect it to the “Great American Novelist” concept of the generation before mine. Maybe Steinbeck isn’t all that widely read nowadays, but you’d probably find more people who at least recognize his name than Bono or Alice Cooper (even if they’d heard the music but not read the books).
I told The Boy about our visit from the “news” people, and told him to keep an eye out for anything like that. He told me that a lot of refugees were telling the chautauqua troupe that they had heard they wouldn’t be welcome in the nearby towns already, but hadn’t seen news crews or anything like that. He also said some of the refugees are giving him ideas for songs about life in the camps… he sent me some lyrics, and I thought some of them could work as death country. It sounds like there’s some serious undercurrent of discontent. Disappointing, but not surprising, really… I guess maybe 20% (if that) of refugees got settled into new homes like ours, maybe another 10-20% got government housing, so easily half (and maybe 2/3) of the refugees are living in camps. I might have to have a powwow with the community soon, to see if there’s any way we can make room for some more people here — I guess even a straw-bale house might be preferable to a FEMA trailer, when it comes right down to it, as long as they know what to expect. Around the turn of the century, the county population was about what it was in 1900… and I know we lost a lot of people in the exurban subdivisions since then.
With the technology (sustainable!!!) we have now, we should be able to support a few more people in the county than we have at the moment. Or if they know how to farm, maybe a land grant out in the granary states might be the thing to do. We propped up the big agribusiness concerns long after they became a drag on the nation… now that they’re breaking up, maybe we should just give the plots to people who are interested in living with the land instead of on it. There’s really no reason why so many displaced coastal residents are still living in camps, especially when the West Coast exodus hasn’t even started yet. One analyst figures 3–4 million people might be affected before this is over… but that’s not even 2% of the total population. If one home in 50 would open their doors, and that’s not counting unoccupied houses, there wouldn’t be any camps. It’s ridiculous.
continued…
Saturday, April 11, 2036
The Boy on Tour
Got another letter from The Boy. Sounds like good news:
Hey. I got a new job now. We were about finished digging up this [stuff] anyway.
I was playing in the bar last week, and some people came in that nobody knew. One of them talked to me after I finished my gig, and he said they were part of a traveling chautauqua troop that's supposed to go around the refugee camps and cheer them up or something. He wanted to know if I was interested in going with them, playing music some nights and helping with their plays, and I said sure. It's a little money, but I get to play my own music once a week, and backup the other acts twice a week, then do stagehand work the rest of the time. I guess Serena knows how those things work, if I don't hook up with the manager I should be OK, hahaha. (Don't tell her I said that.) So I'm moving around a lot, I'll try to keep in touch. We're at the camp between Florence and Darlington this week, then we're going up to Fayetteville NC and I guess we'll keep working north as it gets closer to summer. They wouldn’t believe Serena’s my adopted sister, but they hope she’ll send them something new if she has anything.
Damn but it was cold this winter. I'm glad the warm weather is finally getting here.
But anyway, I got to play my first concert last night and people liked it I guess. I played I Opted Out Today and a lot of people laughed, but one of the other musicians said that song was risky and be careful next time. Whatever. I guess death country would be a bad idea, no BFE songs hahaha. We did some play this evening, I helped backstage. I'll be playing backup tomorrow.
I'm working on a set of songs for the Optout Beach album. Cal (the drummer) told me that a lot of people who play in the chautauquas put up albums for download, and it's a good way to make a little extra money. People who like your music will buy the album, I guess that makes sense. I remember you guys buying a couple of CDs from bands who played in a restaurant when I was a kid, so this is like that.
I think I'll tour with the chautauqua through the summer, and maybe buy that train ticket to California when it starts getting cold again. I heard they're not getting the cold weather there like we did here too. Maybe if I get people to download my CD, I'll have a concert on the beach in LA. That would be cool.
Dreams long deferred… I’m glad he’s finally getting to try out the life of a professional musician, even if it’s not quite what he’d envisioned 30 years ago. I ought to bring up the “rock star” concept in history class… and connect it to the “Great American Novelist” concept of the generation before mine. Maybe Steinbeck isn’t all that widely read nowadays, but you’d probably find more people who at least recognize his name than Bono or Alice Cooper (even if they’d heard the music but not read the books).
I told The Boy about our visit from the “news” people, and told him to keep an eye out for anything like that. He told me that a lot of refugees were telling the chautauqua troupe that they had heard they wouldn’t be welcome in the nearby towns already, but hadn’t seen news crews or anything like that. He also said some of the refugees are giving him ideas for songs about life in the camps… he sent me some lyrics, and I thought some of them could work as death country. It sounds like there’s some serious undercurrent of discontent. Disappointing, but not surprising, really… I guess maybe 20% (if that) of refugees got settled into new homes like ours, maybe another 10-20% got government housing, so easily half (and maybe 2/3) of the refugees are living in camps. I might have to have a powwow with the community soon, to see if there’s any way we can make room for some more people here — I guess even a straw-bale house might be preferable to a FEMA trailer, when it comes right down to it, as long as they know what to expect. Around the turn of the century, the county population was about what it was in 1900… and I know we lost a lot of people in the exurban subdivisions since then.
With the technology (sustainable!!!) we have now, we should be able to support a few more people in the county than we have at the moment. Or if they know how to farm, maybe a land grant out in the granary states might be the thing to do. We propped up the big agribusiness concerns long after they became a drag on the nation… now that they’re breaking up, maybe we should just give the plots to people who are interested in living with the land instead of on it. There’s really no reason why so many displaced coastal residents are still living in camps, especially when the West Coast exodus hasn’t even started yet. One analyst figures 3–4 million people might be affected before this is over… but that’s not even 2% of the total population. If one home in 50 would open their doors, and that’s not counting unoccupied houses, there wouldn’t be any camps. It’s ridiculous.
continued…
Tuesday, April 21, 2009 11 comments
Phylicia Rashad Concert
Daughter Dearest has sang at the Planet Georgia Governor’s Mansion, Dizzy World, Universal Studios… and now she’s appeared on stage with a genuine diva… but as she describes Ms. Rashad, a very nice, down-to-earth one.
DD is on the top row on the right.
I gave the 50mm f1.8 lens a real workout Sunday afternoon — this is the kind of thing I bought it for, indoor venues where flash is prohibited — and it performed quite well. To my surprise, it wasn’t wide enough to catch the entire stage, so I did a little stitching work in Photoshop:
Click on it to get something you’ll have to scroll across to see all of. The original file, at 240dpi, is about 3 feet wide.
DD is on the top row on the right.
I gave the 50mm f1.8 lens a real workout Sunday afternoon — this is the kind of thing I bought it for, indoor venues where flash is prohibited — and it performed quite well. To my surprise, it wasn’t wide enough to catch the entire stage, so I did a little stitching work in Photoshop:
Click on it to get something you’ll have to scroll across to see all of. The original file, at 240dpi, is about 3 feet wide.
Monday, April 20, 2009 4 comments
FAR Future, Episode 82: Search and Research
(New poll up if you haven’t seen it yet.)
Friday, March 7, 2036
Search and Research
I scratched my head. “That is a Heehaw… if they’re up from Atlanta, they’re burning a lot of fuel.” We have the real Heehaw on Planet Georgia — the Harlow-Easton Hauler — the rest of you call any truck built on the Ford RE100D design a Heehaw. Here, some drivers snap the last three letters off the “HE Hauler” badges, just for laughs, but these guys had removed them entirely. We have one for our trips to the markets at the old freeway. It’s a great truck for local trips; it goes 80 km running full-electric on a full charge with a moderate load and a top speed of 50kph, but the newsies had to be traveling 3–4 times that today and using the diesel to get around quicker. Even with a light load, that meant they were burning 15–20 liters of diesel, easy: two or three weeks’ ration for us, minimum, and we get extra because we’re a farm. They had the aero-cap up to protect their equipment and help with the mileage, but it wouldn’t help that much. These guys had connections.
Fortunately, the newsies soon emerged from the apartment and walked right by us without saying a word. They looked more than a little unsatisfied with their interview, although I’m sure they would find something to take out of context. They didn’t even pay attention to the camera in Serena’s hand.
“Hey,” I said as they climbed into their van. “Maybe you could give me some contact info? In case I run across someone who isn’t treating their guests right?”
They brightened. “Good idea. Thanks,” the mike guy said, and passed a couple cards out the window.
“Peachtree Road?” I said, looking at the address. “Where at?”
“Uh… Midtown,” he said before backing out and driving away. The cards were the same as what Serena had filched earlier. Peachtree Road, or at least parts of it, are a prestigious address. But they could just as easily be using one of several maildrop outfits; “#301” could be a corner suite or a 15x15cm mailbox.
Sean and Mary joined us out front. “That was weird,” Sean opined. “They looked around, and turned off the camera. Then they kept asking us if we really lived there, and if you were treating us well, and it would all be confidential. It was like they wanted to hear we were being mistreated.”
“Something’s going on here,” Serena said. “I’m gonna have to get EDID involved, I think.” EDID was Rene’s old Army unit; they intercepted and decoded enemy data streams during the Final Oil War. Rene never felt like he could go into detail about what he did back then with us, but maybe his wife the former MP was a different story. Maybe Rene still has some connections that outperform a basic search-by-email engine.
“Don’t worry about it,” I said to Sean. “They’ll probably dub in whatever words they want, but they’ll pixellate your faces so nobody knows it’s you.”
“I’m sorry we got you involved in this.”
“Don’t be. There probably are some guest families who are being mistreated — I’ve heard about a few myself — but I doubt they’re a even a large minority. I figure these guys are looking for some sensational story they can sell.”
“Either that, or they could be a government outfit,” Daughter Dearest suggested. “You know, checking on things.”
“You think so?” Serena cocked an eyebrow at her.
“Not really. But I guess it’s possible.”
Guillermo and Maria came out. “They are gone?” Maria asked. “Good. Those were not good people. I feel it.” She patted her corazón.
I made some phone calls, and managed to warn two people I knew that had refugees living comfortably with them. The others already had their visit, and were a bit riled about the intrusion, and we talked a little. But thanks to Serena, we had more information than anyone else. She’d also jotted down the tag number, although I suspected that it would lead to another blind alley. It’s technically illegal to register a vehicle with an address that wasn’t a physical residence or office, but that’s primarily aimed at people dodging high ad valorem taxes. The tag had a Fulton county sticker, which has the highest county tax rate in the state, so no government would bother investigating. Still, Serena pulled some cop strings she still has and asked them to run the tag when they got a chance.
The search turned up nothing useful. We were just giving up for the day when Rene came home, with the kids in tow. “This must be something,” he said. “You guys blew off the last hour of school.”
“We’ll make it up,” Serena said. “Did you get ahead with the biochem lessons?”
“Nah, I just declared study hall and let them get their homework done. They’ll catch up.”
Something’s catching up to us here, too. I guess it’s been too peaceful too long at FAR Manor. Serena filled him in, and Rene was up late last night (when we get more bandwidth and some interactivity) poking around. He plays his EDID cards really close to the vest, though, and I suspect he won’t show his hand until he has a winner.
continued…
Friday, March 7, 2036
Search and Research
I scratched my head. “That is a Heehaw… if they’re up from Atlanta, they’re burning a lot of fuel.” We have the real Heehaw on Planet Georgia — the Harlow-Easton Hauler — the rest of you call any truck built on the Ford RE100D design a Heehaw. Here, some drivers snap the last three letters off the “HE Hauler” badges, just for laughs, but these guys had removed them entirely. We have one for our trips to the markets at the old freeway. It’s a great truck for local trips; it goes 80 km running full-electric on a full charge with a moderate load and a top speed of 50kph, but the newsies had to be traveling 3–4 times that today and using the diesel to get around quicker. Even with a light load, that meant they were burning 15–20 liters of diesel, easy: two or three weeks’ ration for us, minimum, and we get extra because we’re a farm. They had the aero-cap up to protect their equipment and help with the mileage, but it wouldn’t help that much. These guys had connections.
Fortunately, the newsies soon emerged from the apartment and walked right by us without saying a word. They looked more than a little unsatisfied with their interview, although I’m sure they would find something to take out of context. They didn’t even pay attention to the camera in Serena’s hand.
“Hey,” I said as they climbed into their van. “Maybe you could give me some contact info? In case I run across someone who isn’t treating their guests right?”
They brightened. “Good idea. Thanks,” the mike guy said, and passed a couple cards out the window.
“Peachtree Road?” I said, looking at the address. “Where at?”
“Uh… Midtown,” he said before backing out and driving away. The cards were the same as what Serena had filched earlier. Peachtree Road, or at least parts of it, are a prestigious address. But they could just as easily be using one of several maildrop outfits; “#301” could be a corner suite or a 15x15cm mailbox.
Sean and Mary joined us out front. “That was weird,” Sean opined. “They looked around, and turned off the camera. Then they kept asking us if we really lived there, and if you were treating us well, and it would all be confidential. It was like they wanted to hear we were being mistreated.”
“Something’s going on here,” Serena said. “I’m gonna have to get EDID involved, I think.” EDID was Rene’s old Army unit; they intercepted and decoded enemy data streams during the Final Oil War. Rene never felt like he could go into detail about what he did back then with us, but maybe his wife the former MP was a different story. Maybe Rene still has some connections that outperform a basic search-by-email engine.
“Don’t worry about it,” I said to Sean. “They’ll probably dub in whatever words they want, but they’ll pixellate your faces so nobody knows it’s you.”
“I’m sorry we got you involved in this.”
“Don’t be. There probably are some guest families who are being mistreated — I’ve heard about a few myself — but I doubt they’re a even a large minority. I figure these guys are looking for some sensational story they can sell.”
“Either that, or they could be a government outfit,” Daughter Dearest suggested. “You know, checking on things.”
“You think so?” Serena cocked an eyebrow at her.
“Not really. But I guess it’s possible.”
Guillermo and Maria came out. “They are gone?” Maria asked. “Good. Those were not good people. I feel it.” She patted her corazón.
I made some phone calls, and managed to warn two people I knew that had refugees living comfortably with them. The others already had their visit, and were a bit riled about the intrusion, and we talked a little. But thanks to Serena, we had more information than anyone else. She’d also jotted down the tag number, although I suspected that it would lead to another blind alley. It’s technically illegal to register a vehicle with an address that wasn’t a physical residence or office, but that’s primarily aimed at people dodging high ad valorem taxes. The tag had a Fulton county sticker, which has the highest county tax rate in the state, so no government would bother investigating. Still, Serena pulled some cop strings she still has and asked them to run the tag when they got a chance.
The search turned up nothing useful. We were just giving up for the day when Rene came home, with the kids in tow. “This must be something,” he said. “You guys blew off the last hour of school.”
“We’ll make it up,” Serena said. “Did you get ahead with the biochem lessons?”
“Nah, I just declared study hall and let them get their homework done. They’ll catch up.”
Something’s catching up to us here, too. I guess it’s been too peaceful too long at FAR Manor. Serena filled him in, and Rene was up late last night (when we get more bandwidth and some interactivity) poking around. He plays his EDID cards really close to the vest, though, and I suspect he won’t show his hand until he has a winner.
continued…
Saturday, April 18, 2009 9 comments
Jumping the Buffoonery Gun [MORE]
I’ll be the first to admit it: Planet Georgia’s government is largely a bunch of buffoons in suits. That’s certainly nothing new; they were buffoons when they were nominally Democrats, and they’re no less (or more) so now that they’re Republican’ts.
But I would feel better if they didn’t take seriously stuff I wrote about in October 2007 that’s supposed to happen after the 2012 elections. Hey! FAR Future is supposed to be fiction, not a freeking blueprint (and besides, you’re almost four years early)!
An article at Tondee's Tavern provides a good reality check: how long do reasonable people extend a hand to mad dogs in trouble? How many times do they get bitten before giving up and pulling out the metaphorical shotgun? (my words, not the writer’s) That’s the situation here: Planet Georgia (and other red states) are glad to turn down help if it gives them the chance to take cheap shots at a Democratic administration and engage in useless political theater. We know these guys don’t have any new ideas (and the only one they ever had, “give tax cuts to people who don’t need ’em,” was an Epic Fail), but inciting violence and threatening another civil war just seems like the desperate last gasp of a party about to disappear in quicksand.
UPDATE: I forgot to mention this — I’ve been racking my brains for an evening and a day, and haven’t come up with anything that Planet Georgia produces that is irreplaceable. Peaches, peanuts, cotton, watermelons, sod, lawn care equipment… all can be produced elsewhere. Vidalia onions are about the only thing that comes to mind, and those are hardly essential. I suppose I-75 might be a problem… I can imagine all the New Englanders griping about having to detour through Tennessee and Alabama to get to Florida. So if we actually did secede, would anyone else notice?
But I would feel better if they didn’t take seriously stuff I wrote about in October 2007 that’s supposed to happen after the 2012 elections. Hey! FAR Future is supposed to be fiction, not a freeking blueprint (and besides, you’re almost four years early)!
An article at Tondee's Tavern provides a good reality check: how long do reasonable people extend a hand to mad dogs in trouble? How many times do they get bitten before giving up and pulling out the metaphorical shotgun? (my words, not the writer’s) That’s the situation here: Planet Georgia (and other red states) are glad to turn down help if it gives them the chance to take cheap shots at a Democratic administration and engage in useless political theater. We know these guys don’t have any new ideas (and the only one they ever had, “give tax cuts to people who don’t need ’em,” was an Epic Fail), but inciting violence and threatening another civil war just seems like the desperate last gasp of a party about to disappear in quicksand.
UPDATE: I forgot to mention this — I’ve been racking my brains for an evening and a day, and haven’t come up with anything that Planet Georgia produces that is irreplaceable. Peaches, peanuts, cotton, watermelons, sod, lawn care equipment… all can be produced elsewhere. Vidalia onions are about the only thing that comes to mind, and those are hardly essential. I suppose I-75 might be a problem… I can imagine all the New Englanders griping about having to detour through Tennessee and Alabama to get to Florida. So if we actually did secede, would anyone else notice?
Thursday, April 16, 2009 9 comments
Tax Poll (as opposed to Poll Tax)
New poll up. I'm not going flog this one like I did the first, mainly because I’m not so invested in the responses. This poll runs through the 25th.
For posterior, the final results of the previous poll:
The results were a little surprising: I expected FAR Future to outpace the never-ending soap opera, and that some of the other features would get a few more votes than they did. I’m actually glad that FAR Future came in second; the last episode will go up (unless I start back on two-a-week) in late summer, and I hate the idea of losing any of you (let alone most of you). 'Course, I’ll probably be posting appendices and “readers” for a while afterwards… so don’t run away the minute you see “The End,” OK? ;-)
If you’ve got something on your mind, let it rip in the comments.
For posterior, the final results of the previous poll:
The results were a little surprising: I expected FAR Future to outpace the never-ending soap opera, and that some of the other features would get a few more votes than they did. I’m actually glad that FAR Future came in second; the last episode will go up (unless I start back on two-a-week) in late summer, and I hate the idea of losing any of you (let alone most of you). 'Course, I’ll probably be posting appendices and “readers” for a while afterwards… so don’t run away the minute you see “The End,” OK? ;-)
If you’ve got something on your mind, let it rip in the comments.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009 11 comments
Random Grumbles
The feed truck came late last night, so no cannibal chickens this go-around. Whew!
Came home from work, no dinner as usual… even though Mrs. Fetched said she was going to fix something. Maybe we’ll eat at home tomorrow.
We didn’t find out until Sunday night, but some time after the Easter service, DoubleRed checked herself into the hospital and was diagnosed with diabetes. We started seeing some warning signs Thursday or Friday evening, and mentioned it to her then. Her glucose reading was somewhere north of 600… really bad, but not coma-inducing bad. I told her last night that she should get together with The Boy to learn everything she shouldn’t do.
This morning at work, I got another email of the “this cable is the wrong color again” variety. I’m sure the seagull manager behind the last two installments of Programmers. Argh. is directing his people to nitpick everything at every opportunity, and I was getting rather exercised… then he followed up with “and the part number is wrong,” which actually defused me. You see, I’d explicitly requested that part number and edited it in when I got it, so I knew at that point he was looking at the wrong version. I told him as much, and included the right docs with a “here they are again” (since I sent them last week). Then my new boss got a query, and asked me if it was fixed; I told him the same thing and didn’t hear from him after that. I know I’m getting older, because I’m getting ever less patient with this kind of crap.
Taxes are done, woo-hoo! We have a far too large refund coming back this year, because Mrs. Fetched didn’t bring in a lot with her video stuff, and Daughter Dearest contributed mightily by both capsizing her mom’s farm truck and bringing in a large tuition credit. The refund will mostly go to covering her college expenses for next year.
Well… I should have said our taxes are done: Mrs. Fetched volunteered me to do a bunch of other peoples’ as well… including Jimmy Last-Minute, who did better last year but has gone right back to dumping a bunch of incomplete info on me at the 11th hour. I printed him out an extension form for him to sign in the morning, with a list of info I needed (and an admonishment to get it to me sooner next year). The Evil Twins’ parents are another, but they know they’re on the hook for an extension anyway and theirs should be fairly simple.
If it wasn’t already bed time, I’d have another beer.
Came home from work, no dinner as usual… even though Mrs. Fetched said she was going to fix something. Maybe we’ll eat at home tomorrow.
We didn’t find out until Sunday night, but some time after the Easter service, DoubleRed checked herself into the hospital and was diagnosed with diabetes. We started seeing some warning signs Thursday or Friday evening, and mentioned it to her then. Her glucose reading was somewhere north of 600… really bad, but not coma-inducing bad. I told her last night that she should get together with The Boy to learn everything she shouldn’t do.
This morning at work, I got another email of the “this cable is the wrong color again” variety. I’m sure the seagull manager behind the last two installments of Programmers. Argh. is directing his people to nitpick everything at every opportunity, and I was getting rather exercised… then he followed up with “and the part number is wrong,” which actually defused me. You see, I’d explicitly requested that part number and edited it in when I got it, so I knew at that point he was looking at the wrong version. I told him as much, and included the right docs with a “here they are again” (since I sent them last week). Then my new boss got a query, and asked me if it was fixed; I told him the same thing and didn’t hear from him after that. I know I’m getting older, because I’m getting ever less patient with this kind of crap.
Taxes are done, woo-hoo! We have a far too large refund coming back this year, because Mrs. Fetched didn’t bring in a lot with her video stuff, and Daughter Dearest contributed mightily by both capsizing her mom’s farm truck and bringing in a large tuition credit. The refund will mostly go to covering her college expenses for next year.
Well… I should have said our taxes are done: Mrs. Fetched volunteered me to do a bunch of other peoples’ as well… including Jimmy Last-Minute, who did better last year but has gone right back to dumping a bunch of incomplete info on me at the 11th hour. I printed him out an extension form for him to sign in the morning, with a list of info I needed (and an admonishment to get it to me sooner next year). The Evil Twins’ parents are another, but they know they’re on the hook for an extension anyway and theirs should be fairly simple.
If it wasn’t already bed time, I’d have another beer.
Monday, April 13, 2009 5 comments
FAR Future, Episode 81: Spring of Discontent
Friday, March 7, 2036
Spring of Discontent
Some “news crew” showed up unannounced yesterday afternoon, and demanded to speak to our guest families (aka the refugees). Maria and Guillermo were kind of groggy from their siesta, but didn’t like what they saw. They called us at the community center; Serena, Daughter Dearest, and I came as quickly as we could. We left Rene in charge of the kids — he would be the first to say I brought the big guns with me. Or they brought me with them.
The attitude of the newsies lit our flares, and we demanded their credentials. None of us recognized the New Talon News logos on the truck nor the names on their ID badges, and DD and Serena were ready to send them packing with as many dents as needed to get them going. I figured they’d make some comment about a hostile reception and threats, assuming they even were newsies, but they were rescued by the Smiths coming around the side of the house.
“Who are they?” the guy with the mike demanded.
“One of the guest families,” I said. “The parents, anyway. Their kid’s at the school. And no, we’re not going to let you browbeat a 10-year-old girl.”
“We’re not browbeating anyone,” the mike guy snapped. “We’re investigating reports of refugee abuse.”
“Abuse?” Mary looked puzzled. “Nobody’s abusing us. We probably couldn’t ask for better.” Sean nodded.
“You got that, right?” I asked the cameraman. “Of course, it’ll probably land on the cutting room floor because it doesn’t fit your preconceived narrative, won’t it?”
I got some dirty looks for that one. “Do you guys mind talking to us in private, then?” Mike Guy said.
“Sure,” Sean said.
“Good. Why don’t you show us your bunkhouse, then?” They walked off, and DD, Serena, and I all looked at each other.
“I smell a rat,” Serena said.
“A big fat one,” I agreed.
“With gas,” Daughter Dearest said with a grim chuckle.
I looked at the truck. “That name sounds familiar,” I said. “But not current.”
“Current?” Daughter Dearest said, watching the Smiths and the “crew” disappear into the apartment.
“Something from… before. Damn. I wish the Internet was still instantaneous. They’ll be long gone before we get any kind of search results.”
“What do we do?”
“Guys?” Serena said. “Why don’t you mail off a search?” She jerked her head toward the house. “I’ll wait out here for them and make sure they don’t try getting video of the doghouse and pass that off as refugee living quarters.”
DD and I looked at each other and shrugged. It would only take one of us to do the search, but I knew what Serena was really up to. We went in the house and emailed our search in: organization, individuals (Fred and Barney). It would get picked up with the next connection, and we’d get whatever was online about them in a couple of hours. Like I said, too long to provide ammunition, but maybe we’d get some idea of what they were up to.
Guillermo and Maria joined us in the living room after we emailed the search request. “Are they gone?” Maria asked, peeking out the window. “No.”
“Good call, getting us over here,” I told them. “Something’s rotten on Planet Georgia.”
“Those people,” Guillermo said. “They remind me of the ones who came looking for us that time.”
“The Riots?”
“SÃ. The Patriot Clubs.” I remembered Kim giving me a panicked look as Christina wrapped herself around him, after the Riots left. I guess when you know, you know…
Serena came in as DD brought in another piece of firewood for the stove. “You send the search request?”
“Yup. I thought you were waiting out for them.”
She walked over to the stove and held her hands over it, standing to one side to let DD crack open the stove door. “Just thought I’d warm up a bit,” she said. “They’re still in the apartment. If they try going anywhere but back to the truck, the dog will let us know.”
“So… did you find anything interesting?”
She grinned and handed me a couple of business cards. “Just these. They have a box of them, I figured they won’t miss any. They’ll probably give Sean and Mary a couple anyway, but just in case.”
The cards had the usual contact info: names, phone numbers, email, fax. The usual stuff. The logo on the card matched the one on the truck, but included a slogan: “News You Need To Know.” It meant nothing to me, but felt a little… off. On the back of one, a few names and local numbers. “People hosting refugees?” I asked.
“That’s what I figure. They had the numbers on one of those note pads that stick to the dashboard, I used their pen.”
Daughter Dearest threw the stick in the stove, releasing a small plume of smoke, and took one of the cards. “News I need to know? How the hell do they know what I need to know?” She handed Serena the card. “What I need to know is, who’s giving them enough diesel to drive around half the state?”
“Y’all still smell the big fat gassy rat?” I asked. They nodded. “Me too. Let’s step back out, we need to keep an eye on them.”
“And set a trap,” Daughter Dearest said.
“Not a live trap though,” Serena suggested. Both the girls had an expression that reminded me of Mrs. Fetched when she was ready to rumble… a sort of wild-eyed axe murderer look. Lord, don’t give those guys any reason to set them off, I prayed. The carnage in progress might be entertaining, but the cleanup wouldn’t be. Maria and Guillermo saw that look too, and stayed inside.
continued…
Spring of Discontent
Some “news crew” showed up unannounced yesterday afternoon, and demanded to speak to our guest families (aka the refugees). Maria and Guillermo were kind of groggy from their siesta, but didn’t like what they saw. They called us at the community center; Serena, Daughter Dearest, and I came as quickly as we could. We left Rene in charge of the kids — he would be the first to say I brought the big guns with me. Or they brought me with them.
The attitude of the newsies lit our flares, and we demanded their credentials. None of us recognized the New Talon News logos on the truck nor the names on their ID badges, and DD and Serena were ready to send them packing with as many dents as needed to get them going. I figured they’d make some comment about a hostile reception and threats, assuming they even were newsies, but they were rescued by the Smiths coming around the side of the house.
“Who are they?” the guy with the mike demanded.
“One of the guest families,” I said. “The parents, anyway. Their kid’s at the school. And no, we’re not going to let you browbeat a 10-year-old girl.”
“We’re not browbeating anyone,” the mike guy snapped. “We’re investigating reports of refugee abuse.”
“Abuse?” Mary looked puzzled. “Nobody’s abusing us. We probably couldn’t ask for better.” Sean nodded.
“You got that, right?” I asked the cameraman. “Of course, it’ll probably land on the cutting room floor because it doesn’t fit your preconceived narrative, won’t it?”
I got some dirty looks for that one. “Do you guys mind talking to us in private, then?” Mike Guy said.
“Sure,” Sean said.
“Good. Why don’t you show us your bunkhouse, then?” They walked off, and DD, Serena, and I all looked at each other.
“I smell a rat,” Serena said.
“A big fat one,” I agreed.
“With gas,” Daughter Dearest said with a grim chuckle.
I looked at the truck. “That name sounds familiar,” I said. “But not current.”
“Current?” Daughter Dearest said, watching the Smiths and the “crew” disappear into the apartment.
“Something from… before. Damn. I wish the Internet was still instantaneous. They’ll be long gone before we get any kind of search results.”
“What do we do?”
“Guys?” Serena said. “Why don’t you mail off a search?” She jerked her head toward the house. “I’ll wait out here for them and make sure they don’t try getting video of the doghouse and pass that off as refugee living quarters.”
DD and I looked at each other and shrugged. It would only take one of us to do the search, but I knew what Serena was really up to. We went in the house and emailed our search in: organization, individuals (Fred and Barney). It would get picked up with the next connection, and we’d get whatever was online about them in a couple of hours. Like I said, too long to provide ammunition, but maybe we’d get some idea of what they were up to.
Guillermo and Maria joined us in the living room after we emailed the search request. “Are they gone?” Maria asked, peeking out the window. “No.”
“Good call, getting us over here,” I told them. “Something’s rotten on Planet Georgia.”
“Those people,” Guillermo said. “They remind me of the ones who came looking for us that time.”
“The Riots?”
“SÃ. The Patriot Clubs.” I remembered Kim giving me a panicked look as Christina wrapped herself around him, after the Riots left. I guess when you know, you know…
Serena came in as DD brought in another piece of firewood for the stove. “You send the search request?”
“Yup. I thought you were waiting out for them.”
She walked over to the stove and held her hands over it, standing to one side to let DD crack open the stove door. “Just thought I’d warm up a bit,” she said. “They’re still in the apartment. If they try going anywhere but back to the truck, the dog will let us know.”
“So… did you find anything interesting?”
She grinned and handed me a couple of business cards. “Just these. They have a box of them, I figured they won’t miss any. They’ll probably give Sean and Mary a couple anyway, but just in case.”
The cards had the usual contact info: names, phone numbers, email, fax. The usual stuff. The logo on the card matched the one on the truck, but included a slogan: “News You Need To Know.” It meant nothing to me, but felt a little… off. On the back of one, a few names and local numbers. “People hosting refugees?” I asked.
“That’s what I figure. They had the numbers on one of those note pads that stick to the dashboard, I used their pen.”
Daughter Dearest threw the stick in the stove, releasing a small plume of smoke, and took one of the cards. “News I need to know? How the hell do they know what I need to know?” She handed Serena the card. “What I need to know is, who’s giving them enough diesel to drive around half the state?”
“Y’all still smell the big fat gassy rat?” I asked. They nodded. “Me too. Let’s step back out, we need to keep an eye on them.”
“And set a trap,” Daughter Dearest said.
“Not a live trap though,” Serena suggested. Both the girls had an expression that reminded me of Mrs. Fetched when she was ready to rumble… a sort of wild-eyed axe murderer look. Lord, don’t give those guys any reason to set them off, I prayed. The carnage in progress might be entertaining, but the cleanup wouldn’t be. Maria and Guillermo saw that look too, and stayed inside.
continued…
Sunday, April 12, 2009 4 comments
Cannibal Chickens?
How Easter afternoon is spent at FAR Manor: Mrs. Fetched grabs me, Daughter Dearest, and Sasquatch for chicken house duty.
Upon arrival, a telltale thumping noise signaled the lack of feed at the #4 house. I banged on the bin, just to make sure the feed wasn’t stuck: hollow. When Mrs. Fetched called the field man, he said “the feed mill is behind, I’m not sure when they’ll be able to get feed to you.”
“I hope it’s not too far behind,” Mrs. Fetched said to me. “There was one grower who didn’t get feed for a week last year.”
“What? What happens to the chickens?”
“After a couple of days without feed, if a chicken dies, the other ones just eat it. If you don’t get to it right away, you’ll have the bones and the feet to pick up.”
I suspect what will actually happen: every evening until the feed truck arrives, I’ll help to dump feed from the other houses into a tractor bucket and unload it up at #4. The mental image of cannibal chickens will make this task somewhat less burdensome.
Upon arrival, a telltale thumping noise signaled the lack of feed at the #4 house. I banged on the bin, just to make sure the feed wasn’t stuck: hollow. When Mrs. Fetched called the field man, he said “the feed mill is behind, I’m not sure when they’ll be able to get feed to you.”
“I hope it’s not too far behind,” Mrs. Fetched said to me. “There was one grower who didn’t get feed for a week last year.”
“What? What happens to the chickens?”
“After a couple of days without feed, if a chicken dies, the other ones just eat it. If you don’t get to it right away, you’ll have the bones and the feet to pick up.”
I suspect what will actually happen: every evening until the feed truck arrives, I’ll help to dump feed from the other houses into a tractor bucket and unload it up at #4. The mental image of cannibal chickens will make this task somewhat less burdensome.
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