Random Vacation Photos & Notes

This runs pretty long, but there’s not a good breaking point.

The back porch area of the condo we stayed at, accessible only through the guest bedroom (where Snippet was sleeping). The flowers were very fragrant, and it smelled pretty good out there… despite The Boy’s and Snippet’s best efforts to stink it up with their cancer sticks. The beach party was about two blocks south of the condo.

The condo itself was across Gulf Blvd. from the beach — that saved us a ton of money, and all the kids are (nominally) old enough to cross the street without anyone helping them.


I saw this sign Sunday morning, along one edge of the parking lot at Joker Marchant Stadium, where we had the autocross. This is enough of a problem that they have to put up a sign?



Monday, I got the phone call to come get the girlies. Mrs. Fetched said she was getting tickets for everyone so we could spend the day at Dizzy. Of course, The Boy and Snippet were being very slow to get moving, which (imagine that) peeved Mrs. Fetched to no end: Keeping Her Waiting is one of the seven deadly sins, you know. She started snarling at me (at the phone in the rest area), so I gave it right back to her.

So, Daughter Dearest was at Disney World! Well, actually she’d been here since early Friday — long enough to scope out all the roller coasters she wanted me to ride with her. I’m not keen on the ones that go upside-down and all that foofaraw, but the displays they have set up waiting in line for the “Rockin’ Roller Coaster” were worth it. I was also partial to the Tower of Terror, as I’ve always been a Twilight Zone fan.

Other than that, what can you say about Dizzy World? You pay a $#¡+load of money to get in, you wait in line for an hour to ride a 5-minute ride, lather rinse repeat, pay exorbitant prices for fast food, until you run out of steam and leave.

Speaking of Tower of Terror, The Boy and Snippet rode with us. This was one of the better moments of the trip with regards to them. Later in the week… well, Mrs. Fetched doesn’t appreciate me “telling everybody about it.” Suffice it to say it’s not the first time. Snippet is getting ejected, but we’re having some issues contacting her mom (like finding the number). She should be gone in a day or so, and the guest room will again be open for visiting relatives and blog-buddies.

I spent Thursday at Solar’s. He had me over for beer, pizza, and more beer. His girlfriend was there for a while, but went out with her sister. She’s pretty cool — doesn’t like TV, has blind spots in her sense of humor… wait a minute, that’s me & I’m not that cool. :-P He sent me home with many gifts: some small (but nice) speakers that will go into Studio FARf, a sub-woofer (ditto), and a 17" LCD monitor. He said he wasn’t sure it worked, but when they replaced it the new one didn’t work either; the video card was out. But I’m using it now. It has a very PC-like gamma, much darker than the Macbook monitor, but more real estate on the desk is always welcome.

Unfortunately, the speakers ended up stashed at Mom’s until she comes up for DD’s graduation next month. Three people drove down in a Civic, but five rode back (the ladies took a tour bus to Orlando a day before I left). The trunk was crammed with luggage, and some of it spilled into the passenger compartment. Fortunately, an LCD screen takes very little room and we could bring that. I was surprised that Mrs. Fetched didn’t suggest (i.e. demand) we stop at a hotel somewhere along the way; I guess she didn’t want to un-cram and re-cram stuff (and people) — we ended up maintaining cordial relations cooped up in a little car for 10 hours. Must be some kind of record.

I leave you with a shot of one of the more intriguing supermarket displays I’ve ever seen. This was at the Indian Rocks Publix, and is a very detailed sand sculpture. They had a “please do not touch” sign up next to it, and I don’t blame them. I wonder if it’s still intact.

And now I’m back at FAR Manor. We had a “wintry mix” (aka slush storm) today. I want to be back on the beach.

FAR Future, Episode 30: War is Hell

Keychain drives are a god-send, aren’t they?

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Monday, September 2, 2013 (11:52 p.m.)
War is Hell

To describe Mrs. Fetched as “peeved” would be like describing water as “damp.” Livid might be a little closer. A little.

OK, obviously I’m still alive to tell you about what happened. I’m even not wounded or anything. I wasn’t sure how long I’d stay that way once I got back to FAR Manor, but she said very little. A hug, “I’m glad you’re safe,” and straight to bed. She wasn’t exactly in the mood to talk though, which is letting me get the aftermath put together. Anyway, here’s what happened.

The shooting started, I posted and closed the laptop. My cellphone was ringing before I even had a change to finish stuffing the computer in my pack.

“The news says there’s shooting!” Mrs. Fetched yelled. “Where are you?”

“I hear it too, but I’m at the rear. I’m fine. I obviously can’t say everything else is fine, but I’m out of harm’s way.”

“Can you get out of there?”

“Not right away. But we’re OK back here.”

One of the couriers — a skinny guy on a college cross-country team — came pelting back. “We need the medics up front, now!” he gasped, then grabbed a water bottle and downed it.

“Roll out!” Sgt. Pepper yelled. “You too,” he pointed at me. Oh crap.

“We’re moving out,” I said, trying to keep it vague. “Pray for these people, OK? I’ll call you as soon as I can get a moment.” I hung up and switched to camera, and narrated as we double-timed it to the front lines. I still don’t remember the gunfire stopping, but I must have at the time: when I reviewed the video I said something hopeful as we reached the lines.

Chaos, as expected. People on both sides of the road were milling around, it looked like several dozen wounded on either side, sergeants on both sides still screaming at the troops to cease fire you assholes, stand the fuck DOWN even though nobody was even pointing a weapon anymore. I slapped the phone shut and turned to one of the medics. “You need a stretcher bearer or anything?”

“Yeah,” he said. He tagged a courier, standing and gawking at the scene. “You too. We’ve got a tent a few hundred yards back; I’ll lead y’all there the first time. We’ll load the casualties on the stretchers, you just have to carry ’em. Move quick but be careful, you don’t want to drop ’em. Got it?”

We nodded and immediately got to work. People made way for us; the courier (whose wind is better than mine) took the front and called “wounded coming through, make way!” and that seemed to help a lot.

On the second trip, the guy on the stretcher was facing me. “You’re the reporter, ain’tcha?” he said.

“Yeah.”

“Word’s got around. You ain’t one of us, but you’re bein’ fair about your coverage.”

“I’m trying, anyway. You sure you should be talking?”

“It’s my shoulder, they didn’t pop a lung. Just don’t jostle me.” The medics had wrapped the shoulder, but it was bloody. He laughed. “Lots of guys out here figured you’d clear the hill with one jump as soon as the shooting started.”

“Yeah… and I’m gonna catch hell from my wife for not doing just that! She was on the horn right away.”

He laughed harder, then winced. “Ah shit. It hurts to laugh that hard. Don’t make me laugh.”

“OK, sorry. What happened down there?”

“They started it. Accidentally, anyway. General Mayhem got on a bullhorn and told the Tennessee boys to disperse in ten minutes or be arrested for unlawful incursion, or something like that. The officers on their side told ’em to stand firm, and things got pretty tense. After the ten minutes were up, we were ordered to disarm the Tennessee boys and take ’em into custody. They gave us zip ties to tie their wrists with.” He reached under himself with his good hand, wincing a little, and brought out a handful of long plastic zip ties. “So we started across the road, everyone started yellin’. Some of the Tennessee boys stood their ground and wrestled with us, some of ’em backed up and pointed their guns. One of ’em was pointin’ his rifle at me, stumbled on something, and his gun went off — so I guess that makes me the first casualty of the war, huh? Well, all hell broke loose and you know the rest.”

We got to the tent, and the medics took charge. “Can I get you to repeat that on camera a little later? I’m a little busy right now.”

He nodded. “Yeah. Like I said, you’re OK. I’ll wait here for ya.”

I only had to make three or four trips — the medics drafted some privates to carry as well, and we got all the wounded off the line pretty quickly. Some of them had Guard uniforms; I heard neither side’s medics were being choosy about whom they picked up, and that was fine with me. Unfortunately, several people on both sides were dead… which is to be expected when you’re exchanging gunfire with people 20 feet away.

The courier who’d called in the medics found me. “Colonel Mustard wants you up front,” he said. “He and the Tennessee commander are negotiating a cease-fire, and they both want a recording.” He held back a bit so I could keep up, and led me back to where I’d interviewed the Tennessee commander just an hour or so earlier. It seemed like it had been a day or two already. The Tennessee guard was already leaving, marching up the road and ignoring the occasional jeer (quickly hushed) from the militia, but spared me a glare or two. The news helicopters were circling like noisy buzzards, a lot lower than earlier, and it was a wonder a couple of them didn’t collide as thick as they were.

I spared thirty seconds to call Mrs. Fetched and explain the situation (and emphasize that I was safe), then waded in, turned off the phone, turned on the camera, and kept my mouth shut. The “negotiations,” such as they were, were pretty small potatoes compared to what was (and still is) going on in Atlanta, Nashville, and Washington. I’m guessing, at this point, that Planet Georgia will give up their border claims in exchange for water rights… which is all they really wanted in the first place. A more unfortunate aspect of this skirmish is that people in the northern Plains are starting to talk about doing the same thing over the Ogallala Aquifer. Like I said, the water wars are going on tour.

It took a few hours for the ambulances to carry off the wounded. The hike back up the canyon was exhausting, which made the ride back home pretty quiet. My second cellphone battery was getting low, but I figured it would be good for a few minutes (especially if I turned off the phone part), so I went for one last interview. “Did you guys think it would end up the way it did?”

Derisive snorts and a “hell no” or two. But the guy in the back seat with me said, “Y’know, we knew it could end up like it did. Or worse. At least I knew. I just figured it wouldn’t.”

“What would you have done different if you’d known there would be some real shooting?”

“Oh, we’d’a still come,” he said, and the others nodded. “But… I guess I’d’a mugged a cop for his body armor first!” The battery wheezed out to all of us sharing a laugh.

And now, I need to edit down all my stuff, which could take half the night. Then start answering some of the 100+ emails from media people. I guess Colonel Mustard gave them my address… they want raw footage, cooked footage, pictures, interviews with me(!), the kitchen sink, etc. Getting shot might have been more merciful.

continued…

Autocross

Solar was kind enough to invite me to his autocross club meet today. We mostly arranged things the week before, then firmed up the details yesterday. Of course, this involved getting up at 5 a.m. to get to Lakeland and set up everything — and he was working registration for the day, so we had to be among the first arrivals. Well, it seems like weekends are mostly when I’m ever required to be up that early. I was pretty well low on sleep anyway, so I went to bed at 9 and woke up at 4:40 without the aid of the cellphone alarm (set to 5). This gave me time to make some coffee before heading over to Solar’s.

Something was wonky with the cell service — both of us tried calling each other but couldn’t get through. He was relieved to see me arrive, and we got on the road (stopping once for more caffiene).

Our destination was Marchant Stadium, a place I’ve always wanted to visit during spring training and catch a Tigers game. But instead of watching people throw baseballs, we were there to throw cars around a parking lot. The first order of business, of course, was to set up the registration desk. People queued up right away, and Solar got to work.

Next up was to lay out the course. This involves strategic placement of traffic cones — lots of them, I figured helping out beat being bored, and got to it. I also spent a lot of time scratching my head and “WTF?”ing at the cones — it took a lot of staring at the map, and several walks around the course, to figure it out. Then I joked about it being almost as curvy as some Planet Georgia roads.

Meanwhile, Solar had arranged my driving situation: I’d be driving his car, a rare German-built Civic Si, and switching numbers for each run. He has #30, so slapping a 6 on the end made me #306. I took that as good luck, because 306 is a highway not too far from FAR Manor. Turned out we’d been assigned to Run A and Work B, which meant we would not have to stick around for the last group. This was good; we’d arrived early so we could leave early.

At last, it was time to do it. Solar and I were the first and second drivers on the course, respectively — he grumbled a little about that, since that meqant we’d contend with all the grit on the track. Both of us missed a turn (“off course”) on our first run, which earned us each a DNF. They added a seriously wicked zig-zag right at the end, to slow everyone down before they hit the exit chute, and that’s what caught me. But only once. AFter getting a little more familiar with the course, and a couple of pointers from Solar, I turned in respectable high-40 second times for my last two runs. As expected for one more experienced, Solar beat my best time by a good 3 seconds and change, and opined that he might have been able to shave another second off if he’d had one more run. Here’s my times, which earned me a respectible 22nd of 29 in our class, and mid-pack overall:



I have to say, it was a blast throwing someone else’s car through tight maneuvers, skidding on the edge on control around a bunch of cones and managing to not hit any. But the fun continued after I was done driving.

Around the course are a number of stations. People at the stations are out there to reset knocked-over cones and call in drivers going off-course, — or, in an emergency, flag down cars or hit 'em with a fire extinguisher. The latter two are rare occurrences, and neither happened this day, but they have been needed in the past. All we had to contend with was a couple of cones, a handful of “Station 5, Car 51, off course” calls… and a downpour. It was warm, so I didn’t care about the wet too much. The cars continued to run in the rain, with a little more drama — a couple of smaller rear-drive cars spun out at the same spot and had to turn around to continue. (They run essentially one at a time, they weren’t out there at the same moment.) The rain probably improved my standing a little, but Solar pointed out that most of our class (G) ran before the rain got started.

At last, it was time to leave. The rain continued, dampening the St. Pete Grand Prix as well. Fortunately, Solar has a large carport/overhang on the front of his house, so the planned grilling of cheeseburgers went on uninterrupted.

The Boy and Snippet locked themselves out of the condo (again), so I finally made my manners and rover back through the rain. With much less drama than in Lakeland.

“Beauty and the Beach”

As I often do on vacation, I will type up posts as they happen then post them when I can, back-dating them to the proper day. If you come to look at vacation posts, this is the first.

I can’t take the credit (or blame) for that title: it’s what Indian Rocks Beach is calling their mini-festival today.

The drive down was anything but beautiful, though. I was hoping The Boy would show up at the office around 5:30, which would have gotten us here around 2 a.m. Being his mother’s child, he never shows up on time for anything, and always has “a good reason” (thunderstorms and a brain-fart that sent him back home) so it was closer to 7:30 by the time he arrived. It was some of the worst driving weather in recent memory — I was hoping we would get past the rain by the time we got to Macon, but it sprinkled on & off pretty much all the way down. So between one thing and another, we got here around 4:30 a.m. We hit a truck stop somewhere south of Macon because the kids were whining about needing a bathroom (read: cigarette) break and snacks. I am stunned by the generosity of the truck stop owners: dump $600 on gas (diesel is $4/gal), and get a “free” meal! I was going to have The Boy drive one leg of the trip so I could get a brief rest before bringing us through Tampa and over to the beach, but he was sound asleep at that point so I just kept on. I was pretty well wasted by the time we got here.

Of course, The Boy had to start being a butthead almost immediately, playing the TV, flipping switches, and generally making noise. I shushed him several times before finally falling asleep and passing beyond all knowledge of further stupidity. Of course, I can't sleep past 9:30 anymore for just about any reason, so I’m running on short sleep rations today. A brief afternoon nap helped, and I made a list of things I forgot to bring and may not need anyway: bicycle, folding chairs, cooler, etc. Mom or Solar probably can help with that. The Boy suggested I buy “us” a six-pack, but I told him we’re a long way from the chicken houses so I don’t need to drink.

But there are compensations. I'm on the beach. A veritable buffet of bikinis offer an endless feast for the eyes. A live band provides the soundtrack. There is beer. Even at $3 a pop, I'm coming out ahead because I'd pay more than that for a six-pack & The Boy would drink it before I got one or two. Our tax refunds came in, so I can afford $3 beer. The Boy & Snippet are currently off checking out the beach or something and leaving me alone. Life, for now, is good. Even on short sleep. The one flaw preventing the scene from being perfect is Internet access. There are plenty of wi-fi nodes in the area, but all of them are passworded (good for them!).

Jason Young provided the music. I couldn't get the video to “process”, so I’ll try posting it later in a miscellaneous photo post.

FAR Future, Episode 29: Battle Lines

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I hear shooting.

continued…

All Week Long…

…this has been Daughter Dearest:



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

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

FAR Future, Episode 28: On the March

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sure, if they’re willing. You too.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

continued…

Revenge of the Pines

It’s that time of year again.

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

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

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

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

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

FAR Future, Episode 27: Here We Go Again!

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

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Sunday, August 11, 2013
Here We Go Again!

Remember these guys? They’re at it again.

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

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

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

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

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

TO ARMS!

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

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

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

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

continued…

Flowering trees

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

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

These Are the Good Old Days

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hi ho, Hi ho, it’s Home to Work I Go

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

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

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

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

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

FAR Future, Episode 26: Let the Water Wars Begin

Turbulence ahead. Please cap your water bottles tightly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

continued…

Sproing!

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

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

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

The (Other) Storms of Spring

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

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

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

“I’m taking EJ to work,” he said.

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

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

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

“What did she do?”

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

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

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

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

“You sure?” I asked.

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

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

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

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

“Girl talk?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

FAR Future, Episode 25: So Far So Good

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

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Monday, June 17, 2013
So Far So Good

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

continued…

Spinning Wrenches, Spinning Air Columns

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Weekend Cinema

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

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

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

(Basil) Survivor: Winter

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

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

FAIL, Chicken House Style

Or: How My Saturday was Shot to Hell for Me

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

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




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

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




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





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





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

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


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


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