It has been a while since the last one of these… in fact, I had to go look it up.
Seeing as I’m off work for the next two weeks (hooray!) but we won’t be leaving for Michigan until later in the week (boo!), I figured it would be a good time to look into some of the maintenance issues at the rental place. We’ve known about the rain gutters for a good long while, but there was also a recent problem with the A/C unit kicking the 50-amp breaker (very bad). I threw some tools into the crate on the back of the bike and putted down there.
Big G (not Big V, we both have issues with her) was there, which helped a little. After making sure the breaker was off, I inspected the wiring and found a small kink where some wire was showing through the insulation; the wires were exposed to the elements but the rest of the insulation looked OK. I wrapped that up with some electrical tape and sealed up the wire nuts, just to be sure. Then we cleaned some crud out from around and inside the coils and hosed them out as best as we could. It kicked on later and seemed to be working fine.
With the small job out of the way, I started on the gutters. When The Boy (at age 10-ish) and I put up the gutters, I also bought and installed screens to keep debris out. They mostly worked, but some have rotted over the years and others broke off… and plenty of crud had collected in there. The roof isn’t very steep, but Big G “doesn’t do good on roofs” and I’m quite comfortable up there anyway… so he handed me a blower and I got a bunch of debris off there (and out of the ridge cap). My knee started giving me a little pain, but it does from time to time and usually goes away. It has been like that since my early teens — a disinterested doctor dismissed it at the time as “growing pains” — so I can still pretend I’m 30 even if the knee is acting up.
With the roof dealt with, I turned to the gutters themselves. I knew there was a wasp nest on one side, but got caught up in what I was doing and got too close. One of the SOBs got me on the left wrist, which hurt for a minute then stopped. And my knee stopped hurting, too. Acupuncture? Or maybe just my brain dampening the pain receptors? Whatever. I took care of the gutter on the other side, blowing all the crap out and nailing up a place where it had come loose. The gutters on the other side need more than that… the fascia board was cracked where the nails had gone in all the way down one 8-foot length, and the one on the end looks rotten. I’ll have to get new boards (and screens), paint the boards, then pull down the gutter to replace those boards before nailing it back up again.
After I’d finished on the roof, and we were looking at what limbs need to be cut off an oak tree, my knee buckled. Very painfully. I hadn’t had one of those in a long time. After getting home, I should have stayed home instead of going to the retail district to get lunch and repair parts, but live and learn I guess. I’ve got the ice cuff on it now; I expect it to be better before we make the long drive north.
How did it happen? I blame the chicken houses: I was helping to run feed last weekend, which entails a lot of bending and stooping to shake the pans and flats. My legs were quite sore the next day; my left leg cramped up pretty good around the back of my thigh, and was like that until this morning. I’ve been putting more weight on the right leg all week, and I guess the knee decided it needed its own vacation. All in all, an inauspicious start. But I’m hoping that’s the worst of it, and things will get better from there. At least I’m out of the honey-do loop for a day or so.
Saturday, July 18, 2009 4 comments
Friday, July 17, 2009 4 comments
Flowery Friday (Roadside Edition)
The road out front of the manor is lined with all sorts of stuff this time of year. Some of it blooms, some doesn’t, and the economy sucks enough to keep the county from mowing everything down…
Queen Anne ’s Lace:
They caught my eye because they look like giant snowflakes. Seeing as it ’s mid-July on Planet Georgia, I found the notion highly entertaining. I described them to my dad over the phone, and he nailed the ID for me (thanks Dad!). It’s actually a wild carrot, a European invasive, and the ancestor of our domestic carrots. According to Gardening When It Counts, we’ve only been breeding carrots for a few centuries so they’ll readily cross-pollinate with their wild ancestors. I’ll dig up a couple tomorrow for pictorial purposes.
Clover:
The clover is actually a couple weeks past its prime, like the blackberries. But there are still the occasional displays to add color to the roadside.
Most of the rest of these are just flower-weeds to me… if anyone wants to ID them, feel free!
This sort of resembles a butterfly bush, but no butterfly bush stays below 2 feet high and is flame red like this:
I’ve never seen this before; I figure the drought is keeping the grass low enough to let it show off.
I happened to catch a glimpse of this WTFlower, tucked behind a bush, about four feet off the ground and about three inches across. I had my iPhone with me at the time; by the time I got back with the Big Gun (aka Canon), it had closed up:
It’s funky enough that I wouldn’t mind having a few around the manor.
We actually got a little rain today, so I didn’t have to worry about watering anything. The kudzu was already washed and waxed:
Another invasive that thinks Planet Georgia is just, um, peachy.
Shortly afterwards, I started getting rained on myself, so I tucked the Big Gun in my shirt and stepped it up back toward the manor. Am I complaining about getting wet? No way! (Well, I would have been happier without having to worry about the camera, but whatever.) An interesting way to start a two-week vacation…
Queen Anne ’s Lace:
They caught my eye because they look like giant snowflakes. Seeing as it ’s mid-July on Planet Georgia, I found the notion highly entertaining. I described them to my dad over the phone, and he nailed the ID for me (thanks Dad!). It’s actually a wild carrot, a European invasive, and the ancestor of our domestic carrots. According to Gardening When It Counts, we’ve only been breeding carrots for a few centuries so they’ll readily cross-pollinate with their wild ancestors. I’ll dig up a couple tomorrow for pictorial purposes.
Clover:
The clover is actually a couple weeks past its prime, like the blackberries. But there are still the occasional displays to add color to the roadside.
Most of the rest of these are just flower-weeds to me… if anyone wants to ID them, feel free!
This sort of resembles a butterfly bush, but no butterfly bush stays below 2 feet high and is flame red like this:
I’ve never seen this before; I figure the drought is keeping the grass low enough to let it show off.
I happened to catch a glimpse of this WTFlower, tucked behind a bush, about four feet off the ground and about three inches across. I had my iPhone with me at the time; by the time I got back with the Big Gun (aka Canon), it had closed up:
It’s funky enough that I wouldn’t mind having a few around the manor.
We actually got a little rain today, so I didn’t have to worry about watering anything. The kudzu was already washed and waxed:
Another invasive that thinks Planet Georgia is just, um, peachy.
Shortly afterwards, I started getting rained on myself, so I tucked the Big Gun in my shirt and stepped it up back toward the manor. Am I complaining about getting wet? No way! (Well, I would have been happier without having to worry about the camera, but whatever.) An interesting way to start a two-week vacation…
Monday, July 13, 2009 4 comments
FAR Future, Episode 96: I’m History
Tuesday, November 22, 2044
I’m History
A history student followed Pat down from the college to interview me for a paper he’s writing. I was kind of flattered, and told him he was welcome to stay at FAR Manor with us as long as he needed — there’s always plenty of food — and even for my 86th birthday if he was inclined.
“Sure,” he said, “We’re on break until Monday. And I’m really not looking forward to riding back to campus alone.”
“Hey, it’s only 25 kims,” I said. “I biked twice that when I was twice your age.”
He chuckled. “Yeah, but did you have a pack of clothes, books, and a recorder with you?”
“You got me there. But we didn’t have aerogel fairings or those hub motors for the hills, either.”
“You win some, you lose some, right?”
“Right. Do you mind sharing a room with some kids?”
“I guess not.” The kids in question were already checking out the visitor, whispering among themselves — probably about who would have to give up his bed — then Bobby walked up. “You can have my bed,” he said. “I’ll take care of the fire tonight.”
“Isn’t it your night anyway?” I asked.
Bobby blushed, and the visitor laughed. “Busted!” he said, and Bobby shrugged and walked away. It’s easy enough to embarrass a teenager, but flustering one is another thing.
“Well, c’mon in,” I said. “We can sit on the porch and talk. It’s still warm enough, and it’ll be quiet.”
Daughter Dearest, whom the kids call “Mama” these days, brought drinks and something to snack on. We sat and watched the kids through the screen, goofing around outside on one of those warm days of late fall, a jar of Luke’s hooch and a couple of glasses on the table.
“Good kids,” I said. “Kids are always happy to help out if they know they’re contributing… and that it’s appreciated.”
“It’s like that at my place, too,” the student — Darrell is his name, I think — told me. “At least you have a lot of room to move around, in these old houses. Didn’t you just have your own family in here, back when?”
“Occasionally,” I said. “We had other kids staying with us a lot of the time, and after the Powerout started we ended up with two foster kids and a Hispanic family. That was one way we knew things were changing a lot. But I think we were kind of unusual in that regard… most people wouldn’t have anyone but a relative living with them, back before.”
“Well, it’s the ‘back before’ stuff I came to talk about, before the Powerout got started — I guess you figured that out. I found a copy of that footage you took at Nickajack, back when things were just getting started, in our archives. But you aren’t listed as a militia or junta member. I got kind of excited when I found out you lived so nearby, and are still around to talk about it.”
“I had a strange, and rather uncomfortable, relationship with the junta,” I said, knocking back a gulp of hooch then replenishing my cup. “Even if I didn’t agree with their aims, I felt like what they were doing at Nickajack needed to be recorded. None of what we used to call the mainstream media wanted to associate with them, so I volunteered. I nearly got killed… by my wife when I got home!”
“Yeah. We have copies of old blogs in the archives, yours and lots of others, and they’re a big help for seeing what things were really like for everyday people. But it’s always good to get a first-hand report. Not all reports were created equal, you know.”
I laughed. “Not all lives are created equal. May you live in interesting times is truly a curse, but it makes for interesting reading.”
“So what do you remember about the junta people?”
“In a word: misled. I ran into one of the Nickajack folks shortly after the Flood, and he told me about the Restoration from his side of things. He spent some time in a prison camp, and learned that the televangelists he thought were running the show were being run by the ultra-wealthy—”
“Televangelists?”
“Yeah. Preachers with TV shows.”
He chewed on that for a moment. “Some stuff you can read about, but you just can’t internalize. They had their own TV shows?”
“Yeah. Some owned entire channels. Mostly on satellite and cable.”
He shook his head, as if it were too much to comprehend. “Were you a believer, back then?”
“Still am. Penitent, though. I never had much respect for those guys in expensive suits, always begging for more money. It’s important to remember, the junta rank-and-file thought they were obeying the will of God. Some of them killed themselves rather than admit they’d been duped so completely. Some just opted-out… which can be a slower form of suicide. Col. Mustard made it, and found something useful to do with himself afterwards. He’s still alive, down in John’s Creek — if you want an account of the junta from someone who was inside it, I could ask him if he’d be willing to tell you about it.”
“Yeah, maybe. But it was something else I was wondering about. I keep hearing stories of how things were like 40 years ago — burning up oil like it would never run out, cities bright as day by night, using delivery trucks for family vehicles — it sounds incredible. This must be a letdown.”
“Not at all,” I said. He gave me a curious look. “We used to call it the Rat Race. We were so consumed by it that very few ever stopped to see what it did to us or the world around us. We had so much energy and material wealth, it stunted our imagination. We knew there had to be a better way to live than burning up all the oil and ignoring the warning signs, but we just couldn’t — as a people — think of one.”
Darrell looked lost in thought for a few minutes. “I never heard anyone put it like that,” he said. “You really think people are better off now, even after all the disasters we’ve seen this century?”
“Well, now that things look like they’re finally starting to settle down… yes, I think so. I always hated that ‘it builds character’ crap; it was always someone not suffering who said it. But the struggles we’ve been through? They’ve given us a purpose. They showed us that we could be more than what we had let ourselves become. I saw plenty of suffering, and helped out where I could. I saw petty evil, and fought it. I suppose you could say the survivors are better off, but you — and those kids out there — are better off, too.”
“You wouldn’t go back, then?”
“Not if you gave me a tanker full of gasoline. We were tested in the fire, and barely passed through it. But we made it, and ended up a wiser people. We learned some hard lessons, and the biggest one might be this: unlimited energy doesn’t mean unlimited happiness — maybe it’s the opposite.”
“It's like the old joke about being rich: it has its own problems, but I ’d be willing to try.”
We laughed and chatted until suppertime.
continued…
I’m History
A history student followed Pat down from the college to interview me for a paper he’s writing. I was kind of flattered, and told him he was welcome to stay at FAR Manor with us as long as he needed — there’s always plenty of food — and even for my 86th birthday if he was inclined.
“Sure,” he said, “We’re on break until Monday. And I’m really not looking forward to riding back to campus alone.”
“Hey, it’s only 25 kims,” I said. “I biked twice that when I was twice your age.”
He chuckled. “Yeah, but did you have a pack of clothes, books, and a recorder with you?”
“You got me there. But we didn’t have aerogel fairings or those hub motors for the hills, either.”
“You win some, you lose some, right?”
“Right. Do you mind sharing a room with some kids?”
“I guess not.” The kids in question were already checking out the visitor, whispering among themselves — probably about who would have to give up his bed — then Bobby walked up. “You can have my bed,” he said. “I’ll take care of the fire tonight.”
“Isn’t it your night anyway?” I asked.
Bobby blushed, and the visitor laughed. “Busted!” he said, and Bobby shrugged and walked away. It’s easy enough to embarrass a teenager, but flustering one is another thing.
“Well, c’mon in,” I said. “We can sit on the porch and talk. It’s still warm enough, and it’ll be quiet.”
Daughter Dearest, whom the kids call “Mama” these days, brought drinks and something to snack on. We sat and watched the kids through the screen, goofing around outside on one of those warm days of late fall, a jar of Luke’s hooch and a couple of glasses on the table.
“Good kids,” I said. “Kids are always happy to help out if they know they’re contributing… and that it’s appreciated.”
“It’s like that at my place, too,” the student — Darrell is his name, I think — told me. “At least you have a lot of room to move around, in these old houses. Didn’t you just have your own family in here, back when?”
“Occasionally,” I said. “We had other kids staying with us a lot of the time, and after the Powerout started we ended up with two foster kids and a Hispanic family. That was one way we knew things were changing a lot. But I think we were kind of unusual in that regard… most people wouldn’t have anyone but a relative living with them, back before.”
“Well, it’s the ‘back before’ stuff I came to talk about, before the Powerout got started — I guess you figured that out. I found a copy of that footage you took at Nickajack, back when things were just getting started, in our archives. But you aren’t listed as a militia or junta member. I got kind of excited when I found out you lived so nearby, and are still around to talk about it.”
“I had a strange, and rather uncomfortable, relationship with the junta,” I said, knocking back a gulp of hooch then replenishing my cup. “Even if I didn’t agree with their aims, I felt like what they were doing at Nickajack needed to be recorded. None of what we used to call the mainstream media wanted to associate with them, so I volunteered. I nearly got killed… by my wife when I got home!”
“Yeah. We have copies of old blogs in the archives, yours and lots of others, and they’re a big help for seeing what things were really like for everyday people. But it’s always good to get a first-hand report. Not all reports were created equal, you know.”
I laughed. “Not all lives are created equal. May you live in interesting times is truly a curse, but it makes for interesting reading.”
“So what do you remember about the junta people?”
“In a word: misled. I ran into one of the Nickajack folks shortly after the Flood, and he told me about the Restoration from his side of things. He spent some time in a prison camp, and learned that the televangelists he thought were running the show were being run by the ultra-wealthy—”
“Televangelists?”
“Yeah. Preachers with TV shows.”
He chewed on that for a moment. “Some stuff you can read about, but you just can’t internalize. They had their own TV shows?”
“Yeah. Some owned entire channels. Mostly on satellite and cable.”
He shook his head, as if it were too much to comprehend. “Were you a believer, back then?”
“Still am. Penitent, though. I never had much respect for those guys in expensive suits, always begging for more money. It’s important to remember, the junta rank-and-file thought they were obeying the will of God. Some of them killed themselves rather than admit they’d been duped so completely. Some just opted-out… which can be a slower form of suicide. Col. Mustard made it, and found something useful to do with himself afterwards. He’s still alive, down in John’s Creek — if you want an account of the junta from someone who was inside it, I could ask him if he’d be willing to tell you about it.”
“Yeah, maybe. But it was something else I was wondering about. I keep hearing stories of how things were like 40 years ago — burning up oil like it would never run out, cities bright as day by night, using delivery trucks for family vehicles — it sounds incredible. This must be a letdown.”
“Not at all,” I said. He gave me a curious look. “We used to call it the Rat Race. We were so consumed by it that very few ever stopped to see what it did to us or the world around us. We had so much energy and material wealth, it stunted our imagination. We knew there had to be a better way to live than burning up all the oil and ignoring the warning signs, but we just couldn’t — as a people — think of one.”
Darrell looked lost in thought for a few minutes. “I never heard anyone put it like that,” he said. “You really think people are better off now, even after all the disasters we’ve seen this century?”
“Well, now that things look like they’re finally starting to settle down… yes, I think so. I always hated that ‘it builds character’ crap; it was always someone not suffering who said it. But the struggles we’ve been through? They’ve given us a purpose. They showed us that we could be more than what we had let ourselves become. I saw plenty of suffering, and helped out where I could. I saw petty evil, and fought it. I suppose you could say the survivors are better off, but you — and those kids out there — are better off, too.”
“You wouldn’t go back, then?”
“Not if you gave me a tanker full of gasoline. We were tested in the fire, and barely passed through it. But we made it, and ended up a wiser people. We learned some hard lessons, and the biggest one might be this: unlimited energy doesn’t mean unlimited happiness — maybe it’s the opposite.”
“It's like the old joke about being rich: it has its own problems, but I ’d be willing to try.”
We laughed and chatted until suppertime.
continued…
Wednesday, July 08, 2009 4 comments
Mission Impractical
Sunday afternoon, we were eating lunch before going to the cinema… and Daughter Dearest’s phone rang. Her (now ex-)boyfriend Sasquatch has another friend (call him Ananias, he’s not a liar but you’ll understand shortly) whose dad is a USDA Prime Asshole™. For reasons unnecessary to detail here, he decided to eject both Ananias and his wife (i.e. Ananias’s mom) from the premises. He was working Sunday, and told them to be out before he returned home. As I understand it, this is not the first such eviction notice; she would basically beg him into changing his mind. But Ananias had as much as he could take a while ago, and this particular weekend his mom felt the same way. She grabbed her essentials and bailed to a hotel, leaving Ananias to pack up his stuff. He called Sasquatch, who called Daughter Dearest, who asked me if I would also help. Having heard about this guy before, I figured it was more important than sitting on my butt in a theater… but DD and I both told him that we’d help him move out, but not move back.
So we went home, grabbed a pickup, and Daughter Dearest navigated while I drove. We arrived in good order, seeing Sasquatch and a very young-looking female whom I didn’t recognize (and feared that it was one of Sasquatch’s not so wonderful female acquaintances)… she turned out to be a neighbor and the same age as DD, Sasquatch, and Ananias. His girlfriend Saphira was also there — she’s black, another thing that Ananias’s dad doesn’t like (welcome to Planet Georgia, where it’s still 1957 in what passes for the minds of the pod people), and six months pregnant. However, she barely has a belly bump, where Snippet looks like she swallowed a basketball… but I digress. Ananias’s room was just off the garage, and we went in and found that he’d barely started — and they were all mostly standing around. DD and I grumbled, got everyone grabbing clothes on hangers, and stashing them behind the seats in the truck. I sent Ananias upstairs for garbage bags, and stuffed all his loose clothes in them. I had to break up a smoochie session that looked like it was going to turn into something a bit more than smoochie: “You get started,” I said, brandishing my smellphone, “and I’ll get pictures.”
“For blackmail?” Sephira grinned.
“Nope, I’ll just put ’em online.” There were no more smoochie sessions after that.
Less than half an hour later, we’d filled the truck with boxes and bags and had lots more to go — including a dog pen and two large dogs. We sent DD and Sasquatch to his place to unload stuff in their shed, and began loading boxes in the two available cars (one for Ananias, one for Saphira). I did my best to keep things moving; Ananias expected his dad home at 7 but I figured it being a holiday weekend, he could leave early and have little traffic, and I wanted us to be loaded and gone by 6. At one point, Sephira picked up a box that was much too heavy for her, and nearly hurt herself — I fussed at her about that, and I’d been reminding all the kids to lift with their legs anyway, then told her to stick to smaller boxes. Well before the truck returned, we had everything but the dogs and their pen in the cars. The neighbor girl (who had also been helping with lighter boxes) was in a chatty mood, so I talked with her for a while. I had thought she was maybe 13 or 14, complete with acne and a rather flat chest, but she said she had been in school with Ananias and was now at Piedmont (Daughter Dearest considered going there before settling on Reinhardt)… so she was also 19 or 20. I wondered if we should bring her with us, but her dad was home so I figured she’d be safe enough from any Wrath of Asshole.
We started breaking down the dog pen shortly before DD returned with the truck. As we were loading the panels into the back, someone asked, “how are we going to move the dogs?”
“One dog in each car,” DD suggested. I thought that was a great idea, especially since it was now past 5 and I was getting really antsy about the time. With the panels loaded and bungee’d as best as we could manage, DD and I got rolling and told the rest of them to do the same. As we were rolling, DD called to see how the rest of them were progressing, then hung up in disgust. “Sasquatch’s mom is coming with her Explorer to get the dogs,” she said. “There wasn’t enough room for them and Sasquatch in the cars.” Oh, great. The truck notwithstanding, if DD and I hadn’t been there to get them moving, they would probably have all been there at 7. Now they have to start throwing wrenches. What. Ever. We got to Sasquatch’s place without incident — I stopped in town to check the bungees, and even the rotten one was holding up fine — then we put the pen together (finger-tightening the brackets) while waiting for the rest of them to arrive. And arrive they did… not as soon as I’d have liked, but soon enough.
I would like to have been a fly on the wall, though, when Ananias’s dad got back to find his family cleared out as requested. Who is he going to push around now?
So we went home, grabbed a pickup, and Daughter Dearest navigated while I drove. We arrived in good order, seeing Sasquatch and a very young-looking female whom I didn’t recognize (and feared that it was one of Sasquatch’s not so wonderful female acquaintances)… she turned out to be a neighbor and the same age as DD, Sasquatch, and Ananias. His girlfriend Saphira was also there — she’s black, another thing that Ananias’s dad doesn’t like (welcome to Planet Georgia, where it’s still 1957 in what passes for the minds of the pod people), and six months pregnant. However, she barely has a belly bump, where Snippet looks like she swallowed a basketball… but I digress. Ananias’s room was just off the garage, and we went in and found that he’d barely started — and they were all mostly standing around. DD and I grumbled, got everyone grabbing clothes on hangers, and stashing them behind the seats in the truck. I sent Ananias upstairs for garbage bags, and stuffed all his loose clothes in them. I had to break up a smoochie session that looked like it was going to turn into something a bit more than smoochie: “You get started,” I said, brandishing my smellphone, “and I’ll get pictures.”
“For blackmail?” Sephira grinned.
“Nope, I’ll just put ’em online.” There were no more smoochie sessions after that.
Less than half an hour later, we’d filled the truck with boxes and bags and had lots more to go — including a dog pen and two large dogs. We sent DD and Sasquatch to his place to unload stuff in their shed, and began loading boxes in the two available cars (one for Ananias, one for Saphira). I did my best to keep things moving; Ananias expected his dad home at 7 but I figured it being a holiday weekend, he could leave early and have little traffic, and I wanted us to be loaded and gone by 6. At one point, Sephira picked up a box that was much too heavy for her, and nearly hurt herself — I fussed at her about that, and I’d been reminding all the kids to lift with their legs anyway, then told her to stick to smaller boxes. Well before the truck returned, we had everything but the dogs and their pen in the cars. The neighbor girl (who had also been helping with lighter boxes) was in a chatty mood, so I talked with her for a while. I had thought she was maybe 13 or 14, complete with acne and a rather flat chest, but she said she had been in school with Ananias and was now at Piedmont (Daughter Dearest considered going there before settling on Reinhardt)… so she was also 19 or 20. I wondered if we should bring her with us, but her dad was home so I figured she’d be safe enough from any Wrath of Asshole.
We started breaking down the dog pen shortly before DD returned with the truck. As we were loading the panels into the back, someone asked, “how are we going to move the dogs?”
“One dog in each car,” DD suggested. I thought that was a great idea, especially since it was now past 5 and I was getting really antsy about the time. With the panels loaded and bungee’d as best as we could manage, DD and I got rolling and told the rest of them to do the same. As we were rolling, DD called to see how the rest of them were progressing, then hung up in disgust. “Sasquatch’s mom is coming with her Explorer to get the dogs,” she said. “There wasn’t enough room for them and Sasquatch in the cars.” Oh, great. The truck notwithstanding, if DD and I hadn’t been there to get them moving, they would probably have all been there at 7. Now they have to start throwing wrenches. What. Ever. We got to Sasquatch’s place without incident — I stopped in town to check the bungees, and even the rotten one was holding up fine — then we put the pen together (finger-tightening the brackets) while waiting for the rest of them to arrive. And arrive they did… not as soon as I’d have liked, but soon enough.
I would like to have been a fly on the wall, though, when Ananias’s dad got back to find his family cleared out as requested. Who is he going to push around now?
Tuesday, July 07, 2009 2 comments
Fine Free Fruits at FAR Manor
The blueberries peaked and dried up the week I was suffering from cramps in my back muscles, so I didn’t get too many. Even more unfortunate, the blackberry harvest has been a little disappointing this year. I found a stand near the manor that looked good, but the month of drought has really taken its toll this year — most of the berries are small and were a bit dry-looking. But we had a little rain Sunday night though (hallelujah!!!), and they reconstituted on the vine.
I’ve picked a little over a gallon so far, a good ways behind my “3 gallons in one afternoon” pace from last year. I’d like to get another gallon, which should make about 8 pints of jelly. There are couple of spots where the berries are big like they were last year, so I’ll focus on those first.
Meanwhile… a trio of Smooth Sumac trees came up in front of the manor this year. I originally mis-identified these as Staghorn Sumac, but those have hairy branches and these are… well, smooth. The third pic features a somewhat concerned bugly (click on any of the pix for a closeup, of course). The berries smell abso-freeking-lutely heavenly.
I (not knowing what they were) have pulled up many of them in previous years, but these three looked good where they were so we left them to see what they turned into. Now they’re fruiting, three big bunches on each tree. Dang, I got lucky. I'll keep pulling 'em up, but more carefully now as to give them some room. The fruit is good for jelly and a drink often called “Indian lemonade” as the natives introduced it to the white folks. There’s a pretty good stand near the office, on the little street that goes behind the fast-food joints, so I’ll grab them when the time comes too.
Anyone interested in foraging for wild food should keep up with Wide-Eyed Lib’s diaries on DailyKos. He runs a pretty good series of foraging diaries. I still think a field guide is an essential; I got one at the local indie bookstore last night. I’m no stranger to foraging; we used to hunt for morels in Michigan in springtime (my dad still does it) & I know where the good stands of blackberries are around the manor, even if the berries were a bit small this year.
That’s a start to my forest garden, anyway… wild fruit & planted herbs scattered around the manor. I might scatter some of those sumac berries around the edge of the “garden spot” behind the manor, which I won’t ever tend as a regular garden unless I lose my job. Maybe some will come up & I’ll have a crop. (Their roots are shallow so I can always pull them up if I change my mind later.)
Tomorrow, I will relate the tale of an urgent move.
I’ve picked a little over a gallon so far, a good ways behind my “3 gallons in one afternoon” pace from last year. I’d like to get another gallon, which should make about 8 pints of jelly. There are couple of spots where the berries are big like they were last year, so I’ll focus on those first.
Meanwhile… a trio of Smooth Sumac trees came up in front of the manor this year. I originally mis-identified these as Staghorn Sumac, but those have hairy branches and these are… well, smooth. The third pic features a somewhat concerned bugly (click on any of the pix for a closeup, of course). The berries smell abso-freeking-lutely heavenly.
I (not knowing what they were) have pulled up many of them in previous years, but these three looked good where they were so we left them to see what they turned into. Now they’re fruiting, three big bunches on each tree. Dang, I got lucky. I'll keep pulling 'em up, but more carefully now as to give them some room. The fruit is good for jelly and a drink often called “Indian lemonade” as the natives introduced it to the white folks. There’s a pretty good stand near the office, on the little street that goes behind the fast-food joints, so I’ll grab them when the time comes too.
Anyone interested in foraging for wild food should keep up with Wide-Eyed Lib’s diaries on DailyKos. He runs a pretty good series of foraging diaries. I still think a field guide is an essential; I got one at the local indie bookstore last night. I’m no stranger to foraging; we used to hunt for morels in Michigan in springtime (my dad still does it) & I know where the good stands of blackberries are around the manor, even if the berries were a bit small this year.
That’s a start to my forest garden, anyway… wild fruit & planted herbs scattered around the manor. I might scatter some of those sumac berries around the edge of the “garden spot” behind the manor, which I won’t ever tend as a regular garden unless I lose my job. Maybe some will come up & I’ll have a crop. (Their roots are shallow so I can always pull them up if I change my mind later.)
Tomorrow, I will relate the tale of an urgent move.
Monday, July 06, 2009 4 comments
FAR Future, Episode 95: Dreams
Tuesday, October 25, 2044
Dreams
I’ve been having odd dreams lately. In one, The Boy was an old man with no feet, riding in a cart while younger men clear a tangle of brush off the road ahead. In another, Mrs. Fetched attended my funeral, accompanied by a band of odd-looking hunter-gatherers. I guess it’s true:
Your old men will dream dreams.
It’s been a long time since I’d even thought of the Prophet of Atlanta. But perhaps he’d thought of me in his mansion up above. This is last night’s dream, as best as I can remember:
We were walking along a beach, young and healthy as two men could be. I never saw The Prophet as a young man, but I knew him as well as I knew this dream-body that never was. There were other people scattered here and there along this endless beach, some lying in the sun, others chatting, a few sailing away from shore. Patches of dune grass sprouted here and there, away from the surf, and thatched shelters dotted the beach… not that they were needed; the sun was warm and a breeze made it perfect. The sand reminded me of Lake Michigan’s, blonde with little specks of black. Steel drum music played from… somewhere. It was everywhere, but only noticed when you listened for it.
“This is heaven. I could stay here forever,” I said.
The old black man, now a young black man, shook his head and smiled. “No. You’ll come alright, but you’ll only stay a little while. Then you’ll move on to Heaven.”
“Then what is this?”
“One of the resting places. Those who have labored on Earth, those who were heavy-laden, are given rest before entering Heaven. It is also a place where they remember what they have not forgiven, that they may forgive, that they in turn may be forgiven. And thus it is Purgatory as well.”
“So how long am I staying?”
“Only a few minutes, this night. You will awaken in the morning and live on yet a little longer. The Lord has sent me to you, to prepare you for your final journey.”
We walked on while I digested this bit of news. Finally I asked, “So everyone gets some time at the beach?”
The Prophet shook his head. “Only those who see Heaven in the beach. Others see Heaven in other places. Your wife wandered far through the mountains where she saw Heaven, until she was ready to turn aside from the reflection and see the true vision.”
“So… when I get here, how do I know when it’s time to move on?”
The Prophet turned into a shelter we were about to pass, and I followed. The back was cool and dark; several kegs with taps stood in a row behind a bar. He ducked behind the bar and poured me a beer, the best I ever tasted. “The Living Water,” he said, reminding me of something I saw once, and poured himself a cup as well. We emerged into the sunlight, not needing to squint, and continued our walk.
“You will hear the call when it’s time,” he said, and nodded toward the shoreline. There, a young woman pushed a small sailboat into the water, laughing. She jumped in, hoisted the sail, and it carried her out to sea. We stopped and watched for a while as she receded. It seemed that as she approached the horizon, her boat lifted instead of dropping below the horizon, rising out of the water and into the sky. She had to be miles away by now, but we could see her clearly for a long time until she… simply vanished. “When you hear the call, do not tarry. Some go by water, others walk over the dunes, some simply continue down the shore. All paths from here lead to Heaven.”
I finished my cup, and we walked along. Somewhere along the way, I realized I wasn’t holding the cup anymore. I spun around, looking back the way we came — littering on this of all beaches would certainly be blasphemy — and started a step before The Prophet stopped me with a gentle hand on my shoulder.
“The cup had served its purpose, so it was taken,” he said. “As I was. As you will be.”
“That reminds me of something I wondered about for a long time: it seemed like after the Restoration, you just disappeared,” I said. “Whatever happened to you?”
“Does it matter? The servants of God rarely retire. Some are martyred, others simply die. A very few are taken to Heaven — no, I was no Elijah, even if that was my middle name.” He grinned. “After Jerusalem was freed, I laid my burden down and went to my resting place, and then to Heaven itself.”
I wanted to ask him what his resting place was, but he stopped me. “It’s time for you to go back. You yet have a little work to do. Nothing very difficult, but the time for knowing all answers is not yet come. Go in peace. God willing, I will speak to you again.” And the beach dissolved into chaos, or perhaps something I’m not equipped to comprehend right now, then I woke up with the old familiar aches and throbs.
I think I would have rather it had been a surprise, but I suppose you don’t get to make those kind of choices at my age.
continued…
Dreams
I’ve been having odd dreams lately. In one, The Boy was an old man with no feet, riding in a cart while younger men clear a tangle of brush off the road ahead. In another, Mrs. Fetched attended my funeral, accompanied by a band of odd-looking hunter-gatherers. I guess it’s true:
Your old men will dream dreams.
It’s been a long time since I’d even thought of the Prophet of Atlanta. But perhaps he’d thought of me in his mansion up above. This is last night’s dream, as best as I can remember:
We were walking along a beach, young and healthy as two men could be. I never saw The Prophet as a young man, but I knew him as well as I knew this dream-body that never was. There were other people scattered here and there along this endless beach, some lying in the sun, others chatting, a few sailing away from shore. Patches of dune grass sprouted here and there, away from the surf, and thatched shelters dotted the beach… not that they were needed; the sun was warm and a breeze made it perfect. The sand reminded me of Lake Michigan’s, blonde with little specks of black. Steel drum music played from… somewhere. It was everywhere, but only noticed when you listened for it.
“This is heaven. I could stay here forever,” I said.
The old black man, now a young black man, shook his head and smiled. “No. You’ll come alright, but you’ll only stay a little while. Then you’ll move on to Heaven.”
“Then what is this?”
“One of the resting places. Those who have labored on Earth, those who were heavy-laden, are given rest before entering Heaven. It is also a place where they remember what they have not forgiven, that they may forgive, that they in turn may be forgiven. And thus it is Purgatory as well.”
“So how long am I staying?”
“Only a few minutes, this night. You will awaken in the morning and live on yet a little longer. The Lord has sent me to you, to prepare you for your final journey.”
We walked on while I digested this bit of news. Finally I asked, “So everyone gets some time at the beach?”
The Prophet shook his head. “Only those who see Heaven in the beach. Others see Heaven in other places. Your wife wandered far through the mountains where she saw Heaven, until she was ready to turn aside from the reflection and see the true vision.”
“So… when I get here, how do I know when it’s time to move on?”
The Prophet turned into a shelter we were about to pass, and I followed. The back was cool and dark; several kegs with taps stood in a row behind a bar. He ducked behind the bar and poured me a beer, the best I ever tasted. “The Living Water,” he said, reminding me of something I saw once, and poured himself a cup as well. We emerged into the sunlight, not needing to squint, and continued our walk.
“You will hear the call when it’s time,” he said, and nodded toward the shoreline. There, a young woman pushed a small sailboat into the water, laughing. She jumped in, hoisted the sail, and it carried her out to sea. We stopped and watched for a while as she receded. It seemed that as she approached the horizon, her boat lifted instead of dropping below the horizon, rising out of the water and into the sky. She had to be miles away by now, but we could see her clearly for a long time until she… simply vanished. “When you hear the call, do not tarry. Some go by water, others walk over the dunes, some simply continue down the shore. All paths from here lead to Heaven.”
I finished my cup, and we walked along. Somewhere along the way, I realized I wasn’t holding the cup anymore. I spun around, looking back the way we came — littering on this of all beaches would certainly be blasphemy — and started a step before The Prophet stopped me with a gentle hand on my shoulder.
“The cup had served its purpose, so it was taken,” he said. “As I was. As you will be.”
“That reminds me of something I wondered about for a long time: it seemed like after the Restoration, you just disappeared,” I said. “Whatever happened to you?”
“Does it matter? The servants of God rarely retire. Some are martyred, others simply die. A very few are taken to Heaven — no, I was no Elijah, even if that was my middle name.” He grinned. “After Jerusalem was freed, I laid my burden down and went to my resting place, and then to Heaven itself.”
I wanted to ask him what his resting place was, but he stopped me. “It’s time for you to go back. You yet have a little work to do. Nothing very difficult, but the time for knowing all answers is not yet come. Go in peace. God willing, I will speak to you again.” And the beach dissolved into chaos, or perhaps something I’m not equipped to comprehend right now, then I woke up with the old familiar aches and throbs.
I think I would have rather it had been a surprise, but I suppose you don’t get to make those kind of choices at my age.
continued…
Saturday, July 04, 2009 2 comments
Born on the Fourth of July
After repairing the shelf in Daughter Dearest’s closet, I got started on supper. I had put myself on the hook to make rolls and pasta salad, and the schedule was pretty tight to get the rolls done. Somewhere in there, I had to also grill chicken and salmon. Somehow, I managed:
Meanwhile, Mrs. Fetched was frying up squash & onions, one of the few things I like really well-done. Daughter Dearest went out to feed the dogs… then came running back. “Crissy had her puppies!”
Yup, the World’s Most Obnoxious Dog reproduced. I had a look, guesstimated about eight of the little boogers, and went back to the grill (the salmon wasn’t going to wait). Mrs. Fetched came out, “Did you see them?”
“Yup,” I said. “All eight.”
“Eight? You mean four, right?”
“No, I mean eight. There’s a bunch of ’em there.”
With that bit of news, Mrs. Fetched went to count them and was relieved to find “only” seven. I just hope they’re not obnoxious shriekboxes like their mom.
“I hope they’re all boys,” Mrs. Fetched said. “I need to give them away.”
“Or you could keep one and give Crissy away,” I suggested helpfully. She ignored me.
So we’re up to 11 dogs. For now, at least.
Meanwhile, Mrs. Fetched was frying up squash & onions, one of the few things I like really well-done. Daughter Dearest went out to feed the dogs… then came running back. “Crissy had her puppies!”
Yup, the World’s Most Obnoxious Dog reproduced. I had a look, guesstimated about eight of the little boogers, and went back to the grill (the salmon wasn’t going to wait). Mrs. Fetched came out, “Did you see them?”
“Yup,” I said. “All eight.”
“Eight? You mean four, right?”
“No, I mean eight. There’s a bunch of ’em there.”
With that bit of news, Mrs. Fetched went to count them and was relieved to find “only” seven. I just hope they’re not obnoxious shriekboxes like their mom.
“I hope they’re all boys,” Mrs. Fetched said. “I need to give them away.”
“Or you could keep one and give Crissy away,” I suggested helpfully. She ignored me.
So we’re up to 11 dogs. For now, at least.
Friday, July 03, 2009 No comments
As the Sun Slowly Sets in the South…
…west? This is Planet Georgia. The sun sets wherever the pod people say it sets. Just ask them!
The three-day weekend is about 1/3 over. Some rain is in the forecast for tomorrow night through Monday… maybe we’ll get some. God knows we need it. I’m not sure what possessed Mrs. Fetched to get more flowers, but we planted them this evening. With any luck, the forecast will hold up and we’ll get more than a spit.
Earlier this week, I found the (unfortunately inedible) SOBs that ate my jalapeño plants: tomato hornworms, which were starting on the tomato plants themselves. I found four of them, pulled them off with pliers, and stomped them flat. So much for the stewpot. I got some Bt (an organic pesticide) today and sprayed the plants that have been attacked so far. For whatever reason, they didn’t bother the yellow pear tomato plants, perhaps because their leaves are too small. The yellow pear vines are already producing; we’ve made a couple of pasta salads & I’ve got enough for another one. The instructions say you can spray right up to the day of harvest, so I probably could have sprayed them too. If I see them taking any damage, I’ll pick ripe ones then spray. The denuded jalapeño stalks are starting to shoot new leaves, so I sprayed them as well. Maybe they’ll come back & I’ll get some late-season peppers.
This is also blackberry harvest weekend on Planet Georgia, but the berries are a bit small this year. I’ve gotten just over a gallon so far; maybe I’ll get some more tomorrow. We can make some jelly/jam with Splenda™ and share with The Boy.
I’m planning a vacation up north. Since I somehow ended up with SIX weeks of vacation this year, I might do two weeks; Mrs. Fetched is already making noises about not going and that would let me stay longer. With any luck, I’ll be able to spend a little time with some of my blog-family — in particular, AndiF, Stormy, and Yooper — as well as my bio-family. That would leave me a minimum of two more weeks of vacation to burn; I can grab a week at the hideout then another week (maybe two) at Christmas.
Hoping for a long and enjoyable weekend for all readers, both commenters & lurkers… with fireworks of whatever kind you enjoy most!
The three-day weekend is about 1/3 over. Some rain is in the forecast for tomorrow night through Monday… maybe we’ll get some. God knows we need it. I’m not sure what possessed Mrs. Fetched to get more flowers, but we planted them this evening. With any luck, the forecast will hold up and we’ll get more than a spit.
Earlier this week, I found the (unfortunately inedible) SOBs that ate my jalapeño plants: tomato hornworms, which were starting on the tomato plants themselves. I found four of them, pulled them off with pliers, and stomped them flat. So much for the stewpot. I got some Bt (an organic pesticide) today and sprayed the plants that have been attacked so far. For whatever reason, they didn’t bother the yellow pear tomato plants, perhaps because their leaves are too small. The yellow pear vines are already producing; we’ve made a couple of pasta salads & I’ve got enough for another one. The instructions say you can spray right up to the day of harvest, so I probably could have sprayed them too. If I see them taking any damage, I’ll pick ripe ones then spray. The denuded jalapeño stalks are starting to shoot new leaves, so I sprayed them as well. Maybe they’ll come back & I’ll get some late-season peppers.
This is also blackberry harvest weekend on Planet Georgia, but the berries are a bit small this year. I’ve gotten just over a gallon so far; maybe I’ll get some more tomorrow. We can make some jelly/jam with Splenda™ and share with The Boy.
I’m planning a vacation up north. Since I somehow ended up with SIX weeks of vacation this year, I might do two weeks; Mrs. Fetched is already making noises about not going and that would let me stay longer. With any luck, I’ll be able to spend a little time with some of my blog-family — in particular, AndiF, Stormy, and Yooper — as well as my bio-family. That would leave me a minimum of two more weeks of vacation to burn; I can grab a week at the hideout then another week (maybe two) at Christmas.
Hoping for a long and enjoyable weekend for all readers, both commenters & lurkers… with fireworks of whatever kind you enjoy most!
Tuesday, June 30, 2009 9 comments
Happy Horse…
Since I was working at home today, Mrs. Fetched’s mom invited me down to help scarf some leftovers for lunch. DoubleRed was invited too, but decided she wasn’t hungry and stayed at the manor. While I was eating, DoubleRed called my phone and I got dead air when I answered.
“The cell phones don’t work in the house,” Mrs. Fetched said. “Call her on the house phone.”
I had one bar, which on my iPhone is always enough to hold up the call, but the signal fluctuates (as I’ve learned) and could drop out at any given moment. I shrugged and called.
“There’s horses in the yard, eating the flowers,” DoubleRed said.
This has been happening fairly often lately. Big V tries to take care of her horses, but she bit off way more than she could ever hope to chew trying to start a business with it… then her hosing her foot back in January didn’t help matters any. Her other habits, like just dropping her horses in our pasture without asking (indeed, after being told not to do it), don’t help either. But eventually, the horses get hungry and start taking matters into their own hooves… and go off looking for chow on their own.
Of course, Cosmic Law #1 of the free-range insane asylum is: when in doubt, call on FAR Manor. So when I got home from lunch, I was greeted with:
After pushing one horse (its head, actually) out of a flower bed, it contentedly munched on weeds. With things more or less under control, I called Big V to let her know she would need halters or something. (The darker of the two horses above came to visit on Saturday as well, but was wearing a halter so I simply led it to the path home and it took the hint… no halters on either one this time.) She said she’d stop and grab a couple of leads. Meanwhile, the horses continued to wander around the front yard, munching at random and (mostly) staying clear of the flower beds. DoubleRed came out to watch as well, and did stop an attempted flower bed incursion.
Then one of them left us some right-wing talking points.
That didn’t bother me much… for one, I was expecting it. Two, as I live deep in crazy-arse right-wing territory, I’m mostly surrounded by that anyway.
Finally, Big V came up the driveway. She kept the leads behind her back, but the horses were wise to her and started backing up. She gimped forward, in her funky boot, and they continued to shy away. Finally, they went “OK, OK, we got the message,” and took the back way down to Big V’s, with herself in slow pursuit. I did managed to suggest that she stake them in her front yard from time to time, it would cut down on the mowing.
The Hoofdinis were gone, but I’m sure they’ll be back. I’m pretty sure they come up to eat our grass through the night, given all the noise the stupidogs make.
“The cell phones don’t work in the house,” Mrs. Fetched said. “Call her on the house phone.”
I had one bar, which on my iPhone is always enough to hold up the call, but the signal fluctuates (as I’ve learned) and could drop out at any given moment. I shrugged and called.
“There’s horses in the yard, eating the flowers,” DoubleRed said.
This has been happening fairly often lately. Big V tries to take care of her horses, but she bit off way more than she could ever hope to chew trying to start a business with it… then her hosing her foot back in January didn’t help matters any. Her other habits, like just dropping her horses in our pasture without asking (indeed, after being told not to do it), don’t help either. But eventually, the horses get hungry and start taking matters into their own hooves… and go off looking for chow on their own.
Of course, Cosmic Law #1 of the free-range insane asylum is: when in doubt, call on FAR Manor. So when I got home from lunch, I was greeted with:
After pushing one horse (its head, actually) out of a flower bed, it contentedly munched on weeds. With things more or less under control, I called Big V to let her know she would need halters or something. (The darker of the two horses above came to visit on Saturday as well, but was wearing a halter so I simply led it to the path home and it took the hint… no halters on either one this time.) She said she’d stop and grab a couple of leads. Meanwhile, the horses continued to wander around the front yard, munching at random and (mostly) staying clear of the flower beds. DoubleRed came out to watch as well, and did stop an attempted flower bed incursion.
Then one of them left us some right-wing talking points.That didn’t bother me much… for one, I was expecting it. Two, as I live deep in crazy-arse right-wing territory, I’m mostly surrounded by that anyway.
Finally, Big V came up the driveway. She kept the leads behind her back, but the horses were wise to her and started backing up. She gimped forward, in her funky boot, and they continued to shy away. Finally, they went “OK, OK, we got the message,” and took the back way down to Big V’s, with herself in slow pursuit. I did managed to suggest that she stake them in her front yard from time to time, it would cut down on the mowing.
The Hoofdinis were gone, but I’m sure they’ll be back. I’m pretty sure they come up to eat our grass through the night, given all the noise the stupidogs make.
Monday, June 29, 2009 2 comments
FAR Future, Episode 94: Interlude
So begins the final sub-series.
2037–2044
To Sleep, Perchance to Dream
After disruption, a new equilibrium.
The new sea level worked its way around the edges of continents, swamping low-lying islands and erasing entire nations, in less than two years. The changes it wrought on humanity were no less profound than the changes to the coastlines and the weather — there were attempts to count the dead and displaced, but even the best estimates are only estimates. Very few casualties were the direct result of the incoming tide, of course — but the wars, riots, and accidents it triggered are another story.
Few countries, even landlocked countries, escape the effects of the “Little Great Flood,” but some nations are better able to react than others. The Netherlands simply raise their dikes. Cuba and Japan use their time wisely, conducting orderly evacuations and salvaging what they can from their coasts. Bangladesh and Somalia collapse under the weight of their own refugees and the ensuing civil wars. The Maldives and Vanuatu are inundated completely, becoming the first nations in exile. Wars, ethnic cleansing, famine, and starvation rock the globe, overwhelming even the augmented charities and NGOs that step in to alleviate the suffering. But every nation has stories to tell: tragic and heroic; venal and honorable; avaricious and selfless.
Rumors spread about the Greenland ice slide, that it was no act of nature. Depending on who’s telling the story, the culprits include terrorist bands of every religion and ideology, the Great Zionist Conspiracy, the Bilderbergers (or other vehicles of the wealthiest of the wealthy), communists, fascists, China, Japan, Russia, the USA, and even Greenlanders (often described as an attempt to clear some land for farming that went horribly wrong). Some of the stories contradict themselves — for example, one eco-terrorist story claims that the culprits were trying to both kill all humans and save the biosphere — and few are even plausible. But all are investigated, and come to nothing.
Weather patterns continue to change around the world. In some places, deserts bloom; in others, wetlands dry up. Most places change little. But with more water evaporating from an enlarged ocean, more rain falls overall. Temperatures drop, recover, level off, begin to creep up again. The moving averages show a small blip down, then perhaps the beginning of a plateau.
As human populations continue to decline in most places, and those left pour less pollutants into the atmosphere, some say the earth is enjoying a healing rest. To sleep, perchance to dream… what dreams may come?
continued…
2037–2044
To Sleep, Perchance to Dream
After disruption, a new equilibrium.
The new sea level worked its way around the edges of continents, swamping low-lying islands and erasing entire nations, in less than two years. The changes it wrought on humanity were no less profound than the changes to the coastlines and the weather — there were attempts to count the dead and displaced, but even the best estimates are only estimates. Very few casualties were the direct result of the incoming tide, of course — but the wars, riots, and accidents it triggered are another story.
Few countries, even landlocked countries, escape the effects of the “Little Great Flood,” but some nations are better able to react than others. The Netherlands simply raise their dikes. Cuba and Japan use their time wisely, conducting orderly evacuations and salvaging what they can from their coasts. Bangladesh and Somalia collapse under the weight of their own refugees and the ensuing civil wars. The Maldives and Vanuatu are inundated completely, becoming the first nations in exile. Wars, ethnic cleansing, famine, and starvation rock the globe, overwhelming even the augmented charities and NGOs that step in to alleviate the suffering. But every nation has stories to tell: tragic and heroic; venal and honorable; avaricious and selfless.
Rumors spread about the Greenland ice slide, that it was no act of nature. Depending on who’s telling the story, the culprits include terrorist bands of every religion and ideology, the Great Zionist Conspiracy, the Bilderbergers (or other vehicles of the wealthiest of the wealthy), communists, fascists, China, Japan, Russia, the USA, and even Greenlanders (often described as an attempt to clear some land for farming that went horribly wrong). Some of the stories contradict themselves — for example, one eco-terrorist story claims that the culprits were trying to both kill all humans and save the biosphere — and few are even plausible. But all are investigated, and come to nothing.
Weather patterns continue to change around the world. In some places, deserts bloom; in others, wetlands dry up. Most places change little. But with more water evaporating from an enlarged ocean, more rain falls overall. Temperatures drop, recover, level off, begin to creep up again. The moving averages show a small blip down, then perhaps the beginning of a plateau.
As human populations continue to decline in most places, and those left pour less pollutants into the atmosphere, some say the earth is enjoying a healing rest. To sleep, perchance to dream… what dreams may come?
continued…
Friday, June 26, 2009 2 comments
Flowery Friday
Summer is hitting Planet Georgia with both barrels… as I’ve said before, the weather here has attitude. But it’s not stopping the flowers…
A tall pink rose in front of the manor, across the driveway.
A little ways behind it, among the trees, a hydrangea alerts us to its presence with a big bright splash of blue.
I presume both of these plants have deep roots; we’ve had no more than a couple spits of rain in the last couple of weeks, despite 40%–60% chances of rain on several occasions. Smaller trees are starting to show signs of stress, but these flowers (and my tomato plants) are doing well.
A tall pink rose in front of the manor, across the driveway.
A little ways behind it, among the trees, a hydrangea alerts us to its presence with a big bright splash of blue.
I presume both of these plants have deep roots; we’ve had no more than a couple spits of rain in the last couple of weeks, despite 40%–60% chances of rain on several occasions. Smaller trees are starting to show signs of stress, but these flowers (and my tomato plants) are doing well.
Monday, June 22, 2009 2 comments
FAR Future, Episode 93: Homecoming
The last first episode of summer… we’re about to start the home stretch.
Thursday, November 20, 2036
Homecoming
And almost exactly a year after he left, The Boy has returned. He says, this time, to stay (although “stay” might mean in town or in Atlanta, rather than at the manor). He’s said that so many times in the past that I gave up trying to keep count a long time ago, but there’s a new look in his eyes. His side trip to the shale pits might have done him some good… given him some closure, exorcised his demons, put his ghosts to rest, however you like to say it. Just being out on the road, playing his music to crowds, did the rest… even if most of the venues were makeshift or pressed into service on the spur of the moment.
He took more time than strictly needed to get from Washington to LA and then back here, of course… he put on a couple of concerts in each major city, and spent a few more days in a couple of places. He admitted to being tempted by the offer to join the Chicago Corporation, but decided in the end that they probably wouldn’t have been interested in him if not for his celebrity status. He did spend a week in Chicago though, playing various venues and seeing what there was to see before moving on.
A month in California is still quite an experience, according to The Boy, even if the beaches are getting eaten away by the permanently risen tide. During the junta years, when the west coast was first known as Pacifica and then became part of the Rebel Alliance, there was a lot of development aimed at coping without oil. Drive motors, batteries, and aerogel were all improved; then a company called LSO (Los Santos Occidental, but some people say it really means Life Sans Oil) put them all together on a bicycle. The sucker’s not cheap, but it does make life easier for people who need to get around. He brought one home with him; Rene tried it out and said it was an easy half-hour ride to town. Good thing we have the Heehaw, because I expect The Boy will be using the LSO himself to get around before long.
I asked him when he realized he’d put the past behind him finally. “I guess it was an evening in Santa Monica,” he said. “I was sitting there, watching the sun set, picking out a tune, and it was like… like everything just drained out of me. I’m glad I was alone, because I started crying. Everything I’d hoped for when I was younger — going on tour, people lining up to hear my music — it finally happened, after I’d given up hope on even having a normal life.” He paused for a long moment. “And going back to the shale pits. When I was there before, I dreamed about getting even with the assholes who put me there. When I got there, I didn’t know what I was going to do. They make you go with a guard, and they tell you the guard is there to keep you from going after them, just as much as them going after you. But you can go in there and tell them whatever you have to say.”
“So what happened? You never told us.”
He chugged down what was left of his homebrew. “Damn. You gotta go to a bar to get cold beer now, and sometimes that’s a crap shoot. ’Least this is good warm.
“Anyway. I was in Denver, and I was going back and forth about it: gonna go, not gonna go, that kind of crap. I already had the ticket though, so I figured I might as well go. I figured I didn’t have to say anything, I could just have a look and get back on the train. But I checked out of the hotel, so I had to carry all my gear. They said that wasn’t a problem, so I went ahead. I had to take it all with me off the train, because I’d have to take a different train back to Denver and Cal was doing his own sightseeing tour. No big deal, I had a bag of clothes, my guitar, and amp is all, and I carried that around pretty well before.
“So I got there and looked. All it was, was a bunch of old crooks shuffling around the work site. A couple other people came, and yelled a few things at them. Me, I just stood there a long time, just watching. Some of them looked at me and then turned around.” He grinned. “So I plugged in the guitar, turned on the amp, and played them some songs. I Opted Out Today, and that one from the 60s that Bob Dylan did…”
“How Does It Feel?”
“Yeah, that one. Then I made up one on the spot, just for them. I called it What You Deserve, and it was about all the shit they deserved to get, a lot worse than pretending to mine shale. They didn’t like it too much, a couple of them started throwing rocks and pieces of shale at me. I was too far away, but it got the guards down there by the time I finished. Then my guard said no more, it’s time to go, so I turned off the amp and left. I guess he liked it though, because he carried the amp back; I had to carry everything there myself. He told me ‘Good one’ when we got back to the station.”
“Heh. You remember the words?”
He did, and said to post them here:
He cut his album in California, at one of the old studios out there, and put that song on there too. It’s been a roaring success, as such things are measured nowadays — a good 10,000 downloads (and that’s just the paid version), topping the Retro Rage charts. Enough for him to live comfortably on for a good while, even if he’s paying rent. He’s not sure what he’ll do, but I suspect that he’ll try to find a place in Atlanta. I’ve already asked Kim to keep an eye out for something halfway decent.
The important thing is, he’s healed.
continued…
Thursday, November 20, 2036
Homecoming
And almost exactly a year after he left, The Boy has returned. He says, this time, to stay (although “stay” might mean in town or in Atlanta, rather than at the manor). He’s said that so many times in the past that I gave up trying to keep count a long time ago, but there’s a new look in his eyes. His side trip to the shale pits might have done him some good… given him some closure, exorcised his demons, put his ghosts to rest, however you like to say it. Just being out on the road, playing his music to crowds, did the rest… even if most of the venues were makeshift or pressed into service on the spur of the moment.
He took more time than strictly needed to get from Washington to LA and then back here, of course… he put on a couple of concerts in each major city, and spent a few more days in a couple of places. He admitted to being tempted by the offer to join the Chicago Corporation, but decided in the end that they probably wouldn’t have been interested in him if not for his celebrity status. He did spend a week in Chicago though, playing various venues and seeing what there was to see before moving on.
A month in California is still quite an experience, according to The Boy, even if the beaches are getting eaten away by the permanently risen tide. During the junta years, when the west coast was first known as Pacifica and then became part of the Rebel Alliance, there was a lot of development aimed at coping without oil. Drive motors, batteries, and aerogel were all improved; then a company called LSO (Los Santos Occidental, but some people say it really means Life Sans Oil) put them all together on a bicycle. The sucker’s not cheap, but it does make life easier for people who need to get around. He brought one home with him; Rene tried it out and said it was an easy half-hour ride to town. Good thing we have the Heehaw, because I expect The Boy will be using the LSO himself to get around before long.
I asked him when he realized he’d put the past behind him finally. “I guess it was an evening in Santa Monica,” he said. “I was sitting there, watching the sun set, picking out a tune, and it was like… like everything just drained out of me. I’m glad I was alone, because I started crying. Everything I’d hoped for when I was younger — going on tour, people lining up to hear my music — it finally happened, after I’d given up hope on even having a normal life.” He paused for a long moment. “And going back to the shale pits. When I was there before, I dreamed about getting even with the assholes who put me there. When I got there, I didn’t know what I was going to do. They make you go with a guard, and they tell you the guard is there to keep you from going after them, just as much as them going after you. But you can go in there and tell them whatever you have to say.”
“So what happened? You never told us.”
He chugged down what was left of his homebrew. “Damn. You gotta go to a bar to get cold beer now, and sometimes that’s a crap shoot. ’Least this is good warm.
“Anyway. I was in Denver, and I was going back and forth about it: gonna go, not gonna go, that kind of crap. I already had the ticket though, so I figured I might as well go. I figured I didn’t have to say anything, I could just have a look and get back on the train. But I checked out of the hotel, so I had to carry all my gear. They said that wasn’t a problem, so I went ahead. I had to take it all with me off the train, because I’d have to take a different train back to Denver and Cal was doing his own sightseeing tour. No big deal, I had a bag of clothes, my guitar, and amp is all, and I carried that around pretty well before.
“So I got there and looked. All it was, was a bunch of old crooks shuffling around the work site. A couple other people came, and yelled a few things at them. Me, I just stood there a long time, just watching. Some of them looked at me and then turned around.” He grinned. “So I plugged in the guitar, turned on the amp, and played them some songs. I Opted Out Today, and that one from the 60s that Bob Dylan did…”
“How Does It Feel?”
“Yeah, that one. Then I made up one on the spot, just for them. I called it What You Deserve, and it was about all the shit they deserved to get, a lot worse than pretending to mine shale. They didn’t like it too much, a couple of them started throwing rocks and pieces of shale at me. I was too far away, but it got the guards down there by the time I finished. Then my guard said no more, it’s time to go, so I turned off the amp and left. I guess he liked it though, because he carried the amp back; I had to carry everything there myself. He told me ‘Good one’ when we got back to the station.”
“Heh. You remember the words?”
He did, and said to post them here:
You treated me and America like shit,
And now you’re here, stuck in your own pit.
Life has thrown us all a curve,
But you didn't get what you deserve.
You look down on me as I look down at you,
I was always something to scrape off your shoe.
You wanted to rule, and us to serve,
So you haven’t got what you deserve.
You should be a display at the county fair,
For us to laugh at, and spit in your hair!
Slapped and punched when we get the nerve —
That’s only the start of what you deserve!
You thought General K was so very brave.
But he’s long gone, and I pissed on his grave.
Throw you in a hole, deep down in the turf,
Buried alive — it’s what you deserve.
Buried alive — it’s what you deserve!
He cut his album in California, at one of the old studios out there, and put that song on there too. It’s been a roaring success, as such things are measured nowadays — a good 10,000 downloads (and that’s just the paid version), topping the Retro Rage charts. Enough for him to live comfortably on for a good while, even if he’s paying rent. He’s not sure what he’ll do, but I suspect that he’ll try to find a place in Atlanta. I’ve already asked Kim to keep an eye out for something halfway decent.
The important thing is, he’s healed.
continued…
Friday, June 19, 2009 3 comments
Flowery Friday
The daylilies are gone, but the tiger lilies are out now:
A couple of them near this pair may have cross-pollinated with the daylilies; they’re yellow and slightly larger than the others, but still the same shape as the tiger lilies and maybe just slightly over half the size of the daylilies.
Oh, and the allium is a little bigger now, and looks like it might open up soon. There were bees on it when I didn’t have a camera handy (grumble)… onion-flavored honey, anyone?
A couple of them near this pair may have cross-pollinated with the daylilies; they’re yellow and slightly larger than the others, but still the same shape as the tiger lilies and maybe just slightly over half the size of the daylilies.
Oh, and the allium is a little bigger now, and looks like it might open up soon. There were bees on it when I didn’t have a camera handy (grumble)… onion-flavored honey, anyone?
Wednesday, June 17, 2009 2 comments
You think FAR Future is taking a long time?
Opium Magazine has printed a story on the cover that takes 1000 years to read. (Yes, I had to leave a comment plugging a certain novel that could be read in 1/500 of that.)
Two things leap to mind here:
No, I won’t be blogging a nine-word story over nine episodes any time soon. I’ve almost decided to do a novella (20-30 ep’s) next.
Two things leap to mind here:
- I’ve heard of a story “making the cover,” but this puts a whole new spin on it. Leave the magazine in sunlight for 1000 years, and the masking deteriorates long enough to read it (all nine words).
- If you thought FAR Future was taking a long time… this kind of puts it in perspective.
No, I won’t be blogging a nine-word story over nine episodes any time soon. I’ve almost decided to do a novella (20-30 ep’s) next.
Monday, June 15, 2009 4 comments
FAR Future, Episode 92: The Boy Goes to Washington
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…
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…
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.
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