Always thought that les savy fav had somehow found out what i was thinking and wrote it down for themselves. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IAnl32IStrA .
Feel like talking now that I’m frustrated and grouchy. Almost dragged a cat by the scruff to show him that NO! THE SEED BED IS NOT YOUR DAMN LITTER BOX! Animals are dragging me down. Waking me up. Escaping. Hungry. Needy. Flaky. Prowling. Animals are tired of winter. I am tired of them being tired of winter. I’m tired of winter. There was one day so far this calendar year that warmed my spirits. Things were harmonious. But the water lines in the fields kept leaking. There’s not enough forage for the cows. The new growth in the fields is not coming fast enough. Little beautiful patches of clover are coming in. I’m not sure if they’re the ones we tossed out from the back of the Gator or not. I heard frogs croaking in the creek. A hawk perched over another dead chicken (another failure in chicken protection on our part). I bought some red wigglers from a weird worm farmer up near little Washington a couple of days ago. Put them in the ground yesterday and they’re still alive. The soils all mucky and full of clay. Threw some clover seed on the garden beds a week ago. Little sprouts are sticking up. May they put some nitrogen in our starved ground. Cucumbers and beans sure sprout quickly. Every thing else is slow slow slow. Like squeezing that last bit of toothpaste. Spring brings another tube.
Day before New Year’s, 2010. My sister Olivia and I stopped by the chicken coop in the morning to let them out for the day’s pecking and scratching. Halfway across the barnyard, I notice something amiss; the coop door was ajar and a small unusual shape lay on the ground just below. Death had crept into our barnyard the previous night. There, amid torn rust colored feathers and soft white downy, lay a Rhode Island Red hen. Her breast and the top of her right leg, the drumstick, had been savagely gnawed away. Remarkably, we could see no blood on the ground around her. Moments before our gruesome discovery, I had decided to name her “Red Balloon” in homage to Olivia’s childhood stuffed animal. Now Red Balloon was dead, a victim of a fantastic little grey fox. Everything must be fed. We buried her under a sycamore near the cows’ water trough. Olivia marked the site with rude cross of twigs.
On our way to the dump with a load of rubbish from the renovation of the white barn, we spotted a recently deceased vulture roadside at the cross of Straits and Harker’s Island road. On the way back, Lianne insisted we stop. She gloved up and grabbed the poor sucker and gently laid it down in the nearby woods. She was more upset by this roadkill than our dear departed red hen. Maybe now a vulture would vulture the dead vulture in safety and seclusion, far away from the cruel traffic of Harker’s Island.
8:15 this morning I received this call:
Father-in-law: Brian, some of the cows we moved yesterday are out. A cow and calf are on the road between the pastures. I have the van at one end of the road. Could you come now and bring the Gator to block them in at the other end?
Me: (while scrambling to put on my outdoor clothes) Yes, I’ll be there very soon. (Walking out the door)
Father-in-law: Good, I will wait for you here.
Barely getting on my frozen boots, I hopped on my bike and tore down the lane to the barn where the Gator vehicle is stored. Ignoring the now aroused cries of the goats, I jumped the fence and scrambled to the Gator, then raced down the farm road to the pastures.
We managed to corral the cow/calf back into the newly opened Field F; my father-in-law slowly walking behind them pushing them towards the opened gate and me near the gate to make sure they didn’t take a wrong turn. Easy enough. Next, we discovered that a cow/calf(19) we moved the day before had escaped the new field to return to their previous homebase in Field E, crossing two barbed wire fences in their path through what might have been teleportation. Upon further inspection we found some broken fence up the lane. Barbed wire ain’t friendly stuff, whatever you might think about those harmless arm tattoos gracing your neighborhood tough. The calf must have slipped through the gaps between the wires and Mama Cow blundered her way through after. Fencing is psychological. Think about that next time you find yourself teasing a bull on the other side of the fence. At your peril, tough.
Lianne and I married this past September on Marshallberg Farm, under the huge live oak tree next to the old farm house on the property. The wedding cemented our resolve to move here, and fortune and opportunity brought us here sooner than we realized. In October, Li took a job with the newspaper in Morehead City and I wrapped up my job as a fiber optic cable installer in Raleigh. We were invited to stay at the farm by Lianne’s family, who bought the beautiful yet long neglected acreage some years back. With such a generous offer, we could not refuse a chance to live on and help rehabilitate such a place.
The farm is situated in the coastal North Carolinian region known locally as Down East. True Down East is anywhere east of the North River bridge on Hwy 70 for those familiar with the area. We open our eyes in the morning to the mists and geese of Core Sound, the distant Core Banks and Cape Lookout (!) encircling the visible horizon to the east. To the west, goats and chickens stir in the barnyard, while cows and their calves manage a meal from the wintertime pasture. A marriage of land and sea, B and Li. An occasional local tugging his oyster raft scours the waters beyond our home’s dock. Distant muzzle blasts from duck blinds are the only non wild sound we hear (though they sometimes seem closer than we’re comfortable with…while digging a drainage trench in the pasture out front I heard some incredibly loud reports from what sounded like a bumbling fox hunt judging from the baying dogs and twanged cursing).
Not going to eat any peaches.
dear music, i miss you. what led us to part? You’ve heard of food deserts, well I now live in a music desert. Suddenly, Raleigh seems hip, happening, and 3 hours away. I may only ever see a decent show if I’m accidentally somewhere at the right time.
All is not bad. Begging goats have replaced the street bums. Clucking chickens are the noisy neighbors. Protective cows the occasional drunken parking lot brawl. My violence is a fox ripping out the breast and drumstick of one of our hens.
I need to start a new blog.
9 workers in an i-phone making plant in China have committed suicide this year.
Also: Kind virus programmers probably from Indonesia,
Please do not block regedit in your future endeavors.
Here’s an interesting question: Why are people from countries who don’t have internet rules allowed on the internet?
starting this morning as a temp. it’s a weird anxious feeling, the knowing I’m going to meet a bunch of people and learn a work routine that I will all selectively forget in 10 weeks. knuckle down. i will want to listen to meneguar tonight. dream green job, you’re only so far away.
A song to recover from bad news.
Slint in 1989 covering Cortez the Killer. Goddam what a band.
finally employed. My job is mandated both by the Constitution under Article 1 Section 2 and by Congress with the Census Act of 1790.
I just scored a 54. Does a Skype phone count as a landline?
Thanks to my older brother and older cousins that I have always been close to, I am more of a Gen Xer. I was born at the demarcation line between Millennial and Gen Xer, so my results were probably pretty typical.
there once was a man from the coast
who received a parcel by post
it contained, so i heard
a triangular turd
and the balls of his grandfather’s ghost
Attention Mike Simmons. Have you heard this album: A-Frames/Climax Golden Twins (AFCGT)?
There’s a story running in the State newspaper (SC) about a candidate for mayor of Columbia who has a criminal background. I will first define the charge before I discuss how background checks are a latent form of job discrimination.
The candidate, Mr. Irwin Wilson, is listed on the state registry of sex-offenders for a third degree charge back in the mid-90s. Allegedly “boyfriend-girlfriend” type stuff.
The state statute reads:
SECTION 16-3-654. Criminal sexual conduct in the third degree.
(1) A person is guilty of criminal sexual conduct in the third degree if the actor engages in sexual battery with the victim and if any one or more of the following circumstances are proven:
(a) The actor uses force or coercion to accomplish the sexual battery in the absence of aggravating circumstances.
(b) The actor knows or has reason to know that the victim is mentally defective, mentally incapacitated, or physically helpless and aggravated force or aggravated coercion was not used to accomplish sexual battery.
(2) Criminal sexual conduct in the third degree is a felony punishable by imprisonment for not more than ten years, according to the discretion of the court.
The candidate, Mr. Irwin D. Wilson, now 39, was around 23 years old at the time of his conviction. Sexual battery, by the way, can be used as a charge against people who are over 18 and engage in intercourse with someone between the ages of 14-18. Half your age +7 indeed. (23/2=11.5,+7=18.5). So, engage in sex with a 17 year old and become a felon (if she or her family prosecute, or somehow the police find out).
This record has the potential to shut down his political career, although there have been many examples to the contrary (George W. Bush and Marion Barry are two examples off the top of my head). It has likely also been used against him for other forms of employment. Felons have it hard in the job market. Not only have they been deprived of potentially economically productive years of their lives in jail, at cost to themselves and their families, they face closed doors everywhere long after they’ve served their time. Imprisonment, in one form or another, for life. Aside from murder, the victims will heal, will move on, but the perpetrator never will, the ghost of his or her past haunting them forever through discrimination. A situation made infinitely unfair in the case of non-violent or victimless crimes such as drug charges.
I posit that this discrimination drives up repeat offense. You get out of jail, can’t find a decent job, feel the weight of your past around you everywhere, and decide the risks of doing more crime out weigh the pain of readjustment.
A criminal history is not indicative of a person’s character, only of a person’s mistakes (and sometimes, of unfortunate circumstance). Employer liability for hiring convicts is an argument used for discrimination against them, but why should the needs of insurance companies be encoded in employment policy? Or any public policy for that matter? (see healthcare debate). In the case of Mr. Wilson, why should a newspaper have access to anyone’s criminal history? Why is that information for sale?
Criminal history checks do not allow for reform, surely an objective of the original imprisonment itself! Now it’s fine to give me the sexual predator argument, that jobs where kids are involved are vulnerable to be sought after by child molesters. Background checks work in that instance, but only against the ones that have been caught. But why might a convicted lecher not make a good bank teller? Or construction worker? Or any other job that doesn’t involve children? Why might a convicted convenience store robber not make a good librarian? Why should a bar fight prevent someone from being a good accountant? Why might a 3rd degree sexual “deviant” make a bad mayor? The answers are unclear, and hurtful in their ambiguity.
These checks didn’t exist before the mid-60s (start of the NCIC). Society wasn’t a reckless prison state back then. Convicts faced post-incarceration burdens in their own communities, but could move and start their lives over. Now they’re h(a)unted like Jean Valjean in every corner of a country in which they can’t even vote!!!
I hope that Mr. Wilson is able to overcome the low-blow lain on him by the SC press and the NCIC, that his ability to get past his past will be seen as a success in the ability of people to transform and reform themselves. We all should have that chance.
sharks and sailors!!!
Stop It!! - Remove Your Teeth
I need to start writing about music again. Writing a book nearly sucked the thrill of writing out of me. Back to the basics. Here’s a song by Stop It!! formerly of Richmond, VA. Their only record, Self Made Maps, sounds exactly like what Milemarker was trying to pull off with their last record.
FFO: Fugazi, old At The Drive In, Milemarker
Joe Vs. the Volcano (1990): why did I just watch this? I pledge never to watch another movie featuring Meg Ryan.
Barry Lyndon (1975) : I love period-piece dramas, but I wanted this movie to be more Irish and less about an Irishman who wanted to be British.
Broken Flowers (2005): Bill Murray in a Jim Jarmusch film? And not as a cameo? I get it, he looks like a lonely old guy nowadays. I wish he were more like Scrooged again.
We Jam Econo (2005): finally got around to watching this documentary about the minutemen. Fine band, fine musicians, killer soundtrack and a great story. I wish people would stop interviewing Henry Rollins about anything related to punk rock.
Once Upon a Time in America (1984): Epic gangster film, great sets and effects, phenomenal actors and legendary (spaghetti western) director add up to a really boring/snoozy 3+ hours of doing something else while the movie was on. By the end, I forgot who all the characters were and what the plot was. A guy jumped into a garbage truck and then Robert DeNiro got high in an opium den.
The Scarlett Pimpernel (1999): Decadent period-piece set during the French Revolution. I’m beginning to love France for the first time in memory (also reading Les Miserables…aloud—on page 140 of 1400).
Iceman (1984): Makes Encino Man seem hokey. Good film, but not better than The Thing.
Copland (1997): Sly Stallone being bulky and awkward and deaf. Shoots cops and the mob and brings justice.