January 17, 2020

Yesteryear
One year ago today: January 17, 2019, jam 5 – 9 AM.
Five years ago today: January 17, 2015, satellite project detection.
Nine years ago today: January 17, 2011, it’s your fault . . .
Random years ago today: January 17, 2012, boring: MDBAs.

           This morning’s Boss Hogg radio quiz was who had a hit with “Let’s Dance”. Got me, but it was one of the first tunes I ever played on the electric organ. The only clue was the performer was born in the 1940s, which was already ancient history when I was a teen. It was a corny tune but represented the limit of my musical ability back then. You see, I took classical piano lessons because that is all that was available. In our entire town, there was one guy who had a guitar. He didn’t play it and it belonged to his older brother who had left for the city ten years earlier. Wait, he could play the song everybody could play, called “Peter Gunn”. The 1940s guy was Chris Montez.

           The chickens went back across the street, so time to finish that coop today. I think I will use oak flooring, since so much of it isn’t that salvageable. I’ve been in the cabin years now and it would not add that much to the décor. Don’t let me forget the fence panels have gone on sale for $39. I’ll need four or five. And remind me to get some exterior stain. Geez, I get so busy with chicken coops the rest of the place goes for a shambles. The Reb didn’t say it, but she thought it. Here’s your progress picture on the structure, showing the roof. Those are not trusses, but a ridge pole construction. Also, part of the solid oak flooring.

           My posts are sporadic again, as Google has locked out my home Internet device, trying to blackmail me into giving up enough personal info to ID this account. That won’t happen, I’m still on the lookout for a provider that will—say, why don’t I suggest that to Protonmail? As a separate service to their e-mail, I mean. If I knew how to do it, I’d invent it tomorrow. Just think, a truly anonymous encrypted blog.

           Here are my collard greens, both in the pot and freshly harvested. Boiled a bit, they are a distinct flavor. Several recipes said to add pork fat, which would not please a vegetarian. So I boiled a second batch in chicken broth and with a little salt, I liked it. Like all truly fresh produce, it has a superior taste even if you don’t care for the flavor. I clipped the biggest leaves, shown by my handful, wondering if the stalk will sprout more. There’s never a farmer around when you need one. On the other hand, they are all over the place when you don’t.

           Coffee time. I had to get supplies, so I stopped for a break, where the conversation went to whatever happened to the Tea Party. To me, that’s easy. When Trump got in, their reason-to-be dried up. There is a misconception that group were libertarians. I am a libertarian and I say outfits like the Tea Party are no such thing. Those people propose a different political agenda with themselves in control, enacting laws that favor themselves. A true libertarian does not believe in laws and counter-laws, or curbs on existing governments. He believes the government should be curbed in size and function to what’s defined in the Constitution. Also, strict enforcement of the two-term limit and public referendums for all new laws.
           I never paid much attention to the Tea Party, but I was behind some of their advocations, though not for the same reasons. I’ll give one example, because I was always suspicious where these groups got their funding. They were exposed as rent-a-movement fronts for rich industrialists and such. They wanted a flat tax, so do I. Their motive was their own self-interest. Mine was the abolition of the power of the current tax departments as a benefit for all people, not just myself.

Picture of the day.
Pancake day, UK.
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           See the chicken coop in these pictures? If not, that is good because that is the desired effect. The picture on the left is the view from the street, where only the ridge pole is barely visible dead center of the picture. The right side photo zooms way in to see the camouflage paint. Look closely, the paint is splotchy black and green. The harder it is to make out what these pictures show, the better I’ve succeeded.

           The coop has hurricane straps on the rafters and I’ll likely put some ground anchors as well. The Reb has taken interest in the hens. I’ve opted to use cedar fence panels as siding, with what I think is a batten pattern. In a bit of luck, I also found a gallon of excellent exterior brown paint for $7. It has a very similar color to what the lawn swing in Tennessee is destined for.

           As I wrote to the Reb, this is one of the few chicken coops east of the Mississippi with cedar walls, oak floors, and a picture window. But, no air conditioning. That’s where I draw the line. I’ve now spent $50 on this structure and the chickens still go back to the neighbors. I’ll tempt them yet, the advice is to lock them inside the new coop until they associate it as home. It’s not cruel, says the neighbor, but a fact in chicken evolution.

           Music. I stopped by the pavilion, they don’t mind if I play on Sunday. That doesn’t mean this Sunday, since I’ve not tested the equipment yet. I’ve got the basic plan sketched out and I’ve got a lot of options. I’ve slated the corner of the front bedroom as a music practice area until further notice. That room is the best sound-proofed and best air-conditioned. I’m not sure what form my act will take, but I’ve been focused on the guitar. I’m undecided about the drum machine. But I need some hard mileage on this act, which means that pavilion.
           I had to drive over to Winter Haven to get the right lumber and who should I run into but the former “all-girl” band. They’ve lost their direction completely. It is now expanded to a six-piece group with one set consisting of two guitarists, a fiddler and a drummer. The gals don’t even play. Sad they would allow that to happen to their act. Just what I’d warned you would happen once that guitar player wormed his way in. The music is technically better, but entertainment is not about recitals and technical correctness. Ask Johnny Cash. The music that made the mother-daughter team a winner is erased; utterly destroyed in less than 18 months as yet another guitarist horns his way in. The problem with these guitar players is they think they are better than every other guitarist doing the same damn thing.

           Both gals now have boyfriends, very hillbilly types. As I walked in I ran directly into the mother, who I will say has kept her figure. Remarkable, actually. I was going to chat but Bubba was right there, so I just mentioned how our schedules were “backwards” because I never see them in Tennessee despite us coincidentally being there much of the same time. What do I see? The band has become unwieldy and guitar-centric. It’s a victim of guitar-itis. As is very usual, all these guitarists think, act, look, and play alike. If you lined up fifty millennials and picked any four, you’d have the same blah personalities as that band. They share a clone-like boredom that affects the whole room.
           My prediction is this will go on for a bit longer while going nowhere. The band and music has lost their charm. As the gals get deeper into the mess, they will eventually haul back. However, the window is lost. I see this so often. The real draw was the daughter, who is pushing twenty by now and taken, and you cannot unscramble that egg. The strain is already evident but they don’t seem to have associated it with the current that is sweeping them along. Um, they simply have to know by now that this is not what they bargained for. A pity, because I sort of like them both. Why they hang around with such bland men is a mystery for the ages.

           See this cat on the post in the windstorm. Don’t pat the cat. It is feral and ferocious. This is the one that got into the attic at Charla’s and clawed through the ceiling tiles. This cat is psycho.

ADDENDUM

           A full day, it turned chilly enough to put in eight hours. I’m not bragging, that would be abour four hours for somebody who knew what they were doing. Here is a progress picture. The major features are all visible. The cross bracing may be removed once the paneling is done, as that adds the needed lateral strength. The floor is 3 feet off the ground. It has a hinged lid to the eggs can be removed without much ado. The open from will contain a window that swings open for cleaning.
           The entry hatch is on the far right wall. It is shown here boarded up, as I will frame and cut the opening afterward. It is called a ‘pop door’, don’t ask why. The cutout is 12” high and 14” wide. Ah, someone said, but chickens are only 7” wide. Well, the rule book says every do soften you get a hen who likes to perch in the doorway, so it should be wide enough for two to pass.

           Last, I finally succumbed to curiosity and order the Impossible burger (Burger King). Not to be confused with lab-grown meat, this is a patty mainly of soy and potato protein. I still have to determine what that is, but it cannot be as bad for you as American beef. I do believe it is some 20 years anyway since I ate a steak. BK has had a veggie burger on the menu for a while and I think this is just a bigger version of the same. I avoided cheese and had the plain burger. It tasted a little bland, not worth the $5.77 price tag. Not just bland, but had the “processed” flavor, though I suppose one could get used to it.
           My verdict is it would be a nice enough sandwich at half the price. The fine print says if you don’t want it fried on the same grill as the beef patties, you can ask and they’ll nuke it for you. It looks like meat but like most imitations, it never quite gets rid of that cardboard aftertaste.

Last Laugh