It's my honor to write a brief "thank-you" to the folks who defend our borders and other's rights around the world. Today, I visited with a few veterans, saw many march past me, and wondered what a sensible and grateful man might ask or say. A mere "Thank you" seems so insufficient, but it's the best we can do.
So, Vets? Thank you.
Back at the local bureau, I was honored (again!) to be co-conspirator with my sainted wife Lynn to help celebrate the wedding of Chris and Jenn on the 10th of June, an affair that featured "toilet-paper brides" that were really out of this world! ha!
oh, and "May there tribe increase!"
And I am eternally grateful that we are blessed with the country we love, those we would always defend, and the chance to make a difference in this world.
Happy Memorial Day, veterans, and accept the thanks of a grateful Nation.
Monday, May 29, 2006
Sunday, May 21, 2006
Jerk Bluegrass Chicken
Yeah, well the title will need "some 'spainin'", as Ricky used to say. The Ramblers have survived the second annual East Stroudsburg ChickenFest, a made-up celebration much like Kwanza that is essentially designed to delight those of us who have impulse control problems.
We got the big tent, Neil nailed down a bunch of food vendors, and the sound system worked to perfection, at least until Updike touched it hehe. That's when the monitors went out, which mattered not, since the sterling sound of Skehan and Smith saturated the air and we played like "Tommy" on that rock and roll record.
This year we had some little problem, as the East Stroudsburg Rail Tower Society had nabbed "our" date, but we made nice with them, and they had the big tent up also and got a train out of Steamtown to come down. I want to tell you, seeing a steam engine up close and personal is still pretty cool. At the end of one of our train songs, I guess the driver was listening, because just as the last notes of the song were dying out, I began to hear a rumble and a roar, right in tune with the song. I initially though it was the sound system getting ready to blow, but it turned out to be the lonesome sound of the train goin' down---made my hairs stand up, and not just me, neither. It even spooked my sainted wife, who had come to see our son perform with the EastBurgers, a barbershop quartet that every old lady wanted to adopt immediately.
Then at one point, Spenser Read joined us on stage, and there we were with scat-man Read singing and playing his &*^%$off on guitar** along with us-----such sweetness.
Anyhow, I guess we had about 1500 folks walking around, kids with smiling faces well painted, watching chicks hatch courtesy of the Penn State Extension Service, artists, musicians, train nuts, para-military posers, bluegrassers and lots and lots of locals.
That local thing was one reason I may help again next year. I swear, there were hundreds of people there and hardly any of them seemed to be from the evil empire across the river. I mean to say that my best mate Neil is busy "closing the Gap" while I am of the mind that we should blow the bridge.* Anyhow, now that you're back, I have to say that the motto of the Arts Council, "Culture Builds Community" finally made sense to me. Duh. By 5, everybody was gone, and the folks from the Steamtown train (from Scranton, PA) and all the locals that came out left hardly a trace in the way of garbage.
Well, I never claimed to be a cultural tour de force, although I am pretty damned adept at cooking, which is all I cared to do today after playing a triple-header yesterday along with setting up and breaking down. So today I cooked up some killer baby back ribs, and I will tell you the secret here--marinate them in olive oil and spices, then cook them with slow heat until they are cooked perfectly, like about 3 hours at 275 or so. Then a light coating of your perferred BBQ sauce to finish and you have you something gooooooooood!
Over ribs I was talking with Dean, a good friend and genius with cars. Talking with him reminded me that our school teachers should take a lesson from some of the trades, so here are few:
A mechanic knows that one way is not the same as another. Ever.
A tileman knows that what sticks cannot always be unstuck, although sometimes stuck is not forever, and a wise tileman knows the one from the other.
A policeman knows that there are no small problems.
A carpenter knows that well begun is half done.
A painter knows that you can't always cover up some things, that a drop-cloth now is worth twleve mops later, and that some colors just suck.
And a garbage man knows that one man's trash is another man is treasure.
I'll bet twelve cold ones that most teachers don't know these things, and I'll also bet that there aren't five admin types that could elucidate on even one of these things convincingly.
Or even who would know that "elucidate" means. hhe.
**yeah, so what? I edit from the bottom up, okay? I just wanted to say that I would have written "ass", but some chick flamed me about the overuse of that particular part of the anatomy, and cast aspersions on my sexual proclivities, which is ludicrous. I have as many proclivities as the next guy, thanks very much. Besides, I have to plead cultural immunity. Bluegrassers do so use "ass" frequently--to describe bitter anynomous internet editorialists, all citiots, as well as in idioms like "having been shot in the ~, showing your ~, another day shot in the ~," and other colorful gluteal references which I think the world needs and admires.
Although that's just my take on it.
*Prolly typing that will mean that I am now on the NSA radar and maybe soon I will abducted and taken to Guauntanamoe or however you spell it. I don't care. I've lived large. But I'll be damned if they can make me wear them hoods. They look too much like the KKK for me. I'll take a pillowcase or maybe one of them face-masks that look like Reagan. I'd be cool with that.
We got the big tent, Neil nailed down a bunch of food vendors, and the sound system worked to perfection, at least until Updike touched it hehe. That's when the monitors went out, which mattered not, since the sterling sound of Skehan and Smith saturated the air and we played like "Tommy" on that rock and roll record.
This year we had some little problem, as the East Stroudsburg Rail Tower Society had nabbed "our" date, but we made nice with them, and they had the big tent up also and got a train out of Steamtown to come down. I want to tell you, seeing a steam engine up close and personal is still pretty cool. At the end of one of our train songs, I guess the driver was listening, because just as the last notes of the song were dying out, I began to hear a rumble and a roar, right in tune with the song. I initially though it was the sound system getting ready to blow, but it turned out to be the lonesome sound of the train goin' down---made my hairs stand up, and not just me, neither. It even spooked my sainted wife, who had come to see our son perform with the EastBurgers, a barbershop quartet that every old lady wanted to adopt immediately.
Then at one point, Spenser Read joined us on stage, and there we were with scat-man Read singing and playing his &*^%$off on guitar** along with us-----such sweetness.
Anyhow, I guess we had about 1500 folks walking around, kids with smiling faces well painted, watching chicks hatch courtesy of the Penn State Extension Service, artists, musicians, train nuts, para-military posers, bluegrassers and lots and lots of locals.
That local thing was one reason I may help again next year. I swear, there were hundreds of people there and hardly any of them seemed to be from the evil empire across the river. I mean to say that my best mate Neil is busy "closing the Gap" while I am of the mind that we should blow the bridge.* Anyhow, now that you're back, I have to say that the motto of the Arts Council, "Culture Builds Community" finally made sense to me. Duh. By 5, everybody was gone, and the folks from the Steamtown train (from Scranton, PA) and all the locals that came out left hardly a trace in the way of garbage.
Well, I never claimed to be a cultural tour de force, although I am pretty damned adept at cooking, which is all I cared to do today after playing a triple-header yesterday along with setting up and breaking down. So today I cooked up some killer baby back ribs, and I will tell you the secret here--marinate them in olive oil and spices, then cook them with slow heat until they are cooked perfectly, like about 3 hours at 275 or so. Then a light coating of your perferred BBQ sauce to finish and you have you something gooooooooood!
Over ribs I was talking with Dean, a good friend and genius with cars. Talking with him reminded me that our school teachers should take a lesson from some of the trades, so here are few:
A mechanic knows that one way is not the same as another. Ever.
A tileman knows that what sticks cannot always be unstuck, although sometimes stuck is not forever, and a wise tileman knows the one from the other.
A policeman knows that there are no small problems.
A carpenter knows that well begun is half done.
A painter knows that you can't always cover up some things, that a drop-cloth now is worth twleve mops later, and that some colors just suck.
And a garbage man knows that one man's trash is another man is treasure.
I'll bet twelve cold ones that most teachers don't know these things, and I'll also bet that there aren't five admin types that could elucidate on even one of these things convincingly.
Or even who would know that "elucidate" means. hhe.
**yeah, so what? I edit from the bottom up, okay? I just wanted to say that I would have written "ass", but some chick flamed me about the overuse of that particular part of the anatomy, and cast aspersions on my sexual proclivities, which is ludicrous. I have as many proclivities as the next guy, thanks very much. Besides, I have to plead cultural immunity. Bluegrassers do so use "ass" frequently--to describe bitter anynomous internet editorialists, all citiots, as well as in idioms like "having been shot in the ~, showing your ~, another day shot in the ~," and other colorful gluteal references which I think the world needs and admires.
Although that's just my take on it.
*Prolly typing that will mean that I am now on the NSA radar and maybe soon I will abducted and taken to Guauntanamoe or however you spell it. I don't care. I've lived large. But I'll be damned if they can make me wear them hoods. They look too much like the KKK for me. I'll take a pillowcase or maybe one of them face-masks that look like Reagan. I'd be cool with that.
Tuesday, May 16, 2006
Bluegrass Nirvana
Well, another weekend shot gone, and a glorious weekend it was, too! I'll start with my youngest son's appearance in "The Wizard of Oz" at John T. Lambert Middle School, a place which some folks refer to as JTHell, after the many teachers and administrators who “practice” excessively there. I'm sure that dealing with 7th graders is no walk in the park, but hey! Do you really have to treat them and their parents like there were complete idiots?
My wife's not an idiot, generally. Maybe on one day at one moment, but 23 years later I can honestly say she is still the girl I fell in love with. And although the general consensus is that I am an idiot frequently, occcasionally I do some right thing that messes up an otherwize perfect record of idiocy.
But! Back to the past!
I watched 80 middle school kids run sound, lights and crew stage, act, sing and generally act up a storm of wonderfulness. So right there you could say that not all my kid's teachers are buttheads. In fact Mercy Shemansky should get some kind of award. Maybe I'll make up some awards in woodshop today instead of working out.
So after bawling because Aaron is almost a man and he is the last of the line and I will never again watch a musical at JTHell, Neil and I went to Linda's Hide-away in East Burg, which was the site of International Night. Turns out the guy that owns Doughboys is Bulgarian, so we yakked and drank I learned how to say "hi" in Bulgarian, which goes something like "Bzyxzxwi"*
Saturday was my law class, which wasn't too bad, and then we played downtown with Coleman Smith, and we were a study in perfection. You couldn't buy a better band for a thousand bucks, and the weather and the listeners were themselves perfect. Yeah. I love springtime.
Then yesterday we were out at Peters Valley with John Skehan from Railroad Earth,a newgrass band that's gonna be famous soon, and he was I seriously think he's a better mando player (just as good? Gooder? in the same league?) as Grisman or Bush. I swear, as Neil said, he didn't play the same lick twice all afternoon.
And he made me laugh, too, just like Coleman.
Peter's Valley, once called "Bevans"* is a craft village the nazi scum Park Service expropriated from honest and powerless Americans. The village of Bevans is no more, but at least the village now boasts some incredible artists who create things of beauty, which, as the man said, are a joy forever.
If I might wax lyric for a moment, imagine sunshine in a beautify country dale, furniture that is radiant with light, paintings of fruit that are gorgeous enough to eat, the music a perfect compliment to the people creating and the good-looking people who come out to buy. THis is N.W. Jersey at its best; there are the good old boys from the fire company**, and lots of she-she girls with sun dresses and very nice attributes. All that was lacking was cold beer, but I had a few on the long ride back to the Elks, and then many more at the Depot, which was a blissful way to end the weekend.
And all the glory and wonder of the weekend made me think of my summer of Bluegrass Nirvana, which was one where I did not teach but instead made
every
single
festival
possible!
Yeah--Bucky's gathering, then Newfoundland, Harry Grant's Windgap festival, GREY FOX!!!!!!!! (we were hired as a camping group's private band, for goodness sakes!) OATS, HIckory Fest! (GOd! What a great festival!) AFBA WindGap and SullyFest. All in 12 weeks.
Here's how it would go: pull in on a Sunday, beer bottles and coffee cups spilling out in the garage, go inside, kiss the wife, shower up and crash, wake up MOmnday and clean the car out and sort through the camping stuff, catch up on the news and mow the grass, thinking all the while of cool summer evenings and ice-cold beer, grilled venison and smoked trout, friends as far as the eye can see--RAmbler Nation!--Tuesday on the phone to nail down personel, Wednesday smooze and snooze around the house, to blast off again on Thursday for another festival.
And if you get to play with Skehan and Smith simulateously, you are indeed blessed!
That will happen, btw, at the AFBA august festival, and I swear by my father's boots that we will be the hottest local band there, with the possible exception of Scotty's group. Not to brag, but those two guys are really geniuses!
Okay, so that's the end of this rant. Next weekend is Chris's graduation from Duke U. and his marriage is in a month.
I met two new friends at Peters Valley, and life is good.
I think of Fred and I am sad, but as I thought to myself this past weekend, a long time ago God breathed out, and someday he (or she, if you like) will breath back in, and all the pain and death and beauty, the faces, lithe young bodies, lust, love, ferocity, gentleness, all matter and all souls will return to godhead. Perhaps that is what people really are, the breath of God. Soon he will breath me in, I suppose, and I am hopeful that the next adventure will be like a perpetual bluegrass Nirvana!
*Pronounced "Bee-vans", I was told.
**(Remind me to tell you about a drunken biker/fireman wedding where they almost burned the firehouse down hehe)
My wife's not an idiot, generally. Maybe on one day at one moment, but 23 years later I can honestly say she is still the girl I fell in love with. And although the general consensus is that I am an idiot frequently, occcasionally I do some right thing that messes up an otherwize perfect record of idiocy.
But! Back to the past!
I watched 80 middle school kids run sound, lights and crew stage, act, sing and generally act up a storm of wonderfulness. So right there you could say that not all my kid's teachers are buttheads. In fact Mercy Shemansky should get some kind of award. Maybe I'll make up some awards in woodshop today instead of working out.
So after bawling because Aaron is almost a man and he is the last of the line and I will never again watch a musical at JTHell, Neil and I went to Linda's Hide-away in East Burg, which was the site of International Night. Turns out the guy that owns Doughboys is Bulgarian, so we yakked and drank I learned how to say "hi" in Bulgarian, which goes something like "Bzyxzxwi"*
Saturday was my law class, which wasn't too bad, and then we played downtown with Coleman Smith, and we were a study in perfection. You couldn't buy a better band for a thousand bucks, and the weather and the listeners were themselves perfect. Yeah. I love springtime.
Then yesterday we were out at Peters Valley with John Skehan from Railroad Earth,a newgrass band that's gonna be famous soon, and he was I seriously think he's a better mando player (just as good? Gooder? in the same league?) as Grisman or Bush. I swear, as Neil said, he didn't play the same lick twice all afternoon.
And he made me laugh, too, just like Coleman.
Peter's Valley, once called "Bevans"* is a craft village the nazi scum Park Service expropriated from honest and powerless Americans. The village of Bevans is no more, but at least the village now boasts some incredible artists who create things of beauty, which, as the man said, are a joy forever.
If I might wax lyric for a moment, imagine sunshine in a beautify country dale, furniture that is radiant with light, paintings of fruit that are gorgeous enough to eat, the music a perfect compliment to the people creating and the good-looking people who come out to buy. THis is N.W. Jersey at its best; there are the good old boys from the fire company**, and lots of she-she girls with sun dresses and very nice attributes. All that was lacking was cold beer, but I had a few on the long ride back to the Elks, and then many more at the Depot, which was a blissful way to end the weekend.
And all the glory and wonder of the weekend made me think of my summer of Bluegrass Nirvana, which was one where I did not teach but instead made
every
single
festival
possible!
Yeah--Bucky's gathering, then Newfoundland, Harry Grant's Windgap festival, GREY FOX!!!!!!!! (we were hired as a camping group's private band, for goodness sakes!) OATS, HIckory Fest! (GOd! What a great festival!) AFBA WindGap and SullyFest. All in 12 weeks.
Here's how it would go: pull in on a Sunday, beer bottles and coffee cups spilling out in the garage, go inside, kiss the wife, shower up and crash, wake up MOmnday and clean the car out and sort through the camping stuff, catch up on the news and mow the grass, thinking all the while of cool summer evenings and ice-cold beer, grilled venison and smoked trout, friends as far as the eye can see--RAmbler Nation!--Tuesday on the phone to nail down personel, Wednesday smooze and snooze around the house, to blast off again on Thursday for another festival.
And if you get to play with Skehan and Smith simulateously, you are indeed blessed!
That will happen, btw, at the AFBA august festival, and I swear by my father's boots that we will be the hottest local band there, with the possible exception of Scotty's group. Not to brag, but those two guys are really geniuses!
Okay, so that's the end of this rant. Next weekend is Chris's graduation from Duke U. and his marriage is in a month.
I met two new friends at Peters Valley, and life is good.
I think of Fred and I am sad, but as I thought to myself this past weekend, a long time ago God breathed out, and someday he (or she, if you like) will breath back in, and all the pain and death and beauty, the faces, lithe young bodies, lust, love, ferocity, gentleness, all matter and all souls will return to godhead. Perhaps that is what people really are, the breath of God. Soon he will breath me in, I suppose, and I am hopeful that the next adventure will be like a perpetual bluegrass Nirvana!
*Pronounced "Bee-vans", I was told.
**(Remind me to tell you about a drunken biker/fireman wedding where they almost burned the firehouse down hehe)
Thursday, May 04, 2006
Black and Bluegrass
Seems I overdid the weight room and am now am suffering from some kind of rotator cuff injury, which makes even hoisting a cold one painful. Guess that means I'll have to lay off the high heat and pitch 'em junk, not hard for a bass player cum mando wannabe. hehe.* Serves me right for rushing through my workout instead of savoring the smell, discomfort and constantly too-loud pop trash music you might here in work-out facilities.
Who in the world decided to make those idiots rich? Well, quite possibly the answer lies, or lays, or sits or sets, all around me here in Spring School, which, for those of us who weren't paying attention during class, is like Summer School except it happens, yes, dear, reader, in the spring, the season in which a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love.
So what does a young lady's thoughts turn to? I certainly would like somebody to answer me that one!
Anyhow, for the next two weeks I get to spend an additional 3 hours here at school so that I can make enough money to screw around this summer, which has at least two really really cool festivals I'll be able to make--HickoryFest out in Wellsboro and the AFBA small fest at WindGap. I'll have to write about those two things separately at some point in the future, there is so much to say about the unique and insane blend of inanity at those festivities. I'll try to define them both in two words. For the AFBA, I would pick "pick" and "Beer". And for HickoryFest I would pick "pick, Hippie and not-beer"**.
Anyhow, I have the pleasure of teaching five subjects in one room with fourteen students who have failed everything from Earth Science--"Say this here trashcan is the Earth, see, and pretend that orange over there is like a meteor or something"- to Environmental Science--"say that trashcan over there is like the ocean and that orange is some endangered whale.." to biology--"so the orange is really a cell, and the rind is like the membrane, except it's not fat and orange, and then the juice when I squeeze this puppy would be like the cytoplasm, except gooopier like a booger, kinda.."
I tell ya, teaching can be a real joy. So these kids seem fine, a little rammy, but that's what being a teenager is all about, is it not? Come to think of it, most bluegrassers I know are in a kind of perpetual childhood. I mean, what grown up goes camping out, makes whooping sounds when the sun goes down, bays at the moon amd pees in the woods?
Or maybe that's dogs I'm thinking of.
No matter. This music certainly keeps you young at heart, and playful. Don't let me forget to say playful!
SO I asked the kids why they failed all these various subjects, and at least five of them said "He gave me a 64!" with genuine shock, like that last point was worth a million bucks. In a minute I'll ask them how many of them had men for teachers. Men teachers love to put the smack down. Makes 'em feel all manly, I guess. I'd ask now, but they are working nicely becuase I asked them nicely, which seems to work for me.
Makes me wonder why some of my mates never try it. Yeah, so if I asked them, they'd be hollering answers out and talking about it and asking questions, whcih proves that they really aren't uninterested in learning. Just depends on the topic. Oh--and I bet lots of these kids have ADD, which, they say, never happens during the summer.
Oaky..here goes an instant survey:
How many of you had male teachers for science and failed?
13 out of 13
How many males and females in the class?
8 girls, 5 boys
How many of you have ever been failed another subject?
6
How many have been failed by female teachers?
5
Top subjects to fail for spring schoolers?
5 for math.
Top reason to fail (One word only!)
homework
I'm lazy
teacher doesn't like me
style of teaching
attendance
So there you have it!
No gender bias here!
well--it's spring, and we are outties! Yippie!
and happy Friday to me!
*I said a latin word!
** there are three kinds of people in this world--those who can count and those who can't.
yeah boy!
Who in the world decided to make those idiots rich? Well, quite possibly the answer lies, or lays, or sits or sets, all around me here in Spring School, which, for those of us who weren't paying attention during class, is like Summer School except it happens, yes, dear, reader, in the spring, the season in which a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love.
So what does a young lady's thoughts turn to? I certainly would like somebody to answer me that one!
Anyhow, for the next two weeks I get to spend an additional 3 hours here at school so that I can make enough money to screw around this summer, which has at least two really really cool festivals I'll be able to make--HickoryFest out in Wellsboro and the AFBA small fest at WindGap. I'll have to write about those two things separately at some point in the future, there is so much to say about the unique and insane blend of inanity at those festivities. I'll try to define them both in two words. For the AFBA, I would pick "pick" and "Beer". And for HickoryFest I would pick "pick, Hippie and not-beer"**.
Anyhow, I have the pleasure of teaching five subjects in one room with fourteen students who have failed everything from Earth Science--"Say this here trashcan is the Earth, see, and pretend that orange over there is like a meteor or something"- to Environmental Science--"say that trashcan over there is like the ocean and that orange is some endangered whale.." to biology--"so the orange is really a cell, and the rind is like the membrane, except it's not fat and orange, and then the juice when I squeeze this puppy would be like the cytoplasm, except gooopier like a booger, kinda.."
I tell ya, teaching can be a real joy. So these kids seem fine, a little rammy, but that's what being a teenager is all about, is it not? Come to think of it, most bluegrassers I know are in a kind of perpetual childhood. I mean, what grown up goes camping out, makes whooping sounds when the sun goes down, bays at the moon amd pees in the woods?
Or maybe that's dogs I'm thinking of.
No matter. This music certainly keeps you young at heart, and playful. Don't let me forget to say playful!
SO I asked the kids why they failed all these various subjects, and at least five of them said "He gave me a 64!" with genuine shock, like that last point was worth a million bucks. In a minute I'll ask them how many of them had men for teachers. Men teachers love to put the smack down. Makes 'em feel all manly, I guess. I'd ask now, but they are working nicely becuase I asked them nicely, which seems to work for me.
Makes me wonder why some of my mates never try it. Yeah, so if I asked them, they'd be hollering answers out and talking about it and asking questions, whcih proves that they really aren't uninterested in learning. Just depends on the topic. Oh--and I bet lots of these kids have ADD, which, they say, never happens during the summer.
Oaky..here goes an instant survey:
How many of you had male teachers for science and failed?
13 out of 13
How many males and females in the class?
8 girls, 5 boys
How many of you have ever been failed another subject?
6
How many have been failed by female teachers?
5
Top subjects to fail for spring schoolers?
5 for math.
Top reason to fail (One word only!)
homework
I'm lazy
teacher doesn't like me
style of teaching
attendance
So there you have it!
No gender bias here!
well--it's spring, and we are outties! Yippie!
and happy Friday to me!
*I said a latin word!
** there are three kinds of people in this world--those who can count and those who can't.
yeah boy!
Monday, May 01, 2006
Springtime in the Bluegrass
Yes, dear readers, after the winter that wouldn't die, it appears that spring has sprung here in Northeastern PA, and a prettier place is hard to find when the monumental amounts of dog poo, leaves and other organic trash has been removed from the back lawn, the deck furniture is spiffed up and the barbecue refurbished.
In fact, we enjoyed a little deckage yesterday, ribs slow cooked and some achingly cold non-citrus-flavored carbonated adult beverages of a Canadian persuasion. Today in school all I saw was thirty kids and a teacher all of whom had wistful thoughts of the weekend past.
The season is beginning to heat up; only a few weeks until our ChickenFest, a celebration of all things chicken. Last year I got some folks a tad annoyed when I claimed that no chicken would be harmed in the production of the event, which featured chicken dishes, a Frank Perdue look-alike contest, chicken dance competition, chicken-chunkin' with rubber chickens,and the perennial favorite, the rubber chicken make-over contest, which was won by a local cafe that had a chicken waitress that looked like a hooker.
I wonder sometimes about our judgment concerning judges, which I suppose makes me unfit to judge myself because I am too judgmental. I guess the jury is still out on that one. Anyhow, when I said no chicken would be harmed, I put that in there because I didn't want anybody to think we were tossing live chickens around. Now I'm not saying that it's wrong to do so, mind you--that is up to you and the chickens, I suppose. It's just that I wouldn't recommend it in broad daylight with a thousand people around.
That's just bad form. So, no lie, it was only three days after my chicken tribute ran in the paper that somebody shot a letter saying, in effect, that you couldn't eat chickens without harming them, which is true, to a point.
I wanted to write back and tell the lady that we only permit the serving of suicidal chickens, but times being what they are, I am sure that would have annoyed a whole new set of people, so I had to be content to remind the lady that chickens were originally bred as fighting animals, that even as we spoke they sacrificed their lives, their eggs and their blood to provide us with food, flu vaccine and protection against bird flu and the West Nile Virus, and that it was an insult to the chickens for a mere vegetarian to defend them, chickens of course being carnivorous.
Yeah, I know you don't think of them that way, but all I have to say is that if there were 50 foot tall chickens in the neighborhood we wouldn't be going on many walks, if you know what I mean. And before anybody gets their knickers in a knot about "poor defenseless chickens," all I have to say is that those folks never spent much time around poultry, which are about the most irritable critters I've seen since my son tried to paint the cat the other day.
Still up in that tree, btw, but we think he'll be down soon.
Yessir, the world is a new and fresher place in the springtime, and it's only a matter of a few months until several marvelous things happen: school will be out, festival season will be upon us, and the sweet sounds of strings will enliven the air.
So I hope you all get to join the Ramblers and other guests at the ChickenFest on May 20th in East Stroudsburg, right by the train tracks, it runs from 10 till 5 and our side of it is free. Rumor has it that a train is coming down from Steamtown up Scranton way, and there will be train exhibits as well, cheap food and expensive women, and several local watering holes nearby that specialize in ice cold beverages.
So happy spring! Watch the doggie doo!
In fact, we enjoyed a little deckage yesterday, ribs slow cooked and some achingly cold non-citrus-flavored carbonated adult beverages of a Canadian persuasion. Today in school all I saw was thirty kids and a teacher all of whom had wistful thoughts of the weekend past.
The season is beginning to heat up; only a few weeks until our ChickenFest, a celebration of all things chicken. Last year I got some folks a tad annoyed when I claimed that no chicken would be harmed in the production of the event, which featured chicken dishes, a Frank Perdue look-alike contest, chicken dance competition, chicken-chunkin' with rubber chickens,and the perennial favorite, the rubber chicken make-over contest, which was won by a local cafe that had a chicken waitress that looked like a hooker.
I wonder sometimes about our judgment concerning judges, which I suppose makes me unfit to judge myself because I am too judgmental. I guess the jury is still out on that one. Anyhow, when I said no chicken would be harmed, I put that in there because I didn't want anybody to think we were tossing live chickens around. Now I'm not saying that it's wrong to do so, mind you--that is up to you and the chickens, I suppose. It's just that I wouldn't recommend it in broad daylight with a thousand people around.
That's just bad form. So, no lie, it was only three days after my chicken tribute ran in the paper that somebody shot a letter saying, in effect, that you couldn't eat chickens without harming them, which is true, to a point.
I wanted to write back and tell the lady that we only permit the serving of suicidal chickens, but times being what they are, I am sure that would have annoyed a whole new set of people, so I had to be content to remind the lady that chickens were originally bred as fighting animals, that even as we spoke they sacrificed their lives, their eggs and their blood to provide us with food, flu vaccine and protection against bird flu and the West Nile Virus, and that it was an insult to the chickens for a mere vegetarian to defend them, chickens of course being carnivorous.
Yeah, I know you don't think of them that way, but all I have to say is that if there were 50 foot tall chickens in the neighborhood we wouldn't be going on many walks, if you know what I mean. And before anybody gets their knickers in a knot about "poor defenseless chickens," all I have to say is that those folks never spent much time around poultry, which are about the most irritable critters I've seen since my son tried to paint the cat the other day.
Still up in that tree, btw, but we think he'll be down soon.
Yessir, the world is a new and fresher place in the springtime, and it's only a matter of a few months until several marvelous things happen: school will be out, festival season will be upon us, and the sweet sounds of strings will enliven the air.
So I hope you all get to join the Ramblers and other guests at the ChickenFest on May 20th in East Stroudsburg, right by the train tracks, it runs from 10 till 5 and our side of it is free. Rumor has it that a train is coming down from Steamtown up Scranton way, and there will be train exhibits as well, cheap food and expensive women, and several local watering holes nearby that specialize in ice cold beverages.
So happy spring! Watch the doggie doo!
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