SATAN

One of the pitfalls of spending a lot of time by yourself is the tendency to verbalize random thoughts. Out loud. When you live alone, it hardly poses any problem. But then, say you start to re-integrate into society by maybe, I dunno, joining a gym, because in your hermetically-sealed state, maybe you got out of shape and added a few pounds. So then maybe you start going to this gym and maybe you're reading "Self" magazine while using the Stairclimber(tm) and maybe you're reading an article where someone has written in, concerned about the health of their born-again vegan friend and maybe the responder mentions that their vegan friend can obtain the recommended daily allowance of protein by preparing food made using SEITAN.

And then maybe you flash back to the first time you were introduced to SEITAN, Thanksgiving of 1995, when you were invited to your Vegan friend's house for T-day dinner and instead of cooking a real turkey, they cooked a turkey-shaped loaf of SEITAN. Now remember, the only reason you accepted this invitation to begin with was to 1) avoid your own hopelessly dysfunctional family and 2) to ogle the husband of one of the guests, of whom you've had a crush on from the first moment you laid eyes on him. And despite the earnest attempts by your hosts to be righteous in their veganism (Please, DO NOT notice the leather chairs in their living room. Please.) you find yourself out on the deck with the smokers chanting over and over "SEITAN SEITAN SEITAN SEITAN SEITAN..." And it's funny, you see, because SEITAN is pronounced the same as SATAN. And every time after that day, whenever you've ever seen the word SEITAN in print, you, in your most evil, Linda Purl Exorcist voice, compulsively hiss, "SATAN," aloud. Every time. It can't be helped any more than my OCD friend touching the light switch 5 times before he leaves a room. 

Flash forward to the gym in Mount Vernon, full of people from America's Heartland, and there's a woman on the Stairclimber(tm) who, for no apparent reason, breathlessly hisses "SATAN."

Chicken Pox

If you don't get Chicken Pox from chickens, why does one of my chickens have it? For whatever reason they call Chicken Pox, Chicken Pox, there's nothing left to call what my chicken is suffering from than Foul Pox. 

I found her teetering in front of the waterer this morning. I picked her up and saw that her beak was caked and bloody with a warty-looking swelling on it, as well as her comb. I whisked her into the bathroom to clean what I thought were wounds and found that her feet and legs had scabs on them. And on the back of her head, I can barely describe. It looked like she had a small rock stuck in the middle of a tumor. I cleaned her up and tried to soften the lesions with warm water and vitamin E oil, but no result.

I called the hatchery and they had no idea what I was describing. I called the vet and they also didn't know, but said I could bring her in on Saturday. "I don't think she'll make it that long." They told me to refrigerate her if she dies and they can run tests and see if it's contagious and take precautions to protect the rest of the flock.

I got on (I LOVE) the internet and tried to Google for a clue. "chicken tumor," "chicken lesions," "chicken diseases," etc. until I found mention of the pox. Google images confirmed that my little chicken has Fowl Pox. There's nothing to be done about it once the chicken has it and in most cases they eventually get better. Unless the Pox has spread to their mouth and throat, making it difficult for them to breath and eat. My chicken is wheezing and won't swallow the yummy yummy special food I made for her, so she's most likely doomed.

You're the one that I want

Rookie.

Trailer Park Boys

Got Netflix? Get "Trailer Park Boys."  

Unless you're unfamiliar with the term "hot knives," then you probably won't like this show. 

If you are on the fence, hold judgment until you see the "Conky" episode. That one'll make it or break it for you.

Foul language, Canadians, ex-cons, rum and Cokes, trailers, closeted gay trailer park manager, wanna-be gangsta, thievery, a man named Bubbles who lives in a shed, cigarette-smoking 9 year olds, track pants, and weed. Lots and lots of weed. That's what it's all aboot.

You too, can dance just like a white person

Is he saying, "dicks, cocks, dicks, cocks...?"

Piles of dead birds... Mystery SOLVED?

Again, on my walk, I encountered a pile of dead birds. Explanations involving UFOs or Satan worshippers faded as I looked directly up from the spot, above it - an eagle perch. The gluttonous eagles are killing more thrush than they are eating, dropping their left-overs on the ground. The thrush, showed no signs of trauma due to the swift and lethal internal-organ piercing eagle talons. 

A Tiny Victory

Last fall when Vashoners got their property tax assessments for 2008, we were treated to a very unpleasant surprise. People with names like Biffle French were outraged. 

My tax-assessed property value doubled from 2007. According to the county, my 1955 Terra Cruiser is worth $95,000. 

I'm no fool, and no bridge salesman. I know that I can't get a dime for my Terra Cruiser. The bank knows it - they won't finance the property and my insurance company knows it - they won't insure it.

So I filed an appeal with the county. Knowing how corrupt and retarded King County is, I had no hopes of being heard, but I wasn't going to take this lying down.

Yesterday I got a call from one of the County appraisers. He had "good news" for me. They had "mis-applied" their "assessment model" to my property and they would be reducing my property value to LESS than what it was 2007, cutting my property taxes by more than half! Not only that, he APOLOGIZED for the error. 

I'm looking out my window for the flying pigs, and wondering if it's a chilly day in hell.

2 Dead Birds

The other bird isn't dead yet - the other Varied Thrush that I found - one dead, the other dying, within feet of each other today on our walk. The dying one I rushed back to my house and fed it honey-laced soy milk in a feeble attempt to revive it. It's sitting on my kitchen table in a cardboard box, in the throes of death. The already-dead one, I posed with other items procured on our walk today: a weird piece of driftwood, a bone from someone and a shmoo-shaped rock. Yes, that bird is dead. Hard to believe, seeing it's glassy eye. When I picked it up, it was still warm, but stiff. And why would two identical birds die within feet of each other? Suicide pact? Fight to the death? 

Yes, that is my house in the background, rotting. 

The dying bird occasionally thrashes around in its box. The mind may have gone on, but the body always fights it. It's instinct. Basic biology. If you've ever watched a creature die, it's not at all like "in the movies." The body fights it. It's too soon. Not now. This can't be.

Taking this picture of the dead bird reminds me of Mr. Audubon who killed every bird who modeled for his paintings. Oh, what a FUNNY STORY of him trying to kill the golden eagle so he could paint it... (sarcasm)