day 1980
it’s strange that the smell
of cow manure can return
such good memories

DJ FREAKENCY LTDLTD WORLD LTD.

Presents

HOLSTEIN FALL SHOWS & SALES

Trans-America Genetics;

GENCOM Holstein LTD;

VIEUX-SAULE Holstein;

GEN-I-BEQ SALE;

Morsan Farm SALE;

ADI Global SALE;

SALE OF STARS,

Coming up soon & during the RAWF

Mark ↑

Upper Canada Village is a 60 acre re-creation of pioneer life, set on the banks of the St. Lawrence River, east of Morrisburg, Ontario. The forty heritage buildings are populated by a host of costumed interpreters who offer visitors a glimpse into Ontario’s past. One of the houses is called the Physician’s House, pictured above.

The house displays equipment typical of the early days of medicine in 1860s Ontario, when the treatment of patients was limited and crude by today’s standards. Compared to the more humble homes of other community members, such as the shoemaker, the physician’s house is quite comfortable.

One of the prettiest features of the house is the oval window in the front bedroom. The house style is recorded as Neo-Grec, a form of neoclassicism that replaced the rounded, Italianate features and flowery details of earlier Greek Revival buildings with a squarer, more geometric form.

The house wasn’t a doctor’s house in its former life, however. It was originally the home of Michael Cook, and was moved to Upper Canada Village from its location in Aultsville at the time of the Seaway expansion. Aultsville was one of the “Lost Villages” that were submerged when the St. Lawrence Seaway and International Hydro Electric project required the flooding of the region.

The former owner of the house, Michael Cook, was a man of note. A prosperous farmer in the region, he is remembered now with a marker at the Upper Canada Bird Sanctuary, near the former site of Aultsville. His achievement? In 1881, he imported the first Holstein Friesian cattle into Canada.

In 1981, the centennial of the event was commemorated on the same marker. The plaque notes that the cattle from this shipment formed the foundation of the Holstein breed in Canada. Today, about 90% of dairy cows in Canada are Holsteins.

Last Saturday, the Hub and I met up with our brilliant photographer friend Desiree, and drove out to Berlin, Massachusetts to visit Balance Rock Farm. I originally contacted Balance Rock in order to get chicken feet and cockscombs after their seasonal chicken slaughter (more on that in another post) but the trip actually turned out to be a wonderfully educational foray into the world of rural New England farming.

When we first arrived, we were immediately captivated by the runaway rooster and the pet goats. Goats are great to play with; they are friendly and curious, and they have the most beautiful fascinating eyes. We petted them and marveled while the rooster looked on warily.

Balance Rock has a full operating store, open weekly except Thursday. They sell glass bottle milk, local cheese, eggs from their farm, local jams and preserves and honey, as well as a wide array of meat, most of which comes from their farm. They slaughter chickens periodically so you have to sign up to get a whole bird, but there are frozen chicken parts available, as well as various cuts of beef and pork. Lean ground hamburger is the farm’s specialty. I got my chicken feet and cockscombs as well as some beautiful streaky bacon, and then we went exploring.

As we were admiring the cows, Mr. Fred Wheeler showed up, the 82 year old previous owner of Balance Rock. Mr. Wheeler was not only kind enough to show us around and answer our array of questions, but he also told us stories about the evolution of Balance Rock over the years. Mr. Wheeler’s son Buddy now runs the farm, though three generations of the family are currently living on the premises.

Balance Rock has about 50 beef cattle, according to Mr. Wheeler. The farm used to raise dairy cows, but the operation was too expensive to maintain in light of industrial farms which can raise more cows for less and therefore charge consumers less for milk. Mr. Wheeler told us that at the peak of their dairy cow days, Balance Rock had over 160 cows, which required milking twice a day. The first milking took place at 4 am; the second at 4 pm. “Long days, and short nights,” was the life of a dairy farmer, as Mr. Wheeler described it.

Local dairy farms are now hard to come by. Balance Rock imports their glass bottle milk now from Vermont, and as industrial dairy farms become more prominent, local farmers are having to sell the stock and find a new source of income, or sell the farm all together.

Balance Rock has shifted its cattle business to raising beef cattle, that is, cattle who will be slaughtered for meat. They raise mainly Hereford cattle, breeding some with Holsteins. According to Mr. Wheeler, it takes about two years to raise a cow properly before sending it off to slaughter. Some of the farms cows are raised from calves born on the farm, while others are bought at auction. The cows feed mainly on pasture, supplemented with feed, and the cows tend to calve about once a year. Once the cows are big enough, they are sent to Blood Farm where it costs over $100 to transport and slaughter, before being sold as local beef.

If you’ve ever wondered why locally raised grass-fed beef is so expensive, it is because these farmers have a hard time making a profit, with only a few dozen cows, which take two years to raise sufficiently. Industrial farms are surely more efficient, but these intensive farms definitely do not raise the cattle as well as these smaller local farms where the cows receive more specific attention and in general, are raised in a way much more conducive to satisfaction and flourishing than any industrial farm can offer.

Balance Rock also has about 160 chickens for both eggs and meat. As Mr. Wheeler took us into the chicken coop, the banty roosters immediately started making their presence known with loud cockle-doodle-doos. The chickens are of various ages and breeds, and raised primarily for eggs. Mr. Wheeler informed us that hens generally lay an egg a week, although he fondly remembered one chicken who lived on the farm for over six years “laying only about three eggs the entire time.” Some of the chickens are sent for slaughter, which costs a couple dollars for each bird.

The chickens are fed a multi-grain mixture, stored in silos outside the coop. The chickens have a lot space to ambulate, another major difference from factory farms where chickens are kept in tiny cages hardly big enough for them to spread their wings.

Balance Rock has about six swine, also raised for meat, though we did not get a chance to see them.

Mr. Wheeler took over balance Rock, buying it from his uncle, when he was 14 years old and it has been in his family ever since. He recalled his wife, Ruth, “a good woman,” who died about 8 years ago, who helped with the farm and with the raising of the Wheeler family. Mr. Wheeler recalled,

“We had a couple of kids, then we took on a couple more. One lady down the street died in childbirth with her second child, and we took the baby girl in for ‘a couple of days.’ Well, that baby girl graduated from high school still living on this farm. Does that sound like a couple of days to you?!?”

The Wheeler family also took in another neighbor child to raise.

“There was always a lot to do,” mused Mr. Wheeler, “but everybody pitched in, and I guess it always got done.”

Mr. wheeler also pointed out the old tractors in the barn. “People ask me why I still use the old tractors. Well, I reckon it’s because I can fix them! I don’t need no computer on a tractor telling me what to do.”

The romantic vision of farm life that Mr. Wheeler related is, however, becoming a thing of the past. Balance Rock has an uncertain future, as do most small to medium-sized local farms, in the wake of rising costs and less demand. Competing with industrial farms, who have the money and infrastructure to get larger quantities into more stores for less money, is an uphill battle, and local farms are having to rely mainly on farmers markets, local shops, and CSAs in order to sell their products.

Not that Balance Rock is floundering. The waiting list for whole chickens is quite long, as is the waiting list for turkeys. Several folks came into the store while we were there, and the farm has the added advantage of having a website for consumers like myself who depend largely on web-based searches to figure out where to buy my meat, produce, and dairy products. But these farms need more consumer support. They need people like you to actively seek them out, to endure the inconvenience of driving to the farms themselves, or regularly attending farmers markets, or participating in CSAs in order to buy their products.

My own experience tells me that this is a much more rewarding way to buy food products. Grocery stores may be convenient, but they are impersonal, largely unfriendly, and untrustworthy in providing ethical meat, produce, and dairy products. Plus, they remove you from the land and the farmers who have worked to put your food on the table. Visiting the farms, meeting the farmers, touching the animals who will become your food gives you a new attitude, a new disposition towards buying food and eating. Next time you go to the store and pick up a plastic-wrapped Styrofoam container of chicken breasts or ground beef, ask yourself if you can wait, and buy the same product for a little more money and a little more inconvenience from a farm like Balance Rock.

Un dimanche comme les autres, donc, pour la plupart d’entre vous. Paris, la pluie qui menace, rien de particulier…
Pas pour moi.
Parti à point d’heure alors que les excès de la veille au soir faisaient encore tanguer mon horizon (ce Tokay de Hongrie, quelle merveille ! Hongrois qu’on peut résister, pis non…), passé quatre heures dans le TGV à finir des textes à rendre pour lundi, foncé drop drop de Gare de Lyon jusqu’à Scylla en moins de 10 minutes grâce à la trottinette pouet pouet empruntée à mon fils, j’ai pu enfin me dégrailler le corgnolon d’une bière bien méritée en compagnie de, devinez qui ? Oui : Eric Holstein et Jérôme Noirez eux-mêmes. Non ? Si !

Passons sur mon numéro de groupie qui ma valu un regard excédé de la part de Noirôme, passons sur mon incapacité à suivre le pas conquérant d’Erlstein à travers la capitale (faut dire que je papotait avec la charmante Claire de chez Mnémos, et que ça me ralentit tout de suite l’allure) et revenons au fondamentaux : les passionnés de littérature et d’imaginaire en particulier sont une belle bande de chouettes garçons et garcettes qui méritent le voyage.
Il y avait donc Jveuxdusoleil, venue de chez A Vos Plumes et qui a eu la gentillesse de m’attendre et me biser avant de partir en vacances, Gutboy de chez partout où ça parle de SF, ainsi que William, Stéphane, Raphaël « merci pour ta chronique » Gazel, puis Mélanie Fazi elle-même, Nathrakh lui-même, Charlotte, Christian, Marine, RMD… tous ces gens qui n’étaient pas venus que pour moi (y avait quand même Noirstein et Holrez) mais m’ont gentiment donné l’impression d’exister.
Et surtout Xavier de Scylla et Clément d’Ys, sans qui ce dimanche n’aurait été qu’un jour du seigneur comme les autres.

Donc voilà, j’ai bien aimé, merci à tous (et les quatre heures de retour m’ont même permis de finir mes textes pour ce matin alors hein ? c’est pas beau la vie ?)

D’ailleurs j’en reprends dès samedi prochain, pour le célèbre Salon des écrivains de Villepreux. Chanceux de moi !

With the band on a restructuring hiatus, it comes as a bit of a surprise to see a new track turn up from local rock group Holstein. But as something of a forget-me-not the group released a live cut of its song “Waves Of Concern” on its website. Don’t try to look for much else on the site for the time being; with so much in flux with the group, the website is basically a splash page with the band’s logo. But the live track is an added bonus for fans, and you can hear it by putting index finger to mouse button over these off-colored words.

Diseño de portada: Estudio Ediciones B

Aquellos que ya hayan leído un poco de mi en “acerca de los autores” entenderán por qué, en especial, es de este libro la primera reseña que ofrezco.

Aunque las categorías oficiales en las que dicho texto se inscribe son ensayo y biografía, la verdad es que la manera amena y ligera en la que el autor va presentando la bien documentada información –basada en diarios, cartas y otros documentos de la época- convierten esta obra biográfica en una novela histórica basada en datos reales, sin  fantasías del autor –como pasa en otras novelas históricas- pero en un relato envolvente en el que se va entretejiendo la vida y obra de Sofía Augusta Federica De Anhalt-Zerbst y Holstein-Gottorp (mejor conocida como Catalina II de Rusia, “la Grande”)  desde su nacimiento en 1729, hasta su muerte en 1796, a la vez que describe le contexto histórico, político, social y cultural de la época en Rusia y gran parte de Europa.

Un libro lleno de datos, fechas, nombres… Pero también emoción, intriga, misterio, drama, romance… En donde la protagonista es una mujer alemana quien rompe con muchos de los cánones de la época, de los estigmas y tabúes que limitaban a la mujer, y se erige como emperatriz de Rusia, convirtiéndose en una de las figuras más poderosas de Europa y el mundo en  la época de la Ilustración. Una mujer valiente Siendo amiga de Voltaire y Diderot, fomentando el arte y el desarrollo socio-político-cultural de Rusia, pero gobernando de forma autocrática -como parte del llamado despotismo ilustrado-, representando todo el poder y plasmando así una de las tantas contradicciones en la personalidad de esta mujer, figura pública e histórica por demás interesante, admirable y controvertida.

Es un libro que puede ser leído desde la adolescencia.

Existen muchas editoriales que han publicado la obra, y es relativamente fácil encontrarla en librerías grandes, pequeñas, de viejo, de nuevo, por Internet, etc.

Título original: Catherine la Grande

Título en español: Catalina la Grande

Autor: Henry Troyat (seudónimo para Levón Aslani Thorosián – Lev Aslánovich Tarasov [en ruso]-)

1ª edición: 1977

ISBN: 978-84-666-3303-3

Scarecrow

The corn has been chopped and has been stored away in the silage pit.

Paula's Flowers

The leaves on the trees are changing colors.

Paula's Flowers

There is frost on the pumpkins.

Pumpkins

Happy Fall!

Je suis mort. Fatigué, démoralisé, écœuré et en plus j’ai mal aux doigts. (non, en fait tout va bien, je rentre juste de la falaise où j’ai grimpé presque trop)

Mais quand même, c’est pas top.
Parce que ce samedi, et le samedi d’avant, j’ai tenté de donner envie d’un livre à des gens qui s’en carraient l’artimon dans le cabestan. Pour le moins. Et c’est dur.

Il faut vous dire que la barre était haute, et le challenge relevé.
Déjà, pour la première dédicace, une employée de librairie et de bonne volonté m’avait appelé pour savoir si je pouvais venir avec quelques exemplaires de mon Djeeb, comme ça ils en auraient moins à commander et ne risqueraient pas de s’enquiquiner avec des retours enquiquinants si je me révélais assez gourdasson pour ne pas réussir à tout vendre… alors qu’avec mes exemplaires à moi, vous voyez, j’avais qu’à les remporter après la dédicace. Tout net. Bien pensé, simple et élégant.
Comme je n’avais pas de Djeeb en stock (rappel : je suis écriveur, pas vendeur), on m’avait soupiré que bon, dans ce cas, il fallait un peu que je leur dise combien je comptais en fourguer de force, sachant qu’une auteure (évoquée avec de légitimes trémolos dans la voix par l’employée encore toute émue de la performance) avait vendu 40 (quarante !) exemplaires en une seule après-midi. Mais il faut dire qu’elle se bougeait, l’auteure, une vraie auteure qui sait vendre.
Pour la deuxième dédicace, le directeur adjoint du magasin lui-même, m’a expliqué comment m’y prendre, en citant l’exemple de cet auteur venu avec son éditeur, lequel éditeur faisait la retape dans tous les rayons, drainant la populace jusqu’à l’auteur qui n’avait plus qu’à assener la dédicace finale et hop ! emballé : ils avaient tout vendu dans l’après-midi. Un événement dont tout le monde parle encore.
Zut, je savais que j’oubliais quelque chose : mon éditeur ! Venu sans Monsieur Loyal, je me trouvais incapable de faire mon numéro de trapéziste signant. C’est bête, une étourderie pareille.

Qua voulez-vous qu’il se passât ? Pas grand chose. Samedi 19, bien qu’accompagné par Marc Simonetti qui a mitraillé des illustrations express de folie, nous n’avons vendu que 7 Djeeb à des vrais gens, déduction faites des exemplaires acquis par pitié et par des proches, copains ou famille.
Samedi 21, Marc ayant le moral d’un lendemain de Pearl Harbour, je me suis retrouvé tout seul pour réussir l’exploit de… 12 ventes (toujours déduction faite des normales saisonnières).

Pourtant je :
- suis allé dans le rayon SFFF battre le rappel des clients qui hésitaient entre Bragelonne et Milady pour leur rappeler qu’un auteur du coin dédicaçait à quelques mètres de là,
- ai alpagué tous les passants qui passaient, allant jusqu’à fourrer mon livre entre les mains de ceux qui faisaient la queue aux caisses pour leur faire passer le temps,
- ai lu quelques passages d’une voix de stentor propre à décrocher les PLV suspendues dans les rayons, jusqu’à ce que les mines dubitatives des passants hésitants entre me jeter des cacahuètes ou composer le 15 me fassent baisser d’un ton,
- ai ouvert ma chemise et caressé langoureusement mon téton gauche turgesc… non, ça je ne l’ai pas fait. J’aurais dû.

Les bons souvenirs, quand même.
Maryse, qui me vise depuis l’entrée du magasin, croise deux amies qui tentent de la faire dévier de sa route, mais écarte tous les obstacles pour venir jusqu’à moi et me déclarer qu’elle veut acheter mon livre parce qu’elle aime ma tête. Merci Maryse.
Cette dame qui n’avait pas les moyens de s’offrir un Djeeb mais qui m’a aidé à exister en me parlant de mon grand-père qu’elle a connu (et qui comptait parmi les fondateur de l’université de Savoie).
Ce couple qui cherchait un guide du routard Sénégal et à qui j’ai fait l’article pour un guide touristique d’Ambeliane, « ville imaginaire, mais si jamais vous la trouvez, toc ! vous avez déjà le guide pour vous repérer ».
Ce papa rugbyman qui achetait Djeeb pour ses fils, parce que l’imaginaire ça compte dans notre monde (de brutes ?).
Cette maman de passage, qui va offrir mon livre à son fils qui habite à Toulouse, et elle aussi, mais comme elle a bien aimé ma tchatche, elle l’achète ici.
Ce papi mal remis de l’Algérie qui compare Djeeb à un Harki et se met à gueuler des trucs que je ne peux pas répéter ici sans que ce blog soit signalé.
Et tous ces gens qui son allés avouer à la caissière que « quand même, l’auteur il est sympa, pis pas bégueule, pis souriant encore ! »

Oui, vous, les vrais gens hors commerce, vous m’avez fait plaisir.
Maintenant, vous vendre Djeeb alors que la Fantasy vous ne saviez même pas que ça pouvait se lire, faut reconnaître, c’était dur. Heureusement, dimanche 11 octobre je vais faire un tour de piste chez Scylla, à Paris. D’abord, je partage l’affiche avec Noirez et Holstein, ce qui va faire venir du monde. Et du monde qui saura faire la différence entre light fantasy et steamppunk… et là, c’est moi qui ne serai plus au niveau.

Ne croyez pas que je suis aigri et envieux, que je crache dans la soupe ou que je pétoche : les dédicaces, j’aime ça, je vais bien m’amuser !

“When I come back like Jordan, wearin’ the four-five, it ain’t to play games with you…” –Jay-Z

Really, DeRosh? A Jay-Z quote? You trying to be Hova now?! Nope. It’s just finally back to business as usual around here. Earlier we caught you up on the slew of big-ticket concerts put together in the time we spent planning FourFourFest; now it’s time to get you up to speed on the non-concert-related music news. This is a news website, after all. No more playing games; it’s time to get to it. We’ll dunk on your music news after the break.

 * Josh Heinrichs has been one busy man lately. Not only did he complete his EP Things Change, but Heinrichs recorded an album of reggae favorites with longtime friend and America’s Got Talent runner-up Cas Haley, titled–surprise!–Favorites. He has also put together a backing band to help perform his solo work, known as The Soul Riddim Band. With performances at the Oklahoma Reggae Fest and Schwagstock behind him, Heinrichs will be on the road through Texas this weekend with Haley before a series of dates in Hawaii on October 15-17.

* Jared Baehr, long the primary creative force behind local rock group Holstein (and still is), has joined another band–as its drummer. The Nautical West, as the group is known, also features Ryan Cupp on guitar and Eric Briano on bass. The band has a MySpace page set up, though there’s no music on it just yet. Watch for that soon and a debut show in late November, if the MySpace calendar is to be believed.

* While we’re on the subject of new bands, remember the group we were tentatively calling “Andy Marshall’s new band?” Such is what happens when we’re only aware of one person who is involved. Good news: We have the full lineup now. The group is called Bomb the Bay, and the full collection of members is Jake Turner (formerly of A Day Away) on vocals, Marshall and Jake Richardson (both formerly of Playing With Matches) on bass and drums, and Austin Corder and Joe Williams (both formerly of Glass Bottom Boat Ride) doubling up on guitar. Piqued your interest yet? The band is also sans music on its MySpace, but its debut show is already set for November 14 at The Outland Ballroom with The Bootheel, Benefit Of a Doubt and Uno.

* Someone Still Loves You Boris Yeltsin is currently in the process of recording its next album. The man behind the boards: Chris Walla, guitarist of Death Cab For Cutie. Look for the finished results next year.

* Iseah guitarist Jonathan Brake is leaving the group to pursue other interests. According to the band’s MySpace blog, Brake will be replaced going forward by Greg Reed. No word yet on when Brake’s farewell show with Iseah will be scheduled; we’ll let you know when we find out.

* The Blue Room at Billiards of Springfield is no longer a live music venue. Rant forthcoming about this. Stay tuned.

* Adara, poised to play its CD release party at The Outland Ballroom last Friday night, cancelled the show. The word going around among the Ballroom staff was that the group suddenly broke up. Apparently, it’s not 100% correct; the band is, however, in search of a new drummer. Know any good ones?

* Gas Pump Talent has finally added songs to its MySpace page. Go and take a listen.

Holstein Dairy Cattle-Junior Show

Select for a larger view of panoramic photos at the Wisconsin State Fair

Other info on the Wisconsin State Fair Junior Show

We used to have a male donkey that we purchased several years ago to breed our mare.

He was interested, but she only wanted to be friends. His job changed to horse companion and predator control.

Over time the donkey grew tolerant of the dog and cats. Once in awhile he would playfully chase the cats, but the dog does that as well. His disposition was sweet and he loved to be groomed and petted.

Then last fall I acquired a Holstein heifer calf. She was housed away from the donkey and horse, but within sight. When spring arrived the heifer was tethered on the other side of the fence, a few hours a day for several weeks, to allow the donkey time to warm up to her.

Soon the heifer joined the mare and donkey in the pasture. She was full of pep to be in a larger area and adjusted immediately. The donkey appeared tolerant of a new herd mate during the first few days.

Then the honeymoon ended.

He would position himself between the horse and heifer as if to keep the females apart. Perhaps that behaviour would pass, I hoped. It only escalated.

Soon he was chasing the heifer into the fence.

That’s when the “everybody play nice” rule kicked in.

The donkey was advertised for sale and acquired by a farm family a few hundred kilometres away.

They purchased him to ward off coyotes on their cattle farm.

And when the donkey arrived at the new farm, his new best friend was a cow.

Now that’s what I call karma.

būtu labāk walterīti ņēmis…

Ben Spaunhorst, left, and Jared Baehr

If you take a look at the MySpace page for local rock group Holstein, you may notice the band’s lineup described as “to be announced at a later date.” Apparently the state of the band’s lineup has been in flux in recent weeks, with bassist Ben Spaunhorst leaving the band to pursue a career in St. Louis and drummer Chris Bivens parting ways over creative differences. The remaining members–Baehr and guitarists Nate Million and Chance Melton–were set to meet and decide the next step recently, but it appears for now as though Baehr will be running Holstein again, at least temporarily, as a solo project.

06-09-2309

Ahhhh, waking up in a real bed. What simple pleasures you bastards take for granted each day. Not only did I wake to a real bed in my own quarters, but to eggs and bacon sizzling and popping at me through the vents. It was heavenly, but you’d never be able to appreciate it. Just being in a house that has food in the kitchen is a gift, people.

The Auroran side of Bricks family were full of honest, hard working, hugging folk. His mother’s uncle, Arturius, was slouched over the frying pan in an apron and shorts, white socks pulled up over his calves, when his son, Mic came in. Brick’s first cousin, once removed was dropping off his second cousins to play with their grandparents for the day. I know, it all seems very confusing, I had to do some research to figure it all out.

After a hearty breakfast we were on the road again. The view was worthy of nostalgia, the notes of rural Dominia were hard to ignore. It wasn’t long at all before it was time to ignite the day’s first J, waiting until we were just past the city limits. I exhaled a cloud of relief to not have to worry about covering my act around his family. Well, at least for a few hours.

The only sign for a scenic overlook I’d seen in two days passed by outside.

“Huh, do you think we should?” Brick was entertaining the notion already.

“Uh…well..” I couldn’t answer quick enough, another blue sign and a small turn out whooshed by. “I guess not…It probably wasn’t all that interesting, anyway,” I justified.

“You’re probably right, it must hav–Holy shit!” he pointed across me out the window. The slope to our right, covered by a thicket of trees, dropped away to reveal the vantage from the point.

“Oh gork.. We have to turn around, Brick,” not taking my eyes off the view.

“I know, I know. I’m trying,” he said, searching for convenient place to make a quick u-ey.

“This is not an option! It’s the most interesting thing I’ve seen for miles.” I probably wasn’t helping him find a turn an easier, but still I added “I don’t have any good pictures on Earth, yet. You really have to.”

“Hush, or I won’t pull off for the next one either,” he threatened as he signaled to make a right at an abrupt intersection.

The river bends meandered for miles and miles on end. Grey bridges and trees cut in front of the silver body shining in the cool morning sun. A nice breeze welled up beneath us as we looked over what must have been Lake Warioto. I can only assume, reviewing at the map afterwards. I didn’t actually bother to take a look at the commemorative signage or any other nomenclature about.

We descended the mount after documenting everything, down to the mason work, in which each piece of local slate that was used contained fossils of ancient life. The rocky passage down brought us to the lapping edge of the rivers for a peek before plunging us into a thick, valley forest. The route and all the buildings along the way, were worn in ways that made you know this path was ancient, used for time immemorial.

We passed more decaying mortar and concrete, rubber wheels spinning on crumbling cement, until we came upon Warioto Gap. The little town bloomed with antiquated architecture, reaching far back to the days of the original Ganymedean settlement and the colonial wars. It  had sprouted at the head of a natural pass through the mountain, and was popularized when Earthling frontiersman and hero, Dane Bane, expanded the way, making the settlement of Pennsyltucky beyond much easier.

A recreational trail branched off from the back of the town into the mountains. Apparently, before Jovians took over this world, natives called these tracks the Warrior’s Path, linking the way between the warring tribes of the north and south. Colorful signage littered the sides of the walkway, with dramatized scenes depicted which would have otherwise predated modern photography.

It was humid out with no breeze, but the moderate canopy above helped to keep us cool as we climbed the slow, gravelly grade. Small black land mines peppered the larger rocks and stones, their eight legs sprawled as they basked in the midday sun. I kept my eyes down to avoid accidentally triggering any of them.

“How far do you think it is still?” Brick panted, looking up ahead as his flip flops flapped against the sifting tide or stones. “I’m dying already.”

“Well, the sign in the parking lot said it was a good 5 miles to the closest lookout point,” I recalled as I removed his PDA from my pocket, “and so far we have walked…0.6 miles.”

“And we still have to walk all the way back after getting there? Gork that! Lets turn around after we reach the first vantage.”

“Sounds great to me, let me just see here.” As I fiddled with the touch screen, to plot a new course, an alert flashed across it.

((– Now Leaving Pennsyltucky — Welcome to Dominia –))

“Ever cross a border on foot, before?” I asked Brick slyly.

“Heh. No I can’t say I have…until now, apparently.”

“That’s kind of exciting. Well, anyway, we can just make a left at the next fork, it looks like there’s a side path to another mount just ahead.” I pocketed the gadget and released the canteen I had clipped to my waist. Ahhh, still cold from being inside the crawler. Refreshing.

“Hook me up!” Brick said as he herd the wet clink of the stainless steel bottle. I tossed it to him when I’d replaced the lid.

“You get to carry it for a while, now.” I smirked as I passed him, taking the lead up a steep hill.

The top didn’t yield as impressive a view as we could have hopped. I could see a slope on one side, and a mountain sliding to meet it on the other side, but in between there were just a bunch of trees. I angled about as best I could to get at least one good view of something, but nothing came to sight.

You have to be pretty high up to find any view worth seeing on Earth, there’s always something getting in the way. This was a charming little hill though, and a perfect place for the sunbathing ticks. While I was taking a few pictures of trees, one of the clever little arachnids began to make a break for my legs. I spotted him at the last second before it made to leap on me, letting out a shriek of terror as I hopped off the boulder and ran to Brick.

“Uhm…what?” He looked up at me from the rock he was perched on, interrupted from taking a breather.

“I’m not a fan of the wildlife around here…and I think we kinda have to keep moving if we don’t want to be eaten alive,” I indicated to the stealthy black agent of doom behind me.

“I guess.. I feel really exposed up here too, lets get back under the shade,” as he rose to his feet he dusted off his knees and handed the water bottle back to me. “Where to know, do you think?”

“Hmm,” I glanced about a few seconds. “I’d say back down and over there to left, there’s some sort of landmark or memorial by the looks of it.”

“It looks less sunny too, so I’m for it,” and he lead the way down the hill, side stepping to find better footing on the slippery gray stones.

A crater was etched out of a rock wall just a few minutes up our turn. Dead leaves and dry branches flooded it most of the way, making its depth indeterminable. Another floating sign informed us it had been a Union storehouse during Earth’s Civil war, self destructed so it wouldn’t fall into the hands of separatists. Bits of history dating this far back would receive much acclaim and respect on Mars, but here they’re scattered like weeds, another everywhere you turn.

“This is neat, do you want to chill here while we spark it?” Brick asked me with hope, trying anything he could to make this little excursion more worth it.

“Ehh…not particularly. I kinda want to save it for the road, we’ve still got a good ways to drive today. And we won’t still be high by the time we get out of this sweaty park.” My logic was sound enough, I thought, but I added “and I’d like to be sitting down to enjoy it, we’d be tick food before we even got close to roaching it.”

“Yeah, yeah, you’re right. Let’s head back then, ok,” he rifled in his pocket for a menthol cigarette and offered one to me as we turned about, now walking downhill.

An Earthling girl in shades and athletic tights jogged briskly by us on the path. Between deep panting breathes, she shouted a warning as she passed.

“Snake up ahead. Big black one. Middle of the trail. Watch out!” and she was gone, headed up the way we just came down.

“Hmm..” Brick moaned.

“Wow…thanks for the warning, I guess,” I muttered, not sure what to make of it until we saw it for ourselves.

Long enough to stretch the entire span of the walkway, we gingerly tiptoed around the smooth reptile as it slithered on into the foliage. Rounded diamond-shape scales cased it‘s hide, uniform and black. I couldn’t see the head or any markings indicating what type it was, but it was intimidating enough to treat it with utmost caution. Looking back again, I saw the end of it’s plain tail vanished amongst the ferns.

“I think I need to phone my dad real quick,” I was already removing my texti from my pocket.

“Do you update him every time you see a snake?”

“Only when I don’t know what it is…and when I’m in the same territory as him..and when–” my signal connected to the network and it began to ring. He answered after only a couple tones.

“Hey kid, what’s goin on?” the muted voice squeaked through my tiny speaker.

“Not much, dad. I just had a quick question for you.”

“Alright, shoot.”

“Well we’re in Warioto Gap right now, just walked across the border into Dominia.”

“Oh, cool. Coming home soon then?”

“Well kinda, we’ve still got to head through Appalachia and Carolina, and back to Appalachia for the festival this weekend. But I had a question about poisonous snakes.”

“Uh..ok, I think there are emergency services that specialize in snakebites better than I could. And a lot quicker at that.”

“You’re funny. No I didn’t get bitten, I just saw a snake and couldn’t remember which poisonous species we had in our territory. Cottonmouths and…?”

“Rattlers. Timber Rattlers,” he answered quickly, in an obvious tone.

“Huh, really? I always think of them as more of a Luna-Mars thing. Copperheads and Water Moccasins are what I think of when it comes to Earth. And Coral Snakes.”

“Why not, they’re all Pit Vipers. Well, the Cottonmouth species and the Rattlers are anyway; Coral are actually a type of Cobra.” I kinda miss him going on like this, you always learn something.

“No way..wow I guess that makes sense, why they’d be so lethal.” This was a new one on me, but I hardly had the minutes to waste. “Uh, anyway, are any of those about an inch thick and pitch black? Maybe about 2 feet long?”

“No, that’s nothing to worry about at all,” he paused a second to consider it. “Probably a regular old rat snake. If it has no markings at all you‘re safe, and half of the time, even if it does, it‘s just pretending to be dangerous. Toxin filled creatures always come with clearly visible markings, just part of how they evolved.” I could tell he was gearing up for a long one.

“That’s cool, I’ve never really thought about it like that,” it was slightly fascinating, you have to admit. “Well, thanks for helping me ID it, dad. I gotta run though. See you in about a week?”

“Yeah, sure thing, kid. Take care of yourself out there. Love you much.”

“Love you too,” I slid the texti closed to end the call.

“Is it safe?” Brick asked sarcastically.

“Yeah, that one was,” I was adjusting to speaking at normal volume again, “but let’s not hang around to find any that aren’t.”

Back on the road we continued through to Appalachia. Lush, well nourished greenery aligned us, strangled up to the limbs in the river-lakes that ran beside road. It was obvious excessive rains had raised the line several feet, but people here were smart enough to keep their houses far up hill from the new boundaries of their yards. As we crossed the swollen Holstein River I was reminded how insignificant water seemed to the citizens of this world.

We changed our course in Morris, a little crossroads town in the middle of the mountains, and were about to head north when hunger struck us.

“They have White Castles around here, right?” The Martian asked as if I knew intimate details of this part of the planet.

“I can only assume they do…although I can’t remember the last time I saw one this far south. We might as well take a look,” I answered, half optimistic and half unwilling to admit I didn’t know something.

“Right, then we’re exiting here,” he informed me as we entered the ramp leaving the highway.

It looked like any town near the eastern seaboard, the same earth-red bricks wrapped houses with pale columned porticos and black window shudders. Granted, the upkeep hadn’t been attended as closely as some of the nicer neighborhoods I’ve known, but combined with the rusted wrought iron and creeping vines it was all kind of homey.

We continued on the main avenue, scouring both sides of the street for fresh, bite sized burgers, but found none. An alarming number of seafood places were present, especially a good amount of sushi restaurants. Brick and I glanced at each other and shuddered to think about the quality of raw fish up here in the mountains, or anywhere besides Mars or Saturn for that matter. After half an hour of cringing, we turned about.

“Well that was a bust, what did we pass along the way that looked good?” I had given up on finding sliders anytime this trip long ago.

“I dunno…regular sized burgers?” Suggested the Brick.

“Fine, how about the BK Lounge over here?” I pointed to the drive-thru, right by the old rusted rails that used to pump the blood of life into this town.

“Sounds good to me, I think we’ve been avoiding eating there long enough…and salmon rolls aren’t even that appealing to me when they aren’t hundreds of miles from the closest shore,” the picky eater responded.

As we sat in the glassed dining area of the restaurant, an act I’d developed a new appreciation for after being confined to a crawler for majority of the past week, we observed the local color. Mostly pastey white, probably all from Ganymedean families that traded their afternoon tea and suit ties for rabbit meat and coonskin caps when they relocated to Earthly log cabins. Everyone also seemed to have poor skin and obesity issues, obviously loyal customers of this and similar fastfood chains, frequenting them for all four of their meals throughout a given day. The staff even seemed slow and sluggish, weighed down by pounds of grease and fat sloshing around inside of them. Mixed with the unhealthy burger I was hastily shoving down my throat, it was a thoroughly unpleasant experience.

“Just think, tomorrow night we’ll be here again,” Brick said between bites. He wiped his mouth and corrected himself, “Sorry, not here at BK, I mean in Morris.”

“Oh, right…wait this is where Leona’s aunt lives?” I asked, slightly surprised.

“Yeah, well somewhere around here anyway. I just remember seeing Morris on the map when I looked it up.”

I took a second to look around at the overweight diners accompanying us. “Her family’s not from around here, is it?”

“No. Heavens, no. She’s from upstate New Tros, I think her aunt just moved down here. Why to the south, I haven‘t a clue,” he pondered just a minute longer before shrugging and eating a handful of fries.

“Ah, well that’s cool then. There’s no way her aunt could be as gross as the Earthlings around here,” I was relieved, but in the back of my head I was aware that some places just end up changing you. “Lets get out of here before we become like them.

“One step ahead of you, sir,” he said, already rising to his feet and dusting the crumbs off his shirt.

We returned to the highway and resumed our drive. The road we just switched to was narrower and more winding than the previous major route. We had deviated from the suggested path to stop by a landmark that looked appealing, and after an awkward uphill climb finally reached it.

Blowing Rock was apparently the most exciting thing to see for miles, an exposed outcropping looming over a valley created at a continental divide between the ancient sedimentary mountains and the fresh, young chrystallines. For 6 bucks each, we could stand on an observation platform and look at all the trees hiding the beautiful mountain faces and slopes.

There wasn’t a series of little landmarks one could conceivably hike too, there weren’t impressive features you could spot from the deck, it was just a bunch of trees. The most astounding thing was the size of the giftshop, immense compared to the magnitude of the site. A large wall sized panorama picture was all the view we needed to take in before we turned and left.

“Well that certainly blew. This is one of those places you decided to visit cause it looked like a funny name when you saw it on the map, right?” I harped at Brick.”

“Yeah,” he answered sheepishly.

“Are you sorely disappointed?”

“Yes..”

“And have you learned your lesson?”

“Nope, onward to Troutman!” He shouted, breaking into a run for the silver vehicle, still warm and as anxious to get back on the road as we were.

Opie, you haven’t finished your milk.
We can’t put it back in the cow, you know.

- Aunt Bee
…………………………………………………………….

Canon EOS 5D
Canon EF 100mm f/2.8 Macro USM

Here are some photos of the Schock’s vaccinating cattle on July 3, 2009.  (Click on the link to see more photos.)

Greg and Walt

Our government now has 32 czars, each charged with oversight of a different segment of life in the United States. These positions are filled by people selected by unknown means, but some of whom admittedly know nothing about the segment over which they hold sway.

I suggest that President Obama appoint a Phart Czar. Were I the president, my selection would be a former vice-president—Al Gore.

Al Gore is one of the major causes of global warning. He is consistently, in the words of the bard, “hoist with his own petar.” Some of the bard’s analysts suggest that the phrase is a play on words and refers to the fact that the persons mentioned are lifted aloft by their own flatulence (see explanation below). In Al’s case, he is lifted by his own hot air, primarily generated by his pompous proclamations concerning global warming.

For now, the former vice-president seems to be a necessary evil, about which little can be done—it’s just something we will have to tolerate. Perhaps his appointment to the position of Phart Czar will add a bit of weight to a couple of his lightweight awards—the Oscar awarded by Hollywood and the Nobel Peace Prize.

Here I must digress for a moment and offer my thanks for a site that is a great source for writer’s tips—check it out at http://www.dailywritingtips.com/hoist-with-his-own-petard/.

The information that follows was gleaned from that site:

Here is how the expression is used in Hamlet (III, iv, 206-208):

For ’tis the sport to have the enginer
Hoist with his own petar, an’t shall go hard
But I will delve one yard below their mines,
And blow them at the moon.

A “petar” was an explosive device. It got its name from the French verb pêter, which means “to break wind.” The Old French noun pet means “fart.” Shakespeare was making one of his earthy puns here.

Another major cause of global warning, other than Al Gore—one that can be addressed and perhaps eliminated, or at least reduced—is the methane gas emitted by animals. This is the vast amount of flatulence produced by livestock, primarily cattle (cows). In 2005 the United State’s livestock population, including cattle, was almost 96 million—this would include horses, mules, sheep, swine and other lesser animals (lesser in size, not necessarily in the amount of methane expelled into the atmosphere). Of all the animals, those in the know tell us that cows are the worst offenders (I don’t know how that was determined, and I’m not sure that I want to know).

Our country needs a Phart Czar, one who can evaluate the situation, determine methods of controlling such emissions, and exercise control over such emissions by implementing those methods. The Czar’s duties would include intensive measurements of emissions collected from various breeds of cattle. It could be that Jerseys (cows, not people) emit more methane than the Holstein breed, for example. Armed with that knowledge, the Phart Czar could concentrate on reducing the Jersey population (cows, not people), or perhaps if deemed necessary, eliminating the breed through attrition (of Jersey cows, not people).

However, I believe that our major problem is not necessarily with the lower order (so-called) of animals. A corollary problem is methane—flatulence—produced by the higher order (so-called) of animals. That order is the human race, and that problem should be addressed immediately.

To my knowledge no effort has been made to measure the contribution to the atmosphere of methane generated by the herds of humans in our country—in concentrating on animal production we may have completely overlooked our own contributions. The estimated population for the United States in 2008 was almost 304 million human pharters, more than triple the number of livestock in the nation.

Who knows? Our collective contributions to global warming may approach, equal or even surpass that of livestock.

This should be the Phart Czar’s immediate concern—to determine the depth of the problem and make recommendations to reduce the output of something which, apparently, is detrimental to our health and to our future.

Who would have thought that such a normal function of our bodies could be harmful? Certainly not I. In fact, there is a little ditty that many of my generation learned at our mother’s knee and frequently recited over the years. It’s one that the U. S. Air Force officer who established the Wellness Clinic at Wilford Hall Hospital used as the opener in all his speeches promoting the program.

It goes like this:

Beans, beans, good for your heart,

The more you eat, the more you phart,

The more you phart, the better you feel,

So let’s eat beans every meal.

This would be the most sensitive part of the Phart Czar’s job:

Any analysis of the problem must—I repeat, must—include race. The amount of flatulence, as well as its olfactory and auditory effects, is in large part influenced by diet. Some foods promote the production of methane—examples are beans, onions, diary products (especially milk) and let’s not forget one of the worst culprits—broccoli. There are those among us who eat far more beans, broccoli, dairy, etc., than do other segments of the population and therefore should be so judged and subjected to intense scrutiny and evaluation, and corrective action taken as deemed necessary.

Of course, over time through on-hands management, diligent investigation, development of corrective measures and prompt application of those measures, the Phart Czar may find that other foods and other segments of the population may generate as much, or even more, methane gas. No one, including vegetarians, pescotarians, etc., can be exempted—all must be scrutinized and evaluated.

I also suggest that significant stimulus money be provided to persons and companies involved in the study of enzymes (some of which may reduce unwanted digestive issues). In theory at least, new enzymes could be developed that would significantly reduce or even eliminate flatulence, both in humans and in the so-called lower classes of animals. As we all know, flatulence is involuntary and therefore not the fault of the animal, whether human or otherwise—it’s the bacteria in the animal’s colon—they are the culprits—perhaps under the direction of the Phart Czar, a new strain of bacteria could be developed, one which could continue to make its necessary contributions to life without producing methane gas.

One can only hope and dream.

There is, of course, a downside to the complete elimination of methane emitted by living beings—some of us, and perhaps some of the animals, are not strongly disinclined with the conditions which presently exist.

And finally, this is why we need another czar—a Phart Czar:

According to Al Gore, time is of the essence.

As an aside, I recommend that those who invest in the stock market take a careful look at Beano, a product that is said to counter, or at least reduce, the effect of beans in the production of methane in humans. It may be found that by the simple introduction of Beano into beans and other foods, either in the growth process by injecting Beano into the seeds or in the preparation of beans for retail to the public, both uncooked and cooked—a good place to start would be in the vast numbers of restaurants, particularly fast-food restaurants—that feature beans in virtually every dish offered to the public. One of the bean side dishes offered with many entrees is an ultra-delicious culinary delight—it’s called re-fried beans, an item that should be considered particularly suspect for its contributions to the cumulative deleterious effect of flatulence discharged into our atmosphere.

The makers of Beano claim that it counteracts the adverse effects of beans on the human digestive system (for some of us but not all), and offer compelling testimonials to its favorable action. I predict that Beano will in the future change the lifestyle of many people, perhaps propelling (so to speak) some into the rarified air of millionaires, provided that investors get in at the bottom (so to speak) and invest in the product. However, I must in the interest of full disclosure reveal that the product does not work for me.

It makes me phart.

That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

Here are some photos from my family vaccinating cattle (8-way; pink eye; etc.) on July 3, 2009.

Tonight is the night the Springfield Music Scene brings together a wide variety of genres under one roof (Remmington’s Downtown) for the sake of, well, just showing it can be done. Roots Of Mankind, Queen City Saints,  Jam Room, The Spacetones, Falcon Punch, We Voyagers and Only the Brave will all grace the stage tonight, with an added plus: The show also marks the release party for Roots Of Mankind’s new album, Pangaea. While we can’t definitively say a show such as this has never happened before, we can say having this many music styles (as many as six, by our count) under one roof for one show has never happened in our memory. Watch for a gi-normous crowd–hopefully staying through the whole show–and a positive, even festive mood throughout the room.

Ah, but if you’re like us, you like to travel around a bit. Well, have we got a lineup for you:

* Holstein and Truett & The Traitors at Lindberg’s. Tonight marks the CD release party for Holstein’s newest album, Blood On James River, a mean mini-riot of a rock album. Good God, we just used alliteration… moving on. If you haven’t heard the album yet, you’re in luck; the band will be playing the whole thing from start to finish to kick off its headlining set. Also, watch for two clothing themes in the crowd: superhero costumes (encouraged) and red-and-black combinations (accepted if you, say, lost your cape in the woodchipper).

* Scarswillfade, The Final Piece, Assembly Line Gods and Knife*Death at Nathan P. Murphy’s. This show marks Scarswillfade’s reunion, which is exciting news in the local metal scene.

* Glass Bottom Boat Ride, Goodtime Engineers, The Secret and This Night Is Forever at The Outland Ballroom. Tonight is the second try for GBBR’s concert-film DVD taping after data corruption cost them the sound from the first one. They couldn’t have picked a better lineup to regroup with; every band playing tonight is top-notch.

* Underground Blues Division and Matthew Darkly at The Outland

* Ryan Shiel and Slippy LaRue at Patton Alley Pub

* Full Moon Blues at Archie’s Lounge

* The Lowdown Fancy at Galloway Station

* Rick Shortt & Hotbox at Three 20’s

* The Silver Hammer Band at Springfield Brewing Company

Alright, so maybe it was a little unrealistic to hope that Blood On James River would be a happier record than Holstein’s previous work, The Big Black Clouds EP. Blood is really an expansion on the established vibe, literally and figuratively. Two of the previous album’s songs–”Big Black Clouds” and “Complications”–return for use here, and they’re surrounded by 11 more snippets of angst and woe. Two albums in, we can honestly say angry and indignant appears to be Holstein’s thing, and the band is pretty good at it.

Whereas the band raged at God and circumstance on The Big Black Clouds EP, this time the band’s focus is a little more political but it isn’t afraid to avert its gaze from Washington long enough to deal with matters close to home. “Social Butterfly” is a bitter discussion with a soon-to-be-ex-girlfriend, and “Wallstreet” is, of course, lamenting the present economy. Though the subject matter doesn’t lighten up much throughout, the music becomes almost perky during Blood On James River’s last four songs. They also rank among the album’s most tuneful and catchy; the chorus of “Poison Me” could certainly get stuck in people’s heads. 

If a band is going to be this pissed off about, well, everything, it had damn well better use that anger to rock, and Holstein has done well in this regard. The first two songs combine to form a biting, sinister intro to the album, and it doesn’t let up much from there. The three-pronged guitar attack of Jared Baehr, Nate Million and Chance Melton drives home every lyrical point with pounding-fist emphasis, and Chris Bivens’s drumming carries an appropriately militaristic snappiness at times. Individually, the 13 album tracks are rock songs of pointed ferocity, ranging from above average to downright enthralling. Combined, the songs form Holstein’s take on how the world is heading down the shitter, and yet the song “End of the World” begins with a sort of tongue-in-cheek accordion intro. Who says you can’t crack a smile as the sky falls?

A packed studio, an equally (and sometimes more) packed hallway, a local-music legend, a band to watch with a new album, some cool shows to discuss… yup, it’s another edition of Rock Talk on Z 106.7 FM. Not just any episode, though; Mark Bilyeu of Big Smith and solo fame got us started off (see him Wednesday with Backyard Tire Fire at Lindberg’s, btw. It will be awesome); followed by Holstein with new tracks from Blood On James River, out this weekend; then Roots Of Mankind discussed its Scene Unity Show Saturday at Remmington’s Downtown; This Night Is Forever explained its origins in New Jersey and how it got on Glass Bottom Boat Ride’s DVD filming at The Outland Ballroom; and we put together a Four From the Four Four with artists from the upcoming James Davis memorial show at Nathan P. Murphy’s. It was a busy night and a truly grand show. Find it all after the break.

Rock Talk 6/21/09 Part 1

Rock Talk 6/21/09 Part 2

Rock Talk 6/21/09 Part 3

Rock Talk 6/21/09 Part 4

Rock Talk 6/21/09 Part 5

Rock Talk 6/21/09 Part 6

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Rock Talk is the all things local radio program that airs on Z 106.7 Sunday nights from 10-11pm. Rock Talk is hosted by Simon Nytes and co-hosted by Chris and Scott from TheFourFour.com. If you would like to get your band on Rock Talk, contact us at hello@thefourfour.com for booking. For back episodes of Rock Talk featuring tons of bands and live performances, just click the “Rock Talk” tag. Thanks for listening.
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