Sorry I'm not writing more

I just do not have the focus to write these days. Oh, I jot down a lot of notes, but I'm lacking the discipline to sit down and mash it all into a semi-coherent narrative. I blame it on no weed. Weed may not make me a better writer but it sure as hell makes me a more prolific one.

Someday soon, I'm going to post a long piece on the absurd uselessness and absolute Nazi pigfuckery that is the Randolph County justice system Seriously, community service is some fucked up shit. The strip search incident alone is worth at least 1500 words.

And the worthless court referral program, a.k.a. re-education camp, is worth another 1500. I can't believe I had to explain to the "teacher" that you don't smoke the leaves of the marijuana plant. Sigh...

In other news:

High winds blew the roof off what was left of the old barn. This was a good thing as there was no way I could've taken that roof off by myself in less than a year. Mother Nature removed it, oak rafters and all, in less than five seconds. One of these days, I'll post photos of the barn deconstruction project.

I also contracted with a local timber company to remove about 400 tons of trees from my property. They paid me enough money to catch up on my bills, pay the reinstatement fee for my driver's license and get my old car back on the road. There will even be enough left over to buy groceries and maybe new contact lenses and a haircut.

Also: One of the cats got run over by a car, I found some Native American stone tools, the goat kids are still cute, baby chicks are due soon, I get my license back in three weeks and the corn is already an inch high.

So, dear readers, bear with me while I slog through this dry spell. I swear, I will update this blog more frequently in the future. I just couldn't let April pass without a single update.

Has it been a month already?

It's been a month since my last post. Sigh... It's been a busy month. This court shit is busting my ass. In addition to my community service (11 days down, 19 to go), this month I've had to attend re-education camp in Roanoke every Saturday. That's 25 miles one way. That's 8 rides I have to search for (sessions are about 5 hours long) because I don't get my license back until the middle of May.

Fortunately (for me anyway), Bark Boomhauer has to go to the same re-education camp as me. He got a DUI over a year ago across the state line and had finally finished all that the court required of him. He applied for license reinstatement and was basically told "Well, you may be squared up with Georgia but Alabama still has a few hoops for you to jump through." So now he's paying $265 for re-education camp and I'm bumming along with his rides. Re-education camp also required us to attend four AA meetings this month (another 5 miles each way).

I also have a once-a-week trip to Wedowee for community service. That's another 15 miles each way - 10 more rides this month. And the once-a-month trip back to Roanoke to pee in a cup. And the once-a-month trip to Wedowee for "court review." That's when everybody on community service shows up to court and has to face the judge.

You sit around waiting for your name to be called. Luckily for me, it's alphabetical so I get out of there pretty quick - less than an hour. God forbid your name is Williams. You go in front of the judge, a hard ass straight out of central casting, who asks if you've been coming to community service every week and if your fines are up-to-date (even though the court already has paperwork on this shit). If the answer to those questions is "no," you will go to jail. If you do not show up to court review, a warrant will be issued for your arrest. The cops will show up at your house.

Many people I've worked with on community service have lost their jobs because of these demands on their time. Those who were already out of work can't even look for a job because who's gonna hire you when you're guaranteed to miss at least one day a week?

In another stroke of good fortune (for me anyway), I met someone at community service who lives very close to me and I now hitch rides with her. She was one of 148 people arrested at a weekly cockfight a mile down the road from me. She got 40 hours of community service and fines totalling almost $4000 - a much harsher penalty than drunk driving. Hell, she probably would've gotten a lighter sentence had she been selling drugs in the school parking lot. Not to condone cockfighting but this seems silly to me. In all honesty, those birds probably didn't have it any worse than the millions of factory farm chickens being raised and slaughtered for meat in this country.


Speaking of factory farm chickens: I got four new refugee hens a couple weeks ago. Like all my new refugees, they are sad and pitiful looking. They are missing lots of feathers and scared of everything. They are still confused by the "real" food the other birds greedily devour, preferring the feed they grew up on (of which the factory farm kindly donated about 150 pounds). They spend all day inside the coop even though that have access to the whole outdoors. Only one of the new hens has started venturing outside and has discovered that earthworms are magically delicious.




Speaking of creepy-crawlies: I recently uncovered this humoungous grub while transforming the old barn floor into my newest garden plot:


It's the larvae of a scary-looking yet harmless stag beetle. It's probably three or four years old. It's been underneath the old barn this whole time, feeding on rotting wood. Decades of decomposing pine planks and oak rafters has left this little plot with six inches of some of the best, rich, black soil on the property. And, since it's all encased in a concrete foundation, it's a raised bed garden!

Since the wondergrub will do no harm beyond scaring small children, I snapped a few pictures and put it back where I'd found it.

Not everyone was in agreement about reburying the grub. Buddie was eyeing that thing like it was a juicy jumbo prawn. A bug that size could choke a chicken!



Speaking of choking the chicken: I finally had to dispatch my overly-aggressive rooster, Caleb. At the time of his death, he weighed a whopping 18-pounds. Not only was he constantly attacking me, he had grown so large that he could no longer safely mate with the hens.

He had previously injured Murray who spent a month being mostly confined to the porch while she recuperated. She had finally healed enough that I was able to let her run loose with the rest of the flock, though she still had to wear a saddle to protect her from Caleb's amorous advances. I fashioned it from a 50-year-old flour sack I'd found in the old barn.



When his sharp spurs ripped holes through the skin of a second hen, I knew it was time for him to go to that big chicken coop in the sky.

The question was how to send him there?

His neck was so large I couldn't even get my hand all the way around it. There was no way I could get a hatchet through it with one swift blow. His feathers were so thick they would've blunted any blow I could deliver. When I had killed Cornelieus, who weighed almost 15 pounds, it took more than a few swings to do the job - a situation that was horrible for both of us.

I came up with the bright idea of shooting Caleb in the head - kneel down next him, level the barrel to his temple and pull the trigger. Have you ever tried to shoot a chicken in the head with a .22? Even at extremely close range, it is not an easy task. A chicken's head is in constant motion. They're like bobbleheads.

I put the gun away then chased Caleb around the yard until I caught him. I held the struggling rooster tight and weighed my remaining options.

I thought about wringing his neck. I've never been comfortable with this method even though it is widely recommended. I tried it once with Joshua, the first chicken I ever killed, and it didn't go so well. I hadn't tried it since, opting for the chopping block. I wasn't sure I wanted to give it another shot, at least not with Chickenzilla.

I was reconsidering the inadequate hatchet when he almost broke free of my grasp. I knew if he got away, I wouldn't be able to get near him all day. If that happened, I'd end up having to shoot him in full view all the chickens. I hate killing chickens in front of other chickens. Besides, I'm such a lousy shot that the prospect of all that could go wrong made this prospect unpalatable.

Instinctively, my right hand reached for his neck and squeezed. Yes, I literally choked the chicken. And he fought me every inch of the way. Can't blame him. Hell, I don't even blame him for the things he did that made me have to kill him. He was just doing what roosters do. But he was large and under the misconception he was in charge - a dangerous combination. There was no way I could have this angry, horny cock running loose in the yard all spring. In the end, I was just doing what farmers do. Well, I don't think this was the way a real farmer would've done it.

I fought Caleb mano a mano. While he got in a few good hits, I finally pinned him to the ground with one knee, one hand wrapped around around his feet to keep his sharp spurs from digging into my skin and my other hand wrapped around his neck. I didn't dare let go now - I'd never get near him again. I held on for dear life until I knew for certain he was dead - a fact made evident by the evacuation of his bowels. In other words: With his dying breath, Caleb shit on me. I reached for my nearby knife, slit his jugular vein and bled him out.

After butchering him, I had ten pounds of meat in the fridge and freezer. His drumsticks and thighs alone weighed four and half pounds. That's about how much each of my other two roosters weigh. The breast meat came to three pounds.

a single chicken breast - one and a half pounds

Speaking of something completely not related to anything above: Angela recently posted photos to her blog of a bruise she got from wiping out on her bike.

After being roommates for almost a decade, Angela and I are like this (you can't see it, but I'm crossing my fingers to show we're super tight). We can read eachother's minds, we can finish eachother's sentences, we can leap to the same conclusions in a single bound. Even our periods were synched up.

What I'm trying to say here is that a mere 5,000 miles cannot break the bond that we share. So it was no surprise to learn that Angela got a big bike-related ass bruise within days of me getting a big bike-related ass bruise.

A neighbor-cousin lent me an old-school one-speed bicycle while I'm without a driver's license. I use it for traveling to and from various odd jobs. It sucks not being able to change gears while traveling this hilly terrain but it still beats walking. It's not so bad going to jobs because I live on one of the highest points around and can coast downhill much of the way. Coming home is a different story, taking at least twice as long because I spend a lot of time pushing the bike uphill.

The furthest commute takes place on Fridays when I ride five miles each way to earn twenty-five bucks cleaning a house (though, if someone is home, they'll give me and the bike a ride home). I had just pulled into their driveway when their dog ran up and bit me on the ass.

This is no ordinary dog. It's a full-grown male Great Pyrenees, weighing well over 100 pounds. He's big enough that he can keep all four feet on the ground and still reach my ass on a bike seat. He didn't bite me nearly as hard as he could have, yet it still hurt like hell and left a bruise that looks like somebody punched me in the ass with pointy brass knuckles.

Sadly, no one was home that day so me and my sore ass had to pedal/push the bike home.

So, Angela, this ass shot is for you:



There are still absurd tales from community service and re-education camp I want to share but those will have to wait for another day. I hate to see March pass without a single post and I'll never get this done if I try to tell those stories right now.

Pissing for the man

I've been woefully slack about updating this blog. Okay, let's get things back up to speed around here.

About a month ago, I hosted a couchsurfer - Tom from the Netherlands. He hung around a for a few days and was a wonderful guest. We drank beer, shared stories and drove around looking at the countryside. He even helped haul old rotten planks from the barn up to the house so we could have a nice bonfire.

Tom in front of Frankencoop

You can read about his travels on his blog (assuming you can read Dutch). Me, I just look at the pictures.


My parents also came for a visit since my last update. They only stayed for five days - much more manageable than a multi-month visit like last time. They may be back in a week or so for a couple more days.

I managed to keep my DUI under wraps while they were here. B.J. Boomhauer hauled my dead truck away to his farm. None of my court-mandated shit fell on a day when they were here. Nobody spilled the beans on me. All neighbor-cousins were under strict orders not to mention it. I told them "You don't have to lie for me. Just don't bring it up."


Speaking of court-mandated shit: I had to go in for "monitoring" Thursday. A fifty-mile roundtrip for a fifteen minute visit. This cost me twenty bucks. I also had to submit to my first ever piss test. That was another twenty. Fuckers. Forty dollars is about how much I spend on groceries in a month.

I'm in no danger of starving or anything, but those two avocados (a glorious luxury) I got in town are probably the last groceries I'll buy for a while. Thankfully, I have plenty of food right now. The freezer is stocked with lots of venison that my parents brought. Probably a good 30-40 pounds. I have lots of flour, sugar, powdered milk, yeast, oil and other various staples. I also recently received a care package from an Alaskan friend who kindly sent a couple pounds of good coffee beans, my favorite stinky bleu cheese, hummus mix, nori sushi wrappers and other delectables that cannot be found here in rural Alabama.

And I am seriously considering killing my 15-pound rooster, Caleb soon. All of a sudden, he has become very aggressive towards me. He's repeatedly attacking me - and it fucking hurts! He's huge. He has a sharp beak and spurs like arrow points.

When my old alpha-male, Gimpy, used to attack me it, it was kinda cute. He only weighed four pounds. He only attacked my feet. As long as I was wearing boots, I was safe. (I learned the hard way not to wear flip-flops around him.) But Caleb is a 15-pound monster. It's like having a bowling ball thrown at you. A bowling ball with razorblades sticking out of it. And he doesn't go for my feet. He goes for my legs. This will not fly when it warms up and I start wearing shorts again.

I'm sure it's all attributable to hormones and the approach of spring. He's just being a rooster. But I cannot deal with this angry behemoth living under my porch. I'd rather have a two weeks' worth of chicken curry, chicken marsala, chicken salad, sweet-n-sour chicken and a couple gallons of chicken stock than a summer of looking over my shoulder and dodging a crazy cock out for blood (which he has drawn twice in the last couple days).

It would also be easier on my hen, Murray, if Caleb was to disappear. A few weeks ago, he injured her in a bout of rough sex. Ripped big holes in her sides with his sharp claws. She's doing fine but must be kept separate from him until she completely heals otherwise he'll just jump her again and reopen her wounds.

For now, she spends her days confined to the porch and her evenings sleeping in a cage in the back room. Sometimes, I lock Caleb under the porch for a while and let Murray run free in the yard so she can take a dust bath and scratch for bugs.

But this is all a major inconvenience for me (as well as Murray). If Caleb were gone, she could go back to being free-range and sleeping under the porch. And I could go back to not having a chicken in the house. Nothing makes you feel white trash like keeping a chicken in your trailer.


Anyway, back to my piss test...

So, I went back to the same dingy offices behind the minimall where I was summoned before. You know, the place that looks like a child molester's basement. I waited on the raggedy old couch with a book until it was my turn. The woman I had to see was already with someone else. The door to the office was wide open and I could hear their entire conversation. Nothing really juicy was discussed but I thought it odd that something like this wouldn't be more...you know...private.

When it was my turn, I went in and sat down in front of her desk. She asked if I had brought forty dollars. I handed it over while she typed something in her computer. Then, unfuckingbelivably, she picked up the phone and called her goddamned hairdresser! I sat there in disbelief while she yammered away, explaining why she was going to have to cancel her appointment. Like she couldn't have done this two minutes earlier before calling me into her office. The call lasted long enough that I seriously began to consider opening the book on my lap.

She hung up the phone, handed me a plastic cup and pointed me in the direction of the bathroom. I walked back through the lobby, past the guy now waiting for his turn, and went into the bathroom - the only truly private part of the experience. I had half-expected that I would have to piss in front of somebody. So, a tip for those of you taking a court-mandated piss in Randolph County, Alabama: Feel free to bring a friend's clean urine to substitute for yours if you need to. They won't be checking.

I walked back to her office, carrying half a cup of fresh steaming piss which I placed on her desk. Then, unfuckingbelievably, she pulled out a sheet of paper towel and used it to grab the rim of the cup. "We're all out of gloves," she tells me. Jesus! What kind of rinky dink outfit is this?

She takes a little stick and puts it in the cup. While we wait for the results, she turns back to the computer and starts asking me routine questions. Are you still at the same address? Have you been in any trouble with the law since your last visit? Blah, blah, blah. She also apologizes for calling her hairdresser.

After a few minutes, she gingerly grabs the cup with the paper towel again and removes the stick. "I really hate doing this without gloves."

I want to say "Apparently not enough to let me keep my twenty fucking dollars." Wisely, I bite my tongue but refuse to return her awkward smile. I have not a single damned ounce of sympathy for this woman who just took food out of my mouth by making me submit to a test she could have easily waived.

But I'm smiling on the inside because of what I ate for breakfast that morning. Her office is filled with the pungent odor of asparagus pee. At least in some small way, I can strike back against the system. Fuck 'em. I hope I'm on my period next time.

She glances at the stick, throws it in the garbage and types something into the computer. She doesn't say so, but I assume this means I passed. She hands the cup of piss back to me, still grasping it with the paper towel. "You can throw this away." I resist the urge to toss it in the garbage can. Instead, I take it from her (not surprisingly, I am not offered a piece of paper towel) and walk back to the bathroom where I pour it in the toilet.

I go back to her office and she gives me a piece of paper with the info about my upcoming re-education camp - six hours every Saturday in March. This will cost me 265 more motherfucking dollars. Hopefully, this will help them afford some goddamned latex gloves.


There's other stuff I wanted to tell you about but, I'm afraid if I don't wrap this up now, it'll be another week before I get this posted. I swear I'm gonna start updating this blog more often. It's not like I don't have the time.


I'll wrap this post up with a photo of a couple eggs I collected today:


The egg on the right is what's known as a "fart egg." It doesn't contain a yolk - only the white. It's not very common but it does happen occasionally.