Rusty the Rooster

My folks raised chickens when we were kids. This was mostly a good thing. We got lots of tasty chicken dinners, and the eggs that were sold got us fancier shoes to wear to school.

I can remember gathering those eggs, though, and that wasn't so much fun. The bastard birds were peckers! It was a classic approach/avoidance situation -- me reaching fearfully into the nests, trying to gently extract an egg from under the hen who would startle me by stinging my wrist with a sudden stunning chomp.
How I hated those birds! It was all right in winter, or if I remembered to wear a sweater or take a jacket, but in summer time I would forget, entering that hen house wearing a sleeveless top, and how in hell are you going to be protected from their vile beaks then?

But worse than the peckers were the cocks! There was one fowl bastard etched permanently into my brain, just as his beak mark is etched permanently on my left ankle, a scar and a memory.

It was bad enough when Rusty was in the pen, because he knew. Whenever he saw us kids walking by, he would puff out his chest, twist his neck back, and then cut loose with a "UR--ur--UR--ur--URRRR!" sound. His cockerel vanity would make our hearts pound with fear.

Our chickens were notorious for seeking and frequently finding freedom. A small hole in the fence, an open gate, a low-hanging tree branch. They could find these things, and then they would clumsily catapault themselves onto the wrong side of the fence. My mother would fret over the resulting orange egg yolks which soon followed after eating all that green grass. We kids however had our own reason to fret. It was that cock. That bastard cock.
I think he sought us out. I think he just wandered around that farm until he found us kids, and then tormented us. He would chase us, like he owned the farm and paid the taxes. And would scare the hell out of us. It was embarrassing to run back to the house, puffing and almost crying, led to this emotional state by a rogue rooster.

We feared for a reason, because if he ever did catch up to us, he could peck our sensitive young flesh and cause a stabbing, stinging pain. Plus, his claws could carve out "Chickenshit!" on our backs (or legs, or face, or chest) if he so desired.

How I hated that bastard cock! Before he came along, I was all over that farm. I was out in the pasture with the calves and cows, off by the creek, down in the meadow, over by the garden, enjoying the freedom that came with living on a farm. He stole that from me.

Why am I thinking about that stinging cock now? Because in the news today, a bunch of animal lovers are indignant that some roosters were treated badly on a farm in BC, and made to enter cock fights.

All I can say is, I wish that bastard Rusty from the farm was there.

Castro: not alive and not kicking

Do you really believe Castro is still alive? Anyone who's seen the video of him dressed in his track suit, looking like a Canadian athlete at the Olympics, has got to wonder. It's almost as if he's trying to break into a bit o' the old soft shoe but can't quite make it. The close-up of his eyes -- doesn't he look bewildered, or at least like he's staring into somebody's headlights on a dark road?
I think he died two years ago, from complications after some hush-hush abdominal surgery. But they weren't ready to let him go yet, they had to see what the country would be like if his brother slid uncomfortably into a position of power. Fidel's status was kept secret, just in case, just in case . . .
And, just in case things didn't look that great, and they wanted people to think he was in fact on the mend, they took his body, propped it up and video-taped the now-famous track suit segment for future use.
Think about it. Someone that power-hungry doesn't email his intention to quit; he stands in front of a microphone and talks about it for two hours.
You'll see. There'll be an announcement some day that he died and was cremated immediately, according to his wishes. And only those of us who are reaaalllly smart will ever know the truth.

What You Hear

A couple of weeks ago as I was sitting at my desk at work, Falko the K-ROCK deejay made a sad announcement. I thought he said, "Keith Richards is dead" and I was of course immediately saddened at the loss of a consummate performer and character, but I also found myself thinking: now, there's no surprise!
When the news bulletin was repeated and this time expanded, I heard that he was one of the principal actors in Brokeback Mountain. So I'm thinking, I saw that show -- where was Keith? What part could he have possibly played in that movie and how could I have missed him?
Then I realized it was not Keith Richards, but in fact Heath Ledger. A similar-sounding name, right?
It was sad to hear the surrounding circumstances as they unfolded that day and in the ensuing several days. He was a good actor, but had his demons. Too bad.
However, I find it ironic (or even humorous in some macabre way) that I was so quick to accept the demise of Keith. What is it about him that makes one so ready to think he's dead? When I heard awhile back that he'd fallen out of a tree in Fiji (or some such thing) I waited for days to hear the sad news of his untimely demise. I've given him up for dead a few times. Sorry Keith! I think when you finally DO go, no one will be more surprised than I.

Not-so-Super 8

Sometimes when you buy something really cheap and it breaks almost immediately, a wise(ass) person will say, "You get what you pay for." Maybe that's true. But what I know for sure is, if you pay more for something instead of less, these same people will never say you get what you pay for.
Take the Super 8 hotel (Please!, as Rodney would say). I paid more for a room, but I didn't get what I paid for, as in $30 more of amenities.
Sure, they talk a fine line when you're standing at the registration desk, all smiles and cheerful comments. They tell you that you're welcome to partake in the Continental Breakfast between 7 and 10 a.m. and they tell you the hours the pool (+ waterslide) is open, and something about pets, and that if you smoke in your room they will most certainly have to steam clean it which will cost $690. There's another thing; why would dogs ever want to stay in a motel room? What if someone's pet stayed in my room before I did, and made poo-poo on the floor? Hopefully the steam cleaning rule applies here too.
But back to my complaint: I didn't get what I paid for.
There was a little Danby fridge in my room, but I didn't need one. There was a queen size bed, but almost every room has them nowadays. The elevator was just as slow, the stairwells were just as cold, the kids running up and down the hallway were just as annoying -- I did not get $30 extra in pleasure and convenience.
Continental breakfast? Do you know what that was? Weak coffee and some mini bagels made from white flour. Or some English muffins with regular peanut butter and jam packages to put on them, with little, frail plastic knives. Who eats that and doesn't have to re-fuel within the hour? I saw corn flakes, but I haven't eaten them in decades, and how much would $30 worth be?
True, you do get ten percent off at Denny's, which is just a cold snowbank away. It would have been nice to get ten percent less of the wait, the noise, and the cold in our door-side booth.
Next time I go to the city I am going to stay at the Travelodge. It's only $99 a night, with everything but the continental brekky.