Animal husbandry goes postmodern

“Of course I can use a typewriter. Now get me another banana before I report your anti-speciesist bigotry to the university administration.”

Critical Animal Studies

“advances a holistic understanding of the commonality of oppressions, such that speciesism, sexism, racism, ablism, statism, classism, militarism and other hierarchical ideologies and institutions are viewed as parts of a larger, interlocking, global system of domination.”

If while writing Animal Farm, Orwell had been able to take a peek into early twenty-first century academia, he probably would have bagged the whole thing and just gone out for a nice steak dinner instead.

H/T Maggie’s Farm


Break Out Another Thousand

For those of you who have stopped by my place on a regular basis over the last couple of years, my lovehate relationship with the sport of boating is known and has been well documented in this space. I realize now that the words I have written regarding this subject are just so much blather and that the fantasy vs the reality of boat ownership can be neatly summed up in the following two photo’s and the acronym below them.


Break Out Another Thousand

Once again, the sirens of the sea have lured me onto the rocks of poor judgement and this past spring I purchased a “fixer upper” that would surely, this time, be the one to provide me with endless hours of relaxation in the sun, floating on the blue green summer waters of Puget Sound. Before I took her out on our maiden voyage I thought it might be a good idea to have a mechanic friend take a look as a minor precaution. Just in case there was an item or two that might cause a bit of inconvenience once underway. No problem…surely.


After hearing the engine run for about a minute, the mechanic casually advised against me ever taking her further from the dock than I was willing to swim. He also informed me that in his opinion the wiring was of such ancient vintage and poor quality that merely turning the key had caused him to involuntarily flinch and close his eyes tightly, as the old steel fuel tanks had started to rust through and spill gasoline into the bilge. In the space of five minutes I had gone from the mountainous heights of maritime ecstasy, the purchase and maiden voyage of a new boat, to the depths of my bank accounts valley. “Let me know if you think she’s worth fixing.” he said as he skipped back onto the dock, tossing the keys in my direction and leaving me standing there feeling very alone. “I’ve got about a six week back log and might be able to get to it around mid-June.”

Topping off the brand new stainless steel fuel tanks I turned the ignition, which carried a spark through the born again electrical system to the completely rebuilt and refurbished 302 cubic inch Chevy providing power to the recently serviced out-drive. It jumped effortlessly to life and as I motored back to my moorage, I thought of the joy and pleasure that would finally be mine in just two short days, anchored in the middle of the bay on a warm summer evening with a cool six pack of my favorite brand watching the city sponsored Fourth of July fireworks display. Life. Is. Good!


Arriving at the dock around eight so as to have plenty of time to warm up the engine and find a suitable anchorage from which to watch the pyrotechnics, I hopped aboard, opened the cabin hatch, and was met with a strong smell of gasoline. Flipping open the deck hatch and looking below, I could see about two or three inches of greasy gasoline sloshing in the bilge, and the only piece of material below decks that hadn’t been replaced in the last two weeks, a six inch run of rubber fuel line, steadily dripping more. For those unfamiliar with the characteristics of gasoline when sloshing around in a confined space, it tends to vaporize and become extremely explosive. Even a small spark would have the potential to transform my small watercraft into the most spectacular display of the evening. About then, a group of kids on shore about thirty yards away set off a volley of bottle rockets in my general direction. On any other day of the year I might have done the environmentally responsible thing and carefully pumped the escaped gasoline into plastic containers to be properly disposed of. On this particular evening with bottle rockets and fire crackers zipping and popping, I chose the course of not blowing myself up and without delay activated the overboard bilge pump and into the bay it went. All was going well when unfortunately for me some tree hugger in a kayak spotted my impersonation of British Petroleum and reported me to the harbor master, who as luck would have it was a veteran of long years in the service of Greenpeace and took a dim view toward my act of self preservation. The fine was substantial. By the time I soaped the bilges down and got everything cleaned up, the fireworks display was long over and I was again left wondering just what it is about boats that, like women, keep me coming back no matter how shabbily I am treated.

Sometimes I think that if a campaign were enacted in which all boats forever more were to be referred to as he rather than she, they might be magically transformed into objects requiring little to no cost or maintenance, and be forever ready at a moments notice to provide a no questions asked platform for the excessive drinking and smoking activities of their fellow men. Until then the she’s that come and go in my life will demand acceptance of that which I will willingly, if perhaps secretly defer to.


“I don’t have the assault rifle…I thought you had the assault rifle!”

All of us have absent-mindedly left a wallet, cup of coffee or whatnot on the car and then walked or driven off, but this I think crosses a line between simple carelessness and criminal negligence. Call me old fashioned.

Maybe the taxpayers should spring for a Ginko-Biloba allowance come contract negotiation time between the city and the police officers union.

I could use a little hope and change

With warm weather having finally arrived up here in the summer of my 54th year, the shorts and tank tops  freed at last from their basement boxes have led me to confront an issue I have been putting off for a number of years. It has now become impossible to ignore the fact that in order to gracefully carry 245 pounds on a six foot two inch Scots-Irish frame, you must be a twenty four year old NFL outside linebacker. I caught my reflection in the window the other day and what I saw looked like an albino silverback minus the hair and muscle tone wearing cargo shorts and a straw pork pie hat. Not exactly a visage of the virile, toned and tanned Sean Connery type that my minds eye has cleverly fooled me into believing is reality. It’s not that I am overly vain, it’s just that I am dangerously close to becoming one of those guys who must wear his T-shirt in the swimming pool in order to avoid frightening women and children.

If anyone knows a good work out program that is light on commitment and can produce quick and measurable results while I remain seated in front of my computer terminal with a cold bottle of suds, do a fella a solid and pass along the details.

A Public Service Message

To the reality based community:

Video stolen from blogger friend Morgan in the hope that some of my more leftward leaning readers might view it, and then begin employing some of the hibernating reason and logic that they so strangely claim a monopoly on.

Warning: Reason and logic should be taken in moderation in the early stages of enlightenment, hence the resorting to mild satire in this instance. Once the proper framework for opening the mind to differing ideas has been established, a bit of Friedrich Hayek, Milton Freidman, or even Thomas Sowell may be introduced under carefully, and strictly controlled circumstances.

Still Preamblin’ along…

Have a great weekend everyone! I’m gonna’ grill some steaks, drink some beer, and maybe spend a little time reflecting on what it’s all about. Thanks to some old dead white men, you’re free to do as you please.

“The way things are goin’…they’re gonna’ crucify me.”

Gotta admit, I was a a little surprised to read this.

The scales continue to fall.