February 2002 Archives

Have I ever mentioned that I used to be Mormon? It probably explains a lot. Or not. Any way, Mormons are divinely counseled to journal. To journal extensively, but only in a good way. Mormons are supposed to write in ways that will inspire and encourage their posterity. How fake will that writing be?! The constraints would be overwhelming.

But how constrained are the majority of on-line journals? I mean, isn't there the pressure to be constantly witty, entertaining, meaningful and relevant? I mean, who would want to open up and read a blog in which the blogger is having a bad day in an unfunny way? If the writer cannot express her depression in a clever, amusing vein, does this expression deserve blog space? Does it rate? Is it -- bottom line -- blogable?

Fuck blogable. What I'm trying to say is that I'm in the mezzo land between depression and anger. I'm too down to reach for any wit. I don't care to be interesting. (Gawd, what a burden it is to be interesting!) I have a dumb little life with no discernable historical significance. Sometimes I'm just sick of everything. Sometimes I know my head will explode if I get one more "Things aren't that bad and could be worse" lectures. Sometimes self-pity suits me just fine, and if I can't state that in the most unentertaining way I know in my blog, than where's the freaking point in blogging at all?

That's about it for tonight.

In this fast-paced, hustle-bustle world we live in, my interest in chickens is generally not shared. In fact, I have a sneaking suspicion that Ms. Bri, the Webmistress of all things SatinSlippery, provided me personally with this Blog in a subtle plea for me to cease and desist posting chicken pictures and comments on her Chat Boards.

Apparently, Poultry = Ennui.

Now, I wasn't always fascinated with chickens. Oh no, far from it. You see, I'm from Golden California. I grew up right at the base of Mt. Diablo, and oh how I miss it! I'm in Texas now, and that in itself should make it perfectly clear why I miss California so much. It's a long, sordid story as to how exactly I came to be in Texas. Long, sordid, and boring. I'd much rather talk about chickens.

Ah, Barred Rocks, Black Australorps, Buff Orpingtons, Blue Andalusians... the names roll from my tongue. And my current passion: Creating my own, tailor-made breed of chicken. You can do that, you know, and then you get to, like, name it. As we speak, I'm working on a Game Fowl mix. Bored yet? Well, my specific chicken need, is for a bird that has some flight ability and is smarter than the average chicken so that it can escape predation, lays fairly well, and will also go broody and hatch out eggs. Now that doesn't sound like I'm asking too much, does it? But the average chicken has had all these natural traits bred out of it. So I turned my questing gaze to the intrepid Old English Game Fowl, a breed in which many wild traits and instincts have been preserved.

I live in Texas right south of the Red River. Oklahoma lies just minutes north. Oklahoma, where it remains legal to breed and fight game cocks. Politics aside, this means that I can just drive across the border and buy Game hens at $10.00 each and then put them to my rooster of choice.

Are you bored yet? I am, kind of. It's possible that chicken can only be discussed in limited increments. When I figure out how to post pictures of my poultry prodigies, you'll be much more interested. I guarantee it.

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Well, I've finally reached that pinnacle of my Internet use: Blogability. And with this status comes - naturally - much angst.

Does this thing have a spell check? Or will my inability to spell now be revealed in all its utter shame? Is there a thesaurus connected to this, or will I be making up words again? (Think Shakespeare.) And with the power to blog, is there the implicit responsibility to actually blog in a meaningful way? Oy vey.

I was kind of just hoping to be able to talk about poultry and small ruminants, with maybe an equine reference thrown in for variety...

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