Over, Out.

I abhor meta posts. So this will be quick.

I am on hiatus. I will be back.

Sent Down.

We found out yesterday. It's official today.
The appeal came back:
Reversed and Remanded.

Please send further inquires to my email, not in the comments here -
kid dot twist at gmail dot com

Things That Smell In The Night.

Mowing hay last week and I about hit what appeared to be a black and white supersized weasel. It ran away. Riding a tractor is boring more than anything. So I spent some time imagining my newfound fame upon discovering the last identified Ohio mammal. Yeah, that's right, even my daydreams are boring. Towards the end of the field I found it again.
So I shut down the mower and jumped down to catch it. This turned out to be much simpler than I had thought. Between the size of a kitten and a full grown cat, my new little friend insisted on running like a weasel. Weasels hump along like inchworms. Not exactly a race-winning strategy.
It was a baby skunk. So much for fame. The next town over is currently inundated with the beasts. Baby anythings are cute. Baby anythings are also smelly. I am here to tell you that baby skunks are very cute and very smelly. I don't think he'd ever had to resort to spraying anything before and he was rather inaccurate. My boots and cell phone took the brunt of his wrath.

I like the way a skunk smells. Really. Growing up, smelling them as roadkill I thought it smelled bad, but it was only because everyone had told me that that was to be included in the bad smells category. It wasn't till I was a teenager that I noticed that rather than holding my breath when I caught a whiff, I had a tendency to inhale a giant lung-full. I like skunk. But a roadside dose is a good amount. To smell it all day does get a little old.

I was told that skunks are of the weasel family, hence the humping gait. But upon research I find that recently we've reconsidered and put them in their own grouping.

I also saw a ferret crossing the road a month past. That was exciting. Until I found out that they don't live here. And are practically extinct. Someone's pet was loose.

Number One.

Go Buckeyes!

Legs is the Word of the Month!

I'm only here intending to educate, but this could be considered NSFW nor prudes.

The first Saturday of every month is Gallery Hop in the Short North. A monthly art crawl. It draws out mostly the oh-so-earnestly respectable gay couples, drunk and lost Buckeyes fans, uptight Republican suburbanites, Bush-hating vegans, and kids with nothing better to do.

After half-watching the Bucks slide to a sloppy win and starting a good round of Bid-a-Trick me and a couple of friends headed down High Street to join in the festivities. Around nine thirty I found myself facing a wall of metal art. And the same question that had bothered me the last time I hopped did spring into my head.

What is the female equivalent of 'phallic'? Ever since Freud, anything even vaguely cylindrical in shape is viewed as a representation of male genitalia. Cigars are phallic. Penises pop up everywhere unbidden. More importantly, phallic became a widely known and understood and overly bandied term, understood by all but the most ignorant. How could the feminists have missed this vital equalizer? All I could think up was "vaginal."” But this is clearly not a good opposite. How could I ever discuss Georgia O'Keefe again? No one in my party knew. Nor did any of the tightly packed-in art gazers who were forced to overhear my question.

When we got back to the condo, the midget pirate did her wonderful trick of getting what she wants and forced Google to tell her the secret answer.
The female counterpart to phallic is yonic. Let everyone know. You know, spread the word. Yonic. Yonic. Yonic.

Here it is in question and answer form on the Random Houses Word of the Day.
Here is a clever picture on the yonic pool on Flickr.
Here's a slightly more in depth look.

Ready and Not.

Not that most of you would ever know the difference, but. These are not my cows. I have never seen this fog. It’s just a good picture of some cows in some fog, which happens often enough here to be representitive. (I stole it from these guys.)

Local girl pointed out that the seasons are turning. Leaves dying slow. The Sun failing to appear until he’s good and ready. Me no likey. I’m not ready to run the silo. I’m not ready to unload my herd to manageable feeding levels. I’m not ready to be forced into mowing down hay that still isn’t ready just because there is literally no mo time left. I’m not ready for my cousin and sister to return to their land of hire education. My fences aren’t all fixed. My roof is still askew. I’m not ready.

I am ready, however, for fall. Because Autumn is the best season. Piling blankets on the bed to sleep in a cold room. I’m ready. Trees looking their best. I’m ready. Hot cider. Bonfires. I’m ready. Halloween. Harvest moons. Long underwear. I’m ready.

Moses says to Noah "We shoulda dugga deepa one"

All the water at the main farm starts at the spring. It moves laterally over to the basement of the old farmhouse. From there it is pumped and pressurized and split. One pipe for the house, one for the barns. The cows need an unfreezable water source in winter. The Watering Hole customers need their delicious watery nectar. The old dairy barn demanded gallons upon gallons of water for the cleaning of dirty animals. About three weeks ago cousin Brad noticed that we had a new little stream appearing from nowhere and running though the barnyard. One of the 30yr old pipes had failed.

“Dig down and find it and uncover both ends and replace it.” says my Dad blithely. Because it’s so easy when you say it. Pipes are laid two and a half or three feet down to keep them from freezing in the winter. The split occurred at the old barnyard entrance. Where for years and years tractors laden with hay and shit drove back and forth, requiring load upon load of gravel in place to keep from forming a giant mudhole just there. So topping off the completely sticky Ohio red clay was a four inch frosting of an exceedingly well compacted gravel and dirt mix.

It took the two of us (and we are nothing if not strapping) young lads two days of shoveling and spud-barring and mattocking and post-hole digging to unearth the twenty-one foot length of pipe-to-be-replaced. Rusty helped. It was about 2:30 pm on the second day when we had revealed it all. It was then we realized that we knew nothing about replacing a pipe. On cue, Rusty’s dad stops by and tells us. And leaves us with an entirely necessary pipe cutter. Sometimes the gods are watching.
We went to the local hardware store and were convinced of the merits of plastic. I’m sure my dad will be less than impressed if the plastic does in fact not last another thirty years. ah well.