Thursday, June 4, 2009

Loose Chicken Shit(s)

There is an absolutely universal sibling scenario that goes like this:

  • Billy looks in his sister's direction.
  • Susie wails, "Mommeee! Billy is looking at me. Make him stop!
  • Momma reacts with, "Billy, leave your sister alone! Go do something else," while continuing with her own things.
  • As Billy leaves, Susie checks that Mom isn't looking, wrinkles up her face and sticks her tongue out at her brother.

Some people NEVER grow up and they continually operate at this developmentally stunted emotional maturity level.

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Chicken Soup for My Soul

A couple days after being served the noise nuisance lawsuit I filed against them and their equally ancient icemaker, Allen, Brassey and Corky (ABC of TLC) acquired a chicken. (We'll skip the whole other discussion about going over the three dog or cat / six animal limit.) Instead of keeping it in an enclosure 20 feet from any dwelling (Municipal Code, Sec. 6.12.050), these "country" girls allowed it - perhaps encouraged it? - or assisted it? - to check out my property for whatever chickens eat.

(Of course, there is also that whole other discussion about how incredibly, disgustingly, messy chickens are... especially when a County-inspected property is supposed to maintain a clean, sanitary environment for a food vending operation. We should be grateful dogs can't fly up and poop in all the places chickens can. Who am I trying to kid? A, B, and C of TLC pay no attention to laws, rules, courtesies, inspectors, or anything of the kind, unless there is a possibility of being fined or shut down if caught.)

Anyway, I was attempting to go BACK to sleep at 5:00 a.m., after TLC's morning klaxony, when I first became aware of the brainless bird clucking while strutting about beneath my bedroom window. I chased it into a corner until it flew up and back across the fence (flight feathers not clipped.) The next morning it was in my yard again at dawn, and again I chased back across the fence - and with a little more emphasis! ;-) It hasn't been back yet. (That chicken is smarter than certain people.) Another city law makes it "unlawful for any person... owning or having possession of any... chickens... to permit the same to run or go upon the premises of any other person... within the city. (Sec. 6.12.070.)

(I'm convinced that if my neighbors moved the icemaker, they would move it CLOSER to my house.)

Get Down, Get Down / Get Down, Get Down / Get Down, Get Down / . . .

"Damn! How else can I stick my tongue out at him?" thought little Susie for a few days.

(As a quick aside, and example of the fluidity of A's mind, recall Ms. Allen publicly stated at City Council meeting, "I go to bed at seven, shut it [the ice machine] off..." However, since March 3rd, and as temperatures have warmed, that 7:00 o'clock bedtime has slipped to generally 8:00 o'clock.)

So, last Wednesday night, the ice machine was shut off at 8:00 - as was the yard radio, on which they listen to the most unfortunate choice of elevator music, Radio ...something... 100, which plays crap like "Jungle Boogie" (... and TV is supposed to rot our brains?)

Six hours later, in the stillness of 2:20 a.m. on Thursday morning, I'm jarred awake by a female singer exercising her vocal chords in the screeching high frequency ranges. Twelve midnight to 3:00 a.m. is Ms. Brassey's time to dodge around the property and slice, dice and cook in the catering truck. I will let the reader guess the reason why Ms. B had the yard radio on at that hour.

Ms. C joins the fray at 3:00 a.m. every morning and personally conducts the day's first Ice Bucket Brigade. (I.B.B. - a half-dozen back-and-forths, loudly scooping ice from the ice machine into plastic pails and hauling up to four filled pails with a wheelbarrow to the catering truck.) On that acoustical and musical Thursday morning, the "woman formerly known as 'Corky'" left the yard radio on during the hour-long I.B.B.

Both B and C take orders from A, the Alpha female. The radio was off at the regular departure time of 4:35 a.m., when A and B drove off in their catering truck, leaving C to mind the farm until 6:15 a.m., when C turned the icemaker ON again.

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Too bad Susie can't whine to her Manteca Mommas. Too bad Susie can't demand the familial protection provided so freely this past year by the downtown P.O.D.S. (I have my acronym - make up your own!) All Susie can do is come up with yet another juvenile way to stick out her tongue.

Nineteen days remaining on the 30-day response...

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