It's all in the eyes

Wide Awake

There's nothing like a stroll in the woods to forget about the worlds' problems. Trees don't seem to give a damn who's running things. For all I know they may think they're the ones in charge and that we're just something that they have to live with.

Althouse is good at photographing urban trees; graceful pampered beauties that make city life more pleasant, even for those who never think about trees.

But for me the real world of timber is down by the river. Now is a good time to stomp around on the bottom land and see what those spooky old things really look like before they put on their leafy shirts and grassy shoes. Click on the tree and get a close-up.

Little Sioux River

Cuzzin Grumpy's Pork Chop Revue

Lola

Sometimes you would think pigs are the scum of the earth, the ultimate insult, vile creatures that some religions have declared to be obstacles to the gates of heaven. Most Americans love to eat them and hate to smell them, as if a shower, cologne or perfume could make other animals forget that we don't smell all that great ourselves.

I was a hard headed farm kid who didn't have a clue as to the intelligence of these animals and their willingness to get along with us if we'd only treat them with a little respect, such as inviting them into the house for dinner like Les Kimes does on a regular basis. I saw Grumpy and his porcine pals last week at the Clay County Fair in Spencer, Iowa. They have an entertaining act called Cuzzin Grumpy's Pork Chop Revue which makes the rounds of county fairs entertaining farm kids of all ages. Pig acts are a family tradition for Kimes, whose father, Boyd, started the pig act, calling it Uncle Heavy's Pork Chop Revue.

My pigs probably felt threatened at my hostility towards them and were therefore extremely reluctant to do anything or go anywhere just to please me. Along with yelling at them I wasn't beyond hitting or kicking them and feeling justified because I thought they were so stupid and stubborn, not some of the most intelligent of animals as Grumpy points out. At least they had thick hides and no physical harm resulted other than the occasional sprained wrist I suffered. They're really solid. Or I'd miss a kick and fall down in piss soaked hog manure. This isn't a bad thing if you're able to observe it happen to a hard headed farm friend, or especially somebody's dad. We all need to laugh.

Knowing now that they're pretty decent critters I'd still like to see us continue eating them even though powerful forces are at work to put a stop to it. But you should know that these 4-legged cloven hoofed farm animals have a dark side. Under the right circumstances they're not above eating each other, as confirmed by Iowahawk in an excellent hog blog. So it's not like we have to feel guilty eating a slice of pepperoni pizza. Barack probably had bacon for breakfast the day he made his lipstick remark.

Enough about that. Let's watch these videos I made at the Fair of The Pork Chop Revue!

Ames, Iowa: Urban deer hunt opens early this year

Bowhunting in town?

Somehow, the idea of an Urban Bowhunt in the town where I went to college sounds like fun. I picture scantily clad, dangerously armed Iowa State coeds cavorting in Brookside Park as the tame deer stand still for the kill. Its only a short drive away, but I don't think I'll go. Both of my ex-wives live in Ames.

From May City to Music City

Shawn Mayer

I'll admit I haven't paid a lot of attention to the Nashville Star show on TV. Every couple of years a female singer resurfaces in her old hometown somewhere in Northwest Iowa to let the folks back home know that she's trying to make it. That's fine but I don't remember any of their names. Now one has come back who has the key to get past my mental firewall and her name is Shawn Mayer.

She grew up outside of May City, Iowa, pop 45. Somewhat of a tomboy she's been a mechanic, firefighter and worked on a hog farm. While still a local girl she opened for Lynyrd Skynyrd at the 2002 Clay County Fair in Spencer. At that point she was hooked. After moving to Nashville she found it impossible to carry on a long distance relationship with her May City boyfriend who she described as "the greatest guy you could imagine" and ended it. She then wrote I'm Not Looking Back which you can watch her perform at the Nashville Airport on You Tube.

As part of the Nashville Star competition she gave a concert in May City this past week. That little town had probably never seen 3000 people in one night. I listened to it on the radio. She said that people ask her about the dog tags she often wears around her neck. They're blank dog tags and they represent all the soldiers who have died in defense of the many freedoms we have. She then sang the Billy Ray Cyrus hit All Gave Some, Some Gave All. It's worth the time to hear Billy sing it on You Tube.

One of the judges on Nashville Star used the words "absolutely fearless" to distinguish Shawn from the other contestants. Monday night she'll be up against the amazing Melissa Lawson and two male singers. This will be the first time I've watched the show but I expect I'll be casting a vote for her.

More bad weather - Four Boy Scouts killed at camp

Update: Progressive fruits are blaming the Iowa Boy Scout tornado deaths on global warming. This was bound to happen. Same with the wussies who are now asking, "Why in heaven's name didn't they have a storm shelter?" If rustic camps had all the amenities of home, they wouldn't offer much of a "roughing it" experience for the boys. Next they will ask why there wasn't cable TV so the boys could watch the weather mongers issue warnings.Maybe the boys should have stayed home and played 'camping games' on their X-boxes.

Being Prepared - Scout Training Pays Off

We have had our share of nasty weather this past week. Last night the tornadoes and flooding hit close to the feedlot with tragic results. Four Boy Scouts were killed and over 40 of their fellow campers were injured at an Iowa camp a few counties north and across the Missouri River from here. Gateway Pundit has a map and more links. Pictures from the scene can be found at the Sioux City Journal.

The Boy Scouts comported themselves like troopers, giving aid to the injured campers and clearing the road for emergency vehicles. The old feeder was a Boy Scout back in the day when the uniform included leggings. Hearing about how these young men handled this unavoidable catastrophe makes me proud.

Threatening Clouds

It also makes me feel silly for complaining about the wind, rain, annoying sirens and hyped-up TV coverage of the storm. The picture shows the killer storm as it passed the feedlot.

Twilight Zone

Buddy Holly

I've been working on an analysis of the origins of certain peculiar distorted vocalizations found in early rock and roll music. Yesterday, I was listening very carefully to Buddy Holly singing "Peggy Sue" when I recalled something very weird from a winter night in 1966. It was one of those Twilight Zone experiences; a moment in time when your consciousness seems to slip a cog.

One snowy, cold Saturday night that winter, a college roommate and I got a ride to another town not too far our campus. Our friend with the car told us there was to be a dance at the local Legion Hall featuring a local band we had seen and liked before. At the dance, my pal and I met some convivial young ladies who invited us to a beer party at their house. Imbued with youthful hopes, we told our ride that we'd be staying the night and he left without us; we rode with our new friends to their house on the edge of town.

The party setting consisted of dim colored lights, portable record-player stereo music, cases of Hamm's Beer and a big bottle of syrupy sloe gin. The ladies were most accommodating and I thought the party was going well when a carload of local jocks appeared on the scene. Among the new arrivals were a couple of cats who felt that the ladies we'd met more properly belonged to them.

A fight ensued. As gentlemen, we took it outdoors, where my friend made quick work of his adversary, getting the jump on him, as it were. My antagonist had his hands in his pockets and was back-pedaling before his bloodied jock friend hit the snow. The carload of angry boys peeled out, vowing loudly to return in greater force. The girls started weeping about the ugly turn of events, so my pal and I decided to walk to the highway and hitch-hike homewards.

The night was bitter cold by then. Neither of us was dressed warmly. I wore blue jeans, a sweatshirt, engineer boots and a leather motorcycle jacket. The highway was snow-packed and we stamped our feet in the wind while waiting for a car. When finally we saw some headlights approaching, we were ready to posture as nonchalant thumbers, half joking that it might be a carload of jocks armed with baseball bats. It wasn't.

The white 1965 Thunderbird convertible zoomed past us, then the driver slammed on the brakes. The big T-bird slid for a quarter mile on the ice, stopped and sped backwards to where we stood. The eight-foot wide passenger door swung open and the front bucket seat tilted forward so my friend and I could get into what passed for a back seat. The interior lights revealed that the car held two young men wearing sweaters and nice hair-dos. The big front console held two stemmed martini glasses and a silver drink shaker. There were olives on the long fancy swizzle sticks. As the big boat of a car fishtailed back onto the highway I thought to myself: "These cats are most certainly queers. Hope they don't make trouble." I could tell that my pal was thinking the same thing.

The rear window curtain on the convertible top was missing, so it wasn't much warmer inside the car. When the Thunderbird reached an unreasonable speed, the driver turned to talk, "Who do you think is riding shotgun? It's Buddy Holly! Take a look." The cat in the passenger's seat turned around and thats when the cog slipped. Buddy Holly, trademark glasses, pompadour and all, was right there not three feet away, smiling between the bucket seats. My pal and I were speechless. The illusion was complete.

The mystery men then resumed shaking up martinis and sipping them as the freezing wind from the missing window drowned out any further talk. Minutes later, back in college town, my roomie and I got out of the car, said thanks to the party boys, and watched the Thunderbird speed away, taking the Twilight Zone with it. We decided not to tell anyone about this incident, and many years later we still couldn't agree on what exactly had transpired. He's dead now. I still wonder if it wasn't a ghost.
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This incident occurred only a few miles from Clear Lake Iowa, home of the Surf Ballroom and not far from the place where Buddy Holly, the Big Bopper and Richie Valens were killed in a wintry plane crash. Go figure.

Okoboji sunset

Retreat

The day is over and so is summer but Old Glory is still flying over a dock on Lake Okoboji. For more info on the Iowa Great Lakes see what PT has to say.

Iowa's Great Lakes

Live WebCam: Lake Okoboji from the Dry Dock Lounge

The old feeder's few days off turned into a week. The relatives I went to visit live in Arnolds Park, Iowa during the summer. It is a lake resort area the Chamber of Commerce touts as the Iowa Great Lakes. West Lake Okoboji, one of a number of fair sized lakes (for Iowa) is quite deep, and therefore often appears a beautiful blue. It is also the main campus of the University of Okoboji, a renowned school for slackers. Here is their on-line entrance exam.

My family's roots in this area go back a few generations, and the town has really changed since I was a kid. The Iowa lakes of my youth exuded a quintessential seediness: tiny cabins, rowdy bars, raunchy entertainments, and a rickety, peeling amusement park with Gypsy fortune tellers. It sure ain't the same now. The place was packed with giddy vacationers and grinning bible beaters last week.

I heard at least one cat lamenting that "the park has been ruined" by the new, almost Disney Landish clean and painted look. I checked the place out pretty thoroughly, and there are still a few pockets of seediness to be found. Even some raunchiness remains. So the vacation took a bit longer than expected, what with all this investigating.
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Dry Dock deck from the air - click

Plains Feeder contributor DadGum, who just happens to be my first cousin once removed, put me up for a few nights at his surrealist pad. He lives in the next county to the south of the Iowa Great Lakes. Driving back and forth, I was surprised to see small crowds of political sign waving Iowans gathered on the streets. These Iowa cats are already all hopped up on the next General Election. How can they keep it up for another year?