Quinn really wanted an Iron Man action figure RIGHT NOW, so he made one out of Lego bricks.
Compare:
Legos. Is there anything they can’t do?
Pluto was never not a planet
One of my Facebook friends linked to an article about artisan chicken coops yesterday—you know, the sort of chicken coop that has the chickens living in more style than a middle-class wage earner in a developing nation. That had me thinking about what chicken coops designed by different architects would look like.
The Frank Lloyd Wright: A beautiful chicken coop mimicking the flow of water down a stony terrace. Eighteen different square elements are stacked into a descending spiral shape. It takes two people nine hours to clean the poop out of all the nooks and crannies every week.
The Minoru Yamasaki: Two box-shaped coops slightly offset next to each other. Each coop has a 10x10ft. footprint and is 120 feet high, holding 12,000 chickens.
The Walter Gropius/Bauhaus: A coop vaguely shaped like a rooster comb and made out of steel and glass. The chickens live in 128 identical single apartments with little balconies. Because of the huge windows, interior temperature on sunny days is 112 degrees.
The Le Corbusier: A monstrous 30x30ft. concrete block with an interior chicken run and its own freeway exit. The chickens descend into depression and substance abuse, and the suicide rate is sky-high.
The Frank Gehry: The coop is made out of corrugated sheet metal, hammered together in the shape of a giant beak. It sits in the middle of a two-acre reflecting pool.
The Hundertwasser: A brightly-painted, asymmetrical chicken coop that sits on stilts. It has a roof garden. Predators intent on chicken meals forget about their prey and take pictures in awe instead.
The Libeskind: The coop is just wide enough for two chickens side-by-side, but it’s 50 yards long and makes nine angles, including three 90-degree turns. The chickens often get lost inside.
The Howard Roark: A bare patch of ground in the middle of the front lawn. The chickens can’t expect everything to be handed to them.
Surprisingly, raccoons are actually #1 on the list of top chicken predators. They have a lot of dexterity in those front paws, they’re smart enough to figure out barrel bolt locks and other simple locks, and they’re pretty strong for an animal their size.
One of his cousins fell to our dachshunds three years ago. Maybe this one’s a relative looking for compensation for Cousin Bob’s untimely departure. Regardless, our poultry version of Supermax Florence ADX seems to have him stymied.
Over the past few days, the Internet has educated me that the Aurora massacre was really perpetrated by:
It seems that the natural tendency in the face of such appalling, senseless carnage is to assign responsibility to the people and political viewpoints one doesn’t like, and then to project one’s own attitudes onto them, all before the first bit of evidence comes in.
This is one of those weeks when I spend a great deal of time wondering how our species has ever made it down from the trees and off the African savanna. I can’t decide whether a species that has learned to harness the atom and fly to the moon, but whose members kill each other over trivial shit is too smart or too stupid for its own good. Somewhere in the galaxy there’s some civilization that uses humanity as a cautionary educational tale: “What happens when apes get smart enough to invent projectile weapons.”
And with that, I think I’ll turn this Intertubes thing off for a bit and go make something.
We bought a weatherproof wildlife camera to record visitors to the chicken coop, just to see what’s out there trying to score a free chicken dinner. I set it up on Sunday and set it so the camera goes off whenever the sensor detects motion. I checked the flash card every day, and usually it only shows us as we let the chickens out in the morning and feed them.
Today I checked it to find our first nocturnal would-be chicken thief:
Mr. Raccoon!
He stuck around for a while and checked the perimeter of the run until about twenty minutes later, when he scampered off without loot:
I can look at the sequence of pictures and see where he tried to dig into the run, but failed because of the two feet of hardware cloth skirted and staked down in front of the run. There’s no damage on the coop or the run anywhere. It appears half-inch hardware cloth is too much to tackle for your garden variety midnight bandit.
Interesting little toy, that wildlife camera. It’s nice to know just what exactly lurks around that chicken coop in the middle of the night.
When you’re young and in your physical prime, and the guy you punch is not, hands can become a lethal weapon, and you can find yourself facing first-degree murder charges.
Now imagine what would have happened if the old man had carried a handgun and shot his attacker in self-defense. How would the media have presented the incident? Would we have another case of clear-cut, racially-motivated murder?
So the President gave a speech in which he used a modified form of Elizabeth Warren’s claims that “nobody builds a business alone”:
“If you were successful, somebody along the line gave you some help. There was a great teacher somewhere in your life. Somebody helped to create this unbelievable American system that we have that allowed you to thrive. Somebody invested in roads and bridges. If you’ve got a business, you didn’t build that. Somebody else made that happen,” he said.
That one ticked me off when it made the rounds with my liberal friends on Facebook, but I held my tongue then. This time I feel compelled to add my two inflation-adjusted coppers.
Nobody who has any understanding about economics, taxation, and all the bureaucratic red tape choking business startups would ever make such a brain-dead claim. It sounds good on the surface to people with a particular mindset—that greedy plutocrats are helping themselves to public resources to build their own profit factories on the backs of everyone else—but it’s a load of bullshit, and it has nothing to do with the way things actually work in real life.
Let’s say Bob wants to build and open a restaurant, Bob’s Fried Opossum House. He has to first buy a plot of land. That means Bob is paying the real estate broker and the tax man. Then he needs all the necessary permissions and impact studies and health and safety and zoning inspections that come with building anything commercial anywhere, which means more fees and taxes to his local and state governments.
Once Bob has the red tape straightened out, he pays an architect to come up with a building design. Then he has to get that approved, which means more taxes and fees. Then Bob hires a construction company to put the thing together for him, a paving company to make a parking lot, an HVAC contractor to put in heat and air, another contractor to take care of the plumbing and sewage…you get the idea. Before the first bit of concrete is even poured, Bob has written out a lot of checks to a lot of people, and they all got to eat and pay their own taxes and mortgages from Bob’s business endeavor, all without assuming the risk that he has on his shoulders now.
Once the business is standing, Bob has to hire people to work for him. That means more paychecks, and more taxes: Bob’s share of his employees’ Social Security, Medicare, and so on. (Also their share plus their state and Federal income taxes, because they’re paying those out of the wages they got from Bob.)
By the time Bob’s Fried Opossum House finally opens its doors, a whole lot of people have gotten paid by Bob, and he has written a lot of tax and fee checks to government at all levels. Oh, and don’t forget that as a business owner, Bob gets to pre-pay his taxes on his expected income every quarter—something that should be a familiar to writers, a lot of whom file their freelance and fiction writing income taxes in the same fashion. And all the while, Bob has been working 100-hour weeks for a year and a half to get his Fried Opossum House off the ground.
Nobody builds a business alone, that’s true. But Bob didn’t make all those people work for free, and he didn’t make use of public resources without writing hefty tax checks for the privilege. Bob paid everyone, including his local, state, and federal government, before he even got to make his first dollar of profits. And Bob carries all the risk here. If his business tanks, his contractors aren’t going to return the money he gave them for their work, his employees aren’t going to give back their wages, and the government isn’t going to return the taxes and fees he paid. So why is it OK that when he’s successful enough to make a profit, some populist asshole politicians can stand up and say that “he hasn’t paid his fair share to society yet”?
There’s another thing that bothers me about the notion that just because Bob had his stuff delivered over a public road, and because Bob has hired publically-educated people for his business, that that somehow means that Bob owes society now. Like I said, Bob paid for the privilege—and suggesting that it’s not really his achievement because he used a resource which he’s been forced to subsidize all your life with taxes is tantamount to claiming that all business endeavors are therefore really a public accomplishment.
I think the only people who can say nonsense like that are those who have never started or run a business on their own, people who have eaten at the public trough all their lives and never had to deal with all the financial risk and the soul-crushing bureaucratic bullshit that comes with working for yourself.
Back from Readercon. I got to meet friends again I hadn’t seen since last year, meet new unsavory writer and editor types, attend awesome readings and panels, drink fine liquor and interesting new beers, and eat grown-up restaurant fare with other grown-ups while talking shop and making bad jokes for three days. Thanks to my lovely wife for minding the shop in my absence and letting me run off for a few days to hang out with like-minded miscreants.
Now I have to dive back into work—got some stories to write, some more to finish, and a bunch to submit for possible Fame & Glory™.
Dumbass of the Month award goes to this guy, who taped himself going 180+ MPH on a busy Canadian highway on a motorcycle.
Runner up is the dumbworm who made this comment on the CNN intertubes site:
“Aaah…how, exactly, was a guy on a motorcycle going to kill anyone? Most likely case: he crashes into a car, and he dies.”
Physics knowledge FAIL. A 400-pound bike with a 200-pound rider going 180MPH is a metric fuckton of kinetic energy. Anyone unlucky enough to be rear-ended by that moron at those speeds would have had a very bad day indeed. Imagine an anvil getting shot out of a cannon and plowing through an occupied minivan from back to front.
Oh, hey there, Internets!
Team Munchkin Wrangler had a busy week and a relaxing weekend. The kids enjoyed their science summer camp, and I enjoyed my five morning Dadcations. Lyra was in preschool day camp, which let out at noon, and Quinn’s camp let out at 3. I dropped them off in the mornings, went into Hanover or West Leb to find a spot to write for a few hours, and then came back to pick up Lyra at noon to take her home. With the return trip in the afternoon to fetch Quinn, I did a ton of driving back and forth. A tank of gas usually lasts for two weeks with my regular driving patterns, but last week I blew through a full tank by Thursday.But hey—the kids had fun, I got some time off, and that dinosaur juice was combusted for a noble purpose.
We’re back to the regular routine this week, except for Friday when I get to go to Boston for the weekend and attend Readercon. A bunch of my writer friends will be there, so there will be plenty of geekery, shop talk, and consumption of adult beverages.
Cluckheim Keep still stands unmolested, and the chickens are reasonably happy with the new arrangement. With the way our handyman overbuilt the run, I don’t see any fox or raccoon getting into it. The only worry I have is black bear—friends of ours thirty miles away have had a persistent member of the species break into their shed and then their barn repeatedly to get to their chickens and feed. The run is ridiculously sturdy, but bears are ridiculously strong, and a determined black bear would be a challenge to keep out. The run is close enough to the house that I’m counting on hearing any demolition attempts and being able to come downstairs to, uh, strongly discourage Mr. Bear. We had one on the property two years ago, but he hasn’t returned since then. We don’t have bird feeders out, but you never know.
The fiction-writing business is coming along as always. A while ago, I had the brilliantly stupid idea to write two novels in tandem, and then I started playing with some ideas for a third one. The Military SF novel stands at 90% complete, the Urban Fantasy detective novel is 50% done, and the YA novel is at 30% or so. It’s nice to be able to switch gears and work on something else for a bit when you get stuck with one novel, but it sucks when you’re stuck on all of them. But things are progressing at a good clip now. (I’ve set up shop in the attic temporarily, where it’s kind of hot but very quiet, which may have something to do with the increased output lately.) I will have three finished novels to shop around later this year, in three different genres. Or I could just combine them all and mix chapters, see what kind of response I get from agents…