the turkeys of my addled, feverish mind...
Grr.
The only upside I can think of to having R. out of town is that it makes me more productive. Sitting alone in front of the TV is much less fun than sitting next to her, even if we're both staring at our laptops. So I watch the Sox games via ESPN Gamecast and sit at my desk until 10pm, when my eyes hurt and I have to stop, rather than coming down and watching them on the TV.
Which can be a good thing, as it lets you get things written. Alas, the writing: she no go so good. I'm 5,000 words into a 3,000 word article that's now ten days overdue. I'm in the awkward situation of knowing far, far too much about the topic I'm writing about. Every time I finish a phrase, I remember another detail that seems critical to include. I've given up trying to fit within wordcount - I'm just going to write what I think needs saying and give the editor the chance to chop it down to size.
I had a break from the monitor-staring last night to talk to a pair of unusually dense journalists. I noticed that my voice was starting to go during the second conversation... and I woke up this morning capable of little more than a croak. There's something downright ironic about the fact that I get a cold every summer, and generally manage to survive New England winters with little more than a sniffle. So now I'm staring at the screen again, wondering how one nurses a cold when it's too hot to drink hot tea and when there's too much to do to get back into bed and read Harry Potter.
Whine.
So... about turkeys.
I was driving home from Home Despot, where I failed to purchase the stain I need to fix the upstairs deck. As I started up the driveway, three large turkeys began running straight in front of the truck. I followed behind, driving at the pace they were running at. They remained running straight up the driveway, not veering off into the thick, verdant greenery that would have hid them from the truck until we reached the hairpin turn, when I turned away from them.
At some point in this process - which took a while, as I was driving at about 5 miles an hour - it occured to me that turkeys are tasty. I've thought about getting a shotgun specifically so I can hunt turkeys. (It would be fun to hunt them with a bow, but in MA, you're legally required to shoot their little heads off, which is hard to do with arrows...) And plucking turkey feathers might be a useful break from staring at LCD monitors. And there's almost no food in the house, as I've been too lazy (busy?) to go grocery shopping.
It occurred to me that, if I were to slightly accelerate the truck, I would likely hit one or more of the turkeys, stunning or killing it, allowing me to gut, drain and pluck it before smoking it over a hardwood fire. But somehow, running over a turkey didn't seem sporting. For whatever reason, it didn't qualify as "hunting", which I'm morally okay with.
Is there an ethical difference between hunting turkeys (in season, with a license, with a shotgun) and running them down opportunistically in a pickup truck if, in both cases, you're on your own land and plan on eating the bird?
Maybe I should avoid ethical quandries - and motorized vehicles - until this cold passes and my head is a little clearer...
The only upside I can think of to having R. out of town is that it makes me more productive. Sitting alone in front of the TV is much less fun than sitting next to her, even if we're both staring at our laptops. So I watch the Sox games via ESPN Gamecast and sit at my desk until 10pm, when my eyes hurt and I have to stop, rather than coming down and watching them on the TV.
Which can be a good thing, as it lets you get things written. Alas, the writing: she no go so good. I'm 5,000 words into a 3,000 word article that's now ten days overdue. I'm in the awkward situation of knowing far, far too much about the topic I'm writing about. Every time I finish a phrase, I remember another detail that seems critical to include. I've given up trying to fit within wordcount - I'm just going to write what I think needs saying and give the editor the chance to chop it down to size.
I had a break from the monitor-staring last night to talk to a pair of unusually dense journalists. I noticed that my voice was starting to go during the second conversation... and I woke up this morning capable of little more than a croak. There's something downright ironic about the fact that I get a cold every summer, and generally manage to survive New England winters with little more than a sniffle. So now I'm staring at the screen again, wondering how one nurses a cold when it's too hot to drink hot tea and when there's too much to do to get back into bed and read Harry Potter.
Whine.
So... about turkeys.
I was driving home from Home Despot, where I failed to purchase the stain I need to fix the upstairs deck. As I started up the driveway, three large turkeys began running straight in front of the truck. I followed behind, driving at the pace they were running at. They remained running straight up the driveway, not veering off into the thick, verdant greenery that would have hid them from the truck until we reached the hairpin turn, when I turned away from them.
At some point in this process - which took a while, as I was driving at about 5 miles an hour - it occured to me that turkeys are tasty. I've thought about getting a shotgun specifically so I can hunt turkeys. (It would be fun to hunt them with a bow, but in MA, you're legally required to shoot their little heads off, which is hard to do with arrows...) And plucking turkey feathers might be a useful break from staring at LCD monitors. And there's almost no food in the house, as I've been too lazy (busy?) to go grocery shopping.
It occurred to me that, if I were to slightly accelerate the truck, I would likely hit one or more of the turkeys, stunning or killing it, allowing me to gut, drain and pluck it before smoking it over a hardwood fire. But somehow, running over a turkey didn't seem sporting. For whatever reason, it didn't qualify as "hunting", which I'm morally okay with.
Is there an ethical difference between hunting turkeys (in season, with a license, with a shotgun) and running them down opportunistically in a pickup truck if, in both cases, you're on your own land and plan on eating the bird?
Maybe I should avoid ethical quandries - and motorized vehicles - until this cold passes and my head is a little clearer...