High Tech Mortality

Every time I type every time I type everytime because everyday throws me off. Confusing English aside, every time a new iphone comes out, I wonder about diseases. Not from disgruntled Chinese workers putting herpes in the earhole or the ghost of Steve Jobs giving us ipolio. No, it makes me wonder how so much useless and amazing shit can be stuffed into such a small package, all for $199, and yet billions of billions (I think that equals trillions. I’ll let you math nerds figure those numbers out) of dollars can’t cure cancer, or anything for that matter. I know that sounds all high school philosophical, and something you might hear a beauty contestant say to prove her shallowness is only skin deep, after doing a baton twirl in a two piece. But, it is a valid point.

The iphone factory struggled to find their way, after they dropped child labor.

The iphone factory struggled to find their way, after they dropped child labor.

 

When I was kid I heard about chemo. I’m thirty five and I hear about chemo. I’m sure there is a bit more advancement, I’m no gynecologist. If we’re going to stick with my iphone analogy, it would be the equivalent of us all carrying around rotary phones that will need to be plugged in but hey, they got caller ID.

The newspaper said next years model will have a flashlight.

The newspaper said next years model will have a flashlight.

If any of you are the betting type, I’ll make a wager. I bet my sweet ass that they find a cure for Ebola. Wanna know why? It has quick pace. You’re dead in weeks. No profit in it. I bet the cure will cost as much as one of those fancy Ford Fiestas everyone’s been all hyped up about, but, it will cure it by God.

"Just give us the keys, and the Ebola will go away."

“Just give us the keys, and the Ebola will go away.”

Conspiracy theories aren’t my cup of tea. I don’t believe the world is being controlled by a shadowy group of power bankers and Jay-Z. What I do believe in is the trail of money in which all decisions are based, in regards to things that cost money. What a cluster fuck of a sentence that was. Sheesh. (Authors note: Learn to formulate a thought before typing.) Where there is a want or need there is a hope for reliance, where there is reliance there is hope for long term profitability. Remember that when you sign up for your two year contract on your new iphone 6, and pray the damn things don’t give you cancer.

Standard

I Worked On A Peanut & Cotton Farm For Two Weeks

Working on the farm, for the first time since I was eighteen, was a success. I didn’t die. The hours are long and the pay is on par with wages of non pirates in Somalia. But I do it for the experience and the bitches.

Day one, I sprayed herbicide all over the place. The spray rig drives itself via GPS and some sort of wizardry I’ve narrowed down to either magic beans or prayer circles. Farming has become a highly technological field and in the process has stopped using slave labor. Who knew?

IMG_1901

Starfleet has acquired John Deere in what’s being called a “real coup” for the intergalactic upstart.

The amount of skill required to do farm work would shock the average city dweller. Most urban jobs are one or two skill intensive. Sales? Talk people into buying burden. Computer Tech? Fix glitches caused by people who spit in the face of NSFW. Chef? Make other peoples recipes and feel like a rebel when you go heavy on the cumin. Of course I’ve downplayed the work of others to boost my case for farmers.

Farmers fix every goddamn thing because all of it will break and break hard. Weld it, nail, glue it, duct tape it, whatever it takes to keep moving. Driving a tractor for 12 hours straight is considered downtime. Selling product to an obscure buyer who will back out at the last minute or renege on a deal in an effort to get the crop at a lower price is commonplace. Weather of all kinds can erase the past weeks work in a matter of hours. Weather will make or break you. Too much rain, you’re screwed. Too little rain, you’re broke. The rain must be spread out and time perfectly.

download

The first job I was stuck with, after they baited me in with the spray rig built on alien tech, was seedman. A great job if you can get it…. in the porn industry. As far as farming goes, it’s bitch work. The seedman will park his ignorant self in a pickup truck pulling a flatbed trailer loaded with five pallets of seed. The pallets have roughly forty eight bags of seed each. The bags weigh fifty pounds apiece. He will open up bags and align them along the edge of the trailer in eager anticipation of the tractor drivers need for fill up. He will then open up the planter boxes on the planting implement, swiftly fill each box while trying not to spill seed or fall to his knees while screaming to whatever deity he wronged to deserve this lot in life. The temperature hovers around a hundred. Air conditioning isn’t part of the benefits package either.


aaftd
The next step after shooing the driver away is to burn the empty bags of seed. Starting fires while sweating your tits off makes for pleasant feelings. After the bags have been burned and no pasture has caught fire (it happened twice), he’ll take a fifteen minute break, of which he’ll spend eight cussing and seven hoping the tractor blows up. The day will average out at 14 hours.
Here are a few pictures of my misery and it’s tools.

More, Keg, more. Don't shiest me, you lazy bastard.

More, Keg, more. Don’t shiest me, you lazy bastard.

A standard planter runs between 8-12 boxes. The farmer custom made a 16 box because he's an efficiency queer.

A standard planter runs between 8-12 boxes. The farmer custom made a 16 box because he’s an efficiency queer.

The wind picks up randomly which throws flaming bags screaming in whatever direction the wind is blowing. It's hell on s'more prep.

The wind picks up randomly which throws flaming bags screaming in whatever direction the wind is blowing. It’s hell on s’mores.

On occasion I’d have to go do a menial chore such as picking up parts from John Deere. I’d live for those. I’d get to drive a truck with A/C. I’d leg wrestle a high functioning leper to get the chance at cool air. I felt like the one person who got away from the villain in a horror movie. I’d laugh manically and think about all the things I’d do with my new lease on life. Such as learn how to use Twitter, pen a letter to Robin Thicke asking if he understood wrapping girls in plastic makes you sketchy but kudos on turning the final steps of a well thought out murder sexy, form a drug addiction and blame it on my time farming, play one on one with a little person, ride topless in the sidecar of a motorcycle driven by a burly biker and stare down EVERYONE, and lastly I’d sleep until my depression healed itself. The feeling was short lived. For prides sake, I’d return and submit myself to the torture normally reserved for ones with low education or questionable citizenship. I had to complete it. Quitting is for people with better things to do.

I stayed on as seedman for about ten days. The Farmer eventually moved me to tractor driver ,which was a horrible decision on his part. He immediately regretted his talent evaluation skills after watching me drive like Amy Winehouse on a sad day. I got scolded. It was uncomfortable. He apologized after he realized that the tractor was improperly weighted. I was embarrassed and pissed off. We moved passed it. I only worked a few days after that. Hell, maybe we didn’t move past it. I wasn’t fired but planting season was coming to an end, and my bitch skills weren’t needed.

I learned more about farming than I ever thought possible and I left with a gratitude for the amount of work it takes to bring raw materials to the masses. If you ever have the chance to work on a farm, do it. You”ll regret it and be glad about the experience all the same.

P.S. Side story
One day, we were blessed with a land owner spending the whole day watching and evaluating. He was in the medical field so his expertise on farming was astounding. I snapped a picture of him. I was about ninety percent sure he was gonna pass away right in front of my eyes. His breathing was labored, and bending over took the effort of running a 16K on horse tranquilizers while wearing a bee keepers outfit.

He ingested enough booze in is day to keep Coors Brewing out of the red.

He ingested enough booze in his day to keep Coors Brewing out of the red.

I feel a bit mean by posting that but I can’t stand meddling with an air of superiority. He was nice in his own way. He also thought he was greater than the people working. He shouldn’t have done that.

 

Standard

A Rehab Story

Spending time in an adolescence rehab facility will give you stories for a lifetime. It’s like summer camp for fuck ups and future felons.(They should have put that on the brochure and I wouldn’t have gone kicking and screaming.) Taking a bunch of rebellious drug addicted teens and removing their only source of happiness, leads to giggles of the strangest variety. The place I was sent was an extra special type of bat shit crazy. It was a converted dude ranch. The place was built to resemble an Old West town. Trippy shit. We had horses, the whole nine. Almost all of us were city kids detoxing on a Tombstone set for clowns.

Phillip was the new kid, full of life and not a shred of innocence, although, you couldn’t tell it by his looks. A curly headed, pasty white 14 year old just trying to make a name for himself. He stood about 6’2″ and weighed close to 250. He was big for his age.


“I’ll eat this locker for a bump.”

I can’t say I knew Phillip well. Phillip didn’t last long enough for us to get a good grip on what made him tick. If I had to guess, I’d say Tetris and date raping himself randomly.

We knew Phil had a temper, he’d get worked up and get sent off to the Lock Treatment Unit or LTU. The LTU was a shed of sorts with massive metal doors that took 1000 lbs of pressure to open once they were locked. The building had four parts. Two housing units with three sleeping areas each, a holding area, and a middle section that was plexiglass and held a staff member. You had your clothes taken away and replaced with white scrubs. It was demoralizing in a “Hey, this is what I’d look like in Huntsville!” kind of way. I’m pretty sure that was the point. Phil was on his own kind of high. He seemed to enjoy the place. I hated it. Once, I was there for about five days and by the end of it I was stark raving mad. Nothing made any sense. The only thing I had been allowed to do was read the AA books and stare at pink walls.

The LTU is where the genesis of this story really begins. Phil had been sent there, yet again, for God knows what. We all knew who was in the LTU at any given moment, even though it was outside of our boundaries. All of the staff had walkie talkies, and as soon as someone was put in, we’d hear it over the radios. Phillip couldn’t have been in the LTU for more than an hour when an S.O.S type of call went out over the radios. “Phillip has escaped the LTU! All staff! Phillip has escaped the LTU!”. At the time, I was having my lunch in the cafe. The cafe was on the main strip of our little Deadwood type of hell. It had massive windows overlooking the main courtyard. All of us future winners looked at each other in amusement because to our knowledge this was the first breakout of the LTU. We had all tried, only to be beaten into submission by hard plastic and strong magnets. Turns out, the main LTU door had been left slightly open and Phillip carpe diemed that shit.

A minute or two passes and we pretty much went back to eating because young drug addicts and short attention spans are the ying & yang of bleak futures. To our shock we hear a loud thud emanating from the front of the cafe, by the windows. I whip my head around to see Phillip in his underwear, with the largest grin I had ever seen. He had thrown his large body onto the glass, face smushed into it, arms in the air, and a beaming pride that I imagine any prison break participant would give a stamp of approval. Within a few seconds, we see a male staff member try to tackle poor Phillip but he bounced off and Phillip kept running. We ran to the window to see the whole staff chasing Phil in his tighty whities. It took about five grown men to subdue the man child. Phil was smiling the whole way down.
“Where’s your God now?”

Phil was transferred to a local mental hospital and we never saw or heard from him again.

Standard