I kind of think that's an okay title. For something. God knows what. You see this really blurry picture near this magnificent text? That's a chicken for sure, a rooster I'm betting and maybe/probably a bantam Minorcas or Dominicker.

Those are rooster names. Also, this is a teaser for either Jim Parks or DAVO. Jim is the fine writer who oversees the 'Outdoors' Page. DAVO (If you want to know is real name and all, go to his Brink homepage

Minorcas refers to a breed, first brought here by the early Spaniard settlers. They carried Minorca hens aboard ship because they're renown as just about the most prolific of white-egg lay-ers. A minorca hen is primarily white, although sometimes nearly black. They are unfriendly. The cocks are usually stunted and can't be coaxed to fight. Good eggs, good food. Boring roosters. Such is life.

I live in a very old house at the corner of Polo and Minorcas Roads in North Carolina. A city there, a hypenated one. Not a dash, a hyphen. Has to do with cigarettes, which I consider proof of God's existennce and reminds me that I'm due Him another Thank You note. He notices such things, I feel. Or She, whichever suits you. _Us_ works pretty good, I think.

And that chicken was in my front yard, standing where one of my late father's oak-leafed hydrangeas now grows. The rooster's pretty blurry I suppose because he's been dead for at least a 113 years. Is that a bad luck number, 113?

The photo was taken in 1895, and of course poor people weren't so silly as to hire the photographer to record one of their yard birds. No, by no means. The stupid rooster strolled in just to see what was up, I figure. Never have decided whether I love chickens, hate them or remain in fear of them. There's the truth. They're so primitive that their blank eyes frighten me. The big critters left the Earth for the sky and the endless oocean to survive. And these mean-ass birds ended up on earth. No point, none at all.

Just breaking the rules a bit (and of course there are rules here, just like everywhere else) by using one old and odd photograph a a Teaser to introduce you to some more of my lost and blind ramblings about. This time, either for DAVO's "Shelter" page or the immensely talented Jim Parks' page, "Outdoors."

Men I admire. Pages to seek out. Gentle, thoughtful, quiet works from fine fellows. Soon, I suspect, I'll fall to my worst nature and recommend rock and roll heathenism. We'll turn to Duggy Degnin and Hagen and that fucking Paul Haskins to handle that stuff -- turning to Zog and D Bill D, as needed. Reno is our Major, the one who could have saved Custer but laughed instead. Perhaps we'll manage to disinter Dan Stuart and pitch his dead ass to the front lines.

And chicks, too. Always them, women, always and always. As Levi Stubbs taught us: "I just can't help myself/I need you and nobody else."

So the chicken in the picture is long dead and recombined with out atmosphere. I'm using my breath up praising this strange experiment, The Brink. Well it turns out to be Mr. Parks or Mr. DAVO, I hope you'll find something worth seeing or reading. Experiencing -- that'd be plenty, more'n a'plenty.

So: here goes: Bantam in General Tso's Front Yard

The cook's wife, I forgave her eyes --
they seemed steamed over exotic coals,
like too-done corn, a foreign shore and

a hoiiday I didn't take. She'd've, well,
howled and whooped, I'd bet fifty cents.
Willing, but money unspent. It's a trim and

a shave, a snip, a smile and a handshake.
Tso adds extra shrimp, and peppers for free.
In the cook's eyes, I see something pleased.

Praise be! No wagering those fifty pretty cents.


Make sense? I'm just about certain it does.
yrs,
Guy