Thursday, April 20, 2006
Four-Legged Chicken?
Did you ever watch two birds going through a courtship ritual? We saw several pairs of albatrosses in the Galapagos doing exactly that. They cross and clack their beaks and dance with one another in an elaborate ceremony. Other species have their own courtship protocol. But what happens if a male forgets to say "May I?" Plenty, apparently. Researchers in Canada have discovered that over the last decades an increasing number of roosters are acting as if they just got off the turnip truck. The males are forgetting to peck at the ground pretending that they are eating and have eliminated the old two-step where they kick up shavings to get the female’s undivided attention. They are then supposed to waltz around the female with the outside wing extended. This is where the real trouble begins. This part of the ritual is very similar to what a normal rooster would do if he were about to attack another rooster. Something in his brain goes awry. He is no longer sure if this is a romantic interlude or the prelude to a full-fledged donnybrook. There is total confusion on his part. So he assumes that he is supposed to do both. Ouch! The feathers begin to fly. He has suddenly become an aggressive sociopath.
Much of this could have been predicted. After all, there is a long history of misconceptions about chickens and appropriate chicken behavior. Remember Foghorn Leghorn and his tiny nemesis, Henery Hawk? One day Grandpa Hawk decides that it is about time to have a little birds and the bees talk with Henery. "Well, Henery, you’re a big boy now. We’d better have a little talk." "Okay, pop. What do you wanna know?" Eventually they get around to the subject of chickens. "I’ve told you, Henery, why you’re too little to hunt chickens with me." "You mean on account of what you was telling me that chickens are great, big monsters?" "Yep." "They got big, sharp teeth and they live in caves?"
In another episode Foghorn confronts Henery. Foghorn tries to distract the young chicken hawk by pointing to Barnyard Dog. "There’s a chicken—I say, there’s a chicken for you – Boy doesn’t pay attention. Nice four legged chicken. Go on over. I say, go on over and taste him, kid. You’ll like him."
In the Lovelorn Leghorn Foghorn endures a head banging experience with Prissy who is searching for a husband. "Let me guess, dearie. You’re looking for a husband." "Yes!" "Well, you’re going about it the wrong way, sister. You don’t bat ‘em on the bean with a rolling pin. That comes later."
Now, how does all this misinformation translate from the reel world to the real world? Many years ago before anyone had thought of researching sociopath roosters, my niece Sheila was visiting my mother. Mom asked her to get the eggs from the henhouse. In a few minutes Sheila was running around the house with the rooster right behind her. Rita, my other niece, screamed. Mom ran out of the house with a broom and began to chase the rooster. Sheila was in the lead, followed by the rooster, who was followed by mom and the broom. They ran around and around the house.
That was the final straw. Dad decided the rooster had to go. He said something to the grocer next door, and in a few days a family that lived a short way down the road inquired about the rooster. They needed one to help build the flock. Dad warned them about the rooster’s bad disposition. They were bound and determined and the rooster changed hands. Whenever Dad would drive by he would always look for the rooster. One day it just vanished—never to be seen again. After a week or so Dad asked what had happened to the rooster. "Mr. Ernest, that rooster was meaner than we took him for!" No one would argue with that. He was no Cornelius the Rooster, that loveable fowl who has adorned the Kellogg Corn Flakes box since 1957. He was not even a Rocky Rhodes, the misguided hero of Chicken Run. He was simply one of the first sociopaths of his breed. He was a Leghorn.
Did you ever watch two birds going through a courtship ritual? We saw several pairs of albatrosses in the Galapagos doing exactly that. They cross and clack their beaks and dance with one another in an elaborate ceremony. Other species have their own courtship protocol. But what happens if a male forgets to say "May I?" Plenty, apparently. Researchers in Canada have discovered that over the last decades an increasing number of roosters are acting as if they just got off the turnip truck. The males are forgetting to peck at the ground pretending that they are eating and have eliminated the old two-step where they kick up shavings to get the female’s undivided attention. They are then supposed to waltz around the female with the outside wing extended. This is where the real trouble begins. This part of the ritual is very similar to what a normal rooster would do if he were about to attack another rooster. Something in his brain goes awry. He is no longer sure if this is a romantic interlude or the prelude to a full-fledged donnybrook. There is total confusion on his part. So he assumes that he is supposed to do both. Ouch! The feathers begin to fly. He has suddenly become an aggressive sociopath.
Much of this could have been predicted. After all, there is a long history of misconceptions about chickens and appropriate chicken behavior. Remember Foghorn Leghorn and his tiny nemesis, Henery Hawk? One day Grandpa Hawk decides that it is about time to have a little birds and the bees talk with Henery. "Well, Henery, you’re a big boy now. We’d better have a little talk." "Okay, pop. What do you wanna know?" Eventually they get around to the subject of chickens. "I’ve told you, Henery, why you’re too little to hunt chickens with me." "You mean on account of what you was telling me that chickens are great, big monsters?" "Yep." "They got big, sharp teeth and they live in caves?"
In another episode Foghorn confronts Henery. Foghorn tries to distract the young chicken hawk by pointing to Barnyard Dog. "There’s a chicken—I say, there’s a chicken for you – Boy doesn’t pay attention. Nice four legged chicken. Go on over. I say, go on over and taste him, kid. You’ll like him."
In the Lovelorn Leghorn Foghorn endures a head banging experience with Prissy who is searching for a husband. "Let me guess, dearie. You’re looking for a husband." "Yes!" "Well, you’re going about it the wrong way, sister. You don’t bat ‘em on the bean with a rolling pin. That comes later."
Now, how does all this misinformation translate from the reel world to the real world? Many years ago before anyone had thought of researching sociopath roosters, my niece Sheila was visiting my mother. Mom asked her to get the eggs from the henhouse. In a few minutes Sheila was running around the house with the rooster right behind her. Rita, my other niece, screamed. Mom ran out of the house with a broom and began to chase the rooster. Sheila was in the lead, followed by the rooster, who was followed by mom and the broom. They ran around and around the house.
That was the final straw. Dad decided the rooster had to go. He said something to the grocer next door, and in a few days a family that lived a short way down the road inquired about the rooster. They needed one to help build the flock. Dad warned them about the rooster’s bad disposition. They were bound and determined and the rooster changed hands. Whenever Dad would drive by he would always look for the rooster. One day it just vanished—never to be seen again. After a week or so Dad asked what had happened to the rooster. "Mr. Ernest, that rooster was meaner than we took him for!" No one would argue with that. He was no Cornelius the Rooster, that loveable fowl who has adorned the Kellogg Corn Flakes box since 1957. He was not even a Rocky Rhodes, the misguided hero of Chicken Run. He was simply one of the first sociopaths of his breed. He was a Leghorn.
Monday, April 17, 2006
Anti-Sex Snacks!
Sylvester Graham was born in 1794 to the Reverend John Graham. He was the 17th child of his 72-year-old father. Now right off the bat you can easily surmise that the old man was taking the scripture to his heart—especially the part that said, “Be fruitful and multiply.” He was certainly a diligent begetter. There is no way to tell when Sylvester first learned of the birds and the bees, but we do know that he could not have learned from his father who died before he had the opportunity to pass any such useful knowledge on to his son. Sylvester lived during a time when sex was frowned upon. It was generally taught that if a woman had sex more than three or four times a year, there was a strong possibility that she would be headed to an early grave.
While old man Graham must have made the best of his three or four times a year, Sylvester was another story. He became an avid crusader against sex. He wrote “The Young Man’s Guide to Chastity.” He recommended hard mattresses, cold showers, loose clothing and open bedroom windows. If that were not enough, in 1829 he came up with own special invention to damper sexual ardor wherever and whenever it might appear—the Graham Cracker. It was the first failsafe anti-sex snack. It was made from “Graham flour” which was milled from coarsely ground whole wheat. It was to be baked at home. No need to take any chances. Bakers took offense. And in 1837 he was attacked by a mob of Boston bakers. It is surprising that the Graham cracker survived at all. But, as almost everyone knows, the product is alive and well. True it is no longer made with Graham flour. And a lot of the brands now include honey to provide extra energy for those who might need it. The Graham Cracker has lost its fizzle.
Another old time anti-sex snack is saltpeter. Technically it is not exactly a snack per se since it actually falls in the category of an additive. It tastes somewhat like gunpowder because it is a common ingredient in gunpowder. Now why would anybody knowingly eat gunpowder? No one! No one, that is, who is willing and knowing. Culprits sneak it into our food in the wee areas of the morning.
My first exposure to saltpeter came when I was a junior in high school. I was in an elite group of students who were being shipped off to Fort Robinson for a week of Arkansas Boy’s State, a youth-in- government program run by the American Legion. We arrived and were immediately assigned to an assortment of small army huts. I don’t know exactly what our expectations were supposed to be. I do know that this was a time of life for young males when a great deal of their time is spent thinking about what else but girls. Girls on the mind. But it was also an awkward time for young males. Ever since their voices had started to change, they were easily embarrassed. Let a girl walk past or catch a whiff of perfume and most of us would give the involuntary military salute. It was the curse of being a teen. For what other reasons we were at Fort Robinson one thing was certain. We all expected to hear lurid tales of females while we were there. Lots and lots of lurid tales.
Trouble began the next morning at breakfast. As we grabbed our trays and handed down the line to the food, someone whispered. There is saltpeter in the eggs. Most of us had never heard of that word. Several people whispered under their breath, “What is it? What does it do?” “It neuters you! Stupid!” “What?” “Yep. It takes away your interest in girls.” “What did you say?” “You heard me the first time. Just don’t eat the eggs!” So the only people who ate eggs for breakfast were the old guys there—guys who had long since lost interest in girls, or in their case women.
Soon after breakfast we were all assembled for a morning drill. “Fall in! March!” Now sing “I got a girl in New Orleans!” Now normally any normal teen would already be giving the military salute while the words “New Orleans” still resonated on his tongue. But not today. No one saluted. Not a soul. People looked around and saw panic on each other’s faces. It was not in the eggs. It had to be somewhere else.
That night at supper, someone whispered, “It’s mixed in with the pepper. It’s black. They put it there so no one will recognize it.” Everyone who had eaten any pepper earlier in the day suddenly felt sick to his stomach. After supper a couple of guys in my hut decided they were going to skip the rest of the meetings that evening. While everyone trudged off, they took out a deck of cards and began playing. Soon they came face to face with disaster. A counselor was prowling around with a flashlight, checking for any laggards. One jumped into bed and pulled his covers up. The other jumped behind where the open door was going to be. The counselor shined his light on the bed and spotted his prey. The boy made a telling case that he was sick. And the counselor bought it—until he turned to go and spotted the other boy. They were each given five minutes to make it to the meeting or else. They might have survived if they had simply told the truth. “We really are sick. The saltpeter caused it.”
And so it went for the rest of the week. Rumors flew at breakfast and were subsequently dismissed as improbable as the day wore on. No additives were ever discovered. And we all returned home a wee bit frazzled and bedraggled. Of course after a few days our manhood returned. We were later assured that everything we thought we knew about saltpeter was false.
Why would a group of three or four hundred young teens even worry about a hidden danger in their food? There were no girls anywhere for miles and miles. And any effects that we might have experienced would have been temporary anyway. But it was the principle. These were after all army huts and our leaders were all members of the American Legion. No need to let them get their hooks into you at such an early age. Now just don’t pass the pepper.
Sylvester Graham was born in 1794 to the Reverend John Graham. He was the 17th child of his 72-year-old father. Now right off the bat you can easily surmise that the old man was taking the scripture to his heart—especially the part that said, “Be fruitful and multiply.” He was certainly a diligent begetter. There is no way to tell when Sylvester first learned of the birds and the bees, but we do know that he could not have learned from his father who died before he had the opportunity to pass any such useful knowledge on to his son. Sylvester lived during a time when sex was frowned upon. It was generally taught that if a woman had sex more than three or four times a year, there was a strong possibility that she would be headed to an early grave.
While old man Graham must have made the best of his three or four times a year, Sylvester was another story. He became an avid crusader against sex. He wrote “The Young Man’s Guide to Chastity.” He recommended hard mattresses, cold showers, loose clothing and open bedroom windows. If that were not enough, in 1829 he came up with own special invention to damper sexual ardor wherever and whenever it might appear—the Graham Cracker. It was the first failsafe anti-sex snack. It was made from “Graham flour” which was milled from coarsely ground whole wheat. It was to be baked at home. No need to take any chances. Bakers took offense. And in 1837 he was attacked by a mob of Boston bakers. It is surprising that the Graham cracker survived at all. But, as almost everyone knows, the product is alive and well. True it is no longer made with Graham flour. And a lot of the brands now include honey to provide extra energy for those who might need it. The Graham Cracker has lost its fizzle.
Another old time anti-sex snack is saltpeter. Technically it is not exactly a snack per se since it actually falls in the category of an additive. It tastes somewhat like gunpowder because it is a common ingredient in gunpowder. Now why would anybody knowingly eat gunpowder? No one! No one, that is, who is willing and knowing. Culprits sneak it into our food in the wee areas of the morning.
My first exposure to saltpeter came when I was a junior in high school. I was in an elite group of students who were being shipped off to Fort Robinson for a week of Arkansas Boy’s State, a youth-in- government program run by the American Legion. We arrived and were immediately assigned to an assortment of small army huts. I don’t know exactly what our expectations were supposed to be. I do know that this was a time of life for young males when a great deal of their time is spent thinking about what else but girls. Girls on the mind. But it was also an awkward time for young males. Ever since their voices had started to change, they were easily embarrassed. Let a girl walk past or catch a whiff of perfume and most of us would give the involuntary military salute. It was the curse of being a teen. For what other reasons we were at Fort Robinson one thing was certain. We all expected to hear lurid tales of females while we were there. Lots and lots of lurid tales.
Trouble began the next morning at breakfast. As we grabbed our trays and handed down the line to the food, someone whispered. There is saltpeter in the eggs. Most of us had never heard of that word. Several people whispered under their breath, “What is it? What does it do?” “It neuters you! Stupid!” “What?” “Yep. It takes away your interest in girls.” “What did you say?” “You heard me the first time. Just don’t eat the eggs!” So the only people who ate eggs for breakfast were the old guys there—guys who had long since lost interest in girls, or in their case women.
Soon after breakfast we were all assembled for a morning drill. “Fall in! March!” Now sing “I got a girl in New Orleans!” Now normally any normal teen would already be giving the military salute while the words “New Orleans” still resonated on his tongue. But not today. No one saluted. Not a soul. People looked around and saw panic on each other’s faces. It was not in the eggs. It had to be somewhere else.
That night at supper, someone whispered, “It’s mixed in with the pepper. It’s black. They put it there so no one will recognize it.” Everyone who had eaten any pepper earlier in the day suddenly felt sick to his stomach. After supper a couple of guys in my hut decided they were going to skip the rest of the meetings that evening. While everyone trudged off, they took out a deck of cards and began playing. Soon they came face to face with disaster. A counselor was prowling around with a flashlight, checking for any laggards. One jumped into bed and pulled his covers up. The other jumped behind where the open door was going to be. The counselor shined his light on the bed and spotted his prey. The boy made a telling case that he was sick. And the counselor bought it—until he turned to go and spotted the other boy. They were each given five minutes to make it to the meeting or else. They might have survived if they had simply told the truth. “We really are sick. The saltpeter caused it.”
And so it went for the rest of the week. Rumors flew at breakfast and were subsequently dismissed as improbable as the day wore on. No additives were ever discovered. And we all returned home a wee bit frazzled and bedraggled. Of course after a few days our manhood returned. We were later assured that everything we thought we knew about saltpeter was false.
Why would a group of three or four hundred young teens even worry about a hidden danger in their food? There were no girls anywhere for miles and miles. And any effects that we might have experienced would have been temporary anyway. But it was the principle. These were after all army huts and our leaders were all members of the American Legion. No need to let them get their hooks into you at such an early age. Now just don’t pass the pepper.
