Archive for June, 2008

Letter from the Caspian Sea

June 29, 2008 · Filed under a day in life, persona

The chickens are gathering around. From the sound of it, they are very excited. Something must have happened. Sure enough. It is a letter. We are always excited about receiving a letter. Yes sir, we are. And it comes with a picture too!! Exciting!

It is from Molly. You know, THE Molly. You don’t know? Ah! THE Molly! The one that has ditched her solemn stable life and rising career as egg psychiatrist.

You know how difficult it is to find a good egg psychiatrist in Chickendom? And it is important too—that tender age of being an egg. She was good at it, you know? Such a shame to throw the career away.

THE Molly that has flown to far away territories and ventures to the unknown. Strange girl that Molly, say the elders and youngsters alike. But they are just jealous. Of course we are not. Yes you are. Are not. Are too. Are not. Are too. Are not. Sshshsh.

The chickens read on.

Date: don’t know, don’t really care.

Beloved beautiful chickens:

I hope all is well with you. Big hugs to Mother Hen and deep respect for Chick-a-boo. How’s little YC? And Chicken? Getting more handsome everyday, I bet. Wink wink.

***Chicken secretly blushes; and so does YC, for a different reason***

I am by the Caspian Sea at the moment.

***Where is it? Nobody knows *furious shaking of head trademark*, but it sounds oh so cool. Perhaps it is near the place where that nice ghost Casper resides. No, that would be Casperian Sea then, not Caspian. But let’s not scratch that possibility out for the time being.***

The Caspian Sea is the largest endorheic body of water on Earth by area, variously classed as the world’s largest lake or a full-fledged sea. It has a surface area of 371,000 square kilometers and a volume of 78,200 cubic kilometers.

It has a maximum depth of about 1,025 meters. It was perceived as a sea by its ancient coastal inhabitants because it is salty and seemed boundless. It has a salinity of approximately 1.2%, about a third the salinity of most seawater.

***Huhhhhh!?!?!?!?! What kind of drinks do they serve there anyway?***

The Caspian Sea holds great numbers of sturgeon, which yield eggs that are processed into caviar. So I can continue being egg therapist, although it is not easy changing line from being chicken egg therapist to fish egg therapist.

***Why? Fish egg is smaller. Surely it MUST be easier.***

Although there is no chicken around, the area has plenty of other bird species, the Caspian gull and the Caspian tern.

***You know what that means. No parties. No chicken-style full of fun parties. How can one (chicken) survive? Poor Molly. She’s losing it (the feather,we mean). Perhaps that is why she puts on that strange hat of hers.***

Got to go now. Got sunset to watch. I really hope that you are here with me to share this joyous moment. Miss you all.

Love and light,
Molly

PS: The picture was taken by a good friend of mine, Darling Pete, which happens to be a fellow traveler of mine for the past months.

***Pete? Who is Pete? Can it be.. No, cannot be him. Who is Pete? Gossip time!!***

Owwwwh, that sweet Molly. She misses us, the incurably cute flock of beautiful feathers. Why does she say love and light? What love? What light? Where? *Looking right and left, above and below, front and back. You get the point.*

By the way, did you hear that? She wants us there. Let’s go. Let’s go. Got to go pack. How do we get to this Casperian Sea? Do we turn left or right by the gate in front of the farm? Anybody seen Casper? We need to ask him for direction.

Enthusiastic bunch those chickens. Not so bright though. Not that bright at all.

PS: The chickens have forgotten that they are on strike. One letter is all it takes to make them forget it all. Life moves on. Not so bright those chickens. Short memory span, too.

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Chicken on strike!

June 27, 2008 · Filed under Special occasion

It was a serene, quiet and fresh morning in Chickendom. Cockerels, pullets, chicks, and the elders are still half a sleep, swaying their head and body slowly, front and back, side to side. Calm. Quiet. Almost meditative.

Then suddenly. WE WANT MORE! WE WANT MORE! NO, LESS. I MEAN, MORE. I THINK IT SHOULD BE LESS! WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT? OF COURSE IT IS MORE. IT IS ALWAYS MORE. NO LESS, I MEAN… WHICH ONE IS IT ANYWAY???!! *annoyed*

The youngsters and elders are not asleep anymore. Wide awake, alarmed, and annoyed. It is the International Hen Day.

The productive adult female chickens are on strike. They believe that, as the lawyer and reps put it, they have been treated inhumanely, we mean, un-chickeny. Human should have better respect towards the “professional egg and white meat providers.”

Here’s a handy tip for you. Never ever get the chickens pissed off *excuse the French here*. They have high pride and high solidarity (if and when they want to, otherwise they are simply cheap, aggravating, and totally could-not-care-less-about-you-and-your-mom self-centric two-feet feathery balls.)

You do not want to have the chickens annoyed at you—especially the hens, you don’t want to mess with them. Their beak, really hurts, we tell you—Do you know that there are more chickens in the world than any other bird? More than 24 billion of us around. Yup, this is real statistics, and this is from five years ago. Yes sir, we are popular, huge and strong!!! We demand respect!!!!

We demand SOME SLACK. I mean, come on. Hens produce as many as 300 eggs a year. And you still think it is not enough???!!! *getting emotional.*

We demand STABLE NESTING PLACE. When we lay an egg in one spot, we want that very same spot to be available for our next eggs. Hens should also have priority access to food and nesting locations, compared to those (useless!) roosters who can only crow and flap wings.

We demand chickeny BUSINESS HOURS. A girl got to have her manicure, shopping, chatting, blogging, and coffee hours. Gotta, gotta, gotta.

We demand much BETTER PENSION PLAN. After our egg-laying ability starts to decline, then you just toss us all off. Did not your mother ever teach you anything? *still emotional*

We demand better TRANSPORTATION MODE (preferably by air). Chickens are explorers by nature. We want to fly to explore our surrounding (btw, have you seen that handsome Italian roosters at the barn next door? Mama mia!! Let’s explore!!). And as you know, domestic chickens are, uhm, not exactly the best frequent flier on the planet. So an aircraft or chopper would be good. *pushing it a bit too much*

So there you go. WE WANT MORE! WE WANT MORE! NO, LESS. I MEAN, MORE. I THINK IT SHOULD BE LESS! WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT? OF COURSE IT IS MORE. IT IS ALWAYS MORE. NO LESS, I MEAN… WHICH ONE IS IT ANYWAY???!! *annoyed*

Sigh. The racket (brit’s for “noise”). Only Mother Hen can put an end to this *cough* ridiculous *cough again* commotion.

Where is she? Mother??!! Mother!?! We need our sleep.

[pics taken from the royalty-free Getty Images and BBC.]

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A Spanish serenade

June 9, 2008 · Filed under a day in life

When all is said and done, the chickens return to their place in the barn. Mother Hen is by no means an exception. Hers is by the window on the triangle-shaped top of the barn, facing a distant other farm where all the cows and bulls reside.

Her sight might not function well at night but her hearing is razor sharp. Tonight, as with every other night, she sits still, ignorant to what is happening around her. It has been a long day, with the party and all.

She seems occupied. And rightly so. If you listen, really listen, you too can hear that melodious music-to-the-ear-and-the-heart sound of Spanish guitar. It is Emilio’s, the next-barn Spanish bull that can huff and puff like no other.

And if you really really listen, you can hear the tune … no me ames (popularly sung in the human world by J Lo and her what’s-his-name husband). (note to the less exposed to education: No me ames means don’t love me).

As with other nights, Mother Hen starts humming the tune. Her voice is carried over by the wind to the barn next door. Emilio hears that vague familiar chirpy sound that somehow manages to stay in tune to his guitar. He smiles as he knows who that would be. He looks at the barn far away. Their eyes meet.

Their thoughts fly back in time. To the day when Mother Hen ran frantically to chase those naughty chickadees to the cow barn. She bumped into Emilio. Oh the sweet enchanting smell of that bull! Eh-em. We leave it to your imagination how the story on that day continued. (We know that some of you already start fantasizing! Ck ck, do your parents know how wild your imagination works? Worrying)

To cut long story short, from there on, Mother Hen changed her starting year of living as a chicken. Her life started on the day she met Emilio. That was when she started living, loving. But that day was also the day when she left her heart and soul in the next door barn. What is here is only her physical form. An empty feathery shell. How can soul and body live separately in this world?

Awww, such is life. C’est la vie. La vida es asi. It is impossible to be together. For one, well, hello, they are of different familia. One mammals, another aves. What to do, what to do. All she can do is to face the cow barn every evening, listening to that heart-warming serenade from Emilio the Spanish bull.

A chill breeze blows from behind. “I know, Boo, I know,” she smiled and whispered affectionately to Boo, her nickname for Chick-A-Boo. “But I cannot help it. Let me have these moments, at least.”

Another chill breeze blows. This time it is ticklish, playing with the soft feathers of Mother Hen. “He he, yes yes, I am chicken after all,” Mother Hen chuckled.

Then another, warmer breeze blows, as if gently hugging Mother Hen. “Thank you, Boo. Love you, too,” said Mother Hen warmly, quivering, smiling, sighing. Eyes never stray away from the cow barn. Religiously listening to the tune still.

“OMG, OMG, are those like tears we see in like Mother Hen’s eyes?” whispered (not so quietly) the overtly excited 20-odd chickadees, which have been staying low just about two meters behind Mother Hen. They have been there for the last 30 minutes, as they always are every night, to watch this romantic chick lit. We strongly suggest Mother Hen to buy TV or radio instead to provide late-night entertainment for the chickadees.

Honestly. Rude little rascals. Don’t they know that these are private moments? (Note to self: Remind us to dig tonight’s dirts from those rude little rascals tomorrow morning. We want by-the-second details. Exciting!!)

DISCLAIMER: This story is a work of fiction and any resemblance between the characters and persons living or dead is purely coincidental. Or perhaps you are just being so vain. You think this song (story?) is about you, don’t you? Don’t you?

[Pictures taken from here and here.]

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Party planning with David Tortuera

June 7, 2008 · Filed under persona

Parties in the Chickendom means only one thing: David Tortuera. (For the less exposed to education ones: tortue is French for turtle. He sometimes alters his name a bit to D. Turtletera when he is in English-speaking markets).

David (pronounced with French accent, naturellement, not English) has been practically THE party planner for all Chickendom’s parties, as chickens are very particular about their parties.

Although he looks extremely slow, David works very fast up here (pointing at chicken head). Some says that he deliberately moves (soooo) slow so that he can always be fashionably late.

He can get the job on time, however, because his team comprise of the fast-moving (but not so fast up here (pointing at chicken head)) rabbits. Yes, we are afraid that the rabbits are still paying for their loss during that famous turtle-rabbit race.

Who do you think invent the chicken dance? Oooh, now we feel like shaking our tails. A one, a two, a three. Flap flap flap (wings), and to the right, one, two three, to the left, one, two, three. Woo hoo!!

Ehm. Now where were we?

And one day, oh oh oh this is so exciting, David was so frustrated because the lighting in the barn did not work. So he just stick his tummy to the barn ceiling and stayed there. When we shot the light to him, what do you know, the carapace (upper shell) reflects to all directions the brightest light possible. We believe humans call this disco ball nowadays.

So today we try to catch up with Le Grande David himself to obtain some top tips on party planning.

Ah, there he is. Standing with his neck stretches high, eyes not focusing, as if waiting for some kind of enlightenment on party theme, with his fashionable high red-white checkered hat and glittery shell. (Is that new tattoo we see near his tail? Um.. what does it say … cannot see well..)

Err, David, can we ask you a couple of questions?
Suureeee. (That’s how he speak. He is slow, you see.)

What are your inspirations in planning a party?
Depppendsssss.

On?
[suddenly fast] On many things, of course, you *uhuk* chicken. Timing: Time of the day, day of the week, week of the month, month of the year. On occasion: new birth, birthday, anniversary, awakening day, or celebrating a chicken who has managed to cross the road for the first time, etc etc. On who is the center of attention: everybody, the elders, YC, The Chicken, Chick-A-Boo, and of course Mother Hen. On the complexion of the chicken skin at that moment. On your budget. On how much time we have. And on my mood, of course.

Any tips to young chickens on how to become great party planners?
That is already three questions. Now go away. I am busy, you *uhuk* poulet. Not very chickeny polite. This turtle.

He turns away but stops short. He looks back (slowly) to the chickens and says (slowly), “I give you one tip though, mon ami. The tip is there is no tip. Like me, you are just born inspirational. Genius. Brilliant.”

“The brilliance in me never ceases,” he says as he turns his head (slowly) and starts walking away again (very slowly). Not very humble. This turtle.

But who needs humbleness when you are that brilliant? The chickens agree one hundred and two percent. *nodding head furiously.* Par-teee!!!

[Pictures taken from here, here,and here. FYI, the first picture is not David. Those are the ninja turtles. Doh!]

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YC saves the day

June 3, 2008 · Filed under Special occasion

Alright, alright. We promise that this will be our last entry on The Chicken’s disappearance/return. We mean, who the hen does The Chicken think he is, occupying so much space in this oh-so-important virtual world of ours?

Now where were we.

Days go by. All the chickens are getting more and more restless. You can see by the number of feathers lying about on the floor or the corn beads spread across the yard (as the chickens run about haphazardly trying to gain as much gossip as possible from other chickens).

Naturally, Mother Hen is not amused with all the mess caused. “Chirp chirp chirp,” she said. “CLUCK!! chirp chirp.” “CHIRP CHIRP CHIRP CHIRP!!!” (even mother has her limit of tolerance. Very low, actually).

To put an end to this, the elders (minus Chick-A-Boo, he still cannot care less about all this commotion) have summoned Yellow Chickey (YC as she is commonly called by the flock) to investigate whether that weird chicken is the true Chicken. (What’s weird about The Chicken being weird? Honestly, elders. Weird is normal).

So that dawn YC sneaks quietly behind the pillar just beside the Chicken’s spot in the barn. She knows The Chicken has a certain procession for waking up. (Don’t ask us how she knows, she just does). YC sits stills. And wait. And wait. Staring affectionately at her sleeping knight in shining armor. Occasional long sighs come out of her tiny beak.

Until finally, after what we feel like endless hours (12 minutes to be exact), The Chicken moves. Oh, false alarm. He falls asleep again. Grrrgggh. Then other countless hours passed by (6 minutes to be exact), he moves again. Slowly he opens his sleepy eye lids. YC straightens her seating posture (Yogis call this the perfect lotus) and pays close attention to his moves.

Scratch, scratch, scratch. Three times. So far so good. She waits a bit more. Scrattchchchchchch. Yes, the long one. Good. The Chicken spreads his wings, raises his body high high high, and boom. He sits again. Good. Now the final touch. The moment of truth.

The Chicken extends his right wing to under his hays. He takes out a brown bottle. YC smiles knowingly. Then thud, thud, thud. He puts on three dabs of his oh-so-familiar-to-YC CADE youth concentrate lotion all over his face and body. Thumb. Another joyful dab for luck (The Chicken is very superstitious).

YC smiles very very widely. She runs, still very quietly, to the yard, where apparently the rest of the unwavering flock are sitting impatiently waiting for the verdict.

YC shows her face. Beak first, then the rest of the face. Smiling brightly. She does not have to say anything. The chickens know. Cute YC never lies. She is not able to (poor chick, may we suggest a quick lesson of life with Chick Tune). The wide smile says it all.

Y’all know what that means. Parrrr- teeeeeee!!! (we mean, party). The way only the chickens know. Led by the ones and only: Chick Tune and Big Bro Chicken. But the star of the party today is none other than yours truly: YC. Bring it on!

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