Sick chickens, music legends, and a newspaper pioneer are this week’s Magic Three
Three is a Magic Number by Steven Uhles
I try to be an optimist, but I’m not always particularly good at it. While intellectually I may find myself able to dissect, deconstruct and closely examine whatever downer is clouding up my blue skies, emotionally I often find it difficult to flush the disdain and disappointment that affects me when things don’t go as I believe they should.
For the most part I’m able to keep things under control, allowing frustration to manifest in fairly innocuous ways. I’ll pout a little. Perhaps I’ll mutter the odd obscenity. Once, when my mother made me mad, I indelicately indicated that I thought she was number one. My dad caught me and then taught me to curtail any birding I might foresee in my future. I’ve been known to yell – but not for long. I’ve been known to cry – but not often. I manage – mostly – to keep it on the sunny side of the street.
Still, I feel it in my gut when things don’t live up to expectations, affect my quality of life, or bring distress to those around me. I don’t bury my pain, but I do try to reason it out of existence.
I’ve been thinking about disappointment a lot this week. Not because I was necessarily feeling it, but because I feel like as we step away (I hope) from our unusually stormy season, a lot of people are trending more bummer than bright. I count myself among them.
Now, a more empathetic correspondent might use this opportunity to sprinkle a little lightness. I think I’m going to go the other direction, like a firefighter who lights small fires to keep the larger ones from spreading. This week’s Magic Three looks at a trifecta of stories that, quite frankly, left me a little disappointed.
I am an egg man

I went into the grocery store last week only to discover that every carton of eggs, with the exception of a single sleeve of quail eggs, was gone. I didn’t really matter, because with the way things have been going, I probably could not have afforded them anyway.
A lot of people have blamed rising egg prices on the economy, and while it may have some effect, it wasn’t the real issue. The real issue was sick chickens.
We don’t hear much about the various strains of avian flu because, quite frankly, that sounds like a bird problem. Except it is not a bird problem. It is a breakfast problem. Egg production is down because of restrictions placed on chicken farms – both large and small – in the United States. Those in the know are fending off an epidemic, a task made more daunting by the fact chickens won’t wear masks.
This is proving particularly problematic in Georgia, where three cases of Avian Influenza – bird flu – have been confirmed since the beginning of the year. Two have been in commercial poultry operations. In an effort to limit exposure without thinning the flocks, the Georgia Department of Agriculture has mandated that the sale of chickens at auction, flea markets, or other livestock markets is suspended. Additionally, any exhibitions, shows, swaps, or other poultry parties have been cancelled until the chickens start feeling a little better.
It seems fair, I suppose. I just wish it wouldn’t affect buying $7-a-dozen eggs. I want an omelet.
What’s disappointment got to do with it?

It’s hard not to love the late, great Tina Turner. Her story was inspirational. Her music was exceptional. Her spirit was undeniable. She was the sort of star that shines far too rarely. I count myself as a fan. That makes what I’m about to report much more difficult.
A lost song, reportedly recorded for Turner’s comeback “Private Dancer” album, was recently rediscovered and released.
It’s not good.
Entitled ‘Hot For You Baby,’ it details how Turner was hot for some baby. Presumably not an actual baby. I think I understand why this was left off the record. Turner, particularly during this period of her solo career, was a remarkable and complicated artist. Not only did her powerful performance style engage audiences on a purely visceral level, but the songs revealed hard truths about what it meant to be a woman, a survivor, and a success in a world dominated by men.
“Hot For You Baby” doesn’t seem to address any of those things.
It’s well-produced and certainly a treat to hear Tina’s voice, then in its soulful rock prime, one last time. I just wish the song had felt more meaningful and less like a catcall to the titular baby.
Friendly neighborhood Schneiderman

My earliest days were marked by a matched set of misconceptions. The first was that I would be well-served to follow in the footsteps of Hunter S. Thompson. I still admire his work, but to try and mimic his style and, more specifically his lifestyle, would have been a mistake. Singular writers like Thompson need no acolytes and I’m glad I swerved early.
The second was that I would one day write for David Schneiderman. That one would have been great.
Schneiderman ran the show at The Village Voice for more than 25 years. While at the tiller, he managed to transform the legendarily iconoclastic New York newspaper into a truly respected publication without ever sacrificing its outsider edge. It was, by choice, never going to be The New York Times. It would, however, be the paper that held the Times accountable. The Voice watched the watchdog.
More than that, however, the Voice was a cultural canon, the place readers went to discover what was artful, interesting, experimental, and cool before America’s accelerated culture came in and diluted. That was what appealed to me and I, naively, saw Schneiderman as the auteur behind the paper’s coverage choices.
David Schneiderman died Friday, January 24 in Edmonds, Washington. Schneiderman’s tenure as editor at The Village Voice ended in 1985 when he was named publisher. He remained associated with the paper, in various roles, until 2006. The paper itself ceased publication in 2017 – one of many publications that couldn’t quite pivot into the digital age.
I think I would have liked to work at Schneiderman’s version of the Voice. I know it would have made me proud. I always felt like that particular paper had the best balance of what I thought newspapers were particularly well-suited to offer – the news people need and the stories people want. That was the Schneiderman model and it guides me still.
Who knows, maybe I am writing for David Schneiderman.