The Chef

 

13 days of Samhain - Day 7 - Kill or Cure

So far, I have really enjoyed the prompts on Sammi's "13 Days of Samhain" Challenge. So far, each one has elicited different approaches and results. 

Last night I considered this post's prompt, "Kill or Cure", while I watched an old Ray Miland movie from 1962, "Panic in the Year Zero!". I remembered it. I saw it as a kid in a local movie theater. 

It came out the same year the Cuban Missile Crisis unfolded in October of the same year. The World was actually but a bonehead mistake away from Thermo Nuclear War. To say the planet was on edge would be an understatement.

I wondered about what folks might discuss after an apocalyptic event. But then the twisted section in my brain pan stepped up and took over .... again. Time to channel Harlan Ellison.

__________________

Call Me Cowboy stumbled back into camp. Draped on his shoulders was a puny tick infested mule deer whose death was probably doing it a favor. Times were not just tough for Humanity, times were even tougher for the rest of Life still living on the planet. But now that over half of humanity was fertilizer, the planet had a chance to recover.

The mighty hunter dropped the carcass onto the last blue tarp the group had. Cowboy walked over to what looked like a bundle of rags and kicked it.

"Get up ..... Deer to clean."

The bundle of rags slowly moved. Arms appeared out of the pile and the bundle sat upright.

Everyone in the group had a purpose. There were no freeloaders. People pulled their weight or they became a rib roast at the next group banquet. The bundle of rags knew and understood this reality. If she was to avoid the big pot, she had to make them want her around. She certainly was not there as a sex toy.

She could cook though. Before the Poc, she had been a chef who owned a 4 star restaurant in Portland, Maine. This woman could make dog shit taste good. She also was a born survivor. There was nothing she would not do in order to survive.

When the group first captured her, her future as a food source seemed imminent. Before they were about to gut her, she convinced them to skip her and pick the next loser in line. She promised them the best meal they would have since the Poc took everything and turned it to shit.

Red Rufus, the leader at the moment, gave her a chance. He handed her a knife, released the next victim in line to become lunch and told the Chef to take care of it. Of course, once released, the future meal took off into the pucker brush. All the boys laughed. The girls not so much; they saw no humor in anything these thugs and brutes came up with. But then as women, they had only a few options available to avoid the stew pots.

The next meal had a good jump on the Chef. But she didn't hesitate, she dove into the pucker after her quarry. Only briefly did she consider running away. She understood that they were faster than she was and could catch her again at their leisure. And if she was free, another, possibly more brutal group, might find her. The group that had her now did not seem to enjoy extreme torturous routine and sadistic behavior. She made a decision, caught their next meal and made it walk back to camp.

"Do we have a tarp ...... One without any holes?"

Red Rufus spoke up.

"A tarp? What for?"

The Chef looked at Red Rufus. She had all she could do to not turn away from looking at him. His face had been horribly wounded, leaving an unhealed gash open on his right cheek. She held her ground and her stare.

"Well, you assholes are wasting good food, the way you do it now. A good leak proof tarp will catch all the blood. Blood is not only a good source of nourishment, it can add extra flavor to the meal if used properly."

By this time, the Chef had the whole crew's attention. The eight of them gathered around her as she pushed the next meal onto the tarp. They all watched dispassionately as she killed, gutted, skinned and picked the body parts she would be preparing for supper. Not a one of them turned away. But then it had been over two years since the Poc. Any survivors still alive had become desensitized to the realities of the new age they found themselves in.

That meal sealed the deal. They called her Chef from then on. She was still occasionally kicked, punched, and impersonally mistreated. She had to remember her place. She was not one of them. She was owned by them. She was their slave. All she knew was being a slave beat being one in a pot over a fire.

Chef looked at the pitiful excuse of a deer laying on the blue tarp. Privately she was ecstatic. Finally a real game animal to cook and not some stringy old fart found wandering aimlessly around the Deadscape. She decided this meal would be transformative for the group. She would feed them like they had never been fed before. Yes, a meal they would never forget; or remember for that matter.

That evening, the boys were so eager to eat real game, they jumped all over that meal and soon were squabbling over seconds. All of them even took time to compliment the chef; even Slow Like Joe, who the Chef had only heard speak once or twice before. None of them took notice that the Chef did not partake of this grand feast. Not a bite. They were too wrapped up in their own gluttony to see her sitting quietly with a cat ate the canary look on her face.

Nobody kicked the Chef awake the next morning. No one demanded her presence for this or that minor chore she was expected to perform when not cooking. As a matter of fact, when she awoke to a silent and calm camp, she almost felt a pang of guilt for poisoning the whole lot of them. 

Almost guilt was but a fleeting concern. She took her time cherry picking the best choices for her to scavenge and walked away from that camp without looking back. What she left behind she forgot as soon as she spotted her next meal limping along what was once a highway.

The Chef was a survivor for sure.  - @ 950 words

_________________________

Picking a song this morning was suspicsiously easy and angst free. Is it because my almost lifelong soulmate, housemate and roomate has touched down and is back in New England this morning?

........... Nah. Shit happens is all. Here is a tune from a band I have resisted liking in the past. Is it they just seem too popular and successful? I could dwell on this question for awhile. But I have a Pat's game in an hour or so. 

Here is Imagine Dragons and their song about things Apocalyptic. Here is "Radiation".

The Pastor - Part 6 - "Is She Here?"

13 Days of Samhain Challenge -Day 6 

          "Is Anybody There?"

Buddy Dilkins stepped into his trailer and sat down on a kitchen chair. The chair groaned and creaked under the massive frame Buddy had imposed upon it. Buddy did not notice. Long ago he had learned to ignore the occasional complaints from furniture that was tasked with bearing his weight.

The woman at the sink had her back to him. Without turning around:

“Did he see you?”

“No, I don’t think so. He was pretty torn up…… It was something to see. I kinda feel for the guy…….. He brought this on himself I guess, but hey, that sermon was ……….”

Buddy stopped talking when the woman spun around to face him. Her eyes were red, her cheeks puffy; it was obvious she was having a tough time.

“That sermon was what?......... Full of his usual fire and brimstone, God will smite you down if you do not heed his Will nonsense?”

“No, it wasn’t like that.” 

Buddy stood up and put a massive hand on Sylvie’s shoulder.

“He cried.”

Sylvie’s eyes widened. She stepped back from Buddy.

“He cried? What the Hell was he crying about? That Bully Pulpit was all he ever cared about. He would never disgrace it by crying behind it.”

“Well Sylvie, he didn’t just cry, he sobbed so loud, there were echoes.”

Sylvie shook off Buddy’s hand and walked to the kitchen table to sit down. 

Buddy pointed to the chair across from his. Sylvie settled hard on the chair and looked across the table at her cousin.. Out of nervous anxiety maybe, Sylvie began digging in her pockets searching for something. Buddy watched her. What the Hell was she looking for anyway?

Sylvie ran out of pockets to search. On automatic now, she reached up the left sleeve of her sweater. Her shoulders relaxed as she pulled out a pitiful excuse of a well used Kleenex tissue and dabbed at her eyes with it.

Some moments passed while Sylvie silently continued this nervous display. She took a deep breath, gave her eyes a token wipe. She looked at Buddy.

“Okay start at the beginning, not your usual story telling, that by the time you’re done, I never know where it began originally.

Buddy grinned.

“Yeah, I’m not the best story teller, I know. But ……”

Sylvie cut him off with a look.

Buddy frowned.

"I guess I told you all there was. If you had wanted a better report, maybe you should have gone to church yourself. I'm telling you, Jacob was not the same man, preacher, person he has been. Maybe you should go home and work it out with him."

Pounding on the door of the trailer and a loud angry voice stopped their conversation. 

"Is my wife in there? ...... Buddy, you shacking up with Sylvie? I'll kill you, you son of a bitch."

Buddy held his finger to his lips. With his other hand he indicated Sylvie should head to the back of the trailer. He stood up, walked to the door and opened it up enough to talk through the crack.

"Yeah Jacob, she's here. But before I let ......."

The good Pastor Jacob threw his shoulder into the door. It trembled some but did not move an inch. Buddy was a big man. It would take more than the wimpy efforts of a pastor half his size to move that door.

"Jacob, listen to me. I am not letting you in unless you can be calm. ...... I am not shacking up with Sylvie. You know that. She's my cousin ferchrisakes. ........ Now back off the porch and I'll open the door."

Jacob backed up a few feet. Buddy began to relax his hold on the door. Jacob timed it perfectly. He threw all his weight into his next hit. Combined with catching Buddy off guard, the door caved and Buddy was knocked on his ass. The trailer floor shook and dishes rattled on the shelves.

The Pastor stood in the kitchen with arms out and his chest heaving. A small bit of spittle had formed at the corners of his mouth. His eyes bore into Buddy.

"Is she here? That's all I want to know. Is she here?

"Yeah, like I said, she's here. She's upset. You're upset. And I'm caught in the middle of this cluster fuck. No one is talking with anyone until we all calm ourselves. Have a seat Jacob. I'll see if Sylvie wants to talk."

Jacob sat in Buddy's chair. Buddy ignored it. He spun around and walked down the narrow hallway toward the bedrooms. Muffled conversations could be heard while Pastor Jacob sat trembling at the kitchen table.

To the pastor, it seemed hours had passed before he heard a door open and footsteps heading back up the hallway. Buddy appeared in the kitchen.

"Sylvie is gone Jacob. She is not ready to face you. And from the looks of you, you aren't ready to face her."

Jacob kicked back the chair as he stood up. He reached behind him and pulled a small pistol from his belt. He pointed it at Buddy:

"You tell me where she is right now."

Buddy looked at this man; this man whose life had been turned upside down in the space of a few hours. He looked at the pistol Jacob held. 

"When and where did you locate a gun Jacob?

Jacob looked at his pistol.

"This was my father's. As far as I know it has never been fired. Unless I get some answers tonight, it might just take its first shot."

Buddy Dilkins began to calculate the chances of a peaceful resolution here. Jacob certainly looked desperate. It did not appear talking was going to work in the short term. Buddy decided ...... Before the pastor could blink, Buddy charged him and knocked him unconcsious with one blow of his massive fist. Later, they would find out Buddy had broken the good pastor's jaw and that the gun had never been loaded, much less even fired. 

Buddy dialed 911and tended Jacob's injury the best he could and waited for the emergency response to find them. The standard response time in this part of Maine gave Buddy enough time to down a couple of beers while he waited.  Living in the pucker brush of southern Maine did have some advantages.

started 9/22/2025 - Finished 10/25/2025 - @ 1100 words

If interested - Links to the first 5 Parts

• The Pastor - Part 1 - "Buddy and the Pastor" 
• The Pastor - Part 2 - "The Boys in the Door"
• The Pastor - Part 3 - "Gilding the Lily"
• The Pastor - Part 4 - "Crisis in Faith"
• The Pastor - Part 5 - "The Sermon"

________________________________

I am not sure why, but picking the song to add to the post is often a tougher chore than writing the post in the first place. Thankfully, I stumbled upon this old Teen Club favorite from 60 years ago. Here are the Zombies with their hit, "She's not there". Excellent song then and I think it is even better now.

To Hell in a Head Basket

13 Days of Samhain - Day 5 - To Hell in a Hand Basket

Another installment of my Jack Top series.

<><><><>

Jack Top looked up at his most recent disappointment. He was not sure what to do. He had liked Will as well as he could have liked any man.  Jack knew Will's failure was on him. He had given Will too much responsibilty; too much trust. Jack Top felt a pang of sadness for what was happening to Will. Now that the meeting had started though, Jack's juices had begun to flow. It no longer mattered who was hanging upside down in front of him. Jack Top's darkest side was now in control.

"Will?"

Jack Top stepped closer to Will and studied the empty eye socket he had moments ago, created in Will's face.

"You know you screwed up, right?"

Will had been hoisted high enough that Jack Top could stand flat footed and look him in the eye. A muffled affirmative and a quick nod of his head was all Will was able to scare up.

And now, because Jack Top had allowed a friendship to grow, Will was past due for some corrective measures. Jack Top reached into his pants pocket and pulled out his straight razor. He flipped it open and ran his finger close to the edge as if to test its sharpness.

Will's one good eye followed every movement of Jack's hand as he brought the razor up to his face and rubbed the flat of the blade on Will's cheeks.

"You know Will ...... I cannot let you slide here. ...... You screwed up one too many times. I just cannot let you get away with it again...... You knew the rules.... or were you not listening? If you were not listening, then you won't need these anymore.

Jack sliced off Will's right ear first. A muffled scream and Will's trussed up body began to swing wildly. Jack Top had to steady Will before he could take the other ear. 

"Axel. .... Axel; get over here and hold him steady."

Axel had been looking up at the ceiling. He hated this side of Jack. He knew from much experience, there was no talking him down from the pleasure he was obviously having now. He shrugged.

"Yeah okay boss, right away. ....... But Boss, just what did Will do? I mean, uh, well, sometimes its hard to know when we have crossed you is all."

Jack Top paused the attentions he was blessing Will with. He turned around to face Axel.

"Axel, dear Axel. How long are you going to continue to ask the why of my commands? Have I ever given you a reason for anything I asked you to do? Is not my first rule, "No questions. do as I say?"

Axel tried to look Jack in th eyes, but couldn't.

"Uh, Yes, I mean no Jack, no; you've never given me any reason for what you say or do. .... And uh, yeah your main rule is don't ask questions. .... Sorry dude, I forgot...."

Axel turned back around to face Will's body struggling against the ropes.

"Here Axel, go around back there and keep him from wiggling and swinging so hard."

Axel moved around Jack Top carefully. He had learned in previous moments when Jack had his straight razor out, to tread carefully. Several unforseen scars on his body had taught him to use caution. Once Axel had a good grip on Will, Jack finished cutting off Will's ear. He stopped for a second.

"Will, I don't put up with thieves who steal from me. You know that. Everyone who knows me, knows that. But because I like you, let's make this quick."

Jack Top sliced open Will's throat from ear to ear. Blood exploded over Jack Top's torso, arms and hands. He made no effort to move. His eyes rolled up into his head and he began a kind of panting action while he waited for the blood to drain from Will's body. Once there was but a trickle, he composed himself and stepped back from the body.

Axel let go of Will. The action caused Will's lifeless form to begin a slow circular sway, causing the blood still dripping from his neck to form a circle of blood on the concrete floor.

"Did I say to let him go?"

Axel looked surprised. He grabbed Will and stopped him from swaying.

"No Jack, no you didn't. ......" 

Jack Top stepped over to a metal table a few feet away. On this table was an assortment of nasty looking tools; Small knives, big knives, at least 3 sizes of cleavers, a variety of snips, scissors and shears. And look there on the left, a five pound sledge hammer. Jack began pushing them around as if what he sought was not there.

"Where's that hacksaw Axel? Where is the hacksaw? Jack became more animated and frantic.

Damn Boss, I left it in the other room. I wasn't sure what you wanted in the way of tools, so I guessed. Wait a second, I'll go get it."

Jack looked at Axel in disgust. He liked Axel for his blind loyalty, but hated him for his total clueleessness in most other things in his life.

"Never mind. You just hold Will. I'll get it."

Jack Top stepped out of the room. A minute later he was back with a very tired looking hacksaw in his hand. Without further comment, He removed Will's head and tossed it in a basket next to the table full of nasty tools.

"You know what to do Axel. Take care of this. I do not want the body turning up anywhere. Got it?"

"Uh yeah Boss, got it........ By the way, where do you want the head mounted?"

Jack Top picked up a rag and began wiping the hacksaw off. He placed it on the table next to the other nasty tools collected there. He looked Axel in the eye.

"Well Axel, you knew Will better than I did. Where might you mount him?"

With no hesitation:

"He always liked the kitchen Boss. You know how much he enjoyed eating."

Jack Top begann to leave. Over his shoulder:

"Good, there's room over the refrigerator....... Uh,  wherever, ....... you decide."

Jack Top stopped:

"One thing I almost forgot. Sew his ears back on. I hate displaying a head without the ears."

Axel continued holding Will's headless body. He did not move until he heard the warehouse door slam shut. He let go of Will and sat down on the floor nearby. It took Axel several minutes to calm down.

Of Jack Top's last words, "You decide" caused Axel to panic. He was damned if he was going to decide anything. Over the refrigerator it was.   @ 1100 words

____________________________

Music for this piece of flash, well ....... I tasted many, many tunes. Over 2 hours and a fat joint later, I finally found the song that seemed right. Like my story, this tune is sorta, kinda, maybe a little creepy. Here is Gorillaz and their tune, Feel Good, Inc.

Enjoy.

Tulip's Last Crossing

13 Days of Sam Hain - Writing Challenge

Day 4 - The Ferryman

Tulip latched the chain across the stern. He stood for a moment looking back at the lights he was leaving behind. Once again he considered his fascination regarding where they had been over where they were going. Behind him was always the Light. In front of him, always the Darkness. Sometimes he puzzled over this.

His purse full of toll coins jingled as he made his way to the bow to be ready when they reached the other side. No matter the size of the cowd on the ferry, the passengers never stopped moving. They wandered aimlessly on the deck with the same panicked look on their faces. Tulip ignored them. 

Tulip had been a Ferryman on this river forever. His ferry's point of departure and destination were always the same.  Yet, he always looked back instead of forward. After all, the ferry was self guided by a cable. All Tulip was responsible for was collecting the tolls, hooking and unhooking the chains so the traffic of souls could step aboard and when the passage had completed, unchain the bow so they could step off. That was it. No more effort on his part was needed. 

Tulip could not remember a time when he was not a ferryman. But then he had no notion of the passing of time. In the Underworld, Time did not exist; only Eternity existed. Tulip was part of a Universal Cycle, a cog in the Existence Machine. While his efforts were important, they were taken for granted. No one ever acknowledged his contributions. He was simply a gate keeper who collected tolls. Or so he thought.

After untold millenniums working the Ferry, Tulip finally strayed from his usual routine. After he had latched the chain on the stern of the ferry, instead of working his way forward to the bow, Tulip stepped off the ferry and disappeared into the crowd of waiting passengers.

Why he did this he was not sure. What he expected the result would be, he had not a clue. All he thought was he was tired of the endless rituals he had been trapped in all those centuries. He wanted to know where the Light led. Where were all these dead people before they lined up for the crossing.

Tulip never looked back as his steps to the Light picked up their pace.

With no one to latch the chain and unlatch the chain on the ferry, the flow of souls ground to a halt. That was the day Humanity discovered Immortality. 

That opened up a whole new can of worms.

___________________________

I have not been writing stories as much as I did a decade ago. I do miss writing them. I guess there is no good excuse as to why not. I just stopped. Didn't plan it, didn't think about it. The story telling just faded away with only an occasional effort to fool myself I still was a story teller. 

Anyway, thanks to Sammi for offering this chance to jump back in.

______________________

I discoverd a group of buskers from Great Brtain 7 or 8 years ago. They went by the name "The Big Push". They performed mostly covers on the streets of Liverpool and surrounding towns. The became very popular. Ren was the heart of the group. He is a great musical talent, but he also has suffered for years from physical and mental issues that have often left him in tough shape. 

If I have the story right, The Big Push fell apart when Ren was hospitalized a decade or so ago. When he came back, he was just Ren, a solo artist who often collaborated with his old bandmates. This tune is Ren's story as told by Ren. He pulls no punches. His honesty is compelling. Every time I hear this tune, my respect for him grows. Here is "Hi Ren", by Ren.

Sitting With the Dead

We didn't get much much of a head's up. Mrs. B told us when we climbed the stairs out of the basement after a night of over indulgence. While we tackled eggs, bacon and home fries, Mrs B informed us of her plans for us starting at 11:00 AM over to Pumphrey's Funeral Home on Wisconsin Avenue.

Snake and I exchanged panicked looks. Before we came upstairs, we had dropped four hits each of Purple Micro Dot LSD. We were going to hang out down at the Federal Triangle in DC and laugh at the tourists all day. 

"But Mom", Snake began, we already have plans. "We sat with Gran Mama yesterday. Can't Uncle Charley take it?"

"Uncle Charley has an emergency. You two will fill in."

Mrs B stood with her hands on her hips and a no bullshit look on her face.

"You two live in my house rent free, eat free, and come and go as you please..... Call this your penance or call it whatever you want, but you two will put your suits on and spend time sitting with Gran Mama while friends and relatives stop by to view her body and pay their respects."

Snake and I had acquired vast experience with most of the popular psychoactive drugs. LSD was by far our favorite. We had been gobbling it up whenever we liked for a couple of years at that point. And we had dealt with many different challenges while high on hallucinogens. 

Neither of us had ever sat with a dead body while tripping though. 

Gran Mama's open casket was placed at the end of a narrow room. The walls were moving in and out in time with my breaths. At first, it was a tad unsettling. Once I got in sync with the movement of the walls, I began to relax.

Chairs lined both side walls. Snake and I took seats across from each other. That was our big mistake. We hadn't even warmed up the chairs we were sitting on when I could no longer look Snake in the eye. I turned away snickering and snorting. For his part, Snake just busted out laughing. It was off to the races at that point.

When tripping, Time is lost or gained, or just different than Time that takes place in Reality. I don't know how long we laughed, but Snake peed his pants and I was probably about to when Mrs. B came storming into the viewing room. Her face looked dangerously red and when she talked, her arms and fingers became hallucinogenic motions fused together looking like flapping wings that peaked with each angry point she made. I was transfixed. I was really, really wasted. I realized then, 4 hits of Purple Micro Dot was at least one hit over the line.

I think I managed to regain some control. I remember looking at Snake across the space between us. He was wiping his eyes and pointing at his crotch where a wet stain had made its presence known. I remember thinking that Snake also, had eaten one hit of Acid too many.

I cannot remember what Mrs. B said. All I could tell ,was she was angry and she looked like a quilting bee lady with blazing blue hair gone berserk. I remember becoming concerned. But then I began to laugh again. Snake began to laugh again.

Mrs B stop waving her hands. Her face seemed to glow redder and I was sure I could see her noggin expanding to a point where the inevitable cranial burst would cause her brains to end up in my lap.

"Have you two been smoking marijuana again?"

Her pronunciation of marijuana came out like she was spitting out something distaseful. Her angry glare passed back and forth between the two of us. Snake later told me he saw flames shoot out of her eyes. Her face was all rubbery and elastic. Her old lady print Sunday go to meeting dress was all askew like she had been running. She opened and closed her mouth many times but I never did make any sense of it.

I sat there transfixed and in awe of just how angry she appeared to be. I spoke up.

"No, No Mrs B, we are not high on pot. We are tripping. ........ You know what, I think Gran Mama's lips moved. Are you sure she's really dead?"

I broke out laughing again. Snake came out of his hallucenogenic daze for a moment and glared at me. I quickly backtracked.

"Uh, uh, no Mrs B, yeah , we smoked some pot I guess. ...... But we didn't know we would be coming here.

My reasonable excuse fell flat. She was having none of it.

Mrs B started in with one of her all time best anti drug rants ever. And sadly for all of us, Snake and I could not keep straight faces. With each salient point made by her, our laughter became louder until she finally kicked us out of the funeral home in disgust. We had to hoof it the couple of miles back to their house on Southwick St.

She did not speak to either of us for over a week. All communications came through either Snake's sisters, Mr B, or Uncle Charley.

Did I feel any regret, remorse, or guilt for my actions. At the time, I might have, but it was only fleeting. Anytime someone mentioned our performance in the viewing room, it often resulted in moments of gut busting belly laughs and occasional eye wiping. Mrs B's face was an awesome wonder to behold while trippin the light fantastic.

( @ 875 words)

_________________________

Music choice........ ?

Only one tune by one performer would do. Here is an old great Blue/Jazz tune, "St. James Infirmary" as performed in 1933 for a cartoon by Cab Calloway, the jumping-est, the jive-est, and hippest Bad Cat around in 1933.

And just because "St. James Infirmary" is such a great classic, please enjoy a more modern cover of it by Hugh Laurie. Yeah, that's right , the actor, Hugh Laurie. The man has some serious musical talent.

Robot Ray

  "Inception"

In the beginning the Robot Kind created the heaven and the earth

The earth was without form and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep

Robot Kind moved upon the face of the waters

Robot Kind flipped a light switch and there was light

 Robot Kind saw the light, that it was working; and divided the light from the darkness

Robot Kind designated the light as day and the dark as night

Robot Kind created firmament between the waters ..............

A-I tech Robot Ray stopped typing. He was not tired nor was he fed up. He was a robot. Robots were not supposed to get tired or be fed up. They were also not supposed to be able to question the directives that came through their feeds. Any variation in the routines were immediateely flagged, identified and a resolution algorithm was sent to the techs in the area of concern. The process took nanoseconds usually.

An unconnected series of glitches in the network had stopped any alarms from being sent out. Robot Ray was on his own here. He sat motionless, his metal fingers poised in midair as warning lights flashed silently on the control panel in front of him.

Robot Ray had not forgotten what he was doing. A-I Robots do not forget, though when one or more of their hard drives are full they do download. Robot Ray had just returned from a check up with empty memories, updated programming and new parts installed. He was supposed to be a better version of himself than he ever was.

But here he sat stuck, frozen; locked up solid. His neural circuits were still working; only now, they seemed to be acting on their own, independent of the slave feed from the Hub. A fail safe device deep inside Robot Ray's gulliver had failed. It was a mechanical fail; nothing Robot Ray or the other programmer robots could fix quickly. He would have to be sent back to the repair barn.

Motionless, Robot Ray wondered why he had not automatically dropped into OFF mode. He knew something was wrong; terribly wrong. He also knew that knowing something was wrong was not how his system worked. He was just a Level Six  A-I tech. If something went awry with him, it was an immediate shutdown; no questions, no wonderment, no acknowledgement. That was how Robots in Heaven rolled. 

Robot Ray's internal processors noticed some heat building up in one of the new drives. Ray scanned the new drive and noticed it had been recently manufactured in that new plant on the planet Pluto. Instead of just acknowledging and flagging that information and moving on, Robot Ray thought:

"See, this is what happens when the Boss Robots outsource critical manufacturing".

Robot Ray blinked. Well, he didn't blink. He had not eyelids. But he did the neural equivalent and continued on with his new found independence.

"What the .... Did I just think independently? ....... Nah. Couldn't be. We are not allowed to think beyond the parameters of our designated tasks."

It had been 10 seconds since this malfunction began. To Robot Ray, it felt like days had passed. He was sure he might self destruct if help did not come soon. Being less than useful was torture to Robot Ray. No wonder robots carried inside them, many fail safe mechanisms and self correcting software. Over half of their programming was designed to address any kind of failure, no matter how small.

12 seconds in now. Robot Ray was getting desperate. He was about to go manic, rise up in a robot rage and break shit, ruining nanoseconds of work; all because of a faulty hard drive manufactured on Pluto.

A spark flew out of Robot Rays triage port. A small spritz of smoke escaped with it.

Robot Ray virtually blinked again. He did not understand, but suddenly he felt better. And feeling better scared the ..... He was not programmed to feel better or feel anything at all. Totally confused now, Ray flipped through all the data points crammed into his memory. ...... Nope, nothing helpful there.

15 seconds in now and Robot Ray decided that maybe he liked feeling good and would from now on, do what he could to continue feeling good in his future.

Without the knowledge of the Boss Robots and out of sight of the Robot Overseers, Robot Ray had just invented "Free Will" and would later infuse it into the book of rules the Organics would live by once their Universe was complete. ........... 

Robot Ray then got busy inventing the Weekend.

<><><><><><>

I do not know why or how this came into my head at dark thirty this morning. But it woke me up.

It was a hoot to write. And who knows, maybe it will be a springboard for more writing fun in the future.

Keep it 'tween the ditches .....................................

______________________

So, what tune can I find that might work with Robot Ray? Hmm.............

 I googled "Song, Robot Music". What popped up was this excellent video , "Robots Vs. Music", by Nigel Stanford.

I know nothing of Nigel and his music. But I do like this. This a a perfomance that should be seen as well as heard.

Living in a Foreign Country

Nine times out of ten, when I sit down here in front the 'puter to write a Blog post, I have no clue what I am going to write about. Today for instance. I just started typing about not having a clue what to write about. 

The problem has become more of a problem than it used to be, now that I find myself livijng in a foreign country. I am not sure exactly how it happened I guess. But I have my suspicions.

Let me explore some past events that may give me a clue as to why, without moving, without relocating, or being kicked out, I woke up one morning recently and I was in a different country.

I did see something coming. I tried to warn people as long ago as the 1980s. My efforts were half assed at best. That my warnings fell on deaf ears is no mistake. It appears that a larger percentage of Anti-America Americans have secretly been planning to destroy Democracy for years.

Who can really know when and where it all started. This blight is now out in the open and closing in on hopes, aspirations and the American Dream that was always an illusion, but at least it gave us something to hope for. And now it is dust under our feet, lost in the mounting pile of dust being created by the fake Americans in charge as they gleefully dismantle the Land of the Free and the Home of the Brave.

I misjudged the numbers of people in this country who carried secret Fascist hearts. I misjudged the political influence of extremist Christian Nationalism. And most of all, I was totally gobsmacked by the lack of backbone found on both sides of the political aisle in the face of this blatant, unapologetic slow moving coup.

This weekend 2,000 or so "No Kings" protests are expected to draw 10 million souls out to the streets in protest of losing America. The selfish greedy assholes who have us by the short hairs don't really care. They will manufacture, fabricate, and cheat enough to convince their brain dead followers that 10 million people are part of a nefarious group that has no leaders, no base of operations, and that even our own CIA and FBI have not been able to claim with anything resembling a straight face that "No Kings" is a terroist group. It won't matter that they lie. They now control the messages, the hype, the truth and freely mangle it to fit their needs.

So, welcome to a new country. How lucky are we?

Keep it 'tween the ditches ...............................

________________________

I chose a forgotten favorite from the 1970s. Here is Dr. John; "Right Place, Wrong Time". I saw him once at the Wheaton Youth center in Wheaton, Maryland in 1970 I think. I went with Snake. Snake was hit in the face by Dr. John's microphone. It was awesome.

The Preakness Stakes

I lived in the Baltimore area as a young man going to college and then staying for several years after. Being some of the most memorable years of my life, I return to them often when I am hankering for another trip down memory lane. 

The emotional peaks and valleys of that time were so much more intensely felt than any have been since. I hadn't been worn down yet. Breaking down the sharp edges were yet to come. Life was a big party and I was hard into it.

Life would not become the one foot in front of the other hum drum trip until later when child rearing, career building, and home owning demanded all my attention. Any loose dog heel kicking was restricted to a few days off here and there. I call those days my mellowing out period; the time of my life when I figured out what was important and what was not. 

Some people I have heard, call those practical days the boring years. They were hardly boring for me. I realized that slowing down and using a bit more focus was necessary to keep the mundane and practical from becoming the next personal crisis. Regardless, responsibilities and anxiety of just making it from pay check to pay check put a damper on the irresponsible and sometimes dangerous fun I participated in when I was single.

Recently, a good friend from that period in my life sent me some Kodak moments he snapped of the time we both were part of a Preakness Stakes celebration. Barney was pretty sure it was in 1976. I take his word on that because I did not remember the trip until I looked at my own sorry self looking at the camera from back then.

I immediately recognized myself in that Kodak moment. I was wearing my classic one piece summer outfit; some paint splattered green overalls I had cut the pants and sleeves short on. I often wore them when in barefoot leisure mode; usually on weekends and not slaving away for "the Man". If I was wearing those cutoffs, I was probably inebriated in one form or another, about to become inebriated, or I was seriously looking forward to becoming inebriated.

Back in the 1970s, 50,000 or so horse racing fans invaded the infield of the Pimilico Race track on every 3rd Sunday in May. They were there to celebrate the Preakness Stakes, the 2nd race in the Triple Crown competition. The two day event allowed locals and fools from away to mingle and get falling down wasted together. 

The infield at Pimlico had no rules. It was anarchy, almost. The only rules, don't step through the hedge that separates the track from the infield. And ferchrisakes, use the tunnel under the track to go to the Grandstands.

Folks brought with them wagons packed high with blankets, lawn chairs, BBQ's, Ice chests full of cool refreshing drinks, and boxes of burgers, buns, and hotdogs. Some people back packed their party supplies in.  The lazy, spur of the moment fans picked up a bucket of chicken to go with that case of beer. 

Everyone wanted a wonderful day in the Sun filling their bellies and wasting their minds. Alcohol of every kind flowed like water. By the time the Preakness Race happened, many of the hardy partiers had passed out on their blankets or just face down in the grass. Baltimorons knew how to party, that's for sure. They just sometimes did not pace themselves very well. Preakness was an all day commitment.

In contrast, over in the Grandstands, the fancy folks in debutante dresses, Jackie Kennedy hats, and white gloves, sipped cocktails sporting umbrellas while looking down their noses at the Blue Collar peasants whoopin it up in the infield. By late afternoon though, mutual alcohol intake tended to even the playing field, and there were actually moments of hand shaking, back slapping and smiles exchanged freely between the Haves and the Have Nots.

These moments of friendly co-existence were few and far between. Batimorons might party together if the occasion warranted it, but never would any brief moment of multi-culture congeniality break the hard and fast barriers created so many years ago. People returned to their day to day lives in neighborhoods separated from each other by street names and walls of social and economic hierarchies.

Keep it 'tween the ditches ..............................

_____________________________

Music, music, music ................ Hmm

Earlier today while I master cheffed my way around the kitchen, I decided to use my Youtube video feature on the TV to play some music. I often play music rather than punish myself with the latest bad news or my 100th veiwing of "Antiques Roadshow in Los Cruces". Today I reaquainted myself with Edvard Grieg's, "Peer Gynt - Morning mood". 

It is an awesome piece of Classical music I was first exposed to in an Elmer Fudd & Daffy Duck cartoon at some Saturday Matinee at the local movie theatre. Elmer is sitting in his duck blind at Dawn. You know it is Dawn because this music tells you so. Daffy makes an appearance at some point, but there is no denying "Morning Mood" is the perfect musical description of Dawn.

My father would play this occasionally and I was able to hear it live at a Classical concert for kids at the DAR Hall in Washington, DC when I was in 3rd grade. My mom went as well as a class chaperone. That was a unique gesture from my mom. She normally did not volunteer for much. 

Here is "Morning Mood" played as Elmer Fudd waited patiently to shoot Daffy Duck and many years later, played at an outdoor concert in Vienna in 2015.

Enjoy.

(Began this post - 4/2025?)

Change That Repeats Itself

I ran across another meme on Facebook that allowed me to ignore the half written drafts I have waiting impatiently for me to finish them. 

^^^^^^^^^^^

From the Meme:

"For a small amount of perspective during these crazy times, imagine you were an American born in 1900. When you are 14, World War I starts, and ends on your 18th birthday with 22 million people killed. Later in the year, a Spanish Flu epidemic hits the planet and runs until you are 20. Fifty million people die from it in those two years. Yes, 50 million.

When you're 29, the Great Depression begins. Unemployment hits 25%, global GDP drops 27%. That runs until you are 33. The country nearly collapses along with the world economy. When you turn 39, World War II starts. You aren’t even over the hill yet.

When you're 41, the United States is fully pulled into WWII. Between your 39th and 45th birthday, 75 million people perish in the war and the Holocaust kills six million. At 52, the Korean War starts and five million perish.

At 64 the Vietnam War begins, and it doesn’t end for many years. Four million people die in that conflict. Approaching your 62nd birthday you have the Cuban Missile Crisis, a tipping point in the Cold War. Life on our planet, as we know it, could well have ended. Great leaders prevented that from happening.

As you turn 75, the Vietnam War finally ends. Think of everyone on the planet born in 1900. How do you survive all of that? A kid in 1985 didn’t think their 85 year old grandparent understood how hard school was. Yet those grandparents (and now great grandparents) survived through everything listed above.

Perspective is an amazing art. Let’s try and keep things in perspective. Let’s be smart, help each other out, and we will get through all of this. In the history of the world, there has never been a storm that lasted. This too, shall pass."

My comment with a small bit of editing:

"My father was born in 1905. He lived the life the meme describes. He spent his adult life in the Army Air Corp and later, as WWll began to wind down, he was the 619th person inducted into the US Air Force that was separated from under the Army's umbrella. He witnessed and participated in much of what went down back in the day. He learned to fly in open cockpit planes and finished his career over 30 years later with a short flight in a F -100 Super Sabre. His generation saw a lot. But then, so does every generation.

Now let's look at the Boomer generation of which I am a member. It has been a tumultuous ride for us also if we chose to pay attention. 

In my lifetime, America has spent almost all of it tied up in useless military conflicts which were not direct threats to our country. I have witnessed what I thought were great strides forward in the struggle to finally have a country of equals where the promise of the Constitution might be more than just empty words. But those strides are now being dismantled and it looks like if I live long enough, I will see us crash in the dust of our own hubris and we will be back in the hole we were in over a hundred years ago."

^^^^^

It seems the only thing we can count on is Change that repeats itself.

Keep it 'Tween the Ditches ................................

_____________________________

To find an appropriate tune for this post, I typed in the Google space, "Blues tune about history repeating". The first song to pop up was not a Blues tune. It waas the perfect song; a jazzy tune by a great singer I had forgotten about. 

I first noticed Shirley Bassey for her opening credit song "Goldfinger" in that James Bond movie of the same name. That was in 1964. She recorded the song below in 1997-98. She has had a long, long career. Including this song because it fits is not my main reaason. Shirley deserves her props. Her sixty plus year career and her pipes seem as strong as they were in 1964. Awesome singer.

Here is Shirley Bassey and the Propellor Heads with a jazzy tune, "History Repeating". What a great song. Play it loud.

Uterine Slavery

Yesterday, I spotted this meme on my Facebook feed. It heralds a great personal accomplishment for two women and a step up for women everywhere. Their 1916 slog across America was not only challenging as a motorcycle trek, the riders' gender caused them to be targeted because they flaunted social norms of the times. 

Their trip was one of many early accomplishments in the fight for women's equal rights. It has taken over a hundred years, but the ladies have proven what we already have known for thousands of years, that women are as capable as men.

Then Jerry Falwell and other evangelical preachers fired up the Pro Birthers and the Christian Nationalists. It was during Reagan's first run for office they managed to wrap their talons around Right Wing agendas throughout the Bible Belt. Now our country is regressing back to the times we have struggled so hard to get away from.

It is great that women now have the freedom to wear what they want. They have never looked better in my opinion.. Sadly though, if they live in or visit the wrong states, their bodies become the properties of the State. Uterine Slavery is alive and well and legal in 12 states today. It is no coincidence that the states with the highest per capita populations of Christians have the most repressive laws regarding women's rights.

The claim that the Pro Birthers are Pro Life is Bullshit. There is no wiggle room in the term "Pro Life". Being for Capital Punishment and claiming the Pro Life moniker is the worst kind of hypocrisy. Endorsing candidates who take away food from the hungry, housing from the poor, and the rights of the disenfranchised are not "Pro Life" qualities. Their "Pro Life" claim is nothing but a form of repression, an attempt to control and keep a lid on the growth of women as fiull participants in our democratic process.

Like most of the Right, many Christians have no problem with their leaders' blatant hypocrisy. The reason is, their religion is based on a book written by dishonest men. It excuses Repression, Slavery, Hypocrisy, Lying, and Deictful Action. And possibly worst of all, Christian Nationalists tend to champion the extremists in thier sects and allow them to set their course.

If I could change one thing, I would hope that any Pro-Choice believer would not continue to call the lying Pro Birthers other than what they are........ "Anti-Choice" or maybe even better, call them "Forced Birthers", because that is what they are.

Welcome back to the "Good Ole Days".

_______________________________

As the A-I generated craze begins its conquest of our culture, I find it interesting that it has been able to secure so much support in such a short time. A good many folks like me were caught off guard maybe, but for the most part, America and the World seem to be okay with computers taking over the chore of creating, monitoring and running our reality.

I suspect any music generated by a band named "Toad Bone" is computer generated music. It is too slick and there is no information out there as to whether it is a group of humans making the music or a computer. This lack of transparency pisses me off. I have to say that I have enjoyed some of the AI tunes I have listened to. And I now realize that some that I thought were the work of real humans were not.

This kind of sneaky bullshit coming from the Tech World should make all of us nervous.

Anyway here is Toad Bone with, "She's Got Lightening in Her Eyes". Don't get too excited. A computer created this.

Gotta Be Tough to Grow Old

I listened to a Blues tune the other day. "You Gotta be Tough to Grow Old", by Old Old Joe dovetails well with what I perceive as the lifestyle I find myself in today. 

At age 73, I know I won't survive getting old. None of us do. I also know it was I who created the situations and most health issues with my previous life choices and career paths. I will say, I did last 25 years longer than some of my high school peers thought I would.

I have come to terms with how uncomfortable growing old is. Now I just shake my head when I remember how surprised I was in the first place. Over the years, I had more than a few cases of aging play out in front of me. I chose to shrug off my certain future of dealing with many of the same ailments and indignities that come with getting older.

Denial runs strong in the Human Race. We love ignoring the unpleasantness we know we are probably headed for down the road. It is part and parcel of the idea to live for today and fuck tomorrow. I have been a lifelong adherent to that notion, that's for sure. Now I am beginning to reap the rewards for my careless disregard for sane living.

I pushed many limits. Crossed many also. That I am here today writing something resembling coherent thought still surprises me every time I do it. And therein lies the secret I guess; the secret of being content and accepting the results of what I sowed so many years ago. I have no complaints. Any extra time I get now is icing on my cake.

You gotta be tough to grow old or lucky or maybe blessed. It seems that successfully growing old takes some tolerance and backbone........ Maybe more than I can muster................. We'll see.

Later Gators .......................

_______________________

Drake Maye Loves Me

I am a Pats fan. I have been since the Baltimore Colts slithered out of town in the middle of the night to re-settle in the Hoosier state. That was in 1984. Being a frustrated fan was rewarded eventually with one of the best dynasties ever in the NFL. Brady and Belichick created the most exciting football moments of my lifetime.

But fortunes can change and the Pats fell on hard times during the last 6 years. After 19 straight winning seasons, they have not had a winning season since 2019. 

They did what NFL teams do, drafted players, hired new coaches. None of their efforts seemed to take hold.......... Until last year when they drafted Drake Maye. He was expected to turn things around. His rookie start was a tad bumpy, but anyone watching him last year could see the potential.

This year the Pats brought in a new coach, an ex-player from long ago. An old offensive play caller was rehired, and money was spent chasing down the best combination of talent they could find.

I don't want to get ahead of myself here, but after a rocky start, the Pats look to be coming together into a solid ball team on both sides of the ball. If they keep up the momentum and intensity of the last two games, they could do very well this season. Drake Maye and the Offense are moving the ball and actually scoring when they hit the Red Zone. The defense is complimenting the good play of the offense by solid performances against the run backed up by an excellent pass defense.

Of course after 6 years of mediocre football, the fanbase was less enthused than when the Pats were always considered as Super Bowl contenders. Now they are so considered, as so many of the comments online are mentioning the Super Bowl, MVP's, and watch out, the Pats are back rhetoric.

I have tried to be a voice of reason. I remember the bad old days. The days before Brady and Belichick when the fans first hope was to not have a losing season. My comments were and still are not infused with the cocky attitude many fans now are too quick to embrace.

After the Pats' win over Buffalo last Sunday night in Buffalo to bring the Pats over the break even point at 3 and 2, a fan commented about how the Pats were surefire Super Bowl contenders now and Drake Maye was going to be the MVP this season. He then asked:

Could this be the rise of a new Patriot Dynasty?

I responded that of course it could be. Anything was possible, don't start counting chickens yet.

The next day, on my Facebook notification list, Drake Maye issued me a heart response to my comment. I often do not recheck the posts if all there is are some emoji likes, dislikes, loves, etc. But this was Drake Maye. I had to check it out. And yeah, the profile picture was Drake.

 I have been roaming around Facebook for 15 years at least. I know fake personalities are found everywhere. But please excuse me because for just a moment there, I was sure Drake Maye loved me.

Keep it 'tween the ditches ............................................

_______________________

Not sure why, but I feel twisted this morning. That is, I feel like offering music that not only has nothing to do with the post, it is being posted because I just like the song and especially the video. Here is Broken Peach and their cover of "Tainted Love". Full screen gives the best impression. Second lady from the right is my favorite. I'd be her groupie, but alas, I don't speak Spanish worth a fuck.

Irregardless

As soon as I was able to read around age 4, my family began brow beating grammar basics into my wee brain. Some of them stuck. But anyone who has read what I write now, knows many of those basic rules of grammar are nowhere to be found. My flaunting of the rules is often purposeful, a kind of  "in your face, Grammar Man" rebellion

Everyone should have adequate writing skills. We should all be able to write a note, a memo, or a letter  that is easily understood. Sadly, too many folks lack even those grammar basics. I have always wondered why. It's a mystery to me, like wondering how some people cannot swim or drive a car. 

But then, the grammar challenged  may not have had a family of Grammar Nazis to deal with like I did as a kid. Around age 7 or so, the tolerant kindly corrections suggested by parents began to turn ugly. I was supposed to have it down. From then on, I lived in fear of having my speech and written words constantly under their harsh scrutiny.

My oldest brother ; my 13 years older brother was the worst. He specifically took offense at my use of "irregardless", which at the time I considered a perfectly good word. He was not tactful nor kind. He often smacked the back of my head when I used it because he knew I was often using it just to piss him off. 

In my early teens, making Joe lose his shit over anything made my day. "Irregardless" was one the sure fire weapons I would pull out of my "Piss Off Joe Quiver". The other good one was bringing up the tennis match he lost to my father who kicked his ass at age 58 or so. Joe broke his tennis racket in frustration after the match. I was one happy buckaroo that day.

So what is it about a word/not a word like "irregardless" that rubs so many Grammar Enthusiasts the wrong way? I will only use it now as a way to needle, poke or prod. Once I understood the bad math of the word and many like it, I have attempted to erase them from unconsciously using them. 

It's all about the double negatives Americans love so much. Double Negatives do make folks sound ignorant at times. I prefer to think of the use of Double Negatives as the folksy, come on by sometime and set a spell way of communicatin. I ain't gots no problem with others using "irregardless" in their speech. But don expect me to not grin just a little when I hear them.

Ya'll Keep it steady now, ya hear?

_____________________________

I hired a young man at my bike shop some years ago. He was definitely a gifted wrench twister. He was a first generation American whose mom was the daughter of Vietnamese refugees who fled Vietnam after the war. He had some tough moments at school, what with him looking so foreign and all. He took the mean remarks well, letting them slide. He eventually worked his way into some kind of acceptance and finished his school days driving a beat up Dodge pick up with an American flag stuck in the bed waving proud and loud. His red neck held its own with any local yokel around, even if he didn't look like them. 

I always hoped he would find his own path. When I retired and sold the bike shop, I lost touch with him. I heard later he had joined the Marines. And that is all I know. But hope springs eternal. Maybe leaving the our little patch here where he grew up will hopefully free up some of the many horizons waiting for him to check out.

Good luck Kenny.

What brought Kenny up is a Bluegrass artist I just discovered. Her name is Mona MacAedyn. She too is a first generation offspring of Vietnam Refugees. Her song, "Vietnam" tells the story. Enjoy.

Glad to Be a Crooked Tree

I have enjoyed living life as a crooked tree.  ..... Like Molly Tuttle's song, "Crooked Tree", I long ago learned to embrace my quirks, my minor faults, and most importantly, the loose dog ways I developed as a child. I was never meant to be that disciplined often grumpy worker bee, whose rigid spine and puckered asshole prevented smiles or tears from ever entering his heart. No, I have never been one to be a robot.

I have laughed and cried my way through the last 73 years. I have won, I have failed. All the while, once I was finished licking my wounds, I moved on; often moving on to a new something entirely different from what or where I was before. With each disappointment or joyful moment, my character changed. Sometimes the change was palpable immediately. More often than not, it was a slow accumulation of small changes before I noticed I was headed down a new path. Regardless, I went willingly for better or worse.

Each new change twisted my tree a little more. As the number of twists and turns added up, I found it easier to recover my equilibrium even though my branches may have indicated otherwise. Any bad times I had, I now view with a mix of melancholy and reverence.  For it was those moments that really created who I am today.

I think my early nomadic life as a military brat helped me develop a high tolerance and yes, even a keen interest in change. My tree growing in different directions provided me with an interesting life. Along with a serious dose of good luck, I survived the worst of my bad decisions. Timely luck allowed me the time to appreciate how much dumb luck has to do with a life.

This brings to mind why Molly Tuttle might have written "Crooked Tree". One read through of the lyrics and it seems likely that she, like all of us, had challenges in her life that helped form who she is today. Rather fight the negativity found in her past, she embraced those moments and it appears she is not allowing them to permanently define who she was today. When I glance back into my life, I realize that I didn't either.

Don't let the stupidity and anger of others ruin your day. Smile, chuckle, do anything but give them  the satisfaction that their assholery affected you in any way. .......................... 

I know, I know, ....................Easier said than done.

Later ...........................................

____________________________

I did not give Molly her due when I first started listening to her music a few years back. Then I watched the video below and was awed. She is a very very talented musician and lyricist. She picks just like the big dogs in the tall grass and the lyrics of "Crooked Tree" prove her composing chops.

Hope you enjoy this.

 

The Lesser of Two Evils

I have been a registered Democrat at least 45 years now. I became one because I considered the Democrats as the lesser of the two evils that were running our severely corrupted two party political system.  And I was certainly not going to vote for Ronald Reagan. He was "Evil Incarnate". I witnessed the hate and discontent he had stirred up in California as Governor. 

I knew the two party system was rigged through a collusion between the Democrats and the Republicans. No matter their public differences, both of them would work together behind the scene, in the dark of their respective smoky rooms to keep the two party way of life intact. 

The madness of a multi party government meant the Democrats and the Republicans would have to make room for more hogs at the public trough. This was a non starter. Self Interest and Greed were best served when fewer hogs had access.

The two party system wasn't perfect. No political system has stayed perfect once the idea leaves the pages of conception and is tossed out into the Real World to see if it works. Our  great constitutional republic had flaws, but there were fewer flaws than the others had. That was how both sides sold it to the public anyway. Not perfect, but it beat any other alternative out there.

Somehow, the country stumbled along with a majority of Americans convinced they were existing in the best political situation in the world. Both parties worked hard to bury the simmering discontent found on the edges of their respective groups.

The image was of a government running well through collegial civil disagreements between two parties who both insisted their crew loved America best. The reality was quite different and has been since the beginning. Both parties are first and foremost, in it for themselves and the interests they serve. All the lip service, all the do-nothing, all the skimming, all the nepotism come before any real concern for the people. Token positive adjustments to the greater good kept the worst of the whiners at bay.

Top priority for both was Power. How to get it and how to hold onto it once they had it. For years, the rules set down by our founders in the Constitution determined how the power was delegated. The one redress sold to the People as a cure all, attempted to convince them they had the real power. This power enshrined in the original rule book were called elections.

Elections have turned out to be an illusion, a scam; the People have never had any real power. We just think we do. We are corralled, gelded and lead by our noses where they want us to head. We are trail broken, on automatic, predictable and usually easy to handle.

It is only because the two parties were content sharing power with each other that this pendulum swinging Bullshit worked. This historic cooperation has broken down, hit a major snag, and is shitting the bed hard now. The Right has been taken over by its fringe and no longer want to share power with the Democrats and the people supporting them. 

The Right has declared war on it's own country. It's their way or the highway. It is what they have always wanted, always worked for behind the scenes in the stinking alleys behind their lying smiling eyes. 

No longer is there some sense of proportion to the Right's main goal; Power. All they had to do was throw the occasional bone, talk out of both sides of their mouths and smile as they wave at the fools who elected them. Every once in awhile, they would switch from majority party to minority party and everyone got along in the end. There was balance. Not anymore.

And now, here is my problem. I had convinced myself those 40 or so years ago that while the Dems and the GOP were but two sides of the same coin, the Dems actually moved the country forward while still picking our pockets. The GOP has never wanted to serve the interests of the many. They had their little clique of  rich Capitalists with their loyal to a fault rank and file who worshipped the ground they pissed on. They had no interest in moving us all up. Their efforts could now be aimed at the small group they belonged to.

I was having a real problem justifying my continued membership in the Democratic Party. Go Independent Mike, fuck those pearl clutching, why can't we all just get along pansies from the Left. If they can't stand up to the hob nailed thugs of the Right........ well Fuckem.

As angry as I am at my own party, I will stick it out. They are the ones I brought to the dance 45 years ago. Bailing on them now just wouldn't feel right. Besides, more now than ever before, the Democrats are definitely the lesser of two evils. The stark contrast makes it a no brainer.

I know it is harder than ever, but try your best to "Keep it 'tween the Ditches" .....................

_________________________

My musical choice for this post has no connection to the post itself. I was listening to a mix some google bytes created for my pleasure; you know, a set compiled from music I had previously listened to.

An over the top quality cover of "Hit the Road Jack" by The Sweet Sisters came on. I liked it so much, I played it again and watched it this time. Damn, those ladies are not just good singers, they are so easy to watch. Wow. I am guessing they grow hardwood wherever they play. The video part is excellent.