The Future Liberals Want

I just re-upped my membership on Twitter. I did not close my old account which I had set up the same year Twitter came into existence. I just signed up again. I hope having dual accounts doesn't upset the balance that hangs so precariously in the back alleys of the Internet Ether.

So I spent a few minutes familiarizing myself with the ins and outs of the tweeting world. I searched for the first person I wanted to follow. Took me me some time as I was spelling his name wrong at first. 

Allen and his family reside in Ukraine. Allen has been busier than a two headed whore at a Shriner's convention issuing updates on the madness unfolding around his home. Apparently, he and his family are safe and hunkered down. And now that I had confirmed his presence on Twitter, I just sat back and trolled.

Trolling Twitter lasted about 5 minutes and I became bored. I switched to Facebook, my dependable place to find oddities of all kinds. I was not disappointed. A FB friend posted the image there on the right without comment.

I guess the image is some kind of erotic fantasy a horny gardener dreamed up after too much weed and shots while sitting at his desk at dark thirty in the morning. Add the caption from Alex Jones and the whole meaning gets further lost in the jungles of the BoZone.

Phallic hedges back dropping an astro turf clad model gripping pink shears in pink gloved hands does not tickle my Liberal world fantasy. Hell, it isn't even funny fercrisakes. But I guess this is what the fringes of the Right have been reduced to posting. Seems a tad desperate to me.

Good luck with that Alex, you flaming Winger asshole.

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

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I picked a Mills Brothers and Louie Armstrong tune - "Under the Old Apple Tree"

Why you may ask? Well, I love Louie and the Mills Brothers have always been pleasant to listen to. Besides, the title is sorta, kinda related to gardening. Right?

Thoughts On Ukraine

I read somewhere in the last few days that at the moment, over twenty armed conflicts are currently tearing some part of the planet apart and turning men and women into widows, widowers, and orphans. Most of the conflicts have been ongoing for awhile now. Some have been around for years.

Why then do I feel so much more sadness over what is happening in Ukraine? Shouldn't I put this recent invasion into an "oh well" perspective like the others? 

Another straw breaking another camel's back comes to mind. I am simply fed up with assholes, autocrats, despots, dictators, and religious zealots. Not a one of them are doing anything positive for the planet or the human race. 

I do have a friend living in Ukraine. He is a Canadian who has lived there a long time. We hooked up online I guess 15 years ago or so. He and his family are in my thoughts more now than ever before. That connection to the chaos might explain how awful I feel right now. But I don't think that is the whole story.

After almost 70 years on this planet, I have finally run out of patience for the evil stupidity humans foist upon other humans. Putin's insistence on ravaging another country to ease his angst over losing the good ole days has touched one of my last raw nerves. And once again I have to deal with sitting on the sidelines and wringing my hands. 

It seems like this century is going to suck no matter what we do. Its been one horror show after another for twenty two straight years now. You'd think we would be tired of  all the pain and anguish, death and destruction; and especially tired of assholes like Vladimir Putin.

But no. Humans are not done screwing each other for no good reason at all. Humanity appears to be in the throes of a seriously dangerous readjustment period and there are only three choices open to those folks experiencing the horror of killers at their door. 

Run, Fight, or Die.

An Infuriating After Note

A Russian diplomat was interviewed yesterday or today. With a straight face she pleaded with the population of Ukraine to put down their arms. It will make it so much easier on them in the long run. After all, Russians are there to help save them.

Apparently the Ukrainians are not interested in the kind of "saving" Russia has in mind for them. Ukraine has embraced the sentiments of Dylan Thomas, and will not go gently into the good night. Instead they seem intent on raging against the dying of the light.

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

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No song is more appropriate than this one by Rage Against the Machine - "Killing in the Name"

Does He Eat Dogs?

Vlad the Invader has decided to once again bully his way into Ukraine. Why should America even care?  That is what many Winger pundits are asking. 

Tucker Carlson has indicated that the collective we, who make up the American public, have been trained to hate Putin. Two days ago on Fox News he asked:

"........ since it is getting pretty serious: What is this really about? Why do I hate Putin so much? Has Putin ever called me a racist? Has he threatened to get me fired for disagreeing with him? Has he shipped every middle-class job in my town to Russia. Did he manufacture a worldwide pandemic that wrecked my business and kept me indoors for two years? Is he teaching my children to embrace racial discrimination? Is he making fentanyl? Is he trying to snuff out Christianity? Does he eat dogs?" 

Tucker is a smart guy who never crosses the line between reality and fantasy. His evening diatribes are always well thought out and the charges he makes against those awful Democrats are always spot on. .......... Right?

Yes, his questions might seem reasonable to his target audience. 

But as usual, he uses a classic distraction of comparing apples to oranges and managing once again to not make sense at the same time. What a stupid man some people look up to.

His point however about why we should not care is interesting. 

Sitting here 5000 miles or so away from the Russian invasion in a country most of us will never be able to identify without help, why should we get our panties in a bunch over this? For me, the half ass student of history that I am, well, I find it amazing that we even have to have a conversation over why it matters that Vlad has invaded another country. 

Yeah, we have our own problems. Every one has problems. We are tired of being the World's cop. ... Blah, blah, blah. 

Focusing solely on our own internal issues only allows the external problems blowing up outside our borders to mutate into situations we might be forced to confront with more aggression than if we addressed them in the beginning or better yet preemptively. 

Certainly "not caring" about what happens in Ukraine is short sighted and stupid. But that is what the Wingers want. They strive hard to keep us stupid every day with their non-stop line of anti American Bull Shit. And who better to hold up as someone to admire than Vlad the Invader.? And who better than Tucker to fill us up with the lies?

Joe Biden may or may not deserve the initial criticism he is shouldering. Personally, I am holding my own opinion for awhile to see how his sanctions and troop movements play out. I am puzzled that his sanctions hit three of Putin's buddies in the Russo-oligarch club, but so far it appears Biden has not gone after Putin personally. 

The Right falsely infuses everything they do, say, and wear with empty Patriotism. From the lapel pins to their draping themselves in the flag every moment of every day is just plain bullshit. Sadly, Tucker's target audience does not see through the bullshit. They just see the flag their GOP idols disrespect almost every time they open their mouths. It's no wonder they suck up the admiration their leaders have shown for Vlad the Invader.

Regardless, I am not helping Russia by tacitly condoning their occupation with mealy mouthed sentiments or the outright admiration shown by many leaders of the Right. Foreign policy is a board game we need to attack with a united front. The Right does not care. They only care about defeating the Democrats. And if rooting for another country to undermine a current President's efforts to find peace works in their favor; so be it. After Jan 6 this is nowhere near as serious. Fuck America, right Tucker?

Problem is, their strategy is most likely to take us all down leaving a shit pile for them to lord over.

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

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"War Pigs" by Black Sabbath was going to be the tune for today's post. Then I googled "Anti-Russian music". This tune is called "Putin Khuylo" (Putin is a Dickhead). It emerged around 2010, was used during Russia's incursion in 2014. Russian tight asses have done their best to bury this worldwide trend and have been unsuccessful. This is but one version of many.

Ten Seconds of Peace on Earth - 11 Years Later

Most moments of our time on this planet move from one moment to the next barely noticed. Moments that stand out in our memories often are ones we focus on because we have to, want to, or expect to. Some moments though, come by accidentally and without warning. They grab our attention as unrelated circumstances come together in just the right way to make that moment stand out over the other moments on either side of it. Right place, right time sort of thing. Or wrong place, wrong time. It can certainly go either way.

While finishing up a bike shop ride 11 plus years ago,I had such a moment. This moment lasted maybe 10 seconds. So I think it would be appropriate to use my 250 word format to describe it. (Originally posted 7/14/2010)

Ten Seconds of Peace on Earth

It was a hot ride. The humid air had turned my lungs into wet sponges. Finally we came out of the woods onto Marginal Way. This shade covered back lane of neat homes meant the bike shop was only a few minutes away and I could stop wheezing.

The ritual was always the same at the trail head. The riders who lived nearby would split off shouting “Good Ride”, or “Give me a call about Sunday”. The rest of us would begin the casual half mile spin back to the bike shop.

I saw her as we pedaled onto the last section of Marginal Way. Not an unusual thing to see a woman in the afternoon busily tending to the flowers and plants in her dooryard. But there she was, water can in hand, kneeling in the late day sun that had found its way through the high trees.

As we rode closer, she stood up and removed her big floppy hat. A curl of blonde hair dropped to her shoulder. She turned and smiled at us as we rode by. Sweat glistened on her forehead. She wiped her brow with her wrist and tucked the curl back behind her ear. Her gloved hand waved.

I smiled and waved back. I knew I had just experienced a moment of peace that rarely finds its way through all the flotsam and jetsam that clutters my life on a day to day basis. For one moment, maybe ten seconds, my world was perfect. 

Post Script

It’s February something, 2022 and I only last week finally found this post tucked into a dark corner of my blog. I thought of that moment often when I was shuffling through random memories trying to find good things to think about. I had looked for it off and on many times.

In my memory, that moment always calmed me and made me smile. And now after reading it again for the first time in over 11 years, It made me smile again. I need to hold onto to these snippets of unadulterated happiness in order to keep all the other shit going on in my life in perspective.

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Image is a painting by Robert Lewis Reid entitled "Tending the Garden"

Women Folk

Girls, Chicks, Ladies, Women ........Hell, Females in general.  Fascinating creatures.  Yes they are.

I have spent a lifetime observing them and I still do not understand them.  I have given up searching for that understanding.  I now just enjoy their company, their presence, their very existence.  

I have at times hated them or maybe just hated certain female thems.  I may have told myself after having my heart torn out, chewed up and spit out in front of me that women, all women, are evil.  That was but a knee jerk instant to relieve the resulting gut wrenching agony of the moment.  I have at times been totally clueless as to why I had pissed one or a group of them off.  But I guess what brain froze me the most were the occasional times I pleased them without knowing how, leaving me with nothing but a Mona Lisa smile to explain why. 

Regardless, The Ladies are a part of my life, your life, our lives.  They provide us with a rudder.  They balance out the meathead guy madness.  Women are more than a convenient foil to male stupidity.  They keep our planet turning at a reasonably sane rpm..

Women often occupy my mind. Maybe now more than when I was young, numb and on the hunt. Back then I didn't often consider what made them tick. I accepted they were a different species and all I wanted was to well, let's just say, my hormones ruled my actions. As I got older and my sinful lusts had waned to a degree, I began to try to understand them in earnest. I did not lose any sleep, but I did want to push through some of the mystery that had enshrouded them for the first 40 years of my life. I hit a wall, a frustrating wall. 

Some years ago, maybe 5 or so, my local corner of Maine was suffering through a brutal bout of the flu. The flu remedy shelves were empty at most of the local grocers and pharmacies.  My wife had been sharing the joy of that flu epidemic for more than a few days.  If anyone fit the description, "Death warmed over", my wife would have been the perfect role model.  

She got over the flu, then immediately picked up a bout of pneumonia and landed in the hospital for a few hours.  After a few dashes of nebulizing (sic), some intravenous injections of serious antibiotics and steroids, my daughter and I hauled her home to hopefully recover. She was positive death would have been kinder.

Over the years I noticed that my wife's road to recovery always seemed to lean on the feminine rituals she had accumulated during her life. Nothing puts one on the road to recovery faster than relying on things one used to do on automatic. I had left her on the couch barely alive.  I went to the garage to begin tearing apart my snow blower.  

I came back up to the living room.  On the couch sat my wife and my daughter facing each other.  They were both sitting up and passing back and forth a bottle of  skin cream. One would squeeze a splooge on their hand and then hand the bottle to the other.  While one rubbed the cream into an elbow or hand, the other squeezed another splooge out and hit some area they felt needed anointing.  My wife still looked awful but she was upright and smiling as she creamed herself.  She and my daughter were hard into a conversation about some TV show they both found hilarious.  Just two ladies sharing a moment as only two ladies can.  

I watched them silently.  I smiled.

Some things you accept without worrying about why.  And if it ain't broke, definitely don't try to fix it.

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The only tune that I could possibly use has to be " Fat Bottom Girls" by Queen

Reincarnation - Revisited

I am not supposed to remember any of this. Signs posted everywhere around The Interim tell me it is not possible. Yet, every conversation, every debriefing, every moment I spent in labs, classes, or hanging out in the Great Hall waiting for my number to come up has stayed with me after I was awakened for this next assignment. If anyone finds out, decommissioning with prejudice is what I will expect.

An expanding Universe needs to be watched over and tweaked as necessary. Delivered to the job sites via high outbursts of pure energy, M-Tees are the tools Controllers use to keep the Expansions dynamic and healthy. Because cross pollination could mean disaster, M-Tees are sent with no memories of previous assignments. We are provided physical substance (Existence Frames) through the biology of the local DNA pools. Only Controllers and the Board are aware of what we will be doing while they manipulate the various corporeal Realities.

Without M-Tees to offset the rigid unbending rules set down by the Predictability Guild, another Universe 14K might happen. The rumor floating around The Interim the last time I was there was Universe 14K was still out of control. It had gone Ballistic. Future deployments had been put on hold or were going to be. There was talk Terminal measures might be instituted. That’s what the Prep-Tech hooking me up for this trip told me. And even though Prep-Techs were only marginally smarter than a box of nano seconds, I figure there had to be some truth to it if the story had gotten this far down the food chain.

What I do know that I am not supposed to know is - I am here, I am fully aware of where I came from and what the broad goals of our mission are. I even know which Controller I am working under. I worked with her a few assignments ago. Hard as nails and unforgiving. This trip was going to be no cake walk. I am already looking forward to being re-called.

No M-Tee, no matter their status, has a set time to serve. It is totally random. If every M-Tee stayed the same length of time, Chaos would not be able to function at the level necessary to keep those flounders over to Predictability at bay. There was no worse enemy to a successful Universe than Predictability. Let Predictability get more than one foot in the door of a Universe and before you can say Big Bang, another cookie cutter cosmos lines up neatly in the astral suburbs. You’d think they would be get bored with perfection. Perfect Universes never last. Eventually they all self destruct prematurely.

It seems I am about to meet my Controller. I know it is her. Her frequency hum is one I will never forget. Again I am puzzled. This is more information that should not be mine to have. The white clad native who is carrying me, hands me over to her. My Controller smiles as she takes me. 

Because I have not developed enough within the confines of this Existence Frame to process the local dialect, Controller’s words are unintelligible to me. But the message in those words is not. It comes through loud and clear through her eyes and the uptick in the Antag frequency of her signature wave length.

“I know you know because I made it so.”

I open the communication device my current Existence Frame has in order to reply. Nothing but a god awful screeching emits. Damn! This no wiggle room rule about following the natural order of things is cramping my style.

To fit in I must not be cognizant, mentally or physically upon initial deployment. A slow purposeful evolution in my development is necessary to dovetail cleanly with The Plan. Or so I am told just prior to each deployment. Unfortunately I am mentally aware but nothing physical seems to be working properly or is of a size to be useful in the first place.

The white clad native who just handed me over opens her communication device, “Oh look at the little rascal. Waving his arms, kicking his feet, and what a set of lungs he has.”

Still smiling, my controller looks at me with hard eyes. The native attending us continues, “Mom, you must be tired. 10 hours of labor is no walk in the park. I’ll leave you two now to get acquainted.”

The white clad native leaves me to the unknown whims and desires of my hard nosed Controller. Once we are alone, my Controller brings me face to face with what I assume is a direct link to her wavelength. Hmm. It appears there are two links, but she has chosen the left one. Okay.

As soon as I latch onto the external plug, information flows immediately. “Listen up asshole. I will go through this one time and one time only. Burp once if you understand, twice if you don’t.”

I burp once. An odd sensation of pleasure rushes through me.

“Okay then. Let’s get to it..........I noticed your hard work on our last assignment together. You showed me you had what it takes to make it to the next level. When we were done on Delpha Fuego Six, I petitioned the Board to have you raised to Con Apprentice. You do as you are told by following orders and your next assignment might just be as a Controller. ….. With me so far? Burp once for yes or twice for no. “

I comply with another satisfying expulsion of gas. Only this time it comes from an area of my Existence Frame I cannot see. My Controller’s face twists and contorts as if she is in pain. “Okay, quit clowning around Jerk Off and acting like you are an unaware M-Tee. My current Existence Frame does not appreciate that type of communication. When I say burp, I mean burp.” I burp once.

Suddenly she disconnects me from the link. She shifts her covering and exposes the other link and plugs me in. Another rush of information flows. “You already know our plans for this mission. Just some more random existence to help fill in the details for the Expansion. However, you do not know what my plan is. I have a little side project I want us both to work on. It is not sanctioned by the board,……..Call it a self designed volunteer enhancement of the plan for this existence. A small detour if you will. Understand?“

“Burp”.

I understood alright. She was going Rogue. I had heard of this happening from time to time, but had never been in existence when it did. And suddenly I knew what to do.

Apparently I was unaware of some top secret directives implanted prior to being jettisoned into this existence. Directives meant for me and me alone. The internal memo opened and in seconds I knew I would have to destroy her. And because the honchos who lead these Rogue investigations were never sure who was involved in Rogue plots, I would have to destroy all of her inner circle as well.

 Shit. This was going to be a short deployment. 14 years local time was my time frame. At the end of this time, I was tasked with instituting the termination sequence and then pulling my own plug by means of some locally acceptable self destruction technique.

The directive also called for permanent termination of the Controller. Jeez, she must have really pissed off the wrong Board Honch. 

Until then I was to burp when told to.

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Image used - "Reincarnation" by Greg Known

Another Republican Dimwit Opens His Mouth

 

This should be the GOP mantra that every aspiring Right Winger needs to learn before entertaining any notion of running at the national level:

"We, the Republican bombasters, will always remain rhetorically flatulent. We will expel nothing but gaseous verbiage from the hollow windy halls of the GOP Bombastry in Congress. Though we may often be accused of revering the sound of our own voices, all we can say is, "Of course we do, don't you?"

Daily incidents of Right Wing stupidity pollute the media. For the most part I have been able to ignore them. But no matter how hard I try sifting out all their stupidity, some new bitch or brain-dead comment by one of their talking heads will jam up my bullshit filter.

Over the last forty years, the GOP has slowly embraced stupidity and is now gleefully injecting it into our political discourse as serious political thought. They are unabashed and seemingly clueless of their own ironies. Well, that is the impression they give. I suspect the real leaders know exactly what they are doing. They are playing to the lowest of the lowest common denominators using baseless fear and loathing tactics akin to yelling "Fire" in a crowded theater.

Though their stupidity is generally easy to blow off, sometimes a GOP leader will outdo themselves proving how stupid they really are. I do not mean what's her face and the gazpacho police. No, she is nothing but comic relief. I am talking about real leaders of the Right who, instead of the normal drivel that is spewed from their mealy mouths; out come clear statements of their real intentions and insights into their true intelligence.

Up steps the junior senator from Kansas, Trump's biggest fan and Jan. 6th enabler to add his moronic opinion to the already huge pile of moronic Right Wing opinion on President Biden's mental state.  Republican Senator, Roger Marshall joined some of the other Winger Intelligentsia like Hannity, Tucker Carlson, and 38 other Republican leaders and suggested that Biden should be take a cognitive test. He is "concerned" for his well being. He also suggested that since he and Sen. Rand Paul were both doctors, they would have a better handle on determining Biden's mental state then any layman. ... Hmm. Does it not matter that  Sen. Rand is a lapsed eye surgeon and Sen. Marshall is an lapsed Obstetrician. Neither, in my opinion, has the chops to any more valid opinion than anyone else.  

Never mind the obvious political reasons for bringing Biden's mental state into question, given the cognitive abilities of the players the Right, I find the irony of his statement not just a make me chuckle statement, but more of a spew my coffee all over the table funny kind of statement.

Where was their concern when Reagan was obviously not all there? How can any one of them even question the mental abilities of another after they rubber stamped the Insurrection on Jan. 6, and are working so very hard today to turn the USA into an autocracy starting with them as an oligarchy paving the way.

The Democrats and the Left piss me off more than ever before. But at least in the long run, they call out their own when everything is said and done. They may also be beholden to assholes with deep pockets, but at least they are trying to legislate for their version of a better country as opposed to the Right and their do nothing plan of obstruction and fear mongering, while their owners sew deeper pockets into their suits.

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

Encounter at the Hardware Store

I wrote the first part of this story in 2011. 11 years later I found it unposted and thought, "Put a lot of work into this one. Time to finish it."

So here it is.

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Encounter at the Hardware Store

Thomas Roberts and Jebidiah Ridley were not exactly friends. They were more life long acquaintances. They were born in the same year. They grew up in the same town. They shared the same classrooms, playgrounds and teachers. For awhile, they even tried the best friends for life routine. But once Thomas' father got wind of it, he took his son aside, "Thomas, you don't get friendly with the help. It serves no purpose other than to lead them into grand ideas and notions they cannot handle."

"The Help?" Thomas asked. "What does that mean Father?"

"Jebidiah's father works one of the looms down to the mill son. Getting friendly with his son is not a good idea. Jebidiah will most likely end up running that same loom one day. They're simple salt of the earth folk Thomas. Our duty, and at some point in the future, your duty will be to provide for their well being by supplying employment and stability. Our paths should not become intertwined. It only stresses the employer/employee relationship."

Thomas was seven years old when he learned this lesson regarding his rightful place in the local pecking order. He understood little of it, but caught on that he was expected to keep Jebidiah at arm's length. He would have many more lessons in the next 20 years right up to the day he took over running the woolen mill after his father passed away while holed up in Boston with his mistress of fifteen years. 

Thomas' father had been correct. Once Jebidiah finished middle school, he applied for a job at the woolen mill. There would be no high school, no college, no chance at all to escape the life he and his father had been born into. His father had been weaving wool there for 30 years and set up a cushy job for his son as an office custodian. No mill floor work, no missing fingers from renegade yarn, no back breaking labor pushing huge carts of finished apparel wool. His son was going to have it better than he did. Jebidiah's father died two days later when an out of control cart of finished wool crushed him against one of the huge fire doors set up between shops. 

At least the torch had been passed.

~ * ~

Tom Roberts pulled up in front of Sunnyvale Hardware. His mind was busy figuring what parts and pieces he needed to fix that antique lamp his wife had been pestering him about. He almost walked right over Jebidiah Ridley who was bent over by the shovels stacked up carelessly near the front door.

"Jeezum Jeb, ferchrisakes, what the Hell?"

Jebidiah straightened up. In his hand was a True American #12 feed shovel. Shiny new aluminum, light as a feather and it had one of those new gee whiz poly carbonate grips. Jebidiah turned and squinted in Tom's direction. "Just pickin up a new shovel. Thought I'd try this one..... Seems plenty rugged"......He turned the #12 shovel over and looked at the back side, "Um, I don't know though, wish it were straight out flat." He spun back to view the top. "She is a light one though."

Tom looked at the shovel and nodded.  "I got one of those last Spring. The old steel one Pepe used in the barn finally shit the bed. They are nice, but they wear out quick. Guess it's the aluminum.... just doesn't hold up to real shoveling."

Jebidiah set the shovel blade on the ground and leaned on the handle. "Well sir, I ain't gonna use it in the barn. Need a new road kill scoop. That old flat snow shovel I bought a month ago jes ain't working out."

"Why's that Jeb? Not rugged enough for that occasional moose you sometimes run over?" Tom grinned and shook his head.

Jebidiah snorted. "Funny man. No, the flat shovel was fine for scoopin, but not so good for cookin."

"Cookin?" Tom's eyes opened some as his mind created an image of Jeb holding a shovel full of dead possum or squirrel over an open fire.

"Yes sir, cookin. Seems they don't make a straight clean shovel no more. All of them are either plastic or the metal ones come with some kinda anti stick coating that bubbles all up when I hold it over the fire........Makes the meat taste funny."

Tom felt immediately sick. ............. "Jeezum"

Jebidiah stared at Tom. "So Tom, what shovel would you recommend? ..... For the smaller roadkill I mean, like squirrel, raccoon, possum, skunk or crow?  Uh, I don't fry up chipmunks no more. Ain't worth the trouble. By the time they are cooked, there's nothing left to eat. And it ain't often I find a dead crow neither. Did you know they's smarter than most humans?"

Tom's blank face and slightly opened lips indicated he was befuddled and taken aback. He had only been a waving friend to Jebidiah these last twenty years. He had no idea how much Jeb had embraced trailer trash culture as an adult. He had no comment and stood silently with his mouth open.

Jeb continued to stare at Tom for some time. And then, "What's the matter with you Tom? You okay?"

"Uh..... Yeah, I'm fine." Tom finally moved in the direction of the electrical parts aisle. Over his shoulder, "Nice seeing you again Jeb. Say hello to the missus for me."

Jebidiah smiled , Glad to see you too Tom." He grabbed his aluminum feed shovel along with four more and found the check out.

Tim Cross, owner of Sunnyvale Hardware was manning the register. " Hey Jeb, buying more feed shovels I see. Guess you liked the first one fine, huh?"

"Yeah Tim, you were right, they are kinder on the back. The boys in the chicken houses told me to thank you."

"Hey, I saw you talking to Tom Roberts. What's he up to? I mean ever since the mills shutdown, his family sure fell on hard times."

"Oh Tom, I guess he's fine. But I will say this. I am glad the mills left for Asia. I was forced to find a new career."

"Right. And you seem to have done well. How many egg operations do you have now?"

"Just set up my 19th egg house up country west of Rockland.  131 employees now total. Life has been good."

Jeb signed off the bill and headed to his new truck, a brand new Ford F-250 with duallies and custom wheels. His phone rang as he climbed in the cab. It was his wife at the office. One of his chicken houses still had not seen the compost truck. They were up to their asses in chicken shit; could Jebidiah look into it please?

"Yes my darling, anything for you."

"You are so full of shit Jebidiah Ridley,, I just might have to take you over my knee tonight and ...... Love ya." Click.

Tom Roberts came out of the Hardware store with a tiny paper bag in hand. 

He could not help but notice that the pick up he had lusted after when he went into the store was still there. He paused and took a good look at the exact truck he had seen at the Wallace Ford just last week. He was sure though it had different rims now. He mused that there was $60 K parked in Sunnyvale Hardware's lot. 

It was then he noticed someone staring at him from the cab.

The window slid down silently. Jebidiah Ridley leaned out and smiled. "That's right Tom, she's mine. Paid cash too. Wish your ole man was still alive, I'd tell him to go fuck himself. ......... You have a nice day now, hear?

_________________________________

The first tune I saw I picked. Might not be a great fit, But I really liked it. Niall Horan's song, "No Judgement".

Conquering Hero

A music video posted by a FB friend found its way to my feed yesterday. I had not heard of the group Ferocious Dog before. They are a very talented band from across the pond. Very socially conscious; most of the tunes I followed up with concerned every day souls in crisis or bewilderment with the world they lived in.

The tune my friend posted was "Broken Soldier". Immediately my memory bank kicked in and I was thinking of a friend I had met during my hard drug days in the early 1970s. His experience as a Vietnam vet I wrote about in a short composition in my blog back around ten years ago. 

And since I have recently become smitten with poetry again and the possibility of creating some that was not terrible, I turned my short post into a short poem after I heard this tune. 

It is so sad that fifty years later, we are still dealing with critically damaged souls after we sent them to wars that made on sense. Anyway, here are my thoughts after listening to Ferocious Dog's tune about the same problem. 

                                                       "Conquering Hero"

His eyes were full of the evil he had seen.

His mouth, full of stories better passed over than passed down.

Memories caught in his craw

Woke him sweating cold in the dread of his nights

Leaving him staring

Into his darkness till Dawn’s early light

 

His innocence pooled bloody on too many battle grounds.

Scarred and broken he was sent back

To a homeland that would never understand.

 

Well meaning people wearing blue scrubs and white coats

Did what they could.

As it was with so many others,

It did not work out.

 

Feeling forgotten, discarded and alone with his demons,

 He sought solace in barbiturates, whiskey and gin.

Trying to forget his role in the pre-meditated chaos

Of Men killing Men in faraway lands.

 

One day he gave up, double hit China White, laid down, and he died

Before his curtain closed, with one final sigh,

Our conquering hero had found his restful reprieve.

The bleak stories and nightmares at last nodded goodbye.

 RIP Pat.

 War sucks. Enough said.

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

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Down With the Sickness

I am feeling a serious and deep disconnect between the country I grew up in and the country I currently exist in. From what I gather listening to the Media industry, I am not alone. 

It does not matter which side of the aisle one hails from. It does not matter if one is a Boomer, Gen X, Millennial, Gen Z, or the latest new generation coming into their own in the next 10 years. It does not matter if one is religious, an Atheist or something in between.  And it matters not what race or ethnic origin we are. A general disillusionment with this country has us all by our mutual short hairs. 

A sizable percentage of citizens in this country are pissed off about something.

Human nature being what it is, most Americans are looking to find and are finding convenient scapegoats for why life here is so screwed up. It's not our fault, it's someone else's. I am no different I guess. I have my convenient scapegoats also.

Since the January 6 insurrection, I have cut back on my fiery rhetoric. I did this on purpose hoping to jettison some of the hate and discontent that has accumulated over the last twenty years. I hoped to find some civil equilibrium when dealing with idiots, uh, I mean, folks I disagree with. 

I have been somewhat successful in finding some conversational balance. I have yet to see any progress in my efforts to pry loose the entrenched hate and discontent rooted hard into my brain pan. Every day the idiots, uh I mean,  the folks I disagree with come up with a new button to push and I have all I can do to just smile and hold my tongue.

But holding my tongue is the first step in moving on to more fruitful interactions with the idiots, uh I mean the folks I disagree with. Facing off with someone who is as angry as I have been these past many years is an exercise in futility. I see that now. I understand that now. I am working on it, this stepping back from the edge thing. But it is so much easier and satisfying to fly off the handle than to remain calm in the face of observed stupidity.

This post was originally to be about the hypocrisy of the Right. Specifically their constant harping that the Left is the cancel culture. ......... 

But I reached the fork in the road where one split takes me down the dark road of angry words and the other takes me down the path that reminds me none of this shit matters in the long run. We either get our act together or we don't.

To that end I will continue to battle my inner demons who want me to rhetorically demolish idiots, uh I mean anyone who disagrees with me. Wish me luck.

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

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For this post I picked Disturbed and their take on losing anger, "Down with the Sickness"