Archive for November, 2009

Fly The Touchy Feely Skies

Tuesday, November 10th, 2009

I am more afraid of Transportation Security Agency agents and American Officials than I am of terrorists — how’dya like them apples?  I would positively refuse to believe that my government could deteriorate into such a mercurial and mercenary, hard-headed and heavy-handed Operation, were I not routinely confronted with evidence that it has.

Airport Security is a farce and a spectacle.  A FARCE AND A SPECTACLE WHEREIN AMERICAN CITIZENS AND PAYING CUSTOMERS ARE TREATED LIKE CRIMINALS BY PRESUMABLY WELL-PAID, SEEMINGLY UNDER-EDUCATED AMERICAN CITIZENS EMPLOYED BY A MONSTROUSLY SIZED FEDERAL GOVERNMENT.

ARE they employed by Big Government, or is this degradation contracted out?  Who knows?  Get in line, take off your jewelry, put your valuables in this bin.  Nazi Germany?  Anyone? 

Inquiring Minds turned Pissed Public would like to know the TSA budget, please, and which companies are snagging government contracts.  Inquiring Minds turned Pissed Public would respectively suggest an AGGRESSIVE AUDIT OF THE TRANSPORTATION SECURITY AGENCY except Pissed Public no longer respects Government.  Inquiring Minds turned Pissed Public who PAY for the indignities that are administered by mirthless uniformed Americans unto paying customer Americans declare that, if Obama and Congress would like to display a semblance of sincerity about reining in our COLOSSAL DEBT and RAMPANT INEFFICIENCY, they should start with aggressive audits of Branches, Divisions, Departments, Offices and Agencies of a MONSTROUSLY SIZED AND CANCEROUS FEDERAL GOVERNMENT.

After the Fed, audit the TSA. Better yet, audit them concurrently. Walk and chew gum at the same time – it CAN be done. Hire Independent Investigators and Certified Public Accountants instead of Paper Pushers and Gladys Kravitzes.

For a Change.

Annie, Git Yer Gun

Friday, November 6th, 2009

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I am a Political Newbie. Or Noobie. Or Noob.

Y’know why?

‘Cause I’ve only been immersed in this crapola for roughly three years, which is to say that I am not a member of the Elite comprised of Lifetime Political Activists. And make no mistake, Lifetime Political Activism IS an oh-so-elite Elite. Political Activism is the flip side of the coin that keeps the Moneychanger Game tilted in favor of the Effete Elite.

Barack Obama is Effete Elite.

The Sierra Club is Effete Elite.

Rahm Emanuel is Effete Elite.

The ACLU is Effete Elite.

The George Bushes are Effete Elite.

PETA is Effete Elite.

The Bill Clintons are Effete Elite.

MoveOn is Effete Elite.

Again and again, it seems advisable to simply jump into the middle of Issues without researching either “side.” Here’s why. If it’s been an Issue for a long time, neither side is right and/or neither side is doing it right . . . or it wouldn’t still be an Issue. No collective is that stupid. Even a broken clock is right twice each day.

When we were young – when we never ONCE worryied about the roof over our heads or the food on our table, never ONCE fretted over medical or dental care, never ONCE confronted unaffordable education or transportation – we WERE chastised to consume plates of food we detested because there were children starving in Biafra.

Did that ever make ANY sense to ANYONE? Even as a child, the solution was obvious to me. The cooked carrots that make me gag? Don’t make ME eat them, rather, SEND them to the starving children. How on God’s green earth could obliging me to eat food that I was known to hate do ANYTHING toward mitigating starvation in Africa? Send them the sweet potatoes and coconut, while you’re at it.

That was in the 1960’s.

It’s 2009. Children are STILL starving in Africa. CLEARLY, the people who profess to “help” are not helping, or there wouldn’t be even more children still starving in Africa. I would remind us that we DO still destroy crops and/or pay farmers NOT to plant, in order to bolster-read-that-manipulate market prices.

Which, in a round-about-you-had-to-be-there kinda way, brings me to Gun Control.

Gun Control presents an interesting variation on the Lucrative Circular Argument paradigm in at least one regard. Generally speaking, the Gun Guys are not effete. Which begs the question, what’s the problemo?

In those of the taxpayer-funded facilities that still have textbooks, “we” familiarize our young ‘uns with our Constitution in Middle School. Middle School. Teenie Boppers. This is not rocket science. In fact, I will go out on a limb and suggest that the only thing that IS rocket science is rocket science.

Our Constitution is unambiguous in ensuring our right to Bear Arms. Moreover, our founding principles unambiguously COMMAND us unto vigilant defense of same, including by force if need be. Does or does not “defend the Constitution against all enemies, foreign and domestic” ring a bell?

Is anyone unclear about the foreign/domestic dichotomy?

Alrighty then, here’s the deal.

I need protection. I need weapons. My country needs protection. My countrymen need weapons. It is sad, scary, outrageous, take your pick. Until rather recently, it was unthinkable. But it is NOT complicated.

I declare my belief that among those who champion Gun Control, we not only have Traitors positioned in our midst, we have Traitors positioned in power. That there’d be whatcha call Enemies Domestic.

I’m not saying that every Anti-Gun Activist is a Terrorist. God KNOWS that Do Goodery is one of the few surpluses that America steadily runs. Ill-advised, ineffectual, inefficient Do Goodery, you bet – we have so much of it we could EXPORT it, and we do.

But I AM saying that some of those Anti-Gun Activists ARE Terrorists. In particular, the ones who are labeling dissidents as terrorists are Terrorists. I declare my conviction that we have Traitors in government.

Which is why I and FIFTY-THREE MILLION other single women need guns.  In every house, every apartment, every glovebox, every handbag.  Think, ECONOMIC STIMULUS.  Moreover, because we are inexperienced, and because threat is so nigh upon us as to have its own color scheme — that constitutes a commitment in Girl World — we need semi-automatic guns. Not NEED as in want, but as in REQUIRE. And DEMAND.

What the hay, we is Survivors, maybe we need AUTOMATIC weapons.  To level the SKILLZ playing field.  Tell me, what do the Secret Service carry?  We’ll have what THEY’RE having.

American single women are UNMISTAKABLY citizens upon whom stronger, meaner, armed predators regularly inflict assault, rape, murder and assorted carnage. If we are not entitled to sidearms, semi-automatic weapons and concealed-carry permits, then Washington High Flyers can henceforth roll without Secret Service and other extraordinary taxpayer-funded protection. The PIGS are not more equal to the other ANIMALS.

Barack Obama has enjoyed a larger, cushier, costlier, taxpayer-funded Secret Service bubble since earlier in his campaign than any presidential candidate in our history. Why? Because he apprehends danger, that’s why. (And because he is a Spender Extraordinaire, but that is a separate obscenity.) I ALSO apprehend danger, and I have been here longer than Barack Obama. Got a birth certificate, and everything.

Some of us are NOT more equal than others, or some of us ARE more equal than others . Which is it?

Why are Michelle, Malia, and Sascha Obama better protected than me? Greatness by association? Let us bear that in mind, then, when it comes time to assigning Guilt. History has not been kinds to CZARS and their families. To point out the obvious, to point to HISTORY, does NOT constitute advocating violence. I don’t advocate violence. Who advocates violence? Psycopaths and Profiteers, that’s who. No sir-ree, I will NOT allow others to stir up the anger and the danger, then order me to hesh up about the naked Commanders, Congressmen and Czars that are careening around my living area.

I cry foul.

I cry discrimination of different sorts and basest order.

American government unabashedly declares the lives of its “official” members and the lives of the official’s family members to more valuable than unofficial people’s lives. Where is the normally abnormally noisy Sanctity of Life crowd? I spy cowardice and/or hypocrisy.

Remember when we were young and sibling rivalry/torture/mayhem got outta hand? Ultimately, an adult would march in and, drowing out a whiney flurry of he-did-this-she-said-that, they would bellow that they didn’t care WHO started it, THEY were finishing it. My sentiments exactly, on Gun Control.

What’ll it be? Gurlz ‘n Guns, or an ACLU-caliber, class-action lawsuit mounted by Baby Boom Women? I would remind those with a pronounced tendency to disregard facts that dispute their theories of these simple truths:

Baby Boomers = largest conceptual demographic and voting bloc ever born in America.

Sustainedly, # of women born > # of men born + # of surviving women > # of surviving men.

I’LL do the math. Naught, naught, carry the two. Baby Boom Women are single largest demographic >> Baby Boom i.e. Menopausal Women = THE voting bloc to court.

I guaran-effing-tee the Powers That Be, several of whom Be-long in prison, that tens of millions of Hot Flashes will put a whole new spin on Firefight.

I Don’t Care WHO Started It

Thursday, November 5th, 2009

If you are conversant in Leave It To Beaver, I’m talkin’ to you. Wally and Beaver, natch, Ward and June, Whitey, Larry Mondello, Lumpy/Clarence…Eddie Haskell.

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If you grew up with Etch A Sketch and Bazooka Bubble Gum and Slinky and Silly Putty and Tinker Toys and Lincoln Logs, I’m talkin’ to you.

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Forget high-tech skate boards with bearings and bushings. If you clattered along on metal skates that were secured to your shoes with a skate key that was worn around the neck with something like pride, or if you whizzed down hills in homemade go-carts the rudimentary engineering of which entrusted stopping to improvisation rather than brakes, I’m talking to YOU. If anyone is giving a thought to opening a Fifties Diner, I invite them to consider labeling the bathrooms Hoola Hoops and Pogo Sticks.

If you are familiar with candy cigarettes and candy necklaces, S&H green stamps, the Fuller Brush Man, Barnum & Bailey’s Greatest Show on Earth, the Harlem Globetrotters, the Ice Capades, the Viet Nam war, The Draft, man taking one small step and mankind taking one giant leap on the moon, supposedly…if you remember exactly where you were when President Kennedy was shot…I’m talking to you.

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I’m talking to you if Saturday mornings started with cartoons. Popeye, Mickey Mouse, MIGHTY Mouse, Goofy, Bugs Bunny, Road Runner, Quickdraw McGraw, Deputy Dog, Baby Huey, Tweetie Bird, Rocky & Bullwinkle…Johnny Quest. The late morning line-up might include The Lone Ranger and My Friend Flicka…Sky King marked the end of kid-friendly programming.

Your parents may or may not have obliged you to watch the Lawrence Welk Show, but there was only one TV and you were NOT changing the channel. Gunsmoke, I Love Lucy, The Honeymooners, Lost In Space, Twilight Zone, Outer Limits, Ozzie and Harriet…Ed Sullivan.

My Three Sons, Mannix, Petticoat Junction, Beverly Hillbillies, Green Acres, Laugh In, Star Trek, The Partridge Family, The Brady Bunch…Johnny Carson. Hee Haw, for those who hail from Redneck.

Annual physicals, school uniforms, family vacations, teeth cleanings, college educations, food on the table, roof over the head, bills in good standing — Lower Middle Class, Middle Class, Upper Middle Class — born in the 1950’s in these United States, My People, I AM TALKING TO YOU.

When I type in all capitals, that’s the tipoff that I’m shouting — it comes from John Irving’s “A Prayer For Owen Meany”. Familiarity with that book would be helpful as a frame of reference.

I believe that we are called upon to act. I believe that responsibility for the Crisis falls largely to us. I believe that this, now, is our defining moment. What’s it all about, Alfie? Is that all there is? An amazing confluence of events is here before us, the demands of which might establish the purpose of an entire lifetime, if we will but bravely take up the challenge.

I come from a family of seven, a not uncommon size amongst Baby Boomers. When an assembly of young ‘uns reached a certain decibel of chaos — whether at your house or another’s, at school or on the street — it, it was TYPICAL for an adult to march in and put an end to it. The predictable chorus of who did what would be dispatched with the imperious announcement, “I DON’T CARE WHO STARTED IT, I’M FINISHING IT.”

That’d be whatcha call Moral Authority.

America used to have international Moral Authority. By BEING American, WE used to have international cache. GONE. All of it. How does one People squander so much so quickly? Today, America can only effectuate behavior by armed or economic force.

The Federal Government used to have domestic Moral Authority. GONE. All of it. How does arguably the most brilliant system of government ever devised devolve so quickly into a political cesspool better known for scandal than statesmanship? Today, the Federal Government can only effectuate behavior by armed or economic force.

Even as America is under threat from big-talkin’ bullies, America IS a big-talkin’ bully.

America is a big-talkin’ bully because there are Bad Guys in strategic positions who are freewheeling with impunity — all bets are off as to means, methods and morals — and we are LETTING them get away with it. We are afraid, and I don’t blame us. These be ruthless sons-of-bitches. But PLEASE tell me that we do not mean to simply LET them get away with it. For a historical reference, that would be like Wild West townspeople simply accepting that Bad Guys will be Bad Guys and that they will, from time to time, ride through town and shoot the place up before, during or after robbing the bank. Never fighting back. Never hiring an effective sheriff. Just letting Bad Guys do their thing . . . while praying for a brighter future, natch.

I mean to confront my generation. Are we or are we not going to do something about Bad Guys running this country AND MANY PEOPLE right into the ground? Typing disapproval year after year does not constitute Resistance. Are we determined to right this floundering ship of state, or are we content to say ‘I told you so’ when it runs aground?

I have never had to personally deliver the news that So-and-So is dead. Notifying next of kin must be a dreadful job. But I have several times delivered the hard news that someone IS an alcoholic and that they will NEVER be able to drink normally. It never goes down well. I have twice delivered the hard news that an Oldster cannot drive anymore — that goes over like a lead balloon, too.

Here’s the hard news. Complacency is complicity.

Don’t Fuck With My Truck

Tuesday, November 3rd, 2009

Recently, my brainiac brother-in-law with the Ph.D. in Environmental Engineering remained after quite an investment of time unable to figger out how a piece that clearly belonged ON a coffeemaker actually attached TO the coffeemaker, so that said coffemaker would again make coffee.  A mysterious piece of white plastic on the counter next to a coffeemaker that suddenly won’t make coffee, when it is the same color and finish as the plastic ON the coffeemaker, dispenses with the mystery of WHAT and brings the mystery of HOW into relief.

Opinions R Us.

Hey! Maybe it attaches UNDER this piece, so when that the carafe slides in and presses THIS piece, it presses down on THAT piece  like this.

The proof is in the pudding, eh?

My brainiac brother-in-law muttered under his breath that I have “the engineering sense of Lucy Ricardo.”  Under his breath, like that’s an insult.  On the contrary, I take that as high praise.

I propose to set off into the wild blue yonder on January 1st.  New Year + New Leaf + New Life = Gypsy Journalism.

As ever, it takes money to make money.

Probably a bunch of y’all are rummaging around for the envelope and stamp necessary to the procedure of sending me ONE DOLLAR, and I surely do appreciate that.  Having relinquished myself to Homelessness on the 1st of May, I have TOTAL empathy for how hard it can be to find Stuff.  Stuff that I am TRYING to leave behind, but that has the tenacious stick-to-it-ive-ness of gum on my shoe.  

Bright Ideas do not buy RV’s or gas or equipment or food unless Bright Ideas are SOLD.  Since trucks and truckers are integral to Life On The Road, and since I’m singin’ for my supper, I got to thinkin’ that maybe I could write a SONG for Truckers and that maybe some Good Samaritan Slash Good Ol’ Boy country music kinda guy might BUY it.  Outright. Maybe only ‘cuz he feels sorry for me, but maybe nonetheless.  These are not my proudest moments.  But neither are they my country’s proudest moments, and I didn’t start it.  When in Rome, y’know what I’m sayin’?

Anyhoo, the working title is DON’T FUCK WITH MY TRUCK.  Think of a TRUCK as a man’s OTHER castle.  The little (*)’s indicate my awareness that some manner of hootenanny mumbo jumbo goes there, but far be it from my urban self to presume to know what it is.

DON’T FUCK WITH MY TRUCK

Flyin’ down the highway in the early morning dark

Us, the sun and Son of God work hard to make a buck

The Sun and Son are steady but Man could use some luck

All your Stuff, it comes through us, (*).  WE DRIVE TRUCK.

 

While they argue ‘round and round in little circle jerks

Raise funds and Par-taay, give themselves all the perks

While the gas creeps up and the shipping drops down

And the Independent is stripped of his crown

While men loose castles and city turns ghost town

And telling the Truth gits you an Official Frown

No rain, no snow, no sleet, hail or Heil

Stops us from clocking mile after mile

We keep eyes on poor roads, worse drivers and the puck

We’re the backbone of Consumerism, (*). WE DRIVE TRUCK.

 

Flyin’ down the highway in the early morning dark

Us, the sun and Son of God work hard to make a buck

The Sun and Son are steady but Man could use some luck

All your Stuff, it comes through us, (*)  WE DRIVE TRUCK.

 

While we lost our big rigs one by one

Go bankrupt or go to work for The Man

While you lose your houses ten by ten

Suck it up and go to work for The Man

While the jobs dry up and the storefronts close

And bankers are bailed, not punched in the nose

The goods that arrive at Mother Hubbard’s Cupboard

Arrive by pedal to metal and with coffee on dashboard

While we cower before Servants who forbid us to say FUCK

What game we still got goes by us, (*).  WE DRIVE TRUCK.

 

Flyin’ down the highway in the early morning dark

Us, the sun and Son of God work hard to make a buck

The Sun and Son are steady but Man could use some luck

All your Stuff, it comes through us, (*)  WE DRIVE TRUCK.

 

I agree, now that I see red, it needs some work.  Still, I think it’s got potential.  Like me.