An Open Letter To The State of California

                                                               

Dear California,

Please stop sending people from your state over to Arizona.  We don't want them here.  We're doing just fine without you.  We don't want you coming over here and writing letters about how we are all conservative neanderthals, as you gripe about our balanced state budgets which doesn't dole out luxury benefits to welfare queens, and desert xeriscaped yards to conserve water, or how California government is kinder to welfare queens and illegal Mexicans.  We don't want you complaining about how much we spend per school pupil; our kids are as dumb as yours...and for a lot less money.  And, god, how you complain about our charter schools and how sorry you feel for the public schools and the teacher's unions.  Our charter school system alone ought to scare you away; we lead the nation in giving parents a choice as to where to send their kids.  We even own the only state tax deduction that allows taxpayers to fund charter schools! 

Liberal Brilliance!

                                                             

In 2008 Los Angeles's government masters had a brilliant idea!   They took a look at their public medical costs and found that Blacks and Hispanics down in South Central Los Angeles were really fat and were causing the city's share of the costs to soar.  Hospitals and school health professionals were reporting alarming rates of adult obesity in both adults and children.  Thousands of kids were showing up in hospitals with adult onset diabetes in ages as young as twelve years old!  

Fred

                                                                     

One June morning in 1853 Fred rose from his bed in a flophouse in Liverpool, England.  He washed his face and donned his best suit of clothes, grabbed his satchel and walked down to harbor and jumped on a ship bound for America.  Just 17 years old, Fred knew he would never succeed in class conscious England so he set his sights on America.

He arrived penniless in New York City and wandered the streets, taking in the sights and sounds of the city.  While walking down the avenues he stopped to watch folks lining up to eat in a popular restaurant.  His hunger drew him to the front door of the eatery, where he spied a "kitchen help wanted" sign out front.  He went in and took the job as a pot scrubber for ten cents an hour and a free meal.  Fred liked the owners.  He saw how they conducted business with suppliers by the simple means of a handshake.  He was fascinated by how they sought out the freshest meats and produce, and realized this was the key to the restaurants success.  Fred turned out to be the establishment's hardest worker.  Soon he was promoted to bus boy, then waiter, and finally to line cook.

But Fred was a young man with itchy feet.  He left New York and travelled down to New Orleans.  It was there that Fred nearly died from a bout of Yellow Fever.

Still weak but recovering, Fred moved on to St. Louis, Missouri.  He secured a job in a jewelry store and it was there he would meet Barbara Sarah Mattas and fell in love.  They married and Sarah would, over the years, give Fred six children.  

Although Fred prospered in the jewelry business, his heart was still telling him that food service was where he was destined.  So, taking a partner, Fred opened a nice little restaurant.  He incorporated the philosophies of that New York eatery where he first gained employment, buying only the freshest ingredients and serving great meals served with efficiency.  The restaurant thrived until the outbreak of the Civil War.  His business partner, sympathetic to the Confederacy, absconded with all the cash and left Fred broke.

Now desperate to support his family, Fred took a job as a rail road freight agent.  The job required him to travel and Fred was disgusted with the poor eating conditions the traveller had to endure, especially in the American West.  At the time the railroads had not yet established dining cars so travelers would get off at stops and grab a meal of rancid meat and soured beans at a road house, then hop back aboard, taking their Ptomaine poison to be treated somewhere up the line.

So, Fred had an idea.  What if he could set up train side eateries that could provide a fresh, hot and healthy meal, and do it within a 30 minute train stop?  He approached his railroad overlords with the idea but they rejected it; they were doing just fine moving travelers own the line..that was their business and they cared for nothing else.  

But Fred persisted and convinced another railroad line that they could encourage tourism if travelers could be assured eateries were available along their route.  So Fred went into partnership with the railroad and opened three of the rail side restaurants.  He cut a deal where he got free rent from the railroads which owned the property where the eateries were built and even secured free refrigerated shipments of fresh meats and vegetables and milk right to the train station.

Fred knew that he would have to invent a system that was so efficient that customers could eat a healthy meal, in a clean eatery, and at a reasonable price...and he had to move them in and out within the 30 minute stop the railroad allocated for food and rest stops.

                                                     

So Fred drilled his line cooks and wait staff and clean up boys like an army drill sergeant.  While the old roadhouses were staffed by surly waiters and poor cooks in the back, Fred insisted on the best.  Often, especially in remote places out west, there simply weren't enough workers to draw on from little towns that might have 500 people at most.  So Fred put ads in the newspapers all over the Eastern seaboard, to recruit young single women, must be pretty, well bred and educated, and offered the then princely sum of $17 dollars a month, with free room and board and they got to keep their tips.  The young ladies came in droves.  Fred dressed them up in black and white uniforms, the hems not allowed to rise more than eight inches from the floor.  And Fred monitored their behavior like a sorority mom and made sure they maintained high moral standards.  Alas, Fred was so efficient at attracting pretty young girls that many of them ended up marrying their customers so Fred had to recruit often.

Eventually Fred would open restaurants throughout the West and would be the first in America to have established a national franchise.  He then expanded and opened hotels all along the railroad lines....places that were clean, affordable, and offered the same high level of hospitality as his restaurants.  He would gain fame as "the man who tamed the West"...who provided the opportunities for travelers to eat and sleep in comfort.  

His pretty young ladies would be named Harvey Girls (and Judy Garland would star in a movie of the same name) and his Harvey Houses were renown and admired all across America.  

Those Harvey Houses and Harvey Hotels would endure for more than 75 years, long after Fred Henry Harvey was laid to rest.  The chain would later be bought out by a hospitality conglomerate in 1969.

The kid from Liverpool who arrived in America penniless would leave a legacy of fine hospitality that endured.

As with so many American immigrants, Fred Henry Harvey would leave an America a much finer place than when he arrived in it.

Michelle's "Poverty"

                                                           

Michelle Obama has been making the rounds of college commencements.  Two weeks ago she spoke to graduates and told them about her own woes of growing up on the wrong side of town. and in poverty.  And why Blacks never get a fair chance.  

Fade to reality:  I researched Michelle's lies years ago.  Here's a few facts that you can google for yourself.  Michelle grew up in a respectable, crime free neighborhood.  The large family home was an Arts and Crafts red brick home highly sought by real estate investors.  

                                                 

Michelle's dad worked for the water department of the city of Chicago. He made $80,000 dollars a year as a meter reader before being promoted to a supervisor position at the water plant where he was paid $130,000 dollars per year.  Michelle's life only got better.  After marrying Barry, and he got elected to the Illinois State Senate, Michelle miraculously got hired as "eye candy" for a hospital that paid her $150,000 dollars a year.  

The two were rolling pretty good, both of them earning six digit annual salaries.  It must have been good because the Obama's hooked up with a convicted felon who set them up with an $850,000 dollar home.  And it got even better.  Once Barry started writing books about his own desperate quest for equality during his Ivy League school tenure, Barry and Michelle were raking in millions.  

And, if you read this morning's paper, thanks to the generosity of those Chicago politicians, Illinois has $105 billion in government worker pension liabilities that they can't pay.  Three years ago Illinois doubled the income tax rates on her citizens and it still wasn't enough.  Now that a liberal court has ruled the Governor can't revise those pensions downward the only solution is to raise taxes again.  (Illinois led among all 50 states in citizens fleeing the state.)  While Michelle calls $130,000 dollars a year "poverty", the taxpayers of Illinois only wish they were that poor.

The Story Behind "Taps"; The Soldier's Final Lullaby

           "Taps"

Day is done, gone the sun,
From the hills, from the lake,
From the sky.
All is well, safely rest,
God is nigh.

Go to sleep, peaceful sleep,
May the soldier or sailor,
God keep.
On the land or the deep,
Safe in sleep.

Love, good night, Must thou go,
When the day, And the night
Need thee so?
All is well. Speedeth all
To their rest.

Fades the light; And afar
Goeth day, And the stars
Shineth bright,
Fare thee well; Day has gone,
Night is on.

Thanks and praise, For our days,
'Neath the sun, Neath the stars,
'Neath the sky,
As we go, This we know,
God is nigh.

Just as a mother may sing a lullaby to send her child off to a restful sleep, so too does a soldier's comrades offer a final "lullaby" to a soldier who has gone to his permanent rest.  It is the final honor bestowed upon one who gave a portion...or indeed all of his life in the service of his country.  

Taps is a haunting dirge that never fails to raise chill bumps on the arms, and tears in the eyes of those who hear it.    

Taps has a long and honored tradition.  It evolved from several variations of bugler calls but the version we hear today was the written by General Daniel Adams Butterfield, Union Army of the Potomac, during the Peninsular Campaign of the Civil War in 1862.  It is said that when Taps was first played it struck at the heart of both Union and Confederate Soldier alike.  Something in the haunting notes evoked love of country, a longing for home and a heart pleading for a peaceful rest from the savagery of war.  Soon both sides adopted Taps. 

Officially adopted by the U.S. military in 1874, Taps signals the final goodbye to those who will never see another sunrise.  Our Boy Scouts honor their country by ending their meetings with the first stanza of Taps.  Our nation honors those who preserve it by standing in respectful awe as the bugler plays it.

On Memorial Day, from Arlington National Cemetery to the Presidio, to the Memorial of the Pacific on Oahu, our nation's citizens will once again stand beside the graves of a million men and women and listen to the "soldier's lullaby", saying "all is well, safely rest".

                                             

I Am An American Soldier

                                                   

                                                       

I am an American soldier.  In 1776 I fought an enemy ten times my strength...in pursuit of a glorious dream.  In that first winter an infant Congress could not feed or clothe me...so I spent the winter at Valley Forge eating grub worms and the barks off of trees, slept in mud and marched barefoot through the snow....because you asked me to.

I am an American soldier.  In 1861 I donned the Blue or the Gray, slung my rifle over my shoulder, carried Apple Sauce Johnny-Cakes in my pack and set off to fight for "the glorious cause".  I crouched knee-deep in blood at Cold Harbor as 7,000 of us died in twenty minutes.  At Gettysburg I stood on Little Round Top, our ammo spent, as we watched Johnny Reb charge up the hill with fire and thunder.  Our leader, an English professor from Maine, rallied our spirits and instilled in us the raw courage to counter charge with knife and bayonet...and we held our point and won the battle.  And in the spring of '65, after 600,000 of us gave our lives, our generals met at Appomattox and signed a treaty of peace as the armies of victory and defeat stood outside.  Emaciated and starved, the boys in gray were startled as the boys in Blue gave us rations and let us keep our horses and guns and set us on the road to home.  As young as 12 and as old as 60, we served...because you asked us too.

I am an American soldier.  In 1917 I was sent to France to fight and win "the war to end all wars".  I stood in trenches and lost limb or life, or had my lungs scorched by mustard gas, and won the peace.  I was sent home and learned to walk with a wooden leg and do with one arm what normally calls for two.  We did all that...because you asked us to.

I am an American soldier.  By 1939 my country watched as the Fascists defeated the forces of freedom, one after another.  Weary of foreign conflict, my country embraced neutrality, satisfied to let those silly Europeans fight their own wars.  Then, one early December morning in 1941 we awakened to learn of a vicious attack that would claim 3,000 American lives.  Millions of us rushed to recruiting depots the next morning and volunteered to defend our country.  And we would leave our loved ones and our home, to be gone for years.  And we would fight in steamy Asian jungles and in hip deep European snow drifts and march 30 miles through the mud to meet the enemy time after time.  Such was our love of country, such was our courage, such was our acceptance of death, that when we set off in a squadron of B-17's we knew that half of us would not return.  And when this world wide brutal war was at last finished there would be 50 million fewer humans occupying the earth.  We served through it all....because you asked us to.

I am an American soldier.  While my civilian counterparts were arguing over skin color, we integrated the armed forces a good two decades before America did so.  There are no atheists, or bigots, in fox holes. 

I am an American soldier.  Early in the next decade I would dig in at Pork Chop Hill and watch my companions die...and freeze to death at the Chosun Reservoir.  And I would witness bravery that is beyond even my comprehension as we fought, outnumbered and under equipped, the armies of two nations.  Then I would be sent home under the auspices of a shaky truce, still not settled after more than fifty years.  I went to Korea...because you asked us too.

I am an American soldier.  Beginning in 1965 I would be sent to South Vietnam in force.  Vietnam would prove to be America's first decade long war.  And, unlike previous wars, our battle plans would be drawn up in the basement of the White House.  Rather than allowing our war planners to identify what and where to bomb, our bombing plans originated in the White House, and all were dependent on how our civilian leaders assessed the political impact of an offensive operation.  And, unlike previous wars, where territory was to be won or lost, our leaders decided victory or defeat would be measured by the body count of the enemy.   The war then hinged on how many losses our enemy leaders were willing to accept, which our leaders later learned the answer; "infinite".  Four years into the war 550,000 of us would be fighting in Vietnam.  We would endure jungle humidity, deadly snakes, leeches, punji sticks, disease, home-made trip wires and all manner of obstacles.  Though we killed our enemy at a ten to one loss ratio, our casualties were massive.  Some 55,000 Americans would die in Vietnam and half a million would come home without legs and arms, and many would die of Agent Orange related disease in the next four decades.   So ugly was this war that a million Vietnam vets never mentally recovered.  Those that didn't kill themselves, live in homeless in shelters and under highway bridges even today, unable to work or function in society, plagued by Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.  We who did come home were called baby killers as Americans spit in our face or, at best, chose to ignore us entirely.  No "welcome home" for us, no parades.  But we went to Vietnam and we fought valiantly and fiercely...because you asked us to.

I am an American soldier.  Some 36 years after the last American left Vietnam America would awaken on a bright sunny morning to nightmare on 9/11.  Some 3,000 innocents would lose their lives that morning, as Islamic terrorists took the lives of so many, all in the name of their god.  Once again, the recruiting offices were swamped with young men and women anxious to avenge the attack on America and to defend our way of life.  Sadly, our armed forces are far smaller than at any time in recent history.  We would be called on time and again, tour after tour, in Iraq and Afghanistan.  In Iraq we would be asked to occupy a foreign nation in a vain attempt to democratize a Muslim nation.  Our civilian leaders would ask us to do the same in Afghanistan, and to achieve our mission with less than half of the forces we had in uniform two decades previously.  We've done our best.  Many of us come home in the dead of night, in silver coffins.  Many more come home sans legs or arms, or both.  We deploy to these far off places, endure loneliness, pain, injury and death...because you asked us to.

I am an American soldier.  In peace time you'll find us ferrying food and medical supplies to Haiti, or Africa or to a storm damaged Asian country.  You'll find us mounting air and water rescues of flood victims.  You'll find us digging out the victims of an earthquake.  In less "official" capacity you'll find us running to the aid of a Boston Marathon runner, binding the stump of a leg and physically carrying him to an aid station, while hundreds stand and watch.  At Christmas time you'll find us distributing a million toys to kids who would have no Christmas otherwise.  We do it because the tradition of "service" has been instilled in us.

I am an American soldier.  For some 240 years our service traditions have served our country well.    As an American soldier I have been taught that love and service to country must triumph above all else.  I am neither Democrat or Republican except on those rare occasions that I enter the voting booth.  And I must honor and obey the Commander in Chief as that also is our grandest tradition.  We do so....because you asked us to.

I am an American soldier.

Memorial Day

                                                   
Our nation is getting ready to enter the Memorial Day weekend.  For some it's an opportunity for a quick mini-vacation out of town, a trip to Disneyland, a back yard barbecue or maybe just a beer fest and watching the car races.

For far too many, loved ones of those who've given their lives for this nation,  Memorial Day is a day to honor the fallen.  Flowers and miniature flags will adorn the graves in a thousand cemeteries across our land.  Families will stand or kneel by these graves and recall the moment when that military chaplain walked up to their door wearing a sad and forlorn face.  They will recall the wracking sobs they thought would never end as they contemplated living their remaining years without someone who occupied such a large place in their lives.  And they, above all, will know the depth of sacrifice offered for the love of country.

Memorial Day originated in the years immediately after the civil war.  In Richmond, Virginia families began visiting the graves of their war dead, leaving flowers and flags.  This tradition soon spread across the country as Americans chose to remember those who gave the ultimate sacrifice.

Tens of thousands of our fallen lie in graves across the globe as they never returned home.  Even today, Europeans walk the long rows of American graves in a dozen military cemeteries across peaceful green fields in small peaceful villages.  They offer flowers and tears of gratitude for those who fought and died to secure their freedoms.

The flag ceremony on Memorial Day is perhaps the most elegant of all; as dawn spreads across our nation the flag is raised to its highest point, then lowered to half mast to honor our fallen warriors.  Then, at noon, it is again raised to the top of the flag pole, thus conveying to our honored dead that, thanks to their sacrifice, America still breathes the invigorating air of freedom!

As always, I dedicate this blog to my military brothers and sisters who didn't make it home for a last look at what you were fighting for; I can still see your young faces in my dreams, frozen in time and in restful peace, knowing you gave your all.  And I pray for peace and comfort for their families who bear the greatest burden.

"In Memoriam"

                                                      
Happy Memorial Day, Everyone,

In an earlier blog entry ("Fighting for Pie") I wrote about what motivates an American to fight for his or her country.  I wrote about all that we endured in following the long tradition of citizen soldiers who came to their country's defense.  Think of all the disparate places our young men, and now women, have gone to serve an American cause.  Those shoeless soldiers at Valley Forge lit the way for all of us who followed...from Trenton to Gettysburg, to San Juan Hill, to the battlefields of France, to Omaha Beach, to Pork Chop Hill, to the jungles of Da Nang, to the deserts of Arabia and the mountain trails of Afghanistan, Americans have marched, crawled or ran across vast sweeping landscapes in defense of our country. 

As we Americans gather today to walk the graveyards of Normandy or Arlington or the thousands of resting places across America which host our nation's fallen, I can think of no better tribute than to understand what our soldiers endured and why they continue to do so.

My fellow Americans, truly, the grand parades and marches, the many Memorial Day concerts and the stirring John Phillip Sousa music is for you, not the soldier.  Of course, we have marched in column-swift unison across numerous parade grounds as we graduated from military schools and academies which span our nation.  Often the stirring music gave us a little extra bounce to our step, as we, wearied from weapons and tactical training, participated in the necessary ritual of pomp and circumstance that our military tradition expected.

But, when the music stopped and all the parade goers go home, we awaited a call of duty which dispersed us to the far corners of the globe.  No drums or trumpets for us as we manned lonely outposts in war-weary Europe or the humid jungles of the Pacific or Vietnam or the 125 degree heat and desolation of desert.  No bleacher cheering or confetti-strewn parade as our soldiers traversed bungi sticks and land mines and hostile fire.  No folks, all the marshall music and remembrances are for you, the "home front". 

I served for 22 years and not once, while serving in Vietnam or Korea, did I hear a single soldier say "boy, I could really use some John Phillip Sousa music right about now".  Instead he awaits...no he longs for..the letter from home, the new pictures of Mom and Dad and Wife and Children.  He eats military rations and pines for a good old American hamburger and fries.  He sees a child in a war zone and thanks God that his is living in freedom and safety and security back home.  And he believes, with all his heart, that his service is making that safety and freedom possible. 

Since that first shot at Concord, millions of Americans have given their lives to preserve the American way of life.  Tens of thousands of these young people are buried in foreign cemeteries, never making it home to rejoin his family and his community or for that hamburger and perhaps a night at the movies or a ball game. 

For those of us who were fortunate to come home, the first contact of our boots to American soil, the first breath of American air is reward enough.  The first embrace of a loved one is a sublime tactile experience.  And, most of us will never look at an American flag without feeling in our hearts a deep and abiding love for it. 

So, my wonderful American citizens, spread out the blanket, strike up the band and put the hot dogs on to grill.  I think any American who gave their life for this wonderful country would want you to carry on the grand tradition.  But take a brief moment to remember all of those who endured severe conditions, pain, loneliness, and ultimately, gave their lives so that you can do so.

"Matt Dillon Finally Scores!"

                                                                   

"Matt Dillon Finally Scores!"

Does anyone remember, when you were young and had such an imagination, that you could build castle walls in your mind so solid you could knock on them? Or when you laid in bed at night and took a train trip to New York City...and all in your mind? Then, as you get older the trials of life dampen down those imaginary flights to "wonderfulness".

"Death of A Flying Minister"

                                                               

One Saturday, on my last tour of Korea, I found myself walking into an arts store in Song Tan, South Korea.  The artist owned store had lots of paintings of Korean landscapes, portraits of Kennedy, and Hemingway and Reagan, surely commercially done to sell to rich Americans.  But what intrigued me was several paintings hanging on the wall of an American pilot.  Below them were some sculptures of the fellow.  

When I asked the proprietor of the store about them he said they were representations of a Korean war pilot named Dean Hess.  I knew nothing about the history of this Dean Hess...just figured he was an Ace or something, and thought no more about it.  

Then, several years later, while reading about a history of the Korean War, up pops the name of Dean Hess.  Seems Colonel Dean was a young fellow who graduated from college in June 1941, intending to enter the ministry.  Those plans were derailed after Pearl Harbor.  Dean joined the Army Air Forces and was sent to flight school and became a pilot, sent to Europe where he would fly 63 combat missions, including sorties on D-Day.  

After World War II, Dean came home and settled into civilian life, only to be recalled to duty in 1948 and assigned to the American occupation force in Japan.  At the outbreak of the Korean War, Dean was sent to Korea, to train Korean pilots how to fly the P-51 Mustang.  By the time Dean arrived in Korea he had flown over 250 combat missions. And it was in Korea where Dean would display his greatest heroism.  When South Korea was overrun by North Korea, thousands of children were left orphaned.  Many of these orphans ended up on an air base, to be cared for by American G.I.'s.  But, fearing for their safety, Dean organized what became known as "Kiddie Car Lift", employing American C-54's to ferry 950 of these children to safety down to Jeju Island.  

Colonel Hess would go on to win a Presidential Citation, A Silver Star, an Air Medal with 19 clusters.  From the Republic of Korea he would be honored as the "Schinlder of Korea" and awarded both the Republic of Korea Honor and the Korean Order of Merit.  

After the war Dean went back home, but this time stayed with the Air Force.  In 1956, between flight duties, Dean would write of his experiences and it was published under the title "Battle Hymn", which later became a movie starring Rock Hudson.  Colonel Hess took the profits from the book, and advances on the movie rights, and went to Korea and built an orphanage for Korean orphans.  Colonel Hess continued to serve with the Air Force, retiring in 1969.  

So, this morning I came across a little ditty of an article that announced Colonel Dean Hess just died on March 06, 2015, at the ripe old age of 97.  He had ended up finally entering the ministry after his Air Force career, ministering to his flock just outside Dayton, Ohio, home and birthplace of flying.  No doubt Dean Hess still flies...just with another set of wings.

A Mad Men Binge-Watch

                                                               

I had probably seen 15 minutes of Mad Men over the years, usually on a Sunday morning while flipping channels. But there was a lot of noise about the series finale coming up on Sunday night and I was a bit puzzled about all the hoopla. So I "semi-binge watched" Mad Men this past weekend. Caught a few of the earlier shows, some in the middle, and then a few episodes just before the finale. After watching the finale, here's my take on why the show captured such a devoted audience:

Just as the series "Pan Am" caught the viewers' attention a couple of years ago, I believe Mad Men provided an escape to a time when gender roles, for better or for worse, were more clearly defined. Women, even in what, at first appears to be in subservient roles, dressed attractively, soft and feminine and alluring. Those allures, again whether rightly or wrongly, illustrated just how women got what they wanted, even as men thought they were still in charge. That was always the secret of 50's and 60's women; they ruled over men...decidedly in a different way, but they ruled..and they didn't have to beat men over the head and neuter his masculinity as they do now. I once wrote an essay called "In 50 Years We'll All Be Chicks" about how men are largely metrosexual; women have succeeded through training and child rearing, to breed today's man....a fellow that will shave his chest, shave his legs and pubes, douse himself in cologne, change diapers and fold undies, run to the grocery for Kotex or Tampons, prepare the evening meal, all for the age old hope that "mama" will let him get in her pants when night comes. Or maybe just so he doesn't get beat over the head for not being "sensitive" enough.

And, folks, whether they will admit it or not, enjoyed escaping to Mad Men, to enter a world where men were strong (and yes, exploitive), and a woman stayed home and cared for the children, and romance was still something to step delicately around in the work place. 

But Mad Men was more than just about now ancient personal relationships. Viewers loved looking at people who dressed attractively, who didn't report to work in sweat suits, who dared to smoke a cigarette and sip an inch of scotch back in the corner office....all sins that are now not only taboo, but will get your fired and marginalized for not fitting into the little mold that society has designed for you. it's about elegant furniture, plush leather settees and leather chairs...before anyone knew about IKEA and office partitions and the "equality for the masses". My God..it's about Black people who spoke quietly and politely, maitre d's who understood their role, secretaries who didn't demand to be called "personal assistants", stewardesses before they went militant and demanded to be called "flight attendants" and didn't slap down your in-flight dinner and huff if you asked for a re-fill of your in flight cocktail. 

Mad Men was both honest and dishonest. Honest because they didn't yet have all these "self important" job titles that we now just adore, and dishonest because all that lovely sin was not lovely at all.

I watched all those little snippets, between episodes, of celebrities talking about why were devoted Mad Men followers....and those little tidbits were the most dishonest. Judging by what they said, they too, just as many viewers, were enjoying an era when things were simpler, where, for good or bad, people were more intimate, who communicated far better than we do today...a time when technology did not drive folks further apart, where conflict was settled peaceably or violently...but were at least settled and not resolved by "keyboard wars" by folks who presume to know it all and prove it by typing a respond in ALL CAPS to win their point. 

Mad Men was simply a show that showed how messy human relationships can become. But viewers liked it far better than the cold remoteness of interrelating through social media and texting and one minute cell phone messages as we do today. Let's face it; we don't talk to each other today...our cell phones and computers do. Mad Men simply presented a time when people still "mixed it up" for good and for bad...and many think even the "bad" is a hell of lot better than the anemic relationships we have today.

"I'd like to buy the world a coke...and furnish it with love".

Worse Than A Red Hot Rectal Thermometer!

                                                               

I was out running errands yesterday.  Had my radio tuned to National Public Radio.  I like to listen to NPR because, though I know any issue discussed is going to end up with a liberal solution, at least someone's discussing the issue in-depth.

Death In The Afternoon

                                                                 

2:15 PM, January 15th, 2061.  Steve Wilson was dead.  A massive heart attack felled him and he was dead before his head hit the holograph keyboard before him.  Even in the silence of his work place at home his death did not go unnoticed.  Apple Monitoring Services (AMS) picked up the last of his fading pulse on his I-Watch and "the cloud" reported the ceasing of his key strokes to his employer.   Even as the central server at his work place sent a signal to his time card record...to record the last minute and hour of work Steve's heirs would be compensated for, Apple Monitoring Services dispatched a "deletion team" to Steve's home.  

The Deletion Team arrived 9 minutes and 30 seconds after Steve took his last breath.  They removed his I-Watch, typed an order to delete all data from Steve's I-Cloud account, then removed his hard drive slid it, and him, into a body bag.  A drone was awaiting the body outside.  The team carried the body bag, hooked it up to the freight platform and activated the "send" button..to haul Steve off to the central incinerator.  

Other than the notification of family members no one knew Steve Wilson was bound for the incinerator.  The AMS had deleted the existence of Steven Wilson when they hit that "cloud delete" button.  To Facebook and Twitter and Tumbler and Pin It and Instagram, Steve Wilson never existed.

And death was of no consequence these days anyway.  Too depressing, and obituaries tend to divert the masses from their enjoyment of Facebook postings and the stimulating play of a good war game.

Once the Deletion Team returned to station they would hit a single "send" button that would notify local, state and federal officials of Steve's death.  The IRS servers would spring into action, examining Steve's old tax returns to determine if they could assess some estate taxes, the Social Security Administration breathed a sigh of relief that they wouldn't have to be funding old Stevie in his old age.  The Obamacare site was equally happy, having been spared the future death panel ponderings.  The State servers ran a query to see if they couldn't confiscate Steve's home for delinquent property taxes or if he left a will or not; the better to claim the property in probate.

There was no question Steve Wilson would be cremated, en masse with the hundreds of others who had died that day.  The 16 billion people on earth, and the extraordinary cost of land had led authorities to excavate old cemeteries, dispatch the boxed remains to a blast furnace, thus opening up valuable land for commercial exploitation.  The only cemetery left in the nation was located in Washington D.C....its dedicated use restricted only for the burial of government politicians.  After they had excavated thousands of dead soldiers they began calling it Arlington Presidential and Congressional Cemetery and anyone who had served in the Democratic Socialist Congress of America had burial rights.

Steve Wilson's ashes, along with his fellows, would be hauled to an organic farm in Oregon...to be used as fertilizing mulch on hemp and marijuana farming concerns.  

Happily, Steve Wilson's replacement received a text message that he had been hired to fill the job opening.  The text message provided a temporary user name and password and ordered him to key in by 7AM tomorrow morning....and to be sure and wear his I-Watch!

Death in the afternoon..."joy in the mourning!"

"Some Enchanted Evening"

                                                                 

4th of July holiday, 1986....I'm pulling part time security duty for some extra money at Honolulu International Airport. The Security Supervisor walks in, holding two tickets to see Sinatra at Aiea Stadium on the 26th. Sponsored by AT&T, the Sinatra concert had been sold out..so I said "how much?". He gave them to me and wouldn't take any money for them...said he couldn't make it, may as well give them to someone who would enjoy them. 

So, I go home that night smiling. I ask my wife if she wants to go...she says "Who's Sinatra?" and "no thanks". So I call my buddy Gary and asked if he wanted to go. After he stopped stuttering he said yes. 

So, on the night of the 26th, Gary and I set out early for the 8PM concert. We park, then work our way into the stadium where we are joined by 25,000 other lucky ticket holders (Frank wanted to keep the crowd "small and intimate.") The stage is already set up on the 50 yard line and the Honolulu Symphony is still in harmonic chaos as they tune their instruments and wander around the stage. Gary and I work our way up to the top of the stadium and we look out on a 3/4 moon bathing Pearl Harbor in moonlight. The trade winds have set the palm trees to dancing and there's a cool breeze coming in off the harbor. We look north, up ten miles or so, to the north shore, where Sinatra made his showbiz comeback in "From Here To Eternity"...he'd win an oscar for it. 

                                                             

Now Frank is old, has already retired a couple of times, no longer makes movies and lives off the kind hearts of folks like me who knows Frank's music will never get old. Someone opens the show for Frank (I can't remember who)....so when we hear the first strains of music we work our way down to our seats. 

When the opening act is over the place goes dark. Then, a single spot light hits stage center and the Chairman of The Board takes the stage. After long and extended applause, Frank opens with an upbeat number; "LA Is My Lady". His voice sounds like he's put away a quart of Jim Beam and smoked a pack of Camels...but somehow it doesn't matter...he's still got that well choreographed shoulder sway and his fingers snap to the beat and he's still "cool". After the applause dies down the spotlight diminishes a little and Frank begins a ballad; "What Now My Love?" and his voice is husky with the angst of love affairs with a few wives and a lot of girl friends. Magic again. 

At song's end, Frank walks over to a little table on stage, takes a drink of something, then swings into "A Summer Wind", made more meaningful as the palm trees sway in the night and plumeria wafts through the open air of the stadium. Then, as Frank begins to cover some of his old 40's songs; Cole Porter and George Gershwin stuff, he almost appears to shed 20 years of his age....alternately singing Swing...or slow sad ballads from a smoky late night bar. He takes us up with Swing...and then down with the ballads. Then up again with "New York, New York." Finally, we know it's almost time to say goodbye as the first notes of "My Way" begin. He sings that song like he believes it, and like he lived it...and we believe him. 

The spot light disappears and the stage is dark...and 25,000 people begin screaming for just one more song. So Old Blue Eyes comes out and rocks the place with a hot and lively "Mack The Knife"....then once again disappears, this time for good. So the 25,000 of us rise from our seats, and begin filing out of the stadium...not a few of us humming "I've Got You Under My Skin." Quite an enchanted evening in an enchanted place.

You Know You're A Black Slave On The Liberal Plantation When...

                                                                 

You know you're a Black slave on the liberal plantation when:

--When Black unemployment is 3 times higher than that of Whites...and you give Barack Obama and his fellow Democrats 95% of your vote.

-- When Black youth unemployment is 30% and Barack Obama wants to grant amnesty to 30 million illegal Mexicans who will take the rest of your jobs...and you vote for him anyway.

You know you're a Black slave on the liberal plantation when:

--You live in the ghetto and your children have a 50% chance of being gunned down in the streets and the Democrats are too busy talking about climate change to care.

--When when your kids graduate high school and still can't read or fill out a job application and the Democrats keep supporting a teacher's union over the education of your kids.

-- When the NAACP now stands for the National Association for Aborting Black Children.

You know you're a Black slave on the liberal plantation when:

--When Obama can convince Black churches to surrender the teachings of their own bible and declare same sex marriage a civil right.

-- When your Black churches now accept Big Government as their God...and not the God of Abraham.

--When Black mothers will vote for Hillary Clinton, yet can't cite a single thing she's done to improve the lives of Blacks in New York, or Detroit, or Atlanta, or Cleveland.

And, finally..you know you're a Black slave on the liberal plantation when you'll trade your vote for a free Obamaphone.

Sigh.

"Are We Just A Metaphor For A McDonalds Hamburger Patty?"

                                                               

"Have We Just Become A Metaphor For A McDonald's Hamburger Patty?"

Just this morning I read actor James Franco's sentimental defense of McDonald's. Says he's one of the "one out of eight" of every American whose worked at McDonalds. I couldn't help but think that McDonalds may very well be a metaphor for what America is today; a tiny, lightweight tasteless bit of incestuous soy-beef that no one seems to like very much but eats it anyway. 

My god, we used to do marvelous things! Our Italian brothers built the Brooklyn Bridge! 

                                                       

We built the Golden Gate Bridge in record time and made it to withstand earthquakes! 

                                                  

In the depths of the Great Depression we built the Empire State Building! 

                                                   

We used to dream big, then make those dreams come true! And we had leaders who dreamed big; when our rockets were still blowing up on the launch pad we had a young and vigorous President that dared to say we'd put a man on the moon within the next decade...and, in less time than that, we planted the American flag on the moon! 

                                              

Alas, today, Americans seemed to be cowardly, always in a stupor, colorless, tasteless, afraid to stand up for what's right..and condemn what's wrong, rehearsing every word we say before it exits our lips lest we offend someone with words that aren't politically correct. We cower in our homes as thugs and invaders rule our communities and call the shots. Yes, McDonalds is us and we are her...a colorless, tasteless bit of floss, our juices boiled out of us...satisfied with "fast" because we no longer have the patience or guts for "hard". Now, would you like fries with that?

"Thanks For Your Service..Now Go Home And Die"

                                                               

Gene Spencer seems to have been a "man for all seasons"; a multi-talented and ambitious man who touched the lives of many.  He started out humble enough; graduated from Central High School here in Phoenix, went on to Arizona State, getting a Bachelor's Degree, then on to the University of Arizona for a Master's Degree in Audiology.

Before Gene could put all that education to work he was drafted into the military in 1968.  After he served his hitch he came home and served as an audiologist on poverty stricken Indian reservations, administering to people who needed his help the most.

Gene would later go into business with his brother, as building contractors.  Between the two of them they would put up more than 3,500 homes and businesses across the state.  Gene's life was complete when he met and married Shirley.  

Gene could never tell Shirley enough how much he loved her.  Every morning he got up and wrote her a love letter and Shirley would find love notes all over the house..often in the most unlikeliest places.  

In 2010 Gene began feeling a little under the weather.  So he made an appointment at the Phoenix VA hospital where he was diagnosed with colon cancer....and was given six years to live.   As frightening as the death sentence was, Gene and Shirley bravely faced it and began living out their bucket lists.

As you can imagine, this is not a happy story.  And the unhappiness began when Gene began reporting to the VA for various treatments.   First, no one at the VA was monitoring Gene's radiation treatments...so they over radiated him until he nearly glowed in the dark.  He was also going through the agony of chemotherapy.  The excessive radiation left Gene often in so much pain Shirley would find him in the backyard, curled up in a fetal position, not wanting her to see his pain.  When Glen couldn't get followup appointments to the VA hospital he would often report to the VA Emergency room where he would be turned away and advised to get an appointment.

Despite the pain, and VA malpractice, in 2012 Gene and Shirley continued with their bucket list.  One of them was a trip to Hawaii.  But, one day before they were scheduled to fly out, Gene began experiencing shortness of breath.  Back to the VA hospital where Gene was X-rayed and administered a procedure to drain fluid from his lungs.  However, during the probe the surgeon accidentally punctured Gene's lung, causing Gene's lungs to completely fill with fluid, making the situation worse.  The surgeon admitted he made a mistake, then said he'd have to undergo a second procedure to drain his lungs.  

However, before that second procedure took place, someone took a look at Gene's X-rays and confused lung fluid for cancer and called Gene in to give him the bad news...they told Gene to go home and get his affairs in order and wait for death.

Gene did go home but was in so much pain from the collapsed fluid-filled lung that he could barely tolerate it.  But he still had enough strength to sit Shirley down and apologize for not having the time left to finish their bucket list.  He then apologized for having to leave her early.

The next day Shirley had to go out and run an errand.  When she returned the front door was open and she felt a foreboding as soon as she entered the home.  When she looked down the hallway she saw bloodstains as far out as the hallway.  Shirley called 911, then called the VA hospital to let them know Gene would need no more chemotherapy.

Even then, it seems the VA doctors don't talk much to each other.  The next day Gene's surgeon called Shirley and said "I have such great news for you and Gene...that fluid around the lungs is not cancer."  Shirley could only reply "Well, if you folks ever looked at your files you'd know Gene is dead."

Yes, this is the same VA hospital that turned away hundreds of vets, who falsified appointment records, who turned away vets in wheelchairs, literally spinning them around and wheeling them back out the door of an Emergency Room, who wheeled an elderly vet up to the rooftop patio and forgot about him for 12 hours, only to find him dead from the oppressive heat of an Arizona summer, the same VA hospital who were responsible for dozens of vet deaths because they just didn't have the time for them.  And, yes, the same VA hospital that awarded hundreds of employees with performance bonuses for meeting falsified appointment schedules.

Meantime, Shirley wanders about her home, reaches up to pull a book off the shelf..and finds still another love note from Gene.

I Learned A lot Looking Up To My Mom

                                               
All day Mother's Day, I couldn't get my mind off my mom.  Though she is gone now she still fills a large space in my heart and the life lessons she taught me remain clear and relevant.

I thought on those life lessons and realized what an amazing woman, and mother she was.  For she never in her long life ever gave me reason not to look up to her.

I thought about all of the many times I looked up to her.  When I was little and had colds that made my childhood asthma even more difficult I can still remember laying sick in bed, and looking up to her as she bent gently to rub my chest with Vick's vapor rub and place a Vick's soaked warm pad to ease my breathing and my fear.  I looked up to her and she would be the last face I saw as I fell peacefully asleep.

When I was still too young to seek out the world's adventures it was my mom who took my hand and led me out into the world.  Whether going into a store or entering a church, or leading me to my first day of school I would hold her hand and look up to her, confident that she was taking me to someone or somewhere, where no harm would come to me.

When sitting at the kitchen table and waiting for mom to bring me eggs or oatmeal or a peach cobbler, I sat and looked up to her and she, with brow moist, and tugging on an apron, brought sustenance for the body and for the soul as well.

Even when I got older and towered over my mother I still looked up to her.  I always contemplated the limits of her eighth grade education and marveled at her native intelligence, at her diligence in finding and knowing what was going on in the world.  She read the paper daily and made me believe it was important to know our world.

In the final days before she died I looked up to her as well.  I slept on a futon on the floor just beside her bed.  During those last nights she was in avid conversations with her angels.  She talked to her Papa and to her mother, she talked to her daughter, her brother, all of whom had gone before her.  As I lay in the night darkness I heard her calling out to each of them by name, as if in joyful reunion the way one does when coming home to see family again.

As I lay there, looking up at my mother, I marveled at the way God prepares us for our final journey; trooping out all the family and friends to form a greeting party, each extending to her a beckoning hand, a loving hand, just as loved ones do in this life.  Yes, she spent her days extending love to all of us, making us ready for her departure.  Sometimes, when strength was there, she murmured endearments, sometimes she could express it only with her loving eyes.  But her nights were spent in reunion with her angels and I was privileged to look up to her, to see and hear the murmurings.

Now, she has been gone for a decade.  Yet, she is always just over my shoulder, looking out for me.  All I need do to see her again is turn a bit and look up over my shoulder;  to again look up to a mom who never game me reason not to.

Thomas Jefferson; The New Interview

                                                                 

Preface:  As many of my readers may remember, I was fortunate enough to score an interview with the late founding father Thomas Jefferson back in 2013.  I just happened to be touring Civil War sites in my mini-RV, "Rocinante", when I decided to make a side trip to Monticello, Jefferson's home.

I remember it was a cool, crisp April day as a group of us visitors followed a tour guide of the home.  As we entered the home the tour guide pointed out various artifacts collected by Lewis and Clarke during their Voyage of Discovery and given to Jefferson as a reward for making that exploration possible.  Sketches of Grizzly Bears, various bird species and elk antlers were prominently displayed on the walls of the living room.  And Jefferson's own inventions, the seven day clock and a contraption that ferried food and drink to the upper levels of the house were on display.  

Despite the many wonders of Monticello, I was saddened to learn that our little group was populated with simpering little liberals who kept whispering and giggling over the prospects of where Sally Hemmings might have slept in the house.  Others were "tsk-tsking" a Jefferson quote mounted prominently above the fireplace.  The quote read "when citizens are enabled to vote themselves benefits, then we are no longer a Republic."  

Well, I tired of the liberal simpering and wandered off by myself, out to the back of the home, to the grave where Jefferson rests.  

                                                

As I stood before the grave I felt a great rumbling and suddenly Thomas Jefferson himself came spinning up through the ground and stood shaking and disheveled before me.  His reddish hair was in tangles and his burial suit was a bit tattered.  But, most pronounced, was the look of anger on Jefferson's face.  

When I asked him if we was alright he huffed a bit and said "No, citizen, I am not alright....how would you feel about having a horde of empty headed liberals traipsing about your house?"  

I gave old Tom my most empathetic apologies and asked if he might be amenable to having a cup of coffee...or perhaps a glass of burgundy.  At this, his eyes lit up and he readily accepted my offer of hospitality.  As I led him over to my RV he was still complaining.  He said "the worst part about being dead is having these Democrats invoking my name to justify their big government power grabs...me who despised the oppression of a federal entity!"

As I threw the door to my RV open, and we stepped in, Mr. Jefferson was impressed with the economical use of space inside and marveled at all the modern conveniences.  Before I had time to pull the wine out of the fridge, Jefferson looked out at the mob who were now descending the hill behind his home and asked if we might go somewhere quiet to enjoy our wine.  He then suggested his second home down at Poplar Forest.  I acquiesced and Tom gave me directions as we motored down secondary roads that still bore a resemblance to the trails he once followed in his own time.

After a time we arrived on the grounds of Poplar Forest and I shut the engine off and we again climbed into the back and took seats opposite each other at the table.  I broke out the wine and poured for each of us and that was the beginning of my three day interview with the author of our Declaration of Independence.  (You may type "Thomas Jefferson Interview" in the search block of my home page to reacquaint yourself with Jefferson's thoughts on 21st century America).

During those three days I felt as if I had been personally enlightened by perhaps the greatest scholar America has known.  I felt great kinship with a man who spent his entire life advocating for the triumph of personal liberties.  Alas, after our talks, it was time to return Mr. Jefferson to his ancestral home, but not before I wrote my phone number down on a slip of paper and handed it to Mr. Jefferson.  "Please call me if you ever again have the need to vent",  I pleaded.   After we shared half a carafe of Chardonnay, Jefferson bid me adieu and climbed the hill, rounded the house and, presumably returned to his rest.

So, imagine my surprise, some two years later, to get a late night call from Mr. Jefferson himself last night!  "Good evening, citizen!" were his first words spoken into a telephone!  A bit taken aback, I asked him how he had managed the phone call and where he was calling from.  He said he'd found a few rolls of Jefferson nickels in a glass display case up in his upstairs study and had set off to find a telephone.   He told me he was calling from what looked like a traveller's rest stop off of Route 95 in Virginia.

When I attempted to inquire further he stopped me and said "withhold from the inconsequentials"..I have a message for you to convey to your government masters!"  "Tell them I insist they stop invoking my name to enlist support for their mad grabs for power!"  "Why, just this week, over in Wheeling, there's this sot by the name of Clinton who is insisting that government can do more, that government is the answer to your societal problems..tell them to stop it, I say!"

At this we were interrupted by an operator somewhere, directing Tom to deposit more money in order to continue his call.  After an interminable time, the sound of Jefferson nickels falling into place, Jefferson came back on the line.

"Listen, citizen!  America is in dire straights..trouble I've not seen since Adams enacted the Alien and Sedition Acts to quash criticism of government.  Thousands went to prison simply because they dared to criticize the President or those boobs in Congress!"  "You are getting perilously close to that now!"  "I am now witnessing that same heavy handed oppressiveness as your President issues unconstitutional Executive Orders and your Congress and Courts issue mandates infringing on both personal and religious liberties...tell them I never advocated for government to deny religious liberties..I simply supported a citizen's rights to worship as he pleases..and certainly didn't intend for the government or the courts to ban religion from the public square!"

"What in the world have you people wrought here in the 21st Century?"  "I see your liberal elites assume powers neither favored nor bestowed onto them by our grand Constitution!....."what has happened to the American spirit?"  "Why such apathy?"  "Need I remind you of the fall of Rome to the barbarian hordes?"  "Need I remind you that, a little more than half a century ago that lout named Hitler came to power while citizens slept in stuporous apathy?"   "Did you folks think I was kidding when I said "for the Republic to survive the blood of tyrants and patriots will be required to maintain your freedom?"

At this, the operator again came on the line, demanding coins.  Then Jefferson's voice; "I am without!".....at this Jefferson said "Citizen, I'll get back to you!"

So, here I sit, waiting by my phone...hoping old Tom isn't cruising a rest stop parking lot for "spare change."  I'll let you know if he gets back to me.

Ten Billion Here, Ten Billion There!

                                                               

$10 billion here, $10 billion there...soon you're talking big money!

Good morning boys and girls.  Here's your friendly personal tax expert urging you to go to your local post office and get yourself a 1040X and submit an amended tax return!  I can guarantee your tax bill will be less..or your tax rebate check will be more!  Here's how:

The USA Today just reported this morning that the IRS has been awarding $5.6 billion in fraudulent tuition tax credits....to people who never set foot in a class room!  It's seems the tax cheats, always ahead of our porn watching, conservative-persecuting IRS clerks have no way of knowing if you attended college and thus rightfully claim tuition tax credits!  Haven't a clue!  So file that 1040X and save big, people!

And, people, the tuition tax credit fraud is in addition to the $12 billion in child tax credits the IRS gave out to illegal Mexicans last year...and every year since 2002!  Sweet, huh?

Oh, and it doesn't stop there!  In January we learned that our home grown cheats, coupled with some of the earliest Mexican invaders have been collecting $6.5 billion in social security payments for people who have been dead for fifty-two years!  Yeah, you got that right!  Those stolen Social Security numbers are not just for illegal hires; the cheats have learned to go all the way and "retire" on someone else's dime!

Oh, and could it get any worse?  Sadly, yeah.  The cheats have been stealing your personal data and filing tax returns and claiming all kinds of fanciful tax credits.  Last year alone the IRS gave out $5.8 billion dollars to people who fraudulently "borrowed" your personal info!

Now, please let me hear it from the liberals!  About how we need to pay higher taxes!  That the government really needs more of your money!

Okay, don't tarry; get your ass down to the Post Office, buy yourself a Forever Stamp and get that damn 1040X in the mail ASAP!  Thank me later!

I Am Finally, Certifiably Insane

                                                                 

I just watched four Black news announcers on MSNBC, who all are delinquent on their taxes (from $45,000 to $4.5 million) discussing "White Privilege and Black Victimhood".  As I sat there and watched these liberal Blacks, pampered and nourished by liberal Whites, sanity finally deserted me.

There are a cult of liberal urban Whites who, during the last 50 years, have grown and cultivated a crop of urban liberal Blacks who have been granted rights and privileges that Whites can only dream of...and then sit back and bitch because there's not more.

Let's take Baltimore.  Thanks to federal grants and sky high middle class property rates, Baltimore's predominately Black schools receive $16,000 dollars per student (highest per pupil payout in the nation!)...and only half of Black kids show up for school...then complain that they need even more.  And every facet of Baltimore's municipal government is run by Blacks, their courts, their cops, their justice system, their schools, their municipal services...and they somehow blame it on honkies.

Back to the MSNBC tax cheats; all four were proposing that the 300 year history of American policing has been based on an anti-Black agenda.  They proposed that a liberal federal government entity dissolve every municipal and state police force in the nation and employ federal forces to enforce our laws.  Then, (as if this had anything to do with police) they said the only way to end White Privilege is for Congress to enact legislation that would pay "slavery reparations" to every Black living in America.  I can only assume this would be above and beyond the $100 trillion federal, state, and municipal dollars that have been spent on the Great Society programs since that grand giveaway began.

Well after the thug Michael Brown killing, and the urban carnage that emerged from that, and the millions in property damage, and in the  carnage wrought after thug Trayvon Martin was killed by a "White Hispanic", and after assigning sainthood to Freddie Gray and the 20 counts on his criminal record, and after a 400 pound Black thug choked on his own fat on the streets of New York set off more human carnage and destruction, and after watching these four MSNBC pampered and coddled tax cheats on MSNBC, I'm finally, certifiably insane.  And the only good thing about my insanity is that no one will know it!

No one will recognize my insanity because half of our entire nation is insane...and there is safety in numbers!  How else do you explain spending trillions of dollars in national treasure to feed, house, medicate and educate an impressive number of Black people...who, in return, hate your guts..and only cry for more!  And how do you explain to a White kid that he can't get into a school with a 4.0 GPA...cause someone with a darker skin got preference!    And how do you explain to your kid that crime is wrong when a liberal judge will dole out as many 15 probations to a kid that has robbed, beaten and raped...and still walks the streets to wreak more havoc!

And how do Obamanites rationalize legalizing 30 million illegal Mexicans when our own people can't get jobs, when our welfare and medicaid and social security system is already bound for bankruptcy? And how do you rationalize taking the "bottom ten percent" of Mexican citizens and expecting them to somehow "enrich" our nation...they can only contribute to explosive costs for education, welfare and further suppression of wage rates...yet we throw out the welcome mat for them!

And what can you say....how can you reason with a liberal whose logic genes just won't connect, that throwing money at a social problem is a mistake....and that forcing personal ownership of mistakes is essential to keep our society from ripping apart?

Alas, that's why I'm now insane.  I just cannot face the fact that logic and common sense is no longer the answer.  And I find it frightening that liberals control the air waves and the national discussion...or that the 3% gay population can run roughshod over millions of Christians who believe that lifestyle is wrong...and even when good Christians say "go on your way and do as you please but don't expect me to like it", they are persecuted by their own government and brought under the oppressive jack boots of liberal brownshirt bureaucrats and judges.

So, yes, I'm insane....so don't pay any attention to anything I've just said.