Family values voter

I think the president has a certain sunny nobility, don't you? Now, what did I do with my beer?

It's a Golden Protest Weekend on WBST!

Sisyphus Shrugged suggests adding an anti-war song to your blog this weekend. Well, never let it be said that we don't take requests here at WBST (Black Sky Theory). Roll your own, while you're at it....


Masters of War

by Bob Dylan

Come you masters of war
You that build all the guns
You that build the death planes
You that build the big bombs
You that hide behind walls
You that hide behind desks
I just want you to know
I can see through your masks

You that never done nothin'
But build to destroy
You play with my world
Like it's your little toy
You put a gun in my hand
And you hide from my eyes
And you turn and run farther
When the fast bullets fly

Like Judas of old
You lie and deceive
A world war can be won
You want me to believe
But I see through your eyes
And I see through your brain
Like I see through the water
That runs down my drain

You fasten the triggers
For the others to fire
Then you set back and watch
When the death count gets higher
You hide in your mansion
As young people's blood
Flows out of their bodies
And is buried in the mud

You've thrown the worst fear
That can ever be hurled
Fear to bring children
Into the world
For threatening my baby
Unborn and unnamed
You ain't worth the blood
That runs in your veins

How much do I know
To talk out of turn
You might say that I'm young
You might say I'm unlearned
But there's one thing I know
Though I'm younger than you
Even Jesus would never
Forgive what you do

Let me ask you one question
Is your money that good
Will it buy you forgiveness
Do you think that it could
I think you will find
When your death takes its toll
All the money you made
Will never buy back your soul

And I hope that you die
And your death'll come soon
I will follow your casket
In the pale afternoon
And I'll watch while you're lowered
Down to your deathbed
And I'll stand o'er your grave
'Til I'm sure that you're dead


Copyright © 1963; renewed 1991 Special Rider Music

Monday Dog Blog

This handsome fellow is Brody, one of our January litter from our girl Wren. He's 11 weeks old, and lives in Timonium, MD.

Hommagio a Bobby Lightfoot

Una donna ha avuta un facelilft. È andato all'ufficio postale ed ha chiesto all'impiegato, "Quanto vecchio lo pensate sono?" "29," ha risposto. "No, sono 50," lei ho risposto con orgoglio.

La donna è stata eccitata con la sua apparenza youthful. Si è avvicinata ad un uomo sulla via. "Quanto vecchio lo pensate sono?" ha chiesto. "Posso dirvi che esattamente quanto vecchio siete se lo lasciaste ritenere i vostri seni," abbia risposto a. Ha pensato per un momento, allora risposto, "GIUSTO. Vada avanti." L'uomo caressed i suoi seni, pinched i suoi ugelli ed ha sepolto la sua faccia nel suo petto. "Siete 50," ha detto.

"Come potete dire a?" ha chiesto. "Ero dietro voi all'ufficio postale," ha risposto con un sorriso.

Here's something you don't see every day......

One man. Three balls. The Beatles. (Link fixed.) (I think.)

I remain your loving husband while life do remain...

July 30, 1863

My Dear Bridget,

I hope these lines will find you and the children in good health as this leaves me in at present thanks be to God.

Thus begins a letter from my great-great-great grandfather Patrick Griffith to his wife, Bridget. He had crossed over from Ireland ca. 1860, after having grown up through the potato famine of Black '47. Patt and Bridget and millions of other fearless Irish immigrants, men and women and children, are why we celebrate St. Patrick's Day this week.

My Dear Bridget, I hope you have received your Passage Certificate before this. I have paid your fare on a steamer on the 25th day of July. It cost me $137 dollars. I would not have you come on a sailing ship you will be no more than 12 or 15 days on sea. You will have to get some sort of a bed for the voige and that is all you will want.

Bridget, if you have not the Passage Certificate before this do not delay one day without writing me until I see after it, if you have received it you need not write until you get another letter that will be in a week or two. I will send you what money as I can, you must manage it as well as you can. You need not buy any expensive clothes, but come as clean as you can, and when you reach me I will be able to dress you in the fashion of this country.

Bridget, you must have courage and if this journey was over you, I think with the help of God that the hardships of your life will be at an end. Bridget you must see which is it cheaper to go through Waterford to Liverpool or by Dublin. If it is not much dearer I would sooner have you come through Dublin.

Bridget you must be wide awake now and not to let anybody fool you. When you are starting from home you will get Matty and Johney for half fare on the train and by you taking Thomas on your arms when you're getting tickets I expect you will get him for free and you must act the same way when you are paying your fare on the steamer to Liverpool. ("Old Tom" Griffith was my great-great grandfather.)

If it is by Dublin you come when you get out of the train you will get a carriage it will take you and whatever you may have to where you will meet the steamer for free. (Illegible) one shilling William Hoher will tell you the rules of that place. Bridget you would want a sweet loaf or something nice on the steamer to Liverpool it is very little will do you. I think that a drop of wine would be very good for you in case that you got sick. When you land in Liverpool inquire for Wm. Riley. He keeps a boarding house. He is an honest man he will see you all right. If you have a bag do not let anybody take it without you know what they charge and don't give them half what they ask.

Bridget as soon as you receive this next letter write that moment supposing you were not to start for a fortnight after so as I can have your fare paid from New York to Wheeling. Because when you start from Liverpool you will come as fast as the letters do. I would want to have your letter a week before you land in New York. Bridget, I am about 30 miles from sister Judy. You will write direct to her and she will get it without delay.

Bridget it is Johna that will write you the next letter. She will let you know all about the journey from New York to Wheeling and where I will meet you.

Bridget this is all I have to say to you. May God send you a speedy voige. If you were here tomorrow how happy I would feel and never more to be separate until death.

I remain your loving husband while life do remain.

Patt Griffith

Night of the owl...

Living in the country has its moments. Last night, I was up at 3:30 a.m. (Happens all the time....I don't sleep much.) I made a trip to the woodshed so that I could reload the stove, moving quietly so as not to wake the wife.

It's pretty placid here on our West Virginia hilltop...we're half a mile off the state road, and even a breeze through the trees has disproportionate auditory impact. That's why I froze when I heard a deep voice from the woods to the south of our house. The voice was deeper than my own former FM disk jockey baritone. And it said, "Whooooo....who...who."



The hair on the back of my neck hadn't settled down before I became overcome with a deep and profound excitement. "Hot damn! That's an owl!" Now, I'm not particularly ga-ga about owls. I don't collect owl tchotchkes or anything like that. I don't believe that they are particularly wise. I didn't attend Rice or Temple (although the wife is a Temple alum).

My reaction to this long-eared fellow was of a primal nature. I had heard the voice of springtime, and it was speaking to me alone. Buds on the forsythia, crocuses and daffodils emerging. Stark branches against the winter sky softening as they become cluttered with nascent leaves. These signs of impending spring had been visible for a week or so, but I didn't allow myself to become too excited. After all, a hard freeze isn't out of the question, even into April. But hearing Mr. Asio otus talking dirty to Ms. Asio otus brought home the irreversible truth...it's Spring, baby.

Rural rhythms are tied to the seasons. My nearest neighbor and I were talking yesterday about the imminent spring chores...gathering up the detritus of winter, making way for the newness of spring, getting ready to get the garden ready...we're even looking forward to looking forward to spring stuff.

There is a proliferation of moles this year. They eat grubs, which is a good thing, but their tunnels are a nuisance. The resulting soft spots can twist dog knees and human ankles. Poison and/or traps aren't options because of the dogs. I'm no more malevolent toward the little rat bastards than they are toward the grubs, but they've got to go. Who will rid me of these turbulent pests?

Ah, that would be Mr. Owl. Owls love small rodents, and the process of eating them results in some utterly fascinating vomitus.

Ok, I've gone from an elegiac discussion of Appalachian spring time to a discussion of bird puke. That's it. I got nothin' else.....thanks for visiting, and thanks to Helmut at Phronesisaical for the link!

What an asshole.

I mean, that is a picture of an asshole, isn't it?

B.A., Yale 1968; M.B.A., Harvard, 1975

As a proud graduate of Ball State University (B.S., 1977) and California Western School of Law (J.D., 1993)......


....what i want to know is how do you like your blueeyed boy Mister Death?

Fuckin' Harvard. Fuckin' Yale. Fuckin' kidding me is more like it....