black sky theory

keith from west liberty

2007-06-13T07:09:00.000-04:00

Roxtar has got to get back in the game....

Hangin' Out My Shingle.....(or just hangin' out)

2007-02-04T06:27:00.000-05:00

After 14+ years of practicing law, first as an employee in a private firm, then as an employee in a State agency, my entreprenurial urge has gotten the better of me and I'm going into business for myself and my clients on March 3, 2007. (That is most assuredly NOT me pictured at right.)

I have newfound respect for the small businessperson. Getting a business off the ground is like the Chinese Water Torture....one little thing after another. Business license, tax certificate, logo design, stationery, signage, website (watch for the launch, to be announced here), office space to be leased and remodeled, insurance, software and equipment to evaluate and purchase, phones, internet service.....every time I pick up my checklist to strike an item, I find myself adding two more. And I am doing this while maintaining my full client load at the Justice Mill. (My aforementioned murder trial resulted in a plea which had been in the works since before I decided to make the leap, so that has freed up a few hours, but the press of time is acute.)

When I open the doors, I'm expecting the sphincter-tightening realization that there is not another paycheck in the pipeline. Root hog, or die, as the saying goes. But there will be rewards of a less tangible nature. When my travels take me past a nice little stream, I can try to persuade a few trout onto my dinner plate, without thinking up some phoney-baloney excuse for my boss. I can take on meritorious cases that wouldn't have qualified for my previous agency's services, and I can reject those cases in which the defendant is just trying to game the system (or at least charge a fee commensurate with the insult to my self-respect.)

I can set my own schedule, which will make my wife happy when it's time to visit the kids at the Cape, or attend a dog show out of town. As Jan-Michael Vincent said to Darren McGavin in an obscure 70's army flick ("Tribes"), when asked why he didn't wear underwear, "Sir, I like the freedom, sir!"

If I want to put a sign that says "Worst President Ever" in my office window, I can do it. If I want to represent a draft resister, should it come to that, I can do it. If I want to be politically active without fear of recrimination, I can do it. Because, you see, I like the freedom, too.

Groundhog Day.

2007-02-02T07:17:00.000-05:00

Little buck-toothed bastard says early spring. Well, I'm not going to get my hopes up. And by the by, today is the one year anniversary of Black Sky Theory. Thanks to all my visitors. You guys are the best. I look forward to another year.

Absolut Pandemonium

2007-01-24T06:17:00.000-05:00

A couple of hectic weeks here in BlackSky Country. We welcomed a litter of 10 Lab pups on the 8th, which has cut into our sleeping time. (There's a puppy slide show at the bottom of the linked page...) We have a houseguest, which requires us to be sociable. I've been laying the groundwork for a new business venture (more on which coming soon). And to top things off, I recently learned that an upcoming murder case, which I thought would be resolved by a plea, might go to trial after all. Yeah, that won't occupy much of my time.

So anyway, I've been a little slack here at the blog, and in my correspondence. I've also been trying to push to the back of my mind a scheme that has been bubbling up lately, inspired by some unrelated, but contemporaneous, posts on various blogs of our mutual acquaintance.

In broad strokes, I'm talking about conversation, recreation and al fresco gustation. In other words, an old-fashioned, wood-burning, mosquito-slapping cookout/campout, sometime this summer, somewhere on the Cleveburg/NoVa axis. (Ohiopyle State Park in PA has nice facilities, rafting, fishing, swimming and tubing, and tours of Frank Lloyd Wright's Fallingwater, just to pose one possible location.)

Folding chairs, adult beverages, campfire cooking, tons o' fun for the whole fam damily! Any interest?

I have a dream.........

2007-01-14T05:53:00.000-05:00

No, no, we are not satisfied, and we will not be satisfied until justice rolls down like waters and righteousness like a mighty stream.

Dr. Martin Luther King, Washington, DC, August 28, 1963

Pick 3

2007-01-13T04:55:00.000-05:00

Here's a little audience participation number. Pick 3 invites you to give not one, not two, but THREE opinions on the topic at hand. The topic will vary: three best switch-hitting American League shortstops, three best cookie recipes, three most vapid celebrities. You never know what you're gonna get, but you're gonna get a chance to make your picks and make your case.

To start things off, list the three greatest guitar riffs in rock music history. Not great guitarists, not smoking polyrhythmic Mahavishnu John McLaughlin solos. Just riffs.

I'll get the ball rolling with my faves:

1. Aqualung (those first six notes)
2. Smoke on the Water (need I say more?)
3. The All-Purpose Chuck Berry riff. (You know the one I mean.)

OK, that leaves about a million others for you to divvy up amongst yourselves. And after you post your 3, I promise you'll think of 30 more, but there's a three riff per post limit.

And while we're on the subject of threes, I refer you to three additions to the blogroll. Lance Mannion and Jason Chervokas should have been on there ages ago, and I have no excuse other than that I am a filthy hippie slacker. These two worthies, along with blogroll stalwart Tom Watson, have a new blogging venture called newcritics, self described as "Web-based criticism in literature, music, film, theater and art from a diverse group of writers." Great look, great content, great writing. It's slick as snot on a glass doorknob, and as cool as the other side of the pillow. Check 'em out!

The surge. Another great idea from Bushco!

2007-01-10T14:18:00.000-05:00

Some more great ideas:

Y'see, I'll jes' surge into the nice, soft water.

You go up the ramp...we call it "ramping up"...and then you surge to a graceful landing...Mission Accomplished!

Jes' squeeze down a leetle with your teeth for a surge of delicious amphibian flavor!

It's a surge of energy that you only get from a power plant fired with genuine Iraqi oil!

And then, once you get the fucker twisted off, just surge it up your ass! Hey, Dick! How about a little help here?

The surge! Bushco tested, (Gold Star)Mother approved!

Seasons will pass you by......

2007-01-06T05:06:00.000-05:00

More than a few folks here in the Eastern US have been lamenting the absence of winter. "Boo-hoo! Where's the snow?" Answer: In Colorado. Get on I-70 West and drive until a helicopter drops a bale of hay on your car. The other day, I saw a robin outside my office building. It was dead. I know there's a big-ass metaphor to be drawn from this observation, but it would inevitably involve a discussion of global warming, which would just depress me to no end, so I'll leave the metaphorin' to others so inclined. We were warned back in 1972: Seasons will pass us by. So it was written, so it came to be.

Tom Watson has a nice post up regarding the lack of blog mojo that affects all of us from time to time. Ping-ponging electrons back 'n' forth through the blogoshpere (sic) does take on a masturbatory quality on occasion. I guess we need to remind ourselves that masturbation is both healthy and fun, which is what attracted most of us to the practice in the first place.

Lieutenant Ehren Watada of the United States Army isn't jerking off; he's fully engaged. (Photo by televiseus.) He believes that the invasion and occupation of Iraq is a criminal act, and he has declined orders to participate in said occupation. See, e.g., Nuremburg. Quoting from the linked article by Lawrence Mosqueda at Counterpunch:

As Hamilton Action for Social Change has noted "Under the Nuremberg Principles, you have an obligation NOT to follow the orders of leaders who are preparing crimes against peace and crimes against humanity. We are all bound by what U.S. Chief Prosecutor Robert K. Jackson declared in 1948: [T]he very essence of the [Nuremberg] Charter is that individuals have intentional duties which transcend the national obligations of obedience imposed by the individual state." At the Tokyo War Crimes trial, it was further declared "[A]nyone with knowledge of illegal activity and an opportunity to do something about it is a potential criminal under international law unless the person takes affirmative measures to prevent commission of the crimes."

Lt. Watada's court martial is scheduled to begin February 5, 2007. His friends and family have a website where you can learn more, sign a petition, etc.

Fred Wickham at Bullseye Rooster has tagged me with the meme requiring me to grab the nearest book, turn to page 123, and reveal sentences 6-8. OK, here goes. The book is "Three From the 87th", a collection of police procedural novellas by Ed McBain. And the sentences are:

"Do you have a lot of black silk blouses bought at a store called the Monkey Wrench?"

"Well, no, but a person could get confused about her clothes. I mean, it's a black silk blouse, it could be any black silk blouse."

Fred is about to have an operation, so you might stop by and wish him well.

And for what it's worth, my wild-card round predictions are: Indy over KC, Seattle over Dallas, NE over NYJ, and The Iggles over the Jints. Feel free to disagree, or just feel free. And while you're feeling free, feel free to visit Silly Humansand Calm Before the Sand, the latest adds to the blogroll.....

The big payback.

2006-12-25T03:58:00.000-05:00

Soul Brother Number One, Mr. Dynamite, the Hardest Working Man in Show Business, Minister of The New New Super Heavy Funk, Mr. Please Please Please, The Boss, the Godfather of Soul.

Our little burg had a big civic celebration back in 1966. I was twelve. Said celebration included a "Teen Dance" featuring a few local bands, and headlined by The McCoys ("Hang on Sloopy) and the James Brown Revue.

Sweet Jesus. James Brown in 1966 playing for a buncha pimply-faced, slack-jawed yokels at a roller rink in Wheeling W.Va. Talk about pearls before swine. We had heard him on the radio, of course. "Papa's Got a Brand New Bag" and "I Feel Good" had been huge hits. But when James Brown came to our town and got all the way down on "Please, Please Please", and they came out to place that red sequined cape on his apparently exhausted frame, and he burst forward in a climactic cloud of trumpets and triumph and sweat and pain and cheap pomade, well, what could a 12 year-old white kid do but literally burst into tears from the sheer passion of it all.

It was like having a ticket to watch Michaelangelo paint the Sistine Chapel. But with a horn section.

UPDATE: Jason Chervokas has a nice piece on JB.

FURTHER UPDATE: It seems JB will be lying in state, as it were, for a public viewing Thursday at (wait for it) The Apollo Theatre. Now that's just perfect. Just perfect.

I've changed my mind. I LOVE CHRISTMAS!!!!

2006-12-22T12:40:00.000-05:00

Friends, I once was lost, but now am found. I was blind, but now I see. Put me down as a 100% tree-trimming, stocking-hanging fan of Christmas!

You see that fella to your right? That would be Santa. And, as you can see, Santa is taking a shite! Pinchin' a loaf of fruitcake! Delivering the ol' Yule log! (What am I, 13 years old? Sorry.)

Imagine my surprise when I learned that in Catlan Christmas tradition, the nativity scene contains, in addition to the Three Kings, Joseph, Mary, Babyjeesus, ox, ass, etc., a character called "El Caganer" or, en Ingles, "The Defecator"!

Hey, don't take my word for it. Here's what MSNBC has to say:

Throughout Spain's northeastern Catalonia region, statuettes of "El Caganer," or "the great defecator" in the Catalan dialect, can be found in Christmas scenes, and increasingly on the mantelpieces of collectors, where for centuries symbols of defecation have played an important role in the season's festivities.

(Just an aside. I'm pretty well-read and over-educated. How is it that I have never heard of this?)

And as if Santa himself had granted my most fervent Christmas wish, you can get un caganer representing George W. Bush himself, for the low, low price of 12 Euros.

But wait....there's more!

The Catalonian Christmas festivities wouldn't be complete without an appearance by "Tio de Nadal", or, roughly, "The Yule Log." The tio is also called "caga tio" which translates to "shit log." There's even a carol:

caga tió,

caga turró,
avellanes i mató,
si no cagues bé
et daré un cop de bastó.
¡caga tió!"

Shit, log,

shit torrons,
hazelnuts and cheese,
if you don't shit well
I'll give you a blow with a stick.
Shit, log!

The local confectioners sell candy resembling feces. I'm laughing too hard to continue. More later.

NWA - newborn, with attitude.

2006-12-21T14:12:00.000-05:00

That's right, kiddo. Yours is the world and everything that's in it. You're number one! Uh...wrong finger, but we get the message. You make your grandpa Doc Roxtar mighty proud.

War on Christmas? Sure, why not?

2006-12-13T17:52:00.000-05:00

Charlie Brown Xmas Alternate Ending

Look, if you're easily offended by atheistic mockery don't even bother clicking. Really. I think of you as my friends, and I don't want to get all in your face. On the other hand, if you're up for a chuckle, give it a whirl!

I can see a better time when all our dreams come true

2006-12-05T06:22:00.000-05:00

I haven't much use for Christmas, but it's a great occasion to revel in the besotted Oirish genius of Shane Mac Gowan and the Pogues, and the best Christmas carol ever! Feel free to sing along!

Fairytale of New York

It was Christmas Eve babe
In the drunk tank
An old man said to me, won't see another one
And then he sang a song
The Rare Old Mountain Dew
I turned my face away
And dreamed about you

Got on a lucky one
Came in eighteen to one
I've got a feeling
This year's for me and you
So happy Christmas
I love you baby
I can see a better time
When all our dreams come true

They've got cars big as bars
They've got rivers of gold
But the wind goes right through you
It's no place for the old
When you first took my hand
On a cold Christmas Eve
You promised me
Broadway was waiting for me

You were handsome
You were pretty
Queen of New York City
When the band finished playing
They howled out for more
Sinatra was swinging,
All the drunks they were singing
We kissed on a corner
Then danced through the night

The boys of the NYPD choir
Were singing "Galway Bay"
And the bells were ringing out
For Christmas day

You're a bum
You're a punk
You're an old slut on junk
Lying there almost dead on a drip in that bed
You scumbag, you maggot
You cheap lousy faggot
Happy Christmas your arse
I pray God it's our last

I could have been someone
Well so could anyone
You took my dreams from me
When I first found you
I kept them with me babe
I put them with my own
Can't make it all alone
I've built my dreams around you .

What it's like to be a Republican.

2006-11-28T18:38:00.000-05:00


"And every single meeting with his so-called superior Is a humiliating kick in the crotch..." - The Police

Flan is available almost daily.

2006-11-28T05:21:00.000-05:00

Via the comments in Steve Gilliard's News Blog, we find this mind-numbing item from Soldiers for the Truth. I present it in its entirety, in much the same spirit that Guernica must be seen in its entirety.

Camp Victory Complaint: The Lobster Tails Are Too Big

I loved the beginning part of Roger Charles' article ("Abandoned on the Killing Fields� No Medevac Coming�" DefenseWatch, June 23, 2006) about REMFs. Charles hit it right on the head. I've been on Campus Victory my entire time here. There is definitely a REMF mentality. I've forward you the minutes from a chowhall (DFAC) meeting from a while back and you can see what I'm talking about. Pay attention to the ranks of some of those asking the REMF questions.

We have guys dying outside the well-guarded walls almost every day, but these REMFs complain about lobster tails not being cut right and music being played in the chow hall. Pathetic.

It's double pathetic that everybody on base who hasn't even been out in town gets the same "Imminent Danger Pay" and Iraqi Campaign Medal that those who are in harm's way do/will.

--An Officer on the Ground

Ed. Note: "REMF" is a derisive term for those "in the rear with the gear." It's an acronym for Rear Echelon Mother Fucker.

REPLY TO ATTENTION OF:

DEPARTMENT OF THE ARMY

HEADQUARTERS AND HEADQUARTERS COMPANY

TASK FORCE ADLER - 22D SIGNAL BRIGADE

CAMP VICTORY, IRAQ

APO AE 09342

AETV-SBH-DFAC 17 May 2006

MEMORANDUM FOR RECORD

SUBJECT: DINING FACILITY ADVISORY COUNCIL MEETING

1. Board Members were as follows:

ATTENDEES UNIT:

Editor: Names Removed

2. Personnel attending the Advisory Council meeting were as follows:

ATTENDEES UNIT:

Editor: Names Removed

3. The meeting was opened at 1500hrs on 12 May 2006.

Introduction: SFC W. opens the meeting by handing out suggestions cards that we had previously received from various customers in the past. She explained that the advisory council meeting is to encourage customer feedback, to advise management on desired adjustment to the menu to meet diner preferences or services that will provide a more effective food service program to the soldier/diner.

SFC W. opens the floor for suggestions, comments and concerns:

QUESTION: SGT R.: Why does the DFAC not provide bottled water in the coolers?

RESPONSE: SFC W.: With the new water plant open, we will be trying to provide such a service. However, the military personnel at the dining facility would be responsible for coordinating such an effort.

QUESTION: SPC R.: Asked if the dining facility could provide Belgium waffles, waffle cones, and more variety of ice-cream flavors.

RESPONSE: MR. L.: Explained that KBR is restricted by what they can order from the vendor�s catalog, but stated that they do strive to provide a constant variety. These changes do take time to implement. We must take into consideration, the ordering/delivering time.

QUESTIONS: LTC M.: Compliments the facility as one of the best he has ever seen. He expressed that when he and his soldiers have requested changes, they have been met: larger cups, onion and pineapples on the stir fry bar. He requested better Pita bread for the Gyros; the current ones tasted bad and fall apart too easily. LTC M. also requested chicken liver and asked if we could discontinue the live band performances. He considered the band to be too loud, and suggested that this may be the wrong forum for it.

RESPONSE: SFC W.: We thank you for your comment and we will do our best to accommodate your requests.

QUESTION: Requests Rye bread, bigger taco shells, and Jell-O without fruit or anything in it. He also stated that the salt and pepper shakers did not dispense enough salt and pepper and many soldiers would need to unscrew the top off to get enough.

RESPONSE: SFC W.: explains that the shakers have just recently been purchased and that in order to get better ones, the military would have to provide funds to replace the existing salt and pepper shakers.

QUESTION: Asked about the flies in the DFAC and on the salad bar.

RESPONSE: MR L. stated that the DFAC is aware of the problem and recently did a survey on how to minimize the fly problem. However, he warned that the fly issue is a difficult problem to contain completely.

RESPONSE: MSG I.M.: Vector Control has already implemented control measures: fly traps, fly blowers above the doors, as well as others.

QUESTIONS: LTC M. expressed that the serving portions are too large.

RESPONSE: MR. L. states that they do train the servers on serving sizes; however there is a language barrier issue with training the servers.

RESPONSE: SFC W.: The servers are briefed everyday on this issue. It is also put out that a diner should be specific on what he or she wants when at the serving line. The servers are very accommodating towards the diners needs.

QUESTIONS: LTC M. informs the panel that the soap dispensers are unserviceable and they have the wrong soap in them.

RESPONSE: MR. L. states that the new dispensers are on order and that the soap currently used is the right soap for hand-washing.

QUESTIONS: PFC P.: Is it possible to have the DFAC hours changed from opening at 0530 in the morning to 0600hrs.

RESPONSE: CSM H.: The hours are set for the entire camp. They are set to give diners ample time to get food during each meal. It is also so that the Dining Facility will have ample time in between the meals to clean and prepare for the next meal.

STATEMENT: PFC P.: The music in the dining facility is too loud. The soldiers cannot hear the televisions. I also would like to request more variety of fruit, with an emphasis on strawberries.

RESPONSE: SFC W.: The music issue will be addressed.

RESPONSE: MR. L. replies that travel time limits the type of fruit they can serve. We also can only order items that are available on the catalog.

QUESTIONS: SGT J. requests Spanish Flan and more exits during the lunch time hours as it is too crowded during that time for the one current exit.

RESPONSE: MR. L.: Flan is available almost daily.

RESPONSE: SFC W.: There are many soldiers that are traveling from other camps to this dining facility. From a Force Protection point of view, this controls the flow and direction of traffic in the dining facility.

STATEMENT: There is an inquiry into the size of the bike area, complements on the band and on the portion sizes.

RESPONSES: CSM H. replies that the bike area could possibly be expanded but there is a problem with a few bikes being abandoned there. If you know of anyone that claims this area as storage, please inform them to come and claim their bike.

QUESTIONS: SGT S.: Why does the DFAC only let the Contractors/Civilians get only one to-go tray, while military gets three.

RESPONSE: SFC W.: The three To-Go trays is the absolute limit and the policy is not strictly enforced, but there is a policy out there that states that civilians are authorized to dine-in and take-out only one To-Go tray. For all customers, a written memorandum is required in order to take more than three trays. The restrictions are in place to keep the headcount accurate.

RESPONSE: MR. L.: Each meal costs about 50 to 60 thousand dollars. KBR supports, but tries to control the cost of the meal while providing whatever they can to help morale. The DFAC gets it's funding by a per patron rate. $17.70 a day per patron: (BRK: $3.54 per patron, LUN: $7.08 per patron, DIN: $7.08 per patron)

QUESTIONS: SPC R.: This is for CSM H. What is the policy on having your weapon?

RESPONSE: CSM H.: MNC-I policy requires a weapon on you at all times, except when conducting PT. The guards have been instructed to turn away anyone who does not have their weapon.

QUESTION: SPC R.: If someone comes to the dining facility with a sweaty PT uniform, will they be turned away?

RESPONSE: (UPDATE since meeting) Mayor Cell: No one will be allowed to enter the dining facility in a sweaty PT uniform.

QUESTION: LTC M.: Why not use the Air Force to fly fresh fruit and vegetables to the base.

RESPONSE: CSM H.: At this time this is not feasible.

QUESTION: SGM A.: Can the lobster tails be cut in half?

RESPONSE: MR. L.: Due to the lack of proper equipment, this is not possible.

QUESTION: LTC M.: How often are the council meetings conducted?

RESPONSE: SFC W.: The council meetings will be conducted monthly.

STATEMENT: SFC W.: Each dining table has a customer feedback sheet. Do not wait until these meetings to provide your feedback. Each one of the comment sheets is read by management, however; keep in mind that some requests take time.

STATEMENT: SFC W. takes the time to read some policies concerning the dining facility:

-The "No Bags" policy means just that. No Bags carried in or out of the dining facility. Do not carry bags inside the dining facility in your pockets. You will not be allowed to carry bags of items outside of the dining facility. You will be stopped.

-We have a limit 2 items that may be carried outside of the dining facility. Limits are to ensure that the dining facility maintains an 8 to 12 day supply as convoys (Class I trucks) do not always make it to the base when scheduled.

-The dining facility must be cleared 30 minutes after each meal. Not 35 or 40 minutes but 30 minutes.

SFC W. proceeds to inform the council of the Special Meal Request Policy:

-Special Meals Request is being abused. A special meal request will not be used for personal BBQ�s. The DFAC is limited to how many requests that can be supported in a day. When the limit has been met, we will not take anymore requests. This affects the normal operation when the focus becomes what�s going out the back door versus what is prepared for the diners. All units need to be proactive in their planning.

-Beverage request are to be utilized only for warming and cooling beverages. These items are to be used by personnel going on convoys or special missions.

4. The Advisory Council meeting was adjourned at 1615hrs. The next council meeting will be held on 23 June 06.

//ORIGINAL SIGNED//

W. SFC, USA

Senior Food Operation Sergeant

I guess that's why we can't seem to commit to a withdrawal. It's hard to prepare and serve flan at the proper temperature and consistency while engaged in a fighting retreat across 300 miles of ~~dessert~~ desert.

Sloth

2006-11-27T05:23:00.000-05:00

Two weeks without a post must be evidence of a serious character defect, right? Surely I am among the laziest of men. You see, I'm willing to throw myself on the sword and accept the fact that I am afflicted with the cardinal sin of sloth.

Except that's not really true. Truth is, I've been pretty damn busy these past couple of weeks. No, wait. That's bullshit, too. Everyone is busy, everyone has jobs and projects that occupy their time.

So what's my excuse? As close as I can come to explaining it is a lack of blog mojo. The election results knocked me off my stride, deprived me of my fuel and my fire. Compounding this mojo deficiency has been a spate of exquisite work from the blogroll denizens listed to the right.

Blue Girl has been a fountain of brilliance lately, perhaps fueled by sweet, sweet confections. Or maybe it's a reaction to the approach of grim-as-death Winter in Cleveburg.

Bobby Lightfoot has evolved into some kind of Indian Holy Man.

Blue Wren's ouevre has been spectacularly good, never missing a beat. See, e.g., this gem.

I guess I can take credit for my good taste, having a blogroll featuring these worthies and others, such as Neddie, Patrick Hillman, Will Divide, Lacarte, Kevin Wolf, Fred Wickham....hell, all of them.

Long story short: I'll get my stroke back, and when I do, it will be because of the example and inspiration of such folks, whose gifts have brought so much enjoyment to so many. Thanks, guys.

Blue Sky Theory

2006-11-11T07:54:00.000-05:00

I was so busy savoring the election results and their sequelae that I neglected to clear the cookies in my mental browser. Consequently, it wasn't until this morning that I realized that a Democratic high-pressure system had moved in and turned the Black Sky Blue.

How 'bout that?

Goddammit, Rumsfeld! You'll get under that bus and you'll like it!

2006-11-08T14:50:00.000-05:00

"Come on, don't give me any of your thin lip. Get under there before I throw you under the fucker. My daddy already hired your replacement."

"Hey! Dammit, Rummy, don't be grabbing onto me! You're not gonna drag me under there with you. Just get your ass under that bus or I swear to God, those pictures of you and that bald-headed fella from the press room will be on the Google by sundown."

Bwaaaa-haaa-haaaa! I am not terribly graceful in victory. So sue me.

Wormer, he's a dead man! Marmalard, dead! Niedermeyer, dead!

2006-11-08T03:10:00.000-05:00

Allen, dead! Talent, dead! Burns, dead! Santorum, dead! DeWine, dead! Steele, dead! Hayworth, dead! Pombo, dead! Chocola, dead! Hostettler, dead! Ryun, dead! Bass, Kelly, Sweeney, dead, dead, dead! Weldon, dead! Sherwood, dead!

A stinging rebuke. A thorough repudiation. An utter humiliation. A good old-fashioned country ass-whipping.

President Allen? (Snort.) President Santorum? (Guffaw.)

I felt kind of bad about Chafee, but I got over it in a second or two.

I'd like to be in Washington when the new Congress is seated, but I might wait until the ~~cherry blossoms~~ subpoenas are in full bloom.

I had no idea the Baby Jesus loves me this much...

2006-11-04T07:39:00.000-05:00

I tell ya', I'm this close to a "Saul-on-the-road-to-Damascus" conversion moment. As an atheist and a member of the reality-based community, it's difficult for me to accept the existence, much less the purposeful intervention, of a deity. But after the events of the past few days, I'm about ready to walk to the altar and give it up for the Baby Jesus (pictured at right).

My week of Sanctified Miracles started on Thursday, when, after a two-day trial on a felony possession with intent charge, a jury returned a not guilty verdict in favor of my client in a County Record 19 minutes! Now, it's not all that unusual for me to win a trial, but when you consider that twelve people will take 15 minutes to adjust their underwear, pick a seat at the table and elect a foreperson, 19 minutes is mighty damned impressive. I was so busy with my trial that it wasn't until that afternoon that I learned that the Reverend Ted Haggard of the Christopithecus Day Care Temple of Divine Grace, Anointed Blessings and Methamphetamine-fueled Man-love had been outed. Now, I'm a skeptic. I needed more proof that the Baby Jesus really loved me, so I asked him to send me a Sign. Something unmistakeable, like a picture of Pastor Brokeback Smokecrack with the Resident of the United States.

Imagine my rapturous surprise:

And then, in rapid succession, four days before the election, Bob Ney (R-Federal Prison) resigned, and the Army Times put the smackdown on Vlad Rumsfeld.

I'm tellin' ya', it's almost too much for this poor old atheist to take.

Only 9 shopping days left until Election Day.

2006-10-29T07:18:00.000-05:00

Well, the Election holiday season is fast approaching, and I hate to wait until the last minute. You know how crowded the stores get on Election Eve. Plus, I have a jury trial coming up this week, so my time is already stretched pretty thin. Of course, there's no meal that says "Election Day" like turkey, but I'm usually so busy trying to keep the election from being stolen that I don't have time to prepare a big meal. And besides, the late returns from the West Coast make for a long evening, so I find it more practical to graze throughout the evening than to bloat on a big, sleep-inducing meal.

This year, I'm thinking about a regional theme, serving four rounds of light snacks as the returns come in from across the nation. For the East Coast, I'm thinking of crabcakes and Smithfield ham biscuits as a salute to a couple of new Senators, Maryland's Ben Cardin and the Old Dominion's Jim Webb. Either of those entrees can be washed down (and Rick Santorum can be washed out of office) with a tall, cool regional brew. I'll also put out a tray of Buckeyes in anticipation of a sweet, sweet, sweep in Ohio.

As the map moves to the Central Time Zone, the rout should be on in earnest, so we can toast the victory of Harold Ford with some oh-so-smeeooth, charcoal-filtered Tennessee Sour Mash Whiskey. We'll also celebrate Missouri's contribution to the evening by raising a sauce-stained 21-rib salute to Claire McCaskill.

Westward ho, and there's no bigger "ho" for the Christopithecus agenda than Congresswoman Marilyn Musgrave (R - CO4). We'll raise a glass of Rocky Mountain refreshment when the networks call the election for Angie Paccione. (Hey, you don't think I'd drink that right-wing piss from Golden, do you?) There's nothing better with a cold microbrew than some blue corn chips and New Mexico green chile, as we celebrate the victory of Patricia Madrid in the Land of Enchantment.

By the time the polls close on the West Coast, we're all liable to be pretty drunk. (Drunk on power, that is, bwaa-haa-haa!) So I'll be offering comp rooms to my guests, just like in Las Vegas baby.

Oh, and as long as I'm shopping, I'm probably gonna need some of this and some of these. Oh, and if there's even a hint of vote-counting irregularity, I'll need some of these and a few of these.

And in the spirit of the season, Happy Elections to all, and to all a good night!

NJ Court rules in favor of gay marriage or its equivalent.

2006-10-25T16:01:00.000-04:00

This just hit the news, and I may have more to say about it after I have a chance to read the opinion, but it's another opportunity for me to make a point about marriage that I never see anyone else make.

The marriage relationship is the most exalted and protected relationship recognized by American law. The State can deprive you of your property, your right to vote, and your right to possess firearms. The government can restrict your freedom to travel, your ability to operate a business or to drive a vehicle. The State can lock you up, terminate the parent child relationship and, under certain circumstances, put you to death. But there is one thing the State cannot do.

Under no circumstances can the State dissolve a valid marriage without consent of one of the parties.

The rights, privileges and protections of the marriage relationship are the most fundamental rights we enjoy as citizens.

You do not have to show a rational basis for being married. It is inconcievable, therefore, that there could be a rational basis for denying two people the right to engage in marriage or, in other words, to enjoy this most fundamental of rights.

It's nice to see justice triumph once in a while.

Hey, get your fresh, hot dirt here!

2006-10-25T05:02:00.000-04:00

A more ~~loathesome and scurvy~~ noble and civic-minded group you'll never hope to see. If you're a blogger, think about posting this source code somewhere in your blog, so that The Google will help spread the word about these ~~pustulent buboes~~ fine Republican candidates.

--AZ-Sen: Jon Kyl

--AZ-01: Rick Renzi

--AZ-05: J.D. Hayworth

--CA-04: John Doolittle

--CA-11: Richard Pombo

--CA-50: Brian Bilbray

--CO-04: Marilyn Musgrave

--CO-05: Doug Lamborn

--CO-07: Rick O'Donnell

--CT-04: Christopher Shays

--FL-13: Vernon Buchanan

--FL-16: Joe Negron

--FL-22: Clay Shaw

--ID-01: Bill Sali

--IL-06: Peter Roskam

--IL-10: Mark Kirk

--IL-14: Dennis Hastert

--IN-02: Chris Chocola

--IN-08: John Hostettler

--IA-01: Mike Whalen

--KS-02: Jim Ryun

--KY-03: Anne Northup

--KY-04: Geoff Davis

--MD-Sen: Michael Steele

--MN-01: Gil Gutknecht

--MN-06: Michele Bachmann

--MO-Sen: Jim Talent

--MT-Sen: Conrad Burns

--NV-03: Jon Porter

--NH-02: Charlie Bass

--NJ-07: Mike Ferguson

--NM-01: Heather Wilson

--NY-03: Peter King

--NY-20: John Sweeney

--NY-26: Tom Reynolds

--NY-29: Randy Kuhl

--NC-08: Robin Hayes

--NC-11: Charles Taylor

--OH-01: Steve Chabot

--OH-02: Jean Schmidt

--OH-15: Deborah Pryce

--OH-18: Joy Padgett

--PA-04: Melissa Hart

--PA-07: Curt Weldon

--PA-08: Mike Fitzpatrick

--PA-10: Don Sherwood

--RI-Sen: Lincoln Chafee

--TN-Sen: Bob Corker

--VA-Sen: George Allen

--VA-10: Frank Wolf

--WA-Sen: Mike McGavick

--WA-08: Dave Reichert

The Last President of Free America

2006-10-19T12:09:00.000-04:00

In a way, it was perfect and inevitable that William Jefferson Clinton would be the last President of Free America. He was the embodiment of the history and the character of the United States. He was smart, dynamic, accomplished, powerful, creative, persuasive, humble, charming, generous, compassionate; make a list of all the great attributes Bill Clinton can claim, and apply that list to America.

Of course he had his flaws, as does America. But America (and more importantly, the idea of America) was always so great, so good, that its flaws were more than amply mitigated in the court of world opinion. We declared that all men are created equal, and the power of that ideal was so fucking great that our treatment of African -Americans as 3/5 of a person was overlooked. Our slaughter of Native Americans was overlooked. Segregation was overlooked. Those sins were overlooked because it was recognized that we had set our bar impossibly high; we were bound to fall short, but we never, ever lowered the bar. We liberated Europe, and used nuclear weapons of mass destruction against civilian populations in Hiroshima and Nagasaki, and nobody even suggested that our evil had outweighed our good.

Now consider the cheap-jack Caligula to whom America has entrusted its ideals. Take another look at that list of attributes, and apply them to the first American president of the 21st Century. Smart? Please. Dynamic? He napped while New Orleans drowned. Accomplished? His family's money and influence shielded him from one disaster to another. Powerful? Only in the sense that a school-yard bully is powerful. Creative? In a universe of infinite possibilities, the best he can come up with is "Stay the course." Persuasive? The man couldn't convince me to fart after a three-burrito dinner. Humble? He's an arrogant little turd. Charming? See "humble." Generous? People are having bake sales in order to buy body armor for those he so blithely placed in harm's way. Compassionate? He's never seen a death warrant he has refused to sign.

What positive aspect of the American personality did he embody when he lied us into an elective war against a country that posed no threat to us? What essence of the generous American spirit does he display when he cuts taxes for the rich while military families are lined up at food pantries and soup kitchens? What qualities of leadership were demonstrated when his vaunted "Coalition of the Willing" included 12 soldiers from Moldovia and 45 Royal Marines from Tonga (since withdrawn)? And don't forget Poland!

Whether we like it or not, our President is the face America presents to the world. And the face we currently present to our neighbors on this planet is that of a mean, pinched, spoiled, spiteful and bitter dry-drunk. The once high bar of our aspirations has been bumped down, foot by foot, by this feckless boob. Ignore the Geneva Conventions. (Bump.) Suspend habeas corpus. (Bump.) Play to people's fears, rather than their aspirations. (Bump.) Give people propaganda instead of the truth (Bump.) Lie. (Bump.) Cheat. (Bump.) Steal. (Bump.)

Until finally, the bar is so low that the wet-brained successor to Jefferson, Lincoln and Roosevelt can slither over it and declare himself "hi-jump champeen of the hole wurld."

Well, we brought this upon ourselves, I guess. But what of the rest of the world? They've done nothing to deserve having the brightest light and best hope of the planet snuffed out. Who do they look to now? I'm deadly serious. How can you inspire yourself to heroism after you've caught your own hero with his fingers in the cookie jar and his head up his ass?

There's a passage I got memorized. Ezekiel 25:17. The path of the righteous man is beset on all sides by the inequities of the selfish and the tyranny of evil men. Blessed is he who, in the name of charity and good will, shepherds the weak through the valley of the darkness. For he is truly his brother's keeper and the finder of lost children. And I will strike down upon thee with great vengeance and furious anger those who attempt to poison and destroy my brothers. And you will know I am the Lord when I lay my vengeance upon you.

The truth is, the world is the weak. And we're the tyranny of evil men. But we've gotta try harder, Ringo. We've gotta try real hard to be the shepherd again.

Out, damned earwig! Begone!!

2006-10-16T17:59:00.000-04:00

It's happened to all of us. A song, a theme, a snippet of music bores its way into your head, and absolutely refuses to be dislodged.

For some reason, earwigs rarely seem to be music you like. No, friends, earwigs are horrid, annoying pieces of melody or rhythm whose very existence is a affront to refined taste. A smudge of Wishbone Ash, a dollop of Cream, a squeeze of Chris Dilford...these are welcome visitors, like a blog hit from an old college pal. They appear, refresh your recollection, and fade. I once spent a pleasant afternoon with Boccherini's Minuet, in both the string quintet and Spinal Tap instrumentation.

But that's not an earwig. An earwig is a vile, despicable thing, an auditory abomination so loathsome that my regard for you, the reader, prevents me from suggesting some of the more common manifestations of this infestation. (Afternoon Delight) No, it would be a rude host indeed (Milkshake) who would even mention (Who Let the Dogs Out) some of the more horrific (Anything by Abba) parasites that can become wedged (Achy Breaky Heart) among the malleus, incus and stapes of the memory (Mr. Roboto).
Earwigs are not mere figments (Leather and Lace) of our imagination; they have a scientific basis. (Barbie Girl)

It's not that I dislike pop music. (New York, London, Paris, Munich) I used to program Top-40 radio stations and promote records for a major label. (Here's a joke: A frog and a rabbit meet by the watering hole. Being blind, neither can identify the other. What's more, being blind, neither has ever seen itself. The first animal agrees to try to describe the second animal by touch alone. "You have soft fur, and a wiggly nose, and long, floppy ears. You must be a rabbit!" The rabbit was overjoyed, and set out to describe his new friend. "You're cold, and you're slimy, and you have no ears at all. You must be a record promoter!")

I can tolerate the most mindless piece of pop fluff, as long as it's got the hook. But I want to be able to turn it off when I choose.

I'm currently suffering from the music in a Budweiser commercial, which is apparently by someone called the Chemical Brothers. It's called "Galvanize." There's a Bollywood sounding string riff and what sounds like a 13 year old rapper, advising us that "There's a potty ovah heah, so you might as well be heah, where the people ceah." (Psst. Dude, might want to get those adenoids checked out by a professional.)

Who will deliver me from this troublesome beast? Any ideas?

Ever been punched really hard?

2006-10-05T18:21:00.000-04:00

The charming and delightful Will Divide gets in a good shot to the kidney while the referee is looking at the ring girl.

These numb-eyed, pasty-faced fucks, these murderers, these war criminals; these insane actors hold no mystery to me. They have made this country what it is today, and I've lived here my whole goddamn life. You can tell by looking at them what they are capable of, which is nothing more morally exalted than a gang rape; nothing more strategically acute than beating a man tied to a chair.

Not to be outdone, Who is IOZ pulls a fish-hook out of his trunks and opens a bleeder over the GOP's eyes.

The Congrefs of the United States of America, the Greatest Nation in the Country, pace Agnew, has empowered its apashiac child-emperor to wage unilateral war, has stamped its imprimateur on vicious acts of torture, has eliminated the right to contest charges and imprisonment not only for foreigners but for its own citizens, and now proposes to wage not a first, not a second, but a third aggressive war in a span of five years.

No matter how many smiley faces you doodle in the margins, the spider in the center of the flag is still a Swastika.

For me to comment after reading these would be like enjoying a Kobe beef tenderloin, and washing it down with Diet Mr. Pibb.

Errata.

2006-10-03T18:36:00.000-04:00

Stop. Don't read this. It's inferior. Instead, go here. Read this.

It's what I would have written if I was far more thoughtful and talented.

Thank you for your cooperation.

Shame on you, you coward.

Shame on you, you odious toady.

Shame on you, you whiny-ass titty baby.

Shame on you, you gutless bastard.

You took an oath to preserve, protect and defend the Constitution of the United States of America. And now you've voted to suspend rights guaranteed by that Constitution. The right to confront accusers. The right to a fair and public trial. The right of habeas corpus.

You've given war criminals political and legal cover for their crimes. You've voted for a law that legalizes torture, and lets the executive say what degree of torture is and isn't legal, and in so doing, you've taken a giant dump on the doctrine of separation of powers. You've encouraged our enemies to disregard the Geneva Convention, and dragged us down from the moral high ground we once possessed with pride.

I might as well be represented by the bloated, festering corpse of fucking Jesse Helms. You're a punk. You make me puke.

Editor's note: If you haven't read it lately, Sinclair Lewis' prescient novel, It Can't Happen Here is available online as part of the Gutenberg Project. Read it before Senator Rockefeller makes it illegal.

Now that's some zippy writing

2006-10-03T03:42:00.000-04:00

From WhoisIOZ?

Now here we are with a supreme leader who's as likely to toss a guy in the gulag for making bad chili at the cook-off as for being a terrorist, a fellow who can't even manage the basic presidential task of mouthing a series of ecclesiastical non sequiturs in the midst of habitually jingoistic exhortations to national destiny without getting tangled up in every word of more than a single syllable, without pausing to display the self-congratulatory smile of a toddler who's got the round peg in the round hole for the very first time each time he speaks without stuttering some line that his speechwriting sycophants assured him ahead-of-time would bring applause. He's worse than a simpleton. They ought to teach him basic sign language and give him a fucking kitten, then write a children's book about it to give to some future president for studious consideration on the eve of the next grave attack on American soil.

Go enjoy. Thanks to Neddie for the pointer.

No one could have forseen that the Levis would be breeched...

2006-10-01T14:32:00.000-04:00

Congressman Mark Foley (R-NAMBLA).....shit, I had no idea the Baby Jesus loved me this much. He's Leaving No Child's Behind. Foley, Hastert, Reynolds, Shimkus, they're all on the same page. The jokes just write themselves..... And this clown is Rush Limbaugh's congressman. The schadenfreude is especially beautiful this season.

UPDATE: Mark Foley has checked in to alcohol rehab. In other news, Jeffrey Dahmer acknowledges being "overly friendly", joins Overeaters Anonymous.

I've got wood like you wouldn't believe.....

2006-09-24T18:59:00.000-04:00

It was a cord of maple, cut and split
And piled -- and measured, four by four by eight.
And not another like it could I see.
No runner tracks in this year's snow looped near it.
And it was older sure than this year's cutting,
Or even last year's or the year's before.
The wood was gray and the bark warping off it
And the pile somewhat sunken. Clematis

Had wound strings round and round it like a bundle.
What held it though on one side was a tree
Still growing, and on one a stake and prop,
These latter about to fall. I thought that only
Someone who lived in turning to fresh tasks
Could so forget his handiwork on which
He spent himself, the labor of his ax,
And leave it there far from a useful fireplace
To warm the frozen swamp as best it could
With the slow smokeless burning of decay.

-- Robert Frost, "The Wood-Pile"

Oh, yeah, baby. I got wood, alrighty! Mostly cherry, with some ash and locust all harvested from the wooded hilltop that is the Roxtar Compound. Good Appalachian hardwood, stored solar energy waiting to be released as fire and glowing coals, radiant warmth to battle the worst winter has to offer.

Cost of wood: $0.00
Splitter rental: $47.70
Cost of fuel oil: $0.00
Wood heat in winter: Priceless

Christians! They're grrrrrrrrreat!

2006-09-22T05:57:00.000-04:00

It's always been conventional wisdom that the appreciation of art is subjective. ("I may not know Art, but I know what I like.") Well, you can kick that old-fashioned, pre-Web 2.0 thinking to the curb where it belongs. Because Dick Detzner is simply the best artist ever. Now, I can hear you asking, "Hey, what about Picasso? What about Botticelli? What about Neil Shakespeare? What about that guy who paints all those fucking snow-clad cottages with candles in the windows?

Worthies all, and among the finest paint-slingers and gesso-wranglers ever to render a rendering. But none can compare to Dick Detzner. Consider the image above, entitled, "Christians...They're grrrreat!" Observe the juxtaposition of two great iconic images. Marvel at the clever title. Shiver with awe at the delicate interplay of color and light!

And consider this stirring portait, entitled "Breakfast of Saviors." What would Jesus do? He'd start his day with the fiber-rich goodness of a processed breakfast food that closes the self-referential loop by coming that close to the unleavened, pre-transsubstantiated Body of Christ! If only they had served milk instead of wine at the Last Supper....eating breakfast would be like celebrating Mass! But I can't claim credit for that brilliant insight. That's right.....Dick Detzner beat me to it.

How many of your favorites can you identify in this worshipful depiction of "The Last Pancake Breakfast?"

And as if the ol' Ars gratia artis wasn't enough, all of Mr. Detzner's sacred designs are available as prints, or even on t-shirts, just in time for the holy Christmas shopping season. You'll find something for every light-hearted free-thinker on your Winter Solstice gift list. Or, you might just want to piss off your pointedly pious inlaws. Either way, Dick Detzner's your man!

Editor's note: Black Sky Theory is in no way associated with Dick Detzner. I figure I'm as likely to get a cease and desist letter as a free t-shirt or art print for my den.

Avast, me hearties....

2006-09-16T18:06:00.000-04:00

Yarrgh! It's time, me buccaneers and buccanettes, to hoist th' mains'l on th' good ship Sixth Amendment and set sail in search of booty and justice on th' highest o' th' high seas. There be a legion o' scurvy dogs wearin' th' mark of the Crown, wreakin' injustice on me mateys, who want nothin' more than the comp'ny of a foine wench, a noggin o' rum, and a pinch o' smokin terbaccy in their bowls. They're a foine crew, if a bit motley, but they've done nothin to deserve th' sting o' th' lash and th' dank o' th' dungeon.

This Tuesday, when the sun climbs out of Davy Jones' Locker, we'll turn th' tides on those scalawags, because although the Sheriff's men may have th' warrants and th' guns, we've got the lingo.

We'll blow The Man down, or my name isn't Cap'n Roxtarrrrgh, Defender O' Th' Public and Scourge O' Th' Second Circuit!

For an encore, he'll wipe his ass with it.....

2006-09-11T11:10:00.000-04:00

It's one thing to stage a photo-op, even a dishonest photo-op.

But to pose for what is obviously intended to be an archival photograph while wiping ones feet on the American flag is just eye-poppingly, knee-bucklingly wrong.

And then, to re-pose for more of the same? On 9/11? You've got to be fucking kidding me!!!!

Look, I've got a vocabulary on an exact par with Mary Baker Eddy*, but I can't even begin to assemble the words necessary to address this. I am, at long last, speechless. And can you imagine the reaction in the Muslim world, where even showing the soles of ones feet is considered to be offensive? I am absolutely, utterly, comprehensively gobsmacked. Hey George, here's an idea. Why don't you drop trou, squat and strain, and lay down a nice big Cleveland Steamer right between the Stars and Stripes? And then your boyfriend-killing wife can wipe your ass with the Constitution.

*A free add (blog of your choice) to my blogroll for the first to identify the source of this quote.

UPDATE: Although Reuters apparently included the above photos among official photos of the 9/11 observance, there is now evidence that these pictures were created months ago by an artist named Ray Caesar. So a lot of people got p@wn3d. What's remarkable is the fact that nobody was particularly surprised to think that Chimpy and Pickles would do such a thing. The surprise arose from the pictures being released, not their existence. Their truthiness was never in doubt. Hey, maybe Disney/ABC can make a movie about it!

A staggering waste of electrons.

2006-09-07T07:34:00.000-04:00

(Pictured above, the legendary MiniMoog.)
Not to overdo it, but music is the only thing that eases the nausea precipitated by the Chimp-in-Chief. Anyway, here's a tidbit from the Synthmuseum:

Starbuck - toured nationally in 1976 supporting their mega-hit "Moonlight Feels Right" and had SIX!!! minimoogs on stage to reproduce the overdubbed, stacked Moog chords on the record.

Six Minis to create that abominable piece of dreck. ("I'll take you on a trip beside the ocean, And drop the top at Chesapeake Bay"). When I think of poor Bobby Lightfoot limping from gig to gig, dragging his Fender Rhodes behind him, why, it just makes me angry at the injustice of it all.....

You say it's your birthday!

2006-09-03T08:26:00.000-04:00

Happy Birthday to You.

Happy Birthday to You.

Happy 20th Birthday dear 1986 Gibson SG Special in Antique Ivory manufactured August 31, 1986 in Nashville, TN which I received autogaphed by Carlos Santana via Bill Graham for a charity auction, but which arrived too late to be auctioned off so, oh well, I'll give it a good home.......

Happy Birthday to You.

It's a hit!

2006-09-01T16:34:00.000-04:00

You, too, can be a Roxtar! The Cassette Generator lets you list the name of your band, the artist, producer credit, and save it for your personal enjoyment. You can also order stickers and magnets of your finished masterpiece.

Enjoy!

UPDATE: It's even more fun than advertised! Check this out!

And this!

Go here for tons of fun.

Down goes Rumsfeld! Down goes Rumsfeld!

2006-08-31T05:26:00.000-04:00

Keith Olbermann speaks truth to power, then he punches power in the belly, and while power is doubled over, he kicks power in the face. Let's blogswarm this puppy. Front page this bad boy in every corner of the blogosphere.

Feeling morally, intellectually confused?

The man who sees absolutes, where all other men see nuances and shades of meaning, is either a prophet, or a quack.

Donald H. Rumsfeld is not a prophet.

Mr. Rumsfeld’s remarkable speech to the American Legion yesterday demands the deep analysis—and the sober contemplation—of every American.

For it did not merely serve to impugn the morality or intelligence -- indeed, the loyalty -- of the majority of Americans who oppose the transient occupants of the highest offices in the land. Worse, still, it credits those same transient occupants -- our employees -- with a total omniscience; a total omniscience which neither common sense, nor this administration’s track record at home or abroad, suggests they deserve.

Dissent and disagreement with government is the life’s blood of human freedom; and not merely because it is the first roadblock against the kind of tyranny the men Mr. Rumsfeld likes to think of as “his” troops still fight, this very evening, in Iraq.

It is also essential. Because just every once in awhile it is right and the power to which it speaks, is wrong.

In a small irony, however, Mr. Rumsfeld’s speechwriter was adroit in invoking the memory of the appeasement of the Nazis. For in their time, there was another government faced with true peril—with a growing evil—powerful and remorseless.

That government, like Mr. Rumsfeld’s, had a monopoly on all the facts. It, too, had the “secret information.” It alone had the true picture of the threat. It too dismissed and insulted its critics in terms like Mr. Rumsfeld’s -- questioning their intellect and their morality.

That government was England’s, in the 1930’s.

It knew Hitler posed no true threat to Europe, let alone England.

It knew Germany was not re-arming, in violation of all treaties and accords.

It knew that the hard evidence it received, which contradicted its own policies, its own conclusions — its own omniscience -- needed to be dismissed.

The English government of Neville Chamberlain already knew the truth.

Most relevant of all — it “knew” that its staunchest critics needed to be marginalized and isolated. In fact, it portrayed the foremost of them as a blood-thirsty war-monger who was, if not truly senile, at best morally or intellectually confused.

That critic’s name was Winston Churchill.

Sadly, we have no Winston Churchills evident among us this evening. We have only Donald Rumsfelds, demonizing disagreement, the way Neville Chamberlain demonized Winston Churchill.

History — and 163 million pounds of Luftwaffe bombs over England — have taught us that all Mr. Chamberlain had was his certainty — and his own confusion. A confusion that suggested that the office can not only make the man, but that the office can also make the facts.

Thus, did Mr. Rumsfeld make an apt historical analogy.

Excepting the fact, that he has the battery plugged in backwards.

His government, absolute -- and exclusive -- in its knowledge, is not the modern version of the one which stood up to the Nazis.

It is the modern version of the government of Neville Chamberlain.

But back to today’s Omniscient ones.

That, about which Mr. Rumsfeld is confused is simply this: This is a Democracy. Still. Sometimes just barely.

And, as such, all voices count -- not just his.

Had he or his president perhaps proven any of their prior claims of omniscience — about Osama Bin Laden’s plans five years ago, about Saddam Hussein’s weapons four years ago, about Hurricane Katrina’s impact one year ago — we all might be able to swallow hard, and accept their “omniscience” as a bearable, even useful recipe, of fact, plus ego.

But, to date, this government has proved little besides its own arrogance, and its own hubris.

Mr. Rumsfeld is also personally confused, morally or intellectually, about his own standing in this matter. From Iraq to Katrina, to the entire “Fog of Fear” which continues to envelop this nation, he, Mr. Bush, Mr. Cheney, and their cronies have — inadvertently or intentionally — profited and benefited, both personally, and politically.

And yet he can stand up, in public, and question the morality and the intellect of those of us who dare ask just for the receipt for the Emporer’s New Clothes?

In what country was Mr. Rumsfeld raised? As a child, of whose heroism did he read? On what side of the battle for freedom did he dream one day to fight? With what country has he confused the United States of America?

The confusion we -- as its citizens— must now address, is stark and forbidding.

But variations of it have faced our forefathers, when men like Nixon and McCarthy and Curtis LeMay have darkened our skies and obscured our flag. Note -- with hope in your heart — that those earlier Americans always found their way to the light, and we can, too.

The confusion is about whether this Secretary of Defense, and this administration, are in fact now accomplishing what they claim the terrorists seek: The destruction of our freedoms, the very ones for which the same veterans Mr. Rumsfeld addressed yesterday in Salt Lake City, so valiantly fought.

And about Mr. Rumsfeld’s other main assertion, that this country faces a “new type of fascism.”

As he was correct to remind us how a government that knew everything could get everything wrong, so too was he right when he said that -- though probably not in the way he thought he meant it.

This country faces a new type of fascism - indeed.

Although I presumptuously use his sign-off each night, in feeble tribute, I have utterly no claim to the words of the exemplary journalist Edward R. Murrow.

But never in the trial of a thousand years of writing could I come close to matching how he phrased a warning to an earlier generation of us, at a time when other politicians thought they (and they alone) knew everything, and branded those who disagreed: “confused” or “immoral.”

Thus, forgive me, for reading Murrow, in full:

“We must not confuse dissent with disloyalty,” he said, in 1954. “We must remember always that accusation is not proof, and that conviction depends upon evidence and due process of law.

“We will not walk in fear, one of another. We will not be driven by fear into an age of unreason, if we dig deep in our history and our doctrine, and remember that we are not descended from fearful men, not from men who feared to write, to speak, to associate, and to defend causes that were for the moment unpopular.”

And so good night, and good luck.

Christianity Hijacked! GOP Takes Faith at Gunpoint! Adherents say Ho-Hum! Matthew Spins in His Grave!

2006-08-29T05:38:00.000-04:00

“Then the King will say to those at his right hand, `Come, O blessed of my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world; for I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me, I was naked and you clothed me, I was sick and you visited me, I was in prison and you came to me 'Then the righteous will answer him, `Lord, when did we see thee hungry and feed thee, or thirsty and give thee drink? And when did we see thee a stranger and welcome thee, or naked and clothe thee? And when did we see thee sick or in prison and visit thee?’ And the King will answer them, `Truly, I say to you, as you did it to one of the least of these my brethren, you did it to me.’

The above quotation from Matthew 25:34 represents a central tenet of the Christian faith. A majority of Americans profess belief in Christianity. Among the professed believers is George W. Bush, Resident of the United States of America. So I would ask my Christian friends this:

How can you see the abuse and neglect of the homeless, the naked, the hungry of the Gulf Coast in the wake of Katrina at the hands of this self professed "Christian" without rising up as one and saying: "This man is not one of us! His actions are not those of a Christian! We repudiate him!"

Any self-respecting, intellectually honest Christian should be demanding a schism, drawing a bold, bright line between those who walk the walk, and those who merely talk the talk. (Yeah, Chimpy, I'm lookin' at YOU!)

When the actions (and omissions) of the Bush Administration are compared to the mandate of Matthew, and denounced from every Christian pulpit between Maine and California, I'll believe that Christianity is something more than a theological karaoke bar, where folks sing the songs and make the moves and pretend to be something much, much more than they really are.

Greece. Monkey.

2006-08-27T05:10:00.000-04:00

When I started my truck Friday afternoon, a spectacular cacophony blasted from the engine compartment. Passers-by literally stopped to stare. I knew immediately that my water pump was giving up the ghost. There had been some coolant leakage and some overheating, so I can't say I didn't get fair warning. The screeching, clattering sound was the impeller bearing expressing its reluctance to impel further.

There was a time when my risk-taking nature manifested itself in cross-country hitch-hiking, chemical ingestion and consorting with women of unknown provenance.
Now, I roll the bones by trying to nurse an ailing water pump to the weekend, and then taking my car apart in an effort to fix same without resort to an expensive technician. For some folks, working on the family heap is a hobby. For me, however, it's a scary challenge. Once you've got your engine disabled, you really have no option other than to go forward and able the damn thing. (Well, there's always the $65 dollar tow to a garage, the sheepish admission that you've screwed up your own car, the dismissive sneer of the mechanic, (aka The Guy Who Knows What He's Doing), etc. Well, my ego won't accept that manner of humiliation. I'd rather walk.

Fortunately, replacing the water pump is one of the tasks that can be done without resort to a lift, and my '91 Ford Ranger 4wd has enough ground clearance that I can get under it when necessary. It's not my intention to bore you with a play-by-play of the procedure. My point is that anyone can learn anything. And most of the time, (especially with access to the internets) you can teach yourself what you need to know. There is value in being able to do for oneself. We heat exclusively with wood from our own property. It's more work, but every log I throw into the stove is a great big "fuck you" to Exxon. We recently had the engine and transmission rebuilt in my wife's minivan; a big "fuck you" to Ford and the "buy a new car every three years" contingent. So when you see me covered with grease, or splitting a pile of firewood, don't admire my self-reliance; feel free to assume that I'm just saying "fuck you" to someone.

No resemblance whatsoever...

2006-08-17T08:43:00.000-04:00

I read the news today, oh boy, and I saw that there has finally been an arrest in the Jon Benet Ramsay case. The supposedly confessed killer, John Mark Kerr,(pictured at right) was arrested in Thailand, where he allegedly admitting to killing the little beauty queen, but claimed that her death was the result of an accident.

Reports indicate that Kerr once lived near the Ramsay family in Conyers, Georgia.

Georgia....hmm. That rings a bell. Who else is from Georgia?

Well, of course there's former plagiarist and Jack Abramoff intern Ralph Reed of the Christian Coalition, but there's no way to confuse these two individuals, who share no resemblance to each other whatsoever....

UPDATE: Another guy from Georgia who looks nothing at all like alleged Baby Beauty Queen killer John Mark Kerr:

5ive weird things about me.

2006-08-13T04:19:00.000-04:00

Blogroll denizen and swell lingo-slinger Blue Wren has tagged me with one of those darn meme thingies whereby you write on a subject and pass it along. The topic du jour is "Five weird things about yourself."

Given the whole objective/subjective problem, it's hard to know what other people would consider weird about oneself, since oneself is normal to oneself, y'know? There are people who are, by any objective standard, weird, in that Michael J. Pollard sort of way. And then, there are those who appear to be normal in every way, but who have a freezer full of skinned cats in the basement. Still others embrace weirdness as a pathetic way of attracting attention to themselves. See, e.g., this asshole, or Stevie Nicks.

Compared to the truly weird, I'm pretty normal; compared to the truly normal, I'm pretty weird. Here, therefore, are five things about me that are weirder than normal.

1.) I'm incredibly lucky. Always have been. I've shot a hole-in-one on a regulation golf course, I've been on Jeopardy, I had an incredibly self-indulgent career doing exactly what I wanted to do (i.e., sex, drugs and rock & roll), followed by a second career as a responsible adult citizen and Officer of the Court. I have literally spanned the gamut from jester to judge. And it's just a matter of time until I win the Powerball lottery. I know this for a fact.

2.) I don't get sick. This ties in with Number 1, because there's no reason on earth that I shouldn't be in intensive care on a regular basis. I smoke like a locomotive and my ideal meal includes bacon, eggs and cheese. Combined with a 20 year history of enthusiastic drug abuse, I should be in a box today. But I don't even get colds. I get a headache about once a year. I don't remember the last time I vomited.

3.) I don't believe in God, the devil or the Boogeyman. Another thing that seems perfectly normal to me, but which puts me on the statistical fringe of society. And which leads to.....

4.) I'm not afraid to die. Remember last night, about 10 minutes after you fell asleep? Me, neither, but it wasn't particularly scary. I have no fantasies about floating around as a spirit, wishing I was still alive or roasting in a fiery pit, wishing I had sent money to one of those TV Christopaths. It will be just like being asleep. I'll never wake up, and I'll never be aware that I haven't awakened. I will cease to be. No big deal.

5.) I was born in West Virginia, with a birthmark shaped like the state of West Virginia. I dunno, maybe this should have been #1. Some are born weird, some achieve weirdness, others have weirdness thrust upon them.

Consider yourself tagged.

Sharpen ye pitchforks, light ye torches!

2006-08-11T08:20:00.000-04:00

As always, the esteemed Driftglass serves up a tall, cool, refreshing pitcher of Shut The Fuck Up to Bobo Brooks in his latest screed. (If you're not reading Drifty every day, you're in danger of missing out on the Minimum Daily Requirement of Polemic Acid.)

And as often happens, brilliance begets brilliance. I refer to a comment by a reader named Alyssa, which I take the liberty of reproducing, in pertinent part, here:

I was thinking the other day about the 'torches and pitchforks' concept and thinking that really the blogosphere is the equivalent. People don't have pitchforks anymore, we plebes are no longer mostly farmers. We have our seemingly petty weaponry, but wielded en masse it suddenly becomes more than a little concerning for the Powers That Be. What other pitchforks do we have lying around that we haven't considered, I wonder?

Isn't this the perfect metaphor for the netroots? Arent we all wielding pitchforks made by Dell, Gateway, Apple, HP, whatever? Don't we fire up the torch of DSL or CableModem each and every day? Isn't this what the dazzling (and delightfully offensive)Bobby Lightfoot Memorial Political Activism Knowledge Repository is all about? Grabbing our microprocessor pitchforks and our broadband torches and coming together as (well, why not say it) an angry mob?

I'm beginning to embrace my anger, because all of the alternatives are unsatisfactory. Bemused intellectual detachment? What foppery! Bipartisan bridge-building? Gutless cowardice in my book. Read your history. The partisans lived in thatched cottages and listened for instructions on secret radios hidden in coffe cans and whatnot. The real partisans blew up bridges, they didn't build them. And then there's fear.....

Let's talk about fear for a moment, in the context of the War on Terror. Terrorism is not designed to gain control of territory, or to eliminate the ability of an enemy to defend or respond. Terrorism works because it so completely accomplishes what it is intended to accomplish; it creates fear.

Dead bodies and flattened buildings are not the ultimate goal of the terrorist; their ways and means cannot kill or destroy enough people and places to make a statistical difference. 2,752 people were killed in the terror attacks of 9/11/01. You are far more likely to die in a traffic accident, or as a result of severe weather, or due to bad dietary habits, than you are to die as a result of terrorism. But we do not have a color-coded scale to tell us how afraid we should be of cars, or storms, or food.

The recent "plot" to blow up planes flying between London and the US (which apparently involves explosives made from soft drinks and peroxide) is all over the news. People are required to discard their toothpaste before boarding planes.

Brothers and sisters......they've got us afraid of fucking toothpaste.

And when I say "they", of course, I'm referring to the Bush Administration. Fear is their tool, their weapon, their friend. They are using fear to cower the populace. They are engaging in terrorism against the American people. No, they aren't blowing up office buildings, but as noted above, that's not the objective of terrorism. The objective of terrorism is to create fear among the civilian populace, and that is what they have done and that is what they continue to do. When a suicide bomber blows up a candy store, he is engaging in high level terrorism from a low-level platform; when Bush, or Cheney, or Lieberman, or Hannity invoke boogeymen such as Osama bin Laden, or Ned Lamont, or Markos Moulitsas, they are engaging in low-level terrorism from a high-level platform. The only valid metric by which we can compare the two is by calculating the number of people they frighten. And many, many Americans are frightened enough to vote Republican.

Roosevelt said "We have nothing to fear but fear itself." The fear-mongers in Washington and in the media are whipping up a fresh batch of fear every goddamn day. We have to take them on one frightened neighbor at a time. Make an effort to ease the fear of a Republican voter today. Tell them it's going to be OK. Remind them that America is strong. We weren't afraid of the British in 1776, we weren't afraid of the Nazis in 1944, and we have nothing to fear but the fears that are implanted in us. Some kid with a bottle of Sierra Mist is not coming to Minneapolis, or Indianapolis, or Gallapolis, or Kannapolis to kill us. Take them by the hand as you would a small child, and alleviate their fear. Tell them to suck it up and be as brave as their fathers and mothers, their grandfathers and grandmothers. Tell them to quit being such a bunch of fucking pussies. Tell them "Fuck Fear!" And remind them that millions of their fellow Americans, armed with pitchforks and torches, will protect them.

Call me a sick fuck, but this cracks me up....

2006-08-05T20:04:00.000-04:00

Burt Bacharach Geico commercial

I was hit in the rear.......
Lizard licks his eyeball.....
I hope I'll never get hit in the reeeeeear.....again.....

Pure comedy gold. Is Burt high, or did he have a stroke, or is he just delightfully goofy?

What comes after "clusterfuck"?

2006-08-04T10:56:00.000-04:00

Associated Press - August 4, 2006

BAGHDAD, Iraq - Hundreds of thousands of Shiites chanting “Death to Israel” and “Death to America” marched through the streets of Baghdad’s biggest Shiite district Friday in a show of support for Hezbollah militants battling Israeli troops in Lebanon.

"Hundreds of thousands." "Death to America." Does anyone think Iran wasn't behind this demonstration? Because a "demonstration" is exactly what it is. It demonstrates that the gossamer government in Iraq can be blown to the four winds at the time of Iran's choosing. Remember, Shiites are in the majority in Iraq, and are joined at the hip with Iran. These hundreds of thousands are a small fraction of the people to whom the current Iraqi regime are accountable....and the people are getting a little testy. Any Shiite politician in Iraq who continues to bed down with the Americans is now on notice.

I'm not a sunny optimist under the best of circumstances, but this scares the shit out of me. Clear the embassy roof and gas up the Hueys. We haven't a friedman to spare. I give it another month before the whole place goes up for grabs, and while the Codpiece Administration has apparently gotten away with losing an entire American metropolis, a Katrina-style evacuation from the Green Zone will not cut the mustard.

Mr. Nail, meet Mr. Hammer

2006-07-28T14:37:00.000-04:00

Every once in a while, a string of words is crafted so well, so elegantly, that they put the finest strand of pearls to shame. Driftglass, for example, tosses such miracles around like Rockefeller dispensed dimes to urchins. But wherever and whenever one of these prizes appears, it's special, and an event worthy of attention.

Whilst prowling around on The News Blog, I encountered such a treasure, and I share it with you here and now. The author is a poster named "marquer", and in comparing The Iraqi Adventures of Commander Codpiece to another well-known cluster-fuck, he uttered this piece of perfection:

...it's worth noting that despite its failure by every single metric of significance, and despite its enormous collateral damage and poisonous sequelae, the War On Certain Drugs continues to slowly shamble onward, an unkillable, unstoppable zombie policy."

As a front line troop (albeit an Enemy Combatant) in the War on Certain Drugs, I can tell you that this is as breathtaking an analysis as an analysis can be.

Well played, Sir, and a good shot! Step forward and be recognized!

Bill Bennett for Mid-East Envoy

2006-07-25T10:47:00.000-04:00

Bill Bennett? Mr. "Book of Virtues"? The former Education Secretary who once said aborting "every black baby in this country" would reduce the crime rate"? The same guy who once said that beheading drug dealers would be "morally plausible"? The guy who once went on a blind date with Janis Joplin?

Yep, that's my pick, but not for any of the above reasons.

I support Bill Bennett as Mid-East Envoy because he's got the right experience.

Ya' see, when we sit down across the table from Syria, and Hezbollah, and Hamas, and Iran, we need a guy who is willing to roll the dice, to push all of his chips into the middle of the table, who's not afraid of rolling snake eyes. In other words, a degenerate gambler.

A little historical perspective may be in order; when Israel was recognized as a state in 1948, that recognition was followed by approximately one year of fighting between Israel and various Arab states, pursuant to the Arab league's Declaration of War. An armistice was reached in the Spring of 1949.

An uneasy and imperfect peace continued into the '50's, at which time Egypt's threatened nationalization of the Suez Canal brought regional and international passions to a fresh boil.

There followed the founding of Fatah and the PLO and, in 1967, the region erupted in the Six-Day War. Into the '70's, various factions instituted a campaign of terrorism, featuring the hijacking of civilian aircraft and the Black September kidnapping/murder of Israeli athletes at the 1972 Olympic Games in Munich. The entire bloody history of the region is well documented, and the interested reader can Google away to his/her heart's content.

But why Bill Bennett? The answer can be found on the roulette wheel depicted above. You will observe that the wheel contains 38 spaces; 18 are red, 18 are black, two are green. Various bets can be made predicting the drop of a ball onto the spinning wheel. If the ball falls into the green spaces ("0" or "00"), however, the house wins and all the players lose.

Now consider the US approach to the Middle East. On one hand, we have been enthusiastic political and financial supporters of Israel. On the other hand, our ravenous appetite for petroleum has created wealth beyond description in the oil-rich Arab states of the Middle East. Much of that oil money, either overtly or covertly, funds the various fadayeen and jihadist enemies of Israel, and the funding has been increasing right along with the price and consumption of oil. In short, we're backing both sides. In roulette, you can back both sides by betting on both red and black. About 95% of the time, the ball will land on either red or black, and your losing bet will be balanced by your winning bet; it's a break-even proposition. The other 5% of the time, however, the ball will land on the green "0" or "00". Then you lose both bets. Let's recap: in the short run, you can break even, and in the long run, you will always lose, but the one thing you cannot do is win! Bill Bennett, as a degenerate gambler, understands this. (For the degenerate sports gamblers in the audience, it's like betting on both teams in a football game; you are gonna lose the vig on every bet.)

Are we willing to cut off our aid for Israel? Nope, that's political suicide. Are we willing to cut off our consumption of Middle East oil? Not a chance. QED, we are playing the red/black game in the Middle East, a game in which our best hope is stasis in the short term, but a game at which we must ultimately lose.

Now, I don't mean to suggest that Bill Bennett can find a way to win the game; it simply can't be done. But I believe he's enough of a degenerate gambler to stay at the table, drink the free drinks, flirt with the cocktail waitresses and keep the game going! Because whether we like it or not, the game must continue. Whatever miscalculations were made at the time of Israel's founding, whatever legitimate Palestinian grievances were overlooked or ignored, we have too many chips in play to walk away from the table. So if we're going to continue to keep betting the red and the black, we should at least be represented by a guy for whom the winning or losing are less important than the action. In short, a degenerate gambler. In shorter, Bill Bennett.

....and now, the rumors behind the news!

2006-07-09T08:06:00.000-04:00

The Tipsy McStagger Administration couldn't continue to pull the wool over the eyes of the sheeple without the complicity of the Corporate Controlled Conservative Press (CCCP). I would submit that there are two major factors contributing to the gross failure of the media to fulfill the role and exercise the privileges granted the press by the First Amendment.

The first factor is the corporate nature of news-gathering organizations. The officers of a corporation are obliged by law to maximize return on shareholder investment. This is an actual duty, imposed by law, called fiduciary responsibility. Example: "Will attacking war profiteers cause high-dollar corporate advertisers to shun the Sunday Morning Mouse Circus?" Well, if it's going to cut into our profits, we can't do it, because our stockholders would "suffer" (and I use the term advisedly) due to the loss of that revenue. And thus does the CCCP suppress news unfavorable to its corporte advertising base. They are just "following orders."

There was a time when the "Fairness Doctrine" required broadcast licensees to present controversial issues of public importance, and to present such issues in an honest, equal and balanced manner. This rule (which was frequently mis-characterized as the "Equal Time" rule) simply required broadcast licensees to present both sides of controversial issues. So, for example, when CBS broadcast Edward R. Murrow's groundbreaking documentary "Harvest of Shame", they could justify that decision by citing compliance with the Fairness Doctrine.

Well, you can kiss that shit goodbye.

The Fairness Doctrine and the other rules which allowed it to be enforced were repealed during the Reagan Administration. It's easy to see that Rush Limbaugh, to name one example, would be unable to spew his lies and vitriol if the stations carrying his show were required to give an opportunity for the presentation of opposing points of view. Once unfettered by any legal obligation to serve the public interest, broadcasters immediately strapped on the knee-pads and demonstrated their fealty to those who secured their place in line at the public teat of the broadcast spectrum. You may know them as the Republican Party.

The second factor which has brought shame and disrepute to the "profession" of journalism is the lack of any sort of credential assuring the news consumer that the person delivering the information has the slightest clue regarding journalistic standards, ethics, etc. Consider that, on the average large market TV newscast, the sports "reporter" is likely to be an ex-professional jock, with demonstrated experience in the sphere of professional sports. The weathergirl probably has earned the Seal of Approval of the American Meteorological Society, having shown some degree of competence in the science of weather. But what about the well-goomed hairdos who actually present the hard news? No qualifications required, other than a certain telegenic quality and the ability to adopt a tone somewhat in keeping with the seriousness (or not) of the material they are reading from the TelePrompTer.

Now, I recognize that any "licensing" scheme for journalists puts us on a slippery slope leading toward government regulation of reporters, and believe me, I ain't about to go there. What I envision is an independent accreditation process, perhaps through the Society of Professional Journalists (nee SDX). If you can demonstrate sufficient experience, perhaps pass a test on standards and ethics, you could use the title "Certified Professional Journalist" in your byline. Documented failures to abide by said standards could result in the loss of the right to use that title. Some reporters might not qualify. That wouldn't keep them from bloviating on, oh, let's use Faux News for an example. They just couldn't claim to be professional journalists. News consumers would thus know that their source of "news" is operating outside the bounds of journalistic standards. Hey, if you choose to buy your food in dented cans from the half-price cart, that's your business. But you're entitled to see the dents, right?

Thoughts? Ideas? Criticisms?

(NB: I have my own ideas about whether journalism is technically a "profession." (I think not.) But that's a discussion for another post....)

There were giants on the bench in those days...

2006-06-27T06:41:00.000-04:00

Just a quickie...the finest, most ornamental, filligreed, prolix and delightful example of legal wordsmithery since the Magna Carta. You'll laugh! You'll cry! You'll scratch your head as Justice Carlin of the New York Supreme Court denies relief to a woman and her two injured babies who were run over by a taxicab! Ladies, gentlemen, lingo-slingers of every stripe and persuasion, I give you Cordas v. Peerless Transportation Co., 27 N.Y.S. 2d 198 (N.Y. City Ct. 1941).

CORDAS et al.

v.

PEERLESS TRANSP. CO. et al.

City Court of New York, New York County.

April 3, 1941.

*199
Nicholas Athans and Hyman Muss, both of New York City, for plaintiff.
Louis L. Resnick and Harry P. Rich, both of New York City, for defendant.

CARLIN, Justice.

This case presents the ordinary man--that problem child of the law--in a most bizarre setting. As a lowly chauffeur in defendant's employ he became in a trice the protagonist in a breach-bating drama with a denouement almost tragic. It appears that a man, whose identity it would be indelicate to divulge was feloniously relieved of his portable goods by two nondescript highwaymen in an alley near 26th Street and Third Avenue, Manhattan; they induced him to relinquish his possessions by a strong argument ad hominem couched in the convincing cant of the criminal and pressed at the point of a most persuasive pistol. Laden with their loot, but not thereby impeded, they took an abrupt departure and he, shuffling off the coil of that discretion which enmeshed him in the alley, quickly gave chase through 26th Street toward 2d Avenue, whither they were resorting 'with expedition swift as thought' for most obvious reasons. Somewhere on that thoroughfare of escape they indulged the stratagem of separation ostensibly to disconcert their pursuer and allay the ardor of his pursuit. He then centered on for capture the man with the pistol whom he saw board defendant's taxicab, which quickly veered south toward 25th Street on 2d Avenue where he saw the chauffeur jump out while the cab, still in motion, continued toward 24th Street; after the chauffeur relieved himself of the cumbersome burden of his fare the latter also is said to have similarly departed from the cab before it reached 24th Street. The chauffeur's story is substantially the same except that he states that his uninvited guest boarded the cab at 25th Street while it was at a standstill waiting for a less colorful fare; that his 'passenger' immediately advised him 'to stand not upon the order of his going but to go at once' and added finality to his command by an appropriate gesture with a pistol addressed to his sacro iliac. The chauffeur in reluctant acquiescence proceeded about fifteen feet, when his hair, like unto the quills of the fretful porcupine, was made to stand on end by the hue and cry of the man despoiled accompanied by a clamourous concourse of the law-abiding which paced him as he ran; the concatenation of 'stop thief', to which the patter of persistent feet did maddingly beat time, rang in his ears as the pursuing posse all the while gained on the receding cab with its quarry therein contained. The hold-up man sensing his insecurity suggested to the chauffeur that in the event there was the slightest lapse in obedience to his curt command that he, the chauffeur, would suffer the loss of his brains, a prospect as horrible to an humble chauffeur as it undoubtedly would be to one of the intelligentsia. The chauffeur apprehensive of certain dissolution from either Scylla, the pursuers, or Charybdis, the pursued, quickly threw his car out of first speed in which he was proceeding, pulled on the emergency, jammed on his brakes and, although he thinks the motor was still running, swung open the door to his left and jumped out of his car. He confesses that the only act that smacked of intelligence *200 was that by which he jammed the brakes in order to throw off balance the hold-up man who was half-standing and half-sitting with his pistol menacingly poised. Thus abandoning his car and passenger the chauffeur sped toward 26th Street and then turned to look; he saw the cab proceeding south toward 24th Street where it mounted the sidewalk. The plaintiff-mother and her two infant children were there injured by the cab which, at the time, appeared to be also minus its passenger who, it appears, was apprehended in the cellar of a local hospital where he was pointed out to a police officer by a remnant of the posse, hereinbefore mentioned. He did not appear at the trial. The three aforesaid plaintiffs and the husband-father sue the defendant for damages predicating their respective causes of action upon the contention that the chauffeur was negligent in abandoning the cab under the aforesaid circumstances. Fortunately the injuries sustained were comparatively slight. Negligence has been variously defined but the common legal acceptation is the failure to exercise that care and caution which a reasonable and prudent person ordinarily would exercise under like conditions or circumstances. It has been most authoritatively held that 'negligence in the abstract, apart from things related, is surely not a tort, if indeed it is understandable at all.' Cardozo, C. J., in Palsgraf v. Long Island Railroad Co., 248 N.Y. 339, 345, 162 N.E. 99, 101, 59 A.L.R. 1253. In Steinbrenner v. M. W. Forney Co., 143 App.Div. 73, 127 N.Y.S. 620, 622 it is said, 'The test of actionable negligence is what reasonably prudent men would have done under the same circumstances'; Connell v. New York Central & Hudson River Railroad Co., 144 App.Div. 664, 129 N.Y.S. 666, 669, holds that actionable negligence must be predicated upon 'a breach of duty to the plaintiff. Negligence is 'not absolute or intrinsic,' but 'is always relevant to some circumstances of time, place or person.'' In slight paraphrase of the world's first bard it may be truly observed that the expedition of the chauffeur's violent love of his own security outran the pauser, reason, when he was suddenly confronted with unusual emergency which 'took his reason prisoner'. The learned attorney for the plaintiffs concedes that the chauffeur acted in an emergency but claims a right to recovery upon the following proposition taken verbatim from his brief: 'It is respectfully submitted that the value of the interests of the public at large to be immune from being injured by a dangerous instrumentality such as a car unattended while in motion is very superior to the right of a driver of a motor vehicle to abandon same while it is in motion even when acting under the belief that his life is in danger and by abandoning same he will save his life'. To hold thus under the facts adduced herein would be tantamount to a repeal by implication of the primal law of nature written in indelible characters upon the fleshy tablets of sentient creation by the Almighty Law-giver, 'the supernal Judge who sits on high'. There are those who stem the turbulent current for bubble fame, or who bridge the yawning chasm with a leap for the leap's sake or who 'outstare the sternest eyes that look outbrave the heart most daring on the earth, pluck the young sucking cubs from the she-bear, yea, mock the lion when he roars for prey' to win a fair lady and these are the admiration of the generality of men; but they are made of sterner *201 stuff than the ordinary man upon whom the law places no duty of emulation. The law would indeed be fond if it imposed upon the ordinary man the obligation to so demean himself when suddenly confronted with a danger, not of his creation, disregarding the likelihood that such a contingency may darken the intellect and palsy the will of the common legion of the earth, the fraternity of ordinary men,--whose acts or omissions under certain conditions or circumstances make the yardstick by which the law measures culpability or innocense, negligence or care. If a person is placed in a sudden peril from which death might ensue, the law does not impel another to the rescue of the person endangered nor does it condemn him for his unmoral failure to rescue when he can; this is in recognition of the immutable law written in frail flesh. Returning to our chauffeur. If the philosophic Horatio and the martial companions of his watch were 'distilled almost to jelly with the act of fear' when they beheld 'in the dead vast and middle of the night' the disembodied spirit of Hamlet's father stalk majestically by 'with a countenance more in sorrow than in anger' was not the chauffeur, though unacquainted with the example of these eminent men-at-arms, more amply justified in his fearsome reactions when he was more palpably confronted by a thing of flesh and blood bearing in its hand an engine of destruction which depended for its lethal purpose upon the quiver of a hair? When Macbeth was cross-examined by Macduff as to any reason he could advance for his sudden despatch of Duncan's grooms he said in plausible answer 'Who can be wise, amazed, temperate and furious, loyal and neutral, in a moment? No man'. Macbeth did not by a 'tricksy word' thereby stand justified as he criminally created the emergency from which he sought escape by indulgence in added felonies to divert suspicion to the innocent. However, his words may be wrested to the advantage of the defendant's chauffeur whose acts cannot be legally construed as the proximate cause of plaintiff's injuries, however regrettable, unless nature's first law is arbitrarily disregarded. Plaintiff's attorney in his brief cites the cases of Grunfelder v. Brooklyn Heights Railroad Co., 143 App.Div. 89, 127 N.Y.S. 1085, and Savage v. Joseph H. Bauland Co., 42 App.Div. 285, 58 N.Y.S. 1014, as authorities for a contrary holding. Neither case is apposite in fact nor principle. In the classic case of Laidlaw v. Sage, 158 N.Y. 73, 89, 90, 52 N.E. 679, 685, 44 L.R.A. 216, is found a statement of the law peculiarly apropos: 'That the duties and responsibilities of a person confronted with such a danger are different and unlike those which follow his actions in performing the ordinary duties of life under other conditions is a well-established principle of law. * * * 'The law presumes that an act or omission done or neglected under the influence of pressing danger was done or neglected involuntarily.' It is there said that this rule seems to be founded upon the maxim that self-preservation is the first law of nature, and that, where it is a question whether one of two men shall suffer, each is justified in doing the best he can for himself'. (Italics ours.) Kolanka v. Erie Railroad Co., 215 App.Div. 82, 86, 212 N.Y.S. 714, 717, says: 'The law in this state does not hold one in an emergency to the exercise of that mature judgment required of him under circumstances where he has an opportunity *202 for deliberate action. He is not required to exercise unerring judgment, which would be expected of him, were he not confronted with an emergency requiring prompt action'. The circumstances provide the foil by which the act is brought into relief to determine whether it is or is not negligent. If under normal circumstances an act is done which might be considered negligent it does not follow as a corollary that a similar act is negligent if performed by a person acting under an emergency, not of his own making, in which he suddenly is faced with a patent danger with a moment left to adopt a means of extrication. The chauffeur--the ordinary man in this case--acted in a split second in a most harrowing experience. To call him negligent would be to brand him coward; the court does not do so in spite of what those swaggering heroes, 'whose valor plucks dead lions by the beard', may bluster to the contrary. The court is loathe to see the plaintiffs go without recovery even though their damages were slight, but cannot hold the defendant liable upon the facts adduced at the trial. Motions, upon which decision was reserved, to dismiss the complaint are granted with exceptions to plaintiffs. Judgment for defendant against plaintiffs dismissing their complaint upon the merits. Ten days' stay and thirty days to make a case.

The expanding universe....and everything else.

2006-06-25T08:30:00.000-04:00

The picture at the left is the 100 meter radio telescope located at Green Bank, West Virginia. It was in 1959 in this remote Appalachian valley that science began to transcend the visual, discerning the nature of our expanding universe at frequencies not visible to the human eye. It was in this selfsame bucolic mountain valley on June 23, 2006, that I discerned the nature of an expanding brake caliper piston. Carefree, like a fucking flatland moron, I rode the brake as I descended from the mountain above to the valley below. And as I came to a stop at the Visitor Center at Green Bank, I was greeted by a billow of smoke from beneath the right front fender of my super-annuated Ford Ranger. It was that same phenomenon of expansion, generated by the heat from my abused braking system, that caused the brake caliper piston (which closes and (ideally) opens the caliper holding the brake pads against the disc, thus slowing the rotation of the wheels and bringing one's vehicle to a safe and controlled stop) to expand while in the "closed" position, essentially setting my brake pads on fire.

My musings on the serendipitous juxtaposition of these sublime and mundane examples of expansion were (I now see in retrospect) a defense mechanism against the well and truly fucked position in which I found myself. I was deep in the mountains with no brakes and a truck that was threatening to burst into flames the next time I tried to slow down.

There followed one of those karmic "good news-bad news" ping-pong matches that the universe occasionally plays with mere mortals such as we.

Unfortunately, I was smack-dab in the middle of the National Radio Quiet Zone, where cell phone reception is but a futuristic rumor. Fortunately, I believe that cell phones are the tool of the Devil himself, and I won't even talk on one, much less own one. Fortunately, there was a bank across the street, whose employees generously allowed me to call AAA for emergency road service. Unfortunately, it was 2:00 on a Friday afternoon, and I was 3 hours from my hotel.

Fortunately, the tow truck operator showed up promptly, with news that he had located a brake caliper for my truck. Unfortunately, AAA had told him my truck was a 3/4 ton pickup, which it is not. Fortunately, his shop was just a few miles up the road, so he could still locate the right part and get me rolling. Unfortunately, the parts store had a left hand caliper, but NOT a right hand caliper for my Ranger. Fortunately, he was willing to take a look at the problem and see if anything could be done. Unfortunately, he had to "run into town" before he could assess my problem. Fortunately, the town he had to run into was only 10 miles away. Unfortunately, this errand would consume "about an hour". Fortunately, he returned in 45 minutes. Unfortunately, still no brake caliper. Fortunately, he pulled the wheel and found that the passage of time and the resulting dissipation of heat had freed up my hitherto expanded brake caliper piston.

That's it. No more "unfortunately." I win. I beat the pole-smoking universe at its own capricious game.

And I did scurry and scamper over and about the Appalachian Mountains, enjoying views such as this, and remembering at all times to use 2nd gear when descending steep mountain grades.

A liberal looks at the World Cup

2006-06-15T19:35:00.000-04:00

I guess I'm a typical American sports fan, albeit a liberal one. Football, baseball, the major golf tournaments, college hoops during March Madness, the occasional auto race, the Olympics. That's more than enough to occupy my time from season to season. Like most Americans, I don't follow soccer, save for every four years when the World Cup penetrates my consciousness.

But after six years of the Dim Son administration, the world looks at America differently, and the World Cup serves as the lens which most closely approximates how they see us.

This is not baseball, where our "World Series" ignores Latin America, Japan, and other countries where baseball is played, and played well. It's not American football, beloved at home, but widely ignored the world over. It's not even the Olympics, where we field a team in every event, and our sheer force of numbers guarantees us a spot high in the medal standings.

No, this is soccer. The world's game, open to all comers if you can cut the mustard. A game in which wee Togo and tiny Trinidad y Tobago can make the cut, but Russia and Canada cannot. In other words, it's a meritocracy. It's not the G7, or the UN, where America's seat at the table is assumed and assured. The mighty USA has to get into the World Cup the old fashioned way...we have to eaarrrn it. And in recent years, we have done so. We've qualified, but little more. And then we've trotted out a string of excuses, redolent of sour grapes. "Our best athletes play football and basketball." "Soccer is a sissy game." "We just aren't that interested in soccer."

To all of which I call "bullshit."

We went to the fuckin' moon! Are you telling me we can't chase a ball around and kick it into a net the size of a two car garage? Well, actually, we can't. And todo del mundo knows it. We're the 1990 Yankees...67 wins, 95 losses and 21 games out of first place. We're Gulliver, bound, poked and prodded by Liliputians. We're terribly, terribly average.

There is a parallel between our World Cup performance and our recent performance in other areas of global discourse. We no longer enjoy the presumption of perfection. Our motives are no longer assumed to be noble. There is some serious question as to whether we can cut the international mustard. Diplomatically, we have to play our way in to the tournament.

Once we led the world against Nazi Germany and Imperial Japan. Once we played pot-limit nuclear poker with the Soviet Union, and the other guy blinked, then folded. Now, weakened at home and abroad by the reckless policies of the Bush Administration, we are reduced to leading a piss-poor "coalition of the willing" (Eritrea, Estonia, Latvia, Uzbeckistan) in a failing occupation of an already weakened Iraq. And we stand, like Ozymandias bestride the goal, while the Czech Republic scores three times between our vast and trunkless legs of stone.

OK, this is just freakin' weird.....

2006-06-08T15:02:00.000-04:00

My traffic tracker indicates that I had a visitor today from Seoul, South Korea, who got here by searching for the phrase "whoa it's magic, you know". This phrase appeared in the comments to the Freddie and the Dreamers thread, below, and represents about 75% of Pilot's contribution to popular culture.

The other 25% of Pilot's contribution consists of the next line to their big hit, "Magic" which made it to the Top 5 in 1975, more than 30 years ago. A search for that line ("never believe it's not so") deposited a music lover from San Antonio, Texas within two hours of the Korean gentleman.

I am so fucking totally global. Excuse me, I'm gonna go have some t-shirts made up.

Keep yer soft hands off my marriage, yew faggot!

2006-06-05T18:49:00.000-04:00

The Christopithecus wing of the Republican party has kicked off the midterm election season with their big biennial boo-hoo on behalf of marriage. Or, more accurately, their nasty, bitter, mean-spirited, ill-defined version of what they claim constitutes a marriage.

You see, in Republican JesusLand, the vitality of one's own marriage is inextricably linked to what is going on in the bedroom across town, or two states away. That's why the very institution of marriage is doomed, DOOMED I tell you, unless we amend the United States Constitution to make sure that loving couples of the same gender cannot have their committment to one another protected by law.

Now, reports are flowing in from outposts all across Left Blogistan, and rather than duplicate those worthy efforts, I'll simply point you to Driftglass and The Viscount LaCarte and Kevin Wolf for a few excellent and representative takes.

I do, however, have a take of my own; one that I believe to be compelling and which I believe should be added to the arsenal of rational arguments in favor of equal marriage rights for all. I refer to marriage rights because I believe that the right to marry is not only among the most important rights we enjoy, it is THE most important right we enjoy!

Let me 'splain. You see the couple up there? A typical, happy, married couple. She, heavy with a child and a Benson & Hedges. He, displaying his delight by way of a semi-toothy grin. Even their best man, Bubba the Rottweiler, is basking in the glow of officially sanctioned marital bliss. A cheap shot at rednecks? You betcha! But I would never suggest that they should be denied this most basic of rights. Now, I know a lot of folks just like these two. (I'm a public defender in West Virginia; do the math.) And as such, I'm more aware than most as to the rights which they stand to lose. If Bubba runs loose, he can be seized by Animal Control and euthanized, depriving them of their property. Either one of them could be locked up for domestic battery or manufacturing meth (or both), losing in the process their right to freedom. Child Protective Services would likely intervene, seeking termination of their parental rights. If that crime results in death they could (in some states) lose their very lives.

But you know what?

In no case, under no circumstances, can the government dissolve a valid marriage without consent of one of the parties.

That's pretty important. That's my big contribution to the debate, so I'm gonna repeat it.

In no case, under no circumstances, can the government dissolve a valid marriage without consent of one of the parties.

They can kill you, but they can't divorce you. The right to marry is afforded more protection than the right to life itself. That's pretty fucking fundamental.

The U. S. Supreme Court pretty much agrees. In a unanimous decision (Turner v. Safley, 482 U.S. 78 (1987))concerning the rights of prison inmates to marry, the Court observed:

"The right to marry, like many other rights, is subject to substantial restrictions as a result of incarceration. Many important attributes of marriage remain, however, after taking into account the limitations imposed by prison life. First, inmate marriages, like others, are expressions of emotional support and public commitment. These elements are an important and significant aspect of the marital relationship. In addition, many religions recognize marriage as having spiritual significance; for some inmates and their spouses, therefore, the commitment of marriage may be an exercise of religious faith as well as an expression of personal dedication. Third, most inmates eventually will be released by parole or commutation, and therefore most inmate marriages are formed in the expectation that they ultimately will be fully consummated. Finally, marital status often is a precondition to the receipt of government benefits (e. g., Social Security benefits), property rights (e. g., tenancy by the entirety, inheritance rights), and other, less tangible benefits (e. g., legitimation of children born out of wedlock). These incidents of marriage, like the religious and personal aspects of the marriage commitment, are unaffected by the fact of confinement or the pursuit of legitimate corrections goals.

Taken together, we conclude that these remaining elements are sufficient to form a constitutionally protected marital relationship in the prison context...."

Let's take another run at Justice O'Connor's opinion, with minor editing in boldface:

"First, gay and lesbian marriages, like others, are expressions of emotional support and public commitment. These elements are an important and significant aspect of the marital relationship. In addition, many religions recognize marriage as having spiritual significance; for some gay people and their spouses, therefore, the commitment of marriage may be an exercise of religious faith as well as an expression of personal dedication. Third, [. . .] most gay and lesbian marriages are formed in the expectation that they ultimately will be fully consummated. Finally, marital status often is a precondition to the receipt of government benefits (e. g., Social Security benefits), property rights (e. g., tenancy by the entirety, inheritance rights), and other, less tangible benefits (e. g., legitimation of children born out of wedlock). These incidents of marriage, like the religious and personal aspects of the marriage commitment, are unaffected by the fact of sexual orientation or the pursuit of legitimate marriage protection goals."

Taken together, we conclude that these remaining elements are sufficient to form a constitutionally protected marital relationship in the same sex context...."

Show me where I'm wrong about this.....

Big light in sky slated to appear in east...

2006-06-04T18:10:00.000-04:00

No invasion of Iran, no indictment of Karl Rove....it's what the professional journos call a slow news day. But did that impede the CNN.com ActionNewsTeam? It did not. Click on the link for audio.....and let me know if you think this is an annoying feature. Or not.

My ego knows no bounds......

2006-06-03T16:55:00.000-04:00

It was bad enough that I thought anyone would care to read what I have to write....now I get to pretend that anyone cares to hear what I have to say!

The land of the free....

2006-06-01T05:48:00.000-04:00

The ol' content has been a little slow in coming these past couple of weeks, largely due to the press of work. Since my job involves dealing with clients, and since there are ethical concerns, I can't really swing for the fences and vent with regard to the frustrations involved in representing folks who are staring down a stretch in the penitentiary. Too much detail could lead to a breach of confidentiality, and I'm not interested in turning the personal crises of my clients and their families into blogfodder.

Now, I know what you're saying..."Frustrations? You're not the one on a fast-track to Durance Vile!" True enough....the judge very rarely sends me to the pokey at the end of the case. But as a cog (not particularly well-greased, but a cog all the same) in the criminal justice system, there are certain things that grind on me like nails on a chalkboard. Chief among these irritants is a certain prosecutorial insistence that people be sent to prison for victimless crimes.

In the little blurb to your right, I point out that most of the people I know are criminals. I don't use the word "criminal" in any pejorative sense; when my college roommates and I were peddling reefer to cover the rent, we were criminals. When I bought crack on a dare at the corner of Fifth Avenue and Central Park South, I was a criminal. (Hey, you don't get that slice of the Big Apple on the Gray Line Tour....) The odds are good that you, too, are a criminal to some degree. Makes no never-mind to me, any more than if you're short, tall or left-handed.

My point (and I do have one) is that the people who sentence our fellow criminals to spend months or years in a "correctional facility" often see these people as being so fundamentally different and dangerous that society can only be protected from them by locking them up. The prosecutor, for example, has typically never had a conversation with someone accused of a crime, much less actually represented a criminal defendant. And yet, he stands straight-faced and recommends that a fellow citizen be sent to the penitentiary for 2 or 4 or 6 years for vending some vegetation to a willing neighbor. When I stand next to my client before a judge, I usually know him or her better than anyone else in the room. But because I am an "advocate", my arguments are tainted with the perception that I somehow shouldn't be taken seriously when I say that some sanction short of imprisonment is adequate to redress the public grievances against my client.

I understand this attitude. I work as hard and argue as passionately on behalf of the murderer and the molester as I do on behalf of the nickel-bag dealer; my obligation to my client demands nothing less. (You may be surprised, by the way, to know that the defense attorney is the only guy in the system who has no obligation, and little opportunity, to see that justice is done. Our job is to give our clients a zealous defense. "Justice" is left to the judges and prosecutors, who all too often equate "justice" with "retribution.")

So, anyway, that's why I have been lax in posting. I've been grinding out deals and preparing for trials on behalf of my clients. I stole a little time at 5 a.m. to throw this scribbling at the wall. I'll have more on this topic later, when/if things slow down at the justice mill.....

Shamelessly stolen from Rising Hegemon

2006-05-26T09:26:00.000-04:00

Poster Worst. President. Ever. tendered this sparkling, scintillating gem:

One night, George W. Bush is tossing restlessly in his White House bed. He awakens to see George Washington standing by him.

Bush asks him, "George, what's the best thing I can do to help the country?"

"Always tell the truth, just as I did," Washington advises, then fades away.

The next night, Bush sees the ghost of Thomas
Jefferson moving through the darkened bedroom.

Bush calls out, "Tom, please! What is the best thing I can do to help the country?"

"Respect the Constitution, just as I did," Jefferson
advises, and dims from sight . . . .

The third night sleep still does not come for Bush. He sees the ghost of FDR hovering over his bed.

Bush whispers, "Franklin, What is the best thing I can do to help the country?"

"Help the less fortunate, just as I did," FDR replies and fades into the mist.

Bush isn't sleeping well the fourth night when he sees another figure moving in the shadows. It's the ghost of Abraham Lincoln.

Bush pleads, "Abe, what is the best thing I can do
right now to help the country?"

Lincoln replies, "Support the arts, as I did. Get out and see a play."

The dream is over..........

2006-05-20T20:02:00.000-04:00

This just in from CNN:

British pop star Freddie Garrity, former lead singer with 1960s band Freddie and the Dreamers, has died at the age of 69.
Garrity died on Friday in hospital in North Wales, his agent said on Saturday.
His five-piece band had hits in Britain and the United States with "I'm Telling You Now," "You Were Made For Me" and "Over You."

Now, I'm not going to claim to have been a big fan of Freddie and the Dreamers. Of course, I remember "I'm Telling You Now", and "Do the Freddie", but they were just one bit of fluff in one of the fluffiest decades in popular music history.

I lament Freddie's passing while at the same time celebrating the golden age of "bubble-gum" music. The Archies were the archetypes, of course, but bubble-gum was ubiquitous, and its practitioners were legion. To name a few: 1910 Fruitgum Company, Tommy Roe, Kastanetz-Katz Singing Orchestral Circus, Ohio Express....the list goes on and on. The authoritative source for all things bubblegum can be found at The Classic Bubblegum Music Homepage.

Did you love it? Did you hate it? Can you still sing along with "1-2-3 Red Light"? (Ev-ry time I try to prove I love you, 1,2,3 Red Light, you stop me....) Add your own percussion. (Hint: Clap-clap, clap.) Before anyone goes all snobbo on me, you should know that Donald Fagen and Walter Becker were in Jay and the Americans before they formed Steely Dan. You might also refer to "The Captain Cooks", XTC's bubble-gum project. I'm still tracking down a rumor that Mahavishu John McLaughlin was the guitarist for Edison Lighthouse. Do you have memories of bubblegum? Would you like to share with the class?

Words you like

2006-05-18T19:19:00.000-04:00

Borrowed from/stolen from/inspired by Kevin Wolf

Words you like. Words you like to use. Words that make you giggle when you encounter them. Words that dance on your tongue. Words you use like tabasco. Words you whip out on special occasions. Words you wish you could get away with dropping into everyday conversation. Words that just look so right. Words you use when no other words will do. Words that make you feel smart, sexy, powerful, sophisticated, authentic, mysterious. Sesquipedalian words. Words that can sink ships.

Consider yourself tagged.

La Cage aux Pols

2006-05-18T06:47:00.000-04:00

Oh, this is rich. Any post blending slender, well-dressed right-wing Christopithecus Ralph Reed and cousin-fuckin' deserves your attention. Go read it and recommend it now, before it scrolls off the front page at DailyKos. Here's a taste:

Some call him a cross-dressing, "blatant adultering cousin-fucker" (BACF) with a comb-over. Former Christian Coalition leader Ralph Reed calls him the keynote speaker for his closed-to-the-press fundraiser on May 18, 2006, at the Westin Buckhead on Atlanta's affluent and fashionable Peachtree Road.

You can't make this shit up, folks.....

Can you guess who the cousin-fucker is?

You're going down, Osmond, you sniveling little shit...

2006-05-16T06:33:00.000-04:00

Flamingo Jones (see blogroll) recently posted a tale of triumph and conquest involving masks, whipped cream, and clowns. Hers is a story of the power of the human spirit, the indomitable drive for victory, the undiluted will to power!

I, too, have such a story. A combination of modesty and political correctness has stilled my tongue lo these many years, but La Flamingo has inspired me, nay empowered me to take pride in my victory and tell my story that others may be similarly uplifted.

The truth can finally be told; I kicked Donny Osmond's ass and made him my bitch! (By the way....nice digital watch you got there, sissy.)

The place: Jacksonville, Florida. The time: 1990, I guess. I was in the record business, on the road with one of our recording artistes, whose name it would be indelicate to divulge. The local slack-jaws had organized some sort of festival, featuring big tents, fried foods and live music. There may also have been a hot air balloon, and maybe a jet-ski, too.

This show was what we called a "track date". A stripped down recording of the set had been prepared, minus lead vocals and most of the drums. When the lights came up, the tape rolled, the drummer drummed, the Talent sang, and I, along with various crew members, pretended to play various instruments. (I always "played" bass. "Played" it on the Mickey Mouse Club a couple of times, in fact.) Orleans ("Still The One") opened, the Talent was next, and Donny Osmond was the headliner. It was a daytime gig, so we were finished around 5:00 or so. Instead of the usual backstage catering, the organizers had planned a dinner for the acts, the organizing committee, donors, etc. Attendance at the dinner was obligatory, kind of a grip & grin & meet & greet & eat.

Most of the crew blew off the dinner, succumbing instead to the twin temptations of cold local beer and hot local wimmin. My job, however, required me to stay with the Talent. Make introductions, field interview requests, tear him away from autograph seekers, etc. (I should mention that the Talent was, at the time, hugely popular as a result of his regular role on a "daytime drama.") So dinner is served, and we sit down at long tables laden with grub. At one end of the table, me, the Talent, some other of his "people" and a couple of local teevee reporter-babes. At the other end, the Osmond contingent. You never saw such white people in your life. The Continental Divide is the line which separates North America into the Atlantic and Pacific watersheds. Our table had a similar divide. At our end: Cokes, beer and iced tea. At the Osmond end: Seven-up, water, and milk. Donny and Company eschewed both alcohol and caffeine, suckling only at the bland, pale teats permitted by their Mormon religion.

Not bad, anyway, for a day in Jacksonville. Dinner was fine, the Talent was gracious, and I was making significant headway with one of the reporter-babes. My totally sincere line of bullshit, however, was rudely interrupted by raucous shouts from the Utah delegation.

"Spoons!", they shouted. "Spoons!" I was momentarily puzzled, wondering if the Latter-Day Saints were engaged in some manner of post-prandial religiosity. It was then that I observed various Osmonds and Osmondettes hanging spoons from their noses.

(This is not an actual Osmond. I wasn't sure if taking their picture would be like stealing their soul or something, so I'm using a stand-in. This is, however, what it looks like to hang a spoon from one's nose. As always, kids, it's OK to try this at home without adult supervision!)

It soon became apparent that this was a competitive event, the purpose of which was to determine who could suspend a piece of cutlery from their face for the longest period of time. And I gotta tell ya', Donny Osmond is a world-class spoon-hanger. He was blowing Mormons away left and right. Mutha'-fucka' is one spoon-hangin' sonofabitch!

But I am not one to shrink from a challenge.

So I spooned up and slid down to the Osmond end of the table. "You and me, Donnie," I said. "It's go time". Shit, it was like a cliched scene in a B-western. Folks were scurrying out of the way, diving behind watering troughs, ducking into dry-goods stores, you name it. I wiped my nose with my napkin and gave the bowl of the spoon a quick buff with the edge of the tablecloth. We squared off. "Spoons up!", someone shouted. And it was go time indeed.

It could only have been minutes, but it seemed like hours. There I was, with a spoon hanging from my nose, eyeball-to-eyeball with a bona-fide star of stage, screen and radio, with a spoon hanging from his nose. Time passed. Old folks died. Babies were born. Suns exploded. And still we sat...heads in hands...face to face....nose to nose....spoon to spoon. Now I don't mind admitting that i was tempted to play dirty. A question popped into my mind, unbidden. "So, Donny, about Marie. Nice rack, huh?" My better nature took over, though, and the provocative query remained unasked. Still, I was not about to lose to this capped-tooth pretty-boy. A thought occurred to me. Ever so slowly, with movement so slow as to scarcely be perceptible, I eased my hands up and back toward my occiput. I made small talk to distract my foe. "One Bad Apple...was that you or the Jackson 5?" I asked innocently, knowing that everyone gave the Jacksons credit for that pop music gem. I couldn't tell if his nostrils flared, obscured as they were by the spoon hanging from his face, but I saw a glint in his eye. I had drawn blood. I zeroed in on his eyes with laser-like precision. We were locked in, ojo a ojo.

He was mine.

I slowly raised my gaze toward the top of his head; he returned the gesture. And that was when he saw my fingertips, poking above my head like nubby devil's horns. Whether it was his fear of Satan, or merely a reaction to my audacity, I'll never know. But the involuntary change in his facial expression was sufficient to dislodge the silverware, which fell to the table with a satisfying "clang." I removed my spoon with my left hand and offered my right to my vanquished enemy. He returned my offered handclasp like a gentleman, knowing full well that he had met his match that day in the Duval County Convention Center and Expotorium, or whatever the fuck it was called.

Sweet, sweet triumph. Drinking and dancing and choruses of "Huzzah!" occupied the evening, followed by my return to the hotel, where I and a member of the ActionChannel 25 FirstCoastNewsTeam consummated the evening in a manner befitting a champion. In our enthusiasm, we stirred the ire of the next-door neighbor, TV's Cathie Lee Crosby! But that, amigos mios, is a story for another day.

Remodeling

2006-05-14T11:37:00.000-04:00

We had a big ol' cherry tree fall on our fence during a storm the other night, so I've got to clear away said tree and rassle a couple of 12 foot replacement fence rails into position. Also, we're in the middle of finishing our basement, so I've got new walls and ceilings to be painted, and tile to be laid, and molding to cut and install, and it's a crappy, cold, gray kinda day, so, naturally, I dove into a remodel of the blog. The spiffy new header was created by the charming and delightful Ms. Roxtar, whose PhotoShop skilzz are mad, indeed. (The name "Black Sky Theory" is explained, somewhat, in my maiden post, here.)

I also learned a lot about html, and just let me just say that trial and error is way overrated as a pedagogical method. I did, however, come up with some new 10- to 12- letter cuss words, so all-in-all it worked out for the best, knowledge-wise.

While I've got the tools out, I thought I'd tune up the blogroll, too. Many a trial lawyer (myself included) believes that knowing to which magazines a potential juror subscribes is a great way to determine whether you want them on your jury. A blogroll is similarly revealing. Mine consists of those blogs that I keep coming back to, whether for the content, or the attitude, or (usually) both. Your mileage, as always, may vary.

Death: It's not a penalty.....and I can prove it.

2006-05-08T05:41:00.000-04:00

Few issues lead to such apparently inconsistent positions as does the death penalty. Much of the "pro-life" community, for example, is staunchly pro-death in this context. As a criminal defense lawyer, I might be expected to categorically oppose capital punishment; under circumstances where culpability is beyond doubt, however, I have no problem with it at all, but for reasons other than those you might expect.

It's well established that the death penalty is not a deterrent. I would argue that it's not even a penalty. And if it's neither a deterrent nor a penalty, what's the point? Follow my reasoning, here.

First, I approach the question from my own atheistic point of view. Death is nothing more than the permanent termination of consciousness. Once one's consciousness has been terminated, there can be no punishment, no joy, no amusement, no irritation, no nothing. By this reasoning, the death "penalty" is actually an end to the awareness that one is being punished, or, in other words, the premature end of punishment. If Mr. Killer is jailed on Tuesday and executed on Wednesday, he's only been punished for one day, after which his consciousness is humanely and mercifully extinguished. That doesn't strike me as particularly penal. I suspect that most people, when presented with a hypothetical choice between 40 years in a penitentiary and a swift, painless demise, would at least give serious consideration to the "easy way out", with emphasis on the word easy.

But most people do not share my godless take on things, so my argument must address the majority view. In the Christian tradition, there is an afterworld. Those who have accepted Jesus as their Lord and savior are admitted to Heaven, an eternal paradise. Now the various sects of Christianity have various means by which a sinner can be admitted to heaven. Baptism by immersion, confession and absolution, whatever. Even the most evil baby-raping murderer can enjoy Eternal Bliss, if he does what is necessary. If Mr. Killer has complied with the requirements, he attains paradise immediately after riding the spike. Again, not particularly penal.

Let's suppose, however, that our subject's crimes were so gross, so heinous, that even God can't forgive them. And to make matters worse, he's proud of his crimes, and professes an eagerness to commit even more and more egregious offenses. In such a case, Hell looms as the ultimate punishment. The doomed will spend eternity roasting on the coals and being tortured by Satan and his legions of lesser imps and demons.

"Aha!", says the pro-death Christian. "That's the ticket!" Or is it?

Eternity is a long, long time. And if we execute Mr. Killer at age 30, we've only added about 40 years to his torment. Do the math; 40 years is an incalculably, infintesimally small percentage of eternity. It doesn't even equal the percentage of an ocean represented by a single molecule of water! By executing Mr. Killer, we have only increased his damnation by an amount too small to measure.

Life imprisonment, on the other hand, will consume 100% of the damned's Earthly life, during which time he may contemplate the horrible fate which awaits him. Consequently, such a fate imposes decades of temporal punishment on the criminal, followed by eternal punishment on his immortal soul. QED, the death penalty is less penal than life imprisonment.

As life imprisonment is more penal than death, it should be the preferred mode of punishing the worst among us. It has the additional benefits of allowing for correcting for racial bias in capital cases and righting the occasional wrongful conviction. Furthermore, the expense of keeping prisoners fed, clothed and housed for life is a small percentage of our total corrections budget. There is an economy of scale at work here. We could more than make up for it by not imprisoning people for possessing small amounts of marijuana, for example.

Now, you may argue that the death penalty serves other functions, such as providing "closure" to the victims and their families, or quenching our species' unique thirst for revenge. Well, that's fine. But the justice system doesn't exist to provide psychological remedies for the wronged, and in many states (including mine) the "closure" afforded by the death "penalty" is not available anyway, under any circumstances. So, let's drop the pretense that we're punishing anyone by executing them. If we're satisfying our bloodlust, let's just say so. And if we're not willing to say so, then we shouldn't be doing it.

Your thoughts?

Meme Joe Greene

2006-05-07T18:13:00.000-04:00

Blue Wren was tagged with this A to Z, Q&A meme, which struck me as fun, and which I hereby pass along to you. Post it at your blog, answer in the comments, or tell me it's none of my fucking business.

Accent

I spent lots of years in the radio business, so my accent (if you can call it that) is Standard American English. I've lived a lot of places, and I have a tendency to chameleon the local accent and idioms, but basically, I'm pure vanilla. Since returning to the Pittsburgh area, however, I have adopted "yinz" (2nd person singular/plural proper noun), although I never used it as a kid.

Booze

There was a time when I was entertaining clients 5 nights a week, and semi-competitive drinking was usually involved. I quickly learned that Absolut Vodka was the only spirit that didn't make me wake up feeling as if I had been shat out by a constipated rhinocerous. My golden age of alcohol is behind me now, but I enjoy an occasional glass of wine, and an ice cold Iron City Beer on a hot summer day.

Chore I hate

Perversely, I kinda like most chores. Chopping firewood (we heat exclusively with wood) gives me a feeling of authenticity and independence., Plus, it's a great release. On the downside, my rotator cuff was barking by the end of winter. It's a high impact activity, after all. Mowing grass on a lawn tractor makes me feel like Oliver Wendell Douglas. The entire painting/fixing/home improvement axis is fun, and a pleasant diversion. Filing, on the other hand, sucks like a hole in a spacesuit.

Dog or cat?

I usually had a cat around in college, because they were so fun to watch when I was stoned (which was pretty much all the time.....hey, it was the '70s). My previous wives had cats, too. The present Ms. Roxtar breeds show dogs, so I now am tolerated by a menagerie of 3 cats and 7 Labrador Retrievers. Cats are for selfish people. You can tear open a bag of cat food and leave the toilet seat up, and cats will be fine for a week while you go to Baja. Dogs, on the other hand, require more attention than kids. Still, there's nothing like the loving gaze of a devoted dog.

Essential electronics

TV. Gotta have it. Can't sleep without it. And a viable broadband internet connection is almost as basic a utility as electricity and water.

Favorite cologne

I remember all the oldies and goodies from my adolesence; Hai Karate, English Leather, Jovan Musk, British Sterling, Jade Fucking East! Proust appreciated the power of a remembered scent. It seems to me that there would be big bucks in reviving some of these vintage fragrances. I like Aqua Velva, but I can't wear it with a straight face, so I'm pretty much an Old Spice guy.

Gold or silver

I wear a gold wedding ring on my left hand, and a silver ring with Irish glyphs on my right hand. My watch is stainless and gold. I guess it's a tie.

Hometown

Here's the list. Wheeling, WV, Shadyside, OH, Indianapolis, IN, Atlanta, GA, Chapel Hill, NC, Muncie, IN, Denver, CO, Charlottesville, VA, Richmond, VA, Las Vegas, NV, Grand Rapids, MI, Amarillo, TX, Panama City Beach, FL, Orlando, FL, San Diego, CA. And now, I'm back in Wheeling. When I came back, after being away for 30+ years, I checked out the phone book, looking up the names I remembered from my grade school neighborhood. It turns out they were all still there, except one lady who died. Other than her, we were the last ones to move away.

Insomnia

Very rarely. Sometimes, I wake up unusually early, and get distracted by the woodstove or the internet, but it's not that I can't sleep. There's just something else to do.

Job title

Former morning show disc jockey, former record promotion executive, currently Public Defender.

Kids

Step-son and step-daughter, but their wonderful qualities are none of my doing. All credit to their mom. Each has a little girl, both of whom I tell to "question authority" at every opportunity. Since both are less than 2 years old, I don't think it's having much effect, but I'm in it for the long haul.

Living arrangements

We live on a hilltop in rural West Virginia, at the end of a gravel road. Yeah, it's pretty much as idyllic as you would expect. I've also lived in college towns, beach towns, and downtowns, and those were all nice in their own ways, too. I cannot recommend Amarillo, TX. To anyone. Under any circumstances.

Most admirable traits

I work for poor people, although that's not really a trait. Christ, I'm an annoying disc jockey, turned obnoxious record promoter, turned lawyer. If you're looking for admirable traits, may I suggest that you bark up another tree.

Number of sexual partners

I can't guess at the number, other than to say that it's not going to get any bigger.

Overnight hospital stays

Four, I think. Impacted bowel in 6th grade, car crash in high school, broke a collarbone playing softball sometime during the '80s, carotid endartectomy around the turn of the century.

Phobias

None, really. I cop the odd bit of anxiety in crowds, but I don't fear them. I just avoid them.

Quote

"If ye love wealth better than liberty, the tranquillity of servitude than the animating contest of freedom--go from us in peace. We ask not your counsels or arms. Crouch down and lick the hands which feed you. May your chains sit lightly upon you, and may posterity forget that ye were our countrymen!" -- Samuel Adams

"If my answers frighten you, Vincent, then you should cease asking scary questions."
-- Jules in Pulp Fiction

Religion

Atheist. Although that's not so radical when you think of all the gods (Zeus, Venus, Poseidon, Lord Krsna, Ganesha, etc.), and realize that I only believe in one less god than most other people.

Siblings

I have a brother, 16 months younger. We went a long time (15, 20 years)with no contact, not from any feud or animosity, just because I was running around being a hippie while he was being a solid citizen. Nothing in common (or so I thought). He turned out to be a brilliant guy, writer of novels, dreamer of dreams, thinker outside the box, one of my favorite humans. One small example of the way he thinks: Why isn't there a cooling, soothing hemorrhoid spray? Why, indeed? Not everyone enjoys jamming suppositories and ointments up there.

Time I wake up

4:00 a.m., no alarm clock. Best part of the day.

Unusual talent or skill

I've made a hole in one, and I've been a contestant on Jeopardy. Also, when my wife has computer problems, all I have to do is go into her office and stand next to her computer, and the problem seems to resolve itself. It's like voodoo.

Vegetable I love

Potatoes. It's that Irish thing. Really fresh sweet corn, with salt, pepper and butter. A nice homegrown tomato (yeah, I know they're technically fruits, but there is no favorite fruit category).

X-rays

A nice collection of x-rays can be found here.

Yummy foods I make

Cioppino, which is an Italian seafood soup, with clams, mussels, shrimp, fish, tomatoes, peppers. When I lived in warmer climes, I always cooked the holiday turkey on my Weber kettle. I also make fantastic smoked chicken, with home-grown, hand whittled apple and/or cherry wood chips. I'll send you a bag and instructions upon request. (The chips, not the chicken.)

Zodiac sign

Pisces, the fish. And I don't think it's merely coincidence that I'm covered with scales and breathe through gills. That astrology stuff really, really works!

Your turn!

WWJD? He'd kick Chimpy in the balls, that's WJWD.

2006-04-30T08:21:00.000-04:00

The gentleman on the left is Denzel Washington. The woman on the right is an American soldier and an Iraq War veteran. Not pictured is Jesus Christ (a/k/a The Prince of Peace), in whose name the Bush Administration makes its decisions, including the decision to send this young woman to Iraq.

Now, if you are of the Christian persuasion, you may well respond, "Jesus had nothing to do with this!" And that's fine, as long as your particular Christian sect has been vocal and outspoken in its condemnation of your fellow Christians who have so heartily endorsed our Resident and his filthy little war. Alas, such sects seem to be a little thin on the ground.

I suspect the problem is that professing ones love of the bleeding Jesus is the only requirement for acceptance within the communion of Christ. You don't have to really mean it or anything. It's not like a Christian would actually call out any other Christian as a fraud, a hypocrite, a Pharisee, a wolf in sheeps clothing, etc.

Here's what I expect to see from Christians; I expect real followers of Christ to stand up and say, "The president's course of action is an abomination in the eyes of Christ, and support for that course of action is a sacrilege." In other words, I'm talking a full-on schism.

See, if I understand it correctly, Jesus was all about love and peace. But many of the major Christian denominations see nothing wrong with what the United States is doing in Iraq (and threatening to do in Iran). Where are the Catholics, for example? The sanctity of life was deemed to be a fit subject to be preached from every Catholic pulpit the week before the 2004 Presidential election, but only in the context of abortion. Now, here's my problem:

The largest single Christian denomination in this country has no official position on the war! And it's extremely likely that your denomination is equally gutless. If you guys really believe all that stuff, how can there be any argument? How is it that the Christian majority in this country is afraid to even debate, much less express an opinion on the morality of elective war?

If you are a Christian, and you take your faith seriously, it's up to you to point this stuff out. And if you're an honest Christian, you'll recognize that the institution of Christianity is a long damn way from holding the moral high ground on this issue.

Yeah, I know. The Muslims are evil, they started it, yada yada yada. Explain to me where that gives you a free pass from observing the primary tenet of your faith: "Love one another."

I'd love to hear it, but I don't expect to.

An avalanche is made up entirely of snowflakes....

2006-04-28T10:00:00.000-04:00

When circumstances create opportunities (even small ones) we should take advantage of them. Not all of us have the wherewithal to communicate on a grand scale like the Freeway Blogger. But like snowflakes in an avalanche, every reinforcement of the message has a cumulative impact and makes a contribution to the whole. Thus, the advent of the "Gas Pump Blogger."

All you need is a package of Avery Stickers from your local office supply store. The 2' x 4" size should run you less than $15.00 for a package of 250 stickers. Throw in another couple of bucks for a Sharpie. Then take your message to the place where it will have the most impact; the gas pumps at your local filling station.

Your messages may vary, but I encourage you to reinforce the role of our Republican President, Republican Senate and Republican House in allowing oil company greed to trump the public interest.

"$3.00 gas, brought to you by Rick Santorum and the Republican party!"

You get the idea. Please don't cover up the prices on the pumps; we want people to see exactly how badly they're being screwed by Dim Son and his GOP cronies.

It's such a small thing, but it means so much....Share your examples and help spread the word.

Ask me about my IMMIGRANT roots! (UPDATED)

2006-04-11T05:16:00.000-04:00

The immigration issue is far from the biggest problem we face in this country. Our Constitutional democracy is under threat from within. Talk of an impending nuclear strike on a sovereign country is treated as a real possibility, not a tinfoil fantasy. Wages for working people are stagnant at best, while executive income has soared 28%. 45 million Americans have no health insurance, a vital service which is available to all in EVERY OTHER WESTERN INDUSTRIALIZED COUNTRY.

But immigration is at center stage, for a number of reasons. For the left, it's a question of keeping El Sueno Americano alive; for the right, it's a powerful wedge issue which breathes new life into the racist code-language of the GOP. Fear of the "other" is their bread and butter, whether the other is gay, black, brown, or Muslim.

As an old-line, traditional lefty, I've had some difficulty grappling with this issue. An expanded labor pool tends to suppress wages for working people; an unacceptable outcome. Indeed, some Republicans are serving in the unaccustomed role as front-line shock troops in this class-war struggle, threatening working-class Americans with the image of a brown horde, taking their jobs while diluting their racial purity. Other Republicans, recognizing that cheap labor means high profits, are advocating a guest worker program, which will create a semi-permanent, semi-serf pool of powerless workers.

It seems that there is a progressive position that recognizes the fact that immigrant labor is doing much of the work that enables American business (especially small business) to survive. In other words, they're already here, they're already working, and they neither have nor want your job. The way to protect working people (native-born, naturalized and undocumented) is to protect working people!

We protect existing jobs by eliminating the incentive to hire cheap replacement labor. We eliminate that incentive by making sure that every worker has the same rights. If undocumented workers have the same protections as all other workers, they will not have to accept slave wages, and will, therefore, be less attractive as replacements for native born and naturalized labor. By the same token, they will be employable based on their skills, their diligence, their dependability, their work ethic, etc. Just like anyone else. The playing field will be, at long last, level.

JFK said, "A rising tide lifts all boats." My Irish immigrant forebears benefitted from the gains made by the organized labor movement, without regard to whether they were documented or not. It's likely that your family tree was similarly lifted up. If this is true, how can we, in good conscience, pull up the ladder that our tempest-toss'd parents and grandparents used to elevate their status and, by extension, our own?

I'm a Griffith, I'm a McGrath, I'm a Ryan, I'm a Hart...I'm an IMMIGRANT! Wanna make something of it?

UPDATE: Immigrants rights groups have called for a general strike of immigrant workers on May 1, 2006. Since we're all immigrants (either your family crossed the border, or the border crossed your family), we should all make arrangements to be absent from work or school on that date. For the first time in a long time, the government has been forced to take notice of an actual, grass-roots, people-powered initiative. As noted above, immigrant rights are workers rights. Preserve the momentum and support all working people by participating in "Una Dia Sin Immigrantes" on May 1.

Family values voter

2006-03-26T07:10:00.000-05:00

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!

2006-03-24T13:29:00.000-05:00

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

2006-03-20T21:20:00.000-05:00

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

2006-03-17T18:12:00.000-05:00

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......

2006-03-15T05:40:00.000-05:00

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

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

2006-03-11T21:43:00.000-05:00

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...

2006-03-07T06:27:00.000-05:00

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.

2006-03-03T16:33:00.000-05:00

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

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

2006-03-03T15:11:00.000-05:00

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....

In girum imus nocte et consumimur igni.

2006-02-25T19:52:00.000-05:00

Into the circle we go by night, and are consumed by the flame......

Ah, Barney...we hardly knew ye.

2006-02-25T18:16:00.000-05:00

Crime-fighter, ladies' man, astronaut, West Virginian. Beloved comic actor Don Knotts took the final curtain Friday night, succumbing to pulmonary and respiratory complications at Cedars-Sinai Medical Center in Beverly Hills, California. Knotts was best known for his portayal of the befuddled Deputy Barney Fife in the iconic "Andy Griffith Show" of the 1960's.

His character of Barney Fife was, perhaps, the most fully realized character in situation comedy. A bumbling, bungling incompetent with delusions of grandeur, we had not seen his like until the selection of George W. Bush as Resident of the United States in 2000. Unlike Bush, however, Fife was surrounded by a competent, caring, compassionate cadre who prevented his incapacity from resulting in dire consequences, such as arresting an FBI agent, insulting Aunt Bea, embarassing the local choir, or embarking on an elective invasion and occupation in the Middle East and becoming bogged down in the quagmire of religious civil war.

Knotts was 81.

Mother of God! Is this the end of Chimpy?

2006-02-22T04:32:00.000-05:00

"Mother of God! Is this the end of Rico?"

In this final line from the 1930 film noir classic "Little Caesar", gangster Rico Bandello saw his criminal empire, and his very life, crumble to dust. It's a cautionary tale, as foreshadowed by the opening title card: "..for all they that take the sword shall perish with the sword. Matthew: 26-52"

Rico had riches, power, fame, armed gangs to do his bidding, a coterie of loyal lackeys eager to curry the boss' favor.....does this sound like a certain beady-eyed dry-drunk fucktard of a 21st Century American president?

Of course it does. And like Rico Bandello, our own Sunny Jim stands like a Colossus astride his empire, his feet firmly anchored on the twin pediments of Hubris and Arrogance.

I've known some arrogant, cynical dudes in my day. There was a certain record company VP who could put out his cigar on your eyeball, and then tell you that you look really great with an eyepatch. "Gawdamn, you're sexy like a pirate, son." And your remaining eye would well up with tears of gratitude, so important was the great man's approval.

This sort of sick relationship, frequently and aptly compared to the bond between an abuser and his victim, has typified the relationship between George W. Bush and the Republican Party. Gross incompetence, massive corruption, high crimes and misdemeanors thick on the ground, none of these can take the sparkle from King Chimpy's crown. In the eyes of his admirers, he is a brilliant man who can do no wrong. In short, he's gotten away with so much, for so long, he now thinks he can get away with anything, forever. But as my grandpap used to say, "There is some shit that just won't flush."

In Chimpy's case, the giant floating turd in the punchbowl is his scheme to contract management of major US ports to a company owned by the government of the United Arab Emirates. Under Chimpy's plan, Dubai Ports World would operate seaports in New York and New Jersey; Philadelphia, Pennsylvania; Baltimore, Maryland; Miami, Florida; and New Orleans, Louisiana.

The overwhelming stench rising from this hideous decision has caused retching and gagging even among those whose noses are most firmly planted in the Presidential rectum. Senate Majority Leader Bill Frist (R-TN) and House Speaker Dennis Hastert (R-IL) are among numerous Republicans who have pulled their heads from the Royal Bunghole with a wet, audible *POP*.

No matter to Tipsy McStagger. He's threatened to veto (his first) any legislative effort to cancel the deal. The UAE were a shipping point for illicit nuclear materials to the Middle East. No problem. The UAE was one of only three countries to recognize the Taliban as the legitimate government of Afghanistan. So what?

Here we see the Resident in his true colors; those of a petulant, spoiled child. And here we see an opportunity to break through the cocoon that has enveloped his supporters for lo, these many years.

Every Democratic legislator and candidate must say these words: "The President is making a terrible mistake." Further, they must publicly and vocally challenge their Republican opponents to say the exact same words, on camera and for the record. One of two things will happen. The Thug may agree that, yes, the President is making a terrible mistake. That's fine. The sheeple need to hear that from their trusted Republican representatives. On the other hand, the Gooper may refuse to criticize the Preznit. That's fine, too. Go ahead, let them align themselves with the biggest public relations and homeland security blunder since.....well, since 9/11 itself.

A little bit of party discipline, that's all it takes. If the Dems can avoid pissing their pants with fear of alienating a weak and stupid Republican president, this issue can mean taking the House in November. Now I'm waiting for someone to convince me that our national Democratic leadership won't go all Lieberman on us.

The President of the United States can kiss my ass.

2006-02-09T05:36:00.000-05:00

This message has been brought to you by the First Amendment to the United States Constitution, protecting freedom of expression since 1791.

I'm getting me a little mancrush on Russ Feingold

2006-02-07T17:56:00.000-05:00

Until recently, my presidential troth had been plighted to General Wesley Clark. As far as electability is concerned, he's everything a Democrat could hope for. Bright, affable, All-American, Southerner, no voting record to be used against him, unassailable on issues of defense and security, and best of all, his name doesnt rhyme with Gillary Blinton.

But the recent NSA hearings and the questioning of Attorney General Abu Gonzalez have caused my eye to wander. Feingold summed up the only defensible position for a progressive ~~Democrat~~ American to take, pointing out that Tipsy McStagger is "a president, not a King," and that his program of gathering covert intelligence on American citizens without warrants is illegal. Feingold was the only Senator with enough nads to vote against the Patriot Act, has called for a schedule for withdrawal from Iraq, and has been in the forefront of efforts to protect all Americans by being a vocal defender of the Fourth Amendment (one of my own top five amendments).

Russ has some downside, both within the party and without. He was the only Democratic Senator to vote against a motion to dismiss impeachment proceedings against Bill Clinton, although he subsequently voted against conviction on all charges. As a member of the Judiciary Committee, he voted for Supreme Court Chief Justice nominee (and former Harvard law classmate) John Roberts, as well as Attorney General nominee John Ashcroft. These positions, while not popular with Democratic activists, give him some cover against the inevitable GOP efforts to position him as a wild-eyed, bomb-throwing liberal. He is in the process of getting his second divorce, which is bound to give the defense of marriage crowd a big ol' woody.

I'm still all about Wes Clark. I want to win in '08, and I think Clark is the goods. But I think Russ Feingold would make a spectacular addition to the ticket. He's got the intellect, the personality and the tools to step into the top job if necessary.

Time Begins on Super Bowl Sunday (with apologies to Thomas Boswell)

2006-02-05T13:08:00.000-05:00

There was a time when baseball was The National Pastime. So firmly ensconced was baseball that it inspired romantic poetry and popular song. The vocabulary of baseball insinuated itself into business ("ballpark estimate"), law ("Three Strikes and You're Out" legislation), and even the sweet and tender act of conjugal love ("I got to third base").

Baseball had its moment in the spotlight, its day in the sun. Franklin Roosevelt took pains to make sure that baseball continued through WWII, such was its importance to morale on the home front.

Sure, there were dark spots. The Black Sox scandal. Segregation. George Will. But for the most part, baseball was part of the triumvirate of American Values, right alongside Motherhood and Apple Pie.

'Twas beauty killed the beast, and just as surely, 'twas television killed baseball. Left its bloated corpse to fester on AM radio, it's timeless rhythms syncopated by the off-beat of distant static.

Football was made for television, even before television was invented. The shape of the field, the exaggerated size of the padded and helmeted participants, the antediluvian themes of conquest and territoriality. (George Carlin has covered this ground far more elequently than I can pretend to do.)

But baseball has never spawned a holiday, and an industry devoted to servicing that holiday. If you were to rank our holidays in order of importance, you'd probably have to put Xmas at the top of the list. (Take that, O'Reilly!) Thanksgiving next, I suppose. And then you have to start thinking about Super Bowl Sunday. It's right there in Fourth of July territory. Maybe tied for third place. Certainly ahead of Memorial Day and Labor Day, despite their enviable positions at the beginning and the end of salubrious summertime. Halloween might be a contender, but nobody ever re-named their town after a trick-or-treat costume.

Nope, it's all about Super Bowl Sunday. Why, I know of a guy whose dog produced black and gold puppies just for the occasion:

And positioned as it is in the depths of Winter, the Super Bowl serves as a harbringer of Spring. You can almost see it from here. Just a couple of weeks until the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show and the Daytona 500. Then, just a week or so until March....magical March, when sunny, 70 degree weather is a real possibility on any given day. March Madness! That carries you through to April and the venerable Masters. Even if the weather isn't cooperating in your neck of the woods, the emerald green of Augusta, splattered with azaleas in bloom is like money in the bank. You can write a check on the Masters, confident that Spring will arrive in time to cover it.

And it all is set into motion by the Super Bowl. Which the Steelers will win by a score of 24-17.

A Pathetic Pack of Pusbags

2006-02-04T17:42:00.000-05:00

Sgt. Matthew Hunter, 31, of Valley Grove, WV, was killed by an IED last month in Iraq. Unfortunately, the inbred Christopathic clusterfuck known as the Westboro Baptist Church decided to put in an appearance.

Here's their press release:

This part of the country, for whatever its faults, can boast some folks whose sense of right and wrong is mighty keen. About a hundred such folks gathered at the West Alexander, PA, Presbyterian Church under threatening skies to confront evil with grace and dignity.

Evil? Isn't that a little much? You tell me:

The half-dozen anti-troops protesters were met by 15 times as many counter-protesters, brought together in large part in response to the efforts of a group including daily Kossack mph2005, whose diaries here and here document the lead-up and the event.

The hundred or so counter-demonstrators formed a barrier between the Westboro wackos and the church in which Sgt. Hunter's funeral was to be held. With dozens of American flags waving in the chill morning wind, they confronted the crazies in the most effective manner imaginable; they turned their backs and ignored them:

A line of Pennsylvania State Troopers and Donegal Township police separated the two groups. The counter protesters included liberals, conservatives, bikers, veterans groups and uniformed, off-duty police officers from outside the jurisdiction. Occasionally, the group would spontaneously break into song, singing "God Bless America" and "Amazing Grace." At one point, the vastly outnumbered Westboro contingent appeared ready to perform one of their favorite bits of street theatre; they put away their lurid signs ("Your pastor is a whore!" "God hates America!") and took out several large American flags. They seem to enjoy wiping their feet on the flag as they mock the mourners. As they distributed the flags among themselves, the apparent leader of the group took a look around at the bikers and the vets and the cops, gathered the up the flags, packed up their shit, and split. They left in a two car convoy of hate, bracketed front and rear by a Pennsylvania State Police escort. The funeral and burial went forward in dignity, without further outrage

Kudos to mph2005 and all who participated.

There's a lot to be said about how religion is twisted and distorted toward evil ends, and there's a lot to be said about how we, as a culture, deal with death. Some other time.....

And away we go.........

2006-02-02T19:30:00.000-05:00

My "black sky" theory evolved from the run-up to the Iraq War and the 2004 presidential elections. From the lies about Saddam's WMDs, to the waste and mismanagement of the so-called Iraq reconstruction, to the hundreds of tons of missing explosives taken from the al-QaQaa explosives depot, to the wholesale disenfranchisement of African-American voters which I witnessed first-hand as an Election Protection volunteer in Columbus, Ohio, to the Jeff Gannon debacle, to freakin' Katrina, to Abramoff, to Alito to Tinker to Evans to Chance......

So many targets they blacken the sky. The media, complicit in its intentional ignorance. The political system, awash in K Street cash, pandering to the Christopithecus element.

Basta! Enough!

There's more to life than politics. It's all about the balance. Time spent agonizing over a pre-primary poll in UT-2 or ID-3 is time pissed away, time that could have been spent in any one of a million better ways.

So I'm taking that time, and I'm finding treasure. Pure fucking gold.

At Christmas, I built my wife a mantle for our hearth. I spent that time measuring, and calculating the angle of the bevel cuts, and sanding and staining. My mind was fully engaged in my task. That beady-eyed little pimp of a President never intruded upon my consciousness. It was bliss.

Trout season is coming up. I got the new Cabela's catalog today. There's a nice fire in the woodstove. Our Wren has a month-old litter of eight Labrador Retriever puppies chattering away in the whelping box. There's a Cary Grant movie on the tube. (Father Goose, if you must know.) The Steelers are in the Super Bowl this Sunday.

Not bad. Not too fucking bad at all......