Broken Spirit and Splintered Dream

 
Broken Spirit and Splintered Dream
sucked air through sagging skin.
They rattled around between cold bones
searching for a spot to call their home.

 
"Over here," Spirit cried out.
"This might start a good nest."
He plucked a sturdy silver hair,
Dream grabbed another, to make a pair.

 
"How dare that heart cast us out?"
Dream grabbed another hair.
"Worn out doesn't mean obsolete,
just makes us a little harder to see."

 
"Oh, pay him no mind," Spirit replied.
"What does that old fool know?
He thumps his chest, then takes a rest
snuggled behind a nice warm breast."

 
Dream nodded and braided the hair,
worked up quite a frisk.
She batted her eyes, bit her lip,
suggested they take an unplanned trip.

 
"If we join forces one more time
we'll lick that old ticker.
Penis is only a few feet south,
I'll bet we can entice him out."

 
Spirit forgot his broken state
and turned a somersault.
He said, "That won't be my only trick,
if you can wake up that lazy prick."

 
Dream threw on her favorite costume,
spruced up to fantasy.
Spirit consulted backbone,
in case he couldn't do it alone.

 
Together, they tracked Adreneline
oiled the rusty joints,
Spirit drove life into the muscles,
and Dream outlined new goals

 
Proud of all they'd accomplished,
the pair sat down to rest.
He took her hand and squeezed it tight.
She said, "I think that's enough for tonight"

 
Sandy Knauer

 

 





 

Please, Stop the Stupid (Cable/Fox Chapter) Edited to include FOX lies

Years ago, one of the cable providers drove me crazy with daily (sometimes more than one a day) solicitation calls. No matter how many times I told them I wasn't interested in switching, they kept on calling. When I complained to the company, they were reluctant to confirm what I knew – that they had no idea how many people were calling, how often they called, or what those people were saying when they called because they had offered 'fake jobs' to people who would not be employees but would get a commission for the accounts they brought in. The callers used robo dialers, (which will be a stop the stupid chapter on its own soon) that apparently didn't know that a dozen other callers had already left messages and the company could sidestep responsibility since the annoying callers were not their employees. 

Since I have way too much time to spare, and enjoy (tremendously) annoying telephone solicitors and door-to-door religion pushers (stop the stupid chapter coming soon) as much as they annoy me, I decided to play. I answered their calls, acted super excited when they told me how many hundreds of channels I could get, and asked them to list the channels. Most of them listed a few of the most popular, hoping that would please me. I interrupted, frequently, to voice my opinions and ask questions. How often do they replay the movies? I am forever falling asleep twenty minutes before the end of a movie, so can they promise I will be able to catch them again soon to see how the story ended? Are they all in color because I don't like black and white movies, except for Bette Davis movies? Does their package include Bette Davis movies? I'm not a sports fan but might be interested in ESPN if it runs movies about athletes, like Bryans' Song. How long would it take the caller to run and ask someone who did know the answer to that question and why wouldn't he just put me on hold and check it out?

When I wasn't satisfied with the few most popular channels, most huffed and told me I was crazy if I thought they would read the entire list to me. I asked, "How will you react if the next time you go the grocery, an employee meets you at the door with a fully loaded cart and says you have to pay for chicken liver, rutabaga, white shoe polish, brown bananas, and potatoes with three-inch eyes if you want the milk and eggs? One guy told me that was crazy and I agree, saying that's what he was trying to do to me and I'm not crazy enough to fall for it. 

Another told me I didn't have to watch channels I didn't like. "Like you wouldn't have to eat the groceries you didn't like?" I asked. He hung up on me. 

One very patient caller read the entire list to me. I felt mean when I told him it sounded great – if he would just remove FOX, the religious channels, sports channels, and cartoon channels - and adjust the bill to reflect that I was only getting a small portion of what they offered. That wasn't possible and he couldn't believe I was not going to sign up after he read that whole list to me.

Anybody else old enough to remember when we first got cable? The selling point was that we could pay for television and not have to watch commercials. How did we get from that to not being able to watch television at all if we don't pay for it, and having thirty and sixty minute infomercials on some channels? 

Why did we allow this to happen?

Tonight, I ran across a link to this on Facebook. Sadly, many misunderstood the reason DISH dropped FOX and gave them credit they didn't deserve. If they had made a conscious decision to stop airing the station that consistently pumps out misinformation and promotes racism and ignorance, I would have seriously considered switching. As you can see by Comcast's responses to letters they received asking could they, too, drop FOX, they aren't in the business (pun intended) of making socially conscious decisions to stop airing the station that consistently pumps out misinformation and promotes racism and ignorance, either. 

I agree that a letter-writing, and phone-calling, and tweet-bombing, and every other way we can hold-their-feet-to-the-fire campaign is in order. It will take everyone doing it, and everyone doing it as individuals, not copying and pasting the same letter or reading a script into the phone. Maybe, if enough people get involved? Think it's possible?

Who's in? I'm seriously tired of paying for white shoe polish I'll never use and chicken liver I won't eat. 

Fox Has Absolutely NO Journalistic Ethics, And Here’s A LONG List Of Their Lies (VIDEOS)

Stop the Stupid Lawn Chapter 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Please, Stop the Stupid (Lawn Chapter)

When I moved into this apartment complex, the managing company told me that no one is allowed to drive on the lawn. Ever. For any reason. That meant we would have to park the moving van in the parking lot and carry everything (including the heavy furniture) the ninety-four-long-strides from the parking lot to my door. Seemed a bit cruel but those were the rules and I agreed to follow them. 

Example of daily maintenance cart rut

Soon, the Monday after the weekend move, I learned that those

Rodent hole fix

rules didn't really apply to everyone. The maintenance crew drive golf carts all over the lawn. Daily. Way more than necessary, actually, since, even though they have work orders, they never come prepared for the job. They drive up to the door, come in to assess the situation as though resident reports are not reliable, and then have to return to the cart--and usually the garage--for tools and parts. They actually drive every inch of the ground, almost daily, to pick up trash and fill in holes the rodents leave. 

It almost made sense to me for them to drive those carts on the grass. It might still seem to make sense, except for the insistence that no one would ever be allowed to drive on the grass for any reason because they don't want ruts in the grassy areas. In my mind, ruts are ruts are ruts. And these are some rather obvious, substantial but acceptable ruts, since they were not caused by residents.

The painter (who had hit the ceilings in every one of my rooms with the wall-color roller) came to touch up. (Totally going off track to say that when he touched up, he hit the wall color with the ceiling brush, and used white paint which made it obvious that I was correct when I insisted that no one had painted the ceilings and management swore I was wrong. After he finished attempting to fix the mess, I had three paint colors instead of two.) He pulled his van right up to the door because – I suppose – it is much harder for a young, healthy, guy to carry a ladder, a brush, and a bucket of paint ninety-four-long-strides than it is for an old lady to carry every single freaking thing she owns the same distance. Or, maybe his van wouldn't leave the same ruts as my moving van would since he wasn't carrying much.

The floor guy-- who did not come to refinish my floors as promised before I moved in--came to finish the hardwood in the apartment above me. He carried even less than the painter--one electric sander--and drove right up to the door. I guess his toddlers—who, like every child who sees wide open space, ran, jumped, and screamed, louder and louder when they discovered the echo--were his free pass. Since he had no control over his children, he surely couldn't be expected to corral them and carry his sander ninety-four-long-strides in an area where no one is allowed to drive – ever. 

For years, I've watched carpet cleaners, exterminators, utility workers, even a house-call dry-cleaning service drive on the lawn. Far as I know, the only people who absolutely followed the no driving on the grass rule were me, and the ambulance drivers who came to get me when I had the brain hemorrhage. Fortunately, I was conscious and mobile when they took me out because this building isn't designed for stretchers. Once I made it out the front door, they wheeled me on a stretcher the ninety-four-long-strides to the parking lot, carefully staying on the sidewalk and leaving no ruts behind. 

I won't try to pretend that I'm a big enough person to not be annoyed the first day I looked out my front window and saw this. I'm not that person at all, obviously. I grabbed my camera and snapped this photo through blinds and dirty windows because I wasn't ready to let the world know how petty I was. 

At that point, I snickered, texted the picture to a daughter or two with a snide remark about the beloved grass – and maybe management having heart attacks or something. I'm past petty now - shameless and ready to scream this story from rooftops. 

My ability to snicker left town when the workers started dropping equipment in the parking lot where we are already a few spaces short of what we need. Seriously? Their heavy equipment and trucks can be on the grass, and they've dug trenches, but the pipes that are going into those trenches need to sit in parking spaces instead of on grass? Republicans have to be in charge of this decision. There's simply no other plausible explanation for this level of stupidity. 

I planned to make the best of the situation. I always do most of my running during daytime hours, so I would just be more conscious about making it home before the 9-5ers, so I'd have a parking space. 

The second notable slip in my patience came the day I saw the orthopedic doctor. Last time, I had been in excruciating pain for six months, I used ice, heat, TENS, and weeks of physical therapy to no avail. I finally found this doctor and after one cortisone injection I was pain free. I was excited about returning to have the other side done and looked forward to coming home and breezing through chores I had put off because of the pain. 

The good news is that I got home in time to have a parking space. The bad news is that soon after I got inside, an attack of dizziness, sweating, and nausea made me fear I might be having a reaction. And, I was still in pain, actually worse pain than before the injection. I got an ice pack, sat in the recliner with my feet up and head back, and hoped this would pass quickly. As soon as I had settled in and almost found a little relief, a maintenance man knocked at the door to ask if I could please move my car so trench-diggers and heavy-equipment operators could drive onto the grass. I wanted desperately to hand him my keys and ask him to do it himself but grumbled something not too terribly hateful, put my shoes and coat on, grabbed my keys, and walked ninety-four-long-painful-strides to my car. 

As I was unlocking my car door, nowhere near the space that the work crew had marked off with cones to claim as their personal drive-way, even during the twenty hours a day and weekends that they are not on site, the maintenance man waved me down to apologize. He thought I owned the car at the end of the row. Never mind. He didn't need me to move my car after all.

I couldn't waste a bad emotion. Seriously, I'm not that big a person. I stopped him before he could escape to find the correct owner of the car that needed to move and asked where management thought we were supposed to park, and why they didn't ask the workers to put their supplies in the grassy area where we don't need to park or walk – just a few feet beyond where it was sitting. He said they have no control over where those people put their equipment and supplies and, I guess, didn't think it was appropriate to even ask them to move the cones that they leave behind. Since they have no control over the work crew but they do have the ability to waive rules for residents, I demonstrated my resistance to stupidity by asking if it would be okay for residents to park on the grass when the lot filled up. 

Absolutely not. No parking on the grass. Ever. 

Silly me.

IF I were that bigger person that I've already admitted I'm not, I might have decided to never leave home again. That way, I could avoid being in the terrible position of having to choose between searching the neighborhood for a parking space and breaking the rule. But I'm really not that person. Not anymore. My patience and bigger-person-ness decrease in direct proportion to the expansion of the stupidity epidemic, meaning they are as close to none existence as they can possibly get. When invited to have dinner and paint Christmas ornaments with my daughters and their families, I said screw the grass and accepted, and I stayed out until after 9 p.m. 

When I got home, the closest available parking space was three blocks away. My shoulder still hurt because that injection did not work. My hip was slightly dislocated, screaming with pain, and weak, because that's what it does when I drive ten miles. My knees hurt, it was cold, I had things to carry, and I was tired – and annoyed. I drove around the complex once more, to make sure I didn't miss a closer space. When I found nothing, I pulled my car onto a grassy area between a sidewalk and the road. A space that was already rutted by maintenance carts. A space that people walk on constantly, that dogs poop on, that squirrels and groundhogs and rabbits and hawks romp on. I used the same ramp that maintenance uses to pull their carts onto the lawn, and parked, not blocking the road or the sidewalk. I went inside, texted the kids to have bail money ready because I wasn't sure what might happen if they towed my car before morning.

I set an alarm to get up and walk one-hundred-four-long-painful-stiff-morning-strides and move my car off the grassy area as soon as others left for work and vacated space for me in the lot. When I got out there, the maintenance man caught me and told me I knew I wasn't allowed to park on the grass. I explained that I had come in late, the closest available space was three blocks away, I didn't feel well . . . Didn't matter. He was trying to protect me because if I left ruts on the lawn, the property owners (whose names I am not allowed to know) would charge me to repair them. 

That's when I lost what little was left of my patience. I reminded him that he leaves ruts in the grass

every day, that there were TRENCHES in the brown, winter grass, that huge, HUGE trucks were driving all over the property. He had a hard time hearing me because those huge trucks were loud. I promise that is the only reason I had to scream. And the tears – only because it was so freaking cold and windy. 

I got a designated handicapped parking space within the hour, something I hadn't requested before because it seemed pointless when I had to walk ninety-four-long-strides from my car to my door. Sadly – maybe, jury's still out on the exact emotion – the other change in me is that, for the first time ever, I didn't say what came naturally. That fixes my problem but what about my neighbors?


 

I Want Barack Obama for My Spades Partner

Years ago, I wrote a Spades analogy to defend a decision President Obama made, illustrating how he was bound by house rules. Unfortunately, whether he liked or approved of the house rules, when playing at their table he had two choices: he could give them the game, or he could beat them at their own game and change the rules when he was host.

After watching fair-weather friends say ridiculously incorrect and very damaging things about President Obama and the people who supported him yesterday, late last night a Spades game provided another perfect analogy to represent the critics again.

In case anyone is in doubt, I'm as hard, if not harder, on terrible Spades partners as I am on political opponents. I own my competitiveness and lack of patience for ignorance and cheating as a huge part of who I am. My grandchildren probably learned every cuss word they know from listening to me play Spades with strangers on the internet. Their aunt will tell you she lost sleep over my late night Spades addiction.

Still, I keep on playing, often asking myself why. A few nights ago, a stranger on the internet reminded me why. He said he had honestly experienced an aha! moment and learned from watching me play. It was almost as gratifying as the time a friend changed his voter registration from Republican to Democrat after my response to his making fun of our candidates--who he said were nothing alike--was to explain to him how much I appreciated the wide range of great candidates I had to choose from while he only had a large group of ignorant clones on his ballot. There are some people willing to think and try, and I continue to seek them out.

Last night, I was in a game from hell with the perfect example of the stupid partner who makes me have to play three against one and growl every cuss word I know. (And be a bad influence on grandchildren, and keep daughters awake at night.)

The score was close enough that either side could have ended the game with a six bid. Our opponents 

had nine bags and we had two. I'm quite sure a third-grader could have looked at the score and determined that in order to win, we either had to bid and take seven, or give the other team an extra trick. Or, hope that we had eight or better and they had nothing. But not everyone is willing to look at the score and consider options and all possible outcomes or strategies. Not in Spades or politics. 

The player to my right was first bid and he chose nil. I might possibly have been able to take two but a one bid left room to bag the opponents. I chose one since I didn't know who was loaded, my partner or the nil's partner.

The opponent to my left bid two, also. My partner, last bidder, went four. Our total bid was not enough to win the game and there were six bags out. SIX. Should have been easy to either set the nil or bag his partner – or both. They would go back one hundred and eighty points if we did both, and we would only need one trick the next hand to win the game. Great position to be in.

First-bid, nil guy, led with a nine of clubs. I played an eight. The opponent to my left, who should have been covering the nil, played a three. And my partner took it with an ace. Damn. What rotten luck that he didn't have anything lower than a nine.

But he did. He led the two after taking that trick with an ace. The nil played his ace of hearts on that two of clubs, his partner took it with a king, and led a two of hearts. My partner took that one with a king of hearts and the nil played a ten. My partner proceeded to cover the nil and take the bags. When I asked him why he did that, he said he had to get his bid.

This happens often, with people who could really be five years old using adult faces for their profile pictures. Sadly, I doubt any of them are children. They are idiots who can't be bothered with thinking.

Just like the people who refuse to think about why the Democrats had to take the CRomnibus deal. Their short-sightedness will be accompanied by in-the-moment forgetfulness next campaign season when they don't remember that the comments they are making today set the stage for another round of 'both parties suck' and 'nobody cares so why vote' defeat.

Looking for a good Spades partner.

 

Hallmark It Ain’t

 
Bruiser was a unique creature, born with half a mind,
the son of Sheila the skunk and Paul the porcupine.
With stinky dispositions and shortsighted hearts of their own,
they expected he'd learn no different and prepared him for the blows

 
"If ever someone's down," they said, "Roll in for the prick."
They filled his trifling head with hatred and rhetoric.
"You can't ever trust anyone, so turn your misery into fun,
make believe it's clever to leave your stink on everyone.

 
Bruiser met Amy Butterfly beneath a park bench.
She fluttered hopelessly in the dust. He reveled in her pinch.
"Help me, please," she cried. "I think I broke a wing,
Hauling worms for birds all day. They've had a dreadful spring."

 
Bruiser stamped a foot, flipped his tail, and sprayed with all his worth.
"You're asking me, you crazy bug? I was privileged by birth."
Strutting a wide circle, he mocked her while she cried.
"Should've made wiser choices, let those squawking birds die."

 
"You ain't mine to keep," he said, lining up for the kill.
"Plan ahead next time." With that he poked her with a quill.
Amy caught her breath and rolled slowly to the side.
Finally, she gasped, and cried. "One thing I will not choose is to be like you.

Next . . . (More on Bush Adm. War Crimes)

 
 

 
Moving right along. Fallujah is down. Potential terrorists litter the streets in neat piles and the real fighters fled to other areas. We have successfully blocked the Iraqi Red Crescent's convoy of relief and guaranteed the survivors will not recover their missing limbs and grow into able suicide bombers. Mission accomplished.

 
Currently, dogs and cats assist in the clean up, dining on the bodies our liberated friends didn't have the decency to cross the blockades and bury. Halliburton will arrive soon to begin a one hundred eighty million dollar repair project, and we will install a new government, complete with a mayor, police chief, and thousands of police. Did I mention we may have shot down Satan in this raid and the real bonus is that nobody is paying attention to the election fraud in the United States?

 
Here at home, we are reminded there "haven't been many" civilian deaths in Iraq (latest estimate between fourteen and sixteen thousand) so we can move on to the war on Arlen Spector. Yes, another new war for the war president. A hostile group gathered to call Senator Spector a child killer and demand that the war president only endorse the killing of live babies in foreign lands, and prenatal killings if the mother is killed along with them in the name of liberation. Rabbi Vehuda Levin warned the war president he would not tolerate double standards; the people who gave him the mandate demand he uphold their particular version of killing values.

 
A tired activist demanded a litmus test in return for the six weeks he generously donated to the war president's campaign, and threatened the wrath of fifty thousands Catholics and millions of evangels who were on his side. Christian soldiers march on. Joseph Starrs claimed he spoke for the majority of the American people when he said Spector can't be trusted to kill only already born babies, but I suspect he failed to poll the majority.

 
No circus like this would be complete without an angry Jane LaRue, and a confused Mary Ann Kreitzer, to fuel emotion. No, they didn't suggest the group break to look at the latest flood of pictures of wounded Iraqi children. They would much rather refer to pictures of fetuses, which miraculously come with toe rings and tattoos at the six week stage. They repeated the same propaganda that has been debunked repeatedly. The war on truth rages on, even as we fight the wars on Afghanistan, Iraq, and Arlen Spector.

 
Don't forget, Rabbi Levin will not tolerate double standards.

 
While this group inks the final details on the roadmap to their litmus test, across the world we move on to secure Mosul. Security is so comforting in this troubled world.

 
Sandy Knauer, author of six published novels, bringing politics and social issues to fiction, and heart to political and social issue articles.

Morality and Liberals

 

First, hold on to your seats. I'm ready to admit that I believe the Bush team has succeeded at one thing. Not only that, it is an overwhelming success that has been tested and proven. They dumbed their base down to total cult mentality, and tested it by putting the dumbest of the pack in charge and watching the others praise him. Their dumbing down was genius. This truly is not morality, at least by my standards.

 
 

When the liberals made great strides toward ending the racial divide, the other side quickly enacted a socio-economic divide. When that stopped working in their favor, they organized a cult and turned it into a religious divide. Notice how they bloat their empty people with scripts that assume superiority (mention welfare and immediately they spout something about blacks and Hispanics, offer to help someone and they spew misinformation about their hard-earned tax pennies going to welfare moms), designed to put others in their place? That place where they tell their blind followers that liberals want to keep people in need?

 
 

Call them on their hypocrisy and they puke up a bible quote that supports bigotry and hatred. That is NOT morality.

 
 

The ironic, least sensitive but perhaps most creative, move on their part was including the 'dumbing down' portion of the script. Their obedient Christian soldiers chant the evils of dumbing down at the "intellectual elite," without realizing they've been duped. That is not morality.

 
 

Calling things as they are is not hatred, in my opinion. Calling a liar a liar, a killer a killer, a cheat a cheat, is moral, if your silence allows the liars, killers, and cheats to continue abusing others. Morality has nothing to do with political parties, religious organizations, or Christianity. It is what a person lives, regardless of those affiliations.

Sandy Knauer

Let Me Cry

 

 
 

Reality erases expectations

leaving a trail of broken truths

tears threaten internal drowning

if I don't release them soon

 
 

Doubt displaces security

uprooting years of peace

fear promises suffocation

unless I start to breathe

 
 

Frustration ousts comfort

tramples core beliefs

exhaustion finds my heart

bruises it with a squeeze

 
 

A single realization

tears my world apart

let me scream, cry, and grieve

embrace a new version of me

 
 

Sandy Knauer, 2005

 

 
 
 

I Can’t – 2005 Ode to Bush/Cheney Administration

I Can't 

 
 

I feel your pain

Cry your tears

Walk in your rain

But I can't release you

 
 

I pay your debt

Carry your guilt

Bury your dead

But I can't save you

 
 

I hear your prayers

Read your excuses

Watch your tracks

Live your lies

Slip in your blood

Watch my back

 
 

I can't forgive you

I wonder who will

 
 

Sandy Knauer 2005

 
 

Get Out

Get Out (previously posted on Gather)

 
I won't suggest that anyone who doesn't share my religion or political beliefs get out of my country. First of all, no other country deserves our broken citizens. More importantly, I haven't reached the point of delusion necessary to believe I am the boss of the country, nor do I don't subscribe to the Christian value system that promotes such hypocritical ranting.

Instead of asking them to leave, I'd like to make a proposal. If they agree to live by what they wish on others, I'll leave when they say the plan is working well enough for them that they want to keep it forever.
 
I wish them twelve-hour lines at the polls next election, and four-hour lines at their banks.

I wish them bank statements that are as accurate as the voting machines in Ohio and Florida.
 
I wish them a spouse with Tom Delay's integrity, Mitch McConnell's warmth, and Dick Cheney's sex appeal.

I wish them a false arrest, an attorney with George Bush's respect for the law, and a judge with Donald Rumsfeld's idea of fairness.
 
I wish them children who respect them as much as George Bush respects the truth.
 
I wish them the same drinking water the people in Iraq and Afghanistan are drinking today.
 
I wish them an angry, jobless, hungry, desperate next-door neighbor with an assault riffle and a George Bush attitude.
 
I wish them no health care plan, surgery with no anesthesia, and a shortage of despicable trial lawyers available to defile the system in their name.
 
I hope everyone they meet treats them with the same respect George Bush has for the constitution, and another year of life for every word of the constitution he can repeat with his eyes closed and no box on his back.

 I wish them everything they honestly believe George Bush wishes for the man holding the will work for food sign.
 
I wish them a post-op nurse with a Bush twin level of responsibility, sobriety, and compassion.
 
I wish them a face as beautiful as Barbara Bush's mind, and a daughter as beautiful as her face.
 
I wish them employees who work George Bush's schedule. On the mean side, I wish them a toothache every day he's on vacation and a migraine each time he lies.
 
I wish them the right to preach about their God, loudly, in public, as long as they agree to accept a sleepless night each time their actions or thoughts defy what he is supposed to represent.
 
I wish them joy in posting those commandments that they can't seem to remember or obey, as soon as they stop killing people in my name so they won't look like hypocrites.
 
I wish them a long, all expenses paid vacation at Abu Graib.
 
Something tells me I'll hear from some very confused people who think I'm cruel.
 
Sandy Knauer



 

Aunt Jackie’s Gift

 



Aunt Jackie was the most thoughtful gift giver. She decided what would be the perfect gift for each person and set out to find that exact thing. Once, Jessica complained that stuffed animals were ridiculous because they were all pastel colors instead of the actual colors of animals. That Christmas, Aunt Jackie searched (this was before internet and Google) until she found a brown and black striped stuffed cat for her Christmas gift that year. Jessica returned the favor by naming her gift Methane, since Aunt Jackie was a chemist whose real cats were all named after chemicals. 

On Briana's second Christmas, Aunt Jackie apologized ahead of time. She wasn't sure what to get her and was so worried she hadn't guessed correctly. I felt sad for her because Briana was too young to really care much either way. It ended up being a wonderful experience for Aunt Jackie and everyone who observed.

Briana was happy about 99% of the time. She was happy 100% of the time that she was tearing into a package, no matter what was inside. Odds were definitely on Aunt Jackie's side.

 The gift-distributor called Briana's name and she got excited. He handed her the package and she beamed as she tore in. When she had uncovered the box that contained the dancing dog, someone took it from her, wound it up, and placed it on the floor. She squealed, put her little hands on her face, jumped up and down, laughed, squealed and laughed some more, and was so uncontrollably delighted that everyone in the room was in tears – especially Aunt Jackie.


Even the little kids weren't overly anxious to move on (we open one gift at a time in our family). Dancing doggie went through several rewinds before Briana's excitement showed any sign of waning. 

She did open other gifts that night but promptly put them aside to return to her dancing dog. So, even when Aunt Jackie was unsure what to get, she still found the perfect gift.

Camping For Christ

This year, some of the most reverent supporters of the 'Keep Christ in Christmas' and 'Bah Humbug on the ACLU For Questioning Our Need to Display Religiosity' groups broke tradition and extended one of their more devout rituals an extra day. There is little doubt that the PlayStation 3 and the Nintendo Wii are both icons of the values these people so desperately need to instill in their children, making the two-day camp outs on store parking lots to acquire the first ones available an act of mercy, not greed. It is possible some of these parents will be advanced to sainthood status, or at least given a church bulletin column for their delivering-souls-from-purgatory and saving-pagan-babies level contributions.

Witnessing this display of perfect parenting encouraged a rebirth of sorts in me. I repented for the times I encouraged my children to be individuals and not want something just because everyone else did. I regret telling them it is not important to always be first, and recognize the many opportunities I missed to prove my love for them by pushing my way to the front and trampling other people to make sure they had the appropriate toy with which to keep Christ in Christmas. I hope to burn in hell for the times I wrote x-mas.

Next year, I plan to be there three days early, so I can rectify the most grievous wrongs I saw this year. I will fight those storeowners who obviously refused to allow the campers to hang the Ten Commandments on their tents. I will stand strong, fight the ACLU, FBI, CIA, ASCAP, or anyone who tries to silence the 'Keep Christ in Christmas' prayer groups that were so clearly missing at these campouts.

I appeal to all of you. We have little time before Black Friday, so immediate help is needed. Please, donate to my ten commandments poster campaign. The least we can do is cash in our points for poster boards and markers, and provide each shopper with a 'Keep Christ in Christmas' poster to carry through the malls on Friday.

Those Were the Days My Friend

Posted to Gather August 15, 2009 01:29 PM EDT

In December 2005, there were few things I had not done, seen, or felt. Journals kept the details of my experiences, and major influences lived in memories and emulations. I used some of them in my novel writing and was ready to explore and reflect others in shorter work. Comfortable with where I was in life and in my writing, I settled into my seat at the Gather table, excited about the opportunity to read, meet, and mix with writers from whom I would learn to hone my skills and pour fifty years of highs and lows, loves and losses, friendships, life lessons, and opinions into fine-tuned essays, short stories, articles, and opinion pieces.

I read everyone on Gather, pleased to discover that my position—midway between beginner and accomplished—presented equal opportunity for give and take. I posted a few pieces and waited. A few people complimented my technique, debated my opinions, and discussed my reflections. It felt great, until I realized something was missing. No one suggested ways in which I might improve my writing. This was fun but I was not honing.

The writers I knew outside Gather appreciated anyone who was willing to comb their work for typos, or errors in spelling, grammar, and punctuation. They treasured those who also looked for inconsistencies in tense, detail, or voice, and who recognized problems with style, awkward wording, character development, or dialogue. Maybe writers in this community expected me to pay my dues before they would invest time in my work? I would give first and see what happened.

I scoured the site and commented on content. I also identified the obvious, simple errors. For the more complicated finds, I explained my critiques and suggestions and linked to educational sites and/or appropriate books. Then, I sat back and waited for the recipients of my time and effort to appreciate my diligence and thank me with genuine critiques of my work instead of the generic nice job comments I was seeing. (It’s okay to laugh and wonder how I could be so naïve after touting all that worldly experience in the first paragraph.)

The writers in this community were different. A few insisted they were professionals and therefore perfect, and that anyone who dared point out an error was jealous and not welcome. And there were others who insisted that only thugs and mean people thought there were rules to writing. They expected praise and high ratings, despite their errors, since they never intended to be real writers. I should be grateful they slopped some words on the page and allowed me to read them.

I adjusted my not-so-comfortable-any-more seat and considered the options: I could quit, or forget standards, or try to affect change, or wait to see if other writers came in. My decision to wait ended up being one of the best I have made. That probably surprises those of you who have suggested (so many times) that I should leave if I am so unhappy. I will explain my Those Were the Days experience and hope you will understand why I stick around longing to find people who will recreate those times.

A few brave souls came forward to admit that they, too, cared about the integrity of writing and hoped that we could stick together and hold one another to high standards and honesty. My Gather mailbox filled with encouragement from people who supported my position, but weren’t brave enough to risk the fallout that found people who openly admitted they cared about standards on this site.

A few more writers showed up, and soon, key elements stewed in an undercurrent of potential: intelligence, skill, discipline, strength, eagerness, vitality, ethics, talent, and wit. One great piece of work inspired another. On one side of Gather, writers linked to other writers and encouraged great work, while the other side screamed about being bumped out of top spots by grammar police and elitists. It was easy to ignore the screaming while I expected the undercurrent to burst into something phenomenal.

A human catalyst--posing as a teen werewolf--entered. Most of us feel something special when we see pictures of babies or puppies even if we have not and will never meet the subject of the picture. We fall in love with words in a song, and emotionally attach ourselves to characters in books and movies. Ideals grab our hearts. Art changes our lives. Once in a great while, for reasons we can’t explain, some identity—real or not—wins a permanent place in our heart. So it was for me, with the talent behind the teen werewolf (sometimes known as the wherewolf after long absences) icon.

Not only was he the catalyst I needed (I think I speak for others as well), he was a talent magnet. He raised the bar and silently issued constant challenges for me to be at the top of my game. He entertained. He demonstrated a perfect mix of perfectionist and humility. Before long, young, passionate, intelligent, witty, altruistic, humble, disciplined, cultured, eager, earnest, generous, and inspirational artists surrounded him. Many in that group were young enough to be my children, yet I felt privileged to be in their presence and to learn from them.

For a while, Gather was filled with creativity and growth (of the personal kind, I don’t know about membership numbers). I credit those passionate young writers, and believe their energy would have pulled in more members like them if Gather had appreciated and protected them and what they (and many of us) believed was the original vision of this site. Unfortunately, instead of protecting them, quality content, or that evasive vision - Gather allowed people who resented grammar police and elitists to harass, flag, misrepresent, and chase them off to share their brilliance where it is appreciated.

Spirits and motivation dropped. Writers stopped writing or left when their readers and inspiration dwindled, and their work was buried so deeply between games, diary entries, and single-line questions that no one could find it.

Recently, I accepted a position as member editor for the Writing Essential group, hoping I might infuse a new wave of inspiration and challenge, collect people who are passionate about the art of writing, or at least promise that on one day of the week, I would sponsor a collection of inspired, creative writing. I thought maybe, if readers and writers knew where they could ‘gather’ to meet other passionate writers with similar interests, the momentum would grow.

After several months and few responses to several appeals to the group for feedback, it is obvious that most members do not share my interests. I’m extremely grateful to those who do share my interests and to those who responded to my questions. I’ve heard from a few others, and have to assume that the majority who did not respond agree, that my focus is too narrow (fiction, prose) and my standards (must care about technique) too strict. Therefore, I plan to take my project out of the group and leave Tuesday open to a theme and moderator/host that will better serve its members.

Last night, I stood before the tavern (listen to the song if this makes no sense) and heard Monica and X Tabber call my name.  I’m not completely ready to give up my dream of creating a cozy corner in Gather where we might bring back or recreate a Those Were the Days atmosphere. I want to see if I have different results in a location where I am able to deliver exactly what I promise.

I created three new groups for writers and readers who care about the art of writing:**

• Character Development Workshop
• Fiction Headquarters
• Creative Non-fiction/Personal Essays

(Groups are not fully developed. I hope to get them cleaned up over the next few days at which time I will formally introduce them with guidelines.)  

UPDATE: Gather no longer exists as it was. It has changed hands and doesn't pretend to be a site for writers. If you manage to get in, or happen upon the old links that many of us posted to our work, you will only find fluff pieces, or something that one of the originals wrote, accompanied by a photo of their new fluff writer. Very deceptive. And disappointing.

Each group will have strict posting guidelines and content will be monitored. These groups are for beginning and accomplished members – anyone who promises to think before they write, edit before they post, treasure readers and writers who offer critique, to accept personal responsibility for remembering the group purpose and guidelines. Members must have thick skin, accept critique and praise graciously, and understand that members will read and comment on what interests them which means some members will receive more attention than others.

In other words, if you can’t remember that they sell food in the grocery and flowers at the florist, that you work on Tuesday but not on Saturday and your book club meets on the third Wednesday of each week, you don’t belong in these groups. If you are not capable of separating the writer from the writing, or you suspect these groups are cliques and that posting to them guarantees friendships or exclusion of people you don’t like, you don’t belong. What you post to an anything goes group does not belong in these groups*

Long-term goals:

• To twist a few arms and expand this beyond what I can comfortably handle. I would like to link each of these groups to poetry and other non-fiction groups that commit to the same standards.

• To promote these groups outside Gather and see if they attract new writers and readers.

* That doesn’t mean that you don’t belong, only that your anything goes post doesn’t belong.

Gone Postal

I placed an internet order for two 30ml bottles of e-liquids that usually arrive within a few days, in a bubble-wrap envelope that fits easily in my mailbox, along with the usual assortment of bills and junk mail. On Sunday night, I checked tracking information on the package because coconut e-liquid is my favorite and I was almost out, and also because the temperature had dropped to below freezing. 

On Monday, the tracker said the package had been delivered to my mailbox at 11:52 a.m. Schools were closed for a snow day and we had record cold temperatures (low teens) for this time of year. I really love my coconut e-liquid so I bundled up in my winter coat, gloves, and snow boots and trekked across snow and ice to get to my mailbox – a block from my back door. There was no package in my box. I returned home, circling around to the front door (where at least the sidewalk had been cleared) and there was no package at my door. 

Unsure what the exact procedure might be for scanning package delivery into the system, I thought maybe it had been scanned when it left the post office and was still in the carrier's truck. Maybe the weather had slowed the carrier down and he would get it to me soon. I waited until evening and walked back over to the mailbox. Still, no package. 

On Tuesday, I checked early and again later. In other places I've lived, mail carriers were so routine that I was almost able to set the clock by when the mail arrived. Not so with this guy. He might show up at 9 a.m., 5 p.m., or anywhere between the two. Not cool when I live a block away from the mailbox and don't know if an empty box means I received nothing, or he hasn't been there yet. No package. 

When I got back home after the second trip on Tuesday, I went to the USPS website and filed a complaint - because there was no option for tracking a package that they believe has been delivered, or reporting a delivery that didn't happen. I received a case number (not quite as long as the tracking number and starting with the letters HQ) and requested an email response. 

Wednesday – no package, no email response. So, I called my branch office. I explained the situation and was told the supervisor would investigate and call me back. Around 5 p.m., I realized the day was almost over and the supervisor had not called. I tried calling again but, of course, it was after hours and there was no answer. I returned to the website and found a fax number for my branch office. Great. I typed my story, complete with the original tracking number and the new HQ case number and said I would not only like to have my package, I would also like to know where it had been for two days and why it was scanned as delivered to my box when it had not been delivered to my box. I tried, multiple times, to send the fax but didn't get through. 

Thursday – Tried sending the fax a couple more times with no luck. No package, no email response, no return call from supervisor. Called St. Matthews again and said something must be wrong with their fax machine. Nope, nothing wrong with it – they don't have a fax machine anymore.
I said I had called the day before and was told a supervisor would call me back, but that didn't happen. The guy on the other end said he hadn't spoken to me and didn't know who had (but didn't shout out – hey, anybody remember this call). I started over. Told my story again. He put me on hold. For about 15 minutes, I listened to the most annoying few bars of music and a short message, over and over and over and over.

Frustrated, I hung up and called back. Said I thought someone put me on hold and forgot me. The person who answered didn't bother to shout out – hey, anybody put some lady on hold and forget her – just asked what I needed. I told my story again. Again, I was insulted with questions-for-dummies - did I check my mailbox? How about my front door? Did I knock on the doors of neighbors to see if they had my package? Yes. Yes. No. And I'm not going to knock on the doors of my neighbors to track my package that I know fits in my box and that has put in my box every other time I've ordered it. He didn't know what to tell me. 

I asked if he thought the tracking number or complaint number might help him. No. Then, he realized I live in an apartment complex and was positive the carrier had left the package in the office. I said no, when he delivers a package to the office, they call me immediately. And if they had called me and I failed to pick it up for two days, they would have called me again. So, I knew it was not delivered to the office. 

Maybe it was too large to fit in my mailbox so the carrier placed it in one of the larger, lock boxes. He wanted me to hang up, call the office, and return to the mailbox to see if there was a key for the larger box in there. I told him there was not a key in my mailbox and I was not going to walk back over there but I would waste my time and the office staff time by calling there when I already knew – and had already told him – the answer to that question. I hung up, called the office, she said she would have called me if she had a package but, to be absolutely positive, she would check the packages delivered there today. Mine was not there. 

I called my branch again and asked for a supervisor. The guy on the phone said he was the supervisor and I'm pretty sure it's the same man I had spoken with before but he let me explain the situation and assure them that the package was not in the office. Then, I would have to call Consume Affairs. He gave me the number.

I called Consumer Affairs and received a recording instructing me to call 1-800-ASKUSPS, who would contact my local post office with my complaint. (It's safe to assume tears here.)
Called my branch back with this info. He asked if I called the 800 number. I asked why should do that when they are going to refer me back to him? If I wanted his help, I would have to call that 800 number.

I hung up. Called the 800 number where I received a voice-activation menu that included scheduling redelivery, scheduling pick-up, cancelling mail – but nothing for reporting a missing package. I tried 'customer service' and 'help' and 'missing package' and ended up with "Thank you for your call," before being disconnected.

Called my branch again. They can't help if I don't talk to the 800 people or, maybe I could try Complaints. He gave me the number for Complaints, where I got the same menu.
Slammed the phone down and returned to the internet, where I had to create an account, with a password that included lower case, upper case, numbers, symbols . . . After all of that, I could find no place to track my stupid case number.

Called Complaints again. Went through the same list – missing package, customer service, help, human, and, finally, found the magic key. FUCK YOU is either so unrecognizable or offensive to the robot that took me right to a real live woman. A very nice, real live woman who listened to me tell her each of the steps I had taken, apologized, and gave me a third number, this one starting with CA, that I can probably go nowhere to track. 

Nice Lady was emailing my branch as we spoke and promised someone would get back to me. Soon.
All of this over a $20 order. I might have forgotten it if this were not the third time in a few months that tracking information stated packages had been delivered to my address when they had not been. 

My other activities today included: 

Renewing my driver's license and getting the photographer who says, "Ready?" and then waited until my smile faded into a WTF look to snap the picture.

and 

Taking my glasses for repair only to find out they can't be repaired, and then finding the perfect pair of glasses only to find they'd been placed in the wrong section and were really $200 higher than the sale price section I thought I was shopping in.


 
I.need.nicotine.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Lines Around the Cowboy’s Eyes

 
I'm just an old cowboy he'd say
broken down in my younger days
Somebody took the best of me
All I have left is what you see
I saw wisdom that couldn't be denied,
in the lines around the cowboy's eyes

 
His worn down boots had traveled miles
but I knew he still had dreams
I saw tenderness in a warm smile
and a man with places yet to see
I saw happiness for a little while
when his eyes were looking at me
I saw wisdom that couldn't be denied
in the lines around the cowboy's eyes

 
I saw years of real tough living
in the roughness of his hands
He had done his share of giving
probably rearranged his plans
but his eyes told me everything
he was a gentle loving man
I saw wisdom that couldn't be denied
in the lines around the cowboy's eyes

 
I said I hoped to see him again
and I saw him look surprised
He thought he'd lost the best of him
but I saw what he couldn't hide
I watched his lips turn up a grin
and I saw a spark in his eyes
I saw wisdom that couldn't be denied
in the lines around the cowboy's eyes

 
Sandy Morgan 6/94

Stop Peeing on My Leg About Tuesday Because You’re Pissing Me Off

I've been channeling Judge Judy for about twenty-four hours now. Can't count the times I've already thought, in her voice, "Don't pee on my leg and tell me it's raining." The latest time was when I saw a pundit try to convince us that the final sale of our country to the Koch brothers isn't really such a bad thing because old, white Republican voters will die soon.

 Assuming that my readers are sane, I'll give you a minute to recover.

 Ready?

 Seriously. That's how ridiculous the spin on the death of our country really is. The even worse news is that seemingly sane and reasonably intelligent people suck up everything those pundits purge and savor it like candy. My Facebook news feed shows a steady flow of already-recovered mourners totally relieved to see that someone thinks all will be okay once a whole voting block drops dead, or who are pleased to gloat over the fact that maybe McConnell will have to do some work or face VETO, and some who feel great about themselves because this loss gave them renewed energy to fight harder next time.

 Time for another break. Let 'next time' settle for a few seconds. We have plenty of years to waste.

 And then there are the ones who started late Tuesday night, talking about all of the mistakes the Democrats made (even pointing out how they deserved to lose for running scared of the truth that the critics won't admit) and who we should run next time - like brides who think only of the wedding and not the marriage.

 Yeah. That's the answer. Republicans will probably be a nicer bunch of degenerates next time and it'll be a piece of cake. Let's just forget this tragedy, wait for the old white folks to die, and it'll all be okay. Good plan.

 In two, four, or six (depending on the race) years, Republicans will no longer own the voting machines. They will have won over enough minority voters to give up on suppression and disenfranchising. (Wait! Won't those minority voters they've won over replace the old, white corpses?) They'll gladly redistrict and maybe even apologize for gerrymandering. And they will be too broke to run dirty campaigns, even if they still wanted to lie. Sounds great. Glad I walked myself through this so I can stop mourning, too.

 Honestly, who is really naive enough to believe these were all 'close races' that Republicans actually won, no matter how many times and how many ways the corporate-owned media say it? I can't imagine a less-informed bunch of people anywhere else on earth.

 It takes a special kind of twisted thinking to blame Democrats who did not vote, Democratic candidates who didn't say every single thing that every single voter wanted to hear, Democrats who didn't knock on enough doors, Democrats who couldn't outspend the Koch and Rove machines, MSNBC, the DCCC . . . Although every one of those things probably harmed momentum and turn out, and we need to address the mistakes made, the bottom line is this: Uninformed, willfully ignorant, misguided, corrupt, dregs of society Republican VOTERS sold us out, and turned this country over to the highest bidders. I plan to hold the ones I encounter responsible.

 I also hope to start a movement to edit all documentation to change the words democracy and republic to oligarchy. That should be our first order of business during this marriage – uh, administration. Because, the next election is two years away and we have work to do before we start talking about it.

 If I had any faith in Americans, I would put replacing voting machines with paper ballots, requesting UN monitoring of our elections, providing every citizen of voting age with a free voter ID card – but I can't go through the disappointment of being rejected and threatened over those again. I'm old and I'm weary.

 And I'm shopping for a new country.

 I pledge no allegiance to the flag of the un-united states of America, and to the oligarchy for which it stands, one nation, divisible, with liberty and justice for a few.

 My friend says it much more eloquently here.


 

Rocket Scientist: Ebolapallosa!

Great blog post about Ebola - from a scientist's perspective. 

Rocket Scientist: Ebolapallosa!

zoo art

Debriefing Compliments

Posted to Gather, September 18, 2012 08:35 AM EDT

It’s hard to imagine anything looking more painfully wrong. The gown, while still dangling from a hanger in a doorway, reflected the impeccable skill and attention to detail that brought people in need of a special occasion seamstress to my mother’s door. The near paralyzing shock was not related to the garment.

My job that day was to assist with the hemming fitting. Jo changed into the gown and a pair of pumps, clunked across the room, and nearly broke her neck climbing up to stand on a chair. Mom measured and turned fabric – yards of fabric around the bottom of the full-length, gathered skirt of the gown. I held the red felt tomato cushion and supplied Mom with pins. I had done this many times before with no problem other than wondering why she placed the pins I handed her between her lips before using them on the dress. Was I too slow? Did it enable her to position the pin the way she wanted before using it? Did it replace the cigarette that was usually between her lips? What should I do if she swallowed a pin?

This time, seeking an explanation for the shocking wrongness replaced the usual boredom-evading questions. The soft, frilly, bubble-gum-pink bride’s maid gown looked ridiculous on Jo, who could easily have passed for a male in the cloths she had worn in. A quick, self-conscious meeting of the eyes told me she knew this as well as I did and couldn’t wait to change back into her trousers, plaid shirt, and Chuck Taylors.

Guilt almost destroyed me a few pins into the job. I was disappointed in me for not wanting to tell Jo she looked pretty in her new dress. And I hated myself for hoping Mom would swallow a pin since that was obviously the only thing that might stop her continuous stream of mumbled-around-pins, ridiculously unbelievable compliments. Couldn’t she see that Jo looked more miserable with each word?

By the time it was over, I felt as sorry for me as I did for Jo. Not only was I forced to witness the wrongness of Jo in her pink gown and pumps, and her misery in being complimented for looking a way I’m sure she never wanted to look, I was also forced to realize how little my mother’s compliments actually meant. Mom wasn’t blind or stupid so she couldn’t possibly have thought miserable and wrong was attractive on Jo. How many times had she complimented me because she thought it was the right thing to say and not because the compliment was sincere?

If I could relive that day, I would give Jo the honest compliment she deserved: You are a wonderful friend for agreeing to buy and wear this dress in your friend’s wedding since it isn’t your style and you will probably never wear it again.

I would like to believe that I learned a great lesson that day and, since I am older than dirt, that it was a different time and saying the wrong right thing got lost along the way. The truth is I’ve been slammed with that lesson repeatedly, as recently as last week.

I was present the day my daughters experienced this realization together, as adults. A friend, who had praised them from birth and whose compliments they had taken to heart, commented on the beautiful character of a group of people that neither of my daughters would ever have wanted to be compared to. I felt their eyes on me and hated to look because I knew immediately what each was feeling. How could they treasure the compliments she had paid them if her judgment was so different from theirs, or her honesty so questionable? We discussed it later and I shared my Jo story.

I might have learned to tailor compliments so they will honestly fit, and to withhold insincere praise. But, the fact that I can still feel the sting of false compliments, whether sent in my direction or aimed at someone else, or allow a lifetime of compliments to be negated when I hear someone whose opinion I appreciated lavish false compliments on someone else tells me I haven’t mastered this lesson yet.

The big question for me today falls in the chicken/egg category. I do believe that everything that happens, and every person who passes through my life, contributes to who I am today. If I had not had high self-esteem to begin with, how would insincere or undeserved compliments have affected me? Would I have blown them off and not believed them, or might they have boosted my esteem?

Let’s Talk About Legacy, Senator McConnell

Dear Senator McConnell:

Legacy:  something transmitted by or received from an ancestor or predecessor or from the past legacy of the ancient philosophers>

Thirty years is a long enough pattern to become legacy. When looking at your thirty years in office and focusing, as most people will, on the years since 2007, when you became the Minority Leader in the Senate, your legacy should not make you (or your children and grandchildren who will have to live with it) proud. You will be remembered mostly for your vow to make President Obama a one-term President, with no concern for how badly your attempts to do that harmed the residents of Kentucky, the nation, and the world. You will also be remembered for your pork, which you bragged about for years until your party decided it was a terrible, horrible, must-be-stopped-and-criticized-forever activity. Your filibuster record, including the fact that you are the only Senator to filibuster his own bill, will most surely brighten up a few history classes.

Regardless of the something a voter considers important, you have left the majority of us with less than we had before – exactly like the parent who dies and leaves his children with more overdue bills than assets.

We have fewer jobs. People work harder for lower wages, and each dollar buys less than it did when you came into office. Many people lost their homes and their health care, and are unable to feed themselves and their families. When given an opportunity to vote for something that helps, you consistently fail. Even if it were true that the majority were doing better (and that is not true), ignoring the people who are hurting the worst is inexcusable. Inhumane disregard for those in need will be your legacy. I will help keep that legacy alive for you as long as I can and then ask my grandchildren to continue for me.

Unfortunately for you, regardless of party affiliation/registration, most of us would say we have lost rights during your leadership. Your side screams about being persecuted Christians who are no longer able to pray in school and plaster the commandments they can’t remember on every public space so they’ll never forget to ignore them in public. They mourn the fact that their party has not delivered the theocracy they want, that big brother is watching over home-grown terrorist groups/militias, that they might possibly be close to losing the right to be armed and ready to kill in the grocery and daycare. They are fearful that they might be forced to work somewhere that won’t cause them to have black lung, and that a same-sex couple will get married and cause their spouses to abandon them. Both sides are angry about feeling spied on. Failure to protect our rights will be your legacy (Remember

The Protect America Act and Legislation Related to the Domestic Surveillance Program

which you introduced but tried to squirrel away from?). http://www.llrx.com/extras/nsa.htm

You are in a no-win legacy position, Senator. Your destruction makes you a loser from my proud liberal perspective. The fact that you didn’t destroy this country quite enough makes you unpopular on your own side. If I were you, I’d wish I had been a one-term Senator.

You still have a month to change all of this. You could admit the truth, apologize, and resign. I would remember you quite differently and bet others would, too.

If not for yourself, you might want to consider your party. If, by chance, you care about anything other than yourself. In the thirty years that you have been in office, your party has been circling the bowl. Making that last-ditch-effort change might encourage others in your party to do the same before the final flush. (Food for thought doesn’t really work here, but you get the idea.)

This is what a winning legacy looks like: Ted Kennedy   http://www.legacy.com/news/legends-and-legacies/ted-kennedy-10-facts/826/

Sandy

Why I Will Not Sign the Kroger Petition

Sorry, Paul Hogarth of Daily Kos, but I will not sign your petition telling Kroger that I am counting on them to keep customers and employees safe. That would be counter-productive and dishonest.

I called my local Kroger stores, and then the PR guy that one store was kind enough to refer me to. The answer I received was that allowing open carry is their policy and they are sticking to it. As you pointed out, I can’t go in without shoes or a shirt, or on a skateboard. I can’t smoke in their stores even though I would have to corner someone with a severe respiratory illness in tight quarters and chain smoke for years to kill him, but they will allow a crazy person (because no sane person brings a war machine into the grocery), with the ability to kill many people instantly, to roam the aisles.

Sorry, but no one gets a second chance with me. Now, I shop elsewhere and send Kroger copies of my receipts to show them what they are losing. I will never return to a store that changes policy only after first getting tons of publicity for being jerks, and then again for changing their mind (sorta/maybe,like Target). And I think everyone who participates in this groveling process enables other businesses to play this game.  

In addition, I have been calling businesses ahead of time to ask if they have a no smoking sign on the door. Employees who answer the phone know immediately that they do. Then, I ask if there is a no weapons sign next to it. Not a single person has been able to answer that question. Some won’t go look or transfer me to someone who knows. Some try their best not to answer the question since they don’t know which side I am on. I have told several places that I will just mark them off my shopping list, question unanswered.

I’m not going to shop on line with businesses that won’t protect me inside their stores, either. They don’t deserve my business.

Please, don’t participate in the craziness. Boycott. And never go back. That will send a message to all businesses so we don’t have to spin wheels and waste time going through this repeatedly. We look sorta silly when we do that.

cross-posted on Daily Kos 

Identifying a Snow Job (Metro Chamber of Commerce aka GLI edition)

Words matter. 

When drafting a page like this one from the Greater Louisville, Inc. website (www.greaterlouisville.com/AboutGLI/), the purpose is to put together words that will communicate a message that readers will find attractive. The less attractive the product or service is, the harder that project will be for the author. Fluff words and convoluted, meaningless tripe are necessary when the actual message would repulse the average reader.

To hear/understand the actual message, it is important to remove unnecessary fluff words, and then to dissect the meaning, context, and motivation behind choosing the remaining words.

The author of the GLI webpage deserves the golden turd for written bs (seriously, at one time, there was such an award). I will take you through the page and insert the red flags I found. Please, feel free to point out anything I missed. 

From this point on, my words will be in parentheses and italicized. The rest are from the GLI website. 

About GLI

Greater Louisville Inc. – the Metro Chamber of Commerce,  

(why don’t they call it the Metro Chamber of Commerce if that’s what it is? Could it be that people discovered a few years ago that the Chamber of Commerce is not a friend of workers and patrons?) 

is one of the region’s premier business organizations  

(Google the word premier and laugh with me, please. There is a premier bank, a premier home care agency, a premier pet products store, a premier tattoo studio, a premier league football news, etc. Every business that wanted to capitalize (pun intended) on the word premier, whether or not earned or explainable, uses the word premier in their description.) 

and the leading economic development agency for Greater Louisville.

(The is a word that matters more than most. A would have meant the author considers GLI one of more than one. The means the author absolutely states GLI is the leading agency.) 

(If I had some justification for stating I was the premier agency, I would include the justification here. It is missing on the GLI page.) 

Our purpose is to transform the community in pursuit of our 

(Our gets three red flags from me. They, an agency I have no respect for or trust in, want to transform me--I am part of this community--into their dream? Whoa. Be still my Adrenaline.)  

dream for the region to become an idea capital where imaginations and individuals thrive.

(What a string of nothing. I can just see a group sitting around a conference room table brainstorming words that everyone likes – dream! Imaginations! Individuals! I’m surprised Baby Jesus, veteran, kitten, and tax evasion didn’t make the cut.) 

We do so by increasing human capital,

(What does that mean? Are they birthing more workers for the community? Giving us money? Saving the people who can’t find their caps lock keys?) 

driving job creation  

(Driving? Hard to believe that’s the word this author wanted since it tells me nothing.) and entrepreneurship, maximizing

(Oh, can’t wait for the next line that tells me how they hope to do this) 

global opportunities and inspiring business leadership engagement on issues that impact the competitiveness of our region.

(Total brain freeze. My sarcasm does know some bounds. And guess I’ll have to keep waiting because they aren’t telling me how they hope to do this.)

Our Dream...

 
To become an idea capital of the world, where imaginations and individuals thrive.  

(Wow. Little ole Louisville the idea capital of the whole world. My huge imagination is finally going to pay off and this individual is going to thrive. Watch out world, and, grandkids, pack your bags for that island vacation I promised when I hit the jackpot.)

GLI is committed to the One Dream for our 26-county region .  

(Louisville has 26 counties? Or, do 25 other counties not have someone to write golden-turd-worthy websites for them?)

Our Purpose...  

 
To transform our community in pursuit of the dream.  

(This time it is the dream, not our dream.)

Our purpose is our organization’s reason to exist and our commitment to changing our region for the better.  

(Huh? My purpose is to be human, to age each day, and to state the obvious. How about yours?)

Our Strategy...

 
To lead

(I didn’t vote for them to lead me.)   

innovation and civic entrepreneurship…

(Why use ellipsis here? Is something missing? Are they admitting it is too vague? Are they reaching out to the right-wingers who think no sentence is complete without erroneous punctuation?) 

while maintaining a commitment to sustainable development – meeting the needs of the present without compromising our ability to meet the needs of the future. 

(Okay. I’ll see that load of pretentious bull and raise you this. A bigger load of delightful nothingness I have seldom seen.)   

We approach all we do from a strength-based position, 

(WTF? To quote Judge Judy, "Don't pee on my leg and tell me it's raining.")

building on the authentic assets of our organization  

(Please, do identify your authentic assets of your organization.)  

and our region.

We are focused on five priorities:

• Engaging  (Engaging how?) 

 supportive 

(Should I assume you will ignore the ones who don’t support you – as well as the non-stakeholders who live and work  in the community – specifically the people fighting for a raise in the minimum wage?)

stakeholders and delivering results

(Where do you detail the results you have in mind? I’m worried, especially since this follows your commitment to supportive stakeholders.)

 
• Funding our efforts through healthy finances  

(I get this. I totally get this. Who wants diabetic or anemic finances?)

 
• Expanding our chorus of raving customers who realize the value of Greater Louisville Inc. (If you don’t read anything else, this line is too good to miss. Their chorus of raving customers. I see them performing on street corners for coins often, don’t you?)

 
• Leading a passionate and talented staff through effective management practices

(In the spirit of tossing out any group of words that come to mind, I use a napkin when I eat.)

 
• Maintaining a commitment to being a learning and growth centered organization 

GLI’s dream, purpose and three-year strategy was adopted by GLI’s Executive Committee in November of 2010. It serves as an organizational blueprint for GLI and guides all its work.
Success against these objectives is measured by ambitious goals and tracked on its balanced scorecard.
 
Our Staff Values
Results-Oriented: Pursue Excellence
Collaborative: United in Work & Spirit
Flexible: Expect the Unexpected
Passionate: Driven to Achieve
Fun: Enjoy the Journey

(This page says nothing. Absolutely nothing. Please, think when you read and listen. Parsing words can be fun.)