What Would Teddy Think?
Ever wonder how contradictory it is that the U.S. doesn’t take much interest in our hemispheric neighbors—South and Central America, and the Caribbean— while running multiple combat and foreign aid operations all over the middle east and the Asian subcontinent. Oh, and giving the lives in service of our national treasures—our service people.
We bully those neighbor’s citizens for trying to get here for a better life while flooding the country with Arabs, Persians, muslims, Indians, Asians, etc., whose cultural differences with ours go far beyond language.
Our country’s leadership has adopted the philosophical policy that we have a big stake in lands thousands of miles away. The return on the staggering investment of trillions there is embarrassing. However, out our back door we have much at stake for obvious reasons including the most important, proximity. Instead of encouraging and investing with caveats for free reform we isolate, manipulate, and provide fodder for the simplest propaganda against our interests. Yet, when governments swing rapidly into the realm of dictatorship and oppression and deprivation of their citizens, we twiddle our thumbs and let babies starve to death. We say and do nothing about others such as Cuba, Russia, China, etc., while they foment uprising for overthrow and state terrorism for oppression of their populations. See Venezuela today, and Columbia for past decades.
Teddy Roosevelt must be spinning in his grave, while our dire, professed, enemies do the Maypole dance around our silly-ass diplomatic blustering. Talk is cheap. When that gets a dull or negative response we throw billions at it and the recipients laugh hysterically and continue undermining our interests while using our money to finance terror against us.
We’ll never know now whether improving the daily lives of enough of its citizens may have been the transforming catalyst for democratic reforms in CUBA. Instead we have hollow words of bluster for political gain.
Frankly, the comparison to Mussolini is not so much of a reach. Remember this: U.S. tax dollars were not being spent on Cuban initiatives. Private industry’s money was and is still being spent—with a huge trickle-down effect.
Finally, our government doesn’t find excuses for not taking action in far flung locations to interdict terrorist activities and presence. Why don’t we do that closer to home?
A Look Back
Stories from On the Road with Boudreaux and Me – Coming Soon
High Road or Low Blog April 8th 2016:
This week my friend and redneck brother, Boudreaux (Larry) Barrineau, sent me a note about goings on at the farm and, around the beauty shop/vegetable stand where he makes his living. Coastal South Carolina’s weather is a mirror of ours in the Sunshine State, so they too are doing Spring chores and taking plants outside to harden before going in the ground. Probably this week.
Boo plants heritage tomatoes and okra. His jumbo tomatoes get him more hair business than any type of advertising could ever do. People stand in line during the growing season awaiting the Monday opening of when Boo puts that weekend’s harvest out front on the sidewalk. His tomatoes come in red, yellow, and nearly black. Most of them are one to two pounds and in a fresh white bread sandwich, slathered in Duke’s Mayo, it will make your tongue slap your brains out if you eat too fast. He has farmed 20 acres of truck crop for over 25 years at the Pritchart’s farm. They are sixth generation of Bamberg County agricultural tradition. We call them our people even though we’re not blood kin. They’ve always treated us better than if we were.
April 12, 2015
You remember Benjamin Joseph Lee? He’s all grown up now. He’s a foot plus taller than his daddy and Albert Lee has gone proud on him to distraction. At our age I was gettin’ concerned with my back as plantin’ time is coming fast. Benny Jo gave me a fit until his daddy stepped in, about plantin’ last year. But, once we got in the field and got to annoyin’ each other good he settled down right quick.
We talk to each other man to man these days and I can’t remember laughin’ so much since my last’s wife’s lawyer had a heart attack. You know he’s been helping me since he was 9 years old. Time flies don’t it, Alce?
B.J. – he’s off to college now, so’s he ain’t much for the regular name his folks gave him. He told me the other day that he was goin’ to change his name to Ahmed when he got to Duke. I told him he should change it to Orphan and hope he didn’t see his daddy anytime soon after he did it. By the way, he got a full scholarship. Now I call him basketball Jones. He kinda likes that.
He called me, out of the blue, to let me know that he was helpin’ me this year. The last. He was sorry. Hell, it’s probably my last year, too. Whatever I grow, from here on out, will be in the yard at Shadow Moss. Or, out at Hillcrest Cemetery. My plot’s paid for.
Before I forgot it I needed to tell you about George Andrew’s Bodacious. You know him. He’s that big ass dog that’s half Redbone and half Setter. A bone sitter, shit eater, or sumthin’ like that. Anyway I remember that you didn’t believe it ‘til you saw it and for that matter neither did I. Must say I’ve never seen a dog point and bawl at the same time. The pointin’ part had some promise early on, when Bo was in the puppy stage. But, George Andrew let Bobby Dean train him with breakfast biscuits and now he points near about anything that he takes a notion too. Especially if it’s something he likes to eat. And . . . . that rules out nearly nuthin’.
Well anyway, Dean was cleaning a hog in the cook shack that they shot back at the hammock, and Bo was hanging out full of hope. As Bobby Dean separated the useable parts of that hog and threw them in the stainless sink, Bo, would let out a howl of approval. Then after rinsing the meat, dryin’ it, and wrapping it in butcher paper, Dean put the package in a laundry basket. Each additional package would get a beautiful locked in point from Bodacious, posturing as if he was on a covey while whining quietly in expectation. Who knows what goes on in a dog’s mind when he’s hung out all his life with people who are just a smidgen smarter than him.
So, Bobby Dean was re-arranging the walk-in freezer and he said that Bo was right on his heels. Each time he walked in the freezer and placed a package of meat on the shelf Bo was right there watching. Dean said he finished, turned out the lights, and left for the house. He figured Bo had gone on ahead since it was dinner time.
The next morning Dean’s momma asked him to go down to the cook shack and get some bacon out of the freezer. Dean noticed that Bo hadn’t eaten his dinner, but that wasn’t unusual if he decided to run something or point up a rabbit down in the swamp.
Bobby Dean stepped into the cook house, pulled back on the freezer door and as it opened he said, “There you are, Bo. Where you been?”
Bodacious was on point. His tail up, right leg elevated and locked in a concentrated stare at the object of his recognition.
He was froze solid.
Bobby Dean said, “Good dog . . . I think.”
Stay in touch Rednak. Luv Ya! Boudreaux
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New Discovery: Unbiased Truths on Cuba:
Different commentaries from Cuban Americans every week on the BaBaLu blog, Click Here
Coast Guard intercepts millennial migrants fleeing to Cuba: Click Here
Honey Bourbon Whiskey Liqueur
I’d forgotten about Wild Turkey’s Honey Bourbon Liqueur. If this new edition to the present day offerings is even close you’ll get a kick like no other, especially if you’re having BarBeCue. Enjoy:
Pimento cheese recipes for a Southern 4th of July
Click Here for Delish southern style & don't forget PC on hamburgers.
She Came In Thru the Bathroom Window
She came in through the bathroom window
Protected by a silver spoon
But now she sucks her thumb and wanders
By the banks of her own lagoon
Didn't anybody tell her?
Didn't anybody see?
Sunday's on the phone to Monday,
Tuesday's on the phone to me
She said she'd always been a dancer
She worked at 15 clubs a day
And though she thought I knew the answer
Well I knew what I could not say.
And so I quit the police department
And got myself a steady job
And though she tried her best to help me
She could steal but she could not rob
Didn't anybody tell her?
Didn't anybody see?
Sunday's on the phone to Monday,
Tuesday's on the phone to me
John Lennon & Paul McCartney written in New York in 1968
God Bless America
That's enuff said. Rednak Luvs Ya
Trump versus Obama: Keeping Score
In the first three months of the Trump administration ICE- Immigration and Customs Enforcement arrested 41,000 people. Almost 40% over the same period last year.
Letter to the Editor WSJ January 20th
If Russia Interfered, It Acted on Obama’s Watch
Regarding David Satter’s From Russia With Chaos (Op-edJune 13):
The Democrat’s hysterics about an alleged Russian interference with the last election overlaps the border between Funny and sad. If there was Russian involvement in the last election (Turns out there was. Twenty one states hacked and counting.) Wasn’t that a failure of the Obama administration? Wasn’t the last administration in charge of national security during the election?
Russia (including the USSR) has been involved with American politics since the 1930’s.Remember Alger Hiss and Harry Dexter White who were highly placed in FDR’s administration while acting as agents for the U.S.S.R.? Once again Democrats are attempting to blame Republicans for their own failaures.
Richard Young, Greenich, Conn.
A Cuban Truth Commission ?
Mary O’Grady wrote a great article this week concerning stricter treatment of the Cuban regime and a look at little known island history that adds more color to the horrific tableau of the Castro dictatorship. Follow the link below: https://www.babalublog.com/2017/06/21/202364/
Did You Know?
James Patterson has revolutionized the concept of Collective authorship over the last decade and scored big with publishing numbers and the resultant monetary rewards. Patterson began his writing career at the age 49. He’s now 70, scraping by and living on the beach at Palm Beach. He has published over 150 novels—co-authoring many with authors, most of whom have never been heard from again. Fifteen minutes of fame is better than none at all. Thank You Mr. Patterson.
Recollections - Never Been Better
From the High Road Or Low Blog: May 9, 2015
On Saturday last, while tending the dying coals of a yard sale outliving its useful purpose, I began to peruse the latest issue of Garden & Gun. Feeling little compunction and laissez-faire for the luck of the draw I flipped the magazine open and right there, through the wonder of the non-fickle finger of fate, was an article about hamburgers - In particular, Cuban fritas that possibly fostered the progressive heritage of some styles of the American hamburger. Famous author-foodie, John T. Edge shared his thoughts and preferences for burgers on the American scene and concluded that his favored versions are Miami-based - present day.
From the early twentieth century, fritas served up by Habana street vendors consisted of shredded beef topped with potato sticks and drowned in tomato sauce held by a bun of fresh Cuban bread. These days the hamburger version of South Florida comes smothered in everything from fries to fried eggs and plantains, soft, sweet bread or tostones (hard/crunchy). Contemporary saucing will range from Mojo to salsa caliente and most likely in a man cave somewhere you could find one or two ways to cancel out your taste buds with ghost peppers!
As I am want to do, my old south nostalgic recollections are fueled by their relation to the senses that are still recognizable in my time besotted mind. That would be centered on things that I used to do well, or thoroughly enjoyed, or both, that I can now only ruminate about. I suppose sex should be thrown in for good measure too. However, its slice of the life experience pie chart is barely discernable these days. And, I do not recall ever eating a hamburger, or a taco even while having sex.
Mr.Edge mentions pimento cheeseburgers of Georgia – South Carolina roots. My best encounter here was a social experiment club in the ghost town shopping district of Bamberg, South Carolina. I have “people” there who have farmed for six generations. They are better and funnier than blood kin. And, they don’t work at it.
Anyway, at the time the only business in downtown Bamberg was the Peoples Grocery, and a Jiffy Stop self-serve, gas station, and the social adventure I just mentioned. The nearest movie theater and/or any semblance of entertainment was up the road about fifty miles.
Jimmy John inherited some money and decided to open a restaurant, bar, and dance hall. He spent a couple of thousand on an old dress shop and got a mini bottle, on premise, consumption license. A two-ounce mini of Jack Daniels cost $2.50, plus the mixer. A shooter of Grants Standfast scotch only cost $1.50 because it didn’t sell worth a damn until my friend Boudreaux and I noticed the single malt elixir hiding on the top shelf behind the bar. After that bad turn of events, the Grants turned a profit for the house at $3.00. Jimmy didn’t charge us for the club soda; we were the only ones that drank it anyway. A big spender’s discount.
Jimmy John’s place was named by its patrons before he could do it himself. It was known far & wide as the No Name Place. Jimmy opened Friday nights, and that was monopolized by families, as was breakfast on Saturday.
Come Saturday lunch time; things got serious and rambunctious. It was Fall. Hunters, football fans, farmers, truck drivers, and gussied up women doing shots and depth charges.
Lunch showcased the complicated mind of Joe Ed Thataway, cook/chef extraordinaire. His first menu big hit was the pimento cheeseburger with everything, including big yard stink onions topped off with Durkees cut to a liquid state with Crystal hot sauce and tamed with a smidgen of sugar. The tomatoes in the burger changed weekly from regular ripe to fried green, my favorite version.
Underage customers, poor accounting, and the fading novelty took the gloss off this rose right after Thanksgiving. It was a good run, but Baptist blood pressures needed the relief, and they got it sooner than they thought they would.
There is always hope, but I doubt for me that there is a burger that could ever equal the simplistic genius of Louis Pinnisi’s “secret recipe” hamburger. The Pinnisi’s lived across the street from us in Gainesville. He had two boys. Fred and Tommy. Louis immigrated from Sicily in 1922. He started in the ice cream business and in 1928 opened Louis’ Lunch on SE 2nd Street, in a white stucco building he built himself with $1,500 he borrowed. He got the idea of hamburgers from a couple of women at a fundraiser party who sold burgers for a nickel. He thought about those and felt he could do better. He settled on his mother’s recipe for meatballs. Of course, he had to experiment some to get from a meatball to a patty. However, he did, and then he stuck to his beginnings and cooked the burgers in a cast iron skillet. He and his sons did it that way for 82 years. Louis and his sons were faithful to the secrecy imposed by him regarding the recipe. When I moved to South Carolina, I would come back to Gainesville, and the first thing I would do was go down to Louis’ and buy a whole case of patties from Tommy.
Swift had a processing plant in Jacksonville and Louis was getting the secret burgers made on their assembly line. Everybody pestered Louis and the boys for that recipe. The closest I got was “hamburger, pork, breading, and spices.” No portions, no hint. The breading explained the crispy outside and moist inside, resulting from cooking in oil in the skillet. That was enough to satisfy my curiosity. However, something else was truly secret in this culinary mystery.
I had the genuine article. I had a seasoned skillet. I had watched the Pinnisi’s cook the burgers over and over again. Hell, I watched like watching a magician do a trick that you loved and craved the solution for. It didn’t make any difference. There was no slight of hand either. My Louis hamburger didn’t quite measure up to the diner created, original article.
C’est la vie! And, too short to sweat the details.
Louis’ like all good things of earlier birth, died on its own footprint from the lousy economy and main drag fast food. His oldest, Fred, was shot dead in a robbery in 1993. Tommy took over and ran the business until it closed in October of 2010. He was 77. Louis lived to be 106 years old.
While I was writing this my mouth watered in a continuously profuse tribute. Here’s to great things, small, that are lost in the bigger panorama of the universal life flow.
That's enuff said. Thanks for visiting. Remember Rednak Luvs Ya!
Trump Administration Changing Cuba Policy. Rightfully So, But Too Soon.
Plans under consideration include tightening rules on Americans travelling to Cuba, which were loosened under Obama and saw the number of US arrivals rise to 285,000 in 2016, not including the 300,000 Cuban-American visitors who are not counted as tourists.
Sec. Tillerson’s take on new Cuba policy changes
Today POTUS wings to Miami
Mr. Trump will be massaging ex-pat Cubanos with tough talk today.
From press releases changes are coming in Cuba policy. These matters are supposed to sound tough. Honestly, the Cuban regime is not forthcoming with its bad actor behavior, not only at home but throughout the Carribean and South America.
Catch his act tonight on the evening news.
Personally, I like Attorney General Jeff Sessions. No secret my preference has a lot to do with his southern accent and carriage. He talks like a wizened lawyer. The meter of his conversation makes you want to hear more. He is right about not revealing conversations with the president. (Why bother? The pres. Tweets and brags on every matter).
Director Comey used the opportunity of his hearing to parse words somewhat to infer that he appealed to the AG to no avail. The truth was Mr. Sessions responded to Comey’s letter and advised him re: policy. I like Mr. Comey also. However, getting fired as FBI director is certainly a kick to the groin. That chapter is closed. Most of this problem circles back to the fact that Mr. Trump is naïve` and to make matters worse he is impulsive and thick headed. The system is eating him alive piece by piece and it is his fault. (Note: his relative restraint these last few days has been like fresh air. However, make no mistake, the national media is out to get Trump. Of course, Democrats are foaming at the mouth.
Here's a piece I wrote a long time ago and intend to include in the next collection of short stories I am presently working on. On The Road With Boudreaux and I is the sequel to The Rednak Chronicles.
# # #
You don’t have to consult the tilt of the solar calendar to know that it’s summer. Not only is the heat on you like a blanket, but kids are everywhere you go, at nine o’clock in the morning—on weekdays and weekends, plus nights too! Where’d they all come from?
Another signpost for summer is watermelons. Yeah, watermelons. Watermelons in the grocery, on the side of the road, and in the back of trucks with out of state tags. For me, melons and summer’s advance are the stuff of my nostalgia.
So much has changed in sixty plus years, and it seems like it should have taken a century, at least. Oh, how time flys. For us kids, the first job of summer was: “Head for the melon fields it’s pickin’ time!” Little kids from eleven up to twelve and thirteen did the pitchin’ in the field. A group of adults and older kids went ahead and cut the melons from the vine. You had to be bigger, around fourteen, to ride in the truck and stack the melons as the young ones on the ground pitched them up. This hierarchy made no sense to me then and can only be explained as peckin’ order, not logic.
We would meet at the appointed place each day, in the cool darkness before dawn and be hauled out to a field to start work promptly at seven. Early day, the clip would go well. Then as eleven approached, the sun would start its assault on your sweat glands, and the “bear” would start breathin’ down your neck. For some that “bear “ just wouldn’t get off them and they’d faint away. .Too many steps under an unforgiving solar eye that beat down relentlessly. For the uninitiated that “bear” rode you into the ground, or you beat him with your “gut “stamina in the first day or so. The few that collapsed under that weight didn’t show up again at any farm field. They went back to town to work at lawn mowin’ or sweeping out stores and runnin’ errands for the summer. Compared to 50 cents an hour on the melon chain gang, they made chump change—they only worked two or three days a week. Why the rest of us opted to stay out there, I can’t explain? It sure as hell wasn’t fun. Or was it?
The relief of lunch would come none too soon, and the jockeying for shade under a tree or truck was short lived for want of rest. Black and white made no difference out here, and got you no consideration job-wise, or pay. We all struggled with the big Charleston Grays, Cannonbals, etc.; slogging along in the sugar sand and burning like sharecroppers, no matter the color of your skin.
Being youngsters with hidden energies for certain things, the continuous talk and jokes kept everyone going in this agricultural hell. It made you look forward to being with those comrades of the melon fields each day. You strove to keep up cause you knew there were some better than you. Truth was, however, those few thought you must be better than them if you could keep up with the pace and them too. By the third day, we proved we all had heart and shared more than we realized tryin’ to impress others instead of ourselves.
On Fridays, you still worked a full day, 7:00 AM to 4 in the afternoon. Sometimes the job boss would blow the horn at 3:30 so everyone could walk in without hurrying. Fifty cents an hour! That’s it, $20.00 a week. Sign the sheet, and the boss would pay you off in small bills. Your pocket bulgin’ with a roll of twenty ones made you feel like somethin’ important. Those guys who rode the field trucks made the same, but they got an extra 50 cents on every truck full they stacked that left the field. And, believe me, you didn’t leave the field ‘til that last flatbed, stake truck was finished off! Experience taught you quick, to be assessin’ those trucks as the day neared its end. You might see as many as a dozen kids, suddenly surround a given vehicle. Then, under a huge dust cloud, they’d be scrambling—handing up watermelons, in a “gang” effort to reach knock off time, on time.
High school boys worked down at the rail siding packin’ boxcars and open semis. They worked in teams of four and got fifteen dollars each for loading a car or tractor trailer. For us young ones there were serious plateaus to look forward too. Why, as a teenager, you could make yourself over thirty dollars a day! It didn’t matter that you often worked into the night; that with no ventilation the boxcars were standing infernos, and the hay you used to pack the melons in was infested with critters that chewed you up worse than redbugs. Assignments to open semi-trailers parked in the shade were often decided by “team” leaders. Who could hit the hardest, or who got tired the quickest wrestlin’ in the dust and dirt? For many, this was college money - - - or a car!
By the time I made it to the boxcar loadin’ level civilization had set in and little folks were written out of farm labor for peanuts, or otherwise. You couldn’t work until fifteen. I knew a lot of fourteen-year-olds, like me, who signed up for Social Security cards as claiming to be fifteen-year-olds. I was sixty-five before I had to correct that lie out of benefit necessity. Minimum wage took on a new significance for a lot of folks. Funny, boxcar loadin’ pay didn’t change one red cent the whole time I did it.
When the melons were done—about four weeks tops— you could go on to other crops, such as dreaded tobacco. Nasty, sticky sap and hotter than field hell in the curing barns. By this time you couldn’t tell the white kids from the black kids except for the sun-bleached hair. And everyone knew the sore points and the sense of humor of everyone else. You made real and lasting friendships in those summers that lasted through the segregated school years until summer came ‘round again. And growin’ up could be shared in a common effort for wages that seemed, at the time, to be worth the payoff.
Enjoy your summer and remember Rednak Luvs Ya!
Resourceful Cubans Key To Island's Population Survival
Yesterday’s Wall Street Journal had a telling article about Cubans flying to Moscow for the purpose of scouring the local flea markets for auto and tractor parts, jeans, and haberdashery. They stay for about a week and are assisted by a number of Cuban expats who teach market vendors Spanish and guide turistas cubanos to sources of rare parts they so desperately need. This is not small change trinket and souvenir spending. Parts dealers have containers full of old salvaged tractor and auto parts. Cuba has an abundance of leftover old cars, most of which are American made, and many are cobbled together with refinement and appear to be brand new. This is due to resourceful homespun engineering—par-excellance`. Russian junk Ladas and Nivas disappeared from Moscow’s streets years ago but they are plentiful in Habana. Fixed and running they bring top dollar.
Moscow has a scrap and used car market where traders say that 40% of their business is from Cuban’s. Metal containers are full of what would be considered scrap but is purchased by weight by Cuban buyers. Parts are in such demand on the island that there is no concern for what is being purchased because everything can be utilized and at an enormous profit. A typical group of buyers that come in on the daily Aeroflot flight that takes 13 hours one way will spend between $3,000 and $7,000.
Many villages back on the island pool their resources. Areas in Cuba’s central sugar-cane region need parts for heir 1970’s Soviet tractors or the cane would rot in the fields.
The fact that Cubans are resourceful is evident wherever you go on the island. What is not so obvious is the existence of the underground economy which is bolstered by regular subsidies from family and expats, not just those in the states, but from those living in many other parts of the world who have found security and prosperity elsewhere.
When I was in Cuba last year the bulk of Aero Mexico’s passengers leaving from the Yucatan had parts, tires, and small machinery checked as luggage. The Aeroflot runs allow 260 pounds of freight per customer before a fee. Also, Russia does not require a visa from Cubans. Russians and Cubans are friendly and have in common the obstinate affinity for a failed system of government that benefits the governing and holds their people in an iron grip.
It is difficult to reconcile the straight laced approach of punitive stubbornness and denial our government has applied to our neighbor because of pure politics. There are millions of people on the island of Cuba. There are a few hundred that lead the government under a dictatorial regime that to date has very little sources of income outside of disappearing foreign subsidies and the burgeoning tourist industry. Note: 62% of employed Cubans work for the government or government owned businesses.
In the short haul, the positive implications surrounding the tourist economy are the best tools for making Cuban citizen’s lives better and providing a pressure on the government to continue and improve conditions and infrastructure for the monetary rewards of tourism. That should not be difficult for our government to understand. (Hah!)
The big picture involves millions who deserve better. The implacable attitudes on both sides originate from small minds out of small groups in power, on both sides.
In closing, can you imagine what a boon and economic wave there would be if some U.S. entrepreneur and his Cuban counter-part joined forces and started a reproductive old vehicle parts manufacturing business. With the embargo blockhead(sic) in place the parts couldn’t leave the dock in Tampa.
# # #
Good Intentions But Very Bad Choice
As a country the United States is walking on thin ice. We’ve elected an alternative to progressive socialism that is woefully unprepared to both understand or conduct the task of leading our nation. Pathetically, winning a popularity contest is a huge chasm to leap to confident rule with the restrained exercise of deliberate focus.
When one is driven by an insatiable ego and unschooled in anything above bullying to persuade, the consequences of this personality’s actions are frightening given the multifaceted scenarios of peril for the entire country that pass through the Oval office daily.
Unfortunately there is little on the table or available constitutionally that portends a happy ending for Mr. Trump’s presidency. We should all be praying for a peaceful solution for correcting what was done democratically for a ringer ,with the right message, who was wearing the wrong clothes. Prediction: In a year from now, Mr. Pence will be POTUS. Only in America.
Cuba today & Terrorism
Symphony brings whales to the surface
Dimitris Koutsiaftis Published on Jan 23, 2017
I think my dog’s a democrat
That's enuff said.
Low Road Headlines:
Franken & Griffin get their 15 minutes of fame this week. The senator opened his inbox to the sewer sweeps. The media has to be desperate in his case. In the battle of the imbeciles, Dunderhead versus Airhead has not quite reached the “your momma” stage but Grifffin hired legal counsel just in case it does. Kellyanne Conway has complained so much about mental pressure from the press that POTUS gave her one of the ethics waivers he was handing out to staff & advisors this week.
‘The White House said the waivers were necessary because the administration needed those staffers' expertise on certain issues.’
Steve Bannon got one too. That pretty much tells the whole story there. Ivanka’s hubby got a gold star of David, and Sean Spicer got a notice that he still has his job for the coming week. Stay tuned someone’s brains will fall out of their mouth before the next moon phase.
# # #
Peggy Noonan’s column in the Wall Street Journal on Sunday about David McCullough’s new book, The American Spirit has some revealing observations about young America:
College student, “Until now I never understood that the original thirteen colonies were all on the East Coast.”
Another student asked the aging author, “Aside from Harry Truman and John Adams how many other presidents have you interviewed?”
Speaking of college students and young people in general a Harvard study from a year ago found that a majority of respondents between the age of 18 and 29 do not support capitalism and the free market system. Even stranger was that a third of those polled support socialism. For me this goes to the flash mob mindset where if impressive numbers of sheep gather to demonstrate choreographically they also sponge up the ten word bite of social commentary text for the day. Thus the ancient practice of pseudo intellectualism lives on. “Those greedy capitalists f- - - - d us again. Can you believe it?”
On the other hand, Pew Research’s Global Attitudes and Trends study found that 66% of those from developing and advanced countries believe people are better off under capitalism. Conversely, the author of the article that presents these observations, Warren Stephens, says that these same young adults celebrate entrepreneurs and free enterprise. They also believe that government interference is the answer to troubling economic times such as those we recently went through in America.
The bottom line is being young means being impressionable. It is a known fact that numbers of tenured professors across the U.S. teach socialist philosophy as the latch key to the wishful thinking world. What seems idealistic and especially fair is the inclusiveness of the proletariat. Bernie Sanders is a classic example of the non-participating advocate-zealot of same. If it gets votes go for it. Not Only In America.
Distressed is Distressing
Distressed clothing speaks to another sector of lemming sheep going off the deep end. This rampaging craze doesn’t just infect youth. Middle aged women are buying these pieces of crap for upwards of $300 plus. Makers of this deluded trend claim that it takes real craftsmenship to wash a pair of jeans 60 plus times and then cut a slash in precisely the right spot for an addition to the “ass rip collection.” Holey Annie sweatshirts ($165) feature box-cutter rips and “the tears have to be placed strategically, otherwise it looks like Swiss cheese.” Wel l l l l l . . . better that than ? ? ?
This is cult psychology at its modern day pinnacle. Persuading victims with a new slant Manchurian Candidate hypnosis i.e. “punk rock edgy with heels that says,‘you’re not trying, but still chic.” ‘ A 54 year old buyer of this joke says, she cares about where the holes in her sweatshirt are placed. She appreciates that they look natural.
That’s enuff said. Wacka, Wacka
ALERT !! Canine Influenza ALERT!!
There is no evidence that H3N2 canine influenza virus infects people.
While H3N2 has been circulating throughout the country, this is the first time the virus has been confirmed in Florida.
H3N2 Canine Influenza Virus (H3N2 CIV) is a very contagious influenza virus that infects dogs.
What does H3N2 CIV cause?
H3N2 causes a respiratory infeciton in dogs that is also know as "dog flu".
Signs: Sneezing, Nasal Discharge, Frequent coughing and can last for 2 or more weeks.
H3N2 CIV can cause respiratory infections in cats too. The cats start sneezing and have nasal discharge but usually do not cough.
How do dogs get H3n2 CIV infection?
H3N2 CIV is spread by direct contact with a sick dog and by contact with an enviornment or people that are contaminated with the virus. What dogs are at risk? Most dogs do not have immunity to H3N2 CIV.
Food For Thought
Dog Vacine Truth?
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