New Moon Rantings

Rags-06-23-17

Supermarket Rags from 23 June 2017

Looking at the grocery store’s magazine rack yesterday made me think, what kind of sick world are we living in?

Last week a judge at a trial found a teenager guilty of involuntary manslaughter for the latter’s repeatedly urging and encouraging her eighteen-year-old boyfriend with hundreds of text messages to kill himself.

The defendant was reportedly in communication with the victim on a cellphone at the time of his death, while he was sitting in a truck where a gas-powered water pump was running, filling the interior with noxious fumes.

He had gotten out of the vehicle during the attempt to commit suicide, texting his seventeen-year-old girlfriend and telling her he was scared. She texted back, telling the distraught young man to get back in.

The two then spoke by phone, whereby the boyfriend repeated his fear of dying by carbon-monoxide poisoning. The twisted perpetrator texted a friend later, saying she was “talking on the phone with him when he killed himself. I heard him die.”

The girl, now a young woman at twenty, is awaiting sentencing which could put her in jail for as many years.

“That’s just an isolated occurrence which happened three years ago,” you might be saying. What about the 183 people killed, and 594 injured by mass shootings in the U.S. from January 1 through June 22 of this year, according to Gun Violence Archive? Is that only a drop in the bucket?

Most notably, the recent melee at a baseball field in Virginia injured five people on June 14, including a U.S. senator who was at a practice session for an upcoming game between congressional Republicans and Democrats. The lone gunman was the only death in that incident.

As I was proofreading this, another entry to the archive was added for a shooting that occurred today, killing one and injuring four others in Fort Lauderdale, Florida.

Political hatred and vitriolic speech is spewed constantly on Twitter, Facebook and blogs on the Internet. Never has such belligerence been freewheeled so profusely than after the spawn of Social Media, where anonymous nimrods can spread their poisonous blather to no end, something they would never be caught doing in real life amongst sane individuals.

Our politicians are no better either, trying to undo with utmost vindictiveness, everything the prior administration had accomplished for the benefit of common citizens.

Health care is foremost on their wicked agenda, while saving money for the wealthy, taking away from the poor, sort of modern-day Sheriffs of Nottingham. Where is Robin Hood when we need him?

Even the President at every turn of the corner is found scratching his name in cursive, larger than half the page of the incendiary documents he’s signing, meant to benefit his cronies and blindsided minions, rather than the general populous, while blaming others than himself for his personal problems.

Maybe if he wrote his name a bit larger, his detractors might take him seriously.

What about the rest of the world? North Korea sent home a captive American student last week while he was in a coma due to unknown circumstances. He died the other day.

One can only speculate what the cause was for the young man’s dilapidated condition after his being held for seventeen months in a country run by a madman, whom our own leader had said he admired, while the reclusive nation proceeds steadfastly to proliferate nuclear weapons of mass destruction meant to reach our mainland.

Mass shootings and terrorism have blanketed major countries in Europe. Middle Eastern radical extremists have captured, beheaded and killed innocent victims in the name of their nefarious ideology.

Tens of thousands of refugees have fled their homeland from fear, injury and desolation. Governments are killing their own people. Former cold-war adversaries are threatening to target one another in such places, possibly leading us to the brink of World War III.

Why has Barry McGuire’s “Eve of Destruction” turned into my own personal earworm?

This essay might cause many of my followers on the Social Media platforms to un-follow me; nay, probably not. They don’t read my diatribes anyway, nor respond to anything I post.

Them who do, realize my tirades are harmless rants to relieve pent up frustrations, such as those about my unsavory neighbors downstairs, like their calling the cops again on Thursday night, complaining I was drumming after 10 p.m. when I was not; although, I had been playing my acoustic guitar quietly, testing a new pickup installed to avoid errant stomach noises while recording and using a microphone.

Now the jerk on the first floor has taken up smoking his cigars again, sending toxic fumes upstairs into my flat. His girlfriend must be off on another extended sojourn. If I were to go postal, would anyone blame me?

new Moon 06-24-17-02All my prior complaining can be blamed on the new moon, however, which passes today.

My attitude will improve progressively better—or how Trump might say it, “betterly” (is that a word?)—as we approach the full moon on July 9th, called the Buck Moon, so stay tuned.

The song I was recording that got me into trouble this time is the following, on which the drums were created by my clicking a mouse instead of pounding on my electronic drum set, from fear of landing in jail from “strike three” by the Bensalem Police Department.

Thanks for listening, reading, and your continued support.

 

 

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Instant Paralysis

Fathers Day

Happy Father’s/Fathers’ Day. This is a listing of all the countries that celebrate the event this weekend. Image courtesy of Wikipedia.

Happy Father’s Day Weekend to all involved, whether it be you, your parent, relative, a step-father, grandpappy, great-grandfather, or an adopted dad through friendship.

This can apply also to mothers who are raising a child or a bevy of kids by themselves, and having to play both roles due to whatever circumstances put them into that position in the first place.

Speaking of which, today, June 17, was my mother’s birthday. Like mine does with Mother’s Day—or is it “Mothers’ Day”? I can never remember which, but anyway—Mum’s birthday always fell around Father’s (Fathers’?) Day. Guess the same can apply to the latter as well.

In a previous post, I wrote about how my dad at one time combined the two occasions, Mother’s Day and my birthday, and gave us both the same present: a typewriter.

Around the time my parents split up, Mum suggested I give her and Pop the same present for their annual celebrations, which both fell on the same day that year, as payback; adding, however, to make it something beneficial for each of them, and I can save some cash in doing so, like he did.

Taking money from that which I had saved from my newspaper route, I decided to buy them a blender. I don’t think that was quite what she had in mind, based on her reaction while removing the wrapping paper; but Mum rewarded me by making the best ice-cream milkshake with it that evening. You see? There was a method to my gift-giving.

Dad really liked it and made margaritas afterward, as a celebratory libation for himself and my mother. He seemed to have been a bartender-wannabe, so I knew he’d appreciate my effort.

My father ended up buying a couple of bars in years to come, at which he finally practiced his ambition on many nights to cut costs. I even acted as a barkeep from time to time, like when he was in a jam.

One of his taverns was in Paterson, NJ, not exactly in the most fashionable section of that city, but in an area where people loved to drink and wallow away their desperation. They loved it so much that someone had bored a hole in the floor of a vacant apartment above the bar, right through the ceiling, and stole all of his liquor.

From that point forward, he kept his bar’s stock in cartons on our living-room floor, much to my hedonistic enjoyment as a teenager. My friends and I became bartenders in our own right, making such concoctions as “Instant Paralysis,” which included sloe gin, rum, vodka, Ouzo, tequila, Bosco, heavy cream, and a couple of bananas, mixed in the blender Pop still had from that illustrious Father’s Day.

Note that the drink contained only white liquor except for the sloe gin that was red, mainly from the sloe drupes with which the liqueur is made. Ironically the plum-like ingredient is also called “stone fruit,” for reasons we found out, although the alcohol used is clear.

An old adage states that white and dark liquor shouldn’t be mixed, for untold horrors and a dreadful hangover will occur if imbibed together, hence the logic for our choice of liquor in the bombshell cocktail.

Pop is no longer with us. He would have been 100 years old in December. He made it to 89, seven months shy of 90, which gives me hope for longevity. Mum, unfortunately, wasn’t so lucky, making it to 43, dying way too young. She would have been 95 this year.

As stated before, when holidays occur, I try to think of the humorous times spent with those whose attendance at these annual festivities are no longer in existence, which gives me plenty of fodder for my weekly diatribes.

Again, Happy Father’s (Fathers’) Day and thanks for your continued support. By the way, I’m presently working on a duet with my good friend, Rie Waits, which I’ll place here when finished for the weekly cover when available.

Never mind… you don’t seem to care one way or the other it seems.  You want to hear it, it’s on Twitter.

 

 

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Teasing the Memory

Mike-Bob

Poloroid Shot of Mike Slickster and Best Bud Bob in the kitchen of the house on Maple Avenue

From my thinking about a Social Media chat I’ve been having on Facebook, the topic for this week’s journal entry has to do with memory, thanking my lucky stars mine hasn’t faded too much, except for trying to remember where I last put my car keys occasionally, and misplacing my wallet from time to time.

On that aforementioned conversation, my friend remarked about her surprise that I still remembered some locales in East Tennessee, where a wonderful part of life during my younger years was spent. We had been talking about a bald eagles’ nest at Boone Lake near Tri-Cities Airport in Blountville.

Last Novemeber, a weekly post here dealt with brain exercises and mental health, in which short remembrances of all my teachers from elementary school found their way onto the essay.

The parochial school I attended from fifth grade through eighth included the happiest times throughout all of my schooling, save for the period at East Tennessee State University, where I had a blast for the five years spent there.

Another past entry regarded my discovery that the grammar school just cited had closed down and turned into a charter school, which broke my heart to discover.

Assuming the reason for its closing was due to the parish’s not being able to support the venerable institution, I went on an Internet search to find out if my presumption was correct, and found that Holy Trinity had shut down due to meager enrollment as the main cause.

During my perusals. a bulletin-board-style Web site, dedicated to my hometown of Hackensack, NJ, turned up with many stories of great interest to me, especially those about my beloved grammar school, which caused me to tease my memory for posting a few tidbits after joining.

Here’s what I contributed to a string of posts asking for the names of the nuns and teachers at the elementary school during  the period I attended:

Hello to the group,

I lived on Maple Avenue from the fifth grade through my freshman year in high school (Paramus Catholic), having graduated from Holy Trinity.  Sister Emily and Sister Maria Agnes were the eighth-grade teachers. The principal was Sister Cecilia de Paul after Sr. Louise’s tenure. I can’t remember if Sr. Louise had died or retired.

Sister Margaret de Paul (not sure if she was related to Sr. Cecilia) and Mrs. Fiore were the seventh-grade teachers; Sister Margaret Fidelis was my sixth-grade instructor (think Mrs. Frascas was the other sixth-grade teacher). Mrs. Moran and Sister Gerard taught the fifth grades.

Thanks for the previous photos on the board. Brought me back to when Sister Gerard grabbed me by the collar and spun me around a few times in the hallway, my landing supine on the second floor after being caught talking in line on the way back to Mrs. Moran’s classroom from lunch. The nun was a small woman to boot.

The boys-room photo stirred a memory of my having a fist fight with a classmate in there during the fifth grade, being broken up by Sister Juliana, who was teaching fourth grade next door at the time. She just walked right in, as they all did.

We were sent down to Sister Louise, the aforementioned principal, who smacked us both across the face at once, twice like Moe of The Three Stooges would do to his cohorts, Larry and Curly.

My main reason for registering with this forum and writing this was to make a comment about the teenager with cerebral palsy on the large tricycle, who hung around during lunchtime and watched the kids play. Someone had asked if anyone had information about him.

His name was David, and he lived directly across from the playground-parking lot, which was two houses southeast from where I resided.  I would talk to him whenever he pedaled past me on the sidewalk. Although Dave was unable to speak words, he communicated with grunts and always with a smile, happy to get attention, I suppose.

Someone had mentioned the church organist was his mother. That’s incorrect.  From being an altar boy, I remember the organist was a handicapped gentleman, crippled, who was carried up the narrow, winding stairs to the choir loft by his wife, who sang hymns to his accompaniment.

I can’t remember their names, unfortunately. If I think hard enough, maybe it will come back to me. I want to say it’s Mr. and Mrs. Donnelly on second thought.

I ran across this forum from looking up on Yahoo about Holy Trinity School, and why it had closed down, reminiscing today about my hometown where I was born. A few years ago, I visited Hackensack, doing a photo-shoot of the N.Y.C. skyline, passing through and hadn’t been there in decades.

My home is now outside of Philadelphia, in a section of Bensalem Township called “Andalusia.” Driving through my old neighborhood, I noticed the school was now a charter school, breaking my heart; but figured the parish couldn’t afford upkeep any longer, as has been the case with many Catholic schools of late.

I found a few articles about how Holy Trinity incorporated with St. Francis School on the south side of town in 2009, as they were having financial problems, both being housed in the latter’s building, for recent renovations had been performed.

Then I read the combo-school, renamed “Padre Pio Academy,” had been closed down by the archdiocese four years later (2013) for financial reasons and low enrollment as well. Too bad.

In my Internet search, a listed obituary noted my favorite priest from Holy Trinity, Father Gene Hazewski, had died last May. We’d play basketball with him in the school gym, or stick ball in the parking lot. I loved to serve Mass for him, as he went through the ceremony faster than the rest: Fr. Geila (sp?), Fr. Laing, Msgr. Murphy—who retired before I graduated HTS, and was responsible for building the new school—and Fr. DeDominico (the slowest of the bunch). Fr. Laing had baptized me as well.

On a pleasant note, I found this heartwarming article: stating that Sister Emily was still alive as of 2014, hoping now she’s still with us.

The follow is a scan of my eighth-grade class’ graduation collage. Hopefully the rest on the photo don’t mind my posting it here:

Holy-Trinity-Class-of-1802

After Maple Avenue, my dad and I moved to Elm Avenue in the Fairmount section of the city, living there until I graduated from high school.

Thanks for the memories.

Sincerely,

Mike

I removed all the names on the above photo to protect my classmates’ privacy, and also changed the year of our graduating class. Most know already I’m an old fart, but I didn’t want to admit to being a Triassic.

Allow me to conclude this essay with my latest cover written and originally recorded by Bob Seger and the Silver Bullet Band:

Thanks for reading, listening, and for your continued support.

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Comic Relief

Moses - God

Three couples on a vacation cruise were aboard a luxury yacht and became inundated by an unexpected tidal wave, sinking their vessel deep into the ocean and onto its floor where each met a watery grave.

They found themselves in the afterlife, standing before the Pearly Gates, looking to gain admittance.

“I can’t let you in,” St. Peter said to the first couple. “You loved money too much.” Turning to the man he added, “You desired it so wholeheartedly, you even married a woman named ‘Penny.'”

The holy one pulled a lever, and a trap door in the clouds opened, causing the pair to drop down and disappear to the fires of Hell below.

“I can’t let you two in either. Your greed for food was overwhelming.” Heaven’s gatekeeper pointed to the husband.  “You loved it so much, your betrothed is named ‘Candy.'” St. Peter sent the couple down to an eternal vacation in Hades.

The last pair turned dreadfully to face one another, upon which time the husband said, “It doesn’t look good, Fanny. I might as well reach in and pull the lever myself.”

I started this week’s essay off with an old joke to lighten the mood. This is by no means meant as disrespect. Right before my starting this entry, word of another suspected terrorist attack in London made the news.

A van had run up onto the sidewalk at London Bridge, killing at least two persons. A knifing incident took place reportedly in the Borough Market area nearby, where shots were heard when police arrived to investigate; and a third unspecified attack in Vauxhall is alleged to have happened during the course of the other events.

All three locations are in close vicinity to one another. This harrowing news falls upon the heels of the melee in Manchester, just two weeks ago. My thoughts and prayers go out to those afflicted by these senseless acts.

The fear felt by Londoners has to be profound. A similar attack on the Westminster Bridge near Parliament took place a little over two months ago. I couldn’t imagine how I would feel had the same back-to-back atrocities occurred in Philadelphia, my living with constant paranoia, wondering when the next disaster will unfold.

The British are a hardy breed, having survived untold devastation and destruction in the past, continuing on with their day-to-day existence, not allowing these terroristic threats to keep them down.

Why can’t we all live in peace? Is it because human nature dictates that violence be part of the life’s scheme?

Hatred, greed and jealousy are motivating factors. Religion is a main driving force as well. What is meant for salvation has reared its ugly head instead toward annihilation in the name of whichever god is being worshiped.

Might as well add the remainder of the deadly sins to the mix: lust, gluttony, sloth, wrath, and pride, all of which are displayed by our politicians and leaders of today. We’re doomed if we don’t change our ways.

Thanks for your continued support. Sorry for being so negative lately. Happiness has been fleeting.

John Lennon

John Lennon from How I Won the War

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Memorial Day 2017: War is Hell

Photo Credit: AP Photojounalist Horst Faas, taken during the Vietnam War

Photo Credit: AP Photojournalist Horst Faas, 18 June 1965, Phouc Vinh, South Vietnam.

I’ve been where you are now and I know just how you feel. It’s entirely natural that there should beat in the breast of every one of you a hope and desire that some day you can use the skill you have acquired here.

Suppress it! You don’t know the horrible aspects of war. I’ve been through two wars and I know. I’ve seen cities and homes in ashes. I’ve seen thousands of men lying on the ground, their dead faces looking up at the skies. I tell you, war is Hell!

                                                                                                                           William Tecumseh Sherman

The quotation above is allegedly an excerpt from an address made by former US Army General William Sherman to the Michigan Military Academy’s graduating class of 1879.

The soldier in the lead photo for this essay was 19-year-old Larry Wayne Chaffin from St. Louis, who served with the 173rd Airborne Brigade Battalion, defending the airstrip at Phouc Vinh.

He was fortunate to have survived the war, but died of diabetes in 1985, just 39 years old, from a disease which may have been contracted from exposure to Agent Orange while in Vietnam.

Spc Etienne J Murphy

Spc. Etienne J, Murphy, 22, of Loganville, Ga; died May 26, 2017 in Syria. Image of the U.S. DEPARTMENT OF DEFENSE

Spc. Etienne J. Murphy, as seen above, is the latest U.S. soldier to die in uniform, reportedly from injuries sustained in a vehicle rollover in Al-Hasakah, Syria. He was a member of the 1st Battalion, 75th Ranger Regiment from Hunter Army Airfield, Fort Stewart, Georgia.

The total casualties due to involvement in the Middle East thus far, not counting the U.S. involvement in Syria, is as follows:

Iraq Coalition Military Fatalities By Year

Year US UK Other Total
2003 486 53 41 580
2004 849 22 35 906
2005 846 23 28 897
2006 823 29 21 873
2007 904 47 10 961
2008 314 4 4 322
2009 149 1 0 150
2010 60 0 0 60
2011 54 0 0 54
2012 1 0 0 1
2014 3 0 0 3
2015 6 0 2 8
2016 17 0 0 17
2017 8 1 0 9
Total 4520 180 141 4841

Afghanistan Coalition Military Fatalities By Year

Year US UK Other Total
2001 12 0 0 12
2002 49 3 18 70
2003 48 0 10 58
2004 52 1 7 60
2005 99 1 31 131
2006 98 39 54 191
2007 117 42 73 232
2008 155 51 89 295
2009 317 108 96 521
2010 499 103 109 711
2011 418 46 102 566
2012 310 44 48 402
2013 127 9 25 161
2014 55 6 14 75
2015 22 2 3 27
2016 14 0 2 16
2017 4 0 0 4
Total 2396 455 681 3532
                                 Data courtesy of icasualties.org, where a breakdown is found of all                                casualties from the individual countries that form the coalition.

The purpose of Memorial Day Weekend in America is to honor those who died while in military service, or as a result thereof.

Let us consider the number of deaths from previous military encounters throughout our history, taken from an article found on the History News Network:

War Deaths Addendum
American
Revolution
25,324 Bunker Hill cost 400 American lives
War
of 1812
2,260
Mexican
War
13,283
Civil War

Union

Confederacy

863,153

498,332

364,821

Antietam cost 5,000 lives on both sides: bloodiest day in American history
Spanish-American
War
2,446
World War I 116,516 Battle of Somme cost 19,240 British lives on a single day (total British casualties: 57,470)
World War II 405,399 Other Losses:

Soviet: 10,000,000

German: 3,500,000

Japan: 1,500,000

British: 280,000

At Dunkirk the
British suffered 68,000 casualties

Korean War 54,246
Vietnam War 56,244
Panama invasion 23
Gulf
War (1991)
148

Dozens of battles in American history took place in which more than 800 deaths resulted during an individual conflict. A few examples:

  • Antietam: 5,000 Soldiers killed (23,110 dead and wounded)
  • Gettysburg: 7,058
  • Pearl Harbor: 2,403
  • Iwo Jima: nearly 7,000
    Bataan Death March: credible estimates vary widely from 7,000 to nearly 10,000
  • D-Day: approximately 2,500
  • 9/11/2001: 3,047 (+/- 2,823 at WTC, 184 at the Pentagon, and 40 in Pennsylvania–excluding terrorists)

The last bullet in the previous listing, although not an official battle, was placed there in consideration of the lives lost from a direct confrontation by foreign terrorists who attacked unsuspecting civilians on U.S. soil.

This Memorial-Day tribute of 2017 follows a 20-year tradition for this writer: the first group of entries is found by clicking here, and last year’s addition is located here.

It is not my intention to take away the joyous feelings and merriment felt by most during this celebrated weekend, the official ushering-in of summer; although the season is not officially here until June 21.

However, for those in the U.S., please take a few minutes to honor our war dead, who have so bravely and unselfishly given their lives to protect our freedoms of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.

Thanks for reading this and for your continued support.

St-Marys-Cemetery- Burlington-02s

St. Mary’s Cemetery in Burlington, NJ.

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Sweet Dreams

Sweet Dreams“Sleep, those little slices of death; oh how I loathe them” is attributed to Edgar Allan Poe, as found on the ever knowledgeable Internet, which must make it true, right? Wrong! Show me from what work of his that quote originated.

Many say he never uttered it at all.

Regardless, I like the saying. To go along with it, I think dreams are the best part of sleeping.  At least they are for me. How boring life would be without them.

Why does time really fly by quickly while one is asleep? As a child, I would go to bed early on Christmas Eve so the morning and the opening of my gifts would arrive sooner. Learned that trick long ago. Same thing went for the night before my birthday. If you can’t wait until tomorrow, go to sleep.

Crazy dreams have been occurring to me lately, especially a recurring one that drives me nuts. When I worked in radio, the worst thing that could happen to a DJ was to experience “dead air,” which was total silence being broadcast.

To prevent such a dilemma, we always had a way out; at least I did. Pre-recorded tape cartridges, on which commercials and public-service announcements  awaited, were handy-dandy for slapping into a tape deck at a moment’s notice to fill the void until a vinyl record could be placed onto the turntable and cued.

That was in the dark ages, by the way, when everything operated in analog. Now with our omnipresent digital apparatuses (apparati?), being controlled by computers, all content is readily available from the “cloud,” so to speak, or on a hard drive, handily executed by a few keystrokes.

In my recurring dream, I’m always caught without a record cued up, with none available anywhere in the control room; nor are any CDs, or tape cartridges, which has me running around frantically in search for something to throw on the air.

Funny how it still bothers me, considering I hung up my radio headphones over thirty years ago.  Dream psychologists might say it’s because of underlining stress during my waking hours, although, I’m fortunate not to have any stress, other than complaining about having hardly any respect on Social Media.

The other night, I dreamt about looking out the window at a bald eagle, preening itself on a branch in a nearby tree. An insanely terrified person appeared suddenly on the opposite side of the window panes before me, a man with dark, curly hair, and eyes that bulged from their sockets as if they were going to explode at any moment.  His mouth was in a wide grimace, his green, rotted teeth displayed most predominately.

I told him he better get away from there because of the raptor perched within reach of his horrified countenance; yet he continued to peer inside at me as yellow pus oozed from his nostrils like molten lava from a volcano.

That did it, making me run outside to see the bald eagle had sunken its talons deep into this pitiful apparition’s back and was tearing pieces of skin from the wretched person’s neck, with blood pulsing out of the wounds, as if the bird had severed its victim’s jugular veins.

The weirdest part of all this was the way the man moaned during each moment the predator tore a chunk of flesh from either side of the former’s neck or face. It sounded as if the victim was being caressed by a lover, not ravaged by a killer.

I bet Freud would have a field day with that one.

Methinks I’ve been spending to much time photographing the Pennypack Park and Burlington Island bald eagles, as well as all the ospreys up and down the Delaware River.

Last night I dreamed a tick had fastened itself to my back, telling the person who was also in the chimaera that I had better remove it. Upon my doing so, the arachnid landed on the ground, appearing to be the size of a shoe, with markings of a black widow: not red, but a white hourglass on its thorax.

“Better make sure I got its head,” I said to my companion, looking down to see two eyeballs, similar to those of the crazy man from my dream previously mentioned.

The latter makes more sense to me than the one before it. I’ve been very paranoid about ticks this season, ever since having found three on my head and body a while back. One of them had been crawling on my belly after I went to bed. I’m surprised that in itself didn’t give me a raving nightmare.

Now, whenever arriving home from hiking around, I inspect myself thoroughly to make sure none are crawling about.

So goes another weekly tirade. Thanks for taking the time to read this, and for your continued support.

In closing, allow me to share my latest Cover Your Ears, a song written by Ray Davies of The Kinks:

Happy Memorial Day Weekend. Here’s hoping you have a wonderful summer. Don’t forget to dance. Sweet dreams and don’t let the ticks bite!

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Ode to Social Media

1439480278365

Tired of being politically correct,

With my latest thoughts, feelings, anger and philosophical merriment,

Afraid to offend those feeling they are Heaven sent,

Who have the very prospect of being hell bent,

To make me feel like I ain’t worth a bloody red cent.

 

Why does it matter anyway?

They’ll never let me know, if I may be so bold to say.

Their perennial silence and ignoration bother me each and every day,

No matter what I’ve implied or heartily attempted to portray,

Be it animal, mineral, topical or flowers from the month of May.

 

Religion and politics make for strange bedfellows, so I’m told,

And my references to both have seemingly left me out in the cold,

By friends and followers on various Social Media platforms who hold,

A completely different set of norms,

Contrary to those opinions I had not purposely trolled.

 

Yet all I read on my timelines is drivel and vitriol,

Concerning political yearnings, religious learning, highfalutin platitudes to behold,

To make my life better if I follow the incessant droll,

Which has to be truly the way to go while being sold,

A bill of goods that was cut-and-pasted, posted on the Internet in days of old.

 

If you’re going to be didactic, at least make your stich original,

Not found forever elsewhere on Social Media, Badda-Bing, Bang-Boom or Google.

Try sharing one of your own photos for once,

Maybe even post a bunch,

Instead of regurgitating someone else’s lunch.

 

Also, would it hurt to make a comment on my posts every now and then,

Whether it be about a photograph personally taken, a blog entry I have penned,

Reflections of my soul, deep thoughts I wanted to send,

Music that I’ve recorded, a rock-and-roll cover to append,

Or a just video of my exploits on the river bend?

 

In closing, here’s something politically incorrect, dedicated to today’s political climate:

That’s it for now. Thanks to those who comment on occasion, and for your continued support.

The End!

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