Wednesday, May 31, 2017
Overkill
Yeah, it's a cover of the Men at Work classic, but listen and wait for it...wait...wait...I said listen and wait for it.
Tuesday, May 30, 2017
Monday, May 29, 2017
Tiger, Tiger, Tiger #SMH
by Kim D.
So my husband walks in from playing a round of early Memorial Day golf and says, "Did you hear about Tiger Woods?" I hadn't and expected the worse . . .
So my husband walks in from playing a round of early Memorial Day golf and says, "Did you hear about Tiger Woods?" I hadn't and expected the worse . . .
All who loved seeing the brilliance of Tiger Woods on the greens get so sad to see news like this. Hopefully, this time, Tiger will get the help that finally brings him peace and happiness in life. To read more about Tiger's unfortunate Memorial Day incident, click HERE.Can't even lie, seeing Tiger Woods' mugshot is heartbreaking for so many reasons. pic.twitter.com/uSsxFt2C7h— Aaron Dodson (@aardodson) May 29, 2017
Pause and Think about #MemorialDay because #FreedomIsntFree
by Kim D.
It's not a happy day . . . but it is one to remember and give thanks for the brave men and women who lost their lives, preserving our right to live ours in freedom. It's a day of no work for some, but unless you have lost a veteran family member, Memorial Day is probably more about relaxing and having fun than giving thanks. So, while we enjoy freedom which allows us to enjoy this day, let's pause for a moment to remember the men and women who died to make it possible.
It's not a happy day . . . but it is one to remember and give thanks for the brave men and women who lost their lives, preserving our right to live ours in freedom. It's a day of no work for some, but unless you have lost a veteran family member, Memorial Day is probably more about relaxing and having fun than giving thanks. So, while we enjoy freedom which allows us to enjoy this day, let's pause for a moment to remember the men and women who died to make it possible.
Today let's take time to remember those who have died so we may be free, and thank the brave men & women who serve our country. #MemorialDay— Melania Trump (@FLOTUS) May 29, 2017
#MemorialDay @POTUS honors the fallen men and women of the Armed Forces with a wreath-laying ceremony at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier 🇺🇸 pic.twitter.com/OcxIteg3Ot— Kristin Billitere (@SpecialKMB1969) May 29, 2017
Today, take a moment to think of the countless men & women who have paid the ultimate price for our #freedom#MemorialDay #FreedomIsntFree pic.twitter.com/AfFEDksMQ1— Tim Vickers (@dodt2003) May 29, 2017
"We don't know them all, but we owe them all." #MemorialDay pic.twitter.com/8EvpxcZUtA— Kimberly (@conkc2) May 29, 2017
Memorial Day thoughts: gratitude and American exceptionalism. https://t.co/Ub6eXX2boX #MemorialDay pic.twitter.com/NTEIGLkeSd— David Dubrow (@davedauthor) May 29, 2017
Don't get so busy today, that you forget the REAL PRICE that was paid. #MemorialDay pic.twitter.com/up0CNVVrmG— Janine Stange (@THEANTHEMGIRL) May 29, 2017
Deeply humbling to join @POTUS at Arlington National Cemetery to remember our fallen heroes and their loved ones this #MemorialDay. https://t.co/ojaZZ8KNKW— Vice President Pence (@VP) May 29, 2017
🇺🇸 Eternal gratitude to those brave men and women who gave their lives so we can be free. #MemorialDay #HonortheFallen 🇺🇸 pic.twitter.com/5Xovnnt88e— Lizzy Lou Who🌷 (@_wintergirl93) May 29, 2017
#MemorialDay— ClemsonGrl (@liberty_grl) May 29, 2017
Honoring those who never came home so that we could go on living... #FreedomIsntFree pic.twitter.com/9s3enbbPeO
Let's Hunt a Killer
by Kim D.
Recently I've been enamored with the subscription industry and the cool things it offers. It's no longer just for magazines. Last year I purchased Little Passports for my son. Each month he receives a package in the mail which introduces him to a country and offers a tangible experience to help him explore a different culture. For Christmas I bought Food with Love for my parents, and each month they are thrilled to receive their snack box. Due to, well just life, I got burnt out on the weekly grind of meal inspiration and have found Blue Apron is making my life simpler and way more interesting. It's really nice to hear my husband compliment a meal because he hasn't yet again been served the same old, same old.
Now that I'm firmly rooted in the subscription world, a new idea showed up in my email inbox - Hunt a Killer. Basically, this experience brings a mystery to your doorstep, an interactive one which provides just enough clues to draw you in and capture your attention.
So let's look at the first arrival, Season One, Episode One. The box arrived with a journal, a manilla envelope, a welcome letter, and a lapel pin. Inside the envelope, other items were found: a crushed cup, a swan illustration, a letter from my "friend," a constellation card, and a redacted article.
The first thing you will most likely do is Google "hunt a killer" which will give a wealth of results from Reddit, Facebook, and blog pages devoted to solving the mystery. You get theories and spoilers, which kind of negates the reason for subscribing to a mystery. If you are searching for hints on how to start, you have to be careful to not stumble onto solutions.
So, here's what we will do in this hunt. We will look at every item and inspect it thoroughly giving only nudges toward what I believe is the right direction. The first item is the welcome letter from . . . Listening Friends of America (LoFA). It explains that it is a community of isolated people and the volunteers who listen. The letter ensures your privacy and details the inspection process for each package received. It is signed by George Madson, Vice-President of LoFA. The last part of the signature includes a web address for the organization, so the most logical place to start is here.
I inspected every page of the site and signed up for the newsletter and to "volunteer." Two days later I was rewarded with a clue. While waiting to see what would result from signing up with LoFA, I wondered two things: why was the organization's name preceded with an ellipsis (. . .) which indicates missing text. With every mystery there are actual clues that lead toward a solution or red herrings which can lead one down a rabbit hole. This is where the journal comes in handy to record questions as they arise as other clues can determine whether they are valid.
Another question I had at this point was about George Madson. Is he a fictional character? Is LoFA a real non-profit or simply part of an illusion? The Facebook page looks convincing and worth a complete examination which mainly highlights employees at numerous locations in the United States. Go to Maps and try to find the locations which answers these questions. Or does it?
The clue I received directed me back to the manilla envelope which has four basic elements: sender name (LoFA), postage stamp, and inspection sticker. The first question I had was if this envelope were actually mailed, would it have reached me and if rejected for incorrect postage would it have been returned to the sender? Looking at images of other postage marks reveals quite a bit and led me to wonder about the inspection sticker. I removed it and nothing was hidden underneath.
If you've just received the first box and are looking for clues, I'll end here and let you catch up. Like I previously revealed, signing up at LoFA will reward you with a clue that shows you how to use the inspection sticker to find out about your "friend."
At this point, I don't know if my "friend" is a killer or a wounded soul bringing me a mystery to solve in order to find a killer. Scratching the surface - until next time, happy hunting.
Recently I've been enamored with the subscription industry and the cool things it offers. It's no longer just for magazines. Last year I purchased Little Passports for my son. Each month he receives a package in the mail which introduces him to a country and offers a tangible experience to help him explore a different culture. For Christmas I bought Food with Love for my parents, and each month they are thrilled to receive their snack box. Due to, well just life, I got burnt out on the weekly grind of meal inspiration and have found Blue Apron is making my life simpler and way more interesting. It's really nice to hear my husband compliment a meal because he hasn't yet again been served the same old, same old.
So let's look at the first arrival, Season One, Episode One. The box arrived with a journal, a manilla envelope, a welcome letter, and a lapel pin. Inside the envelope, other items were found: a crushed cup, a swan illustration, a letter from my "friend," a constellation card, and a redacted article.
The first thing you will most likely do is Google "hunt a killer" which will give a wealth of results from Reddit, Facebook, and blog pages devoted to solving the mystery. You get theories and spoilers, which kind of negates the reason for subscribing to a mystery. If you are searching for hints on how to start, you have to be careful to not stumble onto solutions.
So, here's what we will do in this hunt. We will look at every item and inspect it thoroughly giving only nudges toward what I believe is the right direction. The first item is the welcome letter from . . . Listening Friends of America (LoFA). It explains that it is a community of isolated people and the volunteers who listen. The letter ensures your privacy and details the inspection process for each package received. It is signed by George Madson, Vice-President of LoFA. The last part of the signature includes a web address for the organization, so the most logical place to start is here. I inspected every page of the site and signed up for the newsletter and to "volunteer." Two days later I was rewarded with a clue. While waiting to see what would result from signing up with LoFA, I wondered two things: why was the organization's name preceded with an ellipsis (. . .) which indicates missing text. With every mystery there are actual clues that lead toward a solution or red herrings which can lead one down a rabbit hole. This is where the journal comes in handy to record questions as they arise as other clues can determine whether they are valid.
The clue I received directed me back to the manilla envelope which has four basic elements: sender name (LoFA), postage stamp, and inspection sticker. The first question I had was if this envelope were actually mailed, would it have reached me and if rejected for incorrect postage would it have been returned to the sender? Looking at images of other postage marks reveals quite a bit and led me to wonder about the inspection sticker. I removed it and nothing was hidden underneath.
If you've just received the first box and are looking for clues, I'll end here and let you catch up. Like I previously revealed, signing up at LoFA will reward you with a clue that shows you how to use the inspection sticker to find out about your "friend."
At this point, I don't know if my "friend" is a killer or a wounded soul bringing me a mystery to solve in order to find a killer. Scratching the surface - until next time, happy hunting.
World Peace Through the Power of Music
By Ecklebob Chiselfritz
I once got into a fist fight with a guy during wood shop class when I was in high school and the teacher that broke it up sat us down and played a cassette tape of the James Taylor song, You've Got a Friend.
Afterward he asked if we understood the message of the song. We said no and he played it again. Once more he asked if we understood the message Taylor was conveying through his music.
No, we didn't.
Once more he played the song and then asked the same damn question. This time as if a switch had been flipped on in our young heads we both answered yes and proceeded to beat the living hell out of the teacher.
Quite severely.
So I guess the moral of the story is fuck James Taylor.
I once got into a fist fight with a guy during wood shop class when I was in high school and the teacher that broke it up sat us down and played a cassette tape of the James Taylor song, You've Got a Friend.
Afterward he asked if we understood the message of the song. We said no and he played it again. Once more he asked if we understood the message Taylor was conveying through his music.
No, we didn't.
Once more he played the song and then asked the same damn question. This time as if a switch had been flipped on in our young heads we both answered yes and proceeded to beat the living hell out of the teacher.
Quite severely.
So I guess the moral of the story is fuck James Taylor.
Sunday, May 28, 2017
Saturday, May 27, 2017
Thursday, May 25, 2017
Wednesday, May 24, 2017
Tuesday, May 23, 2017
Jeff "Skunk" Baxter: Guitarist for Steely Dan and Doobie Brothers...and counter terrorism expert
Jeff Baxter, a former rock n' roll guitarist, speaks about his current life as a defense expert. He then discusses his idea of "Asymmetrical Thinking: The Symphony Orchestra vs. The Jazz Quintet".
A highly valued consultant for the private sector, Congress and the national security establishment, Jeffrey Baxter excels in non-traditional, non-doctrinaire thinking, helping pave the way for a rapidly evolving future. He specializes in applying traditional ideas and resources in non-conventional ways. See the interview HERE
A highly valued consultant for the private sector, Congress and the national security establishment, Jeffrey Baxter excels in non-traditional, non-doctrinaire thinking, helping pave the way for a rapidly evolving future. He specializes in applying traditional ideas and resources in non-conventional ways. See the interview HERE
Monday, May 22, 2017
Dog Versus Deer - Who Would Win?
by Kim D.
Imagine it's just before 6 am on a Sunday morning. After letting the Boykin out of his crate, you grab the leash as the two of you head out through the garage in anticipation of a quiet, early morning walk. However, soon after opening the garage door, the dog senses more than the two of you are roaming the neighborhood.
He darts across the street to check out a doe nibbling the neighbors' flowers. Protective of her breakfast, she acknowledges this intrusion with a low grunt which is curious to the dog and a little intimidating. He backs off and heads across the street, content with watching the doe as she eats.
This obviously doesn't sit well with her and she leaves the forage and casually strolls across the street to the dog. For what seems like eternity but is actually a matter of seconds, dog and deer lock in a stare. Then, as quick as a wink, she lifts her front legs and batters the dog's head and back with her hooves in and audible "bam, bam, bam."
After some pathetic doggie cries, he scrambles back up the driveway and into the garage. Then the deer locks eyes with you and reality sets in as the garage door closes. No early walk this morning.
The deer wins. Skip past the first minute of this video which is kind of what it was like without the voice over.
Imagine it's just before 6 am on a Sunday morning. After letting the Boykin out of his crate, you grab the leash as the two of you head out through the garage in anticipation of a quiet, early morning walk. However, soon after opening the garage door, the dog senses more than the two of you are roaming the neighborhood. He darts across the street to check out a doe nibbling the neighbors' flowers. Protective of her breakfast, she acknowledges this intrusion with a low grunt which is curious to the dog and a little intimidating. He backs off and heads across the street, content with watching the doe as she eats.
This obviously doesn't sit well with her and she leaves the forage and casually strolls across the street to the dog. For what seems like eternity but is actually a matter of seconds, dog and deer lock in a stare. Then, as quick as a wink, she lifts her front legs and batters the dog's head and back with her hooves in and audible "bam, bam, bam."
After some pathetic doggie cries, he scrambles back up the driveway and into the garage. Then the deer locks eyes with you and reality sets in as the garage door closes. No early walk this morning.
The deer wins. Skip past the first minute of this video which is kind of what it was like without the voice over.
Sunday, May 21, 2017
Think Twice (X-Rated Version)
An X rated version of their 1965 hit, Think Twice, done in the studio at the time. Very rude and very funny!
The version released to the general public...
The version released to the general public...
Saturday, May 20, 2017
Friday, May 19, 2017
Thursday, May 18, 2017
My Old Man: Against the Win
By Ecklebob Chiselfritz
My father did the best he could with the cards he was dealt in life.
Alabama born and raised with barely any schooling because his father thought readin', ritin' and 'rithmetic interfered with a childs ability to be his indentured slave...
Let's leave it at gramps was a lazy no account bastard.
My old man left home at 17 and joined the Marines in time to go to Korea and be wounded by Chinese machine gun fire. He also carried shrapnel in the back of his left thigh for the rest of his life.
He never complained and he NEVER talked about his time in battle. Never.
I didn't know he had received the Purple Heart until after he was dead.
That's the kind of man he was.
He was the toughest son of a bitch I have met in my life.
Bar none
I'm gonna leave his biography there for now because I suck as a writer and don't want to be up till dawn writing a book.
I would guess it's 1968 I am eight years old or thereabouts.
The old man is a truck driver.
He's sitting at the kitchen table filling out his log book.
The state of Illinois demanded truckers detail how they spent their time on the highways while on the clock.
They were allowed so many hours behind the wheel and then they had to "rest" for so many hours before they could continue driving.
And they damn well better remember Big Brother is watching!
The old man cheated like a whore who promises every customer she loves only him.
He wasn't alone in doing so.
Truck drivers were paid shit and had families to feed.
So the old man is sitting at the kitchen table penciling in how he might have spent a couple hours driving legally and lying about how he was off road when actually he drove non stop the entire time.
He looked up from his literary endeavour and asked, "How do you spell whin?"
My next oldest brother replied, "w.i.n."
The old man said, "No, whin."
My brother giggled and once again said, "w.i.n."
The old man is frustrated by this time. He hated having to fill out the log. I don't blame him. He worked like a dog and this always cut into his drinking time.
But God love him, he tried one more time.
"How do you spell whin?"
My brother the smart ass was exasperated by now and goes "W.I.N. like when you win a game. Isn't that what you mean?"
The old man replied, "No, I mean whiiiin! Like whiiiin I kick your ass."
Game. Set. Match.
My father did the best he could with the cards he was dealt in life.
Alabama born and raised with barely any schooling because his father thought readin', ritin' and 'rithmetic interfered with a childs ability to be his indentured slave...
Let's leave it at gramps was a lazy no account bastard.
My old man left home at 17 and joined the Marines in time to go to Korea and be wounded by Chinese machine gun fire. He also carried shrapnel in the back of his left thigh for the rest of his life.
He never complained and he NEVER talked about his time in battle. Never.
I didn't know he had received the Purple Heart until after he was dead.
That's the kind of man he was.
He was the toughest son of a bitch I have met in my life.
Bar none
I'm gonna leave his biography there for now because I suck as a writer and don't want to be up till dawn writing a book.
I would guess it's 1968 I am eight years old or thereabouts.
The old man is a truck driver.
He's sitting at the kitchen table filling out his log book.
The state of Illinois demanded truckers detail how they spent their time on the highways while on the clock.
They were allowed so many hours behind the wheel and then they had to "rest" for so many hours before they could continue driving.
And they damn well better remember Big Brother is watching!
The old man cheated like a whore who promises every customer she loves only him.
He wasn't alone in doing so.
Truck drivers were paid shit and had families to feed.
So the old man is sitting at the kitchen table penciling in how he might have spent a couple hours driving legally and lying about how he was off road when actually he drove non stop the entire time.
He looked up from his literary endeavour and asked, "How do you spell whin?"
My next oldest brother replied, "w.i.n."
The old man said, "No, whin."
My brother giggled and once again said, "w.i.n."
The old man is frustrated by this time. He hated having to fill out the log. I don't blame him. He worked like a dog and this always cut into his drinking time.
But God love him, he tried one more time.
"How do you spell whin?"
My brother the smart ass was exasperated by now and goes "W.I.N. like when you win a game. Isn't that what you mean?"
The old man replied, "No, I mean whiiiin! Like whiiiin I kick your ass."
Game. Set. Match.
Wednesday, May 17, 2017
Tuesday, May 16, 2017
Go West young man, but once in a while Head East
Yeah, I bastardized Horace Greely's famous quote in the post title, but hell I gotta amuse myself somehow.
Monday, May 15, 2017
Drunken Angel (Live)
Lucinda Williams wrote the song Drunken Angel about...
Michael David Fuller (December 18, 1949 – February 1, 1989), better known under the stage name Blaze Foley, was an American country music singer-songwriter.
...Foley was born Michael David Fuller in Malvern, Arkansas, but grew up in Texas. He performed in a gospel band called The Singing Fuller Family with his mother, brother and sisters. After leaving home, he performed in Atlanta, Chicago, Houston, and finally Austin, Texas. He was close friends with Townes Van Zandt.
His song "If I Could Only Fly" became a hit in the interpretation of Merle Haggard. His song "Election Day" was covered by Lyle Lovett on his 2003 album My Baby Don't Tolerate and his song "Clay Pigeons" was covered by John Prine on his Grammy Award winning 2005 album Fair and Square. Joe Nichols paid tribute to "If I Could Only Fly" by recording it for his album Real Things released in 2007.
In 1989, Foley was shot in the chest and killed by Carey January, the son of Foley's friend Concho January. Carey January was acquitted of murder in the first degree by reason of self-defense. He and his father presented completely different versions of the shooting at trial.
...The master tapes from his first studio album were confiscated by the DEA when the executive producer was caught in a drug bust. Another studio album disappeared when the master copies were in a station wagon, which Foley had been given and lived in. The station wagon was broken into and his belongings stolen. A third studio album, Wanted More Dead Than Alive, had almost disappeared until, many years after Blaze died, a friend who was cleaning out his car discovered what sounded like the Bee Creek recording sessions on which he and other musicians had performed. This album was Foley's last studio project and he was scheduled to tour the UK with Townes Van Zandt in support of the album. When Foley died, his attorney immediately nullified the recording contract and the master tapes subsequently went missing (and reportedly were lost in a flood). READ MORE
Michael David Fuller (December 18, 1949 – February 1, 1989), better known under the stage name Blaze Foley, was an American country music singer-songwriter.
...Foley was born Michael David Fuller in Malvern, Arkansas, but grew up in Texas. He performed in a gospel band called The Singing Fuller Family with his mother, brother and sisters. After leaving home, he performed in Atlanta, Chicago, Houston, and finally Austin, Texas. He was close friends with Townes Van Zandt.
His song "If I Could Only Fly" became a hit in the interpretation of Merle Haggard. His song "Election Day" was covered by Lyle Lovett on his 2003 album My Baby Don't Tolerate and his song "Clay Pigeons" was covered by John Prine on his Grammy Award winning 2005 album Fair and Square. Joe Nichols paid tribute to "If I Could Only Fly" by recording it for his album Real Things released in 2007.
In 1989, Foley was shot in the chest and killed by Carey January, the son of Foley's friend Concho January. Carey January was acquitted of murder in the first degree by reason of self-defense. He and his father presented completely different versions of the shooting at trial.
...The master tapes from his first studio album were confiscated by the DEA when the executive producer was caught in a drug bust. Another studio album disappeared when the master copies were in a station wagon, which Foley had been given and lived in. The station wagon was broken into and his belongings stolen. A third studio album, Wanted More Dead Than Alive, had almost disappeared until, many years after Blaze died, a friend who was cleaning out his car discovered what sounded like the Bee Creek recording sessions on which he and other musicians had performed. This album was Foley's last studio project and he was scheduled to tour the UK with Townes Van Zandt in support of the album. When Foley died, his attorney immediately nullified the recording contract and the master tapes subsequently went missing (and reportedly were lost in a flood). READ MORE
Sunday, May 14, 2017
#happymothersday - My Mom and Her Little Yellow Chicken
By Ecklebob Chiselfritz
It was early July of 1995 and my mother was dying. She had first been diagnosed with ovarian cancer in 1987. She said she could beat it and I had no doubt she would. She was my mom. The only person in the world who never gave up on me. Never. And I supplied ample reason and opportunity over the years for her to resign the position.
She fought the cancer for eight years with courage, dignity and grace.
A herculean task given the indignities and pain the progression of cancer visited upon her body and mind over the course of what must have been eight torturous years.
It was July of 1995 and I was sitting on the edge of her bed holding her hand. There was so much I wanted to say, but nothing would come out of my mouth. I love you, mom. Thanks for not abandoning me when I was young, mom. It would have been so easy for you to do given the circumstances and the times.
We held hands. We smiled at each other. And we smiled some more. I wasn't smiling inside, but I was unable to speak. I wasn't afraid to talk because it might make me cry. I just couldn't speak.
Mom squeezed my hand and called me something she hadn't since I was a small child. It was her nickname for me back when I was a blond toddler with a crewcut,
"My little yellow chicken."
I knew then and accepted she was dying.
Mom died a couple days later. I held her hand and talked non stop as she first slipped into a coma and then into the arms of Jesus. I told her everything.
I gave my lifes confession.
I was her little yellow chicken.
It was early July of 1995 and my mother was dying. She had first been diagnosed with ovarian cancer in 1987. She said she could beat it and I had no doubt she would. She was my mom. The only person in the world who never gave up on me. Never. And I supplied ample reason and opportunity over the years for her to resign the position.
She fought the cancer for eight years with courage, dignity and grace.
A herculean task given the indignities and pain the progression of cancer visited upon her body and mind over the course of what must have been eight torturous years.
It was July of 1995 and I was sitting on the edge of her bed holding her hand. There was so much I wanted to say, but nothing would come out of my mouth. I love you, mom. Thanks for not abandoning me when I was young, mom. It would have been so easy for you to do given the circumstances and the times.
We held hands. We smiled at each other. And we smiled some more. I wasn't smiling inside, but I was unable to speak. I wasn't afraid to talk because it might make me cry. I just couldn't speak.
Mom squeezed my hand and called me something she hadn't since I was a small child. It was her nickname for me back when I was a blond toddler with a crewcut,
"My little yellow chicken."
I knew then and accepted she was dying.
Mom died a couple days later. I held her hand and talked non stop as she first slipped into a coma and then into the arms of Jesus. I told her everything.
I gave my lifes confession.
I was her little yellow chicken.
#happymothersday - La même chanson
Your mother Should Know
Let's all get up and dance to a song
That was a hit before your mother was born
Though she was born a long long time ago
Your mother should know (your mother should)
Your mother should know
That was a hit before your mother was born
Though she was born a long long time ago
Your mother should know (your mother should)
Your mother should know
Sing it again
Let's all get up and dance to a song
That was a hit before your mother was born
Though she was born a long long time ago
Your mother should know (your mother should)
Your mother should know
That was a hit before your mother was born
Though she was born a long long time ago
Your mother should know (your mother should)
Your mother should know
Lift up your hearts and sing me a song
That was a hit before your mother was born
Though she was born a long long time ago
Your mother should know (your mother should)
Your mother should know
That was a hit before your mother was born
Though she was born a long long time ago
Your mother should know (your mother should)
Your mother should know
Your mother should know (your mother should)
Your mother should know
Your mother should know
Sing it again
Da da dada da da da dada dada dada da da
Da dada da da
Though she was born a long long time ago
Your mother should know (your mother should)
Your mother should know
Da dada da da
Though she was born a long long time ago
Your mother should know (your mother should)
Your mother should know
Your mother should know (your mother should)
Your mother should know
Your mother should know
Your mother should know (your mother should)
Your mother should know, yeah
Your mother should know, yeah
Friday, May 12, 2017
Thursday, May 11, 2017
Wednesday, May 10, 2017
Me, Zack and the old mans flat tire
By Ecklebob Chiselfritz
It wasn't often that our phone was on when I was a kid. Ma Bell had a nasty habit of shutting off service if you didn't pay your bill. I don't remember it ringing on that Sunday morning in 1967, but it did and my mother answered it. Our shack was small. I mean small. Mice looked at us as white trash and preferred to live in the barn. So yeah, I more than likely heard the phone ring and I listened to my mother's side of the convo.
My old man had gone on one of his benders and was stranded in Chicago with a flat tire and no spare. Being eight years old and a seasoned veteran of a tug of war between my mom who would always puke after one drink of any type of alcohol and my dad who would puke if he couldn't get hold of any alcohol I didn't have any questions or wonder why dear old dad was calling from thirty some odd miles away needing help. It was a change of pace from stepping over his prone form on Sunday morning in order to use the bathroom as was per usual. Doesn't every family have its rituals?
My mother couldn't drive. I mean she could not drive. The old man had tried to teach her how and on one lesson she buried the nose of his '63 Ford Falcon into the side of a grain barn.
She. Could. Not. Drive.
Plus, she was pregnant at the time with my little sister.
After five boys I'm sure she was ecstatic.
Mom always said that once she found out what was causing her to have babies she stopped doing it.
My mother hung up the phone and told my thirteen year old brother Zack he had to hustle over to neighboring farmer Al Schroeder's place and borrow his pick up truck and take the old man the spare tire that was in a corner of the pump house.
I was indifferent to the old man at that stage of my life. Zack hated his guts. And the feeling was mutual. My indifference led to me being ignored while one of my younger brothers was favored. Zack's hatred was my fathers excuse for beating one of my other brothers. And...it's complicated.
I doubt Zack told Al what was going on. Hell, everyone in our rural community knew what the score was concerning our family. It was early morning and Al had thirty some cows to milk.
I went out to the pump house and found the tire. It had to be Spring because that is just the way I remember the weather after all these years.
Then it hit me.
Zack had to drive all the way into Chicago?
We drove all over creation with tractors. It was a way of life for us. We were given limited access to cars/trucks. Yeah, we could drive the back roads from point A to point B.
But I-90 into Chicago?
Zack pulled up and told me to throw the tire in the bed of the truck and get in.
I obeyed and climbed in because he is my brother.
Age be damned, brothers instinctively know when one another needs help.
I knew we were going East because the Sun was in our eyes as it was rising. Other than that I don't know how Zack found the old man, but he did.
I don't remember what car the old man had at the time, but I'm sure it was a piece of shit.
I do know only three of the tires had air in them at the time.
He was standing in the street by his car when we pulled up with his toolbox open on the ground alongside the aggrieved tire.
The old boy was too drunk to help so Zack began changing the tire and told me to watch the truck. I didn't know what he meant. I'm eight years old. What does watch the truck mean?
But I watched the truck.
I also watched a short balding guy in shabby clothes pick the old mans tool box up and scurry down the sidewalk with it.
I thought he was putting it away for safekeeping.
So help me God I did.
I was too embarrassed to say anything once I realized Sparky wasn't coming back with it.
Alls well that ends well. We made it back home to Waltons Mountain and...
That would have been nice if true.
We did make it home with no incident other than Zack telling me the entire ride home what a prick the old man was.
To this day I have not told anyone about what happened to the old mans tool box.
Let's keep it between us.
Okay?
It wasn't often that our phone was on when I was a kid. Ma Bell had a nasty habit of shutting off service if you didn't pay your bill. I don't remember it ringing on that Sunday morning in 1967, but it did and my mother answered it. Our shack was small. I mean small. Mice looked at us as white trash and preferred to live in the barn. So yeah, I more than likely heard the phone ring and I listened to my mother's side of the convo.
My old man had gone on one of his benders and was stranded in Chicago with a flat tire and no spare. Being eight years old and a seasoned veteran of a tug of war between my mom who would always puke after one drink of any type of alcohol and my dad who would puke if he couldn't get hold of any alcohol I didn't have any questions or wonder why dear old dad was calling from thirty some odd miles away needing help. It was a change of pace from stepping over his prone form on Sunday morning in order to use the bathroom as was per usual. Doesn't every family have its rituals?
My mother couldn't drive. I mean she could not drive. The old man had tried to teach her how and on one lesson she buried the nose of his '63 Ford Falcon into the side of a grain barn.
She. Could. Not. Drive.
Plus, she was pregnant at the time with my little sister.
After five boys I'm sure she was ecstatic.
Mom always said that once she found out what was causing her to have babies she stopped doing it.
My mother hung up the phone and told my thirteen year old brother Zack he had to hustle over to neighboring farmer Al Schroeder's place and borrow his pick up truck and take the old man the spare tire that was in a corner of the pump house.
I was indifferent to the old man at that stage of my life. Zack hated his guts. And the feeling was mutual. My indifference led to me being ignored while one of my younger brothers was favored. Zack's hatred was my fathers excuse for beating one of my other brothers. And...it's complicated.
I doubt Zack told Al what was going on. Hell, everyone in our rural community knew what the score was concerning our family. It was early morning and Al had thirty some cows to milk.
I went out to the pump house and found the tire. It had to be Spring because that is just the way I remember the weather after all these years.
Then it hit me.
Zack had to drive all the way into Chicago?
We drove all over creation with tractors. It was a way of life for us. We were given limited access to cars/trucks. Yeah, we could drive the back roads from point A to point B.
But I-90 into Chicago?
Zack pulled up and told me to throw the tire in the bed of the truck and get in.
I obeyed and climbed in because he is my brother.
Age be damned, brothers instinctively know when one another needs help.
I knew we were going East because the Sun was in our eyes as it was rising. Other than that I don't know how Zack found the old man, but he did.
I don't remember what car the old man had at the time, but I'm sure it was a piece of shit.
I do know only three of the tires had air in them at the time.
He was standing in the street by his car when we pulled up with his toolbox open on the ground alongside the aggrieved tire.
The old boy was too drunk to help so Zack began changing the tire and told me to watch the truck. I didn't know what he meant. I'm eight years old. What does watch the truck mean?
But I watched the truck.
I also watched a short balding guy in shabby clothes pick the old mans tool box up and scurry down the sidewalk with it.
I thought he was putting it away for safekeeping.
So help me God I did.
I was too embarrassed to say anything once I realized Sparky wasn't coming back with it.
Alls well that ends well. We made it back home to Waltons Mountain and...
That would have been nice if true.
We did make it home with no incident other than Zack telling me the entire ride home what a prick the old man was.
To this day I have not told anyone about what happened to the old mans tool box.
Let's keep it between us.
Okay?
Tuesday, May 9, 2017
Monday, May 8, 2017
Pete and Barb
By Ecklebob Chiselfritz
Mark was my best friend when I was sixteen. For a time he had a girlfriend named Barb. I knew Barb before she and Mark became an item because she was one of the cadre of girls we ran around and partied with. I remember she really, really, really, really liked Grace Slick of the Jefferson Airplane. Other than that I don't remember too much about her.
I don't remember how I met Pete.
I do remember kicking his older brother Tom's ass one night, but I don't remember why.
Given another night and different circumstances he probably could have kicked my ass.
Whatever.
Me and Pete got along fairly well and drank a lot of beer and smoked a lot of dope together.
I would play poker with Pete, Tom and a couple other guys occassionaly. Small stakes. I was there more for the alcohol and dope than the love of the game. One time we were playing cards and having a blast. Very casually Pete pulls out a kit and proceeds to hit himself up with heroin. I stay cool while watching this, but I was horrified. I mean we all did a lot of different drugs. We were young and bullet proof. I was no angel, but needles were not among the toys I played with. Nor was heroin.
Well, Pete passes the shit over to his brother Tom and he partakes of the shit using the same needle. By this time I'm ready to jet. These fuckers are too crazy for me. Tom finishes up...and passes the rig to Andre who is more than ready for his turn using the same needle as Pete and Tom have already used.
I'm out of there and I believe that was the last time I ever saw Pete.
Flash forward almost fifteen years to around 1991...
Me and Mark drifted apart years ago. Apparently so did he and Barb because I heard her and Pete married and had three kids.
I'm married with three kids. I'm working too much. Drinking too much. And my marriage is on the rocks limping toward an inevitable conclusion.
I'm getting ahead of myself here.
Did I mention Barb stabbed Pete to death in 1989?
I had heard about it, but really gave it no thought because I was so wrapped up in all the misery I was creating in my own life.
I'm out in the street unloading and carrying my family's possessions into a rental duplex because we moved a lot in those days.
A car slows down and I hear a female voice call my name. I turn around and it's Barb. I was kind of shocked because I thought she was in jail for killing Pete, but lo and behold she's not. Actually she lives three doors down from the place I'm moving into. We lived in that duplex for two years and I never saw Barb again after that first time.
I had assumed she had just gone off the deep end and murdered Pete because both of them were whacked out on drugs. I hadn't given it any thought because as I alluded to earlier. My life was a mess and I was too wrapped up in myself to give a damn about people I hadn't seen for years.
I don't know what possessed me to think about Pete and Barb after so many years. I Googled their names today and now I feel shame for not taking time to reach out to Barb and at least offer a shoulder for her to cry on when she probably would have appreciated it.
April 27, 1989
Chicago Tribune
Mark was my best friend when I was sixteen. For a time he had a girlfriend named Barb. I knew Barb before she and Mark became an item because she was one of the cadre of girls we ran around and partied with. I remember she really, really, really, really liked Grace Slick of the Jefferson Airplane. Other than that I don't remember too much about her.
I don't remember how I met Pete.
I do remember kicking his older brother Tom's ass one night, but I don't remember why.
Given another night and different circumstances he probably could have kicked my ass.
Whatever.
Me and Pete got along fairly well and drank a lot of beer and smoked a lot of dope together.
I would play poker with Pete, Tom and a couple other guys occassionaly. Small stakes. I was there more for the alcohol and dope than the love of the game. One time we were playing cards and having a blast. Very casually Pete pulls out a kit and proceeds to hit himself up with heroin. I stay cool while watching this, but I was horrified. I mean we all did a lot of different drugs. We were young and bullet proof. I was no angel, but needles were not among the toys I played with. Nor was heroin.
Well, Pete passes the shit over to his brother Tom and he partakes of the shit using the same needle. By this time I'm ready to jet. These fuckers are too crazy for me. Tom finishes up...and passes the rig to Andre who is more than ready for his turn using the same needle as Pete and Tom have already used.
I'm out of there and I believe that was the last time I ever saw Pete.
Flash forward almost fifteen years to around 1991...
Me and Mark drifted apart years ago. Apparently so did he and Barb because I heard her and Pete married and had three kids.
I'm married with three kids. I'm working too much. Drinking too much. And my marriage is on the rocks limping toward an inevitable conclusion.
I'm getting ahead of myself here.
Did I mention Barb stabbed Pete to death in 1989?
I had heard about it, but really gave it no thought because I was so wrapped up in all the misery I was creating in my own life.
I'm out in the street unloading and carrying my family's possessions into a rental duplex because we moved a lot in those days.
A car slows down and I hear a female voice call my name. I turn around and it's Barb. I was kind of shocked because I thought she was in jail for killing Pete, but lo and behold she's not. Actually she lives three doors down from the place I'm moving into. We lived in that duplex for two years and I never saw Barb again after that first time.
I had assumed she had just gone off the deep end and murdered Pete because both of them were whacked out on drugs. I hadn't given it any thought because as I alluded to earlier. My life was a mess and I was too wrapped up in myself to give a damn about people I hadn't seen for years.
I don't know what possessed me to think about Pete and Barb after so many years. I Googled their names today and now I feel shame for not taking time to reach out to Barb and at least offer a shoulder for her to cry on when she probably would have appreciated it.
April 27, 1989
Chicago Tribune
Me and Mark
By Ecklebob Chiselfritz
Mark was my best friend when I was sixteen years old. Minus any semblance of parental supervision we were both wild as weeds and free to roam. He always referred to me by my last name. I can't remember him ever using my given name. I was the type of kid who took any perceived slight to heart and only vengeance would right the wrong. He was the kind of guy who never took anything seriously.
Mark was driving the night we went into Chicago to see Emerson, Lake and Palmer at the Chicago Stadium. We were high as kites on the way there and higher by the end of the concert. Neither of us were human GPS sensors as we headed the thirty miles west toward home and we soon found ourselves lost. I doubt we would have cared about being lost except for the fact of where we were. Chicago's South Side. We were rural farm kids, but we weren't hayseeds. This was not where white kids stopped for anything. Even red lights. Especially after Sundown.
So Mark blew thru a red light and as if by magic a police car appeared behind us announcing its presence with a car top light show. The cop wanted to know what the hell we were doing in THIS neighborhood.
"Blah, blah, blah, here's how you get home from here...now get the hell out of here and don't let me catch your asses back here. Oh, and take this ticket with for blowing the red light."
"Thank you, officer."
Mark pulls away from the curb and is telling me he smelled whisky on the breath of the cop and we pull up to a red light and Mark blows thru it. I'm losing my mind.
"What the hell is wrong with you. We're stoned out of our minds and the cop let us go. How could you do something so freaking stupid?"
Referring to me by my last name and waving the ticket in my face, Mark said,
"Relax, the cop gave me this piece of paper saying it's okay."
We both laughed like maniacs for the next couple of miles.
Continued HERE
Mark was my best friend when I was sixteen years old. Minus any semblance of parental supervision we were both wild as weeds and free to roam. He always referred to me by my last name. I can't remember him ever using my given name. I was the type of kid who took any perceived slight to heart and only vengeance would right the wrong. He was the kind of guy who never took anything seriously.
Mark was driving the night we went into Chicago to see Emerson, Lake and Palmer at the Chicago Stadium. We were high as kites on the way there and higher by the end of the concert. Neither of us were human GPS sensors as we headed the thirty miles west toward home and we soon found ourselves lost. I doubt we would have cared about being lost except for the fact of where we were. Chicago's South Side. We were rural farm kids, but we weren't hayseeds. This was not where white kids stopped for anything. Even red lights. Especially after Sundown.
So Mark blew thru a red light and as if by magic a police car appeared behind us announcing its presence with a car top light show. The cop wanted to know what the hell we were doing in THIS neighborhood.
"Blah, blah, blah, here's how you get home from here...now get the hell out of here and don't let me catch your asses back here. Oh, and take this ticket with for blowing the red light."
"Thank you, officer."
Mark pulls away from the curb and is telling me he smelled whisky on the breath of the cop and we pull up to a red light and Mark blows thru it. I'm losing my mind.
"What the hell is wrong with you. We're stoned out of our minds and the cop let us go. How could you do something so freaking stupid?"
Referring to me by my last name and waving the ticket in my face, Mark said,
"Relax, the cop gave me this piece of paper saying it's okay."
We both laughed like maniacs for the next couple of miles.
Continued HERE
Sunday, May 7, 2017
Saturday, May 6, 2017
Friday, May 5, 2017
Spill The Wine (Live)
Eric Burdon had the good fortune to be a part of two incredible bands.
The Animals and War.
The Animals have an incredible catalogue of music including House of the Rising Sun.
Eric Burdon also recorded with War, but the band was doing just fine without him churning out rhythmic masterpieces like Low Rider and Cisco Kid.
Together they produced this classic...
The Animals and War.
The Animals have an incredible catalogue of music including House of the Rising Sun.
Eric Burdon also recorded with War, but the band was doing just fine without him churning out rhythmic masterpieces like Low Rider and Cisco Kid.
Together they produced this classic...
Thursday, May 4, 2017
Two songwriters. Two pianos. Songs that make you go "Ah!" #Kennesaw #Atlanta #Songwriters
by Kim D.
For those in the Atlanta, GA area, mark Friday, May 12th on your calendar. Next, jump online to purchase early-bird tickets (only $15 if purchased by May 10th) to hear the talented Angela K. Durden and Marina Frolova-White for a musical event (7 - 9 pm) at The Harmony House that celebrates the stories of life.
These ladies promise an evening to soothe and rest the weary soul from the harried routine of what we call "life." As songwriters, Angela and Marina believe in the power of story married to music and this event will feature original songs accompanied with beautiful instrumentals. The Harmony House, 3610 Kennesaw N. Industrial Parkway (click here for a map), boasts cozy surroundings with a great sound system. And, not to worry, plenty of free parking is available.
Besides being a musical gem, Angela Durden is also a talented writer and a #ROTW regular contributor.
These ladies promise an evening to soothe and rest the weary soul from the harried routine of what we call "life." As songwriters, Angela and Marina believe in the power of story married to music and this event will feature original songs accompanied with beautiful instrumentals. The Harmony House, 3610 Kennesaw N. Industrial Parkway (click here for a map), boasts cozy surroundings with a great sound system. And, not to worry, plenty of free parking is available.
Besides being a musical gem, Angela Durden is also a talented writer and a #ROTW regular contributor.
Wednesday, May 3, 2017
Tuesday, May 2, 2017
Michael Moore to Protest Trump on Broadway? Not #FakeNews
Kim D.
Nothing Michael Moore does shocks me anymore, especially when Twitter mocks it. Perhaps you've seen a trend today that is quite humorous (by the way it appears you can thank The Morning Spew for this one).
Good luck with that . . . now on to #MichaelMooreBroadwayShows trend which I promise will be more entertaining than anything the mockumentary maker will say on stage:
Nothing Michael Moore does shocks me anymore, especially when Twitter mocks it. Perhaps you've seen a trend today that is quite humorous (by the way it appears you can thank The Morning Spew for this one).
But before we get to the hashtag hijinks, let's look at the news behind the trend. Warning, unfortunately, this does not appear to be fake news. Previewing July 28th of this year, Michael Moore will take to Broadway to see if he can bring down the Trump presidency. The one-man show will be titled The Terms of My Surrender and is purported to beThe Kingsize and I #MichaelMooreBroadwayShows— The Morning Spew (@TheMorningSpew) May 2, 2017
an exhilarating, subversive one-man guaranteed to take audiences on a ride through the United States of Insanity, explaining once and for all how the f*** we got here, and where best to dine before crossing with the Von Trapp family over the Canadian border."Moore did such a good job electing Hillary with his last showstopper, we'll see how he fares with this one which actually runs on Broadway from August 10th until it ends October 22nd. This appears to be the entirety of the Progressive playbook - ridicule and throw as muck as possible at the 45th President and hope and pray that they can find a decent candidate in four years to win back the White House.
Good luck with that . . . now on to #MichaelMooreBroadwayShows trend which I promise will be more entertaining than anything the mockumentary maker will say on stage:
Girth of a Salesman #MichaelMooreBroadwayShows— Deebs (@shumad1) May 2, 2017
Pest Side Story #MichaelMooreBroadwayShows— Dinah (@DinahLord) May 2, 2017
Spamalot (No change needed)— Tim J (@TTJ_pa) May 2, 2017
#MichaelMooreBroadwayShows
Fiddler on the Caved In Roof. #MichaelMooreBroadwayShows— Christie (@RepRepublic) May 2, 2017
I Ate Oklahoma! #MichaelMooreBroadwayShows— ScottlnSC (@ScottlnSC) May 2, 2017
The Entire West Side Story #MichaelMooreBroadwayShows— Velvet Sugar (@TMIWITW) May 2, 2017
Man of La Muncha#MichaelMooreBroadwayShows— Fuzzy Chimp (@fuzzychimpcom) May 2, 2017
The Dinner Bell Always Rings Twice.#MichaelMooreBroadwayShows— NeoKong (@The_NeoKong) May 2, 2017
#MichaelMooreBroadwayShows Shamilton— DJSmith (@davidjacksmith) May 2, 2017
No Beauty, Just the Beast #MichaelMooreBroadwayShows— John Wehrle (@jwehrle) May 2, 2017
— Shane (@Sarge_87) May 2, 2017
The Lyin King— Daniel Wright (@MadFiest) May 2, 2017
#MichaelMooreBroadwayShows
We're Miserables #MichaelMooreBroadwayShows— AspiringCurmudgeon (@bobgagliano) May 2, 2017
Making School Lunch Great Again #MSLGA
by Kim D.
Donald Trump has announced that school lunch shall suck no more. And . . . poof . . . Michelle Obama's legacy, along with her vegetable garden, is gone . . . hopefully. Let me take you back to the dark and tasteless days of the Obama administration when FLOTUS Michelle and her food Nazis claimed:
Donald Trump has announced that school lunch shall suck no more. And . . . poof . . . Michelle Obama's legacy, along with her vegetable garden, is gone . . . hopefully. Let me take you back to the dark and tasteless days of the Obama administration when FLOTUS Michelle and her food Nazis claimed:
Four years ago, the Healthy Hunger-Free Kids Act was passed to update school nutrition standards and require more fruits, vegetables, whole grains, lean protein, and low-fat dairy as part of school meals. Thanks to the hard work of school chefs and food service workers across the country, 90 percent of schools are now meeting these modern nutrition standards, and new research shows that the majority of students like the new, healthier lunches.This was merely wishful propaganda because, in actuality, Moochie's new and improved lunches were being tossed in the trashcan. Flashback to some tweets that revealed how students rated school-lunch choices:
@MichelleObama LOOK WHAT YOU'RE PUTTING US THROUGH. GIVE US BACK OUR NACHO CHEESE #shreddedcheese? #thestruggleisreal pic.twitter.com/wEeYnkhWD6
— Rir. (@lilly_groth) August 25, 2014
With my nig @ChrisB1995 . Bro just ate moldy bread from our college cafeteria.Ty Michelle Obama for the great food. pic.twitter.com/0kN43dyCh5
— Patrick D Bielecki (@BieleckiPatrick) August 27, 2014
A bag of milk... Thank you Michelle Obama pic.twitter.com/22udbcAtWS
— Ryan O'Neal (@Ryan__ONeal) August 25, 2014
Dear Michelle Obama, reduced fat and 1/4 full of chips thank you. pic.twitter.com/dznHskvWiH
— Payton (@itsptown) August 20, 2014
When Michelle Obama takes away chickfila from your school pic.twitter.com/Zhkp6PY6ey
— JC☮ (@voidjessica) August 20, 2014
Most depressing sandwich I've ever had. Fuck you @MichelleObama pic.twitter.com/UXmv097DPO
— SkyEler (@skyelervogt) August 21, 2014
Are you happy now Michelle Obama? What the fuck even is this shit? @FLOTUS pic.twitter.com/RAhhgflFb1
— Mary Malinowski (@maarebear) June 3, 2014
Thanks to @MichelleObama, Lunch has turned into another class. We learn how to survive on grass and gluten-free fries #BringBackOurSnacks
— Alex Bozman (@BozTheKid) August 28, 2014
I'd like to challenge @MichelleObama to the school lunch challenge. You have 24 hrs.
— sabrina ☀ (@s_a_b_r_a_i_n_y) August 30, 2014
Oh, Sabrina . . . your challenge would have been epic, but remember . . .
Burgers and fries for me but not for thee. #BringBackOurSnacks pic.twitter.com/FaeEJ20B3H
— Lloyd Christmis (@LloydChristmis) August 28, 2014
. . . and in the end, FLOTUS would probably just tell you to eat turnips.
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