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 |  I blog therefore I (r)am(ble). |
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Poems, Prose, and Promises. My name is
** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** Given to me by susanL  --- Created by kelly1202I write songs
I write poetry
I write short stories
I'm in love with susanL
** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
 I'm at work and I'm starving. It's too early to take my lunch so I'm either going to have to eat this banana I brought with me or go foraging for food. Ahhh, foraging for food...Foraging for food is fun, especially in this weather. When the snow is falling and the air is perfectly calm and there's almost no noise in any direction, sometimes I can see a Snickers® or Milky Way Bar® prancing through the blanket of white.   Once, about five years ago, I was walking home from the store during the winter. We had just had a huge blizzard. It was early in the evening and the plows hadn't been through yet. As I was walking home, trudging really, I noticed something move off to my right. I came to a stop and turned my head slowly, hoping I wouldn't spook whatever it was that was there. Slowly, slowly, slowly I turned my head and then, all of a sudden, a majestic Three Musketeers Bar® galloped in front of me, down the pristine road and disappeared into the distant woods. That moment changed me forever and I knew immediately what I had to do. I marched right back to that store, bought a gallon of milk and a bag of fun size candy bars, and I partied my frozen butt off. Ahhh, the memories. |
| I'm upset about a box. I'm not sure of its size, but it holds two DVDs and two books. It's from Amazon.com and according to the USPS website, it was delivered yesterday at 1:14pm. We found a key in our mailbox, indicating we had a package in one of the lock-boxes, but the one matching the key was empty. I'm upset about the box but I'm even more upset that the box upsets me. Earlier, I read an article about a jet plane that crashed into a San Diego suburb. There were four people in one of the houses it crashed into: an elderly lady and a mom with two small children. Three of the four are confirmed dead and the final one, one of the small children, is missing. The box cost me a little over a hundred dollars. With the economy the way it is, I can’t afford to replace the items if they aren’t located and neither the post office or Amazon agree to make replacements. The father of the family destroyed by the plane, kissed his wife and youngest child goodbye earlier that morning and then left for work. The next thing he knew, his whole family was either dead or missing. His life had turned upside down. I purchased two DVD sets. One was season three of Rachael's favorite TV show and the other was season five of Sarah's favorite. I also purchased two books about writing that I thought Susan and I would like. Since I had spent enough, super saver shipping was free, although it would take a week or more to arrive. The jet engines on the plane apparently failed. The pilot was able to eject before it crashed and is being treated for injuries sustained from landing in a tree. The father who’ll never see his family again probably wishes his worst problem for that day would have been a lost package from Amazon.com. |
| Part One On November 1st, susanL and I attended a poetry class called Heart and Craft by instructor Linda Back McKay. We had a wonderful time and I managed to write seven new poems during the five hour event. In my previous blog entry regarding this class, "Invalid Entry"  , I talked about the interesting and orginal warm-up exercise the instructor gave us and shared the first poem. Here now is the second part.Free Writing Exercise After the warm-up exercise, Linda had us read a couple poems about the act of writing. Then she had us open our notebooks and told us to let our minds wander wherever they would but to try and stay within the writing theme. I wrote quite a bit in the fifteen minutes she gave us and managed to throw together three poems. NaNoWriMo The skeleton A TREE-tise on a Story How can a story be devised from just an idea? How can a complete novel appear from just a thought? Can something small like inspiration be buried into the ground of creativity and with the patient watering of diligence in writing, grow into a believable and flowing text? I (a seed) that it can. My Susan Fascination I love watching Susan write. She puts every ounce of her being into coming up with something wonderful. Her nose twinkles and she purses her lips. A glance heavenward when she needs the right word or phrase is rewarded by new inspiration and transforms into increased vigor for her writing hand. I love watching Susan write. To be continued... |
Six months ago today, Susan and I decided to take our relationship beyond friendship, into romance. Neither of us saw it coming although I think we both sensed it could happen. So today, six months after exchanging hearts with Susan, I wrote her this poem. With Susan Half of a year has passed since the day I dared make my best friend my lover. Half of a year of memories, filled with miles and smiles that brought two hearts closer. Half of a year of joys and tears have delivered two twin souls to the cusp of forever. Half of a year is but a pittance of the time my entire being craves to be by her side. |
| Moving quickly, Enga James lead Dalton through a part of the Fens he'd never seen before. It was very strange too, because Dalton though that he'd already traversed nearly every inch of them -- except the water of course. But before he realized where they had gone and what turns Enga had made, Dalton found himself standing outside of a decommissioned ambulance. Unlike his disheveled appearance outside Corbin's office the night before, there was something noticeably different about Enga James. He sparkled somewhat and had a glow about him. His beard was whiter and his bald head was shinier and he seemed somewhat taller. He was regal and magnificent and Dalton couldn't help staring as the man he had just tried to kick the head off turned his back to him and opened up the ambulance door. "Come on in and I'll fix us up a cup 'o tea." Enga turned his benevolent face towards Dalton. "Or perhaps you'd prefer some hot cider or hot chocolate." Dalton's whole demeanor perked up. "Ummm, I'd like some hot chocolate please." Dalton climbed into the ambulance and expected to be cramped but the inside was huge. It looked a whole lot bigger than it did from the outside anyway. His eyes moving as fast as they could, examining everything he could see, Dalton stood in awe. The aroma of rich chocolate wafted over from where Enga James was busy preparing their drinks and Dalton's stomach growled. The wall to Dalton's right was covered in paintings and drawings. Each one was boxed in an intricate and unique frame and each one contained the likeness of Enga James with some other person or persons. His curiosity on fire, Dalton moved to the wall and gasped. The first picture was a painting of Enga James with a man with a dark, flowing beard wearing a royal blue robe. The robe had a hood that covered his head all the way to his bushy eyebrows and deep, weathered eyes. A slight smile snaked between his mustache and beard and he held a gnarled, wooden staff in his left hand. Enga James stood slightly askance to the man's right. A tarnished silver plaque, centered on the bottom edge of the picture contained the word "Merlin" in an Old English font. Just above and to the right of the picture named Merlin was one with another tarnished silver plaque with the name "John" on it. The picture showed a nondescript man with long, straight, black hair and wearing a simple knee-length wrap, tied at the center with a piece of rope, pouring water on what looked to Enga James in a girded loin cloth. There was another man with a long straight beard and night black hair standing behind the man pouring the water. He was watching the scene and radiated power. To the left of the "John" picture, in the center of the wall, was a long mural like print. It was the only one that appeared to have been created with pencil rather than ink or paint. Drawn completely in black and white, Enga James sat leaning against a wide tree with low but far reaching branches. Enga faced outward and slightly to his right while on his right, a light colored bear with his hand in a honey jar faced slight to its left. The bear sat up, more like a human than a bear and the intricately drawn picture showed Enga and the bear conversing. Filling out the mural and surrounding the two conversationalists were a nervous and twitching pig, a slow brooding donkey, a happy bouncing tiger, a serious pondering rabbit, a distinguished wise owl, and a small playful boy. A large black plaque on the bottom of the picture carried the words, "Christopher Robin and his Best Friends." To the left of the mural like "Christopher Robin" picture, hung another small print like the one that was titled "John." The most life like of the the six pictures, this one could have easily been a photograph an actual photograph. Dalton thought it was one until he looked closely at the character standing, or rather flying next to Enga James. Clad in skeleton leaves and the juices that flow from trees, the small boy in his spring green tunic, complete with a cap with a feather in it, elf like ears, and orangish brown hair, hovered a few feet of the ground and carried a brightly glowing fairy in his right hand. Enga James and the flying boy faced each other slightly while they appeared to be occupied in conversation. The setting for the meeting between the man and the flying boy looked like a tropical island of some sort with giant palm trees, date trees, and deep green reeds framing the picture. In the center of the picture, just over Enga James's shoulder, sat a large three masted wooden ship with sails flying from left to right. A shiny golden plaque in the bottom center of the picture read, "Peter and Tinkerbell." The picture directly under the one with the golden "Peter and Tinkerbell" plaque had faded as to almost appear black and white, but upon close inspection, the wide range of colors can be seen. In the center of the print, seated cross legged in the middle of a covered wooden gazebo, an oriental man with a flowing purple robe smiled at the viewer. Dark intricate lines wound their way around the sleeves of the richly colored robe. They continued up the sleeves and around the back and then back down the front. The lines were accented by heavy Chinese characters and created an aura of opulence and authority. The balding yet bearded, slightly rotund man holds a half opened scroll in his right hand and a fountain pen in the shape of a feather in the other. A collection of other scrolls, rolled and sealed, lie on small covered stool to the man's left. Bowing toward the man with his head tilted up slightly, Enga James stands to the man's right and holds out a papyrus scroll on a rich velvet pillow. A blackened plaque with white letters sits at the lower left of the picture. It contains a word in English and in Chinese. In English, the word reads, "Confucias." The final picture, on the lower right of the wall was a bit wider than it was tall. It had a cordovan colored, wooden frame with various birds in various stages of flight carved all around. The picture itself was of a man of medium build, with a balding pate, and a thick ruddy mustache. He held a number of loose sheets of paper in his hand and was signaling toward someone out of sight, to the right of the picture. The scene of the picture was one of wooden trees and animals and two dimensional houses enshrouded by a deep red curtains. Enga James, stood behind the man to his left and examined one of the fake, wooden trees. The polished wooden plaque, seated on the lower center of the picture read in scripted letters, "My Writing Friend William." Dalton couldn't seem to get enough of the pictures. He kept moving from one to the other, over and over, until he'd stopped at each more than half a dozen times. His mouth agape the whole time, the young impressionable boy hadn't even noticed the mug of hot chocolate sitting on the table behind him until he bumped into the table and nearly knocked the steaming hot cup to the floor of the ambulance. "Go ahead and drink, my friend. The warmth will do you good and you can look at my silly indulgences later," Enga said, gesturing toward the pictures on the wall. With wonder in his eyes and too many questions to actually voice colliding around his brain, Dalton took a seat near the table and lifted the mug of hot chocolate to his mouth. Mmmmm. It was the most delicious thing he had ever tasted. With each sip he took, his mind seemed to slow downs and the questions he wanted answers to came more and more into focus. Finally, once the mug was empty, he sat and stared at Enga James. "Are all those pictures really you?" he asked with his eyes wide open and his ears standing by dutifully to carry the important words that would make up Enga James sure to be fascinating response. Enga James leaned in to the table and opened his mouth to speak but stopped before even a single word came out. He picked up Dalton's empty mug and moved to the back wall of the ambulance and set about preparing another cup of the rich, delicious chocolate. Once he had finished, he placed the steaming mug of hot chocolate on the table in front of Dalton and sat down. Then he opened his mouth once again and said, "Some of the people we meet during our brief lifetimes are in person and some of them are through consideration of their words." Sipping on his newly refilled mug of chocolate, Dalton pondered what it was Enga James had just said. "So you didn't actually meet all those people in person?" Enga James smiled. "Now now, that's not what I said." He crossed his arms and looked at Dalton with a firm yet loving expression. "But would it matter if I had? Would you think less of me if I hadn't?" |
| I'm not sure what it is about this time of year that makes it hard for me to be as positive as I want to be, but I think it's my body's reaction to the loss of the sun. I get depressed to varying degrees every fall, which is one of the main reasons why I love the excitement and energy of NaNoWriMo, but for some reason, this year seems worse than normal. I live with the most amazing woman on the planet. I'm doing good on my NaNoWriMo novel. I was interviewed Saturday for another story in the newspaper about NaNoWriMo, and most things in my life seem to be clicking along pretty good. But for some reason, I can't shake this sense of impending doom. I'm more than a little worried about: Losing my job Losing my car to repo Not finding another job Having to accept another entry level, barely above minimum wage job Losing Susan Having her kids hate me Not finishing NaNoWriMo Finishing NaNoWriMo but hating my story Loving my story but not sitting down and editing it Editing it but not being able to sell it. Selling it but not seeing it succeed. Seeing it succeed but not being able to follow it up with one as good or better. Following it up with one even better but then hitting a writer's block so big that I'm never able to write again. Do you see the pattern here? I'm stressed out of my gourd about a) things that are completely out of my control, or b) things that are a mixture of positive and negative, or c) things that aren't even on the horizon. The last time I felt like this, I made an appointment with a therapist and within two months, I was feeling good again. Of course by that time, spring had arrived and the sun was making its almost daily appearances. So what helped the most, the therapist or the return of sunny weather? Or was it a combination of that and other things that I'm not even thinking about right now? I don't know but for some reason, I'm not seeing things accurately right now. For example, Susan made me my favorite breakfast Saturday morning. It was delicious and I enjoyed it a lot. But it didn't take me more than a couple of hours to have the feeling like the whole day was a complete waste. That was after all the positive things I mentioned in the first paragraph took place. Intellectually, I can see how illogical my thought processes are but emotionally, I'm a basket case. Strangley enough, just from writing this out, I'm already feeling a little better. |
| The Class This past Saturday, November 1st, susanL and I attended a five hour poetry class titled Heart and Craft by instructor, Linda Back McKay. She did a fantastic job with the writing exercises and I managed to come up with seven new poems. Before the class even started, we received a wonderful blessing due in part to my occasional absentmindedness. I had it well in my brain that the class was to start at 9:00am in the morning. We pulled up at five minutes to nine and not only was there still a huge Closed sign on the door, but there wasn't a single car for as far as the eye could see.That's when we realized that the class didn't start until 10:00am. So Susan and I found ourselves with enough time for a wonderful breakfast at The Coffee Mill. It was awesome. I just love Susan's company and to be able to sit and talk without anything hurrying us along was magnificent. Warm-up Exercise Like the first snow of winter or the first bloom of spring, Linda's first exercise sparked roaring flames of creativity in the hearths of our eager minds. To start out, she divided us into pairs. Now normally, Susan and I would probably have paired off together but while dividing us up, she gave us the stipulation that we had to get with someone we didn't know very well or at all. Once we were split up, she gave us our assignment: we had to interview each other for fifteen minutes and come up with three things that we had in common prior to our eighteenth birthdays. Then, we had ten more minutes to write a poem containing those three things, an unusual verb, a sight, a smell, and a metaphor. Besides being a simply brilliant exercise, the camaraderie that we built up by learning so many intimate things from someone we had just met, helped make this possibly the best class I've ever taken. Susan was paired off with a lady from our writing group named Kit. I know Kit pretty good, but since Susan hasn't been here that long, she didn't know her quite as well. They found out, however, that they have a love of trains, the cold, and silent moments in common. I was paired off with a lady about twenty years older than me named Wendy. We found out that we had a lot in common too. But for our poems we used a beloved tree in the backyard growing up, our parents divorce when we were little, and a treasured creative writing class. Here's the poem I created for Wendy: The Oak's Divorce A strong, tall oak grew in her backyard. She'd laugh and play with her friend Annie, under its expansive boughs. Once school came, she'd play dress-up on weekends with the mothball-smelling clothes she'd found in a venerable, wooden trunk. Not quite fitting in -- feeling too much, not yet trusting her intuition, she focused more on words and a treasured creative writing class. In junior high, surrounded by girls and a quiet, sensitive boy, she heard a loud crash as the tree split apart and half of it was taken away. To be continued... |
I have to brag. My wonderful friend, Debi Wharton , gave me a merit badge in honor of my favorite writing event of the year: NaNoWriMo.![Merit Badge in Nano Participant
[Click For More Info]
Best of luck with the 2008 NaNo.](https://images.Writing.Com/imgs/writing.com/writers/badges/general-Nano_Participant-2180.gif) Thank Debi. I appreciate it very much.  |
| OK, we've elected a new President. What happens now? Things aren't going to change over night. Obama isn't even sworn in until the 20th of January, but we've sent out a message to the world that were not going to react to these challenging times with a "business as usual" mentality. Congratulations President-elect Barack Obama. I love watching you with your family. I love listening to you speak of our country with faith and hope. I love how instead of just speaking of bi-partisanship, you demonstrate it by seeking out the most qualified minds as advisors, regardless of their party affiliation. I'm proud to be an American today. I'm proud to be an American who voted yesterday. Yes I've been proud to be an American before, like when our country came together shortly after 9/11, but I've been disappointed with the direction my country has taken at times too. But this isn't about what we've done wrong in the past. This is about what we've done right on this election day. This is about Barack Obama. I'm proud to be an American today because we chose a man to lead us who is capable of staying on message regardless of what is thrown at him, a man who as John McCain stated during his presidential election in 2000 would not "take the low road to the highest office in the land," a man possessed of sufficient charisma and humility to pass on his hope and faith to those he encounters. Thank you Mr. President. Thank you. |
| My nephew Michael had some issues with me when I took him to task over his attitude during a visit to his grandma's house a few years back. He came to visit last March and I was of the belief that we had both moved on from that. As it turned out, he was still upset with me and spent a good portion of his visit trying to push my buttons. I refused to let him though and he ended up being quite mad at me when he left. I felt bad and I wanted to straighten things out but I also felt that he owed me an apology or at least an acknowledgment that his behavior was out of line. Since then, his girlfriend left him and is trying to keep him from seeing their daughter and he's been bouncing from calamity to calamity. Needless to say, I feel sorry for him and no longer care about the apology so much, but I still have a bit of pride myself and so I was waiting for him to contact me first. God had a better idea. Since neither of us could swallow enough pride to make the first call, He arranged things so that both of us did. How could both of us make the first call? Well... Sunday morning I was to drive my friend Mike to visit a sick friend of ours. We were going to meet across down but since it was the weekend when daylight savings time came to an end, I told him I'd call him when I arrived at the meeting place. I showed up about ten minutes early and ordered a hot chocolate. I didn't see him anywhere but I did see the silhouette of a guy through the window leaning up against the building. He had white hair like Mike did and I thought it could be him, but I didn't want to give up my place in line to find out so I pulled out my cell phone and located the entry for Michael. It rang and rang but nobody answered. I finally hung up, picked up my hot chocolate, and headed outside to see if the guy I saw was indeed my friend. It was Mike. We got in my car and he told me that we shouldn't have any problem finding Kerry's house because her father had given him instructions. Then he told me that if we got lost he had their phone number and his cell phone so we'd be OK. I thought it was funny that he didn't answer when I had called earlier if he had his phone, but I let it drop and we headed out to visit our sick friend. Fast forward to about 9:00 that night. I'm sitting in bed, watching the football game and my phone rings. I look at who it's from and the display says Michael. That's when I realized that I hadn't called my friend Mike, but I called my nephew Michael instead. I answered and he told me he was returning my call from earlier. I decided not to tell him that the earlier call was a mistake and instead told him I was so happy to hear from him. We had a wonderful conversation and our disagreement is a thing of the past. So even when we have too much pride, God can still find away to work his miracles if we just let him. |
| Status I'm a couple words behind but then the day's not over yet. I have written about 600 words today so far, though, so I only need a little less than a thousand to be back on schedule. First Excerpt Dalton Hobbs lived with his parents, Palmer and Abigail in a two room apartment not even a block from Emmanuel College where his parents both worked. He as a junior professor in the English department and she as a cook in the cafeteria. That’s where they met some twelve years ago. He had just finished grad school and had accepted an apprenticeship at Emmanuel. She was surviving her second year of a still undecided bachelors program and had all but accepted that graduating college was simply not in her future, at least not in the foreseeable one. It was her last day and his first. She was carrying a box of books to her car as he was carrying a box of books to his new office. They collided on the front steps. Books covered the entryway as they rushed to collect them back in their respective boxes. But it was no easy task. Being lunch time, students and faculty trudged, traipsed, and bolted in and out of the double glass doors. Collecting their scattered volumes, Palmer and Abigail, on their hands and knees, came to realize that they had very similar tastes in reading material. He picked up what he thought was his copy of A Confederacy of Dunces by John Kennedy Toole only to have her grab it out of his hand, pointing to an unmistakable doodle on the upper back cover. She scooped up The Sun Also Rises by Ernest Hemingway but he tugged it away. A black-inked stamp, perfectly square and identifying Palmer Jacob Hobbs as the books owner, sat centered on the inside front cover. But it wasn’t just those two books. A Killer Inside Me by Jim Thompson, On The Road by Jack Kerouac, World’s End by TC Boyle, A Prayer For Owen Meany by John Irving, and many more changed hands as the two separated out their books. The two continued collecting their most prized possessions. And then it happened. A student with plaid pants and a beige sweatshirt kicked a copy of George Orwell’s 1984. Palmer dove to catch it but it sailed through his flailing arms and crashed against the glass inner door, breaking the fragile first edition paperback’s spine. He looked at Abigail but she sat transfixed on the book with a horrified expression on her face, a horrified expression that mirrored the one on his own. He breathed a slight sigh of relief as he realized that it might not be his copy that had been so badly damaged and then felt a pang of guilt when he realized that in so doing he was hoping it was her copy that had been damaged instead. He made a decision. Leaving the job of collecting to her, he grabbed the broken copy of 1984 and ignoring the now familiar doodle on the back cover, placed it in his box. He then located his copy, touched it to his chest and swallowed a lump in his throat as he placed the book in her box. |
| Woohoo! I made my word count for the first day of NaNoWriMo 2008. I just saved my novel with 1710 words. I don't have much of a cushion, but I have a story that I feel very good about and I'm happy with how it's developing. I read it to Susan and she likes it too. I'm hoping that tomorrow I can pull in at least thirty-two hundred words, thus leaving me with a surplus of an entire day's worth of words. |
| In Six days, we from the United States will elect a new president. I haven't been silent about who I think is the best man for the job and after watching Obama's 30 minute infomercial, I'm more proud than ever that I chose to stand beside him and offer him my support. Barack Obama cares. He cares for the people in his life, the people he meets, and the people he's asking permission to govern. It's visible in his gestures, in his tone of voice, and in his strong belief in America. He believes in us as a people, and he believes that his plan can bring a revitalization of the American Dream. His thirty minute infomercial showed a stark view of the harsh realities confronting Americans today. But he didn't just paint a picture of the problems that each and everyone of us face, he also offered real solutions. Solutions such as cutting tax relief for companies that ship jobs over seas and giving tax benefits to companies that create new jobs here. Solutions such as ending the Iraq war responsibly so we can invest the eleven billion dollars a month we're spending on that war in bringing justice to Al Quaida and the Taliban. Solutions such as tax breaks for the hardworking members of the lower and middle class so that they can enjoy too the prosperity that the rich have enjoyed for the past eight years. Obama has won my respect and my vote. |
Don't Quit When things go wrong, as they sometimes will, When the road you're trudging seems all uphill, When funds are low and the debts are high, And you want to smile but you have to sigh, When care is pressing you down a bit, Rest if you must, but don't you quit. Life is queer with its twists and turns, As every one of us sometimes learns, And many a failure turns about, When he might have won if he'd stuck it out. Don't give up, though the pace seems slow - You may succeed with another blow. Often the goal is nearer than It seems to a faint and faltering man; Often the struggler has given up When he might have captured the victor's cup, And he learned too late, when the night slipped down, How close he was to the golden crown. Success is failure turned inside out - The silver tint of the clouds of doubt, And you never can tell how close you are - It may be near when it seems afar; So stick to the fight when you're hardest hit - It's when things seem worst that you mustn't quit. Author Unknown |
| Susan's Birthday Susan's birthday was this past Monday, the 20th. I was wondering what we were going to do for supper when my mom sent me a text message. She wanted to take all of us out for Susan's birthday. My mom loves doing things like that. We ended up going to Perkins. Susan, Liz, Rachael, Sarah, my mom, my brother, and myself. It was a wonderful evening. NaNoWriMo This will be my fifth time doing NaNoWriMo and I'm more ready this year than I've ever been before. Here's an overview. Title: The Blue Circle Genre: Mystery Setting: The Fens region of Boston, Massachusetts Main Character: Corbin Allen Sneed, Private Eye Premise: A member of the highly secretive group, The Blue Circle, is killed and surviving members of the group are not cooperating. Follow along as Corbin Sneed, self-taught detective and amateur arachnophile, discovers the disturbing secrets of the group while investigating the highly publicized murder. Poetry Convention Last weekend, Southeastern Minnestoa Poets (SEMP), a chapter of the League of Minnesota Poets (LOMP), itself a chapter of the National Federation of State Poetry Societies (NFSPS), held its Fall convention. As the current president of SEMP, it was my job to organize and facilitate the event. I'm happy to say that all the worry, fretting, and over-the-top catastrophising paid off -- the convention was a complete success. Poetry Class Even with NaNoWriMo threatening to consume all my available free time during the month of November. Even though Saturday is the first day of NaNoWriMo and thus the day that I historically try to get a couple thousand words ahead on my word count. Even though Susan and I have had writing events taking place nearly every week for almost two months. Even with all of that, we are taking a six hour poetry class this Saturday. The class, Heart and Craft: A Poetry Writing Intensive, is being taught by Linda Back McKay at Crossings at Carnegie in Zumbrota, Minnesota. Life in General I truly am a blessed man. I live with my soulmate and her three precious daughters, I have a family who loves me and has no trouble telling me, I receive immense satisfaction from my writing career, and I'm more at ease in my own skin than I've ever been before. Thinks aren't perfect but I truly am a very, very blessed man. |
"Enemies won't test me." Senator John McCain October 22, 2008 Anyone else have a feeling of deja vu? "Bring it on." President George W. Bush July 2, 2003 |
| In the Words of Ken Adelman Why so, since my views align a lot more with McCain’s than with Obama’s? And since I truly dread the notion of a Democratic president, Democratic House, and hugely Democratic Senate? Primarily for two reasons, those of temperament and of judgment. When the economic crisis broke, I found John McCain bouncing all over the place. In those first few crisis days, he was impetuous, inconsistent, and imprudent; ending up just plain weird. Having worked with Ronald Reagan for seven years, and been with him in his critical three summits with Gorbachev, I’ve concluded that that’s no way a president can act under pressure. Second is judgment. The most important decision John McCain made in his long campaign was deciding on a running mate. That decision showed appalling lack of judgment. Not only is Sarah Palin not close to being acceptable in high office—I would not have hired her for even a mid-level post in the arms-control agency. But that selection contradicted McCain’s main two, and best two, themes for his campaign—Country First, and experience counts. Neither can he credibly claim, post-Palin pick. I sure hope Obama is more open, centrist, sensible—dare I say, Clintonesque—than his liberal record indicates, than his cooperation with Nancy Pelosi and Harry Reid portends. If not, I will be even more startled by my vote than I am now. Yes, he has reservations. This isn't a knee-jerk reaction. This is another respected Republican recognizing that there's something terribly wrong with the McCain camp. |
| Hey Everyone! Today is susanL 's birthday. She'll have to tell you her age herself if she wants to, but I encourage all of you to drop her an email or c-Note. She deserves it. Living With You is Like: A five year old boy, walking down main street on a still Sunday morn, finding the key to Diercks General Store. Putting it in the lock. Opening the door -- Mmmmm, all those Tootsie Rolls. Living with you is like: Spying a coin in the middle of June. The air dusty and dry as the sun tip toes across the sky. Panting my way to the quick mart guy -- Mmmmm, Gatorade. Living with you is like: Getting up early, on Saturday morning, to take a short trip with my friends and my dad. Up the road, we zip to the Ben Franklin store where we kids start to skip -- Yes! They have Matchbox cars. Living with you is like: Rocky Road ice cream in a cone after dinner. Holding hands in the car out behind Silver Lake. Understanding the reasons that all people suffer. The aroma that wafts as apple pie bakes. |
 Colin Powell - Former Secretary of State for George W. Bush Christopher Buckley - Son of the late William F. Buckley Jr. Jim Leach - Former Iowan Congressman Richard Riordan - Former Mayor of Los Angeles Jim Whitaker - Mayor of Fairbanks, Alaska Jackson M. Andrews - Republican Counsel to the Senate Jeffrey Hart - National Review Senior Editor Andrew Sullivan - Columnist for the Atlantic Monthly Wick Alison - Former publisher of the National Review Susan Eisenhower - Granddaughter of former President Eisenhower Francis Fukuyama - Advisor to President Reagan Lilibet Hagel - Wife of Republican Senator Chuck Hagel David Friedman - Economist and son of Milton and Rose Friedman Andrew Bacevich - Professor of International Relations at Boston University Bill Ruckelshaus - Served in the Nixon and Reagan's administrations Rita Hauser - Former White House intelligence advisor under George W. Bush Douglas Kmiec - Head of the Office of Legal Counsel under Reagan and George HW Bush Linwood Holton - Former Governor of Virginia Lowell Weicker - Former Governor and Senator from Connecticut Lincoln Chafee - Former United States Senator from Rhode Island The Chicago Times (First endorsement of a Democrat EVER)For quotes and more information, check out http://www.republicansforobama.org/?q=node/3341. |
| Immaculate Reception December 23, 1972. The Pittsburgh Steelers, fourth and ten, down by one point with 1:17 to go in the game. Terry Bradshaw looks for his intended receiver, Barry Pearson, but can't find him. The clock ticks down as Bradshaw spies fullback, John Fuqua. He makes the pass, but just as the ball arrives, Oakland Raiders safety, Jack Tatum collides with Fuqua. The ball bounces off the two, back toward Steeler territory. Incomplete pass? Hardly! The ball, still in the air, still a fair ball sails near Steeler running back Franco Harris. He scoops up the ball before it touches the ground and runs it in for a touchdown. The Steelers won the the game by a score of 12 to 7. Macular Degeneration October 15, 2008. The Republican Party, the final debate, down by nine points with 19 days to go in the race. John McCain delivers his intended message, tax breaks for the rich, but America isn't responding. The clock ticks down as McCain spies a news story about a plumber named Joe. Joe complains that Obama's tax plan would cause him to pay more if he were to buy the business he works for. McCain smiles a smarmy smile as he passes the news story to his opponent. Obama reaches for the ball but apparently unprepared for the question, hobbles it around. It flies out of his hands. Incomplete answer? Hardly! The story, about a plumber from Holland, Ohio, sails through the mainstream media to CNN's Fact Check. Fact Check scoops it up and investigates. It turns out that Joe's business isn't even close to making $250.000. Then it's pointed out that the way tax policy works, only the amount above $250,000 would be taxed at the higher rate. Everything below that amount would be taxed at the lower one. Finally, CNN's Fact Check finds out that only 2% of small businesses would be affected by the increases that Obama is suggesting anyway, instead of the 50% that McCain claimed in the debate. Instead of throwing a campaign-saving Immaculate Reception, it looks like John McCain suffers from Macular Degeneration -- A lack of vision. http://money.cnn.com/2008/10/15/smallbusiness/small_biz_taxes_factcheck.smb/inde... |
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