Wayward Landlubber

There's  a tiny island in the Pacific Ocean near, speaking relatively in ocean distances, the Cocos Island. At one time this tiny island, the third smallest island in the vast Pacific, was a wealthy paradise. A wealthy gated community thousands of nautical miles from any other island. A community that needed no gates. Or walls. The perfect place for the Republican wishing to remain genetically undiluted. I make no mention of being deluded. Few people have ever visited the Island of Nauru, there are no airports, the best way would be to go by boat. Sailboats, because of the vast distance. It's wealth was at one time in guano. Birds have been visiting that island, and others, where they would nest from their long ocean journey, gorge themselves on the fat fish, and evacuate this orgy of digestion on the rich hillside of the island. Guano is rich in nitrogen. There were so many birds who had stopped by Nauru, over the millenia, that for a couple centuries great sailing barges, the...

I've been on Facebook for a fair amount of time and have something of a profile. I'm also quietly proud that I like to troll righties. Some would say that I shouldn't take advantage of someone as stupid as maga. They would have been right in a more amenable time. That is not now! The blatant lies and disinformation from the right must be countered, lest they multiply out of control. Lest they further damage our future. As evidence let us talk about Pizzagate, as if it was a thing, like Watergate.  According to the story the maga underworld spread in 2016, Hillary Clinton and John Podestra ran a child sex ring from a basement in the Ping Pong Pizza Parlor. I didn’t make this up. A young man from Maryland packed up his assault style rifle and drove to Ping Pong Pizza to save those children. After firing a round in the floor, which fortunately did not go pinging around Ping-Pong Pizza and into some child's ribs, it became apparent there was no basement to run a child sex r...

Everyone in this room has some memory of the post WWII period. We saw the war photo's and newsreel footage of the desperate people fleeing the homes they grew up in. Abandoning their friends and relatives, that some might possibly live to carry on the family name. We saw the movies and television shows that re-enacted the horrors of that war, and we saw the movies and television shows that mocked the Nazi soldiers. Many of those people seeking refuge found a pleasant place in this country, and others. They became the leaders who are turning their civic efforts over to this newer generation. They were the writers and humorists that helped us forget the events that we fought to escape. It's not as if the horrible humans that live in every nations underground networks did not exist. But the people we elected were, generally, a better quality of human. Even at one time, Republicans. The racists and fascists might attain a mayorship in certain areas of our country, or a Governorship...

Micheala Schiffren has the Yips. I can only wonder about how that feels. I have never achieved that level of pretty-goodness to have ever experienced the yips. But it must be a thing because I read a book one time about a pitcher in baseball who suffered from the Yips. It seems to be common to sports,  where the player is under the strong gaze of the fans. Pitchers, mostly. Football players don't seem to suffer from the yips. Skiers, ice skaters, boxers, MMA, maybe even Crickett, though nobody seems to know how it's played; is it the bowler or the bowlsman? Or the batsman and Robin? I don't know, most people have fallen asleep before the match is completed. Do the yips have legs? Is stage-fright the yips? Writers Block? Do ballet dancers get the yips? Imagine the male member of the duo with a big catch in the program. Knowing that in a few measures of the musical score he's going to catch the ballerina as she leaps in some pas de du, or whatever it is, into the outstret...

I used to work with a conservative, back before maga, when Donald Trump was a mere celebrity, not celebrated by me. His name was Scott. I was not a BFF with Scott. Besides being a conservative who could define the word, Scott smoked cigarettes at a time when non-smokers rights were not honored. We shared a couple drinks one time and he told me that he had been a member of the Weather Underground back in the 60s. The Weather underground was the extreme version of the weathermen. He was in love with Ronald Reagan when I new him. That's pulling some neck-snapping G forces. Like a black, hispanic, or female on ICE. It was our good fortune that neither of us worked closely together, me having a difficult time keeping my mouth shut. I have not seen Scott for some 40 years, so I can't say if he is now maga.  I was not inactive during the 1970s. I had the good fortune to be declared physically unfit for military service, thanks to a booklet given out at anti-war rally's with the ti...

She's  a spritely little ball of fur. Sort of black, brindled with brown when in the sun. Down the left side of her nose is a white strip, shaped something like a fat b. A thin line of white extends across her jaw down to her collar-bone across her thin chest and down to her sternum, like streak lighting. This is a kitten that will be a beautiful adult cat. She is settling in to her new home and to me. Part of the settlement involves her bolting out of my room when I return from my many bathroom breaks overnight. She loves to run around the kitchen, hiding behind the electric range. She also makes a bee-line to the bathroom. Catching her is not easy for an old man with stiff joints.  She sleeps comfortably with me, though not where I would like, in the crook of my arm where I know where she is when i turn over. We will be working on that. So far in her short time as my Lulu, I have taken her with me when I venture into the public. I don't want her to have separation anxiety. A...