President Obama has been taking heat for being more forceful with the auto industry than with the banks. The reason, should someone look into this, is perfectly clear.
Obama never had a bank screw up his account, I'll bet. But I'll also bet that being a good rust-belt Democrat, he drove American iron for a lot of years. And can you guess what happened? I'm just speculating, but can't you see Obama as a young man, working as a community organizer for no money, out in some less-than-desirable neighborhood in Chicago, in a snowstorm, late for a hook-up with that hottie Michelle, with some crappy Chevy or Oldsmobile that refused to start? One with those nasty intermittent electrical problems that the dealer just couldn't find, but charged his ass $60 an hour to investigate?
Obama is seeking his sweet revenge, mark my words. There's a new Mr. Goodwrench in town, and he's going to stick his screwdriver right where the sun don't shine.
I can't blame the guy. Were I in the same situation, I'd do the same thing.
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
No Fool Like An Old Fool...
Happy birthday to me.
I am now so old, I remember things that happened half a century ago.
Fifty years ago, I was in kindergarten, and living south of San Francisco, in a huge apartment complex that stretched for blocks, it was so big. It was already my fourth - no, fifth! home.
Kindergarten, like all my school years, pretty much sucked. It got off to a dismal start. Sometime in the months prior, mom walked me to the school for enrollment. OK so far, except I had no idea what was going on. Then, an hour later, I was back playing with my friends. I forgot all about school. Weeks went by.
And then, school struck without warning.
It was like, "Huh? School? What's that? But.. I've got plans." I got handed a sack lunch and a towel to take a nap on, and got hustled out the door and into the next 17 years of schooling.
Being five meant I was old enough to get a bike. Dad brought home a used bike, painted top to bottom aircraft carrier grey, and taught me how to ride in the parking lot of the mall next door. It was your standard issue 50's cruiser bike, with big round fenders, and to me, it was huge. My feet barely touched the pedals.
I remember so badly wanting to ride it though, that I snuck it out of the house one evening, and rode it wobbly across the gopher-potholed lawn. It was like one of those old silent movies where Laurel and Hardy drive a Model T on the railroad tracks. I barely kept control as I bounced and swerved across the courtyard.
That was also the year I was abducted.
Several older boys lured me into an upstairs apartment in one of the neighboring buildings, and wouldn't let me leave for what seemed like the better part of a day. I remember considering my chances if I leaped from the window. I have not been as frightened for so long a period since that day. I don't think I've ever even mentioned that story to anyone before.
Fifty years ago...
And so, the next year, we moved. Again.
But that would have been only 49 years ago, and therefore the subject of a different blog entry.
So happy birthday to me; happy birthday to me...
I am now so old, I remember things that happened half a century ago.
Fifty years ago, I was in kindergarten, and living south of San Francisco, in a huge apartment complex that stretched for blocks, it was so big. It was already my fourth - no, fifth! home.
Kindergarten, like all my school years, pretty much sucked. It got off to a dismal start. Sometime in the months prior, mom walked me to the school for enrollment. OK so far, except I had no idea what was going on. Then, an hour later, I was back playing with my friends. I forgot all about school. Weeks went by.
And then, school struck without warning.
It was like, "Huh? School? What's that? But.. I've got plans." I got handed a sack lunch and a towel to take a nap on, and got hustled out the door and into the next 17 years of schooling.
Being five meant I was old enough to get a bike. Dad brought home a used bike, painted top to bottom aircraft carrier grey, and taught me how to ride in the parking lot of the mall next door. It was your standard issue 50's cruiser bike, with big round fenders, and to me, it was huge. My feet barely touched the pedals.
I remember so badly wanting to ride it though, that I snuck it out of the house one evening, and rode it wobbly across the gopher-potholed lawn. It was like one of those old silent movies where Laurel and Hardy drive a Model T on the railroad tracks. I barely kept control as I bounced and swerved across the courtyard.
That was also the year I was abducted.
Several older boys lured me into an upstairs apartment in one of the neighboring buildings, and wouldn't let me leave for what seemed like the better part of a day. I remember considering my chances if I leaped from the window. I have not been as frightened for so long a period since that day. I don't think I've ever even mentioned that story to anyone before.
Fifty years ago...
And so, the next year, we moved. Again.
But that would have been only 49 years ago, and therefore the subject of a different blog entry.
So happy birthday to me; happy birthday to me...
Friday, March 27, 2009
Do The Locomotion (Not)
Another sign that the economy stinks...
Nearby, in the Colton/Rialto train yard that parallels the I-10 freeway, is a string of mostly Union Pacific locomotives parked end to end...for nearly two miles. I counted between 135 and 145 engines on my way home from work this week. If, as the commercials say, "American moves by rail," then we're really in bad trouble what with so many trains idle.
...and when (and why) did America's rail roads give up on graffiti control? There doesn't seem to be a single rail car left in the USA that doesn't have extensive decoration by vandals. Some of this "art" took hours and hours to "create". Where's the fabled goons of yesteryear protecting the rail yards with 30-30 Winchesters and big clubs? ...probably all got laid off, then joined the border patrol or "Homeland Security" to protect us from the same individuals who spray paint the shit out of everything.
Nearby, in the Colton/Rialto train yard that parallels the I-10 freeway, is a string of mostly Union Pacific locomotives parked end to end...for nearly two miles. I counted between 135 and 145 engines on my way home from work this week. If, as the commercials say, "American moves by rail," then we're really in bad trouble what with so many trains idle.
...and when (and why) did America's rail roads give up on graffiti control? There doesn't seem to be a single rail car left in the USA that doesn't have extensive decoration by vandals. Some of this "art" took hours and hours to "create". Where's the fabled goons of yesteryear protecting the rail yards with 30-30 Winchesters and big clubs? ...probably all got laid off, then joined the border patrol or "Homeland Security" to protect us from the same individuals who spray paint the shit out of everything.
Saturday, March 21, 2009
Teach Your Children...
Teach Your Children
by Graham Nash
You, who are on the road
Must have a code
That you can live by.
And so, become yourself
Because the past
Is just a goodbye.
My eldest daughter dropped by last night. This is notable in itself as I usually see her only on the most major of major holidays, and there was nothing special about yesterday. She's 24 years old now, and lives just a couple of miles away, but years ago our relationship was explosively shattered. She was a hellion back then, fighting at every restraint I could impose on a rebellious teenager. There wasn't a line she didn't cross, and I was right there, ready to draw a new line, daring her step over. I was certain I was doing the right thing.
Teach, your children well
Their father's hell
Did slowly go by
And feed them on your dreams
The one they pick
The one you'll know by.
Don't you ever ask them why
If they told you, you would die
So just look at them and sigh
And know they love you.
It all came to a horrendous, painful climax, and... I thought I'd won, as if there could be a winner in a full-scale nuclear war. Our worlds lay in ruin, with me claiming some sort of Pyrrhic victory.
And you Of tender years
Can't know the fears
That your elders grew by
And so please help
Them with your youth
They seek the truth
Before they can die
And here she is, ringing my doorbell, presenting me with her graduation announcement from nursing school. A color photo shows my daughter in her nurse's uniform, beaming with pride. As well she should. She did it all on her own, her way. All my threatening and anger did nothing to motivate her to do this.
She said she sees old friends from high school hanging out on the streets, accomplishing nothing, and wonders why. She sees loud and unruly kids in stores and remembers she once was that way. How far she came, without me.
Did I fail her? Yes. Yes, I did. Am I proud of her success without me? Absolutely. I am proud she proved my fears wrong; my anger misplaced. But I did it because I cared so greatly, and I took the only path I could see. And I care now just as much, my pride, my ego tempered with the knowledge that I failed her so miserably when she needed my love the most.
Teach your parents well
Their children’s hell
Will slowly go by
And feed them on your dreams
The one they pick
The one you’ll know by.
Don’t you ever ask them why
If they told you, you would cry
So just look at them and sigh
And know they love you.
by Graham Nash
You, who are on the road
Must have a code
That you can live by.
And so, become yourself
Because the past
Is just a goodbye.
My eldest daughter dropped by last night. This is notable in itself as I usually see her only on the most major of major holidays, and there was nothing special about yesterday. She's 24 years old now, and lives just a couple of miles away, but years ago our relationship was explosively shattered. She was a hellion back then, fighting at every restraint I could impose on a rebellious teenager. There wasn't a line she didn't cross, and I was right there, ready to draw a new line, daring her step over. I was certain I was doing the right thing.
Teach, your children well
Their father's hell
Did slowly go by
And feed them on your dreams
The one they pick
The one you'll know by.
Don't you ever ask them why
If they told you, you would die
So just look at them and sigh
And know they love you.
It all came to a horrendous, painful climax, and... I thought I'd won, as if there could be a winner in a full-scale nuclear war. Our worlds lay in ruin, with me claiming some sort of Pyrrhic victory.
And you Of tender years
Can't know the fears
That your elders grew by
And so please help
Them with your youth
They seek the truth
Before they can die
And here she is, ringing my doorbell, presenting me with her graduation announcement from nursing school. A color photo shows my daughter in her nurse's uniform, beaming with pride. As well she should. She did it all on her own, her way. All my threatening and anger did nothing to motivate her to do this.
She said she sees old friends from high school hanging out on the streets, accomplishing nothing, and wonders why. She sees loud and unruly kids in stores and remembers she once was that way. How far she came, without me.
Did I fail her? Yes. Yes, I did. Am I proud of her success without me? Absolutely. I am proud she proved my fears wrong; my anger misplaced. But I did it because I cared so greatly, and I took the only path I could see. And I care now just as much, my pride, my ego tempered with the knowledge that I failed her so miserably when she needed my love the most.
Teach your parents well
Their children’s hell
Will slowly go by
And feed them on your dreams
The one they pick
The one you’ll know by.
Don’t you ever ask them why
If they told you, you would cry
So just look at them and sigh
And know they love you.
How About A National Lottery?
Here's my plan:
For every dollar in federal taxes paid, up to $50,000, you get one entry.
On, say, April 15 of the following year, the President draws the winning ticket.
The winner gets their very own Hawaiian island and a hundred million dollars.
Plus, the winner is exempt from all taxes of any sort for the rest of their lives.
You also get a license to kill.
Ex-boss who made your life a living hell? Bang: no problem.
Idiot with loud stereo in the car next to you? Bang.
Anoying street mime? Bang.
Mickey D's screwed up your food order? Bang, Bang, Bang, Bang....
Think of the social ramifications of that, alone. Bet you'd never get bothered by the press wanting pix of the lottery winner.
For every dollar in federal taxes paid, up to $50,000, you get one entry.
On, say, April 15 of the following year, the President draws the winning ticket.
The winner gets their very own Hawaiian island and a hundred million dollars.
Plus, the winner is exempt from all taxes of any sort for the rest of their lives.
You also get a license to kill.
Ex-boss who made your life a living hell? Bang: no problem.
Idiot with loud stereo in the car next to you? Bang.
Anoying street mime? Bang.
Mickey D's screwed up your food order? Bang, Bang, Bang, Bang....
Think of the social ramifications of that, alone. Bet you'd never get bothered by the press wanting pix of the lottery winner.
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