Envision

The free form litany below was compiled based on the verbs and the sequence of action found in Genesis Chapters One and Two.

I agree with the theory of theistic evolution:  the creation act once initiated by God set evolution into motion (without the need for fine tuning) over millions of years and right up to our present day.

 Here’s something you’ll get a big bang out of:  if you wonder whether there is a personal God, wonder no more.  God had (in our time frame) envisioned every boson in every hair of every head. You are a unique accumulation of God Particles held together by the Quantum Force of Love. Smashing.

*******

Envision

 

In the Beginning…

 

God said

  God saw

God separated

  God saw

God called

  God saw

God hovered

  God saw

God called

  God saw

God made

  God saw

God created

  God saw

God blessed

  God saw

God breathed

  God saw

God commanded

  God saw

God provided

  God saw

God finished.

  God saw

God rested

  God saw

God blessed.

  God and Man saw.

Not the End.

Afternoon Aliens

Any exhaustive research into my childhood would reveal several close encounters with aliens.

 You would learn that these encounters occurred primarily on Sunday afternoons but also sometimes on Saturday nights.  You would read that the aliens would slowly pull up in front of my parent’s home and then park right smack in the center of our view, a view framed by our front room picture window. (I wanted to say “frontroom” because it’s the Chicago way.)

 For our family Sunday mornings meant going to church – the hell-fire-and-brimstone-preaching-shouted-from-revved up lungs-quivering jowls-and-leaps and-bounds-of-a-Baptist-minister-kind of church.  Such a fire-breathing monster would let us know in no uncertain terms that redemption came only by turning from our sins and by walking down the aisle or raising our hand. I did wonder why he didn’t sell exercise videos out in the foyer – “Pilate Your Way Out of Purgatory:  Fit and Fundamental Workouts.”

 Now my mom and dad are God-fearing people who have always been very hospitable. Often, after a Sunday morning service or an evening service, my folks would invite friends, speakers, missionaries or relatives over for a meal.  As I said, this happened a lot.

 There were also a few Sundays when my parents decided to have an afternoon home alone with the kids. On those days we would come home from church to the salivating smell of pot roast.  The roast would cook while we sat in church pondering our short comings and our eternities.  The record will show that I had aromatic visions of pot roast as I turned from sin, walked down the aisle and raised my hand. 

 Back at home my mother would take the pot roast out of the oven and cover it with aluminum foil. Apparently the fat needed to rejoin the roast in a final cattle roundup. Mom and dad would then prepare the sides – all kid friendly: corn, mashed potatoes and gravy, rolls.  And, upon occasion my mother would make butterscotch pudding for dessert.  As a devotee of such fine cuisine I sat in the basement far out-of-the-way of the chefs. Down there I watched Warner Oland play Charlie Chan on our B & W TV:  “So sorry.”

 Besides being wafted to Kid Heaven by the smells I knew that my parents were not just making a scrumptious Sunday meal.  They were not going to take any chances with me going far from the straight and narrow.  They knew that the way to tether a kid’s soul and keep him close to home was with pot roast and butterscotch pudding.

 Well, on one of those blissful Sundays when my tummy was ballooned to its fullest pot roast-iest extent I lay on the floor rolling and reading the funny papers.  Nancy and Sluggo. Dick Tracy and Flattop. Brenda Starr and…my brother. 

 Daryl ever the antagonist always wanted to read the same few square inches of the comics that I was reading. I swear.  He would daily invent ways to aggravate me.  That day his pointed elbow to my side almost burst me.  In retaliation I poked him back and then he poked back harder.  This went on for ten minutes until my father said, “You two cut it out or no butterscotch pudding for you.” That settled things for the next five minutes. The thought of Butterscotch pudding had a calming effect on me. An added dollop of whipped cream would also keep me in check – for at least a half-hour.

 It was within the cautious serenity of those five minutes that I saw my father suddenly leap up out of his swivel rocker.  The Chicago Tribune fell to the floor splayed open.  My dad turned to my mother who was sitting on the couch half asleep.  With a look of petrified horror he said, “The Gephardts are here!” That was the day I would have my first sighting of aliens in our own front yard.

 Absolutely beside himself, my dad thought for a moment:  perhaps we could make it look like we weren’t at home.  But then he saw the visitors looking at him through the picture window.  The alien father on the front lawn was yelling “Hi Bob.”   My dad then looked down at his two young children, children who just came home from re-dedicating their lives to Jesus and to pot roast looking up at him.   Instantly changing his mind my dad scrambled in two directions at once.  In the same step he first bolted toward the kitchen but then turned and flew to the back of the house.  Things were put away, hidden from view.  Rooms were “straightened.” Food stowed deep in the refrigerator. Our Schnauzer Bobbie took the cue and hid under my bed whimpering. My brother and I hid all of our toys.  The quiet afternoon had morphed into the afternoon of the living Gephardts.

 Now the Gephardts were good people my folks said, “They’re just a little different.” Yeah, as different as earth and mars I would soon find out.

 After greeting the family of five, my dad said he had to get “some things” at the grocery store.  An hour later my mother looked concerned, abandoned concerned, angry concerned.  As the time crept, my mother sat patiently listening to Mrs. G. wonder out loud if her little “Ronnie was really over the chicken pox.” (I kid, (scratch, scratch) you not.)

My brother and I stood across from the three alien kids, two boys and a girl, and wondered what to do. Mom suggested that we go to a nearby field and play baseball until the FBI had located our father. So off we went.

 I can not recall whether it was my brother or whether it was me who was hit in the head with a baseball bat by a Gephardt boy. It must have been me who received the carom because great a swath of my memory has been forever displaced. The oldest kid swung right though an imaginary fast ball which was in fact my head.  Let the record show that silly remained intact though.  (I have had three concussions in my life:  one from a right-handed batter on sugar, one from a concrete wall that halted my fifty yard dash at 55 yards and one as an adult when a humongous lead pipe-carrying truck used my car as a brake – my head bounced around like a pin ball in a Dukes of Hazzard pinball game. Three concussions may explain my David Lynch-like persona, my dream-state reality and my stuttering posts.)

 At some point my dad came back from the store with a pie, a cherry pie and a can of whipped cream.  He offered to heat it, slice it and even remake it -anything so as to not have to talk to Mr. G who I now know was dead ringer for Randy Quaid.  Mr. G sat in our front room – greasy tee shirt, flys buzzing and all.  The three G kids all could have walked off a page of the Addam’s Family comic strip.  It’s all a blur.  On purpose.

 Mr. G was a junk collector by trade.  He collected “fine” items no longer of use to their owners. He resold his JIT inventory on Maxwell Street. Did we have anything that we didn’t want any more?  I imagined that my father wanted to say “Yes, you here.”  But my dad, a generous and good man, kept to his busy ways and went looking for a ‘fine item” that would spur Mr. G into immediate sales activity.   My dad “sacrificially” retreated to the basement where after a half hour of searching everywhere including a Walter Cronkite newscast he found a lamp on its last light bulb and handed it to Mr. G. who was pleased with his salable good but continued to eye my mom’s china cabinet.  My mother seeing Mr. G’s honed gaze locked onto the china cabinet stood up between Mr. G and the cabinet as she continued to talk to Mrs. G.  The “over-my-dead-body” look must have told Mr. G all he needed to know.  He backed down.

 After some warmed cherry pie and coffee and a shake down of each the kids to see if they had taken anything from our rooms we said goodbye to the G’s and to the afternoon. It was now evening.  Exhausted we all fell back into the couch to watch a “really big shew.”  We had seen the Outer Limits.

 Over time the Gs would show up again and again unannounced.  Somehow we were ever on their radar though my parents only slightly knew them as neighbors at a previous address in Chicago. But finally these afternoon aliens did stop showing up.

 I suspect they stopped coming when our house looked eerily uninhabited:  with all the curtains pulled my dad started taking long Sunday afternoon naps on the couch in the dark, cool basement of our house.  My mom who loved our dad took us three (by now) perturbing kids for a long drive in the country – all of us far from afternoon aliens.

(Any truth in this account, real or perceived, is totally up to you.)

© Sally Paradise, 2012, All Rights Reserved

Crooked Letters Come to Terms Among the Kudzu

Normally I don’t read popular novels but then again I am not normal. I’m usually off on some quirky tangent, perhaps pouncing on the findings of the Higg’s Boson or pondering The Closing of the American Mind (Allan Bloom) or simply playing the role of suburban scofflaw.  But a recent novel’s cover appeared in the periphery of my imagination as I sauntered by a Barnes & Noble’ book table.

 I have long been drawn to the droll humor and sardonic wit of southern writers such as Wendell Berry, Flannery O’Connor, William Gay, Barry Hannah…there are too many to name here.  So it was the name of the author, “Tom Franklin” that pulled me over to the curb, so to speak. 

Tom is a contributor to the Oxford American Magazine, The Southern Magazine of Good Writing to which I subscribe. It was from the In the Best of The South 2012 issue of that same magazine that I learned about Tom Franklin’s “notoriety.”  There, columnist Jack Pendarvis penned “I Don’t Hate it!  Kickin’ it with Kelly Hogan.  In his own tongue-in-cheek jaded way Pendarvis starts:

 “1)  Tom Franklin. Tom Franklin. Tom Franklin. Tom Franklin.  I have three items worthy of the “Best of the South,” and the greatest of these is novelist Tom Franklin.  Really, all of them are Tom Franklin.  As has been pointed out to me by Tom Franklin, Tom Franklin has been present at almost all the events described in this space since the inception of my column.  For example, his wife Beth Ann Fennelly may make a witty quip while Tom stands at some distance away, nodding encouragingly.  It’s true that I mention Beth Ann frequently here, yet never Tom, nor his superlative nodding.  The occasion that seems to bother him most grievously is the time he was driving the car while Beth Ann and I were exchanging our famous witty quips and he was just nodding away to beat the band and nobody cared.”

2)      Testicles. …This guy Andrew Zimmerman blew through town a little while back…I had some yogurt that evening and said to my wife, “Sweetie, you know what this needs?  Testicles!”

“I’ll tell you who else has testicles:  Tom Franklin.”

3)      “…Kelly Hogan…has been a musician most of her life, and her best music is characterized by that mix of sparkle and danger.”

 

“Crooked Letter, Crooked Letter” is the title of the book I read by Tom Franklin. The story resides mostly around the hamlet of Chabot, Mississippi (are you seeing it?).

 I’m not going to give out a lot of the story. In fact, I’ll just give a line about the characters. I’ll not tell you the ending. You’ll have to read the whodunit yourself.

 Main characters:  Two boys grow up in parallel worlds:  “Scary” Larry Ott (a lover of Stephen King stories, the Night Shift collection in particular) and Silas, later to be known as “Constable” or “32.”

The story delves into friendship, murder and mystery, all offered up with plenty of sensate details doing their Siren’s work – luring the readers into the story and holding them to the end. Here’s one evocative excerpt from Chapter Eight:

“Angie ignored her but started on the food, opening the mustard packets and squeezing them onto her plate for her French fries, chewing her hamburger slowly, sipping her Diet Coke through her straw as Silas told how, at first, he’d been shocked how quiet the woods seemed compared to Chicago, no crowds, car horns, sirens, no el trains clacking by.  But in the woods, if you stopped, if you grew still, you’d hear a whole set of sounds, wind rasping though silhouetted leaves and the cries and chatter of blue jays and brown thrashers and redbirds and sparrows, the calling of crows and hawks, squirrels barking, frogs burping, the far baying of dogs, armadillos snorkeling though dead leaves and dozens of other noises he slowly learned to identify.  He found he’d never seen real darkness, not in the city, but how, if you stood peeing off the cabin porch on a moonless night, or took a walk though the woods where the treetops stitched out the stars, you could almost forget you were there, you felt invisible.  Country dark, his mother called it.”

 Let me know what you think about the book with your comments.

 (A personal note:  Though I liked the intertwining stories of the two boys and the southern fabric of this woven tale – the crooked letters find redemption among the kudzu – I am again saddened by the way fathers are depicted:  alcoholic, abusive, absent. There are so many good men in the world and yet the same old broken antagonists are used to generate sympathy for the characters. Enough already.)

Realities From My Father

OK.  Tell me why the President of the United States would decide to weaken the work requirements related to welfare

 The obvious answer:  political gain.  But there may also be a not-so obvious reason.

 A President who thinks that eighteen holes of golf is work enough has now decreed that laboring to obtain an otherwise free benefit is no longer required.  Yet, free lunches, there ain’t no such thing.  You the taxpayer are paying for someone to sit on their ass and collect welfare. 

 By presidential fiat just months before the November presidential election Obama has told us in effect that he doesn’t want the beneficiaries of welfare to have to strain themselves on the way to the 7-Eleven.  Lifting that bottle of Jack or that can of malt liquor is work enough. Am I being cruel?  No.  You’ve been to the 7-Eleven and seen the line waiting to buy lottery tickets.  Is this a generalization?  Perhaps, but you can fill in your own eyewitness accounts. Obama by fiat diminishes individual effort and seeks to replace it with the collective effort (to win reelection.

What may not be so obvious a motive for this fiat by Obama, who is rabidly anti-colonialism (see Obama 2012, the movie), is his desire to denigrate the Protestant work ethic in America. Beyond political gain he may have decreed this because of his or his father’s own ill-will towards American missionaries. One can only speculate based on the familial and national dysfunction found in Obama’s book, Dreams From My Father.

   Obama may very well have thought that American missionaries who were sent over many years from U. S. churches to foreign countries like Africa brought with them free-market enterprise, capitalism and the Protestant work ethic along with the Gospel.  Because of Obama’s learned hatred of colonialism there would be little wonder when later Obama would sit within ear shot of the black liberation theology rants of “Rev.” Jeremiah (“God Damn America”) Wright.  For Obama those “colonizing-looking” missionaries may have appeared to be bringing with them the shackles of Americanism.  To Obama and Wright those falsely perceived “projected” purveyors of slavery via work ethic are anathema.  And from Obama’s speeches one can readily tell that Obama detests anything American and especially the individual effort which produces human flourishing. Work is just to be a caged sideshow event outside Obama’s big circus tent of government. Obama’s Big Government Show does not need you to work.  It just needs your ticket to the show (your vote).

This is the screwed up thinking born out of Obama’s father’s dreams.  And, it is now America’s nightmare.

 I learned about work from my father.  He showed by his example how to support himself and his family.  There were times when my dad worked at two jobs. He did what he had to do.  He provided for his family and for his future.  He also paid taxes and donated ten percent of his earnings to our local church.  I’ve followed in my father’s footsteps (see my previous post). Obama on the other hand has no idea about what I talking about here.

 Obama’s father spent his time drinking and womanizing. Obama’s “founding fathers”  Bill Ayers, Jeremiah Wright and mentor Frank Marshall Davis, a radical poet and former Communist, taught Obama how to radicalize what he felt inside.

 Obama has learned nothing from his father except how to hate that mechanism that promotes cultural and material exchange and success via the marketplace.  He hates the hard work that supports it. He lives in the valley of the shadow of colonialism.

 Beyond this, Obama, in Howard Zinn-Noam Chomsky-like fashion defines America as the pompous ass that needs to bow the knee to the ever-gracious world – the same world that spits out Osama Bin Laden and Khalid Sheik Mohammed, North Korea’s Kim Il-sung, Iran’s Ahmadinejad and countless terrorists and tyrants and those who support them.  And like Zinn and Chomsky Obama thinks America has a big head.  But what Obama and these other “big heads” don’t realize is that they are projecting their own dysfunctional personalities onto America.

 Obama sees nothing exceptional about America. He sees America as the throw-away packaging that holds his own political gain.

 Obama:  why work so hard trying to reach for the stars when you can easily reach for your food stamps in the voting booth?

*****

What does the 2012 Obama Presidential election campaign look like?   A collective of special interest groups (big labor unions, homosexuals, women on birth control who can’t afford to pay the five dollars every month to buy it even though they attend prestigious colleges, etc.), limp-wristed faux Indian progressives like Elizabeth Warren, extremely wack radicals like Van Jones, giant ‘plasticized’ Hollywood egos craving attention, Wall Street deep-pocket Super-Pac cronies, Green Energy Money Launderers, Occupy Whine Street-ers and all the disenfranchised “not-ready-to shovel” for their lunch people.

*****

Jesse Lee Peterson speaks w/ Dr. Dinesh D’Souza, NY Times Bestselling author of “The Roots of Obama’s Rage” and President of The King’s College. D’Souza’s new film, “2016: Obama’s America” – Love Him, Hate Him, You Don’t Know Him!

Par For My Course

For fifteen years I was one of three partners in a manufacturing business, a business that I helped start from scratch, a business that when I left had sales revenues close to twenty million dollars. 

 Before starting the company I met with two friends.  Each of them wanted to leave the company we were all working for.  The three of us knew that the company we were at would soon fold.  The owner had mismanaged the company into the ground, causing many to be fired.  Soon the owner would take the assets out of this failed company and go start another business.  We saw what was coming and so we decided it was time for us to set our sights higher and take care of our futures.

 In the failed company the three of us soon-to-be partners were the three people who knew how to make the equipment being sold.  And, though only one of us had a BS degree there were plenty years of experience between the other two partners. Each of us had met with customers and we knew manufacturing.  We didn’t know all there was to know about running a business but we did want to find out for ourselves. 

 My own experience developed from many years of electrical engineering and design in the manufacturing sector. Over time I managed groups of designers and electricians.  There were also many times when I was a welder, a fabricator, an electrician.  I taught myself how to use AutoCAD and Microstation CAD design software.  I taught myself how to program PLCs and computers.  I went to night school to learn accounting, economics and business.  I took math course, physics and welding. In order to commission equipment I traveled thousands of miles to customer sites across America, Mexico, Canada, and as far as Korea, Poland, Saudi Arabia and Brazil. I learned by applying myself to the task, by learning what I needed and simply by doing.

 After several after-hours discussions at a local bar the three of us decided which day we would leave the troubled company to start our own business.  Being integral to the functioning of the business our concurrent departures would mean that the company would rapidly fold. The company did close within a year.  We went off on our own with no nets beneath us and just our own will to make things happen.

 We began our business in a basement. We invested $3000.00 in start-up capital. We each claimed a share of equity in the new firm, incorporated as a Delaware corporation.

 Now I have to tell you, starting a business with nothing but sheer determination is not easy.  The risk of no immediate sales and therefore no paychecks for weeks and months is ever before you. With this in mind we began to solicit business by sending out business letters telling a broad spectrum of customers about our new venture. We even begged for business, often drastically discounting the sale just to get our foot in the door and to keep it there.

 While we advertised I also set up the computers and the accounting system using what I learned at night school.  I set up the accounts:  Accounts Payable, Accounts Receivable, Assets, Revenue,  W-4s, etc.   

 Over time (almost a year after starting) we received our first purchase order.  I had developed a small position indicating device that could be readily used in the plastics industry to control plastic sheet gauge – a necessary requirement for thermoforming companies. We sold one and then two. I was then sent to California to install the later-to-be patented device. I had to make sure that our product did what we promised it would.  Once it was proven we invoiced our first receivable.

 We slowly gained sales momentum from customers who knew our reputations and knew of our capabilities.  We sometimes over sold ourselves just to get in the door.  There were many quiet anxious days along the way waiting for something bigger to break.  When things did start happening we rented a small industrial building and set up what little we had. As orders came in and invoices went out we were then able to buy computers, software, drafting tables, welders, paint equipment, hand tools and a truck with our company name.

We soon hired staff:  a fabricator. As business continued to grow over a time , a seeming eternity for us with our shoe string budget, we added more and more people.  When I left the company there was over fifty employees on the payroll.  This company, currently housed in a 325,000 sq. ft. building with large overhead cranes, is now doubling it size, building an expansion on the same site.

 The reason I left the business and cashed out was simply the fact that the work of starting a new business is a 24/7 job.  This intensive venture took a toll on me and my family.  There were many nights away from my family.  There were many intensive phone calls with clients.  As the Vice president of Engineering I spent many hours trouble shooting customer problems in person or over the phone from home.  I spent a lot of time interviewing people and then hiring and firing as needed.  I supervised design work and managed over a dozen people, all engineers. I was on call constantly.

 In the early days of our company I multitasked.  There were only three of us and one of us had to go on the road to do the cold calling.  I stayed with my other partner and we did what was needed.  As an order came in I would create the electrical schematics on a drafting board, I would then order the parts. I would receive the parts, sort out the paper work, input accounts payable, print out checks on a line printer and then send out the checks to vendors. I would assemble the large-scale equipment by hand:  I welded half-inch plates of carbon steel to create structural frames; I assembled control panels and wired the instrumentation.  I also spray painted the finished products.  Before that I would power up and test the equipment.  I was front office, plant, truck driver, assembler, engineer and tired but excited.  I was working for myself and creating growing equity.  My piece of the pie was growing.

 Until you’ve done something like start a business from scratch you would have no idea how intense, exhausting, scary and pleasurable it is to make your way in this world with just the work of your own hands.  But the excitement doesn’t stop there.

 As the company grows you hire people.  But it is a scary proposition.  You know you need more help but you don’t know where or when the next order is coming from.  You bite your nails and finally say “OK, we need someone. Place the ad.”

 When you hire someone and train them you’ve given them hope.  At the same time your own stomach is wrenching with the fear that someday you may have to lay that person off if business drops off.  It is all risk, calculated risk and that is what entrepreneurs do best:  find a venture and put themselves and their money at risk in order to create something successful and to gain a return on their investment – an investment of dollars and tons of sweat equity.  Obama knows nothing about what I talking about.

 Obama risks nothing.  He finds safety in numbers, in government. He is the child of safety nets. His absent father gave him no guidance whatsoever about business. It is apparent from Obama’s biographies that Obama learned to hate anything which might smack of colonialism.  And Obama has wrongly conflated capitalism with colonialism.   Obama’s only claim to success is his community organizing.  We can see now that his organizing is nothing more than organizing taxpayer money to the benefit of his political gain.

 No government built our business.  Government with its ever-present paper work and regulations was ever the impedance to growing our business and hiring more people.  Government now, in effect, hinders human flourishing. And I don’t have to tell you that Barrack Obama wants more government and less independent success.  You’ll have to ask him why he hates business and demonizes success.

 Sweat equity built our successful business not government.  And it was not Obama, not Elizabeth Warren, not roads and bridges, not the IRS, not organized labor and not the three thousand dollars of start-up capital back in 1988. We built it with our own hands while paying corporate taxes up to 30%! Obama can kiss my sweaty ass!

 Listen Obama (I know I am speaking to deaf ears) – There is no sweat equity in golfing.”

******

The Real Deal

Paul Ryan calls out the blame shifters and political grifters, talks about his widowed mom’s success, gives small business at shot in the arm – “You did build that” –  and tells the Obama poster generation that there is hope beyond Obama:

“College graduates should not have to live out their 20s in their childhood bedrooms, staring up at fading Obama posters and wondering when they can move out and get going with life.”

Update:  Here’s Clint Eastwood making my day as he speaks to the empty chair at the RNC.

The Taxonomy of The No-Class Warrior’s Obamanomics

Hyperboleconomics: the promotion of the Keynesian fallacy that increasing the national debt by spending trillions of hard-earned taxpayer dollars to create a handful of “not-so shovel ready jobs” is money well spent. Keynesian economics can easily be described as the economic stimulus theory whereby your wife tries to spend her way out of her depression.  Sound familiar?  It’s deny side economics.

Cronyeconomics:  The channeling of billions of dollars to fund green projects and then rerouting the money to the pockets of those who know how to spend your money.  Bailouts for supporters of the Obama regime: big unions, big auto manufacturers, big banks, etc..  No bailouts for the little guys – the small businessmen and women struggling to make payroll.

Feareconomics:  “Republicans will push granny over the cliff.  We must live for today.  We promise that there will be no death panel for Medicare.  (That’s reserved only for Obamacare patients.)  Medicare will die soon of natural causes anyway.  Besides, your grandkids are young.  They can fend for themselves.”

Hopeychangeyeconomics:  year one – pass no budget, spend, demand higher taxes; year two – pass no budget, spend, demand higher taxes; year three – pass no budget, spend, demand higher taxes; year four – pass no budget, spend, demand higher taxes

Fairshareconomics: the proposition that even though half the nation pays taxes and the other half who does not pay taxes benefits from the revenue is considered not fair enough.  The proposition that those who pay taxes pay 100% more in taxes than those who do not is considered not fair enough.  The proposition that even though there is a progressive tax structure in place which rises in percentage as you earn more, this is not fair enough.  “Fair share” economics ultimately is where you pay until there is no more to pay and then its still not fair because you don’t have even more to pay.   Adam Corolla on taxes and fairness (caution:  language).

BlameBusheconomics:  “It’s not my fault.”  “We were handed a raw deal – the Presidency and the Senate.  We will need more time and all your money to throw at this.  Just look how much has been accomplished since we came into office.  We need four more years to pass no budget, spend your money and demand higher taxes.”

Nocarbonfuelseconomics:  wind turbines and solar are the best energy sources to transmit renewable campaign money through companies like GE, Solyndra and others. Besides, with EPA regulations we will make it impossible to generate fossil fuels in this country because we want the world to like us.  Government regulations are key to snuffing out any enterprise which uses natural resources.  “The loss of jobs and homes along the way is collateral damage in our socially conscious war against big oil, big coal and big gas. Remember we hate Imperialistic America abroad but it is OK, though, to be thoroughly imperialistic about green energy here at home.  Our righteous ends demand it. Buy the light bulb we tell you to buy or else.”

Chomskyesquesconomics:  The Industrial-military complex is evil.  America is Satan.  America is a terrorist.  Capitalism is colonialism.  Helping poor nations flourish increases Americanism around the world.  America is to blame for the problems in the world. America should be like Mahatmas Noam, the swami of “universal grammer” and peaceful denial.

“Youdidntbuilthat”economics: :  the presumptuous economic theory that says that because the government has taxing authority over you this same government can take credit for your hard work.  This economic theory assumes that roads and bridges were all it took to create Apple – no human initiative whatsoever is necessary either to create tax revenue or to create products for consumption.  The machinery of government “allowed” Apple to create the iPods, iPads, the Mac Book Pros.  In other words, government is the kid next to you in class, the kid who didn’t study for his finals and who now looks over your shoulder for the answers that will eventually propel him on to greater opportunities to take credit for other’s hard work.

Nannystateconomics:  government is to be your provider, your parent, your priest and your panacea. You should be thankful to be another brick in the wall. “Trust me.”

Obamacare:  receiving political “clap” from Big Brother.  “The time has changed for come.” (at 2:58)

    Antidotes:  Romney-Ryan Tea –  great taste, less filing

Click here for the The Broke Party

The Sights and Sounds of You, O God

The Sights and Sounds of You, O God

 

The sights and sounds of You, O God,

The sights and sounds of You,

Your bolts of light dash through space,

Heralds of mercy’s hues.

 

The sights and sounds of You, O God,

The sights and sounds of You,

Agnostics and atheists do espy.

What hearts already knew.

 

Rapids thrash and tides behave,

While man finds shadows in his cave,

And though “Billions” of galaxies” wait outside,

Man into darkness burrows his grave.

 

Ecosystems, single cell to upright and spry.

Genomes and hormones and tears when you cry –

Life is the sight and sound of You, O Lord

Life is Your wonders yet to be explored.

 

© Sally Paradise, 2012, All Rights Reserved

The “Hate Watchers”

The “Hate Watchers”

Harbingers of exclusion, the “Hate Watchers.”

“Hate Watchers” stew alone, churning inside

Along fault lines long ago buried,

Until,

Projection spews ad hominem, ad hominem miasma,

miasma a lethal dose.

The “other” succumbs under the gaze of the elect,

The “Hate Watchers.”

© Sally Paradise, 2012, All Rights Reserved

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http://legalinsurrection.com/2012/08/splcs-hatewatch-gives-cover-to-hate/

 http://www.splcenter.org/blog/

Elementary Friendship Deduced

Friendship.  The very word conjures up everything good and noble about relationships.  My friendships over the years have always given me a sense of bundled joy.  I have sought out friends and they have sought me out in a vice-versa tango of interests.

Currently I am watching the BBC’s Sherlock series on DVD.  I truly enjoy this production.  There is much to like:   the theatre-of-the-mind writing, the winding plots, the creators’ love for Conan Doyle writing’s, the clever cinematics and most of all,  the unabashed homage to friendship between the two male leads – Benedict Cumberbatch as Holmes and Martin Freeman as Dr. John Watson.  I said friendship and not homosexual liaison. 

As depicted in the first episode “A Study in Pink” Dr John Watson tries to pick up Mycroft’s female assistant while riding in a limo.  Later, while seated in a diner Watson tells the restaurant owner who has inferred that the two are together that he is not “with” Sherlock Holmes.  In the same setting Sherlock tells Watson that he is not looking for “any…” because he is “married to his job.” Thank God. We need to see hale and hearty male friendship depicted in a world infected with dehumanizing homosexuality.