what is it with this bunch of losers...we haven't got a candidate worth a shit...and we've got a beatable incumbent.
newt - TOO MUCH BAGGAGE
romney - a morman weenie with no traction
santorum - forget it
perry - oh my god
bachmann - her finger on the trigger?
huntsman - a weenie trying to act tough [on the view?] where is utah anyway?
paul - outer space
if i've forgotten anyone it's because they're forgettable...christ help us.
Friday, December 16, 2011
aunt reba's shanty
when i was a kid duck shooting was my passion. ducks seemed, to me, to be the essence of wildness. they were varied, occupied different places in the bird world, migrated - didn't stay in one place all year - flew fast and straight, and could be brought to false representations of themselves [a little corn as an additional enticement didn't hurt]. i loved them all from the little teals and ruddy ducks to the big black ducks and canvasbacks - and i loved to hunt them.
you can imagine my excitement when - in casual conversation with my mother [that unusual in itself] - i discovered that our family owned two islands and a bit of mainland in the magothy river, a tributary of the chesapeake bay, not far from baltimore.
on the mainland - besides the caretaker's house and docks - was aunt reba's shanty. it was situated, precariously, at the end of a little spit of land fronted by the river and backed by a pond. one reached it via a rickety boardwalk about fifty yards long. it was electrified but not heated - except for a little pot bellied stove which glowed a dusty red when charged on a cold winter's night. stretching towards the big island in front of the shanty was a shallow sand bar which i heard a game warden's boat [i can only surmise] hit at high speed just before dawn one morning...on a mission to drive the ducks off the river before we hunters could get a crack at them...and which resulted in a most satisfactory, bearing burning high revolution whine.
aunt reba's shanty hosted a number of enthusiastic, young duck hunters - all slightly drunk as they tipped into bed, and all very cold at 4:00 a.m. when they awoke. the bravest got up to fire the stove. i soon learned to shove my long underwear to the bottom of my sleeping bag before i fell asleep...while pondering the stars that flickered through the holes in the roof.
from aunt reba's shanty we sallied forth onto the magothy into river blinds - little cedar covered boxes in the middle of the stream - and blammed away at the ducks, sometimes successfully, sometimes not. one day i saw two flights of about a hundred ruddy ducks each fly into one another. it took us an hour to pick up the casualties. on another day the river iced up and in our efforts to reach the blind we chopped a hole in our boat and began to sink. a pair of eagles nested, for years, on the bigger of the two islands though they never brought off a clutch. in other words, all a boy could wish for.
aunt reba's shanty is gone now - it fell into the river as tides and erosion took their toll. so is the property for that matter - sold to some developer who has built a house on the big island and is now plagued all summer by drunken teenagers and their sodden girlfriends.
too bad things change the way they do - but you can always count on change.
you can imagine my excitement when - in casual conversation with my mother [that unusual in itself] - i discovered that our family owned two islands and a bit of mainland in the magothy river, a tributary of the chesapeake bay, not far from baltimore.
on the mainland - besides the caretaker's house and docks - was aunt reba's shanty. it was situated, precariously, at the end of a little spit of land fronted by the river and backed by a pond. one reached it via a rickety boardwalk about fifty yards long. it was electrified but not heated - except for a little pot bellied stove which glowed a dusty red when charged on a cold winter's night. stretching towards the big island in front of the shanty was a shallow sand bar which i heard a game warden's boat [i can only surmise] hit at high speed just before dawn one morning...on a mission to drive the ducks off the river before we hunters could get a crack at them...and which resulted in a most satisfactory, bearing burning high revolution whine.
aunt reba's shanty hosted a number of enthusiastic, young duck hunters - all slightly drunk as they tipped into bed, and all very cold at 4:00 a.m. when they awoke. the bravest got up to fire the stove. i soon learned to shove my long underwear to the bottom of my sleeping bag before i fell asleep...while pondering the stars that flickered through the holes in the roof.
from aunt reba's shanty we sallied forth onto the magothy into river blinds - little cedar covered boxes in the middle of the stream - and blammed away at the ducks, sometimes successfully, sometimes not. one day i saw two flights of about a hundred ruddy ducks each fly into one another. it took us an hour to pick up the casualties. on another day the river iced up and in our efforts to reach the blind we chopped a hole in our boat and began to sink. a pair of eagles nested, for years, on the bigger of the two islands though they never brought off a clutch. in other words, all a boy could wish for.
aunt reba's shanty is gone now - it fell into the river as tides and erosion took their toll. so is the property for that matter - sold to some developer who has built a house on the big island and is now plagued all summer by drunken teenagers and their sodden girlfriends.
too bad things change the way they do - but you can always count on change.
Wednesday, December 14, 2011
luck
i was born with a silver spoon in my mouth - unfortunately it was the last piece in the box, and i two generations too late. also, a teensy bit royal - which, even if known, means nothing and will only get you an inflated bill....
Tuesday, December 13, 2011
limits
oh,...and term limits - to foster productivity and encourage urgency.
twelve years for senators...six years for congressmen.
twelve years for senators...six years for congressmen.
Sunday, December 11, 2011
pie
pie's old, clapboard house was on the right hand side of the road on the way to the assateague ferry dock. big, black pie ran the ferry - and was subject to bribes. the ferry schedule said "departing at 7 a.m. - last pickup 5 p.m." but with a pint of whiskey and a "sammich" in the offing pie would collect you from the island - or take you to the island - at midnight if you wished. to make things easy there was a pay phone on the assateague side with his number posted beside it.
often, on the little three car ferry, there were hikers or day campers. just off the shore end of the dock was a low water filled dip. we'd sit in the jeep allowing the walkers to go first and laugh like hell when the greenhead flies and mosquitos attacked them from their damp haven. [one time a guy got bitten so many times he threw his gear all over the place - and sprinted for the beach just over the dune.] we'd then drive through the wet spot, generally unscathed - the insects sated. on the return trip, while waiting for the ferry, we'd clean the fish we'd caught and crab off the dock using the guts for bait.
the fishing was good all the way down to the virginia line - marked by a stout fence which kept the ponies in, or out, depending on your perspective - and three lonely houses, the only ones on the maryland side. the surf was full of kingfish and sand perch. in the fall the blues would show up and sometimes we'd catch an errant rockfish or puppy drum. then disaster struck. the federal government, in its infinite wisdom, built a bridge thereby opening the island up to all manner of riff raff. the calm, empty peace of assateague was gone forever - and another of our refuges disappeared.
i never saw pie again. the last time i went down the road past his house it had collapsed in on itself, a forlorn symbol of good times lost.
often, on the little three car ferry, there were hikers or day campers. just off the shore end of the dock was a low water filled dip. we'd sit in the jeep allowing the walkers to go first and laugh like hell when the greenhead flies and mosquitos attacked them from their damp haven. [one time a guy got bitten so many times he threw his gear all over the place - and sprinted for the beach just over the dune.] we'd then drive through the wet spot, generally unscathed - the insects sated. on the return trip, while waiting for the ferry, we'd clean the fish we'd caught and crab off the dock using the guts for bait.
the fishing was good all the way down to the virginia line - marked by a stout fence which kept the ponies in, or out, depending on your perspective - and three lonely houses, the only ones on the maryland side. the surf was full of kingfish and sand perch. in the fall the blues would show up and sometimes we'd catch an errant rockfish or puppy drum. then disaster struck. the federal government, in its infinite wisdom, built a bridge thereby opening the island up to all manner of riff raff. the calm, empty peace of assateague was gone forever - and another of our refuges disappeared.
i never saw pie again. the last time i went down the road past his house it had collapsed in on itself, a forlorn symbol of good times lost.
Saturday, December 10, 2011
quote for the day
"...it's all speculative until it happens to you."
with thanks to my doc when asked to judge the possible outcome of proposed surgery in the face of a study that tied neurological disease advancement to anesthesia.
with thanks to my doc when asked to judge the possible outcome of proposed surgery in the face of a study that tied neurological disease advancement to anesthesia.
Friday, December 9, 2011
jesus
fuck this jesus shit...sure he was the son of mary and joseph, but god...?...there is no "god" let alone the son of one. it's a scam folks, one built on money - and the collection of same. jesus, if there was one, suffered a seizure on good friday and got up and walked away from it on sunday...it's all bullshit folks, designed to make you feel good - and steal your money [see the modern roman church]. as to god, check with einstein and hawking..and the universe for that matter. i've got another surprise for you - there ain't no heaven. when you're dead, guess what, you're dead...ain't no hall of angels and hitler and goebels - to name two heinous sons of bitches - suffered the same fate as the rest of us will. dead. kaput. the end.
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