the trouble with time limits

Every election, and whenever the subject comes up in between elections, there is a big
“thing” about term limits.

“Throw ’em all out…ALL of them.”      This seems like a good idea…on the face of it…except that it would almost always be a disaster.     This point of view is often described as “clear the swamp.”      I like my clichés to have literal meaning, so when someone says that I picture a real swamp, with hanging moss, fragrant jungle flowers, glass-bottomed tour boats, and alligators sunning themselves in mis-leading innocence.    Yeah, this is all very picturesque.    The thing to “clear out” of the actual swamp/jungle, presumeably is the alligators, and other creatures that will eat you if they get a chance.   In the metaphorical  swamp, to which the plotters and pundits refer,… is of course Washington D.C.   The best allusions may be to the alligators, standing in for elected members of Congress.     (No aspersions cast on the alligators.)

Depending on the speaker, there is usually no consensus of exactly WHOM to throw out.     The “commenters” are not very specific either….they mostly just advocate getting rid of “ALL of them,” and starting over with an all-new brand-spanking lot of Congress people and their respective entourages.

“Don’t throw out MY Congresspeople though!”    Ah-ha, therein lies the rub…the Dems want their own representatives, and Republicans back theirs (most of the time…moreorless.)     That could be called the “Your Rep is a crook…Mine isn’t” theory of political adequacy.

Yes, I DO have an allegorical illustration for my point…which is that it is basically impossible to start over completely, from scratch, at a grass-roots level.     Once…back in the proverbial day…a would-be entrepreneur presented to our City Council a plan to open a new restaurant.    He said he intended to hire ALL NEW staff—new cooks, new waitresses/waiters, now known as “Servers.”      New hostesses, new managers, new bartender…even new dishwasher/busboys.     By “new” was meant workers who had NO experience in any of the positions.   They would be trained “to order” by the owner, in his own expectations for how to do their jobs.    In other words, no one would have even a clue of what they were supposed to do.    Needless to say, if the restaurant ever had materialized as planned it could have been named “The Fiasco Diner.”

That’s what would happen in Washington if there was a law that all new politicians had to be completely inexperienced.    Wow!     As if the atmosphere there is not already terrifying!     Actually the current experiment in Foggy Bottom threatens to loom menacingly as The PEOTUS seems to be introducing a concept of “let’s just see what happens!”     Maybe its a principle of “…keeping one’s friends close and enemies closer.”

Here’s a scary one: “let’s call up all our enemies and suggest we all play nice.”




OK….I admit it…I’m scared!

There are people that I know very well, family members, friends, acquaintenaces from various times of my life who snicker or sneer at my fears.    They say I am of the “old school”—the “Cold War era”—afraid of bogies and ghosts of the past, as gifted us from the best selling authors of Spy Fiction.    You know—Tom Clancey et al.

I have been told in so many words that the old Cold War politics are passé.   I have been told, that  being an old woman— one having studied matters of the World, and especially the United States, of which I am an informed citizen and Historian—my views are left over from the bad old days when Russia was not our friend.

In the recent past I have been accused of “hating” my country.    WRONG…as our new president elect would say.    I have always likened this theory of un-Americanism to the case of a loving and devoted Great-Grandmother who accepts and loves all family members the same no matter what they do or how they live…or what they do.        She (ok… I….) love my country but not necessarily everything they do.

“My country right or wrong” was the slogan of a more patriotic time when we the people were psyched up for war, or invasion, or over-throwing sovereign governments, or killing world leaders that we don’t like.

Demonization…a process by which a leader/country/nationality/situation by which the citizenry is often known to fall in with a given idea at a proverbial snap of the fingers by whoever is  in charge.     Pick up the morning paper…or sign onto Yahoo…or flick the radio switch.   Chances are there will be a brand new name of someone that we as citizens need to oppose.   We are expected to absorb and believe in whatever truths and half-truths spew forth from the powers-that-be.

Remember a few years ago when we were all expected to be mad at France—because they declined leaping happily at invading or bombing or otherwise harassing another country?   Sort of a “We are having a War, and you are cordially invited (expected) to participate…or else we will make French Fry jokes and remarks about your manly prowess…”





Nursery Rhyme commentary


Remember the Maiden All Forlorn?
Who kissed the cow with the crumpled horn?
Ever wonder what was her problem?

Was it the Man All Tattered and Torn?
Did our Maiden prefer the Cow
to the advances of the passerby?

The saddest dilemma the poor Maiden faced
was that to report the bad man was out of place
for a mere milkmaid with a pretty face.

Now she is old and has Maidens of her own,
and tries to forget the horrible Man with the
slobbering kiss—but he calls her a Crone

“Never happened,” says He, with a straight face,
“How could it….look at her!   There’s no way
she would have have had any appeal!”

Now the Maiden is famous throughout the land
and has forfeited her anonymity to critics
who scoff and sneer…just another statistic!

©Sometimes, 2016

the maiden all forlorn

Taco Trucks…what a great idea!

The idea of “Taco Trucks on every corner” is not a bad idea.     Food trucks, in general, are popular in areas such as college campuses, factories, various community events.  At the University of Akron, when I was there ten years ago, there was a guy with his food truck selling Gyros.   For anyone who has been asleep for years, Gyros are yummy sandwich sort of “wrap” things, special meat, sautéed onions and peppers, maybe some tomatoes, and delicious cucumber/sour cream sauce.   ooooh, I’m hungry now.   The Gyro truck was located in a more strategic location than the school food court/cafeteria/snack bar…and always had a booming business of hungry students and professors.   The price was affordable. the food fresh and good tasting.

SO, when I first heard it, I was favorably impressed with the prospect of this “Taco Truck” business  in spite of it being  a denigrating nickname intended as an insult to Hillary Clinton’s campaign—presumeably a warning by a Donald Trump Surrogate apparently opining that Tacos were somehow gauche, and trucks selling Tacos was somehow a bad thing that Mrs. Clinton would force upon us when she becomes POTUS.

Aside from the obvious…having good food readily available at a reasonable price…there is an even better advantage—  Tacos are inherently NUTRITIOUS food!

As one of my professors pointed out once in a class about indigenous health habits, the the general diet has always included basic substinence items of Corn, Beans, Rice, and   vegetables such as tomatoes, lettuce or other greens, onions, some peppers, and meat—what could be more nutrious than that?   Besides, serving is easy…just fill up a Taco shell (corn,) or wrap up the good stuff in a soft flour tortilla.   OK technically that’s a Burrito…but specific terminology is optional at a Taco Truck.

The government could even subsidize Taco Trucks–and do a double purpose of encouraging good nutrition for the masses in the bargain.    Could be a boon to vegetable farmers, too.

WHO doesn’t like Tacos?


Are critics just mean?

Is it necessary, when a skinny but gorgeous fashion model is sauntering down the runway in her painful stillettos, for a critic to find something negative to say?    The girl’s hair is perfect to the last tousled curl, her figure exquisite in its proportions and invisible twekes of past imperfection.     Her patent leather bag may be a tad too plain for the somewhat “frilly” ruffles at the neckline…which. by the way, could be slightly higher so as to allude to more fullness in the bodice area?     Her make-up could not be more appropriate to enhance her naturally somewhat sallow complexion…do you think a touch toward-primrose blush?   Those earrings are beautiful!…could be slightly less elongated…her ears seem large for her face, don’t you think?    What a pity that now she is pregnant— why in the world would she want a child now at the peak of her career?

When is it appropriate to make an “informed comment” without being requested to do so?

This post is in response to a re-blog that I did a few days ago, about “responsible self-promotion.”

One of the countless things my children find annoying about me is that I so easily slip into “Lecture Mode,” as they call it.    I admit it, and add that I often want to butt-in to random conversations at times…in restaurants, at the Mall, in grocery store check-out lines, holiday dinners, on airplanes, in waiting rooms.

I know in my heart that when I over-hear someone say “I wonder where these bluejeans REALLY come from?”   or “Why is there a U. S. military base on Guantanamo?”     The asker does not really want to know the answers to those questions.    They don’t want a stranger sharing information about Cuba being part of the spoils in the Spanish American War,  or that there was a lease ending in 1999 that would have returned the land to the Cubans.    They don’t want to hear about the Cuban Missile Crisis and how my husband was in the army at the time and how scared I was that the crisis would end in a war with the Soviet Union.   They especially don’t want to hear about how I was waiting in the car at a convenience store when the news broadcast announced the start of the Cuban Revolution.

Back to the bluejean question…they don’t want to hear about the maquiladora (factory in Chiapas, Mexico where workers stand on tile floors for hours on end, manufacturing sweaters and other garments for the likes of Tommy Hilfeger, The Gap, and other high-end manufacturers who employ cheap labor at horrendous conditions.    They especially don’t care that I actually saw those people in that factory with my own eyes.—and have photos of them.

“Is that poison ivy?” They don’t want to hear about the agonies of poison ivy, how it is contacted by humans, how long it lasts, or that it isn’t contagious per se.   They don’t care that I had it so bad I almost rubbed my skin raw because of the itching …but my baby daughter didn’t get it at all.      I hear them asking other people, who shrug and say “I don’t know…but don’t toucth ME!”

My favorite is the wide-spread use of photos of the MAYA pyramid at Chichen Itza, mis-identified as AZTEC.    No matter how many times this error is committed…it is never corrected.     Ditto that the Aztec Sun Stone, or Aztec Calendar, is NOT the “Mayan Calendar.”    They don’t give two hoots or a holler that the Ancient Maya and the Aztecs were not contemporaries, lived in different locations, or that they were separate and not-even-close in culture.

So what?   It just seemed appropriate to discuss “informed comments.”

Is it ever proper to interrupt a conversation between strangers (or anyone) to correct some non-fact: “Look! There’s Bob Dole!”      NO, it’s Jeb Bush!

What are the moral implications of not correcting two women who walk by you, arguing loudly about something that supposedly happened at a school board meeting, and YOU were there and know exactly what happened, and YOU were personally involved?

Does being informed about something give the right (or obligation) to interject information without being asked?     (Not counting the implied moral responsibility to warn of an impending car crash!)

If stranger is talking to someone—not ME—and asks a direct question, should I butt-in without being asked?   In fact—does the stranger have a moral obligation to heed contributed conversation?

Endless chatter can be good…

The thought occurs often, as my fingers move on to the right keys and begin a new post—“hello?  Is anyone there?”    The latest of writings (should it be “typings?) might be about anything.  (Well, almost anything…even I have limits.)    Sometimes a little nagging whisper asks “who really reads this stuff?”   Since my newspaper writer days, occasional  comments or letters-to-the-editor, or angry phone calls have provided answers to my idle questions.

Once a student handed me a copy of a newspaper article about typewriters.  “Our instructor gave us this to read…I thought you might like it.”    Indeed—I was the author of the piece, several years previously.   Instead of being insulted at the preproduction of my original work, I took the incident in a positive light.   The by-line on the article was my former name, before I re-married.

In those days of writing features about all sorts of subjects—from Jim Beam bottle collections, to travel articles, on to stuff about the County Health Department and the “float” of written paper checks as they were flown by airplane between bank transactions (known fondly as “beating the check to the bank”…a time-honored practice which was ended by electronic systems.)

In the early days of my newspaper career my  position was as a Correspondent.  As such I did everything that I would later do as a salaried full-time Reporter. I duly collected and saved every news clippings of everything I wrote in those days…but modesty dictates that the reason for such paperwork was not vanity at all, but was actually for the purpose of getting paid.   Feature articles were worth a few dollars, photographs and news reports of meetings or traffic accidents…announcements of Girl Scout bake sales brought varying per-item pay.    As for preserving that body of writing over a period of eighteen years…I hasten to add that only Feature stories of some lasting interest were retained in my folders.

It is difficult for me to analyze my blog readership.     The WordPress stats page does a good job of keeping track of posts and statistics, although at times the numbers mysteriously change.    My readership was greater and more wide-spread in the day, what with city council meetings, school board meetings, township trustee meetings, and feature stories from all over the area as an all-purpose staff reporter.     News accounts tend to be more thoroughly scrutinized for details, correctly spelled names, and quotations….or more accurately mis-quotations.

Writing a blog post is less demanding, to me anyway, because most readers either like it, don’t like it, or ignore it.



Finally! Some good news for pizza lovers…in New Zealand

yes indeed….looking over the Washington Post offering this morning, there is actually some good news.   Alas, though…not for me here in Ohio, but if ya live in New Zealand—go for it!   And please let me know how it works!


Now, if anyone asks me, pizza delivery is a great innovation.   The pizza arrives in good time, with a two-litre of Pepsi, and for a twenty dollar bill including a lavish tip for the delivery person—presto!   Dinner!

New Zealanders can just call their local shop, and a drone (imagine that!) will shortly swoop out of the sky…scaring heck out of the dog…who might attack the drone, eat the pizza, and no one will ever know until they send another drone to check.      That scenario is pretty far-fetched, I’ll admit…most of the dogs I have ever known were too smart to attack an unknown thing.  (Maybe whine a bit from inside their dog house.)

Drones may be the latest thing in wonderful inventions, but as far as I’m concerned, and I admit I’m an old Luddite…hmmm, I wonder what those guys that smashed up the machines would have done it they had their pizza delivered by drone?  Yikes, it wouldn’t have been pretty.

Sending machines that look like a cross between a mosquito and a sci-fi-helicopter is bad enough…just one of the creations could wipe out an apartment building from across the world with explosives.   Or, on the other hand, they could help to end starvation by sending pizzas to destitute families in war torn areas.     Maybe after the killer-strike drone dust settles down, a pizza delivery drone could be sent to help the survivors.

It just boggles the mind!

Responsible self-promotion: negotiating the relationships between self and Other, myself and ‘my’ work RE-BLOGGED!

This excellent article by Alison Phipps, is re-blogged from her site: genders, bodies, and politics.    The topic is one that I find interesting, so I will refer to it in my own post on the subject.



genders, bodies, politics

This is the text of a talk I was invited to give at Sussex university on February 18th 2016, to a group of PhD students and early-career researchers. 


‘Responsible self promotion’. I think that is probably an oxymoron. Responsibility implies being accountable to something other than the self: the act of promoting the self is by definition, selfish. Is it possible to both promote the self and be accountable to the Other? I think the answer is ‘probably not’. But self-promotion is increasingly part of academic life: our readerships and research ‘impact’ are metricised by systems of reward and punishment like funding streams, league tables, and the REF. For early career researchers, precarious employment depends on being able to narrate the self in a marketable fashion. For those in mid- to late-career stages, promotion is reliant on self-promotion: rising up the ranks means evidencing, usually for a committee, our intellectual…

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The Beggar

There was a beggar
who sometimes plied his talent
if hungry or not.

Good morning, I said
always when I passed him by
and handed a dollar.

He mumbled something,
with a nod of his grey beard
maybe thanks…or not.

My friend disapproved,
why encourage him, she said.
Why give a hand-out?

He’s richer than us…
thanks to the people like you
who forfeit good sense!

So they said, indeed…
and for all I knew…it’s true,
always a fixture…

If he ever worked
no one knew…most didn’t care;.
tossed a coin—or not.

Did he need to beg
to support his existence?
Was he a con man?

It doesn’t matter…
not for me to determine…
I know just one thing:

Better him than me,
in the cold rain and hot sun,
on the street—for alms.

Risking self esteem,
damaging reputation,
takes audacity

The truth, I suppose,
(if there must be a reason,)
— “Just because he asked!”

©Sometimes, 2016

“Many Say”—the new “THEY”

Well, one thing I’ll grudgingly give Donald Trump is that when he says “many say” he actually isn’t exaggerating===every word he says is diligently (and selectively) repeated on the television, in newspapers…on-line magazines, even Facebook.   Since he never takes credit (responsibility) for what he says  no matter how many times the video footage is repeated.

One wonders…[uh, as for the use of “One” in place of saying something more direct such as “I wonder”,  “the Generals wonder,” “Hillary Clinton wonders,”   or the  generic “some of us wonder”, “women wonder” …. the word “One” in the context of “all of us” or “we” conveys the message without specifics.]     Any way, One wonders if anyone hears what The Donald is really saying?

What ever happened to the laws against inciting public unrest…the old yelling “fire!” in a crowded room,  slander laws, legislation designed to identify and earmark threats to other people?     If I picked up my phone and called city hall and threatened the Mayor, there would be so many police cars in my driveway it would look like their parking lot.   There I would be….in the slammer….waiting to appear before a court on charges of making a telephone threat, maligning (or worse) a public official, insanity, and sedition.       (whee doggies…as Jeb Clampett used to say!)





  1. conduct or speech inciting people to rebel against the authority of a state or monarch.

    synonyms: rabble-rousing · incitement to rebel · subversion ·



late Middle English (in the sense ‘violent strife’): from Old French, or from Latin seditio(n-), from sed- ‘apart’ + itio(n-) ‘going’ (from the verb ire).


sedition (noun)
seditions (plural noun)
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when the Muse keeps quiet

One of the things I love about blogging is the great bloggers…all kinds of people, all over the world, young and old (is that politically correct?) and all political and religious persuasions.   I like that.   How boring life would be if we never got out of our particular little niche.     I DO care about all my … uh…blogging acquaintances…and their opinions and points of view…even the ones that don’t think like I do.   That’s OK, feel free to say what ya want and I’ll deal with it.    My best friends usually don’t agree with me on everything…some don’t agree on anything…

Blogging is fun because there aren’t many rules, and when it isn’t fun there is always the unfollow button.

This post is supposed to be about My Muse.    She stays out of the way, mostly, and pops out with a brainstorm of an idea, or nags me to comment on World Affairs, or Cats, or  to expound on my opinions or ideas.       Right from the beginning I established my blog as “Eclectic” in nature.   That means I am right on topic no matter what my subject of the day happens to be.

Some days I publish three or four posts, which may deal with anything or everything.   Maybe I’ll write about my childhood, playing mumblety-peg with my brother, or learning to read, or skipping through an airport on my way to…wherever.    I am a Historian by education, and sometimes write about a topic dear to my heart—Aztec flower wars, the view from the top of an ancient pyramid in the Yucatan Jungle, the art work of Diego Rivera, slavery in the Caribbean, miscellaneous wars…obscene houses of worship with walls painted in real Gold.

Other days something more mundane, like expounding on the coming election…or discussing the Soviet Union and why I really love watching James Bond movies…or maybe even a commentary about the various James Bond actors.

Poetry is a form of writing which I only very recently discovered.  Oh sure, I had creative writing in English classes here and there, copied Edgar Allen Poe’s The Raven into notebooks along with some Shakespeare, and a selection of my early poetry, which remains in my notebooks, and I sit and read occasionally to marvel at my flowing words and flowery handwriting.   All that with a real ink-pen…a fountain pen which was filled with real ink.

Last year I participated in a WordPress Poetry Writing class.  I loved it…learning new forms which I had not really considered before, like Haiku, Villanelle, limericks, and my favorite Free-Form Poetry.   Which to me means nice words that fit nicely together to form rhyme and prose lines  that are palpable to the ear and lend themselves to foot-tapping and rhythym.

The poetry forms are fascinating.   The act of rhyming, and counting syllables to achieve a certain “beat” to the poem…meter, actually.     Instead of being tedious, as it might be to physically craft a poem following specific rules in a Freshman poetry-writing class, I find the mechanics of Poetry to be interesting, educational, and instructive.

When my Muse seems to be taking a day off, and I want to write a poem, I like to scribble a line and then build on it, in the rough draft using words that will not necessarily make it to the final rhyme.   I hasten to say that I have finally learned that poems do not have to necessarily rhyme…as in the Cat in the Hat being true blue…that kind of rhyme.

Sometimes these methods pay off in producing a quick and succinct poem, but other times it is months that a “rough draft” languishes in the notebook, occasionally having an update that consists of a tweke here and there, polishing a word, scratching it out.   Some efforts never work for me,   especially  forced or manufactured lines of poetry that just stink…or are stupid.

Writing prose articles is different.  I won’t bore everybody with long lists of examples of such posts.       I try hard to avoid  writing that tends to be presumptious…self-serving…holier-than-thou…or in lecture mode.    Above all my goal is to entertain and inform, and to interact with other bloggers who have similar interests or common experiences.


Conjuring McCarthyism

WOW!!!   This stuff about the Russians hacking the DNC email is SO COOL!   It makes me think of the old days when the McCarthy hearings were on the television every day for what seemed forever.   That was back in 1950.

I was a kid then, in high school,   interested primarily in hanging out and dancing and all that stuff.    But I LOVED the McCarthy hearings.  In black and white, on the small screen TV, the congressional hearings presided over by Senator Joseph McCarthy were dramatic, gripping—TRUE drama.   Frightening!

Endlessly, it seemed, Senator McCarthy hammered away at hapless people of all walks of life who were accused or suspected of being Communists—spies of the Soviet Union.      These people were largely Movie Stars and other Hollywood bigwigs, and all levels of United States Government workers…from the lowliest clerks to people in high positions.

I, being a 16-year-old girl, working at a dry goods/grill/hardware store…making ice-cream sodas and hotfudge sundaes, and hamburgers.    I worked the soda counter, and was forbidden by the owner of the store to wander off into other areas.  I stayed in my brightly lit corner, minded my ice-cream soda bar and grill, and chatted with my friends.

Although I was a reasonably good kid, minded my own business and did my work, then went home and did my homework, watched some TV (sometimes,) hung out with my friends…my best friend was the Head Majorette with the high school marching band, which provided me with considerable “reflected glory.”

Also—I watched Senator McCarthy as he brought down his best Inquisitioner techniques on the suspected Communists.

I was scared to death that somehow I could be mistaken for a Communist.  Not sure how such a thing could be, I nonetheless watched what I read, who I talked to, and what I said.     I was fully aware that if I didn’t toe the mark, it would be ME up against the  virtual rack….the one that the Spanish Inquisition used to great infamy back in the sixteenth century.

It still gives me the shudders, remembering the wild-eyed fury of the Senator…who in his best lawyer-fashion, ranted and raved at his “suspects,” who sat and squirmed with presperation dripping down their faces under the hot lights of the television studio.     I suppose if I really wanted to I could research the history of those Senate Hearings and list names of the unfortunate “Communist Sympathizers” and the details of their dastardly deeds.

SO—all this comes to mind when watching IN AWE—Donald Trump nonchalantly shrugging his shoulders and raving about the Russians, saying dumb stuff such as he “hopes the Russians” hack into some more American e-mails.   Heck, why not?   Dig into the State Department secrets.   Let us read all those juicy emails of Hillary Clinton discussing bridesmaids dresses and menu decisions…hmmm, beef or chicken?

Where is all the outrage?   If Donald Trump were to suddenly be transported back in time to 1950, and was seated at that torture chamber table being harangued by Senator McCarthy—WOW!!!—HOW COOL WOULD THAT BE???   He must have a souped-up DeLorean in his garage…fit it out for time-travel, and…there he goes.

(Sorry…please forgive the punctuation and capital letters.)



Observations and Gossip

Wow!   Just WOW!   That’s a new IN saying, has anyone noticed?    It is a simple phrase that can be applied to most any situation.

Admiration…Wow!  Did you check the CNN anchor’s HAIR!   Wow!  I haven’t decided if I like her hair that way or not.   Between you and me, it may be a tad TOO blonde.   In fact, while on that subject…have you noticed how so many of those women are blonde?–even the brunettes are blonde.  How come there aren’t any redheads?   It used to be de rigeur, back in the day, to try to get an equal number of blondes, brunettes, and redheads.  This will probably date me, but how about Betty Grable, Hedy Lamaar, and Rita Hayworth???   Huh??? (wink wink)

Say what?    NO…I really like blondes.   I love blondes.    And furthermore, to demonstrate that I am definitely NOT sexist…I also love “blonds.”  That’s how fair-haired MEN should be described.    In my family, which is VERY-extended, there are always lots of blonde/blonds.     I always attribute that to our Viking ancestor that someone found back in the family tree.     But to be fair, there are LOTS of ancestors back there….and they all have different colors of hair.

I always ought it was a tremendous rip-off that I had brown hair…nearly black in fact…and my sisters were BLONDES.   My cousins were Blondes.  Even some of my kids are blonde/blonds.      I was always very jealous of this fact.   Once I thought of becoming a redhead, which was what I always wanted to be…but when I tried it the dye (oops…coloring)  that the beautician used produced more of a brassy copper sort-of-maroonish hue.  It was quite remarkable—and WOW! what comments I got.

To get back to the News Media people’s hair,   it always strikes me as incongruous when a striking, intelligent, educated, knowledgeable woman—especially if she is wearing a slinky cocktail dress under her flack jacket—is reporting in a serious and somber no-nonsense tone of voice the latest news about murder and mayhem and general disasters across the world.      I like the more casual hair-styles the news people are allowed out in the wind and rain….by the way, did you SEE what happened when the storm blew up and rain poured down on the CNN broadcast yesterday?      That was a great segment—wind whipping  hair and blowing chairs around?

WOW!    I LOVE that kind of stuff!



A FEW REASONS I’M FEELING NERVOUS (Re-blogged from Jnana’s Red Barn)

This looming election has us all worried, especially the survivors of the Nixon era and the events of 1968. The Republican convention went relatively well…minimum police involvement…but the Democratic convention coming up next week is frightening vulnerable to “disruption” (to use mild language) by anti-Clinton forces and general agitators. In this excellent post by Jnana Hodson makes several points that are appropriate and informative. Thanks for the reblog, Jnana!

Jnana's Red Barn

There are reasons to be nervous about this Democratic Party convention in Philadelphia.

The Chicago convention of 1968 should stand as a warning of what happens when brute power and unbending perfection collide. For those of us growing up in the hippie era – and that includes both Hillary Clinton and Bernie Sanders – the antiwar candidacy of “Clean Gene” McCarthy was an idealistic rallying point that stood in contrast to the insider run of Bobby Kennedy, who, in retrospect, would have advanced many of our positions had he not been assassinated in Los Angeles.

Only months earlier, we were ecstatic when President Lyndon B. Johnson announced he would not run for reelection. Here was our opening, we thought, the big break for the Revolution of Peace & Love.

Instead, LBJ’s loyal vice president, Hubert H. Humphrey, won the nomination at an event marred by violent confrontations between police backed…

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