I'm not nuts. I'm not crazy. I am a rabid romantic. I am a magical thinker. To this day, I believe that I have not yet exhausted the experience of something extraordinary. There's at least one more "big" thing on its way.
Please read my prior post,THE PRICE OF TEA IN CHINA. It was my intent to comment on the state of the economy. But, towards the end, I began to get a bit preachy and mention things like being a good person and kind to each other, because "There's something happening here." Where this came from, what caused me to take this turn in the road, I had no idea. It just happened. And as I edited the post, just prior to pressing "publish", I liked what I saw and stayed away from the delete button. Self-analysis is much too complicated for me. I know a screwball when I see one. Until just now.
For several months, I have taken note of something unusual for me. I realized that when I would look at my clock radio or cable box, the reflected time would be 11:11. Not at every glance, mind you, but enough to play the lottery with various variations of this number. It quickly became apparent this theory was ill-founded. Yet, these sightings would occur with significant increased frequency, to the point where I would see 11:11 at least daily, most recently being a few moments ago. So, I googled it. And waddayano! It seems that I'm not alone.
The number seems to represent something spiritual, something good, something which emits positive vibes. The more I thought about it---and here's where the line between my subconscious and coockoosville becomes a bit bleary---the more I acknowledged my increasing awareness that I was becoming increasingly aware of the notion that something's happening to me---and it's really huge and really good.
I can't be more specific except to say that the most descriptive word that comes to mind is "serenity."
Go ahead and laugh but you'll be behind me.
This isn't a magic eraser which takes all of life's negativity off the board, but it seems to make it easier to deal with things and to put on a happy face.
My exploration into all of this shall, for sure, continue. In the meantime, I'll continue to think good things and maybe contribute to the universe in a positive way. I'm trying it and I'm liking it.
Thank goodness for computers, for I can't write any letters. Where I am, I can't possess anything sharp.
Stay tuned.
Sunday, August 25, 2013
Friday, August 23, 2013
THE PRICE OF TEA IN CHINA
Today, I went to the supermarket.
Not late at night, to hunt down and pick up a good looking frustrated housewife, meandering aimlessly in the banana section with that unmistakeable "my juices are flowing look", but to simply buy those staples necessary for my existence. Diets and Watson Gourmet Light Turkey Breast--one and a half pounds, sliced at #2. So you can readily take note of the fact that, whatever my choices look like to me, they are the not-especially-exotic fare for you swingin' cats.
I add to my cart, four of the most delicious beefsteak tomatoes, fit for a King that's me, complimented still further by two plastic containers of pre-washed romaine. I'm drooling as I live it. The last items added to ths cart are a fresh (soft) loaf of Italian bread, a jar of Mayo and, for desert, freshly baked cranberry muffins and a few small friut tarts----and man --I'm in heaven. Diet Ginger Ale goes well with the delicious t-l-t sandwiches about to be basked in a light bed of the real Mcoy mayo. Seven days a week of this presentment only makes me crazy for more.
Why, you might ask, did I have the turkey sliced at number 2? The answer is simple, you fool. If it's cut at lest than 2, the slices are unmannigable when you try to separate them for sandwich coverage. An old Indian Mafioso taught me that move, the failure to faithfully follow this culinary stroke often resulting in your being put on the 'Kill List" of every Super Market in town. So far, So good. Until you pass through pay register which lets you out. You've blown in the area of 60 clams, which, by the way, you wanted to buy but didn't because they were too much loot.
The moral of the story is that the price of food has gone haywire, even when buying the minimum necessary for survival. And, this portends bad times. You can fell it happening around you. The middle class is on the way out. There'll soon be just the haves and have-nots. These signs are everywhere.
Buy one suit, get three free. (If I bought a suit with two pairs of pants, I'd rip the coat.) The winter hasn't started but you see half-price sales in normally expensive emporiums.
There's something happening here
What it is aint exactly clear
There's a man with a gun over there
Telling me I got to beware
I think it's time we stop, children, what's that sound
Everybody look what's going down
Rough times lie ahead.
Be a good person to yourself and your loved ones.
Be good to people, for they shall be your friends who support you as your good deeds which have gone around, begin to come around.
There are so many ways to enjoy life without being super rich.
I ain't hawkin' religion here, I'm selling the notion of being kind to each other. And the price is right.
Powerful forces for good begin just that way.
For, alas, I fear we are a half-step away from another recession.
Not late at night, to hunt down and pick up a good looking frustrated housewife, meandering aimlessly in the banana section with that unmistakeable "my juices are flowing look", but to simply buy those staples necessary for my existence. Diets and Watson Gourmet Light Turkey Breast--one and a half pounds, sliced at #2. So you can readily take note of the fact that, whatever my choices look like to me, they are the not-especially-exotic fare for you swingin' cats.
I add to my cart, four of the most delicious beefsteak tomatoes, fit for a King that's me, complimented still further by two plastic containers of pre-washed romaine. I'm drooling as I live it. The last items added to ths cart are a fresh (soft) loaf of Italian bread, a jar of Mayo and, for desert, freshly baked cranberry muffins and a few small friut tarts----and man --I'm in heaven. Diet Ginger Ale goes well with the delicious t-l-t sandwiches about to be basked in a light bed of the real Mcoy mayo. Seven days a week of this presentment only makes me crazy for more.
Why, you might ask, did I have the turkey sliced at number 2? The answer is simple, you fool. If it's cut at lest than 2, the slices are unmannigable when you try to separate them for sandwich coverage. An old Indian Mafioso taught me that move, the failure to faithfully follow this culinary stroke often resulting in your being put on the 'Kill List" of every Super Market in town. So far, So good. Until you pass through pay register which lets you out. You've blown in the area of 60 clams, which, by the way, you wanted to buy but didn't because they were too much loot.
The moral of the story is that the price of food has gone haywire, even when buying the minimum necessary for survival. And, this portends bad times. You can fell it happening around you. The middle class is on the way out. There'll soon be just the haves and have-nots. These signs are everywhere.
Buy one suit, get three free. (If I bought a suit with two pairs of pants, I'd rip the coat.) The winter hasn't started but you see half-price sales in normally expensive emporiums.
There's something happening here
What it is aint exactly clear
There's a man with a gun over there
Telling me I got to beware
I think it's time we stop, children, what's that sound
Everybody look what's going down
Rough times lie ahead.
Be a good person to yourself and your loved ones.
Be good to people, for they shall be your friends who support you as your good deeds which have gone around, begin to come around.
There are so many ways to enjoy life without being super rich.
I ain't hawkin' religion here, I'm selling the notion of being kind to each other. And the price is right.
Powerful forces for good begin just that way.
For, alas, I fear we are a half-step away from another recession.
Friday, August 16, 2013
THE MEDICAL WORLD
A less than brilliant friend of mine was waiting impatiently in the waiting room to see a specialist. He had used his influence to avoid a six month down-the-line first available appointment. The nurse, spotting him as a newcomer, approached him to ask a few preliminary questions.
"What's your name, sir?
He bellowed out, "Roger Adams."
She was startled by his thunderous tone.
"Please, sir, you'll have to calm down and speak more softly. This room is full of sick patients waiting to see the doctor. Now, what is the nature of your problem?"
Without in any way lowering his volume, the man screamed,"There's something wrong with my shlong!"
The nurse was beside herself and ran into the doctor's office, face flushed and body trembling.
"Doctor, I've been with you for over twelve years and I've never been so embarrassed. A man out there, when I asked what ailed him, hollered, at the top of his lungs and in front of all those people, that there was something wrong with his shlong!"
The doctor calmed her down and directed her to bring the man in, immediately.
When the man was seated, the doctor, in a scolding manner, said,"Look, Adams--when my nurse asks you what's wrong, tell her anything--your head your back--anything at all, but you don't tell her, in front of other patients, that there's something wrong with your shlong. You tell that to me when we're alone together. Get it? I mean, what are you--nuts?"
Two weeks later, the nurse again noticed Adams in the waiting area, cautiously approached him and whispered," Hello, again, Mister Adams, what ails you, today?"
Adams twisted nervously in his chair and answered, still on the loud side, "Oh, um, (he was awkwardly hesitating) there's something wrong (big pause) with my, ah, elbow."
"And what's wrong with your elbow?" the nurse asked, projecting pure pleasantry.
Whereupon Adams shot back, in screaming tone, "I can't pee through it!"
***********************
Poor guy, he was jinxed when it came to picking doctors. Word is that his primary care physician once treated a woman for yellow jaundice over a period of eight months before he found out that she was Asian.
*************************
And, finally, yet another acquaintance awoke one morning to find that he could not speak. When he tried, he could only emit a gargling-growling sound. "Argggggggwaa."
He presented himself to his doctor that afternoon, who, when listening to his voice, asked him to disrobe. and then began to smile
"I see your problem. Your penis is much too long for your body. It is pulling on your groin, which is pulling on your chest, which, in turn, is pulling on your vocal cords/ You'll have to undergo a surgical procedure to rectify the situation."
Six moths later, he saw the doctor on the street and gushed,"Doctor, remember me? I'll always be grateful to you! Just listen to my voice! Not a quiver, not a tremor. You cured me! But, I was wondering. In a ruptured appendics operation or when athletes have bone spurs removed, these parts are thrown away. In my case, what did you do with the section of my penis that you cut off?"
The doctor blushed, smiled, looked his patient right in the eye and said,"Arggggggggwaa."
***************************
As I said to the x-ray technician after swallowing some coins, "Do you see any change in me?"
****************************
And remember the difference between God and an orthopedic surgeon. God doesn't think he's an orthopedic surgeon.
"What's your name, sir?
He bellowed out, "Roger Adams."
She was startled by his thunderous tone.
"Please, sir, you'll have to calm down and speak more softly. This room is full of sick patients waiting to see the doctor. Now, what is the nature of your problem?"
Without in any way lowering his volume, the man screamed,"There's something wrong with my shlong!"
The nurse was beside herself and ran into the doctor's office, face flushed and body trembling.
"Doctor, I've been with you for over twelve years and I've never been so embarrassed. A man out there, when I asked what ailed him, hollered, at the top of his lungs and in front of all those people, that there was something wrong with his shlong!"
The doctor calmed her down and directed her to bring the man in, immediately.
When the man was seated, the doctor, in a scolding manner, said,"Look, Adams--when my nurse asks you what's wrong, tell her anything--your head your back--anything at all, but you don't tell her, in front of other patients, that there's something wrong with your shlong. You tell that to me when we're alone together. Get it? I mean, what are you--nuts?"
Two weeks later, the nurse again noticed Adams in the waiting area, cautiously approached him and whispered," Hello, again, Mister Adams, what ails you, today?"
Adams twisted nervously in his chair and answered, still on the loud side, "Oh, um, (he was awkwardly hesitating) there's something wrong (big pause) with my, ah, elbow."
"And what's wrong with your elbow?" the nurse asked, projecting pure pleasantry.
Whereupon Adams shot back, in screaming tone, "I can't pee through it!"
***********************
Poor guy, he was jinxed when it came to picking doctors. Word is that his primary care physician once treated a woman for yellow jaundice over a period of eight months before he found out that she was Asian.
*************************
And, finally, yet another acquaintance awoke one morning to find that he could not speak. When he tried, he could only emit a gargling-growling sound. "Argggggggwaa."
He presented himself to his doctor that afternoon, who, when listening to his voice, asked him to disrobe. and then began to smile
"I see your problem. Your penis is much too long for your body. It is pulling on your groin, which is pulling on your chest, which, in turn, is pulling on your vocal cords/ You'll have to undergo a surgical procedure to rectify the situation."
Six moths later, he saw the doctor on the street and gushed,"Doctor, remember me? I'll always be grateful to you! Just listen to my voice! Not a quiver, not a tremor. You cured me! But, I was wondering. In a ruptured appendics operation or when athletes have bone spurs removed, these parts are thrown away. In my case, what did you do with the section of my penis that you cut off?"
The doctor blushed, smiled, looked his patient right in the eye and said,"Arggggggggwaa."
***************************
As I said to the x-ray technician after swallowing some coins, "Do you see any change in me?"
****************************
And remember the difference between God and an orthopedic surgeon. God doesn't think he's an orthopedic surgeon.
Friday, August 9, 2013
I GUESS IT'S HOW YOU DON'T SAY IT
The " N" word.
African Americans are right, and have the right, to despise it. It's like "kike" to a Jew or "spic" to an Hispanic.
Some claim that the intent of the utterer determines whether or not it's offensive. I don't buy it. The N word is demeaning and offensive under any circumstance. There's a problem, however.
Recently, I was walking by a community swimming pool. It was a hot summer day and people of various ages and races were happily singing along with a blaring boombox. The music being played was hip-hop and every third or fourth word was the N word, pronounced in full.
It's everywhere in that music genre. Just travel down the pop radio dial. Musical concerts, featuring highly successful artists and outrageous prices, serve as basins in which this word thrives. What gives? How are these diametrically opposed standards of expression reconciled? On the one hand, even saying "N-word" is almost as inflammatory as the full version, while in certain areas of modern entertainment, all races merrily sing along with uber-famous artists who shout out the full version.
A possible answer is the credo that the word belongs to African Americans and they, therefore, have the right to use it or not as they see fit. But doesn't this foster the notion of double standards? Is it O.K. to sing it but not to say it? Is there a difference between the word ending in "er" as opposed to "a"?
I suggest that African Americans, themselves, come together on this and clearly promulgate what's in and what's out----what's offensive and what isn't--and who, if anybody, can say or sing it.
If the boundaries of racial harmony are delineated, I, for one, would be happy to comply.
I am a huge fan of Richard Pryor. When he explained that the experience of his visit to Africa caused him to forswear the use of the word in any form, coming from him, whose every other word had been the "N" word, this was a powerful and meaningful statement which commanded obedience.
How about that principle of conduct, across the board?
African Americans are right, and have the right, to despise it. It's like "kike" to a Jew or "spic" to an Hispanic.
Some claim that the intent of the utterer determines whether or not it's offensive. I don't buy it. The N word is demeaning and offensive under any circumstance. There's a problem, however.
Recently, I was walking by a community swimming pool. It was a hot summer day and people of various ages and races were happily singing along with a blaring boombox. The music being played was hip-hop and every third or fourth word was the N word, pronounced in full.
It's everywhere in that music genre. Just travel down the pop radio dial. Musical concerts, featuring highly successful artists and outrageous prices, serve as basins in which this word thrives. What gives? How are these diametrically opposed standards of expression reconciled? On the one hand, even saying "N-word" is almost as inflammatory as the full version, while in certain areas of modern entertainment, all races merrily sing along with uber-famous artists who shout out the full version.
A possible answer is the credo that the word belongs to African Americans and they, therefore, have the right to use it or not as they see fit. But doesn't this foster the notion of double standards? Is it O.K. to sing it but not to say it? Is there a difference between the word ending in "er" as opposed to "a"?
I suggest that African Americans, themselves, come together on this and clearly promulgate what's in and what's out----what's offensive and what isn't--and who, if anybody, can say or sing it.
If the boundaries of racial harmony are delineated, I, for one, would be happy to comply.
I am a huge fan of Richard Pryor. When he explained that the experience of his visit to Africa caused him to forswear the use of the word in any form, coming from him, whose every other word had been the "N" word, this was a powerful and meaningful statement which commanded obedience.
How about that principle of conduct, across the board?
Wednesday, August 7, 2013
SAY IT AIN'T SO, WHITEY
He could have had the world's stage. It was there for the taking. But he blew it.
His case was unwinnable. Too many eyewitnesses describing the murders. The courtroom packed, each day, with relatives of the lost ones. The verdict on these acts was inevitable. Case closed.
But the real issue of the trial was whether Whitey was an informant for the FBI and was rewarded with a promise of immunity for all crimes, including murder. That was the question which has cloaked the feds with the stench of dealing with the devil. Two agents have been ruined by this taint--one now dead, the other convicted and serving the equivalent of a life sentence in disgrace. One ponders the question of whether the FBI was happy or sad when Whitey was captured, opening this dreaded Pandora's box.
The label "rat" is an anathema to a guy like Whitey. In the jargon of his world, that word is the ultimate scarlet letter. The non-cureable cancer. The ultimate sin. All during the trial, whenever this stigma was even hinted at, he would explode at the witness's suggestion of the R word. He was constantly restrained by the judge, providing him with mere frustration instead of satisfaction.
The immunity defense had been denied as a matter of law prior to trial. The issue of informant, however, was still up for grabs. He could have testified, under oath, in his own behalf. Sure, there would have been hundreds of sustained objections and countless admonishments from the judge--he might have even been held in contempt which, in his situation, was a tiger without teeth. He would, nevertheless, have had the opportunity to publicly deny the one thing that seemed to have gotten under his skin.
It would have bolstered the mangled and twisted version of glamour to which he desperately wanted to cling.
Like James Cagney in "White Heat" (ask your parents, young'uns) he would have gone down in a blaze of glory.
One last moment in the sun before the eclipse.
But he blew it.
His case was unwinnable. Too many eyewitnesses describing the murders. The courtroom packed, each day, with relatives of the lost ones. The verdict on these acts was inevitable. Case closed.
But the real issue of the trial was whether Whitey was an informant for the FBI and was rewarded with a promise of immunity for all crimes, including murder. That was the question which has cloaked the feds with the stench of dealing with the devil. Two agents have been ruined by this taint--one now dead, the other convicted and serving the equivalent of a life sentence in disgrace. One ponders the question of whether the FBI was happy or sad when Whitey was captured, opening this dreaded Pandora's box.
The label "rat" is an anathema to a guy like Whitey. In the jargon of his world, that word is the ultimate scarlet letter. The non-cureable cancer. The ultimate sin. All during the trial, whenever this stigma was even hinted at, he would explode at the witness's suggestion of the R word. He was constantly restrained by the judge, providing him with mere frustration instead of satisfaction.
The immunity defense had been denied as a matter of law prior to trial. The issue of informant, however, was still up for grabs. He could have testified, under oath, in his own behalf. Sure, there would have been hundreds of sustained objections and countless admonishments from the judge--he might have even been held in contempt which, in his situation, was a tiger without teeth. He would, nevertheless, have had the opportunity to publicly deny the one thing that seemed to have gotten under his skin.
It would have bolstered the mangled and twisted version of glamour to which he desperately wanted to cling.
Like James Cagney in "White Heat" (ask your parents, young'uns) he would have gone down in a blaze of glory.
One last moment in the sun before the eclipse.
But he blew it.
THIS REALLY DOESN'T BUG ME
This week we have had a chilling reminder of how real the al-Qaeda threat remains, when the government issued a worldwide terror alert that has closed U.S. embassies across the world. Reports indicate that a major terrorist attack may be imminent, citing increased "chatter" among senior al-Qaeda leaders.
Who monitors that "chatter"? The National Security Agency.
The NSA's activities must by their nature, remain secret. Given an inbred mistrust in government, fueled by the radical left, little wonder, then,that so many Americans simply don't believe it when Obama officials insist that the NSA is not monitoring the content of their calls and e-mails.
There is no evidence that anyone at the NSA intentionally and improperly searched the records of American citizens. Even Edward Snowden, the NSA leaker, has not offered any proof that NSA officials abused the authority given them by Congress and the federal courts.
Of course the NSA is not spying on Americans; it is spying on al-Qaeda. Those very same NSA analysts who have been demonized in recent weeks as a threat to our civil liberties have just given us advance warning of one of the "most specific and credible threats" since 9/11.
They are not interested in the conversations of law biding American citizens. The only domestic communications they care about are those of al-Qqaeda leaders abroad talking to terrorist operatives deployed here at home. If such conversations are taking place, we need them to find out who that operative is, where he is and what he is planning. They cannot do that without the NSA's metadata program.
The last thing we need, at this time, is the public outcry of misguided libertarians who use the means of outrage to rein in the NSA's surveillance capabilities. That would be the true tragedy.
When this is debated in social circles, don't be afraid to be branded as one who holds Democracy in contempt. The stakes are too high to not advocate for the strongest congressional and court- approved measures to fight terrorists sworn and ready to kill themselves for the glory of killing Americans.
This is a different war, requiring new tactics, specifically designed to thwart the planned strikes against us , at the earliest planning phase, with no foreseeable end in sight.
And if a terrorist transmission is sent to an American citizen, here or abroad, his constitutional rights should be deemed presumptively waived. Collateral technicalities should not abridge the effectuation of the highest level of national protection.
Debate is good, until and unless it override common sense.
Everyone, regardless of which side their views align with, shares one common denominator:
We want to protect ourselves from fanatical terrorists.
Let the professionals pick up the phone.
Our rights and liberties are safe and sound.
As we want to be.
Who monitors that "chatter"? The National Security Agency.
The NSA's activities must by their nature, remain secret. Given an inbred mistrust in government, fueled by the radical left, little wonder, then,that so many Americans simply don't believe it when Obama officials insist that the NSA is not monitoring the content of their calls and e-mails.
There is no evidence that anyone at the NSA intentionally and improperly searched the records of American citizens. Even Edward Snowden, the NSA leaker, has not offered any proof that NSA officials abused the authority given them by Congress and the federal courts.
Of course the NSA is not spying on Americans; it is spying on al-Qaeda. Those very same NSA analysts who have been demonized in recent weeks as a threat to our civil liberties have just given us advance warning of one of the "most specific and credible threats" since 9/11.
They are not interested in the conversations of law biding American citizens. The only domestic communications they care about are those of al-Qqaeda leaders abroad talking to terrorist operatives deployed here at home. If such conversations are taking place, we need them to find out who that operative is, where he is and what he is planning. They cannot do that without the NSA's metadata program.
The last thing we need, at this time, is the public outcry of misguided libertarians who use the means of outrage to rein in the NSA's surveillance capabilities. That would be the true tragedy.
When this is debated in social circles, don't be afraid to be branded as one who holds Democracy in contempt. The stakes are too high to not advocate for the strongest congressional and court- approved measures to fight terrorists sworn and ready to kill themselves for the glory of killing Americans.
This is a different war, requiring new tactics, specifically designed to thwart the planned strikes against us , at the earliest planning phase, with no foreseeable end in sight.
And if a terrorist transmission is sent to an American citizen, here or abroad, his constitutional rights should be deemed presumptively waived. Collateral technicalities should not abridge the effectuation of the highest level of national protection.
Debate is good, until and unless it override common sense.
Everyone, regardless of which side their views align with, shares one common denominator:
We want to protect ourselves from fanatical terrorists.
Let the professionals pick up the phone.
Our rights and liberties are safe and sound.
As we want to be.
THIS REALLY DOESN'T BUG ME
This week we have had a chilling reminder of how real the al-Qaeda threat remains, when the government issued a worldwide terror alert that has closed U.S. embassies across the world. Reports indicate that a major terrorist attack may be imminent, citing increased "chatter" among senior al-Qaeda leaders.
Who monitors that "chatter"? The National Security Agency.
The NSA's activities must by their nature, remain secret. Given an inbred mistrust in government, fueled by the radical left, little wonder, then,that so many Americans simply don't believe it when Obama officials insist that the NSA is not monitoring the content of their calls and e-mails.
There is no evidence that anyone at the NSA intentionally and improperly searched the records of American citizens. Even Edward Snowden, the NSA leaker, has not offered any proof that NSA officials abused the authority given them by Congress and the federal courts.
Of course the NSA is not spying on Americans; it is spying on al-Qaeda. Those very same NSA analysts who have been demonized in recent weeks as a threat to our civil liberties have just given us advance warning of one of the "most specific and credible threats" since 9/11.
They are not interested in the conversations of law biding American citizens. The only domestic communications they care about are those of al-Qqaeda leaders abroad talking to terrorist operatives deployed here at home. If such conversations are taking place, we need them to find out who that operative is, where he is and what he is planning. They cannot do that without the NSA's metadata program.
The last thing we need, at this time, is the public outcry of misguided libertarians who use the means of outrage to rein in the NSA's surveillance capabilities. That would be the true tragedy.
When this is debated in social circles, don't be afraid to be branded as one who holds Democracy in contempt. The stakes are too high to not advocate for the strongest congressional and court- approved measures to fight terrorists sworn and ready to kill themselves for the glory of killing Americans.
This is a different war, requiring new tactics, specifically designed to thwart the planned strikes against us , at the earliest planning phase, with no foreseeable end in sight.
And if a terrorist transmission is sent to an American citizen, here or abroad, his constitutional rights should be deemed presumptively waived. Collateral technicalities should not abridge the effectuation of the highest level of national protection.
Debate is good, until and unless it override common sense.
Everyone, regardless of which side their views align with, shares one common denominator:
We want to protect ourselves from fanatical terrorists.
Let the professionals pick up the phone.
Our rights and liberties are safe and sound.
As we want to be.
Who monitors that "chatter"? The National Security Agency.
The NSA's activities must by their nature, remain secret. Given an inbred mistrust in government, fueled by the radical left, little wonder, then,that so many Americans simply don't believe it when Obama officials insist that the NSA is not monitoring the content of their calls and e-mails.
There is no evidence that anyone at the NSA intentionally and improperly searched the records of American citizens. Even Edward Snowden, the NSA leaker, has not offered any proof that NSA officials abused the authority given them by Congress and the federal courts.
Of course the NSA is not spying on Americans; it is spying on al-Qaeda. Those very same NSA analysts who have been demonized in recent weeks as a threat to our civil liberties have just given us advance warning of one of the "most specific and credible threats" since 9/11.
They are not interested in the conversations of law biding American citizens. The only domestic communications they care about are those of al-Qqaeda leaders abroad talking to terrorist operatives deployed here at home. If such conversations are taking place, we need them to find out who that operative is, where he is and what he is planning. They cannot do that without the NSA's metadata program.
The last thing we need, at this time, is the public outcry of misguided libertarians who use the means of outrage to rein in the NSA's surveillance capabilities. That would be the true tragedy.
When this is debated in social circles, don't be afraid to be branded as one who holds Democracy in contempt. The stakes are too high to not advocate for the strongest congressional and court- approved measures to fight terrorists sworn and ready to kill themselves for the glory of killing Americans.
This is a different war, requiring new tactics, specifically designed to thwart the planned strikes against us , at the earliest planning phase, with no foreseeable end in sight.
And if a terrorist transmission is sent to an American citizen, here or abroad, his constitutional rights should be deemed presumptively waived. Collateral technicalities should not abridge the effectuation of the highest level of national protection.
Debate is good, until and unless it override common sense.
Everyone, regardless of which side their views align with, shares one common denominator:
We want to protect ourselves from fanatical terrorists.
Let the professionals pick up the phone.
Our rights and liberties are safe and sound.
As we want to be.
Tuesday, August 6, 2013
RE-PRIORITIZING
I plan to apply for a patent on something which I should have learned long ago, but which I have just embraced and come to understand.
Generally speaking, you can always spot the couples in a restaurant who have been many years married. They're not speaking to each other. One or both have shut down their communication channel, which morphs into permanency unless corrected in a timely fashion. But, how do you reach someone who can't hear you?
In truth, complexity is at play here. The notion of understanding has escaped and eluded the relationship which becomes tainted by the dirty hands of the one who has gone off the track and sincerely believes his own stinkin' thinkin'. Whether he knows it or not, he is in dire need of an epiphany. And this, if the relationship is of soulmate status, is where fate comes into play. Happenstance is the unlocking key, the traffic controller of lives and emotions.
The lost partner somehow finds his footing and new frequencies are discovered. He now sees where he looks. He experiences a rude awakening as he enters an aura of understanding that he has been suffering from emotional dyslexia. Right has been left and up has been down. It's time to learn again, and be willing--and wanting--to make things coordinate with reality.
The way back begins, slowly, lest you lose your step. Bumps along the road become solvable because they are no longer invisible. Your automatic speed control kicks in with steady as she goes, things begin to come together and a re-kindling occurs. But the learning lesson becomes indelible.
And when things are finally o.k. again, you begin to understand even more and realize that what you thought was happenstance was really destiny.
And the food becomes secondary to conversation and communication.
And when you do your research, you find that your discovery has already been discovered by another.
Oh, well, there's always enough of a good thing for those who find it.
And you wonder,"Where the hell have I been all this time?"
But, you know where you are now.
Generally speaking, you can always spot the couples in a restaurant who have been many years married. They're not speaking to each other. One or both have shut down their communication channel, which morphs into permanency unless corrected in a timely fashion. But, how do you reach someone who can't hear you?
In truth, complexity is at play here. The notion of understanding has escaped and eluded the relationship which becomes tainted by the dirty hands of the one who has gone off the track and sincerely believes his own stinkin' thinkin'. Whether he knows it or not, he is in dire need of an epiphany. And this, if the relationship is of soulmate status, is where fate comes into play. Happenstance is the unlocking key, the traffic controller of lives and emotions.
The lost partner somehow finds his footing and new frequencies are discovered. He now sees where he looks. He experiences a rude awakening as he enters an aura of understanding that he has been suffering from emotional dyslexia. Right has been left and up has been down. It's time to learn again, and be willing--and wanting--to make things coordinate with reality.
The way back begins, slowly, lest you lose your step. Bumps along the road become solvable because they are no longer invisible. Your automatic speed control kicks in with steady as she goes, things begin to come together and a re-kindling occurs. But the learning lesson becomes indelible.
And when things are finally o.k. again, you begin to understand even more and realize that what you thought was happenstance was really destiny.
And the food becomes secondary to conversation and communication.
And when you do your research, you find that your discovery has already been discovered by another.
Oh, well, there's always enough of a good thing for those who find it.
And you wonder,"Where the hell have I been all this time?"
But, you know where you are now.
Sunday, August 4, 2013
GETTING OLDER, GETTING WISER
Do you get it? Really get it?
I am at an age which brings with it many things, the most important of which is the ability to, at last, look back and realize that your thinking, on a particular and ultra important subject, has been wrong. Very wrong. Sometimes, for the sake of survival, you rearrange things so as to justify a conclusion to which you cling, reality be damned. The consummate example of putting the cart before the horse, of revising the past so as to make the means justify the end. And your inner stubborness does not allow for a single second thought, lest your self-created safe house, with its false sense of security, ceases to exist. This cement of deceit hardens, the more you cling to it.
But, if you're lucky--if fate gives you enough time and provides you with an awakening intervention, and if you get it when you see it, there's still time. Time to straighten things out in your mistaken mind and take hold of an eraser. You must be receptive to self rearranging which necessitates realizing that you've been clinging to ghosts. And, at the senior stage of life, when perceptions tend to harden intractably, this is not that easy. It requires you to correctively update your optometry and admit that you've been wrong. You're never too old for this type of realization therapy--as long as you're willing to face the true facts.
There's a payoff to all of this which profoundly makes it well worth the effort. You've shifted into reverse, travelled back to the prior fork in the road, only this time, you bear to the right.
Now--assuming I am juxtaposing this sentiment with a personal relationship (I'm a Pisces, remember), I am saying to my soulmate:
"You and I are going on together
Till the time we have is gone together
Watch the evening drawing on together
Growing older, growing closer
Making memories that light the sky
That only time can make
That only love can make
That only we can make
You and I"
Better late than never.
Much, much better.
I am at an age which brings with it many things, the most important of which is the ability to, at last, look back and realize that your thinking, on a particular and ultra important subject, has been wrong. Very wrong. Sometimes, for the sake of survival, you rearrange things so as to justify a conclusion to which you cling, reality be damned. The consummate example of putting the cart before the horse, of revising the past so as to make the means justify the end. And your inner stubborness does not allow for a single second thought, lest your self-created safe house, with its false sense of security, ceases to exist. This cement of deceit hardens, the more you cling to it.
But, if you're lucky--if fate gives you enough time and provides you with an awakening intervention, and if you get it when you see it, there's still time. Time to straighten things out in your mistaken mind and take hold of an eraser. You must be receptive to self rearranging which necessitates realizing that you've been clinging to ghosts. And, at the senior stage of life, when perceptions tend to harden intractably, this is not that easy. It requires you to correctively update your optometry and admit that you've been wrong. You're never too old for this type of realization therapy--as long as you're willing to face the true facts.
There's a payoff to all of this which profoundly makes it well worth the effort. You've shifted into reverse, travelled back to the prior fork in the road, only this time, you bear to the right.
Now--assuming I am juxtaposing this sentiment with a personal relationship (I'm a Pisces, remember), I am saying to my soulmate:
"You and I are going on together
Till the time we have is gone together
Watch the evening drawing on together
Growing older, growing closer
Making memories that light the sky
That only time can make
That only love can make
That only we can make
You and I"
Better late than never.
Much, much better.
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