Well . . . shoot.
No arrows in that quiver, I'm thinking.
But the quiver itself might be seen as worth some attention in your sights.
Which is the reason - well, one of the reasons - I've posted the shooter here for your consideration and appreciation.
Further than that, and even though I'm behind the shooter and not in the target environment . . .
I'll sayeth not.
The politics of our current days can be pretty dispiriting, I'll agree.
May be bright indeed, if we're smart enough to Love it.
The TSA knows a trouble-maker when it sees one - even unclothed by a screening device - and it knows how to deal with the miscreant.
Watch United States Senator Rand Paul, detained by the TSA and made to tarry in the cubicle in the lower left of the screen until he missed his flight to Washington, D.C.
The TSA was on the case.
Feeling safer now?
If not the vessels themselves, then their respective owners (who could not figure out how many lifeboats were needed) and members of their crews. ill-equipped and ill-trained to deal with emergencies.
Progressive?
I don't think they know what the word means.
Missed Burns Night itself, which is a part of my own tradition, not remembering it on its own date but a day or more later, sometimes as much as a month.
Sort of like Australia Day (yesterday), although I have more of an ethnic link to the former, and with every passing year, less and less down under.
The haggis arrives, and by good fortune is met by the whisky, which renders it harmless. Speeches in Burns’s honour are made, and his songs are sung. The lasses, of whom Burns was so exceedingly fond, are toasted, and respond (with wit and delicacy) by roasting the laddies.All of us, no matter whether we are Scots, are happy to lift the cup of kindness and share our regard for him with strangers.
The "good fortune" of the presence of a good malt is a Celtic thing, for which the Irish are the more celebrated, even though the Scots, in my experience, more than hold their own in the contest.
I know I once did.
And I was proud of it.
No.
Not a chance.
The hair style went out in the '50's, I seem to recall, right when the crew cut - or buzz cut to some - came on the scene.
The flattop, with a waxy substance used to keep the front up and in order. For the non-cool guys, like me.
Romney's "do" suggests that he might have been able to go to a D.A. cut (Duck's Ass), also a feature of the '50's, for the guys who drove cars that had been chopped and channeled, and carried their cigarette packs in a rolled up short sleeve, and wore black pants (never chinos).
Might have been able if he were not the sort of guy Mitt was, and still is.
So no, the hair is not going to take Mitt anywhere, as I see it. And I try to see it as little as possible . . .
I'll be the first to admit.
The ship of state, massive, mighty, but sitting high and listing badly, driven aground by a failure of basic seamanship.
Built to last, with fundamental, individual freedoms as its rivets, with rights from a Creator as its bulkheads.
But without care and protection, without maintenance - and sometimes without the blood of patriots, although we're not there yet - doomed to be lost.
If not forgotten.
An over-the-top allegory?
Our republic, our ship of state, cannot be steered so badly as to founder, to suffer a final demolition of cherished principles, once thought timeless, to see them unceremoniously consigned to the scrap heap?
We'll see.
Won't we.
Because - again - it ain't beanbag.
It's PR.
It's propaganda.
So . . .
All's fair in the contest for your vote, in the selling of a candidate in the same way that soap powder is sold. As New and Improved, and so worthy of your attention and approval.
If icons win your vote, well . . . okay.
But I'd ask for better from you, if I might.
That's all.
It's done . . .
For The Children.
A left-wing photographer, Jill Greenberg, deliberately makes toddlers cry and turns the pictures into a Los Angeles art exhibit called "End Times" to indulge her Bush Derangement Syndrome. She slaps titles like "Grand Old Party," "Four More Years," and "Apocalypse Now" onto photos of the poor children she manipulated and goaded.When photographer Jill Greenberg decided to take a lollipop away from a small child, she had a broader purpose in mind.
"The first little boy I shot, Liam, suddenly became hysterically upset," the Los Angeles-based photographer said. "It reminded me of helplessness and anger I feel about our current political and social situation."
As the 27 two- and three-year-olds featured in her exhibition, End Times, cried and screamed, demanding the return of the lollipop given to them just moments before, Greenberg snapped away.
It's excused as artistic license.
And ethics be damned.
Because, as we all know so well . . .
It ain't beanbag.
And again I ask:
We tolerate it . . .
Why?
RSS 2.0
