A Bit of Boogie

You don't hear much like this anymore:

The Inevitable Race Card

Consider this excerpt from a Presidential speech:

If all men are created equal, that is final. If they are endowed with inalienable rights, that is final. If governments derive their just powers from the consent of the governed, that is final. No advance, no progress can be made beyond these propositions. If anyone wishes to deny their truth or their soundness, the only direction in which he can proceed historically is not forward, but backward toward the time when there was no equality, no rights of the individual, no rule of the people. Those who wish to proceed in that direction can not lay claim to progress. They are reactionary. Their ideas are not more modern, but more ancient, than those of the Revolutionary fathers.

I like that concept. It elaborates only slightly on the immortal words of Thomas Jefferson, but it isn't from one of his speeches--he reputedly hated public speaking--nor is it from his writings. Rather it came from Calvin Coolidge.

Now consider this well-reasoned piece from PowerLine:

The Ethnicity Is the Foundation of the Qualification

We have watched the evolution of the race debate in this country from the foundational principle of equality which served us reasonably well even unto Martin Luther King's vision of "being judged on the content of his character rather than the color of his skin," to the convoluted application of equal opportunity in affirmative action.

The principle of correcting a society which harbored discrimination by blatantly enforcing racial preferences is overwhelming everything we do. Once we start with the concept that a body of nine must somehow reflect proportionality of a population of 300 million we are on an impossible slope. Denial of access based on race or gender would be wrong, but mandating that seats on that very limited body be allocated in quotas is even more egregious. We've had women on the court now, but simply because a woman leaves, does not mean that has become a female seat on the bench. We've had African-Americans, but when Clarence Thomas leaves the court it should not be assumed that the next justice must be black. There should be no restriction on a Hispanic justice nor on a member of any other minority, however defined. But there should not be an expectation either.

A Latina should have as much opportunity to rise to the federal bench as any other qualified individual. But, at its most basic, the simple characteristic of heritage and gender don't predispose someone for the position. When the individual seems to have historically taken that identity and described it as a unique qualifier for the job should sound alarms in even the most egalitarian.

You may recall the Supreme Court rulings on the University of Michigan--one covering the law school and the other dealing with the undergraduate university. (University of Michigan) Sandra Day O'Connor managed to mangle the law into having it both ways on offering compensating evaluation criteria for admissions that benefited race. There is little doubt that the issue is not resolved. In fact, O'Connor herself suggested that her opinion was only temporarily relevant and should be reversed at some future, more diverse time.

So, how do we think a Justice Sotomayor might rule on extra credit for skin color in the future? Will equality be trumped by empathy?

Insightful Opinion

Here are some quotes that could have come from a right-wing blog in the USA. I could have written them myself, but take a look and then see where they really came from:

First, the population was dumbed down through a politicized and substandard education system based on pop culture, rather then the classics. Americans know more about their favorite TV dramas then the drama in DC that directly affects their lives. They care more for their "right" to choke down a McDonalds burger or a BurgerKing burger than for their constitutional rights.

Can't find much to disagree with in that. Or how about here:

Then their faith in God was destroyed, until their churches, all tens of thousands of different "branches and denominations" were for the most part little more then Sunday circuses and their televangelists and top protestant mega preachers were more then happy to sell out their souls and flocks to be on the "winning" side of one pseudo Marxist politician or another.

I've got to say, even an agnostic like me noticed that. In fact it could be a major contributing factor to my agnosticism. But then there is the blatant power grab and nationalization thing as well:

Then came Barack Obama's command that GM's (General Motor) president step down from leadership of his company. That is correct, dear reader, in the land of "pure" free markets, the American president now has the power, the self given power, to fire CEOs and we can assume other employees of private companies, at will.

There is a lot more of this delicious stuff so peruse it in its entirety. From a source we all should remember, Pravda, we get this penetrating analysis of what is occurring in America:

The Massive Slide into Marxism

Those folks know a little bit about it.

Comments

When your readership is small, as is the case with Thundertales, you don't need to worry about the sophomoric, ill-reasoned drivel that tends to infest more widely known blogs. But, you quickly encounter it when you go roaming through the b'osphere.

Today, over at New Paltz, we get a philosophical tour of the owner's approach and a pithy comment on why he keeps his comments section closed:

Summing up, on the comments policy, opening that door is our call. We have been involved, over many years, in massive and rigorous defense of our points of view, and we are sufficiently familiar with the sloppy, confused, and disjointed thought to which the postmodern American university graduate feels entitled, and we are reluctant to have that sitting around here at the bottom of our posts like rusted out vehicles parked in the front yard.

I don't think I could have expressed it as clearly myself. My comments are open, but the paucity of interaction protects us all from the garbage that constitutes discourse in modern America.

Read the whole thing over at NPJ:

On life, politics, morality and economics--among other things.

Saturday Morning Rocker

Here's Marilyn Manson done right:

Of Course We Understand

Why does this action by the Attorney General for the Obama administration not surprise me?

We Ain't Yo Momma's Klan, Honky

Could these guys be groomed as the initial cadre for the Obama Civilian Defense Force? Remember that proposal? "Equal in manpower and weaponry to the military..."

Why am I flashing on brown shirts and hobnail boots?

Playing Grown-Up

Peggy Noonan offers some excellent insight into what the Republicans in the Senate should do about Sotomayor. Notably it isn't what we've been hearing and reading in the conservative media.

Talking Points and Cautions

Mature and probing questions regarding the judges background on the bench will reap more support for the future than the thuggish behavior we've come to expect from our most esteemed legislators. It isn't about her ethnicity or gender, it isn't about her empathy or sympathy. It is essentially about her judicial reasoning.

If her legal rationale stands up to scrutiny then she should be confirmed. If it fails, then support for her will erode and even Democrats will be forced to respond.

I'm thinking that this approach, suggested by Ms Noonan, has merit.

Candy-Gram For Kim Jong-Il

Justice is Myopic

The furor is crescendoing over Supreme Court nominee Sonia Sotomayor. It didn't take more than an hour after the annoucement before the blogs and talk radio were filled with snippets and factoids about her unsuitability. I was sympathetic to the noise.

Probably the most damning quotation was the now familiar one about decisions by a Hispanic woman being hopefully wiser than those of a white male. Being a white male, that nudged my outrage meter up a notch. If I were in a suit against a Latina and standing before Judge Sotomayor, how would I feel? Would her wisdom and empathy be antagonistic to my whiteness and hormonal differences? I want justice not social redress of implied grievances.

That's why this piece got through to me:

The Context of the Statement

The facts to keep in mind here are first that the ideological balance of the court will not shift based on this appointment. Souter might have been appointed by a Republican but his consistent behavior on the bench placed him on the liberal side of the court's decisions. This is not the appointment to go to the mat for. There will be little difference in the ideology of Supreme Court opinions.

And, second, there aren't enough Republicans in the senate to raise a credible threat of a filibuster to stop the appointment nor is there any possibility of a defeat on a floor vote.

Maybe next time, after a 2010 election in which the GOP offers some viable candidates in a renewed effort at conservativism.

A Look at the Future

On day one of my government classes I ask the foundation question, "What is politics?"

I do so because it is a term that everyone uses and many do not understand. I graduated with a bachelor's degree in political science and probably couldn't have told you coherently an answer to that question until I was halfway through graduate school. The answer is: politics is PROCESS.

It is the method by which society does five critical things.

• Choose its leaders
• Make its laws
• Allocate its resources
• Set its priorities
• Adjudicate its disputes

It doesn't matter if it is a monarchy, a democracy, a constitutional republic or even a dictatorship. The methodology of those actions is process and that is politics.

With that awareness, read this item and then consider the future:

Actions Will Have Consequences

That is a clear example of what happens when your government seizes private assets under the guise of economic necessity and then proceeds to intervene in the managment.

It is also an example of how process functions in a dictatorship to maintain control. If you have a business and you wish to keep it, you must maintain the favor of the leadership. If you conspicuously express your political opposition, guess what happens? Your Chrysler dealership, despite being successful, becomes defined as a drag on the corporation and you are roadkill on the economic highway.

Look for more of the same coming from GM, mortgage companies, banks and at a doctor's office near you. After that, stand by for utilities, grocery stores, information services and broadcasting. Be sure to get on record as being supportive of the Messiah or you could be out of business next year.

The Gateway Pundit is continuing to research and paint a bigger picture of this:

A Trend Not an Anecdote

Never Volunteer Part II

“Get on the ground! Face down.” Dick and I drop to our knees and lay out on the grass. I’m briefly thankful the snow isn’t any deeper yet. We are searched and lose our hunting knives to our captor. He wears a ski mask and is about the size of an average American football player. He’s got a 9mm Beretta in his hand and he definitely knows what he’s doing.

When we’ve been searched he tells us to stand and then whistles softly toward the bushes. A short, sprightly figure emerges wearing classic Tyrolean clothing with a gray goatee and bearing a mountain wanderstuck. He makes me think of Heidi’s grandfather from the classic movie. In short order it becomes apparent that he is the boss. He tells the big guy to blindfold us and move out. We’re given bags for our heads and with our rucksacks slung over our shoulders told to put a hand on the shoulder of the man in front of us and follow. We shuffle what may be half a mile through the woods in the gathering snow. There’s a smell of wood smoke becoming stronger.

A stairway, apparently, then a porch landing and creaking hinges mark a doorway. A glow of lanterns permeates the burlap of the bag over my head. We shuffle inside where it is much warmer. The bags are removed and we see the inside of a mountain lodge. A large stone fireplace has been well stoked. A dining table and chairs at one end, more furniture and two bunk beds at the other then a narrow stairway up to a loft. Dick and I are each seated on a wooden chair at the far end of the room from the fire and the table. A third man works at the table where a car battery is attached to what is apparently a telegraph key and a crystal set. He is unpacking a briefcase.

I’m dragged to the table and asked my name and rank. The third man takes my right hand and it becomes obvious that he is going to fingerprint me. He fills out a card with my name and then turns to Dick to repeat the process. Nothing more is said. The clack of the telegraph key about fifteen minutes later indicates communication with someone somewhere. Reply takes about an hour, during which time we are isolated and largely ignored.

After another half hour, there is a hurried conference over the table. They look at me and then approach. “What was your first car?” It is the first of five questions kept on file from my E&E card. That classified card is the backup identification process for all combat crews to insure the enemy doesn’t attempt to decoy rescue or aid efforts by using someone’s name. The questions are highly classified and only to be used once.

“A ’58 Olds convertible.” It’s the right answer. We are now accepted. Our fingerprints had been coded and the codes transmitted by Morse over a simple carrier wave radio. Mine was smudged and two of the five codes did not match the record on file. The backup questions had done their job. We are welcomed to the fire and offered a shot of grappa. I’d always thought grappa was a lot like kerosene, but not as good. After a week in the mountains, this is the finest cognac. Some bread and cheese make up the rest of the meal. After eating we are directed upstairs where our bunks have been prepared, each with our rucksack on it and a Playboy centerfold unfurled to offer us sweet dreams.

Morning dawns with half a meter of snow outside the lodge. The fire is down to embers and Heidi’s grandfather is already donning his mountain jacket. He signals us to get ready. The football player, the telegraph guy, Dick and I fall into trail behind the old man as he breaks the trail for the youngsters. He hardly seems winded as we huff and puff along behind him. No blindfold today for our journey through the forest. Five kilometers and we emerge into a pasture with another white stucco mountain lodge. This one once supported a small herd of sheep and possibly a crop or two in a small field. Smoke drifts from the chimney and a man with wrap-around sun glasses in an unlikely black trench coat stands in the doorway smoking a Parodi cigar. He looks like an extra from a Fellini movie. He waves to our guide.

As we enter the lodge, we are greeted by two more of our evader group, a pair of Naval aviators from the Nimitz. Several more Italians are in the main room. The sailors show Dick and I to a bunk room with eight beds in a row. We grab two and dump our packs. The Italians are gathered before the fireplace animatedly discussing the storm. Behind them on a table next to the wall is a what apparently is a UHF radio with microphone and speaker. It hums and crackles then rattles in Italian. A conversation on the weather is going on. A few hours later two more American evaders are brought in. From a box on the table, one of the Italians dispenses civilian clothing to us. We are outfitted in Levis and black turtlenecks. Flight suits go into our rucksacks. It’s becoming very Bond-ish.

Food is Italian combat field rations. We joke that this is why they may have lost the war. The food is excellent, but they forego considerations of dimensions and weight in favor of traditional Italian cuisine. A shoe-box sized container spills out a bottle of sparkling water and a half-liter of red wine, a small baquette apparently only a few days old, a small wedge of cheese, a link of salami, a pack of biscotti and a small can of pasta in sauce that puts Chef Boyardee to shame. If we are to be evaders, then this is the way to do it. Things are looking up.

Three days pass in the lodge. The storm breaks, the sun shines and we gather in the field to construct a ten foot tall snow-woman with Rubensque hips and tremendous breasts. Mid-day on the second day an Italian Air Force helicopter arrives to resupply us with a forty liter demi-john of wine, makings for pasta sauce, loaves of fresh bread and a supply of pasta. Life is quite good. We’ve named all of the Italians. The Tyrolian grandfather is Gepetto. The football player who captured me displays a blond crew cut when his ski mask is off, so he is Paul Hornung. Mr. trenchcoat and sunglasses is from Rome and with his pointy toed shoes obviously unsuited for field ops. He is Fellini. Telegrapher is Marconi.

We are told it is our last night in the field. We must consume our helicopter delivered supplies. A huge vat of spaghetti is made and wine is consumed in great quantities. From their packs the Italians deliver various bottles of liquor. Some grappa and a particularly evil Slivovitz. We laugh and tell stories that at least half of the group doesn’t understand. Morning will arrive with horrendous hangovers.

The next evening we are marched down the mountain to a village with a waiting van. The van rolls down the mountain highways through village after village. We cruise out into the flats of the Po Valley and in the dark of night it is impossible to tell our direction or location. After several hours we pull onto the shoulder of a deserted road and are hustled out into the tall grass edging a mown field. The van departs and we are left with four Italians. One tells us in broken English that a helicopter is coming. He will land in the darkness. He will be on the ground for two minutes—no more. We are to be on it or be left behind. Don’t forget to duck the rotor as we approach.


Three of the net-members signal with flashlights and fan out into the open field. The whup-whup tells of an approaching Huey. The three men lay their flashlights on the ground pointing toward the center of the field, forming a dim glow like a Mercedes star. In the dark the chopper lands at the junction of the lights as the Italian next to me jabs me in the ribs and mouths “run” in my ear. The six Americans rush crouching across the new-mown hay and jump into the grasping arms of a Green Beret sergeant who pushes us into jump seats and thrusts lap belts into our hands. We are airborne. It is just after mid-night.

It takes about a half-hour flying time to arrive over Aviano, but the airfield is closed at this time of night. On the ground, a small team of Special Forces are climbing the stairs to Aviano tower in full battle dress. The night tower operator is there for emergencies only and unsuspecting as the door opens and three troopers burst in. “Turn on the field lights and floods on the parking ramp. Get the UHF on 287.7 and turn it up. Now!”

“Who the hell are you guys? I’ve got no orders to do anything like that.”

“Get out of the way.” The controller is pushed aside and the trooper hits the light switches for the runway lights and floods, then cranks the dials on the UHF. He hands the controller the microphone and tells him he is authorized to say, “cleared to land” and then shut up. He nods.

Our Huey is about five miles out when the airfield comes alive. The SF sergeant tells us to hit the deck running and head for the white sedans which will be waiting. Don’t stop, don’t talk, don’t worry. We nod understanding as the chopper flares to touchdown. Flashing blue lights of security police vehicles can be seen hurtling down the ramp and on the road approaching the tower. In the glare of the floods we see three Fiat sedans with rear doors open. We run and in seconds we are speeding away down the perimeter road toward the secondary Victor alert area. We are home. Exercise over.

No one in the Aviano command structure beyond the Wing Commander knew of the operation until after it was over. The SF seizure of the tower was part of their training. The exfiltration helicopter was an Italian Special operations unit that did covert insertions and extractions in Communist Yugoslavia. Gepetto had been in the E&E net since World War II. Fellini was a shoe salesman from Rome. Paul Hornung was a banker from Milan. Marconi was a ham radio operator who did TV repair in nearby Pordenone. All were real NATO operatives.

Of the six two-man teams of evaders, two teams failed. One gave up almost immediately and withdrew. A second team had a member fall ill and be taken out. In the six teams, only one team succeeded in avoiding detection during their evasion. Every other group had been seen and reported, some several times. The undetected team was so successful, the exercise controllers considered a broad recall of all players to see if someone had been badly injured. That team? Let’s just say they blended in. “Buon Giorno!”

Sometimes volunteering isn’t so bad, after all.

Never Volunteer

It’s the second rule you learn after the one about not calling an NCO, “Sir.” Learn it well and it will see you through a career. “Never volunteer for nothing.” I screwed up once and managed to survive it. Of course, that was what it was about. Surviving.

I was floggin an F-4 Phantom out of Torrejon Spain after my second combat tour. I’d been in the squadron for more than a year and thought maybe I needed some unit credibility beyond my illustrious previous achievements. They asked at the squadron meeting for a couple of volunteers for a Flintlock exercise in Germany. I knew about Flintlock. It was a Special operations Europe-wide exercise in the fall and it involved a lot of POW and escape/evasion stuff. Not a picnic and not something I really got off on. But, they specified they were looking for a field grade officer from a flying unit with an international driver’s license. I’m thinking this is going to be referee or evaluator or supervisor. No discomfort, no interrogations, no torture. Short hours, lots of beer drinking and back-slapping with a letter of appreciation for the file afterward. My hand went up.

Three weeks later I’m on a Swissair DC-8 headed for Zurich and then Stuttgart. Next morning breakfast at the Patch Barracks O’Club when a Green Beret many-striper comes up to the table and says I’m to accompany him. As we leave the club he tells me to get my gear rounded up and we are leaving. “Where?”

“Sorry, sir. I can’t tell you.”

Twelve of us. Six Air Force and six Navy fighter crew members boarded a T-29 and were airborne within an hour. Next stop unknown. Mountains pass underneath and after little more than an hour at prop driven speed we descend along a mountain face to touch down at one of my familiar deployment sites from Spain, Aviano Air Base. Not much secret there. Still feeling unthreatened.

A blue bus takes us past the Victor alert shelters to the secondary alert area. We pass through the concertina topped double chain-link fence and the guard towers to the expansion nuclear alert facilities and the controller’s offices between the Tab-VEE shelters. We file in and dump our bags as a half-dozen field dressed Special Forces NCO’s gather to welcome us and break the news.

“You are downed aircrews. You will have two days of training here and opportunity to select and prepare your gear. We will train you. Relax and learn.

“You will then be broken into two man teams. You will be taken to random locations in the nearby Tyrolian Alps and dropped. This will simulate your bailout locations. You will have six days to navigate to a contact point for a rendezvous with members of the Escape & Evasion assistance net. From that point you will be under their control until your escape is completed. The local police departments in all communities in the region will be alerted to your mission and seeking you out. The Italian Carabinieri or state police will also be seeking you. They are the enemy. You must avoid detection. We will also be in pursuit.

“Know one more thing. The E&E net is the real thing. These are the real NATO team members who agree to covertly operate the assistance network in the case of nuclear war. They train and prepare to aid you in a war. They are generally civilians and the net has been in existence since World War II. Good luck, gentlemen.”

I travel with Dick Masters, an F-111 weapons officer from England. We’re dumped from a white Fiat sedan off a two-lane blacktop somewhere a few kilometers short of the Austrian border. We’ve got a GI sleeping bag and poncho making a survival style rucksack. We carry a canteen, whatever we want to take from a case of C-rations, a hunting knife from our aircraft survival kit, some matches, a compass, a map and some parachute panels and cord. Flight suit, jacket and boots complete the outfit. We run up the hillside into the woods seeking cover. We’ve got twenty kilometers to cover and six days to do it. Volunteering seems not to be working out.

First night we learn that a hammock from parachute material slung between two trees is not conducive to a healthy back in the morning. We also learn that traveling along the “military crest”, that untrammeled area two-thirds up the hillside, is a bitch. We keep encountering ravines and washouts that require descent to the road and re-climbing the mini-mountains. The second day is drawing to a close and we’ve found ourselves on a bluff overlooking a wide river valley, a branch of the Po. It’s easily ¾ of a mile wide with a stone two-lane bridge covering most of it. The river is not full but a long way from dry. We’re several hundred feet above the valley and our objective is at least ten klicks on the other side of the river. There’s a small village at the base of the mountain on the far side of the bridge which we will need to traverse as well. It’s raining like the proverbial cow on a rock. This sucks.

I turn to my partner. “Ok, Dick. Here’s what we are going to do. We can’t sneak across that valley. We’re going to walk the road. Just like we belong there. Italy is a Mediterranean country. It’s like Spain. These are friendly people and the custom when you meet someone along the road is to look them in the eye and greet them. It ain’t New York city where you avoid contact. These people are friendly. If we don’t look threatening or suspicious, we’ll go right through. Can you say Buon Giorno? Everyone we pass on the way, everyone, gets a smile and a ‘buon giorno.’ OK?”

We descend and hit the road, looking like two refugees from a youth hostel rather than evading fighter pilots. We meet little old ladies with market baskets and black-suited grandfathers riding bicycles down to the trattoria for lunch. We’ve got no money and only our ID cards, so there’s no pasta or vino in our future. We smile and greet our way across the bridge and into the picturesque little village. We stop at the central fountain and fill our canteens. While checking our map for the next step a kindly old lady asks in Italian if we need help. I mangle some Spanish with pidgin Italian and some signing to ask the way to the top of the mountain. She points to a sign leading to a trail and matches it to a broken wandering line on our map. We “grazie” and “buon giorno” her assistance. She smiles and “prego”s us back.

Up the mountain like a couple of puffing goats we follow the path. It narrows and fades until we are wandering through a grassy meadow hoping to find a resumption on the opposite side of the field. We don’t. We are lost. We make camp in the field in a shepherd’s small shelter. We’ve got a flat floor to spread our sleeping bags and in short order we build a small fire to warm ourselves and dry our gear after the rain. In a few minutes a somewhat petulant man approaches us and points accusingly at our fire. We show our wet gear and he relents. He warns us to be careful and we eagerly promise to do exactly that. “Buon Giorno.” Three days to get to the meeting place.

Backtrack down the mountain. Halfway we find a fork where we clearly had missed the obvious route. We resume the climb and by late afternoon of the fourth day we reach the saddle where the trail drops over the crest. About half a kilometer away is the rendezvous, a conspicuous split in a rock face alongside the trail. Below the crest there is a hunter’s lodge, a large white stucco building which currently has a gathering of four or five boisterous Italians who look as though they have been traipsing the hills in search of grouse or partridge and are now enjoying some vino and birra with a bit of cheese. We hide and watch. The weather darkens and there is a chill in the air. Soon they pack up and leave. We continue to our destination. We are here a day ahead of schedule.

We squeeze through the cleft in the rock to get off the trail and make a cozy evasion shelter under the bushes. We crawl into our sleeping bags and drop off for the night. The next day dawns cold and clear. We scout the area and see no one around the hunting lodge. There also is no sign of a contact. We wait in our shelter under the bushes and watch. The day passes. Clouds begin to build and we fear we’ve missed our contact.

Snow flakes begin to fall. “Dick, we’re going to be up to our butts in snow on top of an Alp if this keeps up. I’ll stay here by the meeting place and you go back to the hunting lodge. Look around and see if maybe there is a way in. Did they leave a door or window unlocked? Maybe there’s some food inside. We’re going to need shelter.”

He heads to the lodge. I stand at the cleft. I see nothing unusual. Dick is rooting around the building two hundred meters away. A voice, “Don’t move! Put your hands up. Don’t turn around.” Until that moment I’d seen nothing. Heard nothing. I’m caught.

“You have a friend? Don’t turn, just say yes or no.”

“Call him back. Don’t warn him.” This guy better be the E&E net or we’re in a heap of trouble. It’s now snowing heavily. Volunteering is stupid. Never volunteer for nothing!

Tongue Firmly in Cheek

Sometimes we are so spring-loaded to express our approbation at that which seems outrageous that we fail to realize our leg is being tugged, our dudgeon is misplaced, the tongue is firmly in the cheek. We wonder if Swift's modest proposal would garner serious outrage.

The Other McCain wants to laugh or puke, but isn't sure which.

But, read it for yourself and appreciate the satire for what it is. This isn't a serious rehab for this flamer. It isn't an attempt to make a silk purse out of a sow's posterior.

The Spy Who Had No Cold to Come In From

Nah, it couldn't be serious.

It's About Who You Know

The odds are most Americans don't read the British press, and although known for their tabloids and cheesecake shots on page five, there is also respectable media in the UK, like The Telegraph. Arguably they are more credible then our own NYT and WaPo, when it comes to unvarnished coverage of our political foibles.

So, knowing that machine guns, i.e. FULLY-automatic weapons, are illegal in the US unless manufactured before 1968 and transferred to someone vetted by our government with a Class III federal firearms license, what is one to make of this:

Wrist Slap for Gangsta Rap

That's pretty clear. If you're "from da hood" and you've got a trunk full, not just one, in case you meet a competitive rapper on the way home from your "club" with your "ho" then it is OK to get a pass on the multiple federal firearms violations.

The important thing, apparently, is that you helped to get out the vote for the Messiah. Yah, it's about dat community service thing. Get the youth vote. Explain it to them in terms they understand, like your lyrics demeaning women, destroying language and perpetuating the culture of solutions by 9mm. That's the ticket for the future of America. Let them feel your pain.

Here's what his mentor notes on how to get them involved:

"If you have two posters, one that says 'Discussion about the economic stimulus package' and another that has 'Hip Hop Town Hall, find out how to get yours' on it, which is going to get the kids?" said Mr Yearwood. "That's the power of hip-hop."

See, it isn't about understanding policy or economics or political process. It's about learning "how to get yours". It's about redistribution of wealth. How much nicer it is to get a government check and free food and healthcare. You don't have to put a hood over your head and bust a 7-11 with the possibility of an armed proprietor capping your ass.

So, what I conclude, as someone politically active myself, is that if I can get myself a quick felony conviction, downsize my vocabulary to a few scatological phrases, get a lease on a big black Range Rover and tweak my tan a bit, I can collect as many automatic weapons as I can get without apprehension over those pesky federal penalties.

Words Have Meaning

He said it himself. "Word have meaning." He knows what that means, and that is why he is so effective in keeping the sheeple bamboozled. He says those words with meaning and then acts differently knowing that the fools in the hills won't notice. He will return to his words and point out how sincerely he said them.

So on this Memorial Day weekend, dedicated to the memory of those who have fallen in battle for the United States since the Civil War, he says words with meaning that convolute the very principle of the day:

He Tells You to Honor a Vet

That's not what the holiday is about, although even that action would have merit. But, look at how he wants you to demonstrate that honor:

people can honor veterans by sending a letter or care package to troops overseas

Think about that. I'll be honest and blunt here. I never got any great joy out of a letter or card from someone I don't know who has nothing in common with me and who addresses it to "some soldier." That isn't what Memorial Day is about.

volunteering at health clinics

Think about that. The incredibly great majority of veterans aren't found in health clinics. They are found in the cubicle next to yours, in the checkout line next to you at the store, in the house next door to yours, and in the car behind you on the freeway. If he funded military health care adequately they wouldn't be dependent upon volunteers. When I need health care, I don't want to go to a clinic for government controlled and rationed health care. His nationalization agenda on health care isn't what Memorial Day is about.

taking supplies to a homeless veterans center

Think about that. This is where I come off the tracks. Vets, as a class, are NOT HOMELESS. We don't wander the streets bearded, dirty and in field jackets with a syringe dangling from our forearm and a bottle of cheap wine in our hip pocket. If his own VA would stringently apply any sort of verification criteria he would quickly discover that most of those homeless vets are simply derelicts and wannabes with no credible service records. The exceptions are rare.

His words are designed to reinforce the stereotypes of the crushed and shattered, government dependent, mentally deranged detritus of military service. He reinforces the stereotypes of Code Pink and his ultra-liberal Ivy League cronies. That isn't what Memorial Day is about.

Yes, you sniveling panderer-in-Chief, words have meaning. And you never use them haphazardly. You mean exactly what you are saying.

Today, ponder what those who went into battle faced on your behalf. Think about the nation they defended and the sacrifices they made. Contemplate the families they left behind and the futures they never had the chance to realize.

Memorial Day is about remembering the fallen. That has meaning.

It's Not About a Long Weekend

When I was growing up in Chicago one of the local stops, all too frequently, was St. Adelbert's Cemetary. It was on Milwaukee Avenue, about half a mile north of Devon. All of my relatives are buried there and during my childhood it seemed like they were dying at the rate of one or two a month. Old Polish aunts, uncles and cousins were shuffling off this mortal coil at a great rate.

On the 30th of May each year, before our American holidays became a mandatory Monday, the nurseries and monument shops along Milwaukee across from the cemetary would be ablaze in Memorial Day grave adornments. Wreaths and bouquets, flags and symbols were displayed so that we could all honor our loved ones who had made the ultimate sacrifice for our freedom. They were bought and then taken across the street where we roamed through the lanes of graves to find that special someone. Then with a silent prayer, maybe a tear or two, we left our salutes and returned home.

Flopping Aces offers some great pictures to help you think about what it means:

Our Heroes, Our Memorials

I've hated The Wall since the first time I saw a photo of it. I hated it still more when I visited it the first time and wrote this which went into "Palace Cobra":

Washington D. C. is a city of beautiful buildings and soaring monuments. The capital dominates with its majestic dome and broad stairways. The Supreme Court similarly rises among the stately trees with strength in its columns and classic façade. The memorials to the greats of our nations are white, broad and tall befitting the stature of the military and political leaders which they honor. But, the Wall is black and buried, a depression in the ground symbolizing the depression of the nation that did not win the war or respect the men who fought it. You can see the Washington Monument from miles away and you won’t need a map to find Lincoln or Jefferson or the World War II memorial, but you could walk within a hundred yards of the Wall and never see it. We seem to want to hide it, maybe hoping that an obligation has been fulfilled but no one wants to admit that the obligation existed in the first place.

The names are listed in a paper directory, dog-eared and dirty from thousands of hands searching through it for a name of a friend or family member who was lost. It’s chained to a plywood pedestal like a small town phone book at a gas station pay-phone, almost as an afterthought by the government that maybe some visitor might want to know where on the wall among the 58,000 names their special person is memorialized. But, they do want to know. They come from across the country to see and to feel and to remember. Some say they come for closure or to heal, but that is only a few. More come for respect and to belatedly honor the fallen. And some come out of guilt that they hadn’t gone or hadn’t done the right thing at the time.

The sidewalk along the brooding black marble wall slopes gradually, there are no steps along the way. It’s almost a metaphor for the gradualism that led us to failure. It marks the descent into the immorality of sending men to die for a cause that the nation wants to ignore. But when you reach the deepest point, the walk rises again and gradually, over time returns to the level of the street and the city. All things pass and maybe this represents a return to normalcy and patriotism and honor; belief in your country’s might and the principles that the other soaring white monuments of Washington commemorate. Maybe.

Then I went back on a Memorial Day weekend when the Rolling Thunder bikes came to town and the people at The Wall seemed to remember what it was all about. It's different now.

Saturday Morning Rocker

After watching Adam Lambert fronting Queen last Wednesday night, I've got to say the resemblance in both voice and personality is remarkable.



Rolling Stone Rumor

That would be a huge mistake. Adam would wind up spending the rest of his days doing covers of Freddy Mercury hits rather than mining his own creative genius.

Creating the Petard to be Hoist Upon

There's many a slip between cup and lip, or between the campaign trail and the realities of responsibility. That's why we find the Messiah pretty much in full debacle retreat on the Quantanamo issue. It just felt so warm, fuzzy, human and, darn it I'm going to say it, American when he promised to get rid of the detention facility and let those poor mis-treated Jihadists head for home.

Yes, there might be some trials but then justice would be served. They would have their day in court then be released to live the American dream as envisioned in a M. Night Shyamalan movie. Their home country would welcome a lot of them back, our European allies would have their outrage assuaged and love us again, and we would get to know what lovable folks these bearded fellows were.

Now increasingly he is backtracking. His good buds in the Senate just played slap-down with a 90-6 vote against funding the Gitmo shut-down. Obama is back on the campaign stump, standing before a backdrop of basic American documents and rambling about "truth, justic and the American Way."

Krauthammer Covers It Better Than I Can

This pretty much says it all:

Saint Helena needs refurbishing. Elba didn't work out too well the first time. And Devil's Island is now a tourist destination.

Civics Lesson

If you've had sixth grade civics you probably know that the legislature writes the laws. Now, if you've had college courses in American Government you might be a bit more cynical. You've become aware that our congress-critters depend upon staff and even lobbyists to prepare proposals for them to submit over their names. It wouldn't be practical to expect our law-makers to slave away all night and on week-ends to write the laws they vote on and impose upon us. When could they raise campaign money?

And, besides, many of them are manifestly illiterate.

So, here we have TX Republican Joe Barton asking CA Dem. Henry Waxman if he knows what his own bill will do to America:



He admits he doesn't have a clue. He's relying on "the scientists" who convincingly don't have a clue about economics or business or global trade or world markets or the impact of drastically higher prices on everything Americans consume.

He doesn't have a clue.

Too Much Time on Their Hands

I don't now how they did on their finals, but there seems to be a lot of creativeness in the dorm:

Trickey with Balls - Funny video clips are a click away

And, no, I don't believe this is real.