Saturday, July 21
Thursday, April 26
I ask, Mr. President, where is your sense of duty to be the President of all Americans, not just those who bear a striking resemblance to your ethnicity? I have the answer. You don't possess the desire nor the motivation to be anything more than the dutiful son of your anti-colonialist father, who regarded America as the perpetrator of oppression. You will not, cannot, nor do you care to see that our nation cannot survive as a house divided. You are a thinly veiled closeted bigot, Mr. President. Your teleprompter speeches may disguise that fact, but your off the cuff remarks confirms it. Your back brothers and sisters may continue to regard this character flaw as a sign that you are one with them in their alleged oppression, but the rest of America sees you for who you are: an apologist for bad behavior, an opportunist to exploit racial division, and thus, sir, a bigot.
You sully the office of the Presidency. And you defame America.
Monday, April 9
Saturday, March 24
Thursday, March 22
Wednesday, March 21
Wednesday, February 15
Upon arriving home, the child's mother realized that the meal she had packed for the child's lunch was untouched, which prompted an inquiry as to what she had eaten instead. Three chicken nuggets. The balance of the food on the cafeteria tray was untouched and disposed of as waste. Another fine example of yours and my tax dollars being effectively put to work. Aren't you proud?
Also arriving at the mother's attention was a note form the school stating that that students who did not bring a "healthy lunch" would be offered the missing portions that could result in a fee from the cafeteria, which, in the mother's particular care, would be $1.25. The mother, who wished to remain anonymous (are you ready for this?) to protect her daughter from retaliation, complained to her congressional representative rightfully protesting the imposing of a fine of any amount when she had utilized her own monetary resources to provide an acceptable meal that she knew her daughter would consume and enjoy. Silly, misguided woman. Don't you know that the government considers we citizens to possess no more mental acumen than might otherwise be required for each of us to have enough common sense to come in out of the rain?
Here's my take on yet another example of our Federal 's deliberate and increasing interference in the affairs of it citizens. The last thing I would have done would have been to remain anonymous. My voice would have given new meaning to the phrase"Holy Hell," so pronounced would my protest have been that the person responsible for inserting their unwelcomed and unwarranted greasy chicken nugget fingers into my child's personal belongings that their ears would have been ringing like the inside of the Liberty Bell at Independence Hall. "Dear kind sir or gentle lady, if you ever again feel in the slightest compelled to again place your hands on my child's lunch without my expressed written permission, let me assure you that you shall find it painfully difficult to consume your healthy food choices for the next calendar year with only the use of your elbows!"
It marginally commendable that our government has propagated a desire to combat the growing epidemic of obesity that is increasingly plaguing a rapidly growing segment of our citizens, especially among our children. It is at base a worthy cause that deserves our attention and action. But like so many programs undertaken by our unwieldy Federal government, it is itself plagued with self-important, zealous bureaucrats who find it necessary to impose their mandates of regulation where none are necessary or required. Our teachers have enough on their professional plates, attempting to impart the rudimentary educational skills our children must master in order to take their future productive place in our society, to also be burdened with the wholly unnecessary responsibility of being the policemen for government mandates that are intrusive and over-reaching in their scope.
Yes, by all means be a cheerleader for responsible choices, but let the teachers be teachers and let the parents be parents. A lunch consisting of a turkey and cheese sandwich, a banana, potato chips and a carton of apple juice isn't going to bring America to its knees. We have far bigger problems than what a child brings from home to eat for lunch.
Sunday, January 29
Last evening's "Masterworks" performance was billed as Tchaikobsky's Swan Lake. Prior to the main bout on the card were two selections by the German composer Bela Bartok. The first was a three-parter that the string orchestra performed and the second featured a Concerto for Piano 2 ( although I only counted one piano) that was being played by a guest pianist who, as it appeared to my wife and I, was content with making a concocting of sound that assailed the senses and made about as much enjoyable musical sense as a yard rake on aluminum siding. Nevertheless upon the conclusion of each section of music the audience jumped to its feet erupting into thunderous and enthusiastic applause. They either greatly appreciated the musician's virtuoso performance or they were ecstatically glad, as were Judi and I, that that whole excruciating enterprise had come to a final conclusion. Judi remarked, and I concurred, that this euphoric display reminded her of the Emperor's New Clothes; everyone who was standing did not wish to provide their fellow audience participants any perceptible inkling that they too had no idea why they were standing up in the first place. It was better to stand an feign understanding than to remain seated and remove all doubt.
Intermission. Thank God! Judi departed to the lobby for some well deserved adult liquid fortifications, while I remained in the auditorium to evaluate the multitude of human species that comprised the sell out throng. It use to be said of a yesteryear St. Petersburg, that it was "God's waiting room." They may have left the streets of our fair city, but they all assembled in mass that evening in Mahaffey Theater. There was a smattering of children and younger folks, but for the most part it was comprised of every person that appeared to be a current residence of the county's nursing homes. I surmised that if majority of these folks ever managed to make it out to the lobby, a goodly number would never return, having been summoned prematurely forth to the great concert hall in the sky.
One particular elderly lady immediately captivated my attention. Her hair was the color of a yellow magic marker and was coiffed like a low yield explosion. She was wearing a light blue wool, two-piece suit adorned on each shoulder and extending down each side of her back what appeared to be two grey squirrels, the quantity of fur for each would stuff a fairly good-sized couch. I also noticed that she did a rather superb job of chewing her gum in near perfect matched time with the music's tempo.
The lights dimmed, the octogenarian crowd rumbled and stumbled back to their seats, and Swan Lake began in earnest. Swan Lake is a story of unrequited love on steroids, or Rome and Juliet with feathers. It is a beautiful piece of music that is familiar to any music aficionado, and the Florida Orchestra did itself proud in its flawless interpretation. In one of the major movements of the suite the Concertmaster (a.k.a. first violinist) had a protracted solo, and in performing same gave all the tale tell indications that he was in the throes of a musically induced epileptic seizure, gyrating like a crazed maniac, thrashing about on his chair to all points of the compass, attacking savagely the instrument's strings with unrestrained gusto. Deservedly so, he received the lion's share of the audience adulation at the conclusion of the piece. The lady playing the harp also got a nice round of applause, but I gave her only a five out of a possible ten because she pretty much stayed seated while delivering her appointed solo. Not everyone can be a star.
All in all our evening's venture into classical music was memorable, although I still personally prefer my music preferences to encompass less strenuous involvement. Give me a bubbly evening with Lawrence Welk and I'll follow you anywhere.