Vol.154: The Fall; Give yourself some Time to Figure it Out

     The coolest 71 year old man in the universe, the bard from Hibbing sang in his eerily prescient "Ballad of a Thin-Man," "That there's something happening here, and you don't know what it is, do you, Mr. Jones." I think we all feel that way now, or at least I know that I do. Indulge me.

      I am still rubbing my eyes in disbelief and making sure there wasn't any fatal buildup of wax in my ears, because I'm still questioning Wednesday night's debate between the man in the blue tie versus the man in the red tie. I can hardly believe that the man in the blue tie did as miserably as he appeared to have done. I found myself the next morning, with a slight headache and a bad taste in my mouth; as if I had waken to the realisation of a poorly made decision resulting in an unappealing one-night stand. I needed to make a run for it. There are a certain number of my friends who can attest to knowing that feeling; some more than others, and you know who you are.

      Does the man who was wearing the blue tie, really want to be President anymore? Or did the man in the red tie do that well? Was the man in the blue tie tired, sick, or was his mind preoccupied with thoughts of his wedding anniversary? Or maybe the man with the blue tie knows that he has an October surprise up his sleeve in the form of an Israeli strike against Iran, or the trouble bubbling over in Syria into Turkey which could then bring the United States military into the mix? Does the man in the red tie or any man or woman in any pant-suit or colored tie for that matter, really want to inherit the mess the United States is in? Were headed for Armageddon, would you want your hands on the wheel of the ship as we head towards the Iceberg? Why else did the film Titanic do so well in the theaters; we all knew the ending, but because it struck at a subconscious nerve in the fact that we know were headed for something truly painful and have to face the music sooner or later? Maybe the man in the blue tie was saying to himself on Wednesday night, "Go ahead Mitt, you can take it from here. I'm gonna go grab the wife and kids and get the hell out of town."

     Despite all of the questions floating through my transom, I did hear some deafening sounds emanating from Wisconsin over the pronounced funeral pyre of Big Bird, and that was the sound of hands clapping, high-fives, hoots and hollering coming from somewhere inside Wisconsin; it was the sound of the Koch brothers congratulating themselves on a job well done; their hand-picked boy Ryan was coming up next and the man in the red tie had the country talking comeback. America loves an underdog, until the next fifteen minutes comes around.

     On a different note, the fall is a season of change. The season that turns the death of summer into a slow release. It is the season of falling leaves, changing colors and bottles of wine littered amongst the char-coaled remains of quietly burning fires. The smell of clove cigarettes and sandalwood incense sticks. The season of the first and last embrace of a loved one, remembered through streams of consciousness found amidst old spiral notebooks in childlike handwriting.

     Fall is the season of the music of Van Morrison. It is listening to "Astral Weeks", "The Philosopher's Stone," "Into the Mystic," and feeling the sensation that you are on spiritual path. Realizing that you are only a spiritual being having a temporary human experience and simply building up knowledge until you have the next awakening. It's the lyrics of Van Morrison trailing off into Coleridge, Wordsworth, Blake and T.S. Eliot in ancient fingers of smoke. It is the shouts of saxophones echoed with the accompanied sounds of the piano organs tiptoed touch, the belted refrains over long distant valleys into the soul of descending sunshine. It is magic.

 

     With this new edition of the Global Outrage of an Educated Man, I am also pleased to announce that we have an added contributor with his own personal touch on all things popular culture. Without further ado, ladies and gentlemen, I give you, Hambone.

Half Killer/Half Filler
3.5 Corgans

Chris Hammes:

            The Killer’s Fourth album, “Battle Born”, follows the band’s usual journey through the decade of Reagan with mixed results this time around.  Since the band’s first release “Hot Fuss”, The Killers have celebrated the ‘80’s synthesized sound with unabashed enthusiasm and mostly positive results.  At its best “Battle Born” sounds like the best of ‘80s era Springsteen, Mellencamp, Petty, and U2 backed by the best of ‘80s synthesized music-Duran Duran, Devo, Depeche Mode and The Cure.  The worst the album has to offer sounds like a collection of one-hit wonders from the ‘80s, or gasp, something you might hear on American Idol. The Killers haven’t rocked out since “Hot Fuss”, but the type of ballads contained on “Battle Born” sound like they could have been written by any adult contemporary group.  I don’t think Brandon Flowers would appreciate a comparison to “Candle In The Wind” Elton John, Richard Marx, or Matchbox 20, but he certainly falls short of the men he clearly aspires to be.

            The album begins with a simple synthesized beat, the heartbeat of The Killers pulsing like a mix between “The Safety Dance” and Pac-Man asking you for another quarter. “Flesh and Bone” quickly builds to a lusher Killer’s style song filled with the kind of larger than life themes the band has come to be known for. “Dark Horses,” “force-fields,” “finish lines” and “raging bulls” stand in the bands way. Brandon Flowers sounds as good as ever, he truly has one of the best and most distinctive voices on the radio dial, and when he sings “don’t call me the contender” he lays down the gauntlet for all other current musical acts.  The band aims to make songs that will stand the test of time, and they have an impressive back catalog of songs that do just that. “Flesh and Bone” builds to a crescendo that makes you think that The Killers have done it again, but then fails to cross the finish line.  It’s the opening track, and a perfect summary of the album.

            “Runaways”, the first single of the album, is probably the standout track on the album. One can imagine they will be doing encores of the song for years to come, as it’s sure to become a fan favorite.  It has all the elements that the best Killer’s songs have had; great lyrics, a huge sound meant for arenas, and a finish that will have everyone on their feet pumping their fists.   If you close your eyes, you could imagine it’s Bon Jovi and Richie Sambora leaning into the microphone, or Bruce Springsteen strutting across the stage.  It truly is a celebration of the best the ‘80s had to offer. An 80’s anthem that sounds like it could have come from any of the biggest bands the time period had to offer.  “Miss Atomic Bomb” is another standout on the album.  Not as musically dynamic as some of the other songs on the album, it has lyrics that one expects from Flowers and company.  A first love story, “Miss Atomic Bomb” could easily fall into the fondue, but the words and sentiment somehow stay cheese-free.   A less accomplished singer might not pull it off, but the destructive ending to a relationship is captured perfectly through Flowers “atomic” symbolism.  “Making out with the radio on” (a Bon Jovi sentiment if there ever were one) becomes Springsteen singing about his “need for a little touch, a little tenderness” before the real battle begins complete with “dust-clouds”, “impact” and “shockwave whispers”.  A surprise standout on the album is “From Here On Out.”  It’s closer to a country song than it is to a “normal” Killers song, but it’s a fun song.  The beat is pure ‘80s country, Juice Newton on steroids, complete with a steel guitar that sounds like it’s recorded backwards. It’s interesting, fresh, and you want to sing along with the backup singers as they croon “from here on out.”  It’s also near the end of the album, which means the strongest songs are few and far between.

            “Flesh and Bone”, the opener, and ‘Battle-Born” the closing track, are both strong songs.  It’s hard to criticize a band for having merely good songs, but The Killers have raised the bar for themselves with each subsequent album.  “The Way it Was” is another song that’s good but not great.  Lyrics about “Elvis singing don’t be cruel”, “outside the lonely Esmerelda county line” and “maybe a thief stole your heart” will bring to mind Lyle Lovett or even Roy Orbison, but the chorus imploring that things be “the way it was” just fall flat.  The entire band is musically talented, and Flower’s has a vocal range any professional singer would envy.  Five different producers worked on the album for The Killers, which means that the material may have not been great to begin with.  The playing is impeccable, the songs have definite musical movements to them, but in the end they just aren’t strong enough to be considered the bands best. 

            The low points on the album include several songs best described as ballads.  “Here With Me”, “Matter of Time”, and “Deadlines and Commitments” sound like they could be performed by anybody on American Idol. Adult contemporary music certainly has its fans, but Killers fans are sure to be disappointed by these offerings.  The lyrics sound like they are some of the most personal Flowers has ever penned, and they are also sung with real sincerity.  The problem, in a nutshell, is that they are clichéd and the music backing them is largely flavorless. “Here With Me” is a perfect example of that type of song.  “Don’t want your picture on my cell phone/I want you here with me” could be anyone from Taylor Swift to Taylor Hicks. The song is ok, you might whistle along in the elevator, but it’s not likely to make you a bigger fan of the band.  “Matter of Time” has an ‘oh-oh-ohhh-ohhh” background vocal that damn nears saves the song before Flowers has to ruin it by singing “Isn’t that what’s it all about/make a promise/you keep it/you figure it out?”.  Heartfelt, probably, and maybe based on real life experiences.  The problem is, I don’t know if it’s a song or if the band just put some music behind advice from Dr. Phil.  “Deadlines and Commitments” sounds like Culture Club with lyrics by Sade or Sting, and it isn’t pretty. The conga drumming is the songs saving grace.  The Killers better hope Gloria Estefan doesn’t sue them, the drum loop sounds like they came directly from Miami Sound Machine.  “Rising Tide” has Brandon flowers channeling his inner Bill Idol snarling about “pitchfork tongues” and “crucifixions”, and a blistering guitar solo, but only after wading through a boring first minute.  “Be Still” and “Heart of a Girl” are also listenable tracks, but not Killer quality.

            With “Battle Born”, the Killers attempt to stay at the top of their musical game, but this fourth try feels a little battle-weary.   The chops that got them to the top are on full display, but the band seemed unable to continue the fight throughout the album.  The band had taken an 18 month break before recording, and perhaps they needed an even longer hiatus.  Certainly the bones of the album have been developed.  They go for a big sound and big themes again, but have wound up with an album that doesn’t quite get there.  The best three songs on the album sound better than anything their contemporaries usually put out, but the rest of the album is merely just good.  Most bands would be satisfied with that, but I have a feeling “the contender” would like another shot at the title.

5 Corgans=Buy it

4 Corgans=Burn it

3 Corgans=Stream it

2 Corgans=Mock it

1 Corgan=Punch a band member in the face

Vol. 153: Sign of the Apocalypse

You can now follow me on twitter.

@globaloutrage

http://twitter.com/globaloutrage

Just another sign that it's all happening.
Enjoy. There's always more to come.

Vol. 152: Who is your Master?

 

 

My wife and I found ourselves in a long, crowded, windy line outside a newly remodeled movie theater in Uptown, shortly before 1pm on Friday, September 21^st, the year of our election, the year of our unraveling, 2012. The movie theater being a safe sanctuary of mine for since I can remember when; when I used to get picked up early from elementary school by my father, to go see the newest film of my choosing.  When the film my father and I would see was a film that usually had one too many gory killing scenes, vampires, car chases or foul language. But, my father being one of the nicest people that I’ve ever known, indulged in my escapes from reality without apprehension. Maybe it was done out of the care and concern in which he had for a young boy, with thick glasses and braces; wanting to make sure that I found an outlet for the upcoming challenging years of pubescence of which he possibly knew he’d be absent?

Standing outside the newly remodeled movie theater with my wife, and eager to see the newest challenging, engaging and disturbing film by master filmmaker, Paul Thomas Anderson, I was hoping not to be let down . However, my first disappointment came when due to the show being almost completely sold out, and the theater manager’s desire to sell as many tickets as possible, the 1pm start time was pushed back to somewhere after 1:20pm, and much to my chagrin and two pleasant old women sitting on my right, we were not to be shown previews before the film. I asked myself, “Why am I paying 8 dollars, for a movie without previews?” What is this world coming too?   My answer could easily be found while looking at the lemmings standing in line, waiting to drop another 500 dollars for the I-Phone 5. That is what the world has come to. That or the idiot I saw trying to back up his car on an on ramp to 35w north on Wednesday afternoon, during rush hour. That is what the world has come to.

 

The film starts with the brief typeset title, “The Master,” against a black screen. The viewer is then brought to the glimpse of water, the sounds of waves crashing, the ocean in crystal blue foam trailing behind what seems to be a moving ship. We are quickly introduced to the film’s protagonist, Freddie Quell, superbly played by Joaquin Phoenix, who should be polishing up a suit to next year’s Oscars. Freddie is the animal in man. He is the Id. He does things without question. He is perfect for the military, and that is where we find him, in the navy on board a large vessel, somewhere in the South Pacific during WWII. He’s shell-shocked, he’s violent and he’s an alcoholic. He is a man with many issues to deal with. In many ways, he’s the audience. We all have many issues to deal with.

After pleasuring himself with a woman made of sand on the beach why their ship is docked in a bay, Freddie begins to deteriorate before our very eyes. Eventually, after losing jobs at a department store where he takes pictures for customers, a job on a farm in Salinas, California where he hacks away at cabbages, he has gone too far over the edge with his concoctions of moonshine and is chased out of the camp by immigrant workers. Freddie as luck, fate or destiny would have it, finds himself aboard a yacht, somewhere in the bay of San Francisco. It is there, where he meets the devil, his father figure, his Master, Lancaster Dodd, played to entertaining precision by Phillip Seymour Hoffman, who should as well be readying himself for an Oscars visit to the red-carpet.  Freddie is introduced to Lancaster in the belly of the ship, and the first words out of Freddie’s mouth are, “How did I get down here?” Lancaster, dressed in a red silk shirt, in stark contrast to the ship’s holding color of grey steel, replies with an answer intimating that he can help Freddie. He knows that he is troubled; he knows that he needs help and he can help him. But, he does let Freddie know that he is “just a man, like you.” Freddie accepts his offer of employment and when he does, a supernatural, unexplained shadow falls across the face of Lancaster Dodd. The agreement has been brokered, the deal has been made. The Id of Freddie Quell has now joined forces with the Ego of Lancaster Dodd, founder of “The Cause.” We have now agreed to be taken on a journey. We are now the ship adrift on the open sea.

 

 

What transpires over the next hour and a half is a tug of war of the psyche. Scene after scene challenges the viewer to observe and maintain their focus upon what is transpiring on screen through the tortuous “process” imposed upon Freddie by Lancaster Dodd and his wife, played to Lady Macbeth steely perfection by Amy Adams. There is a scene where Freddie, after a couple of nips of moonshine, has agreed to answer questions from his Master, Lancaster Dodd and all the while, not blink his eyes. I was caught transfixed by the act, not leaving my eyes off of Freddie’s in close-up as he struggled to keep his eyes open, only to lose again and again and have to return to the start of the painful interrogation. We, the audience were now being put in the place of Freddie, it was apparent to me, that we were now under the “process” of Paul Thomas Anderson and his cinematic direction. Freddie, expelled from his garden paradise as an Adam of the military is now under the spell of his Ego, his personal Devil. Freddie becomes a trained attack dog under the tutelage of Lancaster Dodd and becomes his enforcer, much to the satisfaction of Mrs. Dodd, hurting anyone that tries to get in the way of “the Cause.” Freddie the animal in all of them, doing things they wouldn’t normally do, but would like to do, but know, that as the faces of “the Cause,” are unable to. Freddie learns all too well through the psychological torture that he has to endure in order to beat his alcoholism, his savage like tendencies, the awareness at the end of the film that is brought to his attention by Lancaster Dodd, that he “can stay with me if you choose, or you can leave, but if you do, I never want to see you again;” it is the knowledge that he’s going to have to choose to serve one Master. A man cannot serve both. The audience, whether we like the movie or not, we are going to have to make a choice; we are going to have to answer questions of our own. The questions may be a long time coming, and they may be in the blink of an eye, but I for one, don’t want my two hours back. I just might not have seen enough.  Because, in the words of the bard from Hibbing, the coolest 71 year old man on the planet, “Well, it may be the devil or it may be the Lord, But you're gonna have to serve somebody.”

Saturday Morning Sun Rise.........vol.151

Gov. Mitt Romney and Rep. Paul Ryan from Wisconsin, a match made in the slashed funding, cutting jobs, reducing people to the bare minimum political atmosphere of a no-holds-barred contest for the heart and soul of the American people, or maybe just the Tea-Party. One who’s made his career in the private-equity sector where profit losing companies are bought and restructured in order for their business model’s to turn around and become more productive (damn, that sounds a lot like what America needs) and then there’s the other guy, obviously a man who’d been tapped and embraced years ago from the men behind the curtain in Bohemian Grove (Koch brothers) to say and do whatever they will tell him to do.

People don’t need health care or a safe retirement. These are all entitlements according to these hunchbacked steely eyed long clawed weasels. They want to convince you that you don’t deserve the social security money that you’ve had deducted from your paychecks for your whole life. According to these bloodsuckers, you shouldn’t be entitled to any of it.  So, for Vice President, the Republican Party has Rep. Ryan, who looks like the geekier version of the choir teacher on Fox’s hit television show for the LGBT crowd, Glee.

Ironically, that’s the channel owned by the fear mongering and hate spewing homophobic Rupert Murdoch; who would have thought that he would embrace such dirty programming, but then again, none of those guys watch that stuff; they’re too busy making deals to increase their profit margins and keeping the middle class believing that what they have they should hold on to with all of their might, or else, the socialist pigs will come screaming through their neighborhoods with bloody machetes and shopping carts filled with welfare checks and repossess their wealth and send it over to Cuba, Venezuela, Iran, North Korea, Syria or whichever country or enemy of the week they want us all to be afraid of, so we don’t focus on what is often times the most deadly enemy of them all; the lack of awareness.

          So, back to the big Saturday morning headlines, the Republican ticket has central casting for the role of President to be played by a Mormon with nice hair and a weasel looking guy for Vice President who wants to kick your grandmother out on to the street so they can keep funding the endless-mindless wars in Afghanistan, Iraq and on Drugs. There has only been one Catholic President in the United States and they blew his brains out in Dallas. What are the chances that a Mormon is going to be sitting in the White House come next January; probably about the same as a Scientologist making any sense; but I digress.

On another note, remember last year, they were supposed to cut defense spending by 100 billion for this year. They agreed to it last November as a result of the debt ceiling debacle, and now they want to go back on that too, because, wait, they’ve got military contracts in their districts and they have to be concerned with getting re-elected, not with actually doing things that matter for the American people like repairing bridges, repairing streets, siphoning off of foreign oil, finding renewable sources of energy, taking semi-automatic weapons off the streets and creating jobs (insert Tom Emmer’s voice here). Instead these spineless excuses for public servants vote, what is it now, 33, 34, 35, 36 times, I’ve lost count….to repeal Obama-care when even if it did pass in the Senate, the President isn’t going to sign it anyway. So here’s a crazy idea, quit wasting our time and actually do something, because people are slowly waking up and were not very happy, at least not until we’ve had our morning coffee.

Vol. 150: It's the 4th of July, and "it's gonna be one of the best Summer's we've ever had."

"Amity is a summer town. We need summer dollars."

     The cast of characters include the new chief of police, Martin Brody, the outsider from New York City, who is afraid of the water, and who finds himself living on an island with his family doing his best to protect them from the terrors of the outside world. There is the Mayor, Larry Vaughn, played brilliantly by veteran actor Murray Hamilton, as the machine, the politics of ignorance, only looking toward the next re-election. One can substitute their favorite or least favorite politician and you get the picture. Along comes Matt Hooper, played by a  wide-eyed young and feisty bearded Richard Dreyfuss, who represents the changing of the guard and the science of progress with his fancy sonar and compressed tanks of air. Finally there is Quint, whom we never get to know what his full name is, but is played with the intelligence and confidence that only an actor steeped in their craft can portray through years of hard drinking and experience, by the one and only Robert Shaw. He's an Ernest Hemingway, Old Man and the Sea character, who wears his "working class hero crap" on his sweater'd sleeve.  Quint's monologue towards the latter half of the film is right up there with any monologue in film history; and when you learn that Mr. Shaw was very much drunk when he performed it, makes it that much more believable and that much better. This cast of characters is brought together perfectly by a young director, making only his 2nd full length feature film of his career, Steven Spielberg, whom would make his place in history by directing the first ever box-office $100 million in ticket sales the bar setter, until a little film called Star Wars came along a few years later. But early in the film, you could already sense the genius of the director and the future direction that Hollywood would be heading, deep into the sea of summer blockbusters.

     Within the first 20 minutes of the film, a young boy, a dog and a young woman are killed. Is this representative, subconsciously of the death of the American Dream in the early 1970's? Is the main character of the film Richard Nixon, swimming around in the political arena destroying whatever got into his path, but whom was ironically and justifiably inevitably destroyed by his own appetite for power (ie; Watergate, and God knows whatever else he did that wasn't reported in the press). Then there is the scene in the dark of night, where two drunken friends try to catch the magnificent beast with a "holiday roast." You can almost hear the laughter of friends as they empty their supply of Coors Lights on to the dock. Chief Brody, played by Roy Scheider is now, irreversibly and immediately caught up in the situation, emphasized cinematically through the tight close-up rail shot exposing his and the audience's shock at what they've just witnessed off the beach of Amity, when the young boy and his raft are bitten in half in a geyser of blood spraying into the air. However, it's not until the Chief's own son is threatened that the Mayor, the Chief  Brody and the young scientist Matt Hooper, have to turn to Quint, who could be a metaphor for the military industrial complex; and once you go down that route, there is no turning back. You've just signed on to fight the war on terror. It will never end, and with the heat of summer fully upon us here in the Midwest and throughout the mid-Atlantic, you may not need a bigger boat, you just may need a bigger air conditioner.

     So, in honor of the 4th of July, and what has become a holiday tradition in my life, I wanted to take you on cinematic journey back in time. From the perfectly contoured typeset letters of the title to the genius simplicity of the score, the film holds a viewer's suspended disbelief in perpetual awe. Who doesn't go swimming in any body of water, lake, river or even dimly lit swimming pool and not worry about what is lying beneath, out of sight, out of fear of the unknown. Within the first five minutes of the film, you are hooked, like a visual, auditory, and sensory overloaded experience of narcotic abundance, the film holds you in its grasp, its JAWS.

The Mother of all Mail Days

The Global Outrage of an Educated Man......vol. 149
 
 
Greetings and Salutations on this fine early morning in May, the mother of all weekends. I hope that this finds everyone well and in good spirits. I know that there are a few friends of mine that are issuing warm sighs of relief, knowing that their beloved Minnesota Vikings will be staying in the aforementioned state, alas, in pursuit of that all elusive of trophies, the Superbowl. We by no means feel the same as Cubs fans but there is enough sadness and anguish to go around these days, isn't there? Although, it's pretty hard to interfere with a professional football game. The last time I checked, there is no foul football to lunge after in the stands and therefore obstruct a home team player's chances of making a first down. Well, at least not yet. I'm surprised there isn't a spin-off America's got Talent/American Idol search for the best athlete in the world contest reality show make me want to vomit onto the coffee table or onto the nearest now sold at Target in what amounts to be nothing more than an ad on a t-shirt brainwashing of simple minded adolescents. They're so over. Maybe if they put a bird on it, the tight jeans rolled at the ankle hipsters will buy the supply out and make some kind of knit organic coffee holder out of them. Next week is Art-A-Whirl. Back to football, although, there have been some kickers and running backs we would have loved to see personally run out of town faster than a Futbol referee in the middle east, but I digress. Darren Nelson you son of a Washington playoff game winter of 87'.
 
As if awakening from a long hibernated slumber I find myself rubbing my eyes in disbelief, looking for an old man sitting at the base of a tree with a grey beard to his knees, is that you Mr. Van Winkle? Is it true what the birds sing through the limbs of your still alive relatives as the morning sun rises in the east? Did the Twins actually win last night? I am a believer in all things far fetched and therefore have no difficulty taking the old man's word for it. I truly believed that the Vikings would be playing next season in Los Angeles. Some things you can't blame on the Mayans.
 
Can you believe our born in Hawaii president? What he did as a result of his free-speaking some times verbally adroit Vice President on last Sunday's talk shows is truly incredible. A President openly stating that he is for gay marriage. Wow. But there is one thing Mr. President that I have to say about it, and that is, it makes a hell of a lot more sense than why were still in Afghanistan and Guantanamo is still open for business. I know that it's an election year and that were in a never ending war on terror, but really, just because you support what seems to be common sense in allowing two people who truly love each other the right to pay taxes at a "Christian approved" rate, I'm still very disappointed in you. If you take the dogs off of the medical marijuana, we may have something. But as for now, you're only just better than Mitt. Just for curiosity's sake,
How many Bohemian Grove parties did you attend or Bilderberg weekend getaways and if so, I have to guess Mitt was there for some of them as well, am I right?
How many times have you sacrificed a "pretend virgin" to a 40 foot tall wooden Owl? Seriously people, look it up, Bohemian Grove. It's just a bunch of men only, obscenely successful, mostly white anglo saxons hanging out in the California redwoods just north of San Francisco for about 2 weeks in mid July every summer. Very private and by invitation only. Just men being men, sitting around, chatting, smoking cigars and swatting mosquitoes. Then again, maybe the gay marriage thing wasn't such a stretch after all. Hmmmm.
 
Alright, got to go and take the new addition to the family for his morning walk and nope, don't spit out your gin or milk or orange juice or your two liter of diet coke. He's a dog, a small little welsh terrier named Watson, and he's got some attitude. With that being said, have a Happy Mother's Day, for without mother's, we'd all be in one terrible cosmic mess.
 
Keep on prospering in the new global economy.
 

Re: I am still around

The Global Outrage of an Educated Man........vol.148

Good morning ladies and gentlemen. I am back from my hiatus once again to bring some truth to the world and so I will be providing more thoughts with the months and weeks to come until I return to student teaching in the fall of 2012. Don't be so surprised, because life is a journey that is a continuous process of learning, in search of the Philosopher's Stone. Aren't we all trying to turn lead into gold? As Tom Waits sings, "How many ways can you polish up a turd?" 

Now, to get on with it.

In the state of Minnesota we have a political party, the Republican, that is in the process of getting evicted from their headquarters at the state Capitol; and they want to run the state? You can't make this stuff up.

After having attended last week's annual Holland Neighborhood Hot dish Revolution for the first time, I was pleasantly pleased with those in attendance and the variety of dishes being served. It was nice to witness a community getting together for something other than a shooting. With that being said, we still have a long way's to go in order to become the city on the hill that the world looks too. Hell, we can't even keep our Secret Service agents from keeping secrets, in what I imagine to be wasn't the first time. Hell, you're in Columbia and prostitution is legal. Hookers and blow, go hand in hand like politicians running from a crucial vote. Don't get me on the record. This could come back to haunt me.

In Minnesota were trying to get a stadium deal done in the nick of time before the Vikings turn out to be the North Stars and we've got a baseball team in desperate need of an actual team that can win a few games in a row. Is it time for Gardy to get the boot?  Don't get me started on the Wild. Pathetic. The state of hockey can do little better than the Boys state Hockey tournament. Maybe there was a reason the North Stars left in the first place other than Norm Green? At least Dennis Green provided some talent and passed the keys, so that someone, anyone can drive the car. Maybe Amy Senser should've done the same? Sorry, that was too easy.

But, wait, the Vikings did have  one hell of a draft. If the worse case happens and the four horsemen come to town, they might just take the Vikings with them to that pit of sin and excess, smoggy Los Angeles. The city of Angels may just be the city of death. One long strip mall where the worst character traits are rewarded with paparazzi and an endless supply of Kardashians.

Whew, that feels a lot better.

Also, just so those who have faith haven't given up on me, I will be returning to work on my novel this summer in the hopes that I will have finished rough draft by the end of August. Cause, who wants to work 9-5 until their 75? Really. Be patient, "Big things have small beginnings." Prometheus.

So, before I leave you scratching your heads,

enjoy a little ditty from March 3rd, 1997, just around the time Slick Willy was losing his grip.

If I have offended anyone, I apologize, but then again, with freedom of speech, there are consequences.

Remember, much love, peace and happiness in a world gone mad, and keep prospering in the new global economy.

Star Wars sits underneath what was yesterday's beauty queen,

Who is tomorrow's "Where are they now,"

The perfect woman, non-threatening

Non-enlightening,

Pull my strings and watch me giggle,

For another ten dollar bill.

Educated by the TV,

A President gets a slap on the wrist; a normal man goes to jail.

It's big business on Capitol Hill.

Our generation is what we've been told, what we see;

We've created better make believe;

We never die, we just leave.