Sketchy Stick Figures

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Let’s draw out stick-figure, self-proclaimed princesses/princes
Their flaccid, hollow, sketchy, non-accomplishments’ pretense
Their ballyhooed success stories, that, once sunlight exposed
Play out as horror stories before spot-on, paupers’ eagle eyes

The snotty haughty squint down, upturned, scrunched snouts
They taunt, tout; trot out their I-did-it-so-can-you-too tutorials
Intended to edify us “slobs”; well aware of their discordant irony
How, sans a doubt, these swaggering snobs did NOT do it at all

It is the oft ill-gotten financial coups, that prop up uppercrusters
Their high-rise, high and mighty, solid gold, goldbricking lifestyle
All craftily set atop the preexisting foundation; Long Established
By their well-heeled daddies; the gaggle of countless ancestors

“Too big to fail” elitists, who trumpet untold, quasi-legal triumphs
Who frolic in obscene prosperity; traffic in ugly white supremacy
Believe their excrement emits freshly plucked daisies’ fragrance
When, in all honesty, they can stink up a privy with the best of us

The affluent know not of their nation’s heritage & core principles
Errantly reckon their flags’ thin fabric gauges patriotism’s depth
Chickenhawks all, who provoke needless, endless, win-less wars
To be fought not by the rich wolf, but by the poor sacrificial lamb

The opulent ilk swim in the cesspool of sycophancy and cultism
No questions asked, they’ll go on a raze the homeland rampage
At the drop of their fascistic, narcissistic sore loser hero’s red hat
The guilty exonerated/further emboldened by swim-mate judges

One would expect gratitude to waft off of the billionaires’ attitude
To swathe numbnuts feds who grant ‘em extravagant tax breaks
And top cops, who blind eye anarchists/scofflaws/usurers/grifters
But, not in a land where the hoity-toity always trump the hoi polloi

Let’s compare and contrast high society’s shallow Hallies & Hals
To trusty Janes & Joes who, for entire lifetimes, struggle & strive
To do everything ethically and strategically right, yet, in The End
Have little to show for our honest labors’ Blood, Sweat and Tears

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blogging, class war, classism, insurrection, January 6, 2021, life, poetry, political poetry,
politics, trump, WordPress

Dear Joe

Dear Joe,

Excuse my exasperation and skepticism, but, just what the hell is left for real Americans to hope for when the other side of the pandemic involves:

  • a looming, climate changed, unfit for humankind, scorched Earth
  • mass murderer targeted school houses, houses of worship, etc.
  • police departments seething with bigotry, brutality and militancy
  • the ever-deepening Have-It-Alls and Have Nothings chasm
  • our Supreme/Federal benches overloaded with hardliner rightie judges
  • workers forced to endure non-living wages and union busting
  • free, fair elections mucked up by anti-American state legislators
  • a U.S. Senate hamstrung by DINO’s, the filibuster and parliamentarian
  • the too lenient punishment of the January 6th terrorists / their leader DJT
  • an electorate comprised of up to 75 million who plot to re-empower DJT

Let’s not mince words. The apparently getting off scot-free (AGAIN) Donald J. Trump has a massive ego, which won’t permit him to pass up another bid for reelection and, come 2024, win or lose, he will wield the power to paint the town; paint America blood red.

In Victory: DJT, obviously, will regain command of the military and will wind up seated atop a nuclear arsenal as considerable as his ass, itself; such deadly power proving more than adequate to enforce his “official” overthrow of Democracy; thereby denying life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness / the entire American Dream to all (save for himself and perhaps his immediate family).

In Defeat: DJT will, once again, dredge up the trope that non-existent, widespread voter fraud had denied him victory and then, promptly rally / deploy his vast private army of domestic terrorists STAT; send these insurrectionists on a bat-crap crazy rampage / assault that’ll likely dwarf what real America witnessed (and barely survived) back on January 6th.

Mr. President, far be it for this man, who voted for you, to tell you how best to live up to your Oath of Office, but, in my (History) book, this is not a Kumbaya Moment; one where your affable, camp counselor / Mister Rogers personae and gentlemanly demeanor will suffice.

That’s about all the strength this true blue, peaceable, private citizen can muster, today.

I sure as hell hope and pray that, when needed, you can summon whatever it takes to keep the peace; to preserve, protect and defend our beloved America.

Wishing you / your loved ones all the best life has to offer,

Tom

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P.S. ~ Since early 2020, this is how I’ve been ending all my posts…

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BioPic Trailer: Quick Limerick #111

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To run down biopic: Dumbo Encumbered
Into our lives, orange white elephant lumbered
He’d trumpet sick, toxic isms
To dredge societal schisms
Caused Covid dolor and death; ‘cause he slumbered

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Y a www XSive Xistence is UnYs

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Here’s why an online excessive existence is unwise:

Let’s say that we’re overly dependent on:

  • Streamed reportage to stay abreast of current events
  • Streamed music, movies and TV to amuse / entertain
  • Social networks to act as our digital photo repositories
  • E-commerce to purchase goods and peddle our wares
  • E-banking / E-bill paying to manage all of our finances

Now, let’s say that, someday, some devil-may-care electorate permits a cultist to rise to power; perhaps some narcissistic, fascistic, morbidly obese, bleach blonde, tousled hairdo’d dude with troweled on orange, clown make-up?

To keep it all real, what would stop that asshat from staging a coup d’état? Hey, it’s been tried before!

The top priority of any till-death-do-us-part type tyrant would be to sever all communication. And what could be easier than his throwing the Internet Kill Switch

The net effects of a net-less nation / world being:

  • Molded-over fake news; molded to flatter that Fascist bastard
  • A dispirited, disconsolate, alienated from loved ones populace
  • Consumers unable to secure life’s essential products/services
  • Entrepreneurs discovering their E-businesses shuttered tight
  • Frozen assets and the consequent inability to pay off creditors

There you have it folks. The unfed minds and bodies; unpaid mortgage/rent and energy bills would, quite literally, leave the huddled, miserable masses out in the cold.

In other words…

To abandon our in-print books, periodicals, newspapers, cardboard covered photo albums, in person theatrical performances / concerts, as well as brick and mortar businesses, could quite easily herald the demise of any robust, full-bodied healthy and happy society.

Exactly how far beyond that it could go, would depend, for the most part, upon the degree of the mercurial tyrant’s zealousness / doggedness.

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Civics 101

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Citizens, with LEGIT gripes, seek redress
Never kick can; like meek tykes on recess
Our votes oust control freaks who repress
That way our society blocks bleak regress

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“Mr. Watson, Come Here!”

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Two days ago, something in my life seemed amiss; i.e., how tranquil sheltering at home had become. It hadn’t taken long for me to pinpoint what was afoot, here, namely, the absence of daily, insufferable, nuisance calls; i.e. the robo deadpanned and live emoted telemarketing spiels, scams and threats.

I knew fully well that such callers hadn’t had some sorta overnight epiphany; i.e., come to the sudden realization that career-wise, the honorable high road doth beckon. Ergo, upon picking up my phone’s handset, I wasn’t shocked to discover the absence of dial tone. And, outage-wise, I’d been down that road countless times before.

A bit of background 411: My small corner of America can be best described as a tech dead zone, where phone lines and equipment are so archaic; have become so (literally) tumbledown, that both Alexander Ghaham Bell (b. March 3, 1847 / d. August 2, 1922) and his assistant, Mr. Watson may’ve been moonlighting as linemen during its original installation within my community (hence my headlined quotation).

Worse. yet, the telecommunications behemoth that I’m dealing with, hath a CEO / small “g” god, who obviously believes the word “upgrade” only applies to his personal paygrade, NOT to the actual infrastructure.

Consequently, his lackadaisical, tech refurbishment plan gets implemented one disconnected, disgruntled customer at a time.

More to the point: My combined land line / Internet service has been… well, let’s just say that service THIS IS NOT!

Anyway, within five minutes of powering up my cell, I found myself talking to a repair department god, a fellow named Jesus, no less (the son of god / CEO?). Upon his ascertaining my complaint legit, he issued a repair ticket and scheduled a lineperson for the very next day.

The only good thing about this entire mess was how remote troubleshooting capabilies had clearly established my outage to be the handiwork of an outdoor gremlin; ergo, it’d not be necessary for me to hang out at home (even tho I did).

Matt, the repair guy, showed up around half past ten, yesterday. Obviously, neither of us were taking any chances (Covid-19-wise). We were both masked up and, whenever we needed to discuss matters, my closed, virtually airtight, windowpaned outer door further isolated us at all times.

Long story ALMOST OVER, within the hour, he had successfully restored my service.

And I do say ALMOST OVER because the very first nuisance call I received, in the early p.m.… cue the drum roll / rimshot please… was on behalf of the Republican Party. The caller asked for me by name and after the perfunctory “pleasantries”, things took a decided swerve to the far, Far, FAR HARDCORE RIGHT. Yep, that sycophantic propagandist / history revisionist began effusively rehashing Donald J. Trump’s tenure as prez and then asked if I concurred?

Agreed to what? Her psychotic fantasies? Her delusions?

Not about to ever mince my words. I spot-on called out Donny using terminology such as insurrectionist and un-American. Now here are the real kickers.

Even after fully acknowledging both of my duly derogatory characterizations; her actually saying, “I understand”, she still had the gall to hit me up for a substantial financial contribution to the Republican Party; mind you, to the Republican Party absolutely owned and operated by fascistic Trump!

All of which begs the following questions:

In her book, is being an insurrectionist and un-American an asset? Something to be proud about? Had she misconstrued my words as being complimentary?

BTW, quite emphatically and repetitively, I had talked over her pre-programmed begging routine to inform her that I’d not be donating even one penny.

My gawd, these Republican freaks are billionaires, who could amply fund their party, by easily extracting the oodles of “lost” loot from between their collective sofa’s cushions. Yet, they’ve got the audacity to hold out their tin cup to this barely existing on a fixed income man?

Have they no shame?

It was while demanding that she add my phone number to the GOP’s Do Not Call List, that she hung up on me. So, it’s tough to say whether or not there’ll be any more nuisance calls from these insurrectionists and un-Americans at some point down the road.

Methinks I’d have been far better off, yesterday, had lineman Matt been a no-show.

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C’mon In!

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“Books are like seeds. They can lie dormant for centuries and then flower in the most unpromising soil.” (Carl Sagan); “Nothing ever dies on the Internet.” (anon.); “This is not your father’s Oldsmobile.” (Madison Ave. [m]adman). My posts amalgamate these three philosophical elements into one novel experience; they champion critical thinking, human dignity / equality, levelheaded / even-handed / liberty-based governance and solid environmental stewardship. C’mon in!

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Rosalie Trombley’s Power and Tower

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Preface: Today, we’ll be revisiting a rough stretch of my life’s path. But worry not, I’m only doing so to illustrate how an insufferable situation can morph into something far more transcendental and (quite literally) upbeat.

Some six decades prior to the coronavirus pandemic, elementary and middle school bullies (and adolescent acne) had introed me to social isolation.

Picture this bygone boy entering such a pivotal stage of life; yearning for peer acceptance, yet, instead, discovering how, to a fault, ex-chums had alienated him from the student body (inclusive of kids who hadn’t even known me and vice versa). My only means for avoiding their verbal and physical assaults had become feigning viral assaults; my allergies to airborne irritants oft making my symptomatology so indistinguishable from that of the common cold / bronchitis that unless my folks had taken my temperature, I knew I’d be home free.

It was on one of those very skip school sick days, circa early 1963, when my father had lent me his pocket transistor radio; i.e, to cheer up his son / make his “illness” more bearable. His favorite station being WJR a.m. 760 and my serendipitously advancing its tuner 40 kilocycles had become the two key factors in spurring one helluva a life changing, eureka event.

It was at that precise moment when I first heard the Canadian station CKLW (later known as “The Big 8”); their format more attuned to a much younger listenership. Their captivating new music was getting spun by DJs Bud Davies (6-10 a.m.), Joe Van (10-3), Dave Shafer (3-7:30), Tom Clay (7:30-midnight) and Ron Knowles (midnight-5).

That morn, music had become my very salvation; my lifeline / means of escape. In essence, recording artists and disc jockeys had become my surrogate peers. In time, the songs, themselves, had taken on that very role, too; so much so, that, to this very day, when a beloved recording that I haven’t heard in “eons” gets aired / streamed, I oft react in a manner one would expect during chance encounters with long absent loved ones.

Unbeknownst to me, 1963 was also the very year that Ms. Rosalie Trombley had applied for a receptionist / switchboard operator position at CKLW. And once hired and, toot sweet, promoted to musical director, she had also successfully cracked and shattered the glass ceiling of that male dominated field.

Trombley’s keen ear for what is and what isn’t great music, eventually, earned her, her “hit maker” reputation and I fully credit this wonderful woman for opening my own mind and ears to our vast, worldwide, musical spectrum; nearly every life enhancing concept that the dotted treble and bass clefs have to offer humankind.

She had presented the robust diversity of Sixties / Seventies Top 40 music, itself; e.g. Motown, Folk, Psychedelic, Surf, Garage, Blues, Progressive, Bubblegum, the British “Invasion”, Latin, Japanese, etc.

Case in point… Trombley had turned us on to Kyu Sakamoto’s track, Sukiyaki – Ue Wo Muite Arukou, which he sang entirely in Japanese. I mean, few, if any of us dummy, monolingual Americans could understand even one syllable of song composer Toshinobu Kubota’s lyrics; yet, we loved this vocalist’s soulfully delivered rendition all the same [read lyrics and hear original and cover performances HERE].

It was approximately a decade later when Michigan’s native son and hard rocker / recording artist, Bob Seger, in his (futile) attempt to get his early songs aired on CKLW, even composed his aptly titled track, Rosalie; where one of his couplets acknowledges…

“She’s got the power
She’s got the tower”

Bob Seger • From the LP Back in ’72 • [Read full lyrics HERE]

That power and tower, of which Seger was referring to, involved CKLW’s 50,000 Watt transmitter, which, once the ionosphere did its post sundown shift, dramatically increased “The Big 8’s” audience, who resided within the vast expanses east of the Canadian / American Rockies.

In a sense, that atmospheric anomaly, had been radio pioneer Trombley’s early brush with something akin to a scaled down version of today’s World Wide Web.

Alas… long sigh… it was soon after the Canadian powers-that-be had passed legislation requiring more Canadian musical content on their nation’s stations, that Trombley’s airwaves wound up suffocated. Big government had silenced “The Big 8’s” / her We are the World spirit. Consequently, CKLW’s turntables took a turn for the worse.

Mind you, I’m not bad mouthing the vast legions of know-no-limits, talented Canadian musicians / singers / song writers. I’m only saying that nationalism, when taken to such extremes, SUCKS!

But, let’s end this post on a more positive note.

Tho I never actually met Ms. Rosalie Trombley, the way her tower had so powerfully influenced my life makes it seem as if I had. For as long as my consciousness exists, I’ll deem her my primary musical mentor. What a unique opportunity, privilege and honor it has been for this once-upon-a-time, loyal CKLW listener to have played a small role an entire bygone radio era; to have experienced, in real time, her success story.

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Another Caustic Acrostic

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Fascist Trumpers lead astray
Utter whoppers; bleat & bray
Civil Rights; they keep at bay
Killer cops; they still let play

Theocrats; they let prey/pray
Re climate woes; they naysay
Ugly insurrection is their way
MAGA dumdums join the fray
Pandemic’s ills? Here to stay!

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