Progress Being Made

In between working to revamp my blog with a new name and new look, I’ve already run into Reno so Kyle could apply for his old job and to pick up some of his things from storage. I tried to help him but the first crate I lifted tossed my back out.

Right now, he’s in his old room working to reduce the six crates we brought home to hopefully four. Everything else will go out in our shed or in the garage.

We’ll be making another trip in to Reno as Kyle has a three-and-a-half-hour pre-hire class on sexual harassment as he landed a part-time gig at Lawlor Event Center in Guest Services. I’ve been teasing him that his girlfriend should be involved in this evenings class.

It’s a start — and I’m proud of him. Now, all I need do is figure out what to do for three-and-a-half-hours.

UPDATE: Kyle’s SHC isn’t until August. Phew!

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Coyote and Night-Guard

his forsaken call’s heard
sacred night covers form
sound carries over sage
coyote plans his day
begging world join in

night-guard does jus’ so
silence from desert sand

cattle low, stir and settle
moon at crescent quarter
stars high, full and bright

night-guard warbles song
to coyotes’ off-key call
beckoning earth join in

yip, yip, yip each sings

Washing a Bully Out of His Hair

He was a bully, shoving most everyone around in the barracks and no one seemed willing to stop him, except me. However, he avoided me as much as possible after I knocked him on his butt three times during a boxing match one rainy summer Saturday.

His reign of terror included picking on my friend Holley and I decided that it was time Wes got what was coming to him. Quietly, I began to watch his habits; when he went to chow; left for work; came home; showered and so on.

One morning I realized Wes used the same shampoo as I did and this gave me an idea. If I could, I would replace his shampoo bottle filled with syrup.

If there was one thing he was proud of it was his hair. He spent a lot of time combing and brushing it anytime he passed a mirror or some other reflective surface in which he could look at himself.

Wes had a habit of setting his shampoo and conditioners outside the shower stall when he was bathing, so I knew that this was where the opportunity to switch out the bottles could be made. I narrowed my focus to his bathroom habits from there on.

In the three-week period that I had begun my self-appointed mission, Wes’ bullying continued, including pushing Holley down a set of stairs on the backside of the building. Honestly, I nearly gave up on my plan, deciding to go ‘kick his ass,’ instead, but calmer heads prevailed as Holley talked me out of it.

Because of the last attack, I decided to speed up my plan though. I ended up dumping out a full bottle of shampoo so I could refill it.

That’s when I also made a change to my planning. Instead of syrup, I purchased several small bottles of a hair remover that women were known to use on their legs to avoid shaving.

The following morning I sneaked into the shower area and checked out his bottle of shampoo. And seeing how full it was, I loaded my empty bottle with four containers of the hair removal agent, hoping to make it feel the same in weight.

Since I was too late to switch bottles at that time, I had to wait until the next morning. It was a restless night as I lay in my rack anticipating the outcome.

The next morning, sitting in one of the stalls, I heard him come into the lavatory and turn on the shower. As soon as he pulled the shower curtain closed, I made my move, switching out the bottles.

As soon as I made the switch, I rushed back to my room. I would return to the showers a few minutes later, acting as innocent as a new-born babe.

By that time Wes knew something had happened to his shampoo. But in the same breath, by the time he realized it, a large swathe of the hair he had been so proud of was laying on the shower stall floor.

For the next few days, Wes hid himself in his room, coming out only when he had too. Best of all, he decided to move off base the following week, so the bullying came to an end.

The Suitor and His Whore

“Damned sidewalk’s a helluva place to make a last stand,” Mack said to Cheese as he helped his friend to his knees.

For his part Cheese wasn’t paying attention to anything Mack had to say as he was busy looking at his scraped up palms and the rip in the left elbow of his best shirt. It was the second time in the last ten minutes the old gutter-rat had ended up on his ear outside the broke down watering hole.

“Ain’t no fuckin’ way to treat a suitor,” Cheese complained.

“You ain’t no fuckin’ suitor,” Mack reminded him, “You’re jus’ a horny old shit that can’t get a piece of ass outta your head.”

“Oh, I’m gonna marry Big Maddie,” Cheese exclaimed.

“Naw — you ain’t,” Mack shot back, “Cuz that woman’s gonna kill you if you go back in there again.”

“I’m gonna, I tell ya!” Cheese retorted.

Mack decided not to argue with his buddy any further concluding the fool must have hit his head the last time he flew out the door. Beside, he was simply there as a matter of support or to call for an ambulance once the dumb-shit couldn’t walk away under his own powers.

It took him another minute to gather himself before he decided to move himself to the sidewalk’s edge where he sat down. Skinned up or not, Cheese remained determined to go back in and win the woman’s hand.

“You ever bang her?” Cheese asked Mack.

“Nope,” Mack answered, adding, “I don’t do whores.”

“She’s one you would – fucks like a wild horse runs,” Cheese said, “And those tits are something to behold when she’s riding you down.”

“You fuckin’ banged your head good that last go, didn’t ya?” Mack snorted.

Cheese didn’t answer as he was already starting to voice his next thought, “The moment she wrapped her lips around my cock and took a drag, I was in love!”

Mack simply sighed. As he did Cheese stood up and walked back to the swinging door of the dive, “Wish me luck, mate.”

“You’re gonna get tossed out on your ass again you stupid son of a bitch,” Mack warned.

“Fuck! I’m in love and it’s all worth it,” Cheese replied as he pulled the door open, adding, “Call a priest cuz I’m either gonna need him to marry us or he’ll have to perform last rites on my corpse.”

Cheese disappeared into the smoky darkness, leaving Mack to wait for the next act to end.

A Black Bear in the Black Berry Patch

It was warm for the start of September and Adam and I were on a mission. The night before we had decided to pick as many black berries as possible and to give them to Mr. and Mrs. Thompson before the elderly couple headed back home to Alhambra, California.

Our idea centered on making sure they had enough berries to make at least two cobblers over the winter while we awaited their return. It was our way of saying thank you for the cobble pie Mrs. Thompson had made for our family and for the couple taking us boy’s fishing during their visit.

The Thompson’s had been coming to Camp Marigold since before our had moved into the house on Redwood Drive. And each year Mary and Russ Thompson’s preregistered with the camp ground for the space right behind our home.

With summer of ‘71 coming to a close, salmon season on the Klamath River ending and school starting in a couple of days, we grabbed the four wooden buckets Mom had bought at Ben Franklin’s in Crescent City for each of her children. However our sister’s weren’t coming with us as we headed down the street towards the pasture below our neighborhood.

After a few minutes, we came to the hillside that held bush after bush of black berries. It was only yards from the old baseball field we played on and we knew that the bushes on the backside of the patch held the best pickings.

We each slipped our way through and around the dense brambles, with their wide leaves and large thorns. It was well-known that if you wanted to get the ripe and plump berries, you’d have to endure a little pain from an accidental run in with a thorn or several.

Before we knew it Adam and I had all four baskets filled and we were eating berries as we worked our way out of the thicket. That’s when we heard a noise that caused us to stop in our tracks.

It was a heavy foot-fall, followed by a grunt and a gruff sigh. Still clutching our baskets, we quietly freed our selves from the brambles only to come face-to-face with a black bear.

The confrontation left the three of us startled as each of us backed away from the other. While Adam and I continued to put distance between ourselves and the bear, the bear had stopped and was sniffing the air.

“Adam,” I said as flat and unexcited as I could, “Take off running as fast as you can. And don’t look back until you made the road.”

“But Tommy…” he began.

“Run! Now!” I growled.

Adam took off as I stood still, holding my two baskets of berries and facing the bear. My heart was pounding in my throat as I slowly set one of the baskets on the grass in front of me and began backing away.

After walking backwards for several hundred feet, I turned and sprinted in the direction Adam had gone, hoping that the bear wouldn’t follow and would instead stop to feast on the bucket of black berries I’d left behind. It was a great relief to finally reach the safety of the road, where Adam was waiting for me.

We sat on log at the side of the road and watched as the bear made a quick meal of the berries, then played with the basket by flipping it into the air and swatting it as it came down. Once he grew bored with the game, he turned and ambled across the pasture, waded through High Prairie Creek and disappeared amid the alder trees lining the far bank.

“You wanna go get the basket?” Adam asked.

“Naw,” I answered, “We’ll come back for it tomorrow.”

“Yeah, if that bear doesn’t come back first and eat it,” Adam chuckled.

Taxed to Talk

Congress is always looking for new and sneakier ways to fill it’s pockets with our hard-earned cash. This time it has started to look at parts of former Michigan GOP Congressman Dave Camp’s failed “Tax Reform Act of 2014.”

Unfortunately, this isn’t the kind of simplied tax-reform being talked about by President Trump and wanted by the American public. No, Camp’s proposal would restructure the taxation of advertising from a normal — a 100-percent deductible business cost — to one that is only 50 percent deductible, with the rest being amortized over the course of a decade.

The only time in U.S. history that a federal advertising tax was impose was during the Civil War. In the 1980s, Florida briefly imposed one, and it led to the immediate loss of 50,000 jobs and $2.5 billion in personal income and was repealed after six-months.

And aside from some exceptions related to false and misleading content, the federal government has for the most part respected the constitutional mandate of the First Amendment to leave advertising alone. That’s why the Supreme Court, overturned Valentine v. Chrestensen (1942) with writing that “the Constitution imposes no restraint on the government as to the regulation of ‘purely commercial advertising…’”

Thirty-five-years later, in 1977, the Supreme Court reaffirmed its decision in Bates v. State Bar of Arizona, that free speech includes paid advertisements or solicitations to pay or to give money. The court explained:

“‘Advertising, though entirely commercial, may often carry information of import to significant issues of the day. And commercial speech serves to inform the public of the availability, nature, and prices of products and services, and thus performs an indispensable role in the allocation of resources in a free-enterprise system. In short, such speech serves individual and societal interests in assuring informed and reliable decision-making.'”

The First Amendment is supposed to apply to all Americans — not only those who can afford to pay a federal tax on it.

Former CIA Director Calls for a Coup

Former President Obama’s shadow government is slowly moving into the daylight, as his ex-CIA chief John Brennan is openly calling for a coup to oust President Trump, should Trump fire Special Prosecutor Robert Mueller. Brennan appeared at the Aspen Security Forum in Vero Beach, Florida, during a panel discussion with Obama propogandist and CNN anchor Wolf Blitzer and Obama’s former Director of National Intelligence James Clapper.

“I think it’s the obligation of some executive branch officials to refuse to carry that out,” Brennan said. “I would just hope that this is not going to be a partisan issue. That Republicans, Democrats are going to see that the future of this government is at stake and something needs to be done for the good of the future.”

This is one of the best example of how Progressives view their place in the world of politics. Anyone who believes in the U.S. Constitution would never have claimed that saving the future of government is a paramount task compared to the saving of the Republic — but there you have it.

Meanwhile, Mueller’s team has at least three members who’ve donated to Democratic presidential campaigns and organizations over the years. The list includes Jeannie Rhee, who donated $5,400 to Hillary Clinton; Andrew Weissmann, who gave $4,700 to a Obama PAC in 2008; and James Quarles, who donated to Obama’s presidential PAC in 2008 and 2012, and Clinton’s presidential PAC Hillary for America in 2016.

Let’s not forget about ‘the Mule,’ himself, and his personal relationship with former FBI Director James Comey, where the entire Russia/Trump-probe starts and ends. The ex-FBI chief and Mueller are described as ‘brothers-in-arms,’ after working together during the controversies over Bush-era terrorist surveillance.

Sounds real impartial, doesn’t it?

Perhaps a coup would be a blessing as it would bring about a second Civil War, destroying the power-base of Progressives. After all there are many more hardened patriots waiting for the Snowflake’s of the Left to violently act against the Republic, allowing for defense of the U.S. Constitution “against all enemies, foreign or domestic.”