We are a commune of inquiring, skeptical, politically centrist, capitalist, anglophile, traditionalist New England Yankee humans, humanoids, and animals with many interests beyond and above politics. Each of us has had a high-school education (or GED), but all had ADD so didn't pay attention very well, especially the dogs. Each one of us does "try my best to be just like I am," and none of us enjoys working for others, including for Maggie, from whom we receive neither a nickel nor a dime. Freedom from nags, cranks, government, do-gooders, control-freaks and idiots is all that we ask for.
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Wednesday, March 9. 2011
Governments are packed with foolish and self-important jackasses who mostly could not run a corner candy store. I tried to link this article at Pajamas again, and the link still doesn't go through. It's What We’re Talking About When We Talk About Big Government - Behold: the structure of redundancy, stupidity, and unconstitutional power the 100-year fog of leftism has created.
Scroll down a bit at Pajamas, and read it there in the left-side column. One quote:
Editor Dog addendum: Government needs to support the cause of cowboy poets. Sheesh. If cowboy poets want a handout, we are done for as a country. Kaput. I do not recall Robert Frost asking for taxpayer money - but he was a New Hampshire fellow: Live Free Or Die.
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Did you try this link:
Every time I read something like that my head explodes.
This should be printed and posted on every telephone pole, mailbox, post office wall and the doors to every DOT vehicle. Stuffed in every mail box.
Why, oh why don't more Americans get angry, speak out, and vote the entire gang of beltway insiders out?
I've move out to the hills of western PA to stay close to my kids. I live out deep in the wilderness, out of choice, as I could live closer to Pittsburgh. However, I see the ability of our great nation to react to any crisis, man-made or natural, now being so limited by a lack of leadership, lack of funds, lack of industrial capacity, and a lack of national unity that we will snap like an over-used rubber band stretched far beyond its limits.
When this snap happens I really do not want to be close to any major metro area. It will be ugly. God help us...
It may not be now, or in the next 20 years, or even in my lifetime, but it will happen.
Unless someone grabs the wheel and changes course. We need to build in some excess capacity for those little things like;
The civil war - where the north grew and expanded its capacity - by going into debt.
WWII - become the worlds arsenal, out produced rest of the world, leaders in science and technology, all by going into debt.
All major events where we had excess capacity. One look at this - http://www.usdebtclock.org/ and even my kids get we got nutn. Not now. No capacity. No ability to take a major hit, recover and rebuild and grow.
If something goes wrong now - major earthquake in Memphis, or CA, or the Yellowstone volcano erupts, or we're forced into a major war with a unified Asia or ME, whatever, we have nothing left.
Sorry. I had to vent.
Great site and my first time commenting but I've been a reader for a long time.
Semper Fi, and this southern boy will survive! LOL
I live a bit east of you, Bob, in central PA, but I have the same thoughts: What metro area west of me, in other words in the path of the jet stream, are they going to hit? Will I have time to beat it south, to Mexico and/or beyond? God help us is right.
Not Mexico, Big Al, not any more, unless you want to die of decapitation or lead poisoning. Many many Mexicans are fleeing Mexico so they can escape the fell hand of the drug cartels and have a chance at a better life. Try Texas, which is Big Sky country, where we live fairly free, and a man's home is his castle, which he can defend with his own guns and ammunition if he has to. And most folks will accept you pretty much the way you hope they will. The Texas legislature is pretty honest, and we only let them meet every two years, so that keeps the chicanery and the political gun-play within reasonable limits. Lots of great hunting and fishing here. And sailing twelve months a year. Best of all, no one pushes Texans around successfully -- not union thugs, not drug cartels, not the present Administration, not even Big Government.
Think about it.
...but Hairy Reed of Nevada sure is pushing the cowboy icon around, isn't he, MM. The very idea of government subsidized cowboy poetry --is nothing sacred?
Where are you? (Maybe you don't want to say.) I live in Washington County, and I blog over here nowadays:
by Frank Desprez, written in 1882
this version from Songs of the Horses, 1920, edited by Robert Frothingham:
Oh, it's all very well to write reviews, and carry umbrellas and keep dry shoes.
To say what everyone's saying here, and wear what everyone else must wear,
But tonight I'm sick of the whole affair, I want free life and I want fresh air.
I want free life and I want fresh air;
And I long for the gallop after the cattle,
In their frantic flight, like the roar of battle,
The mêlée of horns, and hoofs, and heads
That wars and wrangles and scatters and spreads—
The green beneath and the blue above,
And dash and danger, and life and love —
Lasca used to ride
On a mouse-gray mustang close to my side,
With blue serapé and bright-belled spur;
I laughed with joy as I looked at her!
Little knew she of books or of creeds;
An Avé Maria sufficed her needs;
Little she cared, save to be by my side,
To ride with me, and ever to ride,
From San Saba's shore to Lavaca's tide.
She was as bold as the billows that beat,
She was as wild as the breezes that blow;
From her little head to her little feet
She was swayed in her suppleness to and fro
By each gust of passion; a sapling pine
That clings to the edge of a beetling bluff,
And wars with the wind when the weather is rough,
Is like this Lasca, this love of mine.
She would hunger that I might eat,
She'd take the bitter and leave me the sweet;
But once, when I made her jealous for fun,
At something I'd whispered, or looked, or done,
One Sunday, in San Antonio,
To a glorious girl in the Alamo,
She drew from her garter a dear little dagger,
And—sting of a wasp!—it made me stagger—
An inch to the left, or an inch to the right,
And I wouldn't be maundering here to-night;
But she sobbed, and, sobbing, so swiftly bound
Her torn rebosa about the wound,
That I quite forgave her. Scratches don't count
In Texas, down by the Rio Grande.
Her eye was brown—a deep, deep brown;
Her hair was darker than her eye;
And something in her smile and frown,
Curled crimson lip and instep high,
Showed that there ran in each blue vein,
Mixed with the milder Aztec strain,
The vigorous vintage of Old Spain.
She was alive in every limb
With feeling, to the finger tips;
And when the sun is like a fire,
And the sky one shining, soft sapphire—
One does not drink in little sips.
The air was heavy, the night was hot,
I sat by her side, and forgot—forgot;
Forgot the herd that was taking its rest,
Forgot that the air was close oppressed—
That the Texas norther comes without warning,
In the dead of night or the dawn of morning—
And once let the herd at its breath take fright,
And nothing on earth can stop its flight;
And woe to the rider, and woe to the steed,
That falls in front of its mad stampede!
Hark! Was that thunder? No, by the Lord!
I sprang to my saddle without a word:
One foot on mine, and she clung behind—
Away! on a wild chase down the wind!
And never was the fox-chase half so hard,
And never was steed so little spared—
For we rode for our lives: you shall hear how we fared
In Texas, down by the Rio Grande.
The mustang flew, and we urged him on;
There was one chance left, and you have but one—
Halt, jump to the ground, and shoot your horse,
Crouch under his carcass and take your chance;
And if the steers, in their frantic course,
Don't batter you both to pieces at once,
You may thank your star; or else, good-bye
To the quickening kiss and the long-drawn sigh,
To the balmy air and the open sky,
In Texas, down by the Rio Grande.
The cattle gained on us—and just as I felt
For my old six-shooter behind in my belt,
Down came the mustang, and down came we,
Clinging together, and—what was the rest—?
A body that spread itself over my breast,
Two arms that shielded my dizzy head,
Two lips that close to my lips were pressed;
Then came thunder in my ears,
As over us surged the sea of steers,
Blows that beat blood into my eyes,
And when I could rise—
Lasca was dead!
I gouged out a grave a few feet deep,
And there in Earth's bosom I laid her to sleep;
And there she is lying—and no one knows—
'Neath summer's sun and winter's snows;
Full many a day the flowers have spread
A pall of petals over her head.
And the little gray hawk hangs aloft in the air,
And the sly coyoté trots here and there,
And the black snake glides, and glitters and slides
Into a rift in a cotton-wood tree;
And the buzzard sails on—
And comes and is gone—
Stately and still like a ship at sea.
And I wonder why I do not care
For the things that are, like the things that were—
Does half my heart lie buried there
In Texas, down by the Rio Grande?
...scroll down a long inch, and see a .jpg of a 1953 newspaper page, yellowed and Times New Roman, where Lasca is printed.
The whole www.cowboypoetry.com site is big and made of many different designs --not slick and tight at all. It rambles off in every direction like its topic did and does.
...and here's another copy of Lasca --noteworthy for the eight or so very fine heartfelt comments underneath:
How beautiful and sad the poem is((( I've never been to Texas or even somewhere close enough to it. But this lyrics makes you feel it.
I live north of Evans City... the little town of Zombie fame from Night of the Living Dead. Seems somehow fitting!
Nice to meet ya!
The point about liberals and leftists being completely obivious to our arguments is well taken. I've seen it over and over again. They seem to allow nothing to shake their fantasies.
Even in the antebellum South, slaveholders recognized moral and economic problems with slavery but their self-interest in easy cash from cotton drove them to civil war
But like the Slave Power of old, modern liberals have their interests and are blind to challenges to those interests.
Lets hope the demise of liberalism goes easier than the abolition of slavery.
Cowboys are beyond yankee comprehension but no surprise they are a target.
Esteem for cowboys in Senate is bipartisan.
Yall yanks do know how to step in it, real fresh like.
Yall may enjoy this from the National Cowboy Poetry Gathering.
Charlie Seeman executive director of the foundation that puts on the National Cowboy Poetry Gathering says that the controversy over government spending on the event is mostly all hat and no cattle.
Reid is correct, Seemann says, that the program would not have existed were it not for some seed grants early in its history. (It was founded in 1985.) But now, Seemann notes, the money coming from federal coffers has dwindled, even as the event has grown.
it would be a minor tragedy to let the likes of harry reid and the antics of some committee fundraiser ruin the effort to preserve all that old western oral tradition storytellin'.