Unless John McCain picks some immensely popular former mayor of Munich as his vice presidential running mate, I’m left to assume that Barack Obama will carry Germany in a landslide when next we vote in November. As swing countries go, Germany looks likes an electoral lost cause for the GOP. But back here in hardscrabble NASCARville, the bitter clingers are not likely impressed with the foreigner vote.
This story, Al-Qaeda's sinister creep into North Africa, reconfirmed for me what I already knew, and very many of you probably suspected as well. That no matter what happens in Iraq and Afghanistan, there’s still no shortage of nut jobs looking to impose their will over the rest of us in less hostile environments.
The way I interpret this is that the murderous Jihadists are voting with their feet. Namely, they are abandoning the sinking ships that are both Iraq and Afghanistan. Yes, we need more troops on the ground in Afghanistan. Yes, there is still much work that needs to be done there. But as Iraq continues to wind on down and entire American battalions are shifted from Iraq to the expansive battlefields of Afghanistan, our unchallenged air superiority guarantees that just like Iraq before it, Afghanistan will be pacified. It is inevitable.
So when some vociferous anti-war stooge tells you that both the British and the Russians had their bloodied asses handed to them in Afghanistan, remind them that we have in our arsenal what our invading predecessors did not have: Unchallenged air superiority. Oh, and remind them that the Russians did have the same thing--unchallenged air superiority--until the United States intelligence agencies took it away by providing the Afghans with hundreds of devastating Stinger missiles. Point…shoot…dead. No more Hind-24s. No more Bear bombers. No more Russians.
Despite the fact that we’re this close to unbridled “change” and “hope” and a tax-heavy socialist utopia in America, for lack of a better phrase, the War on Terror will trudge on no matter who moves into the White House next January. For instance, where might the city administrator of Wilkes-Barre be right at this very moment? That’s right, deployed to Djibouti, Africa. Being an Air Force search and rescue type of guy, I seriously doubt that he was forward-deployed so as to help with the construction of new one room schoolhouses. Rather, he was sent there because ongoing military operations on that continent necessitate that someone with his specialized skills be there. In other words, despite the lack of press, there’s some shooting going on over there.
My point is this. If Barack Obama wins the November election and takes his vision of change and hope and the like to Washington D.C., don’t be silly enough to think that the global jihad comes to an abrupt end at the conclusion of his first week in the Oval Office.
There’s fantasy. And then there’s reality. And the reality is that the world is a insidiously dangerous and unsettled place right now.
Just like George W. Bush told you it was.
It has taken me, literally, many, many years. But I finally went and found proof on this ginormous internet of ours that my long-illusive and secretive father actually existed at one time.
It’s no big deal. But, to be painfully honest, I was really, really excited with myself for my amazing find. For the first time in my entire life, I was able to point at something other than two fast-disintegrating artifacts and say to my brood, that’s my Dad. See, don’t just take my Mom’s word for it. He really did exist once upon a time.
Other than an ancient arrest photo, and a rather dated trade magazine article announcing that he was once promoted to the position of “Advisory Engineer, Guided Missile Project,” this is the very first time I’ve ever found proof of him on the internet.
From The IBM Journal, April 1962:
(It’s a PDF file. Scroll all the way to the bottom and read the “Acknowledgment.”)
It figures. What they told me all along was absolutely true. The secretive prick, he wouldn’t even allow his full name to be used, even when people were acknowledging his contributions. It figures.
It’s funny, though, while I’m not speaking from experience whereas any sort of relationship with my father is concerned, I believe that every little boy wants to be proud of, and every once in a while, brag about what his father does for a living. I know I once did.
And spending my formative years in Connecticut, the site of the world’s largest, foremost nuclear submarine base, the then impending nuclear war with the Soviet Union was, at times, a foregone conclusion. Yes, for a little kid growing up so close to the targeting epicenter of such a cataclysmic undertaking, it was never very far from my thoughts. I still have my nuclear war preparedness guide published by the state. And part of our Boy Scout training in that state at that time included what we should do when suddenly confronted by a nuclear mushroom cloud.
No, not kiss your ass goodbye. Stuff about finding a deep culvert to lie in, or hiding under a highway overpass. Stuff like that. Probably the longer, more optimistic version of kiss your dead ass goodbye, but at least we mistakenly thought we had a fighting chance of surviving. Yeah!
Anyway, as a struggling young sprat of twelve or so, as a confused little kid longing to meet the father he never knew, I saw the coming nuclear exchange as my one chance to brag about my AWOL father. What? Your Pop makes submarine parts at the plant in New London? Big whoop! Your Dad works at General Dynamics in Bridgeport? Who cares. Oh, and yours works at Sikorsky Aircraft in Shelton, building Hueys for the troops in Vietnam? Boy, I sure got that beat.
Yep, the way I saw it, I had the lot of them beat hands down whereas bragging about the old man’s industrial exploits was concerned. Yeah, when that fateful day did finally come, when the missile silo covers all slid explosively to the side and the MIRVs and the single payload ICBMs were finally, thankfully, let loose, rising in to and then disappearing above a beautiful blue sky while on their way directly to Moscow and all points communist, on that day, I’d be beyond prideful and boisterously pointing out that it was my Dad that made all of that flawless technical prowess possible.
Yepper, my Dad did that…he ended the world.
Sadly, that’s what a never ending quest for affirmation and familial fulfillment can lead one to. That’s what can happen when fathers shirk their parental responsibilities and leave little kids wondering why they were left behind. That‘s what happens when the shell-shocked step-son figures that the long-gone father just has to be a significant improvement over the abusive, mean-spirited, non-caring step-father. They figure that anything, nuclear war included, has to be better than this.
Anyway, I now have linkable proof.
My Dad did exist.
Call me crazy, but I’m beginning to get the sense that, unless Barack Obama chooses Hillary Clinton as his running mate, come November, he’s toast.
And, please, don’t get the mistaken impression that the preceding statement is the wishful thinking of some bible-thumping right wing extremist. The fact is, the white middle class is hesitant to believe that the grossly inexperienced rookie is the all-knowing fixer of all things known, and some still unknown. And then the more disturbing fact (if you’re staunchly left-wing), is that Obama’s hubris is just not resonating with women over 40, and especially with women over 50.
Plus, we’ve still got that persistently strong but silent undercurrent that is significant numbers of whites being unconsciously resistant to the idea of electing a black president.
I have no idea who McCain and Obama might choose to be their vice presidential running mates, nor do I really care. Thing is, whoever might win this upcoming election is sure to learn in January that the multitudinous amounts of deep-rooted problems we have are not going to be easily solved. And especially not by a Congress long in bed with unions, lobbyists, special interest groups and the like.
And don’t delude yourselves into thinking that if the Democrats claim all three branches of our government, things will get done. From what I’m reading, their priorities make about as much sense as driving a 3-penny nail through the center of ones forearm.
We can’t produce our own energy. Instead, we have to take advantage of alternative energies that haven’t even been thunk of yet. They need to unionize Wal-Mart. They will demand even more of my paycheck. The way to fix education is to spirit even more money away to teachers, i.e., unions. They have to get Rush Limbaugh and his talk radio imitators. And most importantly, they have to apologize to the world, when most of the third world will indubitably view apologies as further encouraging signs of weakness, and a clear lack of American resolve.
Anyway, inexplicably, that’s where I’m at. It’s either Hillary Clinton as vice president, or John McCain as president.
And my prediction?
Obama’s house-of-cards superiority complex loses the day--election day--for the Democrats.
Today is my eldest kid‘s birthday. Yep, as of today, Peace Rebecca is 29. I have a kid who’s 29? Jeez, where did the time go?
I remember being 29 very, very well. When I was 29, my mom unexpectedly exited the worldly scene. Oddly, I remember feeling cheated by having exactly zero parents at age 29. I felt young. Conversely, I felt this unwanted responsibility that was being the oldest living member of the family. In short, at times, 29 felt very old for me.
In retrospect, it was my mom’s painful passing that caused me to suddenly bolt from the only industry I had ever known, the hospitality industry. Passing at 49, she got me to thinking that she was cheated by life, as in, hers was way too short for my liking. And I‘m sure, hers too. And she got me to thinking about my own mortality. And at some point I came to the conclusion that I wanted to have fun before I met my eventual demise.
Rather than being married to my briefcase, I wanted to spend more time with my three little kids. Rather than having one day off--a weekday--I, too, wanted to sit home of the weekends swilling beer and hooting and hollering every time a New York Giant laid a vicious, possible career-ending hit on an opponent. I no longer wanted to volunteer time to the community. I wanted no more of those PENNDOT meetings concerning upcoming projects that could have affected my business. No more paperwork on my day off. No more telephone calls from underlings afraid to make decisive decisions. No more.
What I wanted was the three kids in tow. I wanted to ride bikes. I wanted to play some hoops. I wanted to play tennis ball down the turf. I wanted to run through the fountain on Public Square. I wanted more than blind ambition and a laminated business card. I wanted out.
And if I didn’t get out, the best my kids could say about me these days is that their dad was always at work. Because that’s exactly where I always was…at work. And all too often, if my body wasn’t there, at least a goodly part of my mind was. So I did what was called the selfish thing. I did what others said was crazy. I turned my back on the corporate climbing-the-ladder thing with the hope of being a happy grunt. And a happy grunt I am.
So Peace is 29, and is sure to point out that she’s now far older than she could have ever imagined herself being. And I’m here to tell her that getting older is no big deal, so long as you’re still having fun.
Happy birthday, Peace.
We’ll see you next week at the big block party blowout.
Oh, and, we love you.
With that posted, I am also two days removed from my 29th wedding anniversary. 29? Whoa! Now that’s getting old.
No biggie. I’m still having fun.
By the way, if you’re planning on attending the 20th annual Thompson Street Block Party scheduled for next Saturday, I really need to know and soon. We need accurate head counts so as to order enough food, drink and the like to make this year’s soiree a smashing success.
We‘ve got a new one. According to this guy in possession of kayaks the size of killer asteroids, I am now tagged as “the unrivalled Bard of Blogdom.”
His comments came in response to this ditty I recently typed:
I can do without energy to a great degree. I can ride a bike and leave the motor vehicle parked right where it is. I can turn down the thermostat during the coldest of winters. And I can ignore the heat during the hottest of the hot summers. But I can’t do without a safe water supply.
I liken that bit of unprovoked non-prose to possessing some basic common sense. You know, unvarnished smarts. Simplicity. And Allah only knows, I like simplicity.
It’s like this. You can grow all the hops and barley you see fit. But without a safe water supply, there’s no more fermented amusement aides. And without fermented amusement aides, there is no more life as we currently know it.
Without those fermented amusement aides, NASCAR, MLB, the NFL and fantasy football would all undeniably suck. Without those fermented amusement aides, Black Sabbath pounding the foundation loose at 120 decibels would seem kind of silly and immature. Without those fermented amusement aides, there’d be far less crime, police officers would be unemployed, only working to further weaken the economy. Without those fermented amusement aides, the domestic violence social workers would be forced to collect unemployment benefits.
And without being completely sidetracked and rendered impotent by such mindless endeavors such as NASCAR, MLB, the NFL and fantasy football, us hunter gatherers would likely revert to instinctive form and resurrect the time-tested plundering, killing and raping of innocents in the nearby hamlet bit. And save for some militant feminists, nobody needs that.
I can’t do without a safe water supply?
Well, at least, on the weekends I can’t.
I heard the following on WILK earlier this morning.
This is an exact quote of talk commie Kevin Lynn while berating a caller about the war in Iraq seemingly winding down. And exact quote that seems to deny the patently obvious, that tens of thousands of surging American troops and a belatedly sound strategy have finally pacified wide swaths of that country:
“We’re gonna lose anyway. Just like we lost in Vietnam.”--Kevin Lynn, 6:40 am.
No, Kevin. We’re not going to lose. We’re going to draw on that can-do American spirit and see this thing through to it’s rightful and ultimately just conclusion. We broke the damned thing, and now we have to stay and fix it. And that we are.
Of course, to win this thing would stop the profuse blood-letting of the republican party, and that’s really what you fear the most.
To unceremonious split and lose this thing on purpose would be to invite genocidal atrocities. To walk away and watch the country descend in to murderous turmoil would be to invite further upheaval throughout the entire up heaved region. To not see this thing through would mean a greater conflict further down the line, but not much further down the line.
The question is, who has more intestinal fortitude at the moment? America? Or America’s suddenly backtracking enemies?
Kevin, we lost in Vietnam because you and your then drug-crazed, anti-American ilk--Generation LSD--all but kicked and screamed and demanded that we lose in Vietnam. And all in the name of ending the killing. Sadly, the killing went on long after we beat it out of there.
If you’ve ever seen the movie “The Killing Fields,” know that you’re party responsible for that needless act of horrific genocide. Because what you promoted then and what you’re promoting now is further instability. And further instability can and does lead to pogrom after pogrom after bloody pogrom. Dumb ass.
Do all of us a major favor and return to your self-described “dark years.” At least during the self-imposed dark years you had a viable excuse for being so inexplicably wrong and stupid all of the time. Something your loser of a wasted generation ought to be used to by now, being so inexplicably wrong and stupid all of the time.
“We’re gonna lose anyway?”
Sez effing you, a member of the lackluster generation that couldn’t and/or wouldn’t: Generation LSD. If contraception was the ’norm rather than the rarity that it was immediately following WWII, this country would be in much, much better shape these days.
The generation that is, thankfully, finally, fast fading away into the twilight of it’s mostly nondescript, counterproductive and counterintuitive existence. What a bunch of hapless, do-nothing, pansy-assed, entitled, whining drug-addled freaks!
If only the Supreme Court had legalized abortion in 1944.
So what’s the alternative to winning, Kevin? We pull out of Iraq and then helplessly watch as countless thousands, tens of thousands or possibly even millions meet the meat grinder? Or perhaps a wider war breaks out, and the death and suffering is spread out more evenly across the Middle East? Is that what we should do? Sit idly by and then blame the last republican president for the bloodbath that you all but demanded from him?
Maybe the lives of a thousand American soldiers will be saved if we do as you command we do, run away crying ourselves to sleep. But countless other innocents will die so that you can go on the radio and talk partisan politics, about how right you were all along and how only Democrats can end war once and for all?
Possibly a million dead, possibly more than one country lying in ruins, maybe even the greater part of the region, but Kevin was right? Is that all that you really care about? A bloodbath to prove that you were right, and that what your do-nothing generation believed--that winning wars were beyond the reach of Americans--is that all that matters now, your nonexistent intellectual vanity?
Have you ever seen Monty Python’s The Holy Grail?
“Run away! Run away!”
Therein lies Kevin’s response to a challenge of an enormous undertaking. Therein lies Kevin’s amebic reply to doing what we know to be right, but really don‘t want to do. Therein lies Kevin’s response to anything much tougher than getting out of bed in the morning. And therein lies Kevin’s Generation LSD legacy: Getting high.
Getting high, as in, escaping from reality.
Run away and eventually it’ll go away. Get high and the rest will take care of itself. And if it doesn’t go away after the high subsides, bitterly complain about it. Since, long, long ago, you sprinted away from and then complained about almost the very same thing. It didn’t help in 1970, and it isn’t helping now. But it is hip to revisit your tragically wasted youth, isn’t it?
“We’re gonna lose anyway.”
This regurgitated phlegm, this Euro centric-inspired anti-American nonsense, this absolutely worthless hippie filth, and from a long, long since insignificant, former bong-carrying member of the long lost can-not-do generation that never won anything to speak of, nor did it ever really try to.
Consider the useless source.