Sweet Melissa - Snow Dog Extraordinaire

A Tale of Two Kitties

Okay, ignoring one of Dunner's New Rules about posting poetry on the blog, I think, considering how heavy several of my last posts have been, I'll give you something a bit more lighte, "A Tale of Two Kitties."

A TALE OF TWO KITTIES

Melissa,
inimitable lesbian
of the first order,
Calls to her Calico from a second story window:
“Sappho, Dear Sappho,” she cries.
“Sappho, my lovely,” she sighs.

Sappho
(known to have slept
with every Tom on the block)
Crawls slowly from the alley
on wobbly cat paws.
She awkwardly scales the four foot fence
and feebly meows, I believe,
regarding the nocturnal past tense.

Meanwhile,
in the building next door,
Lithe, blond-haired Billy
cuddles Oscar the Persian
who only dreams of
sweet amorous excursions
beyond the front door.
Becoming increasingly bored
with the nightly perversions
of Billy and friends,
Oscar plans his escape
with visions of sweet copious gyrations;
oh, carnal relations
with she-felines galore.

Sappho,
having indulged sweet Melissa
the entire day long,
Creeps toward the window
toward the succulent song
of the sinewey sleeze
of Alley Cat Toms.

Oscar,
sidestepping Billy and
the same old sight of
the lithe, blond-haired bottom
being entered (a la Sodom),
Noses the screendoor and
bounds down the steps
sniffing the air for
primordial scents.

Sappho and Oscar
to the alley they go…
Oh, Sappho,
Oh, Oscar,
meow
meow

Closer they come
in sensuous heat,
Faster they move
their little cat feet.
Oh, what joy
when finally they meet.
Sappho and Oscar
Oh, how lovely, how sweet.

Weeks pass by
then
Melissa,
distraught after cuddling dear Sappho,
Buzzes my door:
“She’s pregnant!” the cry,
holding Sappho aloft
pointing directly to signs
dear kitty’s been got.
“I just never thought it would happen this way,”
Melissa blurts out, wiping a tear away.

Then,
lithe, blond-haired Billy
knocks on my door.
With Oscar in hand.
He paces the floor
and decries the fact
Oscar’s privates are sore
from sticking it to…
“Some Calico whore!”

Oh,
two and two still make four.
Melissa and Billy
realize the score.
Their darlings have coupled
in a hetero way.
Oh, what a curse
when your kitties aren’t gay.

So,
Melissa builds a box
for the imminent births.
Billy knits sweaters
for little kitty girths.

Sappho feels sick,
immobile she is.
Oscar feels pain
when he tries to whiz.
You see,
he got fixed;
a neuter he is…
No more carousing.
No more jizz.

Finally,
the day arrives
with Melissa, Billy and me beside
Watching dear Sappho
deliver her pride.
Oscar,
upon the bookshelf,
attentively sighs.

Weeks pass away and
the kitties grow fat.
Melissa silkscreens:
FREE – NICE CATS!
She then adds a line
to assure a good home:
ONLY LESBIANS AND GAY MEN
NEED BOTHER TO PHONE!

Soon all are taken
and Melissa decides
Sappho must have
her little tubes tied.
To the Vet they proceed
where Sappho is fixed.
Further pregnancy, my dears,
is everlastingly nixed.

So,
Sappho and Oscar
grow lazy and fat.
Indifferent they are
even to rats.
Oh, what a fate
besmirches their days;
What a terrible price to pay
For a simple roll in the hay.

A lesson there is
in this tale of woe,
All of you kitties
should certainly know:
If those who feed you
are preponderantly gay,
Discretion’s a must
when together you lay.

So,
practice the rhythm
the Pope say is great;
Just pull it right out
DON’T PROCREATE!
‘Cause neuter might be
your miserable fate
if you’ve jutted the jizz
or your period’s late!

Ah, Dubya -- What have you done to small d democracy!

This from the Washington Post which reads, in part:

Protesters will be allowed to demonstrate in seven areas, but signs cannot be attached to anything that could be used as a weapon. No large backpacks, camera bags, thermos bottles, coolers, picnic baskets, strollers or umbrellas will be allowed on the parade route or the Capitol grounds.

Some people will be watched closely even before getting near a police checkpoint. Metro Transit Police officers have been trained to identify suspicious riders by looking for certain characteristics and patterns, such as people who avoid eye contact or loiter in the stations.

Ah, Dubya, what have you done to my democracy?

Politically Schizoid - Ken Salazar

Last week I posted a comment on Colorado Pols with regard to Colorado's newly elected Democratic?? US Senator Ken Salazar appearing before the confirmation hearing for Alberto Gonzales to become Attorney General:

Yeah, and maybe good Ol' Ken (Colorado's newly elected Democratic?? US Senator) will be following in the footsteps of another Colorado ex-senator (Ol' Ben Nighthorse Cambell who was elected as a Democrat and then, in 1995, found it convenient to switch parties to become a Republican) . I can't believe that Ken focused his support of Gonzales - ignoring the facts of Alberto's musings on torture and his suggestion that the President has the Constitutional authority to ignore a law passed by Congress - by singing the song of the bootstrap success of a fellow Latino. Sure, God Bless Gonzales for succeeding in an unkind world. But, Jesus, Ken, the guy's scary and if you'll cross the ailse for Gonzales, what else will you forsake the party for?

prior link to Mike Littwin's column in the Rocky Mountain News, "An inauspicous beginning for Salazar."

I really don't understand Ken Salazar's first official action (stumble?) in the United States Senate and, reviewing his comments about the whole thing, really believe he's sucking up to a powerful Republican majority in Congress and just wants to be the golden boy of the new Congress. Yeah, the traditional ideological passions of the Democratic party can be set-aside for a little pat on the back from the Republican majority, Karl Rove and Ol' Dubya.

Signs of selling-out, Ken. And, a lot of the good people who put you where you are won't forget it.

Colorado's New Senator - Ken Salazar -- Democrat???

This from the Washington Post explains a bit about the confirmation hearings for Dubya's Attorney General designate, Alberto Gonzales. It reads, in part:

But under often tough questioning from Democrats and some Republicans on the Senate Judiciary Committee, Gonzales said he could not recall key details of his involvement in the production of an August 2002 memo that narrowly defined the tactics that constitute torture. He also declined repeated invitations to repudiate a past administration assertion that the president has the authority to ignore anti-torture statutes on national security grounds.

An article entitled, "An inauspicious beginning for Salazar," in which Mike Littwin of the Rocky Mountain News provides comment on Colorado's new Democratic Senator, Ken Salazar's, unabashed, televised, before-the-confirmation-committee, support of Alberto Gonzales becasue, well, because he's Latino and has struggled mightily to get where he's at. And, that he has. And, God Bless Gonzales for overcoming all of the things he had to overcome to become the Attorney General designate. But, as Littwin notes -- after providing a litany of scary, scary descriptions of Gonzales and his perception of Geneva Convention protections of prisoners and the President's ability to ignore Congressional legislation -- Littwin notes:

Or to testimony from Adm. John Hutson, a former Navy judge advocate general, that "the prisoners' abuses that we've seen . . . found their genesis in the decision to get cute with the Geneva Conventions."

But if he was too cute for the admiral, he wasn't too cute for Salazar, who told me Friday - after returning to Colorado in his first homecoming as a U.S. senator - he had no qualms about introducing Gonzales, although he hadn't yet committed to voting for him.

Neocon pundits are suggesting that Ol' Ken's crossing over the isle to support Gonzales was smart. I'm thinking it was, at least, naive and, at most, irresponsibly glib.

Littwin also wonders about the politics of the whole thing. Who better (in Karl Rove's eyes) to sit in a chair before the confirmation committee in support of the Gonzales nomination than a newly-elected Latino Senator who happens, JUST HAPPENS, to be (perhaps titularly) a Democrat.

Dubya, Arnold and Now That's Cold

"I wish you'd have given me this written question ahead of time so I could plan for it...I'm sure something will pop into my head here in the midst of this press conference, with all the pressure of trying to come up with answer, but it hadn't yet...I don't want to sound like I have made no mistakes. I'm confident I have. I just haven't – you just put me under the spot here, and maybe I'm not as quick on my feet as I should be in coming up with one." -President Bush, after being asked in a news conference to name the biggest mistake he had made.

Let me just suggest to ol' Dubya that maybe, just maybe Iraq was a FUCKING MISTAKE!

This from the Washington Post this morning, explains the virtual devastation of the Army Reserves by the poor planning and stupidity with which Dubya and Don went to "war" with the SPC (small penis complex) hubris-encased jingoism, "Bring 'em on!"

AlterNet provided an excellent piece on the immense debacle Iraq has become, which reads, in part:

"The war is wrong, and most Americans know it. Unlike terrorism or the culture wars, Iraq is the one issue where progressives have successfully put the Bush administration on the defensive. The progressive voices have been powerful and compelling, standing steadfastly for compassion in the face of violence, whether speaking out on behalf of under-equipped soldiers or malnourished Iraqi children. Iraq may not have been enough reason for the American public to punish the Republicans in 2004, but all of Karl Rove's machinations are not going to make this political time bomb go away. A Washington Post poll conducted in December marked the first time when a decisive majority – 56 percent – of Americans have come to the conclusion that war is simply "not worth fighting." More importantly, a full 70 percent now believe that any gains to U.S. security from Saddam Hussein's departure have come at an "unacceptable" cost in military casualties. The survey also identifies a dangerous trend for the administration: support for the occupation is steadily shrinking to die-hard Republicans, while self-identified independents are becoming as skeptical as Democrats about the current Iraq policy."

And, what about Dubya's dream of democracy for Iraq? Well, this from AlterNet pretty much explains that democracy in Iraq just ain't on the horizon, ya'll. It reads, in part:

"The Americans have set this up in such a way that a lot is at stake after this election,'' says Juan Cole, a professor of Middle Eastern history at the University of Michigan. "If the Sunnis are grossly underrepresented in this constitutional constituent assembly, it will be set up for a guerrilla war that lasts for decades."

And, from the New York Times comes the ultimate fantasy: "Because Mr. Bush insists that Iraqis are now fully in control of their own country, White House officials say, the president has to move cautiously so as to not appear to be interfering in Iraq's internal politics."

This from California's Governor: "All of a sudden, we see riots, we see protests, we see people clashing. The next thing we know, there is injured or there is dead people. We don't want to get to that extent." -California Gov. Arnold Schwarzenegger, on the dangers posed by gay marriage.

Oh, my.

Finally, it was reported that parts of Minnestoa experienced -43 degrees this morning. Now that is more than snot-freezing cold; that is colder than my stare at my dipshit neighbor whose tree fell on my beloved Lincoln, causing $7,500 damage. After five months the car is still in the shop because, now, after the body work was finished, the battery won't hold a charge.

I know, small stuff compared to the state of this old world. But, nevertheless, frustrating.

Peace.

Wellington Webb -- Imperial Chairmanship?

Wellington Webb, Denver's three-term ex-mayor and current candidate for Chairman of the Democractic National Committee used to like to tell the story about his first campaign for mayor in 1991. He started out the campaign sitting on poll numbers of about 8%. So, he put on his tennis shoes and started walking Denver's neiborhoods, knocking on doors and telling all kinds of folks why he should be elected the mayor.

When Webb reached Southwest Denver -- conservative, white, blue-collar neighborhood -- he knocked on a door and an elderly man opened the door. Webb started to give the old guy his spiel, when he heard an elderly woman's voice in the background ask, "Who's at the door?"

The elderly man turned and hollered back into the house, "It's that colored fella' I'm gonna vote for for mayor."

Webb would end his story then by saying that -- with the comment of the old white guy in Southwest Denver -- he knew he would prevail; that he would be Denver's next mayor.

Curiously, from that humble, tennis shoe trek across the city, once Webb became mayor, he insisted the citizens of Denver provide him with a new Lincoln Town Car every year; refer to his wife as the "First Lady;" and pay for ever-increasingly expensive inaugurations (there were three), which many used to refer to as "coronations." It was reported that the last inauguration exceeded sixty-thousand dollars.

For all the steel and stone, brick and mortar projects Webb was able to initiate (including a $140Million municipal building named -- what else? -- the Wellington E. Webb Municipal Office Building), I personally believe his greatest achievement was the improvement of the South Platte Valley, adding miles and miles of riverside trails and enabling the development of the previously largely neglected river valley.

Interestingly, Westword saw some of that Webb imperialism in that Platte River development.

But, of all the projects that desperately needed attention during his incumbency -- the redevelopment of a dilapidated shopping center in a largely black area of Denver -- he was never able to make a dent.

Some people's memory of the Webb incumbency is of an imperial-like, good ol' boy network that was far removed from that 1991 trek across the city in those old tennis shoes.

What kind of a Chairman of the Democratic National Committee would Webb make? Who knows. But, there is that hunch it might be just a little imperial which, in my opinion really won't play in Paonia.

The Democratic Party needs tennis shoes in precincts ... certainly not Town Cars at the Four Seasons.

Howard Dean's New Democracy

This from Alternet provides a good read on Howard Dean's vision for the Democractic Party. It reads, in part:

Well, what brings people together is not ideology. There are progressive as well as moderates, McCain Republicans, Greens, and even some evangelicals. They are united because they all feel the need for change. The evangelicals are attracted because they see the hypocrisy of the pro-life people who are pro-life only until the child is born. They don't accept some of the teachings. They are against gay-bashing. We have a powerful moral attraction, because we care about the lesser among us ... our movement empowers those people who have been left out, the young people who have been left out. We are all fighting the fact that religious bigotry is back in favor, encouraged by the president. Our organizations encourage a lot of different kinds of people. We show respect for differences.

A Real Snot Freezer

It was six degrees this morning as Melissa and I rounded the lake; the kind of weather -- if you've got a little windchill goin' and a little nasal drip -- that solidifies that particular body fluid the moment it exits the nose.

Not really that much snow -- maybe two or three inches.

Snow in Denver - Melissa's Delight

Happy Birthday Aidan!

Happy Birthday Aidan!

Today (or tomorrow??) is my Great Nephew, Aidan George's, first birthday.

It's snowing and cold (22 degrees) in Denver today which, as I recall, is pretty much exactly the kind of day Aidan came into this world.

The little miracle that I held in my arms a year ago, has developed into an adventurous, constantly on-the-move, smart, handsome and happy little boy.

Happy Birthday Aidan!

DOGS

There is fascination with reports that the animals of South Asia knew what was coming; somehow knew that nature had erupted in an enormous fathom which was racing its deadly fury toward their habitat, their homes. They instinctively sought safe haven.

I have always believed that animals exist on a more intensely intimate plane with regard to their relationship with the earth than do human beings. And, I suppose the South Asia experience validates that belief.

Being a city dweller my entire life, the animals I've loved for as far back as I can remember were, necessarily, dogs. So many... Champ; Tuffy; Lady; Dulcinea; Peaseblossom; Pepi; Heidi; Jessica; Mayor Bill; Nikolai; Calvin; Melissa. And, with the exception of my time with Uncle Sam in Louisiana, Texas and Virginia and the year I lived in a dorm in Boulder, I've never been without a dog.

I am haunted by the anonymous quote that reflects on the dog as follows: "He is your friend, your partner, your defender, your dog. You are his life, his love, his leader. He will be yours, faithful and true, to the last beat of his heart. You owe it to him to be worthy of such devotion."

I have, as I've gotten older, worked hard at attempting to be worthy of my dogs' devotion. Dogs have, after all, been my best friends, my confidants, my companions throughout my life, from the earliest memories of my childhood to the present day. Dogs helped me through the emotional pain of growing up under the heavy-handed, mean-spirited, foul-mouthed suzerainty of a father whose cop mentality infested the homeplace with a kind of intense melancholy; a sadness that could only be overcome by my relathionship with my dogs.

David and I will occasionally walk into PetSmart and see a caged, eight or nine year old dog, staring into the void of their own melancholy because their friend, their life, their love, their leader abandoned them to others; strangers in a strange world. And for whatever reason people let go of their older dogs -- and there are probably some very good reasons and some very bad reasons -- I will never be able to reconcile that abandonment because, as I said, I am haunted by those words:

"He is your friend, your partner, your defender, your dog. You are his life, his love, his leader. He will be yours, faithful and true, to the last beat of his heart. You owe it to him to be worthy of such devotion."

I suppose this post may be a little inappropriately blithe in consideration of the horrible human suffering in South Asia; Iraq; sub-Saharan Africa and, oh, so many, many other places in the world where the need for a bowl of rice or a cup of milk are commodities which hugely transcend the need for one to be worthy of his dog's devotion.

But, there you have it. Truths need to be told on occasion.

What Ever Happened to Peace On Earth - Willie Nelson

What Ever Happened To Peace On Earth?
There's so many things going on in the world
Babies dying
Mothers crying
How much oil is one human life worth?
And what ever happened to peace on earth?
We believe everything that they tell us
They're gonna' kill us
So we gotta' kill them first
But I remember a commandment
“Thou shall not kill”
How much is that soldier's life worth?
And whatever happened to peace on earth?
(Bridge)
And the bewildered herd is still believing
Everything we've been told from our birth
Hell they won't lie to me
Not on my own damn TV
But how much is a liar's word worth?
And whatever happened to peace on earth?
So I guess it's just
Do unto others before they do it to you
Let's just kill em' all and let God sort em' out
Is this what God wants us to do?
(Repeat Bridge)
And the bewildered herd is still believing
Everything we've been told from our birth
Hell they won't lie to me
Not on my own damn TV
But how much is a liar's word worth?
And whatever happened to peace on earth?
Now you probably won't hear this on your radio
Probably not on your local TV
But if there's a time, and if you're ever so inclined
You can always hear it from me
How much is one picker's word worth?
And whatever happened to peace on earth?
But don't confuse caring for weakness
You can't put that label on me
The truth is my weapon of mass protection
And I believe truth sets you free
(Bridge)
And the bewildered herd is still believing
Everything we've been told from our birth
Hell they won't lie to me
Not on my own damn TV
But how much is a liar's word worth?
And whatever happened to peace on earth?

This Morning's Run - A Frozen Fog on the Willow Scrub

This Morning's Run - Fog on the Trail

This Morning's Run

This Morning's Run

It was twenty-two degrees, this morning, as Melissa and I rounded the lake, which has frozen over completely. A park crew has trimmed back the Willow scrub and trees which surround the lake. The gulls and the Canada geese still come and go. Some days not a bird in sight. Other days, twenty, thirty, fifty of them -- gulls and geese alike -- sit or stand in close-knit clutches atop the ice; a gathering of sorts -- perhaps social, perhaps chance.

I cannot believe I'm actually becoming intersted in the myriad of bird species that call the lake home through the seasons. And -- for what it's worth -- the gulls appear to be Glaucous-Winged Gulls; the geese are, of course, Canadian, eh!

What actually captured my interest initially, was a flock of very black, medium-sized birds with red (almost orange) feathers on the sides of their chest that would, this past spring and summer, rummage about the tops of the tall reeds on the west end of the lake during sunrise and chatter and squawk to one another to beat the band; like spinsters in the kitchen preparing a Thanksgiving meal. Well, I've discovered these black birds are, most likely, Red-Winged Crows. It surprised me that these were actually crows, as they are significantly smaller than their completely black cousins. When they return from wherever they've gone, I'll get some pictures and post them. (Betcha' can't wait!)

Our morning run is only about a mile and a quarter. I haven't attempted to extend that much. Melissa is, afterall, eleven and is having some hip problems (aren't we all once we pass fifty!). We do still walk at noon and again for two miles when David gets home from work.

So, this turned out to be a rather lazy post. It's just what I needed, though, after the furious verbiage of several earlier posts which, perhaps, on reflection, may mirror an ego taking itself too seriously.

Taking a step back once in a while is a good thing.

Peace.

Enter The Fundamentalists

This from the New York Times reports that, "COLORADO SPRINGS - James C. Dobson, the nation's most influential evangelical leader, is threatening to put six potentially vulnerable Democratic senators 'in the 'bull's-eye' ' if they block conservative appointments to the Supreme Court.

"In a letter his aides say is being sent to more than one million of his supporters, Dr. Dobson, the child psychologist and founder of the evangelical organization Focus on the Family, promises 'a battle of enormous proportions from sea to shining sea" if President Bush fails to appoint "strict constructionist' jurists or if Democrats filibuster to block conservative nominees."

As I said in my prior post, "Anita Bryant -- Good Christian Hate," the more things change the more they stay the same. The following piece seems a bit prophetic, given that I wrote it in 1980 (and was published in Denver's gay rag, Out Front in May, 1980):

Enter the Fundamentalists

Lest we become too confortable with ourselves, our gay selves, and begin to suppose the liberalization of America's attitudes toward homosxuality is proceeding nicely toward the fulfillment of the final goal, acceptance, beware brothers and sisters, all is not well. Enter the Fundamentalists.

Webster's New Collegiate defines fundamentalism as "...a movement in 20th century Protestantism emphasizing the literally interpreted bible as fundamental to Christian life and teaching." In other words, if the Bible happened to spell out that good Christians will bathe twice a day, the fundamentalists would, without fail, follow the Biblical precepts for personal hygiene to the letter, fearing any deviation from the holy imperative would surely bring the wrath of God upon their souls. No, it wouldn't matter to the fundamentalists that, at the time the Bible was written, it may have made good sense to bathe twice a day in order to preclude infestation by lice or susceptibility to disease. But today, there is no real practical necessity to bathe twice a day unless one lives in the same conditons as the early Christians. And, it wouldn't bother me one iota if the fundamentalists extended their literal translation of the Bible to no one except themselves, but such is not the case. If the Bible says one should bathe twice a day, then, by God, it is the sacred duty of the fundamentalists to pursue, chastise and save those who do not follow God's law to the letter. Errant bathers are the enemy and they had better watch out because the fundemantalists are on the march to eradicate all that is not in balance with God's law.

Fundamentalist preachers are demagogues. They feed on the fears and prejudices of the middle-American, good old time religious flocks of right-winged, red-necked, pinko-faggot-hating men, women and children who see themselves as the bulwark of American decency; the front ranks of Christ's soldiers on earth. And, demagogues need a practical demon upon which they can blame the moral dissolution of society. They need someone or something to point to as they thump their Bibles and shout their simplistic messages. And who do you suppose the fundamentalists have focused on as the root of all that is wrong in America? Yes, you guessed it, they're pointing their fingers at us, the homosexuals of America who, the fundamentalists believe, are taking this country to hell in a handbasket.

It is estimated there are 80 million fundamentalist Christians in the United States. Yes, and if you happen to turn your television set on this Sudnay morning you will probably be met by the scowl of one or another of the electronic superstar fundamentalist preachers who, each Sunday morning, spew their venom in no uncertain terms to an audience estimated to be over 47 million souls. And, the wordly benefits of this televised ministry are quite substantial. At least one of these fundamentalist proselytizers rakes in about $1 million a week from his televised ministry.

Fiscal malleability isn't the half of it, brothers and sisters. The fundamentalists -- 80 million strong -- are organizing themselves to carry on a holy war in American political arenas whereby they will pressure, cajole and threaten politicians into supporting their righteous battle which involves (besides public displays of homophobia) anti-abortion, anti-ERA and anti-ban on prayer in public schools. The fundamentalists are lobbying Congress, writing letters, giving money, making speeches and praying their little brains out in an effort to shape America into what they think it should be. And, brothers and sisters, the fundamentalist's plans for the future of America do not include gay rights ordinances, toleration of gay pride parades or governmental funding for gay community centers, much less the acceptance of gays holding hands in public places.

Now, if anybody out there is supposing America cannot ignore its gay populace which represents about 10% of the population, you'd better take another look at the situation. The fundamentalists represent about 40% of the population of America and they know it and they're going to make themselves heard come hell or high water, the former of which they see as the depository for you and me.

The fundamentalists are sincere -- albeit profoundly ignorant of gay lifestyles -- and they should not be dismissed as just another group of doomsayers preaching the end of the world. No, they have become sincerely involoved in the cacophony of American politics to the extent they can be credited for the defeat of Senators Dick Clark of Iowa and Thomas J. McIntyre of New Hampshire who, two years ago, supported pro-abortion legislation. Any prudent politician is sure to recognize the power of the fundamentalists and carefully avoid issues whcih might incense "good" Christians. That Jerry Brown and Ted Kennedy have placed themselves on our side is indicative only of the fact that Brown and Kennedy have yet to realize what might "play" in California and Massachusetts isn't necessarily assured of acceptability by the rest of the country, especially by that part of the country where the fundamentalists are most active.

Beware, brothers and sisters, of the following names and organizational titles, for they represent the foundation of funamentalist doctrine: Reverends Jerry Fallwell, Pat Robertson, Rex Humbard, James Robison, Jim Bakker, Billy James Hargis, Ray Batema, Brother Lester Roloff, the Moral Majority, Religious Round Table of Rosslyn, Virginia, Christian Voice, and the 700 Club.

Our responsibility as gay people is at least to be aware of our oppressors and ready and willing to meet them head on whenever and wherever we are threatened. We must assert ourselves politically (how many of you have registered to vote?) brothers and sisters, or we may find ourselves wearing pink triangles again in some detestable quagmire remisniscent of the bold designs of another demagogue called by Christ to cleanse the moral fabric of Germany.

Lordy.... That was written over twenty-four years ago and it very well could have been written today, as it remains relevant today. The fundamentalists have finally placed God's guy in the White House and, boy oh boy, they're feeling their holy oats!

The Irish is Up - And, Finally, a New Year Gift

When my more-than-a-wee-bit-of-Irish mother had had about enough of my sass or smart mouth, she would give fair warning that her next reaction would probably invoke violence upside my head by saying, "You're gettin' my Irish up!"

Yesterday, my Irish was up, witness the series of comments accompanying this post, and this later post. Yes, indeed, if two of those clean-cut, suit and tie, Seventh Day proselytizers had knocked on my door yesterday it would not have been pretty.

With the new year here and since I've managed to get more than six months of this blogging business under my belt (I really don't want to call this a (Bill Maher) New Rule) let me just itemize a few things:

1) George In Denver loves comments on his posts. He doesn't get many, but those that he does get are appreciated. But, if one comments on his posts, there's nothing in the blogger's rule book that says he can't get his Irish up and respond to the comment passionately, obscenely (his career cop more-than-a-wee-bit-of-Irish father taught him lots of colorful phrases), agressively and, hopefully, articulately;

2) George In Denver is not fond of those who comment on his posts annonymously. George in Denver finds anonymous comments, for lack of a better word, cowardly. George In Denver believes that if one is interested enough to comment on a post, then one should be brave enough to expose their cyber selves, certainly providing their blog's name, if they've got one, or an email address, or even just a moniker that might give George In Denver some sense of who they are -- like, for example, Messianically Inclined in Tulsa; or Drunk in Davenport; or Just Plain Stupid in Idaho;

3) The thing that really, really disturbs George In Denver about a couple comments he's received is that they are essentially pedantic, teachy, from someone who apparently perceives themself to be the cyber hall monitor. Please! George In Denver doesn't quite go so far as the Rude Pudit in noting: " Mostly, the Rude Pundit doesn't give a shit what you have to say, but if you have to say something, you can send it here." But, George In Denver doesn't do pedantic. It just pisses him off. It just gets his Irish up because George In Denver is a big boy who has been around the block a few times; got his degree; served honorably in the US Army; had a twenty-three year career in public service, the last six of which were spent as a Division Head and Mayoral appointee. No, George In Denver just doesn't need to be lectured to.

Finally, to begin the new year, I want to provide a gift of sorts to everyone. It's Jorge Luis Borges, Another Poem of Gifts (translated by Alan Dugan). Now, another point, 4) George In Denver prefers poetry to bible verse. So, if you've got some poem that explains why the South Asia devastation is, in God's eyes, a good thing, I'd love to read it.

For those not into poetry, please read Borges just once, if not now, then maybe later. Just once...

I want to give thanks to the divine
Labyrinth of causes and effects
For the diversity of beings
That form this singular universe,
For Reason, that will never give up its dream
Of a map of the labyrinth,
For Helen's face and the perseverence of Ulysses,
For love, which lets us see others
As God sees them,
For the solid diamond and the flowing water,
For Algebra, a palace of exact crystals,
For the mystic coins of Angelus Silesius,
For Schopenhauer,
Who perhaps deciphered the universe,
For the blazing of fire,
That no man can look at without an ancient wonder,
For mahogany, cedar, and sandalwood,
For bread and salt,
For the mystery of the rose
That spends all its color and can not see it,
For certain eves and days of 1955,
For the hard riders who, on the plains,
Drive on the catttle and the dawn,
For mornings in Motevideo,
For the art of friendship,
For Socrates' last day,
For the words spoken one twilight
For that dream of Islam that embraced
A thousand nights and a night,
For that other dream of Hell,
Of the tower of cleansing fire
And of the celestial spheres,
For Swedenborg,
Who talked with the angles in London streets
For the secret and immemorial rivers
That converge in me,
For the language that, centuries ago, I spoke in
Northumberland,
For the sword and harp of the Saxons,
For the sea, which is a shining desert
And a secret code for things we do not know
And an epitaph for the Norsemen,
For the word music of England,
For the word music of Germany,
For gold, that shines in verses,
For epic winter,
For the title of a book I have not read: Gesta Dei
per Francos,
For Verlaine, innocent as the birds,
For crystal prisms and bronze weights,
For the tiger's stripes,
For the high towers of San Francisco and Manhattan
Island,
For mornings in Texas,
For that Sevillian who composed the Moral Epistle
And whose name, as he would have wished, we do not
know,
For Seneca and Lucan, both of Cordova,
Who, before there was Spanish, had written
All Spanish literature,
For gallant, noble, geometric chess,
For Zeno's tortoise and Royce's map,
For the medicinal smell of eucalyptus trees,
For speech, which can be taken for wisdom,
For forgetfulness, which annuls or modifies the past,
For habits,
Which repeat us and confirm us in our image like a
mirror,
For morning, that gives us the illusion of a new
beginning,
For night, its darkness and its astronomy,
For the bravery and happiness of others,
For my country, sensed in jasmine flowers
For Whitman and Francis of Assisi, who already wrote
this poem,
For the fact that the poem is inexhaustible
And becomes one with the sum of all created things
And will never reach its last verse
And varies according to its writers
For Frances Haslam, who begged her children's pardon
For dying so slowly,
For the minutes that precede sleep,
For sleep and death,
Those two hidden treasures,
For the intimate gifts I do not mention,
For music, that mysterious form of time.