The Fat Lady Sings

Daddy, Don’t Go

No more war, Mr. President.

1776 - Mama Look Sharp

I think this speaks for itself.

Terms of Service

I've posted this before.  It seemed relevant considering the day.

We owe our troops so very much.  Sometimes I wonder if it can ever be enough. 

When I was a little girl (in the early 1960's) there was a man from our neighborhood who spent all his time sitting on benches - usually waiting for busses he never seemed to get on.  He wore shabby clothes and blinked quite a lot.  Most of the children were afraid of him.  We were told he was suffering from something called 'shell shock' - though no one bothered to explain exactly what that was.  I knew it had to do with loud noises, however - because the crueler kids would sneak up behind him and set off firecrackers or shoot cap pistols just to see the poor sod jump and scream.

 

I thought it was a terrible thing to do.  Most of these kids were the local bullies.  I’d often been on the receiving end of their nastiness – so I sympathized with the man.  I was maybe 6 or 7 at the time (1^st and 2^nd grade) – so the thought of his being at all dangerous never even crossed my mind.  He just looked sad.  My child’s mind reasoned that all he needed was a friend to make him feel better (‘cause god knows that’s what I needed).  Well - one Saturday afternoon I screwed my courage to the sticking plate and sat down beside him on that bench.  He never moved, just stared out into space.  I had no idea what to say – so I told him all about the Mighty Mouse cartoon I’d seen on TV earlier that morning (I thought Mighty Mouse was so cool!).  He never spoke – never even acknowledged I was there – but I could tell he was listening.  Not many grown-ups ever listened to what I had to say.  It felt good – like I had a real friend.  After a while, I said my goodbyes, promising to visit him the very next Saturday.

 

And so began one of the oddest relationships of my life.  Nine am on a Saturday, rain or shine, he’d be there.  Waiting.  We never really spoke (to each other) – though there were times when he’d talk to himself – disjointed stuff about war and bombs and mud.  Things I wasn’t equipped to understand or deal with.  I only have snatches of those memories – but I remember telling him about the shell shock.  I thought it was some disease, you see – like mumps or the measles - that one day he could get better.  At least I think that’s what I told him – that one day he’d get better.  He got very quiet; then kinda nodded his head.  Then he began to cry.  I didn’t know what to do – so I went over to the Jack-in-the-Box and bought him some French fries (they cost a quarter in those days – my week’s allowance).  I patted his hand.   

 

I wasn’t always able to make it – though I tried.  Saturdays were big chore days around my house – I had lots to do before I could go out and play.  I tried to get everything done early – but sometimes I had to wait quite a while to get started.  My father drank heavily, you see - spending most Saturday mornings in the bathroom (or the hallway) getting sick.  I’d try and sneak out if I could – but that wasn’t always possible.  Also - my mother liked to go out on weekends.  Sunday was usually her big meet-n-greet day – but that depended on my father’s drinking.  The drunker he was Friday night – the earlier she wanted to get out Saturday morning.  It was her way of sticking it to him.  I remember one particular Saturday - driving by in my parent’s car (we were going to visit my aunt or some such).  The mans bench was on a busy corner, near a traffic light.  When we stopped for the light – I looked out the window right at him.  I was afraid to wave, afraid if my parents noticed they’d refuse to let me see him any more; which was what happened, in the end.  He looked right at me – right into my eyes.  As the car pulled away, I saw him get up and stumble away.  He’d been waiting, you see – for me.

 

I saw him there on and off for the next several years.  I’d finally been forbidden to talk to him, being found out whilst kipping 50 cents for a couple of Cokes.  I was afraid of what my parents would do to me if I got caught disobeying (retribution in my house was swift and devastating) – so I’d ride my bike on the other side of the street, hurrying by very fast, unable to look him in the eye - all the while feeing guilty as hell for abandoning him.  He never knew why I stopped coming by.  I’ve always regretted lacking the courage to defy my parents and just say something – but I was so afraid (I had good reason to be – alcoholics and drug addicts aren’t known for making sound parenting decisions).  It was terrible.  He’d just look at me with those big sad eyes, watching me ride by.  I felt like a criminal.  Then, one summer, he was just gone.  I’d gotten so used to seeing him there.  I learnt about his death from a local shopkeeper.  He’d died sitting on that bench, all alone.  I was told he was indeed a veteran – of WWI.  And it wasn’t just shell shock – he’d been gassed.  And now he was dead – he was dead, and I never even knew his name. 

 

And that’s all he earned after serving his country – a worn out bench with a six year-old child to keep company.  Well I say he deserved better.  They all do.  You know - every time I hear Paul McCartney’s The Fool on the Hill I think of that poor man sitting alone on his bench - waiting.  Here it is almost 50 years later – and nothing has changed.  Veterans still wait for someone to care – and they often do it alone.

Hallelujah!!

 

Barack Obama - the 44th President of our United States.  Long may he wave.

Republicans Take Their Marbles and Go Home

Well - that's it.  So much for putting the country first.  After reaching a tentative agreement this afternoon (one both sides agreed to) - House Republicans smashed the whole thing to hell and staged a walkout (the operative word here being 'staged').  Funny how that happened immediately after McCain blew into town.

Wanna know what I think?  I think McCain's afraid to face Obama in Friday's debate, so he pushed his colleagues to back off on a settlement.  This allows him to skip the debate without coming across as a coward.  It also sets him up to be the 11^th hour ‘savior’.  What do you bet the Republican ‘leadership’ comes forward with something called the ‘McCain Compromise’ early Monday morning?  And how much more would you wager that that compromise looks awfully like what was already agreed to – with a few of McCain’s pet line items thrown in for good measure?

I really hope Obama and the Democratic Party gets off their collective asses and attack this sophistry with guns blazing.  Up till now, they’ve been coasting on all that yummy goodness left over from the convention.  Obama seems to think he’ll just win without continuing to work for it.  It’s as if the only attack he had in him was the one he used on Hillary.  Frankly, he’s been too damn quiet these last few weeks, looking and sounding more like a University professor than Presidential material.  I think what McCain’s doing is pure theatre – but theatre sells.  Perhaps it’s time the Democratic Party took a few lessons in performance. 

If they’re interested, I’m available.  After all - I taught theatre to children for years. 

When Johnny Comes Marching Home

Peggy Lee and Petula Clark

The point Petula Clark was making spoke to the war in Vietnam.  Funny how all that fairly shouts to today as well.  Vietnam, Iraq - the parts are interchangeable - though the point unfortunately remains exactly the same. 

I think it’s finally time for a woman to be President – don’t you?

An Open Letter to Senator Barack Obama

I posted this exactly one year ago.  What I said then holds true today.  The candidacy of Senator Obama has changed America - and for the better, I think.  Anyway - here it is, dated references and all:

Run, Senator Obama – For God's Sake Run!

Dear Senator:

You have to run for President – you absolutely have to.  This goes way beyond personal ambition - or even a heartfelt desire to improve America and the lives of her people.  You have to run because of what has attached itself to merely the hint of your candidacy.  As I’m sure you are more than aware – certain commentators and so-called opinion makers have been attacking you on personal, ethnic and religious grounds.  The terminology is past offensive – scrofulous, aphoristic twaddle - better suited to back of the school-yard pre-adolescent theatrics: ‘halfrican’ or ‘half-minority’, ‘Osama Obama’ - questioning everything from your sexuality to your childhood and religious upbringing.  You can almost hear “nyah, nyah, nyah, nyah, nyah!” as the tag line.  Even supposedly credible news agencies (can you say CNN?) repeatedly link your name with that of Osama bin Laden – the implication being that you too are a terrorist.  And I swear - if I hear your middle name bastardized one more time - I will reach into the TV and strangle whatever asshole’s responsible.  They’ve even gone after your mother, god rest her soul.  It seems nothing is sacred to these hooligans – and that is by way of being my point.

Remember, Remember the Fifth of November

Remember, remember the Fifth of November,

The Gunpowder Treason and Plot,

I know of no reason

Why Gunpowder Treason

Should ever be forgot.

Just substitute the appropriate names and places. You get the idea.  United we are everything. Don’t stand alone. Hat tip Crooks and Liars

The Truth Shall Set You Free

I followed these hearings very closely.  Any woman who has even been the victim of sexual harassment immediately recognized the truth in what Professor Hill had to say.  That she is still being vilified, 16 years later, speaks to how greatly she was feared – by Judge Thomas, Senator’s Specter and Hatch ( her chief inquisitors) and all those neocon cabbalists who wish to bury anyone who dares stand up to defend their rights. As Judge Thomas has seen fit to throw open the doors on this incident – I think it only fair we hear from Professor Hill herself.  I also want to make clear that I believed her then and I believe her now.   

Opening Statement:
Sexual Harassment Hearings
Concerning Judge Clarence Thomas
by Anita Hill
Former Law Professor at the University of Oklahoma

Testimony in the Thomas hearings from Washington, D.C. on Friday afternoon, October 11, 1991 

Mr. Chairman, Senator Thurmond, members of the committee, my name is Anita F. Hill, and I am a professor of law at the University of Oklahoma. I was born on a farm in Okmulgee County, Oklahoma, in 1956. I am the youngest of 13 children. I had my early education in Okmulgee County. My father, Albert Hill, is a farmer in that area. My mother's name is Irma Hill. She is also a farmer and a housewife.

My childhood was one of a lot of hard work and not much money, but it was one of solid family affection, as represented by my parents. I was reared in a religious atmosphere in the Baptist faith, and I have been a member of the Antioch Baptist Church in Tulsa, Oklahoma, since 1983. It is a very warm part of my life at the present time.

For my undergraduate work, I went to Oklahoma State University and graduated from there in 1977. I am attaching to this statement a copy of my resume for further details of my education.

I graduated from the university with academic honors and proceeded to the Yale Law School, where I received my JD degree in 1980. Upon graduation from law school, I became a practicing lawyer with the Washington, DC, firm of Ward, Hardraker, and Ross.

In 1981, I was introduced to now Judge Thomas by a mutual friend. Judge Thomas told me that he was anticipating a political appointment, and he asked if I would be interested in working with him. He was, in fact, appointed as Assistant Secretary of Education for Civil Rights. After he had taken that post, he asked if I would become his assistant, and I accepted that position.

Memorium

Well George - did we pass the test?

I remember those who died, and those who still suffer.  They are always in my prayers.....