We were out politicking a bit this weekend. One of our councilmen/wannabe Mayor was having a birthday/fundraiser. He has come through for us several times and, as he is also first in line to be our next Mayor, we attended.
But, he isn’t the point of this post. It was the band he hired for entertainment. Three old white guys dutifully going through boomer nostalgia. Not into it and neither was the audience.
As we were starting to leave they launched into a Stevie Ray Vaughn song. Mrs Jack decided to stop and listen. They were butchering it but there was enough rhythm to keep a steady beat and dance. So I extended my hand out to Mrs Jack to ask if she wanted to dance and we started. First on the crowded deck (people moved chairs and tables for us) then out on the lawn. Interesting thing was the more we danced the better the band became. By the end of the song they were doing a decent job.
As I thought about it later, a little appreciation does wonders — especially when your dream job starts to be just the same old same old.
I wonder how many of our Congress critters and elected officials at all levels start feeling the same way. None of them started out to be hacks. But everyday the same old routine and what do you get?
Hey we can’t all be Stevie Ray but with a little appreciation and encouragement maybe things can be better.
For what? You ask? For Trump burnout, I think me and possibly half of America are just tired of it. We are tired of his stupid tweets, his insults to our allies, his idiotic staff and Republicans trying to cover for him.
But we are also tired of all the over-the-top obsession by the media. The over-the-top reactions by liberal activists and facebook fanatics to every little rumor, slight and piece of crap uttered by some back water Republican
Really, enough already, where are the adults?
But I think I found a cure. True, it’s one of those sappy ideas that reminds you of 50’s TV.
Go out in the garden pick a hand full of strawberries and put them on a bowl of oat meal.
Then step out in the morning sun and enjoy the lilies
Or do as I did this weekend, hang around some young people. My niece’s oldest boy graduated from high school (my how fast they grow up) and the family all gathered to celebrate. There is a cluster of cousins about the same age, some younger, some older. What a marvelous group of energetic dynamic young folks. All with drive and determination, from the students to my niece, a recent college grad who is legally blind and planning to start her own business.
From what I saw our future is in good hands.
Now if we can just … never mind.
I think I’m going to go back outside and look at the lilies. They are gorgeous!
As usual very liberal types were the more clueless as they gave the greatest support to ketchup on steak (but not completely clueless as a majority still disapproved)
From James Michener’s novel “Centennial”
Now the ritual began. At twelve-fifteen on the dot we took our places at three oilcloth-covered tables, and tumblers of ditch—bar bourbon and Platte water—were circulated. Wendell raised his glass and cried, “Gentlemen, to the open range!” All drank, and Hermann Spengler proposed, “To the Hereford.”
Waiters now came in with large baskets of French fried potatoes, which they emptied onto the middle of each table, forming golden pyramids, over which they sprinkled handfuls of salt. The doors swung open and the waiters reappeared with huge trays. Before each of us they placed a sizzling platter containing nothing but a monstrous sirloin cut from some super-steer at the Brumbaugh feed lots.
Steak and potatoes, the food of real men. Hands reached into the golden stacks to grab potatoes, and knives cut into tender steak. For the first few minutes there was not much talk, then Wendell recalled the time the club had entertained a senator from Rhode Island. The members had been most attentive to him, for on a matter of vital concern he held the crucial vote, and things looked promising until the sirloins were served.
In a quiet voice he had asked, “Could I have some catsup?”
There was a ghastly silence. To these men, putting catsup on a sirloin was like dumping cigarette ashes in holy water. No one knew what to say, but everyone was adamant that no bottle of catsup would disgrace that table, even if the supplicant was a senator commanding a vital vote.
The impasse had been broken by Wendell’s father, a steely-eyed man: “Senator, as you know, your vote is crucial to us, and there is nothing in the world we would not do for you. I think we’ve given you ample proof of that. But I would rather see horse piss sprinkled over my steak than see this table profaned by a bottle of catsup. No, Senator, you may not have catsup.”
This is a detailed account of Trump’s weekend, right down to minutes before the piece was written. It even had conversations with his golfing partners. It is an amazing piece of reporting, or it would be any other time and about any other administration, but with these goof balls it is just another day sharing stories with the press. The Trump people’s hatred of the press is all window dressing. In fact they love to gossip with reporters. If you are a Washington reporter and you don’t have your pet Trumpista by now you need to get in a different business.