What an absolute odd day to be re-exploring such an old notion as… A day when, perhaps in any number of ways (depending on how you look at it). I'm just so quite frankly, "full of it..." In-bitten-smitten and in many ways fit to be tied up and lost in ...this thing both struggled with and missed at exactly same old time....

It's odd how so many people are so easily scared off by the word, Love. As a concept, as an emotion, as the fluid expression of how two or how many more people may feel about each other. If kept simple, it's simply wonderful, no? Simply as complicated as any one of us who may have felt it might know. That thing you know you know you feel, felt, lost or regained, even.


Having been recently asked, "So, do you believe in love at first sight?" I was inclined to recently answer: "believe in it? I swear by it." How could any two people embarking upon even the easiest of paths together, in any form or another, not first conclude, or at least concede that they are in, Love? Maybe?

Indeed the storybook version of "Love" (cue heart strings); like so many other storybooks mankind has written to explain things that we cannot, and likely should-not be explained, is simply that, merely a storybook. Not to say, who doesn't enjoy a good story? - Conceding that indeed, like with many notions, the moment a man begins to speak of or transcribe it, the concept of Love simply begins to decay under it's own... words.

I find myself, truly, with nothing much more left to me other than these… stories. Stories sung to the tune of, oh my goodness "Not Another Silly Love Song". Listen though, what's wrong with one man's storybook fantasy, Love? Perhaps this love-story of his was drawn from one of his own fleeting experiences with Love; one fleeting experience in what is now in the history of mankind, literally an almost infinite number of experiences we've all shared with Love over the eons… Me, I read with pleasure, this man's, storybook experience; but neither seek nor hope to share in it. For, beyond popular belief (or just the disbelief of my ex-lovers), I've had so many millions of my own experience with… Love. None of which where particularly anything close to "storybook" (despite each of them a good story, and others, simply, the greatest story EVER told).

Broken down into these pre-owned and personal experience of mine; the love I've shared with the hundreds if not thousands of people I've bumped into over these fifty+ years is impossible to categorize, explain or describe. I mean, how do I express the love I've felt for the woman who gave up her seat up for another, perhaps older gentleman or perhaps pregnant woman on the A,C,E, or F trains? How do I compare that love to the nearly but not "storybook" loves I've felt for the women and men I've been in love with over all these years? Loves that were, are still is, totally alive and is, are, were so often if not always changed with each moment; never the same thing twice for any more than an instant; loves that have peaked with and dipped with every breath, wink smile and frown… every tug-o-war like gentle drawing embrace?

What? Am I being too flexible? Not rigid enough as to codify and compare? Let me expand just a milli-ounce-n-meter further. Given that I have... actually, the word is do… Given that I do, in one manner or another Love everyone I have known, met or even simply been in the presence of and/or even just heard about… does this diminish Love? Does the fact that I cannot truly be angry with someone, dare say I cannot even truly hate someone who I do not Love, simply remove any and all meaning from the simple little word, concept emotionally fluid expression of how two or many more people may feel about each other, huh?

I propose (if only for one day), and even more demandingly simply exclaim, maybe, it should not.

I propose (if only for one day), that we understand Love not as a series of the other's influences nor the outcomes of being in love; attraction, hurt… joy, etc., ad-infinitum. I propose (if only for far more than one day), that we build no expectations into, make no measure of it; simply feel it in whatever form the moment offers, or demands if you will, if you like. Invite it to be the constant "ether/or" in which ways we decide to go about our days, duties and relationships with one another. Tap into Love's powerful ability to help us sort out that which cannot be sorted but simply ask nothing specific of it. Simply let it be there. Enjoy it… after all isn't Love really all any two or more people have to share with each other, truly, I mean other than "likes"?

Love, maybe it IS just a stupid, little, sometimes frightening word used far too often and not nearly enough.

Toronto, that beautifully marvellous mid-western provincial-like territorial capital that's just across from, and one lake down over from that other sister-city with rivers on fire that some call the other "Mistake on the Lake"… and immediately I find myself not able to help myself from taking that first silly slap. It's a love slap really, slapped if only to watch you wiggle and wriggle uncomfortably comfortable under those oh-two-too brightly polished "9th most costly" and "5th most biggested" badges that you wear so apparently proudly upon a big puffy old chest that really ought to be proud of… so much many more things.

And, now, let's listen quite closely; this is barely a mere lament born from my time spent living much more fast n' furiously for fifteen some years in that brightly lit and little bit bigger city than Toronto sometimes too often so fool-heartedly still compare itself too, indeed now, too too often. Please enough already with that one. Can we not just come to an understanding that comparing "a place" to another like that is as futile as say comparing an apple to a somewhat too harshly seasoned steaming stew of cabbage, hog-roots and other sleepy vegetables?

Nor is this really a lament in anyway at all… AND, this is certainly not my conceding I no longer need "the glorious hectic"; just jump into my mind for even just one moment; you'll find that "the hectic" remains a very real and important part of my little old and not so quiet… thinking… No, this is about you, Tarrana, not me nor my other olden places, my cities of ghosts and other true lovers. This is about the place I do enjoy kicking around, if just for a bit, and for whom I will always adore in some smaller but still kind kind of fashion…

A way that becomes much clearer, as I make my way around these sharpened corners and down your long streets and back garage laneways; or while driving with expertise n' ease, like the calm master magician; as I stop-n-park my car in my old empty, still available, just off Niagara, surprisingly free-before-four-parking spot; and while I do grumble at your way more polite than need be and way too long traffic signals… or as I un-quietly sit here and watch your own gorgeous interpretation of "the glorious hectic" unfold around me on this current perch in one of now hundred no, thousands of fine coffee-spots. This way that comes clearly as I wander your street like another of my ex-wives once told me… simply as this semi coherent and conscientious ex-resident and well, "well informed tourist".

Most certainly I lament the loss of my old hideaways n' haunts as this almost ridiculous rash of poorly thought out or thought-through glass boxy towers sprout like weeds in the cracks of my long ago lost, over and done with past-pleasures... but I do applaud your desire for this wondrous new density! You always were and now will be forever almost one of the few remaining downtown-ier of places. It would seem that attracting these oh-so many more people with the lure of way too high rents for cramped little boxes that seem ready to disintegrate in mere moments… A plan that seems so wise, at least on the surface that it makes me scratch my head in wonder why you pro-public-transporters, you long always so suffering downtown bicycle riders yourselves, why? ...growl so bitterly loudly over these new found shiny new-neighbours of yours.

Why of course it's not the place I left not so not long enough ago. What good city ever stays the same way twice or for too long at that? But everything seems to be more or less left when and where I'd left it; AND this is no reason to wonder why I find the notion of re-settling down at the foot of and just west off that northbound don-parkway I once drove away on, with an impromptu instantaneously and remotely un-satisfying ejaculation of utter glee… Drove away on while pumping my fist in the air in celebration and screaming "finally". Leaving the place I had always loved but had almost immediately always, almost with every breath meant to leave the moment I started driving hard n' fast roots into the loves, moneys and mirages of so many of my first marriages and other first things that I did.

Would I ever return to plant new roots in this old place I had so happily left? The direct answer for my seeing no need to re-settle… Perhaps it's just plainer and simpler to say, quite honestly... Have I ever really "settled" for anything as yet? How could settling-back n' backwardly into your happy version of this silly little "the gloriousness of your interpretation of hectic", settle anything for me? - Of course, having so very few rules, I rule absolutely nothing out. ...I'll just quietly continue to masquerade my love of this little city behind silly derisions because it's plain, stupidly, silly and jolly good fun, with a Capital-T… And of course getting the opportunity to put on that giggly goofball grin I get on my face when I watch one of your good folks squirm under the blinding glare of those oh too two polished medals… of pride.

Lastly... to the much younger once was me, all the little-now-young fellas n' gals and the future boys and girls. By all means I applaud and encourage you in your desires to flee from those small worlds you've grown up inside of. Run and GO join into these circuses we call our great cities; although, I do worry that we're sadly breeding out what I'd call the really cool, spontaneously local and cleverest of fun-places… but that thought's just likely the old man inside me, worrying over no real changes what-so-ever. I'm sure they're are fun-spot-places for you in the all of these here's I've so happily called homes… and then once again… I'm drawn back to a thought still half thunk I had only just a little while ago… There really are just FAR far too many reasons for me to miss the great cities in which I've lived and called homes… BUT at exactly the same moment, so many more or least just as many good reasons to enjoy finding myself, exactly where I am here and now.

And for right now… we'll just GO to Toronto, every once in a while!

Original aired out to dry: July 4th, 2013 - On Tumblr

I think most of my American pals who know me, know exactly how much I love, adore, respect, admire and, did I say love, the United States of America. Now, many of them may be scratching their heads of late, wondering why I’ve been so-shitting on the head of the now sitting Presidenté… Simple… hmmm, ok maybe not so…  I think a New York Yankee’s analogy might work best here…
 
It’s kinda like when when my Yankee’s signed A-Rod; good numbers at bat, OK fielding, BUT… he’s a stinkin' prima-donna-pretty-boy, a whining C H E A T E R. He’s cheated on the field, he’s cheated on his wife (the love of his life?) He likely even, praise be, cheated on the Madonna… I was never happy that he was added to our team; at such a cost, oh such a cost… 
 
That said, I don’t judge a team by it’s so-called best, better yet, top most paid player. Just as I’d not have you judge my country of Canada by it’s Prime Minister, I’ll not judge the greatest of nations, the nation of friends on it’s choices, good or bad in who is to serve the puppet masters as Presidenté.

ON THIS DAY July 4th - I simply say… BE INDEPENDENT! - I beg you! 

The declaration we celebrate today is in my humblest of opinions simply the last most recent, most important step forward for mankind; don't step backwards… BE INDEPENDENT, don’t let the Madison Avenue scum-bags spin their yarns that makes you trust these THUGS you liked a day or two ago. Don’t get lost in your own older choices, don’t hold yourself to it… you’re obliged to “evolve”… Think about it.
 
You know I love each and everyone of you so-called Republican’s, you declared Democrats, free-wheelin’ Libertarian Tea-totin’ TeaNuts and all you oh so progressive… Collectivist-Hippies. I love each and everyone of you who has looked past the clutter of the casual meme of the day and expressed some form of personal opinion on this and/or that; bitch-screamed, yelled… heck even whined a bit… Proves functionality, your warranty’s intact. THINK INDEPENDENTLY!
 
BE even MORE INDEPENDENT, don’t settle, find time in your busy day to sit back, take a good long questioning American look at what was just said and be willing to say, BULLSHIT, it’s only ever half right left of center. STAY FREE of mind, and don’t let those who want you to be lazy, treat you to the comforting comfort of your own good god damned (even if it is deserved) laziness… YES you CAN have only one potato chip, it’s YOUR choice, not theres!
 
I pledge you ONE thing as a lover of America with an American son; I will NEVER let this son of mine see his birthright as a some sort of free pass, ticket or free-lunch. Wherever we bring him up, he will be taught that he has NO right to live in his homeland unless he’s willing to contribute… at least half as much as his mother has contributed in pursuit of her own cherished citizenship. He will be told not only to LOVE America, but know WHY he loves America, as both his Mother and Father do (for exceptionally different yet absolutely similar reasons I might add)… 
 
Of course, we will leave up to him to come up with his own reasons why he Love’s America. We’ll give him a fair start, leave him on his own… Leave him to his own gosh-given INDEPENDENT notions… as to why he loves the country he’s a yet-to-be-earned citizen of.
 
Gloriously gushing RANT. OFF, enjoy your (our human) INDEPENDENCE DAY. Celebrate it… then get back out there on (Monday) and get back to work or what ever you love doing… This Monday, get back to earning this INDEPENDENCE of (y)ours. 
 
I LOVE YOU! - Now... WAKE UP please!

Original posted upon: unclegogo.com (long defunct) - May 8th, 2007

(needs edit)

The Arrow was one of a number of smaller theoretically "car-top-able" sailboats that came out of the 1970’s to replace the aging Sunfish and challenge the Laser’s growing dominance in the category. A two man sloop rigged (kind of a pig of a) boat designed and built in Belleville Ontario, it boasted just a little bit more sail area and a whole lot more beam than the Laser; and of course, it was two-MAN. This extra beam (width for you land-locker'd folks), provided a bit more stability for the less accomplished sailor; but added a lot more weight and one huge problem in-so-much as... if you went over, you were definitely going to turtle.

Turtling your dinghy is one royal big-assed pain in the butts. For those who don’t know what the heck I’m talking about… A well designed boat, when capsized will rest a beam on the water, the balance of buoyancy in the hull to the configuration of the rigging allows the mast and sail, now resting in the water, to prevent the boat from turning past 90 degrees. Righting a typically simply capsized boat is a snap; simply crawl out onto the centre-or-daggerboard and and let your body weight bring the boat upright… most people can with very little skill or effort... Many of us, eh-hem can capsize and right a Laser without getting wet. Heck we’d capsize our boats between races take a breather, rest and eat on the board.

Turtling is when the capsized boat tips beyond 90 degrees… Think, mast pointing straight down, centreboard pointing straight up… To right a turtled boat, you basically have to stand on the gunnels, jump up and down and reef on the centreboard with all your strength… I’ll give you a pointer here, for future reference, if and when you go and… turtle: try positioning the boat in such a way that the waves will hit the boat perpendicular, assisting in the righting motion… meh, I’ll let you figure that out.

The Arrow we had in our backyard, was one of two my dear ol' dad was trying out as potential boats to add to the aging fleet our sailing club used for its junior sailing program. I can’t remember why we kept these boats in the backyard; but regardless, there they were, at my disposal, and I used them best I could…. seeing that, at the time I was nine, and not yet enrolled in sailing school. I usually used one of them, without sails as a swimming platform. My father would take me out under sail from time to time... I must note that dear ol' dad is an exceptional… sailor (and dad).

Given the extra beam and the extra weight and extra stability of the Arrow; it really wasn’t that fun a boat to sail for an exceptional sailor, definitely not so in lighter winds. In heavy air, it could be a good ride, probably even better for the little kid joyriding while his dear ol' dad set out and ended up on a honking reach; planing, maybe catching the odd good wave and doing a bit of surfing (reaching is a point of sail, tenfold more exciting on a Laser)… I don’t recall too many time my dear ol' dad taking me out in a good fresh breeze but I do remember one time more than the others…

I recall it was a gloriously sunny day in late spring. My dad had had a few extra beers; I never recall being all that concerned whether dear ol dad had had too many or two few beers, to me my dad, most men in may family and those in and around the place where either drinking a beer or working on something, or at work... Beer was at the "head-end" of that most consistent and enjoyable of assignments growing up… Forget mowing the lawn or shovelling the snow, chores I actually adored “…get me a beer” was the clarion-call, an invitation to "be involved" that I could hear from anywhere in the yard, down the lane or three, four houses down at some buddies place... the call to grab a cold one from the fridge, run it over to him, or maybe struggle with three or four for him and his pals; AND get a great big thank you from the guys... Most e-specially to get that big ol’ thank-you from that one guy who ultimately was at the absolute dead-center of my entire my existence, my universe… What Canadian boy doesn’t enjoy getting his dad a cold beer.

The fateful day we went for "that sail", that gosh darned damned n' glorious day the wind was blowin’, the sun was shiny; I helped best I could as my dad rigged up the Arrow. I most likely would have already squeezed into the old keyhole Kapok life jacket…

NOW, let's pause here for just a quite painful moments... LIFE jacket is kind of a misnomer for what passed as a life jackets back in the 70s. Look at it this way; for theoretical buoyancy, they used this weird shredded theoretical vegetable matter called kapok, which was theoretically sealed into plastic bags that theoretically kept this weird fiber-ery like fluffy stuff dry and theoretically buoyant. These plastic bags, which were usually perforated and waterlogged after the first year or so of use, were sewn into puke orange fabric; sewn into a shape that strongly resembled stocks used to detain and display prisoners over in the town square in medieval times. Putting on a life jacket back in the 1970s was essentially the same as being sentence to the stocks for stealing a loaf of bread from the baker back in 1678 (before there even was, a Canadian boy.

I have absolutely positive memories of setting out on this sail with my father. Despite being hobbled in this puke orange kapok bloated water logged torture thingy ma-jiggy; I recall, I was having a blast. We were probably just sailing back and forth across the two mile stretch, shore to shore on this lake we called the Bay of Quinte. For me, miles out in the big bay would have been just as easily the greatest adventure I'd had up to that point, early in my 9th year (my birthday is in may, this was spring... let's say eight years, minus all those years I didn't yet know what adventure might be...) I’m sure my dad was just sailing reach to reach in order to maximize the, speed and fun; giving his boy yet another dose of the thrill of sailing… the first step in teaching your boy to be a good sailor is after all... fun.

…and, any good sailor can capsize a boat. Its not the end of the world; the boat tips, you get wet, right the boat and sail on. Heck, we’d do it ten times on purpose, simply for fun later when we’d go for a sail after sailing school class or before the start or after the finish of a race… (note to the land locked; many of whom can only imagine a tipped over boat an ultimate disaster, get over it, it's called taking a swim).

My dear ol' dad claims that the hiking straps popped loose, and that he unexpectedly flipped off over the side of our Arrow; who knows, over we went. Now, this claim of a some part breaking; it’s happened to me, AND considering the chain of events that happened next, is an absolutely believable claim; one I will testify in support my dear ol' dad over to this day. 

My father has made even wilder claims about even wilder accidents in his life; some, well one surrounding the wilder events in which his neighbour lit his garage on fire just as my father noticed the ninny was using an electric pump to drain the gas out of the tank in his car in order to effect some repair or that that or what not… That claim, which I also support, resulted in my father’s leg looking like a side of beef after 3rd degree burns and months of skin grafting surgery professionally meted out by the medics at the Canadian Armed Forces base in Calgary… So… my dad's bigger than YOUR dad, AND my dad’s not one to make false claims.

...oh right, over we went.

Like I said, no big deal; ‘cept for the Arrow, as you recall, being the worse piece of naval architecture described earlier, beamier than expected… Rather than a fun little dunking on an otherwise enjoyable day of a sailing with dear ol' dad… It was... heck, I’m probably certain sure my dear ol' dad could have righted even the beamy ol' Arrow quickly if he didn’t first have to collect his boy. Me, the boy, now floating around in the Bay of Quinte, bobbing around like the town drunk in a puke orange torture devise; able to kick my legs but no more than half heartedly flap my arms. Perhaps if I could have actually moved these arms, I may have been able to either keep hold of, or swim back to the boat on my own. Yet still, I was already a great swimmer, well on my way to my winter's career on the life guard chair; if I weren't wearing the damned so-called life jacket... As I was being collected by my dad, the Arrow turtled.

Again, NOT that big of deal. My dad being quite a burly man and “way stronger than your dad”, could have easily stood on the gunnels and yanked the Arrow back upright with little effort. 

Here’s were things started going somewhat more wrongly than would be expected…

First off, the mast step on the Arrow proved to be, well lets just say, quite horrendously flawed. The mast step on a Laser is a 14 inch deep hole in which you put the ‘stay-less’ mast and tie it down with the cunningham which, working double duty as a devise to allow you to control the luff tension on the sail AND hold the mast tight to the boat. The mast step on the Arrow, was a ‘deck step’; a small pin held the mast to the deck, tensioned into place, theoretically by the shrouds and forestay… theoretics where at play when our mast popped out of its step, and although not separating itself from the boat, basically sank to act as an anchor helping to keep us, upside down.

Add to this the centreboard falling out; AND it funny enough, not being made of something that might float, it sank… Then, me, being a wee little guy, how could I NOT assumed we were in quite a jam; AS a matter of fact, from what I’ve been told, I did what any just barely 9 year old kid would have done; even if that barely 9 year old kid weren’t being held in bondage, strapped into the terror device now soaked through, weighing twice it’s weight in kapok and probably no more able to keep me afloat than say, one of the empty beer bottles I had neatly stacked back into its case on the way to getting my old man and his buddies another couple of beers before we went out for this damned sail… what any barely 9 year old kid would have done... I started crying; AND, from what they tell me, I started crying out for help!

I’ve always counted myself lucky. I grew up with great friends in a great small town; surrounded by about 10 gazillion things to do and parents who basically not only let me do them, but suggested that I give each and every one of them all a try. I’m sure I’m not the only boy who can remember his dad being the absolute center of their universe, I think I may be a  bit luckier than some, not as lucky as others but, either way, I do remember the exact moment that this center of this universe of mine was shaken, turned if not upside down, then kinda sideways; the exact moment I began questioning just how stable this bloody universe of mine was.

Here I was, wet, weighed down, crying and crying out for help while our disabled vessel of doom bobbed up and down in the waves. To me, the outlook appeared pretty grim and just a little dim. Our chances of survival, quite bleak; here I was, most likely assessing the situation and realizing the chances of ever enjoying mom’s Friday night’s Mac & Cheese dinner to be pretty much… nil. AND then, here’s dear ol dad… bobbing around with the boat, telling me to STOP crying, AND “stop calling out for help, ya ninny”! WHAT??? I’m basically a goner, a universally tilted dead man-boy and this crazy old fools using his last gulp of breath… his dying words, to call me a ninny! Some universe this turned out to be…

…in the end; indeed, me and my dad survived the ordeal. As my father knew all along; we simply floated up on the far shore within’ a half hour or so of our home on the other side of the great little lake we called the Bay of Qunite. He collected and stowed the various bits and pieces that remained of the Arrow, disengourged me from my (near-end-of-life) jacket and walked up to the house of the folks on whose shore we’d washed and call my mom. He had her bring the car around, she'd hitched up a the trailer, and we carted the whole mess, including poor little old me... home.

It was probably on my dad’s recommendation that the club NOT buy Arrows for the Junior sailing program, but instead bought a fleet of six Lasers. Six boats I’d grow up on, have a blast on, while screaming down the waves on a scorching plane on… Six boats, I’d capsize a hundred thousand times, 99,467 times of which, not even getting myself wet. Six boats, I’d later use along with the rest of the fleet when I ran the sailing school as head instructor for years. I’d later buy my own Laser with the money I made teaching sailing and campaign it at regattas across the lakes and waterways between Hamilton and Brockville Ontario… I don’t think they made too many Arrows... the ones in our backyard where soon disappear.

The day after my dad and I capsized the Arrow; he went out and bought me a ‘Stearn Life-Vest’. As it sounds, this was a snazzy little life VEST, zipper front, four small foam panels sewn into light weight nylon fabric, held together with light weight mesh. The back panels where black; the front red; there was a “Stern” crest on the front; all the hot sailors at our club wore stern life vests… the day after we capsized… I stopped being afraid at all of the water under any circumstance (I wasn't that too afraid before); became an the avid sailor and swimmer my dear ol' dad had hoped I'd be, AND if I think about it, perhaps the day after we capsized the Arrow was the day my dad stopped being the absolute, rock solid center of my universe and became, simply the biggest, smartest, strongest, (and at times scariest) man I’d ever know.

I recently found out the child inside my love, Roberta is a boy; he’ll be born soon… then he’ll be one, two, three… NINE, I have a huge responsibility ahead of me, AND, I know I have enormous shoes to fill!

I only hope the things we do together are as... fun as sailing.

(that's right... that's a Laser...)

Originally posted to Tumblr: June 4th, 2013

I’ve come to absolutely adore the good ol' “Founding Fathers” argument. You know the one that goes sump-tin like: When the Founding Fathers wrote, let's say... the second amendment for example, they likely didn’t envision automatic riffles with hundred round clips and those plastic x-ray deceiving Glock 9’s being available at a discount for today only's un-lawfully lowest prices on aisle six of the local Super Duper Savers Big Box Super-Store that’s you know… super. Listen, it’s an argument with which I whole-heartedly n' totally agree, to some extent… but…

I’m equally sure that Tommy Douglas, the so-called Founding Father of Canada’s Universal Health Care System/Safety-Net, was probably thinking , that maybe farmer Bob shouldn’t loose the farm when he falls from the harvester rather than pondering the notion of a machine that goes “ping” and keeps all those Super-Sized Soda slurpin’ 700lb chain smokers alive through the age of 98.7…

I expect likewise that the “founding fathers” of Social Security or the CPP didn’t envision an age of retirement set to freedom 55 with grandpa driving a JetSki at the “you’re only ripe as you think you are’ olden-age of 92.1 or 93.9; NOR could they have guessed that grandma would be wandering the senior extend-a-care centre halls not knowing her name or mine as she celebrated her 115th birthday with the gang of registered nursing assistant’s assistants who earlier that day drove her to the polls and held her hand as she put that x beside the only pol whose name anyone could remember at the moment… and their cats.

I betcha the crafters of my dear old and almost gone sentimental-capitalism didn't bank on one single corporation owned by pirates owning both the genetic sequence of 75% of the world’s cash crop and the White House at exactly the same time, OR the good fellas who put our kids into the free ‘n open over-crowded classroom thinking that the teachers union would back their membership’s demand that ritalin become the backbone of the head-in-the-cumuli curriculum as the alternative disciplinary methodology when faced with a room full of six year old boys being… rambunctious.

Yup, those founding fathers were pretty near sighted; I doubt they had once, even for a moment expected that this constitution thingy of theirs would end up being interpreted by their whining, foot stomping, not-so-great, great, great, great, great, great great grand-spoiled-babies shouting “me-me-me, and I want I want exactly everything I want and I want it right now”. Those gran-chillin’ of theirs who learned about this last years elections from Jon-Stewart Colbert the third in those 5 second remote controlled accidents as they flipped the channel from Snookie upon the “Jersey Shore” to those 8 year old re-runs of the “West Wing” that are shown at 2am on channel 12,876’s Time-warp-TV… after the evenings episode of “Pray-on-TV”.

Nope, I betcha that those founding father could only have assumed they were writing ‘dat shit down to be used by adults.

...dumb ass Foundin’ Fathers… nuttin’ but a bunch of Dead Precedents.

It's no secret that every man is going to form an opinion at one time or another. I'm no exception... Except... I've come to a softened conclusion, that there really should be no conclusions. I suppose it's common; it's quite likely that at least 50% or more of the older folks like me, folks who've reach the ripe old age of 50 have concluded that, there's simply no point in believing any of this at all. AND that any opinion one forms should remain open to... re-forming. Those others, the perhaps less than 50% of us older folks... well, we'll keep working on them.

I thought I'd better get a disclaimer up here on the "Sacred Cows" post-haste-n-quickly! Given the things I'll likely write about, things I'd like to think out loud on-n-about, get off my chest, or simply post here to store as an almost arsenal like listing of replies to be used when I entertain yet another futile battle over these inner-nets.

I've been floating a lotta crap for years now, most lost, some, if found, I may try to round out... here on the Sacred Cows. Thoughts on, you know, basic frictional things: social issues & politics. I've likely two buckets full of argument designed to engage and/or anger my good friends, and entice them into what I would hope would be healthy dialogue and/or feisty fights... 'cause, I've simply more to learn.

AND Why not "fight it out"?... what's the use of all these community-communication-social-thingies if we don't use them to express, challenge and help grow each other's interpretation of all the "it happens" happening, and all the thinkings being thunk around us. Why NOT use this inner-netty bidness to commentate our own thinkings on what the do'er are, doing around us, on our so-called behalf... meh. Why not duke it out Dookey.

Now then if you agree, here's a first things first... listen up... this is vitally important. Read the quotes below. These two are the top two by which I swear... both attributed to pretty learned young lads... 

Secondly... a little further along this page, read the letter I used to send out when troubles brewed between friends. I've paraphrased it here as I have used over and over again on social media outlets... 

Remember, I'm not trying to change your mind, rather, I'm trying to suck all the goodness out of it... My opinion is NOT my fight, I'm NOT campaigning... just expressing...

Finally, read my credo on empathy. I simply refuse to believe that any "other guy's" ideas, thoughts and even fears don't hold some validity; even IF I may totally disagree with them & you (for a time)... I can appear firm in my opinion, even hold too too dear my notions... but I'm not so rigid (yet) as to deny myself an opportunity to learn and change the ol' mind-bone. - Whew... so, with that (and these things below, let's all get on and enjoy ourselves....

...and then finally, I call it a credo... again... it's just a notion is all....

Please... if you have a comment on this OR anything you read here. If there is something you whole heartedly agree with... let me know. If something I've left here so totally offends you, LET ME KNOW, if possible... WHY. I've learned almost every single good thing from talkin', yikkity-yacking AND bitch-diddlin' in arguments with... friends!