Time for some meaningful dialog?

Talks or Walks?

President Obama said something to the effect that our enemies will grow to understand and even love us if he could get together with their leaders and talk. I realize the President is busy trying to bring the US into socialism, but those enemies aren't going away.

I'm thinking of the enemy in Iraq, Afghanistan, Iran and North Korea, not that there aren't others. These folks seem to hate Obama and the US. How come no 'talks'?

Everything goes!

I'll Keep the Conga Drum

Does anyone still use a serial port on their PC? For a mouse? IDE (parallel ATA) hard drive connectors are almost a thing of the past as well. Out they go.

Offerings to the Spirits

Buddy, Ritchie & the Bopper

Rock & Roll spirits, that is. My good friend and I were cruising through Clear Lake, Iowa, yesterday and decided to check out the Surf Ballroom, where Buddy Holly played his last concert in 1959 before his plane went down on that cold February night in a north Iowa cornfield. From the outside the Surf was almost innocuous, as if it hadn't changed a bit in the last fifty years.

We weren't that curious, at least not enough to get out of her truck. Driving around back we saw Leon Russell's dark red tour bus parked outside for his concert last night. Tickets at the door were $15. Being an old Leon fan I should have felt a little guilty for not being tempted to go but I didn't.

The woman behind the steering wheel said let's go to the crash site. If you knew her you wouldn't be surprised. After the dance is over we all gotta go somewhere and she's held more than a couple of hands as the person inside them went as far as they could go in this world. We drove five miles north of Clear Lake, parked the truck close to the metal sculpture of Buddy's glasses, and walked a half mile along a fence row in the hot sun to where the young rockers crashed and froze. - I'm up on the tightwire, one side's ice and one is fire. - That's the way Leon put it.

As you can see lots of things were left, from a guitar key chain, poems, coins, to a wallet full of credit cards. Clik the pics to enlarge.

This hat held in place with a plastic banana says it all.

I've been to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in Cleveland and couldn't wait to get the hell out of there. Way too commercial. Out on the edge of that Iowa bean field nobody was coerced into giving up money or a guitar key chain they may have liked. They did it because they wanted to.

As for me I hesitate to make too much out of three chords and a back beat, no matter how much fun I've had with it. James Cotton sang Rock and Roll, it ain't no news. It ain't nothin but the boogie woogie blues. - And before the blues there was something else.

I'm up on the tightwire, flanked by life and the funeral pyre. I wonder if Leon sang that last night. Doesn't matter; it wouldn't change a thing. I was listening to the Top Forty on my family's AM radio in 1959 when the DJ announced their deaths. Fifty years seems like a long time ago but others have been around much longer.

It's the last song at the last dance that's on my mind this rainy morning of what looks to be a rainy weekend. I'm not depressed although I know well enough what it's like. I'm just watching the rain come down.

Kitchen Corner

A Corner of the Feedlot Kitchen - click for big

As you may know, the old feeder is relocating. Health problems and the cost of propane are driving me out of the feedlot. I'm a terrible pack-rat and getting ready to move is an enormous task, one I don't much enjoy.

I usually like to take pictures of places I've lived; pictures with the kind of details that keep memories alive. The photo above is of one corner in the kitchen here. I'm posting it because I'm too busy to do the a crop report post. You will just have to place your futures bets without my input.

As soon as I get my car back from its front end alignment, I will be able to finish transferring my DVD collection from their bulky store packages to small, thin CDROM boxes. This saves a lot of space, but I've run out of the little cases.

Le Boudin

Voilà - click to hear

Tiens, voilà du boudin, voilà du boudin, voilà du boudin Pour les Alsaciens, les Suisses et les Lorrains, Pour les Belges, y en a plus, Pour les Belges y en a plus, Ce sont des tireurs au cul. Pour les Belges, y en a plus, Pour les Belges y en a plus, Ce sont des tireurs au cul.

---
Looks like fun, no? A chance for a new life. Get some.

Aedh Wishes For The Cloths Of Heaven

It don't sort out right - click

The old feeder spent the early morning hours reading poems instead of working.

Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths, Enwrought with golden and silver light, The blue and the dim and the dark cloths Of night and light and the half light, I would spread the cloths under your feet: But I, being poor, have only my dreams; I have spread my dreams under your feet; Tread softly because you tread on my dreams. WB Yeats

WB Yeats had a fine understanding of unrequited love, gained through his long experience with Maude Gonne. Sometimes I think my dreams have been trampled as thin as tortillas.

For an asshole, I can sure get sentimental. I'm not even Irish.

Plumb Tuckered Out

I used to clean up nice

The feedlot is turning brown and square. I'm so tired that I can't think of anything to post here.

This old photo of myself is now my profile picture on FaceBook. I'm sporting new gear, even the Randall knife was new. I should have listened to Ben Franklin's advice: “Beware of all enterprises that require new clothes.”
---
Click the pic and the post title to read about Mitchell Werbell III. I was fascinated by the cat when the photo was taken.

Inspiration

Dismantling the Feedlot

I guess I'll keep this inspirational card. It has been displayed in my offices for many years. The path ahead is unknown, yet I must press forward. Like Miyamoto Musashi.

A Timely Read

August 6th, 1945

Originally this book was a New Yorker magazine article by John Hersey. The story coolly describes the actual experiences of six people who survived the first wartime use of an atomic weapon. It begins each tale just moments before the blast. The account ends a few weeks after. I try to read it every year at this time. It is well written and free of editorializing. I've mentioned it before.

I recommend the book without further comment. Read and learn.

Full Moon

Blackbirds - click

One day the old feeder was sick as a dog and down in the dumps. I was at a rude cabin in the woods along the Little Sioux River in Iowa, and the grove was thick with noisy blackbirds. Dad Bones stopped in and quickly analyzed my condition. He loaded our old 12 gauge shotgun and told me he knew what would make me feel better.

We went out on the porch and he said I should see how many blackbirds I could kill with one shot. I aimed into a thick part of the flock and fired. At least seven birds dropped immediately; the uninjured birds flew with a whoosh of wings. Several wounded birds stayed, only to drop to the ground one at a time.

I felt better.

Ever wake up in a strange alley with a fractured skull and amnesia? Its one of those days, and there are no blackbirds in sight.