2/11 – The Old Coots’ Shoot – When Dick Shot Harry

Posted on February 20, 2006 by wendy fleet

2/11 – The Old Coots’ Shoot – When Dick Shot Harry

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Every now and then Fat E cooks up a Scenario so sublime, so birdshot-blast-of-obsidian-hilarity in your face that you forgive her for her many other petulant & mulish sins.

2/11 – The Old Coots’ Shoot – When Dick Shot Harry will at least get me through the next decade on ruby slippers of tap-dancing glee. Yippee. (Yes, I am surely glad that old Harry isn’t dead or blind.)

Here’s a guy, Darth Dick, who sends soldiers to death with never a qualm, deals 2000 lb. bombs and white phosphorous and never breaks faith with his sneer. Maybe, oh maybe, the genuine horror he felt when he “saw Harry fall” could conceivably seep into his consciousness – every bombed or tanked or Apache-helicoptered or M16ed death is someone’s Harry, Dick. There’re lives and friendships and families at the other end of that ordnance, Dick. And if blasting shotgun pellets into Harry was “one of the worst days of your life,” maybe you could finally get it why we must love our enemies and turn the other tower. Everyone we’re killing in <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Iraq is somebody’s Harry, Dick. Think that deeply through.

Note: On December 08, 2003, Dick Cheney shot 70 semi-tame pheasants at the Rolling Rock Game Club in Pennsylvania. I grew up on the Eastern Shore of Maryland before there were any bridges to it. I knew a lot of rich people who hunted. My stepmother tho not rich was an avid hunter. As ghoulish as I found it all, I can assure you I was exposed to enough to know that the idea of slaughtering 70 pheasants in a morning is a bloodthirst so disgusting and sick that this man should be taken to a room with soft walls and put on meds and treated for life. No real hunter I have ever met, however wed to their gun and to blazing away, would ever contemplate such sickness. The typical bag limit is 2-5 birds in a day. 70 is utterly disgusting. I wish I could explain it to you. Not just disgusting to some lily-livered bleeding heart liberal, but sick and disgusting to any proper hunter.

Hearing about the 70 pheasants shocked me like being struck by lightning. Mr. Cheney is a sociopath. No normal person could blast that many birds. It’s seriously sick. We should be afraid. This man’s wiring is deranged.

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4 Lizard . Kan . South . tzol 3 02.20.06 mon

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the education-obsessed world begins today with you ..

.. let’s spend the $820,000 per minute Military Budget on education instead

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A Quail In The Hand is Worth Two Quips in the Bush

Posted on February 17, 2006 by wendy fleet

I woke from a dream with this quip for my putative pal and I thought you all might like it too.

Some people find Mr. Bush to be charming;
Personally I'd prefer it if he were disarming.

sentiment & anti-sentiment or cynicism

Posted on February 6, 2006 by wendy fleet

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Note: I learned from a reference to Swift in S. J. Gould’s Dinosaur in a Haystack that sweetness & light refer to honey & wax, what bees make.

sentiment & anti-sentiment or cynicism

After our post-midnight palaver, a sweetness & light treat to be sure, honey & wax, patience of candles, I was musing upon the held thought, (thoughtus interruptus?), about sentimentality, and I was compelled by honesty( a pestilence) to look at our treasured anti-sentimentality and its perils.

If sentimentality – or as the Brits would have it with ever so slightly raised eyebrow, “How wet . . .” – if sentimentality is false feeling, derivative feeling, canned feeling, bland feeling, or even rabid feeling of herds, then there is also a slippery slope of anti-sentimentality which can become yet uglier because the dry one-who-feels should have wit and sense enough to know better: cynicism.

Cynicism is a fetid sin. In a world of grains-of-sand worlds, not to say also feathers, the turquoise of your eyes, and organic Silver Tip tea, what can be said of anti-sentimentalists who indulge cynicism? As Swift might have it: Plague upon you, scurvy dog, eat worms, and, fraught with excrement and venom, roil in the malignity of your own bile & so4th.

Worse, dare I say it, than cynicism is romance, is love. Romance is just another rut like religion & patriotism. Gods know it feels synaptically divine, but it’s very hard to keep it authentic, creedless. Any feeling religious or romantic that has a creed, a word like God or Love is dying if not stonedead already. We cravenly want the stamped & sealed word or gesture, ratified by hallmark or the priestgururabbi, but every indulgence of these stiffens the animated actual fresh, surprising feeling. (Which is why music is so dangerous, our song to reset the broken record back into its groove. Notice one’s postjudice to songs from the past – the attempt to re-beat the drum, re-ignite the desire. Cutting these sentimental umbilical cords is daring.) It would be finer by far to say “I left-big-toenail clipping you” one day and “I tawny you” the next – anything to really re-notice the unquenchable absurdity of the ballistic marvel of you, peculiar and my only-once-sung song of delight and horror. The horror, the horror. The delight, the delight. The delightful horror, the horrible delight. Flame and worm dung. Te quiero demasiado. It sounds rarer and rawer in another language. Less typical and tepid.