Saturday morning!  Something special about a Saturday morning; and that’s (for me anyway)  true whether you’re working or ‘catting around,’ or said another way – “rat-killing.” 

 

Ok, Ok nothing like some Okie slang to get me started. But, after all, I am a Okie, true blooded – thru and thru, and although I’ve traveled Route 66 it wasn’t in a beat up old “Grapes of Wrath” pickup truck, but, come to think of it – it was a ‘beat-up’ old 51 Ford Coupe that took me and my high-school chum, Danny, all the way to California one summer between our Jr and Sr years in H.S. – ah – the ‘Good ol days, yes?’

 

Yeah, I know, I spend a lot of ‘ink’ talking about the good ol days.  Well, on 2^nd thought – it’s not ink, at least in these fantastic days of computers, faxes, cell phones and robots that answer the phone/take messages – for us.  So… what would it be if not ‘ink?’  Oh, I’ve got it – instead of ‘ink’ its “black fairy dust against the white-screen.”  Could we call it “Black Fairy Dust,” or would we be labeled racist?  Probably the latter, especially in this ‘day and age’ when the least insinuation about ‘race’ is considered racist; talk about "pure tripe."  Gee….

 

Oh yeah, back to the original point; that I spend a lot of time talking about the ‘good ol days.’ Yeah, Yeah, I know; they (the good ol days) weren’t all that good, after all what’s good about wars, great music, draft resistance, drugs, booze,women, booze and all that stuff.  Hmm…. five out of seven (you do the math) ain’t bad. 

 

Anyway… "What a day for a daydream, what a day for a daydreaming boy" - oh, x'cuse me - where was I --- there is something one can think about for a second (as time whizzes by in Rocket speed) … and that is – the younger generation, and in this case I’m talking about those in the 30-40 age brackets, don’t seem to have any.  Good Ol Days that is.  I never hear my kids (who are in that age bracket) talking about “good ol days.”  Is it because they (that generation) don’t think the way we did/do, or is it because there are no ‘good ol days’ for them.  The Vietnam War and 'those times’ fascinate my youngest son, who has questioned me extensively about it (while my oldest never has).  Once when he was being particularly inquisitive about a sensitive topic (whether or not I had ever killed anyone in Vietnam) – I wondered aloud why he didn’t ever discuss the ‘good ol days’ of his own life – and got this as a reply; What ‘good ol days’ Dad?  Continuing on he told me - that his generation was known as the “Brand X Generation” - wherein nothing in particular happened, no wars, no draft, nothing really -  just plain vanilla.” 

 

I was astounded that anyone could refer to his or her generation in such a way, but then again, us Baby-Boomers hold such a high regard for our own generation.  Ever wonder why that is?

 

Our parent’s generation has been referred to as “The Greatest Generation,” and in my opinion that’s dead on right, but the love for the times of their youth, or the glorification of it – is missing in action.

 

Could all this be simply because our generation was the first to be easily captured both musically - and on the screen?  Possible.  But equally possible is the fact that our generation ‘was one of a kind,’ and like no other mankind will ever see again.  Oh…. That sounds good, doesn’t it?

 

All this came to me yesterday – when it occurred to me that “Everyone has good ol days,” or so I (mistakenly) thought.  After remembering the conversation with my youngest I looked around me - at 2008 – the ‘gang rappers dominating television, the mixing of the races, no music to speak of - increasing crime, war, electronic bull-shit like computers, faxes, cell phones, and all other forms of cyberspace neurons, plutons and saxtons  - stirred – together with the complete breakdown of adult control of children, sub-par school education, open borders where merely wobbling across the line and dropping a kid means a lifetime of the American taxpayer paying ‘cradle to grave’ expenses – has (for sure) created "times" that nobody will ever look back on with any degree of fondness, forever and forever proving false that ol saying I've always heard - "these days are the good ol days of the future."  No... not true, not true. "These days" - will never be the 'good ol days.'  The 'good ol days' are gone......

 

Gee…. No wonder the phrase ‘good ol days’ doesn’t mean what it used to.

 

ice

 

 

 

May 8^th, 2008 … hmm… how in the hell did it get to be TWO THOUSAND AND EIGHT?  Beats the hell out of me, but I can’t emphasize it anymore unless I underline it. Ok, Ok, so I went back and ‘underlined it.’  Does that make me ‘maniac possessive’ or something, yes?

 

Looks like B.H. Obama is going to be the Democratic nominee for Prez.  Hmm… Is this a ‘crossroads’ for this country or just another Presidential election?  My bet is – ‘just another election.’ 

 

Today finds me at a ‘crossroads,’ no, hold that thought; today finds me at a “multi-lane – crossroads.  There are so many directions to go from here (that) I get dizzy sometimes (often) when I think about them.  Pupster doesn’t dwell on them (crossroads) like I do; she’s got too much (dwelling going on) already with her job.  Thankfully, I like my job, or rather it (the job) likes me.  Actually we (my job and I) are like an old pair of house shoes (in the back of the closet) – we just seem to go together, somehow.

 

That being what it is – I’m still ‘itching’ to do something different, although what – I want to do – I don’t know exactly.  Well… I guess you couldn’t say ‘exactly,’ cause I really have no clue – which is quite a ways away from “I don’t know exactly.” Pupster is really being ‘good’ about everything; telling me basically it’s my retirement/decision, although she did - dig in her heels - the day I came in (a few weeks ago) suggesting we load up the “Caddy,” and head for the hills.  The “Caddy” is my old 79 Cadillac that “one of these days” I’m going to restore to its original ‘pristine’ condition.  But, sadly, it’s in pretty bad shape at the moment, although I still love driving it around town.  The engine and tranny are in great shape and the interior isn’t too bad, but the exterior is (I must admit) a little ‘rough.’  

 

Speaking of  ‘rough,’ it’s a little rough being at a ‘multi-lane’ crossroads with so many different directions one could choose to go.  Kind of like that poem we (my generation) all learned back in Junior High – “The Road Less Traveled” by Robert Frost.  Do you all remember Mr. Frost reciting his poetry at JFK’s inauguration?  I do.  The sun was glinting off his glasses, and everybody had heavy overcoats on because of the cold weather.  Yeah, just 47 years ago.

 

Though I’m eligible to retire at age 60, (from my gov’t job) I’ve always figured on working till I was 62 so I could have the added Social Security income to go with my Gov’t Retirement - but, as I’ve gotten closer and closer to the day when I CAN retire – I’ve been developing this ‘itch’ that I was talking about earlier.  Hard to define ‘the itch,’ just think of it as a 'different urge’ every morning when you wake up.

 

Well I guess I’ll wrap it up now; I need to get a shower and get settled in to watch ‘Frazier Re-Runs’ till bedtime.

 

“So…. Was it really that good back – when you were young?”

 

I looked at him, his smile a little crooked – kind of like the sarcastic edge of his question.

 

“Yeah,” I said, continuing to hold my gaze on him, while wondering why he was still here, at work this late and on a Friday at that.  Just about to turn 21, Winston, (we called him Winnie behind his back), was the son of old Barry Morrison, the owner of Morrison’s - which manufactured furniture, cheap furniture, selling it to stores like Wal-Mart, and various Furniture Rental places.  Winnie collected a weekly check although putting in a week of work was a rarity; in fact if you saw Winnie at all in the afternoon, especially a Friday afternoon, he'd be piled up on the old leather couch in the break room.

 

“My Girl” by the Temptations, was playing over the intercom, and the mood throughout the office was light and easy, a weekend looming lazy and long - since Monday was Labor Day.  I’d been telling one of my ‘stories’ about the 60’s to Darla and Sandra, the other two people who worked in the office along with me.  They often peppered me with questions about the ‘good ol days’ since I was about the age of their parents, and had even dated Darla’s Mom ‘back in the day.’

 

“What are you doing for the weekend?” Winnie along with his insistent questions had quietly snuck up on us, not unlike bile rising in one’s throat. Thinking of this I had to smile as I looked at this fat, rich kid, the son of the boss, and though his question was innocent enough I couldn’t help thinking that he was fucking with me, in his cute little way.  When I didn’t answer him, he propped his oversized ass on the edge of my desk, and said, “You know, I think Dad ought to quit playing that old music over the intercom, don’t you?”

 

“Winston I said, have you ever wondered why the old songs are still around?” As I said this, more as a statement than a question, I looked at him in “that queer way of mine” (Winnie’s words) that I employed - when examining something foreign, something un-real.  Winnie was a short 5’10”, made even shorter it seemed, by his bulk, a whopping 325 pounds according to Shelly, one of the workers who dated him for a while, that is - until he quit giving her money – and after her promotion to shift leader.  Winnie didn’t like me, and I didn’t know why, but I never failed to wonder about it, for I was one of the few who showed him any respect at all.

 

Not giving him a chance to answer, I continued, “Almost every time a commercial on TV has music - it’s one of our songs.”

 

“Ever wonder why?” I asked him again, and then before he could answer – said - “Cause we were outside the box.”

 

“What do you mean – outside the box?” He said, shaking his head, the ever-present sneer - just below the surface of his imitation of a serious facial expression.

 

“We were cruising uncharted territory back then,” I said; It was new to all of us, parents, teachers, politicians - everybody.  And nobody was prepared for it, or knew what was coming next; it was wild.

 

I looked at his face and saw the look of puzzlement, the look of someone wanting to understand, really understand; the same look I’d seen a thousand times before.

 

Cherry Bomb, a Mellencamp oldie was playing …

 

…that’s when smoke was smoke

…and grooving was grooving

…and dancing was everything

 

A great song that told of the days of my youth, describing my generation in a way - only one who had experienced it could.

 

17 has turned 35

I’m surprised that we’re still living

 

“You know what Winston, I said, guys like Mellencamp, and me…. well let me tell you in a way you might understand; we lived more ‘before’ we turned 21 than you’ll live ‘after’ you turn 21 – even if you live to a hundred.”

 

Another song now…… All Summer Long, a Beach Boy favorite of mine.

 

 

 

Sittin' in my car outside your house
(Sittin' in my car outside your house)
'Member when you spilled coke all over you blouse

T-shirts, cut-offs, and a pair of thongs
(T-shirts, cut-offs, and a pair of thongs)
We've been having fun all summer long

(All summer long you've been with me)
I can't see enough of you
(All summer long we've both been free)
Won't be long til summer time is through
(Summer time is through)
Not for us now

Miniature golf and Hondas in the hills
(Miniature golf and Hondas in the hills)
When we rode the horse we got some thrills
Every now and then we hear our song
(Every now and the we hear our song)
We've been having fun all summer long

 

 

 

Where are you going? Winnie asked.

 

Got to run to the store.  I’ll be back.

 

Ok, Ice.  I’ll be waiting.  And with that, Winnie went to the break room and piled on the old leather couch.

 

And…. I left the building.

 

But, I’ll be back.

 

ice

 

 

time

 

time was – when it hardly moved – time that is

 

n    think back to when you were 15 …

 

couldn’t drive a car – didn’t have one…

 

and – way -- too grown up for bikes or scooters…

 

jump forward a few short months

 

now 16 - you’re driving, dreaming and living

 

‘People Just Got To Be Free’

 

1968 seen 20 on the age dial

 

“the ink is black”

 

remember the opening of “Hang on Sloopy?”

 

the drums ….

 

Sloopy lives in a very bad part of town….

 

me in the back seat - 15 years old

 

two girls and me - all three of us

 

too shy to do anything but make jokes 

 

hitching a ride to the city

 

going to the state fair

 

listening to

 

“Hang on Sloopy”

 

just yesterday I say

 

sloopy let your hair down

 

let it hang down on me

 

just who was sloopy?

 

yardbirds just hanging around the yard

 

but it’s too late to say you’re sorry

 

Zombies….

 

The “M and B Club” – was “the place” to go in my day and when you were there you were “there” – though I never knew what M or B meant – I do remember the music, the beer and the girls …

 

‘she’s not there’ you know

 

how about the opening of …

 

“Don’t Worry Baby” …. Shit --- that song takes me back

 

Well it’s been building up inside me for oh - I don’t know how long….

 

I don't know why but I keep thinking

 

something will go wrong

 

Don’t Worry Baby – everything will turn out alright

 

I guess I should of kept my mouth shut…

 

I remember the light on my 8-track stereo was ‘purple’ and Don’t Worry Baby is playing and I’m proud of the 8-track cause I don’t need any cardboard inserted in the top or bottom for it to play…. Gee…. Don’t worry baby

 

Back in the day we had - JFK, John Glenn, Mickey Mantle, Willie Mays, Elvis, Roger Maris, Jim Brown….

 

Who does this generation have ? ==== Obama – weak kneed, skinny black guy who can’t bowl and gags on a beer and a woman who throws back whiskey shots with the men -- or steroid junkies - like Roger Clemons and Barry (Pillsbury Doughboy) Bonds.

 

Groovin…. On a Sunday afternoon….

 

..and we did

 

groovin down a crowded avenue…

 

wouldn’t you love to flip the pages backward and lose the computers, cell phones, fax machines, robotic voice mail, etc. etc.??  wouldn’t you?

 

….go back to the gasoline pump – where the gas was 50 cents a gallon and someone ‘pumped’ it for you and give you a glass for stopping by….

 

You baby … nobody but you…

 

turtles…

 

candy is sweet but it just can’t compete with you … baby…

 

a little ray of sunshine

 a little bit of soul

just a touch of magic

 

What a day for a daydream

 

What a day for a daydreaming boy

 

Now I’m lost in a daydream

 

Yo… just me a dreaming about days gone by and even though time isn’t on my side - it’s time to have a sweet dream…

 

So… the year is 2008 ….  Whatever happen to those years between 1960 and 2008?  All 48 of them? 

 

Where did they go?

 

Hmm… must of went somewhere with Scratch’s Mojo.

 

So…

 

If I find Scratch’s Mojo (for him)

 

Then … I find the 48 years between 1960 and now, yes?

 

This Diamond Ring….

 

Brown Eye Girl…. One of the best openings of any song

 

Hey where did we go days when the rain came

 

Down in the hollow playing a new game

 

Laughing and running

 

Skipping and jumping

 

In the misty morning

 

My brown eye girl

 

Van Morrison talks about a ‘transistor radio’….

 

Give me a “Victory Party” after the football game, a beer, and Sherry showing up – looking for me…

 

Screw 2008 – give me 68 or 69 or 70 or ..….

 

BY PAT BUCHANAN

How would he pull it off? I wondered.

How would Barack explain to his press groupies why he sat silent in a pew for 20 years as the Rev. Jeremiah Wright delivered racist rants against white America for our maligning of Fidel and Gadhafi, and inventing AIDS to infect and kill black people?

How would he justify not walking out as Wright spewed his venom about "the U.S. of K.K.K. America," and howled, "God damn America!"

My hunch was right. Barack would turn the tables.

Yes, Barack agreed, Wright's statements were "controversial," and "divisive," and "racially charged," reflecting a "distorted view of America."

But we must understand the man in full and the black experience out of which the Rev. Wright came: 350 years of slavery and segregation.

Barack then listed black grievances and informed us what white America must do to close the racial divide and heal the country.

The "white community," said Barack, must start "acknowledging that what ails the African-American community does not just exist in the minds of black people; that the legacy of discrimination — and current incidents of discrimination, while less overt than in the past — are real and must be addressed. Not just with words, but with deeds ... ."

And what deeds must we perform to heal ourselves and our country?
The "white community" must invest more money in black schools and communities, enforce civil rights laws, ensure fairness in the criminal justice system and provide this generation of blacks with "ladders of opportunity" that were "unavailable" to Barack's and the Rev. Wright's generations.

What is wrong with Barack's prognosis and Barack's cure?

Only this. It is the same old con, the same old shakedown that black hustlers have been running since the Kerner Commission blamed the riots in Harlem, Watts, Newark, Detroit and a hundred other cities on, as Nixon put it, "everybody but the rioters themselves."

Was "white racism" really responsible for those black men looting auto dealerships and liquor stories, and burning down their own communities, as Otto Kerner said — that liberal icon until the feds put him away for bribery.

Barack says we need to have a conversation about race in America.
Fair enough. But this time, it has to be a two-way conversation. White America needs to be heard from, not just lectured to.
This time, the Silent Majority needs to have its convictions, grievances and demands heard. And among them are these:

First, America has been the best country on earth for black folks. It was here that 600,000 black people, brought from Africa in slave ships, grew into a community of 40 million, were introduced to Christian salvation, and reached the greatest levels of freedom and prosperity blacks have ever known. Wright ought to go down on his knees and thank God he is an American.

Second, no people anywhere has done more to lift up blacks than white Americans. Untold trillions have been spent since the '60s on welfare, food stamps, rent supplements, Section 8 housing, Pell grants, student loans, legal services, Medicaid, Earned Income Tax Credits and poverty programs designed to bring the African-American community into the mainstream.

Governments, businesses and colleges have engaged in discrimination against white folks — with affirmative action, contract set-asides and quotas — to advance black applicants over white applicants.
Churches, foundations, civic groups, schools and individuals all over America have donated time and money to support soup kitchens, adult education, day care, retirement and nursing homes for blacks.
We hear the grievances. Where is the gratitude?

Barack talks about new "ladders of opportunity" for blacks.
Let him go to Altoona and Johnstown, and ask the white kids in Catholic schools how many were visited lately by Ivy League recruiters handing out scholarships for "deserving" white kids.

Is white America really responsible for the fact that the crime and incarceration rates for African-Americans are seven times those of white America? Is it really white America's fault that illegitimacy in the African-American community has hit 70 percent and the black dropout rate from high schools in some cities has reached 50 percent?

Is that the fault of white America or, first and foremost, a failure of the black community itself?

As for racism, its ugliest manifestation is in interracial crime, and especially interracial crimes of violence. Is Barack Obama aware that while white criminals choose black victims 3 percent of the time, black criminals choose white victims 45 percent of the time?
Is Barack aware that black-on-white rapes are 100 times more common than the reverse, that black-on-white robberies were 139 times as common in the first three years of this decade as the reverse?

We have all heard ad nauseam from the Rev. Al about Tawana Brawley, the Duke rape case and Jena. And all turned out to be hoaxes. But about the epidemic of black assaults on whites that are real, we hear nothing.

Sorry, Barack, some of us have heard it all before, about 40 years and 40 trillion tax dollars ago.