Thursday, May 31, 2007
I won't give you the whole nickel tour but if you look over to your right, you will see a list of Georgia blogs and their latest entries. After the top five (see I got a top five too!) they are in alphabetical order. Well, except one.
Ain't I a stinker?
you have earned an “A+” rating from the NRA-PVF. We urge our members and other gun owners and sportsmen to vote for you for Congress on June 19th.
Well, after the N.R.A.'s shenanigans this past April when they sent their personal thug down to the General Assembly to threaten legislators with an "F" grade if they didn't vote properly on the insane "bring your gun to work" bill, I think we all know just how honest and open those grades are.
Here's one gun owner and sportsman who thinks about as much of an N.R.A. endorsement as what I just left in my toilet.
Rusty: I'm not trying to defend the WSB guy, but I think in his case he thought he was being cute and funny.
Amber: Well, too bad that he wasn't.
The same thing, I suppose, when we’re bombarded by what in modern times has become a steady stream of dire warnings on everything from the new millennium disaster that was to befall our computers to the revelation that cul-de-sacs and the suburban lifestyle cause obesity.
Well, Jim, let me take a moment to edumacate you. The reason the millenium bug didn't wreak world-wide havoc was the blood, sweat and tears of thousands of software engineers scanning and updating billions of lines of code. In other words, Jim, disaster was avoided because we recognized the problem and took corrective action.
Makes sense to me. Why should we listen to these so-called scientists when it was the liberal eggheads who sold us a bill of goods on Y2K? I mean shouldn't we instead trust pundits to see 50 years into future since they so clearly remember the facts of just 8 years ago?
The nag has better health insurance than thousands of Georgia children whose parents work and still can't make enough money to buy insurance for their kids.
Snap! Mike, have you been peeking over my shoulder in home room? Even though I've been an advocate for restraint on PeachCare, I certainly can recognize a good turn of the pen. Democrats? Are you paying attention?
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
Next year gridlock gets worse. The I-75/85 Downtown Connector gets repaved. That strip should be double-decked. Or tunneled. It is absolutely essential to develop a way to move traffic through Atlanta. It’s a nightmare bottleneck for north-south traffic.
Double decker highways? Tunneling? Can anyone, especially you so called conservatives, explain to me how anyone with a lick of sense can say these are reasonable solutions to moving traffic through Atlanta? Feel free to use cost or safety as one of your assuredly salient points.
Immigration has already become a flash point in the 10 district race. It will be the issue in the 2008 Senate race. And as I told Wilson, it is a murky area where disagreement reigns even amongst the most ardent of party faithfuls. For these reasons, you are assured to see a great deal of future coverage on the issue in these parts.
The latest furor also reminds me of something I wrote last November.
President Bush and the Democrats agree on the basics of immigration reform. As with welfare reform they simply need to smooth out the edges. Find places to compromise. Show the American people that they indeed can work together...It's a unique opportunity for everyone to win. The Democrats pass important bi-partisan legislation demonstrating they can work with the President. President Bush has something besides Iraq on which to hang his legacy hat.
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
Monday, May 28, 2007
Sunday, May 27, 2007
Saturday, May 26, 2007
No stupiding today. Other business takes priority.
Instead you ought to listen to some music.
Or check out the Georgia Blog Carnival.
Or check out Rusty who is in yur MSM, pissin on yer futbal heroz.
Oh hell, just get off your ass and go outside. It's a beautiful day!
Friday, May 25, 2007
Thursday, May 24, 2007
No really. It's not.
The press officer for Republican congressional candidate Bill Greene may face criminal charges after allegedly punching a pickup driven by the supporter of another candidate outside a Greene fundraiser Tuesday night, police said.
That's right. He punched a truck. I fear Georgia blogging may just dry up once the 10th district election passes.
As you can see from the picture, I once had the pleasure of having a sit down with Baton Bob. Bob is one of the most open, honest people I have ever met. On this day, he sipped a glass of wine and told us his story. Instead of me repeating it here, head over to Fresh Loaf and view the mini-documentary of his life.
Bob is one of the things I miss from my days working in Midtown. I really hope he once again ventures over to the Highlands area. If you're out there Bob, the Blackout Researcher's miss ya!
Watching the above video (shamelessly nicked from Tondee's Tavern) reminded me of a question I have long pondered.
Do people gloss over the extreme leftist politics of a group like Rage Against The Machine because the music is such high quality whereas you can't ignore the politics of any extreme rightist rock bands because they are all such utter crap?
It's a wonder I can actually fall asleep at night.
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
For the first time in American history, the Executive Branch of our government has not only condoned but actively promoted the treatment of captives in wartime that clearly involves torture, thus overturning a prohibition established by General George Washington during the Revolutionary War...It is too easy — and too partisan — to simply place the blame on the policies of President George W. Bush. We are all responsible for the decisions our country makes. We have a Congress. We have an independent judiciary. We have checks and balances. We are a nation of laws. We have free speech. We have a free press. Have they all failed us? Why has America's public discourse become less focused and clear, less reasoned?
So, Clark, forget mayor. Being governor is a much better job. You can help many more folks who really need help. And you'll have your own state air force. You won't have to go to Birmingham anymore to find cheap flights.
My first thought is what a faboo idea! Then the cold, hard political reality splashes me in the face. The mayor's race is non-partisan. The governor's race is not. This means in order to shoot for the moon, Howard would have to either sell his soul to one of the evil twins we call Ds and Rs or garner enough signatures of registered voters to run as an independent.
But wait a minute. Is there any person in Georgia more likely to gather the requisite John Hancocks?
Heck, we have our first Republican governor in like forever and we see how well that works. Why not an independent?
So yes, I am all prepared to plant some Clark For Georgia yard signs, but Clark? Do it the way you have always done it. Do it your way. No strings attached.
But Will Hinton of Good Will Hinton provides some interesting and fresh perspectives on the role of evangelicals in politics.
Give a listen to the interview here and see if it doesn't at least make you ponder some of your notions.
Monday, May 21, 2007
It happens when I meet a new girl I like. It happens when I feel like I need to sort some things out. It happens when the soul gets a little too cluttered. When the direction is no longer there.
Sunday, May 20, 2007
UPDATE: I've pulled the clip. It was a very near thing whether I was going to put it up at all. In the end, it just didn't pass my personal "feel test". It just didn't feel right.
Let me be very clear about one thing. I in no way disagreed with the content. Jim Whitehead is one arrogant S.O.B. and his refusal to even discuss his views on this war in my humble opinion does far more to dishonor those he would send into harms way than one small time blogger's video.
Thursday, May 17, 2007
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
Monday, May 14, 2007
I have jury duty in the morning. My instincts are telling me I'm going to be empaneled.
Lord knows when you will see me again. Check Georgia Voices on your right for the latest news while I am in land of no tubes.
UPDATE: Twice in 15 years I have made it past the auto-call informing me I must show up to the Dekalb Courthouse the following morn. Twice I have spent most of the day quietly reading in the jury pool room never seeing the inside of a court room. I admit to feeling vaguely disappointed.
The day wasn't a total loss. I managed to re-read about a quarter of Shelby Foote's massive Fredricksburg to Meridian. I made it to as far as the near forgotten Abel Streight raid which almost reached Rome, Ga. before being cut-off by Nathan Bedford Forrest.
But the high point of the day came as I sat on the steps of the court house, soaking in the sun. In the midst of the mob of jurors, plaintiffs and defendants marching in and out came two couples. Both clutching freshly minted marriage certificates.
One couple was surrounded by family including a father who proudly, with a conspiratorial wink towards me, lit up a massive cigar. The small group ambled over to one of the manicured lawns and began taking pictures.
The second pair I didn't notice until a flash of white caught the corner of my eye. I turned towards the top of the steps and spied a young couple, no more than 25 years old, clutching each other as if their lives depended on the embrace. He was dressed in a natty dark green suit with no tie. She was dressed in a lacy, white cocktail dress. Her face was buried in his chest, quietly crying and his arms wrapped her completely.
Soon, they parted, kissed, then clasped hands to walk out into the bright world. Minds addled from their new glory, they briefly walked the wrong way, then laughing at the silliness, wheeled and disappeared towards the Marta station.
A day wasted? I think not.
For those not familiar with this particular organization a portion of their mission statement is the belief that the bible is the " inerrant Word of God and the final authority on faith and practice".
Founder Beverly LaHaye crystallized this particular core belief in a 1987 interview in Ms. Magazine.
Yes, religion and politics do mix. America is a nation based on biblical principles. Christian values dominate our government. The test of those values is the Bible. Politicians who do not use the bible to guide their public and private lives do not belong in office.
Article Six, section III of the U.S. Constitution states:
The Senators and Representatives before mentioned, and the Members of the several State Legislatures, and all executive and judicial Officers, both of the United States and of the several States, shall be bound by Oath or Affirmation, to support this Constitution; but no religious Test shall ever be required as a Qualification to any Office or public Trust under the United States.
So, Mr. Whitehead I have a question for you. Will you repudiate the endorsesment of LaHaye and her merry band of constitution burners or if elected will you simply cross your fingers while taking the oath?
Sunday, May 13, 2007
For the second day in a row, I just witnessed a group of birds acting just plain weird. Flittering around, attacking each other.
I have this uneasy feeling they know something we don't.
Strange times, bubba. Strange times indeed.
Saturday, May 12, 2007
Friday, May 11, 2007
When my band of right-wingers take over, women who weigh more than Rosie O’Donnell will not be allowed to wear miniskirts outside the bedroom. Some things should not be seen in public.Jim, you and I frequently talk about the same things. Biscuits, grits, pigs, chickens, the fog rising off a pond when you throw out the first line. Most often we approach things from a different perspective but always through the eyes of a couple of southern boys. So today, I want to talk about the one thing I am sure we both hold dear.
Today, I want to talk about mamas.
We all have mothers. But it is only in the deep, in the special place of our heart, where we cleave to our mama.
My mama raised four kids on her own. By the time I came along the rest had figured out most things and the things they hadn't figured out, they at least figured out how to get away with.
It had to be hard for a working woman to come home to one more grinning, dirty faced child. She patched my jeans, wiped my face with a washcloth, cooked supper and if there wasn't much left to do at the end of the day, sat in her chair with a sip of whiskey and watched over her youngest as he puzzled over the latest magazine her employer would have thrown away if she hadn't squirreled it away in her handbag.
She grew up the hard way. Born on the cusp of the depression, she spent her childhood days barefoot, in overalls, chasing chickens across a dirt yard. Daddy selling a hog for shoes was not just another line in a country song, it was most every fall. The farmers market was not an excursion to find the latest exotic ingredient but a trip made to get just a few dollars more.
She was married in the front room of her grandfather's house; in her best dress with veiled hat cocked just so, because like most country people she had a saucy side.
She always carried a handkerchief in her purse because mama could solve most problems with a quick wipe. Sometimes it smelled faintly of peppermint. Because after the handkerchief, the next best solution was to pop a piece of candy in a young boy's never quiet mouth.
Sometimes she stretched the paychecks a bit too thin and we would come home to cut off lights. She would then shoo me away, hand the lineman a check she swore was good and apologize for causing him so much trouble.
Because through all the struggles, even in the times when pride had to be swallowed for necessity, she always had one unfailing lesson for her children. Don't be common.
Common didn't mean poor, because the good Lord knew, we had seen plenty. Common didn't mean working class. It didn't mean plain. It didn't mean not good enough. You could be the poorest person in the county but when you passed by, people should be able to say, they ain't common.
Common was the false pride. It was when you elevated yourself through the putting down of others.
I'm just a tiny voice. I hope if I am ever graced with the power to use the printed word to communicate daily with thousands of people, I will remember the lessons of mama. I hope I will be able to avoid the temptation of being common.
Thursday, May 10, 2007
Wednesday, May 09, 2007
Audacity sums it up.
Brilliant move GPDSC. Let’s eliminate the juvenile division instead of just merely cutting salaries or pork elsewhere. You screw over young clients and they just come back as adult clients.
Statesmen see 25 years into the future. Jackasses just eat everything you put in front of them. Guess what we got in our General Assembly?
Tuesday, May 08, 2007
To read Part II, Click Here.
Willie Harris and the immortal Jackie Robinson were both born in the same small town of Cairo, Ga. At the moment, Willie also has another commonality with Jackie. As Jackie was when he crossed the color barrier in 1947, Willie is the only African American player on his team, the Atlanta Braves.
Times are different but the similarity of the surface situations cause many to ask why.
Gone are the golden years of Hank Aaron, Willie Mays, Frank Robinson and Bob Gibson. Following the pioneering times of Don Newcombe, Lou Campinella, Larry Doby and of course Jackie Robinson, African Americans not only excelled in baseball, they dominated. The success caused many to wonder the what ifs of Satchel Paige, Cool Papa Bell and Josh Gibson.
Then something happened. A mere 60 years after Jackie sacrificed for an entire people, they began leaving the game he loved so much.
Bethune-Cookman, a historically black college in Daytona Beach, Fla., has only two African American baseball players. The rest are hispanic or white. On a recent HBO Sports documentary, the head coach discussed attending summer camps and struggling to find African Americans to recruit. It is a struggle echoed by all baseball programs at HBCs.
Hall of Fame player Dave Winfield believes he has found the problem. He calls it the 3 Cs. Cost, continuity and competition.
"It didn't cost anything to play," he says. "Whether it was Little League or park and rec ball, you could play until you were drafted without having to pay. Now you might be able to play through Little League, but if you want to get better, you start paying to play. Then the continuity of being able to play for nothing every year stopped. The connection and the continuity of playing all the time and the ability to reach new heights stopped. And now the external competition has risen where 40 years ago you didn't have as many other sports competing. They thought the Super Bowl would fail and look at it now. How about basketball, soccer, extreme sports? Everybody has grabbed a piece of the sports and entertainment pie now."In the 60's and 70's, baseball was the glamour sport for black America. Basketball was riddled with drugs and hardly ever shown on television. Football was the purview of white America, the lines so divisive a player in the following decade would describe it as a "plantation system". But in baseball, giant men named Mays, Aaron, Morgan and Flood walked the earth.
Then, basketball cleaned up its drug problem and found a man named Magic. Football cut loose its fetters, opening riches and the most coveted position of power, the quarterback, to men named Moon, Cunningham and Williams. Money and fame came quick and easy. In the age of MTV and video games, instant gratification ruled. Why slog through years in the minor leagues when you could sign for millions of dollars draft day?
In the cities and even the small towns, the patches of dirt became abandoned. Young men moved to the asphalt courts where you only needed a leather ball and the ability to impress. A travelling team meant crossing over to the next series of courts to play in a different summer rec league.
But not all agree with this perspective.
Joe Beasley, Southern Regional Director of the Rainbow/PUSH coalition, believes there is no "diminished enthusiasm for African-Americans playing baseball". To him and his organization, the problem is major league organizations do not recruit enough African Americans. A statement that flies in the face of the fact that a Major League team does not recruit anybody. They sign players from lower levels. Lower levels like Bethune-Cookman where even though its student popluation is 90% African American, its baseball team is less than 10% African American.
When I first began this piece, I was angry. The passionate line of attacking my team for no apparent reason had been crossed. I also had witnessed the demagoguery of Jesse Jackson's organization in the past. I again began to wonder if these gulfs could ever be spanned when we continue to drive ourselves apart with meaningless passion plays as the things in life for which we truly care die.
Then, I remembered Travis and Dexter. How they both shaped a young boy from south Georgia and showed him that even in the awful hurts of our differences there was still hope. Their memories reminded me that hope does not come from a blind corporate behemoth of a major league franchise. Nor does it come from the demagogues clinging to relevance by latching on to high profile targets. Hope always comes from the smallest changes. The ones rarely noticed.
Hope will come from a baseball field. When, a child turns a double play. It will come from a classroom. When a child who has never had the opportunity to visit a museum opens an art book for the first time. Hope will come when we remember what we learned as children. Despite our difficulties and differences, innocence does not have to be lost.
Baseball has been part of my life since I can remember. It was in third grade, some time after Travis and I finally finished that map of London when baseball became serious.
We had progressed from merely a wild herd of children running like mobs towards any ball to an organized gang who picked sides much to the chagrin of those always picked last. It is where I heard my first profanity uttered by a friend. A quick, "hot damn" when I accidently slung my bat into the catcher's face. It was where I first felt that the strangeness of girls was not so strange after all.
She was the preachers kid, full of straight black hair and a tiny mole on her cheek. She came to watch the games with her small friends because they too were figuring out that boys were not so strange after all. One day, she caught a line drive off her forearm. Screams burst forth and of course we did what boys do in moments of panic involving girls - stood stock still in panic. Fortunately for everyone, a nearby teacher came over and ushered her back to the school building. As she walked in the door, bravely choking back tears and clutching her arm, I muttered, "there goes my girl". Nearby, another boy overheard and the taunts began, leaving my mind reeling with the questions of what had I done and what would happen when she inevitably heard what I said?
A few days later, we were back on the patch of dirt playing baseball and shockingly the girls came back as well. The preachers daughter was there, now with a cast on her arm. And just once, she favored me with a smile.
On the field, baseball and I soon parted ways. Natural ability is a harsh evolutionary governor. But it never strayed far from my mind.
Lack of ability on the field morphed into passion of the mind and the mind's easy focus was the Atlanta Braves. Those miserable Braves of the late 70's. It didn't matter to me how horrible they were on the field; the roster was filled with such exotic names as Lum, Pocoroba and Naharodny. They also had a lanky Mormon kid at catcher with a tendency to throw the ball into center field. I had cousins who were Mormons and I had a tendency to throw ball wildly, so at ten years old, I figured I could relate.
A frequent debate in sports circle is which is your favorite sport. Baseball or Football? I once described the difference as marriage versus a one night stand. Football is hot, sweaty, full of action. It happens once a week for a few hours and you leave sated. Baseball goes on for nine months, day after day, only changing incrementally, and at the end, you just hope for a little extra love in the playoffs. But there is always the comfort of knowing spring training is just a few months away.
Not that there isn't passion in baseball. Much like marriage, it is passionate but most times it is a slow burn. Ask any Cubs, Red Sox, Yankees or Dodgers fan about their team and you will receive a mixture of grief, fondness, madness and frivolity. Sometimes anger, if you cross a line.
Ask me and you will hear tales of wonder at Phil Niekro signing a baseball, Dale Murphy hitting another homer, Dale Murphy striking out on another slider, the brief glory of the early eighties and the sustained ecstasy of the 90s.
Ask a young friend of mine about his team and he will imitate Chipper Jones swing, note that John Smoltz is pitching this week and Kelly Johnson is making us all forget the beloved Marcus Giles.
He will also tell you about Willie Harris.
Concluded in Part III.
I think it was a lack of diligence on the part of the Braves to recruit African-American players. There's not diminished enthusiasm for African-Americans playing baseball. It's simply the opportunity hasn't presented itself.
griftdrift in May 2006:
Bill Clinton didn't lose Jesse Jackson. He was lost every time someone witnessed his vampiric tendency to show up at a tragedy. He was lost every time someone witnessed his need to place pride before principle. For me, he was lost one hot day in Albany, Ga.
Being birthed and raised in a small town in the deepest part of a southern state, the question of race has always been unavoidable.
I was born in an era when blacks still lived on their side of town. Where busing caused panic in white families. Where a sister would sob through the night from fear of going to the new black high school. Fear that she would be raped by the black boys or beat up by the black girls.
Up until the first grade, my only interaction with black people were the handy man who came around to help fix a fence or a maid when visiting a wealthier friend's house. Then I met Travis.
Travis was my first black friend. I was the next generation of desegregation. Entering first grade a full decade following the Civil Rights Act of 1964. Attitudes had changed little but the gulf of racial understanding had begun to be spanned by the smallest of hands.
We both liked to draw. Every second grader likes to draw but it filled Travis and myself with a passion. While studying London, for God knows what reason, Travis and I were chosen to draw a map of the city on a huge piece of butcher paper stretched taut across the whole bulletin board. We threw ourselves at the project as only small boys do. We worked every free moment, forgetting recess, baseball, bugs and all the other passions of 7-year old males.
In between staring at pictures in our textbook and gripping our "sharpies", Travis and I talked. We talked about our homes and what we liked to eat. He liked grits and I, already feeling the seeds of rebellion, did not. My mother worked for the government and his worked at a restaurant. I was raised on a farm and he was raised in "the quarters". He was bussed clear across town to attend a "white school". I was a 5 minute ride away from pastures filled with cows.
The moment a child considers asking permission to have a friend over for the night is a momentous one. It is the first tentative step in forming one's own community away from the family unit. Of course, I didn't realize this at the time - I simply wanted to ask Travis to come over and spend the night.
Then, I began to think odd thoughts. I looked at Travis with his mid-70s fro and considered my own bowl cut. My new clothes and his hand me downs. I considered my split level house in the country and what I knew was Travis' shotgun shack in the poorest section of town. I gripped my magic marker and silently went back to drawing. The gulf was still there. The differences were far too great for a child to cross.
I lost track of Travis, but I think of him now as I remember another young man I met many years later.
In summers of the past, small towns meant baseball. For a 16-year old boy on summer vacation it also meant a summer job.
I was lucky. I didn't have to work 'baccer or some other hideously gruesome job. I worked for the city recreation department. In the morning, I assisted with the 6-8 year olds in day camp. They played kickball, tag and red rover while I generally stood around making sure they didn't kill themselves. In the evening, I umpired farm league baseball.
Farm league was for the kids 8-10 year olds who were not yet ready for the rigors of true little league. I had been a farm leaguer myself, usually positioned in right field at the end of a game, silently praying a fly ball wasn't hit my way. It was fairly obvious most of the boys didn't have the talent to progress beyond this level. A caught fly ball was a miracle. A pitcher who didn't walk the bases loaded was coveted. A catcher who could throw the ball on the fly to second on a steal was an MVP.
Every now and then, as I stood between the pitcher's mound and second, dodging another errant throw by a spaghetti armed catcher, I would spot a particular kid. One that I knew would make the progression to little league, then pony league and maybe beyond.
I spotted him early in one summer. He was shy, never smiled and wouldn't look you in the eye. But even at eight, he had the look of a baseball player. The confident lope of athleticism which set him apart from the other gangly messes of stumbling arms and legs. He could throw. He could catch. And lordy, could the child hit. The coach wisely placed him at shortstop in the vain hope the team might get some occasional outs at second and a few fly balls drifting into short center. His name was Dexter.
It happened off the bat of a monstrous catcher. One of those children whose glands had run wild causing a minor panic among the local uniform supplier. With a man on first, he smacked a grounder hard past me. I swiveled expecting the ball to scoot into center field but understanding I needed to make sure the runner tagged second. Then, Dexter did something wonderful.
He scooped the ball in his oversized glove, ran to second, tagged the base and gunned it to first. The second minor miracle occured when the tiny first baseman held onto the ball. Everything was silence. All was frozen, including myself. Mouth open, I slowly pointed at second and raised my fist then turned to first, pointed my finger and raised my fist. The crowd erupted. For many, it was probably the first true double play they had ever seen on this particular field.
Dexter trotted past me on his way to the dugout.
"Nice turn, Dexter", I said.
"Thanks", he replied, then turned to me, looked me in the eye and smiled.
I graduated a few years later. A decade later so did Dexter. I heard he received a baseball scholarship to Clemson and then toiled in the minor leagues. After that, as with Travis, I lost track of him. But I will never forget one evening as the sun set, a double play and the innocent smile of a child.
Monday, May 07, 2007
In all criminal prosecutions, the accused shall enjoy the right to a speedy and public trial, by an impartial jury of the state and district wherein the crime shall have been committed, which district shall have been previously ascertained by law, and to be informed of the nature and cause of the accusation; to be confronted with the witnesses against him; to have compulsory process for obtaining witnesses in his favor, and to have the assistance of counsel for his defense.
In 2003, Georgia created a state-wide public defender system because the old county run system was so horrid it repeatedly lost constitutional challenges. Now in 2008, our esteemed legislators choose to slash the already paltry $35.4 million public defense budget by $2 million.
We increase our overall budget by $1.5 billion yet continue to shortchange the criminal justice system. A decision which could once again lead us down the road to ongoing cost from more overturned verdicts.
The federal constitution is quite clear on this issue. Criminal trials are matters for the states and the states are required to provide an adequate defense to those requiring the assistance. No ifs, ands or buts. When will the idiots get it through their heads that an ounce of prevention now will prevent monstrous cost headaches later?
Listen to his latest interview with Wilson Smith of What Is Going On.
And good god if you don't think the heat is starting to get to us down here, he defends Sally Bethea and says the Democrat he is most impressed with is Hillary Clinton.
Mable, drag out the fainting couch!
Saturday, May 05, 2007
Friday, May 04, 2007
The U.S. Supreme Court may have OK’d the practice of ramming the vehicles of fleeing suspects to end high-speed chases, but the next General Assembly should spell out in law specific circumstances under which such tactics can be used. Police shouldn’t be ramming speeders, for example, as was the case when a former Coweta deputy rammed a fleeing Cadillac on a two-lane, rain-slicked road.
Wait a minute. Wooten is accusatory towards a police officer? Tacitly defending a criminal? And disagreeing with the conservative led Supreme Court? World done gone upside down!
Headline: “I-75/575 price tag hits $4 billion.” Act. There’s no time to waste. In 20 years, it’ll seem cheap. Fix congestion.
Ahhhhh, there's my Jim. I do love how self-described "fiscal conservatives" roll over like newborn kittens when the DOT comes strokin'. No amount of spending is too shocking.
I’m not convinced that a governor who rides down the highway at 90 miles per hour without a seat belt — Jon Corzine of New Jersey — has the judgment to be governor. It is, I suppose, evidence that liberals feel secure in government’s arm no matter the driver or speed.
Conveniently omitted: Corzine admitted he was stupid. Expressed contrition. Took responsibility for his idiocy by paying all the hospital bills out of his own pocket. The ability to somehow tie this liberal ideaology reminds me of certain cognitive dissonances that make a person scratch his head when his foot itches. Or people who attack one country when the enemy is in another.
Wonder how many protesters gathered last Sunday to demand an end to violence in Darfur could find Sudan on a map? All, surely.
Can you, Jim?
Too much concrete, asphalt and rooftops in Metro Atlanta? Require bigger lots, thereby preserving trees and soil surface or, as in South Fulton, density tied to green space. There, in the 2,000-acre Friendship Village project, almost 1,300 acres is preserved as green space. The General Assembly should make green space preservation top priority in local consideration of high-density zoning.
Oh my! Weird Jim is back! Stricter government regulation? Abridging private property rights? The General Assembly stepping in on local zoning? Weirdness abounds!
Holy Toledo! I’m agreeing with state Sen. Vincent Fort, a most liberal Atlanta Democrat. Said he of the $150,000 inserted into the state budget to hire a “jobs advocate” in Lt. Gov. Casey Cagle’s office to promote economic development and to act as a “liaison” to corporations: “I’m not convinced this jobs advocate will bring anything new and dynamic to the mix except to let the lieutenant governor keep a campaign promise.” Too mild, Vince. It’s a pointless expenditure. An unnecessary duplication of executive branch functions.
Okay, that's it. Wooten is agreeing with Vincent Fort. Game. Set. Match. There are other more traditional Wooten-like utterances this morning, but this one has caused my soul to bleed and I cannot continue. Forgive me, bubba, I just don't have the constitution. Thank God, it's the weekend!
Thursday, May 03, 2007
- Four years ago, there were plenty of good people who stood up and said, "this is stupid and will result in tragedy". We were called un-American. We were called un-patriotic. We were called traitors. We were right. You were wrong. Get used to hearing it.
- Once there was a civilization who believed the highest form of honor was to drive a stake in the ground, attach a strap of leather to the ankle and remain unmoved in the face of an enemy. Never taking an opportunity to attempt alternatives. This civilization is rightly remembered as brave and noble. They were also nearly wiped from the face of the Earth.
- Principles and ideaology are easy in the abstract. Perhaps you are against then death penalty but then a family member is horribly murdered. Perhaps you are for the legalization of drugs but then the horror of meth ravages your family like a plague of locusts. You might be surprised that real-life situations instead of causing principles to waver actually cause them to strengthen. It still doesn't make sleeping any easier.
- Poker is a journey. You can play for hours and then one slip of the mental transmission and it is all over. There are those who are good at playing the big stack. Those who are good at playing the small stack. There are grinders. There are loose cannons. No matter how the game is played or the occasional slip of the transmission, it must be played without fear and the belief that all has purpose. But do not confuse purpose with all encompassing necessity of success. Success is judged by how you proceed in the journey. Not journey's end.
- It's over 80 degrees and the air is full of smog and pollen. I still prefer it to snow.
That's all for now. Maybe more later.
Wednesday, May 02, 2007
Listen to Peach Pundit's Erick Erickson on Good Will Hinton's podcast.
Erick, although we disagree on the "non-scandal" portion of the U.S. attorney firings, we can at least agree that incompetence is a significant portion of the issue. And competence should always be the cornerstone of any administration, right? snark.
I suppose all is right in the warped world again. I'm pretty much beyond words at this point so go read Sara.
She says everything that needs to be said.
Tuesday, May 01, 2007
So there was no money and no kin to bury him. He'd likely be cremated, he said, and like a lot of churchgoing mountain folk, he believed that would doom him to an eternity in hell. A pine box and a dirt plot were all that could redeem him.