Forty Nine Years


Olympic Games Mexico City October 16, 1968 – Tommie Smith and John Carlos won gold and bronze medals in the 200 meter race. Wearing  black socks to represent black poverty, both stood shoeless at the podium. Smith wore a black scarf to symbolize black pride, Carlos a beaded necklace – ” for those individuals that were lynched, or killed and that no-one said a prayer for, that were hung and tarred. It was for those thrown off the side of the boats in the Middle Passage.”. When the Star Spangled Banner played, Smith and Carlos bowed their heads and raised clenched fists of iconic protest. The stadium erupted in boos, Olympic officials lost their shit, Smith and Carlos went home to death threats. The following week Time magazine wrote “Faster, higher, stronger is the motto of the Olympic games, angrier, nastier, uglier, better describes the scene in Mexico City last week”.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/1968_Olympics_Black_Power_salute

Forty nine years later the “make America great again” man simpers like a dotard as professional athletes refuse to stand for the national anthem. As if the world demanded further proof America teeters on the brink of collapse, Trump pouts infantile Tweets like – “Wouldn’t you love to see one of these NFL owners, when somebody disrespects our flag, to say, “Get that son of a bitch off the field right now. Out. He’s fired. He’s fired!” Make no mistake America, your president is an asshole. A unhinged megalomaniac hell bent on dictatorial obedience, a snake oil salesman so diabolical he feeds on manipulated adoration without a tinge of conscience.

Trump hasn’t the foggiest notion why professional athletes kneel during the national anthem. He doesn’t bother with issues of police brutality, can’t comprehend poverty, exclusion, racial profiling. In Trump’s America Negroes are uppity. Make no mistake, America’s puppet master knows how to pluck strings of his starry eyed fans. Throngs of slack jawed patriots blither unequivocal allegiance to Trump, incapable of grasping the fact nothing has changed in half a century.

Greatness can’t be declared, it’s earned when individuals lead by  example. Forty nine years ago Smith and Carlos attained a level of greatness Trump wouldn’t recognize if it slapped him in the face. Forty nine years later, the man elected on make great again hogwash has the audacity to Tweet “fire the son of a bitch” when African American athletes kneel in peaceful protest during the national anthem.Wake up America, you’ve had 49 years and failed miserably.

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Mentally Deranged U.S. Dotard


“Mentally deranged U.S. dotard”, words North Korean leader Kim Jong-Un used to describe Donald Trump following Trump’s asinine soap box rant at the United Nations. The pride of America saw fit to turn his first UN address into a template for self serving ignorance. Only a dotard would poke “rocket man” sticks at Kim Jong Un. Kudos to North Korea’s lunatic for pulling out a antiquated English language thesaurus. Strictly speaking “dotard” alone would suffice, we’ll never know but I’m of a mind to think Kim Jong Un or his advisors added “mentally deranged” as reference for linguistically challenged Trump. Oh man, Trump lost his shit, so mad he prefaced rocket man with “little”.  Now the little rocket man plans to detonate a hydrogen bomb in the Pacific Ocean. Hysterical as little rocket man calling Trump a mentally deranged.S. dotard may be, there’s nothing funny about it.

Donald Trump

Season Of Spider Love


In my corner of the world spiders are considered summertime house invaders. With seasonal predictability they arrive on the promise of spring staking claim to the garden. As days lengthen we open windows and doors, inviting spiders into our homes with warm weather indifference. Canadian summers are fleeting, knowing they’ll be gone at first frost excuses occasional household spider drama.

As I write, autumn chill suggests a timely spider farewell – not so fast, this is the season of spider love.

Three species in particular, the Hobo, Barn Tunnel Weaver and “giant house spider” Eratigena Atrica reach sexual maturity in autumn. All three abandon their horizontal sheet or funnel garden webs in search of love. Just when Canadians let their guard fall with autumn leaves, harmless lovelorn spiders appear in bathtubs, basements and bedroom walls.

As spiders go they aren’t behemoth, venomous or likely to bite, all they want is a little love.Take a deep breath, stifle screams, scoop and show them the door.

Goodnight Cassini


When I wake in the morning Cassini will be gone. Her fiery demise, fitting epitaph for an exquisitely orchestrated journey to benefit mankind. The cosmos doesn’t belong to soldiers or politicians, it waits for stoic civil servants dubbed Cassini to give our universe dimension.

A link detailing Cassini’s Grand Finale –

http://earthsky.org/space/cassini-finale-sept-15-2017-how-to-follow-online?mc_cid=a2c28121ad&mc_eid=a5b828713b

This video is how I say goodnight Cassini, a lullaby of images in honor of a cosmic journey that stole my heart. Goodnight Cassini, sleep well.

 

What Have I Done


Chances of finding someone who shares relaxed indifference toward a Black Widow spider living 18 months in their basement window are slim to none. Likewise genuine remorse for basement widow’s unceremonious death, or wobbly knee outrage over vacuum hose eradication wielded by a concerned family member. I sulked for weeks, outraged by audacity of family capable of decisive spider intervention while I was away.

“I liked that spider, it wasn’t bothering you!” met “Are you nuts? Have you seen what a Black Widow bite can do?”. Yes I replied, but you don’t understand, this spider liked the basement window. Knowing they acted reasonably didn’t ease the loss of basement widow.

I haven’t told them basement widow’s polite demeanor might have been a peculiar anomaly. Nor have I divulged “what have I done” alarm over recent Black Widow sightings. Widows I might add, who by all appearances lack the courtesy of basement widow. Three Black Widow encounters in the past two days, all eluding attempts to catch and release, not one downstairs where they belong. Oh my, what have I done.

These widows are feisty, smaller and alarmingly craftier than the soothing persona of basement widow. One in windowsill cactus above my kitchen sink, another attempting to claim the bathroom window, a third exuding what you gonna do about it confidence between folds of the spare bedroom curtain. What have I done? Three allowed themselves to be seen, how many lurk unseen.