Stuck On You...With, Or Without, The Bacon....

 

 

    There's something a little more than ironic, not to mention ever so slightly disrespectful, about Elvis Presley's somewhat legendary affection for peanut butter and banana and, sometimes, bacon sandwiches still popping up every now and then in conversations about him.   

    More mash on that momentito.

   Hannah Bonner is a poetry editor, author and literary critic whose work has appeared, among other here and theres, in the Cleveland Review of Books and Los Angeles Review of Books 

    Interestingly, she lives in Iowa. Which I mention only by way of observing that time and technology have made it unnecessary to reside in Rome in order to do what Romans do.

    And, truth be told, I mention THAT only by way of indulging my enjoyment of showing off how alliterative I can be if that's my mood of the moment.

    You might call that self-indulgent. I would counter with "witty and urbane".

    Let's meet in the middle and call it whimsical.

    And, admittedly, off point.

    Meanwhile, let's rejoin Hannah Bonner, already in progress.

    Iowa's respected reviewer of others' visions and verses has published, online, an analysis of Sofia Coppola's 2023 film of Priscilla Presley's 1985 memoir entitled, with nary a word wasted, "Elvis and Me"

    Coppola carries on the tradition of word economy, the film entitled...

    "Priscilla".

    Credit where due, neither Ms. Beaulieu Presley nor Ms. Coppola can be accused of verbosity with titles that irrefutably cut to the chase. At the same time, it occurs that Francis Ford's once maligned actress turned respected film maker daughter took either a risk, of sorts, or a leap of faith, so to speak, in naming the film as she did, given that while 'Priscilla' is oh so most familiar and heart embedded in the lifetime members of the Elvis Aaron Association of Adoration, it's not exactly a household name, let alone a "brand" that can count on big sales from the git go. In the tradition of, say, "Cher"....or "Ringo"...or...for the youngers in our studio audience..."Adele".

    Or for the even youngers in our studio audience....

    "Taylor".

    Bonner's review/critique/analysis is admittedly articulate. At the same time, what she articulates is less an overview of the content of the film than a review of the methodology Coppola employs to present it.

    An excerpt:

    Coppola’s acute focus on clothes, makeup, hair, and period specific props distills both the potency of Elvis and Priscilla’s passion, as well as Elvis’s predisposition to violent outbursts and popping Dexedrine. After exiting the theater, I don’t meditate on Elvis’s drug addiction or the sexual politics of women in the 1960s, but I do long for a pink sweater set, a Polaroid camera, or a red Corvair. William Carlos Williams wrote, “no idea but in things.” Beautiful things are Coppola’s métier. The audience is ultimately left with a very pretty film that is as diaphanous and insubstantial as a chiffon scarf. 

    Coppola’s oeuvre post-Lost in Translation (2003) recurrently poses the same problem for spectators: how to contend with these films that are exquisite to look at but decidedly devoid of emotional substance, political intervention, or formal innovation?

       Put less verbosely, Bonner offers that what Coppola is offering is a relatively empty box covered in an eye catching wrapping.

    In fairness, the term "empty box" is arguably an exaggeration. A life as 'star studded' and 'ill-fated' as the life of 'the King' can hardly be correctly labeled as empty.

    And Bonner's take on the movie makes a significant number of points.

    From this seat in the balcony, though, an essential, if not key, point is either overlooked...or dismissed entirely.

    That point being that the box is far from empty. But what's in the box? Well, no one wants to blaspheme a legend, let alone an icon. But if the hard truth must be spoken, then let it be spoken here.

    It comes in the form of two words.

    Old.

    News.

    And before the passionately loyal villagers of the sacred Graceland adorn themselves with their cherished gold "TCB" medallions, lift their eternally flaming torches and hit the streets in search of he who betrays the King (or, surely more practically, hits the Google in search of this writer's IP address to have it seized), grant me a few moments of "hear me out." 

    It's certain that that there is little, if any thing, in the way of Elvis facts, stats and/or minutiae that those most passionate of loyal villagers don't already know. And, understandably, hold near and dear to their hearts.

    And given the tonnage of articles, books (both scholarly and "tell-all"), documentaries and motion pictures (both scholarly and "wow, is that really Forrest Gump playing the Colonel?") that have been published, produced and presented since the mid 1950's (not to mention the tidal wave since his death in 1977...and, what seems to many, the tsunami that has come washing ashore in the last three to five years), it's not outlandish or even gently unreasonable to offer that even the most everyday, average fan of the timeless tunesmith from Tupelo very possibly knows more about him than they ever imagined they might need, or even want, to know.

    All of that taken into consideration, indulge me a fair to middlin' metaphor.

    If, for whatever reason, you were faced with having to gift that special someone in your life, come Christmas morning, with the same gift you gave them last year...and the year before that...and the year before that....you would, of course, be faced with only one way to make that gift "special".

    Wrap it differently.

    For those who need a metaphor "Cliff Notes"....

    Everything there is to know about Elvis, Priscilla, Lisa Marie, Col. Tom, Gladys, Vernon, Jesse Garon and/or the cast of thousands residing in the hard drive folder labled "Presley" is that gift that keeps on giving...and continues to be given.

    That folder...is, at any given time, the latest article, book, documentary and/or motion picture.

    And the wrapping?

    That's the 'take', 'angle', 'style', even 'spin'.

    Scholarly or 'wow'.

    And, at this writing, Priscilla Presley's 1988 memoir gifted to the motion picture audience by Sofia Coppola's 2023 film interpretation.

    Reviewed/critiqued/analyzed by Hannah Bonner.

    Who, tactfully, gently, even lovingly, points out a perspective that, in another context, Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young sang in their 1970 album title track, "Deja Vu".

    "we have all been here before / we have all been here before"

    Which leaves us with a noticeable stack of  'maybe's.

    Maybe it's worth seriously considering that there is nothing seriously lacking in "Priscilla".

    Maybe it's just that there's nothing new, let alone revelatory, in the story...or the telling of it.

    Maybe it's possible, even likely, that faced with trying to tell a story that has been told and re-told and re-told and....you get the idea....that Sofia Coppola, if only sub-consciously, went to her "go-to" style of presentation resulting, inevitably, in a film "exquisite"...but..."decidedly devoid of emotional substance, political intervention, or formal innovation"   

  Maybe it's time to think about the fact that Elvis died in 1977 and that was, at this writing, forty six years ago and, doing the math, that means that he has been gone four years longer than the entire time he lived on this Earth.

    Maybe it's time to realize that it's entirely possible that the lack of bing, bang, boom, pizzazz or any other zip and zing adjective that comes to mind is simply, respectfully...even poignantly....a symptom of "Elvis fatigue".

    It's not that we don't love a delicious treat.

    It's just that we've had one served to us every couple of days.

    For as long as we can remember.     

    A very special treat, as a matter of fact.

    A peanut butter and banana and, sometimes, bacon sandwich.

    Known in books and recipe collections the world over as....

    The Elvis.

    

    

    

     

     

Is This "Great Country" Or What? (Not As Rhetorical As You Think)

 

 

    Pre-CMA Awards thoughts (and prayers?) on the CMA Awards...

    First, the disclaimer.

    Over the course of twenty odd (both meanings are applicable) years of writing and producing songs in Nashville:

• I saw my name listed as writer or co-writer on a half dozen songs that charted (never higher than fifty or so, but this is the inevitable result when the recording artists pretty much all come from the folder labeled "Hey, Yeah...Actually, Uh, No...."),  
• I was able to claim bragging rights for having co-written the number one country song in Canada, both for several weeks, and at the end of the year, for the whole year in the year 1991. This, of course, has nothing whatsoever to do with the CMA, but, hey, bragging rights, okay?
• There was the "honor of just being nominated" in 1995 for a "Best Bluegrass Album" Grammy, having co-written a song on the Grammy nominated bluegrass album, "Moonlighter" by the Grammy nominated bluegrass artist, Claire Lynch. (When an album is nominated, all the songs are considered part of the nomination and all the writers of all the songs are considered nominated...at least to the point that for the rest of their lives, the writers can all, if only technically, refer to themselves as "Grammy nominated")....and she/they/we didn't win that Grammy that year. It went to "Nashville Bluegrass Band" (and I've always suspected that the name had a lot to do with the choice Grammy voters made....and if the very talented lady who recorded our song had thought to bill herself as "Claire 'Bluegrass' Lynch", all of our lives would have turned out radically different, re' the Grammy nomination.
• And, over that same twenty years, I earned the right to share that I had written, or co-written, songs that were enthusiastically rejected by some of the then-greats of country music... Reba, Randy Travis, George Jones...and my all time proudest moment history of rejection wise...Kenny Rogers. (With a song that his producer played for him in studio, insisting that it was potentially as much a hit as "Coward of the County" or, praise its holy name, "The Gambler", said producer to be rebuffed repeatedly and politely, but firmly, by said Kenny Rogers....I'd share the whole story but this piece, evidence to the contrary, isn't about me...and the movie rights to the whole story are still pending, so.....)
  
• Oh...did I mention that I was Grammy nominated in 1995?

    All of this resume' rambling is by way of qualifying myself for the observations/opinions about to appear regarding this year's CMA's. Call it expert opinion, call it POV from an experienced professional, call it sour grapes from a once upon a time, destined to hit it big time songwriter who has yet, to this day, to figure out what the fark Kenny was thinking.

    And, by the way, the key word in the oft heard phrase "honor just to be nominated" is, despite what you might assume, NOT the word "nominated". 

    It's the word "just".

    Meanwhile...

    The previously teased pre-CMA Awards thoughts on tonight's/this year's CMA Awards.

    Two major categories catch the eye right off the bat.

Entertainer of The Year:

• Luke Combs
• Chris Stapleton
• Carrie Underwood
• Morgan Wallen
• Lainey Wilson

Female Vocalist of the Year:

• Kelsea Ballerini
• Miranda Lambert
• Ashley McBryde
• Carly Pearce
• Lainey Wilson

    Lot of young, diverse talent on display here. Couple of "hmms..."

    First, draw whatever conclusion you will, but only two out of the five nominees for Entertainer of the Year are women. By my Louisiana, 1960's 3rd Grade math skills, that's 40%.

    Hmm.

    If ever there was a moment that the phrase "good ol' boys" showed up in the medulla to no one's surprise, this would be just such a moment. 

    Of course, the next category gives the ladies their full props, five out of five (100%, memory and Cajun classroom skill set serve).

    Of course, the title of the category may have been an influencer among voters, but, that doesn't take a thing away from the estrogenic accomplishment.

    You go, girls.

    The other "hmmm" here?

    The word "token" is both rude and, arguably, inappropriate. But ya cain't help but notice (if only because I'm pointing it out) that in each category, there is one (and only one) nominee, due respect freely offered, whose nomination could be soundtracked with the wonderful, some time ago hit song by Roy Clark....

    "Yesterday, When I Was Young"

    But well earned congrats and "we're not worthy"s to both Carrie and Miranda.

    You go, too, girls.

    And there's no gender oriented "singling out" going on here. The same thing happens in the vocal duo of the year list.

Vocal Duo Of The Year:

• Brooks & Dunn
• Brothers Osborne  
• Dan + Shay
• Maddie & Tae
• The War And Treaty

    As a matter of fact, the combined ages and/or years of country music fame of the aforementioned here actually exceed the current age of Joe Biden.

    So what gets said next may be debatable, but it can't be considered implausible.

    Damn. They been around some kinda long time.

    In fact, memory serves, Kix and Ronnie's first album was released on CD, LP, cassette, 8 track and, pretty sure, one of those Edison cylinder dealios. (bonus tip: laugh all you want, but the sonic quality of those cylinders was easily the equal of those 8 tracks...without that annoying "da-dunk" sound the tape made when it "changed tracks")

    Here's one of my favorites when it comes to the "new" country music.

Song of the Year:

• “Fast Car”; Songwriter: Tracy Chapman
• “Heart Like A Truck”; Songwriters: Trannie Anderson, Dallas Wilson, Lainey Wilson
• “Next Thing You Know”  Songwriters: Jordan Davis, Greylan James, Chase McGill, Josh Osborne
• “Tennessee Orange”; Songwriters: David Fanning, Paul Jenkins, Megan Moroney, Ben Williams
• “Wait In The Truck”; Songwriters: Renee Blair, Michael Hardy, Hunter Phelps, Jordan Schmidt

    "Collaboration" in the art of songwriting is nothing new. In fact, the "solo" songwriter (not counting those songwriters who also sing their own songs, hence the term "singer/songwriter") is arguably the   exception as opposed to the rule, not only in country, but in pop, rock, pick a genre', any genre'.

    And country music? Some pretty powerful partnerships.

    Bobby Braddock and Curly Putnam. Max D. Barnes and Troy Seals. Hank Cochran and Dean Dillon.

    And the songwriting royals if'n ever there was one/some.

    Felice and Boudleaux Bryant.

    Ooh-lah-lah/they wrote/"little Suzie"....

    But there's collaboration. And there's a zebra.

    Defined as "a horse put together by a committee".

    And in the Nashville writers community of the "new Country", the spirit of Harry Nilsson floats gently but surely above.

    One, most surely, is the loneliest number.

    Four.

    The current songwriter model.

    Hell, man. Four ain't a writer's room.

    It's a tailgate party.

    Yes, there are two exceptions in that list of nominees this year.

    Lainey Wilson's "Heart Like A Truck" required only three writers. One of them, of course, Lainey. And, full disclosure, Dallas Wilson is the son of a long time friend and colleague of mine, so there will understandably be no snark or cheap shots regarding this much deserved nomination.

    That said, my satirical sensors are at Def Con One at the wonderful political comedy of a song generated in the aorta of the heart of conservative America, in conservative America's favorite musical genre'...and co written by a talented young lady named Trannie.

    Not that there's anything wrong with that.

    I would also be remiss if I didn't take, at least, a passing swipe at the empirical evidence that motor vehicles continue to be "go-to" song fodder with a frequency not seen since Mel Tillis wrote what Bobby Bare sang about wantin' to go home in "Detroit City". 

    Two "Trucks" and a speedy sedan.

    Jesus, it clearly still takes a wheel.

    And, yes, there is one song in the list of nominees that was written by one and only one writer.

    "Fast Car" Written and recorded, decades ago, by Tracy Chapman.

    And ably, and wisely, recorded by Luke Combs. 

    20% of the 60% of testosterone equipped nominees for Entertainer of the Year.

    Oh...and props where 'propriate....Combs "wisely" recorded/sang/sings "Fast Car" the way Tracy recorded/sang/sings it.

    Proving that Hank, Jr. was right. But not only can a country boy survive, he can spot a "ain't broke, so don't fix it" a country mile away.

    Not to mention the totally unnecessary need to recruit three others to crank out two verses, a chorus and a bridge to a chorus fade out.

    All of the preceding has, of course, been offered in the spirit of good, fun, tongue in cheekiness. From a writer of some modest accomplishment who, truth be told, has absolutely no idea, whatsoever, who any of the nominees for New Artist or Musician of the Year are, freely, therefore, admitting his clear and obvious transition in to the "last box" demographic ( you know....."65 and older"....the. last. box.)

    And just so I can say I got the funny bone out of my throat.....

    ...I'm not sure I want to go on living in world where one of the nominees for the Country Music Association Male Vocalist of the Year is named "Jelly Roll". (I won't testify to it in court, but I'm pretty sure that Mr. Acuff, Mr. Rose, possibly even George and Tammy, are spinning around in their assorted places of peace resting).

    Tonight, at this writing, some nominees will become winners.

    And some nominees....

    Will totally get what I meant a few minutes ago when I highlighted the word "just".

    Oh...and Jelly Roll? I've heard your stuff. Like it a lot. Was just kidding.

    And you've a new fan.

    If only because you didn't share your enthusiasm for being celebrated/honored by posting a thank you vid while sitting on the toilet.

    In a world of country music that went from Hank and Patsy and Loretta and George and Tammy....to a Lil Nas X.

    In the plop of a dump.

   

  

    
    

and...in the end...

 

    The "last" Beatles song is now in the musical mainstream...a coda to their contributions to popular music history.

    And their "swan song". 

   Which would, obviously, be more poetically appropriate were we talking about, say, The Byrds as opposed to the Fab Four.

    But that's a rimshot for another rock and roll reminiscence.

    Let's talk "Now and Then".

    First, I don't want to spoil the party, but it's only fair to offer up a truth...from me to you.

    Opinions about songs...and the singers/songwriters that perform/create them...are second only to politics when it comes to subjectivity, bias, personal preference and passionate support or rejection.

    Put much less ethereally and much more in your face.

    Opinions are like elbows and assholes.

    Everybody's got 'em.

    And somewhere along the way, some well meaning soul started spreading the idea that we are all "entitled" to our own.

    Opinions. The arm joints and rectal orifices come with the knee bones connected to the thigh bones.

    Standard equipment. And pretty much a requirement.

    Like that "Tru-Coat" under the chassis of that new car.

    You may not want it or think you need it.

    But even Jerry Lundegaard knows you just need to suck it up and..let it be.

    The problem with that well meant, inevitably metastasizing 'idea' was that too many of our fellow "we", as in "we, the people" immediately, and to this very day, misinterpret the applicable meaning of the word "entitled".

    It means you can durn sure have an opinion. In fact, you just go on ahead and have all the ding damn opinions you want.

    You're "entitled".

    As to whether or not your opinion(s) turn(s) out to be an insightful,savvy, visionary point of view...or simply a ridiculous declaration of dung....well, determining that is a long and winding road.

    Which brings us back (in the U.S.) to "Now and Then".

    The "last" Beatles song.

    If you're pressed for time and would appreciate a "could we skip the verbose yada yada yammer and just cut to the chase" sum up, well, here comes the sum. (And I promise there's an end in sight to these ba da bum bump 'Beatle puns'....)

    Some people think "Now and Then" is the lamest recording ever issued with the words "The Beatles" on prominent display.

    Some people think "Now and Then" is okay, could go either way.

    And some people....actually, a lot of people....think "Now and Then" is the most important musical composition on the timeline of musical compositions. 

    All of which makes any further discussion/debate/discourse on the matter pretty much a hello...goodbye.

    (Okay...that's it.)

    At this point, it's more than reasonable for you to wonder, aloud or where your mind is wandering, where it will go (it's really hard to stop once started), as to why I'm still writing here, given that I just explained the obvious uselessness of further discussion/debate and/or discourse on the matter.

    Truth told, there are myriad reasons I feel inspired to share the full two cents of my perspective re' "England's Phenomenal Pop Combo" (if that reference draws a blank for you, then you most surely reside in the first two categories of those offering their own two cents on "Now And Then"), but, total truth told, I'm simply in a mood to offer my own opinion.

    After all...I'm entitled.

    Any time at all. 

    (Okay, let's just resign ourselves to the fact that I'm gonna wear out way past my welcome with these feeble Fab fun puns)...

    Not that I need any validation for said opinion (those who know me well are doing hilarious spit takes as we speak), but on "release day" this past week, I actually found a kindred spirit, opine wise.

    Geoff Edgers is a journalist and National Arts Reporter for the Washington Post. He wrote and posted a "review/essay" early in the morning of release day, clearly hours before any of the rest of us had a chance to ingest and/or invest in the recording. Before I even heard the recording, I found myself nodding along with much of what Edgers offered. And once I heard the release, I knew the nods were properly placed.

    Here's some key excerpts from what he offered.

 

This isn’t just a Record Store Day novelty pressed for collectors; this is the final creative collaboration of the most important rock band that ever existed. So listening once more on my headphones, with my deadline approaching, I wish I could somehow approximate how I felt when I heard “In My Life,”  or “We Can Work It Out.”

Is that too much to ask? Of course it is. McCartney and Starr owe us nothing at this point. Yet to just accept it at face value, to put a Beatles stamp on it and not think about that 60-year legacy, feels almost disrespectful.

“Now and Then” is not terrible. It starts slow and picks up a little as the rhythm section kicks in. There is a minor-key melancholy in Lennon’s composition. But ultimately, it’s kind of mundane.

But “Now and Then” exists, and I’ve listened to it about enough, and because it is the Beatles, the bar is high, and expectations are higher. That “Now and Then” will now be included on the reissued “1967-1970,” otherwise known as “The Blue Album,” makes my point. A passable song is simply not good enough when you’re sharing vinyl with “Strawberry Fields Forever,” “A Day in the Life” or “Let It Be.”

Please listen to it. Form your own opinion. Then, when you’re done, put on “The Red Album” or “Blue” or any of the 13 studio records the Beatles made, and you’ll maybe get a tinge of what it feels like to be 7 years old with your dad’s turntable pumping the most glorious music into the living room, perfect songs that simply can’t be matched.

 

      There's not a lot I can add that wouldn't be beating a dead Beatle (not that that's going to end this piece any sooner), but, put simply....

    Yeah, yeah, yeah....what he said.

    And speaking of adding....what I would only add is this.

    In 1996, the late movie critic Roger Ebert wrote a witty intelligent essay on "A Hard Day's Night", the Fab's first film (1964) from the cultural tsunami that was "Beatlemania". Savvy throughout, Ebert parked it over the center field wall with his wrap up.

 

The innocence of the Beatles and "A Hard Day's Night" was of course not to last. Ahead was the crushing pressure of being the most popular musical group of all time, and the dalliance with the mystic east, and the breakup, and the druggy fallout from the '60s, and the death of John Lennon. The Beatles would go through a long summer, a disillusioned fall, a tragic winter. 

But, oh, what a lovely springtime.

 And it's all in a movie.

  

    You might find it odd that writing of the 'now' of "Now and Then" reminded me of an Ebert review of a long ago Beatle movie.

    Allow me.

    I claim 'editorializing rights' because I was there at the outset. That is to say that I was twelve years old the night they appeared on Sullivan, got my first guitar (Sears Silvertone, likely less than twenty bucks) that Christmas, began writing songs from the git go that sounded an awful lot like either She Loves You and/or I'll Follow The Sun, bought every album and single faithfully, pursued a songwriting/song playing (mostly writing) career that lasted from 64 to the mid 1990's (from whence I spent the next twenty in radio where a lot of Beatles crossed my boulevard)...in short, I was a Beatle kid, a Beatle teenager, a Beatle young adult...and a Beatle old guy....and that, if nothing else, gives me license to offer "expert witness" testimony as to who and what they were....what they became....

...and where it has, as of this week, come to a 'conclusion'.

    And rest assured....I won't simply rewrite/restate the POV offered up by Mr. Edgers a few paragraphs ago. I've already made the point that he and I are on the same AM/FM frequency.

    But my gut (heartfelt) feeling about "Now And Then" as grand finale?

    It conjures up the same feeling that kept me from going to open casket wakes/funerals for, so far, all of this life.

    Sensitive, emotionally attuned, artistically delicate flower that I am, I am easily impressed.

    Not like "you can easily impress me", necessarily. My laminated Cynic ID attests to that.

    More like I am easily impressed upon. Affected, touched, swayed, moved by much and many, much and many more than most anyone who knows me might ever suspect. (although I laugh/and I act like/a clown/inside this mask/I tear up every year when George Bailey gets rescued by the good folks in Bedford Falls)

    And when someone in my mind/heart/life shuffles off...I want to remember them alive, in whatever personality that was on display.

    The last thing I want to see is them lying in a box.

   At this writing, all of my faculties are still in relative working order.

   There will, more than likely, come a time before final room checkout, when that won't be the case.

   And I want to remember, through whatever haze settles in on my horizon, those four guys and that band for the cultural tsunami that was Beatlemania, the groundbreaking uniqueness of "We Can Work It Out", the 'wow' of "Paperback Writer", the madness that made sense of "I Am The Walrus", the staggering genius simplicity of "In My Life", the OMG of "Revolver", the splendid time guaranteed me by "Sgt. Pepper"....

...and not the "big" finish of a well intended but average piano "doodling" by a master craftsman who would have very likely have taken no offense had he heard what George Harrison called it thirty years ago when the remaining Fab Three took a shot at "re-imagining" (this time no pun intended) it....

"...rubbish..."

    George was a nice guy. Maybe he was just low on his fiber intake that day. Or maybe he was taking the liberty that he, and only three others in this life, could take.

    Being blunt honest with a Beatle....about a Beatle song.

    Cue Taylor.

    Beatlemaniacal fans are gonna love, love, love, love.

    Less frenzied fans are gonna give it a polite thumbs up, if only 'now and then' (hang in there, it's almost over)

    As for this Beatle kid?

    Thanks again, Roger.

    It absolutely was a lovely springtime.

    That came to a poignant and perfect conclusion in September of 1969.

    With this.....

    "And in the end/ the love you take / is equal to the love/ you make"

    Yeah, yeah.

    (Spared you the third yeah, you're welcome)

    It was primarily a Paul lyric.

    But even John knew a fellow master craftsman when he heard one. And worked with one. And became a brother to one.

    Why, it's even likely that John brings that one up, sitting around trading tales with Elvis and Jimi and Janis and Crosby and Mike and Davy and Peter....

....every now and then.

     

 

    
 

Before The Champagne Corks Start Flying...Here's A Thing...Two, Actually...

    We are all (most of us, anyway) taught to be good losers.

    And gracious winners.

    It's reasonable to assume that good losers are going to be much harder to come by this time around than in times past.

    And if the rest of us are honest with ourselves, and each other, being a gracious winner is going to take a lot more energy and effort this time around.

   

    Now, it's easy, and likely, that you may be interpreting those first four sentences as the introduction to another garden variety "we had our differences but we need to all come together...so that we travel down the road, as one, to a new and brighter future". One of those predictable, inevitable Hallmark Card/Lifetime Channel dealios that sprout up in our post-election gardens.

    Uh, yeah...about that..?

    Here's a thing.

    This isn't one of those dealios.

    At this writing, Joe Biden has been projected to be elected the 46th President and he is scheduled to address the nation tonight as the President-Elect. 

    He will, undoubtedly, come equipped to deliver one of those Hallmark Card/Lifetime Channel dealios.

    Good. That's as it should be. That's what everyone who voted for him has elected him to do. That's really the primary obligation of every person who becomes the holder of the highest office in the land and, ostensibly, the leader of the free world.

    Because, to put it bluntly, if you can't be President of all the states and all the people in all the states or, at least, give your very best, never say quit effort to be that president.... then...what fucking good are you?

    More to the point...what's the use of having a president anymore anyway?

    A question that the last four years has taught a lot of us needs to be given some serious discussion.

    Barack Obama, in a stump speech for Biden a few weeks ago, wisely offered that he couldn't predict what kind of president Joe Biden would be, nor could he predict what policies Biden would or would not want to implement.

    "One thing I can promise you, though", Obama continued, "...you won't be exhausted anymore..."

    And there it is.

    That's what we are.

    Exhausted.

    Tired beyond tired of waking up each day with at least the beginnings of a clenched fist and a slightly elevated heartbeat, already wondering, before feet even touch the floor, what 'conflict' will put us in each other's faces and at each other's throats. Something that we've been fighting about for weeks? Or something that we started fighting about a week ago and still haven't beaten it to death, yet.

    Or, even worse, some brand spanking new craw clogger, adding yet another Jenga stick to a pile already too high, too unstable...and wobbling like a mutha.

    Well, that's all over now, Facebook posts proclaim.

    That takes care of that, Instagram informs.

    Thank God we can get back to normal, Twitter tweets.

 

    Remember that "here's a thing" from a few moments ago?

    Yeah, well...

    Here's another thing...

    You might think you want to get back to normal.

    But you really don't.

    You see, what we called "normal" four years ago...is what got us where we are today.

    In each other's faces, at each other's throats. 

    So put out, fed up, at wits end, annoyed, upset, angry even hostile enough with the way things were in this country where we supposedly crown that good with brotherhood, that a man whose only real skill set was adding fuel to the fire and fanning the flames was elected President of the United States.

    All of the states.

    And all of the people in all of those states.

    That didn't work out as well as a number of people might have liked..

    Cue Billy Joel.

    Donald didn't start the fire.

    And whatever it exactly is from which America is suffering, Trump is not the cause of it.

    Or in the interest of accuracy, not the cause of what it was four years ago.

    Hippocrates, in his writings, offered this chestnut to aspiring physicians.

    "First, do no harm"

     We oughta be signing petitions to get that bitchin bromide attached like a tick to the Presidential oath of office.

     Adjusted for a forty eight month tenure, Trump is not the cause of America's malady.

    He's just a symptom. A pretty sledge hammer slammin' symptom, I'll grant ya.

    But a symptom, nevertheless.

    And along came Joe.

    And good. Because whatever happens from here on out, we were totally not going to get out of each others faces or back off from each other's throats if we didn't recast the lead of our little patriotic passion play.

    So the die is cast. And the lead role is recast.

    And now what?

    Back to normal?

    Sure as hell hope not.

    Because the tumor has, obviously, long ago metastasized. Fed up, wits end, annoyed, upset, angry, even hostile has spread like a virus from sea to shining sea.

    And one horrifically damaging virus from another country is enough shit to deal with without having to fight the fever of a nasty homegrown plague.

    I'm just guessing but Joe is going to talk about bringing everyone together.

    Good. He should. And from moment one he needs to commit body, mind and soul to doing more than just talking about it.

    We'll see. Time will tell.

    In the meantime, though, you, me, we, all of us need to take care of a little business.

    We need to talk to each other.

    And there have to be, at least, a couple of critical ground rules. Non-negotiable. Dealbreakers.

    First, we have to agree that neither one of us is going to get everything we want.

    If that's not in your wheelhouse, thanks for stopping by.

    Second, we have to agree that only rowing with your oar or only rowing with my oar is going to accomplish absolutely nothing but keeping us going around in circles. Getting us absolutely nowhere. Causing us to be fed up, at wits end, annoyed...you know the drill by now.

    By the way, the whole oar metaphor and that thing about neither one of us is going to get everything we want?...Yeah, just two versions of saying the same thing.

    Hey, some people need and like metaphors. Like verbal pie charts and bar graphs.

    And if accused of making the same point twice, I plead guilty AF,

    It's a point that needs to be made twice. Daily.

     

    Coming together. Putting aside our differences. Letting bygones be bygones.

    Yeah, that's some pretty lofty shit and certainly something to which we should all aspire.

    Given where we are, at this moment in time, though? 

    Here's a thing.

    There's a problem with the numbers.

    All that lofty shit comes in at number three.

    At number two, is talking about how we do those things.

    And at number one, for the umpteenth week in row...

    Talking about how we stay out of each other's faces and away from each other's throats long enough to decide how and when we can start talking about how we do those things.

     

    Sound like a lot of work? 

    Yeah, you know what....

    Weeds don't pull themselves.

    Especially the weeds that sprout up in the post-election garden.

    And most especially, the weeds in this garden....

    ...after this election.

     

     

     

    

    

On Good Intentions And The Paving Of Roads

Of all the wonderful things that come with this most wonderful time of the year, there's one thing, in particular, that the season is good for.

Good.

Good wishes, good feelings, good food and good friends. Good gatherings, good gifts and good tidings.

Well, that's actually glad tidings, but why spoil a good list of good things by needless nitpicking.

Oh...and there's one more good thing that's always good to go this time of year.

Good news.

For the nonsecular ceremonial enthusiasts, there is "good news" as it refers to that which was gone and told on the mountain, harked and heralded by the angels and spiritedly offered up by Kathy Mattea in the title song of her 1993 collection of Christmas favorites.



But, wait, as the classic commercial heads-up announces....there's more.

Good news, that is.

And you need not necessarily subscribe to any particular theology, profess any particular Scriptural preference or align with any designated deity in order to enjoy the benefits.

Sound good?

Good.

Stand by.

Unless you're a musical archivist, a very informed music aficionado or a member of the family, you probably aren't familiar with Frank Loesser.

Loesser was a New York born, Tony award, Pulitzer Prize winning songwriter who wrote the lyrics and music to, among other successful Broadway shows, Guys and Dolls and How To Succeed In Business Without Really Trying.

He was also nominated for an Oscar five times for Best Song.

He won once.

For a song that he wrote for he and his wife to sing informally as a duet at dinner parties in their day, a song that went on to be recorded for the 1949 film, "Neptune's Daughter" in which it was sung to 1940's swimming star and movie star du jour Esther Williams by none other than a suave, Mexican of Spanish origin actor born Ricardo Gonzalo Pedro Merino.

You might know him better as Ricardo Montalban.

Boomers will remember him as Mr. Roarke, the mysterious host/concierge of the 70's mystery TV series, "Fantasy Island".

But generations then and generations to come will most likely know Ricardo Gonzalo Pedro Merino by his more iconic identity.

Khan Noonian Singh.

And what do the wrathful Mr. Khan and the tuneful Mr. Loesser have in common?

Hint...it's the wrath thing.

We good?

Good.

Cause good is what we're all about today.

And the good news.

That the right, and good, thing has finally been done

Because the song that Mr. Loesser perfected and Mr. Montalban performed has apparently, to hear folks tell it, actually been up to no good in the seventy or so years since it's creation.

The song?

"Baby, It's Cold Outside".

Recently determined by the court of public opinion to be insensitive, inappropriate, unacceptable, even offensive to the sensibilities of good and decent people everywhere.

Good and decent people, we feel sure, like say, Barry Manilow. Bette Midler. Tom Jones. Harry Connick, Jr. Anne Murray. Willie Nelson. Natalie Cole. Kelly Clarkson. Lady Gaga. Martina McBride. Sara Bareilles, James Taylor. Sheryl Crow. Vince Gill. Amy Grant. Meghan Trainor.

Olivia Newton-John.

All of whom, among many multiples of others, have, at one time or another in the past seventy or so years, recorded and released the song in its original, unaltered, unedited, fun for man and woman to sing at parties version that was created by the tuneful Mr. Loesser.

Fast forward to America 2019.

Make that the wrathful America 2019.

And the revelation soaked in accusation that "Baby, It's Cold Outside" is, like pretty much anything found at a state fair with the word "fried" in front of it.....not good for you.

Because of "those" lyrics.

"Those" lyrics in a moment.

First, please enjoy the tuneful Khan.



The lyrics we're referring to when we refer to "those" lyrics are those lyrics that, per those who are voting "no good", imply sexual harassment, even date rape.

One lyrical moment, in particular, is, for those opposed, not good, not good at all.

"...The neighbors might think (baby, it's bad out there)
Say what's in this drink? (no cabs to be had out there...) "

Okay.

It's not completely unreasonable to be a little put off by the hint of slime in play here. Even if it's just a smidge of slime.

And while 1949 American culture likely read "what's in this drink?" as "hey, I said two fingers of vodka, not three" (look it up), 2019 American culture can't completely be dismissed if they're not thrilled with the "roofie-esque" implications involved here.

But there are a fair number of ways this could be dealt with.

One might even say a "good" number of ways.

One could simply write it off as a sign of the times. Those times.

Of course, this would involve both possessing, and being able to make use of, the intelligence and common sense required to understand that acknowledging something is not automatically a celebration, let alone endorsement, of that something.

And, lately, when it comes to intelligence and common sense.

Well, let's just say they're not doing so good these days.

What happens more often in contemporary times is the sociological, even psychological, version of "busy work."

We can't immediately fix the very big, very critical, very challenging, seemingly insurmountable issue.....so we go looking for smaller, more surmountable things to fix.

Smaller and more surmountable, but mostly superficial.

Cue the "re-write"

And the smaller, surmountable, superficial song stylings of John Legend and Kelly Clarkson.

Out with the old.

In with the new.

"what will my friends think (I think they should rejoice)
if I have one more drink / / (it's your body and your choice)..."

Decidedly different.

But...good?

Any reasonable person is about proper, correct behavior.

Not to mention simple human courtesy.

And decency.

But listening to this "attitude adjusted" version of Mr. Loesser's seasonal perennial, a couple of thoughts are suddenly good to go.

First, it's a little cringe inducing. Not in the way that, perhaps, Mr. Montalban's 1949 approach induces cringes in 2019, similar to, say, the way one cringes when they see fifty year old pictures of themselves, but, still.....

And possibly because by trying to "fix" it, all that's really accomplished is a prurient drawing of attention to it.

But, even worse, there's an unavoidable sense that what's really going on here is an attempt to band-aid a little cut while unable to treat, even ignoring, the gaping wounds in plain sight these days.

In a culture that finds Kardashians deserving of admiration and emulation.

Weinsteins worthy of a single, solitary thing except a lifetime spent in solitary.

A culture that finds foul mouthed, pussy grabbing demagogues worthy of being not only allowed but, actually, in some minds, joyfully welcomed to, occupancy of the Oval Office.

Seventy or so years later, one wonders what Frank Loesser would be feeling.

Regret? Remorse? Embarrassment?

Or maybe just "that was then, this is now."

Which, come to think of it, might be a good idea.

In a season of good wishes, good feelings, good food and good friends. Good gatherings, good gifts and good tidings.

And every woman who has ever been, or has yet to be, violated can now take comfort in knowing that a seventy five year old pop song of three minutes duration.....

...has been sanitized for their protection.

Now, that's good news.
 

Dinosaurs, Dodo Birds...and Republicans...

Say what you will about the Chinese.

Whatever else they are, or are not, they are one funny 1.4 billion people.

You're going to be hearing more about China in the days and weeks ahead, in fact, "a lotta more" as Mr. T's "Clubber Lang" mocked Rocky Balboa in the third of what rough estimates put at forty five, or so, sequels to the Oscar winning original "Rocky",  primarily because Trump has decided that his problems regarding the Ukraine simply aren't problem enough and, so, as he is wont to do, has now included China on his list of FUBARS.

I'll spare you the political details that are going to be inundating your news feeds for the foreseeable and simply offer that, again, the Chinese are funny folks.

In the quest for pristine accuracy, though, let's amend that a skosh.

The Chinese are witty and satirical,with a full understanding of the word "irony".

An explanation of that understanding is coming up.

May you live in interesting times.

You've probably heard the expression somewhere along the way. It arguably falls somewhere on the line of definition somewhere between idiom and aphorism, although, first, the argument could be made that it comes closer to being one than the other, or vice versa, but, second, that given America 2019 is a culture that, in large numbers, still can't get their head, or texting fingers, around the difference between the word "to" and the word "too", there's very little to be gained from further meddling with the medulla with really big words like idiom and aphorism.

So, let's just say, as I just said, that it's an expression you've probably heard somewhere along the way.

Like "may the road rise up to meet you"....or, starting sometime around Labor Day, "may all your Christmases be white".

And for those who prefer their expressions less erudite and more entertaining..."may The Force be with you."

On its face, the expression "may you live in interesting times" has all the earmarks of a standard issue best wishes.

Well, that's where the wit, satire and irony of our friends, and partners in trade war, the Chinese come in.

Put a pin in that. We'll be back to it shortly.

I do a lot of commentary. I do a lot of posting on social media. And I make no apology for anything that I offer in the way of opinion or perspective.

Because, for the moment, at this writing, it's a free country.

I am free to offer what I offer.

You are free to accept, reject, embrace, ignore.

Pick your reaction. Any reaction.

I also offer no denial whatsoever when it comes to any accusations that come my way that I am a mischief maker, inciter, agitator or, as I prefer, given its romantic, global cachet, provocateur.

The point, moreover, the purpose of the provocation is to get you to think.

Ideally, about any, if not all, other points of view beyond our own.

Worst case scenario...to get you to even think at all.

And were the interesting times in which we find ourselves living, a different kind of interesting than the interesting times in which we find ourselves living, I would also be ready, willing, even encouraged to engage, discuss, debate. Share thoughts, trade opinions and perspectives, bounce the old bull session birdie back and forth across the net that divides your side from my side and my side from yours, in the hopes that maybe we could both learn something useful and walk away, if only just a little, more enlightened, more educated, more insightful than we were before our birdie bounce began.

I still do a lot of commentary and I still do a lot of posting on social media. But I don't engage or discuss or debate much any more.

And, on one topic, not at all.

Bet you can guess which topic.

If you can't, clearly you don't know my work and this must be your first time.

Welcome.

I continue to comment and post because I believe that voices were meant to heard and, according to the apocryphal saying, "knowledge without works is sin."

And again, in your garden variety interesting times, listening to other voices would not only be polite, but necessary, even essential.

But, again, these interesting times are far from garden variety and even farther from ordinary.

So, when it comes to Trump and Trumpism, I speak my piece. Or pieces. Let the words fall on whichever ears the fates would have them fall upon.

And when it comes to responding to any responses those words generate?

Here's another expression you've probably heard somewhere along the way.

Don't hold your breath.

All of that said, I am, with this particular commentary, invoking my Michael Corleone clause.

Just this once. Just this once I am going to respond to a response inspired, actually, make that incited by a recent commentary.

The complete commentary itself is almost superfluous in terms of needing to be re-told.

Suffice to say that I read, once again, just one too many defenses, even endorsements, of Donald Trump that was sloppily disguised as a call to respect the office of the Presidency, provide consideration, even fair play.

Sorry. I'm just not having any of it.

For reasons I have been writing and broadcasting on for over three years now. With more to come, given that what has been an annoying fire burning at the edges of our democracy is now about to go full inferno as impeachment now moves off the "one of these days" list on on to the "here and now" page.

The responses from the Trump bleachers were predictable, vigorous and, as usual, vitriolic.

Suggestions that ranged from primal prescriptions that I seek professional mental assistance to the more articulate, always entertaining examples of the more highly educated of Trump's Train passengers that I go fuck myself.

Well, putting aside my own primal urges to respond with a healthy dollop of "right back atcha", here's my "just this once" reply to those who just aren't interested in, let alone intending to, see Trump as anything other than the salvation of the nation, the great orange hope, fuck the five cent cigar, what this country needs is all Trump, all the time, forever and ever, amen.

Or God help us, as the case may be.

Ergo...my reply:

I'm tired. Aren't you tired?

Aren't you exhausted from the constant, back and forth, forth and back, bickering, blustering and bitching with which we have been smacking each other around for going on four years now?

You think I don't get you. You're wrong.

I admit that I don't know how you can continue to endorse, even celebrate, this staggeringly unqualified guy for the job he stumbled into.

But I do know why.

You're just gonna have to trust me on that. This piece needs to be wrapped up sometime before I die and I could list the reasons why right up to, and beyond, that time.

Instead, let me take a sincere shot at making you understand why I cannot, have not and shall not ever endorse, let alone celebrate, this staggeringly unqualified guy for the job he stumbled into.

And if for no other reason than to prevent us from falling back into the same predicable, exhausting back and forth of " I know you are, but what am I" we've been locked into for four years, let me tell you why by way of throwing you a little curve ball.

I cannot, have not and shall not, ever endorse or celebrate this guy....because you deserve better.

Make no mistake. I deserve better, we all deserve better, but, for the purpose of our chat here, let's go with you first.

So, put your posting/texting fingers on pause, close the cupboard on the "snoflake libtard" inane, and totally inaccurate, bullshit that you fire off like a Glock with autopilot and let me tell you, instead of what I don't want (or who, and we both know who), what I want.

I want to vote for a Republican.

I want to vote for a Dwight Eisenhower. A Republican who served his country with the highest honor in our military, who, in fact, led the American armed forces to victory in World War II; a Republican who expanded Social Security, created, and saw implementation of, the Interstate Highway System, created NASA advancing America to the forefront of space exploration and technology, who created the US Information Agency and promoted use of the CIA to achieve military goals through influence and technology, not warfare. A Republican whose morality, respect for America's foundational institutions and sense of duty to country and its citizens was without question........

...not a "Republican" who avoided military service entirely with petty physical ailments, sends every signal that Social Security is fair game for being looted, can't get a simple border wall built, let alone rebuild highways and bridges, shits on the idea of space exploration but wants to spend billions of dollars creating Space Force, a cross between Texas Rangers and The Jetsons, whose morality, respect for America's foundational institutions and sense of duty to country and its citizens has been non-existent to the point of hilarity and/or insanity since the day he decided he wanted to "play at being president..."

I want to vote for a Richard Nixon. A Republican who, despite epic human flaws, ultimately put respect for, and love of,  country above love of self by becoming the first President of The United States to resign the office, when it became clear that he could no longer be effective in the office.....

...not an amoral narcissist who would, and will if allowed, choose to let the ship of state sink to the bottom of the sea before ever letting go of the wheel......

I want to vote for a Ronald Reagan....A Republican who stood firm against Communism, arguably playing a part in the demise of the Communist Party and the, then, Soviet Union, who cut taxes for those in the top tax tiers, but increased payroll taxes to ensure the solvency of Social Security, a Republican who publicly condemned hate groups, respected and supported America's foundational institutions and possessed the skills to inspire the citizenry with oratory befitting his theatrical skills....

...not a "republican" who denigrates, dismisses and disgraces America's foundational institutions, mocks leaders of our allies who dare not show him unconditional love and respect...who fawns over leaders of adversarial countries, like a pitiful child who want, needs, so desperately, to be accepted by the bad boys on the school grounds...a "republican" who will not speak bluntly and directly to the intolerance this nation has always shown white supremacists....Nazis......whose public statements and social media postings are infantile, embarrassing, illiterate.......

I want to vote for a George W. Bush.....whose own grasp of the language often delighted the late night comedy writers, but whose posture as president was beyond reproach, inclusive, with every effort made to endorse inclusiveness, community, faithful adherence to the values that made America great starting around, say, 1776....

...not a selfish, sociopathic narcissist who has one skill, and one skill, only....playing people off one another through lies, fear, bigotry, disrespect, denigration and who fuels the fires of those fears and bigotries and hatreds by promoting the idea of a primarily white society, with the very poorly disguised code phrase "Make America Great Again".

I want to vote for a Republican.

In America 2019, though, that option isn't available.

Because in America 2019, there is no Republican Party.

There is the Democratic Party.

And Trumpism.

And those of you who are spewing at me because I reject your selfish, sociopathic narcissist....I can only offer, and repeat, what I would like to do.

I want to vote for a Republican.

But you've got to give me something I can work with.

Old saying.

Don't piss on my leg and try to tell me it's raining.

New saying.

Don't put a sociopathic, illiterate, narcissistic demagogue in the White House....and try to tell me you've elected a Republican President.

Because that's what you're trying to tell me.

My anger and resentment at what you've done has me oft tempted to simply dismiss you with a blunt "fuck you."

Instead....you deserve better.

May you live in interesting times, the expression goes.

Well, your electing, and, now, continuing to support ,even celebrate, this staggeringly unqualified guy certainly affirms that interesting times is what you have us living in.

Which brings us back to those witty, funny Chinese.

Cue Wikipedia.

"May you live in interesting times" is an English expression......widely attributed as having originally been the translation.....

...of a traditional Chinese curse."

The implication being that times of peace, tranquility, prosperity, et al....are a bore.

Nothing ratchets up the "interesting level" like chaos, disorder and conflict.

In more ways than one, China may, sooner rather than later, have the last laugh.

Aim High...Or, At The Very Least, Actually Aim...

There's obviously some confusion in our day to day when it comes to an oft heard, long ago coined bromide in our midst.

Everyone is entitled to their opinion.

Truth is, after a reasonable amount of thought, I find myself still not entirely sure where, exactly, the whole thing hits a snag.

I have, though, narrowed it down to two of the six words involved.

Entitled.

Opinion.

Summary of my assessment momentarily.

Sarah Huckabee Sanders is one of the more long term Trump loyalists on a list of Trump loyalists who, for the most part, have proven themselves, time after time, to be way more about transience and way less about long term.

And, not to wander too far off the path of my point this early in the process, but it occurs that the more deeply dug in amongst the BFF brigade tend to be those infused with estrogen.

Kellyanne Conway. Kayleigh McEnany. Betsy DeVos. And now Stephanie Grisham. All female. And all fervent in their allegiance to the man/child wanna be king, supporting, rationalizing, justifying and defending, without hesitation, or any sign of intelligent life, for that matter, pretty much everything that comes out of his always open for business trap and his always grammatically entertaining Twitter feed.

And I only point out that the fan club membership boasts more she's than he's, not out of cheap shot-ing sexist rhetoric, but out of a remarkable slab of life ironic.

This kind of womanly devotion to a guy who could very easily make a post-White House career out of being a poster boy for every thing on the planet that diminishes, dismisses and denigrates women has to rank as one of, if not number one of, the list of things in life that irrefutably fall into the category of "what the fuck?"

My super secret, Spidey-sense of it all is that there's some tragicomic strain of battered woman syndrome in play here. The more used and abused, the more the effort to be worthy of not being used and abused. Again, that's, admittedly, just conjecture.

Because, damn it, Jim, I'm a satirical commentator not a doctor of emotional issues as they relate to the male/female psychology.

Meanwhile, Sarah Huckabee Sanders. Who I notice, not for nothin', since her recent departure from the White House Press Room podium and her recent arrival wearing that combination kissy face/Imhotep facial expression toward the red lighted camera with the Fox News logo on the side, has become, for public consumption, simply Sarah Sanders.

Again, Spidey-sense telling me that some Rhodes Scholar in the Fox News think tank pointed out that while the whole three name thing might have done wonders for Louisa May Alcott, Billie Jean King and Mary Tyler Moore, it didn't exactly pay off big time for Tammy Faye Baker, Nicole Brown Simpson or, of course, Hillary Rodham Clinton.

And let's not underestimate the blatant booing and hissing inspired by John Wilkes Booth, John Wayne Gacy and history's favorite patsy, Lee Harvey Oswald.

So, put a pin in Huckabee and, now, here's cogent comment and insightful interjection by one of the great minds of the 21st Century.....Sarah Sanders.

And her observation re' the current crop of announced candidates for the Democratic presidential nomination.

"I'm pretty sure they don't even like America."

This is the part where we circle back to the observation that I made at the beginning of today's commentary.

There's obviously some confusion in our day to day when it comes to an oft heard, long ago coined bromide in our midst.

Everyone is entitled to their opinion.

And, as you'll recall, I shared that I've weeded that down to just two words that seem to be where people get all entangled.

Entitled.

Opinion.

Our good friend, Mr. Dictionary, defines "entitled" as "believing oneself to be inherently deserving of privileges or special treatment".

There's a  key phrase there that is worthy of special attention.

"Believing oneself to be inherently deserving"

Not "being inherently deserving".

But the real fun begins when we weigh in with Mr. D's def of "opinion".

"...a view or judgment formed about something, not necessarily based on fact or knowledge...."

So, let's put all the pieces together and see what the puzzle reveals.

"Entitled to your opinion".

"Believing yourself to be inherently deserving of special treatment regarding your view or judgement about something....say it with me...not necessarily based on fact or knowledge."

For the folks in the cheap seats who prefer their explanations a little less complex and a lot more cut and dried, try this on.

This whole "you're entitled to your opinion" business is like that whole "right to bear arms" business.

You're free to participate, but there's a certain level of common sense expected of you when you do.

And therein, dear Brutus, lies both the rub and the fault.

Too many people take the expression "you're entitled to your opinion" and run with it like strapping on the AR-15 and defiantly, but proudly, getting in line at the local Chick-Fil-A.

And, at the risk of stretching the metaphor just one iota too far, those too many people need to be made aware, often and bluntly, that just as they're expected to not shoot their big bad bullet banger simply because they can if'n they's a want to, they're expected to not shoot their mouth off...for no other reason than they can.

If and when they's a want to.

The more insightful amongst us could, by now, be laying down a question that, on the face of it, might seem fair and applicable.

Isn't that "shooting their mouth off" thing exactly what I'm doing here with this commentary?

A not entirely unreasonable question.

Let me think about it for a second.

Okay.

No.

A lot of thought and not just a little effort, on my part, is being put into taking specific aim at what I'm confident many would see as a legitimate, even important, issue.

Irresponsibility.

And while one may, or may not, and is unequivocally free to,  agree, or disagree, with what I'm offering here, I'm also confident that no reasonable case could be made that what I'm saying here, and the way in which I'm saying it, could be classified, under any interpretation, as....stupid.

While strapping on ol' AR just to wait patiently for the tasty grilled chicken salad?

Cue Forrest. Forrest Gump.

Stupid is as stupid does, sir.

Or ma'am.

And for a, theoretically, well educated woman (the verdict, clearly, is still out on Ouachita Baptist University) to appear on internationally broadcast television and mince no words in offering that a dozen or so Americans who, regardless of political philosophy, represent a broad cross section of race, gender, public service, commitment and, yes, Virginia, red, white and blue patriotism "don't even like America" is, at best, a very poorly articulated attempt to pander to viewers who think "lock her up" is one of them there things carved on the marble of the Capitol Rotunda.....and, is at worst...in a word...stupid.

But just like the big gun bozo who doesn't think it through, only to find that real damage has been done when "ready, fire! aim" goes south, Sarah Huckabee Sanders ain't a thinkin' it through, neither.

Or even, most likely, not considering the damage that her display of dumb is doing.

Allow me.

A lot of us "Democrats who just don't like America" are, believe it or not, still listening to a lot of what "the opposition" has to say. And not, as might be suspected, because we are constantly laying in wait, hoping for yet another opportunity to pounce, pointing out their lack of vision, their lack of ability, their lack of common sense.

Their lack of simple, elementary school level grammatical efficiency,

Donald.

We're listening because we really do believe, at the core of it all, that the solutions to the genuine challenges, even the problems, that face us all, all of us who, as JFK nailed it so long ago, "inhabit the same planet, breathe the same air, cherish our children's future" lie somewhere in the middle between your way, my way and/or the highway.

And that only a fool closes their ears and their eyes to the possibility that the "other guys" might have things to say and paths to follow that might help us all get where we all need to go.

Even when the other guys are sycophant sillies like Sarah Huckabee Sanders.

But when it comes to listening to, let alone buying into, what the other guys have to say, here's another fun catch phrase.

Credibility is key.

And even if, for example, I've been following Sarah's suggestions and insights for a while, it's almost comic, and tragic at the same time, as to how close she gets to getting me to start paying serious attention......

Cue Frank and Nancy.

Then she has to go and spoil it all / by saying something......

...stupid.

One last cue. This one going out to the former Sarah Huckabee Sanders.

That State Farm Insurance fishing guy.

Ahhp. You nearly had us.

But, Sarah....oh, Sarah, Sarah, Sarah......

You stumbled into an all too common pitfall.

While pulling off quite a feat of firearms skill.

You seriously confused the meaning of being "entitled to your opinion".

And you shot your mouth off just cause ya's a wanted to......

....only to shoot yourself in the foot.