It is "Christmas Week" as I make this entry of one of my dad's short short stories. I have not one thing planned until Christmas Eve, five days from now, as going out into the world has been made so unpleasant in the name of "good health". And though I have resisted becoming afraid, my nature is fearful, and the constant pounding of the dangers that abound in living are finally getting to me. I can think, as I have said, of no time when it will ever be good for our health to go out again without some kind of protective suit, mask, injection that itself will never be enough. By the way, I hear that Moderna is working on a "new" booster to address the Omicron variant. One day, you and I could belong to the "Booster of the Month Club" because for every booster there will be a variant virus. All right. I am about as "down" emotionally as ever I have been in my generally "glass half empty" view of life. It is a good thing I have my faith, because without it, I am certain I would be in utter despair. And my faith is sometimes a tenuous plank not because of my faith, but because of my human frailty.
I was rummaging through Dad's many stories in the mood in which I find myself--one which I am told I ought to overcome even as I watch all of us sliding into the abyss--and found one of my Dad's politically tinged observations. One thing, among many I see, that demonstrates the clear genetic relationship between my father and me, is how upset the years' long gaslighting by our America hating representatives makes me. And more, how distressing it is that so many of my fellow Americans actually support the deconstruction of the least imperfect of imperfect governments.
My dad's plethora of stories was the result of a class he took in West Hollywood over many years. His teacher and his classmates liked him despite his political views which none of them shared. They were a rare group. And my father was a rare man. It was a fortuitous interaction. But also, by the time he joined the class he had lost whatever fear he had in expressing himself. He prooffered the concept of the blessed Saul Alinsky, the patriot of the Left, in the immortal words, "Do Me Something". He chalked his bravery up to being old. Nobody cares what the old have to say.
Anyway, when I run across some of his lamentations, I marvel how prescient they are related to where we are today, some 20 years or more after he wrote them.
So todays offering is called "What's in a Word?"
Our teacher and mentor today suggested that we inscribe a word in the center of a blank page, then project subconscious emanations that derive therefrom it.
I wrote the word, "chicanery" in the fulcrum area and the next word which came to my mind was "Democratic", as in the capitalized meaning, or the Party.
"Corrupt", was another word. I need not berate the reader with such memorable comments as "There is no controlling legal authority", or "I never lied--not once--to the American people."
Of course, I agree that "to err is human" except when confession is nothing more than another political maneuver. Throughout the Democrat realm there is the pounding of chests and the rending of clothes and sufficient "mea culpas" to reach the portals of heaven. Naturally the unified Democrat mantra of CNNs Bill Press and his less literate clones proclaim the redemption, "Yea, verily we have sinned. . .but we have grown."
"Let us get on with the business of government," says the chorus under the baton of the Master in the Rose Garden. It is truly only the "passing of wind" but the acolytes smell roses.
"Go ye forth and vote!" I did, on Super Tuesday in the Democrat infested 42nd. I have been voting there for 8 years, religiously, as a registered Republican. I have never expressed any sign of conversion, and they have always handed me a Republican ballot.
So, I had no reason this time to inspect the card. I voted on the ballot handed to me, and was dubbed a good citizen by the young man who took my selections. Without reference to my preference, he pinned me with the sticker which dubbed me "Republican".
On returning home, I noted that the stub was marked "Democratic".
I returned to the polling place and confronted the elderly woman who had given me my ballot".
"You asked for it!", she said, without hesitation. When I persisted, she said, "Talk to that man in black." He listened to my coplaint.
"All the ballots are Democratic," he said, the kind of response one would expect when a hand is discovered in the till.
"Does my vote count toward the selection of delegates?"
"Of course," he said. "There's only one ballot."
I persisted.
"Pull the ballot and destroy it," he ordered. Clearly he had some authority in this charade.
"Do I get another vote?" I asked. He was silent.
I pondered the thought that there was easy accessibility to the box containing the ballots--more significant--that there was a local authority that could access or remove what is essentially a citizen's vote, at this local level.
I left. Perhaps it was an error.
If it was, then there were many. The multiple calls of complaining voters on the Larry Elder Show on KABC, convinced me that there is smoke, at the very least, in the area.
Something maybe rotten, and it "ain't Denmark."
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