With profound apologies to Walt Whitman

 I Hear America Bitching

I hear America bitching, the varied noises today I hear,

Those of media commentators of every chordless type, each singing and underestimating the good sense of folks who don’t see the world and its myriad issues splattered against a black-and-white canvas,

The well-paid extremists who swarm in to condemn a drunk-driving cop who kills an innocent biker, yet remain light years away and mute when a decent officer is gunned down dead,

The minions of a Kansas maniac professing God’s hate of gays, Catholics, Jews [for that matter everybody] and who show up at service members’ funerals merely to grab sound bites for the news media,

The benign bleatings of career politicians, whose melodies of promise and pledges are shorn swiftly with such sheepish ease,

The warped arias of pin-striped, corporate cowboys on whom so many livelihoods depend, falling safely and richly beneath canopies of gold in the aftermath of their misdeeds and mismanagement,

The song of the lazy and those who don’t give a damn, whose misguided measures with many rest signs seek full harvest without sowing one seed,

Perhaps soon we shall hear new tunes, each measure robust and hopeful,

Singing with open mouths a similar lyric echoing 1776 and stretching for future harmony.

The Wacky Maniac Resurfaces



The Arabic Al Jazeera news network today aired a videotaped message from Osama Bin Laden where he threatened "dire consequences" if judges failed to select him as a contestant for American Idol. U.S. intelligence analysts have confirmed that the likeness is genuine, adding that they have been pursuing leads that the maniacal terrorist has infiltrated a popular ventriloquist's comedy tour.



A star is reborn

I am here -- somewhere.

I remember a few days before my good Dad died back in November 1990, I had this fleeting dream of him. For whatever reason, he was wearing the tattered clothes that were the uniform-of-the-day for boys of the Great Depression. A skinny, red-haired lad in a large, hardscrabble family near Yankeetown, Ind. But there he was, amidst all of the misery of those days, scampering through a field and then suddenly hopping around the stars you still can see in back-country Hoosierland on a clear night.

That wonderful dream has clung to me for two decades. I think of the Creator, the profound philosophers and even the great scientists who, in their different ways, say we all come from the stars and are destined to return to them. I like that; I believe it.

To this day I recall those three Magi who followed that Star to Bethlehem that is one symbol of my faith. And I recall the great explorers who navigated their way through this planet and into outer space. What wondrous journeys we are capable of, eh?

Meal ticket

"Well, fellas I gotta tell ya, the only da Vinci code here is the mystery of who's gonna pick up the tab for this dinner. But I hear Judas has just come into some extra cash."

Trash talking on a Wednesday

IT WAS AN EARLY WEDNESDAY EVENING. I know this to be a fact because I was preparing to snake up my snow-glazed driveway into the garage and was prepared to do so in what has become a routine at this time of day.  Neither snow nor sunshine is not a factor. Either edge my tired Mercury to the side of the road, or make an S-shaped maneuver around the obstacle and nose into the garage.

Trash day in Indianapolis. Today, the heavy-duty container stood as upright as Patton reviewing an Army parade right in the center and entrance of my 100-foot gravel driveway. I sighed some choice “Blood-and-Guts” words as I reconnoitered around it, parked the car and did my solemn duty. Retrieve the empty canister and drag it back toward the house.

Giving back from 'the next life'

God bless IMPD Officer David Moore and his parents Jo and Spencer Moore. He passed this morning after being removed from life support.

Click on   David Moore.

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