The Internet, by many, has become the Encyclopedia Britannica. That is to say it is flawless. However those who are in a hurry to prove, or disprove a point are not interested in facts. Many Internet sites Goggled are out of date, flat wrong, or the source is overlooked. Not to mention those in tin-foil hats who are looking for the outrageous. Amateur sleuths, groomed by playing Clue, having access to flaunt their less than accurate ideas, are then read by other tin-foil hats. Now the issue at hand is then met with a resounding ah-ha, which causes a group to then say; “told ya so.” So it is with the horrific Las Vegas shooting. At this point, in the investigation, little is known. But those Clue players are filling in the blanks at an alarming rate driving down False Avenue. The destination is a city named Outrageous where Liberals live.
Trayvon Martin or Mike Brown or Sandra Bland or Sean Bell or Eric Garner or Tamir Rice or Walter Scott are examples of why NFL players are protesting White police brutality of African American’s…
1) Travon Martin: was not killed by a police officer
2) Mike Brown: was not murdered by a police officer…H e was shot by the officer in self-defense
3) Sandra Brown: committed suicide by hanging herself with a plastic garbage bag…She was pulled over for a traffic violation and became abusive kicking the state trouper…The trouper was not responsible for her death…
4) Sean Bell: On the night of his death, Bell was hosting a bachelor party at Club Kalua, a strip club that was being investigated by undercover police over accusations that the owners fostered prostitution. The New York Post reported that Joseph Guzman had an argument with a man outside the bar, and threatened to get a gun. One of Bell’s friends reportedly said, “Yo, get my gun,” as they left the club. Thinking a shooting was about to take place, an African American plain-clothes officer named Gescard Isnora followed Bell and his companions. He alerted his backup team, who confronted Bell and his companions outside. According to Isnora, he “held out his badge, identified himself as a police officer, and ordered the driver to stop”. Instead, Bell accelerated the car, striking Isnora, and then collided with an unmarked police minivan. Isnora said he thought he saw Guzman reach for a gun. He yelled a warning to the other policemen, and they opened fire on the car. Five policemen joined in, firing about 50 bullets into Bell’s car.
Witness accounts of the event conflict with the account provided by police. According to Joseph Guzman, the plain clothes detectives never identified themselves as they approached with their weapons drawn. According to the New York Daily News, witnesses claimed the officers failed to warn Bell before opening fire, beginning to shoot as soon as they left their cars. A toxicology report showed that Bell was legally intoxicated at the time he was shot…
“Sean Bell brought the shooting on himself…He ran down a Black police officer with his car, which is assault with a deadly weapon, he was drunk…He was not murdered by a police officer he was shot to keep him from assaulting other officers….”
5) Eric Garner: 6’3″ 350 lb. NYPD officers approached Garner on suspicion of selling “loosies” (single cigarettes) from packs without tax stamps. After Garner told the police that he was tired of being harassed and that he was not selling cigarettes, the officers went to arrest Garner. When officer Daniel Pantaleo tried to take Garner’s wrist behind his back, Garner pulled his arms away. Pantaleo then put his arm around Garner’s neck and took him down onto the ground. After Pantaleo removed his arm from Garner’s neck, he pushed the side of Garner’s face into the ground while four officers moved to restrain Garner, who repeated “I can’t breathe” eleven times while lying facedown on the sidewalk. After Garner lost consciousness, officers turned him onto his side to ease his breathing. Garner remained lying on the sidewalk for seven minutes while the officers waited for an ambulance to arrive. The officers and EMTs did not perform CPR on Garner at the scene; according to a spokesman for the PBA, this was because they believed that Garner was breathing and that it would be improper to perform CPR on someone who was still breathing. He was pronounced dead at the hospital approximately one hour later. Garner had been arrested by the NYPD more than thirty times since 1980 on charges such as assault, resisting arrest, and grand larceny. According to an article in the New York Times many of these arrests had been for allegedly selling unlicensed cigarettes. In 2007, he filed a handwritten complaint in federal court accusing a police officer of conducting a cavity search of him on the street, “digging his fingers in my rectum in the middle of the street” while people passed by. Garner had, according to The New York Times, “recently … told lawyers at Legal Aid that he intended to take all the cases against him to trial”. At the time of the incident, he was out on bail for selling untaxed cigarettes, driving without a license, marijuana possession, and false impersonation.
” Garner had been arrested 30 times, he was out on bail for; driving without a license, possession, and false impersonation; a scofflaw…He was an extremely large man who was resisting arrest, and would be alive today if he was an innocent African American just walking down the street; he brought his death to him…
6) Tamir Rice: A man called 911 to report that a “guy with a gun” is pointing it at people at Cudell Recreation Center.
The man was calm and told dispatcher Constance Hollinger that the person pointing the gun was “probably a juvenile” and that the gun is “probably fake.”
Hollinger relayed the call to dispatcher Beth Mandl. She sent Garmback and his trainee, Loehmann, his trainee, to Cudell. They were on patrol and were the closest available officers to investigate. Garmback, behind the wheel of the cruiser, drove toward Cudell. Loehmann, who’s been on the force for less than a year, sat in the passenger seat.
The problem was that dispatchers didn’t tell Loehmann and Garmback that Tamir might be a child and that the gun might be fake. Mandl told Cuyahoga County Sheriff’s Department investigators that she was not aware original caller said those things. As the cruiser stopped, Tamir reached into his right waistband and pulled out the replica gun.
Loehmann got out of the cruiser and fired his service weapon twice at close range. Loehmann said he shouted warnings to Tamir to drop his firearm, but the whole interaction lasted less than two seconds.
The city, since this shooting, has worked with the U.S. Justice Department and an independent monitor to re-draft how officers use force and try to de-escalate situations. While the new policies still leave officers a lot of discretion, it also says officers must take every step necessary to avoid using violence before using a weapon.
“A sad heartbreaking event, but I must make the point that Tamir was not shot because he was an African American…Also he was 5’7” and weighted 190 lbs.
7) Walter Scott: At 9:30 a.m., April 4, 2015, in the parking lot of an auto parts store at 1945 Remount Road, Slager stopped Scott for a non-functioning third brake light. Scott was driving a 1991 Mercedes, and, according to his brother, was headed to the auto parts store when he was stopped. The video from Slager’s dashcam shows him approaching Scott’s car, speaking to Scott, and then returning to his patrol car. Scott exited his car and fled with Slager giving chase on foot. A toxicology report showed that Scott had cocaine and alcohol in his system at the time of his death.
“There is not one iota of evidence the officer shot Scott because he was African American…The major question is why did Scott run?
I must conclude their protests are therefore unfounded…”
People who dislike the way things work out detest history. Adults are fully aware that the practice of acceptance is necessary here. Yesterday is history tomorrow a mystery rings true. Those who would attempt to alter or completely erase a historical event or events are what Socialist do. Lies must become truth therefore burn books write new ones; history books that is. Our culture, as Americans, is founded in history. History is a great teacher, which can scold; never do that again. Intelligence commands us to move on
Some folks attempt to alter history having nothing to do with Socialism. The word acceptance is not present in the vocabulary. One way to make this happen is to tear down monuments representative of a historical time or event. They believe this will erase the incident. Some folks are that way.
Some insist their race is “supreme,” some claim that only their race matters, and one group believes Nazi fascism is the answer: They are all wrong and insult what this nation stands for.
Those who defend those monuments have a case. These stone history books represent a war fought, lives lost, changed, or heroes made. They speak too the wrong as well as the right. Fixated in stone they represent insult to others. Yet, for every insult is another monument representing praise. All depends on what side of the gulf your standing.
The intent of this article is to address the gulf, the abyss that divides this great nation.
We have been changed as a nation over the past years by two words. These two words
were introduced into our educational system, and have altered the thinking of many.
They are responsible for the premature deaths of countless citizens and the reason for the gulf between us. They have caused race differences to be amplified and the intensification of erroneous labeling of people. The two words; political correctness, which makes us all walk the pirates plank.
On one side of the gulf stands a stone Robert E. Lee on the other side a stone Martin Luther King. Who among you believes tearing down either one of these monuments changes history? The answer is obvious. The solution is to build a bridge.
Kathy Griffin: “He broke me”, no Griffin you broke you…You practice moral relativity, which means you author your own set of morals…This means you do whatever makes you feel good…The upside is you have no conscience…The downside is when you do what pleases Kathy and you intentionally butt heads with normal moral values, you can not cope…An apology is offered, and if not accepted you blame the person or persons you wronged…Your a moral deviate, and one sick person…You attacked my President without cause simulating murder; you belong behind bars…Anyone supporting your behavior is as sick as you are…
The God of The Bible is not allah…Muslims do not speak of God as their heavenly Father. In the Islamic faith, Allah is not only a different name for god; the deity it designates is far more impersonal than the God of the Bible. Father—the very name that Jesus gave us as the designated name for use in prayer—is a name that simply does not fit Allah as depicted in the Quran.
Furthermore, Muslims claim that Allah has no son. This represents a head-on collision between the God of the Bible and Allah. For, as the Bible makes clear, the one and only true God is most perfectly revealed as the Father of the Son, Jesus Christ. In the Gospel of John, Jesus repeatedly teaches that no one has truly known the Father, except by the Son. In one of the most clarifying verses in the New Testament, Jesus declared Himself to be “the way, and the truth, and the life,” adding, “No one comes to the Father except through me” (John 14:6).
Because Muslims deny that God has a son, they explicitly reject any Trinitarian……
Remembering Walter who passed away three years ago:
April 1939 – March 2014
Junior was his childhood name, which he disliked immensely. But this fact only became known to me as an adult. Growing up together “Junior” taught this boy how to net butterflies, assemble an aquarium and catch sunfish naming only a few. He was more than a cousin; he was my friend. He was a multi-talented man with the greenest of thumbs. He could plant any seed, any time of the year and have it grow into something beautiful. My sister Ruth and I were his childhood actors. Walter would write and direct plays staring us. This included costumes but never an audience. We would happily rehearse our parts over and over until they met with the director’s approval. I must admit he tried, unsuccessfully, to teach maturity to me, but my alcoholism would not allow it. I admired him immensely and never shared that fact. I cried today when hearing of his passing. Walter Szczublewski was a gift to this world, and we will see each other again when I go to my mansion in the sky. We shall net butterflies, build aquariums, and I will call him Walter.
Through the eyes of alcoholics reality is not seen
Casting down a glass
They choose instead to drink from the bottle
Brightness is sought in the dead of night
Darkness arrives in the morn
When liquid hell permeates the brain
The alcoholic’s intellect mirrors insight
Truth speaks otherwise
Unceasing rain batters the windshield making it near impossible to see. The road is dirt, dropping off into ditches on both sides. These trenches are waterways deep enough to swallow any vehicle leaving the road. Darkness is having a dinner party, and the guest list includes disaster; I pray it does not show.
I am awash in fear, voices yell in my head in cadence with water flinging wipers. I am a drunk in need of a drink. The need is three weeks old. Thoughts lurch through brain cells like angry fire flies, they blink, they scold. You desensitized all your relationships, such a fool you are! If you had pictures on the mantle they would only be of you. Your daily life makes nightmares seem like a very peaceful place. Loser is what you are!
His name is Jordan, the man I am driving to see. Jordan has somehow remained sober for thirty-six years and I want what he has. I was given his name at an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting. AA members tell me sobriety heals the mind. Continuing to drink will insure death, sheer spurning guaranties lunacy. Wild bees begin to swarm inside my psyche, and voices yell in the darkness. Jordan’s log cabin appears between wiper swipes. Pulling in to the drive, I sense something in the back seat and quickly leave the car slamming the door. Walking onto the porch, the door opens without knocking.
“You do know there are two kinds of dry Bobby, and you’re mighty wet; welcome to the cabin, I’m Jordan. Let me take your jacket. Go sit by the fire, I’ll pour us coffee. Nasty night to be driving, did you have any trouble getting here?”
“Never bothered me a bit Jordan, they call me Mr. Tough.”
“A rough dude I see, coffee black?”
“Yeah black is fine.” My shaking hands spill coffee. I set the cup on the barn wood table.
“When was your last drink Bobby?”
“Three weeks ago.”
“You do not need coffee, Mr. Shaky, you need sugar. I keep a jug of orange juice with Karo syrup in the fridge; I’ll pour you a glass.”
“Fine, and don’t call me Mr. Shaky.”
“If you want me to be your sponsor I’ll call you what I damn well please. If you really want to get sober, the first word to learn is acceptance, a day at a time. Now chug down the juice, I’ll pour you another.”
The warmth of the cabin and several glasses of Jordan’s super juice calm me. “Jordan I did not mean to be nasty but it’s the way I am.”
“I was the same way Bobby, took me seven to ten years to unravel the spaghetti in my head.”
“That long! Are you telling me ten years? I’ll be dead in ten years.”
“I’m telling you how long it took me to be completely sober. That does not mean your quality of life lags behind. When I first started attending AA meetings I was completely insane.”
“Are you calling me crazy? Don’t you think insane is a bit much?”
“No Mr. shaky, insane is what we are. Consider this; you are in a room with two doors. Behind door one is a three hundred pound guy with a ball bat. Behind door two is a blonde in a Corvette. A drunk will choose door one, get beaten by that bat, over and over and over. That is what we do, every time we take another drink, and yes, it is insanity. How many years have you been drinking?”
“Eleven years old is when I had my first drunk, and now I’m thirty-six, do the math; I can‘t think.”
“Twenty-five years, twenty-five years of door number one, qualifies as being insane. Bobby, what drove you to AA?”
“I discovered I drank when I did not want to drink. My life is like living in a trash can! I’ve lost my job, wife, kids…but I, I still wanted… no needed to drink.”
“You are powerless over alcohol Bobby; powerless! Your life is unmanageable. If you do not stop drinking, you will die; understand? There is only one way. Make a decision to turn your will and life over to the care of God. If the word God pushes you away from AA, the bottle will push you back. Are you are an alcoholic Bobby?”
“Yes I am I am.”
I begin sobbing, and time seems to stand still. I can feel hate, and resentments clawing their way out. All of the despicable things I have done were flashing through my mind. Seeing the real me without a fake facade is crushing my ego. Pain shaking hands with joy is the most awkward feeling wounding yet healing.
“Go ahead and cry Bobby, just let it out. Everything inside this home stays here.”
For the next hour and a half I pour out my sordid past. Every horrid happening, never divulged to a living soul, lay bare. I had lied about much of the past. The real truth plus lies, having been spun in minds blender, leaving me unable to distinguish between reality and make believe.
“That is all Jordan, the garbage truck is empty; I am ashamed.”
“Don’t be. I’ve heard worse. Now bury it right here, covering it with a shovel; then break the shovel handle so it will never be dug up.” Jordan, pausing for a moment, continues. “Have you ever wondered why rear view mirrors are smaller than windshields?”
“Never thought about it.”
“They allow only a glimpse of what is behind you. Windshields offer a panoramic view of what is in front of you. The point is this; do not dwell in the past live in the present.”
“Is this the meaning of a day at a time?”
“Yes, yesterday is history tomorrow a mystery, just live today. It is going to take sometime but if you stick with me you will have a life that will be beyond belief.”
“How did you stay sober for so long?”
“I keep repeating a quote from the poet Dorothy Parker, which I have turned around; I’d rather have a frontal lobotomy then a bottle in front of me.”
Jordan, reaching into a drawer, retrieves a copy of The Big Book of Alcoholics Anonymous. “This is yours Bobby, take it home and read Chapter five. If you feel like taking a drink call me first, I will answer twenty-four seven. Today is Tuesday, I’ll see you at my home group Wednesday at eight PM. Walk slow, and drink lots of orange juice with Karo syrup.”
“Thanks Jordan, will you be my sponsor?”
“Yes, Mr. Shaky, I will.”
As I drive away, I soon realize an unusual feeling is present. One not felt in such a long time I cannot describe it. What is this, this sensation? I begin to cry again, as I identify the lost feeling; it is peace. Smiling with wet eyes I turn on the radio for the first time in years. The song is Springsteen’s Dancing in the Dark, and I think; I can make it; I can make it a day at a time.
Winds of change in sobriety become puffs
Pouring down from mountains of hope
Storm clouds form not and
Pain no longer travels on currents of regret
D. Edwin Burbee
It is a wintery evening as people leave work to start and brush snow from cars. Laughter seasoned with see you tomorrow blends and fades into darkness. One man remains walking first left then right and stops, his mind races. I do not know where I parked my car. Budding fear soon blossoms into terror as he checks his pockets. No keys, no wallet, My God help me, where am I? The streets are empty he is completely alone. I must get home I have been gone for weeks. He begins to run aimlessly, cold air burns his lungs with tears freezing to his face.
Icicles captured by a clothesline tinkle lightly, softly, played by unseen fingers of breeze. Translucent piano keys, suspended necklace-like from the once taunt line, perform micro symphonic music. A high-pitched clinking, much like the sound glass objects make when they knock against each other, creates a grouping of sounds; a tune. The melody attracts, captivates, and hypnotizes the man rapt by this mellow music, and he wonders is this the key that unlocks my memory?
Ernie wakes drenched in a cold sweat. “It is the same awful nightmare,” he mumbles, “identical situation every night for weeks; ever since I was hit by that Acura, and ate an air-bag.”
A ringing phone shatters thoughts. Ernie picks up the receiver with a moist shaking hand; “hello.”
“Mr. Savage this is Coastal Neuropsychology, Doctor Sweeney’s office, calling to confirm the appointment you made last week. It is for tomorrow.”
“Thank you, it’s at one correct?”
“Yes, at one.”
“I’ll be there.”
As Ernie thumbs through magazines in DR. Sweeney’s waiting room, a nurse beckons him in. “Good afternoon Mr. Savage I’m Doctor Sweeney.”
“You can call me Ernie.”
“Alright its Ernie then, what is troubling you?”
“Nightmares, actually singular as in nightmare every night it is exactly the same.”
“Can you tell me the basic content?”
“I dream I have amnesia it is real, petrifying. I need to go home but I do not know where I am”
“Do you know where home is?”
“No, but the need to quickly get there is overpowering.”
“Ernie I’ve gone over tests from your accident and no physical damage is indicated. It appears the emotional component may be the reason for this nightmare. What do you see?”
“A frozen clothes line with icicles hanging and the wind causes them to chime musically. I become enchanted by the sound believing it holds a solution to my amnesia. Yet, all the while, my brain is in turmoil trying to think where I am. Every time I sleep the nightmare returns, the same. I believe that soon I will not wake up; I can not take much more of this!” Ernie begins sobbing, rocking back and forth in the chair.
“Easy Mr. Savage, relax. I have a few more questions, are you up to it?” Breathing deeply
Ernie calms, “I am fine go ahead doctor.”
“During this dream are you cold?”
“No, I realize it is cold but I do not feel cold.”
“Any background, can you see anything else?”
“It appears to be white all around me.”
“Go home and take these sedatives. You need rest. Relax Ernie; we will find the underlying cause of this. Call me if anything changes.”
“Thank you Doctor.”
Ernie leaves Doctor Sweeny’s office and returns home. Washing down pills with water, he collapses on the sofa, falling asleep immediately. He comes to hours later, trembling violently. A riveting thought shocks; I must see Dr. Sweeney, the nightmare changed.
Ernie returns to the Doctor’s office. His appearance conveying the condition within.
Wearing the same clothing from the last visit, he is also wearing a vacant stare.
“Sit here Mr. Savage; I’ll have my nurse bring a glass of water. Your phone call suggests the nightmare has changed?”
“Yes, as I stare at the icicles I hear a voice calling my name.
“Do you recognize the voice?”
“No but it sounds like a women.”
“Ernie, are your parents alive?”
“No, I’m adopted”
“At what age were you adopted?”
“My earliest memory is being nine years old.”
“And you have no recollection of an earlier time?”
“No, not at all.” My adopted parents are both deceased, killed in a fire while I was in college. A
social worker told me that my mother lost her life in a plane crash, however I have no knowledge of my father.”
“Go home and attempt to rest. I will research records using your Social Security number to shed some light on your past. If I discover any relevant information, I will call you. Feel free to call if your condition worsens.”
Upon returning home, Ernie lays down on his couch. Within minutes, he is
asleep. Seeing the icicles once again, their charismatic tinkle bewitchingly freezing his stare.
“Ernest, come inside honey it is too cold and everyone is waiting for the birthday boy.
How that boy loves the outdoors, why he would live out there if I didn’t call him in.”
“Let him play awhile Millie, he’s well dressed.”
“I know, but he is all I have. When I fly to New York next week just make sure, he wears his leggings when outdoors.”
“Aunt Alice will be in charge, now how about a glass of port on the rocks?”
Glasses are filled with ice and wine while Alice lights the five candles on Ernie’s cake. The two women sing happy birthday. Ernie blows out the candles everyone claps and cheers.
“Open your present Ernest, your mother can’t wait.”
“Thanks Mommy.” Ernie rips off the wrapping paper revealing a glass globe music box. Inside is a winter scene, a washerwomen is hanging clothes on a line; Icicles hang among clothing. Ernie turns the box on and a tinkling chime-like melody plays.
Jesus loves me, this I know For the Bible tells me so
Little ones to Him belong They are weak, but He is strong
Yes, Jesus loves me! Yes, Jesus loves me!
Yes, Jesus loves me! The Bible tells me so
A hospital loudspeaker blares; Code Blue room 234…Code Blue room 234….
At lunch, a nurse asks an intern, “What was your Code Blue for?”
“For Ernest Savage, the guy who was in a car wreck and has been in a coma since he was
admitted last week; he passed away.”
“I often wonder if a person in a comatose condition has the ability to think.”
“There is no answer to your question but he died with the most pleasant expression on his face.”