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True But Forbidden #4

“The ordinary modes of human thinking are magical, religious, social, and personal. We want our wishes to come true; we want the universe to care about us; we want the approval of those around us; we want to get even with that s.o.b. who insulted us at the last tribal council. For most people, wanting to know the cold truth about the world is way, way down the list.” ― John Derbyshire, We Are Doomed

Blackface: What’s the Big Deal? –     If you desire a media that is entirely free of blackface, you will likely have to erase everything from Hollywood’s Golden Age. Once-revered performers who will likely be “unpersoned” to make way for some dim notion of “racial justice” because they once appeared in blackface include Bing Crosby, Fred Astaire, George Jessel, Sophie Tucker, David Niven, Buster Keaton, Joan Crawford, Jack Benny, Irene Dunne, George M. Cohan, Doris Day, Milton Berle, Peter Lorre, Hedy Lamarr, Douglas Fairbanks, William Holden, Edgar Kennedy, Mario Lanza, Marion Davies, Myrna Loy, Betty Grable, Paul Muni, Eddie Cantor, Laurel and Hardy, Gracie Allen, Elizabeth Taylor, The Three Stooges, Mickey Rooney, Shirley Temple, Sophia Loren, Judy Garland, and, but of course, Al Jolson.

Are the Democrats Bent on Suicide?   Air travel consumes huge quantities of carbon-producing jet fuel. What will replace it? Perhaps progressive Democratic candidates will set an example by not flying, and then by voting to end production of private aircraft and to ground all corporate jets. Let the elites sail to Davos.

Technology And Social Trust    Every internet drama seems to involve one party publishing chats, video or audio of another party. Supervillain Jeff Bezos is an obvious example. He broke the cardinal rule of supervillains. Never write when you can speak. Never speak when you can nod. Most important, never send pics of your wiener to people. He was cavalier about being recorded and now is the world’s silliest supervillain.

You know what I think would make a big, negative environmental impact? If everybody stopped eating meat. How come no one’s exploring that? Could you just imagine? These discussions surface about eating-meat, and people automatically think about cows. Every now and then I’ll come to learn about the actual throughput of chickens, though, and it’s hard to fathom. Hundreds and hundreds, per day, in one tiny little restaurant…what if we were all to quit, uh, cold-turkey. All those chickens that would’ve been butchered every day instead just strutting around making more chickens.  House of Eratosthenes

I think the oddest thing about the advanced people is that, while they are always talking about things as problems, they have hardly any notion of what a real problem is. – G. K. Chesterton

‘Social Justice’ Is for Homos :    Without getting too deep into the etiology of homosexuality, permit me to observe that Abby is a familiar type — sexually precocious, she’d had both boyfriends and girlfriends before she was old enough to get a driver’s license and, while she’s reasonably attractive, she’s somewhat pudgy. Speculative discussion of why Abby (or anyone else) engages in homosexual behavior would be a waste of time, but what I wish to call to the reader’s attention is that Abby is a recognizable type, both in terms of her personal backstory and her physical appearance including (a) her purple-dyed undercut hairstyle and (b) her pierced nostril. When you factor in her Tumblr blogs devoted to (c) “social justice” politics and (d) astrology, Abby is a 21st-century stereotype. [click to continue…]


“And now the ‘News'”


Briefly, Your News by Andy Havens

I’ve been looking at the news for a while now, trying to find something that happened somewhere but that’s like counting the grains of gunpowder in the bullet with your name on it.

There might be one in there that isn’t going to light when the firing pin strikes, but that’s not going to slow it down any.

All that mad space on the airwaves. A dozen papers a hundred websites a thousand articles a million words.

Each one distinct and identical and individual but fired all together from a three-letter casing that tries to hide its intent. It succeeds wherever we let it and it does what a bullet is supposed to do – it makes a hole in us.

Oh my God, I just can’t do it.

I’ve been looking at the news for a while now, trying to find poetry, though I know I should have known better…

RTWT @ Briefly, Your News – Andy Havens


Corn-Pone Opinions by Mark Twain

Color Photograph of Mark Twain taken by autochrome. Via The New Neo

FIFTY YEARS AGO, when I was a boy of fifteen and helping to inhabit a Missourian village on the banks of the Mississippi, I had a friend whose society was very dear to me because I was forbidden by my mother to partake of it. He was a gay and impudent and satirical and delightful young black man -a slave -who daily preached sermons from the top of his master’s woodpile, with me for sole audience. He imitated the pulpit style of the several clergymen of the village, and did it well, and with fine passion and energy. To me he was a wonder. I believed he was the greatest orator in the United States and would some day be heard from….

One of his texts was this:

“You tell me whar a man gits his corn pone, en I’ll tell you what his ‘pinions is.”….

I think Jerry was right, in the main, but I think he did not go far enough.

1. It was his idea that a man conforms to the majority view of his locality by calculation and intention. This happens, but I think it is not the rule.

2. It was his idea that there is such a thing as a first-hand opinion; an original opinion; an opinion which is coldly reasoned out in a man’s head, by a searching analysis of the facts involved, with the heart unconsulted, and the jury room closed against outside influences. It may be that such an opinion has been born somewhere, at some time or other, but I suppose it got away before they could catch it and stuff it and put it in the museum.

[click to continue…]


The Real Green New Deal

The world is literally a greener place than it was 20 years ago, and data from NASA satellites has revealed a counterintuitive source for much of this new foliage: China and India. A new study shows that the two emerging countries with the world’s biggest populations are leading the increase in greening on land. The effect stems mainly from ambitious tree planting programs in China and intensive agriculture in both countries.

The greening phenomenon was first detected using satellite data in the mid-1990s by Ranga Myneni of Boston University and colleagues, but they did not know whether human activity was one of its chief, direct causes. This new insight was made possible by a nearly 20-year-long data record from a NASA instrument orbiting the Earth on two satellites. It’s called the Moderate Resolution Imaging Spectroradiometer, or MODIS, and its high-resolution data provides very accurate information, helping researchers work out details of what’s happening with Earth’s vegetation, down to the level of 500 meters, or about 1,600 feet, on the ground.

Taken all together, the greening of the planet over the last two decades represents an increase in leaf area on plants and trees equivalent to the area covered by all the Amazon rainforests. There are now more than two million square miles of extra green leaf area per year, compared to the early 2000s – a 5% increase. Human Activity in China and India Dominates the Greening of Earth | NASA


God Emperor Trump Conquers Italy


Last Light

for Emma Jean (“And they saved each other every day.”)

How, when my emerald voices pray
In the crystal heart, and the bright chimes
Sound along the shoals of day,
Shall I not search among the stones
For your mist-shadowed silent lips,
And listen in the vaults of bones
For those wave-shattered psalms of seas
That promise me , oh my bright shade,
The flame that bends my soul to thee?

For is not love that trace of flame,
That sign seen far in silhouette
Between the edge of stars and earth,
In that place where winds on water step?
And if I read in heaven pale
These ancient signs, these lines on slate
That in translation, told our tale
As if our tale was marked on bone
Banked in halls of bronze and stone,
Would you believe those faded marks
No man can read or waking see?
Would you emerge from stone to say
Our history begins today?

I speak, I know, I know, at slant
And seldom cleave the circle straight,
But your geometries enchant
And I stand frozen at your gate.
Yet still I sense our centers touch
As deep as senses hope to know
In that rose room that hovers high
Above all memory of snow.

And so above the ocean I,
Released from arms and earth entire,
Relive within this room of steel
The ashen memory of your fire,
That in such mansions once I slept,
Most fortunate of all blessed men,
And breathed your breath,
Embraced your heart,
That my stilled heart might beat again.


Finally, spaceships that look like spaceships. Starship test vehicle under assembly will look similar to this illustration when finished. Operational Starships would obv have windows, etc. — Elon Musk @elonmusk

Ah but everything old is new again. Isn’t it?

From The Stars My Destination by Alfred Bester

Having led his pursuers three-quarters of the way around the world in fifty minutes, Foyle permitted them to overtake him in London. He permitted them to knock him down, take the ILI safe from his arms, count the remaining slugs of PyrE, and slam the safe shut. “There’s enough left for a war. Plenty left for destruction… annihilation … if you dare.” He was laughing and sobbing in hysterical triumph. “Millions for defense, but not one cent for survival.”

“Damn you!” Dagenham raged. “Don’t you realize that you can’t trust people? They don’t know enough for their own good.”

“Then let them learn or die. We’re all in this together. Let’s live together or die together.”

“D’you want to die in their ignorance? You’ve got to figure out how we can get those slugs back without blowing everything wide open.”

“No. I believe in them. I was one of them before I turned tiger. They can all turn uncommon if they’re kicked awake like I was.”

Foyle shook himself and abruptly jaunted to the bronze head of Eros, fifty feet above the counter of Piccadilly Circus. He perched precariously and bawled: [click to continue…]


The Smoke

Snow still sheaths the streets in their mountains,
and the spring trees shudder in the wind off their lakes,
until night’s smoke frames them and fades them
and  finally finally fades them forever and they’re gone…
gone into the smoke of the world.

Smell of her long hair hot in the sun through the windshield,
the rattle of dried corn sheaves shaken by dusk’s breeze,
soft heft of breasts small and sweet as winter oranges,
the breath rising in the dry heat parching her body.
And the fire rose up in me and I stretched her out, O lovely,
across the pale cloth and reached out
and holding held and held until gone
gone into the smoke of the world.

Gone fifty years.
The day, the lips, the hair — gone,
gone forever, forever gone,
gone into the gone world…
gone into the smoke of the world.

Above Berkeley’s Old Moe’s bookstore
she loomed over me in the lamplight
as morning seemed forever delayed.
An eastern school took her at dawn,
her name forgotten, her scent and her flesh
remembered so that even now,
on an unknown street here in the west,
I sometimes pass
a woman with that scent and turn
wondering, all these past gone years later,
could that one, that one, that one have been her
in that night when the dawn delayed,
and I woke to find her scent on the pillow
but her body forever gone, gone forever…
gone into the smoke of the world.

They arrive dancing along the blade of night.
They leave fading into the smoke of dawn.
The mists of memory swirl and fold,
and remove their distinct details:
the haiku left behind in old boxes:
“I scrunched up the moon
into my water bucket…”

Did someone say she became a singer
somewhere in California? Judy? Was that,
last innocent love of my youth, her name?

The Christian roommate with tawny hair,
stroking the breasts near the kennels of the barkless dogs.
That musk, that hot breath in the cherry orchards,
the dwarf cattle, that hand closing upon me
so fleetingly and then gone…
gone into the smoke of the world.

The Italian with the moped.
The cowgirl with the blues.
The lapsed Catholic.
The painter with the horse’s face and too-tight jeans.
The chintz shack. The quilt covered table.
The kiss upon my body — Ah and Ah and Ah —
The whispered love in the attic of the San Francisco Mansion —
The poet’s garret on the side street, gray corridors —
The one named after the little deer… Bambi

And then the forest takes a spark
And all the woods are blazing
And ash drifts down over the days
And they are all gone … all gone…
gone into the smoke of the world.

Then the years of the cities and the slim women
wafting out of the night and into the smoky clubs.
The models and the painters and the posers.
Hairdressers, shop girls, debutantes…
and those that loved the literary life.

The mockers and the shockers who kept
mostly cats but sometimes chittering marmots.
The ones who were sneaking around way downtown.
The socialites at the Black and White Ball
who needed their foreheads held as they hurled
into the shrubbery and then headed back to the bar
for another large double of oblivion.

And then in the room next to the roses in Big Sur,
Holding the one who became the long wife.
Now off to her aging and gone, long gone…
gone into the smoke of the world.

The brief wife calls from her place in the smoke,
hiding her need at the center of her speech,
and achieving assurance can’t wait to fade back
to the rooms that she’s chosen to have and to hold.

“How am I?
I’m good.
I’m doing quite well.”

“That’s good.
Glad to hear it.
Stay well.”

Missed connections.
Harsh static.
The cellphone breaks up and fades and she’s gone…
gone into the smoke of the world.

Snow still sheaths the streets
in their mountains and rivers,
and the spring trees shudder
in the wind off their lakes,
and the streetlights flicker
in their towns and their cities,
until winter banks their fires,
and night fades them finally,
and forever they’re gone,
gone into the gone world,
gone, gone, long gone,
gone into the smoke of the world.


In Laikipia, Kenya, on the 11th of February 11, Will captured a series of high-quality camera trap photographs of a wild melanistic leopard (otherwise known as a black panther). This was the first time the animal has been photographed in Africa since 1909, said Nick Pilfold, a global conservation scientist at the San Diego Zoo.
“The images were captured at Laikipia Wilderness Camp in Kenya, using [self-made] Camtraptions camera traps,” Burrard-Lucas told Bored Panda. “Each trap is made up of a Camtraptions motion sensor, which wirelessly triggers a high-quality DSLR or mirrorless camera and two or three flashes. I leave these cameras on game paths for days or even weeks at a time in order to photograph elusive animals. The technique also allows me to set up studio-like lighting in order to capture striking images of animals at night.” Via | Bored Panda
[click to continue…]


Fakespeare’s Sir John Falsestaff on Marriage

FALSTAFF, sitting upon the ground telling sad stories of the deaths of kings
…. some poison’d by their wives.

Enter FOOL.

FOOL: Good Sir John, how fare thee.

FALSTAFF: I fare well but soon must fare thee well.

FOOL: Nay. Take thy shadow off thyself.
Do but drink this bottle down and we shall merry be.

FALSTAFF: Merry? Me? Falstaff shall no more merry be.

FOOL: But thou art known from Land’s End to John O’Groats
as the merriest of Prince  Harry’s merry band.
And I stand witness from our revels past
that all such tales are true.

FALSTAFF: Oh, fine Fool, if you seek one
who would be merry with you
you seek not old Sir John.

FOOL: Posh and bother, good Sir John,
with these sweet cakes
and this good ale
how can you not merry be?

FALSTAFF: I may not now make merry
because I have made myself marry.

FOOL: Make Merry? ‘Swounds! The very stones echo back
your merry laughter from across the years.

FALSTAFF: You hear me amiss.
I am not merry because I married am.

FOOL: Ah. Now I have your measure.
You say you married are?
Well, there’s the rub that raises up
the blister on the foot of all men’s souls.
How say you of this married state
in which you are not merry?

FALSTAFF: It is much of a muchness
and on it have I meditated mightily
this past fortnight far beyond the chimes of midnight.
Follow me, my Fool, in this: [click to continue…]



True but Forbidden 3

Of all tyrannies, a tyranny sincerely exercised for the good of its victims may be the most oppressive. It would be better to live under robber barons than under omnipotent moral busybodies. The robber baron’s cruelty may sometimes sleep, his cupidity may at some point be satiated; but those who torment us for our own good will torment us without end for they do so with the approval of their own conscience. They may be more likely to go to Heaven yet at the same time likelier to make a Hell of earth. This very kindness stings with intolerable insult. To be “cured” against one’s will and cured of states which we may not regard as disease is to be put on a level of those who have not yet reached the age of reason or those who never will; to be classed with infants, imbeciles, and domestic animals.  — from C. S. Lewis, from his 1948 book God in the Dock: Essays on Theology

Sears Catalog ‘Kit Homes’ From the Early 20th Century ~   Sears Catalog Homes (sold under the Sears Modern Homes name) were catalog and kit houses sold primarily through mail order by Sears, Roebuck and Company, an American retailer. Sears reported that more than 70,000 of these homes were sold in North America between 1908 and 1940. More than 370 different home designs in a wide range of architectural styles and sizes were offered over the program’s 33-year history.

This is what lies behind the sudden promotion of race mixing on television. Every ad must feature a mixed-race couple. It’s not so much a denial of biology, it is a denial of choice driven by anything other than objective criteria. Preferring your own race or ethnicity is invalid because it places a barrier between you and others. Breaking up these antiquated notions of choice is not about racism. It’s about destroying any barriers between people, as those are by definition invalid in an open society. The Inhumanity Of Openness | The Z Blog [click to continue…]


In a stable that stands almost in the shadow of the new stone church, a man with gray eyes and gray beard, lying amid the odor of the animals, humbly tries to will himself into death, much as a man might will himself to sleep. The day, obedient to vast and secret laws, slowly shifts about and mingles the shadows in the lowly place; outside lie plowed fields, a ditch clogged with dead leaves, and the faint track of a wolf in the black clay where the line of woods begins. The man sleeps and dreams, forgotten.

The bells for orisons awaken him. Bells are now one of evening’s customs in the kingdoms of England, but as a boy the man has seen the face of Woden, the sacred horror and the exultation, the clumsy wooden idol laden with Roman coins and ponderous vestments, the sacrifice of horses, dogs, and prisoners. Before dawn, he will be dead, and with him, the last eyewitness images of pagan rites will perish, never to be seen again. The world will be a little poorer when this Saxon man is dead.

Things, events, that occupy space yet come to an end when someone dies may make us stop in wonder—and yet one thing, or an infinite number of things, dies with every man’s or woman’s death, unless the universe itself has a memory, as theosophists have suggested. In the course of time there was one day that closed the last eyes that had looked on Christ; the Battle of Junin and the love of Helen died with the death of one man. What will die with me the day I die? What pathetic or frail image will be lost to the world? The voice of Macedonia Fernandez, the image of a bay horse in a vacant lot on the corner of Sarrano and Charcas, a bar of sulfur in the drawer of a mahogany desk?

English translation by Andrew Hurley Via – Biblioklept



A Eunuch’s Dream | 1874 Jean Lecomte du Nouÿ (French, 1842-1923) This painting, inspired by Charles Montesquieu’s Persian Letters (published in 1721), depicts a eunuch who wanted to marry a harem slave. He experienced a vision of her while smoking his opium pipe, but her little companion holding a knife dripping with blood reminds us that the eunuch’s anatomy precludes the fulfillment of his dream. The outline of a hand next to the signature is a khamsa, a symbol used to ward off evil.

This must be the golden river
Of the hidden valley of Chang.

I can tell by the shape
Of their arrowheads.

As the dance changes
The violet bird
Flashes in his orange forest.

The commandments are written
In Sanskrit on the teacups,
And the still trees


We meet upon a high cliff
Above that endless river
Under a bloom of stars
Set in geometric display.

We do not talk much
Until the birds cease.

Someone wanders
In through the window,

Standing stock still,
A piece of cheese.

My shoes are red.
I must complain.


No Hard Feelings

When my body won’t hold me anymore
And it finally lets me free
Will I be ready?
When my feet won’t walk another mile?
And my lips give their last kiss goodbye?
Will my hands be steady when I lay down my fears, my hopes, and my doubts?
The rings on my fingers, and the keys to my house
With no hard feelings?

When the sun hangs low in the west
And the light in my chest won’t be kept held at bay any longer
When the jealousy fades away
And it’s ash and dust for casual lust
And it’s just hallelujah
And love in thoughts and love in the words
Love in the songs they sing in the church
And no hard feelings

Lord knows they haven’t done much good for anyone
Kept me afraid and cold
With so much to have and hold
Mmm, hmm

When my body won’t hold me anymore
And it finally lets me free
Where will I go?
Will the trade winds take me south through Georgia grain?
Or tropical rain?
Or snow from the heavens?
Will I join with the ocean blue?
Or run into a savior true?
And shake hands laughing
And walk through the night, straight to the light
Holding the love I’ve known in my life
And no hard feelings

Lord knows they haven’t done much good for anyone
Kept me afraid and cold
With so much to have and hold

Under the curving sky
I’m finally learning why
It matters for me and you
To say it and mean it too
For life and its lovely nest
And all of its ugliness
Good as it’s been to me
I have no enemies
I have no enemies
I’ll have no enemies
I have no enemies


Beyond the Herding of Cats

HT: The New Neo


Much. Better. Signage….

[click to continue…]


Becoming by Jan van IJken   The first stages of embryonic development are roughly the same for all animals, including humans. In the film, we can observe a universal process which normally is invisible: the very beginning of an animal’s life. A single cell is transformed into a complete, complex living organism with a beating heart and running bloodstream.

Draw your own conclusions.



The role of Stone is that of Ice
But seeks a slower sun.
To Synapse, stealth Invisible,
Concision to the Bone.
The praying hands of branches bared
By Wind, this season’s Star,
Implore — insensate, arrogant —
As snowflakes formed in Fire.
Above the Church a fist of smoke
Diminishes the Blooms
Within that Park where Prayers revolve
On a Carousel of tombs.

 Joaquim Vancells, “February” @ Lines and Colors Catalonian painter Joaquim Vancells invites us into a quiet forest landscape in the heart of winter. I like the way the details of sticks, leaves and undergrowth ground us in the environment, while the meandering path in center invites us farther into the misty depths of the woodland.

Detail: [click to continue…]


Boomer Anthems: Where The Streets Have No Name

At 7th and Main in downtown Los Angeles the streets do have names and (after a very long intro) those that say they don’t are BUSTED!

Prior to filming, a week was spent reinforcing the roof of the liquor store to ensure it would not collapse if it were to be intruded by a group of fans. A backup generator was put on the roof so the shooting could continue in the event that the authorities shut off the power on the primary generator, which happened during filming.

The depiction of the police attempting to shut down the filming due to safety concerns actually happened during filming, just as seen in the video. Hamlyn was almost arrested following a confrontation with the police. According to Avis, the events depicted in the video show what actually happened that day “almost in real time”, and that “getting busted was an integral part of the plan.”

Producer Brian Eno estimated that the recording of this song absorbed over 40% of the time spent on The Joshua Tree. Eno became so frustrated trying to mix the track that he almost destroyed the tape and started over. According to the co-producer Daniel Lanois, the assistants never followed Eno’s frustrated instructions to wipe the tape. Daniel Lanois recalled to Mojo magazine January 2008 about the song’s tricky birth: “It was a bit of a tongue-twister for the rhythm section, with strange bar lengths that got everybody in a bad mood. I can remember pointing at a blackboard, walking everybody through the changes like a science teacher.

Bono (from Propaganda 5, 1987): “Where the Streets Have No Name is more like the U2 of old than any of the other songs on the LP, because it’s a sketch – I was just trying to sketch a location, maybe a spiritual location, maybe a romantic location. I was trying to sketch a feeling. I often feel very claustrophobic in a city, a feeling of wanting to break out of that city and a feeling of wanting to go somewhere where the values of the city and the values of our society don’t hold you down. An interesting story that someone told me once is that in Belfast, by what street someone lives on you can tell not only their religion but tell how much money they’re making – literally by which side of the road they live on, because the further up the hill the more expensive the houses become. That said something to me, and so I started writing about a place where the streets have no name.”

Where The Streets Have No Name by U2 – Songfacts

I want to run, I want to hide
I want to tear down the walls that hold me inside
I wanna reach out and touch the flame
Where the streets have no name
[click to continue…]


Tom Deininger:Look Again

Tom Deininger – Works


The Pelosi Blink Rate Doth Ever Increase

Watch the Pelosi eyes (Net worth +/- $70 Million) behind the throne when Trump says “Wealthy politicians & donors push for open borders while living behind walls, gates & guards” 

Why do some people blink frequently? – It is possible that the differences in findings for blink rate and mental/visual workload reflect the different types of task. One can easily envisage, for example, a situation where blinks are infrequent owing to maintained concentration when visual (and cognitive) demands are high. However, when the requirements of the task exceed available cognitive resources, the concentration may falter, and blink rate may increase due to mental workload.

Normal blink rate is about 15 to 20 times per minute. I’m getting around 35 blinks from Pelosi in the last 30 seconds.


We meet tonight at a moment of unlimited potential, as we begin a new Congress, I stand here ready to work with you to achieve historic breakthroughs for all Americans. Millions of our fellow citizens are watching us, gathered in this great chamber, hoping we will govern not as two parties, but as one nation. [applause]

The agenda I will lay out this evening is not a Republican agenda or Democrat agenda, it is the agenda of the American people. Many of us have campaigned on the same core promises, to defend American jobs and demand fair trade for American workers, to rebuild and revitalize our nation’s infrastructure, to reduce the price of health care and prescription drugs, to create an immigration system that is safe, lawful, modern and secure, and to pursue a foreign policy that puts America’s interests first.

There is a new opportunity in American politics if only we have the courage together to seize it. [applause] victory is not winning for our party, victory is winning for our country. [applause] this year, America will recognize two important anniversaries that show us the majesty of America’s vision and the power of American pride.

In June we marked 75 years since the start of what general Dwight Eisenhower called “the great crusade,” the allied liberation of Europe in world war ii. [applause] on d-day, June 6, 1944, 15,000 young American men jumped from the skies, and 60,000 more stormed in from the sea to save our civilization from tyranny. Here with us tonight are three of those incredible heroes. Private first class Joseph Riley, staff sergeant Erving Walker — and sergeant Hartman Zeitcheck. [applause]

Gentlemen, we salute you. In 2019 we also celebrate 50 years since brave young pilots flew 1/4 of one million miles through space the plants of American flag on the face of the moon. Half a century later, we are joined by one of the Apollo 11 astronauts who planted that flag, Buzz Aldrin. [applause] thank you, buzz. This year, American astronauts will go back to space in American rockets. [applause]

In the 20th century, America saved freedom, transformed science, redefined the middle class, and when you get down to it, there is nothing anywhere in the world that can compete with America. [applause] now we must step boldly and bravely into the next chapter of this great American adventure. We must create a new standard of living for the 21st century. [click to continue…]


Boomer Ballads: Suzanne

“And Jesus was a sailor when He walked upon the water
And He spent a long time watching from His lonely wooden tower
And when He knew for certain only drowning men could see Him
He said, ‘All men will be sailors then until the sea shall free them.'”