It has long (in my thinking) been the case that pitiful little men like Victor Davis Hanson, Gary Bauer, Clay and BucKO, Jesse Waters, Kilmeade, Hannity et al and the army of pseudo-conservatives posing as “men” over at the Fox “News” Channel, and such other timid shelters, are the sweet little tulips of manhood that are great authors of nonsense simply because honor and honesty are less profitable and often require great strength.

Like the tulips that they are, they feed off of manure. So, they produce pretty colors and they smell good. But that’s about it.

Oak trees get nature’s treatment. They are fed from the soil which is in turn fed with rain and lightning.

But from strong oak comes men like Jackson, Lee and Davis, even courageous Yankees like MacArthur, Patton and Eisenhower; all beautiful and emboldened with honor, and structured with strength---colors and smells be damned.

Our Governor here in Texas has taken up the cause of halting the invasion of the State of Texas and by extension an invasion of the “Nation.” This isn’t typical courage from our Governor as he usually walks the moderate line with the best of them. He’s got the political war chest of money to prove it, too. But you take what you can get, even if you have to rely on a former political weakling who could turn around again. But, maybe not.

We also have a Lt. Governor (in Texas, the strongest politician due to our constitutional structure) who goes by the name of Dan Patrick. He came to Texas many years ago from Maryland after (for his own reasons) changing his name from Dannie Scott Goeb.

But Dannie or Dan or whatever is the guy to keep an eye on. He came into elected office as a conservative, acting day by day as a supporter of most of his (he had bought the station) talk show hosts (Limbaugh et al) and he did, indeed, sound off on most of the conservative messages ay-by-day.

But, Patrick is a Republican politician, which means someone who can be trusted about as much as a Democrat politician.

The other day after Nikki Haley had become “newsy” for a brief moment (blind sow finding an acorn?) when she mentioned that the “Civil War” was not “about slavery” Patrick was approached about the comment from a reporter. His (paraphrased) words were to the effect that she was absurd. “The war was about slavery.”

The truth is Patrick probably doesn’t know what WWII was about. But his mindset at the moment is pure Republican. Probably so is the Governor’s.

Texas is a great place with a great history. But its contemporary politicians pretty much stink. But take particular care of Danny Boy. He will flip like a flop in a second.

​As to the Governor’s current stance on the Feds wanting our barbed wire. I agree with those old fellows at Gonzalez about 200 years ago. “Come and take it.”

​They were standing at the ledge. Their view mirrored a panorama of buildings and smoke stacks. Great edifices, heaving asymmetrically, skewed with monster cylinders venting plumes of expended energy. The farms, the land, scarcely discernible, were hiding from the crowding machines in ambient spaces where life of life and lives of lives grappled and struggled for survival. The agrarians had lost the battle, and the machines, as if with endeavor, had attempted to reconstruct victories into paradigms from the grist of Ayn Rand or Thomas Hobbes, the dizygotic twins, at once dichotomous and unitary.

“Where else other than from the top of a skyscraper can we see the power of the Maker, the Creator of all things dynamic and powerful?”  The Banker cusp his hand at his forehead and turned his head in a slow arc, as to inspect the power of capital and treasures of earth.

“Nowhere but here; we stand at the zenith,” the CEO of the hedge fund, United Capital World-Wide, her eyes hidden behind the lens of her mirrored-black glasses, stood poised, an erection of pride. “This portrait is a snapshot, a revelation that god is in all of us.”

“But this is only an imprint. When all of this before us is finalized, we will truly bring the god in each of us into one god. The combined unit gods will bring all of this to everyone.” The Banker had his own pride. “Don’t forget, the capital purchased the labor.”

“Well, I suppose we can agree to disagree,” she said, with cheap mirth; attempted. She knew no humor.

“Yes, but then labor is the womb of capital,” he said.

“Again, chicken-and-the-egg.” They both chuckled, pretended, he as droll as she.

Another man appeared. He was dressed in a brown suit, not the power-dress of the capitalist or power-broker-politician, these two, at times libertarians or socialists, depending on the potential for raked gain. But, brown was the color of integrity. And even the color of the land below the planting. His hair was grey, his eyed masked with wire-rimmed bifocals, his stance erect, exhibiting a posture of strength and character; such traits bred through meekness. Though, his deportment issued a tone–alien.

“Excuse me sir. Are you visiting?” the Banker asked.

“I am.”

“Have you ever been to the city before?” she asked.

He moved toward them and shook the Banker’s hand and introduced himself. Then, allowing the CEO to extend her hand, he did likewise with her.

“Once, long ago,” he said. “But I was only a boy.”

“And, if you don’t mind my asking, what brings you back?”

The man in the brown suit turned toward the skyline and stared, his eyes trying to pierce the great volumes of progress before him.  “I lost something and came to see what… who vanquished me.” His voice seemed to focus toward the horizon, as his eyes guided his words.

The CEO and Banker looked at one another, each with puzzled gaze. Was a response beyond small-talk in order?  “What did you lose?” The banker at last spoke. The CEO looked at him as she shrugged her shoulders a bit. She, too, wondered about the comment. However, both were pleased that a somber disposition now enveloped the occasion, given each one’s intrinsic ingredients.

“I lost my life.”

“Your life?  But you are standing here.” The two now tensed, but a bit. He was a strange man, a mutterer of strange patois; of words that seemed almost lunatic, not of someone who should be at the top of a skyscraper, and certainly not close to the ledge.

“Yes, my life.”

The CEO began rummaging through her handbag. The thought that there might be an emergency had occurred to her. She rifled through the small chattels and bric-a-brac curios and purse such-and-such, finally uncovering the small communiqué device which had defeated The Tower of Babel and brought everyone out of the jungle into communication—the cell phone.

“Where do you live?” the Banker asked.

It was warm and the stranger removed his coat and flipped it over his shoulder grasping it with the crook of his index finger. “I live in a country far from here.”
​
“Europe?” the CEO queried, her phone now held in the palm of her hand.

“No.”

“South America ?” Another guess.

“No, not South America.” He swung his coat around, and folded it over his arm.

“My country is Virginia.”

The CEO and Banker glanced at one another with both concerned and quizzical expressions. She waited yet, as to calling.

“Well, that isn’t so far.  And why do you insist that your life is gone. Virginia is a growing, prosperous state, a credit to our Nation. It has roads, business, industry–great progress and science of course. Science has done so much for us; and it will do even more for your country, as you call it.  You should have a fine life.” The stranger walked closer to the edge. The CEO opened her cell phone.

“I speak, as they say ‘in the abstract.’  My country is farther from me than I from it.”

“But how can that be?” the banker asked. “How can one thing be farther from another thing. They can only be equally far; or equally near.” He glanced at the CEO. She returned the look. The stranger truly was serious, they thought. Again, just as well, as they were beyond their facility even if he weren’t.

“As I said, I speak in the abstract, though maybe I am in the wrong area of language. After all, I am not in my country and have little wisdom from which to draw from what I see across the scope before me. I was a farmer. But my land was taken from me for a factory. They said it was best for all concerned. They said it was progress. And they said that my remuneration would enable me to live a better life. But I told them that I only wanted my life. And I asked if the ‘remuneration’ had also purchased my soul?  They did not answer.  I don’t think they cared. They said that I should see some of the great progressive areas of the Nation. Then I would realize what my land would bring about when used best.”  He inched slightly closer to the edge then with his free arm he waved it in an arc pointing across the land of structures and smoke before him. “They said that I should spend some money on a trip to some of the great progressive places and look out over the breadth of them, and then I would see and understand what I had not comprehended before. I know now that I am very far from home; that the progression that is before me exceeds my ability to grasp its reality.”

He focused on the CEO. “Is that one of those portable phones in your hand?’

“Yes. It’s my cell phone.”

“You carry it everywhere? Why?”

“I might have an emergency. I might need help.” She had emphasized her last word.

“Really. You believe you can call God with a device?”

He stepped back a bit, then lifted his head as if toward heaven and in a soft, ordinary, baritone began to sing:

The CEO stepped away a few steps. He is a madman, she thought. First talking about his life being over and gone, then babbling some Jesus song; though he did have a pleasant voice.

The Banker had backed away, too. Someone this peculiar might be one of those hicks who believed in snake handling and such. He didn’t want to be close to someone like that so near the clouds. He thought that the stranger was clearly muddled; clearly absent of clear and modern thought; unaware of Ockham’s razor–lex parsimoniae. He was making complications of life needlessly or he was insane. Didn’t he know that land is to be used, not worshiped; it was to be maximized not nurtured: this fool in a rumpled brown suit; a throwback to medival craftsmen or 19th century agrarians. Perhaps like Amish priests: localized morons trying to live somewhere that wasn’t anymore.  Progress and land were for the world and the thinkers; not for simple-minded wretches who could not perceive enhancement. Certainly, they should share the prosperity. They would receive their trickle, after all: progress.

​The stranger removed his glasses, wiped them with his handkerchief and placed them back on.  As if a mind-reader, he spoke: “I know nothing of cognitive relativism or moral relativism. I know that you and your people believe in Turing machines. I believe in my land and my country.  Because I have lost the first, I have given up the second. He put his finger under one of the lens of his glasses as if to wipe away a tear.  He dropped his coat and stepped on the ledge.  He stepped away. The CEO dialed 911. God…

The tiny, candle-light streams through darkness,
Piercing all barriers of the night;
In a place one tarries, then swings about,
Knowing heaven clears the path, thus bright.
​
Honeycombed wax holds solely a wick,
While bracing around a flame,
That melts the tower of time;
Spreading below, while losing same.

Where the path leads, is eternity’s age.
A clearing ahead is sought.
But without His charged brightness,
The end will meet with fraught.

That modest glow appears, oh, small!
The miracle of a lighted touch.
And flickering is ceaseless;
While we look to Him for much.

A blaze will surge upon conviction.
That ignited spark of light strikes hot,
While zeal and light billow,
The dark, dearth of fealty must not.

The brightened path streams unto heaven,
Unveiling angels with opened wings;
As chorales of peace on earth reveal,
The glory of eternity, that the candle brings.

I watched a T.V. movie the other night wherein the female lead cussed and killed and punched guys around; a normal part of the plot these days. Women have won their struggle to become E-quality of men. Sacrificing the explicit notice of male and female, the implicit of ladies and gentlemen, no longer are we burdened with great men or great women. Now we allowed only great people: chair-people, cow-people, work-people-ship, games-people-ship; oh, well--oink.

I admit to being a male-chauvinist pig. To hear from the left and right (conservatives have no voice on cable news) about our brave men, and women, getting shot and maimed doesn’t exhilarate me the way it seems to others.


All of this may seem to be a ramble, and perhaps it is though its intended structure is toward a point. That is, through all of my oink beliefs I believe that the greatest person that America ever produced was not only a Southerner, but a woman. That woman, that person, was Helen Keller. I defy anyone to name anyone of any prominence (or not prominent) who did more with less than she did. When before the age of two you are blind, deaf and effectively mute, life is dang sure a hill to climb.

With the help of another woman of immense dedication and backbone, Anne Sullivan, a hard-headed Irishwoman who wouldn’t quit, Miss Keller became the first blind and deaf person to graduate from college (Ratcliffe). Afterwards she became a world-wide speaker (her speaking abilities were stunted in childhood by her deafness), and author of almost a dozen books. She operated both regular and Braille typewriters. She was awarded the Presidential Medal of Freedom.


Her politics were (as with Mark Twain, her friend) what would be today called “extremely left.” She was a socialist, a suffragist, a founder of the ACLU; and often these were vehicles in her goals to help the blind (Personal note: my own maternal grandmother taught music to blind students in the 1930s at the Mississippi School for the Blind).


But it does not matter to me what her politics or motives were. Her politics and mine may be on different horizons, but it has always been in my heart since I was a boy, that Helen Keller is, perhaps, the greatest example of God’s admonition that there need be no impossible. I believe He gave her for us. And because of Him she was our greatest American--and a lady.

​I wish I could have spoken with her. I wish I could have spoken with Robert E. Lee.
​

Lee Sam and Abner were settin’ on the porch drinking ice-tea one day when the Yankee from Boston come running his Honda Civic up the road to the house. He stopped, and as it was July and hadn’t rained in a month, the dust kinda poured over his car when he stopped.

He got out a coughing and fussing and fuming, as most Yankees do, as they’re always in a hurry and so always got something botherin‘ ‘em.

“Why can’t you pave this road?” He coughed.

In this case the dust was botherin’ him. Lee Sam and Abner turned and looked at each other conveying an obvious thought (to them) that if he’d drive half as fast he’d get choked ‘bout half as much.

Abner Scratched his ear and pointed at the flock that was settlin’ after the Honda had scatterd ‘em .

“If we was to pave it, them chickens wouldn’t have near-bout as much peckin’ room.”

“Well, Hell why don’t you at least put down some gravel?” the Yankee said.

“Gravel cost money. Dat dirt come wid de land.” Lee Sam said. Besides, chickens can’t peck through gravel. And Abner jus now told you ‘bout de chicken situation.”

“Well, why don’t you buy chickens and eggs at the store? Then you could have a nice yard.”

“Don’t want a nice yard. What’d we do with a nice yard?” Abner said. “Then we’d just have to water it. Hose water cost money. Rainwater don‘t.”

“Besides,” Lee Sam took over the persuasion, “ Dem chickens keep de termites away.”

The Yankee stepped up on the porch and handed the pair a package, too big to have fitted in the mailbox at the end of the road, which is the reason he had to drive down the road in the first place.

“Well, you can get chemicals to get rid of termites.”

“You gotta keep on buying chemicals. Chickens can redo themselves,” Abner said.

“Say, wuz you a mailman when before you wuz here?” Lee Sam asked.

“Indeed, I was. I’ve been a mailman for ten years.”

“Why den, did you leave New Jersey or whatever it wuz up there you wuz livin’ in?”

“Boston. It was Boston,” the mailman said. “Well, wad you come down here for?” Abner asked. He glanced at Lee Sam.

“Well I got tired of the cold winters; the crowds everywhere; everybody pushing and a shoving and in a hurry; the smokestacks with the toxic fumes pouring out; and food prices were so high. And freeways and parking lots was taking over everywhere. I just ask for a transfer so I could go south where there’s blue skies and warm weather and not so many people to bump into. I needed to live a more relaxing life you might say.”

“Got time for a glass of tea?” Abner asked.

​“No thanks. Got to hurry and finish my route.” The Yankee and the Honda sped down the road in a cloud of dust.

Oliver Anthony’s song “Rich Men North of Richmond” has exploded in the face of the Washington narcissists and their Woke weasels and weasel-etts. The concussion has loosened a rumble, particularly among the cackling hens who once craved “equality” but now realize the old expression that “It’s a man’s world” may have meant something other than it was “literally” (that so often ill-used word) so.

And the initial crowd, from many years back, of Title 9 warriors and cheerleaders happily has gathered up allies along the way—not understanding or realizing what trashy allies would greedily latch on.

Rich MEN North of Richmond. Men? What men?

Rich Eunuchs North of Richmond would be more appropriate. Nothing but Woke women up that way to rule. Rules by fools. The degeneration of both creation and political republicanism that would make Eve proud that she lied, lives, in that cold corrupt northern clime north of Richmond.

"Woke" had its birth (and afterbirth) in the "women's movement." It spilled over and gave birth to other movements: racial, sodomy, abortion…and generally any idiotic concept that one could conjure through the human imagination. The litany of these things always had Washington standing by to support, praise, and, of course, fund (with kickback votes in return) with taxpayers’ money (charged of course to their 30 trillion-dollar debt).

And the bill has always come back to the Roosters and Rednecks. But the final debt will be on the henhouse’s books. Oh, yes. The Roosters will crow and the Rednecks will swear, but the cackling will continue with; “It’s his fault.” If one dies, both die.
These hens also have learned, though still may not admit it, that there are not two genders of people, but there are two sexes of people. For the public school and university crowd, “words” have a gender, “people” have a sex. But employing sanity to persuade, is not contemporarily “de rigueur” for the Woke weasels. They bow to the “ladies.” Weasels have no courage.

Those bureaucratic lovers of Life by the Potomac are perhaps worrying that their “progressive” constituents are, in all their stupidity, being taught through some redneck musical twang that Sex and the Single Girl was a book written by Helen Gurley Brown for the liberated woman and not a high-class bourgeois sex vacation for the nouveau riche. It is (was) not a “Love Boat” manual for Jeffrey Epstein’s island of paradise for rich jackals. Or maybe…hmmm, who knows? Maybe Brown was actually a sheep in wolf clothing!

But whatever subliminal poetry Mr. Anthony intends, government believes itself to be mammon’s altar; and Anthony’s song is a great high-pitched bleating.

That altar expects receipt of all sacrifice from sex, sex deviations and derivations to taxes and screaming sheep. Perhaps it is the Anti-Doxology: “Praise Deep State from whom All Blessings Flow”?

And taxes always go up, and up and up when labyrinths of so-called government are created out of bureaucratic mental magic. Someone has to pay. Stupidity produces nothing, and corruption cost plenty.

Rednecks, also, are sinful, but they don't believe in sin. They are ashamed of it. They don't believe they can be cured, only saved.

Roosters no longer crow, alerting all that the sun is rising. They crow because all the corn in the yard has been eaten by perverts, green monsters, and spoiled children who are paraded before international cameras explaining how the world works, works badly, and must be corrected.

But even deeper is the revelation that Brown's instructions and recommendations wrought the same sassy and silly solutions as per Elizabeth Cady Stanton and Susan B. Anthony. The underlying message was that Men and Women are the same, ipso facto equal in “mind and body.”

“RMNOR” isn't the end-all and be-all of return fire at the Woke and Washington crowd. But it has enough buyers out there in the best-seller and #1 I-Tune crowd to get the attention of the progressives, whether congressmen, senators, judges, governors, or local district attorneys and mayors.

As one of the so-called generations (Z, X, Boomer, whatever) remembers and states; “roosters rock.”

Whether or not it (RMNOR) lasts, considering the various publications and reports of testosterone shortage in the U.S. is anybody’s guess. We’ll see. Man-shortage is the problem. Not the sperm count—the delinquency count.

If you not only hear the words, in song, but observe Mr. Anthony’s face, the lines in it, the focus of his eyes, and, as well, absorb the spirit of his composition you see not just someone who turned down several million dollars for the golden opportunity for gold; but you see the eyes, the facial lines and the vision of not only a man, but a gentleman, we hope—if and only if, there is TRUTH there. Certainly, there are still a few of that breed. Culture and strength? No sale to the media trash (the body whole).

But, down South we know well the scalawag, and we know well the gentleman-- and the lady. We have seen the vileness of the one and the honor of the other. Hopes are that this will be a song of the second. Time will tell.

And contrary to the caricature clownish floor speakers and babblers in Congress, there is no such thing as a “gentlelady”. Women who are ladies are such, often in spite of men, not because of them.

Sing us a happy tune master and musician: For the farmer, worker, mother, father, brother, sister, soldier—taxpayer, and blood-shedder all.

Raise your voice so that others of the timbre of Thomas Paine and Patrick Henry are wakened to shout, again. And to those men in their graves who haunt and heckle today’s monstrous “people” in Washington, D.C.; the same people who lie to us and steal from us. Split their eardrums with song; chase their blackened spirits into fires hotter than hell!

Sing it from your Virginia home, and sing it loud, and sing it long, Boy.

​Sing it!

DON’T THREAD ON ME!

According to the ABA, there are 1.3 million lawyers in the United States. Over 25% are in New York and California. The increase in the 20th century has been from 114,000 in 1900 to over a million in 2000. The population increased from 76,000,000 to 272,000,000 over the same period. The arithmetic shows a nine-fold increase in lawyers and a three-and-a-half-fold increase in people.

Apparently, there was a race to law school for many during that period, and the race has only slowed a bit until today, sailing well into the 21st century.

A large number of runners in the race, however, tripped over the tortoise with the goal to learn the law, it seems. Either that or the tortoise was going slow enough, himself, to take in the “learning” and they failed to understand the slow and deliberate method that he pursued for knowledge; they being too intimidated by the Socratic method and such masculine skill-sharpeners. The lawyer-wannabees just wanted to BE lawyers, I guess.

Acquiring legal proficiencies and histories was more like a necessary evil. But what the hell, if you can scrounge a law degree from some liberal-happy-shack like Yale, Stanford, or Berkley ad nauseum and then sell same to the public at 500 bucks or so an hour, who cares what you know?

Lawyers are analogous to those T.V. side-show historians who don’t make the big bucks perhaps, but still don’t know diddly squat after graduating from any one of a plethora of useless universities. Those fellows (lawyers and historians) are spread pretty evenly among all T.V. outlets. Even clowns need work despite the dying circus.

Fox may be the worst but then Fox has always been in the henhouse of conservatives. Fox is no more than MSNBC with too much lipstick.

But back to the barrister buffoons:

The point is many people seem to believe a great deal of these lawyers aren’t worth $5.00 an hour, let alone five hundred dollars an hour. And I’m speaking equally of the “never heard of set” and the “often on T.V. experts.”

For those who remember the O.J. Simpson trial, or for those of us who are alive and remember the Watergate episode, all should remember the blistering, blustering news and the cabal of lawyers paraded before the public daily. Its history was a constant serving of opinionated pretentious legalese-news slop. This trend has not ceased in 50 years.

In the Watergate watershed many lawyers went to jail. Many who didn’t probably should have. Many, as usual, ran for Congress. Sadly, many were elected.

Presently (back to the future), on any given day or night you can see one speaking, or spoken to, on T.V. He may be the host or he may be the guest. Or both guest and host may each be a lawyer.

The concept of the “constitutional lawyer” seems to be a command statement for many lawyers on media cable and network “shows.” That is, many of the attorney guests are brought on as CONSTITUTIONAL lawyers.

What are the rest of the million-plus or so? Non-Constitutional Lawyers?

The U.S. Constitution Is only about six thousand words (without amendments). Most of my mates and I in 9th grade civics class, eons ago, fathomed it, generally.

And anyway, what constitution? One of 50 state constitutions, or the “big” one that has become known as “The Law of the land” and is usually described as a document that provides for some magical—though nonexistent—checks and balances (such was lost in 1865). Now we have legal silliness, if not stupidity. And you can be sure there are plenty of idiots around who will call the big one a “national” constitution. They may or may not call it “federal” but they will mean “national” because they don’t know the difference. Talk-Radio is filled with these mental midgets and it continues to fertilize the minds of man daily.

They may never understand that some of us never stand or salute a “National Anthem,” but always willingly stand or salute “The Star-Spangled Banner” (and Dixie).

This so-called “Law of the land” in one of its own “Articles” (IV) requires 50 republics if there are 50 states (supposedly states in a union, and not simply adjacent counties) that by definition, necessarily have rules that “constitute” governance (without rules it isn’t a republic).

As an example of the big one and the typical legal mind(s) that examines it, as Constitutional lawyers, consider the following:

Keep notes sometime on these T.V. lawyers (and historians), and listen to how many times the subject of a trial will come up and some Denny Dimwit (constitutional lawyer) of the ABA, etc. will say quite adamantly that the man charged with a crime has a right to a trial by a “jury of his peers.”

The “Founders” were almost immediately, post 1787, thrown into the process of amending The often acclaimed “Greatest document devised by man,” before they had any hope of getting at least three-fourths ratifications (by the states, not the conglomeration of people). This first action taken under Article V became known as The Bill of Rights. These were the first ten amendments.

These “Founders” were not discussing a Bill of “Rights” that some man-made constituted document could give to men. These Founders had no such authority to create rights even if they claimed such. They were discussing God-given rights that men were endowed with (by their Creator).

Therefore, the concept of an “impartial jury” as opposed to the popular media ballyhoo of “Jury of one’s peers” was what they found in their deliberation (and prayer) and was what God probably had in mind.

The "peers" version evolved early from Magna Carta and was English dogma at the time (and still is) whereby men were judged by those who knew each other best. For example, a group of plumbers(today) would best know whether a plumber had been righteous or whether he was telling the truth or not with regard to a piping system he had installed. A similar concept can be seen in parents and their children (as opposed to someone else's children).

But an impartial jury means, something else: that there should be those who are willing to listen to testimony without prejudice or preconceived notions.

And the “Founders” considered that this was a better concept. That is a “peers” jury would always be rife with the temptation to inject the (modern phrase) “Good Ol’ Boy” justice. In other words, the "jury of one's peers" was REJECTED by those who drew up the document for presentation to the states.

And an impartial jury doesn’t necessarily mean one that has not heard about the case or spoken about it. And the nonsense of sequestering juries so as not to have their impartiality tainted is ludicrous. Is the jury pool assumed to be a collection of morons that cannot deflect rumor or hearsay from the public’s outcry? If the answer is, they cannot be trusted with certainty, then why isn’t the judge in the dusty little hotel room, incommunicado, along with them? Isn’t he supposed to be impartial, with certainty? He is allowed to read the newspaper but the “idiot” jurors are not?

This is the sort of undercurrent of pseudo-Constitutional thought that gets fences built around capitol buildings—and worse.

But, on any given channel, on any given night, some Harvard law scholar will pronounce that everyone has a right to a trial by a "jury of his peers." And, yes, the lawyer probably really does have a law degree. God knows why!

​Hank Johnson, a congressman from Georgia, is a lawyer and he believes the island of Guam might tip over if too many Marines land on it.

But to the specific point: The most important personage in the courtroom, aside from the defendant, are the jurors, NOT the judge. And judging by the standards of law schools these days, it is possible (maybe even probable) that the jurors are more knowledgeable of the law than the judge (see Emmet Sullivan in Michel Flynn case, speaking of idiots and morons).

But more to the point, where does this sort of fictitious bilge come from without comment—or correction?

Carrying that point to the law, somehow, we have an almost worship of many in government as if they are deities. The Supreme Court (a misnomer if there ever was one) is often ballyhooed as "our greatest legal minds." Good grief, they are simply nine lawyers. Nine lawyers. And one of those cannot define a woman. One wonders if she has a common DNA with Hank Johnson.

So, if silliness of law via constant reverberations from the legal-beagles, such as “trial by a jury of his peers,” remains, who will teach the teachers?

The point is, with a limited free press (Big Tech's scissors) and many in the "Media" utilizing free press as something akin to a teenage graffiti message, what we now have is an educated public akin to public education. If that’s the case, we might as well leave the border open. Let all the idiots in. They will keep familiar company, at least in Washington, D.C.

OR put them on T.V., where insanity obsesses and senselessness sells.

Send them to law school?

​Then send the rest of us to hell. That’s where we’re headed anyway. After all, law seems to be history.

The following is an excerpt from an article by a man named Troy Cauley. It is titled “Hindsight” and was first printed in the Southern Partisan over 30 years ago. If one can appreciate anything beyond “modernity” as to life’s heart such as: family, tradition, manners, love, friendship and at the same time cease worshipping gold, silver, technology, “industrial revolutions” and the Federal Reserve (The Devil’s  gatekeeper for man) this excerpt is, while not an elixir, a wonderful description and a light salve for life as perhaps God meant it to be lived, as on-this-earth flawed and sinful man.

This concept is for conservatives who truly “conserve” and understand characteristics such as Jeffersonianism’s heartbeat of localism and self- governing. Conservatism is not Ayn Rand and/or foreign wars.

God made His “chosen people” into twelve tribes—not a single “national” one.

When most people (I hope) look into their past, the locus AND focus are on the home, the family—and to those kind memories that God has planted in us.

Now, enough of my babbling. Mr. Cauley from here:

Technological progress in the past century has been outstanding in the field of transportation. Let’s illustrate it. When I was a small boy in central Texas (1930s) we lived about nine miles from the county seat, a town of three or four thousand people. In the fall we took a bale of cotton to town in a wagon. With a load of this sort, the team of horses walked about four miles an hour along the dirt road, thus taking a little over two hours for the trip. A short time ago (1980s) I flew from Texas to California in a 747 jet in about the same length of time. That looks like incredible progress. Let’s examine it more closely.

On the flight to California I saw virtually nothing of the country. From an elevation of 36.000 feet, all we saw were some weather-beaten clouds. Our seats were narrow and jammed together, but I visited with no one.  Nobody showed any interest in me. I was in a crowd but it was a very lonely crowd.

On the trip to town with the bale of cotton, we visited with fellow travelers along the way. We exchanged hearty greetings with neighbors as they sat on their porches. My brother and I had the whole back-end of the wagon in which to roll, tumble and wrestle. We saw field-larks in the pasture and heard their cheerful calls. Bob-white quail thundered out of the bushes along the fencerows. Jackrabbits raced off for the cover of the post-oaks. The trip was a big success even before we got to town.

In a sense, of course, all of this is trivial. But in a broader sense, it is highly illustrative of a basic fact: human nature is better adapted in a simple technology than to a highly complex one. People cannot live happily in a society of bread and circuses, especially when the bread has little or no nutritional value and the circuses consist mainly of endless hours of television depicting violence, vulgarity, and unclassified stupidity. The movies aren’t much (if any) better. A large part of the use of alcohol and other drugs can be traced to a basic cause: boredom. Boredom bred of routine factory jobs, impersonal “personal services” jobs, watching spectator sports instead of participating in true play, “dating” with uninteresting and generally inadequate partners, driving to and from a detested job through ever-growing traffic jams; you can expand the list for yourself…
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What is the difference between the media and “the” Hollywood? Not much. Both are at best C minus actors, with limited skills and even more limited cerebral charging. For example, the media has a herd of folks that pass everyday as “reporters,” “journalists,” “political analysts” or some supposedly (promoted as) razor-sharp professional pundits—take your pick: legal, historical, economic, etc. It doesn’t matter—at least to them. Like the Hollywood slobbering actors, the media slobbers with nonsense from commentators that sounds as if Ed Wood produces the world’s daily news and comment, and does it as well as he did with the ghost of Bela Legosi.

Ed Wood, R.I.P.

The two things they (Hollywood and media) always have in common is they have makeup splashed on them, and a camera held on them. However, there is a third commonality: They are, for the most part (and at best) mediocre in the various fields that they respectively claim to represent. As long as they are picturesque or pretty (or at least not ugly), they get the big screen presentation that is entertaining for whatever "fans" cheer for them.

In the past half of a century, contemporary Hollywood actors both (actors/actresses) have won multiple "Best" Acting awards when their skills are mostly an ability to deliver less-than-Shakespearian dramatics like F*** you! Or Holy S***! This is the "method" of the give-him-an-Oscar crowd. Poor writing brilliance, perhaps, but then writers have poor subjects in both Hollywood and the media from which to feed for feedback. Again, C minus at "best".

But all love themselves; so, honesty to the fan of fiction is much like honesty to the viewer of the news media.

And the pay ain’t bad. Not as good as drug cartel profits but about as useful. And both are addictive, that is, applause and getting high. Will Smith and Robert DeNiro race to the stage presentation to throw punches or curse—sophistication from the cheap seats. Joe Scarborough and Brian Kilmeade seem to identify as giggling schoolboys. And that Gal-Friday of Scarborough's reminds me of Buffalo Bob and Howdy Doody chatting.

And with a cast of dozens and dozens in both outlets, the imagination can run wild insofar as crudeness, classlessness, and often just plain stupidity.

The media also exercises the same arm of self-aggrandizement that Hollywood does, absent the Oscar awards. That is to say, the media’s rendition of the mutual admiration love-in. Often this is pointed at themselves while their dastard deliveries point to the South while claiming always, always, always to possess an all-knowing brilliance of mankind and their crème de la crème of love and happiness, that damn shining light on some Yankee hill.

This is the media's moment of OSCAR! Their news, their startling revelations (called news) about what they call fools of the past, are shorn up by today's PRESENTISM. They smile, oh so virtuously, through the T.V. make-up powder that reveals the clown look of the clown mind. But the phony smile, like the profanity used by Hollywood, is the media's metier. If these people had to reason or resolve for survival or analyze the past for understanding the present, they would drop like Tyrannosaurus Rex.

Their soul belongs not to any truth or virtuous truism, or certainly not to any roots of what they may have learned at the knee of any father (God forbid)-figure.

To them, study, or perhaps fortuitous knowledge of the Socratic Paradox means, they perceive, nothing more than that maybe a guy named Socrates chose the wrong fraternity at Harvard or some other bastion of bastardized waived literacy throughout the "university community."

In former days one could read a newspaper or print magazine with articles or essays written with at least appropriate and apposite chronicled topics assayed (whether correct or misplaced). Today the media and its various news outlets are like believing the barker at the state fair when I was a boy. The freak shows they barked for were fun but mostly untrue.

Hollywood? Once you could see movies with actors using dramatic or comedic dialogue that struck your imaginative emotions. Today they can't seem to deliver a line unless it sounds like my drill instructor's introduction on our first day at Parris Island, many many years ago.

Like Paul Harvey used to say on the radio: "Any fool can cuss." Well, that seems to fit, considering.

And Harvey was one of the few with media class.