5 songs I’ve listened to today…..

Posted in Uncategorized on December 19, 2009 by tigheinthe215

1. “Mercy”-Duffy

2. “What Do I Get”-The Buzzcocks

3. “Girlfriend”-Matthew Sweet

4. “Wings Of The Morning”-Capleton

5. “Different Drum”-Matthew Sweet and Susanna Hoffs (yes, Susanna Hoffs from The Bangles)

Marlin: Hate the Name, Not the Game

Posted in Uncategorized on December 3, 2009 by eyeontheisland

We’ll here’s my introduction to what I hope becomes an influential local/regional? blog.  I’ll provide a brief bio at a later date.

There’s nothing better than being lectured by a prominent player in New York’s Conservative party, George Marlin.  This is the same party whose candidate for Nassau County Executive ran on a pro-life, pro-solar power platform. (Which, if you think of it makes sense on some level.  After all, the sun provides the energy needed for all life on the earth and stopping abortions provides more life for the sun to provide for, and so on and so on-see it was reasonable for him to pull in 4% of the vote!)

Mr. Marlin provides some suggestions for our incoming county executive to be, Ed Mangano, in this Long Island Business News article.  And while he does provide some interesting ideas-such as finding a long-term solution to the budget deficit and resist turning the county in a Republican patronage mill, ala the Town of Hempstead-but, it is hard to take his ideas seriously when he so callously dismisses the ideas of “cool downtowns”, as proposed by our outgoing executive, Tom Suozzi.

Yes, it probably is the lamest named policy proposal possibly ever, but it is also of vital importance to providing growth and energy to our county.  To simply dismiss the “cool downtowns” as a place for “yuppies” and only “designed to promote. . . his search for statewide office” is to dismiss the biggest problem facing our county: the fact that young professionals(my god that might even be the acronym for yuppies) have little desire to live here.

The 21st century is defined by urban revitalization in the locally, regional, nationwide and abroad.  The question is how does a purely suburban county adapt itself to a 21st century reality.  And that is by adopting the cool downtowns and mega-projects Marlin feels the need to put down.

Mr. Marlin’s comments prove he his only interested in taking partisan shots, and not working proactively to bring new ideas to the table to help our struggling county.

Until conservatives such as Mr. Marlin are serious about providing real solutions to our real problems they will continue to win elections only when people become fed up with the status quo.

And while it limits their tenure in office, it is a major disservice to the citizenry, as they will be forced to govern every now and then.

Autopsy Notes – 11/23/09

Posted in Uncategorized on November 23, 2009 by Tom G

Father, forgive me my sins, give me the nails, I’ll hammer them in.
                                                                 Bruce Dickinson,
 
                                                                The Road to Hell

 

A king may move a man, a father may claim a son, but remember that even when those who move you be kings, or men of power, your soul is in your keeping alone.
                                                        King Baldwin IV,
                                                        Kingdom of Heaven

 

The men who dwell in basements know well the stench of hidden hands, bureaucrats, and social chess-players who wish to move men’s lives within the artifice of gamesmanship.

It’s nothing new; the gatekeepers know that freedom is always a little messy, and they remain all too glad to grab a mop and broom.

 Lincoln University in Pennsylvania seems to be the latest to join the ranks of these milksops. For close to four years, the venerated institution has been subjecting its student population to mandatory body mass index testing. Those clocking in with a score over 30 are subsequently forced to take a class entitled Fitness for Life.

The play on words here could not ring any more clearly of budding eugenics ambitions. Indeed, the implication seems to be that, in the university’s view, these scholars are in fact unfit for life

And now, ladies and gentlemen, we witness the pigeons come home to roost.

Fast forward a few years, and we find that over 80 students have not complied with the edicts of the fitness Czars. And as I write this, the status of their diplomas is up in the air. Yet the silence that greets this assaults the senses. Where is the outrage? How indeed did we get to this point?

The men in basements, many of whom are only a generation or two removed from whose who labored under the yolk of totalitarianism, instinctively know the movements of the power-drunk. Let us recognize these hidden hands – whether they extend from the state, the media, or our Trotsky-ite universities.

Make no mistake about it, the basements have windows, and they invite the light of day gladly.

Can the hidden hands say the same?

Autopsy Notes – 11/7/2009

Posted in Uncategorized on November 7, 2009 by Tom G

In years gone by, the old-timers would call it “an ounce of prevention.” A nice piece of homespun common sense – and one evidently not convenient for our Pentagon or military brass to put into practice.

When I consider, it, the esteemed Dr. Richard Kimble of The Fugitive springs to mind. After the murder of his wife by the omni-present “one-armed man,” and his subsequent framing for the crime, Kimball becomes a traveling miracle show of sorts, eluding the FBI, surviving treacherous waterfall plunges, healing the stricken while incognito (a fresh shave!) Hiding in plain sight.

All very noble.

All because he could not simply stop the one-armed man to begin with.

This past Thursday, one of our own one-armed men struck, although he in fact wielded  two well-formed appendages, an FN 5.7 mm pistol and a .357 magnum with a beefed-up magazine and vest-piercing capabilities.

An ounce of prevention. Common sense. The 38 wounded should have benefitted from their practice. They didn’t.

In the private sector, we simply call it Quality Assurance. And should you miss a biggie, it’s the breadline for you.

Are we to believe it registered with no one that Major Hasan greeted the murder of  a Little Rock army recruiter with whoops of joy? Are we to believe no one put two and two together when this man heaped Islamic doctrine on his patients or published blogs glorifying suicide bombers?

Like Richard Kimble, the United States is now engaged in high-stakes adventurism – ours in Iraq and Afghanistan. And we must rely on miracles no smaller than the ones he benefitted from: free elections unencumbered by violence or intimidation, the quelling of tribal/sectarian hatreds that span centuries and run murderously deep.

All because the powers-that-be in our military and intelligence institutions cannot heft that ounce of prevention, cannot ensure the Q&A that our private sector lives and dies by.

Many of the 23 wounded still surviving face torturous pain and perhaps death. One can only hope they can all heal in peace. But will the good doctor ever heal himself? Will he ever come to a diagnosis and treatment based on actionable data?

It seems unlikely.

 

Autopsy Notes

Posted in Uncategorized on October 31, 2009 by Tom G

It’s a little after midnight, and I’m perusing Youtube for old-school wrestling clips from the regional days when they’d broadcast from decaying armories or studios or Elks’ Lodges that conjure up a heady mix of Ballantine’s and cigar smoke. I munch on a nuked turkey leg, and for a few minutes, the daily pains of city existence recede like waves foretelling a tsunami.

And you can bet the mortgage it comes.

The doorbell rings, a sound like a choked-out buzzard that frazzles my nerves. Thinking it’s probably Laughing Walter from downstairs – off his meds again – I ignore it and return to the deep south of the ’80’s . But the ringing persists, calling out in harsh staccato bursts. I’m ready to have a goddammed fit.

I pick up the intercom receiver. “What the fuck? Wanna get choked out?”

The voice on the other end is gravelly and booze-crazed. “It’s Bonzo you skinny fuck! Let us in!” In the crackling background, there’s the laughter of young girls. You know the sound – it comes smooth and easy from rib-cages that  pre=”that “>have yet to take the kicks that real life so gladly delivers. Brief consideration is given to retrieving the snub-nosed .38 from under the fouton; I wave it off. Should just tell them to hit the bricks. Except curiosity outweighs my judgment.

I buzz back in. “I’m coming down.”

When I get there, the three of them are cramped into the vestibule, laughing – Bonzo’s bovine frame filling up the bulk of the real estate. The two blondes are thin and in their early 20’s, clad in black leather jackets and short denim that could asphysxiate a garden snake. One of them is wearing a Che Gueverra shirt.

And I think to myself They are only killing a man.

 I scuttle them all out onto the steps. I’m pissed. Better they be raging evangelicals, or bill collectors, or Obama’s Hope Squad decked out in riot gear and audacity. Far better still to develop a good working morphine habit and exit stage left. Luck of the draw I guess.

I step forward and eyeball them. “Do you know what time it is? Don’t you people have work in the morning?”

The girls giggle some more as Bonzo lurches towards me. I beging to sense Chicago-style strong-arm tactics. He throws a German-shepard sized arm around my shoulder and introduces the girls. Their names are Katka and Svetlana. From back in the USSR. Looking to party, apparently. Whatever. I know with tombstone certainty that the clincher is coming.

 “Listen, can I borrow 200 bucks?” he asks, squeezing me like some cherished thing. “The night is young!”

My head lightens with anger and the squeezing. “Are you fucking nuts? I’ve been living on the loose change from my couch!”

The grip become a little firmer, Bonzo exerting all of his 240-on-the-hoof. A part of me regrets not having pursued the priesthood.

“Maybe you don’t understand the gravity of the situation.” Yet more giggling from the Soviet Super Soldiers. Do these girls talk? Thoughts of the .38 dance in my head with hot stripper moves.

“You do speak English, don’t you?”

And just like that, Bonzo’s real self erupts. He pivots his bulk in front of me, locks his arms around my frame. Before, my head had been floating; now it was orbiting Saturn, eye-balling its rings like an automotive inspector or a private dick with a hangover. No good.

Bonzo’s vocal chords vibrate against my left ear. “Who saved your scrawny ass that time by the mini-mart? Huh? When those gumbas were gonna beat the blood, piss and shit outta you? WHO!?”

I manage to bring a booted heel into his shin. Grind it in a little. It doesn’t hurt him too much – the trajectory’s too tight – but he does relax his grip, and his oppressive bulk eases off enough so that I can throw a haymaker. Christ’s balls! It’s like hitting a giant lacquered pumpkin. He grabs my shoulders again, but I jam a thumb into his right eye. My remaining hand grips around to where his neck should be.

The girls are screaming now. Screaming as we veer towards and off the concrete landing and tumble down the steps. Inside, things are busting apart, liquifying. And then we’re in the middle of the sidewalk, fighting and gouging in the deep of the night, the streetlamp glare like some Broadway klieg lights  hovering over Man of Le Manche. I’m dimly aware of window screens coming up, shouts from angry neighbors, and the girls’ clacking  high-heeled footfalls approaching from the blind side. And then from behind, WHAM! – something cold and hard against my noggin. By Dick Cheney’s wrinkled sac! – broken glass, warmth of blood welling up. A beer bottle? Does it matter?

I’m on my back as the sickly warmth begins to fuzz over my brain. And yet, things seem to crystallize and become clear, gaining detail the way things will when you’ve banged down some particularly good ‘shrooms.

I am 38 years old…

Where have all the good men gone? I suspect they’ve seen a lot, perhaps too much. They are holed up in basements, cigarette cartons at the ready, the constant hiss of AM radio their only company. Perhaps they have giant jugs of water and  foodstuffs bricked up around them. Their reality is likely too real for reality t.v. It is the coming end that motivates them. It is the tsunami.

Intro/Thoughts….

Posted in Uncategorized on October 31, 2009 by tigheinthe215

Hello bitches…I’ll be blogging here and basically talking about whatever I want to….Some days I’ll be rational and thought-provoking, other days I will be awful and boorish and crude….Its just the way I roll….So if I can pay attention for more than 2 minutes, you may get a blog out of me…..

TEST

Posted in Uncategorized on October 21, 2009 by bdgallof

testing 1 2 4

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