September 12, 2017

I was born and raised in the deep South and I am proud of my region of this great nation

I am as culturally southern as they come, except for my politics. I could bore you all day with what I like about the South. What I dislike about the South is the identification with and emotional investment of some in our most disgraceful period. My 3rd great grandfather never owned a slave but the horrible hardship he endured at Vicksburg was on behalf of the slave owning aristocracy. He didn't think so sure just like Gulf War vets didn't own oil well or felt they were fighting for oil companies.

The US Government should have embarked on a de-confederatization program like what we did in Germany after WWII with the Nazis. Confederate leaders went back and became governor's and senators again. They should have been hung and their property seized. Southerners today should look at those years the way Germans do the 30s and 40s - with shame.

September 12, 2017

Robert E Lee is part of our history

much like Benedict Arnold or Tokyo Rose.

Should they get statues?

September 8, 2017

So they didn't want to vote for aid to hurricane refugees

if it meant also paying our bills and keeping our credit rating intact?

Well, alrighty.

September 8, 2017

Pretty Rough but recorded it and the video during Hurricane Rita

September 6, 2017

I think he looks like a crooked cop who

molests children in his spare time.

Or a high School football coach whose son has to stay in the closet till he's grown and out of the house.

September 3, 2017

Suicide in the Trenches

Suicide in the Trenches is a poem by Siegfried Sassoon, written during his First World War military service and published in his 1918 collection: Counter-Attack and Other Poems.

Music by John Henry Hannah
Enginered by Reese Perkins
Vocals by Wendy Colona

I knew a simple soldier boy.....
Who grinned at life in empty joy,
Slept soundly through the lonesome dark,
And whistled early with the lark.

In winter trenches, cowed and glum,
With crumps and lice and lack of rum,
He put a bullet through his brain.
And no one spoke of him again.

You smug-faced crowds with kindling eye
Who cheer when soldier lads march by,
Sneak home and pray you'll never know
The hell where youth and laughter go.