Delayed speech syndrome is an epidemic as we enter September, which may or may not be National Speech Month. Both President Barack Obama and professional undeclared candidate and wannabe talk show host Sarah Palin (R-Nowhere) are this week's celebrity sufferers.
Obama's case is particularly tragic. The Earth needed a jobs speech eleven months ago, while it was still pregnant with hope, that is, before the Republicans took over Congress. However, the presidential handlers finessed themselves into a tactical error this past week, falling into an accidental trap set by the handlers of House Speaker John Boehner (R-Ohio). At first, the administration was going to have the president give job initiative speech on Wednesday, Sept. 7, but decided to capitulate to Boehner's snaky plea that it be set back a day. Why? Dunno. Boehner is apparently working on his own job plan (speech) now, eleven months after taking over his job, which is mainly to fuck over as many earthlings as he can all day long, short of killing folks of all nations, religious hope or color, or, short of that, taking them hostage. All you can really say is if you attach Boehner's name in a Google search, you might as well use three other words to get the deepest cache: 1) "Evil"; 2) "Fundraising,"; 3) "Golf."
No worries. Sure, Obama may have pissed off two key demographics in the Free World with the move. For example, NBC's funniest shows are on Thursday nights. People trained to laugh like seals on Thursday nights may be thrown off schedule, or, even worse, tuning into the president's speech just for the giggles. Also, the NFL's opening night broadcast, surely on a cable channel, may be drawing off the voter demographic as known as "the male of the species."
No way to fix it now without doing any further damage to the president's Jellowy, needs-a-gut-check image. Short of my recommendation, that the president make up for the wimp-factor error by throwing out the first football at the Dallas Cowboys' home opener, I have lost hope. For the Cowboys Super Bowl chances, not for the president's jobs speech. I'm sure we will all be thrilled. I'm sure he would do well, also, throwing that first pass on first down. If only because Cowboys' QB Tony Romo is going to close his eyes and fling the thing anyway on first down. The jobs speech, delivered by either Obama or Boehner, could have done the same thing with even less harm to the national mood, eleven months ago.
But hey. No hurries. Just breathe ... breath. Hmmm. Feel the good. For a journalist such as myself, speech writer's delay syndrome is well understood. Imagine how a White House speechwriter lives. Feel his pain. Coming back from their pricey vacations in the Hamptons, in Jackson Hole, Wyo., in Aspen, Colo. Wow, the anguish to find their continent in ruins! Their people, hungry, mad, going insane. They need another day to find the most compassionate words necessary to inspire the starving 40 million unemployed people and their family members who may lack the energy to even clap.
Just one more day, hell, another eleven months while we wait for Boehner's master plan, promised since, well, the last election. Sure. Why not? The starving people with no shelter, due to storms, corporate, Jesus-inspired, Wal Mart ordered and otherwise, can wait. Most of them hocked their teevees at the pawn shop years ago.
As far as Sarah Undeclared (R-Bridge to Nowhere), goes ... whatever. Her speech writers are stressed out like the screenplay writers of any movie Robin Williams ever made must be. When she goes all mavericky and off the script, you'd have to wonder if she is learning disabled or is even able to read.
~
All politics is loco.
~
Meanwhile, in the Lobal Village: Hey, I just manifest destinied myself a free pencil warmed up in hell!
~
This morning's Sedona Red Rock News tells me the city of Sedona has put staff to the task of studying pedestrian flow in clogged up Uptown, the main tourist trap district, which I like to call "Scottsdale in the Sky," due to the air pollution, thermal air inversion layering in the Oak Creek Canyon area, overpriced goods, housing, food, streets lined up in sweet, polite, foreclosure rows, and the frightening sense of tribal entitlement among the various castes stomping about, or, whistling by in their cars, trucks, or Imperial space craft.
Also, Sedona police department officers and (job thieving) senior volunteers assisted in the gathering of info indicating, yes, the Universal Mad Planner fucked up, again, while intelligently designing the canyon to begin with.
Whole "teams" were set up to monitor pedestrian crossings. Adding to pedestrian flow, one supposes. Who knows how much this improvement in civic fact gathering cost? One thing I do remember is that loco mayor what's his name boasted, only a few months ago, in a so-called "presidential style" state of the city address, that he had saved the town $100,000 to end one branch of the civilian public transportation accessory, the Roadrunner route.
According to the city engineer, forced to deal with a fucked up canyon design to begin with, has also been set to the task. Probably because he isn't paid that much per hour. Anyway, he came up with the revelation that this one-road pathway through uptown toward poorly designed Oak Creek Canyon, during weekends, is much too fucking crammed with cars!
"The concept of totally avoiding any backups at any time of the year may or may not be really achievable," he states in the Red Rock News. "I think it's probably a volume issue, that we just have a lot more traffic than the road can handle."
Fortunately, Mayor Wat's His Name can claim some kind of additional savings, due to the elimination of the Roadrunner bus routes, as well as the sheer force of his lacking achievability.
~
Odd, I haven't even opened the Red Rock News yet and I'm some kind of state of existential angst. If only because the front page has a photo of lady seniors reading books with accompanying headline stating, "Ability to read opens all other doors for children."
~
But now the heart is set: You want to have
the tale of all my trials -- and I must add
more tears to all I have already shed.
What should I tell you first? What should be last?
I've had so many griefs at heaven's hands.
Let me begin by telling you my name,
so that you, too, may know it; for I may --
when I've escaped from fate's most cruel day --
receive you, though my home is far away.
the tale of all my trials -- and I must add
more tears to all I have already shed.
What should I tell you first? What should be last?
I've had so many griefs at heaven's hands.
Let me begin by telling you my name,
so that you, too, may know it; for I may --
when I've escaped from fate's most cruel day --
receive you, though my home is far away.
~ The Odyssey of Homer
Noplacia was once my name,
That is, a place where no one goes.
Plato’s Republic now I claim
To match, or beat at its own game;
For that was just a myth in prose,
But what he wrote of, I became,
Of men, wealth, laws a solid frame,
A place where every wise man goes;
Goplacia is now my name
- Thomas More,
from Utopia
To continue reading
GREETINGS FROM MYTHVILLE
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Here we go, about 11 years worth of blogs that preceded the MySpace.com blog, My Parking Lot for Words. They were the Genesis for more than 10 books, available at iuniverse.com,Lulu.com, by author Douglas McDaniel
Note: Here's a couple from ANGEL OF THE AVENUES, By Douglas McDaniel
MILTON MORNING SONG
Celestial heavenly lights blinking
At dawn over Camelback Mountain.
The rose is left in view, rosy
And true. The sky is a blue frame
For madness or his nameless name.
Milton wrote, he choked and smoked:
The mind is its own place,
and in itself,
Can make heaven a hell,
A hell of heaven.
But if this the Void,
it..s a Void of truth.
The stirs of green cirrus streaks
In the cloud, the chair-back
Alignment of Venus and Mars,
The waning dusty moon;
All simple proof there..s no real
Distance between me
And unknowable you.
Silhouette of a Praying Monk,
I smolder and move
to get a better view,
lay my shitty pocket things
into a fire pit and sit
on a merry temporary throne.
Light up. Listen to
a raven..s haunting call,
The trickling of cool waters running
Beneath the surface of the desert:
O Milton, poor bastard, you only
Had it half right. Man, his heart;
The only Void in view.
I climb this tree, O Bard,
And sing a sad song for thee:
Thy sun,
thy surface,
thy furnace.
DA VINCI BLUES
Consider the totality of stress
on the renaissance man.
Hustlin' to & fro',
talkin' wings off birds,
puttin' eyeballs on kites,
makin' list of daemons.
Start one thing no sooner
you're burning the next green branch,
jugglin' chaos and oozing blood
to congeal the form,
breakin' time's inscrutable pane a' glass
& gettin' no fuckin' sleep in the process.
There are days when ideas
rise in the sequence
of smoke holes to the ceiling,
and you gasp for air,
allowing the muse to take form.
There is no sex life, nada,
no time for introspection,
only invention and monk's tea,
as if mere air were a seven-course meal
before you turn to bed to weep.
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