Why Can't There Be Fewer Days to Christmas?

Think about it.

There are 40 days before Christmas that are preparation, a sort of Lenten type preparation, called Advent for Orthodox Christians.  And the Orthodox hearken back to the very same Apostles that hung out with Jesus back in the day.  That would be the First Century Day.  Half of Christians, at least, are Orthodox Christians, even if their presence is more likely associated with the country of origin for those Orthodox in the US.  We tend to think geographically about them, never considering that the entire lot of them have no national church as such, and are only identified as Greek or Russian or Serbian, or Antiocian or American (think Alaska as the mother church, so to speak), becasue that reflects the language those churches might have spoken during their founding in the US.

The Antiochian branch still has its HQ on a street called Straight in Damascus.  Kid you not.

But these are a serious group of preparers, and they go the full 40 days before Christmas, and the full 12 days after, to celebrate the birthday of Jesus.

The Roman church, once a part of the Orthodox communion had a bit of a split over several issues, not the least of which was the hankering of the Bishop of Rome, AKA Pope, to be the Head of the Heads of ALL Orthodox churches.  So far, the ecumenism of Rome, the Holy Spirit proceeding form the Father and the Son, and a few other side issues have kept the groups separate.  They have conferences, talk about getting back together, hand out lovely briefcases and portfolios to the attendees, and then all go back to being what they are the other days of the year.

That said, the Roman branch begat, in a way, the English or Anglican Catholics, which are the originators of protestant, err protesters in religion, here in the US.  Today, there are over 2300 different denominations of Christianity in the US.

Now, all that information is taken from that infallible (snark) source of wisdom, Wikipedia.  Plus, a few videos and books by Kallistos Ware, a thoroughly charming and disarming bishop over in Oxfordshire, England.

And, not a bit of the foregoing matters one whit, except to say that now that I've reached the midpoint of the 12 LOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOONGEST DAYS OF CHRISTMAS, which could also be known as one of the best inducements to insanity, has made me yearn for a shorter way to celebrate the fowl (ahem, foul???) largesse, known as the Twelve Days of Christmas, brought to you by whatever True Love Gives To You.

If your True Love is gifting you with all the gifts known as the full Twelve Days, tell them that only in the song need the gifts be repeated for the rest of the duration, or song.  Except, of course, for the FFFIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIVE GOOO-LLLLD RRIIIIINNNGGS.  Keep those rings coming.  Make them big, solid, hefty, weighty, really weighty, and sized to fit thumbs.  Of giants.  The gold weight alone makes up for the other expenses foisted upon the recipient due to the other gifts, that require feed, housing, hay, feed, water, feed, cages, feed, ventilation, feed, minding, feed, and feed.   Did I mention that birds do not eat like birds?

They eat like freaking Hoovers, sucking up every grain, morsel, bit of veg, or succulent imaginable, also known as grubs, worms, and other icky things, yet they share their eggs with generosity that really does make them a sort of double gift.  If you like eggs.  And don't mind the cleaning up, or buying the feed that makes cleaning up an almost 24 hour a day job in a small bedroom/office.

We, and I use that term loosely, are now facing Day 7.  The just past the midpoint of Bird Overloaded Armageddon, brought to  you by TrueLove.

I've spent the entire day searching on teh Google Machine, the Yahoo Machine, the FaceBook, the Tweet Thing, and entirely too many chat groups in a vain attempt to locate the elusive TrueLove.  When was the last time you got to page 187 of a Google Search?  Never, right?

Well, I've been at least to page 188 of not less than three dozen searches and my eyes are spinning in my head in opposite directions. I've eaten eggs.  Lots of eggs.

I made poached eggs over spinach, scrambled eggs, hard boiled eggs, soft boiled eggs, egg drop soup, poached pears with poached eggs, and to finish it off, two chocolate souffles.  That last was comfort food, and they were wonderful, though I do need to make myself a new pair of post-Christmas pants, because I've gaind at least Twelve Pounds of Christmas as I seek simple survival of the Twelve Days of Christmas.  Bests are being taken in Las Vegas, and truth to tell, the odds are not in my favor.

I've called a private detective, three legal eagles also known as lawyers, and not one wanted to sue TrueLove.  It seems that no one in the legal profession thinks that this is a problem, giving someone all these lovely presents of Birds, Birds with Pear Trees, More Dovey-Lovey Birds, More Loudly Screaming/Calling Birds, or Honking Spiteful Nasty Goosing Birds that know all the spots that hurt the most, and then bite you right in those spots.

I've called protective services, and they are only interested in sending me to the Looney Bin.  They didn't believe I had any problem with birds at all, until I opened the spare bedroom door, and the sound was deafening, and then they were going to send out animal control to cite me, ME!!!, for harboring livestock within the city limits of Chicago.  The fine would be about $2000.

Per day.  By the time this was over, I could be shelling out the amount needed for a down payment on a really swank townhouse, just in fines. The words, not bloody likely came to mind.

I hung up.  I don't have that money.  Not at all.

I spent all my Christmas gift money on feed.  And a new larger cage for the calling birds and a really imaginative wire thing that had six sections for the partridges and turtle doves.  That way, they could be inside the same superstructure, but not really in the same cage.  I borrowed six dog crates for the geese.  I could put two in each, and stacked up, they covered one wall, floor to ceiling.

I also dug three air filters out of the basement storage area, put in new filters, and managed to get them going so as to keep the entire flat from smelling of feathers, chicken stuff, and processed poultry feed. . . if you catch my drift.

Finally, I got myself a nap, which is to say, I turned on the Mystery Marathon that plays every New Year's Eve on WYCC in Chicago, and the last thing I remembered was Poirot complimenting himself on being the very best detective in the world.  Which of course, he was.

I woke with a start.  That was it!  I needed the little Belgian and his gray matter.

But first, I needed to open the door.  I dreaded it, but it was time to face the Lakeside Livery Delivery.  This time, I was prepared.  I had caught on.  I was going to be receiving an additional delivery of every gift for every day for the duration of the interminable Twelve Days of Absolute Horror.  Cages were ready, feed was laid out in anticipation.  Water bowls and bottles were filled.  The cat was almost catatonic, but was gradually adjusting to the smells, noise and more smells.  He also liked omelets with peas, Swiss cheese and a side of rice.  Go figure.

I opened the door.  But, I was truly not prepared.  Right in front of the Lakeside Livery was a large container filled to the brim with water, in which was swimming a gaggle of swans.

No wait.  That's not right.  It's a gaggle of geese, which obviously form the honking noises coming from one large container were also there, but a group of swans in something else.  It's a murder of crows, a congress of baboons, but a group of swans is a What??

Oh well, time was wasting.  I had to clear the hallway.  people were going to be heading out for new Year's Eve, and I needed to keep the evidence from being too obvious.  (My neighbors were either deaf, blind or totally unfazed by anything.  It was obvious, my flat was becoming Bird Farm by Lake Michigan.)

How was I going to get all the water, and the tank, into my flat?

Not to worry, all I needed was Superman.

And, just as the elevator door opened, there he was.  Well, there were a total of five Supermen.  They lived opposite me, or rather two of them did.  The other three were on the same basketball team over at Loyola Park.  In their spare time, they mentored kids, played basketball, hung out in the corner bar down the way on Sheridan, and were as close as brothers.  They were also, as a group, not less than 6 foot 5 inches of muscle.

They also saw my predicament, and started laughing.  One of them said he knew where he had a set of buckets and large pans, and they'd corral the swans (A chorus of swans??? A collective of swans???), and then move the pool into my living room. 

It took me about a minute, and I realized a swimming pool would not work for the swans.  Not in the living room.  I decided the dining room was out.  Too close to food for livestock.  The bathroom was large, and I coudl give them free run of the bathtub, so long as I could fence them off during my own shower.  We managed to get the tub into the bathroom, set up a hose and ran water in.  The operation took about an hour.

By the time everything was done, at least for the swans, I had ordered pizza for everyone, and then managed to open the other containers.  I had another six geese, which were promptly put into the dog cages.  Five more (Yippee!), gold rings, four more loudmouthed fowl-mouthed calling birds, three more French hens, with fresh eggs, two more turtle doves, and another pear tree, with pears and partridge, were all stashed in their proper places.

The sad thing was, I was running out of proper places for anything.  But, my Super Men had done yeoman's work, and each got all the pears from the pear trees.  At least, they got the close to ripening ones.  It turns out, if you let pears ripen on the tree, they go rotten before they are picked.  Pluck them down before they are ripe, and put them in the kitchen to ripen, and a few days later you've got perfect pears. 

I had lots of perfect pears.  And lots more perfect pears on the way.  The harvest was bountiful.

The guys said they'd happily come in to help change the water, as the bucket was the only way to drain the pool until hoses could be properly hooked up.  I thanked them, gave them the remaining beers to carry home, and wished them a very Merry Day SEVEN, of the Twelve Longest Days in Recorded History that Pertain to, are Related to, or Mention Christmas.

Clearly, my sanity was, and is slipping.  I needed rest.  I needed a flat free of fowl.  I needed a foul free, fowl free flat. I needed better onomatopoeia. 

I wnet to the dining room, found the brandy that an old client had given me about fifteen years earlier, and poured myself a drink.  It tasted awful, but three sips did the trick.  I turned the tube on, and settled in to watch Case Histories on the Mystery Marathon.  It was delightful.  I realized that Jackson Brodie's life was only a hair less dysfunctional than mine.  I thought what would Jackson Brodie do to find TrueLove, other than not look in Edinburgh, where he's located.

With that thought, I bade the world a Happy Christmas, and drifted off to dreamland, where I hoped I'd find either a shorter way to the end of these Twelve Days, or just a shorter Christmas season, a way to locate TrueLove, or a way to find sufficient funds to face the impending bankruptcy that could result from livestock fines in Chicago. Or, I'd just find myself in some lovely new location altogether, and life would be happily ever after.

Nighty-night all.  I've got a cat curled up next to me and that dream is coming in with lovely Technicolor and nary a peep, croak, chirp, cheep, caw, honk or other foul, or fowl, bird sound.  Nice.

WooHoo! It's Sutter's Mill All Over Again, Almost--

Well, in truth, not even close.  But, this time when the bell rang, there was a lovely small package in hand.  That is, the Lakeside Livery guy had a small box in his hand, his other elbow resting nonchalantly on a box that was just the right height for the debonair stance, and behind him, a carton with feathers flying out of it.

There was lots of squawking. 

There was a delivery ticket to sign.  Then, with help from Lakeside Livery, the boxes were wrestled into my living room and opened.   All in all, itt was an expected haul of gifts, all from the essentially nameless, TrueLove.  All.  One. Word.

Not True Love.  Not "Your True Love."  Nope.  Just "TrueLove."

And so, I had some investigating.  I had to get this bird brain to stop.  Here I was, cheek by jowl, up to my eyeballs in birds.

Make that BIRDS!!!

I had yet another pear tree, with partridge.  Another TWO turtledoves.  Another THREE Bleeding Froggy Hens. ANOTHER FOUR, PUT A SOCK IN IT, CALLING BIRDS.  Calling.  Every 2.5 seconds.  CALLING!!!!

My eardrums were at bursting point.

In a hugely belated attempt to assuage my ill humor, I did get five, count them FIVE.  Gold.  Rings.

With the price of gold, and with MF Global out of business, gold was nothing to sneeze at these days, I now owned FIVE, count em, FIVE.  Gold.  Rings.

I tried bribing the Lakeside Livery delivery guy to get him to part with the real name and address of the elusive TrueLove.

Nothing going there.

And so, I needed to get going early Friday morning, and do the legwork that had made Sherlock Holmes successful.  Unfortunately for me, eveyrthing was closed up tight for New Year's Eve holiday, minus one.

They had to get a holiday for the workers, and had chosen Friday to shut everything down.  Most places I went also had signs up that they'd also be closed Monday.  To allow the hangovers to subside, I guessed.

Well, that left me with only one alternative.

I went to the only outfit in town that sold grain and hay.  If I was going to be housing the Chicago version of Old McDonald's chicken coop, ala Franglish, I would need food for the hens, food for the partridges, and food for the soon to have their vocal cords removed without benefit of anesthesia, Calling Birds.

So, having spent the day looking for a way to find and shut down TrueLove, if only to get the feather count below 2000/cubic meter of air in my flat, I accepted defeat gracefully.  I took the El back north to my residence, which was noticeable from about a half mile away due to the sound of a veritable chorus of operatic wannabes disguised in feathers, letting everyone know they wanted to be fed.

When I got to my floor, I could see boxes, five large, one very small, right in front of my door.  There was a note from my helpful neighbor.  "I signed for the delivery, hope you don't mind.  Could you please get the noise under control?  It's beginning to worry Bitsy, my cockapoo.   Happy New Year!  Sandy."

Right, I thought to myself.  How do I silence the hellsa-raisin' chorus of birds?  Sunup is just not a concept they believe should be observed as the earliest they should, umm, vocalize.  Sundown doesn't shut them up one bit either.

My hands were shaking like quaking aspen leaves in a gale force wind as I dug the keys from my pocket.  When I opened the door, there emerged from a carton behind me a sound that can only be hinted at, not fully described.  It was somwehere between a jet engine and a train whistle in volume and eardrum fracturing horror.

I opened that carton first.  Out waddled six, count them SIX geese.  Complete with goose eggs left inside the carton.

Whoever TrueLove was, he was going to answer for a right increase in my cholesterol if I were to eat even half the eggs that were arriving in each shipment, or that arrived every day under the various foul fowl.

The small container that had been left atop the goose box, contained another (and this was the only smile I managed all day), FIVE.  GOLD.  RINGS.

That would be ten, yes TEN.  GOLD. RINGS.  The one part of this hellish Christmas prank that was worth anything.

I hustled the rest of the cartons inside, putting the obligatory FOUR.  CALLING BIRDS, completely without cell phones, so they relied on volume to send messages that could reach Mars from right where I was standing.  They, along with another Three French hens, with eggs, Two Turtle Doves, and a very irritated partridge, with pear tree, were all put into the spare bedroom/office.  From the looks of it, if it wasn't condemned by the health department, would never again be the same.

That left the geese.  Laying. Six of the sodding birds.

Geese don't get along with other birds very well.  I needed to find a place for them.  So, without a further thought, I cleaned out the large walk in closet, and shoved them in there.  I'd use the weekend to sort out the contents of the closet, in addition ot a very thorough computer search for the elusive, and clearly demented, TrueLove.

But, it was late.  I lived in fear of the next delivery.  I also lived in fear of impending eviction or deafness, choose one.  I was living in the nightmare of McDonald's Farm, the Hitchcock Birds Edition.  I made myself some tea and consoled myself that tomorrow was another day, and it couldn't be worse than today.

Little did I know.

Chicken with a side of partridge anyone?

It's going to the birds.  All of it.

Again, like some demented clockwork, not orange, the bell rang at 11:56 pm, which was astoundingly similar to the prior nights.  At the door was a new Lakeside Livery delivery person, complete with a stack of cartons at his sides.

The largest had lots holes, from which sounds of angry birds were emitted.  It sounded like a bad argument where 150 people were arguning at high pitch and higher volume.

I signed the delivery receipt, and stuffed the copy emblazoned with Lakeside Livery at the top of the page, and absolutely no information about the sender on it.  I crumpled it and stuffed it in my bathrobe pocket.

After wrestling the packages inside, and opening the first, I realized I now owned more birds.  This time it was French chickens.

Well, hens.  There were eggs in the bottom of the container, which was filled with straw.  Three of the eggs had shifted during transit, leaving a gooey mess of straw and egg yolk.  As I looked around for a towel or something, the tallest of the remaining boxes tipped over and another bird squeal split the air with bloodcurdling efficiency.

Who knew that partridges could be so loud?

I cut the cardboard away from the tree, and after ten minutes of struggle, got the little cage holding the partridge into the spare bedroom/office, and put one very irritated partridge into a large cage I'd gotten at the local dollar store so he'd have more room.  Of course, with two other partridges inside, that cage was getting crowded. A cage rated for four parakeets is no match for three partridges.

As I walked back to the living room, my bare feet encountered something that was both crunchy and slimy at the same time.  You guessed it.  The newly liberated hens had thanked their liberator by laying two more eggs, and I'd just walked in them.

The third parcel held a cage with two doves inside.

I shooed all the birds into the spare bedroom, and managed to shut the door without more feathers flying.  The lights were off, and I was off to clean my feet properly and to clean up the floor.  Then I was ready for sleep, big time.

Yet, it was not to be.  As I was just drying my foot, the doorbell rang again.  This time, I got there in record time.

You guessed it.  I had another delivery from Lakeside Livery.  Chances were, with all the livestock in a "only cats allowed" building, it would be that Shetland pony I wanted when I was ten.

But no, it was four cartons. Four large cartons.  I needed to find out who hated me, and birds generally, by sending me these gifts.  And I use the term "gift" sarcastically.

I looked at the clipboard stuffed under my nose.  Before I signed, I asked the major question I needed to have answered.  "Who is sending me this stuff?"

Delivery person grunted.  Literally.  Not an "I don't know," or any communication of "I've got no idea."

Nope, not any of that.  Just a grunt, "Unnnnh."

"I don't feel like signing this until you tell me who is sending all this stuff to me.  Please, if you have any sense of decency, please just tell me."

Nothing.  But this time, he pointed at a number in the column marked "Sender Code"  I checked the carbon copy under the ticket I was signing, because the whole thing was apparently done in quadruplicate.  I scrawled, delivery person yanked the pen from my hand, stuck it behind his hatless ear, and turned on his heel.  At least I had memorized the number, but I needed to find a pen fast.

It was impossible to find a pen fast.  I heard someone say, "You nitwit, the pen, the number is 12490211.  12490211, 12490211."

I was thinking "shut up" and other find phrases, and tried to remember the code.  It wasn't working.  In searching for the pen, which was clipped to a sheet with all my recent code number and password changes.  

Finally I got a pen from my briefcase besid ethe door, and wrote down, 15496221.

Victory!  I'd be able to contact Lakeside in the morning, and find out who was actually behind this.

It was getting bad.

The first box I opened had a tag on the top that read, "Collie Birds, None are named Lassie"

Okay.  A gift giver with a sense of humor.  I got the cage with the four Non-Lassies into the spare room which woke up all the feathered inhabitants, and the cacophony began again in earnest.

I tore open the tallest of the cardboard boxes, and inside was another pear tree, with a tiny cage holding an upset partridge.  I threw the cardboard, which hit the pear tree that arrived only minutes earlier, knocking it to the ground.  Pears went rolling all over the living room, and in the confusion, I stepped in one, then stepped in the egg that got away from me, right before I went to clean my foot off.

I didn't care.

It didn't matter if the egg was ground into my carpets.  It didn't matter if I was knee deep in cracked eggs.  I just needed to open the remaining two boxes.

As I suspected from the straw poking out of the one carton, I had another three hens.  I couldn't care less if they were French or Spanish or Chinese.  They were loud.  They'd laid 7 eggs, none of which were broken.   I took a few moments, grabbed a pan from the kitchen, and stuck all the eggs inside.  The ones that really got my attention though were the two turtle doves, which were lobbying hard to be part of a certain Vice President's hunting party.

An hour later, all the boxes were broken down and put out for disposal.and recycling.  The birds were all in the extra bedroom, the lights were off and it was only (Only!?!?) two am.  As in Ack Emma.

All I needed now was an early morning raid courtesy of some demented zoning inspectors or my landlord pounding on the door about the noise.

I turned the stereo to play some soft music.  I was hoping that something that sounded musically boring, like Mantovani, or even Manilow, would lull the noisy birds to sleep. I don't often admit I own such music, but any and all records, cds or tapes in that line of elevator like music were gifts.  From people that don't know me, and couldn't care less about my real taste in music.  (In case you are wondering, I'm a big fan of classical, romantic, and truly enjoy the sonata form performed by strings.)

Anyway, I had the number in my pocket, and after every creature inside my flat was where they belonged for the night, I set up the laptop and started to try a simple search of Lakeside Livery shipping records, if there were any tracking information available online.

Nothing.

Absolutely, positively nothing.

I leaned back against the pillows on my bed, closed my eyes for a moment and nodded off.

Day Two -- Another Near Midnight Assault on the Senses

Of course, that title presumes that senses exist.  Common senses exist, but sadly my hearing has just taken a battering more intense than most rock concerts in Grant Park.

At precisely 11:54 pm, as in 6 to Midnight, a cacophony of car horns, truck horns and the obligatory loud voices were heard in the alleyway that borders the back of my apartment building.

Then, a few loud cracks in the air, a couple of whistle sounds, and a deep explosive sound caused the building to literally rock on its foundation.  It was not an earthquake.  It wasn't a real bomb.  In fact, it sounded like someone was doing the pre-New Year's Eve fireworks 6 days early.

I opened my eyes and glanced again toward the window and the laser flashes of police lights spilled into my bedroom.  By the time I was fully awake, the doorbell rang. Then it rang again.  A third time.

By the time the bell was set off in the obligatory "shave and a haircut, beat, beat, six bits", I was at the front door and there was the new delivery guy from Lakeside Livery. 

He had two large boxes with him and a clipboard thick with delivery receipts.  Without a single word, he shoved it under my nose, slapped a greasy pen in my left hand and said the only word I ever heard him speak.  "Sign."

Now, this was a first.  Lakeside Livery was not in the business of delivering parcels to residences.  They were a business to business outfit, and picked up delivery orders from businesses that had more business than trucks.  In doing so, they kept costs down, which meant they weren't much on the pleasantries, and were very much into fast, furious and cheap service.  As such, some companies never did add that extra truck to their fleet.  They just used Lakeside as an extra employee that never took a day off, with trucks that never needed an oil change on company time.

I signed the appropriate line, and noticed the receipt had the address of the sender covered over by a large sticker that proclaimed "Lakeside Livery wishes you and yours a very Happy Holiday Season."  They even had a picture of Secretariat pulling an old fashioned milk wagon festooned with evergreen garlands and poinsettia blooms. 

I was offended by the desecration in that picture.  First off, the whole use of the "holiday" thing, when they were clearly celebrating end of the year crunch time, and not thinking for a second about peace on earth, or about which holiday was being celebrated with all the red and green.  Second, I was really offended by the use of Secretariat, complete with a blanket of roses over him, just like the photos that are plastered all over every article, Wiki-something entry, and school kids essay about that legendary horse.  A horse, mind you, that would never, ever, never have pulled a wagon of any sort.  Especially not a dairy wagon from pre-fire Chicago.

Anyway, the delivery guy grunted as he stuffed the pen under the stocking cap he wore.  His cap was so dirty that I cringed a bit having held a pen that had likely been removed from that location before I used it to scrawl some evidence of delivery.

"Hey, you're new on this job, aren't you?"  I asked as he turned and headed down the hall to the elevator. 

"Yeah" And, nothing.

"What's your name?"

Nothing.  Not a whimper, grunt or other sound.  Just the sound of the elevator doors opening and then closing softly behind him.

Well, it was time to see what was inside the boxes.  I opened both in the hallway, because one was too unwieldly to move and the other was too big to fit through my doorway.

Inside the first was a huge cage housing two doves.  It was one of those old fashioned looking parrot cages, which was about three feet high and about three feet wide.  When the light hit the birds, I could see they were beautiful white doves, with just a bit of gray shading around the wings and some bluish feathers on their heads. The tag affixed to the ornate ball at the top of the cage that formed a cap had a hand painted turtle on it.  I flipped it over and the message read, "Two Turtle Doves From Your Very Own True Love..."

Oh.

Oh cr...

Oh Crikey.

The other box had to be cut away.  I needed my knife, and by the time I found it, the cat had already gotten a decent hole ripped into the side and a few feathers had floated out onto the carpeting.

I shooed the cat back into my flat and used the hole in the side of the box to body wrestle the box into my own entryway.  When I cut the cardboard away, my worst fears were realized.

I had another pear tree.  This time with real pears on it.  And, in a tiny cage, which probably was for protection of the partridge inside it during transport, there was one extremely agitated bird.  I could swear smoke was coming off its pin feathers.

After some effort, I removed the tiny partridge cage from the pear tree, took it and the larger cage with the turtle doves inside, and moved both into the spare bedroom/office. 

The lightning fast flash of gray fur told me there was a cat in the room, ready to spring forth and get at least four extra large meals at the birds' expense.  I wasn't up for livestock slaughter inside my flat, especially since those sorts of activities brought all sorts of city inspectors, fines, fees, payoffs and other legal, and not so legal stuff that could be very uncomfortable indeed.  Especially for my empty pocketbook.

I got the cat out of the room using the oldest kitty con in the book.  The ball with a bell inside is a never miss attention grabber for the feline set.  He fell for it. 

I closed the door behind me, pulled the key from the hook next to the door, and locked the room behind me.  After all, I have a cat that could have graduated from as a bad lockpick, but successful door opener, and was so silent at it, that he'd win prizes at any seven bells school since Dickens wrote about Fagin's establishment more than a century earlier. 

It was time for sleep.  The police lights were still flashing in the alleyway.  I heard someone yell, "Get that horse out of here!  Now!."

Nah.  Couldn't be.  Lakeview Livery would never use a delivery system from a prior century, hauled by a horse that's been dead almost as long to deliver boxes to little old Moi.

I drifted off to sounds that could have been hoofbeats.  Horses hoofbeats.

Not a chance.  It had to be someone's stereo.  After all, this was the big city.  When you hear hoofbeats generally, think horses not zebras.  When you hear hoofbeats in Chicago, think boombox, not horse drawn wagon-box.  Right?

Rrrrrriiiight.

It is the First Day of the Rest of Them...

11:55 pm.

Darkness covered the city like the snow that should cover the ground.  White Christmas?

Bah Humbug!

There's been a lot of Bah Humbug-ging around here lately.  'Tis the season and all that.

No matter what the surveys say, spending has been limited this year because too many people can't afford food.  All these economic indicators indicating spending is up 16 percent have to be studies done by drug addled, economic Pollyanna's.  Or, they've only sampled the investment banking industry.  Those are the only employed people with money this year.

Anyway, rather than spend the day after Christmas, aka Boxing Day, shopping 'til I'd be dropping, I was cleaning my apartment.

At 11:55 pm, I should have been snug in my bed, visions of sugarplums still dancing in my weary noggin.  But no, I was awake, making yet another hand-crafted feast from the pages of Julia Le Chat Cuisine Par ...well par none, if you must know.  My beastly roomie, known to all and sundry as a lovely little cat, has had yet another bout of seasonal indigestion.

It is not my fault he is able to leap 5 feet in the air and catch tinsel that should be decorating the upper branches of the Christmas tree.  In fact, the tinsel was high enough to elude his mouth for each and every one of the prior six Christmas trees.  But this year, tinsel stopping at the precise measurement of 5.5 feet off the ground, the tinsel has been disappearing, only to be dragged everywhere and anywhere.  It's his own version of entertainment.

Being a diligent pet parent, I knew that tinsel is not a good snack for cats.  I'd spent three hours getting the ornaments right, the tinsel looking perfect on jsut a few upper branches, and now I had to remove that shiny, silver cat treat, or else it would be flying through the apartment, carried by a flying cat, and whatever was in his path was hitting the ground.  Hard.

I have lots of "breakage": around here.  So, dustbin rapidly filling, I was just about finished with the cleaning up, and the doorbell rang.

It was the charming delivery person from Ace's Best Chicago Delivery.  ABCD has a reputation for making all its deliveries on time, which in this case meant they had to deliver before midnight.  I knew this because the delivery ticket said just that in bold, red letters.

I gave a dollar to the guy holding the box.  He gave the box to me.  I heard a small whistle from inside the box.  The cat yowled.

I knew what was inside sounded frighteningly like a bird.  You see, I know John Darling.  And he's got a reputation for this sort of thing.  Sending birds and lovely presents, jewelry, pretty boxes filled with items of considerably high price, and generally treating whoever takes his fancy to some pretty fancy presents.

I was, in short, delighted.  A present!  Just what I needed as a reward for the last hours of labor removing tinsel from every branch, ornament, chair, table, couch or surface that could have a simple strip of shiny, silvery stuff on it.  And it was everywhere and anywhere.  I was happy to be done with tinsel.  forever.

After sending ABCD out of the building, I opened the box.  Inside, I found a beautiful miniature pear tree, done in gold leaf, with a pretty little golden partridge resting in one upper branch. The tag read, "Let the magic begin...I love you, John Darling."

Stunning!  Gorgeous!  And, he loves me!

Wow...

The doorbell rang again.  By now it was 11:59.

ABCD was again at the door.

"Lady, you gotta sign for this one too."  His voice could have wakened the dead.  I only hoped that Cosmo, my next door neighbor was still sound asleep, because when I play the stereo, Cosmo calls the cops claiming it's too loud.  In fact, it's not loud, because even I have a hard time hearing the quiet parts.  Cosmo just hates my taste in music.

Oh boy, I thought.  What else could there be?  I had a beautiful pear tree, perfect for the table by the window. 

In the hallway, there it was.  A 3 foot container was resting on a handcart, complete with a larger version of the miniature.

I was looking at a real pear tree.

With pears.

And, one real, live, very upset partridge. 

Make that a very, very, VERY unhappy partridge. All alone, perched in a pear tree. 

A six foot tall pear tree.

Do you know where this is going?

Pardon me, I have to run.  The cat has figured out how to strafe the partridge's perch, which was every so slightly lower than 5.5 feet off the ground.  Sadly for the partridge, there was no tinsel to divert his attention.. . .

Merry Christmas, all..

MERRY CHRISTMAS!

Today is the day set aside for celebrating the birthday of Jesus Christ.  While almost none in the 21st Century have true consensus that this day is the real day of his birth, it's a tradition that one day should rightly be set aside for the celebration.  Think of it like thoroughbred racehorses.  They all have an official the actual day of their birth.  Yet, every young girl whose ever owned and ridden a horse, no matter its breeding, will tell you the date and time of birth, to the second, if they know it.

Somewhere along the line, we lost the real date of Jesus Christ's birth.  It doesn't matter.

You see, the Gospel of John puts it elegantly and well.  In the beginning was the Word, which refers to Jesus, and so we all now know that before he was born on earth, he was.  He is.  He will always be. 

The Queen delivered her annual Christmas speech, and is also spending the holiday with her expanding family while Prince Philip recovers from his own health problems.  The Queen's message concludes with the recognition that Christ brought to earth the greatest gift of all.  Forgiveness. 

So many religions concentrate on what we must do in order to reach out to a Higher Being.  Christianity is about what God has done and what God does to reach out to us.

Forgiveness.

That's it.  The greatest gift.  We receive it and we give it. 

Forgiveness is the greatest gift of Christmas.  It is the freely given, priceless gift of God to us, and of all of us to eachother.  It cannot fit into a box, nor can it be contained in structures as huge as football stadiums or cathedrals.  It is smaller than anything we can imagine, as it has no physical size at all.  It is impossible to contain it once it is given, and can inspire great things.  It is a foundation that can support peace. 

And so, on this Christmas Day, let us give eachother a gift we cannot purchase with all the gold in the world.  Let us freely hand this gift, one to another, group to group, city to city, nation to nation. 

Just as our sins, once forgiven are as far removed as East from West (which when you think about it, is a place that can never be found, despite North turning to South if you travel far enough), let us remove whatever has caused a need for forgiveness.  Let us remove those memories as far as East is from the West.

For this day, and all future days that might, possibly be the real birthday of Christ, let's practice forgiveness.  After all, if you are in the mood to celebrate Jesus' birth on this day, then being ready to at least celebrate with the gift that has no price every other day of the year.  Just in case. 

You never know. 

Happy Christmas!  May Peace and Forgiveness overwhelm you all with joy.

We All Do It, Did It, Voted For It or Consented To It

Not in my name, they didn't.

You might want to comfort yourself with that thought.  Yet, the truth is, they really did do it, we consented to it, and it was done in our name. 

Not in my name, is reduced to a noble thought that is absolutely of no use whatsoever.  The deed has been done.  That vote back in 2001 began it in earnest, followed by other votes on other bills, each eating more away than the last one.  It's been like Pack-Man devouring bits and bytes on a screen, only this version is literally dissolving the Constitution like sulfuric acid dissolves the vellum it was written on.  We don't need the archives any longer.  Shut down that display at the Library of Congress, empty the cases.  Remove the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution.  From Patriot Acts to the recent NDAA, it's been a well planned, devastatingly effective murder and dismantling of the very fabric of what is America.

They are dead, dissolved and damaged beyond repair.

We did it.  Ourselves.  With malice aforethought.

It was murder most foul.

The real pity is, we don't need Sherlock Holmes to show us when or where this murder happened.  It was right there on the TeeVee Machine. It was promised in political flyers.  We guaranteed it by demanding more and more 'action' from our dissolute representatives in Washington, with every step pushing us ever downward, literally off the cliff.

Those that seek curtailment of liberty in the vain hope of increased security will get neither.  We got it.  We wanted neither, and that's what we have.  Speakers of English will recognize that "neither" is not a thing to be held close, loved, or bragged about.  It is nihilistic.  It is nothing.  No thing.

Funeral services were not held for the death of liberty and the guardian of that liberty that we once called the Bill of Rights. Specifically, when we suspended the Fourth and Sixth Amendments, we kissed liberty goodbye.  But, we would be safer from the terrorists.

Remember, you are 1000 times more likely to perish in an auto accident, be bumped off by your spouse, or die of peanut stuck in your airway than you are to die of terrorism.  Except perhaps when the terrorist is a law enforcement type, "just following orders."

Remember when Habeas Corpus, which has never legally been suspended since the founding of the government was done away with in the Warner Act that funded the military excursions in Iraq and Afghanistan?  That suspension was not complete, so just last week, they gave it another whack and this time, as effectively as the Valentine's Day Massacre boys whacked eachother in Gangster Chicago, the death blow was voted on, nearly unanimously, just last week.  President Hope and Change, after promising never to sign such draconian and unconstitutional laws, and even promising to veto this recent atrocity, had a change of heart.  He committed real change.

He changed the Constitution from living to flatline, promising a signature that will make all those oath taking, protectors of the Constitution from all enemies foreign and domestic, absolutely giddy with their success.

They did protect the Constitution indeed.  The thing is, we don't know what constitution they promised to protect and defend, because the one that was adopted in 1787 has been totally destroyed.  Perhaps DHS or TSA has a "secret" constitution that only government insiders know about, and that only benefits the insiders, no matter what is going on in the rest of the country.  After all, how else could these upper echelon, power mad, oligarchs remain in control to teh point where almost half of Americans are in poverty, and the top 40 of the "top of the heap" control half the wealth of the bottom 150,000,000.

Let that sink in.  Money is power.  The top 40 individuals/families, the top of the top One Percent, control HALF the wealth, or an amount equal to the bottom half of the American populace.

And now, if we gather to protest this fact, we could be labeled as "terrorists" because the simple discourteous action of protesting the inequality of this nation is enough to get you labeled a destroyer of the great and the good.  Once labeled a terrorist, it's indefinite detention, as in forever, based on secret testimony, secret evidence, and secret proceedings.  It's enough to make a Gulag Commissar, or Gestapo Commandant blush. 

With envy.


I suppose there ought to be a funeral service.  Unfortunately, silence from the Presstitutes and Mainstream Lamestream Media, has meant most Americans are totally, possibly blissfully unaware of the evil that has been done to us in our own name.  If there is a funeral, the time and location to be announced at some future date.  If such a gathering would be allowed at all.

After all, we now need a permit to gather, hold a sign, make a statement, or express an independent thought.  The trick is to get that permit from the very people that swore to uphold the Constitution they just murdered.  Plus, no one wants to be thrown into indefinite detention before a holiday, so it will be even more difficult to avoid arrest, tasers, rubber bullets, sound wave weapons, shackles, pepper spray, or disappearance if, upon gathering together, we call out the evil that has just been forced upon us.

An aside...with all this Constitution killing, there's been a run on tissues to mop up the tears of those who are aware of this travesty.  Which will, indeed, benefit the top of the top again.  At least that sort of economic activity shows conscience, empathy and legitimate sorrow for what we have lost.

Sigh...

The House did WHAT???

I guess the idea of fiscal management is all Greek to them.  In fact, the House is running up debt faster than the Federal Reserve can print the money, or even finance the interest payments by loaning us at interest (which we don't need to pay if we used Article I powers to issue it).

We have passed a budget that includes $Billions, make that BILLION$$$ for more of our overseas entanglements, more of our policing the world, more of our protecting the oil companies, and more nation building. 

You can find an article about it here:  http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/2011/dec/15/house-representatives-passes-defence-bill

We are looking at $662 Billion for defense, which is a necessary thing for protecting our nation, but not at the levels we are paying.

We just "moved out of Iraq."  We are leaving an embassy that is larger than the Vatican, and the Vatican is a country all in its own right.  Yes, the Vatican has a defense program.  It's the guys in the multi-colored britches, known as the baddest boys in the Swiss version of Marines, and known as the Swiss Guards.  They are a formidable force, and not to be taken lightly, armaments and uniform included.

In addition to the Vatican sized embassy, we are leaving 17,000 contractors, known in earlier times as mercenaries (think of the Hessians in the Revolutionary War), and they do not come cheap.  They are the guys that get $90 for a bag of laundry, $25.00 for a can of Coke, and salaries that are quadruple what our own armed forces are paid.  And what our armed forces are paid is not enough.

We need fewer mercenaries and more self-reliance on our own Defense Department resources. 

We also need to stop spending more than the rest of the world combined.  We are broke.  Totally. We can't even dip into the oath office level of thinking on Capitol Hill and find a way to issue no interest money to buy what the armed forces need from American companies that create jobs.  We simply cannot do this, because we don't have the political will to take the tough stance and do what is right.

Ask the representatives you have in Washington these questions.

Are the bribes, campaign contributions, so valuable that you will trample on,violate, ignore the oath of office that requires you to attend at least to Article I of the Constitution?

Is a job that pays less than half a million so valuable to your financial future that you will continue on a path that is obviously directed at destroying the economy of the US, and the World, based on results of the past 25 years?

Do you really think that holding a job with less than a 10 percent approval rating (when lawyers are more approved than Congress), is so important that you will enrich your own self as your constituents starve or are rendered homeless?  Or, do you work for the Corporation, and only for the Corporations, perhaps doing your bit for Banksters thrown in to make your real constituents obvious?

Remember Congress, we the People are your real constituents.  We are sick to death of spending huge sums for corporations that take our jobs overseas, and a banking system intent on bringing back Weimar style inflation.  We are sick of foreign entanglements, and paying for mercenaries.  We are sick of corporations, existing only on paper, having more life in them than we can afford for ourselves.  The time is coming for investigations, to get information formally showing who you really work for.  It's time to work for us, because the record so far indicates you aren't working for us, the people that really vote.  Change that effective and recent will be viewed favorably after investigations commence.

David Needs Slingshot, as do we all.

Sometimes you have to speak truth to power.  Sometimes before you speak truth to power, you announce the speech.  Sometimes, when people want to hear the speech about truth and power, they ask you to travel long distances and advertise the event.  Sometimes the Power part of the equation gets nervous, does one of those anticipatory arrest things, and really toss the spanner, mucking things up, and all before a single word is spoken.  It's called prophylactic protection of the public from nasty concepts such as preservation of one group's rights in the vast patchwork of humanity.

Apparently, promotion of a particular group can get you arrested in Germany.  Promotion of the rights of this group, to their historic, cultural and religious background, celebrated with symbols, gatherings, writings, exchange of ideas, is all very dangerous in today's culture of correctness.  This means, one group apparently is no longer "correct".

Still, when speaking truth to power, it also helps that the media, the town crier, the internet bloviators, and whatever passes for Nooz, actually have a record of admissions that all prior statements, while good for circulation figures, are not even close to the concept of truth.  Speaking truth to power always is best done when you start from a position of truth.  Truth today should demand clear statements of biography, speeches and writings.  If those are directed at or about the group that is no longer "correct" you can get arrested for it, pilloried for it, and denigrated without cause for it.  In other words, the lie today is Ruler, the Truth a pale semblance of its former Kingship.

Such is the case of Dr. David Duke, an historian, supporter of human rights, outspoken advocate of cultural preservation.  Dr. Duke, our David, went into the Coliseum, also known as Cologne, Germany, to speak about his views that the culture of the European, white, Christian peoples is getting the short shrift in today's endless campaigns of political correctness.  It's his opinion.  He's entitled to it.  'Nuff said.  Move along.  Nothing to see here.

Except, that's not what happened.  Dr. Duke got arrested.  His speech was supposedly cancelled, although some brave soul had a copy so everyone that got to the hall heard the contents, but not the proper, from the source, delivery. Dr. Duke was simply going to make a speech about the current dismal state of affairs in teh age of correctness that gets the rights of one group all wrong.

Unfortunately, the media seems to cotton onto Dr. Duke's former, as in no longer a member, membership in a Klan organization and won't let that tidbit go.  Dr. Duke is not now in the Klan.  Then again, Angela Merkl is not in the Communist Party any longer, but she was for a long time a Communist.  Interestingly, she is not introduced as "member, albeit likely formerly, of the Communist Party.  How many of us belonged to groups we'd rather forget than admit?  Be honest, because someone knows if you're lying.  Count me into that group, as I have belonged to some groups I'd rather never admit associating with, and I'm not naming names here either.

All that Dr. Duke wanted to convey is the message that protecting the heritage, customs, symbols and history of the European, and those of European origin, is important.  Those are the people that came from Europe, bringing Christianity, along with the customs of their country of origin, and are now found mostly in North America, as well as their home countries of Europe.  These are the formerly correct, but now disparaged, majority group of the US, who are discouraged from celebrating with Merry Christmas, public square displays of Creches, and gatherings where foods of the 'home' country are celebrated with similar customs also being part of the festivities.

Sure, a generation ago, White people were sometimes, even often in cases, racist.  These days, White people cannot have a part of the public square for a Christmas tree, nor can they greet one another with Merry Christmas.  We are so intimidated, we don’t even flinch when we’re told we can no longer greet another with Happy Easter, except inside the church building itself.

Now, I am as against racism, discrimination or someone telling me who I must be nice to when I don't feel particularly like being told in the first place.  However, I am also bone weary of the insipid "Happy Holidays" foisted on Christians when the expression works just as well for the Fourth of July, or Veteran's Day and Thanksgiving.  I don't want the thought police telling me what I can and cannot say in a supposedly free society.

December for Christians is Merry Christmas.  It's Happy Christmas.  It is the holiday that celebrates the birth of my Lord.  After all, Holiday didn't get born in a stable and Holiday didn't upset the Powers that Were back then, resulting in a tortured murder and resurrection that gives meaning to the entire Christmas season in the first place.  But, I digress.

The problem with Dr. Duke is that he went into the land of political correctness run well and truly into a whole different zeitgeist run amok, and tried to speak his mind.  Using facts.  Facts he had unearthed through talking with historians, reading historians, and dropping a few, not so well liked minds.  Bishop Williamson could tell the same story.  Dr. Duke's mind, which if you take what is said by and about him, has been pretty open.  He repeatedly says and writes that every culture has a right and a duty, to preserve and celebrate its history.  (The italics is my surmise of what Dr. Duke says and writes.)  These are not the views of a monster supremacist, which Dr. Duke is not.  Not for decades.  Not at all.

He's likely not so happy about his own youthful decisions regarding organizational alliances, because they tend to catapult all that supremacist, propaganda type language.  Like most of us, when we realize our membership somewhere is not a hot idea, we are stuck without that big eraser to remove stupid actions of youth from the ‘permanent record.’  He is also consistent over the last decades at least, with the ideals of truth in history, not just that story that best pleases the victors.  (Apologies to Napolean.)   The big Kahuna of history that The Powers That Are The Real Powers want to remain untouched is the whole issue of who's controlling what for what ends, and to who's benefit.  Cui Bene?

Why is it that there is only one religious group that cannot celebrate its own BIG Winter Holiday, using the culturally correct symbols of Creche and Merry Christmas greeting, when 85 percent of us claim that Christian heritage?  Why is it that promoting cultural events of import to people of easy sunburning skin, have to be 'amended' in order to be 'acceptable' to Culture Cops?  Why is it that even in communities where not a single non-Christian is graduating from the local high school still cannot vote to have a brief non-denominational prayer blessing the newly graduated?  Why is a Creche banned but a Menorah blessed?  Why can children celebrate Kwanzaa, but not learn about Pentecost (for Christians and for Jews, as both have the same holiday with different focus, but still...)  Yes, I do know Kwanzaa is a secular holiday.

Why is the cross around my neck banned when I am wearing it as a sign of my own faith?  What exactly is so upsetting to anyone about a simple Christian symbol?  (I promised I wouldn't get into how radical Christ really is.  That's for another day.)   Why is it that my own WASP culture seemingly the target of all this suppression?  It appears pretty clearly that Dr. Duke needs us all to pull out the metaphorical slingshot and let a well aimed shot go against these political correctness police and put them out of business.

I know that I am not the most likely person to defend Dr. Duke.  I am a Yankee, and Northerners are not too fond of many things Southern.  I came of age in the era of Political Correctness.  I actually thought it was a good thing, until I read the "Mene Mene tekhel ...", not of Daniel, but of my own heritage being ignored in favor of 'Anything But My Heritage."  

As much as I might try, I cannot get past one truth.  Dr. Duke is right.  I am a White Christian female and I am bone weary of political correctness. My Christianity informs my love for all my fellow humans, and yet I can easily be called a racist for wanting to celebrate my own Christian holidays with people from the lands of my ancestors.  My Scottish grandmother taught me about feast days and fast days, and the importance of prayer and love for all in all aspects of life.  Mum taught me that Christmas and Easter are not just holidays but signposts on the path to guide us all from birth to death.  Today, in the 21st Century, Christianity is the bastard child no one wants to admit belongs at the table where humans share all feasts.

The truth is, I read about a hundred writings of Dr. Duke, including his books. I do my homework.  His speech is reasoned, well supported, documented as appropriate, and measured.  He is not a supremacist in any sense of the word.  He si not a radical.  Dr. Duke espouses the support of all groups in celebrating their own customs, culture and holidays.  He favors the celebration of Dr. Martin Luther King's birthday and the celebration of Abraham Lincoln's birthday.  Every people should celebrate their own culture.  It is part of what makes us who we are as a diverse people.  Just as it is not right to exclude all but a certain group, it is wrong to exclude any single group from its or their celebrations.  Yet, today celebrating or publicly displaying a German Christmas tree or a Palestinian Creche, saying Merry Christmas, or wanting to preserve a display of the Ten Commandments is banned on the false premise that these are promotions of a particular religion.  Saying Merry Christmas is First Amendment speech.  The Ten Commandments, no matter what the Supremes in DC say, is a foundation of our legal culture.  A Christmas Creche is a symbol of the historic birth of Jesus Christ, an event we acknowledge every time we write the year 2011, as it is 2011 AD, Anno Domini.  Yet all of this for Christians is no longer encouraged or even allowed.

Why is this?  Why is celebrating Christ, Christmas, Lent and Advent such a bad idea for Christians that still make up the majority of Americans?  Why does it seem a concerted plan is in effect to make Christians a really invisible part of the fabric of society?

Yes.  There it is. I said it.  We all need the proverbial slingshot to strike down these idiotic thought police and controllers of the public square that hound out my own people.  My own clan cannot gather in most cities to celebrate our own clan holidays, the celebrations of my own tribe, if you will.

Dr. Duke is correct in this.  The Caucasians are getting restless, or should be.  The Christians are getting restless, or should be.  The European settlers that came to the US are getting restless, or should be.  We want to celebrate our holidays, in our own parks, with all the trimmings that are closely associated with our own group.  White people are also an ethnic group, despite having been told that ethnic for a blonde Swede means someone with brown hair and different religion than we experienced in our own churches as children.

This is how I see the issue.  We, members of the now almost former majority of people in the US, are now constrained to avoid talk that is dangerous in the public square.  Christian holidays celebrated in ethnic mode for us is obviously dangerous.  Were this not so, we'd see blazing signs of Merry Christmas over the Creche right at the side of City Hall in many communities.

We are unable to celebrate Christmas and Easter in the schools and public places we hold dear.  If a graduate wants to say a little prayer to bless the proceedings where those stunning sheepskins are passed out, well bless them.  Even if a public school is the soon to be alma mater, and the class knows none will be offended, that is.  Etiquette means you don’t hurt the feelings of others, but laws ought not control this.  If White people want to celebrate European history, or want to eat ebel skeevers, hot-cross-buns during Lent, or Easter Eggs decorated beyond all good taste, well bless them also.  (Ebel Skeevers are little doughnut like delights originating in Scandinavian countries, and one of the few non-white foods from the area, unlike potatoes, cod, cauliflower, on white china, jokingly known as Norwegian colorfully haute cuisine.)  Pass the latkes, bagels, and requisite schemar, for the other guys too.

It has nothing to do with the segregation or whites only, of prior decades.  It has to do with wanting to keep my own valuable heritage, including Christmas trees to light the park.  It has to do with wanting Easter dresses, not Spring frocks.  It is that recently uncomfortable intersection of Christian holidays and White heritage.  We can do this even as we light candles at the Creche, then turn and light Kwanzaa candles. At the same time, our pale faces want to gather together to celebrate our Swedish antecedents, or our German roots.  And we don't want the ACLU telling us we can't.

I've heard the speech Dr. Duke gave in the Czech Republic.  I've heard the speech that Dr. Duke was to give in Germany.  There was nothing in it that warranted his arrest.  That is, nothing except the danger to those that want people of one specific ethnic type to forgo their own heritage and move away from the deeply held beliefs that Christianity as celebrated by Christians for millenia in our European homelands, where now it is dangerous to speak of such seditious beliefs.  What is so frightening about White People celebrating their own White heritage?  If it is good for all groups of whatever ethnic heritage, to celebrate their history, traditions and religious background, then it must be equally good for Caucasians, Christians, and what was formerly disdainfully referred to as the Majority, also to celebrate. 

We don't make a swath of humanity cognizant of its heritage by banning that group from the public square.  All we need to do is ensure that all groups are allowed to celebrate their heritage.  When Christmas comes around, that heritage includes celebration of He who offers riches to all, and whose birth is the reason we celebrate Christmas in the first place.

As for Dr. Duke, his image has been highly burnished, albeit falsely, by a controlled press, constantly repeating his long ago group memberships making him little more than a racist cracker, not the PhD holder, well spoken, well researched, clear thinking, and soft spoken person he truly is.  His books put the lie to the now outdated unreality that is our press made image of him.  For that, we all need a slingshot to let the hot air out of the thought balloons, that form our caricature of Dr. Duke.  Remember, if you have changed opinions over the years, you too could be saddled with a life long fondness for Tiddly Winks or the beloved mullet, to say nothing of being tarred with the racist label for insulting some group or other, even in jest.

We also need to deflate those caricature balloons for most figures whose reputation depends on information that might be more than 5 years old.  People change, and societies change.  Now that the easily sunburned parts of society have opened all sorts of doors, and Christians have meekly turned the other cheek as our Creches and Crosses disappear from hilltops and parks, it is time to reclaim that which we are too close to losing.  Most urgently, we cannot remain silent in this thought police arrest of Dr. Duke over in Germany. 

What is next?  Should we voluntarily start signing up for 'reeducation' centers?  Should we preemptively surrender our First Amendment rights?  I realize that Dr. Duke was arrested in Germany, and yet they do have a thing called comity, which means Dr. Duke's First Amendment rights traveled with him tucked inside his passport.  Shame on Germany for his arrest.  Shame on us all for silence in the face of this massive miscarriage of and justice.

If you think I am wrong, well thank you for your opinion.  Before you conclude that I am wrong, think on this.  What would you do if your bio were so slanted in public that it didn't reflect your present stance on issues?  What would you want to have done if you were arrested for your thoughts?  What would you do for your brother or sister in the same circumstances?

Well, umm indeed.

Mayans Were Kidding, End of World Was Error. Sorry about that--Not.

"But of course, dahling. There never was an end of the world plot, a calendar, or even prediction. Nevah! I tell you, all those simpletons. Get rid of the white robed, white bearded guy with that tattered sign, he's cluttering the footpath."  The voice was husky, low and sensual.  It emerged somewhere between feather boa and an astounding amount of silk charmeuse, draped over a chaise lounge, just enough in the weak sunlight to make her silvery curls glow like moonlight over the Mediterranean.

She actually said it as "foooot-paahthhh".

But that was Crazy Aunt Eleanor.  I love Crazy Aunt Eleanor.  No relation to Crazy Uncle Franklin, and still not found in any White House gallery.   But she should be.  She's the original American free spirit, which is fun, and not too dangerous.  Except when her ideas cut one down to size.  Or, when she discusses fake patriots.

She reads Reuters, and my friends often still read Huffington Post. So, here's the link...http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2011/12/07/mayans-never-predicted-world-to-end_n_1126033.html

Crazy Aunt aside, all the hoopla was just because they ran out of calculations.  Sort of the Millenia's old version of the battery died in the calculator.   And, boy oh boy, did we fall for that one. 

Now, we aren't too sure about the unknown planet, or the asteroid, or even the possiblity of many and sundry sattellites crashing in and setting off WWIII, while cooler heads try to show its space junk, not the crazy --- (insert name of country here)---.   Make sure Al Haig isn't creeping about, trying to wrest control of the White House from whatever occupant might be napping at the time.  While you're at it, keep the button hungry fingers away from the football.  Not the Super Bowl one, but the one that should be next to the leader of what remains of the free world, and which leader is not an alum of Goldman Sachs.

In the meantime, relish in this.  We have been granted time.  We have been given hope and time enough to rid ourselves of technocrats intent on keeping the Fascism alive.  After all, the Nazi's didn't lose WWII, they just moved, one paper clip at a time, to a new venue.  We have governments so entangled with bankers and corporate leaders that the two have become one, and the Fascia at the Rostrum of the House is naught but a cruel, demonstrative joke.  I'm still looking for the name of the guy that thought Fascia were a good idea right there in the Well.  It's been our downfall ever since.

Well, that and the bankers that own the government.

And, as you're enjoying the meantime, have a martooni, shaken not stirred.  It makes a weaker drink, but you have more of them in the course of an evening without getting so drunk that you confuse the balding septuagenarian for James Bond.

Spice up the meantime, that extra time you've gained.  Get yourself onto a letter writing campaign, and demand that we the People get our fair share of our government working for us, and not for the politicians, of the politicians, and with the corporatists.  Demand the Technocrats in Europe give the people honest elections.  Demand our leaders stop criticizing others, like Russia, and fix our own stolen election syndrome.

Demand of all political parties, that they put up the very best people, not the most monied, not the most made, not the most controllable by the corporatists.   Do we really think that our nation has had the very best leaders over the past 50 years?  Really?

Get rid of those that are riding on the coattails of leaders who blithely proclaim that "if the American people knew what the Bush family had done to the US, we'd be run out of town on a rail."  That was George HW Bush to Sarah McClendon.  There are several quotes, but that is the one I remember best.

Finally, as you are relishing in the longer meantime you now have, go out and get yourself going on a project that might take more than a year to complete.  Like college.  Like learning the piano.  Like learning how to draw.  Really.  Then hug a kid, and think of this.  I can give a prayer of thanks, for the time, the gift of  time.  The world is not ending.  I can plant a tree, love a child and enjoy the faith that only if I do all the things needed to make this a better world will having the world hang on beyond 2012, will that extra time mean anything at all.