Tim Cullen - From The Chorito Hog Leg

Why do people behave in a particular way –in a manner that
is unique to them and characterized by some code, life force or
prejudice? People a lot smarter than your narrator can delve into
the psyche and come up with all kinds of answers as to why a
woman never marries and lives a life apart from the members of
her family – sisters whom she slept in the very same room with,
shared clothes with, sometimes lovers and crushes, jitterbugged
to the same music, anguished over lost loves and shattered
dreams of becoming a singer in Harry James’s Orchestra and
marrying John Agar after being received into the Poor Clares
and told that though the cloister was solace for the dear girl and
all of her religious sisters, that she could better serve God by
propagating the faith and giving her self to a man, might never
understand her estrangement from them and their brothers or
attribute that distance she chose to picking up her older brother
from an L station at 63rd & Loomis in late November 1945.
It happened to Joan Cullen. Her brother took an envelope
from her that had a Giddings, Texas post mark from a family
named Buck - Roper Buck.

That is only an action – an act that is cloaked in meaning for
a small number of people but broadens. Joanie Cullen, seventeen
in 1945 was as pretty as Audrey Hepburn would be to millionsof movie goers in a few years and built the same way. Pious and Pretty – Joanie had not missed a Mass at St. Sabina CatholicChurch from the time she was old enough to walk. Her sisters,
Maeve, Adele and Frances often went with her, but Joanie went every day. Like the day that she would pick up Tim, who had been in the South Pacific since September 1943, was home; atleast he was in Illinois, Joanie had gone to 6 A.M. Mass. PFC.
Tim Cullen, USMCR was mustering out at Great Lakes NavalStation in a small town north of Chicago.

Joanie would meet Tim at the 63rd & Loomis Chicago Transit Station which ended the L line on the south side. Togetherthey would walk to a Chicago Motor Coach street car stop on Ashland and take a street car south to the 81st Street stop and
walk east to their parent’s house at 82nd & Bishop. Tim would tell Joanie all about the war and the places he had been because his letters never said much.
Joanie seemed to change that day. What the hell that surly
bastard said to her, or revealed to her, or explained to her about
him or the ‘precious’ letter from Texas no one in the large Cullen
family knew.

But this story is really not about Joanie at all. It is about Tim
Cullen and a promise that he made to doomed but very much
alive twenty four year old Marine 1st Lieutenant at a staging
camp on the historical island of Guadalcanal, about a year
after that historic and epic battle was fought – and continues to
be re-fought by historians, novelists, film-makers (that sounds
more high toned than movie –makers), bar-flies and teachers.
Tim Cullen’s epic battle – the one that really gave shape and
dimension to the balance of his life and somehow linked the
Battle of Gettysburg, the Little Big Horn, Myles Keogh,
Wild Bill Longley, Gen. Buford , the Texas Rangers, capital
punishment, abortion, Col. Colt, the New Deal in Texas, War
Crimes, the Atomic Bomb and subsequent age, Paul Newman,
Johnnie Carson, Race Riots, nightmares, fraternal contempt,
Robert McNamara, Fire Bombings and heroic but ignored Chamorros to the slaughter of his friends and comrades of
Company A, Ist Battalion, Third Marines, Third Marine
Division at Chorito Cliff/Bundeschu Ridge on the island of
Guam in July of 1944.

Tim Cullen, now in his eighties, reads the Chicago Tribune
at his kitchen table in south suburban Chicago Orland Park and
witnesses the fact that he is still alive and the people attached
to the names in the obituaries -very familiar to Tim Cullen,
especially the ones with an American flag to the left of the
name – are not.

Shrinks and behaviorists could have followed Tim Cullen
around from the day that he got off the L-Car to meet his little
sister Joanie and chalked up his attitude, mannerisms, speech,
prejudices, humor, and decisions and rubber –stamped him as
an example of survivor’s guilt and they would be wrong. They
would package everything neatly and clinically and say – ‘Aha,
this man survived the greatest war in human history and his
friends did not and that is why his wife, children, co-workers,
employees, doctors, dentists, acquaintances and passersby love ,
dislike, or intensely dislike Tim Cullen.’ Survivor’s guilt. Others
might say that he is a racist and others that he is a Republican,
or both.

But Tim Cullen never hit, slighted, hanged, bull-whipped,
Jim Crow Legislated, gerrymandered, cheated, raped, slandered,
or maligned any black man living or dead. He laughed out loud
over Amos and Andy and the worst name that he ever called a
black man was ‘a strike-breaker.’ In San Francisco, when the
Liberty Ship Adam Clay brought Tim Cullen home from Guam,
Tim took the side of a Montford Point Marine ( a black hero)
wounded at Okinawa and being bullied by a crowd of white
Merchant Marines from another ship on the Pier. Tim did not
want to pal up with Cpl. Tedord of Moulton, PA but would not
allow any man in forest green take abuse from the bastards who
ate steak and let Navy gun crews eat shit in their own galleys,
while making about $15 an hour on hazardous duty pay.
Cullen and Tedord’s hazardous duty pay amounted to $60
a month. No steaks and no overtime for Snuffies. They did get
steaks –steak and eggs – before they landed at Red Beach 2 at
Asan, Guam.

Racist? Arguable. Republican? Let’s look on the card. Tim
Cullen voted for Harry Truman, Adlai Stevenson, John F.
Kennedy, Lyndon Johnson, George McGovern, Jimmy Carter,
Walter Mondale, Mike Dukakis, Bill Clinton, Al Gore, and
John Kerry from the time he left the Marine Corps; that’s five
wins and six losses but a Republican? No, he is anti-Abortion,
Pro-Death Penalty, Pro-Union, and Anti- War – always. He
hates anti-war protestors though. He admires pickets but only
so long as they keep walking, dress like men, and fight for a
living wage – all the rest is Commie Bullshit. He reads the
Chicago Tribune and detests it as a scab-rag.

Tim Cullen is what smart people would call an unextraordinary
man. He is a successful business man (owns one
of the first and largest refrigeration service companies in all
Chicago), has three great kids and ten wonderful grandchildren,
married a girl out of MGM’s greatest dreams and never told
anyone other than his sister Joanie – now dead ten years – what
had happened to him from 1943 to 1945 and what the letter
from Texas is all about.

Everyone else, your narrator included, can only guess what
happened, make a play at explaining what happened, piece tiny
fragments of the puzzle of history, analyze the man against
the sweep and scope and violence of the historical events that
embraced Tim Cullen in the greatest drama ever staged by
Man, or ignore everything and just play life without another
thought to the guy.
Here’s my spin it. I’ll lay the story out to you and you can
accept what comes your way and consider the source. Like I said
before, there’s much smarter people out there telling you what
history and fiction means; so, why not pause for a simple man’s
consideration of history and the fiction that rises from what wecall history. I won’t slander and if I bore you, toss the book and
go watch Bill Maher.

Where do we get an understanding of history and the place
of people we know in that history? I think that it comes from a
story told by an uncle after about eight tall cans of Schlitz and a
couple of pours of Canadian Club or VO about New Guinea or
Bastogne or Inchon or Khe Sahn or Desert Storms I & II, or the
Stockyard Strike of 1904, or Cardinal Mundelein’s visit to St.
Sabina’s, or the Democratic Convention, or Super Bowl XV.
I also think that it might come from an artifact – a tooth
stored for decades in a plastic capsule, a doll’s arm wrapped in
tissue paper in your mother’s hat-box in a closet that ‘you girls
were told to never look into’, or an X-ray of someone’s lungs, the
way your mother fell backward into the table full of expensive
registered gifts when Mel Torme walked into Kitty’s shower
and stared right at her.

After all that, we seem to want to frame the talk or artifacts
and try to make a nice ‘something’ out of it. I’ll try and make
something out this story that starts with a promise between
two young men – actually things never start in the middle of
things. That is just what we do to save time. I’ll pop in and out
of what happens in order to try and balance the things that are
unfolding – I’ll do my best not to be a pest or interfere too much.
I can be a huge pain in the ass; bear with me.

Here’s my story – history or fiction or fiction with history
-scotch and soda. Which is the scotch and which the soda?
You tell me. Maybe that is how we determine history.

Neil Steinberg - Patriot - Writ Large

Thats's Neil Steinberg talking to Korean War veterans in the photo to the left. Neil's the guy in the tie and dark sport coat chatting with American heroes in Leo's cafeteria. To the right is Leo High School Vice Principal and Marine Corps Veteran Frank Wilson and Illinois Veterans Affairs Asst. Director Rochelle Crump welcoming the crowd at the Leo War Memorial. I took the photos - my apologies for the lousey lighting. Windy City Veterans, Montford Point Marines, Burbank Marines, The Triple Nickle Parachute Veterans and the Leo Alumni Association - thick with veterans - Chicago Police, Chicago Firemen, Secret Service, F.B.I. and Postal Workers are all honored and participate. But - Let's get to the meat of the matter - one of our guests is a great American: Neil Steinberg.


Today's column by Chicago Sun Times columnist Neil Steinberg is brilliant. Steinberg, one of few journalists in Chicago who takes his time to get the correct, accurate, and honest presentation of events, Neil is also one of the very few writers who gets things right.

Neil Steinberg attended Leo High School's Annual Veterans Observance, celebrated on the Friday before Veterans Day, and actually spent most of his time with 80 year old veterans of WWII, Korea, and the younger guys of Vietnam and Desert Storm and America's continuing War on Islamist Terror. Neil Steinberg was not interested in the buffet - which seems uncharacteristic for news media types; Steinberg was busy asking intelligent questions of 80+ year Merchant Marines about the Murmansk Run; and Jim Furlong and Rich Doyle about being a tunnel rat and humping gear in the rice paddies.

People reveal who they really are when they think no one is watching them. The Leo guys saw Neil at his best - and he thought no one was looking. Neil Steinberg made no small efort to make Veterans feel good that they cashed in their youth in service to their country - Vietnam Era Vets and beyond found themselves holding the bag in Southeast Asia for those of us home here going to college and protesting the War. Now, soldiers in the War on Islamist Terror find themselves in similar straits - fighting an unseen enemy in a foreign land and getting their backs peppered with the contempt of those who sneer at their sacrifices. We tolerate some lousey attitudes in our wonderful democracy.

Neil Steinberg gets it. Here's some of his great essay:

Conformity, the suburbanite's sin. So what if people aren't rushing to fly their flags? Their loss. It's a shame that patriotism is usually left to patriots, who give it such a bad name by their mistaken belief that loving the country means blindly supporting any folly its leaders can conceive and heaping scorn on any fellow citizen who misses some conformist benchmark of behavior.

Patriotism isn't cool, but it should be. Forget suburbanites; you'd think the cutting edge would embrace it. You'd think the artists and the radicals, the malcontents and the visionaries, college students and tree-worshipping cultists would be the most patriotic of all, understanding that it is this great country that accepts their deviation, while in many other places they would be stoned to death or, more likely, never even exposed in the first place to the ideas that so overwhelm them.

But no. College professors, free-thinkers, vegans, Marxists all sneer at their country. They are young, or so dazzled by the sheen of their beliefs they fail to appreciate the soil they sprouted in, and they let flag-waving, misty-eyed patriotism be dominated -- present company excluded -- by exactly the sort of narrow, hidebound reactionaries who'd thrive under any dictatorship.

We are a nation born of radicalism, living under a constitution penned by rebels. Those who fancy themselves rebels today should appreciate that.


Rebellion has been redefined by a generation that would rather sneer at a country that embraces their individuality than display some patriotism

Now, That's Working Class Values!

Today's gem should be must reading for every American citizen. This is a later day Thomas Paine's 'Sunshine Patriot' caveat to the smug and self-satisified. Neil, I am proud to know you!

Neil Steinberg - American Patriot!


Leo High School will hold its Veterans Observance on Friday November 2, 2007 at 11AM in the Courtyard of Leo High School. Join the Veterans and genuine Patriots.

http://www.suntimes.com/news/steinberg/552759,CST-NWS-stein12.article

9/11 ? We'll Be at Work!

Nora, my oldest, a journalism student ( hence her proclivilty for Java Acids - her Mom hated cigar smoke, but used Copenhagen Mint while Mary sheet-rocked the basement and I made cookies) will be working on the paper today; Conor, will be getting his shoulder checked after taking a stinger( ref took him out and Conor went back in - that's his Mother's son - I'd be wimpering for all it's worth until Saint Swithynn's Day) in Saturday's La Lumiere ( alma mater of USCCJ John Roberts) football game and remembering Boyle's Constant eight minutes after the quiz; Clare ,my Redhead, will be hitting the 7th Grade curriculum and the St. Cajetan's hardwood for practice after last night's defeat of the Warriors in the Ridge Park League ( they had the lids on our baskets for some reason last night). That's what the Hickey kids will do in response to Osama bin Laden's Grecian Formula threat to Free People last week - it's September 11th; we are well aware.

Old Dad and Bob Foster will be scaring up some funding for the young men of Leo High School. We're doing our jobs. Just like the entire country!

Everyone is at work. Might be a very few Noam Chomsky types waiting the storm out in the root cellers, but most Americans are at work. We remember. No fear of that. No fear at all.

McCain De Senctute, Part II

The noble and elderly Cato - centuries before Roma Wade began hawking Healthy Trinity - Before Geritol - Before Doc Chapman's Elixer of Political Youth - argued to young men of sense the value of age. Age and experience trump Youth. Remember - the young can often be timid -timorous, as well as audacious pains in the ass.

Steve Chapman in Sunday Chicago Tribune's Op-Ed piece calls down John McCain's chrolological age as too limiting to candidacy for Prseident. Steve read some Cicero - De Senctute - Of Old Age - Also called Catonis. Chapman even tries to make the 'little jerk' question posed by the dufus in New Hampshire appear genuine.

http://www.chicagotribune.com/news/opinion/chi-oped0909chapmansep09,0,3688.column

More goofy is this non sequitur from Chapman:

In any case, he's endured more wear and tear than the normal AARP member. As a Navy pilot during the Vietnam War, he broke both arms and a leg in a crash after his plane was shot down. He spent 5 1/2 years being tortured, beaten and half-starved as a prisoner of war in North Vietnam. He's had surgery twice for melanoma, the deadliest form of skin cancer. All of those misfortunes exact a toll that may offset his hardy genes.

In other lines of work, has decided to raise to 65. Law firms often put partners out to pasture once they reach the golden years.everyone accepts that there is such a thing as too old. Some major corporations force chief executives and directors to step down at age 65 or so. Airline pilots have a mandatory limit of 60, which the Federal Aviation Administration (emphasis my own - due to WTF factor)

In those jobs, a fixed age limit makes less sense than it does for the one McCain wants. If a lawyer can no longer handle the work, after all, the firm can promptly cashier him or her. But the voters may never know if a president is growing befuddled by routine tasks -- or if a president, wearied by age, has simply lost the energy needed to perform well. And even if such facts became known, the public may not be able to force his removal.

( again the WTF -factor)

Steve Chapman 'EVERYONE ACCEPTS' ???????? The AARP - Age Discrimination Lawsuit Folks? Pack a big lunch, Bubba!

Mr. Chapman - 'befuddled' - you familiar with let's say . . . hmmm. Governor Blago? or Dennis Kucinich - lest I appear anti- Balkan - How about our Youthful President George Bush - Check out his act in Australia this week, Steve?

Mr. Chapman and other age conscious " Anybody but Mccain" Operatives(ABBMc) AbMiks - how's that? - read this nice passage from Cicero where Cato sets the boys right:

( switch the Youthful McCain for Cato ) and engage in willful suspension of disbelief, or prejudice. Literature is ageless - Noam Chomsky notwithstanding.

But I was going to observe that I am now in my eighty-fourth year, and I wish I had reason to boast with Cyrus that I feel no sensible decay of strength. But although I do not possess it in the same degree as when I made my first campaign in the Carthaginian war, in the course of which I was advanced to the rank of questor; or when, during my consulship, I commanded the army in Spain; or when four years afterwards I was military tribune at the battle of Thermopylae; yet I can with truth, you see, affirm that old age has not totally relaxed my nerves and subdued my native vigour. My strength has not yet been found to fail me, either in the Senate or the assemblies of the people, when my country or my friends, my clients or my hosts, have had occasion to require my service. The truth is I have never governed myself by the cautious maxim of that ancient proverb so frequently quoted, which says, "You must be old soon if you would be old long;" on the contrary, I would rather abate some years from that season of my life than prematurely anticipate its arrival. In consequence of this principle I have hitherto been always open to access whenever any person desired to be introduced to me for my advice or assistance in his affairs.

But you will tell me, perhaps, that my strength is much inferior to yours. Undoubtedly it is, and so is yours to that of Pontius the athletic centurion, but is he therefore a more valuable man? A moderate degree of force is sufficient for all the rational purposes of life, and whoever will not attempt to exert his particular portion farther than he is well able, will assuredly have no great cause to regret that he is not endued with a more considerable share. Milo is said to have walked the full length of the course at the Olympic games bearing the whole enormous weight of an ox upon his shoulders. Now tell me which would you choose to possess- this man's extraordinary powers of body or the sublime genius of Pythagoras? In a word, my friends, make a good use of your youthful vigour so long as it remains, but never let it cost you a sigh when age shall have withdrawn it from you; as reasonably, indeed, might youth regret the loss of infancy or manhood the extinction of youth. Nature conducts us, by a regular and insensible progression, through the different seasons of human life, to each of which she has annexed its proper and distinguishing characteristic. As imbecility is the attribute of infancy, ardour of youth, and gravity of manhood, so declining age has its essential properties, which gradually disclose themselves as years increase.

I am persuaded, Scipio,( Steve, or Rudy, or Mitt, or Barack or whomever) I need not tell you what extraordinary things that ancient host of your ancestors, Massinissa, is still capable of performing. You have heard, no doubt, that although he is at this time ninety years of age, he takes long journeys, sometimes on foot and sometimes on horseback, without once relieving himself throughout the whole way by alternately changing from the one mode of travelling to the other; that he is so exceedingly hardy, that no severity of weather, when he is abroad, can induce him to cover his head; and that having preserved by these means a thin and active habit of body, he still retains sufficient strength and spirits for discharging in person the several functions of his royal station. I particularise these circumstances as a proof, that by temperance and exercise a man may secure to his old age no inconsiderable degree of his former spirit and activity.

If it must be acknowledged that time will inevitably undermine the strength of man, it must equally be acknowledged that old age is a season of life in which great vigour is by no means required. Accordingly, by the laws and institutions of our country, we who are advanced to a certain age are excused from those offices which demand robust powers to discharge. Far from being compelled to undertake what is beyond our force, we are not called upon to exert our strength even to its full extent. If it be alleged that there are numberless old men so totally worn out and decayed, as to be incapable of every kind of civil or social duty, it must be confessed there are; but may not this debility have arisen from an original weakness of constitution? a misfortune by no means peculiar to old age, but common to every period of human life. How great a valetudinarian was that son of Scipio Africanus, who adopted you for his heir; so great indeed, that he scarcely ever enjoyed a day of uninterrupted health. Had he been formed with a less delicate constitution he would have shone forth a second luminary of the Commonwealth, for with all the spirit and magnanimity of his illustrious father he possessed a more improved and cultivated understanding. What wonder then if age is sometimes oppressed with those infirmities from which youth, we see, is by no means secure!

It's on everyone! Even 'little jerks.'

Happy 100th to My Cousins in Mount Greenwood

Photo - Portrait of The Blogger 9/05/07: Paddy 'Craic' Hickey

Above left is myself: I had not shaved that morning, but I am so pleased that the Fantastic Sam's Liposuction trimmed some unsightly poundage from my manly frame. It is great to have jeans fit so well once again. I felt so renewed that I decided to watch some people get some exercise in Mount Greenwood Park.
The cousins gave me the name Paddy 'Craic' because, they said, that I was such a fun guy. From Wikpedia:

In Irish English, the word crack, which recently has increasingly come to be spelled craic, means "fun, enjoyment, abandonment, or lighthearted mischief; often in the context of drinking or music".[1] In Ireland, the spelling craic is now more common[2] for this sense of the word crack.

My Cousins from the left - Dooley (Doo) Hickey, Ryder Daley, Corndog Daley, Boner Daley, Buck Keefe and Harry B. Hynd. Happy 100th from your cousin over East in Morgan Park. Happy Centennial Cousins! When not rehabing their Cape Cods and raised ranches into million dollar mansions, they work as botonists, pathologists, Airline Pilots, lawyers, massage therapists and community activists.

Chicago's 19th Ward holds Beverly, but also Morgan Park and one of the nicest places of all - Mount Greenwood. Mount Greenwood is celebrating its Centennial - that's 100 years to my cousins who live West of the two sets of tracks from me and the kids in Morgan Park.

Mary Flowers -Undisputed Champ of Leo Youth Boxing!

Mary Flowers participates in Leo High School's Annual Veterans Observance on the Friday before Veterans Day since its inception. Joining Veterans and all public service employees for this annual event, Mary Flowers Illinois 31st District Representative and member of the Education Committee has come to know the young men of Leo High School. Boxing at Leo High School has helped many young men become succesful not only in the square ring but in life.

Last year Mary Flowers sponsored a grant to expand Leo High School's Boxing Program to include Academic mentoring and guidance. Kids hit the 30 work-out stations, spar, paddles, speed & heavy bags, jump rope, mirror box and then hit the books and work-out with calculators and poetry by Claude McKay.

Leo High School Boxing Coach Mike Joyce directed the expansion of the Leo Boxing Facilty and Leo President Bob Foster directed the development of the Academic and Mentoring Program.

Leo High School works closely with Illinois Crime Commission Director Jerry Elsner's Police Athletic League and will serve as a major site for upcoming Olympic and World Boxing Programs in the next few months. This is all made possible because of a pretty and tough girl from the neighborhood - Illinois Representative Mary Flowers (D)!

Leo Grads - Thomas Hayes ( in Leo Black) works over Leo Grad and St. Xavier University Footballer Marquis Ball wearing the girdle.

Thomas Hayes, a Pro heavyweight ( 26 -1 -0) will fight ranked boxer Chris Arreola (21-19-0)on September 21st in Palm Springs California.

Leo Coach Mike Joyce and Thomas Hayes Paddle Spar in a recent workout.

Hayes pounds the Heavy Bag

Chicago Tribune Sports Editor and the absolute best prose writer in Sport, Dan McGrath asks Mike Joyce about the upcoming Hayes/Arreola fight, but mostly about the 70 Leo Men who particiapte in Mary Flowers' sponsorship of this great program - it has three rules - Mike Joyce's Rules:

1- Work Hard
2- Believe in Yourself
3- Work Hard

Thank You Mary Flowers! You are the Undisputed Champion of Leo Boxing!
Thomas Hayes - Leo High School Class of 1999:
boxer: Thomas Hayes
Global ID 145378
sex male
birth date 1981-03-16
age 26
division heavyweight
rating 232 / 1102
nationality United States
residence Chicago, Illinois, United States
stance orthodox
height 5′ 11″
US ID IL029527
won 26 (KO 18) + lost 1 (KO 1) + drawn 0 = 27

Mr. Doan at Peace

The first men that our Saviour dear
Did choose to wait upon Him here,
Blest fishers were; and fish the last
Food was, that He on earth did taste:
I therefore strive to follow those,
Whom He to follow Him hath chose.
From Issac Walton's The Compleat Angler

In genial spring, beneath the quivering shade,
Where cooling vapors breathe along the mead,
The patient fisher takes his silent stand,
Intent, his angle trembling in his hand;
With looks unmov'd, he hopes the scaly breed,
And eyes the dancing cork, and bending reed.
Alexander Pope Windsor Forest

John Haley pushed Du Doan into the waters off Montrose Harbor for a 'prank.'

Mr. Doan drowned. I watched the news last night and listened to Haley's attorney try to eel his client out of troubled Justice that awaits Haley. The lawyer even tried to throw in the 'police card.' What a piece of work.

Mr. Doan sought the quiet and reflective activity out and away from the hate that Haley seems to mark down as 'some of these fishermen look hot and need to go for a swim.' You called the tune John Haley - now dance to it.

Mr. Du Doan lived through horrific experiences in Vietnam and came to find peace in America. He could fish - untroubled and find friendship with men who understood the beauty of the water-hunt. Mr. Doan is at peace with God.

Mr. Haley wriggles with a hook through his gills. I hope that it is long and troublesome bounce for Mr. Haley. Having fished the Kankakee River, Lake Michigan and the small lakes of Indiana, I understand that even if a dangling fish spits out the hook, it ends up floating on its side on the calm and peaceful waters.

John McCain -From Your Neighborhood

Yesterday I mentioned that the President of France, Nicolas Sarkozy - called Nick Sarko The American by Snarky Frogs over the pond - could be a guy from Hegewisch, a steel-backboned community of wonderful blue-collar families and solid American values. I failed to mention that Nick is one of the best dressed people in the world, according to Vanity Fair, one of the most overpriced wastes of timber on the newsstand at the South Shore Station on Buffalo Ave.. He's a snappy dresser, to be sure, but so is Ed Vrydolyak a Native Son.

John McCain seems like the guy who brings over the spare sump pump, when the basement floods - again; he's a guy who joins the fish fry crew during Lent at St. Turibius; the man who drops off non-nose bleed tickets for the Bears/Vikings game, because 'he can't use them;' the gentleman setting up the chairs for the morning and evening services at New Pisgah Church; the authority on indirect heat grilling who slow cooks the ribs without making a federal case of the fact; McCain has the chain-saw when the tree comes down in your yard; the neighbor who quietly lets you know that your 8th Grade Cheerleader,Vickey, was smoking at the Mall and you might want to ask her about the pack Camel Menthols in her Louis Vutton knock-off purse; he walks his cousin suffering from Alzheimer's to Keegan's Pub for a half/half every Sunday; he's the quiet gent doing an extra lap around the rosary in the back of St. Gabe's before he stops by the Our Flag Club for the wide-screen Bears opener party. He's the best guy in every neighborhood.

This morning, I read about his response to the Concord New Hampshire teenager who asked him if he might feel too old to be President. "Thanks for your question, you little jerk. Your drafted!'

That's how my neighbors would respond - and so would your's!

I trust this man with my vote and support.


http://www.boston.com/news/politics/politicalintelligence/2007/09/mccain_addresse.html

Nick Sarko - Could be a Guy from Hegewisch

http://apnews.myway.com/article/20070904/D8REGLP00.html

The French twist in the photo ( squeaking in her boss's ear) seems less at ease with Regular Guys Like John McCain than her boss President Nicolas Sarkozy.

The more I read about French President Nicolas Sarkozy the more I like him. In fact, with America's constant worry over what the French are thinking of us - really, did any of you order 'freedom fries?' - it is kind of nice to have a French Leader who seems like a regular guy.

Nick Sarko - the American Lover is the epithet tossed out by the French -types that we love to lampoon. The ennui and old mattress smelling cigarette ( What were those damn things? Oh, Yeah, Gauloises in the Frog Blue Pack. They sold them at the tobacco shop on Clark Street in the Loop and I bought a pack once - they'd gag a maggot) addicted reader of Sartres, wearing a wool scarf in August who spews venomous derision at everything American but Jerry Lewis. Nick Sarko seems Okay by me.

Sarkozy seems like he'd be at home in Hegewisch talking Mount Carmel Football with an icy bottle of Old Style clutched in his mitts with The Dombrowski Brothers at Club 81 Too. This Hungarian Frenchman seems to be an ideal Pal for the future American President John McCain. Two regular guys who will hit things off for the improvement of their respective Nations. About time.

Bill Clinton was not our first African American President as some have suggested, but he most surely was our first Old School French President: played the sax and mistresses with aplomb; the bon mot at the ready. Old Bubba knew the lyrics and the melody.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nicolas_Sarkozy
http://www.cdobs.com/our-columns/mccains-lifetime-commitment-warrants-his-nomination/
Club 81 Too
13157 Ave. M, Chicago
Tel: (773) 646-4292

Labor Day and Labor is Not About Redistribution of Wealth

He's facing the job - too many Americans have turned their backs on what the skilled American Tradesman is doing.

This Labor Day - try and rememember that thousands of people struggled and many died for the right to form Unions. These Unions of skilled trades and industrial workers moved America's poor in to the great middle class that created the standard of living enjoyed by no other Nation in History.

Let's not be fooled by the enemies of that standard of living on the political radical Right or the Left. 'Redistribution of Wealth' strategies are the latest phoney labor Ponzi scams - stay true to genuine Labor Unions. Real Labor gives people the skills to move to the next economic level and engages in collective bargaining to protect workers rights, health and welfare and above all safety on the job. Labor is not merely a lobbying tool for slick politcal agendas.


Most of all let's remember the people who stood on the picket lines and suffered the lock-outs to make the American Dream come true.

God Bless the Working Woman and Man! Honor Labor!

Cullen's Tiger Shark from The Chorito Hog Leg

Tim Cullen was sunning his filmy Irish pallor into a robust red after days at sea. In the Gun Tub within hailing distance of the bridge, Tim, Sal and Watson maintained the ready boxes and changed the water in the empty barrel tube with cold salt water. As there was a scarcity of fresh water on board the LST and limited to one shower every three days Tim and the other enlisted men had become used to oily feel of their skin and applied moisturizer to their faces immediately after shaving. Other than that and the BA PALM, BA PALM, BA PALM that the flat ship made as it coursed its way to the anchorage at Kwajelain, where the men would go ashore for running and conditioning, Tim and the others rested and prepared themselves for the invasion by reading and studying maps and hand-outs, but mostly by cleaning and re-cleaning their weapons. Into the sun’s bright rays broke the towering majesty of Gunny Higgins whose shoulders eclipsed the late morning sun over Tim.

‘Brig-rat, it is time that you learned to eat of the sea’s bounty and as you are most mechanically aptituded fuck-up in this august body of fighting men under my mothering gaze - Get your side-arm and come with me.’
“Gunny we are not supposed to carry side arms on board but have them stowed,’ replied Cullen with a cat’s sense of scalding water to come.
‘Pipe, down shit-bird, and lash on that Smitty Wesson, we going fishing.’
Cullen snapped to and donned the shoulder holster and the .38 revolver that he had carried since Bob Foster had handed it to him before Bougainville.
‘Throw on your cover, Altar boy! We are in the shadow of our betters and they are in the Officer’s Ward Room for the next three hours.’ Tim put on his khaki fore and aft cap. ‘Choirboy we are fishing for the fat-fucker who ate Jonah; ‘Course being a Pope’s Pussy you do not know or appreciate the beauty and majesty of the Bible – King James only. See the starboard davit? Aft of the LCVP is a small crane for lowering cargo and ammo. That is our fishing pole and this is our bait.’
Gunny Higgins produced a twenty pound slab of fat back bacon that he had commissioned from the Cook on condition that all galley ratings got a cut of shark steak. Gunny held the huge slab aloft as if he were a king and this was his first born male heir!

‘We go fishing for the great fish – the Great White or his fat-assed lazy brother the Blue Shark. You will operate this crane and drag bacon until one of those torpedo-like chow-hounds gets more than he can swallow.’
Cullen almost wet his pants with excitement and took the gaffing hook from its lashing and pulled the large thick cargo hook over the gun-whale and Gunny Higgins speared the huge slab of bacon through the grain and then against it.
Tim operated the crane out and lowered way the chain slowly and carefully so as not to bring the line crashing into the thin hull of their transport.
‘Kiss my heroic ass, if you don’t handle mechanisms like you were born to them. Jesus, Brig-rat, you amaze me and I fucked humped back midget sluts in Shanghai before going to YMCA meetings. Makes you want to throw up; doesn’t it Junior? Why, the taste of fine snatch in the Orient is only bettered by its nibble on a working man’s wallet. You a Virgin, Candyass?’

Tim lied, ‘No Gunny, I took pleasure in the whores of San Diego.’

‘Don’t lie to Gunny, Needle –dick, I have your service record and you went home to Mama after Boots, got tossed in the Brigs, took a Summary Courts, boarded Bloemfontaigne for New Caledonia, shipped to the ‘Canal, surveyed on the .30 under Bob Foster, a better man never drew breath, crapped in your pants and everywhere else on Boogan, and you still got you cherry.’

Tim laughed to himself but tried to concentrate on the job at hand.
Between LST- 448 and the horizon were LCIs of every type- The Landing Craft Infantry was roughly half the size of the LST 128 feet in length with a beam of 23 feet and, like the LST, almost flat bottomed so every sailor and Marine aboard felt every wave. With crews of between 40 and 60 sailors the LCIs carried up to 200 Marines. There were also derivative models of the LCI modified to be gun ships, rocket ships, and mortar ships

The LCI(g), or gunboat carried 3” and 5” guns, extra 40 mm Gun mounts, and bristled with 20mm guns as well as .50 caliber machine guns. The LCI(r) carried rocket launchers and up to 600 4” rockets. LCI(m) was outfitted with heavy mortars to bombard hill-lines and take out bunkers on the defended beaches.

Destroyers of every Class and designation darted like ballroom dancers among the plodding transports. Like every day thus far aboard LST-448, Tim marveled at the vastness of the Pacific and imagined that he had traveled farther and to more historic impact than any other person in his bloodline. He did not need to imagine that he had in fact done so in his full year in the service of his country.
His mother and father had told their children of their individual odysseys from County Kerry: his father working in Liverpool and Manchester and fighting the working man’s fight with Big Jim Larkin and taking the passage to New York, boarding train for Chicago and the stockyards in time to work as a policeman during the Strike of 1912 and his mother, leaving a cabin on the Great Blasket Island and heading to Queenstown in County Cork for passage to New York and herself a train to Chicago to work in the kitchen of Metropole Hotel on 22nd Street. These were day trips in comparison. Tim had voyaged farther than anyone in his bloodline and that was fact.

Let’s take this time to sweep out the attic of our imaginations and suspend the trinkets, tinsel, ticket stubs and teary-eyed treasures above the level of our thoughts-vision and look to port from Tim Cullen’s thin steel housing. We have had, this narrator has at any rate, a clutter of junk that he imagines are the important mirrors of his experience on earth – a pretty good time most of us, despite the disappointments, deaths, diseases, distractions, and in some cases whole-sale de-railings of our journeys; but in the might and main we have had it pretty good.

The boss walks in and tells you that the McDonald’s account will go to the guy who leaves at 3PM, spends the next three hours at a martini bar with the suits from the next level and ‘big pictures’ all the ideas that you have presented to the ‘team’ and that you should give this slug all of your notes and work-ups and keep him apprized. You have had it rough; you pay your own way; you meet the mortgage payments; you take the extra classes; you do the heavy lifting; you do not cheat on your husband; you do not make your wife do the lions share of the work with the kids and then beef about Andy’s inability to master freshman algebra; you do not sleep-in when it’s a twenty below zero wind-chill factor and Sacred Heart is five miles from the house; you do not reap the rewards for which you labor as a good woman or man – tough shit.

Your kids are not coughing up their little lungs and shivering under wet blankets in a tropical rain-forest after having had their cottages torched and pulled down and sent with all your belongings to Manengon on the other side of the island; you did not risk your life sneaking dried fish and fruit to an uncle named Blas who would walk thirty mile north through jungle and kunai grass, evading patrols of Japanese Naval Landing Force troops led by Boson Otayama, who was pissed off to have to take his twenty-seven sailors out of Agana to the wilderness on a wild-goose chase for the last of the Yankee sailors cowering in a cave; Otayama vowed that he slit open any gook that he found, from the dick to the lungs and leave him or her for the bugs and toads; You are disappointed. Take it and embrace it. Grow up.


Tim Cullen grew up fast, but he was still a kid even after Bougainville and he had a kid’s sense of fairness and the arm of God and the protective cloak of the Blessed Virgin taking a direct part in his journey, like catechism books when he was a little guy at St. Sabina’s Grammar School, do good and you will be taken care of – what about martyrs? – don’t be a wise guy. Tim Cullen believed that Gunny Higgins was going to take care of the boys in the squad with a shark steak dinner.

Out there, strung out for miles, ships and smaller craft folded the waters into prayerful wakes like the hands of Virgins and saints in the statuaries of St. Sabina’s a prayerful voyage and beneath the palms of foaming waters darted Tim’s prey, who themselves sought out the weaker and the plaintive unfortunates who fell overboard – and they did with some frequency – American, British, Australian, Dutch, and Japanese combatants who were too clumsy, too trusting, to cocky, and too human and plunged to mercies of what they believed and what would be. Those sharks would eat them.

Tim had an American made Harrington Hoist built on Tchoupitoulas Street in downtown New Orleans by Standard Services Crane Company and a twenty pound slab of Iowa Landrace Hog in the palm of a very sharp hook. After an hour of slow and methodical trolling the bait hooked a sixteen 1/2 foot long Tiger Shark! The powerful monster threshed and thrashed and yawed in attempts to unhook itself from the baited trap, but the thick American steel cable and the Gary, Indiana forged hook help the trapped victimizer of overboard sailors and troops of all nations. Tim Cullen worked the controls slowly and eased the heavy dinner toward the starboard hoist aft of the rocking LCVP above Tim’s khaki covered red-hair. Gunny Higgins watching from the starboard fly-bridge hooted and laughed aloud as his cloud-covered altar boy once again proved himself to be a boy of talent and steel.

‘Cullen, you pie-eyed unregenerate brig-rat, you by God bested my take off of Cuba in 1932! That is a tiger and I snagged a damn thresher! Boy, you are a fire-tested pair of brass balls! Get that fucker aboard!’

Tim’s heart pumped and he half-giggled but maintained his focus as scrums of sailors and Leathernecks jostled near the starboard crane when word of the feat spread through the Company. Cpl. Jack Howard’s Jackie Coogan –face thrust through the scrum of faded blue denim and salt-bleached green herringbone – “YAYYYHOOO! Hook ‘em Cullen! That’s my gunner boys and girls!’ Similar encomiums fell around Tim’s shoulders and now the bridge above them was thick with pressed khakied officers who slept in well-ventilated berths in the ships castle while those below sweated and slumbered in the bowels of LST-448. The officers, especially Maj. Opley and Lt. Buck cheered their accomplished underling’s feat of skill and luck.

After twenty minutes of coaxing and dexterous manipulation Cullen swung the huge gray fish over the gunwale and lowered the Tiger shark to the deck. The monster thrashed and snapped as if un-troubled by the snare of steel. Marines and sailors turned into mincing girls and danced toe-touchingly back from its razor sharp maw. Tim pulled the Smith and Wesson from his shoulder holster and put two bullets in the shark’s brain and then the three last as the shark’s last acts of will slowed to a violent and final snap.

‘Now Hear This! Now Hear This! This is the Captain Speaking! Master-At – Arms! Disarm that Man and drag him to the brig!’ Over the ship’s loud-speaker, the voice explained the folly of Tim Cullen’s trust in Gunny Higgins. Hoots and howls of laughter replaced the high Hozannas! ‘The Brig-Rat’s Return! Now, Playing ‘The Man in the Iron Mask!’ ‘Piss and Punk Cullen!

‘Aye, Aye, Sir!’ Chief Chaffee replied to the call from the ship’s Captain Lt. Mo Higgins.

Tim received three days on bread and water for firing an unauthorized weapon aboard a ship in a combat zone without the stated authority of the Master at Arms. Gunny Higgins took one arm while Chief Chaffee confiscated the machine gunner’s side arm and marched the pawn to his steel screened dungeon behind the galley.

‘You’ll sweat off some chubby in here, Brig Rat,’ opined Chief Chaffee.

‘Hold on, there MAA this is a combat tested, fighting man only trying to feed the men who guide his life. Besides, he’s all ribs and dick now as it is. He’s a shell-back and won’t miss kissing your disgusting paunch, Chief, any how! That’s tomorrow we cross the equator – number twenty for me.’

Tim was stripped of his boondockers, shirt and trousers and in skivvies and socks laid down upon his bed of pain – again.

TENJOOBERRYMUDDS! -A Pan-lingual Epiphany

Subject: TENJOOBERRYMUDS

'What we have here . . .is failure to communicate.'


I get about five calls a week that go something like this. Tear ass to phone -not exactly a threat to 200 meter record, mind you, I pick up the phone

ME: Hello. (long pause ) Hello!?!?! (pause) It's your dime - start talking

Caller: EES PAHTREEK Dere. PAHTREEK ? (Bollywood Spy Theme music in background)

Me:No one ever good news-ed me with Patrick , but yes . . .

Caller:PAHTREEK - DESE EES BRY UHN FREM MAHJESTIC SIDING EN OCH - LOAN EEL-ENOY . . .

Me: No Sale, Bub! Brickhouse - Like Jack. Vale te, Bryo!(click)

When worlds collide through Out-sourced labor! Hire American Telemarketers!
What the hell, Bryan's an earner. Back to communications - this is reading like a Noam Chomsky dinner order.

Patriot, Scrimshander, American Flag votary, grubstaker, dedicated turn-signal practitioner, fiery dualist, and venture capitalist, Mr. Frank Nofsinger of Connecticut sent along the multicultual epiphany posted below:


We have all been here . . .

Or maybe you haven't called tech support recently?





By the time you read through this YOU WILL UNDERSTAND TENJOOBERRYMUDS...

In order to continue getting-by in America (our home land), we all need to learn the NEW English language! Practice by reading the following
conversation until you are able to understand the term
"TENJOOBERRYMUDS".

With a little patience, you'll be able to fit right in with the growing trend!!!
Now, here goes...

The following is a telephone exchange between a hotel guest and
room-service:

Room Service (RS): "Morrin. Roon sirbees."

Guest (G): "Sorry, I thought I dialed room-service."

RS: " Rye Roon sirbees...morrin! Joowish to oddor sunteen???"

G: "Uh..... Yes, I'd like to order bacon and eggs."

RS: "Ow July den?"

G: ".....What??"

RS: "Ow July den?!?... pryed, boyud, poochd?"

G: "Oh, the eggs! How do I like them? Sorry... scrambled, please."

RS: "Ow July dee baykem? Crease?"

G: "Crisp will be fine."

RS: "Hokay. An Sahn toes?"

G: "What?"

RS: "An toes. July Sahn toes?"

G: "I... don't think so."

RS: "No? Judo wan sahn toes???"

G: "I feel really bad about this, but I don't know what 'judo wan sahn
toes' means."

RS: "Toes! Toes!..Why Joo don Juan toes? Ow bow Anglish moppin we
bodder?"

G: "Oh, English muffin!!! I've got it! You were saying 'toast'... Fine...Yes, an English muffin will be fine."

RS: "We bodder?"

G: "No, just put the bodder on the side."

RS: "Wad?!?"

G: "I mean butter... just put the butter on the side."

RS: "Copy?"

G: "Excuse me?"

RS: "Copy...tea...meel?"

G: "Yes. Coffee, please... and that's everything."

RS: "One Minnie. Scramah egg, crease baykem, Anglish moppin, we bodder on sigh and copy... rye??"

G: "Whatever you say."

RS: "Tenjooberrymuds."

G: "You're welcome."

"Through this situation I've found Jesus," M.Vick 2007 Jesus Responds in Kind - Good News and Bad News!

Tip of the Summer Straw Boater to Second City Cop ( comments):

This Just In! In response to Monday's Shout-Out to Jesus by Michael Vick, The Man from Galilee Gave Mad Love to the NFL's Poster Boy for Clear Thinking and Fine Living.

There's Good News and Bad News:

Good News:
Jesus Forgives Michael Vick! That's Gospel!

Bad News:
All Dogs Go To Heaven! That's Fact!

Our Next Progressive Cleric

I can not wait for tomorrow's front page announcement:

Here's some cool thoughts from really smart guys on religion (below): Here's Quote!

By "religion" we mean a system of cosmological propositions grounded in a belief in a transcendant power expressed through a cult of divine being and giving rise to a set of ethical prescriptions

See, Mr. Lunch Pail Murphy! You thought it meant living up to the tenets of your Faith: Go to your Synagogue, Church, Worship, Wiccan Light-Up in Mount Greenwood Cemetery, Mosque, or 12-Step Program. No way, Liversausage Sandwich Lunch Boy! It's Cosmological Propositions!
http://www.asc.upenn.edu/USR/fcm/jaar.htm


Here's how I see things coming down the pike - if only Billy Dec were Religion Editor.

Tantic Cross-dresser named Archbishop of Canterbury-on-Wabash! Liev Ulhlmann Flowers, former defensive back for the Cleveland Browns, Toronto Pole-dancer, and Community Activist will conduct High Mass Episcopal Blood Sacrifice Dance at the Daley Center at Noon in Celebration of our Continued Worship of Freak Show Diversity!

Let's Get Into It!

Oh, Let's Do!

The Irish Virgin

The lovely lady to the left is one of life's unplucked flowers: The gents above practicing Irish Yoga are why she might choose to remain chaste.


Here's a Nice Story - from my pal Gerry Regan of Astoria New York and editor of The Wild Geese Today


http://www.thewildgeese.com/

The Irish Virgin!!




In a tiny village on the Irish coast lived an old lady, a virgin and very proud of it.
Sensing that her final days were rapidly approaching, and desiring to make sure everything was in proper order when she dies, she went to the town's undertaker (who also happened to be the local postal clerk) to make proper "final" arrangements. As a last wish, she informed the undertaker that she wanted the following inscription engraved on her tombstone:


"BORN A VIRGIN, LIVED AS A VIRGIN, DIED A VIRGIN"

Not long after, the old maid died peacefully. A few days after the funeral, as the undertaker/postal clerk went to prepare the tombstone that the lady had requested, it became quite apparent that the tombstone that she had selected was much too small for the wording that she had chosen. He thought long and hard about how he could fulfil the old maid's final request, considering the very limited space available on the small piece of stone. For days, he agonized over the dilemma. But finally his experience as a postal worker allowed him to come up with what he thought was the appropriate solution to the problem.

The virgin's tombstone was finally completed and duly engraved, and it reads
as follows: Returned - Un-Opened

De Senectute - McCain's the Guy!

Now this man conducted wars with all the spirit of youth when he was far advanced in life, and by his persistence gradually wearied out Hannibal, when rioting in all the confidence of youth. How brilliant are those lines of my friend Ennius on him!

For us, down beaten by the storms of fate,
One man by wise delays restored the State.
Praise or dispraise moved not his constant mood,
True to his purpose, to his country's good!
Down ever-lengthening avenues of fame
Thus shines and shall shine still his glorious name.

M.T. Cicero on John McCain - sorry - I meant Quintus Fabius Maximus, an old Roman lion who saved the Repulic in time of war.


Michael Cooper raises the age and health issue on John McCain's Presidential hopes.


http://www.nytimes.com/2007/08/25/us/politics/25mccain.html?ei=5065&en=003772be4242ec70&ex=1188619200&partner=MYWAY&pagewanted=print

Senator John McCain was fielding questions at a town-hall-style meeting earlier this month in Ankeny, Iowa, when a woman raised her hand and asked him, “from one white head to another white head,” why he wanted to be president in such troubled times.

“You’re getting pretty old!” she said, after praising his long service to the country. “And it’s such a hard job!”

Mr. McCain deadpanned, to laughter, “I’m sorry I called on you.”

John McCain has the capacity to understand the needs of his country and help lead, over the enjoyment of quiet days usually given over to folks in their seventies - usually. How many American voters with white or fleshy domes have been called upon to bail-out their children, granchildren financially or return to the company from which they had recently been retired and put it back on a war-footing for commerce? How many retirees are taking in the children of their grandchildren and raising them to be solid citizens, because the onus of parenthood was too much on the MTV generation? How many experienced veterans of Vietnam have gone into the classroom to help give kids a real education? How many retired police and fire professionals have gone back 'into service' as consulants in Post -9/11 America ? Quite a few. Just outside my cubicle, passed a retired University of Chicago Biophysicist who is up-dating Leo High School's Science Department.


Cicero, a brilliant but oily politician, had the genius to recognize the best in other men and women; though he understood his own deficiencies:

Again what vigilance, what profound skill did he show in the capture of Tarentum! It was indeed in my hearing that he made the famous retort to Salinator, who had retreated into the citadel after losing the town: "It was owing to me, Quintus Fabius, that you retook Tarentum." Quite so," he replied with a laugh; "for had you not lost it, I should never have recovered it." Nor was he less eminent in civil life than in war. In his second consulship, though his colleague would not move in the matter, he resisted as long as he could the proposal of the tribune C. Flaminius to divide the territory of the Picenians and Gauls in free allotments in defiance of a resolution of the Senate. Again, though he was an augur, he ventured to say that whatever was done in the interests of the State was done with the best possible auspices, that any laws proposed against its interest were proposed against the auspices. I was cognisant of much that was admirable in that great man, but nothing struck me with greater astonishment than the way in which he bore the death of his son-a man of brilliant character and who had been consul. His funeral speech over him is in wide circulation, and when we read it, is there any philosopher of whom we do not think meanly? Nor in truth was he only great in the light of day and in the sight of his fellow-citizens; he was still more eminent in private and at home. What a wealth of conversation! What weighty maxims! What a wide acquaintance with ancient history! What an accurate knowledge of the science of augury! For a Roman, too, he had a great tincture of letters. He had a tenacious memory for military history of every sort, whether of Roman or foreign wars. And I used at that time to enjoy his conversation with a passionate eagerness, as though I already divined, what actually turned out to be the case, that when he died there would be no one to teach me anything.

There is so much that an experienced leader can give to the Republic, especially in time of War. John McCain is that leader. Give Cicero a look and give McCain your support; he has mine.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Tragedy Falls on the Common People: The Greeks and Hillary Clinton as Medea

How much I fear something will happen!
Great people's tempers are terrible, always
Having their own way, seldom checked,
Dangerous they shift from mood to mood.
How much better to have been accustomed
To live on equal terms with one's neighbors.
I would like to be safe and grow old in a
Humble way. What is moderate sounds best,
Also in practice is best for everyone.
Greatness brings no profit to people.
God indeed, when in anger, brings
Greater ruin to great men's houses. (118-130)

Euripedes Medea

Yep Them Greeks had their fingers on us Working slobs long before Progressives in American thought decided to kick down the doors of common sense by having things work every which way -Thus, ' if you do not pay taxes at all, then, you are the "working poor;" if your sons and daughters are fighting in Iraq, We must support them by undermining any and all Faith in the conduct of this horrible war; if you are a thug criminal, you are a victime of systemic racism and police abuse and if you are working police officer, you must do your assigned job of serve and protect society from the thugs so determined to be victims.' Make sense? Does to Progressives.

If you happen to disagree with Progressive thought, you are racist, an Uncle Tom, unfeeling, war-mongering, stupid, and despicable. Progressive ( not necessarily Democrat or Liberal) thought or doctrine controls the mainstream media( MSM). It's vast, but ain't no conspiracy - it's just the way it happens to be.

Today, the Hillary Clinton Campaign for President wants everyone to know about the 'vast Rightwing Conspiracy' against her - and Believe it. It's in all the papers and on TV - it must be true, as Grandma Donahue was wont to say. 'That Liberace is dating not only Sandra Dee, but having it off with Debbie Reynolds right under Eddie Fischer's nose. That Liberace is some sheik!' Yep, hey Gramaw, Dewey Won!'

Hillary Clinton is the most talented political in-fighter in this latest Presidential brawl. What she believes in is irrelvant - my guess is next to nothing and everything - so long as she scoops up power. She'd be a Republican, a Green, LaRouchie, a commie, or an Ultramontane if that is what it took. She'd make Frank Booth, Man Mountain Monahan, Tony Soprano and Blue Duck, from Lonesome Dove wet their britches. I'll bet that John McCain on his best day would opt for a couple of more weeks in the Hanoi Hilton over a couples weekend in the Hamptons with Hill and Bill. Honor bright.

She has always reminded me of Medea from Euripdes - a talented, tough broad who has been crossed by an equally talented satyr of a husband. Hill= Medea ( someone tell Tyler Perry that this is not an homage to his cross-dressing 'attitude' Ontay this is the old Greek stuff); Bill= Jason. Now, before, Progressive Harpies from some Lakefront Womens Progressive Coalition start getting knots in their Opaques, Hillary has yet to hack up her little brother and leave his bits like breadcrumbs from trip home or snuffed any of her off-spring, but she has exhibited a marked talent for revenge and pre-emptive political violence - her 'black-bag boys' were worling Chicago for skinny on Barack Obama, long-before he announced his candidacy in Springfield last November. Bill has been goating about about the nation from Harlem to Helmer getting the last bits of poison from the cloak when Monica went up in flames. The Clintons - the Greeks could have made them up!

These are some great people : who will do, say, believe and promote anything to exact punishment or snatch victory over the backs of little people. They are classically great in the Greek Tragic sense of greatness - like the guy mentions above. Obama and McCain are citizens - good guys - and certainly not Olympian upstarts. They ( either man) would work well in a Democratic Republic. The Clintons mount the big campaigns, bring home the fleece, confound Cadmus and other arch-enemies. They also bring on huge problems - that come down on necks of the average slob.

From The Chorito Hog-Leg: Work Detail at Tulagi

Here is an early passage from The Chorito Hog Leg, Book One: A Novel of Guam in Time of War The protagonist, Tim Cullen, is assigned to a punishment detail on Guadalcanal after being caught drinking moonshine - raisin jack- on field problem by his platoon commander, Lt. John A. Buck. Cullen meets the legendary Gunny Higgins who already aware of Cullen's talents and personal integrity:

7. Shitbirds of Tulagi
His eyes burned in front and throbbed in back, his tongue and throat never seemed satisfied with cool water and every nerve in his frame bugged up to perspiration, sensation, and irritation of every sort. In short, Tim had a hangover going on its second day without let-up and activity was what he needed most which worked out nicely with his place in the punishment detail forming up in front of 1st Battalion ‘First Shirt’ Gunny Higgins.

Gunny Higgins had no ears to speak of –rather, lumps of muscle that seemed to have been pegged aft of his temples. Wearing a pith helmet, impeccably pressed khakis, leggings and boondockers, Gunnery Sergeant Billy Wheat Higgins appeared to be standing on a platform above the two rows of ten green utility clad Marines wearing green fiber helmet liners as covers. He was standing on the same soil as the boys before him, but he was so much above each and every one of them in the eyes of men and boys.

‘Side-Straddle –Hops until I am well pleased and I am never well pleased!’ Throwing Arms to a point geometrically above his head and casting his legs out like colossus to His ‘OW –un! And reversing the limbs at ‘HOO!’

‘Move MotherFuckers! I’m not doin this for my health!

‘Ow-Un; HOO; OW-unHOO! & etc for fifteen minutes without let up.

‘Fall out –You Box Me.’ Fall out - Men Die. Fall out - Boys Might. Fall-out –Don’t Try!’

After the full fifteen minutes Gunny Higgins’ body snapped shut like an expensive switchblade to signal the end of calisthenics.

In the tropical heat with all of the physical snap and strain not a drop of sweat spotted his arm-pits or blemished the cleanliness of his khakis. Strapless his pith helmet never went askew, nor fell from his square muscled head. Gunny Higgins was Gorgon and Apollo wrapping the soul of Voltaire and the balls of Rabelais.

‘I have served the flag in uniform from the time that you mewling tit-suckers tore out the snatches of some fine women. I do not ask who is my enemy or what his thoughts might be or if we had supped at the same table last night. I do not give a shit that the Pope locks up! Major Opley and men up the chain from him have determined who my enemy will be – Today –tomorrow- and until Jesus takes back the Aggies I stole from that Jew wood-butcher. ‘

Without looking into any man’s face, Gunny Higgins pointed down from his majestic height and moved his long thick broken right fore-finger –slowly and judicially.

‘Each and every swinging man-log on parade before my tired eyes is my enemy, because the very men up the august chain from whence all truth calls down have told me that you are. I have butchered greasers on the Coco River and Niggers in Haiti and Japs wherever I find them and traitors to the flag without so much as a thought because I was ordered to fight and kill them. But each and every one of you have made my enmity boil because you have pained your elders and betters up that august chain – You have soiled Duty and Honor as Fuck Ups! I will amend that before my next hard-on! LCM at the beach step lively – Now! ’

And the twenty in green double-timed it to the awaiting landing craft. The coxswain ordered each of the twenty green fatigued men in the work detail to put on life-belts and made the port perch aft available to Gunny Higgins.

. . . . ( In the Landing Craft Mechanized -LCM)


‘Tulagi beach master and step on it, Coxman! I might kill a handful of these pearls, before the task gets ripe, You a Louisiana Man Coxman?’

‘Born and raised in Cribstone. . St Laurence parish . . .,’ the warmed sailor began.

‘Well, Fuck You then! Sail this craft without incident and I’ll get beer call for you and your three sisters. Honor Bright!’ and Gunny was as good as his word. He stepped down three of the steel rungs into the cockpit next to Cullen and put his steel portside arm around the boy’s shoulders. ‘I saw you on Boogan . . . in the aid station and later on the line. You handled that .30 like a salt with four hash marks; must be a gift, son. Stare ahead and don’t eye-ball me son or I’ll carve off your head and shit down your neck. Now, listen here, Major Opley remembers you from that scrap and saw your name down for my detail that is why I called you out. He liked your sand in taking that four-eyed Navy saw-bones by the stacking-swivel. Yes, Sir, that pleased him. He wants me to baptize you in the blood of lamb before our next walk on the beach. You need to step up into the shoes of the dead.’

The LCM beached at the Transport Cove on Tulagi and the twenty-one Marines disembarked and formed up. Gunny Higgins exchanged more obscenity laced compliments to the boat crew and informed them where they might pick up the cases of Drewery’s beer in possession of 1st Battalion Gunnery Sergeant William Wheat Higgins.

The twenty man punishment detail stood at ease but alert to the coming commands of their overseer. Gunny Higgins had gone from the LCM to pick up the manifest from the Tulagi Beach Master’s shack that would process the possession of 10 tons of .30 caliber ammunition for 1st Battalion, 3rd Marines.

All of the ammunition needed to be clipped and belted by the squads and gun crews in their company areas, but it would be the task of this detail to transport the ammunition back to Tetere Beach on Guadalcanal, check and clean the rounds before clipping and belting.

Gunny Higgins burst the propriety of the efficient beach master’s shack with a hurricane of filthy language and imprecations against the Commander of the South Pacific Area, General Douglas Macarthur, whose domain included the ammunition stockpiles on Tulagi.

The designated stockpile had been bulldozed – ‘to keep it safe from fire. Bullshit!'

Wacky Mac had decided to throw a screw into Gunny’s Marines and that was the long and the short of it. His boys needed to bail through the mud and dig out their ammunition crates and could be assured that their tasks would be longer and more demeaning. Bougainville had been Admiral Halsey’s show and Mrs. Roosevelt had come to the Canal to praise General Turnage’s fine men who took that island from the Japs so handily. At this very moment dog-faces under Generalissimo MacArthur were slugging it out with the Japs and losing hundreds of men as well as real estate on Bougainville. The Third Division had handed the campaign over to General Patch on Christmas Day 1943 and now the U.S. Army was having a tough time sealing the deal. Macarthur hated the Marine Corps.

Standing legs spread and four-square before his detail, tall, tanned, khakied and commanding Gunny Higgins pointed over his port shoulder to the bull-dozed stock pile – his pith helmet squared.

‘I have pissed rainbows of beer over taller mountains than God can lay bricks on full breakfast! From the rocky coast of Maine to sunny Frisco Bay, I have fucked them all – countesses, millionaires and movie stars! The sight of me makes proud men blush and maidens as wet as a New Orleans hooker shop in August. I have bested men and boys at cards, games and quick draw. I can eat the crotch out of a running Grizzly bear and ask for seconds on servings of mule shit, but I am four-eyed and fucked over this one, Girl Scouts!’

‘El Supremo has determined that the men who snatched Boogan from Tojo need more work and so the Supreme Commander of South Pacific Forces ordered the Quartermaster Corps to have the .30 caliber ammunition earmarked for the 1st of the 3rd Marines covered with Tulagi. Nothing to it, girls, but sweat and suet! Cullen get ammo carts from the beach master take four men - the other half of you get to digging, and relay passing all ammo to my feet. Move!’

Five peeled off in the direction of the Beach master’s shack where he had already assembled ten ammunition carts and each man pulled two carts back to Gunny Higgins.

‘That Yankee Momma’s Boy has not seen the day where Men of the one True Corps can be set back a-heel by a candy-sucking cavalryman! Assholes and Elbows!’

With pride and anger, the punishment detail hefted and clawed and pulled and carted the heavy mud-caked and soaked ammunition crates. They loaded the ten ammunition carts and two man teams horsed them back to the beached LCM that would take these angry boys and their soiled ammo back Tetere Beach on Guadalcanal. For three hours this detail dug the prized rounds out of Tulagi soil and mud, gave the crates a perfunctory cleaning and stacked them on the carts and hauled them to LCM and restacked them.

As the job disintegrated like the caked soil on the crates, a knot of Army brass and journalists and photographers assembled on the knoll above the work detail. Centered in the group was the unmistakable Roman profile in crushed overseas cap with scrambled eggs, the foot long corn-cob pipe, the casually tailored khakis and slow sure gait of a Man of Destiny in his late sixties.

Gunny Higgins had his back to his enemy and like he had been in the jungle these last twenty years- well aware of his enemy’s presence, their strength, and their deployment. His electric gaze targeting only the twenty individuals awed by Macarthur’s apparition and enraged by his arrogance in slighting those beneath him. Tim Cullen pushed his loaded ammo cart with all the determination that he had legged on the football field for Leo High School and not unlike his playing days he was bested by a better man.

Gunny Higgins understood Cullen’s intentions to howl, vent, threaten and assault the Supreme Commander of the South Pacific and with one casual step to his right, blocking any view of his subsequent actions from the gawkers and the patrician above and behind, Gunny Higgins telescoped his left arm to Cullen’s throat, catching the boy’s Adam’s apple between his sandpaper thumb and his thick deadly forefinger with whispered, ‘I love frying Papist Porgies for a Po’Boy but only in my own oil. Do not give that Army cunt one scintilla of reason to laugh at a Marine’ and released the boy to cart the ammo to the LCM.

I love that boy, thought Gunny Higgins, Hell; I’d fuck all his sisters and the Pope’s mule for that little display. That boy will do fine.

The work continued for another hour and without comment, the Marines took their contaminated ammunition away for cleaning. This incident spoke mountains for the small man on the hill and the giant hearts of those he thought he would abuse.

The LCM took proud and happy men back to Tetere Beach and none happier or more filled with pride than Gunny Sergeant William Wheat Higgins. Upon return, to 1st Battalion headquarters tent, Billy bubbled like a school-girl with new crush – he was dreamy in love with Tim Cullen! Major Opley was delighted as he had always been a great judge of character and this red-headed runt who had stayed on the line as sick as he was and found the strength to tear at the Battalion surgeon’s throat for calling him a malingerer and now wanted to single-handedly assault a hill full of Army brass and reporters for fouling the Marines, no wonder Billy was in love.

For the next two weeks every man in the 1st Battalion had heard about Tim Cullen from 1st Platoon Able Company and how he tried to kill Douglas MacArthur and was saved by Gunny Higgins, while they cleaned and re-greased every round that they would fire during the up-coming Guam Campaign

George Ryan Better Than Those Who Wish Him Pain

George Ryan was prosecuted and convicted in a Federal Case that seemed like a Show Trial, right out of Joe Stalin's playbook. I hope that Judge Michael Kanne's dissent leads to a more balanced hearing than the one Ryan received in 7th District Appeals Court.

I have met George Ryan at many wakes and weddings, in Kankakee and Joliet. He is a very nice man. I'd buy the man a steak any day, at Ken's, Krapil's, Franconello's or some such homey place reminiscent of Kings Court and Town and Country in Kankakee, if he'd allow me. George Ryan did not seem to match Gibson's or Tavern on Rush or the other news-ghoul & hustler eateries. These other fore mentioned places are where George Ryan's people eat.

The type of people who go to Ken's and other neighborhood dining spots are the people George Ryan connected to - not political allies, hangers-on or opportunists, but people like Ryan himself. I witnessed quite a few of George Ryan's many acts of kindness to people who could never do any political boon for anyone - let alone George Ryan - too numerous to catalog. He treated Joe Blow from the docks at Tenney Sales on 5th Ave. in Kankakee like he was a Sam Zell with an ink wet contribution check. Conversely, I have followed the words of many familiar voices in print that have universally called for a mighty punishment on George Ryan - most of the people writing those words seem like people that I can do without.

It seemed to me that Ryan's Judge and Federal Prosecutors were going to get George Ryan come Hell, Highwater, or the lady with the blindfold. and they did - the voices in print ( paper and electronic) - sock-puppets or anonymous back-shooters for the most part - howl in genuine agony that George Ryan has the same rights as other citizens. 'The quicker he is in jail the happier I'll be' read one such post. Must be a lovely person.

Progressives had a little thing they called reign of terror in post-Revolutionary France and Russia: kept folks scared and in 'Oh,I Agree' mode. Like-minded later-day Defarges and Berias still scream for blood and toss rose petals at the feet of their Jurists and Prosecutors with more tracks to their railroad than William S. Burroughs' inner forearm, legs and toes - but that's just me.