B.A.S.E. Bad As Slimy Entrails

Pretty much the polar opposite of GIMMIE, a thing about which I shall rant and rail.
Tonight's topic for scorn: TERRA NOVA,  the "new" sci-fi show about a family transported back to a prehistoric setting.
It contains a plot line with a surly teen son, a formula-spouting brainiac daughter, a tough and tumble pop, a practicing MD mom, bad guys galore, hi-tech weaponry, and loads of JurassicParkasaurs.
None of this will carry this show much further into the programmers' scheduling future.
TERRA NOVA= TERRA ANTIQUA.
Nihil sub sole novum!

At The Moment

                                  At The Moment

                          At the moment of your death

                          Did you perhaps not see,

                          Each and all that signifies,

                          Of love, to you and me?

                          When closed at last, that one last time,

                          Your now unblinking eyes,

                          Held you thoughts of my dear heart,

                          And our eternal ties?

                          And will you now that you have gone

                          Still wonder at our troth?

                          As I remain, forlorn this night

                          For all that love hath wrought.

RAINBOW, DARK

                                                     

                                               Rainbow, Dark

                              Come thou with me hither.

                              See colors and prisms

                                    of sky-tossed wonder as they

                                    radiate now, soft in glowing tendrils.

                      Marvel while this wonder makes its way,

                                             Cascading now in day, where

                                    Scorpio, Libra and Gemini shall in the

                                    Dark hours of the night dance and sing.

                                    Hiding there a darker skin, one ne’er seen,

                                    Nor seen, bidden enter.

Britillations

 

BRITILLATIONS

      Could be that I am slow to comprehend. Could be that British law is slower on the upturn. Could just be that Equality Minister, Lynne Featherstone has inadvertently misplaced her copy of the Magna Carta.

   Some things are so terribly complex. Others, however, proffer no Gordian Knots requiring lengthy unravellings.

   Please, someone, whip out Alexander’s sword.

   Ms. Featherstone has, according to gay-rights activist, Peter Tatchell,

“postponed” the planned government consultation on the issue of civil partnerships and same-sex marriage. She portrays herself, and her Liberal Democratic Party, as champions of LGBT rights, seeking to “ensure that there is full implementation across Europe, of the Council of Europe’s measure to combat homophobic discrimination”.

   Not being, myself, a Brit, I confess ignorance as to the machinations of British legislative action.

   But, I’m thinking in my slow little brain, that a “conference” is an altogether mild view of her obligations to ensure full equality under law for all British citizens.

   At this exact moment, a full six months removed from Spring 2012, thousands of ostensibly equal citizens in Britain, are excluded, based solely on account of sameness of gender, from entering into binding legal contracts with other amenable, competent adults.

  Specifically, they are enjoined from entering into that historically rights-granting legal state known as marriage.

   Marriage has, after all, always been, a simple matter of agreement between amenable (sometimes), competent (usually) adults (well…).

  As in, you may have my daughter, in marriage, if you agree to give me ten goats. Or, you may have, in legal matrimony, my middle son, if you agree that he shall have hereafter, and forever, free, full title to your herd of swine.

   Simple, civil, agreement. Terms of partnership, if not endearment. A civil partnership, if you please.

   So, why a delayed conference? Why any “conference” at all? Is there a lack of clarity on the matter? What is there, exactly, that requires lengthy discussion, debate, chatter?

   Though penned a fairly long time ago, the Magna Carta was indisputably written in English. Even my slow wit can comprehend the intent of Article 29, in the updated version, circa 1297.

   “No freeman is to be taken or imprisoned or disseised of his free tenement or of his liberties or free customs, or outlawed or exiled or in any way ruined, nor will we go against such a man or send against him save by lawful judgment of his peers or by the law of the land. To no-one will we sell or deny or delay right or justice.”

   Really? Conference? March 2012?

   Sword, please! Madame, lay the scissors down!

                                                     

 Sources:

 Photo from Google Images

 Content: www.telegraph.co.uk/news

               www.guardian.co.uk/profile/petertatchell

TWEETIE PIE

Having established a Twitter acct, I invite you to follow!
RussellWarren1

We, Too, Would Gladly Sing, America

I woke up today, after listening to some of the "debate" in Iowa, and realizing that the main qualification for elective office most of these sorry souls is their determination to rise to power at the expense of others, whom they habitually, viciously villify, decided to respond with my take on Whitman and Hughes.

                                                     

                   We, Too, Would Gladly Sing America

                We, too, would gladly sing, America,

                But for those who tell us

                Our voices will never be welcome.

                We, too, are carpenters, and masons.

                Teachers, astronauts, soldiers, police,

                The darker brother, the lighter sister.

                We, too, pay taxes, and serve on boards.

                Our children play in the schoolyard with yours.

                They do the same math, and tell adjective from verb.

                We, too, shiver, as you stand in your pulpits

                Preaching that your god hates us

                As did the Jews when Hitler rose,

                Climbing to power on their bones

                Drinking blood mixed with ashes.

                We, too, would gladly sing, Amerika,

                But for your insistence that our voices

                Are not worthy to be heard.

The Departure from this LIfe of Osama bin Mohammed bin Awad bin Laden...

                            

                                  5-28-11

 The Apparently Unanticipated Departure of Osama bin Mohammed bin Awad bin Laden from this Life and World Whilst Enjoying the Cozying Pleasures of Pornography: Death of a Malevolent Grandpa.

   In the relative cool of the early night, in Abbottabad, a moderate-sized city of a bit under one million residents, about the same number as you would find in San Jose, California, a T.V. set threw its flickering light on the walls of a shabby, threadbare room and, upon its sole occupant, an elderly- seeming man, grey-bearded, hunched forward upon a throw pillow. Eyes riveted to the images displayed on the old, coat- hanger- for- an- antennae- technology television before him, with its myriad of electric cords binding together a small array of electronic devices, he saw and heard nothing but himself, a few years younger, standing tall, beard darkened, his eyes vigorous and alert, looking softly into hell as he called upon his followers to wreak havoc on those he had so often deemed, and thus declared, to be the minions of evil.

   Abbottabad, a city whose main industry is its military institutions, with multitudes of officers, active and retired, a mere thirty-one miles north-east of Pakistan’s capitol city of Islamabad, where the common language is Hindko, and whose only professional sports team is the cricket- playing Abbottabad Falcons, had harbored the world’s “most wanted” man, probably for several years.

   Ironic, for certain, that he would take his refuge, not in the harsh, romanticized mountains of Tora Bora, where the major floral growth is poppy flowers for opium, and, scraggly jihad beards, but in a city founded in the mid-1800s by then Major James Abbott, a member of the British Raj, and author of the poem Abbottabad in its (his??) honor. Possibly the most horrid, sappy, honey-dripping poem in the English language other than Joyce Kilmer’s Trees, Abbottabad, the poem, stands forever as a less-than-grand example of the lasting cataclysmic effects of colonialism on culture.

   But I digress. It happens. Actually, rather frequently.

   What, you ask, sagely, could so distract this wily, ever-alert leader of hordes of jihadists from the sounds of a very large helicopter crashing down into his eighteen foot high walled-in compound with barbed wire trim, and no internet connections or phone lines?

   Well, apparently, when he wasn’t rocking back and forth, mesmerized by his own days-gone-by image and memories of murders undertaken, he took further refuge in the pornographic images stored on several of the compound’s computers. The man who had condemned America for “ selling your daughters with no clothes on without shame in order to sell your products”, sat now, in the warm embrace of Pakistan’s military heart, warmly embracing himself, visually and venially, and failed to notice, until just a bit too late, that a wife lay before him and a bullet had unceremoniously entered his head.

   “Oh, Abbattobad, we are leaving you now

   To your natural beauty I do bow.”