Monday, July 27, 2009

This is Depressing...

...the whole Skippy Gates thing, I mean.

Not his predicament, tho. Long ago, in a traffic school class far away, we were advised by the police officer/instructor that the first thing we should do when stopped is "pass the attitude test". This has always made excellent sense to me, mainly because a) said "stopper" can arrest me, and b) he or she has a gun they are allowed to use to do a).

It's a no brainer.

Later in my life, my house was burgled. I came home, and after dealing with the LEOs, I wandered out to the back yard. An officer who was in the supermarket parking lot behind my house saw me, and firmly but politely asked me to come over and show some ID. My ID was in the house, and I told him so, and said that yes, it was my house. We agreed that I would go in and get said ID, and show it to him. I did, and it was all good.

Why would I want to get arrested and/or shot on my own property by someone who was ostensibly trying to protect aid property? For me. Who hadn't personally asked him!

Skippy is an idiot. OK, he's a Harvard Prof, which means he probably has a PhD.

He's still an idiot. If we define "idiot" as one who behaves in such a manner to endanger their own well being and that of those around them, for no apparently good reason.

But that's not what is depressing. I have a friend at work, Mr. T, who, based on his Facebook posts, seems to think that Gates was treated the way he was because he is black. (As is, I might mention, my friend. This is not mentioned trivially...) And yes, my friend voted for the big "o", too (lowercase intentional).

So, in my book, he's 0 for 2 in the brainwashed department. STG, I don't care that our Commander-in-Chief is a person of color. I really don't. On the other hand, I don't trust the skinny little weasel as far as I could throw him. He seems to be evidencing symptoms of what we might call being a "Strawberry Oreo". Black on the outside, Red on the inside.

Anywho, now my friend is on the side of Skippy. Mr T. is a very intelligent young man. But, brainwashed, it appears. (I think he reads Time magazine, the WaPo and HuffPo). He asserted that Skippy was handcuffed inside his house. According to the police report, not so:

So, methinks it boils down to a division along racial lines. Which is truly sad. Because there is obviously a lot of "filtering" going on, still. By that I mean, if a white office arrests a (loud) black man/woman, the officer is obviously "racist". Even though said officer has been picked by his (black) boss to lead the political correctness..., erm, sensitivity training for the precinct. And, you'll notice that this terribly racist officer got Skippy his cane, and then waited until the maintenance guy could get on site and get Skippy's door locked.

What a flaming racist.!!

Of course, on my side of the fence, I'm dealing with my own upbringing, too. I still find myself hearing in my head the crap that I learned from adults around me (not Mom or Grampa G... they would't tolerate insulting words about anyone). So I hear the lie run by, and then tell myself, let's watch and see who this person/these people really are. So then I stop and see what I see. Most times, people are basically decent. I suspect, like me, they want to have a warm, safe place for themselves and their loved ones. And, yeah, there are some jerks out there. I tend to avoid them whenever possible, stand up to them when I need to. But it's all on a case by case basis. The one difference we all have in common is that we're all different.

It seems to me that, given the persistence of knee-jerking, that the heroic and historic efforts of Dr. King and Ms. Parks, to name only two, have been grossly wasted. Sort of like feminism, it all seemed about learning to treat each other with respect. Apparently, we still don't get it.

Now, it appears to be just about scoring racial and political points and getting "mine".


Then, there's this at Power Line

Sunday, July 19, 2009

Back Under the Knife

I spent about an hour or so under the knife, again. New surgeon, new hospital (more, later).

Once again, in pre-op, I found myself thinking of my time with Gramma G. I think what makes that time so special to me is that it was unconditional. I suppose she knew, or at least suspected, that she was dying during my time with her. If so, she never seemed to show me that she was afraid. It seemed to me that she had nothing else to do when she shared her time with me. I'm sure that her dying was a great strain to my mom and Grampa G, so they were, of course, distracted.

After she passed on, my life changed. Grampa G would take off for a few months to spend time with his other children in Arizona and Illinois. When he was gone, I would stay overnight at my best friend's house, and during the summers,stay during the day as well. This was because my mom worked the night shift at the hospital.

Anyway, I know where my "happy place" is. Thanks, Gramma