Herban Sprawl

Last night I spent several hours on the phone with my cousin Mopstick. We were catching up on family news, some of it sad, some of it accompanied with sighs of relief, and a few others with a shrug and the hope that things would work out in the end.

By the time she was 21, our grandma had her family of five children. Mopstick is the only daughter of the second born, my sainted Aunt Mary. (I say sainted because in my eyes she walked on water.) Neither of us could imagine what had ever prompted our great-grandparents to marry off their 13 year old to a 36 year old man. But they had and interestingly, it is his family that continues to fascinate us all to this day.

As it happens, all of us have done research on when and where our grandparents lived in Italy, and on when they left to come to the United States. Mopstick visited with our cousin in Florida, whose brother back in our hometown had put together a lot of information. I have the papers Grandma kept in her cedar chest, and which Annalisa translated for me (”You have skeletons in your closet!”). Those, too shed light on the events in their lives.

For people of WASP origins who really do not “get” us, the immigration experience was one that really wasn’t discussed in our families. The idea of tracing, with pride, our lineage never occurred to our parents, the first generation born in this country. And indeed, our Italian forebears were too busy trying to feed their families to focus on such things. Our parents spent a lot of time trying to forget they were Italian, and we just didn’t get told a whole lot.

When you don’t know, eventually, you want to piece it together - to find out where they came from, why they left and how they got together in this country.

Thanks to Grandma’s cedar chest, I can trace the names of my greats on one side:  Attillio was the son of Antonio, who was the son of Luigi, who was the son of Francesco. They lived at Le Piastre and they owned a farm. In the Tuscany of those days, that meant they had money. Two sons left and sought their fortunes in Brazil. One came to America, as did his sister. That sister came with a man she said was her husband, but who turned out to have been her inamorato. (Skeletons…do you hear those bones rattling?) The other sister died in a sanitorium, most likely of tuberculosis.

Mom always thought her father was the oldest, but if you go by family traditions of naming the first-born son after his grandfather, I’m thinking Luigi was the oldest. Virgilio and Giovanni were the Brazilians, while Silvio and Domenica remained in the Old Country with their parents.

What does this say, when cousins become motivated to find out the stories of their elders, long after their elders have gone on to their great rewards? Could it be that we seek a sense of rootedness? Do we look for the hints that help us understand ourselves? Or do we just want to know who the family was with no particular reasons attached?

For me, the questions are irrelevant. I spent so much time at Aunt Mary’s that Mopstick always felt more like an older sister than a cousin. However we’ve lost track of each other, many of us, so the reconnections are important to us as we age. Our grandfather was hit by a car and died in 1940, so he is the mythical essence of the clan. Grandma, on the other hand, was a world-class grandmother and we all were tied to her. I am certain that each and every one of us would swear up and down that she or he was Grandma’s favorite. I know I was and I’ll bet Eugene thinks he was…. She was good at that, just as Aunt Mary was good at being an aunt. We girls learned our trades as grandmothers and aunts at the knees of experts!

Our cousins on the west coast didn’t get to spend very much time with Grandma, but she bought a train ticket and went to visit them when she could. While they didn’t get that day to day attention, they need to know that she talked about them all the time and kept their pictures at the ready to show off to anyone who was willing to look. Distance meant nothing to her heart.

And that is the crux of the issue, isn’t it? Distance really does mean nothing. Eventually we will piece much of it together, and while we will have no idea why Grandma Kate got married off to that dark Tuscan with the propensity for alcohol, we will have a family tree - which is appropriate. Mom once told me that Grandma’s father grew apricots in Illinois! And he was fair and had blue eyes….

The big news here in The Star City of the South is that the school division is having to make some drastic changes in order to continue educating the young people of our fair town. There is nothing easy about this. However, I am going to offer the following thought for consideration by my readership:

Perhaps the glass is half full.

Rita Bishop is probably looking at that sentence and wondering what I’ve been smoking… (I don’t do that kind of thing. Never have. Never will.)

The school division recently took it on the chin for closing an elementary school and turning it into an overage academy for young people who realized they needed to finish school and get a high school diploma. Not a GED, mind you - but a regulation size and weight high school diploma. Suddenly the neighborhood surrounding that school went into high gear, charging racism and all manner of accusations. Despite their shrieking, the idea was a sound one, and that building was the perfect location for it. It’s on a main drag, it’s large enough for larger sized students and it wasn’t going to meet the Annual Yearly Progress (AYP) set by the gov’mint.

I have no sympathy for the people who suddenly fell in love with their neighborhood school. Where were they when their kids were not doing their work, misbehaving in class and not taking school seriously?  Where were they when those scores refused to budge?

I’m a veteran of the system. I know about that school and I am here to tell you, most emphatically, that school was going nowhere fast. Closing it was the most humane thing for that venerable building. Its reincarnation is a good thing for this community. The more high school graduates we have, the better for us.

Now, about that half full cup…

The city schools have had their share of problems over the years, and most of those problems worked in the central administration building. The real leadership was often passed over for principalships, and the real leadership functioned in a sea of mediocrity. To be sure, there were some stars, but they were far and few between. When it got so bad that folks reckoned it could get absolutely no worse, the school board grew a spine and unloaded two ineffective superintendents, one right after the other. They convinced Rita Bishop to return from her job in Pennsylvania, and she started a fall cleaning. The only problem is, now her good ideas are in jeopardy because of the drastic cuts in funding.

The school board has postponed the onerous task of redistricting, and it can no longer put it off. They have to redraw attendance lines so they know which schools are going to house which kids. They are going to close Oakland School, another school that has struggled, and put the alternative education program in that building. That is a great idea because Oakland is also located on a main drag, is a nice building, and will save the school board a whole boatload of money that it should never have been spending on rented space anyway!

Now they have identified a middle school to close - another one that had problems - and they have determined that a neighborhood elementary school can be sacrificed. The latter one has always had a strong PTA and it’s a shame, but those kids will get moved to nice schools, so no worries.

Now the superintendent has the opportunity to clean out central administration, building principals, and some of the teaching staff. At the risk of sounding like I’m being a self-righteous bitch, this is a Golden Opportunity because she can unload people under the “reduction in force” shield, and that will enable those people to find other employment where they might find their particular talents welcomed. When asked why they were let go, those people won’t have to hang their heads and say, “Because my SOL scores sucked weasel gas and they gave up on me.” Instead they can say, “Well, as you know, they faced huge budget problems and when they instituted the RIF process, my job was eliminated.”  Now that sounds a whole lot better, doesn’t it? Thus, some perfectly good teachers or administrators have a shot at a second chance.

The other way I see this as an opportunity is that it forces the school board to get off the dime in regard to the attendance zones. That was going to be an onerous task, and guaranteed to put them under the microscope. I don’t blame them for wanting to work on that process slowly and deliberately. However, the budget crisis forces the issue, and it also offers them a reasonable amount of cover for the painful decisions they may need to take.

Let me be clear - I’m not HAPPY that the school division is faced with this horrid situation. In fact, I’m downright peeved because of all the money that was squandered on bells and whistles by the previous leadership - money that should have been spent on best practices instruction that really did help kids. However, that is water under the bridge. The important thing now is to focus on one question: how will this help kids learn to read, do math and think their way out of a paper bag? If a program addresses any of those three problems, then it needs to be funded. If it can’t, then it goes on the “maybe” or “out” pile.

Simplistic? Without a doubt. But Mies said it: less is more. Paper and pencil instead of expensive technology. And Louis Sullivan had it right: form follows function. A well-drawn attendance line can make good use of the buildings we have available. Kids will learn no matter where they go. As long as they have caring and capable teachers, they will succeed.

All they are doing is cutting down their suits after a very rigorous diet.

We’ve been playing a game on Facebook - Mafia Wars. When I first signed on, it looked like a harmless enough thing to do. I gave myself a toughie’s name and jumped on doing jobs to earn money so I could buy an arsenal, get away cars and stuff like that.

Then I got robbed and attacked and my money got taken and all kinds of mean stuff. That’s when I realized people take this game seriously! So I learned to bank every dime I earned, and moved up a few notches so I could continue to earn money and shop for more and scarier weapons. The other day I realized that even if I master a job, I can still keep doing it and making money at it. What a relief because I really need an armored car and another tommy gun!

My own family consists of a few friends - one of whom I taught history. Well, let’s say this, I stood up there and tried to teach it, but his essay responses were a lesson in how to circle a question and never answer it - it was an art and he had it down cold! Loved that kid, though. He’s good at this mob game, too.

Anyway, in the midst of waiting for our energy levels to be replenished, we were messaging and I learned Q loves to analyze the use of certain types of music in films. We also decided we need to organize a movie night. Trouble is, we can’t really decide how to settle on the movies to watch! I’m sure we’ll figure it out.

Meanwhile, I was attacked late last night and sometime today, but thanks to my new bank-after-each-job trick, they got no money. I will admit I put out a hit on a guy just because I got mad that he cleaned out so much of my cash - over and over. Once I would have let go, but four times? Really now. Dat guy ain’t got no respect. I was saving up for a tommy gun, which would have repelled him tout suite, but nooooo. He had to clean out my cash. Jerk.

My niece warned me that Facebook wastes a lot of time, and she was right. But then, she has 150 or more friends! Then today, I saw that Steph has a new “friend.” It’s a nut case I taught, and I am not using that term loosely. I’m going to have to let her know that having him in her sphere means I will be communicating with her in the protected message area! Scary stuff.

Another history test is looming, and we finally got the topics for our assignment. Luckily, he extended all the deadlines, so we can get in and take the test anytime in the next two weeks, and we can turn in the assignment during the same time frame. I’ve selected the topic that has to do with Sacco and Vanzetti and the anarchista scare.

I checked Grandpa Attilio’s page on his ship’s manifest - nobody on that page admitted to being an anarchista, so I wonder if that was something that happened after they got sick and tired of being treated badly. Food for thought.

Now, I think I’ll see if I have enough energy to knock off a few more jobs so I can pick up another tommy gun in the next day or so. I gotta make sure my family is safe!

Ya gotta love the people who think it is their civic responsibility to forward all those recycled scare emails that purport to tell you the truth about some alleged upcoming Congressional vote, or some bogus “truth” regarding who gets welfare, etc. Generally speaking I get those from one person, and if I didn’t love her to death, I’d have to lie in wait at the nail salon and hurt her badly when she goes in to have her acrylics refilled (or whatever it is that they do for her).

Now I say this because I want my readers to understand I adore this person - she kept me propped up through some hellatious times and I’m a better person because she gave me a necessary poke when I needed it. If she needed my help, I would be there in a heartbeat.

But these damn emails that get forwarded around, signed by “a Viet Nam Vet” or some other heartstring-tugging title, are getting on my nerves. The last two had to do with illegal immigrants. I am really wishing I had invited her to the AAUW program we had in November when we endeavored to debunk the myths that surround immigration. If I had, she would have just hit the delete key when those arrived in her mailbox.

The thing is, she is a person with a big heart, but like a lot of us, she’s worked two jobs for as long as I’ve known her, and there are certain things - like people who don’t deserve getting handouts getting more than their share - that push her buttons. I don’t blame her on that score.

However, it is so easy to check out one of those forwarded things, especially those dratted petitions, on Snopes.com.  Sometimes it takes a little trial and error to get to the information that will help, but usually it’s right there. And with careful - let me emphasize that word - CAREFUL - reading, and some deductive reasoning, one usually can see that those emails are barely true, and mostly biiiiiiiig stretches of the imagination.

This last one had a so-called fact that interested me because it showed up in my history class’s discussion last month. Supposedly some huge percentage of births in Los Angeles hospitals was due to illegal immigrants. The truth of the matter is that the percentage listed refers to the number of Hispanic (Latino) births. Being Hispanic (or Latino) does not automatically signal an illegal alien. However, being Hispanic (or Latino, which, by the way is the current preferred moniker for this particular ethnic group) does add to the probability of a higher birth rate given the overall adherence to Roman Catholicism’s teachings by the group.

Another of the so-called facts referred to the number of outstanding arrest warrants. Reading a little farther down on good ole Snopes, I learned that it isn’t that MORE crimes are committed by illegals, but rather that warrants remain open due to the number of people who flee once they have committed a crime. Rather than risk deportation, the illegal will simply disappear and go to work somewhere else.

Now then, there is the matter of illegals working and receiving benefits… Oh, boy, this one really gets me. In a nutshell, the vast number of illegals work using a false social security number. Their employers pay into the social security system for these people, but they will never collect that money. Why? Because they will have to produce all kinds of paperwork that proves they are legal and since they have none of that, the money just stays in the social security fund. We’re talking millions, too!

As far as illegals who work for cash under the table, I’d like to pose this question: who is to blame for this system continuing? Is it the people who risk their lives to get here to work or is it the unscrupulous people who pay cash - and usually slave wages at that - who keep the practice alive? When someone can give me a cogent answer to that question, I’m ready to listen.

What the xenophobes fail to take into consideration is that the conditions in places like Mexico or Central America are so poor, wages (if one can even get a job) so low that families live in cardboard shacks or caves or worse. Instead of staying there and seeing their families starve, men and women come north to work. If they are lucky enough to be able to thread their way through our bureaucracy, they can work legally. If not, they will move heaven and earth to get here anyway, just to work. Even the aforementioned slave wages beat what they can get in their own countries.

Are these folks really taking away jobs from Americans? Not hardly. Just ask a local concrete finishing company about their crews and their work ethic. Ask them how the American laborers usually work out for them. Best of all, watch their crews, all scrubbed and cheerful, as they shop in WalMart for things to send home to their families, along with the money that feeds them. Interact with these guys and learn a lifetime of lessons when it comes to deprivation and sacrifice all in the name of family. Americans are not likely to endure what that company’s crews will endure. (And, yes, they are all legal alien workers.)

All I’m asking is for is some respect toward people who are different. When my friends are disdainful of those immigrants, it hurts me because I’m only a second generation American. My grandfathers toiled in coal mines for a pittance. One was in the iron range when the Wobblies came to help them resolve labor practices that were outrageous (e.g. let me screw your teenage daughter and I’ll let you dig in that pit where you can get a higher amount of ore in your paycheck). He was blacklisted there and had to move to find work, along with his wife and increasing family (probably around 8 or 9 at that point). They did this because things in “the old country” were even worse.

So, yes, I do understand something about this, and all I’m asking is that instead of forwarding those emails, folks take the time to check them out. It won’t hurt, I promise you, and if you learn the truth, so much the better.

It’s been busy here in Sprawl-land. Not the kind of frantic stuff with a million must-do kinds of things, fortunately, but the kind of constant stream of projects and activities kind of busy.

Once I got my history exam knocked off, I had a whole lot of reading to catch up on, and after that, several discussion board threads to read and respond to. Some of it was interesting, some of it was people cutting and pasting the same info over and over. Glad they can read Wikipedia. I’ve been waiting around for the results of saidsame test, and also the details on the projects we’re supposed to be turning in on Monday next, but so far, our professor is still wading through all the exams. (He teaches a full daytime load, in addition to the online classes, so he’s a pretty busy guy. Add to that, he is very active in keeping up with us on the discussion boards so it would be stupid to not cut him some slack.) I’d really like to get that assignment going, but I guess it will keep.

The other busy is a project that I began several months ago, but had to let percolate for a while. It’s an altered book. I have never done one of these before, and while I am no fan of the ones that have all kinds of bizarre feathery and frilly and beady stuff hanging off the edges, there is a lot one can do that is truly a lot of fun.

For assistance I have a couple of reference books that show techniques, and for even better support, I have Sidran in Denver. Sidran is an artsy also, and she’s a lot more experienced with some of this stuff. She told me to use a hair dryer, rather than a heat gun to help glazing compound dry more quickly. She’s also really big on encouragement. You don’t get that from a book.

One of the reasons this project is so meaningful is that I’ve been using it to help process a loss. The short version is that one of our cousins found it necessary to end his life and I didn’t find out until recently. It happened in April of 2008, so it has almost been a year.

I didn’t know this cousin as an adult. He had a lot of problems, though, not the least of which the poor guy was named for his two girl cousins! (My sister and me!) Beyond that, however, I suspect he was the unlucky one to inherit the genetic predisposition to substance abuse. It made his life a misery, but I think that if one could scrape away the bad layers that had accumulated from that and just look at the raw material underneath, he was probably a good person.

Sometimes we have to dig deep to find the good in people, but in the end, it’s usually worth it.

For now, it is sufficient to acknowledge that despair, fear, and self-loathing can go a long way in helping someone to decide what to do with his or her life. If you paint on a few layers of heavy duty opaque addictions, the options are less visible.

His family is dealing with his decision in their separate compartments, even though the peace-maker has tried to bring them together. They are all probably doing the best they can, but it was a bad ending to his life and I know they are all suffering, each in his/her own way. In some regards, there is a sense of relief because they won’t have to worry about him, but in other regards, I think they might have preferred to have better experiences with him. Regret and relief are sometimes really closely related.

Meanwhile, I’m doing a lot of thinking while I create. It’s what we artsy types do. It helps us peel away layers so we can see things more clearly. It helps us make peace with certain things - I’m adjusting to the idea that when I stay organized with the other things I need to do, I can spend my time doing art without feeling guilty. It’s a hard thing to juggle because as that old ad I once cut out said, “Creative people don’t work by the clock. They work by the idea.” We can get lost in seeing what will happen if we turn the page in like thus, glue that corner down, add a little ochre glaze to ‘antique’ the page, squiggle to make it look cracked - oops! a little too much, now what?

It’s nonstop problem solving, but it’s the kind of process that frees the mind and brings out the positive, fun side of one’s nature.

I would be remiss if I didn’t also acknowledge that BGF had a vexatious weekend. First he had to undergo the indignity of having his lower innards examined, and then had another visit to the ER when his upper innards staged a full-scale rebellion. I’m thinking he probably needs to go in for a complete frame-off restoration! Wonder how he’d look with pinstripes and flames painted around his exhaust pipe!

This morning BGF posted his response to my semi-rant about texting. (See rossiferous.blogspot.com) I chuckled. In her case, texting is a huge mistake, but hey, touche. In HIS case, he’s a gadget  freak, plain and simple, so TOUCHY!!!!

I’m saying this because I can sit here and pontificate to my heart’s content (no pun intended, Rossiferous), and also because I am laughing loudly over this.

Let’s be clear, when you’ve known someone for as long as we’ve known each other, there are certain things that you just accept - things like hair loss, sagging boobs, etc. He buys electronic gadgets and I buy china. I can rationalize those six cups and saucers to that set of white porcelain from now until next Monday. (That company is the latest casualty in the tableware bankruptcies, the pattern was discontinued in 1982, etc.) Bottom line: I didn’t really NEED them.

He can rationalize the organizational features of his new toy, but the bottom line is, he’s fighting a losing battle in that war. He’s unorganizable. But that’s okay. It’s something one must accept in one’s friends, the same as one accepts hair loss and sagging boobs. Whether he realizes it or not, there are less complicated ways of getting organized. Maffa could give him an entire lesson on organizational methods she has tried and abandoned. I could, too.

But it always boils down to that old line from Clint Eastwood, “a man’s got to know his limitations.” All the iPhones and organizational programs in the world don’t solve issues for someone whose mind is infinitely curious, easily bored and even more easily distracted. It’s far easier to buy a toy in the hope that those issues will go away than it is to exercise self-control. I know this. I have no self-control when faced with a dish bargain. And for a good long while, his electronics will solve his problems - that is, as long as he’s still exploring and learning and playing with them. Once he’s mastered them, it’s going to be all over.

This is not a criticism. This is the observation of a veteran teacher who has seen it time and again. It’s just the way it is. Some of us are just wired that way. So the best thing to do is laugh it off and love our friends for who and what they are, never mind the hair loss or sagging boobs. If he wants a new toy, he’s going to have to put up with me poking fun at him. The next time he’s here for dinner, I have no doubt I’m going to take some teasing about the different dishes on the table. And I’ll deserve it. 

However, both of us have to have a talk with Ms. I’m-going-to-my-room-now-text-or-call-the-cell-at-555-1212 and her Facebook page! (It takes a village to keep the kids safe.) My spelling lessons are going to take on a different slant once we cover the U family, too. I’m a firm believer in teachable moments and the phenomenon of text messages is a great way to teach the difference between standard and non-standard spelling.

Let’s hope these are Meyer lemons for my lemonade!

BGF just bought his daughter a new cell phone. It has texting. She’s in hog heaven. All weekend she has left lines on her FaceBook page like ‘going outside, call or text me!” She is just dying for someone to text her.

Now let’s be clear about this. The only reason she got a new phone was because he was buying himself a new iPhone. If he was buying himself a toy, he had to buy her a toy. Plain and simple. He needed a texting playmate.
I don’t text. I think I can with my phone, but I’m not really sure. It’s not something I find necessary. As it is, our cell phone use is pretty minimal.

The only reason I have one has to do with the trips back to Illinois to tend my aging paternal unit. The Uncles and Bubbas all had the precursor to AT&T, so that’s what I got so I could have unlimited calls to those on the same plan. It made it a lot easier, since they were the ones providing me with intelligence on the day to day shenanigans. Somewhere in there, we had a crisis and I got a $300 phone bill. I went through the roof.

Then, it was time to replace my phone, so I added Big Kitty to the plan. The only reason for it was so I could find him in Lowe’s. Big Kitty has a unique talent. He can vaporize. And, like all cats, when he doesn’t want to be found, he cannot be found. I got tired of walking all over the place to find him, so I reasoned that I could ring him and arrange a meeting place. “Yo. You done in ‘lectrical? Meet me in plumbing.” We also had a new feature that I had been enjoying for a few years - rollover minutes.

So while I was giggling over this new plea for text messages, he chuckled along with me and then wondered out loud how many rollover minutes we had accrued. I looked it up. We had 10,722 minutes, but 980 had just expired. We added 997 minutes and came out with 10,739 minutes.

You could say our cell phone usage is minimal. Anyway, we did the math and it turns out we could, between our two phones, yak for seven and a half days before we depleted the stash of minutes for the two phones. Most people don’t get this.

We live in a holler on Snob Crick. We don’t get cell waves worth spit down here. Neither of us will call and drive. So that limits us to a conversation in the grocery store parking lot. Now who in heaven’s name wants to sit in the parking lot in front of The Fresh Market gabbing on the phone? Oh, stupid question…only that dizzy doofus in the behemoth that is looming up on the rear bumper of that little Focus….. You get the picture.

So while Herself is begging everyone to text her, I am cringing. She already cannot spell, and this is only going to complicate matters. If I were to commit murder upon her paternal unit’s person, the matter would go to Judge Weckstein. If I were to say, “Oy! Yer Honor, the deceased bought his daughter a damn texting phone and I’ve been trying valiantly to teach her to spell. He went and mucked it up so badly that I was driven to snuff him out by reason of sanity.” I think Weckie would get it. He knows the guy. He knows whereof I speak when it comes to banging one’s head on the desk.

Instead, I shall suffer this latest indignation with the hopes that her friends have used up all their minutes!

This one’s for Donna.

I’m suffering a bout of academic malaise. We’ve just had our first examination in history, and I had a lot of reading to do to catch up in order to get in on this week’s discussion board thread. Luckily our professor has been busy and hasn’t put up additional questions for us to ponder!

In the meantime, I took a “weekend warrior” computer seminar, which was interesting. I learned all sorts of tricks about Word 2007, which will be good things to master.

All of this is toward a teacher recertification that I likely will not need, but am pursuing anyway. Another retiree was in the class for the same reason. (She was one of those stellar teachers who should have received all the teacher of the year accolades in her day.)

In the midst of this latter foray, I found myself making friends with a very nice lady who had just finished taking keyboarding and was looking to expand her computer skills. Her purse bore the Harley trademark, so we had a chat about that. Someone she knew was in the class, also, sitting on the other side of her. When we passed around the sign in sheet, she turned to me, and in shock said, “That’s my name, too!” Here I was, sitting with Big Kitty’s cousin’s wife! And on the other side of her, a cousin from the late Aunt Sis’ side of the family!

It reminded me of when my sister and our cousins all got to know each other as adults in Colorado, and how they were able to just laugh off  whatever it was that had divided the family in our parents’ time. And isn’t that the crux of it all? Why should one generation forego family ties or friendships just because their parents couldn’t get along?

Anyway, I am looking at the calendar and trying to figure out when I can rattle the pots and pans and have them over for a nice Italian supper.  We should all get to know each other and at least be able to be of support to one another as the parental units age and become infirm. And, let’s be honest, there are things that they know about the family history that we don’t and vice versa. It’s good to be able to share the stories. And a little food and wine…Á la famiglia!

The Superbowl is in progress, and I am nowhere near the tube. I’ve had other things to do that kept me in the kitchen or checking the discussion board for my class. In fact, it was while I was waiting for the timer to go off that I wandered in to set the table and heard some bleach blonde start in with the Kate Smith anthem. I have no idea who she is, but they said she’d won Grammy awards. I have no idea why. Must have been slim pickins.

Anyway, I had settled down to go over the calendar when I heard the most horrendous caterwauling… Some broad with no range was shrieking what sounded vaguely like the national anthem. And I do mean vaguely. It was so bad I’m surprised I didn’t hear every dog in the neighborhood howling for mercy. It wasn’t even on key most of the time!

So here’s my beef with these events. It’s a given that the national anthem has to be performed. But let’s just all admit that it takes an opera singer to execute that puppy. It’s hard to sing and if a person doesn’t have the proper range, it comes out really, really bad. So why not just have a great marching band play it, let the crowd limp along as best as they can - we all know the words - and fuddegaboudit? Barring that, get an up and coming opera singer and let her strut her stuff. An opera singer will at least go to her vocal coach and practice!

I haven’t bothered to check any of the news spots to see who butchered the song tonight. I don’t really care who it was. Whoever it was can’t sing that particular song and had no business signing that contract. It was embarrassing, not to mention enough to make me feel sorry for the dogs…

But that’s the way it is, this first day of February, when all of Kentucky is readying their shotguns for Punxsatawny Phil if he doesn’t tell them what they need to hear tomorrow!