Watch it. Share it. Facebook it. Tweet it.
www.thecartelmovie.com
Seriously. Babyboomers are pimping our children to stay in control.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Monday, March 29, 2010
Babyboomer should be a swear word
I have learned, by sad experience, that the overwhelming majority of babyboomers with whom I have worked, voted for, been supervised and evaluated by or been associated with are very good at one thing...doing everything in their power, perceived or real, to stay in control.
Control. Power. I believe that most of them lay in bed at night, white knuckling their superhero bed sheets, pulled up next to their nostrils, puffing in and out, wide-eyed with raving fear, culling Machiavellian strategies for Inquisition-like behaviors for the next day's ear-mark of controls.
I'd like to extend a personal, wax-sealed invitation to those I've mentioned above...you know who you are, with your blood-shot eyes and black finger tips - GET OUT OF MY WAY.
You've done enough. I'm sure there's more destruction and mayhem to cause, but if you take inventory of your handy work, you'll see nothing but red, so leave. Please. Do whatever it is you have to do and just get out of the way.
We're going to get the planet eventually. All of your plastic work and manipulation of the gene pool will only seal your fate. You'll be unable to function, all you'll be able to do is watch as we dismantle, repair, pound your excesses into powder.
Please. Go. Now.
Control. Power. I believe that most of them lay in bed at night, white knuckling their superhero bed sheets, pulled up next to their nostrils, puffing in and out, wide-eyed with raving fear, culling Machiavellian strategies for Inquisition-like behaviors for the next day's ear-mark of controls.
I'd like to extend a personal, wax-sealed invitation to those I've mentioned above...you know who you are, with your blood-shot eyes and black finger tips - GET OUT OF MY WAY.
You've done enough. I'm sure there's more destruction and mayhem to cause, but if you take inventory of your handy work, you'll see nothing but red, so leave. Please. Do whatever it is you have to do and just get out of the way.
We're going to get the planet eventually. All of your plastic work and manipulation of the gene pool will only seal your fate. You'll be unable to function, all you'll be able to do is watch as we dismantle, repair, pound your excesses into powder.
Please. Go. Now.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Intrigue...
This should change the terrain of teaching and education across the landscape...it hasn't. I'd like to know why.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Good people tell me...
...all kinds of good things.
I just want to say thank you. I'm listening, even if I don't act like it.
J.
I just want to say thank you. I'm listening, even if I don't act like it.
J.
Monday, March 8, 2010
I'm not much of a Toby Keith fan...
...but that cat has a song out right now about the death of a friend that pretty much captures how I feel today.
And I grippingly ask myself "How is it that you can get so caught up in the clutter of the day so as to neglect telling someone how much they've done for you?"
I don't have a valid answer. I just sort of reel in all the things I do, try to do and then don't no...then there's the stuff that I don't even know I'm supposed to be doing and don't do.
Doug, I forgot to tell you how much I love you. You treated me like a son. You listened to me, taught me stuff about being a father and a husband. I love you. I love your family.
I know its part of the plan, but I don't feel really happy right now. I know its better there. I know you're asking all the questions you and I talked about. I know that you were prepared and that Father welcomed you. I know you've kicked in the work like never before. I know that you are running with your folks (please tell Harry I miss him too). But still...
I selfishly shed tears.
J.
And I grippingly ask myself "How is it that you can get so caught up in the clutter of the day so as to neglect telling someone how much they've done for you?"
I don't have a valid answer. I just sort of reel in all the things I do, try to do and then don't no...then there's the stuff that I don't even know I'm supposed to be doing and don't do.
Doug, I forgot to tell you how much I love you. You treated me like a son. You listened to me, taught me stuff about being a father and a husband. I love you. I love your family.
I know its part of the plan, but I don't feel really happy right now. I know its better there. I know you're asking all the questions you and I talked about. I know that you were prepared and that Father welcomed you. I know you've kicked in the work like never before. I know that you are running with your folks (please tell Harry I miss him too). But still...
I selfishly shed tears.
J.
Thursday, March 4, 2010
I notice, I wonder...
Got a little distracted at the desk in my "octopus" (affectionate term for my office, 8 tentacled monster that she is) yesterday. If I'm not doing what I'm 'sposed to, I daydream.
I was gazing into a rough-hewn picture frame containing one of my most cherised earthly possessions ever. A aging photo of my Dad and I, circa 1972.
I notice my Dad's bell-bottomed brown courdoroys, steel-toed hiking boots and he's rolled the sleeves on a yellow-thread bare button-collar oxford. Both hands are half in pocket, relaxed at the wrist. He's parting his chestnut brown hair down the middle, his head cocked carefully to one side sporting a crooked grin. He closes his mouth to hide a chipped tooth, but at this distance who could tell.
His shirt hides a shoulder and chest laden burn scar from when he was 4 years old. It's violent, but contributes to the lean in his stance. I wonder if he's protecting it.
Glen stands in front of a pastel pink and ivory 1955 Chevy Bel-Air. 4-door. The wheels are plain dingy black, caked with Colorado-red dirt. They rest on a bed of snow and mud. The thick wind-shield glass gives no indication of the time of day.
The skeletal charcoal oaks frame the background, leafless, scratchy. Even further back is an amoeba-shaped single axle camp trailer, door's askew, giving us a glimpse of empty space colored black.
To his left, our right, is a little boy astride a metallic Irish green Huffy tri-cycle, streamers peeling from the handle bars, mud and snow crusting the six-spoke ivory rims. He gazes sideways and right with a hero-worship stare underneath an over-sized dingy white derby. Hard to say what he's wearing, it's lost in that gaze.
I wonder if my son will ever look at me like I'm looking at my father. And I wonder if he does, will I have earned it.
J.
I was gazing into a rough-hewn picture frame containing one of my most cherised earthly possessions ever. A aging photo of my Dad and I, circa 1972.
I notice my Dad's bell-bottomed brown courdoroys, steel-toed hiking boots and he's rolled the sleeves on a yellow-thread bare button-collar oxford. Both hands are half in pocket, relaxed at the wrist. He's parting his chestnut brown hair down the middle, his head cocked carefully to one side sporting a crooked grin. He closes his mouth to hide a chipped tooth, but at this distance who could tell.
His shirt hides a shoulder and chest laden burn scar from when he was 4 years old. It's violent, but contributes to the lean in his stance. I wonder if he's protecting it.
Glen stands in front of a pastel pink and ivory 1955 Chevy Bel-Air. 4-door. The wheels are plain dingy black, caked with Colorado-red dirt. They rest on a bed of snow and mud. The thick wind-shield glass gives no indication of the time of day.
The skeletal charcoal oaks frame the background, leafless, scratchy. Even further back is an amoeba-shaped single axle camp trailer, door's askew, giving us a glimpse of empty space colored black.
To his left, our right, is a little boy astride a metallic Irish green Huffy tri-cycle, streamers peeling from the handle bars, mud and snow crusting the six-spoke ivory rims. He gazes sideways and right with a hero-worship stare underneath an over-sized dingy white derby. Hard to say what he's wearing, it's lost in that gaze.
I wonder if my son will ever look at me like I'm looking at my father. And I wonder if he does, will I have earned it.
J.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
speeding orb peeling through space...
i leaned back, trying to smother my physical self in the worn chevy seats of my presidential carpool, hoping beyond a concept of hope that i could catch a glimpse of something more important than today.
maybe i could snap a mental image that would interrupt the things i keep thinking about. a cloud? nope. how about someone's face a fellow traveler? nothing.
maybe today i blinked and i missed it.
watch out world, tomorrow i will have my eyes wide, can't hide, going to ride
this speeding orb peeling through space.
maybe i could snap a mental image that would interrupt the things i keep thinking about. a cloud? nope. how about someone's face a fellow traveler? nothing.
maybe today i blinked and i missed it.
watch out world, tomorrow i will have my eyes wide, can't hide, going to ride
this speeding orb peeling through space.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)