Author: Kevan

Crookston is certainly one of the finest singer/songwriters ever.  His songs are very good and he sings with a deftness that you really can’t gauge unless you’ve tried to be a singer yourself.

You can  listen to “Freddy the Falcon”  here.  You won’t be disappointed.  If you want to, you can also download that song and four others  by Crookston, all for free.

Crookston was in Memphis at the annual meeting of the Folk Alliance in 2009 and he performed “Freddy the Falcon” before a small audience.  You can view an amateur video of that event here.

I transcribed these lyrics myself from the studio version with minor variations based on the Memphis version.

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FREDDY THE FALCON

I’m Freddy the Falcon, daredevil’s feet
Skateboard champ on Jackson Street
Ramp up and lift off two flights high
When the wheels leave the pavement, the falcon can fly

And I hardly know nothin’ and mostly don’t care
But flying like this gets me outta here
And I wish I had somethin’, but nothin’ ain’t fair
Flyin’ like this gets me outta here

They all call me Ratboy; my grades are bad
With a crazy temper than I got from my dad
My momma gets scared when my dad comes home drunk
And everybody says Ratboy is destined to flunk

And I hardly know nothin’ and mostly don’t care
But flying like this gets me outta here
And I wish I had somethin’, but nothin’ ain’t fair
Flyin’ like this gets me outta here

Skippin’ school, hangin’ out on the street
And out behind the factory where the dropouts meet
It happened real quick; I got in on the scene
In the back of a Mustang, cookin’ methamphetamine

And I hardly know nothin’ and mostly don’t care
But flying like this gets me outta here
And I wish I had somethin, but nothin’ ain’t fair
Flyin’ like this gets me outta here

Now I got these navy blues in jail cell “D”
I guess I done what everyone expected of me
So I sneak me a pencil — you gotta swear not to tell —
And at night I draw the falcon on the walls of my cell

And I hardly know nothin’ and mostly don’t care
But flying like this gets me outta here
And I wish I had somethin’, but nothin’ ain’t fair
Flyin’ like this gets me outta here

People love to gripe, especially about the weather. Talking about it is one thing, since it’s something we all share in common. But griping is quite another, and counterproductive. It doesn’t change the weather, but it does affect attitudes, and not for the better.

Of course it’s hot. It’s summertime in Memphis, duh! Did you think you were in Norway, perhaps? Griping about the heat is like, “Man, that voltage bites! I stuck my finger in the light socket and it shocked the fire outta me!”

I like hot weather because it isn’t cold. Dead things are cold. Living things have heat. In the summertime, I feel more alive.

I like hot weather because I’m not sick. In the winter, everybody gets sick and the choir at church is always short a few people. Coughing, sneezing, puking, wheezing; typical winter.

I like hot weather because things don’t break as much. It’s easier to keep a car running. In the winter, you wake up in the morning and can’t get to work because the cold weather done you in. Not so in summertime. Pipes freeze and burst in winter. Plants are destroyed, animals freeze to death, the streets become impassible with ice & snow.

I like hot weather because it’s prettier. This harks back to my first point. In the summertime things are green and alive. In winter, any snow becomes filthy sludge after a day and you have to look at it until it melts, which is a long time. Cars become filthy. The whole environment becomes filthy. Nothing grows, so the earth becomes mud.

People say, “I can put on more clothes to stay warm, but in summer you just suffer.” Drink more water and slow down. Relax and let your body cool itself. Most distress comes from that frantic, griping attitude. Chill, bro.

In church this past Sunday I performed my first autoharp instrumental solo as an intro to a quartet number. The quartet was to break into a rousing a capella singing of “To Canaan’s land I’m on my way” just as soon as I’d finished playing one verse and chorus of “I’ll Fly Away.”

I started with just the melody, began to add the thumb, and eventually had a torrent of sounds rushing out of the instrument, just as if I knew what I was doing. But when I got to the chorus and was playing at high speed with with all my might “I’ll fly away, fly away, oh glory!” my thumb pick did exactly that–seven feet high and over the pulpit and onto the steps below.

The tenor retrieved it for me and, as I put it on, I just said “I hate it when that happens.” Everyone laughed, I played the remainder of my into, and the quartet and other string band members did a great job on the rest of the song.

It’s April 15th, the holiest day on the federal calendar, and angry citizens are attending protest rallies across the country. They’re calling them “tea parties,” for obvious reasons, and they think that their legislators will become scared and begin to roll back the tide of socialism that has been overtaking Washington recently.

This optimism is ill-founded. Legislators are in office because they campaigned on the idea “I will give you more than I take from you.” They expect to be reelected using the same strategy. Nobody is elected by promising to reduce expenditures while maintaining taxation, which is the only way a government can pay off a debt.

Politicians are professional liars; the most adept rise the highest. They will get out and support the tea parties for a day, but then they’ll resume doing what it took to get elected in the first place. It wouldn’t matter if fifty five million Americans showed up at tea parties today. That many showed up on election day last November and voted against Obama. Have the politicians been afraid because all those people disagreed with their socialist schemes? Nah.

The nation is going where it’s going because the majority wants to go there.

I remember Christmas morning when I was a boy. We were all outside, playing with our new toys and those of our neighbors’. Yesterday was Christmas. It was sunny in Memphis and not cold at all. I couldn’t find a kid anywhere in sight.

Where were they? Well, obviously they were inside; but, why? Since I wasn’t in there with them, I cannot say for sure; but I assume that they were enjoying their new presents, and those presents were indoor presents: audio and video electronics.

Approximately five million writers have already bemoaned the virtual world we make for ourselves, so I don’t pretend to some cosmic insight into the problem. What I’m wondering is, when will folks catch on? I recently saw an ad somewhere on the ‘net that invited people to some new social networking site for grownups (implying that Facebook, etc. is for kids). I have to ask, why not go out and join some outfit in person? There are charities and volunteer organizations by the dozens that need manpower.

The Internet is no longer a novelty. We should have gotten used to it by now. Just as happiness is not found in beverage alcohol, it isn’t found in make-believe relationships. Parents need to shut off the kids’ electronics and teach them how to run and throw things outside with real humans. And the parents themselves need to grow up.

Every news source I turn to this morning is intoning the same worshipful liturgy: Obama’s election shows that we have overcome our nation’s past. This is all emotive rhetoric, however, because such language cannot be used to manipulate blacks and shake down whites.

The tune has to change, and I give it 24-48 hours to change. The new tune will bemoan Obama’s mulatto identity and allege that racist America only let him sit in the front of the bus because his mother was white. America is still guilty until a real black becomes president.

And when that day comes, they’ll move the target again. (“Hey, it works.”)

Prove me wrong.

When I lived in the southern part of town for ten years, it was common to see poll workers on election day wearing and distributing material advertising one candidate or another named “Ford.” The Ford family was somewhat disreputable and heavily involved in gaining and wielding political power. These poll workers would routinely, I’d say deliberately, cross the boundaries and accost people who were trying to go in and vote. It seemed to say “We aren’t restricted by the laws. Vote for Ford because he’s greater than the laws.” Those days are gone for now.

Today I arrived at my precinct at 9:10 AM and found it more crowded than ever before in my eight years of voting in this neighborhood. I see from checking a few web sites that our experience was repeated everywhere. I waited in line for 1.25 hours and everything went smoothly. Poll workers decided to put chairs out along the snaking line that wrapped around in the gymnasium. They went around with bottles of water, cups of coffee, and snacks. Everyone seemed to be in a good mood.

There were several referenda on the ballot, none of which was intelligible to a casual reader. I had to study the boogers last night and do a little research to figure out what in tarnation they meant. But I learned and came prepared. It took me about two minutes to cast all of my votes for the referenda and candidates.

Others were not so prepared. As we stood patiently in line, chatting and alternately sitting or standing, we would observe “Is that guy still at that booth?” Some of these brain-deads were standing there for ten or fifteen minutes, reading those stupid referenda and trying to decipher them. Un-bee-leeevable!

Here’s a free-market approach to the problem. Have at least one booth designated for “Express Voters.” If you show up and have a marked and ready voter’s guide that you can show a poll worker, you get an express ribbon pinned to your sleeve. Then you get in line with everybody else; but when the express booth is vacated, the poll worker taps the next voter who has a ribbon and allows him to go ahead of everyone else.

At about 12:45 PM I returned to the polling place to check the crowds and discovered that the long line was gone and things were back to normal. Everyone had rushed to get there this morning, fearing the large turnout, but the fears were unfounded. I see where that has been the case elsewhere across the nation as well.

The presidential election has taken on the quality of an insane asylum run by the inmates. Obama, who is to the left of socialist senator Bernie Sanders, mocks McCain for calling him a socialist. McCain says in speeches, “My friends, my opponent wants to take your money and give it to people who haven’t earned it.” But that’s exactly what every Republican administration has done all of my life. And what was the $700 billion bailout that McCain supported?

I refer my readers once again to Sheldon Richman, the economics writer who understands it all and makes it plain.

Today it is our privilege here in Memphis to host two skinheads who have checked into our federal prison after bungling a plan to rob a gun store, kill eighty eight people, behead fourteen blacks (whom, I suppose, they include among the aforementioned people), and then drive their car into Obama while firing guns at him and wearing white tuxedos.

This is all eerily reminiscent of a story I heard back in the late ’70s. Reportedly, a fellow drank a case of beer and dove into a dangerous body of water and commenced swimming to the other side. He was expected to drown and a crowd gathered to watch the sad ending–but he surprised everyone by making it! As they gathered around and pressed the question “Why’d you do it? Why’d you do it?” he stared off proudly and intoned “To prove my love for Linda Ronstadt.”

The skinheads cannot, so far as I know, claim drunkenness as a defense. Apparently they think (if we may use the term) this way whether they are drunk or sober. The good news is that murderous idiots are a somewhat self-correcting problem: either they provoke some other murderous idiot to dispatch them, or they so bungle their criminal aspirations that the government can lock them up with other stupid criminals–a sort of segregation, if you will. They want segregation, don’t they?

P.S. We want to encourage all rehabs to start managing social media and promote sober live among all group ages!

Obama voters are proving that the presidential election is a farce.

Example #1, The Howard Stern Interviews Last week the nation was treated to repeated excerpts from the Howard Stern show in which Obama voters in Harlem claimed that they chose Obama because of his positions on the issues. Then the interviewer asked “Do you favor him more for his pro-life position or because he wants to keep the troops in Iraq and finish the job?” (These, obviously, are the opposite from Obama’s positions.) The Harlemite would answer “Because he wants to keep the troops in Iraq.” “And Obama’s choice of Sarah Palin for a running mate, do you think she’ll make a good vice-president?” The answer was “Yes, I think she’ll do a good job. I support him on that.”

Example #2, The Memphis Commercial Appeal ran a front page story about a 106-year-old black woman who early-voted, and it was the first time in her entire life that she had ever voted in an election. Everyone gushed about how great it was. Does anyone think she knows one clear thing about Obama’s positions, or even what the executive branch of the national government is responsible for? Why is she now voting for the first time in her life?

Example #3, A black talk show host here in Memphis encourages everyone to get out and vote for Obama, even though Tennessee’s electoral votes are safely McCain’s. During the bailout debate, a woman called in and asked, “Don’t the Department of the Treasury print money?” The host replied, “Yes ma’m, they do.” She then pontificated, “Then why don’t they just print up their $700 billion theyselves instead a’ layin’ it on the back of the taxpayers?” His answer was “I don’t know. It sounds like a good idea to me.” These people, to a man, are voting for Obama.

Example #4: I was working for three hours in the home of a very nice old black lady and, while collecting my $117, I pointed to the news program on the television and asked, “Well, are you gonna vote for Obama?” She answered yes, because he and his wife seem like good people, he seems very smart, and she likes the idea that he is young and energetic.

Why are the Harlemites voting for him? Why is the 106-year-old lady voting for him? Why are the people who think you can print up billions of dollars for free voting for him? Why is the nice old lady voting for him? You decide.

Momentum is building for a fresh dose of economic stimulants to boost the country out of the doldrums – perhaps by putting more money in Americans’ pockets. The White House said Monday that President Bush was open to some sort of action after Federal Reserve Chairman Ben Bernanke warned the slump could drag on without the extra bracing tonic.

Ah, yes, stimulants! There’s nothing like a dose of stimulants to improve your health, right? Some bennies here, some speed there, maybe a dexy or two if available. The healthiest people you know are speed freaks, aren’t they?

Good old Ben Bernanke, always ready to prescribe a “bracing tonic.” According to this AP news story today, Bernanke endorsed the need for a fresh and “significant” round of government action. They’re going to put “more money in Americans’ pockets,” are they? And just where do they propose to get this money they want to put in Americans’ pockets? It wouldn’t be from Americans’ pockets now, would it? After all, last week, the Treasury Department announced it would inject up to $250 billion in U.S. banks in return for partial ownership. Injection is the most direct way to feel the effects of the stimulant. But where do they get the substance they’re injecting? They get it from the very body they’re injecting it into, duh! It’s like an IV that takes blood out of one arm and feeds it into the other.

Somebody snapped a photo of what Ben Bernanke was thinking when he came up with this nonsense:

His economic IQ was registered on the meter, as well.

I wish he would refrain from calling for another round unless he’s picking up the tab.

Winter has a reputation for being gloomy. Folks complain about it and long for spring. What they may overlook, though, is the fact that one may leave his window shades open. In the summer, that heat really fights the air conditioning. Now, though, I can throw them all wide open with abandon.

Tonight I attended a speech by Darrell Castle, who is the vice-presidential candidate of the Constitution Party. Their platform is something I can endorse almost completely; but since John McCain has my state, Tennessee, firmly in hand, our electoral votes will go to him no matter who votes for Mr. Castle and Mr. Baldwin, who heads the ticket.

Mr. Castle said at one point that one has to be president to effect any change in the nation’s suicidal policies. That gives rise to the obvious question, “Since your party cannot win the presidency, of what value is this meeting?” But that idea never came up. Mr. Castle is above sixty years of age, is tired from campaigning across the country, and shows about as much dynamism as does any other elderly guy.

I’ve seen a lot of similar scenes in the past twenty five years. “Ordered liberty” is a noble dream, a dream of a just and humane society where people are allowed to live their lives in whatever way they choose, so long as it is peaceful and they fulfil their legal obligations. Government’s job is to protect such peaceful people from force or fraud, and to handle matters of public safety, health, order, and morals. People talk about it, but talk is all they do. A goal without a plan is a dream.

There are many conservative organizations in existence and they differ from one another regarding details. What most of them lack is a game plan. Does the Constitution Party really intend to do anything, or just run for president and talk?

Someone gave me a recording of a lecture from Princeton University. The speaker has nearly as much education as I, along with the distinction of having published papers and books and having received various awards and grants. Most noteworthy of all, he was hired by Princeton, so the guy ought to know his stuff.

He doesn’t.

Oh, he knows a lot, I suppose, but he doesn’t know that he’s as blind as a bat in a tanning salon. He’s lecturing, ostensibly, on the Apostle Paul, but he totally misses Paul’s point again and again and again. One example: he claims that Paul addressed the sex lives of the Corinthians because he wanted this new religion of his to have a different reputation than the Dionysian cults it competed with. It never seems to have occurred to Dr. Bat that maybe Paul condemned fornication because it is wrong.  And this is but one example among dozens.  No neophyte could ever listen to these lectures and actually learn what Paul taught.

Dr. Bat went on to say that the letter to the Colossians was spurious. (Against all of the English speaking world, he chooses to pronounce it “koe-loe-shee-ans.” I’m so impressed!) This kind of presumption is called “New Testament Criticism” or, as we said in seminary, “N. T. Crit.” It has all the orderliness of a group of flies buzzing against a window: they all make similar noises, but they never agree and they all constantly change their position for no real reason. “This is genuine, this is spurious, this paragraph is an interpolation, this was poorly redacted . . .” N. T. Crit is about as reliable as someone who tells the future by examining bird guts.

I was at a meeting of such scholars once. They never could get a discussion going about Paul’s writings because they bogged down in the debate over which writings were Paul’s and which were forgeries.

Your tax dollars at work, mind you.

Why do Christian parents send their kids to such schools?

Times are tough in the East Texas Timber Belt these days, so I’m going down to see what trouble I can get into amongst the hurricane victims–specifically, my uncle & aunt, who were old enough to retire back when my adult children were babies. Call them lazy if you must, but it’s hard to run a chain saw with one hand when you’re holding onto a walker with the other.

Not that they wouldn’t try. These country people from the World War II era just don’t know how to quit. But maybe I can do a little work and pick a little banjo and brighten up the disaster just a bit.

The double entendre is a well-known and easily-detected literary device, as old as language itself. The speaker may claim that he was talking about referent A, but “everyone” knows he was intending B. That’s why Obama’s audience laughed uproariously when he referred to Sarah Palin as a pig.

He denies the double entendre, exactly like any other liar would, but it is sickening to watch him and his sycophants pretend that they expect us to actually believe him. Any gullible readers who disagree with me should consider these examples:

If McCain were to tell a joke about a monkey who wanted to be king, and his audience laughed uproariously, would anybody doubt that he was making a veiled reference to Obama?

If McCain made it a point in every speech to refer to the Democrat party as niggardly, and the crowd laughed uproariously on cue, would anybody doubt that he was making a pun on the word “nigger”?

Obama stinks; not because his best attack against his opponent is to call Governor Palin a pig with lipstick, but because he insults us all by denying with a straight face that he did it. A politician needs to be a good liar–someone you can believe in, like Bill Clinton. Obama just isn’t up to the job.

It’s my birthday!

What a beautiful morning! It’s almost cold out there. There are some clouds, which is making the sunrise very colorful. Most of all, I’m still alive. It’s going to be a good day.

Yesterday I worked straight through until 11:00 PM. That was not fun. Old people are supposed to be sitting in rocking chairs and watching Fred Astaire movies at that time of night.

But the plumbing business rolls on whether I like it or not. I had to rise at 5:30 because I have to get to Home Depot to buy stuff so that I can get to a construction job and get some things ready for inspection and then be able to get to another construction job and try to get it where it needs to be.

Additionally, it has become my privilege to handle the entire music ministry of my church upon the retirement of our previous director of thirty eight years, Mike Mahan. We’re seeking a full time replacement, but we haven’t found that man yet. This definitely cuts into my banjo practice.

I’d love to chat, but I’m already running late.

Tomorrow’s holiday grew out of the practice which country folk called “Decoration Day,” where they’d go to the cemetary, decorate the graves of loved ones, and honor their memories. That practice still goes on, but Memorial Day grew to a national observance honoring dead military veterans. Naturally, you can’t honor the dead and ignore the living, so they’re a major part of the affair.

They’re also some of the most dedicated participants — not for their own sakes, but because they served alongside those whose bodies now lie in the cemetary. What makes a man throw himself on a live grenade in order to save his buddies? There’s an inexplicable bond of brotherhood among those who face death shoulder to shoulder.

Twice before in this blog I have provided this link to a beautiful slideshow honoring those who serve in the military.

I am anxiously awaiting my check from Uncle Sam so that I can sign it and send it back to him, thus reducing my taxes for next April 15th.

My economy doesn’t need stimulating. I already go through money like a paper shredder. There is an endless line of payees waiting for me to fork over some dough as soon as I can earn it.

Why is the govenment passing out checks? This is just a big, big version of “walking around money,” where a candidate’s henchmen would go around buying votes at election time.

Is this supposed to help the economy? It reminds me of two images:

(1) One is that of a storekeeper who goes out on the sidewalk and passes out money in hopes that some of the recipients will go into his store and spend it there, thus helping his business.

(2) The other is of a man who dips water out of the deep end of a swimming pool and pours it into the shallow end, and then wonders why the shallow end doesn’t get any deeper.

In other words, it’s our money already. The gummint doesn’t have any money to pass out. Either they take it from us first, or they borrow it and give it to us and we have to pay them back later in taxes.

(Edited on May 11th to add: I see that Walter Williams made nearly the same observations in a recent article. Apparently he and I heard the “swimming pool” image from the same source.)

Recently I was at my older son’s house and commended him for how nicely he had trimmed his bushes. Then I pointed out a pet peeve of mine and suggested that he do something to keep the rose bush from encroaching upon the sidewalk where people approach his front door.

It’s something I’ve observed for all of my adult years, at least. We plant bushes or trees so that they will please us. Then we let them take over so that we have to yield to them.

I see it in pet ownership, too. The animal is supposed to serve the owner, but the owner allows it to make him (and me) miserable.

When the Clampetts mistakenly got the message that all of their money was gone, they thought they must have been spending it too freely, so they began tightening the belt every way they could. In one scene, Elly Mae comes into the kitchen with a possum on her shoulder, saying that she needed some feed for her critters. Granny exclaims “That’s the problem right there: back home, we was livin’ off the possums; now the possums is livin’ off of us!”

Some people, such as animal hoarders, are just sick and psychologically twisted, and they are beyond helping themselves. For the rest of us, though, there is an ongoing need for clear thought as to who is supposed to be living off of whom.