Thursday, August 22, 2013

We Must Protect Our Schools

                                                This Has Got To Stop!
                                                        by Wilbur Witt

                           Please watch this news clip from ABC News:  http://abcnews.go.com/GMA/video/atlanta-school-shooting-woman-tells-alleged-school-shooter-20032499

     This is a familiar story. A school, an AK-47, and a nut. This time a very brave woman, Ms Tuff (I think the name is appropriate, don't you) saved the situation and the lives of up to eight hundred children. This pattern is becoming dominant, almost scripted, where some idiot, whom everybody knows is an idiot, acquires a gun and storms off into a school to kill babies. They do this because they've seen it play out in the mass media so many times. They have images of "glory" in their fruitcake minds, and they're not so much interested in shooting as they are in the cameras they know will surely come afterward. 

     Forget about gun control. If these people couldn't get a gun then they will get a knife, a bomb, a sledge hammer, anything! Forget about mental health. When you put this vermin on pyschitrophic drugs they just go crazier. No, we have to find another solution, a "final" solution. Let's agree on some principles. One, there are people in the world that are totally useless, indeed, less than useless because not only do they use oxygen that other people need they actually endanger decent people by the very act of using said oxygen. Two, these idiots have "rights." When they paint themselves up like Geronimo, masturbate, and take off to Brigham Young Elementary they have the same rights as Bishop Franklin down at Ward 5 of the local church. I think a little common sense is needed here. 

     Most people with mental illness never hurt anyone. A depressed person traditionally withdraws into a world of lonely sadness, and psychotherapy with proper medication tries to bring the, back to happy times. The people I'm referring to are Narcissistic individuals bent on killing your children if need be to get on the nightly news. They are completely absorbed in the fifteen minutes of fame sub-culture that has grown exponentially in the last fifty years. The opposite, normal reaction to the glare of the lights is the man who saved the three girls in Ohio and then wouldn't even take a free hamburger. 

     Something has to be done to convince these personalities that the end game of their actions is not glory but inglorious death! It should be that when a SWAT team rushes in the primary goal is to execute the shooter with or without his hands in the air and absolutely NO questions ever asked of the police officer that dispatches him. Are you shocked? Take a look at what an AK-47 will do to a five year old little girl. Such a gun uses a 7.62/39 bullet. It is designed to penetrate and destroy. I was cleaning my SKS which uses the same cartridge some time ago on my porch when it went off. Now, I always point my gun away or up, but the bullet went through the ceiling, tore a two by four support beam in half, and blew two shingles off the roof. Do you really want to worry about the civil rights of a man who fires such a weapon at a school child, because if you do then you need psychotropic therapy! 

     It won't cure things all at once. These people are stupid, but in a while it will become clear to them that the best way to commit suicide is to storm off in a school with a gun. Also, with these animals prowling the streets we need to face the grim reality of "gun free" zones. When you have a gun free zone that means the active shooter has the only guns and the children and their teachers are the proverbial fish in the barrel. If you don't want teachers to have a gun then at least consider this. Any police department if any size, and folks I'm including Florence, Texas in this model, has at least one officer they can spare for school duty. What's more important, keeping our children safe, or giving tickets. Schools are becoming more secure, and entrance is almost always obtained by going through the office to gain access to the hallways. The officer could have a desk right there, near the rear so as to obscure him and yet give him full view of anyone coming into the area who just happens to be carrying a machine gun!  And when the shooter appears just kill the bastard. Don't yell, "Stop," don't worry about his mental state, just shoot him in the head and then remove the body quickly so as not to upset the children. And don't use a school crossing guard for this duty either. Use a seasoned police officer, a member or a SWAT team would be perfect because this duty is most important. And if anyone says this is cost prohibitive THEY have lost THEIR mind!  They just put a cost on children's lives. 

     My method is harsh, I'll give you that. But something must be done to let these degenerates know that the only thing that awaits them down at the school house is the flash of a muzzle, not a camera. I'd like to conclude this article with a piece of poetry I hold to, and remember, I'm just a simple ol' boy from Austin. And if you don't think the mass media lure is a factor, without looking on the net, see if you can recall the name of the Sandy Hook shooter . . .then name a child that died that day, just one. 

                      Grand pappy told my Pappy, "Back in my day, son
                  When a man had to answer for the wicked that he done
                          Take all the rope in Texas find a tall oak tree
            Round up all of them bad boys hang em RIGHT in the street
                                              For all the people to see!"

Sunday, August 18, 2013

The Day The Modem Died

                                          The Day The Modem Dies
                                                      by Wilbur Witt

     There used to be two things that were certain, death and taxes. These two events came for us all. The human experience has grown, people. Now we all will experience that third phenomenon. The morning you get up, make coffee, light your first and your iPad tells you, "Your iPad is offline. Please check your connection." Internet is down! Of course, first you run to the modem, and router, do the usual restart . . .nothing! Do that again. Nada! Ok, check the bills. Paid! You know better, but you finally call the provider. You must climb the call tree.  After pressing one for English, two for problem, and three to simply SPEAK to someone, Mohammed, wherever he is, answers the phone. 

     You begin to describe your problem in your best Rush Limbaugh voice, and he, of course, tells you to restart the modem. Rather than argue, you do it. Who knows, maybe Mohammed has some secret power Allah has given him that will bless your modem. Nope! Dead as day old beer. Thanks Allah! Now he says he must schedule a technical trouble call with all the usual warnings about cost should this turn out to be your fault. Of course, the date is a week out!  Their system is so screwed up they're a week behind just fixing all the problems? You thank him, end the call and face a brave new world. 

     Your life has become a vacuum. You don't subscribe to cable itself so you can't even turn on the news. You know what the weather IS because you can stick your stupid head out the window, but you don't know what the weather will BE! Of course, If you live in Texas the forecast is most likely hot, hotter, hottest, so that's no big deal. The hurricane season usually brings a break to this. When your hoping for a hurricane that's a whole new level of screwed. 

     You find your way to the porch. It's very quiet. You have absolutely no idea what's going on in the world. You know Obama hasn't screwed the pooch too bad because the nukes aren't raining down, but what if some girl just got kidnapped and you don't know about it? She could go through the entire ordeal without your knowledge. What if some movie star put their house on the market? What if, OMG, George Zimmerman got a parking ticket in Austin and you were never told? This is not good. You hear a distant train begin to roar in your head. 

     Ok, ok, calm down. Restart the modem again. Maybe it just had a bad hair day and it's well now. Nope! Check the wires, CHECK THE WIRES! No. It's dead that's why the little lights aren't blinking. You give it a little kiss on its dead cheek, and take your iPad back to the porch. You wonder why you even took your iPad to the porch in the first place.  I mean, it can't DO a God Damn thing! Practically everything of any value must have an Internet connection to function. All but that dumb ass deer hunting game, so you hunt deer for about fifteen minutes. After playing a computer shooting game for fifteen minutes you begin to realize how stupid kids are these days. You also realize that any kid who is dull witted enough to do that all day will never have the testicles to shoot a real gun at anyone. 

     There are a couple articles on the iPad you always meant to read, but just never found the time. Now you have the time. Some of the pressure begins to come off. That train roaring in your head begins to subside. Amazing! You read the articles and then search your documents folder for more. Nothing. The panic starts to rise again. The train speeds up. Your mind races. What to do? You go into the house, feverishly hunting for diversion. You must outrun the train. In the distance you see a book shelf. Slowly, almost sloth like, you open the glass doors and pull out one book. You blow the dust from the cover and it's Dr Phil's book, "Real Life." There's even a picture of Dr Phil with his shit eating grin right on the jacket. Some years ago you paid twenty six dollars for this book at the supermarket and always meant to get around to reading it. Well, you're holding the Round Tuit right in your sweaty palms. 

     You return to the porch. After checking your Internet connection one more time you open the book. You settle on the chapter about stress. Lo and behold there is actually a part talking about how stressful it is when the Internet goes down! Dr Phil understands your pain. God bless you Dr Phil, God BLESS you! Spurred on by this spiritual connection you devour the book, and a bottle of wine for most of the day. One of the nice things is that after reading about all the things that CAN go wrong in your life you discover that the dead modem is just about the only thing that DID go wrong in YOUR life. By now that rushing train in your head is pulling into the station. You notice that there are birds in the yard. You think that just maybe there may be rain on the way, and it's so simple, there are clouds blowing in from the north. When you were a child you knew that this almost always brought rain, yes, beautiful rain! 

     The day passes. Friends come over. The real kind, you know, the kind who bring wine and eat bread and cheese with you and talk. There's even a girl, who, while not as pretty as the pictures you get from Nigeria, is not that bad, and she's WARM! At the end of the day you retire. You fall quickly asleep. The next week the man from the provider comes and replaces your modem. Overjoyed you rush to the porch and sign into Facebook. You are very behind in pokes, and pictures of everyone's dinner, and trivial arguments, and, and, and . . .and you suddenly realize the most poignant acronym the Internet has ever produced is W....T....F! 

     
     

Thursday, August 15, 2013

Thoughts On Retirement

                                                            Retirement
                                                         by Wilbur Witt

     I woke up four days ago retired. A thing like that sneaks up on you. One day you're fifty, and it seems like the next you're down at the Social Security office and they're saying, "No problem." Reality check!  Being retired has it's perks. I don't have to check for jobs at call centers any more. Electricity is always on, and that's nice. You tend to start wine a little earlier in the afternoon. Girls get prettier, too, but I can't make the connection. 

     I have noticed that the guy looking back at me when I brush my teeth looks a bit older these days. Also, I've seen a doctor four times in the last four months, compared to four times in the precious forty years. Doctors scare the piss out of me, always have. The difference in my blood pressure between the doctor's office and the parking lot can be fifty points! I guess I'm supposed to be wise. I don't feel wiser. Maybe it's the accumulation of years of screwing up that you draw on. 

     I'm going to put up with sitting on the porch being wise for about a month, and then I'm going to finish CenterVille. I remember Col Sanders started Kentucky Fried Chicken AFTER he went on Social Security. I have to research what happens when I get royalties. With my luck, now that I'm stable my royalties with balloon and screw it all up. I'll think about that tomorrow, I won't think about that today. 

     I don't think I'll get married again. For one, I'm not attracted to sixty year old women, and for another I can't do a twenty year old any good. Seems like all the young girls want a sugar daddy until daddy wants that sugar. I like pretty girls, but it's like hard rock candy. Some candy isn't for eating, it's just for looking through. 

     I refuse to use a cane or drink Ensure. I will use the power carts at the grocery store, but that's because I'm lazy. I hate Jeopardy on TV. I will concede box wine as opposed to bottled, but that falls back to too lazy thing. Also I'll most likely replace Bombay with McCormick's Gin. I honestly can't tell the difference in a martini made with either, but then, I'm just a simple OLD boy from Austin, and folks like me don't notice such things.  

Thursday, August 8, 2013

Being Opinionated

                                                           Opinionated
                                                         by Wilbur Witt

     I recently submitted an article to the local newspaper in an effort to see if it would possibly run some of my articles. I don't like to submit locally, in fact I dodge it like the plague. When I left that garage studio in Harker Heights back in '84 and went to Austin I never came back. I quickly found out that there's a REASON places like Austin, L A, and New York turn out more publications than Ding Dong, Texas. But, I submitted, and patiently waited for the rejection. Notice how I knew that was coming. When it came the reason was that I was "opinionated." What, ME, opinionated? NO! 

     Well, I AM opinionated. Rejections from local papers don't affect me. I spoke to the representative and he told me that the paper was looking for a bit more of the mundane. We had a pleasant conversation, and I told him if he ever needed an article in my style please don't hesitate to give me a ring. He'll never call. He wants to keep his job. But I don't hold this against him. Life is like an airplane. Some planes fly under 3,000 feet and others, well, they fly a bit higher. 

     When I write on any subject I insert what I think. That's the whole purpose of writing. To communicate ideas to people makes the world connect, and when you have ideas that resound in the human experience that's that makes the world not only connect, but think. Frankly, I can't make myself get excited about writing a story about a girl scout cookie sale. Not that I don't like girl scout cookies, but I simply MUST stay awake while writing. 

     I've made a career out of stating the unstateable. I apply old time Texas rules to modern circumstances. The results are usually good. I'm a little politically correct, but not much. When correctness approaches stupid I do a right turn (and I do mean right) and just tell it like it is. I knew Jodi Arias was going to spit that hook when I saw her stretch in front of that jury full of men.  I knew George Zimmerman was going to walk when I saw that poster sized picture of the back of his head, and I'm telling you right now that Ali Baba out on Fort Hood will NEVER be executed for his crime. Why do I know these things? I know these things because I've got common sense. That, and I see the underlying issues. 

     Take for example the local paper here covering the Fort Hood trial. I glanced over the article briefly and all I noticed was how the reporter was very impressed with all the national media coverage. Frankly, he/she was star struck. Myself, I would have cornered one of the people involved in the shooting and got the rest of the story. I think this reporter simply copied the CNN story and went on about all the media trucks in the parking lot. And, yes, I would be "opinionated." Now look at this story. Religious fanatic murders unarmed people. As I've said before, and I'll say it again, I'm just a simple old boy from Austin . . .what do you think I'd like to do,to him . . .in your "opinion?"

     

Thursday, July 25, 2013

Wiener's Wang

                                                               Wiener 
                                                      by Wilbur Witt

     I've tried for two days not to write about Wiener's wiener, but it's just too good! When he paraded his wife up there in a press conference and started telling about how his texting was an ongoing problem, and his wife standing by his wiener, OMG, he must have an enormous wang, that's all I can say. And nobody was laughing! Now folks I've done some dumb crap. I mean like get drunk at a party and say something so stupid the next day I hoped to wake up dead so at least everyone would feel sorry for me, but I never, never took a picture of my dick and emailed it to anyone! I don't think mine would impress anyone anyway, but that's not the point! 

     This guy was on Capitol Hill! This guy wants to be mayor of New York! When I visualized him in the halls of Congress by day, and snapping pictures of Mr. Happy by night, I gotta admit...I had to wipe the tears out of my eyes. One reason I didn't write about it at first is I just knew this story was some kind of liberal trick to sucker in people like me. But the more I considered it, and IMAGINED the logistics, I just had to chime in. Think about it. First he has to get the thing up. Now that takes a little work. So he arranges that. Then, position the camera. SNAP! Then send it to an Internet contact! Yeah, yeah, someone like that could probably run New York. I wouldn't send that to FRENCHI, and I KNOW her! 

     This is a clear case of everyone trying to be politically correct. No reporter dare says, "DUDE! Why'd you send a picture of your dick to an Internet chick?" And, I'll no doubt take some criticism just writing this article, but remember, I didn't DO this! I'm just laughing about it. This will be a short one today with probably no follow up, but just make a note; people in public office are not supposed to do this sort of thing, but then I'm just a simple old' boy from Austin, so what do I know?

Tuesday, July 23, 2013

The Farmer and the Preacher

     Once upon a time there was a man. He bought a small piece of desert in West Texas. He, and his wife dug ditches to bring water to the plot and planted corn. The first crop failed. They even considered giving up but, miraculously the next year the crop came in. Not a lot, nothing to sell, but they killed a cow, and with that, and a few bushels of corn they survived. 

     The next year they split the crop between corn and some wheat, enabling them to sell some and reinvest the money thus acquiring a few more acres. The wife had a child, then another, and another so that eventually boys and one girl were milking cows, tending the fields, and allowing the farmer to buy more and more dessert, which he quickly irrigated, planting more, expanding more, and when old he could sit on his porch and his land was literally as far as the eye could see. He'd gotten into politics, and was instrumental in damming up a small stream, producing a lake, so that no one would have to scratch out ditches as he and his wife had done some forty years before.  With the advent of water grass and trees took root, and farmers' crops never failed. 

     One day, while enjoying an iced tea with his grand daughter the local preacher dropped by. The old farmer rarely went to church, but this didn't stop the preacher from coming by every so often to try to "save" him. The two sat on rocking chairs drinking tea and gazing at the acres of corn, the corrals full of horses, and the children playing all over the yard. 

     "God is indeed wonderful," the preacher said. 

     "Yes, yes he is reverend," the farmer was always soft spoken, and polite. 

     "Isn't it amazing what God, and man can do together?" the preacher continued. 

     The Farmer refilled both glasses, lit his pipe and said, "Yeah preacher, but you should have seen this place when God had it all to Himself!"

 

Saturday, July 20, 2013

Stand Your Ground

                                                    Stand Your Ground

     The most soft spoken, nicest guy I ever met was a thrice convicted felon probably responsible for ten shootings. In private conversations he would relate his exploits to me and frankly it sounded like a wild west show. What he never did was stand his ground. In a demanding situation he would retreat, play a coward and concede any point. He was wonderful with children. 

     People confuse standing their ground with self defense or the application of second amendment rights. The only time you must stand your ground is when there is a twelve foot wall behind you that you simply cannot scale. Standing your ground in a street that you do not own is not standing your ground, it is confrontation. It is in effect saying, "I'm here, I'm in your face, and I'll kill you to protect this spot of sidewalk. Now, I'm not saying that if someone crashes through your front door you must run out the back. That person has attacked and you are perfectly within you rights to assume the worse and protect your life and the lives of those around you. 

     To stand your ground in almost any other situation is comparable with the old time gunslinger that everyone in town tiptoed around. What George Zimmerman did not understand was when you stand your ground there are some people who will knock you off that ground. That, and using deadly force is a major, complicated, legal decision. Even a rattlesnake won't use deadly force until cornered. Most will slither away. 

     Stand your ground is an evolution of self defense assuming confrontation. And it applies to all. George Zimmerman was standing his ground, protecting the neighborhood and Trayvon Martin was standing his ground, thinking he had every right to walk to the store. See where this is going. It is no different than two adversaries squaring off in the streets of Tombstone in 1888. And I totally reject the age thing. Billy the Kid was well known to be an excellent dancer. A 19th century John Travolta. He also took a shotgun away from a deputy and put 16 dimes in his chest. George Zimmerman is a violent man. Trayvon Martin was a violent man. I hate to be the first one to tell you urban pilgrims this but when you put two violent men in a confrontational mode you ALWAYS get the event similar to the one in Sanford, Florida that night. 

     Will ending stand your ground end these things? Nope! But it will clear up the bullshit ambiguous legal maneuvers perpetrated by shyster lawyers. A person has a right to defend his life. Hell, even a dog has that right. But there will always be people you should pass on by. When Liberty Vallence walked the streets the men would step aside. 

     I have always ridiculed when a person is exonerated of a criminal charge and then gets charged with a civil rights violation but this time I relent. O. J. Was found not guilty. Jury said he wasn't there, didn't do it, next page. It is beyond question that when George Zimmerman confronted Trayvon Martin he did indeed violate Trayvon's right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. If a joint, an Arizzona tea, and a bag of candy was what Trayvon considered a happy night it was none of Zimmerman's business. 

     Anger, suspicion, fear, and all the other things came into play that night. Imagine two gunfighters swaggering into the street for a showdown. Both have guns. Neither has a real reason to be in that street, but times being what they were both "stood their ground." The very fact that both were there constituted a threat. The instant one began to draw the other was obligated to graduate to self defense. I know a bunch of you more enlightened folks out there will differ with me, but it's that simple. 

     Should Zimmerman be persecuted? George stepped into a role that he can never shake. And just like the Clantons rode into Tombstone that day and met up with the Earps at the OK Corral, there will always be someone out there waiting to try him out. I suggest he goes to the practice range regularly. This is the law of the jungle people, and the more you perfume it the more it smells like someone just crapped a Christmas tree. 

     But it is not all white people's problem. It is not the responsibility of every Mexican in the US. So, when you riot, when you break windows, hit ladies in the head with a hammer be aware; there's lots of room in George Zimmerman's shoes and for every New Black Panther there is someone out there more than willing to stand THEIR ground, and try you out! 

Wednesday, July 17, 2013

What Is Truth?

                                                            Skepticism 

     The human trait of taking things at face value can be a detracting, if not outright dangerous trait. Accepting other's explanation of reality surrenders one's reason and choices to another mind of whom you cannot possibly have a complete knowledge of. When one says they are a skeptic the untutored mind tends to think that they don't believe in anything but such is not the case. A skeptic believes in what the can ascertain to be real and true as filtered through their life's experiences. 

     If you observe something that appears to defy the forces of nature verily, verily I say unto you that you just don't understand the trick. People can't float in the air, no one can read your mind, and all lawyers lie like Persian rugs. Where skepticism comes in is when presented with a manufactured reality the skeptic steps back and makes sense out of what has been presented in the light of their OWN life experiences, not the presenter's. 

     My nephew is totally convinced that he has experienced a spiritual event that while sitting on a porch rocks began to fly over a nearby fence from some spiritual realm heretofore unknown. He really believes this and argues fervently about it. I, however, from my experience, know that if said rocks are flying through the air some force is causing that to occur and it is not angels, demons, or Bapu the elephant boy. Same with table taps, automatic writing, and floating, playing trumpets. 

     Submit for your approval George Zimmerman. The reality of the event that has mesmerized Al Sharpton is a seventeen year old boy got shot. Now that's the truth! There are three positions. The Zimmerman view, the Martin view and the truth, and never the twain shall meet. At one point a shot was fired and a person died. Years ago, while arguing with a prosecutor, I asked him if the truth of the case mattered, and his reply is forever tattooed on my memory. "The truth has no place in this building, and the sooner you realize that, the better off you'll be!"

     I'm not even going to try to explain what happened that night only to tell you that what came out of that jury room was NOT the truth!  That's impossible. What happened was six women had to come to some negotiated conclusion. If you will note the lawsuits are beginning to form. If the "truth" came forth why must we reexamine it? As Ponticus Pilate reminds us, "What is truth?" Truth is what you perceive it to be at a certain point in time. There were six "truths" in that jury room and what came out was homogenized truth. The civil lawsuits will define a different truth. Like with O.J.  Ok, he didn't kill his ex, but he hurt her feelings when he didn't kill her. Now, I'm just a simple old boy from Austin but I can't stick my head up my ass that far!

     Look at the truth we do know. Don't walk through Sanford Florida at night with a hoodie on. Boy! I'll bet that statement went over like a lead balloon. OUCH, OUCH, slap dem bees, slap dem bees! I personally wouldn't eat a Big Mac in Sanford, Florida. I'm an old white man, but I do have long hair and a few gay friends. I also don't like my hometown of Shreveport. Matter of fact I don't like the deep south in general. But, that's my "truth." I hang out in Austin and Ocatillo Wells. I tend not to get tarred and feathered near as much there. 

     The value of skepticism?  Just like I know those rocks didn't levitate over that fence I know that none of those lawyers presented the truth and the jury, realizing they had just been served a big heaping plate of bullshit, called an end to the whole sorry mess, and pitched it before the public with about three hundred million "truths" waiting out there. My truth for the day? Frenchi looks real good in shorts!

Monday, July 8, 2013

What Was REALLY in Travon Martin's Hand?

                                     What was in Trayvon's hands?
                                                    by Wilbur Witt

     Most interesting observation I made this morning while listening to the 911 recordings at the Zimmerman trial. George makes a statement that Trayvon has "something" in his hands as he (Trayvon) approached him (Zimmerman).  The media jumped on this making a lot of hay about the Skittles and Arizona tea, enhancing the "Leave it to Beaver" image they were painting of Trayvon Martin at the time, but previous testimony by EMT personnel states that a can of Arizona tea was removed from Martin's hoodie pocket in order to facilitate CPR, while the other object, which was soft, was not removed as that particular object did not impede administering assistance. My question is, what did Trayvon Martin have in his hand, and moreover why was his other hand in his waistband?  I submit that before the confrontation Trayvon ditched the object in his hand in a nearby bush because it was not a suitable weapon and used his fists instead. In further speculation that object could have been a "shim" commonly used to "Jimmy" a car door. Most certainly, if he were not actually drinking the Arizona tea he would have pocketed it for the walk home and more than that would not be carrying the Skittles in his hand, thereby occupying both hands for the walk, so what was in Trayvon's hand?

Tuesday, June 25, 2013

Chasing The Brass Ring

     I don't have explosive outbursts of temper. I go into a slow burn as my mind considers the event that attracted my attention. So it was with the Sunday morning call I got. Over the last 48 hours, as I analyzed the content of said call I slowly, meticulously began to make decisions. The final choice was to distance myself from my two main antagonists. Over the years I've received no support, no advice, nothing from these people but berating, hate, and joy when I would stumble or fall. As with this last time, the very fact that I not only survived, but came out the other side better seemed to anger them. 

     While I never intrude into their lives it seems my life is a major topic of conversation. I don't think either one of them has ever read a single article I've ever written, and never mind that I have several albums for sale on practically every download service in the world, published by my own label and several others, these two ignore that and ask me about Social Security. I never want to retreat to that! Even a small success in the entertainment industry beats that purgatory. And I know I'm on the right track because I watch my friends such as Ramona Myong, and Crystal Drument working toward the same thing. 

      My political views have been refined by conversations with my son, Master Chief Wilbur Witt III and the gentlemen at the Cigarbox. My two detractors couldn't even tell you what political party I affiliate with. One does not need this. I realized years ago that if I wrote "normal" no one would read a word. My style is what it is. I try to be as politically correct as possible while mixing in a distinctive Texas slant. I try to say what a lot of people want to say but just can't find the words. 

     I'm moving soon to the Texas coast. I would have preferred SoCal, but I was raised in Texas, and that gives me a proximity to Austin, which is important for a host of reasons. Using my blogs and music I try to direct attention to my books. Selling a book is hard. To be a writer you have to write tons! When the formula works it's like a jet whose wheels just left the ground. You may labor for years with no real return, and then, in a moment of time, you find that one thing that works just for you. We live in an age of enormous access to media and public review. Back in the day this was controlled by a very small, select group of people. In the music business you quickly understood that writing a good song was hard, recording it was even harder, but distribution was the key. In one of my songs I wrote, "Well they didn't sell worth a doodly squat, but I learn fast and do you know what, I got a use for a record that just won't sell. Yeah, I put em in the oven and I turn on the gas, and they'll shrivel up like a baboon's ass, then you turn em into ashtrays and sell em to the cheap motels!" Folks, I've made a LOT of ashtrays!

     People who long for retirement do not understand the creative mind that never rests. I've noticed that as I get older I get better. My two naysayers have always measured the value of their lives by the hour. One hour of their life is worth this much, or that much, and in the end they desperately cling to the fragments left by a mundane existence. Now we need people like that. Not everyone can be a writer, but don't shoot down those of us who will swing at every baseball until we get a home run. 

     My one supporter is my son, the chief. He has seen me swing at those baseballs, and he's seen me strike out, but he's also heard my music in bars all around the world, and if I die without ever achieving a big success he will not be disappointed. This was one of the problems I had in SoCal. Wilbur tried his level best to provide me a perfect life. Only problem was I sat there in the perfect world with things left to do. Wine and cheese are all very fine but whiskey in a studio in Austin is much better. 

     Wilbur's ideas mirror mine. He has served honorably in the Navy and will retire in a couple of years. He is not someone who is going to sit in the yard and check his blood pressure. He has received his Real Estate license in California and will leap into the market without a second thought. I don't think he ever considered that he may retire from the Navy. He was my bass player at twelve years old. I think the Navy tricked him. He prefers California over Texas, but there's medicine for that. He believes in progression of generations. I have a high school education, but it's from Texas so that don't count. Wilbur has a college degree. His daughter will one day be Dr. Kylie Witt! Her daughter, should she have one, will be president! 

     But I AM Weird Wilbur! I endured Roy Acuff and when he died artists like myself, and Rodney Carrington finally had a venue for our product. I got so sick and tired of corn pone country I wanted to puke! Now, I DO sell a few records. I do sell books, and people do read my blogs. If you're a writer you understand that this is enough. If you are like my two experts it will pass way over your head. 

Sunday, June 9, 2013

Trayvon, George, and History

                                                           Gunfight 101
                                                         by Wilbur Witt

     You know, the very moment you say you're not getting involved in something Murphy's law kicks in and that's the very next thing you get involved in. So it is with the George Zimmerman trial currently ramping up in Florida. I began to read and watch as the lawyers positioned themselves for what appears to be a trial that will make the Jodi Arias run look like "Singing In The Rain." at least with George wearing his bullet proof vest we won't have to put up with his nipples protruding through a sweater. 

     I'm not presenting myself as an expert, but I am saying I have experience with this sort of thing, and a whole lot of common sense. There are many aspects in this event that flow in very expected directions. Let's look at the actors. Martin, seventeen year old high school kid. He was a troubled kid, but that's not necessarily a bad thing. I've generally noticed that there are two kinds of high school kids. The Valedictorian, and the rest are troubled. Teenagers are besieged by peer pressure, and work hard to assert their identity within the group.  The cool guys get the girl. Cool is qualified in a large part by the media. Trayvon probably never had a political thought in his entire life, but MGM did, and they produced the rappers, and they rappers distributed their beliefs at great profit to eager ears looking for direction in a new, and confusing world. And this is not new. It's not a "black" thing. When I was growing up in the 50's there was a TV series called, "The Tall Man." The two characters were Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid. Me, and all my friends were soon swaggering around acting like the actor that played Billy the Kid. High school students strive to fit in. 

     Our perception, as adults, of Trayvon Martin, and a high school girl's view of him will be exactly opposite. If he wore his pants low we would think it looked silly, but a 16 year old girl would think he was normal and fit right in. If he wore an ivy league sweater he may please the teachers, but he would sit alone on Saturday night because he would be a nerd. I have found from experience that as life takes its toll the pants come up, the hair gets shorter, and the attitude tends to mellow in most cases. Did his parents have issues with him? Well, yeah. Did he fight at school? Probably, but one picture drew my attention recently. It was published in an attempt to show Trayvon's violent side, however it was pointed out that the boy in the middle was Trayvon, separating two other boys about to fight. 

     Point being, Trayvon fit into his society. His actions, words, and mannerisms were what was considered normal by his peers. Did he have a  jaundiced view of white society? Probably, but not so skewed that he couldn't calmly purchase Skittles and an Iced tea at a neighborhood convenience store. And, if you will note, none of the other patrons ran for the door when Trayvon walked in. I've seen a lot of black men wearing hoodies. Every night I drive to a local store to buy cigarettes and beer. I park my Mercedes right outside the door because I have a limp. Most times some hooded black kid will hold the door open for the limping, old white man. Of course this IS Texas, I don't know how they act down there in Florida. And im sure the car plays in. I'm cool. Trayvon's attitude and actions were given to him by the societal model he had been programmed with. With age, and experience he would have most likely molded this image to fit his particular circumstance. A boy growing into manhood has to start somewhere. 

      Now, let's look at George Zimmerman. George's image of himself was that of protector. He was a volunteer with the neighborhood watch. Let's analyze that. Back in Berry Creek we had a neighborhood watch. We had signs up letting everyone know we had one. What this does is alert perpetrators that if they try to commit a crime the chances are they will be seen, and the person observing them will call the police without a second thought. Our watch consisted of old people, riding around in their golf carts after dark with a cell phone. If they saw something that didn't register they simply called the cops. Most of the time the criminals were teenage girls egging some boy's car. My son, returning from patrol as a police officer one morning before sunrise came upon this very scenario. Six girls righteously screwing up the paint job on some kid's BMW. He had them cuffed and sitting on the curb when the police arrived, who then took control of the "crime scene." My point is we never stopped a burglary in progress. We never prevented a murder. A kid in a hoodie walking among houses usually doesn't amount to much. The police scare the hell out of them and that's part if that learning process I told you about where they temper what the rapper is saying with reality. 

     George saw himself as that thin red line between the drug cartel and his poor defenseless neighbors. And, please excuse the expression, but he saw everything in black and white. Ask yourself, would he have approached a man in a Brooks Brothers suit,  driving slowly, eyeing houses for an address in a sports car?  Now just imagine that man is Paulo Ginovilli from New York sent by his boss to collect a debt. No, he would drive on by. But he didn't drive on by Trayvon Martin! 

     If you are licensed to carry a concealed weapon you must play the role of the coward. The very fact that you, and only you know that you have a gun gives you the distinct advantage.  All this "stand your ground" crap is just that . . .CRAP! You don't excite, you don't instigate, and you don't provoke because you know, in the final analysis, you will prevail. You endure all insults, and threats without changing the expression on your face. You don't even draw back your coat to display the handle of your weapon because this will negate the element of surprise and that is your biggest tool. 

     George observes Trayvon walking home. His mental position is readily apparent by his words on the 911 tape, "They always get away!" That was paramount on George's mind. THIS one wasn't going to get away. Get away from what?  In that same store that I buy cigarettes and beer, the same hooded young man who just held the door for me goes to,the rear of the store and takes a long time choosing his beer as he rocks back and forth from one foot to another. Am I intimidated? No. I don't expect a civilized human being to do something rash. I've seen rash, folks. I've seen the bodies come out of Luby's and get placed in an ice truck. I've seen George Hennard. LeRoy picking a beer is not high on my list of threats. What do you do if the man does make a threat?  First you gauge the threat. Does he have a gun, or a tire tool? If he has a gun you try to avoid getting that gun aimed at you while you wait to draw your weapon. Simple fact is most people waving a gun around do not know how to use it. Three things figure in a gun fight. Having a gun, knowing how to use it effectively, and the willingness to do just that!  Ok, he has a gun. He's probably "cowboying" it, waving it around and yelling. You play the coward. You act like the little old man buying a six pack. He does not perceive you as a threat, worrying more about the clerk. Your advantage? You know you have resistance right under your coat. The very instant his gun is aimed anywhere but you, you pull your weapon and neutralize the situation. He will never hear the shot. Thats the hard part. If you draw your weapon and use it as a threat you will most likely get shot. Look at the OK Corral. Who got killed? They guys running their mouths while the Earps and Doc Holiday took aim. So, you shoot someone. It's nit like in the  movies. You will most likely be taken downtown. Your license and gun will be confiscated by the police. You will have to justify the use of deadly force. Even police officers must do this. Ever hear of "administrative leave?" It's not because the officer did anything wrong. It's so careful, logical minds can find out why someone got shot. 

     Ok, let's say the perpetrator has a knife, or tire tool, even just a hammer. You still play the coward. Retreat. Now, don't allow him to harm the clerk, but if the money changes hands with no violence there is no reason for the robber to ever know you are packing. There will be survailance cameras and at least two witnesses. The police will get him. That's what they do. It's only money, and with the way most connivence stores operate this idiot just traded ten years of his life for less than fifty dollars.   

     If the bandit does begin to make a move to harm the clerk you draw your gun and shout, "Stop!" You don't go into a long oratory, you don't come up with some cute line, just one word, "Stop!" At this point the man is going to do one of two things. He is going to piss his pants and drop to his knees, or he's going to piss his pants and run. It's not like in the movies. When you see a gun aimed at your face and realize you are less than a second from the Pearly Gates you change direction immediately, and that direction is NOT charging at YOU! In this circumstance you have the total advantage. 

     As you can easily see, this was not the situation that rainy night in Florida. Trayvon Martin posed a threat to no one. No one except George Zimmerman. What would have happened if George hadn't driven down that road?  Trayvon would have walked home, given his little brother the Skittles, and drank his tea. Trayvon Martin did not possess burglar tools on his body when they zipped up the bag. George Zimmerman broke every rule of a responsible license to carry party. He profiled the kid. "They always get away!" He disobeyed the instructions of the 911 operator. "We don't want you to do that." He didn't just stand his ground, he stood Trayvon's ground, and the ground of every member of the home owner's committee. He was a ground standing son of a bitch! He displayed his weapon needlessly. He claimed Trayvon grabbed for his gun. How'd the kid know he even had one? Ask yourself. 

     Let's look at the 911 "howling" tape. Now, you're going to hear all kinds of expert talk about who that was screaming. It's all crap, use your common sense. Do you know how difficult it is to aim and fire a pistol in a fist fight?  I'm a pretty hard ass old bastard, but if you're whipping my ass I'm going to be hard put to place a good shot. And I'm good!  When I qualified on the range for my gun permit my target had a big old hole right in the center. George Zimmerman executed a perfect torso shot. One shot to the heart. So, was screaming? Not the man taking careful aim at a teenage boy. Not the man in a fit of rage with anger written all over his face. If you will note the screaming stopped immediately after the shot. No crying, no sobs, no more calls for someone to come out and help, just silence. Damning silence! Did Trayvon hit George? Probably. He had been stalked by the very creature he had come to beware of. Trayvon did retreat, and as a last resort he stood his ground. His only mistake was he was facing a man who perceived himself to be a hero with a gun!

     Trayvon Martin and George Zimmerman were drawn into history that night. They both played roles given them by the societies they had chosen. George fully expected to drop by the country club the next day and get a pat on the back for "saving the neighborhood." Trayvon expected a fight like in school that he would tell his friends about, and in time move on to other things. Instead he died begging for his life as a man took aim at his chest. 

     You will hear testimony that will try your patience. You will hear experts contradict each other endlessly. You will see drawings and photographs that try to explain trajectory. Lawyers will split hairs on what ground was being stood that night. The final truth will never be arrived at. That truth lies between two young men on a rainy night in Florida. 

     Opening StatementsZimmermans 911 Call

Sunday, June 2, 2013

A Common Sense Law About Tornados

                                                A Common Sense Law
                                                        by Wilbur Witt

http://abcnews.go.com/US/oklahoma-twisters-deadly-lesson-run-hide/story?id=19302960

     I was born in Shreveport, Louisiana and spent the first ten years of my life there. We moved tomTexas in 1962. Both places we're situated in what is referred to as "Tornado Alley," although I don't know exactly where this alley is, I suppose anywhere you have to duck and dodge a funnel. My early childhood was filled with warnings from the old black and white TV, with the discordant tone, followed by some official voice announcing a "Severe tornado alert!" Frankly, I consider ALL tornadoes to be severe. I've never known anyone who saw one of these things approaching that said, "Oh, that's just a little one, I'll just ignore it." When one of these dudes even passes O VER your house it will slap your screen door back and forth like a playing card on a kid's bike. Believe me, I KNOW!  

     For all the planning, and education one may have, that all goes to into your pants when you meet these fellas to face for the first time. There is a common misconception that the power of the tornado is all within the confines of the funnel itself. This will get you killed. The tornado is an extension of a very pissed off thunderstorm. The storm itself is violent. The tornado is violent, and the air surrounding the tornado is violent. The tornado gets its supply of air from somewhere. It is funneling hot air up into the thunderhead which it collects from the area around it. So the closer you get to the actual funnel the harder the wind will blow until you get to ground zero. If you are in a car, trying to out run this contraption you are pre-screwed, and when it finally catches up with you, and it will, you ARE screwed! It will explode your head and pull your lungs out of your body. 

     I saw the results of the Jarrell tornado here in Texas back in '97. We went down, as a team of Realtors, to try to help the citizens of that community rebuild after a devastating F5 that plowed right through the middle of town. The twister started out over Belton Lake as a small, snake like thing that was actually funny to look at. It appeared to be a snake with its head cut off, twisting and jumping, and not really making contact with the ground. By the time it traveled the thirty or so miles to Jarrell it had grown into a big boy!

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/1997_Central_Texas_tornado_outbreak

     The funnel was so large it appeared that the entire thunderstorm had literally touched the ground. This is deceptive to the novice, who may even think that what they're seeing is a downpour of rain, as the actual funnel is shrouded by debris and rain. When you see the news pictures of the destruction a tornado can bring it loses something. When you walk among it you are, excuse the pun, blown away! I was struck by two things. My fellow Realtors will appreciate the first. When you pour a foundation there are 1/2" bolts situated in the concrete to attach wood, or stone and permit the workers to construct the walls. I saw these bolts bent to a perfect right angles  by the sheer force of the tornado. Look at the lug nuts on your car. Now imagine a wind so powerful that it can bend that thing in the MIDDLE!  The other thing that struck me was dirt roads. This was a upper middle class bedroom community. The people here generally worked in the tech industry down the road in Austin. As I was walking on predominantly dirt roads, I commented to someone that one would have thought the roads would be paved. One of the State Troopers solomly told me, "They were."  Most if us got sick with some sort or respiratory flu. Look at your neighborhood. Now imagine every car battery, every bottle of Mr. Clean, every heart prescription, everything it takes to make a modern, upscale neighborhood, all vaporized, cast into the atmosphere, and then settles to the ground right where you are walking! The first responders had this same problem during 9/11

     The amount of dead people was incredible. It was so bad that I bagan to believe the formula was simple, if you were home, you were dead!  However, some survived. The survivors mainly had jumped into holes.  The main hole being a drainage pipe going under a road. As I walked among the rubble I came up with an idea. Why no shelters?  When I got back to my office I had meetings with our builders, asking what would withstand such an event. Every one of them told me 18" or reinforced concrete would have the best chance of survival. Now nothing is perfect, but they assured me that this configuration would afford the best chance of getting through a hit by a tornado.  We drew up plans for a closet, to be positioned in the center of a house, constructed completely out of 18" reinforced concrete, with a door that had locks similar to a bank safe. A fully functional closet where you kept clothes. When the tornado approached, the family calmly goes there, sits with their hands over the back of their heads, and rides it out. Cost? Between $1,800 to $2,500. I was told this was "cost prohibitive." 

     Now, many years later, I am looking at this again. In California there are standards of construction that plan on "the big one," and demand that certain features be built into a home to give the occupants a better chance of survival during a major quake. We have a functional idiot in New York City outlawing Big Gulps, but there are no laws in "tornado alley" that I know of to protect families during a tornado!

     When a young couple builds their home they put all manner of things into it. Some are necessary, and, frankly, some are not. The cost of what I proposed has undoubtedly gone up. When I came up with this idea the cost of our average home was about $85,000 here in Central Texas. That, on the upper end, would make the percentage around 3%. Now this is where it really gets silly. In this area the buyer generally is shielded from a lot, if not all, closing costs, which the builders pay as an incentive to buy. Most of the VA loans in this area "roll" everything into the loan in the land of the "dollar down." Now, let's just say Mr. and Mrs. Homebuyer finance everything. Their $100,000 home would bump up to about $103,000, oh hell, let's make it $105,000. How much difference do you think that would make in a payment, on a fixed rate, over 30 years?  Even in a conventional market the cost is rolled into the loan. There may even be a break on home insurance, I don't know. The question is simple. What's your family worth?

     A simple, common sense, building code. Oh, the builders will bitch, the Tea Party will rail about private property rights, and Obama will make a vist to Oklahoma City. The statistic folks down at UT will cite the probability of getting hit by an F5, but then, they don't have to search for the bodies, now do they?

Monday, May 20, 2013

Frank and His Big Screwdriver

                                                                 Frank
                                                       by Wilbur Witt

     During my time at Sears Holdings as a Customer Solutions manager I took thousands of calls from customers trying to resolve various issues arising from purchases they had made at Sears, or the coordination of repairs of item so purchased,  but one call in particular stands out to me. It was in the middle of summer, heat waves were baking the northeast, and especially New York City. Air conditioners, strained beyond their capacity were failing all,over the city, and we were having to work very hard to route technicians to each call with the waiting list as long as two weeks in some cases. 

     I received a call one afternoon from an elderly lady living in New York. Her one window air conditioner had stopped working. I was on what they called the "third tier" which was a special group, only in Austin, that got escalated calls where at least three Sears employees had failed to satisfy the customer's needs. This woman's needs were simple. She was over eighty years old, lived on the third floor of am old brownstone, on a crowded street, and the men who had been dispatched didn't want the hassle so they were consistently marking her as a "not at home," and she continued to bake in a three room walk up that was never designed for this kind of heat. 

     As I looked at the list of work orders that had not been completed she began to tell me everything about her situation. I already knew it was bad, old lady in an apartment with ninety plus heat, but she told me that a year ago her husband of over fifty years, Frank, had passed away. 

     "I don't know how to do this. Frank always handled things. He bought the insurance from Sears and everything. Should I go and meet them in the street?  Frank always took care of everything, and if her was here with his big screw driver he'd already have fixed this." Then, she began to sob uncontrollably. I asked her to allow me to put her on a brief hold. 

     "You will be back, right. All the others put me on hold and never come back.". I assured her I would most certainly return. Being on the third level wielded a certain amount of power. There were only a couple hundred or so of us, but we sat very near the source of power at Sears, and we had an entire tool box we could use to solve problems, or exercise pressure. I was a task master at the political end. I would use real rules, arm twisting, and outright bluffs if need be. 

     I called the unit in New York City and got the manager. I began cordially by letting him know that this lady had been passed over at least three times. I reminded him that she had a protection plan on her air conditioner. He started to give me all the excuses about the overflow of calls, the heat, her location, the difficulty of access, and I cut him off. This Yankee thought it was hot in the Bronx, try Austin, Texas. 

     "Oh, silly me, I guess I didn't make myself clear. Ok. If there isn't cold air blowing on Miss Edna by six o'clock tonight I'm going to deactivate the crew that has the work order I just struck, after I deactivate YOU!"

     Long silence. Of course, he wanted my name, location, and division. I gave it to him. Another long silence. ""Ok. I'll get it done."

     "Have the tech bring another unit with him. It's a small '110' air conditioner. My fifteen year old grand daughter could carry. That way I won't have to expect her to wait three more weeks for parts."

     He told me he would arrange that too. "And, one more thing, make sure the guy takes a big screw driver, make sure Edna sees it."

     "Why."

     "Don't question me, just do it!"

     "I'm going to file a report on this."

     "I'm sure you will."

     I went back and told Edna to alert the person in her lobby about the arrival of the repairman. After that I went to break. Sears had an elite team of senior techs who oversaw all repairs nationwide, and yes, they are in Austin, too. The call center is built around them, literally! They sat in the middle of the building, and all the rest of us were positioned around them. The public was never allowed to speak to them, and that was a good thing because most of them were a bunch or grizzly old bikers who had worked construction all their lives. I had coffee with one of them and told him what had just transpired. He told me to send him the case and he would watch over it after I ended my shift. If that unit manager in New York thought I was an asshole he just hadn't met Gary yet!

     The next day was my midweek day off, but when I returned on Friday I immediately checked Edna's work order. I was very pleased to see that it had been completed. I left Sears right after that, but I think about Edna now and then. By now I suppose she's passed on, but I know as she goes through the gates of heaven Frank won't be too hard to find. He'll be waiting for her, with his big screwdriver. 

Thursday, May 16, 2013

All The Eggs In The World

                                              All The Eggs In The World
                                                            by Wilbur Witt

     Back in '94 I got up one Sunday morning in my office on Westend Avenue in Nashville. I'd done a show at Pennington's Lounge out on Briley Expressway the night before, and ended the night, or rather welcomed the morning, at the Nashville Palace eating catfish. My Nashville experience was dragging along like so many others. I had an album, but is was comedy, and I was still going head to head with the heavy hitters on Music Square. I hadn't come to the realization as yet that the album I'd cut as a joke would end up being my saving grace. My serious songs simply would not sell, and I simply would not accept that. The people on the Square wouldn't even accept a copy of my latest love song, but they would PAY for a copy of my funny ones. 

     I left the building and began to work my way down Westend to Shoney's where they had a cheap breakfast, which was nice because it fit right in with songwriters like me. As I walked I heard the bells from the Westend Catholic Church ringing in the distance, and the line from an old Johnny Cash classic came to me, "Down the road I heard a lonely church bell ringing." As I crossed the street there was a little park, near the Country Music Hall Of Fame, and in that park, just like the song, there was a man swinging a laughing little girl. I stopped. 

     The man who brought me to Nashville had two daughters. They were both under five years old. The older one was chubby, and made great sport of pushing her younger, smaller sister around. He lived just off Music Square so I easily walked over to his house and asked if I could take the youngest to breakfast. Soon she was riding on my shoulders on her way to Shoney's. When we got there I sat her down and told her she could eat anything she wanted. Her older sister would steal from her plate at every chance. She looked around and saw the food buffet. 

     "I want eggs."

     "That's all?" I asked her. 

     "Yes."

     "You can have anything you want."

     "I want all the eggs in the world!"

     She ate eggs for an hour. I took her home. Time and years went by. In 2010 this same little girl was living with me. She had a horrendous marriage to my son which cost her all of her children. The emotional roller coaster ride had landed her in the state hospital. She had lived in alleys in Detroit, and mansions in Austin, but to look at her you couldn't tell it. After the kids, her husband, and my wife were gone we found ourselves living together in the lonely big house in Berry Creek  she called it a "Pretty Prison." She had been quite successful on Youtube, but by now the muse had fled, and she was a broken, lonely young mother, missing her life  

     One morning I decided to treat her. I told her I wanted to take her to breakfast at IHop!  She'd never been to an IHop, and was very excited. She even got dressed for the occasion. A girl that ate at a country club was beside herself about a trip to IHop!

     We walked in and she looked at the menu. I told her the cafe was famous for its pancakes. What would she like?  She looked up from the menu and said, "I want all the eggs in the world."

     "You remember that?"

     "Yes."

     I sat there and enjoyed watching iJackie eating, "all the eggs in the world."

     

Monday, May 13, 2013

Crazy, or The loss of literacy in the technological world

                                                              Illiteracy
                                                        by Wilbur Witt

     Ok boys and girls this is pet peeve Monday, and I have a pet peeve that just gripes my ass! Illiteracy, moreover, ignorance, and more than that, simple comprehension, that when absent displays rampant stupidity! If you got past those  introductory lines you are one of the special few, and I put them in there to weed out the people who will never understand this article. Shall we continue?

     Now, I don't mean to brag, but I'm a pretty literate guy. I've made some change writing songs which means that I am versed in making my point in about sixteen lines and they have to have meter, and they have to rhyme. If you transfer that ability to prose you can quickly see that I can communicate with my readers on a level that is clear, entertaining, and articulate. When I write an article such as this I will read, and re-read it many times, checking for such things as punctuation, spelling, the basic idea, and, oh yes, the dreaded auto-complete that stalks us all in this modern era. I sent a text to a young lady last week where I THOUGHT I'd said, "You need to spread your wings and fly," and what she got was, "You need to spread your legs and cry!" GoodBYE girlfriend!

     We are all aware of the shortcuts in texting such as LOL, or TTYL, but that's not what I'm talking about here. What irritates me is people who cannot read with comprehension, causing me to have to restate the simplest ideas over and over again. Example of this (and this JUST happened) is I text a girl telling her, "He is in a state of big time denial and reality is going to wake him up." Now that's pretty straight up, or at least I thought it was. I'm making a simple observation about a man who is not accepting facts as they truly are, and, as with us all, the reality of the situation will come upon him. I get a response back, and folks, I'm going to quote here, "Big Time What?" I had to text her back three times explaining what the word "denial" meant!  This lady has words reserved on her iPhone so that she doesn't have to type much. One of the words is "crazy," and that's her usual response to everything. I say, "They arrested so and so," "Crazy." We may go to war in Syria," "Crazy." "It looks like rain today," "CRAZY!" So, you can clearly see when you send a three syllable word, such as "denial" to such a person, right away you run into problems . . .crazy! 

     We have degenerated down the food chain from, "I would like a Big Mac, order of fries and a Coke," to "Ug, Grog need food!" it goes further than that. I told this certain person that men get paid so much for doing a particular job, and she comes back with, "Who gets paid!" OMFG! She is so dim witted it defies logic, and I'm going to be up front with you, I rarely use any composition rules beyond what I learned in Miss Hornbuckle's eighth grade English class. And she's not the only one. In simple speech I will have to do the same thing. I will patiently explain over and over again until I lose it, turn on my best Rush Limbaugh voice and say, "I'm going to the store to buy BEER."

     I think there should be a test you have to take to join any social media service. You need to prove you can understand simple commands. My DOG can do that. Come, go, don't piss on the floor, things like that. You should be aware of your surroundings, the world, and state of affairs. A little knowledge of history would be nice.  Simple questions like, "Who is Hillary Clinton, and who is she married to?" Or, "If you have five rocks, and you smoke one, how many do you have left?" Another, "What was the race of Malcolm X?" We won't even touch the Gettysburg Address because it's more than 64 letters long and contains multi-syllable words and it would be unfair to put that much on them at one time. 

     Maybe there will be a resurgence of literacy, and understanding, but I'm afraid until then it'll all just be. . . "Crazy!"

     
     

Sunday, May 12, 2013

The Back Porch

                                                   Back Porch Concert
                                                          by Wilbur Witt

     I do t want to be cleche, but I had a wonderful Saturday night. My nephew came over, brought some beer, and all the kids were here, along with my ex, and her husband. My husband in law made the most wonderful Mexican plate, and when we finished eating, my nephew and I broke out a guitar and gave everyone a show. Sean, my nephew, is a virtuoso on the guitar, and gave an excellent performance. I, on the other hand, tend to have a simpler style, but I have written so many songs no one ever notices. At any rate we filled two hours and everyone enjoyed enjoyed the concert.  As we played the children danced all over the huge back porch. Children under seven are always fascinated by someone pulling out a huge wooden box and music coming out of it. In spite of all the technological advances over the years the sound of an unamplified Fender guitar retains its magic. 

     Over forty two plus years I have learned to sing, and I've mastered drinking beer and remembering the words to my songs, which is always nice. Combine that with little explanations of why I wrote each song, and the evening had a magic glow about it. The funny thing is that the evening wasn't planned. We just drifted from, "Let's get some beer," to, "Mexican would be nice," to, "Uncle Billy, do you still have that Fender?" We didn't know it had been a good evening until it was over!  No camera, no amps, no problems. 

     Life is like that. The best things are always free. The children will remember it forever. I still remember a porch party where my Uncle Charlie made peach ice cream, and us kids had to go get the peaches from a tree! I was five years old, and some of the children at that get together have died of old age! Some people, especially organizations try to create such evenings. You cant! God dispenses evenings like that.  I guarantee you that somewhere else in the world a group of people gathered last night and some children will remember eating something that only a grandfather, or uncle could whip up in his own special way. A friend of mine told me once that he was watching his grandchildren for a day and when it came lunch time he found that nothing was thawed to cook. He had a good supply of large cuts of meat, but no "kid" stuff. So, he took out some potatoes, some garlic and an onion, fried it up and told the kids it was his "world famous potatoes!" They were ecstatic!

     Tomorrow the news will grind out the stories that piss us all off. Jodi Arias will try to convince her jury she just had a bad hair day, Hillary Clinton will try to convince John McCaine SHE had a bad hair day (who's the bigger sociopath?) and Obama will try to convince us all that HE'S the president, but for a brief time, on a back porch in Texas, a family so diversified a Hollywood screen writer couldn't have dreamed it up, got together, and children danced. Happy Mothers Day, everyone!

Wednesday, May 8, 2013

What Is One Child Worth?

     I want you to do something for me. It's a simple experiment, won't cost you anything, in fact it will save you money. Tomorrow I want you to get up and not eat breakfast. Maybe a little toast and tea. For lunch have a banana. Skip dinner altogether, instead drink a couple glasses of water to settle your hunger a bit. The next day I want you to see how you feel. That's how a homeless child feels every day! On that next day sit down to your usual breakfast. That's how a homeless child feels when someone reaches out!

     While the shakers and movers in the world ignite wars, orchestrate clandestine operations, and pass legislation we all disagree with, homeless children all over the world quietly stave to death. The cost of one drone would feed hundreds, and I'm not exaggerating, HUNDREDS of starving children. When you go to breakfast at Denny's, the bit you leave on your plate because you are full is gold to a little girl in Africa. She would stick her little tongue out to catch the crumbs you toss to your cat!  

     You want to know where terrorism comes from?  You want to know what motivates a suicide bomber? Look no farther than your dinner plate. If you, and your family were homeless, unclothed, and starving, what would you do if offered all these things all you had to do was put on a vest, walk among the people you perceive did this to you, and pull the string? 

     Time was when we could look at their drawn faces, their bloated bellies, and just change the channel, but friends, those days are gone forever. There are people with agendas in this world with a ready supply of willing volunteers to wear that vest! Children living life in alleys with death tugging at their elbow every hour of every day. No child should live like that, and it is a war crime to create a situation that forces any child to endure such conditions. 

     I won't bore you with statistics. The numbers mean nothing. When you rattle off the mortality rate the millions cloud the mind and become if no consequence because the problem becomes insurmountable.  So, let me reduce it to a manageable number  On planet earth, in the year 2013 one child is one too many!  The very idea of a three year old not having a bowl of Cheerios is absurd. The very idea of children starving for the want of a few miserable shillings is insane! 

     What is the solution?  How do we eat this elephant?  One bite at a time.   How many meals do you eat in a given month?  Single out one, just one, and put that money to good use. God, and your waist line will thank you for it. You will never miss it, in fact, you may skip breakfast, lunch once a week, and a child will live. One. Just one. What is one child worth? What is Nelson Mandela worth? What is Steve Jobs worth? What is Barak Obama worth! All of these men were "left on a doorstep." 

     If everyone skipped that meal, and dedicated the money that would have been used we could eradicate hunger. And friends and neighbors, maybe someday those vests the terrorists are offering  won't fit so well, and on that day the skies will be bluer, God will smile, and a little girl,will say, "Thank you."

Monday, May 6, 2013

Sandwiches vs Drones

                                                    Sandwich vs Drones
                                                           by Wilbur Witt

     This might be the most important blog I've ever written, in fact I'm going to start a new thread just for this, it's that important. We, here in America, fight the war on terrorism all over the world, and it's a very confused effort. President Obama, like others before him, has bought into to idea that the terrorists around the world are some very sophisticated, ultra organized incorporated group of pseudo intellectuals with money and materials sufficient to attack us at any time, anywhere. The administration would have us believe that the terrorists are at least as organized as they are because they have to justify their bloated budget and perpetuate the administration and it's goals.  I don't believe that, and if people like Eric Holder believe it then they are as crazy as a shit house rat! 

     I grew up in extreme poverty. We were so poor that me and my friends thought that people who had floors and sheet rock on the walls were rich. When we went out to have a good time our idea of a great evening was a quart of Borden's chocolate milk. Girls in my town tried to marry a soldier as soon as legally possible just to get away. We thought the world was flat because when people left town they never came back. Chicken and rice was a chicken flavored soup that had some rice in it, and we were always sick! 

     The Killeen police department took over the duties of law enforcement when my hometown of Simmonsville was incorporated into the city. In due course the department theorized that we were some vast mini-mafia because a few hubcaps turned up missing, and whiskey was sold to soldiers on Sunday. Nothing could have been farther from the truth, but as these idiots picked us up, and told us how organized we were we learned well. First thing we learned was that the police department would feed us in jail. That was job one. The next thing we learned was that any information we gave them would quickly translate into freedom. Third thing we learned was how to get the hell out of Simmonsville and move to Austin where we could make money and have all the chocolate milk we wanted any time!

     Fast forward to the Middle East forty years later. I see the same dirt floors, the same starving faces, the same bozos saying these people are this, that, Al Quaeta, El WhatEver!  We spend billions of dollars dropping atom bombs on ant hills. And every time the administration comes up with another theory, another press conference, some starving bunch of kids in Afghanistan say, "That'll work!" They stitch together an IED and we hit em with a drone, and it looks like a war. 

     What to do?  First, get the f#¥k out of the Middle East. I hate to be the first one to tell you people this but these guys love to fight. WE loved to fight back in Simmonsville. Wanna know why the real Mafia never hooked up with us back then? Because we were too damn violent and we consistently robbed them. Come into our little corner of the world with a suit and a new car and see how that works out for you. Hell, we stole the hubcaps off of POLICE cars! Were we organized? Hell no!  There were three distinct sections of our little hamlet and brothers and sisters let me tell you, we weren't politically correct! If I left my house on Grider street to go to the store for my mom, and was stupid enough to cut down 42nd street the black kids would whip my ass and take my mom's cigarette money quick, and I had it coming. That was the Simmonsville Stupid Tax! I first met Jr Mitchell when he helped me get to the store one day with the help of a sling shot and a sack or .45 caliber lead balls. How's THAT for a childhood, Dr. Spock?

     You catch more flies with sugar than you do with vinegar. Now this solution won't end all the bullshit in one master stroke, but it's a start. I have this kid from Africa who talks to me on Facebook. He has no parents, no real bed, and most of all, no food. I don't know how he gets on the net, but I suspect he hangs out at some Internet cafe, and I know I'm not the only American he's talking to because he's starving!  He hit me up for money. I tell everyone "over there" to forget about getting money from me because I'm not buying bullets to shoot at our boys serving our country. But I will send a sandwich. If he can send me a reliable address I will go to HEB, and I will put together a package that will feed him for a month for about fifty dollars. We do this for my son who is serving in Afghanistan all, the time. He has us always include a liberal number of Hershey bars for the kids he meets, as a matter of fact, he has a herd of goats and shares meat with a neighboring village. 

     I'm going to do this on my own, without the Christian this or that, or any save the children because I consider them to all be thieves and every dollar you send them gets funneled to whatever fat bastard is running that country at the time.  And is isn't instant coffee. One sandwich will not save the world. But, in time, the idea will grow. Al Qaeda didn't give you that sandwich, Mohammed didn't give that sandwich, one AMERICAN gave you that sandwich! 

     I know this sounds simplistic, but I'm a simple man. People here in this country forgot what it's like to just be hungry. I hear all these people screaming about Detroit, or East LA, but you grow up in PoDunk, Texas and then you come and tell me about it!  I invite your comments, hell, I could be wrong. I was wrong twice last year, but I don't think so. 


http://youtu.be/RmzW3mAEk-A