Michael G. Flynn

The son of the top national security adviser to President-elect Donald Trump was removed from the new administration’s transition team on Tuesday after backing a bogus conspiracy theory that inspired a shooting incident in Washington, according to people familiar with the matter.

from the Washington Post

An idiot, Michael G. Flynn,

Let rumor get under his skin.

The lies he proclaimed

Left his intellect maimed;

He’ll soon find a nice loony bin.

Trump adviser’s son removed from transition after spreading conspiracy theory

Michael G. Flynn and his father, retired Lt. Gen. Michael T. Flynn — Trump’s designated national security adviser — have both used their social media accounts to promote fabricated claims, including allegations that aides to Democratic presidential candidate Hillary Clinton were involved in a child prostitution ring.

from the Washington Post 

When madness leaps from tongue to tongue,

when rumor rules the land;

advisers to the President

become a foolish band.

Their motley, though expensive,

is the same old cap and bells;

the only office they deserve

is silent padded cells. 

Light the World #5

  I form the light, and create darkness: I make peace, and create evil: I the Lord do all these things.     Isaiah 45:7   

Nothing happens in the light, nor rises up in dark,

that does not have its being from the Godhead's vital spark.

Through tumult and through quiet, there is only one true ray

of light; it emanates from all who choose but to obey.

Call nothing evil till you know the Lord's profound design;

a hole that you disdain may just contain a rich gold mine!

Stephanie Land: Trump’s election stole my desire to look for a partner

There is no room for dating in this place of grief. Dating means hope. I’ve lost that hope in seeing the words “President-elect Trump.”

Stephanie Land, writing in the Washington Post. 

Dear Steph, I too am unattached

because my hopes have all been scratched.

That Trump is mean and rude and snide,

and so I'll never find a bride!

An anchorite I shall remain,

and live alone with all my pain.

But if no longer I fixate,

how about a trial blind date? 

Restaurant Review: Cubby's Chicago Beef. Provo, Utah.

Located at 1258 N State Street, Cubby's serves up a good juicy burger. Their rosemary fries are justly famous for their savor and lightness. What can I say? There's really almost no reason to write a review at all about this place. If you like beef in at its gloriously shredded and fried forms, Cubby's is the only game in town. My lunch of bleu cheese burger, rosemary fries, and fountain drink, set me back $11.49. Their fountain drinks feature Mello Yello, a Mountain Dew knockoff, that I haven't seen in too many places around here. Actually, I thought it was an extinct brand. I rate the place Four Burps, hands down.

They also feature a wide range of salads, but that's probably only because the he-men that eat here all have drop-dead gorgeous girlfriends -- and the only way they can keep their svelte figures is to starve on kale and radishes.
The place is undergoing an extensive renovation. Why, I don't know. It'll probably wind up looking like a McDonalds.

Book Review: The Most of S.J. Perelman.

Scholars attempting to wrest knowledge from the skimpy shelves of the Marshall-University High School library in Minneapolis in the year of our Lord 1970, would be sadly taxed by the giggles of a slender youth who just happened to bear a remarkable resemblance to myself.

This bean pole of an adolescent, all Adam's apple and beaky proboscis, was bent over a tome entitled "The Most of S.J. Perelman" and enjoying himself tremendously with such classic pieces of literary insanity as "The Idol's Eye" or the numerous manic memoirs prefaced as "Cloudland Revisited".

He cared not that most of the pieces involved a vocabulary that would baffle a Rhodes Scholar -- the sheer insanity of the word play and blistering sarcasm shone through like a beacon on a murky night.

There has never been, nor can there ever be, another writer of the ilk of Sidney Joseph Perelman. But I refuse to try to cajole you into reading his work. If ever a writer were an acquired taste, it is Mr. Perelman. He disdains to use a simple word when a ten-dollar whopper is available. He uses French, Italian, German, and Yiddish phrases extensively, with no translation. His references are archaic and obscure to the point of Gnosticism. I still need to have a dictionary at hand when I read him.

So who wants to bother with such a shovboat? Me, for one -- and anyone who admires an artist of the first water. For Perelman is undoubtedly a virtuoso with the English language. He makes it do his manic bidding with deceptive ease.

You want I should give you an example, boychick?  Here's all the example you'll get from me, boyo: Perelman co-wrote several of the early Marx Brothers movies. So, if you've always been a closet Grouchophile, you'll realize just what kind of magical stuff Perelman is capable of. Nuff said.

Sadly, I've never been able to interest my family or friends in the brilliant work of S.J. Perelman. The common complaint is always: "He's too hard to read!"

Well, gold and diamonds are hard to find -- that's what makes them valuable. Anyone who will go to the trouble of exploring Perelman for even a half hour, wading through his coruscating prose with an encyclopedia in one hand and a LaRousse in the other, will be rewarded with lapidary writing the likes of which no longer exist in American literature.

I recently picked up a used copy of The Most of S.J. Perelman on Amazon.com for two dollars, plus shipping and handling.

Real journos do not take a bribe

Since the election, most of the attention about “news” has centered on how to get “fake news” off of Facebook and Google. Instead, why can’t organizations that care about good journalism launch a promotional campaign to teach the American public what a real journalist is? 

from The News & Observer

Real journos do not take a bribe.

Nor spiritous liquors imbibe.

The truth is their life.

They do not fear strife.

They never stoop to diatribe. 

Read more here: http://www.newsobserver.com/opinion/op-ed/article118741663.html#storylink=cpy

Light the World #4

 Truly the light is sweet, and a pleasant thing it is for the eyes to behold the sun:

Ecclesiastes 11:7

Sweet light, from sun and stars and moon.

Sweet light, to which we must attune.

Sweet light, that meets us from above.

Sweet light, a symbol of His love.

Still light, that warms the heart to peace.

Still light, that brings us to our knees.

Still light, one night so long ago;

shown on a manger all aglow.

Strong light, that no one can abate.

Strong light, our life to calibrate.

Strong light, an heirloom and a force.

Strong light of Christ, our only Source! 

The Gospel Pedagogue

Machine gun through the lesson,

most Gospel teachers try;

they do not like long comments, 

or questions such as "Why?"

They send me off to slumber;

such pedagogues provoke

a boredom that does tempt me

to try an ad-lib joke.

These teachers do not like me,

as in my folding chair

I try to push the boundaries 

and ranging thought I dare.

But then, on further thinking,

uneasiness does lurk --

Am I an sincere seeker,

or just a classroom jerk?

Book Review: Mr. Laurel & Mr. Hardy. by John McCabe.

Did a book ever excite and inspire you as a child?

If not, I feel sorry for you.

When I was 9 I read John McCabe's hagiography of Stan Laurel and Oliver Hardy, entitled "Mr. Laurel & Mr. Hardy". It changed my life. Up until then I had vague ambitions about comedy and laughter, but once I turned the last page of McCabe's book my life's course crystalized: I would catch laughter and scatter it far and wide.

And, for the most part, I did. First as a circus clown, then as a pantomime artist, and finally, in my old age when physical comedy became awkward and painful, by developing into an artisan of light verse.

I recommend this book, not because of what it did for me, but because it is so plainly and joyously written by a writer who enjoys his subject. I dislike the modern tendency of biographers to dig up all the dirt on their subject and then make a point of disparaging their subject (usually after the man or woman is dead and can't defend themselves). This is the so-called modern scholarship. It's modern malarkey, in my book.

If you can't celebrate someone's life, why write about it at all?

McCabe was a Shakespeare scholar and teacher, and he brings the Bard's rich language to his descriptions of how Stan and Ollie teamed up and operated to produce a unique world-wide belly laugh that is still reverberating in many hearts. His summation of the two is not complex:  Two nice guys who just happened to strike a vein of comic gold. It petered out eventually, and the two men lived in the shadows during their last years. They were unpretentious going up in the world, and they remained that way on their slide down.

I had the great good fortune to correspond with John McCabe for many years. I sent him a fan letter when I first joined Ringling Brothers Circus back in the early 70's, and he was kind enough to reply, asking me all sorts of question about life as a circus clown. My cache of letters from him are a cherished treasure that I dip into occasionally to warm my heart in an increasingly cold and unfunny world. Let me share just one quote with you:

"Although Laurel was the real 'brains' behind the team, thinking up the gags and actually doing most of the directing, it was Babe Hardy that everybody loved on the lot. He kept the team warm and human by occasionally standing up to Stan, when Stan proposed a gag that seemed too cruel or unfeeling. Babe would say something like "That's brilliant, Stan; but it'll scare the kids, not make 'em laugh. Can we change it, just for my sake?" And Laurel would always defer to Hardy, because, in his own words "How can you not love that big heart of his?'"

The book will make you feel good without pandering to bathos or scandal. You can purchase a good used copy on Amazon.com for about a dollar, plus shipping and handling.