Chas_P

Interesting question. But at this point Biden and all his acolytes seem to be like chickens running around with their heads cut off. I wish the best for my country and all it's legal citizens...red, yellow, black, or white...but at this point, in my opinion, it's headed down the rabbit hole.

I agree with you 100% prof. Trump is not the answer but, in my opinion, neither are Biden, Schumer, and Pelosi. We need a return to common sense...like you and me marching to D. C. and taking over. Where can we meet?

Yeah. What Stephen said. BBO is a business, not a charity.

Try Vaccinate. I think that will work. But when BBO asks for your email address, be sure to put it your friend's email address. Bear in mind that you will also have to enter a password; therefore you will have to notify your friend what his/her password is. S/he will receive an email that s/he will have to acknowledge before s/he can log in.

Another favorite of mine. It probably belongs in another thread, so Barry you are free to move it. Longfellow Listen, my children, and you shall hear Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere, On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-Five: Hardly a man is now alive Who remembers that famous day and year. He said to his friend, “If the British march By land or sea from the town to-night, Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry-arch Of the North-Church-tower, as a signal-light,— One if by land, and two if by sea; And I on the opposite shore will be, Ready to ride and spread the alarm Through every Middlesex village and farm, For the country-folk to be up and to arm.” Then he said “Good night!” and with muffled oar Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore, Just as the moon rose over the bay, Where swinging wide at her moorings lay The Somerset, British man-of-war: A phantom ship, with each mast and spar Across the moon, like a prison-bar, And a huge black hulk, that was magnified By its own reflection in the tide. Meanwhile, his friend, through alley and street Wanders and watches with eager ears, Till in the silence around him he hears The muster of men at the barrack door, The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet, And the measured tread of the grenadiers Marching down to their boats on the shore. Then he climbed to the tower of the church, Up the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread, To the belfry-chamber overhead, And startled the pigeons from their perch On the sombre rafters, that round him made Masses and moving shapes of shade,— By the trembling ladder, steep and tall, To the highest window in the wall, Where he paused to listen and look down A moment on the roofs of the town, And the moonlight flowing over all. Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead, In their night-encampment on the hill, Wrapped in silence so deep and still That he could hear, like a sentinel’s tread, The watchful night-wind, as it went Creeping along from tent to tent, And seeming to whisper, “All is well!” A moment only he feels the spell Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread Of the lonely belfry and the dead; For suddenly all his thoughts are bent On a shadowy something far away, Where the river widens to meet the bay,— A line of black, that bends and floats On the rising tide, like a bridge of boats. Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride, Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride, On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere. Now he patted his horse’s side, Now gazed on the landscape far and near, Then impetuous stamped the earth, And turned and tightened his saddle-girth; But mostly he watched with eager search The belfry-tower of the old North Church, As it rose above the graves on the hill, Lonely and spectral and sombre and still. And lo! as he looks, on the belfry’s height, A glimmer, and then a gleam of light! He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns, But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight A second lamp in the belfry burns! A hurry of hoofs in a village-street, A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark, And beneath from the pebbles, in passing, a spark Struck out by a steed that flies fearless and fleet: That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light, The fate of a nation was riding that night; And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight, Kindled the land into flame with its heat. He has left the village and mounted the steep, And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep, Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides; And under the alders, that skirt its edge, Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge, Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides. It was twelve by the village clock When he crossed the bridge into Medford town. He heard the crowing of the cock, And the barking of the farmer’s dog, And felt the damp of the river-fog, That rises when the sun goes down. It was one by the village clock, When he galloped into Lexington. He saw the gilded weathercock Swim in the moonlight as he passed, And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare, Gaze at him with a spectral glare, As if they already stood aghast At the bloody work they would look upon. It was two by the village clock, When he came to the bridge in Concord town. He heard the bleating of the flock, And the twitter of birds among the trees, And felt the breath of the morning breeze Blowing over the meadows brown. And one was safe and asleep in his bed Who at the bridge would be first to fall, Who that day would be lying dead, Pierced by a British musket-ball. You know the rest. In the books you have read, How the British Regulars fired and fled,— How the farmers gave them ball for ball, From behind each fence and farmyard-wall, Chasing the red-coats down the lane, Then crossing the fields to emerge again Under the trees at the turn of the road, And only pausing to fire and load. So through the night rode Paul Revere; And so through the night went his cry of alarm To every Middlesex village and farm,— A cry of defiance, and not of fear, A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door, And a word that shall echo forevermore! For, borne on the night-wind of the Past, Through all our history, to the last, In the hour of darkness and peril and need, The people will waken and listen to hear The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed, And the midnight message of Paul Revere.

Interesting, but somehow the relevance to poetry escapes me.

I also like this; not poetic, but beautiful. Executive Mansion Washington, DC November 21, 1864 To Mrs. Bixby Boston, Massachusetts Dear Madam, I have been shown in the files of the War Department a statement of the Adjutant General of Massachusetts that you are the mother of five sons who have died gloriously on the field of battle. I feel how weak and fruitless must be any word of mine which should attempt to beguile you from the grief of a loss so overwhelming, but I cannot refrain from tendering to you the consolation that may be found in the thanks of the Republic that they died to save. I pray that the Heavenly Father may assuage the anguish of your bereavement, and leave you only the cherished memory of the loved and lost, and the solemn pride that must be yours to have laid so costly a sacrifice upon the altar of freedom. Yours very sincerely and respectfully, A. Lincoln This letter of the “rail splitter” President hangs on the wall of Brasenose College at Oxford as an example of purest English rarely, if ever, surpassed.

See how you feel about this. It is a lyric poem, no rhyme, no meter, but beautiful English. I read it often and recommend it. Desiderata Go placidly amid the noise and haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence. As far as possible, without surrender, be on good terms with all persons. Speak your truth quietly and clearly; and listen to others, even the dull and ignorant; they too have their story. Avoid loud and aggressive persons, they are vexatious to the spirit. If you compare yourself with others, you may become vain and bitter; for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself. Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans. Keep interested in your own career, however humble; it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time. Exercise caution in your business affairs, for the world is full of trickery. But let this not blind you to what virtue there is; many persons strive for high ideals, and everywhere life is full of heroism. Be yourself. Especially, do not feign affection. Neither be cynical about love, for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment it is perennial as the grass. Take kindly to the counsel of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of youth. Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune. But do not distress yourself with imaginings. Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness. Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself. You are a child of the universe, no less than the trees and the stars; you have a right to be here. And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should. Therefore be at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be, and whatever your labors and aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life, keep peace in your soul. With all its sham, drudgery and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world. Be cheerful. Strive to be happy. Max Ehrmann c1920

As some wag put it, "87.6% of all statistics are made up on the spot."

Just know that it was intended as admiration, not as derision. I'm not much for duels anymore either. I got rid of some of my pistols.

Please notice I said "in reverse". Forrest said, "I'm not a smart man." I said Ken IS a smart man. I have the greatest admiration for intelligence. I have the greatest derision for arrogance. Here's what I was referring to.

I think Ken is a lot like Forrest Gump in reverse. He IS a smart man. But he still knows what love is.

I get your drift. Back before July 4th I ordered a shirt advertised on Faceneck that I liked the looks of; it was an American flag motif and supposedly coming from Las Vegas. I got it three weeks later....from China. Later I ordered some driving moccasins advertised on Faceneck that I liked the looks of supposedly coming from the UK. I got them five weeks later....from China. Both products were fine; I'm happy with the shirt and with the shoes. I guess the moral of the story is.....if you want something made in the USA and you want it quickly, don't order it on Faceneck.

And then there was Socrates, but let's not go there.

No Richie. I just meant that I truly enjoy Ken's musings. They give me something to think about. You and your cohorts, OTOH, give me something to laugh at. Please keep up the good work.

I think everyone is pleased by Ken's humor and insight. I know I am.

Another mindless retort from another mindless Bozo. May the Schwartz be with you.

Yes. Please tell me where to send the bill.

If electricity comes from electrons, does morality come from morons?

Did you even bother to read the website? If you have questions, need more information, or have difficulty getting a free Voter Identification Card: Please contact your county registrar’s office or The Secretary of State’s Elections Division at: Telephone (404) 656-2871 (8:00 a.m. - 5:30 p.m.) V/TTY: (404) 656-1787 Fax: (404) 651-9531 What IDs Are Acceptable? Any valid state or federal government-issued photo ID, including a free ID Card issued by your county registrar's office or the Georgia Department of Driver Services (DDS) The State of Georgia offers a free ID Card. The ID Card can be issued at any county registrar's office free of charge. To receive a voter identification card at the county registrar's office, the voter must provide: A photo identity document or approved non-photo identity document that includes full legal name and date of birth. Documentation showing the voter's date of birth. Evidence that the applicant is a registered voter. Documentation showing the applicant's name and residential address. Does that sound like "disenfranchisement" to you? Does it? Really?

Indeed it did. It hit my funnybone. Your form of adolescent humor is truly amusing. Please keep up the good work.

LMAO@you. Go fry up some brussels sprouts in duck fat and bask in your glory.

I don't know about the other 49 states, but in Georgia....

As Tip O'Neill said, "All politics are local." If you wish to succumb to the D. C. bourgeois that's your business and I respect your opinion. I don't. And I hope you respect my opinion.

1. You register to vote. 2. You go to the polls on election day and cast your ballot. 3. If unable to get to the polls you request an absentee ballot which will be mailed to you, you cast your ballot, put it back in the mail, and your vote is counted. 4. You are alive when you do that. 5. You don't request an absentee ballot for your mother who died 20 years ago and is still on the voter rolls. Next?