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Down The Middle - Dec 26, 2004 - Printable Version
- "Man of the Year" and "Tribute to a Cowboy - Happy Trails to You"
by Down The Middle and To The Left
By: Down The Middle
Dec. 26, 2004
Once again, President George W. Bush has been chosen as Time magazine’s “Man of the Year”. {Damn, I can’t believe I lost again. What do I have to do...show my breasts?} I guess I really shouldn’t be too disappointed. After all, Michael Moore and Mel Gibson, who actually did land on the candidate’s list, “because in different ways, their movies tapped into deep cultural streams”, were overlooked, too.
“After a grueling campaign, Bush remains a polarizing figure in America and around the world”, said Managing Editor Jim Kelly, “and that’s the reason he earned the magazine’s honor. Many Americans deeply wish he had not won” {No sh*t}, Kelly said, “and yet, he did.” The magazine makes their choice on who has had the most impact, good or bad. {Oh, now, I’m beginning to understand.}
In the Time article, Bush said, he “relishes” that some people dislike him {Damn, what a rush, he must be getting!}. “I think the natural instinct for most people in the political world is that they want people to like them. On the other hand, I think sometimes, I take kind of a delight in who the critics are.” {By George, I knew he wouldn’t forget us!} White House
Chief of Staff Andrew Card said, the President was “not worried about what pundits might be saying.” Card also praised him as a “great liberator” for the people of Afghanistan and Iraq {I wonder when he’ll be liberating Saudi Arabia?} and lauded his tax cuts, education and Medicare reform, and his plans to “remake” Social Security {Happy New Year!}.
Bush was given accolades for “reshaping the rules of politics to fit his “ten gallon hat” leadership style {Gotta' have a big hat to fit a big head!}, for “sharpening the debate until the choices bled”, {I’m sorry...but I think I know who’s doing all the bleeding}, for “reframing reality to match his design” {I must admit, he did “reframe” a whole lot of reality} and for “gambling his fortunes - and ours - on his faith in the power of leadership”. {I suppose I should go ahead and thank him now, just in case I’m killed in a global thermonuclear war.}
Bush joins six other presidents who have twice won the magazine’s top honor {The usual suspects}. Franklin D. Roosevelt holds the record with three. In an Oval Office interview with the magazine, Bush himself attributed his second presidential victory to his foreign policy and “the wars HE started with Afghanistan and Iraq”. {His words, not mine!}
I just want to take this opportunity to say, “Congratulations, George.” It’s not just anyone who can ruin the environment, drive our debt to a new record high, lose hundreds of thousands of jobs and “start” two wars, all in one term of office. Believe me, I’m as giddy as a school girl, waiting to see how you’re going to screw up Social Security and let your friends steal all of the money. {Happy New Year!}
Yes, Sir. I do believe you deserve this honor. I’m thinking, there’s a whole lot of poor and hurt people in this world that would like to help “serve it up” to you. In fact, it’s the really great men like you that they make movies about...but who would we ever get to play such a part. Someone who could handle such a prominent role and truly do it justice.
http://www.dubyamovie.com/
But before we immortalize this great man, there are just a couple of things, I’m not really clear about...like, “Why did your ole grandpa, Senator Prescott Bush, help set up the Nazi’s industrial power base through his banking and shipping interest, not to mention pouring hundreds of millions of dollars into IG Farben and providing it with technology for essential synthetic materials, while withholding the same materials and patents from the U.S. government. {IG Farben built and operated {slave labor} more than forty concentration camps, including Auschwitz.} In fact, I think it was back in 1942, ole Grandpa had all of his banking interests seized by the U.S. Congress, under the Trading With the Enemy Act. {I guess we
shouldn’t have expected any better from a man who supposedly dug up Geronimo’s grave at Ft. Sill, OK, stealing his skull and taking it to the Skull and Bones “fraternity”, at Yale}
And what about dear ole Dad. It’s not the fact that he got shot down twice during WWII that bothers me {maybe he was just a “bad pilot”, too} and although, there are always questions about any captain that survives, when his entire crew does not, it doesn’t prove a thing. We do know, however, that ole Dad’s State Department did tell Saddam, “we had no concerns”, about the border with Kuwait. {Then, of course, ole George stabbed him in the back and brought the weight of the entire western military might down on him.} I must admit, though, it does make me wonder just how much money the Carlisle Group {Bush’s arms dealing cartel} pocketed by arming both sides of the fray?
But what about Dubya, himself. Maybe he would like to come forward and explain the suspicious time line of the events, of 9/11. While he’s at it, maybe he could also comment on the coincidence of his neo-con buddies old theory {that, “It would have to start with a Pearl Harbor style attack”, to get the American people behind going to war in the Middle East}, happening less than two years after they took office. And just maybe, he’d like to “really” explain why America started a war with a country that had not attacked us. Maybe, Dubya is just keeping with the with the same “family values” that generations of Bushs have demonstrated for decades.
Did we not hear President Eisenhower warn us about the “military industrial complex”? Did we not see the Kennedys assassinated, before our very eyes, because they said no to war? Did we not hear Bennito Mussolini say, all those years ago, that, “Fascism should rightly be called corporatism, as it is a merger of state and corporate power”?
I don’t know. Maybe I’m being too harsh...too judgemental. Maybe Georgie could explain all of this in a word...
http://www.extremefunnyhumor.com/swf/whatevers.swf
http://www.faulkingtruth.com/Articles/Words/1021.html
By: To The Left
Dec. 26, 2004
If you have read any of my other articles, you know I consider myself as an old "leftover hippy". Long ago, before that, I was raised around and knew lots of Western Oklahoman cowboys. My dad, who died 19 years ago, was a cowboy. He loved horses and we always had a few to several, even up to two hundred horses around us. He loved horses so much in his life, that people called him "Hoss" all his life. He always was well liked and drew some colorful characters.
One of his dear friends was one of the most colorful characters I've ever known. His nickname was "Monk", and he called himself "El Coyote". After my Dad passed away, I really got to know Monk much better. My Dad nicknamed me "Pete" and Monk would always call me the same. It made me feel good.
Well, last week, Monk went to be with my Dad. At age 70, he lived a long life, much longer than I ever expected him to live. They had a memorial service for him in far-Western Oklahoma last Saturday, a week before Christmas, in which I was present. As I drove up to the makeshift church, I saw cowboy hats all over the place. The friend that went with me said he sure felt out of place, with his hair long all the way to the middle of his back! I saw some very dear friends that I haven't seen in decades, especially one of my very dear old "runnin'" partners. But it was just like what Monk would have wanted. The guitar player and singer first tried to play "Amazing Grace" but after a little trouble, said he would just play something he knew and played a beautiful cowboy song about a cowboy and his relationship with his family and the Lord. The Pastor talked a bit and the last song was "Happy Trails to you, until we meet again".
I always knew that ol' Monk would leave us in the cold months, and sure enough, he did. He always was coming up sick in the winter, seemed like every year. Every winter my thoughts would cross about wondering how he was. Now he has to worry no more.
You see, when he was born, the mold was broken. I would call him an outlaw- survivor with a good, compassionate heart. He liked to drink whiskey and beer in his younger years. He always carried his .32 automatic down in his boot, even though, as far as I know, he never used it. It sure would get him out of a few scrapes though. I was at a club one night long ago and a guy came at him with a knife. He whipped out that pistol like Wyatt Earp! My friend and I were under the table in a flash! I'm sure in his older years, he retired that .32 pistol.
I'm not sure about this story, but I was told that one time, he and one of our long-gone local doctors went on a deer-hunting trip around Cheyenne, Oklahoma. Doc went in to talk to the landowner about hunting on his land. While inside, the owner said he had a lame horse that he needed to put down and asked Doc if he would shoot it for him. Doc went back out to the truck and told Monk as they were driving by the pasture, "The old son-of-a-bitch wouldn't let us hunt! I'll show him!" He stopped, jumped out and shot the horse. About that time, Doc was surprised to hear another shot. Monk said "Let's get the hell out of here, I just shot one of his registered cattle!"
In his early years, he was a rodeo clown and a bullfighter in rodeos. He rode a little donkey in his act. Once, he got drunk and rode his donkey inside the local bar and refused to leave. When the police came, he refused to go to jail without his "ride". They ended up putting him and his donkey in the cell. He had so many stories that I couldn't put a dent in it here and they were all true!
Later in his life, he started following the horse race circuit. That's when I really got to know him. I went from substance abuse to betting the horses. A lot of substance abusers gamble, looking for the rush. Gambling actually affects the same areas of the brain as drugs. I wouldn't recommend it, but I actually did pretty well and learned a lot. I learned to handicap horses through a world-famous horseplayer from Tulsa, Oklahoma. I haven't played the ponies in quite a while, but some time, when I have the extra money, I'll play them again. At that time, I was trying to do it for a living, although I did all right, it was way too much stress! I still consider myself one of the best in Western Oklahoma.
Monk became a jockey agent, the middleman who arranges the rides for his jockeys. He worked at Raton, New Mexico, a place he really loved, up in the mountains. He also worked at Remington Park at Oklahoma City, and at Blue Ribbon Downs at Sallisaw, Oklahoma. I went to Sallisaw a lot for a while and saw him quite often. He would always give me a tip, but usually it was one of his jockey's mounts and they seldom won, but that was all right. He introduced me to some very colorful people there. He introduced me once to a lady that used to be "Pretty Boy Floyd's" girlfriend, and to his brother. I had a blast with him. He knew and was respected by what they called "The Dixie Mafia" in that area. He just liked excitement and was about half-outlaw.
At the same time, Monk, in his older years became a very spiritual man, out to pay his dues in any way possible. One time, my Mother and I went to Sallisaw to play the ponies. On Sunday, he wanted us to go to his church with him. He said it was a bunch of reformed hillbilly outlaws singing church hymns and playing electric guitars. That was one of my greatest experiences. It was beautiful! He was the kind of man that would pick up a hitchhiker and go buy him a meal. Other times, he would be out poaching deer just because he was starving. I remember, one time he had a hillbilly girlfriend that got mad at him. She drove him up in the middle of the mountains about 30 miles from anywhere, pulled a .38 pistol on him, forced him to take his boots off, and made him walk back to town bare-footed. I could go on and on.
Monk liked to, as he said, "Make a circle." He would take off to visit his friends, and he had a bunch. I know that it is so easy to get out of touch with old friends, but he would always make his rounds every so often to see his many friends. My mother could always expect a knock on the door and a visit from him every few months, even if he lived hundreds of miles away.
I know, towards the end, he had to spend some time in a local nursing home. Not being able to travel around really took its toll on him. I heard that another patient in the nursing home told Monk that he really liked the furniture in his room. When it came time for Monk to be released, Monk just sold it to him. It ended up that the furniture was the property of the nursing home!
Later, Monk had to be admitted to a hospital. I talked to his son a few days after the memorial service. He told me that when Monk was in intensive care, he noticed an old couple, one in intensive care, next to him. After a while, he realized that they were from out of state and that they were really struggling because they had no money. He was in sad shape himself, but he passed his hat around on the hospital floor and collected a good sum of money. He got his hat back, didn't even count it, and handed it over to the elderly couple. That was just the kind of person he was, all the way to the end.
Well, ol' Monk doesn't have to suffer any more, but the world lost one of the most colorful men there ever was. He made up for the bad by helping many people in need. He had a hard life at times, but was on top of the world at other times, with a heart as big as any. He had a compassion and dedication in helping prisoners to cope with their problems. He did a lot of work as a member of a Jail and Prison Ministry.
Monk's last wish was to have his ashes scattered across the state of New Mexico, a place that he loved. He wrote a poem that I thought would illustrate some of his thoughts and experiences. He handed out flyers to prisoners with his poem on it.
Monk, Rest In Peace.
The Outlaw Prayer
The bed that I lay on is narrow and cold.
The sickness inside me tears at my soul.
And the devil awaits me, he calls me his son.
For he knows I'm cornered, and too weak to run.
For soon I must return to my gutter of thrill,
Where joy is the Bottle or a handful of pills.
Where a man welcomes misery like an old friend home.
That he uses and abuses till the misery is gone.
My mind filled with torture, my body's in pain.
But the bottle is warm as it sinks in my veins.
Just a matter of seconds, then my mind will be free,
From the coldness and darkness that dominated me.
I lay with a stolen pistol and another man's wife,
But the freedom is short lived, and then I'm alone.
I must find a Bottle but my money's all gone,
Then the cycle of horror starts over once more.
Oh God let me suffer this misery no more.
Monk
"El Coyote"
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