ssǝɹddns ɹou ɹɐǝɟ ɹǝɥʇıǝu plnoʍ ʎʇǝıɔos ǝǝɹɟ ʎlnɹʇ ɐ ʇɐɥʇ ƃuıʇnɔolɯnɔɹıɔ suıɐʇuoɔ ǝʇıs sıɥʇ



Tuesday, November 3, 2015

Election Day

First up: Wilkes-Barre Mayor?

Let's see. TL or mediocrity?


County Council? Incumbent my ball bearings.

Save for Brominski, go away.


Wilkes-Barre Area School District, otherwise known as the Wilkes-Barre Incumbent-Family  Job Placement Bureau...


And Bill....


Also went for Malloy for Magistrate.

Later

Tuesday, August 18, 2015

The Beauty of Roku

Recently, the ever-increasing and undeniably astronomical cost of cable and satellite television came up on The Sue Henry radio broadcast haunt.

I listened intently to caller after caller while figures approaching and exceeding $200 a month were mentioned. I was aghast. Horrified. And giggling inside. Here's why...

I used to pay one of those aforementioned, horrendously exorbitant figures for access to hundreds of television networks that I outright refused to watch. Sorry folks, but Bad Girls Club is little more than drunken out-of-control sluts on parade.

So, I called the satellite company, cancelled my service, and demanded that they send one of the illegal aliens on their payroll to remove their equipment. Then I traveled all the way to Boscov's to purchase a digital antenna priced at $14.99. Next came the $99 Roku 3.

These days, we have access to Netflix, Hulu and 23 broadcast channels on our television, channels we are receiving in digital picture and sound. Total monthly out-of-pocket hurt...$16.

In addition, we can rent from both Red Box and the Blockbuster catalogue without leaving the couch. Thanks to the Roku, we can add as much programming as we'd like, and very inexpensively. But, alas, I really, really like that figure I previously mentioned...$16 a month. 

Act, people!

Later

Monday, June 22, 2015

Tuesday, May 19, 2015

Ebon

The aforementioned graduate.

ESU, by the way.

Later

My new T

Don't like it?

No, I ain't going to act my own age anytime soon.

Bye

Primary

I had to go with George Brown for mayor.

Going against an organizer, a retiree and a chief of police hopeful, his resume, professionalism and personality won the day.

Never before was I compelled to vote for or against any prospective candidates for a magisterial spot, save for this time.

I did not vote for anyone, entrenched or otherwise, whereas the Wilkes-Barre Area School Board is concerned. My daughter earned her B.S. in Early Childhood Education a little over a week ago, I do not have a bag of cash to offer to any sitting school board blowhards, so she will educate elsewhere.

City Council-E: Bill Barrett, of course.

Statewide judge races...who???

And County Council?

I voted for Ed Brominski, however the hell he spells it. As for the rest of the hopefuls, collectively, as a tepid, inane group, they can go forth with their usual reverse-spizzerinctum.



Later

Wednesday, February 25, 2015

T-Jets

Many, many moons ago, my brother, Ray, and I got into a scrap with a couple of black guys.

When the scrum started, Ray and I were playing Wiffle-Ball, which, in my mind, is next to Godliness.

But one of the black guys, after being shouted and beaten down, yelled, "Boys play with toys," while limping away as he was commanded to do. I never forgot that limp-wristed parting shot, nor did it ever bother me in the least.

Yeah, "boys play with toys". Uh, well, it sure beats "boys" playing with handguns, illicit drugs and prison guards while being converted to Islam.



Toys?

I'm all good with that.

And?

The End of CT

The End?

The question came up. It does, now and again. Not so much anymore. It goes as follows: If I grew up in Connecticut, how did I come to end up in Wilkes-Barre?

I've always thought of it as being the end. The end of one life and the onset of yet another. The end in CT came about when I told my stepfather that I did not want to be legally adopted by him. He reacted very angrily, and in a fortnight, went totally berserk on those of us that shared 25 George Ave, Derby, CT, with him. Both my sister and I learned what it meant to be 'knocked out cold." I was 12. She was younger.

Anyway, the end.

First, there was a police car. Then, another. And then, yet another. My mother endured that beating until he was finally taken away to the local VA hospital. And then the phone rang. And when mom dispensed with the phone, she was hysterical. She told me he promised to kill us when he was released from the VA. She was sobbing and vibrating and praying out loud. Knowing Leo, I was scared out of my wits.

She and I piled the parlor furniture against the front door. And then we spun the refrigerator against the back door. Down below in the basement, I backed the Datsun up against the garage door, hoping that the bumper would prevent the garage door from being raised. We threw mattresses and dressers in front of bedroom windows. Defenses in place, we cuddled in the kitchen, eating Scooter Pies, while mom prayed on and on.

The end...

After mom spoke to some police honcho on the phone, she was relieved to learn that the VA would hold violent types for a set amount of time. I can't recall now, for 48 or 72 hours. Some such period.
Since the school year had just begun the day before, or the day before that, she decided that both Suzie and I would head off to school from within our defensive perimeter. But by the time we had walked home from our bus stop---The Grassy Hill Lodge--she was borderline hysterical all over again. 

According to her, she had been alerted that Leo's release from the VA was imminent.
So, we unpiled, repiled and then re-repiled our upholstered defenses, turned off every light in the house and waited on the coming storm. I had seen her hysterical many times before. I had seen her attempt a homicide a few times. And I had seen her treated like a walking, talking punching bag one too many times. But this time, she was completely unnerved. She was shaking and babbling and being very short-tempered.

The end of The End.

Sometime, mid-evening, a taxi pulled up and out stomped the raging bull. A glance was all I caught, but all I needed. He pushed the front door in, but the furniture piled in that entrance vestibule would not budge. The longer that stalemate went on, the more enraged he became. Mom was on the phone with the Derby PD when he made his way around back, tossed all of the lawn furniture into the pool  and then had at the kitchen door. That huge fridge he got at Glazer's was not going to retreat, so he punched out the window but a few feet away. 

Mom was crying hysterically, as was Suzie, while my then 9-month old brother wailed and wailed away. Leo made his way back out front and yanked the garage door clear out of it's frame. With that, my mom handed Ray to me and told me to grab Suzie, get into our bedroom and to lock the door behind me and to remain in there no matter what.

After the sound of the garage door being compromised, I could hear him pounding his way up the steps to the hallway door just a few feet from my bedroom door. It then shattered into a splintered mess.
I exited my room only to get punched center mass, right in the sternum. Suzie got much worse and suffered with bloody noses for years afterwards. Mom got the worst of it, as they fought from one wall to the other in the master bedroom. When the police arrived in force, I pulled down some of the furniture blocking the main entrance.

Surprisingly, since he was now in the hoosegow, she sent us off to school the next morning, even though we were both seriously off of our games. Some hours later, I was pulled from Mr. Supp's class only to learn that we were moving to Wilkes-Barre. I told Joanne, my love interest, that I would see her later. In fact, I would never see her again.

Back at the fort, we filled the Datsun wtih our clothes and prepared to make our way to Wilkes-Barre. No toys. No hobby stuff. No bicycles. Just clothes as we abandoned the only home my mother ever owned in favor of being dependant on the state, but not regularly beaten.

And they wonder why I have a huge chip on my shoulder and a hair trigger.

Later

Brown


Count me in...


G'nite

Tuesday, February 10, 2015

The slat-fueled bonfire

When POTUS invites Honduras on over---no strings attached---inevitably, Honduras is what you get...







So, 911 sent the fire department on up for a look. I've talked to Code Enforcement...twice. I've spoken to the mayor. And now we've had the fire department on scene. Still, the question still begs, what do we have to do to see the laws ans ordinances enforced?

Later

Sunday, February 8, 2015

Ray's 5th Birthday

Yeah, uh, long lost home video of my brother's 5th birthday party...in 1975.



I miss a bunch of those folks.

Later

Sunday, February 1, 2015

Scott Walker in Iowa

I already signed up...



Well then...

Tuesday, January 27, 2015

John Oliver: Civil Forfeiture

Bend over and spread 'em: make-believe probable cause is the policy.



Property, uh, rights?

Even Putin would object.

Good luck.

Gary Biller: Motorists Rights

The latter portion of this interview should frighten you.

That's, frighten you.



Yikes!

Sunday, January 25, 2015

KISS!!!

The aforementioned jean jacket...


Still kinda, sorta fits after thirty-some years.

Whatever, man.

Later


Toll this!

King Barry thinks every U.S. road should be a toll road?

Eff Him!



Buh-bye


Countdown to March

Save for a couple of days, four flippin' weeks 'til March.

You know, March, from which warmth is entirely possible.




I finally convinced Wifey that leaving Corruption County for new confines is a good, sound idea.

Firstly, I need a job and somewhere to hang my KISS-embroidered jean jacket.

Later

Wednesday, January 7, 2015

Boom!

King Barry is dead-set against the construction of the Keystone XL Pipeline.

Check this: "Boom: America's Explosive Oil-by-Rail Problem"



When the tankers are rolling across the road in front of you, don't creep up too close.

Later

Tuesday, January 6, 2015

Zike!

NEPA...meet The Zike @ http://zike.net



We bought one for the local grandbrats and one for the grandbrats down Dixie way.

Taylor Kate was the first to roll.

Later

Monday, January 5, 2015

This culm region is broke and broken

Gage and I happened upon our street sign, obviously, after some artiste went and ripped it down and bent it in half. I took it home and called the police. According to an officer, the DPW boys will retrieve it at some point.

This is exactly why assault and battery should be overlooked in some cases.


I see the Wilkes-Barre Area School Bored (no, not sic) wants to blow a couple of hundred million dollars on the construction of a new high school, if not two new high schools. And I read that they cannot settle on a construction site, which reportedly requires enough acreage to rival the size of Rhode Island.

I say demolish Coughlin's "old" building, remodel the annex, build a new school from the ruins of the elder building and build on the vacant corner lot. Should be plenty big enough, and in the dead center of the city. In addition, some streetscaping could allow for an extra traffic lane so that the soccer moms could shuttle the kiddies to and from class. 

One of these days, The Department of Homeland Security (as if) will secure our unsecured 700-mile southern border, so expect the student populations to decrease over the short haul a a result. In effect, if you build it, perrhaps them, they, the illegals will not come.

The thing is, we don't need to purchase additional properties, we don't need to spent hundreds of millions, and we should not expect to have to attempt to educate the half of Central America that hasn't illegally jumped our wide open border as of yet.

I have begun to reseach just what would be involved and required to move Wifey and I to another state. Folks, corruption is still the rule in this region, public sector unions have reduced us to being walking, talking revenue sources and the long sought after "good jobs" are never coming.

The culm region is long since done. Over. Dead in the water. Broke and broken. It's time to move on.

G'nite

Sunday, January 4, 2015

Diversity or: why Kunkle is suddenly looking pretty damn good

The asswipes in charge of this flailing nation relentlessly remind white folk that they need and must wholeheartedly embrace the fast accelerating demographic diversification.

My street was a lily white locale until August 2014.

Now, as the pictures testify to, diversity has arrived, bringing with it weekend-only remodeling without the required building permits (when code enforcement is off-duty), contractor bags filled with refuse being spirited away at dark (illegal dumping?) and construction debris being openly burned in a so-called fire pit.




I love that second pic: indoor Teknor Apex throw carpeting covering the flower bed area.(?)

I have spoken to both the Code Enforcement honcho as well as the mayor. So far, nothing.

In short, if this is what diversity brings with it, you can soon look me up at another lily white locale.

Later

Saturday, January 3, 2015

Original EJC photo

I scanned the decades-old photo...


 ...of dear ole Dad.

Later

EJC's fiddle

Been busy with work, life and assholes, but this shout out goes to Alsea, Oregon:

Tell dear ole Dad that his ancient fiddle is headed off to the repair shop, about to be fiddled on yet again.

 Above: Great-granddaughter, Taylor Kate, with the aged violin. Yes, that's "great-granddaughter."



Above: EJC circa 1943?

Later