Listened to Bill O’Reilly give Europe a good verbal whipping two
nights in a row this week. I was at the same time entertained and
dismayed by his treatment of the continent.
I watch at least part of O’Reilly’s program most evenings. In the
main I enjoy the show, even when, as happens perhaps a third of the
time, I disagree with the host.
O’Reilly lambastes liberals often but he is no kept apologist for
the Republican Party. Media pundits sometimes describe O’Reilly as
though he were an ideological clone of Limbaugh, Hannity and Beck, but
I think such comparisons result from shoddy research rather than
piercing political insight.
My wife Lisa is friendly, caring and nurturing.
Except with ticks.
Suffice it to say that if Lisa saw a tick drowning (I’m presuming
here, as my knowledge of ticks is scant, that ticks can be drowned) she
wouldn’t throw it a life preserver.
Well, now that I think about it she might throw a life preserver.
When I think about the income taxes I pay — and I do so as infrequently
as I can manage — I feel a peculiar mixture of patriotism and regret.
On the one hand I know I’m contributing, albeit in a meager way, to the
most generous country on earth. I know the modest fruits of my labor
help to heal and feed kids who are sick and starving in some wretched
On the other hand I’m also paying for manure odor studies and Barney Frank’s salary.
Ponder that for a few seconds and see if you can still smile.
Still and all, my disdain for certain of the federal government’s
spending habits is not so great that I think it’s appropriate to
compare Barack Obama to King George III.
The closing of a school is, with rare exceptions, a sad occasion.
This is due, it seems to me, to the unique nature of schools.
No building seems as empty as a shuttered school, for the simple
reason that no building seems so full as one occupied by children who
are learning to add fractions and to subtract superfluous adverbs from
Playgrounds look particularly forlorn when deprived of kids. The
sight of a ball field with basepaths overrun by dandelions rather than
sneakers is a dismal one indeed.
This winter has gotten a reputation, around here anyway, as
something of a skinflint. This allegation, whatever its meteorological
merits, sounds like the cruelest sort of lie when you’re stuck up to
your armpits in a drift.
Nor does it add to the tale’s plausibility that your forearms have
to endure their frigid submersion with nothing but skin for protection.
And skin gives up a lot, insulation-wise, to wool.
Strange to see ponderosa logs decked again at the Ellingson mill site.
Strange in a good way.
These trees, it’s true, aren’t destined for quite so noble a purpose
as were the pines they used to stack on the property. Some of those
logs were as thick through the middle as a bridge abutment.
The comparatively slender trees that trucks deliver to the mill
these days, rather than becoming permanent parts of someone’s home will
temporarily warm a room on a bitter day.
Politicians in Washington, D.C., have been saying some scary things of late.
They often do this, of course.
Yet recent rhetoric seems to me especially troubling because one of the words in fashion is “fairness.”
Besides, say, “taxes,” I can’t think of any word I would less like to hear from the larynxes of lawmakers.
I hope the stimulus plan President Obama signed into law this week
revives the American economy from its current bout of narcolepsy. And
if it does, I won’t be bothered a whit when President Obama and the
Democrats in Congress lay claim to the credit.
I understand this position brands me as unreliable, and possibly even a a traitor, in certain political circles.
Some conservative commentators — radio talk show host Rush Limbaugh is
the most prominent of them — are rooting for Obama to fail.
It’s every amateur actor’s nightmare.
You come on stage during opening night when you’re not scheduled to,
spouting lines you’re not supposed to say until later in Act II.
And you’re not even wearing that sassy black dress that the nice
wardrobe chief let out so it’ll fit your less-than-feminine physique.
That was the gist of my big gaffe last Friday, when Eastern Oregon
Regional Theater’s “Any Body Home?” opened its two-weekend run at the
Extension Building in Baker City.
We drove down the middle fork of the John Day on Sunday, searching for a snow-free hike and the early buttercup.
We found mud, mainly.
And although there were no buttercups in evidence we did see a few
sprigs of that other yellow bellwether, desert parsley, its bright new
blossoms about the size of a nickel.
We left the parsley.