Fall viewing of another sort

Just sayin.'

Only God can make a tree

As I watch the aspens turn gold outside my Mountain-West window, my mind wonders, then wanders to thoughts of deciduous trees of the Southeast.

I miss the orangey red of sassafras, the first splash of fall there; the yellow poplar, the muted red of dogwood. I like even the blah brown of oak.

Tourists typically jump the color gun and head south too early for the full effect; early November is my favorite time to see what God has wrought in them thar hills.

Stand up for the union

Deliver us from the gathering storm

Unworthy though we are

As a native Southerner, I am torn about unions. I'm not so sure that they haven't outlived their use.

But in Coal Country back in the day, unions made a life-and-death difference for those who worked the mines. Click the title for Hazel Dickens' sorrowful rendition in song.

Another perspective on Roman

This blogger argues for leaving the molesting cretin alone for the benefit of his long-ago victim. I don't know. This makes sense, but I still want the SOB to pay. 

http://www.salon.com/mwt/broadsheet/feature/2009/09/28/polanski_justice/index.html

When in Roman. . .throw the sumbitch in jail. Forthwith.

Roman Polanski drugged and raped a 13-year-old. 

Yes, he has undergone heartbreak (his wife Sharon Tate, pregnant with the couple's son, was butchered by the Charles Manson family). Yes, he is a brilliant film director.

But he. drugged. and. raped. a. 13. year. old. He is no different from a fellow pedophile who drives a truck, slings hash at a Waffle House, or trades stock on Wall Street.

Don't let the prison cell door hit you in the ass as it swings closed behind you, Roman.

"I taste a liquor never brewed . . ."

OK, Emily Dickinson didn't really speak for me. I taste a lot of liquors brewed. But I promise not to blog when I'm too drunk to spell-check.