Kal Kallaugher opines on the mystifying Mitch McConnell, who apparently doesn’t like being called “Moscow Mitch,” but, as Kal notes, refuses to allow a vote on legislation to protect the security of our election system from Russian meddling.
It is a puzzlement, indeed.
I was watching the Netflix series on Bobby Kennedy yesterday. It’s very likely different for those of us who remember, as opposed to those who have only heard about Bobby and his times, but the segment on the confrontations with George Wallace seem relevant to this.
George Wallace was a cocky little son of a bitch. It was part of his brand. His proclamation “Segregation now, segregation tomorrow, segregation forever” didn’t leave a lot of room for interpretation, nor did his famous stance in the doorway of the University of Alabama’s administration building.
He was by-gawd not gonna let those negroes enroll in the white kids’ college and he would stand in the door himself to see to it.
You can despise everything he stood for and yet admire the contrast between him and the mealy-mouthed, focus-grouped weasels of today.
But what caught my attention was a clip of RFK and Sam Ervin, and ol’ Senator Sam was defending segregation. I think of Ervin as a hero of Watergate, which he was, and I’m sure others remember him as an opponent of Civil Rights but most folks likely don’t.
It makes me wonder how Moscow Mitch will want to be remembered, once the dust has settled.
I suppose it depends on who wins. “Moscow Mitch” could become a title of honor in the brave new world.
But I don’t expect him to do a Sam Ervin turnabout and lead the charge to preserve honor and decency.
Louis Renoir — who changed from a Gestapo puppet to a French patriot in the course of the movie — was a fictional character from a bygone era.
I guess Senator Sam was from that same long forgotten time.
Shhh! Secret Meetings!
I think this was supposed to be more widely announced, but the Association of American Editorial Cartoonists will be having their annual convention in Columbus later this month, during the CXC comics festival.
The convention itself is mostly members’ biz stuff, but the gathering will also include several public panels and events on Friday, Sept 27 and Saturday, Sept 28, while the Billy Ireland currently has an exhibit of editorial cartoons on display.
CXC has a listing of events — toggle “schedule” at the top of that page — and I know that there’s at least one more AAEC panel discussion than they’re listing because I’m moderating it.
The overall CXC gathering is comics/graphic novel oriented, but, if that’s not your thing and editorial cartooning is, it’s all free and would be very much worth dropping by.
And, if you like them both, well, then it’s even more worth dropping by perhaps from even farther away.
Now, back to the show!
Jan Eliot gets a laugh-and-sigh with this week’s Stone Soup, because, while I’m Edie’s age, I’m getting to the point where too much of my conversations take the form of “organ recitals.”
I’m waiting for a hip replacement and so have both pain and a visible hitch in my getalong, plus a whole lot of arthur-itis in other places, so I can complain with the best of them, though both my graying and balding took place so gradually that they didn’t bother me.
I will say being in the newspaper business was a help: Simply keeping (A) my self-respect and (B) the paychecks coming was enough of a constant challenge that I didn’t have time for a mid-life crisis.
But I did laff at Edie’s “Oh, to be 40 again” because, as it happens, in my dreams I seem to be in my 40s — physically fit, but with a good measure of well-earned wisdom.
It’s not a decade to piss away obsessing over a few age spots.
And there is no time in life that should be pissed away ironing shirts.
Today’s Pickles offers some challenges, because I think it’s funny, but I have no patience for men who never learned basic skills.
Back in the 70s, women often whined “I went from being somebody’s daughter to being somebody’s wife and I never learned how to be myself,” which annoyed me because there were any number of men who made the same transition or lack thereof.
It’s not sexism; it’s childishness.
Don’t look at me: Dan Kiley got a whole book out of it.
During the Hong Kong Flu epidemic of 1968, I was in the university infirmary for about a week and there was a guy there who kept calling for his mother.
Granted, he was feverish but we were all feverish and it didn’t stop us from at least grabbing a bedpan if we couldn’t make it to the bathroom. It was like he was six feet tall and four years old.
We all prayed for his recovery more fervently than for our own, and I’ll bet he still doesn’t know how to fry an egg or iron a shirt.
Whoever married him got just what she deserved, and probably just what she wanted and, by yompin’ yiminy, Dan Kiley got a book out of that, too.
Whereas I’m more curious about what Earl is up to that he needs a shirt ironed for?
Maybe he’s going to church, though, if you keep your jacket on, you only have to iron the front, and, if you wear a sweater, you don’t have to iron anything.
Anyway, Lola reminds me that, back in the days before cable and VCRs, Catholics in the Mountain Time Zone flocked to the nine-thirty Mass, because Notre Dame Replay was on at eight and the Broncos kicked off at 11.
Talk about a Holy Day of Obligation!
Or sew on a button. Guys were appalled that we charged a dollar to sew on a button when I worked at the dry cleaners. But I had several repeat customers, at which time I began sewing the button marginally farther from the button hole (especially effective on collar buttons).