The Ten Commandments of the Honorable Judge Roy Moore

December 11, 2017


Judge Roy Moore’s love of the Ten Commandments is well documented. Many of a different theological mindset (not to mention those blasphemers amongst the ACLU) have argued against the good judge’s righteous interpretation. However, archeologists recently located his treasured court house fixture and uncovered what arguably might better explain his unwavering, inerrant devotion to the sacred Word of God ordained on those stone tablets, so long ago, i.e. the flip side. Evidently, the Lord Almighty hisself hath giveth Brother Moore an exception or two … or ten. Moses be damned! Indelibly chiseled on the back of his Put-it-up!-Take-it-down!-Put-it-up!-Take-it-down! treasure, are the real and true and never-to-be-questioned Ten Commandments, as divinely spoketh to the good Judge Roy by the Lord:

1. Thou shalt have no other gods before Me.*

* Except a Gun. Three letters, both starting with a capital “G.” All’s Good.

2. Thou shalt not make unto thee any graven image.*

* Unless it’s an American Idol and she’s performing at the town mall. She’ll surely raise the deadest right on up from his grave.

3. Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain.*

* Cheering for a particular college football team is allowed, e.g. “GOOD GOD, SABAN!!” God understands. God cheers, “Roll Tide!” too. (Exception does not apply to Tiger fans.)

4. Remember the sabbath day to keep it holy.*

* Ignore when you need to schedule campaign events agains the Antichrist, aka Doug Jones. 

5. Honor thy father and thy mother.*

* No exceptions. Not even verbal, emotional, physical, sexual abuse. Father knows best. Always. Amen.

6. Thou shalt not kill.*

* A fetus. Anything else, go for it. Homosexuals, rapists, murderers, Muslims, those pesky black folk… 

7. Thou shalt not commit adultery.*

* It ain’t adultery if they’re underage.

8. Thou shalt not steal.*

* Anything but votes. Stealing votes is A-OK. However you can do it, do it.

9. Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbor.*

* See “Antichrist” in Commandment 4. Doug Jones does not live in your neighborhood. He’s a Muslim born in Kenya. They all are.

10. Thou shalt not covet anything that is thy neighbor’s.*

* You may covet the Golden Fleece of the 45th President of the United States. Your neighbors, nor your god, will mind.







How My Mind Works

January 6, 2012

One of my Twitter friends, Travis Burch (check out his great playing here), gave me the nicest complement the other day:

Don’t believe him about being woefully ignorant about things. I’ve read his tweets and his poems, and listened to his music. He’s very much on the ball, the kind of person that you can tell, even within the limits of a relationship involving a few 140-character notes, the guy has substance. I hope to run into Travis one day, to both say hello in person and to play my mandolin with him. He can teach me a thing or twelve.

More to the point of this post though, I had the strangest mash-ups of songs in my head as I started off my day this morning. They were making me quite happy, the fun of them, and so I thought of posting them here before I forgot them. Now, on those days of doldrums and blues, I can revisit and make myself smile. I dedicate this post to Travis, since he wants to pick my brain (though he may be thinking twice about that now.)

First, Nancy Sinatra (especially the horn section):

This then blended into Rosanne Cash’s “Seven Year Ache”, leaving me singing something like “These boots are made for walking on a seven year ache. See what else your old heart can take.”

If that wasn’t strange enough, a song that I heard for the first time yesterday, Lori McKenna’s “The Most” (first line, “My life is a grocery store line…”):

merged with They Might Be Giants, “Dead”. Really.

Sorry this isn’t the best video, but it’s fun. And it’s a wonderful song to memorize every word and sing often. At strange times. Like now.

Finally, it all came to a culminating sing-along during the morning commute as I sang loudly to “Birdhouse in Your Soul”.

I blame all of this on that crazy meme spreading around Facebook right now, the one asking you to share the song that was #1 the week you were born. Hint: None of the above are mine.

Anyhooo… Happy Friday! Enjoy!

Looking Like a Million Bucks

December 29, 2011

I spent the morning in my cubicle, earbuds in, listening to my new copy of “The Essential Rosanne Cash“. Anyone who knows me or has followed my adventures of the past year knows that I’m a big fan of Rosanne’s, both her songwriting and her prose. She is a favorite writer of mine, plain and simple. Even when limited to 140 characters, she is more witty and poetic than the overwhelming majority of tweeters.

Over my bowl of Barbara’s Peanut Butter Puffins this morning, I read the liner notes to the CD. Many quotable lines are there, but the one I liked best came from the words of Rodney Crowell,

Truth be told, it was Rosanne’s infectious and unforgettable laughter that, more often than anything save the songs themselves, brought out the best in these extraordinarily generous musicians… that and the stylish focal point she quite often provided simply by turning up for the sessions looking like a million bucks.

I was fortunate enough to see Rosanne and her husband, the uber talented John Leventhal, perform live at The Narrows Center for the Arts in Fall River, MA in November. Even more, I’m fortunate to have a slight little Twitter friendship with the artist and thus, had the chance to visit with her for a few minutes backstage after the show. She was gracious, funny, down to earth, and… yes… looked like a million bucks. She signed my copy of her memoir, “Composed,” posed for a picture, and shared a few hugs.

me with our well-pressed singing-songwriting hero

When I got back to the hotel after the show, I downloaded the pictures to my laptop and was shockingly pleased to see that Rosanne and I share not only good taste in music (because I have to assume she likes her own work), but in the lost art of … IRONING! Lo and behold, on the table behind her, was an iron. I asked her about it via Twitter later and she admitted that she did indeed iron both her outfit and her husband’s shirt before the show. Be still my heart! She writes, she sings, she cracks witty and intelligent jokes, AND she irons.

I iron every morning. Well, not EVERY morning, but just about. I iron whatever it is I’m going to wear for work that day. I iron whatever I might wear out to dinner or some other entertaining event. For those few occasions each year that I travel for work, I used to pull out all the clothes I chose to wear and carefully ironed and folded each item before packing it in my suitcase. Eventually though, I was told by a colleague with a look of bewilderment on her face as I unpacked, “You do know that hotel rooms have irons, don’t you?”

I confess that I did not, but even now that I do, it’s with reluctance that I pack my clothes pre-pressed (as in, not pressed yet). I just don’t trust those hotel irons. Or the hotel ironing boards. They inevitably dribble water all over everything or they’ll leave some odd mark across the only white dress shirt you’ve packed. They cannot be trusted. And I cannot be wrinkled.

The other day I saw an advertisement for surely what must be the most disturbing invention in clothing ever designed; quite possibly in the top 5 of disturbing inventions of all time. It was for an item called the “Forever Lazy,”  an adult-sized onesy for grown-ups who have evidently not. Grown up, that is. It’s a gigantic cocoon, complete with a zippered trap drawer so you can pee without taking it off. Now granted, one-piece union suits have been around a long time for guys (and women) working outdoors, but this thing is for anything but work. Hell’s bells, it’s called “Forever Lazy”!

My point with this ramble from Rosanne to long johns is this, there is something to be said, still, even in this day of lazy-ass sloppy dress, for looking like a million bucks. There’s still something to be said for ironing your clothes and making yourself presentable. Yes indeed. For all of my friends who forever harangue me about my concern for neat appearance, this is why: laughter and looks will get you through life.

I will never be in Rosanne Cash’s league in terms of style and grace and beauty, nor will I ever possess Katharine Hepburn’s figure or wardrobe as Bunny Watson in every librarian’s favorite film (or at least favorite librarian on film), “Desk Set,” but I’ll be well-pressed when you see me out in the world. I’ll not be caught in any outfit of the style I outgrew 48 years ago. I’ll not walk down the street in whatever I wore to bed last night. Let’s look neat, people! Pull up your pants! Press your clothes! Let’s recapture what it means to be presentable in public.

My New Year’s wish #2.