Back in April, prompted by some things I’d read on the internet and social media sites, I posted an article entitled Is Professionalism Passe? While it was inspired by many different people (most of whom I don’t know), a few of the twitterers and bloggers are indeed characters from real life — whom I’d immortalized in my book.
I don’t know when it became acceptable to reduce every little family dispute or personal problem into a 140-character status, or deliberately misspell (as opposed to abbreviate) words, but it seems that even the most professional and successful among us lose all sight of propriety when communicating in cyberspace. As I wrote:
…The topic is something that has been bothering me for quite some time, after having viewed some pretty idiotic twitter updates and blog posts from allegedly professional, busy and successful members of the business community. It doesn’t seem to matter how educated, knowledgeable or hard-working some people are; in their minds technology, unlike real life, simply does not demand a certain set of standards.
For example, why is it that we’d never purposely spell a word incorrectly in a business correspondence, personal letter or even an email, yet some of us think it’s cute (or worse, cool, as if middle-aged men should still be concerned with such things) to do so in a 140-word character status? I am not quibbling with the necessary use of abbreviations when limited to such a low word-count — I am talking about deliberately misspelling common words.
I get that for many, typing up a cutesy status update just for fun helps to blow off steam and adds a little levity to life — something we all desperately need in the age of Obama. And as I mentioned in the post, perhaps the English Major in me is being a bit too judgmental of those who are simply using social media as a way to connect with friends and family. Still, reading posts like “Getting ready to strangle mom-in-law” is a little off-putting.
Yes, I understand it probably wasn’t meant literally and that mother-in-law was most likely spared an untimely death; however, is it really a wise idea to broadcast your in-law issues into cyberspace, a forum where nothing ever really goes away? And if your wife has already demonstrated she has no qualms about logging into your personal account on a social media site and pretending to be you, chances are she’s also checking out your twitter updates. Unless she either shares the same opinion of her mother, and/or has no problem with her husband disrespecting one of her parents, this seems like a great way to initiate an argument.
But we’re also talking about a woman who brushes off the plight of the unemployed in a terrible economy:
And in an especially egregious status update given the state of the economy, a small business owner with pressing deadlines laments about being summoned for jury duty when so many others are unemployed, implying that those “lucky” souls should be the ones inconvenienced by civic responsibility, not important people like her. Pardon me, but if you’re a busy entrepreneur during a difficult recession in which nearly 10% of Americans are out of work, I’d say a little gratitude — not to mention tact — is in order. Yes, jury duty can be a detriment to the bottom line, but creating a status update bemoaning a minor obstacle and simultaneously taking a potshot at others in retaliation is just plain rude and insensitive.
And after what I’d learned from my photographer friend’s friend, I wouldn’t be surprised if the mother-in-law status update was perfectly acceptable to her.
Growing up, my mom (like so many others) often told me to choose my friends wisely because we are judged by the company we keep; moreover, she did her best to carefully steer me away from any kids she thought might be a bad influence, since it’s so easy to succumb to peer pressure when you’re young and impressionable. However, this logic still applies in adulthood.
For example, I finally had to break away from a friend whose constant negativity and habitual doom-and-gloom attitude eventually became too much to bear. I gave it nine very long years until the sheer fatigue and depressing aftereffects of being in her company made it impossible to continue the friendship. I wish her well, yet at the same time, have zero desire to rekindle the relationship.
Is it possible this standard applies to marriages, too? Can one spouse’s personality rub off on the other’s until that person no longer seems recognizable?
Because the guy who wrote about strangling his mother-in-law — among other inane things — is not the one I recall; he’s certainly not the one I modeled a character after. And he’s definitely not the one I shared some honest, emotional phone conversations with just prior to releasing my book. But he’s for sure the “Ken” I choose to remember.
Since becoming actively involved in social media sites like Facebook two years ago, I’ve come across a plethora of undiscovered, artistic talent. And in the realm of modern music, songbird and lyricist Ava Aston – with a voice that is simultaneously sweet, powerful and provocative – stands alone.
Her debut CD entitled Gone showcases the impressive range not just of her vocals, but also her musical style and creativity. Sometimes edgy and defiant, as in the electrifying title track and in the high-energy single What Do I Gotta Say; other times tender and poignant as in the heart-tugging ballad, I Carry You With Me — for which she was awarded the Grand Prize in the SAW Mid-Atlantic International Song Contest – Ava’s unforgettable performances speak to the human experience and leave you wanting to hear more.
For those with the heart of a patriot, her most recent effort, We The People, an inspiring anthem to the indomitable American spirit, will reaffirm your faith in the power and determination of everyday Americans to return their country to its constitutional roots.
In a day and age where pop stars are manufactured creations of a pop culture gone crazy, it’s nice to know there are truly talented, wholesome and upstanding artists producing quality work. I have no doubt Ava’s star is on the rise and it’s only a matter of time before she’s signed by a smart record label. Until then, why not support a singer who is not only fabulously gifted, glamorous and beautiful, but also wholesome and patriotic? Both personally and professionally Ava proves it’s possible to sound great, look hot and maintain one’s integrity – in short, she’s a breath of fresh air on the music and entertainment scene.
Purchase her CD Gone today. If you appreciate powerful vocals and unique, eclectic musical arrangements, you’ll be happy you did. And if you’re on Facebook, join her fan page here.
God is my Source, and I am grateful for all my blessings.
As a child, I was taught to say thank you when I received a gift or kindness, and I continue this practice today. Every person is a channel through which blessings flow one to another. All blessings originate in God. So I also say “Thank you, God” for blessings seen and unseen.
If I am disappointed that something I needed or wanted has not shown up as expected, I remember that God is Infinite Source and not limited to any one channel. I am grateful in advance for the blessings to come, and I release any limiting thoughts about how they will flow or what they will look like. God is my Source, and I give thanks for all my blessings.
Enter his gates with thanksgiving and his courts with praise. –Psalm 100:4
Another great old song that always reminds me of summers at the Springfield Swim Club and Ocean City, NJ.
Hard to believe it’s not only midweek already; guess time flies when you’re having fun! It’s been an interesting week so far politically, particularly with this stunning shoot-out between Fox News’ Megyn Kelly and Kirsten Powers. Powers was obviously outmatched and egregiously unprepared for this interview, apparently planning to once again fall back on her usual platitudes and DNC talking points with respect to the New Black Panther Party voter intimidation case and the DOJ whistle-blower. Kelly however, did not suffer a fool gladly, as this video clearly demonstrates.
I’ve often questioned Fox’s inclusion of Kirsten Powers among their contributors; she long ago stopped being an intellectually honest voice for the left, in favor of parroting the Democrat Party line. Her “scary, black man” comment is both ignorant and an insult to Megyn Kelly’s intelligence and integrity. For your information, Kirsten, “the man standing outside that was so horrible” was dressed in paramilitary style, brandishing a nightstick and warning white voters — whom he called “crackers” — to get used to being “ruled” by a black man. That’s ok with you?
And in another shocking display of hubris, Powers also accused Kelly of failing to ask the hard questions of J. Christian Adams, while ranting about all of the alleged injustices that occurred under the Bush Administration’s Department of Justice (she never did point to a specific example).
Is it me, or are many on the left so distraught about the utter failure of their messiah — and the concurrent realization by most of the country that he is indeed, a socialist — that they cannot help but lash out. Even with the facts Kelly painstakingly and passionately articulated repeatedly for Powers, she could not get out of Bush-bashing mode long enough to concede the point, clearly outmatched and outclassed in this interview.
Frankly, I am shocked by her failure to read the transcripts before going on the air. While she never adds anything of substance to any debate, at least she’d previously demonstrated some knowledge of the topic at hand. This appearance was unworthy of anyone who possesses the title of “contributor” for the highest rated cable news network on television, and I wonder if Fox will even keep her around after this latest incident. Final observation: loved the sly look on Andrea Tantaros’ face at the very end of the segment!
And speaking of fireworks, tonight marks my initiation into the Palm Beach County Republican Executive Committee (REC), along with many other local conservative friends. Looking forward to outnumbering the RINOs with awesome people like Ellen Snyder (“The Conservative Diva”), Christina Beattie and Jessica Johnson Dornblaser. We’re taking our party and our country back!
“Seize the day. Pray for grace from God’s hand, then nothing will stand in your way.”
I discovered this wonderful song thanks to my friend Sabrina, who included it as part of a collection of inspirational music she’d burned onto CDs for Christmas gifts last year. Just like daily prayer time, listening to motivating music helps keep me focused, strong and firm in my beliefs, and in the accomplishment of my dreams. No matter what may be going on around me, especially things I cannot control, I do know I am fulfilling God’s purpose for me by using the gifts He’s given me — the ability to write, speak and communicate effectively.
Writing professionally has been the only thing I’ve ever really wanted to do from the time I was old enough to tell everyone around me, but it’s also one of those “impractical” career choices — much like acting or singing — that through which few find meaningful success. No, it wasn’t my parents who warned me about that; quite the opposite. They encouraged my dreams, particularly with every A+ essay, book report or teacher conference in which my budding skills were highly praised. And when it was time to go to high school, I was assigned to Advanced Placement (AP) English classes, where my love for reading and writing was expertly guided along by some fabulous teachers, including Mrs. Fenning (RIP).
Truth be told, I was the one who killed my dream before even giving it a chance to materialize. Instead of listening to my own God-given guidance and heeding the encouragement of family, I decided it would be just too hard to make a go of it as an aspiring journalist, opinion writer and novelist. But even while I spent many years working hard and trying to adjust to various corporate positions with varying degrees of compatibility to my skills set, I kept up with my handwritten journals. And especially during the “Ken” and early-Florida-years phase, I wrote copiously in lovely, hard-cover books with floral designs, which ended up being an invaluable resource when I finally sat down to write Water Signs some 14 years later.
Writing is also therapy, and I am convinced that — along with everything else I did — including the successful session I eventually took with the “remote viewer”, it played a significant role in ridding me of panic and anxiety disorder forever. Unsurprisingly, as I look back on that experience, I can also see how suppressing my real career goals and rejecting my life’s purpose also contributed to the emotional disorder, along with the deep-seated matters of the heart. (I will devote a post soon exclusively to panic and anxiety disorder, in the hope it will be helpful to others who may struggling with this formidable problem).
When the phenomenon known as the internet came along, and with it blogs, print-on-demand and social media in the 2.0 phase, I saw that as my opportunity to finally go for it, professionally speaking. This amazing technology has made it possible to showcase my work to an unlimited audience, network with people all around the world, connect with like-minded individuals, and via sites like You Tube, enhance every entry with an appropriate song or video.
At last, I achieved my childhood dream of writing a novel, and was able to publishing without having to grovel to a literary agent, or cope with one rejection letter after another. I could write exactly what I wanted, and present my work directly to my audience — no dream-killing gatekeeper required.
I was even able to expand into other areas previously not thought of, such as talk radio hosting, which has enhanced my political activism, commentary, blogging and novel-writing.
Author’s Note:Sea To Shining Sea, like its predecessor, Water Signs, is also based on real life events. However, as readers familiar with my first novel will notice, the sequel borrows more heavily from public events than personal ones, incorporating — among other things — American politics in the age of Obama, and the phenomenon of social media, blogs, and internet radio into the lives of my two main characters.
There’s a distinct political right-turn in the second book, whereby Madeline becomes an active participant in the Tea Party Movement and online conservative revolution, and Ken — as a result of suffering irreparable damage to his career as a result of D.C.’s policies — finds himself running for congressional office.
From a socio-political standpoint, pro-life values and the horrors of socialized medicine are upheld and explored as the characters are forced to put their convictions into practice under incredibly trying circumstances. Astute readers will also recognize the presence of a very well-known public and political figure in the character of Anna Hardin. 😉
Chapter Four
“Ken? It’s time to get up, honey,” Paula’s voice was soothing and calm as she peered into the guest bedroom of her house, where her youngest son had sought refuge for a few hours of much-needed sleep. Fully secure in the knowledge of Brian’s medical diagnosis, he’d returned to his parents’ home in Royal Oak Hills at his mother’s insistence. She dreaded the thought of him boarding yet another grueling, cross-country flight, especially after such an emotionally exhausting incident, and had successfully convinced him to leave Brian in the company of his mother and potential stepfather while he tended to his own well-being.
“You’re no good to anyone if you don’t take care of yourself,” she’d cautioned him sternly, adamant that his protests were not going to overrule motherly concern and intuition. In the end, Paula won the battle, much to the delight of her equally worried husband, who nevertheless, had an ulterior motive for wanting to get out of there. While he’d also shared his wife’s interest in their son’s obvious need for rest, he couldn’t wait to get away from the distasteful scene at the hospital with Erin and her beau.
A scrappy, self-made man, Carl had little time for his gold-digging, former daughter-in-law and her snobby, Old- Palm-Beach-Money boyfriend, both of whom were an embarrassment to his family with their condescending attitude toward the entire medical staff on Brian’s case. At one point, he’d witnessed Bennett barking orders at a kindly nurse, much in the way he’d imagined him addressing the servants in his home. Apparently, demonstrating respect for others – regardless of their station in life – had not been something ingrained in the Whitehorn home during Bennett’s upbringing. It was just more proof that money simply cannot buy class, and that Erin had indeed found a kindred spirit in the Florida Republican Party’s golden boy.
And while Carl had heard some rumblings recently about the possibility of their current congressman resigning in a cloud of suspicion over illegal (though as yet unpublicized) activity, there were also new rumors swirling around town about the governor’s interest in recruiting Bennett Whitehorn to run in a special election, should one become necessary. Of course, all of this was mere speculation at this point, which was why Carl was reserving judgment until Talon Grant himself confirmed the news on-air.
Thanks to his new daughter-in-law, Carl had become one of Talon’s most loyal listeners in the past year, rarely missing a broadcast and even then, only if family obligations demanded it. Fortunately, his wife had successfully entreated him to turn off the radio and join her in the stands that fateful afternoon at Brian’s Little League game. Good thing he’d listened to his astute better half; otherwise, their grandson would’ve sustained a life-threatening injury without a single family member present. And while the child himself wouldn’t have known the difference, with Ken and Madeline so far away, his grandparents felt an even deeper responsibility to pitch in and make the best of the situation. God knew the previous six months had been a rough transition for everyone involved.
In the tranquility of early dusk, Ken slowly regained consciousness, prompted by the familiar sound of his mother’s voice. For a fleeting instant, it felt as if he was back in elementary school at St. James in his Ventnor hometown, getting his second parental wake-up call – save for the fact that in those days, the voice was of a much more urgent and stern nature, usually accompanied by a demand to wash, dress and get downstairs for breakfast immediately.
“Ugh, what time is it?” he groaned, rubbing his eyes as he rolled over to face the doorway. In spite of several hours of deep sleep, he still felt as if he’d been hit by a truck; the thought of facing a nearly ten-hour ride on an airplane with its complementary jet-lag only intensified the feeling. Thank goodness it wasn’t a commercial flight.
“It’s close to seven, I think. How’d you sleep?” she inquired anxiously. “Poor guy, I wish you didn’t have to go back to Vancouver tonight. Can’t you leave in the morning?”
“I’d love to Mom, but Ian would absolutely kill me. This deal is encountering enough resistance as it is; I have to get back there as soon as I can to try to smooth things over.
“Besides,” he added as he sat up against the pillows, “Maddy needs me.”
She took a seat at the end of the bed. “Well Ken, I am sure she misses you, but Madeline is a big girl. If she could see how worn out you are, she’d want you to get more rest before rushing back to the madness. Unlike Erin, she’s very capable of managing alone. I’ve never met a more determined and strong young woman. If you just call her I’m sure she’d —”
“Mom, there’s something I have to tell you,” Ken interrupted, remembering the other impactful news in his life yet to be shared, let alone savored. “Actually, Dad needs to hear this, too. Where is he?”
“He headed over to Danielle and Patrick’s to help your brother install new French doors on his patio. I told him to go since he’d promised them he’d do it weeks ago, and after all of the drama with Brian’s accident, he needed a break. Bennett and Erin really got to him today.”
“Yeah, I know,” Ken observed wistfully. “But Dad’s not the only one. If I hadn’t been so preoccupied with what I’m about to tell you, I might’ve permanently removed the smirk from that arrogant jerk’s face, requiring still another visit to the plastic surgeon – only this time for him and not Erin.”
Noting the seriousness of his tone, she felt her heart skip a beat while she braced herself for the worst and urged him to continue. And as her son apprised her of the recent developments out of Vancouver, including the sordid details of Madeline’s visit with Dr. Harper, she struggled to come to terms with it all. On one hand, she was relieved to have discovered the cause of her daughter-in-law’s troubling fatigue, and overjoyed at the prospect of welcoming more grandchildren into the world. But on the other, she was frightened by what the future might hold for this new family. It was difficult enough coping with two traumatized children, a demanding ex and a heavy financial burden; now her son and his bride would be asked to potentially add twins to the mix – one or both of whom could have special needs.
Reading her mind, Ken observed, “Look, Mom, I know this is a huge surprise; I mean, the doctor swore up and down to Maddy before we got married that she’d never be able to have kids.”
He ran a hand through his hair as he continued with a sigh, “My God, I remember that day so clearly. She was completely devastated, even though she’d claimed beforehand she’d pretty much resigned herself to her fate. I guess it’s one thing to accept something in theory, but when you’re hit with the cold, hard reality, it’s something else.”
Visions of holding her tightly in his arms while she cried began to materialize in his mind. They’d been sitting on the couch in the family room one night after dinner when she’d broken the news to her soon-to-be husband, who, in spite of his protests, had held onto a glimmer of hope for fathering a child with her. It was an interlude they’d never discussed with anyone else in the family, preferring to keep the matter private. With all they’d been through simply to get to the point of marrying each other sixteen years after their first meeting—not to mention two existing children to raise – no one had even entertained the idea of questioning their intentions to reproduce.
But now in the quiet of an early summer evening, Ken finally unburdened himself to his mother, his palpable anguish heightened against the backdrop of events beyond his control, such as Washington’s refusal to pass the FISA Act. If this telecomm deal were to implode, what was he going to do to support his growing family? How would they manage if these new babies had handicaps that demanded more resources than they could afford? And what about Bonnie and Brian’s ever-increasing needs, not the least of which would eventually entail a college education? How was he going to save for that inevitable expense? He’d be damned if he’d allow Bennett Whitehorn to shoulder the responsibility for his kids’ higher education, as Erin had hinted one day during a heated argument on the phone.
“Kenny!” His mother’s tone was firm and reassuring as she interrupted his descent into downward-spiraling despair. “Listen to me: do not give in to your fears. God has blessed you with incredible strength, talent and character. You have always handled every adversity that life has thrown at you, and you will handle this, too. Your father and I are so proud of you, and I want you to know that we’re here for you, Madeline and the kids, whatever may come.”
Placing a hand on his shoulder, she added, “Do you have any idea how proud I am to call you my son?”
Ken’s eyes filled up as he looked at his mother, suddenly feeling like a little boy in need of consolation after losing a pee-wee football game. For what seemed like an eternity, necessity had dictated putting up a nearly invincible front for the sake of his wife and his children; it was a welcome relief to be on the receiving end of such heartfelt sympathy and comfort, if only for a brief moment in time.
“Thank you,” he barely choked out as a lone tear trickled down his face. “Mom,” he continued in the next breath, “please keep this between you and Dad for now. I don’t want the kids to know until Maddy gets through the first trimester, and I sure as hell don’t want Erin and Bennett finding out about it anytime soon, either. Once she makes it through that and we know for sure what lies ahead, we’ll break the news to Bonnie and Brian. I don’t even want Danielle and Patrick to get wind of it, since Danielle can’t keep a secret to save her life.”
“Sure, honey, I understand,” she agreed softly. “And since Brian can’t travel for another month anyway, you’ve got some time.”
Ken sighed deeply as he settled back into the pillows and placed his hands behind his head. “It’s all a little overwhelming,” he admitted, “but I am determined to stay strong for Maddy. I just hope I can be half the man she believes me to be.”
“Kenneth Lockheart, you are all that and more!” his mother admonished him. “I’ve known it from the day you were born. You’ve never stopped making me proud, and I am amazed by the way you’ve dealt with so many tough challenges all at once. I am blessed to have you as my son, and I will do whatever it takes to help you get through this. I just want you to be happy; I can’t think of anyone who deserves that more.”
Overcome with emotion, he sat up and wordlessly embraced the woman who’d been his biggest cheerleader and constant champion from day one, exceedingly grateful for her continued presence in his life.
As North River Communications’ company jet flew high above the Rocky Mountains on a northwesterly course to Vancouver, its lone passenger angrily stared at the screen of his laptop, incredulous by what he’d just read in the online version of the Sun-Sentinel. In response to the question, “What sports tradition would you like to see eliminated?” some dumbass sportswriter had actually suggested the singing of the Star Spangled Banner, claiming it was a “meaningless act, signifying nothing.”
Having already reached his tipping point, Ken had hoped a short visit to the sports section would offer a temporary reprieve from the daunting realities he was facing both personally and professionally, but alas, it seemed every damned thing was political these days. In a world gone crazy, the lefties had managed to suck the joy out of even the most beloved traditions with their constant self-flagellation and relentless America-bashing. And as a man who’d proudly served his country, he’d about had it with the blatant ignorance of most mainstream journalists, for whom trashing their country was not just fashionable, but a pre-requisite for career success. None of them had a clue as to what it meant to truly serve the cause of freedom, though as the beneficiaries of its blessings, they certainly knew how to show their ingratitude—safe from any potential backlash in the form of bodily harm.
Ken immediately thought of the incredibly brave Iranian protesters who’d recently taken to the streets in Tehran – at great personal peril – and in particular, Neda Soltani, the beautiful young woman whose life had been viciously snuffed out by a bullet to the chest from someone who despised the very concept of freedom. He felt fairly certain that Neda would’ve gratefully sung America’s national anthem every single day of her life, had she been lucky enough to emigrate here. Then again, the current occupant of the White House demonstrated his support for the freedom fighters by enjoying a carefree evening at a local D.C. ice cream parlor with his kids, even as the brutal mullahs unleashed a bloody reign of terror upon their own citizens. Why should some stupid sports reporter get the significance of the national anthem when clearly, the President of the United States and the alleged leader of the free world was – at best – indifferent to it?
Letting out a bitter laugh, Ken decided to fire off an angry email to the so-called journalist and his editors, all of whom, he believed strongly, must be held accountable. For a quick second, he’d thought about running it by his eloquent wife for a grammatical edit before actually sending, but figured she’d already had enough on her mind. The last thing he wanted was to further incite her passions when so much was at stake with her new pregnancy.
Back in the Vancouver Penthouse, Maddy cried out in disbelief – to no one in particular – as she listened to the archive of Talon’s latest show. She’d settled into the plush queen-sized bed, comfortably ensconced against a cushion of fluffy pillows while her Dell Inspiron was securely situated on her lap. Ever since Kenny had agreed to call Ed Anthony, a welcome feeling of peace and serenity had taken over, freeing her to once again enjoy her normal rituals, confident she’d at least have the best of care while she and Kenny dealt with whatever God had in store for them. But as she took in the latest political news out of South Florida, she nearly fell out of the bed.
Congressman Art Rothstein had resigned in disgrace after a long FBI investigation had at last revealed his involvement in illegal activities, including a money-laundering scheme and pay-offs to prostitutes using taxpayer money. Talon had interspersed audio clips of that afternoon’s West Palm Beach press conference with his own inimitable, biting commentary in which he absolutely savaged Rothstein for his dereliction of duty and abject lack of character. The same man who remained willfully impervious to the desires of his constituents – expressed so passionately and intelligently at countless town hall meetings and protests – could not resist abusing the power of his office to serve his own avaricious ambitions and desires. Even worse, while America was still fighting a war against Muslim fanatics, Rothstein continually capitulated to the delusional thirty percent of the population that stubbornly believed in appeasement, notwithstanding the hard lessons of history.
To that end, the Lockheart’s congressional representative had repeatedly vowed to vote against any legislation, i.e. FISA, which would allow for the interception of communication from foreign terror cells into the country. Fully aware of their vulnerability to frivolous lawsuits from far-left groups including the ACLU, telecomm companies like Ken’s had actively lobbied Washington to include language in the bill that would protect them from punishment for the crime of cooperating and participating in the protection of their homeland. With Coastal Communications headquartered in Palm Beach County, and employing a significant portion of his district, any rational person would expect Rothstein to fully support the measure. Regrettably, however, the congressman had proven himself to be yet another self-serving politician more concerned with maintaining his own power through the satisfaction of his well-funded special interest groups than with the safety of his fellow Americans.
But as awful as their representation in D.C. had been with Rothstein, Madeline nevertheless cringed with every new and harrowing criminal detail brought to light on Talon’s broadcast. Sure, she’d known all along he was a snake; however, to hear her suspicions confirmed with such in-depth reportage of an apparently endless tale of backroom deals, perilous treachery and sexual perversion nevertheless hit her hard. How depressing to realize there were so few statesmen left in public office! When she thought of the incredible courage and integrity of the Founding Fathers, who, on pain of death, never once faltered in their passionate pursuit of liberty, she literally wanted to cry.
And then, the final blow.
Talon completed the Rothstein segment by announcing the governor’s decision to hold a special election in October to temporarily fill the vacant seat until the following year’s mid-terms. No surprise there, although Maddy immediately began wracking her brain over potential grass-roots activists who might stand a credible shot at putting up a competitive fight against a Democrat, if not actually win the race. With so many elderly FDR-admirers in the district still so frustratingly enamored with big-government and held captive to the Bolshevik mentality, she’d long ago surmised that it could take a few more generations for things to change for the better. What threw her completely off-guard, however, was Talon’s next announcement as to the Republican governor’s choice for his party’s candidate: Bennett Whitehorn.
“What?!” she shot up in bed, nearly causing the laptop to crash to the floor. “You’ve got to be kidding me!” she shouted out into the empty space surrounding her. “Erin’s boyfriend? The out-of-touch Palm Beach RINO? That’s who this stupid party is backing in the special election? Oh my God…I can’t believe it!”
Energized by anger and outrage, she threw back the covers, got out of the bed and strode into to the kitchen, where she pulled a bottle of water from the fridge and began pacing back and forth. She’d just taken another refreshing swig when she heard the key turn in the lock. In the next instant, the door opened to reveal the presence of her long-awaited husband, in whose direction she instantly ran, overjoyed he’d once again returned safely to her arms.
“Hey sweetheart! Did ya miss me?” Ken greeted her happily, burying his head in her neck and taking in the sweet smell of her hair as he lifted her off the ground. Then, suddenly remembering her condition, he quickly set her back on her feet.
“Sorry Mads, I’m so used to doing that, I forgot about the babies.”
“Kenny, I’m pregnant, not made of fine china,” she teased him, reaching up to kiss him as she stood on her toes. He laughed before savoring the sweetness of her lips – a welcome end to a very long journey.
Finally breaking away, she asked, “How are you? How’s Brian?”
Wrapping one arm around her waist while the other pulled his suitcase behind him, Ken filled her in on all that had transpired at Boca Community Hospital, including his dad’s disgust with Erin and Bennett. By the time they’d entered the bedroom, an excitable Maddy had already interrupted with the latest news out of South Florida, inadvertently prompted by her husband at the mere mention of Bennett’s name.
“Are you absolutely sure about all of this?” he questioned as the two of them sat down on Maddy’s side of the unmade bed.
“Ken, I just now listened to it on Talon’s archives; of course I am sure!” she scolded mildly.
Taking her hand in his and squeezing it tightly, he noted, “Ok, relax, sweetheart, I believe you. It’s just that – well, I am really surprised my ex wasn’t gloating over it, especially since she’d been given the perfect opportunity to do so in person at the hospital, once Brian was out of the woods. There we all were, trapped in the same space together, and neither she nor her jackass of a boyfriend said a word about it.”
“RINO,” Maddy corrected him. “Bennett is nothing but an establishment RINO, although he may also be a jackass of another sort.” Ken laughed and lifted her hand to his lips for a quick kiss before she continued.
“And who knows? Maybe they’d been sworn to secrecy until the news about Rothstein hit the fan. It sounds to me like the governor knew about this all along, and had been grooming Erin’s Sugar Daddy for the race from the get-go. God, I hate politics,” she added with a sigh.
“For someone so passionate about this country, I find that hard to believe,” he smiled as he drew her into a tight embrace.
“Hey, I love freedom, but I hate politics,” she clarified wistfully. “Unfortunately, you can’t have one without getting involved in the other.” Her voice became muffled as she snuggled closely into his chest, savoring the warmth of his strong body, and the lingering scent of his intoxicating cologne.
“Anyway,” she noted, taking a deep breath. “There’s plenty of time for that fight tomorrow. Right now I am feeling a different kind of passion.”
Ken struggled to maintain his composure as she began placing soft kisses up and down his neck while slowly unbuttoning his shirt. Grabbing her hands in the next instant, he looked deeply into her eyes and cautioned, “Maddy, c’mon now, don’t tease me like that.”
“Who’s teasing?” she asked, puzzled by his reaction.
“I don’t think we should do this now that you’re—”
“Now that I’m what? Pregnant?” she laughed incredulously. “Kenny, with an attitude like that, it’s going to be a really long seven months. Besides, the only good thing Dr. Death had told me was that it was safe for us to be together.”
“Are you sure?” he whispered huskily, realizing he was about to lose the internal battle between desire and intellect. She was just too damned irresistible for any other outcome. And knowing her as he did, he also knew beyond a shadow of a doubt his beautiful wife would never do anything to endanger her unborn children.
So when she’d succeeded in fully releasing him from the confines of his shirt and began to tenderly massage his chest with her delicate hands, all he could do was surrender to temptation while the moonlight bathed their bedroom in its romantic glow.
The beautiful, two-story Buchan home in the posh Lakemont neighborhood of Bellevue, Washington stood proudly on the private cul-de-sac at the end of 47th Way, flanked by majestic evergreens and elegant rose gardens. Inside, one of its proud owners, Sabrina Anthony, a well-known local artist and award-winning photographer, had taken a break from her creative endeavors to tend to the mundane tasks of dusting and vacuuming. In spite of her doctor-husband’s protests, the practical, God-fearing woman had refused to hire a housekeeper, preferring instead to take responsibility for maintaining her own house. With the exception of outdoor landscaping, for which they’d hired a reputable local company, Sabrina and her husband, Ed, willingly spent a portion of their free time caring for their hard-earned slice of heaven.
A tiny, petite woman with dark, curly hair and fashionable glasses, she’d just opened up a step-ladder to allow for easier access to some high-up knick-knacks when she was interrupted by a ringing telephone.
“Hm, I wonder if that’s Ed calling to tell me his patient went into labor,” she mused out loud as she scrambled to reach the kitchen counter. Lifting the receiver to her ear, she was surprised when her greeting was answered by a voice from the distant past.
“Sabrina, hey, it’s Ken Lockheart, Best Man from your wedding. Remember me?”
He let out a nervous laugh, recalling vividly the shenanigans that had taken place at Ed’s bachelor party all of those years ago, back in the days when both of them were still somewhat immature, in spite of all they’d seen and done in the Navy.
“Ken!” she exclaimed, her eyes widening in surprise. “Wow, this is certainly unexpected. How are you?”
He breathed a sigh of relief at the obvious delight in her tone, though he needn’t have worried. Sabrina had never been one to hold a grudge, and besides, nearly twenty years had passed since that crazy night. Moreover, as they quickly approached this significant wedding anniversary, she and Ed remained blissfully happy—in spite of the dire warnings of well-meaning family members who’d cautioned at the time that they were too young to make such a commitment.
Ironically, although her husband had gone on to achieve great success in his gynecologic practice Sabrina had been unable to conceive a child of their own. And though they could afford the costs of the latest, cutting-edge fertility treatments, she’d adamantly refused, unwilling to put them through the inevitable roller-coaster ride of hopeful anticipation and crushing disappointment. Further, as someone who deeply valued life, Sabrina did not want to put herself in the position of having to choose a “selective reduction” – a nice euphemism for abortion as far as she was concerned – when the accepted processes of medical science inevitably resulted in one too many fertilized eggs.
Instead, she and her husband frequently hosted foster children in their home, and served on the board of several charities that assisted babies and children with birth defects and life-threatening illnesses. Between her non-profit work, her church activities and her artistic endeavors, Sabrina felt more than fulfilled – she felt truly blessed beyond measure.
“I’m fine,” he replied, “How are things in Bellevue? I heard you guys recently bought a house.”
“Yeah, we’ve been here a little over a year now, and we really love it. Eventually Ed wants to open up another practice in the suburbs, but for now he’s happy commuting into Seattle. Funny, I thought you might be him calling to say he wouldn’t be home for dinner since his patient finally went into labor.”
“No, but I am calling about something work-related,” Ken explained, “Something that also involves my wife, Madeline.”
“Oh Ken, congratulations on your wedding! Ed and I were sorry we couldn’t fly out to South Florida to be there. What an amazing story, that is—kind of like something out of a fairytale,” she gushed.
“Yes, it definitely felt that way to us,” he agreed. “And actually, I am hoping you and Maddy will get the opportunity to meet each other, now that we’re in Vancouver for a while. But I am really calling because I—well both Maddy and I—truly need your help.”
He went on to recount the circumstances surrounding his unanticipated arrival back into their lives, while a sympathetic Sabrina listened in horror. Having known of many good people who’d crossed the Canadian border in order to procure the services of American doctors when unable to get the care they needed in their own country, she was sadly familiar with the harrowing tales of endless and oftentimes, life-threatening bureaucracy. And as someone with intimate knowledge of the heartache surrounding conception for women with reproductive problems, she was especially sensitive to Maddy’s plight.
“Absolutely Ed will take care of her!” she announced when Ken finished his summation. “And I think it’s best if she stays here with us for as long as you have to be in Vancouver. Why put her through the aggravation of traveling back and forth when we have a perfectly nice guest room waiting for her? Of course, you are welcome to come down and visit on the weekends,” she added reassuringly. “Didn’t mean to suggest we don’t want you here, too. It just sounds to me as if you’re spending more time at the office than at the Penthouse anyway. That must get lonely for Madeline.”
As he gazed out at the North River and the impressive mountains in the distance from his plush corner office, Ken couldn’t help but agree. Under normal conditions, perhaps he wouldn’t feel so guilty for having to fight his corporate boardroom battles for sixteen long hours a day, while his wife fended for herself in a strange land. But the unexpected news of pregnancy, twins and possible genetic handicaps had certainly added an element of dependency to Maddy’s typically independent nature. It wasn’t fair to expect her to cope with these latest developments on her own, no matter how brave a façade she presented to him. Of course, he anticipated a new battle, as she would most likely resist the idea of staying with the Anthony’s for an indefinite period of time.
Well, she was just gonna have to accept his decision. As the man of the house, and their main provider, he would insist on it. Like it or not, right now his main focus had to center around their financial security and her physical and emotional well-being. Surely Maddy would understand that.
Madeline smiled as she clicked on the link, delighted to discover that Ken’s letter to the editor had been posted on a prominent right-leaning pop culture site, having apparently been discovered on her little blog. Thanks to the wonderful interactions of keywords and search engines, “A US Navy Vet’s Response to a Seriously Misguided Journalist” was about to receive widespread recognition on the internet. She’d already sent it to Talon Grant, hoping he’d make note of it on his next broadcast. Who knew what that might lead to? With all of the difficulties Ken was facing at work as a result of political correctness, perhaps Talon might invite him on as a guest one day to enlighten people about what happens when common sense gets thrown out the window.
In the meantime, she took pleasure in once again absorbing her husband’s heartfelt words:
Frank Henley,
I am not sure how you could write such a disheartening column/debate today especially while our country is at war. How can you say singing the National Anthem is a waste of time? You obviously have never served in the military, have no pride or appreciation for our veterans, or are simply looking for attention.
Honestly, everyone I attend games and events with are proud of the moment when we are offered the opportunity to demonstrate how proud we are to be Americans. Singing the National Anthem is an opportunity to bring a diverse nation together. Have you ever been to a game when there may be four or five different conversations going on sometimes in Spanish, French, Japanese, English or the many other languages locals and visitors alike share in our community? Yet when the anthem is played all rise and speak one language, or at least respectfully remain quiet. Maybe you are too busy or too weak to stand in the press box?
You wrote, “having to stand for this song…… at every event has become ridiculous.” Then you go on to say, “all it promotes is…. nothing.”
This song promotes nothing??? This song is our National Anthem! I am disgusted by your words…I think about the meaning of The National Anthem everyday, as do millions of thankful Americans.
Finally, there are 14 houses on my block. At least half have the American flag waving but only three of my neighbors have your newspaper delivered. It is my promise that by tomorrow, there will be 14 American flags flying, but ZERO tribune subscriptions delivered, thanks to your column.
I can understand your ignorance to a certain degree I guess, but your editors must and will be held accountable. I believe an apology to your readers and all the men and women sacrificing their lives for your freedom is in order.
Should you not, I promise to contact every news source possible regarding this matter. To think of the lives lost forYOURfreedom of speech and this is how you choose to show your gratitude. I am quite disgusted to say the least. I am not in the journalism business and my grammar may not be spot on but I have read youth blogs more profound than your garbage today.
P.S. I have served our country and have also witnessed my brothers die for your freedom, some of whom perished in the USS Cole attack. So yes, I am biased, not to mention incredibly angry!
Ken Lockheart
Boca Raton
“You tell ‘em, Kenny,” she thought as she suppressed a yawn and snapped her laptop shut. Fatigue had once again overcome her, and she sank back into the enticing bed linens, hoping to get at least an hour of rest before he arrived home again. For a brief moment, she recalled some incredibly painful, emotionally charged conversations she’d had with her husband in the recent past, pertaining to his fallen USS Cole comrades. It was a subject he’d rarely broached with her, until this new this new administration – with its determination to read terrorists their Miranda Rights instead of treating them as enemy combatants – came into power. Now it seemed events were constantly conspiring to reopen this raw wound. Having a cousin who perished in The World Trade Center on September 11, 2001, Madeline certainly understood and shared his sorrow and outrage.
And now that she was about to become a mother, concerns about the country’s safety had become increasingly paramount in her mind. As these rambling musings suddenly reminded of the two tiny miracles growing inside of her, she shifted her attention to her unborn babies. Closing her eyes and settling her hands on her stomach, she took deep breaths and tried to imagine what it would be like to give birth to twins. True, it hadn’t been officially confirmed by modern medicine, but she instinctively knew there were two beating hearts inside of her, and she longed for the day when they would finally come into the world.
Of course, the very thought of labor and delivery sent chills up and down her spine, but if she was anything like her mother, there was an excellent chance that Maddy would sail through it without any major difficulties. Monica Rose had never given birth to twins, but it was no small accomplishment to have delivered five babies in the course of nine years; it was even more admirable that Madeline’s mother had gone on to bring three more children into the world after quite unexpectedly having a child with Down syndrome while still in her 20s. Truly, it was a testament to her faith and courage. Good thing she’d been made of such tough stuff, too; otherwise, Lori, Damian and Madeline might never have been born.
As the sun began its slow descent over the horizon, Maddy rolled onto her side and gazed out the window. When her husband had left for work that morning, he’d promised her he’d call Dr. Anthony in Seattle and secure an appointment for her as quickly as possible. Although she’d not yet heard back from him, she attributed his lack of follow-up to another grueling day spent placating executives and lobbying Washington. Talon’s earlier broadcast had revealed—among other enraging things—that the FISA legislation was still inexcusably stalled in Congress, held captive by the demands of powerful special interest groups with short memory spans. What was wrong with these people? How quickly they’d forgotten about September 11, 2001, and all of the ensuing terrorist attacks and attempted attacks that followed in its wake!
Maddy could list them all by heart, from the Madrid bombings to the London subway bombings to the foiled plot to blow up the Library Tower in Los Angeles. Yet, a good portion of the population remained willfully indifferent to the realities of Global Jihad, preferring instead to either blame America for the existence of this rabid, hateful ideology, or simply pretend it didn’t exist. Either way, the result was fatal. And perhaps now even more so because she was about to become a biological mother for the very first time, her passions about national security and the United States military had grown even more intense. Conversely, her patience for deliberate ignorance of the palpable dangers posed to her country and the rest of the free world by radical Islam had all but worn out. Whether due to pop culture, educational indoctrination, laziness or a combination of all three, much of the electorate had chosen self-interest and instant gratification over God, country and sacrifice.
Even so, the stubborn optimist in her refused to believe that all was lost. There were just too many dedicated Americans making their displeasure known in a variety of ways: from town hall meetings and tea party protests to internet blogs and talk shows, the sleeping giant had demonstrated that he’d awakened, and that he was quite put-out by what was happening to his country. Surely the momentum had at last shifted, as events out of Washington D.C. pushed everyday Americans to the breaking point. She only hoped there was still time to counter the madness and get the country back on track again.
As if energized by the thought, she suddenly threw back the covers and hopped out of bed. Making her way to the bathroom, she splashed cold water on her face, and applied some moisturizer before re-touching her make-up and styling her disheveled hair. By the time she heard the key turn in the lock, she’d changed into one of her favorite floral print, feminine dresses, accompanied by a matching forest-green shrug and strappy silver sandals. Even if Ken were to announce the cancellation of their plans to board a dinner cruise that evening as promised, she still wanted to look her very best.
“Hey baby,” she greeted him with a smile as she met him in the kitchen, before reaching up for a quick kiss. “How’d it go today?”
“Ugh, don’t ask,” he sighed, setting his briefcase down and pulling her into a tight embrace. Maddy rested her head against his chest as he smoother her hair with his hands. Planting a quick kiss on the top of her head, he suddenly pulled away to look at her.
“So, are you ready to have a little fun tonight?”
Ken smiled as he posed the question, more than ready for a welcome – if temporary – reprieve from all things work-and-government related. She noted he’d changed into fresh clothes that were a bit more casual than the typical corporate attire she’d last seen him in when she sleepily wished him a productive, stress-free day several hours earlier.
“You mean we’re still on for the cruise?” she asked, her tone laced with breathless excitement.
Sure, it was just a typical, touristy dinner cruise offered by a coastal city—something she’d experienced frequently as a resident of a seaside state. But after the emotionally draining events of the past few weeks, such a simple pleasure had taken on a whole new meaning. She couldn’t remember the last time she and Kenny had spent some quality time together out on the town, for the sole purpose of having fun and enjoying each other’s company. Besides, it was uncertain how long they’d actually remain in the Canadian city at this point; knowing the odds of returning for a vacation someday were fairly low, Maddy wanted to at least partake of one Vancouver attraction.
“Of course we’re still on silly,” he reprimanded her playfully. “I’ve been looking forward to it all day.” Then as if suddenly remembering her condition, he added somewhat soberly, “That is, if you’re feeling up to it.”
Ken rested his hands on her shoulders as he spoke, his eyes searching for any traces of fatigue or distress in his wife’s demeanor.
“Absolutely!” she confirmed brightly. “I didn’t mean to doubt you or anything, either; it’s just that lately, every time we plan something – boom! We’re hit with yet another unexpected calamity. It’s almost too good to be true, the thought that you and I might really get to spend even a few hours doing nothing but laughing, eating, enjoying the view and who knows? Maybe even dancing. How long has it been since we’ve done that?”
“Too long,” he sighed, pulling her into a tight embrace. She closed her eyes as she took in the exquisite warmth of the moment. And as he held her close, Ken hoped she’d be open and receptive to the plans he’d already set in motion.
The North Shore Mountains stood resplendent and proud in the distance beneath the orange glow of the Vancouver sun as Ken and Maddy stepped out of the limo and onto the Marina. As a chill breeze enveloped them, he slipped an arm tightly around his wife, who was at once relieved she’d had the presence of mind to put on a lined raincoat before they left the Penthouse. May in Vancouver bore no resemblance to May in South Florida, which typically heralded the return of intense heat and humidity. But in spite of the slight discomfort of an unseasonably cool – even by Vancouver standards – evening, the couple looked forward to a few hours’ respite from all things corporate and political.
Alas, as they approached the impressive line of fellow fun-seekers, they quickly discovered that a few carefree hours aboard a touristy dinner cruise would not be devoid of at least some conflict.
“What’s all that commotion?” Maddy asked, noticing a rowdy group of at least 50 protesters standing off to the side, waving signs and yelling.
“Not sure,” Ken replied, protectively tightening his arm around her as they neared the scene. Upon realizing that the assembly of mostly unkempt, gothic-looking twenty-somethings – interspersed with a few elders who appeared to be veterans of Woodstock – were self-described anarchists, 9/11 “truthers” and anti-war activists, they let out a collective groan.
“Ugh, I thought these idiots were mostly concentrated in Austin, Hollywood and Seattle,” Maddy sighed angrily. “Where’s their hero, Congressman Nathaniel Ulysses Trent? Probably speaking to college kids somewhere in the States, calling for the CIA to be taken out. Or maybe he’s here visiting Vancouver on the taxpayer dime to further incite anti-American sentiment.”
Glancing at Kenny, she noted the palpable rage building within, evidenced by his crimson cheeks and stiff upper body. No doubt, gruesome images of the Cole bombing at the hands of barbaric terrorists – complete with the subsequent gaping hole in the ship’s hull and his friends’ violent, bloody deaths – were reverberating through his mind.
“Kenny! I know you’re mad; I am too,” she counseled in a firm, yet gentle tone. You know more than anyone how much I cannot stand these traitors. I’ve been deleting and blocking them like crazy lately on Facebook, but please don’t pick a fight with them. Just ignore them. Things are bad enough at work already; the last thing you need is to end up in the Vancouver papers as the American Executive who beat up a bunch of punks at the Harbour Cruises Marina,” she warned. “We both know who the media will sympathize with, and it sure as hell won’t be the ‘rich’ Americans from Boca Raton.”
He looked at her wordlessly for a moment before suddenly remembering the fragility of her emotional and physical state, and the news he’d yet to break to her. Surely he could summon the inner strength necessary to practice restraint, notwithstanding the fact that – in that very moment – he wanted nothing more than to teach the aging hippies and their lazy, brainwashed protégées a lesson they’d never forget.
“Don’t worry sweetheart, I’ve got it under control,” he assured her assertively as they took their place in line behind an attractive, smiling couple that reminded Maddy very much of her cousins Lyle and Daphne. Suddenly she felt a little homesick wondering what everyone was up to back in Pennsylvania. She leaned closer into Kenny’s chest as a cold shiver ran up and down her spine.
“Good,” she noted in a muffled voice. “Because I just want to spend some quality time with my husband and forget about all of the insanity for a little while.”
Madeline closed her eyes and tried to drown out the cacophony of angry epithets and hateful chants of “9/11 was an inside job!” even as the Vancouver police valiantly attempted to maintain order by enforcing a legally mandated distance between protesters and cruise ship patrons.
But in the very next instant, she nearly toppled to the ground in the domino effect caused by a violent, powerful wave of resistance on the part of the unruly mob. Ken had felt the repercussions first, instinctively holding her up while he fought to keep his balance. Enraged, he first inquired about Maddy’s state before sternly instructing her to move further away for the sake of her own safety. Then he returned his attention to surreal mob scene.
“Fucking punks! Damned cowards! How dare you show up here promoting your 9/11 conspiracy bullshit!” he bellowed, as an officer tried to restrain him.
“Sir, please – get back in line now!” the policeman barked at Ken.
“These Woodstock rejects who don’t know a damned thing about duty, honor or country nearly caused my pregnant wife to have an accident! Get them the hell out of here!” he ordered, undeterred by the uniform.
“Corporate shill! Neo-con! Stooge of the New World Order!” an obnoxious teenager taunted at Ken. “Your former president ought to be tried for war crimes!”
“You little son of a bitch; you have no idea what a useful moron you are do you? Do you know how quickly a Jihadist would chop off your ignorant little head?!” Ken shot back with fire in his eyes. By now, two police officers were restraining him, as the others fought to break up the demonstration.
“Sir, please, I am going to have to arrest you if you don’t get back in line! We’re handling this!”
Ken let out a bitter laugh. “Not very well, I’m afraid, officer. What the hell are these people doing here anyway?”
Before the cop could reply, the young anarchist cried out, “Even one of your own Congressmen knows 9/11 was an inside job. Nathaniel Trent is the only member of your government with guts to call it for what it is – just a bloody ploy to instigate two wars for oil and profit!”
“You stupid punk, you don’t know a damned thing, do you? If you did, you’d know that Nathaniel Ulysses Trent is a laughingstock among anyone with half a brain!”
“Nathaniel Trent knows Al-Qaeda is just CIA fantasy, created to take away individual liberty. But what would a fascist, communist pig like you know about freedom anyway!”
“Lucky for you, you little dirtbag, it’s because of people like me that you have the right to spew your conspiracy garbage. I was serving my country long before your worthless ass took up space on this earth. You—”
“Sir, for the last time, either get back in line or I will have to arrest you!” the officer interrupted.
By now, Ken’s face was beet-red, his heart pounding furiously as visions of his Navy days flashed through his mind. Although he’d completed his duty several months before the Gulf War began in 1991, he’d still witnessed plenty of tragedy in the loss of several of his brothers during the course of service; had he remained, he could’ve easily been one of the lives lost in the USS Cole. Encountering spoiled, ungrateful and painfully ignorant fools like this nutjob conspiracy crew – the polar opposite of the dedicated, honorable and patriotic young men he’d known as a sailor – awakened a simmering anger within him. Memories of horrific events like the Cole bombing and the September 11 attacks were never far from his consciousness.
A few feet away, Maddy called out to her husband, sympathetic to his turmoil but fearful of its potential consequences. He vaguely heard her cries above all of the commotion, prompting him to abruptly release his arm from the policeman’s grasp and slowly make his way back to his worried wife. By then, the officers had succeeded in subduing the protesters, while the cruise ship finally began the boarding process.
Ken encircled Maddy in his arms and held her close to him for a moment, relishing her soothing words and reassurances that – although initially rattled – she was indeed ok.
“It’s gonna take a lot more than some Kool-Aid-drinking 9/11 truthers to get the better of me, teddy bear,” she joked. “And they’ve sure given me something to write about on my blog tomorrow – along with RINO Whitehorn and the hapless Florida Republican Party.”
Ken let out a chuckle, then reminded her of their deal to put all of their problems on hold for the night. Placing an arm about her waist, he lovingly escorted her to the waiting ship, as the fiery sun sunk lower upon the glistening water and decorated the Vancouver sky with streaks of dramatic, colorful splendor.
My favorite female patriot has penned yet another excellent, insightful and unapologetic take-down of the Obama agenda. To those who would underestimate her — especially the prominent male members of the Republican establishment — I say, do so at your own peril, boys. This woman has more courage, tenacity and heart than all of you put together. Yes, I am talking about you Mitt Romney, Mike Huckabee and Michael Steele: This is what principled leadership looks like. I thank God for Mama Grizzlies like Palin, Brewer and Bachmann, and the up-and-coming Nikki Haley, Sharron Angle and Mary Fallin.
As long as we have tough, determined voices of intestinal fortitude of the female variety in the GOP, there’s justifiable cause to believe we can get this country back on track. But to quote our president, “let me be clear”: No one, and I mean, absolutely no one gets under his skin the way Sarah Palin does, simply with a keyboard and a Facebook membership. Her latest note is no exception:
We have a President, perhaps for the very first time since the founding of our republic, who doesn’t appear to believe that America is the greatest earthly force for good the world has ever known.
When asked whether he believed in American exceptionalism, President Obama answered, “I believe in American exceptionalism, just as I suspect that the Brits believe in British exceptionalism and the Greeks believe in Greek exceptionalism.” Amazing. Amazing.
I think this statement speaks volumes about his world view. He sees nothing unique in the American experience? Really? Our founding, and our founding mothers and fathers? Really? And our history over the past two and half centuries?
Really? He sees nothing unique in an America that fought and won two world wars and in victory sought not one inch of territory or one dollar of plunder? He sees nothing unique in an America that, though exhausted by conflict, still laid the foundation for security in Europe and Asia after World War II? He sees nothing unique in an America that prevailed against an evil ideology in the Cold War? Does he just see a country that has to be apologized for around the world, especially to dictators?
In this photo: My friend Steve Monell expresses his gratitude at a Tea Party gathering in Fort Lauderdale.
Last week, I interviewed Neal Bellinger of Shopping For Soldiers Needs on The Liberty Belle Hour. This worthy organization does so much to support our men and women in uniform, including sending gift baskets and other essential items overseas. Please visit their website to learn more, and if you live in South Florida, consider attending their second annual Dancing In The Sky fundraiser, to be held at the Radisson Bridge Hotel in Boca Raton.
Your donation of $25 includes stunning views of the Atlantic Ocean and Intracoastal Waterway, chefs tables, hors d’oeuvres, live music, dancing, raffles and other prizes. To help keep costs down, there will be a cash bar. Money raised from this particular event will be used to purchase brand-name products to be placed into gift baskets which will be shipped out for the Thanksgiving/Christmas/Hanukah Season. For more information, click here.
Pictured: An example of one of the most delightful and symbolic embodiments of what used to be the American Dream — Walt Disney’s Magic Kingdom in Orlando, Florida.
The “Happiest Place on Earth” just got a little happier—at least for people who abhor the concepts of personal responsibility and individual liberty. Thanks to the City of Orlando, and the tax dollars of diligent Americans who actually work for a living—otherwise known as “stimulus money”—such folks are finally getting their just due. Yes, even though they thought it couldn’t get any better than to elect a president who fills your gas tank and pays your mortgage (to paraphrase the words of a Florida resident during the 2008 campaign), the good Kool-Aid sipping leaders of the city made the day of entitlement creatures nationwide by announcing the construction of a new highway bearing President Barack Obama’s name.
As if that alone weren’t enough cause for celebration in entitlement land, Orlando officials also proclaimed that the stimulus-funded road will lead directly to a new theme park, The Marxist Kingdom. Tossing aside such antiquated, capitalistic notions like paying for your own admission, those who wish to enter the park will be able to force others to pay for it before returning to their productive jobs including, you know, actually running and maintaining the place.
Once inside, nanny-staters can choose from a vast array of attractions including TyrannySquare, an improvement upon Disney’s abhorrently “jingoistic” Liberty Square; It’s A Totalitarian World After All, featuring animatronics of Hugo Chavez, Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, Josef Stalin, assorted suicide bombers, jihadists and other “freedom fighters”; and Stoning Mountain, a rollicking ride back to the 7th Century, where thrill seekers can virtually witness and/or participate in such uplifting activities as violently hurling rocks at infidels until they crumple into a heap of blood and broken bones. In Barack’s Haunted Mansion, those brave enough to board the ominous, black transport can experience the satisfaction of hearing America’s Founding Fathers roll over in their graves, while their plaintive wails of “We staked our lives, our fortunes and our sacred honor for you lazy, ungrateful fools?!” pierce the air.
From Maim Street to Sharia-Ella’s Castle, there’s an endless array of attractions for the useful idiots to enjoy. And when they’re ready to take in a good, old-fashioned musical production, they can choose from several, including Burka and the Beast and The Lyin’ King. The Marxist Kingdom, coming soon to a failed socialist state near you—unless the events of November 2010 and November 2012 necessitate a fundamental “change” in its transformational blueprints.
Ok, so only the first paragraph of this intentionally snarky piece is based on an actual news event, the planned construction of a stimulus-financed highway in Orlando that will be named for Barack Obama. Isn’t that enough to merit a little sarcasm after a week filled with one outrage after another?
From the “troubling precedent” handed down by Judge Richard Roberts in the case of the firing of the independent AmeriCorps Inspector General Gerald Walpin (an event that hasn’t seemed to gain much traction in the media), to Obama’s anti-Constitutional, pro-Fascist shakedown of BP (and corresponding failure of hapless Republican leadership to capitalize on yet another teachable moment) — not to mention the bureaucratic nightmare that’s 1.) impeding clean-up efforts in the Gulf, and 2.) exacerbating the damage, let’s just say the decision of the so-called Orlando leaders to name a road after a man who is single-handedly destroying this great republic just hit me the wrong way. And the fact that it’s being done with funds they extorted from hard-working, tax-paying Americans just added fuel to the satirical fire.
That and, if not for tapping into my sense of humor, I’d probably go insane in the age of Obama. November cannot get here fast enough.
Please join me and my guest co-host Ellen Snyder this Thursday evening at 7 p.m. Eastern as we welcome Chrystopher Smith to The Liberty Belle Hour. Smith is a conservative Republican running in a Los Angeles district that desperately needs a representative with common sense and respect for the US Constitution.
He will share his views on all of the important issues, his journey to conservatism and his thoughts on the 2010 Midterm Elections. As always, the live chat will be available and the phone lines will be open at (561) 228-4020.
Daria Anne DiGiovanni, Inc. 