"CITY OF RACINE COMMUNITY SHOCKED AND
DISMAYED!!!! DEMANDING A REFERENDUM BE PUT TO THE RACINE RESIDENTS AND
TAXPAYERS TO DETERMINE IF SPENDING $60 MILLION DOLLARS OF TAXPAYER MONEY
ON THE FANTASY CONFERENCE BUILDING SHOULD PROCEED.
COUNCIL MEETING FROM MARCH 7TH, 2017 ALONG WITH THE OUTRAGEOUSLY
UNACCEPTABLE DEMEANOR AND BEHAVIOR OF RACINE MAYOR JOHN DICKERT CAN BE
"WATCH THE VIDEO ABOVE, IT BEGINS AT THE 16 MINUTE MARK!
MAYOR JOHN DICKERT CONTINUES TO GAVEL DOWN AND ELIMINATE ANY QUESTIONS
OR CONCERNS FROM BOTH ELECTED OFFICIALS AND COMMUNITY MEMBERS. AND
DISMISSING ANY TALK OF ALLOWING THE RESIDENTS TO BE HEARD VIA
"WATCH THE VIDEO ABOVE, IT BEGINS AT THE 16 MINUTE MARK!"
Hello, my P's and Q's! How are you? The weather roller coaster is going to run flat in the 30'a for awhile. Still, hardly a winter to complain about. I wish we had more snow cover for the landscape and the animals. The last I heard, we were still below normal for snow. God, I hate driving in the stuff, but I don't want to kill any protected animals or properties. It can become quite difficult when you start comparing products or services for snow removal and related chores. Next year, I'm hiring a snow removal service. Señor Zanza does an outstanding job, but neither he nor I should be doing snow removal. Junior is useless. Let the youngsters do it.
Señor Zanza's work is much better than mine. I wonder if he'd hire out? He could probably make a few bucks. Enough for a night on the town, or two. Ha. Like I said, I don't think he should even be doing it. There's a time for everything, and the time now is to relax.
The ongoing war between Mr. Trump and the media makes its own news. It's kind of interesting to wonder at the beginning of the day how our government will look at the end of the day. Governing via Tweet. He's definitely a man for our times.
Well, I don't know, but I'm finding charges of Soviet intervention in our vote occurred. Handsome with a shirt on or not, Putin needs a kick in the ass. Conspiring with Putin is Mr. Trump, who is all ass.
I want an independent investigation of Trump's relationship with Putin, if that's possible. I like the idea of growing stronger ties with Russia, but not at the expense of honesty and openness. If we're just going to accept the BS that the Soviets pump out in a day, we might as well become them. "Da." "Nyet."
I'd also like an independent investigation into lying John's dealings. Our Common Council just OKed spending $600,000 just to look at the arena and events center lying John is ramming down out throats. It's a done deal. They're just doing the dance.
Well, I'm a done deal, too. Thank you all for reading my blog this week. I love readers, who soon become friends.
Spring is coming. Really. This weekend we push our clocks ahead one hour. We're getting there. It just takes one step at a time.
__________________________ Please donate: paypal.me/jgmazelis If you don't like PayPal, send me a note at firstname.lastname@example.org and I'll send you my street address so you can send a check or money order. Thank you.
Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, I hope your Lenten season got off to a
hell of a lot smoother start than mine own did. I’ll tell you’s, the first
Wednesday evening of this month it dawned on me: “Hey nitwit, it’s been Ash
Wednesday all day long and you haven’t even begun to think about what to swear
off all the way ’til Easter, for christ sakes.” Yeah, I may be a
way-out-of-practice Catholic, but the one practice I still show up for is the
practice of giving up some penny-ante practice or two for Lent in hopes my
piddling sacrifice may be enough to leave Heaven’s door cracked at least an
iota or two, what the fock.
So there I was,
Ash Wednesday, 8 p.m., hankering to give up something, pronto. Smoking? Yeah,
fat focking chance. I was already into my second pack, Jack. Drinking? That’s a
good one. Like I said, I was aiming for leaving the Pearly Gate cracked, not
sainthood. My weekly essay for this here newspaper? Ding-ding-ding-ding!
Which is to say,
unless I fall off the writing wagon or am threatened with job dismissal for
focking following my religious beliefs, you won’t see me shining around this
page ’til after Easter, April 16, praise the lord.
before I go, allow me to pronounce that with Dairyland’s gubernatorial election
coming up like a bad burrito next year, that I’m all in as your candidate of
choice, you betcha. And my first order of biz as your new state overlord—just
as it’s been for my last several candidacies for the office—would be to reduce the law-abiding age from 21 to 16
for when a Badgerite could plant his or her booty atop a barstool, order a nice
bourbon and tell the bartender to leave the bottle, and I’ll tell you why.
Like I’ve said
in the past, having a couple, three belts never fails to make me feel like a
focking adult with something to say, and I can’t imagine it also wouldn’t turn
the same trick with any snotnose katzenjammers currently ’neath the age of 21;
and lord knows they sure as hell can use any passkey to adulthood we can give
them, what with their delinquent ways and inability to afford higher education.
The sooner we get them into the world of adults where we can keep a focking eye
on them, the better. That’s why.
As Guv, I’d
choose to put kids in bars instead of
behind bars. Let them come down to
the tavern to sit down with the regulars, the men and women who belly-up to the
bar day in, day out; let these kids sit down, have a few and listen to the
voice of smoky experience, the voice that says, “Kid, you’re not so focking
tough. For starters, you’re mixing good booze with soda. I could drink you
under a table anywhere, and still be
able to adjust the color on my TV.”
And then these
kids could take this alcoholic knowledge and stamina with them when they get
carted overseas to fight with the terrorists. I ask you: These acts of terror
around the world these days? The work of sober people, plain and simple.
Uptight, cork-in-the-butt, sober people.
Let me reiterate: It’s been
said that alcohol loosens the inhibitions. No focking kidding, why else to
drink it, ain’a? All I’m saying is that if these terror nuts drank, maybe it’d
loosen their inhibition toward acting like regular normal sane people who, if
nothing else, know that bombs, mortars and children don’t mix.
I believe that
enforced mandatory drinking ’cross
the globe might be the real key to combating nut terror activity. The drinking
man knows that no matter what abso-focking-lutely needs to be done can always
wait ’til tomorrow, or the day after or even the day after that, what the fock,
what’s the hurry.
drink as much as they can, all the time? Perhaps not. Surgeons and bus drivers
spring to mind; also, the so-called “mean” drinker, often called a “domestic
terrorist.” Yea verily, not much a threat on the worldwide terrorist scene
since the asshole is usually too busy taking it out on “loved” ones to mess
with the outside impersonal world, but I can’t believe we couldn’t find room at
Guantanamo for knobs like those.
forgot what my focking point was, so let me just say that our worldwide sober
nuts need to relax, have a cocktail, so that the only inner-voice they hear is
the one that tells them not to blow-up a bunch of kids, but instead whispers
into a red-eyed ear, “Hey, it’s OK. Have another. You still got tomorrow, and
so should everybody else,” ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.
Patti Smith changed plans for her Milwaukee concert when I
reminded her of the date. “March 9—that’s the day I met Fred!” she says
excitedly. “Oh my gosh.” And as a result, at her Thursday, March 9
show—her first in town in 38 years—Smith promised to perform a “Fred
trilogy,” as she calls it, comprised of the three songs she wrote in the
’70s about her late husband, Fred “Sonic” Smith: “Because the Night,”
“Dancing Barefoot” and a number rarely performed in recent years,
Milwaukee was one of the first cities outside Smith’s New
York home base where her music was widely embraced. Much of that
attention resulted from the single-minded efforts of DJ Bob Reitman, who
was already talking Smith up even before her debut album, Horses. On the night of Horses’
release in the winter of 1975, Reitman played the LP on the air in its
entirety. Most of us had never heard anything like it. Raw as an open
wound and yet broad in human sympathy, Horses was a head-on
collision of high-octane rock with modernist poetry. Not unlike William
Carlos Williams and other early 20th-century poets, Smith melded
literary and colloquial influences. Arthur Rimbaud inhabited the lyrics
of “Land” alongside ’60s dance crazes such as the Watusi and the Mashed
In the years since Horses, Smith accepted the Nobel
Prize for Bob Dylan, sang at the Vatican for Pope Francis, was inducted
into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, won the National Book Award for
her memoir, Just Kids, and saw her photography exhibited in museums. But Horses
was what lifted her from the pre-gentrified Bowery into the
international spotlight. Caught up in the scene that gathered in the
tiny bar called CBGB’s, Smith endowed punk rock with a dimension beyond
simple assertions and three chords.
“I didn’t start as a musician and I’m not a musician, really. I started as a poet,” Smith says about the origin of Horses’songs.
“Birdland” and “Horses” began as poems. The line that famously opened
the album and framed her radical reinvention of Van Morrison’s
“Gloria”—“Jesus died for somebody’s sins but not mine”—came from a poem
she’d written in 1970. “Horses was a culmination of my evolution from poetry to performance; it all coalesced on that album,” she continues.
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