make mine a White, no make that, a Black Russian please

“All we can know is that we know nothing. And that’s the height of human wisdom.”
Leo Tolstoy, War and Peace

(images of both a White and Black Russian Liquor.com)

I’m changing my original order from a White Russian to that of a Black Russian
because by the time these shenanigans are all said and done, none of us will be able to
afford cream…forget the liquor!

Maybe just make mine a glass of ice.

Back in the day…those heady days of the mid 70’s when disco, along with some
smooth jazz via Barry White, were the various kings of the airwaves while we were busy turning 18—
of which was the legal drinking age in the state of Georgia—life was feeling pretty good.

We could be seen boldly sashaying into many a bar with our very own and very real legal IDs in hand
as we no longer needed to borrow a friend’s or use the fake stuff.

It was most likely some backgammon bar or a place where a guy was playing folk music on a guitar…
as we’d plop ourselves down at a table or, if we were feeling really daring, we’d saddle up
to the highly polished mahogany bar.
The bartender had a bit of a ‘fro,’ glasses and a mustache while nonchalantly asking what we’d like.

Practically salivating in anticipation over ordering something that sounded oh so grown-up
and sophisticated, all the while making certain it was something palatable and
equally sweet and appealing to our most youthful and naive tastebuds, we’d place our order.

The favorites were the White Russian, an Amaretto Sour, a Tequila Sunrise or even a Grasshopper.
Things drunk out of coups, highballs or old fashion glasses.

Feeling our oats and checking our pockets or wallets, we might be known to order another
or equally ready to settle up our tab while making a hasty retreat to the lucky house whose
friend’s parents were out of town for that weekend’s party where the kegs were tapped and
ready…all the while finding suds comfortably more suitable to our beginner’s palates.

This small walk down memory lane comes on the heels of the most recent news coming out of DC.

If we can ever figure out how to black out the news from that small, yet massive district in our lives,
we might be better off.

Falling back to the days of the telegraph, telegrams or pony express might be a nice respite.

But I digress.

So in case, you missed it…

Surprise…..

the Russians aren’t coming nor were they ever coming in the first place.
But didn’t we really know this all along???

I digress.

Okay, so now what you ask???

I’ve made an executive decision on behalf of all tax paying Americans.

I’m going to call that “One call that’s all” sleaze-bag of a lawyer
whose commercials must be nationally syndicated.
The guy who promises help if you’ve been hurt in an accident.

Ok, so why does ambulance chaser come to mind??
But again, I digress.

Well, maybe we haven’t been hurt in an accident, but none the less, our wallets and savings
sure have been hurt—-
along with our faith in this assinine political world of ours.

I don’t care if you like Trump or hate his guts,
the one thing that we all need to share is the disdain for the egregious amount of
taxpayer dollars that have gone into this now two-year-old investigation
of rabbit holes and fairy tales.

35 million Muller bucks alone.

So yes, I think we the taxpayers of America need a ‘one call that’s all’ sort of lawyer who
is going to defend us for all of our pain and suffering.

We’re going to sue all of the Democrats… and a few Republicans for good measure.
We’ll sue the major television networks and several cable networks.
We’ll sue their reporters, pundits and opinion makers.

We’ll sue basically all of Hollywood, the entertainment industry, late night show hosts,
the music industry and anyone and everyone who jumped on the Russian bandwagon.

We’ll sue the journalism industry, those newspapers and magazines chomping at the headline bit…

Heck, we’ll sue colleges and their off-the-chain whacky professors.
We’ll sue over safe spaces for the snowflakes who want to spend all day crying.

We’ll sue everyone and anyone who thought 35 million dollars of taxpayer money was a wise decision
to use toward an endless investigation into nothingness.

So once our ‘one call that’s all’ lawyer gets us all our money back…
as his previous clients certainly boast, we’ll once again be able to afford cream
for our Black Russians, making them decadent White Russians and heck,
we’ll even use Tito’s American made vodka.

Cheers to the American people!!!!
We want our money back!!!

When the Spirit of truth comes, he will guide you into all the truth,
for he will not speak on his own authority, but whatever he hears he will speak,
and he will declare to you the things that are to come.
John 16:13

A small thank you to Bono in a growing world of ingratitude

I would maintain that thanks are the highest form of thought, and that gratitude is happiness doubled by wonder.
G.K. Chesterton

(Black eyed Susan / Seaside, Florida / Julie Cook / 2014)

If you don’t already know this little fact about me by now, let me just remind you—- I am not the most “digital” oriented individual in this age of electronic technological wonderment. I am happily, rather, a much more simpler person really. Perhaps considered old fashioned by some standards. Appreciating the straddling of two worlds–that of the “that was then”–“this is now” best of both worlds.

I had recently caught a glimpse somewhere, on some commercial, something about U2 offering some sort of free iTunes download. As this seemed to coincide with Apple unveiling their latest must have device, my most uninterested brain thought there was a correlation—thinking that if you got a new phone, a free download followed suit. I don’t know, like I said, I wasn’t really paying attention and it wasn’t really on my radar because I’m happy with my older version phone as I continue figuring out how it works—plus I’m just not an ardent music fan.

Now don’t get me wrong, I certainly like music. I actually love Jazz, Motown, Classical and contemporary Christian. I like some R and B, some top 40, but I just don’t cleave to it as I once did when I was much younger. I no longer listen to music when I’m in the car—preferring the sounds of quiet and silence—or perhaps more like the sounds of a rather raging world. That might have something to do with 31 years I spent in a classroom filled with the never ending deafening din of teenagers chattering, arguing, screaming, laughing, fighting, and never ever shutting their mouths.

So imagine my surprise the other morning when I journeyed downstairs to the basement for my morning ritual of bonding with my emotionless nemesis—aka my time on the elliptical, when there was a change of tune, literally on my playlist. I have a small selection of tunes downloaded to my phone which I turn to during my morning “workout”– aka death march, which helps to drown out my suffering, huffing, puffing and snorting.

I have 4 little classic U2 songs which pretty much sum up my routine. I know exactly which one and at what place I should be on my daily death march, aka workout, with the playing of each song. Two rounds get me near the end of my time of servitude and torture, aka workout, closing out with the finale of a rousing rendition of triumph from the band Macklemore.

Yesterday morning, suddenly following “Beautiful day” came a most unfamiliar tune–something about being raised by wolves. “What in the world” I could be heard uttering with breathless concern. Fumbling for my glasses, as I worked to balance keeping up my endless rhythm of stepping, I grabbed my phone to investigate what had taken control of my playlist.

Low and behold, it appeared that my playlist somehow connected to that invisible “cloud” of which seems to be the latest technological otherworldly invisible hangout, and I received the “free” U2 download.
Hummmm.
How’d that happen I wondered.
I don’t even know how to “go to the Cloud!!”
And what in the heck is the Cloud?
Where is it?
Why is it?
and really. . .
How in the heck does something invisible work for everyone on the planet?!
It’s all so, otherworldly. . .perhaps even alienesque, but I digress.

So as I continued my workout,my act of homage to health, listening to this new album (here is not the place nor time for a critique but I do find it all to be a bit dark and melodious but we must remember that Bono and the boys did grow up in Ireland during the height of a very sad chapter in Irish history known as “the Troubles”, but I digress as usual), it dawned on me that I needed to tell Bono and the boys “thank you”

In a day and time when a rather youthful society has grown accustomed to the ubiquitous BOGO (buy one get one), the free this and that attached to purchases of everything from food to clothes from electronics to even cars—all of which I call the marvelous marketing hook, the simple act of saying a proper “thank you” has been all but forgotten.

If, you the consumer, come in for a “free” test drive, we, the dealer will give you a new iPad. If you the consumer sign up for our insurance, we the company will give you a “free” cruise. If you the consumer sign up for our phone service, we the company will give you, not one, but two, free phones. And of course there are the department stores with their mega 70% off sales. . . Really? Do we honestly think we’re getting something next for nothing? Do we really think these mega department stores, with their crushing percentage sales, are giving away their profit margin without making money. . .woe to the naive.

Consumers are sadly being duped into thinking they save and gain, which leads to an unrealistic inflated sense of buying power— this false sense of power is produced by a frighteningly slick and savvy Product Marketing, super sales, economic selling engine. Nothing, and I mean nothing in our economy comes for free–despite that incentive cash loaded gift card Wally world just gave you for spending your money with them. There must be give and take—it’s just that the need to feed the proverbial consumer machine comes with a growing ravenous appetite in order to keep our accustomed sense of well being in tact–it is a vicious economic cycle that continues to spiral out of control.

And sadly, all of this economic game of cat and mouse comes with a jaded consumer market left ungrateful and simply wanting and hungry for more. Give us more glitz, glamorous goodies, shiny and slick tricks and baubles all in order to get us to buy–more.
The enticement has become expected.
We have created our very own ravenous consumer monster—a monster of expectation and assumption.
There is no gratitude, rather only ungraciousness and a hunger of wanting more.
If we, the consumer, do not receive our incentive of something for nothing, we rile against the
provider of service and goods.

All of which in turn has lead to a generation that has either forgotten how or never knew how to properly say “Thank You”

I grew up in a place and time when it was expected that if I, as a child, received any sort of present or even the slightest act of kindness, I was expected to offer a hand written thank you.
And don’t think I can’t see you. . . I see you rolling those eyes and I certainly can hear the snide asides of “how archaic” and “who in the world sends a thank you note, let alone actually writes anymore? Who needs to write when all we do is peck on keyboards. . .”

Yes I know, this blog is produced via a keyboard—but trust me I have stationary, I write and I love snail mail! My early years of conditioning and acknowledging the need to offer thanks, leads me to a constant stream of written cards, notes and hopefully an obvious gracious heart.

And as it now appears that I have received a small gift, a free download of a new album by the Boys of Belfast, I need, I want to send a proper Thank You.

And whereas I’m not quite certain as to where I would need to write Bono, or to whether or not he would ever see such a note, I shall use my tiny platform in the blogosphere to offer a heartfelt “thank you” for the “free” album that has mysteriously descended from the proverbial Cloud into my most humble little playlist.

Now whether or not there is an “alternative” reason behind this suddenly “free” kindness, I don’t know nor do I wish to sound ungrateful or assumptive as to motives. As my grandmother would tell me, you just need to write the Thank You note, end of sentence.
so. . .

Dear Mr Bono,
I wish to express here, in this small blog of mine, a humble offering of gratitude. . .
I wish to offer you a heartfelt thank you for. . .
Firstly making music—music which offers hope, joy, soulful examination, lessons of history and most importantly for the assistance of aiding a middle aged woman, who is working her way to the goal of better health, the incentive to simply keep plugging at it. You do all of this by offering the gifts and talents of self by setting your time and skills to the writing and creating the rhythms and beats of a talented music making machine.
Secondly I wish to thank you for the acts of kindness and compassion I know you offer to an ailing world. You unselfishly use your platform to bring recognition and awareness to causes and concerns, as well as a voice to many of the voiceless, in this often tragic and sad world.
And Thirdly Mr Bono, thank you for the album you just gave me for simply turning in. . .
Blessings for many more productive years. . .
Sincerely, Cookie