On the Other Side

We were sitting on the other side of the fence.  It was a huge event. The list of speakers was impressive; government officials from Federal, state and local levels; Vice President Biden included. Heavy-hitters.

Among the gated, VIP, chosen crowd; there was an attractive young lady. Clearly, she had invested time, energy and money selecting the quintessential, picture perfect outfit. She was the embodiment of our obsession with the unspoiled physicality of youth; a walking fashion advertisement of our human species.

Her stunning dress looked like it had been custom made for her. It was just a few shades darker than her peach colored, sun- kissed skin. There were deliberate cut-outs trimmed with lace to sensually reveal her well – toned flesh. It clung suggestively to her nubile curves.  Her nude colored, strappy sandals had uber- high heels; making her stand taller; perhaps, even prouder.  Her honey colored hair had been carefully coiffed; flowing  in long ringlets to frame the unblemished countenance of her perfectly placed features.

A very serious temporary fence had been erected to separate the exclusive VIP section. Security was intense. Armed guards were strategically perched on the rooftops of the surrounding buildings and over-head, planes and helicopters circled regularly. The event’s most distinguished, honored guest had miraculously survived an assassination attempt on her life in 2011. Law enforcement was everywhere.

I’d been invited to a private “Nearly VIP” section. It had abundant shade, tables, comfy chairs, delicious food and icy beverages. It was infinitely more pleasant than the unshaded, folding chairs, VIP section.

The ‘Officials Only’ VIP section, which required an extreme security clearance, was in the blazing sun. Our “Nearly VIP” area was elevated six feet higher than theirs. We had a truly great view of the show.

The ceremony was scheduled to start at noon- in June- in the sub-tropics.  The VIPs down below us were suffering. Sweat was dripping off everyone and running off some like mini waterfalls.  Guests were using the 16 page, 8’X10”, printed brochure for shade or as fans. People were opening them up and wearing them on their heads like hats. They’d started arriving at 10:00 to get a good seat. It was hot.

Heat got the best of everyone down on that brutal concrete slab.  The clingy, synthetic fabric that the young lady’s clothing been made of was not designed for tropical heat. She’s been standing with her back to us. Apparently, she must have gotten over-heated, as she was utterly oblivious to the 200 plus crowd of on-lookers seated directly behind her on the other side of an entirely see-through fence.

She’d edged closer to the fence to attempt to fix her various wardrobe malfunctions. Something was coming apart on the toe bed of her stilettos so she was repeatedly mashing the heel of one shoe onto the toe of the other shoe. The shoes were coming unglued. Next she tried to casually rewind her wilting ringlets. More covertly, she plucked and at her panties trying to rearrange something clearly uncomfortable.

As key parts quickly deteriorated, sadly she melted into a miserable, pouting puddle.

I’d dressed fashionably casual. I was comfortable and grateful to be On the Other Side…




Nate Kavan claims it’s numbers who are to blame and letters have been trying to tell us this since the beginning.

This is your 2:22 AM wake up call.  Zeros and ones, zeros and ones.  The DNA of computers.  Chains of these two digits combined are part of our daily lives for better or for worse, and the programm…

Source: Nate Kavan claims it’s numbers who are to blame and letters have been trying to tell us this since the beginning.

There will be Tears

November 22, 1963, when I was eight, President Kennedy was assassinated. In 1968, Martin Luther King in the spring then Bobby Kennedy in June. That same June I would turn 13 and I was celebrating in San Antonio with my Hispanic grandmother at the Hemisphere until we heard this news. She was so upset she fainted, party over. Her own father had been shot to death when she was a motherless teenager.

She had been very politically involved in the election of John Kennedy. Little shrines to him occupied prime territory in nearly every room of her home. I think now that some of her tears about Bobby Kennedy may have been old tears that she still needed to liberate.

This news about Donald Trump being our next president makes me want to cry. My ten year old granddaughter had been following the campaign. She was very worried when she went to bed last night. I know when she hears that he won, she might want to cry.

I was very politically motivated by what I experienced  with the death of the Kennedys and King. I have always considered myself to be a Kennedy kid, “Ask not what your county can do for you, but what you can do for your country.” The results of this election will only make me work harder to be that person.

I don’t know what else to do. But first, I am going to let myself liberate some tears…


An Open Letter To Donald Trump From Some Angry Women.

Drifting Through


Dear Mr. Trump… can I call you Mr. Trump? Is that ok? I want you to be happy, that’s very important to me.

Before I get started, let me say this letter isn’t from all women. The Trumpettes surely won’t approve of this message. But this is from most women.

We see right through you. We have all known you at some point. Your ways are not unfamiliar to us. We see through you because we’ve been dealing with you our whole lives.

We heard you call women pigs. And disgusting. And stupid. And bimbos.

We watched as you called a former Ms. Universe “Ms. Piggy” and then spent four days continuing to insult her.

We see your weakness. Your lust for attention at any cost, your need to denigrate women. We see all of it. And we’re mad.

Yes. We’re mad. And fired up. And here’s the thing about us……

View original post 1,086 more words