A new chapter in the history of a very old trail

& Three Californians riding two mules and a mustang passed through Abiquiu this week, and made some history. Might not sound like much, but if you know even a little bit about the history of this place (Georgia O’Keeffe doesn’t count), you know that’s saying something.

This small band of riders – what shall I call them, reverse historians? – accompanied by couple of lady documentarians and a truck-driving, trailer-hauling equivalent of an oldtime camp cookie in a chuckwagon  —  have been encamped for the past few nights around here – first up at Ghost Ranch for a couple of nights, and then down beside the big barn at the Rio Arriba Rural Events Center.

They’re just coming to the end of three months of re-blazing 800 miles of an old trail – such as it is these days – that was last traversed by a mule train a couple of years before the Civil War began. They called it then the Spanish Trail, and depending on one of three routes you chose, it was 1,200 miles, give or take, across the wildest of the American wild west — from Santa Fe and Abiquiu to Los Angeles and back again, packing goods out, leading livestock in. Now it’s the Old Spanish Trail, and, Congress says, a formal part of our history.

In those early years of the 19th Century, they’d pack up their mules in Abiquiu and set out – the first muletrain headed out in 1829 — for the frontier towns of California with loads of serapes, blankets, socks, buffalo robes, skins, hats, shawls and quilts that had come from the east along the 800-mile Santa Fe Trail or from Mexico City on 1,200 miles of El Camino Real de Tierra Adentro. Those goods would be traded, most of them, for horses and mules to be brought back from California across the same wilderness of desert, high mountain passes and arroyos to Nuevo México.

The commercial caravanning from east to west went on for a quarter of a century, the historians tell us, slowed down about mid-century, when gold-seekers pounded smoother routes to northern California, and were left in history’s dust a decade later, when the railroad barons pounded the Golden Spike in Utah.  We probably don’t have a Guinness Book of Records entry on when the last string of muleskinners made it back across the Spanish Trail to Abiquiu – 1848’s a good guess — but now we know when the last mules walked the Old Spanish Trail back into New Mexico.

It was this week.

Richard Waller of Arroyo Grande, CA, who retired from elementary school teaching to become an “adventurer with a conscience” and became a determined member of the California chapter of Backcountry Horsemen of America, is the visionary and trail boss of this homage to the heritage of the American West. With the backing and support of the national BHA, he lured a couple of others – Otis Calef of Santa Barbara and Jim Clark of Ojai – to forget their ages (averaging in the late Sixties, they call themselves the “Pedo Viejos”) saddle up at Cajon Pass east of L.A. and headed northeast — up the Mojave River, across the southern tip of Nevada and into Utah where, in November, they stopped the trek at Parowan. Last month, they tacked up again and began their final weeks of following a very old trail to its northernmost point at Moab, then turned southeast, across the tip of Colorado and finally down into the valley of the Rio Chama.

Along the way they’ve been accompanied by Rod Thompson of Ojai, who has ferried the animals from day’s ending point to overnight shelter and back to the trail again, across and along nasty stretches of Interstate and other highways that long ago took the places the muleskinners once walked, and around the few unfriendly places that permission to pass wasn’t allowed – Colorado wasn’t the friendliest place they found, and the Jicarilla Apaches never responded to a request to cross their lands up north.

Even so, Waller will remember in the book he’s going to write (if he tells me when it’s going to be published, I’ll let you know) that most everybody– from oldtimers in their 80s to young ‘uns who have fed them and offered them stalls for their animals and soft places to rest their aching backs, “was more than welcoming, more than willing to lend us a hand, open a gate, or feed us a dinner.”

“It has been a ride through magnificent country and wonderful people.”

All tolled, Waller estimates, they’ve covered about 800 miles of the Old Spanish Trail – the other 400 miles they found fenced off or under asphalt. Some of the stories of western hospitality and trials on the trail already are posted on their website – www.osttrek.com – and their Facebook page (it’s Backcountry Horsemen Old Spanish Trail Trek, and has plenty of great pictures, like this one.) OST canyon shotAlso on tap: A documentary, being filmed and chronicled by Benedicte Clark and Marie Bergenholtz, a couple of ladies from, I’m not kidding, Sweden and Norway. What would those old muleteers think about that?

Today (Tuesday), they’ll ride the last equine-friendly leg of their journey, up through Vallecitos and down through the hills and arroyos south of Highway 84 to near Espanola, and pack it in for one more night, before the animals are hauled over the highspeed fourlane hill into Santa Fe for their final ride, on Wednesday, in a parade into the Plaza. That parade is also part of the kickoff of the Three Trails Conference – named, of course, those three trails that funneled the goods into Santa Fe 200 years ago, and came to an end where the Old Spanish Trail began.

The end of the trail for this posse of the Pedo Viejos will be next to the rodeo grounds in Santa Fe, at the friendly facilities of another supporting organization interested in the history, heritage and culture of American trail riders, the Northern New Mexico Horseman’s Association.

And so why, Mr. Waller, did you decide to do this?

“Well,” he says, “to promote the mission of the Backcountry Horsemen of America and, particularly, to interest the public in the protecting the right to ride on our public lands. I hope that the Old Spanish Trail trek will help increase the public’s knowledge of our cultural heritage.”

And, Mr. Waller, how do you think you’ve done so far?

“Well, sometimes we’ve gotten welcomed by lots of people, festivities, and even a mayor or two has shown up to welcome us to town. Sometimes, we’ve ended up camping in the woods. But I’ve come to think of it as you’d think of a motorboat cutting across a lake, leaving lots of little whirlpools in its ever-widening wake. I hope that by riding the Old Spanish Trail, we’re leaving some of those whirlpools and some public interest in our wake.”

& Hoping the mayor of Santa Fe shows up tomorrow, with a bunch of other people, to meet the mustang, two mules and three newest blazers of the Old Spanish Trail, I’m outta here.











Annals of Hypocrisy in Politics, 2015 edition

& Speaking volumes:

July 18, 2015 — Jeb Bush’s response to Donald Trump’s opinion of John McCain’s status as ‘hero’:

bush tweet

January 19, 2005 — Bush’s letter to the Swift Boaters who orchestrated the smear campaign against then-presidential candidate John Kerry:


bush letter

& Wondering if Jeb’s trying to trump his brother in the Bait-and-Switch Sweepstakes, I’m outta here.

(thanks to Oliver Willis for finding the letter, sent via http://www.dailykos.com/story/2015/07/20/1403918/-Check-out-this-letter-then-Governor-Jeb-Bush-wrote-to-the-swiftboaters-in-2005?detail=email#)



Pride: An end to many happy years; now a good long rest among friends

& Sad day up here on the Rio Chama. But a good one, too.

Pride Simmons laid down near those hay bales, which had been his always-flowing, all-you-can-eat cornucopia, and died. He went easily; his old bones probably welcoming the long rest ahead.

In his 35 years, he’d seen a lot – from the rigors of mile-after-mile endurance riding events, to some years of enduring mistreatment by human owners and clueless weekend wannabe cowboys, to a 15-year residence and boss of the herd in the closet thing to Nirvana a horse could ever hope for.

As I write this, the warm dirt is still settling over him in his very deep entombment on the land of Sharon Burkard and Mickey Simmons. There, he lies beside some good company – Tomas, Bode, Isaac, Carlos, Hadley, Ozzie, Newbie, Scout, Oliver, Shiloh, Party, Lily, Rocco, Doc, General, and Ronnie – the remains, in order, of one cat, two goats, two geese, three dogs, seven horses and one human. Oh, the stories that graveyard could tell.

[caption id="attachment_2217" align="alignright" width="287"]me n pride Me ‘n’ Pride. (He didn’t have much use for grammar, either)[/caption]

I’ve written about one of Pride’s new compadres, he being Ronnie, and I should have told you more about others I knew – Carl Bode’s best friend Doc, and Oliver, the two-day-old foal of the rescued (and now-thriving) Skye; and those of that marvelous canine breed known as New Mexico Show-Ups, who showed up, lived happily and died peacefully at the Simmons ranch — Ozzie, Newbie, and that fearless Scout, who I liked a lot, even though she had a thing about biting me.

Pride’s obituary is best told by Sharon, who sent this today:

“Pride Simmons, age 35, retired endurance horse and all around outstanding guy, passed away peacefully this morning in the paddock of his Abiquiu home, surrounded by his adoring humans and his herd.  Mickey added many happy years to Pride’s life with a combination of love, intuition, and carefully researched supplements.  Pride taught Sharon how to stay on a horse’s back, and though he tested her on occasion, always kept her safe, a testament to the generosity of his heart and the depth of his spirit.  He let us know he was ready to go this morning. We were with him when he left.  He brought us a lot of joy, and we will miss him.

Two weeks ago, after he’d done his evening barn-browsing through the hay bales, picking and choosing at his leisure the tastiest and tenderest of the gourmet grasses, he was out in the pasture, still chasing, and bossing and having his way with the rest of the Simmons six-horse herd. He was himself to the end, and had a good time being so.

My kind of guy.

[caption id="attachment_2218" align="aligncenter" width="358"]pride_ms Mickey and Pride[/caption]

Keeping in mind that thought that “we’re all travelers in this universe, from the sweet grass to the packing house,” and thankful that Pride never made it to the packing house, I’m outta here.




Bad boys. These meddling, letter-writing Republican senators are really, really, really, REALLY bad boys.

& America’s newspaper editors have been sent scrambling into their various thesauruses (thesauri?) for words to say that 47 Republican senators are bad boys – really, really bad, bad boys — for mucking around in the negotiations to slow down Iran’s nuclear weapon ambitions. The senators’ open letter this week now has given members of the GOP some evidence for their eternal claim that America’s press is unanimously against them. On this issue, it seems, the press is unanimous. Here’s a smattering of editorial reaction (thanks to politicususa.com and storify.com for pointing these out – there will be plenty of other examples to be found elsewhere):

Pittsburgh Post Gazette: “[Obama and Kerry], who are charged with making the nation’s foreign policy, [were] hit from behind by one house of the federal legislature. The senators who signed the letter should be ashamed.”

The Sacramento Bee: “The Republican senators who signed the letter – including Senate Majority Leader Mitch McConnell and potential presidential candidates Ted Cruz of Texas, Rand Paul of Kentucky and Marco Rubio of Florida – who could use a remedial civics class.”

Baltimore Sun: ““The poison pen note was a shocking example of just how far President Barack Obama’s GOP critics in Congress are willing to go in an effort to undercut his foreign policy goals…The GOP senators might just as well have put up a big sign over their chamber warning the mullahs in Tehran to prepare for war…”

The Boston Globe: “breathtaking… reckless intrusion into international diplomacy….The letter … undercuts the president’s traditional authority [and]… badly undermines America’s credibility in the international community.”

The Denver Post: “Grandstanding.”

The Kansas City Star: “… pure hatred of Obama, it also seemed extra personal…another politically motivated attempt to stop him from doing anything that might be perceived as a victory for his administration.”

Concord (NH) Monitor: “…[GOP senators] are playing a political game dangerously out of bounds.”

The Salt Lake City Tribune “It will be up to history to judge whether the latest partisan stunt … amounts to an act of End Times warmongering or merely another bit of cringe-worthy buffoonery on the global stage… foolish, dangerous and arguably felonious… the Senate Republicans make common cause with the hard-liners in Iran to push the region, and the world, that much closer to nuclear war.”

Lompoc (CA) Record: “difficult to imagine … what goes on in the three branches of federal government. We’ve tried for years, and we still don’t get it. For example, what is there about providing health insurance for millions of Americans … that has gotten so thoroughly under the skin of congressional Republicans?”

Los Angeles Times: “…negotiating with foreign nations is the president’s job. The Republican senators’ meddling in that responsibility is outrageous.”

New Jersey Star-Ledger: “…supercilious…amateurish missive …from the circular firing squad known as the GOP.”

Pittsburgh Post-Gazette: “Hate mail: Senators seek to sabotage Obama’s foreign policy. [Those] who signed the letter should be ashamed.”

Miami Herald: “… a mischievous attempt to throw a monkey wrench into a years-long, multinational effort…”

San Francisco Chronicle: “…reckless … Washington’s unrelenting partisanship is hitting an all-time low.”

Somewhere, perhaps deep in the heart of Texis, there lurks an editorial praising that letter or saying it had at least some merit. If you find one, please send it to your favorite Republican Senator-signer, like any of those presidential wanna-bes or the last senator the GOP recommended for the White House, John McCain. Whomever that put-upon, pilloried senator might be, he needs some love. Whether he deserves it is another question.

& Wondering if any soul (maybe the Arizona senator’s family dog?) thought this was a good idea, I’m outta here.


The Faux News Tribe vs. The Facts

A Facebook post from Salon.com popped up today. Headline:

Fox News more trusted than any other network, according to terrifying poll

Yr’s Truly, having heard too much lately about the lies of Bill O’Reilly, the resulting increase in the followers of this bullying, bloviating, pretender to a profession, and the arrogant, continued response of his ethic-less employers who blatantly admit that audience size [read “money”] justifies “journalistic” lying, had to respond.

“If we’d have been faced with WWII today,” I wrote, “we’d have lost.”

Kim Heacox, a wise fellow from Alaska who writes books and plays the guitar and does a million other things, including thinks about almost everything, responded:

If you’ve not yet done so, read the March 2015 cover story in Nat’l Geographic Magazine, “The War on Science,” that explores the roots of America’s antagonizing ideologies (“egalitarian and communitarian” versus “hierarchial and individualistic”) and how most Americans are still in high school; more devoted to the warmth of their tribe (to fit in with those they identify with) than they are to the cold, dispassionate truth.”

That lit my fire. Cold, dispassionate truth is what we need — just about everywhere you look. Especially truth. Unfortunately, it’s going to take some passion to make the argument. So, I got passionate.

But, I decided on second reading of my responses, they had become “too long and laborious for the friendly forum of Facebook.” But not, mind you, for this old gringo’s Gazette. They’re gone from the friendly confines of Facebook, but not forgotten. Here’s the rest of it, in all its passionate glory.

“Kim,” I responded, “I’ll read it. Before I do, and at the risk of sounding too much like the old fart that I am and too little concerned about this nation’s many v-e-r-y s-e-r-i-o-u-s problems, it seems increasingly clear that far too many Americans are dumber than a pile of posts, proud of it, and unwilling to face the fucking facts of a very threatening future. Too many of those who would agree with me, unfortunately, are so mired in a wimpish wallow of political correctness that avoidance of controversy and criticism is their creed. It should be just the opposite. Those dolts who honor and are honored by Fox News should be roundly and regularly humiliated. If they’re allowed their continued cult-worship at the altar of ignorance, we’ll soon have a President named Bill O’Reilly.

Then I read the Nat Geo article (you should too.)

“Kim — marvelous article. Thanks for pointing it out. Applies certainly to far more than the science tribe. There’s the conservative political tribe and the liberal one. And there are several thousand religious tribes. And the “patriotic” tribe, all warring over the definition of patriot. On and on — humans in search of other humans who affirm their beliefs without knowing exactly why. I’m still pondering which tribes I belong to, but I’m pretty sure baseball is one of them, football is not.”

Among other things, I was struck by this from that National Geographic writer,  Joel Achenbach: 

“Evolution actually happened. Biology is incomprehensible without it. There aren’t really two sides to all these issues. Climate change is happening. Vaccines really do save lives. Being right does matter—and the science tribe has a long track record of getting things right in the end. Modern society is built on things it got right.”

& Passionate in believing Achenbach got that right, I’m truthfully outta here.





While we’ve all been off wrapping and wassailing and having a good old holiday time, there are some people who’ve been very busy the past few days trying to save a few horses from the slaughter houses. A friend writes that there has been “a huge surge of people dropping off horses, donkeys, and mules like hot rocks,” and most of them — unless someone can come up with the going price per pound of horsemeat-on-the-hoof — are headed for the slaughterhouse.

Across the country it seems, there are efforts to save at least some of the horses by raising the money to ransom them from the people known as killbuyers. In Texas, some rescuers have managed to raise $40,000 in the past few days to buy a herd of 60 already-starved horses that were  jammed into a massive trailer and headed for Mexico. In Oklahoma, Cie Sadeghy continues her constant campaign to save equines, as do others in Colorado, and a group that works coast-to-coast saving draft horses. The list goes on. On top of everything else, they’ve got to find places to keep the horses that are saved, and then try to find people to adopt them. It’s never ending.

Yr’s Truly was reading about the draft horses. It inspired me to write a story for one of those 500-word flash fiction contests. (You try to write a story in 500 words. I dare you.) Well, I did it, entered it, and it didn’t win a damn thing. So it goes. Even though those judges didn’t think much of it, I kinda liked it. Maybe you will, too. It’s short, anyway.


By Robert E. Cox

The little girl with a golden braid stood waiting outside the auction barn, looking down at the pant legs puddled around the man’s scuffed boots.  Her eyes rose slowly to the dirty rope resting loosely in the man’s weathered hand. The lead hooked to a makeshift halter of orange twine and cracked leather, slack-fitted on a Belgian’s massive head.

The horse’s muzzle was lifted — eyes alert and hopeful, ears raked forward, attentive to rumbling diesel engines and rattling gates of stock trailers moving forward through the dust kicked up in the dimly lighted loading lot. At the chute, two men with cattle prods swore as they forced five horses into a stock trailer.

The little girl’s eyes passed from the Belgian’s matted mane, down its muscled neck and along its swayed back. At its jutting hipbone her eyes stopped. She looked down and moved some sawdust with her toe.
“That your horse, mister?” She looked up.

His eyes were shadowed by a battered hat brim. Under a gray mustache, he smiled. “Nope. Bought him and four more for another fella.”

“What’s he gonna do with them?”

“I expect he’ll send them to slaughter. Down in Mexico.”


“So people can eat them.” He feigned surprise. “Just like cows.”

She crossed her arms on her chest, like her Mama would, and tilted forward on her toes. “Horses aren’t cows.”

“They’re meat,” he offered. “People in other countries eat horse meat, just like you eat cow meat.”

“I don’t eat meat, Mister.”

He pulled a pinch from a flat round can and put the tobacco in his mouth. The can clicked shut.

“How old are you, Missy?”


“Where’s your daddy?”

“We don’t know.”

“Where’s your momma?”

She looked back toward the sale barn. “My little brother had to pee.”

She stared at him, her mouth a hard, straight line. “How old is that horse?”

“Pretty old.” He reached up and lifted its lip. “Teeth pretty much gone. Scars. Collar burns.” The gelding stood proudly for inspection. “He did his time. Probably pulled an Amish plow.”

“Did you look at his eyes?”

The man tugged the halter. The horse lowered its head. “Nice eyes,” he said. Like he’s asking us for something, maybe.”

“What’s his name?”

“Don’t know. He’s ribby, though. Let’s call him Slim.” The man looked at the line of slowly advancing pickups. “Truck’s almost here, Missy. Gonna have to load old Slim.”

“How much for Slim, Mister?”

“I paid five seventy-five.”

“I don’t have 575 dollars.”

“Now what would you do with him, Missy?”

“I would look in his eyes, Mister. Every day.”

His fingers gathered his moustache, then spread it again.

“Hold him.” He handed her the lead. Limping a little, he walked along the line to a pickup and leaned in. There were words she couldn’t hear until the man backed away and yelled into the window. “I’m not taking that horse, God dammit!” He turned and strode back though the dust.

“Come with me,” he said, and led Slim toward a table. The sign on it said:

Horse Rescuers
Help Us Save Horses from Slaughter
Adopt & Donate!

The man handed a piece of paper to a woman at the table. “This horse is named Slim. He’s yours. You should find a way to get him into the care of this little girl.

“She likes his eyes. I do too.” He handed the lead to the little girl and winked. He walked back to the pickup, climbed in and slammed the door. The truck moved off, trailering four horses into the blackness.



©2014-2015 – Robert E. Cox

Happy that at least some of those horses will see the new year, I’m outta here.

Well, it’s a little longer than the original. After the judges so cruelly rejected me I was no longer limited to 500 words, so I added a few. What are they gonna do, sue me?



Pearls. Well, more like onions.

& Raymond Chandler, the master metaphor-maker of modern fiction, once had his famous detective Phillip Marlow explain that “I belonged in Idle Valley like a pearl onion on a banana split.”
In honor of Chandler, and in honor of highschool fiction writers who follow, sort of, in Chandler’s footsteps, Yr’s Truly presents:

The Top Ten 2014 Raymond Chandler Pearl Onion Awards
For, Like, Highschoolers Who, Like, At Least Try…

10. She was like a magnet: Attractive from the back, repulsive from the front.”

9. She grew on him like she was a colony of E. coli and he was room temperature Canadian beef.

8. She had him like a toenail stuck in a shag carpet.

7. When she tried to sing, it sounded like a walrus giving birth to farm equipment.

6. Their love burned with the fiery intensity of a urinary tract infection.

5. She had a deep, throaty, genuine laugh, like that sound a dog makes before it throws up.

4. Joy fills her heart like a silent but deadly fart fills a room with no windows.

3.Her eyes were like the stars, not because they twinkle, but because they were so far apart.

2. Her eyes twinkled, like the moustache of a man with a cold.

And, the Number One Raymond Chandler Pearl Onion Award for, Like, Highschoolers Who, Like, At Least, Try…

1. The ballerina rose gracefully en pointe and extended one slender leg behind her, like a dog at a fire hydrant.

& I’m, like, outta here.

Another cowboy gone. We enjoyed him.

& Yesterday, I was going to go to an auction. Instead I went to a funeral.

Well, it wasn’t a funeral in the sense you might think. It didn’t have all of those trappings like organs and pulpits and flowers and a front row filled with family mourners clutching hastily printed programs bearing a nice picture of the newly departed. It was a funeral perfectly suited to the senses of an old Abiquiu cowboy named Ronnie Patton.

The “services,” should we call them that, were in Ronnie Patton’s ‘church’ — an old adobe ranch house at the edge of a broad pasture of long-used land where horses now graze contentedly, their heavy hooves occasionally churning up a thousand-year-old shard of Pueblo pottery. It wasn’t Ronnie’s house or his ranchland, mind you. It’s now owned by Mickey Simmons and his wife, Sharon Burkard. But over the years of working there, Ronnie’s soul was ground into its soil, right in there with the pot shards. Now, his ashes rest there.young cowboy

Ronnie Patton was a paradox. He lived in a simple house he’d built on a small piece of land not far from the bank of the Rio Chama. Among his neighbors were the famous and influential and wealthy – Shirley McClain and Marsha Mason, the movie stars; Helen Hunt and other heirs and heiresses to fortune; barons of big business and the dot-com revolution; artists, authors, poets, potters, media personalities and others of varying degrees of often self-inflicted importance and notoriety. It is probably more precise to say that they, his neighbors, are the paradox, but that’s another story for another time.

Ronnie Patton was a man of no pretension. Like too many of the old timers who are dying these days around here, I didn’t know him well and I should have made the time to know him better. I’m sorry to say that, because he was another of those people we should learn from, those of a vanishing breed who lived a life of simplicity in an increasingly confusing world, and enjoyed it.

His home sat on a small piece of land he’d earned with his hands – stringing fence, drilling wells, moving cattle, fixing tractors, building sheds, laying pipe, cutting wood – hands so calloused, it was said, he could take the edges off a rough-cut 2-by-4 — without sandpaper. He had no wife, no children, no teevee, seven fingers (or was it six?) and fewer teeth. His possessions were plaid shirts, frayed jackets and a butt-sculpted saddle, a once-blue pickup truck, his ham radio and an uncounted number of cowboy hats, all of them reshaped by the crunch of tractor tires, the weight of horses’ hooves or the general ravages of Time. And he enjoyed it — you could tell that by the always-crinkled smile under his handlebar mustache and the singsong lilt in his voice when he proudly read his cowboy poetry. (more…)

A Republican Describes Republicans. They Won’t Like It.

& There’s a blog item going around these days that’s getting a lot of attention from Democrats because it says that despite last month’s embarrassment at the national polls,  all may not be lost. You read that right: Not lost. Matter of fact, it says the future is very bright for Dems, and very, very, very dark for Republicans. For them, says Chris Ladd, the election was a “prelude to disaster.”

It’s of particular interest because it is written by a … well, by a … Republican. A Texas Republican at that. A rational Texas Republican, if you can believe such organisms exist.

You can read all the whys and wherefores of Ladd’s rationale here — http://blog.chron.com/goplifer/2014/11/the-missing-story-of-the-2014-election/#28114101=0. Summed up, Ladd – a conservative columnist from down Houston way – says that Republicans don’t have a fart’s chance in a hurricane of holding on to their majority in the U.S. Senate two years from now, and their chances of winning the Presidency, in 2016 and far beyond, are only slightly better, maybe having the odds of a little stinker’s chance in a stiff breeze.

It all has to do with deepening Democratic power in the most populous states and the accelerating chokehold on the GOP by the wingnut fringe, which increasingly insists on candidates who cannot appeal to more moderate voters in swing states that determine winners and losers.  If you buy his story, it adds up to long-term disaster for the Grand Old Party.

I’m not here to reprise Mr. Ladd’s arguments. You’ll find them interesting. But, as you read his blog item, pay attention to the wording and what’s between the lines. He seems to have abandoned Ronald Reagan’s 11th Commandment, once in vogue, which said “Thou shalt not speak ill of any fellow Republican.”

Watch carefully as you scroll downward through his arguments, and you will find admissions  and accusations that:

1. The Republican mantra that voting laws they have championed in the name of ‘voter integrity’ are, in fact, a “sham” attempt to suppress voters with “ridiculous and confusing” requirements. Hmmmm.

2. Despite Republican protestations of environmental concern, there are, indeed, “climate deniers” among Republicans in Congress. “One of the…most stubborn” of that breed, Lee (Cash-and-Carry) Terry, last month became only the second Nebraskan of his party to have been beaten by a Democrat in the last fifty years. Note the “one of the.” That says that yes, there are other stubborn Republican climate-deniers in Congress. Hmmmm.

3. Texas, which Mr. Ladd calls the “Republic of Baptistan,” is “militantly out of step with every national trend,” and “at the core of GOP dysfunction.” Forget his description of the people and the pious proclivities of the Lone Star State, this is an out-and-out confirmation that Republicanism in America is, indeed, not a functioning philosophy of governance. Hmmmm.

4. Control of Congress by Republicans – half of them hailing from the good-old-boy Johnny Reb Confederacy — promises to be “two years of intense, horrifying stupidity.” Not only that, but all those pompous patriots from Mr. Ladd’s party who have been claiming that “Benghazi was a legitimate scandal that reveals Obama’s real plans for America” are, well, idiots. Read closely. That’s what he says. Hmmmm.


Election, 2014: Of sheepdogs, duckwalkers, super-Stentors & puny, pandering politicos

& Well, the Dems have been pounded into pulp, the Republicans will have control of Congress for the next two years and Obama will have the veto pen.

At least the growing dysfunction in Washington will be simpler to understand — it’ll be Obama down at the White House against the Republicans on Capitol Hill. No finalists left standing in this war to define the American soul. Will it be one of enlightened progress or creepy conservatism? Will it once again blaze a fresh trail into the future, or be content to rest, fat as a croaking frog, on its molding lilypad of laurels?

Will Washington witness an exchange of howitzers for the next two years – or will this madness subside into a moderately meaningful dialog? Oh, what am I saying? Moderate? Meaningful? With Mitch McConnell sitting as super-Stentor of the Senate? With Ted Cruz and Rand Paul slinking around in the cloakrooms vying for leadership of the looney factions? With a President, who will lamely duckwalk  through his not-so-grand finale, valiantly but vainly trying to reason with these salivating fools? Moderate? Meaningful? Please!

It will be humorous, to say the least, to watch the continuing internecine warfare among the scrabbling youngsters of the Grand Old Party, which is neither grand in scope nor old in philosophy, and not a party but a concoction of staunchly encamped and differing tribes of savages, conspiring in different languages and whetting their knives for back-stabbing and other non-Sunday sports.  On one thing they will all agree: Whatever is wrong in the world – from Ebola to ISIS to Obamacare to missing Malaysian airplanes — is Hillary’s fault. On another, when they are explaining two years from now why nothing’s better – despite their control of Congress – they also will agree: It’s Hillary’s fault. And when the volcano erupts in Yellowstone, they also will agree: You guessed it. If not Hillary’s fault, then it’s her granddaughter’s.

Not to say the Democrats are any better. From a raucous faction of fist-pounding patriotic firebrands who historically forced their ideas and dreams and visions into the oft-reluctant American spirit, they have been cowed into a puny party pandering to the milquetoast minions of the politically correct. For leaders, they now offer us sheepdogs.