The Idiots Blow It Again…RCS Takes a Stand on Gun Control In America

ar-15It didn’t take the massacre at Newtown for “we the people” to know that there’s a serious gun problem in America.  Let me point one thing out, however.  Guns wouldn’t be a problem (at least not at THIS magnitude) if they weren’t reliably being put in the hands of crazy people and fucking idiots by people who are out to make money on a commodity regardless of consequence (I’m looking at you gun shows, and Wal-Mart).  On some level, a gun is like an egg.  It’s a thing not a person.  It can be sold and resold.  However, the chances of a bunch of innocent people getting killed by an egg are slim to none.  Guns, in the marketplace, aren’t the equivalent of any other goods (not even knives, hatchets, or chainsaws).  The closest possible item that you can readily   buy that runs even close to the risk of being as deadly as a gun is America’s friend the automobile.  Let’s think about what it takes to buy a car: at the very least you need a valid driver’s license and insurance to drive a car off of a lot at a dealership.  You could, of course, buy a car off of craigslist without either, BUT if you get caught driving that car without a license or insurance, you face a stiff penalty.  It’s a lot like gun ownership, right?  You’re cool if you have an unregistered, unlicensed weapon as long as you never USE it (either to commit a crime or defend yourself).   Frankly, you’re a lot more likely to be caught driving a car unlicensed than you are to be busted for having an illegal firearm.  Why?  Because cars are dangerous, because we’re concerned about traffic control (ironically, especially around schools), because you’re driving unlicensed on public property, and because insurance companies and the government have a monetarily vested interest in catching people who don’t follow the rules.

I have been torn about this issue.  I grew up around guns.  My father owns guns.  I’ve owned guns.  I grew up shooting, as did my brother.  We both completed hunter safety courses, and had copious training from both my Dad and his best friend.  My brother got his first air rifle at age 11.  When I was trapped in my small town high school, it wasn’t unusual to see three or four pickup trucks in the parking lot with loaded gun racks (we’re talking high powered deer rifles or shot guns here).  No one thought anything of it.  Guns were a part of our lives.  Additionally, two of the four original members of  the Rubber Chicken Society are ex-military.  I’ve seen that guns, when used properly and with respect, aren’t BOLUSES OF TERROR.  One cannot ignore, however, what happens when guns aren’t handled correctly.  Whether it’s someone getting shot in the ass during a cleaning accident, or some douchecanoe having a nuclear level shit fit at an elementary school, the fact has to be faced that guns can be dangerous.  This danger comes in a really specific form, too.  You can take out a lot more people with an assault rifle than you can with a fork.  I don’t want people not to be able to have guns, although I think that as time progresses the argument that guns aren’t predominantly used for killing people or threatening to kill people becomes more and more inane.  I’m aware that the vast majority of gun owners are sane, rational, responsible people. However, a significant amount of people who possess firearms are abject fucking imbeciles.   They wrecked it for everyone.   Because of them (the mouth breathing bastards) there now has to be a stricter system in place for controlling guns and ammunition.  No matter what legislation you hammer through Congress, there’s no way people are ever going to get any LESS stupid or crazy.  The best we can hope for is that we can somehow make them a little less dangerous.

Here’s the actual text of the Second Amendment: “A well regulated militia being necessary to the security of a free state, the right of the people to keep and bear arms shall not be infringed.”  It’s pretty obvious to me that what the founding fathers thought of as “arms” is very different than what we’re debating right now.  I don’t know this for a fact, but I’m relatively sure that if you showed Thomas Jefferson what an AR-15 could do to a middle school, he’d say something like, “Yeah, fuck that noise.”

Additionally, if you extend the definition of “arms” to mean anything that one could use to defend oneself, anthrax and other elements of biological terrorism could be pretty damned effective.  As could other substances that enjoy federal controls.  It may seem illogical to expand the post-colonial idea of “arms” this far, but isn’t it equally ludicrous to equate a musket with an automatic weapon?  The idea of infringement (to infringe, if you don’t know, means something like to violate, trespass, encroach or transgress) is the big concept here.  The NRA is claiming that additional background checks (at gun shows and sales through private owners) somehow infringe the “God given” right to bear arms.  And they’re right — background checks prevent some people from owning guns: PEOPLE WHO HAVE ALREADY LOST THEIR RIGHT TO POSESS FIREARMS BECAUSE THEY FUCKED IT UP.  The only thing that requiring background checks “infringes” is the right of people to make money on selling  guns.  Why would the NRA have a problem with this?  They’re one of the most powerful lobbies in Washington.  Who do you think pays them the big bucks?  Gun and ammunition sellers and manufacturers keep NRA lobbyists in fancy calfskin loafers and handsome suits.  If sales are cut, the fat cats lose out.  This isn’t about your rights or infringement – this is about (like pretty much everything else) doll’a doll’a bills, y’all.  It’s important to remember that when you’re weighing your right to own an assault rifle vs. someone else’s life

Here’s what I propose (and I hate myself for saying this, but (due to the vast reserves of idiots in this country, what else can we do):

1)      A background check and waiting period are required for the sale of ALL firearms.  If a seller refuses to perform a background check and is caught selling firearms without one, the seller will be charged with a class C felony, his license to sell weapons will be revoked into perpetuity, and he can be fined up to $500,000.

2)      If you own a gun in the United States, you will be required to have a permit for ownership.  Licensure will consist of 1) a background check.  2) a completed course on weapons safety (course will be provided free of charge).

3)      Unlicensed gun ownership will be regarded as a Class C felony.  If convicted, all the person’s guns will be confiscated.  The convicted will be barred from future gun ownership, and if convicted of further possession will be charged with an additional felony and fined up to $50,000.

4)      All privately owned firearms in the United States must be registered.

5)      All gun owners are required to carry firearms insurance on all weapons.  Insurance rates are based on the responsibility of the owner, and will decrease over time.

6)      Assault rifles and ammunition will be illegal to possess/manufacture in the United States.  Sales of weapons or ammunition are felonies, and will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law up to an including incarceration, rehabilitation, and hefty fines.

I know many of you are balking at the idea of firearms insurance, and I hate it, too.  The idea, though, is to keep people safe, and (in my experience) the only way to do that is to threaten them financially.  Think of it this way, if you own guns and you’re safe (you have trigger locks, you don’t keep loaded weapons in the house, etc), your insurance rate should be super cheap (I’m thinking like 30 dollars a year for all your weapons), but if you do something unsafe or stupid that results in an injury, then (if you manage not to get your license revoked) you’re going to have to pay more to keep your guns.  I’m sorry.  I hate it, too.  At least this way there could be SOME kind of compensation for people whose lives have been affected by gun violence.  This is one of the reasons we have to have insurance when we drive.  We have to be able to pay for what we’ve done – even if the cause is neglect or stupidity.  It’s time we extend this idea to other areas.  Believe me, I hate this.  The last thing I want to do is enable insurance companies to further do what they’re best at – making money off of the potential for human tragedy.

Bad guys are still going to be out there. There still will be unlicensed weapons in the world, no matter what we do.  Think, if you will, about people like Guy Fawkes, one of the gentlemen who plotted to blow up Parliament by stockpiling a cache of gunpowder under The House of Lords.  Fawkes was captured in 1605.  The point is that we need to make it much more difficult to be simultaneously crazy, stupid, and in possession of a gun.  More laws won’t entirely solve the problem, but they might help mitigate it.  Frankly, even the merest chance that the lives of one of my tiny nephews or niece might be saved because some idiot found it too difficult to navigate the system is worth any inconvenience it might cause anyone else.  As Dave Wheeler, whose son Benjamin died at Sandy Hook Elementary on Dec. 14, said (quoting  a founding father at a public hearing in Newtown, Conn),  ”Thomas Jefferson described our inalienable rights as life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. I do not think the order of those important words was haphazard and casual. The liberty of any person to own a military assault weapon and high-capacity magazine and to keep them in their home is second to the right of my son to his life.”

Posted in children, current events, kids, morality, parenting, religion, republican, strange, Uncategorized, women, WTF | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 3 Comments

Potty Training: A Travel Guide to Hell and Slightly Beyond

poopTwo days ago, I awoke from a dream that involved a wooden sculpture I had made of a Viking ship with a rubber duckie as a masthead being accidentally branded into this really macho guy’s arm.  It was at this point that I decided that it was time for A. to get trained to crap in the crapper.  I thought, probably like all total novice potty trainers, that I’d just give the kid a bunch of C-A-N-D-Y (arguably his favorite thing on the planet, second only possibly to Mommy).  I walked into the living room and told the Rev that it was time, and outlined the C-A-N-D-Y PLAN.  She shot 50 caliber holes directly into my aspirations, as though she was on safari somehow hunting for T-Rex.  “NO CANDY!  CANDY IS NOT GOOD.  You are not going to give that CHILD CANDY for pooping.  I WILL NOT ALLOW IT.”  “Fine, Lady,” I responded, “what the hell do you do then? He only really WANTS candy.”  “Get some stickers,” she replied (with more than a dose of smugness).

I have long intuited that is just possible that the Rev has at least a marginally sick sense of humor as far as myself and the challenges of childcare are concerned, so I posted an S.O.S. on Facebook, asking all my friends with kids for hints/tricks/tips.  Most of the responses I got were something along the lines of, “HAHAHAHA: you’re going to get sooo pooped on,” and, “potty training takes a REALLY long time, and it sucks.  You’re not going to get it done today.  Stop wigging out.”   I also got, “Stickers are good.” which makes me think that the suddenly tech-savvy-when-she-wants-to-be-Rev has further infiltrated my inner friend circles.

Several months ago, the Rev had purchased a potty seat for A. that you put on the actual toilet via some odd method of snapping it into the hole, but the G.P. shut her down, saying that the kid needed his own potty so that he and A. could poop simultaneously (or team pee, whichever).  The Rev told the G.P. (Great Provider, for those of you who missed the article) to “return the damn thing himself,” and (since the G.P. has declared a personal fatwa on all things Wal-Mart due to an unfortunate incident wherein he was escorted out of the store by security for “not yelling or cussing at anyone”) nothing happened until I took over.  The Rev and I decided that there would be no further movement G.P. assistance-wise until I got an actual potty chair, so off A. and I went to the Wal-Mart to pick out his personal crap station.  On the way, we had a long discussion about diapers.  It should be noted that A. finds the concept of his father wearing diapers totally hilarious.  To tell the truth, we really didn’t get much farther than that.  I think it’s pretty funny, too.

The hated potty.

The hated potty.

You may think you know about the hell that is Wal-Mart, but until you’ve stood in the shit chair aisle for 45 minutes debating the merits of a “Cars” potty chair vs. one that looks like an actual throne and sings with a two year old in front of a highly amused audience of looky-loos and store employees, then you haven’t even approached the 3rd ring.  A’s point was that the dumb “Cars” potty seat had *wheels and went “VROOM” when you pressed a button.  My argument was that the “Cars” franchise was derivative and stupid and that you got to be a KING on the throne one, which at least played “Knick Knack Paddy Whack” (which is, come to think of it, a pretty gross song for toilet training, but whatever). This debate matched that of Lincoln and Douglas in intensity and verbal eloquence, but finally A. trumped all my highly logical, syllogistically formulated arguments by screaming, “NO!!!! CARS!!” with a pitch and decibel level that probably shattered the eardrums of several local dogs.  I caved.  We got the “Cars” potty seat, and then spent an hour picking out stickers.  I found some really super cool “Star Wars” ones, but couldn’t convince the toddler that these were MUCH BETTER than the “Spongebob” ones he wanted.  Our audience had followed us.  There’s not much going on in Wal-Mart at 8:30 am on a Monday.

We made it back to the house, and (of course) the potty seat required some assembly.  Also, it came with some pretty awful instructions for use.  The Rev had explained earlier in the morning that when I got a chair, I had to get one with a cup on the front.  “Cup?” I queried.  “Yeah,” she replied in her poor, cold-riddled but still stentorian Rev voice,

"Boner cup."

“Boner cup.”

“Because if you don’t and he gets a piss boner, he’ll pee all over you.”  This was the only time in my entire life I had ever heard the Rev use the word “boner.”  Shit was getting real.  The box also showed pictures of a HIGHLY MISERABLE, pants down, and GIGANTIC toddler on the potty.  The kid seriously looks like he knows about the extreme level of harassment he’s got to look forward to when his entire 6th grade class at Al Franken Jr. High finds out that he used to be a potty model.

Finally, I got the thing together, and then tried to show A. how to sit on it.  This didn’t work.  He ran away from me screaming, “NOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!” while wearing the thing that catches the poop on his head like a hat.  Things weren’t going well.  Then, about 15 minutes later, I heard the G.P. giving the kid a “Look POOP!” lecture from the master bathroom.  I put A. down for his nap, and then went to go pick J. up from school.  I explained what was going on to J., and told him that he got a sticker every time he demonstrated “how to potty” to A.  J. dug the concept because it involved him getting stickers.  There was, briefly, “A New Hope.”  However, when we got into the house, A. was using the potty as a snack table.  Defeat.

That afternoon, I made A. a giant poster which is labeled “A’s Potty Train,” and we started working on a song to go with it.  So far we’ve got, “Get on board the potty train, poop in the potty, don’t be a pain” with a chorus of “chugga chugga poo poos.”  It has been noted by the RCS Engineering Department (Andrew) that there is something incredibly gross about this “train” pun.  Touché.  I already made the poster, though.  These design flaws should be commented on BEFORE I spend three hours cutting out letters, tracks, and train art and then painting the whole damned thing with glitter nail polish.

I’ll keep you posted as to the potty progress.  I’m betting that the kid knows how to read before he knows where to poop.  He’s a genius, but (if he keeps this up), he’s definitely going to a State school.

*The wheels are non-functioning, but can you imagine if they worked?  You’d finally get the kid to shit in the pot and he’d be pooping and motoring across the tile in some kind of horrible re-enactment of a Roadrunner cartoon.  I don’t know if I could work up significant motivation to chase a pot of crap.  I lack biological imperative.

Posted in children, current events, Humor, kids, mother, parenting, relationships, strange, Uncategorized, women, WTF | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

Destroying Your Child The Fun Way…RCS Staff Writer Describes Nephews’ Favorite Games

"Gator Mouth"

“Gator Mouth”

Okay, there has been some demand from those of you with small children for adequate synopses of the games I routinely play with my two weans-by-proxy-and-paycheck. Why anyone would want to know the exact rules for a game like “Gator Mouth” is beyond me, but I suppose I am here to oblige (even though I suspect I’m going to catch a lot of flack from anyone who knows anything about children).  I would like to point out that I am totally aware of my deficiencies in this area, to the extent that (if I ever start taking this child care thing seriously) I will be calling my daycare the “Not Quite Kervorkian Early Childhood Development Center.”  Our actual motto will be, “Striving to provide just slightly better than what you paid for!” but our SECRET slogan is (of course), “If you bring your kid here, you don’t know Jack.”

“Gator Mouth”

Gator Mouth is an exceptionally simple game that I invented to annoy the hell out of Stadler when she was a tiny puppy.  What you do is make your hand into an alligator’s mouth by placing all of your fingers together as the top and using your thumb as the bottom jaw.  Then you open and close the “mouth” while saying in a really soft and creepy voice: “Gator mouth, gator mouth, gator mouth’s gonna get you, you just don’t know when” while ALMOST “biting” the kid with your hand.  The whole point is to be slow and eerie about it until you actually do get them (you bite them with your hand NOT HARD) while screaming, “HAHAHAHA GATOR MOUTH GOT YOU!”  A. loves this game, and regularly throws me a reverse.  When the kid does it back (A. says, “Gay MOUF, Gay MOUF”), do the world a favor and act totally terrified.

“Troll In The Hole”

To play this game, you simply hide your face behind a pillow, and peek around the edges (really distrustfully) at the baby.  Then, right when the kid gets confident and interested, you pull the pillow aside really fast and say (in a Troll voice), “I’m the TROLL IN THE HOLE.”  To add interest to this game, sometimes I pretend that the Troll is eating me and that A. needs to save me.  I usually stick and arm out and shake it like it’s being eaten while screaming for help behind the pillow.  Then when the kids tries to pull the pillow away, I do the whole Troll in the Hole thing again.

“Electric Chair”

This game was invented about a billion years ago when my cousins were very young.  It has evolved through the years to the extent that it’s now almost totally scripted.  To play: put the child on your knee facing away from you.  You want them pretty much right on the edge of your kneecap.  Then say, “By the power vested in me by the state of ______________ (I always used Texas even when I didn’t live here for pure electric chair humor), I hereby commit this child (kid’s full name) to the (yell this) ELECTRIC CHAIR for the crime of lickin’ kittens.  Do you have any last words, you little kitten licker?” Usually at this point you get a nervous, giggly, “No.”  I’m trying to teach J. to say, “Please don’t ‘lectrocute me, Boss.  I swear I won’t lick no more kittens,” but so far it hasn’t worked.  Anyway, then you put one hand on top of the kid’s head and proceed to pretend to electrocute them by shaking your leg really hard, rattling their head around (gently), and making loud buzzing electric chair noises until they fall off your knee (this is why you want them pretty far out on your patella) DEAD.  If you want to at this point (and I always do) you can make a speech about how sad it is when someone so young “Don’t do right in the world.”  Usually, though, your penultimate moment is wrecked when the “corpse” starts fucking laughing.

“Ride The Pony”

This is not pervy.  I know all you pervs out there are going to think this one is just for you, but it isn’t.  It’s for the children.  To play: put the kid on your knee (difficulty is increased by putting them farther out on your leg so that there’s less meat for them to balance on) facing away from you.  If they’re VERY little, they can face you, but that makes it easier.  Take them by either hand and extend their arms.  Then you start bouncing them on your knee while saying (rhythmically), “Ride the pony, ride the pony, ride the pony, ride the pony.”  You want to sort of get going to about a fast trot pace, so that they start gripping your leg with their knees.  Then, when they get confident, you start wobbling your knee to the outside and to the inside really as far as you can while screaming, “Can’t shake him off, can’t shake him off.”  I literally cannot shake A. off no matter how hard I try.  J. falls off in about a second.  Both kids love it.

monsterfl“Monster Flashlight”

This game got invented yesterday during a power outage.  A. and I played for about 3 hours.  Then he took a nap and forgot about it entirely until I brought it up.  J. was home from school and A. got so excited about playing Monster Flashlight with J. that he took off at a fast clip back to the boys’ room, and tried desperately to tell J. the rules.  It came out like this: “J. Flash Auntie Light Says J. Auntie Light Says Flash, J. MONSTER!” Clearly, this was a pretty cool game.  To play: get a flashlight and pretend that if you get caught in the beam, then the monster got you.  This game involves a lot of running and screaming.  It’s basically the same as screwing with a cat using a laser pointer, only with children.

Do you have any great games that you play with your kids?  Leave us a comment and let us know.  We’re always looking for something that doesn’t involve wonking  Auntie/Mommy/Daddy in the head with the meticulously constructed Lego super car that  Auntie/Mommy/Daddy just spent the last 45 minutes building.  Frankly, anything that doesn’t involve me getting pelted, belted, or otherwise punched in the sternum is a pretty damned good game as far as I’m concerned.

Posted in children, Humor, kids, morality, mother, parenting, pets, relationships, strange, Theater, Uncategorized, women, WTF | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 3 Comments

Satan’s Casita…Gingerbread House Construction Year 9…RCS Staff Writer Experiences Seasonal Despair and TRIUMPH

Every year since my niece Ninja was 5, we have attempted to make a gingerbread house.  Some years were more successful than others.  The year we used Royal Icing, we actually got the fucking thing to stand up, but the Rev wouldn’t let anyone eat it because the frosting contained raw eggs.  Last year, we got a kit, complete with a form that had channels which would supposedly lock the pre-made gingerbread slabs in place.  Yeah, my ass!  We experienced total collapse.  Here’s a pic of it that we snapped prior to the great cave in.  I think Yoda makes it.


THIS year, I had many lofty goals.  Two days before the big event, I made a scale drawing and plans for the house.  The pasteboard cut-outs stood up on their own, and the fake roof stayed on.  I foolishly thought this was a good sign.  We started baking the gingerbread.  First we made cookies in the shapes of trees and Pac-Man, and chickens (because this is what you get when the only visual artist in your family hates Christmas).  The boys helped us decorate.  J. painstakingly crafted each piece and then promptly ate it.  A. helped by licking all the icing and sprinkles off of the cookies.  A. is such a generous baby.  He’d take a big lick, and then sneak his cookie under the table to give Stadler  (our massive Lab puppy) a taste. The dog got so many gingerbread “accidents” and leavings that she collapsed into a sugar coma, and actually slept through the entire night.  By the time we were done with the cookies, everybody was pretty much gingerbreaded out, but I insisted that we at least BUILD the stupid house.  The slabs of gingerbread were baked and had been sitting in the freezer for about four hours.  I pulled them out and started building.  It went okay for a minute, until the roof collapsed, and the whole shebang fell into a derelict pile.  Patiently, I rebuilt and threw the house in the fridge.  At this point the Rev, who you will remember had previously declared a gingerbread house inedible when all the ingredients were legitimately FOOD, told me to hot glue the thing.  We waited about 20 minutes, and then pulled the fucker out.  It seemed pretty stuck, so we proceeded to decorate it.  I had jelly beans for the roof, and I let the kids put them on like tiles.  They looked beautiful, until combined weight of the jellies and the moisture of the frosting caused the cookie slabs to crack and fall into the middle of the house.  Then the front, back, and sides caved in.  At this point, my brother (wanting to get his sugar amped children home) came into the kitchen and told me that I needed man help.  He proceeded to critique my frosting, saying that it wasn’t sticky enough and that it had the consistency of “delicious, delicious whipped cream.”  He then grabbed a finger-fulls of it and proceeded to glop the inside seams of the house, pointing out that if I ever got the thing to stand up, he was going to take architectural credit due to his invention of interior seam frosting.  The real problem, however, was the roof.  I had a leftover gingerbread kit that my brother had found underneath his counter, and I took the two year old slabs of cookie, and used them to make a new roof.  I do not feel guilty about this (well, not MUCH) because I’m pretty sure McDonald’s level industrial preservatives are involved in the manufacture of boxed gingerbread.  Unfortunately, it the new roof didn’t fit exactly right, and I had to use three slabs to kind of make it work. I also attempted to use load bearing candy canes.  DO NOT TRY THIS AT HOME.  It doesn’t work. The whole thing went back into the fridge again, and I sent the children home with a massive plate of cookies that included the whole roof.  At that point, I was oozing frosting through every pore, so I took an exhaustion-laced shower, and posted something on Facebook about gingerbread house construction being a cure for both anorexia and insomnia.  I seriously think I consumed enough frosting and sundries in one sitting (purely accidentally) to fuck up a herd of Weight Watchers for an entire year.

Cut to two days later:

So, I let the whole thing turn into frosted concrete, popped it out of the fridge and proceeded to decorate it.  I redid the jelly bean roof theme, and started on the front of the house.  I was well into fixing the front when the roof collapsed again.  I rebuilt, but the top slab fell through the hole and I couldn’t fish it out without demolishing the whole thing.  I gave up and put it back in the fridge.  This morning, I pulled it out performed reconstructive surgery on the top of the roof with graham crackers coated in about an inch of frosting.  I then finished decorating the damned thing and put it in the fridge.  It has snowmen, and Santas, and it lights up on top.  I hate it.  I want to hit it with a claw hammer, and I probably will.  Here (like a phoenix rising from the ashes) it is in all its vague and adulterated glory:



Christmas is officially my bitch.  I’m getting a divorce.  Have a merry one, effers.  Don’t forget your rubbers and bail money.

Posted in children, dogs, Humor, kids, mother, parenting, pets, relationships, strange, Uncategorized, women, WTF | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

On Love…

A week ago today, my nephews tragically lost their only other Auntie in a terrible accident.  She was killed while participating in the most innocuous of activities – she was simply walking home from work and was struck by a car.  The family is devastated.  Last night I attended the funeral at a local Catholic church.  The priest read us all a lecture on getting right with God because you never know when the end is coming.  There is so much that wasn’t said; so many things that I want the boys to know about how the world works – specifically the component of love, that I’ve decided to write this.

Here’s what I wish the kids had been told:

Love is the realest thing there is.  It is bigger than houses, or mountains, or sky, or space.  It is larger than life or death.  Love is what gives the world its colors, and its absence is what gives us the shadows that allow us to see where things really are.  Love is like light, it is something that is more than it is, and more than we can possibly perceive – lost as we are in the shade and the glow of it. It is both inside and outside time and place and circumstance.    Without love, there is only its absence.  The gray world would numb us to the point of incredible and inexpressible despair.  Without love, there would be no music, there would be no paintings, there would be no poetry, there would be no hope.  We only think we lose love when someone dies or leaves, but what we really lose is the opportunity to create more memories.  And that hurts desperately.  The love, the actual fact of love and loving, is still there – inside us and inside the world.  The love is still  just as it was.  It doesn’t change; it is immutable.  It doesn’t disappear — one of its great components is permanence.  It doesn’t fade.  All those who love will understand loss — that’s why to truly love requires great courage — but the joy of having loved and of having been loved will eventually outweigh any pain.  Love accepts you as you are, and gives you the strength to accept yourself.  Love is the ultimate validation – that’s why it’s such an amazing gift.  You will always have that love.  You ARE that love, and the more you love (with bravery and audacity) the more you can BE.  Nothing else matters.  Love trumps all hands.

Here are some words from some people who said it way better than I can:

“Amor constante más allá de la muerte”

Cerrar podrá mis ojos la postrera
Sombra que me llevare el blanco día,
Y podrá desatar esta alma mía
Hora a su afán ansioso lisonjera;

Mas no, de esotra parte, en la ribera,
Dejará la memoria, en donde ardía:
Nadar sabe mi llama el agua fría,
Y perder el respeto a ley severa.

Alma a quien todo un dios prisión ha sido,
Venas que humor a tanto fuego han dado,
Medulas que han gloriosamente ardido:

Su cuerpo dejará no su cuidado;
Serán ceniza, mas tendrá sentido;
Polvo serán, mas polvo enamorado.



The final shadow may close my eyes,
carry me off from white of day,
unchaining my soul at the hour
of its anxious desire:

but it will not leave the memory
of that other shore where once it burned:
for my fire can swim me through the frigid water,
regardless of the strictures of law.

A soul which once imprisoned an entire God,
veins that brought fuel to such flames,
marrow that so gloriously burned:

they’ll leave this body, but not its cares:
ash they’ll be, yet still aware;
they will be dust, but dust in love.

From Canto LXXXI

What thou lovest well remains,

The rest is dross

What thou lov’st well shall not be reft from thee

What thou lov’st well is thy true heritage.

~Ezra Pound

Annabel Lee

It was many and many a year ago,

   In a kingdom by the sea,

That a maiden there lived whom you may know

   By the name of Annabel Lee;

And this maiden she lived with no other thought

   Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,

   In this kingdom by the sea,

But we loved with a love that was more than love—

   I and my Annabel Lee—

With a love that the wingèd seraphs of Heaven

   Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,

   In this kingdom by the sea,

A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling

   My beautiful Annabel Lee;

So that her highborn kinsmen came

   And bore her away from me,

To shut her up in a sepulchre

   In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in Heaven,

   Went envying her and me—

Yes!—that was the reason (as all men know,

   In this kingdom by the sea)

That the wind came out of the cloud by night,

   Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love

   Of those who were older than we—

   Of many far wiser than we—

And neither the angels in Heaven above

   Nor the demons down under the sea

Can ever dissever my soul from the soul

   Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams

   Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes

   Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side

   Of my darling—my darling—my life and my bride,

   In her sepulchre there by the sea—

   In her tomb by the sounding sea.

~Edgar Allan Poe


love is the every only god

who  spoke  this  earth  so  glad  and  big

even  a  thing  all  small  and  sad

man,may  his  mighty  fortress  dig

for  love  beginning  means  return

seas  who  could  sing  so  deep  and  strong

one  queerying  wave  will  whitely  yearn

from  each  last  shore  and  home  come  young


so  truly  perfectly  the  skies

by  merciful  love  whispered  were,

completes  its  brightness  with  your  eyes


any  illimitable  star


~ e.e. cummings

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Just When You Though It Was Safe to Go Back on The Blog…RCS Holiday Book –The Epilogue




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RCS Holiday Book Part 6…Wherein It MIGHT End…

Click here for the final chapter (I probably swear!!!)


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