Five Things: September 19, 2013

I thought I’d put my Feedly reader to good use and point out some of the more outrageous/interesting/heinous/gnarly/silly, etc. stories cruising around out there.

1) Apparently, Stand Your Ground REALLY only applies to white folks when they shoot black and brown folks, not the other way around. How dare you think that the law is applied evenly and fairly? You think it is? Then, it’s time to take off your fucking rose-colored specs because they’re blinders smeared with shit. Seriously. Don’t believe me? Check this out.

H/t to politicalblindspot.com

ANOTHER Jailed African American In Florida Is Told ‘Stand Your Ground’ Doesn’t Apply To Him

Screen shot 2013-09-19 at 3.28.59 PM

Michael Giles (courtesy of PoliticalBlindspot.com)

Funny thing about laws, they gotta apply to everyone. Oh wait, this is Florida so there’s the rub. While I am not a fan of online petitions, this one might be worth signing.

2) It’s deja-vu–1991 style–all over again.

Why?

Gennifer Flowers is back in the news. She’s now yammering about how that if it weren’t for Chelsea, she and Bill would be all married up n’ shit by now. Oh, and Hillary’s a bi-seck-shul, by the way according to Gennifer via Bill. AND, Hill’s eaten more pussy than Bill. Just sit with that one for a minute. Let it absorb in your being and ooze in and out of your  ….

I know what you’re trying to do now–you’re trying to get that image of Hillary muff diving out of your mental Rolodex. You know what? IT CANNOT BE DONE. I’m sure some of my Sapphic Sisters can relate though.

(courtesy of monstersandcritics.com)

(courtesy of monstersandcritics.com)

You get what’s going on here, yes? Well, Hillary will probably run for POTUS in 2016, so the Right Wing is starting early with the rumor mill. HOWEVER, what they probably don’t realize is that by saying that Hillary swings both ways, she’s collected all of the gay money and has shored up the gay vote. Gays have lots of cash and lots to say, and unfortunately for our brothers and sisters on the right, lots and lots of influence. Nice try, RWNJ, better put a call into Monica to see what she’s been up to lately, you know, as a ‘just in case.’ If Monica is busy, there’s always her.

3) Good luck, Felony. You’re gonna need it.

(via imgur.com)

(via imgur.com)

4) Bring up your dead. I know you saw what I did there.

This case is still very much alive in Boulder these days.

Here’s what I’m talking about. Apparently, some folks just can’t let dead baby beauty queens stay dead. This was a horrible case–not just the actual crime, but how it was handled and screwed up by the Boulder Police Department and the Boulder DA.

(via KTLA)

(via KTLA)

But, what’s extremely important here is the indictment against the Ramseys was never made available to the public. It was presented to a grand jury, they voted to prosecute the Ramseys for the murder of their daughter, JonBenet, but the prosecutor never signed it. Why? This is what Charlie Brennan, a reporter for the Daily Camera and the Reporters Committee for Freedom of the Press would like to know. Simply put, in a so-called free society, there has to be transparency. As journalists, this is our main job–to be watchdogs for and of society. We uncover the corruption, the crap–the bad behavior if you will–that so many of our esteemed elected officials would rather you not know about. I know I’ll be following this story because I don’t think it’s over yet. Stay tuned.

5) Finally, a song for today. Tis a grand one too. Enjoy.

Normal paranormal

My new pal, Madame Weebles has been waxing rhapsodic about spectre sightings. These posts got me thinking about my own encounters with ghosts. I’ve had quite a few.

I do believe in ghosts and no, I’m not in need of electro-shock therapy or a padded cell at Trembling Acres. Some folks believe, others don’t. ‘Tis the way of the world.

I grew up in an old house in Illinois’s Fox Valley in a town called Wayne. The house, a Victorian, was built in 1887 for a colonel from the Blackhawk War, and eventually other families of course. My family has lived in this house since 1966, so it’s safe to say we know every nook, cranny and nuance. Plus, we know all the noises and moods of the house — it’s the backbone of our family. Not only has it sheltered us from extreme weather, it also has witnessed our tremendous victories and our saddest moments, our great loves, huge losses and plenty of joy and laughter.

This house is also haunted.

I had my first encounters with a young woman –who appeared to be around 18 or 19 –when I was little. She was dressed in a Victorian dress, her brownish (?) hair styled in a loose bun. She was tall and slender, and had a serious gaze. I don’t know who she was — perhaps she was the colonel’s daughter. It wasn’t unusual for me to find her sitting on my bed at all times of the day and night when I entered my room, or woke up for whatever reason. We’d just look at each other and she’d smile, then fade away. I never feared her –something inside me told me she meant no harm to me or anyone else in my family. My childhood kitty, Squeaky Fromme (yeah, long story), did not like her however. Squeaky hissed and growled whenever the ghost was in attendance, and it got to the point where whenever I heard a hiss, my ghost friend was waiting for my acknowledgement–it was as if she couldn’t get on with the rest of her haunting UNTIL I gave her a thumb’s up. Over time, Squeaky’s hisses became a Pavlovian response: Hiss=ghost.

The other presence I see and feel quite often is my grandfather, Evan R. Chesterman Jr., affectionately known as Pop Pop. He was a Southern gentleman and lawyer from Richmond, Virginia who had a big heart and a cute sense of humor. He was adored by those who knew him, and his death in 1980 knocked the wind out of all of us. His spirit hung around those first few years following his death. Usually, I’d hear him first, “Jewya,” he’d say in that wonderful Virginia drawl, “Hi, sweet girl.” I’d turn, smile and stare. He’d disappear just as I’d start to speak, and he always had a smile on his face. The last time I saw him was when I was in California in the apartment I was renting in Highland Park. One cool morning in February, I found him sitting on the couch in the living room — staring at the Picasso owl print above the fireplace. He looked tired, but happy to see me. I stood for a moment, with my hands on my hips and when I moved toward him, he got up and quickly disappeared. As he wafted away, an aromatic breeze of Virginia fir trees — one of the scents that surrounded his house in Richmond — filled the room. It felt like a hug.

Next up … stories involving another family’s ghosts who dig me.