I've never been more ticked off at a politician than I am at my city councilmember, Marion "Night Owl" Barry. Drug use. Drug use again. Suspicion of drug use. Unpaid taxes. Stalking. Scandals and harrassments. Unpaid tickets. Race baiting.
And now driving a car with illegal tags.
The man is a stain ... a blot ... a cancer on our city. He preaches and lives "entitlement". He sees himself as above the law. He portrays himself as the eternal victim. He is a racist. And, Ward 8, he has done little-to-nothing for you.
In 2012, we will have the opportunity to rid ourselves ... to rid our Ward ... to rid our city ... of this charlatan. We will have the opportunity to elect someone who puts the people of Ward 8 over his/her own ego.
I don't know yet who that person will be. I urge you to look at all of the candidates and to weigh them carefully. I beg you to chose your next councilmember wisely.
That is, of course, unless you're quite happy with the way things are going.
31 March 2011
29 March 2011
So. Um. Yes. Hello. So, I Think I'm Back.
Okay. I'm sorry. I apologize for having been absent for several months. (Months?! Oye, I guess so.)
Oh, Diarist. Where have you been? What have you been doing? And how is the double hand transplant going? (Because that's the only excuse we're going to give you for being gone for so long.)
I wish I had an elaborate story of globetrotting and jet-setting with Lindsay Lohan, Charlie Sheen, and Gary Busey. Or of a horrific, temporary, partial bout of elephantiasis of the nether-regions. Or of a near-death experience from a wild llama attack.
But the truth is that I just didn't care to blog. Anything.
Politics of late has been downright depressing. Celebrities are too busy winning and missing court dates to be interesting. I haven't been moved very much by the latest tech news.
And don't get me started on D.C.'s sports teams. (Minus the Caps, of course. But there's enough ink being spilt by far better wordsmiths than I on that topic.)
So I haven't written. Nor have I wanted to write.
My muse has left me for another blogger. (Or group of bloggers. I don't know exactly. She's a slut like that.)
I need to get back to writing. This is one of the very few things that kept me grounded, one of the very few things I found joy in doing.
Until lately.
Perhaps if I just get back in the saddle and ride, damn the direction ... maybe just perhaps I'll get my mojo back.
(A little encouragement from you, my faithful readers, wouldn't hurt either.)
Oh, Diarist. Where have you been? What have you been doing? And how is the double hand transplant going? (Because that's the only excuse we're going to give you for being gone for so long.)
I wish I had an elaborate story of globetrotting and jet-setting with Lindsay Lohan, Charlie Sheen, and Gary Busey. Or of a horrific, temporary, partial bout of elephantiasis of the nether-regions. Or of a near-death experience from a wild llama attack.
But the truth is that I just didn't care to blog. Anything.
Politics of late has been downright depressing. Celebrities are too busy winning and missing court dates to be interesting. I haven't been moved very much by the latest tech news.
And don't get me started on D.C.'s sports teams. (Minus the Caps, of course. But there's enough ink being spilt by far better wordsmiths than I on that topic.)
So I haven't written. Nor have I wanted to write.
My muse has left me for another blogger. (Or group of bloggers. I don't know exactly. She's a slut like that.)
I need to get back to writing. This is one of the very few things that kept me grounded, one of the very few things I found joy in doing.
Until lately.
Perhaps if I just get back in the saddle and ride, damn the direction ... maybe just perhaps I'll get my mojo back.
(A little encouragement from you, my faithful readers, wouldn't hurt either.)
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