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Limousine Liberal.(Linoleum Cut).
Riding thru town,
looking at the plight of many homeless people,
and other unfortunates,
He feels their pain,
perhaps even tosses out a few bills to ease their suffering,
it helps him sleep better tonight.
He throws on a pair of old clothes,
to blend in better while in their mist.
Which really doesn't happen often,
after all,
have you ever smelt (Those People)?
What does happen often is how often he talks about what they need to do to straighten up their lives,
in short to become more like him,
If (They) would only heed his advice,
after he takes another bite from his lobster dinner,
with the greatest of all sauces.
He tells the presses when ever he gives a big check to help others.
What goes unreported is the real reason he gives big,
it is a big tax write-off,
after all,
its just business my friends.
O yes he feels their pain,
as he sleeps on thousand count Egyptian cotton sheets,
while complaining the air conditioner isn't running just right.
He has many ideas to save the planet,
from the so-called mistakes of the (Uneducated Masses).
He allows only yes men into his circle of friends.
His friends are as plastic as his credit cards with no limit.
He tips big when ever someone might notice.
Other wise he just hands out advise for a tips,
like don't bet on the races son.
He smiles large.
He waves his hands,
as if he wants to get elected.
While riding in his limo he pours himself another stiff drink.
Telling his driver what is wrong with today's art world,
O-yes he has all the answers,
just ask him,
After all he or she is the
(Limousine Liberal).
Steve.D.Hammond.
Please check out other political license plates by searching for "political series" or clicking this link.
Bold, liberal and thoughtful, Araun takes his duty with much honour and selflessness. He wields two mighty blizzard-swords, and wears a powerful mask of shielding. Araun does not have a fixed idea of what the relic might be, but believes that whatever it is must be protected at all costs, and kept out of the wrong hands… But could his defensive nature lead him to hoard the relic for his own?
This image is a bit old, but I couldn't resist posting. I was originally waiting for someone to walk by on the sidewalk but when I saw this pair pushing their car it seemed perfect.
Once upon a time, many moons ago, back in the day, somewhere over the rainbow, way up north where the cottonfields grow, our narrator sold an ounce of hashish, gram by gram, to some of his fellow students at the effete liberal Eastern urban University where he attended classes. Or perhaps it was Play-doh colored with tobacco juice that he sold---no matter---the buyers seemed happy, no one asked for his (they were all male) money back. Trying to recoup some of his investment, the narrator fronted half of the ounce to his friend Dave, a gungho engineering major who had channeled his talents into making elaborate waterpipes, and who all-too-soon (to the chagrin of his blue-collar parents, no doubt) dropped out of school and headed back, or slunk back, to New Jersey. Now Dave found himself owing our narrator his share, when, low and behold, out-of-the-blue, surprise no end, who coulda thunk it, the money was gone. Dave couldn't pay---he had spent all the proceeds. However, he proposed a solution. He didn't have any folding cash, all the cabbage had been cooked, consumed, and excreted, but he had this other item of value, this Italian worldbeater, this exotic Ducati motorcycle. This exotic Ducati motorcycle was worth at least as much as the amount owed, and in lieu of the green, our narrator could be the proud owner of this splendid specimen. Being mucho verde himself, not-overly-worldly-wise, a tad soapy behind the ears, our narrator took the bike.
How the bike actually came into our narrator's possession he doesn't remember. Where and when he discovered that the bike didn't actually run he doesn't recollect. In fact, our narrator never actually got the bike running, our narrator didn't, but he did manage to get it out to the house of his great friend, mentor, father-figure-extraordinaire, Mr. Merrill, and Mr. Merrill the great tinkerer (he once took his Alfa Romeo apart and had it lying out in his front yard, piece by piece) Mr. Merrill got the bike running. This would have been on some weekend, when our narrator had taken the train out to the suburbs, where Mr. Merrill and his lovely wife Stuartie (she had been born in Virginia, and her parents, perhaps disappointed that she wasn't a boy, had nevertheless named her after the local hero, Jeb Stuart) had a house with those hot water heat pipes that creak wonderously as they're coming on. When the exotic Ducati motorcycle was up and running (sputtering, wheezing, fiffully alive after an ether transfusion, if memory serves) Mr. Merrill took it for a spin in the neighborhood, and when he came back to the house, he pronounced it worthy (most probably) and said, (most probably), "Why don't you try it." And so it was, not half-a-mile away, that our narrator found himself over-running a stop sign and landing in a ditch, uninjured, but certainly not ego-fortified.
To make a long story less-long than it otherwise would be, soon enough our narrator found himself dropped out of school and slinking, himself, down to North Carolina, where he helped himself to the hospitality, and discomfort, of his relatives. Somehow, he managed to take the again non-functioning (its odomoter now had an added ten, maybe twenty, at most fifty miles) Ducati with him. And really, by any lights, that should be the end of our story. Our narrator moved about from place to place, Uncle's house to Aunt's house to apartment complex to apartment complex, and everywhere he went, the Ducati with its damaged aluminum cylinder block (it ran on one huge cylinder) seemed to go. When he picked up from Charlotte and lit out for Greensboro (now with college degree in hand), there went the Ducati with him, first to a tree-shrouded older apartment complex where our narrator shot the rat with the 22, and then on to an apartment in a house on Tate Street, not far from the campus of UNC-G, the house from which the well-stoned crew set-out for their skinny-dipping excursion to the city reservoir, where the lightening bugs flashed in the trees on the far shore, not thousands, or tens of thousands, but hundreds of thousands, maybe millions of lightening bugs, flashing on at the base of the trees on the far shore, and then, like bulbs on a theatre marquee, flashing up the string, thousands of strings of lightening bugs, up and up and up, until they peaked at the top of the trees and started over again at the bottom. A more wondorous sight there never was, unless it was Julie, lithesome naked Julie, climbing the ladder of the brick tower where the water ran out on its journey to the filtration plant, where the water was purified, as if it needed to be purified, after lithesome naked Julie had swum in it.
There was an empty spot down in the basement of that house on Tate Street, not far from the furnace, and there the Ducati sat. And by any lights, that really, honest and truly, should be the end of our story, for, as far as our narrator knows, that's where the Ducati still is. Our narrator moved on, first out on the campaign trail with the Carter for President campaign, up to Virginia, over to Kentucky, down to Louisiana, up to Ohio, and then back to Greensboro for a short spell after the primary season, but then, ever peripatetic , moving on to Raleigh, for another year of aimlessness. Finally, at last, applying to various Creative Writing Programs, he got himself accepted by the University of Arkansas (if it was good enough for Barry Hannah, it was good enough for him), signed a contract for a teaching assistantship, loaded up the U-Haul and headed West. And the Ducati, scorned and abandoned, option-not-picked-up, no-place-at-the-mangered, denied, disowned, and left for dead, three times the cocks crowed, stayed behind.
And now our Real Story begins.
When we (the Royal We, i.e., Me, Myself & I, no freaking cat, no damn dog, no significant, or insignificant Other) got to Fayetteville, we knew no one (that tabula rasa thing works okay on occasion, but maybe you don't want to do it too many times). Anyway, however, nevertheless, soon enough, we found a room in a roominghouse (actually it was an old Victorian pile of an almost mansion of a creaking wonder of a columned and big front porched wood-framed three-storied house, one of five (more or less identical in bulk, if not in detail) on the north side of Mt. Nord (a street) on Mt Nord (a modest hill) looking down south to the Fayetteville city square, maybe half-a-mile away. 2 Mt. Nord was the second house from the right, when viewed from that square. J.W. Fulbright, the famous Senator from Arkansas, had grown up in the house that was down on the other end, 5 Mt. Nord (we're guessing at the #). (As an aside to this extended digression, we once saw Senator Fulbright, paying for his sandwich at the Ozark Mountain Smokehouse, a restaurant now long gone, down on Dickson Street. He had a pickle seed (you got a pickle with your sandwich) clinging to his cheek. Sadly, we were too awestruck to alert him to the aberrant pickle seed.)
Anyway, as we say, we got this room in this house overlooking the lovely, not too terribly deliquescent city of Fayetteville, Arkansas, a University town without a lot of other heavy industry, factory conglomerations, or nuclear power plants to mar the landscape. Our landlady at 2 Mt. Nord was Mrs. Huntington, a petite long-time widowed lady of great grace and courtliness. Seems as though she had been a school teacher, but we might be making that up. Regardless, she must have been well-fixed, financially, to be living in that big house and perhaps she took in boarders more for the company than for the dollars. There were three of us living upstairs, all males---Ourself, Bruce (or some other similar name), a mousey little retiring type who broke his bed somehow and slept on it for a week with one corner of the box spring touching the floor and the opposite corner hoisted-up high in the air (all the furniture was of the antique persuasion), and Arnie (we wish we could tell you his last name, because it had a wonderful consonantal chiming lilt to it, most appropriate to his avocation). All of us were graduate students in the English department---Mrs. Huntington had a connection to the department because she was friends with Mrs.Blank, wife of Dr. Blank, who was the great friend of Dr. Kimpel, the Chairman of the English Department . Arnie, of the chiming last name (imagine a doorbell ringing) takes Pride of Place because Arnie was perhaps the greatest Womanizer we have ever known. He had a Gorgeous Melt-Your-Heart-Away Pre-Raphaelite Full-Time Girlfriend (the thought of him ravishing her, on an almost nightly basis, as we knew he did, pained us) and a Hard-Drinking, Hard-Charging, Gungho Party Girl Full-Time Girlfriend, but when he wasn't out with one or the other, he was on the prowl, looking for other conquests. Once, he spent a week primping himself , showering, combing, cologning, carefully choosing his wardrobe, for a nightly trek to the drugstore down on Dickson Street, where the Young Girl (18? Younger?) at the cosmetics counter had caught his eye. How far he got with that project we never heard. Another time he mentioned in passing that he and his buddy, who happened to be the Sports Information Director at the University, had doubleteamed a woman in her shower at her house out in West Fork, a woman we knew, or wanted to know, a woman more beautiful than Raquel Welch, but with a wounded unapproachable look, who worked in the library. We had been too shy to address her.
Arnie, in his second year of grad school, had given up all pretense of attending classes and made his living betting on various sporting events. Say that Penn State was playing Notre Dame----Arnie would call up his friend who happened to be a trainer at Penn State and find out how things were going with the team, and then he would phone his bookie in Las Vegas and bet accordingly. He lasted to the end of the year and then headed back to New Jersey, for, no doubt, greater fame.
Mrs. Huntington had the whole downstairs of the house to herself, a high-ceilinged kitchen (well, all the rooms were high-ceilinged), a rather formal dining room, a front parlor and maybe another living room type room, a back bedroom and an office kind of place where there was a big heavy ponderous Bust or Statue or something, maybe of Mrs. Huntington's husband, that would have brought a heap of coin at the pawnshop, if you and two or three others could have carried it out of there. Better still were the Meissien porcelains in the front parlor, dozens of them, collected by Mrs. Huntington and her husband in their early married years (were there children? We don't remember), hunters and guns and dogs and milkmaids and petticoats and such like, the kind of thing your better pawnshops (in Connecticut, say) would have been ecstatic about. In the dining room, hanging from a plate rail that ran around the room, there was some of Napoleon's china (we know, just about everybody has some) and best of all, up in the attic, there was Rudolph Valentino's deathbed (not the actual mattress, just the bed frame part). The authenticity of this claim was not something we every thought of challenging, as Mrs. Huntington was not a woman to be second-guessed. Was it her mother who put the ropes up, when her sight failed, so that she could move from room to room (were the ropes there, for us to see, or did Mrs. Huntington perhaps just tell us about the ropes). Once, Mrs. Huntington offered in passing that she knew the day of her death. On this one point, we did question her.
"Really?" we asked. Yes, really, she said, and, as if to reassure us, she told us that it was some time off, into the future.
Early on, maybe that first weekend we were in Fayetteville, maybe while we still living in a motel , before we found the room in the house on Mt. Nord, we heard about an Ice Cream Social that was being put on by the Washington County Historical Society at their headquarters house over on Dickson St., east of College (the Main Drag that runs through town, otherwise known as Highway 71.)
We had never been to an Ice Cream Social, but the idea seemed appropriate to our new home of Fayetteville, an exotic burg that felt more nineteenth century than twentieth. Perhaps we would meet some people. Perhaps we would meet some pretty girls. Who knew?
We don't remember meeting anyone at the Ice Cream Social, and certainly we don't remember meeting any pretty girls. The ice cream was plain vanilla, no doubt, perhaps with some fresh strawberries on it. Who we did meet were Richard and Pam, but were Richard and Pam even at the Ice Cream Social, or were they just out on their back porch (their house was on the corner of Washington and Dickson, right next to the grounds of the Historical Society) observing the proceedings? Richard and Pam's house was another Victorian pile, but one even more grandiose than Mrs. Huntington's not so much because of its size, but rather because of its paint job. Their house had been painted in dark shades, browns and maroons and blacks and burnt umber tones, not bright and garish, but somber, even morose. How we got to talking initially we don't remember, but soon enough we had been invited into their kitchen, where they may have been preparing some foodstuff. In memory, they seem to have been the kind of people who had a passion for foodstuffs, but one thing at a time, so there might be thirty ears of corn, or ten gallons of okra, or a new craze for a passel of leeks. Pam, if memory serves, was a health food and folk remedy afficiando, always riding one hobbyhorse or another. The controversial house colors and the fact that many people in town didn't like the house's paint job must have been an early topic of discussion. Pam and Richard were not local people. They had Rocked The Boat by painting their house some other colors than official Standard Victorian White (common to almost every other house in town), but they had done the research, and these were the Real Colors. They didn't care that they had ruffled some feathers. So much the better.
Sometimes we listen to people talking and our silence manifests itself as Assent, so they keep talking, and perhaps, to an extent, that was the case in our friendship with Richard and Pam. They both were highly intelligent people. They didn't work for a living, neither of them. There was inherited money, the source of which was a pencil factory in Chile, if our memory can be believed. Of course we shared a political persuasion: all the Republican/Fascist Oligarchs should be summarily castrated and their womenfolk impregnated on the altar of the Democratic Godhead. The Wal-Marts and the McDonalds should be bulldozed and the Owners and Their Lackeys chained to wheels, where they would live out their days, grinding sorghum into molasses. Of course, Richard and Pam were fanatics, and we were just an ordinary, high-minded, decent American, living out our days.
As the weeks and months in Fayetteville became yet another year, and yet another, we saw Richard and Pam fitfully, now and again. We would be driving by, and stop in.
Pam, we think we remember, had been trained as an architect, but we don't think she had any full-time employment. They had taken some of their money and invested it in some acreage down near Yellville (home of the famouse Turkey Drop. Pam and Richard are the only people we know who ever witnessed the Turkey Drop---it has now, we think, been put out of business by the ASPCA). On this acreage, Pam and Richard had planted walnut trees, and they had high hopes for the future windfall that would come their way, when the trees matured and they could sell the highly-valued wood.
We had heard about the acreage with the walnut trees, and then, on a subsequent visit, we found Pam, and Richard especially, bitterly disappointed---the fences on their acreage were not good, or the fences were breached in some manner, and the hogs from a neighboring farm came on to the land and uprooted all the walnut trees---their hopes were dashed.
How much of a financial setback this was we never knew. Around that time Richard, who had seemed to have no vocation, nor even an active hobby (maybe he had a law degree, or maybe we're dreaming that) applied to the graduate program in the English Department, and came back to school. We want to say that his area of specialization was Critical Theory, but that might not be right. And again, the memories are hazy, but it seems like the return to Academia was not successful---Richard asserted his theories too forcefully, and the powers that be were offended.
Did he drop out of the graduate program? We don't recall. How much did we see of Richard and Pam in those last years? We can't say. We remember a visit towards the end of our friendship when we looked at Richard and it seemed that he had put on a good bit of weight. "Oooooh, Richard," we said, "getting a tad pudgy, aren't we." or words to that effect (we flunked out of Diplomacy School).
On our next visit, maybe two or three months later, we found a much thinner, much heathier Richard. "Wow, Richard, you look great."
"Don't you remember what you said?" (We didn't) Since our admonishing declamation, Richard had been running five miles a day, religiously, every day, and had dropped perhaps thirty pounds. We were amazed that our casual aside could have caused such an alteration in his life. Was that the last time that we saw Richard? Sadly, we don't remember the last time we saw Richard.
Recently, I've been cleaning up my apartment, getting ready (i hope) for a new project that will mark a major turn (towards the light, I hope) in my life. I had a big closet that was packed, floor to ceiling with stuff that only I could want. I had to take it all out, boxes and boxes and boxes, to see what was in there. Some of it I took elsewhere, to get it out of the way (I live in a state of Utter Chaos, but I can only work in a state of Complete Germanic Order) and some of it I put back in the closet. In doing so, I found boxes of photographs that I had half-forgetten about. Naturally, when I come on a box of photographs that has been Half-Forgotten About, I have to look at all of them. This photo, that you're looking at, was in one of those boxes. It is an ordinary snapshot, but it has been made into a postcard (that yellow spec at the top is tape, that folds over onto the back and holds the stamp on, because the developing paper is slick and the stamp wouldn't stick to it.)
Richard took this photograph, and Richard made it into a postcard, and Richard gave it this caption. No doubt he used some kind of fancy camera, a Nikon or a Leica or something like that. He would have had the best. He would have done research.
The photograph was sent to my parents's house in Ohio---the date is late in May, 1979. It was summer vacation. Those years when I didn't teach summer school, I would take a big swing around the eastern part of the country, seeing relatives, stopping in North Carolina, checking out various art exhibits. I must have given him my parents' address and he must have thought it important that I get this card. even if I wasn't back home in Fayetteville.
Where May 1979 falls on the timeline of our friendship I can't say. What I can tell you is that sometime between May of 1979 and May of 1981, Richard sat down on the floor in a room in his house and took a shotgun and put the barrel against his chest and pulled the trigger.
Richard killled himself during the week (well, the exact details are hazy), say on a Wednesday, but the funeral wasn't until the following Monday, because the authorities were suspicious of the circumstances, and they took the body to Little Rock to test his fingers for powder burns. The funeral was at the Episcopal Church, where Richard and Pam were probably not regular attendees (maybe it was that that was his ancestral denomination). All I remember of the funeral was that I was disappointed that no one said anything about Richard---we just read this Pro Forma service out of the Handbook, like generic Funeral Service, and then when I complained about it afterwards, somebody explained that in the Episcopal Church, everybody gets the same treatment, high and low, and that it's like you're being taken back into the body of the Church, and then I saw it in a different way, and I liked it a lot better.
People looked at Pam a little funny after her husband's death, especially when they took the body off to be sure he really killed himself. I never went back over to see her, and, in fact, I only ever once laid eyes on her after Richard's death. It was in a bar somewhere, downtown, I think. She was by herself, and no doubt we exchanged pleasantries. The only thing I remember about that last meeting is the t-shirt she had on: it said, "Make A Widow Happy---Take Her Home Tonight."
When Richard sent me this postcard, I don't remember thinking anything about it. It was just Richard being Richard. I never saw it as a call for help. It never registered as an existential statement. Did Richard imagine that I was someone who might have intuited his pain, his depression? Was this a drowning man throwing me a life-line, and hoping that I would catch it? Did I ever even thank him for the card, or acknowledge that I got it?
I had some friends who owned a bookstore on Dickson Street and I went in there one day after Richard died. I picked up a Dickens novel from the used book section, some Dickens novel that I've never read and probably never will read, Hard Times or Bleak House or Our Mutual Friend, and I took it to the counter and I paid for it and it took it back to my apartment and put it on the shelf, and I never even looked at it (to the best of my recollection). It was only later that I opened the front cover and saw the name, Richard Dean, written inside. Pam had sold some of Richard's books to my friends who owned the bookstore and I had bought one, all unknowing.
And when I found this photograph again, and turned it over, and the memories came flooding back, I thought of the Ducati, and I didn't even know why I thought of the Ducati, the bike that I only ever rode once and then carried around aimlessly for a while and then abandoned. And with my story I give you a gift, to make of what you will, and I pray for absolution.
"...Volví a enamorarme del amor.
Sé que puede que suene raro.
La izquierda liberal destruyó
cada pedazo de nuestra juventud.
Dejándonos desnudos, en los huesos.
Dejándonos a todos llenos de agujeros.
¿Cuándo se torcieron las cosas?
¿A dónde fue el sentimiento?
¿Para qué colonizar la luna
cuando existe una clase distinta
de desesperación en cada hogar?
¿Adónde fue el sentimiento?"
(Manic Street Preachers)
Hascht du Haschisch in den Taschen, hascht du immer was zu naschen ;-)
Spruch aus den `70ern, neu aufgelegt.
August 2024
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Ed Davey, acting leader of the UK Liberal Democrat party, speaking at a local election rally in Bristol
North Yorkshire Police and trading standards officers from North Yorkshire County Council and the City of York Council joined forces with colleagues across the UK in April 2013 to deliver a concentrated multi-agency crack-down on doorstep crime.
Rogue traders and pushy doorstep sellers who use fraud to con vulnerable people into paying for unnecessary or vastly overpriced work to their homes were targeted as part of the national Operation Rogue Trader week of action.
The week of action ran from 22 to 26 April and was led by Operation Liberal, the national intelligence unit for distraction burglary and associated travelling criminality, and Trading Standards.
In York and North Yorkshire and across the UK, hundreds of officers were out on the streets executing warrants, identifying vehicles used by criminals through Automatic Number Plate Recognition (ANPR) and conducting intelligence-led patrols in areas where older or vulnerable people live.
A shitty picture with a great message. I vote... I bitch... I am a Proud American asshole like most of us.
Model - Brogen.
I meant to upload this the other day, but I forgot.
Downtown Harrisonburg / random faucet we found on a street.
Ask me questions here: www.formspring.me/breeannaowsley
© Breeanna Owsley
C-FYIY (FIN252)
Airbus A319
Air Canada Rouge
2025 Election - Liberal Campaign with Mark Carney
YUL / CYUL
This attractive terracotta building was completed in 1891 as the Leeds and County Liberal Club to the designs of local architects Chorley and Connon. Previously known as Quebec House, it was owned in the 1970s by Norwich Union and later became known as National Employers House. Since 2001 the building has been Quebecs, a boutique hotel of 45 rooms. It is listed Grade II.
David Lloyd George, British statesman, Liberal Party politician, served as the UK Prime Minister from 1916 to 1922. Bronze sculpture by Glynn Williams, Parliament Square, Westminster, London.
Justin
Fotograaf onbekend.
Uit het huldeboek opgedragen aan François Schauvliege, ondernemer en gemeenteraadslid van Gent, en stichter van de liberale kring van het Rabot en de Brugse Poort. Een mooie illustratie van de bloei van het liberale verenigingsleven in de vroege 20ste eeuw.
Photographer unknown.
Part of the commemoration book dedicated to François Schauvlieghe, entrepreneur and councillor of Ghent, founder of the Liberal Circle of the Rabot and Brugse Poort districts. A fine example of the prospering of liberal associations in the Belgian cities of the early 20th century.
Liberas/Liberaal Archief
Kramersplein 23
9000 Gent
I live in the electorate of Bass. Someone, quite appropriately, thought it would look better as 'ASS' on this campaign truck for the local Liberal candidate.
This attractive terracotta building was completed in 1891 as the Leeds and County Liberal Club to the designs of local architects Chorley and Connon. Previously known as Quebec House, it was owned in the 1970s by Norwich Union and later became known as National Employers House. Since 2001 the building has been Quebecs, a boutique hotel of 45 rooms. It is listed Grade II.