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            Wednesday, May 20, 2015



            I'm in the workshop Posted by Rodger the Real King of France | 5/20/2015 12:45:00 PM | PERMALINK Back Link (9) | Send This Post | HOME


Writing in Righteous Indignation, Breitbart noted that, “the left doesn’t win its battles in debate. It doesn’t have to. In the 21st century, media is everything. The left wins because it controls the narrative. The narrative is controlled by the media. The left is the media and narrative is everything.”
Your Don Draper moment.

Maybe this will help

"Nothing is yet in its true form" C.S. Lewis

or this

"I'm a multidimensional person and that's the freedom of fashion: that you're able to reinvent yourself through how you dress and how you cut your hair or whatever." Emma Watson

Reinventing or restoring?
Think of yourself as a classic car.
After a certain age and mileage, you flaunt your dated design and aim for comfort and reliability.
Make the whippersnappers think "good old days."
You just enJOY yourself. A regained sense o' humor is a precious thing!

We'll be here.

; >
Rodger, maybe a relocation to a nice southern state and blog about family and puppies. Since my beloved Florida has gone over the edge, I'm seriously considering a move to escape the craziness.
My Dad used to call that 'goofing off'.
As a teenager, I was freakin bee-yootifull. Flat belly, limber back, head of hair, great golf swing, 20-20 vision, able to leap small obstacles at a single bound.

In my mid-20s, I re-engineered myself; became a husband, father, heavy drinker, chain smoker, and serious threat to the nation's cholesterol supply.

As a 40-something, I began to notice stuff beginning to fall -- teeth, hair, pecs, butt -- so I gave up tobacco, cut way back on spirits, and told the Navy I'd had enuf.

Just before hitting 60, my main circ pump developed some sludged-up pipes, so I completely revamped my diet: no pork, no sausage, no eggs, no salt, nuthin fried, no fun.

At setenta y cinco, I finally admitted to myself that I'm not immortal and am headed into the final lap. To quote a well-known voice, "At this point, what DIFFerence does it make!"

So I continue to throw my daily sh-- against the wall, no longer caring if any of it sticks or not. If people don't like it, they know where the "delete" key is.

Long ago I wrote a poem which ended with this quatrain:

It's like my Granddad told me, "Son,
When you have seen your whole life's run
And never pissed off anyone,
You haven't got much said or done."

Something like Dr Whoo?

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