So, Chanukah and Christmas have come and gone.

So has Ramadan, the month in which many devout Muslims traditionally endeavor to slaughter as many infidels as possible, chaffing at the bit to get to those virgins they have long been conned into believing await them in “Paradise”. Given the respect of Islam for women, I suppose the Islamess (now, that wasn’t very PC, was it?) who manages to murder some unbelievers during Satan’s Month gets 73 male virgins to stifle and abuse her for all eternity.

One of the reasons police officers hate getting involved in domestic battery cases is that on all too many occasions, after all the paperwork and expended energy and man (or woman) hours, the female victims forgive dear hubby and drop the charges. There are battered women out there who do this repeatedly and, worse, stay with the abusive husband after multiple beatings and the psychological abuse that goes hand-in-hand with such a relationship. One of my friends who’s a big city cop, a detective with over 25 years on the job has become so cynical about the issue he once said to me, “What’s all this about battered women? Personally, I think they taste better raw.”

Now imagine a religion whose very scripture dictates that women live like the above described, slaves to their husbands, fathers and brothers, without the options of escape that women have in the civilized world(oil revenues do not make a country or region civilized, only rich).

It makes one grind ones’ teeth with pure rage, unless one is an American feminist, then it’s perfectly okay. To say otherwise might justify being un-PC regarding Islam, and that would conflict with the political agenda of the left, to which the bulk of feminists belong. I’m sure there are a few feminists out there who are patriotic Americans, I just haven’t met any that I know of. All those I’ve met – I used to live in San Francisco and get out a lot, so trust me, I’ve encountered quite a few in my time – have been “card carrying” members of the portside persuasion.

So much for four paragraphs of my usual digression.

My Christmas weekend included a couple of colleagues from overseas who are “stranded” in DC through mid January working on a project, flying down to Charlotte to visit me from Sunday to Tuesday. On Christmas Eve, I roasted a 6 ½ pound duckling – my first, in fact – and found it to be quite a wrestling match just seasoning and stuffing the damn thing, it got pretty messy, but only in the immediate work space, and I got online for some tips. It came out perfect, crisp skin and tender meat, with most of the fat and grease bled off. We put quite a dent in my bar, especially in the single malt, tequila and brandy departments, and had a great and mutually informative time talking shop, telling funny stories and extreme off-color jokes and watching my Star Wars DVDs and Dean Martin Celebrity Roasts on the 62” Toshiba in the den.

Yesterday I had the TV on in my office while I did some work, and watched a couple of films via DirecTV.

One movie I watched featured Jordana Brewster, and really hit home with just how far Hollywood has gone in its liberal propagandizing efforts.

It was called D.E.B.S., and it was about an all schoolgirl (plaid miniskirts, shirts and ties) federal law enforcement agency (S.W.A.T. style), who are the D.E.B.S., vs. Brewster, same age bracket, who is a major international criminal.

It is a cutesy kind of film, and the only real plot is the blossoming lesbian relationship between Brewster and the leading D.E.B. The message was that love knows no gender, and the ending was one of those “happily ever after” kind of endings, the two lesbian lovers go away together at the end with the help and blessings of the rest of the D.E.B.S. on the team. There was no sex and no nudity in the movie, so….

…. it was rated PG-13.

Now, keep in mind that I have a lot in common with lesbians, there is one living inside me that…. Oh, never mind….

The other film made me wish I hadn’t turned on the TV at all, it proved to be the only Samuel L. Jackson film I’ve ever watched that I didn’t thoroughly enjoy. It was called Freedomland and the only two descriptives I can produce for that one are “depressing” and “tedious”. No doubt the consensus of reviews called it “brilliant”, “inspiring” and the like. I found the part where Jackson’s character is trying to get the facts from the woman and her rambling on with her back story to be frustrating (perhaps because I’ve done investigative work, including interrogations, before, and it really sucks to have to endure unavoidable extemporaneous BS when all you want or require is “the facts”).

At the moment, I’m sort of recuperating from my guests’ visit, sipping brandy (hair of the dog, so to speak) with coffee and listening to some old stuff like the Beatles and some much older stuff like Bach, with some Al Stewart mixed in, including tracks like Timeless Skies, Lord Grenville and Roads to Moscow. My all-time favorite Beatles song, from Magical Mystery Tour is playing at the moment: Hello Goodbye.

So, Gerald Ford has passed away, the former President who was never elected – Agnew preceded him as VP, if my memory serves, and Ford succeeded Nixon, then pardoned him in the wake of the Watergate affair, which ticked off a whole passel o’ Democrats and was instrumental in Jimmuh Cahtuh beating him in ’76. I was a Democrat back then, and, well… I owe Carter a great debt – he was the POTUS that turned me into a Republican. Thank ya’ kindly, Jimbo! Too bad he turned traitor, altogether, an enemy of both the United States and Israel. And this is the legacy he chooses in his endeavors to correct the memories of his failed presidency. Go figure.

Go with G-d, Mr. Ford.

Ah, the track that just began is one I forgot I’d included in the play list, Emerson, Lake & Palmers’ Bitches Crystal. Come to think of it, that means Tarkus is next. Yay!

From the mellow to the vigorous….

I know, I’m rambling here, but… that’s why I titled this post thusly.

New Years 2007 is five days away, New Years Eve ending 2006 is four days away.

2007.

And the focus of my personal nostalgia exists in the 1960s and 1970s. I often feel like Fred Flintstone guest starring on The Jetsons.

Where the hell is a time machine when you need one!?