Same Sex Marriage here in Alabama is still not a "done deal".
It has been a week since federal district judge Granade issued her order to state probate judge, Don Davis in Mobile county, to issue licenses to SSM couples.
order is here: http://media.al.com/...
Immediately after, several counties opened their license windows and began issuing licenses to everyone qualified. Some counties hesitated for various reasons but as of yesterday, 48 of 67 were issuing SSM licenses.
6 counties are not issuing any licenses to anyone.
11 counties are issuing licenses only to heterosexual couples.
In the meantime, two private interest groups, Alabama Policy Institute, and Alabama Citizens Action Program have filed a petition with the Alabama Supreme Court asking for the Court to command probate judges not directly under Granade's jurisdiction to stop issuing marriage licenses to same-sex couples.
Added to that, Equality Alabama has filed a counter petition stating that neither the Alabama Policy Institute or Alabama Citizens Action Program have standing for various reasons.
The API-ACAP action was filed as an emergency petition and action or a hearing was expected yesterday; nothing happened.
Judge Moore... where are you?
This is a place for us all that have nothing better to do than create confusion and chaos tonight.
It's not the adult table.
They sit at the fancy table and have to use manners.
We get to do fun stuff... post fun pics...
We get to tell jokes:
Three men died on Christmas Eve and were met by Saint Peter at the pearly gates.
"In honor of this holy season," Saint Peter said, "you must each possess something that symbolizes Christmas to get into heaven."
The first man fumbled through his pockets and pulled out a lighter. He flicked it on. It represents a candle, he said.
You may pass through the pearly gates Saint Peter said.
The second man reached into his pocket and pulled out a set of keys. He shook them and said, "They're bells" . Saint Peter said you may pass through the pearly gates.
The third man started searching desperately through his pockets and finally pulled out a pair of women's panties.
St. Peter looked at the man with a raised eyebrow and asked, "And just what do those symbolize?"
The man replied, "They're Carols".
I walked into the house and hugged my mom for the first time in 28 months. I was home for Thanksgiving although nobody had expected me. It felt good to be in the house filled with the smells that I knew all my childhood.
My father was stuck in Boston counting snowflakes in a blizzard that grounded his flight home along with the hopes of many families that wanted nothing more than to be together. My younger sister was out on a date and my even younger brother was working till midnight bussing tables.
The dog, Roxy, sniffed me suspiciously and stayed close to mom while we talked around the kitchen table. Mom had adopted her from the animal shelter to give Daniel something to do besides getting into adolescent criminal activities.
Roxy seemed worried. She didn't know me from Adam and viewed me as a threat. Noticing that the dog was apprehensive, I gave Mom plenty of space. Roxy was a purebred German Shepherd and although she weighed half of what I did, I sure didn't want to find out how sharp her teeth were.
Mom was flitting around a kitchen swamped with food awaiting her touches for the following day's feast. I could see the makings of every dish that had appeared on her table for the past 22 Thanksgivings. Even though my older brother and sister were half a country away, and Dad stuck in Boston, Mom plodded along preparing food as if they would be there. As I did then, I still wonder if every mom cooks Thanksgiving supper as if Patton's army is expected, and has the human genotype project identified the specific gene that impels the behavior.
A noise at the door made my heart thump about as fast as Roxy's tail wagged; Daniel was home!
Daniel and I were the best of friends and it was splendidly convenient that we were brothers. Little did I know that my brother now had a new best friend cause when I reached out to give him a brotherly poke on the shoulder, I found a vicious dog tearing flesh from my forearm.
A pandemonium broke out as I to climbed the drapes and Daniel fell to the floor belly laughing as Roxy tested the muscle tone of my backside. I was young, strong and firm, but Roxy's teeth penetrated Levis and glute's easily.
Daniel had grown since I last saw him and at 16, his size was impressive and I knew that some day soon in my life, I would be calling him, "sir". The last time I had seen him, I was bossing him around and telling him what to do... things were different now and Roxy contributed to that change.
I left the Sunday of Thanksgiving weekend and went back to my life at the race-shop in Indianapolis. Did I say, "life"? I shouldn't have... the regimen of building and maintaining 200 mph Indycars sapped energy and emotion from me. To convince myself and my body that I was enthused, devoted, and dedicated to the "life", I abused amphetamines. Well into my fourth year of the one a day supplement regime, I decided it was wrong and left the whole mess behind.
I mean, ya know... we never did learn our lessons. Dad (aka Santa) went ahead and got me the Johnny Commander Mk 12 just a couple years after the cannon treaty was signed (Details of the resolution provided that Dad would toss the cannon into the trash, and we’d the shut the hell up). The Johnny Commander was a wicked plastic assembly that could fire 7 different projectiles; bullets, a grenade launcher, a smoke bomb, and could be modified to launch real life imitation atomic bombs.
You could do anything with this baby. What did Dad think we were gonna do with it?
The tree, people, the dog, china, antiques, the TV and a few other items had been listed as “no-fire” targets; Dad had worked hard to try to provide for a safe cease fire zone in the house.
Soon as he turned his back, my brother and I both knew the star atop the tree was neither part of the negotiation, nor safe.
Mom had said that she liked the star even tho it looked funky and everyone in the neighborhood knew Dad could build real airplanes, but didn’t have a clue about Christmas decorations. He had worked hard for maybe 3 or 4 nights down in the shop designing and hammering out the delicate creation destined for the top of our tree.
It needed to go down.
Gee, I musta been 5 or 6 years old... it was a long time ago. It was the year that I started to think that Santa might not be real. But, it was early in the age of plastics. Even I could tell that in the few short years that I’d been ripping Christmas wrap, they were starting to do some really cool stuff with plastics. Maybe I was 7... one of those early years.
My older sister was sitting at the kitchen table while we crouched behind the boxes in the living room. We’d laid in a good bunker to protect and camouflage our position while maintaining a strategic firing position on either my sister, or Mom and Dad if they ever came out of the bedroom (gee, duh; today I just figured out what they were doing. Merry Christmas baby!).
I feel like this guy this morning!
I puked a good while last night.
Usually the process is cathartic and it makes me feel better.
Not last night... I plan on a few more hurls before I get rid of all the bad taste!
This bile... it's got to go!
It genuinely sucked to be US last night!
It had been a fairly dull summer when Dad decided to replace the huge garage door. The old one barely rose on the tracks and the old motor could barely pull the full width door after years of service.
Dad had tinkered with the old one for a few years to keep it working rather than spending money on a new one when the house needed other things first. Mom was the only one that parked in there and the day she was late to work because the door wouldn't work was the day Dad had to replace it. It wasn't just the money of a new door and opener that discouraged Dad; although the man had built racecars, airplanes, boats, and most anything else, the garage door stymied him. John and I learned all the swear words there were, plus every colorful way to arrange them when helping him "fix" the old door.
John was my cousin but he was like another brother and his mother and father expected him to help my Mom and Dad when they needed something. Besides, everyone knew the learning experiences (other than the language lessons) were valuable for future life encounters. John and I were "told" the night before that he'd need our help "tomorrow" taking down the old door and installing the new door.
John, sitting there at the dinner table boldly asked,
"Uncle Bob? Are you gonna get all crazy and pissed off? Because if you are, I don't wanna be around for this."
Normally, around our dinner table, the Blacker crew, with one guest, would make a racket clanging forks and scraping spoons chasing seconds in bowls... suddenly, it was so quiet we could hear the dog in the other room groan softly knowing "Uncle Bob" might soon explode!
In a concession that was rare, Dad admitted that something about garage doors escaped him and he'd only ask John and me to help with the heavy parts... and then we could go.
Mom chimed in,
"I'll supervise so there won't be any bullying of you boys!"
Dad's eyes turned red with rage, but she had called the play. Something about that garage door had come between Dad and Mom... something told me Dad was "cut off" (although it took me 20 years to understand how Mom had him "cut off").
The next morning, Dad was barking out orders for us to get up and down ladders to do this and that until Mom, the foreman showed up. The tone changed and soon, the old door, track system, and opener were laying in a heap off to the side of the garage. Mom and Dad scooted off to Sears after giving us 10 bucks for lunch and definite orders to be back at 1 o'clock when they'd be back with the new stuff.
John and I pocketed the money and went in and cleared out the 'fridge.
Soon, they were back and we were unloading stuff and unboxing a door, track system, and... they told us to get lost!
Two boys on two bikes hurled gravel going down the alley!
I got smart and had dinner at John's house!
It was still light out on a summer evening around 8 when we rolled softly down the alley. Dad was there... on a ladder... adjusting this and tweaking that. He crawled off the ladder and pushed the shiny new button and the garage door rolled down the tracks and over the curve... and then lurched, and creaked, and bound... the track system squealed; the support bracing bowed.
"Let's get out of here", I told John.
He was already ripping down the alley and not looking back.
I followed and caught up him with a few miles later when he slowed down feeling it was safer.
"Man? Did you see THAT? I mean, what's up with your Dad? He can build airplanes! But get him around a garage door, and he's brainless!"
"I dunno, John. Can I sleep at your house tonight?"
"Yeah... sure. But, I want to know....", and we talked about it all as we rolled slowly and softly back to my house, late.
When we got back, the door was closed.
It looked like a buffalo had rammed it.
A corner of one panel looked like a beaver had chewed on it.
Another section had a long gouge and wrinkle in it.
We slipped quietly into the basement and collected some stuff to do at his house.
We slipped back out as quietly as we slipped in.
A couple of days later, on Monday, we got back to the house while Dad was at work.
I walked around the garage and came in from the far end and punched the button. The door raised smoothly and returned back softly when I pushed the button again.
The local news channel was doing a highly biased story on the how freakin' good the Supreme Court, Hobby Lobby decision is for Nebraska.
Our side took two decisions we adamantly disagree with today.
I'm not going to be angry.
I'm not going to gnash teeth.
I am not going to point fingers.
I am going to keep working for "... and with with liberty and justice for all".
You with me?
Texas Attorney General, Greg Abbott is in the field for the GOP nomination for Governor.
I want to express my support for Abbott. I Will work to see he gets the GOP nomination!
I ask all Democrats in Texas to work for Abbott's nomination. Switch registrations... elect Greg Abbott!
Here's the link to President Obama's Final Campaign Speech.
I live in Nebraska.
I catch a lot of grief here on DKOS.
I don't care because I grew up true blue, in Chicago.
People have told me, "I don't trust YOU!"
I don't care.
I don't have a vote to decide a President.
Like Alabama, South Carolina, Oklahoma... Nebraska votes for Obama are meaningless.
I decided 4 years ago to get involved, into states that matter.