We had the loveliest thunderstorm last night. While the storms produced damaging microbursts (I’ve come to hate microbursts!) elsewhere, here we had a little wind, some beautiful lightning and a few peals of distant thunder before the heavens opened up for the second straight night. Me? I peeled off my clothes and jumped into the pool where the 92-degree temp was like ten degrees warmer than the deluge falling on me. It rained hard for the better part of a half-hour. Very refreshing, and with all the stress I’ve been under lately, very welcoming.

With all the rain the past two nights our pool temp has dropped four degrees, from 94 to 90. We’ll take it!

Back to Arizona. Back to the Valley of the Sun. Out of the lovely, clean air of a summer in the Northeast and into the withering murk of a monsoon week in Arizona. Rather than the bright and blazing heat of the past two weeks, the monsoon brings with it an uptick in the humidity, so rather than 115 and blistering hot you get 106 and humid. By the time mid-afternoon comes around everything seems washed out and wilted, much like the Red Sox pitching is whenever Clay Buchholz or Eduardo Rodriguez are starting.

We had our first monsoon storm last night. The clouds to our east were piled up and salmon-colored against the setting sun, but I really didn’t think we were going to get anything until I saw a couple of flashes to the east around 9 PM while walking back from the mailbox. Dutifully checking the Accuweather website I saw we had a blowing dust advisory in effect, so I poured me a chilled Pinot Grigio and went out on the pool deck to watch the storm come in. The lightning got a little closer and a breeze came up, but I don’t think we had much dust. All of a sudden there were two flashes of lightning right overhead and the first cracks of thunder. And then the rain started, and what a joy it was to behold! We got a real soaker – the first rain in 3 1/2 months for a good fifteen minutes. The temperature dropped some ten degrees to around 90, and I could hear all our neighbors out on their patios enjoying the spectacle.

You can always tell when the rain is about to stop and the storm about to move on. You’re drinking in the (relatively) cool air when all of a sudden you feel that first sickening wave of humidity return. Five minutes later it’s all over and the air becomes wet-blanket heavy, almost suffocating. Then half an hour later all the hard surfaces are dry and it’s like the storm never happened.

I went to bed.

It’s hard to believe just a week ago Tracey and I were dashing to get back to Massachusetts in time before my mother passed away. In some cases you can say a period of time seems to have gone by like it was just yesterday, but in this case it seems like the last ten days has gone on forever. The call with Mom’s nurse discussing her condition, the urgent travel arrangements, getting to the Phoenix airport only to hear that the family had been called to her bedside, the hassle and extended wait at the Logan Airport rental car center, the call from my brother saying that she had passed away while we were waiting for our car, seeing her in death and kissing her goodbye, the negotiations over her arrangements and writing her obituary, meeting with the funeral director, coordinating the funeral service with the priest, then helping Dad with all the calls and e-mails was a virtual whirlwind of non-stop activity.

But then you have this awkward period (for us it was Tuesday and Wednesday) where everything is in waiting mode, so we used that time to visit family and begin making plans for Dad’s transition to his new, single existence. It gave Dad a chance to meet his new great-grandson, Jace, born just two days before Mom died:

Then came the next whirlwind of activity and the renewed ramp-up of emotions: the visitation (remember, it’s not a wake!), funeral, post-service luncheon, and, a day later, the final goodbye at her resting place in the church memorial garden:

But you’ve still got tons of family around, of course, so spaced in between these events and then afterwards, before everyone heads for home, are various gatherings, large and small, where folks are given time to spend time together and start decompressing from the past few days. Of course, in these experiences I’m not telling y’all anything you haven’t all experienced before. While it’s a part of life no one likes to talk about, it’s still life. You got your beginnings, you got your endings. I’ll tell you this: Tracey and I had been putting off and putting off getting our wills and affairs documented, and it was only weeks ago that we started working with an estate planner to get these decided and documented; you can bet that will be expedited in the coming weeks! Me? I don’t really care what happens to me and my “stuff” when I’m gone, but you don’t want to burden those you love and who survive you any more than absolutely necessary, and getting it all down – and I mean all down – in writing is essential for everyone’s sense of security and emotional well-being.

But I digress.

I remember the last phone call I had with Mom two days before she passed and her telling me how old she felt and (once again) how she had outlived her usefulness and was a burden to others. I told her we were both dinosaurs living in a world quite different from the ones we grew up in – in some ways for the better, in others not so much. But a very different one, for sure. And I was thinking about that call Friday night as we “kids” sat around a table with my aunt and uncle reminiscing about us all living in the same house together the first ten years of my life, and the times Auntie and my mom lived in when they themselves were young and growing up during the Depression. Some of the stories and memories were familiar, others not such, but all recalled with fondness and laughter. Yet underneath it all lie more than a hint melancholy, because so much of it was from another time: one so strange and so distant from the present day as to be virtually unrecognizable if we ourselves hadn’t lived it.

I thought about this as Tracey and I sat at Logan Airport waiting for our flight back and seeing all the families traveling together, with children in some cases carrying larger pieces of luggage than I did. A far cry from the last vacation our family took together 45 years ago when we traveled to Niagara Falls and back by car, cooking on the roadside with a hibachi and cramming ourselves into tiny motels we’d find along the way! It’s not just my Mom and I that were dinosaurs, I thought, but the entire family unit known as the Richard and Fudge clan. Which is OK – again, this is what life is all about: those families with the kids and the luggage will have their own lives and own experiences to share down the road when it comes time to say goodbye to one of their own. Not sure what kind of world it will be for them at that time, but you can count me as someone damned content to be my age and happy to have been born and grown up in the era I did.

At any rate, in the end everything went about as well as can be expected under these circumstances, and by and large the family got through it OK. My Mom is at rest and at peace, the rest of us are starting the process of moving on, and we’re all now getting back to the day-to-day lives we’ll all live until this kind of thing happens again. Because it will. Because that’s the way life is: no use sticking one’s head in the sand about it. My Mom understood that better than most, and she kept her smile until the very end. Here’s a pic of her and Dad the day before she passed away:

Me? I’m back here in the Valley of the Sun and still haven’t started decompressing, for there is still much left to do upon my return for Goodboys Invitational week – yes! – two weeks hence, when Dad and I plan to finalize all of Mom’s affairs. We’ve already started going through her things trying to figure out what will be saved, what will be tossed, or given to family, or brought to Goodwill. These two weeks will be good for Dad, giving him time to grieve and reflect and think about things in private; the kinds of things you just can’t do when you still have family lurking around.

Life goes on.

These are the longest days of the year, beautiful days to be back in New England with warm, breezy days and air that kisses your face, not blasts it like a furnace like it presently is doing in the Valley of the Sun. And these are also the longest days for our family as we go through the difficult and mentally-taxing process of making my Mom’s arrangements and getting ready for her visitation (“it’s not a wake!” in family lingo) and funeral tomorrow.

As the oldest son in the family, it’s been my appointed task to ensure my mom’s final wishes are being followed while still ensuring other members of the family have a voice in things as well – after all, arrangements of this nature are as much, if not more, for the living as they are for the dead.

You always hear of raging battles amongst family members following the death of a parent (or parents) because of any number of reasons: dough-re-mi, sibling rivalries, long-simmering resentments, issues or slights never resolved, etc. etc., but fortunately that hasn’t been the case here. Oh sure, there have been differing ideas and pointed discussions about how and when things should be done and such, but everything seems to have been worked out pretty much to everyone’s satisfaction. Of course, there’s been a bit of eggshell walking, but that’s to be expected when you’re in a situation where emotions are so raw and so exposed. In the end, I think Mom would be pleased with how it all has gone, and that’s all that counts in the end.

What ended up being kind of funny was working out Mom’s obituary, with everyone tossing in ideas about what should or needn’t be included. My uncle was savvy-enough to bring a recent obituary from someone who had died recently that provided the general construct for what we ultimately came up with. What was very cool was for Tracey to find a piece of paper where Mom had documented her last wishes that included that beautiful paragraph that ends her obituary: it was beautifully stated in her own words, and we put it in word for word. What made it funny was the fact that, after reading it over and over aloud to make sure we had it all organized appropriately, with proper syntax and in proper order, my uncle tells me the next day that we had forgotten to include Mom’s youngest sister Gwen, who had passed away in her youth. Unbelievable.

…it kinda makes me wonder about the group-think involved in the creation of historically-great documents like the Magna Carta, or the Nicene Creed, or even our Declaration of Independence or Constitution, and what might have been left out of them by mistake after the final written version got sent to the printer. I can only imagine Ben “The Doc” Franklin running up to Thomas “T.J.” Jefferson to tell him that x y or z got left out of the final product. Who knows, history could have been radically changed!

Anyways, everybody, whether ready to or not, has sort of started mentally transitioning into the next phase of a post-Mom existence. Fortunately (or unfortunately, depending on how you look at these kinds of things), my folks lived a fairly uncomplicated existence and never accumulated much in the way of possessions: all that got taken care of when they transitioned from the large family home to a condo thirty years ago, and then to an apartment from the condo ten years ago. As a result, there aren’t piles and piles of paper, and countless banks, insurance companies, and government agencies to notify, but there’s still work to do. Coming back in a couple of weeks for the Goodboys Invitational, therefore, will serve two purposes: give Dad some downtime and alone-time to grieve and get accustomed to his new existence, and give the two us time to make all the calls, notifications, visits, and mailings needed to put Mom’s final affairs in order.

My mom passed away yesterday at the age of 92. She never liked people making a fuss over her, and if you started throwing compliments her way she’d always find a way to kind of pooh-pooh it, but this is one time she’s not going to get a say in the matter. And while I’m guessing she wouldn’t want a big deal to be made of her passing – certainly not to the extent of a blog post such as this – I think deep down she’d feel proud and honored by the sentiments expressed here. And knowing her as I think I do (after all, it was rare for Mom to share her innermost feelings with just about anyone), just seeing how much she was loved by all of us and how much she will be missed, I think would suffice, only as long as we all promised to get on with our lives and be happy while keeping her close in our memories. I think she’d be satisfied with that. At least I hope so.

If someone were to ask me to describe Mom in one word, it would be that she was a MOM. It’s what God called her to do as her life vocation, and she did it well. While she did many other things in her life between work, church and travel, more than anything else she was a mom, even to those who weren’t her children. Whether it was Tracey (who saw her as much of a mother figure as her own), or to Tracey’s twin Tammy, or to my various friends over the years, Mom had that way of making anyone feel welcome. Growing up in house with three other boys all born within 3 1/2 years of each other (two brothers and two cousins) both Mom and my Auntie Marge put up with a lot when we were young, and even more so when we entered our late teens. But no matter how much we might have screwed up, and how put out with us she might be, never once did we ever think we weren’t loved.

And, I guess, speaking as her oldest son, that was always the most important thing to me. Unlike parents today, Mom and I weren’t friends, or buddies, or pals, or whatever the heck parents these days try to carve out as a relationship with their children. She was my mother, I was her son, and I never thought otherwise. Growing up, it was Mom who was the disciplinarian in the house; while I think I got the strap only once, you knew damned well you had messed up simply by the tone in her voice or the look on her face – that was usually enough to get the point across.

Once we kids were grown and pretty much on our own, Mom and my dad enjoyed traveling but remained home-bodies at heart. Unlike so many New Englanders, neither Mom nor Dad ever had the itch to snowbird their winters in Florida. And while my Dad has always enjoyed taking walks outside and enjoying the beauty of God’s creation, I always found it funny that Mom was never much of nature person. She was a faithful church-goer until her later years, but she never stopped being faithful to God: she kept a cup on her bureau that she would put a quarter in each day as a way of giving thanks. And until her feet gave out, she enjoyed volunteering at our church’s “Thrift Shop” and knowing all the regulars who frequented there the days she worked. She had a melodic voice, loved music, and loved to sing: she sang in church choirs for years, and her habit was to sing harmony to any music that might be playing at the time. I told her many times the greatest gift she ever gave me (besides a mother’s love, of course!) was my ear for music.

It seems that for someone who lived nearly ninety-three years there should be oodles of experiences to write about, but at heart Mom was a very simple and down-to-earth person. She loved whenever family would come to visit – especially her grandchildren and great-grandchildren, and it seems especially right that her last full day on earth was spent surrounded by family, a visit from two of her great-grandchildren, and the news that she had become a great-grandmother for the fourth time. The cycle of life! She faithfully watched her “story” – General Hospital – each day, and loved watching her game shows and the Red Sox (not baseball, the Red Sox!) who she missed dearly until Spring Training came back around. She enjoyed an occasional trip to the casino (Sam’s Town in Vegas until both she and Dad got weary of air travel), then Foxwoods or Mohegan Sun for just a day with the money she’d saved strictly for that occasion, and when it was all gone (she rarely won anything gambling!) she was content to leave it until the next time.

In her last decade of life things got kind of tough. Losing her youngest son (my brother Mark) at such an early age wounded her deeply. And while her health issues accumulated began to accumulate she had spent the first eight decades of her life in pretty good health and kept her wits right until the end. Increasingly, she would bemoan all the medications and treatments that she felt kept people alive long after they outlived their usefulness; I know she sometimes felt like she was a bother to us, but nothing could have been further from the truth. When the end came, both she and her body were more than ready to go, and we are all grateful and comforted that she went out the way she did – in peace and surrounded by loved ones.

It’s going to feel strange not having a mom around to talk to, to share things with, to just call and chit-chat with, and to get cards from on special occasions. I’m sixty years old, and losing my mother makes me all of a sudden feel old and rudderless. I’m sure over time that will pass, but it’s hard to think of someone who has been part of your life from the day you were born not being there anymore. I know for her it is all for the best – she’s now at rest and in God’s hands – but it’s gonna be tough for the rest of us who must carry on without her love, wisdom, and abiding presence in our lives.

Her name was Dorothy Geraldine Richard, but to me she was Mom. As your oldest son, I hope I lived up to your expectations more often than not and that I made you proud. I love you and will miss you greatly. Rest in peace.

The Beach Boys’ “All This Is That”, from their unheralded and oddly-named Carl and the Passions – Tough” album from 1972, is considered by many to be the group’s equivalent (if not answer to) the Beatles’ “Across The Universe”. And there are similarities between the two songs, both in theme of streams of inner consciousness (ATO’s the exhilaration and experience of it, ATIT’s the pursuit of and the paths taken in its pursuit). And both songs exude a sense of calm, inner peace, joy, and of being one within the world. What a great concept, and so much needed these days! I think about the hip-hop and rap crap that they call “music” these days (actually it’s music spelled N-O-I-S-E) and how these songs compare, well, it’s no wonder our world has gotten so coarse, harsh, and unforgiving.

“All This is That” was a group effort both in terms of composition and song development that was originally based off of an idea band member Alan Jardine had after reading reading the Robert Frost poem, “The Road Not Taken”. And you can see a bit of similarity between the two. First, the Frost poem:

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

Then, “All This Is That”‘s lyric:

I am that, thou art that, and all this is that
I am that, thou art that, all this is that
This is that
This is that

Daybreak and I take a glide
Into the pool of peace inside
(Two waves travel by)
To waves and I both travel by
(And that makes all the difference to me)

Life supporting waves of bliss
Mother Divine’s precious kiss
Brings with love the light of wisdom
And the gift of eternal freedom

To waves and I both travel by
(… and the nature of man…)
And that makes all the difference to me
(Krishna…)
I am that, thou art that, all this is that
I am that, thou art that, all this is that
This is that
This is that

Dusk time the shadows fall
Into the timeless time of all
To waves and I both travel by
Golden auras glow around you
Omnipresent love surrounds you
Wisdom warming as the sun
You and I are truly one

To waves and I both travel by
And that makes all the difference to me

Jai guru dev

While the song poem itself is lovely, what stands out the most in “All This Is That” is the song’s understated, yet gorgeous arrangement and the lovely harmonies throughout. I’m guessing, but not 100% sure of it, that this is one of the songs on So Tough that doesn’t feature any contribution whatsoever from group founder and creative muse Brian Wilson, who by this time had retreated pretty much to his bedroom for what would be a few years’ time. Instead, it’s brother Carl’s lead vocal, and especially his angelic “Jai Guru Dev” tag that closes out the song awash in echo, that makes the song such a standout. Taken together, the end result is stunning and a work of beauty pretty much unmatched in the Beach Boys’ catalog and career.

Interesting, there is another version of All This Is That out on YouTube worth mentioning. This one, performed live in 1993, features a quicker time and a bouncier (if that’s the word) arrangement, but it shows just how a song can be translated from studio to live performance and remain intact in spirit.

“All This Is That” was a staple of early FM radio play in the early ’70s, but, just as I wrote in my previous post along these same lines, I think The Beach Boys missed a golden opportunity by not including this on the first 45 RPM single released from the album as a B side to the album’s standout track, “Marcella”. “Marcella”, a Brian Wilson composition originally written about a masseuse but cleaned up by the band for public consumption, is a minor classic; had it been the first release (and especially with “All This Is That” as the B side) the band might have been seen as continuing the comeback effort begun with their previously-released album, Surf’s Up. Instead, the initial single chosen, “You Need A Mess of Help To Stand Alone” (a mild rocker featuring a gritty Carl Wilson vocal) backed with “Cuddle Up” (a Dennis Wilson mini-masterpiece) sank like a stone. And by that time, the album itself, unfortunately released as a double-album with 1966’s Pet Sounds (a marketing disaster if there ever was one), followed the same path.

It would take nearly two more years and the widely-acclaimed album Holland with its spunky single “Sail On Sailor” to rejuvenate the band’s fortunes.

This is one of those years that, unlike others, where the U.S. Open is my #3 favorite major (behind the Masters and the Open Championship), watching the U.S. Open being played at Oakmont has to jump up to #2. I’ve read all about the controversies about Oakmont and the elimination of, like, a gazillion trees to recapture the original intent of its original developer, and I have to say I love the wide-open space and the oh-so-familiar terrain of a Northeast course. I love the fact that Oakmont is traditionally the toughest of all the U.S. Open venues. I love the concept of the penalizing rough and the beyond rocket-fast greens, and the prospect of the winning score being somewhere north of three-over par. There are way too many PGA Tour events where everything is a birdie-fest; give me a really tough, no frills, golf course where you have to hit it straight and land your approach shots on a spot akin to a postage stamp in order for a chance at birdie.

It’s our national championship. It oughta be tough.

It’s a shame Arnold Palmer won’t be in attendance, but time catches up with everyone, I’m afraid. I sill love hos famous quote about Oakmont: “”You can hit 72 greens [in regulation] in the Open at Oakmont and not come close to winning.”

I know just about everyone is picking one of the “Big Three” – Rory McIlroy, Jason Day, or Jordan Spieth, but I got a special feeling for 46 year-old Phil Mickelson. He knows this course better than just about anyone, and he’s been driving the ball and putting it just about as good as anyone.

It will be great viewing, and with the temps around here this weekend in the 115-120 range, I can’t think of anything better than to stay cool, crack open a brewskie or two, and watch the best golf on the planet.

…not exactly sure if Donald Trump’s excellent speech on terrorism was the game-changer David Horowitz says it was, but it was sure a welcome change from the limp-wristed crap we’ve been getting from the likes of Barack Obama, John Kerry, and Hillary Clinton these past seven years. America needs to grow up, wake up, and smell the coffee. We’ve been led by a bunch of reckless, feckless, and lawless juveniles these past seven years, and it’s about time we have an adult in the room who tells us things not as we all wish they could be, but as they really are.

I told you this would happen. And the damned mainstream media aside, Trump is right. If Muslims truly want this kind of thing to stop they need to either speak up, or go to jail or be deported as co-conspirators. Enough is enough.

A little misplaced outrage, isn’t it, Barack? Wish you’d show as much anger towards our enemies as you do towards Trump. But then again, I’ve always suspected the only true enemies in Hussein’s world are those who don’t think he’s the Second Coming. 2017 can’t come soon enough.

…along those same lines, is there anything about Barack Obama that isn’t petulant and petty? This clown will go down in history as the worst president ever, and once the fog clears, people will wonder why on earth they voted for him in the first place.

Here’s someone who, unlike the vast majority of the mainstream media and the so-called “Republican establishment” which has underestimated, miscalculated, and loathed from day one, gets Donald Trump’s candidacy and election strategy. Continue to underestimate, miscalculate and loathe at your own collective risks.

This is good. I’ve come to learn – as many others have – that anything that’s bad for Barack Obama is good for America.

One of Mark Steyn’s finest posts. Be sure you listen to his monologue on “The Party at the End of the World”. It’s incredibly poignant and right on target.

Too much grim stuff in the world to write about, so consider today a break in the action. “Ajoen Ajoen” is an old dance tune based on a children’s song from the former Dutch East Indies that somehow has gotten transformed into a great instrumental standard played by various rock bands. Played right, it makes you want to jump out of your seat and start dancing around. The original sort of rockabilly version was made famous by Willy and His Giants, and a band called The Roadrunners do a fine version as well.

But of all the versions out there, in my mind it is that iconic instrumental group The Ventures who do it best. It’s just one of the outstanding tunes on their fine “Surfin’ to Baja” CD. Be sure to crank it up!

That’s all…music to soothe the soul. Don’t know what I’d do without it.

I say this with all due respect to my liberal friends and acquaintances: your religion – and make no mistake about it, liberalism is a religion to its subscribers who fiercely ascribe to its three basic tenants of tolerance, acceptance, and diversity – is going to get us all killed.

Look, it would be nice if we could all live in a world of peace, love, and understanding. A world that didn’t all those stupid “IMAGINE” and “COEXIST” bumper-stickers you see on Smart Cars and ’87 Toyotas tooling down the interstate with their drivers texting at the same time. I, too, despise hatred, violence, and the kind of intolerance and religious ideology that leads to what transpired in Orlando the other night. But that ain’t how the human race works, sunshine, nor how it has ever worked.

And as much as y’all want to make this latest act of radical Islamic terrorism – words our President just cannot seem to bring his lips to utter – to be about gun violence and the prevalence of guns in our society, this time that isn’t going to fly. And you know what? Somewhere in the backs of your supposedly open-minded liberal minds – you know, the kind of minds that call Donald Trump Hitler, or those who support him racists simply for the fact he wants to protect American jobs and secure our country’s borders – I think you know damned well that it won’t.

You know why? Because in this case the shooter was not only a licensed gun owner and carrier, but because of the position he held and the weaponry he was being allowed to carry he had to go through hours of training in order to obtain the job he had. And that includes, I’ll betcha, all the stupid sensitivity training that every company’s Human Resources organization (neither human nor a resource, I might add) now forces everyone to attend. And why? Because modern-day liberalism has created a fertile bed for lawsuits if anyone so much dare as to look at someone else the wrong way.

This country is drowning in political correctness, and it is all because of liberalism. I will guarantee you that, just like with the Boston Marathon terrorists and the San Bernadino shooter, people knew who this guy was, knew what was going on inside his head, but were afraid to say anything for fear of reprisal, or if they did it went nowhere. And that’s because modern-day liberalism and the political correctness so espoused and enforced by social media, our public university systems, and the mainstream media have made it virtually impossible for people to say anything for fear of losing their jobs or being outed as intolerant, or racist, or sexist, or a xenophobe or homophobe. My God, look at all the shit Donald Trump is taking, all because he – gasp! – wants to protect American workers first and the viability of our health care system and social programs by reducing the impact of illegal immigration!

Say what you want, liberals, about gun violence, but it wasn’t guns that killed and maimed all those people in Boston or attacked those police officers in New York City. And it isn’t guns being used to stab bus riders or run down pedestrians in Israel. And to try and make it about action instead of ideology and motive, is, frankly, starting to piss me off. What was the motive in Boston? What was the ideology? In Paris? On 9/11? In Madrid? In London? In San Bernadino? At Fort Hood? In Orlando? There’s a common thread running through all of these incidents, but you can’t tell the truth about them because then the tenants of your whole religion collapse like a house of cards. Because then you’d have to admit that tolerance, acceptance, and diversity is just a one-way street when the terrorist who hates everything you stand for wants to shoot your collective asses simply for flying commercial, or meeting friends in a nightclub, or watching a road race. You’d then have to admit that there are bad people out there who want to kill us simply for who we are and the freedoms we stand for.

I’m guessing because of your collective ideologies you wouldn’t have had any problem with the FBI infiltrating Ku Klux Klan organizations and meetings back in the 1950s. After all, those were hate groups, right? Well, perhaps now that a shooter has gone after the one demographic so near and dear to your collective hearts – that being gays – might you consider giving Islamic mosques the same kind of treatment? As Matthew Hennessey writes in CityJournal.org:

I have a different idea. I think it’s well past time that we took off the gloves. Let the FBI surveil the mosques. Let the NYPD surveil the mosques. Let these agencies do what needs to be done without fear of offending the ACLU, the Council on American-Islamic Relations, or the self-loathing secular liberals whose first thought when they hear about attacks like this is, “Oh, no. This will help Trump.”

I know how all you liberals will respond. They’ll be the usual flowers, stuffed animals, balloons, and the obligatory candlelight vigils – gotta have a candlelight vigil, right? – amidst the wreckage and waste, human and otherwise. They’ll be the usual hash tags and peace symbols (has someone already started selling T-shirts with “Orlando” on the front with a peace sign in the “O”?). And, of course, you’ll see the cable networks inundated with talking heads pushing gun control and blaming the NRA and intolerant conservatives for the climate that produced Sunday morning’s massacre. It’s all so predictable and equally pathetic.

Listen, it’s time to grow up, liberals, and remove the rose-colored glasses from your collective heads. But you won’t, because then you’d have to admit that all the high-fallutin’ ideals you so espouse – indeed, everything modern-day liberalism stands for and has ever stood for – is nothing but a crock of shit. Or worse, something that will get you, and all of us, killed in the end simply for who we are and where we live.

But that’s OK, you just go ahead and keep thinking it’s Donald Trump who’s the enemy.