From: RevTerryl <RevTerryl@...>
Subject: Re: [Harley owners group] Political opinions and or political rhetoric versus Harley info-stories-etc
To: harleyownersgroup@yahoogroups.com
Date: Tuesday, November 24, 2009, 2:59 PM

intermodal63357 wrote:
>
> Rev Terry I enjoy most of your posts that are Harley related??? Please
> don't use this group as your own soapbox for your personal political
> views. I believe in reading the purpose of this groups headliner is to
> discuss and promote Harley related material. I can go elsewhere to get
> political views and personal opinion on politics. This is not the
> group for this. Where is the Harley related material. I am an active
> H.O.G. member and wonder if H.O.G. would like their group name and
> excellent reputation associated with personal politics. Thanks and I
> appreciate your understanding and tolerance of all group members.
>

intermodal63357.....I am quite uncertain what I sent that offended, but
do know that you have my sincerest apology. It is not now nor has it
ever been my intention to discredit or support any political views. By
the way, just so everyone knows, I am a registered democrat. That goes
back in the family history to my great grandfather. Out on the farm my
paternal grandmother hosted none other than Eleanor Roosevelt(we have it
transferred to VHS from the original 16 mm)pretty cool! Politics is
something I probably should not make fun of, but then I am not
prejudiced, I make fun of most everything. Life is too short to let
stuff get under your feathers. The only time anyone really catches me
serious is when I'm preaching God's Word which these days is weddings,
funerals, baptisms, and the occasional pulpit supply for whatever
denomination on a Sunday. I will attempt in the future to not inflict
upon the group any personal opinions considered political. Therefore I
do believe we have reached an agreement. I still am in need for a hard
bag lid for my '90 Ultra. It's the two tone burgundy and red but I would
take most anything come spring. In Christ, Preacher.
>
>
>



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From: intermodal63357 <sfchief@...>
Subject: [Harley owners group] Political opinions and or political rhetoric versus Harley info-stories-etc
To: harleyownersgroup@yahoogroups.com
Date: Tuesday, November 24, 2009, 11:36 AM

 

Rev Terry I enjoy most of your posts that are Harley related??? Please don't use this group as your own soapbox for your personal political views. I believe in reading the purpose of this groups headliner is to discuss and promote Harley related material. I can go elsewhere to get political views and personal opinion on politics. This is not the group for this. Where is the Harley related material. I am an active H.O.G. member and wonder if H.O.G. would like their group name and excellent reputation associated with personal politics. Thanks and I appreciate your understanding and tolerance of all group members.

From: Bob <bobdar@...>
Subject: [Harley owners group] FW: Who said poetry is boring
To: "Bob" <bobdar@...>
Date: Monday, November 23, 2009, 11:05 PM

 

 

 

 

THESE ARE ENTRIES TO A  WASHINGTON POST COMPETITION
ASKING FOR A TWO-LINE RHYME WITH THE MOST ROMANTIC FIRST LINE,
AND THE LEAST ROMANTIC SECOND LINE:
  



1. My darling, my lover, my beautiful wife:
Marrying you has screwed up my life.

2. I see your face when I am dreaming.
That's why I always wake up screaming.

3. Kind, intelligent, loving and hot;
This describes everything you are not.

4. Love may be beautiful, love may be bliss,
But I only slept with you 'cause I was pissed.

5. I thought that I could love no other
-- that is until I met your brother.

6. Roses are red, violets are blue, sugar is sweet, and so are you.
But the roses are wilting, the violets are dead, the sugar bowl's
empty and so is your head.

7. I want to feel your sweet embrace;
But don't take that paper bag off your face.

8. I love your smile, your face, and your eyes
Damn, I'm good at telling lies!

9. My love, you take my breath away.
What did you step in to smell this way?

10. My feelings for you no words can tell,
Except for maybe 'Go to hell.'

11. What inspired this amorous rhyme?
Two parts vodka, one part lime.

WHO SAID POETRY IS BORING?

Subject: Thought you might like this   Pinocchio, Snow White, and Superman are out for a stroll in town one day. As they walked, they come across a sign: "Beauty contest for the most beautiful woman in the world." "I am entering!" said Snow White. After half an hour she comes out and they ask her, "Well, how'd ya do?"   " First Place !," said Snow White. They continue walking and they see a sign:   "Contest for the strongest man in the world." "I'm entering," says Superman. After half an hour, he returns and they ask him, "How did you make out?" " First Place ," answers Superman. "Did you ever doubt?"   They continue walking when they see a sign: "Contest! Who is the greatest liar in the world?" Pinocchio enters. After half an hour he returns with tears in his eyes. "What happened?" they asked. "Who the heck is Pelosi?" asked Pinocchio.

2. Nothing is worse than that moment during an argument when you realize
 you're wrong.

3. I totally take back all those times I didn't want to nap when I was
 younger.

4. There is great need for a sarcasm font.

5. How are you supposed to fold a fitted sheet?

6. Was learning cursive really necessary?

 

7. Map Quest needs to start their directions on #5. I'm pretty sure I know
 how to get out of my damn neighborhood.

8. Obituaries would be a lot more interesting if they told you how the
 person died.
 

9. I can't remember the last time I wasn't at least kind of tired.

 

10. Bad decisions make good stories.
 
11. You never know when it will strike, but there comes a moment at work
 when you know that you just aren't going to do anything productive for the
 rest of the day.

12. Can we all just agree to ignore whatever comes after Blue Ray? I don't
 want to have to restart my collection...again.
 
13. I'm always slightly terrified when I exit out of Word and it asks me if
 I want to save any changes to the ten-page paper that I swear I did not make
 any changes to.
 
14. "Do not machine wash or tumble dry" means I will never wash this --
 ever.

15. I hate it when I miss a call by the last ring (Hello? Hello? )but when
 I immediately call back it rings nine times and goes to voicemail.. What'd
 you do after I didn't answer? Drop the phone and run away?

16. I hate leaving my house confident and looking good and then not seeing
 anyone of importance the entire day.. What a waste.
 
17. I keep some people's phone numbers in my phone just so I know not to
 answer when they call.

18. I think the freezer deserves a light as well.
 
19. I disagree with Kay Jewelers. I would bet on any given Friday or Saturday night more kisses begin with Bud Light than Kay. 

A retired corporate executive, now a widower, decided to take a vacation. He booked himself on a Caribbean cruise and proceeded to have the time of his life, that is, until the ship sank. He soon found himself on an island with no other people, no supplies, nothing, only bananas and coconuts.


After about four months, he is lying on the beach one day when the most gorgeous woman he has ever seen rows up to the shore. In disbelief, he asks, "Where did you come from? How did you get here?"


She replies, "I rowed over from the other side of the island where I had landed when my cruise ship sank."



"Amazing," he notes. "You were really lucky to have a row boat wash up with you."




"Oh, this thing?" explains the woman.  "I made the boat out of some raw material I found on the island.  The oars were whittled from gum tree branches.  I wove the bottom from palm tree branches, and the sides and stern came from a Eucalyptus tree."



"But, where did you get the tools?"


"Oh, that was no problem," replied the woman.  "On the south side of the island, a very unusual stratum of alluvial rock is exposed.  I found that if I fired it to a certain temperature in my kiln, it melted into ductile iron I used that to make tools and used the tools to make the hardware."



The guy is stunned.



"Let's row over to my place," she says.   So, after a short time of rowing, she soon docks the boat at a small wharf.   As the man looks to shore, he nearly falls off the boat.  Before him is a long stone walk leading to an exquisite bungalow painted in blue and white.  While the woman ties up the rowboat with an expertly woven hemp rope, the man can only stare ahead, dumb struck.  As they walk into the house, she says casually, "It's not much, but I call it home.  Sit down, please.




"Would you like a drink?




"No! No thank you," the man blurts out, still dazed.  "I can't take another drop of coconut juice."




"It's not coconut juice," winks the woman.  "I have a still.  How would you like a Pina Colada?"




Trying to hide his continued amazement, the man accepts, and they sit down on her couch to talk. After they exchange their individual stories, the woman announces, "I'm going to slip into something more comfortable. Would you like to take a shower and shave?  There's a razor in the bathroom cabinet upstairs."



No longer questioning anything, the man goes upstairs into the bathroom.  There, in the cabinet is a razor made from a piece of tortoise bone.  Two shells honed to a hollow ground edge are fastened on to its end inside a swivel mechanism.


"This woman is amazing," he muses.  What's next?


When he returns, she greets him wearing nothing but some small flowers on tiny vines, each strategically positioned, she smelled faintly of gardenias.  She then beckons for him to sit down next to her.


"Tell me," she begins suggestively, slithering closer to him, "We've both been out here for many months.  You must have been lonely.  There's something I'm certain you feel like doing right now, something you've been longing for, right?"  She stares into his eyes.


He can't believe what he's hearing.  "You mean..."he swallows excitedly as tears start to form in his eyes,"…   You've built a Golf Course?"

 

 

Honor Among Soldiers  -By Joseph L. Galloway   If you have fed from a steady diet of Hollywood movies about Vietnam you probably believe that everyone who wore a uniform in America’s long, sad involvement in war in Vietnam is some sort of a clone of Lt. William Calley---that all three million of them were drug-crazed killers and rapists who rampaged across the pastoral landscape.                 Those movies got it wrong, until now. There is one more Hollywood film now playing called We Were Soldiers and it gets it right. Ask any Vietnam veteran who has gone to see the movie. In fact, ask any American who has gone to see it. It is based on a book I wrote with my lifelong friend Lt. Gen. (ret) Hal Moore; a book written precisely because we believed that a false impression of those soldiers had taken root in the country which sent them to war and, in the end, turned its back on both the war and the warriors.                 I did four tours in Vietnam as a war correspondent for United Press International---1965-66, 1971, 1973 and 1975. In the first three of those tours at war I spent most of my time in the field with the troops and I came to know and respect them and even love them, though most folks might find the words “warâ€� and “loveâ€� in the same sentence unsettling if not odd.                 In fact, I am far more comfortable in the company of those once-young soldiers today than with any other group except my own family. They are my comrades-in-arms, the best friends of my life and if ever I were to shout “help!â€� they would stampede to my aid in a heartbeat. They come from all walks of life; they are black, white, Hispanic, native American, Asian; they are fiercely loyal, dead honest, entirely generous of their time and money. They are my brothers and they did none of the things Oliver Stone or Francis Ford Coppola would have you believe all of them did.                 On the worst day of my life, in the middle of the worst battle of the Vietnam War, in a place called Landing Zone X-Ray in the Ia Drang Valley of Vietnam, I was walking around snapping some photographs when I caught a movement out of the corner of my eye. It was a tall, lanky GI who jumped out of a mortar pit and ran, zig-zagging under fire, toward me. He dove under the little bush I was crouched behind. “Joe! Joe Galloway! Don’t you know me, man? It’s Vince Cantu from Refugio, Texas!â€� Vince Cantu and I had graduated together from Refugio High School, Class of ’59, 55 boys and girls. We embraced warmly. Then he shouted over the din of gunfire: “Joe, you got to get down and stay down. It’s dangerous out here. Men are dying all around.â€�                 Vince told me that he had only ten days left on his tour of duty as a draftee soldier in the 1st Battalion 7th U.S. Cavalry, 1st Cavalry Division (Airmobile). “If I live through this I will be home in Refugio for Christmas.â€� I asked Vince to please visit my mom and dad, but not tell them too much about where we had met and under what circumstances. I still have an old photograph from that Christmas visit---Vince wearing one of those black satin Vietnam jackets, with his daughter on his knee, sitting with my mom and dad in their living room.                 Vince Cantu and I are still best friends.                 When I walked out and got on a Huey helicopter leaving Landing Zone X-Ray I left knowing that 80 young Americans had laid down their lives so that I and others might survive. Another 124 had been terribly wounded and were on their way to hospitals in Japan or the United States. I left with both a sense of my place, among them, and an obligation to tell their stories to any who would listen. I knew that I had been among men of honor and decency and courage, and anyone who believes otherwise needs to look in his own heart and weigh himself.                 Hal Moore and I began our research for the book-to-be, We Were Soldiers Once…and Young, in 1982. It was a ten-year journey to find and ultimately to bring back together as many of those who fought in LZ Xray and LZ Albany, a separate battle one day after ours only three miles away in which another 155 young Americans died and another 130 were wounded. We had good addresses for perhaps no more than a dozen veterans, but we mailed out a questionnaire to them to begin the process.                 Late one night a week later my phone rang at home in Los Angeles. On the other end was Sgt. George Nye, retired and living very quietly by choice in his home state of Maine. George began talking and it was almost stream of consciousness. He had held it inside him for so long and now someone wanted to know about it. He described taking his small team of engineer demolitions men into XRay to blow down some trees and clear a safer landing zone for the helicopters. Then he was talking about PFC Jimmy D. Nakayama, one of those engineer soldiers, and how a misplaced napalm strike engulfed Nakayama in the roaring flames. How he ran out into the fire and screamed at another man to grab Jimmy’s feet and help carry him to the aid station. My blood ran cold and the hair stood up on the back of my neck. I had been that man on the other end of Nakayama. I had grabbed his ankles and felt the boots crumble, the skin peel, and those slick bones in my hands. Again I heard Nakayama’s screams. By then we were both weeping. I knew Nakayama had died a day or two later in an Army hospital. Nye told me that Jimmy’s wife had given birth to a baby girl the day he died---and that when Nye returned to base camp at An Khe he found a letter on his desk. He had encouraged Nakayama to apply for a slot at Officer Candidate School. The letter approved that application and contained orders for Nakayama to return immediately to Ft. Benning, Ga., to enter that course.                 George Nye is gone now. But I want you to know what he did with the last months of his life. He lived in Bangor, Maine, The year was 1991 and in the fall plane after plane loaded with American soldiers headed home from the Persian Gulf War stopped there to refuel. It was their first sight of home. George and some other local volunteers organized a welcome at that desolate airport. They provided coffee, snacks and the warm “Welcome home, soldierâ€� that no one ever offered George and the millions of other Vietnam veterans. George had gone out to the airport to decorate a Christmas tree for those soldiers on the day he died.                 When we think of ourselves we think Shakespeare, Henry IV, Act IV, Scene 3: “We few, we happy few, we band of brothers; For he today that sheds his blood with me Shall be my brother.â€�                   Honor and decency and uncommon courage were common among these soldiers and all the soldiers who served in Vietnam. I think of how they were, on patrol, moving through jungle or rice paddies. Nervous, on edge, trying to watch right, left, ahead, behind, all at once. A friend once described it as something like looking at a tree full of owls. They were alert for sign, sound or smell of the enemy. But they also watched each other closely. At the first sign of the oppressive heat and exhaustion getting to someone the two or three guys around would relieve him of some or all of the heavy burden that the Infantryman bears: 60 or 70 pounds of stuff. Rifle and magazines. A claymore mine or two. A couple of radio batteries. Cans of C-Rations. Spare socks. Maybe a book. All that rides in the soldier’s pack. They would make it easier for him to keep going. They took care of each other, because in this situation each other was all they had.                 When I would pitch up to spend a day or two or three with such an outfit I was, at first, an object of some curiosity. Sooner or later a break would be called and everyone would flop down in the shade, drink some water, break out a C-Ration or a cigarette. The GI next to me would ask: What you doing out here? I would explain that I was a reporter. “You mean you are a civilian? You don’t HAVE to be here?â€� Yes. “Man, they must pay you loads of money to do this.â€� And I would explain that, no, unfortunately I worked for UPI, the cheapest news agency in the world. “Then you are just plain crazy, man.â€� Once I was pigeonholed, all was all right. The grunts understood “crazyâ€� like no one else I ever met. The welcome was warm, friendly and open. I was probably the only civilian they would ever see in the field; I was a sign that someone, anyone, outside the Big Green Machine cared how they lived and how they died.                 It didn’t take very long before I truly did come to care. They were, in my view, the best of their entire generation. When their number came up in the draft they didn’t run and hide in Canada. They didn’t turn up for their physical wearing pantyhose or full of this chemical or that drug which they hoped would fail them. Like their fathers before them they raised their right hand and took the oath to protect and defend the Constitution of the United States. It is not their fault that the war they were sent to fight was not one that the political leadership in Washington had any intention of winning. It is not their fault that 58,200 of them died, their lives squandered because Lyndon Johnson and, later, Richard Nixon could not figure out some decent way to cut our losses and leave the Vietnamese to sort the matter out among themselves.                 As I have grown older, and so have they, and first the book and now the movie have come to pass I am often asked: Doesn’t this close the loop for you? Doesn’t this mean you can rest easier? The answer is no, I can’t. To my dying day I WILL remember and honor those who died, some in my arms. I WILL remember and honor those who lived and came home carrying memories and scars that only their brothers can share and understand. They were the best you had, America, and you turned your back on them.                                                                Copyright Joe Galloway