~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~>^..^<~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I'm sad to say that Headline News(HLN) has gone downhill from the days long past.
HLN used to be the perfect format, the perfect news source: 1/2 an hour, world headlines on repeat all day long, updates inserted into the feed as they came in. One could sit down on one's lunch break at school in the cafeteria or at work, at home getting ready for the day, or where/whenever, and one was up-to-speed on current
events in a jiffy.
HLN is now to the news what MTV is to music videos!
Now, you have programming.
WAAAAAY too many commercials.
OPINION shows.
NANCY GRACE--(would someone PLEASE put a muzzle on that woman & send her back to Hicksville with that obnoxious overbearing "style" and that ridiculous accent?!)
Who needs an hour-long show about John Travolta's son having a seizure so we can speculate as to how long he was in the bathroom?! A tragedy yes--I feel for the family and my heart goes out to them, but does this really concern the entire nation as a whole?
How about an hour long show about the WAR?!
The ECONOMY?!
Human rights violtions?!
Corruption in politics?!
ANYTHING but another episode of "Where's Caylee?"!!!!
The wicked worlds of advertising, ratings & demographics have engulfed your once proud, bold, innovative-in-its-simplicity network, and turned it into an alternative for gossip, blogging, and soap operas--perfect for the stay-at-home mom and out-of-work Joe.
It used to be CNN was your network with different programs & "shows" related to particular topics, while HLN was the steadfast "quick fix" for those people on-the-go who COUNTED on HLN to stay informed in the midst of a hectic lifestyle. Not anymore.
Today, the demand for commercial income has overrun your once great network. Since you have done what you have with HLN(ruin it), perhaps you might consider using some of your profits from it to create a NEW channel with the old format? One that serves the greater good and not just your own pockets, that is. I know that's not the American Way, but I just thought I'd ask.
I miss the old HLN. The GOOD HLN.
You guys suck.
-(author),
-(location).
P.S.--Thank you in advance for the auto-response email I am about to receive assuring me that someone will personally read this, when I know it's really going to be auto-filed by a bot into a category according to keywords, like "SUCK".
I sent this to HLN 1-14-09...let's see if they respond.
LIKE THIS? Copy & re-post it.
14 January 2009
12 January 2009
3 X 3 = NEIN
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Plant One single Seed;
Three Plants can become of it.
Just don’t throw Three Stones.
-James V. Watson, Jr.
1-12-09
Plant One single Seed;
Three Plants can become of it.
Just don’t throw Three Stones.
-James V. Watson, Jr.
1-12-09
“Fast, Fast, Fresh Mount, Keep Time with Thy Young Years”--*
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~>^..^<~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Fast, fast, fresh mount, keep time with thy young years;
Yet faster yet, oh tightened, supple springs;
List not the heavy part thy burden bears,
Doe makes quick her decision when she springs.
Mail must get through,
All rides on you;
Our duties are but ours;
Oh, I could brag,
Like falling rocks upon some jagged crag,
Clop, clop, clop, clop,
Since pony’s pride is now a leathered mailbag.
-James V. Watson, Jr.
5-29-90
*--(Simulacrum of Ben Johnson’s “Slow, Slow Fresh Fount, Keep Time with My Salt Tears”-below)
Slow, slow, fresh fount, keep time with my salt tears;
Yet slower yet, oh faintly, gentle springs;
List to the heavy part the music bears,
Woe weeps out her division when she sings.
Droop herbs and flowers,
Fall grief in showers;
Our beauties are not ours;
Oh, I could still,
Like melting snow upon some craggy hill,
Drop, drop, drop, drop,
Since nature’s pride is now a withered daffodil.
-Ben Johnson (1573-1637)
Fast, fast, fresh mount, keep time with thy young years;
Yet faster yet, oh tightened, supple springs;
List not the heavy part thy burden bears,
Doe makes quick her decision when she springs.
Mail must get through,
All rides on you;
Our duties are but ours;
Oh, I could brag,
Like falling rocks upon some jagged crag,
Clop, clop, clop, clop,
Since pony’s pride is now a leathered mailbag.
-James V. Watson, Jr.
5-29-90
*--(Simulacrum of Ben Johnson’s “Slow, Slow Fresh Fount, Keep Time with My Salt Tears”-below)
Slow, slow, fresh fount, keep time with my salt tears;
Yet slower yet, oh faintly, gentle springs;
List to the heavy part the music bears,
Woe weeps out her division when she sings.
Droop herbs and flowers,
Fall grief in showers;
Our beauties are not ours;
Oh, I could still,
Like melting snow upon some craggy hill,
Drop, drop, drop, drop,
Since nature’s pride is now a withered daffodil.
-Ben Johnson (1573-1637)
Passing Thoughts
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~>^..^<~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
My love for you grows stronger
with each passing thought.
You are the rhythm of my soul—
earthy drums that Time forgot.
You give me Love and Music
that sets my head to spin.
Our eternal bond
is my driving force within.
Electric is your touch:
my warmth throughout the night.
Your beauty’s unsurpassed:
you are Danu at her height.
The only darkness on me wrought
threatens losing you.
And with each time that passing thought,
my world is cleft in two.
-James V. Watson, Jr.
07-91
My love for you grows stronger
with each passing thought.
You are the rhythm of my soul—
earthy drums that Time forgot.
You give me Love and Music
that sets my head to spin.
Our eternal bond
is my driving force within.
Electric is your touch:
my warmth throughout the night.
Your beauty’s unsurpassed:
you are Danu at her height.
The only darkness on me wrought
threatens losing you.
And with each time that passing thought,
my world is cleft in two.
-James V. Watson, Jr.
07-91
Mongoloid Child
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~>^..^<~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I saw a child walking alone-
A child with Down’s Syndrome.
She carried a backpack
and a purpose in her stride.
Her hair was neat, as were her clothes.
The lenses on her glasses looked like
the bottoms of soda-pop bottles.
She wasn’t beautiful, I thought,
but who am I to judge?
I wondered if she knew her shortcomings.
I wondered if she was happy.
And as she passed me by,
I hated myself for pitying her,
for at least she had a purpose in her stride.
-James V. Watson, Jr.
6-91
I saw a child walking alone-
A child with Down’s Syndrome.
She carried a backpack
and a purpose in her stride.
Her hair was neat, as were her clothes.
The lenses on her glasses looked like
the bottoms of soda-pop bottles.
She wasn’t beautiful, I thought,
but who am I to judge?
I wondered if she knew her shortcomings.
I wondered if she was happy.
And as she passed me by,
I hated myself for pitying her,
for at least she had a purpose in her stride.
-James V. Watson, Jr.
6-91
8 Theses
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~>^..^<~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
To Christians all, I have a message:
To you who worship an unshaven man in a dress,
heed my words.
To bible-thumping, crucifix-bearing, simplistic morons,
open your minds.
To you who waste one of every seven days,
you waste one seventh of your potential.
To you who stifle creative imagination by promoting censorship,
you breed more negativity than the Love you try to create.
To you who build churches of wood and precious stone,
try worshipping through respect for the environment your deiety supposedly created.
For you who pity the less fortunate while your Papal Lord sits on a fortune five times that of the American national debt,
I have no respect.
For you who condescend to non-believers through pity and concern,
I pray.
-James V. Watson, Jr.
3/91
To Christians all, I have a message:
To you who worship an unshaven man in a dress,
heed my words.
To bible-thumping, crucifix-bearing, simplistic morons,
open your minds.
To you who waste one of every seven days,
you waste one seventh of your potential.
To you who stifle creative imagination by promoting censorship,
you breed more negativity than the Love you try to create.
To you who build churches of wood and precious stone,
try worshipping through respect for the environment your deiety supposedly created.
For you who pity the less fortunate while your Papal Lord sits on a fortune five times that of the American national debt,
I have no respect.
For you who condescend to non-believers through pity and concern,
I pray.
-James V. Watson, Jr.
3/91
Ships on a Plane
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~>^..^<~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
You never told me where you’re from…
I don’t know that I care.
While riding in a flying carriage
you caught me, unaware.
Chimes of laughter filled my ears
as I thought of all the years
the things we did, the places shared,
not to mention all the tears.
From ballroom dancing to a moonlit beach
to gilded dreams just out of reach.
From the moment we two shared a glance
I knew I’d ne’er forget
the love affair I shared
with the girl I never met.
-James V. Watson, Jr.
11/97
This was written on an airplane going to Seattle. I saw a woman get on the plane w/BRIGHT red hair—she looked like a human toy doll, but with the face of an exquisite China doll. Immediately I grabbed my pen & scrawled this out on a cocktail napkin…it took all of 2-3 minutes. I transcribed it onto a piece of paper & coaxed a stewardess into giving it to the woman anonymously for me. The squeals of delight & “Aaaww”’s were almost too much to bear from her & her three other friends…she looked everywhere to find a hint in someone’s eyes which would divulge the identity of the author, but found none. The poem was signed with my rune, & later in the terminal I had an airport employee give her my card, w/the rune on the back. Again, she whipped her fiery head all about the terminal to see if he (I) was watching. I left. On the return trip, she was on my flight. I wrote nothing else to her. I de-planed & went home to Santa Barbara, hoping to get a call. She never did.
You never told me where you’re from…
I don’t know that I care.
While riding in a flying carriage
you caught me, unaware.
Chimes of laughter filled my ears
as I thought of all the years
the things we did, the places shared,
not to mention all the tears.
From ballroom dancing to a moonlit beach
to gilded dreams just out of reach.
From the moment we two shared a glance
I knew I’d ne’er forget
the love affair I shared
with the girl I never met.
-James V. Watson, Jr.
11/97
This was written on an airplane going to Seattle. I saw a woman get on the plane w/BRIGHT red hair—she looked like a human toy doll, but with the face of an exquisite China doll. Immediately I grabbed my pen & scrawled this out on a cocktail napkin…it took all of 2-3 minutes. I transcribed it onto a piece of paper & coaxed a stewardess into giving it to the woman anonymously for me. The squeals of delight & “Aaaww”’s were almost too much to bear from her & her three other friends…she looked everywhere to find a hint in someone’s eyes which would divulge the identity of the author, but found none. The poem was signed with my rune, & later in the terminal I had an airport employee give her my card, w/the rune on the back. Again, she whipped her fiery head all about the terminal to see if he (I) was watching. I left. On the return trip, she was on my flight. I wrote nothing else to her. I de-planed & went home to Santa Barbara, hoping to get a call. She never did.
06 January 2009
Mousetrap*
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Carelessly, I poured my coffee
As I looked about the house,
Resenting that a kitchen trap had just
Outdone a mouse.
Luckless victim grabbed the cheddar
And was taken unaware.
Now he’s dead, sans a dream;
No one seems to care.
Pondering, I felt
Embarrassed as I began to
Stir. I
Thought of cheese
And
Noble rodents,
And then I thought of her.
-James V. Watson, Jr.
3/90
Carelessly, I poured my coffee
As I looked about the house,
Resenting that a kitchen trap had just
Outdone a mouse.
Luckless victim grabbed the cheddar
And was taken unaware.
Now he’s dead, sans a dream;
No one seems to care.
Pondering, I felt
Embarrassed as I began to
Stir. I
Thought of cheese
And
Noble rodents,
And then I thought of her.
-James V. Watson, Jr.
3/90
Catch 23
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Innocence traded for an hour of haze,
he trundles through darkness as if in a maze.
No thoughts for the wicked, no hope for the lost,
he lives in oblivion, ignoring the cost.
Voices fly by like so many years,
confirming suspicions, incarnating fears.
Night after night he plays out his hand,
always to fold; his thoughts turn to sand.
Reason escapes him, emotions run high,
he longs for escape, unable to try.
While those in his circle still seem to have hope,
imprisoned in mire, the boy cannot cope.
Forever trapped in an older man’s shell,
Little Boy’s Lost in an ages old Hell.
-James V. Watson, Jr.
8/19/93
*--Published Work: Campus Point, UCSB sponsored monthly newspaper, May ’94 issue.
Innocence traded for an hour of haze,
he trundles through darkness as if in a maze.
No thoughts for the wicked, no hope for the lost,
he lives in oblivion, ignoring the cost.
Voices fly by like so many years,
confirming suspicions, incarnating fears.
Night after night he plays out his hand,
always to fold; his thoughts turn to sand.
Reason escapes him, emotions run high,
he longs for escape, unable to try.
While those in his circle still seem to have hope,
imprisoned in mire, the boy cannot cope.
Forever trapped in an older man’s shell,
Little Boy’s Lost in an ages old Hell.
-James V. Watson, Jr.
8/19/93
*--Published Work: Campus Point, UCSB sponsored monthly newspaper, May ’94 issue.
Cramming
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~>^..^<~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Three-o-five, A.M.
All are safe in slumber,
save myself.
A mechanical heartbeat
signifies the passage of time.
My typewriter fires
a hundred words per minute.
The television is a babbling brook
in the next room,
adding to the silence.
The over-lit house
holds its breath,
sleeping with both eyes open.
The still air stirs
not a leaf in the yard,
nor a fold in the curtain
at the open window.
The street a playground
for otherwise wary cats,
poses no present danger.
Across the street is another
bloodshot kitchen window.
So…I am not alone.
-James V. Watson, Jr.
11/94
Three-o-five, A.M.
All are safe in slumber,
save myself.
A mechanical heartbeat
signifies the passage of time.
My typewriter fires
a hundred words per minute.
The television is a babbling brook
in the next room,
adding to the silence.
The over-lit house
holds its breath,
sleeping with both eyes open.
The still air stirs
not a leaf in the yard,
nor a fold in the curtain
at the open window.
The street a playground
for otherwise wary cats,
poses no present danger.
Across the street is another
bloodshot kitchen window.
So…I am not alone.
-James V. Watson, Jr.
11/94
Last Kiss
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~>^..^<~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Snow fell softly.
Tears filled his eyes.
His voice whispered hoarsely,
“I hate good-byes.”
Holding her, he felt
Helpless and weak.
Shivering with cold,
He could not speak.
Wiping his tears,
He wrapped his ring
In her hand.
He gently kissed
her rosy cheek
and whispered,
“I’ll never let go.”
…
He then laid her body
to rest
in the cold, cold snow.
-James V. Watson, Jr.
03-87
Snow fell softly.
Tears filled his eyes.
His voice whispered hoarsely,
“I hate good-byes.”
Holding her, he felt
Helpless and weak.
Shivering with cold,
He could not speak.
Wiping his tears,
He wrapped his ring
In her hand.
He gently kissed
her rosy cheek
and whispered,
“I’ll never let go.”
…
He then laid her body
to rest
in the cold, cold snow.
-James V. Watson, Jr.
03-87
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