Recent Posts

More.....

1/6/14 NPR by Gene Memby


"The Oxford English Dictionary's first recorded utterance of the word racism was by a man named Richard Henry Pratt in 1902. Pratt was railing against the evils of racial segregation.

Segregating any class or race of people apart from the rest of the people kills the progress of the segregated people or makes their growth very slow. Association of races and classes is necessary to destroy racism and classism.

Although Pratt might have been the first person to inveigh against racism and its deleterious effects by name, he is much better-remembered for a very different coinage: Kill the Indian...save the man.

"A great general has said that the only good Indian is a dead one," Pratt said. "In a sense, I agree with the sentiment, but only in this: that all the Indian there is in the race should be dead. Kill the Indian in him, and save the man."

We're still living with the after-effects of what Pratt thought and did. His story serves as a useful parable for why discussions of racism remain so deeply contentious even now.

But let's back up a bit.

Beginning in the 1880s, a group of well-heeled white men would travel to upstate New York each year to attend the Lake Mohonk Conference Of The Friend Of the Indian. Their primary focus was a solution to "the Indian problem," the need for the government to deal with the Native American groups living in lands that had been forcibly seized from them. The Plains Wars had decimated the Native American population, but they were coming to an end. There was a general feeling among these men and other U.S. leaders that the remaining Native Americans would be wiped out within a generation or two, destroyed by disease and starvation.

The Lake Mohonk attendees wanted to stop that from happening, and they pressed lawmakers to change the government's policies toward Indians. Pratt, in particular, was a staunch advocate of folding Native Americans into white life — assimilation through education.


Top: A group of Chiricahua Apache students on their first day at Carlisle Indian School in Carlisle, Pa. Bottom: The same students four months later.
John N. Choate/Hulton Archive/Getty Images
He persuaded Congress to let him test out his ideas, and they gave him an abandoned military post in Carlisle, Pa., to set up a boarding school for Native children. He was also able to convince many Native Americans, including some tribal leaders, to send their children far away from home, and leave them in his charge. (They had reasons to be skeptical of Pratt, given the dubious history of white promises to Indians.)

"These [chiefs] were smart men," said Grace Chaillier, a professor of Native American studies at Northern Michigan University. "They saw the handwriting on the wall. They knew their children were going to need to be educated in the ways of the dominant culture or they weren't going to survive."

For many Natives, Chaillier said, this wrenching decision came down to a grim arithmetic: the boarding school would provide their children with food and shelter, which were hard to come by on the reservations. "The reservations were becoming very, very sad places to be," she said. "These were places of daunting poverty. People were starving."

The Carlisle Indian Industrial School would become a model for dozens of other unaffiliated boarding schools for Indian children. But Pratt's plans had lasting, disastrous ramifications.

He pushed for the total erasure of Native cultures among his students. "No bilingualism was accommodated at these boarding schools," said Christina Snyder, a historian at Indiana University. The students' native tongues were strictly forbidden — a rule that was enforced through beating. Since they were rounded up from different tribes, the only way they could communicate with each other at the schools was in English.

"In Indian civilization I am a Baptist," Pratt once told a convention of Baptist ministers, "because I believe in immersing the Indians in our civilization and when we get them under, holding them there until they are thoroughly soaked."

"The most significant consequence of this policy is the loss of languages," Snyder says. "All native languages are [now] endangered and some of them are extinct."

Pratt also saw to it that his charges were Christianized. Carlisle students had to attend church each Sunday, although he allowed each student to choose the denomination to which she would belong.

When students would return home to the reservations — which Pratt objected to, because he felt it would slow down their assimilation — there was a huge cultural gap between them and their families. They dressed differently. They had a new religion. And they spoke a different language.

"These kids coming from the boarding schools were literally unable to speak with their parents and grandparents," Chaillier said. "In many cases, they were ashamed of them, because their grandparents and parents were living a life that nobody should aspire to live."

But Pratt's idea to assimilate Native Americans gained traction, and the government began to make attendance at Indian boarding schools compulsory. Families who didn't comply were punished by the government. "For a period in the 1890s, federal Indian agents could withhold rations [from families] to kind of forcibly starve someone out," Snyder says.


Students at the Carlisle Indian Industrial School were forbidden from speaking in any language but English.
Library of Congress
Tsianina Lomawaima, who heads of the American Indian Studies program at the University of Arizona, told our colleague Charla Bear that the government's schooling policy had more cynical aims.

"They very specifically targeted Native nations that were the most recently hostile," Lomawaima says. "There was a very conscious effort to recruit the children of leaders, and this was also explicit, essentially to hold those children hostage. The idea was it would be much easier to keep those communities pacified with their children held in a school somewhere far away."

Someone is either a racist and therefore an inhuman monster, or they're an actual, complex human being, and therefore, by definition, incapable of being a racist.

Unhappy, homesick students regularly ran away from the schools, and authorities were sent out to apprehend deserters, who were sometimes given asylum by Native communities who protested the mandatory school laws.

But since there was little oversight of the boarding schools, the students were often subjected to horrific mistreatment. Many were regularly beaten. Chaillier said that some of the schools were rife with sexual abuse. Tuberculosis or trachoma, a preventable disease causes blindness, were rampant. All of the boarding schools, she said, had their own cemeteries.

Chaillier said that Pratt wasn't always aware of these conditions. But these were the consequences of the popularity of his philosophies.

Chaillier, who is Lakota, told me a story that her mother often shared with her about her Indian school experience. One day, according to her mother's story, a young student snuck out from his room at night, fell into a hole being dug for a well on the school grounds, broke his neck and died. His body was put on display and the students were assembled, forced to view their schoolmate's corpse as a reminder of what happened to students who were disobedient.

But Chaillier's mother insisted that she didn't attend one of the bad Indian boarding schools. And she wanted Chaillier to attend one, as well. "If you were Indian, you went to Indian school," she said, describing her mother's feelings. Her mother felt that the Indian schools were a net good, even as they were calamitous for Indian cultures.

It's that ambivalence that makes Pratt's legacy so hard to neatly characterize.

"Richard Henry Pratt was an incredibly complex individual in many ways," Chaillier said. "Some of the worst outcomes that have happened in society have started out with someone thinking they were doing something good."

"For his time, Pratt was definitely a progressive," Snyder said. Indeed, he thought his ideas were the only thing keeping Native peoples from being entirely wiped out by disease and starvation. "That's one of the dirty little secrets of American progressivism — that [progress] was still shaped around ideas of whiteness."

Snyder said that Pratt replaced the popular idea that some *groups *were natively inferior to others with the idea that some *cultures *that were the problem, and needed to be corrected or destroyed. In other words, he swapped biological determinism for cultural imperialism.

Given the sheer scale of the physical and cultural violence he helped set in motion, was Pratt himself a practitioner of the very ill he decried at the Lake Mohonk convention? Was he a racist?

Over a century after he was first recorded using the word, we still ask that question — is she or isn't she racist? — in situations where no clear answer would ever present itself. We argue about the composition of the accused's soul and the fundamental goodness or badness therein. But those are things we can't possibly know. And as we litigate that question, other more meaningful questions become obscured.

Racism remains a force of enormous consequence in American life, yet no one can be accused of perpetrating it without a kicking up a grand fight. No one ever says, "Yeah, I was a little bit racist. I'm sorry." That's in part because racists, in our cultural conversations, have become inhuman. They're fairy-tale villains, and thus can't be real.

There's no nuance to these public fights, as a veteran crisis manager told my colleague, Hansi Lo Wang. Someone is either a racist and therefore an inhuman monster, or they're an actual, complex human being, and therefore, by definition, incapable of being a racist.

Ta-Nehisi Coates of The Atlantic, who often writes about race, is one of several writers and thinkers who has drawn attention to this paradox:

The idea that America has lots of racism but few actual racists is not a new one. Philip Dray titled his seminal history of lynching At the Hands of Persons Unknown because most "investigations" of lynchings in the South turned up no actual lynchers. Both David Duke and George Wallace insisted that they weren't racists. That's because in the popular vocabulary, the racist is not so much an actual person but a monster, an outcast thug who leads the lynch mob and keeps *Mein Kampf *in his back pocket.

We can ask whether Richard Henry Pratt was himself racist even as he decried racism. But that question distracts from the concrete and lingering realities of his legacy. It's far more valuable to wrestle with these two ideas at once: Pratt probably improved the material lives of many individual Native American children who lived in poverty and were at risk of starving. He also aggressively campaigned to destroy their cultures and subjected them to a panoply of miseries and privations.

Last Monday, a woman named Emily Johnson Dickerson died. She was the last person in the world who spoke only the Chickasaw language. That's a reality interlaced with the difficult legacy of Richard Henry Pratt.

In the century since Pratt used the word racism, the term has become an abstraction. But always buried somewhere underneath it are actions with real consequences. Sometimes those outcomes are intended. Sometimes they're not. But it's the outcomes, not the intentions, that matter most in the end."

It's gonna be great music - a lot are dead (Prine, Watson, Guy Clark, Earl Scruggs, and more)- I've been there three times and it's getting even too many people - the streaming is OK....
The Blue Angels is here too.... I think the half of them didn't like it - middle finger or
they enjoyed with the arm and a fist

The Sweeper - Brook Robinson 3rd third - great player - Baltimore Orioles

BALTIMORE -- Hall of Fame third baseman Brooks Robinson, whose deft glovework and folksy manner made him one of the most beloved and accomplished athletes in Baltimore history, has died. He was 86.

"We are deeply saddened to share the news of the passing of Brooks Robinson," his family and the Orioles said in a joint statement. "An integral part of our Orioles Family since 1955, he will continue to leave a lasting impact on our club, our community, and the sport of baseball."

The statement did not say how Robinson died.

The Orioles held a moment of silence before their game against the Washington Nationals, and the teams lined up outside their dugouts to pay their respects. Also before the game, fans gathered around the 9-foot bronze statue of Robinson inside Camden Yards.


"I think a lot of guys tonight played with a heavy heart," Orioles manager Brandon Hyde said after Baltimore's 1-0 victory. "He's an icon in this game and an icon in this city. There's not many of those."

Coming of age before the free agent era, Robinson spent his entire 23-year career with the Orioles. He almost single-handedly helped Baltimore defeat Cincinnati in the 1970 World Series and homered in Game 1 of the Orioles' 1966 sweep of the Los Angeles Dodgers for their first crown.

"Great player, great guy on the field, great guy off," said fellow Orioles Hall of Famer Jim Palmer, who was overcome with emotion. "Respectful, kind. And you don't meet too many guys like that. Brooks was a genuine person. There was no acting. Brooks was just a genuine person."

Robinson participated in 18 All-Star Games and earned the 1964 AL Most Valuable Player award after batting .318 with 28 home runs and a league-leading 118 RBIs. He finished his career with 268 homers, 1,357 RBIs and a respectable .267 batting average in 2,896 career games.

But he will be forever remembered for his work ethic and the skill he displayed at the hot corner, where he established himself as one of the finest fielding third baseman in baseball history, whether charging slow rollers or snaring liners down the third-base line.

Known as the "Human Vacuum Cleaner," Robinson won 16 consecutive Gold Gloves -- second only to pitcher Greg Maddux's (18) for most by a player at one position. Robinson also places third in career defensive WAR at 39.1 behind shortstops Ozzie Smith (44.2) and Mark Belanger (39.5), who was Robinson's teammate for 13 years with the Orioles.

"Brooks was maybe the last guy to get into the clubhouse the day of the game, but he would be the first guy on the field," former Orioles manager Earl Weaver said. "He'd be taking his groundballs, and we'd all go, 'Why does Brooks have to take any groundballs?'

"I wouldn't expect anything else from Brooks. Seeing him work like that meant a lot of any young person coming up. He was so steady, and he steadied everybody else."


Hall of Fame third baseman Brooks Robinson collected 16 Gold Gloves during his 23 seasons with the Orioles. Rogers Photo Archive/Getty images
Houston Astros manager Dusty Baker recalled Robinson's friendship during the early years of his career, when he broke in with Atlanta in the late 1960s.

"I'm just sad. Another great one is called to heaven," Baker said. "They got some all-stars up there.

"He was really nice to me when I was a rookie with the Braves. We used to barnstorm with him all the time and he was a real gentleman. ... I never heard anything negative about him, ever. And he was on a team that with the Orioles had a number of African-American players. I think they had 10 or 12. They all loved him. That's saying a lot. Especially back in that day."

Born in Little Rock, Arkansas, in 1937, Robinson eventually made Baltimore his home but never really lost his southern twang, which was just fine with fans in blue-collar Baltimore, who appreciated his homespun charm and unassuming demeanor.

Dubbed "Mr. Oriole," he was a sports hero in Charm City, in the pantheon with former Colts quarterback Johnny Unitas and Orioles infielder Cal Ripken, who performed for a different generation.

Ripken was known as The Iron Man because he played in 2,632 consecutive games, but Robinson wasn't fond of sitting on the bench, either. From 1960-1975, he played in at least 152 games in 14 seasons and in 144 games the other two years.

"I'm a guy who just wanted to see his name in the lineup everyday," he said. "To me, baseball was a passion to the point of obsession."

Robinson retired in 1977 after batting only .149 in 24 games. His jersey was retired that year.

"I will always remember Brooks as a true gentleman who represented our game extraordinarily well on and off the field all his life," MLB commissioner Rob Manfred said in a statement. "On behalf of Major League Baseball, I send my deepest condolences to Brooks' family, his many friends across our game, and Orioles fans everywhere."

Robinson's most memorable performance came as MVP of the 1970 World Series, when the Orioles bounced back from their stunning defeat to the New York Mets the year before and Robinson redeemed himself after batting just 1 for 19 in that series. Because he was so sensational in the field during Baltimore's five-game triumph over the Reds, few remember he hit .429 and homered twice and drove in six runs -- or that he made an error on his first play in the field.

In Game 1, Robinson delivered the tiebreaking home run in the seventh inning. One inning earlier, he made a sensational backhanded grab of a hard grounder hit down the line by Lee May, spun around in foul territory and somehow threw out the runner.

Robinson contributed an RBI single in the second game and became forever a part of World Series lore with his standout performance in Game 3. He made a tremendous, leaping grab of a grounder by Tony Perez to start a first-inning double play; charged a slow roller in the second inning and threw out Tommy Helms; then capped his memorable afternoon with a diving catch of a liner by Johnny Bench. The Series ended, fittingly, with a ground out to Robinson in Game 5, a 9-3 Orioles win.

"I'm beginning to see Brooks in my sleep," Reds manager Sparky Anderson said during the Series. "If I dropped this paper plate, he'd pick it up on one hop and throw me out at first."

Robinson was elected into the Hall of Fame on the first ballot in 1983. In 1999, he was named to baseball's All-Century team, which honored the best 25 players of the 20th century. His No. 5 is one of just six jerseys retired by the Orioles franchise.

Starting in 2009, Robinson was beset by a string of health scares. He was diagnosed with prostate cancer in 2009, had abdominal surgery in 2010, developed an infection while recovering from the abdominal surgery in 2011 and in 2012 his chair fell off a platform at a banquet, forcing him to spend a month in the hospital.

In his later years, Robinson auctioned off nearly all of his vast memorabilia.

"My children, they have everything they ever wanted from my collection," Robinson said in 2015. "We've been very blessed, my whole family, all the years we've been in Baltimore. So it's time to give back."

Robinson said "every cent" of the proceeds was to go to the Constance and Brooks Robinson Foundation for distribution to worthy causes.

In July 2018, Robinson was announced as the Orioles' special adviser, with Robinson saying he'll be more focused on community events.

"I talked to [chair and managing partner] John Angelos about three weeks ago, and we had lunch," Robinson said. "I told him, 'I'll do anything, but I don't want to have to make any decisions about baseball. That's passed me by, if you want to know the truth.'"

In addition to his role in the Orioles front office, Robinson also served as president of the Major League Baseball Players Alumni Association.
````````````````````````````````````````

The Associated Press contributed to this report.
The U.N.C.L.E. and “Ducky” NCIS - David McCallum

LOS ANGELES -- Actor David McCallum, who became a teen heartthrob in the hit series "The Man From U.N.C.L.E." in the 1960s and was the eccentric medical examiner in the popular "NCIS" 40 years later, has died. He was 90.

McCallum died Monday of natural causes surrounded by family at New York Presbyterian Hospital, CBS said in a statement.

"David was a gifted actor and author, and beloved by many around the world. He led an incredible life, and his legacy will forever live on through his family and the countless hours on film and television that will never go away," said a statement from CBS.

Scottish-born McCallum had been doing well appearing in such films "A Night to Remember" (about the Titanic), "The Great Escape" and "The Greatest Story Ever Told" (as Judas). But it was "The Man From U.N.C.L.E." that made the blond actor with the Beatlesque haircut a household name in the mid-'60s.

The success of the James Bond books and films had set off a chain reaction, with secret agents proliferating on both large and small screens. Indeed, Bond creator Ian Fleming contributed some ideas as "The Man From U.N.C.L.E." was being developed, according to Jon Heitland's "The Man From U.N.C.L.E. Book."

The show, which debuted in 1964, starred Robert Vaughn as Napoleon Solo, an agent in a secretive, high-tech squad of crime fighters whose initials stood for United Network Command for Law and Enforcement. Despite the Cold War, the agency had an international staff, with McCallum as Illya Kuryakin, Solo's Russian sidekick.

The role was relatively small at first, McCallum recalled, adding in a 1998 interview that "I'd never heard of the word 'sidekick' before."

The show drew mixed reviews but eventually caught on, particularly with teenage girls attracted by McCallum's good looks and enigmatic, intellectual character. By 1965, Illya was a full partner to Vaughn's character and both stars were mobbed during personal appearances.

The series lasted to 1968. Vaughn and McCallum reunited in 1983 for a nostalgic TV movie, "The Return of the Man From U.N.C.L.E.," in which the agents were lured out of retirement to save the world once more.

McCallum returned to television in 2003 in another series with an agency known by its initials - CBS' "NCIS." He played Dr. Donald "Ducky" Mallard, a bookish pathologist for the Naval Criminal Investigation Service, an agency handling crimes involving the Navy or the Marines. Mark Harmon played the NCIS boss.

McCallum said he thought Ducky, who sported glasses and a bow tie and had an eye for pretty women, "looked a little silly, but it was great fun to do." He took the role seriously, too, spending time in the Los Angeles coroner's office to gain insight into how autopsies are conducted.

Co-star Lauren Holly took to X, formerly Twitter, to mourn: "You were the kindest man. Thank you for being you." The previously announced 20th anniversary "NCIS" marathon on Monday night will now include an "in memoriam" card in remembrance of McCallum.

The series built an audience gradually, eventually reaching the roster of top 10 shows. McCallum, who lived in New York, stayed in a one-bedroom apartment in Santa Monica when "NCIS" was in production.

"He was a scholar and a gentleman, always gracious, a consummate professional, and never one to pass up a joke. From day one, it was an honor to work with him and he never let us down. He was, quite simply, a legend, said a statement from "NCIS" Executive Producers Steven D. Binder and David North.

McCallum's work with "U.N.C.L.E." brought him two Emmy nominations, and he got a third as an educator struggling with alcoholism in a 1969 Hallmark Hall of Fame drama called "Teacher, Teacher."

In 1975, he had the title role in a short-lived science fiction series, "The Invisible Man," and from 1979 to 1982 he played Steel in a British science fiction series, "Sapphire and Steel." Over the years, he also appeared in guest shots in many TV shows, including "Murder, She Wrote" and "Sex and the City."

He appeared on Broadway in a 1968 comedy, "The Flip Side," and in a 1999 revival of "Amadeus" starring Michael Sheen and David Suchet. He also was in several off-Broadway productions.

Largely based in the U.S. from the 1960s onward, McCallum was a longtime American citizen, telling The Associated Press in 2003 that "I have always loved the freedom of this country and everything it stands for. And I live here, and I like to vote here."

David Keith McCallum was born in Glasgow in 1933. His parents were musicians; his father, also named David, played violin, his mother played cello. When David was 3, the family moved to London, where David Sr. played with the London Philharmonic and Royal Philharmonic.

Young David attended the Royal Academy of Music where he learned the oboe. He decided he wasn't good enough, so he turned to theater, studying briefly at the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art. But "I was a small, emaciated blond with a caved chest, so there weren't an awful lot of parts for me," he commented in a Los Angeles Times interview in 2009.

After time out for military service, he returned to London and began getting work on live television and movies, In 1957 he appeared in "Robbery Under Arms," an adventure set in early Australia, with a rising actress, Jill Ireland. The couple married that same year.

In 1963, McCallum was part of the large cast of "The Great Escape" and he and his wife became friendly with Charles Bronson, also in the film. Ireland eventually fell in love with Bronson and she and McCallum divorced in 1967. She married Bronson in 1968.

"It all worked out fine," McCallum said in 2009, "because soon after that I got together with Katherine (Carpenter, a former model) and we've been very happily married for 42 years."

McCallum had three sons from his first marriage, Paul, Jason and Valentine, and a son and daughter from his second, Peter and Sophie. Jason died of an overdose.

"He was a true Renaissance man - he was fascinated by science and culture and would turn those passions into knowledge. For example, he was capable of conducting a symphony orchestra and (if needed) could actually perform an autopsy, based on his decades-long studies for his role on NCIS," Peter McCallum said in a statement.

In 2007, when he was working on "NCIS," McCallum told a reporter: "I've always felt the harder I work, the luckier I get. I believe in serendipitous things happening, but at the same time, dedicating yourself to what you do is the best way to get along in this life."

Bob Thomas, a longtime Associated Press journalist who died in 2014, was the principal writer of this obituary.

Most of us spend much of our day answering questions. It wears us out.

We deeply believe that we’re supposed to answer the questions. It’s what we do, it’s who we are, and it’s the role we play. But what if that’s a flawed premise?

Believing that we should always have the answer is stressful. Sometimes it’s more than we can bear. We’re tired, nervous, distressed, and anxious. We’re not always sure we can cope. We survive, but sometimes it’s touch and go.

It’s challenging when we’re the people everyone else comes to for answers. The clients ask us what to do. The employees do as well. Sometimes our vendors want our guidance on how we want “it” (the copier, the Internet, the website, the business cards, whatever) handled. Then there’s our family asking us for input. The questions just keep on coming.

Deep down, we know they could answer the questions themselves. We know that our answer isn’t much, if any, better than their best guess. After all, our answer is merely our best guess. We don’t always “know,” but we always answer.

But the questions keep on coming, so we keep answering. We respond, “Go ahead and call her,” “It goes over there,” “Send the money he needs,” “Tell him you did it,” “Stop doing it,” “Start doing it,” and on and on. You’ve got questions. We’ve got answers.

It’s hard to answer one question before the next question flies at us. Sometimes we want to hide out in the closet.

We accept our role as the answerer. We buffer ourselves by regulating our e-mail, limiting our phone calls, and closing our door. But we know we’ve got to spend time each day answering the questions because our failure will cause progress to stop.

I wrote a little bit - The Friday File - a collaboration (11,000 legal minds)
The article have the guidance for clients, owners and a family...... and Patriarch

I remember Bill A. was there before "the Ross happy tiny trees"

Bill Alexander pioneered the modern "quick" version of the 15th century wet-on-wet technique. He also has PBS show before Bob Ross's show. He began hosting television shows focused on painting education and his methods. He is best known for the television program The Magic of Oil Painting which ran on PBS in the US from 1974 to 1982. He teamed with other artists on several different PBS series of the format The Art of Bill Alexander and … that ran from 1984 to 1992. These artists started with Lowell Speers and included Robert Warren, Sharon Perkins and Diane André. Alexander and the second featured artist would alternate episodes, with both painters using the wet-on-wet method. This series was turned into a series of books "as seen on television".
Gesso - As an average, about three coats. For acrylic paintings, one or two coats of gesso are normally recommended. For oil paintings, you need two to four coats.
The modern version of gesso was developed by Henry Levison in 1955. It consisted of calcium carbonate, pigment, and acrylic polymer. He called it Liquitex, “a perfect blend of liquid and texture.” It's thinner than white acrylic paint and dries hard. Gesso, like paints, comes in two grades—student and professional.

In a 1991 interview with The New York Times, Alexander said of Ross: "He betrayed me. I invented 'wet on wet'. I trained him, and he is copying me – what bothers me is not just that he betrayed me, but that he thinks he can do it better." Alexander refers here to the fact that Bob Ross used some of his individual patter and borrowed some of his unique peculiarities.

Marty's "double effing dare you to paint like him"

I'm not a artist - I'm just a music person

CT - Central Time or Connecticut or Constant Therapy or

Well, I’m finally working on my computer

I found a lot of articles and here’s a good one

Fighting disinformation is just one of the many ways NPR is strengthening democracy.

“NPR's dedicated disinformation team has broken stories, revealed business models that fuel disinformation, elevated possible solutions, and educated listeners about how to spot and respond to manipulative media”

Next….I’m going prepare some wire shelves- It’s a big box and I need to put it together.

I don’t have all my tools - I’ll get some - a friend

Let’s say …..good afternoon your days

PBS News Hour
New York Times columnist David Brooks and Washington Post associate editor Jonathan Capehart join Geoff Bennett to discuss the week in politics, including rising tensions in the House as lawmakers launch an impeachment inquiry into President Biden.

Re: Hunter Biden's gun and the impeachment
The F-bombs in the Republicans