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There was a real gunman of the old west, named John Wesley Hardin. Dylan just took a liberty with his name (added a "g" at the end of Hardin) and created his own fiction with it.

http://www.famoustexans.com/johnwesleyhardin.htm

Thanks, edgar for that background. Shot a man for snoring? Yikes.

Well, we're waiting for Walter's tour, but as Milton oberves, " they also serve who only stand and wait...."<smile>

Certainly, later, and perhaps on an own thread with some photos.



I was just leaving the cathedral in St. Omer (some very interesting details there!), I got a phone call from a captain of our local CID-divison here in my hometown: obviously someone had given them my telephone number (of the conventional telephone network) as his own one ... .
Took just seconds to clarify this.

So, Francis, some found me

and while we wait for Francis and Walter to speak, here's something that consists of another puzzle:



Pr. Bush challenges Greek anachronistic definition "democracy!"
Political views American Inns From Dana Millbank at WASHINGTON POST
She writes: "For Bush, going to war is an act of faith...
Since 9/11, his mission to vanquish the evil is a crusade that's as
personal as it is political...
In the coming weeks, all signs indicate, President Bush will launch the
first war without direct provocation in the nation's history.
The consequences of invading Iraq, supporters and opponents agree,
will extend far beyond the Tigris and Euphrates. Repercussions of the war
are likely to define not just the Bush presidency, but also the U.S. role
in the world and even the course of domestic policy for years to come...
As he has upped the ante in Iraq by linking the war to the future of the
United Nations, NATO and American leadership in the world, he appears
confident and serene in the face of bitter worldwide protest.

etymology for the day:

anachronistic.

Ah, what bliss; to be abroad, yet still be in Britain- almost :wink:

"What knows he of England, who only England knows?"

McTag. Did I give you permission to speak? <smile>

Actually, listeners, when I was looking for Milton's complete sonnet on his blindness, I came across a brief commentary using the word anachronistic. In a further search, I found that odd challenge by President Bush. When I tried to identify the etymology of the word, both at Francis' site and my own--nada. Sooooo, it seems that our president knows something that we don't.

Anachronistic - Etymology: 17c: from Greek ana backwards + chronos time

Sooooo, Francis. It is Greek in origin. I knew what it meant; an adjective relating to out of time and place, but what has that to do with democracy?

Anyway, France, you might enjoy this bit of waggery:

"Poodle"
The Poodle's a slimy carnivorous beast
In pastures you might find it grazing
Its fangs measure 23-inches, at least
Its antlers are simply amazing
Sometimes it will bury its head in the sand
It's our main source of pork, ham and bacon
But, then again, on the other hand
I could be completely mistaken

Seems, no-one answered the other Letty's questions so far (and obnviously no-one read western books when on anchor watch at night besides me ):

John Wesley Hardin
born May 26, 1853, Bonham county, Texas, U.S.
died Aug. 19, 1895, El Paso, Texasmost notorious killer and quick-draw gunman of the Texas frontier. He killed at least 21 men in gun duels and ambushes in the period 1868-77.

Hardin's career and exploits were self-advertised in an autobiography published posthumously, The Life of John Wesley Hardin as Written by Himself (1896).

You mean there are two Letty's on this forum, Walter? <smile>

Well, the other Letty must have been on anchor watch while reading Luis L'Amour's HAUNTED MESA.

You know, listeners, there are songs that haunt us, and regardless of our religious beliefs or lack thereof, we are drawn by the music:






Tears In Heaven
Would you know my name if I saw you in heaven?
Would you feel the same if I saw you in heaven?
I must be strong and carry on,
'Cause I know I don't belong here in heaven ......

Would you hold my hand if I saw you in heaven?
Would you help me stand if I saw you in heaven?
I'll find my way, through night and day,
'Cause I know I just can't stay here in heaven .....

Time can bring you down, time can bend your knees.
Time can break your heart, have you begging .... please ...
Beyond the door, there's peace I'm sure.
And I know there'll be no more tears in heaven .......

Would you know my name if I saw you in heaven?
Would you feel the same if I saw you in heaven?
I must be strong and carry on,
'Cause I know I don't belong here in heaven .......

Eric Clapton (written after the death of his son)

The melody is beautiful to that song, folks

Ahhh, Louis L'Amour.

Did you know, btw, that he wrote under the names of Tex Burns and Jim Mayo as well?

No, Walter. I didn't know that. I think that HAUNTED MESA was his last book.

Well folks, we do exchange a lot of info here on WA2K radio, and I hope it will always be.

This is the Labor Day weekend in the U.S.A. I was wondering about songs celebrating it, but a quick search found nothing.

Hey, dj. Play us a Labor Day song.

In school we learn the well-known names
The ones whose money was their fame
Who ran the railroads, bought the West
Today we mention all the rest
Who blazed the trail that brought us here
Whose family names we'll never hear
Who laid the track and dug the coal
The brain and muscle, heart and soul.

Chorus:
Labor Day, Labor Day
September or the first of May
To all who work this world we say
Happy Labor Day.

The ones who work behind the plow
The ones who stand and will not bow
The ones who care for home and child
The ones who labor meek and mild
The ones who work a thousand ways
That we might celebrate this day
The ones who raise our cities tall
For those who labor, one and all

Chorus

In history books I often find
That children worked in mill and mine
No time to play, to learn, or grow
Just send 'em in or down below
Today too many have forgot
The goals for which our parents fought
When I grow up I hope to be
As strong as those who fought for me.

Chorus

Walter, that was fantastic, Right listeners?

On the railroads; in the mines; on Henry Ford's assembly line.
Farmer's plowing in the sun,
And woman's work is never done.

On Labor Day, I am ever grateful for labor unions and child labor laws.

The Cotton Mill
By Ernest Crosby
Broad-Cast (New York: Funk and Wagnalls, 1905)

Ogre dread!
Slavery raised from the dead!
I see you-not in the fields as of yore --
But stalking the factory floor,
Cracking your whip overhead,
While pale-faced children droop in the rumbling roar,
With tiny fingers twining the hateful thread,
And dreaming of bed.

Half gone is the night.
To left and right
An acre or more of dim-lit whirr extends.
For six dull hours' interminable length
These babies have strained their strength; --
Another six must wear away
Before, at break of day,
Their torment ends.

What is that piercing cry?
Only another thumb and finger crushed;
Another little hand awry.
The cry is hushed.
The girl has fainted, but the surgeon comes;
How skilfully he cuts and binds and sews.
Fingers to sever, and thumbs,
How well he knows!
Carelessness maims and kills,
And children will be careless in the mills.
Now he leads her out, never to climb
Those stairs again to earn her nightly dime.

Yes, in this dismal hall
Broods the angel of death.
Many his shapes.
He lurks in their very breath --
In the cloud of cotton-dust that hangs like a pall,
Over all.
Strange that a child escapes,
For dropsy, the wasting sickness, the fatal cough,
Crouch, ready to carry them off.
In a dozen years from to-day
Half of these infant slaves
Will sleep in forgotten graves,
More happy there than those who stay,
Still bound to the wheel of the mill,
And racked and tortured still.

Will a monument ever rise to attest
How they fell at the Ogre's behest?
Yes, far away in the North
Will a Herod's palace set forth
Why they laboured and died;
For its splendours will hardly hide
Its foundation laid on their tombs,
And the walls of its sumptuous rooms
Cemented with children's blood, where lingers
The trace of bruised and wearied flesh and mutilated fingers.

Murder will out;
And the palace will tell
How its corner-stone stands firm in hell
With a shout!
And, who knows? our Herod may build
With the gold of the killed
A church to his devilish god -- his Moloch, who, from his throne
Gave him the world, as he thinks, for his own.
And asylum, and hospital, too,
May spring from the bleaching bones
Of these innocent ones,
Crying to heaven the truth
Of their massacred youth,
And the story of Herod anew
In an epitaph true.

These be thy triumphs, O Trade!
Triumphs of peace, do they say? -- nay, of war.
At the cannon's foul mouth afar,
Sore afraid,
Brown men, and yellow and black,
Buy what they never would lack
When the Ogre says "Buy!"
And with white lands as well it is war that we wage.
Let them die!
Their trade must be shattered to naught in this age
Of the dollar supreme.
We must conquer. Our dream
Is a beggared world at our feet.
So we draw up the armies of trade
And invade,
With the children in front, to fall first, as is meet --
Children of mill and of sweat shop and mine --
And behind them the women stand,
Jaded and wan, in line;
Then come the hosts of the diggers and builders, artisans, craftsmen and all.
It is fine!
It is grand!
Let them fall!
We are safe in the rear, with the loot in our hand.

And you, makers of laws
Who are true to the gold-bag's cause --
Who will not interfere --
To whom commerce alone is dear,
And who pay any price --
Child's life, or woman's, or man's --
For its plans --
Makers of devil's laws, breakers of God's,
Open your eyes!
See what it means to succeed!
Confess once for all that you worship the Ogre of Greed.
And then
Turn again!
For know, there are scorpions' rods
Of remorse, and dishonour, and shame,
In the wake of his name.
Ogre dread!
Send him and his slavery back to the dead!

Ah, Diane. That song is so very sad. The sweat shops still prevail, I know. Yes, there are child labor laws, but not all of them are kept, I fear. thanks, honey, for reminding us that there were times when we didn't get it right.

I was thinking of the farmer behind the plow, and remembered something about William Byrd of Virginia. If I'm not mistaken, he coined the expression "red neck" after visiting one of the Carolinas and observing the sunburned necks of the farmers as they plowed in the hot sun.

"Test your memory, Miss Letty." <smile>

I'll need to check that out, however.

here's an odd little ditty

Where Racoons Don't Live
Troubled Hubble

Yeah, I hope your life is real bad
Since you moved up north
You saved up all your money
And you stopped driving back and forth

And now I hope your life's a mess
And that you hate your job
I hope the weather's cold as hell
And all your friends are snobs

You see I still drive by your old house
I'll even stop and check your mail
Occasionally I'll blow the leaves
And tell people it's not for sale

And I'll climb up on the roof
And sleep there for days
One time the police shot me down
But I was okay

Don't flatter yourself
I'm just about over you
I occupy my time with other things
And let my work consume me

You see I got something that keeps me real busy
And I'll tell you what it is
I box up some live racoons and ship them to countries
Where they don't live

And if you try to get away from me
I'm as normal as they get
And if you think that bleeding pig heart i mailed you is weird
you ain't seen nothing yet

A Spanish - English dictionary
Will only get you so far
Once you cross the border
In your Korean car

You'll be dancing around sombrero's
And <unknown>
And some sexy latin lover
Will have you by the hips

Don't flatter yourself
I'm just about over you
I occupy my time with other things
And let my work consume me

You see I got something that keeps me real busy
And I'll tell you what it is
I box up some live racoons and ship them to countries
Where they don't live

My word, dj. That is most certainly odd (understatement)

Raccoons? Why they are little bandits, Canada. <smile> and they can't be trained because of instinctual drift.



Beatles - Rocky Raccoon Lyrics

Now somewhere in the black mountain hills of Dakota
There lived a young boy named Rocky Raccoon
And one day his woman ran off with another guy
Hit young Rocky in the eye Rocky didn't like that
He said I'm gonna get that boy
So one day he walked into town
Booked himself a room in the local saloon.

Rocky Raccoon checked into his room
Only to find Gideon's bible
Rocky had come equipped with a gun
To shoot off the legs of his rival
His rival it seems had broken his dreams
By stealing the girl of his fancy.
Her name was Magil and she called herself Lil
But everyone knew her as Nancy.
Now she and her man who called himself Dan
Were in the next room at the hoe down
Rocky burst in and grinning a grin
He said Danny boy this is a showdown
But Daniel was hot-he drew first and shot
And Rocky collapsed in the corner.

Now the doctor came in stinking of gin
And proceeded to lie on the table
He said Rocky you met your match
And Rocky said, Doc it's only a scratch
And I'll be better I'll be better doc as soon as I am able.

Now Rocky Raccoon he fell back in his room
Only to find Gideon's bible
Gideon checked out and he left it no doubt
To help with good Rocky's revival.

Yikes! Troubled Hubble is just a little scary!

Here's something a little more inteelekchual.


Being Drunk's A Lot Like Loving You Lyrics
Artist(Band):Kenny Chesney

Well I drank 'til I stumbled
I drank 'til I fell
When the drunk part was over it hurt me like hell
And I know about drinking
So I know one thing's true
Being drunk's a lot like loving you
'Cause I loved 'til I stumbled
I loved 'til I fell
When the loving was over it hurt me like hell
And I know what a taste of the wrong love can do
Being drunk's a lot like loving you
And I've woke up some mornings and sworn off the drink
At that I've done reasonably well I think
But I haven't done well swearing off you and me
At that I fail miserably
Well I felt the hangover of loving all night
I've sat at the bar all alone in a fight
I've bottled up feelings and poured 'em out too
Being drunk's a lot like loving you
And I've woke up some mornings and sworn off the drink
And at that I've done reasonably I think
But I haven't done well swearing off you and me
At that I fail miserably
Well I drank 'til I stumbled
I loved 'til I fell
When the drunk part was over love hurt me like hell
Well I know about drinking
So I know one thing's true
Being drunk's a lot like loving you
Though I know what a taste what the wrong love can do
Sometimes I still get drunk loving you