Category Archives: Bloviating Zeppelin

BZ’s radio show: the Berserk Bobcat Saloon, Thursday, 2-23-17

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My thanks to the SHR Media Network for allowing me to broadcast in their studio and over their air twice weekly, as well as appear on the Sackheads Radio Show each Wednesday evening.

Listen to “BZ’s Berserk Bobcat Saloon, Thursday, 2-23-17” on Spreaker.

On Thursday night’s show, “The Aftermath,” I did something heretofore unencountered: I went into overtime. In order to fit all the information applicable, the show ran to 2.5 hours instead of the standard two. We covered:

  • Marine Le Pen destroys Angela Merkel and Francois Hollande;
  • Maxine Waters destroys herself;
  • California kills cops;
  • Local CHP officer killed;
  • The Swamp Strikes Back;
  • John McCain disgusts thinking people

I quantify The Aftermath as “all the stuff I couldn’t fit into the Tuesday show.”

Please join me, the Bloviating Zeppelin (on Twitter @BZep and on Gab.ai @BZep), every Tuesday on the SHR Media Network from 11 PM to 1 AM Eastern and 8 PM to 10 PM Pacific, at the Berserk Bobcat Saloon — where the speech is free but the drinks are not.

Also check @BZep on Twitter and Gab to see if The Aftermath is scheduled for each Thursday at the same bat time, the same bat channel.

My guest, Pat Dollard, couldn’t make it tonight but we’ve rescheduled the show for next Tuesday, February 28th, at 11 PM Eastern and 8 PM Pacific. Come listen to the eclectic and irascible Pat Dollard — he’ll open your mind like a bad can of cat food.

As ever, thank you so kindly for listening, commenting, and interacting in the chat room or listening via podcast.

BZ


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Late Sunday night musings

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note-4-photos-vids-january-17-2016-413I haven’t done this for awhile. That is to say, just sat back with an adult beverage — Ketel One mixed with Fuji Apple flavored seltzer water — and let things go “stream-of-consciousness” from my Mark I, Model I brainulus.

Right now I happen to be ensconced within my cabin at the 4,000-foot level in the Sierra Nevada mountains, Occupied Fornicalia all around and beneath me. The sun has mostly set but the pines are still visible outside through my large windows. It’s cooler than its been for a while, 40-degrees and falling, and I’ve not only clicked on the Fujitsu heat but started a fire in the heavy iron stove as well. That is the photo at top.

The wind has risen, and the chimes are talking. Just now, a distant boom of thunder. Will it be coming closer? I certainly hope so. There is absolutely nothing more packed with grandeur and a bit of God’s lung-rumbling majesty than the strike of bolts and nearing reverberation of thunder to remind a person of one’s insignificance in the overall scheme.

Nice. The thudding appears to be getting closer. It’s still not completely dark so the bolt’s aren’t yet sufficiently stark. But it reminds: time to turn on the porch light. Wait. Some rain. I can hear it off the roof. Why so loud? It’s not rain; it’s hail. Then rain again. Cow. Flat rock.

What’s coming up with BZ on the blog and in other venues? Let me cogitate for a microsecond. Yes. Posts about my voting preference. I’m finally formally endorsing. Posts about the future of law enforcement. Posts about the final implementation of Brexit and Teresa May. Posts about the English Defence League in the UK. Posts about my upcoming radio show on the SHR Media. Posts about the future of freedom in the United States. Posts about history, life, oppression, reality, Historical Alzheimers, tyranny and ignorance.

second-american-revolution-silhouetteI am proud of the fact that I am a Silverback, that I am an Oathkeeper and that I am a Sheepdog. I will always be a Sheepdog. For that meaning, please go here.

sheepdog-and-sheepThe thunder is louder. A bit far away but closing still. I am starting to feel it in the floor of the cabin.

It’s completely dark now. The thunder hasn’t quailed; in fact, it’s stronger than ever. Someone is making a statement about my place in the firmament. Blast of a bolt. A good boomer. The entire room was illuminated. Now the downpour again.

I’m sure Leftists say this about me, but I write it about them now. Those on the Left must be seriously brain damaged. They have not a foot or even a pinkie dipped into the pool of Reality. Michael Savage, moron as he is, happens to be correct about four things:

  1. Liberalism is in fact a mental disorder;
  2. To keep our sovereignty we must maintain our BORDERS
  3. Our LANGUAGE
  4. And our CULTURE

That is the ultimate challenge today not just for the United States, but for the UK and every other western nation possessing GOWPs who are interested in naught but a complete giveaway.

The wind and the rain is increasing. I can hear it on my metal roof. You dare not have a wooden roof at altitude unless you’re a bleeding moron. There are still some of you about around here.

The bolts are here, the rain is here, the thunder is here and shaking my floor.

We are heading for a crash, ladies and gentlemen.

Food, water, precious metals.

For the sake of your families.

Get to it.

BZ

P.S.

Enjoy.

 

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I almost forgot

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RL & JS Alley, About 1925, 5509 Holmes St., KC., MO.0

My father (L) and his brother Jim, in front of their house at 5509 Holmes Street,   Kansas City, Missouri, in 1925.

5509 Holmes Street Today, KC, MO

5509 Holmes Street today (R), same sidewalk in foreground.  You can see the two-story house, upper left, is the same as the one above.

And that concerns me.

I wrote this post late Thursday night of the 11th, in anticipation of posting it this past weekend because, almost before that day had passed, I realized what I’d not done.  Because of the stream of news and events, I’ve waited to post it until now, Sunday.

I’d not remembered that was the day my father passed away in 2009, seven years ago.  My God, seven years ago.  In a way it seems like yesterday; in another, it seems like a vast, chasmic distance in the past.

Today my father, had he lived, would be 95 years old.  As it was, he lived to 88.  He once told me that all he wanted to do was live longer than his father, who passed away in the front yard of his house in Dallas at the age of 83.  His father served in World War I, having been born in 1895.

VR Alley, 1917.0Above is a photograph of my father’s dad, Verto Alley, who was a bugler and served overseas in Germany and France.  Verto was born in 1895, in Minnesota. Though I met him about three times, I remember little if anything about my grandfather because I was young, and because my grandparents on my father’s side lived so far away.  I’m pretty sure I factored not at all into his life either.

Thru War

As you can see, my grandfather Verto carried this photo of his wife Katy throughout his assignments in World War I.

On the other hand, Dad’s mother, Katherine, was born in 1899 in Missouri and liked me.  Those same three times I may have encountered my grandmother, I only remember good things about her.  I can remember being in the back seat of our 1958 Oldsmobile 88 with grandma.  I’d just had a haircut.  Dad always cut my hair with the Wahl electric clippers that I have to this day; he would do it with me perched on the yellow stool perched in the middle of the kitchen on the linoleum floor.

1958 Olds 88 BlueGrandma was in the back seat of the Olds with me.  She leaned over, scrappled my short hair and called me her “towhead.”  Then she kissed me on top of my head.

Dad, Sepia, Open Cockpit, Standing-A Dad, Standing, Propeller-AThe above photographs are my father in primary flight school, where he learned that the US Army Air Corps considered him to be, after evaluation, bomber material.  Dad wanted to be a fighter pilot — who didn’t? — but the USAAC said he was a “team player” kind of guy, not a lone wolf.  To multi-engine planes he went and the B-17.

Mom & Dad WWII Photo B&WAfter surviving his missions, Dad came back and the married my mother on April 24th of 1942.  In its infinite wisdom the US decided to make Dad a B-25 instructor.  Go figure.  Above is a photo of my mother and father a short time after their marriage in Reno, Nevada.  Below is my father seated in a B-25 Mitchell.

Dad In Cockpit, Pilot Seat-ABelow, Captain Dad poses with his friend Joel Kuykendahl, while assigned as flight instructors at Roswell Army Air Field (AAF).

Dad, Sepia, Capt, Roswell Flt Inst, With Joel Kuykendahl-A I reminisced about Dad recently with my wife and her sister, when she came to visit for the past three weeks as I recuperated from foot surgery.

To this day I miss Dad terribly.

Col Richard Lee Alley, USAF
1920 – 2009
WWII, Vietnam

BZ

 

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What was your first car?

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1966 Ford Fairlane Sedan

BZ’s first car, only it was white.

[Sorry, no politics until Monday.  Perhaps not even then.  Just depends.]

This time of year makes me wistful, thoughtful, comtemplative.  Out of the blue I thought of the first car I’d ever purchased.

My first car was a used 1966 Ford Fairlane sedan, with a white exterior and blue interior.  It had cloth seat inserts, if I recall correctly.  It actually had air conditioning.  It was the first car I purchased with money I had actually saved, for $500.  I bought it in Ohio, when I was living in Kettering, in 1972.

The car was in great shape for its years, thought it already had 70,000 miles and the front shock towers squeaked like crazy.  It had a small block 289 CI V-8 and the mileage was, well, let’s just say it’s a good thing gas was 35¢ a gallon.  It came from the era when, if you opened the hood, you could easily see a lot of ground underneath the engine.

1966 Ford Fairlane Sedan Dashboard

1966 Ford Fairlane dashboard.  BZ’s car had a blue interior and a column shift precisely like this one.

The car had a bench front seat.  For those of you unfamiliar with the term (as there is no such thing as a bench seat produced any more, with the exception of rather bare-bones pickup trucks), this is what a beach seat looks like.

1966 Ford Fairlane Bench SeatFairlane bench seat like BZ’s car. Blue interior just like the GrungeMobile. “Wood grain” on the door was simply an sticky decal applique.

Though the air conditioner was sub-par, the heater kicked butt.  It had to, in freezing Ohio winters.  I can still remember when a neighbor couldn’t open his door one early morning until he had poured cold water over it; he slammed it shut a minute later and the hinges cracked.

On the other hand, when the defroster or air conditioner was activated, there was a terrible metallic grinding and clangour under the hood.  It was never enough to bother or concern me.  I wasn’t mechanically inclined at all, though my father had a shop/garage in the back of the house where he would repair all the family cars as well as refurbish the cars he bought and sold over the years in the 60s.

My first car was significant on a number of levels.  It was the car in which my first steady girlfriend and I would commute to high school.  It was the car where I first learned to drive in the snow and on the ice.  I remember I would purposely take it into the empty Kroger’s supermarket parking lot at night and do doughnuts, trying to avoid the concrete light poles.  I learned how to properly countersteer in those situations and how to threshold brake when appropriate.  This early training would serve me well when I because an EVOC instructor in the late 70s for law enforcement.

It was also the vehicle into which I was introduced to vehicular sex.  For obvious reasons and under obvious young and enthusiastic circumstances.

Ah, memories.

So tell me: what was your first car, and what do you associate with it?  What year, what make, and how much did you pay for it?  What was gas per gallon when you bought it?

BZ

 

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