tom briggs

Sometime in the late eighties.

In the shadows of the 241st Street subway station, last stop on the IRT line, half an hour to Yankee Stadium. White Plains Road. Where the bookies, hoods and wanna-bees from City Island to Baychester hung in the twenty four hour coffee shop, talking about how Frankie done this, and Joey done that and how Jimmy Pepperoni got nailed for drugs and was headed for Dannemora for at least ten years with good behaviour but Jimmy never had good behaviour so forget about it. But maybe Johnny The Greaser  could get him reduced, no problem.

“Hear about Franky Tagliateli’s ’s kid Joey? Going to Fordham. Hey, any kid that uses the word ‘perhaps’ instead of ‘maybe’ ain’t cut out for our line of work. And not for nothing but Joey, not that Joey, but Joey The Plumber, his wife, that is, makes the sweetest meatballs, momma mia. Better than at Antonio’s up in Yonkers. Then not for nothing again, but OTB is taken the action away from the local bookies like us and now the Feds and those crumbs in Albany are bigger hustlers and bums than all of the slobs in Wakefield. Look who just walked through the door! That Irish goon Mike Quinn. How in hell did he find time between hold-ups? Are you shitting me or what? Sit right here. Tell us all a tale of woe. Where you going? Hey! I was just saying…

Hey! Come here! Are you Tommy DiVito’s kid, Tommy Two? You the guy that wanted to know about California? Come over here. Sit right down. I was there when it was California. I got stories. You want to listen? Good. I went there in sixty four. I was twenty. Flunked the draft exam down on Wall Street the year before on account of eczema. I was shit-faced happy about that. I was working for a place called Wakefield Signs on 210th Street then, right under the el. It’s not there anymore. I was making good money already. Hand lettering paper banners and sometimes trucks. Somebody there knew a sign guy  from Los Angeles. Me and a  guitarist named Frankie Jerome from Baychester Avenue decided to jet out there. He was a year older than me.

We rode on a seven twenty seven. First time flying. Never got the creeps from it though. Those wings cut through time like it was a tomato and the engines played a joke on three thousand miles.  A few minutes after take-off, the whole city, the whole damn dirty Bronx, Brooklyn, Manhattan, Queens and Staten Island easily fit in the small window I was looking out of.  I was, right here, at the coffee shop at Two Forty First street at five in the morning. I was in Los Angeles at two in the afternoon. Yeah, I know, the time zone changes didn’t hurt either. When I saw those orange roof tops of San Bernardino smiling up at me and all those swimming pools glittering like aqua-coloured  jewels, I knew I’d never go back. Naturally, I’m back now, but that’s a much longer story than the one I’m telling now. I’m just saying.

Everything was strange like in a dream. Looked nothing like the Bronx. Nothing like anything I ever saw. Another planet. All those pink and light green deco buildings and convertable cars. Those Googie signs. Those wide streets. The palms shooting towards the sun. Santa Monica Pier. Those bikinied girls from an Annette Funicello movie. A carnival all year long. Three weeks later, Frankie got involved with some musicians in the Valley and  I never saw him again.  But I didn’t miss him. Too busy.  I heard he wound up in San Francisco. That’s where everyone said to go. That’s where it’s happening, they said.  Flower Power, poetry, guitars, sex and dope was happening for them. But I got a good gig at Western Signs, after only a month. On Pico lettering trucks. Before the year was out, I had enough money to buy a 1956 M Series Mercury truck. Red. Good condition too. Paid seven hundred for it.

I met up with crazy Justin Thyme one day on La Brea. But that wasn’t his real name. He was lettering a window.  His name was Arnold Goldberg or something. Around ten years older than me. What a fastidious bastard. Complain about a speck of dust. About anything. Come from Bushwick in Brooklyn. Did a little time in Ryker’s for this and that. So he upped and moved to California. In fifty nine, I think. Probably running from alimony. Or creditors. Or forgery. Or worse. Upped and joined the Krishna’s. You ought to get a load of those characters.

Anyway, Justin lived free and easy. Usually got free board from the local temple. Moved around the state. First in San Diego. Then Santa Rosa. Santa Barbara. Long Beach. Up and down the coast. When I met him, he had a shop in LA, compliments of Hare Krishna Temple. at La Cienega and Venice. Hung with him for a few months. Justin always got the best weed. Knew every whorehouse from Long Beach to Daly City. The guy was a great sign painter. A real artist. He made signs that you wanted to take home and sleep with. Signs that you wanted to walk right into. I’m not shitting you. They weren’t signs. They were events. Happenings. Mesmerizing they were.

He would take a week just to prepare the signboard. Sanding, priming, painting. Drying. Sanding again. Then repeating everything a few times more. Something like the Dutch do with their doors and window frames. The surface would shine like a mirror. You could shave while looking into it. Then he would hand letter it, using One Shot enamels. That’s where I first heard about One Shot, because we always used Ronan’s in New York. That would take another week. But it looked like God made it. Or one of His right-hand sign painting angels.

One time I  was lettering the door of Whiskey A Go Go on Santa Monica Boulevard when  I  saw Johnny Rivers for the first time. Even talked with him a few times. Real name is Ramestella. Great singer and guitarist. A legend. This guy had style. Come from Louisiana. ‘Poor Side of Town’. ‘Secret Agent Man’. ‘California Dreaming’ better than the Momma’s and Papa’s hit. I’m not shitting you. His stuff never ever gets old. The guy had phrasing. Emotion. Bad-assed guitar, too. Underrated something awful. The Whiskey was nothing until he made it big. Led Zeppelen played there. The Doors too. The Byrds. We saw them all.  And the chicks. They swarmed like bees that made the right kind of honey, if you get my meaning. When I go, don’t send me to heaven, please. Just send me back there at the Whiskey.

Then there was the sign guy who wrote on the side. Rudy Dietricht was his name. We called him Rudy Kazootie. Real good sign guy. Knew about type and layout  instead of just hand lettering. Better than most. He drank too much. First beer. Then wine. Then Mad Dog. That’s what he drank. At the end he Short Dogged it on the streets. The little bottles. All he could afford. It got to him finally. Hardly ate. A bowl of cigarette butts for breakfast. Was full crazy without it and half crazy with it. A real shame. The guy had talent. A manuscript that nobody saw, nobody read.  Thick as a phone book, it was. All about the demons of art, of love, of the abandoned soul, the alienated self.  After getting a little juiced, he would call in on talk radio and read a satire he’d written. Got lots of laughs. He died on Jefferson one Sunday morning with the sun coming up. Laying there in the gutter. Thirty nine years old. A frameless nameless sketch. Lost and never found. Missed for only a short while by a handful of bums from Venice Beach.

When I got enough money together, I opened my own shop on Montana, Horizon Signs three  blocks up from the Pacific. Santa Monica was great in those days. The rent was only one hundred fifty bucks a month. Think about that. I hung out in Zucky’s Coffee Shop for lunch, right up the street. Had those rich red leather seats. And you could smoke inside in those days. Everybody was smoking. Same as at Ships Diner in Culver City, right by the Metro Goldwyn Studios, where I lettered a few props. A BLT was seventy five cents. Think about that too. You would  see all those TV actors coming in. The ones that did all those series. Twilight Zone, Cannon, The Fugitive. I’m not shitting you. Jack Klugman, Peter Faulk Angie Dickenson. A lot of others. Everything was happening. The old and the new. I even saw Stan Laurel one day walking on Jefferson. In sixty five, right before he died. I loved the guy, but I didn’t want to bother him.

I  saw a taping the Turtles were doing right in front of the old LA Power and Light Building, downtown. Sixty five, I think. I was working on a sign right across the street. They were lip-syncing “You, Nobody but You”. Nice kids. They did It Ain’t Me Babe better than any group. Better than Dylan. They were just like me, looking for the gold. They started out as nothing, right on Sepulveda, near LAX, but they found a lot more gold than I ever did. But those were the days. Golden days of flagrant youth. When courage was forged from an illusion. And dreams ripened like avocados in the California sun. That’s it kid. Thanks for listening. I got to go place a bet with Jimmy The Wop. Say hi to your father for me.


tom briggs

Two huge pieces of footwear, one weighing almost sixty kilos, were hauled in from the Mediterranean Sea, seven kilometers off the coast of Villanueva Loubet, Cote D’ Azure, late yesterday. Julian Carpentier, 37, first caught a thirty-seven-kilo sneaker. An hour later, he hauled in an amazing shoe, which weighed fifty-nine kilos. Both are world records for footwear. Archeologists, anthropologists, oceanographers, criminal investigators, world media and their presstitutes, are descending upon the Riveria community known as Marina Baie Anges, to begin examining the incredible catches. Approximately half a million onlookers disguised as gawkers, pickpockets and busy-bodies have already amassed at the seaside community like so many pesky gnats.

While aboard his ten-meter inboard Jeanneau, Catch This, Carpentier had first netted a few plus ten-kilo striped bass. At about two in the afternoon, and after an hour and a half struggle, he landed the gigantic sneaker. “I felt, after landing it and observing its size and approximate weight, that I was lucky to have hooked it on the toe-end. This allowed much less water resistance.” He added: “ I’d landed footwear in the past, but obviously nothing like this. This is the highpoint of some twenty years of fishing”

Carpentier, a bagel baker from Biot who fishes these waters every week, had at first thought to have the massive footwear professionally dried and restored, then hung in his apartment as wall displays. Or to have them sliced up and given to friends for Christmas and as birthday gifts. However, he now has considered the lucrative monetary possibilities of the monumental catches. Barring any legal restrictions or jurisdiction limits, such as size limitations from Cote d’ Azure/Alps Maritime Ocean Regulation authorities. Indeed, suspicion is gathering relative to the unlikelihood of Carpentier landing such a massive object on 45-kilo test line. Nets would be the only other possible way to get them on board. And nets are illegal for private fishermen.

While initial conclusions of professional observers were that the footwear is of some promotional or advertising origin, early on-the-scene scientists, including oceanographer Dr. Christof Seafluer, MOS, and noted anthropologist Dr. Gesippe A. de Species, Ph.D., run counter to that conclusion. Their early observations are that the footwear’s material is unlike any they have ever encountered. They are intrigued by the strange molecular structure of both catches. They are also excited by the microscopic material surface deposits that indicate an alien form of DNA. The discovery will no doubt bring millions in funding to those scientists and universities fortunate enough to be selected to conduct extensive research.

Representatives from rapacious blood-sucking companies Nike, Adidas, Converse and other footwear ‘giants’ are en route. Nick Prophit, executive sales director for Nike International said: “This astounding discovery offers the possibility that a race of giants inhabit an area below the ocean floor. If that is the case, and it appears likely, we’re determined to be their supplier of footwear. A few million more slave wage workers is a small price to pay” Gideon La Monopolli, regional CEO for Adidas, quipped: “Adidas has already offered ten billion, give or take a buck, to any oceanographic organization willing to conduct a full-scale underwater investigation that guarantees results” Damian Bhotohmliny, Converse CEO, added: “We have already started overhauling our worldwide production apparatus in anticipation.” Executives for the National Basketball Association haven’t yet been reached for comment.


tom briggs
(A television news report)

“Rumors continue to swirl around the Cote d’ Azur regarding  the ‘Gorilla of Ventimiglia’. But now it appears that they’re not just rumors. We spoke with several market goers, the mayor of Ventimiglia, a restaurant owner and even an anonymous  celebrity. They all assure us that it is indeed true. A 450 kilo gorilla has been spotted throughout the world famous  venue. Here’s some eye-witness accounts from a few of those  who were indeed present yesterday at the Ventimiglia market. Over to Jason Linquini, live in Ventimiglia”:

“Thanks Chris. Beautiful Saturday  here in Ventimiglia.  Crazy day yesterday, though. Lot’s of happy faces still here.  Lot’s of excitement in the air.  A wonder what a gorilla can do. Let’s start talking with some of those happy folks who were here yesterday”…

“We were here yesterday. We come every Friday.  So we were very surprised when we arrived. We spotted the first of many signs that announced the gorilla’s presence. That and that traffic seemed heavier than usual. Translated into English, the sign roughly read: Gorilla on Foot Patrol (big letters) Do not be alarmed. (slightly smaller) He is an important temporary member of the Ventimiglia Market Police Force. Carry on with your normal shopping. Please do not feed, photograph, distract or attempt to converse with him. (much smaller) Penalties for these infractions start at €150,00 for all non-Senegalese and Pakistani persons.  (you need reading glasses) The above message was blared over loud speakers as well, in Italian, French and English at regular ten minute intervals, throughout the market. It added a somewhat disconcerting and unwanted edge of authority to an already uniquely novel market experience”.
Menton resident, Pierre Lafollett

“We learned at the info booth that the ape was added to the force  for his remarkable agility and uncanny crime prevention instincts. I guess to help cut down on littering, illegal games of chance, shoplifting and such. I guess his size and potential for violence played into it as well. My wife and I witnessed one episode involving an elderly white-haired woman of a certain girth running as best she could, at that age, with the gorilla in hot pursuit. We heard screams in the commotion as the gorilla easily caught up with her, then quite casually stood in front of the culprit with his arms crossed. Funny, it looked like he was saying  “come on, hand it over”. He was waving his right index finger. Sort of  like a grade school teacher. Damnest thing I ever saw.  The slack-jawed  woman complied as she handed over three watches and half a dozen shawls. But the gorilla kept on  with his wagging finger. She then relented by handing over the remains of her day’s larceny – a pair of women’s shoes, two cigarette lighters and a beach towel with an Elvis portrait on it. Both of them then just walked on in opposite directions, like it was nothing.”
Billy Bob Williams, Baton Rouge, Louisiana USA

“We seea the gorilla in many places. We thinka maybe that there are many of him. At half pasta one, we see himma by the fountaina. He wassa throwing orange fruita over hissa  head. He then kick it witha his heel! It go over his head and he catcha with hissa righta handa! He thenna peela the orange. Everybody happy about dissa. Theya laugha. We too.  Later, he starta talking witha all the Senegalese! They, all of dema, theya  laughing and maka high five with himma. Theesa not normalla! We love thissa gorilla!”
Antonio Parmasiani, Ventimiglia resident.

“While budgetary considerations were an issue to add the ape to our force, the unfortunate inefficacy and misfeasance of several of the Ventimiglia market police was the prime reason for the experiment. With  the market force reduced by some 40% on as yet to be determined future market days, the city will save upwards of €250 thousand per year with the ape on duty. More than a few vendors that I spoke with hailed the move, as theft and littering have been growing concerns.  While the publicity potential  for the market was not a reason (really?), we certainly are aware of its advantages.  Incidently,  this remarkable  ‘deputy’ has scored very well on the intelligence tests that are administered to all deputies.  The gorilla outperformed many veteran officers as well as new recruits. Of course his huge strength, quickness and intimation potential is a big plus in the fight against crime, though we are assured by his trainers that he will never resort to violence”
Nino Zucchini Alfredo, Mayor of Ventimiglia

“I seeya fromma my restauranti. Thissa gorilla, he issa facinata witha the Pakistani toys. You knowa, the kinda thata turna into a frieda egga when you throwa atta the sidewalk. He looka  at thissa a many times, because the doll, you know, it comma back fromma a fried egga to a dolla. Thissa funny, but I no likka thissa gorilla. Maybe he throwa somebody to the sidewalk and waita to see iffa they maka into a frieda egga. Dissa I no likka. I no likka why the policia maka him a duputia and do dissa thinga”. I donta serve himma, thissa gorilla, if he comma into my plassa”
Luigi Bambino Meatiballi, Ventimiglia restaurant owner

“I like it. I saw the primate yesterday. Exquisitely beautiful. Charming even. The eternal majesty of primordial rhythm. The sublime otherness. It’s good for Ventimiglia. It’s good for Italy. It’s good for the world. For the universe, maybe. I love this place. Life is good. I’m good. You’re good. Ya got to keep it simple. Screw complexity. Burn it. Blow it up. I’m everything and I’m nothing. Everything is nothing. I gotta tell Martin about this. Maybe a picture. Who knows. Existential message in all this. Could be big. Shame Hunter couldn’t see it. He’d have run with it big. Hunter was crazy. Gonzo crazy. I gotta go. Cut some grapes. Make some wine.  Savour some boeuf bourguignon. Some coq au vin.. Fine dine. Do a gig. Shoot a reel. Do a deal. Do a line. Make more wine. Live life. Love life. I gotta go. That’s enough for today”.
Johnny Depp Actor (incognito)

“ We saw him on the bridge. It looked like he was communicating  by gesturing with the Romanian concertina player. Suddenly the music stopped and we never heard it again the rest of the day. (brother, do we need that ape in Antwerp) Then he quickly turned and  climbed over the balustrade and leaped some fifteen feet to the ground below. He then disappeared behind some tall shrubs. I guess to take care of his natural needs. When he reappeared, he started picking up debris of all shapes and sizes.  ‘Yeah!’ I heard a few in the crowd yell. ‘Trash left by members of another two legged species’, somebody said. He was moving really fast, arranging it on the ground. After around fifteen minutes, we all could make out the word ‘pigs!’ in lettering a meter high. Everyone started clapping loud and long.”
Dr and Mrs Ernesto Davilo, tourists from Peru

“That’s it from Ventimiglia for now. Back to you, Chris”.

“Thanks Jason. Great job. We just received word from anonymous sources that the ape’s  acquisition and duration as a special police deputy will remain secret. Only that he will work the market on unannounced selected Fridays. It remains doubtful that this uncertainty will keep the avalanche of humanity from inundating the City by the Roya every Friday. We’ll keep you folks posted on this amazing story as details come in.  In other news….”


tom briggs

Our ten day winter Marina visit was one quarter filled (don’t quote me on that, could’ve been a little over a third) with adventure, approximately one quarter misadventure and the rest filled with the usual predictable expectations. In week two, on a partly grey afternoon in Juan Le Pin, Lieve, I, Spikey and Pepie encountered, or more precisely were accosted by, a  wind storm of bad intent. Getting out of the car to face that meteorological event was a test of upper arm strength or stupidity or both.

As  palms swayed elastically, like in a cartoon, and violence besieged the slate-grey Mediterranean, we  walked, as if up a steep hill, straight into the whistling abomination towards a lunch place on the boardwalk. The wind seemed  determined to  take anything that wasn’t nailed down  (or bolted, glued, but not necessarily items affixed with Velcro tape) into a Wizard of Oz-like vortex of unknown destination. The slashing, metallic knife-like (OK, it could’ve been razor-like) waves danced crazily towards the beach and boardwalk, daring anyone fool enough to enter. The incongruous sun, seemingly observing all this, disdainfully laughed, and said “don’t look at me” while puffy, cuddly high up pinkish clouds yawned with indifference. This dichotomous meteorological  joke was on all who ventured out into the tumult.

Marina Baie Des Anges was peopled by the usual suspects, both resident and gawking anorak clad Yankee-ball-capped visitor types. Philippe and Mark, the two gays who run Lieve’s favourite eatery, the smallish quirky and garish Victoria Restaurant, were gracious as usual. Mark, the rotund one, laughs at everything. It’s all a big joke to him, lucky guy. Geeze, if they could distribute some of his laughter around the world, what a wonderfully hilarious place it would be. Hardly any time for strenuous thinking at all. The ponderous but Teddy Bear affable  Philippe creates great, simple dishes with the best and freshest ingredients, though for this New Year’s offering, the gastronomical compass curiously pointed towards Lunch Garden.

Their  New Year’s party was attended by some forty characters, (squeezed in the small joint like so many sardines) disguised as regular people. The veritable Three Penny Opera cast enjoyed the attendant hoopla celebrating, for God knows why, the New Year. Noise makers, hats, loud music, cold potatoes and chewy steak all welcomed 2018 in. Some were ‘dressed to kill’, others ‘dressed to the nines’, still others were attired in the commonest clothing, as though work-bound and  ready to board a creepy city bus or subway car. Lieve was stunningly beautiful and dressed appropriately for a much higher venue/extravaganza/soiree. Me? I was just sitting there not drinking, as usual, enjoying Lieve’s joy. That, and observing the benign madness that enveloped me.

Ventimiglia was a blustery, wintery experience, but fun as always. Lieve took many great photos there. Especially of the surfers on the Big Sur-like waves that appeared to be a few meters high. Scores of onlookers invariably messed up the best shots, though. We stayed one night at the  ironically named Calypso Hotel.  The manager/owner eyed us with suspicion as we registered. I suppose anyone talking with an American accent while his head is buried in his hood would warrant such wariness.

Of course we ate again at La Vecchia Napoli, (at the foot of the River Roya bridge) where Bruce Willis is the chef. At least that’s what Lieve calls the chef. Try to picture someone who never smiles nor blurts out three consecutive words, wears a white apron, has a bald pate that shines like a mirror, is built like a tree trunk with four thick limbs, has fingers like sausages, is usually carrying a large sharp knife while bearing  a slight resemblance to the movie star and you got it.

While going to our car to exit the municipal parking lot near the police station, we witnessed an altercation between a thirty-something Frenchman of slight to medium frame and a fiftyish Moroccan who was taller and heavier by some twenty kilos.  As the Frenchman was backing out, the Moroccan tapped his horn to avoid a rear/frontal collision. The former took offense to this perfect logic and harangued the latter with racial insults. Lieve was ready to step in between them. My feeling was let them settle it themselves. A shoving/pulling match then ensued, with the livid purple-faced Moroccan getting the better of it. This lurid entertainment only lasted a few seconds, as both Lieve and I stepped between.  We now rightfully qualify for the Nobel Peace Prize. When one considers some of the charlatans who have been honoured with that dubious award, we’re on the short list.

Recovering from a spectacle laced with international implications, we headed towards  ‘Catering’, the grocery store for restaurant owners, only a few kilometres away.  Philippe (yes, that Philippe) had asked Lieve to pick up some ‘Jambon Cru’ (I love the sound. A rock band, perhaps?) He assured her that while she couldn’t use his membership card, she didn’t need one and would only be charged an extra euro to make purchases. I waited in the car while Lieve shopped. After about twenty minutes, she returned crying. “What happened?”, I asked, as I tried to calm her. Lieve replied that she was told by store personal that she did indeed need a membership card.

She immediately called Philippe to explain the situation.  His curt response amounted to a  very convincing impersonation of a jerk and an asshole  “I’m very busy now. I haven’t got time, bye” “Don’t call me when I’m busy” A more wanton display of ingratitude we have never encountered. And from a friend.  When we arrived back at the Marina we immediately confronted him. After several minutes, his apologies started to leak out and before long turned into a veritable waterfall of remorse.  We didn’t accept his offer of a free dinner, but took him up on his whole-hearted and magnanimous offer of free drinks for the next five years.

(Just kidding)


tom briggs

While E.M. Cadwalada (American Thinker, Dec. 20, 2017) outlines some plausible scenarios that might occur in another USA Civil War, I think he is a bit naive in his assessment and understanding of what the main character that ‘war’ will be. Since all institutions, including the military in the USA have been forced during the past several decades into a new species of compliance (political correctness), it won’t take much to force the last bastion (white/conservative rural/suburban) into compliance. Once that is achieved the war, a largely bloodless war, will be over.

While there well may be sporadic armed uprisings, they likely will be futile. I think measures have long been in place that assure that a left wing authoritarian system will be permanently in place when the smoke clears the room. It also depends upon one’s definition of the term ‘civil war’. That term, I believe, was used to describe the Russian Revolution of 1917. To further assure that the rural areas (mostly white regions) fall into eventual compliance, possibly a domestic army, composed of early-release prisoners, gang members and other minority thugs will be organized. This may well take several years. It will be called the ‘Peoples Peace Keeping Army’. Impromptu visits to rural/suburban communities will likely be non-violent at first. Their mere occasional presence will instil the desired fear and intimidation. Look to history’s revolutions to understand the likelihood of this occurring. The further demographic reconstituting of rural and suburban America, as evidenced by massive infusions of immigrants, will continue.

Since the totalitarian eggheads behind closed doors have thought about this long ago, the trick will be to continue to throttle the rural and suburban white classes. Of course, many minorities will be expendable in the big picture. This demolition has been in full gear for decades and will continue. The fact that local police departments are being supplied at greatly reduced cost with high powered military weaponry is significant. It is also a fact that vast detention camps have already been built across the USA. It is a fait accompli because most, if not all, institutions and cities, towns, counties have been co-opted by Neo-Marxist doctrine, to one degree or another. Agenda 21 being one example. Federalization of police and garbage control being others. Protest(s) from those ‘white’ areas will be insignificant smatterings in the big picture. Kidnappings of politicians and bombings of government buildings might be considered, but will only delay the inevitable for a short period of time.

Creative ways will be studied to further demoralize those areas in question. Among them will likely be regional price fixing and various shortages of staples under the rubric of an invented crises for the occasion. Once the final ‘softening up’ achieves compliance, the ‘civil war’ will be over with nowhere near the carnage that has characterized history’s other ‘uprisings’. Unless the targeted segment comes up with a brilliantly creative solution to at least delay the inevitable for a few more decades, the game is up.

Commerce, including food supply and the internet will be largely unaffected (in urban areas), except where desired (rural and suburban) The US military has long ago been reshaped by PC, and it will continue to operate, business as usual, in its hegemonic insatiability, regarding foreign policy.


Anniversary day, the Twenty third,
that day in August, I received the word/

From Lieve of Antwerp, a beauty with shine
who answered my ad in Senior Friend Find/

She took me away, as if by wings not seen,
to a place in her heart, that could only mean/

My once empty life is now full to the brim
with love and adventure, but where is she,
Oh yes, she’s gone for a swim!/

But I rejoice in glee, that she stays so young,
and keeping me happy, while she’s playing her Kung(s)!


Thanks, Mom and Dad, for all the wonderful Thanksgivings back in the sixties and seventies at 253 West First street. Those were priceless occasions of joy and family togetherness. The food never stopped coming out of the kitchen and onto the table. Outside, the wind blew and the leaves sailed fast against and past the window. Uncle Artie cracked a joke and everyone laughed. Then everyone laughed at anyone. Aunt Stella asked for more turnips and I piled high the white meat on my plate. Johnny bought in two Schaefer’s from the fridge. Gene and I went and got more beer, after stopping at City Line Bar. Laura drew a horse and said she would ride it one day. Lorraine said “look, it’s starting to snow” A small argument momentarily sullied the afternoon and the wind blew harder and I heard Pat Summerall bellow “as the clock is winding down at Pontiac Stadium, Bear’s thirty-seven, Lions, three” The whole thing lasted forever or until everyone went home.

The living room light was warm and the laughter was too/
But the sky turned grey and my thoughts to blue/

For I saw high on a limb, across the yard,
a bird of black whose gaze looked hard/
He stared at me with beaded eye,
a forlorn look and I wondered why/

It announced a gloom, it seemed to me,
A portend I dared not wished to see/
The moments spent at the table that day,
were to live past the lives of the guests in a way/

At first, I concluded, as if at a chance meeting,
Love, live and laugh, for it is all so fleeting/

But I then inferred as if through a strange portal,
the only things that are truly immortal/
Are those moments spent together in love,
carried here and forever on the wings of a dove.

A bird so opposite of the one I just saw,
in the yard on the limb, in the wind so raw/

Not all is understood in the white of Light,
One has to see in darkness to attain the might/

That serves so well, in times of travail
of loss, and pain and spirits that fail/

For white makes black and pain makes pleasure,
and time is the guest that we all should treasure/

At the dinner table, we set in haste,
or of time ill spent that went to waste/

For better things are in the offin’,
before you get nailed shut in your coffin/

So show gratitude and mercy to stranger and kin/
to evade the demons you once invited in.


tom briggs

Neil Young, who recently flipped the bird to president Trump, has reached iconic status over a fifty year career by writing crappy song lyrics then singing them in a crappy soulless, whining voice.  A regular fingernail-on-the-blackboard sound that would be better excused if accompanied by great lyrics. I am truly exasperated that he maintains a huge following, by mostly educated people, no less. I must be deaf. Or blind. Blind as the guy who embarrassingly gazes at an absurdly minimalist painting and misses the deep hidden transcendent meaning that all of his enlightened friends see in it.

For my money, Neil The Squeal Young edges out Jim Morrison as the most overblown so-called poet of pop music since the mid-20th century. They both could win the Jackson Pollock of Music Lifetime Achievement Award. You might ask who-the-hell am I to criticize a musical icon? A nobody like me? While I’ve  never made a dime from writing, please excuse me for having a brain, a pretty good ear, a passion for great writing and almost fifty years of appreciation of top forty music. I haven’t listened to or read all of Neil Young’s hundreds of songs, (Better things to do, like clip my nails) and maybe he has written a few that are good,  but just by surfing and other lyrics sites I detected a pattern of inanity loaded with vapid, silly, juvenile, insipid and laughable phrasing all punctuated by an overall lack of imagination and innovation.

I’ve naturally heard many of his hits (while a member of CSN&Y) and none of them are in my personal top thousand. Young’s lyrics are not so bad, some might argue. Especially when you compare them with some Gangsta Rap “lyrics” that promote killing whitey, burning the USA to the ground and demeaning and abusing women. Maybe they could then be called benignly mediocre. But if you compare them with  hundreds of other song writers, they are indeed bad. Very bad.

For some seriously beautiful, heartfelt, sobering, truthful, wise, simple, funny, happy, forceful, ironical, witty, sad  and intelligent lyrics, I recommend Bob Dylan, Gordon Lightfoot, Leiber and Stoller, Allan Lee Gordon, Burt Bacharach, Neil Diamond, Ray Davies, John Fogerty, Berry Gordy, Ron Argent, Carole King, Simon & Garfunkle, Bobby Gentry, Don McClain, Elton John, Paul McCartney, Sting, and several hundred others.

I have such a visceral dislike for this guy, that I think I’ll write a song about him. “A guy named Neil, he of the squeal;  pulled a rabbit out of a hat, sang to millions ‘glad you liked that’; Words of a child, notes far worse, this bloody so-called singer is a musical curse; He’s a pompous ass, the worst of his kind, writes  so bad, they should issue him a fine; They swear he’s  a legend, his fans are agape, but I tell you as I stand here, he sings like an ape; His tortured phrasing, his butchered  notes, he’s a drunk in a musical China shop, I’d rather  hear the coyotes…

I admire many lyricists and singers who doubtless hold a left wing world view, particularly writers from the famed Brill Building in New York. However, my observations, from the people that I’ve met, clearly show that the leftwing musical compass always seems to point in one direction. That direction includes Young, John Lennon, Led Zeppelin, Bob Marley, African music, especially Youssou N’Dour, Pink Floyd, The Doors, Grateful Dead, Fleetwood Mac and many others. I suppose I’m showing my age by excluding any artists post 1980’s.  I’m certain though, that AT readers can add to the list.


tom briggs

I remember there was a drug store on Thirteenth and West First, and the Argus had a great smell when the ink was still wet and I delivered it to old people in white painted houses with shiny porches on Thirteenth and the summer of ‘60 was hot, real hot, and they had dark hardwood banisters in their houses but it looked like a dull place to live: too orderly and shiny with the smell of furniture polish wafting through the air,  because I liked the smell of model glue and paint and the dope used to stretch the paper, and Mad Magazines laying around my room and I still like paint smell, then the bubble gum from the card pack stuck to my shoe and I got a Rocky Colavito finally, he looked confident in the shot taken at Yankee Stadium who wouldn’t be with 43 homers, and everyone knew Schwerger’s was the place for pastry and Silver’s for rolls and Joe’s Deli for those neat little Table Talk pies… then there was the Carvel near the Sunshine Biscuit garage where I once saw Robert Duncan, he had a marine’s neck like he was headed for Tulane or something, slap boxing with Tommy D’Nisco while the sun was setting beyond the New Haven tracks, where Robert & Willie Basciano and I used to lay large nails on the tracks and wait them it to become a knife and it was sad, real sad about Tommy, cause I saw him in uniform in Katherine’s Tavern on Fifth in ‘66, I think, before he left for ‘Nam… and me and my Irish cousin Johnny used to slap box too, reddening one another while the candy store guy’s father looked on approvingly and  of course we all did those boyish things before then like stealing tomatoes and apples, burning tall heaps of Christmas trees and the suicidal sleighing-while-standing rides down Pearl Street all the way to the casket factory on the street with no name while the branches glistened against the purplish night sky, then there was the parking meter straddling with the two hands, then over the top and do it right ‘cause your balls will squish like grapes if you don’t and the  Italian lemon ice melting on my arm after looking too long at Mareen, then there was the music that played forever like Del Shannon and the Ronnette’s and Cousin Brucie talking fast on ABC and the blizzards were fun, but adults hated them and we threw snowballs with rocks in them at buses and close friends, then water balloons off the roof in summer and we should’ve all been in reform school I swear if it weren’t for the Grace of God, I  don’t know how we came out of it alive, but many did in a good way, I’m sure, but I’m still unravelling and rewinding the ball of psychological and spiritual yarn that I’ve been intermittently trapped in for seven decades and the years and decades came and went like the flashing lighted windows of a fast night train that disappeared into a tunnel and the Spaldeen I hit off of Junior Poliaka is still bouncing on the roof of Ward Leonard’s Electric on South Street and  I swear the fish my big brother Russell caught in the Bronx river is getting bigger all the time, and Russell was one hell-of-a jokester who made everybody laugh and the sun went down and the moon went up twenty thousand times since but Sonny Liston is still staring at me balefully from the cover of Boxing Illustrated, the one I bought in ’61 on Ninth Avenue along First Street, the magazine I loved to read, though I couldn’t fight a lick…


tom briggs

Lieve and I witnessed a dazzling, glittering, hopelessly kitschy spectacle at the Marina last night. Johnny Kool, Johnny Soul, Johnny Rock, Johnny Rhythm, Johnny Be Good, otherwise known as Johnny Vegas (and his band) put on a hell-of-a-show. The very alter-image of the French legend Johnny Hollyday, Monsieur Vegas, in full Post-Elvis-Post Hollyday, Post-Authentic regalia was the sublime affectation of the Real Thing that the crowd was waiting for.

One could reasonably conclude that this latest incarnation slowly morphed into the Legend, never to return to his former self, or that he was born with sideburns, swaggered before he could walk and donned a leather jacket at least a few months before he first sat on a toilet. He threw away the rattler and the bottle for sequins and a mike at six months.

Amid the multi-coloured puffed steam that swirled through the warm June night air while his  wax-like glossy face and shoe-polished black hair glistened in the  bright overhead lights, Johnny and his band wailed away through one electrically charged pop hit rendition after another. Included in the medley were the inevitable Elvis, Neil Diamond, and  CCR hits. The appreciative Marina throng consisted of those standing shoulder to shoulder twelve deep around the platform and hundreds who were seated on the Parthenon-like stairs of the Commodore-Ducal entrance way. You couldn’t slide a Visa card between them.

During intermission the crowd was treated to a Theater of the Absurd-like exercise disguised as group dance performance. Dozens of seniors, attired in colourful dress, were energetically lost in a kind of Arkansas barn or line dance –  amazingly to the music of Stevie Wonder’s “superstitious” I scored the intermission show nine of ten on the Fellini scale and still cannot determine if it was the highlight or the lowlight of the evening.

Halfway through the second half I did a double-take as Jimi Hendrix tapped me on the shoulder. Convinced  that I was on something I didn’t know about or dead, I stupidly blurted out: “Are you a Jimi Woodstock like Vegas is a Hollyday” He snapped back with “What you on, dude? I play real music. Where can I get some rock candy, some base, some nuggets?”  He then disappeared as quickly as he had appeared, while the air still hung heavy with vapors of the joint he was smoking. Naturally, Lieve didn’t see or smell anything, though she admonished me in no uncertain terms for talking to myself. But we both agreed that Spikey was barking and Pepie was growling.

Other band members included an utterly miscast grey-haired 50ish guy who played the sweetest delta blues harmonica. He looked like he belonged behind a desk of an insurance company. Then there was a twenty-something long haired shirtless leather-vested electric guitarist, the type that keeps reappearing in untold numbers of rock bands down through the ages. He was real good. A sax player and a drummer offered their soul, skill and considerable energy to the two hour gig to round out the ensemble.

I  must say that the show was well worth the price of admission which was free. Wise cracks aside,it was a great show!



Like a rogue wave it came. All in its path at its mercy.

In the game of slight-of-hand played by the left wing State controlled media, all focus is on bad white cops, the KKK, the Extreme Right Wing and ISIS. But beware of a most well kept secret. It’s my guess that United Gangs (of USA), also known as the Crips and the Bloods, will one day reign terror upon the citizens of the USA. They have for decades terrorized fellow blacks in most all major USA cities. The media silence about this is not just a dereliction of journalistic duty, it amounts to moral treason and racism of the ugliest kind.

It’s not a stretch to speculate that the cultural elites will then possibly summon the Mexican gangs to double the ranks of this new People’s Revolutionary Army. The Marxist/Corporatist regime thus armed, will then devour what is left of USA free society. Unlimited funding will be at their disposal. Money, women and drugs will be the magical enticer for enlistment.

Listen to some of the lyrics of Gangsta rap and hip hop. I dare you. The words of the prophets are written in those ‘songs” and most of us are, or wish to be, utterly blind to it. A bunch of ostriches . Or rabbits. Or spineless denizens of indulgence. Take your pick. These are lyrics that a sane person of any race would call hate speech. But as in Animal Farm, some are more equal than others. Some groups are charged with hate speech and others are not. Guess who is never charged with hate speech?

Of course, the power that comes with a government “uniform” will manifest in random acts of terror, assaults and rapes of whites particularly, but of hapless members all races. It will all be an added incentive. This already has been in abundant evidence over the past several years in thousands of cases of black on white violence, gang related or not, that go unreported by MSM. The Knockout Game and Flash Gang takeovers of shopping malls and other public venues go unpunished by Obama’s corrupted Justice Department. That once august institution has become a sad oxymoron.

This is free speech that you’re reading, but I will be accused of writing hate speech by many. This might get me into serious trouble. In a dictatorship, the truth, or unpopular speculation of a highly plausible truth, always will. All totalitarian systems desire that the people they supposedly represent and govern, have an alien conscience. That is, a conscience that is implanted in them by The State. A conscience that eventually devours their former or ‘host’ conscience. A conscience that has been built or rebuilt with the unrelenting lies and double meaning and newspeak of The State.

The Russian Revolution had Dzerzhinsky’s Cheka, the forerunner of the KGB, many of whom were released violent prisoners, social misfits and psychopaths. The USSA (United Socialist States of Amerika) will have at its disposal the Peoples Black Army. In a diabolical repeat of history, its ranks will be swelled by the wholesale release from prisons of minority violent offenders. A possible merging with other gangs might be named The People’s African Reconquista Revolutionary Army of gang members and drug dealers. Either way, they will be the unofficial or de facto domestic army of the State.

The National Guard, if it still exists, will have by then been thoroughly neutered and will be relegated to keeping the peace and offering assistance in natural disasters. It will thus be a mere spectator to the terror of the State domestic army, while maintaining an appearance as the official domestic army. The State Media, that way too many take as fact, is the equivalent of a sugared, chemically laden completely artificial breakfast cereal. Malnourishment of the intellect and soul is the result. Soon, enough will be malnourished. Open borders to the Third World increases the development of more malnourishment. It also makes citizenship worthless, increases social instability and guarantees a support base for anything anti white, anti European, and anti Western Culture. But citizens of all races will be the victims of the people’s domestic army, make no mistake.

When the time is right, and that time is sooner than you may think, when anarchy prevails, The State, in its imperious duty to restore order, will summon its domestic army to protect us all from one another and to guarantee that we all think and act in accordance with the best wishes of that self anointed body.


tom briggs

Frankie carried a switchblade because one was allowed.  He wore government CorpState-sanctioned clothes, the kind with the Ché logo and oil stains on them. He was a Punkrebel, who was ready for anything the feds cooked up. The government shot real rebels but designated certain behavioral  But Frankie liked the idea of “edging” and living close to death.  He said he did.  And I thought and talked like he did.

Our two tickets cost two hundred eighty-nine demerits apiece on our cash card and that was for the back seats, over 350 feet away.  I had been to GangstaHit a few years ago in Hayward.  Three kills in that one. On the field that is. I think almost two thousand went down in Grand Stand Jam.  A third of the government armed escorts had arrived late.I knew this would be good. The first place LA Crips were taking on the third-place Kansas City Bloods. They expected 50,000 or more.

The NFL, the CorpState’s  old game, went passé long ago.  GangstaHit is it for adrenalin and testosterone.  And for death.  The big beer companies and fat bureaucrats saw it coming and are making trillions. Nobody walks on the edge like at GangstaHit. On the field or in the stands.   Since the race riots were stopped by martial law, the big hitters behind closed doors decided that money could be made if the whole thing, the riot thing,  went commercial.

We get the rush, us Marin County punks, knowing we may not make it out of the stadium alive.  Living with one foot in eternities door is the only way they say. But we’re really here to get points on our safety cards.  Someone way up there thought of that one. White boys from money had to show something, prove something. Participate in something dangerous to show what they were made of.  Too much safety and you could be sentenced to hard labor.

Looked like there were plenty of escorts today. We found our seats while the hip-hop shook the building. The Gangs were warming up, swinging chains, fist fighting one another. The two shooters were taking target practice. Blood’s shooter Kool Papa Ice led the league in kills. He had twenty-six and there were still over ten Blood matches to go in the season. He could break the record.

The Event helicopter, with the giant BankCorp logo on it, hovered above the field. Violations were answered with precision laser shots. They could take out a gangsta or spectator for over a month. GetItOn started and right away Kansas City had three half hits. Crip’s  were down everywhere. This set the pattern for the remainder, and the final was six to two Kansas City.  A big upset.  Four full hits. The Bloods bled, the stadium emptied and we went home with three hundred thirty-four safety points. More than could be said for over a hundred – the tote board flashed – that didn’t make it, in Grand Stand Jam – but that’s GangstaHit.



“What was once unthinkable is now unstoppable,” boasted U.N. Secretary-General Ban Ki-moon. More ominous words were never spoken.

Ban was congratulating himself and nearly two hundred of his global elite cohorts on their achievement in signing the Paris Agreement on climate change. In classic progressive style, however, his pep rally sloganeering was also a none-too-subtle threat, à la “Forward.” For as the Agreement makes perfectly clear, the “what” that was once unthinkable, but is now seemingly unstoppable, is the world’s drunken march into international neo-Marxism, aka global tyranny.    More




Since the Islamist terrorist attacks in Paris on November 13, leading progressives, inspired by the coincidence of the attacks occurring in the host city for an upcoming climate change conference, have tried to exploit the anguish caused by terrorism to promote their global governance agenda. In a classic instance of never letting a crisis go to waste, these amoral snake oil salesmen, from leading Democrats to Prince Charles, have insisted we acknowledge a link between global warming and terrorist violence. Continue reading



Yebbit and Yabbit (without their ‘Boys’) left of center, front row, with the Paul Whiteman Orchestra before singing & playing Tin Pan Alley favourites and Madagasgarian compositions at the Roxy Theater opening in New York City, March 11, 1927. Over five thousand were in attendance. (AP Wirephoto)  


The musical duo sensation, mostly forgotten today,  were spotted in Madagascar by the enterprising adventurer and traveler Carl Denim in 1919. A music fan all his life, Denim immediately saw the commercial possibilities in the exciting rhythms of native music of the island nation. Brought to New York the following year, Yibbit & Yabbit and five of their fellow native musicians signed a contract with Owney Madden five years later. Madden was a notorious bootlegger  and owner of Harlem’s famed Cotton Club.  Yebbit & Yabbit first performed at the storied  nightclub in June, 1925 and were an immediate hit.  At times they drew larger (white only) crowds than the big name regulars of the club’s heyday like Louis Armstrong, Count Basie and Fats Waller. Continue reading



America is now learning that on the painful road to ‘fundamental transformation,’ Barack Obama has plans to diversify suburbia. The president’s suburban justice plan is one where HUD tracks the racial and religious composition of American neighborhoods and then, doing away with the choice of established populations, makes changes to reflect Barack Obama’s vision for a fairer, more equitable nation.  Continue reading



Class conflict once seemed so straightforward. Marx and Engels wrote in the second best-selling book of all time, The Communist Manifesto: “What the bourgeoisie therefore produces, above all, are its own grave-diggers. Its fall and the victory of the proletariat are equally inevitable.” (The best-selling book of all time, incidentally, is the Bible – it only feels like it’s 50 Shades of Grey.) Read More



The United Nations Agenda 21 has quietly changed the makeup of our cities and rural areas through highly questionable tactics, clothed in lofty adjectives such as “smart growth” and “sustainability,” as we’ve written previously. Agenda 21 activists have quietly initiated laws that allowed the government to confiscate our land, water, private property, and wilderness areas. Their ultimate goal is to strip Americans of personal rights and freedoms, creating a socialist future and eventually a one-world government.  Not a pretty picture!   More…



The USA has been going to hell in a hand basket long before Obama came along. Much of what Obama has done as president, such as bureaucratic expansion, massive third world immigration and the selling out of the American worker, differs very little from what the Clinton and Bush administrations produced. However, his associations, past and present, indicate that his ideology is much farther to the left than any president before him. Continue reading



A long story in The Desert Sun (a Palm Springs daily) recently manufactured a lake out of a puddle in California’s perennial water problems.  Maybe it’s just Governor Moonbeam’s gang feeding propaganda to the fourth estate, but it’s a good example of how government regulation and media indoctrination so often contrive to strain at capitalist gnats and swallow collectivist camels. Continue reading



To entertain the citizens of Rome, circular arenas – circuses — were built to house staged events of various sorts, including the slaughter of Christians. After Rome fell, itinerant performers took their shows on the road offering somewhat less grand, but still popular, entertainments.    More



MATTHEW HOFFMAN     The Free Market 10, 1992

Eco-socialists have to find some way to “Sustainable foist their ideas on the public. The term “socialism” doesn’t sell anymore, but there are proxies. One is “sustainable development.”

Like most left-wing verbiage, sustainable development is designed to sound like something everyone wants. Unmentioned is who decides what development is and isn’t sustainable. Not entrepreneurs and consumers, but government.

This variant of central planning was conceived at a U.N.-sponsored environmental
read more




BY FRED SINGER    American Physicist

My background is basically European — and more specifically, Western European.  I have lived and worked in many of those countries, and I know most of the major cities intimately — from Stockholm in the north,
Read More…

Fred Singer is professor emeritus at the University of Virginia and director of the Science & Environmental Policy Project.  His specialty is atmospheric and space physics.  An expert in remote sensing and satellites, he served as the founding director of the US Weather Satellite Service and, more recently, as vice chair of the US National Advisory Committee on Oceans & Atmosphere.  He is a senior fellow of the Heartland Institute and the Independent Institute.  He co-authored the NY Times best-seller Unstoppable Global Warming: Every 1500 years.  In 2007, he founded and has since chaired the NIPCC (Nongovernmental International Panel on Climate Change), which has released several scientific reports [See].    



Just what happened last week on Election Day? And what is going to happen in the years ahead?  The most important thing that happened last week was that the country dodged a bullet.

Had the Democrats retained control of the Senate, President Obama could have spent his last two years in office loading the federal judiciary with judges who share his contempt for the Constitution of the United States. Read more…



PETER WILSON  American Thinker

Deaths from natural disasters are traditionally considered “acts of God,” or “acts of nature,” beyond human control. This view is being challenged in a French trial where prosecutors have charged a small-town mayor with manslaughter for deaths caused by storm flooding. The precedent of criminalizing weather-related deaths would delight climate-change activists who increasingly call for criminal trials of anyone skeptical of their agenda. More…




Agenda 21: The End of Western Civilization

“Global sustainability requires the deliberate quest of poverty, reduced resource consumption and set levels of mortality control.”
Professor Maurice King   Birth of an Abomination

In simple terms Agenda 21/Sustainable Development is the redistribution of America’s wealth to the global elite, it is the end of the Great American Experiment and the Constitution.  And, it is the reduction of 85% of the world’s population. In 1992, twenty years ago this summer, Agenda 21/Sustainable Development was unveiled to the world at the UN’s Earth Summit in Rio. (While Agenda 21 was Continue reading



I decided not to publish the below image on Facebook, along with other unpopular postings because I do not speak the language of the country of my residence (Dutch)while taking profit of the liberal European bureaucracy that I loathe so much. It’s easier to critique that which I have no control over, than to tackle personal issues like character development and adult responsibility which require real courage and committed discipline. Continue reading


Source Forgotten

The Frankfurt School were a group of Marxist intellectuals at Frankfurt University in the 1920-1930’s.  The group emigrated to New York City after Hitler came to power and included Max Horkheimer, Theodor W. Adorno, Herbert Marcuse &  Erich Fromm. They were responsible for the “New Left” and feminism. Financed by Jewish millionaire Felix Weill, they were instrumental in the degradation of Western society according to long-term cabalist Jewish plan. Continue reading


By Jefferey T. Kuhner, Washington Times

President Obama has revealed his true nature. After 20 months in the Oval Office, he still remained a largely unknown figure.  A picture is coming into focus now, and it should trouble all Americans. It is widely known that Mr. Obama is a post-national progressive. Yet he is also a cultural Muslim who is promoting an anti-American, pro-Islamic agenda. This is the real meaning of his warm – and completely needless – embrace of the Ground Zero Mosque. Continue reading


Jameis Winston, Florida State Quarterback

From Wikipedia: On November 14, 2013, the Florida State Attorney’s Office announced they were opening an investigation into a sexual assault complaint involving Winston that was originally filed with the Tallahassee Police Department (TPD) on December 7, 2012.[15] The complaint was originally investigated by the police and classified as open/inactive in February 2013 with no charges being filed.[16][17] Tallahassee police stated Continue reading


tom briggs

I was once at an old ballpark. I saw it when Three Dog Night’s haunting, rolling Momma Told Me Not to Come played in my head . The song stopped and the ballpark was demolished. But the memories have remained .

1970. A humid grey mid May Saturday morning at the Greyhound station on 44th in New York City. There’s a bus. It’s marked “Philadelphia” in white lettering along the top of the front windshield. That’s us. My younger brother Gene and I are going to the City of Brotherly Love. Not to see the Liberty bell, or any other American historical icon. Nor to learn about the Declaration of Independence. No sir. I had wanted to see ancient Connie Mack Stadium, The Lady in Red, home of the Philadelphia Phillies baseball team, since I was around ten years old.  They were going to tear it down in a few months. The Phillies were to move into a brand new  building called Veterans Stadium. Philadelphia was only 90 some miles away along the New Jersey Turnpike. Less than two hours. Continue reading


July Fourth Weekend May Bring More Black Violence—Suppressed By The MSM’s Reverse Trayvon Martin Scam

By Nicholas Stix on July 1, 2014

My message to Americans as the July Fourth weekend looms: keepJohn Derbyshire’s iconic essay “The Talk” firmly in mind.
The black violence over the Memorial Day weekend that I recently reportedwasn’t just limited to “Black Beach Week” in South Carolina – that was only part of a wave of holiday weekend attacks against whites. But even that just was just a small glimpse of the slow-burning continuous race war against the historic American nation. And the Main Stream Media (and the Obama administration) are on the other side. Continue reading


By Catherine Crump and Matthew Harwood

Estimates vary, but by 2020 there could be over 30 billion  devices connected to the Internet. Once dumb, they will have smartened up thanks to sensors and other technologies embedded in them and, thanks to your machines, your life will quite literally have gone online. The implications are revolutionary. Your smart refrigerator will keep an inventory of food items, noting when they go bad. Your smart thermostat will learn your habits and adjust the temperature to your liking. Smart lights will illuminate dangerous parking garages, even as they keep an “eye” out for suspicious activity. Continue reading


House Republicans are unhappy about a new plan by the Department of Energy to include ceiling fans in a push to apply energy efficiency standards to household appliances.

“We’ve already seen the federal government stretch their regulatory tentacles into our homes and determine what kind of light bulbs we have to use,” Rep. Marsha Blackburn, R-Tenn., said earlier this month. “Now they’re coming after our ceiling fans. It is a sad state of affairs when even our ceiling fans aren’t safe from this administration.”



Marine Le Pen Quotes  The EU is deeply harmful, it is an anti-democratic monster. I want to prevent it from becoming fatter, from continuing to breathe, from grabbing everything with its paws and from extending its tentacles into all areas of our legislation. In our glorious history, millions have died to ensure that our country remains free. Today, we are simply allowing our right to self-determination to be stolen from us.  more…

The Brussels Leviathan  The EU Commission and senior officials, frequently diffused through innocent sounding and semi-official organizations, create agreements with Arabs and then quietly implement them later as federal EU policy. This is accomplished because billions of Euros are floating around in a system with very little control. Europeans are thus financing their continent’s merger with, in reality colonization by, the Muslim world without their knowledge and without their consent. It must be the first time in human history where an entire continent is being culturally eradicated with bureaucratic precision. This represents perhaps the greatest betrayal in the history of Western civilization, yet it is largely ignored by Western media.  More…




hollywood sign b&w curves

The American mainstream media has become Pravda West. When was the last time you saw a documentary on Communism? On Marxism? I bet you’ve seen scores of documentaries on Nazism, to the point where you would swear that it was the only form of totalitarianism. Ever see a feature-length movie that was even subtly anti-communist/marxist? In the past 60 years of television in the USA, you can count on one hand the number of presentations that were anti-left. I Continue reading


al sharpton

The face of hate.  Of whites, that is. One of the uglier personalities, both outwardly and inwardly,  to grace the American landscape in a long long time.  A regular troublemaker and provocateur who has made his living as a racial gangster. This guy gets away with more hate laced rhetoric in a week than those listed in the “who’s who” of the white right might spew in a lifetime. But you must remember that all racism comes from the latter group, and that the ‘most reverend’ Al is a member of a protected group who are incapable of racism.  Sharpton was an obscure Brooklyn “preacher” and “organizer” until he concocted the infamous Tawana Brawley hoax Continue reading


JOHN WHITEHEAD  The Rutherford Institute

“What the government is good at is collecting taxes, taking away your freedoms and killing people. It’s not good at much else.”
Author Tom Clancy

Call it what you will—taxes, penalties, fees, fines, regulations, tariffs, tickets, permits, surcharges, tolls, asset forfeitures, foreclosures, etc.—but the only word that truly describes the constant bilking of the American taxpayer by the government and its corporate partners is theft. Continue reading



An eight day unforgetable, and often surreal adventure during the winter holidays. Five hours flight and a few light years from Brussels. A  former French colony, located on Africa’s northern west coast, Senegal  has over 12 million inhabitants. Almost all of them are very poor. The 150 kilometer/ five hour ride from the airport in Dakar to the Royal Lodge Hotel in Palmerin was an adventure laced with the omnipresent uncertainty that we would ever arrive there.  Continue reading



My last article documented the funding of the March 1917 Revolution in Russia.  1] The primary financier of the Russian revolutionary movement 1905–1917 was Jacob Schiff, of Kuhn Loeb and Co., New York. In particular Schiff had provided the money for the distribution of revolutionary propaganda among Russians prisoners-of-war in Japan in 1905 by the American journalist George Kennan who, more than any other individual, was responsible for turning American public and official opinion against Czarist Russia. Kennan subsequently related that it was thanks to Schiff that 50,000 Russian soldiers were revolutionized and formed the cadres that laid the basis for the March 1917 Revolution and, we might add–either directly or indirectly–the consequent Bolshevik coupof November. The reaction of bankers from Wall Street and The City towards the overthrow of the Czar was enthusiastic.  Read More


Published in YNETNEWS.COM

We mustn’t forget that some of greatest murderers of modern times were Jewish.  Here’s a particularly forlorn historical date: Almost 100 years ago, between the 19th and 20th of December 1917, in the midst of the Bolshevik revolution and civil war, Lenin signed a decree calling for the establishment of The All-Russian Extraordinary Commission for Combating Counter-Revolution and Sabotage, also known as Cheka.

Within a short period of time, Cheka became the largest and cruelest state security organization. Its organizational structure was changed every few years, as were its names: From Cheka to GPU, later to NKVD, and later to KGB.  Continue reading


tom briggs

The tent  We started out with a pop-up tent. The circular kind about a meter and half in diameter.  It springs to final shape in a second or two, then takes two hours for the novice to figure out how to get it back into its original shape and ready for storage. Our next tent was a little bigger, an elongated half circle model of about 1.5 meters wide with an infinitely wider learning curve. An abysmal struggle ensued on a wind swept beach to a chorus of benign derision from a group of nearby German inebriants. Those hilarious grainy pre Wright Brother’s films of failed flight attempts came to mind. Continue reading