PLAYING HOOKY AT GUS’S DINER

tom briggs

Gus’s Diner was right in front of an old ironworks factory on the corner of West First Street and Sixteenth Avenue, in Mount Vernon. It was one of those classic boxcar-like structures, similar to thousands of others in New York, Connecticut and New Jersey. It was very small and was painted red on the outside. It was tucked into a corner of an ironworks factory. The factory building and its large yard were likely there for a hundred years, the diner seemingly plopped down beside it, as if airlifted into position.

Gus’s was where my cousin Johnny, my brother Russell and I used to gather for a few hours in the morning while we were playing hooky from high school. We would eat breakfast and then hang out until a little past ten o’clock. Then it was it was off to stay at Johnny’s parents apartment until four o’clock. Uncle John left for work at eight, but Aunt Stella didn’t leave until ten. The radio said some snow for today, but not much, maybe an inch. Unfortunately that wasn’t nearly enough for school to shut down. I got good at forging my mother’s name, but not so good at phrasing and composing  the letter to the school from my mother.   We mulled it over and thought the snow might actually be a good excuse for not showing up anyway.

Russell and Tommy didn’t attend school yesterday because they both had diarrehea. Sincerely, Francis Brengel.

Johnny was eighteen, though he could pass for twenty-four. With his receding hairline, thick neck, wire-frame glasses and ruddy Irish complexion, he had the kind of face that pops up in old photos of a Belfast workers strike. He lit up a Marlboro, as I asked him what he was reading.

Finnegan’s Wake, said Johnny. It’s by James Joyce.
He handed me the book and after only a short glance, I knew I would never read it. Too much mumbo-jumbo.
What does all that mean, Johnny, I mean those crazy words? I asked him.
It’s dream associations and stream of consciousness, he answered.
I think I’ll stick with the New York Post sports section, I closed with.

This was our fourth or fifth illegal absence from school, all but one spent here. Once before, we had taken the  subway at 241st Street, and rode the IRT line to Times Square. That would kill an hour. The token was 15 cents each way, and that left us with just enough to buy donuts and coffee at a little stand along the shuttle stop, and later, a hotdog. We would board the free one-stop shuttle train to Grand Central Station, where we  would walk around aimlessly, oblivious to its magnificence. To kill more time, we would shuttle back to Time Square, then back to Grand Central, and would repeat this maneuver several times, like a hamster on a wheel. That was enough for us, and we vowed that next hooky-time, we would return to our alma mater, Gus’s.

We had some money today and would order bacon and eggs, toast and coffee, and sit at one of the yellow-colored table booths along the front, right by the window. As often was the case in winter, the effect of the place was heightened considerably when it snowed. A feeling of fantastic warmth and good fortune, as if staying there forever wouldn’t be such a bad idea. The air would be filled with the comingled aromas of all that Gus was cooking. He operated alone and moved around very well for an old guy. Gus had a lot of Popeye in him, and was straight out of the Great Depression thirties. He always had a cigar hanging out of his mouth and would wear a white cap and apron. He even talked a little like Popeye. Gus’s mumbled speech required some time to translate, to connect the verbal dots. Looking back on it, a signer might’ve made things much easier.

It was fun to watch Gus move around behind the counter. He was fast for a big guy and would adroitly pivot to get this or that, then return to the grill and start flipping pancakes and eggs and hash brown potatoes. We would be at Gus at least two hours. The snow started to stick and was accumulating on the street. Kelley’s gas station was right across the street. And one or another of the three Kelley brothers or staff would come in from time to time. Most of Gus’s customers were blue-collar types in dark coveralls and coats, many with embroidered script lettering on them. I suppose a few worked right there at the ironworks factory. We dreaded the possibility that a grown-up that we knew would walk through the door and rat on us. The only one who could be trusted to not slip a lip was my uncle Ralph. I remember that he once told me he had hated school.

I popped a dime in the red tabletop jukebox and played Runaway by Del Shannon and Popsickles Icecicles by the Murmaids. That’s a faggy song said Russell. My dime, I play it,  Those chicks are foxy, plus they’re from California, so get some cotton for your ears. Gus always had the radio going, and always tuned to the all-news-all-the-time station. That  morning New York City Mayor Robert Wagner was to meet with city officials over budget appropriations , a budget no doubt fattened by the previous summer’s World’s Fair. and there was bad business in Berkeley, where over eight-hundred students took over an administration building. If Gus had opinions about all of that, doubtless no one could make heads or tails of it.

Johnny had put his book down by now, and we  took turns and playing table football. One player would snap two fingers and kick a rolled up piece of paper between goalposts represented by the opposing player’s index finger and pinkie. How unimaginable then to think that harmless formation would be a gangsta salutation half a century later. Scores were kept in a meticulous way, though arguments would result anyway. If someone was clever enough to have brought along a rubber band, then other amusements were enjoyed. Johnny talked high about a senator named McGovern What a name for someone in the Mc Government. Johnny said he would be President one day. Russell told one dirty joke after another, then insulted and berated those passing by in the snow, all out of earshot naturally. Russell was in high gear: Look at this one, with his belly hanging over his belt. He hasn’t seen his dick in twenty years. It’s just a rumor. All of us were laughing then. Russell had an awful lot of Don Rickles in him.

Since both Johnny and Russell were occupied with what, with not much at that point, I drifted into  inner imagery. I looked out the window and saw my favorite football team, the Cleveland Browns playing against what appeared to be the San Francisco 49’ers. Right there on West First Street in heavy traffic. Frank Ryan was quickly dropping back in the pocket behind his blockers some thirty yards up the street, right by a passing 241st Street Bronx-bound bus, throwing a forty yard bullet-pass to his favourite target Gary Collins, who was running clear in his route right in front of Kelley’s. I yelled out first down! and Johnny and Russell asked if I was alright. I thanked them for their heartfelt concerns and then sought other reveries. In no time I conjured up the fantastical idea of Leslie Gore walking into the diner. I was in love with her, especially after seeing her on Hullabaloo, or was it Shindig, singing You Don’t Own Me. Suddenly, as my dream’s eviction of reality had demanded,  she walked in and went to a corner booth. She was dressed in a black trench coat, and some snow was still on her shoulders.

The diner was now empty except for Gus, me and the apogee of my dreams.  I was afraid to approach her, so I selected You Don’t Own Me on the Seeburg. She looked across the empty tables at me and smiled. Emboldened, I then asked if she wouldn’t mind if I sat with her for a minute. She smiled and accepted and we ordered two coffees, as that was all she wanted. I immediately asked her What are you doing in this…. place? If I may ask. She looked at me with eyes that went straight through me and said:  I  had arrived yesterday from California and had just finished some business with an agent in Manhattan and was en-route by limousine to Scarsdale to see a producer. She continued: I had had a premonition of sorts while on the ride up from New York.  A strong inner voice that told me to come here. Leslie went on that she discovered where her power of expression had come from. It came from the hearts of those who most admired her, and that she was here to thank me. She then reached across the table and kissed me softly on the cheek. The acne scarred kid who was afraid of good-looking girls felt like a light that guaranteed inner peace forever had entered him.  With that, she quickly turned and walked out the door to a long black Crysler that was waiting out front.  A rolled up piece of paper, probably  fashioned with spit, then hit me in the eye. Hey Rip Van Winkle, it’s time to go,  can’t stay here forever Chooch! The subtle and soothing voice of brother Russell had snatched me from my sanctum of bliss.

We left for Aunt Stella and Uncle John’s, and the snow was thick in its rapid decent. Maybe we wouldn’t have to write that note after all.  It was a windless snow that covered every grey inch of the cityscape in no time. Kelley’s gas station, with its big lighted Texaco sign and naked winter trees as background, was turning into a painting called Currior & Ive’s and Gas and Oil, maybe painted by John Sloan. We walked down the hill on South Street towards our destination. Along its entire two block length, heading down towards The New Haven Railroad tracks was Ward Leonard Electric Company with its three-shift two thousand employee workforce. This morning its windows were glowing yellow because of the dark grey sky. This whole thing was a very Pittsburgh-looking scene. The hell with sunny days in winter anyway, I thought.  What a waste of sunshine. What a feckless ineffectual sun, that winter sun, neutered as it is, by winters ground level realities. Give me grey, give me snow, give me rain, give me torrent in the mood of grey wintery chords, played to my heart and soul.

After arriving at our destination of the next several hours, we immediately pursued something more meaningful than Gus’s Diner. We turned on the television. From a selection which included Jeopardy starring Art Fleming, Truth or Consequences with Bob Barker, reruns of Andy of Mayberry and The Rocky & Bullwinkle Show, we chose the most serious one. Bullwinkle was not only the coolest and smartest cartoon moose ever, but likely the  coolest thing standing on two feet in all of television. The smartest was Mister Peabody, with the second coolest being his sidekick, Sherman. I don’t know who the third coolest was, nor the second smartest,  but I suspected that whoever they were, they had a lot of catching up to do to surpass the smartest and second coolest, respectively. Peabody & Sherman excelled at going  back in time to help history’s hero’s achieve their fame. Rocky & Bullwinkle, on the other hand, were forever finding ways to outsmart the villainous Russian spies, Boris & Natasha. After Johnny advised us against raiding the refrigerator for obvious reasons, Russell, who hadn’t eaten since emptying a bag of Connecticut potato chips at Gus’s well over twenty minutes ago, waited, like the patient carnivore that he was, for our host to relax his vigilance. That moment came when Johnny got up to use the bathroom. Before one could blurt out the customary Jackie Robinson, brother Russell quickly wolfed down two slices of Kraft swiss cheese and the remains of a plastic bowl containing some unidentifiable  brown sauce.

I looked out the window and to my dismay, the snow had stopped. It was now time to write and forge the absent-from-school letter, which we would bring to Mount Vernon High tomorrow. And with Bullwinkle’s antics over, and with Peabody & Sherman having figured out what actually happened aboard the Santa Maria with Christopher Columbus, Russell and I left for home, leaving our hapless host to contend with an empty plastic bowl that needed washing. Two days later, Russell and I were called into Vice Principal Doctor Panitz’s office. Doctor Panitz was a impressive man of about fifty. With his piercing blue eyes and imposing and very administrative and authoritarian demeanour, I could easily imagine  Wehrmacht or Waffen SS medals pinned to his blue suit. He cordially asked Russell and me to have a seat.

Dr Panitz: So you both don’t like school so much?
Russell: No, Dr. Panitz, we like school fine, but we just didn’t feel like going last Monday. Tommy: I like school too, but it looked like it might snow that day.
Dr. Panitz: I see. You both know that it cost a lot of money to build this beautiful new school, don’t you? And to pay all the teachers and maintenance crew. Do you both realize how lucky you are to receive an education, and a free education, with no cost to your parents?
Russell: I bet it cost a lot of money. We’re sorry, and we won’t do it again.
Tommy: Yes, Dr. Panitz, we’ll be in attendance every day from now on, right, Russell? Russell: Every day, for sure.
Dr. Panetz: That’s wonderful, that’s what I like to hear, sensible students, appreciative of the importance of their education.
Dr. Panitz, now yelling very loud: NOW YOU BOTH WILL WRITE A THOUSAND WORD COMPOSITION DESCRIBING WHY IT IS IMPORTANT TO ATTEND SCHOOL. AND YOU SHALL HAVE IT IN MY HAND BY FRIDAY, IS THAT CLEAR?
Russell and Tommy: Yes Dr. Panitz, it’s clear.

When we returned home that evening our mother announced that a truant officer named Mr. Gist was there earlier and had asked if she had signed an absent from school note on Monday. We were dead-to-rights, and it was KP and no after-school activities for the next two days. That evening, I started penning my composition, entitled Why I should attend classes. But in my brainless adolescence of ingratitude, it quickly became a farce resembling this:
Dear Doctor Panitz: While I see some reason for attending classes, I notice that all the adults that I know or ever heard of or that I like and admire don’t really use math, proper English, geography or history in their jobs. I mean, Joe the bartender probably didn’t learn how to tap beer and argue about baseball with customers because he went to school. Gus, at  Gus’s Diner didn’t go to school to learn how to smoke a cigar without  really smoking it. And he didn’t go to school to learn how to flip hamburgers or fry eggs in such a way that they were the finest of their kind. Then I know for a fact that Luigi of Luigi’s fruit stand didn’t learn how to sell fruits and vegetables without ever have learned English to all the people who buy from him, and still love him inspite of his linguistic shortcomings. And not for nothing, Doctor Panetz, but Mickey Mantle didn’t learn how to hit a ball over a building in New York that bounced on top of a moving train that went all the way to Eau Clair, Minnesota, by attending  geography classes. It’s not like he had to know where Eau Clair actually was, you know what I mean? And I’m just saying, but isn’t it true that it’s possible to acquire a decent knowledge of American geography by studying the backs of baseball cards? After all, the typical major league player has had to endure playing in some places with more cows  and chickens than people. But Eau Claire and Greensboro, NC and Augusta GA and Batavia NY and Visalia CA  and two hundred some odd other stops along the minor league trail on the backs of baseball cards taught me all about American geography,  few years ago. OK, I’ll grant you that there are most definitely worthy courses in Mount Vernon High School. Classes like Mister Milonzi’s commercial art class and Doctor Dodd’s drawing and painting class. However, if I had to fill up this composition with one thousand words, I’m more likely to be successful at it if I had to admit the ludicrousness of my duplicity which I do. None the less, if I consider the uselessness of gym class, here we go with at least three hundred words: I get a lot of exercise. Most of which consists of horsing around with friends on my block. We like to jump over parking meters. It’s a hoisting manuever that requires strength, thrust and a fair amount of courage, lest the participant go minus one or both of his testicles. Sometimes we play as teams, that is to say, two players against two opponents. This then teaches team play, a worthy endeavour, you have to admit. Other athletic games consist of playing touch football in heavy traffic along West First Street. Setting up complicated pass plays and patterns while the 241st Street bound bus is passing at forty miles per hour inches from your gluteus maximus,  is an activity that promotes awareness, courage, agility and quickness, all attributes of superior athleticism that I think to be a notch or two above what is prescribed in school gym class. Then there is the unique test of one’s determination to hang in there, and not flinch, from fielding  a sharply hit ground ball right at you that will very possibly hit a piece of broken glass or pebble, thus diverting its path and redirecting its trajectory to make hard contact with your eyeball or lip, resulting in a black eye, split lip or missing tooth. Of course I’d like to add that I a…

Of course I never sent such an abomination, just a sloppy, repetitively written and insincere apology describing my wanton recalcitrance and total lack of appreciation for a quality high school education. An education that  would in fact prepare me for a lifelong career as a commercial artist, and later as a sign artist. Following is a letter of gratitude that was unfortunately and shamefully never written to my commercial art teacher, Mr. Victor Milonzi.

Dear Mr. Milonzi: I know that this letter is over a half-century too late. But when I was a student of yours, in 1963 and 1964, At Edison High, then at Mount Vernon High, I didn’t know or care anything about gratitude or sacrifice. And I didn’t know or care about such things for the next fifty years. You provided me with a great education that equipped me to be a commercial artist.  I showed my thanks by jumping from your class and enrolling in Dr. Dodd’s fine arts class, without ever having said thank you. It turns out that you were the best teacher I ever had, including all of my instructors during my two years at Phoenix School of Design. And I can add that any bad professional  breaks that came my way during these ensuing decades  might’ve have been payback for such lack of character and ingratitude. I used to hate it when you would tear at my artwork just to remove a tiny imperfection, smudge or speck of dirt.  But this taught me to shoot for the very best professional quality in the way of presenting my artwork. It took me all these years to appreciate you as a first rate professional advertising artist, who sacrificed a lucrative career to teach young kids how to be successful commercial artists. I remember now how you would make special trips to Manhattan, to advertising agencies and corporate headquarters  like Coca Cola, just to gather samples of products, particularly new products, in the  pioneering stage, as you called them, so the class could redesign the package, label, billboard, or magazine ad. Or how you took us on field trips to offset printing companies and typesetting shops to see first-hand how it was done. You taught us about duotones, halftones and four color process printing. About register marks and bleed marks and how to do paste-ups and mechanicals. And how to make mock-ups for point-of-sale displays. You taught your students all about materials such as illustration board, Cellotac, Zipatone, Coloraid, Magic Markers, drawing instruments, and even how to operate an airbrush. You taught about typefaces like Bodoni Bold and Franklin Gothic and scores of other fonts. You gave us the opportunity to use those liquids that smelled like rotten eggs but that created magical halftone dot patterns for cartoon illustrations when painted on a special white board.  For this was how it was all done in the days before digital art. You offered your students the opportunity to compete in poster contests that awarded great prizes to first, second and third place winners throughout Westchester County. Contests, I might add, that were won by many of your students, including me. And you did all of this with a unique sense of humor. Your disarming wit was entertaining yet edifying and got the message home. Thank you, Mr. Victor Milonzi, for all you did for me.

Sincerely, Tom Briggs

 

 

 

 

 

OUT WITH THE OLD IN WITH THE WHAT?

tom briggs
Copyright Tom Briggs 2018

They moved out the old, and ushered in the new.
A bit too sudden, that much is true/
They regarded the past, with utter contempt.
They slaughtered the truth, now all beaten and bent/

They besieged heroic icons of yesteryear,
While turning common decency on its ear/
They constructed the new order, of totalitarian design
based on lies and manipulation of the worst kind/

It all came down as generations flew by.
Because what’s lost makes the knowing cry/
So welcome the new, the glorious now
It’s the One World Order where politicians cow/

To bosses unseen who wield the power
Of profit and control from their Ivory Tower/
Where are the dissidents of yesterday?
Who sang the songs that promised to slay/

Injustice, poverty, ignorance and vice ,
Their words were hollow but the glory was nice/
Now is the day where  iconoclasts are muzzled,
Speaking  truths that have the ignorant fools puzzled/

So hush, don’t say this or don’t say that.
Someone might snitch, the dirty rat!/

Getting protection from the State
Beneficiary and chooser of a cowardly fate/
Where are the Dylon’s, the songsters of protest?
When ability doesn’t matter, even for the best/

When Whitey and reason reel in geno-cide/
Because they’re the oppressors, when the truth has died/
A slow and calculated death of suffocation
A strangling of will and guilt equals desolation/

So they get the credit, those icons of ‘equalitee’
Who live behind gates, and yell ‘listen to me’/
Don’t build the wall, the world is my brother
Though I’m not home, they needn’t bother/

To knock on my door in Beverly Hills,
Think I’m going to solve these social ills?/
I’ve got a picture to make, pays ten mil.
So don’t bother me now, I’ve had my fill/

The conservatives who whine for the gloried past.
They think all good things should last and last/
But it never existed, at least not for all
They say more races have money at the mall/

But the ‘mall’ is fast closing, the lights they’re dim.
The revolution is over, it’s sink or swim/
Only the fat-rich-cats will stay above water.
The rest, hapless pigs – ready for slaughter.

TRAINS,BRUSSELS & LILLE

tom briggs
Copyright 2018 Tom Briggs

Lieve and I boarded our train for Brussels at Antwerpen Centraal, a cathedral-like station of medieval styling with a vast steel and glass domed ceiling. The intricate stonework and painstaking detailing seem to have been created as payment to the god’s, perhaps for an eternal train  pass. It’s immense size and grandeur render all within its corridors into frantic ants. An exalted and cavernous entity where I half- expected a raven or bird-of-prey to swoop down from one of the sarcophagus-like window fittings. A gargantuan renewal and extension was completed a few years ago that has resulted in a pleasing melding of the old and the new. A great many boutiques and fine eateries are along its two level route.  No doubt one of the most impressive train stations in all of Europe.

The station’s prodigious depth was expressed when we had to take three very long gleaming stainless steel escalators down from street level to board our train. I still cannot figure out how it’s possible to descend halfway to China (ok, maybe a third) and exit from tunnel darkness into the light at street level, though come to think of it,  I vaguely remember seeing two people that looked strangely like Lieve and me, going up on another escalator during our descent. This station apparently has properties that occur only in transcendent realms.

We soon were passing  a wintery grey and uninspiring quilt of cities and farms. The stretch from Mechelen, (about half-way) to Brussels,  was a visual statement that has probably not changed since cities existed. The nearer to Brussels, the more defacement of property, the more bums on the streets, the more  displays of shoddiness and dereliction, in buildings, autos and signage. A depressing scene to say the least. But it makes Brussels no different than most other cities when entering  by train. However, Antwerp’s poorest enclaves thankfully don’t come close to what I saw. All this was in stark contrast to entering Brussels Centrum by car. Then one is surrounded by the grandeur of European architecture and style. Palaces of wealth and power, both historical and new, rise like a forest of opulence and grandiosity over a perspective-vanishing stretch of Regentlaan(D) / Boulevard du Régent (F)

Brussels main train station, Brussels Midi Zuid,  was a blur of humanity, giant lighted schedule boards and automated ticket machines. Along several walkways filtering out from the main area were dozens of fast-food restaurants and boutiques.  A sign on the floor warned to be wary of pick-pockets as we adroitly zigzagged our way about through a continuous crisscrossing of hurried pedestrian traffic. I counted five thousand, forty-nine heads bobbing on top of mostly anoraks, usually neutral in color. (just kidding) A few homeless and the requisite para-commandos on patrol, rounded out the human element. We had lunch at a veggie-joint called Greenway. Lieve and I both had a very good dressing-laden veggie-wrap. A wrap so thick  one could risk a dislocated jaw from eating it in a normal sandwich way. A knife and fork were the ticket.

When we entered the train bound for Lille,  all was quiet, with only a few other passengers on board. The interior was in fairly new condition, was litter-free and had  soft comfortable seats. I looked forward to the next forty-five minutes of conversing with Lieve, gazing at the passing countryside or reading.  A place and time to relax and think serene thoughts. Enjoy the romance of train travel. Such a short-lived expectation. A naive notion that was felled like a house of cards. Our car was soon inundated with the smiling, laughing, rosy-cheeked sons and daughters of privilege, many of them toting ski equipment.  In no time, every seat was taken. It might as well have been a city bus. The romance went out the window. Or at least the sense of relaxation.

Oh, I could still talk with Lieve, read a book or look out the window, but something had changed. Maybe if it were a crowd of touristy seniors? Of forlorn refugees? Or of hooded young street blacks? Would I then have longed for the relative merits of an inundation of twenty-something’s who had everything? Maybe this, this romance  was never possible to begin with. Maybe it was just my imagination running away with me. I might’ve been thinking of trains in old black and white movies from seventy years ago.  Because this seventy year old was longing for re-entry into a past unencumbered with the reality that it once possessed. Now that illusionary past glistens like a diamond against this, this time and world. This train. It beckoned with a beguiling smile, and said: That’s when trains sounded like trains. That’s when they looked like trains and smelled like trains. And moved like trains. The landscape went by slowly. The conductors shouted the next stop. “Willowby, next stop Willowby”  I’m damn well certain that I would’ve been as discontented or more precisely mal-contented about a whole slew of things had I been on one of those trains in 1947, at age seventy.  Back in my day only counts for my generation.

Lille, Capital of French Flanders
While we had visited Lille a few times in the past, we had always arrived by car, so this was our first time entering the city by train. The Lille station looked contemporary. I found out later that it was completed in 1993. The building is a grey, soulless, formless heap of abstraction. A concrete and steel pile of dung disguised as a railway station. A visual cacophony with ugly site lines everywhere.  No matter where you looked, nothing was pleasing to the eye.  Only a government financed project could produce such ugliness. Such alien form.  Every square inch of the place said to me that its designers and planners were well-pleased with this monument to their collective egos and vision. Most unfortunate that the proletarians who use the station would not ever get it.

Is it possible that a group of architects could be so unimaginative and so blind to aesthetic form or is it that the blueprints had to conform to the abstractionist post-modernist post-taste parameters of the Post-Christian-Post-Reason-Post-Sanity- State? There was a coldness to the place that made the February temperature of two celsius balmy by comparison. But that didn’t matter because if the station at first gave the appearance of being indoors, it was nothing of the kind. In fact, it may very well have been a degree or two colder than outside. We saw many warning type signs and I asked Lieve what they meant. Translated from the French, the signs read: You are required to wear a sullen, blank expression at all times. Failure to comply with this mandate may result in a fine or penalty.  Luckily, as is my habit in such an environment,  I was already wearing such an expression. Lieve tells me that I wear it more than I think.

Fortunately, amid this sea of alien formlessness, was a beautiful piano. There, a young lady of about fifteen sat, flawlessly playing what sounded to me like difficult classical and contemporary pieces. What a dichotomy, as beauty and form and rhythm and composition and taste and drama filtered through the pavilions and waiting areas and walkways and causeways and escalators of grey steel and concrete, all of which were devoid of those qualities. It reminded me that this train station experience could’ve been infinitely worse if Eminem-like sounds had been piped in through the speaker system.

A barren  area of some three city square blocks was at the ground floor level as one exited the escalator.  This vast, treeless, mindless concrete stretch of nothingness apparently served as a pedestrian mall of some sort. One could observe, going up the opposite escalator, an area at ground level of some fifty meters long by twenty five meters wide. This monstrosity served as some kind of pool, of perhaps ten centimeters in depth. Its water was a horrid rust colour and was decorated with all manner of debris. In the station’s near vicinity were tall buildings of an alien aspect, quite possibly designed by the same architects. No need to elaborate on that.

Ironically, only half a kilometer away (or about one hundred and fifty years away), is the other Lille train station, the Gare de Lille Flandres. This is a magnificent Neo Classical train station built somewhere between the mid and late nineteenth century. This is a building with heart and soul. There is love of craft in every brick and girder. It retains a quiet majesty and timeless beauty. A dignified and proud symbol of a by-gone time. This station is highly conducive to human beings who feel things and appreciate grandeur, visual harmony and great architecture. It invites you in, whether or not you are aware of it. If all this makes me a philistine, so be it. We only spent a few minutes there. Too bad we didn’t bring our cameras.

Lille Centre Ville has hundreds of beautiful mid-to-late nineteenth century buildings of ornate design. Wonderful and charming neo-classical structures of Beaux Arts and Baroque styling. Many painted in soft yellow or tan tones. Of course, while these buildings convey a past richness and glory, rats were still a daily menace while they were being built. I think about such things when I criticize the present too much! It also has an endless supply of boutiques and shops where corporate clothes are bought by the hordes of twenty-something’s  who come to Lille as if part of an orchestrated avalanche. After all, this is a university town. Thousands upon thousands, most not varying in age by more than five or six years, converge in the center of the city on weekends. A smattering of homeless, usually accompanied by a dog,  the inevitable Romanian beggars, or mendicants, no doubt trained at the Romanian College of Begging, a squad of four uzi-toting para commandos ostensibly there to protect everyone from terrorism, and hundreds of cafe/restaurant-goers bent on an hour or two of small talk, big talk, gossip, and other salacious verbal morsels, over  latté, Sauvignon or Kronebourg 1664.  This diversified mix rounded out the human environment.

Lille has many terrific cafés and terraces in the centre ville area. On the street where we’ve visited a few times in the past, there are some twelve to fifteen terraces, usually filled with happy people. It’s much more Parisian in character than tourist. Luckily, there weren’t too many other seventy year old Americans in attendance!  Lieve and I used to eat at a restaurant on this street called Le Chicorée, which is still there. One day around twelve years ago, Lieve had asked me to make a reservation for two people at our favourite table, table forty-nine. I approached the person behind the counter, using as many French words as possible, which was three. The rest was in English, which was not understood. Both languages were accompanied by hand gestures by which I tried to indicate that table forty-nine was upstairs. That section of the restaurant was off-limits during that time of day. This person then said something that indicated that he would check with another person. A minute later, I’m vainly explaining all over again in my three word French and useless English to this higher-up that I would like to reserve table forty-nine. So he’s nodding his head in a tentative way that suggests to me that he doesn’t know what-in-hell I’m talking about.

But then he gives me a half-smiling look of assurance, which communicated to me that he somehow miraculously understood me. Indeed, I thought he was going for a pen and reservation book. Some five minutes later, in comes a  third person, very well dressed. Very boss-looking. This boss-looking individual wore an expression and countenance that said authority, experience and stature, if not wisdom. So I went through my well-rehearsed plea for the third time. He is only speaking French, mind you. To my utter amazement, this boss-looking guy very confidently-like  grabs a reservation book and writes in my reservation. I am delighted and like a boy with a toy, I scamper back to where Lieve was waiting and proudly give her the good news, while describing the delightful time I had in arranging things. The following day we arrived at Le Chicorée at the appointed time and forty-nine tables that we didn’t reserve were ready. True story.

Return Trip I had to use the station restroom, but discovered that there was a charge of seventy-five euro-cents. I’m sorry, I don’t pay to open my fly., unless I offer to pay. It’s an insult, otherwise. So I determined to find a no-fee-pee-place.  After crossing two streets in heavy traffic, I entered the Ibis Hotel,  on the opposite corner from the station entrance-way, passing  a heroin addict curling in embryo formation on the sidewalk right in front. After a five minute search, I found the restroom, only to discover that a room key-card was needed for entry. Who could blame the Hotel for such precautions? What with long-haired seventy-year-old well-dressed Americans roaming the grounds?

So I exited and re-crossed the street, heading west.  I soon found an appropriate concrete corner. Sufficiently hidden, this had to be the vilest nook in Belgium. An epicentre of filth. A veritable shit-hole central. I reconsidered, and started walking. As I passed some forty meters under the darkly monolithic train trestle, a rusting red and white sign announced: This area is zoned for mugging. Enter at your own risk. The street was cobble-stoned and filled with litter. After another hundred meters or so,  I  entered a dingy tavern where a few haggard’s lingered over drinks and shattered dreams. I saw toilet on a door, then entered.  I almost fell down a flight of stairs, which began immediately and without warning. Into a solid black darkness I descended where I searched for the toilet. I felt somehow shanghaied, half expecting a club over the head. Miraculously I found the john and a light switch. The only light in this…..place. My business done, I then had to feel my way out in the black abyss. I offered pay the barmaid, but she kindly refused. All this for my thick-headed unwillingness to adapt to the changing times in which it goes without saying that one’s pocket will be picked here, there and everywhere.

We boarded our train without a problem, and were soon on our way. Then I saw through the train window at Brussels Nord, alabaster and olive-colored whores in  lighted store windows advertising their voluptuousness in a slum where any light, any color, any promise of pleasure, seemed a vain temporary distraction from drudgery.  But I guess the pimps must love it. And of course the Johns. I saw a giant banner that advertised: Forty Third Annual International Pimps Convention. Brussels Sharitoné  April 12-14. It made perfect sense in this European bastion of conventions. That’s it. Hey, you give me all of this grey steel and concrete and grey skies and grey-clad denizens and grey silvery rainy wind and grey food and I’m going to write grey. Color is for another day. And for another, more imaginative writer. Gratitude?  I had plenty of it for this delightfully grey day. I’m in my element of intoxicating sourness on a day like today.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

WALKING WITH SPIKEY & PEPIE

tom briggs

At least three times a day, over the past eight years, I walk our dogs Pepie and Spikey. Pepie is an eight year old  black short-haired Mini-Pincher of about six kilo’s, while Spikey is ten years old and is a coffee-coloured Pincher-Jack Russell mix.  Spikey is a hefty ten kilos. I say hefty because he’s only around twenty-five centimeters in height. If my math is correct in figuring it for eight years, that’s one thousand ninety two times per year times eight which equals eight thousand seven hundred and thirty six walks with both dogs. Add to that  the two thousand one hundred eighty four times that I walked only Spikey and it comes to a grand total of ten thousand nine hundred and twenty walks. And that’s a conservative estimate because it doesn’t factor in  extra walks on weekends and innumerable vacations during that time, where the duration and frequency of daily walks was/are increased. So we’re looking at a figure somewhere between eleven and twelve thousand walks.

Now let’s have a little fun with the kilometers. The average daily Pepie & Spikey Walk or Pipey & Specky Walk (as my occasional attacks of  dyslexia inverts the names) in our neighbourhood is as follows: Two modest walks of minimally 200 hundred meters and one walk of about six hundred meters, on average.  These are round trip totals and bring the yearly total to three hundred sixty five kilometres per year. At eight years that’s two thousand nine hundred and twenty kilometers. Now let’s throw in the two years walking only Spikey. Three hundred sixty five times two times two equals seven hundred thirty. That brings the grand total to three thousand six hundred and fifty kilometres total. With those numbers, I think I know these dogs.

The Walk  It’s not aerobic walking, I can tell you. There’s walking and then there is Pepie-Spikey Walking. The latter are constituted of stop and go, standing and waiting and not infrequently doubling back a few meters when either dog needs another sniff or two to decide whether or not to leave his calling card. This appears to be their version of window shopping.  I‘ve learned to be fast on my feet when Pepie suddenly stops or crosses right in my path as I’m walking. It seems he is incapable of spatial judgement and as a result, sometimes gets his legs/paws kicked or stepped on. Lieve and I think he suffers from myopia or poor peripheral vision. Fortunately I’ve become an adroit rope-skipper, thus saving him from injury. So far. On the other hand, Spikey is in perfect sync with me, as he is adept at anticipating my movements. I also skip rope, pirouette, cross arms and hop on one leg when the leashes cross or when Pepie, wanders behind me, which is frequently. While I don’t get an aerobic workout with these two, I’ve developed the foot quickness of an NBA guard, the hand speed of a magician and have added several centimetres to my arm length. The latter as a result of both dogs pulling in opposite directions.

Territory, Curiosity and Bombs Spikey is The Master of Indecision and often takes forever to leave his mark. Like a guy in a pool hall who takes an eternity to line up a shot. First the left leg is raised. Then the right one. Then he looks right, then left. He decides ‘not this tree, I’ll try the next one’. Same routine. Right leg, then left leg. Looks around. No mark yet. Two, sometimes three trees later, he commits. I think he’s somehow contacting a special consulting agency embedded into his psyche, weighing the feasibility and complicated variables of such an action. Or weighing the long-term ramifications. Or maybe everything has  to be in alignment with the planetary system. It’s all about universal angles that only astrophysical geniuses, mathematicians and dogs like Spikey understand.

Spikey is Sherlocking when he’s walking with his nose fixed to the ground. He is searching for a very important clue, perhaps the Holy Grail of scents. Maybe some equivalent of a narcotic or some hint as to his antecedent identity. Pepie on the other hand, doesn’t want to miss anything, as his nose is everywhere, like a ball in a pinball machine. Hyper-frenetic to the max, reducing attention deficit disorder to tranquility by comparison.

On the longer walks, there are some sixty trees along the route.  Both dogs commit scores of times per day. Where is all this marking juice coming from? Is it somehow manufactured on the spot? Pepie, with his long black legs, has perfect form. Very high leg lift. Great balance. Acrobatic even. Not unlike those high-beam gymnasts in the Olympic games.  Deft, capable and athletic. All the cards show the number ten.  The dog is flawless. Sometimes Spikey and Pepie will do a ballerina gig together. While almost butt to butt, they’ll  leg-lift  as one. Beautiful symmetry and synchronicity. Score that a ten also. Spikey sometimes half-legs it or old-dogs it or trap-doors it. Meaning that he’ll lift his leg only halfway, which conveys a certain laziness or half-effort. The trap-door appears to require the least effort and differs from the other two half modes in that it creates a  little crease or fold in Spikey’s piglet-like thigh, giving the impression that his stream is somehow emanating from a hidden trap door.

On the underside of things, Pepie’s indiscriminate and wanton territorial presumptions have no equal. When it comes to leaving his mark, he defers to no one, and would lift a leg on the king’s or prime minister’s shoe if afforded the opportunity. It’s hilarious to speculate what might happen if Pepie were let loose in a Brussels chandeliered state room of antiquity, opulence and refinement, filled with the high-brows of importance and pretence. Pepie brings a bit of the hood with him wherever he goes.

Pepie squats in a kind of disciplined military by the book perfect form tripod-style when he sets to drop one. But he does so very suddenly, and occasionally leaves it vertically on the side of something,  such as a tree. Isn’t that special, that’s so cute. Or where it’s completely hidden and inaccessible.  A regular Houdini. It was just there. I saw it. Now it’s gone. Spikey is a cluster bomber  and often produces a trail of four or five products. Sometimes they indicate a letter ‘S’, ‘O’, or another letter. Is he using advanced coding? I should study this more closely. Very forensic. Both dogs will attempt to bury their offering, but spraying  one another with dirt, grass and worse is apparently much preferred to accuracy. Is each is getting even for past insults or slights? Perhaps attaching a rear view mirror to their collars is the ticket.

Spikey and Pepie sometimes go real-dogging. That’s when they attempt to eat the vilest, rancid-looking, decomposing substances available anywhere on the ground. Their genus canis wolf-like antecedents from way back had to scrounge for anything, so there you go. Food is food. Or is it more precisely like a Pollock is a Rembrandt to the blind. It’s as if they hadn’t eaten for days. Attempting to take it away from them is offering a wolf your precious fingers for lunch.  I cannot relax my vigilance, not for a second, not with these two Neo-Wolves.

Spikey is an instigator and provocateur. He’ll bark and snap out at other dogs for reasons only he knows. Even to dogs across the street, or from similar distances, he’ll aggressively bark and pull hard as if to say: Let me at him, I’ll kill him! But it’s all bluff, because I tested it once by dropping the leash. No attack. No punches were thrown.  Pepie, on the other hand, is OK with other dogs, at least until somebody says something about somebody’s mother. Then it’s an insult-laden war. Also, when Pepie sees that Spikey is upset, he’ll join in, for reasons that probably he doesn’t even remotely know. Or is it: What did you say about my brother?

Love is measured in different ways. I love Spikey because Spikey is Spikey, but I love Pepie because Lieve loves Pepie. Actually, I’ve come to appreciate Pepie, to understand and have empathy for him. So that’s love too.  Spikey is a uniquely handsome dog.  He’s also a real charmer with a circus clown’s sense of playing up to people’s reactions. He is magnetic and draws everyone’s attention. He’s also a bit of a prankster who plays the angles to get his way. Pepie doesn’t have those talents or endowments.

Pepie stands in the shadows while everyone admires Spikey. I’ve learned patience and tolerance in looking past Pepie’s short comings of judgement and recklessness. I feel for him because he is the outsider. The refugee dog.  A dog with a likely tumultuous past that nobody knows about. So if Spikey is the sun, Pepie must be the shadow. And with all of the kilometers in the sun and shadows, in the rain and snow and wind over all these years,  I never tire of walking them. And when one of them is no longer around, it’ll be a half-empty walk. Less chaotic for certain. And much less of an adventure. But I’ve been very fortunate for these past ten years, walking Spikey and Pepie. Or have they been walking me all along?

EDWIN QUINN GOT KICKED IN THE HEAD

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 Vietnam… 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 Maureen, 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 unraveling 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. Then Edwin Quinn got kicked in the head in gym class and died two days  later. All the kids were at Pat King’s big birthday party, except Edwin. I saw him in his room looking at his aquarium while I shied from dancing. And that wintery night when I walked past the vacant Coloruso house on Terrace Avenue. Andy Williams’ song Can’t Get Used to Losing You played on the radio in my head. The Coloruso’s were murdered, all five of them, by a guy named Hansen. The same street where Maureen offered her very personal jewels to me, a few years later. Then that kid who stood there and got smacked hard in the eye by the football I bulleted to Roy. Look, there’s  Mike Graziano getting smacked by his mother, ‘cause all the Orange Crush we all stole from Bob’s  Candy Store cellar was in there. “What’s in the bag, Michael?”  And all the guys liked Bob’s wife Madeline’s tits which stuck out real big from her sweater. Then they had to lower gargantuan Mrs.Vertrano out of the fourth story window by special means. And Nate King Cole died and it was sadder than when Kennedy got shot. He had over two hundred suits but wouldn’t sing anymore. Then Junior or somebody lit a high pile of ashcan powder that took two days to clear in Kowell’s garage. And Doctor Panitz ordered me and Russell to write a thousand word composition on why we should attend school. I wrote that the diner where we hung out was better than Mister Altshuler’s geography class. That took up five hundred words. The rest was about how Gus’s diner served fried eggs and bacon, the likes of which were rarely surpassed. I was then told to write a two thousand word composition on the futility of writing smart-mouthed compositions.. Then that record by the Animals hit the radio in sixty four. House of the Rising Sun. All over the radio the English Invasion played and I loved it. And we drove to New Jersey, I forgot why but it looked nice with the rain and red lights and neon along and  on the Jersey Turnpike as the radio played Gene Pitney’s  Town Without Pity.. Then the lights went out. All over the east coast and Roy, a tall and good-looking fellow,  walked  a long ways home from Eastchester in the dark, and bingo, eighteen months later he’s in Vietnam.. Hooky from school was played casually and shamelessly in cousin Johnny’s apartment watching Bullwinkle cartoons and shooting rubber bands and cursing everything to do with school until Aunt Stella returned from work…Of course the German butcher Gene Kramer was doing more than resting in the rear room of his store, what with Mrs Kincher hanging around. Lookout, Russell just threw a sizable rock through the New Haven Train engineers window, but miraculously avoided reform school. And the old Jewish lady on the fourth floor gave me a twenty cent tip, all in pennies, with her shaky blue-veined hand for bringing her gevelta fish. And the autumn wind blew October into November and Tom Mack, the white-haired gullible and naive father of a West Pointer, always volunteered to run the store polling place… “ Schultz checks with McCarver, here’s the pitch…Mantle sends it high and deep to right. It’s going, going,  gone!” And the watery-eyed red-faced bums with too-short trousers left empty bottles of cheap wine and Mrs. Wagner’s Pie wrappers on the snowy ground in makeshift box-houses in the vacant lot near the Bronx line… Now the Christmas tree lights are reflecting beautifully on our living room window with the blackness of outside showing a little blue. Someone is out there in this black cold night, wandering, maybe lost in the mind and beyond hope is what I thought as I got ready to open a present. Did they have a tree and presents once? “Terry checks the runners, here’s the pitch, McCovey hits a line drive bullet, right at Richardrson, and the Yanks are world champions”..

SONNY LISTON

 tom briggs

The first time I saw Sonny Liston was on the cover of the December 1961 edition
(35 cents!)of Boxing Illustrated. He was in a fighting pose and was wearing black Everlast speed bag gloves. He was also wearing a scowling, menacing look. He glared at me from that cover, like he was mad at me personally. Liston was the number one heavyweight contender for Floyd Patterson’s heavyweight championship. Since that issue, Liston has remained the most intriguing and compelling athlete I’ve ever seen in some fifty five years of following major sports. That covers hundreds of great athletes, including Sandy Koufax, Joe Montana, George Foreman and the greatest athlete I ever saw in any sport: Cassius Clay/Muhammad Ali.

Liston was born in Pine Bluff, Arkansas in the early 1930’s. No one knows the exact year. At age fourteen he escaped to St. Louis from his share cropping family which included his parents plus twelve brothers and sisters. His often liquored-up father had regularly used him as a punching bag. To say that Sonny gravitated to the wrong crowd in St. Louis is an understatement. Soon the hulking youth developed into a formidable street mugger and armed robber and was eventually sentenced to five years in Missouri State Penitentiary. It was in the University of Detention where he learned how to box, earning a masters degree in jaw-breaking and rib crushing. In 1956, he assaulted a cop and did six months.

Upon his release, he hooked up with mobsters Frankie Carbo and Blinky Palermo, securing part-time employment as part of their shakedown and enforcement teams. He soon started climbing up the professional heavyweight ladder during the mid to late fifties, scoring impressive knock outs, usually early round, over rated fighters. One of his managers during this run of victories was mob appointed Joe Barone. Interestingly, his management team regularly matched him with tough fighters with hard punches. Liston could deliver and take, a tremendous punch.

Floyd was rather small for a heavyweight. At five feet eleven inches, he weighed between a hundred eighty five and a hundred ninety . Cus D’Amato, Patterson’s manager, made certain that Floyd stayed clear of Liston and several other hard hitting heavyweights. Liston weighed around two eighteen, some twenty five pounds heavier than Patterson. Sonny also had a tremendous reach advantage over Floyd But that was not the most remarkable difference between the two. While Patterson had fast hands and a decent left hook, Liston was a murderous hitter with either hand. Rib-cracking body shots. A right cross that would have you seeing five referees counting over you. And an uppercut that could send your mandible where your cranium was. Even when his punches landed on the arms, opponents complained of pain and soreness for weeks afterwards. Liston had fourteen inch fists. Sports Illustrated writer Mort Sharnic described them as ‘two cannon balls made into fists’. He also possessed a left jab that was described by many who fought him as if being hit with the butt end of a telephone pole. No doubt, the best left jab in heavyweight history, aided by an incredible plus eighty inch reach. Many still rate the prime Liston of 1958-1962 as one of the best heavyweights of all time. Certainly the best or second best puncher in the last hundred twenty years.

As if these endowments weren’t enough. During the referee’s pre-fight instructions in the center of the ring, Liston would stand, Reddish beside him, about two inches from the other fighter. I can still see it on television. Nose to nose. Sonny is wearing his customary white hooded terrycloth robe. His dark face is surrounded by white. The guy made Darth Vader look like a pink cupcake. He then would shake-down the other fighter with his jungle-like predators eyes. Sonny would mug him and take away his courage before the bell even rang. As his opponent walked back to his corner to await the bell, his legs were already a little wobbly.

Most impressive of Liston’s wins were his two demolitions of highly rated Houston heavyweight Cleveland Williams, 1959-60. ‘Big Cat’ Williams was a ferocious hitter with fast hands. Many fighters had ducked him. After taking some heavy punishment from William’s early assaults, Liston caught up with him, pole-axing and starching* the Big Cat in rounds two and three, respectively. One could only imagine what Patterson might’ve been thinking had he witnessed these demolitions. Check it out on You Tube. Liston Williams. One and Two.

In the high school where I went there were a few ‘Sonny’s. ’ Nobody, black or white, messed with this incarnation. They were built like grown men while in ninth and tenth grade, though they might’ve been left back a grade or two. Rumours flew that that one drove a milk truck before school or that another had three kids. They would shake you down for change on the stairwell. “Let me hold a quarter” they’d say. Horsing around in gym class, they could fracture your breastbone with a playful punch. They had that look that said ‘share something with me’. ‘Be my friend, you are my friend, and friends lend money to friends’.

Liston would do his speed bag, heavy-bag and rope skipping to James Brown’s Night Train with his head trainer, the beret-topped Willie Reddish, looking on.
“All aboard for the night train / Miami, Florida/ Atlanta, Georgia / Raleigh, North Carolina /Washington D.C. Oh, and Richmond, Virginia too/Baltimore, Maryland / Philadelphia New York City / Take it home And don’t forget New Orleans / The home of the blues /Oh, yeah, night train Night train, night train”

I’ve been to a few of those cities, and many others. Invariably the train or Greyhound bus I rode on entered the city from the poor side of town. Usually places where the Liston’s of the City hung out or were raised in. Sometimes I think I’m part black, because I can feel the rhythm in that song with a rare intensity. I can hear the crickets. I swat at mosquito’s that aren’t there. See the red lights and hear the sirens of the Man. Especially the hot summer city. Especially the night city. Especially the Southern city. This all is The Essence of Liston. Considering the milieu that Sonny came from, the Arkansas sharecroppers farm, the streets, the prison, the bullet invested world of the mob, facing a fighter who wanted to take his head off was like a vacation. “I’ll have another Daiquiri while I break this guy’s ribs with a body shot” “Ah, feels good to finally relax now, the bell is about to ring”

Patterson was articulate and sensitive. He didn’t talk like a fighter. He often sounded apologetic after beating an opponent. But he was a great fighter and he loved being a fighter. But he was better suited against fighters his own size. And he did very well against light-punching fighters. The anti-climactic results: Liston destroyed Patterson, first in Chicago in 1962, then in Las Vegas the following year. Both were first round knockouts.

In 1964, in one of the greatest upsets in ring history, Liston was stopped by Cassius Clay/Muhammad Ali, Liston failing to answer the bell for the seventh round. The odds for that fight were seven to one, Liston. Maybe Sonny had too many early round knockouts. Maybe he aged all at once. But could Clay/Ali have beaten the 1959 Liston? Maybe, maybe not. In 1974, in yet another huge upset, Ali knocked out George Foreman in the eighth round. The way I figure it, Ali remains the greatest heavyweight who ever lived. The only heavyweight to have beaten huge odds twice against tremendous punchers to win the title. Foreman was considered to be another Liston by many – a bigger and taller version with as much, if not more, punching power. I rate him the second or third greatest heavyweight in history. But neither had the essence, mystique, history or ability to chill the spine of other fighters quite like Charles Sonny Liston. The Night Train fighter.

It has recently been suggested that there is not enough character dialogue in my writing. This by someone very close and important to me as it gets. Also, the fact that I’ve always thought it would be great to interview Sonny Liston, here goes:

TB Sonny, I thought you were underrated, all-time.
SL Thanks.
TB It must have been tough being the son of a sharecropper.
SL Yeah. The only thing my father gave me was a beating.
TB Why did you look so mean during the referee’s instructions?
SL Cause the other fighter wanted something from me and I didn’t want to give him nothing. I wasn’t there to tap dance for him.
TB What was it like as a teenager on the streets of St. Louis?
SL Not as bad as the farm in Arkansas. I didn’t have any money then.
TB But you mugged people in St. Louis. You robbed them, using a gun.
SL That’s right. I was hungry. Plus I wanted to get even.
TB Get even? With who?
SL With life, cause the dice I was handed early on in life never won me anything.
TB What was prison like?
SL It was tough at first. But I got used to it. Boxing saved me from going crazy.
TB Did that somehow make things easier in the professional ring?
SL Yeah. That was easy compared to having guards watching me all the time
and cons asking for favours.

TB What happened in the first Clay fight? You said it was a shoulder injury, that you couldn’t go on.
SL I just said that. Clay was too fast. Too smart. He wasn’t afraid of me, like the others.
TB I have to ask this question. How was it working on the Braniff Airlines commercial with Andy Warhole?
SL It was ok. But we had to do it over and over again (laughs)
Warhole made me laugh too much.
TB So what do you think of Foreman and Tyson? Could you have beaten them in your prime?
SL Foreman was like me. Strong and he didn’t mess around. Somebody would go down, probably in a late round. Probably him. (Laughs)
TB And Tyson?
SL Tyson is crazy. He might bite my ear off. (laughs again) But he comes right at a fighter. That’s dangerous with me.
TB How did you die, Sonny? There was a lot of mystery surrounding your death.
SL It was an overdose of heroin.
TB Any regrets Sonny?
SL Yeah. I could’ve made some people happier. Especially kids. I should’ve gave them more time. Street kids like me.
TB Sometimes, I saw that in your eyes. Thanks for talking with me, Sonny.
SL Your welcome.

*Common boxing slang terms.
Stunned, as if hit with a poleaxe. / Starched, like a stiff shirt, not moving.

 

CALIFORNIA STORY AT A BRONX COFFEE SHOP

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. DeLillo Country. The City Line twenty-four hour bakery and coffee shop. Where the bookies, hoods and dreamers  from City Island to Baychester hung out, talking about how Frankie done this, and Joey done that and how Jimmy Pepperoni got nailed for drugs and was headed for the Dannemora big house for at least ten years with good behaviour but that Jimmy never had good behaviour so forget about it. But maybe Johnny The Greaser could get him reduced, no problem. The protagonist in this story has ‘been there and done that and wishes everyone to know about it.

…..”Hear about Franky Tagliateli’s ’s kid Joey? Going to Fordham. Hey, any kid that uses the word perhaps instead of maybe is not 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 taking the action away from the local bookies 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 DeVino’s kid Tommy Two? You the guy that wanted to know about California from twenty-five years ago? 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 Whitehall 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. Coast to coast. 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 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 rooftops of San Bernardino smiling up at me and all those swimming pools glittering like aqua-colored 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. Not even Westchester. Nothing like anything I ever saw. Another planet. All those pink and light green deco buildings and convertible cars. Those Googie signs. The kind that Huxley liked. Those wide streets. The palms shooting towards the sun. Santa Monica Pier. And Venice Beach was like an Annette Funicello movie that kept running. 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 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 Rikers Island and Tombs 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. Drifters, dreamers, schemers. Anyway, Justin lived free and easy. Usually got free board from the local temple. Moved around the state. What an operator. 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
Michelangelo. 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 Sunset in Hollywood when I saw Johnny Rivers for the first time. Got to know him a little bit. Real name is Ramistella. Great singer, guitarist and songwriter. A legend. He even invited me for a recording session. I was there in the studio on Sunset when he recorded Poor Side of Town. A religious experience. I’m not shitting you. The guy had style. Class. Come from Louisiana. Memphis. 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. Great guitar, too. Underrated something awful. The Whiskey was nothing until he made it big. Iggy and The Stooges played there. The Doors too. The Byrds. I saw them all. And the girls. 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 Dietrich 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. That heavy shit of what makes us all tick. After getting a little juiced, he would call in on KABC 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.

And ask me about that prodigiously talented nut case Phil Spector. OK, the guy was a musical genius. But a tough Jew with a temper like TNT. And brains. Always thought the guy was connected. Maybe Cohen’s Family bankrolled him. Who knows. Mickey Cohen was still running things Los Angeles underworld-style in those days. Maybe I was dreaming but I could’ve sworn I saw Mickey go into Gold Star one day. That’s where Spector made his Wall of Sound. A storefront right on Santa Monica Boulevard in Hollywood. I’m not shitting you. I was gold-leafing a window not two doors down the block. I was fascinated with that little store. But I never was inside. I would go by there once in a while. See who was showing up. I wouldn’t go near Spector. Not after I saw him once railing against some studio musician or poor slob technician. But I did talk with half of The Righteous Brothers one day. Bobby Hatfield was a nice guy. The king of blue-eyed soul had a simple heart of gold.
I’m not shitting you.

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 ate at Zucky’s Deli on Wilshire and Fifth for lunch. I think it’s still there. Sandwiches. Ham and Swiss on Rye. Better than drugs. A BLT, thicker than a canned ham, was a buck and a quarter. Think about that too. Had those fabulous red leather seats. Same at Ships Diner in Culver City and a hundred other lunch joints in LA. Ships was right by the Metro Goldwyn Studios, where I lettered a few props. You would see all those TV actors coming in at Ships and Zucky’s. 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, not long after I got there. 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 LA Water and Power Building, Bunker Hill. Sixty-five, I think. I was working on a sign right across the street. They were lip-syncing “You, Nobody But You”. Nice kids. Goofing around while they did it. 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 delusions. Where dreams ripened like avocados in the California sun.
Hey, I even wrote a poem about it. I think I remember it. Goes something like this:

Those long gone LA days.
Tooling around in the warm sun rays/

In my old Merk truck, the one of red.
Now a sign on La Brea, pays good, ‘nuff said/

In the majestic light blue and tan of the city.
Though its style disappears, oh what a pity/

What a place, a regular paradise.
Even considering all its vice/

What a shame, that place on Fairfax upped and closed.
And now a few more while expectations dozed.

The sun has set, beyond the Monica Wheel,
Lovely sight, though blue I feel/

But the memories, they are mine forever.
And has LA died? Never never never!

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.

REEL BIG FOOT IN MEDITERRANEAN

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.

THE GORILLA OF VENTIMIGLIA

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….”

MARINA 2018 WINTER SOJOURN

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)

USA’S NEW CIVIL WAR

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.

HAPPY 23RD, SWEETHEART!

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)!

THANKSGIVING

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.

NEIL THE SQUEAL YOUNG

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  lyrics.com 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.

MONSIEUR VEGAS

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!

UNITED GANGS OF USSA

BY TOM BRIGGS

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.

SAFETY WORLD

tom briggs

Frankie carried a switchblade because one was allowed.  He wore government CorpState-sanctioned oil-stained clothes, the kind with the Ché logo on them.  He was a Punkrebel, who was ready for anything the feds cooked up. Frankie liked the idea of “edging” and living close to death.  He said he did.  And I thought and talked like he did. The government shot real rebels but designated others like us,  as a sort of unofficially-sanctioned ‘rebel’  To the degree that we rebels distained civilized history and reason, logic and art, family and tradition, we were allowed a certain free reign.

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 more, prove something. Participate in something dangerous to show what they were made of.  Too much safety, too much comfort, 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.

GLOBAL TYRANNY JUST GETTING
WARMED UP

BY DARREN JONESCU  americanthinker.com

“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

 

EXPLAINING PROGRESSIVISM

By DAREN JONESCU

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, YABBIT & THE BOYS

Composite

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)  

BY TOM BRIGGS

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

THE FUNDAMENTAL TRANSFORMATION
OF AMERICA’S NEIGHBORHOODS

JENNIE DE ANGELIS    americanthinker.com

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

MARXISM ON THE RISE (NO KIDDING)

THE GUARDIAN

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

COMMON CORE’S MARXIST PAST

NANCY THORNER and BONNIE O’NEIL

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…

OBAMA: FIRST MARXIST US PRESIDENT?

BY TOM BRIGGS

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

THE CALIFORNIA DROUGHT & THE FREE MARKET

MICHAEL GRABLE     americanthinker.com    

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

THE TRAVELING RIOT CIRCUS

CLARICE FELDMAN americanthinker.com

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

 

THE SUSTAINABLE DEVELOPMENT SCAM

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

 

 

A SUICIDAL COLLAPSE OF WESTERN CIVILIZATION?

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 www.NIPCCreport.org].    

THOMAS SOWELL:
OBAMA INEPTITUDE BY DESIGN?

By THOMAS SOWELL   www.news.investors.com

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…

 

CRIMINALIZING WEATHER RELATED DEATHS

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: SUSTAINABLE SLAVERY

By KATHLEEN MARQUARDT

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

CHARLIE HEBDO
A LETTER TO A FRIEND

BY TOM BRIGGS

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

FRANKFURT SCHOOL CRITICAL THEORY
HAS RAVAGED USA

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

OBAMA’S ISLAMIST AGENDA

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

SO THIS IS A HEISMAN TROPHY WINNER?

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

THE LADY IN RED

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

MORE BLACK VIOLENCE

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

GOVERNMENT & CORPORATE INTRUSION INTO YOUR PRIVATE LIFE

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

THEY’RE COMING AFTER YOUR CEILING FAN

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.”
More

MARINE LE PEN & OTHERS

From The BRUSSELS JOURNEL

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…

 

 

DEATH OF THE WEST

tom briggs

The USA has been in a cultural/social/demographic implosion/make-over/revolution for the past 50-60 years. While there are several reasons for this demise, the motor that drives the implosion is cultural Marxism/Communism. That political ideology has combined with monopoly capitalism to transformed the United States economically, culturally and racially. The posts on this site are offered as examples of Marxism/Communism in action in all of its disguises in all areas of private and public life in the USA.
On paper, Marxism is an economic, cultural and political theory created by Karl Marx in the mid 19th century. It is atheistic and denies a transcendent God. It wills that the State is god. It is nihilistic and proposes a classless society and seeks to abolish all private property, all private enterprise, religion (primarily Christianity), and the institutions of marriage and family. One of its major tenants is that all production is in the hands of the State. It seeks the total elimination of all ideas that conflict with its core objectives. Like a vampire that cannot stand the light, Marxist’s cannot stand objective or transcendent truth. It can grow from benign socialism Into an “adult” called Communism. It is evangelism by force. Brotherhood with a gun to your head. It is the main building block for state sanctioned terror, both psychological and physical.
In essence, Marxism seeks to plant weeds in a garden once thriving with beautiful flowers. It seeks to invert the meaning of words. The word Liberal used to mean “open to, or willing to listen to and consider, all ideas”. It now means a left winger or Marxist/Communist who is unwilling to accept any idea at odds with his own. In most of its historical manifestations, Marxism has been utilized to create the totalitarian police state. It is the father of Communism and is the best suited political economic system for the gangster bureaucratic State, of which the Unites States and the rest of the Western world, are now entrapped, to one degree or another.
Over the past six decades, Marxism has been made even more formidable by the techniques of “critical theory” or “political correctness” created by the Frankfurt School (1920’s Germany) Critical theory seeks to defame and “correct” all history, institutions, values, leaders, icons and cultural norms established by the previously free state or “host state” of which Marxism is the invading parasite. The water that allows Marxism to grow are apathy, ignorance and lack of vigilance
Marxism is defacto Communism, and eventually grows from the egalitarian socialist state which now defines the USA and the entire West, into a police state defined by terror, concentration camps and wholesale slaughter. Communism needs to fracture, or split up, a society/culture by designating certain groups as “oppressors” and other groups as the “oppressed”. In the United States today, middle class whites are the oppressors and non-whites (except Orientals) are the oppressed. Other catagories of “oppressor” and “oppressed” are covered on this site.
Marxism/Communism is the lifeblood of political tyrants. It acts as a kind of tumor that metastasises in an existing democracy. Over decades, it invades all organisms, or institutions, and thus transforms a once free and open political economic system into a totalitarian State. ( or in the insane manner that a gardener would spray all the flowers with weed killer, so the weeds could flourish). This technique has often been referred to as Fabian Socialism. The USA now is in the final stages of a “soft Communism”. It won’t be long before it enters the early stages of the physical terror State. This is plainly in evidence by the ubiquitous roving black gangs that attack whites at public venues all across America while the President Obama and his Justice Department look the other way.
Marxists are geniuses at creative destruction. They seek to destroy all western institutions by diluting, polluting and transforming them with Marxist ideology. They have subverted the entire educational system. Very similar to how the Mafia expropriated or “muscled in on” legitimate businesses. Marxists have hijacked a large part of the western media apparatus. They have almost completely hijacked science and will suppress any scientific discovery if it is at odds with their agenda. They are master propagandists. They seek to invert all cultural norms. It is the rebel state that allows no rebellion. It is the egalitarian state that the power elite, or the super class, wants to enslave the world with.
Marxism has historically attracted intellectual theorists from Lenin to Mao to Sartre’ to Marcuse to Alinski to Obama, who’s main talents are criticism and destruction of Western ideals and institutions, while using any means necessary. In my opinion, they constitute a special kind of psychotic personality that is incapable of any serious creative “construction” and are loathe to witness it in others. Another talent of theirs is the ability to ignore the history of human tragedy and slaughter that Marxism and Communism have produced.
Marxism/Communism thrives in crises, and will create one in order to weaken and bankrupt a society. It is why the USA has such a massive and burdensome social welfare state, and why now expenditures are astronomical for the military industrial sector. Marxism has done more harm to blacks than to any other group in the USA. It has destroyed the black family through welfare dependence. It has pushed for legislation that allowed giant corporate mergers which helped to destroy small business. It has fostered the growth of the “litigeous society”, where it is easy to sue anyone or any business on the flimsiest grounds. It has sided with big business to weaken the free enterprise system in the USA. It has completely politicized the US Supreme Court. It has ushered in the Corporatist State that is rapidly merging with the Marxist Cultural State.
Many international power brokers who seek a One World Government, such as the Climate Change leviathan, are apolitical and are not Marxists. However, they employ Marxist techniques of cultural inversion to dissolve the Western Nation State and anything else that might impede their agenda.
Marxism seeks to hijack of the individual soul and control the individual mind. It is government by intrusive micromanagement, increasing taxation, intimidation and eventually terror. It is dystopia sold as utopia. It is the most unadulterated form of political, social and moral cancer. It is the robber of ingenuity, beauty, personality, honor, and individualism.
Left unchecked, it will rule a world shrouded by the blackness of perpetual lies. It is the destabilization of society. It is the ominous shadow that hovers ever larger and darker over your liberties. It is the voice that tells you that up is down, right is wrong and left is right. It is the every day world of paranoia. It is speech control. It is the closing of the mind. It is the science of lying. It is atheism unleashed. It is the enterprise of destruction. It is the hijacking of science. It is the demolition of all Christian institutions. It is the merging of big business with big government. It is the one world borderless state.
It is the criminalization and eventual elimination of the middle class. It is the end of hope. It is the devil on earth. In its various incarnations it has been responsible for over 80 million deaths by murder and starvation during the 20th century. The larger version of this incarnation is, I believe, the New World Order, a kind of de facto cultural Marxism totalitarian Capitalism oligarchical system of world control. It’s Orwell’s “1984” Maybe it’s been the ‘shadow international government for much longer than that. Maybe from the Illuminati and Spartacus Weishaupt. Gaining socialistic strength in the turbulence of the 1930’s great depression, which was ultimately the birth of the super welfare state in America.

Maybe the explosive growth of the middle class of the 50’s, 60’s and 70’s was just an anomaly and the result of the tremendous technological advancements caused in part by World War II. The historical terrors of communism are largely covered up by the media. I am not puzzled by this. The major media in the USA (and the western world) has been leaning increasingly left for a very long time. When I tell anyone that the United States today is a de facto Marxist State, they think that I’m some kind of right wing nut case. They haven’t a clue as to what I am talking about.
Sadly, most people have no idea of how thoroughly the USA has been transformed over the past half century from a vigorous and open free market economy state into a big government bureaucracy-laden leviathan on the brink of social anarchy and economic collapse. Those who think that I’m that aforementioned ‘nut case’ have no doubt blindly and naively bought what the international media, which is actually the propaganda wing of the New World order, has sold them. They must believe that their government, with its ever-increasing bureaucracy and power, it’s intrusiveness, it’s micro-management, is their friend.
They must believe that television, the movies, daily newspapers and magazines are not biased towards the left; They must believe that tidal waves of 3rd world immigrants are not transforming the USA into an ever larger welfare state. (look at England!). The United States was over 90%euro white 50 years ago. It is now something like 68% white. That doesn’t mean anything by itself. Good and bad are from everywhere. Talent is everywhere.
But when taken into account with the objectives of Marxism to dismantle, brick by brick, the free-economy state, along with its middle class, the radical transformation of its racial/ethic composition becomes essential. The United States is in a terrible cultural war for its soul, and it is losing. Oops’ I’ve said a lot of very naughty things so far! It must all be a coincidence that the USA has changed so much. It must be what those liberal ideologues call ‘progressivsm’.
It must be a coincidence that the founders of the ‘New Marxism’ (cultural instead of economic) of ‘Political Correctness’ and ‘Critical Theory’ (Frankfurt School in 1920’s Germany which disbanded during Hitler’s rise, only to reappear wearing a new mask ‘New School Social Research’ in the USA). It espoused a decades-long revolution by gradual infusion of a inverted belief system, and not by ‘party’ instigated coup d’ tat, as in Cuba, but by change with a ‘matasticizing’ of the socio/cultural/political ‘body’) Frankfurt alumni Horkhiemer, Adorno, Gramsci, Lukacs, Marcuse (Columbia) and propaganda genius Willi Munzenberg, (Goebbels was a disciple) have had a profound and irrevocable influence on the American University system.
Infecting first several major northeast schools, then several west coast schools (Berkeley the most significant ). All to inculcate students with hatred of capitalism, their own country and its history, and with white guilt. They teach ‘creative destruction’ and how to ‘hate creatively’ It is not a coincidence that a great majority of Marxists have emanated from the university educated upper middle class. The long bloody history of communism is populated with the same.
Radical groups and organizations The USA abounds with political action, special interest lobbies, race, sex, and religion-based groups. However the only race-based, and the only radical groups that are funded by tax payer money are those on the left, including the radical left. Check out this revealing and shocking link to get an idea of how thoroughly left the USA actually is, and how hard-working though hapless Americans are actually helping, along with mega rich leftist foundations and individuals like George Soros, pay for their enslavement. And others too numerous to mention here.
The government owns the air that we breathe. And our garbage too! They own it outside and inside and have completely politicized science in the process. Most people think that government cares about citizen’s health. But it’s more likely that central government wants to control business via onerous regulations and penalties based on dubious science. ‘Sick Building Syndrome’ is yet another charade by the international ‘health police’- better known as the World Health Organization. ‘Second-hand smoke’ is another.
The asbestos scam is yet another, in my opinion. There are probably scores of others. It’s all designed to increase the range of penalties, taxes and regulations and control over and on private enterprise. It’s not that any of these things haven’t made some people sick. But in cases where only a few out every 50,000 or get sick, that product and its industry is then demonized by regulation, taxation and litigation.
These regulations have cost the economy trillions. Global warming, while a naturally occurring phenomenon for probably thousands of years, has been used, in my opinion, to manipulate a gullible public into believing that it’s the major threat to the planet. Also, it’s probably a way for the very powerful to make a lot of money. CO2 levels effect is hypothetical projection at best. Scores of PhD-level meteorologists and geologists call it preposterous. It’s all about the transference of wealth and power and the increasing federal (and international) management of private industry.
It is also a convenient ploy in that it diverts attention away from those forces- economic and cultural, that actually are radically changing peoples lives. Tyrants throughout history knew that ‘they’ll believe the big lie the most’ (Hitler/Lenin). I wonder what the ‘carbon footprint’ of Al Gore is? The Environmental Protection Agency and The California Air Quality Control Board are just two powerful agencies that police private business. They never use a gun, just dubious science. Entire farms have been confiscated by the government under the rubric of The Endangered Species Act. If a certain fly on your farm is on the endangered list, your land may be taken by the government and designated as a protected ‘wildlife zone’.
Black Flash mob violence/looting is spreading A 2003 invention of Harper’s magazine senior editor Bill Wasik that has now taken an ugly turn. Largely covered up by the media, (is that a surprise?) this new form of social revolutionary violence is no doubt causing unabashed joy in the leftist community and in Obama’s heart. Twenty to thirty black thugs meet at a designated location, announced through a Facebook or other SNS connection, enter a shop en masse, and loot it. This act of anarchy is often accompanied by violence directed exclusively against whites. These thugs are the Marxist dobermans – whether they know it or not.
And it probably will get much worse. The revolutionary intelligentsia and others who support the president will stop at nothing to get Obama re-elected. He’ll then have another 4 years to allow increasingly violent attacks against whites, and the looting of businesses to continue. The National Guard will eventually be called in to “restore order”. At that point, the US will be a de facto police state, regardless of the degree that the military is ‘Marxized’ and expunged of its ‘patriots’ or others not yet inculcated into the ‘new order’.
The USA has become a “predator nation”. The retail economy, as a result, will take yet another a big hit. And it’s not just ‘flash violence’. Innumerable incidences of black on white violence have been reported all across the country, usually at venues like state fairs, amusement parks and sports stadiums. I know the argument: “Yeah, but it’s the white nut case with an automatic weapon who slaughters 20 or 30 innocent people at a public venue, that’s a larger issue”.
This also is social anarchy, but the difference is that these psychotic and reprehensible acts are carried out by individuals, not by hordes that can only be described as ‘street armies’ armed only with hate and revenge. The former is unpredictable individual psychosis. The latter, in its varied forms, is organized anarchy with an infinitely greater potential for social destabilization. It is ubiquitous and ongoing. To those that clamor for gun control after a mass slaying at the hands of an individual nut-case, I ask: should we also outlaw Facebook and all other SNS’s? Knives? Stones? Auto’s?
LIES AND OTHER REASONS
Lie one: The USA is a racist nation. Blacks and Latinos are victims of racial crimes by whites. Fact:The USA is a racist nation. Blacks and Latinos commit most of the violent crimes by about 20/50 to 1 ratio compared to whites. You can check out the FBI statistics. Most racial ‘hate crimes’ are in fact committed by blacks against whites. In almost all cases, the news media will never give the race of a black perpetrator, nor show his photo.

Lie two: The USA’s ‘homeless problem’ is a result of inadequate social relief system.Fact: USA has the world’s largest (by far) welfare system by ratio.The US social welfare system is so vast it cannot help, along with the imperialist agenda in place, but bankrupt America.

Lie three: Immigration built America, so it’s good for the US now. Fact: Since 1965, 3rd world immigration, a lot of it illegal, has destroyed The Eurocentric social fabric of America. The USA is turning into a third world Brown Nation as a result. People conveniently forget that a moratorium was put on immigration in 1920. It was the duty of every nation in world history to maintain the integrity of its cultural/racial base. They fought wars over it.
If blacks and Latinos were losing their populations in ratio to overall population as is the case with whites, it would be considered genocide. But the reality that the USA is rapidly losing its white population is a topic that very few will broach. Indeed, it is a subject that is virtually taboo in America.
Who is extreme right? Anyone that the media says is extreme right even though they may be only moderately right. Remember, Marxists believe in relative truths, so that the definition of terms keeps changing. Eventually, it will be anyone who holds an opinion that is at odds with the egalitarian-based leftist ‘world view’ It will be anyone who is a born-again Christian, a ‘patriot’, or a ‘conservative’ as these terms become increasingly demonized.
The terms ‘extreme left’ ‘radical left’ ‘far left’ are very rarely used in journalism, whether print or electronic. ‘Extreme right’ has become a taboo label, much like the term ‘racist’. Blacks can never be racists because they are a member of the ‘oppressed class’. You will never find extreme right professors on American university campuses, where professors with extreme left views abound. For example Angela Davis, a confirmed Marxist, teaches at Berkeley. Bill Ayers, a leftist anarchist, is a professor at University of Illinois/Chicago.
Anyone on campus with extreme right views would be ‘witch-hunted’ into oblivion. Many teachers have lost tenure for not holding the right views. To get a book published with a major publisher or get a movie produced that expresses unabashed ‘right of center’ views is next to impossible.
Who else has sold out the USA? It must be stated clearly that the demise of the USA is not exclusively a socialist engineered phenomenon. It’s the mega business/mega government bureaucracy that gains control and power through the implementation of Cultural Marxism. The Republican-centered Bush-Cheney-Gingrich-McCain, William Crystal so-called NeoConservative movement espouses a One World view that promulgates open borders with Mexico and mass immigration from other 3rd World Central American and Caribbean nations.
The Neo Conservative movement is nothing more than a ‘hijacking’ and reconstituting, mostly by Jewish intellectuals, of the real conservative movement the one espoused by the likes of Pat Buchannan, Phyllis Schlafly, Dr.Thomas Sowell, Brent Bozell, et al. The conspiracist side of me thinks that maybe the Neo-cons, along with others unknown, perhaps the International Zionist crowd, were behind the World Trade disaster for the purpose of ultimately introducing legislation such as Homeland Security and The Patriot Act- two measures that vastly increase intrusion on the lives of innocent citizens by the Central Government, thus making all citizens ‘suspects’.
Another reason might be to sustain the state of perpetual war in the mid-east to further bankrupt the ‘republic’, al la Columbia University’s Cloward/Piven strategy, which attempts to build crises or invent crises where there are none. No doubt also, that mega multinational companies pour millions into both right and left coffers. The Republican Party, over the past 40 odd years, has been pro-illegal, pro 3rd world immigration and pro big business/big bank. Republicans have helped usher in international trading treaties like GAAT and NAFTA. Both treaties have borne irreparable harm to American small business while helping mega international companies expand their markets. I have no idea of what has happened to the insurance industry in America, but it is an increasingly corrupt and financial independence killing entity.
Apparently both major parties have stood by while gladly accepting generous offers by the giant insurance lobby in Washington. Public apathy has also played a sizable role in the demise of the USA. People are and have always been, essentially political sheep. The incremental characteristic of Marxism in American was, until now, largely unnoticed. If you have your ‘MTV, NFL, Wrestle Mania and favorite killer/slutty movie available, who the hell cares what’s going outside of one’s immediate den of inequity and sloth.
Or if you are a responsible parent who is working hard and raising a family, you just don’t have the time or inclination to notice. Great civilizations don’t last forever. They all have a cycle of birth, life and death. In the final analysis, and considering the natural order of things political/cultural/economic, maybe the cycle of the USA has drawn to a close because of comfort and lack of vigilance. “We’ve arrived, we’re safe, we’re comfortable, now what the hell do we do?”
The workplace Racism is the practice of not considering a person for a job, a house/apartment, an appointment or promotion because of his or her color. Reverse racism is when people of color are selected or appointed over their white counterparts to positions in spite of inferior scholastic or job performance. Reverse racism has a code word: It’s called affirmative action. Only whites can be charged with racism. You can be charged with racism even though there is not one shred of evidence to indicate that you are. You then have to prove that you are not.
This is very similar to Internal Revenue Laws in the USA, where one is randomly audited. That person then has to ‘prove’ that he didn’t violate any tax laws. Companies of a certain size have to hire a certain amount of ‘this group’ or that group’ To show that they are not racist or sexist. Racial quotas thus determine company policy infinitely more than competence and loyalty. Has this brought down performance of American companies?
Scores of companies have settled ‘out of court’ for millions after threats of law suit by race-based organizations like the racist NAACP and powerful groups like la Raza, MeCha (and other Latino groups), and radical feminist and homosexual lobbies for having too few of a certain group in their employ. while race-based bureaucracies like the Equal Employment Opportunity Commission intimidate companies into compliance. Racial gangsters, racial extortionist and full-time trouble makers like the reverend Jesse Jackson and Al Sharpton (look at their faces!) to name just two are more powerful than any senator or congressman.
Millions have been ‘looted’ from companies like the Denny’s Restaurant chain on trumped-up charges of ‘racism’. Only whites are charged with ‘hate speech’ . Blacks and other minorities, to my knowledge, are never charged with this crime. Most major companies in the United States now have ‘cultural re-education’ classes (straight out of the ‘book of communism’) for those whites who have exhibited ‘racial insensitivity’.
Tabula Rasa The entire history of the United States is being rewritten, all through the lens of ‘political correctness’. The leftist social engineers who are running America and bringing it to its knees, claim that the USA is and always has been, very sick with racism and sexism. So it follows that the founding fathers Washington, Jefferson, Madison, etc, must have been racist and sexist and that the US constitution is a fraudulent document that excluded blacks and American Indians and is thus null and void.
Indeed, all American history, as taught in public schools up until roughly the early 70’s, must be permanently expunged from the books. ‘Those who control today can rewrite yesterday’. Few realize that Lincoln himself, never considered it workable that blacks and whites should live together. He proposed shipping all American blacks to the then newly formed African state Liberia. Curious that Lincoln remains, after King, the most associated icon of ‘racial justice and freedom for blacks’
Incidently, King had associates who were hard-line Communists. And it has been proven that he plagiarized his doctoral thesis. Another tidbit never mentioned: W.E.B. du Bois, founder of the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People – NAACP- in 1909, was a member of the Communist Party, USA. That organization, once very much-needed, is now much more in the business of making money through law suits than in ‘assuring racial justice’ Personally, I feel that many blacks enriched the culture that I was raised in. Many excelled and were great personalities in entertainment, athletics and music.
Mt. Vernon, NY, where I was raised, had a sizable black upper middle class neighborhood. Muhammed Ali remains one of my all-time hero’s. It’s just that I believe that integration in the private sector should be natural and not forced by federal law. Busing, started in the early 70’s, mandated that kids from impoverished neighborhoods (black) be bused to the more ‘privileged schools in white areas. To my knowledge, this practice still exists.
Paying high taxes to live in a good neighborhood because it was safe and had good schools, was thus nullified. If racism is proved beyond a doubt in a housing, workplace or educational situation, monetary restitution to the victim would be appropriate. But by all means, merit and character worthiness should be the yardstick for acceptance and not government mandate. Unrelenting immigration from the third world – starting in 1965 has exponentially increased the welfare state.
The USA benefited greatly from immigration in the past- 1880-1920. But that was when the United States had room to expand and needed workers. Indeed, a moratorium was initiated in 1920(?), and immigration was cut back to reasonable levels. Allowing the United States to be flooded with immigrants from the third world is suicidal insanity. Personally, I have nothing against immigration –the USA was mainly built by it, but it needs to be regulated, and immigrants need to be legal! History has proved that Senator Joseph McCarthy was correct in the early 1950′s senate hearings when he claimed that the State Department was rife with ‘communists’. Now all government departments are flooded with those who wish to bring the USA to its knees.
Incidently, almost all US government departments employ minorities to a very highly disproportionate number/ratio than their caucasian counterparts. “…The report uses tables and bar charts to make unmistakably clear that federal discrimination against whites goes far beyond merely achieving proportional representation for blacks. In all 22 independent federal agencies and in 16 of 17 federal executive departments, blacks are massively over represented.“ Paul Craig Roberts.
The justice system It actually should be called the ‘Injustice System’ The shadow of fear prevails in the workplace. Companies are afraid of litigation by any number of racial, feminist or homosexual ‘rights’ groups. The courts allow ‘frivolous lawsuits’ brought against companies with scant evidence that any wrongdoing has occurred. They have to prove that they didn’t commit a crime. The government doesn’t have to prove that they did. ‘Under representation’ or failing to meet an arbitrary quota set by the Justice Department often result in protracted misery and bankrupting costs for many companies.
Other agencies, to numerous to mention here, so I’ll mention just one – The Environmental Protection Agency, wield tremendous power and constantly add onerous laws and regulations for companies to abide by. Ever tightening laws regarding ‘second-hand smoke’ threaten to criminalize parents who smoke in their own homes, all under the rubric of state protection of children’s rights. Being stopped by police while lawfully driving your car is the first step towards the day when the police can enter your home without a search warrant, no doubt under the pretense of ‘Homeland Security’
A tidal flood of illegal immigrants enter into the United States from Mexico and other third world Central American countries. Laws that try to protect states from being overrun with illegals, and have gone through various legislatures or through ballot initiatives in the states of Arizona, California , New Mexico, Texas and Colorado,are regularly overturned by court injunctions. This is unprecedented. These judges who willfully overrule initiatives with convoluted reasoning are the new dictators. Indeed, the judiciary, at municipal, state and federal levels, is the new supreme ruler in the United States.
The legislative process, which has been in existence since the US Constitution was signed has become a toothless tiger. The result is that increasingly, illegal aliens have the same rights as US citizens, thus rendering citizenship meaningless. A remarkably leftist agenda prevails at all levels of the judiciary. That basically means anti-white, anti-straight, anti-male, anti-family, anti-Christian, anti-privacy, anti-legal-citizen and anti-freedom-of-association to name a few.
The Lotto When I was a kid, there used to be ‘bookie joints’ everywhere, where you could ‘play the numbers’. All illegal, of course. Then sometime in the 70’s the state government decided to get into it. All in the name of financing the public education system. If it’s for education, it’s to teach that America is a racist country with an evil past that needs correction. It’s to teach that everyone is equal and if test scores do not indicate that they are, that proves that the ‘system’ is racist.
It’s to teach that homosexual marriage is the same as normal marriage. It’s to teach about global warming. It’s much more likely that the billions that the Lotto has generated have gone into financing yet more government ‘control’ agencies that strengthen federal bureaucratic power. And towards the purchase of luxury items for those bureaucrats who run those agencies. Curious that the Lotto has spread from New York State to every other state, and now I see, throughout Europe as well. I wonder if the Lotto administrators ever get audited. And if they do, who is doing the auditing.
GLOBAL WARMING / CLIMATE CHANGE
Global warming is a pseudo science, scare tactic and political agenda of propaganda, intimidation regulation and taxation. It’s objective is the dismantling of the economies and freedoms of the West with the purpose of wealth redistribution and the implementation of a one-world government. It is funded (infinitely more than “big oil” funds global “realists”) in the billions by governments, mega rich socialists like George Soros and Marxist-based political groups disguised as environmentalists like Greenpeace, The World Wildlife Foundation, The Nature Conservancy, National Wildlife Federation, The Sierra Club and many others. All use false science, propaganda and endless funding to implement their agenda.
They have the international left-leaning media in their pockets as well. The gulf stream scare scenario, which postulates a coming ice age that is caused by man, is just a small component of this apparatus. I file this under the rubric of “science of hysteria” It’s pure propaganda by the International Socialist Eco-facists who run the IPCC because world climate has not been warming over the last several years, as their previous false science predicted. They need another “quick fix” scenario to justify this reality.
Thus, any time the real results- the empirical results do not fit the socialist agenda that seeks to destroy the western economy, extort huge taxes, and levy heavy penalties and regulations on its hapless tax payers and businesses, the “science” is changed accordingly. Don’t forget, the alarmist scare of the early 70’s was “global cooling”, not global warming. I mean, I wish they would make up their minds! International socialists need a scare to galvanize their agenda. Any demagogue worth his salt knows this. Tyrants like Hitler, Lenin and propagandists like Al Gore knew/know that when you lie, tell the biggest lie you can imagine. They’ll believe the big lie a lot quicker than then small one. The ends justifies the means.
The governments of the west have taken ownership of the air that we breathe. They have taken over ownership of our garbage, under the rubric of protecting the environment. They will eventually impose a “consumption” tax, based on the weight of one’s garbage. Huge taxes will be added to energy costs. You will no longer be able to regulate your heating and air conditioning. It will be rationed by the “state”. No hot water today? Wait until Tuesday.
The earth’s temperature has been fluctuating for thousands of years. 96% of ozone covering is from water vapor from the oceans. Around 3% is from CO2. And around 00.4 of that total is from Man. Micheal Mann’s famous “hockey stick” graph has been shown to be based on false science culled from fudged computer models, which omitted data that ran counter to the result that they wanted. Email leeks at East Anglia University Climate Researh Unit- the epicenter of the IPCC-have revealed wanton fraud, obfuscation, cover-up and lies.
Warmists probably want to expand markets a thousand-fold into the third world’s untapped billions. The USA (and Western) middle class is the stooge left standing in this internationalist game of musical chairs. Orwell said that science would by hijacked and used to control the people and to advance the war machine.

‘Climate change’ with its carbon trading scheme, draconian taxes and regulations, transfers wealth from the ‘west’ to the more sullen parts of the world. Along the way, it destroys the middle class. Big banks, big governments and big business will make trillions on this preposterous lie. When is the new science legitimate? When it makes money for those behind it. Truth is no longer a component of science. If a market place can be created from false science, then that “science” becomes de facto legitimate
Sources for this commentary can be found in Watermelons by James Dellingpoole, The Real Global Warming Disaster by Christopher Booker, and in Scared to Death by Christopher Booker and Richard North. All of these great books are thoroughly documented with copious footnotes and other references.
The founder of the IPCC was a socialist (one-world borderless state) Maurice Strong, who had a long inside connection with communist China. He knew that environmentalism was the means to scare the western world into neo-marxist compliance.
Warmers always talk about scientific consensus. Was there consensus in Hitlerian Germany? In Stalinist Russia? Mao’s China? You bet there was. Those scientists were “getting the results” that the regime wanted. Real science has nothing to do with consensus. One scientist in 10,000, if he has discovered the truth, is worth infinitely more than the other 9,999. If a scientist wants to keep the funding coming in, to keep his tenured position at the prestigious university research department, to hold on to his ‘reputation’, then he’ll no doubt sell his soul to the devil and give up his last once of integrity to produce ‘scientific ‘results’ that the ‘regime’ (see IPCC) demands.
Science has become bastardized, stolen and manipulated to further a political agenda. Environmentalism, as practiced by the left, is a hijacking of science, a distortion of truth and a grave threat to liberty. It’s green on the outside and unmistakenly red on the inside.
The following is excerpted from a ‘familiar’ hall of academia:
http://www.ldeo.columbia.edu/res/div/ocp/gs/
It’s been a long time that the Gulf Stream-European climate myth was consigned to the graveyard of defunct misconceptions along with the Earth being flat and the sun going around the Earth. In its place we need serious assessments of how changes in ocean circulation will impact climate change and a new look at the problem of abrupt climate change that gives the tropical climate system and the atmosphere their due as the primary drivers of regional climates around the world.
In their book Propaganda and Persuasion (2011), Garth S. Jowett and Victoria O’Donnell define propaganda as “the deliberate and systematic attempt to shape perceptions, manipulate cognition, and direct behavior to achieve a response that furthers the desired intent of the propagandist.” Edward Bernays, the inventor of “propaganda” (in the 1920’s) as a tool in advertising, public relations and political mass opinion forming was one of the big influences of Goebbels in Nazi Germany, and I’m certain of many other tyrants.
THE MEDIA AND ARTS
Where do I start? 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.
Is this a coincidence? In fact today, the vast majority of America television, movies and newspapers and news magazines are, with rare exception, a cavalcade of leftist propaganda, both overt and subtle, that imbue viewers with the notions that Christianity is evil; that parents (especially white fathers) are idiots; that minorities of all stripes have been victimized by evil white guys, and that therefore all minority failure is the result of that victimization; that the atheist ‘state’ will deliver justice for all; that the wrongs committed by evil DWM’s (dead white men) over the past two-three hundred years need to be ‘corrected’; that the only dangerous radicals are from the right; that women are equal with men in all occupations and endeavors; that minorities are equal with whites in all occupations (except in sports, where they’re better!); that the major threats to the world’s population are geological/ meteorological/environmental and not political/economic/demographic; that the USA needs new symbols, icons and ‘hero’s’ to better reflect the growing non-white population; that ‘consumption is inherently evil; and that all minority failure must be sociologically based.
Also revealing is that communist symbols, including the communist logo (Detroit Tiger player Demon Young proudly wears a shirt with that symbol emblazoned on it with not a word from MLB, the commissioner or the media) Images of Che Guevera are everywhere and distributed by some big ‘mainstream’ suppliers. What does that tell you?

THE NOT SO DISTANT FUTURE
Food: The ‘food police’ will have by then made it practically impossible to purchase dessert foods and meat products. Candy and other sweets will be hugely expensive. There will be a sizable black market for sugary foods. Prison sentences will be the result of committing certain ‘food crimes’ Sky high taxes on certain food items will force them out of the market place. The days of the sole ownership restaurant will be over. Foods with high sugar, high salt and high fat content will be demonized much like cigarettes are nowadays.
The restaurants that remain, corporates all, will be heavily policed with random checks to ‘ensure compliance for the benefit of public health’ Monthly ‘food reports’ will have to be filled out, stating the average size of your meals along with all receipts from the grocery store. Violations by parents may result in incarceration or at least heavy fines. Children will be encouraged to ‘monitor’ their parents for such violations.
Entire industries will be affected. All this will have a devastating impact upon the economy and quality of life. An American food icon-the hot dog, long ago under attack will go the way of the incandescent light bulb and be off the market. Nefarious reasons for this abound: Children are apt to choke on it; It’s too unhealthy –too many nitrates.’ Cellardogs’ are then made by lovers of this cheap and delightful treat. Shades of ‘bathtub gin’ of the 1920’s. Of course, this crime is punishable by incarceration.
Property: Laws and regulations, impromptu and warrantless inspections, penalties and taxes will all make it a miserable experience to own property. Federal bureaucracies will regulate your house temperature and the amount of water that you use. Water, incidentally, that will be very expensive for home owners. No doubt because they have a larger ‘carbon footprint’.
Paint to repaint your house will be astronomically expensive with a greatly reduced range of color’s than what is available today. Ever-increasing pseudo science will reveal that this certain material or that certain material to be ‘hazardous to your health’, and thus subject to removal from your home. Complicated forms will be required to make even the simplest repairs. Large fees will accompany all applications for repairs. Owners will endure long waiting times for the most humble materials.
Environmental laws and federal ‘eminent domain’, statutes whereby the federal or state government claims the land that your house stands either to protect ‘endangered species’ or for the’ public good’ will further reduce the dream of home/land ownership to a veritable nightmare. Mostly, whites will be affected by this. But persons of any race, who hold the wrong views will also become part of this nightmarish scenario.
Religion: Religion will not be outlawed but it will be state orthodox. All religions and all belief/faith systems will be taught through the prism of the state ideology of moral relativism. Any divergence of this orthodoxy will be subject to the full wrath of the state. The term ‘freedom of religion’ will still be invoked, but it will be the shallowest of proclamations.
Christianity will be essentially gutted. A tour de force rewriting of bibles will encompass some 20 years. The Talmud, Koran and any other faith ‘books’ will be much less affected. Any utterances against Islam could land you in prison. All criticisms of Christianity will be ignored or considered ‘free speech’. The Jewish? They will wish for the ‘old days’.
Police forces: Municipal police will become state police and state police will become federal police. Eventually all police will be constituted of the latter. Police increasingly will be manned by ex-felons, ex gang members the mentally unstable and most especially minorities. (Look at pre-Katrina New Orleans!) The foxes will be in fact, guarding the hen-house.
The Russian Revolution employed the Cheka of Felix Dzerzhinsky and Hitler had his Storm Troopers. Mao, Pol Pot et al, probably used similar techniques. Remember, the general public is always the collective suspect and must remain subject to inspection and search at all times ‘for the public safety’ Private gun ownership will by this time have been outlawed. The result? Only criminals and the police will have them.
Books and language: By this time, the rewriting of thousands of famous works will have been undertaken. Shades of Orwell’s Ministry of Truth. Any references to racial and gender imbalance will be omitted. Look out Mark Twain! The works of some of history’s greatest thinkers will be edited out of existence.
Sports: Major sports stadiums and arenas today are way too populated with whites to suit the tastes of many in power. In the NBA, for example, the players are 95% black while those in the arena watching them are 95% white. To change that, an ‘affirmative action’ style mandate will be in effect. A certain percentage of a team’s ‘fans’ in attendance will have to be non-white, whether they can afford the ticket (which by this time, will be very expensive) or not.
To facilitate all this, corporate sponsors and a special federal agency will finance ‘proper’ minority attendance representation. Thus, a ticket that would cost a white $250.00 for example, will cost a selected non-white applicant $25.00. If successful, this method of de facto fan welfare will be tried in theaters as well. The respective teams or theatres will greatly promote all this while being funded by various agencies. You don’t think that they would settle for less profit in the name of ‘justice’ do you?
Private clubs: If they’re white and or Christian they’ll be abolished. Any venue of group activity, like a bowling alley, tennis club, skating rink or bingo hall, etc, will be heavily scrutinized for proper racial/gender representation. At first, it’ll all be ‘voluntary’ as federal programs will offer attractive monetary incentives to owners to expedite the demographic change.
After a certain time, however, it’ll all be mandatory. Redundant to speculate on what will happen to those hapless non compliers. Ski resorts and vacation venues will be thoroughly studied. The federals will concoct a way to get them more ‘diversified’.
The internet: Will be taxed according to usage and personal income. Of course all activity will be monitored for correct speech. Included will be any subtle references and subjective innuendo that could conceivably be construed as improper, racist, sexist or homophobic. An ‘internet activity report’ will be a part of your regular mail. Itemized emails and web surfing history will be listed, similar in look to a phone bill. Fines and penalties will apply to any ‘inappropriate’ emails.
There will not be a banning of free speech, just penalties for incorrect speech – all under the rubric of ‘protecting the common good against hate in any form’. Don’t forget, ‘any hate affects us all’. The feds assume the paternal right to protect the internet ‘environment’ from the various toxins that permeate its ‘air’. Similar to the smoking laws that allow smoking, but if you do it here, there or there, you’ll pay a hefty penalty. Don’t forget, second hand smoke is a killer too.
It’ll be a cash cow for the internet police. Since hate only emanates from the white right, hate spewed emails from all others will be at best haphazardly scrutinized. Penalties in these cases will be minimal.
Garbage: The complete federalization of garbage disposal and pick-up is in full gear, as municipalities had long ago relinquished their regulation. Almost all municipalities big and small have signed on to Agenda 21. For picking the pockets and micromanaging their citizens refuse, property and lives, the complying governments receive often millions of dollars for implimenting sustainable growth initiatives as outlined by UN protocols. Sizable ‘consumption’ fees and taxes will be levied against all garbage past a certain weight and volume relative to household size.
The trillions that the government/mega business oligarchy makes from this all goes to the expansion of itself-just like in the old days of 2011, only more so now. Jail time is possible in certain situations, for certain infractions (all ambiguously listed in a massive book located somewhere deep in the fathoms of some labyrinthine bureaucracy) depending upon who’s ‘working the streets’ that particular day.
Of course, registration forms and fees will greet any new house or apartment dweller/resident to apply for garbage pick up. Failure to register immediately will entail onerous fines. The corruption, bribery and paranoia from all this will no doubt require addition bags of a certain size to handle the metaphoric vomit that will follow.
Mexico: California, New Mexico, Arizona, Texas and Colorado will have become an extension of Mexico. The great culture that was created, particularly in California,over the past 60-100 years will be replaced by a society/culture that will increasingly resemble those of the Latino third world.
Islamism:As if the United States did not have enough ingredients to guarantee its suicide, increasing numbers of Muslims will redirect legislation in those population centers where they are most represented. This scenario boggles the mind as many of the hard socialists and communist ideologues are Jewish, if not Zionists.
Trying to connect the dots on this one is way outside the walls of my imagination. It’s possible that the influx of Muslims into the USA (and the West generally) is a technique used by international socialists to create social discord that can only be resolved by banning all public displays of religious affiliation. The main objective being to eventually establish the state as the new religion.
LINKS, LENIN & OTHER STUFF
Marxism: Opiate of the intellectuals: “The belief [hopefully] seems to be spreading that intellectuals are no wiser as mentors, or worthier as exemplars, than the witch doctors or priests of old. I share that skepticism. A dozen people picked at random off the street are at least as likely to offer sensible views on moral and political matters as a cross-section of the intelligentsia.” “Having spent much of my life with intellectuals, I say this with all honesty: intellectuals are some of the stupidest people I have ever met. Not all by any means, but many of them. Or perhaps better said, intellectuals are smarter than other people but no less wise when it comes to politics –as evidenced by so many intellectuals who became communists. As a college student at UCLA at the end of the Cold War, I must have had some of the very last Marxists in the whole world as my political science…
Cardinal Mindszenski Foundation William Borst, PhD.
Treason of the Intellectuals
Treason of the Intellectuals was the title of a 1928 book by Julien Benda, originally published in French as La Trahison des Clercs. The term Clerc has an obvious similarity to the word cleric, and Benda used it in the sense of people who devoted their lives to ideas and thought without necessarily being concerned with practical applications. Benda was distressed at the way intellectuals of the early 20th Century had been increasingly seduced by the appeal of power, and by the possibility that men of ideas…
Light bulbs My early observations are that the light quality in the new ‘bulbs’ is terrible, and probably will eventually cause eye problems for me and many other people. These ugly inventions of international socialism and mega business will no doubt be a health threat to millions. They are yet another example of government intrusion in the marketplace. All in the name of global warming, a pseudo science.
You mean to tell me that our government actually is concerned with our energy costs? Watch your energy costs increase in the years ahead. How is one to know if the claims of longevity are actually true? All I know is that these preposterous alien forms are ten-fold more expensive than the old bulbs and give very poor light as well. The fact that these new bulbs have a high mercury content is covered up in most of the media. It’s a sad spectacle indeed, to witness one of the greatest inventions ever go by the boards in favor of a far inferior and much more expensive model.
Quotes by VLADIMIR LENIN

THE MEDIA, THE SHAMELESS MEDIA


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, RACE HUSTLER

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