Beginnings

Brothers - Red dirt Georgia. Humid mean heat. Stock car rumbling

from twin Les Paul Gibson guitars. Sighing and crying and sliding

all over some new atmosphere.

A bordello red Hammond B-3 organ with spinning Leslie horns.

Supple gulf stream running warm and strong underneath.

Double drums - dexterous, light and polyrythmic. A thunder

of butterflys. Four hands and Feet dancing and prancing with

each other.

And one strong horse out front leading the way - riding the

bottom land with unerring steps. That steady rolling

bass vibration.

Midnight cemetery and voodoo drugs. Tempting ghosts, sprawled

across gravestones - stoned, drunk on cheap wine and in high

rut with young sirens. Straddling tombstones, Picking guitars

and wailing blues filled howls at a demon ruled moon.

One grave name honored by these blues temple acolytes.

A common psyche defined and a pact sealed with a flesh

and blood tattoo of their potion. Mushrooms swallowed

with abandon to fuel psychedelic revels. Some great

fusion of their heartbeats. Does 'Elizabeth Reed' know

what dirty Dixie dreams these young outlaws had on

those hot moonlit nights?

They were a six strand wire - one plugged straight into

the spine of Robert Johnson's ghost. That same bargain

made - trade me the magic for the dark road.

Flowing straight out of Delta Blues. All along the way

picking up strains of jazz and rock, a big bowl of

gumbo - pungent with all the strains of purely American

music. Every composition a melding of classical with it's

precise arrangements and movements. Wedded to high wire

walking on free swinging bebop improvisation.

The Great Jacksonville Jam. After which the alpha male

declared them his band. Daring a fight to any who refused.

All six strings bending and resonating for hours. Smashing

walls, soloing, rocking hard and growling. Birds in formation

flying high and wheeling in formation as one - some kind of

group mind at play. No need for thought or spoken instruction.

All instinctual vibrations locked into that deep groove.

So the troubadors took to the road. Conviction every night in

countless roadhouses, bars and honky tonks. Searching for the

sound - every night a fresh palette to paint some new sonic

masterpiece, lost to the echoes of ringing amplifiers.

Refinement and a fresh new map each time a curtain opened.

Daring a young, smart audience to embrace the experiment.

And the road would go on forever. Midnight riders criss-crossing

America. Leaving behind magic potions bubbling deep in the

village wells.

Until finally they arrived in the great city with the great stage.

All cylinders firing - ready to blast off the line and inform those

judges of culture that there was indeed some new magic for

those attending these temple rites.

A venue fitted with all the best tools of the trade. This showcase

demanding high art every night. Imperious arbiters of taste quick

to pass judgement on any so bold to trod the boards of the

sacred hall.

This first night some great epiphany played itself out. A validation

of this strange brew. Some mystic strain of pure and spiritual

sound new in the land. All born of the moment - it was jazz

and blues and rock and aboriginal surfing with the gods. The

brightest of the scribes present would ensure a return visit and

promise to record every note. Hoping to catch lightning in a bottle.

But luck would not be necessary, these alchemists had the

ingredients locked in their souls. And so those present stumbled

into the streets as if moon struck.

The Allman Brothers Band had graced the stage of Fillmore East.

Leaving behind an olympian footprint, one yet to be filled.

Mad Storks on Main Street

8:45 AM. New Haven Green. Strains of some rock band playing amateurish version of Chuck Berry. Sweet Mary and Joseph - spare us this - PLEASE! What in the hell is this noise for ? Aha! The New Haven Road Race. Obligatory children's bouncy thingy, tents, booths and vendors plying plastic landfill filler-uppers. Throngs of anorexic white people decked out in running togs made from space-age fabrics stitched by filthy children in a Calcutta slum.

Sport? Hardly – this is masochism of a high order. Athletic? Nope – all of us not crippled are capable of forward motion. One foot after the other – repeated. Inevitably some will evoke grace with smooth strides, others plodding along in herky-jerky fashion like some badly programmed robot. Most with painful looks on their face. Self imposed punishment in the name of what? Good health? Record times? The vaunted “runner's high” - pounding pavement until the endorphins kick in? Liars – these loony freaks confuse pain with pleasure – a legacy planted deep in the psyche by Calvinist and Puritan doctrine. More likely it's the smug superiority gained in showing brown people (Noticeably absent – probably still asleep after a night of good food, liquid spirits and dancing followed by an enthusiastic round of uninhibited SEX!!) how able to endure and great is this will-power possessed by the great white fathers.

Mule fritters !! These freaks are working out some warped fantasy energy they know must be burned up. Either this or pay some dominatrix , torture the greater society with a whopping big tribe of Jeffrey Dahmer/David Koresh wanna-bes. RUN BABY RUN!!

A supreme irony in all this lies in the fact that it's major leagues are dominated by the brownest of the brown. East Africans - Kenyans are a class by themselves. Lithe and graceful to a man – they are an ocean breeze blowing right by the pale Euros and Yanks pounding the road in a visage of agony. And why is this? Simple - on a continent where motor vehicles are reserved for an elite class and (wonder of wonders) seems to have no history of any people with a horse culture. (Okay Saudi Arabia has those breath-taking beasts - drinkers of the wind in Arabic lore. But what exactly does a horse eat and drink in the DESERT?) And so the peoples of Africa are quite adept and accustomed to locomotion by limbs. Walk, jog, trot and run are gaits all mastered at a tender age. The MBELE family being a case in point:

MAMA MBELE: "NSOKO!! Go to the village chicken man and bring us one chicken home for our dinner. And I expect some change young man! "

NSOKO: "Awww Mom...Send KOFI !!...I got the water this morning"

MAMA MBELE: "You go now young man. Or your father gives you one good whuppin when

he gets home!"

NSOKO: (Sulking) " Alright ....I'm going...."

Young NSOKO takes off at a trot down a dirt trail in his hardened cracked leather bare-footedness. This little ten mile round-trip errand for his mom is something done with ease and more than a little heightened awareness. In an American ghetto a youth might have to dodge some gang-bangers, crack dealers or HO'S on the stroll in probably 3-4 blocks to get a quart of milk for momma. (USA sends top-flight sprinters to the Olympics every time.) But young NSOKO's got a whole different deck of cards to deal with. Every step brings a chance of stepping on or startling some wickedly poisonous snake with a venom's kill time measured in milliseconds. Or some big ass lion lolling about pondering dinner when a whiff of NSOKO tickles his nostrils. "Feet don't fail me now !!"

Surviving this and ending up pounding pavement in brand new Nikes is a leisurely “aint life grand?” stroll in the park for these guys. Boston Marathon? "Jah mon-me like dat weathah nice and cool...good for one nice little jog."

Having made a field study at the finish line of the Honolulu Marathon - proof of this madness will now be offered for edification. Hordes of churning limbs rolling down streets in the pre-dawn hours. (Perhaps the only rational act these people are capable of - beat the rising of a tropical sun.) Timing a finish in Kapiolani Park at an hour considered uncivilized for all but farmers. Here come those Kenyans floating across the finish line bathed in a light sheen of sweat and dropping to a dignified walk to cool down. Breathing matching that of any athlete after maximum exertion, but still upright and looking coherent. Mixed in with them are those whites who've risen to the world class level with the assistance of sponsorship from shoe and gear companies. Enabling their punishing training regimen with a team of nutrionists, trainers, stretching gurus , shoe techs, psychologist, coach, pr rep and ....not hedging any bets - a witch doctor or two. ( Kenyans mainly just go home and do errands for Mom.) All of this and the top pale face dudes still cross the line in pain. No doubt about it - they're hurting. Numbers of them collapse into arms of supporters. Others drop right to the pavement yards past the finish line (soon resembling the jumbled floor of a teenager's bedroom - only strewn with retching,heaving and twitching fish flopping about out of air). This continues for hours as later finishers cross the line. It becomes truly pathetic seeing this obvious pain entirely self-inflicted. A tribal mantra proclaims all to be winners for merely crossing the finish line.

This is profoundly Un-American and Communist. Our guy - our team has to be the winner, a stud hoss. Take the blue ribbon, cup or trophy du jour. Second place is for suckers. No one really believed that crock of Madison Ave. hocus-pocus -the infamous Hertz / Avis "we try harder" nonsense. Our heart of hearts disdains second place. It's the Gospel according to Vince Lombardi -"Winning isn't everything , it's the only thing". Gold is good, silver sucks.

On they come - most with no one to help them off their knees. Solitary striders in the midst of the horde, their quest is driven by demons personal and perhaps posessed of dark spirits. It's to be thankful that these crippled souls spend that manic energy here on the road and not in some explosive burst of murderous rage directed at innocents in their daily life. An odd feeling of pity for these poor rubes seduced by some delusions of grandeur at their finish. Tomorrow you'll really pay !!

Being a heterosexual male and afflicted with a motor response requiring us to think of sex every four seconds (Or at least when the retina focuses on a female form within our vision) , I can't help but imagine some action with one of these running freak chicks. Wild? Freaky? Acrobatic? Sheena Queen of the Jungle or Doris the church mouse? Obviously impossible to ascertain, but eyeing them in their tight jogging gear with lean muscles and bony frames it hits me ! More pain man, MORE PAIN. Daydreaming about a vigorous "horizontal bop" with 'Sally Strider' I'm jarred by a vision of her razor sharp pelvic bone slicing a major artery of mine in the midst of our frenzy. Jaysus - everything about this whole scene is hard and dangerous. There is some bad voodoo here and so dread builds quickly in my mood. Need to get somewhere gentle and soft.

This is Hawaii and a beautiful day. This race is NOT these islands. Quickly shifting gears to thoughts of my local girlfriend – a chop suey mix of Polynesia, the Orient and requisite Caucasian somewhere in the mix. An Island beauty. Soft in the soft places of voluptous women. All dangerous curves and a langorous, loving way that makes a man feel she alone knows the secret whisper to give the gate-keeper of paradise. My savior – aloe for the burns suffered by the psyche in watching extreme suffering in the midst of Eden. We're going to meet and head to the beach with food and wine. Nurse Leilani ( this really is her name...always loved it ) with her mere presence will calm and bring equilibrium dispelling this troubled mood. Short dips in the ocean for refreshment and quick retreat to the shade of a palm tree for pale Irish skin. No 'mad dog' nor 'Englishman' be this lad. Full belly and a nice buzz and soon pleasant thoughts of my gentle and sensual wahine with her smooth brown skin caressing me under cool sheets rule the day. That is it. No more to venture out and study humans in their maddening addictions. Let them be man, let em be.

This is not to say one should not be in trim or want to achieve physical fitness. It really should involve some fun is all I'm saying. Exercising my limbs in a game of basketball has been my particular escape since childhood. Something to do alone (and in imagination making the BIG SHOT at Madison Square Garden!) or in that most democratic ideal – a pickup game. Asphalt jazz that played well is both joyous and invigorating. Holding court on a playground one may run miles - never feeling pain. Art and athletics merge watching PHILLY SIXER star 'ALLEY I' throw a wicked crossover on Michael Jordan so vicious MJ had to to check himself for a broken ankle. Miles, Coltrane and C. Parker on the sideline high-fiving, smiling and diggin that move. Nobody spending money on WATER !! Damn fools - did you WATCH that H20 get purified? Suckers. I'm going old school and head to the corner store for sweet as hell ice tea gulping it straight out the carton. Don't have no towel - air dryin everything. Shirts and Skins baby. Who's got next ? Like the team playin at Rucker up in Harlem - "Soul in the Hole" - this is BIG FUN and we be RUNNIN ALL DAY !!!

9AM: New Haven Green. Seen this flick Same ole Same ole. Hordes of runners may think of themselves as athletes but you won't convince me. Going for that runner's high? Bullshit !! You're talking smack to yourselves. Some twisted rationale for those splints that never heal. Typical drug addict behavior. So I get my tall coffee drowning in sugar and cream, park my ass on a bench and light the first of numerous cigarettes. "Run! You mad bastards ! Run!" I'll sit here puffing away serene in the knowledge we all cross the same finish line. And no winners anyway.

Peace out.

Liberal Stealth Bomb Or Who let the Dogs out? “Move on Granny!! We’ve got condos to build.” Brilliant, absolutely freakin brilliant. Worthy of Machiavelli, Hollywood producers, sports agents or just your garden variety “fat cat”. A cigar smoking, golfing, cocksucker of a white businessman (a nod to Mr. George Carlin). Truth be told, I am positively vibrating in anticipation of the fallout from the recent U.S. Supreme Court ruling – Kelo vs. New London. We’ll leave the highbrow analysis to talking heads in the chattering class. What follows is what we street wise citizens call the “breakdown”. This one is BIG,HUGE,HUMONGOUS. The 800 lb gorilla of the constitution. First and grandest dream.

Every stump speech ever made, every Madison Avenue pipe dream that wafted into the American living room through the electronic hearth is now a spectral presence. A ghost in the machine if you will. Now just a vague and opaque outline, but don’t blink, it will soon be a fully formed 3D vision of our greatest fears. Forget abortion,gay marriage, Janet Jackson’s boob or any other hobgoblins

the right wing hauls out of the national “anxiety closet”

to keep the sheep bleating “help us”. Primal FEAR folks, so

deep in the American psyche it triggers the “cornered

bear protecting her cubs” response. Yes indeed, it’s a jungle out there kiddies, and the big bulls are sharpening their tusks. Once this herd marches to the arena for battle , the ALI-FRAZIER bouts (all three) will look like Vassar cat spats. Fifteen rounds? Shit no, we’re going gilded age all the way. Bare knuckles until a bloody loser drops. Stallion duels,rams butting heads, bulls pawing the earth and slinging horns. Every animal documentary

you ever saw about dominance. Big dogs snarling.

This will be high octane testosterone on the boil.

IRAQ? War on Terror? Gloves-on bantam-weight

three rounders. Undercards when everyone’s getting

drinks and finding seats. All of it coming soon to a courtroom near you. High dollar barristers girding for battle and rubbing

sweaty palms with glee. Once this “Rumble in the Jungle” hits it’s stride, municipal court shelves will collapse from the sheer weight of the dockets awaiting due process. Let’s see if we can visualize a scenario shall we?

Local Fat Cat Developer/Donald Trump wannabe spies-stumbles on-is referred to a location which seems perfect for his plans to build a golf course-condo- business park-hotel-tony boutique mall. Problem? Law abiding citizens have homes right where he wants to build. Solution – easy. Meet with Local Zoning board-City Council honcho-doofus to convince same his plan will be of great benefit to community. Same old civic pride –jobs- tax base mantra the sheep are content to munch on and keeps Mr. Zoning Board-city Council-honcho-doofus in office another term. This planning takes all of twenty minutes and five scotches at the local “Gentleman’s club”. In celebration of their vision and value to their community our boys call over ‘Sunshine’ and ‘Amber’ for ceremonial lap dances and cigars. More scotch and Fat Cat ensures Doofus has enough c-notes to make Amber’s teeny little g-string look like a hula skirt. The FIX IS IN. Big Time. Mobbed up wise-guys never had it this good. And the U.S. Supreme Court gift wrapped and hand delivered it just before jetting off for the Hamptons/Nantucket/Martha’s Vineyard summer tour. Precedent has been set people and it’s rare indeed that a Supreme Court ruling is successfully challenged. “Public use” will prevail at all costs now that Fat Cat and Doofus have the game plan straight. ‘Granny’ , ‘Mr. Smith’ , or that cute J. CREW couple renovating the Georgian on Main may as well just bend over and take it in the ass because they don’t have the “JUICE”. Alpha dogs slobber all over with it, but it’s a breed thing, just like thoroughbreds it comes down the bloodlines. Blue bloods have practiced a fanatical guarding of the stock, but those damn new economy young turks always seem to score big at the “New World Order JUICE Bar and Trophy Wife Saloon”. New money is soooo tawdry. This nice , tidy and oh so virtuous (repeat “civic pride – jobs - tax base” mantra) scene can and will be enacted with varying models of Ambers and Sunshines in countless Gentleman’s clubs across the land. It’s fat city for “Exotic Entertainers and Lap dancers Coalition” members. In the first rounds it will be mostly shuffling and feinting. Warm up time. Fat cat makes his deals , gets the Doofus to throw down with some subsidies for the cash flow. Amber and Sunshine get new Mustangs and the wives get the long lunch on a gold card. Grease the wheels with the contractors

and those family homes are toast and a swinging hot spot is up in no time. There’s a deck for al fresco hot wings and regular visits by the ‘Coors girls’. Yessuh, this part of town is happening! Things are groovy , baby. Fat cat now has the stash for ‘empire’ building. He’s a visionary genius, the hometown mogul. Cuban cigars and a Hummer. Big swinging dick on the block. Drunk driving charges, disturbing the peace, assault and battery by his bouncers/bodyguards are all taken care of by his ‘homey’ – captain of the gendarme. He’s a stomping ,romping king of the hill. Life is good.

Fat Cat Hummer man is also a LOUD mouth. Bragging on the jack he’s got and going to get as the empire expands. An insufferable SOB to all except those young punks in Ralph Lauren sucking up to the fool hoping to get some of the grease. You know these young slicksters – you see them worshipping “the Donald” on his reality show right before he FIRES THEM. Morons. (((((Sidebar. Any fool under 30 smoking a cigar may just be the most pretentious and outright stupid sight to be subjected to on a daily basis. Punks. The only males who can pull off the cigar pose are the authentic, wizened, old railbirds at the track with their heads buried in the “Racing Form”. And your ‘Amber’ or ‘Sunshine’ when she’s got her ‘game face’ on. Willy Jeff did make them fun at 1600 Pennsylvania a few years ago didn’t he? Another rule I’m making here just for fun. No males over 12 and under 40 will be allowed to wear bow ties. Just as offensive. Sidebar out.))))) Things are going along with the fat cat’s new plan. All except the little detail about the benefit to the community angle he sold the doofus on. That ‘greater tax base’ just can’t be found anywhere. In fact, the public kitty is looking as empty as the donation plate at a ‘Hamptons’ sunday church service. Mr Doofus handed it over in subsidies for the new emperor. The swinging hot spot and T-SHIRT emporium mostly created minimum wage jobs. Mexican busboys not included – who knows what these poor bastards get from the throne. Corporate taxes ? To what government? Hell, this whole 3 card monte is a Bermudian registered corporation with a bank in the Caymans. Taxes are for SUCKERS!! Jesus Christo, how much revenue can bartenders and waitresses generate from their under-reported income? Revenue for the public good? NOT repeat NOT going to happen. Things are blazing , cock of the walk is he. Word travels fast on the jungle telegraph and soon enough the big cats smell prey. Some ‘good ole boys’ higher up the food chain or at least those with ‘alphabet soup’ on the big board come for a look

see. This little hick is sucking up some decent cash out of the rubes in the burg of Bumfuck, in the red

(or blue) state out there in the far never-never. On hot wings , lousy beer and t-shirts? Mr Bigger Shot from a burg with better beer and several varieties of hot wings arrives to look over things and quickly decides he can do way better with the same setup. Gets his bean counters to run the numbers, it’s a go and next thing you know ‘Amber and Sunshine’ have some new customers with longer green and better suits. Mr Doofus is booted downstairs by some more lordly bureaucrats eager to tout the virtues of the realm. Foolish stooges in local government under the delusion they can get the corner stool at the Big Dog saloon. These guys pay more on weekly dry cleaning than the payment on the family mini-van. Junior fat cat doesn’t even see the leg lifting until he’s getting pissed on like a West Texas thunderstorm. Territory is being marked and a larger canine has left the scent. Big dog’s crew has read the tea leaves and comes up with what they’ll let the pup have for his property. The way is greased for a new plan. A higher ranking local doofus makes a new deal with the Big dog. Little dog’s plan is not producing as promised. Surprise! Let the new boys have a shot at this. Junior Fat Cat gets screwed on the ‘market value’ of his digs. So sorry , but we don’t think it’s worth that much say the lawyers for suits with larger green and stronger juice. Whatever illusions local fat cat had of being king are roundly smashed as his unpaid notes are being called in. Cash flow’s gone, collateral’s value is down the drain. Amber and Sunshine are taking their good sweet time when he walks in for a good drunk and lap dance. The little lady at home is ice cold too, ever since the gold card was snatched by the little bitch of a shop-girl at the luxury hand bag shop. Now she’s cut him off from any marital comfort. Who dares to be king? Gotta know your place boy,

we’re in a whole different league. All our slots are filled. You really bought the “up from your bootstraps”

sermon? Fool! Lovely isn’t it? Capitalism at work. Free markets as religion. Supply and Demand. Grow the economy. Market share and branding. Greedy voodoo speak of the highest order. Worship at the altar of the STREET. But it’s not really supposed to work like this is it? It’s mine – I OWN IT. I STOLE IT fair and square. Junior slides deeper into his own personal hell. His markers are being called in. No running tabs at his favorite joints anymore. Amber is positively frosty and absolutely refuses to give back the mustang he’d dearly love to sell. Little woman at home shoves the knife in deep , revealing how she’s been bangin the hippie pool boy and smoking righteous good chronic. Even the preacher man is casting sanctimonious looks his way on those Sundays he bothers to make the appearance. I GOT FUCKED! BIG TIME! By my heroes!! Yes , you did ,Greedhead. Your kind have no brothers. What’s a junior fat cat due when he’s on the ropes? Lawsuit!! Justice is mine sayeth he. Conveniently forgetting the tribal mantra of tort reform. All of a sudden he can feel kinship with Granny and the J Crew couple. It’s not fair - is it Junior? The ball is rolling. Real , real slow. Like that sweet putt that let you break 90 for the one and only time on a golf course. (Not counting the times you cheated.) Similar scenarios are breaking out all over the country. As in so many things involving BIG DOGS in this country – TEXAS will be the lightning rod. Land of macho on steroids. No New York subtlety here - just big hats, big buckles and trucks, blatant in your face thievery. And an armory in every home. Bubba takes his ‘propitty’ very, very serious. He’ll shoot a trespasser for just stepping onto his land. What do you think Bubba is capable of when the local doofus okays a take-over of his ‘propitty’? He’ll meekly hand over the keys , get in his pickup and leave town quietly? Methinks not. Snake oil preacher man and church lady getting their notice? In Texas? Hear those shells being chambered now? Texans. Great people. But if I’m a betting man , these folks don’t lie down for this. They will be on porches locked and loaded daring a sheriff to come on their place. Fireworks baby. There will be shots fired. First some warning shots. Keep your eyes on these events folks. It’s gonna get loud and scary in the lone star state. Before you know it, you’ll see the blue haired lady from the ‘holier than all y’all yankees’ congregation marching in solidarity with that ‘handsome, well dressed man down the street’ who flew that funny rainbow flag all the time. Both screaming for the hide of whatever local doofus fed the big dogs. Protesting outside the branch kennel and spitting vile on the local talk radio gabfest. Town council meetings filled with screaming citizenry. Let’s take a little western history tour shall we? Fencing all that open land.

Shooting wars. Cattle versus sheep. Shooting wars.

Water rights? Shooting wars. It’s a western birth

right to own a gun. And quite a bit of pride in it’s use. Tough, hard people who in all probability will shoot to KEEP THEIR HOME! Now are they any tougher or braver than any other group in this country? Doubtful, human nature is what it is. Survival and protecting family, home and the food supply have driven humans to desperate acts since we walked out of a cave. Junior fat cat is now getting the BIG picture. The big dogs want it ALL. They do not share and never will. If you have something it means they don’t have it ALL. So all the juniors start to realize the party line is only good for a select few. Rats jumping ship as fast as they can. Over to the other side. My side. The side that knew the score all along. Am I resentful? I want to kick their greedy little behinds. Not the right thing to do though. One must allow for a ‘Damascus Road’ conversion - what would Jesus do, right? Our side now has some new blood with new skills and hopefully the right intel. So we put the new boy to work. “Hand over the playbook son”. When you get cut or traded in the NFL , it’s down to the coach’s office and turn in the playbook. A nation raised on football knows all about the playbook. What to run on fourth and long. Punt? Go for it? This is what Junior brings. Now to build the Defense’s playbook full of X’s and O’s to “push em back ,push em back –waayy back!!” Sun Zstu 101 – ‘know the enemy’. How do the arsenal’s match one against the other? Not well, the Big Dogs have boatloads of cash and battalions of barristers. Oh yeah and the cops – maybe. They’ll make a mistake though, greed has a tunnel vision effect. Leaves lots of room for mistakes. Somewhere a greednik will stomp on a cop’s house and once this hits their grapevine the boys on the “Job” will develop that myopia and indifference they display at the most curious

moments. A ‘thin blue line’ made of gossamer. This side , my side, us little people , the unwashed, the ones who believe and play by the rules? Let’s take an inventory. Moral certainty – check. Sheer numbers – check. Truth – check. Short list man. Let me rummage around some more in the store room. Nope. cupboard’s bare man. Oops!!! Found it. A nation full of armed citizens. Home and hearth all they’ve got between them and a future straight from the drafting boards of Stalin and Cardinal Richileu. Being the good folks we are and have been since we sat around the cultural camp fire and learned the tribal legends , we believed. Sweet dreams to repose with at night. Fuelling generations to work hard, create, innovate and raise up from the wilderness a shining Xanadu that would become the envy of the world. And my, didn’t our guns turn out to be quite handy in this grand adventure. They have all the money and lawyers, but it may be way, way past the point of negotiating with these snakes in a courtroom. As the cowboys say “it’s gonna get wild and woolly”. Blue haired matrons marching out of a Texas tea room loaded for bear and jacking rounds into their late husband’s shotgun. “They took Mabel’s place – the one Fred built himself right after the Great Depression!” Enough is Enough! We’ve been fucked over so many times by the thieves ,con men and degenerates that pass for statesmen in all levels of our government that an advanced state of denial permeates the national psyche. Like victims of child abuse who spew forth those horrible memories through hypnosis, “Pandora’s Box” is open. Wide Open. A citizenry finally and deeply enraged enough to take to the streets in search of good old vigilante justice! Hell we all know it works – it’s practically a staple of every B movie western ever filmed. Time to ‘Hang em High’ boys! Down to city hall, county courthouse, state legislature and any upscale watering hole where the bastards can be found. However, there is a better and less violent way to wage this battle. Stick with me on this folks , you’ll see the genius and sheer fun it could be!! What WE, yes WE – all the little guys who’ve had their hat handed to them, car repo’d, health care denied, lost property titles, and any other victims of treachery by document will do is….. Establish a perfect monopoly on PAPER. Yes, the paper your bills come printed on, the eviction notice, insurance claim stamped DENIED or any other sheet used to rape any remaining trust you placed in the decency of our institutions. All of us, every man, woman and child – let’s take some pocket money and every week head to the local office supply megastore and pick up a couple of reams of PAPER!! Yes, bring it home and hide it. We need to empty the shelves across the nation. Banding together to form a non-profit corporation whose sole purpose will be to invest in, take over the boards of , and in every possible way CONTROL the supply of paper in this country. Stay with me folks, in addition we’ll find those lawyers who have resisted the siren call and remained strong in their Hippocratic Oath (Yeah that one, ‘First do no harm’ ..Doctors aren’t using it) for help in establishing and training all of us as the soldiers we’ll be in U.S. Army of “Average Decent Joes and Josephines “ who will force justice through the court sytems by the very means that our rights have been egregiously meddled with by all the byzantine schemes corporate interests have used to bleed us of everything they could. First – as many of us as possible will become certified Notary Publics. Yes sirree Bob, we’ll say what’s real and true. Our lawyers – our white knights , will conduct seminars on filing petitions,suits , motions and any other methods to file an official and certified document at the local court house. Pitching in our pennies for our purchase of controlling interest in every paper manufacturer and importer of paper in the country. Strict control of who gets to purchase any paper products in the nation. Corporate law firms will be banned from the purchase of ANY of our paper. Any rat bastard caught trying to sell paper products to corporate law firms or associates will be given the “Scarface > Tony Montana – ‘say hello to my little friend’ treatment. Congressmen who sit on the appropriate committees will be contacted and arrangements made for the printing of all government documents to be handled strictly by firms under control of the U.S. Army of “Average Decent Joes And Josephines” . All documents will be reviewed and edited to our satisfaction ( the printing of the U.S. Budget will get intense inspection and editing. Liberal manipulation of dollar figures is to be expected from all members attending to this particular activity) Newspapers will have to come to us for supply and will get what they need until they start playing stenographer to the powers that be. One misstep and they’re toast. Fuck em, We’ll just start our own. Any poor folks who are hungry? Come on down to the local coupon reproduction center. For $5.27 we’ll make sure you can get $112.34 worth of groceries from any Walmart in the land. This is just the start, there is no doubt the collective intelligence we posess will allow us to brainstorm and devise all manner of creative and ingenous uses of this kind of power. And so let’s thank the supposedly ‘LIBERAL’ branch of the U.S. Supreme Court that lit the fuse on this fire-cracker. Showed us all just how to get mad and GIT ‘R’ DONE. It’s time. If the fight for justice by document fails – then hell we’ve got nothing to lose. Lock and load , a little revolution every now and then is healthy. Ought to keep them on their toes for another 200 years or so. Either way - Washington,Jefferson, Franklin and them will be looking on with a shit-eating grin. What took you so long kids?