Mayflower Beach Party

All the way to the proud rocks where starving religious refugees had their hides saved from starvation by some poor godless savages who already knew how to live and prosper in the forests of what we call NEW ENGLAND. (Run on sentence ? – deal with it)…. Generations of Proud and Puritanical Mayflower blood staking their claim on a New KINGDOM. No Dukes, Duchesses, Barons, Viscounts or Ladies in waiting here!!....No …this would be Utopia…Eden Reborn.. …..THANK YOU VERY MUCH!...Once we figure out this new geography and get rid of all the savage Brown people we’ll do nicely with our own aristocracy (which we’ll get up and running real quick using the same playbooks that PAPISTS, JEWS and MUSLIMS have been running up the score with for millennia) Yessiree, scare the poor and meek. Tell them their time is in the next life – but for right now – suffering will do you good. How noble is pain? But for these new Pharisees – preaching from their pious podiums in Primitive frontiers – why yes - of course – their word shall be sacred. We KNOW ALL. “My children, gather at my knees”. Hear me and fear me for the screeds I speak of shall still your quaking hearts as the jungle about you howls and screeches , spitting terror on your innocent face. Fecking Hell eh?..What better start than this?....frightened , starving lost souls ready for the first beast to leap and rip their sweating flesh ? Fucking Popes never had it so good…..Spanish Inquisition? Playing at best ..? Even odds….These New World hucksters?.... all of em rolling loaded dice……Climb to the top of this little pyramid?...”Baby gets new shoes for a dozen generations! “ Sing those hymns, burn some bitches (witches?)… On your knees for forty lashes…. Endless toil on deep soil… Leaves no time for thought Of Papist hearts a boil.. (Sing along now kidz !) Preachers Rising!!!! Amen… Slaves a- slaving Amen…. Life is good when you’ve got clergy telling lily white peasants shaking in their breeches about the god awful hell those large NEGRO men brought from the Dark Continent to settle in these soft golden fields …. (Richelieu Rising …!! SWEET irony….think those pure sweet white women didn’t fall asleep wondering on the African Muscle right outside their doors?) Mulatto?....Quadroon….Who slept with who after the sales in CONGO SQUARE? …..COMMERCIAL BREAK…. … (Red guy with horns) (Large red hands with super black fingernails grasping crotch) ….voice over… "I got your POPE right HERE " …..END BREAK BACK TO REGULAR PROGRAMMING….. Hell man we're just getting started!...who knows what treasure lies Beyond this temperate jungle….. Aboriginals lack gunpowder and metal….YEE HAAAA…!!!... We're the VARSITY on 100-0 roll!!... Little brown people…..?? PUH LEEZEE! Who the fuck cares about spices!...let the frigging Spaniards and Dutch have all that….This is LARGE TERRITORY… Hills and valleys fertile as theVIRGIN MARY…. Paint these peasants as the new children drowning in milk and honey….load up those ships with sheep fleeing Cromwell, Torquemada, Henry 1- 27 ? or George 5-56? (pick your syphilitic bastard) or Elizabeth 35-76? ( or whatever slut you can name who rolled in drunken rut with her brother )…. Put the spin on ….A NEW WORLD….come and settle in EDEN….. Hell man ….there's gotta be some gold around here somewhere! Ooopsss!!..Some dudes who were ENLIGHTENED made it over here before the purple gang put the lockdown on… Not exactly homeboys to the powdered wigs back in the old world…A little too greedy for their own good… Preaching some new scam….democracy… .no more monarchs….Having a sitdown on their own....Ocean is BIG…a little rough to enforce ….No pigeons flying with waxed royal scrolls…Team ENLIGHTENED on a new home field….. New Dudes quick on the draw …..Grab the best real estate.. Put the darkies to work and wham ….!!! Commodities flying out on the nearest barque and returning with some serious coin….Georgy Boy and the Frogs had a major beef goin down in the old hood across the pond….Kept them a little off their game…. Oh hell…let's get real G!...break it down old skool …just like back in the day…. Time was ripe for a new CREW staking out some long corners…OG'S baby….tagging the cow paths….this Is MY HOUSE!!! ….Cousin ain't gittin none….dumb ass fuck….throwin down with old skool pussies…. Cousin wouldn't see….This is a whole new game… Playas only….Keep yo stinky ass shit back in the projects….purple motherfuckers with they shiny buckle kicks heavy on yo neck….U too stupid to roll with us here ….Stay and suck that smog and drown in gin bee-yatch… New COLORS flying round heah… Aint it a bitch….some punk had to come round with his palms out..demanding the vig…for the purple crew…. Fuck this punk….Here's your vig ….dive in the harbor and get it…We done wit u….Homey's aint playin….. AHA…AHA….AHA….always gets to a smackdown…. But we wuz in game form….had a few scrimmages with the home team….learned some of they playbook… Old school purple had no idea how or when we wuz cummin….shit ….lavender lap-dancers couldn't see the ball till they was spun around by some nasty crossovers ….and no zebras to call fair or foul… No suh….no rulz heah….Aboriginal original ready to stuff your Head deep in those shiny boots….. Really?...gonna bring that Marquis the QUEEN shit to this hood?...No walkin it up and some UGLY SET SHOT….IT IS NOW SHOWTIME…. runnin and gunnin….fast breakin and dunkin all over yo slow fat ass…..OOPPSS!!!???? Thought the game was right here????….Moved it…your shot…. Go head…Y'all got 'HORS' and we got ? 'H'…. This is asphalt Baby….take your tired legs back to the slick dance floors you waltzed on with MOZART and those other boring ass German fucktards….Clock is running and the home team has drumming and tomahawks flying…..Look sharp….And pray your purple dandy pansies call you back to the continent for a little French kissing….. So pullz up yo breeches and haul yo sorry asses back to those bitch ass boats…. "And GEORGE ???" … "STAY THE FUCK OFF THIS BLOCK !!! " …. Stay tuned for the next chapter of Amerikan HIS STORY Peace OUT

Little League and the Girl

He's not that tall. He's not very strong. Reed thin or chubby. Every thing he is – he doesn't know yet. But for some small minutes – he walks with kings and and pulls their garters – giggling all the way. He loves games all day free of care. Simple ones with dirt and sunshine. And - the girl he really loves is back where he lives and cares deeply for him. She is the woman in his life. There is no other for him. All is not so perfect though, he will fight this woman of his. Endless complaints of his habits. Strife over careless strewn garments can ignite fits of parliamentary debates across their home.This lover of his competes for his time, demands his obedience, and wants his heartbeats tocall her own. She has one goal....a strong man. Every waking thought she has is towards this building of a man. Strength as she would define it. As a Kind man. As she would define it. So with this wisdom she understands his games must be played. Out where dirt and sweat feeds hunger, with no little admiration for his appetite. She feeds him to grow ever stronger. Games in sunshine. Bronzing him as gods of old. He has freckles and a smile to melt the arctic heart. Skin still soft and free of whiskers. Soft muscles and strong mind for his fun and games. Somewhere the woman knows how this play must be given rein. In their playing he'll learn what she knows he must. Hurt will find him and she'll be there to comfort. A man she can love will have some scars and poured some tears. This man will know how to feel. Days of joy these are, as the young one grows into his gangly bones. Each season a reckoning of size and strength. Each season a love song deeper for this one true woman of his. His strivings a supplication to the one queen . There is no other girl he must impress so. His sweat and toil for her eyes. Her smile puffs his chest. Wherever he may stand on his field of dreams a compass points to her true north. Desperate for her approval and acknowledgment of his deeds. Knights of old in their battles not as eager to please. “Mom!!! Hurry UP!! - A-ROD 'S coming up! .........”A pole who?” “Bases loaded with a full count.......OOOOOOHHHH....You guys are so gonna get SLAMMMMMEEEEDDDD HERRRERERERE...!!!.....” At first she pretends to understand the rules and rituals of his contests. Yet she'd never reveal her ignorance. To encourage she must feign enthusiasm and understanding. In time though enlightenment comes and her deep love gives her the eye she will need to steer his course straight. Now a true appreciation for his efforts gives her a new source of love to feed him. With this nurture his pride grows stronger and confidence soars. A mother and her son. She drives him to t-ball practice and games. Sits on splintered bleachers and watches as her baby boy tests his limbs as a young colt might do – dashing around a paddock on shaky legs. Not all limbs moving in sync yet, athletic grace comes with much running and playing and time. Adoring the view of him in his helmet – a pumpkin of blue or green or yellow perched on his shoulders with his face beaming at her. Handling a baseball bat whose length near matches his height. After a frenzied day it is pleasure to sit out on a spring evening gliding towards dusk. Time for the pressures of the day to deflate and float away. Dads and Uncles and Brothers in charge for the moment. Teaching the skills to their young charges. A leisurely pace allowing for motherly discussions on raising their broods. Watchful eye cocked at all times lest he cast that inquisitive “is mom watching me?” look her way. On the drive home a rehash of all his plays and estimations of effort. Perhaps a stop for ice cream – his cleats clacking on concrete and tile, his dirt smudged and sweat streaked face scanning a neon menu. Soon home to bath and bed. A scene played out all across America (and an ever greater part of the globe). For some lucky ones out of thousands a trip to a small Pennsylvania town beckons. From all 50 states the best of these teams of “Little League Baseball” players descend on Williamsport for a “World Series” - one that is indeed global. With one major distinction – all others than the U.S.A. will compete in a tournament amongst themselves to meet the winners of the American team's tournament – best of the U.S. against the champions of the rest of the world. For this competition - to win the U.S.A title will be considered the great goal. To advance and overcome consistently excellent teams from Asia and Latin America may be seen as icing on a delicious cake. Sweet indeed. Arriving here entails a great deal of luck as well as skill. Balls bounce oddly on less than perfectly manicured fields of small town America. Every step aided by the community and neighborhoods. Bake sales and car washing to fund trips to ever distant advancing tournaments. Excitement building across the lengthened days of summer. Disrupting family vacation plans and other pursuits. This lightning strikes but one year in the lives of these youngsters. What a glory it must be for 12 year old boys to arrive knowing they'll end up playing to a national audience. Stepping to the plate, hitching their sleeves in imitation of major league heroes. Knocking dirt from cleats with bats in effected nonchalance. Our national past time in miniature. A stadium built for the purpose with dimensions suited to their stature and strength. Shorter distances – yet bleachers to accommodate the spectacle. Small town gazettes with front page features on the local boys made good. Interviews with national network sportscasters – left near mute by this sudden brush with the narrators they've known from the great star maker machinery. “Mom ! I was talking to Brent Musberger!!” Cameras waiting at every turn. Reporters with microphones everywhere. Now they can know how A-Rod , Manny and Big Papi feel. After marathon drives from the small corners of America or international flights across oceans – to sleep in motels and campers. Retinues of family and friends from the proud Hometown following in a caravan of support for the boys of summer. Baseball as rite of passage, played for the sport and joy of it. As pure as sports can be. Mini vans stocked with coolers and cousins, blankets and sleeping bags. Summer nights in the Pocono woods. Home made banners and painted faces. Each team with it’s own rooting section. There are other girls along – grandmas and aunts, sisters and cousins. They too will shape the young man along his way. Here to cheer or console. Still it is mom the cameras will find in it’s ceaseless search for the freeze frame of emotion. Television – the insatiable hunger. A constant search for new narratives of our national myth. No details too small to escape scrutiny. What will be the next act in this grand play? In a nation too young to have reverence for the wisdom of elders and a red-hot cultural jambalaya – our childhood is still the great collective memory. America is the headstrong , vigorous adolescent of the world. Given to impetuous and perhaps fool hardy rushes into adventures with no thought of the ends. Youngsters at games of the world. And so we are still enthralled with youth and strength. In absence of ancient fairy tales – ours are being written and acted out in front of us and more significant - the GREAT EYE in the sky. The ‘Babe’ , that man-child who came roaring out on stage in a riotous decade , raw talent and massive appetite a mirror to the nation. Loving the boy of our game like no other. First media superstar – playing the boys game, a Baltimore orphan writing a menu of hot dogs and beer for summer afternoons. Down through the decades – and now our little men of the pastoral game there to remind us of our reverence for the biggest boy of them all. Modern TV graphics scrolling beneath extolling the favorite movie - “Harry Potter”, favorite food - “chicken tenders” , hobby – “sleeping until noon”. Celebrity culture for the internet age – thrust upon the sons of John Q. Public. Sons who give us inspiration and hope. Confirming for us our teachings. During this week of natural drama all the foibles and triumphs of the human experience will be shown to us through the eyes of our children. How they react is a validation. There for all to see will bejoy and heartbreak, laughter and tears, finesse and fumbling. More often than not we’ll marvel at the heart, skill and maturity of our young ones. Arriving here required devotion and dedication from all. Judges high up in the media chairs will remark on such a high level of play and mastery of nuance. Yet the one true beauty of it all is what can be seen on these young faces. No stoic adult countenance with a lid over boiling and surging feeling. 12 Year olds cannot hide what nervous strings are singing every minute of competition. Baseball’s drama springs from the absence of time – there is no clock. Each year a new story is told under Pennsylvania skies. Underdogs and long shots – America’s favorite Bed-time fable told every summer. There will be game ending catches, walk off home runs and courage over pain. Fair play and teamwork. Focus and drive. Facsimile of their major league heroes printed small. Our little men show us how to play with love. Grand is a green lawn and glove leather and Mom watching me play. Golden days indeed. Fair mother how honored are thee. Cheering for your little man. All that you give him shows polish fit for another woman. A circle unbroken.

A Minute of Hope in the Motor City

“I've got Sunshine on a Cloudy day” My Girl The Temptations Egg Cartons. Yes, Egg cartons are an ingredient in the grand American cultural stew. Somewhere in a working class neighborhood of Detroit cardboard - a cheap yet prime ingredient would be used in the creation of a musical movement. Covering the walls of the “Hitsville” basement. The beginnings of an African-American entertainment empire. A shoe string budget and running on faith, these egg cartons were the affordable sound proofing available to a young entrepreneur secure in his vision of a new sound in the land. Recognizing an abundance of talent in his small neighborhood amongst a population hungry to grab whatever brass ring could be seen. Civil rights movement creating a new wave of hope across the land for minorities. A bright shining vision full of promise and hope. In a city of blue collar grit. The 1964 mustang – a strong and sleek horse manufactured here. A vision of power and forward movement, the embodiment of the strength of Ford's vision and legacy to this most Midwest of cities. Across the ocean a young vision was crystallizing amongst British youth after years of privation and frustration from the great war. Some young working class lads from Liverpool were making a 'big noise'. And on the golden sun kissed coast of California a family of brothers caught the mood of their own Xanadu. Last stop in the American dream has for decades been the coast. No further vistas to march towards. End of the American horizon. Looking only out towards a deep blue sea. Next stop – the Orient. The final roadblock to the ever westward expansion. Here! Here we stop and must make our stand. The sun would not set on this new sonic wave traversing the globe. Later the California Kids would define it - “Good Vibrations”. A young nation – fully convinced of it's powers. Dangerous foes vanquished by the might of the American engine. The indefatigable colossus able to conquer enemies across all theaters of a global war. An economy the envy of the world. The great savior of the globe and self-anointed moral guidepost. In this year of 1964 the U.S.A was indeed Shangri-la. Unbridled optimism and confidence. This great civil rights battle proclaiming the very self honesty we would show to the world by our self cauterization of wounds. Yes, we were even strong enough to heal ourselves. And so ALL WAS POSSIBLE. It is then no wonder that a young man in Detroit would have visions of his own empire. Had Mr. Ford not started his own in this city? Not a hard material product the city was noted for. It would be entertainment – his love. The soul he felt from his people. That essential blackness he knew and loved. Knowing something deeper and with a style only his people could offer a nation living a life of ease and hungering to be entertained. He would mold something new and palatable to the larger culture. Breaking across racial barriers , reflecting the same confidence pulsing as some new national heartbeat. Civil rights act a ticket for traveling on the toll road of the American dream. Finally, equal status and opportunity! Shed the southern dirt and put on the silk of urbanity. Neighborhoods filled with southern emigrants eager for a good blue collar job. Factories humming with a rhythm of purpose. And perhaps , just perhaps, legislation that would regulate our fair chance. And so. Young Berry Gordy followed his vision as sure as any of those striding across the grand stages of the Gilded Age. That surety of purpose so few of us are strong or brave enough to attack with the hammer of the gods. Defiant, cocksure and with the swagger of the immortal. And no little lack of the taste for blood , required to vanquish enemies. He would SUCCEED. Berry Gordy - the visionary of this moment. And for his people. Those of his world – in that urban jungle with sweet soul music on every street corner and church choir. This sound , his peoples sound. Born around burning trashcans with young men harmonizing for the comfort and warmth of a a shared street corner. Angelic voices from hard young men looking for promise. Girls on the stoops smiling and singing and braiding hair. Yes this was the sound of the 'streets', with all the joy and sorrow IT could speak of.. And this visionary knew to speak of hope and glory to his people – and more prescient -to the larger society. This would be the music of 'Young America', our proof. Our time. The ticket on the toll road has been paid!! Egg Cartons. 800 Dollars on a family loan. A rickety old piano, if the gods are benign - it would have been have been hauled across the plains to Detroit and land here in this basement as a 'holy talisman from the Brill Building'. Perhaps with some fine residue of pixie dust for use in this new franchise of 'hit songs'. Now let it be named....Yes..... THE MOTOWN SOUND. Egg cartons and a dilapidated piano are at the very core of music that has made us smile and dance since 1959. Heartache and joy. Some danceable bright sunshine. Maestro defining this sound, this feel. Determined to project the image of progress. This new success that civil rights promised. A style that would play on all the stages of America and Television – the great communicator. Hitsville would also employ the talents of choreography. The great electronic hearth would bring the ballets of urban soul to the masses of white and black America to the dinner table. Diana in her bouffant glory, diaphanous gowns and megawatt smile. Temptations in tuxedos making Fred Astaire look like some dilettante with such supple and sophisticated choreography, every girl knowing she could dance with one of them. Yes America, here's where our kids could dance to the 'race music' . Look at them ...such handsome young men. ....and so well dressed....... black males without any demeanor of threat to the white bread suburbs. Girls so sweet . Any hint of sex drowned in the dazzle of high fashion and glamour. No threat to anyone. The first ingenues.A look that would dazzle on the stages of high society nightclubs as well as through the fish-eye lens of television. Every performance planned to perfection. The black man must always give twice the effort for half the recognition. A smooth and polished act crafted with crossover appeal in mind. The sound would break through the quiet muzak behind white picket fences.Teaching a nation of white kids to find their rhythm drowned and lost in the Eisenhower years. Elvis busted a move, but it took the Temptations as they danced with each other in perfect choreography to teach the nation about smooth, urbane and the “cool” of the black man. This would be laughter and sweet harmonies on a street corner. Know our neighbors, baby sitting and hair dressing on front stoops in the afternoon. Back room apartments with ironing boards making all the threads clean and serene.Everyone aware of the voices in the church choir and neighborhood bars. Who could sing? Diana Ross would grow up two doors down from Smokey Robinson! Brothers – Jimmy and David Ruffin. Rhythm of the streets – birth of the 'stroll'. Gait of the urban black man sure of his new steps. Sartorial splendor on dirty streets – reaching back to the legacy of the “Duke” - Ellington that is. Inherited elegance with a new flash. New York Tuxedo meets Carnaby Street hip. Uptown was the direction – that's where the nightlife breathes deep. Syncopation – stepping in tune with the inner soundtrack. The first happy feet black america may have ever felt. A boulevard was a dance floor. Easy to roll on down with 'sweet soul music' bouncing from all the eyes you'd meet on the street. And yet this was serious music in every way. It was the time of Dylan turning folk from obscure Americana towards a new intellectual depth. Seismic shifts from Pat Boone to Elvis to Berry to Jerry Lee and the blues – the ROOT OF ALL. Beatles on Ed Sullivan – the great volcano. The eruption of a generation whose history was scarred by war in intimate ways. Those blonde surfers were led by a mad Pied Piper with a genius for harmony – singing their hedonistic tales about that Technicolor dream born in the next neighborhood - Hollywood. Living THAT VERSION of a Postwar apogee of the boomers. But who were these 'factory' workers? What did they produce? What of the conditions of working in this 'factory'? ...... The Temptations...Diana Ross & the Supremes....The Four Tops...Martha & the Vandellas....Smokey Robinson & the Miracles....Marvin Gaye with Tammi Terrell....Little Stevie Wonder .... and a host of others. All from the working class neighborhoods of Detroit. Cousins and friends with common backgrounds. Knowing each other at school and church. There would be familial threads weaving all through these 'hit factory' stars. A school woud be developed by the soon to be mogul for the purpose of putting that great and glamorous sheen on the presentation,look and performances that would enthrall young america. Unity would be stressed with matching stage outfits impeccable and stylish and endlessly updated. Fashion would follow, that quality so valued in the upscale venues the master had his eye on. These performers would have all the style and panache those arbiters of culture would expect. It would be adult and sophisticated, yet hip enough for the kids. Everyone who saw them would leave impressed with their grace and dazzling performances. The maestro also had his coterie of talented engineers. Those Hit Makers.....the team of Holland/Dozier/Holland.....Barrett Whitfield and Norman Strong.....and the multi-talented savant.... Smokey Robinson. All in some blooming of unparalleled creativity almost supernatural in it's strengh and longevity. In their primitive lair with the most basic tools available to record popular music , raw native talent would be given it's head. Ably assisted by the 'house band' – session men, the wizard's helpers. The Funk Brothers would play on more chart busting hits than any group of studio musicians in history. Given material that was heaven sent, their stamp and the peculiar acoustics of the basement's magic chamber , this fresh , joyous and soulful sound would be collected for posterity. They would pioneer new techniques with limited equipment but inventiveness their daily work. No boundaries to obey – it was the song and the sound and what ever could make it better, best, great. Finger snaps and hand claps – heard in the background, such human instruments. And the soaring choruses – taken from the church but not of the church. It was music of love and loss, hope and redemption. Yet not of the religious – it was of the human condition. The SECRET – yes - was that warm humanity. In every word and in the orchestral use of strings. Underneath it all was the urge to dance, young bodies would not, could not resist these rythms. These were not silly love songs. There was tragedy and pathos as the conductor understood how mature and deeply a young audience would handle their own emotions regarding love and life. Melding of soul's grit and blues with snappy pop music , all coated with a veneer of sophistication. Irresistible, music America would embrace across all it's patchwork of cultural tribes. “Calling out around the world - are you ready for a brand new beat?” The show would go on the road. See and be seen. Packaging as brilliant as P.T. Barnum's. Something for everyone who'd buy the ticket and come see the show and hear all the hits in one place. Who would not come out in the greater land outside Detroit ? If young Englishmen could cross an ocean to entertain a captive generation and create hysteria then our show would be better. Performance and the ongoing search for the next big hit. Smokey teaching the Temptations “My Girl” backstage at the Apollo. The track came alive when strings were added. How many other moments of genius would occur as the polish shined ever brighter and talents matured? Bringing the songs alive – reality would intrude and send out it's tragic message. The handsome and silky-voiced leading man would one night have his partner – a young pretty ingenue - die in his arms on the stage. The musical genius of a blind boy. Their private lives would reflect back to us all the fragility of simply being alive. As in any family – squabbles and intrigue and jealousy. Happy for one another, yet above the master's hand was pulling all their strings. He and only he could see the blinding vision. Trust would not be handed to his puppets, leading eventually to mutiny as ego and freedom from the grind would call. This trust would be hard fought with the master. Years would flow before any new hands pulled the strings. So to remember - this recollection from a nation's collective memory, what sights and sounds reverberate from decades ago? A great summer day......something about..... “My Girl” – decades later it is still the perfect song. One need only remember those primitive AM Car radios. May all men feel this way to their dying day. Sheer heartache and happiness in every song. Theatre revues and dance steps. Levi Stubbs grit and soul with soaring strings and driving rhythms perfect for 64 Mustang top down cruising. '45 platters' with the distinctive blue / silver label a roadmap to Motown. Songs of love about hope and loss full of resounding faith in the future. Every possible angle about boys and girls falling in love. Marvin Gaye and Tammi Terrell. Little Stevie Wonder. Ed Sullivan on a Sunday night. Gordy's endless parade of talent beamed straight into the American Living Room. 3 Minute operas for young America. Suburban parents nodding approvingly.“Stop in the name of Love” - girls showing the HAND. Finger snaps and hand claps. Heartache from Jimmy Ruffin - “What becomes of the broken hearted?” Incomparable 'Temps' walking in rhythm. Always “Sunshine on a Cloudy Day”. Diana in all her sophistication , backed by Supremes in matching couture. “I hear a Symphony”. Cherry Hill,NJ and the 'Latin Casino'. The Copa in New York - all the way up to “DREAMGIRLS”. Style – always incomparable style. Leading the way for a coming cultural cataclysm defined by the young generation with a sense of big change in the air. Pop music as a force. Dylan, Beatles and the Beach boys – siblings in the march to a new kind of freedom. Free to be young and in love, to doubt what the elders would have us believe. Reaching for the full and frenzied meaning of creativity and independence. There would be years before the lure of Hollywood sang loud it's siren's song. Glamour and the call of the 'Big Money' would dare the Black Man – the visionary daring to take a seat at the table with the 'Big Men'. Ever confident this would happen. Relocate to a 'No Mans LAND' for this black man. Meet me, greet me, talk to me of large money !!....My product is proven...!! I have STARS!!....you know it - I know it.... LET'S TALK. But this might just be a different and darker story , one left for telling in a later chapter. Later, Later, Later, somehow the American Dream would always grow large and ugly from greed and ego. Not yet...No Not Yet... Not in this: 'Minute of Hope in the Motor City' We are talking about ' Shining Times'. Dreams we carry with us every day of how it should be. One Place, One Time and some inexplicable dance and a feeling of who we are. Perhaps a snapshot of what heaven might look like. This sound and vision perhaps never to be duplicated. This National Treasure not given it's due. “Dancing in the Streets” May we always do so.

Architect and a Turd Blossom

Karl Rove Vs. Sun Tzu

You ignorant, arrogant prick. Cliff notes won’t do

boy – study hard , analyze and read some history.

Stock up on the weapons. No competent cowboy

would countenance a one trick pony. Can’t gallop

across the steppes like a Mongol until you’ve got

the playbook down cold. Check with any NFL

coach on this.

Hot Damn! Good Ole‘Turd Blossom’ took a high fastball to the head. Double juicy is the arrogant prick’s confidence – his disdain for helmets. Hell’s Angels will meet you heads up on the evil quotient but they’re still the only Huns who can ride without a helmet. You need to stay in your league son, an Angels prospect could eat your lunch with one hand tied behind his back. You’d be spitting teeth and searching for your balls after a few love taps from those boys. Psycopaths have nothing to be afraid of. A little violence to an Angel is like happy hour for the average wage slave joe at the corner bar. We’ll take a wild guess here and say there are no battle scars on those soft white hands.

Karl, you ignorant power whore I almost felt sorry for you, but the stakes are too high for that. One of many little fat kids teased by the bully at recess. We all

know you Karl, but most of your kind get over the childhood vengeance for playground slights. Not youthough eh? Took those fantasies all the way to the

throne. “Fuck him, we’ll fucking ruin him.” Tastedsweet I’ll bet. You need your ass kicked from here to next Tuesday for your “George Bush as War President” campaign strategy. The Nixon Boys look like a Mother Teresa/Vienna Choir Boys

summer picnic against the evil gangbang you and your neocon chickenhawks put the lady in the harbor through. Dazed and confused eh Karl? Damn - a Republican? Prosecutor calling ME in ?? It’s very ZEN isn’t it ? Or Japanese GO. Makes you feel stupid. It’s that old “forest for the trees” thing , dude.

Forget your star wars did you? All the boys knew you for Darth Vader, but “tag, you’re it!” from the Jedi Masters, just put you right in the bulls eye.And you can’t tag em back Karl, they’re fast as thought and you’re not in their league. Got to have better role models boy. Nixon was a single A player who conned,connived and blackmailed his way up to the “Show”. Are you getting my sports analogies Karly boy? Probably not, don’t think those young republicans balled at much if anything. It ain’t fair I know. The jocks,rockers, stoners and other losers got all the sorority pussy. Hell, even the engineer geeks got a “sympathy hand job” from a real live girl once per degree. Nope, NOT ONE FRIGGING OUNCE of sympathy for your sorry ass. In fact , if I’m Gandalf and I can sentence Sauron here’s what he’d get. You know the movie “Groundhog Day” Karl? Repeat the same day over and over again. Well here’s your choices : A. It’s your soft white behind up in the air for the good ole boys in ‘Deliverance’. You know “squeal boy! squeal like a pig!” The south was good to you and Dubya right? B. You’re cellmates with Julio,Tyrone and Maurice. Hardcore bangers who Slanged, banged and blinged with the “Latin Kings”,110 Bloods and 88 set Crips out of Compton. Tyrone is one angry mufucka since P. Diddy dissed him on a Rap CD contract. He’s been irritable and missing his bitch back in the hood. So be careful in the shower punk. Bon Voyage , write when you find work.

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?

First Line of My Book

He was a 'Vinny' or 'Joey', comfortable in a slick suit that set him back 2 g's  while eating a dripping cheese-steak in wax paper standing on a filthy neighborhood sidewalk, a South Philly guy.

 

IT'S YALE'S FAULT

Yale’s got some splainin to do !! Y’all let us down. All of us out here in fly-over land understand sycophantic catering to well-heeled benefactors,trustees and legacies etc.. But yo rep is on the line now. This dangerous ex-frat boy of yours now holds the keys to the kingdom with the other holding that hammer seen in the smack down game common to any local mall arcade. You know the one – where the targets pop up repeatedly and get whacked for points. Is this what our current prez learned at your admittedly fine institution? Haven’t checked his transcripts but Diplomacy 101 may not be in your curriculum. If it is and he took it, you might have been a little generous on the marking curve. Makes for an interesting foreign policy though. Of course this mall rat behavior would be consistent with one who shuns newspapers let alone briefing papers prepared by a staff of other IVY league grads. “Keep em short folks ! Just the bullet points Sparky, details make my brain hurt!” His obvious love for language and the written word could only have been stroked in those ancient rooms of your gothic cathedrals. The fine linguistic abilities of the residents of your faculty lounges undoubtedly inspired our Georgie boy to aspirations of Churchillian grandeur. Indeed, ‘Bushisms’ will reverberate through the ages, a great neon billboard full of Socratic adages the very proclamation of a virtuous American and Yale (in particular) education to the English speaking people of the world. Revulsion is too weak an adjective for what is felt hearing the ‘Leader of the Free World’ orate. Must have been loads of dropped coffee cups in the lounge, eh? English profs scrambling for cover – “I did not have him!!” Or maybe deceased,retired or senile, thus spared the evidence of their sins. Let’s not forget to give props to the quad’s pride and joy: Drama School. Yes sir, the ‘hot babes’ were all there at the ‘acting thing’. Method acting? Sounds like fun! “I am a Texan and I am president, I am a Texan and I am president. Hippies are scum, Hippies are scum!! Cool, be the creature, I can use this stuff. Get on back to Tejas , get me a Stetson and some Tony Lama’s – ain’t NO Bubba gonna know ah’m frontin.” Skull & Bones? What kind of initiation rites can be imagined that would put lead in the spines of Waspy frat boys? One imagines enduring caviar sans crackers as a feat to beat at future ‘Annual Chickenhawks and Sunshine Patriots Reunion Keggers’. Perhaps the forced march across New Haven green carrying Kmart shopping bags full of senior brother’s dirty laundry. Laughter and loud guffaws as tales of washer overflows and discolored Polo shirts fill the air. But boy, it sure was worth it for the ‘secret handshake’ that would stand them well for decades to come. W no doubt views these rites every bit as tough as anything those ‘Swifties’ did in the Nam. Yes sir, certain traditions foster the best in our ‘best and brightest’. One is reminded of the film ‘Animal House’, our boy Georgie as Pluto Plutarsky in dedicated pursuit of besotted bacchanals. It is a mystery how the young man dodged all the clouds of counter-culture smoke which enveloped most U.S. campuses of the time. Indeed G.W. went straight for the ‘peruvian marching powder’ missing a much needed date with mary jane. The ‘Doors of Perception were down a hall this preppie would not venture. Give the boy props though for bravery, cruising top down with Merle’s “Okie from Muskogee” on his wannabe Texan soundtrack. Especially as all around him eight-tracks were blaring Hendrix “Are you Experienced”. No sir , from the first toot this ‘Good Ole Boy’ found his potion. This was the powder in the bullets chambered in the naked aggression gun of his psyche. A bronc busting out of a chute for that wild ride with a hard landing. Ask any rodeo cowboy, just one hit and yer back for more! No mellow groovy navel gazing for our George. Shot and a beer with those tough Bubbas back in Midland. Ten foot tall and bullet-proof. Made for crazy summers and inspiration for ‘branding’ his fraternity’s new initiates. Psychedelic journeys were not his kind of road trip. A bottle of Jack in a pickup with empty longnecks in the bed and shotgun rack were just what fit his geographically misplaced Id. Out there with ‘Billy Bob and them’ he could deny his privileged waspy core. In Tejas it’s “Git er done”, spur that mustang til he’s lathered. Ride roughshod over everything. Yes sirree, shortest way is a straight line and don’t no man ask for directions. “Hell boys, let me get my sheepskins and I’ll be back so’s we can make us a pile a money!! Daddy knows all them stud hosses down Houston who can punch my tickets. I just gotta get this aggravatin school bidness outta the way.” And so he did. Run another pennant up the flagpole and salute one more commander in chief who passed through your hallowed halls. Of course another fine Ivy League Grand Dame had a part to play, but that’s merely a postscript to this particular saga.