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Former CIA Director Calls for a Coup

Former President Obama’s shadow government is slowly moving into the daylight, as his ex-CIA chief John Brennan is openly calling for a coup to oust President Trump, should Trump fire Special Prosecutor Robert Mueller. Brennan appeared at the Aspen Security Forum in Vero Beach, Florida, during a panel discussion with Obama propogandist and CNN anchor Wolf Blitzer and Obama’s former Director of National Intelligence James Clapper.

“I think it’s the obligation of some executive branch officials to refuse to carry that out,” Brennan said. “I would just hope that this is not going to be a partisan issue. That Republicans, Democrats are going to see that the future of this government is at stake and something needs to be done for the good of the future.”

This is one of the best example of how Progressives view their place in the world of politics. Anyone who believes in the U.S. Constitution would never have claimed that saving the future of government is a paramount task compared to the saving of the Republic — but there you have it.

Meanwhile, Mueller’s team has at least three members who’ve donated to Democratic presidential campaigns and organizations over the years. The list includes Jeannie Rhee, who donated $5,400 to Hillary Clinton; Andrew Weissmann, who gave $4,700 to a Obama PAC in 2008; and James Quarles, who donated to Obama’s presidential PAC in 2008 and 2012, and Clinton’s presidential PAC Hillary for America in 2016.

Let’s not forget about ‘the Mule,’ himself, and his personal relationship with former FBI Director James Comey, where the entire Russia/Trump-probe starts and ends. The ex-FBI chief and Mueller are described as ‘brothers-in-arms,’ after working together during the controversies over Bush-era terrorist surveillance.

Sounds real impartial, doesn’t it?

Perhaps a coup would be a blessing as it would bring about a second Civil War, destroying the power-base of Progressives. After all there are many more hardened patriots waiting for the Snowflake’s of the Left to violently act against the Republic, allowing for defense of the U.S. Constitution “against all enemies, foreign or domestic.”

And the Insults Keep Coming

Last week, GOP Congressman Blake Farenthold criticized his GOP colleagues in the Senate for lacking the “courage” to repeal Obamacare and pass a replacement bill. He specifically called out “female senators from the Northeast,” whom he suggested he would have challenged to a duel ― if they were men.

“If it was a guy from south Texas, I might ask him to step outside and settle this Aaron Burr-style,” the congressman said.

This week GOP Senator Susan Collins was captured on a live microphone making fun of Farenthold, whom many speculate was the one he challenged to the duel, “He’s huge…he’s so unattractive, it’s unbelievable.”

Collins was referring to a photo of Farenthold that circulated in 2010, during his first run for Congress, adding, “Did you see the picture of him in his pajamas next to this bunny, Playboy bunny?”

This was followed by Democratic Senator Jack Reed saying to Collins over a hot mic, that she could “beat the shit” out of Farenthold.

Needless to say the media was all over the battle of words. However, it also shows their hapless inability to avoid double standards.

The Left’s propaganda apparatus has had little to nothing to say about ‘The Daily Beasts’ Ira Madison III, who likened Sarah Huckabee Sanders to a drag queen in a posting on Twitter shortly after President Trump promoted her to the role of White House press secretary.

“Butch queen first time in drags at ball,” he tweeted to his followers – along with a photograph of the new press secretary.

Furthermore, they have been largely silent on Hollywood wannabe’s who’ve been unkind to Sanders by openly insulting her on Twitter.

“I felt like Sarah Huckabee Sanders left and right eye switched places or something,” Black comedian Akliah Hughes wrote.

And not to be outdone in nastiness, ‘Family Guy’ writer Damien Fahey tweeted, “Sarah Huckabee Sanders looks like every woman eating lobster on a cruise ship.”

Progressives are so kind and tolerant.


What is it all about,
These final years of living?

Having worked till you are no longer needed,
Broke and broken –
No further to proceed.

Am I alone in this search for meaning?
If I’m not…
Where are the other travelers on this road?
It certainly seems that I am.

Hiding perhaps,
Cowering in their facade’.

Acting O-so happy
Outwardly faking it?

There is an odd sense
A Loneliness that hangs
Upon my bent and arthritic neck.

Like a stone of obsidian,
Black, shiny, sharp.
Cutting – no – no – no –

Digging through my chest
Until is replaces my heart
And yet, I do not bleed –
Not from my visable wounds…

Instead my life’s energy flows
From words, phrases, cliches’.

And though shared
They are meaningless to
To you,
In these final years –
Our final years unliving.

My First Taste of Mexico

There is so much about my first trip to Mexico that do not recall. Not that it was nearly four-decades ago, but because it was a booze-fill weekend where I had no one other than myself to be responsible for or to.

There were five of us, and I sat in the middle, in the back seat of the rented car we were using. In fact, aside from me, the only person I can remember with any certainty is Mike O’Gorman, whom I nicknamed “Jughead,” as he reminded me of the Archie comic book character of the same name.

Up until that time, I had not ventured very far outside of the San Antonio area for worry that I might get lost and have to explain why I didn’t make it back to base in time for morning-time muster. So going to Mexico was a big deal for me and I could hardly wait to get there.

The quickest route was to take Interstate 35 to Laredo and crossing the border into Nuevo Laredo. It was only two-and-half-hour drive but by that time we each chomping at the bit to wet our whistles and meet some South-of-the-Border beauties.

Once across the border, we began asking around for the best watering-hole to be found. This is the last fully cognizant memory I have until Monday morning when I woke up in the trunk of our rented car and being hustled into our barracks get ready for the duty-day.

The particular saloon, bar, club or what have you – the name also escapes me – was full of American Expats who were more than willing to buy (I never spent a dime all weekend,) a round or seven for a group of servicemen on furlough. My haziness kicked in shortly after this point in our adventure.

Aside from drinking, what I do recall is following a couple of fellow American’s from one place to the next. In one instance, we even stopped to get something to eat as we hadn’t eaten anything since morning.

In my mind’s eye, when I reflect back on that moment, it seems like it was nighttime. Anyway, I ordered several of whatever, deciding that the last one had to be the hottest they could make.

Talk about being instantly sobered. First, I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t see and then I couldn’t stand, having slid off my stool onto the floor and beneath our table.

In retrospect – I can honestly say that I passed out. When I awoke, which was not even seconds after dropping on the floor, everyone was laughing and I did my best to join in, but I think the sudden expulsion of food and alcohol from my body made it a difficult matter.

But, still unwilling to give in, we continued to other places, all on foot to find drink, food and awful side-street exhibitions. Because I had gotten sick, I was no longer as drunk as everyone else in my party.

After being served our drinks, a portly naked woman walked onto the center floor, which I had assumed was a dance area, guiding a mule on a lead. What she proceeded to do with that animal, I refuse to even bother giving words to – it was disgusting, but not wanting to seem uncool in front of American Expat friends, we laughed and carried on like it was the greatest show on earth.

Except for ‘Jughead,’ he wasn’t laughing – instead he was rubbing his face in her hairy-spot like he’d never seen one before. I nearly got sick for a second time.

After witnessing that, I decided I was going to have to wash that sight out of my brain by killing a few memory-cells in whatever alcoholic swill served to me. It didn’t take long for me to become so drunk that I couldn’t really remember up from down or left from right and I stayed there until around two in the morning on Monday.

In reality, I had awaken long before we got back to base. However the more I kicked and louder I screamed to be let out of the ‘god-damned trunk,’ the greater the howls of laughter came from the back and front seat’s of our car.

The booze must have caught up with at some point in the trip back because I have no memory of going through the front-gate of Brooks Air Force Base. In fact, it was a shock to see sunlight once the trunk opened and I was being half-lifted, half-dragged into Building #512.

Afterwards, I decided that if I ever returned to Mexico, I’d either be by myself or in the company of a pretty woman. So, being the romantic that I am, a few years later I went there by myself and wound up in jail for a month.

Oh – and as for O’Gorman and that woman – he claimed he had no memory of doing such a nasty thing and swore up and down that we were making it up.

Unpacking My Stuffy Head

As I write this, I am in bed battling a summer head cold and losing. Earlier on Facebook I described my condition as having had wet cement shot up my nose, into my sinus cavity and behind my eyes.

The description still holds.

Earlier, as I stood in the shower trying to steam everything loose in my brain-holder I come upon a memory that I’d not thought of in ages. When I was a kid I’d see other neighborhood children, who had not gone to school that day, out playing after the school day was over.

This used to make me so jealous as my mom believed that if you were sick enough to miss school, you were too sick to go outside and play after the school day ended. Looking back I must now say that I completely agree with her.

Unfortunately she’s passed on; fortunately I don’t have to admit it to her.

And by now, most of us have heard of texting while under the influence. Well, I managed to write an entire three-page letter while looped by having taken too much over-the-counter medication – NyQuil and Vick’s Formula 44, to be exact.

(Funny, but my spell check wants to change NyQuil to tequila.)

Anyway, shortly after medicating myself, I decided to write my good friend Deb Spring, who was living in San Diego at the time. Once finished, I sealed it in an envelope, addressed it, put a stamp on and walked it down to our mail box in our apartment complex.

Then a few days later I received a nice, polite letter back from her telling me that she loved me too, that no she wouldn’t have sex with me and that I was already married, so my proposal was out of the question. Needless to say, I was embarrassed and called her to explain.

Being overloaded on medication, I eventually passed out. And when I woke up later that day, I thought it was all a dream or perhaps a hallucination — not the mortifying nightmare it became.

Oh, and Deb, if you still have that letter, it would be okay by me if it happened to find its way to your fireplace or wood stove some chilly evening.

Finally, a few years back I lost my favorite canine companion, Harley. A dog with his caring qualities comes around only once in a lifetime I figured, but I was wrong.

Buddy appears to have the same qualities that Harley had. He like to be with me at all-times, comes to check on me when he’s elsewhere, he likes to wake me by lightly liking my face and at night, and when we hit the rack, he’s right there waiting for me to get settled under the blankets.

In fact, he’s been jockeying for position with my lap-top since I started this post and furthermore, he doesn’t seem to mind the smell of VapoRub – unlike me. Now – if I can only get him to stop snoring…


“You were born prematurely,” Sam’s mother explained to him when he went to her again to complain about being smaller than everyone else in his class. He had heard the same thing most of his life, but had only now, at age 12, begin to understand what being ‘premature’ actually meant – small.

Sam knew he was different and that was also because of being ‘premature.’ At one point he held the ideal, even though he didn’t fully understand its meaning, as something to be proud of – but then Ernie moved in down the block and everything changed.

Nearly everyday Ernie would meet him around the corner from his house, which Sam had to walk by to get to school. And nearly everyday, Ernie would punch him or knock Sam down, taking his lunch money or rifling through his lunch bag, taking whatever the larger kid wanted.

When he had enough of Ernie’s bullying, Sam finally let him have it with a solid punch to the head. Unfortunately for Sam, a teacher saw him throw the punch and it was Sam and not Ernie who ended up in the Principal’s office and later suspended from school for fighting.

This came after Sam had told every teacher he could about what Ernie did to him each day. Not even Sam’s father could persuade Ernie’s mom to make her son stop his bullying.

“He’s jus’ acting out,” she stated, excusing her boy’s behavior, “Besides, his father isn’t in the picture anymore and he doesn’t always listen to me.”

So Sam resigned himself to being Ernie’s punching bag and lunch-provider for the rest of their sixth grade year together. Sam hoped, prayed and wished that come summertime, things would change.

One late afternoon, Sam’s father came home early from work. Once upstairs he stopped to check in on his son, to see what he was doing.

Sam was looking through the wrong end of the telescope his folks had bought him for Christmas, the year before. His father stood there, watching, perplexed by Sam’s smile as the pre-teen moved the scope ever-so slightly from side-to-side.

Finally, the father couldn’t contain himself anymore, asking, “You do know you’re looking through that the wrong way, right?”

Surprised, Sam swung the tube around and looked at his dad, answering, “Yeah, I know.”

“So what are you looking at?” his dad asked.

“I’m watching Ernie playing in his front yard,” Sam responded with a smile.

“Why?” the puzzled parent returned, “I thought you two were still at odds.”

“Oh, we are,” Sam said, “But when I look at him from the wrong end of the telescope, he looks so small.”

“And..?” the dad asked.

“And he finally looks on the outside like he does on the inside — and I’m no longer afraid of him,” Sam beamed.

The Opel Kadet Challenge

When I was 10 or 11, my parents bought the most uncoolest car in the world; a gold-colored Opel Kadet station wagon. Being a small car, it only sat three people in the backseat, meaning one of us four kids would have to climb in the very back behind that backseat.

One morning, we loaded up and hit the road, heading south towards Eureka and later Fortuna. Uncomfortable and bored, I started pestering my two sisters and brother.

As we dropped down the hill near Clam Beach, where the California Highway Patrol had an unmanned weight scale and shack, Dad had enough and glared at me in the rear view mirror. Being somewhat intelligent, I knew exactly what that meant: “Knock it off!”

But being only ‘somewhat intelligent’ and realizing I was about to get in big trouble was my forte’. Therefore, I pressed my luck by doing whatever it was I had done to one of my siblings one time too many.

“Don’t make me come back there!” Dad shouted as he looked at me in the rear view mirror.

To be perfectly clear Dad was driving the car, so I felt very certain that he was not about to let go of the steering wheel and climb back to get me. To that end, I was only partly correct.

“I’d like to see you,” I smiled as I did it again and one the kids squealed.

That’s when Dad stopped the car. I mean he didn’t step on the foot brake – nope, he tugged hard on the emergency brake — and everyone behind him went flying towards the dashboard, including me.

Without turning around, he grabbed his intended target, me, and jerked me over my siblings and out through his driver’s door. And right there, on the side of Highway 101, fairly close to the vista point on the south end of Clam Beach and somewhere beneath the airport on the bluff overhead, he commenced to giving me a butt-whipping.

Several log trucks and chip haulers went screaming by as he tanned my back side, each one blasting their horn in amazed approval. Then he marched me around to the back of the car, popped open the hatch and made me climb in before slamming it shut and returning to his place behind the wheel.

Never again did I smart-mouth my dad by challenging him to do something like that, having learned to accept his warning at face-value. And to this day I have no idea why I didn’t think about the fact that all he had to do was stop the vehicle to ‘come back there.’

The Rocks in My Head

As I got ready to leave my VAMHC (Veteran Affairs Mental Health Care) doctor’s office, I noticed a grouping of rocks, some smooth by the tumbling of rapid waters, still others in rough form, gathered atop her mini-fridge. It seemed a strange place to have such a display.

I couldn’t help but ask, “So you collect rocks?”

She smiled, “In a round-about way?”

“Yeah, how so?” I came back.

“They’ve all been given to me by patients,” she answered.

“Really,” I responded with surprise.

“Yes,” she said, “It may seem strange, but a lot of veteran’s bring them to me – to all of us, as gifts when they come in for their appointment.”

As we exited her office, the doctor pointed to the open door across the hallway. There on the desk sat another collection of rocks that included plain-looking rocks to a piece of purple-colored amethyst.

“See,” she said, her smile widening, “And I haven’t taken the time to figure out why.”

We proceeded down the hallway to the appointment desk, talking about the rock’s and their possible meaning. I confessed to her that I also collect rocks, many without any real worldly value.

Much of my collection is kept in a plastic pencil box. And I can tell you pretty much where and when I picked a particular specimen up and what I thought was so special about it.

“Really?” she asked cheerfully, adding, “So why do you think you do it?”

“For a couple of reasons,” I answered, “First for the memory of it – which is to say, ‘I passed this way,’ and then to feel connected.”

By this time we were at the appointment desk. My doctor turned to me and asked quietly, “Connected to what exactly?”

A smile crossed my face as I answered: “To the world once again.”

“Wow,” she whispered loudly as we shook hands and said goodbye.


By week eleven, our final week, we were beginning to see new faces around the barracks. It was the members of a new “baby flight,” entering the pipeline. It was nice to see some different people after nearly three-months.

The night before graduation, after I learned I was going to pass the coarse material, I decided to celebrate by getting drunk. I was sitting at the bar in the club, sucking at my third or fourth beer, when a petite blond asked if I’d like to dance.

A slow song was emanating from the jukebox at the time. Without hesitating I jumped from the bar stool and said yes to the woman in standing in front of me.

Her name was Velva and she was from New York State. We danced close to each other through that song and the two that followed not worried about whether the music was fast or slow.

By the end of the third song we had decided we wanted each other physically. We wasted no time crossing the commons to my barracks room.

Velva was eight years older than me I would soon learn. Furthermore she has two children back in New York as well as a husband.

I didn’t let her stats sway me.

Velva left well after curfew and as I was drifting in and out of sleep. I begged her to stay, but she was worried she’d get caught in the men’s section of the barracks after hours and get in trouble.

Later that morning, after our formal graduation ceremony, I was scheduled to leave the base for my permanent duty sight. Somehow, Velva found me and she wrapped her arms around me as tight as she could and she quietly cried into my shoulder.

All I could do was hold her just as tightly.

Then it was time to go, as a cabbie stepped into the hallway announcing her was there to take me to the airport. And like that I never saw Velva again.

The Vegetarian Moslem Warriors

Their twisted new age-ism and self-created Islamic beliefs, along with drug-induced paranoia, formed their strange moral code. They were on a mission from God to exterminate anyone they believed to be a witch, earning them the media nickname, the “San Francisco Witch Killers,” but they preferred to be known as “vegetarian Moslem warriors.”

James Clifford Carson, also known as Michael Bear Carson and Susan Barnes Carson, who adopted the name Suzan Bear Carson are two serial killers convicted for three murders between 1982 and 1983 in Northern California and the San Francisco Bay Area.

A married man, James Carson, who also had a master’s degree in Chinese studies, living with one child in Phoenix, Arizona in 1981 when his wife noticed severe behavior changes and left with their child. It was shortly afterwards that Carson began a relationship with Suzan Barnes, who had two teenage sons and who had also recently divorced.

At some point James Carson took the name of “Michael Bear Carson”, telling his daughter in a letter that God had given him the new name “Michael.” Susan also changed her name becoming known as “Suzan Bear.”

In 1979, the Carsons went to Europe. There, the two supposedly married one evening while visiting Stonehenge in England.

By 1980, they had returned to the U.S. and were living as Michael and Suzan Bear in the Haight-Ashbury neighborhood of San Francisco.They also continued their involvement with drugs and the counterculture.

By this time, Michael Bear Carson’s former wife had become afraid that he would harm her and try to abduct or gain custody of their child, so she took steps to hide herself and the child from him, including moving many times and cutting off contact with mutual acquaintances.

In March 1981, 22-year-old Keryn Barnes, an aspiring petite, redheaded actress from Georgia who had been the Carsons roommate in Haight-Ashbury, was found dead in their shared apartment. Her skull crushed and stabbed 13 times her body was found wrapped in a blanket and hidden in the basement.

Evidence showed that Keryn died at the hands of someone she knew, and the Carsons were the prime suspects, but they disappeared before the body was found.

The Carsons fled to a mountain hideout near Grants Pass, Oregon, where they remained until spring 1982. They then moved to Alderpoint, California, near Garberville in Humboldt County, California, where they lived and worked on a marijuana farm as caretakers and guards.

Some of their fellow workers on the farm said the Carsons were anarchists who advocated revolution and predicted that an apocalypse or nuclear war would soon occur. In May 1982, the Carsons’ had an ongoing dispute with another worker on the farm, Clark Stephens.

Eventually, Michael killed Stephens by shooting him, after which the Carsons’ attempted to dispose of his body by dragging it into the woods, dismembering it and burning it, then burying it under chicken fertilizer, before leaving the area. Two weeks later, friends of Clark reported his disappearance to the Humboldt County Sheriffs’ Office, who investigated and found his’ drivers’ license and burnt remains in the woods.

The Carsons, who at that point were known to their co-workers and law enforcement as the Bears, were suspects due to their dispute with Stephens. Upon searching belongings the Carsons had left behind, detectives found an anti-government manifesto written by the Carsons that called for the assassination of then-President Ronald Reagan and entertainer Johnny Carson.

Alderpoint is an area that’s been locally dubbed as “Murder Mountain.” This is near where my brother, Adam, became involved in the shooting death of Michael Clawson on September 23, 1989.

Detectives had trouble tracking down the Carsons because they had avoided any interactions with government authorities over the years – for example, obtaining drivers’ licenses. However that changed in November 1982, when police picked Michael up in Los Angeles after being reported by someone who saw him hitchhiking and knew the law wanted him for murder in Humboldt County.

Through a police error, Carson was quickly freed and disappeared again before Humboldt County detectives had a chance to question him. But detectives caught a lucky-break as Michael left evidence behind, including a mug shot, address information, and a gun in a police car, that caused investigators to realize that the Bear’s were actually the Carsons.

The Carsons’ so-called ‘witch-hunt’ finally came to an end in March 1983 as they were hitchhiking near Bakersfield, California and were given a ride by 30-year-old Jon Hellyar, who was driving to Santa Rosa, California. While Jon was driving on U.S. Route 101 near Santa Rosa in Sonoma County, an argument and physical fight broke out between Jon and the Carsons, resulting in the car coming to a stop and all three exiting with Suzan stabbing Jon while he and Michael struggled over a gun.

Michael got control of the gun and shot Jon dead at point-blank range on the side of a busy U.S. 101 and in view of passing motorists, one of whom contacted police. A high-speed chase ensued as the Carsons attempted to flee police in Jon’s car, but they were both apprehended following a crash.

The Carsons called a press conference to confess to the murders of Jon, Clark, and Keryn. During the five-hour presser with KGO-TV, the San Francisco Chronicle, and homicide investigators, the Carsons claimed to be pacifists and vegetarian-yoga practitioners who converted to a form of Islam, and described themselves as “vegetarian Moslem warriors.” Michael described Suzan as “a yogi and a mystic with knowledge of past, present and future events.”

The Carsons expressed no remorse, explaining that they put Keryn to death for her transgressions of pretending to convert to Islam and “draining [Suzan] of her health and yogic powers.” Michael added that they knew the murder was necessary because, during a rainstorm, “Each time Suzan said it [that Keryn Barnes should be killed] the thunder would clap.”

Carson said he took a pan off the kitchen stove and hit Keryn over the head “as hard as I could, three times.” When she continued to make slight sounds, he stabbed her in the neck with a small paring knife, which he later buried along the roadside.

The couple went on to say that their ‘second victim,” Clark had sexually attacked Suzan, and that their final victim, Jon had called her a “witch” and sexually abused her as well. Shortly before their trial began, the pair withdrew their confessions, entering pleas of not guilty.

On June 12, 1984, a jury convicted the Carsons of Keryn’s murder, with a sentence of twenty-five years in prison. Later, they found themselves convicted of the murders of Clark and Jon, and for which they received sentences of fifty years to life and seventy-five years to life.

In 1989, the First District Court of Appeal, affirmed their third conviction as it had previously done on the other two convictions. Yet, 26-years later the Carsons became eligible for parole after a federal court ruling forced prison officials to consider them for parole due to prison overcrowding.

Fortunately, Suzan lost her bid and Michael canceled his hearing. Officials say they expect both receive another shot at parole in 2020.

In total, investigators suspect the Carsons in anywhere from nine to 12 murders, both in the western U.S. and in Europe. Meanwhile, James Carson remains incarcerated at Mule Creek State Prison in Ione, California, while Suzan is behind bars at Central California Women’s Facility, near Chowchilla, also in California.

The Cure for Stupidity

It was a sunny day and very warm by the time I stepped outside. I wandered over to the chow hall and had some breakfast, and then strolled out to the small pool near the barracks.

Before I sat down in one of the lounge chairs under the awning, I stripped off my jeans revealing I was wearing a Speedo swimsuit. I splashed around for a few minutes, then returned to the chair, where I dozed off.

Soon the pool area filled with other young men and women enjoying the heat of the late morning sunshine. The noise from their playing in the pool woke me up.

“Here, have a beer,” Bass said as he handed me a brown bottle of ‘Lone Star.’

Without saying anything, I accepted the brew, hoisting it to my lips. It tasted good going down and added to my feeling of relaxation.

That beer was quickly followed by another and then another. Soon I lost count of the number of beers I had consumed and I was feeling no pain.

Someone asked, “Hey, Darby, do you think you can jump from there into the water?”

They were pointing towards the roof of our three-story barracks.

“Yeah,” I responded.

My words came out slurred, though I couldn’t tell it. Without saying anything else, I went around to the side of the barracks and started up the steps.

Once on the third floor landing, I climbed onto the roof. Walking out to the edge of the roof, I peered down into the swimming pool.

I estimated it to be about twenty feet, a distance I knew could easily jump.

Seconds later, I launched myself out over the swimming pool. By this time, everyone was out of the water, watching me.

Upon entering the water, I pulled my legs up towards my chest to keep from bottoming out. As I surfaced, I could hear everyone around me laughing, cheering and clapping.

However I knew something wasn’t right. Like a jolt of electricity, a severe pain shot throughout my body and I had a sickening wish to vomit as I dog-paddled to the edge of the pool.

Not only was I sober, I was also very slow to climb out of the water. As I did, a hush covered the spectators and one of the woman gasped loudly.

I looked at the faces of those around me, seeing the horror in their eyes.

“What’s wrong?” I thought.

Then I looked down and saw what everyone else was seeing. The sight left me reeling.

Both of my gonads were swollen a bluish-purple color as they hung outside my swimwear. They looked to be the size of tennis balls and the sight caused me to actually throw-up.

Immediately, several of the guys, lifted me off the ground and we headed for the base infirmary for treatment. The doctors on duty all said the same thing: my injury was nothing a little ice and a couple of days of rest wouldn’t heal.

“Never again,” I said, “will I jump from something unless it’s to save a life.”

One of the doctors added, “Good, because there’s nothing anyone can do to cure stupidity.”

Steven M. Smith, 1946-2017

“No, you never get used to it,” I told a friend as I learned yet again of another friend’s passing.

Steven M. Smith (known as ‘Smith in the Morning,’) and I worked together a couple of different times during my radio broadcast career. The first came after I shortly after I moved to Reno, Nevada and landed a gig at KONE, then later doing overnights on KOZZ.

Wet-behind-the-ears, I was still trying to gain a foothold on exactly who I was on-air. Many times you’ll hear the advice, “Jus’ be yourself,” which sounds so easy, but is actually one of the hardest things to attain.

It was Steve, who during the production of an automobile commercial that I was an extra voice on, gave me the best advice an inexperienced disc jockey could get. After the umpteenth take, he stopped and ‘politely’ said, “Damn it, Tom, jus’ talk to me!”

Then he went on to explain that I was sounding more like an announcer than a guy who was simply walking onto a car lot to look at or purchase a vehicle. His instruction was so easy to follow and it helped me finally ‘find my voice’ in radio.

Steve, I learned while doing the overnight shift which lead into his morning drive shift, was not only a consummate professional and smart-ass, but also one the most intelligent personality-radio jocks you could ever work. He read any and all materials he could get his hands on and had the ability to memorize much of it and could recite it once needed.

Often I’d come into the computer room and see him tapping out some drumbeat on his pad, while perusing the Internet. He made it a point to know what was happening in the world and he managed morning after morning to weave that new-found knowledge into listener’s lives and to do it so successfully that it few ever realized that they weren’t really having a ‘two-way conversation.

One more thing before getting to Steve’s stats: he’d be embarrassed by this posting, as he’d think it was too much. He’s the only radio personality that I know of who did his best to stay out of the spotlight unless the job required it.

Steve passed away on June 3, 2017 at the age of 70. Born and raised in Whittier, California on August 30, 1946, he graduated from California High School in Whittier in 1964 and later attended Western State College of Law at Argosy University in Fullerton, California.

He was part of the mid 70’s ‘legendary day’s’ of KDES in Palm Springs, California and inducted into the Nevada Broadcast Hall of Fame in 1999. Steve leaves behind his kids, Matt, Kelsey and Casey.

Sunday Morning Sidewalk

He rolled over, blinking the sleep from his eyes. It was Greer Valles’ three-month birthday, sober for 90 days, a first for the 68-year-old man in nearly four-and-a-half decades.

Gritting, he willed his aching body from the mattress and gently placed both feet on the chilly floor. Greer smiled, knowing that his sobriety had earned him the opportunity to step outside the compound of the men’s shelter for the first time since the Veteran’s Administration had found him benefits and placed him here.

Though nervous, he could hardly wait to see what the day would bring, but first he had to get showered and dressed. He knew that both were important to his program and he rather enjoyed the discipline he’d long ago left behind.

“I need to do laundry, later,” he thought as he dug through his dirty cloths hamper for a decent shirt to wear. As he did this, he also thought about the line, ‘my cleanest dirty shirt,’ from a song made popular by Johnny Cash.

That thought crashed into the memory of how it had been popular with the guys when he was in Vietnam. He was still ‘wet-behind-the-ears’ when he landed in-country and found himself at Hue City, killing people he had no ill-will towards.

That slipped into the memory of how he came to be in the mess he had found himself in the years since the war had ended. It was a memory he knew he’d be best to avoid as it would turn him sour — and today was no a day for bad moods.

“Ninety-days,” he said aloud as he looked into the eyes of the face that stared back at him from the mirror above the sink. It had been a few years since he’d actually looked at his image in a mirror and it shocked him to find that he was now an old man, gray-haired, bearded and wrinkled.

As required, the old Grunt made his way into the main hall to attend the morning’s first scheduled AA meeting. It was there, after pouring his second cup of coffee and eating another glazed doughnut, that Greer was awarded his ‘90-day chip,’ an aluminum slug that reminded him of the Marine Corps challenge coins he used to collect.

Those, like much of his life, had been lost as he proceeded to burn himself to the ground in an ever-increasing pool of hard liquor and roll-your-own cigarettes. Though he refused to think on it, his mind did play the movie of his life, from getting married to the birth of his two daughters and how he’d had a hard time holding down a job and then the day that his wife took his two prized possessions and walk out of his life for good.

He tried to stay in touch with the girls, now adults, married and with children of their own, his grand-babies, but they refused him.  And often times, as he drank himself into a stupor, he came to the conclusion that the lost connection was because he hadn’t been a good father or husband when they were little.

Thumbing the coin in his hand, Greer walked to the front office and scratched his name across the paper on the clip board that would lead to a day of ‘Liberty.’ Joe, whose job it was to sign people in and out, politely reminded him, “Remember Mr. Valles, the door’s locked at 7 pm sharp and if you’re late you won’t be allowed in.”

“Got it,” Greer replied as he slipping outside and onto the front porch.

“I wonder if this is what a house-bound cat feels like?” he wondered, as if imagining he had secretly sneaked outside to chase a bird or climb a nearby tree.

For the last month he’d been working on making amends to some of the people he hurt. Greer decided that he should go see the woman who owned the little market on the corner.

He’d been arrested for stealing a bottle of 20/20 from her and that is how he came to be in the program and living in the half-way home. She didn’t recognize him when he strode through the door. It took him telling her what he had done for her to even begin to see the former drunk as he had been.

He offered her his apology and a twenty-dollar bill to make up for his theft. Smiling and happy to see the change in the older man, she told him, “No, you keep the money or put it in the offering box the next time you pass a church.”

He agreed, shaking her hand and leaving. For the first time in ages the weight of guilt, or was it shame, melted from his body and even though she hadn’t actually said she forgave him, he realized that saying sorry wasn’t as painful as he had supposed it to be.

As he continued down the sidewalk, the light-bulb came on in his head, “Church!”

He hadn’t been to church since he was first married.

Raised Catholic, Greer had been an alter-boy from shortly after his first communion through his senior year of high school. He was known as a good boy back then and was even looked up to by some the younger kids.

But that was before he enlisted in the Marines. What he had thought was something that would merely place his life on hold for a while, instead changed what life came afterwards.

He didn’t know the name of the church when he opened the door and slipped inside. Out of habit he dipped his finger-tips in the fount of Holy Water and crossed himself as if he’d never strayed from the faith.

Taking a seat in a back pew, Greer Valles listened and recognized what had once been a large part of his boyhood and he relaxed. It felt so comforting that he drifted into a half-sleep, head bobbing backwards and forwards, allowing himself to remember lengthy liturgies of his childhood.

As he dozed, he became aware of something trying to climb into his lap. Half asleep, he first though it might be a cat, but when he opened his eyes and looked down, it was a little boy, perhaps three-years old.

He looked around and saw a woman look at him. Her eyes were wide with fright from the idea of a stranger picking her son up and placing him in his lap.

She got up and crossed the aisle, “I’m so sorry, Mister,” she apologized, lipping the words.

“No problem,” Greer replied in the same form, adding “He’s fine.”

She moved in front of the old man, sitting down beside him. The three sat quietly, the little boy snuggling in Greer Valles lap.

Eventually, he felt the boy’s breathing become rhythmic and he knew the child had gone to sleep, which in turn caused the already drowsy Greer to doze off again. Before he knew it the mother was gently tapping him on the shoulder and taking the still asleep boy from his arms.

“He’s usually afraid of strangers,” she stated

“Well, I’m glad he warmed up to this stranger,” Greer smiled.

“Maybe you remind him of his grandpa,” the woman commented, “though he’s never met either one of them.”

The words stabbed Greer in the heart and to hide the pain he quipped, “Or maybe Santa Claus.”

The mother laughed as she stood and edged past Greer. She turned, looked down, smiling, “Thank you for your kindness and for giving me a break. He’s usually such a wiggle-worm and into everything.”

“Happy to help,” Greer responded as cheerfully as his breaking heart could muster.

He sat there for the next couple of minutes, feeling the sadness spread throughout his entire body. Finally, with a heaving sigh he stood up and walked out the still-open double doorway of church and as Greer Valles stood on the sidewalk that Sunday morning, he knew he wouldn’t make it back in time for curfew.

There, across the street, a bar.

Divesting Jimmy

After-school football went along swell, like every practice Jimmy was out giving his best. After two-hours of blocking, tackling and running plays, he was looking forward to a shower, getting dressed and the long bus ride home, where he could either sleep or finish what homework he’d been assigned.

Jimmy cut up with his teammates as he slipped his feet into his worn out boots and headed for the exit. As he did so, he pulled on a vest, something he was known for around the high school – a signature of sorts for the Sophomore athlete and student.

As he stood by the row of buses, waiting to get on board, he saw an uniformed officer walking up the sidewalk towards him. He was accompanied by a man in a three-piece suit and they looked very serious.

Before either reached Jimmy, they stopped and the man in the suit pointed in Jimmy’s direction. For his part Jimmy looked to his right thinking that the man was pointing out something beyond him.

Since he was the only person in the direction pointed, he realized the pair was looking at him. He waited as they quickly strode up to him.

“Yup,” the suited man said, “that’s my vest!”

“Turn around, son,” the officer commanded, “You’re under arrest for theft.”

Before he knew it he was in handcuffs and being escorted passed all of his friends to an awaiting cruiser. Less than ten-minutes later he was in a holding cell by himself and wondering what he’d really done.

A detective came up to the bars and asked, “So Jimmy, where did you get that vest?”

“I found it,” he answered.

“Where?” the man queried.

“It was draped over a bush outside the front doors of the school,” the teen responded.

“You didn’t pick it up in the locker room last week?” came another question.

“No, sir,” Jimmy replied.

“Did you think to turn it in?” the detective wanted to know.

Jimmy looked down and his feet and ashamedly answered, “No.”

The detective then walked away, leaving the young man alone to think about the conversation. He had an awful feeling in the pit of his stomach and he wanted to throw up.

An hour later, he was on his way to the juvenile detention center on the outskirts of town. It was there that he learned that he’d be spending the weekend and would see the county judge on Monday morning.

“But the football game, tomorrow…” he pleaded.

“Yeah, what of it?” the guard shot back.

“I’m supposed to play!” Jimmy returned.

“You ain’t going anywhere,” the man stated.

The weekend was a long drawn out affair. Jimmy was held in a room that had only a mattress and a blanket.

He had long given up his street clothing for a white jump suit that was two-sizes too big for his frame. And he had no privacy as he was checked on every 15 to 20 minutes or so, even when he tried to sleep.

Come Monday, he was he was awakened earlier than the rest of the boys being held at the center, he was fed and allowed to quickly shower. Then he was handed some clean clothing, his own clothing, meaning his parents had been to the facility and he never knew it.

The thought left him sad and he cried as he dressed himself for court.

Within the hour he found himself seated outside the court room in a plain room waiting for his case to be called. The wait left his gut churning as his nerves built up in him.

Finally, it was his turn and he was escorted into court. It was the first time he had seen his parents; the old man looked angry and his mama, grief-stricken.

It was almost more than he could take as he stood before the Judge. His mind raced with ways to explain to his dad about how this had happened, and the mistake he’d made by not turning the stupid vest in the first place and how he had learned a lesson from everything that had gone on since Friday.

Jimmy was so busy thinking that he didn’t hear what the District Attorney had said. The next think he recalled was the bang of the Judges gavel on the podium.

“What’s happening?” he whispered to the Public Defender.

“You’re free to go,” she answered, “The DA doesn’t have enough to hold you on the charges.”

That Tuesday, Jimmy learned that because he had been arrested and accused of theft, he was no longer on the football team. It was at that moment that he also realized that from then on, no matter whether he did it or not, he would be questioned or simply blamed for anything that turned up missing.

“And all because I didn’t turn that damned vest into ‘lost and found,’ when I took it off that bush,” he could often be heard muttering to himself, every time he found himself under suspicion.


The last couple of months, all I seem to be doing is crying. Since March a number of things have happened in my life that have unsettled me.

My youngest sister’s died, knocking my legs from under me, my son suddenly and without much notice, moved clear across the country to New York state, an event that was tantamount to a gut-punch,

Then, amid several hiring refusals following lengthy job interviews, my third grade teacher’s death happened. And then learning of the passing of one of my high school teachers has rocked my foundation — and I found myself crumbling.

Without thought, I wrote about this to my friend’s on Facebook, “I’m ready for a break,” jus’ before that,  “Since I can’t sleep, I was trying to figure out what to do; read, write or stay in bed. I think I’ll cry myself to sleep.”

So I had unwittingly prophesied twice into my life…

Once I figured this out, I couldn’t help but think of the woman the prophet Elisha told that she would have a child. When that child was about 12, he died.

But instead of mourning his death, she rode to ask Elisha to come pray over the boy and resurrect him. However as she galloped across the desert, she was stopped by the Prophet’s assistant who asked her three times if everything was alright.

Each time she answered, “All is well,” instead of saying her son was dead.

She refused to speak something negative, knowing that her words carried life and death in them. Instead, she spoke positively, “All is well,” and through her faith, all was well as her son was raised up from the dead.

Then last night, I cracked (a break) and I literally cried myself to sleep. This is what I call a teachable moment because the time is now, amid our sadness, including mine, to be wise and carefully judge our words, because they, like hers, carry with them the power of life and death.

Having cracked in the middle of the night reminded me of this…

Early, near the turn of the century, I first read the story of ‘The Cracked Pot,’ and how because of its imperfection the water-bearer never returned home with a full allotment of water for the household. And instead of fixing the crack in the pot, the water bearer left it and used it daily to water the side of the trail in which he had planted flowers.

On the other end of the pole the water bearer used to carry water from the well to the house was a perfect pot. It had no flaws in it, thus providing as much water for the house as it was designed.

The moral of the story is that the water bearer (a representation of God) used both the cracked pot and the perfect pot for what they were designed to hold water. However, because God knew the one pot was flawed He used that flaw to build beauty into the world, while the perfect pot did everything it was supposed to do, and nothing more.

This morning, I am still cracked, but I am not broken and the tears I shed last night are God’s to use in His garden and I pray He’s watering you, His flower, today.

The Smartest-Dumb Thing

During the first of three-weeks of what was lightly termed an ‘Indoctrination Course,’ by the Marine Corps, I learned to react immediately when a Drill Instructor directed me to do something. In reality the old saw, “When I tell you to jump, the only question I wanna hear is ‘How high?’ really doesn’t apply.

Why I was being yelled at has become lost to me over time, however I do recall shouting back, “Aye! Aye! Staff Sergeant!” as I took off at a full run across the Grinder, a large unfriendly and unpopular patch of cement used for everything from marching, drills, physical training to discipline.

Before I got very far the Staff Sergeant shouted my name (something you don’t ever want any DI to know) and I stopped on a dime, coming to attention. And as quickly, he was all over me, wanting to know ‘what the hell was wrong with me.’ The only thing I could think to answer was, “I’m not a Marine, Staff Sergeant!”

He paused for a few seconds to look me in the eye. I figured he was about to lower the boom on me as he responded, “That’s the smartest-dumb thing I’ve ever heard! You get any brighter you might as well go ahead and join the Air Force!”

“Aye, aye, Staff Sergeant,” I yelled back.

From behind me I heard a voice say, “Sarge, he’s already done that…”

The Staff Sergeant looked beyond me, towards the voice and growled, “Corporal, if I want any shit outta you I’ll squeeze your effing head!”

That caused the other nine ‘recruits’ in the course to bust out in laughter. I suddenly found myself standing alone on the Grinder, watching my mates dash across the open surface, and listening to the poor Corporal get dressed down, being reminded that he was “there to assist, not correct the senior NCO when he screws up.”

Zenda of the Marines

“Third time’s a charm, my…” Zenda let the thought fade as she pulled the door open to the local unemployment office.

In fact, it was her fourth venture to the office as she battled the bureaucracy to get an unemployment check. Zenda, a former Sergeant of the Marines, had recently left the Corps after eight-years and had hopes of using the money to pay for some long overdue downtime.

A few minutes later, Zenda stood in front of the man behind the counter, arguing the state’s policy on the receipt of unemployment and the man was having none of what the Black woman was saying. As Zenda became more frustrated, the louder her voice grew and soon everyone was looking in the direction where the argument was taking place.

Suddenly, she felt a hand grab her right above her right elbow. She look in that direction and found herself face to face with a short, balding man wearing a security officers uniform.

Fighting off the temptation to used the Hollywood cliché of ‘remove it or lose it,’ Zenda smiled and politely asked, “Will you please let go of my arm?”

“You need to leave,” the man responded, “now.”

At five-ten, she stood a good four inches taller than him, so Zenda looked him up and down, then tried to pull her arm from the man’s grip. Still he held her tight above the elbow.

Without warning, Zenda flung her arm back ward, then a quickly jerked it forward, swinging it in a wide arc that broke the security office’s handhold. As she tore herself free, she saw him grasp the butt of his 9mm with his right-hand  and begin to draw it from its holster.

In one swift move, she grabbed the man’s hand as the pistol cleared leather and swept both of his legs out from under him. As his legs rose to the level of the counter top, she twisted the firearm from his hand, and he dropped with a heavy thud to the poorly carpeted floor.

Immediately, she popped the clip from the pistol, flicked the eight bullets from it and tossed the now empty magazine behind herself, then cranked the slider back causing the single copper-colored bullet to eject from the weapon. Then showing a certain deftness, she caught the bullet as it jumped from the gun.

Not missing a beat, she yanked on the receiver, pulling it from the frame of the Beretta. Zenda casually tossed it in front of where she was standing, then dropped the rest of the gun on the floor, kicking it off to the side.

“The next time you touch me or threaten me with a firearm, you better come with back up,” she instructed the man as he continued to lay on the floor.

Then with the remaining bullet, holding it between her thumb and middle-finger, Zenda snapped the unfired projectile at the man much like a soda bottle cap or a penny, where it bounced painfully off of his forehead. Finally, with her head held high and back straight, she walked out of the office.

Within an hour, Zenda was in jail, charged with assaulting the security officer, disturbing the peace, and unable to post bail. Her unemployment check arrived the following day.

Valeria Van Zanten, 1913-2017

Sadly, another touch of my childhood has slipped into Heaven — and it’s so bitter-sweet, leaving traces of tears on my cheeks.

Valeria Van Zanten passed away on May 4, 2017 in Crescent City, California, at the age of 103. She was born August 19, 1913, also in Crescent City.

Born to Swiss immigrants, Alice and Victor Del Ponte, who homestead 200 acres near Klamath, California, she attended the one-room Terwah School in Terwer Valley and graduated from Del Norte High School in Crescent City.  In 1930, by the age of 16, Valeria was attending Humboldt State University, where she and a friend lived off-campus in an Arcata apartment with a monthly rent of about $17.

“It was Depression time, and we didn’t have very much money,” Valeria told the Humboldt Magazine in 2012. “I was very lucky to be able to go to school. I recall attending HSU or a little over $25 per month.”

As my third-grade teacher, she used to tell about how she wasn’t allowed to go on biology field trips because she was girl. Mrs. Damm, as we knew her then, explained that she was left behind and made to practice her taxidermy skills.

Later, I learned the ‘field trip incidents’ are what drove her wish to read “The Little House on the Prairie,’ by Laura Ingalls-Wilder. To her, she once explained to me, Laura was ahead of her time and she could see herself in the little girl’s character.

And while I can only guess, I’m sure that the many field trips we took while in her third grade class were a result of having been denied going on field trips as a university student. I know many of my childhood friends will never forget hiking down to the old sweat lodge along the Klamath or the rock-hopping amid the tidal pools along the coastline of Crescent City.

Valeria graduated with her Bachelor of Arts degree in 1934, and within two years was teaching at Klamath Union School in Klamath. She was initially forced to resign her teaching post when she married, but after insisting that the ‘rule’ were not equally enforced, she won her job back.

I met Mrs. Damm in late summer 1965, shortly after the building of Margaret Keating School which replaced the old Klamath Union, after two catastrophic floods along the Klamath River destroyed it the year before.

Employed by Del Norte County School District for over 30 years, upon her retirement in 1973, Valeria took up traveling, visiting  places like Europe, Israel, Syria and Peru.

“All of my life, I was fascinated by Machu Picchu,” Valeria explained in the same 2012 interview. “To think that from [a] little farm and little school that I would one day stand at its base was just incredible to me.”

Not only was Valeria one of my grade school teachers, she was also my sister Deirdre’s God-mother. She was a member of St. Joseph’s Parish in Crescent City and past president of the Alter Society of St. Robert and Ann Catholic Church in Klamath, where we attended mass.

Reflections in a Swimming Pool

As I sat waiting to be called into an interview for a job I really did not want, I reflected on the difficult week I was having. Then without realizing I found myself transfixed on the scene unfolding through the large office window in front of me and in the public park across the street.

A group of teachers, parents and children were splashing around in an open-air swimming pool. They looked to be enjoying themselves and I found myself smiling at their enjoyment.

Though the sun was out and it was warm when I entered the building across the street from them, the weather had begun to grow cloudy with the trees bending in a breeze. That’s about the time I noticed that it had began to rain.

What happened next is what usually happens; everyone made a mad scramble to get out of the pool and seek shelter which was the yellow school bus in the parking lot. A few minutes later, the shower dissipated and everyone returned to the pool to continue splashing, swimming and playing.

Following my interview – which I believed to have gone very well and as I drove home – I started to think about what I’d seen. As Christians, this is exactly how we tend to treat our faith: we soak it up while it’s on our terms, but when it begins to rain, we hide when we should believe.

God’s Toe Nails

Scientists say that the universe is expanding. This is undetectable to the naked eye – so we must take their word for it.

Here’s another ‘fact’ I cannot prove: we sluff off our outer skin cells during every seven year period. If this is so, then I am definitely not the man I was back then  — but I have yet to find any medical literature proving this or explaining if the same is true of our innards.

The first time I heard this I was around 10 years old and was struck by the weirdest idea: Could the manna that fell from Heaven to feed the Israelites in the desert be the decayed skin cells from God’s body? Sorry, I got sidetracked…

Anyway, as for growth, the realization came to me as I was cutting my toe nails, which has become more difficult over the last few years because of the expansion of my girth. At least once a month, I struggle with this task along with the trimming my fingernails.

Further, if I wish to remain clean shaven, I have to crop the growth of hair that sprouts from my chin, cheeks and neck daily. Incidentally, both hair and nail are made up of the same material.

While growing my waist-size, nails and hair are natural occurrences, I also try to grow my mind once a day. For me, reading and writing are my choices when it comes to exercising my ‘brain cells,’ especially writing, whether it is in my personal journal, an article for my blog or short, pithy sayings and jokes.

My wife isn’t particularly interested in what I write, preferring the better groomed authors who deal in historical romance novels. This is how she exercises her brain cells, and I’m okay with this.

She also enjoys doing her own thing to promote her mental health — like working out in the yard, whereas I sit at my keyboard and bang away. Out there in her yard is proof too that the universe is expanding because as the grass greens up, multitudes of dandelions pop forth throughout her landscaping efforts.

These little yellow buds used to be a bother to me and each Spring I’d set out to immediately eradicate them with great prejudice upon sight. But over the years I’ve come to understand that dandelions never learned to grown in the garden, in neat, uniformed rows.

Besides, I’ve also heard that when they bloom, the honey-bee’s aren’t far behind. Those in the know claim that it is the dandelion that the honey bee is generally first attracted to for its first meal following a winter-time dormancy.

So the growth and expansion continues across the universe as it does in my little part of the world. And while it isn’t scientific, it is none the less believable that as Sarah Young writes in “Jesus Calling,” God, who created us in His image, designed us “precariously close to deity.”

So it begs the goofy question: Does God need to trim his toe nails too?

His Final Mission

The old man – many call him a homeless bum – lay in his sleeping bag under the pine tree out of sight of the families that usually habitated the park in the early afternoon. Much of the old Marines’ life was spent wandering the streets during the night.

It had been this way for him since Khe Sanh, 1968. If possible, the old man avoided all human contact because it brought nothing but trouble to his life.

As a young man, he was certain he had been destined for far greater things than living off the scraps of society. But drugs and alcohol and several stints in one jail cell or another had convinced him that he’d missed his greater purpose.

This afternoon seemed different with it’s lack of screaming children and the echo of adults talking amongst themselves. Instead, the air was filled with a sound that seem both joy-filled and bitter sweet and it finally brought him out his sleep.

“What in the world?” he spoke aloud as he looked to his right and saw the gray, moss-covered stone singing in a language he did not understand.

The stone to his left answered his question: “The One who was, who is and who always will be has returned.”

Frightened, the old man jerked his knees up to his chest and stared at the talking rock. He tried to speak but his fear had caught his voice and refused to let it go.

The stone repeated its exclamation, “The One who was, who is and who always will be has returned.”

Slowly it dawned on the old man what the stone meant. He slipped from his sleeping bag and crawled from under the tree.

All around him stones, rocks, pebbles and even grains of sand sang praised towards Heaven. Then it occurred to him that he had been left.

“No,” he cried skyward, “I didn’t make it!”

The stone, who he had learned the good news from, was listening. Before returning to its worshipping, it reassured the old man that he had not been left, telling him, “You are the witness to those who have not seen, the Saints who have gone before.”

And in a twinkling, the old man was taken up having saw the fulfillment of the scripture which reads: “…the very stones would cry out.”

April’s Load

Come what may
Jus’ can’t stay
Hit the road
Got nothin’ to say
So outta the way

Ain’t no one cryin’
Ain’t no one lyin’
Gonna go pray
Stomach in pain
From all the strain

Know the want to
Know a need too
Bye April’s load
Gonna go play
Come what may

The Misheard Instruction

While being interviewed recently by a prospective employer, she asked a question that I’ve never been asked before: “Has there ever been a time when you misheard an instruction or something some told you and what happened and how did you deal with it?”  While I couldn’t think of this particular incident at the time, I do recall what happened back in 1979, as if it were yesterday.

“Anyone here going into the medical field?,” the Airman First Class asked, as we stood ‘butt-to-nut’ along the wall.

Reluctantly, I raised my hand. “Good!” he exclaimed, “You’re with me,” as called me out of line.

Trailing behind him, we entered the lab where others were working. He pointed to a large pile of undeveloped x-ray film and began telling me how I was to hand them out to my flight as they moved by the open window.

With his instructions firmly placed in my brain, he left for his coffee/cigarette break and I proceeded to handout the film. He returned as I was handing out the 37th one.

“What in the fuck have you done” he screamed, “you stupid asshole!”

Everyone in the lab stopped what they were doing and looked our way. I felt the blood rush into my face and my ear begin to burn as if they were on fire.

He grabbed me by the collar of my O.D. green fatigue blouse and jerked me from in front of the window. The act caused me to stumble back and fall on my ass.

The Airman First Class continued to cuss me up one side and down the other because I had failed to understand that each member of my flight had an assigned number from one to 52, and that they stood inline in random order. Evidently, I was to ask each man what his assigned number was and then to hand him the corresponding film.

Needless to say, the next time someone asked any of us what career field we were getting into, no one wanted to volunteer the information. To this day, I will swear on a stack of bible’s and my momma’s grave that I did not hear him tell me that each film had a corresponding number, and thus, to a singular individual.

Lunch Box

After a particularly long week of pretending to be an adult, there is a part of me that wishes I could return to kidhood. How I long for the days of catching polly-wogs behind the Bizzard’s building or running through the Experimental Forest with friend’s like Goldie Arnold.

What a wonderful time of life. I’d even return for a day of being six again and of playing house with Goldie, in the little blue and white playhouse that sat in the Honeycutt’s front yard.

It was late afternoon one summer’s day when we decided to act like we were going to have dinner. Unfortunately for me Goldie made me be the ‘wife,’ and ‘cook her dinner,’ after getting home for working at the lumber mill.

“But, I don’t wanna be the wife,” I complained bitterly, “I’m no girl!”

She looked at me and with all the grand confidence of having won the argument before it had even begun, Goldie stated, “So? I have my daddy’s lunch box and you don’t!”

I served dirt burgers with a side of grass and water served in plastic teas cups.

Contract Thuggery

By violently removing a paying passenger from one of its planes, United Airlines has exposed a danger that every member of the flying public should be aware of and that is Public Private Partnerships (PPP.) Anytime, your taxes pay for a facility like an airport or a sports stadium where a private business is going to be operation out of — it is a PPP.

O’Hare International Airport in Chicago, Illinois, is such a facility. Aside from subjecting an individual to physical assault, kidnapping and the blatant disregard for his civil liberties, both the carrier and the city, which operates the facility, engaged in ‘contract thuggery.’

Let’s take the same situation, but move it to a different venue, say a new grocery store, built using federal, state and local taxes. You go in a get the last loaf of bread on the shelf ahead of closing and pay for it.

You walk towards the exit only to be stopped by an employee who tells you that you cannot have the loaf because another employee needs it. Instead of surrendering the loaf, you make a fuss and the police are called.

Once they’re are on scene, they demand you hand it over — even though you paid for it — and when you don’t, you get hauled off to jail. If you are like me, you know this is wrong.

It’s unlawful for the City of Chicago to enforce United Airlines’ contract. Furthermore, the passenger who was forcibly removed from the plane, lost his right to due process since he held a valid contract for services being rendered between himself and the carrier.

This is where the danger comes in for anyone who uses such a facility: while this incident occurred in Illinois, by using City of Chicago employees to do its dirty work, United has established an example that gives other carriers and other governmental entities permission to uphold contract law through force for private corporations. This exposes PPP’s for what they are – a Soviet-style business plan.

William Harlan Leslie Shaw, 1897-1972

While searching the online records regarding my sister Marcy’s many legal-actions against businesses and people who failed to comply with the American’s with Disabilities Act of 1990, I stumbled onto my Grandpa Bill Shaw’s name. His has led me down an avenue that had long been obscured from my family researches.

He was born William Harlan Leslie Shaw on December 27, 1897 in Mount Blanchard, Ohio to Frank L. Shaw and Nettie L. Musgrave. On August 26, 1918, at the age of 21, Grandpa Bill enlisted in the U.S. Army and was assigned to the 159th Depot Brigade, Company B, 46th Battalion at Camp Zachary Taylor, Kentucky.

The role of the Depot Brigade was to receive and organize recruits, provide them with uniforms, equipment and initial military training, then send them to France to fight on the front lines as well as receive returning soldiers at the end of the war and complete their out processing and discharges. According to records Grandpa Bill was there from November 1, 1918 until his honorable discharge as a Corporal on December 11, 1918, which makes no sense as he was supposedly gassed while in the trenches of France.

Following the war, Grandpa Bill got married in Biglick, Hancock County, Ohio, between 1920 and 1930 and by 1930 had become a widower. In 1932, he moved to California and by 1935 he was married and living in San Francisco with my grandmother Leola.

Five years later, Grandpa Bill was listed as both a prisoner in the Alameda County Jail in Oakland, California and divorced. However, Grandpa Bill’s 1972 obituary lists my Grandma as his wife and both are buried side-by-side at Sunrise Cemetery in Fortuna, California.

Grandpa Bill seemingly disappears from the records until he moved to Humboldt County, California in 1964. It is around this time that he his known to have been a member of the Elks Lodge Number 1689 in Crescent City, California and a dues paying member of a bartenders’ union.

And so the search continues…

Marcy Jean Darby-Velasquez, 1969-2017

This is hard, posting an obituary for my youngest sister as it comes with a hurting heart. I can still recall how Mom’s water broke while in the kitchen the night Marcy was born.

Mom was squatting, looking for a certain pan under the counter. After her water broke (I thought she pee’d herself) I had to help her stand up and then call Dad at work to tell him to get home.

What made it even more memorable is that on April Fool’s Day, Mom tricked Dad into rushing to Crescent City claiming, “it’s time,” only to go to dinner and return home with a new alarm clock-radio combo she bought at Rexall Drugs. I’ve always said that Marcy got the last laugh in that situation.

She and I had not spoken since our mother’s passing in 2002. It was her choice, not mine.

Anyway, I lifted and edited much of what my sister Deirdre posted on Facebook about our youngest sister’s life and death, which is how I learned she had died. I suppose she’s still peeved at me for ‘unfriending’ her on Facebook in order to avoid any further fighting over politics.

Finally, Deirdre says she sent information to me regarding Marcy’s death via the U.S. Mail Service — but we know how that goes…

Marcy Jean Darby was born in Crescent City, California at Seaside Hospital on April 3, 1969 and grew up in Klamath, California, where she attended Margaret Keating School. She passed away in Shasta Lake, California at the House of Hope on March 23, 2017 at the age of 47.

After an accident left her partially paralyzed in 1981, Marcy moved to Fortuna, California, where she attended Fortuna High and East High School. She later attended the College of the Redwoods, Fredericks and Charles Beauty College, both in Eureka, California and Genesis Bible College of Santa Rosa, California.

She’s survived by her sons, Christopher Scot Key and Delmar-James Alexander Key, her sister Deirdre Peterson and family, all of Fortuna, and brother Tom Darby and his family of Spanish Springs, Nevada. Marcy’s preceded in death by her brother Adam M. Darby and her mother Margery Ann Olivera-Middleton and father Thomas Junior Darby.

One-Horse Town (Part 1)

It was roughly a two-day ride from the tiny town he found himself in to the next, and that was across the border in Mexico. Brady stepped off his horse, wrapping the reins lightly to the post, before dusting some of the travel from his britches.

Everywhere he looked, he saw one name and one name only ‘Keene.’

“A one-horse town,” he thought as he searched out the only grub-hole along the dirt street.

Inside, he found the a table in the far corner from the door vacant and sat down. The special on the chalkboard sign read, “Chikin-n-dumpluns.”

“I hope it tastes better than the spelling,” Brady said to no one as he flagged down the counter help to order.

She was a sight he hadn’t seen in days, petite with deep brown-eyes and black hair. She moved quickly to where Brady sat, ready to take his order.

In her hand she held a piece of paper. “Coffee and today’s special,” Brady stated as he read the note written on the paper.

“Help me.”

Knowing that she might be seen, Brady played it cool and nodded slightly. She vanished into the back, beyond the bare wood counter.

Brady was unable to stem his curiosity, he wanted to know what sort of help she needed. He pulled a worn notepad from his shirt pocket and a pencil tucked on the inside of his hat brim and wrote down a two words: “With what?” and laid the pad open where she could read it upon her return.

She glanced down as she set his coffee in from of him. It came in a china cup, dainty and floral, with a handle too small for even his pinky, and sitting atop a saucer sporting the same design as the cup.

Obviously, she was a step ahead of Brady. Folded neatly under the cup was a bit of paper that read “escape.” Brady picked the cup up by it’s brim and in one gulp drank the liquid down.

“Ma’am” he said, as he raised the cup indicating he’d like more.

“Rosa,” she replied.

“And can I get a bigger cup?” he asked.

She smiled and nodded yes.

He then took the time to write out the words, “Out back. Eat first.”

She stepped up to his table and set a clay mug in front of him and a coffee pot, while taking away the ‘good’ china. As he poured another cup of coffee and wiped the last of the gravy from his plate with a dumpling, Brady fingered the hammer of his pistol, removing the leather-loop that secured the six-shooter from falling out of the holster.

Finished, he put away the note pad and pencil stub, and stood up. He removed from his vests watch pocket a couple of coins and set them on the table, before leaving the diner.

Not wanting to draw anymore attention to himself that he already had by simply being a stranger in town, he slowly checked his saddle, adjusted his bed-roll and made certain his saddle-bags were secure. Once mounted, he reined his horse between the diner and what passed for a hotel, coming out in back of the eatery.

Rosa was there, waiting. She already had herself a horse, saddled, supplied and ready to make her quick getaway.

(To be continued…)

The Other Door

Some of my better prayers are asked and answered while I’m in the shower. It’s as if the echoing sound of the water rushing from the spray head acts as a masking agent for a soft voice that otherwise is a feeling and not heard.

This is where I was talking to God about a recurring dream event that includes the imagery of doors, both hidden and in the open. I have sought the Lord’s interpretation of this and if it has any real meaning.

“Father,” I asked stood under the water, “What is the meaning of ‘other door? Is it a new beginning, something I’m overlooking or does it mean absolutely nothing?”

As I asked this, I passed gas – a loud, long, sneaky squeaker that made me laugh so hard that I did it two more times involuntarily. Because I was laughing so hard, I breathed in a snoot-full of water, which caused me to gag and begin coughing.

My laughing fit, coupled to my coughing jag, was so intense that I dropped to my knees in the tub. That’s when I heard that quiet voice hidden within the soft patter falling from the shower nozzle whisper, “The back door?”

Laughing even harder, I cried out, “No, God – the other door – not the back door!”

Sometimes the answer we seek isn’t the answer we’re given and sometimes we learn that God has an unexpected sense of humor.

The Night Amos Moses put the Lime in the Coconut

Last night as I laid in bed and failed to go to sleep, I decided to listen to some music from my nearby device. My taste in music covers nearly every genre available, so many times I end up hearing strange combinations of songs falling back-to-back.

Megadeth  pounding in to the mellifluous Platters, anyone?

Case in point, Harry Nilsson’s “Put the Lime in the Coconut,” played and was followed by the song “Amos Moses,” by Jerry Reed. What is so meaningful to me about this is that this isn’t the first time these two songs have played one after the other in my life.

It was mid-summer, 1971 and the family was visiting my cousin’s at their cabin along the Mad River in Trinity County. My older cousin’s Gary and Steve and my younger brother Adam and I were still awake listening to KATA 1340 AM blasting out of Arcata as we lay in the upper loft of the barn, which had been converted to a sleeping area, when the two songs came on.

Since it was an AM station, the signal came in like a powerhouse after dark, while fading to nothing more than static during the day.

The four of us sang as much of each song as we knew at the top of our lungs, laughing and giggling all along the way. We ended up getting so loud that Uncle Adam had to come out and remind us that we were supposed to be going to sleep and not engaging in horseplay.

“Turn off that radio and good night, guys” he called up to us. Steve reached over and the music came to an abrupt end for that night.

And I as I listened to last strains of ‘Amos Moses,’ fade from my device, I couldn’t help but marvel at the knowledge that I would one day spin records for that same radio station in the 1980’s.

The Dent Beneath Your Nose

Sue Skaggs was one of our many babysitters when me and my siblings were young. In fact, I was one of the only teenagers that I know of that had to have a babysitter because it was hard to trust me to not get in trouble.

While she smoked cigarettes like a chimney, Mom and Dad could trust her to discipline us when we got in trouble. Furthermore, if we were too out of hand she’s call her son, Vestal to come a set us straight – which if I recall only happened once — which was enough.

As a youngster of ten or 11, I was a chatterbox, even though I stuttered. Because of this, I drove Mrs. Skaggs crazy because I rarely finished a sentence without her feeling the need to complete it for me.

And no, I didn’t think of this as rude because it happened all the time – so if it didn’t happen, like in Mrs. Clauson’s speech rehabilitation class I got terribly frustrated and would shutdown. She would tick me off so badly at times that I would refuse to talk for a couple of days – mostly weekends since I saw her every Friday afternoon.

Finally frustrated with my constant jabbering and broken speech, when I was 13, Mrs. Skaggs told me that the little ‘dent under your nose,’ was a reminder to be quiet. I remember reaching up to feel it and realizing I had really never paid much attention to it before.

This caused me to slowdown and think about what I was going to say before saying it and is probably the reason I still have what radio commentator Paul Harvey referred to as ‘pregnant pauses,’ in my speech. Thus, I have never forgotten what she told me.

Three years later, as I studied for my Emergency Medical Technicians certificate, I learned that little dent below the nose and above the lip had a name: the philtrum or medial cleft. Medical science claims it is a hold over from an earlier time and serves no real purpose now days.

Jump ahead 23-years, as I was studying for my degree in theology, I learned where Mrs. Skaggs got the idea that the philtrum was a reminder to be quiet. Like most informant passed along by word of mouth the story changed in the telling.

In Jewish mythology, each child has an Angel teaching them all the wisdom in the world while they are in the womb. Once shared, the Angel lightly touches the infant’s upper lip to keep the them from telling them to the world and that this is the cause of our medial cleft.

Personally, I like the idea of keeping a secret better than I like keeping quiet.

Up All Night

In recent days it was suggested that I write about my experiences in the radio broadcast industry. This isn’t the first time such an idea has come up as a few years ago it was recommended and I took it so seriously that I even developed a title for a possible book, “Up All Night.”

Sadly, the title is a play on words. First, I spent much of my career doing swings shift and overnights; secondly, my career was also filled with a lot of debauchery, that I can honestly say is of immense embarrassment now.

So, needless to say, this tome would be filled with tell-all-sex romps, wild nights drinking and stuff that would cause my grandmother to disown me. Happily, all of that is behind me and I shutter at the thought of revisiting that part of my past.

Suffice it to say, I have done things no one should do. It has left me open to become the blame for things I didn’t do, and somethings I knew were being done – and that is damage that at this point seems irreparable to my earthly reputation.

Throughout my career, I have seen people who acted exactly as I did get promoted (one woman works for ABC News these days,) to better positions that came with better pay and other perks. I even know a guy who stole an entire sound/production board for which I got the blame of taking and he continues to prosper, making money hand-over-fist.

Between programmers, consultants and managers I’ve seen some real stupidity. In one case a lid of marijuana was found between the cushions of a couch in the station lounge and the General Manager decided to deal with the ‘drug issue’ by getting rid of the couch.

Sadly, the business is tough on some people. I’ve watched addiction get the better of people who showed real talent while others have taken their lives due to the heartache of a perceived failure.

No, I don’t wanna write such a tell all as I have no ax to grind with anyone in the business and I figure there has to be a better way to make ‘my bones,’ than grinding other people’s bones to dust.

Have a Shoe

The story I’m about to tell happened today and a part of me wishes it had not happened. It takes me back to a saying I heard once, “To love the world is easy – it’s the jerk down the road that’s the problem”

When I first saw him, he was at the far door, asking anyone who came out if they had any spare change. This man was what one may consider an aggressive panhandler, as I could hear him trying to shame people as he followed them to their vehicles in the parking lot.

Praying to myself, I hoped I wouldn’t have to deal with him. But true to God’s nature, he tasked me with exactly that the instant I opened my mouth and asked for deliverance.

My sense of humor is nowhere close to God’s and his idea of deliverance is a far cry from mine.

“Gotta quarter?” the panhandler said in a loud voice.

“Sorry,” I answered, trying to match his volume in both speech and character. “I don’t have any cash on me.”

Undeterred, he continued, “But you jus’ bought something – so you gotta have some money.”

“No,” I shot back as I readied my key to get in my truck with the idea of a quick escape.

“You’re a liar,” the guy declared.

Caught off guard by such an accusation, I glared at him and replied, “Tell ya what, I’ll give you one of my shoes – but only one.”

“What the hell do I want with a shoe?” he asked with great incredulity. “That don’t make no sense.”

I smiled, though I felt more like knocking his teeth out of his head, and stated, “I don’t know. It makes as much sense as calling a man a liar when he really doesn’t have money.”

There was a long pause before I added, “Like most folks, I only have a debit card. That’s all I carry.”

Angry with me, he snarled, “Fuck you, then!” He stomped off leaving me alone to get in my truck.

While I don’t know if my treatment of the panhandler was right or wrong, in the end his reaction did remind me of Proverbs 9:8, “Do not rebuke mockers or they will hate you; rebuke the wise and they will love you.”

Del Norte County’s Black Dahlia Case

The name written on the cover page of this address book was Lucille Blair, 4981 N. Jersey, Portland, Oregon. It was that of an unknown woman whose badly decomposed and mutilated was was found north of Crescent City on March 1, 1957.

Ten-years earlier Elizabeth Short was found murdered, her naked body sliced in two pieces, earning her gruesome death the infamous moniker, “The Black Dahlia.” The 22-years old’s murder is one of the oldest cold-cases in Los Angeles’ history.

The Del Norte County victim, without hands or feet, and cut in two, was discovered clad only in lingerie by a 15-year-old boy. Coroner Norman Wier said the woman had been dead for about a month before being found.

Among other items found in the swampy undergrowth were a woman’s purse and shoes found near the spot where the unidentified brunette was discovered. Also found were a pair of glass frames with without the lenses, believed to have been worn by the woman.

Del Norte County Sheriff Deputy James Smallwood was assigned the task of tracing the serial number on the frames to a possible manufacturer. Meanwhile, Sheriff Harold E. Scott inspected the purse while deputy William Mooney looked through the address book which contained the names of five women and one man from Denver, Seattle, Portland, Stockton, and San Francisco who may have been friends of the dead woman.

Using the address book Scott left or Portland, Oregon to interview Rhoda Nolestine, who had befriended the victim during a bus ride. Scott took Mooney along and Crescent City school art teacher Robert Harper went to the Rose City to to investigate and draw composite picture of the dead woman from a description furnished by Nolestine.

Nolestine was the mother of Ella Collyer, one of the names listed in the address book. When originally questioned, Collyer could offer no explanation about how her name came to be in the dead woman’s booth.

Then she received a phone call from her mother. That’s when it was learned that Collyer had given her daughter’s name to the then unidentified woman because she wished to order a purse she admired that the daughter had made.

The new lead was expected to set off a chain reaction, revealing the dead woman’s movement prior to the bus ride, who her friends were, and eventually lead to a solution of her murder.

“This is really a good lead, “Mooney stated, “Because bus passengers usually talk a lot during a long trip we’re sure to get many tips which will help tremendously.”

Unfortunately, Nolestine, was unable to recall anything concrete during the five-hour bus ride she shared the dead woman. The 73-year-old was able provide a reason as to why her daughter’s name came to be in the dead woman’s address book.

“I told her my daughter made them and sold them for $2.50”, Nolestine told deputies who were at her Seaside, Oregon home. She added that the woman told her, “I’m going to Crescent City but I’ll be back in a few months. I should like to help her market them. I think she can get more than $2.50.”

She then gave the murder victim gave her daughter’s address. Collyer’s name was the only one in the book which had the correct address.

Even the address of Lucille Blair found in the book and on the Surf Hotel register, where she stayed the night of January 2, proved to be false. Both the hotel clerk and manager stated they remembered the woman.

The hotel manager, Douglas Hepburn told investigators that he was certain the woman who registered at the hotel and the dead woman were the same. Douglas said he remembered chatting with her at check-in, adding she didn’t go out or have any visitors while she stayed the one night in the hotel and had a small suitcase with her.

R. C. Erickson, who was the clerk on duty when the woman checked out about 1:30 the morning of January 3, described her as between 35 and 40 years old, a neat dresser, about five-foot seven-inches tall, and 140 pounds. He said she was wearing a dark skirt with a while high-necked blouse and a dark a gray short coat.

A dark gray short coat and dark skirt were found in the area a few days after her remains were discovered. The items were later identified by the Erickson as those the woman was wearing when he last saw her.

Attempting to trace the her movements after she checked out of the hotel, Erickson recalled she had breakfast and left for the Greyhound depot presumably to catch a bus.

“She did not say what her destination was, but about 7:30 she inquired if she had sufficient time to eat since she had to catch an early bus,” Erickson said.

A part of a bus ticket was found inside a purse believer o have belonged to Blair.

During a Grand Jury probe a year later, it was learned that an Arcata couple were also questioned. The couple, only identified as Mr. and Mrs. Harry Albright were asked about an old letter addressed to Harvey which had similar hand writing qualities as were as found in the address book.

It was later learned that letter was written seven-years before and that the woman who wrote it and was using the alias “Lucille Brown” not “Blair.” It remains a mystery how the letter ended up in the possession of the dead woman.

There was also evidence provided that showed the address book may not have belonged to the murder victim as the hand writing in a letter was written by the woman found to be alive elsewhere. Handwriting experts in Sacramento said there was a 98-percent chance both the address book and the letter were written by the same person.

Albright later alleged that during questioning, an attempt was made to pressure him into admitting he had more than “a passing knowledge of the murder.” He accused Arcata Police Chief Arthur Larson; William Bowen; a Del Norte Brand inspector and former deputy under Scott; Daniel Nations, a Crescent City policeman; and Colan Henninger, a former deputy under Scott of coercion.

No charges were brought against four men.

The Grand Jury’s investigation also uncovered the fact that the dismembered body at one point believed that of Yvonne Conley, the “sweetheart” of George Cole. This came after San Francisco Police tracked a Cole to the Del Norte area during the preliminary days of the murder investigation of SFPD Sgt. Joseph Lacey on December 18, 1956.

Authorities believed that Cole, who had grown up lived in Orick, California had killed Conley rather than risk having her divulge his whereabouts to detectives. Furthermore, investigators learned that the address book, which gave a fake San Francisco address, also provided a name that was “genuine.”

Cole was placed on the FBI’s Most Wanted List on February 25, 1957. He was eventually captured two years later in Des Moines, Iowa after some identified Conley from seeing a wanted poster.

Lucille Blair was born June 11, 1916 in Cowlitz County, Washington and is believed to have died around February 10, 1957. She was buried as “Jane Doe” by the county in the West Lawn of the IOOF Cemetery, Crescent City, Del Norte County, California.

Like Barbara Short’s murder, Lucille Blair’s murder has never been solved.

Puppy Stuffing

It was right after New Year’s Day, 1965. Warm temperatures, continuous rain showers and snow melt has washed much of the township of Klamath away before Christmas.

By the time Dad decided to take Mom, Adam and I down to where our little house sat behind the Three Seven’s and Tony’s Market, men with heavy equipment had already began clearing away the mud, the logs and the debris of home’s that washed down from the Klamath Glen.

“Don’t leave my sight,” Dad warned as I scampered over a pile of fractured cement walls and sidewalks.

At only four-and-a-half, nothing looked the same to me and I had no real idea where our house had once stood. All I could do was remember back to the day I saw the water rise up, lifting the two room building off it’s foundation.

It took Mom and Dad standing near a low-laying crumbled wall for me to understand that this was once where the house stood. Mom was carrying Adam as I ran around inside the square outline of our former home.

Soon my parent’s were walking around, picking items up, looking them over then tossing them aside. I had no idea what they were searching for, but I figured I help by looking too.

That’s how I came to find the white stuffed dog that had been on my bed when we left in such a hurry. The dog was a gift given to me by my God-parents when we were still in France.

Excited, I raced back to Mom and Dad, to show them. Caked with mud, still wet, it smelled like mildew.

Dad immediately directed me to get rid of it, “It’s no good.”

Perhaps it was my bitter crying that prompted Dad to change his mind. That evening Mom pulled all the batting out of the toy and put it in a bowl of hot water and soapy suds, letting it soak over night.

Over the next few days Mom worked on cleaning, repairing and eventually re-stuffing the dog with clean cotton batting Ma Sanders had come up with. Then one evening when Adam and I were getting ready for bed, I climbed up onto the feather mattress, pulled back the covers and found my stuffed dog already tucked in.

And though I no longer sleep with it as I did as a child, I still have it tucked in a wooden box where I know it’s safe.

Dancing the White Line

It was early afternoon when I parked my truck in a vacant spot below ‘C’ Street in Virginia City. Every other door was a saloon or a gaming house and five different bands or jukeboxes blared five different tunes into the street as I hiked up the hillside.

The rattle of the music superimposed itself on the clinking jackpots being paid out, the coins crashing to the open pan below the one-armed bandits, the tumult of voices in conversation, all punctuated by laughter. Early as it was, the historic mining town was alive.

As I rounded the corner, there stood a woman, a multicolored scarf wrapped and neatly tied around her shaven head. She stood near the street, looking up into the sky, traces of wetness shining on her pretty face.

Immediately, I though, “She looks out-of-place.”

Not wishing to ask the obvious, I avoided wanting to know if anything were wrong. Instead I heard myself, “Can I help you?

She turned and smiled weakly as she answered, “Not unless you have a cure for cancer.”

Initially I took the sarcastic comment as her way of saying, “Go away and leave me alone,” it was so biting. However something told me not to allow this stranger to drive me off.

“What kind of cancer?”

“Breast, again.”

“That’s harsh. I’m very sorry.”

She frowned at me, “Why are you sorry? You don’t even know me!”

“I’m sorry you have to go through the fight again, the treatment, the pain and everything that goes with it,” I came back.

“You been through it before?”

“No,” I answered, “But I work for a company that transports lots of sick people to and from the doctor and the hospital.”

There was a long silence that fell between us.

“You’re kind,” she said, finally breaking the conversational stalemate. Shyly, and not know how to take such a compliment, I smiled and looked down at my boots.

“You know,” she continued, “There are so many things I haven’t done and I’m afraid that time is running out. Sad part is I’m only 56.”

A quick calculation and I knew she was 11 years older than me. While her age was of no real consequence, my nature was such that I couldn’t help but do the math.

“So, what is it that you haven’t done?” I asked.

Her face instantly fell blank, “I don’t know. I jus’ know there is so much more to do and I might not get the chance to do any of it.”

The smile on my face left her curious, “What?” she asked, adding, “Oh god…I hope you’re not going to ask me to sleep with you or something.”

“No!” I exclaimed, “But I do want to know if you’ve ever danced in a busy street full of cars and trucks before?”


“Well, would you do me the honor?” I asked as I took her by the hand and gently pulled her into the street.

With all the different music blasting from the bar rooms and much of it fast paced, I held this sad stranger close to me as soon as we reached the white line that cut the town north from south. And there, we danced until both of us were laughing like silly teens and a Storey County sheriff deputy asked us to get out of the roadway.

About that time a woman, she identified as her younger sister, came walking down the wooden sidewalk, grimacing at the woman I had been close dancing with, “Daphne? What’s wrong with you? You know better than that!”

Daphne laughed, “Oh Sis, I am having the time of my life with a cowboy.”

“Have you drugged her or something?”

Daphne gave me no chance to respond, “No, he didn’t – I’m high on life!”

She then kissed me hard on the lips and walked to where her sister stood. I smiled and pulling my hat from head, bowed as low as my stomach would allow as Daphne curtsied, then walked away arm-in-arm with her still suspicious young sister.

Goldfish in the Cow Trough

Uncle Adam took me with him, to visit his mom, whom we called Grandma Ivy. She was a remarkable woman, double-tough, double-kind and who lived to be 105 years old.

It was nearing the start of summer when Uncle Adam decided to replace the old cow trough, dented over its several years of use and abuse by the critters that called the few acres above Fortuna, home. The old metal tub finally started leaking due to rust and could no longer be ignored.

Uncle Adam had the new tank in place and filled with water in no time. At nine-years-old, I thought of this as an adventure, and one I was certain to write about in Mr. Kirby’s class the coming school year.

What I didn’t know is that the adventure was only half-way over.

As a family, we headed to Eureka to do all of our school clothes shopping for the year jus’ before school began. It always started as a day worth looking forward too, but ended in a struggle. Looking back, I think fatigue and hunger caused us kid’s to meltdown creating a meltdown in our folks.

Anyway, these trips to the ‘big city’ usually ended with a family gathering of all us cousins and my Aunt Barbara, Uncle Adam, Mom and Dad sitting around the dinner table at my Aunt and Uncle’s home. We also spent the night, heading back to Klamath sometime the next day.

Before we headed out, Uncle Adam asked me to come with him to the local feed store. He said he wanted to buy a bunch of goldfish for the new cow trough he had installed three months ago.

Being a jokester, I figured he was kidding. But after buying a dozen inch-long goldfish, we headed up the hill to Grandma Ivy’s place.

At that moment, I became gravely concerned for the fish, asking, “Won’t they freeze to death?”

Uncle Adam laughed and explained, “No. Those fish will – well a couple of them – will do okay.”

“But what about feeding them?” I asked.

“They’ll eat the algae that is growing in the tank,” he answered, “And they’ll be big as a small trout by next year. You’ll see.”

As school started, I continued to worry about those fish, but managed to eventually forget them as the year pressed on. In fact, I didn’t remember them until Uncle reminded me that following June, when he invited me to go take a look at them.

He was right. While the majority of the goldfish had died as a result of being eaten by birds or perhaps a raccoon, two had survived to grow to the size of eight to 10 inches in length – a small trout as he said.

It wasn’t until years later that, for better or worse, I learned this was a common practice among ranchers and farmers raising livestock.

What Really Happened to Margaret Keating’s Husband

It’s been one of those searches that has left me puzzled – until today. When I was a kid, my folks told me not to ask Margaret Keating about her husband William, telling me it was impolite and that, “Mrs. Keating still misses him dearly.”

That left me unable to find out what had happened to Mr. Keating. Further,  All I knew was that he had died in 1947, which left me assuming that perhaps he had been severely wounded during World War II and died of those injuries as a result.

This theory made the rounds over and over again in Klamath, California, back when I was a child and as far as I know, continues to this day. Well, that ends now as found I the following news item on page 14 in the ‘San Bernardino Sun,’ dated October 9, 1947:

“EUREKA, Oct. 8 (UP) — William Keating, 64, veteran Humboldt millman was killed today by a log which rolled from the mill landing at the Klamath cedar mill.”

With that information I learned he was born October 10, 1882 at Elk River in Humboldt County, California. By finding this out, I also learned Mrs. Keating’s real middle-name, Ella. I’d come to believe she didn’t have one as everything I’ve ever read about her listed her maiden name of Morrison in that place.

Ironically, in November 1947, the same paper reported the barbiturate overdose death and suicide of Dr. William E. Keating. The fact that the paper reported his age as 28 and that, “The young physician was vacationing at Alpine resort with his wife, Dorothy, when he disappeared,” told me this was not the Keating I’d been searching for all these years.

Mystery solved.


Here I am once again, the eighth day in a row, staring at a blank computer screen battling with myself over what to write. I have concluded that I don’t want to write about politics or the Constitution, because I cannot deal with the massive disappointment I feel about the direction this nation continues to move due to the idiocy in Congress.

With that stated, I am kind of at a loss for material, as I am relatively uninspired at the moment. And then that isn’t even the case as I’ve a couple of fictional story idea ricocheting around in my personal think-tank, but have yet to mold a real story line for either.

Stuck. That’s a good word for what I am momentarily. Stuck.

Part of me wants to go off and find some sort of adventure to dabble in for a few days. Perhaps hike through one of the nearby valleys, climbing a remote mountain to see what lays beyond.

But two things stand in my way of this: my back and the weather. I don’t think I need to explain the problem with my back – but the weather does need some speechifying.

In Northern Nevada, we are in the yearly pattern where the sunshine that is flowing from the heaven’s can suddenly shift to a blizzard. And the further back one happens to be in this rougher country. the greater the danger of getting caught and having to hunker down for a couple of days.

Stuck. Again, it is a good word for such a situation. Stuck.

So with no inspiration and no adventure, I turn to writing a sort-of-confession about why I haven’t been writing for the last eight days. It’s very simple – I’m stuck for the moment and am nickle-and-diming about the computer keyboard trying to get turned around from a proverbial dead-end, better known to fellow scribblers as writers block.

But I prefer the more dramatic word — ‘stuck…’

Trevor the Red

While on my walk the other day, I heard a bunch of yelling and laughter along with what I believed to be the sound of a body being slammed against something. I continued walking toward the noises to find four larger boys picking on a smaller, red-haired, freckle-faces kid, who was taking the thrashing without putting up any fight.

As I walked up on this, I cleared my throat and asked, “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” one of the boys doing the pushing and punching stated, adding, “We’re having fun, playing around.”

I looked at the kid being pushed and kicked and asked, “You having fun too?”

His eyes darted back and forth from the kids to me. I letting him off the hook by saying, “I didn’t think so.”

It was kind of stand-off for a few seconds before I spoke up: “Tell you what, instead of pushing, slapping, kicking and punching Red there – why don’t you pick on me?”

Surprise registered on their faces and they look around at each other.

“Besides, I’m about your size and I’m old to boot,” I smiled.

The taller boy bent down and picked up a rock, holding it as if he were going to use it. I could see a slight tremor in his arm as he kept it at the ready.

“So,” I asked, “Whose the leader here?”

The second tallest quickly pointed to the one kid who was about my size.

“Good to know,” I continued, “Because I’m going to ruin any chance of you playing a professional sport when I break your knee.”

Again, they looked at each other.

“And you, with the rock, when you hear his bones snap, you’ll run for home,” I stated as evenly as I could, “Then I’ll only have to contend with one of you – because one of you two will high-tail it to mommy and daddy’s too.”

I wagged my finger in a pointing-fashion at the two boys I was speaking about. The stand-off ended with name calling and me walking Red home.

Along the way he explained that his parents told him he was not to fight, “Besides, I’m afraid to get hurt.”

“And they weren’t hurting you when I stopped them?” I voiced. That’s when I took the opportunity to instruct him about how to handle bullies: “Wrap your arms around the leader and start kneeing him in the groin, punch him in the throat, stick your thumbs in his eyes — it’s a fight not a boxing match, so no ref’s going to blow a whistle and make you go to a neutral corner. Rules don’t count.”

“How do you know all this?” he asked.

“I was small once myself — still pretty short in fact,” I answered, smiling down at him.

“Oh, and you’re going to get hurt either way. Might as well make him hurt a little too,” I added as an after thought.

“You mean beat up?” the kid asked.

“That could happen, but he’ll think twice about picking on you again if you cause him some pain,” I explained, “Besides you know at least two of them really don’t have a heart to fight, so you won’t have to worry about them.”

As I told this too him, his mother pulled up along side of us and asked in a rather concerned voice, “What’s going on and who are you?”

Telling her my name, I let her know that her son is getting beat up on the way home from school and that I stopped it this time. She thanked me for helping her child.

“You know,” told her, “far be it from me to tell you how to raise this young man there, but telling him not to defend himself isn’t doing him justice.”

“You’re right,” she shot back angrily, “it really isn’t any of your business!”

“Okay,” I replied, turning to leave, adding “Oh and by the way, there’s a difference between fighting and defending one’s self. You ought to think about that before he gets seriously hurt. Take care of yourself, Red!”

Today as I walked the same path I saw the bully-leader without his three-pack. I laughed loud enough for him to hear as he crossed the road to avoid me.

As I rounded the corner, I ran into Red. He had a smile on his face from ear-to-ear.

“How’s it going, Red?” I asked.

Still beaming, “I did what you said. Knocked him down even made him cry.”

“Good for you,” I responded, “What’re your parents going to say?”

“Oh, I’m probably grounded for life,” he replied, “but I don’t care.”

“I’m happy for you,” I said, adding, “and I’m proud to know you’re willing to take responsibility for your actions. By the way, what’s your name?”

“Trevor,” he answered.

“Well, Trevor,” using his real name for the first time, “I christen thee ‘Trevor the Red.’”

We both laughed as he held his hand out for me to shake, which I gladly did. I’m expecting to hear from either him mom or dad or both one of these days as I stretch my legs, but I’m not worried as I did right by Red.

The Embarrassment of Going Hollywood

Initially, I wasn’t going to post this as I don’t want anyone thinking I’m starting to blog endlessly about my dreams and night-terrors. However this is a good study of how my mind and guilt work on me.

A day or so ago I made a rather crude comment to a my friend Ana Alcala de Jimenez. It didn’t occur to me that I was being ungentlemanly until I dropped my head on my pillow; where much of the days events pour out keeping me from sleeping.

The following day, I apologized telling her she ‘deserves better’ and should expect better from me.’ Ana kindly accepted my apology, for which I am thankful.

The lesson in this – aside from minding my manners – is that should have made my apology right there and then. It wasn’t all that late as I generally turn in around 8 p.m.

That night I went to sleep with my planned apology rolling around in my thought-maker. It was during this time that my conscience caught up with me and let me know what a fool I am at times.

It was out back of my grandparent’s home where my mind created an imaginary corral designed with breaking rough-stock; horses that are not saddle-broke. My job was to break at least three ponies a day and that’s what I set about doing.

As I was getting on the first bronc, I noticed Ana sitting on the upper railing near the stacking post. She was a girl again – maybe 14-years-old and she smiled and waved, happy to see me.

That when I decided to go ‘Hollywood,’ (which is cowboy-speak for pretending to be like John Wayne) ride the breast by jumping in the storm-deck and not my normal technique of gentling the animal by building it’s trust in me. You can pretty well tell where this tale is heading, as I hopped in the kack and leaned back for a harder-than-it-has-to-be-ride.

Since the cayuse was saddled, and I didn’t have a single foot in either stirrup, I got gob-smacked in the face with the right one as the fender found its center of gravity – which was the opposite of mine. The blow knocked me right out of the seat and I crashed the hard dirt surface.

Having landed hard like that, in my dream I couldn’t breath, but in life I jolted myself awake. I laid there for a long while thinking about that dream before I finally fell back asleep.

In the end I drew the conclusion that I don’t need to be a show-off to impress my friends, including Ana; I need to be true to myself and do, not only what is right, but what’s expected of me as well.

One last thing – happily I learned this my dream and not out on the ranch. I am pretty sure having a stirrup smash me in the side of the head like that would have left more than a mark by stoving-in my personal think-tank.

Stupidity is never a pretty sight.

Playstation Possessed

Kyle brought home a Sony Playstation he was given by friend. We immediately set it up on our TV stand and plugged it in.

Over the next few months I would walk into the living room and notice that it was on even though nobody had used in days. This became a common event leaving me to comment to my son, “The damned thing’s possessed.”

We both laughed as we decided on what movie to watch using the console.

Eventually Kyle tired of the piece of electronics and he decided to sell it to a ‘used game’ store. He helped pay for his first cell phone with the money received.

With the recent Wikileaks revelation that the CIA — using proprietary software design by Britain’s MI-5 — hacked into the manufacturing process of Samsung’s Smart TV technology, I’m wondering how far off the mark I really had been in 2013.

Obama’s Trail of Wire Tapping

The fake-news media not only suffers from a short attention span, but from an ingrained lack of long-term memory, forgetting that much of what it disseminates is available at the click of a mouse. Sadly, they truly believe the American people, at least those who are awake and interested in the truth, have the same memory-lapse that the state-run propagandist incline towards.

Wikileaks recently released a list of Obama Administration wire taps. These include the U.S. National Security Agency bugging a private climate change strategy meeting between UN Secretary General Ban Ki-Moon and German Chancellor Angela Merkel in Berlin along with the bugging of the Chief of Staff of UN High Commissioner for Refugees.

Obama singled out the Director of the Rules Division of the World Trade Organization (WTO,) Johann Human, and targeted his phone for long-term interception.  Then President Obama also stole sensitive Italian diplomatic cables detailing how Israel’s Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu implored Italy’s Prime Minister Silvio Berlusconi to help patch up his relations with Obama, who was refusing to talk to Netanyahu.

Obama intercepted top EU and Japanese trade ministers discussing their secret strategy and red lines to stop the U.S. from coercing them during WTO talks. He targeted another five top EU economic officials for long-term interception, including their French, Austrian and Belgium phone numbers.

The former president targeted the phones of Italy’s ambassador to NATO and other top Italian officials for long-term interception.Furthermore, Obama intercepted details of a private meeting between then French president Nicolas Sarkozy, Merkel and Berluscon as they discussed problems with the Italian banking system.

Additionally, Obama wire tapped various individuals in the U.S. media that were reporting information not flattering to the Obama Administration. In 2013, the Justice Department investigated members of the Associated Press and Fox News’ James Rosen in particular after paranoid administration came to believe government officials and journalists were the passing classified information.

And a year later, reporter Sharyl Attkisson had her personal computer and CBS laptop hacked after she began filing stories about Benghazi that were unflattering to the Obama administration. She had her laptop checked, only to discover that the hacker had used spyware “proprietary to a government agency.”

Eight-years of  U.S. Constitutional violations needs exposing, so there is no time to rest.

Finishing Mary’s Nightmare

A couple of weekend’s ago Mary screamed in her sleep. After waking her up, I learned that she was having a nightmare about being attacked by a man while she was asleep.

“And your trying to wake me up by shaking me,” she added, “made the attack all the more real.”

I apologized and eventually, we both fell back to sleep. Since then, neither of us have spoken of her nightmare.

Then last early this morning, the nightmare continued – not for her – but for me. Mind you, I’ve never finished anyone’s dream or nightmare before, but as the saying goes: “There’s always a first for everything.”

While I don’t specifically recall pulling into the driveway or walking up to the door and entering our home, I am aware of that feeling, as I do remember walking down our hallway. As I approached our bedroom, I could not only hear Mary scream, I could see the large male figure on top of her.

My action was swift and violent, as I grabbed and jerked him off of her and through our large closet mirror. Amid the smashing sound of the glass, I saw Mary scramble across the bed to the other side of the room and dash for the exit.

That’s when the guy sprang out of the closet and slammed into me. He evidently had a knife which he used to slice into my right thigh.

My reaction, as I look back on it seems almost super-human as I didn’t respond to the pain and instead, hoisted him off his feet and slammed him several times into the corner of the closet, where the door had been. He slid to the floor and fell face down.

A quickly as he dropped, I began stomping on his head over and over until his cranium cracked open like an egg. It was at that second that I jumped awake, covered in sweat and panting as if I’d completed a sprint uphill.

As I lay in bed, recovering from this night-terror, I discovered my right thigh was aching. It is possible I had given myself a cramp in my struggle and it worked itself into the attack.

Where these sort of night-terrors come from, I wish I knew. Furthermore, the violence I show in them is frightening.

Getting Off My Butt

This is not at all what I had planned to write to day — but…

Having gone for a walk today – twice – gave me plenty of time to think, and yes, too over think as well. I awoke this morning to the realization that I need to do something about my weight-gain and sitting around wishing it away isn’t going to work.

There are three things I know about my body. My back is never going to get any better and I must do something to keep it from getting worse; I weigh 215 pounds, which for a short man is far too much weight to be lugging around; and if I don’t get moving, I could be signing my death warrant.

So it was in that spirit that I headed out the door for a walk. Before I did though, I had to set up my device to measure my performance. It failed the first time because I forgot to save the program, so I had to take the same route a second time.

While it was only slightly over a mile and a half, I had a lot of time to think. One of the thoughts that ran through my noggin is that since God hasn’t answered my prayers to heal my back, that isn’t in his plan.

Instead, He has shut that door, which means He’s opened a windowed somewhere. It is up to me to find it and crawl through it – that is if He doesn’t direct me to it first.

The questions are: will I be smart enough or attentive enough to recognize that open window when it appears? Or might it be right in front of me and I’m simply missing it. This is a work in progress.

It also ran through my brain about how fortunate I am to have grown up where and when I did. For all their humanly faults, my parents did a pretty good job of raising me – and any moral-misstep I’ve taken since leaving their household rests squarely on my shoulders.

It was some of this raising of mine that has put me at odds with others. For instance, I won’t rat on someone (unless they’ve physically harmed someone,) even at the expense of myself. I’ve even blown two possible job opportunities because I refuse to tell what was done to me and I figure that if that company can’t understand this principle, then I wouldn’t want to be employed with them in the long run anyway.

Yeah, yeah, I know — ‘cutting my nose off to spite my face’ doesn’t put bread on the table — yet there are some personal rules one must never let slide.

Further, as a child, I had neighbors and friends of my parents and adults unknown to either they or myself, who’d set me straight when I had been caught screwing up. Most folk, regardless of knowing a kid’s parent or not will corrected a child publicly these days for fear of reprisals.

One last thought I had bouncing around in my cranium this morning is that I’ve come into a new season in my life, a course correction, if you will. There is so much more to life than politics and I NEED to write about that more than I’ve been.

So, as I work my way back into blogging daily, expect to read a few pieces that seem out of place; they’re there for a reason. This is my two-pronged attack at re-energizing my self-discipline, a ‘internal muscle’ which has been too long dormant.

DOJ Busted Funding Progressive Groups

Slowly but surely, the tentacles that the Obama administration left coiled in place to continue squeezing and choking our nation to death are being undone. The latest finding is that the administration secretly guided over $440 million to activists organizations through the Department of Justice.

While legal, this is an immoral act on the part of the DOJ because the agency is supposed to be impartial. So, in essence the Obama administration found and exploited a loophole in the law to benefit its pet-projects.

By law, when banks are sued by the federal government for things like discrimination or opening fake accounts in order to gin up profitability they usually settle the case by donating to what is called a third-party non-victims program, which doesn’t specify how the monies collected are to be used.

Under this DOJ-approved program, the banks are then incentivized to donate to certain non-profits. For instance, for Fiscal Year 2016, Congress allocated $47 million to Housing and Urban Development. Under the DOJ’s guidance, Citibank and Bank of America kicked in another $30 million.

During the same time period, the federal agency, Legal Services Corporation, which funds and monitors free civil legal aid in the U.S., was allocated $385 million by Congress. It also received an additional $412 million through the DOJ’s skillful manipulations.

Some of the organizations to benefit from these ‘donations’ include the National Council of La Raza, the National Community Reinvestment Coalition and the National Urban League. And hopefully, it’ll all come to a halt.

Recently, Congressman Bob Goodlatte of Virginia submitted the ‘Stop Settlements Slush Funds Act of 2017,’ or H.R. 522. The bill that would prohibit the DOJ from keeping any of the of money is collects and further, prevents federal agencies from requiring defendants to donate money to outside groups as part of settlement agreements.

A Primer on the U.S. President’s Job

“My job is not to represent the world; my job is to represent the will of the people.” – President Donald Trump

When I first heard what President Trump supposedly said about his job, I got angry knowing that he was wrong in his definition. However, like most everything else in the fake-news media, his statement was misquoted and thus, why I triple check nearly everything I read, write and share.

The job description of the U.S. President is enshrined in Article 2, sections 2 and 3 of the U.S. Constitution and consists of only 322 words. Though short, it covers five areas:

1. The president is the commander-in-chief of the military.

2. The president is responsible for ensuring that the laws passed by Congress are executed and enforced as written.

3. The president is allowed to grant pardons for crimes other than impeachment.

4. The president can make treaties, but only if two-thirds of the Senate agrees to the terms of that treaty.

5. The president can nominate ambassadors, supreme Court justices and other officers, such as cabinet secretaries and federal judges.

That’s all the president is allowed to do by law. However it is nice to hear a President finally place America ahead of the world as we haven’t heard such a BOLD statement from the executive branch in a long while.

The City of Sparks Goes to the Movies

Time and again government bodies, from federal to state to local, are willing to spend taxpayer monies by selecting which business deserves a cash infusion and which is going to be left to struggle alone. It is frustrating to say the least, as it rarely turns out to be a good thing.

It wasn’t all that long ago that we were told that there were some businesses that are too big to allow to fail; banks and automobile companies. The trend has had a trickle down effect in to the states including Nevada.

A few years ago Nevada decided to cut Tesla Motors a big tax break in order to lure it to the state. More recently Las Vegas has been working on the same deal attempting to drag the Raiders from Oakland, using taxpayers money.

A couple of days ago, Sparks, Nevada, announced it had done the same thing by offering up $1.5 million in room tax money (earmarked for capital improvements) to Galaxy Theaters in order for the billion dollar corporation to renovated a recently closed theater on Victorian Avenue. As part of the deal Sparks is going to pay a million bucks up front for the renovation itself and the remainder in $100-thousand increments over the next five years.

Galaxy says it’s going to spend $6.1 million of their own money on the project. The deal also involves a 10-year lease.

As a side-note, I reported on Spark’s redevelopment project for the Victorian Avenue corridor back in 2005. Back then the claim was that the attacks on 9/11 had cause a downturn in the economy and that had dashed the hopes of city leaders and all the grand plans they had in the works.

Take a stroll south along Victorian, from Pyramid to the interchange at Kietzke Lane and El Rancho Drive where the three streets come together at East Fourth Street. There are at least 15 businesses that could benefit from a healthy infusion of a $100-thousand – after all as local members of the community, that room tax money, which is paid by tourists when they rent a hotel/motel in Sparks, is as much their money as it is the anyone’s.

In reality, that money doesn’t belong to the city. It belongs to the people who live, work and make up the city as it’s lawful residents. That means Sparks is handing out money that doesn’t belong to them – hence – taxation is theft.

As stated before, it is very rarely that any governmental body or agency chooses a successful business and the City of Sparks has been and will continue to be no exception to this rule. Perhaps if they tried creating an atmosphere inviting to the free market system, they’d find success – but then how would our so-called city leaders enrich themselves?

Dirty Shirley

It was about one month or so before high school graduation and my parent’s decided to treat me to a night out on the town. In Klamath, California, that meant either the radar base, Paul’s Cannery or Crivelli’s Bar in the Klamath Glen. That’s how I came to be sitting at a table with my folks when Mr. and Mrs. McKellar arrived with their daughter, Lisa.

Now, Lisa and I had been in the same grade throughout school beginning in kindergarten. When we were five-years old she developed a bloody nose, so severe she had to go to the school nurse and somehow I got the blame for causing it.

Mrs. Damm, who was principal at the time, called me to her office and I had to stand in the corner where I could be seen by everyone. Though I protested, it didn’t do me any good – so oh, well.

Later, in 7th grade, Lisa and I became co-conspirators along with Julie Van Dusen in the flooding of our classroom. The damage was so significant, that as the named-instigator, the school board kicked me out of public school for the entire year.

The following year, I teased Lisa so badly during recess that she took a swing at me with a baseball bat. I ducked, but poor Kristen Rose never saw it coming and she ended up with a nasty black-eye.

Yup…I went to the principle’s office for that one too. Ah, good times, good times.

Our parent’s ordered Shirley Temple drinks for Lisa and I, since we we’re underage. But somehow they turned into “Dirty Shirley’s” with a hefty shot of vodka.

After three or four of those, I was so overheated that I was in need of some fresh air. The rosiness in Lisa’s cheeks told me she was feeling the vodka’s affect too, so I asked if she wanted to join me.

We sat outside on the large cement porch, talking aimlessly for a while before falling into a silence. That’s when I started thinking about leaning over and kissing Lisa, but I chickened out, worried she’d slap my lips off my face.

Not enough booze, I guess.

We’re in the Same Boat

Our Federal government, under Barack Obama, has spent millions of our taxpayer dollars to destabilize the government of Macedonia. Obama, working with George Soros and his ‘Open Society Foundation,’ used Ambassador Jess L. Baily to funnel large sums of U.S. dollars to the cause, which is a violation of the Vienna Convention on Diplomatic Relations.

The cash moved through the State Department and the U.S. Agency of International Development (USAID.)For it’s part, USAID allocated about $5 million to various Soros groups in Macedonia since 2012, with another $9.5 million earmarked to intervene in the country’s governmental affairs.

Using this secret funding, the Open Society Foundation has been able to set up and fund dozens of groups within Macedonia. The groups then organized youth movements, created media events and produced violent protests to undermine the government with the end-result aimed at overthrowing it.

One of the Soros’ groups even went so far as to funded the translation and publication of Saul Alinsky’s “Rules for Radicals” into Macedonian. This book is a tactical manual of subversion and provides direct advice for radical street protests and proclaims Lucifer to be the first radical.

The country recently built a border fence to crackdown on an illegal immigration crisis that overwhelmed law enforcement agencies. Between 10,000 and 12,000 illegal aliens were crossing the Greek-Macedonian border daily at the peak of the European migration crisis.

This is one of Soros pet-projects, as he’s done everything in his power to diminish U.S. global power and increase in Muslim immigration. Soros even spent tens of millions of dollars to secretly support Hillary Clinton’s presidential campaign through various groups with purposefully obscured ties to his different organizations.

Last month Utah Senator Mike Lee sent Baily a letter asking questions involving the U.S. Mission to Macedonia’s involvement in the political process and its connections to the Open Society Foundation, but Bailey, true to his former boss’ direction, continues to stonewall the senator. And unfortunately, the illegal money continues to flowing as Bailey has yet to be replaced by President Trump.

This should seem familiar to all of us, as the U.S. has been under the same attack since 2012.

Yellow and Blue

Kyle was six-years old when he began learning about his primary colors. Soon the lessons included which colors, when mixed together, made what other colors.

With this in mind, I picked him up from school for President’s Day weekend. And as usual, I tried to coax a conversation out of my normally quiet child by asking, “So what did you learn about today?”

To my surprise he quickly answered, “That yellow and blue make green.”

That was the extent of our chat for the next several minutes. Then, without warning, Kyle spurted out, “Oh, now I understand!” as if he had been pondering some great equation all day.

“What’s that?” I couldn’t help asking.

He smiled, “The sun is yellow and the sky is blue.”

“Uh-huh…” I responded.

Then in all seriousness, he stated as if it were a matter of fact: “So that’s why the grass is green! Duh!”

Marjorie Buckskin, 1953-2017

Marjorie Buckskin passed away February 21, 2017, in Crescent City, California, following a short illness. She was diagnosed with uterine cancer in July 2016 and had finished six weeks of radiation on January 10th.margie buckskin It was during a check up in February, that doctors found the disease had metastasized, attacking her bones, making them weak. She told me that she was to undergo a hysterectomy in the final week of this month.

We were next door neighbors on Redwood Drive in Klamath for nearly five-years. Margie was a foster child who lived with the Babb family.the babb family The fact that eight-years separated us in age never occurred to me. Margie, to put it in the simplest terms, was one of the neighborhood kids, which describes my world at the time, so when my parent had their social get-togethers, she was the only ‘kid’ invited.

This used to bug me as I laid awake during these parties and listen as the ‘adults’ talked into the wee-hours of the morning. Looking back, I have a feeling that those gatherings may have been the catalyst for her life’s work as the topic of social change was spoken of often.

Margie, for the most part was quiet and reserved, but she had a laugh that was as loud as it was jolly. Whereas, kids in the neighbor often said they could hear my mom yelling at us kids while they were standing the street, I could hear Margie laughing from the Babb’s family room, while standing in my backyard.

She graduated from Del Norte High School in 1972 and moved away shortly thereafter. I hadn’t seen or spoke to her until I saw a post from a friend on Facebook, calling for emotional support for her in the face of a devastating disease.marjorie-babb-1972-2

Born in Crescent City, December 22, 1953, Margie served on the Yurok Tribal Council for more than a decade advocating for youth, health care and tribal elders. She was elected as representative of the Yurok Tribe’s north district in 1999 and was re-elected three times as well as being elected as vice chairperson in 2009.

During her time on the council, Margie participated in the signing of the first Klamath River dam removal agreement. She also helped the tribe re-acquire more than 20,000 acres of ancestral territory along the banks of the Klamath River.

We spoke to one another for the first time in 45-years around the first of February, and though in good spirit, she sounded weak, out of breath and tired, and excused herself after 20 minutes. It was good to hear her voice and her laughter as we talked about being kids and growing where and how we did.

While I am saddened by Margie’s death I know she’s in Heaven with her foster parents, Marie and Charlie. And though I don’t know Margie’s children, I offer them my sincerest and most heartfelt condolences along with Christine Jeffers, Margaret Martinez and Charlene Davis, who were Margie’s sisters for those five years that she lived in the same home, next to ours.

A Message Amid the Photos

It’s been 14 days since I was last able to blog because my computer completely died. I have been writing notes and thoughts down in long hand and now must decide whether or no to type them up and post them to the date they were first written.

In that time a number of things have gone on including more snow for Northern Nevada, leading to more flooding, especially to the outlying area’s of the Reno and Sparks area. We also had Mary’s cousin Susan come over from the Oroville, California area with a bunch of family photographs she wanted out of the flood zone, if the Oroville Dam or any of the many, nearby levees failed.

Yes, the Oroville Dam is having some major problems as the spillway has crumbled at it’s midsection, causing water to go in differing directions. And since it is really uncontrolled it can cause erosion and undercut either the dam or a levee, and since Susan lives lower than both, her home is prone to flash flooding.

Having her here, having the family pictures her has been very enjoyable. I love looking a photographs even if I don’t know the majority of the people in them, since they are my wife’s family.

Included in all of this is a paperwork that Susan didn’t realize she had. One paper was her father’s orders to transit from Brisbane, Australia to Manila in the Philippines in 1946 along with another that showed that for the year 1945 he made less than $500 for the entire year as a Merchant Marine.

This got me to thinking about the ‘Greatest Generation,” as Tom Brokaw called those men and women who not only lived through the depression, but beat back Nazism, Fascism, and Imperialism during World War II.

Seeing this piece of paper with such a lackluster amount on it gives me pause and forced me to ask the harder question of ‘Did that near-generational poverty cause some of the problems we are faced with today?’

No, I am not attacking the Greatest Generation, as I think most men and women who returned from battle (including the factory workers, etc.) did what any parent did – and that is shower their children with things. These children, whom we call “Baby Boomers,’ grew up with having nearly all their expectations met, from basic education, to outstanding medical care when needed, to faster, more powerful cars to larger and more energy-efficient homes – all items their parents did without for much of their childhood.

It crosses my mind that Baby Boomers like me, are at fault for this crop of adults we call the ‘Millennial Generation.’ For the most part we had the good life as children and in an attempt to pass it on to our kids, we created a ‘false utopia’ for the majority of our children, from participation trophies to gold stars for simply turning in a school assignment on-time.

What I am trying to say is that each generation passes something along to the next, whether good or bad, and it is time we took responsibility for how our society is crumbling in front of us. God help us, if we don’t.



Perhaps the toughest part of fatherhood for me was keeping a straight face when my insides were trying to burst from an eruption of laughter. Mind you, it wasn’t very often that I had to correct Kyle as he had a natural compass that directed him right from wrong and it rarely failed.

One early afternoon, when Kyle was seven or eight, he was in his room playing a Spider-Man video. I was in the living room reading when I heard him drop a loud and angry f-bomb.

Quietly, but quickly I hurried down the hallway, asking, “What did you say?”

Kyle looked up at me in a sheepish way and said it again. He then explained that he got mad at the game and it popped out of his mouth by accident. He followed it up with a sincere apology and stated he wouldn’t happen again.

Satisfied, I let him off the hook and we each returned to our activities – he playing his video, I reading a book. A few minutes later he came wandering down the hall with a look on his face that said he was thinking hard about something.

“What’s up?” I asked.

“I don’t understand,” Kyle began, “You’ve been teaching me how to write in cursive, but I’m not allowed to talk in cursive.”

“Talking in cursive?” I queried.

“Yeah, you know – saying bad words,” he answered.

I smiled, “You mean cursing.”

Kyle frowned and in a serious tone, responded, “No. It’s cursive.”

Knowing I should explain the difference to him, I couldn’t help myself as I was curious about how he came to the idea that cussing was cursive, so I asked, “How so?”

“Fuck is fancy talking, like cursive is fancy writing,” he stated flatly.

Yes, I knew right then I had some explaining to do. But it would have to wait as I busted a gut trying hard not to laugh.

When the Mountain Did Move

It began yesterday when I stopped at the store to buy myself a pair of new suspenders – bright red one to replace my broken black ones. They reminded me of my step-dad, Delmar Middleton, who wore red suspenders all the time.

The memory slipped from my mind until this morning. That’s when I read a note from Pastor Paula White-Cain that said: “Mountains don’t move unless you speak to them.”

That’s when I knew I had to write about an incident that involved Del, my mom and me one morning back in 1993. The three of us went into the hills to an area recently cleared by some large logging outfit, to cut up some deadfall for my folk’s fireplace.

Del and Mom were on the down side of the road, the part we had jus’ travelled up and I was on the upside with Del’s winch-equipped truck. I had jus’ finish setting the choke on a thick branch-sized log and was awaiting Del’s signal to fire up the winch.

As the winch tugged and the choke tightened, the log failed to move. Thinking I had misset the damned thing, I turned off the winch and started back up the hillside.

Del hollered at me to go back and crank the winch up all the way. I could hear he and Mom talking as she wondered if the winch had enough power to do the job.

“Oh, yeah, “Del exclaimed, “It’s got enough juice to move a mountain.”

Right then I threw the thing into max-power and watched as the log shifted and started to slide down the hill. As if moved, I noticed that the dirt beneath it was also moving.

“Mudslide!” I yelled, but by that time Mom and Del were racing down the road.

Not wishing to be outdone, I took off in the opposite direction, leaving the winch in gear. Had I tried to get around to the front of the tuck to power it off, I probably would’ve been run over or sliced into by the cable as it violently shifted farther down hill from the vehicle.

As we watch, the truck began to bounce up and down, moving a couple of inches at a time, then by a foot or two. By the time the mudslide and truck stopped, the log was jammed against the grille of the truck and the truck was hanging off the edge of the gaping wound that replaces the road and hillside.

It took us a couple of hours to get the truck back up onto the roadway and the rest of the day to find another way off the hill. We teased Del the rest of the day, warning him to be careful how he invoked God’s word.

Bad Ain’t Always Negative

At first, I sat at my desk with the intent to write another page of information about the U.S. Constitution and it application during this rebuilding period of America, but I’m sidetracked this morning. My mind is thinking about my past, the good, the bad and the way I now deal with everything that happens in my life.

It used to be that I whined and complained when I saw someone get ahead of me and into a position that I figured I should have gotten. Eventually, I grew up – matured – and got over such things, though admittedly I carried a secret resentment around that I didn’t speak about.

After a while, that too disappeared as I came to understand that not everything bad in my life was meant to be a negative. Yes, that sounds exactly like an oxymoron, so I’ll explain a little more.

When I was seven, I ran face first into a wall while I had a paper towel tube in my mouth. I caused serious damage to my tongue, having cut half of it off.

Sparing you the details, it was surgically reattached and after a while I was allowed to start eating real food and talking. With the food, I had no problem – but my speech turned into a serious stutter for which I needed years of therapy.

While I still have that stutter when I’m overly exhausted or really excited, I have learned to control my tongue well enough to go on to a career in radio broadcasting. Hell, I even earned a spot in Nevada’s Broadcast Hall of Fame.

A better story still — a friend of mine is preparing to run in her sixth full-marathon. This is after having had her left leg amputated two-years ago when doctors found a deadly bone cancer.

Before this devastating and life altering event, she was a couch potato and smoked a pack and a half a day. She never ran a day in her life and yet today, she’s out in the rain, pounding the pavement, happy to be alive and enjoying the freedom a few miles of running gives her.

So, you see? Not everything bad is negative – it’s all in the way you choose to look at it — and eventually use it.

It’s an even bet that you have something bad in your life that you are looking at as a negative. Identify it, call it out and then turn it into a positive — I promise your life will be better for it.

Tap Dancing Around Equal Protection

Using terminology like “…represents a substantial, multi-billion-dollar private investment in our Nation’s energy infrastructure…” it’s difficult to see how an Executive Order can fall into the gray-zone of being unconstitutional, but two of President Trump’s orders appears to be tippy-toeing in that area. While hating to be the bearer of bad news, let’s begin with a quick look at the background of Executive Orders.

The Executive Order is designed to be used by the President of the United States to constitutionally maintain the agencies that fall under the Executive Branch of the federal government. When the U.S. Constitution was first ratified, there were only four agencies as opposed to the 16 we have today.

These agencies have been created by law through Congress. The idea behind each creation was to make government run in a more practical and less bureaucratic manner. However, what Congress created instead are agencies that now usurp the very body by which it was created, meaning they place more Legislative power under the Executive branch.

Reviewing the order reinstating the construction of the Keystone Pipeline is a case in point. This creates preferential treatment of a corporation, a foreign one at that, over the individual, which goes against everything in the Constitution.

As for the Dakota Access Pipeline, we again see that the corporation favored over the individual in violation of the Constitution. This isn’t meant as support for those protesting the pipeline, rather the rancher who build a stock pond on his land and is now in jail for supposedly damaging the environment.

In April 2016,  77-year-old disabled veteran and Montana rancher Joseph David Robertson was convicted on two counts of ‘unauthorized discharge of pollutants into waters of the United States causing damage to public lands’ and one count of ‘injury or depredation of United States property.’ He was later sentenced to 18 months in federal prison and ordered to pay $130,000 in restitution.

So, contrary to the Obama administrations assertion, we cannot have the federal government picking winners and losers. We allowed this to happen one with all the so-call stimulus money being floated around that it damned near destroyed our entire economy.

We must stay vigilant, holding ourselves to the highest of standards in the land.

When Absolute Power Corrupts Absolutely

An investigation accusing the Bureau of Land Management’s Dan Love of misconduct and ethics violations could end the feds case against Nevada’s Cliven Bundy and others. Love was the special agent in charge of operations during the 2014 Bundy Ranch standoff.

Though not named specifically, the report does offer enough details to identify Love as the agent in question. Formerly with the Federal Air Marshal Service, Love was special agent in charge of Utah and Nevada between 2012 and 2015, and whose ouster was called for by Utah’s governor in 2014, while having four Utah counties pass resolutions saying he posed a threat to public safety, and he was the agent in charge of a 2009 raid of the home of Utah doctor James Redd.

A January 30 report by the Department of Interior’s Office of the Inspector General (IG) raises questions about Love, a key witness in the Bundy case. The report cites events that happened during the 2016 Burning Man in Northern Nevada.

Love is accused of requesting flushing toilets, laundry facilities, 24-hour access to ice cream, buying three tickets to the sold-out Burning Man, using five on-duty BLM officers to escort his father, having a family friend and a girlfriend attend the event and changing the hiring process so a friend could be hired. Then during the burning of the effigy, Love claimed 72 hours of official work time over a three-day period.

Love is also reported to have also called other employees and encouraged them not to cooperate, telling them ‘I don’t recall’ was a valid answer to the IG’s questions. He’s also accused of intimidating co-workers into not speaking with the IG.

The IG’s report goes directly to credibility of the government’s case if Love is identified as the agent. Federal officials said the BLM agent’s name was withheld from the report because he is not a top official within the agency.

In January 2016, Ammon and Ryan Bundy became part of a so-called siege at Malheur National Wildlife Refuge, near Burns, Oregon and were eventually arrested following the murder of LaVoy Finicum by federal officers. A federal jury later acquitted both of the Bundy’s and five other defendants of all charges.

Cliven Bundy was arrested in 2016 for his part in the 2014 Nevada standoff as he was heading to the Oregon refuge. His sons and 14 others are also charged and are being held as political prisoners in a detention federal facility in Southern Nevada.

The 17 defendants are charged with conspiracy, assault on a federal officer, using a firearm in a crime of violence, obstruction of justice, interference of commerce by extortion and aiding and abetting a crime. If convicted, they could spend the rest of their lives in a federal prison.

Water, Water Everywhere

If you live in Washoe County, Nevada, you’ve no doubt heard we are no longer in ‘a drought situation.’ However you’ll be forced to act as if we were still in that situation because of what the county commission has done for developers.

Evidently, they have decided that county residents should pay for the majority of the water to be used by incoming developers, and not force the developer to pay for that water themselves. The commissions’ reasoning: if the developer isn’t given some sort of break, they will take their business elsewhere.

What B.S.! I say let the developers take their business elsewhere –either that or pay their fair share of the water they use and not force county citizens to pick-up their tab for something the developer and not the citizen will directly financial benefit from.

As for me, I’m tired of paying and paying for government approved activities, like schools, apartment complexes and the sort that do not benefit me or mine. It is time that our local government start listening to the people who elected them and quit worrying about lining their pockets for the next election cycle.

Personally, I’m tired of paying for their elections. Their actions and this future price increase and faux-drought is nothing more than another form of tyranny!

Fake News is Propaganda by Any Other Name

It shouldn’t be any surprise that Joseph Goebbels, Adolf Hitler’s Propaganda Minister’s credited with saying, “A lie told once remains a lie but a lie told a thousand times becomes the truth.”

The quote is highly reflective of our fake-news media. And the irony is that it’s a form of soft-propaganda because it’s been repeated so often we have come to think of the ‘lie becoming the truth,’ as being true.

During the late 60s and early 70s we were constantly fed stories that proved that the people marching, protesting and violently demonstrating in the streets across the U.S. not only had the right, but were righteous because of whatever cause they were espousing. However, the real under pinning to any and all of these made-for-news events was simply a defiance of authority.

Eventually, these same violent demonstrators, protestors and marchers grew up to become the gatekeepers to that very same institutional authority they sought to defy. As the threat to our national security intensified and our sense of liberty faded, these same people have attempted to create a slowly-rising utopian society.

And for the last eight-years, that creation seemed to be coming to fruition. But, as every man and woman, educated in the ways of liberty, understands that Utopia on earth cannot exist – and the closest human kind has every come to this dream is through the U.S. Constitution.

We’re now watching the same thing happen as the fake-news media peddles its soft-propaganda, electronically celebrating the people exercising their righteous indignation at authority. From clamoring for shared the wealth, stopping police on Black violence, to advocating for abortion and battling a supposed Muslim immigration ban, we are witnessing our nation being torn apart by a power that doesn’t exist except through the will of the people.

It’s time to recognize this ‘style of journalism,’ for what it really is and to call it by its real name – propaganda — and to begin countering it with the truth.

Banning Muslims isn’t a Trump Thing Only

It’s not jus’ the news media that’s ‘fake,’ so is the Democratic Party. After all, for all its purported indignation over the so-called “Muslim ban” one would think they’ve never supported such a thing. But then, that’s where the ‘fakery,’ comes in.

In 2011, the Obama Administration stopped processing Iraqi refugee requests for six months after discovering that Waad Ramadan Alwan and Mohammed Shareef Hammadi, two known al Qaeda-Iraq terrorists, had entered the U.S. as refugees. In fact, Alwan had built bombs in Iraq that killed U.S. soldiers and still he made it into the U.S.

The State Department, which Hillary Clinton led at that time, was in charge of refugee requests when the ban was imposed. Given the fact that the majority of the population in Iraq is Muslim — this is a Muslim ban — like the one President Trump recently signed temporarily halting immigration from Syria and other countries.

Simply put, the Democrats, through Barack Obama and Hillary Clinton, supported a ban against refugees from a Muslim country before, but the media with it’s marching and protesting allies in the streets and judges in the courthouse, are doing their best to keep this fact hidden.

The Fake Battle over the Southern Wall

In May of 2011, then-President Obama proclaimed ‘completed’ a security fence along the border between the U.S. and Mexico  Yet, there are records indicating that the fence was not finished and that the monies to be used for that construction were spent elsewhere.

This research comes on the heels of President Trump ‘ordering,’ Congress to build the wall. His ‘ordering’ of Congress appeared on the surface as unconstitutional, but after learning a few obscure facts behind Trump’s Executive Order, it is completely valid and in line with the U.S. Constitution.

Over 10 years ago – October 26, 2006 to be exact – Congress passed and George Bush signed into law, the ‘Secure Fence Act,’ creating funding for a 700-mile long fence along that same border. So far, the Government Accounting Office hasn’t been able to answer what became of the $1.2 billion that Congress authorized to build it.

Finally, no one, including Democrats, Republicans or the media, brought up the 2006 Act during the run-up to the Presidential election. Instead the Washington D.C. power-elites and their cronies created the false narrative that Trump is a ‘racist’ and a ‘bigot,’ all the while knowing that this act existed.

We’ve been lied to again and cannot let down our guard now — or ever!

DHS and the Two-Party Veep Creep

The two-party system is not in the U.S. Constitution, and they are not a part of the federal government. Rather they are a private corporate club, and to actually become a card-carrying member, you must pay to join.

This means that the primary gathering and the election are nothing more than a paid get-together for factions within the political parties to lobby and push for one candidate over another. Finally, there is absolutely nothing about this that is constitutional.

On the other hand, the Electoral College is in the U.S. Constitution. It’s designed as a check and balance against the possibility of any political party gaining autocratic control over the election system and it’s supposed to keep that power within the wheelhouse of the States.

But now the federal government wants to take control of the election system through an unconstitutional agency borne out of fear and a desire for security over liberty. The Department of Homeland Security has issued a policy change denoting the system as a part of the U.S. ‘infrastructure,’ which DHS wants to ‘protect.’

Finally, we haven’t had a truly constitutional presidential or vice-presidential election in this nation since before Franklin Delano Roosevelt. And no, the U.S. Constitution was not changed allowing this to happen – Congress simply ignored its duty and it has never reverted back since FDR.

On nine occasions in our nation’s history, the Vice-President has assumed the Presidency. This means should this happen now, that person will have been elected via a political party structure and not the pure-will of the people, making the Constitution’s checks and balances ‘null-and-void.’

It is time to abolish the two-party system, the DHS and return the Vice-President’s election to its constitutional origin.

The Fostering Hand

“True liberty needs a fostering hand.” – Federal Farmer #8

Little attention’s being paid to the confirmation hearings.  They have become nothing more than a rubber stamp process, a mere formality, but they are constitutionally necessarily.

Such hearings are a part of the checks and balances built into the U.S. Constitution and without them the Executive branch becomes an oligarchy. This is what happened throughout the Obama Administration, where time and again nominees were given a pass by the Senate.

Over the years the American people have come to believe that every nominee proffered by the administration must emulate the ideology of the President. This couldn’t be farther from the truth, as each nominee should be dedicated to liberty first as described in our Constitution.

Our liberty – our grandchildren and their grandchildren’s liberty – depends on our duty to stay alert to the application of the Constitution. Liberty needs teaching from generation to generation, if not in public and private school, then at home as the Progressive media will continue to obfuscate the truth.

Executive Orders Be Damned!

It’s disheartening to watch the same pattern continue from one administration to the next as President Trump appears to waste Legislative governance in favor of Executive Orders and Actions. This isn’t what the American people voted for.

Certainly the Trans-Pacific Partnership (TPP) should be ignored. The TPP is not really an agreement as mush as it is an unconstitutionally negotiated treaty that has never been ratified by a two-thirds majority of the Senate.

Furthermore, the Joint Comprehensive Plan of Action, better known as the Iranian nuclear deal has never been ratified either. And it doesn’t matter how many Senators signed a letter sent to Iran claiming Obama was within his purview to negotiate an ‘Executive Agreement,’ because such terminology isn’t in the U.S. Constitution.

As for the Affordable Healthcare Act, better known as Obamacare, it will take some extra work by Congress to unwind the boondoggle. Since having been ratified by the Senate, it’ll have to pass that way again for it to be completely dismantle it.

On the upside, there is a way to ‘slay this Progressive dragon,’ and that’s by using the U.S. Constitution against its Judicial support. Since The supreme Court decided it is a tax, and created in the Senate and not the House, where ALL bills dealing with taxation must originate, the law can and should be held fully unconstitutional.

There will be even more work needed when it comes to the 23-year old North American Free Trade Agreement, or NAFTA. First, NAFTA will need to be renegotiated, then ratified a second time by the Senate.

But what is most troubling is the signing of an Executive Action for the construction of a security wall along the U.S.’s southern border. It would have been better for President Trump to direct Congress to write and pass a single-paged bill ready for his signature.

Our Constitutional Republic is in grave-peril and the Trump administration needs to move away from all these newly-minted Executive Orders and Actions and allow the U.S. Constitution to work for the American people and for Liberty, not the oligarchs of the recent past.

Apathy is the Wolf at the Door

Part of me wants to expose all the ‘Nasty Women” who stepped on stage during protests aimed at disrupting the Progressive media’s coverage of President Trump’s inaugural celebration and first actions taken after entering the White House, but that’s was they want – the distraction. Instead I choose to ignore the distractions and deceivers and press onward, upward and toward liberty.

By my accounting, the danger isn’t necessarily in the distraction or the deceivers – rather it lies with the apathetic. So, what does ‘apathy,’ mean? It is a lack of interest, enthusiasm, concern, indifference, unresponsiveness, impassivity, dispassion, lethargy and languor to state a few.

This is a warning from God to those who fall under one of these many descriptive terms:

“I know your deeds, that you are neither cold nor hot. I wish you were either one or the other! So, because you are lukewarm—neither hot nor cold—I am about to spit you out of my mouth.”

— Revelation 3:15-16

At the same time God says in Zephaniah 1:12 —

“At that time I will search Jerusalem with lamps and punish those who are complacent, who are like wine left on its dregs, who think, ‘The Lord will do nothing, either good or bad.’”

Because He will do as he has promised in Hosea 4:6 —

“(M)y people are destroyed from lack of knowledge. Because you have rejected knowledge, I also reject you as my priests, because you have ignored the law of your God, I also will ignore your children.”

And if being ignored isn’t enough to get your apathy in check, consider the fact that God has spoken, saying:

“If anyone, then, knows the good they ought to do and doesn’t do it, it is sin for them.”

— James 4:17

The time is now to stop hiding from the reality that your nation needs you  — Liberty calls in a frail voice after eight-years of suborned injury to our U.S. Constitution. If you don’t wish to stand in defense of Liberty for yourself, then consider your children, your grandchildren and their grandchildren.

You are the cornerstone upon which Liberty survives or parishes.

How to Fire a Senator


In 1912, Theodore Roosevelt, a Progressive Republican, wrongly forwarded the idea that the constant recalling of U.S. Senators by State’s in which they represented, creating temporary vacancies, was slowing down the federal process. So, he called for the U.S. Constitution to be amended, creating the ‘popular’ vote for federal Senator’s as we know it today.

Prior to this new amendment, the Seventeenth to be exact, Senators were appointed directly by their State’s Legislature. Because they were appointed, they were also subject to immediate recall.

Because of ‘immediate recall,’ most Senator’s were forced to conduct the State’s business and the people’s business. If a Senator failed to meet the State’s expectations then they were fired, sent packing and a new Senator, one that would do the people and the states bidding, was appointed.

In essence, the appointed Senator did not have the luxury of meeting full-time with lobbyists as they were constantly being scrutinized by their State’s Legislature, who in turn was under the watchful eye of the State’s Citizenry. This is another example of the ‘checks and balances’ the founders, so ingeniously created and enshrined in the U.S. Constitution.

Without this check and balance system in place, we are now subjected to six-year terms of soft tyranny. The first of these is the fact that professional politician’s return and return and return with the help of their cronies, though they’ve done little to forward their State’s objectives within the framework of the U.S. Constitution.

Worse yet, is the soft tyranny of what is known as ‘crony capitalism.’ Time and again, the newly minted-Senator goes to Washington D.C. in a near financial ruin, only to emerge a few years later as a millionaire while the people of the State reap no benefit from his work and he cannot be stopped because the State lacks control over him or her.

The only way to put a stop to these ‘legalized’ abuses is to repeal the Seventeenth Amendment and reinstate Article I, §3, Clauses 1 and 2 of the U.S. Constitution, under which Senators were elected by State Legislatures. This way, instead of finding ways to enrich themselves and their cronies, they will be forced to answer to their employer, We the People.



Name Tag

Last night, Mary and I celebrated our 30th wedding anniversary by going out to dinner. It wasn’t anything fancy mind you, jus’ a place where we could sit, be waited on and enjoy a good meal.

Our server was excellent. He was engaging and even had water right there even before Mary asked which rarely happens anymore.

As we were ordering, my OCD got the best of me and I had to interrupt him. I pointed out that his name tag was upside down, making it difficult to read.

He immediately stopped what he was doing and fixed it – which made me feel better. As he did he explained that he thought he had lost it because he couldn’t find it before leaving home. However, he discovered it in his locker when he got to work and quickly pinned it on without checking himself in the mirror.

There it was – a trigger to an old memory that really has no bearing anywhere other than to say it happened. The word ‘mirror,’ did it for me.

It was late-summer 1979 and I was in the U.S. Air Force at the time. My office was near the front entrance of the Warren Hospital in Cheyenne, Wyoming.

Why I was walking back to my office from the Flight Surgeons’ office, I don’t recall. But what I do remember is seeing my commanding officer seriously eyeballing-balling a Staff Sergeant who had jus’ come in out of the rain.

He had removed his rain coat and was simply standing in the foyer, looking lost. I intercepted him before Captain Covill could say anything to him.

“Ah, there you are,” I stated loudly, “come with me.”

The sergeant’s face crumpled into a serious state of puzzlement as he followed me into my office and into the interior room that wasn’t being used at the moment.

“Do I know you?” he asked.

“No,” I answered, “but my CO was getting ready to jump your ass because your name tag is on the wrong side.”

He looked down at his right pocket then to his left and exclaimed, “Oh shit!”

Without any prompting he began removing the tag to correct the problem. I could see his hands shaking uncontrollably as he fumbled with his shirt buttons, so I stepped up to help.

We got the situation corrected in no time and as we did he explained, “My wife is here, having our first child and I’m a little lost this morning.”

“No problem, Sarge,” I smiled, “I’ll escort you to the maternity ward once you’re buttoned up and ready.”

As we walked down the hallway to the ward, I could feel Covill’s hard stare burning a hole into me. I smiled all the way.

One Hairy Tale

Recently, a friend of mine sent me a story out of Orick, California, which is about 15 miles from my home town of Klamath. It brought to mind a memory of an event I experienced from my childhood.

It’s never been a secret with me that I’ve held a fascination with Bigfoot. It started as a very young kid, hearing tales from guy’s like Sandy Sanderson, who was a member of the Yurok Indian Tribe.

Later, I would have a chance to meet up with the legend and have my own tale to tell. Most of my time was spent alone as a kid, I don’t know why, but it was.

One day I was off in the woods south of High Prairie Creek and jus’ east of the trailer park of the same name. In the far distance I could hear the sound of the traffic as it raced by on U.S. 101.

As I recall it, I was simply exploring and wasting time playing with my ever present pocket knife. It was nothing at the time for me to be off playing in the forest as it was very different time in the world.

Suddenly, the cows that usually grazed in the pasture on the far side of the creek took off in a panicked run. This was followed by the mad dashing horses that also spent time in the same field.

I stopped to see what had spooked them.

As I looked around, I saw him. He was walking with a quick pace between the edge of the woods and the old barn nearby.

I felt a sudden fear and couldn’t breath as he looked over at me.

He was silent as he moved through the yellowing grass and never slowed down. This all happened in less than half-a-minute (my best guess all these years later.)

He disappeared into the bushes jus’ beyond the barn. As soon as he was gone I took off at in a mad dash to the trailer park. I wanted to be near people and civilization.

Later that night Mom washed my mouth out with soap for telling lies.

Another Ten-Year Flood Hits Northern Nevada

The rain came shortly after dark, replacing the snow showers from two-days before. Now the entire Truckee Meadows region braced for major flooding.

It wasn’t until after 2 pm that I ventured out. I had been at home monitoring the ditch in our backyard, and one I felt it wasn’t going to wash over I felt it was okay to leave for a few hours.


Immediately, I found myself halted. Flooding had consumed the intersection of Pyramid Highway and Eagle Canyon Drive, the roadways I generally use to exit our neighborhood.


The Nevada Department of Transportation trucks were halting traffic from turning right from Eagle Canyon onto Pyramid because of a blockage in one of the overflow pipes that were recently installed. I had to turn back and use Richard Springs Blvd. to David James Blvd. to get to Pyramid.


Once in town I stopped at Paradise Park. Many of the old timers who recall when there wasn’t a park at the corner of Oddie Blvd and El Rancho Drive say that the area was always a flood plain and they one could tell how back an event would be by how much water collected in the basin.

Half of the park was underwater – I’d say that’s fairly bad.


My next stop was in the parking lot of the former Siena Hotel-Casino between Lake and Center Streets in Reno. Yes, there are signs posted that no one is to park in the lot, but I took a chance anyway.

The Truckee River was a creamy brown and swift moving. It had come up to within a couple of feet of the older bridges, like the Center Street Bridge and the Sierra Street Bridge to the west.


Reno’s newest bridge, built a couple of years ago, replacing the one that had been there since 1905, was holding its own. The river had plenty of clearance beneath, exactly as designed.


Across the river from the Siena is a reserved looking building belonging to the AT&T Telephone Company; their doors barricaded with ten layers of sandbags.


Walking across the street into the plaza, where the iron-worked “Believe” sculpture is on display I saw people in rain gear, umbrellas and cell phones scurrying about. Each one, like me, hoping to memorialize this year’s event in some personal way.


Over head the Washoe County Sheriff’s Office’s RAVEN helicopter buzzed; no doubt looking for any possible trouble in the areas west of downtown as their streets began to fill with water.

In Southern California they’re called ‘Lookie-loo’s.” Here in Nevada, we refer to them as the curious and they lined up along the new Virginia Street Bridge to get a good view of the raging Truckee.


A few more steps west and I found myself along the Plaza on the River. Here there were even more people as well as the camera crews to the three major TV news stations in the area.

Standing there for about 15 minutes, I watched as the water climbed the steps leading to the plaza. Since it was growing dark by then, and with the water creeping it way up each step, I decided it was time to vacate the area before being directed to by law enforcement or fire-fighters.


Thankful to find my wet and chilled self seated in my truck, I decided to head east on Mill Street to see how far I could get before having to turn around. As I learned I could get all the way to McCarran Blvd., where Mill ends, but I had to turn around because of major flooding in the industrial section of Sparks.

Turning north on Rock Blvd, I stopped in the overpass and took a couple more pictures. One of the river itself, the other, a shot of the foot path that is usually 10 to 11 feet above the river bank, but which was now covered in muddy, brown water.


With the sun quickly ducking below the Sierra, I continued north on Rock and back into Spanish Springs and home. While there was much flooding to be seen at the time as the snow continues to melt and the rains to fall.

After living here for 30-plus years, I’ve learned that the Truckee River will jump its banks every 10 years no matter what sort of flood mitigation man completes; it’s simply a matter of nature.


Icicles and Sunshine

Following a couple of night and days of cold, in this case below 10-degrees, it has been pleasant to feel some warmth on my exposed skin. Though there were still some high clouds, the sun managed to filter down giving the landscape of our backyard a slight glow.


Grabbing my camera, I snapped a couple of pictures of what had once been a pristine five-inch layer of snow. But now, the dogs were dashing about enjoying the change of weather.

At least in the snow – you are able to figure out where and where not to step.


Our neighbor’s have a beautiful plant that has volunteered itself to our yard by growing underneath the fence line. And though I’ve been told the name of the plant at least three times, I can never remember it when called upon.

Its orange-red buds remain while the rest of the plant has gone bare of leaves. These same buds look brilliant under a thick blanket of snow and even more brilliant with a wisp of sunshine reflecting off of them.


Some even have icicles hanging from them.


Looking at other plants in our yard, it was hard not to notice the ice that had frozen around the rose bushes, encasing each branch in a massive glazed chunk.


Furthermore, the iron workings that surround my wife’s rose garden was also sheathed in a crystalline coating of once thawed-now frozen snow.


By nightfall, rain clouds replaced the high clouds and the warmth had evaporated into the darkness. In it’s place came a heavy drizzle, which followed shortly by winds and an eight-hour long shower.

This is the perfect recipe for a flood — for which the entirety of Northeastern Nevada is now assembling against. I’m hoping it will be a flood like the one in 1986 – not 1997 and 2005.

Candy Boxes

Many times random memories, without a real beginning or an end, pop into my head and I write them down with the hope that they’ll form into something more meaningful. Many times though, they don’t and I’m left with nothing more than a scrap of papers with a few words scratched on it, collecting dust.

No more, I’m going to plain-old have it out from this point forward. This morning, as I was cleaning the kitchen counter, I opened the See’s box that had been there since Christmas morning.

Inside were five pieces of chocolate candies, each laced with a helping of almonds. I removed the candies and placed them in a dish on the counter, and proceeded to throw the now-empty box away.

As I did this, I thought, “This would make a wonderful pen and pencil holder.”

Jus’ a fast as the thought came to mind, I laughed and said, “No it wouldn’t – it’s not metal.”

With that my mind was off and running…

The first time I ever had a piece of See’s candy was in 1982. My girlfriend at the time, Cathy, had gone to Los Angeles with her mother to visit her grandma and she brought back a couple of boxes.

And though I have never been one for a lot of candy, it tasted marvelous. Unfortunately, I called the boxes of goodies a ‘Sampler,’ for which I caught hell, because See’s was not like “Whitman’s’ which had ‘commoner’ written all over it.

As a kid, we had Whitman’s Samplers every Christmas. It was a box filled with special treats that everyone could enjoy.

Even more special was a box of Russell Stover’s candies, on which my dad had been raised at Christmas time. The boxes we received were generally two-times the size of the Sampler and that made it all the more special to our family.

Being a strange child, I wasn’t as enthusiastic about the candy as I was about the container it came in. And for me, the Sampler ranked supreme as it was often delivered in a tin – perfect for pens and pencils.

I warned you – this tale had no particular ending or real beginning.

The Flood of 1997

A rainstorm that hit the region on December 30 and lasted until January 3 unleashed the Flood of 1997, the most devastating flood that Northern Nevada, Eastern California and Southern Oregon had seen in nearly a half century, wreaking devastation on communities while claiming two lives.

It was supposed to be my day off, but by mid-afternoon I was at work coordinating drivers and vehicles to help with the evacuation of people trapped in the flood zone as the Truckee River jumped its banks. This wasn’t how I had envisioned spending the first day of January.

Prior to this, I’d been on the phone with Kyle’s mother. Slightly panicked, she was in the process of leaving her and her husband’s home in Talent, Oregon because of the flooding they were experiencing.

As we were talking, the neighbor’s home slipped off its foundation and into the nearby Bear Creek. I told her to grab up her valuables and to get out immediately, that everything else can be replaced.

She, her husband, Kyle’s brother and his sister escaped to safety. As for Kyle, who was only four at the time, he was with Mary and me at the time. I should have known that this was only the beginning of a larger, longer and exhausting event.

downtown reno

After establishing a command point at 85 Keystone, some four blocks from where the river was raging, we had pulled nine-people to safety who found themselves being flooded out along Riverside Drive. The street runs between Booth and Ralston, along the river.

While we were loading folks up to move them away from the danger, the Reno Fire Department was engaged in a rescue of at least ten kayakers who thought the flooding Truckee would make a wonderful play ground. What made is so dangerous is the fact that the water was racing out of Lake Tahoe at about 2,200 cubic feet per second – 17 feet high, five feet above flood stage and carrying with it bits of houses, entire cars and parts of the upstream forest.

Around 11 p.m., I had only two drivers standing-by to help with evacuations and I sent the dispatchers home for the night. Shortly after that the Reno Police closed down Mill Street east of U.S. 395 as well as Longley Lane and Rock Blvd. That told me that Reno-Tahoe International Airport was now underwater.

I didn’t leave until 3 a.m., only to return by 8 a.m.

The following day, I had a smaller team of drivers staged on Keystone again awaiting directions. By that time, we had learned that the Sparks industrial area was under five-foot of water and that one of CitiLift’s major client, High Sierra Industries, south of the Rattlesnake Mountain area was also underwater.

Eventually, I was instructed to move our command point to Second and Winter Streets. We had watched all morning long as the river slowly crept towards us, damaging one business after another, never quite reaching our newly established safe-zone.

It was about 11 a.m. when I got a call from a RFD Battalion Chief. He told me that they needed us to caravan to Swope Middle School where the Sierra Chapter of the American Cross had established an evacuation center. Evidently, some of the evacuees reported the odor of gas.

Within five minutes, I had vehicles lined up and waiting for our escort, an RPD Humvee. When we drove up across the street from the school, over four-dozen people were milling about in the school yard.

For the first and only time during the entire three-day ordeal I had to “pull rank and take name” as some fool was standing in front of the school puffing away on a cigarette. When I asked him to put the cigarette out, he told me where to stick it, further informing me that he was in charge of his people and that I had no say in the matter.

Fortunately, the police officer that had escorted our caravan to the school instructed the guy that I was indeed in-charge and I only had to say the word, and a ride free-of-charge could be arranged to the local lock-up. The officer pointed out that the situation to him was no longer a shelter or gas leak problem, but a transportation problem, thus leaving me to call the shots.

The man immediately snuffed his butt out and said nothing more. Secretly, I was happy he didn’t call mine or the officers bluff.

First, we loaded everyone who was able to walk. Some of them argued that they didn’t want to go and were told the same thing – which again ended any arguing. Since we had only one person using a wheel chair, I rolled him into my smaller van.

We moved to a designated point two blocks away to await the all-clear. A minute after the word came down that we could return to the school; a man in one of the vehicles suffered a heart attack.

Since we had an ambulance from REMSA in tow, they were able to being treatment of the man and get him to the hospital. Come to find out he’s been suffering chest pains since the night before. He survived the heart attack.


The most harrowing event took place when we were summoned to a trailer park off of Dickerson Road, where an evacuation would become a rescue. When we arrived, the police were gathered about 100-feet from a trailer that had an elderly woman standing, frantically waving at them from the doorway.

Checking in, I learned they were waiting for the Swift Water Rescue Team to arrive and help pull her to safety. As we watched, the trailer’s wooden steps were swept away, causing the woman to panic worse than she had been.

Before long the trailer began shifting from it’s foundation. We didn’t have time to wait for the team and since we had the a high-clearance vehicle, I decided it was ‘now or never,’ when it came to getting the woman out of the trailer.

“If you don’t want to do this,” I told the driver, “you don’t have to. Jus’ get out of the seat and I’ll do it, okay?”

Without hesitation, he closed the doors to the vehicle, rolled down his side window, slipped the van into gear and slowly drove forward. He already had a plan in his head and it was the same as mine.

The water pushed the van back and forth, but failed to cause it to float, which was the biggest concern we had. Should the van begin to lose traction, we would have been force to back away and watch as tragedy took shape.

The driver (whose name I cannot remember) positioned the van as close to the door way as he could. He then leaned out the window and grabbed the woman by the arms and jerked into the window.

I initially had him by his pants belt to keep him anchored, next thing I know, I had her in my arms as we spilled onto the floor of the vehicle.

Without hesitation, the driver released the emergency brake, pulled the gear lever into reverse and backed out the way we had come in. As we reached safety, the woman’s trailer was struck by a log the size of telephone, causing the trailer to buckle, twist, roll-over and vanish into the muddy waters.

The woman, wet, and shivering from both fright and cold was taken to the hospital, where she was treated for shock and exposure. The driver and I returned to our assigned command post, knowing we’d done the right thing despite of the risk to ourselves and the van.

We caught real hell from the police, who wanted to arrest the pair of us for endangering our lives as we had.

Shortly after 5 p.m., January 2, we were released from our duty and we all returned to the yard. By the next day, the once swollen Truckee had slipped back between its banks and the clean up began for the towns and burghs affected by the flooding.

The following couple of days I attended several meetings meant to debrief those who had participated in the emergency and wrote ‘thank you’ notes to the businesses that supported my drivers as well as awarded certificated to those who helped in the evacuations. Much to my surprise and pleasure, nearly three months later I was given a certificate by my bosses, thanking me.

Today, exactly two-decades later, the weather forecast is sunny and a high of 42 for the in the Reno/Sparks area.

Skateboarding an Old Man

Dad’s senior high school yearbook contained a photograph of him with a saying next to it: “Never trouble trouble, till trouble troubles you.” As for me, I seem to have been born in trouble and as of yet I’m uncertain which follows the other around – me or it.

While in town, I happened upon a man in his 70s as he was being harassed by a couple of older teens with skateboards. As a rule, I don’t tolerate bullying – more so if it involves a child, an elderly person or an animal –so I knew I had to put a stop to what they were doing to the man.

As I parked my truck and got out, I saw the taller of the two, slam his skateboard into the man’s head, knocking him down. Without much forethought, I stepped between the teen and the man as he sat on the sidewalk.

That’s when the kid swung the board at my head. Much to my surprise as well as his, I blocked it, allowing it to bounce off of my left forearm.

It left the kid stunned and a little slow to react as he step towards me, ready to swing the board at me again. That small pause gave me a chance to do more than defend myself.

As the board bounced off my arm again, I kicked the teen in the groin and grabbed the board as he and it toppled to the cement. That gave me the upper hand as his friend moved in with his board to take a swing at me.

Instead of having to suffer another blow to my forearm, I raised the skateboard, deflecting the strike. As fortune would have it, the wheels on the board I was holding snagged the edge of his board and I was able to jerk it from his hands.

The second kid backed away, unsure of what to do next. As for me, I set both skateboards on the sidewalk and using my full weight, jumped on each, snapping them in half, followed by walking over to the nearby public garbage can and dropped all four halves in the can.

By this time, the second teen had help his partner in crime to his feet and they took off across the nearby four lanes road. That’s where they stood yelling and taunting me as well as the older man, who was now on his feet.

The kid I kicked in the nuts shouted, “Fuck you!”

I responded, “You wouldn’t like it, I’d jus’ lay there and bleed!”

The pair became of a chorus of eff-bombs and threats. Finally, having had enough, I shouted, “Go home you little Homos and come back with your mother!”

By this time they were retreating across parking lot of the mall they’d entered. I started for my truck to get my first-aid kit to clean the bleeding cut on the man’s head, when I was suddenly stopped by a woman yelling and screaming at me.

“How dare you call anyone a homosexual!” she cut loose.

“I didn’t call anyone a homosexual,” I replied in my defense. “I called the little fuckers, ‘Homos,’ which is Latin for man.”

“Oh…” she responded.

Having got my kit from my truck, I walked back over to the man. And as I did, I looked her up and down and stated, “If you don’t know what the hell you’re talking about keep your effing mouth shut.”

“But I…” she started.

“Don’t tell me you thought,” I cut her off, “had you been thinking you’d have stepped in to stop this fellow here from getting beat on.”

As I applied a couple of four-by-fours to his scalp wound, two police cars pulled up to take control of the situation. After dressing the cut, I filled out a report and headed for home.

Obama Steals More of Nevada

President Barack Obama designated another national monuments Wednesday in Nevada. The 300,000-acre Gold Butte National Monument outside Las Vegas will supposedly-protect a scenic and ecologically fragile area near where rancher Cliven Bundy led in an armed standoff with government agents in 2014, that includes rock art, artifacts, rare fossils and recently discovered dinosaur tracks.

Retiring Nevada Democratic U.S. Senator Harry Reid pushed for the federal protections at Gold Butte. This should make the designation suspect enough as he’s known to want the tract for himself, his family and all their cronies.

This latest designation makes a total of 553 million acres of land and water that Obama has repurposed protection using the 1906 Antiquities Act, more than any other president. Nearly 86 percent of Nevada is now owned by the federal government.

Since November, the Obama administration has rushed to ‘safeguard vulnerable areas’ ahead of President-elect Donald Trump’s inauguration by blocking new mining claims outside Yellowstone National Park and new oil drilling in the Arctic Ocean. As all of this occurs, we’re being treated to live-feed video via social media of a Bald Eagle giving birth by our Progressive media.

It’s all smoke and mirrors, dust and pollen.

Hell’s Half Acre

Shortly after going to bed last night, I thought about my Grandpa Jack, who was Mom’s real father. The thought led to long forgotten memory of the two of us going for a walk along the logging road in the woods above our home.

He and I were talking about how he had lost three bars in the township of Klamath, California due to flooding and one tsunami between 1955 and 1964. After the third loss, the packed up himself and his wife and moved to Salem, Oregon.

In Salem, he took over the Hof Brau Bar and that impressed me. Most folks, including me, I believed would have called it a day and gone looking for something else to do to make a living.

As we walked, I told him this and how I’d like to open a bar one day – maybe with him – when I was old enough. Surprisingly, he didn’t poo-poo the idea, and in fact, said he like the idea.

Being 13 and very naive, I also told him I wanted it to be a ‘cowboy bar,’ and that I even had a name selected; “Hell’s Half Acre.” Grandpa Jack wasn’t too thrilled with the idea of a themed bar or the name and he eventually changed the subject.

Later, after he had headed south to visit my cousin’s in Fortuna, Mom asked what we had talked about on our walk. Once I told her, she was livid, saying, “There is no way you are opening a bar. You’re too young to be thinking about that sort of stuff. You’re jus’ a kid!”

Admittedly wounded, I wandered off to my room to sulk for a while. However, she was right and I promptly forgot about my idea and it was never brought up again.

The Hellhounds of Hypocrisy

This is me, calling the hell-hounds of hypocrisy down on myself as I berate me and others after falling for Lucifer’s little trick yet again when it came to the death of pop-music idol George Michael. If you haven’t heard, Michael died early this Christmas morning and his passing spread like a wildfire across all media platforms.

While the day of his passing is not Michael’s fault, the fact that I allowed it to overshadow Christ Jesus’ birthday is further proof that Satan uses events in our lives to ‘temporarily forget’ the one who saved us from the fires of Hell. And while, I am not the only one, I haven’t seen anyone else step out and state the obvious: we got played.

This realization struck me as I read a comment from a friend, who stated, “His death plays right into the media’s narrative of the loss of so many well-known musicians in 2016.”

It was one straightforward and truthful sentence and it caused me to think on it all day long before I understood the deeper implications of what was really being said. My delayed understanding caused me to ask and answer this one question: Who is in control of a dishonest media?

You know the answer: Beelzebub. As I wrote before — he played you and I.

Yes, while Michael’s dead is sad and it left many, including myself, stunned, the day should have remained reserved for celebrating the birth of Jesus. He should have been the number one focus of our day, not the sensational news of a pop idol’s death and the social media platforms that help spread that news.

We’re warned, and quite vigorously, I might add, about idol worship as Exodus 20: 3-6 clearly states: “You shall have no other gods before me. You shall not make for yourself an image in the form of anything in heaven above or on the earth beneath or in the waters below. You shall not bow down to them or worship them; for I, the Lord your God, am a jealous God, punishing the children for the sin of the parents to the third and fourth generation of those who hate me, but showing love to a thousand generations of those who love me and keep my commandments.”

Idol worship, whether in the form of a golden calf or a pop-star, is dangerous and the above warning not only for certain days like Christmas. It is a warning for everyday – an instruction directly from Jesus’ father, God, that we must obey daily or risk the Father’s love.

The Christmas Bowl

This is a very short-short story I’ve been crafting for the past week with hopes of completing it in time for the holidays. With that said, I wish you and yours a very Merry Christmas, may you receive all that you wish for and all that you need.

Shopping for Christmas gifts has always felt like a chore, especially when I was a kid. While in 8th grade, I was stuck for an idea about what I should get Mom.

It was on a trip to town, and a visit to the Ben Franklin store that I saw, what I believed was the perfect gift for her; a large bowl decorated with Christmas trees. I thought it would be great for holding Mom’s dinner biscuits, breakfast muffins or perhaps her family famous mashed potatoes.

On Christmas day, she opened my gift to her and thanked me with a kiss on the forehead, saying, “I really need this Christmas bowl.”

Unfortunately, Mom didn’t need it all that badly. She placed it a top of her china cabinet, in the corner of the dining room – never once using it.

When she and Dad divorced some seven-years later, the Christmas bowl, as it had come to be known, moved with her. I was surprised to see it resting on top of her china cabinet once again after she settled into a rental.

Twenty-one years later, and having long since gotten beyond the hurt of her never having used it for anything other than decoration, I finally asked her why. I could tell my question left a sense of sadness in her as she sat across from me at her dining table.

“I thought you knew,” she answered. “That’s not jus’ a Christmas bowl to me, that’s my ‘need’ bowl.”

“I don’t understand,” I interrupted.

Smiling now, Mom explained, “As long as it’s empty – all my needs are met.”

That was one of our last face-to-face conversations, and ironically it was also at Christmastime; Mom died six months later. After she passed away, the Christmas bowl was handed down to me.

And now it sits — unused — atop my wife’s china-hutch, because all of our needs are met.

My Bath Mat’s Bad Intent

It isn’t very often that I have a truly bizarre nightmare, but last night was one for the record book. And I can honestly say I know where this one started – I jus’ can’t explain why it happened or what it means – if it means anything at all.

Prior to turning out the light last night, my wife asked that along with the regular Friday laundry, I wash our anti-slip shower mat. It has been a couple of weeks since being cleaned and it does grow mold on its underside from being continually used and wet.

So in my dream, I was washing the towels and I had jus’ put them in the dryer, when I returned to the bathroom to pull the mat up from bottom of the tub. As I did this the damned mat appeared to come to life and began wrapping my left arm up in its moldy suckers.

Even though I had myself leveraged against the tiled wall with one foot and the other on the edge of the tub, I was still losing to the mat. And before long, the tug-of-war turned one-sided and I found myself yanked inside the tub.

My battle with the mat didn’t end there, as the tub suddenly seemed to be as large as a small backyard swimming pool. Off-balance and with nothing to grab onto, the mat dragged me from where I had originally fallen into the tub towards the tub’s drain.

As I drew closer to the drain, I realized, much to my panic, that the drain’s opening was as wide as a 50-gallon oil drum and that the mat intended to pull me down it. By this time I was slashing, stabbing and cutting at the mat with my lock-blade knife – but without result.

In a last desperate attempt to get loose from the mat-turned-multi-suckered monster, I began slicing and sawing at my arm, hoping to cut myself free. I remember screaming as the tub filled with my blood and I began to slip down the drain.

Fortunately, I awoke, sitting up right in bed with one of the dog’s standing over my legs, looking at me. I’m not sure which of us seemed more confused at the time – him or me.

It took me a few minutes to calm down, wipe away the cold sweat that clung to my body, get a drink of water, and lay back and fall asleep again. The rest of the night passed with no other nightmares or even a dream.

This morning I find myself baffled by the fact that my top-left forearm aches as if I had beat it to death with a club. And worse yet — I’m more than a little apprehensive about retrieving the bath mat for its appointment with the washing machine.

The Genesis of a Daydreaming Future

When I was a kid, I was a hopeless day-dreamer. Often alone and often lonely, I constantly found myself thinking of a bright future and as silly as it might seem now, but as a child, I latched on to Genesis 12: 1-3 which reads:

“The Lord had said to Abram, ‘Go from your country, your people and your father’s household to the land I will show you. I will make you into a great nation, and I will bless you; I will make your name great, and you will be a blessing. I will bless those who bless you, and whoever curses you I will curse; and all peoples on earth will be blessed through you.’”

This became a blueprint of sorts for me for about three years, from about the ages of 10 or 11. As a kid I was dying to get away from my small town life, get out into the world to do something big – something that might bring me money and fame.

While I never really expected to be made into a ‘great nation,’ I always thought that maybe I’d have a super-close network of friends and co-workers who’d back me up in whatever effort I under took. I did, however, expect my name to become ‘great’ and that I would always do my best to be a ‘blessing’ to everyone around me.

My belief in this bible verse came back to me shortly before my discharge from the service as I sat on the rocks looking out at the Pacific Ocean, day after day, for a month because I had nothing else better to do at the time. It was here that I came to know that I had to move away from my home and head for Reno, Nevada.

I had been through the ‘Biggest Little City’ several times and I had always found it comfortable to be in.

Unfortunately, I allowed myself to become waylaid as I took up residence in Arcata, California – only 90 miles at the time from Crescent City and by then a life-time away from Klamath. I went further off track by moving to Las Vegas, Nevada for a couple of very hard and hungry months before I packed up and headed north.

Because I ‘failed to keep my end of the bargain,’ at 25-years old I found myself living in my VW in the parking lot of a casino in Reno, Nevada. Looking back, I think that is where my daydream and imaginings really took a left-turn and I faltered in my faith, concluding that the verse I’d put my heart and soul into in Genesis would not come true.

Perhaps, that’s what the Old Russian proverb, “We plan, God laughs,’ means. I took it upon my self to alter my destination and therefore God’s promise for me has not come about to its fullest.

Yesterday morning, I woke up to this long-forgotten memory. This morning, I’m putting it into play again and I think you should do the same: dream the biggest dream you can and then stand on God’s promise to make it happen.

Harry Reid’s Final Deflection

In 2014, Utah businessman Jeremy Johnson accused Senator Harry Reid of accepting a “massive bribe,” but he shortly died thereafter and no investigation was launched. Now, Davis County, Utah, Prosecutor Troy Rawlings is asking if the Department of Justice (DOJ) declined to investigate the connection between a $2 million cashier’s check and then-Senate Majority Leader Harry Reid.

The check, made out to ‘Mail Media LTD,’ was drawn on a St. George, Utah bank on November 5, 2010 and eventually sent to Ireland-based Full Tilt Poker, where it was deposited at Basler Kantonalbank (ZKB) in Switzerland. Recently, two ZBK bankers have been accused of helping U.S. customers stash hundreds of millions of dollars, out of the reach of federal tax authorities.

Rawlings wants to know whether the check went into a Marshall Islands account in the name of Searchlight Holding Inc. to benefit Reid. He points to documents, audio recordings and thousands of pages of transcripts, summaries, emails and other material that show how the Department of Justice (DOJ) and the FBI failed to pursue the investigation of the money and its ties to Reid.

A few days after the allegations were made public, Reid announced his retirement.

This isn’t the first time the Obama administration’s DOJ has failed to investigate allegations of Reid’s criminal activity. In 2015, Reid was implicated in a scheme to approve visas for non-qualified foreigners who were also wealthy Chinese investors of his son Rory’s casino clients.

And as pressure mounts on President-elect Trump’s incoming administration to investigate the soon-to-be-retired Reid, the former Senate leader has gone verbally nuclear again, claiming the Trump campaign worked with WikiLeaks and the Russians to damage Hillary Clinton’s presidential bid.

“Someone in the Trump campaign organization was in on the deal. I have no doubt. Now, whether they told [Trump] or not, I don’t know,” Reid spouted off without proof of such charges. “I assume they did. But there is no question about that. So there is collusion there, clearly.”

It’s another case of misdirection on Reid’s part and the first move from his 30-year long playbook of congressional treachery.

Nevada’s Illegal Voting Problems Continue to Ramp-up

While the Progressive media continues to claim election fraud due to so-called ‘fake news stories,’ a number of Resident Aliens (RA) in Southern Nevada are seeking legal protection after being notified by the U.S. Immigration and Customer Enforcement Agency of possible deportation proceedings for illegally voting in last November’s election. An RA is a foreign person who is a permanent resident of the U.S., but doesn’t have citizenship, making it illegal for a non-U.S. citizen to vote in the United States.

The problem comes from the fact that RA’s are issued social security numbers and, since January 2014, are legally allowed to get a Nevada driver’s license. Plus, there’s nothing about an RA’s driver’s license to differentiate it from that of a U.S. citizen other than the expiration date corresponds with the RA’s visa expiration date so there’s no way for the Clark County Elections Department to determine if the driver’s license is that of an RA or a U.S. citizen based on Nevada’s Department of Motor Vehicle’s (DMV) computer files.

Complicating this even more is President Obama’s executive action, taken in November 2014, which granted ‘semi-legal’ status to 4.1 million illegal aliens and 270,000 others who came to the U.S. illegally as children. The possibility of illegal voting has been widely ignore, though some news outlets like the Washington Times exposed the subject as far back as February 12, 2015, writing, “Republicans say there are a host of unintended consequences, including the chances of illegal voting…”

Finally, there’s no word on whether the recently discovered illegal votes are to be discarded.

The Travails of Fence Ownership

UPDATE:  The fence is whole once again. Now to figure out how to stop the dogs from tearing up more.

Well, I ran an errand this afternoon to come and find a note on my door that our dogs had escaped into the neighbor’s backyard. Yup, all three running around after shattering two six-inch wide redwood fence slats.

After wrangling them and getting them back in our yard, I headed down to the lumber yard to buy two new slats and a piece of pressboard to use as a temporary stop-gap measure to keep the dog on our property. After purchasing and loading it, I started for home only to have a third of the pressboard snap off and fly way.


Turning around to retrieve it, I couldn’t find it as it was dark by the time I got out of the lumber yard. What piece of the wood I had left, I dragged out to the fence and nailed over the gap with the intent of completing the repairs in the morning by replacing the broken slats.

And then I wonder why my back never seems to get better.

Dumbrowski’s Big Mistake

It took us at least two-hours of standing in the rain to finally pick up our luggage in such a fashion that the Instructors were satisfied. It then that were we ordered inside the large building at Lackland Air Force Base, in San Antonio, Texas. That’s where the pace picked up as one Sergeant barked instructions and several others moved through the ragged line of young men.

They too were shouting instructions and cursing at us. It was all part of a larger plan, as I had been told by Dad, to keep everyone on the edge of confusion.

“They’re going to break you down into a basic unit and then build you up into a team unit,” he had said.

It was a struggling to keep pace with the different commands I was being given. They came at me so much faster than I could think.

Suddenly there was a break in the yelling and shouting as one Instructor stood with his hands firmly placed on his hips. He was standing over a kneeling and extremely confused enlistee.

“We got ourselves one of those California queers,” he barked.

The young man on his knees stopped moving. He had been pulled clothing from his bag as instructed.

Unfortunately, the clothing he had his hand appeared to be feminine. He had a terribly confused look on his face.

“Did you or did you not, double-check your bag at the airport as you were told?” the Instructor bellowed.

Another instructor shouted, “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

They weren’t really questions as much as they were statements of intimidation. The young man’s lower jaw moved up and down, but no sound came from his mouth.

“What the hell is your name?” the first instructor asked in a deep voice.

“Dum-dum-dum-browski,” he finally stuttered.

The instructor reached down and yanked several pieces of clothing from the unzipped bag and held them up. Included in the handful was a couple of pair of women’s panties, a bra and a satin nightie.”

There were light snickers from the other Newbie’s as we would soon be called. We watched Dumbrowski as he nearly came to tears over the humiliation the piece of luggage had brought him.

Secretly, I knew that each man was glad that he had not made the same mistake and each man felt a sudden sense of guilt at the thought. I know, I was one of them.

“Well, Dumb-dumb-dumb-browski,” the instructor said, making fun of the man’s scared-stuttering, “Grab your gear and fall out to that table.”

Dumbrowski grabbed up everything he could in one large arm full and rushed to the far side of the room, where the Instructor had pointed. It was clear that he wasn’t the only one with the wrong luggage.

However, Dumbrowski was the only one to end up with a bag full of women’s clothing. He would go on to survive the night and eventually graduate from Basic Training a couple of months later.

The Honest Soul

My wife is such an honest soul. A couple of days ago she went to Walmart and bought a matching bath mat set.

Once she got them home, she realized that they wouldn’t work in our bathroom, so she made plans to return them. That’s when she discovered she had not paid for one of the rugs.

Initially, it concerned her that if upon returning these item that she might get arrested or something. I reassured her that she wouldn’t and more over she’d probably shock the person at customer service with her honesty.

And that’s exactly how it happened. The young woman behind the counter exclaimed, “Really?! Why?”

Mary answered, “Because it doesn’t belong to me.”

“Wow…thank you so much,” came the woman’s response.

I have a feeling Mary’s honesty came as more than a shock to that woman — I wouldn’t be surprised if it were a blessing to her — a reaffirmation that good people really do exist.

The Real Terror in a Night Terror

It was a long, dark corridor made of cinder-blocks. A single shaft of light from a cross-secting hallway was the only visible reference to this complex I was reconnoitering.

Quickly, but quietly I moved toward the stab of light knowing that slipping through it was a danger I had to face. Without warning, I was body slammed, carried by the momentum of my attacker into the lit hallway and smashed against the wall.

Whoever it was, they had my right arm wrenched so far up my back that I could feel the back of my hand against my left shoulder-blade. I struggle to get free but to no avail.

The searing pain in my right shoulder was so intense that I was certain it was about to tear from its socket. I found myself on my tip-toes and pushing against the wall with my free right hand trying to avoid the pain.

My attacker then proceeded to bash the right side of my head against the wall. Once finished with that they placed their left forearm against my neck at the base of my skull, pinning me against the rough surface of the blocks.

That’s when I saw him approaching. While I didn’t know him per se, I recognized the sadistic grin on his face and heard the guttural laughter as it echoed about the walls.

The pain was so white-hot throughout my body that I couldn’t fully understand what it was he was saying as his face drew closer and closer to mine. As he pressed his face forward, I literally seized the opportunity to fight back.

Since my left hand was still free, I reached up and grabbed him by the face, pressing my thumb and ring-finger deep into his temples. This brought more violence against me as he punched and thrashed against my grip.

Then I heard him scream my name, “TOM!”

This jolted me and after several more shouts of my name and as many more blows to my face and arm, I let go. That’s also when I woke up.

Another night terror and I had attacked my wife as she lay asleep next to me. There aren’t enough, “I’m so sorry,” to ease her fear or cover may shame.

The Forgotten Death of a Forgotten Actor

As an actor, Jimmy Ferrara shared the screen with a number of Hollywood stars and owned the TWT (Tomorrow Will Tell) Ranch in central Nevada. Only 65-years-old at the time  of his murder on September 30, 1985 in Yuma Arizona, it would take more than 20-years to bring his killers to justice.

Born May 11, 1920, in New York City to Soloadose and Laura Ferrara, he’s described as a ‘bit-actor from the 1940’s,’ appearing opposite of Humphey Bogart, Roy Rogers, and Bill Elliot. And he also served in the U.S. Coast Guard during World War II.

jimmie-ferraraIt was while in the Coast Guard that Ferrara dated Rita Hayworth. According to Hollywood historians, Rita once snuck a bottle of bourbon to him after he got thrown in the brig for punching an officer.

He married actress Carole Gallagher on November 27, 1946, having been married once before, to Kathleen Cartmill, in 1942, whom he divorced in 1944 or 1945. On October 3, 1981, while visiting Reno, Nevada, Ferrara got hitched for a third-time to Delma Lee Troy.

Less than four-years later, this third marriage would prove his undoing.

Ferrara was last seen driving near his house with a friend Carly Axel, after he returned from a Nevada vacation. Half-an-hour later, Ferrara was found shot four times in the head and upper body.

Nearly 21-years later, Rick Kosterow, Donald White and Ferrara’s estranged wife, Delma found themselves charged with his murder. Her arrest was made as she shopped at the local Walmart in Fallon, Nevada, near her home.

Assistant Fallon Police Chief Ray Dolan said  Troy had lived in Fallon since 1987 based on records of contact with her over the years, which included a noise complaint filed by a neighbor and had lived at her current address since 2004 when she called to report a fire. He said he was contacted by Arizona detectives who had developed information that Troy was living in Fallon and that she was wanted for the decades-old murder.

Police had reopened the case after getting a series of phone calls from an ex-wife of one of the defendants, and another call from Kosterow’s uncle, whom Kosterow had swindled. The uncle told police Kosterow had admitted to the shooting years before.

Further investigation brought to light the fact that Troy, who was unhappy in her marriage, had been having an affair with Kosterow.  She told him she wanted Ferrara killed, and he enlisted White to help carry out the deed.

White pleaded guilty to second-degree murder and received 20 years in prison. However, Kosterow decided to plead not guilty arguing that the case against him was “full of holes and there was no physical evidence” that linked him to the crime.

Both White and Troy testified against Kosterow.  The jury found Kosterow guilty of first-degree murder, felony first-degree murder and conspiracy to commit first-degree murder and he was given life with the possibility of parole.

White pleaded guilty to second-degree murder and was given 20 years in prison. Troy eventually pleaded guilty to conspiracy to commit second-degree murder and received 20-years in prison where she died in 2015.

Jimmie Ferrara rests in the Unionville Cemetery, in Unionville, Pershing County, Nevada, not far from his ranch that he loved.

Missing the Missing in the Reno/Sparks Area

kristy porter UPDATE: Kristy Porter has been found safe. She apparently left of her own free will. Furthermore Sparks PD is now reporting that the family didn’t report her missing until Thanksgiving Day and that she has done this before.

Kristy Porter has been missing since November 11, 2016 and not a word had been mentioned in either the local press or law enforcement about her disappearance until a day ago. Meanwhile, a 15-year-old run-away named Cassie Kaufman has been highlighted several times.

The difference between the two cases and how they’ve been handles comes down to the difference between the agencies that are handling the cases. In the Kaufman case, the Washoe County Sheriff’s Office immediately set about releasing information on the teen’s disappearance, calling her a possible-run away and providing updates.

In Porters’ case the Sparks Police Department has been woefully delinquent in providing the information about the woman’s disappearance and only seemed moved to make the case public after it was brought to light via social media and a national news organization working with the Missing Pieces Network. Unfortunately, it’s not unusual for the Sparks PD to withhold information from the public or the press as they have done in this situation – acting as if they are holding the combination to the main vault of Fort Knox.

28-year-old Kristy Porter, also known as Kristy Ipock, is white, 5’3″ tall, 120 pounds, with brown hair and blue eyes and was last seen wearing a black and white print top and a lightweight black unbuttoned sweater with black dress pants. Anyone with information is asked to contact Sparks Police Detectives at 353-2225.

cassy kaufmandevin mccarthyKauffman is white, 5’8″ tall, 135 pounds with strawberry blonde hair and hazel eyes. No one seems to have a description of McCarthy, (something that a real news outlet would want) other than to say he has dark, shoulder-length hair, brown-eyes and a goatee.

The one note the local media gleaned from the press release and seems to include in every update is that McCarthy is wanted by the Nevada Department of Parole and Probation on unrelated charges. Anyone with information about either of these two are asked to call (775) 328-3320.

Nevada SOS Opens Probe — But It Ain’t What You Think…

As I stated back when she was running for Nevada Secretary of State, Barbara Cegavske is and always has been a Progressive – and yet the Republican Party embraced her whole-heartedly and without shame. And this week, she proved my assertion.

Cegavske opened a criminal probe, but not into the 9,200 returned letters from active voters listing vacant lots as home addresses or Willie Nelson, Waylon Jennings or Edward Snowden being registered in Nevada Assembly District 15. And she didn’t open a probe into Democrats using illegal aliens and felons to register new voters, nor is she looking into all the Nevadans who reported showing up to the polls to vote only to be told they had already voted and were given a provisional ballot.

Nope. Nevada’s Progressive Republican Secretary of State opened a criminal investigation into the Republican State Party and whether workers failed to turn in voter registration forms for Democrats who Republicans registered. This is the third time she’s shown her true-colors.

Earlier this year, she investigated another GOP voter registration group, Strategic Allied Consulting, again focusing on Democratic registration forms not filed by the staff. Cegavske also investigated and then charged Republican political consultant Tony Dane.

The Dane case continues to this day.

So now, after failing to investigate allegations of voter fraud in Nevada, the Obama administration’s Department of Justice has stepped into investigate the 9,200 returned letters. And we all know how that probe is going to turn out.

Election Fraud Found in Southern Nevada

So, what do Willie Nelson, Edward Snowden and Waylon Jennings have in common? They each voted in Clark County, Nevada’s Assembly District 15 this last Election Day.

Republican Stan Vaughan an Assembly District 15 candidate, who lost to Democrat Elliot Anderson, says the U.S. Postal Service returned 9,200 pieces of certified mail from voters in the district, including many listed as dead but still active on the voter rolls. Furthermore, Vaughan tested 200 pieces of that returned mail and found that 185 of the addressees had voted.

It was widely reported by witnesses that Nevada poll workers wore defeat-Trump t-shirts at the polls during the election which is against the law. There is even a videotape of a  Clinton supporter caught breaking the law as she registered people to vote.

A total number of 17,086 votes including the 9,200 fraudulent votes were cast in District 15 for both Republican and Democrat candidates. Add to this the fact that President-elect Trump lost by only 27,000 votes statewide in Nevada, making those 9,200 fraudulent votes more than third of the total margin.

Through November 2, the Secretary of State’s cumulative daily voter turnout rolls reports show that 10,000 people in District 15 had voted and two days later another 2,466 had voted. And as that happened, 1,900 votes by independents, third-party and non-partisan voters disappeared over that same time period.

As this occurred, another 3,200 Democrats cast ballots while only 1,000 Republicans voted. The total number of votes recorded during this two-day period was 2, 466 — a 180-percent voter turnout.

Vaughan reported the certified returned mail issue to Secretary of State Barbara Cegavske, who sent the issue back to Clark County. That means Clark County must investigate itself.

By 2012,  over 50 members from the Association of Community Organizations for Reform Now (ACORN) throughout the U.S. found themselves  convicted on various charges of election fraud. This includes 18 members of ACORN in Clark County, Nevada.

In fact, Las Vegas Judge Donald Mosley said the actions of ACORN made “a mockery of our election process,” calling ACORN’s crime “reprehensible” and saying it was “the kind of thing you see in some banana republic, Uruguay or someplace, not in the United States.”

Eight-years later, Green Party candidate Jill Stein has asked for recounts in Wisconsin, Michigan and Pennsylvania, all states won by Trump. Her rationale behind the recount — voter fraud.

Stein hasn’t request a recount in Nevada and she never will.

Needfully Obscure

Over the course of the last several months people have derided me for not supporting Donald Trump for President. Others lambasted me for failing to support Hillary Clinton as well.

Honestly, I haven’t publically supported a candidate for political office since 2005 when former Nevada Governor Jim Gibbons was running for office. I supported his candidacy openly because I know him personally.

My support garnered me one attack after another, until those who disliked my stance found a way to ‘publicly humiliate’ me by subjecting me to a full-blown ‘journalistic ethics review’ at the University of Nevada-Reno in which I was not invited to take part. The lesson was further engrained upon me, when Dean Heller, whom I supported because I know him too, turned out to be a Progressive Republican masquerading in Conservative duds.

(My apologies to Sharron Angle.)

And since I had people on both sides of this presidential election pissed at me for not saying who I would or would not vote for, I feel I did a good job at being needfully obscure. There is a reason for my obscurity: the truth.

While I said very little about who I would toss my ballot to, I did go in search of news and quotes (which I posted mostly to Facebook) that I believed best told the story from my Libertarian/Conservative/Constitutional slant. Oddly enough, I used the Progressive media to fulfill this quest.

And now that we are on the other side of the election, I can tell you that I was never going to support Clinton. Time and time again, I proved beyond a doubt that she is dishonest, power-hungry and generally dispossessed of good character to be anywhere near the Oval Office.

It was also a certainty that I wasn’t going to vote for an avowed Socialist (which is as good or bad as a Communist) like Bernie Sanders to hold sway over our federal life. Had the stars aligned properly — my choices would’ve been Ted Cruz and Rand Paul.

Furthermore, I certainly was unwilling to throw my support to a third-party candidate not fully Constitutionally committed. Unfortunately, none of the third-party run-ups were ever in a position to garner enough votes, popular or electoral, to make much of a difference in the current structure of our nation’s private corporation’s political machinery.

That left one choice – Trump – which still gives me heartburn. I had to settle on one issue alone to help me push through what I still see as a very Progressive candidate, now President-elect. That issue came down to abortion and the fact that Trump made campaign promises to cut federal funding to Planned Parenthood.

Yes, I know that campaign promises are jus’ that – promises, but I am a man of faith and I must have faith until proven otherwise. That brings me back to the subject of doing my best at obscuring my endorsement for Trump until the latter days of the campaign.

From where I am stand, I cannot see what his ‘game plan’ is moving forward as he builds his cabinet. After all, Trumps first move was to name a known Progressive Republican elitist as his Chief of Staff, Reince Priebus, whom I prefer to call ‘Rinse Pubis.’

I can smell the ‘payback’ from here — can’t you?

Yesterday, Trump nominated Elaine Chao – the wife of Progressive Republican elitist Senator Mitch McConnell – for Secretary of Transportation. All I can see from this nomination is more pork-barrel spending on wasteful projects that feed McConnell’s ego and does nothing for the betterment of the U.S.

Making matters worse, Trump selected Steven Mnuchin, a man known for his direct connection with Goldman-Sachs, as his future Treasury Secretary. This becomes disconcerting as our nation continues to face financial problems brought on by the bailing out of such monetary institutions.

Plus, Trump keeps wining and dining Mitt Romney, another known Progressive Republican elitist, who not only lead a ‘never-Trump’ campaign, but bragged in 2012 about how his personally designed healthcare system in Massachusetts, where he was governor, became the blueprint for Obamacare. Couple this to the fact he purposely lost the third and final debate with President Obama, leading to his second presidential election, and you know the man cannot be trusted.

It’s because I cannot see into the future that I no longer endorse candidates. So much can go wrong afterwards and there is no way of taking the endorsement back once given with out a massive amount of egg on your face.

(Ask Joe Heck about this.)

Finally, I’m worried that we’ve been taken for fools again as Trump’s administration begins to take shape. It is also because of such foolishness with appointments and nominations among other stupidities (like attacking free speech) that I will never run short of material to wordify on as this country attempts to pull itself back from the chaos of the last eight, miserable years.

And while I don’t get what it is Trump is up too yet, we can always hope that he is true to his word.

The Myth of Fidel’s Redemptive Qualities

Cuba’s literacy rate has only increase by 20-pecent between the 50’s and today, according to UN figures. Compared to El Salvador’s’ increase from less than 40-percent to 88-percent or Peru’s increase from 50-percent to 95-pecent or Brazil’s 50-percent jump to 93-percent and the Dominican Republic’s rate which rose during the same time period rose from under 40-percent to 92-percent.

As for healthcare Cuba’s made even less progress. In fact, by 2012, the life expectancy for most Cubans had dropped with Chileans, Costa Ricans and Mexicans living slightly longer.

Back in 1960, Chileans had a life span seven years shorter than Cubans, and Costa Ricans lived more than two years less than Cubans on average. In 1960, Mexicans lived seven years shorter than Cubans.

Meanwhile, U.N. Director-General Irina Bokova, still drinking the ‘cool-aid,’ offered condolences for UNESCO on the passing of Fidel Castro‎ Ruz. In a letter addressed to Dictator Raul Castro, Bokova recalled Fidel’s “leadership in steering his I country through difficult times, fighting for the right to education, harnessing the power of achieving free and inclusive education for all through his initiative, ‘Yo si puedo,’” which translates to ‘I can.’

On the other hand, the Reverend Franklin Graham didn’t mince his words when he wrote, “Loved by few, hated by millions, his communist revolution deposed a dictator, but ushered in a socialist police state that drove the entire Cuban nation into complete poverty and oppression and to think that Bernie Sanders, Hillary Clinton, Senator Elizabeth Warren, Representative Keith Ellison and others wanted socialism as a model for our country today!”

Graham also warned: “The socialists are regrouping in great number right now, and they will come back strong, organized, and more determined than ever. This battle isn’t over.”

As for me, and as one who has fought Communism and other non-Constitutional forms of oppression in various places around the globe, I’d like to add that I hope your new life in Hell is more miserable than the life you created for others while you lived. And don’t expect me to pray for your soul anytime soon, you dirty, rotten bastard, as I’ve seen what you’ve done!

What’s in My Wallet?

My son decided to treat me to a movie, “Dr. Strange,” which turned out to be a pretty good movie. Anyway, we parked in the back lot and walked the block long distance to the theater.

One of the things I am in the habit of doing is removing my wallet and putting it away while driving. I’ve found that if I sit on it, it causes my back to be off-center and adds to the pain that I experience everyday.

After the movie, we walked around the nearby mall window shopping and such. Once back at the truck, Kyle discovered that he’d forgotten to lock the passenger side door.

Instantly, I knew someone had been in the cab as my knit cap was on the floor board when I had specifically placed it on the seat between the driver and passenger seat.

Realizing this, I looked inside my wallet which was still in the center console where I had forgotten it. Everything, but the $101 in Christmas cash I’d managed to save over this year, was missing.

My immediate reaction was a desire to be pissed off at whoever did this. My next was to be angry at Kyle for no locking the door.

Instead, I decided to be mad at myself for leaving my wallet in my truck in the first place. Unlocked door or not, it is too great a temptation for evil-doers not to find someway to get into a vehicle to steal stuff.

Besides, Kyle lives in a world of electronic automatic locking car doors. And I drive a mid-sized dinosaur from the last century in which nothing is automatic, let alone electronic.

So the best thing I can do is learn from this mistake and move on, while trying to maintain a sense of humor about it all. Too bad GoFundMe won’t allow me to set up a donation site based on my stupidity.

Faded Glories

After reading one of my article’s that talked about Del Norte High School in Crescent City, California having an athletic hall-of-fame, my wife asked, “Weren’t you an athlete?”

“Yes,” I answered.

“Well,” she wanted to know, “When are they going to invite you to be a member?”

I smiled, “Never.”

“I don’t understand,” she replied.

With a snicker, I shot back, “Because I was only a sprinter and the school district lost money on the track program all four-years I was in school.”

Mom’s Portuguese Egg Pudding

After going through every box in storage, I finally found it.  This was one of my favorites that my mom used to make around Thanksgiving. I can taste it now…


1 ½ cups milk
½ cup sugar
½ cup all-purpose flour
Zest of half a lemon
3 eggs
Cinnamon (enough to cover top of pie)


  • Place the milk, sugar and the flour in a saucepan. Whisk together and cook over medium heat. Add the lemon zest and stir until the mixture thickens to a cream consistency.
  • Turn off the heat, place the mixture in a large bowl and allow to cool until lukewarm.
  • Preheat the oven to 350 F.
  • Separate the yolks from the whites. Beat the egg whites until stiff peaks form and set aside.
  • Mix lightly the yolks with a fork, and then stir in the lukewarm milk, sugar flour mixture.
  • Gently fold in with a spatula the whipped egg whites.
  • Pour the mixture in a deep dish pie plate; sprinkle the top with cinnamon, enough to cover completely.
  • Bake for 20 – 25 minutes until the top is well puffed and firm, even top may be cracked in a couple of places.
  • Remove from the oven, allow to cool to room temperature and serve.

Gene Clauson, 1955-2016

gene clausonSeveral of my friends and acquaintances have passed from this world this year. Most recently was country music artist Holly Dunn, whom I got to know more than 25 years ago when I was still doing radio.

And nearly four months ago, my friend as well as my son’s god-father, Gene Clauson passed away.  It happened suddenly and came as a shock that left me more than a little rattled as I found myself looking hard at my mortality.

And in all honesty, I’m jus’ now getting beyond the grief enough to write about him, though I had written a piece of fiction about him a few years back with the hope of snapping him back to his senses.  You see, Gene was an addict and his addiction had a strangle hold on him and he was in a deep depression.

It was during the height of his depression that he told me he was going to sell everything, buy a ticket to Europe, backpack around the continent for a year and then end his life with a ‘hot shot’.  After hearing this, I wrote that short-story sharing my idea of what this world would be like without him.

Moved by the reality I laid out, he decided he wanted to make a change in his life. That’s when he began the long, hard journey to get clean and I was so proud of him.

His three daughters and I are still in touch with one another through Facebook, which I’m thankful for nearly everyday. Anyway, I wrote Gene’s obituary for them as a way of soothing my hurt and taking some of the pressure off them.

Though simple, I’d like to share it:

Gene Clauson passed away suddenly at his home in Hayward, California on August 26, 2016 at the age of 61. He was born to Rosa Marie Haberman and Dale Larry Clauson in Hayward, California on March 12, 1955.

Gene attended various grade and high schools in the Bay Area. He worked radio broadcasting in Reno, Nevada and later as a club DJ in Tampa, Florida, before returning to California to continue his education as a substance abuse counselor.

Gene is preceded in death by his parents and step-parents. He is survived by his daughters; Elyse (Clauson) Fryling, her husband, Dustin and granddaughters, Alyssa and Rylee of Medford, Oregon; Lauren Clauson and grand daughters Sierra, Ella, and Kand of Lake view, Colorado; and Renee Clauson, of Central Point, Oregon.

If his death hurts like hell for me, I can only image how his girls must feel.

The Missing Bar of Soap

As a kid, I knew I’d been thoroughly punished after being forced to take a bite out of the Ivory soap bar for lying or some such similar act. It is a taste that doesn’t leave your mouth for a long while – and Ivory dish soap — if they still make it — is even worse.

Two days ago, as I was preparing to get in the shower, I got out a new bar of Ivory soap. I had unwrapped it and set it on the sink while I do other stuff.

Promptly – and as I’ve found happening more often – I forgot the bar of soap and proceeded to take a shower. Lucky for me I still had the sliver of the old bar in the shower still.

Following my shower, I toweled off and got dressed. Knowing it was on the counter, I wasn’t too worried because I figured it would still be there when I used the bathroom later.

It was slightly after noon when nature called and I finally walked back into the bathroom. That’ when I found the wrapper to the soap on which the soap had been sitting – sans the soap now.

Not to worry – I looked in the shower knowing that I sometimes do things that I’ve completely forgotten about later. But there was no Ivory soap bar where it should have been.

“Hmm,” I naturally questioned, “What the hell could I’ve done with it?”

That began the search as I back tracked my movements from throughout the morning. I mean I checked everywhere including the refrigerator and the dishwasher.

Still – no soap bar. I even resorted to digging through the kitchen trash and the garbage can in our garage, without positive result.

Like other things – my favorite pen included – I had to let it go and tell myself it had dropped into that ‘black hole,’ where objects disappear only to reappear at some point later. If I don’t play this little trick on my mind – I’d go bat-shit crazy.

(By the way – who decided bat-shit was the craziest shit? Anyone ever have to re-dig a used outhouse? Okay, I’m off topic…)

Forty-eight hour later, I am no longer concerned about the bar of soap. We have more in the hallway closet and life goes on.

That’s when I look outside and see our newest dog, Buddy, blowing bubbles out his ass. Upon closer investigation I can see his turds — filled with flecks of white, half-digested soap.

And while I feel bad for Buddy and his indigestion problem, I must admit that I am terribly relived that I really am not losing my mind and becoming frightfully forgetful. But then again, I concluded that I ought to write this all down before it slipped my mind.

‘Rocky’ Peterson, 1919-1942

peterson-roscoeWhen I saw the name in a recent online edition of the Del Norte Triplicate, I had a sudden flash of memory of Dad and Pearl Harbor veteran Tom Gooch, talking about ‘Rocky’ Peterson. This is the sort of history I wish my high school teacher had taught us.

Born Roscoe Earl Peterson in Ashland, Oregon sometime during 1919, ‘Rocky,’ his parents, Arthur and Gladys and four siblings, Dorothy, James, Richard and Lyle moved to 742 2nd Street in Crescent City in 1929. Rocky graduated from Del Norte High in 1938 after being a standout athlete in both baseball and basketball.

While Peterson is best remembered for his skill on the baseball diamond, he was also a good basketball player, starting as a forward on the school’s varsity team. Peterson was so good that he drew the ire of Arcata High’s basketball coach William McKittrick.

In February 1936, McKittrick complained that Peterson was ‘too good,’ which caused him to be declared ineligible for the rest of the season. Not to be phased, Rocky picked up a job coaching the Crescent Elk Middle School’s basketball team.

Three years prior, when Rocky was 14, he joined the local semi-pro baseball team, the Crescent City Merchants. Though still in his junior year of high school, Peterson was playing professionally using his middle name with the Yakima, Washington Pippins, and after two-years, with the Lewiston, Idaho Indians.

He had plans to move to Portland, Oregon and play for the Portland Beavers, but instead joined the U.S. Navy on October 21, 1940, enlisting at San Francisco. Peterson officially reported for duty aboard the U.S.S. Arizona on December 30, 1940 and served aboard the ship for less than a year.

On December 7, 1941, he died along side 1,176 of his fellow shipmates during the surprise attack on Pearl Harbor by the Japanese. His remains rest among the 900-plus souls still aboard the U.S.S. Arizona.

The 22-year-old Seaman Second Class was posthumously awarded several medals including the Purple Heart, the American Defense Service Medal w/Fleet Clasp, the Asiatic-Pacific Campaign Medal w/Star and the WWII Victory Medal. On Independence Day in July 1943, Crescent City, California to change the name of Plaza Park at D and Sixth Streets to Peterson Park.

In September 2016, Rocky Peterson was named to Del Norte High School’s Hall of Fame.

How to Chase Off a New Neighbor

Let’s face it, I should have by now, learned to keep my pie-hole shut. Because I yap too much, our new neighbors have moved out even before they moved in.

The young couple was unloading furniture on Saturday and moving it into the rental next to us. The following day, the woman and I were talking about our dogs.

They have a Bull Mastiff puppy named Brutus, who at the time we were talking had crashed out on the living room floor. I offered up the fact that we have four dogs.

“In fact, we jus’ got the fourth one because the man who lived in your house passed away,” I added. “We took it in as a favor, but now he’s ours.”

She made a sad groan as she replied, “That’s so sweet of you.”

There was a slight pause as I could tell she was thinking, preparing to say something else. She grimaced, asking, “He didn’t die in the house, did he?”

My hesitation must have been too long before I answered, “Yes…but I thought you knew.”

Obviously, their landlord hadn’t told them.

She tried hard to smile as she shook her heads sideways. I could tell that the information distressed her as she fumbled for something to say.

“I’m sorry,” I told her.

She sighed, “I think were going to move.”

She and her husband, or boyfriend, or what ever he is to her, haven’t been back since that night and the house is still vacant. I really thought that they knew.

The Price of a Brain-fart

Some 37-years ago I had a friend whose wife was having a baby. He asked me to buy him lunch that morning, handing me a 20 dollar bill, which I promptly stuffed in my pants pocket.

By the time lunch rolled around, I had been so busy that I’d completely forgotten about my friend and the money. So when I stuck my hand in my pocket and pulled out that Andrew Jackson, I was pleased as punch, thinking I’d found cash that I didn’t know I had.

I promptly went to the hospital’s mini-BX and purchased a large jar of Planters’ Peanuts, a couple of Coca0Cola’s, a large Milky Way bar and a People Magazine, as I wanted to find out the low-down on Erik Estrada’s motorcycle accident.

It was evening time and I was heading out the door from a long-ass day in the office seeing patient after patient, when to my horror, I recalled the fact that the now-long spent green-back belonged to my friend. Worse than that was the knowledge that I’d forgotten to get him lunch as I’d promised.

“Totally embarrassed” is how I would describe myself the next day when I saw him in order to return the twenty and tell him what I’d done. He said it was okay, that the nursing staff had fed him as waited for his daughter to come into the world.

A couple of days ago I went to the local market and bought a large Snicker’s candy bar for my friend, Kay’s birthday. She told me that she didn’t want anything, but I can’t let her go the day without a gift and a nice card.

Yesterday, as I sat in front of my computer, bored, tired and unable to think I looked over at the Snickers as it rested on my desk. Without any thought I picked it up, tore it open and took a healthy bite.

At that second, I gasped, realizing what I’d done — I was eating Kay’s birthday present and feeling stupid. When I called to wish her a ‘Happy birthday,” I informed her that I had eaten her candy bar and that I’d have to buy her another one.

This time though, my brain-fart only cost me a buck-thirty-four.

What Goes Up…

My wife and I were watching television when a promotional advertisement for a new show came on. In it, two men were in a restroom stall with an inflatable raft and one of the men pulled the handle that allowed the raft to fill with air.

It caused me to recall the fact that inflatable rafts do not fill with slowly. In fact, it happens very quickly and even quicker than one can react to it.

At the time it didn’t seem too funny, but looking back, it’s hilarious.

One of the Marines purchased a Vietnam-era ‘rubber boat’ from a local Army-Navy surplus store and to show it off, he brought it into the squad bay. Once there, we all gathered around to hear bout the grand deal he had made.

That’s when some smart-ass reached over and yanked on the handle. I had leaned over to stop him, but it was too late.

In the blink of an eye, the raft inflated, flinging me into the ceiling.  And no sooner had I slammed into the ceiling — I dropped to floor with a thud.

How they managed to get the damned thing out of the barracks without getting busted, I never knew. I had to be taken to the infirmary for the night as I was suffering from a concussion and a dislocated left wrist.

Ending Green Tax Incentives and Cronyism

Wonder where Nevada lame-duck Senator Harry Reid fits into all this cash being tossed around?

Between SolarCity, Tesla Motors Inc., and the rocket company SpaceX, Elon Musk’s interests has gotten at least $4.9 billion in taxpayer support over the past 10 years. Now, the Senate Finance Committee and the House Ways and Means Committee have launched a probe into the tax incentives paid to SolarCity, which is set to be purchased by Tesla.

In 2013, SolarCity received $127.4 million in federal grants. The following year, in which it received only $342,000 from the same stimulus package, total revenue was just $176 million and the company posted a net loss of $375 million.

As an aside, Musk’s cousins, Lyndon and Peter Rive operate SolarCity. With such shady goings-on between family members — a favorite Harry Reid feature — it isn’t hard to believe that the soon-to-be-gone Senator is somehow benefiting from the arrangement.

Rosco Goes ‘Hogan’s Heroes’

It is truly a joy having people I don’t even know threaten me while on my own front porch. One of my neighbors’ dog got out of his yard and was hanging around my fence, visiting with my pups.

The escapee, a Rottweiler, whose name is Rosco, has managed this feat before. So I go out and sit with him until his human realizes he’s missing.

Today however, a large man walking a small dog, yells at me to call ‘my fucking dog’ back or else. I respond that he isn’t my dog – then I add, “Or else what?”

“Don’t get smart wise ass!” he shouts at me.

Now, to be honest, I suffer from ‘Short man’s disorder,’ and I don’t give a shit if this guy with the purse-sized dog is six-foot-four, out weighs me by at least 75 pounds and is at least 20-years my junior, I will not let that stand. So I remain seated as I mouth-off, “You’re the asshole who got stupid by demanding I call my dog — so don’t go giving me any lip, shithead.”

That stunned him as the look on his face told me that he was thinking twice about tangling with me, which is a good thing. Though my adrenaline was up, I would have more than likely gotten hurt, if not severely killed.

“Second god-damned time this has happened to me today,” he complained as he continued to walk by.

“Well,” I called back to him, “that’s not my fault now is it?”

In the mean time, Rosco, sensing he was not being appreciated by the big guy with the tiny dog, came and sat on the porch next to me and drank all the coffee from my cup. I could see him ever-so gently quaking, anticipating what might happen next.

Now, it might be my imagination, but I think Rosco was ready to pounce on the dude had he been anymore threatening towards me — and I’m not even his human. Perhaps I owe Rosco a big steak the next time he goes ‘Hogan’s Heroes,’ for keeping my name out of the obituaries.


It began with baseball; the Cleveland Indians and the Chicago Cubs matching up in the 2016 World Series. The Indians hadn’t been in the series since 1948 and that was the trigger to my recognizing a pattern.

1948 is the year that the U.S. supreme Court rules that religious instruction in public schools violates the U.S. Constitution, while the Universal Declaration of Human Rights was adopted by the United Nation. Also, during that same year, the State of Israel was reconstituted

Within seconds, other dates were tumbling out of my mind, like the 1967 ‘Six Day War,’ in which Israel had to defend itself against several Arab aggressors. The 50-year anniversary of that war is next year.

Every 50th year in the Old Testament Israel was the “Year of Jubilee” when all the land was to be restored to the original owner; all debts were to be cancelled; and all slaves were set free. It was the year of release and deliverance – a time for celebration and joy when families were reunited and given a fresh lease on life.

The 1967 fight over the land that is Israel came about because of the Balfour Treaty of 1917, which is more of a letter, expressing the British government’s support for a Jewish homeland – which was also a period of 50 years. Also in 1917, the Bolshevik Revolution in Russia occurred.

Both the Balfour Treaty and the Bolshevik Revolution will see their 100th year anniversary in 2017. Also of interest is the fact that the in May 1917, three Portuguese children experienced the miracle in which Mary, the mother of Jesus, appeared at Fatima which also happened to be the 500th anniversary of the Protestant Reformation.

And I can’t help but think about the Blood Moon’s this year or the solar eclipse in August 2017. I don’t know what any of it means, but remember I’m the kid that tried to talk our family priest into believing that the Statue of Liberty in New York’s harbor was like the statue from King Nebuchadnezzar’s dream.

The Road to Reconstruction II Begins Here

It has been an uphill struggle the last eight years as I’ve tried to get the message out to those who would listen that our nation is in grave peril from within. Be for Barack Obama was elected, I began researching him, his past and those he associated with and what I found was terrifying.

Back then though, hardly anyone would listen what I was saying. Those that I told, poo-poo’d me, claiming that I was making a mountain out of a molehill and that I had read too much between the lines as I dug through Obama’s background.

The night he was elected in 2008, I was working at a local radio station and I was an emotional wreck. I vibrated between acute fear for American and extreme sadness, crying off and on throughout the night and early morning.

(No, I do not mind sharing that aspect of myself as it is the real me; I have always been a rather emotional being, even in childhood.)

The second time Obama was elected, I lost it and proclaimed a ‘purge’ was headed our way. This nearly caused an all out fist fight between myself and another announcer at the station.

Instead of being sad, I was irate – too the point that I was out of bounds, both professionally and within myself. The fact that people could not see the damage – the lies – the destruction – this man wrought from his position in the White House and golf course was beyond my ability to understand.

After nearly four-years I had concluded that this nation, as I had known it as a child and as a young man was done for, finished and never to be seen again. Especially with the likes of Hillary Clinton assuming the mantle of Democratic presidential candidate, I knew instinctively this country would not survive.

To that end, I decided to forgo sharing daily articles to my blog, and instead focus my time, my research and my writing skills to Facebook for the purpose of educating those who’d take the time to honestly read what I was posting. Because of this, I have lost a lot of friends and even some family over the course of time and in all honesty, I still do not know if such losses will have been worth it in the long run.

Last night, a couple of minutes after Fox News grew a pair and finally announced what everyone else knew, that Donald Trump had won the election, I sat quietly, bowed my head and prayed for him, for our nation and for you and me – what a difference from 2008 and 2012.

It is comforting to know that I am not the heartless beast, the all out verbal warrior, the Mr. Hyde I had come to think of myself as during this process. As I laid in bed, I found myself feeling sorrow and pity for Hillary Clinton, as I imagined the bitter hurt of being rejected so publically – and it does hurt no matter how tough one might claim to be.

It is a new morning, a new day in the United States. Where we go from this point, only God can say as he’s has made Donald Trump his instrument and we God’s children must bear him up in prayer as that instrument if we wish to undo the damage the Obama administration has done to this nation and her people. Though I am not in charge, my first prayer is that we (as President-elect Trump said,) ‘bind up our wounds,’ forgive each other, return to civilized activity such as a ‘good morning,’ and ‘how are you?’

Lastly, as I’ve told you before, I wanted to be a preacher at one time, but I now understand why God never allowed that to come to fruition – I am too emotional, too foul mouthed, to warrior-like and too politically incorrect in my approach to serve as God’s messenger to the gentler Christian’s among us. For all these things I apologize, if I have offended you – but like war, the battle in defense of the U.S. Constitution and our Constitutional Republic is not meant for the faint of heart and those not willing to hurt and be hurt.

God, bless America and hold Mr. Trump’s feet to your righteous flame.

Nevada Candidate Starts Where Harry Reid Leaves Off

The Thornton Law Firm in Boston, Massachusetts gave partners bonus checks that mirrored their political contributions, a violation of federal law. Now those ‘gifted’ politician’s who received the money are ‘trying’ to return the ‘donations.’

They are all Democrats and include New Hampshire’s Maggie Hassan and Wisconsin’s Russ Feingold who received $100 thousand; Pennsylvania’s Katie McGinty and Missouri Attorney General Jason Kander who each who got $25,000; Florida Congressman Patrick Murphy received $21,800; Colorado Senator Michael Bennet and Illinois Congresswoman Tammy Duckworth each received $22,500; Former Ohio Senator Ted Strickland received $12,500; Presidential candidate Hillary Clinton and Massachusetts Senator Elizabeth Warren each received more than $10,000. Finally, Nevada Democrat Catherine Cortez Masto received $23,300.

This is the same scam Harry Reid ran in 2007. Back then, Reid met with one of his closest friends and supporters, Harvey Whittemore, who promised Reid he would raise $150,000 for his upcoming reelection campaign. Whittemore, his wife, and company contributed tens of thousands of dollars to Reid’s election campaigns and to Reid’s leadership fund, which was used to aid Reid’s allies and is said to have helped Reid attain his leadership position.

A grand jury convened in late February 2012 to investigate the illegal campaign contributions. Whittemore was found guilty by a federal jury of three out of four felony charges in May 2013, sent to jail for two years and fined $100,000.

Oh – and did I mention that Nevada Democrat Catherine Cortez Masto, who is running against Congressman Joe Heck for Reid’s soon-to-be-vacated senate seat, received $23,300 from Thornton?

Could You Be a Violent Ideologist?

A new 18-page proposal shows the Obama administration plans to have teachers and mental health professionals intervene to help prevent people from turning to violent ideologies. Under the new guidelines, “local intervention teams” made up of mental health professionals, faith-based groups, educators and community leaders will assess the needs of individuals showing signs of converting to a violent ideology.

The policy also calls on the Justice Department to develop rehabilitation strategies that could include using former converts to violence as counselors for those convicted of terrorism. Prosecutors would still have a role in prevention efforts under the new policy, including arranging after-school programs, but they would not be allowed to use those settings for intelligence gathering.

Throughout this entire proposal, the term “violent ideologies” is not defined, making this a possible danger to certain segments of the public. After all the Progressive media is blaming a recent firebombing of a North Carolina Republican Party office over the weekend on Donald Trump supporters.

And for those who refuse to believe the Progressive media is against Trump supporters’ know that the latest batch of hacked emails released by WikiLeaks reveals that Hillary Clinton confided in aides that she was “upset” by a “continued bad relationship” with what the campaign described as “our press.” This is further forwarded when you learn that newspapers with a circulation of at least 50,000 favor Clinton by a count of 68 to zero.

Out of a total of 82 newspapers that have offered an editorial on who their readers should vote for, 68 of them have endorsed Clinton. Meanwhile, five have recommend Libertarian Party candidate Gary Johnson, two advise voting for anybody but Trump and seven papers offer no endorsement at all.

Clinton Emails Show ‘Free Speech’ in Jeopardy

An email dump recently released by Wikileaks reveals that in 2009 as Secretary of State, Hillary Clinton refused to help talk show host Michael Savage, after he was banned from travelling to the United Kingdom. The UK forbid Savage from visiting because authorities claimed his speech, based on his anti-Islamic radical point of view, might spark violence.

Further, the emails show that Hillary thinks Savage should suffer the same fate, here in America. It also proves how dangerous a Hillary Clinton administration would be to the U.S. Constitution.

From: Donoghue, Joan E
Sent: Friday, June 05, 2009 9:38 AM
To: Sullivan, Jacob J; Mills, Cheryl D; Crowley, Philip 3; Kennedy, Patrick F
Cc: Olson, Peter M; Conklin, Maegan L; Malin, Mary Catherine
Subject: Savage holding pattern and next steps

This is what L staff, in coordination with EUR, have said to Savage’s lawyer: The demarche was delivered Friday in London, to FCO and Home Office officials. The Embassy passed your letter to them, drawing their attention in particular to Mr. Savage’s statement that he had never advocated violence and that his statements had never instigated violence. The British officials said that, given Mr. Savage’s legal action in the UK, Treasury solicitors would contact his legal representatives directly to provide details of the comments that had given rise to the decision to exclude him.


From: Cheryl Mills
To: Sullivan, Jacob 1 Cc:
Sent: Saturday, June 06, 2009 3:52 PM
Subject: FW: Savage holding pattern and next steps

On Michael Savage:

Joan wanted everyone to clearly understand before any further discussion occurred with UK that Savage’s exclusion could also have occurred under our legal regime so to the extent we want to suggest to UK that his exclusion on free speech grounds is inappropriate (or any thing of that like) that we should understand we may appear slightly hypocritical given our legal regime and actions.

From: H <>
To: ‘’ 
Sent: Saturday, June 6, 2009 4:55 PM
Re: Savage holding pattern and next steps

Joan makes good points. Let’s hold on doing anything until we all talk.

What makes this so nefarious is that the Progressive media is talking about everything but this and acting as if the same could never happen to them.

California Recycling Cops Bust Aluminum Smuggling Ring

The California Department of Justice has arrested 11 people in connection with two recycling fraud investigations, involving Reno-to-Sacramento area routes. They claim that each case involved the collection, illegal transport, and fraudulent redemption of out-of-state used beverage containers through the California Redemption Value program.

During the course of two investigations, agents observed multiple loads of used beverage containers being loaded into rented moving trucks in Reno. The suspects took the material across state lines using routes designed to avoid required stops at the checkpoint in Truckee.

In June, CalRecycle says search warrants were served at two Sacramento locations, and at one location in Carson City. The suspects face charges of conspiracy, felony recycling fraud and grand theft auto.

Meanwhile, as the State protects its citizens from recycling fraud, Progressive elites in Sacrament are moving ahead with a plan to allow illegal aliens to obtain Obamacare.

The Truth About Trump’s Nevada Pronunciation

Years ago my high school journalism teacher told me, “Reporting is really nothing more than gathering the facts and telling the truth. The rest is simply the mechanics of writing it down in an understandable format.”

Oh, if it were really all that simple these days…

“New York native Donald Trump’s latest campaign swing through Nevada included a so-called ‘lecture’ to supporters at a rally in Reno about the correct way to pronounce the name of their state. He insists its ‘Neh-VAH-da.’

“During a rally in Reno, Donald Trump committed one of Nevada’s deadliest political sins – he mispronounced the state’s name.”

“At a campaign rally in Reno, Donald Trump pronounces “Nevada” incorrectly while explaining to the crowd how to pronounce it.”

Those are but a sample of story ledes filed by so-called ‘journalists’ who claimed to have been at the Reno-Sparks Convention Center Wednesday afternoon to report on Trump’s speech. It’s obvious that they’re in the gutter for Hillary Clinton once it’s learned Trump pronounced Nevada correctly within the first 11 words he spoke.

Trump brought up all the particulars that have filled his campaign speeches, stadiums and arenas in the past, including immigration, taxes, regulations, trade, national debt, refugees, veterans, Obamacare and the 2nd Amendment. However, very little of this made the various news outlets, locally, regionally or nationally.

What the Progressive media doesn’t want you to know is that when Trump first mentioned Clinton’s name, the crowd of nearly 3,000 people broke out in a chant, saying: “Lock her up! Lock her up! Lock her up!”

This is why Hillary’s lapdogs, the Progressive media smear Trump at every turn.

Court Rules States Must Accept Syrian Refugees

A federal appeals court ruled on Monday that states that refuse to resettle Syrian Muslim refugees are guilty of illegal discrimination. Judge Richard Posner, writing for the U.S. Court of Appeals for the Seventh Circuit, claims there’s no evidence that these Muslims are more dangerous than other refugees.

Judge Posner claimed he had discovered no evidence in the public record of any Syrian refugees who have been arrested or prosecuted for terrorist acts in the U.S. Immigrant rights and civil liberties groups cheered the judge’s decision, saying it reaffirms the U.S. commitment to refugees.

Posner didn’t address the case of Sacramento, California resident Aws Younis Mohammed Al-Jayab, who is charged by federal authorities with returning to Syria to fight for the terror group Ansar al-Islam. Though Al-Jayab is an Iraqi, he was approved as a refugee while living in Syria in 2012.

A number of states balked last year when President Obama announced he wanted to accept some 10,000 Syrian refugees in fiscal year 2016. The administration blew past that goal, with a final tally of 12,587 Syrians as of Friday, which marked the last day of the fiscal year.

President Obama has set a goal for resettling 110,000 refugees total in 2017 — up from 85,000 the previous year and 70,000 in 2015. Only about seven-percent of applicants from Syria have had their refugee requests rejected.

Last Friday, Texas Governor Greg Abbott followed through on his promise to pull his state from the U.S. Refugee Resettlement Program. In the past year more than 6,700 refugees resettled in Texas — nine percent of the total coming into the U.S.

Refugee resettlement in Texas is funded by the federal government, but managed by the state. Texas will continue to manage the federal program until January 31, 2017.

Posner’s opinion was joined by Judges Frank Easterbrook and Diane Sykes. If Sykes’ name seems familiar, it because she’s on Donald Trump’s supreme Court shortlist.

The Trail Between Taxes, Bail-outs, Endorsements and Donations

The Progressive media is in a tizzy because Donald Trump declared a $916 million loss on his 1995 income tax returns as reported by the New York Times (NYT.) Hypocritically, the NYT recieved a tax refund of $3.6 million despite having a $29.9 million pretax profit in 2014 and Hillary Clinton used the same federal law to “avoid” paying taxes on nearly $700,000 in 2015.

And there are a lot more companies that have done the same — and all of them have either donated to the Clinton campaign, her family foundation and/or have received money from the ‘Emergency Economic Stabilization Act of 2008:’

  • Bank of America got a whopping $1.9 billion refund from the IRS despite making $4.4 billion in profit in 2010.
  • Boeing made over $20 billion in profits between 2008 and 2012 and paid an overall income tax rate of negative one percent during those years.
  • Citigroup paid $0 in federal income taxes in 2010 despite making profits in excess of $4 billion.
  • Corning made over $3.4 billion in profits and got a $10 million tax refund, paying a 0.1 percent federal tax rate in 2008 and 2012.
  • FedEx made $2.7 billion in profit, yet they were given a $135 million tax refund from the IRS in 2011.
  • General Electric posted $33.9 billion in U.S. profits, yet somehow got $2.9 billion in refunds in 2008 and 2012.
  • Honeywell paid $0 in federal income taxes and got roughly $510 million in refunds in 2009 and 2010.
  • Merck pocketed $5.7 billion in profits, yet paid $0 in federal taxes in 2009.
  • Pfizer paid $0 in federal income tax between 2010 and 2012 and getting a $2.2 billion tax refund despite posting $43 billion in global profits.
  • Verizon pocketed over $30 billion in profits and paid a tax rate of -1.8 percent, between 2008 and 2012.

The fact that the NYT published part of the tax returns of a private citizen to score political points for Hillary Clinton, whom they endorse, should be the real headline.

The Coming Death of the First Amendment

The Federal Elections Commission plans to ban certain media outlets with any foreign ownership from covering presidential races or even giving endorsements. A top Democrat on the evenly-split split board proposed that the group begin the process of prohibiting companies with foreign ownership as small as five-percent.

“Given everything we have learned this year, it blinks reality to suggest that that there is no risk of foreign nationals taking advantage of current loopholes to intercede invisibly in American elections. This is a risk no member of the Federal Election Commission should be willing to tolerate.” — Democratic Commissioner Ellen Weintraub.

Several media giants have at least five percent foreign ownership, some with as much as 25 percent, including News Corp, which owns Fox, the New York Post, the Wall Street Journal and The New York Times. Not only would this prohibit media from becoming involved, but politically active companies like Ben & Jerry’s would also be prohibited.

Adds a new level of meaning to the old 80’s Valley Girl saw: ‘Gag me with a spoon!”

Respecting Women – the Misogynistic Way

There’s a lot of information the Progressive media is refusing to report about former ‘Miss Universe’ Alicia Machado, turned Clintonista surrogate. For starters, Machado claims she was “fat-shamed” by Donald Trump back in 1996, but that’s been dismissed as a rumor started by the Clinton campaign through the Twitter-verse.

Two year after supposedly being shamed, Machado was accused of helping her boyfriend Juan Rodriguez Reggeti kill his brother-in-law, Francisco Sbert Moukso and kidnap his 11-month-old nephew. She is also accused of threatening to kill Judge Maximiliano Fuenmayor if he indicted Rodriguez.

Then in 2010, the Mexican attorney general’s office said Machado was romantically involved and had a daughter with drug lord, Jose Gerardo Alvarez Vazquez, also known as “El Indio.” The allegation came from a witness who testified the two were romantically linked.

This witness said El Indio and several other known drug-traffickers attended Machado’s daughter’s baptism in 2008. The witness — who went into protection soon after giving this testimony — was shot and killed at a café in Mexico City in 2009.

Machado has since denied these reports. She now claims her daughter’s father is a well-respected businessman – but she won’t name him.

In 2005, she admitted to cheating on her fiancé in a reality show porn video. And if you simply search the Internet using the term ‘Alicia Machado porn,’ snippets of adult films starring Machado are available on multiple websites for free.

All this come to light as the Clinton campaign enlists Katy Perry and Madonna to shed their clothing, in a sorry attempt to excite Millennials into voting. Of course, the Progressive media is treating their actions as uplifting for the cause of women everywhere.

And while I’m glad HRC didn’t decide to get out there and ‘rock the vote,’ along side the two pop music icons — it’s obvious who the real misogynist is in this presidential campaign and it ain’t Trump.

I’m Tired of Being the Guilty White Man

All of my life I’ve been made to feel ashamed of being White because of the ignorant actions of other guy people’s hatred of people’s of color or religion, etc. Now I’m perplexed — I am watching and in doing so — feeling threatened by the ignorant actions of people of color and a religion that wants to kill me because I refuse to submit to it.

What the fuck am I supposed to do? Do I stand by and continue feeling ashamed of the ignorant on both sides or do I stand by and put a stop to it? When can I remove the shackles of my shame and call a Nigger and Nigger or a Muslim terrorist and Muslim terrorist? And will any Black man or woman stand with me? Will any Muslim man or woman stand with me?

This morning I watched a video from Charlottesville, North Carolina, where a ‘pack’ of Black people chased down a single White man inside a parking garage as he pleaded with them to leave him alone. I thought we had outgrown these sort of actions as a nation, but I am seeing that we have not.

It is not that I want to go to war with anyone who disagrees with me – but I certainly will not roll over and play the submissive because you think you and you’re belief system has been wronged by a group of people who happens to look like me. Recent actions by groups of color and/or religion have made it hard not to lump everyone into the same shit-pile.

So if you don’t want to be in that shit-pile, than you’d best open your mouth, lift a hand, and do what is fucking needed to stop what the radical two-percent are doing to our nation. I need to see you respond against these atrocities that are violating our Constitutional, God-fearing society.

If not, do not expect my finger to avoid the trigger or my weapon to stay on safety.

The Pissed Off Sergeant Major of the Marine Corps

A Marine Warrant Officer was in the check-out line of the Base Exchange and put his cover (hat in civilian terms) on inside. He was approached by a Second Lieutenant, who asked him to remove it.

The Warrant Officer became defensive and asked the Second Lieutenant, “Who the eff are you?”

The Lieutenant then got into the Warrant Officer’s face and told him to have some respect and remove the cover. The situation quickly escalated into a vulgar cussing match.

From somewhere in the back of the store, there was a loud roar from a Sergeant Major of the Marine Corps, who bellowed, “Both of you — shut your mouth there are families present!”

The place fell silent as the Sergeant Major came to the front, cut through the line, and grabbed both of the Marines by the collar, half-dragging them out of the building. Once out side, the Sergeant Major was heard: “What the fuck is the issue between you two Morons?!”

No one could hear what either officer had to say for themselves. And though we shot glances at one another, no one spoke, save for the civilian cashiers, who could only muster a slight whisper as they rang up our purchases.

Alan Mock, 1951-2016

“What the hell?” I grumbled, rolling over to look at my alarm clock.

Something had awakened me from a deep sleep. Though I had another 40-minutes before my alarm went off, reluctantly I crawled from bed and stumbled to the toilet.

As I stood there I thought about what it was that had woke me up – a noise, maybe. But I couldn’t even begin to identify what sort of sound it had been – if there had been one at all.

Still half asleep. I returned to bed, flopping amid the tangle of covers and sheets, hoping to will myself back into the ‘land of dreams.’ More than half an hour later and several false starts I surrendered with the complaint of, “Screw it!”

Slipping off the edge of the bed and heading to the bathroom once again, I turned on the shower. As per my ritual I started at the top, wetting and rubbing soap into my hair.

“Dad!” came Kyle’s voice as he poked his head in the bathroom, “You’re gonna have to cut it short. Gary’s here. He says Alan’s dead.”

Having forgotten my son had spent the night, I jump at the sound of his voice. Quickly recovering, I responded “Okay. Pour him a cup of coffee and I’ll be right out.”

Once dressed, I walked out into the living room where Kyle was listening to how my next door neighbor Alan had died of a heart attack earlier that morning. Gary said he had to get back next door and asked if we’d watch his three-year-old son for him.

Hours later Gary, his wife Autumn (who is Alan’s daughter) and I sat on my front porch talking about the days events. Gary, looking at his cell phone commented, “Yeah, Autumn’s mother called me at 7:49 this morning.”

“Really? I woke up at 7:50 to a strange sound or something.” I replied. “Weird, huh?”

That’s when I decided to check something. Since my alarm clock is battery operated, I brought it outside and after comparing the two devices we learned my alarm clock was running a minute faster than Gary’s phone.

It was a moment of goose bumps.

The Desert Rat and the Hawk

Slightly north and west of Spanish Springs and the Reno-Sparks Indian Colony in Northern Nevada is a hillside gash called Stormy Canyon. Over the years civilization in the form of a rock-crushing operation has slowly encroached on the once isolated area.

Ancient game trails, once used as a foot path by the local Indians and later by roaming cattle, crisscross the hillside leading to the canyon. You have to take your time and look for the signs, but they are there, etched into the hard-packed earth, between the rocks and the scrub brush, eons ago.

The canyon slopes up hill some two to three hundred feet in elevation, and that is why when I hike it, I tend to stay off the canyon’s floor. In Nevada, as with most arid regions, distant thunderstorms can spring up and create a ‘gully-washer,’ sweeping anything and everything in its path away within seconds.

One afternoon, I hiked into the mouth of the canyon, working the north side of the canyon’s slope looking for signs of the old one, who roamed the lands long before it was ‘settled’ by the White man. I had walked about 20 minutes, when I saw a man standing some fifty years south and below my position.

At first I thought I’d run into an ‘old desert rat,’ long-haired and handmade clothing, long since avoiding the trappings of society. Many men and women have found their bliss living in the wilds of Nevada and it isn’t uncommon to see a person like this, if you keep your eyes open.

However, when we made eye-contact, I sensed something was different about this man. I was overcome with the feeling that he belonged to the land, something far different from being at one with oneself in the desert environment.

Stopping, I raised my right hand in the traditional sign of coming in peace. He raised his hand and signed the same.

It was my intention to weave my way between the sage and stone to where he stood so we could talk. I looked down to check my footing for but a second.

At the same time, a huge bird soared above my head, casting a darkened shadow along the ground ahead of my path. And when I looked up in the man’s direction – he was gone.

It took me about two-minutes to reach the canyon’s bottom and the place where the man once stood.  I looked for sign to see which direction he had gone – and I could find nothing – not a footprint anywhere.

Far above me, caught in a warm desert air draft and lifting ever higher, I spied a large hawk sailing away.

Harry Reid Comes to the Defense of Hillary Clinton’s Health

Senator Harry Reid is up to his old tricks again – muddy the waters and create confusion where there is none. This time, he’s defending Clinton’s health, by pointing out that Donald Trump brags about eating fast food every day and isn’t “slim and trim.”

This comes after Clinton was supposedly diagnosed with ‘pneumonia’ on Friday and disclosed on Sunday, only after she collapsed while quickly leaving the September 11 memorial service in New York early because she was ‘feeling overheated.’

“She has pneumonia,” the Nevada Democrat stated. “And she’s well. She’s, you know, it’s curable. No one denies that. She’s off the campaign trail for a few days. She probably needed to rest anyway.”

He added that reporters should “look at his health a bit.”

“You’ve all been unfair to Hillary,” Reid complained. “She submitted a multiple-page report from a doctor. A good doctor talking about what medicine she’s on, and been pretty clear. She has had pneumonia. She’s going to submit something more. But look at Donald Trump, at his medical records, which are nonexistent, just like his cheating people on his contributions to charities.”

Reid told reporters at a Tuesday press conference that they should focus more on Trump’s charities “and what he’s done to cheat people.”

And of course, right on cue – the Progressive media began the task of altering the narrative of the news cycle away from Clinton’s piss-poor health to the possibility of Trump’s dishonest dealings when it comes to his donations to various charities. This is the same media that refuses to challenge Clinton on her foundation’s charity work.

Clinton had planned to campaign in Las Vegas, however the man who hopes to be America’s first male First Lady, Bill Clinton, will headline the event in her place.

Behind the U.S.-Russia Syrian Cease-fire Agreement

The cease-fire agreement signed between the U.S. and Russia in Syria’s civil war, needs a little clarity about what it really means. But first a little background on how we got to this point.

In Egypt, the Obama administration had the Muslim Brotherhood help in the removal of Hosni Mubarak. In Libya, the administration enlisted al-Qaida affiliates, to topple Muammar Gaddafi, enabled by U.S. air support and weapons.

In Syria, the administration sought help from Sunni opposition forces which consist of Daesh (ISIS) and the Al Nusra Front, also an al-Qaida affiliate, to topple the Assad regime, by offering them air support and weapons. But it didn’t go as planned as Russia intervened on behalf of Assad.

With the agreement in place, the Kurds have, for all intent and purpose, been abandoned by the Obama administration. They’ll need protection from Iran’s Quds Forces and that county’s proxy army, Hezbollah, as well as from Turkey’s President Erdogan who wants annihilate the Kurds for interfering with his Daesh (ISIS) and other Sunni Islamic alliance that sought to overthrow Assad.

And who’ll give them that protection – Russia’s Vladimir Putin, who holds all the cards, militarily and politically, in the Middle East.

The Eagle Canyon Flyer, 11 September 2016

Thirty-one Honor Flight Veterans were welcomed home at the Reno Tahoe International Airport in Nevada by community members on Sunday afternoon. Along with the homecoming, airport officials also commemorated the 15th anniversary of the 9/11 terror attacks.

President Obama used his Weekly Address and the 15th anniversary of the 9/11 terrorist attacks to take a jab at Donald Trump, saying, “We cannot give in to those who would divide us.” He also praised his administration for victories seen during his tenure.

Hillary Clinton left the 9/11 memorial ceremony early on Sunday because of a medical episode. Clinton appeared to faint on her way into her van and had to be helped by her security. Her campaign issued a statement saying she “felt overheated.”

Six-Flags in Upper Marlboro, Maryland, received bomb/shooting threat prompting an evacuation of the park. Police are investigating the origin and validity of the phone call. They also searched the park, but didn’t find anything.

Tennessee Titans Avery Williamson wore his custom cleats made to honor the victims of the 9/11 terror attacks despite of being was told they violated the NFL’s uniform policy. The league threatened to fine him if he wore them. No word from the NFL yet.

The Air Academy Federal Credit Union has dropped Denver Broncos linebacker Brandon Marshall as its spokesperson after he kneeled in protest during the National Anthem. The credit union serves mainly members of the military and their families.

The Minnesota Democratic-Farmer-Labor Party has filed a lawsuit to remove Donald Trump’s name from November’s ballot. They allege the Minnesota Republican Party didn’t follow state law selecting electors and alternate electors.

A man walking his dog in Sydney, Australia Saturday was stabbed multiple times by a Muslim man inspired by Islamic State. Ihsas Khan is charged with committing a terrorist attack and attempted murder. He also tried to stab officers as they arrested him.

A car containing several gas canisters was found Saturday outside the Bar Yohaye Jewish Community Synagogue in Marseille, France. Police initially feared the vehicle was booby-trapped but no trigger mechanism was found and the vehicle isn’t stolen.

A Muslim was forcibly repatriated after refusing to swear allegiance to the constitution during an Italian citizenships ceremony. The man who acted as secretary of the Muslim Community of Treviso was put on a plane to Casablanca, Morocco, on Wednesday.

My Cousin Elmo says, “With our country going to hell in a hand basket, Hillary has told us exactly what will be in it when it gets there.”

Biblical Disease or Federal Disaster?

Two possible cases of Hansen’s disease, otherwise known as leprosy, are under investigation in the Jurupa Unified School District, Riverside, California. Now the Riverside County Public Health Department is working to investigate and confirm whether the diagnoses are accurate.

The disease, which is spread through saliva or nasal mucus, mainly affects the eyes, the upper respiratory tract, and the surface nerves of the skin, which can eventually destroy the sensation in, for example, the feet, hands or face. Most online information sources list Africa and Asia as the two continents where the disease is most prevalent.

In addition to the recent report from California, there were several cases also reported in Florida, Mississippi, Alabama and Georgia. The outbreak in the southern states was blamed on the lowly armadillo, the only non-human creature that’s known to carry the bacteria that causes leprosy.

This conclusion was drawn from a study conducted by Dr. Richard W. Truman and published in the New England Journal of Medicine, linking 30-40 cases of leprosy in the U.S. to armadillos. Meanwhile, the Center for Disease Control and Prevention claims there are 6,500 cases of leprosy throughout the U.S.

This leaves 6,460 to 6,470 cases not caused by armadillos run-amok, including the two suspected cases in California. It’s the one thing not being mentioned by the Progressive media as they supposedly report on this Biblical disease – the Obama administration’s unlawful refugee resettlement program.

Harry Reid Continues to Tout Obamacare

Nevada’s Senator Harry Reid continues to support Obamacare, which is becoming increasingly unaffordable for many Americans. Reid spoke shortly after Republicans denounced the latest round of Obamacare premium hikes and the dwindling choices for consumers.

“Obamacare has been terrific for this country,” Reid said. “Is it perfect? No, but if we’d had just a tiny bit of cooperation, just a little bit of cooperation from the Republicans, it would be better.”

“But all they’ve done is wish it hadn’t passed because it’s been one of the most substantial things to happen in America since Social Security and Medicare,” he added. “And so what did they do? Vote 70 times to defund it. And we know what Einstein said: someone that keeps doing the same thing over and over again is a sign of insanity.”

In August, the Department of Health and Human Services said an estimated 73 percent of consumers could still purchase a plan for less than $75 per month, even if all premiums increase by double digits. That’s because the majority of subscribers get tax credits to keep their premiums “affordable.”

But even for those with affordable premiums, access to health care’s limited by high Obamacare deductibles. And even though one Arizona county has no Obamacare options at all for 2017, Reid continued to lie:

“News is out today that 92 percent of Americans now have health insurance. Think what it was before Obamacare. Parents no longer have to worry about their children having insurance until they’re age 26. Parents with children who have diabetes, women who are — women no longer have to worry about being able to be forced to pay more for their insurance.”

Yup, Obamacare is such a good deal that Harry and his Capitol Hill cronies, including President Obama are exempt from having to buy into the same program that every other America is now forced to participate in.

The Dawn of the New American Dream

The Obama administration is spending another $10 million to register new immigrant voters on top of the $19 million it’s already spent. The money, fully approved by a Progressive-Republican led Congress, is to be distributed the by the Department of Homeland Security’s U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services (USCIS.)

The DHS has been promoting its “citizen integration” grant program all year, offering big bucks to recruit new groups that can offer immigrants the services they need to become citizens with full voting rights. In this case, integration means being taught how to live, work and function in the U.S. while living separate from the native-born culture.

Since 2009, USCIS has doled out $63 million in grants to prepare more than 156,000 immigrants for U.S. citizenship. Meanwhile, the administration is working with “Welcoming America,” (funded by George Soros) to help communities ‘accept’ new immigrant populations.

The secretive mission of “Welcoming America,” is to actually plant politically active immigrant and refugee populations in cities and towns across the nation. As this happens, all 18 federal agencies are participating by contributing resources and creating programs to help these ‘politically-active’ immigrants.

Mind you, all of this is subsidized by the American taxpayer – that’s you and me – and we’re now being forced to watch as our traditional American values give way Progressive ideology of social justice.

Obama Giving Out Money Without Authority

President Obama has promised Laos $90 million over the next three years to help remove unexploded munitions the U.S. dropped over the country during the Vietnam War.

You gotta realize we haven’t dropped a single bomb on that country since 1973. What the hell have they been doing for the last 43-years?

And how the eff does he plan to do this? And finally where or who gave him this authority?

We are already living on a system built of fiat currency in fiat economy. And there are no bills before Congress asking for this money.

Obama thinks he’s a fucking king and we are his dumb-ass subjects. It is time to sell your cloak, if you haven’t already, to save this nation.

The Blueprint of Anarchy

“Cockroaches and socialites are the only things that can stay up all night and eat anything.” — Herb Caen

The Burning Man Festival plays out each year in Nevada’s Black Rock Desert where 70,000 people build a city in a week, burn a giant wooden effigy of a man, and then supposedly restore the  playa to its original state. In recent years it has become popular with millionaires, and billionaires.

Luxurious camps have sprung up which use hired staff like cooks, builders and security, and allow international jetsetters to drop in for quick visits including a runway that is capable of handling a Lear jet. Many traditional “Burners” claim that is a betrayal of the spirit of “radical self-reliance” that is a cornerstone of the event.

As anger boiled over one camp called White Ocean, which hosts high profile DJs on a state-of-the-art stage, became the focus of anger. This year, as the camp was holding a party at which Burners listened to music it was attacked by vandals who flooded it with water and cut power lines carrying out a “revolution against rich parasites”.

So much for the Progressive wet-dream of a utopian vision of peace and love and welcome to the chaos of anarchy of class warfare.

Watergate: Where the Key is the Key

Thanks to the Central Intelligence Agency, Watergate historians now have the answer to a major question that’s plagued them for more than 40 years: Why did Eugenio Martinez have a key to the desk of DNC secretary Ida “Maxie” Wells, whose phone was the only one wiretapped?

Simply put, Martinez, also known as “Musculito,” was a CIA double agent — a plant — and was used to expose the scandal. Martinez who was arrested with the others at the time of the so-called ‘break-in’ was only referred to him as an “informant” during the investigations and subsequent hearings.

Unfortunately, among the 155-pages of the study, titled ‘Working Draft – CIA Watergate History,’ the names of two CIA case officers to whom Martinez reported are still redacted. The report, originally compiled by John C. Richards, a CIA officer who died in December 1974, was finished by Agency colleagues who built on his typed draft and handwritten annotations.

It can be stated that while the CIA cannot overthrow a Cuban dictator, it certainly can destroy an American president.

Court Violates Nevada Woman’s Constitutional Rights

A federal government ban on the sale of guns to medical marijuana card (MMC) holders does not violate the 2nd Amendment says the 9th U.S. Circuit Court of Appeals. It came after a lawsuit was filed by S. Rowan Wilson, a Carson City, Nevada woman who tried to buy a firearm in 2011 and was denied because she has an MMC.

While medical marijuana is legal in Nevada, it is still illegal under federal law.

Because of this, the court claimed it’s reasonable for federal regulators to assume a MMC holder is more likely to use the drug. With that in mind, the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives has instructed gun sellers to ‘assume’ a person with a MMC uses the drug.

Back in October 2011, a Wilson tried to purchase a gun from a firearms retailer outside of Carson City. The owner of the store knew her and knew she had recently gotten an MMC from the state.

In March 2014, a District Court in Nevada granted the government’s motion to dismiss the case, noting that while the Second Amendment protects American’s right to bear arms, that ‘protection is not unlimited.’ Additionally, the lower court noted that marijuana users can get around the refusal of purchase by not using the drug.

Wilson argued that she never obtained marijuana using the card. She further stated that she only got it to show solidarity for the recent movement to legalize marijuana in Nevada. From that perspective it could be argued that her First Amendment right to free speech had also been violated.

In the end, in its 30-page ‘opinion,’ Circuit Judge Jed Rakoff acknowledged Wilson’s Second Amendment rights had been infringed but that the burden wasn’t “not severe.” He claims it limits only her ability to acquire new firearms, not her right to possess any she might already have.

In his end-around argument, Rakoff noted that Wilson “could have amassed legal firearms before acquiring a registry card,” and the laws she’s challenging “would not impede her right to keep her firearms or to use them to protect herself and her home.”

There was a time in our nation that if any part of a ruling violated the law, then that ruling would not stand. We’re now subjects of rulers who interpret law without regard to words like, “…shall not infringe.”

Harry Reid’s Newest ‘Disinformation Campaign’

The F.B.I. warned state election officials several weeks ago that foreign hackers had exported voter registration data from their computer systems. Now, Senator Harry Reid is creating a ‘disinformation campaign’ asking the FBI to investigate whether GOP presidential nominee Donald Trump is conspiring with the Russians to swing this November’s election.

In 2012, Reid delivered a Senate floor speech declaring that an investor in the company run by then-GOP presidential nominee Mitt Romney told him that Romney had not paid his taxes in 10 years. The claim was proven to false but Reid said he did not regret making the accusation.

In his request to FBI Director James Comey, Reid pointed to the hacking of the Democratic National Committee emails and the House Democratic campaign arm. Furthermore Reid claims to know that someone with “long ties” to Trump is in contact with WikiLeaks, which posted the DNC emails.

Reid also cited Trump adviser Carter Page’s meeting with “high-ranking sanctioned individuals” in Moscow. Reid stated that “evidence of a direct connection between the Russian government and Donald Trump’s presidential campaign continues to mount.”

“The prospect of individuals tied to Trump, Wikileaks and the Russian government coordinating to influence our election raises concerns of the utmost gravity and merits full examination,” Reid wrote to Comey.

Trump has disavowed suggestions he has any kind of relationship with Russian officials or Vladimir Putin and no evidence has surfaced to prove a direct connection – but that doesn’t matter one iota to Reid, who also developed a ‘disinformation campaign’ to discredit the CIA after Democrats couldn’t find evidence showing that Bush-era ‘torture techniques’ failed to provide usable information.

In March 2014, then-Senate Majority Leader Reid formulated allegations that the CIA spied on members of Congress as they looked into the agency’s harsh interrogation methods, ordering an investigation into the issue. In that so-called probe Reid sent a letter to then-Attorney General Eric Holder raising concerns that the agency violated the Constitution.

“The CIA has not only interfered with the lawful congressional oversight of its activities, but has also seemingly attempted to intimidate its overseers by subjecting them to criminal investigation,” Reid wrote, “These developments strike at the heart of the constitutional separation of powers between the legislative and executive branches.”

Unfortunately for America, Reid has never believed in ‘the separation of powers,’ or the U.S. Constitution for that matter.

Where Yogurt and Corruption are the Menu

Turkish-born billionaire Hamdi Ulukaya is best known for founding the Greek yogurt company, Chobani in Twin Falls, Idaho. This is where two violent attacks committed by Muslim refugees have made limited headlines.

Ulukaya has ties to Bill and Hillary Clinton, the Clinton Global Initiative, Clinton campaign chairman John Podesta, billionaire Warren Buffet and possibly the White House. Furthermore he’s the board of the Federal Reserve Bank of New York – event though he is a Turkish citizen – and has been named Eminent Advocate for the United Nations Refugee Agency.

Many people first heard about the Twin Falls refugee resettlement program when a five-year-old girl was raped by three Muslim boys. More recently, a Muslim an attacked and sexually molested a mentally retarded woman.

The Twin Falls newspaper, the Times-News, which appears to have tried to hide the truth of the assaults, is owned by Lee Enterprises. The company received a $2.1 million loan in 2012 and another $9 million loan in 2013 from a subsidiary of Berkshire Hathaway, which is controlled by Buffett, an HRC supporter.

That same resettlement program is also connected to a drive for cheap labor, which Ulukaya has something to gain from. A major source of revenue for Chobani is the federal school lunch program, which has been pushed throughout the U.S. over the last several years by First Lady Michelle Obama.

Also not being reported is the increase in the number of active tuberculosis cases between 2011 and 2012 in the Twin Falls area. In 2012, the year Chobani opened in the southern Idaho town, the percentage of active TB cases in Idaho that were foreign-born climbed to 80 percent, up from 50 percent in 2011.

But then, TB is an entirely different subject. Exploring this leads back the Center for Disease Control and Prevention which is doggedly investigating so-called Zika virus outbreaks in Florida – but not the spreading of TB in southern Idaho.

Oddly, Chobani isn’t even Greek as the name is actually Turkish for ‘shepherd,’ which defined means “to guide or direct in a particular direction.”

Harry Reid, the Rothschild’s and Reno, Nevada

EDITOR’S NOTE: As with most anything Progressives develop, this scheme has so many moving parts that it’s easy to become confused over one part’s interconnection to another. It’s taken days to whittle this down so it could be fully understood as it also involves judicial appointments, patent law rulings, social media, stock market speculation and other nationally known-known political players.

In March 2009, former Nevada state Senator Valerie Wiener, who was Senator Harry Reid’s speech writer and press secretary from 1981 to 1986, introduced changes to Nevada’s corporation law that aimed to protect lawyers from liability when representing offshore clients. The Nevada legislature approved Wiener’s bill on May 20, 2009 as Senate Bill 350.

In short, the changes allowed Nevada attorneys to offer complete anonymity to offshore clients. This law change applied only to Nevada attorneys – lawyers from out-of-state are still required to report tax evasion cases.

In 2010 the Obama Administration determined it was time to put an end to secretive tax-havens. This led to a 2010 law, called the Foreign Account Tax Compliance Act that requires financial firms to disclose foreign accounts held by U.S. citizens and report them to the IRS or face steep penalties.

After coercing nearly 100 countries to sign on to the Organization for Economic Co-operation and Development (OECD) disclosure standards, the Obama administration refused to become a signatory. In declining to sign, this opened the door for the moneyed globalists from the typical tax haven strongholds to move their holdings to the U.S.

Then in 2015, the Panama Papers uncovered evidence that Nevada’s Reid is a prime facilitator in these actions. The Panama Papers are 11.5 million confidential documents detailing more than 214,000 offshore companies represented by the Panamanian law firm, Mossack Fonseca.

Among the discoveries is that Nevada is now prominent among the global elite as a new and favorite location to hide from tax collectors. As Bloomberg wrote January 27, 2016: “Some are calling [Nevada] the New Switzerland. By resisting new global disclosure standards the U.S. is creating a hot new market, becoming the go-to place to stash foreign wealth.”

Enter Rothschild & Co., an old-world financial institution that’s been instrumental in helping to hide the global elite’s wealth in places like the Bahamas, Switzerland and the British Virgin Islands for decades. And now — it’s been learned that Rothschild & Co. has recently opened a trust company in Reno, Nevada.

Harry Reid Plays the Media like a Busted Stradivarius

Zika is the fault of the Republican Party, says Senator Harry Reid in a statement claiming the spread of the virus “will only get worse if Republicans continue their refusal to work with Democrats on a bipartisan response.”

“Democrats have been waiting for months for Republicans to get serious. The American people cannot afford to wait any longer,” Reid claimed.

The legislation is but a step away from President Obama’s desk — if only Democrats would simply stop playing around. After all, it’s Senate Democrats who blocked an additional $1.1 billion in funding to fight the disease because it took money away from Obamacare and Planned Parenthood clinics in Puerto Rico.

So, of course, Reid blames Republicans — it’s what he does best. And he does it every time he gets caught with his money-grubbing-paw in the ‘cookie jar.’ In 2013, Reid steered the state legislature to pass an energy bill that got NV Energy to close three coal plants and replace them with new, expensive gas and green energy plants.

On August 16, Reid openly admitted that he personally threatened NV Energy company executives who were planning on building new coal-fired power plants in Nevada nearly a decade ago, saying that “he would “do everything to hurt investments in your company.”

Reid also opposed NV Energy’s proposed Ely Energy Center — a $5 billion project planned in the rural town of Ely – which never got built. The Progressive rag — the Las Vegas Sun — described the move at the time as “a legislative power play reaching from D.C. to Nevada that illustrates how consummate insiders can dictate energy cost and policy for every Nevadan for the next decade.”

While speaking to the Lambda Business Association at The Gay and Lesbian Community Center of Southern Nevada, Reid stated : “I called two of the companies that built plants there and I told them go ahead and do it, but I am going to do everything to hurt investments in your company. So they decided perhaps — decided to get rid of the coal plants.”

So, Reid’s comment’s, blaming the spread of disease on Republicans is yet another one of his classic and well-orchestrated ruses, designed to keep his ass out of hot water for misusing his federal office once again.

Speculating on Hillary’s Health

Woodrow Wilson was extremely ill, before and while President of the U.S. It’s believed that his wife operated a ‘shadow government,’ managing the nation’s business while the media kept the seriousness of Wilson’s condition out of the public spotlight, even claiming one time that Wilson was only ‘suffering from a cold.’

It’s widely known today that Franklin Delano Roosevelt was wheelchair bound, before and throughout his presidency. While historical documents show that FDR maintained the office from the time he was elected to the time of his death, the media did as it was asked, complying to keep his ‘handicap’ and all that surrounded his condition out of the public-eye.

Recently there have been questions about Hillary Clinton’s health, suggesting that she may be ‘more ill than the campaign is letting on.’ It is widely believed that she suffered at least two blood clots, a stroke and is still dealing with post-concussive syndrome, which caused her to have to wear special prism glasses to counter her double vision.

And whether it is true or not, the media has a history of remaining silent on presidential candidate’s and their illnesses. In the end, and for the immediate future – which is to say the next eight-years or so – her poor health could lead, if not to her death, an incapacity that would enable her husband and former president himself, Bill Clinton to operated a ‘shadow government.’

So, don’t be surprised that when in 70-years time, the files are unsealed and it’s learned Hillary Clinton really did have a ‘life-threatening’ condition that the media refused to report on and Bill managed to find away around the U.S. Constitution and become the nation’s second, albeit former, President to sit on the throne three-times.

DHS goes Completely Aldous Huxley

There’s no doubt that the Department of Homeland Security is now a domestic intelligence and surveillance agency. It’s no longer interested in simply gathering your biometric data – you know – your fingerprints, DNA, face, eye and hair color, height, weight, age, race and sex.

Such low-tech collections are generally used for identification purposes. However, DHS is going high-tech, spending $40 million of our federal tax dollars to fund a quantitative analysis (QA) program.

This QA program will collect data from open sources like social media, cell phones, smart-meters, etc., storing it in databases, then using algorithms, scan, organize, find patterns, and direct analysts to so-called ‘high priority data points.’ Simply put, this means DHS will be able to learn anything it wants about anyone at anytime.

Welcome to our brave new world.

The FCC Magically Gains New Executive Powers

The Federal Communications Commission has acquired the power to make forfeitures it’s calling a ‘Notices of Apparent Liability.’ Note that word, “apparent,” as opposed to actual or real.

These are not jus’ accusations that a law has allegedly been violated; they are assertions by the FCC that a law’s been violated without any due process. And like that — you’re presumed guilty.

There are no rules of evidence; no courtroom proceeding, no burden of proof placed on the FCC to prove guilt. The agency has merely to assert guilt and that’s it.

The “violator” is then told what his punishment will be. Of course, the FCC gives its victims the “opportunity” to “file a response” after the fact — which it can ignore in whole or part.

Recently, the FCC demanded $29.6 million in “voluntary contributions to the U.S. Treasury” from OneLink, TeleDias, TeleUno and Cytel, after they we implicated in ‘slamming and cramming’ activity. Mind you, they were only accused of switching long distance carriers without notice and adding extra charges to the customer’s phone bill, but never indicted.

Welcome to the Banana Republic of America.

What We Do

“So, Dad, what did you do in the war?” my  son asked.

I answered, “I was never in a war.”

“But I thought you were in the Marine Corps,” he responded, “and I know I’ve heard you talk about being in combat.”

“Well, there’s difference,” I explained, “I was never in a war that was declared by Congress though I was involved in the so-called ‘War on Drugs,’ and that’s where I saw fighting.”

“Oh,” he returned, asking, “Did you ever get a medal for anything you did in the Marines?”

I smiled, “Nope, no medals.”

“That isn’t fair,” he declared.

“Why?” I found myself asking.

“You participated in battle and could have died,” he continued, “so you should get some sort of recognition.”

“First off, I didn’t do it to get medals, ribbons or certificates – though those things are nice,” it told him, “I did it because I’m a Marine and that’s what we do.”

From ICANN to You Can’t

The U.S Department of Commerce’s National Telecommunications and Information Administration (NTIA) is transferring oversight of the Internet to a ‘private’ nonprofit group called the Internet Corporation for Assigned Names and Numbers (ICANN) on October 1. This means the Internet will move from U.S. control to a ‘multistakeholder’ group that includes 160 foreign governments and nongovernmental organizations.

The term ‘multistakeholder’ is troubling as it is most often part of the language used in U.N. programs like Agenda 21. This means that the agency could be used by foreign governments or the U.N. itself to shut down the Web around the globe, either in whole or in part.

Since ICANN already manages the domain naming and IP address systems, the transfer would give it full regulatory control as well. Also worth noting is the fact that ICANN already charges fees to users and that as a ‘nonprofit,’ it earned $219 million last year.

Alarming is the knowledge that shifting ICANN’s legal status away from the U.S. was a top agenda item for an ICANN working-group meeting in Helsinki on June 26.

The internet is one of the few places where, with some notable exceptions, free speech still reigns supreme. So what will happen when ICANN has the freedom to raise fees with no oversight?

Furthermore the facilities could, without notice, be relocated to say — China — and could go in the same building as the Communist agency responsible for censoring that country’s Internet since some of the American companies involved with the transition process have already given into Chinese demands to aid with censorship.

Besides, President Obama’s plan to end U.S. oversight without congressional approval is unconstitutional. Congress must authorize transfers of U.S. property, which includes the ICANN domain system, worth billions of dollars.

If the courts later rule that Obama’s action violated the separation of powers, there will be no remedy as control over the system will be gone forever, thus handing authoritarian regimes the power they have long sought to censor the web globally, including in America.

Meanwhile, the “Protecting Internet Freedom Act” was introduced in Congress last month with the hope of reinforcing the separation of powers clause. But like most other constitutional side-steps, Obama plans to acted unilaterally and then by fiat you and I can kiss the last true realm of free speech goodbye.

Old McDonald Had a Farm…L-G-B-T-Q

Over the last two years, the U.S. Department of Agriculture (USDA) has hosted a series of summits promoting the role of LGBTQ farmers as a part of its “Rural Pride” campaign. For those of us who don’t know what “rural pride” means, the agency is happy to explain.

“Contrary to widely held myths that the LGBT community is largely living in affluent metropolitan areas, studies show a very different and more realistic picture of the LGBT community,” the USDA claims. “For a number of reasons, many people in the LGBT community choose to live, work, and raise their families in the rural communities that the U.S. Department of Agriculture (USDA) is proud to serve.”

What the agency really wants to do, along with the entire Obama administration, is purge what they believe the average U.S. farmer is – a “white, rich male.” At first, I thought there was some sort of mistake, because the USDA failed to mention ‘Christian,’ but I was mistaken.

White House liaison Ashlee Davis, who was special assistant to the assistant secretary for the USDA’s Office of Civil Rights (OCR), is the point person for these summits. Davis used to work on the ‘National Gay and Lesbian Task Force’ and for the ‘Equality Federation,’ where she “researched and analyzed religious-based bigotry and its influence on civil rights legislation.”

These all-day summits supposedly ‘teach’ LGBTQ persons how to get subsidies from the federal government — like food stamps and housing loans. It’s unclear how much the program’s costing you and me, although USDA’s OCR asked for $24.4 million in funding in its fiscal-year 2016 budget request.

So, maybe I can get in on this scam — after all I’ve always ascribed to stand-up comedian Kip Addotta’s line of thought: “I’m a lesbian in a man’s body.”

Feds Grabbing More of Nevada

The federal government already has millions of acres of land in Nevada. Now they want an embattled segment of land in northeast Clark County known as Gold Butte.

Twice now, President Obama has acted to preserve land in Nevada. In December 2014, he signed into law a bill passed by Congress creating the Tule Springs Fossil Beds National Monument on 22,650 acres at the northern edge of the Las Vegas Valley, and then July 2015, he invoked the 1906 Antiquities Act to designate the Basin and Range National Monument on 704,000 acres in Lincoln and Nye counties.

Cattle belonging to federally-held political prisoner Cliven Bundy still roam the Gold Butte area in defiance of three federal court orders and two failed attempts by the Bureau of Land Management to round-up the animals. And of course, Senator Harry Reid backs monument protection for the area.

“We’ll see if President Obama will protect this area. He has the authority, as any president does, to stop this sort of destruction and stop it now,” Reid said during Senate speech in April. “Congress created the Antiquities Act to empower the president to protect our cultural, historic and natural resources when and where Congress cannot — or will not. Many of our current national parks were created using this authority.”

When a national monument’s named, the federal government assumes all control of that land and can make decisions to control the land without the need for congressional approval. So Reid and his syndicate may very well end up getting their wish of a few thousand acres of solar panels after all.

Harry Reid Wants to Test Donald Trump

Senator Harry Reid claims that Donald Trump couldn’t pass the required test it takes to become U.S. citizens. Reid also called Trump “nothing more than a spoiled, unpatriotic drain on society who has earned nothing and helped no one.”

“Since Donald Trump wants to impose new tests on immigrants, he should take the one test every immigrant has to pass to become a United States citizen,” Reid commented. “He would almost certainly fail, given his general ignorance and weak grasp of basic facts about American history, principles and functioning of our government.”

Reid’s statement is laughable since he violated the U.S. Constitution by helping navigate legislation mandating all American citizens have healthcare.

While in Youngstown, Ohio, during a campaign stump speech, Trump proposed giving ideological tests to newly arrived immigrants. The test, he said, would help keep the nation safe and keep our American way of life.

Reid criticized the idea: “Unlike immigrants, Donald Trump represents none of the qualities that make America great. Immigrants work hard to get here and become Americans, while Trump inherited everything from his father and works hardest at tweeting insults and ripping off hard-working people with two-bit scams.”

Reid’s comments come as his Democrat pal Hillary Clinton begins recruiting illegal aliens for her new national voter registration drive. It’s called “Mi Sueno, Tu Voto” which translates to “My Dream, Your Vote.”

Meanwhile Trump will appear Augusts 26 at the Nevada Battle Ground Dinner for the Nevada GOP at Lake Tahoe.

Gun Restrictions Through Federal Research

Recently, the Pyramid Fire burned near 300 acres north of Reno, Nevada and was said to have been started by target shooters who fled the area without reporting the blaze. The BLM notes on it’s website that campfires cause only three-percent of the fires, whereas shooting over 34-percent as it points to target shooting causing other fires in Nevada, Utah, Idaho, New Mexico, Arizona and Washington.

Following a July wildfire on BLM managed lands in Lemmon Valley, also north of Reno, a BLM fire investigator stated, “Steel core, lead core or copper core has the potential to start fires,” adding, “every time a high velocity round would hit a rock like this, it would fragment into hot pieces.”

The investigator may have been talking about a USDA study on whether or not outdoor target shooting was the source of many wild land fires. In that 2013 report, researchers claim they found once certain bullets fragmented, they would ignite the peat moss in the collector box.

According to this study, pieces of the steel core can be 1,200 degrees. Furthermore, the study claims it only takes 600 degrees to ignite cheatgrass, yet the study’s author USDA’s Mark Finney told an ABC affiliate in Denver:

“We designed an apparatus that consisted of a steel deflector plate and a box at the bottom called a ‘collector box’ that we could fill with various materials that could be tested for ignition.”

“The bullet by itself isn’t very hot until it strikes something very solid,” Finney added. “The process of deforming it…is what heats it up.”

In fact the study reads in part, “Bullets were fired at a steel plate that deflected fragments downward into a collection box containing oven-dried peat moss. We found that bullets could reliably cause ignitions, specifically those containing steel components (core or jacket) and those made of solid copper.”

As any scout, from Cub to Eagle, can tell you this is the same method used to start a campfire; striking a piece of metal like the edge of a knife against a fire-starter, which is a piece of high carbon or alloyed steel. The knife (bullet) hits the fire-starter (steel plate) causing sparks to fall on the tinder (peat moss)and like that a fire begins.

So needless to say, research like this appears to be yet another way for our federal tyrants to further restrict our Second Amendment rights.

Is Muslim Terror Coming to Northern Nevada?

A recent news story (which never made it on the station’s official website) KOLO-TV’s Sydnee Scofield reported that Syrian refugees are beginning to resettle in the Reno, Nevada area.  While her report touched on the need for jobs, housing and social services — she missed the possibility of terrorism.

As of May 2016, of the 1,037 Syrians admitted to the U.S., only two have been Christian. Furthermore, the majority have yet to be vetted by the Obama administration as to their beliefs, so there’s a chance a Daesh (ISIS) sleeper terrorist is ‘secreted’ among them.

To top this off, the Reno area already has a network developed leading back to the Muslim Brotherhood. In the June 2008 obituary of  University of Nevada, Reno Professor Ahmed Essa, published in the Reno Gazette-Journal, it states that he’s one of the founders of the Northern Nevada Muslim Society (now the Northern Nevada Islamic Center or NNIC) and had been an advisor to the UNR Muslim Student Association (MSA.)

The MSA began in 1963 in Illinois with the help of the Egyptian-backed Muslim Brotherhood and has since found its way to nearly every U.S university campus. From the MSA grew such pro-Muslim organizations as the Islamic Society of North America (ISNA,) the North American Islamic Trust (NAIT,) and the Council on American-Islamic Relations (CAIR.)

In the 2007 Holy Land Foundation terrorist financing case, the Department of Justice named ISNA, CAIR, and NAIT as “entities who are and/or were members of the U.S. Muslim Brotherhood.” The Canada Revenue Service revoked ISNA’s registration in September 2013 after being caught funding the Hizbul Mujahideen, a violent wing of Jamaat-e-Islami and designated terror organization.

And while neither the NNIC or UNR’s MSA are terror-related organizations, the ground work exists to be exploited by a so-called refugee who has more jihad on his mind and in his heart than escaping a war-torn Syria.

New Official Emails Lead to Clinton Foundation

The State Department turned over several previously unreleased Hillary Clinton email exchanges that the Democratic presidential nominee failed to include among the 30,000 private messages she turned over to the government last year.

In April 2009, Doug Band — Clinton Foundation overseer and former Bill Clinton aide — had an exchange with Hillary aides Huma Abedin and Cheryl Mills. He requested a meeting between the then-American ambassador to Lebanon and Gilbert Chagoury, a major Clinton Foundation donor.

“We need to speak to the substance person re: Lebanon. As you know, he’s (Chagoury) key guy there and to us and is loved in Lebanon,” Band wrote.

Chagoury, a Lebanese-Nigerian billionaire, has donated between $1 million and $5 million to the foundation, according to its disclosures. He is also known for his close association with Nigeria’s military dictator, Sani Abacha and a 2000 conviction in Switzerland for money laundering.

(What’s that old saying about the company you keep? Anyway…)

Abedin replied, “Its Jeff Feltman, I’m sure he knows him. I’ll talk to Jeff,” who was the former American ambassador to Lebanon and who later became assistant secretary of state for Near Eastern affairs in August 2009.

Clearly this was an urgent situation since Band responded less that 20 minutes later, “Better if you call him. Now preferable. This is very important. He’s awake I’m sure.”

In January 2011, Band created The Teneo consulting firm, which boasts of having more than 550 employees in 14 offices around the world. Two of these employees include Bill Clinton who is a paid honorary chairman and Huma, now a $15,000-a-month consultant.

And to think, Attorney General Loretta Lynch already closed the book on this investigation, so for now, none of this appears as if it will stick to Hillary – yet again.

The Extreme Censorship

“Assassination is the extreme form of censorship.” — George Bernard Shaw, playwright and proponent of eugenics.

It’s amazing how the Progressive media tends to overlook stupid statements when the candidates they support make a so-called ‘threat’ against another candidate. Even more amazing is the fact that so many political candidates forget what they’ve said as quickly as they’ve said it.

By now, if you are paying attention to these sort of things, you should have heard Donald Trump’s so-called ‘assassination threat,’ made against Hillary Clinton: “Hillary wants to abolish, essentially abolish the Second Amendment. By the way, and if she gets to pick her judges, nothing you can do, folks. Although the Second Amendment people, maybe there is, I don’t know.”

Shortly afterwards, Hillary tweeted, “A person seeking to be the President of the United States should not suggest violence in any way.”

She is obviously a woman of much hypocrisy and even greater memory loss as noted from May 24, 2008, when she stated, “My husband did not wrap up the nomination in 1992 until he won the California primary somewhere in the middle of June, right? We all remember Bobby Kennedy was assassinated in June in California. I don’t understand it.”

Now, who do you suppose Hillary was ‘threatening?’

Oddly, not even the Secret Service took her seriously enough to pay her a visit as they supposedly have to Trump. Talk about making a mountain out of a mole hill.

The nice thing is that the Progressive Republicans are showing their full-colors as they crow about how Trump is bad for ‘their business.’ Since they have to reach this low into their bag of campaign tricks, it’s obvious they’re as scared as a chicken “with its head chopped off.”

And yes, because I wrote about chopping off heads, I expect a visit from the Secret Service at any moment.

White Fragility – My Ass!

First off, lets define ‘White Fragility:’ a state in which even a smallest amount of racial stress becomes intolerable, triggering a range of defensive moves. These moves include the outward display of emotions such as anger, fear, and guilt, and behaviors such as argumentation, silence, and leaving the stress-inducing situation. Give me a fucking break — you bunch of mama’s skirt hiding, pansy-assed sissies!

This will really hurt your tender feeling as it is the most politically incorrect article you may read all year, because I’m the son of a bitch Barack Obama warned you about — White, Christian and male. As I see it, political correctness is nothing more than fascism masquerading as politeness — and I’m tired of niceties.

Furthermore, I’m college educated and I served in the U.S. military in two different branches. I’m not an active member of any political party and I sure as hell am not a member of ay group that espouses our differences and tries to divide.

In fact, I believe in American exceptionalism because I am an American! I also believe in equality – and I also believe you’d best be ready to earn it as I certainly won’t hand you mine on a silver platter.

Whether you like it or not, I stand for the U.S. Constitution, the Declaration of Independence and the Holy Bible. And if you don’t like it, then feel free to kiss my lily-white ass as you slither by looking for your so-called ‘safe place.’

Finally, I’m an old man and if you threaten me or mine — which includes, but is not limited to family, friends, neighbors, acquaintances and strangers, etc. — I won’t waste my time in a fist-fight with you. No, I’ll simply plug you full of holes and let the coroner clean up the mess.

So simply put, I have but one life to live and I refuse to live it under your or anyone else’s tyranny, so fuck you and your White Fragility! And you can quote me on that.

Why NBC Fails to Qualify at Olympic Game Coverage

First picking up a gun jus’ five-years ago, 19-year-old Ginny Thrasher won the first gold medal of the Rio games in the women’s 10-meter air rifle event. She beat silver medalist Du Li of China in the final round with a total of 208.0, setting an Olympic record in the finals.

She’s a quiet, blue-eyed blonde that lives Virginia who learned to shoot while hunting with her grandfather. Yet, NBC’s coverage of her historic feat has been minimal.

At 30-years-old, Ibtihaj Muhammad is a fencer and is best known for being the ‘first American on U.S. Olympic team to wear a hijab while competing.’ She is a Muslim residing in New York, who claims she feels ‘unsafe in America,’ because of her religion.

And though eliminated from competition early on, she’s being treated like a media darling. NBC even ran a story on her Sharia-inspired women’s clothing line – but then she does serve on the U.S. Department of State’s “Empowering Women and Girls through Sport Initiative.”

The network cannot figure out why their broadcasting of the ‘Toilet Boil Games’ hasn’t been a ratings bonanza.

They’re Taking Over the Voting Booth

We already know the Democratic National Committee rigged the primary process in Hillary’s favor. And for months, tin-hat types have warned that Progressives are working on plans to somehow cook the 2016 election.

So when Department of Homeland Security (DHS) chief Jeh Johnson announced plans to strengthen polling places nationwide against cyber attacks by categorizing them as ‘critical infrastructure’ it’s hard not to take note. Furthermore, he claims DHS is conducting discussions with some 9,000 local voting jurisdictions throughout the U.S.

If the election process becomes part of the ‘critical infrastructure,’ then the federal government would provide ‘strategic guidance’ on cyber and physical threats, coordinate with ‘federal agencies, state, local and tribal governments and private-sector stakeholders.’

Simply put, categorizing the election process as ‘critical infrastructure’ means the federal government will develop uniform guidelines for administering elections in all 50 states and U.S. territories, including the development of software, hardware and all the federal oversight that goes with it. Also worrisome is that word ‘stakeholder,’ defined as “an independent party with whom each of those who make a wager deposits the money or counters wagered,” is the same word used time and again by the United Nations, especially when it comes to programs like ‘Agenda 21.’

Add to this — a newly approved presidential policy directive (PPD) to define what qualifies as a “significant attack” in comparison to “steady-state incidents,” which is “digital espionage efforts.” The PPD also introduces jurisdictional boundaries for the FBI, DHS and Office of the Director of National Intelligence to follow when it comes to relevant investigative cybersecurity cases and based upon details of the incident.

Top this off with a group of cybersecurity professionals working to make sure that if Democratic presidential nominee Hillary Clinton wins the election in November, she’ll have cybersecurity advisers to include in her administration. This is in-line with the DNC’s platform which promises to “build on the Obama Administration’s Cybersecurity National Action Plan.”

That plan includes supporting the “empowerment of a federal Chief Information Security Officer and Obama’s establishment of a 12 member Commission on Enhancing National Cybersecurity within the Commerce Department.” Remember that the Commerce Departments’ mission is to “promote job creation and improved living standards for all Americans by creating an infrastructure that promotes economic growth, technological competitiveness, and sustainable development.”

And while it’s fairly safe to say President Obama isn’t going to take over the nationwide election by November 2016 or even cancel them, once you connect enough of the dots, it becomes more than a conspiracy theory.

A Congressional Interview 20-years in the Making

Chinese billionaire Ng Lap Seng was accused of funneling over $1 million in illegal foreign donations to Bill Clinton’s 1996 reelection campaign. Seng laundered the illegal campaign donations through a close Clinton associate in Arkansas named Charlie Trie during the 1996 election.

Trie, who sent the donations to the Democratic National Committee and Clinton’s legal defense fund, pleaded guilty to violating campaign finance laws in 1999. Afterwards, Seng refused to come to the U.S. to cooperate with congressional investigators in the case as it became an international scandal that raised suspicions about the Chinese government trying to influence the American election.

Now, however, Seng has resurfaced in the U.S. and is being held in New York on bribery charges unrelated to this case. Ng was arrested in New York last year and charged with bringing suitcases of cash into the U.S. to bribe officials, including the former U.N. General Assembly President John Ashe.

The House Oversight Committee revealed this week that they will try to interview Seng about the Clintons, and some groups are calling for Congress to grant him immunity from the charges in return for testifying. Ashe was supposed to testify before the same committee five days before he died from a crushed windpipe caused by a weightlifting bar, which was mistakenly misdiagnosed as a heart attack at first.

No date’s been set for Seng’s appearance before the committee, but it’s a certainty that they better hurry – before he’s bit by a mosquito and dies from the Zika virus.

The Arkancide Continues

This is the third ‘Hillary’ related death in as many months. Shawn Lucas, who served the Democratic National Committee (DNC) with a lawsuit in early July 2016 charging that the political corporation had committed “fraud” in favoring Hillary Clinton over Bernie Sanders during the primaries, was found dead August 2.

Last month, DNC Voter Expansion Data Director Seth Rich was shot and killed in Washington D.C. as he walked home from work. Initial insider reports indicated that he was getting ready to blow the whistle on the DNC, but those reports have since been scrubbed from the official police investigation and poo-poo’d by Progressive Internet sites.

Then John Ashe, a former United Nations General Assembly president accused of taking bribes and preparing to testify in a possible kick-back scheme involving the Clinton’s, died as a result of a weird accident, that was first reported as a heart attack. He supposedly dropped a weightlifting bar on his throat, crushing his windpipe, in June.

As I’ve stated before – in my world, there are no coincidences.

ED. NOTE: Shortly after completing this commentary, the news broke that American Free Press Reacher Victor Thorn, a long-time researcher and critic of Hillary and Bill Clinton, has been found dead. Police reports indicate he died of a self-inflicted gunshot wound.

So make it four since June…

Don’t Tread on Me

The Equal Employment Opportunity Commission (EEOC) is reviewing if the yellow-colored Gadsden Flag with its coiled snake and “Don’t Tread on Me” text is offensive to other workers based on their beliefs. The complaint was filed by a Black worker in January 2014 after he said one of his coworkers wore a hat with the flag on it repeatedly.

The complainant said that he made his concern known to his bosses, who then asked the employee to stop wearing the hat. When the worker in question refused to stop wearing his hat, the offended employee filed a formal complaint with the EEOC, claiming racism in the workplace.

In his complaint, the man stated he “found the cap to be racially offensive to African-Americans because the flag was designed by Christopher Gadsden, a ‘slave trader & owner of slaves.’” He also claims the flag is a “historical indicator of White resentment against Blacks stemming largely from the Tea Party.”

It is hard to forget about the racist couple, who fatally shot two Metro Police officers having lunch at a Las Vegas restaurant in July 2014, then left a Gadsden flag on the dead officers along with swastikas, before continuing their deadly rampage at a nearby Wal-Mart. Oh, wait — the cops were White as were the killers — so it is a different story and should not be a considered a part of this flag’s narrative.

In 2014, the Confederate Battle Flag came under the same attack. The debate over the flag was reignited following the June 17, 2015 shooting at a Black church in Charleston, South Carolina, that left nine people dead.

Of course none of this is about the flags themselves or what they ‘represent,’ it’s all about rewriting history in favor of the Progressive movement.

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