Friday, October 14, 2011


This article from Press TV corroborates what I have gleaned from sources in the field.

Our military men who witnessed and participated in the slaughter are now waking to the burden of their crimes. Psychologically left holding the bag, they feel the hurt of "this is gonna hurt me more than it hurts you" -- hurt. The mental burden of the assassin. The gut-pang of guilt that gnaws at mercenaries. The clanking chain of Jacob Marley.

That moment when you gun somebody down who never offended you. That moment when you squeeze off the rounds into an assigned target. Or fire a missile into somebody's house from your computer keyboard. That's the one.

That moment will haunt you until the day you die.

Monday, October 10, 2011

Pity the Fool

Lew Puller, Jr. went through this "can do/feel good/snazzy" after losing his legs to a booby-trapped howitzer shell. He came back from the Nam a fragment. And got on with his life. For twenty years or so. Took up a law practice. Big fancy desk at the Pentagon. The whole "poster-boy" nine yards. But inside he suffered gravely.

Right now this kid is riding high on flash-bulb fever. I've seen a lot of Marines like him. I want him to be "okay" as the Jewish shrinks always say. I want him to have quality of life for the remainder of his days. Because I love those boys. And know their sacrifice.

They trusted their corporate government to be glorious ideology. They believed CNN and what they were told by their recruiters. They believed the stuff we got in boot camp. They trusted their leadership. They are always young and march on assigned enemies with 100% blind faith.

Marines are like Rottweilers. They trust their handlers. And give their all to defend and protect. They charge on command at what they believe is an enemy. Pity the fool who betrays their allegiance. Pity the fool who rapes their youth on a false-flag battlefield. Pity the man behind the curtain who planned 9/11 and sent this boy to make war on people who never offended us.

Sunday, August 14, 2011

Bobby Sherman

Bobby Sherman is a man I respect. Somebody who didn't let the Hollywood tiger-beat machine wreck his life. The all-American boy next door who was not ashamed to be decent.

Odd little bite and all, a fine fellow. Sixty-eight years of age and still as vital and fetching as ever. Working a profession that nobody can poke fun at. He delivered a baby in the street one day. When you need 'um you need 'um -- these bearers of Caduceus. You break a leg. You slice an artery. Who do you call?


Wikipedia doesn't want you to remember Bobby Sherman. But they can't deny his celebrity. So they do what they can to bury him by writing a short, lackluster piece with no photography. They better not post a picture of him. Good looks are dangerous in so many ways.

When good looks belong to River Phoenix, Corey's Haim or Feldman, it's all good. But when a clean-living fellow hits the spot light, their sinister agenda is foiled. Because now impressionable youth will seek to emulate a good boy instead of the cocaine-snorting hedonist.

By advancing wholesome role models, America would take centuries to defile. Think of how hard a time the porn kings in Hollywood would have trammeling teenage girls to "star" in their next action movie.

Those creepy goth rockers, the Sisters of Mercy, had a contagious hook where they hinted at John F. Kennedy in a motorcade. They called him a motherf**ker. Flash-in-the-pan bitches.

The last thing the Jews want is to advance a beautiful face behind whose sky blue eyes teem the virtues of Western Culture. Bobby Sherman gave pubescent girls something wholesome to adore. Something to stay wholesome for.

Unlike Marilyn Manson, Trent Reznor and KISS, Bobby Sherman did not require heavy make-up, lurid gimmicks, platform shoes nor Goth getup to find his way onto the bedroom walls of America. His lyrics didn't suggest kinky-freaky nor lavish hedonism. Sherman just asked if Julie would still love him after summer break.

I didn't learn till recently how good a man he is. And how respectable a boy he was. Nice to know that the fast lane never seduced him. What a squeaky clean image. No wonder the Wikipedia doesn't want young people to know about him. He might set an example for them. Imagine that.

Young people imitate those whom they admire. Therefore, Bobby Sherman and Jeffrey Hunter must be buried. Because they can't be smeared. Sherman, like Hunter, could serve as a modern bolshevik nightmare. No wonder Wikipedia keeps them on the down-low. If they studded Bobby Sherman's little write-up with photographs, girls would go gaa-gaa. Both Sherman and Hunter would enjoy a tidal wave of resurgent celebrity.

Since Bobby Sherman is far from dead yet and not on drugs, the bitches in Hollywood know better than to fabricate a "biography" for the big screen. If they told it like it is, it would strike fear into every black heart on their team. The last thing they want to propagate is decency.

So hip-hip for Bobby. Here's the link to a pivotal radio interview.

The reason I didn't know about him until recently is because during Sherman's hey day, I was too mesmerized by David Cassidy to notice anyone else. Teen idols are like bubblegum. Everybody has a favourite brand.

Some girls were in love with Leif Garrett. Heroin got the best of him, tight pants and all. David Cassidy turned to alcohol. I'm sure the list of ship-wrecks is a long one.

Come I today to sing the praises of Bobby Sherman. I wish I had sung them decades ago. Julie Julie Julie,

Tuesday, August 9, 2011


It occurred to me that there have been several droughts over the last few years. Along with "earthquakes in divers places," these dry spells kill off a lot of illiterate, unskilled people. Note the present "drought-famine" in Africa for which the faceless middle man is collecting heart-string donations.

Of apparent strategically-fortuitous droughts, here are just a few: China, Somalia, India, Australia, USA, Korea.

The drought in Australia was heralded as the doom of the Outback on American TV. They blamed it on global warming. I saw a program exhibiting close-ups of wild horse foals dying of thirst in Australia. Zoom shot of their little muzzles taking last breaths. Only one kind of videographer shoots footage like that.

Some guy in Florida patented a polymer powder and sold it to the "chem-trail-spraying" government and their mercenaries. I hope Mr. Dyn-O-Mat feels good about himself. I have seen his invention at work in the storm clouds around here. They evaporate in seconds before my eyes. Same thing happens on Doppler radar if you need more proof.

Monday, July 25, 2011

Oslo, the Crux

Multi-culturalism is just another made-up Jewish word for multi-racialism. Which amounts to what happens to three-flavour ice cream when you whisk it all together.
It becomes a myucky shade of -- ? -- And you can't taste the flavours anymore.

Case in point for Mister Race Traitor: how is it that you can spend two grand for a pure breed puppy (a few million for a pure breed horse), and yet you can't give away a mongrel pup at Wal-Mart? Hey Mister Race Traitor, why is it that they are exterminating millions of mongrel puppies at the pound? Is it because people desire mystery mutts along with their predictable behaviours and aptitudes?

What do you think Mister Race Traitor would do with a human equivalent in the future? Think "global" slave plantation with Mister Race Traitor and Company at the top, calling shots.

Mr. Race Traitor et al. admonish their children to only mix blood with others of their breed. Mind you, it is their creed. Yet they push "multi-culturalism" for everybody else. Why do you suppose?

The Scandinavians, Germans, Dutch, Swiss, English, Scottish, Irish, Welch, Spanish, Italian... (to name only a few) are of a breed. They come with distinct cultures. And deserve the right to preserve them.

Norway was getting fed up with having multi-culturalism shoved down their throats. Also they are getting riled about what the Jews are doing in Palestine. The whole literate world is getting riled with the rape of Palestine by terrorist Israeli Jews. Particularly moved are the young who wake from TV-trances. Their unison sentiment threatens to become a roaring lion.

So the Mossad hit squad has their work cut out for them (intimidation mission-wise). I believe that Israel was involved in the Oslo bombing and perhaps also the shootings. Too many dead bodies for one shooter it seems to me. It has the same "feel" to it as the Virginia Tech (Cho) killings and a subsequent rash of others that followed in the USA. One thing you'll never see them publish is the ballistics. Oh hell no.

Besides, the Jewish media has already been caught in their first fabrications concerning the accused Norwegian man. The stuff they posted on facebook about him was blatant rubbish. Alternative media is all over it. Busted yet again. You lying jackals.

Public records are easily falsified today. Less and less is on paper. Why do you think there is a hard push for "going paperless?" All a geek has to do now is change a few words in a database. The sky is the limit for the lies they put in public records. Been there. Seen that. By the direction of his high-paying handlers, a hacker enjoys full government benefits. Because only with government approval can they do what I have seen.

I believe that the voluminous text posted on Facebook that was attributed to Eric Harris (Columbine shootings) was written by a much older boy. It did not read like callow bravado. But carried a sinister gloat factor, wielding sentences beyond the polish of a high school kid. But I digress.

Note how they superimposed junk text on top of the expose in this news release:

Sunday, June 26, 2011

The Coroner

A coroner must be among the most bribed of men. An honest coroner would not be a coroner long -- I take it.

How many of those politically-charged "slain" people have we seen on a slab in a photo spread? Particularly the ones we saw getting done-up on grainy video. Why is the video always grainy? Grainy like mosaic grainy. Grainy like gravel. Video with so much "noise" that it looks like speed metal sounds.

Not so, however, with close-up 1963 glossies of the "not cold yet" John Fitzgerald Kennedy. We can all see who it is. They want us to see. More for them to gloat about. Wikipedia is a good gauge for their gloat-factor. The Wik' is a gloat-meter.

Look up Che Guevara and see what I mean. The Commies' equivalent of "head-on-a-lance." They love displaying the corpses of their killed-off challengers. Che cracked heads with Castro (I take it). He got cocky and wanted more pie. So the Commies got to scrappin'. There's a big convoluted write-up about how Guevara was out to lay new tracks in Bolivia, etc. Yadda yadda. What commie/Bolshevik/Zionist does not want to own and rule the whole world?

They are internationalists -- not nationalists. So they get greedy during their bloody revolutions and take-overs. And start crackin' heads amongst each other, typical of organised criminals. Stalin killed-off loads of his "comrades" during his stint as top dog. Woof.

For example, fake-named Leon Trotsky (Lev Bronstein, not Bronshtein as the Wik'ster has it) got on Stalin's bad side. I read in an article that Josef Stalin had an assassin slip Lev "Leon Trotsky" Bronstein some poison. Remember what they did to Mr. Litvinenko at the sushi bar. Poisoning seems popular among commies. On page 43 of July/August's edition of The Barnes Review, however, is an article that said an assassin killed Bronstein with an ax.

Trotsky/Bronstein was a proud atheist. As they wrote of Shelley, "Now he knows if there is a God or no." So watta 'bout chya, Lev. Want some ice water? Live by the sword -- die by the ax. Or was it poison? Either way, bad deal for Mr. Bronstein. All that usurping and over-throwing got him exactly squat. Now he can answer to God for what he did to all the priests and nuns. And for erecting statues of Judas Iscariot. Let him fast talk his Bolshevik bullshit to Gabriel and Michael and see how far he gets.

Deal is with the Marxists that they have no loyalty to each other. There is no brotherhood among criminals. Nor a Divine Law among them that states "love thy neighbor as thyself." So they don't. Ain't it just like a commie?

When they kill somebody they hate, they want to rub it in deep. President John F. Kennedy didn't even look asleep. Eyes wide open. Fresh kill. You could tell by the limpid clarity of his iris. Wide-eyed stare to nowhere. They hated him so hard. I wager even harder than they hated Czar Alexander.

Isn't it appalling how they want to make sure that Kennedy's family saw those photographs. What decorum would release photos like that into the public domain? He was missing most of his brain.

When I use the pronoun "they" -- they know who I mean. "They" read my blogs from all their lairs. Amsterdam, Moskva, London, Geneva... Hi guys.

Where are the photos like that of Jeremy Boorda, Seung Hui Cho, Daniel Pearl and Osama bin Laden? Hey Mr. Coroner, got any pictures for us?

Wednesday, June 8, 2011

On Fear and Ferocity

Ever see a momma bear in defence of her young? I say that her ferocity is no more mighty than what I have seen in barn yard hens. Momma chickens are no chickens -- to those of us who bear the scars of their station. No fiercer keeping have I seen.
Imagine then what a warrior is capable of when he is fighting for his family, home and lands with the wind of God in his back. His wherewithal comes from more than what thirty pieces of silver will buy. It comes from On High.
Ferocity thus established, I must address fear.
Fear is an affliction. It has the power to paralyze. Back at the school yard, you will recall how the bully always threatened, blustered and shoved his way around before a fight. That is because his aim was to instill fear in his victim. Once fear attacks the mind, knees go limp. Equilibrium and muscles disengage.
That is how global zionism operates. First they seek to bully, menace, terrorize, frighten, scare and cow, subdue, threaten, browbeat, pressure, harass, harry, hassle, hound, torment, tyrannize, persecute, bulldoze, railroad and twist someone's arm into submission. If that doesn't work, they go the next step in their shtick.
As their "business end" they wield purchased armies to pick their fights. Military forces offered up as hecatombs to Moloch if you will. Treasonous sacrifices from impoverished governments who were hoodwinked into signing for international loans. So now the governments are over a barrel. And pay with the blood of their sons.
Right now the zionists are playing God with high technology. They think they can harness a lightning bolt. Ballistic missiles have a way of biting them in the ass, so they scramble after natural forces to multiply the military ones already in their harness.
Tornadoes, hurricanes, rain and drought. Cloud cover and dissipation is what it's all about. Harness the winds and dehydrate the monsoon. Be Zeus, Jupiter. Be the devil's dragoon.
But first make people afraid of you. Wobbly-kneed cowards are easy to control. Use the Internet to spread CIA/ADL-cranked bullshit about how the sky is falling. Fabricate lectures, books and videos to that effect and spread it like a farmer spreads manure. Cultivate your bad seeds with every aspect of media under your control. Get cowardly lions to sell their soul.
As for God's people, demoralize them with bulldozers and push over their houses. Cut down their orchards. Rape their daughters and wives. Dam-up their rivers. Poison their crops. Cut off their electricity. Blockade their supply lines. Assassinate their intelligentsia. Wreck their economy. Bleed them out with taxes. Impoverish their nation states. Maim their children. Shoot their ponies. Bury their babies.
What Abaddon (Team 666, the world money-power, zionism, whatever you wanna call it) is learning about God's people is that they are immune to cowardice. It is God's stamp upon them. They are Mujahideen. I would like to make clear that these men are not terrorists. They are God's resistance against the devil's terrorism.
Abaddon, Apollion, Lucifer, Satan, zionism, the Beast whose number is 666, eternal damnation, hell on earth -- it's all the same. Like feces or carrion by any other name.
Muslim Mujahideen in Hamas, Hezbollah and the Taliban are not to be confused with mercenary imposters purchased by our central intelligence agency and Israel. These jackals are paid to do the devil's work so it can be blamed on God's people -- who are presently under siege by armies who are under the thumb of zionist Israel (the devil's people). Same jokers who tried to sink the USS LIBERTY in 1967. And the same jokers who pulled 9/11. Are the same jokers running the USA today.
But know that they (Israel and their ADL-aided intelligence lap dogs) want you to be confused. Confusion is the crux. They want to keep you muddled so you will turn to their guiding media to keep you "informed" of world events. They want you to consult your TV so it can tell you what to think, feel, see and believe. Seeing is, after all, believing they say. If you see something on TV does that make it Gospel?
At college they showed me video software that can create a world within a world. You can fabricate a lot with videography today. What you see on TV does not prove what you see on TV. Nor does it mean that CIA/ADL's bullshit organ is anything less or more. They have a cyberspace drivel-swivel slinging lies in a global radius. Complete with publishing houses that crank their canards. As Daddy used to say, "The truth ain' in 'um." They purvey gross falsehoods to sway public opinion. An example of their work are the Phil Schneider videos. The lurid fear-mongering shtick of "Mr." Pam Schuffert is another one. And an ocean of other such frauds peppering cyberspace.
Back to the Ummah's Mujahideen. That is video shot by those getting shot at -- now that is worth your time. Do not ignore videography from God's people. They have no motive to lie to you. Your zionist media has every motive to lie to you.
Only two forces in the universe. Right and wrong. Learn it now or learn it too late.

Tuesday, June 7, 2011

The Devil's Work

You dare represent me and my Nation?  You dare stomp with your mercenary boots into Muslim lands and kick in their doors?  You dare slaughter innocents for Israel?  You dare to be the business end of Talmudic Zionism?

What sadism possesses you to shoot their ponies and kick their chickens?  You kill their sheep?  You disrespect their women and elders?  Cut down their trees and burn their homes?  Rocket their villages from unmanned aircraft?  Bomb babies in their sleep.  Force children and old men to walk at gun-point before you as mine-sweepers.  Have you no moral compass?  Have you no mind of your own?  What man gives orders like these?  And what man follows them?  Ask yourself that while posing with your trophy kills.

Who can blame the Mujahideen and Afghan Taliban for defending their land, homes and families from such as you?  If you were in their shoes, invader, what would you do?  Whatever happened to the Golden Rule?  "Do unto others as you would have them do unto you."  The words of the Lord still hold true.

There are some military orders that should not be taken.  You got a gun in your hand?  Then no man is in a position to tell you to do a damn thing.  Keep that in mind as you carry on in Afghanistan building the clanking chain of Jacob Marley.  The longer it gets, the heavier it gets.  And you will drag it to your grave.

Unlike past wars, today journalists can publish your deeds faster than your speeding bullets.  "The evil that men do lives after them.  The good is oft' interred with their bones."  So let it be with you.

Sunday, June 5, 2011

Poppies for Pat

"Why am I guarding the poppy fields?" -- had to be one of Pat Tillman's last thoughts as somebody picked him off at close range with o'-so-friendly fire.  A brother-in-arms watched him expire.  A sell-out to the regime.  A servant of the team.  Another black-ops android going about the devil's work.  Thinking and doing exactly what he's told.  Mercenary bastard.  This is for you.
"Momma, why am I guarding the poppy fields?  I thought I was sent here to fight terrorists..."
So the advertising department saw that their glorious poster boy back-fired on them -- oops.  He wasn't just brawn and a pretty face.  Red alert you doers of the dirt.  He did his own thinking.  Wrote home to Momma.  And threatened to expose your bitch-ass reason for another fake war.  Just like Vietnam except now there's even more.  Afghanistan makes the old opium business look like small beans.  
Revenue revenue.  It's all about the money.  No matter that my sister was buried long before her time because she couldn't leave the smack alone.  I saw her friends at the wake.  Mostly skin and bone.  They were soon to follow.
Hey sniper-boy.  I hope you feel good about what you've done.  Gone the sun.  All the river has run out.  Nobody left to scream and shout.  No bird or insect sounds.  No guard to make the rounds.  What chya gonna do then?  Who you gonna call?  Your Daddy?  Your Momma?  Your government handler?

Friday, June 3, 2011


Arthur, you're out-banging me.

Wednesday, March 23, 2011

Google Ads Anyone?

A few minutes ago, I clicked on a link to one of my blog articles and saw this “ad” at the bottom of the page.  It  has a local phone number for me to dial.  The article, however, had nothing to do with the ad (they are supposed to be automatically generated based on text content).  The un-related article was written over a year ago.

But my cat was stomped to death a few days ago.  He was killed two houses over by new neighbors who do not know me.  We are in possession of evidence and a medical report that supports what I have written on the following link:

Here is the ad from Google that was found on my blog today:

Ads by Google:   DEAD Animals  305-232-1100, Dead Pets and Unknown Animals - Fast Pickup/ Cremation and Burial,


Friday, February 4, 2011

Brad Renfro

The Hollywood party syndrome – sometimes it gets the best of people. In the case of Brad Renfro, the Los Angeles fast lane slammed him into a near-silent knell – the kind Hollywood rings for you when they don’t want to know you.

Renfro was a field-day for the yellow press. His long line of arrests were well-publicized as he tore along. We can hardly call his acting career a canter. It was an impetuous gallop and always through some farmer’s cornfield. Kicking up the sod, tearing up the rows. He was going to have his fun.

At the age of ten he was discovered by one of those Hollywood casting scouts, plucked out of his native Tennessee like a flower on a hillside. They slapped him into the lead role of John Grisham’s The Client surrounded by big-name actors like Susan Sarandon, Tommy Lee Jones and Mary-Louise Parker. This was Renfro’s baptism into the roiling kettle of Hollywood hedonism. There went his childhood.

For not long after that he was emblazoned all over those feverish teen girl rags in sexualized clothes and poses. What kind of journalist writes for those? What kind of photographer takes pictures of boys his age and hawks them like sexual commodities to anyone who can turn a page? They had Brad Renfro shirtless; wearing low-riding black leather pants like the ones Jim Morrison wore in Gloria Stavers’ photo spread.

The difference, however, was that Gloria Stavers was shooting a man for her teeny-bopper magazine, not a child. Morrison in those pictures had not only been around the block, his elk-baritone rattled jaws. He was a thing to be protected from, Stavers should have caveat’ed, and not corrupted. After that shoot Ms. Stavers may not have recovered her gait for weeks. Nobody has a problem with that. The Editor-in-Chief of SIXTEEN Magazine got what she deserved (and probably wanted), but some of the pictures taken of Brad Renfro for that genre of periodical are another story.

After The Client, Renfro was sucked into the Hollywood machine. They got their money’s worth out of him every year. He worked steadily from his first movie in 1994 until 2006 even despite his horrendous drug addictions. In 2001, for example, he turned out five movies. Usually he would work in one or two films per year.

There was no childhood for Renfro after he left Tennessee. Soon the Hollywood vampire would suck blood from one vein while he injected coke into another. This became his life – moving in a world that vacillated between the brightly-lit camera eye and orgasmic underground of the L.A. Baiae. Like many who bit the dust before him of the same disease, they would concede that the glittering smog-pit was a pleasure dome until you fell out of her favor.

The money was good, the lanes were fast and the drugs were hard. Once a thrill-seeking rebel without a cause gets a taste of that, often it is like a reef shark at a feeding frenzy. The eyes are sheathed in white and nobody comes up till the drugs are gone. The director of Bully, Larry Clark, said that Brad Renfro was the worst case he had seen.

In order to get the cameras rolling on Bully, Clark had to kidnap his star from Knoxville, Tennessee, personally. He lured Renfro into his car and took off for Florida while the young actor went through cocaine withdrawals. Renfro had been injecting cocaine into both arms when Larry Clark came to collect him. By this point Renfro was riding high on a wave of status that his previous film roles had given him. As long as he had what they call “the magic” in Hollywood, he could get in trouble, get arrested, go to rehab and still enjoy the ride. At 18, however, he had reached his zenith. Larry Clark would see the last of Brad Renfro’s heyday.

It is a sad thing to see how rapidly and rabidly the Hollywood machine exploited young Mr. Renfro. He was marketed as a child sex symbol by teen magazines and then as a porn star on the set of Bully by an industry knowing that nothing sells like sex. It was as if they could not wait until he turned 18 so they could cast him in a movie riddled with soft-core pornography. To some folks this might appear unwholesome. The word “wrong” might even rear its head.

Naturally the selling point of Bully was naked teenagers having sex. This took off like a rocket in Japan where eager-to-please, smitten young women were lined up outside of Renfro’s hotel. One of these girls would become the mother of his son, Yamato. Daddy was a rolling stone.

In 2002 Renfro’s acting career had crested and was on its sad descent. The fire had gone out of his deliveries. The Hollywood party syndrome had aged him. He looked older than his years at 19 and 20. The magic that had catapulted him to stardom was gone. His performances had mellowed like the oratory of an aging politician. He no longer spat fire, but rather mumbled his lines in a kind of lackluster insecurity. He had resigned himself to the downward spiral of his addictions.

This resignation is supported by the lyrics of the songs he wrote. He suffered the characteristic highs and crippling lows of all addicts. “I don’t want to feel this way” was a salient anthem. Renfro, a consummate musician since childhood, pleasured himself with strings and vocals. He spent a lot of time singing and playing the guitar, banjo and mandolin. Unlike with Elvis, this musical turn was kept separate from his Hollywood life. But like Elvis, it would be the same machine that laid him low.

Music was a comforting nurse to him in a childhood devoid of guardians and it became his therapy as he grew older. It was a way for him to lick his wounds. Sometimes it was his “hard jazz and needles.” Music became a private world into which he would retreat from the circus outside. Between takes on a movie set, in his trailer, he would pick up his guitar and disappear into strains and riffs. Music came streaming from his guitar with the vigor of a mountain river. He was a natural musician in all facets unlike Elvis who was mostly a vocalist. Who says you have to know how to play guitar or write lyrics to get crowned the King of Rock and Roll? Life is unfair like that.

From the looks of Renfro after 2002, his drugs of choice were no longer the speeders, but the downers. He was consuming a lot of booze which gave him a bloated appearance. That heroin was wreaking havoc with his digestion was obvious. To the trained eye the ravages of his addictions told a tale. The racing white lady of his teens had given way to a comforting warm gun. He was now in the firm clutches of heroin – a smothering embrace that would carry him to a lethal injection at the age of 25.

What one might find as curious is how Heath Ledger, a foreign contemporary of Renfro’s, was canonized as a Hollywood saint by the media and movie industry after his drug-related death in the same month. It begs the question: is it because Ledger was better at not getting caught or is it because Hollywood is a kind of fickle fraternity that not everybody can join?

A popularity contest is always in progress in Hollywood. You can’t put your finger on what it is exactly but one determining factor seems to be that they have an unspoken code that must never be broken: “Don’t get caught.” If you get caught it reflects back on the industry. If you get caught journalism students like this one will write feature stories about it. Implications will be made that Hollywood is a festering cesspool of iniquity that fosters vices and rapes youngsters of their childhood. Don’t get caught Golden Boy – if you do we’ll drop you like a sack of rocks and pretend we never knew you.

Brad Renfro was shunned on Oscar night. Every year the Academy commemorates its dead. Not a peep about his departure. Renfro died a silent, unacknowledged death in the arms of his L.A. Woman. To the industry that sucked his life-force he may as well have been road-kill.

The expired wreckage of his remains was quietly spirited back to Blaine, Tennessee, for burial. Instead of an Oscar for his pains he got a toe-tag. The scarlet seductress that is Hollywood, California, has gotten her last bang out of Brad Renfro.

Like a disgusted paramour, the L.A. Woman was finished with him. “Back you go now boy, no longer golden, to your redneck kinsmen. I got all out of you that I can get. Let’s just pretend we never met.”

Sunday, January 23, 2011

Jagged Fingers

I watched a mental hygiene movie aimed at Marines. In Cover Me, it looked like a chaplain working his way down the ranks as he took both hands of each Marine in his, saying, "you're gonna make it." With ceremoniously crossed arms, he gripped their hands firmly, offering words of encouragement. It was apparent that his moves were well-rehearsed. Looking them in the eye, giving it all he had by way of religious witchcraft, he cast his spell of faith, hope and apple pie. The chaplain did his best to put the military hocus-pocus on gullible youth. Those poor boys swallowed it hook, line and sinker. Then marched off to war.

Vietnam all over again, yes? You should read the freak postings of that faceless, nick-named nurse on one of the medical forums. He/she goes on about the field medicine practice opportunities in the blood-bath of Afghanistan. Oh how sweet it is to get the chance to saw somebody's leg off, right? Their stuff reads like a scene from Fangoria. Screw the Hippocratic Oath, let's just compare horror stories. The giddy, o'-so-delightful listings of goodies from the war zone include tales of battle wounds, exotic infections and other "fascinating accounts" of blood and guts.

I don't think these people are Angels in Green. They won't list their real names. I file them in the genre of the emergency medical technician who couldn't wait for his next ambulance ride so he could take Polaroids of the dead people from high-speed car crashes. Then trade them like baseball cards with his paramedic pals later in the snack room.

This long war, like Vietnam, is attracting vultures, ghouls, morgue freaks, opportunists and "dee-fence" contractors who are making a killing off of killing. In the mean time, Stateside, you have suicidal recruiters who are tired of telling lies and blowing hot smoke up high school boys.

There are legions of "professions" skimming more than their share off the war machine. The medical mania looks like a swarm of cat-eyed reef sharks tearing into fresh meat. They can't get there fast enough to rip off their piece of the action -- so they can brag about it. I just wanna slap them down. They shall never stand shoulder-to-shoulder with the Navy corpsmen I have known. Never.

I have felt the jagged fingers of Lewis Puller, Jr., as he shook my hand from a wheelchair. He was an advising lawyer on the General's Staff back then. When he wheeled out from behind his desk, I was shocked. He was missing both legs from the hip. The Marines in his Platoon told me that Puller stepped on a booby-trapped Howitzer shell. It was from these Marines that I learned the value of a corpsman. And the value of a man who is thrust into war on a half-asst whim. Sent back a fragment. And is expected to get on with his life. Puller gave it a shot. Gave it all he had. Then he shot himself. (photo from the handsome Webmaster @,

It is heartbreaking to see how many psychologists, behavioural scientists, grief counselors and psychiatrists are cashing-in on analyzing the suffering of America's fighting man. They matter-of-factly lecture their crafts and regurgitate what they have been taught in their fancy schools about aggression and fear hormones. They have teased apart the brains of lab rats with tantamount clinical detachment to be sure.

Taking the cake is one Ph.D. of Psychology and Research. Luxuriating in her pearlescent eye-shadow, she calmly describes the horror of combat for today's sacrificial lambs who are taught to think of themselves as wolves. What qualifies her to talk about such things?The Red Badge of Courage? As she smiles, basking in the focus of her videographer, they cut to scenes of a wounded Marine writhing on a helicopter litter as he is being med-evac'ed. With another lipstick smile she says, "You can't control what your body does during a traumatic or stressful event." Duh. No kidding. And what of those might she have known?

Then another brilliant comment from yet another cosmetically-assisted Dr. of Psychology, "It's okay if you're not okay." The Sgt. Major of the Marine Corps had this to say, "Get them help -- so we can get them back in the fight."

They wrap up this pep-talk with a corny song (Calling All Angels) and a quote from Rudyard Kipling, "The strength of the wolf is in the pack. And the strength of the pack is in the wolf." After watching the "film" you can send your comments to Director/Producer Norman Lloyd.

Clearly they are worried about another case of "maxed-out and pist-off." Traumatic stress is hard on the body and the spirit who is jailed for a term within. Pop some corn and gather 'round for this sure-fire Oscar pick.

Sunday, January 2, 2011

Prince of Eloquence

      Another tour de force from the Prince of Eloquence.  Clearly this man is a gift from God to not just Pakistan, but to our wounded world.  Snap it up: