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?

Wow

Arthur, you're out-banging me.

         http://www.radicalpress.com/?p=1315

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:
http://shpearson.wordpress.com/2011/03/17/palmer-tycho/

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,  www.HumaneAnimalRemoval.com

 

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.”

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 @, http://1stmarines.org/)

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. http://www.semperfifund.org/resources.html

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:  http://takbeeremusalsal.blogspot.com/2011/01/zaid-hamid-explains-what-he-does-best.html

D-101

            I encountered a child under five years old at a public place. In good-natured pursuit of conversation, I greeted her and she ignored me. There was no reason for this aversion to my person based on the setting and situation. Yet the girl avoided all interaction with me. She suffered no impairment as proven by her coherent engagement with others in the room.  It was only me whom she ignored -- for some reason.
            At this point I was intrigued and pursued the rapport more aggressively. Upon several attempts to engage the child she finally looked at me. I could feel something big and dark rolling down the tracks as we locked focus.
            The reason this kid was ignoring me is clear. Her in-dweller sensed mine. They clashed. One outranks the other, but because evil spirits are given to pride and arrogance, they will not depart their lodgings without a fight. To the jinn, "might is right." Her first tack, thereby, was to ignore me. Maybe I would go away.
            In this case, the child was in the firm grip of a malevolent boarder that had her overshadowed. Once he felt that hiding in the child was no longer tenable—he flaunted himself to me. 

            Suddenly the girl began to speak in sardonic quips. She was terse, incisive and eloquent, speaking from the diaphragm with the charisma of a dictator. As we engaged, she exhibited the wit and wiles of an arch-fiend not just centuries old, but hailing from outside of time. She lied skillfully and glibly in response to all my questions. Her evil entity was acrid, shrewd and cunning. He sensed my inner world and hated me for it with the same gusto that he enjoyed being inside the child. He looked at me through the girl's eyes smugly, staring down my lack of fear.

            I have encountered such cases rarely in the past. They are examples of great, ranking jinn who inhabit the bodies of children. You will know them by what secular humanists call “precocity.” The seculars often seek to mitigate phenomena for which they lack scientific explanations. Precocity in this case would be an understatement.

            A lesser example that most of you have witnessed is the child in a public place who suddenly throws himself backwards onto the floor. You will hear his skull crack from the impact but he will survive to wreak all manner of havoc for the duration of his parent’s public embarrassment. He will shriek and scream unearthly screams. He will kick, thrash and destroy things in his midst with superhuman strength. The seculars call this phenomenon “a tantrum.” Some of you will call it more than that.

            Note how self-injury is the signature of these episodes.  A child will thrash like a tarpon on the hook.  He will smash his head into walls, furniture and uncarpeted floors.  Ever wonder why?  How different is this behaviour from what we see in an angry man who smashes his fist into a brick wall?  Is that not self-injury?  It serves no other utility.  It is a signature.  An identification stamp of "the driver."  Because clearly in both cases, the life-force for whom those bodies were born are in the back seat -- along for the ride.
            There are children who do sadistic things to animals.  Sometimes they grow into serial murderers. When children under the age of five do diabolical things, be certain that these acts hail from the same land as do all such acts in all such people.  They serve no utility other than to commit abomination.  Once again -- a signature stamp.  Whether child or adult, the stamp remains the same.  Shining a spotlight on the term "senseless killing."

            One should kill for a purpose.  Self-defence tops the list.  A warrior should not be mercenary.  Neither should an executioner.  Predation is part of the food-chain.  Any other predation is an abomination.  A hunter kills for food, not for sport.  You get me?

            I feel compelled here, to mention the kindly virtuous Jews again.  As they so adore the Church of St. Peter the Rock and Mosque of Islam.  It dawns on me that the reason they dote on Germany with tantamount tenderness is for the same reason they cherish the Bride of Christ.

            Let us make the connection.  The Holy Roman Catholic Church has a long history for expelling evil spirits.  They call it exorcism.  In our Bible it gives us  license to cast out demons in the Lord's Name.  The Catholic Church has taken this license very seriously over the centuries.  And good on them.  Somebody needs to.

            What do Germany, the Catholic Church, Christian monarchs and 49 countries have in common?  They have all expelled the Jews.  Talmudic Judaics have been sent packing by countries far and wide since 740 A.D.  The Pontiffs  of the ages have given them short shrift and no quarter.   As have the crowned Christian heads of Europe.

            Germany was just the most recent country to expel them.  Hence the taste of der Führer's Vaterland is the freshest in their mouths. They have been drop-kicked many times before and for exactly the same reasons -- that Jesus cast out demons.  They have been the doers of evil deeds.

            What evil deeds you ask?  The list is so long that it would take me several volumes to write.  But you can start with Arnold S. Leese's little book on Jewish Ritual Murder.  It's a rocker.  Leese paid for his investigations with jail time, of course.  But his research survives him -- bar none.  Fifty-seven pages of brass tacks.  Based on bibliography and Europe's statuary, what Leese wrote might as well be in stone.  He did his homework and can ride in my cavalry any time.  He delineated the impetus for Russian pogroms.  Wikipedia sure won't tell you.  The Jews bewail their "persecution" over the centuries but they never tell you the "why" of it.  And why is that?  Curious?  Start here (My Irrelevant Defence:  Meditations Inside Gaol and Out on Jewish Ritual Murder,  London:  I.F.L. Printing and Publishing, 1938) and work your way up to 9/11.  Throw in Gaza for good measure.  And the "why" shall come into focus.

            To see these "evil spirits" at work all one has to do is study the French and Bolshevik revolutions.  Here they fomented and harnessed "possession en masse."  It is when a blood-thirsty mob acts as though they are directed by one mind.  They move in unison like a school of fish or swarm of locusts.  No one individual is the leader, yet they all cooperate as though they are tapped into the same command center.  The Jews turned this mob loose in the streets to do their dirty work for them in France and Russia.

            Those who incited these bloody revolutions knew that the illiterate boor was ideal kindling for their work of political arson.  They started the fire with agitation and promises to the "proletariat."  They of course lied.  And the simpleton for whom the hammer and sickle was made an oriflamme -- got duped.

            Today we stand at the precipice of getting had like Russia's proletariat.  As Americans grow dumber and dumber, geese appear smarter.  They navigate beautifully without gadgets from satellites.  Wake the flock up.   

            GPS and TV will turn your brains to mashed potatoes.  Learn to read a road map.  Turn off the TV.   Know where you are going.  Get the lay of the land.  If you act like a muffin, you shall be eaten as one.  Invest in a reading lamp.