Media Collective

I awoke to the sound of Peter Boyles telling us of the attack on the World Trade Center. I was shocked and angry; but not surprised. I had spent part of this summer hosting an expert on terrorism, he had told me something big was in the air, they, our government protectors, were tracking it. I called him and told him they'd missed a little something. Then listened in horror as the liberals raced to take away what few rights remain as we chase down the two thousand activists who did the deeds inside our borders and the maybe twenty thousand world wide accomplices.

Since then I have listened to the short memoried Mr. Boyles along with countless airhead Americans praising a man who stole millions if not billions, cavorted with human rights abusers and lied his way to the presidency, currently the figure head in the latest coup. Sorry, George W. Bush is a common criminal but less so than his two immediate predecessors. His father, uncle, and brothers kept a lot of the blood off his hands.

The American press could not understand a coup unless a tank parked on their feet so Bush is safe hiding in the Oval Office. The liberal press (NPR) was falling over itself trying to get national ID cards, check points at choke points and of course the camps. The non liberal press was busy calling for mob action against the brown skinned and the poor, which they are getting.

The people entrusted to bring in the bad guys are failed drug warriors, political hacks and some good guys. I hope the good guys prevail and bring the bombers to the bar of justice or at least their heads to the White House gates. The rest ought to enjoy the rest of their days in prison or at the foot of the gibbet. They are the worst kind of cowards, deserving of rough justice. I have a problem with people who say it is a brave act to attack the unprepared and unarmed. I call that psychosis.

Coming back to the press they will not be covering this war. Not even the N.P.R. cheerleaders of death will be allowed near the secret army doing nasty things to people in the dark. That is the Cheney method of corporate warfare; hostile takeovers are done in the dark. No light of truth for the cockroaches and other torturers. Could you imagine Connie Chung interrupting a gang rape for comments by the soldiers...

The rest of the world ought to go on about the business of opposing the International Capitalist State, surviving the New World Order without interruption of the sham of Civil Rights. Civil Rights are given by the government, what they give then take back. There are, however, then the inalienable Rights which are God given; no government, judge, lawyer or politician wallowing in bribes can take these away. The same Rights our Congress people are signing away as they are bought by the media, who then buy the people; even though the check was paid in blood.

We ought not have to give up one right or one speck of our few remaining liberties to make world government and the exploiters more powerful. The world's poor are being mined like gold, countries and peoples are left like tailings to rot behind the Bushman's death cart. By governmental definition, all who oppose the government are terrorists and to be killed. The Columbian peasant, the speaker of Celtic words, the American Indian activist, the opponent of the World Bank & NAFTA, all fit the identity profile of a terrorist, they will get to feel our government's pain.

The Afghan people are going to be pets of the West, like the Native Americans, the Irish were at the turn of the last century. The Taliban dared to oppose Poppy Bush's boys and must pay, after all they got in the way of the family import business. Will they become the New Palestinians, another people bred in camps to fester hatred, or will they be given booze and opium like their American brothers?

The American people, sleeping, are now dreaming about being awake (see the Desert of Reality by Zizek), the Government must move quickly to put in place the controls to make the implants and smart cards inevitable. To run a kleptocracy successfully there must be order, not like Russia, more like Syria, Mexico or Iraq. In the American dreams are unwinnable wars with unknown people who will never quite be conquered. Our leaders, the Bush Clan, will not quite be able to afford to catch all the culprits, of course there will be new outrages and more smiley faced fascism.

The use of professional soldiers is also frightening. Sorry, peace is not their profession, living to get paid is. The professional will use what ever means possible to get intelligence which turns us to the Israeli model solder, a direct descendant of the Waffen SS in the use of torture. So far we seem to have avoided this, except, of course, the School of the Americas, which makes the world safe for dope dealers, Latin American dictators, president's feeble sons, riffraff. It is always some other soldier who ran the articulated interrogation when you talk to the lads on the sharp end. Look into their eyes and you can tell when they love hurting people.

America has been lucky because we put the fate of finely trained warriors in the hands of used car salesmen, U.N. narco-gangestas and lawyers who end up frittering away or macro managing the asset. This will not end with the open ended warfare of today that Orwell predicated but that is another cat to skin.

The boys in black from the Homeland Defense Force will soon be our home grown S.D. with their endless questions, and they will know where your children are, so be good. If you thought the F.B.I. stupid and scary, try the guys in black. "Remember talk nice about the President, it's a free country." These forces have nothing to do with terrorism or fighting it, rather they have everything to do with controlling us the American People. They have already shut down web sites they feel are bad for the people to look at and where does this end?

If there is to be is to be a victory against terrorism it will be found in Dennis Doyle's CENTEC model backed up by highly trained volunteers and in Ron Paul's Letter of Marque model. Of course the answer coming from the front in Washington is: bigger government to save us more control freaks. "Trust me I am your first Cheerleader."

There was some good luck when a fellow member of the Media Collective gave us a couple of ducats to a Solstice Happening down by The Dunes National Monument. This sounded good to me because this is also the season of an important birthday. I measure the passage of time by learning new things about music and this time it was Techno. Techno is not my cup of tea, the sort of sinister bass music played by young serial killers trying to lure the young lady into the car, but our twenty year old said the music would grow on us, and he came along.

The event was supposed to have lots of this music; it started the day after our wedding anniversary, so why not. More family joined in the party, my brother offering a ride. We ride, we visit. We visited a fine artist, David Merrick, in Canon City and went hot springing in Valley View. When we got to t near Hooper it was after dark the day before the event.

The UFO Tower is an observatory built when the bottom fell out of the cattle market and the woman rancher, Judy, was left with a ranch to run and nothing to put on the land. Crestone is near by, a place where weird rich folks with more money than sense congregate, a place of feelings not actions. They say there ar>hlots of vortices in the area, something we looked at in the sixties and found interesting.

The rest of the people in the Valley are poor like me, we believe our government's lies are lies and we listen to Art Bell where she had been a guest. Judy is having fun with the ranch. The Tower is hard work, with different challenges than cattle, it's part of our New West. She is a strong, well respected woman.

That first night I had a sleeping bag, canteen and pack with clothes. I found a good spot and went to sleep. About midnight my wife with sons appeared and we all slept under the stars. Through the night people arrived either setting up or sleeping on the ground. We had traveled only two hundred fifty miles, some were coming a thousand or more.

We had found a campsite that looked like it would be the short side of a football field away from the musical center of action and put up the tent getting it just right. We stake out the dogs on chains; beyond the leash rule is the respect for others implicit in not having animals getting into people's stuff, as well as the caution needed to prevent conflicts.

Morning cold and damp I see there is no grass here. This field had been sage, then chained; growing cattle here would be doubly hard. It looked like the size of a cattle unit might be as high as 40 acres to a cow and calf. Thirty or forty acres in UFO watchers and events might pay better than white faced cows.

I take the oldest along to get instant coffee. Traveling in the West can mean a sixty mile trip for coffee. We wend our way though the great poverty pockets of towns abandoned by middle America. It is the third world in towns like Hooper or Moffet. A trailer is home to the lucky ag worker; a box car or a barracks building from the CCC or the Japanese American concentration camp days does for the rest. Swarms of brown children are playing in the dust. This is the America that Con Agra created.

We head for Crestone; twelve miles outside of town, the desert turns green and lush. There are canals and a huge golf course belonging to the Forbes family, the big hat here. It is the old Vail-Minturn trick of creating a gated community next door to poor folks who get the social shit kicked out of them.

Crestone reminds me of Edgertown Mass, Aspen, or Bolinis, ersatz poor. There are three ashram within cast of a fly or a sutteed bride. The town is very centered, very understated, very spiritual; we are here buying instant coffee, the only place is one of the best stocked heath food gallerys in the West (sorry out of plum vinegar.) Crestone is so green you can smell the money. Bikers ride BMWs and Range Rovers have Dunlaps not the dreaded Firestone.

Keeping our sense of humor we get off that set fast before my Karma turns to bird droppings. We return to the UFO Tower to find the follower of the Techno filtering in. I note with some humor that a colony of drunks had descended into our quarter.

I awake from my nap to the harsh sound of generators and drunks roaring into the evening and there are loose dogs everywhere. Suddenly I despair.

As a dog person I know that there are some vicious dogs that reflect their owner's life style; one lush keeps using an extending leash as a fishing line getting his dog close to our pair who respond to the intruder as an intruder.

"Hey cut that out." Big mistake: I suddenly realize that I had played into a drunk psycho's game.
"You think I'm some sort of Pedophile or something." He is belligerently drunk.
"No just stop teasing the animals." The guy is a drooling belligerent drunk.

His girl friend shows and tries some line out of BarFly and it falls flat. Every thug likes an Igor and for the drunk there is an Alanon.

About that time a portable bar shows up at their tent, about fifty feet away and they go and power more booze and whatever. No money changes hands so they must have some sort booze pool because they were drinking a lot and not paying any cashto the person working the bar. A business-like fat guy unloads the rental van with the juice, and a generator to push it though the pipes.

There are somethings that even a drunk cannot control, like the weather. The wind starts rising to about thirty five miles an hour. Tents are moving and our dome is collapsing. In the middle of this a mobile home pulls in with bass speakers at full volume. As the wind rises and the rain comes down a crew puts out lawn chairs and speakers. What we have here is becoming a celebration of the surreal. Rain comes again and the sun appears and I and my bride get on with improving our tent.

Suddenly I am thinking like working press but I then I say "It's my first day off in years" so I go off to learn about Techno from a person who cares. I leave the note books and camera buried; hey, I'm here for the music.

My guide is Ciwanta, a woman who helped organize the event and a third generation good dancer. She told me about the beat and the sub beat. Hence the bassy sound and then there were the breaks and voices of the instruments. This is hard for me because I grew up in the world of three minute music and this is music that can last several hours depending on the D.J. At this event they had two then three separate D.J.s playing at the same time. It turned out the nearby mobile home was one of the sound stages. The center stage area had two sound stages within a hundred feet of each other, welcome to Bable. Cacophony was the word my wife used; I would have to agree; besides three full sound stages there were dozens of camp sites each with their own music.

These were not ravers, which could have been worse, they were drinkers juiced to the gills and passed out/puking. Things might get dangerous and by now cars hemmed in our campsite and van. Loose dogs incite our female to the point she breaks her collar. We put a choker on her and our young man sits in our car with her, calming her as drunks start to swirl around in the night not dancing but stumbling from campsite to campsite. I was getting ready to retire to my tent in fear of having these drunks get wild, the older son stayed in the car with dogs who were not safe around drunks.

Keeping an open mind, I wander off to look at how it is coming together as an event. The place is filling, tents are springing up, police are in evidence, there is an ambulance and a healing tent. I think they might need that tent. I find the landowner and congratulate her on having a good size crowd and a chance to break even or make some money. What I do not get is a request to do a twelve step meeting which might have been an interesting thing to offer.

It was an interesting night for a music critic. The mobile home with the music cranked it up louder then they reparked so we were no longer getting their full blast. The drunks with their sound system were fifty feet to our south and their poorly muffled generator was behind their tent. Everything was playing at 110+ decibels. This was a true musical spectacular. As the wind died down the drunks lit fires and the walls of our tent gave a floor show to the sound track out of Apocalypse Now. Stumbling, screaming, fighting, car headlights starting, backing, jerky movements against the background of fire on our tent walls, a view of souls in pain, piercing the upper registry cacophony; an outrageous mixing of incompatibly aggressive sounds that separately could have been music but now served to stimulate the production of adrenalin in both humans and canines, the dark side of music exposed.

I do sleep and wake a lot as the party gains and loses intensity, my little boy sleeping between us is protected somewhat from the dangers but not the foul language. Apparently the people who go to Techno happenings have communications problems. They cannot understand a sentence or description without screaming the word fuck. Coarse language goes well with over-drinking and other drugs.

Late at night I make a porta potty run and observe an army of people still talking and drinking. As the big dipper sets, I think of the night before; the stillness of the Valley, the stars giving their message of mystery and hope. Everyone has a monastery where there is calm to ponder the essence of others and the eternal. However, we have raised a nation of Klebold and Harris kids so stimulated they must deny the existence of peace and this makes older people their target.

These are the products of a society where a person is a commodity to be consumed. Desire is the motivator which is activated by the little chip that men have placed in the universal consciousness and then said it is no problem (I share in responsibility for doing this.) They have healthy bodies, good tattoos and they know when the price is right. They are the product, not individuals with souls, but zeros and ones. Here they are looking for something more. Yelling fuck you to the stars and turning up the noise.

I get back to the tent, the generator finally stops and there is only soft music among out of the sixty thousand dollar mobile homes. I turn to my boy, he is sleeping soundly.

"Fuck you, mother fucker." Our drunk had returned. Better get up, after all, it is dawn.

"The air is cool; the day is new." My wife announces. I am slow to let the tendrils of sleep go.

I open the tent door to see the bitch in heat running loose past my chained dog followed by the big Bull dog who leaps on my dog with a death grip. I grab a stick that seems stout but when I hit the dog hard the stick breaks. The idiot drunk then tries to drag his dog off my dog with the beast's jaws locked.

There is no time for explanation here, I know from being an animal warden that my dog might die if he continues pulling his dog and he is really drunk. I hit him between the eyes with the stick, it breaks, he lets go. I turn to the dog and get ready to open its mouth or break its teeth.

I glance up and see a huge bundle of what looks like smooth rebar coming down, I turn and crunch echos through my head, the lights go out.

When the lights come on again, a kindly young man tells me I can get up. John the drunk thug's girl friend, BarFly, rushes over spouting obscenities about our dogs. The thug is screaming at me to fight it out with him. The security guy heads for me like I was public enemy number one. I am fearful of a lynching when I see that the pig eyed DJ who brought the bar is also the security guy. He is about to get uglier when one of the witnesses says:
"Whose dog was on a chain?"

The question stops the mean security guy, Julius Edwards, in his tracks. Some one spoke out against his blue eyed pal. Luckily, there was no talk of medics, doctors or responsibility. Not even the assailant's name or that of Mr. Edwards. I am coming out of the fog with my head pulsing and shoulder lacerated but there is no medic available. These are not real pros, they are what one gets when thugs are in charge of what was billed as a spiritual event. I was there as an Elder not a victim.

I mention that John the thug was not so much to blame as the person providing the booze. Pig eyed man scowls and says " I am into reality not philosophy. " I say "He's drunk and dangerous, doesn't reality include what makes him that way?"
"Be quiet, I want you out of here in two hours." God had spoken.

One of the reasons I had accepted the gift of the tickets was the chance to lead some meetings of a fellowship that works with drunks. I realized that I would slow down his business. Jules Edwards turned out to be organizer, D.J., booze guy and bouncer. He is a very busy man and must keep the money flow going. To hell with the truth and to hell with people, especially older people, injured by his minion's behavior and to hell with those who see things differently. There are two stars to this story, the attacker and his pimp the man who makes money out of misery; in his web literature he says there has never been an incident to marr his events.. Mr. Edwards is an example of those who prey on the weak looking for spirituality. This article is notice that beating the press or others is not a positive idea and I will not shut up and go away. This is what I Cordley Coit an Investigative Artist saw and experienced.

It is windy and cold at three a.m., an hour before the wolves stir. I am thinking about painters; two painters, father and son in art. Jake Pollock was a drinking man, as a classically trained artist, he spent his learning in the home of Tom Benton. He'd stolen fire and knew it, but not from Benton. Everyone then knew it, but the writers of the time were too chicken to write about the truth; they had secrets.

Jake stole fire from a most dangerous man. This time he was not so lucky, he robbed a more complex man, the Mexican Muralist Sequerios.

When he moved to Maine there was a reason; Maine was safe, there were no Mexicans in Maine, also his drinking buddy Lamar Holt lived there. Lamar was a real man and Pollock liked to be around real men, tough guys. Lamar was brave, an ex Coast Guardsman and Merchant seaman who'd worked the convoys in the North Atlantic in the last just war. Pollock had been a communist and followed party line while ships were sinking and tonnage went undelivered.

Lamar Holt was in exile in Maine; he'd gotten skipper's papers but had to ship in the forecastle; too many sailors not enough ships; 1946 was the start of the New World Order and America's ships were being sold to the flags of convenience so sailors were put ashore wholesale. Holt was editing the Maine Coast Fisherman, a weekly that would sleep with the fishes, extinct.

Lamar was a great man to drink with and a loyal friend. Pollock was a thief in the night. How do I know Pollock was a thief, the thief in my heart ratted him out. Lamar appeared to be who he was. Pollock was a star who'd stolen the sun.

He tried to rob Benton but Benton's style was and is unstealable. Benton had a direct line to the Old Masters and by that point was one himself; his paintings are only now being understood. Rita, Tom's wife, could see though Pollock, so Tom filed Pollock's guilty behavior away and continued to feed, hold Pollock's head as he dove, then himself drove to death. Pollock had dropped Benton for Sequerios Benton tried to remain friendly to the Pollocks.

Jake Pollock came to Sequerios when the Muralist, was at the height of his power. Plastic Reality, his trademark wrap around total mural style was playing into something larger. Sequerios had not yet set up the killing of Trotsky for his master Uncle Joe Stalin, but the two great socialist powers were getting ready to shed each other's blood and Sequerios was soldier in Stalin's army when some mopping up was needed.

Realism was the marching order of the day for Sequerios, he had to paint like Uncle Joe's commissars told him to. But he knew more was out there and he'd started doing things about it. The young gringo Pollock was trying to impress him and not getting anywhere. The airbrush which Sequerioros used required more technique than Pollock had. It also made demands of patience which was totally lacking in Pollock.

Sequerios was a careful man; most soldiers keep the cat in the bag. But what he had found was larger than himself, larger than Pollock, and larger than the art world. Randomly arranged colors and paints can be quite attractive, even compelling, in the hands of a trained artist. In 1938 Pollock appeared hopeless, his work was poorly done Benton said, (saw a Pollock Tom had it sucked) and Benton had little time for the abstract of that era. Abstract was tight and contrived, trying to be two things at once: free and scientific. Only Hiler and other scientific painters could use abstract with a feeling of security.

In 1939 Hitler and Stalin decided themselves to be friends and brother socialists for life (which they were): they carved Poland and Sequerios went back to Mexico to paint and to help kill Leon Trotsky. How the abstract expressionist cat got out of the bag to that poor worm Pollock I do not know but it showed up in his paintings and the Left press loved him to death; after all, the art press of the forties took their orders from Moscow.

The Left in America marched in goose step with Papa Joe. When Sequerios started loosening his public style a few years later the sycophants in the arts world said he was following Pollock's lead. Not so, he was a very systematic thinker, he had taken quite a bashing in the twenties when getting started in mural painting, he wanted to no public mistakes. It my contention that Pollock was a smart assed second hander, a jackal who stole the big bone from the lion.

Did the Lion make a house call? Or could the lion have had a friend? Men have died for stealing a lot less and Sequerios had killed before for a lot less reason. A practical question: how many times do the brakes fail on new Caddies?

Pollock became a genius at the hand of the art press, not the Johnny one note painter he appeared to be. Was he simply throwing paint, or could it be he was just another drunk who'd rifled the intellectual till?

Does the truth ride in the wind blowing from Mongolia to here? Listen in the night, hear the shaman's bone rattle dryly. The trees creak, clouds scud past . The only traffic this dawn are the lineman's truck and dark thoughts of Pollock.

It started with a classified in Active for Peace and Justice, a Colorado Springs pacifist, catholic, pro abortion newspaper. A mishmash of contradictions like real life but they had the facts. There was to be a conference of the Left Media in Boulder, Colorado, Amy Goodman of Democracy Now was scheduled to speak. Normally I would find that as interesting as a castor oil tasting except for two important current events.

The Fox Government in Mexico and the Bush Boy have been busy turning Mexico into a toxic waste dump for the owners of the the two Presidents, and WBIA, Pacifica's flag ship, was being put on the block by its board of directors. A listener sponsored station was firing its listeners for personal gain.

As a kid WBIA had inspired me to turn from advertizing photography, something I was good at and that paid well, to looking for the truth with a baleful eye. I'd caught Jack Kennedy screwing around when I lived in Washington, his pimps name was King Sized and that bit of trash worked for a pimp named Norman Mailer and thug buddy Murray Kempton, another story. I photographed one of the hit team who killed Kennedy and after the FBI finished with me I knew how corrupt the government had become.

I never got to work much in radio but what I did I liked, after moving to Colorado I did not fit the P.C. or have the lack of conscience it takes as a job requirement for NPR. But I stayed interested and this site will soon be audio interactive.

I like talk radio, except when it slips into the self righteous, agenda driven drive of a dope pushing arms dealer like Ollie North. The radio I find the best was the old John Peel show, Steam Radio. The show was true free form with themes and real people on the air, not shadows.

When I got to Berkeley in 1990 I was told that Pacifica did not want any middle aged White men around so I stayed with televison. Well about that time the Corporation for Public Broadcasting told Pacifica to get the White guys off their board of directors. I think Adam Clayton Powell's kid, a man following after his father, came up with that slice of racism, and they did. Under a Clinton approved Board, Pacifica came to truly represent American greed by having Marion Berry's ex (a resentful Alanon at the helm and she did the right thing; fired both the White and Black people then realtors hung out a for sale sign. I guess some one beside me saw Putney Swope.

First: they terrorized the L.A. station into silence, a lot of firings and reporters dying, women getting raped etc; second: they put their Berkeley asset up for sale.

After proving that Black Clintonites are as corrupt as White ones, Berry moved on when her evil deeds started to impede her political objectives by that time the jackals were pulling the station's guts apart for big personal bucks and there was nothing any one in the press dare say. Women are exempt from criticism back in the Clinton Shiite days. A time when Billy Boy and his mob were plundering, raping and killing with a liberal press struck blind and deaf by P.C.

Next: was the people fought back, going to jail hitting, the streets in Berkeley. Libertarians like Art Bell joined the fight and Berry was embarrassed out of her seat, it hurts when you get caught stealing from the people. So the board regrouped and put the New York station, WBAI up for sale and the same thing is happening there.

Every one who dared speak out is now fired, leaving a shell they will fill with NPR dictators, polluters, cheerleaders for death like Col. Bob and his gang of empty suits, selling Archer Daniels Midland and Republic of Kuwait as well as their souls. This is slash and burn capitalism at it's naked best, take the money and destroy the rest.

Gag rules were instated to force the thinking and the honest announcers to be fired by a psycho Red Queenesque station manager who tells the world when a Congressman, Major Owens, questions the station's motives for nuttzoid behaviors, that she knows what the real truth is. Either she is into bad pharmaceuticals, madness or just a working pimp for the real estate lawyers on the so called board.

Amy Goodman is a real old school investigative reporter, the kind who turns down awards from the empty suits who care take the nations airwaves (they belong to us). Goodman has exposed the oil cartel's wars, the Macquadora, the bombing of Belgrade, the School of the Americas, gun and drug running by our government in Latin America, she finds who put the dope on the street. She dared to speak out against the censorship and thuggery of the Board of Directors of WBIA on her Show Democracy Now and Wake up Call, was fired . She has hit the speakers circuit running and is a real resource for any wanting to learn the reporter's craft, listening to her raw energy looking for the truth is a pleasure. She is an honest journalist, something that has become very rare these days.

She thinks this is a story about greed. The facts as they surface are saying something else. It is about control of peoples' minds and money. These are not simple thugs, they're lawyers and real estate maggots, there are large forces at play there in my opinion.

I grew up partly in Mexico before the FBI became an arm of the Mexican Government in the nineteen sixties. I had seen the governments of both countries encourage the illegal wave of immigration to the North to get rid of Mexicans with the gumption to challenge the PRI or the other phoney political parties down there. In Mexico there are two kind of people, oppressors and oppressed; those who dared speak out were shot.

The US Embassy was filled with Americans killing Mexicans, people funding private narco armies and the rest of the cast suitable for a Peckenpah Movie.

The Zapatistas challenged that and won some important victories and took awful loses as well. Their Net War is documented on their site and the Rand Site. I cannot enter the Republic to the South, because a friend of mine from Oaxaca was raped and butchered by American lead death squads in the early seventies and the blood bath from that act is on going. I like to get first hand news from my other home. In-Laws, artists, musicians carry information across the Taco Curtain.

So we loaded up and headed for the Peoples' Republic. I had feared the Boulder Stazi or the Flat Iron KGB but they were on vacation that night; there were simply people interested in learning, the usual crew of hucksters were missing. Speaker after speaker really gave interesting critiques of what is happening to the South of us but not much inside our borders (another fault of Boulders Left is their relying on dixie cup nannies to raise their Better Babies.)

There had been a gaff it looked like but in hind sight it was more than likely a move to limit the questioning of Goodman. That was all right but it made me think. Why do that I had only two questions one about the left being too stupid to set up a board of directors that worked for the peoples' goals and too timid to recognize the error then correct without great turmoil and the other question was Is free speech dead on the radio.

"But of all social crimes, none can be seen as worse than the impertinent claim to still want to change something in a society which has so far been only too kind and patient, but has enough of being blamed." Guy Debord. Comments on the Society of the Spectacle. Verve press edition.

We camped on the floor of our collectiveistas and hit the University in the a.m. Up beat, this was fun, no real threats, no goons, easy writing, easy art work. By this time we were at strength . Two writers and an editor were assembled.

I had not forgotten the waffling (when asked where the Left war chest from Vietnam days had gone Clark Clifford said "B.C.C.I".) with the Gulf War ..The arrogant Boulder Left with its cult of personality and its' wind up Stalins and wooden Trotskies, a place where ecologists drive BMWs and Volvos while looking down their coke filled noses at working people or plebes. A place where men are despised and talked to like scum but then Doctor Manning Maribel gone and people are almost back to thinking for themselves.

Word might have come though that the Great Helmsman was dead and the Wall no more and Mike Rosen and Phil Burgess had taken the US West retirement fund to Russia to parlay another Bush run. I was wrong; things had not changed by the Flatirons at all. The Super New Leftists were in charge of the workshops.

David Barsamian was the lead speaker and he spoke well about his read on the mainstream but it was not about what individual could do in the back yards or where ever to attempt to find and publish the elusive truth. Joe Calhoun the writer producer of the Academy award winning Panama Deception was there with questions.

There is a tactic as old as press deadlines called talking a subject to death. It is a fair tactic to use and used by the Left a lot; it suits their passive agressive natures. After forty years of reporting and photography I have had it used on me by all sorts of scum looking to hide their nasty secrets, I rate that tactic with daisy chaining information: where a fact must be chased though the boys in the know. They all have the information but none will part with it. What I do is start really asking questions when that happens. I find this a lot around the Barsamian followers.

Years back I thought he was simply out of it, then someone close to him said it was his was his intelligence. I was told he was endowed with vast sort of smarts like Trotsky, the butcher of Kronstadt and the Ukraine. The person giving me this info had more money than brains but was a Boulderite.

I called Barsamian a couple of times over the years to ask about radio affairs and got curt replies like I was scum bothering a great pond. So I stopped wasting the great mind's time and allowed his vision to go unchallenged sort of Kissinger of the Left. Mighty mouths tell mighty lies, the song goes.

Years pass and the stage is filled with people making public pronouncements about the media. I have no question for David his mind must be left alone to think. It would be rude to use my licence as a writer and as an amateur proctologist and ask him how someone can go so many years with their head up their ass.

I did have questions for the lad from Ad Busters who knows very little about the history of advertizing which he feels he knows enough to go public about. They would go unasked of course Barsimin controlled the chair.

Tom Liacas wants the Left to build a bridge between the hucksters and the gritty street people. He never saw Blow up, Help, or Putney Swope. Well he's from Canada and they cannot say anything there without running it past their censors. He is young and foolish but he means well. The Left always means well. We just finished eight years of the Left running the country and things got much better here, for the rich.

I must clarify here there is no Left any more than a Right, the split is authoritarian, non authoritarian and guess who's winning.

My question was for Goodman and it was not a hard question she was able to answer it quickly. However there are the usual non questions that require non answers about the purity of the asker, teachers mainly; the process addicted teacher the soft rubber backbone of the Boulder Left.

A reporter can ask a telling question in about fifteen seconds, a really difficult question in about a minute and a half. These great minds take about five minuets to ask the great woman's opinion of what she just said. The moderator from David's office turns his back on me and do not want the question asked, the woman might melt.

One of the Speakers, Pamla White, had just said that a reporter ought to be civil unless the subject is dodging; at this happening it was the chair that was directing the questions. This is how the Left lost mucho credibility by having their pets ask questions and the pests left out the meeting ends and planes are going to get caught and nothing changes.

When I pointed that out to a director of Chinook, the one funding source in Colorado for my kind of operation, he hit me from behind. And he ran off to call the cops. His buddy Ernesto Vigil then cold cocked me for being a " White man." the Left has thuggery to deal with just like the right who they say they are different from..

The meeting breaks and I am on my way to ask my question before the woman is hustled off. I must be in Denver in an hour and snow is falling. Goodman may be going to so a run over time but my time is over.

I go up and get almost to Goodman and the lady from Jamaica is gushing with love she hurtles her large body between us. "A question please."

"Sit Down!" orders the skinny bald guy point in his wireless mic at me like a sword. If he swings he's going to see what happens when it disappears and no one will use, near their mouth again when they see where it got placed or I pass a fist across his nose. He gives a signal and they turn off the lights.

It is very dark. The event is in a basement. I get worried but no harm can come to good man,' Socrates said that and he got a hemlock cocktail.
"Amy my question is ..."
"You sit down" Baldy is talking at me like his dog..
"This is about free speech," and I leave the word asshole off the sentence, he becomes clued. This does it, I reach Amy's feild of vision, we have each others wave length. "Amy, is free speech dead and is this take over the last we will see of it?" It was not a hard question, a simple one by a simple mind.

After spending the spring attempting to sort out personal-artistic matters, we are back this summer with more insights into the world around us: this comes from neighbor Frank McGaugh, a traditional blacksmith and historian. It provides some background into reasons the framers of the Constitution wanted an armed populace.

The English, when they subdued Scotland, disarmed the people and shipped three million Scots to North America. They did the same in Ireland, India and Palestine, thus making any peace impossible. The English are a docile people, safely disarmed and without a liberty left to them except to bleat for food. The people of this part of North America chose a different road from the rest of the pack.

Canadians, disarmed like their Australian cousins, are neutered politically; like the Scots of today, they are all safe compliant people. No English speaking nation allows free speech, except our Republic; everything said elsewhere has to be politically correct or the dissenters go to jail.

If you want to learn more about real self defense, go to my links and read the works of Kurt Saxon or study Col. Jeff Cooper's dandy ideas about firearms. Once you have digested and acted on the above information, start demanding your rights. Make this lifetime more interesting for yourself and your children; dare to demand good government. Disarmed, you are whining; armed, you are complaining or demanding. Think about it.

The Proscription Act of 1747

That from and after the first day of August (new style 13th August) one thousand seven hundred and forty-seven, no man or boy within that part of Great Britain called Scotland, other than such as shall be employed as Officers and Soldiers in His Majesty's Forces, shall, on any pretext whatsoever, wear or put on the clothes commonly called Highland clothes (that is to say) the Plaid, Philabeg, or little Kilt, Trowse, Shoulder-belts, or any part whatsoever of what peculiarly belongs to the Highland Garb; and that no tartan or party-colored plaid or stuff shall be used for Great Coats or upper Coats, and if any such person shall presume after the said first day of August to wear or put on the aforesaid garments or any part of them, every such person so offending being convicted thereof by the oath of one or more credible witness or witnesses before any Court of Justiciary, or any one or more Justices of the Peace for the Shire or Stewartry or Judge-Ordinary of the place where such offence shall be committed, shall suffer imprisonment without bail during the space of six months and no longer, and being convicted of a second offence before the Court of Justiciary, or at the Circuits, shall be liable to be transported to any of His Majesty's plantations beyond the seas, there to remain for the space of seven years.

I swear as I shall answer to God at the great day of judgment, I have not and shall not have in my possession any gun, sword, or arms whatsoever, and never use tartan, plaid, or any part of the Highland garb, and if I do so may I be accursed in my undertakings, family, and property, may I never see my wife, nor my children, nor father, mother, or relations, may I be killed in battle as a fugitive coward, and lie without christian burial in a foreign land, far from the graves of my forefathers and kindred; may all this come upon me if I break this oath.

They did it to me, the media slime, whining, neo conservative, yuppy lickers of police bottoms, those radio lips that have kissed the after end of every politician who resembles a moral midget like Bush, Webb or Gore. These grossly over paid ghouls, with their cottage industry of fear, force me to call out "Truth time."

As I attempted to separate the ads from the talk show guy's dripping mouth, he started to read quotes from the twisted little killers Klebold and Harris. The young men woke up, as young men must, seeing the world though fresh eyes, and became repulsed by the nature of the world their fathers are giving them.

Talk about viewing and discarding the Air Conditioned Nightmare, they gave a very accurate articulation about what needs to be done. Klebold and Harris, in the innocence of psychosis, looked for the nihilistic cure to the vapid American fascist dream.

The kids were losers and they messed up big time, they killed poorly and the wrong people. The killers hated jocks yet they could only find one to slaughter; they looked for jocks in the library, they were quite challenged in the topside. They hated Christians and only killed kids, consider the real worms who preached and puked on the graves of the Columbine children. Governors who cheat the mentally ill and a President who sticks his penis in strange orifices, a trench coated Gore and Billy Graham's evil son, werel so much more representative of the banality the killers saw; all seemed to be trolling for the souls of the dead, the cash and votes of the living.

Klebold and Harris were safely dead and those who carried the bombs and bullets, the many others who aided in the killing, were dismissed. A couple of scape goats have been persecuted, new Draconian laws written, old Draconian laws forgotten and the whole matter wished hushed.

Except the problem remains that Klebold and Harris were right, the society is sicker than they were and nothing will be done to heal the illness, just more guards on the school house door, less free speech and no critics allowed in the classroom. The high schools are a jungle; ask any nineth grader. Mobocracy has not raised the river, as lip service is paid to every stupid fashion in education while the real world is pushed out the door. Scum teaches and worse scum administers, educators have no common sense; they are too stupid and lazy yet we expect that of their charglings. They ought take the entire cast of cannibals from Jeff Co public schools and place them on an ice flow headed for nonexistent warming water.

Every male student, in the days after the two lads and others played out their morality play, was placed in the same position as Messers Harris and Klebold. And every female was Cassie Bernal, the virgin of the library floor, a nonevent that paid off handsomely for the followers of the Yuppy Jésus, " our father who buys us BMWS, who hates art and leads us unto the temptation of embezzlement of public money in guise of education.."

When the press finished putting all the lies about what happened together one looked on the Cowardly Policemen, the craven teachers and the lying press as the Red Queen's Court. Strange NATO Generals and the National Guard, backed by five hundred policemen, kept the parents out of the school, who, if one of them had a gun, could have stopped the whole circus with two, or more, well placed rounds. Truth is truth; the cops were protecting the killers that time. The cops were also avoiding having to face hostile fire from a drunk and a druggie, both the kinds of people they have been brought up in the violent cop culture to hate and fear. Fear they did, so much so they had to wait three hours while the wounded bled to death. We have weaklings for cops and automatons for the rest of the Emergency personal; they were all cowards, from the 'NATO' General to the Sheriff to the beat pounders from SWAT to the EMTs, they all sniveled.

The over view is of the impossibility of accepting growing up in a world where every lie is trumpeted as the new truth, every Ponzi Scheme is considered a wise investment, real work and thinking are looked upon as the work of fools. They could have gone to work shoring up the Nightmare against the coming of reality. They chose to exit with a bang in a land where they would have labored for fifty years and a whimper at best. There are thinking people who find that both the whimperer and the violent are unacceptable, but they are hounded out if they express the disgust that our society emits.

The planet is fortunately taking the same stance as its thinking people and, unlike them, the planet is capable of riding itself of critters that are destroying its biosphere. Chop down trees; mud slides and flooding are followed by plagues, facts one can learn on any shopping mall.

We need not worry, there are plenty of drugs to make certain the children sleep on and there is booze if they get old enough, more drugs and they will perform like little machines doing meaningless tasks for distant masters who control every breath, every image inside and outside their head, that passes for reality. If they get sick there are spare parts from the aborted fetus and the clubbed homeless.

There have been people who express their rage but there is no vision and no chance for change, only the rant of youth on the Internet on websites at obscure locations.

Then there are the parents of the dead: they are a mixed bag of lying Christians, evil excons getting rich off the bodies of their young and real concerned people dealing with the dead and the lies they are told by stupid law enforcers too dumb to do anything but have their cops hide from unfriendly fire.

This bunch would enshrine the truth in a white washed tomb. Harris talks about the "Christian bitches and whores"; these grieved parents would hide this social statement from the face of the People they were spitting in for some reason, maybe the face of the People is evil all consuming cannibal consumption. After all these guys worked the pizza scene ultimate in White man's shit food.

Meanwhile the parade of dead children is led by the parents, into the living rooms of America and the world, carrying handmade crosses; looks like a Klan meeting to me. The book sales from the Virgin's death and money made by preachers is symptomatic of the reason these geeks went off the deep end of societal criticism. The inability to criticize the system that turns schools into Goulags and students into accomplices to the crimes of the parents ( empty greed, dumb lust, the Conquistador mentality) led to what happened. It wasn't that school is a jungle: remember Blackboard Jungle and Rebel Without a Cause from when movies were our morality plays. No, it's that collapse is happening while there is whole new growth going on and society is doing what Nixon did in the seventies by defunding technology thinking that the problems of the future would go away with a happy face. Well, the happy face turned into PAC MAN who bit everyone's ass.

This report is based on information gained by interviews, personal insights and the hard work of Newshawk John Quinn, Peter Boyles, Tom Kam and the men and women of the Rocky Mountain Media Collective.

I had a pal I met with the Lemon Haired Lady. Gray Antelope was the traditional medicine man for the Santa Clara Pueblo in Northern New Mexico.

Lemon Haired Lady is a hair dresser and a gorgeous type who's been a pal since God was a young man. So, when she said she'd met a wonderful person, I was ready to meet him.

Northern New Mexico is a real country place in the winter time when the roads can turn to ankle deep adobe, the ground might be hard or it might be shovel time.

I followed the Indian directions right to his door and we were greeted first by the pack of dogs, then with the hospitality that traditional Indians can summon. I wandered the area quietly. In winter people in New Mexico are more open than in the summer when there are too many people; it's too much work to know who is wandering about. Also winter is the time when one can talk about the other world without disturbing Coyote, something one doesn't do lightly.

Antelope and Grey Rabbit, his running pal, were just back from driving the pottery circuit, a six thousand mile drive in Rabbit's motor home, always a source of many jokes. Antelope was known as a man who would gamble. I, as a reformed card shark, know that Indian gamblers are intense, and holy men who gamble are often winners.

That trip to the res defined my relationship with Antelope, as I said when he offered me some survival corn. I had no land to plant it and in this lifetime I would miss owning land. I was in an apartment in Denver recovering from yet another bad marriage. He too found marriage a hard row to hoe.

After that, two or three times a year I would slip away to Santa Clara and visit with my friend and teacher. Antelope taught a gentle way of dealing with this and other worlds. He taught the necessity of prayer and the coming together in brotherhood with all peoples, something I was having a hard time with. He helped with seeing and intention, an area where I needed to cross and recross. Looking back on his example of dealing with White People, I remember he showed great restraint. His people were dying of contact with the Las Alamos Labs as they spewed their toxic waste off into Indian Country. Cancer rates and birth defects abound in Indian Country; almost every res has sinister government pollution going on.

He had been a heavy equipment operator at the Labs and had been asked by the elders to retire and practice his medicine in the Pueblo. What he found was death of the old ways there and few people willing to listen to his way of dealing with the world. His son was murdered in a barroom brawl and there was one daughter who was close to him. His father was very old and very ill but very wonderful too. Antelope spent a great deal of time with his dad.

Antelope grew corn sometimes around his home; other years were not right for corn. His life was centered around corn. Corn and rain are the components to life in the Southwest to the Indian People who live in the old way.

Pottery was another way of getting by and Antelope was an accomplished potter. His owl looks me in the eye as I work.

All these elements and his teaching of peace with decisive action have stayed with me in a world where peace is unwelcome.

Antelope died shortly after his father; lung cancer took him. I mourned the loss of the circle of men and women who prayed for peace but know they are in my heart.

One day shortly after buying our home in Simla, my wife's friend from Wyoming gave us some corn seed that her father had gained from an Indian gambler named Antelope years before. The Indian had found the corn in a cave.

Antelope and George Abid, a traditional Ojibwa, had talked of their visit to the cave. I had taken the cave to be a metaphor for the emerging place or some other intellectual B.S. my cityfied mind would come up with. Never would there be a cave with seed in it. Our minds are wonderful.

Our friends mother had grown the corn for many years before her death; we received a small handful.

We planted at the right time and we had twelve strong plants. It is a strange corn: lavender, orange blue, red and yellow. A small eared corn. The ears are like the parent ears to all the corn that came later. Antelope's home grown ears of corn were huge red ears. He also had blue corn he'd plant but I was never in New Mexico in time for the Blue corn.

I have never before seen the corn with yellow, red, lavender and blue corn on the same ears.

I am no farmer, just a man wanting his family to live so I cannot say I have gone farther than to plant the corn and grow more seed to share with friends. I look to others to go farther with this legacy.

The Rocky Mountain Media Collective is a group of writers, artists, poets, photographers, and others who are seeking the truth. We have our own views, prejudices, and faults: we are humans. What we are seeking is the truth and we are not afraid to do more than simply look. We are reporters and activists, not voyeurs like so many of the media.

We are using the new media because the old has failed, fallen down, is asleep at the wheel, is too expensive to produce-distribute, suffers from empty helmet syndrome. Radio, television, film and print are all controlled by the wealthy or sinister governments with their wasteful conspirators. Worse, they are placing their minions in power, serving agendas of people who think they own the world.

Funded by contributions, corporate and personal, we are not well off, being the discards, the disabled, the dispossessed: we make the effort to be the people's witness. We are members of a 501(c) (3) corporation: contributions are tax deductible. We accept money for art, the work we produce and exhibit. The Collective keeps a twenty percent gallery fee to help defray costs. We also accept donations of equipment, cars, insurance, even money, etc.

We currently have four reporters available for assignent. Our areas of expertise include: Revolutions, riots, coups, economics, drug war follies, Social Service crimes, veterans affairs, herbal and health issues and, of course, the environment.

This web site is attempting to be audio- and video-ly literate as soon as the hardware-software gets into our hands. If you have need for reports from our website they are available for free for private use and fee for use on sponsored or commercial use. Small publications and newspapers produced by activist groups can reproduce what is here for credit and a copy of publication (If you ask permission I would be pleased.) If the art work is reproduced without permission, it will result in strong action, "labor is entitled to all it produces." For all work reproduced on this site, copyrights revert to the author of the work...

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