In the letter, addressed to the group Mayor Bill de Blasio wooed during its visit to New York two weeks ago, the president of the Sergeants Benevolent Association, Edward D. Mullins, said the city was going “backward to the bad old days of high crime, danger-infested public spaces and families that walk our streets worried for their safety.”Mayor de Blasio chalked it up as an attempt to "benefit their own position in contract talks".
He presented a city overrun with “squeegee people” and other panhandlers, with shootings on the rise and morale among police officers flagging.
“The D.N.C. should choose another venue,” said the letter, which appeared as an advertisement in The New York Times and The New York Post. “Mayor de Blasio,” it continued, “has not earned the right to play host to such an important event.”
Showing posts with label Trooper York. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Trooper York. Show all posts
Friday, October 20, 2017
Friday, September 4, 2015
Real Life Imitates Trooper York's Fiction
"I called this place ‘America’s worst place to live.’ Then I went there."
Sound familiar? It's one of the subtexts of Trooper's unfinished story. Story after the jump.
Sound familiar? It's one of the subtexts of Trooper's unfinished story. Story after the jump.
Tuesday, May 5, 2015
Police Lives Matter
Officer Brian Moore died today. He had been shot in the face when he stopped Demetrius Blackwell who obviously had a gun in his pants. Officer Moore was a plainclothes anti-crime cop just 25 years old.
There will be no protest because of the murder of Brian Moore. No professor or pundit will go on MSNBC or CNN and rant and rave about how unfair it was. How Officer Moore was a young man with his whole life ahead of him. How he played it straight and by all the rules. How he came every day to protect and serve a community that hated him. By a skell who should have been incarcerated but who they would want to go free because there are just "too many minorities in jail." It doesn't matter that Blackwell was a career violent criminal. He is exactly the type of person that they want to go free.
If Officer Moore had tazed this mook they would have started a riot. God forbid he had shot him while he was pulling out his gun. They would have demanded that he shoot the gun out of his hand. They would have asked why did he even stop and frisk him. They would have shut down the Brooklyn Bridge for weeks. Officer Moore probably hesitated for that split second because he didn't want to be the next cop thrown under the bus by the racialists.
You will not see one tenth of the blog posts or comments decrying the murder of Officer Brian Moore. There will be no protests. No press conference by President Obama expressing outrage at his murder. No demands that the Justice Department get invovled. No demonstrations. No outrage at all. They save that all for the skells and career criminals like Michael Brown, Trayvon Martin and Freddie Grey. I expect Demetrius Blackwell to be the commencement speaker at Oberlin college next year.
Because these people think that this is how it should be. Another cop shot dead. Big deal. If they don't like it they should go do something else.
Police lives matter. Just not to them.
Saturday, March 21, 2015
You've Got Mail*
To: Camille Paglia
From: Secretary of State Hillary Rodham Clinton
Re: Our college Days
CC: Bill Clintion, Ellen Degeneres, Oprah, NOW, Emily's List
Dear Cami,
I have been reading your latest screed and I must say I am very disappointed. I see where you go after Bill again about that stupid tramp Monica. Get over it already. It is no big feminist issue. I don't care if he used young girls to service him so I can concentrate on implanting my plans for world domination. Don't you remember all those times in college when we were in the steam room at Lucille Roberts talking about how we were going to topple the patriarchy and take over the world? I mean then you could put your finger on it. I mean you always put your finger on it.
Don't you remember the good times?
By the way I still have those pants. Huma wears them now. She loves to get into my pants.
Please be a dear and donate some of your vast riches to the Clinton foundation or at least use my Amazon portal to show your appreciation for my activities as a model for women. I think I deserve much more than obscure college professors who are drunk and disorderly even if they do write about you on their failing blogs.
Toodles,
Hillary.
_________________
*A guest post from Trooper York
Monday, March 16, 2015
Trooper's Hillary Series: "You've got mail"
To: Ambassador Stevens
From: Secretary of State Hillary Clinton
cc: CIA, FBI, NSA
Ambassador Stevens please don't be such a pussy. The demonstrations in Benghazi is really just a bunch of towel heads letting off steam. You are in no danger whatsoever. If anything happens you can be sure that the full power of the United States will be exerted to protect you and the embassy.
I have your back.
I mean what are they going to do? Storm the embassy and kill you or something? Get real.
I enclose an attachment to allow you to donate to the Clinton foundation. I am making up my lists for my Administration in 2016 and I have several open positions that you might be interested in the future. If this method does not work you then you can always use my Amazon Portal to order your holiday gifts. This is a great way for you to show your appreciation for my work as Secretary of State. These powder blue pant suits will not wear themselves you know.
Via Trooper York
Saturday, February 28, 2015
The Unended Story
[A guest post from Trooper York, first published in serial form at Lem's Levity. All rights reversed]
Julia sat in the diner sipping her tea and looking at the plate of eggs that the harried waitress had set before her. They looked greasy and hurried. Much like the rest of the patrons of the diner.
Why had she agreed to come to his horrible place to research an article for “The Huffington Post?” She had to leave her comfortable studio apartment that she paid five thousand a month for in Williamsburg Brooklyn to come to this cold winter landscape of North Dakota. She had to leave behind so much. Her books. Her supportive friends. Her organic food market. Her cat. Oh God her cat. She missed her so much.
The little bell at the top of the door jingled and a man walked into the diner. He was tall and lean. Wearing jeans and a down parka with a yellow hard hat. He must be an oil worker. The type of person she was supposed to talk to in order to get a good article. He walked up to the counter and sat down. He put his hat and gloves on the counter and opened his coat.
“Hi Jack” said the waitress as she set a cup in front of him and filled it with steaming hot coffee from a battered glass pot. “Any luck last night?”
“Yeah Flo I was pretty lucky. But you know me. When I drill I always strike a gusher. I push and push and push my tool down the shaft until I make something happen. That’s what I do.” “Ha you’re a kidder” laughed Flo as she flushed red. “The usual?” “Sure.”
Julia’s ears perked up. This is something she should investigate. Drilling. Gushing. Somehow she felt strange. Ezra never talked about things like that. He just wanted to sit on her couch in his flannel pajamas and drink cocoa and talk about how great Obama was and how lucky we are to have him as President. Maybe she would learn something.
Jack sipped his coffee and looked at the mirror above the cut out of the kitchen. He noticed a young woman all dressed in black pushing some eggs around her plate. She had mousy brown hair and no makeup. But at least she had a vagina. Or at least he hoped she did. Vaginas were in short supply these days.
Flo brought over his plate. A bloody, rare breakfast steak. A couple of eggs over easy. Mounds of greasy home fries. Breakfast fit for a man. A working man. Someone who had to go out into the freezing cold and get the raw materials that let the weenies sit in their soft offices sending emails to each other about how benighted Jesusland was.
It looked like the girl was trying to get her gumption up. That is if she had any gumption. Jack’s experience with these types was that they lacked in the gumption department. They made up for it with loads and loads of bitchiness. Who needed that? But there still was the vagina thing. It was at least worth a look. You never knew if a hole was good unless you drilled it. So to speak.
“Excuse me waitress but could I have some more tea” the woman said in a typical New York snotty accent. She sounded just like that ugly girl with all the tats on that HBO show. He hated to admit he watched it but hey a naked woman was a naked woman. Beaters can’t be choosers.
“Her name is Flo ma’am” said Jack. “Sometimes it helps if you know people’s names. Or say please. That’s how we do it here in North Dakota missy.” He said it with a smile that took the sting out of it. Jack had a smile that had got him in plenty of panties back in Texas. Maybe it would work the same with this New York girl.
Julia felt a little crestfallen. She was a polite girl. She had learned that back in Connecticut before she had her consciousness raised and her expectations lowered. Plus most of all she had to fit with the natives. She could be polite. But she wasn’t going to go to shoot a gun. Or go to church. You had to draw the line somewhere.
“I’m sorry Flo, what was I thinking? Can I please have another cup of tea? Thank you.” She turned to the oil line cowboy. “I was a little preoccupied. I have a lot on my mind. My name is Julia by the way.”
“Hi Julia my name is Jack. But most folks call me Rod. Hot Rod to be exact. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
Julia smiled in a demure way that devastated the geeks at the wine bar. “I wonder if I can interview you for my article. I am a journalist and I want to learn about the boom times you are having here in North Dakota.”
“Well I am originally from Texas ma’am and we think the only thing worse than a journalist is a lawyer. So I am not interested in talking to a journalist. But I will be happy to talk to you as a man talking to a woman.”
“I could work with that” Julia said. How hard would it be to outwit this bumpkin. He is from Texas after all. She just hoped he didn't have a black man dragging from the back of his pickup truck. But she could work with that. After all she had interviewed a Republican. Once. It took a long time to feel clean afterward. Anything for the truth.
A short balding man came into the diner. He was dressed like an oil worker but he carried a dented, dirty guitar case. He didn’t wear a hat which was unusual in this cold climate. He resembled nothing so much as a demented Walter Brennan with a list to the right as he limped up to the counter.
“Let’s go Hot Rod. We have to practice before work. We got us a couple of minutes before the starting whistle. Our gig is down at the Long Branch tonight and I want to practice our licks before then.” “Sure Stubby.” Hot Rod got up and started buttoning his jacket. “This here’s my compadre Stubby. He plays in my band. The Stray Dawg’s. Stubby, this is Julia. She's visiting. She is one of those jo-no-lists, so watch what you say. She might report you to the government or something.”
“Nice to meet you Miss.” “Yes nice to meet you as well. Please call me Julia. So what is this Long Branch you are talking about?” “Why it’s the bar where the band has a standing gig every Friday night. They named it after the one in “Gunsmoke” Stubby replied. “We go on tonight at eight o’clock” said the balding gnome with an animated delivery that belied his corpse-like pallor. “That sounds like fun. What do you play Jack?” she enquired with a smile. “I’m a drummer as a matter of fact.” “Yes he is” laughed Stubby. “Like the song goes he likes to bang on the drum all night. Ha, ha, ha” he chortled. Jack shook his head. There was no controlling Stubby when he went off on tirade. He hoped he didn’t start in on white women. They could be here all day. Who had time for that?
“Well it’s still a free country. At least out here” said Jack. “Why don’t I come down to hear you play. Maybe we can talk a little between sets. I’ll buy you a drink” said Julia. “That’s nice but I always make it a practice to pay for a lady” replied Jack as he put on his yellow hard hat and prepared to go out into the cold. Julia shook her head. Here we go. Sexism rears its ugly head. “We can argue about it later cowboy. But just so you know I don’t surrender to Patriarchy. Ever!” “Not to worry Mizz Julia. I hate those cheaters up in Boston. I am a Cowboys Fan” said Jack. He winked at her and strode confidently out the door without a backward glance. His little friend too.
Was he serious or was he pulling her leg. The thought of him pulling at her legs gave her pause. She felt a little flushed. It had been a while since she felt like this. She adjusted the cowl neck of her sweater. Maybe North Dakota would be interesting after all.
Flo came over with another cup of tea and a piece of apple pie. “Here you go sweetie. You are gonna need your strength if you are gonna hook up with Hot Rod.” “Who said anything about hooking up?” Julia was nonplussed. They knew about hooking up in North Dakota?
Flo could read her thoughts. “We know all about hooking up here in the sticks dearie. We call it being a slut bag.” She was fiercely protective of her boys who deserved better than a dried up stick of New York dog shit. “But you know best I am sure. Enjoy your pie.”
Julia hated apple pie. Also hot dogs and Chevrolet. After all she was a liberal. She had an Audi and only ate veggie burgers. And tofu cheesecake. But there wasn’t any tofu in North Dakota. When she asked for it at the hotel dining room they thought she was talking about toe cheese.
She sat there lost in thought. How was she going to get a purchase on these simple minds? The cowboy might be an interesting diversion. She knew how to handle difficult men. After all she was pushing forty even though she looked much younger. She had enough experience to know better.
She thought back through the years -- about her college boyfriend when they were both at Vassar. They had discovered so much together. Tennessee Williams. Marx and Engels. Che. Balzac. His ball sack. Cunnilingus. It was a time of discovery for the both of them.
Julia laughed a little to herself. Ratso Stoddard was a very smart guy. Never let a word serve when he could use fifty five of them. He would argue about anything. Any time. With anybody. The only way she knew how to shut him up was to stick her tit in his mouth. Good times.
But like most men he was a big disappointment. She should have known when he took Ratso Rizzo as his professed role model. He only answered to the nickname Ratso. Of course you could understand that when you knew his real name was Mort. He left her for a Brazilian stripper with size 44 D’s and a suspiciously large scar where her Adam’s apple should be. She shouldn’t judge. She was a liberal after all. Non-judgmental. Superior in all regards.
The only thing that gave her pause was that she was all alone. Again. Her eggs were getting as unappealing and congealed as the cold glob sitting forlorn on her breakfast plate.
Enough introspection! Time to go back to the hotel and blog. She had a spot on Blogging Heads to prepare for today. She hoped it was with Bob Wright. She felt like slapping around a girlie man.
Julia went to her hotel room to wait out the day before she went to the bar to hear that loser band play. She could get some work in on the computer before then. Order room service. Stay in her room. Not talk to anyone except on-line. It would almost be as if she was back home in Williamsburg. All she needed was the chubby gay guy who did pen and ink drawings and had the collection of esoteric vinegars. She would hear him moaning through the paper thin walls and know that he was getting it on with his Peruvian busboy boyfriend. At least someone was getting some. As a matter of fact, she had not seen him for a while. Oh well that’s the way it goes. People came in and out of her life now. She really had very few friends in real life anymore. All of her social intercourse took place on the internet.
She stripped down to her bra and panties. They were sensible ones. A basic black bra with a heavy underwire and not quite granny panties. Not frilly. Not lace. She wasn’t about to wear something like that. She didn’t even have any sets like that anymore. Who would get to see them anyway? Her cat?
Julia examined herself in the mirror over the dresser. She cupped her somewhat large breasts to bring them to a point. Points way down low and soft. Julia hated Bob Seger. She wondered what kind of music she would have to endure tonight. Probably country. Cowboy music. She hated country music. It wouldn’t be what she was used to hearing. Techno. Industrial. Rap. Hip hop. She didn’t like the last two anyway. Black people scared her. She couldn’t admit that. Then she would be a racist like the people here in North Dakota. She didn’t have any black friends. Well not real black people who worked at regular jobs like a bus driver or a school teacher. They were basically beneath her. She had some African American “friends” but they were all academics. You know. The Cosby kids. Not the Boys in the Hood.
She jiggled her breasts up and down. They were her best feature. It was how she attracted male attention. Of course it didn’t take much to get the geeks she normally met at blogger conventions. They were basically the dweebs that went to comic book conventions except they could spell. Some loser would always ride up in the elevator with her and hit on her [lol - ed.]. Or least in her mind they hit on her. It could be true. But even that hadn’t happened lately. Maybe she should wear her tight jeans and her most revealing top. Who was she kidding? All of her jeans were tight these days. She might as well let it work for her.
She opened up her lap top and turned on the Internet Explorer. She decided to do a quick run through of her favorite sites. She went to Blogging Heads to see the featured bloggers today. Oh crap. It was that simpering ninny from Wisconsin who looked a deracinated Florence Henderson vainly flirting with that racist black college professor Ivan Dixon guy. Damn. She had been watching too much MeTV. Julia was starting to identify everyone she met as sitcom characters from the 1960’s and 1970’s. But what’s a lonely girl to do. She couldn’t watch the current TV shows. They were all too violent. CSI and Hannibal Lector and Walking Dead bodies all over the place. If it wasn’t violent it was gay. Nothing against gay people. All of her best friends were gay guys. Her last three boyfriends were gay. Or she turned them gay. But why did every sitcom have to be obsessed with gays? Back in the day the only gays you saw were Charles Nelson Reilly and Tony Randall and Paul Lynde. Julia liked to watch the old shows that she remembered from when she was a little girl. She could be Mary Richards working at the News Station. Or Rhoda working as a window dresser. Or even Dixie McCall who was the nurse who ran the Rampart Hospital. But instead she was alone in her underwear playing with her computer.
Julia surfed from site to site. She usually hit the same ones all the time. The one with the angry black man who hated racism, new age gurus, French women and anyone who’s skin was lighter than Harry Belafonte's. The guy or girl who pretended to be a cow and posted funny pictures and conservative political stuff. Even that strange fellow who was obsessed with food and pop up books. It was an eclectic bunch. But still very incestuous. They all posted and commented on each other’s blogs. It wasn’t a cool incestuous relationship like Angelina Jolie and her hot brother. It was more of a creepy Woody Allen in the attic sniffing your lady bits kind of incest. So every once in a while she wanted to change it up.
Maybe she could do that with this oil worker dude. He sort of reminded her of Johnny Gage the paramedic. At least he wasn’t Corporal Lebec like her last boyfriend. She had decided. She would wash her vag again before she went out. You never know what might happen.
Julia wasted most of the day reading “Television Without Pity” and posting snarky nasty comments on the “Honey Boo Boo” thread. Anything to stick a finger in the eye of these rubes. After a short nap and an even shorter grooming session, Julia left her hotel room and went down to the lobby. She went to the concierge to ask how to find this “Long Branch” so she could check out the band and more importantly to question some of the locals. Julia found that her questioning always went better with alcohol. Maybe she could wrap this up tonight and get back to Williamsburg in time to read the Sunday Times alone in her room. With her cat George Sand.
The desk clerk was busy on her computer and looked up with a bright smile until she saw it was Julia. She wondered why she so often had that effect on service people. She didn’t understand that it was because she was an unreconstructed bitch on wheels and treated service people as what she saw them to be. Servants. Theoretically she supported these hard working people. In reality she tipped like a black person. Or a German. So they only gave her the minimum courtesy that any customer might be due.
“Do you know how to get to the 'Long Branch' saloon” she asked brusquely. She often felt that if she was rough and gruff she got better results from the “lower classes.” In fact it just meant that she always got spit in her latte but what she didn’t know wouldn’t burst her bubble.
“Really. You are going to the 'Long Branch'” well okey dokey.” The clerk looked amused. “Just drive down Main St and turn on Jefferson. Go about a mile until you see a down at the heels honkey tonk with a bunch of beat up old trucks and American cars. There’s a Buffalo head over the door and a neon sign with three letters out. That’s it.”
“Delightful.” Julia shuddered. She walked away without saying thank you. That was her style. Entitled. She left gratitude and humility to those less gifted. She did not have a PhD in Woman’s Studies so that she could be nice to desk clerks.
Julia got into her hideous rental car and drove down Main St. It was bustling with people and commerce even at this hour. The boom times from the energy explosion in North Dakota had brought a lot of money to so many undeserving types. They were prospering from the rape of the land. Like their ancestors who stole this land from the Native Americans. She had to expose them. She had to find the truth of their evil. This story must be told.
Julia walked into the raucous bar. There was a big crowd drinking and dancing on the straw dust covered floors. Hot Rod and Stubby and couple of other old dudes were wailing away on song. She couldn’t quite recognize it. Oh yeah. It was Zeppelin. “Black Dog.” Racists.
Julia went up to the bar. She found a seat and waited. A heavy breasted Latina with a scar and a purple streak in her hair walked to her with a bar towel and a smirk. “Hola Mommy wha chu want?” “Do you have any white wine perhaps a chandon blanc?” replied Julia.
“Red or white baby red or white you chooze.”
“Never mind I’ll have an Amstel Light.”
The bartender reached down and took out a bottle of Bud. “Bud or nada chica -- this is an Americana Bar.” She twisted off the top and walked away.
Julia turned toward the bar to watch the band. Hot Rod was wailing on the drums and Stubby was nodding out like a junkie on the needle in the park. There was a black guy with a grizzled beard playing the lead guitar and who stood4 in front of the mike. Another guitarist looked vaguely Hispanic. Julia was surprised. She didn’t know that were any minorities in North Dakota. Let alone in a cracker cover band.
The song ended with a flourish and the black guy went to the mike. “OK people one more song before we take a break. Here is an Al Green tune I bet you all know. Get up and dance bitches!” The band swung into a rollicking version of “Take it to the River.” The singer was pretty good and the band kept up with him as the rocked out the soul tune. They were surprisingly good. For North Dakota.
The song ended with a wail and the band started to put down their instruments. Somebody fired up the jukebox. Somebody shouted “Sing it Waylon!” Wasn’t he dead? Maybe not. Someone else would have picked up the puppet and carried on with the act. Lovely.
Hot Rod and Stubby and the black singer walked up to the bar. Stubby shouted across the raucous room “Three buds and three shots of tequila you filthy puta!” “Doncha make me come over there and rip what little you got off a you Stubby” said the busty barmaid as she frantically twisted open bottles and poured shots to the crowd that had rushed the bar after the band stopped playing. “I will be over there in one Segundo!”
Stubby turned to Julia with a laugh and said “Vanessa just loves me. We would get married if only she was a Filipino.” Julia was confused. “Why only Filipino’s?” “Because those are the only women for me. Don’t get me wrong. I would be happy to dip my wick in anything. Even a white girl from New York City if you know what I mean” he laughed at himself. Hot Rod knew when it was time to interrupt. He interposed his body between them. “That’s great Stubs. Go wrangle the drinks while I talk to the young lady. I promised her that we would palaver.” Stubby shrugged and continued shouting across the bar at Vanessa.
“Your friend is quite the charmer” Julia said. “He’s alright. Good man on the rig and he can play. Let me introduce you to my friend our lead singer. This here is Roscoe. Rosc this is Julia all the way from New York City.” The large lead singer of the Stray Dawgs bent down to shake her hand. He was a tall burly black man with a salt and pepper goatee and a shiny bald head. He strikingly resembled Delroy Lindo in a pair of stained overalls. “Nice to meet you. Name’s Meadowlark Lemon but you can call me Roscoe like all the rest of the ignorant crackers do.” “Stop screwing around Rosc she don’t get it. I told you she comes from New York City” sighed Hot Rod. “I most certainly get it” Julia huffed. What is it with this yokel? She gets it. Well she was very confused but she was not going to admit that. That is how she went through college and she didn’t admit it then either. She was good at fooling herself. “Anyway can we talk for a few minutes Jack?” “Sure enough just let me get my drink.” He turned and picked up his shot of tequila and downed it. Then he sipped from his long neck bottle of Bud and turned back to her. “Let’s go find a corner. I like to sit with my back to the wall.”
[to be continued one day]
Julia sat in the diner sipping her tea and looking at the plate of eggs that the harried waitress had set before her. They looked greasy and hurried. Much like the rest of the patrons of the diner.
Why had she agreed to come to his horrible place to research an article for “The Huffington Post?” She had to leave her comfortable studio apartment that she paid five thousand a month for in Williamsburg Brooklyn to come to this cold winter landscape of North Dakota. She had to leave behind so much. Her books. Her supportive friends. Her organic food market. Her cat. Oh God her cat. She missed her so much.
The little bell at the top of the door jingled and a man walked into the diner. He was tall and lean. Wearing jeans and a down parka with a yellow hard hat. He must be an oil worker. The type of person she was supposed to talk to in order to get a good article. He walked up to the counter and sat down. He put his hat and gloves on the counter and opened his coat.
“Hi Jack” said the waitress as she set a cup in front of him and filled it with steaming hot coffee from a battered glass pot. “Any luck last night?”
“Yeah Flo I was pretty lucky. But you know me. When I drill I always strike a gusher. I push and push and push my tool down the shaft until I make something happen. That’s what I do.” “Ha you’re a kidder” laughed Flo as she flushed red. “The usual?” “Sure.”
Julia’s ears perked up. This is something she should investigate. Drilling. Gushing. Somehow she felt strange. Ezra never talked about things like that. He just wanted to sit on her couch in his flannel pajamas and drink cocoa and talk about how great Obama was and how lucky we are to have him as President. Maybe she would learn something.
Jack sipped his coffee and looked at the mirror above the cut out of the kitchen. He noticed a young woman all dressed in black pushing some eggs around her plate. She had mousy brown hair and no makeup. But at least she had a vagina. Or at least he hoped she did. Vaginas were in short supply these days.
Flo brought over his plate. A bloody, rare breakfast steak. A couple of eggs over easy. Mounds of greasy home fries. Breakfast fit for a man. A working man. Someone who had to go out into the freezing cold and get the raw materials that let the weenies sit in their soft offices sending emails to each other about how benighted Jesusland was.
It looked like the girl was trying to get her gumption up. That is if she had any gumption. Jack’s experience with these types was that they lacked in the gumption department. They made up for it with loads and loads of bitchiness. Who needed that? But there still was the vagina thing. It was at least worth a look. You never knew if a hole was good unless you drilled it. So to speak.
“Excuse me waitress but could I have some more tea” the woman said in a typical New York snotty accent. She sounded just like that ugly girl with all the tats on that HBO show. He hated to admit he watched it but hey a naked woman was a naked woman. Beaters can’t be choosers.
“Her name is Flo ma’am” said Jack. “Sometimes it helps if you know people’s names. Or say please. That’s how we do it here in North Dakota missy.” He said it with a smile that took the sting out of it. Jack had a smile that had got him in plenty of panties back in Texas. Maybe it would work the same with this New York girl.
Julia felt a little crestfallen. She was a polite girl. She had learned that back in Connecticut before she had her consciousness raised and her expectations lowered. Plus most of all she had to fit with the natives. She could be polite. But she wasn’t going to go to shoot a gun. Or go to church. You had to draw the line somewhere.
“I’m sorry Flo, what was I thinking? Can I please have another cup of tea? Thank you.” She turned to the oil line cowboy. “I was a little preoccupied. I have a lot on my mind. My name is Julia by the way.”
“Hi Julia my name is Jack. But most folks call me Rod. Hot Rod to be exact. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
Julia smiled in a demure way that devastated the geeks at the wine bar. “I wonder if I can interview you for my article. I am a journalist and I want to learn about the boom times you are having here in North Dakota.”
“Well I am originally from Texas ma’am and we think the only thing worse than a journalist is a lawyer. So I am not interested in talking to a journalist. But I will be happy to talk to you as a man talking to a woman.”
“I could work with that” Julia said. How hard would it be to outwit this bumpkin. He is from Texas after all. She just hoped he didn't have a black man dragging from the back of his pickup truck. But she could work with that. After all she had interviewed a Republican. Once. It took a long time to feel clean afterward. Anything for the truth.
A short balding man came into the diner. He was dressed like an oil worker but he carried a dented, dirty guitar case. He didn’t wear a hat which was unusual in this cold climate. He resembled nothing so much as a demented Walter Brennan with a list to the right as he limped up to the counter.
“Let’s go Hot Rod. We have to practice before work. We got us a couple of minutes before the starting whistle. Our gig is down at the Long Branch tonight and I want to practice our licks before then.” “Sure Stubby.” Hot Rod got up and started buttoning his jacket. “This here’s my compadre Stubby. He plays in my band. The Stray Dawg’s. Stubby, this is Julia. She's visiting. She is one of those jo-no-lists, so watch what you say. She might report you to the government or something.”
“Nice to meet you Miss.” “Yes nice to meet you as well. Please call me Julia. So what is this Long Branch you are talking about?” “Why it’s the bar where the band has a standing gig every Friday night. They named it after the one in “Gunsmoke” Stubby replied. “We go on tonight at eight o’clock” said the balding gnome with an animated delivery that belied his corpse-like pallor. “That sounds like fun. What do you play Jack?” she enquired with a smile. “I’m a drummer as a matter of fact.” “Yes he is” laughed Stubby. “Like the song goes he likes to bang on the drum all night. Ha, ha, ha” he chortled. Jack shook his head. There was no controlling Stubby when he went off on tirade. He hoped he didn’t start in on white women. They could be here all day. Who had time for that?
“Well it’s still a free country. At least out here” said Jack. “Why don’t I come down to hear you play. Maybe we can talk a little between sets. I’ll buy you a drink” said Julia. “That’s nice but I always make it a practice to pay for a lady” replied Jack as he put on his yellow hard hat and prepared to go out into the cold. Julia shook her head. Here we go. Sexism rears its ugly head. “We can argue about it later cowboy. But just so you know I don’t surrender to Patriarchy. Ever!” “Not to worry Mizz Julia. I hate those cheaters up in Boston. I am a Cowboys Fan” said Jack. He winked at her and strode confidently out the door without a backward glance. His little friend too.
Was he serious or was he pulling her leg. The thought of him pulling at her legs gave her pause. She felt a little flushed. It had been a while since she felt like this. She adjusted the cowl neck of her sweater. Maybe North Dakota would be interesting after all.
Flo came over with another cup of tea and a piece of apple pie. “Here you go sweetie. You are gonna need your strength if you are gonna hook up with Hot Rod.” “Who said anything about hooking up?” Julia was nonplussed. They knew about hooking up in North Dakota?
Flo could read her thoughts. “We know all about hooking up here in the sticks dearie. We call it being a slut bag.” She was fiercely protective of her boys who deserved better than a dried up stick of New York dog shit. “But you know best I am sure. Enjoy your pie.”
Julia hated apple pie. Also hot dogs and Chevrolet. After all she was a liberal. She had an Audi and only ate veggie burgers. And tofu cheesecake. But there wasn’t any tofu in North Dakota. When she asked for it at the hotel dining room they thought she was talking about toe cheese.
She sat there lost in thought. How was she going to get a purchase on these simple minds? The cowboy might be an interesting diversion. She knew how to handle difficult men. After all she was pushing forty even though she looked much younger. She had enough experience to know better.
She thought back through the years -- about her college boyfriend when they were both at Vassar. They had discovered so much together. Tennessee Williams. Marx and Engels. Che. Balzac. His ball sack. Cunnilingus. It was a time of discovery for the both of them.
Julia laughed a little to herself. Ratso Stoddard was a very smart guy. Never let a word serve when he could use fifty five of them. He would argue about anything. Any time. With anybody. The only way she knew how to shut him up was to stick her tit in his mouth. Good times.
But like most men he was a big disappointment. She should have known when he took Ratso Rizzo as his professed role model. He only answered to the nickname Ratso. Of course you could understand that when you knew his real name was Mort. He left her for a Brazilian stripper with size 44 D’s and a suspiciously large scar where her Adam’s apple should be. She shouldn’t judge. She was a liberal after all. Non-judgmental. Superior in all regards.
The only thing that gave her pause was that she was all alone. Again. Her eggs were getting as unappealing and congealed as the cold glob sitting forlorn on her breakfast plate.
Enough introspection! Time to go back to the hotel and blog. She had a spot on Blogging Heads to prepare for today. She hoped it was with Bob Wright. She felt like slapping around a girlie man.
Julia went to her hotel room to wait out the day before she went to the bar to hear that loser band play. She could get some work in on the computer before then. Order room service. Stay in her room. Not talk to anyone except on-line. It would almost be as if she was back home in Williamsburg. All she needed was the chubby gay guy who did pen and ink drawings and had the collection of esoteric vinegars. She would hear him moaning through the paper thin walls and know that he was getting it on with his Peruvian busboy boyfriend. At least someone was getting some. As a matter of fact, she had not seen him for a while. Oh well that’s the way it goes. People came in and out of her life now. She really had very few friends in real life anymore. All of her social intercourse took place on the internet.
She stripped down to her bra and panties. They were sensible ones. A basic black bra with a heavy underwire and not quite granny panties. Not frilly. Not lace. She wasn’t about to wear something like that. She didn’t even have any sets like that anymore. Who would get to see them anyway? Her cat?
Julia examined herself in the mirror over the dresser. She cupped her somewhat large breasts to bring them to a point. Points way down low and soft. Julia hated Bob Seger. She wondered what kind of music she would have to endure tonight. Probably country. Cowboy music. She hated country music. It wouldn’t be what she was used to hearing. Techno. Industrial. Rap. Hip hop. She didn’t like the last two anyway. Black people scared her. She couldn’t admit that. Then she would be a racist like the people here in North Dakota. She didn’t have any black friends. Well not real black people who worked at regular jobs like a bus driver or a school teacher. They were basically beneath her. She had some African American “friends” but they were all academics. You know. The Cosby kids. Not the Boys in the Hood.
She jiggled her breasts up and down. They were her best feature. It was how she attracted male attention. Of course it didn’t take much to get the geeks she normally met at blogger conventions. They were basically the dweebs that went to comic book conventions except they could spell. Some loser would always ride up in the elevator with her and hit on her [lol - ed.]. Or least in her mind they hit on her. It could be true. But even that hadn’t happened lately. Maybe she should wear her tight jeans and her most revealing top. Who was she kidding? All of her jeans were tight these days. She might as well let it work for her.
She opened up her lap top and turned on the Internet Explorer. She decided to do a quick run through of her favorite sites. She went to Blogging Heads to see the featured bloggers today. Oh crap. It was that simpering ninny from Wisconsin who looked a deracinated Florence Henderson vainly flirting with that racist black college professor Ivan Dixon guy. Damn. She had been watching too much MeTV. Julia was starting to identify everyone she met as sitcom characters from the 1960’s and 1970’s. But what’s a lonely girl to do. She couldn’t watch the current TV shows. They were all too violent. CSI and Hannibal Lector and Walking Dead bodies all over the place. If it wasn’t violent it was gay. Nothing against gay people. All of her best friends were gay guys. Her last three boyfriends were gay. Or she turned them gay. But why did every sitcom have to be obsessed with gays? Back in the day the only gays you saw were Charles Nelson Reilly and Tony Randall and Paul Lynde. Julia liked to watch the old shows that she remembered from when she was a little girl. She could be Mary Richards working at the News Station. Or Rhoda working as a window dresser. Or even Dixie McCall who was the nurse who ran the Rampart Hospital. But instead she was alone in her underwear playing with her computer.
Julia surfed from site to site. She usually hit the same ones all the time. The one with the angry black man who hated racism, new age gurus, French women and anyone who’s skin was lighter than Harry Belafonte's. The guy or girl who pretended to be a cow and posted funny pictures and conservative political stuff. Even that strange fellow who was obsessed with food and pop up books. It was an eclectic bunch. But still very incestuous. They all posted and commented on each other’s blogs. It wasn’t a cool incestuous relationship like Angelina Jolie and her hot brother. It was more of a creepy Woody Allen in the attic sniffing your lady bits kind of incest. So every once in a while she wanted to change it up.
Maybe she could do that with this oil worker dude. He sort of reminded her of Johnny Gage the paramedic. At least he wasn’t Corporal Lebec like her last boyfriend. She had decided. She would wash her vag again before she went out. You never know what might happen.
Julia wasted most of the day reading “Television Without Pity” and posting snarky nasty comments on the “Honey Boo Boo” thread. Anything to stick a finger in the eye of these rubes. After a short nap and an even shorter grooming session, Julia left her hotel room and went down to the lobby. She went to the concierge to ask how to find this “Long Branch” so she could check out the band and more importantly to question some of the locals. Julia found that her questioning always went better with alcohol. Maybe she could wrap this up tonight and get back to Williamsburg in time to read the Sunday Times alone in her room. With her cat George Sand.
The desk clerk was busy on her computer and looked up with a bright smile until she saw it was Julia. She wondered why she so often had that effect on service people. She didn’t understand that it was because she was an unreconstructed bitch on wheels and treated service people as what she saw them to be. Servants. Theoretically she supported these hard working people. In reality she tipped like a black person. Or a German. So they only gave her the minimum courtesy that any customer might be due.
“Do you know how to get to the 'Long Branch' saloon” she asked brusquely. She often felt that if she was rough and gruff she got better results from the “lower classes.” In fact it just meant that she always got spit in her latte but what she didn’t know wouldn’t burst her bubble.
“Really. You are going to the 'Long Branch'” well okey dokey.” The clerk looked amused. “Just drive down Main St and turn on Jefferson. Go about a mile until you see a down at the heels honkey tonk with a bunch of beat up old trucks and American cars. There’s a Buffalo head over the door and a neon sign with three letters out. That’s it.”
“Delightful.” Julia shuddered. She walked away without saying thank you. That was her style. Entitled. She left gratitude and humility to those less gifted. She did not have a PhD in Woman’s Studies so that she could be nice to desk clerks.
Julia got into her hideous rental car and drove down Main St. It was bustling with people and commerce even at this hour. The boom times from the energy explosion in North Dakota had brought a lot of money to so many undeserving types. They were prospering from the rape of the land. Like their ancestors who stole this land from the Native Americans. She had to expose them. She had to find the truth of their evil. This story must be told.
Julia walked into the raucous bar. There was a big crowd drinking and dancing on the straw dust covered floors. Hot Rod and Stubby and couple of other old dudes were wailing away on song. She couldn’t quite recognize it. Oh yeah. It was Zeppelin. “Black Dog.” Racists.
Julia went up to the bar. She found a seat and waited. A heavy breasted Latina with a scar and a purple streak in her hair walked to her with a bar towel and a smirk. “Hola Mommy wha chu want?” “Do you have any white wine perhaps a chandon blanc?” replied Julia.
“Red or white baby red or white you chooze.”
“Never mind I’ll have an Amstel Light.”
The bartender reached down and took out a bottle of Bud. “Bud or nada chica -- this is an Americana Bar.” She twisted off the top and walked away.
Julia turned toward the bar to watch the band. Hot Rod was wailing on the drums and Stubby was nodding out like a junkie on the needle in the park. There was a black guy with a grizzled beard playing the lead guitar and who stood4 in front of the mike. Another guitarist looked vaguely Hispanic. Julia was surprised. She didn’t know that were any minorities in North Dakota. Let alone in a cracker cover band.
The song ended with a flourish and the black guy went to the mike. “OK people one more song before we take a break. Here is an Al Green tune I bet you all know. Get up and dance bitches!” The band swung into a rollicking version of “Take it to the River.” The singer was pretty good and the band kept up with him as the rocked out the soul tune. They were surprisingly good. For North Dakota.
The song ended with a wail and the band started to put down their instruments. Somebody fired up the jukebox. Somebody shouted “Sing it Waylon!” Wasn’t he dead? Maybe not. Someone else would have picked up the puppet and carried on with the act. Lovely.
Hot Rod and Stubby and the black singer walked up to the bar. Stubby shouted across the raucous room “Three buds and three shots of tequila you filthy puta!” “Doncha make me come over there and rip what little you got off a you Stubby” said the busty barmaid as she frantically twisted open bottles and poured shots to the crowd that had rushed the bar after the band stopped playing. “I will be over there in one Segundo!”
Stubby turned to Julia with a laugh and said “Vanessa just loves me. We would get married if only she was a Filipino.” Julia was confused. “Why only Filipino’s?” “Because those are the only women for me. Don’t get me wrong. I would be happy to dip my wick in anything. Even a white girl from New York City if you know what I mean” he laughed at himself. Hot Rod knew when it was time to interrupt. He interposed his body between them. “That’s great Stubs. Go wrangle the drinks while I talk to the young lady. I promised her that we would palaver.” Stubby shrugged and continued shouting across the bar at Vanessa.
“Your friend is quite the charmer” Julia said. “He’s alright. Good man on the rig and he can play. Let me introduce you to my friend our lead singer. This here is Roscoe. Rosc this is Julia all the way from New York City.” The large lead singer of the Stray Dawgs bent down to shake her hand. He was a tall burly black man with a salt and pepper goatee and a shiny bald head. He strikingly resembled Delroy Lindo in a pair of stained overalls. “Nice to meet you. Name’s Meadowlark Lemon but you can call me Roscoe like all the rest of the ignorant crackers do.” “Stop screwing around Rosc she don’t get it. I told you she comes from New York City” sighed Hot Rod. “I most certainly get it” Julia huffed. What is it with this yokel? She gets it. Well she was very confused but she was not going to admit that. That is how she went through college and she didn’t admit it then either. She was good at fooling herself. “Anyway can we talk for a few minutes Jack?” “Sure enough just let me get my drink.” He turned and picked up his shot of tequila and downed it. Then he sipped from his long neck bottle of Bud and turned back to her. “Let’s go find a corner. I like to sit with my back to the wall.”
[to be continued one day]
Friday, February 27, 2015
American Idol (guest post)
Remember when blogging used to be fun and we would talk about important
stuff like American Idol. You know before everything became about fighting
over nonsense.
Well my DVR got scrambled last night and it mixed up CPAC and American
Idol. Here are my impressions of both:
*Lovey* – Generic blond who is no great shakes. She is rememberable for
being forgettable. She is just an average voice and will soon be gone. Air
bushed news bunny. Think Monica Crowley before she got laid.
*Adanna* – One of these chicks with the hard luck story who is trying her
best but is really overmatched. She gave it her all and shouted her way
through the song. She did much better in the Detroit vibe this week than
she will do in a more sedate setting when talent counts. But she is safe
for this week. Think Ben Carson with tits covered in feathers.
*Alexis* – This chick is in the running for the phoniest of phony awards.
She is trying be both country and Latin and that doesn’t mix. Doesn’t she
realize that Mexicans are taking away jobs from Country Music people? She
is the Jeb Bush of this competition.
*Joey* – This the pretentious mook with the squeeze box and yellow teeth.
She really grates. She sang a Keith Urban song in the style of Betty Boop.
Think Jerry Brown with really bad teeth.
*Katherine* – She channeled Stevie Nicks and really sucked big time. The
Rick Santorum of this year’s American Idol.
*Shannon* – This is the kid they tried to sell as the next Janis Joplin.
She went soft and slow and it stunk out the joint. Will be gone this week.
Think a thin Chris Christie. Or the little girl that Chris Christie really
is in his heart.
*Loren* – This chick really sang great in the last round but stunk out the
joint on the big stage. She really struggled and her notices went to her
head and she thinks she can do whatever she wants and her fans will eat it
up. Think Sarah Palin with more melanin.
*Shi* – This chick was the worst performance of the night. She has a great
look and a great outfit but she can’t sing for beans. Great looks no
talent. The John Edwards of this years Idol.
*Maddie* – This teenager does not belong. She is singing sexy songs when
she is still jailbait. Think one of the girls on the plane with Bill
Clinton on the way to a Caribbean vacation.
*Sarina* – Far and away the best performance of the night. She kicked ass
and took names but was humble about it. The Scott Walker of this time round.
*Jax* – Very affected and mannered and in a style that I don’t care for but
they are pimping her big time so she might be around until the final six.
The Marco Rubio chair of affected singing.
*Tyanna* – Great personality with a mediocre voice. She will get a bunch of
votes but fall short. Ted Cruz if he had a purple Mohawk.
This was American Idol. Seacrest out! (Or at least everyone knows he is a
sword swallower so it is basically the same thing.)
stuff like American Idol. You know before everything became about fighting
over nonsense.
Well my DVR got scrambled last night and it mixed up CPAC and American
Idol. Here are my impressions of both:
*Lovey* – Generic blond who is no great shakes. She is rememberable for
being forgettable. She is just an average voice and will soon be gone. Air
bushed news bunny. Think Monica Crowley before she got laid.
*Adanna* – One of these chicks with the hard luck story who is trying her
best but is really overmatched. She gave it her all and shouted her way
through the song. She did much better in the Detroit vibe this week than
she will do in a more sedate setting when talent counts. But she is safe
for this week. Think Ben Carson with tits covered in feathers.
*Alexis* – This chick is in the running for the phoniest of phony awards.
She is trying be both country and Latin and that doesn’t mix. Doesn’t she
realize that Mexicans are taking away jobs from Country Music people? She
is the Jeb Bush of this competition.
*Joey* – This the pretentious mook with the squeeze box and yellow teeth.
She really grates. She sang a Keith Urban song in the style of Betty Boop.
Think Jerry Brown with really bad teeth.
*Katherine* – She channeled Stevie Nicks and really sucked big time. The
Rick Santorum of this year’s American Idol.
*Shannon* – This is the kid they tried to sell as the next Janis Joplin.
She went soft and slow and it stunk out the joint. Will be gone this week.
Think a thin Chris Christie. Or the little girl that Chris Christie really
is in his heart.
*Loren* – This chick really sang great in the last round but stunk out the
joint on the big stage. She really struggled and her notices went to her
head and she thinks she can do whatever she wants and her fans will eat it
up. Think Sarah Palin with more melanin.
*Shi* – This chick was the worst performance of the night. She has a great
look and a great outfit but she can’t sing for beans. Great looks no
talent. The John Edwards of this years Idol.
*Maddie* – This teenager does not belong. She is singing sexy songs when
she is still jailbait. Think one of the girls on the plane with Bill
Clinton on the way to a Caribbean vacation.
*Sarina* – Far and away the best performance of the night. She kicked ass
and took names but was humble about it. The Scott Walker of this time round.
*Jax* – Very affected and mannered and in a style that I don’t care for but
they are pimping her big time so she might be around until the final six.
The Marco Rubio chair of affected singing.
*Tyanna* – Great personality with a mediocre voice. She will get a bunch of
votes but fall short. Ted Cruz if he had a purple Mohawk.
This was American Idol. Seacrest out! (Or at least everyone knows he is a
sword swallower so it is basically the same thing.)
Saturday, February 21, 2015
A Rod must Go!!!!!! (Yankee fan Guest Post)
Spring training is almost here and attention must be paid. The Yankees have a big problem. His name is A Rod.
Seriously? This is going to be a circus. The Yankees should just cut their losses and take the tax write off. Let some other team take on the circus. They have made some good moves this year. Our starting upside has a lot of questions but a big upside. Our bullpen could be the best in the majors. We have a new stud closer and a bunch of pretty decent middle relievers. Our brittle starters only have to give us a quality five or six innings. The lineup is not full of the prima donna stars we used to have but a bunch of scrappy guys with some vets who if they have bounce back years can really make something happen. We are not the favorites. But in the expanded playoff world we have a chance to get in the mix and then anything can happen.
He is coming back after his suspension. We owe him something like $61 million over the next three years. That's right $61 million. Now the thought was that he would be closing in on the all time home run record but with all the time lost that is not going to happen. He is going to pass Willie Mays and get an eight million dollar bonus because he only needs seven more dingers to make it happen. But how good could he be after all this time off? Plus the Yankees have signed a perfectly competent third baseman in Chase Headley who is going to be their main man this year. So A Rod is the DH and a backup at third and first. I just don't think he is worth the trouble.
Witness the nonsense with his apology note. Handwritten squiggles that are laughably stupid:Seriously? This is going to be a circus. The Yankees should just cut their losses and take the tax write off. Let some other team take on the circus. They have made some good moves this year. Our starting upside has a lot of questions but a big upside. Our bullpen could be the best in the majors. We have a new stud closer and a bunch of pretty decent middle relievers. Our brittle starters only have to give us a quality five or six innings. The lineup is not full of the prima donna stars we used to have but a bunch of scrappy guys with some vets who if they have bounce back years can really make something happen. We are not the favorites. But in the expanded playoff world we have a chance to get in the mix and then anything can happen.
But first we need to get rid of A Rod. Let's send him to Boston. They both suck. Let them suck together.
Monday, January 5, 2015
Guest Post: It was Mayor De Blasio who disrespected Officer Ramos funeral
Red Bill De Blasio has commented on the fact that some police officers turned their back on his empty eulogy at that funeral for Officer Liu. The Sandinista Mayor said:
“Those individuals who took certain actions this last week––or last two weeks, really––they were disrespectful to the families involved. That’s the bottom line. They were disrespectful to the families who had lost their loved one. And I can’t understand why anyone would do such a thing in a context like that.”
Let's review who was disrespectful and who was not. De Blasio did not show up for the wake for Officer Ramos until 9pm after it was over. He missed the eulogy from the Officer's minister and more importantly the moving tribute from his son. What did he possibly have to do that was more important than being there early to show his "respects?" This is the guy who went to the gym instead of attending the funeral of Herman Badillo who was a pioneering leader in the Hispanic Community. What does he have against Hispanics?
Did you ever attend a wake? What you do is you show up early and show your respects. You sit quietly and maybe say a prayer. You might participate when the priest or minister or rabbi says a prayer. Or not if it is not your tradition. You sit there and show your "respect." I have been at wakes and memorials and services for almost every religion and creed in my day and I always saw everyone show up on time and be respectful.
Unless they were worthless communist scumbags.
He didn't show up late for Officer Liu's service. He came. He stayed for fifteen minutes. FIFTEEN MINUTES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! What did he have to do that was so important that he couldn't stay for more than the time it takes to fry up an eggroll? What does he have against Chinese people?
What does he have against Cops?
We know what he has against them. He had to warn his son that he might get killed by a racist cop when he is much more likely to get hit by lightning or eaten by a shark. He had to reinstate the Judge who let a perp walk who had posted terroristic threats against the NYPD just like the guy who ended up killing the two officers. He defended the chief of staff who has a boyfriend who is a career criminal. He has members of the his administration who post things like "Fuck the Police" on their twitter.
The proof is in the pudding. The pudding that is Al Sharpton that sits at his right hand when he makes decisions about policing the city.
I won't get into his wife and her associates and attitudes. I will just let you know that she wore a pair of jeans to the funeral.
Respect. Yeah. Right.
“Those individuals who took certain actions this last week––or last two weeks, really––they were disrespectful to the families involved. That’s the bottom line. They were disrespectful to the families who had lost their loved one. And I can’t understand why anyone would do such a thing in a context like that.”
Let's review who was disrespectful and who was not. De Blasio did not show up for the wake for Officer Ramos until 9pm after it was over. He missed the eulogy from the Officer's minister and more importantly the moving tribute from his son. What did he possibly have to do that was more important than being there early to show his "respects?" This is the guy who went to the gym instead of attending the funeral of Herman Badillo who was a pioneering leader in the Hispanic Community. What does he have against Hispanics?
Did you ever attend a wake? What you do is you show up early and show your respects. You sit quietly and maybe say a prayer. You might participate when the priest or minister or rabbi says a prayer. Or not if it is not your tradition. You sit there and show your "respect." I have been at wakes and memorials and services for almost every religion and creed in my day and I always saw everyone show up on time and be respectful.
Unless they were worthless communist scumbags.
He didn't show up late for Officer Liu's service. He came. He stayed for fifteen minutes. FIFTEEN MINUTES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! What did he have to do that was so important that he couldn't stay for more than the time it takes to fry up an eggroll? What does he have against Chinese people?
What does he have against Cops?
We know what he has against them. He had to warn his son that he might get killed by a racist cop when he is much more likely to get hit by lightning or eaten by a shark. He had to reinstate the Judge who let a perp walk who had posted terroristic threats against the NYPD just like the guy who ended up killing the two officers. He defended the chief of staff who has a boyfriend who is a career criminal. He has members of the his administration who post things like "Fuck the Police" on their twitter.
The proof is in the pudding. The pudding that is Al Sharpton that sits at his right hand when he makes decisions about policing the city.
I won't get into his wife and her associates and attitudes. I will just let you know that she wore a pair of jeans to the funeral.
Respect. Yeah. Right.
Saturday, December 20, 2014
It's De Blasio Time
Two police officers were shot in their patrol car today as they sat outside a housing project. One is dead at this point and another is critical. There are conflicting reports that the perp might have been shot at the subway station. Reports differ.
I wonder if that college professor who was arrested for throwing a garbage can on the Brooklyn Bridge will protest? Will the hipster who closed down traffic stop to think about these two men? Will De Blasio and Obama go on TV and say "That could have been my son?" Will Rosie O'Donnell and Whoopi Goldberg and Steven Colbert and Jon Stewart and Chris Matthews and Rachael Maddow all talk about how terrible this is on their shows?
I am old enough to remember Officers Piagentini and Jones. To remember what NYC in the 1970's was really like. How you were afraid to ride the subway. Walk down the street. Go to Times Square. Those oh so happy days are here again.
________________I wonder if that college professor who was arrested for throwing a garbage can on the Brooklyn Bridge will protest? Will the hipster who closed down traffic stop to think about these two men? Will De Blasio and Obama go on TV and say "That could have been my son?" Will Rosie O'Donnell and Whoopi Goldberg and Steven Colbert and Jon Stewart and Chris Matthews and Rachael Maddow all talk about how terrible this is on their shows?
I am old enough to remember Officers Piagentini and Jones. To remember what NYC in the 1970's was really like. How you were afraid to ride the subway. Walk down the street. Go to Times Square. Those oh so happy days are here again.
I live in the belly of the beast. This is what NYC has become under Obama and De Blasio.
Don't let anybody fool you. Don't let anybody offer excuses and lies. This is what they really think.
This is De Blasio time.
Sunday, November 23, 2014
Whose That Girl?*
Fifty years ago, she swung like a pendulum do. All lachrymations aside, whose that girl?
_______________________*Blog post in the style of Trooper York
Wednesday, August 27, 2014
"Police Sergeants’ Union Warns Against Democratic Convention in Brooklyn"
"A union of New York City police sergeants warned the Democratic National Committee on Tuesday against holding its 2016 convention in Brooklyn, issuing an open letter that doubled as a broadside against a mayoral administration with which some officers have grown increasingly frustrated."
Monday, July 7, 2014
Sleeping Giant Yankee Sues ESPN
The Yankees fan caught sleeping in the stands is suing ESPN for $10 million http://t.co/DaARo2J4s7 pic.twitter.com/MrT9DLJu4u
— New York Post (@nypost) July 7, 2014
Tuesday, July 1, 2014
"New York police to city's subway acrobats: siddown"
The Guardian: The New York Police Department is cracking down on the subway showmen who use the tight quarters of the nation's busiest transit system as moving stages for impromptu — and illegal — pass-the-hat performances. More than 240 people have been arrested on misdemeanors related to acrobatics so far this year, compared with fewer than 40 at this time a year ago.
Police Commissioner William Bratton acknowledges he is targeting subway acrobats as part of his embrace of the "broken windows" theory of policing — that low-grade lawlessness can cultivate a greater sense of disorder and embolden more dangerous offenders.
"Is it a significant crime? Certainly not," Bratton said recently. But the question is, he added, "Does it have the potential both for creating a level of fear as well as a level of risk that you want to deal with?"
The subway acrobats say they're just out to entertain, make a living and put a little communal levity in New York's no-eye-contact commuting. (read more)
Unconfirmed rumors say that the roundups began after a 'dancer' landed on Trooper York ;-)
Tuesday, June 3, 2014
Something Trooper might do?
"[A] millionaire neighbor will plop a 33-foot, painted bronze sculpture of a beyond-naked pregnant woman with an exposed fetus on his front lawn. So when Aby Rosen, the real estate titan and art collector, installed this 13-ton statue by Damien Hirst on his newly renovated property last month, his neighbors were roused into action."
“It is out of character with the neighborhood,” (read more)
“It is out of character with the neighborhood,” (read more)
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| A different edition of the statue, photographed in Monaco in 2010 |
Saturday, May 10, 2014
NYT Metro Diary: Lament for a Live Subway Voice
"My New York wasn’t lost with the gentrification of the East Village — a once edgy, tattered, soulful neighborhood turned into a massive food court."
Or with the closing of CBGB, or the morphing of SoHo into a shopping center, with crowds to rival Times Square.
It was with the audio automation in the subway — that voice, like a computerized Verizon operator, intoning the stops. You could be in any city.
Where’s the man at the wheel who tells you it’s his birthday, gives a thumbnail history of Astor Place or barks, “Let’s Go Mets!” as he’s pulling into Willets Point?
Couldn’t they at least have given the robot a New York accent?
Friday, April 25, 2014
Whose that girl?*
I'm sure Trooper knows. And I'll bet Ed does, too.
*A blog post in the style of Trooper York
Friday, March 21, 2014
Trooper York Must Live: "Art Book Depicting Murder Inc. Is No Steal"
“Crime in early-20th-century New York was run by old-time Sicilians called ‘Moustache Petes,’ ” writes the author, Larry E. Sullivan, associate dean and chief librarian at John Jay College. But newcomers in the tenement underworld made for friction, and in 1931, five Jewish gangsters, including Samuel (Red) Levine (“who, if possible, never killed on the Sabbath”), rubbed out the second of two fearsome Sicilian Mafia bosses, opening the way for Jews, Italians and Irish to carve up the rackets."
“Crime became diverse,” Mr. Sullivan writes.
"Public Enemy No. 1, the book says, was Lepke — devoted to his mother, wife and son — who with Albert (the Mad Hatter) Anastasia controlled the contract execution squad called Murder Inc., responsible for about 1,000 hits." READ MORE
As many of you who frequent here and elsewhere know, Trooper is quite the mob raconteur. By the looks of this NYT story, that racquet can really turn in a pretty penny some day, 'if Trooper plays his cards right.'
“Crime became diverse,” Mr. Sullivan writes.
"Public Enemy No. 1, the book says, was Lepke — devoted to his mother, wife and son — who with Albert (the Mad Hatter) Anastasia controlled the contract execution squad called Murder Inc., responsible for about 1,000 hits." READ MORE
As many of you who frequent here and elsewhere know, Trooper is quite the mob raconteur. By the looks of this NYT story, that racquet can really turn in a pretty penny some day, 'if Trooper plays his cards right.'
Sunday, March 16, 2014
Whose That Girl?*
Actress and accomplished pianist, her latest character seems destined to wreck some havoc on the law, and the story may yet play out in the keys.
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*Blog post in the style of Trooper York
Wednesday, February 26, 2014
Is Spike Lee upset that longtime residents, like Trooper, might be choosing to leave the neighborhood?
"Speaking Tuesday night in Brooklyn, blocks away from his company headquarters and his father’s apartment, Spike Lee went off on how the neighborhood has changed. The filmmaker, wearing a Knicks beanie, orange socks, blue Nikes, and "Defend Brooklyn" hoodie, was at Pratt Institute for a lecture in honor of African American History Month, surrounded by locals, when he was nearly asked a question about “the other side” of the gentrification debate."
Partial transcript link.
Here’s the full audio, including the man’s response and Lee’s rebuttal:
Partial transcript link.
Here’s the full audio, including the man’s response and Lee’s rebuttal:
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