EarthSourceMedia reports for Wednesday, February 24th, 2010
‘Get Some Tilikum’
‘Tilikum oh Tilikum
Shamu of the North
Seven tons reduced to runs
of swimming back and forth‘
Passing through the homeless district of San Diego, I saw an ominous sign; ‘SeaWorld Way’ sat the words, atop a silver pole. I had a few days to kill, in town to fight against the dreaded San Diego sewage waiver allowing that city to dump 50 Billion gallons of poorly treated human sewage into the ocean each year. I was staying at the KOA campgrounds in Chula Vista, a town dear to my heart for its beautiful diversity and the great food that goes along with it.
Feeling massochistic, I decided to drive the big RV down SeaWorld Way, just to see how kids must feel when they finally pester the family enough to take them to see the killer whales. As we arrived at the park, I asked the nice lady at the drive-up booth if I could take her picture, and she said ‘ok’.
I asked her how many people visit the park, and she said about 17,000 every day. It bothered me profoundly to think of that many people bringing their kids and teaching them it was ‘ok’ to treat perhaps the Earth’s most magnificent creatures this way. Despite rosy pictures painted by Sea World, up to 60% of Orcas don’t survive their first month of captivity, survivors have to suddenly switch to eating dead fish, and the pods from which they are taken can spend months searching in confusion for their missing. Also, there are many instances of Orcas and Pilot Whales attempting suicide by repeatedly ramming the walls of their chlorinated enclosures, some succeeding.‘Tilikum oh TilikumBroader than a hillWas it anger at my race
that drove you to the kill?
I really had no business being in a place like Sea World San Diego.
I have never been to a zoo in my life, because I believe in seeing creatures in their natural habitat, otherwise, how can you expect them to act as they do in the wild? For instance, these powerful creatures wear their dorsal fins bent over and limp in captivity, and no one seems to know why. It’s obvious to me though. A creature who weighs 15 thousand pounds and eats other whales simply can’t reconcile captivity.
When I finally got up the nerve to go inside, and photographed the stuffed animals for sale, I went down the steps to the ‘viewing area’, where an Orca immediately swam by the wall-sized plexiglass and humbled me with his massive presence. I snapped off a photo before the great sadness overtook me and I began to cry.
I cried out loud, surrounded by republicans, families, children, tourists, and travelers- and even like-minded people. I felt the sting of pain through my heart that surely must be as he who stands before a firing squad, with my compassion for this magnificent royalty-of-the-sea gushing crimson to the floor. It hurt so bad I could watch them no more. I staggered backward, climbed the steps and headed for the exit. Bleary eyed, I pointed back toward the giant cetacean, promising to one day return.
‘Tilikum oh Tilikum
Your drooping dorsal lies!
Unsheath yon banana teeth
and something nearby dies!’
Not all these attacks are by the large males. One attack recently happened during a sonagram, where a whale was being readied for ‘artificial insemination’- Whale rape! Tilikum himself is not allowed near other whales, is kept in a tank barely larger than his hulking body, and is kept only for sperm for the captive breeding program.
‘Tilikum’ is an Inuit word meaning, ‘The people’ or something close to that. And among our people, Tilikum is the giant Killer Whale, Orcinus Orca, who could be captured, could be ensnared, could be incarcerated- but could never be broken. Could not be trained. Could not be owned, enslaved, or in any other way dominated.
And so the pretty young girl who visited Sea World at nine years of age and announced to her parents, “This is what I want to do when I grow up”, indeed did fulfill that dream. And who knows, she may have gone with the greatest of self-satisfaction, having taken it all the way, even to the death. But self satisfaction is not dignity. There is no dignity in being part of a whale kidnapping ring, who teaches kids every day that to enslave the sea is somehow ‘ok’.
But for Tilikum? There is great dignity. And that dignity grows with every fresh kill.
As a civilization newly awakened to our role in changing the planet, we must bring the practice of capturing, holding and tormenting these intelligent creatures to an end.
‘Tilikum, oh Tilikum
you have languished for so long
Let us end your anguish
and hear your orca song! ‘
Get some, Tilikum!
our founder
Tags: tilikum, sea world, orca, orcas, killer whale, sea world trainer, orlando, seaworld, orcinus orca, sea world san diego, killed, trainer killed, amusement park, earth. source, media, animal, whaling, dawn brancheau, activism
Not a good sign, I thought. A snicket in the San Luis Obispo Tribune said, ‘Families living downwind from Diablo Canyon Nuclear Plant can pick up two free doses of ‘KI’, Potassium Iodide –aproduct called ‘’ThyroSafe‘. I enjoy the feeble public relations attempts by those in the mushroom cloud business. It’s hard to put a smiley face on plutonium that stays dangerous for a half-million years- and harder still to convince us they’ll have a local branch open in AD502009.
Further south, the San Onofre Nuclear Generating Station goes by the acronym ‘S.O.N.G.S.’. Quite a song- we’ll be lulled to sleep as plutonium leaches into the drinking water. On the Central Coast of California, I live dangerously close to the Diablo Plant, once calling it the ‘Devil Canyon Atomic Reactor‘ during a Nuclear Regulatory Commission meeting. Protecting his friends in industry, Governor Arnold Schwarzenegger recently vetoed a bill to mandate seismic testing of an earthquake fault found just offshore here. Instead of ‘ThyroSafe‘, maybe they should be handing out muscle relaxers.
New York, June, 2185
Our jeans were soaked from crawling in wet grass, but Central Park was close and we had to stay low. A small band of third-generation survivors trying to eek out a living in the Post Apocalyptic World, we had come in search of food andclean element. Environmental contamination left over from the industrial age had poisoned the air and water so badly that filters on our backs were the only thing between us and death. We needed a fresh element every six months, for our personal air filters, and for the water filter we each took turns carrying. Sometimes we just washed our elements, but that caused a mental slowdown that could get you killed. When your element was dirty, everybody suffered.
Manhattan Island hadn’t seen real electricity in over 100 years, but background radiation levels had the LED lights glowing like kaleidoscopes in the moist evening air. This wasn’t my first trip to New York, but it was for the others, and traveling to the core -what was left of the ‘big apple’- was always a dangerous proposition.
A bloody moon rose over the fog as someone showed a flat hand, the universal signal for shut the fuck up. There were voices up ahead, the first we’d heard other than our own for almost a year. That could mean help, or it could mean trouble, and we made our approach low, slow, and silent.
California, November, 2009
I am having a hard time getting ‘up’ for the world conference on climate change soon to be held in Copenhagen. President Obama has said Americans shouldn’t expect a binding agreement among nations. Not even the ‘Cap and Trade’ rouse, that wouldn’t slow the climate change locomotive anyway. It’s not as if the signs aren’t all there. Alarms bells are ringing, yellow lights are flashing and red flags are waving! In the 12 years since the 1997 climate talks at Kyoto, oceans have risen an inch and a half, droughts and fires are more severe, and everything from bears to butterflies to pine forests are in deep trouble. Temperatures for the last 12 years are 0.4 degrees warmer than for the 12 years before. With all signs pointing toward doomsday, it occurs to me we can’t wait for our leaders to take the dynamic actions that might save us. We as individuals have to make all the right moves, right now. Sounds far-fetched, but it’s that or die.
Manhattan, 2185
A rusty ‘71st Street’ sign jutted from the grass, confirming our position as old Central Park. Our stealthy band peered from the underbrush onto a surreal scene of people in tattered clothing gathered around a circular, glowing monument. We were about to reveal ourselves when shots rang out in the distance. causing the gray-clad group to scatter. Abandoning their ritual, they ran into the brush and disappeared in the direction of the commotion. Wasting no time, we emerged from our hiding places for a closer look. The large round monument stood in a clearing, basking in the glow of candles. A single word in old American was scrawled across its center, saying: ‘IMAGINE’. But none of us were able to imagine much more than gathering canned goods left strewn about and staying alive in the P.A.W. We snuffed and stowed all the candles but one, then retreated back to the cover of the underbrush.
Imagine
California, 2009
Ever connect with a story a little too much? I recently did, with a story about the new green technologies being designed to save us from destruction wrought by the old technologies. In this case, the story was about how fake trees can be manufactured to sequester CO2 from the atmosphere. Notice the lack of emphasis on slowing or stopping our habit of generating CO2, but rather mitigating its effects through sequestration. Mitigation is not a solution, but the problem. Take the ‘Clean Coal’ ruse for instance- why capture CO2 from burning coal and pump it into the ground when it’s alreadyin the ground? The ocean operated as an efficient sink for our industrial emissions from the 1950’s until the 1980’s. However, those emissions began slowly changing the ocean’s chemistry, turning it acidic. That acidification not only started a world-wide die off of coral reefs, but greatly diminished the ocean’s ability to capture CO2 (Oceans’ Absorption of Fuel Emissions Is Slowing, Study Suggests, New York Times Thursday, November 19th, 2009). Unfortunately, our response to the crisis is to ignore the problem, -the burning of fossil fuels- preferring instead to focus on searching for new methods of CO2 capture and sequestration. This is all part of the so-called ‘green’ technologies, or what I refer to as the cottage industries of the apocalypse.
The whole idea of portraying industrial technologies as green is silly. You can’t build new single family homes and call them green, even if they use solar energy, gray water irrigation systems and low flush toilets. There’s nothing green about new development- it destroys habitat, sticks another straw into an already overburdened aquifer, and does it all just so municipalities –funded by developers fees- can continue operations.
If you think we had it bad because we never got to see our land the way Daniel Boone saw it, imagine a future where the kids of tomorrow walk down the street thinking fake trees are the norm! And the artist’s rendition was scary- they look like the arms of a giant egg beater. They may sequester CO2, but birds won’t nest in them, I wouldn’t read a book under one of them, and it just isn’t a tree, right Mr. Bluebird? And watch out for those propellers!
fake trees?
Manhattan, 2185
Traveling by cover of night, we crossed into the once-bustling metropolis of New York City. Verdant streets led us to the industrial district, where old growth trees of unknown species grew straight, thick and tall. Faded graffiti covered a crumbling wall, where someone long ago had scrawled, ‘ROOTS WILL CRACK THE CONCRETE EARTH’. It turned out to have been quite prophetic. Vegetation had indeed cracked through the asphalt. Seeds became plants, and plants became trees, revealing the secret to the success of local post-apocalyptic survivors. The cracked pavement revealed fertile and uncontaminated soils long hidden beneath, now nurturing hidden gardens that lay cultivated between the trees. We helped ourselves, filling our pockets with late-season squash, kale and corn, making sure to leave room for the precious element we still hoped to find. We searched amid the rows of red-brick ruins, and one contained what we had come for. High above the rubble and still clinging to life by a single rusted chain, a sign said: ‘Best-pirator Corp.’.
Leaving two Guards posted outside, I led the Scouts in. Precious minutes passed as we waited for our eyes to adjust. Crouching silently in the inky blackness, blood pounded in our temples like the war drums of Armageddon. We were soon able to make out the torpedo-like shapes strewn wildly about -element! Dropping to one knee, we made a quick, on-the-spot first change. With a single breath, our minds cleared and our night-vision sharpened. We took all we could carry to the guards outside, and went back in for more. By the time we emerged, the Guards had changed their elements and were working on our water tank. We managed a quick gulp of fresh water and made for the brush. Locals wouldn’t take kindly to competition, and with the human gene pool dangerously thin, we didn’t want to kill anyone.
Having found what we came for, it was time to move south. Deep South.
California, 2009
Paranoia strikes deep
Into your heart it will creep
It starts when you’re always afraid
Step out of line and the man comes and takes you away
-Richie Havens
America is a land of legacy. One of those legacies is the Star Spangled Banner. Written by Francis Scott Key, it was inspired by a giant American flag at Fort Sumter after a night of being bombarded by the British in 1861. By the dawns early light, our flag was still there, and so was the American dream of freedom.
Another legacy is the long-lasting environmental damage from the cold war. Several decades of mindless paranoia, nuclear testing, and defense industry profits left a radioactive mess, -staggering in scope- deep under the majestic landscape of Nevada (Nuclear Scars: Tainted water runs beneath Nevada desert, LA Times, November 13th, 2009). Sheer numbers tell the whole story:
By U.S. Energy Department estimates, 921 nuclear tests over a 41-year period ending in 1992, contaminated 1.6 trillion gallons of water with 300 million curies of radiation. That is enough radioactive water to fill a lake 25 feet deep, a mile wide and 300 miles long. Because the test site was on higher ground than surrounding areas, the water is migrating about 18 feet per year, and withdrawing groundwater from surrounding areas will increase that speed. With development rampant and water at a premium, that is sure to happen. Russia didn’t get us, but the radioactivity might. In any case, the Energy Department says there are no plans for a cleanup.
New Jersey, 2185
We knew where we were headed, but argued about how to get there. The Scouts wanted to continue on foot, the Guards thought it would be best to take a boat south along the coast. I suggested we travel west into Ohio and raft the river southward, entering Georgia from the Northwest. Our bands final destination was a hilltop in the Northeast corner of Georgia. Rafting in would mean having to cross the State on foot, dealing with Radigators, snakes and whatever else had mutated. The only good thing about Radigators is they’re easy to see, but being at the top of the food chain, they carry enormous amounts of radiation. You can’t eat them anymore- but they can still eat you.
In the end, we decided to travel South on foot, using an old Indian trail. It was a straight shot through heavy forest and would safely take us as far as D.C. The coast would be too dangerous, where warm ocean waters could trigger lightning. It was always best to travel inland and only when the weather was cold. Summer brought high temperatures and the heat lightning that set off lightstorms. Lightstorms were a legacy of global warming. Rising temperatures eventually reached a threshold, causing the sea floor to release large quantities of methane gas it had long held captive. Upwellings transported the gas to the surface, where it lay as mist on the water. A lightning strike ignites the methane, like the Fuel-air explosives of the 21st century, and everything is incinerated for miles. Not a bug, not a blade of grass survives.
We had the exact coordinates of our destination: 34.2 degrees North latitude, 82.9 degrees West longitude. That information came from a mysterious fellow we met at a shelter in the Appalachians during the last light storm. Until then, we really had no hope for the future. He walked right in out of the lightstorm- said he was some kind of a priest.
California, 2009
President Obama has expressed frustration and dwindling patience with Iran’s rapidly maturing nuclear program. The United States speaks with some authority on the subject, being the only nation on Earth to use nuclear weapons on another country- having done so twice.
Meanwhile, Strategic Command Commander General Kevin Chilton urged the United States to invest in a generation of newer, more powerful nuclear weapons during a speech on November 20th, at the Air Force Association Conference in Los Angeles.
With Pakistan, India, Russia, China, the United States, Israel, and North Korea all possessing nuclear weapons, perhaps the U.S. should spend less time condemning the fledgling Iranian nuclear program and pay more attention to Israel, a volatile country right next door that has 400 nuclear bombs, no nuclear treaty, and a prevailing belief among its people that they have been chosen by God.
Maryland, 2185
The blood of our scouts helped us pick up the Indian trail along a dry creek bed in the Prince George’s region of Maryland. That was Indian blood of course; it ran through their veins. They were both descended of the Delaware, who lived along the shores of the Delaware River in New Jersey.They still spoke a form of Algonquian, and communicated only by sign language. They possessed scouting skills second to none, were expert trackers, and could be counted on to help us avoid trouble. The trail was clear and fast, the forest floor padded and silent. We whispered through the woods like elves, breaking no branches and making no sound.
A delicious irony was the Post Apocalyptic World men had created. The trees were many and diverse, the deer large and abundant. From our verdant footpath, we were seeing the area much as it had been a thousand years before, when men killed only to live, rather than living only to kill. The trees were flush with apples and berries, the forest floor a carpet of purple sorrel. We ate on the move, never stopped for long, and barely even slowed down. This was the land of the Pascataway, the original tribe of the Chesapeake who left their ancestral hunting grounds rather than convert to Christianity when Lord Calvert landed in 1634. They probably used this trail for hundreds of years, for the same reason the deer did- it was a fast, safe and secret way to travel from one side of the region to the other.
We emerged into bright sunshine and wind on a sand dune overlooking a shallow estuary that used to be Chesapeake Bay. Sloshing through brackish water made the going slower, but the view was worth it. We left the wet sand behind by late afternoon, and soon stood on the shore of the Potomac, amid the ruins of America’s former capitol. A stone structure poked from the hard mud about knee-high. With Guards posted in front and behind, I hacked thick, stubborn vines away until the stone was freed from its long, sandy incarceration. We had stumbled upon the Franklin Delano Roosevelt National Monument, a relic of yet another self-important empire crumpled to dust amid a backdrop of stars. The words of the 32nd President of the United States chiseled into the stone were testament to a moment of lucidity during an age of madness:
MEN AND NATURE MUST WORK HAND IN HAND. THE THROWING OUT OF BALANCE OF THE RESOURCES OF NATURE THROWS OUT OF BALANCE ALSO THE LIVES OF MEN.
We took it under advisement over glowing embers and an iron pot of hot broth.
FDR Monument
Two years earlier, Appalachia, 2183
A searing wind howled outside the shelter, whistling through lifeless canyons. Flashes of light were faintly visible through leaden walls 3 feet thick, underscoring the severity of the worst lightstorm in years. It seemed a shame to squander the opportunity of not having to breathe through a Best-pirator. What should have been a brief moment’s respite, was nothing less than sheer terror. The temperature outside was two thousand degrees with higher spikes. The Appalachian ridgelines were holding methane mist like a canyon traps fireplace smoke. The lightning struck only occasionally, and several times we thought it was over. The impatient among us carelessly left the shelter too soon, and a half dozen so far had saved their families the trouble of cremation.
Perhaps thirty of us lay prone on the floor of the ancient one-room fallout shelter built just prior to the final act of the industrial revolution. Legend has it that it all came down to a glitch on a NORAD computer screen and the rest is post-history. Few were the maps marking the exact locations of these shelters, strewn about the P.A.W. I certainly didn’t have one; only a chance meeting with an extraordinary stranger alerted me to its existence. Most were destroyed by wanderers who committed them to memory. Once the lightstorms begin, the occupants don’t open the door unless it’s to let some poor soul out. There are plenty of filters inside, but little food or water, and everyone stays quite still to conserve energy.
It seemed such a bleak existence for so once-great a race. Dressed in gray, with our breathing and drinking limited to what could be had through a filter, dodging horrific post-natural weather events, hoarding supplies and then scrounging for more. There were no children. Most of our bodies were so saturated with emergent contaminants that babies born alive were always badly deformed.
And just when we thought it was the end, this strange traveler arrived to say it was only the beginning.
Lightning hadn’t struck for over an hour, and we thought we’d heard the sound of geese passing high above. “Let me out”, demanded a man brandishing some sort of explosive device- “Let me out-now!” He got no argument and the heavy doors were rolled aside, revealing a barren world where heated rocks created a shimmer on the horizon. The man exited with not a backward glance and the doors were begun to roll back into place. As they hurtled the final inch toward each other, they slammed shut on the end of a walking pole, thrust between them at the last instant! “Hold,” came a voice from outside. The doors automatically bounced back open, and the man who had left came stumbling back in, with no small amount of help from the dusty jack-boot of a tall, sullen-eyed stranger.
“Close!” he shouted after entry, and the mighty doors rolled closed once again, this time tightly.
“Who dares?” growled the stumbling man, “Who-“
“I dare!” returned the stranger, motioning him to be seated. Angry at his forced return, the man threw his explosives aside and went for the stranger’s throat, snarling and spitting.Then came the loudest of reports outside- lightning, followed by the rolling, rumbling thunder of another lightstorm. With wide eyes, the man released his grip and slid down the stranger’s body, finally kneeling at his feet. “I’ll not harm he who saved my life”, he spoke.
“Rise,” said the stranger, motioning once again for all to be seated. As the lights of doom flashed outside and the stench of burning gases wafted through the shelter, the tall man stood before us staff in hand, relating a story that brought laughter to some, disbelief to others- and hope to five of us.
He said his name was Robert C. Christian, and he was a priest. Not a priest in the archaic sense. He was the last of an order of time-guides known as the Avatale. With one foot in Earth’s far future and one in its remote past, Avatale were like custodians, charged with keeping a planet’s history moving toward the balance sought by the Universe. They did so by burrowing through space time, avoiding the restrictions of causality. “Avatale behave no differently than sub atomic particles” he said, “but rather than ponder the mechanics, let us concentrate on the message.”
Most of the shelters occupants had written the stranger off as a travel weary madman with a messiah complex, but five of us sat close, cross legged and hungry for any glimmer of hope. Hell, we were all travel weary madmen.
“What is that message?” asked one of the group that would come to be our small band of travelers.
“That you are not meant to be roaches, living in darkness and scattering in light. You are the stuff of stars, each thought, a quasar, every heartbeat in rhythm with the pulsar.”
I looked at the floor, trying to feeling more like a star and less like a refugee-in-rags. “Where did-“
“Where did it all go wrong?” he finished for me. “You sought heaven even as you trampled one beneath your feet. You gazed outward for meaning, when meaning resides only within. Your search for heavenly perfection was futile, for it was there you always did dwell.”
The simple explanation the Avatale offered up resonated with our small group, even if the majority listened with closed ears, saw with closed eyes and lay silent. We asked what there was that such a small number of people could do to heal the world.
“It is not for such as you to heal a planet, with more waters than you could swim, more ground than you could stride. Yours is to mend a relationship with a planet, and your own spirit- to build a new society on a different path with a higher purpose.”
“How do we rebuild without following our fathers over a precipice?” it was asked.
“Journey southward to the land of rocks. At 34.2 degrees north latitude, 82.9 degrees west longitude, great granite walls sit on a hilltop capped with stone. There you shall find guides to the new world you seek.”
That was the last time we ever saw the Avatale- but our band of adventurers was born and we had a mission, coordinates, -and hope.
Chesapeake Bay, Maryland, 2185
‘Great birds fly over Chesapeake Bay, where a new world dawns every month of May
Five brave men in two canoes, -which tomorrow will they choose?
To read the wisdom in the stones, that rise above thy fathers bones,
a sacred journey you must make, where Savannah River meets Keeowee Lake’
Dance to the Apocalypse, ‘End of the Beginning’
We stood on the shore of the Potomac gazing toward Chesapeake Bay. From this point on, travel was best done by river. I was sure FDR, -whoever he was- would understand if we felled one of the tall White Birches standing guard over his monument, if for a good cause. And rebuilding a world was good cause. We lay the tree down like an Indian bride, and removed her bark the same way. The scouts performed an age-old magic show, turning the white bark inside out, lacing it up with sweet grass and patching the rough spots with pitch the rest of us had gone about collecting. In a day, we had two Birch BarkAlgonquin canoes. They were laced up tight, looking for all the world like a skillfully crafted pair of moccasins. We loaded what supplies we had and walked them to deeper water at sunrise. By the time the sun was straight overhead, it was 4 miles to shore on either side, with not a ripple to be seen. The quiet was broken only by the occasional call of big birds high overhead, or the splash of fish playing tag in the estuary. This was the way to travel.
The weather held fast as we made our way through the Chesapeake system, which finally left us, like babes in a basket, on the porch of the sometimes hostile Atlantic Ocean. Many were the nights we came to shore, backs aching, to steal a bit of slumber, uninterrupted by salt water mosquitoes and the constant rolling of the water. Lightstorms were always a threat. When the opportunity presented itself, we navigated inland on nameless waterways, where Spanish moss and sometimes snakes decorated overhanging limbs.
A hundred times we stumbled ashore, having run out of creek. And a hundred times we wore those canoes like long hats, carrying them through thickets, searching for the next waterway. We came out of the woods into a great inland expanse of water, and I could tell it was not of nature, but a thing of man. An army of trees pressed to the edge of the waters entire wide expanse, with nary a reed, sedge, bamboo or papyrus to be seen. This was a reservoir, fed by rivers whose swollen confluence lay inundated deep below. But those submerged rivers were only side streets that merged with the main highway. We had found her- the Savannah River.
South Carolina 2186
Our canoes cut swiftly and quietly through the clear moving waters of the Savannah. Her banks were lined with cypress and willow, and she wore a bright blue sky above. The scouts rowed with their heads down, speaking back in Algonquin to the Cherokee spirits they heard calling to them from the banks. We were being warned, they signed to me- warned of great fireflies living beneath the water. These fireflies grew angry in the summer months when the river was at her lowest level and we might know the angry beasts when we came between two white waters. I took this to mean there was a danger, and decided if we saw a second set of rapids, it would be a time for portage. I cupped my hands and blew the call of the owl to the Guards up ahead, who were already entering white water. They looked back and nodded, signaling they understood some danger may be about. We kept one eye ahead, and one eye on the swift water.
An hour later all turbulence subsided as we came upon the confluence of yet two more ancient rivers, drowned far below. The sky began to paint the river a late-afternoon turquoise, creating a lovely, but opaque surface. Dusk rode in on a chilly breeze, and though white water could not be seen ahead, it could be heard.
We stopped rowing the canoes and sat up alert. Without turning, the scout up front signaled a flat hand, but we were already paying acute attention to the strange submarine lights flashing before us that were getting brighter by the second. I felt the canoe vibrate on my buttocks and saw a world of fear in my own reflection as I peered hard through the water beneath us. We were at the confluence of the Keeowee and Little Rivers, where the Oconee Nuclear Power Stations’ three reactors still sat humming nearly three hundred feet below. Noone had ever shut them down! Keeping our paddles tilted upward, we let the fast moving water carry us over the ethereal maelstrom that was surely releasing radiation. Schools of fish moved through broad beams of light emanating from the deep. The entire lake pulsated to the soulless rhythm of doomsday machinery- a satanic concert in a watery hell, being conducted by long dead energy industry officials, still assuring the ghosts of a drowned city that everything was under control, and going to be fine.
The deep clear water was hot to the touch, and many strange life forms darted about, most notably a large Octofish that swam up alongside the canoe. Octofish were an example of mutants common to the new American southeast, most being large predators. A descendant of the sturgeon, these animals were as intelligent as they were dangerous. They used bioluminescence to communicate in a complex language of lights and colors.
Each canoe was 9 feet long and the Octofish was longer still, sizing us up with bowling ball eyes. Backlit from below, it switched off for a moment, allowing itself to become a long-tentacled silhouette. It faded back in as a golden color, its transparent body causing the internal organs to look like bugs trapped in amber. In a mesmerizing display, it went completely clear, then amber, then a rich blue, then green, and finally a very menacing red, when the canoe did not respond in kind. An attack was imminent and we began to poke at it with our paddles. It was like attacking a dragon with a fly swatter. A second creature joined in and was attacked by the first, allowing us time to put our paddles to better use. Aided by the evening breeze at our backs, we were soon across the lake and the otherworldly humming began to fade into the distance. Anxious to leave the bizarre nightmare behind us, we paddled in unison until we reached the second rapids, which led us around a bend and back onto the Savannah River.
Huntington Beach, California, 1997
I parked the old ’75 Chevy Titan motor home out front of the Post Office just long enough to run in and get my mail from PO Box 373. But before taking off, I decided to make two stops in one, and grabbed a hot cup of java at the Starbucks on Main Street. Returning to the RV, I fumbled through my pockets for my keys and discovered they were nowhere to be found. I searched the Post Office, under the seats of the rig, and even went across the street to check Starbucks, but dammit- never did find those keys. Out came the locksmith guy who charged me an arm and a leg to do it, but I was soon on my merry way, with a whole new set of keys for a whole new ignition. I was getting coffee the next morning when someone handed me the old key set. They were found during an after-hours mopping. I must have dropped them and kicked them under the counter.
Sylvania Georgia, 1958
One crisp February evening in 1958, Major Howard Richardson was piloting a B-47 Stratojet Bomber off the coast of Georgia at 36,000 feet. The jet was carrying an MK-15 Thermonuclear Hydrogen Bomb, 100 times more powerful than the A-Bomb that destroyed Hiroshima. What was supposed to be a routine night-training mission turned anomalous when the bomber collided with an F-86 Saberjet, destroying the fighter plane, and damaging the wing of the B-47. Major Richardson radioed for instructions and was told to jettison the H-Bomb before attempting an emergency landing. The pilot did as he was told, releasing the bomb into the shallow waters just off the coast from the mouth of the Savannah River. A massive search was undertaken to recover the errant weapon; troops searched the salt marshes, divers plumbed the depths, even a blimp joined in and searched by air, but dammit- they never did find that bomb. The search was officially called off 68 days later, on April 16th, 1958. The Hydrogen Bomb still sits out there somewhere, perhaps one day to be found by a man in headphones, scanning the beach with his metal detector.
Apocalypse, conclusion
Elberton, Georgia, 2186-
On the Georgia bank of the Savannah River, logs were visible strewn all about the shoreline. Some were quite large and carried a strange glow. They began entering the river, and it dawned on me- these weren’t logs, but Radigators. They lay in ambush, waiting to invite us to dinner- as guests of honor. These were not like your pet Caiman or Monitor lizard- these were mature Georgia ‘gators turned radioactive, likely by living in the river of the haunted fireflies. Measuring 15 feet long, and weighing two thousand pounds, the glowing behemoths came straight for us as we approached. Using one of their own tactics against them, we decided to feign lethargy. We paddled in slowly, and before they reached us, we accelerated through and past them. Having caught them off guard, we made it ashore before they came about and we grabbed our gear while still dragging the canoes. After hauling the birch barks clear of the water, we pulled them up a bit farther, knowing that the Savannah this far south was tidal.
Now moving on foot, we rested only after hiking more than a mile inland. We pitched camp beneath a canopy of Cypress that had once again come to define the character of the Georgia swamp. Even a mile inland, we had to make sure our campfire was stoked with wood. If we allowed it to burn down to glowing embers, it could attract curious Radigators, seeking out their own. And we weren’t the only ones who knew it; several other campfires burned brightly in the distance! Who could they be? There was an undercurrent of excitement- we were very close to our destination in the land of stones. Taking turns on watch, we all slept well for the first time in weeks.
The next morning
The sun shone brightly on the tree tops that held a cacophony of birdsong. Smoke from freshly doused fires rose in many places and we heard the sounds of muffled conversation. Our campfire was still aflame and we buried it with heaps of sand, sending a plume of smoke skyward to mingle with the others. The sound of crashing in the woods nearby brought us all to our feet, and we stood ready for anything. Anything turned out to be a young woman carrying an armful of water jugs, apparently headed to the river. She was dressed in tightly fitting animal skins and her own skin was painted in bright colors. We stood completely still, not wanting to spook her, and even averted our gazes to show we meant no harm. She nodded in our direction and continued on by.
We wondered if she was a one of the local peoples- and if she were alone. By now, we were completely packed and ready to continue. The guards were mulling over the set of coordinates the Avatale had marked for us on papyrus paper back in the lightstorms of Appalachia. They read: 34.2 degrees North latitude 82.9 degrees West longitude. Our compass showed we were headed in the right direction and so we began to take the final steps of a so far harrowing journey. Once again, there was a crashing through the woods, this time two men appeared at the edge of the clearing, dark skinned, and dressed in white flowing robes, with head gear to match. Their hats wore tails that covered their necks, and it was obvious to me they were from somewhere else. One carried a machete, the other jugs for water, and again, they seemed headed for the river. The Guards reflexively brandished their swords, and I raised a hand to stop them. The foreign traveler in white robes then held his machete high, and in an exaggerated motion, dropped it to the ground, smiling. The Guards looked at me, I nodded to them, and they let fall the two large swords, which clanged together on the ground.
The painted woman came walking back through camp, handed us all a jug of water, and motioned for us to follow her. I produced the papyrus, and showed them all the coordinates scribbled on the paper. This started them all talking in several languages, and I joined in with yet another, until the woman held up her hand, and we all fell silent. She then pulled a large hunting knife from a scabbard on her ankle, causing us to step back. She sliced away her deer skin sleeve, and showed us a faded old tattoo on her arm that read: 34N 89W. The men in white robes nodded and began chattering excitedly. She turned into the woods and we all followed single file.
Once known as Elberton County, the area had been known in previous centuries for its plentiful mineral deposits, most notably for having the highest quality Blue Granite in the entire world. Considering the longevity of such stone, it came as no surprise that we were walking through a countryside scattered with all manner of monuments, some educational, others simply tributes to good men, women, deeds, events and organizations. There were polished stones telling of Revolutionary war heroes, Native American tribes, parks, river ways, villages, and even the dams that drowned them. We paused a moment to drink it all in, and I found myself leaning on a polished granite stone etched with the words: ‘thanking all the heroes of all the wars’. It went on to list the Revolutionary War, the Spanish American War, the Civil War, Korean War, World War One, World War Two, the Vietnam War, the First War in Iraq, the Second War in Iraq, the War in Afghanistan, and World War Three. But of course, the big one was conspicuously absent, there having been no person, agency or organization left to carve a monument.
I shook my head at what we had found. It was safe to say I was dumbfounded by the dumb we had founded. How many lives, families, potential cures, kids and Kings had we snuffed beneath the futile fog of war? It could be read on the walls of canyons as well as in the inscriptions in Blue Granite; we went from clubbing each other with Mammoth bones to clubbing each other with Hydrogen Bombs, but it was really all the same thing.
We weren’t sure why we had come, but we were certain we didn’t come to rebuild a society that begins clubbing once more. As we padded through the grassy countryside, our diverse group grew ever larger and more diverse. People in all forms of dress, spoke languages we’d never heard before, and joined in the single-file procession. According to our sextant and last night’s stars, we were close. This was confirmed when the painted woman leading the procession turned and thrust a hand high in the air. She whispered into the ear of another brightly painted woman now standing beside her. The woman translated, saying, “Halt”, and then repeated the word in 7 more languages. Our procession shuffled to a stop. She whispered into her translator’s ear once again, who repeated, “We are here”.
Seeing nothing, there was a clamor among us made of many angry voices. But the painted women turned away and climbed over a last rise, motioning us to follow. As we crested the final hill, we came upon a small group of strangely clad men, all of different races. They stood together on a large flat granite slab, each dressed in the different holy garb of their own tribe. The tallest was a Nubian Chief, who stood beside a wrinkled red man wearing a headpiece that trailed eagle feathers to the granite below. They each stood with an arm outstretched, pointing away into the distance.
And there, on the next hilltop, worn from the weather, the lightstorms and the centuries, stood the Georgia Guide stones. The procession was no longer single file or orderly, but there was no stampede. We walked through a small dip and came up the hillside toward the 20 foot tall blocks of polished Blue Granite that carried –in many languages- the 10 guiding principles that might lead to a better world for all of us.
Many different tribes from far flung lands sat in groups, dotting the hills surrounding the Guide stones, reading, translating and discussing the wisdom behind each word. An enormous line of abalone shells encircled the monument, some smoking with burning sage, others with sacred cedar, and still others smelling of all the ancient spices and incense of a world gone by –and one yet to come. Peace pipes filled with sacred tobacco were passed from hand to hand, as elderly she-shaman spread cornmeal at the feet of new arrivals. Marijuana, Frankincense, cypress, rosemary- every treat for the senses wafted in and around the gathered throngs, all here to not only mark the beginning of a new world, but the peaceful, spiritual conclusion of the old one.
The celebration continued until high noon, when solsticial sunbeams pierced through a hole in the gargantuan capstone, striking a precise mark within the Guidestones. In the distance, a single gong sounded, its ring sustaining for a long, meditative moment.
On the next hilltop, the collected tribal chiefs spoke to the painted translator, who repeated their words in seven languages. In English, she said, “Only the bold, only the strong, have made this journey. Some died along the way. But a new world begins as the sun strikes its mark through the stone. Now take the words from these stones, and etch them forever onto the stone that beats within your chest.
As the gathered masses considered the 10 Guides in the stones, they also considered each other. Each face searched every other, each smile waited for another. Spirits rose along with the sweet scent of burning, smoky medicine. And when each hand had reached out and was taken, hope spread like the seeds of a dandelion to the four corners of the Earth, from a Blue Granite miracle that had withstood an age of madness, and ushered in an age of reason.
joey racano
11 28 09
The Georgia Guide stones, origin unknown
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and building the military, while the schools get cuts
Pointing their guns at the buns of nuns-
I received communion and it gave me the runs’
Nine Eleven, Bombs and Heaven by joey racano
‘We Will Never Forget’, said the giant idiot-scroll, held by 21st-Century Nazi’s who are too stupid to even know they’re fascists. Of course, these men with the small brains and matching penises were celebrating the soon-to-come trial of the supposed ‘masterminds’ of the horrendous attacks on the World Trade center that fateful morning in 2001. I mean, can these fat hairy budweiser-drinking slobs with the IQ’s of a bike rack at least get original? How many times has that slogan been used since Pearl Harbor? Of course, according to the shadowy ‘Project for a New American Century’, the 9-11 attack was supposed to be just that- ‘another Pearl Harbor‘. That’s a direct quote by the project’s architect, Paul Wolfowitz, who went on to head the World Bank (though the world screamed for Bono). Wolfowitz went further on to resign in disgrace from that post, along with other Bush/Cheney criminals who made bad, like John Bolton forced from the UN, and Bernard Kerick, former NYC Police Commissioner and candidate to head Homeland Security, who went to prison just a few days ago for Federal crimes.
The trials of the so-called 9-11 master minds will take place in New York at some date in the future in a civilian court, and prosecutors will seek the death penalty. But here at EarthSourceMedia, we hope that the real masterminds behind the events of 9-11 -and it’s use to steer America further to the right than the first turn on San Francisco’s Bay Bridge, will be tried as well. And we all know this was a plan championed by Dick ‘don’t take me duck hunting’ Cheney.
Let me put it this way- if you don’t know 9-11 was a set-up, an ‘inside job’, a put on, a crime by Americans against Americans, a plan to turn a free country into a 50 something-state prison, then you must be a product of the Catholic Church or the New York public school system. Friends, WE DID IT TO OURSELVES YO. Try to wrap your mind around that for a second- we blew up our own shit. And in the 9 years since, our citizens have been bombarded even harder with fear tactics, vampire movies, and pictures of black men alongside stories of heinous crimes they likely didn’t commit but will certainly be imprisoned for.
Even the very stupidest of us (Republicans, Democrats, NASCAR fans, religious people and the tea-bag crowd) know America has taken to kidnapping and torturing people- even killing some by crucifixion. And yet, where is that investigation? In Italy, 30 members of the CIA were found guilty of such crimes, tried in absentia, but that is little consolation to me. I want to see Bush, Cheney, Rumsfeld and the rest of those Nazi war criminals hung higher than a special forces team protecting an Afghan poppy field. However, it seems more likely that people who speak out, like moi, will suffer such a fate.
Just yesterday, a judge told lawyers for Valerie Plame she couldn’t use classified statements in her book, even though those statements had already been blabbed to the press. But the judge did say that an investigation might be appropriate for those who first blabbed- and that was Bush and Cheney. Valerie had been a US secret agent working against Iranian nukes during wartime, yet they revealed her identity to the press- wartime treason deserving of the firing squad! Now there’s a fund-raising idea! Can you imagine the deluge of requests to be on that squad? White gloves, drums, a last cigarette, and ka-pow!
Mr. Don’t forget man, can’t you see how polarized this is making the country? And if this weren’t Orwellian enough, now the Feds have taken over 4 Mosques and a 36 story skyscraper in downtown Manhattan! What frightening bullshit! So, it’s a crime to be a Muslum? It’s a crime to be Iranian? Why didn’t we seize any Christian churches? Those fuckheads have done more to hurt this country than a jesus-load of jet fuel ever will. And the smelly gorillas with the Don’t Forget sign want to try the Iraqi guys? People, please. If there is one crime in this world bigger than the whole Iraq invasion and subsequent kidnap- torture of world citizens by American leaders, that crime is being one of these assholes who won’t let the world forget - or heal.
Joey Racano, Editor, EarthSourceMedia
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All throughout the world of journalism, the internet revolution is forcing changes in the media terrain. For instance, the new version of the San Francisco Chronicle comes replete with shiny color pictures, even as Tribune newspapers are experimenting by not using Associated Press photos. Here at EarthSourceMedia, we hope to fuel such revolution, not only journalistically, but literally as well, simply by telling the truth when no one else will. Cred? You want to see our cred? ‘We don’t need no stinking credibility’ - you’d only threaten us with it! It is the opinion of our editorial department (me!) that with all the shit being done to Americans by America, everyone should be pretty pissed off by now. Pissed off enough to, say, revolt? Or at least piss in somebody important’s sun tea? I did. Go ahead, google it.
Anyway, let’s get to all the news that’s fit to spit:
San Francisco- According to a letter in yesterday’s paper, a mentally ill man is being prosecuted for entering a Grizzly Bear enclosure at the San Francisco Zoo, and the letter writer thinks it’s a waste of money. So do I- it’s obvious that the zoo should be prosecuted for animal cruelty for keeping creatures in cages. Zoo’s are nothing more than an excuse to destroy real natural habitat and a sane society would close them all down immediately.
Oakland, California- Ever wonder why EarthSourceMedia doesn’t have a sports section? It’s because we hate sports. We believe sports are for losers. Now, it didn’t used to be that way. This anti-sports venom began at the same time the nazi’s took over America, in 1994 when capitalism ate the World Series! Check the record books. In 1994 there was no World Series! The players went on strike, the season was over, and there was no fall classic. Have you watched any of these games and seen who the sponsors are? Budweiser! Telling twenty million children watching the series to drink beer? How fucked up is that!? %#$@!
But it all went to new heights in 2008, when UC Berkeley wanted to build a new football stadium for the Cal Golden Bears, and cut down an entire grove of Old Growth California Oak Trees next door, for an atheletic field. The area’s kids wanted none of it and they took to the trees, where they lived for about two years, causing an international introspection. What was important, the score or the Earth?
Well, as Alameda County Superior Court Judge Barbara J. Miller saw it in her September 2008 decision, it was the score, and she ordered the tree sitters removed, and the trees cut down. The activists tried to save even one tree in the end, but they cut them all down. How could the good judge be so heartless? We just don’t know, but it is our job to report that she was found dead at her Oakland home last Friday, likely by natural causes. In the interest of true justice, we here at EarthSourceMedia suggest a grove of trees be planted in her honor, and area dog owners bring their dogs to a ceremony to piss on them.
Fort Hood, Texas- Well, it’s finally happened. The soldier who shot 13 of his fellow soldiers (you know, the ones who drew a camel on his car and wrote, ‘camel jockey get out’?) ..well apparently, someone- maybe Dick Cheney- has connected him to 9-11! I knew it, I knew it. This is getting more fun than watching Jesus Camp! Here at EarthSourceMedia, we know it’s gotten hard to believe anything the US says about Swine Flu, election results, downer cattle, or people connected to 9-11, but there may be something to it after all. For instance, When George Bush and Dick Cheney kept saying the name Saddam Hussein in the same sentence as 9-11, it did actually become connected after about the 90th time they said it on TV. Mainly because American’s are a stupid. If you believe there are angels on your shoulder, a devil beneath the Earth’s crust, and a jealous ruler of the universe who wants you all to sing in a building together on Sunday, you’ve got to be very fucked up.
And gullible. And that’s the way they want you, so you can be the cattle who go to work and make the money to give to them so they can give it to all their friends.
Now that we ‘know’ Hasan and Hussein were ‘connected’ to 9-11, EarthSourceMedia has formed a list of others who also have been found with connections to that plot:
1. Richard Pryor…The comedian was heard to yell, “Ahallu Akbar” as he lit the crack pipe that burned his face.
2. Jerry Lewis…Jerry’s hidden muslim faith caused him to attend a terror camp where he planned to kill crippled people around the clock during his last telethon.
3. George Washington…The CIA has discovered the 9-11 plot actually had it’s beginning as a scheme dreamed up by our first President as he crossed the Deleware.
4. Phyllis Diller…The lady comic often spoke of a hubby named ‘Fang’ who the FBI says probably went to flight school with 9-11 terrorists.
5. Newt Gingrich…His ‘Contract with America’ was one part of the 9-11 plot to bring down America.
6. Rush Limbaugh…Rush’s part in the 9-11 plot was designed to create a nation of addicts through his radio show. The CIA and Columbia’s Uribe beat him to it.
7. Benji the dog….This covert canine wore a turban between movie shoots and once planned to blow up his trailer if food demands weren’t met.
8. All the contestants on ‘Survivor’…they were actually practicing to be the only ones left alive after the planes hit and started a nuclear war. Look close at the red wristbands they wear, affording them entry to Dick Cheney’s underground post-nuclear lair.
9. Bernie Madoff…his part was to become incarcerated to destroy America from inside the prison system, outward.
10. Jesus Christ…refusing to cut his hair (a sign of membership in the Taliban), this demigod whipped up a tremendous amount of fundamentalism during his brief stay on Earth, last seen glowing, floating, and speaking to someone invisible. Could have been wearing a head set. Connected to Al-Qeda headquarters. In Pakistan. On September 10th, 2001. Violated no-fly zone.
Well, that’s it for this episode of ESM- come back next time for more incredulous commentary on the incredible fall of the Roman- I mean American empire, as we loot brains, wallets, Somali fisheries and mid-eastern oil reserves. And don’t forget to sign over your kids when they want to enlist! After all, those ‘Modern Warfare’ video games won’t satisfy their blood lust forever, you know!
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EarthSourceMedia reports for Friday, November 6th, 2009
The Doctor is IN- Manchurian Psychiatrist
Fort Hood, Texas
Another beautiful day in the US Military- job security, respect, buddies, chores. And as a military psychiatrist, let’s face it, there’s always someone to work on, if you’re country is in one war after another. Ah, my office! Little birdies singing in the Juniper bushes out front, trickling water from the zen garden in the side yard, and the fresh flowers delivered in time for Turkey Day on my desk. Another beautiful day in the US military!
“Major Hasan?” asked the researcher.
“Please, call me Nidal, it’s so much more friendly”, he answered.
“Button your lip, Major! This is war, not a social networking date!”
“Yes sir, sorry sir!”
“Lie down on the uncomfortable bunk provided and answer these questions”.
“OK- how long is this going to take? I promised old lady huggins I’d take her to the PX to shop for stationary. She just loves to write to her grandchil-…”
“Major!! Atten, Atten- HUT!! Put a cork in it Major Hasan or I’ll have the Sargeant of Arms here put his boot so far up your ass you’ll be shitting baby shoes for a month is that clear Major?!”
“Sir yes sir- but, do you mind if I use the rest room first?”
“Dicipline Major, dicipline”!
“Yes sir!”
“Now- when I say a word, I want you to sing out with the first thing that comes to mind, do you understand that, Major Hasan?”
“Yes I do sir, and please, call me Naddie, everyone on base does.”
“Sargeant, kick this maggot in the face three times please!”.
“Yessir…uhh-uggh-UNgh!!”
“That’s better. Now do you have anything else to say, ‘naddie’?”
“….unnnh, no..no sir, I do not”.
“Very well. That will be all now Sargeant, just wait outside the door please.”
“OK Major- the first word is ’sniper’. Major, why are you smiling at the word sniper?”
“Well sir, sniper makes me think of window, and window reminded me that I forgot to fill the Hummingbird feeder. Thinking of those little hummers just puts a smile on my…”
“Silence! You little non-marching petty pansy! Get yer shit togetherrrrr!”
“Sorry sir.”
“The next word is ’skin graft’. Major, why are you smiling at the phrase ’skin graft’?”
“Well sir… being from Washington, I’m a huge fan of the Redskins, and I’ll be durned if it doesn’t remind me of just who the skins will draft in the first round picks this year! That Bobby whats his name from the University of-”
“ShutTheHellUp!”
“Yes sir”.
“Blitzkreig?”
“Shock and Awe, sir”.
“Patriot Act?”
“Umm…Hitler’s Enabling Act? King Georges ‘Writ of Assistance?”
“World Trade Center?”
“Riechstag Fire!”
“Good good- Rifle?”
“Shoot!”
“Excellent! Howitzer?”
“Explosion!”
“Nice! Bullets?”
“Gunshots!”
“Perfect! Now you’re getting there, soldier. Napalm?”
“Burning flesh!”
“Great! Gangrene?”
“Childhood puss-leg!”
“Family?”
“Target!”
Easter Bonnet?”
“Grenade!”
Sunday school?”
“Terror cell!”
Cheney?”
“Jesus!”
“Goats milk?”
“Kill mother!”
“Papparazzi?”
“Kill father!”
“Jello pudding?”
“Kill babies!”
“Swine flu?”
“Quarantine trouble makers!”
“Holy bible?”
“Burn Mosques!”
“Daisy?”
“Machine gun!”
(*click*)
“Major, what are you doing with that machine gun?”
(*cha-chuck*)
“Put that down right now! Wha- where What are you doing with all those bullets?”
“Brat-ta-tat-a-tat-a-tat!!!” “Bing pop pow boierrrr-pop pop pow BLAM!!”
Boom boom boom pop pop tatta tatta tatta POP POW BOOM!!!
Next day’s headlines- 12 dead, no one knows why- nice man- no sign of trouble- loved humming birds-
Well thanks for joining us here on ESM, stay tuned next time for, “Passing the Torture Torch…”
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And you thought the Edmond Fitzgerald had problems? The USS New York, a brand-spanking-new ‘amphibious transport dock’ ship cruised maliciously into New York Harbor Monday morning loaded with 7.5 tons of World Trade Center steel! The first thing that comes to mind is, “That’s heavy!”, but then, this is what you can call a ‘close encounter of the 9-11 kind’, the kind designed to erase your mind, to coin a phrase.
While it’s true the Edmond Fitzgerald carried a load of iron ore and this tub of shit is carrying only 14,000 lbs of cordite-melted steel from the biggest inside job ever pulled, the situation here is far more dangerous. This warship is a symbol, a symbol of hate, of American imperialism, of the supremecy of fossil fuel as the continued weapon of choice for mass destruction, and the all-out OK to keep sending kids to die over a big fat lie.
But we do educate those kids who fight and die for Cheney-pie; we sit them in front of violent video games for the first 12 years of their life, breed them into mindless, remorseless, heartless thoughtless killers, and it works, until they discover girls at about 13.
Then, after stewing in their own hormones for the next few years, at 17, they discover that they can become heroes and get laid real easy if they join the US military! Of course, this may entail losing your legs, eyes and killing a few so-called ‘Sand Niggers’, but- hey! The babes! The uniform! The babes!
Incoming!! Oops, off goes your nose and toes, but shit, if I can just hang on ’till furlough, that betty jones keeps sending me the hottest perfumed letters, practically begging for the ol’ ba-da-bing! Some things just never change. So, what can we do about it? Well, the first thing would be to make all junior high students watch the movie, ‘Johnny Got His Gun’. Remember that one? Dude came home from some fucking war with no arms, legs or face, but still alive. Couldn’t even tell anyone who he really was, and the whole movie is him dreaming about the little things, the sun, his sweet heart, oh yeah, and the nurse finally gives him a blow job. Poor guy, in the end she communicates via morse code and he keeps asking her to kill him. She finally tries, but is thwarted and fired. D-E-P-R-E-S-S-I-N-G!
I remember going home after seeing it, and laying in my room listening to ‘Just an Old fashioned Love Song’ by Three Dog Night. Hell, I still enlisted a year or two later! And boy was I sorry, when I went to the fleet and found out what a silly, pointless Micky Mouse operation it all was. But for me, Viet Nam was just ending, and I didn’t see combat. I sure as shit wouldn’t want to be a young guy today, about to be sold down the river by the good folks of the USA! A bloodthirsty lot.
Look bro, if you want to join anyway, do me one favor before you go- just get someone who supports the troops to promise that if you come back without use of your extremities, they’ll stay with you for the rest of your life to turn you over every two hours so you won’t get nasty bed sores. That’s what I call supporting the troops!
Then again, some folks are more like me- I tend to support kids and then young men, but the minute you sign up as a tool and a fool, as soon as you surrender your mind and consent to be blind, as soon as you swear off fun that doesn’t include a gun- I ain’t supportin’ shit! Put on the uniform the rich white man dresses you up in and we’re ka-putz bro. No crew cut Nazi fireman jerkoff friends for me, no my brother.
Why? Because I know dam well its gonna be you who pulls up in a troop carrier on my nieghborhood corner one day to set up the road blocks, thats why. Because you and your gun and your training and red white and blue brainwashing are all designed to enforce the rules of the extraction industry. And no thanks, I’m really not in the mood for your vaccine right now, thanks anyway though. What’s that? If I don’t accept the vaccine I have to get on that bus to the detention center in Arizona? Second ammendment, don’t fail us now!
As a native New Yorker, I’m appalled about the new ‘hate symbol ship’ being named the New York. Instead of World Trade Center steel, it should have been built from New Orleans Superdome steel!
As an environmentalist, I’m appalled the LA Times has a story on page 1 about birding in the East Sierras and another about war games in the East Sierras on page 6! That’s it really- the Earth or War.
And as a US Navy veteran, it makes me sick that you ask us to ‘never forget’ the violent events of war. Of course! If we forget, we might have peace and that wouldn’t work for you now would it?
You don’t have our best interests in mind. You don’t want us to be vigilant. You do want to enslave us.
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“Hi, everybody and welcome to the 2009 World Series, Phillies versus the New York Yankees, and here to throw out the first pitch is Marine Staff Sargeant Bilpowitz, who lost both arms in a firefight at a Fallouja checkpoint while wiping out a family of five. He’ll be aided by his wife sherry, who is set to deploy to Afghanistan right after tonights game, which is brought to you by ‘An-Gel’, the one toothpaste you can still take on a plane! As they say, ‘pick up some An-Gel and watch the Catholic girls go wild!”
(Sherry throws ball for hubby to loud applause)
“By the way, Sherry is looking for a baby sitter for the next 6 years, so if anyone…” (crowd roars)
“We’ll get to tonight’s pitching matchup in a moment, but first let’s welcome Vice Rear Admiral Kowalski from the Navy’s 7th Fleet, to sing our national anthem, accompanied by the 3rd Shock and Awe division military all-star band”.
“Oh, oh yes, I just got word from the booth we aren’t allowed to say the word ‘rendition’ on Direct TV”…
“And now for the Yanks it’ll be Derek Jeter, batting leadoff…Huh? Wha?…”
“Well fer christ sakes, I didn’t SAY Maddoff, I said LEAD off, and…”
“Oh, anyway, let’s pause right here to allow your local stations to identify themselves.”
(”You’re watching the 2009 World Series on Alcatraz Prison Network, brought to you in conjunction with Homeland Security Industries, specializing in containment as well as entertainment, confinement and mind re-alignment, pharmaceutacles, cubicles, happy-pills and shooting skills. We now return you to our regularly scheduled program”).
“Welcome back to the 2009 World Series Fall classic, where Alex Rodriguez has just doubled in two runs and at the end of 4 innings of play it’s all tied up…Huh? Wha..? Um, I’ve just been informed that during the Dick Cheney torture trial we can’t talk about being tied up on Direct TV. Anyway, as we head to the fifth inning, let’s all rise for the singing of, “God Loves America a lot more than those different-colored peoples countries”, to be sung by the lovely and talented Betsy-Ross Farmsworth, Petty Officer third class and distand relative of Betsy Ross of the flag-sewing fame.”
(sings song of ultra nationalism and xenophobia to the cheering throngs of poorly educated white men…)
“Now it’ll be the cleanup hitter for the Phillies, who hits one deep off the Yankee reliever, deep, way back, back back back back back back back back…and it’s over the fence, and it now appears to have struck the large 100 foot cross held by the statue of Richard Nixon out in the center field bleachers, and may have injured the man with the rainbow hair and JOHN:316 sign! Folks, we’ll be back after this- what a shot!”
(Baseball Tonight’ music)
“All right, it’s a Phillie lead as we go into the 7th inning stretch, and will everyone please rise and put your hands over your ears as the B-1 P117 stealth fighter bomber napalm missile launching depth charge dropping nuclear fissionmaster machine gunning fuel air explosive nuetron laser radio-scoppic armor piercing infra red heat seeking terror tracking bunker busting peace love harmony bringer does a fly over of Qual-ca-traz stadium please? You might want to use the ear plugs provided by the nice folks from ‘Keep-it-WHITE- Phosphorous company, and we do thank them”.
(foreboding jets of armaggedden streak across the sky, sucking in geese and spitting them out as down, sprinkling feathers over the crowd, who roar their approval…)
“With the bases loaded here and two out, game 1 pitch away from ending, let’s welcome Corporal ‘point-an-shoot’ Carter, as he sings a song from his wildly successful ‘More than a refugee to me’ album, friends, here’s Corporal Carter singing, “Blessed are the Bombs, if they’re red white and blue’”.
(low buzz over the Qual-ca-traz stadium)…
“Oh dear lord, you know you know its true
that the good folks of the USA are exceptional to you
and it’ll always be the one true truth, so give ol’ America it’s due-
the Joseph Goebells of today’s TV’
“Good evening and welcome to BBC America, join us on FaceBook and follow us on twitter! Today’s report is terror- in the form of H1N1, A.K.A., the swine flu. Now, no matter what you do, please don’t panic. Remain calm! Reports coming from certain elements now tell us the Swine Flu has spread through 20 states and 5 countries, killing 19 people- nearly as many people as those who died in drive by shootings last weekend in Los Angeles!
Should you be afraid? Well, in a word, yes. 90% of fatalities from H1N1 will be people under the age of 65! Now let’s go to the phones and take your questions. ”
“Hello, you’re on the BBC. What’s on your mind this evening?”
“%^$#! Fuc@ You, you stupid #!@%! Fuc&#!@!”
‘*click*’
“You can’t please everybody, now can you?”
“Hello, you’re on the BBC!”
“Uh yeah, isn’t it true that 90% of fatalities from drive by shootings are people under 65 too? Why you makin’ such a big deal about pig flu den?”
“Ahem, I’m afraid shootings in LA have leveled off, while the H1N1 has positively skyrocketed to 19.”
“Oh.”
“Thank you for calling. BBC you’re on the air?”
“Fu#! bitch#! you stu$@#! Fuc#!@ Mother fuc!@#!”
*click*
“Now coming to us by remote feed it’s Hillary ‘Secretary’ Clinton, ‘ello Hillary, ‘ow are you?”
“Im just fine, thank you”…I’ve just arrived here in Pakistan where things are going quite well..
I’d like to express my condolences to the families of the DEA agents who died when the drug lords on our CIA payroll had them killed and…
B-L-A-M! KA-BOOOOM!
“Im sorry, Im going to have to go now, but..”
“Hillary, are you ok?”
:Right this way Secretary”
“Yes, Im fine, (sklish sklish sklish) but I have to leave the scene, many were killed by a suicide (sklish sklish) oh thats disgusting”
“Watch your step Madam secretary”
“Oh, the humanity!” (sklish slop sklish)
“And now back to our broadcast. The swine flu is expected to go after children, so be afraid. We suggest you keep your sons indoors until , until, at least until we send them to fight in Afghanistan, or wherever the drug trade takes us I dare say”. Now please welcome our guest Joey Racano, Editor of upstart net sensation, EarthSourceMedia. Welcome Joey!”
“Thanks for having me. Y’know, it’s got me a bit puzzled why you sit there in front of an incredibly polluted Los Angeles skyline and tell people how dangerous the flu is. It’s common knowledge that smog decreases the lung capacity of inner city children, so why aren’t you warning us about the dangers of climate change and fossil fuel burning? How ’bout the melting glaciers and drowning Polar Bears?”
“Ah, you’re the crafty one, eh? Well I’m sorry we’ve about run out of time today but why don’t you come back someday and we’ll discuss this further…like…say, the next third leapyear in june or septober?”
“Thanks for coming folks, and here’s a word from our sponsors Chevron, Exxon, Ron’s Radon and Rainy Day Uranium. Thank you, and goodnight!”
‘Close your eyes and face the ocean. Feel the breeze. Curl your toes into the sand. Breathe in deep. Smell the salt, the history. Feel the wind bite your cheek. Hear the muted cries of the minions of the deep, the fish nations. The imperiled Whales, the leather-skinned sailors- all singing the song of the sea-siren’.
The ride to San Diego is always worth it, and last Tuesday was no exception. The golden hills of San Luis Obispo gave way to the windy passes of Gaviota, they in turn leading to the perpetual scent of burn in Santa Barbara, the coastal charm of Ventura, through to LAX Jets and the madness of L.A. At the refineries of Carson, a 5-story American flag commands us to introspect, as our soldiers die in far flung lands for the price of a gallon of gasoline and a hunger to be free.
Part of that freedom is the liberty to challenge, against all odds, the powerful, entrenched -and sometimes wildly popular and famous- who would see our precious Mother Ocean as a dump for rich industrial friends and the detritus of society.
The Camp
We arrived in Oceanside a day before the Coastal Commission meeting to find a good place to moor the biodiesel-powered RV, and came to rest ‘neath the waving arms of a California Pepper Tree. I wondered why a tree from Brazil was called Californian, and I also wondered why Governor Schwarzenegger was forcing the Coastal Commission to re-vote on the San Diego sewage waiver. After all, it had only been 54 days since the Commission voted a resounding ‘NO’ by an 8-1 margin. This was a new application by San Diego to keep dumping America’s dirtiest sewage into the ocean at Point Loma, but it was being heard without the 6 months wait required by law. Something just didn’t seem right.
The Meeting
When the meeting started, the con-man Mayor of San Diego sat in the hallway, nervously twiddling his fingers, and in through the door waltzed none other than California Secretary of Resources Mike Chrisman! This was big.
Arnold Schwarzenegger’s #2 man and Chair of the Ocean Protection Council, this was indeed a powerful presence looming over a meeting to re-decide the fate of the San Diego sewage-dumping waiver- a waiver being used to flush 200 million gallons a day into the ocean with no secondary treatment. Chrisman shook hands with all the bad guys, and it dawned on me he was up to no good! He joined the Coastal Commission in the back room for a closed-session, and it became abundantly clear that Arnold had sent him to this meeting to tamper with the regulatory process of the State of California, putting our ocean in grave peril!
Getting Active
I started snapping photos of the bad guys left and right, and Secretary Chrisman had angry words as I snapped his photo coming out of the backroom. “What’s that for?” asked Commissioner and Schwarzenegger appointee Steve Kram (who I later photographed throwing a cigarette on the street). I answered, “It’s for my huge e mail list!” with a smile.
San Diego Coast Keeper Bruce ’sugar ray’ Reznik twice threatened to hit me, catching himself in time to save his own neck. I kept snapping photos of him saying, “Yes, please hit me, please”. His lady Coast Keeper said, “I’ll hit you!”. They were quite shameful- there to support the waiver, and the money they get from the city to ’study’ alternatives.
Surfrider Foundation Lawyer Marco Gonzales had a wose display- surrounded by cute lady-lawyers, he put two middle fingers arrogantly in the air, expressing his contempt for the health of those who must surf in that water.
The good guys
The poor good-guy Coastal Commissioners could only sit back with blank looks, being forced to ‘vote again’ on an issue they knew was wrong. It was so corrupt, I had to re-name the Resources Secretary ‘Double Cross’ Chrisman!
In the end, even the heroics of Heal the Bay, who sent in Mark Gold himself, couldn’t save the rueful day, and this time the waiver passed, 8-4. A vulgar display of manipulation, and the losers were the surfers, the fishers, and people like me, who believed in Arnold.
Pollution, Epilogue
Mike ‘Double Cross’ Chrisman should resign as Chair of the Ocean Protection Council immediately. As for Arnold Schwarzenegger -who has tried to open our coast to offshore oil drilling, clear cut our forests with a phony cap and trade ruse, and now has tampered with the regulatory system to allow 50 billion gallons of sewage a year to continue being poured into the sea by San Diego’s con-man Mayor Jerry Sanders, -his ‘clean water ocean legacy’ is disgraced.
As for our merry band of ocean activists still intent on stopping that last sewage waiver in California? We’ve just begun to fight!
Joey Racano, Director
Ocean Outfall Group
our founder
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Tags: arnold schwarzenegger, ocean protection council, san diego, sewage waiver, mike chrisman, coastal commission, epa, ocean outfall group, joey racano, surfrider foundation, coastkeeper, sierra club, ocean, mlpa, marine reserve, marine life protection act, environment, ecology, california, scripps
