Sunday, January 13, 2019

Dear Rush

I think you're capable of understanding, so I'll lay it out in simple terms. There is no divine right of incorporation. Voting doesn't change that. Exhorting folks to vote differently will not change it. People always vote their wallets. Fifty percent of workers are directly or indirectly employed by Federal, state, local, utility and school district governments -- all of which are "fictitious legal persons," no different than corporations. The unemployed get free food and medicine from government. Social Security and Medicare recipients are paid far more than they paid in. Medicaid is a free ride for every wetback and anchor baby, every heroin addict, meth head, gang banger, and their SNAP sucking extended families, who are motivated to vote more unearned "rights" supported by taxation -- free lawyers, frivolous appeals, prison doctors, food, exercise, education, charity, and parole supervision, unless they're deported at taxpayer expense to repeat the whole idiotic cycle of catch and release again.

U.S. military veterans atone for killing foreigners by milking us twice, lifetime benefits and public salutes. Remind me, please, what's the purpose of exploring Jupiter's moons, landing another robot on Mars, or flying past Pluto? How many millions of children get free breakfast, lunch, and dinner served by schools that do not and cannot discipline or educate them?

There's no easier path to power than being born black, becoming a community organizer, a teacher, a pro athlete, a must-hire academic, a paper pusher enforcing affirmative action, or an ugly thug chanting rap. Jews don't have the problem of community organizing. Jews own you, them, and us. Jews don't worry about skyrocketing drug deaths, homelessness, suicides, migrant caravans, pot consumption, gaming, pornography, binge viewing, or social media  -- fatal goy dissipations that are cash flow positive for Jewish bankers and media barons.

How is it our permanent duty to guarantee the security of Israel? Japan? Korea? We support dictators and Islamic honor killing in Saudi Arabia, Egypt, Pakistan and Afghanistan, throw big bucks at corrupt Haiti, Iraq, Columbia, Mexico, Uganda, and South Sudan. We have troops in 120 countries, 3.4 billion square feet of Federal government structures, plus 230,000 state and local offices, schools, hospitals, jails, and higher ed lecture halls. Total national public debt is never discussed. States, localities, and their utilities owe nearly as much as the Federal folly, measured in tens of trillions, with hundreds of trillions in unfunded obligations. If interest rates were allowed to float to an historic average, say 4%, it would kill leveraged con artists from sea to shining sea, halt shale drilling, mortgage lending and construction. We're paying farmers not to farm, bureaucrats to party in Vegas, students to stop free speech, and TSA to paw infants, cute chicks, and frail white grandmothers. FBI field agents reported that Saudi diplomats financed Saudi commandos who trained to fly jets in Florida, and did nothing to stop them. Russia warned the FBI about the Tsarnaev brothers. They were interviewed and cleared, no different than the Orlando gay nightclub jihadi. Comey and Mueller had much more important work to do, protecting the Clintons and investigating Trump.

Face it. All of it, every bit of it, was the handiwork of democracy. There was no definition of justice provided in our allegedly sacred corporate charter repeatedly amended by legislation and judicial fiat. In the Legal Tender Cases over a century ago, common law was burned and buried, so that legislators could do whatever they pleased, and they were pleased to rob their neighbors' purses, to hand out loot that they did not earn, and to pledge more theft in the future to satisfy foreign lenders and future entitlement beneficiaries, perpetuating a preposterous ponzi racket, stage managed by Goldman alumni and K Street lobbyists.

There is no divine right of incorporation, certainly not as a carnival sideshow led by crooks and liars. If I was Donald Trump, I'd say to hell with it and quit. I'll ghostwrite a resignation tweet: "It was stupid to reelect evil rats like Pelosi and Schumer. You're fired, America."

I appreciate that you've achieved a lot. I listened to your radio show since the 80s, watched your short-lived TV show, and I'm okay with your trademark bombast about "talent on loan from God" and "excellence in broadcasting." Arguably, the Tea Party could not have come into being without dittoheads, although it was Rick Santori who kicked it off. A lot of folks were prominent players, especially Roger Ailes, right?

Too little, too late. We went to hell on 9/11.

Big surprise, huh? Cantor Fitzgerald was targeted. Nobody asked why. The secret Cheney Energy Commission had already chosen Iraq as a strategic plum, and it was easy to convince dumbshit George W. to blame Saddam, a former ally given battlefield chemical weapons. Mossad ginned up "evidence" of yellowcake and aluminum tubes. No curiosity why Exxon and Halliburton needed Iraqi oil, or why Saddam had invaded Kuwait because they were drilling horizontally, or why Arab clerics led commandos to attack Cantor Fitzgerald twice, starting with the garage bombing in 1993, payback for Harry Truman's creation of Israel and deployment of American power to defend legally indefensible Zionist conquest of Palestine. The successful Islamic revolution led by Khomeni proved that American oil companies could be ejected and CIA "royal" pawns dethroned.

Look, I understand entertainment, especially comedy. You had a winning package, hilarity and jingoism, snarky sarcasm and triumphal flag-waving patriotism. It made you rich and famous, an asset to the entrenched ruling class in Houston. Swell for you, sewing together evangelical Born Again boobs and easily-led boomers who wanted government off their backs and out of their bedrooms. Care to explain how Obama won two terms and killed the health insurance industry, ignited race riots, and launched a murderous Arab Spring?

You, more than anyone else, were personally responsible for the murder of millions, waste of trillions in Iraq and Afghanistan, chaotic tomfoolery that destroyed the Republican Party, and the meteoric rise of populist savior Donald Trump. Happy about that, are you? It's about to explode, another Limbaugh laugh riot gone rotten, excellence in cheap entertainment, playing pattycake with a frightened, angry middle class who think that a bankrupt sovereign corporation and comedy will make them prosperous and safe again. It won't and can't.

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Brother can you spare a half a million?


Okay, I'm old, in poor health, probably uninsurable. So was John Huston when he made The African Queen. Directors are cocooned and pampered by producers, assistant directors, unit managers, drivers, script girl, and a personal assistant. There's always food and coffee on the set, always a place to lay down and rest between set-ups. I know the material inside out. I don't need big stars or special effects. We'll shoot in Vancouver or Colorado or Texas to pinch pennies and put more money on the screen, earn a fat tax incentive by hiring local people. It's not rocket science. Gritty action and boy meets girl is the easiest genre to shoot, also the easiest product to sell internationally. There's money in the budget to debut at a festival and screen 35mm prints in L.A., London, and New York, to hook a distributor. I'm perfectly at ease with actors and crews, editing, rerecording, scoring, color timing, and final mix. Screenplay was copyright protected at the Library of Congress, and I'll throw in four novels with the same characters for a sequel or television series. Nice franchise, a modern Nick and Nora Charles.

Classic TV

This morning at the general store, five of us sat around a pot belly woodstove, folks like me, in their late 60s and early 70s, talking about old shows that were playing on cable and digital subchannels. I was embarrassed when they asked me which shows I liked to watch. I said that I didn't use television, worked in TV and had enough of it. I didn't want to explain that I saw every camera angle, every lighting set-up, every dolly move, cut, continuity error and stunt double, and knew that the voices were looped in post, mixed with sound effects, music, and idiotic laugh tracks on unfunny punchlines.

Surprisingly, plain folks in Missouri had excellent taste in classic TV. They talked about Perry Mason, Rockford, Rawhide, and Have Gun Will Travel -- shows and characters that influenced me deeply. It was generally agreed that the Waltons were cloying and unreal, Bonanza best when they gave Hoss a comic encounter with leprechans. I explained that the entire series including the Cartwright house exteriors and gunfights were filmed on sound stages, but the fire chief was convinced that a real log house existed. He had seen a newspaper report that said it had been sold. I shrugged politely, knew that it was a replica Bonanza tourist trap in Lake Tahoe that went out of business.

They remembered Captain Kangaroo and Romper Room, Gunsmoke, The Wonderful World of Disney in color. I thought of Sherri North and Lamb Chop (Kukla, Fran and Ollie) and a Chicago series that was carried in Milwaukee when I was very small, Ding Dong School. Miss Frances rang a big brass bell in her hand and taught us about baking cookies, cleaning up the bowl. I was a sucker for The Muppets as a young adult, preferred it to Monty Python's Flying Circus. Brits made horrible television, except for astoundingly gorgeous Diana Rigg in The Avengers and oddly realistic mechanical special effects in Thunderbirds.

TV was a shared culture that transcended time and space, never forgotten, and they were glad that much of it is still being broadcast on channels called Cosy TV and others that I forgot on my way back to the barn with a little sack of balogna and bread, an onion and cigarettes. Not a very healthy diet, but it might be a long while before I get another royalty check. The last time I watched TV in a hotel room, I burst into tears because BYU-TV played Frank Capra's Mr. Smith Goes To Washington, and I saw it first frame to last. There are no such films today. Wholesomeness and innocence have been discarded.

My friends at the general store were worried about what would happen when the Democrats took over -- not just the House, but the Senate and President in 2020 or 2024, which seemed inevitable, angry people with an agenda to destroy the peaceful, prosperous simple life that everyone cherished. John Kennedy was mentioned as an example of a conservative leader who cut taxes and forced the Russians to remove their missiles from Cuba, the last time that a Democrat did something right and good and paid for it with his life. All of us remembered as schoolchildren the day John Kennedy was killed, merged in time with happy memories of Lassie, McCloud and Columbo.

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Curses, foiled again

Well, hell. I didn't die in my sleep and had a bunch of weird dreams. I convinced Nancy Pelosi to allow me to make a movie during her Parade of Triumph with two thousand nicely dressed middle class victims on a nice summer day. I improvised a bunch of silly scenes with amateurs who agreed to do Fellini-style comedy gags, and when I pushed an elevator button in a hotel, the door was opened by a prosperous Jewish lawyer and his girlfriend. It wasn't an elevator, it was his apartment. I apologized, explained the mistake and persuaded him to produce the movie. I demonstrated why it would cost $5000, visualizing a mile-long strip of 16mm that had to be edited. He seemed intrigued, so I went to get my 3rd wife and her boyfriend, all of us penniless, said we were going to see a movie at a theater somewhere in London which always confuses me because it's in the future and twice as big and twice as poor as present. I told them to sit in a restaurant, I'd be right back after I found the cinema.

Sure enough, I was on the wrong street, no movie house. Then the dog started barking on his chain outside and NPR was broadcasting choral crap (in reality). I was awake and went out to discover that my 4th wife's stupid dog was at the door, had raided my shihtzu's food bowl again, and was happy to see me (in reality). I yelled at her and told her to go home. Another day with nothing to do, another morning to blow my nose, cough, wash my face, brush my teeth, smoke cigarettes and eat Oscar Mayer when I think I'm ready to deal with it again.

Maybe I'll ford the creek on foot and walk a mile and a half to Carol's house, move a log that's blocking a spot in the forest where she wants to park her truck, the solenoid of which had finally been fixed by a shade tree mechanic after a two month delay for no reason.

Yesterday, I waited four hours to do carpentry without doing any, while my dysfunctional clients, a brother and sister, quarreled with each other. I declined the opportunity to eat a splendid chicken dinner with them and walked home in the dark to liberate my dog. I had left him locked in the tin barn for his own safety. We have owls as big as flying elephants, packs of hungry coyotes on the hunt for fluffy little shihtzus.

Scanning my eight available FM channels in the barn, Janet Mefford called Donald Trump a disrupter-in-chief, hurrying the End Times. Reminded me of an AFR interview with a writer who was visiting Saudi Arabia, had sold 10 million copies in a popular series of novels about the End Times. Very respectable, calm and confident about his place in the world. I switched to a Salem broadcast hosted by Eric Metaxas. His guest explained that, despite the doctrine that Jesus was descended from King David, Joseph wasn't his biological father. God was.

Excuse me. I have to trim my shihtzu's feathers. They grow and grow and grow, and I have to scissor some matted tangles between his legs, not something he's pleased to let me do.

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The famous

I'd rather not discuss the abject assholes I've encountered, like Tibor Machan, Paul Schrader, Tom Brokaw, and David Copperfield. Most of the famous were wonderful.

Chrissie Hynde, so lovely, so lively. Mickey Stevenson, Fred Williamson, Janet MacLachlan, and Edwin Starr were surprisingly fun to work with. Alejandro Rey and his friend Stacy Keach inspired and illuminated my creative career. Producers Howard Kazanjian, Al Ruddy, Tony Scotti, and John Lamb gave me important encouragement as a young filmmaker. I wish I could have said something more cheerful to Zappa and Spielberg. I had no reason to be cheerful with The Gipsy Kings. I was backstage to enforce their contractual obligation to me. I wanted to strangle their French manager. I never had any luck with Frenchmen. Christian Bourguinon stuck a knife in my back, although it was worse to be kneecapped by Striesand's hairdresser, Jon Whatshisface, because I wasn't spending enough money.

Without Gerald MacCallum's guidance, I could not have undertaken an intellectual quest of much depth. Without Peter Stringfellow, I could not have spent time with Mel Gibson twice, a dinner together at Stringfellow's nightclub, then in Charlotte Street the next day. I took him to a natural food joint, ate thick avocado, cheese and sprout sandwiches together, and I had little to say while he signed autographs for blushing chicks. Mel was at the zenith of his fame, rerecording Hamlet at the time, looping his voice and coaching the other actors, everybody in headphones at a studio. Always has to be done. Production sound while shooting is a guide track, sounds fake and amateur, lots of unwanted atmos. Rerecording a movie takes a week or so, if it goes well. Other people add sound effects and music, mix it in six channel Dolby.

There were numerous B list actors, actresses, singers, dancers, and musicians whose names you might not recognize, but they were at the top of their professions in Holland, Germany, and Australia. I came within a mile or two of success with Kubrick, and many Brits gave me vast resources and privileges. Somewhere in heaven, Leonard Zrnick is smiling.

I tried and failed to save Herman Brood. Someone should put poppies on his grave in salute to a great heart and soul, rock and roll junkie.

It was a huge honor to encounter Margaret Thatcher, interesting to film Helmut Kohl, a pain to write fulsome praise for dumbshit George W., and embarrassing to witness 41 fumble at a NATO summit. People often mistake physical stature for depth, which reminds me of smiling con artists Nathaniel Branden and Emmett Miller. The Grateful Dead were as manly as female mental patients. G. Gordon Liddy's vanity was tiresome, and Wink Martindale was positively scary. No sane person is quite that mechanical, unless he's selling Kirby vacuum cleaners door to door, enthusiastically spilling dirt on your living room carpet.

I envied Rob for hanging out with Sonny Bono and Slim Pickens. It was sad to meet tortured clowns like Robin Williams, Norman Wisdom, and Jonathan Winters, a delight to work with Orlin Grabbe, an intellectual giant and frequently funny. When beautiful Rosemary Forsythe married a restaurant owner, I saw an exquisite flower cast aside and trampled by Hollywood. 'Poison Dwarf' Charlene Tilton was one of the happiest moms on earth, and it was a privilege to show the world her private joy. It took a long time to convince her to open up. Lon Satton was such a ham, there was no point in looking under the hood. Ditto Ben Vereen. There is something fundamentally screwy about Broadway song and dance men.

TV execs Roone Arledge and Van Gordon Sauter should have been assassinated, but no one gets everything we want in life. Few cardsharps did more harm than opaque Alan Greenspan, however it was impossible to kill someone in a short phone conversation.

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Third passport expired

I lived and worked overseas 15 years, long stretches in Western Europe, Central America, and Oz, shorter stints elsewhere, interrupted by Rand McNally road trips and cheap apartments coast to coast. Libya was the worst three months of my life. California was a close runner-up for awfulness, ten or twelve times. Money talks, bullshit walks, and ¯Nobody walks in L.A. The last time I toured the Golden State, I went $2200 in reverse for no good reason.

I felt at home in northern Nevada, 90% white, but hard to make a living. No desire to go back to the East Coast or Texas or the Rust Belt again. Scotland had the treasure of warm hearted people, excellent whisky, snooker tables, and the tragedy of unemployment, horizontal ice storms, and frightful menus. I don't know what to say about Holland and Belgium. Superb food, good ganga, generous friends, talented crews, nice spas. I lived and worked in Holland many years, more than once, shot some of my best work there. Hard to get paid by the Jews of The North, as they call themselves and laugh. They're not Jewish, that's the punchline.

Still trying to figure out the place I liked best. Certainly not France or Germany. I did a lot of work in England, terrific production crews and facilities, terrible transport, awful food, even in the best restaurants. English hotels were astoundingly bad, English apartments stupid.

Hmm. I'll have to check the map again. Costa Rica was tranquil and beautiful and dangerous, lived there a long time, multiple escapades. Australia is the Lucky Country. I lived in Perth a couple years, did my first professional film production work 25 years earlier in Sydney. Same problem with awful Pommy food, reinterpreted Down Under. Indonesia was bizarre. Worse food than Libya, worse dictatorship than Libya, worse air transport than Libya. Islam corrodes everything it touches, lethal intellectual poison when it's mixed with Javanese mysticism.

I kept returning to Colorado, but the cost of living skyrocketed. My favorite landmark in the mountains and prairies is an ugly one horse town in Utah, a bittersweet joy to visit. No jobs or business opportunity in Helper, but there's authentic Gilded Age decorations and fixtures in a spacious, high ceiling coffee shop that was a thriving hardware store 100 years ago. Excellent coffee. Beat the birkenstocks off Boulder and shames sniffy Wamego. In 1993, I was driving a '78 Chevy van that had a weak cylinder, routinely fouled a sparkplug and stole compression. The only place open in Helper was an auto parts store. The owner unlatched the van engine doghouse, reached into a difficult spot on a hot V8, and changed the plug. I worried what it might cost. At the counter in a sparsely stocked shop, he used a calculator to figure out how much I owed with tax ... $3.76 for a sparkplug. People are just, damn it, decent in Helper. I went back to Helper whenever I could, always saw something new that was there all along, like the snowplow engine that was twice as tall and twice as long as a normal locomotive, parked on a section of track that went nowhere, rails rusting slowly underneath it.

Luxembourg funded me twice, has the best pastry on earth, but they speak French and have strict rules about residing there, unless you're an EU bureaucrat. Singapore was astoundingly gorgeous, totally fascist, hard to qualify for a work visa, and I didn't want to live there.

I liked Denmark, notwithstanding thick ice and steep drifts that made fools of an IPCC global warming conference and hundreds of frozen street protesters. The downside in Copenhagen was molasses slow bureaucracy and insane rules about household trash. I had to use a key to open a tiny porthole outdoors to shove in little bags containing eggshells and used coffee filters. There was a cabin for empty wine bottles, thousands of them. Food was so-so, much of it from Africa and South America. Nice neighborhood bakeries. My daughter selected what seemed to be a chocolate ice cream bar from the freezer at a corner store, took one bite and spat it out. It wasn't chocolate. It was ice cream covered in black licorice, a Viking treat.

All things considered, I like the Ozarks best. No building codes, wild and free, huge pastures and forests that are always changing with the seasons. Strong neighbors. WalMart vittles and paper products, low taxes, nice county officials that you can count on one hand, oodles of decency, stacks of split firewood in winter. Cows say moo. Coyotes howl at night. Very little traffic on gravel roads. A great place to think and write novels. 100% white, a garden of Eden with burn piles in calm weather, fresh tomatoes, potato patches, hot chainsaws and rifles.

Good enough place to die.

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Sunday, January 6, 2019

just take me away

I'm not ungrateful for the gift of life, nor the possibility of success some day in the distant future, but I'd much rather pass away quietly in my sleep tonight. It's been too long a wait to be discovered and rewarded, too miserable and frustrating to deal with another cold night, nothing recognizably sane on the BBC. No car, no phone, no internet, no cash.

I cough 1000 times a day, maybe more. If I lay on my left side, it wracks and chokes, gasping for air. I run through tissues like an army of rats building a Kleenex city, three boxes a week, a costly expense item second to dog food for my shihztu and cigarettes. Vaguely human vittles for me comes third, Oscar Mayer and stale bread for breakfast, lunch and dinner seven days a week. I had to punch two new holes in my belt. Never any chicken, no orange or cranberry or grapefruit juice, no eggs or hamburger or cornflakes or pizza. Prisoners have a better diet. I cut my own hair with a scissors, looking in a distorted plastic mirror.

I can't kill myself, because I don't want my daughter to suffer that. It has to be natural causes, something as polite as stroke or heart failure.

There's nothing further to write after eight novels, a dozen nonfiction books, two decades of forum posts, essays, short stories and screenplays, a new theory of justice and a constitution, video lectures and radio interviews, a long trail of work-for-hire in print, original work on film and pro tape. No man has had more opportunity to be heard or less recognition. I shouldn't complain. Two pals gave me flattering book reviews last year. Amazon paid me $24. I earned five hundred doing carpentry and day labor. Nice neighbors gave me an old jacket and rubber boots to ford the creek after a drenching thunderstorm. More than once, I've had a surprise meal delivered in Tupperware, leftovers from a feast that I did not attend. Old hippies shared pot on occasion. I can't remember the last time I sat in a restaurant, slept on clean sheets in a hotel room, used a credit card to buy gasoline, a Coke, or an airline ticket. I'm ready to die.

There's a tombstone page that a friend hosted yesterday.



Thursday, January 3, 2019

Okay, fine.

I accept that I'm going to lose during my remaining lifetime. Jews, blacks, gays, bureaucrats, media marionettes, mystics, and man-haters will win. That does not, however, make them victors, destined to rule forever. To grab the levers of legislation and starve our women and children today or tomorrow proves nothing. Love of liberty will never die, and the bloody hands of socialism will wither and crack, poisoned by their own evil.

The next century will be mine (and every freeman's).

Political struggles are measured in centuries. For thousands of years, men were ruled by a cabal of incoherent priests and absolute monarchs. Science consisted of devising weapons, no different than Raytheon. Architects built sacred temples and artists painted fantasies, no different than the Kennedy School of Government, the Kennedy Center, and Marvel comics depicting verklempt, altruistic superheroes who do not and cannot exist in reality. All of it is a stupendous bluff to keep men cowed and dreamy, engineered by Democrats, praying for another Kennedy dynasty to be celebrated and immortalized and worshipped as airbrushed cartoon superheroes. The Clintons attempted it. Obama succeeded.

Against this, lone heretics like Spinoza and Voltaire spoke simple truths, not addressed to those in power, but to freemen who would follow in the future. Their wisdom powered our Gilded Age, a brief interval in American history that spawned an industrial society of factories and railroads, an explosion of opportunity and wealth. Government was nearly disbanded. Authority was ridiculed by Thomas Edison, an uneducated orphan who became an engine of useful inventions like stock tickers and multiplex telegraphy, audio recordings and motion pictures, electric illumination and magnetic separators. Another orphan, Philo T. Farnsworth, walked away from the imbecility of Mormon fantasy and created television. A pair of bicycle mechanics made powered flight a new goal to inspire generations of aerospace engineers, and another loner who tinkered with motor cars pioneered mass production and made it possible for farmers to retire their horses and mules, merchants to deliver goods in remote locations. We owe him our very lives, because medicine and surgery were freed from a cage of isolation and ignorance. An impoverished Polish chemist discovered radium and led the way to modern physics, sustainable space exploration, and nuclear powered submarines. A penniless Scot came to America in the Gilded Age, organized efficient steel production and endowed lending libraries to lift the veil of superstition.

My job was simple. I followed a lead that Benjamin Franklin bequeathed, to liberate lawyers and judges from the sewer of political appointments. I took James Otis literally, that an act of legislation, no matter how popular, was void if it violated the principle of equity. It's a grim indictment of American culture how badly that term has been twisted by Democrats. It does not mean "social justice" or seizing wealth from those who earned it.

As the Gilded Age enabled us to enjoy material prosperity 100 years ago, it will come to pass 100 years hence, when men are free to colonize space, that another stake will be hammered into the black heart of government. You'd think it would be obvious today that legislation is a moral, financial, and social trainwreck, destroying everything and everyone that it attempts to transmute, no different than medieval alchemists and deluded Crusaders. Seizure of our liberty as pioneers and experimenters is an illusion, a bad bluff that evaporates when we give them nothing, no votes, no respect, no taxes, not a single word of debate in their rigged law courts, and ignore their vapid academic entreaties to kneel at the altar of obedience.

Voltaire and Spinoza showed us the path forward. James Otis was physically attacked and maimed by tax collectors, inspiring a revolution that dethroned a king and freed us to walk away from a distant and corrupt Parliament, vainglorious figureheads and manipulators of rotten boroughs, no different than today's "community organizers" in bullet riddled Chicago and Baltimore, gutted ruins of formerly prosperous producers of plenty. California was an unrivaled industrial giant, home to aircraft engineering, shipbuilding, and oil exploration, highly skilled and highly paid employment. Gone, all of it, the rotten borough plaything of Democrats and ghetto thugs chanting murderous doggerel to unemployable incompetents who suck the swollen teats of a bankrupt welfare state and sell drugs to school children.

Give them nothing. Find a new frontier to explore.

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Executive cover art

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