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As I type this, I wonder if WordPress is one of the dozens of online services that gives the United States Government full access to its clients through the Prism project. Well, regardless…

I got out of the habit of blogging to finish my last epub, ‘The Dark Djinn.’ It took a lot of focus and effort, since I did it while working two jobs and being a family man. However, it was pubbed on May 15th via Amazon.com, for Kindle readers. I always had a good feeling from Amazon. I’m glad to read that they are not participating in the NSA’s Prism project. Though, they may be lying about that.

I’m not sure what’s more disconcerting regarding the recent Big Brother revelations: The truth, or the lack of people upset about it. One thing is for sure: Edward Snowden is a hero. He’s one of at least a hundred thousand people who gave up cush-ass, guaranteed government job because he didn’t feel there was any payoff worth selling out his morals. Our worthless representatives like Feinstein and Boehner have recently called him a traitor. They are the traitors.

How are we going to react to the current scandal that shows no sign of retreating. The fact that all of our electronic communications are monitored and stored for use against us. Oh, jumping the gun, are we? Well, didn’t it seem odd that when the current administration needed to wash its hands of Petreaus, that they just happened to have come across a few emails on his Gmail account that showed he was having an affair? They never explained exactly how they found that out…But, yes, just as the Stasi in the good ‘ol DDR used constant surveillance to keep its citizens in line, this country, too, is doing – and will do – the same thing. Why? There is absolutely no reason not to, and nothing but incentive to do so. So, they will do it. If they can get away with it. Oh, but isn’t this ‘Murica? No, it’s not. The greatest threat to the thing that calls itself ‘Murica today is its own citizens.

So, what should ‘Muricans, those poor, deluded fools who still believe that their gubmint, if not their country, stands for freedom, do? There’s no place to run. There’s no place to hide. There’s an entire doomer prep industry out there, designed to make every individual ‘Murican feel like he can protect his family from the gubmint intruders, starving looters, zombie plague, etc. But the doomers who think every home is a fortress are idiots. Their preps just allay their fears. Without a community, without a social network (in real life, not Facebook), people have no resistance whatsoever against a common enemy. The only answer is that ‘Muricans must band together in communities. If they can’t turn off the TV, get to know their neighbors, start relying on the integrity of their neighborhoods, then they are all individuals waiting to be dispatched at will by the state. The state won’t even have to send a squad of black helicopters to their house with fast-roping thugs landing on their garden. The state will just call up their enemy’s employer, and say that he visits child pornography websites. Or racist websites. It doesn’t matter if those things aren’t true – if the state has backdoor access to his online ID, they can simply make it look like he did. Then that enemy of the state loses his job, and job prospects. So he loses his house. And his preps. And his guns and ammo. Maybe his family and friends, as well. Meanwhile, his neighbors, who only know him by sight – when he’s mowing his lawn – don’t even know anything happened.

But, if he was part of a community that had employers, who stuck by their own instead of what the state said, who had means of helping their fellow community members out through good times and bad, then, a man doesn’t need the state’s approval to survive. The state has to use harder tactics to get him – and others – to cooperate.

This is why traditionalists have to fight the state’s dictatorial powers, such as the surveillance scandals, while also taking flight – to their own communities. America today is little more than a prison system of 330 individual inmates, all dependent on the system to survive. It’s time for that to change. And it will change. Not with shots fired, as in some doomer’s stupid fantasy, but with fences opened between neighbors, and cohesive communities forming as a bulwark against the uber-bullies.


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Two Girls


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So Happy

so happy

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If you recognize that phrase, you’re probably familiar with the consipracies concerning how many shooters were used to take out JFK in Dealey Plaza.

It’s from the court case underpinning the 1992 Oliver Stone movie ‘JFK,’ and it’s referring to the fact that in the Zapruder film that documents the president’s shooting, his body jerks back, and to the left, and this motion supposedly proves that JFK was shot from the front right, since a bullet to the head from that direction would make his body go back, and to the left.

The problem with this assertation is that the same film showing him going back, and to the left, shows the front of his skull opening up at the moment of the strike:


The front of his head would only open up if struck from behind.

As for the bullet imparting its force on the President’s body, to make it jerk back and to the left, it wouldn’t. The bullet is traveling so fast that its passing through human skull and brain matter is almost inconsequential, it loses almost none of its kinetic energy in this act, but makes a lot of mist.

The reason the President jerked back and to the left was because of the instant seizure caused by massive brain injury.

The shooter was behind the President, and it was Oswald.


My first Kindle Novel: Mark of the Legion.

'Mark of the Legion' - available on Kindle.

‘Mark of the Legion’ – available on Kindle.

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Hiss: In a bad Nor’easter, when cold air and warm southern moisture mix above you, sometimes the snow comes down as hard, granular balls, it makes a ceaseless hiss, like pieces of copier paper being rubbed together.

Whisper: If the snow is light and fluffy, like down feathers, you can stand in the woods and listen to the whisper of millions of flakes settling to the ground, a whisper you have to hold your breath to hear.

Salt pour: When the snow stands in drifts of powder, the whipping wind left after the passing of the clouds makes the snow drift. And when the wind blows snow off the peak of a drift, the airborne snow makes a sound like salt pouring around inside a shaker when you tip it.

Kiss: When the snowflakes are fat and heavy – you especially see this in a March storm – they make a wet kiss when they land. When you stand silently in the woods, it sounds almost like it’s raining. And if you turn your fac to the sky, and one of the quarter-size drops hits your face, you’ll hear, and feel, the wet kiss of winter.

Thump: The sound when snow slides off tree branches, and plops to the ground with a hearty thump.

Rumble: When snow slides off a steel roof in one huge avalanche, it hits the ground with a house-shaking rumble.

Rasp: This is the sound of snow falling through dried-out, brown oak leaves still clinging to branches.

Sigh: The sound of a car traveling past your house, the sound of its tires muffled by the snow-packed road.

Plop-Hiss: When a snowball hits the polypropelyne shell of your winter jack, and then slides off.

Slurp: The sound of tires rolling through piles of slushy snow on the road.

Absolute silence: The lack of sound you hear, so profound that you hear your own heartbeat, when you’re deep in a snow cave or snow fort.

The quiet of the Storm: The rare, muffled silence you hear in a thick, heavy snowfall – even in a city – because the swirl of a billion snowflakes drowns the sounds of civilization.


My Kindle book, Mark of the Legion:

'Mark of the Legion' - available on Kindle.

‘Mark of the Legion’ – available on Kindle.

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Corporal Rod

corporal chevron

Corporal Rodriguez was a Marine I knew when I lived in the Henderson Hall Barracks, adjacent Arlington National Cemetary.

Every coal-black hair on his head was trimmed in a perfect part, no longer than three inches on the bangs. His face was as hard and evenly balanced as a throwing axe. His black eyes leveled on you like the iron sites of a rifle. His smile was as broad and white as a field of freshly fallen snow. Rod was made of muscle fiber and perfect teeth, like beef jerky and Chicklets.

Corporal Rod slept in his uniform and his shoes – his ‘charlie’ uniform, which in the Marine Corps, is a khaki blouse, olive-drab trousers, and leather (or faux-leather plastic) shoes.

Whenever I went to his room in the early morning to get his roommate, who I was friends with, to go PT, Rod would lying on top of his perfectly-made rack. He slept on his back, supine, arms and legs spread slightly so as not to fold his clothing.

Sleeping was almost the only time I saw Rod. He had to go to sleep prepared to get up immediately, because Rod only slept three hours a night – maximum. The other 21 hours of the day, minus whatever time he spent at the office where he worked, in the Marine Corps Recruiting Command, were spent with, on average, eight to twelve beautiful women, none of whom had any idea any one of the others existed in his life.

He was also a dancer at a male review. My friend, his roommate, went there one night with Rod. He said the sea of females screaming for him and the other dancers was the most frightening thing he’d ever seen.

Corporal Rodriguez was a busy man.

Only once or twice did we see his girlfriends at the barracks. The women he dated were so intensely beautiful that they walked through life with the kind of look on their faces that told you they really couldn’t believe how good they had it. These were girls so frighteningly attractive that they’d knock you speechless. Every single Marine in the barracks would stop and stare at these girls, sometimes with their jaws open. The only person not looking at them would be Rod. But when he did, they’re expressions would gain focus, as if they were grounded more to him than they were the Earth itself.

This was back in the mid-90’s. No one had a cell phone yet. So, whenever I was at my friend’s room, where Rod inevitably wasn’t, the phone would ring, and the answering machine would pick up. Nineteen times out of twenty, it was a call for Rod from a girl, asking where he was, asking why he wasn’t picking up, asking when they would meet…

One day, my friend and I were playing a video game, and the phone was going off non-stop. Then, we heard one message that stood out:

“Rod, if you don’t call me, daddy says he’s not giving you that Viper.”

My friend and I looked at each other. Could she really be talking about a Dodge Viper, a $50,000 sports car?

Not ten minutes later, Rod came in through the door. It was about midnight – he was knocking off early. We immediately asked him what the story was with that call.

He laughed as he sat on his rack and kicked off his shoes. “Oh, that bitch? He dad owns a dealership and wanted to give me a car, or something. But, &%#$ her.”

He fell back on the rack, and fell unconscious.


Kaiheitai’s epic war novel: Mark of the Legion

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Indian food at CVS

So while walking through CVS to get medicine the other day, and by medicine I mean some cheap beer, I grabbed a plastic jar of Indian food off the shelf. Heck, it was only a dollar. And, by Indian food, I mean crackers with ranch-style flavoring. Mmmm.

You see, they’re made in India. I didn’t know that until I started eating them, and I thought, “This is the worst imitation of imitation ranch-style flavore dust I’ve ever tasted on a cracker.”

So, I looked at the plastic jar. It was made by someone called ‘Global Brands,’ and beneath that was printed, ‘An Imported Fine Product.’ This name conjured up vague images of the New World Order taking over our food supply, so I looked on the back. “Product of India.” It also said that the contents might have settled while shipping, and that if it doesn’t look full when opened, that’s why.

I went to their website, but it looked like an empty storefront.

Learning that I’d just eaten food manufactured between 17,500 and 21,500 miles from where I was enjoying it, I naturally wondered how long it took to go from production to my mouth. It didn’t say when the crackers were made, but it advised me to enjoy them before 06.27.2014. The fact that they actually wrote out ‘2014’ instead of just ’14’ made me wonder if these things were so well preserved that my great-great-grandchildren, should they somehow come across a jar of this crap, might accidently eat them in the early years of the 22nd Century.

Anyway, I guess I’m really wondering how one turns a profit by putting crackers in a plastic jar and sending them, literally, across the globe, so they can be stocked and sold for $.99. Is this why Hostess went out of business?

I’m not completely against the idea of eating Indian crackers, but if I’m going to eat Indian food, can’t they at least give me nom bread crackers? How about curry crackers? Are people in India looking at the ranch-style flavored dust and thinking, “Wow, we’ve been eating curry our entire lives? Ranch dust, where have you been?

I guess I feel a little guilty, having polished off my Global Brands crackers. Such a concept is anathema to my wife’s outlook of eating locally. And thinking globally. I’m eating globally, and thinking locally about my desire for ranch dust. I like eating locally. I guess. Actually, I don’t care. I’m pretty sure my genetically-modified pig grown in Laconia is going to taste like my genetically-modified pig grown in… Botswana, for example. Yes, I know, I should care. It wastes resources to fly ranch dust and other semi-edible foodstuffs around the world. But, I’m not that good a person. Since my wife does all the shopping, except for my occasional splurge on Indian food, I let her be good for me.

Anyway, if I go into the CVS and can’t find Chinese twinkies next week, I’m going to complain to the head of Global Brands.





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