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The Pickford Word

Dear Reader:  Some of our blogs may contain offensive language-- unlike so many blogs, wherein it is the quality of writing which offends the sensibilities.

Standing Tall by Kneeling Down

9/25/2017

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by Meg Langford


Do you remember John Crawford?  Probably not.   Almost nobody does.  But Andrew Hawkins remembers him.  Andrew Hawkins was a wide receiver in the NFL who played for the Rams, the Bengals, and the Browns.  And somewhere in the middle of all that, he managed to graduate from Columbia with a Master's Degree in sports management---and he did it garnering a 4.0.  Talk about stats.


And Hawkins remembers John Crawford.  Just as he remembers Tamir Rice.  

You might say that Andrew Hawkins started this whole "kneeling during the Star Spangled Banner" kerfuffle, although his choice was not to kneel, but to wear a jersey memorializing the dead.

You might also say that Andrew Hawkins is something of a hero to us here at Pickford Studios, particularly given his eloquent and impassioned defense of his choice.

So here, to honor Hawkins’ groundbreaking choice, and all the other players and coaches who have stood up for their first Amendment rights, we offer a chapter from our book "The Little Book of Lynching", Part Two.   The Shooting of John Crawford.  And then, the Shooting of Tamir Rice.  Followed by the book's Epilogue--as thorough as explanation as you will find of why these athletes, and millions of Americans, continue raise alarm about the small minority of rogue cops who rule the mean streets with their own versions of power trips and prejudice.







CHAPTER NINE
OPEN CARRY … UNLESS YOU’RE BLACK
 
Before we begin this chapter, we should note that Ohio is an Open Carry State.  This means that you can carry your semi-automatic rifle into the Wendy’s, the Baskin Robbins, the Piggly-Wiggly.  Hell, technically, you can take it into a daycare or to church, if you jump through the right hoops.  Granted, if you are not used to this, it is an odd thing to attempt to get accustomed to—the sight of people carrying firearms into seemingly peaceful places of work, play, and worship.   But the law is the law.  And the Second Amendment is the Second Amendment.   Caution:  if you haven’t seen them before, and if you have never lived in an open carry book, the images are startling.  Or go to Google Images and type in “OPEN CARRY”.  It’s quite a sight.
 
 
***
 
 
You are a young man, just twenty-two years old, looking forward to spending the next day with your girlfriend and her kids.  You have plans for a barbecue, to make S’mores.  She is off at one end of the Walmart, shopping for uniforms for her job as a senior caregiver.  You are browsing.   While in the sports department, you casually pick up a BB gun, where it is on display for shoppers in an open box.  Not behind glass, just available there for anybody’s hands-on perusal.
You carry it with you, down at your side, while you browse.  You are carrying it openly, just as literally thousands of Ohioans do every day.  You chat casually on the phone as you stroll the aisles from the sporting section to the pet section.
 
And then the cops come in and shoot you dead.
 
It was a killing that electrified the nation—at least, it electrified that portion of the populus which believes that black lives do matter.  The date was August 5th, 2015.  A young man, just twenty-two years old, was roaming the aisles of the Beavercreek, Ohio Walmart, waiting on his girlfriend who was shopping in another part of the store.  He made the mistake of carrying the gun that he was interested in from the sporting goods department, where he had picked it up, to the next aisle over, where he was browsing in the pet section.  A witness saw this, completely misinterpreted Crawford’s casual carrying of the gun, and called the police, who then rushed in and shot John Crawford dead.   One murder, seven points of view.  And it involved quite a cast, each with their own version:  the 911 caller, an innocent bystander, the “eye in the sky”, two police officers, a girlfriend, and the victim.  A sort of “Rashomon” effect, if you will.  There is only one point of view we cannot share here.  Only one version of this horrible reality which we can never know.  And that, of course, would be the words of the dead.  The Victim.
 
 
THE RONALD RITCHIE 911 CALL
 
The double tragedy which occurred on the night of August 5th, 2014 began with the now famous 911 call from a smirking little liar by the name of Ronald Ritchie.  It should be noted that Ronald Ritchie likes to lie, to serve his own ends and inflate his own sense of self-importance.  After being dubbed “a hero” and “brave” by investigators, Ritchie repeatedly lied that he was an x-Marine.  As the daughter of an Air Force Colonel who is buried in Arlington Cemetery, your humble author does not like people lying about military service.  Ritchie was never a Marine.  As soon as he enlisted, he was almost immediately thrown out because he lied about medical issues.    
So we know that Ritchie is a practiced liar.
 
His lies, exaggerations, and big-manisms would result in two deaths on that humid August night.  
 
Here is a breakdown of the 911 call he placed; please watch the YouTube link below.  (Should this particular link be broken, the footage of the Crawford shooting, synced with Ritchie’s 911 call, is Youtubiquitous.  My invented word for the day.)
 
On the video, you will see a clock marking the time; in the transcripts below, the first time notation that you will see is the actual time on the Walmart Security Video: the incident began about twenty minutes after eight in the evening.  The second number, the “smaller” minutes, refers to where you can find the dialogue in the YouTube video itself.  I highly recommend that you watch the dangerous, malicious 911 call and the accompanying footage.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yLo5XOjffdk
8:21:45 /// 13 seconds into the linked YouTube video:  Dialing the phone, phone ringing.   
DISPATCHER:  Beavercreek 911, where is your emergency?
RONALD RITCHIE:  I’m at the uh, Beavercreek Walmart. There’s a, uh, gentleman walking
around with a gun in the store.
DISPATCHER:  Has he got it pulled out?
RITCHIE:  Yeah, he’s, like, pointing it at people
(THIS IS ONE OF RITCHIE’S FATAL LIES:  YOU WILL SEE THAT HE IS ABSOLUTELY NOT POINTING IT AT PEOPLE.  NOBODY IS EVEN NEAR HIM.)
There is then some identifying conversation, where Ritchie gives his own name, and proceeds to describe the suspect.  The next lie comes at 8:22:33
RITCHIE:  “He’s like loading it right now … looks like he’s just trying to load it.”
 
If Ritchie has the vast military experience with firearms that he claims to have, he should be asking himself this:  why would a man with a plot to shoot crowds of people in a Walmart come into the store without having already loaded his gun?  Has anybody ever planned and perpetrated a shooting, and then waited until they were actually on site to load the gun?  Never, I suspect.  This should have signaled to Ritchie that Crawford was not here for ill purposes, rather that he was just a guy who didn’t apparently know much about guns fiddling around with one, trying to familiarize himself with it
 
8:23:2    RITCHIE  …It looks like he’s aiming the thing …I don’t know what he’s trying to do, he’s, like, pointing at things…
8:24:17.   DISPATCHER:  Sir, what’s going on now?
RITCHIE:  I don’t know, he’s just looking around, waving it, waving it back and forth.
  (And now, the lie that gets John Crawford killed:  Walmart:  8:25:40 ///  YouTube 3:56)
RITCHIE:  He just, like, pointed it at two children.
 
This is a complete and utter fabrication.  If you are watching the video, you see that John Crawford is doing no such thing.  You now see the police enter the scene.
 
And at 8:26:56, John Crawford III is gunned down.
 
The next day, Ronald Ritchie was interviewed by the Ohio Bureau of Criminal Investigation.  Although it is evident throughout the hour long interview that Ritchie is beginning to squirm, awkwardly aware that his story doesn’t match up with the Walmart security video, Ritchie nonetheless continues to lie, and condemn the character of John Crawford.  Here are some
selected transcripts of the Ohio BCI investigator interviewing Ritchie.  As early as one minute and eleven seconds in, we hear the investigator say something shocking:
 
DETECTIVE (reference to an innocent person having a heart attack in the other part of the store.)  That was probably the most tragic part of the situation.  The other guy deserved it.
RITCHIE:  No kidding!
The “other guy” is a reference to John Crawford.  Already, the idiocy, apathy, and bigotry spews.  This interview took place the day after the shooting.  By this time, the cops clearly knew that Crawford was holding an empty air rifle that he had just taken out of a box at Walmart. And the best the detective can come up with is that “The other guy deserved it.”  What we should be seeing is a mad scramble on the part of the police to explain how they were going to explain to the public that they had ignored protocol, and that their choice ended in John Crawford’s death.
Six minutes into the interview, Ronald Ritchie invokes what can only be called a double standard, a deadly hypocrisy.  Even though Ronald Ritchie is himself a gun hobbyist, and knows that Ohio is an Open Carry state—and more importantly, even though anyone watching John Crawford can see that he is casual, non-threatening, and engaged in a phone conversation—nonetheless, Ritchie makes a great deal of it.
 
6:10    RITCHIE:  It’s for sure that he has a gun in his hand, broad daylight. . . so I immediately get on the phone with 911, getting officers there.”
(Note how unlike the Tamir Rice 911 call this call is.  In the Tamir Rice call, the caller made certain to reiterate several times that Tamir was probably a youth and that the gun was probably a fake.  Not that it did Tamir much good.  But at least one cannot blame that 911 caller for ratcheting up the hysteria.)
Just a minute later, Ronald Ritchie, who is so aghast at Crawford carrying a gun in an Open Carry state, brags about his collection and its many uses:
7:50--DETECTIVE:  You’re familiar with AR15s?  
RITCHIE:  I have three of ‘em
DETECTIVE:  I won’t ask you why you need three right now.
RITCHIE:   Long range close quarters.  Have a good time!  (laughs wickedly)  Hee hee hee!
If Mr. Ritchie is as familiar with firearms as he brags to be, he not only knows that Ohio is an Open Carry state, but this should be quite a familiar sight to him—a man carrying a gun “in broad daylight.”  I’m guessing that Ritchie’s problem is that the kid is black.  Had the man Ritchie spotted in the Walmart looked just like him—a white man, wearing his plaid pajama
bottoms in the store along with tattoos and a skull shirt—then I’m guessing that Ronald Ritchie would have had no problem with him.
8:35     RITCHIE:   I hear what I can recall is click loading, just clicking clicking, clicking, and what looks like he’s cocked the weapon, so at this point it’s getting a little serious, and he’s just pointing it back and forth, just strolling it, at one point there’s a family that goes across with two young children, I’d say about five years old, and he muzzle checked both of them, and that kind of concerned me right there.
Again, all of this is an outright lie.  Crawford never held the gun with both hands, and he never pointed it.  The video contains the truth.
DETECTIVE:  Where are you at when, uhm, you’re making the call?  Where are you hiding out?
RITCHIE: We actually moved up closer to him, which I know is kind of retarded but we was probably halfway up the aisle.
This dings his credibility:   Ronald, what, you think he’s a dangerous crazed gunman, but you allow your wife to move closer, along with you moving closer?
RITCHIE:  You’re dumb enough to point any kind of weapon at a police officer, you get what’s coming to you.  Like I said, I’m x-military, I’d a done the same action the police officer done.”
12:58.  At this point, when Ritchie can see that the surveillance footage clearly proves him a liar, he backpedals on the idea that John Crawford was aiming his gun at people.
And then, finally, as if to solidify his legacy as a heartless bastard, he references seeing Crawford’s girlfriend in the parking lot, after the shooting:
16:56   DETECTIVE:  Did he look like he was with anybody?
RITCHIE:  I don’t know, we got outside and there was that woman that was trying to find her boyfriend … it was weird though, cause she said that exact description he had … I’m like eh, he ha!   He’s probably dead now!  Tough shit!
And then, later:
33:40 (as they watch Crawford, shot and struggling)  
Detective:  You don’t feel as bad now; do you?
Ritchie:  No he he he he  he he!
Dear Ronald Ritchie:  You can now go on with your life.  Even though a variety of charges could be levelled against you—you lied, and those lies led to a human being’s death … and a young man was murdered in cold blood, because of a call you made.  You can go on with your life, have children, enjoy the world with them.  John Crawford can do none of those things any more.  And you have robbed his family of the love and privilege of growing up with their son, brother, father.  Shame on you.  John Crawford’s blood is on your hands.
 
                                       ***
           AND NOW, A LITTLE BACKGROUND:
                                            KILLINGS IN BEAVERCREEK
 
Beavercreek, Ohio is a friendly, comfortably sized little burg, neither too small to provide the amenities of life, nor so large as to seem impersonal.  At about 45,000 people, it is either a largish small town or a tiny city.  Not surprisingly, it doesn’t have much of a crime problem.  There have only been five killings there since the year 2000, in the last decade and a half.  That’s pretty good.
What is very bad is that almost half of them--well, 40% of those deaths--are by the same hand. You guessed it.  Officer Sean Williams.  You see, there have been three murders outside the hands of the police department, and two deaths-by-cop in those fifteen years.  Both bullets came from Williams’ gun.  And the shootings took place just four years apart.  Are you starting to get a bad feeling about this?   Let’s take a closer look at Sean’s first killing:
The call comes in.  A domestic violence dispute.   Officer Sean Williams and his partner respond to the call.  When they get to the scene of the fight, an apartment building, they hurry up the steps and knock on the door of the apartment where the incident is reported to have happened.  The wife has left.  The seventeen year old son, Christian, is still there with his father, Air Force Master Sergeant Scott A. Brogli, but Officer Williams hustles the boy out the door.  Christian crouches just outside of the apartment, listening.
According to Williams and his partner, Brogli was sprawled on the ground, drunk; he would turn out to be very, very drunk, his blood alcohol level at twice the legal limit.  
As the drunk staggers to feet, according to Williams, he grabs a knife, so Williams fires with intent to kill.  And kill Brogli he does.
Now, Williams will tell you that he feared for his life, and normally, I don’t like to go around questioning the words or intentions of police officers.  But for me, like for so many Americans, it in increasingly hard to believe the words of some cops.  Particularly as this is becoming a mantra  
with cops who find themselves in the middle of a thorny investigation.  Williams, for me, is one of these cops.
The Beavercreek Police Chief was disturbingly cryptic about the entire drama.  According to the Springfield News-Sun, June 28th, 2010, “The chief would not divulge …  from what range the shot was fired, where Brogli was shot or whose blood was spilled on steps heading down to the parking lot.”
Let’s look at it through an objective filter.  A big fat man is terribly inebriated.   Lying prone on the floor.  (A disgusting sight, I’ll grant you, but if we murdered everybody who got drunk and used poor judgment, we’d have to gun down millions of people right now.)  So, he’s nearly passed out, stinking drunk.   And the only way that Officer Williams can diffuse the situation is to shoot him dead?   What about Tasers?  Pepper Spray?  Shooting to disable?   Williams said he felt that his life and the life of his partner were in danger.  But that’s also what he said four years later about a young guy in a Walmart who was holding a store BB gun with one hand, barrel to the floor, while he meandered through the pet section and chatted on the phone.  This man, too, needed to be gunned down because there was no other way to stop him?  Stop him from what?  Browsing the bowls of goldfish?
 
                                    SERGEANT DAVID DARKOW
I am pulling no punches.  Let’s get this clear from the outset.  Both officers lie about what John Crawford was doing when they encountered him.  Both of them make no acknowledgement of the fact that John Crawford was talking on his cellphone the entire time.  This is ridiculous, because everybody, and I mean everybody, can clearly see that John Crawford is, in fact, casually talking on his cellphone the entire time.  The Walmart eye-in-the-sky can see it.   The store witnesses had observed it.  The person to whom he is talking to can prove it, from the time stamp on their cell phone records.  Even the fetid Sack-O-Sh*t Ronald Ritchie, who lied about almost everything, including his Marine Corps service, noted that Crawford was talking on the phone.  But the cops did not acknowledge this.  Why?  Because it would have dirtied their kill.  So synchronous are their statements, it seems as if they must have rehearsed it afterwards.  It is no surprise to learn, then, that the two were together for a prolonged time after the incident—an egregious violation of police procedure, as it creates an opportunity for collusion.  And of course, I suspect that they both relied on the advice of their lawyers, instead of their memories and their honor, to tell them what to say in their official statements.
Let us begin with the statement not of the shooter, but of the second officer at the incident, Sergeant David Darkow.   Below we will pull excerpts from both his official statement to the public, and from his interview with the Ohio Bureau of Criminal Investigations.
 
Sergeant Darkow’s first lie:
At  00:43      DARKOW:   There was reports coming from dispatch that a male that was armed was in the back, near the pet food aisles, and he was in the corner.  As I was responding, dispatch kept us updated from callers who were calling in, saying that they believed he was armed with some sort of rifle, that he was, uhm, either waving it or pointing it at people …    (underlined emphasis added)
Correction.  Not “callers”.   Not “reports”.  No “they”.   Not plural.
“Caller.”  “Report.”  “He.”  Singular.   (AKA, Ronald Ritchie, the lying Dirtbag.)
And you might call Darkow’s failure to make this distinction, his lack of concern for accuracy, to be a fatal error.  There were not multiple people calling in, there was just one lone person calling in, making allegations.  And the fact that, in a crowded store, only one single person called about an allegedly creepy crazed person waving a gun and pointing it at children should have told the cops something significant; it should have been a major mitigating factor in the situation.  Doesn’t that mean something?  There is only one concerned person in the entire vast and bustling Walmart store?  Only one opinion, one perspective, one point of view?
Even Officer Darkow himself, upon entering the store, comments on a complete lack of drama or hysteria, given the hyperbole expressed in Ronald Ritchie’s inflammatory call: (Interview, 2:29)  “We entered there, and it appeared business as usual and it seems as though nobody really knew that anything was going on.  The greeter, I remember that the greeter was still there, saw us, gave us a shocked look.  I was telling people as we went by, and they saw us carrying our rifles, I was telling them to seek cover and get out…so I was yelling at people, and we both made our way back…”
Furthermore, during their official interviews, Officers Darkow and Williams will both point out that the Walmart greeters seemed completely unaware of this “danger”.  The Walmart clerks were all completely unaware of this “danger”.  Perhaps most importantly, the shopping population was calm.  In an open carry state, entering a store that sells guns, this should have tipped the cops off that maybe this was not the danger that the one, lone, single caller had made it out to be.
 
And now, we move on to the two officers’ encounter with the doomed John Crawford.  Below, find excerpts from both the shorter statement by Darkow released to the general public, as well as from the longer, two hour interview that was conducted by the State of Ohio, as a part of their criminal investigation.
STATEMENT AT 3:28   DARKOW:   …I saw a black male, looked like he had dreadlocks.   He was standing in the corner of the store.  He had the rifle, it was a black AR style rifle, I believe. He was holding it in what we would call kind a low rider type position.  He was, I don’t know what he was trying to do with the rifle, but he was looking down with it.  He had his left hand on the stock portion and then he was messing with the rifle with his right but I couldn’t--he was turned in such a way I couldn’t see what he was doing with the rifle.
INTERVIEW AT 15:14  (Interview) And I see a male that fits the description … he has a rifle that looks very similar to what I know to be an AR 15 assault weapon he also has it in what I would refer to as a low-ready type position where his left hand is on the fore grip of the rifle and his right hand is near the action portion of the rifle …And he was more or less facing us at this point … I started giving him verbal commands to drop the gun. . .it was either drop the gun or drop the weapon but I was very loud and very clear. … I’m focused in on the suspect, I’m giving commands, I remember Sean also yelling commands.. . .I yelled at one point for him to get on the ground…And I remember despite our repeated attempts to  tell him to put the gun down and get on the ground, he didn’t….At that point, despite our repeated attempts to tell him to put the gun down and get on the ground, he started moving.
This statement is so full of lies that I do not know where to start.   Poor John Crawford had one hand on a cellphone which was planted in his ear.  And, not to put too fine a point on it, but it happened to be a black male with black hair holding a white phone; other witnesses to the incident confirmed how apparent this was.  The cell phone was easily visible from the Walmart eye-in-the-sky, and the officers were closer than that vantage point to Crawford.  Yet Darkow chooses to “remember” that Crawford supposedly had both hands on the gun in a low-rider type position.   Darkow claims that Crawford had both hands on the gun.  I ask you to think about it, as a person who has shopped at Walmart.     It is clear from the footage of the incident that John Crawford is talking on the phone, and more importantly, that he is only about 20-25 feet away from the police when he is talking on said phone.  Now, if you are a police officer, and you cannot tell, from a distance of 20-25 feet, whether somebody is holding a rifle with both hands and ready to shoot, or talking on a cell phone while holding the gun with one hand, with the barrel pointed at the ground, then you need not to be a cope any more.  And yes, I have respectfully considered the objections that police have to “Monday morning quarterbacking”—perhaps, you say, Darkow wasn’t lying, he just didn’t see it accurately, or remember it right:  to that I reply, if you can’t pause before shooting long enough to see that the suspect is not in fact pointing a gun, but talking on a cellphone—a black man with black hair holding a stark white cellphone to his ear—thereby rendering the “suspect” far less dangerous—then you are shooting far too quickly.   You are trigger happy.  You shouldn’t be in law enforcement.  Oh, and forensic analysts are curious to know that if he was facing you at this point, why did you bullets penetrate him from the side?
There is also the damning matter of the fact that they didn’t give John Crawford any time at all to  
respond to their alleged commands.  Although Darkow’s interview with the Ohio investigator is over two hours long,, it is worth watching to the bitter end.  It is only during about the last fifteen minutes that the very understated investigator gives Darkow an opportunity to actually watch the security footage recorded by the Walmart eye-in-the-why, and it is vaguely gratifying to watch Darkow squirm uncomfortably at being force to watch the truth:  that he and Williams did not repeatedly order or plead with John Crawford to drop the gun, and they certainly did not wait for him to comply.  They did not even allow a couple of seconds.   The interview that Darkow must undergo with the Ohio state investigator is available online; if one forwards it to the end, nearly the completion of the second hour, you can see Darkow subtly backpedaling and scrambling to explain the fact that how he says the killing happened bears no resemblance to what really happened, or how quickly it actually came down.  Here are Darkow’s thoughts, as he watches the actual security video from the Walmart eye-in the-sky.
DARKOW  )  (1:53:50)  He does a lot of waving of the gun while he is apparently on the phone.  The only thing I can tell you is when I came around the corner, I never saw any phone in his hand.  He appeared to me to be holding the gun, and I thought he had his right hand near the action part of the gun when I saw him.  So I don’t know, uhm…
INVESTIGATOR:  Clearly his body was turned, when you first saw him.  He was turned facing this aisle, this way, your vantage point is this way, so you’re not getting a clear picture of what’s going on with the other arm. . . so whether he’s on the phone this way, you’re looking at a hot response, your eyes are going to focus necessarily on the weapon, so it’s not entirely as you recall., you thought he might have both hands on the weapon?
DARKOW: I know the right hand, I couldn’t see what he was doing with it. I know the left hand was on the gun, I remember that distinctly.  The right hand, I couldn’t--it happened very quickly.  I couldn’t see what his right hand was doing.
INVESTIGATOR (155:45) When did you realize a phone was involved?  Did you ever--?
DARKOW: No …   I don’t know what this right hand was doing.  I recall his right hand seeming like he was messing with a rifle of some kind…it appears as if he had a phone in his right hand, based on the video, but I can tell you as we rounded the corner it looked like he was messing with the rifle, it look like he was doing something with his right hand.  But I couldn’t see as well as I could his left hand.
Lastly, as a part of the standard interviewing protocol, Darkow is asked point blank why he felt a need to fire his weapon.   This is standard operating procedure, and it is glaringly apparent that Darkow has rehearsed this speech well, with all the legal and criminal ramifications having been considered and addressed.  (Certainly, one does not begrudge an officer the right to make a statement that he feels will defend his actions.  But the problem in the case of officers Williams and Darkow is that they are forced to stick to their lies.)  Let’s look at Darkow’s statement.  And  
then, I will offer my annotated version of Darkow’s statement.
INTERVIEW AT 12:20    DARKOW:  … Because we had a suspect who I felt posed a serious threat of serious physical harm or death, to ourselves and everyone else in Walmart, by having in his control or possessing a deadly firearms, or what we believed could be a deadly firearm, AR style rifle , we had dispatch tell us one person thought he was loading it, so we possibly had a suspect with an  AR style rifle, who was not obeying our commands to put it down, who was not obeying our commands to get down on the ground, and was startled by our presence and was trying to either take some kind of position of advantage or cover, or was trying to get out of our line of sight or line of fire so that he could do whatever his plan was to do. But I knew one thing and that was there was no way we could allow him to be uncontained in that area and get out into this very populated store with a rifle.  
INTERVIEW AT 12:20    DARKOW:  … Because we had a suspect who I felt posed a serious threat of serious physical harm or death, (No, Donny Darkow, you just had a young man carrying a gun, holding it with only one hand, in an open carry state) …to ourselves and everyone else in Walmart, by having in his control or possessing a deadly firearms, or what we believed could be a deadly firearm, an AR style rifle,  (yes, a gun that he had just picked up from the gun section of a store that sells guns, something which you admitted to being well aware of.) we had dispatch tell us one person thought he was loading it, so we possibly had a suspect with an AR style rifle (yes, you had one person, out of a Walmart full of dozens, maybe hundreds of shoppers, along with greeters, clerks, managers, and store security, all of whom, except for Ronald Ritchie, were calm, going about their business, and seeing no reason to call 911.  The fact that this was not a red flag for you is appalling, and calls your judgement into serious down.) …who was not obeying our commands to put it down, who was not obeying our commands to get down on the ground, (because you gave him absolutely no time to, you trigger crazy Nazi)  and was startled by our presence  (what normal person wouldn’t be startled by the presence of a mini-Swat team in Walmart, you Storm Trooper)  and was trying to either take some kind of position of advantage or cover, or was trying to get out of our line of sight or line of fire (that’s the normal, human reaction to being shot at, Donny Darkow), o that he could do whatever his plan was to do. (like maybe, live another day?)  But I knew one thing and that was there was no way we could allow him to be uncontained in that area and get out into this very populated store with a rifle.  (Because he is a threat.  But you, you’re not threat to civilizations.  Just a Storm Trooper doing his job…Watch the video.  Judge for yourself. )
 
Last but not least, while it may seem a bit anticlimactic, it is worth noting that Officer Darkow and Officer Williams broke protocol by going together to the hospital, giving them a chance to coordinate their statements.  This may seem harsh, but they again violated procedure:
16:55   “I ended up going in the medic with Sean, though and having to leave my vehicle, I
mean, I secured my vehicle
INVESTIGATOR: Why’d you ride the medic, just curious? For yourself, or for Sean?
DARKOW:  For Sean.   And I think I told ?(person’s name, unclear), ‘Hey I’m leaving my car here, I’m not gonna have a car’, I’m riding in the medic with Sean, so he knew. . .
    So not only did Darkow violate protocol, but he told someone his plans and that person allowed him to violate protocol.  He should have been ordered to separate himself from Williams.  Yes, the impulse to protect your partner is touching but firstly:  Darkow and Williams were not partners. It was Kismet that threw them together on this shooting.  And secondly:  Williams was not in some kind of pain or experience a mortal wound.  He had not been shot, he was not wounded, he was just going to a standard protocol check-up—blood pressure, etc., because he had just been involved with an officer involved shooting.  And since Williams had actually done this kind of thing before—killed a man while on duty, because “he feared for his life,” he was something of an old hand at this.  To put it baldly, this was not his first time to the rodeo.  And yes, it would have been excellent protocol to put Williams with someone who could help him through the aftermath of an officer involved shooting—a senior officer or a counselor—but not another cop who had also been both witness and shooter.  Procedure was grossly violated.  That time together in the ambulance gave Darkow and Williams time to get their stories synched.  Again, they should have been separated.
Guess who thinks that this was a lousy idea?  None less than Police Chief Magazine.  Not protestors, not Negroes, not hippies, no scofflaws.  The most important and powerful police sorts that there are.  Police Chief Magazine, understanding that people should not be colluding on make statements that jive, makes clear that when officers are involved in a shooting, they need to be immediately separated.
“After the scene is stabilized and medical attention is rendered to the injured, it is necessary to thoroughly investigate the facts to determine whether charges should be placed. Each potential witness, including each officer and civilian, must be separated from all others before questioning begins. It is important to explain to the officers that the reason they, too, must be separated during questioning is to avoid an attorney challenge on this issue in the criminal or civil case. Studies have shown that when several officer witnesses get together, their team recollection is better than individual recall, but this strategy also subjects their testimony to additional scrutiny and allegations of collusion.”
The Police Chief Magazine, May 2015, Handling Officer Involved Shootings, by Drew J. Tracey, Assistant Chief, Investigative Service Bureau, Montgomery County, Maryland, Police Department.   The International Association of Chiefs of Police mentions the same procedure, urging that officers involved in a shooting be given council in the  form of a trusted peer, trained support staff, or even spiritual counsel, but specifically refers to said officer as
“separated from others pending investigative procedures”. 45:53 again the shooting
At about 45:36 Darkow admits he didn’t even admit to saying POLICE, identifying themselves.
51:28  At one point, I told him to get on the ground.  Now whether that was as the shots were going off or before the shots were going off I do remember saying that…
INTERVIEWER:  Did the suspect immediately comply with your demands.
DARKOW: he didn’t comply with anything.   
 
                        OFFICER SEAN WILLIAMS
Officer Sean Williams snuffed out the life of an innocent person literally in the blink of an eye.  Citing the following excerpts of Williams’s account of what happened, we will see how he both lied, and behaved in a manner so egregiously incompetent and aggressive that it cost two people their lives.  This is a long chapter, and it is a complicated killing.  But, as reprehensible as the infamous Ronald Ritchie 911 call may be, with all its lies and hyperbole, at the heart of this tragedy is a matter is a simple truth:  the officers involved did not begin to give John Crawford any time to react to their commands.
By sheer coincidence, Williams happened to be in the Walmart parking lot, finishing some paperwork, when the call came in.  From the first few seconds that Officer Williams got the alert, he bungled the entire crisis, seemingly on purpose:
2:05 (shorter statement?)  OFFICER WILLIAMS:  As I was waiting for the second officer, I confirmed with dispatch, ‘cause dispatch said at one point that he was pointing the gun at people, so I got on the radio just to confirm, because Walmart does have guns and they sell guns, you know, it could just be a person who just bought a gun, walking around the store.  I confirmed with dispatch, I asked them, I said, I asked if the subject was pointing the gun at people, and they confirmed.  They said yes.
This comment from Williams makes sense at first glance, but it does not hold up under closer scrutiny.   Yes, it would seem to be a good thing that Williams’ thinks about that fact that Walmart sells guns and that there might be an innocent explanation for why someone who is carrying a gun around the store.  But then he drops the ball, and it costs young John Crawford his life.
 
Three grave mistakes made by Williams thus far:
1.)  911 dispatch cannot actually see what is going on.  They have to take the word of a person calling in to 911, and every study ever conducted has proved that witnesses can be wildly inaccurate in their observations.  Officer Williams should know this, and should already be taking that into consideration.  Which leads me to my second point.
 
2.)  During the incident, nobody in the chain of command at the fatally incompetent Beavercreek Police Department comments on the fact, or makes much of the fact, that in a crowded Walmart, in eight minutes, from the time John picks up the gun from the sporting section, to the time he is killed, only ONE SINGLE PERSON is alarmed enough to telephone the police.  In an era of universal cellphone ownership, when a dog on a median strip or a kid wielding a soaker generates a firestorm of 911 calls, one finds it difficult to believe that John Crawford was behaving in a manner that was the least bit threatening, for nobody but one lone man—established after the fact as a chronic liar—took notice of him and felt threatened.  As common sense dictates, and as analysts have pointed out, if a black man were moving through a Walmart, waving a gun, loading it, cocking it, and pointing it a children, the 911 dispatcher would have been besieged by frantic calls from cellphones all over the store.   But nobody in the store even gives an employee or a manager a heads up, much less calls 911.  Why was this not a big, fat flapping red flag, a flag that should have caused the Beavercreek Police to take Ritchie’s call with a massive grain of salt?  (It is worth noting that when Darkow and Williams actually did enter the Walmart, the commented in their debriefing that nobody seemed alarmed:  the oblivious greeter was happily greeting, the clerks clerking, the customers shopping …)
3.)  By far the most important point:  the fact the Williams knows Walmart sells guns should have given him the idea for a strategy that not only might have saved Crawford’s life, but in fact would have provided Officer Williams with the only safe way of neutralizing the threat that Williams supposedly represented:  why didn’t Officer Williams, as soon as he got the alert, then call Walmart Security and insist that they immediately put their eyes-in-the-sky in the pet section? Then, Officer Williams could have immediately learned what everybody who has watched the video now knows:  that for a full six minutes  (and in the separate video that shows Crawford picking up the gun from its open box and ambling out of Sporting Goods), poor John was doing nothing but  “meandering” (to use the 911 caller’s own casual descriptor) down the aisles and browsing, with the gun almost always pointed directly to the ground and never raised in a threatening manner, with Crawford not looking for people, not the least bit interested in anybody else in the Walmart.  Completely non-threatening.  John never even put both hands on the gun; he was yakking on the phone the entire time.
If a man is wielding a gun, the first thing an officer should want to know is the arrangement of innocent civilians around the person with the gun.  Are there lots of customers around him?  Children?  People who could be taken hostage?  People who could be accidentally shot by
police?  People who could be wounded or killed by ricocheting bullets?  The only way to get a sense of that in a place like Walmart is to immediately have security inform the officer of conditions via the eye-in-the-sky.  But Officer Williams showed no interest in that, in understanding what he was walking into.  His behavior upon approaching the suspect will prove that.  
There are those who have argued that in a case like this—shooter in a public place—such steps would not be feasible.  Fair enough.  But that still means that in order to classify Crawford as a “shooter”, the fact that this could simply be a case of “Open Carry” has been disregarded, as well as ignoring the fact that there is only one 911 call in a store crowded full of shoppers.  Lastly, even if a look by Walmart security at the “eye in the sky” would have been  unfeasible, it would have taken about two minutes for Williams to call a manager and ask him to check if there was a gun missing from open display.  The only kind of gun that a shopper could have casually picked up would have been a relatively harmless pellet gun, or something like it.  And this, in turn, would have saved a man’s life.
Now let’s take a look at Williams’s statement about the actual shooting:  13:30-17;00
5:04   OFFICER WILLIAMS: “I heard him (Darkow) say drop the weapon … And as he said that I just panned down the aisle. I saw a black male and I saw a rifle in grasp.  Uhm. The male would not drop the rifle, uhm, it looked like a typical assault rifle in hand.  Uhm, like I say he didn’t drop the rifle, Darkow said it again, to drop the rifle, and at that point he made…he was looking right at us.  So he didn’t drop the rifle after Darkow repeatedly told him to drop it …He had the rifle within his body and he made what I can only describe as, like, an aggressive stance with it as he was starting to make like a movement, like, to the right or left, like he was going to do something with the rifle.
Just as in the case of the Darkow statement/interview, here we have Officer Williams, lying.  Either that, or at twenty feet, a man on a cell phone looks to him exactly like a man preparing to shoot a rifle.   We have already belabored the fact that anyone could see that Crawford was not in an aggressive posture, ready to fire his weapon.  Just as we stated in the chapter about Trayvon Martin that nobody, ever, in the history of attacking people, has jumped out of the bushes to ambush at the same moment that they are sweet talking their girlfriend on the phone—which was the case, according to the time stamps—similarly,  it seems preposterous to say that Crawford would be idly talking on the phone at the same instant that he is getting ready to attack innocent shoppers in a Walmart.
Officer Williams knew he had plenty of time to either order Crawford to drop the gun.   Keep in mind, this is an Open Carry state, meaning there is nothing illegal about what Crawford is doing; there is not even anything startling or surprising in what Crawford is doing, not if you come from Ohio and hang out in Ohio.  Officer Williams even mentioned repeatedly that he was used to seeing men carrying guns, especially in stores where guns were displayed, purchased, returned,
handled.  But then again maybe, just maybe, it’s different in this cop’s mind when it’s a black man carrying the weapon.   Maybe Williams is only accustomed to seeing white people carrying weapons while invoking Open Carry laws.  Maybe the historically trigger happy Officer Williams just doesn’t like the idea of a nigger toting a gun through a Walmart.
Just as we saw with Officer Darkow, the interview with the State of Ohio investigator grows awkward when Williams is confronted with an obvious procedural  omission”
INVESTIGATOR (30:04):  Sean, do you recall either of you identifying yourselves as police, at any point during that response?
WILLIAMS: I don’t recall that being said.
(Think about that for a moment.  It is a crowded Walmart, and like all Walmarts, there is chatter, bustle, maybe the occasional raised voice—I often hear raised voices towards unruly children at our Walmart—but these police do not even identify themselves.  It is their expectation that John Crawford will look up
INVESTIGATOR:  Are you basing that on—is that something you would normally do?
WILLIAMS:  It depends on the speed of what’s going on.  When we reached the end, you’re talking about the final--
INVESTIGATOR: --When you confronted him.
WILLIAMS:  When we confronted the suspect, my sergeant was already giving commands to him, and that’s what drew my attention to him.  He was giving commands, and I didn’t really have time to say anything myself to him, before I shot him.  
INVESTIGATOR: Stick on that for a minute … Do you recall, if we’re up to the point where we’re at the subject, do you recall Darkow saying, “Drop your weapon, drop your weapon.”  Did you say something further to the subject?
WILLIAMS:  I did not.
Then there is the even greater lie than the matter of the cell phone.  There is the lie that is the matter of police communication with Crawford, and any effort they might have made to talk to the “perp”.  Putting it quite simply, they shouted for him to drop his weapon, and then immediately opened fire upon him, without giving him a chance to comply.  Science has long known that the human brain cannot process more than about six syllables per second—and that is if the listener is attuned to the message.  So if the officers were both shouting at John to “Drop your Weapon”, it would have taken John at least a second to understand the meaning of the words—but keep in mind, in a crowded and noisy Walmart, where John didn’t think he was doing anything wrong, and where he was talking on the phone, it might easily have taken him a
few seconds to even realize that the words were directed at him.  The witnesses disagreed with the cops’ version of what happened; they were in accord that the orders were given and shots were fired at virtually the same time:  forensic analysis of the shooting specifically breaks it down that a mere .36 seconds passed in between the shouting of the orders to drop the gun, and the firing of the shots that killed John.
And still the lies about:  the officers testified that John Crawford was turning towards them in a threatening way.  Not true.  The dead body tells the truth.  Forensics pathologists all over the world—the world watches us, in these matters—were quick to ask, if he was facing you as a threat, pointing and staring and confronting, that why did the bullet enter his side, which could only happen if he was turned away from you?  And, of course, the camera tells a different story.  We can see the last seconds of his life in film, and they show that John Crawford was clearly not being an aggressor towards the officers.
Experts have analyzed the videotapes (and any layperson can as well), and have determined that Crawford was given one third of a second to comply.  If you do a frame by frame breakdown of the shooting video, it could (could) be just under three seconds that John Crawford was given to react.  The reason for the disparity---and a tiny one, by the way, is because we don’t have audio from the eye-in-the-sky, and it is impossible to synch the order to “put it down” (head on the other end of the phone Crawford was talking into) with the actions on the surveillance video.  But it is certainly under three seconds, for that is when the police come into the frame, the first occasion when they could have spotted John to yell a command.
Now given what we know about the human brain, (whether you as Harvard Medical School, the magazine Scientific American, or the Society for Neuroscience, they will all tell you that six syllables per second is about all the human mind can comprehend.  So, if Crawford hears PUT IT DOWN PUT IT DOWN three times, it means he needs a second or two first, understand what was being said.  And that assumes that he knows that it is HE who is being addressed in a loud and crowded place, from people an aisle away.  And that assumes he knows what “It”- of course he could figure it out.  But he literally needs a second or two.  Then another second or two to comply.
In addition to which, the person he was talking to on the other end of the phone testified that she heard John say frantically “It isn’t real”—a logical reaction and an attempt to diffuse the situation.  Was John Crawford refusing to drop his weapon?  Of course not.  I am sure, given the gravity of the situation, if the officers had allowed John a few more seconds, of course he would have dropped it.    John Crawford wasn’t given a chance.  Again I say, watch the video
14:05  OFFICER WILLIAMS:  “He made—I’ve been trying to find words to describe this for the last few days—uhm, he did to drop the weapon, he made a movement that I interpreted as aggressive, as he was moving with the rifle but not dropping it, I felt at that time he had a rifle and a position where he could have raised it up and shot either me or Sergeant Darkow.”
At 1:08  Williams lies outright, (FBI profiler 101, hands over mouth, locked feet, rubbing legs)
OFFICER WILLIAMS:  When he dropped, I could see he was bleeding….I tell him to roll over onto his belly and put his hands behind his back.  Uhm, he was kinda squirming and yelling and screaming, stuff that I couldn’t understand.  He wasn’t immediately cooperative as far as putting his hands behinds his back.   I had to get on top of him and kind of hold his hands together to cuff him.  When I cuffed him I could see he had a very serious injury to one of his elbows and he had another wound to his other arm”      
This tells us something all too creepy about Williams.  Setting aside for a moment the fact that they shot first, asked questions later. . .Williams admits that he can see how badly Crawford’s arms and elbows are wounded—yet he brutalizes Crawford further when Crawford fails to immediately “comply” by putting his hands behind his back.  But Williams is not so heartless than he fails to offer cheerful words of encouragement after he has shot Crawford, then yanked his body around cuffing the poor bastard:
WILLIAMS (19:15):  He was still making noises and moving, uhm, as we stood over him, so I kept giving him words of encouragement, telling him to stay awake, stay awake, uhm, there were a couple of times where it seemed like he passed out or fell asleep, and I was kind of tapping him on the side of the face, trying to get him to wake up, Wake up wake up wake up, trying to keep him awake and keep him alive.
 
       TASHA’S TRAGEDY
As the tragedy of the shooting of John Crawford was coming to a climax at one end of the Beavercreek Walmart, there was another tragedy amping up just a few departments over.  John Crawford’s girlfriend, Tasha, had been buying the ingredients for S’mores.   She and John were going to have a barbecue for the kids the next day.  But as soon as Officer Williams fired his weapon, pandemonium ensued in the Walmart, as police and store security hurried all of the customers out of the store.  Tasha was among the people directed out to the parking lot.  But after frantic searching, she was the only person not able to find the person she came with.  She described him to the police—a black man wearing blue jeans and a black shirt.  They immediately recognized the description, and hustled her brusquely into a cruiser without explanation.  Later that night, she found herself in a brutal interview with a detective—still knowing nothing whatsoever about the fate of John.  
Now, as the author, I am going to do everything I can to see it from the detective’s point of view, out of the respect which I hold for police in general, as I have discussed earlier.  In the following interview of John Crawford’s girlfriend, the detective does a relentless, highly aggressive, brutal job of trying to find out what Tasha knows about that rifle John had in his possession while in the  
Walmart.  
And under different circumstances, I can see how the detective might defend his harsh treatment of Tasha.   Up to that point, he might claim that he had every reason to believe that John had the rifle with him when he entered the Walmart.  And that would have meant that John surely must have had it with him in Tasha’s car.  And it is impossible to believe that John could have a formidable rifle in the car with him--particularly as Tasha stated that the only bag he was carrying with him was a small white grocery bag--without Tasha being fully aware that he had a gun.  Hence, the detective is thinking, she must have been complicit.  Hence, not only must he be ruthless in his approach to finding out what she knows, the detective also probably found himself morally justified in the terror tactics which he employed.
No.  No, no, no.
Here is why I cannot justify the detective’s vicious and brutal questioning:  It is a detective’s job to find things out.  To detect.   And therefore, the first thing that he should have attempted to find out, to detect, is where the gun came from.  All of the officials on the case have made it clear that that they knew full well that Walmart sold guns, and that in an open carry state like Ohio, seeing a man in a Walmart, in a place that sold guns, is absolutely nothing unusual:
https://www.google.com/search?rls=com.microsoft%3Aen-US%3AIE-Address&rlz=1I7TSNF_enUS601&biw=1366&bih=599&tbm=isch&sa=1&q=open+carry+walmart+&oq=open+carry+walmart+&gs_l=img.12..0i30j0i24l2.17766.17766.0.19840.1.1.0.0.0.0.127.127.0j1.1.0.msedr...0...1c.1.64.img..0.1.124.ZMM-GdA-0-8
Or, just go to Google Images and type in:   OPEN CARRY WALMART
Get an eyeful?  These are the kinds of Ammosexuals that get away with dragging their knuckles and their semi-automatics around Sam Walton’s pride and joy, but John Crawford gets gunned down?
The detective’s first job, before he even walked into the interview, should have been to ask detectives and officers who were still on the scene and who had returned from the scene what they knew about the gun.  As I have stated earlier, it is impossible to believe that anybody trained in firearms, including Officers Williams and Darkow, didn’t immediately examine the “weapon” by dead John’s side and immediately realize that it was not a semi-automatic, but a store BB gun.
By the time the detective has Tasha cornered in the interview, over an hour has gone by, and the entire Beavercreek Police Department must surely be buzzing with the tragic and embarrassing news that they shot a man carrying an empty pellet gun which John picked up while in the Walmart—and all of this in an open carry state, no less.  By the time this poor girl is terrorized in the interview, it will have been completely clear to the police, from viewing Walmart’s security tapes, that John picked up the BB gun from a box in the sporting goods department, and that poor  
Tasha had no idea about any of this.  For the detective in the interview to be so cruel, accusatory, insensitive, and vicious is absolutely unforgivable.
The detective’s relentless questioning goes on for an hour, but this six minute clip is enough to give the reader a sense of what the terrified young woman endured.  It is worth noting that in the interview, he threatened her both with jail, and with the possibility of losing her children.  A partial transcript is offered below the link.
 
DETECTIVE CURD:  Did he have a weapon?
TASHA:  No, not that I know of.
DETECTIVE CURD: Now I want to be very clear, OK, that man’s got a weapon, at some point I understand, ok, that man produced that weapon.  That man had a weapon when you picked him up, you had it in your car or something.  You understand that we’re investigating a serious incident?  You lie to me, and you might be on your way to jail.  So I wanna be very clear about this.
TASHA: I swear to God, I swear to God, on my kids, I have a job, and a family, on everything I love--
DETECTIVE CURD:  Where did he get the gun?
TASHA:  I don’t know, I swear to God, Sir, I swear to God, on everything that I love, you can give me a lie detector test.  I swear to God, I swear to God.
DETECTIVE CURD:  You lie to me, and you might be on your way to jail .. .I wanna be very clear with you that I am not playing games here. . .I don’t know all the details …you need to tell me the truth.. . .Don’t tell me “not that you know of”, ‘cause that’s the first sign that somebody’s not telling the truth. . .this might be your last chance. . . .And the truth is you knew at some moment that he did carry a gun.  Did he ever mention “shoot that bitch” or something like that?….Your statement to me is you didn’t know he had a gun, is that what you’re telling me?. . .I’m ,uh, shew!. . . .Are you under the influence of anything?  Have you been drinking?  Drugs?   See, I know your eyes are a kinda messed up looking, and you seem a bit lethargic at times and I don’t know if it’s cause you upset or what. . .”
The tragedy goes on.  Detective Curd has made no effort to learn what everybody else involved in the investigation knows by now—that it was a BB gun, owned by Walmart, and that John Crawford casually took it from the display box while he was in the store and chatting on his phone.  And nobody involved in this shoddy, incompetent investigation has thought to knock on the door and tell the detective what they have learned.  Instead, everybody is OK with a cop
terrorizing this poor black girl, who is really just another victim of the Beavercreek PD.
A few months later, Tasha would be dead in a car accident.   She was the passenger in a car that was travelling between 90 and 100 miles an hour.  If this was just an accident based on the poor driving skills of the person behind the wheel, then it would be tragic enough.  However, after years of conducting research into the suspicious and untimely deaths of victims whom powerful people wish to see dead, I find it impossible not to wonder if Tasha was the victim of foul play, of a car cyber-attack.
Yes, I know that sounds terribly far-fetched at first blush.  But firstly, Tasha was a loving mother with a good job in senior care, and it would have been wildly out of character for her to allow herself to be in a car driven by someone who would go 100 miles an hour through suburbia in the middle of the afternoon.  More importantly, Keep in mind that not only was Tasha responsible for helping to humiliate Beavercreek police, Tasha’s testimony was going to be key, with the power to sway the jury in the wrongful death federal lawsuit filed by John’s family against Walmart, the city of Beavercreek, and the Beavercreek Police Department.  And far too many witnesses and whistleblowers have suffered suspicious deaths for me, personally, to deny that possibility thus far.  According to the Centers for Disease Control, your chances of dying in a car accident are about 1 in 6700.  We do not find it odd that witnesses, whistleblowers, and others seen as undesirable by governments, corporations, another powerful entities suddenly beat those longshot odds and become winners in the death lottery?
I realize that the above comments have a very polarizing impact on readers.  But I ask you, spend a few minutes watching and reading the information below.  It is a strange new world.  Remember, in order for someone’s car to be cyber hacked and controlled remotely, all that needs to happen is that someone needs to want to cyber hack your car and control it remotely.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                         
http://www.salon.com/2013/06/25/hacking_a_car_is_way_too_easy/
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eN7j90HtRPA
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3 jstaBeXgAs
http://fellowshipoftheminds.com/2014/05/21/obama-dead-pool-reporter-investigating-nsa-dies-in-suspicious-fiery-car-crash/
http://rt.com/usa/michael-hastings-cyber-car-218/
http://www.davidicke.com/forum/showthread.php?t=151397  
 
ANGEL ANGELA
Before we leave this sad chapter about a shooting in a Walmart, we must add yet one more death to the list of casualties that came from the gunning down of John Crawford.
Imagine this, if you will . . .
You are a mom.  You have four beautiful kids.   You work as a nurse in a senior care center.  You love your job helping people.  The seniors love you.  What would we do without you, says your staff.  Your boss knows you as competent, caring, very hard working, a heart of gold, a free spirit, full of life.  You make some small difference for the better in this world.  And you know it.
You are also getting ready to be married for the second time.  A fresh start, a new day.
You are at Walmart, buying school supplies for the new school year.  Your kids, sick of summer, can hardly wait.  You have a teenage son in tow, and also shopping with you is your beautiful ten year old daughter.  And, you are buying things for your upcoming nuptials. The kids back in class, and soon, a handsome new husband!  Life is glorious.
Today is Tuesday.  You are getting married on Saturday.  So much to do, so little time.
Much less time, even, than you can possibly imagine.
Shots ring out.  In an instinctive maternal panic, you grab your kids and run.  You are terrified.
Then you have a heart attack, you fall to the floor of the Walmart, your big heart failing right in front of your children.    
And then you are dead.
The coroner ruled her death a homicide, brought about by the chaos which ensued after the SWAT like approach that the police employed, based on one vague and rambling phone call.
Angela Williams left behind four children.
Shame on you, Ronald Ritchie.  Shame on you, Beaverton PD.
It didn’t need to go down the way that it did.  The victims’ blood is on your hands.


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The Physics of Murder, Redux

8/10/2017

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by Meg Langford


Last night was the third anniversary of the shooting death of Michael Brown, and, unsurprisingly, this infamous event was mostly forgotten by the populace of social media.  And why should we be surprised?  The human attention span, now officially shorter than that of a goldfish, cannot maintain interest in anything longer than the ever-shrinking 72-hour news cycle.  Michael Brown was shot three years ago.  Michael Brown is indeed exemplary of that morbid reminder,
“A person dies twice: once when their breath leaves their body, and the second time, when their name is uttered for the last time.”   Attributed to many, but first put forth by the ancient Egyptians, the expression seems to aptly capture poor Michael Brown’s second, slow, and rather agonizing death.  After all, with the world coming down around us, and all the insanity in the public theatre, who cares about one more poor dead black kid, shot down in the mean streets on a hot August day?


Well, I personally think many people would care, if they but knew this one fact about Michael Brown, which, coincidentally, has a very great deal to do with the breaking news of this week:  You thought Usain Bolt was the record holder for the fastest man in the world?  You, perhaps, have weighed in on the controversy of whether or not a known doper has honestly broken Bolt’s record?

Well, they’re all wrong.  Everybody in the world is wrong, but me.  (Who does that sound like?)   Michael Brown is (was) the Fastest Man in the World.  He still holds that record.  How do I know?  

Because Officer Darren Wilson proved it, with his “testimony”--a fine, upstanding word from the Romans, meaning literally “to swear on one’s testicles.”  That is a pretty serious oath from Wilson.  And after all, police are sworn to always tell the truth.

Here it is, for your consideration:  Michael Brown, the Fastest Man in the World.


                                                      THE PHYSICS OF MURDER

                                   
You can destroy evidence.  You can fail to photograph the body.   You can not bother to take measurements at the crime scene.  You can decide not to record the testimony of the shooter.  You can let the shooter process his gun.   You can discredit witnesses.  You can question their credibility.  You can cherry pick the evidence that you show to the grand jury.  You can put known liars and mentally ill persons in front of the people charged with determining the killer’s fate, and encourage those liars to sway the outcome. You can carelessly, or intentionally, give twelve well-meaning citizens instructions which are absolutely wrong.  You can mislead the public.  And you can manipulate the press.

There is only one thing that you cannot manipulate, mislead, suppress, cherry pick, or destroy.

The Laws of Physics.  Those pesky, irrefutable, immutable Laws of Physics.

Here, we look at “The Physics of Murder”.  As regards the shooting of Michael Brown.  



SIXTEEN SECONDS


The Physics of Murder begins with 16 seconds.   Sixteen seconds, from the time that Darren Wilson communicated through the police radio system, until he began shooting at Michael Brown.  This is a matter of physics, and this cannot be debated by anybody, except for somebody who is in denial of the Laws of Nature.   Somebody who is in denial of reality.

I will, of course, explain how we know all of these things to be a matter of fact.

Let’s begin with the first time stamp:  Officer Darren Wilson’s communication with his dispatcher.  Wilson radios for backup at 12:02 p.m. UTC (Universal Time Clock) time.  August 9th, 2014, just two minutes after noon.  That is according to the Ferguson Police Department’s own records.  If you have doubts and wish to check the accuracy of a UTC timestamp, I assure you the evidence is abundant.   (This is how accurate a UTC timestamp is. The people managing the Universal Time Clock in Colorado even add a leap second periodically, to keep it absolutely accurate.  This, from the National Institute of Standards and Technology at nist.gov:  “A leap second is a second added to Coordinated Universal Time (UTC) in order to keep it synchronized with astronomical time.  Leap seconds are added in order to keep the difference between UTC and astronomical time (UT1) to less than 0.9 seconds. The International Earth Rotation and Reference Systems Service (IERS), measures Earth's rotation and publishes the difference between UT1 and UTC. Usually leap seconds are added when UTC is ahead of UT1 by 0.4 seconds or more. At the time the corrections started in 1972, a necessary correction of ten seconds was made to UTC, and there have been leap seconds about every year and a half, on average.”)

So.  To return to the scene of the killing:  Darren Wilson talks to his department at 12:02, just after noon.

A little more than sixteen seconds later, Michael Brown would be dead.  How do we know that?



THOSE PESKY LAWS OF PHYSICS:  UTC VS. GPS


Just as Michael Slager was no doubt horrified to learn that someone had been recording his murder of Walter Scott, and his placing of the Taser near Scott’s dying body, so Officer Darren Wilson was probably alarmed to hear that his shooting had been recorded.  (Sadly, it ended up being a moot point, in regards to the grand jury, but history remembers.)

As most of us know by now, a man in an apartment nearby was chatting with a lady friend—nothing x-rated, just a sultry voice complimenting how she looks.  That recording began at exactly 12:02:14.  Then, in horrific contradistinction, the sound of gunfire cuts into the conversation.  At the heart of this damning evidence—damning for Darren Wilson’s version of the events, that is—is a technology called Glide.  As Glide brags in their description:

Because Glide is the only messaging application using streaming video technology, each message is simultaneously recorded and transmitted, so the exact time can be verified to the second.  

Back to the shooter, Darren Wilson.  Wilson’s shots began two seconds into the Glide tele-chat recording, so that would be 12:02:16.

Now it is only natural that readers would want to confirm the level of accuracy in the time stamps here; i.e., were the two systems—the telechat Glide App, and the emergency dispatch system that Darren Wilson was using—were they “in sync”?  The answer is that emergency dispatch always operates on official State/US clock time, which is, of course, set to UTC standards.  According to a reporter who goes only as “heckphilly.com”, who interviewed everybody from the people at Glide to assorted members of the police and emergency services, “Radio transmissions are usually saved and recorded via a recording device on a computer that saves everything in order … Every agency around here runs 2400 clock just set to the state’s clock so everybody is running at the same exact time … I’ve visited several, and I haven’t noticed any agency that does it differently. It’s only like that so people don’t get confused when it comes to records and such.”

Make no mistake, down-to-the-second accuracy is easy and free to obtain, and it is the gold standard for policing.  

There is, then, only one more concern that needs to be addressed, and that is with regard to the timestamp on the Glide App.  Was the Glide App on UTC time?  Or perhaps on GPS time?  Different devices track time in different ways, most by UTC, and some by GPS.  Some cell phones, for example, give GPS timestamps.  That means, as any rocket scientist knows, that we then have a 16 second difference between UTC time and GPS time, with GPS being 16 seconds ahead of UTC.   (That has actually changed to 17 seconds, given that in summer of 2015, a leap second was added to the UTC, to keep everything completely accurate. But for the year in question, 2014, it would have been 16 seconds.)  If we know that the Glide telechat began at the internal device’s GPS time of 12:02:14, with the shots beginning two seconds in, at 12:02:16 (GPS), then we only need to subtract 16 seconds from the hypothetical GPS time stamp to adjust it to a UTC timestamp.  That would put the bullets beginning at exactly 12:02:00 (UTC), the precise time that Darren Wilson is on the phone and hasn’t even had the physical altercation with Brown.  So we know that the Glide app cannot have been on GPS time, it had to be on the same clock as the police equipment and software:  UTC time.

All of that boils down to some very damning numbers for Darren Wilson.  It means that he was talking with dispatch at exactly 12:02:00 UTC time, and that he began shooting at 12:02:16, just 16 seconds later.  (And that is assuming that it wasn’t 12:02 and “some seconds”; that is assuming that the police department doesn’t round off in their records, which indeed they might.  Which would give Darren Wilson even less time for all the following to happen.)  Sixteen seconds, for a hell of a lot to happen.



A VERY BUSY QUARTER OF A MINUTE

Within the fleeting space of just 16 seconds—a quarter of a minute—a whole slew of events had to transpire, IF we are to believe Darren Wilson’s version of reality.  Let’s just look at everything that had to happen, if Darren Wilson’s story is to be believed.
  1. Darren Wilson called in for back-up at exactly 12:02 UTC time, according to official records.  So, he had to finish up that request for back-up, put his cruiser in reverse, then back up, and swerve around so that it stopped right in front of Brown and Johnson.  He then he had to stop the cruiser and turn off the ignition.  Then he called Michael Brown over to his vehicle to have words with him.
  2. This verbal exchange set off the first of two scuffles.  Beginning with the now famous door episode, in which Darren Wilson said he attempted to open the door, but Michael Brown slammed it shut on him, while Dorian Johnson (Michael’s friend and proximate witness) told a different story—that the door bounced off of Brown because Officer Wilson had screeched up so close to them.
  3. Then began the second scuffle, this one also having two conflicting versions, in which Darren Wilson claims that Michael Brown reached inside the cruiser to get his gun (apparently having been struck with some bizarre desire to commit Death by Cop), a gun that was holstered at Wilson’s right side, a fact which therefore required Brown to duck into the police cruiser, and then stretch his body across that of an armed police officer.  Getting that gun was, according to Darren Wilson, apparently Michael Brown’s plan.  (Dorian Johnson told it differently--he swore that Officer Wilson pulled Brown into the car.)
  4. And this one is the corker—since it was later established that Brown had run 170 feet away from the police SUV before Darren Wilson started shooting--that means that this jog of 170 feet also had to take place during the same 16 seconds during which all of the action in points 1,2, and 3 allegedly transpired.  (By the way, the Ferguson Police lied about this matter initially, saying the Brown was about 30 feet from Wilson and the cop’s SUV when the shooting began.  That is not a tiny amount to be “off by”.  There is no plausible explanation for this lie, except that they imagine that we are as stupid as they are deceptive.)


Let’s go over all that again, in a little more detail--the goal of which is to show Darren Wilson’s version to be impossible, given the Laws of Physics.  And using those same laws, we will show Wilson to be—for lack of a better term—a liar.


Alright, a mere sixteen seconds transpired between the call to the station and Michael Brown being shot.
  1. Darren Wilson finishes his call to the station for back up, signs off, and then decides to confront Brown and Johnson.  He puts his vehicle in reverse, screeches back, swerves around, then slams on his breaks and turns off the ignition.  Wilson then calls Michael Brown over, saying he wants to talk to him.  They exchange words.  LET’S SAY THAT ALL OF THIS HAPPENED IN 3 SECONDS.
  2. Then the first fight, the fight with the door begins.   More words are exchanged.  Darren Wilson opens his door to get out.  It is shut again, either by Mike’s hand or by bouncing off of Mike.  Then, it opens again; same dueling theories as above.  Then it is shut again.   LET’S CALL THIS THREE SECONDS.   (Darren Wilson would later testify that this fight over the door and the beginning of the fisticuffs took a full 10 seconds, which would put us at a total of 13 seconds so far, but that would leave only 3 seconds remaining for the fight in the car that took so many long minutes for Darren Wilson to describe in his grand jury testimony, and for Michael Brown’s last run for his life.  So let’s give the officer the benefit of a doubt, and just call the door altercation THREE SECONDS.)
  3. The prolonged fight in the car.  In order to understand everything that happened in the front seat of that cruiser, let us go right to Darren Wilson’s own words in front of the grand jury, so we can accurately and explicitly glean from the officer himself all the things that happened during that fight in the front seat of his SUV.   Keep in mind that before the second scuffle begins, we have already used up 6 (3+3) seconds of the 16 seconds, leaving just 10 seconds left.—and that Michael Brown also will need to run 170 feet before the shooting starts.  (If, of course, we are to believe Darren Wilson’s version of events.)  The following is the verbatim testimony from Darren Wilson, as he described the events that happened within the car to the grand jury:
             
BEGIN DARREN WILSON’S GRAND JURY EXCERPT:
(grammar uncorrected)


… And they kept walking, as I said, they never once stopped, never got on the sidewalk they stayed in the middle of the road.  So I got on my radio, and Frank 21 is my call sign that day, I said Frank 21 I'm on Canfield with two, send me another car. I then placed my car in reverse and backed up and I backed up just past them and then angled my vehicle, the back of my vehicle to kind of cut them off kind to keep them somewhat contained. As I did that, I go to open the door and I say, hey, come here for a minute to Brown. As I'm opening the door he turns, faces me, looks at me and says, "what the fuck are you going to do about it", and shuts my door, slammed it shut. I haven't even got it open enough to get my leg out, it was only a few inches. I then looked at him and told him to get back and he was just staring at me, almost like to intimidate me or to overpower me. The intense face he had was just not what I expected from any of this.


I then opened my door again and used my door to push him backwards, and while I'm doing that I tell him to, "get the fuck back", and then I use my door to push him. … He then grabs my door again and shuts my door.  At that time is when I saw him coming into my vehicle. His head was higher than the top of my car.  And I see him ducking and as he is ducking, his hands are up and he is coming in my vehicle. I had shielded myself in this type of manner and kind of looked away, so I don't remember seeing him come at me, but I was hit right here in the side of the face with a fist. I don't think it was a full on swing, I think it was a full on swing, but not a full shot. I think my arm deflected some of it, but there was still a significant amount of contact that was made to my face. … I believe it was his right, just judging by how we were situated. But like I said, I had turned away, had my eyes, I was shielding myself. … After he hit me then, it stopped for a second. He kind of like, I remember getting hit and he kind of like grabbed and pulled, and then it stopped. When I looked up, if this is my car door, I'm sitting here facing that way, he's here. He turns like this and now the Cigarillos I see in his left hand. He's going like this and he says, "hey man, hold these." … And he reaches back and he says, "hey man, hold these." I'm assuming to Johnson, but I couldn't see Johnson from my line of sight. … And he said, "hey man, hold these." And at that point I tried to hold his right arm because it was like this at my car. This is my car window. I tried to hold his right arm and use my left hand to get out to have some type of control and not be trapped in my car any more. And when I grabbed him, the only way I can describe it is I felt like a five year old holding onto Hulk Hogan. … Hulk Hogan, that's just how big he felt and how small I felt just from grasping his arm. And as I'm trying to open the door is when, and I can't really get it open because he is standing only maybe 6 inches from my door, but as I was trying to pull the handle, I see his hand coming back around like this and he hit me with this part of his right here, just a full swing all the way back around and hit me right here.


After he did that, next thing I remember is how do I get this guy away from me. What do I do not to get beaten inside my car. I remember having my hands up and I thought to myself, you know, what do I do. I considered using my mace, however, I wasn't willing to sacrifice my left hand, which is blocking my face to go for it. I couldn't reach around on my right to get it and if I would have gotten it out, the chances of it being effective were slim to none. His hands were in front of his face, it would have blocked the mace from hitting him in the face and if any of that got on me, I know what it does to me and I would have been out of the game. I wear contacts, if that touches any part of my eyes, then I can't see at all. Like I said, I don't carry a Taser, I considered my asp, but to get that out since I kind of sit on it, I usually have to lean forward and pull myself forward to the steering wheel to get it out. Again, I wasn't willing to let go of the one defense I had against being hit. The whole time, I can't tell you if he was swinging at me or grabbing me or pushing me or what, but there was just stuff going on and I was looking down figuring out what to do. Also, when I was grabbing my asp, I knew if I did even get it out, I'm not going to be able to expand it inside the car or am I going to be able to make a swing that will be effective in any manner. Next I considered my flashlight. I keep that on the passenger side of the car. I wasn't going to, again, reach over like this to grab it and then even if I did grab it, would it even be effective. We are so close and confined. So the only other option I thought I had was my gun. I drew my gun, I turned. It is kind of hard to describe it, I turn and I go like this. He is standing here. I said, "get back or I'm going to shoot you." He immediately grabs my gun and says, "you are too much of a pussy to shoot me." I believe gun was basically pointed this way. I'm in my car, he's here, it is pointed this way, but he grabs it with his right hand, not his left, he grabs with his right one and he twists it and then he digs it down into my hip. I felt that another one of those punches in my face could knock me out or worse. I mean it was, he's obviously bigger than I was and stronger and the, I've already taken two to the face and I didn't think I would, the third one could be fatal if he hit me right. He grabs my gun, says, "you are too much of a pussy to shoot me." The gun goes down into my hip and at that point I thought I was getting shot. I can feel his fingers try to get inside the trigger guard with my finger and I remember envisioning a bullet going into my leg. I thought that was the next step. As I'm looking at it, I'm not paying attention to him, all I can focus on is just this gun in my leg. I was able to kind of shift like this and then push it down, because he is pushing down like to keep it pinned on my leg. So when I slid, I let him use his momentum to push it down and it was kind of pointed to where the seat buckle would attach on the floorboard on the side of my car. Next thing I remember putting my left hand on it like this, putting my elbow into the back of my seat and just pushing with all I could forward. Like I said, I was just so focused on getting the gun out of me. When this point, he is still holding onto it and I pulled the trigger and nothing happens, it just clicked. I pull it again, it just clicked again. At this point I'm like why isn't this working, this guy is going to kill me if he gets ahold of this gun. I pulled it a third time, it goes off. When it went off, it shot through my door panel and my window was down and glass flew out of my door panel. I think that kind of startled him and me at the same time. When I see the glass come up, it comes, a chunk about that big comes across my right hand and then I notice I have blood on the back of my hand. After seeing the blood on my hand, I looked at him and he was, this is my car door, he was here and he kind of stepped back and went like this. And then after he did that, he looked up at me and had the most intense aggressive face. The only way I can describe it, it looks like a demon, that's how angry he looked. He comes back towards me again with his hands up. At that point I just went like this, I tried to pull the trigger again, click, nothing happened. …  Last thing I saw was this coming at me. …  I just saw his hands up, I don't know if they were closed yet, on the way to going closed, I saw this and that face coming at me again, and I just went like this and I shielded my face. …  Went like this and shielded my face  …  So I pulled the trigger, it just clicks that time. Without even looking, I just grab the top of my gun, the slide and I racked it, and I put my, still not looking just holding my hand up, I pulled the trigger again, it goes off. When I look back after that  … It went off twice in the car. Pull, click, click, went off, click, went off. So twice in the car. …  When I look up after that, I see him start cloud of dust behind him. I then get out of my car. As I'm getting out of the car I tell dispatch, "shots fired, send me more cars." We start running, kind of the same direction that Johnson had pointed. Across the street like a diagonal towards this, kind of like where the parking lot came in for Copper Creek Court and Canfield, right at that intersection. And there is a light pole right there, I remember him running towards the light pole. We pass two cars that were behind my police car while we were running. I think the second one was Pontiac Grand Am, a green one. I don't know if it was a two door or four door, I just remember seeing a Pontiac green Grand Am.”


HERE ENDS DARREN WILSON’S GRAND JURY TESTIMONY.
(Above from Case: State of Missouri v. Darren Wilson, Grand Jury Volume V, September 16, 2014, Section V, 209-216, and pages 223 – 226)


So, of the 16 seconds between the radio call and the shooting, we had assigned 3 seconds to Darren finishing his call to dispatch, and then maneuvering his vehicle back and around, then addressing Michael Brown and turning off the ignition.  And then another 3 seconds, paring it down considerably from Wilson’s own estimate, to the back-and-forth opening and slamming of the door repeatedly.  That’s 6 of the 16 seconds, not counting the time that Michael Brown will need to run 170 feet before “turning” and “looking like a monster”, the apparent provocation for Darren Wilson to start shooting.


So, let’s say that the above several pages of description, dialogue, fighting, attempts at firing, firing, etc. took only 6 seconds.  Personally I find that ridiculous, improbable, impossible, outrageous.  But let’s say it took only 6 seconds.


That is:
3 seconds for Wilson to end precinct call, then car reversing, swerving around, and Wilson then addressing Brown.
3 seconds for the back and forth door altercation.
6 seconds time for all the italics bold action  in Wilson’s above grand jury excerpt to take place.


That means 4 seconds left for Michael Brown to cover 170 feet.  Which basically makes him the fastest man in the world.   In 2009, Usain Bolt set an unbroken record of running the 100 meter dash in 9.58 seconds.  That translates to 10.4384133612 meters per second.   A meter is 3.28084 feet.  That means—and we are rounding off here—that Usain Bolt was running at over 30 feet per second.   But Michael Brown only has 4 seconds left, in our 16 seconds and ticking clock, 4 seconds to run 170 feet.  All of this means that Michael Brown had to run over 40 feet per second, in order for Darren Wilson’s magical mystery math to work.  Michael Brown, overweight and out of shape (sorry, Big Mike), and running barefoot (he lost both shoes as he fled), had to run 25 percent faster than Usain Bolt, in order for Darren Wilson to be telling the truth.   


Assuming of course, that the Laws of Physics are still in place.


I thank you for hanging in there with me, but now we know everything that would have to have happened, from the time of Darren Wilson calling the station, to the time he began firing shots, all within 16 seconds, if Officer Wilson’s version of events is to be believed.


Or wait …


…Maybe it is as 15 witnesses said.  Maybe the reason that so much happened in such a short time is that Michael Brown did not run 170 feet before the bullets started flying; maybe Darren Wilson started firing as soon as he got out of the car.  Maybe Darren Wilson is just another dirtbag “Michael Slager” type cop, firing at a terrified, fleeing kid.

I guess it all depends on how you feel about the laws of physics.




​
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THESAURUS REX;  REGINA ANNOTAMENTUM

7/24/2017

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                                             THESAURUS REX;  REGINA ANNOTAMENTUM   

                                                                                   Or

                                                                     “MERCURY RISES”


by the Pickford Word Crew.  We Colluded on this one.




Is this the real life?
Is this just fantasy?
Caught in a landslide,
No escape from reality.
Open your eyes,
Look up to the skies and see.




The Pickford Word Crew has precious little time to blog this morning, because we must go purchase a gift, and we are ridiculously excited about our purchase.  The Pickford Word Crew loves gift-giving, even more than the receiving of gifts.
 
Normally, we would postpone our blogging, since the Pickford Crew takes pride in thoughtful longform, often the result of extensive pondering, research, and of course, editing.   But that seems to be changing before our eyes, because our struggle to stay relevant becomes increasingly compressed, in and by time, due to the OOTD.
 
The “OOTD” is a frighteningly accurate, handy and useful acronym offered by one of the crew, standing for “OUTRAGE OF THE DAY.”  It references, of course, The Trump Administration.
 
Time was when an author could struggle for years to complete polished commentary on earth shaking events; the world had to wait, but the payoff was that the writing just might claim significance forever and ever, particularly if it somehow managed to touch on that elusive and eternal notion, “the human condition”.  Time passed, and journalists then found themselves given only a week to write good, solid, credible copy.  Now, with Trump in office and that Promethean gift from the gods of the World Wide Web, that window has shrunk to a day.  And it is still diminishing before our eyes: if you don’t get your analysis of some outrageous Trump Folly out within the hour, it will surely become irrelevant and uninteresting, because we are onward and downward into the next nightmare.
 
Only one way our crew member got it wrong.  It’s not OOTD.  It is OOTH.
 
So, back to our shopping trip for the perfect gift.  We need not search too far, because we already know what we are going to buy: a Roget’s Thesaurus.  Yes, that mysterious tome which, like Mickey’s Sorcerer, possesses untold magical tools--tools called “words”.  And in a thesaurus, the words are not organized in that boring, arbitrary, alphabetical way, as the dictionary is….after all, who determined that the word “Maggot”  (“a soft-bodied legless larva, especially that of a fly found in decaying matter”), should come before the word “Trump” (“to win or to succeed, for example in sports or business, because you have an advantage that your opponent does not have”), and in an ideal world, would that be the case?  We ask you.
 
But a thesaurus, with its mystical yet logical hierarchy of organization, does represent a kind of ideal world.  And by thesaurus, I mean the proper kind, Roget’s Thesaurus specifically--which is structured in the Table of Contents according the grand order of the cosmos--rather rather than the college variety, which is alphabetical and dildoic and should be thrown away by anybody reading this who ever wants to be take seriously as a thinker.  As a communicator of ideas.
 
And speaking of a communicator of ideas, guess who the thesaurus is for?  
 
It is for the United State of America’s new White House Communications Director.
 
Anthony Scaramucci.  Or, as his friends call him, “Ant’ony.”   “The Mooch.”
 
 
I see a little silhouette of a man
Scaramouche, Scaramouche, will you do the Fandango?
Thunderbolt and lightning
Very very frightening me.
(Galileo!)  Galileo.
(Galileo!)  Galileo.
Galileo Figaro
Magnifico-o-o-o-o-

 
 
Why the gift of a Thesaurus, you might ask?  Well, your question is painfully simple to answer, and it speaks to the anal retentive side of our crew.
 
Because, during a press conference that lasted a little more than half an hour, this man, who is now charged with keeping the citizens of the most powerful nation in the world apprised of urgent affairs of state, used the word “love” no less than fourteen times, the word “phenomenal” seven times, and that pathetic millennial descriptor “super” a crazy eight times.
 
Adjectives are not Scaramucci’s thing.  Nor apparently, are answers.  But more on that in a bit.
 
“I love him.”  “They love him.”   “I love them.”   Super, super, super.  Phenomenal, phenomenal, phenomenal.
 
Scaramucci’s life is so brimming with love and positive feelings that I half expected him to pull out a Pepsi and walk it over to CNN’s Sara Murray when she dared ask him about the creepy “fake news” drumbeat emanating from the White House, and he responded with a new phenom--a “gotcha answer”, while reminding the world that although he is not a journalist himself, he has actually played one on TV.  
 
Maybe Ant’ony just doesn’t know how to deliver a punchline, but there was no indication that he meant that as a joke.
 
 
And now, we are going balls out, to parse a phrase:  here is exactly what Scaramucci reminded us of, with his “loves” and “phenomenals” and “supers”, even though, given its implications, this might have been the most important press conference ever given to date, in terms of predicting the level of freedom of the press which we, as a citizenry will experience--or not--in this country:   it is as though Tony Robbins, and that creepy coked up hedge fund groper in the film “Working Woman” (played brilliantly by a nascent Kevin Spacey), had nasty gay sex in the back of that same taxi, and made a baby.  A Wall Street baby full of love, lust, greed, and lies.  A baby that sees the world as a super and phenomenal place, assuming of course that that particular baby never actually has to leave Wall Street.
 
WHY, you may ask us, in all fairness, does it bother us so much, Mr. Scaramucci’s word choice, that we went to the bother to count the words?
 
Good question.  Two part answer.  No, three.    (I always do that.)
 
FIRSTLY, because when somebody is punting, and their go-to descriptors are “super”, and “phenomenal” (and it was fascinating to observe that Scaramucci used them with increasing frequency over the span of the session, rather like labor pains, as his “all about me” monologue reverted to pointed questions which became increasingly unnerving), it means one thing, and you can take this to the bank: Scaramucci doesn’t read much.  People who read all the time have a magnificent army of adjectives at their command, which come to mind spontaneously and effortlessly, and those troops are always there for them, loyal foot soldiers, should the need arise.  
 
And make no mistake--although it is far too nuanced a discussion to be having these days, what with the circus master up there in the oval office--the difference between leaders who have read, and do read books, and leaders who never crack one open, makes all the difference in the world.   And it will go on to make all the difference in the world.  In fact, that is a discussion we need to have, and soon, yes soon.
 
But for now, mark our words.  Mark our words:  a person who doesn’t have a gorgeous, deep, and vast vocabulary, is a dangerous person to have in a place of power.  Because a person who has few words, most probably has even fewer ideas.  And that approach to governance is deadly.  It can be fatal.  Figuratively speaking, of course.  And literally speaking, inevitably.
 
So yes, it is your legal and human right to sit in your La-Z-Boy all day watching Honey Boo Boo reruns and new episodes of Duck Dynasty while drinking Pabst and noticeably not reading, never reading.
 
But you do not want semi-literates making the decisions that run your life.
 
Trust us on this.
 
 
Mama, oo-oo-oo-ooh
I don’t wanna die
Sometimes I wish I’d never been born at all.

 
 
 
SECOND REASON:
 
The word “Super” is a kind of a catch-all adjective which means, “the meaning of the word, multiplied.”  What terrified us about the number of times that Scaramucci used “Super” is that it is so reminiscent of Newspeak.  As the people who will be the worst victims of Newspeak do not know, “Newspeak” originated in the famous dystopian novel 1984, by George Orwell.  The book has a particularly chilling scene, haunting for those who grasped its implications vis-a-vis the real world. The protagonist of the novel, Winston, is having lunch with a friend, Syme, who is working on the eleventh and final version of the Newspeak Dictionary.   Syme is tickled over his job, which requires him to slash thousands of words from the English language:
 
"It's a beautiful thing, the Destruction of words. Of course the great wastage is in the verbs and adjectives, but there are hundreds of nouns that can be got rid of as well. It isn't only the synonyms; there are also the antonyms. After all, what justification is there for a word, which is simply the opposite of some other word? A word contains its opposite in itself. Take ‘good,’ for instance. If you have a word like ‘good,’ what need is there for a word like ‘bad’? ‘Ungood’ will do just as well – better, because it's an exact opposite, which the other is not. Or again, if you want a stronger version of ‘good,’ what sense is there in having a whole string of vague useless words like ‘excellent’ and ‘splendid’ and all the rest of them? ‘Plusgood’ covers the meaning or ‘doubleplusgood’ if you want something stronger still. Of course we use those forms already, but in the final version of Newspeak there'll be nothing else. In the end the whole notion of goodness and badness will be covered by only six words – in reality, only one word. Don't you see the beauty of that, Winston? It was B.B.'s idea originally, of course," he added as an afterthought. (Chapter 5, 1984 by George Orwell)
 
Why bother even having words like “malevolent” and “horrific”, asks the logic of Newspeak, when you can simplify it by saying “Ungood.”  “Doubleplus ungood.”   Why have words like “profoundly”, “acutely”, “stupefyingly”, “supremely”, “unequivocally” or “sublimely”, when you can just say “doubleplusgood”.    (Or, “superexcited”,  “superhappy”, “superloyal”.)
 
And if you think we are over-reacting, ask yourself this:  have you ever heard an insightful, circumspect, engaged mind--be it businessperson, politician, pundit, or otherwise wise human being--use that as an adjective, ever, at all?  Pick a fiction writer:  Grisham.  Clavell.  Michener.  Clancy.  King.  Pick a nonfiction author:  Friedman.  Krugman.  Pick a partisan paper:  The Wall Street Journal.  The New York Times.  Pick a partisan pundit:  O’Reilly. Cooper.   Pick a President: Reagan, Kennedy.  
 
Imagine The Times waxing on about the “super productive” talks just concluded by international leaders at the G20.  Are generals at the Pentagon “super worried” about ISIS?  Are the world’s best and brightest scientists “super alarmed” about the catastrophic effects of global warming?  How about former President Obama saying he is “super grateful” to our Armed Forces on Memorial Day, or expressing his “super sadness” at the latest mass shooting?  Are members of Congress “super bummed” about McCain’s prognosis?  Does the Supreme Court uphold the death penalty for the “super guilty”?


No, they don’t, because they know that “super” is, above all else, not a super word, being as it is an ignorant, knee-jerk, one-size-fits-all Orwellian adjective expressly reserved for those who are not the least bit interested in the great ideas, or in the elegant expression of those ideas.
 
Trust us on this.

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THIRD REASON:
 
Any business guy, who wears hair pomade and lots of it (by his own admission), whose dad was “in construction” (a fact), and who has a personal history of publicly insulting and viciously attacking all kinds of people--and who then, in less time than it takes an elephant to gestate, turns around and tells those same people that he loves them, oh yeah, they’re just phenomenal, super--and he also loves you, me, the press, and everybody, and he keeps repeating this every couple of minutes, and a bunch of more times, and then talks more about how much he loves everybody some more…..?
 
That guy will whack you in a heartbeat.
 
 
Put a gun against his head
Pulled me trigger, now he’s dead.  
Mama, life’s just begun
But now I’ve gone and thrown it all away.

 
 
 
(ASIDE:  The Langford, clearly the most virulently vocal of the entire Pickford Word crew, announces frequently her abundant hatred for the human race, and yet she has never hurt another soul, at least not on purpose.  Perhaps not loving everybody all the time, perhaps keeping one’s distance, perhaps a little solitude … perhaps that is one of the keys to lasting peace.)
 
So, is our gift for Mr. Scaramucci, the thesaurus, the grandest book of synonyms ever created--the purchase of which excites us greatly--is that gift beginning to make more sense?
 
 
I’m just a poor boy, from a poor family
Spare him his life from this monstrosity

 
 
The only human commentary left to be made regarding this bizarre changing of the guard concerns--who’d you think we’d mention?--poor Sean Spicer.  His fall from whatever is the exact opposite of grace (doubleplusungrace?) represents, in a weird way, all that is Great about America.  (And not “again.”  It was always this way.)  We Americans love to pick at the high and mighty: it is what keeps power hungry creeps from being re-elected to office, and this includes everything from Comptroller for your tiny town to Commander in Chief of your country.   It is what keeps people elected to offices (be those offices with or without term limits) from actually becoming dictators.  Keep the high and mighty in their place, so to speak.   But once the high and mighty become low and powerless, suddenly we are all, like, feeling sorry for them.  This cycle keeps human beings who live in democracies and republics from becoming the victims of tyranny.  But it also keeps them from becoming bullies themselves.
 
So naturally we feel sorry for Spicey.  Particularly because, as of our writing this, we have only a few more hours to see what SNL has up its sleeve for this last skewering.  And wethinks it won’t be pretty. (That said, don’t we have to all admit that the last go ‘round, with Spicey/McCarthy riding his/her podium down the streets of Manhattan, did more to make Trump look evil than Spicey look bad?)
 
NOTE:  We have just been reminded that SNL is off the air right now, vis-a-vis “School’s out for the summer!!!!” Nobody on the Pickford Word Crew has any kind of cable connection, so we totally did not know that.
 
 
I’m just a poor boy,
I need no sympathy
Because I’m easy come, easy go
Little high, little low
Any way the wind blows, doesn’t really matter to me.  To me…...

 
 
For us--and we talked about this--here is how it always seemed.   Pickford Studios is based in the Blue Ridge, so dead deer who have been hit by cars, their carcasses lying by the side of the road, are an expected sight.  And a wounded deer is also a sad reality.  Worse for everybody, especially when there are kids in the car.  Usually, the animal is put out of its misery.  (Oddly amusing is the decapitated corpse of a buck; no doubt the person who took the head will concoct some grand story about a great hunt.)   That image, for us--it’s Spicey.   Seriously.  Ever since the first very bizarre, disastrous, unprecedented, bad acid trip press conference, the day after inauguration, where we learned how much “size matters” for our new president.  One of us recalls living in a dense urban environment, and seeing a cat that been very badly mangled by a car lying, flailing in agony in the middle of the road. The driver of the car that our crewperson was with had every intention of turning around and finishing the job, although this particular driver was not the person who had initially hit the cat.  But if you had seen the cat, its pinkish red intestines spreading out a foot in front of it, its body nearly bifurcated, you would have done the same.  As it happened, somebody got there before our vehicle, and finished the job.
 
And, morbid as it seems, as Grand Guignol as our metaphor may be, that is our thought, when we think of Sean Spicer.  Oh, will someone just please put him out of his misery.
 
And so someone did.
 
Spicer took himself out of the game.  But not by eating a bullet, or lying down in front of a truck.  
 
Just by getting the hell away from Trump, and starting over again.  Well done, Sean (How cool would it be to get him on SNL?)
 
 
Mama, oo-oo-oo-ooh (any way the wind blows)
Didn’t mean to make you cry
If I’m not back this time time tomorrow
Carry on, carry on, as if nothing really matters.
Too late, my time has come
Send shivers down my spine
Body aching all the time
Goodbye everybody, I’ve got to go
Gotta leave you all behind and face the truth.

 
 
But back to Anthony Scaramucci.  Our takeaways from the conference.  Granted, it was a kind of “get-to-know-me” press conference, so one might have expected as much fluff as substance.
 
Still, it was weird.  Or maybe we should say, it was weird because of that.   What the Mooch shared and how he shared was weird.  Apart from all the love he expressed, and his super phenomenal attitude, there was weirdness.
 
We learned that he has lots of experience being in high profile jobs that involved communicating with the public, but that he does not know how to turn on the mic.   We learned that one of the greatest regrets of his life was not serving in the military, as many members of his family have done.  Odd. There is a way to do that, actually.  It’s called enlisting.  We have learned that he has Hyuge respect for Steve Bannon.  We learned that Anthony is going to take it upon himself to make the White House a fun place to work.  We learned that he read a scary book once about people wearing body cameras.  We found that he has written a bestseller and made it a best seller buy buying up stacks and stacks of copies which he keeps in his basement, and we have no evidence that he was kidding.  He probably was, but  Scaramucci is about as good at eliciting laughs (several jokes bombed), as O.J. is at eliciting sympathy (several of his parole hearing jokes bombed too).  
 
We have learned that Scaramucci doesn’t mean to name drop but Harvard Harvard Harvard phenomenal Harvard, is where he got his J.D., but apparently forgot to sign up for ADJECTIVES 101.
 
Here is how smart Harvard made Anthony Scaramucci:  a reporter asked Mr. Scaramucci how, in the event that the communications director has taken the trouble to create an articulate and impactful announcement and deliver it to the White House Press Corps and the listening world, and President Trump then undoes all that in the middle of the night with a contradictory and unintelligible treat--how--how, then would Scaramucci handle such a situation?  At that point in his first press conference, Scaramucci pivoted, saying that he would not answer the question, because it was “hypothetical.”
 
 
NOTE TO ANT’ONY:  There is nothing on this earth, nothing in this solar system that is LESS hypothetical than the daily reality of Trump undoing your hard work with one tweet.
 
Ant’ony.   You are a pussy.
 
 
We learned that he believes the President of the United States has great karma.   We learned that Anthony Scaramucci has no idea what the word “karma” means.  And he gave us some great “dining out” Michelin Guide style dining tips, wherein he explained to us how to eat an elephant.   And though we suspect he was struggling to make some kind of metaphorical point of wisdom, we need only look around at Trump, Bannon, and Huckabee Sanders to wonder if they got the metaphor.  Why do we suspect that now, even as we write this, Pachyderm patties are being served for the whole gang in the White House back yard--and I mean the rare, endangered kind, like Sumatrans or whatever?  (And hey, if the barbecue doesn’t kill the elephant, climate change, fostered by the denial policy of our president, will.  So the demise of Dumbo is inevitable either way.  Trust us on this.)
 
 
 
Easy come, easy go, will you let me go.
Bismillah!  No, we will not let you go.  (Let him go!)
Bismillah!  We will not let you go.  (Let him go!)
Bismillah!  We will not let you go.  (Let him go!)
We will not let you go  (Let him go!)
Never, never let you go
Never let me go, oh
No, no, no, no, no, no, no.
Oh, ma mia, mama mia (mama mia let me go)
Beelzebub has a devil put aside for me, for me!
 

 
 
And lastly, regarding that poorly delivered hair-and-makeup joke thingy referenced above.
 
Here is the deal:  A reporter asked a question.  The question regarded whether or not the White House Press would return to regular press conferences:
 
JON KARL: I see the cameras are back, will you commit now to holding regular on-camera briefings?


ANTHONY SCARAMUCCI: If [Press Secretary Sarah Huckabee Sanders] provides hair and makeup, I will consider it. But I need a lot of hair and makeup, Jon, OK? […] I am up here today only because I think it's the first day; we made a mutual decision that would make sense for me to come up here and try to answer as many questions as possible. But -- and the answer is we may. I have to talk to the president about that. I like consulting with the president before I make decisions like that.
 
Every American citizen has a right to know what the President is doing.   For weeks now, the Trump White House has been the very opposite of transparent.  For the first time since the advent of the television, a sitting president is doing everything he can to shut down news coverage.  This is not a joke.  This is terrifying.  But Scaramucci made a joke.  
 
And because of that--Scaramucci is a joke.
 
 
“I enjoy talking to you.  Your mind appeals to me.  It resembles my own, except that you happen to be insane.”      - O’Brien, 1984
 
 
And now, we are off to buy our thesaurus.  Because we really are mailing him this gift.  Ant’ony deserves a special gift.
 
 
Beelzebub has a devil put aside for me, for me
So you think you can stomp me and spit in my eye?
​So you think you can love me and leave me to die?
Oh baby, can’t do this to me baby
Just gotta get out, just gotta get right outta here
Nothing really matters
Anyone can see
Nothing really matters
Not really matters to me.
 
Any way the wind blows...








                                                                                       FINIS

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DUELING BLOGS...

7/4/2017

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                                                              A CONFEDERACY OF DUNCES
 
                                                                       By Mickey McClain
 
This Fourth of July, it is almost impossible for me to focus on the joy and honor of the holiday, what with Americans being so bitterly divided, and all.   The Congressional Charity Baseball Game shooting and its aftermath is an embarrassing example of the depths to which we have fallen.  Liberals and Conservatives wasted no time in blaming each other.  
 
And some of the most powerful Liberal voices in the world got it wrong.  Mightily wrong.  Only one day after four people were shot at a practice game and left clinging to life, the Minority Leader of the House of Representatives for the United States of America wasted no time in blaming the party which was not the party with which the shooter had affiliated himself.  Nancy Pelosi stated, "It didn't used to be this way. Somewhere in the 90s, Republicans decided on a politics of personal destruction as they went after the Clintons, and that is the provenance of it, and that is what has continued.”  For God’s sake, somebody buy this woman a history book.  Start with the chapter on the presidential election of 1800, Nance.  (This statement she made came right after the statement she made in which she stated “On days like today, there are no Democrats or Republicans, only Americans united in our hopes and prayers for the wounded,” and right before the statement in which she announced, “We are all Team Scalise.”)  This is why critics of politicians bandy about the word “hypocrite” so frequently.
 
Still other Democratic leaders chose to politicize the shooting by offering us screeds about gun control.  Let us start by pointing out that Illinois has some of the stricter gun control laws in the country, and that the gun the shooter used was illegal in Illinois, thus giving traction to the old argument that when a crazy person wants a gun, they generally find a way to get one.  And even if there might have been some logic to the liberal premise that a lack of adequate gun control laws was a part of the tragedy, the timing was inappropriate, and the tone was distinctly that of an attack on Republicans.  Republicans had just been shot at en masse, perhaps as many as a hundred shots fired from an SKS rifle and a Smith & Wesson handgun.  Isn’t that enough?  Can we give it a break?   For a day, at least, while we breathe and pray and wish each other well?
 
The irony of it is, by the way, is that there was a perfect and subtler way to bring policy matters into it--to politicize it, if you will--that was right in front of liberal politicians the entire time, yet they chose to not see it:  this was not a gun control issue.  This was a mental health issue.  And the reality that Congress is seriously contemplating slashing mental health care in this country is as terrifying as what happened at that baseball field.  
 
The liberal rhetoric in some corners was unconscionably ugly, coming from a party that prides itself is promoting peace and understanding.
 
Chelsey Gentry-Tipton, a Nebraska Democratic Party official, wrote in a Facebook thread about the shooting, “Watching the congressman crying on live tv abt the trauma they experienced. Y is this so funny tho?”
 
The Twitterverse abounded with people saying that these people got what they deserved for taking campaign money from the NRA.  Celebrating the shooting of a human being because they take money from the NRA is grotesque and wrong, no matter what your politics.   We must force ourselves to entertain this thought:  many people take money from the NRA because there exists a cluster of statistics which shows that crime goes down when people can protect themselves with guns.  The issue here is not whether this claim is true or false.   The devil created statistics, and part of their evil is that they can be manipulated to prove anything.  The issue is whether you really believe that people who take NRA money are bad people who deserve to be shot at.  If you believe this, then you can understand why people think PETA is evil because PETA members have been caught stealing animals who they believe deserve to be euthanized, and because they are vigorous advocates of euthanasia in general.  Why is it that we are always ready to believe outrageous things about the enemy, but never our own ilk?
 
The issue is not that Kathy Griffin held up a mock bloodied Trump head.
 
Can I repeat that:  The issue is not that Kathy Griffin held up a mock bloodied Trump head.  
 
The issue is that it actually occurred to her, that she bandied the idea about, and that nowhere in her brain nor in her circle of colleagues was there a filter that said, “Hey Kath, this is a tasteless, ISIS-like, and a generally horrible idea.”   More to the point, for Ms. Griffin, it is not funny.  If we can get angry at Fox’s Greg Gutfield for hiding behind the moniker of humorist when he makes fun of the Canadian military at the same time that the Canadian military is burying three Canadian soldiers who died fighting ISIS alongside of their U.S. counterparts, then we must get equally angry at Kathy Griffin.
 
As for Madonna threatening to blow up the White House--that is right up there with Berkeley protesters, (furious because Ann or Milo want to visit), causing 100,000 worth of damage to private property that does not belong to them, and does not belong to the enemy, because someone who does not agree with their politics wants to come visit them and stand on a stage and say things.   (Although, in fairness to Berkeley, these acts are often committed by unknown masked perpetrators who seem to have little connection to the hundreds of students marching peaceably.)  But if you are marching, rioting, burning, looting, and destroying property, it does not mean that you are a social justice warrior.  It means that your brain is too stupid to come up with scathing comebacks and logical refutations to the dildoic comments that Ms. Coulter makes on a regular basis.  How hard would that be?   
 
An actual Twitter: “It’s a shame more Republicans weren’t shot.”
 
Now ask yourself this:  surely there must be somebody in your life that you have come to cherish ….. It could be a beloved grandfather or aunt, a neighbor you’ve known for years and years, a man of the cloth, the lady who babysat you or your kids….and they are a Republican.  Now picture them dead in a pool of blood from a gunman who wants all Republicans dead.   Really?
 
Now go sit in the corner, and think about what you did.

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                                                      A SUCKER PUNCH FROM THE GUT
 
                                                                        By Eve Ryman
 
Following the tragic shooting at the Congressional Baseball Game for Charity, lawmakers on both sides of the aisle called for a freeze on the incendiary rhetoric.  Fox’s smarmy bad boy Greg Gutfield immediately violated this reasonable and long overdue truce by announcing that “yesterday, a left-wing creep opened fire on GOP lawmakers practicing for tonight’s game.”  Why does this instinctively strike all reasonably minded people--both Republicans and Democrats--as a gross attack designed to ratchet up the rhetoric to dangerous levels once again?  Simple.  When the bulleted (no pun intended) headline or opening to a tragic news story breaks, we rightly expect it to contain, in briefest form, the significant facts, with a particular emphasis on aspects of the story that may carry forward into the immediate future.  This is why phrases like “active shooter” or “lone gunman” or, in less PC times, “crazed gunman” are so often used.   “Active shooter” serves as a chilling warning, particularly to those who may be in the area.  “Lone gunman” soothes us the slightest bit, because we are being told that it is not part of some larger, spreading plot.  “Crazed gunman”, although it is not particularly acceptable any more (“crazy” not being a proper clinical diagnosis of a troubled brain), nonetheless has a somewhat clarifying impact, in that we understand this is not a declaration of war or another 9/11.   
 
To put it simply, those first critical words of a news story should reveal crucial information, tell us what is relevant.   The fact that the shooter, in the case of the Congressional Baseball Game shooting, supported Bernie Sanders is not initially relevant.  What is relevant is that he was almost immediately stopped--he died at the hospital, and that he was a mentally ill man acting alone.  His politics are irrelevant, because millions of “left wing” people would never pick up a gun and shoot it at people, so the fact that he was a Bernie Sanders fan has no real impact on anything.  But for Greg Gutfield, who will eschew all logic and reason in pursuit of a cheap laugh from his mini-audience in the studio, the fact that the shooter was not a Republican is of earth shaking importance.  “A left-wing creep?” Really?  Why not focus on the fact that he was from Illinois?   Yes, let us, by association, vilify all the great citizens of the Land of Lincoln.  Or wait, how about the fact that the shooter was a home inspector!  Yes, that’s it.  Let’s make life hell for all home inspectors, they will by unemployed writ large by next week; nobody will allow a stranger into their home with a clipboard when that clipboard is surely hiding the semi-automatic they plan to use to shoot up our foyer.
 
No, Greg.  We are on to you.   You will do anything you can to make half of America look ridiculous and sound dangerous, even when the best and brightest of your two tribes (pundits, Republicans) have called on you to PLEASE NOT do exactly what you just did.
 
Hey, wait.  I got a good one for you.  The next time you decry fascist leaders, why don’t you reference “that vegetarian Hitler.”  After all, the man who masterminded the death of 6 million Jews shied away from a nice thick pork chop.  See, Greg, not only did you manage to remind us of the evil of Hitler.  You made us all think badly of vegetarians.
 
Kind of the same shit you pulled with the tragedy of the Congressional Baseball Game shooting tragedy.
 
Greg, you are so infantile.   Yet they give you that paycheck and everything. 
 
Duelling blogs are over.  Mickey and Eve are going to go have cocktails and skinny dip in the pool, while watching the fireworks from the lake on the edge of their property.  Happy Fourth of July.


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Post Script:  It occurs to us that we have forgotten something.   A few weeks ago, on Memorial Day, we had occasion to hear the most stirring rendition of "God Bless America" that we have ever heard.  We are referring to that version sung by Captain Luis Avila, which he rendered following the telling of his story on the stage at the National Mall.  I do know that it caused us to shed a tear.  If you can tear yourself away from your festivities, or perhaps in a private moment, The Pickford Word Crew strongly recommends that you watch his story, starting at 1:59:09  (just fifty seconds shy of the two hour mark), in the link provided here.   Then, listen to the song.  And we just bet you will stay to watch the entire magnificent concert.  Most likely, again and again...





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Date With An Angel...

6/28/2017

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By Meg Langford


I rarely blog about my personal life, but sometimes I bend my own rules.  My vacation weekend was just such an example.   The pictures are back.   It was me and a couple of other ladies, out on the town. Meg.  Margie.  And Yvette.   Dressed for the occasion.  Looking for….?

It wasn’t long before we encountered some gentlemen, obviously there for the same reason we were. Very good looking, I must say, although that shouldn’t matter.    But we didn’t meet all three of them at first.  What is it with guys, and their wingmen?

I approached the first two men.  They were drinking.   They told us where they were from, and all about their fraternity.   They were out-of-towners, and admitted to not knowing their way around town...strangers in search of some TLC, I figured; you could tell that just from studying them.

Then, they started talking about their friend.  “A heartbreaker … a real lady’s man” were their exact words.   One of them pulled out a cellphone and showed me a picture of their buddy, presumably the alpha male among them, but nowhere to be seen.   “Just look at him,” his buddy said, flipping through poses of a grinning and muscled young Adonis.   “Six foot four, 240 pounds,” boasted his friend.

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And I have to admit, the man in the pictures--”Weston Lee, of Georgia” they dubbed him-- was about as good looking a man as I have ever seen in any magazine, or on the silver screen.  

As I later found out, Weston Lee was crazy in love with a sweet young thing named “Savannah”, a beautiful nursing student, an angel on earth--but that didn’t keep it from being love at first sight, for me.

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GOOGLE IMAGES:  “Weston C. Lee”


How could I not love him?  He had given his life for his country.  So that all of us could have a Memorial Day that consisted of picnics and parades and concerts and fireworks, and pretty much doing anything we wanted to in this great, free country.   The love we feel for a stranger--in this case, a stranger that I will never meet--may feel different than the love we feel for family and friends, but it is no less real.  And it is part of what makes us human.  It is, in fact, often the best part of our being human.  In the words of John Donne, “Ask not for whom the bell tolls.  It tolls for thee.  Each man’s death diminishes me, for I am involved in mankind.”

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​So yes, Weston was a stranger.  But he was also a stranger I will never forget.  And now, whenever I stop by Arlington Cemetery, I will be sure to stop by Weston’s grave.

Weston C. Lee was just 25 years old, an infantry officer assigned to 1st Battalion, 325th Infantry Regiment, 2nd Brigade Combat Team, 82nd Airborne Division, out of Fort Bragg, North Carolina.

Weston was on his first deployment.  He was killed in an explosion during a patrol outside of Mosul.   It happened on April the 29th.  It was a Saturday.  For most of the people on the planet, it was just another ordinary Saturday.  Except for the people who got the knock on the door, or the call in the middle of the night.

I don’t remember what I was doing on that day, and I don’t suppose you can either.  But it doesn’t matter.  Because every day, somewhere, some similar tragedy is transpiring.  And the universe, the nation, the ghosts and angels, they don’t ask much.   Only that we stop, from time to time, and ponder the sacrifice made by people like Weston.   And to live in gratitude for the amazing life that most of us enjoy--a life that is largely provided because of the ultimate sacrifice that they have made.

In his time with the Army, Weston had received several awards and decorations, including the National Defense Service Medal, the Global War on Terrorism Service Medal, the Ranger Tab, the Parachutist Badge and the Army Service Ribbon. He was posthumously awarded the Bronze Star Medal, Purple Heart and the Meritorious Service Medal.  He had also just gone through his official annual assessment, and was subsequently ranked by Captain Jimmy Webb as performing in the top five percent of all the lieutenants he had ever assessed.

“God has gained himself one hell of a soldier,” Lee’s brother, Chester, wrote on his Facebook page. “My brother, my friend, Weston Lee died in Iraq yesterday. And I am completely and utterly devastated. Right now, I and my family could use your prayers and love. I will miss you Weston, but I know right now you’re telling God what’s the next mission.”
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But that was Weston the soldier.  There was also "Wes", a regular guy.   Before entering the Army, he was a graduate of the University of North Georgia, where he had earned a Bachelor of Science Degree in criminal justice, and was a proud member of Sigma Alpha Epsilon Fraternity.   Weston the down-to-earth guy was a loving boyfriend, a proud uncle, and a son who was adored by his parents.   He was obviously a hero in his town.   

It was only because of a twist of fate that I got to know about Weston, and meet his two dear friends. As it happens, Weston’s grave is not so far from my father’s:  area 60, in Arlington National Cemetery.    
​There is no surge of patriotism quite like the one you feel when you visit Arlington Cemetery on Memorial Day.


I miss dad every day, but it is an ache to which I have grown accustomed.   I kept watching the two young men, out of the corner of my eye.  They both took sips from a flask, toasting their friend.  Then, as I knew they would, they poured a bit on his grave.   One of the things that was most interesting to me was the way that they kept trying to leave, yet could not quite bring themselves to walk away.   I had seen this before.  I had done it myself.  I think I knew exactly what was going on.  Once you leave a funeral plot for the first time, that is the moment when you accept--really accept--that your loved one, your friend, is never coming back.  It is not that you didn’t accept it before.  But standing by that grave,  it sinks in, on a much deeper level:  the heartbreaking reality of ashes to ashes, dust to dust.  

More to the point, though, you realize, that if you really love them, you now must start living your life-- in some small measure, at least--as they would have lived theirs, had death not taken them down. Their dreams, their principals, their passions, their visions, even their wit, now must become a part of who you are, and who you will be--or you will have ultimately failed in your task to remember them.  

​To honor them.


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I said goodbye and happy Memorial Day to dad, placed flowers at his headstone, then left his grave to go over to where the boys stood.  It was a brand new death; Weston had flowers, but his stone was not even in place yet.  All I could think to say to the guys was to remind them of that old saw, “A person dies twice,” I said.  “Once, when they pass from this life.  And yet again, when someone mentions their name for the very last time.   Don’t ever forget him.  Don’t ever stop telling the Wes legends.” We all hugged.  They toasted Weston again.  

And when they did walk off, there was a spring in their step, unexpected in graveyards, but more predictable than you might imagine:  it is the energy of the dead pouring into the living, imbuing an entirely new agenda, urging those of us who still have a pulse, to live the life that the dear departed would have joyously pursued, had fate but given them equal footing.  A fair shot at a good, long life.

And then, of course, because it was Arlington Cemetery and Memorial Day, the heavens opened up, and then came the rain.

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“The true soldier fights not because he hates what is in front of him, but because he loves what is behind him.”
   -G.K. Chesterton


And on the front page of Weston’s memorial program,  under Weston’s photo and the Airborne emblem, was a quote from General George S. Patton... “It is foolish and wrong to mourn the men who died. Rather, we should thank God that such men lived.”







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Dear Britain:  Thank you for the distraction of the attacks on Manchester.

5/23/2017

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Given the tragic events that took place in Manchester, England, we here at The Pickford Word have decided to reprint a pair of our blogs.  We are feeling the same emotions as before:  to quote the great Yogi Bera, “It’s deja vu all over again.”   And upon revisiting the articles, we still find our logic to be impeccable.   We cannot say “enjoy”.   We can ask that you keep the dead and the wounded, as well as their families and friends, in your heads and hearts.  And then act (as in, “to take action”), accordingly.  

Post Script.  Below, we offer pictures of "Big Ben".
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DEAR FRANCE:  THANK YOU FOR THE DISTRACTION OF THE ATTACKS ON PARIS

5/23/2017

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By Meg Langford

​Just when we were having to spend a bit too much time worried, preoccupied about autumnal issues like how the kids are doing as they get back into the rhythm of school, and how our favorite football team is going to fare this season, and whether or not we are going to have to spend another Thanksgiving with our least favorite drunk uncle, and what to get whom for Christmas … well, along come the Attacks on Paris, distracting us.  To call the Attacks on Paris a distraction seems horribly callous, cruel, and petty, I admit, but are any of us this side of the pond really going to do anything about them?  Probably not.  So of course they are a distraction.  A mere distraction.   The merest distraction.  I know, I know, I have probably already made you mad.  But bear with me.  Follow my logic …



As far as I can see, KNOWLEDGE—learning things in the world and about the world, discovering news and history and fun facts on the web—it only serves three purposes:

  1. It changes who we are.
  2. It changes what we do.  (often intermingling with 1.)
  3. It distracts us.  It distracts us from the yawning ennui and from the gaping glimpse into hell that our life often seems to be on a day-to-day basis.  


And let’s face it.  When we surf the web, it’s usually # 3, right?  What was the last time you read something on the web and it fundamentally changed who you are?  When was the last time it changed you, for good and for real, even a little bit?   And how often does what you encounter on the web even impact your actions—oh, and no, surfing to another website because the first website has planted that idea in your head does not count as action.  Nor does the impulse to shop, eat, drink, or indulge in onanism, because of something you saw on the web.  I am talking about real, outside the box, making a difference sort of action.   And so I am guessing that, as heartbroken as you feel about what happened in Paris, you are not upset to the point where you are going to commit yourself to being changed by it.  From it.  Because of it.  And I am guessing that, as heartbroken as you are, it’s not going to change the way you live your life—the things you do every day.  So unless you plan to take this incident, or some equally hellish conglomeration of incidents like it, yes, unless you plan to let it CHANGE WHO YOU ARE (NUMBER ONE), or CHANGE WHAT YOU DO in life (NUMBER TWO), then you should acknowledge it for what it is—a distraction.  A distraction that makes you feel things, and think a rush of thoughts, and chat heatedly with the other distracted people around you—but still, it remains, nonetheless, a mere distraction from the life you live.  And don’t you owe it to the dead to thank them for that?  After all, the French invented the term “ennui”, so if anybody would respect a ruthless approach to escaping it, it would be the French. 


Let’s face it.  We all heard the about the attack.  We saw the headlines, we read the stories, we watched the footage, and we soaked in those photographs--moments in time capturing horror, and pain, and sometimes heroism.  (This is about the time we could have started asking ourselves the serious question of what were we going to do about it?)  But no, then, oh then, we moved onto the forums, the comments.  Understandable, yes, because hearing what everybody else is thinking and feeling makes us feel less alone, and the last thing we want to experience as World War III is breaking out, is that sense of being completely on your own.   


But the forum comments were predictable too, and like anything that is predictable and redundant, it was rather a waste of our time.  I did a highly scientific analysis of every comment made on all the forums in the world and here is what I gleaned:  in addition to about 4000 “OMD’S”—this is a French story, after all—33 percent blamed the Bleeding Heart Liberals (letting those damn refugees in), about another third blamed the Heartless Conservatives (damned imperialism, ramming the American flag up the sphincter of every country in the Middle East), a predictable 17 percent blamed Obamacare, 11 percent had a direct line to God Almighty and told us what He wanted us to know about it, and about 5 percent reassured us it was OK, it was going to be fine, because they knew a way that we could make $80 dollars an hour on the internet, first week out of the gate, just as that forum poster’s neighbor and sister-in-law had been doing, to hear them tell it.  And on and on the comments go.   


Really?  Seriously?  Isn’t it starting to feel like you are wasting your time?  Like you could be doing something more productive in the world right about now?   Most of us passed the point of keeping up with current events, of doing diligence as citizens of the world, but we just kept going.  Surfing.  The average American spends between 9-11 hours a day plugged into the world wide web.  That’s millions upon millions of human hours frittered away every day.  Imagine, just imagine what would happen if we all committed to taking just a fraction of those hours and used them to volunteer for something—a suggestion harder and harder to deflect with excuses, since you can even volunteer for things while sitting online.  The net result would be billions of volunteer hours making the world a better place.


What does it really mean when we spend time perusing the coverage of the Attacks on Paris?   I’d say it’s the cyber equivalent of rubbernecking at an accident.  We all know there are three kinds of people who pass scenes of bloody carnage on the public roads:  People who give the dead and dying and injured their privacy.   People who have an attraction to gore.  And people who look, but when they look, they are flooded with a sense of “There but for the grace of God go I”--and it jolts them into realizing that it can all be over at any moment, and it makes them a little more grateful for their own life, and the people in it.  So Paris is like bloody carnage in the middle of the road:  are you going to use Paris as an opportunity to change, and to embrace the frailty of life, the ephemeral nature of being, and to then live life more intensely?  To love more deeply?   Or are you going to rubberneck, drive on home, fix a cocktail, and watch “Wheel of Fortune”?   Or whatever it is that you do when you are deep in the throes of not changing a damn thing about your feeble little existence.
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So let’s return to our premise:  PARIS ATTACKS AS DISTRACTION:  I maintain that unless you do one of these things—to let the Attacks on Paris change you, for real this time, and to change what you do as you move through the world, to let it change the choices you make …and then, from that, you commit to going out, on a regular basis, and doing your part, however humble, to alleviate the troubles in your own little corner of the world--unless you honestly commit to doing one of these things, as a result of the horror you have watched unfold in France, then just as will so many of the critically wounded, the news stories will die over the coming days, and your life will go on just the way it was before.  And we will all go back to watching Trump bloviate and sending each other Youtubes of cute animals wearing Christmas hats.  So the question is, if you truly want to respect the dead, if you want to take the advice that they surely would give you … if they could come back, like Marley’s ghost … it would be “What are you going to do today, to make the world a better place, to ease somebody’s pain?  What are you going to do, to acknowledge that life is fleeting and precious?”  If nothing else, you could get from this disaster a renewed resolve to change a relationship in your life that needs some love and attention, to fix a relationship that is broken . . .  you become determined to fix it, because you are reminded of how short life is, how fragile it can be.  Don’t you think that would be one of the most urgent and heartfelt messages of the people killed in the Attacks on Paris, if the dead could speak?


I, for one, on the anniversary of the Attacks on Paris, plan to spend a few moments every year remembering Big Ben.  No, not the clock in London.  A little boy.  I learned about Big Ben because he was born on the same date as the attacks, but a few years before, and it would be a damnable shame if this brave little child were forgotten by the world—if his tiny life and tragic death were overshadowed by the very real tragedy that cost the lives of dozens of innocents in the City of Lights.  Ben Bowen was a little boy I never knew; he earned his nickname because his courage and his smile were both so big. (http://www.bens-story.com)   It was about the time that he was one year and a half old that he was diagnosed with a horrific brain tumor, aggressive and usually untreatable.  He fought hard, and his parents were there for him every step of the way, as was St. Jude’s Hospital.  We do not euthanize children, of course, but in Ben’s case, it meant a torturous end:  His neuropathy was so bad, his body so sensitive, that his parents could not even hold him in the final weeks, and he was regurgitating his own fecal matter.  Still, through it all, he found the strength to smile.  And what a smile.  A smile that made the clouds part. . . 


We cannot measure the worth of a human life, but I know this:  certainly Big Ben is no less worthy of being commemorated, just because he did not make a headline.  Sometimes, nowadays we get told what to care about.  The ongoing crisis, the tragedy, the sadness, the agony that is life every day for some people, we don’t do anything about, because it hasn’t been put right in our face.  Because it’s not a headline.   Because it hasn’t gone viral.  Because the story is hidden.  (That, I think, is something we must be careful about. . .  some compassion requires a very circumlocutious journey.  As Tolkien so pithily reminds us:  “Not all who wander are lost…” )  Ben was two and a half when he was laid to rest, after having been made an honorary firefighter—which was appropriate, after all, since his father was one of the firemen rescuing people at 9-11.   We could choose to honor what would surely be in the spirit and wishes of the Paris attack victims by volunteering at a local children’s hospital, or supporting a place like St. Jude’s.  It would be something.  There is always something you can do.  More than commenting on the forums. 

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So, that’s about it.  Seriously.  Now it’s up to you.  But you are STILL WORRIED ABOUT PARIS:   Relax, if you can.  Paris doesn’t need you.  The planet is praying for Paris, supplies are pouring in, world leaders are talking, action is being taken.  The best doctors are there, administering.  Paris doesn’t need you.  Americans are very good at stepping up when things go wrong in the world, and that’s great, but the infrastructure is already in place:  as a people, we give away billions and billions, and we never shirk our duty when there is a disaster in the world.  The Red Cross and Doctors Without Borders gear up for this kind of thing, and following on the heels of these organizations are literally dozens of other groups ready to lend a hand.  So yes, while your prayers are welcome, what is really needed in the world is that we use this disaster as a time for personal introspection, so that when the future comes--which it will have, by the time I am done writing this sentence--YOU are not still part of the problem.  


Helen Keller, never one to whine and make excuses, put it as eloquently as I have ever heard:  “It is wonderful how much time good people spend fighting the Devil. If they would only expend the same amount of energy loving their fellow men, the devil would die in his own tracks of ennui.”   Yes, Americans always step up at times like this, but it usually seems to manifest itself in making shrines out of teddy bears and sending large quantities of gaily festooned gift baskets filled with toiletries and chocolate and fruit and cheese.   Again, not to worry.  The Parisians, always resourceful ever since their part in the Resistance, have that covered.   Not too far from the scene of the tragedy, they have a shrine, ready made, for remembrance and mourning the dead:  It’s called Notre Dame.  And as for the fruit and cheese basket, for God’s sake, people, don’t send them any American cheese.  The French are depressed enough already.  
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Encore...Red, White, and Sacrebleu

5/23/2017

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​By Meg Langford


I am having a rough morning.  I really, really want to show people how much I really, really, really care about all those shooting victims in San Bernardino.  I want so much to make a real difference in the world, so I have looked up the appropriate flag so I can cyberpaste it over my Facebook Face and everything, but it is not working out.  So many questions.

Here’s the thing.   I feel awful about what happened, really pitsy, you know, but I am still so very, very sad about that thing that happened in Paris too, so I face a conundrum.  It is a conundrum of great magnitude:  it is social, historical, aesthetic.  It involves geopolitics and Photoshop.  And it even speaks just a wee jot about the extent to which Facebook rules my life.

Let’s slog through it together, shall we, because I bet you are having the same problem: 
OK, we’ve established that we are super upset and grief stricken about the dead folks in San Bernardino.   And but we also still truly feel deeply a lot about the gens mort in Paris.  But as people who almost care even more than I do have pointed out, many people died around the same time as the victims in Paris, and so what about remembering them too?   Now, fixing the Facebook problem of the suicide bomber in Beirut who killed 43 people and wounded more than 240 is a pretty easy solution, because, happily for aesthetics, the Lebanese flag is basically white and red stripes.  Everyone’s happy, right?  You just slap a couple more red and white stripes alongside the French blue, white and red flag, and you are good to go.  Conscience appeased.  Dead memorialized.   Easy Peasy.

But wait.  Crap.  Now we have this San Bernardino thing to deal with, and here’s where it gets thorny.  The San Bernardino County flag is a dog’s breakfast of wackadoodle pictures; there’s mountains and fields with crops and a bunch of grapes, and a gigantic scale for weighing in, and a wagon train and a locomotive running over some citrus that was obviously thriving before the train ran over it, and there’s creatures, some holding weapons, and all of this enclosed within an arrow head.  (A really big arrow head, I’m guessing.)  Cripes, it’s a busy little flag.  It reminds me of one of those giant ugly mosaics made by a brigade of sixth graders, you know, the ones that they have at fancy rest stops right near state borders, depicting cities and events and famous pioneers, all reminding you of which state is really the best of the adjoining states and where you should spend all those tourist dollars.

But the good news is that the actual major colors of the flag of San Bernardino (county) consists only of a white field with a couple of blue stripes and a couple of aqua stripes, not really an aqua, more of a rich azure, the same thrilling tint as Anderson Cooper’s eyes when he flashes that twinkle, or offers that endearing chuckle, like when he talked about Gerard Depardieu urinating publicly on a flight from Paris to Dublin, after he’d had all that wine and was then told he could not use the inflight toilet.  (Gerard Depardieu, not Anderson Cooper.)   Now, both Paris and Dublin are big drinking meccas, so you’d think fellow travelers would understand.  But the story tickled Cooper into a flurry of puns.  Yes, Anderson Cooper’s eyes, that’s the color in the San Bernardino flag.  We are talking California, after all. 

So, taking the San Bernardino flag, with its white, blue and azure, and incorporating that into our Facebook Face Gauze of blue, white, red, then more white and red, then some azure, is actually both pretty and promising.

But not so fast.  The San Bernardino attack took place within the city, which has a different flag, where the symbols of farms and locomotives and wagon trains are very prominent.  And since the closer you are to a tragedy, the more you care about it—for example, last week, your car not starting or that horrific slight that happened to you when you were doing your Black Friday shopping impacted you a hell of a lot more than the recent tragic and untimely death of Kitanoumi  Toshimitsu, The 55th Yokozuna, am I right?—anyway, where was I, ah yes, so given my logic that the city of San Bernardino was really the heart of the tragedy (plus the seal is prominent on the county flag as well), I feel we need to address those images contained therein.

But if you are going to put those images as well as the colors onto your Facebook Face Gauze (the French flag conveniently didn’t have any images, the French being a more of a “moins est plus” kind of people), then we have to go back to the suicide bomber in Lebanon, and put in that big green tree that they have on their nation’s flag.  It’s actually a Lebanon Cedar, but happily, it goes pretty well with the themes in the San Bernadino flag, cedars being fairly popular in the Golden State, especially when it comes to building closets in the Pacific Northwest, where moths are quite a problem.  So the cedar tree fits just fine.

So I have my Facebook Face Gauze, which is now blue, white, red, red and white some more, Anderson Cooper azure, plus it is festooned with a mountain, wagon trains, fields of crops, a scale for weighing things, a locomotive, and a cedar tree.  But it is to be embedded on a very small patch of computer screen space, as we all know, so it looks for all the world like the locomotive has just come out of that mountain tunnel and crashed into the cedar tree, blinded by the sudden bright light, or perhaps distracted by people waving from the wagon train.  And people will think that the cause I am actually mourning is all of the train accidents that happen, because we need to be sad about those dead people too.  And then I flash on an image from my past.  I watched, one day in 2008, from my home in Canoga Park, as an Apocalypse Now of helicopters, along with a fleet of ambulances, made their way to a horrific train accident that happened in Chatsworth, California, about a mile from my house.  The engineer was texting when it happened.   Twenty-five people died; do we not care about them as much as those who died in acts of terrorism?  Would you be less upset if your child or dearest friend or husband or wife died because some stupid driver was texting, than you would be if an act of Jihad wiped their sweet life off the face of the earth?  So yes, I tell myself, let the illusion that the train has crashed into a tree symbolize all the mass transit accident victims that we mourn.  (Cue The Folksmen from “A Mighty Wind” singing “Blood on the Coal”.)  And, ooh, plus, the wagon train on both San Bernadino flags can symbolize all the fine people we lost settling this great country of ours.   And the mountains on the SB flag?  That can be where the Indians that we are going to slaughter are attempting to hide; we must also remember them while we are Manifesting our Destiny.  And the fields of unpicked produce can represent the plight of illegal undocumented alien immigrants who are overworked and underpaid.

But wait.  My friends who care just about as much as I do, but not quite as deeply, remind me that Paris, Beirut, and San Bernadino weren’t the only places where there have very recently been massive waves of death and destruction.  You can’t bring up Middle East turmoil without thinking of Syria.  A lot of death in Syria.  A lot of lives to mourn.  And, my friends dryly inform me, (and damn if there isn’t a tinge of amusement on their face) that Syria actually has two, yes TWO flags, WHAT?!, which apparently has to do with some kind of petty infighting going on there.  (And by the way why does nobody’s flag say “Can’t We All Just Get Along”, what would that be in Latin?)  Anyway, something about “de jure” governments, which I thought was a menu item, but continuing on, the two flags of Syria are black, white, and red, and black, white, and green—and, excuse me, I thought these were the colors of the Italian flag, that the Italians had dibs—but the Syrian flagS have additions, one with some red stars, and one with some green stars, which is stupid to me, since stars are supposed to be white, or maybe yellow, and twinkle.  (Note to self:  create Old Glory with LED flashing star lights, sell on eBay next Fourth of July, big buck$$$.)  

Where was I?  Ah yes.  So if I add these colors to the blue, white, red, red some more, white some more, more blue, more white, azure, and yellow (the background of the San Bernadino city flag), now I add not only more red, but green and black.  Shew.  It’s not only ugly, it looks for all the world like those test bars they used to use when there was a big crisis, and then the Emergency Broadcast System would come on, but some stations used to leave the test bars on their channel all night after my bedtime as a child, back when TV had occasional end points or pauses.  So now, I worry, people will see all these stripes on my Facebook page and think I AM THE ONE having a tragic emergency, or EVEN WORSE (gasp!) that my Facebook page is going off the air. 

On the more interesting column, though, is the fact that the flag of Beirut, the city where that actual horrible suicide bombing which took 43 souls actually took place, has a ship floating on the water, on its flag.  And I’m guessing that if Zuckerberg weren’t busy changing diapers right now, he’d be addressing this entire imbroglio with more thoroughness than he has, and allow us the option to put the flag of the city where a tragedy took place, instead of whole countries, which have many parts, and people caring in varying greater and lesser degrees.  So I take the flag of Beirut, and I add the sailing ship and images of what appear to be rather choppy seas, grab your Dramamine … and Huzzah!, what is eerie is that if you look at the flag of Paris, IT ALSO has a ship on even choppier waters, Normans or something, I am told, which is stupid because Paris is landlocked, but whatever—I would have chosen a baguette crossed with a paintbrush, or something.  But it’s rude to criticize when people are in mourning.

So I put the boats with the choppy water on my Facebook Face Gauze, and they are bumping up around the train tracks and the wagon train, which was supposed to be going through the desert, but now there are waves around the locomotive.  So instantly, you get this image—ocean levels rising.  Climate change.  BANG!   I got that covered.  This is good.  This is fabulous!  Now people know I care about the planet, on top of all my other causes.  I really, really care.


“But what about the Egyptians” my friends who are almost as worried about the world as I am ask. “Well, what about Egypt” I say, thinking about the pyramids and crystal and energies and spiritual things.   And then they explain about a coup d'état and terrorism and something about detaining journalists—but I wasn’t really listening, I was looking at the eagle on the Egyptian flag.  Pretty bird.  Good on my Gauze. 

But here’s the weird thing:  just when my friends interrupted me with that stuff about Egypt, I was thinking about how the flag used in the Paris attacks was actually the flag of France, so maybe I should use the flag of the state of California for the San Bernadino thing, California being pretty close to an actual country, I figure.   And that flag, of course, features a big bear on it.  And bears, as people who care about things such as myself know, are endangered.  Bears. Endangered.   Eagle, endangered.  I post them on my Facebook Face Gauze, the bear on the mountain (with the invisible endangered Indians) and the Eagle in the sky, on that azure blue that is the color of Anderson Cooper’s eyes. 

I am feeling pretty damn good about myself, if I may say so.   Climate Change.  Species on the Verge of Extinction.   Violence All Over the World.  (Hey, the Persian flag has a lion on it, so if I add that, I got Cecil covered.)  Endangered CNN Hosts.  If I knew of a flag that had a tent on it, I would throw that on there, for the homeless.  Maybe if I look at flags of third world countries.  Or maybe the Jungle, that refugee camp at Calais, the one with the disco and bicycle repair shop and a theater, will get around to hoisting an official flag with a pup tent and a griffon or something, then people can know I care about that too. 

For a fleeting moment, I think of my Buddhist friend, Chris.  Every time you tell him about some tragedy in the world, a plane crash or a terrorist attack, he just smiles patronizingly and reminds you that millions are suffering every day, all over the world, dying of starvation and dysentery and bug bites, and then he gives a lengthy speech about how all pain comes from attachment, and ends with how none of us should eat meat or wear leather.  Not even fun fur or Pleather, lest it seem like tacit approval.  Chris doesn’t get invited places very much.  But his point is well taken.   And for another fleeting moment (I admit, I haven’t much of an attention span these days), I think of the behind-the-scenes drama at the Academy Awards, the annual dilemma that rages about what ribbon-pin one ought to wear this particular year:  Yellow for troops?  Pink for breast cancer?  Rainbow for gays?  Denzel wore purple one time, for urban violence.  And some stars actually ask this vaguely reasonable, just, and fair question:  if I don’t wear all the ribbons, does this mean I don’t care about all the causes?  And if I wear no ribbons, does this mean I am an apathetic, self-absorbed turd?  This whole matter irks me a great deal, in regards to my big morning project, because I care deeply, for example, about breast cancer, but as far as my very politically correct Facebook Face Gauze goes, I don’t believe that there is a national flag with tits on it.

​ASIDE:  In regards to San Bernardino, I could just plow forth and do what I did to honor the victims of the Paris attacks: I examined my life, listened to the spirits of the dead, and did what they told me to do … fixed something in my corner of the world.  I started working on a broken relationship with a loved one, and asked to have my Christmas gifts be given to charity in my name.  (Specifically, I think an African family will be getting a goat.)
But “As Facebook Goes, So Goes the World” (“Sicut Vadit Facebookum, Ita Mouetur Mundus”), so I return to finishing my massive project.  I study it.

I got Paris, Beirut, San Bernadino, Syria, Egypt, and since there is pretty much violence all over the Middle East that we can’t seem to do a damn thing about (can you say “Lawrence of Arabia”), I figure I will just throw a camel and an oil derrick and maybe an oasis pond filled with Blackwater in to represent all of those sand dunes filled with squabbling tribes, and call it a day.  Yeah, I know, it’s now an overwhelming little Facebook Face Gauze, a long way from the simple Paris tri-colors.  (By the way, how come nobody has pointed out that this blue white and red Facebook Face Gauze looks a hell of a lot like a Coco Chanel-style hajib?)  Oh, but not my Facebook Face Gauze: as I gaze at it admiringly, I realize that nobody else will have all this, it makes me different and special and unique, like the superior sort of person who would not have just indulged in those repetitive redundant adjectives that make the reader have to absorb the same point over and over and over again.

​Now that my work here is done, I must go have a breakfast of croissant, spread with hummus and avocado, chased down by a half-caf fat-free soy latté Turkish Coffee, avec a Cabernet Sauvignon chaser.  Sounds ghastly I know, but dammit, my heart is filled with love for mankind, what can I do?

POST SCRIPT:  Oh yeah, forgot.  I did promise you Fifteen Things You Can Do to Change the World:
 
Spoiler Alert:   You won’t believe item number 13!!!!!!!
 
  1. Volunteer for something.
  2. Give to charity.
  3. Call or visit your grandmother.  She’s lonely, she misses you, and she’s one fourth of what you are.
  4. Today, try to read something that’s more than 140 characters.
  5. Now, try to read something that’s more than 140 words.                   Squirrel!
  6. Go someplace really amazing, don’t take a Selfie of your big face in the amazing view, vista, landscape, artwork, whatever, and next week, see if you can still remember being there.
  7. See if you can prove to your friends that you went there, without the selfie.  Perhaps your description of the wonders will achieve this.
  8. Instead of playing Farmville, come the bonnie spring, go out into your own backyard and plant an actual damn plant.  For the love of pete, grow something you can actually put in your piehole.  (Same goes for Cafeville.)
  9. Speaking of Cafeville, how about getting off your Slimfast ass and bake an actual pie!
  10. Or just shut down the computer and walk around the block and get some goddam fresh air.
  11. Volunteer for something else.
  12. Give a gift to someone who needs it in a loved one’s name, instead of marching through the mall like a Walking Dead zombie, and buying someone another stupid sweater. 
  13. Oh, forget it.  You wouldn’t have believed it anyway.
  14. Turn off Facebook for one whole day, and see if the world ends.
  15. If the world does end, be glad you didn’t spend your last day on earth surfing Facebook, communicating with all your fake friends who, I assure you, will never show up next Saturday to help you move into your new apartment.
​
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THE GHOST BAN

5/20/2017

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Pickford Studios acknowledges that we have slowed the pace on our blogging.  That fact saddens us.  It seems that we have been almost completely banned from both Facebook, and Discus.  And this has virtually destroyed our ability to get the word out.  We have thus far been committed to being ad-free, and we cannot afford an advertising budget.  We have relied on getting the word out by commenting on relevant stories that appear on Facebook--via pages as varied as The New York Times, PINAC, and Boing Boing.  It is a myth that Zuckerberg only censors alt-right.  We believe that what the Facebook software frequently censors is any comment with a link that might take someone (God forbid) away from Facebook.  (And should you decide to test it, be aware that it doesn’t happen the first time you include a link.  Only if you do it over time--however judiciously--do you get ghost banned.)  This is particularly troubling as many of the major news outlets no longer offer the opportunity to comment on their dot.coms.  Only on their Facebook page.  But the Z Man has other ideas.  Ask yourself--when you read the comments on a story that shows up on Facebook, are those comments replete with scintillating links that back up assertions and opinions--as one might expect from any good debater, scholar, teacher, student, academic, politician, author, activist, or citizen?  Or does the comment thread consist of just a series of brief, often ignorant, and typically smarmy remarks?  Now ask yourself another question:  do you really think that is reflection of the world writ large?  So much repetitive cruelty, snark, and attack-oriented rhetoric?  Or are the smart comments, with their proofs and evidence, disturbingly absent?  We will be writing a longform blog on the subject of Mark Zuckerberg’s penchant for ghost-banning.  It is sad that such a powerful man with such potential has become such a virulent censor of free speech.   So let us apologize once again for the lack of constant blog posts.  We are just sad, and exhausted.  And censored.  We are demoralized.
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A NORTHWARD JOURNEY

5/20/2017

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By Eve Ryman


Gaia wakes to protect her children whenever the world throws a tantrum, or is otherwise under attack.  Scientists reject the concept of a planetwide consciousness, but scientists require replication and corroboration about both the proofs and the methods employed.  In a practical world, this is useful.  But Gaia is too old, and too wise, to need acceptance or provide evidence.  She first awoke during the attack of the evil embodied in the proto-planet Theia, in the aftermath of the great collision which formed the moon and remade the planet.  She has been guiding and protecting life on Earth ever since.  For four billion years she has guided and protected life on our planet in how to survive, when to evolve, and where and when to move.  If humans were not so arrogant, if we could be still as we once could, and listen as we once did, she would lovingly guide and protect us as well.  But in our lust for acquisition, we have become a threat, and she speaks to us no more.   –From the Tribal Bibal, Chapter 17 zedo, written in the thirty-third year A.C.

It started simply enough.  But simply because it was simple, do not think that it was not magnificent.  In its way.   Although scientists looking back on the matter would see it as the first great harbinger of doom, nearly the entire population of the planet agreed upon this much:  it was a breathtaking thing to watch.  
​

(Until, of course, the world got bored, as the world always does, and it turned its collective attention to newer, shinier distractions.)

But when I say it happened simply enough, what I mean is that it did not shock the first witnesses.  For when the Great Migration began, it happened in places like Africa, Laos, Haiti, Amazonia, Louisiana—places where the strange is not so strange.  Places where animists live, and the idea of great trees uprooting themselves and starting a journey north does not seem all that fantastical.  The animists knew, after all, as surely as they knew that the sun would rise in the east, that trees and shrubs and flowers all had spirits, lively and capricious souls, and for these organisms to uproot themselves and move to a different place seemed unusual, perhaps … but not without explanation.  Not beyond the realm of credulity.  And if these assorted natives saw their rain forests and fields of crops just tear their roots from the ground one vigorous morning, those same peoples also took comfort in the fact that certainly some new species of tree or grain or fruit would migrate to spaces from whence the others had departed.

The entire matter was quite thoroughly documented on film and in some very stunning photographs, so we will recount it rather succinctly for you here, since the purpose of the information in this pod is just to inform people who have somehow forgotten that amazing phenomenon, or who are very young, and have stumbled upon the information in this pod (or vial, as some of you like to call it), and are learning about the Great Migration for the first time.

The Great Migration was, of course, prompted by the Great Change in the Climate.  

What so many pompous humans had been denying for decades, the trees knew deep in their souls, and they could feel it from the tips of their roots to the pith of their ringed cores.   If they were to survive—not just as an individual tree, but as a species of tree—they must do what they had so very rarely done (and which had never before been witnessed by the humans): they must migrate.  And just as it was true for the trees, so it was true for the crops, for the shrubs and bushes, and the flowers of the fields.  


The first tree on record to rip its roots out of the ground was a Cashapona; scientific name:  “socratea exorrhiza”.  We know this because as very primitive as certain dark corners of the world still may have been in the early years of the Twenty-Second Century, it is nonetheless safe to say that there was hardly a primitive in the world that did not own some inexpensive cellphone with a camera on it, and there was nary a tribe that could not point you to their nearest cellphone tower, which they could use to cackle at ancient reruns of Hogan’s Heroes or F Troop or Baywatch, or the latest tele-novella.  It was a curious time on the planet: fiercely protective of their ancient ways and rituals, even these centuries-old peoples could not resist a peek at American television.

And so that is how it happened that a child from an obscure tribe in the Amazonian rainforest happened to record the very beginning of the Great Migration.  The little boy was minding his own business, gathering prickly fruits for breakfast, when he heard a great groan above him.  He stared up and saw what he knew, he just knew, to be a face forming on the trunk of the old tree, under which he had spent so many happy hours playing.  It was a full set of almost human features.  A mouth, and nose, and eyes were all unmistakably emerging from the bark and moss.  With a grimace and a grunt, the great tree heaved from its roots to the very tips of its newest branches.   Its trunk shivered, and then, there was a great rumbling.  The little boy jumped back, too young to be afraid of the unknown, and watched in wonder as the great tree, with what was clearly an audible cry of pain and gumption, lifted its largest root out of the ground—and then another, and another.  And when it put the root back down on the ground, it was a foot away from where it had started.  Millions of tiny beings, who had made their lives on and in and around that tree, were startled and terrified—they clearly had planned to live out all their days (or in some cases, hours)—on that one spot.  But some of the braver and wiser ones, wee though they were, had the courage to go with that massive moving tree, as it edged its way north.

As it would happen, a man from Texas who was illegally trapping endangered macaws to resell stateside also witnessed the amazing ripping of the roots, and the beginning of the tree’s journey north, so he was the one who was in a better position to get it uploaded and push it to viral.  And he got all the credit for it.  He also got busted for the illegal bird poaching, so there was that bit of justice.
After that first tree … it was astonishing thing to watch.  Although, as history well knows, the entire Great Migration was a massive harbinger of doom.  

And now here follows a few verbal snapshots from around the planet:   (Although, to whomever is reading this, if you can make your way to a repository of video images, that is the most exhilarating way to relive it.  Although we all know that since the Catastrophe, such a thing is easier said than done.)

When the first tree, that grand Cashapona, lifted its roots from the ground, causing itself no small bit of agony, it was an inspiration to the other trees around it.  They could all feel the rainforest getting warmer, almost by the hour.  Every living thing felt the soundless urgings of ancient Gaia.  Humans disregarded them, if they felt them at all, and many less developed plants and animals simply felt the thought … follow.  They had been a proud lot, this collection of trees, feeling that they had evolved themselves to be able to withstand the steamy heat of these tropical climes, but it was getting a bit warm, even for them.  And drier.  They might have been able to stand the higher temperatures, but their bodies thirsted for those beautiful daily deluges of rain, and the storms were dwindling.  Fewer.  Lighter.  It felt like a betrayal.

So when that oldest and wisest of the Socratea began thrusting its roots forward in a jumble of treely steps—first awkward, then with an increasingly mesmerizing waltzing sort of movement, the other trees followed suit.  It seemed suicidal to them at first, to rip their roots, elaborate systems that it had taken them a lifetime to establish, and to pull them up from the depths of Mama Earth onto the mushy floor of the rainforest, but after a few moments, it felt rather fine.   By nightfall, they had walked several miles.  Within a few weeks, they had made their way up through Central America, across the Isthmus, and settled themselves right across the Rio Grande, showing no sympathy or human manners when they edged out and knocked over the last of the dusty and drying cacti.

But by the time they had gotten there, the Great Migration was going on all over the planet, and Canadians (just to name one happily surprised populus) watched in delight through high powered binoculars as millions of corn plantings hoisted their roots high—lifting themselves up by their bootstraps, as one idealistic preacher would have put it—and made their way from the America’s heartland … from Iowa, Illinois, Minnesota, and Nebraska … to the northernmost border of the United States.  Astonished and delighted border patrol guards stood back in childlike wonder as the armies of corn made their way into places with names whose lilting syllables and Aboriginal hearkenings pleased the corn when it fell on their collective ears—exotic locations with names like Winnipeg and Wetaskiwin, Saskatoon and Saskatchewan, Madawaska and Merigomish and Mushaboom.  And when the air felt right and the dew kissed their leaves, they stopped, settled down, and let their roots wriggle their way deep into the old dirt that was their new home.

And, lest we forget to mention it, with the forests, and the fields, and with every kind of migration of flora, so also moved the ecosystem with them.  All of the heartbeats, the giant and the wee, the mammalian and the reptilian and the insect, those pulses that thrust forward the lives of the ugly critters and the regal creatures, they all shivered and skipped at first, terrified of this new stark choice thrust without warning into their petite existences.  But they realized almost instantaneously that this tree, this cornstalk, this snapdragon that was their dinner, their diner, their shelter, the shield, their camouflage, their universe, their home sweet home, their comfort and joy--if the ecosystemites did not follow this flora, this fauna would soon be D.O.A.  And so, with the migration of the plants, came the migration of the creatures as well--the great drumming thrum of life, taking matters into their own hands (paws, claws, hooves, wings, tentacles, talons), and hoping that they might find some way to circumvent the folly of humankind.

And speaking of the folly of humankind.

Social media, experiencing a resurgence after the Great Catastrophe (not to be confused by the historically ignorant with the Great Migration), was fat with people telling their personal stories of how the Great Migration had impacted them in all manner of delightful ways.

Bob and Joy Henderson, of McMurdo Station, West Antarctica, became famous overnight, when several dozen apple trees of an astonishing variety marched onto their acreage, planted their roots, and continued offering low hanging fruit as though nothing had ever happened.

And the high-rise apartment complexes of Scandinavia and Greenland found themselves suddenly surrounded by glorious rhododendron plants in all the popular colors—white and red and pink and orange and yellow—and thanks to the radiation still lingering in the air, some places were graced with even more mind-bending colors—neon purple, and electric blue, and one particularly unique bloom that pulsed through a rainbow of different colors, if you watched over the course of several hours.  It was wonderful.  Some vines rich with buds would even slither into your house as you slept, if you left the door open a sliver.

The Raskolnikov family, of Siberia, for example, provided a wonderful lengthy video of the butterfly garden that had ingratiated itself into their front yard almost overnight, so drawn were the Phlox and Aster and Lantanas and Verbena and Zinnias to this new, temperate terrain.  What a delightful change it was from the deserts of Virginia and Tennessee, where the death of their kind had seemed all but inevitable … before the inspiring migration of the trees, which had given courage to so many genera and species that were so much tinier and more timid.  The Raskolnikov son, a whiz with creating functional video equipment from the detritus found after the Great Catastrophe, had even been able to capture it on video as the plants migrated in during the night, and sank their delicate roots into the yielding and anxious soil.  The whole world watched it in speed motion photography, and there was much huzzah all around.

And where there was massive bodies of water, now gorgeously green (from the neon lime bursts of new algae strains), or Jacques Cousteau aqua (erroneously adjectivilized, since this new hypnotic blue-green shading was the result of radiation absorption--where were we?  Ah yes--when the grand forests and field crops and phalanxes of flowers arrived at some large body of water, they were more often than not met by some cargo ship or ferry boat or barge or some similar sailing vessel, and always, the campesinos on show and merchant marines aboard standing, staring, in shock and awe, at the sight before them.  They seemed to know that the plants knew so much more than they did.  That they were on some great, grand, global mission.  And so they helped the plant kingdom in its great relocation.  Some crossed themselves, some said a prayer.  For what, they were not sure…

And then, of course, there were the legions of plants that simply crossed great and grand bodies of water on the bridges of plastic trash, here and there, joining continents and peoples….

And if the Great Migration meant that millions of people in less fortunate places on the planet were now starving to death in agony, suffering from the overnight loss of crops from which they had eked out the barest of sustenances, well that was all the way around the world; people could only focus on the delight of their new gardens, the fat fruit trees, and the cotillion of bugs and butterflies and small delightful varmints that had escorted the migrants.  It was wonderful.   And if the Great Migration, caused by the Great Climate Change, had caused inexplicable suffering somewhere else, well that had always been the way of the world.  It didn’t mean that one shouldn’t enjoy one’s morning bowl of strawberries, while watching the sun rise over the South Pole.

                                                                         EPILOGUE

At the end of the day—or, more literally, at the end of the Migration—the world writ large agreed that it had all been a delightful novelty, a panoramic journey of nature into new lands where vegetation of all kinds sought new homes.  Stories were told about it, and scientists all over the globe responded as you would expect—in accordance with whomever it might be that was paying their salary.  New arboretums, designed to show off to best advantage a region’s fine new collection of greenery, sprang up nearly overnight, and tourists flocked in to gawk.  These massive greenhouses were financed by the new villages and hamlets, which themselves had been springing up here and there, after the Great Catastrophe.  And the storehouses of knowledge, located strategically around the globe, expanded their collection to include stories and theories and the movement of millions of plants across the planet, and all by the power of their own root systems initiating a grand and astonishing walkabout.  All by the sheer force of animist will.  Of the organic drive to survive.  

Oh, there were those who warned that this magnificent passage of the trees was a terrifying thing, a sign of times ahead … so bleak and hot, so dry and deadly, that life as we know it would end forever.
But those people were largely perceived as party-poopers, grim gusses, raining on everybody’s parade.

 “Oh”, they thought wryly to themselves, “Oh, that we had the power to do just that.”



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