Deep space travel was cold, boring and lonely, but on Beta Phi, it is our sworn duty to answer the call. In fact, on all planets outside Milky Way, such answers to the call are deeply hard-wired. Our scientists and researchers say this is because we never developed a cerebral cortex atop the medulla oblongata, as is the case on inner planets, which lay inside the galactic womb. There, the stardust is thick and warm, forming a cosmic maternity ward, if you will and the civilizations that arise can exhibit wildly reckless behavior.
Our brains had stayed largely reptilian, which cost us a bit in emotion, but also spared us the follies of inner-planet civilizations like the one now threatening the peace.
We stood waiting at the Phi portal in our redwear, ready for a long journey of the utmost importance. We had no idea it was going to be this big, and weren’t briefed until we were underway. My girl Sandrafive had made the long trip from our moon to Phi portal just for a chance to see me off and burst into tears as soon as our eyes met, though she tried to be brave. Our palms met on the glass, and we mouthed the words, “Go with luck”, to each other. It was the first time I had ever worn or been seen in redwear, the special travel suits reserved only for galactic emergencies and the deep-space travel they require. I was proud.
Suddenly, the floors vibrated, signaling to all it was time to board the starspear.
Fifteen days travel for Sandrafive, for 15 seconds of togetherness, and that, through a glass, darkly. I watched her out of the terminal, and boarded the starspear. My position was forward right, and I made my way through the fuselage. Like a giant squid, my chair signaled me with red flashing light. The closer I got, the faster the flashes became. When I sat down, the chair straps wrapped themselves jealously around me. The flashing stopped, and my seat released a pleasant aroma of Lilac, my favorite. I placed my palms flat on the armrests, and the chair administered a prescribed dose of mood enhancers that would see me to slumber for fourteen years. Considering the round trip, we would be traveling near lightspeed for almost thirty years. Sandrafive would age normally, and I not at all. It was for this reason I had chosen a girl so much my junior- in case this day might come. I surrendered to the onrushing wooziness, and entered a dreamstate netherworld, where time, space and intuition meld for a decade, squeezed down into a few seconds.
My eyes popped open sometime later as my chair began to release her protective grip. I curled my upper lip, pressing it against a silicone assembly which opened my observation membrane. And there she was- space. Black as pitch and cold as death, space somehow maintained a beautiful countenance. Far off in the inky blackness, pinpoints of light emanated from the other starspears on the mission with us, each juxtaposed to perfectly encapsulate our precious cargo- the giant structure that would bring death to one world and salvation to many others. Made of nickel-iron and painted white against the stars, the gargantuan device resembled a bowling ball bag, replete with giant round magnets at its circumference. It was by changing and then reversing the polarity on these electromagnets our squadron of starspears was able to herd the huge beast along, using them like interstellar electric cattle prods.
The closer we got to space zero, the thicker the debris field became, and the disease of the target planet was apparent. Discarded space craft, satellites, radioactive bundles of space-garbage, and fossil fuel-generated space bubbles all formed an ominous mine field of danger to anyone on the open space highway. The Commodore gave orders for microspears to depart the mother spear. Our mission was to zap deep-space exploratory probes and vessels, and anything else that had its origin on the planet in question. No prisoners, no samples, no dialogue and no attempts at contact of any kind. This was a class O planet, the most dangerous type, and full containment was imperative. ‘O’ stood for ‘oil’, a type of propellant formed from dinosaurs, and used by all developing planets. But it is abused by a small minority of under-civilizations, whose political systems, for whatever reason, fail to allow for the periodic recalibration needed for the good of their own, as well as the galaxy. Judging from the size, toxicity and decay of the debris field this one was a doozy.
We banked away from the solar system ahead, homing in on tell-tale beacons from the planets most remote spacecraft. We dispatched them one at a time using radio waves to cook the occupants from the inside out.
Our job done, we circled back to observe the starspears as they worked their electromagnets in tandem, swinging the giant containment structure to bear.
As the planets hapless occupants bought and sold their own life support systems –a jungle for a soy farm, a redwood forest for a pool deck, ad infinitum- for the very last day, our job as Beta Phi, or ‘BP’, for short, was almost finished. We brought the giant encapsulation structure into place, half from the north, half from the south, and it slammed shut with the force of a solar oil blowout, non-sound reverberating to the edges of the galaxy.
Smoke, oil and soot continued to escape from the titanium seams, mute testimony to the reckless holes drilled through the now dying planets mantle. But we had obtained the 85% containment target, and so it was done.
We re-entered the starspears, where rapidly flashing chairs greeted us like wombs, wrapping their motherly arms around us, and we floated into a dream as we traveled, sea otters wrapped in kelp at a frothy cosmic shore. Threat contained, and slumber embraced, we were going home.
Joey RacanoMay 7th 2110
Dedicated to the Gulf Gusher oil catastrophe of 2010
our founder
Tags: bp, oil, oil spill, gulf gusher, louisiana, shrimping, shrimpers, shrimp boats, barrier islands, petroleum, fossil fuel, oil companies, solar power, british petroleum, dutch shell, oxydental, chevron, exxon, exxon mobil, chevron texaco, electric car, zev, oil platform, deep water horizon,
And I beheld another beast coming up out of the earth; and he had two horns like a lamb, and he spake as a dragon. - Revelation 13:11
Wind-whipped sand raked our eyes as we squinted toward the smoky sea. The smell of petroleum was overpowering, only slightly thinner than the molasses lapping at the shore of the Mississippi Delta. Oil from the Deepwater Horizon oil platform was still gushing 16 months after it had exploded, burned and sank into the ocean and it now seemed clear it would continue until whatever pocket in hell it was coming from had run its course and drained itself dry.
Over the din we heard the sound of a distant chopper. It came into view as a mere shadow, with nary a sign, number or insignia. It twirled in the wind as it landed, like a black queen wasp on the back of a tarantula, until its landing gear stung the ground with a hiss.
A hundred uniformed soldiers took up positions with backs to the helicopter, their heavy weapons ready to enforce the perimeter. The engine died with a whine, and the rotors ground to a stop. The door inched and creaked, but the wind caught it, violently flinging it wide open. Two soldiers in white gloves stood at attention on either side of the small gangway, and snapped a crisp salute to a tall figure who appeared in the doorway. And the wind raked our eyes once more.
A line of oil-soaked volunteers stood at the shore, heads bowed away from the wind as they scrubbed oily rocks, birds and bottles, a monumental exercise in futility. A caravan of jeeps arrived at the landing site; all painted the oily black camoflogue of the day. As the tall figure stepped from the chopper, a high ranking officer extended a hand in greeting.
“General McChrystal at your service sir” said the one. No reply was forthcoming, as the tall figure scowled down at his extended hand.
“How many battalions have we gathered here General?” he finally asked.
“Thirty, maybe forty thousand sir. Counting tank battalions and heavy artillery, sixty thousand. We’re about ready for anything, sir; Armageddon, if need be”.
The tall mans eyes flashed a red fire at the word. He smiled at the ground and plants withered from his toxic gaze. “Good. Call me when Mr. Magic gets here”, he spat, and re-entered the helicopter.
In the sickly light, a second, smaller helicopter was arriving, landing with less wind, less military guard, and less fanfare. Upon arrival, a good natured man in a colorful suit sprang from the doorway and trotted to the black chopper. He looked over at a frenzied crowd of journalists and supporters, offering them a smile and a wave. They had been waiting for hours to greet their ‘hero’.
“How’s everybody doing?” he smarmed. A reporter fired off a question: “How do you feel about the newest idea to stop the oil flow?”
“About the same as last time- it’s all in God’s hands, of course, so what’s to worry? Let me tell you something, if God didn’t want this oil to be spilling like this, it sure as hell wouldn’t be happening! Besides, America runs on this black gold- did you know the Pentagon is the largest user of all? It’s a matter of security”.
The reporter shot back, “Whose security, sir, British Petroleum’s?”
At this, two soldiers grabbed the reporter by either arm and led him away, behind the chopper, where a shot was barely heard over the windy din and moving military equipment.
666
“What’s more important, I ask you all- the needs of people, or a bunch of noisy, smelly birds that shit on your new cars? No more questions now”. Arriving at the black helicopter, he raised his fist to knock, but the door opened and he was ushered inside.
The tall man began introductions thus: “Mr. Magic, this is General McCrystal, Mick, Mr. Magic.”
“How do sir, I understand you’ve got some questions for me?”
“I do”, replied Mr. Magic. “How many gallons is it now? And how much time before the next hurricane?”
“One at a time, fella. That’s a mighty noticeable outfit you’re sportin’ there, chief. Uh, 16 months, a million and a half gallons a week, say, in excess of sixty million, fer sure. Uh, the next big ‘cane is still a week away, but the storm surge may be here by the weekend. At this point I don’t think it matters anymore- the last two storms pushed oil so far up the estuaries and tributaries the animals are all in mortuaries! Ha ha ha ha!”
“So how do I play this with the press? My constituents would sorely like to see new offshore drilling resume, but- dammit- couldn’t we at least keep this slop in the Gulf?”
“Too late, there Mr. Magic. Way. There’s oil down through the Dry Tortugas and beyond. And it’s still coming, so, whatever. Tell them anything you want. Better yet, find out what it is they wanna hear and tell ‘em that. Works for Obama”.
Then the tall man chimed in. “With this big a catastrophe in the works, the unrest will get pretty bad. We’ve been running full page feel-good ads in the New York Times about the National Guard for two straight years, so it’s time to send them into trouble areas. Have them set up roadblocks in San Francisco, Berkeley, Oakland, Brooklyn, Toledo, Miami and the rest. Outdoor privileges until 6 O’clock, except for workers, police and soldiers. Start shooting people out after 7. The riots are worldwide and the activist leaders are getting very bold. I’m gonna snuff ‘em all and quick. Mickey, are you sure you can’t have your boys shoot another NFL player and turn him into a martyr for the pro-war set? Maybe somebody from the Patriots?”
“Now that’s a tall order sir, and that Tillman family, well, they’re still hound-doggin’ my 4-star ass to this day. Nuh uh, sir, I ain’t gonna try it again. That’s just pushin’ it”.
Soldier enters, handing General a communiqué’.
“Oh boy, I do believe we’ve got us something to shoot at fer all these boys you’ve gathered here sir- look at this”.
“Looks to me like a cloud. Just a large thunderhead cloud.”
“”Uh yes it is, sir, but it’s actin’ kinda funny and it’s headin’ this-a-way”.
The tall man stood up. “Clear out, you idiots, and bring our full might to bear. Whoever it is, whatever it is, I want them crushed like a walnut at a crow convention, ya hear me? One slip up and you’re dead, Mickey.”
“Understood, sir! All right pansies, you heard the man, now move out! Lock and load all weapons and engage radar detection systems on my mark- and…go-go-go-go-go-go-go!”
Out of the East came the cloud, and it bore rain, and the thunder of a thousand clouds, the lightning of a thousand storms, the wind of a million winters.
By now, the Coast Guard had finally lit the oil slick, though it was too late to stave off the destruction onshore. Everywhere, birds lay coated and dying- big birds, and all during nesting season.And out from the swiftly approaching cloud gazed the man of the hour, the son of man of the hour, and he had an aire of great power. He gazed forlornly down at the nests of oil soaked chicks who would never get to spread their white wings. His anger rose in him until he did call forth the twelve white wings of the angel Samael. And so it was done.
“It’s too rough out here now, we can’t get anything done. We’re gonna call it and go home ‘till this storm breaks”, said an oily clothed volunteer at the shoreline.
“Might as well”, answered the field boss.
The sea was a raging torrent now, high tide and waves lifting thick oil over barriers too little, too late and too few. The people of the Earth didn’t even care. Most didn’t even know. Rupert Murdoch sure as hell wasn’t going to tell them. And the oil gushed on.
The mightiest army ever assembled in world history sat entrenched in a valley some 184 miles long, waiting for the order to lay waste to some long hair in a weird white cloud, and they were ready, willing and -they thought, able.
Up from behind, a 10-mile convoy rolled in, dignitaries at the fore. World leaders from everywhere, all here at the behest of the tall man, the tall man who- they thought, had a plan.
“Right this way, ma’am”, said a soldier assigned to the brass. “The boss will see you now”.
Arrogance walked a makeshift runway from armored vehicle to temporary base camp, and she wore a blue dress with a white flower. Mr. Magic greeted them as they entered, “Hello Ms. Rice, glad you could come”.
“Condi, please! Call me Condi”.
“Mr. Rumsfeld, how are you sir? Mr. Powell! Good to see you again. Mr. Roberts, Alito, Thomas, Scalia- come in, come in”
The tall man sat waiting for them to take their places at this portable council of war. He looked through them, toward the events about to unfold throughout this, the valley of death. They, of course, had no idea. They thought it was just another easy genocide, and all sat licking their proverbial chops at the thought of fresh meat.
“While the world watches the oil spill, and, thank you for that excellent diversion Mr. Cheney, by the way, …”
“No problem, I’ll tell the boys at Halliburton”.
“..Uh, yes, do that, uh, while this spewing black goop dominates the news, we are pushing hard in Arizona to keep the new discrimination law which should soon start to spread like- like- should I say it- wildfire! Ha ha ha ha ha ha!”
Everyone in the room laughed nervously along, circus smiles all around.
“When all states have adopted these anti-immigrant laws, we will have the ability to lock down free society at a whim, and in an instant. Bugged phones, traced internet, a GPS in every car, one child limit for secular families- complete control, done”.
His eyes were as a flame of fire, and on his head were many crowns; and he had a name written, that no man knew, but he himself. -Revelation 19:12
Having squeezed through the Caribbean, the oil was gushing northward now, up the eastern seaboard, interfering with shipping and inundating the coast. Even offshore oil rigs were being bogged down. Fires were burning everywhere, off and on the coast, as appliances and engine sparks were causing oil patches to ignite. Dead and dying water fowl littered the beaches as far as the eye could see, joining with the skeletal remains of those who had died long ago of emaciation. Whales beached themselves the length of the shoreline, many still wearing rusted harpoons. It was a scene right out of…Armageddon.
The great white cloud shot bolts of lightning this way and that, navigating powerful winds like an Eagle to the kill. It arrived on the opposite side of the delta in an instant, and set itself down on pillars of fire.
A soldier entered the tent to warn the congregation, but they had heard the clouds thunderous approach for themselves. With the armies of a thousand nations behind them, they feared not, and together they lusted for the power to be had in routing yet another enemy.
“All weapons ready and aimed, sir”, came the gunners mate advisory. “
“Aye” said the tall man with a wicked smile.
“Missiles standing by, jets approaching”, said the Sergeant of Arms.
“Aye” came the reply.
Behind them, Mr. Magic entertained his friends, fans and fanatics with dazzling light shows, beams emanating from tricky fingers. “See that one?” he asked the bedazzled crowd.
“oooooooh! Ahhhhh!” came the answer.
Suddenly, the flags of a thousand nations dropped on their poles like bees in smoke. The cacophony of clanging bars, slapping ropes, whipping canvas and moving metal all ceased as if on cue.
Across the Mississippi River, something in the white cloud began to stir.
And the beast was taken, and with him the false prophet that wrought miracles before him, with which he deceived them that had received the mark of the beast, and them that worshipped his image. These both were cast alive into a lake of fire burning with brimstone’ ‘-Revelation 19:20
Once a fisherman’s paradise, the Gulf of Mexico had erupted into a hellish scene. Thousand foot tall flames licked at the sky, emanating from a witches cauldron of toxic charcoal soup. Blackened vomit with the consistency of a gravel driveway covered the surface of waters made bitter by the stuff of greed and wickedness. This did not go completely unnoticed by the immense figure emerging through parting mists from the great cloud. A ghostly pale shielded him from plain sight, but his presence was nonetheless alarming to any and all who watched him unfurl his twelve white wings.
Across the river, the tall man walked down to the shore to meet him, the crunching of each slow, deliberate step framed like a Picasso by the unnerving silence. “Who are you and why are you come in this, my hour of triumph?” asked the tall man. “Who?”
Oily, humble figures kneeled by the riverside, as the white-winged giant fully emerged from the cloud.
“Arise!”, he admonished them. “Arise, for I am but a fellow servant and only one is worthy of your praise”.
Struck by terror, they did not move from their knees, and so he raised a voice wrapped in the folds of seven thunderclaps as he unsheathed a sword as large as a flag pole; “Arise!” –and arise they did, scampering off into the shimmering distance.
He slowly turned toward the tall man with eyes like lasers and graced him with but one word in answer:
“Samael!”
The word bounced off the base of distant hills like a mining charge set with too much explosive. The gathered world armies lay spread before him, locusts on the land, guardians of the wicked, cherubim of flaming swords that would block a return to the garden. Spreading his wings like a Teratorn, he raised a thunderous voice once more, and called forth all fowl of the air, to join him from afar in the feast of all feasts. “Birds!” he bellowed. “Avia!” he roared. “Gather to the feast! For on this day in triumph over the despoilers of your Earth shall ye strip the mortal flesh of all who are come to the precipice of their own doom.” His voice rang from the Rockies to Appalachia and back again, heard from the oil gushing in the depths of the seabed to Sherpa on the pinnacle of Everest.
And so they came. Come one. Come a thousand. Come a thousand million and even a trillion, to the ready and they dared not utter a squeak or chirp nor a whistle in the presence of Samael the killer among angels.
The flames of a special hell raged behind him, silhouetting the twelve great wings of Sameal. And he leapt, moving faster than the eye could see, upon his prey. Golden talons dug deep and to the bone and it was without a struggle the tall man was cast alive into the lake of fire on the strength of twelve powerful wings. The press corps took photographs of every shape and angle, but no one would ever see. The jets of Armageddon pressed to the attack as Samael banked at mach 40 for the false profit in the silly suit. And in his last moment of life, Mr. Magic was held aloft, center stage in the bloody talons of a real magician in time to look down at the rapidly approaching conflagration below him. He sizzled in death like too crisp bacon.
The great army now stood in disbelief, as it was over without a shot, arrow or sword. They awaited orders but none were forthcoming. They found themselves completely immobile, having left their ability to think out in the streets of Iraqi neighborhoods, where the blood of a million children still stained their souls.
And Samael called again in a thunderous voice, “Condoleezza Rice, come forth to your judgment!”
The tent door opened and a foot kicked the well dressed former Chevron Board member and US Secretary of State out on her face and into the sand.
“You are charged with making the false claim the people of Iraq would unleash a mushroom cloud on Americans, leading to a million deaths and a billion tears, how do you plead today?”
“What? She said in a quivering voice, “What are you, what…why are you…Not guilty!, she cried.
And in the sky across charcoal clouds came the holograph of a smug Condi speaking those very words, and a thousand soldiers craned their necks in time to watch the angel pounce like a space born Jaguar, talons rending flesh for a grip, wings beating with tornado force and it was with a scream she perished into the flaming ocean of oil, lake of fire.
The tent door kicked open and out ran a bespectacled man, hunched at the back, service pistol cracking off shots as former US Secretary of Defense Donald Rumsfeld, wanted in Europe for war crimes shouted to the paralyzed troops, “Fire your weapons! That’s an order, soldiers, fire all your…”
But the angel scooped him and deposited him where karma long ago wanted him and he was gone.
“Colin Powell, how do you plead, as you are accused of making the official case for war, though you knew better, resulting in many sad holiday seasons for American soldiers families for the rest of their lives?”
Colin walked out the door and replied, “Guilty”.
There was a moment of hushed silence as the angel looked at his own hands, studying them for a long minute. “Mr. Powell, I have examined the evidence and you are indeed guilty. I have also examined myself, and have seen clearly that I am the Angel of Death, and not the one of mercy.” And Samael the killer lived up to his name –and assigned task- and sent Colin Powell to a fiery un-death for a thousand years. He died without a sound.
“Richard Cheney, come forward” spake Samael.
A commotion was heard behind the tent and the sound of digging lent itself to the proceedings. At this, a gust of wind lifted the tent a mile high and there stood former US Vice President Dick Cheney, dripping sweat, digging for all he was worth. He refused to look up and began to dig twice as fast.
“Fuck you!” said Cheney, “Go fuck yourself!” “Do you even know who I am motherfucker? I’ll have you hung by the…”
Samael spoke again: “Richard Cheney, you are accused of stealing the 2000 election, the 2004 election, telling a right wing journalist that Iraq war critic Joseph Wilson’s wife was a CIA agent, torture, rape, murder, genocide and assorted and sundry, how do you plead here today?”
Cheney still refused to look up and grunted to himself as he dug, “Uh uh unggh, dam weirdo bastards, it’s Hillary I know it is, that’s behind it all, I know uh, unh, ain’t going with you, you 50 foot freak, unh, ungh,!…”
And as the holograph played sin after morbid sin, the watchers turned away in disgust and disinterest, except for the oil volunteers who cheered the angel on to high heaven, smiling from ear to ear, crying tears of joy from long overdue frustration.
Cheney screamed like a schoolyard bully caught by somebody’s older brother as he went for his final air force two trip to oblivion, “Karl! Get me out of this, Karl! Where are you you chubby little- I made you karl, I fucking made yooooooooooooouuuuu…………” Splash!
One by one they were judged and burned, drowned in a sea of burning sorrows that eclipsed what even they had smote upon the lands –and now bitter waters.
And the birds in their minions descended dutifully from the skies, and they stripped the bones of an army made of armies, and the oil gushed and bubbled and seeped and slopped, and coated and covered, and shined and sheened and spilled and squirted, and flowed and ebbed and lay and slipped and snuffed and smothered and on and on and…..
Dedicated to all the poor creatures who died in the unthinkable oil spill of 2010 -joey racano
our founder
Tags: bp, oil, oil spill, armageddon, dick cheney, obama, condi, condoleezza rice, rumsfeld, general, mccrystal, petroleum, volunteer, angel, samael, antichrist, judgement, battle, soldier, iraq, genocide, mississippi, gulf of mexico, dry tortugas, tar, estuaries, helicopter, black helicopters, heaven, karl rove, weapons, artillery, missiles, judgement day, lake of fire, burning oil, hell, brimstone, revelation, the beast, mark of the beast, false prophet, deep water horizon, pat tillman, patriots, rupert murdoch, arizona, discrimination, immigration law, immigration, illegal alien
Just in time for summer, representatives from 88 nations will gather in Agadir, Morocco, for the 62nd annual meeting of the International Whaling Commission on June 21st. Besides the release of Avatar, the high ratings of Animal Planet’s ‘Whale Wars’, and national newspaper headlines showing a giant Louisiana oil platform burning, sinking and spilling -on Earth day- there are other telltale signs why this may be the most contentious IWC meeting ever.
Since 1986, when Ronald Reagan strong-armed an international whaling moratorium through, whaling has been outlawed commercially, allowing dwindling world stocks to slowly stabilize. But throughout, scofflaw nations like Norway and Iceland have ignored the ban, while Japan has exploited a ‘research’ loophole to continue killing whales. Nothing was ever learned through such research, but it spawned a hit show on Animal Planet, documenting the anti-whaling travels of Paul Watson and his ‘Sea Shepherd’ crew. Tellingly, it has become their most successful program.
Another thing the whaling has spawned is an unprecedented global movement to put a harpoon in whaling –any whaling- once and for all. Many Facebook groups now rapid-fire anti-whaling petitions back and forth, then on to the desks of legislators. Numerous are the anti-whaling advertisements purchased by conservation groups, such as a full page ad in the New York Times by International Fund for Animal Welfare (www.IFAW.org), urging President Obama to honor a 2008 campaign pledge in which he labeled whaling, “unacceptable”.And as the June meeting of the IWC draws nearer, the global voice seems to be rising in a cacophony of concern, not only for the whales, but for oceans under assault from every conceivable direction.
While activists clamor for the National Marine Fisheries Service to release results of a study they say shows whales to be declining in number, NMFS apparently wants to wait until after the IWC meeting to do so. Another study shows the oceans chemistry to be changing rapidly, while still others show that Humpback Whales have switched to eating krill, a tiny sea-going form of shrimp, because they can no longer find enough fish to eat. The stomach of an emaciated Gray Whale who beached itself and died recently in West Seattle was found to contain rags, junk and some 20 plastic bags- everything but food.
While proponents of a controversial plan to resume whaling say it would reduce the amount of whales actually being killed currently, critics say legalizing whaling for the benefit of outlaw whaling nations is like making bank robbery legal for the benefit of bank robbers. They also point to the plans ‘10 year, no opportunity for review’ component. One of the most outspoken critics of the plan to resume legalized commercial whaling is Sara Wan, head of the Wan Conservancy (www.wanconservancy.org), the California Gray Whale Coalition (www.californiagraywhalecoalition.org) and a member of the powerful California Coastal Commission. I had an opportunity to ask Sara a few questions for Harlot Sauce:
HS: Why do you think President Obama is having difficulty keeping his 2008 pledge to keep the moratorium against whaling in place? Are there ‘political realities’?
Sara Wan: “It is hard to say and there may be several factors including the pressure from Japan and a desire to work with them for financial reasons”.
HS: If the moratorium is lifted for the benefit of three nations, what happens if other countries decide they too want to begin whaling? Could the IWC legally stop them?
Sara Wan: “That is one of the problems. If the ban is lifted it cannot simply be applied to them although they seem to be the only ones interested in doing whaling because it is not economically viable. The Japanese government has to subsidize the whaling”.
HS: What is the most effective way for the average citizen to take action if they don’t want the moratorium lifted?
Sara Wan: “There are numerous sites where they can sign a petition to send to the white house including the Western Alliance for Nature, IFAW, Greenpeace, etc. They can call the White House at 202-456-1111 and they can attend a May 23rd demonstration against this”.
HS: Do you envision a day when there may be a moratorium not only on hunting, but on whale captivity as well?
Sara Wan: “I would hope so but I don’t see that in the works. There is too much money involved in keeping whales in captivity”.
President Obama and the United States are leading the IWC movement to resume legalized whaling, calling it a ‘Peace Plan’. However, the Japanese say it doesn’t let them kill enough whales, the global environmental movement is raising its considerable voice, and the party doesn’t start until June. Perhaps they should call it a ‘War Plan’ instead.
Joey Racano
Editors note: I wrote this one for the web mag of an old high school friend who found me on the internet recently. Thought it belonged here on ESM too.
-JR
our founder
Tags: whaling, morocco, moratorium, japan, international federation for animal welfare, sara wan, california coastal commission, joey racano, harpoon, noaa, whale hunting, iwc, international whaling commission, paul watson, sea shepherd society, sea shepherd, ocean, sea, marine biology, california gray whale coalition, humpback, moby dick, obama
EarthSourceMedia reports for Wednesday, February 24th, 2010
‘Get Some Tilikum’
‘Tilikum oh Tilikum
Shamu of the North
Seven tons reduced to runs
of swimming back and forth‘
Passing through the homeless district of San Diego, I saw an ominous sign; ‘SeaWorld Way’ sat the words, atop a silver pole. I had a few days to kill, in town to fight against the dreaded San Diego sewage waiver allowing that city to dump 50 Billion gallons of poorly treated human sewage into the ocean each year. I was staying at the KOA campgrounds in Chula Vista, a town dear to my heart for its beautiful diversity and the great food that goes along with it.
Feeling massochistic, I decided to drive the big RV down SeaWorld Way, just to see how kids must feel when they finally pester the family enough to take them to see the killer whales. As we arrived at the park, I asked the nice lady at the drive-up booth if I could take her picture, and she said ‘ok’.
I asked her how many people visit the park, and she said about 17,000 every day. It bothered me profoundly to think of that many people bringing their kids and teaching them it was ‘ok’ to treat perhaps the Earth’s most magnificent creatures this way. Despite rosy pictures painted by Sea World, up to 60% of Orcas don’t survive their first month of captivity, survivors have to suddenly switch to eating dead fish, and the pods from which they are taken can spend months searching in confusion for their missing. Also, there are many instances of Orcas and Pilot Whales attempting suicide by repeatedly ramming the walls of their chlorinated enclosures, some succeeding.‘Tilikum oh TilikumBroader than a hillWas it anger at my race
that drove you to the kill?
I really had no business being in a place like Sea World San Diego.
I have never been to a zoo in my life, because I believe in seeing creatures in their natural habitat, otherwise, how can you expect them to act as they do in the wild? For instance, these powerful creatures wear their dorsal fins bent over and limp in captivity, and no one seems to know why. It’s obvious to me though. A creature who weighs 15 thousand pounds and eats other whales simply can’t reconcile captivity.
When I finally got up the nerve to go inside, and photographed the stuffed animals for sale, I went down the steps to the ‘viewing area’, where an Orca immediately swam by the wall-sized plexiglass and humbled me with his massive presence. I snapped off a photo before the great sadness overtook me and I began to cry.
I cried out loud, surrounded by republicans, families, children, tourists, and travelers- and even like-minded people. I felt the sting of pain through my heart that surely must be as he who stands before a firing squad, with my compassion for this magnificent royalty-of-the-sea gushing crimson to the floor. It hurt so bad I could watch them no more. I staggered backward, climbed the steps and headed for the exit. Bleary eyed, I pointed back toward the giant cetacean, promising to one day return.
‘Tilikum oh Tilikum
Your drooping dorsal lies!
Unsheath yon banana teeth
and something nearby dies!’
Not all these attacks are by the large males. One attack recently happened during a sonagram, where a whale was being readied for ‘artificial insemination’- Whale rape! Tilikum himself is not allowed near other whales, is kept in a tank barely larger than his hulking body, and is kept only for sperm for the captive breeding program.
‘Tilikum’ is an Inuit word meaning, ‘The people’ or something close to that. And among our people, Tilikum is the giant Killer Whale, Orcinus Orca, who could be captured, could be ensnared, could be incarcerated- but could never be broken. Could not be trained. Could not be owned, enslaved, or in any other way dominated.
And so the pretty young girl who visited Sea World at nine years of age and announced to her parents, “This is what I want to do when I grow up”, indeed did fulfill that dream. And who knows, she may have gone with the greatest of self-satisfaction, having taken it all the way, even to the death. But self satisfaction is not dignity. There is no dignity in being part of a whale kidnapping ring, who teaches kids every day that to enslave the sea is somehow ‘ok’.
But for Tilikum? There is great dignity. And that dignity grows with every fresh kill.
As a civilization newly awakened to our role in changing the planet, we must bring the practice of capturing, holding and tormenting these intelligent creatures to an end.
‘Tilikum, oh Tilikum
you have languished for so long
Let us end your anguish
and hear your orca song! ‘
Get some, Tilikum!
our founder
Tags: tilikum, sea world, orca, orcas, killer whale, sea world trainer, orlando, seaworld, orcinus orca, sea world san diego, killed, trainer killed, amusement park, earth. source, media, animal, whaling, dawn brancheau, activism
Not a good sign, I thought. A snicket in the San Luis Obispo Tribune said, ‘Families living downwind from Diablo Canyon Nuclear Plant can pick up two free doses of ‘KI’, Potassium Iodide –aproduct called ‘’ThyroSafe‘. I enjoy the feeble public relations attempts by those in the mushroom cloud business. It’s hard to put a smiley face on plutonium that stays dangerous for a half-million years- and harder still to convince us they’ll have a local branch open in AD502009.
Further south, the San Onofre Nuclear Generating Station goes by the acronym ‘S.O.N.G.S.’. Quite a song- we’ll be lulled to sleep as plutonium leaches into the drinking water. On the Central Coast of California, I live dangerously close to the Diablo Plant, once calling it the ‘Devil Canyon Atomic Reactor‘ during a Nuclear Regulatory Commission meeting. Protecting his friends in industry, Governor Arnold Schwarzenegger recently vetoed a bill to mandate seismic testing of an earthquake fault found just offshore here. Instead of ‘ThyroSafe‘, maybe they should be handing out muscle relaxers.
New York, June, 2185
Our jeans were soaked from crawling in wet grass, but Central Park was close and we had to stay low. A small band of third-generation survivors trying to eek out a living in the Post Apocalyptic World, we had come in search of food andclean element. Environmental contamination left over from the industrial age had poisoned the air and water so badly that filters on our backs were the only thing between us and death. We needed a fresh element every six months, for our personal air filters, and for the water filter we each took turns carrying. Sometimes we just washed our elements, but that caused a mental slowdown that could get you killed. When your element was dirty, everybody suffered.
Manhattan Island hadn’t seen real electricity in over 100 years, but background radiation levels had the LED lights glowing like kaleidoscopes in the moist evening air. This wasn’t my first trip to New York, but it was for the others, and traveling to the core -what was left of the ‘big apple’- was always a dangerous proposition.
A bloody moon rose over the fog as someone showed a flat hand, the universal signal for shut the fuck up. There were voices up ahead, the first we’d heard other than our own for almost a year. That could mean help, or it could mean trouble, and we made our approach low, slow, and silent.
California, November, 2009
I am having a hard time getting ‘up’ for the world conference on climate change soon to be held in Copenhagen. President Obama has said Americans shouldn’t expect a binding agreement among nations. Not even the ‘Cap and Trade’ rouse, that wouldn’t slow the climate change locomotive anyway. It’s not as if the signs aren’t all there. Alarms bells are ringing, yellow lights are flashing and red flags are waving! In the 12 years since the 1997 climate talks at Kyoto, oceans have risen an inch and a half, droughts and fires are more severe, and everything from bears to butterflies to pine forests are in deep trouble. Temperatures for the last 12 years are 0.4 degrees warmer than for the 12 years before. With all signs pointing toward doomsday, it occurs to me we can’t wait for our leaders to take the dynamic actions that might save us. We as individuals have to make all the right moves, right now. Sounds far-fetched, but it’s that or die.
Manhattan, 2185
A rusty ‘71st Street’ sign jutted from the grass, confirming our position as old Central Park. Our stealthy band peered from the underbrush onto a surreal scene of people in tattered clothing gathered around a circular, glowing monument. We were about to reveal ourselves when shots rang out in the distance. causing the gray-clad group to scatter. Abandoning their ritual, they ran into the brush and disappeared in the direction of the commotion. Wasting no time, we emerged from our hiding places for a closer look. The large round monument stood in a clearing, basking in the glow of candles. A single word in old American was scrawled across its center, saying: ‘IMAGINE’. But none of us were able to imagine much more than gathering canned goods left strewn about and staying alive in the P.A.W. We snuffed and stowed all the candles but one, then retreated back to the cover of the underbrush.
Imagine
California, 2009
Ever connect with a story a little too much? I recently did, with a story about the new green technologies being designed to save us from destruction wrought by the old technologies. In this case, the story was about how fake trees can be manufactured to sequester CO2 from the atmosphere. Notice the lack of emphasis on slowing or stopping our habit of generating CO2, but rather mitigating its effects through sequestration. Mitigation is not a solution, but the problem. Take the ‘Clean Coal’ ruse for instance- why capture CO2 from burning coal and pump it into the ground when it’s alreadyin the ground? The ocean operated as an efficient sink for our industrial emissions from the 1950’s until the 1980’s. However, those emissions began slowly changing the ocean’s chemistry, turning it acidic. That acidification not only started a world-wide die off of coral reefs, but greatly diminished the ocean’s ability to capture CO2 (Oceans’ Absorption of Fuel Emissions Is Slowing, Study Suggests, New York Times Thursday, November 19th, 2009). Unfortunately, our response to the crisis is to ignore the problem, -the burning of fossil fuels- preferring instead to focus on searching for new methods of CO2 capture and sequestration. This is all part of the so-called ‘green’ technologies, or what I refer to as the cottage industries of the apocalypse.
The whole idea of portraying industrial technologies as green is silly. You can’t build new single family homes and call them green, even if they use solar energy, gray water irrigation systems and low flush toilets. There’s nothing green about new development- it destroys habitat, sticks another straw into an already overburdened aquifer, and does it all just so municipalities –funded by developers fees- can continue operations.
If you think we had it bad because we never got to see our land the way Daniel Boone saw it, imagine a future where the kids of tomorrow walk down the street thinking fake trees are the norm! And the artist’s rendition was scary- they look like the arms of a giant egg beater. They may sequester CO2, but birds won’t nest in them, I wouldn’t read a book under one of them, and it just isn’t a tree, right Mr. Bluebird? And watch out for those propellers!
fake trees?
Manhattan, 2185
Traveling by cover of night, we crossed into the once-bustling metropolis of New York City. Verdant streets led us to the industrial district, where old growth trees of unknown species grew straight, thick and tall. Faded graffiti covered a crumbling wall, where someone long ago had scrawled, ‘ROOTS WILL CRACK THE CONCRETE EARTH’. It turned out to have been quite prophetic. Vegetation had indeed cracked through the asphalt. Seeds became plants, and plants became trees, revealing the secret to the success of local post-apocalyptic survivors. The cracked pavement revealed fertile and uncontaminated soils long hidden beneath, now nurturing hidden gardens that lay cultivated between the trees. We helped ourselves, filling our pockets with late-season squash, kale and corn, making sure to leave room for the precious element we still hoped to find. We searched amid the rows of red-brick ruins, and one contained what we had come for. High above the rubble and still clinging to life by a single rusted chain, a sign said: ‘Best-pirator Corp.’.
Leaving two Guards posted outside, I led the Scouts in. Precious minutes passed as we waited for our eyes to adjust. Crouching silently in the inky blackness, blood pounded in our temples like the war drums of Armageddon. We were soon able to make out the torpedo-like shapes strewn wildly about -element! Dropping to one knee, we made a quick, on-the-spot first change. With a single breath, our minds cleared and our night-vision sharpened. We took all we could carry to the guards outside, and went back in for more. By the time we emerged, the Guards had changed their elements and were working on our water tank. We managed a quick gulp of fresh water and made for the brush. Locals wouldn’t take kindly to competition, and with the human gene pool dangerously thin, we didn’t want to kill anyone.
Having found what we came for, it was time to move south. Deep South.
California, 2009
Paranoia strikes deep
Into your heart it will creep
It starts when you’re always afraid
Step out of line and the man comes and takes you away
-Richie Havens
America is a land of legacy. One of those legacies is the Star Spangled Banner. Written by Francis Scott Key, it was inspired by a giant American flag at Fort Sumter after a night of being bombarded by the British in 1861. By the dawns early light, our flag was still there, and so was the American dream of freedom.
Another legacy is the long-lasting environmental damage from the cold war. Several decades of mindless paranoia, nuclear testing, and defense industry profits left a radioactive mess, -staggering in scope- deep under the majestic landscape of Nevada (Nuclear Scars: Tainted water runs beneath Nevada desert, LA Times, November 13th, 2009). Sheer numbers tell the whole story:
By U.S. Energy Department estimates, 921 nuclear tests over a 41-year period ending in 1992, contaminated 1.6 trillion gallons of water with 300 million curies of radiation. That is enough radioactive water to fill a lake 25 feet deep, a mile wide and 300 miles long. Because the test site was on higher ground than surrounding areas, the water is migrating about 18 feet per year, and withdrawing groundwater from surrounding areas will increase that speed. With development rampant and water at a premium, that is sure to happen. Russia didn’t get us, but the radioactivity might. In any case, the Energy Department says there are no plans for a cleanup.
New Jersey, 2185
We knew where we were headed, but argued about how to get there. The Scouts wanted to continue on foot, the Guards thought it would be best to take a boat south along the coast. I suggested we travel west into Ohio and raft the river southward, entering Georgia from the Northwest. Our bands final destination was a hilltop in the Northeast corner of Georgia. Rafting in would mean having to cross the State on foot, dealing with Radigators, snakes and whatever else had mutated. The only good thing about Radigators is they’re easy to see, but being at the top of the food chain, they carry enormous amounts of radiation. You can’t eat them anymore- but they can still eat you.
In the end, we decided to travel South on foot, using an old Indian trail. It was a straight shot through heavy forest and would safely take us as far as D.C. The coast would be too dangerous, where warm ocean waters could trigger lightning. It was always best to travel inland and only when the weather was cold. Summer brought high temperatures and the heat lightning that set off lightstorms. Lightstorms were a legacy of global warming. Rising temperatures eventually reached a threshold, causing the sea floor to release large quantities of methane gas it had long held captive. Upwellings transported the gas to the surface, where it lay as mist on the water. A lightning strike ignites the methane, like the Fuel-air explosives of the 21st century, and everything is incinerated for miles. Not a bug, not a blade of grass survives.
We had the exact coordinates of our destination: 34.2 degrees North latitude, 82.9 degrees West longitude. That information came from a mysterious fellow we met at a shelter in the Appalachians during the last light storm. Until then, we really had no hope for the future. He walked right in out of the lightstorm- said he was some kind of a priest.
California, 2009
President Obama has expressed frustration and dwindling patience with Iran’s rapidly maturing nuclear program. The United States speaks with some authority on the subject, being the only nation on Earth to use nuclear weapons on another country- having done so twice.
Meanwhile, Strategic Command Commander General Kevin Chilton urged the United States to invest in a generation of newer, more powerful nuclear weapons during a speech on November 20th, at the Air Force Association Conference in Los Angeles.
With Pakistan, India, Russia, China, the United States, Israel, and North Korea all possessing nuclear weapons, perhaps the U.S. should spend less time condemning the fledgling Iranian nuclear program and pay more attention to Israel, a volatile country right next door that has 400 nuclear bombs, no nuclear treaty, and a prevailing belief among its people that they have been chosen by God.
Maryland, 2185
The blood of our scouts helped us pick up the Indian trail along a dry creek bed in the Prince George’s region of Maryland. That was Indian blood of course; it ran through their veins. They were both descended of the Delaware, who lived along the shores of the Delaware River in New Jersey.They still spoke a form of Algonquian, and communicated only by sign language. They possessed scouting skills second to none, were expert trackers, and could be counted on to help us avoid trouble. The trail was clear and fast, the forest floor padded and silent. We whispered through the woods like elves, breaking no branches and making no sound.
A delicious irony was the Post Apocalyptic World men had created. The trees were many and diverse, the deer large and abundant. From our verdant footpath, we were seeing the area much as it had been a thousand years before, when men killed only to live, rather than living only to kill. The trees were flush with apples and berries, the forest floor a carpet of purple sorrel. We ate on the move, never stopped for long, and barely even slowed down. This was the land of the Pascataway, the original tribe of the Chesapeake who left their ancestral hunting grounds rather than convert to Christianity when Lord Calvert landed in 1634. They probably used this trail for hundreds of years, for the same reason the deer did- it was a fast, safe and secret way to travel from one side of the region to the other.
We emerged into bright sunshine and wind on a sand dune overlooking a shallow estuary that used to be Chesapeake Bay. Sloshing through brackish water made the going slower, but the view was worth it. We left the wet sand behind by late afternoon, and soon stood on the shore of the Potomac, amid the ruins of America’s former capitol. A stone structure poked from the hard mud about knee-high. With Guards posted in front and behind, I hacked thick, stubborn vines away until the stone was freed from its long, sandy incarceration. We had stumbled upon the Franklin Delano Roosevelt National Monument, a relic of yet another self-important empire crumpled to dust amid a backdrop of stars. The words of the 32nd President of the United States chiseled into the stone were testament to a moment of lucidity during an age of madness:
MEN AND NATURE MUST WORK HAND IN HAND. THE THROWING OUT OF BALANCE OF THE RESOURCES OF NATURE THROWS OUT OF BALANCE ALSO THE LIVES OF MEN.
We took it under advisement over glowing embers and an iron pot of hot broth.
FDR Monument
Two years earlier, Appalachia, 2183
A searing wind howled outside the shelter, whistling through lifeless canyons. Flashes of light were faintly visible through leaden walls 3 feet thick, underscoring the severity of the worst lightstorm in years. It seemed a shame to squander the opportunity of not having to breathe through a Best-pirator. What should have been a brief moment’s respite, was nothing less than sheer terror. The temperature outside was two thousand degrees with higher spikes. The Appalachian ridgelines were holding methane mist like a canyon traps fireplace smoke. The lightning struck only occasionally, and several times we thought it was over. The impatient among us carelessly left the shelter too soon, and a half dozen so far had saved their families the trouble of cremation.
Perhaps thirty of us lay prone on the floor of the ancient one-room fallout shelter built just prior to the final act of the industrial revolution. Legend has it that it all came down to a glitch on a NORAD computer screen and the rest is post-history. Few were the maps marking the exact locations of these shelters, strewn about the P.A.W. I certainly didn’t have one; only a chance meeting with an extraordinary stranger alerted me to its existence. Most were destroyed by wanderers who committed them to memory. Once the lightstorms begin, the occupants don’t open the door unless it’s to let some poor soul out. There are plenty of filters inside, but little food or water, and everyone stays quite still to conserve energy.
It seemed such a bleak existence for so once-great a race. Dressed in gray, with our breathing and drinking limited to what could be had through a filter, dodging horrific post-natural weather events, hoarding supplies and then scrounging for more. There were no children. Most of our bodies were so saturated with emergent contaminants that babies born alive were always badly deformed.
And just when we thought it was the end, this strange traveler arrived to say it was only the beginning.
Lightning hadn’t struck for over an hour, and we thought we’d heard the sound of geese passing high above. “Let me out”, demanded a man brandishing some sort of explosive device- “Let me out-now!” He got no argument and the heavy doors were rolled aside, revealing a barren world where heated rocks created a shimmer on the horizon. The man exited with not a backward glance and the doors were begun to roll back into place. As they hurtled the final inch toward each other, they slammed shut on the end of a walking pole, thrust between them at the last instant! “Hold,” came a voice from outside. The doors automatically bounced back open, and the man who had left came stumbling back in, with no small amount of help from the dusty jack-boot of a tall, sullen-eyed stranger.
“Close!” he shouted after entry, and the mighty doors rolled closed once again, this time tightly.
“Who dares?” growled the stumbling man, “Who-“
“I dare!” returned the stranger, motioning him to be seated. Angry at his forced return, the man threw his explosives aside and went for the stranger’s throat, snarling and spitting.Then came the loudest of reports outside- lightning, followed by the rolling, rumbling thunder of another lightstorm. With wide eyes, the man released his grip and slid down the stranger’s body, finally kneeling at his feet. “I’ll not harm he who saved my life”, he spoke.
“Rise,” said the stranger, motioning once again for all to be seated. As the lights of doom flashed outside and the stench of burning gases wafted through the shelter, the tall man stood before us staff in hand, relating a story that brought laughter to some, disbelief to others- and hope to five of us.
He said his name was Robert C. Christian, and he was a priest. Not a priest in the archaic sense. He was the last of an order of time-guides known as the Avatale. With one foot in Earth’s far future and one in its remote past, Avatale were like custodians, charged with keeping a planet’s history moving toward the balance sought by the Universe. They did so by burrowing through space time, avoiding the restrictions of causality. “Avatale behave no differently than sub atomic particles” he said, “but rather than ponder the mechanics, let us concentrate on the message.”
Most of the shelters occupants had written the stranger off as a travel weary madman with a messiah complex, but five of us sat close, cross legged and hungry for any glimmer of hope. Hell, we were all travel weary madmen.
“What is that message?” asked one of the group that would come to be our small band of travelers.
“That you are not meant to be roaches, living in darkness and scattering in light. You are the stuff of stars, each thought, a quasar, every heartbeat in rhythm with the pulsar.”
I looked at the floor, trying to feeling more like a star and less like a refugee-in-rags. “Where did-“
“Where did it all go wrong?” he finished for me. “You sought heaven even as you trampled one beneath your feet. You gazed outward for meaning, when meaning resides only within. Your search for heavenly perfection was futile, for it was there you always did dwell.”
The simple explanation the Avatale offered up resonated with our small group, even if the majority listened with closed ears, saw with closed eyes and lay silent. We asked what there was that such a small number of people could do to heal the world.
“It is not for such as you to heal a planet, with more waters than you could swim, more ground than you could stride. Yours is to mend a relationship with a planet, and your own spirit- to build a new society on a different path with a higher purpose.”
“How do we rebuild without following our fathers over a precipice?” it was asked.
“Journey southward to the land of rocks. At 34.2 degrees north latitude, 82.9 degrees west longitude, great granite walls sit on a hilltop capped with stone. There you shall find guides to the new world you seek.”
That was the last time we ever saw the Avatale- but our band of adventurers was born and we had a mission, coordinates, -and hope.
Chesapeake Bay, Maryland, 2185
‘Great birds fly over Chesapeake Bay, where a new world dawns every month of May
Five brave men in two canoes, -which tomorrow will they choose?
To read the wisdom in the stones, that rise above thy fathers bones,
a sacred journey you must make, where Savannah River meets Keeowee Lake’
Dance to the Apocalypse, ‘End of the Beginning’
We stood on the shore of the Potomac gazing toward Chesapeake Bay. From this point on, travel was best done by river. I was sure FDR, -whoever he was- would understand if we felled one of the tall White Birches standing guard over his monument, if for a good cause. And rebuilding a world was good cause. We lay the tree down like an Indian bride, and removed her bark the same way. The scouts performed an age-old magic show, turning the white bark inside out, lacing it up with sweet grass and patching the rough spots with pitch the rest of us had gone about collecting. In a day, we had two Birch BarkAlgonquin canoes. They were laced up tight, looking for all the world like a skillfully crafted pair of moccasins. We loaded what supplies we had and walked them to deeper water at sunrise. By the time the sun was straight overhead, it was 4 miles to shore on either side, with not a ripple to be seen. The quiet was broken only by the occasional call of big birds high overhead, or the splash of fish playing tag in the estuary. This was the way to travel.
The weather held fast as we made our way through the Chesapeake system, which finally left us, like babes in a basket, on the porch of the sometimes hostile Atlantic Ocean. Many were the nights we came to shore, backs aching, to steal a bit of slumber, uninterrupted by salt water mosquitoes and the constant rolling of the water. Lightstorms were always a threat. When the opportunity presented itself, we navigated inland on nameless waterways, where Spanish moss and sometimes snakes decorated overhanging limbs.
A hundred times we stumbled ashore, having run out of creek. And a hundred times we wore those canoes like long hats, carrying them through thickets, searching for the next waterway. We came out of the woods into a great inland expanse of water, and I could tell it was not of nature, but a thing of man. An army of trees pressed to the edge of the waters entire wide expanse, with nary a reed, sedge, bamboo or papyrus to be seen. This was a reservoir, fed by rivers whose swollen confluence lay inundated deep below. But those submerged rivers were only side streets that merged with the main highway. We had found her- the Savannah River.
South Carolina 2186
Our canoes cut swiftly and quietly through the clear moving waters of the Savannah. Her banks were lined with cypress and willow, and she wore a bright blue sky above. The scouts rowed with their heads down, speaking back in Algonquin to the Cherokee spirits they heard calling to them from the banks. We were being warned, they signed to me- warned of great fireflies living beneath the water. These fireflies grew angry in the summer months when the river was at her lowest level and we might know the angry beasts when we came between two white waters. I took this to mean there was a danger, and decided if we saw a second set of rapids, it would be a time for portage. I cupped my hands and blew the call of the owl to the Guards up ahead, who were already entering white water. They looked back and nodded, signaling they understood some danger may be about. We kept one eye ahead, and one eye on the swift water.
An hour later all turbulence subsided as we came upon the confluence of yet two more ancient rivers, drowned far below. The sky began to paint the river a late-afternoon turquoise, creating a lovely, but opaque surface. Dusk rode in on a chilly breeze, and though white water could not be seen ahead, it could be heard.
We stopped rowing the canoes and sat up alert. Without turning, the scout up front signaled a flat hand, but we were already paying acute attention to the strange submarine lights flashing before us that were getting brighter by the second. I felt the canoe vibrate on my buttocks and saw a world of fear in my own reflection as I peered hard through the water beneath us. We were at the confluence of the Keeowee and Little Rivers, where the Oconee Nuclear Power Stations’ three reactors still sat humming nearly three hundred feet below. Noone had ever shut them down! Keeping our paddles tilted upward, we let the fast moving water carry us over the ethereal maelstrom that was surely releasing radiation. Schools of fish moved through broad beams of light emanating from the deep. The entire lake pulsated to the soulless rhythm of doomsday machinery- a satanic concert in a watery hell, being conducted by long dead energy industry officials, still assuring the ghosts of a drowned city that everything was under control, and going to be fine.
The deep clear water was hot to the touch, and many strange life forms darted about, most notably a large Octofish that swam up alongside the canoe. Octofish were an example of mutants common to the new American southeast, most being large predators. A descendant of the sturgeon, these animals were as intelligent as they were dangerous. They used bioluminescence to communicate in a complex language of lights and colors.
Each canoe was 9 feet long and the Octofish was longer still, sizing us up with bowling ball eyes. Backlit from below, it switched off for a moment, allowing itself to become a long-tentacled silhouette. It faded back in as a golden color, its transparent body causing the internal organs to look like bugs trapped in amber. In a mesmerizing display, it went completely clear, then amber, then a rich blue, then green, and finally a very menacing red, when the canoe did not respond in kind. An attack was imminent and we began to poke at it with our paddles. It was like attacking a dragon with a fly swatter. A second creature joined in and was attacked by the first, allowing us time to put our paddles to better use. Aided by the evening breeze at our backs, we were soon across the lake and the otherworldly humming began to fade into the distance. Anxious to leave the bizarre nightmare behind us, we paddled in unison until we reached the second rapids, which led us around a bend and back onto the Savannah River.
Huntington Beach, California, 1997
I parked the old ’75 Chevy Titan motor home out front of the Post Office just long enough to run in and get my mail from PO Box 373. But before taking off, I decided to make two stops in one, and grabbed a hot cup of java at the Starbucks on Main Street. Returning to the RV, I fumbled through my pockets for my keys and discovered they were nowhere to be found. I searched the Post Office, under the seats of the rig, and even went across the street to check Starbucks, but dammit- never did find those keys. Out came the locksmith guy who charged me an arm and a leg to do it, but I was soon on my merry way, with a whole new set of keys for a whole new ignition. I was getting coffee the next morning when someone handed me the old key set. They were found during an after-hours mopping. I must have dropped them and kicked them under the counter.
Sylvania Georgia, 1958
One crisp February evening in 1958, Major Howard Richardson was piloting a B-47 Stratojet Bomber off the coast of Georgia at 36,000 feet. The jet was carrying an MK-15 Thermonuclear Hydrogen Bomb, 100 times more powerful than the A-Bomb that destroyed Hiroshima. What was supposed to be a routine night-training mission turned anomalous when the bomber collided with an F-86 Saberjet, destroying the fighter plane, and damaging the wing of the B-47. Major Richardson radioed for instructions and was told to jettison the H-Bomb before attempting an emergency landing. The pilot did as he was told, releasing the bomb into the shallow waters just off the coast from the mouth of the Savannah River. A massive search was undertaken to recover the errant weapon; troops searched the salt marshes, divers plumbed the depths, even a blimp joined in and searched by air, but dammit- they never did find that bomb. The search was officially called off 68 days later, on April 16th, 1958. The Hydrogen Bomb still sits out there somewhere, perhaps one day to be found by a man in headphones, scanning the beach with his metal detector.
Apocalypse, conclusion
Elberton, Georgia, 2186-
On the Georgia bank of the Savannah River, logs were visible strewn all about the shoreline. Some were quite large and carried a strange glow. They began entering the river, and it dawned on me- these weren’t logs, but Radigators. They lay in ambush, waiting to invite us to dinner- as guests of honor. These were not like your pet Caiman or Monitor lizard- these were mature Georgia ‘gators turned radioactive, likely by living in the river of the haunted fireflies. Measuring 15 feet long, and weighing two thousand pounds, the glowing behemoths came straight for us as we approached. Using one of their own tactics against them, we decided to feign lethargy. We paddled in slowly, and before they reached us, we accelerated through and past them. Having caught them off guard, we made it ashore before they came about and we grabbed our gear while still dragging the canoes. After hauling the birch barks clear of the water, we pulled them up a bit farther, knowing that the Savannah this far south was tidal.
Now moving on foot, we rested only after hiking more than a mile inland. We pitched camp beneath a canopy of Cypress that had once again come to define the character of the Georgia swamp. Even a mile inland, we had to make sure our campfire was stoked with wood. If we allowed it to burn down to glowing embers, it could attract curious Radigators, seeking out their own. And we weren’t the only ones who knew it; several other campfires burned brightly in the distance! Who could they be? There was an undercurrent of excitement- we were very close to our destination in the land of stones. Taking turns on watch, we all slept well for the first time in weeks.
The next morning
The sun shone brightly on the tree tops that held a cacophony of birdsong. Smoke from freshly doused fires rose in many places and we heard the sounds of muffled conversation. Our campfire was still aflame and we buried it with heaps of sand, sending a plume of smoke skyward to mingle with the others. The sound of crashing in the woods nearby brought us all to our feet, and we stood ready for anything. Anything turned out to be a young woman carrying an armful of water jugs, apparently headed to the river. She was dressed in tightly fitting animal skins and her own skin was painted in bright colors. We stood completely still, not wanting to spook her, and even averted our gazes to show we meant no harm. She nodded in our direction and continued on by.
We wondered if she was a one of the local peoples- and if she were alone. By now, we were completely packed and ready to continue. The guards were mulling over the set of coordinates the Avatale had marked for us on papyrus paper back in the lightstorms of Appalachia. They read: 34.2 degrees North latitude 82.9 degrees West longitude. Our compass showed we were headed in the right direction and so we began to take the final steps of a so far harrowing journey. Once again, there was a crashing through the woods, this time two men appeared at the edge of the clearing, dark skinned, and dressed in white flowing robes, with head gear to match. Their hats wore tails that covered their necks, and it was obvious to me they were from somewhere else. One carried a machete, the other jugs for water, and again, they seemed headed for the river. The Guards reflexively brandished their swords, and I raised a hand to stop them. The foreign traveler in white robes then held his machete high, and in an exaggerated motion, dropped it to the ground, smiling. The Guards looked at me, I nodded to them, and they let fall the two large swords, which clanged together on the ground.
The painted woman came walking back through camp, handed us all a jug of water, and motioned for us to follow her. I produced the papyrus, and showed them all the coordinates scribbled on the paper. This started them all talking in several languages, and I joined in with yet another, until the woman held up her hand, and we all fell silent. She then pulled a large hunting knife from a scabbard on her ankle, causing us to step back. She sliced away her deer skin sleeve, and showed us a faded old tattoo on her arm that read: 34N 89W. The men in white robes nodded and began chattering excitedly. She turned into the woods and we all followed single file.
Once known as Elberton County, the area had been known in previous centuries for its plentiful mineral deposits, most notably for having the highest quality Blue Granite in the entire world. Considering the longevity of such stone, it came as no surprise that we were walking through a countryside scattered with all manner of monuments, some educational, others simply tributes to good men, women, deeds, events and organizations. There were polished stones telling of Revolutionary war heroes, Native American tribes, parks, river ways, villages, and even the dams that drowned them. We paused a moment to drink it all in, and I found myself leaning on a polished granite stone etched with the words: ‘thanking all the heroes of all the wars’. It went on to list the Revolutionary War, the Spanish American War, the Civil War, Korean War, World War One, World War Two, the Vietnam War, the First War in Iraq, the Second War in Iraq, the War in Afghanistan, and World War Three. But of course, the big one was conspicuously absent, there having been no person, agency or organization left to carve a monument.
I shook my head at what we had found. It was safe to say I was dumbfounded by the dumb we had founded. How many lives, families, potential cures, kids and Kings had we snuffed beneath the futile fog of war? It could be read on the walls of canyons as well as in the inscriptions in Blue Granite; we went from clubbing each other with Mammoth bones to clubbing each other with Hydrogen Bombs, but it was really all the same thing.
We weren’t sure why we had come, but we were certain we didn’t come to rebuild a society that begins clubbing once more. As we padded through the grassy countryside, our diverse group grew ever larger and more diverse. People in all forms of dress, spoke languages we’d never heard before, and joined in the single-file procession. According to our sextant and last night’s stars, we were close. This was confirmed when the painted woman leading the procession turned and thrust a hand high in the air. She whispered into the ear of another brightly painted woman now standing beside her. The woman translated, saying, “Halt”, and then repeated the word in 7 more languages. Our procession shuffled to a stop. She whispered into her translator’s ear once again, who repeated, “We are here”.
Seeing nothing, there was a clamor among us made of many angry voices. But the painted women turned away and climbed over a last rise, motioning us to follow. As we crested the final hill, we came upon a small group of strangely clad men, all of different races. They stood together on a large flat granite slab, each dressed in the different holy garb of their own tribe. The tallest was a Nubian Chief, who stood beside a wrinkled red man wearing a headpiece that trailed eagle feathers to the granite below. They each stood with an arm outstretched, pointing away into the distance.
And there, on the next hilltop, worn from the weather, the lightstorms and the centuries, stood the Georgia Guide stones. The procession was no longer single file or orderly, but there was no stampede. We walked through a small dip and came up the hillside toward the 20 foot tall blocks of polished Blue Granite that carried –in many languages- the 10 guiding principles that might lead to a better world for all of us.
Many different tribes from far flung lands sat in groups, dotting the hills surrounding the Guide stones, reading, translating and discussing the wisdom behind each word. An enormous line of abalone shells encircled the monument, some smoking with burning sage, others with sacred cedar, and still others smelling of all the ancient spices and incense of a world gone by –and one yet to come. Peace pipes filled with sacred tobacco were passed from hand to hand, as elderly she-shaman spread cornmeal at the feet of new arrivals. Marijuana, Frankincense, cypress, rosemary- every treat for the senses wafted in and around the gathered throngs, all here to not only mark the beginning of a new world, but the peaceful, spiritual conclusion of the old one.
The celebration continued until high noon, when solsticial sunbeams pierced through a hole in the gargantuan capstone, striking a precise mark within the Guidestones. In the distance, a single gong sounded, its ring sustaining for a long, meditative moment.
On the next hilltop, the collected tribal chiefs spoke to the painted translator, who repeated their words in seven languages. In English, she said, “Only the bold, only the strong, have made this journey. Some died along the way. But a new world begins as the sun strikes its mark through the stone. Now take the words from these stones, and etch them forever onto the stone that beats within your chest.
As the gathered masses considered the 10 Guides in the stones, they also considered each other. Each face searched every other, each smile waited for another. Spirits rose along with the sweet scent of burning, smoky medicine. And when each hand had reached out and was taken, hope spread like the seeds of a dandelion to the four corners of the Earth, from a Blue Granite miracle that had withstood an age of madness, and ushered in an age of reason.
joey racano
11 28 09
The Georgia Guide stones, origin unknown
our founder
Technorati Profile
Tags: georgia guide stones, hydrogen bomb, savannah river, elberton, cherokee, keeowee lake, seneca river, atlantic ocean, apocalypse, radioactive, cold war, canoe, chesapeake bay, mosquitoes, thermonuclear, algonquian, birch, cypress, eagle, head dress, nubian, animal skin, gator, sturgeon, reservoir, native american, abalone, nevada, aquifer, energy, lightning, shelter, light, storm, trail, cataclysm, war, world war, vietnam, iraq, afghanistan, weapon, future, balance, shaman, marijuana, frankincense, cedar, languages, rosemary, tribes, granite, monument, spanish american war, civil war, armaggedon, joey racano
and building the military, while the schools get cuts
Pointing their guns at the buns of nuns-
I received communion and it gave me the runs’
Nine Eleven, Bombs and Heaven by joey racano
‘We Will Never Forget’, said the giant idiot-scroll, held by 21st-Century Nazi’s who are too stupid to even know they’re fascists. Of course, these men with the small brains and matching penises were celebrating the soon-to-come trial of the supposed ‘masterminds’ of the horrendous attacks on the World Trade center that fateful morning in 2001. I mean, can these fat hairy budweiser-drinking slobs with the IQ’s of a bike rack at least get original? How many times has that slogan been used since Pearl Harbor? Of course, according to the shadowy ‘Project for a New American Century’, the 9-11 attack was supposed to be just that- ‘another Pearl Harbor‘. That’s a direct quote by the project’s architect, Paul Wolfowitz, who went on to head the World Bank (though the world screamed for Bono). Wolfowitz went further on to resign in disgrace from that post, along with other Bush/Cheney criminals who made bad, like John Bolton forced from the UN, and Bernard Kerick, former NYC Police Commissioner and candidate to head Homeland Security, who went to prison just a few days ago for Federal crimes.
The trials of the so-called 9-11 master minds will take place in New York at some date in the future in a civilian court, and prosecutors will seek the death penalty. But here at EarthSourceMedia, we hope that the real masterminds behind the events of 9-11 -and it’s use to steer America further to the right than the first turn on San Francisco’s Bay Bridge, will be tried as well. And we all know this was a plan championed by Dick ‘don’t take me duck hunting’ Cheney.
Let me put it this way- if you don’t know 9-11 was a set-up, an ‘inside job’, a put on, a crime by Americans against Americans, a plan to turn a free country into a 50 something-state prison, then you must be a product of the Catholic Church or the New York public school system. Friends, WE DID IT TO OURSELVES YO. Try to wrap your mind around that for a second- we blew up our own shit. And in the 9 years since, our citizens have been bombarded even harder with fear tactics, vampire movies, and pictures of black men alongside stories of heinous crimes they likely didn’t commit but will certainly be imprisoned for.
Even the very stupidest of us (Republicans, Democrats, NASCAR fans, religious people and the tea-bag crowd) know America has taken to kidnapping and torturing people- even killing some by crucifixion. And yet, where is that investigation? In Italy, 30 members of the CIA were found guilty of such crimes, tried in absentia, but that is little consolation to me. I want to see Bush, Cheney, Rumsfeld and the rest of those Nazi war criminals hung higher than a special forces team protecting an Afghan poppy field. However, it seems more likely that people who speak out, like moi, will suffer such a fate.
Just yesterday, a judge told lawyers for Valerie Plame she couldn’t use classified statements in her book, even though those statements had already been blabbed to the press. But the judge did say that an investigation might be appropriate for those who first blabbed- and that was Bush and Cheney. Valerie had been a US secret agent working against Iranian nukes during wartime, yet they revealed her identity to the press- wartime treason deserving of the firing squad! Now there’s a fund-raising idea! Can you imagine the deluge of requests to be on that squad? White gloves, drums, a last cigarette, and ka-pow!
Mr. Don’t forget man, can’t you see how polarized this is making the country? And if this weren’t Orwellian enough, now the Feds have taken over 4 Mosques and a 36 story skyscraper in downtown Manhattan! What frightening bullshit! So, it’s a crime to be a Muslum? It’s a crime to be Iranian? Why didn’t we seize any Christian churches? Those fuckheads have done more to hurt this country than a jesus-load of jet fuel ever will. And the smelly gorillas with the Don’t Forget sign want to try the Iraqi guys? People, please. If there is one crime in this world bigger than the whole Iraq invasion and subsequent kidnap- torture of world citizens by American leaders, that crime is being one of these assholes who won’t let the world forget - or heal.
Joey Racano, Editor, EarthSourceMedia
our founder
Technorati Profile
Tags: cheney, bush, obama, 9-11, september 11 2001, jet fuel, terrorists, masterminds, iran, iraq, afghanistan, valerie plame, cia, never forget, world trade center, troops, khalid sheikh, guantanamo bay, torture, war crimes, eric holder, paul wolfowitz, project for a new american century, pearl harbor, john bolton, un, world bank, rumsfeld, duck hunting, washington, abd al-rahim al nashiri, uss cole, detainees, extraordinary rendition, cordite, controlled demolition, pakistan, suicide bomber, ied, improvised explosive device, earth, source, media, colbert nation, heaven, hell
the Joseph Goebells of today’s TV’
“Good evening and welcome to BBC America, join us on FaceBook and follow us on twitter! Today’s report is terror- in the form of H1N1, A.K.A., the swine flu. Now, no matter what you do, please don’t panic. Remain calm! Reports coming from certain elements now tell us the Swine Flu has spread through 20 states and 5 countries, killing 19 people- nearly as many people as those who died in drive by shootings last weekend in Los Angeles!
Should you be afraid? Well, in a word, yes. 90% of fatalities from H1N1 will be people under the age of 65! Now let’s go to the phones and take your questions. ”
“Hello, you’re on the BBC. What’s on your mind this evening?”
“%^$#! Fuc@ You, you stupid #!@%! Fuc&#!@!”
‘*click*’
“You can’t please everybody, now can you?”
“Hello, you’re on the BBC!”
“Uh yeah, isn’t it true that 90% of fatalities from drive by shootings are people under 65 too? Why you makin’ such a big deal about pig flu den?”
“Ahem, I’m afraid shootings in LA have leveled off, while the H1N1 has positively skyrocketed to 19.”
“Oh.”
“Thank you for calling. BBC you’re on the air?”
“Fu#! bitch#! you stu$@#! Fuc#!@ Mother fuc!@#!”
*click*
“Now coming to us by remote feed it’s Hillary ‘Secretary’ Clinton, ‘ello Hillary, ‘ow are you?”
“Im just fine, thank you”…I’ve just arrived here in Pakistan where things are going quite well..
I’d like to express my condolences to the families of the DEA agents who died when the drug lords on our CIA payroll had them killed and…
B-L-A-M! KA-BOOOOM!
“Im sorry, Im going to have to go now, but..”
“Hillary, are you ok?”
:Right this way Secretary”
“Yes, Im fine, (sklish sklish sklish) but I have to leave the scene, many were killed by a suicide (sklish sklish) oh thats disgusting”
“Watch your step Madam secretary”
“Oh, the humanity!” (sklish slop sklish)
“And now back to our broadcast. The swine flu is expected to go after children, so be afraid. We suggest you keep your sons indoors until , until, at least until we send them to fight in Afghanistan, or wherever the drug trade takes us I dare say”. Now please welcome our guest Joey Racano, Editor of upstart net sensation, EarthSourceMedia. Welcome Joey!”
“Thanks for having me. Y’know, it’s got me a bit puzzled why you sit there in front of an incredibly polluted Los Angeles skyline and tell people how dangerous the flu is. It’s common knowledge that smog decreases the lung capacity of inner city children, so why aren’t you warning us about the dangers of climate change and fossil fuel burning? How ’bout the melting glaciers and drowning Polar Bears?”
“Ah, you’re the crafty one, eh? Well I’m sorry we’ve about run out of time today but why don’t you come back someday and we’ll discuss this further…like…say, the next third leapyear in june or septober?”
“Thanks for coming folks, and here’s a word from our sponsors Chevron, Exxon, Ron’s Radon and Rainy Day Uranium. Thank you, and goodnight!”
‘Close your eyes and face the ocean. Feel the breeze. Curl your toes into the sand. Breathe in deep. Smell the salt, the history. Feel the wind bite your cheek. Hear the muted cries of the minions of the deep, the fish nations. The imperiled Whales, the leather-skinned sailors- all singing the song of the sea-siren’.
The ride to San Diego is always worth it, and last Tuesday was no exception. The golden hills of San Luis Obispo gave way to the windy passes of Gaviota, they in turn leading to the perpetual scent of burn in Santa Barbara, the coastal charm of Ventura, through to LAX Jets and the madness of L.A. At the refineries of Carson, a 5-story American flag commands us to introspect, as our soldiers die in far flung lands for the price of a gallon of gasoline and a hunger to be free.
Part of that freedom is the liberty to challenge, against all odds, the powerful, entrenched -and sometimes wildly popular and famous- who would see our precious Mother Ocean as a dump for rich industrial friends and the detritus of society.
The Camp
We arrived in Oceanside a day before the Coastal Commission meeting to find a good place to moor the biodiesel-powered RV, and came to rest ‘neath the waving arms of a California Pepper Tree. I wondered why a tree from Brazil was called Californian, and I also wondered why Governor Schwarzenegger was forcing the Coastal Commission to re-vote on the San Diego sewage waiver. After all, it had only been 54 days since the Commission voted a resounding ‘NO’ by an 8-1 margin. This was a new application by San Diego to keep dumping America’s dirtiest sewage into the ocean at Point Loma, but it was being heard without the 6 months wait required by law. Something just didn’t seem right.
The Meeting
When the meeting started, the con-man Mayor of San Diego sat in the hallway, nervously twiddling his fingers, and in through the door waltzed none other than California Secretary of Resources Mike Chrisman! This was big.
Arnold Schwarzenegger’s #2 man and Chair of the Ocean Protection Council, this was indeed a powerful presence looming over a meeting to re-decide the fate of the San Diego sewage-dumping waiver- a waiver being used to flush 200 million gallons a day into the ocean with no secondary treatment. Chrisman shook hands with all the bad guys, and it dawned on me he was up to no good! He joined the Coastal Commission in the back room for a closed-session, and it became abundantly clear that Arnold had sent him to this meeting to tamper with the regulatory process of the State of California, putting our ocean in grave peril!
Getting Active
I started snapping photos of the bad guys left and right, and Secretary Chrisman had angry words as I snapped his photo coming out of the backroom. “What’s that for?” asked Commissioner and Schwarzenegger appointee Steve Kram (who I later photographed throwing a cigarette on the street). I answered, “It’s for my huge e mail list!” with a smile.
San Diego Coast Keeper Bruce ’sugar ray’ Reznik twice threatened to hit me, catching himself in time to save his own neck. I kept snapping photos of him saying, “Yes, please hit me, please”. His lady Coast Keeper said, “I’ll hit you!”. They were quite shameful- there to support the waiver, and the money they get from the city to ’study’ alternatives.
Surfrider Foundation Lawyer Marco Gonzales had a wose display- surrounded by cute lady-lawyers, he put two middle fingers arrogantly in the air, expressing his contempt for the health of those who must surf in that water.
The good guys
The poor good-guy Coastal Commissioners could only sit back with blank looks, being forced to ‘vote again’ on an issue they knew was wrong. It was so corrupt, I had to re-name the Resources Secretary ‘Double Cross’ Chrisman!
In the end, even the heroics of Heal the Bay, who sent in Mark Gold himself, couldn’t save the rueful day, and this time the waiver passed, 8-4. A vulgar display of manipulation, and the losers were the surfers, the fishers, and people like me, who believed in Arnold.
Pollution, Epilogue
Mike ‘Double Cross’ Chrisman should resign as Chair of the Ocean Protection Council immediately. As for Arnold Schwarzenegger -who has tried to open our coast to offshore oil drilling, clear cut our forests with a phony cap and trade ruse, and now has tampered with the regulatory system to allow 50 billion gallons of sewage a year to continue being poured into the sea by San Diego’s con-man Mayor Jerry Sanders, -his ‘clean water ocean legacy’ is disgraced.
As for our merry band of ocean activists still intent on stopping that last sewage waiver in California? We’ve just begun to fight!
Joey Racano, Director
Ocean Outfall Group
our founder
Technorati Profile
Tags: arnold schwarzenegger, ocean protection council, san diego, sewage waiver, mike chrisman, coastal commission, epa, ocean outfall group, joey racano, surfrider foundation, coastkeeper, sierra club, ocean, mlpa, marine reserve, marine life protection act, environment, ecology, california, scripps
Joey Racano here for EarthSourceMedia and yes, it’s been a while. I’ve been very busy. But not so busy that I haven’t been watching what’s going on in this crazy world of yours. Right, YOURS. Us older folks will be dead and we’re leaving you a dying and poisoned world. And so it’s important that anyone who really wants to help you, tells it like it is- it’s YOUR WORLD.
Michael Jackson knew that.
Michael Jackson is being memorialized this morning at Staple Center in Los Angeles, and in his death, he’s doing what he never could in life; he’s starting a revolution. Remember that song, ‘Wanna be Starting Somethin’? Well this is it. This is it- which, by the way, was the name of his glorious comeback tour that was never to be, because he died the morning after his last rehearsal. And listen to the words of his last tunes- ‘They Don’t Really Care About Us’. He knew it. You know it and I know it. The Dogs of Hate will send your ass to war, but they don’t care about you at all. They just want you to grovel and obey until they suffocate under the weight of their ill-begotten dollars and you suffocate from poisoned air.
Michael had the same message Jimi Hendrix had on the ‘Band of Gypsys’ album: A message of Love. And I think this is a great time to invoke the star player of the right wing- Jesus. Jesus showed everyone what happens when you have the audacity of living a life steeped in L-O-V-E. They fucking kill you. And America is the king of hate. I mean, how many countries are we bombing right now, 15 or 16? Just take a look at that ignorant congressman from Long Island New York (where I grew up!). He’s talkin’ hate about the greatest lover the world ever knew- Michael Jackson.
And usually, more often than not, people who talk shit about child molestation or stuff like that (which no way was Michael about in any way shape or form) it’s always people like the good congressman from NY who are molesting kids in the background. Just look at all the priests and such. Scum of the earth for the most part. Them and their disgusting perverted phony control-oriented religions. They should all swallow a razor blade IMHO.
Michael Jackson was the worlds biggest childrens advocate, and the bad guys turned it around on us and dragged this gentle man through the mud- and he was found not guilty on all 14 counts I might add.
These are all the same guys who want you to think there is something happening in the Iranian election that wasn’t done in our own country an order of magnitude larger and ‘worser’. Next time someone tells you Iran stole their election, just say, “Fuck you, you idiot- what happened in America in 2000 when a right wing judge decided Bush should be the President? And here we are 3 trillion dollars and a million innocent lives later, without a shred of a constitution or bill of rights and the appointees the shithead left behind on the supreme court are dragging us further and further to the right, voting against the Earth, Whales, Oceans, forests and wetlands, leaving you kids to die in the streets without trauma centers as they spend all the money- and I do mean ALL the money- on war!
The fact that the Staple Center won’t be showing the ceremony on it’s huge outdoor screen tells it all. They are afraid of us, baby, and well they should be. Because the time is right for revolution.
In the immortal words of John F. Kennedy, “Those who make peaceful revolution impossible, make violent revolution inevitable”.
On a personal note:
Michael, thank you for all your love, and for caring about the voiceless creatures of the earth, and all as you were under constant attack, as we lovers always are from the Dogs of Hate.
-always your fan,
joey racano
our founder
Technorati Profile
Tags: michael jackson, memorial service, los angeles, staples center, hate, love, child moletation, congressman, war, revolution, earth, creatures, john f kennedy, bush, iran, iranian election, 2000 election, supreme court, whales, forests, wetlands,
