By Colin LaVaute

www.decadentnation.com

www.facebook.com/decadentnation

Many of our readers may remember Subversify’s interview with Decadent Nation, a lively progressive rock group currently touring nationally and putting together a new mind bender album.  What one discovers when corresponding with the group is, they aren’t just a closely knit quartet of musicians, they are extremely aware of the social/political climate and have a lot of strong opinions.  They have given volunteer performances for the Occupy Movement, a number of charities, and even took their music to the upper middle class residential area of St. Louis, playing from a flatbed truck.  Recently, the group has been expressing a bit of unhappiness, not about politics, but about a fellow rock group; the Black Keys.  This social transgressor has apparently dissed Led Zeppelin.  When Subversify asked lead singer and song writer, Colin LaVaute, if it was possible to develop your own blusey hard rock style music, astonishingly similar to Led Zeppelin’s without having studied the artist, he responded with a statement so vivid, Subversify would like to publish it in its entirety.  

Rock is dead.

That’s been the moniker for the troubled genre for decades now. Turn on the radio, and it’s hard to argue against such a sentiment. The airwaves, now mostly owned and run by corporate conglomerates, inundate the masses with a form of the genre that lacks the luster of the early 70’s or 90’s. One station proclaims to play the “rock of today,” and still we hear music that’s twenty years old piped out in between the post-grunge butt rock of Nickleback and the fifty something bands that sound like…Nickleback. Why? Because the station knows, as well as the listener does, that grunge was one of rock’s last gasping breaths.

Not all is lost, right? One of the biggest rock acts out there right now, The Black Keys, have made rock relevant again with their refurbished version of bluesy rock n’ roll.

Too bad they’re assholes.

In a recent interview with Maxim Magazine, Dan Auerbach of The Black Keys, when asked if the band was influenced by Led Zeppelin, responded by saying:

“Man, you know what? I never listen to Led Zeppelin. But, I mean, I don’t think Robert Plant or Jimmy Page listen to Led Zeppelin, either. We all prob­ably obsessed over the same old blues records growing up.”

Really?

One of the most played and celebrated rock bands of all time, and The Black Keys act like they owe nothing to them; that their success is predicated by themselves, and that Zeppelin didn’t lay down the golden brick road for their music 30 years before anyone knew who The Key were. Auerbach making this statement is akin to The Avett Brothers saying, “You know I never listened to Bob Dylan, I just think that we listened to the same Woody Guthrie albums, and BAM! Awesome-sauce!”

Never mind that not giving the greatest hard rock band of all time their props borders on sacrilege when you’re in The Black Keys position, but seriously, how can anyone growing up in the 70’s and thereafter not have listened to Led Zeppelin? Just like Nickleback and The Black Keys, Led Zeppelin has been steadily piped out since the band’s first album hit. Furthermore, if you are a guitar player in a rock band, whether you would like to admit it or not, you have been influenced by Jimmy Page.

Oh, but the pomposity doesn’t stop there. In an interview with Rolling Stone, Black Keys drummer Patrick Carney, laid into, of course, Nickleback.

“”So they became OK with the idea that the biggest rock band in the world is always going to be shit – therefore you should never try to be the biggest rock band in the world. Fuck that! Rock & roll is the music I feel the most passionately about, and I don’t like to see it fucking ruined and spoon-fed down our throats in this watered-down, post-grunge crap, horrendous shit. When people start lumping us into that kind of shit, it’s like, ‘Fuck you,’ honestly.”

Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not a Nickleback fan by any means of the word, and I have some  respect for The Black Keys. That being said, at least Nickleback doesn’t take themselves so seriously as to proclaim that they are the originators of their genre. In fact, Nickleback has a pretty good sense of humor about the fact that they have more detractors than fans.

When I was growing up, it was a time for rock music to be proud of itself. Bands like Pearl Jam, Soundgarden, Tool, and Rage Against the Machine embraced their many varying influences and the end result was something much more original than anything The Black Keys have to offer. All of those bands obtained something else Auerbach and Co. lack: character.

The point is, just because you may have obtained what Ricky Gervais calls “Fuck You Money”, doesn’t necessarily mean you should walking around literally saying”Fuck you, honestly.” Carney’s attitude speaks to a greater sense of inherent entitlement in our society. What happened to humility, and a humble attitude? When do we see music artists actually grateful for what they obtained? I keep hoping for things to come around, for a real breath of fresh air; a new era of truly original rock music, made with sense of purpose, by musicians that don’t shoot off at the mouth like they’re Kanye. I hope to be apart of this era when it comes, until then, I will not mourn the death of Rock n’ Roll, but wait for it to rise from the ashes of modern music.

by Michael A.

One typically retreats into an art museum to escape the world of crassness, sluthood and overbearing human beings. Therefore, it is with much chagrin I report that the Dallas Museum of Art is characterized by all of those qualities. A pity, since there are so few redeeming positives in the entire city of Dallas, a city only known for greedy people named J.R. and for the death of John F. Kennedy.

My criticism concerns the management style and the poor choice of modern day artwork, not to mention a rather disturbing encounter in the restroom area that was truly a moment of grotesque postmodernism.

I was harassed a total of four times by staff members to show my orange bracelet of admission, strongly implying I had snuck in illegally—an implication that screamed racial profiling. It appears as if the staff was convinced that a Mexican-Spaniard must surely be sneaking into such a wonderfully white environment—indeed, a scalable premise that parallels the issue of immigration. However, much to my disappointment, there was no apparent satire involved; they were just being jerks.

In fact, one staff member was so preoccupied with my conspicuous presence that she totally ignored a repugnant creature to her far left (I believe it is called a “child”) who was literally defacing a crafted and hanging artwork that fell low from the ceiling. The creature was literally in the center of the artwork destroying its grandeur, before the staff member took note and nervously ran to alert the parents. I laughed all the way to the next incongruent exhibit.

Speaking of the staff, although they were a refreshingly multiethnic group of people, I was concerned by the gum-chewing, the giggling and the overly youthful features of the attendants. I would prefer my art escorts to be mature, or at least give the illusion that they can comprehend great art. Alas, these Gen Xers seemed resentful of their jobs, as if the dichotomy between great art and absolute futility were something like the poor vs. the rich.

The label of “incongruent” is perhaps giving the art director too much credit. For the first floor celebrating modern artworks, the Dallas Museum featured a great deal of “urban art”, which may well be a paradoxical achievement. There is no great art in suffering itself; art is birthed from great suffering. However, I felt as if much of the first floor of modern art were simply rewarding urban artists for the pseudo-art of ironic reproduction.

Perhaps this is the sniggering monster that Andy Warhol started, but I felt nothing when I beheld one behemoth of an exhibit by Mark Bradford (“Mithra”), a sort of Noah’s Ark creation featuring torn up posters of the Will Ferrell movie “Semi Pro.” Reproduction is not art, though I do share the passion of seeing Will Ferrell movie posters destroyed. Ideally, the formula goes reproduction plus individual interpretation. This feature, and many others seem shockingly ill-prepared for such a prestigious display, one might actually liken it to a premature baby being delivered just to appease a dying grandmother. But I digress on the metaphors…

Now don’t judge me as an art snob just yet. I do acknowledge there were many thought provoking pieces scattered throughout the museum, and a few brilliant Old World Baroque masterpieces on the second floor—however, some really bad exhibits (and at least one defaced by toddlers), together with an entire floor of old furniture (lazily prepared) seemed contrary to my vision of what proud standing, elitist Dallas art looked like.

Nevertheless, bad art can be forgiven. My main quibble was with the managerial style, or lack thereof, which seemed to be perfectly embodied in my next experience. As I proceeded to the restroom area to do thy bidding, I saw a most alarming sight, the likes of which might provoke allusions of a trompe l’oeil, or at least a Banksy-esque prank.

As I looked to the floor and to the next stall over (situated in front of me, not to the side, because of the awkward design) I noticed a pair of bare human butt cheeks grimacing at me from below the bottom of the stall. At first, I figured maybe it was a mistake, or perhaps a case of a poor foreigner confused at how American toilets work.

However, the longer I looked, cruelly held hostage and exposed to the ass-inine trauma, I noticed the individual had mature-looking legs. I fear this was perhaps an older man—perhaps one of the staff attendants still harassing me? Of course, it is quite possible the butt belonged to a bratty young person (with old, leathery legs); still, what a shame that he was allowed to run through the museum defacing art, and defecating on art lovers. By the time the butt started wiping itself for my viewing disgust, I knew this was intentional harassment, and of all places, suffered while at the Dallas Museum of Art.

I regret that I did not snap a cell phone photo of the “Dallas Art Butt”, as proof that this experience really happened (trust me, I having nothing to gain from writing a fictitious review), and perhaps as a mooning snapshot, well-symbolizing Dallas’ snarky response to my criticism of its Dallas Art Museum.

I fled the scene quickly, not wishing to provoke the pair of buttocks anymore than I had. Nevertheless, I feel it is my duty to warn you of what you might encounter should you choose to visit the museum. The human body is not always a thing of beauty in art, at least not in the restrooms of the Dallas Art Museum.

Wyly Theatre, Dallas-Backstage Entrance

Subversify welcomes Alexandra Bonifield, a theatre critic out of  Dallas, Texas.  You can find more of her writing at http://criticalrant.com/

By: Alexandra Bonifield

Like most theatre-loving folks in Dallas and as a regional theatre critic, I was very curious to see what the experience of attending a performance the new Wyly Theatre would be like. I got my chance this past Friday night, October 30, when Dallas Theater Center inaugurated its use of the Wyly Theatre with the production of Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream. I call the evening “My Nightmare on Pearl St.”

WYLY: Giant Gray Water Cooler

It took a while for my press pass to get confirmed by DTC staff, but when it did, I learned they arranged a parking pass for me at “the garage” so I wouldn’t have to pay $15 to park. I was instructed to “enter the garage from Pearl St. to get my parking pass.” Sounded simple. Seek parking pass, Wyly Theatre garage off Pearl St.

I hardly ever go downtown. Why would I? The theatre productions I review weekly are performed at a wide range of accessible venues in neighborhoods throughout the community. The closest I generally get to downtown is Deep Ellum for Undermain Theatre or Uptown for Kitchen Dog Theater. Plenty of free parking, close to the venues, with interesting bars and restaurants nearby for post-show discussion. I didn’t feel the need to Google the location; after all, the Wyly Theatre is a tall building standing off alone, probably sporting a prominent marquee of some sort, right? Hard to miss. I figured I’d get on Pearl St., cruise down to the theatre and park in its garage, as instructed. Just to be on the safe side, I left home fifteen minutes early, to allow for traffic.

I get to Pearl St., no problem. Except, it’s one way. Not the way I need to go. I know the general location of the venue, so I start exploring the frustrating one-way, ‘no turns allowed’ zigzags one has to follow to negotiate downtown Dallas’ street maze. If there are street signs, I can’t see them at night. I know I’m somewhere close as I can see the lipstick red of the Winspear Opera House as I foray along. Oddly, I can find no sign saying, “This is the Wyly Theatre”, or “Wyly Theatre Parking Here”. Five minutes pass. I go by what looks like a giant old-fashioned evaporative cooler, a tall, grayish box-y building. Not attractive or welcoming. Maybe the Wyly? Nothing much near it except the Winspear glowing like a space ship in full bloom about a football field away. I keep making turns; sure I’ll see a line of cars going into the bowels of the earth below the building, with signs and uniformed attendants. Finally I come across a line of cars heading into a parking structure. Delighted, I join the queue. This has to be it; I won’t arrive late. As I approach the attendant gate, it occurs to ask if I’m at Wyly parking. There are no signs anywhere, none that I can see. Wouldn’t it be silly to be at the wrong garage? “You’re at the Meyerson, miss.” Oops. I glance at the LONG line of cars behind me. “How do I get out, and where is Wyly parking?” I ask in panic. Told to “drive on through” with a shrug as though this is an everyday occurrence, I begin the labyrinthine search for an exit, recalling the Minoans and Sartre, realizing that at least three of the four cars parading along ahead of me are being piloted by lost souls, too. Another five minutes passes, feels like half an hour. The exit looms, and I pull to its lip. “Right Turn Only” greets me, again no street signs. I am truly lost now.

“The Wyly, a tall box of a building wrapped in a skin of aluminum tubes, is standoffish outside and yoga-flexible within; in classic Koolhaas form, the 600-seat theater dares the Dallas arts establishment to complain about its severe, basement-level concrete lobby, the almost punitively narrow main staircase and a terrace lined with bright-green fake grass.” Christopher Hawthorne, in the Los Angeles Times

I note again that giant grayish water cooler structure looming darkly, and there appear to be cops wearing reflective orange vests on another street corner a half block away, directing creeping carloads of confused people. Maybe they’ll guide a lost soul?  Cheerily, they point me to the Winspear. I insist I’m there for the Wyly. “The WYLY.  It’s over there?” Cop smiles broadly. “It’s got no parking yet, miss; you have to park under Big Red.”  Big Red: a revelation. I turn left to approach Winspear parking entrance off yet another no-name street. To my amazed delight, the attendant has my name on his press-parking list, and I’m waved on in. By now, my “extra” five minutes have elapsed. My heart races, even if my car cannot due to the line of lost souls chugging ahead of me, seeking similar respite. I park my 2004 Kia Hatchback on Lexus P2, exhale a huge sigh and follow two ladies in stiletto heels to an escalator up. Up? I’m feeling disoriented by now. Am I still in Dallas or on some weird glass and concrete planet?

We arrive at ground floor level by Big Red. I can see Giant Gray Water Cooler some distance away. Trying not to fall into a dusky reflecting pool at walkway level, I approach another orange-vested gent. “Is that the Wyly over there, and how do I get to it?” I query him.  “Just hop right in this golf cart, young lady, and I’ll buzz you on over! There’s a long, steep slope and I’d hate to see you fall in the dark, hurrying down it.” Golf cart? I notice a flotilla of them. Steep slope? And howdy, more concrete. A bonanza for the skateboard set ought to be real interesting to negotiate in heels when black ice season hits. So, the terrain is flat around here…why dig a hole with a steep slope to bury the theater entrance below ground level? How will limos or cars with elderly and disabled people pull up close to disgorge their attending patrons? I flash on a sudden image of a graceful circular drive, landscaped attractively with colorful, live plants, flowing under an elegant, arching portico, bright-lit and welcoming. A bevy of handsome doormen bustle to assist patrons to alight. Chandeliers, buzz, merry anticipation? Wishful thinking. Back to dark, steep slope in a golf cart. Fake greenery. Grim aspect. It doesn’t even look like a theater.

Jeremy Gerard (former Dallas Morning News theater critic), in Bloomberg News: “In the Wyly, “There seems to be no quiet way for the actors to make exits and entrances; footsteps on metal stairs throughout the building pierce the walls, as do noises from the lobby. The seats are torture-chamber hard. All that stacked technology, I guess, required the entrance to the theater to be below the plaza level, down a concrete hill that seems to invite tripping.”

I emerge from my chariot and enter the Wyly’s main doors that remind me of a 1960’s science fiction movie set. I’m hoofing it now; don’t want to miss the opening moments of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. 8pm curtain. Can’t be hard to locate my seat.

I get my ticket at the press table and go through more sci-fi doors. Stairs loom ahead of me. LOTS of steep stairs. In grey metal, dimly lit. Whoa. No time to lay carpet before opening? I trudge slowly up, placing my feet carefully. On the landing, an usher purrs, “Thanks for going slow up these stairs, that’s very wise of you.” Ominous, yet… “Where is the carpet?” I wonder. “Gosh, these stairs are ugly and slippery. Hope there’s an elevator.” I’m baffled.

I find my seat on the ground floor, against the back wall, toss my purse and press packet into the empty chair bucket next to me and fall into mine. I need a stiff drink, but the show’s about to start, once the junior league chairman of the auxiliary committee to redefine art as we know it for the next century concludes his opening remarks. What’s this? No cush for the tush? Hard grayish plastic bucket seat, following the grey metal stairs motif. Ouch! Rough to sit through O’Neill’s Desire under the Elms or Stoppard’s The Invention of Love in chairs like these. Venue booking requirement; only short one-act plays, please, seats hurt audience bums too much for longer performance.  How much did Dallas pay for this theater? Does the architect hate audiences? Did he ever take time to sit in these seats? I’ve sat on high school gym bleachers more comfortable than this. These seats will be easy to wash–just hose them down. Note to self: if you ever return here to review, bring ample stadium pillow for comfort.

Then I look up and around. The seating here is raked, so why can’t I see the stage? A man, average-sized, no Afro, no Stetson, sits in the row below, directly in front of me. I can’t see most of the stage through his head. I’m no midget. A seat with an obstructed view in a theater that cost how much? I shift to the empty seat to my left. Better, I think, until I realize my view of stage right is now blocked by a huge, grey, (no other color will do) column. A seat with an obstructed view in a theater that cost how much? I’d be pretty mad by now if I’d paid for this.

Finally, relief! Shakespeare’s words begin to grace the air. It’s a fast-paced show with much running up and down levels, climbing ladders, and entrances and exits from all sides of the modified thrust stage. There’s a catwalk about five feet above my head. I realize I’m missing dialogue because of the loud clomping of the herd of elephants, “fairies”, charging pell-mell down the ramp above to get to their next entrance on time. No baffling? No carpet? More bleak grey metal surface perhaps? Another venue requirement: only produce shows here where actors are barefoot and tiptoe along the catwalks. Whose ridiculous idea was this?

Intermission arrives. My neck aches from leaning way over to try to view stage right action, and I can’t feel my derriere. I stand up. Presumably there’s a ladies’ rest room and a BAR, somewhere, but I may need to rappel back down the slippery metal stairs to find them. I stretch and eat a breath mint. Pass on bathroom and adult beverage, at least for here. Visions of Knox-Henderson late night.

The play ends with cascades of balloons and soap bubbles, loud music and dancing, commingling of audience and cast in what feels like the final scene from the film Slumdog Millionaire. I find an exit out of Giant Gray Water Cooler Wyly at street level. I don’t have to climb the steep slope back out of the hole in the ground.  I pause at the street corner en route to Big Red, marveling at the discomfort and confusion I’d just experienced. Who will want to endure it when winter comes, when rain and ice and wind whip across the vast emptiness between the Winspear and the Wyly, with no way to avoid their onslaught? Didn’t the architect learn about Dallas weather?

I ride a crowded elevator with other exhausted, stressed playgoers to Lexus P2 and slide into the comfy, padded driver’s seat of my lowly Kia. Before I turn on the ignition I find I can’t stop smiling. I really love reviewing Dallas’ regional theatre. Visions dance on my dashboard. I picture Undermain Theatre with its congenially tended parking lot right next to it on Main St. and Flower Mound Performing Arts Theater with its rustic charm, up close ground level access, free parking. I smell the breezes wafting off White Rock Lake by the Bath House Cultural Center and recall the warmth of its reception/ gallery/ box office area, the friendly staff. I recall how welcome I feel at well-lit Water Tower Theatre in Addison with its two clearly designated performance spaces, ground floor accessible, and easy to find bathrooms. Right next door is the Stone Cottage where MBS Productions performs with folding padded chairs, but no obstructed view in the house. I don’t mind sharing the one bathroom with Mark-Brian’s cast. At Lyric Stage I can drive right up to the brightly lit entrance and drop off a companion before I park in the lot adjacent; the excitement of live theatre spills out of the building from its ample carpeted lobby. No obstructed views and well-padded seats help make attending theatre there a pleasure. At Shakespeare Dallas’ Samuel-Grand Park setting, I set up my folding chair wherever the PR director escorts me to, ease back and enjoy a great view with snack and libation right out of my own ice chest. In Ft. Worth, there’s free parking after 6pm in the downtown garages on the square. Whether I’m heading to elegant Bass Hall or intimate Circle Theatre, I feel safe strolling to any of the eight or ten restaurants not five minutes from either venue before the show, or after, even if I’m alone. There are no steep concrete slopes to negotiate, unprotected from severe weather. I’m so glad the metroplex has a wide array of thriving performance arts groups and venues that serve the needs of attendant audiences and artists so well. My” Nightmare on Pearl St.?” It offers a different sort of memorable experience. I wish the Wyly Theatre speedy resolve with some of their evident opening challenges. I also wish Dallas Theater Center, flagship Theatre Company for the region, the very best with productions at its new, modern venue.

“Although Los Angeles is often dismissed (and misunderstood) by Europhiles as a city with no center and no heart, Dallas would be the better example….The Arts District is the cultural version of that city. Here star projects sit in self-satisfied isolation, unrelated to each other, unconcerned. If these buildings are supposed to be part of an effort to ‘regenerate’ or ‘reconnect’ the city center, they have failed.” Edwin Heathcote, in Financial Times

Quotes pulled from Scott Cantrell’s article in the Dallas Morning News Sunday, November 1, 2009: “Critics weigh in on Wyly Theatre and Winspear Opera House”

Remembrance

I am certain that after the dust of centuries has passed over our cities, we, too, will be remembered not for victories or defeats in battle or in politics, but for our contribution to the human spirit.
 – John F. Kennedy

By: Eddie SantoPrieto

As we come to the tenth anniversary of the 9/11 attacks which saw the senseless murders of thousands of innocent people, I can assure you, I will not be watching any of the commemorations. From my perspective, we have dishonored the memory of those perished on that day. We have trivialized and manipulated those murders for political and personal gain. And we have used it to kill more innocent people who had nothing to do with the tragic events that transpired that incongruously beautiful New City autumn’s day.

Most of us experienced the events that transpired at the World Trade Center vicariously through television.

I didn’t… I was there.

Since 1969, we lived the proverbial stone’s throw (a five minute walk, actually) from what is now called “Ground Zero.” When the towers collapsed, the tremors were felt in my building. I watched from the roof of my17-story building in horror as people jumped from the Towers.

I heard my neighbor’s hysterical scream as she stood next to me and watched those poor souls who chose to plunge to their death rather than burn. I saw, with my own eyes, that horror, something my mind refused to believe at first. I thought — I wanted so much to believe — those little dots were debris, but they were humans. And as my neighbor’s shriek’s intensified as the awareness dawned on her, I took her in my arms, but she was beside herself, as were others — the screams could be heard everywhere.

Realizing that staying in a high-rise was risky at best, we all evacuated the building and I walked in silence with the throng of humanity that marched through the streets of lower Manhattan, a mass shrouded in white ashes. The day was a beautifully clear early autumn day, the sun bright, as thousands walked in silence, ashen heads bowed.

I saw a woman walking aimlessly, muttering, obviously in shock, bleeding from a wound on her head. I saw another limping, whimpering to herself. I saw pieces of human beings mixed in with all those billions of bits of papers and files…

I lived, on and off, in the shadows of the towers all those years. I used to party every Friday there when I was a young man working in the Woolworth Building, almost across the street from the World Trade. When I was 14-15, I took a summer job as a messenger at a printing company where my uncle worked, and I would deliver blueprints to the architects at the World Trade site. I had just finished reading Ayn Rand’s Fountainhead and had developed an interest in architecture and Frank Lloyd Wright, and it was pretty cool to see the architectural monstrosity rise (let’s not get too nostalgic, The Towers were pretty much bland-looking).

I even had sex in the shadows of the Towers — a youthful impulse early one hot summer morning in the throes of a passionate summer’s love.

One day, on my way to work, I happened to look up and saw a man climbing up the outside of the Twin Towers. The New York tabloids proclaimed him “Spiderman” on the next day’s editions. There was always something weird or fun going on at the World Trade. In the 70s, a famous tightrope walker walked across a cable stretched between the two towers. There was a lot personal history there in those towers — at least for me, anyway. I also had many friends who worked there, at one time or another. What I remember most was that no matter how drunk or stoned I got, all I had to do to make it home was point myself in the direction of the Towers.

I had just started working at my most current job and on Tuesdays and Thursdays; I worked from 12-8 PM. At about 9-10 AM, cursing under my breath for forgetting to buy coffee, I went to the store to and noticed a group of neighbors staring up at the Towers. I looked up to see the back end of a small plane sticking out of one of the Towers. I really didn’t think much about it. Things always happened at the Towers.

As I was returning home from the bodega, I felt the second plane hit as I opened the door to my apartment. I felt it. That’s when I knew something was wrong. I won’t retell that tale, we all know it… we saw it replayed on the TV countless times (was it really necessary?)

From my 17th floor apartment I watched… then I watched from the roof, where some of my neighbors had congregated. And that’s where I witnessed the horror of the inferno, the eventual collapse of both Towers.

I saw thousands of people walking silently, heads bowed, covered in white ash. It was strange to see so many people in one place and feel that silence. One of the things I will never forget was how quiet it was in the midst of 100s of thousands of people. It just wasn’t right.

And then I saw something miraculous and wonderful to behold, the innate human impulse to come together in moments of crisis. Some people went out into the middle of some streets and acted as traffic controllers. No one told them to, they just did what had to be done. I saw people helping one another, stores giving away free water, others helping the wounded.

A priest and I helped some who were walking around in shock. We helped dress their wounds and reassure them. We set up a table with water bottles and started collecting those hurt the most so that they could be picked up by medical staff.

I witnessed, that day, the nobility of my fellow New Yorkers — my fellow human beings. Complete strangers giving comfort to one another, others rushing into the maws of the site to lend help, to assist, to just be helpful in even the smallest of ways. And many of my fellow New Yorkers were downright heroes that day, but what really got me, what will never leave me, was how this sea of compassion and care rose to meet the ugliness of death and destruction. I witnessed and was part of, an emergence of the human spirit that I have never felt before and will probably never see again. And I saw, as many of you did, the world unite with us in this spirit. I saw the true potential of the human spirit that day, even in the midst of all that carnage and ugliness

But it was what I saw immediately after that scared me. And as it turns out, I had every right to be fearful.

I saw the religious whackos and fear mongers come out in full force before the dust had even settled, handing out pamphlets proclaiming “the end of the world.” I saw people buy right into that. It was a scary time, and people were confused, easily swayed.

I saw pure, unadulterated hatred.

There was a story going around a few days after the attacks of September 11, 2001. An American Indian grandfather was speaking to his grandson about violence and cruelty in the world and how it comes about. He said it was as if two wolves were fighting in his heart. One wolf was vengeful and angry, the other understanding and kind. The young boy asked his grandfather which wolf would win the fight in his heart. The grandfather answered, “The one that wins will be the one I choose to feed.”

And this is our challenge in a nutshell. A challenge we have failed to answer skillfully, unfortunately. It is the challenge we face as individuals and as part of this world gone slightly mad. How can we draw upon our inner potential to see what helps and what harms, what escalates war and aggression, and suffering? With the precarious nature of the current times — a planet in financial chaos and the environment on the precipice, the time for sitting back has long gone. And though you might feel there’s nothing you can do, know that even the slightest gesture toward feeding the right wolf will help. Now, more than ever, you need to understand and act on this human potential for transformation.

For days after, there was a call for volunteers to escort Muslim women and children because they were being attacked. I saw a lot of anger and fear and I feared that forces who craved fear and vengeance would use that tragedy to exploit, to manipulate, to seek retribution, to kill. I witnessed a bellicose and washed up mayor Giuliani resuscitate his political career while literally standing on the charred bodies of the dead. He has since made millions from the events of 9/11. Never mind that it was due to his incompetence and hubris that he had chosen to place the emergency system in the World Trade (against the advice of his own experts) and hence during the worst attack on our shores, the greatest city of the world had no real central operating location. Never mind that 100s of firefighters perished because he refused to upgrade walkie-talkies, Giuliani would be rewarded for his lack of vision and leadership by being hailed the Man of the Year.

I saw an incompetent president his administration lead us to a meaningless war and to the shredding of the Constitution as we cheered, “We’re No 1! We’re No. 1” — all in the name of all those dear dead people, in the name of my fellow New Yorkers, all who stood bravely and came together when it was most needed. I saw our leaders take that nobility and turn it into a force for hatred and greed. Ten years later we like to say we’re “winning” the war on terror, but the fact is that we played right into their hands. It’s on record that terrorist leaders had intended to provoke us into countless little wars and in that way bleed us to death. Today, we’re closing down schools, firing teachers and firefighters, neglecting our crumbling infrastructure while we spend countless trillions and needlessly sacrifice the lives of our young. Like a huge inept elephant, we’re drowning in the quicksand of our own collective ignorance and we’re doing it while dishonoring all those who died that day.

I smelled, everyday, that strange disgusting odor emanating from the charred pile that was once the Towers. It had a strange odor — something like rotted meat mixed with something entirely unidentifiable. Against the pleas of my friends and family, I refused to leave my apartment. Every day I went to my home though my area had the look and feel of a demilitarized zone — with blockades and checkpoints — and it took me an extra hour to get home just to get through all the security. I refused to leave because in my own way, leaving my home was the same as giving in to the terror.

As a result, I was breathing the powdered debris on a daily basis and developed a cough, what some of us began to call the “downtown cough.” It was like a smoker’s cough except I didn’t smoke. My lungs have never been the same since that day. Through varying degrees of separation, everyone one in New York was connected somehow to a death in those towers and I heard the many stories, the sadness, the anger, the confusion…

We must never forget those who died that day, those ten years ago.

We must strive to feed the right wolf. To do otherwise, is to spit in the face of the human spirit that arose that day — that one sliver of light in the midst of all that ugliness that transpired — where we all came together as one. But we must also never forget that some used the events of that day to lead us into darkness. If we forget that, if we dishonor that, then all those people will have died for nothing. It comes to pass that we have been feeding the wrong wolf.

My name is Eddie and I’m in recovery from civilization…

Labels: farce, history, honor, tragedy

By: Grainne Rhuad

Most Stars seem to reach a certain age when they start having children and want to connect with their kids.  Madonna pushed out a couple of crappy tea party books for children, Ice Cube started making some family movies his kids could watch, Brad Pitt became the voice of a superhero.  But Chris Rock did a little something different.

He says he went on a quest, when his daughter came in and asked “Daddy, why don’t I have ‘Good Hair’.” To find out what he could about the Billion dollar industry of Black Hair Products.  The result is Good Hair.

The film kept my attention for several reasons.  Chris Rock mostly took off his comedian hat and donned a pretty nice investigative journalism one.  He visited a factory owned and operated by African Americans where relaxer or “creamy crack” is made.  He went to India to check out where the bulk of hair for extensions is harvested and visited Krishna’s temple to witness the tonsure ceremony in which the vanity of hair is given up; so the temple can sell it to the highest bidder and it can go on African American Heads.  Of course he visited a lot of Barber Shops and Beauty Salons, as well as pulling in some of his celebrity friends.

All this made me think about my own experiences with Black hair.  My daughter was born into a well mixed family.  She had an equal amount of cousins with “good hair” and “bad hair.”  Just for clarification “good hair” is manageable, brushable hair.  “bad hair” is considered nappy hair, hair that is curlier, harder to manage, doesn’t grow down and long but grows up and out.

When she was born her hair was so fine and so straight and she herself so light colored that her father actually gave me a look or two when he noted how light she was.  She grew into her color and into her hair.  She had inherited the fine texture of my hair and the incredible curl of her father’s hair.

Now, I actually thought I had a handle on managing black hair.  For years I had cut relaxed, braided and put extensions into her father’s hair.  Although he loved to play with his hair, I secretly loved the short tight cuts.  The thick curls as they just left the head smoothing and curling on his head.

However I was not at all prepared for the variance in hair.  The unique combination our daughter had been blessed with gave her the most curly mop of hair I have ever seen.  In sixth grade, when she was done with letting me brush it, it became unmanageable and I finally gave in and took her to the hairdresser, the only black hairdresser that didn’t work out of her kitchen in our community at the time.

I learned there was a lot I didn’t know about Black hair.  What I learned and paid for over the next ten years was a lot.  We went through relaxers and irons and braids.  Thankfully she never needed nor wanted a weave because I almost lost my breath when I learned how much they cost to get and keep up.

This film is a couple of years old, it débuted at the Sundance Film Festival in 2009.  So after I watched it I was interested in seeing what kind of response it had been getting.

I learned it was now shown in beauty schools to would be cosmologists.  I learned that Sodium Hydroxide which is the main chemical will eat through chicken skin almost immediately and decimate a soda can in three hours.  I learned that people were surprised Chris Rock could be un-funny.  But most interesting to me were the lines drawn around this issue.  A good portion of African American women were pissed off.

One of the reasons was fairly obvious.  Chris Rock had told some of their secrets.  While a growing industry around all nationalities getting hair weaves and extensions has pretty much let us all know that a lot of women’s hair wasn’t real, or strictly speaking; theirs.  This movie took a lot of the feminine mystery away.  No matter whom we are we all like our level of mystery.  That “how does she/he do it?” feeling.

But one of the things the women reacted to the strongest was some unflattering truths that the film revealed.  For example, at one salon in a working class neighborhood, the “Weavologist” quoted a weave from her at starting around $1000.00.  That’s out the door; not including maintenance like cuts, bi-monthly washing and setting and any emergencies that arise like say, you got it wet.  She had even set up lay-away plans for her client’s hair requirements. Reverend Al Sharpton responded to the cost of weaves in his interview by saying women were neglecting needs in favor of wanting to look a certain way and needed to put their budget in perspective.  Several men stated there had been women that they knew they couldn’t afford due to their hair.

Bloggers, reporters and everyday people took to their computers to dispel this idea right away.  They were affronted at the Reverend Al Sharpton’s statements that women he had known had skipped house payments in favor of European-like hair.  Indeed, the idea of their hair being European at all really pissed them off.  Perhaps it should, as it almost certainly was Asian hair anyway.

The point I think the detractors were trying to make but I think were too angry to connect was this was a man, investigating a mostly woman’s world.  They maybe weren’t ready for what the men interviewed would say and take away from it.  I think it’s telling.

Men for the most part weren’t mystified as to why they couldn’t touch their partner’s hair or even why the women in their lives submitted to all this fuss.  They really got it; it was about them feeling good, powerful and attractive.  This is something we all want in our own ways.  What they seemed to be most frustrated about was the way it separated them in their relationships.  This was a line they could not cross.  There is no negotiation about hair in most of the African American community.  A lot of the men I think would have been just as happy if their partners went natural.

Natural is what my daughter ultimately decided on in her adult life.  She gets people from children to old women who want to touch her hair.  It is something she has had to get used to.  I can remember her coming home from school some days tired out from all the attention lavished on her hair by her white friends.  She would lay her head in my lap, but we all knew she did not want it played with.  She is older and much more giving now and smiles a lot as children run their hands through her unique soft curly auburn hair;  Hair that curls around your fingers like a living thing and very often comes away with you a little bit.

Another of the nastier things said about Chris Rock was that he needed to have his girls hanging out with more African Americans, less Hollywood white folk. Strange but my daughter grew up until her teen years with only one African friend, she never once thought her hair wasn’t “Good Hair.”   Also I think this completely misses the mark of what he set out to do.

Ultimately this film is a love letter to his daughters.  He shows his strong commitment as a father of female children wanting to find out all he can so he can help guide them through the choices they will make that will make them feel beautiful, powerful, and glorious.  We should all want such good things from our fathers, husbands and partners.

Unwanted Robots @2011 Karla Fetrow

By: Sergio Impleton

Kicking the Habit with Electronic Cigarettes

Promoting an active anti-smoking campaign at a time when economics are so anxiety ridden, a shot of heroin wouldn’t prevent night tremors from turning into nightly mental volcanic explosions seems wicked in the extreme, but the academics of negative health effects have been on such a roll, to fly in the face of smoking opposition now would be tantamount to gaining a reputation as a serial killer.  Not only do we have to consider the disgusting residues of tar and chemicals rattling around in our lungs and coursing merrily through our bloodstream, we are guilty of the malignancies caused by second hand smoke.  Nobody wants to be accused of poisoning their children, even if said children live in an area with enough industrial pollution to choke out the life of King Kong.  The pressure was on.  Either quit smoking or for the rest of my natural or unnatural life, I would be branded a criminal.

I’ve been a smoker for over twenty years, which is to say, suddenly tossing the cigarettes out the window is easier said than done.  A smoker going through withdrawal pains is not a very pleasant person to be around.  When those nerve endings get hit with those problematic dilemmas that require keeping your cool and sorting out priorities, a long draw on a nicotine loaded cancer stick has a way of simmering down the explosive potential.  For example, little Jimmy thinks he needs an i-phone because all his best friends have one, and he’ll be the odd man out, with all fingers pointing at his parents’ neglect of generosity and limited income if he doesn’t have one.  First rule of academic association; never appear as though the family income has a bottom line.

As a smoker, little Jimmy could explain the situation, and I would listen, calmly shaking a cigarette from the pack and inhaling deeply, contemplating the issue.  “Well, Jimmy, no.  I can’t afford an i-phone for you right now because I can’t even keep up on the cable bill.  I’ll tell you what.  If you can get the family to agree to cut the air-conditioning down, I’ll buy you an i-phone and won’t tell anyone that the acceptable temperature in the house has been set at eighty degrees.”  Without a cigarette, the somewhat more explosive answer is this; “No, Jimmy, you can’t have an i-phone because I said so.  Now, go console yourself with down-loading all the Netflix movies you can before they raise their prices.”

Actually, budget was a big motivation for my half-hearted decision to quit.  I had already dwindled my pack a day habit to a pack every two days, but in the face of rising costs, it still wasn’t enough.  My wife kept reminding me that eliminating this luxury habit from my life would enable us to once again afford weekend barbeques of steak and hamburgers instead of just hamburgers and hot dogs.  I considered the patch.  A friend of mine had used it.  There was one hitch.  His medically approved patch came accompanied with a support group of prescription regulated nicotine anonymous ex-offenders.  Apparently, the patch would not work as effectively without the voice of social conscience strong-arming its way into the door.  Every morning he would receive a phone call asking how he was doing and assuring him that he can last one more day without the demon smoke warping his sound mind and sound judgment.  I had two problems with that.  First of all, I wanted to monitor my own nicotine flow.  If I wanted to bombard my bloodstream one day, and dwindle it down to the equivalent of five cigarettes the next, I wanted to be able to do this without my patch making the judgment call.  Secondly, the last thing I wanted was someone who carried the nasal tone of false exuberance my wife used whenever she decided I needed to be included in her diet/exercise program.  One more word of encouragement and I would jump out the window of a seven story building.

There was one ray of hope; the electronic cigarette.  It’s the ideal companion for the modern, plugged in, cyber interface junkie.  The kit that I bought; electronic cigarettes come as a kit; has a battery charger that snuggled into a computer slot as comfortably as the upload cord for a digital camera.  It has ten individual filters, each one equaling a pack of cigarettes.  You exhale a smoke that is nothing more than water vapor.

That was the sales pitch that sold me.  A potential new world opened up. Not only would I be able to smoke in the house without worry that the wife or kids would dial up EPA with a complaint, I could go out in public.  I could walk a free man, puffing my electronic cigarette at street corners, in restaurants, at the movies, and nobody would do a thing about it.

“That’s delivering the wrong message,” said the wife.  “The idea is that you can socialize with others without demonstrating to them that you have an oral fixation. You are thumb sucking in public.”

“We all have oral fixations,” I argued.  “Thumb sucking begins in the womb.  It’s instinctual.  Chewing gum?  An oral fixation.  That extra helping at the dinner table that you don’t need?  Oral fixation.  And what about the bottles everyone carries around with them these days?  It used to be that the only bottles you saw clutched were wrapped in a paper bag and in violation of open container laws.  Now, you don’t see anyone without a bottle; bottled soda, bottled juices, bottled water.  People don’t even need to eat anymore.  They carry all their vitamin and mineral needs in a bottle they suck on throughout the day.”

The wife guiltily put down the bottle of vitamin enhanced water she was drinking.  “At least I’m not sucking on a drug.”

Before we could get into a debate over the questionable use of drugs, she acceded and I bought my first electronic cigarette kit.  At first, it was like playing with a new toy.  I examined this marvel of engineering and could barely wait until I had to try out my first charge-up or filter change.  I gulped down those sweet little doses of nicotine as fast as I could, but something was missing.  Before the day was out, my lungs were climbing up into my throat, screaming for a little tar and chemical laced smoke.

As I inhaled my first real cigarette of the day, I realized smoking is more than the act of inhaling nicotine; it’s a ritual.  The act of lighting it with your very own, personally attached lighter, watching the end flame up, the ash accumulate, the cigarette dwindle were all a mental process of smoker satisfaction.  I felt bad because it became obvious my new electronic state of the art smoking wasn’t really going to let me go cold turkey on old fashioned, messy, wickedly intoxicating tobacco.

I redoubled my efforts, willing myself to believe my electronic device was the same as a real cigarette.  I think I tried a little too hard.  I lost my first electronic cigarette by unthinkingly tossing it out the car window .  With five filters left and no igniter to activate them, I was forced to buy another kit.  By this time I was getting the hang of it.  Cautious not to smoke and drive again, I still lost myself in the feeling of its reality.  If I was holding it while shrugging into my coat, I automatically protected the end from breaking.  If I was waving it around, I brushed my clothing for loose ash.  I constantly found myself tapping it on the ash tray, while the red glow button on the end winked on and off in alarm.  I killed my second electronic cigarette, when, completely absent of mind and unsound of body, I lit the end of it.

I was in a quandary.  If I bought another electronic kit, I would be kicking in seventy-five dollars for nicotine in two weeks time; double the average amount I was paying for cigarettes.  Still, I had more than a dozen drug packed filters left and it seemed a pity to waste such marvels in modern engineering.  I bought one more, determined the third time was be the charm.

I have, so far, managed to preserve this delicate instrument of refined smoking pleasure.  There are times when forgetting my cigarette is artificial instead of natural, are luxurious moments instead of disastrous ones, such as the time I dozed off watching television, my electronic tube in hand, then shook myself severely awake, reminding myself I was holding a cigarette in my hand.  But it was just a tube, laying peacefully across my chest.  I took one half-conscious drag.  “Not bad,” I thought and the pleasurable thoughts of being able to electronically smoke in grocery stores, restaurants and theaters danced once more in my head.

The time finally came when I was able to leave the sanctuary of my house and go out into public again without craving for release by hiding in an alley way with other drug addicts furtively sucking away at their coffin nails.  My wife actually consented, or more accurately, dragged me along to a Saturday outing at the library.  In essence, these excursions were to give the kids a heightened sense of culture, and hopefully to read a few books, but predictably they stuck pretty much to their own cultural understanding; the library computers.

Adjacent to the computer mode was a glassed in coffee shop, where satisfied mamas and papas drifted over to relax while their kids tore apart the reading room.  It was the ultimate luxury in parental responsibility.  They could actually observe and compare the behavior traits of their half-civilized prospective academicians.  Not to be outdone by the young students buying their cappuccinos and mocha; by the sports moms in their sweat bands ordering squeezed juices and bran muffins, we joined the line in attendance and asked for two American coffees, black.

As I sat there, enjoying the first real euphoria of the day, all centered around this marvelous beverage while a drizzling rain outside accentuated the comfort of its warmth, the wife fooled around with her cup and eyed a particularly blond, tan young athlete sipping her strawberry smoothie.  “You know,” she said, “I wonder if we should give up coffee.  It is a drug after all.”

I looked down at the recycled paper heat band wrapped around the cup.  Printed across it was the legend, “coffee.  The last legal drug.”  I thought about my struggles to overcome my smoking habit; the hours of pacing when all I really wanted was a ten minute break; a smoking ritual.  It had been marvelous, perfectly timed, this corner of stepping out of the clatter of modern drudgery and watching the minutes tick away with the shrinking of the cigarette.  Ten minutes of perfect calm.  I thought about how many times I had been distracted from writing because I wanted that calm flow of nicotine to induce my fingers to keep typing, my brain to keep flowing in relaxed harmony with the words I pegged down.

Sure, there are a number of benefits dwindling down my smoking habit has brought me.  I can actually jog along with the wife for a short distance without sounding like a freight train with a missing piston.  I can smell again, although this sometimes is a drawback.  I notice the cigarette smoke on other people’s clothing and sniff it a little just as a remembrance, which doesn’t endear them at all to someone who already has a reputation as peculiar.  I kept closing my son’s door until the wife came in and removed a dozen bottles of slightly unfinished gatorade floating with growths of what can only be assumed to be a new species of life.

Still, my active thoughts rebelled.  Humankind had survived for centuries on drugs.  Shamans, witches, soothsayers, temple priests and priestesses all were the results of mind altering drugs.  Artists thrived on their drug taking routines and more than one writer has scratched his deepest internal quests, objectives and truths while floating in a euphoric blue haze of drug induced inspiration.  I could lay a wager that the covered wagons didn’t cross America with the pioneers swigging away at water bottles every five hundred yards, but they did save some of that water for coffee in the morning, along with a precious, hand rolled cigarette.  For all we knew, the next genius would pop out of a cup of java.  It had taken me months to rein in a habit that had caused momentary lapses into sanity in an otherwise painfully chaotic world.  Did I really want to give up this single pleasure that had been a part of my morning routine for over two-thirds of my life and battle with the consequences of withdrawals, and who knew; possibly an end to all inspiration, intellectual responsibility and rational behavior?  Hell no.

By: Grainne Rhuad

“In every religious tradition, the idea of violating free will is something God doesn’t even do, yet man thinks he can do this and is attempting to circumvent these unalienable rights.”-Jeff Warrick  Writer/Producer/Director-Programming the Nation?

The Movie opens with shots both of the World Trade Center Disaster occurring, images burned into most of our brains by this time and Ground Zero in current time.  Strong images to build a documentary on.  The viewer gets the impression that whatever is going to be presented in this film is important, pay attention and maybe even given the context of the movie; was there something we should have seen?  Was there something we missed about 9/11?

However, the movie jumps track from there.  What we are instead introduced to is the world of Subliminal Messages.  The meeting of science and urban legend.  The question is put to the audience, are companies, politicians and nations trying to sway your opinion without your knowledge?

A good overview is given of the development of subliminal messaging.  We revisit Freud who introduced the academic world to the idea that the mind is at work on levels we aren’t aware of on a daily basis.  We are reminded of how affectively nationalism worked to move the hearts and minds of the people of Germany under the Nazi regime.

The filmmaker really gets to the meat of what he wants us to know when he digs into an early subliminal scam that most filmmakers, marketers and psychology students learn about.  The James Vicary Picnic Hoax.

In 1947, James Vicary claimed he inserted the words “Eat Popcorn” and “Drink Coca Cola” into film called Picnic a la Tyler Durden to unknowing crowds over a six week period.  He then went on tour with his supposed findings selling to the advertising world his results.  He claimed that popcorn sales had risen by 57% and coca-cola sales had risen by 18.1%.  Unfortunately, in 1962 Vicary admitted the results were too small to be meaningful.  However, he did remind the ad world that the subliminal mind was there and maybe it would be profitable to tap into it.  His faux research also caught the attention of the CIA who based on his claims produced a report “The operational potential of subliminal perception.”

The film goes on from there to touch down on both the fake and the real cases of subliminal stimulus in media.  It is chock full of interviews from people in the field of advertising and psychology as well as names you know like David Fricke of Rolling Stone Magazine, Amy Goodman of Democracy NOW! And Mark Mothersbaug, founding member of DEVO.

While the film itself was a good introduction to the idea of subliminal messages, I found myself having some problems with it, the biggest being much of what was presented was not in fact ‘subliminal’.  The term “subliminal” means beneath the threshold of perception. Many things are subliminal, such as the circulation of our blood, which we normally do not feel, experience, or perceive moving throughout our bodies.  However, a lot of examples were more in the realm of suggestion as viewers could clearly see and experience the stimuli.

In addition, Warrick veered into the realm of propaganda.  While propaganda can certainly be subliminal, mostly it’s not.  It revolves around nationalism, idealism and in your face ‘remember this’ much like the U.S. has experienced since 9/11.  The film pointedly discussed Video News Releases which showed clips that were obvious in their juxtaposition.  This cannot by definition be subliminal.

When it came to military and government involvement the film pointed out some areas of concern which I agree with.  Namely Project Solo in Desert Storm.   Also there is the CIA papers mentioned before, which clearly state the government is interested in subliminal tactics.  On the other hand he made stretches; as in taking on HAARP- The High Frequency Active Auroral Research Program. A program in Alaska which sports an Ionospheric Research Instrument (IRI), a high power radio frequency transmitter facility operating in the high frequency (HF) band. The IRI is used to temporarily excite a limited area of the ionosphere. Other instruments, such as VHF and UHF radar, a fluxgate magnetometer, a digisonde and an induction magnetometer, are used to study the physical processes that occur in the excited region.  While it has been noted that there are physical effect associated with IRI such as moose and other animals backing away from it and people experiencing headaches and nausea, none of these fall under the categories of subliminal mind control.

Overall as I viewed this I appreciated the commitment to knowledge that Warrick brought to the film.  The film, while it could have been wildly skewed, stayed in the area of trying to present information the viewer could then follow in order to make their own conclusions.  A lot of examples on both sides of the issue were given and Warrick even pointed out that his lifelong views around some principles turned out to be wrong.  This is perhaps one of the most important pieces of this film.  The fact that in our quest for truth we must be willing to abandon our favorite ideals when they prove to be wrong.

The film closed once again in New York with images of Ground Zero, which I still don’t understand in context to the entire work.  It was slightly disconcerting.  I was left feeling like I wanted more.  I understood that 9/11 had affected the writer, but was the subliminal in this act?  It seemed to me that like much of the movie, this brand of terrorism was very much in your face.

For more information on Programming the Nation and its production company visit their website @ http://www.programmingthenation.com/interviews.html

By: Azazel

The time shall soon be upon Western civilization that will transform the lives of all within – a time of destruction unlike anything it has seen before, for it shall be one in which the very lifeblood of the agro-industrial economy will run dry.  The event capable of bringing an entire culture to its knees is none other than peak oil: for all facets of the American empire (which is, for all practical intents and purposes, reigns over the so-called “free world”) are derived from this ancient black liquid – energy, plastics, fertilizers, lubricants, solvents and many, many more common items we tend to take for granted; once the planet hits this mark, oil production will drop like a stone and take the economy we rely upon with it!

Needless to say, the sudden economic turmoil caused by all this will result in all manner of civil unrest – long story short, the stress upon the United States will be so great that it won’t be able to continue in its present form.  The chaos will leave this nation forever changed into either a fascist police state or into the Balkans writ large: many lives will be destroyed in the fray and I don’t have any reason to believe that this can be avoided – this essay is written as a guide to surviving the coming storm, not preventing it.  Make no mistake here, those that don’t have the ability or the willpower required to prepare themselves for this will most likely not make it through this event and I thus write them off as dead from the start.

Now that my intentions are clearly stated, the instruction can begin…
Priority #1: Habitat

Your first concern in preparing for the end of society as you know it lies in acquiring a safe haven from entities such as repressive police states and hostile militant groups – needless to say, the last place you want for your hideout will be right in the center of an urban population center (where such forces will likely be strongest).

Ideally, you want your haven to be smack dab in the middle of nowhere – far away from large population centers.  However, such places are so remote that most people accustomed to city life would have serious trouble adapting to the new environment due to the lack of such things as running water or electricity: for those who seek to have at least some of those comforts whilst hiding from forces of oppression, I would say that a mobile home (great for making sudden getaways, but provides minimal protection) or a small dwelling (preferably one with an underground level and plenty of nooks and crannies to conceal valuable tools for survival) in a town of less than 5,000 people would provide an adequate level of isolation from the frenzy taking place in the city – of course, one would have to lie lower in this environment than he would need to in the back country (as there are still a significant number of neighbors to observe you there).

Wherever you eventually decide to settle and wait out the storm, the first order of business will involve a survey of the land – know the physical and cultural geography as well as you possibly can, for you never know when you might need to hide a supply cache or make a hasty getaway from your would-be repressors.  Be on the lookout for areas that can easily conceal people or items, yet provide at least some protection from the elements (think caves, cellars, old animal boroughs, etc…) in the event of an emergency: also look out for hidden paths and trails as well as potential choke points that an adversary will be forced to take in an attempt to pursue you and your own (either to slow them down or trap them for a counter-offensive).  But most of all know your neighbors – find out as much as possible about them through any means available to you so that you might ascertain whether they are likely to be your allies or collaborators against you (more on this later…).

Priority #2: Provision

Once you have your habitat scoped out, you need to ensure that you have the means to acquire the essentials for living in a world gone mad: food, water, survival gear, ammunition and miscellaneous parts and supplies to maintain complex equipment.  To this end, it’s good to be self-sufficient in as many ways as possible and get connected to trade partners who can acquire what you can’t.

As far as food is concerned, it might be wise to have some wilderness survival training under your belt – you may want to learn the basics of hunting and foraging for the various game animals and edible plants in your area: it might not provide a feast, but such skills will certainly keep you from starving to death in the event that your regular food sources are cut off.  Unfortunately, I can tell you little more than to be familiar with what’s in your area (as game animals and edible plants vary from region to region – as do effective hunting practices for said animals) – you will have to do your own research on this subject to prepare yourself for wilderness survival.

Water, on the other hand, is a more universal subject – the hardest part is finding a steady source of the life-giving liquid.  Once you have located and secured the site of your water source, you will have to purify that water before it can be safely consumed: there are many ways of doing this (ranging from simple boiling to chemical tabs to filtration), but the best way to ensure that your water is free from the most deadly impurities (especially if said water comes from a polluted source – such as down river from a factory) would be to run it through a distillation process (which involves little mote than two containers connected by a tube – water evaporates from one container and passes through the tube to the other, leaving many impurities behind in the process) and then run the liquid through a filter (often a simple cloth will suffice, but if you can afford them run it through gravity filter bags).  While other methods reduce certain risks you take in consuming drinking water, this method is the most thorough and is guaranteed to clean even filthy water containing industrial run-off.

Which brings us to survival gear, ammo and miscellaneous supplies – in the event that police state rises or society breaks down such things will be difficult to acquire.  Personally, I suggest building a large stockpile of essentials right now (compass, combat knife [civilian knives are too fragile for prolonged exposure to the elements], sleeping gear, fire-starters, over 500 rounds of ammunition per firearm you possess, essential parts for said firearms, etc…) and keeping them readily accessible in the event that you need to leave for your previously scouted area (see priority #1 above) in a hurry.  If for any reason you should fail to stock up on these supplies before the impending storm, be sure to know people in your area that do have them and might be willing to trade with you: expect to barter for your goods because a social meltdown may render all currency produced by the old order useless.

Priority #3: Weapons

Even if you’re not the violent type (note: I’m not a violent person either – I prefer a nice, reasonable discussion to brute force), you will eventually be faced with a situation in which you *will* have to fight for your life against an oppressive power like a police state.  You will *need* arms to defend yourself from these powers or else live at their mercy: this is the most essential portion of this guide regarding personal safety in a war zone, so I will go into as much detail as I can here.

First-off, you don’t want a police state to know that you own such weapons – so don’t register them upon acquisition.  In many states, you can do this “legally” via person-to-person private sales (A.K.A. the “gun show loophole”) in which you can purchase a weapon without any paperwork whatsoever.  There are also other ways to acquire unregistered weapons, but those are not exactly “legal” so I hesitate to mention them here on this site: all I will tell you is that if you know the right people, you can find those willing to engage in such sales – whether you do this or not is entirely up to you (don’t worry, I’ll look the other way…).

There are three basic categories of firearms out there: shotguns, rifles and handguns – of course, there are a of other classifications of “in-between” weapons and hybrid arms (pistol carbines, submachine guns, shotgun/rifle combinations, etc…), but the majority of firearms most people deal with fall into one of the three categories mentioned above.  Thus you need to be acquainted with the basic capabilities and limitations of these three weapon types…

Shotguns: the most versatile weapon of those mentioned, capable of doing most any task at close-to-medium range (point blank to about 100 yards) – from hunting small game (using various forms of birdshot – ranging in size from 12 shot to T-shot) to big game hunting and personal defense (using buckshot, ranging from 4BK to 000BK, or slugs).  Although there are many variants of the shotgun out there, I would recommend a 12-guage pump-action weapon (such as a Mossberg 500 or Remington 870) or a very reliable and high-capacity semi-auto shotgun (such as a Saiga-12 – a mil-spec semi-auto shotgun based on the AK platform).

If you opt for the pump-action, be sure to carry plenty of ammo on a belt – as such guns only allow 5-8 rounds to be loaded at once, you will need to reload often in a firefight.  If you opt for the mil-spec semi-auto, know that the reinforcement of the firing pin makes it capable of handling high-power ammo (such as buckshot and slugs) for long periods of time without much risk of failure, but also that it can’t auto-reload when using birdshot.  This may very well be the most important firearm that you own so choose yours carefully: your life just might depend on it.

Rifles: I would not recommend beating around the bush with this weapon – get yourself a reliable mil-spec assault rifle (such as an AK47 or M-4 carbine – you may need to modify it for select-fire to achieve mil-spec status) ASAP if you intend to go for extended periods in the wilderness: other weapons will suffice as purely hunting rifles, but will be of little value if you find yourself confronted by soldiers of the enemy at medium-to-long range (200-300 yards) – you want to have at least comparable firepower to theirs in the event of a conflict.

You can hypothetically hunt with your mil-spec rifle, but it’s purpose is primarily combat – if you must hunt with a firearm, use your shotgun  with appropriate ammunition load instead of using up your supply of assault rife ammo.  If you’re the kind that desires to take a more offensive role, you may wish to invest in a longer-range rifle (like a .308 or 30-06 sniper rifle for ranges beyond 300 yards) but the assault rifle should do for those just looking to get through the chaos of life after social order fails.

Handguns: your “last line of defense” before resorting to melee combat, this weapon should be reliable, have descent stopping power and have ammunition that’s fairly common.  Because of these constraints, I would recommend nothing shy of a 9mm for a semi-auto pistol (although I prefer .40 and .45 cal semi-auto handguns) or a .38 for revolvers (although I prefer .357 magnums or .45 LC revolvers).    All ammo types mentioned are fairly common yet pack a punch that even armored opponents would find to be significant at close range (under 10 yards) – but keep in mind that this is your weapon of last resort (unless you want to go into melee combat with your opponent, that is…), so don’t attempt any difficult, long-range shots with them in a survival situation.

Regardless of what weapon set you select, be certain that you have the ability to perform basic maintenance on them – learn how to field strip, clean and oil your weapons as well as replace essential parts in the event that they break down.  Below this article are a few videos of some of the weapons I previously mentioned being field stripped to give you an idea of what you are doing when you try it yourself.

Once you have your terrain scouted, supplies secured and weapons prepared for action there’s only one issue left to tend to…

Priority #4: Local Relations

If you did your job well in handling your first priority (habitat), you should know what your neighbors are like: their ideologies, activities, disposition towards new arrivals and their relations with each other.  Sooner or later, regardless of your supply stocks or fighting abilities, you’re going to have to trade with the locals for essentials or bargain with them for protection.

When first approaching a local, do so with a mixture of caution and goodwill – you want to shift his disposition so that he might view you favorably enough to conduct business (such as trading supplies, arranging use of lands he controls or recruiting him into a local militia force).  Towards this end, it’s best to focus on as many commonalities you might share with him (ideological similarities, a common foe, quid pro quo trade agreements, etc…) in hope that you might convince him to aid your own cause.  If you play your cards right, you will find yourself with a new connection for supplies, territory, intelligence or common defense in your chosen habitat.

However, should negotiations turn sour, be prepared to either run or fight depending upon the situation – not every local you meet can be persuaded to aid you and some might turn hostile due to factors you may not have foreseen going into negotiations originally.  If possible, try to end your parlay quietly and leave the area ASAP to avoid provoking further feelings of ill will: if that can’t be done, use any means necessary to fight your way out of the are up to and including deadly force to ensure your own survival.

By no means is this guide all-inclusive (there’s just far too much information for that), but this should give you a basic outline of what you should do in the event that society as we know it breaks down – scout out your habitat, stockpile supplies, acquire arms and persuade the locals to aid you if possible.  Put this information into practice and your odds of making through the coming storm will improve dramatically.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9i0gQ7SdWak&feature=related

By: Howard M.

In 2011 shouldn’t U.S. Service Personnel have the same U.S. Constitutional Rights that rapists and murderers keep?

2002 U.S. Senate Hearing on the Feres Doctrine.  The 2002 Hearing’s 127 pages of 19 Testimonials and Submissions for the Record did not address the previously documented: 1. Fact that convicted rapists and murderers receive U.S. Constitutional experimentation protection that U.S. Service Personnel DO NOT!!  2. Government Accountability Office (GAO) and U.S. Senate 1994 Reports that recorded “hundreds of thousands” of in-service personnel injured by non-consensual, experiments.  The Senate 1994 Report’s withheld needed for treatment but experiment identifying evidence.  3. Not 2002 recognized was that many experiments were in direct disobedience of the Department of Defense (DOD) Secretary’s 1953 Order.

Starting on page 64 of the 2002 Senate Hearing PDF version, the UNITED STATES DEPARTMENT OF JUSTICE stated that in the 1950 U.S. Supreme Court’s Feres Doctrine decision, “The Court relied upon three principal reasons in coming to its decision: (1) The existence and availability of a separate, uniform, comprehensive, no-fault compensation scheme for injured military personnel;” Answering this issue is the 1994 U.S. Senate Report with its withheld evidence, “III. Findings and conclusions” “K” and “N”. Then the Dept. of Justices reported Supreme Court’s, “(2) The effect upon military order, discipline, and effectiveness if service member were permitted to sue the government or each other; and, (3) The distinctly federal relationship between the government and members of its armed services, and the corresponding unfairness of permitting service-connected claims to be determined by nonuniform law.”, i.e., the application of the U.S. Constitution’s Bill of Rights, Amendment Eight to U.S. Prisoners but NOT to U.S. Service Personnel?   SOURCE: “THE FERES DOCTRINE: AN EXAMINATION OF THIS MILITARY EXCEPTION TO THE FEDERAL TORT CLAIMS ACT OCTOBER 8, 2002.”  www.access.gpo.gov/congress/senate/pdf/107hrg/88833.pdf

BACKGROUND.

The 1994 U.S. Senate Report noted, “The Feres Doctrine should not be applied for military personnel who are harmed by inappropriate human experimentation when informed consent has not been given.”  Then, “During the last 50 years, hundreds of thousands of military personnel” were subjected to “experiments that were designed to harm”, e.g., their reported biological and chemical agents, radiation exposure, hallucinogenic and investigational drugs, experimental vaccines and behavior modification projects.  In 2011 still ignored is this and the also noted past and present, “III. Findings and conclusions”, “K. DOD and DVA have repeatedly failed to provide information and medical followup to those who participate in military research…” and “N. Participation in military research is rarely included in military medical records, making it impossible to support a veteran’s claim for service-connected disabilities from military research.”, i.e., the withheld needed for treatment but experiment identifying injury evidence.  SOURCE: December 8, 1994 REPORT 103-97 “Is Military Research Hazardous to Veterans’ Health? Lessons Spanning Half a Century.” Hearings Before the U.S. Senate Committee on Veterans’ Affairs, 103rd Congress 2nd Session.  Underlying this Senate Report is the GAO September 28, 1994 “Human Experimentation Overview on Co1d War Era Programs”  T-NSIAD-94-266 archive.gao.gov/t2pbat2/152601.pdf

In 1992 the U.S. Senate signed the United Nation, International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights (ICCPR).  with its  “.. Article 7 – Freedom from Torture, or Cruel, Inhuman or Degrading Treatment or Punishment.”  It gives convicted U.S. rapists and murderers protection from  experiments by the U.S. Constitution’s Bill of Rights, Amendment VIII. Under, “Basic Rights of Prisoners.” is, “Written policy and practice prohibit the use of inmates for medical….experiments.” and “Nonconsensual experimentation is illegal”!  Nineteen (19) times cited is the U.S. Constitution plus its Eighth Amendment’s no cruel and unusual punishment.  SOURCE: U.S. State Dept., “U.S. Report under the International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights July 1994, Article 7 – Freedom from Torture, or Cruel, Inhuman or Degrading Treatment or Punishment.”

The U.S. Supreme Court’s 1987 STANLEY is a DOD, 1953 order disobeyed, 1958 injurious LSD  experiment.  This non-consenting guinea pig, Supreme Court noted as drugged under the concealment of chemical warfare testing, is swept under the same FERES injurious cover of an “incident to service.”   Fifty (50) times STANLEY cites the Feres Doctrine.  Not once addressed is the no human experimentation disobeyed 1953 order and the protection of the U.S. Constitution’s Bill of Rights, Amendment Eight.  SOURCE: U.S. SUPREME COURT, JUNE 25, 1987, U.S. V. STANLEY , 107 S. CT.. 3054 (VOLUME 483 U.S., SECTION 669, PAGES 699 TO 710). http://supreme.justia.com/ us/483/669/ case.html

On 26 February 1953 was the DOD Secretary’s  NO non-consensual, human experiments on service personnel.  This Top Secret Memo was UNCLASSIFIED on 22 August 1975:
“…the policy set forth below will govern the use of human volunteers by the Department of Defense in experimental research in the fields of atomic, biological and/or chemical warfare.”
“a. The voluntary consent of the human subject is absolutely essential.”
SOURCE: Pgs. 343-345: “The Nazi Doctors and the Nuremberg Code; Human Rights in Human Experimentation” George J. Annas and Michael A. Grodin (N. Y.: Oxford University Press, 1992).

The U.S. Supreme Court’s 1950 Feres Case determined that past and present military personnel can’t hold the U.S. Government accountable for injurious acts.  In determining responsibility for a death due to a 1947 Army barracks fire, those that serve fall into a DOD special “injuries that arise out of or are in the course of activity incident to service” category.  The Feres Doctrine’s sovereign immunity rational effectively makes the DOD the Judge and Jury over its own injurious experimentation acts.  Lost are the checks and balances of the Judicial and Legislative Branches!  SOURCE: Feres v. United States, 340 U.S. 135, 146 (1950).

For U.S. Service Personnel lost is the U.S. Constitutional protection given to convicted rapists and murderers!

Starting from the U.S. Senate’s 1994, 50 years past, it is now 67 years of U.S. Congressional talk with no Feres Doctrine and its STANLEY service personnel “to harm” experimentation correction.  During this time, hundreds of thousands of the “to harm” service records were destroyed in a 1973 National Personnel Records Center (NPRC) fire.  Then Congress’s 1974 Privacy Act censored experiment verifying witnesses from any surviving and future records!  Overlooked by many in Congress is their Oath of Office to defend the U.S. Constitution, their “Pledge of Allegiance” “with liberty and justice for all” checks and balances function, their U.S. Constitution Eighth Amendment protection of convicted rapists and murderers (but NOT U.S. Service Personnel) with the U.S. Supreme Court’s ignored, carved in stone over its entrance, “EQUAL JUSTICE UNDER LAW”!

As in the GAO and U.S. Senate’s reported past, these “military research” “incident to service”  activities are conducted under the ongoing secrecy cover of our ‘national interests’, e.g., WWII, Cold War, Korea, Vietnam, Gulf War, Iraq and Afghanistan.  Shouldn’t U.S. Service Personnel and Veterans get back those Constitutional Rights that they die for and convicted rapists and murderers keep?  Please hold your members in the U.S. Congress accountable!