The Suicide Jail or Don't Send Your Kids to College in Richmond VA

The mother of an aquaintance recently committed suicide rather than go to Jail in Richmond. The charges were allegedly inflated/false and I'm inclined to believe it based on what I've witnessed firsthand in RGDC over the past 5-7 years. Why? Of course no one knows but her, but undoubtedly because, in the City of Richmond, a jail sentence has pretty much come to equal a death sentence. Or at least a pretty tough gamble to win, however short your stay.

Richmond, Virginia has had one of the highest crime/murder rates in the country for as long as I can remember, (and I've lived here off and on for my whole life). Tends to hold near New Orleans as a general rule. As the economy steadily worsens, crime inevitably steadily rises. When Richmond Police, however, were spotlighted in a recent "Style Weekly" feature, it was pointed out that false reports of decreasing crime had been issued by the Dept. Police then said that fighting street drug sales was simply no longer a priority.

Not no longer fighting all drug sales, mind you, or possession etc. Translate that not making it a priority to fight the crime that drives most of the rest of it. Ie, doing nothing to help reduce or gruesome national crime ranking, as usual. Never you worry though, riot squads have been assembled and are being routinely sent out. In fact, there's an entire new neighborhood safety task force in Richmond called CAPS.

Oh! You may think; so they're not fighting street crimes but are taking it up a notch. Nope. They're sending the riot squads/task force into art galleries, retail stores, private homes, (because a woman had a private dance studio in hers), bowling alleys. You know, where the really dangerous people gather.

But don't worry, new laws passed increase the fee charged inmates in jail from $1 to $5 and once again increase the charges for drunk-driving. Translate that more money for arresting people which = more people in an already over-crowded and poorly maintained, (a year or so ago the cells didn't all lock, for example) jail. Add the notoriously over-zealous nature of VCU police, (they are, I've seen it in court first-hand over and over) and the fact that college students are probably among the most likely to be caught drunk driving and are primarily living in the City of Richmond. Therefore sent to our jail.

Read on and see if you want to take the chance with your child. I wouldn't.

A recent feature in either Style or the Times Dispatch, (I can't find either right now, unfortunately), described in great detail critical level the problem of medical treatment at the jail had reached. Not only are inmates having a very hard time getting critical medications they've long taken, but if you develop a new health problem while in there, (likely), you're not going to be perscribed anything. A Sherrif's quote on that was something like, "If you're not taking it before you get here you don't need it." And then a change was made. Did it improve the problem? No. It switched all drugs from regular to generic, which are in some cases truly not the same thing/not as effective or, at times, not available at all. Clearly, from the problem of deaths, infections that spread through the jail etc, getting treatment of any kind is nearly impossible.

For example, a Google search of Richmond City Jail conditions 2009 lead to not simply recently published editorials decrying the situation but a disturbing list of pretty much weekly atrocities.

From the Times Dispatch:

July 1 - water has been off (but inmates were each given a cup of ice at dinner - now, understand that breakfast is I think at something like 5 then lunch really early too - dinner becomes 4 or something like that - so basically from 4 till the next am you're screwed. And if you're sick good luck. But good luck anyway with that for far more serious reasons.)

June 12 - inmate dies of asthma attack after beating by deputies

May 8 - suit filed after inmate's death

Other posts cover deplorable conditions along side several talking about all the increased funding. So where is it going? One says a drug program that will cost $140,000 for 120 inmates is being considered. Ok, well the program for non-inmates that the City has has a 7-9% success rate. I have a strong feeling that, for a little over $10,000 per-person, they could send prisoners somewhere with a higher success rate for 6 weeks and really solve the problem. Their track record doesn't instill much confidence in new programs working any better, if at all.

In March, a story ran claiming that all sorts of revisions to the jail were going to go down. They have. But so far, none of them have really addressed problems. Rather, they've created new ones or worsened existing ones. All the while, increasing by 5x how much each innmate is charged for their stay.

A recent story about this I found is so good I'm going to post it here in full. Read this, along with links to the most comprehensive TD features on what I'm talking about here and draw your own conclusions. I, for one, would never send my child to College here. And if I already had, I'd transfer them by next fall:

The Richmond City Jail as a Component of the American Police State

"Whenever the subjects of prisoners’ rights and jail and prison conditions arise, many people are tempted to ask, “Hey, why should I care about prisoners? After all, aren’t they all just a bunch of killers, rapists and thieves?”. Many people regard prisoners’ as undeserving of sympathy and are therefore indifferent to their mistreatment. But who are the people who are categorized under the collective label of “Inmates”? One does not have to be a serious predator who commits heinous crimes against others in order to find oneself incarcerated. In the state of Virginia, jailable offenses include drinking in public, oral sex between married adult hetero- sexuals (”sodomy”), driving on a suspended license, failure to pay traffic tickets and fines, sleep- ing in public and countless other activities. Everyone reading this pamphlet has probably broken one or more such laws at some point in their life.

"When many people consider the issue of crime and punishment, they are inclined to reflect on whatever sort of righteous revenge they would like to inflict on the perpetrator if they were the victim. However, a more nuanced approach would be to ask one’s self questions such as these:

"1) If I were falsely accused of a crime, what rights would I want to bail, access to an attorney and to appeal?

"2) If I were sent to jail or prison for a crime I did not commit, how would I want to be treated during my time of incarceration?

"3) If my kid became addicted to drugs and wrote some bad checks to finance his habit, how would I want the situation to be handled?

"4) If I were driving home late at night and a drunk stepped in front of my car and I found myself charged with involuntary manslaughter, what would I want to happen?

"A wide variety of reasons exist as to why people find themselves behind bars. Many prisoners are incarcerated for engaging in cultural crimes (activities disapproved of by influential segments of society) such as drug use, drinking in public, sodomy, pornography, gambling, prostitution. Others are where they are because of their failure to consume in the marketplace. An example of this would include a homeless person jailed for sleeping in public (failing to be a consumer in the housing market). Many other people are imprisoned for economic crimes such as non-payment of taxes, child support or traffic tickets or vending without a license or for using their property for purposes considered aesthetically unappealing by elite socio-economic interests, such as having junk cars parked on the front lawn.

"People can be jailed in some jurisdictions for having too many people living in their house or for having too many pets or for having grass that is too tall in the front yard. People can be imprisoned for extraordinarily long periods of time simply for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. A Michigan grandmother was sentenced to life imprisonment without parole for picking up a relative at the airport in her car who happened to be carrying a suitcase containing a kilo of cocaine. She was unaware of the relative’s involvement with drugs. No one should ever think that they or their friends and family are immune from falling into the clutches of the state’s treacherous and tyrannical legal system.

"How are prisoners’ treated at the Richmond City Jail? What goes on behind the walls on Seventeenth Street? The jail is always filled way beyond capacity, sometimes containing nearly twice as many inmates as space was originally allocated for. Inmates frequently sleep on the floor, often in unsanitary conditions. An epidemic of skin infections occurred among inmates during the fall of 1999 because of such conditions. Most of the jail lacks air conditioning or even proper ventilation so that inmates sometimes find themselves locked into attic-like conditions during the summer months. Proper medical care is often denied to inmates with serious medical conditions. A fifty-three year old man who was arrested for murder after killing someone in self defense suffered paralysis after being denied access to his necessary kidney dialysis. Heroin addicts and alcoholics are forced to undergo withdrawal without any medical supervision whatsoever. Inmates suspected of having suicidal inclinations are stripped naked and locked into solitary cells without blankets or sheets.

"Carte blanche denial of privileges is often used as a punishment for breaking even the pettiest of jail rules. If a single inmate is “too loud” while going to meals, for example, an entire tier can have television and telephone and even visitation privileges revoked for days. No exceptions are made even in cases of family emergency. Inmates are not allowed to talk to inmates of the opposite gender when they encounter one another. Any infraction by even one inmate can cost an entire tier its privileges.

"Jail food frequently fails to meet even the most elementary nutritional standards. Female inmates are fed particularly poorly. Usually they are given an excess of cheap, starch-heavy foods, leading to chronic problems of excessive weight gain and obesity among female inmates. Inmates often go fifteen hours or more without food. Inmates without someone to send them money from the outside are denied access to the most basic toiletries and hygiene products. Inmates may not receive underwear from the outside and are required to purchase it from the jail commissary. Female brassieres are often confiscated by jail guards upon incarceration and substitutes are not sold in the commissary.

"Money sent to inmates is frequently stolen by jail guards. Inmates may not receive reading materials unless it is sent directly from a publisher. Inmates may not receive mail contain- ing paper clips, staples or polaroid snapshots on the grounds that these items are “dangerous weapons”. Inmated cannot sleep in unmade beds during the daytime. Smoking is not allowed either. It is clear that such petty regulations are an example of the use of bureaucratic overkill as a means of aggravating and harassing inmates and as a form of psychological torture. Inmates are no longer allowed to receive a change of clothes before going to court. Perhaps most egregiously of all, persons arrested on Thursdays or Fridays usually have to wait in jail until Monday or Tuesday until a bond hearing is set even though constitutional law requires that accused persons receive a bond hearing within forty-eight hours.

"Unfortunately, such conditions are not limited to the city jail. Virginia’s state prisons have become increasingly abusive of inmates in recent years. Inmates who cannot work because of illness are stripped of “good time”, thereby lengthening their sentence. Inmates are sometimes required to participate in experimental “behavior modification” programs designed to create conflict, hostility and potential violence among prisoners. Some prisoners are incarcerated in “boot camps”(pseudo-military concentration camps) where they are subjected to all sorts of dehumanization and torture and used as slave labor.

"The United States now has more than two million people behind bars. The U. S. contains five percent of the world’s population and has twenty-five percent of the world’s prisoners. Most of these people are imprisoned for victimless cultural crimes or for minor economic or property offenses. Only about five percent of U.S. prisoners conform to the stereotype of the violent psychopath. The U. S. has created a massive “prison-industrial complex” which generates billions of dollars annually for all sorts of businesses and industries that profit from this mass incarceration. Prison labor is being used to undermine the interests of working people nationwide as more companies are forgoing payment of market-value wages to workers in favor of extraordinarily cheap, and sometimes state-subsidized, prison labor.

"The United States of the 2000’s is following the same route as Germany of the 1930’s. The Nazi regime used all of the same familar tactics including the scapegoating of unpopular social groups, youth curfews and other assaults on young people, school uniforms, slave labor, pseudo-military prisons, terroristic police practices, arbitray legal decrees,attacks on the poor and marginal, creating hysteria over crime and blight and all the other things going on in America today. The American ruling class is creating a massive police and prison state with the total subjugation of those without wealth or status as its aim. Resistance is more essential now than ever.

"The goal must be to shut down the state’s apparatus of repression euphemistically referred to as the “criminal justice system”. What would an alternative system look like? State-controlled police bureaucracies and penitentiary systems are a relatively new invention. They rarely existed prior to the nineteenth century and were originally created, in their modern forms, by the European military dictatorships of Napolean Bonaparte and Otto von Bismarck. In traditional societies, most disputes, including those of a criminal nature, were settled by village assemblies or by councils of village elders. Protection against crime was the responsibility of individuals, families, communities and voluntary associations.

"Such a model would serve contemporary Richmond quite well. Each of the city’s culturally distinct neighborhoods should take responsibility for their own collective self-defense. This might include the formation or expansion of neighborhood watch programs, a volunteer citizen militia or the hiring of private protection services accountable to the community at large. Criminal or civil disputes should be resolved through a process of mediation, negotiation and arbitration presided over by community assemblies or neighborhood councils with both the victim and accused, their families and their respective neighborhoods and peer groups being represented. Such issues as community protection, the collection of taxes to finance community activities, the care and support of children from broken homes and community rejuvenation and beautification programs should all be the perogative of the community itself without any interference by government whatsoever. Persons who do minor harms to others should be required to compensate victims in some way with community-imposed social and economic sanctions as an enforcement mechanism. Persons who commit heinous acts against others should be banished from the community to some secure, segregated geographical area where they are still allowed to live characteristically human lives and care for themselves.

"Such a system is no more utopian than the abolition of witch hunts, heresy trials, slavery or racial segregation. The American criminal justice system needs to go the same way as the divine right of kings, absolute monarchy, the established church, primogeniture and the star chamber. In Richmond, we might begin by sending Jerry Oliver, Michele Mitchell, David Hicks and cohorts to the unemployment line."

From http://attackthesystem.com/the-richmond-city-jail-as-a-component-of-the-american-police-state/

The UN backs de-criminalization in World Drug Report

Check it out:

Legalize It

Can the Cops Search You Just 'Cause?

A look at that, and some other unsettling issues before the Supreme Court:

Arizona v. Grant

Question(s) presented
Does the Fourth Amendment require law enforcement officers to demonstrate a threat to their safety or a need to preserve evidence related to the crime of arrest in order to justify a warrantless vehicular search incident to arrest conducted after the vehicle’s recent occupants have been arrested and secured?

Herring v. U.S.

Question(s) presented
Whether the Fourth Amendment requires evidence found during a search incident to an arrest to be suppressed when the arresting officer conducted the arrest and search in sole reliance upon facially credible but erroneous information negligently provided by another law enforcement agent.

Pearson v. Callahan

Question(s) presented include:
1. Several lower courts have recognized a “consent once removed” exception to the Fourth Amendment warrant requirement. Does this exception authorize police officers to enter a home without a warrant immediately after an undercover informant buys drugs inside (as the Sixth and Seventh Circuits have held), or does the warrantless entry in such circumstances violate the Fourth Amendment (as the Tenth Circuit held below)?

2. Did the Tenth Circuit properly deny qualified immunity when the only decisions directly on point had all upheld similar warrantless entries?

Arizona v. Johnson

Question(s) presented
In the context of a vehicular stop for a minor traffic infraction, may an officer conduct a pat-down search of a passenger when the officer has an articulable basis to believe the passenger might be armed and presently dangerous, but has no reasonable grounds to believe that the passenger is committing, or has committed, a criminal offense?

Ashcroft, Formery Att'y Gen. v. Iqbal

Question presented
1. Whether a conclusory allegation that a cabinet-level officer or other high-ranking official knew of, condoned, or agreed to subject a plaintiff to allegedly unconstitutional acts purportedly committed by subordinate officials is sufficient to state individual-capacity claims against those officials under Bivens.

2. Whether a cabinet-level officer or other high-ranking official may be held personally liable for the allegedly unconstitutional acts of subordinate officials on the ground that, as high-level supervisors, they had constructive notice of the discrimination allegedly carried out by such subordinate officials.

Harbison v. Bell

Question(s) presented
Every jurisdiction that authorizes the death penalty provides for clemency, which is of vital importance in assuring that the death penalty is carried out justly. But, in this case the District Court held Mr. Harbison's federally-funded lawyers could not present, on his behalf, a clemency request to Tennessee's governor. The denial of clemency counsel contravenes basic principles of justice. As Chief Justice Rehnquist noted in Herrera v. Collins.

Clemency is deeply rooted in our Anglo-American tradition of law, and is the historic remedy for preventing miscarriages of justice where judicial process has been exhausted. Indeed, the clemency power exists because "the administration of justice by the courts is not necessarily always wise or certainly considerate of circumstances which may properly mitigate guilt." Thus, executive clemency is the "fail safe' in our criminal justice system." A system which includes capital punishment but does not provide a meaningful opportunity for executive clemency is "totally alien to our notions of criminal justice."

Yet, the lower courts arbitrarily denied Mr. Harbison's federally-funded habeas counsel permission to represent him in state clemency proceedings after the State had denied him counsel for that purpose. The District Court and the Court of Appeals for the Sixth Circuit not only defied Congress' explicit directions to provide clemency counsel for the condemned, but denied Mr. Harbison a meaningful opportunity to present compelling facts mitigating his guilt and the punishment of death to the only person presently able to consider them, the Governor of the State of Tennessee.

Equally troubling, the Sixth Circuit barred Harbison from appealing the denial of clemency counsel by refusing to grant a certificate of appealability on the issue. In order to harmonize the law of the circuits and to decide an important issue regarding the appeals court's jurisdiction, this Court should resolve the following questions:

1. Does 18 U.S.C. §3599(a)(2) and (e) (recodifying verbatim former 21 U.S.C.§848(q) (4)(B)and (q) (8)), permit federally-funded habeas counsel to represent a condemned inmate in state clemency proceedings when the state has denied state-funded counsel for that purpose?

2. Is a certificate of appealability required to appeal an order denying a request for federally-funded counsel under 18 U.S.C. §3599(a)(2) and (e)?

Knowles v. Mirzayance

Question presented
Concluding that defense counsel was ineffective in advising petitioner to withdraw his not-guilty-by-reason-of-insanity plea, the Ninth Circuit Court of Appeals granted habeas relief to petitioner without analyzing the state-court adjudication deferentially under "clearly established" law as required by 28 U.S.C. § 2254(d) and by supplanting the district court's factual findings and credibility determinations with its own, opposite factual findings. This Court vacated the Ninth Circuit decision and remanded the case for further consideration in light of Carey v. Musladin, 127 S. Ct. 649 (2006). On remand, the Ninth Circuit conceded that "no Supreme Court case has specifically addressed a counsel's failure to advance the defendant's only affirmative defense" but nonetheless concluded that its original decision was "unaffected" by Musladin and subsequent § 2254(d) decisions of this Court.

The questions presented are:

1. Did the Ninth Circuit again exceed its authority under § 2254(d) by granting habeas relief without considering whether the state-court adjudication of the claim was "unreasonable" under "clearly established Federal law" based on its previous conclusion that trial counsel was required to proceed with an affirmative insanity defense because it was the only defense available and despite the absence of a Supreme Court decision addressing the point?

2. May a federal appellate court substitute its own factual findings and credibility determinations for those of a district court without determining whether the district court's findings were "clearly erroneous?"

Montejo v. Louisiana

Question(s) presented
When an indigent defendant's right to counsel has attached and counsel has been appointed, must the defendant take additional affirmative steps to "accept" the appointment in order to secure the protections of the Sixth Amendment and preclude police-initiated interrogation without counsel present?

Issue(s)
Is the appointment of legal counsel alone sufficient to preclude police-initiated interrogation without counsel present under the Sixth Amendment?

Abuelhawa v. U.S.

Issue
Whether, if someone uses a cellular phone to buy drugs for personal use, which is a misdemeanor offense, that person can also be charged with a separate felony offense because using the cellular phone facilitated the sale of the drugs in violation of 21 U.S.C. § 843(b).

Once Upon a Time in the President's Law Firm or: Why (Sadly) the Focus of This Blog is No Longer Going to be Politics

Yea, yea, I know - it's been intermittant these days. Didn't start out that way though.

I'd been writing for GratefulWeb for a little over a year I think when the editor asked me to host their blog. For various reasons, he wanted the blog to focus on politics. Barack was running for president and, though I was already focusing on music/teaching, I minored in Political Science and started what became a 10 year legal career in Barack's firm in Chicago. We actually started there at about the same time. I didn't hang out with him/we weren't close friends, but I did learn a great deal about law from him and from the other attorney's in the firm. The managing partner, who managed his personal affairs to an extent during the campaign, did become a life-long friend and influence. I had the rare opportunity of talking to him at length after both the Democratic Convention Speech and the Election.

Anyway, me hosting a political blog seemed an obvious choice.

I could, and probably should, tell some really fascinating stories about what watching the attorney's there was like -- we, (it takes a firm like it takes a village) really did fight some serious evil in the world - and usually won. Suits against Dole and Nabisco for unfair labor practices (and good god it's gruesome to know what they do) and the re-districting of the voting zones in Chicago were every-day things. And I do believe that the firm still is one of the few places doing that sort of thing and meaning it. I knew them - it wasn't just about money - some people, believe it or not even lawyers, really do give a shit. Thank God.

I hate to say I didn't want Barack to win - but I didn't. And the reason was and remains that, it seemed to me, he was getting into a mess too big for anyone to fix/was destined to take the fall for said mess when it didn't get fixed, that sort of thing. I'd rather have seen Hillary go down - she helped make it, after all. And I can't stand her.

But he did win so that's that. And what I thought (and worse) appears to be happening.

I've taken the no comment approach up till now and still will from here forward. I'm not going to answer questions about what he's like or whatever else people might ask. That wouldn't be cool and people need to form their own opinions and can do it without my input. I will say that he was a genuine and obviously brilliant person who, when I knew him, truly did care about teh things you hear him talk about at his best and truly worked to give people a voice who otherwise would not have had one. The attorney's at the firm had/have great power compared to the average Joe and they truly did use it for good. Not enough people do that and I admire those still doing it now.

Unfortunately, I don't recognize the man in the White House. Guantanamo is still open, Habeus Corpus is not restored, nor is the rest of the Constitution for that matter, wiretapping is still ok...

This is not what we should expect of a Constitutional attorney.

What that set of contradictions says about the State of the Nation I don't want to discuss.

It would be innappropriate for me to speak my mind about all of this, it really would. I can no more do that to someone I once worked with than I can write about what I don't believe in.

So I'm not going to - no more political blog.

I'm sorry to be posting this right on the heels of such nice compliments from readers. You'll like what comes next, promise.

More Pete Seeger Being Badass - the Peekskill Riots

In 1949, police basically conspired with vigillantes and started a riot at a beatnick music festival in upstate NY: Pete Seeger and Woody Guthrie held their own.

Testimony of Pete Seeger before the House Un-American Activities Committee, August 18, 1955

. . . Mr. TAVENNER: The Committee has information obtained in part from the Daily Worker indicating that, over a period of time, especially since December of 1945, you took part in numerous entertainment features. I have before me a photostatic copy of the June 20, 1947, issue of the Daily Worker. In a column entitled “What’s On” appears this advertisement: “Tonight—Bronx, hear Peter Seeger and his guitar, at Allerton Section housewarming.” May I ask you whether or not the Allerton Section was a section of the Communist Party?

Mr. SEEGER: Sir, I refuse to answer that question whether it was a quote from the New York Times or the Vegetarian Journal.

Mr. TAVENNER: I don’t believe there is any more authoritative document in regard to the Communist Party than its official organ, the Daily Worker.

Mr. SCHERER: He hasn’t answered the question, and he merely said he wouldn’t answer whether the article appeared in the New York Times or some other magazine. I ask you to direct the witness to answer the question.

Chairman WALTER: I direct you to answer.

Mr. SEEGER: Sir, the whole line of questioning—

Chairman WALTER: You have only been asked one question, so far.

Mr. SEEGER: I am not going to answer any questions as to my association, my philosophical or religious beliefs or my political beliefs, or how I voted in any election, or any of these private affairs. I think these are very improper questions for any American to be asked, especially under such compulsion as this. I would be very glad to tell you my life if you want to hear of it.

Mr. TAVENNER: Has the witness declined to answer this specific question?

Chairman WALTER: He said that he is not going to answer any questions, any names or things.

Mr. SCHERER: He was directed to answer the question.

Mr. TAVENNER: I have before me a photostatic copy of the April 30, 1948, issue of the Daily Worker which carries under the same title of “What’s On,” an advertisement of a “May Day Rally: For Peace, Security and Democracy.” The advertisement states: “Are you in a fighting mood? Then attend the May Day rally.” Expert speakers are stated to be slated for the program, and then follows a statement, “Entertainment by Pete Seeger.” At the bottom appears this: “Auspices Essex County Communist Party,” and at the top, “Tonight, Newark, N.J.” Did you lend your talent to the Essex County Communist Party on the occasion indicated by this article from the Daily Worker?

Mr. SEEGER: Mr. Walter, I believe I have already answered this question, and the same answer.

Chairman WALTER: The same answer. In other words, you mean that you decline to answer because of the reasons stated before?

Mr. SEEGER: I gave my answer, sir.

Chairman WALTER: What is your answer?

Mr. SEEGER: You see, sir, I feel—

Chairman WALTER: What is your answer?

Mr. SEEGER: I will tell you what my answer is.

I feel that in my whole life I have never done anything of any conspiratorial nature and I resent very much and very deeply the implication of being called before this Committee that in some way because my opinions may be different from yours, or yours, Mr. Willis, or yours, Mr. Scherer, that I am any less of an American than anybody else. I love my country very deeply, sir.

Chairman WALTER: Why don’t you make a little contribution toward preserving its institutions?

Mr. SEEGER: I feel that my whole life is a contribution. That is why I would like to tell you about it.

Chairman WALTER: I don’t want to hear about it.

Mr. SCHERER: I think that there must be a direction to answer.

Chairman WALTER: I direct you to answer that question.

Mr. SEEGER: I have already given you my answer, sir.

Mr. SCHERER: Let me understand. You are not relying on the Fifth Amendment, are you?

Mr. SEEGER: No, sir, although I do not want to in any way discredit or depreciate or depredate the witnesses that have used the Fifth Amendment, and I simply feel it is improper for this committee to ask such questions.

Mr. SCHERER: And then in answering the rest of the questions, or in refusing to answer the rest of the questions, I understand that you are not relying on the Fifth Amendment as a basis for your refusal to answer?

Mr. SEEGER: No, I am not, sir. . . .

Mr. TAVENNER: You said that you would tell us about the songs. Did you participate in a program at Wingdale Lodge in the State of New York, which is a summer camp for adults and children, on the weekend of July Fourth of this year?

(Witness consulted with counsel.)

Mr. SEEGER: Again, I say I will be glad to tell what songs I have ever sung, because singing is my business.

Mr. TAVENNER: I am going to ask you.

Mr. SEEGER: But I decline to say who has ever listened to them, who has written them, or other people who have sung them.

Mr. TAVENNER: Did you sing this song, to which we have referred, “Now Is the Time,” at Wingdale Lodge on the weekend of July Fourth?

Mr. SEEGER: I don’t know any song by that name, and I know a song with a similar name. It is called “Wasn’t That a Time.” Is that the song?

Chairman WALTER: Did you sing that song?

Mr. SEEGER: I can sing it. I don’t know how well I can do it without my banjo.

Chairman WALTER: I said, Did you sing it on that occasion?

Mr. SEEGER: I have sung that song. I am not going to go into where I have sung it. I have sung it many places.

Chairman WALTER: Did you sing it on this particular occasion? That is what you are being asked.

Mr. SEEGER: Again my answer is the same.

Chairman WALTER: You said that you would tell us about it.

Mr. SEEGER: I will tell you about the songs, but I am not going to tell you or try to explain—

Chairman WALTER: I direct you to answer the question. Did you sing this particular song on the Fourth of July at Wingdale Lodge in New York?

Mr. SEEGER: I have already given you my answer to that question, and all questions such as that. I feel that is improper: to ask about my associations and opinions. I have said that I would be voluntarily glad to tell you any song, or what I have done in my life.

Chairman WALTER: I think it is my duty to inform you that we don’t accept this answer and the others, and I give you an opportunity now to answer these questions, particularly the last one.

Mr. SEEGER: Sir, my answer is always the same.

Chairman WALTER: All right, go ahead, Mr. Tavenner.

Mr. TAVENNER: Were you chosen by Mr. Elliott Sullivan to take part in the program on the weekend of July Fourth at Wingdale Lodge?

Mr. SEEGER: The answer is the same, sir.

Mr. WILLIS: Was that the occasion of the satire on the Constitution and the Bill of Rights?

Mr. TAVENNER: The same occasion, yes, sir. I have before me a photostatic copy of a page from the June 1, 1949, issue of the Daily Worker, and in a column entitled “Town Talk” there is found this statement:

The first performance of a new song, “If I Had a Hammer,” on the theme of the Foley Square trial of the Communist leaders, will be given at a testimonial dinner for the 12 on Friday night at St. Nicholas Arena. . . .Among those on hand for the singing will be . . . Pete Seeger, and Lee Hays—

and others whose names are mentioned. Did you take part in that performance?

Mr. SEEGER: I shall be glad to answer about the song, sir, and I am not interested in carrying on the line of questioning about where I have sung any songs.

Mr. TAVENNER: I ask a direction.

Chairman WALTER: You may not be interested, but we are, however. I direct you to answer. You can answer that question.

Mr. SEEGER: I feel these questions are improper, sir, and I feel they are immoral to ask any American this kind of question.

Mr. TAVENNER: Have you finished your answer?

Mr. SEEGER: Yes, sir. . . .

Mr. TAVENNER: Did you hear Mr. George Hall’s testimony yesterday in which he stated that, as an actor, the special contribution that he was expected to make to the Communist Party was to use his talents by entertaining at Communist Party functions? Did you hear that testimony?

Mr. SEEGER: I didn’t hear it, no.

Mr. TAVENNER: It is a fact that he so testified. I want to know whether or not you were engaged in a similar type of service to the Communist Party in entertaining at these features.

(Witness consulted with counsel.)

Mr. SEEGER: I have sung for Americans of every political persuasion, and I am proud that I never refuse to sing to an audience, no matter what religion or color of their skin, or situation in life. I have sung in hobo jungles, and I have sung for the Rockefellers, and I am proud that I have never refused to sing for anybody. That is the only answer I can give along that line.

Chairman WALTER: Mr. Tavenner, are you getting around to that letter? There was a letter introduced yesterday that I think was of greater importance than any bit of evidence adduced at these hearings, concerning the attempt made to influence people in this professional performers' guild and union to assist a purely Communist cause which had no relation whatsoever to the arts and the theater. Is that what you are leading up to?

Mr. TAVENNER: Yes, it is. That was the letter of Peter Lawrence, which I questioned him about yesterday. That related to the trial of the Smith Act defendants here at Foley Square. I am trying to inquire now whether this witness was party to the same type of propaganda effort by the Communist Party.

Mr. SCHERER: There has been no answer to your last question.

Mr. TAVENNER: That is right; may I have a direction?

Mr. SEEGER: Would you repeat the question? I don’t even know what the last question was, and I thought I have answered all of them up to now.

Mr. TAVENNER: What you stated was not in response to the question.

Chairman WALTER: Proceed with the questioning, Mr. Tavenner.

Mr. TAVENNER: I believe, Mr. Chairman, with your permission, I will have the question read to him. I think it should be put in exactly the same form.

(Whereupon the reporter read the pending question as above recorded.)

Mr. SEEGER: “These features”: what do you mean? Except for the answer I have already given you, I have no answer. The answer I gave you you have, don’t you? That is, that I am proud that I have sung for Americans of every political persuasion, and I have never refused to sing for anybody because I disagreed with their political opinion, and I am proud of the fact that my songs seem to cut across and find perhaps a unifying thing, basic humanity, and that is why I would love to be able to tell you about these songs, because I feel that you would agree with me more, sir. I know many beautiful songs from your home county, Carbon, and Monroe, and I hitchhiked through there and stayed in the homes of miners.

Mr. TAVENNER: My question was whether or not you sang at these functions of the Communist Party. You have answered it inferentially, and if I understand your answer, you are saying you did.

Mr. SEEGER: Except for that answer, I decline to answer further. . . .

Mr. SCHERER: Do you understand it is the feeling of the Committee that you are in contempt as a result of the position you take?

Mr. SEEGER: I can’t say.

Mr. SCHERER: I am telling you that that is the position of the Committee. . . .


Mr. SEEGER: I decline to discuss, under compulsion, where I have sung, and who has sung my songs, and who else has sung with me, and the people I have known. I love my country very dearly, and I greatly resent this implication that some of the places that I have sung and some of the people that I have known, and some of my opinions, whether they are religious or philosophical, or I might be a vegetarian, make me any less of an American. I will tell you about my songs, but I am not interested in telling you who wrote them, and I will tell you about my songs, and I am not interested in who listened to them. . . .

Source: Congress, House, Committee on Un-American Activities, Investigation of Communist Activities, New York Area (Entertainment): Hearings, 84th Congress, August 18, 1955

Happy Birthday Pete Seeger!

He turned 90 and stars gathered last night in NYC to celebrate.

Thermite Scientifically Confirmed in 911

Check this out on YouTube Video

and let me know what you think - here are some comments started on my FaceBook page - moved it here

"Well if it is on YouTube, like Wikipedia, it has to be true! So I am suppose to discount the fact that Alkida has taken responsibility for that horrible act? Come on, I know you are smarter then this"

Liz:

"I don't quite know what to think about the whole thing -- one of the reasons I posted this was I'm very curious to see what my friends on here (a very diverse group politically, socially etc) feel at this point - there has been so much in the

I agree wholeheartedly YouTube doesn' = true - at the same time, several years ago when I was spending a ... Read Morelot of time in NJ & via friends in NY at the time/over the following years, I was really surprised to discover an overwhelming majority there feels there was something amiss with the whole thing - and I'm talking about pretty much everyone I ran into on some level - all socio-economic levels/age groups/political affiliations were close to represented.

And terrorist groups like taking credit for things - it's the nature of beast. Often you'll hear this one or that one on the news claiming responsibility for events in other countries taht turn out not to be the case/they perhaps wish they had."

New Coments from FaceBook:

Suzan Royce Moore at 10:07am May 3
http://www.ultruth.com/Kevin_Ryan.htm

From Rebecca Caton Bradford:

girl that link about 911 is sooo true-my hubby and i read a lot of stuff regarding the whole 911 subject and it is amazing to me that the average american still thinks 911 was all about terrorists and planes flying into buildings-people need to wake the f*** up.......:) on another note-hope you are doing well:)

Hunter S. Thompsons' "The Kentucky Derby is Decadent and Depraved" in honor of Derby Day!

The Kentucky Derby Is Decadent and Depraved

I got off the plane around midnight and no one spoke as I crossed the dark runway to the terminal. The air was thick and hot, like wandering into a steam bath. Inside, people hugged each other and shook hands. . . big grins and a whoop here and there: "By God! You old bastard! Good to see you, boy! Damn good. . . and I mean it!"


In the air-conditioned lounge I met a man from Houston who said his name was something or other -- "but just call me Jimbo" -- and he was here to get it on. "I'm ready for anything, by God! Anything at all. Yeah, what are you drinkin?" I ordered a Margarita with ice, but he wouldn't hear of it: "Naw, naw. . . what the hell kind of drink is that for Kentucky Derby time? What's wrong with you, boy?" He grinned and winked at the bartender. "Goddamn, we gotta educate this boy. Get him some good whiskey. . ."

I shrugged. "Okay, a double Old Fitz on ice." Jimbo nodded his approval.

"Look." He tapped me on the arm to make sure I was listening. "I know this Derby crowd, I come here every year, and let me tell you one thing I've learned -- this is no town to be giving people the impression you're some kind of faggot. Not in public, anyway. Shit, they'll roll you in a minute, knock you in the head and take every goddam cent you have."

I thanked him and fitted a Marlboro into my cigarette holder. "Say," he said, "you look like you might be in the horse business . .. am I right?"

"No," I said. "I'm a photographer."

"Oh yeah?" He eyed my ragged leather bag with new interest. "Is that what you got there -- cameras? Who you work for?"

"Playboy," I said.

He laughed. "Well, goddam! What are you gonna take pictures of -- nekkid horses? Haw! I guess you'll be workin' pretty hard when they run the Kentucky Oaks. That's a race just for fillies." He was laughing wildly. "Hell yes! And they'll all be nekkid too!"

I shook my head and said nothing; just stared at him for a moment, trying to look grim. "There's going to be trouble," I said. "My assignment is to take pictures of the riot."

"What riot?"

I hesitated, twirling the ice in my drink. "At the track. On Derby Day. The Black Panthers." I stared at him again. "Don't you read the newspapers?"

The grin on his face had collapsed. "What the hell are you talkin about?"

"Well. . . maybe I shouldn't be telling you. . ." I shrugged. "But hell, everybody else seems to know. The cops and the National Guard have been getting ready for six weeks. They have 20,000 troops on alert at Fort Knox. They've warned us -- all the press and photographers -- to wear helmets and special vests like flak jackets. We were told to expect shooting. . ."

"No!" he shouted; his hands flew up and hovered momentarily between us, as if to ward off the words he was hearing. Then he whacked his fist on the bar. "Those sons of bitches! God Almighty! The Kentucky Derby!" He kept shaking his head. "No! Jesus! That's almost too bad to believe!" Now he seemed to be sagging on the stool, and when he looked up his eyes were misty. "Why? Why here? Don't they respect anything?"

I shrugged again. "It's not just the Panthers. The FBI says busloads of white crazies are coming in from all over the country-- to mix with the crowd and attack all at once, from every direction. They'll be dressed like everybody else. You know -- coats and ties and all that. But when the trouble starts. . . well, that's why the cops are so worried."

He sat for a moment, looking hurt and confused and not quite able to digest all this terrible news. Then he cried out: "Oh. . . Jesus! What in the name of God is happening in this country? Where can you get away from it?"

"Not here," I said, picking up my bag. "Thanks for the drink. . . and good luck."

He grabbed my arm, urging me to have another, but I said I was overdue at the Press Club and hustled off to get my act together for the awful spectacle. At the airport newsstand I picked up a Courier-Journal and scanned the front page headlines: "Nixon Sends GI's into Cambodia to Hit Reds". . . "B-52's Raid, then 2,000 GI's Advance 20 Miles". . . "4,000 U.S. Troops Deployed Near Yale as Tension Grows Over Panther Protest." At the bottom of the page was a photo of Diane Crump, soon to become the first woman jockey ever to ride in the Kentucky Derby. The photographer had snapped her "stopping in the barn area to fondle her mount, Fathom." The rest of the paper was spotted with ugly war news and stories of "student unrest." There was no mention of any trouble brewing at a university in Ohio called Kent State.

I went to the Hertz desk to pick up my car, but the moonfaced young swinger in charge said they didn't have any. "You can't rent one anywhere," he assured me. "Our Derby reservations have been booked for six weeks." I explained that my agent had confirmed a white Chrysler convertible for me that very afternoon but he shook his head. "Maybe we'll have a cancellation. Where are you staying?"

I shrugged. "Where's the Texas crowd staying? I want to be with my people."

He sighed. "My friend, you're in trouble. This town is flat full. Always is, for the Derby."

I leaned closer to him, half-whispering: "Look, I'm from Playboy. How would you like a job?"

He backed off quickly. "What? Come on, now. What kind of a job?"

"Never mind," I said. "You just blew it." I swept my bag off the counter and went to find a cab. The bag is a valuable prop in this kind of work; mine has a lot of baggage tags on it -- SF, LA, NY, Lima, Rome, Bangkok, that sort of thing -- and the most prominent tag of all is a very official, plastic-coated thing that says "Photog. Playboy Mag." I bought it from a pimp in Vail, Colorado, and he told me how to use it. "Never mention Playboy until you're sure they've seen this thing first," he said. "Then, when you see them notice it, that's the time to strike. They'll go belly up every time. This thing is magic, I tell you. Pure magic."

Well. . . maybe so. I'd used it on the poor geek in the bar, and now, humming along in a Yellow Cab toward town, I felt a little guilty about jangling the poor bugger's brains with that evil fantasy. But what the hell? Anybody who wanders around the world saying, "Hell yes, I'm from Texas," deserves whatever happens to him. And he had, after all, come here once again to make a nineteenth-century ass of himself in the midst of some jaded, atavistic freakout with nothing to recommend it except a very saleable "tradition." Early in our chat, Jimbo had told me that he hasn't missed a Derby since 1954. "The little lady won't come anymore," he said. "She just grits her teeth and turns me loose for this one. And when I say 'loose' I do mean loose! I toss ten-dollar bills around like they were goin' outa style! Horses, whiskey, women. . . shit, there's women in this town that'll do anything for money."

Why not? Money is a good thing to have in these twisted times. Even Richard Nixon is hungry for it. Only a few days before the Derby he said, "If I had any money I'd invest it in the stock market." And the market, meanwhile, continued its grim slide.

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xxoozero12-30-2006, 05:42 PM
The next day was heavy. With only thirty hours until post time I had no press credentials and -- according to the sports editor of the Louisville

Courier-Journal -- no hope at all of getting any. Worse, I needed two sets; one for myself and another for Ralph Steadman, the English illustrator who was coming from London to do some Derby drawings. All I knew about him was that this was his first visit to the United States. And the more I pondered that fact, the more it gave me the fear. How would he bear up under the heinous culture shock of being lifted out of London and plunged into a drunken mob scene at the Kentucky Derby? There was no way of knowing. Hopefully, he would arrive at least a day or so ahead, and give himself time to get acclimated. Maybe a few hours of peaceful sightseeing in the Bluegrass country around Lexington. My plan was to pick him up at the airport in the huge Pontiac Ballbuster I'd rented from a used-car salesman named Colonel Quick, then whisk him off to some peaceful setting that might remind him of England.

Colonel Quick had solved the car problem, and money (four times the normal rate) had bought two rooms in a scumbox on the outskirts of town. The only other kink was the task of convincing the moguls at Churchill Downs that Scanlan's was such a prestigious sporting journal that common sense compelled them to give us two sets of the best press tickets. This was not easily done. My first call to the publicity office resulted in total failure. The press handler was shocked at the idea that anyone would be stupid enough to apply for press credentials two days before the Derby. "Hell, you can't be serious," he said. "The deadline was two months ago. The press box is full; there's no more room. . . and what the hell is Scanlan's Monthly anyway?"

I uttered a painful groan. "Didn't the London office call you? They're flying an artist over to do the paintings. Steadman. He's Irish, I think. Very famous over there. Yes. I just got in from the Coast. The San Francisco office told me we were all set."

He seemed interested, and even sympathetic, but there was nothing he could do. I nattered him with more gibberish, and finally he offered a compromise: he could get us two passes to the clubhouse grounds but the clubhouse itself and especially the press box were out of the question.

"That sounds a little weird," I said. "It's unacceptable. We must have access to everything. All of it. The spectacle, the people, the pageantry and certainly the race. You don't think we came all this way to watch the damn thing on television, do you? One way or another we'll get inside. Maybe we'll have to bribe a guard -- or even Mace somebody." (I had picked up a spray can of Mace in a downtown drugstore for $5.98 and suddenly, in the midst of that phone talk, I was struck by the hideous possibilities of using it out at the track. Macing ushers at the narrow gates to the clubhouse inner sanctum, then slipping quickly inside, firing a huge load of Mace into the governor's box, just as the race starts. Or Macing helpless drunks in the clubhouse restroom, for their own good. . .)

By noon on Friday I was still without credentials and still unable to locate Steadman. For all I knew he'd changed his mind and gone back to London. Finally, after giving up on Steadman and trying unsuccessfully to reach my man in the press office, I decided my only hope for credentials was to go out to the track and confront the man in person, with no warning -- demanding only one pass now, instead of two, and talking very fast with a strange lilt in my voice, like a man trying hard to control some inner frenzy. On the way out, I stopped at the motel desk to cash a check. Then, as a useless afterthought, I asked if by any wild chance a Mr. Steadman had checked in.

The lady on the desk was about fifty years old and very peculiar-looking; when I mentioned Steadman's name she nodded, without looking up from whatever she was writing, and said in a low voice. "You bet he did." Then she favored me with a big smile. "Yes, indeed. Mr. Steadman just left for the racetrack. Is he a friend of yours?"

I shook my head. "I'm supposed to be working with him, but I don't even know what he looks like. Now, goddammit, I'll have to find him in that mob at the track."

She chuckled. "You won't have any trouble finding him. You could pick that man out of any crowd."

"Why?" I asked. "What's wrong with him? What does he look like?"

"Well. . ." she said, still grinning, "he's the funniest looking thing I've seen in a long time. He has this. . . ah. . . this growth all over his face. As a matter of fact it's all over his head." She nodded. "You'll know him when you see him; don't worry about that."

Creeping Jesus, I thought. That screws the press credentials. I had a vision of some nerve-rattling geek all covered with matted hair and string-warts showing up in the press office and demanding Scanlan's press packet. Well. . . what the hell? We could always load up on acid and spend the day roaming around the clubhouse grounds with big sketch pads, laughing hysterically at the natives and swilling mint juleps so the cops wouldn't think we're abnormal. Perhaps even make the act pay: set up an easel with a big sign saying, "Let a Foreign Artist Paint Your Portrait, $10 Each. Do It NOW!"

I took the expressway out to the track, driving very fast and jumping the monster car back and forth between lanes, driving with a beer in one hand and my mind so muddled that I almost crushed a Volkswagen full of nuns when I swerved to catch the right exit. There was a slim chance, I thought, that I might be able to catch the ugly Britisher before he checked in.

But Steadman was already in the press box when I got there, a bearded young Englishman wearing a tweed coat and RAF sunglasses. There was nothing particularly odd about him. No facial veins or clumps of bristly warts. I told him about the motel woman's description and he seemed puzzled. "Don't let it bother you," I said. "Just keep in mind for the next few days that we're in Louisville, Kentucky. Not London. Not even New York. This is a weird place. You're lucky that mental defective at the motel didn't jerk a pistol out of the cash register and blow a big hole in you." I laughed, but he looked worried.

"Just pretend you're visiting a huge outdoor loony bin," I said. "If the inmates get out of control we'll soak them down with Mace." I showed him the can of "Chemical Billy," resisting the urge to fire it across the room at a rat-faced man typing diligently in the Associated Press section. We were standing at the bar, sipping the management's Scotch and congratulating each other on our sudden, unexplained luck in picking up two sets of fine press credentials. The lady at the desk had been very friendly to him, he said. "I just told her my name and she gave me the whole works."

By midafternoon we had everything under control. We had seats looking down on the finish line, color TV and a free bar in the press room, and a selection of passes that would take us anywhere from the clubhouse roof to the jockey room. The only thing we lacked was unlimited access to the clubhouse inner sanctum in sections "F&G". . . and I felt we needed that, to see the whiskey gentry in action. The governor, a swinish neo-Nazi hack named Louie Nunn, would be in "G," along with Barry Goldwater and Colonel Sanders. I felt we'd be legal in a box in "G" where we could rest and sip juleps, soak up a bit of atmosphere and the Derby's special vibrations.

The bars and dining rooms are also in "F&G," and the clubhouse bars on Derby Day are a very special kind of scene. Along with the politicians, society belles and local captains of commerce, every half-mad dingbat who ever had any pretensions to anything at all within five hundred miles of Louisville will show up there to get strutting drunk and slap a lot of backs and generally make himself obvious. The Paddock bar is probably the best place in the track to sit and watch faces. Nobody minds being stared at; that's what they're in there for. Some people spend most of their time in the Paddock; they can hunker down at one of the many wooden tables, lean back in a comfortable chair and watch the ever-changing odds flash up and down on the big tote board outside the window. Black waiters in white serving jackets move through the crowd with trays of drinks, while the experts ponder their racing forms and the hunch bettors pick lucky numbers or scan the lineup for right-sounding names. There is a constant flow of traffic to and from the pari-mutuel windows outside in the wooden corridors. Then, as post time nears, the crowd thins out as people go back to their boxes.

Clearly, we were going to have to figure out some way to spend more time in the clubhouse tomorrow. But the "walkaround" press passes to F&G were only good for thirty minutes at a time, presumably to allow the newspaper types to rush in and out for photos or quick interviews, but to prevent drifters like Steadman and me from spending all day in the clubhouse, harassing the gentry and rifling the odd handbag or two while cruising around the boxes. Or Macing the governor. The time limit was no problem on Friday, but on Derby Day the walkaround passes would be in heavy demand. And since it took about ten minutes to get from the press box to the Paddock, and ten more minutes to get back, that didn't leave much time for serious people-watching. And unlike most of the others in the press box, we didn't give a hoot in hell what was happening on the track. We had come there to watch the real beasts perform.

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xxoozero12-30-2006, 05:43 PM
Later Friday afternoon, we went out on the balcony of the press box and I tried to describe the difference between what we were seeing today and what would be happening tomorrow. This was the first time I'd been to a Derby in ten years, but before that, when I lived in Louisville, I used to go every year. Now, looking down from the press box, I pointed to the huge grassy meadow enclosed by the track. "That whole thing," I said, "will be jammed with people; fifty thousand or so, and most of them staggering drunk. It's a fantastic scene -- thousands of people fainting, crying, copulating, trampling each other and fighting with broken whiskey bottles. We'll have to spend some time out there, but it's hard to move around, too many bodies."

"Is it safe out there? Will we ever come back?"

"Sure," I said. "We'll just have to be careful not to step on anybody's stomach and start a fight." I shrugged. "Hell, this clubhouse scene right below us will be almost as bad as the infield. Thousands of raving, stumbling drunks, getting angrier and angrier as they lose more and more money. By midafternoon they'll be guzzling mint juleps with both hands and vomiting on each other between races. The whole place will be jammed with bodies, shoulder to shoulder. It's hard to move around. The aisles will be slick with vomit; people falling down and grabbing at your legs to keep from being stomped. Drunks pissing on themselves in the betting lines. Dropping handfuls of money and fighting to stoop over and pick it up."

He looked so nervous that I laughed. "I'm just kidding," I said. "Don't worry. At the first hint of trouble I'll start pumping this 'Chemical Billy' into the crowd."

He had done a few good sketches, but so far we hadn't seen that special kind of face that I felt we would need for the lead drawing. It was a face I'd seen a thousand times at every Derby I'd ever been to. I saw it, in my head, as the mask of the whiskey gentry-- a pretentious mix of booze, failed dreams and a terminal identity crisis; the inevitable result of too much inbreeding in a closed and ignorant culture. One of the key genetic rules in breeding dogs, horses or any other kind of thoroughbred is that close inbreeding tends to magnify the weak points in a bloodline as well as the strong points. In horse breeding, for instance, there is a definite risk in breeding two fast horses who are both a little crazy. The offspring will likely be very fast and also very crazy. So the trick in breeding thoroughbreds is to retain the good traits and filter out the bad. But the breeding of humans is not so wisely supervised, particularly in a narrow Southern society where the closest kind of inbreeding is not only stylish and acceptable, but far more convenient -- to the parents -- than setting their offspring free to find their own mates, for their own reasons and in their own ways. ("Goddam, did you hear about Smitty's daughter? She went crazy in Boston last week and married a nigger!")

So the face I was trying to find in Churchill Downs that weekend was a symbol, in my own mind, of the whole doomed atavistic culture that makes the Kentucky Derby what it is.

On our way back to the motel after Friday's races I warned Steadman about some of the other problems we'd have to cope with. Neither of us had brought any strange illegal drugs, so we would have to get by on booze. "You should keep in mind," I said, "that almost everybody you talk to from now on will be drunk. People who seem very pleasant at first might suddenly swing at you for no reason at all." He nodded, staring straight ahead. He seemed to be getting a little numb and I tried to cheer him up by inviting him to dinner that night, with my brother.

Back at the motel we talked for a while about America, the South, England -- just relaxing a bit before dinner. There was no way either of us could have known, at that time, that it would be the last normal conversation we would have. From that point on, the weekend became a vicious, drunken nightmare. We both went completely to pieces. The main problem was my prior attachment to Louisville, which naturally led to meeting with old friends, relatives, etc., many of whom were in the process of falling apart, going mad, plotting divorces, cracking up under the strain of terrible debts or recovering from bad accidents. Right in the middle of the whole frenzied Derby action, a member of my own family had to be institutionalized. This added a certain amount of strain to the situation, and since poor Steadman had no choice but to take whatever came his way, he was subjected to shock after shock.

Another problem was his habit of sketching people he met in the various social situations I dragged him into-- then giving them the sketches. The results were always unfortunate. I warned him several times about letting the subjects see his foul renderings, but for some perverse reason he kept doing it. Consequently, he was regarded with fear and loathing by nearly everyone who'd seen or even heard about his work. He couldn't understand it. "It's sort of a joke," he kept saying. "Why, in England it's quite normal. People don't take offense. They understand that I'm just putting them on a bit."

"Fuck England," I said. "This is Middle America. These people regard what you're doing to them as a brutal, bilious insult. Look what happened last night. I thought my brother was going to tear your head off."

Steadman shook his head sadly. "But I liked him. He struck me as a very decent, straightforward sort."

"Look, Ralph," I said. "Let's not kid ourselves. That was a very horrible drawing you gave him. It was the face of a monster. It got on his nerves very badly." I shrugged. "Why in hell do you think we left the restaurant so fast?"

"I thought it was because of the Mace," he said.

"What Mace?"

He grinned. "When you shot it at the headwaiter, don't you remember?"

"Hell, that was nothing," I said. "I missed him. . . and we were leaving, anyway."

"But it got all over us," he said. "The room was full of that damn gas. Your brother was sneezing and his wife was crying. My eyes hurt for two hours. I couldn't see to draw when we got back to the motel."

"That's right," I said. "The stuff got on her leg, didn't it?"

"She was angry," he said.

''Yeah. . . well, okay. . . Let's just figure we fucked up about equally on that one," I said. "But from now on let's try to be careful when we're around people I know. You won't sketch them and I won't Mace them. We'll just try to relax and get drunk."

"Right," he said. "We'll go native."


It was Saturday morning, the day of the Big Race, and we were having breakfast in a plastic hamburger palace called the Fish-Meat Village. Our rooms were just across the road in the Brown Suburban Hotel. They had a dining room, but the food was so bad that we couldn't handle it anymore. The waitresses seemed to be suffering from shin splints; they moved around very slowly, moaning and cursing the "darkies" in the kitchen.

Steadman liked the Fish-Meat place because it had fish and chips. I preferred the "French toast," which was really pancake batter, fried to the proper thickness and then chopped out with a sort of cookie cutter to resemble pieces of toast

Beyond drink and lack of sleep, our only real problem at that point was the question of access to the clubhouse. Finally we decided to go ahead and steal two passes, if necessary, rather than miss that part of the action. This was the last coherent decision we were able to make for the next forty-eight hours. From that point on -- almost from the very moment we started out to the track -- we lost all control of events and spent the rest of the weekend churning around in a sea of drunken horrors. My notes and recollections from Derby Day are somewhat scrambled.

But now, looking at the big red notebook I carried all through the scene, I see more or less what happened. The book itself is somewhat mangled and bent; some of the pages are torn, others are shriveled and stained by what appears to be whiskey, but taken as a whole, with sporadic memory flashes, the notes seem to tell the story. To wit:

Rain all nite until dawn. No sleep. Christ, here we go, a nightmare of mud and madness. . . but no. By noon the sun burns through -- perfect day, not even humid.

Steadman is now worried about fire. Somebody told him about the clubhouse catching on fire two years ago. Could it happen again? Horrible. Trapped in the press box. Holocaust. A hundred thousand people fighting to get out. Drunks screaming in the flames and the mud, crazed horses running wild. Blind in the smoke. Grandstand collapsing into the flames with us on the roof. Poor Ralph is about to crack. Drinking heavily, into the Haig & Haig.

Out to the track in a cab, avoid that terrible parking in people's front yards, $25 each, toothless old men on the street with big signs: PARK HERE, flagging cars in the yard. "That's fine, boy, never mind the tulips." Wild hair on his head, straight up like a clump of reeds.

Sidewalks full of people all moving in the same direction, towards Churchill Downs. Kids hauling coolers and blankets, teenyboppers in tight pink shorts, many blacks. . . black dudes in white felt hats with leopard-skin bands, cops waving traffic along.

The mob was thick for many blocks around the track; very slow going in the crowd, very hot. On the way to the press box elevator, just inside the clubhouse, we came on a row of soldiers all carrying long white riot sticks. About two platoons, with helmets. A man walking next to us said they were waiting for the governor and his party. Steadman eyed them nervously. "Why do they have those clubs?"

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xxoozero12-30-2006, 05:57 PM
"Black Panthers," I said. Then I remembered good old "Jimbo" at the airport and I wondered what he was thinking right now. Probably very nervous; the place was teeming with cops and soldiers. We pressed on through the crowd, through many gates, past the paddock where the jockeys bring the horses out and parade around for a while before each race so the bettors can get a good look. Five million dollars will be bet today. Many winners, more losers. What the hell. The press gate was jammed up with people trying to get in, shouting at the guards, waving strange press badges: Chicago Sporting Times, Pittsburgh Police Athletic League. . . they were all turned away. "Move on, fella, make way for the working press." We shoved through the crowd and into the elevator, then quickly up to the free bar. Why not? Get it on. Very hot today, not feeling well, must be this rotten climate. The press box was cool and airy, plenty of room to walk around and balcony seats for watching the race or looking down at the crowd. We got a betting sheet and went outside.

Pink faces with a stylish Southern sag, old Ivy styles, seersucker coats and buttondown collars. "Mayblossom Senility" (Steadman's phrase). . . burnt out early or maybe just not much to burn in the first place. Not much energy in these faces, not much curiosity. Suffering in silence, nowhere to go after thirty in this life, just hang on and humor the children. Let the young enjoy themselves while they can. Why not?

The grim reaper comes early in this league. . . banshees on the lawn at night, screaming out there beside that little iron nigger in jockey clothes. Maybe he's the one who's screaming. Bad DT's and too many snarls at the bridge club. Going down with the stock market. Oh Jesus, the kid has wrecked the new car, wrapped it around the big stone pillar at the bottom of the driveway. Broken leg? Twisted eye? Send him off to Yale, they can cure anything up there.

Yale? Did you see today's paper? New Haven is under siege. Yale is swarming with Black Panthers. . . I tell you, Colonel, the world has gone mad. Why, they tell me a goddamn woman jockey might ride in the Derby today.

I left Steadman sketching in the Paddock bar and went off to place our bets on the fourth race. When I came back he was staring intently at a group of young men around a table not far away. "Jesus, look at the corruption in that face!" he whispered. "Look at the madness, the fear, the greed!" I looked, then quickly turned my back on the table he was sketching. The face he'd picked out to draw was the face of an old friend of mine, a prep school football star in the good old days with a sleek red Chevy convertible and a very quick hand, it was said, with the snaps of a 32B brassiere. They called him "Cat Man."

But now, a dozen years later, I wouldn't have recognized him anywhere but here, where I should have expected to find him, in the Paddock bar on Derby Day. . . fat slanted eyes and a pimp's smile, blue silk suit and his friends looking like crooked bank tellers on a binge. . .

Steadman wanted to see some Kentucky Colonels, but he wasn't sure what they looked like. I told him to go back to the clubhouse men's rooms and look for men in white linen suits vomiting in the urinals. "They'll usually have large brown whiskey stains on the fronts of their suits," I said. "But watch the shoes, that's the tip-off. Most of them manage to avoid vomiting on their own clothes, but they never miss their shoes."

In a box not far from ours was Colonel Anna Friedman Goldman, Chairman and Keeper of the Great Seal of the Honorable Order of Kentucky Colonels. Not all the 76 million or so Kentucky Colonels could make it to the Derby this year, but many had kept the faith, and several days prior to the Derby they gathered for their annual dinner at the Seelbach Hotel.

The Derby, the actual race, was scheduled for late afternoon, and as the magic hour approached I suggested to Steadman that we should probably spend some time in the infield, that boiling sea of people across the track from the clubhouse. He seemed a little nervous about it, but since none of the awful things I'd warned him about had happened so far -- no race riots, firestorms or savage drunken attacks -- he shrugged and said, "Right, let's do it."

To get there we had to pass through many gates, each one; a step down in status, then through a tunnel under the track. Emerging from the tunnel was such a culture shock that it took us a while to adjust. "God almighty!" Steadman muttered. "This is a. . . Jesus!" He plunged ahead with his tiny camera, stepping over bodies, and I followed, trying to take notes.

Total chaos, no way to see the race, not even the track. . . nobody cares. Big lines at the outdoor betting windows, then stand back to watch winning numbers flash on the big board, like a giant bingo game.

Old blacks arguing about bets; "Hold on there, I'll handle this" (waving pint of whiskey, fistful of dollar bills); girl riding piggyback, T-shirt says, "Stolen from Fort Lauderdale Jail." Thousands of teen-agers, group singing "Let the Sun Shine In," ten soldiers guarding the American flag and a huge fat drunk wearing a blue football jersey (No. 80) reeling around with quart of beer in hand.

No booze sold out here, too dangerous. . . no bathrooms either. Muscle Beach. . . Woodstock. . . many cops with riot sticks, but no sign of a riot. Far across the track the clubhouse looks like a postcard from the Kentucky Derby.

We went back to the clubhouse to watch the big race. When the crowd stood to face the flag and sing "My Old Kentucky Home," Steadman faced the crowd and sketched frantically. Somewhere up in the boxes a voice screeched, "Turn around, you hairy freak!" The race itself was only two minutes long, and even from our super-status seats and using 12-power glasses, there was no way to see what was really happening. Later, watching a TV rerun in the press box, we saw what happened to our horses. Holy Land, Ralph's choice, stumbled and lost his jockey in the final turn. Mine, Silent Screen, had the lead coming into the stretch, but faded to fifth at the finish. The winner was a 16-1 shot named Dust Commander.

Moments after the race was over, the crowd surged wildly for the exits, rushing for cabs and buses. The next day's Courier told of violence in the parking lot; people were punched and trampled, pockets were picked, children lost, bottles hurled. But we missed all this, having retired to the press box for a bit of post-race drinking. By this time we were both half-crazy from too much whiskey, sun fatigue, culture shock, lack of sleep and general dissolution. We hung around the press box long enough to watch a mass interview with the winning owner, a dapper little man named Lehmann who said he had just flown into Louisville that morning from Nepal, where he'd "bagged a record tiger." The sportswriters murmured their admiration and a waiter filled Lehmann's glass with Chivas Regal. He had just won $127,000 with a horse that cost him $6,500 two years ago. His occupation, he said, was "retired contractor." And then he added, with a big grin, "I just retired."

The rest of that day blurs into madness. The rest of that night too. And all the next day and night. Such horrible things occurred that I can't bring myself even to think about them now, much less put them down in print. Steadman was lucky to get out of Louisville without serious injuries, and I was lucky to get out at all. One of my clearest memories of that vicious time is Ralph being attacked by one of my old friends in the billiard room of the Pendennis Club in downtown Louisville on Saturday night. The man had ripped his own shirt open to the waist before deciding that Ralph was after his wife. No blows were struck, but the emotional effects were massive. Then, as a sort of final horror, Steadman put his fiendish pen to work and tried to patch things up by doing a little sketch of the girl he'd been accused of hustling. That finished us in the Pendennis.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

xxoozero12-30-2006, 05:58 PM
Sometime around ten-thirty Monday morning I was awakened by a scratching sound at my door. I leaned out of bed and pulled the curtain back just far enough to see Steadman outside. "What the fuck do you want?" I shouted.

"What about having breakfast?" he said.

I lunged out of bed and tried to open the door, but it caught on the night-chain and banged shut again. I couldn't cope with the chain! The thing wouldn't come out of the track -- so I ripped it out of the wall with a vicious jerk on the door. Ralph didn't blink. "Bad luck," he muttered.

I could barely see him. My eyes were swollen almost shut and the sudden burst of sunlight through the door left me stunned and helpless like a sick mole. Steadman was mumbling about sickness and terrible heat; I fell back on the bed and tried to focus on him as he moved around the room in a very distracted way for a few moments, then suddenly darted over to the beer bucket and seized a Colt .45. "Christ," I said. "You're getting out of control."

He nodded and ripped the cap off, taking a long drink. "You know, this is really awful," he said finally. "I must get out of this place. . ." he shook his head nervously. "The plane leaves at three-thirty, but I don't know if I'll make it."

I barely heard him. My eyes had finally opened enough for me to focus on the mirror across the room and I was stunned at the shock of recognition. For a confused instant I thought that Ralph had brought somebody with him -- a model for that one special face we'd been looking for. There he was, by God -- a puffy, drink-ravaged, disease-ridden caricature. . . like an awful cartoon version of an old snapshot in some once-proud mother's family photo album. It was the face we'd been looking for -- and it was, of course, my own. Horrible, horrible. . .

"Maybe I should sleep a while longer," I said. "Why don't you go on over to the Fish-Meat place and eat some of those rotten fish and chips? Then come back and get me around noon. I feel too near death to hit the streets at this hour."

He shook his head. "No. . . no. . . I think I'll go back upstairs and work on those drawings for a while." He leaned down to fetch two more cans out of the beer bucket. "I tried to work earlier," he said, "but my hands keep trembling. . . It's teddible, teddible."

"You've got to stop this drinking," I said.

He nodded. "I know. This is no good, no good at all. But for some reason it makes me feel better. . ."

"Not for long," I said. "You'll probably collapse into some kind of hysterical DT's tonight-- probably just about the time you get off the plane at Kennedy. They'll zip you up in a straitjacket and drag you down to the Tombs, then beat you on the kidneys with big sticks until you straighten out."

He shrugged and wandered out, pulling the door shut behind him. I went back to bed for another hour or so, and later -- after the daily grapefruit juice run to the Nite Owl Food Mart -- we had our last meal at Fish-Meat Village: a fine lunch of dough and butcher's offal, fried in heavy grease.

By this time Ralph wouldn't even order coffee; he kept asking for more water. "It's the only thing they have that's fit for human consumption," he explained. Then, with an hour or so to kill before he had to catch the plane, we spread his drawings out on the table and pondered them for a while, wondering if he'd caught the proper spirit of the thing. . . but we couldn't make up our minds. His hands were shaking so badly that he had trouble holding the paper, and my vision was so blurred that I could barely see what he'd drawn. "Shit," I said. "We both look worse than anything you've drawn here."

He smiled. "You know -- I've been thinking about that," he said. "We came down here to see this teddible scene: people all pissed out of their minds and vomiting on themselves and all that. . . and now, you know what? It's us. . ."

Huge Pontiac Ballbuster blowing through traffic on the expressway.

A radio news bulletin says the National Guard is massacring students at Kent State and Nixon is still bombing Cambodia. The journalist is driving, ignoring his passenger who is now nearly naked after taking off most of his clothing, which he holds out the window, trying to wind-wash the Mace out of it. His eyes are bright red and his face and chest are soaked with the beer he's been using to rinse the awful chemicals off his flesh. The front of his woolen trousers is soaked with vomit; his body is racked with fits of coughing and wild choking sobs. The journalist rams the big car through traffic and into a spot in front of the terminal, then he reaches over to open the door on the passenger's side and shoves the Englishman out, snarling: "Bug off, you worthless faggot! You twisted pigfucker! [Crazed laughter.] If I weren't sick I'd kick your ass all the way to Bowling Green -- you scumsucking foreign geek. Mace is too good for you. . . We can do without your kind in Kentucky."

Scanlan's Monthly, vol. I, no. 4, June 1970

"My Blue Star", a Film About Music Legend Hasil Adkins, Premieres

Film-maker Ron Smith's documentary, "My Blue Star", made it's debut a few weeks ago at the James River Film Festival in Smith's native Richmond, VA. Smith was a friend of the now deceased legendary founder of Psychobilly and subject of the film, Hasil Adkins. Adkins was known for his eccentric behavior, which included eating raw meat, fixating on chickens and putting people's heads on his wall and inspiring a suggestive dance called "The Hunch".

The trailer for the film was shown at last year's Deep Blues Festival in Minnesota and at the Don't Knock the Rock Festival in Hollywood.

The release of "My Blue Star" preceeded the release of a controversial documentary about Hasil's neighbors, Dancing Outlaw Jesco White and family, at the Tribecca Film Festival last weekend. The films present two sides of an Appalachian coin in a sense, with Smith's showing a straightforward, "Biography"-worthy view of Adkins, West Virginia's most notorious musician, and the other, (from MTV), focusing on the most sensational aspects of West Virginia's most notorious family.

More about Ron Smith, Hasil Adkins and "My Blue Star" on GratefulWeb

How Free is Your YouTube Speech?

Speaking of outlaws, just weeks before he was certain to reach 1 million viewers, "Big D", the controversial host of a show he created called the "Redneck Minute" was thrown off of YouTube. And it wasn't the first time.

What did he do? Well, a guest on his show, which primarily spotlights up and coming music, pointed a gun at the camera. And threatened to come to viewers homes and shoot them. But it was all in good fun.

Seriously, is that really grounds to censor someone and erase all of their shows, (which is what YouTube did)? One viewer wrote to him, stating that he was the person responsible for his getting kicked off and that he would see that he was kicked off of the new channel he's started broadcasting from too.

Big D, in true outlaw style, is just going to start his own damn website.

Keep up with the YouTube showdown @ his myspace site

MTV Producers Bail Dancing Outlaw Jesco White Out of Jail Following Arrest

Long title but the antics of Jesco White are rarely easy to sum up in a few words.

On the heels of a new documentary, "The Wild, Wonderful Whites of West Virginia", which premiered at the Tribecca Film Festival last weekend, Jesco White and his sister, Sue Ann White, were arrested and charged with conspiracy to distribute cocaine. In an interview from Jail, Jesco asserts that he was framed. MTV producers posted his bail today.

The arrests occurred Monday, soon after a trailer for the film circulated on the internet. It roused negative reactions from many West Virginians, including the White family themselves and members of the Boone Co. Sheriff's Dept. The film focuses heavily on drug use and other criminal activity, including several murders, murder attempts and one outright rampage. Jesco says in the interview linked to below they were asked and paid to act so did and did it well.

Jesco is famous for his mountain dancing and cult following that resulted after the release of a documentary about him some years ago, "The Dancing Outlaw. He has performed with an impressive array of musicians, including Dweezil Zappa and Hank Williams III. He was most recently in the news following a controversial performance at the Ryman Auditorium in Nashville with the Black Keys. Another film based on him, "White Lightening", premiered at the recent Sundance Film Festival, starring Carrie Fisher as another of Jesco's sisters, Mamie. He has a new CD out too. Check his MySpace Page for links and updates.

A West Virginia news anchor has dubbed him "The Bad Boy of Boone County".

Jailhouse interview and tap dance

(You have to click the "Raw Interview" link to see the whole thing, the first screen that comes up just shows excerpts.)

A story on the movie that's causing all the stir from the "Charlston Daily Mail" a link to the trailer is at the bottom.
"The Wild Wonderful

Mary Ellen Pleasent, Voodoo Queen of San Francisco

I've been looking at the Old West lately and a sad fact that comes quickly to the forefront when doing that is that the stories of the women of the period are, to the greater part, unrecorded. The few that were, however, are fascinating.

One of the most striking of these is the story of a woman called the Voodoo Queen of San Francisco, Mary Ellen Pleasant. She doesn't neccessarily seem to have been a very good woman, but then I imagine the ones who were strictly good didn't last long. At the very least their lives are largely forgotten.

Born into slavery with a white father either in Virginia near Augusta, Georgia in 1814, Mary Ellen had the horriffic experience of seeing her mother tortured and murdered. (In her first memoir she said that she was born the illegitimate child of a Virginia governor's son (John H. Pleasants) and an enslaved Voudoo priestess descended from a long line of Queens of Santo Domingo.) Orphaned, she said that, at the age of nine, she was bought out of slavery by a sympathetic planter who sent her to work at a convent school in New Orleans. She was then sent to work as a servant in Cinncinnati, with the promise that she would ultimately gain her freedom.

Instead she was placed in informal indenture with a liberal Quaker family in Nantucket, Massachusetts. The relationship with the family became extremely close and she adopted their abolitionist beliefs. With their help, she ultimately started a small business in Boston as a tailor and played pianno in a church there.

In Boston, she met her first husband, James Smith. Smith was a wealthy mulatto/Cuban contractor/merchant and was heavily involved in the undergrouond railroad and Mary Ellen was soon helping him. James' white father had actually left him a plantation in Virginia near Harper's Ferry, and James hired freed slaves to work on it, many of whom, according to Mary, he purchased out of slavery.

James was reportedly very cruel and abusive to Mary and died in 1844. The death was determined to have been caused by poinsoning and, though his wife was strongly suspected of murder, she was never charged.

Smith had left Mary land and $45,000 in bonds, which she exchanged for gold.
After his death Mary Ellen continued working with the underground railroad under increasingly dangerous circumstances. Legend says that, disguising herself as a jockey, she stole onto plantations to rescue or alert slaves of rescues. She soon became a much-hunted and infamous slave rescuer.

By 1850 she married James'friend and foreman, John James Pleasance and her Underground Railroad activity forced her to flee to New Orleans to hide out with relatives he had there. In New Orleans she met and had a formal or informal apprenticeship with Marie Laveau while her husband took off to look for a better life for them in California.

He soon wrote back that the area seemed promising for the Underground Railroad. When Mary Ellen first arrived, (calling herself Yerba Buena briefly), she took jobs running exclusive men’s eating establishments. In this mannere, she met most of the founders of the city and learned a great deal of the financial goings on discussed at the tables. She engaged a young clerk, Thomas Bell, at the Bank of California and they began to make money based on her tips and guidance. Her husband isn't mentioned much after this that I find, and she and Bell built what came to be known as "The House of Mystery" together.

Not having Freedom Papers, she lived as a white woman. Taking what she'd learned from Marie Laveau, she rose to a position in San Francisco similar to Laveaus' in New Orlesans, infiltrating the wealthy and elite. She knew so many of San Francisco’s darkest secrets that even the San Francisco News wrote that, “Folks took care not to snub her. You never knew when she would find out something about you.”

She was said to be the wickedest woman in San Francisco, with an uncanny way of chancing upon gossipers and full knowledge of the skeletons in the closets of every high-ranking family in the city. She figured in every important lawsuit for nearly half a century, with the most astute lawyer never tripping her up.

She came to be feared by many and used her power in part to help African-Americans, who called her "The Black City Hall". She staffed her businesses with ex-slaves after the Civil War and she began an employment agency offering servants for the homes of the wealthy. It was rumored she used them to ferret out secret scandals and used the information for blackmail. Everyone was afraid of her status as Voodoo Queen but also consulted her for everythign from spell casting to fortune telling to medical treatment.

It is hard to disentangle rumor from truth when it comes to the darker sides of Mary's life. Surely it's not all as whitewashed as those who focus on her Civil Rights accomplishments present it. On the other hand, it's also very doubtful that someone as dedicated to human rights as she clearly was would be quite as horriffic as the worst accounts of her describe. The truth, as with most things, is undoubtedly somewhere in between.

"The mind reels as it confronts the known crimes that were committed in the House of Mystery", (the name given to her mansion), one account reads. Infanticide is cited as the worst offense, and undoubtedly it would have been widespread in her brothels. It was probably also the case that she found homes for unwanted infants. It also appears to be the case that she took in children, ultimately keeping them on as prostitutes later in life. This was, of course, also heavily frowned upon.

She appears to have used the House of Mystery for prostitution to some extent and also owned a number of local brothels that were very successful, and of course all sorts of dark deeds were associated with them as well. Reportedly, the activity at the House of Mystery was involved, for a the very few invited, "an obscene voodoo dance, performed by ten comely young and almost nude Negro girls who danced to the savage rhythm of a jungle drum. When exhausted, they fled to the bedrooms, and the guests rushed in after them to satisfy their aroused erotic appetites."

It is also said that at least five men who were part of her household were murdered under its roof or followed when they left and killed elsewhere. One of her collectors who was caught cheating her disappeared under strange circumstances, never to be heard from again. Three African-American servants also were believed to have been murdered, as was her business partner later in life, Thomas Frederick Bell. Three other killings, at Geneva Cottage and in Bell's Bush Street house, were believed to be related. At one point she was offered $50,000 tell what she knew after the death of Mr. Bell, which was followed by a reportedly grim rift with his wife over a property settlement in 1899.

It was widely believed at the time that Mary, who officially was the Bell's housekeeper, was in cahoots with the Bell butler, Blind Bill. Thomas Bell had died from a fall over the banisters of his house or out a window. His son, Fred, was the victim of a mysterious assault in the house soon after. Teresa Bell’s old notary public, swore he knew Mary had killed Thomas by giving him drugged port wine and pushing him over the banister. Bell’s widow, sued Mary Ellen over Thomas’ estate. It was then that the house Mary Ellen had designed for Thomas Bell and herself became known as the “House of Mystery” and peculiar arrangements with Thomas’ marriage were exposed and paraded through the courts

"At least on four occasions, she took girls out of the houses of prostitution, transformed them into young ladies with a veneer of culture, and married them off to rich men. The next step was to blackmail them by threatening to reveal what she knew. If a man refused to marry one of her "proteges" after having had sexual relations with her, she would produce a baby, bought or stolen, with which she could confront the alleged father and bring him to terms. She even resorted to that kind of trickery with Thomas Frederick Bell, her banker and business partner." according Harry Sinclair Drago, author of "Notorious Ladies of the Frontier."

Her San Fransisco mansion/brothel was called “The House of Mystery” because of the wild, secretive parties that were rumored to have been held there. She and her husband left for Canada at one point, to help John Brown with his abolitionist campaign. Pleasant, in disguise, rode ahead of the raiding party at Harper's Ferry to notify slaves in the area that the party was coming. The action failed and Brown was hanged for treason, but Pleasant escaped and returned to California. "I'd rather be a corpse than a coward" was her motto throughout her life.

While the title of “Voodoo Queen” helped her climb to the top of San Francisco’s elite and amass a joint fortune that peaked at $30,000,000, with her secret business partner, Thomas Bell, an official of the Bank of California. A large part of ther fortune was gained by a stock market swindle. Very few shares in the Ophir mine were publicly. A well known heavy investor in the mine approached Mary Ellen with a proposal that he sell off a few shares a day, then circulate a rumor that the main source of ore was dwindling. That way, the price would plummet, and the timid would sell. Mary Ellen and Bell bought the stocks until the price rebounded; then Holladay drove it to record highs.

However, she became involved in a disastrous lawsuit against Senator William Sharon that was the beginning of her downfall. In 1883, however, she financially helped his young wife sue him for divorce. The case was considered scandalous and ruined all involved. She seems to have first tried to help the plaintiff, Sarah Althea Hill, secure his love by burying Senator Sharon’s coat and waistcoat in a cemetery one dark night.

She eventually lost the case and a great deal of money but seems to have carried on fairly well until the 1890's when age, the sudden death of her partner, twists of fate and betrayal, and bad press destroyed her reputation. Her health failed and she became an object of gossip and suspicion. People began spreading horrible rumors about her. According to the San Francisco News, “People said she was a blackmailer, a procuress, a thief, a horsewhipper of children.”

She thereby lost her status and power and her money soon went too. At the end of her life, she was nearly penniless and was often seen wandering outside the house that had once been heres, sitting under six eucalyptus trees she planted when she first came to San Francisco. She was forced, at age 85, to move out of the estate. She reportedly told her granddaughter that someone speeded up her death by poisoning her. Apparently, various people had keys to her apartment at the time and could have entered at will. As with so much else, if not most about her, it's never been proven. It was, however, pointed out that "because of what she knew, and because she posed a threat as long as she lived, Mrs. Pleasant was hounded to the end by conspirators who wanted to destroy her."

Many believe she haunts the same corner today and say she's often seen between the eucalyptus trees. Others have heard her screaming or say they feel a sudden sensation of pouring rain or what feels like someone spitting on them. It's also believed that if you make a wish on that corner, it will come true.

She is held in high regard today, best known for her attempts to address the Court of California, which forbade Negroes the right to testify in trials involving whites. Her stance on civil rights came out in a petition called the Franchise League which brought together strong support from both black and white Californians and helped to win this case back in 1863.

In 1866 she petitioned the court again by suing the Mission and Northbeach Railway Company's policy which segregated the races and later won a judgment of $600.00. She is called the "Mother of Civil Rights" in California.

Read more about some of the lesser known, but no less remarkable, figures of the Old West, including Hoodoo Brown, the meanest, baddest outlaw there ever was at
High Noon

Directions to an Outlaw's Treasure Horde

One more look at outlaw legends of Mexico - a dying bandit gives directions to buried treasure hijacked in Skeleton Canyon. It hasn't been found yet, but sounds like he left a pretty good idea of where to look:
http://outlawchronicles.blogspot.com/

Legendary Outlaws - the Apache Kid

Americana music outlaw Michael O'Neill just got back from Mexico, which got me thinking about outlaws and Mexico of course. I came across a formidable one from way back when, The Apache Kid, check this bad guy out, he was said to be the fiercest Apache next to Geronimo

http://outlawchronicles.blogspot.com/

It's National Poetry Month: Some Great Poets to Check Out

"Kansasmadman's dream, eternity in the groin—Neal Cassady, down, Kerouac down, all down the Great American Drain—and the vision goes on—" Lawrence FerlinghettiCharles Plymell

"Once upon a time, in a land known as the Lower East Side of a sometimes bitter apple, there was a miracle..." John "Survivor" Blake

and...

Marty McConnell

Carlos Andres Gomez

Rachl McKibbens

Sierra Demulder

The Life and Music of Townes Van Zandt

Steve Earle's got a new tribute album coming out in his honor soon - find out more about the remarkable man who's been called the "most over-looked songwriter of the century" at High Noon

Absinthe Drink Recipes from a 1914 Book, "Drinks"

From "Drinks" by Jacques Straub, "Formerly wine steward of the Blackstone, Chicago adn The Pendennis Club, Louisville"

c. 1914 by Jacques Straub

From Part I, "Cocktails"

Absinthe Cocktail

3/4 jigger green absinthe
1 dash orange and Angostua bitters
1 dash anisette
Shake well. Serve.



Aviation Cocktail

3/4 applejack
1/2 jigger lime juice
1 dash absinthe
1 barspoonful of grenadine syrup. Shake.

Ballantine Cocktail

1 dash absinthe
1/3 French vermouth
2/3 jigger dry gin. Shake.


Beauty Cocktail

1/2 jigger dry gin
1/4 jigger French vermouth.
1/4 jigger Italian vermouth.
1 white of an egg
1 dash of absinthe
1 barspoonful syrup. Shake.

Brut Cocktail

1/2 jigger French vermouth
1/2 jigger dry gin
1 dash absinthe. Shake.

Creole Cocktail

1/2 jigger absinthe
2/3 jigger Italian vermouth. Shake well.

Duchess Cocktail

1/3 jigger Italian vermouth
1/3 jigger French vermouth
1/3 jigger absinthe. Shake well.

Fench Canadian Cocktail

1 dash absinthe
1/2 jigger French vermouth
1/2 jigger Canadian whiskey. Stir well.

Fourth Degree Cocktail or Feather Cocktail

1/3 jigger French vermouth
1/3 jigger Italian vermouth
1/3 jigger white absinthe. Shake well.

Lusitania Cocktail

1 dash orange bitters
1 dash absinthe
2/3 jigger French vermouth
1/3 jigger good brandy. Shake.

Mallory Cocktail

1/3 jigger brandy
1/3 jigger apricot brandy
1/3 jigger white creme de menthe
1 dash absinthe. Shake.

Marquray Cocktail

1/2 lime juice
1 dash absinthe
2 dashes grenadine
1 white of an egg
1 jigger dry gin. Shake.

Morning Cocktail

1 dash absinthe
1 dash Angostura bitters
1/2 jigger brandy
1/2 jigger Italian vermouth. Frappe.

Ojen Cocktail or Spanish Absinthe Cocktail

1 jigger Ojen absinthe in a large glass of ice. Kep dropping seltzer in glass and stir with spoon until the outside of the glass is frozen. The nadd a few drops of Angostura bitters and strain into a cocktail glawss.

Ojen Cocktail New Orleans Style

1 jigger Ojen
2 dashes Peychaud bitters
Shake with shaved ice. Serve in white wine glass.

Peacock Cocktail

1 dash Amer Picon
1 dash absinthe
1 jigger brandy. Shake.

Pick Me Up Cocktail

1/3 jigger cognac
1/3 jigger Italian vermouth.
1/3 jigger absinthe. Frappe.

Reis Cocktail

2 dashes Angostura
2 dashes absinthe
1 jigger Old Tom gin. Shake.

Taxi Cocktail

1/2 jigger French vermouth
1/2 jigger dry gin
2 barspoonfuls lime juice
2 barspoonfuls absinthe. Frappe.

Turf Cocktail

2 dashes orange bitters
2 dashes maraschino
1 dash absinthe
1/2 jigger French vermouth
1/2 jigger dry gin

Tuxedo Cocktail

1 dash maraschino
3 dashes Angostura bitters
1 dash absinthe
2/3 jigger dry gin
1/3 jigger French vermouth
1 barspoon of sherry wine. Stir well.

U.C. Cocktail

1/2 jigger French vermouth
1/2 jigger dry gin
1 dash absinthe. Shake.

Vienna Cocktail

1/2 jigger Italian vermouth
1/2 jigger French vermouth
1 dash absinthe. Frappe.

Waldorf Cocktail

1/3 jigger rye whiskey
1/3 jigger Italian vermouth
1/3 jigger absinthe
2 dashes orange bitters. Shake.

White Rat Cocktail

3/4 jigger absinthe
1/4 jigger anisette. Shake well.

Yale Cocktail

1 dash orange bitters
1 dash absinthe
1 jigger Tom gin
1 lemon peel. Shake.

More to come...

About Absinthe

Absinthe buyers guide

Absinthe in the U.S. now:

"The prevailing consensus of interpretation of United States law and regulations among American absinthe connoisseurs is that, with the revision of thujone levels by the Alcohol and Tobacco Tax and Trade Bureau (TTB), it is now legal to purchase such a product for personal use in the U.S.

According to the US Food and Drug Administration (FDA) food and beverages that contain Artemisia species must be thujone free[92]. Thujone free is defined as containing less than 10ppm thujone.[93] There is no corresponding US Drug Enforcement Administration (DEA) regulation.

The U.S. Customs and Border Protection is inconsistent in saying whether Absinthe may or may not be imported. The Know Before You Go booklet flatly states "The importation of Absinthe and any other liquors or liqueurs that contain Artemisia absinthium is prohibited."[94] while the CBP's Prohibited and Restricted Items web page states that the importation of absinthe is not "prohibited" but subject to FDA and Alcohol and Tobacco Tax and Trade Bureau (TTB) approval like other distilled spirits.[95] Absinthe can be and occasionally is seized by United States Customs if it appears to be for human consumption and can be seized inside the US with a warrant.[96][97]

A faux-absinthe liquor called Absente, made with southern wormwood (Artemisia abrotanum) instead of grande wormwood (Artemisia absinthium), is sold legally in the United States. This was the first US approval referring to "absinthe" on the front label; the front label says "Absinthe Refined" but the TTB classified the product as liqueur.

In 2007, TTB relaxed the US absinthe ban, and approved several brands for sale.[98] These brands must pass TTB testing, which is performed by the Gas Chromatography-Mass Spectrometry method[99]. The TTB considers a product to be thujone-free if the FDA’s test measures less than 10ppm (equal to 10mg/kg) thujone.[100] A US distillery also began producing and selling absinthe, the first US company to do so since 1912.[101]

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