Inside the Ring: Directive outlines Obama’s policy to use the military against citizens – Washington Times
Note: This is my all time favorite story from one of my books; HOLLYWOOD TAXI True Confessions of a kiss and tell driver.
I get a call for an apartment just off Eighth St. behind the Ambassador hotel (Where Robert Kennedy was shot) I pull up and honk the horn. Some guy signals me from the fire escape so I pull over and park.
Pretty soon a skinny little brother comes down carrying something heavy in a garment bag. He very carefully puts it in the trunk. He wants to go to Pasadena. He’s black, it’s late and it’s a long way. He looked like he could run so I asked for some money up front.
He didn’t have any. Imagine that. He did have a money order he wanted to cash. We stopped at a drug store but they wouldn’t cash it. I tell him, no dough, no go. He did have three un-circulated silver dollars encased in plastic and a little portable tape recorder with a re-chargeable battery. (This was when they first came out) I take one of the dollars and the recorder as security.
When we get to Pasadena he has me go down a dark street. I didn’t like it. Then he has me park behind another car. Across the street was a gang of young black guys. Not a good place for a lone white cab driver to be at night.
He gets out and approaches the group. One of them points to the car in front of me. He goes and gets into it. Suddenly it starts up and pulls away.
I’m wondering where the hell has he gone and how long will he be gone? If he gives me shit over the waiting time I’ll have a problem.
I’m sitting there alone thinking what kind of fool is he. I could just drive away. I look at the group. They’re smoking dope and listening to the radio. I decide to run a little test. I start the engine. There is no reaction from them. I roll the cab a little bit. Nobody notices so I just sorta’ melt away into the night.
Later I get the bag out of the trunk. It was a stereo and a tape deck. Along with the recorder and the dollar a good score. I kept the stuff and paid the fare out of my pocket.
To this day I still chuckle thinking about how his buddies must have laughed when he came back and discovered the cab gone.
I was making a passage up the East coast in my sailboat, a 27 ft Newport sloop named the Sabrina Ann
I would work my way along. I might stay somewhere for a day, a week, a month, it depends. I had stopped outside Savannah, Georgia and splashed my hooked in a sleepy little river side placed called Thunderbolt. Why not. I went by the name of Capt. Flash,
Thunderbolt was a shipyard, a few restaurants and a couple of bars perched on a bank above the river. It was near a civil war battle site called Fort Pulaski.
I was able to work as a qwick sketch artist down on the Savannah River. I had to take a bus to get there. I had to walk in a little from the river to the bus stop. I remember while waiting for the bus looking around and being able to see five churches. Little over kill I thought.
When the bus came I got on and paid my fare then turned and looked where to sit. I was surprised to see that I was the only white person on the bus. The other passengers were all black and all sitting in the back. How ironic I thought. Not much has changed.
There were bench like seats that sat over the wheels that faced inward. I sat on the one across from the driver.
We rode on for a while making stops. Then near downtown an old black guy got on. apparently the driver and him knew each other. Maybe like an old uncle or something of that nature.
There was profuse how ya’ll doing etc. Then the old guy sat on the seat next to me. The bus was stopped at a red light when outta’ the blue the guy said in a loud clear voice, “I don’t care what they say, you a good nigger”.
Well let me tell you, ya’ coulda’ heard a pin. I was mortified. I tried to melt into the seat, blend with it while looking for the nearest escape route. Then to compound it he again said the same thing. This time the driver turned and said something to him, then the light changed and we moved on. A couple of stops later I got off, glad to escape with my life.
I drove cab at night for many, many years. Lately because of the recent interest in marriage equality I was trying to remember some lesbian stories.
Two came to mind. The first was when I was driving cab at night in L.A. One night somewhere near 8th and Alvarado (McArthur Park) I picked up a little butch. Lesbians run a spectrum from lipstick types to dykes on bikes. This was a definite butch. Small, spiked hair..etc.
I thought she was funny cause she was talking a mile a minute. Probably on meth. Any way she wanted to know if I wanted to buy some weed.
I told her yes. We went to some place. She wanted me to give her the first money. That’s a no-no. You never give them the money. They don’ come back. She was talking so fast I was amused and decided to chance it and gave her thirty dollars. She didn’t come back. Pissed me off.
It’s kinda’ dumb to rob a cab driver. He’s always around. I watched for her for a couple of weeks.
Sure as shit I spotted her and a blond woman near Pico and Alvarado. I was on the West side, they were on the East. I parked and crossed the street. when the blond woman saw me coming she started putting her hand inside her coat, like she was reaching for a gun.
I confronted them and demanded my money. Needless to say she didn’t have it but did admit to ripping me off.
It’s been so long I don’t exactly remember what happened next….but I didn’t get paid.
One day I spot her and another woman/girl her size going into a dirt alley. I follow them down it and confront her again. Seems the other one was a gangbanger and because she was on her home turf threatened me.
I drove down to the end of the alley, made a U turn, step on the gas and went for them. They saw me coming and made a mad dash for a little space between some garages.
I remember seeing them out of the corner of my eye as I went by huddling against each or as the dust and dirt covered them. Never got the money but a good laff.
The other event happened in Charleston, S.C. It was a busy Saturday night. Everybody wants a cab at the same time. The call was on James Island.
I pull up. The door is open and lights on. I honk, no response. Wait, honk, wait some more, nothing. Starting to get pissed. It’s busy, I call the dispatcher. She sez; I’m early. So I honk and wait some more. Fifteen minutes has gone by. Fuck this, if they really wanted a cab they’d be watching for it. Just as I pull away a woman comes to the door, so I stop.
The one at the door was an obvious lesbian. Three (Not so obvious) got into the cab. They wanted to go to the lesbian bar. I told them I’d been honking for fifteen minutes. One said they were told the cab would be twenty mins.
I explained to them that was an estimated time. If you called a cab and were told twenty mins. would you then set an egg timer and expect that the cab would pull up when it ringed. Highly un-likely, therefore the cab will be either early or late.
If you don’t watch for it and it shows early you may miss it.
Then one of them said they were in the back room watching Water World. I told her she should have been watching out front where the cab would appear not in the back watching the T.V.
…what did you expect…a little sign popping up saying your cab was out front.
I don’t think they appreciated that. The one in the front seat said I was obnoxious. We were in the middle of no where on a long brigde so I pulled over and demanded payment in advance or they could walk. Never can tell if their gonna’ pull some shit when they have reached their destination.
It has occurred to me that someone may object…accuse me of portraying lesbians in a bad light. Maybe I should write some positive stories. I would but I haven’t got any to write
Good belly laff this morning on Huff & Puff. (aka: Huffington Post) On Saturday (Michelle Obama aka: FLOTUS ) gave a speech at China’s prestigious Peking University in which she promoted the free flow of information and freedom of speech…!!
The article continue saying: China, routinely filters out information deemed offensive by the government and silences dissenters.
Huff & Puff banned me for life for saying something they didn’t like. (No it was not IMPEACH BOJANGLES)
They won’t even respond to my e-mails. Take a look at yourself Arianna.
Not 2B confused with the other “B” word frequently used to refer to a female dog. Saying one “B” word followed by the other “B” word is totally un-acceptable. A real social faux pau.
I was un-informed about what the controversy was. So I asked a female reporter for the local (so called)alternative press.
She said it was about women in a position of authority being viewed as pushy and aggressive by male subordinates. Male supervisors were not called that when they were pushy and aggressive, hence the bias and discrimination.
I read something that it inhibits and intimidates younger women from reaching their full potential.
I have said this B4, the speech police are the thought police in disguise. When someone is allowed to decide what words another person uses they can structure the argument in their favor.
If someone can decide what words I use can I decide what words they use? Who gets 2 decide who gets 2 say what, when and how?
Out in California in Berkley, the heart of the free speech movement in the 60’ and 70’s “illegal alien” is banned in favor of “un-documented worker”. I read somewhere that a woman asked the term illegal immigrant be dropped in favor of un-documented worker. then she asked, “please”. I asked her to “please” go home. Se didn’t listen so…nor do I.
How about “myate nueve”? Or cheap foreign labor and/or SCAB labor? How about mojados or wets? Do we ban those also? How many words do we ban? George Orwell said: freedom of expression is when you can say things people don’t like.
I do a street performance art number called the “last hippy”. A woman called the police and complained about my sign that said….wife wanted, sew, clean. cook, good in bed.
I was run off the boardwalk because of another sign I had. Said: Guilt Free Sex. Guilt was in small letters. Over the years when people want their picture taken with me it has been by far and away my most popular sign.
Thousands of people walk by and nobody complains. One person decides they don’t like it so I can’t show it. Who is this person to decide for everyone else? Better yet, they didn’t have to look at it. They can choose to look the other way.
Suppose that we allowed everyone to choose the words that they want to express an opinion instead of everybody trying to decide what other people can say. If you fail to tolerate (respect) my right to pick and choose my own words then you abdicate your right to respect.
Remember, the speech police are the thought police in disguise.
Once there was a lake in the land of lakes in Minnesota. It was an especially pretty lake with sandy beaches, grass and shade trees.
Everybody loved the lake and came from miles around…2 enjoy the lake. Cook, eat, drink. Watch the kids splash in the water. Some people walked out onto the dock. Others went out on boats for pleasure or to fish.
One day an artist came along. He was an artist and wanted to know the truth. He wanted to know and experience the lake in it’s fullest.
He swam out to the middle and dived to the bottom which was about twenty feet down.
He bit the bottom of the lake..and immediately began violently retching. He just barely made it back to the surface alive. Some people pulled him into a boat and he was rushed to the hospital.
He was in intensive care for three days and another week before he went home to re-cuperate for a month.
He returned to the lake, swam to the center, dived to the bottom…but…!!! DID NOT BITE the bottom. Instead he swam to the surface.
He had bit the bottom. He now knew the lake better than most. He had learned his lesson and didn’t need to be told twice.
This is ugly. I don’t know where or how to begin,,,but here goes. I have a terrible affliction. I’m addicted to picking cotton. (I’m white)
It started years ago when I was living in the deep South. I was on a sail boat that was at anchor. I’d sleep up forward in the V-berth. There was a hatch just above me. The boat would orientate itself into the wind so when I opened the hatch I’d get a cool breeze that made sleeping easy…except.
….except…in the dog days of summer, the last six weeks of summer. It would be down right stinking hot. You’d sweat like a pig constantly. Usually I could sleep pretty good but not then. I’d lay there all night long sweating. Maybe I’d catch a couple of hours sleep before the sun came up. When it did it got real hot.
I’d lay there at night thinking about the poor slaves and what a hell it must have been picking cotton in the heat. The more I thought about it the worse it got till I started having this over whelming urge to purge my white guilt by picking cotton.
Then the heat broke and the urge disappeared. The next year in the dog days I started getting the urge again. It got so bad one night I rowed ashore and drove around looking for a cotton field. I drove around all night but could not locate a field. It was really starting to bother me so much I couldn’t do with out it. I just had to pick some cotton. It was like I needed a fix.
Then it got really hot and I couldn’t sleep. I jumped in my car and headed to a place someone told me had a cotton field.
I found it. Row upon row of beautiful cotton balls shining in the moon light. I started picking as fast as I could. I was sweating like a pig but was really getting into it. I didn’t have a sack so I stuffed the cotton into my pockets, then my shirt and pants. When there was no room left I just threw them on the ground. It was exhilarating.
When the sky began to lighten I laid down exhausted. It was like I had intense sex. I dosed off. I suspect that I experienced a spontaneous, nocturnal emission.
A guard woke me up and was really pissed about all the cotton on the ground. I left the field and went looking for my car. I wasn’t sure where I had left it. I wandered down the road next to the field.
I thought I heard something. It turned out to be some dark folks, a little way back into the woods. They were softly humming, “swing low sweet chariot” when along came a black sheriff who had been called by the guard. I was arrested and put in jail.
I was sentenced to six months and was put on a work gang with a lot of blacks. road work mostly. No cotton.
I was o.k. till next summer. I was alright till it got stinken’ hot then the urge would start again. I couldn’t take it and went looking for a field. This time I was smarter and took along a sack but didn’t keep the cotton I would dump it in the field and leave it. It wasn’t about the cotton. It was about the act of picking.
I liked it. I really got off on it. I was careful to hide my car and make sure no one was around. I’d do a couple of fields in a week.
Then one night I heard something. At first I wasn’t sure what it was. It seem to go away when I tried to listen. Eventually I realized what it was. It sounded like a lot of people softly humming…
Swing low sweet chariot…..!!!
I cried when I heard it. Summer was almost over and the temperatures started to drop. I only got the urge when it was real hot.
Next year I was at it again. I had been picking for a couple of hours when I thought I heard something but wasn’t sure what it was. An animal maybe. A possum perhaps. Then I heard it again.
It seemed to be coming from the next row so I took a peek. There in the moon light was a morbidly obese black woman, completely naked except for a bandanna on her head.
She was picking my cotton. Then she saw me and waddled over and introduced herself. Her name was Mabel. She asked if I wanted to pick cotton together so I said sure.
By morning we had picked a mountain of cotton. We laid down in it to take a break before I had to leave. She asked me if I had ever been with a “woman of color” before. I had to confess I had not. She wanted to know if I would like to try it on the mountain of cotton we picked. I declined.
Suddenly her attitude changed and she became verbally abusive. I decided to leave, but before I could get up she grabbed me and started groping me. She was very big and I was un-able to get up out of that mountain of cotton.
She held me down and smothered me. I got an erection. She got all excited and took me in a brutal manner. Semen and cotton are not a good combination. Sticky, sticky, sticky.
I had nightmares for a long time. In them she kept asking if I had ever been with a woman of color before. It took six months of intensive therapy to work thru it.