Polls: The Media’s Heavy Artillery

All of a sudden there are strange turns of events portrayed as inevitable after years of war and economic collapse.  The Left is obviously “striking while the fire’s hot” under an unusually receptive political climate.  The election of a black president from out of nowhere was an interesting phenomenon. Women have entered combat positions and homosexuals now serve openly.  They also demand recognition in the Boy Scouts.  The Second Amendment and gun ownership are under serious attack.  Support for the legalization of marijuana seems to be popping up everywhere.  Perhaps the most startling ascendant issue, homosexual marriage, seems to be a shoo-in.  Hillary is posed to be the first woman president.  Conservatives are on the run and are doing “autopsies” on themselves.  The timing of all this is certainly noteworthy, but there seems to be an overlooked common denominator in all the commotion – a driving force.

I believe it’s all about illusion produced by the shadowy men behind the curtains of Pavlov’s Dream Machine.  Driving America’s news stories more often are polls, the softening-up heavy artillery of the Media.  Polls justify pre-arranged outcomes by making them seem inevitable.  When it comes to issues politicians want to be on “the right side of history” which means the media poll drives the politicians so don’t bother to call them.  Collective victories like those mentioned accelerate the leftist agenda and demoralize majority Americans who have no clue as to what happened.

Americans who’ve cast reading and critical thought aside for their electronic opium have no idea who their dealer is.  He cultivates polls as well.  His was the same hand that covered up the assassination of John F. Kennedy and appropriated the tabulation of the presidential vote in 1964.  That hand removed a vice president and president in that order.  It has seized national political conventions making them obsolete.  It starts wars and ends wars.  The Media is the power in America and has become the government, the mother hen that hatches out Republican and Democrat federal representatives, senators, and presidents.

What is the country to do?  If the cloak of secrecy was dropped, the artificial credibility of polls would evaporate. One option is to expose their absurdity by identifying the players.  They are who determines them.  One can make up humorous examples: the National Pacifist Association poll condemns gun ownership; the Death Row Inmate poll (+/-1) urges the elimination of Capital Punishment; the Brotherhood of Mexican Cartels’ poll shows support for open borders and so on.  Option two would be to replace them with national referendums tabulated by paper ballots.  I like option three the best: ban polls altogether as an affront to the will of the people reflected in elections.  Pull the FCC licenses of the offenders if they use political polls.  However, I believe the urge to subvert the will of the Silent Majority is too much for powerful men who want to impose their Utopian agenda.  The Media just can’t accept the position that the public airways should be free of its artillery shells.  Sadly it has a lock on perception.

The Mugging on Liberation Street

Sunday saw me trying to get out of Paris for Barcelona.  I walked to the Gare de L'est only to find out that it was the wrong station for purchasing a ticket for Limoges.  So I headed for the Gare D'Austerlitz where I got a second class compartment with a cat, a Pekingese, an old man and his wife who starting knitting a sweater, a priest, and a grandmother, grandson and granddaughter all complete with wine bottles and lots of luggage.  The kids started screaming and running in the corridor.  They pulled on the dog's leash choking it.  The people started talking loudly and drinking and the cat ran away and I never saw it again.

Paris was a beautiful city disappearing on the afternoon horizon.  I also remember the sad condition of the rolling stock on the railroad and the dilapidated buildings along the tracks.  I arrived at the Gare Des Benedictins in Limoges at 5:30 P.M.and immediately started looking for a youth hostel.  The first hotel cost 30F and had a shower.  I settled for a hotel on R. Pétiniaud Dubos at 19F per night. After getting the room the only food I could find was a loaf of French bread and a kilo of cherries at the farmer’s market.  The hotels promise a petit déjeuner, but I never considered them to be a real meal.  The lack of convenient fast food joints was beginning to take its toll.  The French had their own time tables and if you didn’t know them, you went hungry.  I was relegated to markets, stores, and vending machines.  I found one machine not far from the railroad station that appeared to be promising until I saw the packaged maggots on its racks.  Maybe they were a French delicacy, but upon further review I determined that I was looking at a fish bait machine.

I forgot to mention while I was looking for a room I circled the train station and was on Avenue de la Liberation (Liberation Street) when a car pulled up beside me and a man jumped out and started beating up a man next to me.  Others jumped out of the car, pinned the victim down, and started kicking him in the head.  I stayed out of it because it seemed like a domestic affair.  The American flag displayed on my backpack probably wasn’t a good idea.  Getting robbed or mugged was always a possibility while backpacking Europe.  There were few women who traveled alone despite women’s liberation.  Men do have their uses.

Prior to the mugging, Spain was on my mind and Limoges was still my final destination in France.  The straw that broke the camel’s back regarding Spain was another incident at the train station when I was looking for food. Someone motioned me to a restaurant (bar) behind a maze of barriers and turnstiles where I promptly got lost.  Only by jumping them did I extricate myself and in doing so someone blew the whistle on me - for what?  I got mad and within hours I decided to shorten my European trip by cancelling Spain and go for Italy. By this time I wanted just to get out of France with its bad sanitation, rude people, and lack of food.  I was always hungry in France despite its hard bread and cherries. The beating of a man next to me while I was walking down Liberation Street didn’t help either.

The Plaza Iraq War Protests

Ten years ago this month millions of Americans took to the streets to try to stop George W. Bush’s mad rush to invade a country that neither threatened us nor had anything to do with 911.  Just in terms of national treasure wasted and the irreversible erosion of civil liberties the results were catastrophic. (Republicans wonder why they can’t win elections.) The Media, George W. Bush, the Neocons like Richard Perle and Paul Wolfowitz, and even end-times evangelicals beat their war drums and incited their flocks.  Most Americans knew from alternative news sources that the chemical weapon’s truck was bogus.  The aluminum tube papers were frauds.  WMD inspectors found nothing and so on.  Americans by the millions turned to the streets in outrage.

The Country Club Plaza by the horse fountains is Kansas City’s traditional demonstration site.  In March, 2003 I decided to join the opposition to the war.  At one point my estimate was that about 3,000 people attended in one day at the height of the Plaza protests.  It was strange to rub shoulders with so many on the left, but the right was also well represented and I suspect that it was rule nationally.  The Ladies in Black stood at 47^th and Main.   An anarchist with his red flag and pentagram ran around among the demonstrators while undercover agents mingled.  Others, I suspected, had been bussed in by Freepers, a pro Bush Internet bulletin board, to target women protestors (because that’s who they picked on.)  Pudgy clean shaven white men with short hair who looked like security guards were obvious among the crowd. 

I remember the distorted reporting by the Media of the Plaza demonstrations.  Sunday March 23, FOX TV characterizes the event as a “Pro-Troop Rally.”  For instance, out of 3,000 protestors, I counted about 150 counter-demonstrators.  When I went home to watch TV I saw only them huddled together on the street corner.  FOX ran interviews with the VFW to characterize Kansas City as pro war.  Kansas City Public Television ran shows that showed Saddam using chemical weapons against the Kurds – weapons the Iraqi’s did away with after Desert Storm.  Headline: “Chemical Weapons Found Near Baghdad” turned out to be bogus.  Channel 16 had a black preacher with a huge American flag behind him saying opposition to America is demonic.  “Your job is not to picket or protest against your president.”  “A Time for War” appeared on another channel.  Reporter Betsy Webster finally acknowledges Plaza protestors outnumber pro-war demonstrators, but the polls show “overwhelming support” for the invasion.  KCPT shows Neocon Richard Perle on July 11, 2002 saying removing Saddam will be “quick and easier than we think.”  At the first “whiff of gun powder” Saddam will collapse just like a “deck of cards.”  “An Army of One” enlistment commercial runs in dramatic slow motion to entice potential recruits.  Notation from March 31, 2003.  “Except for news at 5:30 and 10:00 PM, no news of protests at all.”  “Media begins to attack protestors calling them fifth columnists and anti-patriotic.”  April 6, 2003 Jerry Falwell says, "Until He’s on the throne, it’s “lock and Load.”

The fraud perpetrated by the Media, George W. Bush, and his host of Neocons was bold, consistent, and vicious and they all got away with it with no jail time.  When I see the media commentators stumbling over themselves saying such a war couldn’t happen again, I see people with selectively short memories who protect their own behinds and offer no evidence to the contrary. Sorry Charlie, I find your vacuous assumptions ridiculous and highly suspect.

The Wehrmacht Visits Pack 68

Cub Scout Pack 68 in Westport usually had its meeting at Mrs. Morse’s residence two blocks west of our house.  Aside from completing the requirements for our individual badges, paper drives were common events that brought in much needed cash.  Working class families were poor in comparison to what they are today.  Prior to 1960 kids usually didn’t have complete uniforms.  I was lucky just to have an official shirt, scarf, and hat.  The Scouts focused our energies and kept us off the streets.

Big events were held at a local church where, unlike at our den mother’s house, all the parents were invited and most attended.  One highlight was a contest for hand crafting something which I suspect also helped complete their merit badge requirements.  I made a model of a fort set on a prairie.  Its platform was the back of an old painting I found in our basement when we moved from Main Street.  Amazingly, I won the blue ribbon because the judges determined that the fathers built the projects.  Dad lived in Muskegon Heights, Michigan.

My small victory paled in comparison with another contest that became a legend in the history of Pack 68. Dressing up as a cowboy or Indian was common stuff so the crowd was more than astonished when a Cub Scout wore his father’s WWII German uniform to the contest. The Westport area in Kansas City at that time had a diverse population. We knew people with German names like Becker and Eck, but we never made the connection with recent events.  People minded their own business in those days.

This father was obviously short and perhaps was a member of the Hitler Youth. The SS had a height requirement of at least 5’ 10”.   Most likely he was just an ordinary Wehrmacht soldier.  His outfit was green and complete with black helmet, hobnail boots, utility belt and attachments including the standard cylindrical mess kit.  I was particularly impressed by all the leather, a feature I never noticed in American gear.  (Army-Navy surplus stores were favorite destinations for boys in those days.)  I’ve always wondered if his father was a POW at Camp Crowder south of Joplin, Missouri.  Many early German POWs were from Rommel’s Africa Corps captured in May, 1943. 

Who knows where all those people are today?  For the most part the adults are dead and the kids dispersed into time.  When the tide went out in Westport with its stable families, mom and pop stores, and other social nutrients, the church that once hosted the Cub Scouts morphed into a homosexual church.  The extraordinary appearance of a German uniform at a meeting of Club Scout Pack 68 is something I’ll always remember, but German helmets, hobnail boots, and lots of black leather live on with the new tenants.

Paris at Street Level

I got word of a token rail strike when I was planning my trip to Paris.  Europe always has labor problems that inconvenience tourists.  It was a very tiresome trip past canals, derelict train stations, and rolling fields that reminded me of Nebraska.  I traveled second class on this first European trip.  I saw Amiens Cathedral on the way to Paris and arrived at the Gare du Nord during rush hour.  I tried to get a room at the youth hostel on J.J. Rousseau St., but it was packed.  As soon as I entered another hotel the smell of urine was really bad. Again, the French have a sanitary problem.  I disappointed the girls of another establishment when they beckoned me upstairs.  “No thanks, I have a headache.”  When I came out of a subway a lady came out of nowhere and directed me to Hotel Montgolfier which turned out to be a decent establishment at 17F a night.  Of course the room was on the top-most level.  The toilet had its reservoir several feet above my head controlled by a pull chain.  Every flush was its own trip to Silver Dollar City.  Finding food was hard.  Liquor was everywhere and at all times.  A sugary roll and coffee for breakfast doesn’t produce robust healthy people.  I never understood it, but I did have a real breakfast of tea, chips (fries), eggs, and ham for 7.90F or $1.60.  The exchange rate in Europe was always in my favor.

   

On Friday, June 9, 1972 I walked to the Louvre past many policemen who had secured the area against demonstrators who were apparently trying to influence the Paris Peace Talks.   I saw many of the radicals throwing rocks just one block away.  Inside the Louvre I saw things that were the stuff of my art history books: the Mona Lisa, Winged Victory, Venus De Milo, and a haunting Greek temple.  I had the whistle blown on me for violating Napoleon's granite end table with my camera case.  Paris has a lot of whistle blowers that seem to take particular pleasure in castigating English speaking tourist by yelling “Anglais!” Later, I climbed the Arc de Triomphe and had my picture taken to record the historic event.  It was cool, windy, noisy, and pollution constantly blew in my eyes.  Parisian dogs do their business all over the streets.  The “April in Paris” mystic that Americans developed from the movies is just that.  I saw the Place de la Concorde where over eighty thousand people saw the king executed - “Son of Saint Louis, ascend to Heaven.”

I pondered going to the top of the Eiffel Tower, but it cost 8F and I was getting tired.  On Saturday I went to Notre Dame and saw the magnificent Rose Window.  There was a wedding going on at the time and everything was beautiful with the candles burning and multicolored reflections against the massive stonework.  I rested on the park bench outside when it started raining and found that I had only 22 cents (not Franks) left and the banks were closed because it was Saturday.  Back at the hotel the room was cold and I was grateful for my felt sleeping bag.

Paris’ night life escaped me.  I didn’t have the money, besides, I suppose you have to dress up and backpackers travel light – no Moulin Rouge or Folies Bergere for me. The city’s architecture is beautiful and faithfully represents the best you’ll see in the tourist brochures.  Only later after many years did I develop a fascination for the French Revolution and its players.  If I were to go back today I’d like to see the location of the Bastille, the infamous Conciergerie where France's unfortunate nobles awaited their terrible fate, and the Hôtel-de-Ville.  Legend has it that a cannon ball rests or rested in its outer wall.  Who can forget Georges-Jacques Danton, Maximilien Robespierre, and Citoyen Marat done in by the beautiful Charlotte Corday?  I still remember her cat, Minette, but there are other discoveries that lie far to the south of Paris.

Who Are These People?

When the Telecommunications Act of 1996 took out Talk Radio and the little people, a vacuum of immense proportions presented itself to the media moguls.  New networks effectively replaced the old ones and Talk Radio even began to be shown on television.  With the introduction of the Internet the whole business of influencing the public became more complicated.  While the Media was being controlled by fewer people, new television and radio shows needed staffing.  The media captains began manning their new vessels with interesting crews who were obviously second string.

I believe the ordinary person who works and doesn’t have cable or satellite television is unaware of the impact of the new communication’s reality on millions of Americans.  I didn’t know about Kathie Lee or Regis, FOX News, MSNBC, or CNN until I replaced my TV rabbit ears with cable.  I first realized the reach of the new networks when I watched cable TV in a car dealership while the state truck was being repaired.  Morning television used to be soap operas, re-runs, and game shows.  This was something new.

Recently I’ve noticed disturbing cracks in the media’s facade of objective reporting.  MSNBC’s political commentator and socialist apologist declared that President Obama is the perfect man.  Bill O’Reilly, a Fox TV host, practically foamed at the mouth while attacking Alan Colmes. A female host scowled at a proponent of the Defense of Marriage Act.  (At least look like you’re neutral).  An old civil rights agitator who’s addicted to playing the race card while hiding behind the cloth is hired and retained by a network.  There was another who wanted everyone to know he was gay by “coming out” on national television.  Added to the motley crews are legions of so-called seasoned political experts who look like eighth graders.  Who are these people anyway?

I propose full disclosure like the information required of politicians and the Nutrition Facts listed on vegetable cans. I’m from Missouri.  Show me. While not discriminating against them, it’s fair to hold them to the same standards that they demand of our elected representatives.  (1) Reveal their age.  Don’t tell me about the past you know nothing about.  (2) Education.  Being a Berkeley alumnus or high school dropout would affect my evaluation of your report.  (3) Sexual orientation.  Is the commentator a member of the Man-Boy Love Association?  (4) Religion, if any.  Is he an atheist commenting on Christianity?  Don’t pretend to be neutral or fair.  (5) Work experience.  Has he or she ever been unemployed or had to work for a living?  (6) Do you use or have ever used narcotics?  Are you soft on pot because you’re a pothead?  (7) Economic disclosure. Does he have an economic motive for advocating particular issues? (8) Residence.  Living on Fire Island or in a cult commune could be indicators of extreme behavior. (9) Criminal record.  Do the networks even have security clearances?  Do they hire felons?

Total disclosure is fair and balanced.  Our employers demand it of us.  Background checks for government service are routine.  Running for political office demands it. The army of television hosts and political commentators shape the destiny of our politicians.  It’s only fair that the public should know more about these network people by having their ingredients listed somewhere.  Their odd and outrageous behavior is making that clear.

Calais and France

I boarded the 90 minute ferry trip for Calais and said farewell to Britain as the sea gulls glided on the breeze and the cliffs disappeared in the ship's wake.  You can see both England and France at the midway point which surprised me.  From Calais on, travel by rail was done without a pass.  In other words, it was going to be a hassle, especially because of the language difficulty.  The French make no bones about it.  In no other country did I see such a dislike and contempt for those who spoke English.  Being multilingual in Europe is a cinch because Europe is a densely packed collection of countries whose people are always bumping into one another.   How many non-Spanish speaking people do we meet in America?  The French seemed to have a “stuck in the past” Napoleon complex. 

What immediately impressed me about Calais were its unsanitary street conditions.  I passed one building and saw waste water being emptied from an open air pipe.  Shaving cream and whiskers oozed slowly out and plopped into the gutter.  Down the block I saw a cab driver coming out of one of those awful corner latrines still adjusting his trousers.  Still further, a little girl said something to her mother and started going in the street.  When I finally found a place to stay for the night, it was a second story room in a courtyard.  There wasn't any bathroom.  You had to go to the courtyard up against the wall.  The "stalls" and urinals were open air with no partitions while strangers walked past.  Toilet paper was made of wax and dispensed in squares.  What was it like before the revolution?

The Calais opera house has undergone considerable restoration.  Images of it on the Internet are really impressive, but in 1972 it looked dilapidated.  The marquis out front had anti-American propaganda pasted on it telling the U.S. to get out of Indo-China.  President Nixon was clobbering the North Vietnamese and the Left in France and elsewhere went ballistic to try to influence the peace process in their favor.  The French love their communist party.

I visited the Calais Museum, saw the statue by Auguste Rodin of the Burghers of Calais, and discovered a Soviet cultural exhibition at the town hall.  I was curious to meet my first Russian so I went in.  There was propaganda everywhere.  They had all the typical books.  You expect that.  They also had a lot of trinkets, like the Soviet Bear and chocolate for sale.  They seemed malnourished and suspicious, but were friendly when I asked for some literature and they let me have piles of it.  Incidentally, the Soviets I saw were basically of the cultural variety advocating closer French and Soviet economic ties, but, in reflection, they looked like Homer Simpson’s boss, Mr. Burns – pale, skinny, and predatory.  My old drill instructor use to deride me for including this incident in my application for the Marine Corps which ended up in my Service Record Book.  He said it was a career ender.  He was wrong because when the intelligence services ask for full disclosure and the truth, they mean it.  I got my Top Secret in 1979.

In one of the ironies of my life and many years later I discovered though genealogy not only my family’s origin in England, but in France before that.  Both sides include French Normans.  Cherry was Anglicized from Cheris.  The Anglo-Saxons kept pronouncing the “s” so our family, somewhere along the line, changed it to preserve the original pronunciation.  Maybe it means the French are not so bad after all.  I’m just criticizing my own relatives.