Flash Dance in a Wheelchair
A Mac Crary Editorial
July 22, 2017
Tacoma/Chinatown
Foreign English alone is two-tongues. The parochial observes, invents as is necessary to prune; masquerading as Honors, underwriting the rabid. Forked tongues, fat heads, insisting they are genteel. Anyone with a shred of awareness and intellectual honesty knows the New York Times manipulated a catastrophic blackout in which the Beatles used poisonous claims about the end of John Lennon's public life to advance terror attacks that they claim was in empathy for AIDS victims. It is my purpose to contradict them, and we know what they shall say as well, so in belaboring the point I propose a new angle: address of Seattle's anarchist enclave, the type to read Chomsky; the type you might think would take up for a poor deaf poet tortured by the state who paints occasionally, but as my professor of Native American History Richard Grimes said when I asked where all the abolitionists were during the Indian Removal Act, "I guess they had their hands full," or maybe Ringo's bloated tongue caressed their ears with hatred and brimstone. I've heard millenials say the days of trusting politicians is over. I haven't heard them say the same about rock stars. Since it was poison, I will be talking about my murder for a long time.
One of the young intellectual activists from Stanford writing booklets for public distribution at places like Seattle Central College is Peter Gelderloos, a brilliant analyst of Donald Trump and his era. Gelderloos is easily the most tragic intellectual gladiator yet generated by the blackout to vie with me and by far the most capable. He is well read and a generalist who scores notable mention by observation and intellectual perpiscasity at every turn in the road, but his silence is anything but golden and as usual it equals death.
When White Rose was put on trial they were a small circle of lovely students who found the politics around them intolerable. As relevant as their death sentences were the words of the condemning Judge asking their mentor why he refused to defend fascism, who said, "I'm not a political man," answered, "then not a man at all!"
The theme of ultimatum against objection to political extremism is poisonous and deadly in this post-AIDS attack generation. In the sense that AIDS isn't spoken of openly and recognized for an attack, the Beatles have the best of both worlds, what with their acid rock gaslighting show claiming to be defending the victims of something they claim isn't even there, allowing them to succeed in show business by alliance with Reagan in horrifically backstabbing an entire generation. I was proud of being a King Crimson fan, but Adrian Belew didn't like it, not when he could have a nice big, juicy Jewish Valedictorian with her whisper campaign about me. The way they got away with it was by spreading slander about me personally along with the rumor that I have AIDS and when I didn't sneering that I should in order to be allowed to speak. This idea caught on and was a real show stopper. It is now a fact of their underground legend that the Beatles made threat of infection a weapon of their bullying, a penalty for their administration, and a defense for their chemical castration of a victim of serial brutalization. The art came with a long series of thought experiments by mass murderers that is the topic today.
Ringo Starr has made clear, in his vulgar utopian shark tank of the uppercrust where Vladimir Putin lives in synergy, that he will start a war directed by Peter Gabriel's transnational alliance rather than allow broadcast of these facts, but that is no reason not to observe his actions, tactics and methods while circulating proper review of their foreign piracy, leering and media tyranny. The idea of the Beatles being horrid hypocrits is old and manages to be an allowance granted as keepers of the Elvis Presley Wax Museum in the celebrity cement, and the idea of their being tyrants promotes giggles, which drown out the screams of their Caligula branch, and has a rancid effect on the victim establishment, but it is worth knowing about because it is your real history and one you dare not say.
Alternative digest in the matter actually crawled up from a cluster of sources more trusted than me in Seattle from Pittsburgh, where Rusted Root had early lair with Catholic Worker Vince Eirene before King Crimson took them on tour. Eirene strategically cloaked his Hollywood big money connections with Oliver Stone and Martin Sheen plying his masquerade of voluntary poverty for the big gig. It was quite a war operation in the feudal style and the murder of Donnie Chin in Chinatown got several people interested in what I know about the slasher side of Butch Otter and why I am so down on Robert Redford, interestingly, we find the death of another bystander in the complications named Benito. Upon returning here from Pittsburgh I confront a gaggle of professional allies of King Crimson who are running the local scene with the help of pro-Israeli open mic bullies. Pittsburgh's cover story about the end of John Lennon, as well as the furious promotion of me as a drug varmint, came from the Israeli quarter.
There would have been easier defenses to make of the unjust accusation behind how I was poisoned than stating Lennon staged his own death, like that Ono and McCartney's solvency is so dependent on a government corporate pretzel that serving his supposed killers, which they have done publicly and remorselessly, must have seemed convenient and prudent to them in their infinite valuableness. Such a fallback position scares me because wanting to survive despite all is so tempting.
This arrives at a prioritized list, items of interest, to be covered today, but the category of this work are thought experiments conducted for puerile public interest by a mass murderer and his bank cartel that gives such solvency and staying power to the morbid gyrationists that acid rock gaslighters who partnered up with Obama for Reagan in the attack can summon, despicably noteworthy are Roger Waters and Peter Gabriel.
Returning to the commentary of the hanging judge in the case of White Rose we fall afoul again as usual of Yoko Ono who made clear in her speech from Hiroshima that Tojo was the real minority victim of the white patriarchal hegemony in D.C. This translated in Pittsburgh into a bid for control of our Philosophy of Education Department when the Vietnam War brought several disturbed Black veterans into prominence at the campus NAACP, announcing a superior moral high ground because the veteran in charge of the department until then was white and opposed to the war. Further his son was notorious defsukke who the Jews subjected to unending spitballs of defamation as one, a little goyim whom the KKK itself had shown the good sense to pummel and give his due.
Penis Sinfield and Miles Kirshner made what they had done on Mt. Desert Island seem so normal an act of corporate power and chauvanism that Oliver Stone got in early with Putin about the blame game going strong, but I had been deafened and a nerve agent was used, so I decided to find out who directed it and what else was going on. Meanwhile the situation went from scurrilous to directly impeaching me as a weirdo from the Dishonor Club to which various pretenders are directed to surrender, as the President of Ole Miss was quite recently for calling up an escort under the lidless eye of high fashion detectives for the wives division. Another mouse bites the dust.
The fraud made mice of so many men that one barely blinks at the bought boy status allowed petty little dacoiteries like the Rusted Root gang. Jim Dispirito was the sort of overly precious guru wannabe always on the brink of a temper tantrum who lived to divine extra-sensitively the ripples butterfly wings left softly on the frayed nerves of celebrity malcontents. By super-connectivity this bongo toting boddhisatva sensed that the severe hurting of an invisible nerve agent boiling in the ear canal and facial cavity of the deaf white suck translated disfavorably into an unwanted person mailing garbage to celestial homes. The harm principle need not apply for the jugular thrust of astral conveyance would do. Let us finish, they raged, and long before anyone sat down to second guess their lies which they called reasons my life was gone.
Sadly enough I still over-respond to the simplest gesture of a seemingly sincere smile. A stranger has a good shot at making my day with one. I guess there's an upshot to bulbar syndrome.
The acidheads who guide the Royal Family by infinite higherness on the stages as stooges of Prick Floyd, whose mask of chivalry was just peachy when lording and protecting that daughter of the Bohemian Grove, Leslie Sanetta Katz for the play, and with the nightsticks of move-on commands after the curtain call. It was never serious enough to merit a call by the school to tell mother to withhold my allowance, but before Robert Fripp was done the android zone had been scoured by the smoke of burning tenements. How will Judge Uru keep up with the Joneses now? I don't believe the violence is anything but trickery.
I realize it is not easy to read a humiliated human being who has been successfully chemically castrated by the people he thought could be trusted and their shrew alliance in the Federal Gestapo, a statement of contempt for the student arts like poetry and so before I continue discussion of the thought experiments being conducted by a mass murderer on high, I want to thank you for reading over an embarrassing fact caused by grievous vigilanteism on which I won't dwell aware far more personal concerns to your survival have relevance. I don't know if I have any readers at all, other than the aggressor, and honestly do not know what I would do were I sure that I didn't. It's hard enough not having a life without being sure that no one cares, a judgment I was told to my face by a man so proud of his marriage and his race that uttering a spitball on a deaf white who was castrated amounts to compensatory coding. Such satisfy, and a professor of higher learning yet.
The solemn fact of our time is wound compare and I am not presently dead, therefore ritual dismemberment, deranged, degrading, serial sadism isn't worthy to go courting protective instinct from peers.
Sublime sexiness as a charter fact of my potential matrimony prior to brutal molest by a death squad organized by Warhol and the Mellons for Yoko Ono in the early 70's, morphed into being mutilated as a military voodoo doll, Shrieks-R-Us groovy, when the gang disguised as a tie dye crowd went ballistic with their long hidden lugers. For Joni Mitchell, Bush was just plain cool. The occult understanding that Bush called upon is the ancient secret of mysterians in the old money young and eternally charismatic ultra-rich machine that is aware without guilt of the impregnable force of creation existing between lovers of strength, will, stamina and romantic enthrallment, feline and hot-blooded, in their agility as ballroom dancers and midnights of loyal balling. To punish his Naval nemesis for Mirror, Mirror on the Wall Penis Sinfield, after the electrocution sacrifice of a bunk mate on the ship, he announced blistering metallic retaliation for Lennon's disappearing act on a schoolchild battered blindside by Yoko Ono's leading heroes, armed and grimy huns, the marvel of admiring black folk, nightriders from the KKK in a new, insidious doctrine of morally united neo-America. He rendered special appreciation for destroying the true wishes of a young man's dreams. Now we know why they call American liberals naive.
The empathy broadcasts of course continued with the monotonous drone of fascist radio.
This gets to the hard part, hard to express and hard to stop because an immoral litany lionized in the name of Lennon made of lurid values and the parochial bullwhip while engaging in the sonic pig roast of thought experiments by a mass murderer bangs on. The words they use like affection are the lip-smacking of a cannibal in a society of deadly, deadly friends, lie after cowardly lie.
The sale of sadism created a curiosity shop, described by Lewis Hyde and plied by the credulous smirk of Bard College's Kevin Hyde, baked up by the Beatles and He's Dead, Jim an artificial tears solution (ATS) from Lydia Street. You get the ly dea. The Beatles, firmly in control of their own black market, in the manner of Bridget Delvato's party friend pronouncing that her death was HER Death, "MY death," she stated in ownership, "MINE." Their film-maker behind deaf Jeannie's rape were the Sotheby's crowd soothsaying the alibi of Pener Gabriel, Ming Na Wen, Obama and Elizabeth Taylor for Mt. Desert Island. Again we see the disturbing and abyssmal lack of judgment in Seattle's weekly tribunes. The suspicion that AIDS was a religious attack was shown completely valid by the Race 'n Roll entanglement Colin Powell called on Paul to cook up as an alibi for Muhammed Ali behind Will Zell's partner at WQED Abira Ali, a Harlem favorite.
The arrest made at Pitt in Oct. 1993 was a Hustler damage control and rearguard action protecting the alibi struggle for publisher's rights that completely stomped out the issue of failure to warn despite all the evidence that the British admitted being unconcerned and unaffected by AIDS. The NAACP sent in the infinite-ness of gibbering by Cornell West as licky chops, while Alice Walker, sniffing she was just a burglar, demanded kiss on the stumps of drunken black derelicts ordained by Bush and his sidekick John Stockwell as spiritualists for rite of passage audience with Gwendolyn Brooks, while Ringo Starr laughed all the way to the backstab with Shawn Brooks of the church brigade behind Chapman, cuddly close to Queen Elizabeth's favorite Franklin Graham. Money isn't hypocrisy after all.
On the day in Oct. 1993 Pitt invited me to the law school and arrested me for trespassing when I sat down to wait, men who had never been tortured, claiming I had never been tortured, faulted me, while giving no mention of cruel neurological injuries, they moaned that I was ha'scairt of them their jails and that and that I just wouldn't do, what will we do about little jimmuh queebait they threw up their hands sighing.
The secret recipe for some spoils was plain: use the fraud to cause horrific suffering, while leering over their craftiness in attacking the aristocracy of talent as guilty of existing under the Too Good Principle of Miles Kirshner. How many paintings is a blowjob worth, they grimaced with pets to their loins. The worst the suffering they inflicted, the more value the product extruded for the assassins. Where did they get such felons? Some louts who cooed in high demand if'n they'd'a nebber gotten the virus Paul wudda never blessed them they so they all just about glad to set on Jimmuh for him he. Suppose the Green River Killer had AIDS. Can you omoja the panty dew of forgive, forgive they'd a come catering with for Celine Dion's German feminist posseur?
Were the Beatles really sympathetic figures themselves? The White Album, the most conspicuous act of British Imperialism since the Opium War came out Nov. 22, 1968, and while the Japanese symbol of tragedy is white, the Continuing Saga of Bungalow Bill and Happiness is a Warm Gun sound a good deal more like gloating right between the eyes, zapruder, they blew his mind out in a car before a little girl in red and white to welcome the Rolling Stones.
The women, said GK, like nothing more than to be taken by the conquerors of their men, and then fell panting and wet wench, remonstrant, that's not why, into the arms of brawny Charles Bronsons like Lennon, not girly boys like Jimmuh quee.