A Scam Indeed

My name is Garry Winogrand Junior. I have been a freelancer Commercial Director for over 25 Years,Post Production Artist - VFX, Compositing, Motion Graphics,Color Correction,producing/directing/editing music videos, product reviews,live performances and electronic press kits for many local and international clients,in New York, I'm happy with my profession because my efforts put smile on faces and with my experiences i have ability to bring out the best in almost everybody i work with directly or indirectly.

I really feel I need some assistance at this time that's why I need someone who can work with me hand in hand throughout the production period. We are presently working on a short film which I'm directing the Production aspect, although work hasn't commenced and we should start working on the film in the next 30 days.

Hello,

How has being your day so far hope good, apologies for the delay on update concerning the trial period. This is to notify you that you have being selected among the 10 applicant that will under go the trial task next week and full detail information and instructions will be sent to you as soon as possible,kindly check your email regularly.

I will appreciate if you get back to me so i will know that my email was received and well understood.

Best Regards, Garry Winogrand Jr.

The name was familiar, because Gary Winogrand was a well-known street NYC photographer from the 1960s.

For some reason this person asked for money.

Strangers asking for money usually signify a scam.

I ignored him, but Gary proved resilient.

How are you? i sent you an email yesterday in regards to the progress of the check, could you advice the progress of the check? Await your swift responds.

Best Regards

Am starting to get tired and disappointed on your performance in regards to the task given to you, have being sending you emails to advice on the progress of the task given to you and you fail to respond, what is really going on?

Garry Winogrand

Cops In The Good Old Days

In 2013 Nightclub raconteur Steve Lewis wrote on Blackbook.com that the NYPD harassment of the nightclub GREENHOUSE appeared to be blatant racism.

http://www.blackbookmag.com/racism-core-greenhouse-harassment/

That certainly seems to be the case.

The police hate nightclubs, because they don't get payoffs like the 'good olde days' unless they put pressure on the joint and then the 'bagman' comes to make an arrangement.

Back at the Jefferson Theater of East 14th street the local mob visited the after-hour club and asked for the management.

I asked if they were there to provide 'protection'.

They said 'yeah'.

I said, "We do have a problem. See those guys over there. If you can make them leave, then will take care of you."

"Who are they?"

"The 9th precinct."

The gangsters left without a word.

There was no harrassment involved in that incident.

Only corruption.

Those were the good olde days indeed.

A Nascar Noose For Bubba

NASCAR properly responded to the current Black Lives Matter protests by banning the Stars and Bars Rebel Flag from display at race events, outraging their Dixie fans.

A few days later the organization's only African-American racer walked into Talladega Superspeedway's Garage # 4 to be informed that the yank rope to the garage door was actually a small noose. His fellow drivers should besides Bubba and walked his car to the starting line. The Alabama FBI fifteen investigators released the finding that the noose had been there since October 19, 2019 and no hate crime had been committed against Bubba Wallace, but the noose was a noose.

I have been to thousands of garages in my life and I've never seen a noose as a yank rope.

A noose is a noose.

Its only purpose is to hang someone and in America that usually means an African American man.

RT.com rejected my comment on the noose.

"the video shows it's a noose. not even my cracker friends have a rope tied like that to their garage door."

Your comment on Fake noose: FBI says NASCAR ‘hate crime’ was just pull rope on Bubba Wallace’s garage door has been rejected as it seems to contain content that is not in line with our community guidelines.

What else can you expect from a fascist KGB media brainwash?

ps Bubba Wallace finished # 14.

The Fairy Village of MackWorth Island

In May of 2012 I traveled north to Maine with my sister and her husband. Our destination was their cabin on Watchic Pond.

David and I installed the dock in the frigid water as mosquitos attacked our flesh. The entire operation lasted an hour and neither of us complained about the cold. We even celebrated the completion of the task with a total immersion. My sister had towels waiting for us.

She loved us both, but really loved David.

Our teeth chattered from the long stay in the lake and our bodies were on the edge of hypothermia.

"Go take a hot shower," she ordered in her sternest professor voice.

David and I obeyed without question. Ten minutes under a hot shower in the first-floor bathroom brought feeling back to my muscles and the skin stopped stinging after fifteen. David remained in the upstairs bathroom for another five minutes, since his water pressure suffered from my usage.

"How about a ride into Portland?" My sister offered after I dressed in dry clothing. "Just you and me."

"What about your husband?" I get along with my brother-in-law. Some people say that we look alike. Both of us have our hair, which is a miracle for men almost 60.

"He's has some more chores to do before he can take a break. We'll drive by our old house on Falmouth Foresides and then head into Portland to get steamers." My sis knew my weak spots. She forgave all my shortcomings and they were more than I could count on one hand.

"Sounds like a plan." I hadn't seen the house on McKinley Road in over twenty years. I shouted to David that we were leaving and he yelled to be back before sunset. The retired corporate headhunter liked to eat early.

Traffic on 25 from Standish to Portland was light even for a Sunday. We reached US 1 in forty minutes and crossed the Penobscot River Bridge.

The Harbor was becalmed by the windless afternoon. and not a single wave rippled the ocean passage between Cushing Island and Portland Head Light.

"Looks the same as always." The parking lot of the B&M Bean factory was crowded with pick-up trucks. Beans sold well in the Great Recession days.

"Like when we were kids." My sister drove a little faster than the speed limit. She had inherited her heavy foot on the gas from our late father. Falmouth Foresides lay on the other end of the Martin Point Bridge.

Our childhood was anchored in the middle of the 20th Century. Cars had been bigger in the 50s. Most of them had been manufactured in Detroit.

"There aren't any new houses and the old Civil War fort still guards against the rebels."

"It's called Fort Gorges and it wasn't finished until after the Civil War." My sister had a better retention of history, especially since I filled in the blanks with guessses.

"Here's our street." My sister turned into the quiet neighborhood. "When we were kids, everyone was outside on a day like this."

"We're baby-boomers. People have less kids now."

"Mom also exiled us from the house during daylight." She slowed the car to a crawl on our old street. "Kids stay home and play videos or surf the internet. Outside sports are uncool."

"This is our house." The owners of # 12 had expanded the two-story dwelling. The breezeway connecting the garage to the kitchen was enclosed by walls. I had jumped out the bedroom window into a deep snowdrift. The family behind us had belonged to the Davis family. Their daughter was the best baseball player in town back in the summer of 1959.

"Brings back lots of memories."

She didn't stop until the end of the street.

I got out of the car. My sister phoned her husband. I walked across the grassy verge.

The dock at the bottom of the bluff was gone as were the lobster boats. A few buoys marked the location of the remaining traps. I returned to the car.

"What now?"

"We could walk around Mackworth Island." The fir-covered island was connected to our neighborhood by a causeway.

"They allow people on the island?" Our parents had warned us against approaching the bridge. Older kids told scary stories about the deaf school on the island. Bad things happened to the students. No one said how bad. "We were all scared of the school station wagon. It had bars on the window."

"The school is still operating, but it's open to the public on the weekends. There is a hiking path around the shore."

"Let's go. You know when I was a kid, I heard stories about Mackworth Island."

"I remember them. There was a scandal in the early 80s. The teachers beat students to force them to speak rather than use sign language. There was a settlement, but the state refused to give the money to the victims." My sister was a college professor. She loved her profession and her voice quivered at the thought of the long history of mistreatment on the island. "That's over now, but not for those who suffered from the abuse."

We parked in the lot and strolled around the island. It was low tide. I picked up the sea's offerings off the rocky beach.

We passed the stone boat pier and followed the path through the tall pines to discover that over the last years children had been erecting small dwellings for the fairies of Mackworth Island.

"What for?" asked my sister."

"Maybe they're for the souls of those poor kids."

"So many?"

"When people are bad, they are very bad, especially if they have the support of the State."

I added my findings to a small birch wood structure and we returned to the car. Her husband was eager for us to return. He loved steamers.

Upon my return to New York I googled Mackworth Island and found 'WHY I HATE MACKWORTH ISLAND' by Richard Wormwood. His sister had been a student at the Deaf School. The young girl had suffered at the hands of the teachers and students. None of her tormentors were punished with jail sentences. The principal knew the location of too many skeletons.

I wrote Richard Wormwood that week.

Dear Richard

I am sorry for your sister's pain.

Seeing those little fairy houses I thought of those children. They sadly were not alone.

Our family moved to the South Shore of Boston in 1960. My friend's sister attended a Catholic school for the deaf. Jannie could read lips and tell jokes in her own way, but she lived outside of us. One day I found her crying and asked why. She shook her head, but after a few minutes Jannie confided that the nuns were torturing her and the rest of the kids.

I told my parents.

They didn't believe me.

I called the police.

I was 11.

The next Sunday after Mass the parish priest cautioned me about spreading rumors.

My friend's sister was transferred to a public school.

I don't know what happened to her, but think about her often.

Your story brought back many memories and like you I hope that justice is meted out somewhere along the line.

The truly bad do not deserve happy endings.

Peter Nolan Smith
www.mangozeen.com

To read Richard Wormwood's article please go to the following URL

http://www.portlandphoenix.com/features/top/ts_multi/documents/03885664.asp

THE SOUTH SHORE TO MAINE by Quentin Sprague

Late summer I am sitting at the 169 with Peter Nolan Smith.

He comes from New England.

Same as me.

Franny Fitzpatrick hit the beach at the Bay of Pigs.

Hull fried clams

Boston. Boston.

Talk heroin.

Not a joke in New England thanks the Big Pharma.

Boston Boston.

Quincy Quarries.

They were a boy's dream.

White boys only.

"Let's get on a bus and head north. We'll rent a car and drive to Hyannis. My brother has a place not far away from the JFK compound. We can go the the cranberry bogs. I was there on quaaludes once."

Duxbury.

No one makes cranberry pie and I hate that Ocean Spray adds HFCS to their juice.

"I am from the South Shore, not Boston. We'll drive north listening to Jonathan Richman and the Modern Lovers. Road road road a runner. We won't even stop in Boston. We'll go to Cape Ann."

"And Rockport."

"I dove into the quarries there. Almost broke my back."

"We'll have fried clams in Ipswich, but at the Clam Box and not Woodman's. The clams are the same, but I like the Clam Box's batter better."

"The place ain't what it used to be, but I like a bar there. I can't remember the name. Actually they have a lot of them. After a beer or two we'll drive through Portsmouth through Kittery and then to York."

I knew York well. I came from there.

I lost my virginity there.

A long time ago.

There were few places in the world better and Peter agreed with me, because he came from Maine too.

The New Mayan Apocalypse - June 21, 2020

Back in 1988 I crossed the Yucatan Peninsula from Belize to the ancient ruins of Tikal or perhaps Yax Mutal by the original inhabitants. The Mayan city rose from the jungle in 200BC. Its temples and pyramids were unrivaled until Siyah K’ak' or 'the Fire Born' led Teotihuacan troops to overthrow the Mayan dynastic ruler with the assistance of the Tikal elite. The city flourished for centuries before the inhabitants fled to avoid the constant wars. Time ended for Tikal and other great cities returned to the jungle, however the Mayan were great astrological mathematicians and back in 2011 present-day doomsday declared that they deciphered the pyramid's arcane glyphs and discovered that the world was destined to end on December 21, 2012, the final day of the Thirteen Baktun cycle when the planet Niburu crashed into Earth.

December 21, 2012 was a Friday. Millions of Egyptian protested against legally-elected President Morsi, a freezing cold spell took its toll in the Ukraine, and Barack Obama replaced Secretary of State Hillary Clinton with John Kerry, but Niburu was a no-show.

End of show and not the Earth?

Not so quick, because end-of-the-world proponents have calculated that the Gregorian Calendar was eight years off the mark and Niburu will destroy this planet on June 21, 2020.

Nine days from now.

Stumped by Mayan calculations no one has announced the exact hour of our doom and star-gazers across the globe peering into telescopes have yet to spot Niburu, but I have already seen The End on Broad Channel across from Rockaway and was happy to see the next day as I will be on June 22, 2020.

Rhododendrons Of Nepal

In the spring of 1968 I won a rhododendron from my sisters' high school south of Boston.

I didn't think much of the prize.

My father planted the bush by the garage.

A month later light purple flowers burst from the branches. The neighborhood girls admired the rhododendron's scintillating beauty and I proudly declared to having won its beauty in a raffle.

I was a boy with a flower in the Age of the Flower Child.

The bush survived the the End of the Hippies, the Silent Majority, punks, Reaganites, harsh winters, and sweltering summers, but after my parents' sold the split-level ranch-house, they left behind my rhododendron.

Several years ago I had my sister drive by the old house on Harborview Road. The new owners had renovated the old place, but the rhododendron was larger than ever.

Maybe a good ten feet tall.

They can grow even higher.

Nepal's Solu valley fifty kilometers south of Mt Everest is much more meteorologically forgiving than the surrounding Himalaya peaks and the Sherpas' terraced slopes provide an ideal botanical refuge for the giant rhododendrons of Asia.

Some are reputed to be over 90 feet tall.

And the best time to view them is now.

If only I could be so unlucky to get on a plane and fly to Kathmandu, but no one is flying the empty skies to anywhere in the Spring of 2020.

The Selma Of The North

I grew up in the 1960s on the South Shore of Boston. Only two African-Americans lived in my hometown. The Red Sox star pitcher Luis Tiant and the esteemed US Senator Edward Brooke. My neighborhood friends opened their hearts to reveal the incurable hatred in their souls. I never spoke to them again without saying why. One young boy from Roxbury attended my Catholic high school. We studied German together. I was a D+ student. Booker was an A scholar.

I can't imagined how he suffered at that school.

Alone, but he never complained about anything to anyone.

After college I taught at South Boston High School during the Bussing Riots.

The city was pure evil and I fled to New York in 1976.

That was over forty years ago, but the hatred against African-Americans is as strong as ever and this week various athletes revealed the vile behavior of sports fans at Fenway Park. Kevin Youklis said, "There was one incident where a fan came running down and was being extra harsh towards one of our black players, and I just got fed up and I stood up and told him to 'Shut the fuck up, and if you don’t like it get out of here.'

"I will never forget that moment because I was boiling. You could see the tension, and it wasn’t the same tension that was towards a white player. For the most part, I’d like to say too, though, with Red Sox fans, it’s not the majority it’s a minority of people that act like that. But the minority is too big, and you have to eliminate that."

One night at Frank's Lounge a Brooklyn Detective of African descent told me how he and two friends went to Fenway and bought tickets off a scalper. Two Irish cops confronted them and my friend showed his badge.

"That don't mean nothing to us here. Not for you."

Then the cop unleashed his racist heart.

I apologized to my friend and he said, "It isn't you. It's just where you were born. Welcome to Brooklyn."

"Thanks."

To my people in Boston.

Enough was enough a long time ago.

And I am happy to be here.

Seattle's Cop-Free Zone

THE WIRE's third season was highlighted by Baltimore Police Major Bunny Colvin independently created a free-drug zone called Hamsterdam by the dealers and users. Downtown officials celebrated the drop in crime, until discovering the real reason for the positive reports.

The end of the War on Drugs.

Defund the police has become a rallying cry for the protests across the nation.

No more tanks.

No more helicopters.

No more money for failed drug policies.

"Who will they call for help?" ask white people and city governments.

911, however the city council of Seattle has established a no-police zone. The police deserted the precinct house and the community has established a neighborhood Free Food, Free Speech and Free of Police. Donald Trump has demanded via Tweeter the eradication of the protester-occupied ‘Zone’ and declared, "If you don’t do it, I will!"

With what army?

The Proud Boys and Militias of Idaho and Montana led by Infowar's Alex Jones?

Scary?

Not today.

But who knows where we are on this road of change?

Only the peace-loving Space Monkeys looking for a cold beer before leaving this galaxy.

D-Day Plus 4

According to https://www.dday-overlord.com Allied engineers commenced with the construction of the artificial harbors of Arromanches and Saint-Laurent-sur-Mer, as US troops pushed toward the crossroad of Carentan, while the British forces struggled against the Nazis before Caen. Europe would remain under the Hitlerian rule for almost another year, but seventy-four years later the fascists have seized control of the White House and many state governments of the USA under Donald Trump in order to preserve the oppression of the White majority.

Today the White House announced that Corporate Media Is Now Controlled by the Radical Left.

CNN radical?

CBS?

Fox News?

Emily Jashinsky from The Federalist wrote, "“Media moguls are resigning at a head-spinning rate, an irrational reaction that’s setting impossible standards and ceding immense power to an unreasonable group of fringe ideologues and it’s their own fault. They’ve used elite media platforms to embolden these irrational actors for years. They are failing to meet the standards they’ve promoted.”

Truthfully I agree with this accusation, because the media moguls have for decades promoted racism in TV shows like COPS and movies like the rem-make of SHAFT, distorting the minds of America with fear and hatred.

Their flipflop comes decades too late for Mike Brown, Trevon Martin, George Floyd and thousands of other victims of the Repression.

There is no peace until peace is for all.

Freedom for all the world.

8PM Curfew NYC

New York's Governor Cuomo and NYC Mayor DeBlasio have declared an 8PM curfew for the city, citing widespread violence and looting without any comment on the NYPD's aggressive attacks on protesters angered by the murder of George Floyd in Minneapolis. Any person on the street after 8PM will be arrested by the Fucking 12. I live on Myrtle Avenue in Brooklyn. Housing projects stretch in every direction. The PD have patrolled these neighborhoods like the slave patrols of yore, rounding up young black men for incarceration, especially during Bloomberg's three terms, citing drugs as a crime, but the DEA, the PDs, and the Right have lost the War on Drugs. They have to acknowledge their defeat and free the million-plus POWs.

8PM curfews will not be assessed to the white suburbs or rich enclaves of the Hamptons, Greenwich, or Westchester.

This curfew seeks to address two problems; the continuing protests and the exhaustion of the police under siege. Neither Cuomo nor DeBlasio has addressed the NYPD's systemic abuse of power.

"I vow to stop the cycle of oppression."

No white politician has dared to say those words without the fear of a bullet or even worse losing his voting base of Americans who have never read the thirteen letters written 1776 by Pierre Eugene du Simitiere as the national motto on the US Dollar.

E pluribus unum.

Out of many, one.

Of course the slave-owning Founding Fathers only meant that for the elite.

ps fuck H. J. Resolution 396 adoption of 'In God We Trust'.

I hear sirens.

The 5-0.

Ever ready to serve the ruling class.

A La Bastille.

An Orgasm of Sneezes

Der Speyer by FX Messerschmidt.

Franz Xavier Messerschmidt stunned the Baroque Age with his sculptures of contorted facial expressions. The artist lost favor with the Viennese court and he retreated to Swabian Alps to complete the 64 studies while studying necromancy under the influence of the pagan prophet Hermes Trismegistus. My Art 101 professor at Boston College introduced this extraordinary sculptor to his class through ART 101 at Boston College and I thought of Franz Xavier Messerschmidt upon seeing this photo collection of women.

They seem to be in the throes of orgasm, but they actually are in the process of sneezing.

Neither a sneeze nor an orgasm lasts long, unless you fake it.