Mao's Bird Fetish

Chairman Mao has been dead for forty-one years. China's glittering shopping malls, high-speed trains, ultra-modern skyscrapers, super highways, and expansive airports have transformed the Middle Kingdom into a workers' paradise. Mao Tse-Tung's statue overlooks Tiananmen Square with stern serenity. His followers praise him every May Day, but nothing can stop the birds from shitting on the Great Leader.

They want revenge, for in April 1958 Mao declared birds to be enemies of the state.

Especially sparrows.

To Mao birds symbolized freedom from authority and the Chairman urged his people to bang on pots to prevent the sparrows from landing to rest. They died in the millions and the crop output increased to meet party demands. The only problem was that the sparrows controlled the insect population and the next season the locusts ravaged the harvest. More than 30 million starved to death during the Great Leap Forward.

In the end Mao recognized his error and quietly pardoned the surviving sparrows.

Their population quickly recovered from the slaughter.

The Chinese people took a little longer, but they had learned their lesson.

"A revolution is not a dinner party, or writing an essay, or painting a picture, or doing embroidery." Mao Tse-Tung

And China was not for the birds.

The Mao is an endangered species on the Samoan Islands. Little is known about its feeding and breeding habits.

"The idea that the state mistakenly took too much grain from the countryside because it assumed that the harvest was much larger than it was is largely a myth – at most partially true for the autumn of 1958 only. In most cases the party knew very well that it was starving its own people to death. At a secret meeting in the Jinjiang Hotel in Shanghai dated March 25, 1959, Mao specifically ordered the party to procure up to one third of all the grain, much more than had ever been the case. At the meeting he announced that 'When there is not enough to eat people starve to death. It is better to let half of the people die so that the other half can eat their fill.'" [47]

The Blessing of The Second Amendment

America loves guns.

The bigger the gun they better.

I'm no exception, however I only shoot on a gun range. I never carry. I don't even own a gun.

Donald Trump is an NRA member.

In an interview with ammoland.com he said, "I am a Life Member of the NRA and am proud of their service in protecting our right to keep and bear arms. The NRA’s efforts to stop dangerous, gun-banning legislation and regulation is invaluable. The media focus on those efforts overshadows the great work the NRA does on behalf of safety and conservation."

A punk bully he likes to play the tough guy.

With very small small hands and his political base are gun-loving Americans like Ted Nugent and Kid Rock and hunters and Nazis and KKK and white people scared of becoming second-class citizens after repressing every other race and nationality in the USA.

To them guns are as sacred as Jesus.

Serious as stall beer.

But not everyone with an AR is a Nazi and on October 1 in Las Vegas 64-year-old Stephen Paddock of Mesquite, Nevada shot into a crowd of thousands attending a Las Vegas country western concert killing 58 and wounding hundreds.

People ran for their lives.

Fried Clams On The F Train

Yesterday I rode the subway home to Fort Greene. I edited a long short story about a softball game in 1986 with pen. The 30ish woman seated next to me slurped a big container of Dunkin' Donuts slop. The brunette fell asleep and the cup dropped from her hand. Thankfully the lid held firm and she apologized for the disturbance.

"The lid stayed on."

She looked at my writing and asked, "What are you doing? Editing a story?"

I explained about our nightclub playing a not-so friendly game against the best straight bar in the Village.

"In 1986."

"I was two."

"I was 34." I wondered how I got that old or even this old.

"Where are you come?"

Her accent mirrored mine.

"The South Shore."

"Quincy." She added that she had attended Milton Academy. She didn't know my nephew, but she was a good ten years older than FAS IV.

We laughed with familiarity about Wollaston Beach and fried clams.

"Last week I went to Clam Box with my father and he had the fire clams."

"And you?"

"Fried catfish."

I didn't say anything about her choice, but said, "My father could eat fried clams and chased them down with a chocolate shake. He had a strong stomach. How was Clambox?"

"They've gotten a little fancy."

"That's why I like Tony's better." My younger sister felt the same way. She and I always ate there in season.

We talked about the South Shore, Nantasket, and the Squantum Spit till my stop at Jay Street in Brooklyn.

"I'd like to read your stories."

We exchanged names and she wrote down her email address.

"I'll send you a story about the Quincy Quarries. THE HOLE OF HEAVEN."

"Please do."

I got off the train happy to have heard words of home in a city not so far from the South Shore.

By the way the fried clams at Tony's are much better than those at the Clam Box.

Not an opinion.

The truth.

Driving On Water

There are several hundreds in New York City. My good friend, Nick, has one in the backyard of his house atop Staten Island. The good doctor graciously invites me for a swim during the summer months. His four children have four cars and Nick has three along with that of his wife. None of the eight cars have ended up in the pool, but seemingly other pools in the USA have seen unexpected guests plunge into the deep end.

They don't float.

They can't escape the pools.

And you can't drive them out.

Even high class cars find water.

The juggernaut crushes all in its path.

Pools too.

But not Nick's MG.

No Player For Beaver Country Day

The NBA will open the preseason this coming week and the league's commissioner declared that the players will be expected to stand during the National Anthem. The Lakers and Timberwolves linked arms in unity, but no one took the knee in protest of centuries of injustice against the black race.

In 2014 Silver banned the Clippers, owner for uttering racist remarks.

I couldn't find a single photo of him shooting a basketball, but he has been a longtime Knicks fan.

They suck and so does he, for telling the players what they can or cannot do.

But that's how the elite regard those beneath them.

As slaves.

The Freedom Of The Knee

During the National Anthem of a 2016 pre-season NFL game, 49er quarterback Colin Kaepernick knelt on the sidelines. He later stated to the Press, ""I am not going to stand up to show pride in a flag for a country that oppresses black people and people of color. To me, this is bigger than football and it would be selfish on my part to look the other way. There are bodies in the street and people getting paid leave and getting away with murder."

According to Wikipedia NFL players were not mandated to be on the field for the playing of the national anthem until 2009, when the United States Department of Defense began paying sporting organizations to hold patriotic displays.

Kaepernick also vowed to give $100,000 a month to various inner city charities dedicated the their communities and the pursuit of justice.

He topped playing football for the 49ers at the end of the 2016 season.

No NFL team has offered him a spot at the QB position.

Not the 0-3 Browns, Bengals, Chargers, 49ers or the Giants who have only scored 37 points in three games.

The protests have divided America.

Kaepernick and other players have received death threats and Trump has called for the firing of any protesting player neglecting that the 1st Amendment protects the Freedom of Speech.

More and more players have joined Kaepernick.

Jerry Jones the owner of the Cowboys too.

The NFL owners take no orders from anyone.

In the end THE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER is just a song , which was first sung at a sporting event during the 7th inning stretch of game one of the 1918 World's Series.

Congress adopted the song as the National Anthem in 1931, but it was sung at ball games until World War II.

99.99999% of Americans don't know the three other stanzas written by Francis Scott Keys to celebrate the 1814 defense of Baltimore against the British navy.

O say can you see, by the dawn's early light, What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleaming, Whose broad stripes and bright stars through the perilous fight, O'er the ramparts we watched, were so gallantly streaming? And the rockets' red glare, the bombs bursting in air, Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there; O say does that star-spangled banner yet wave O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave? On the shore dimly seen through the mists of the deep, Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence reposes, What is that which the breeze, o'er the towering steep, As it fitfully blows, half conceals, half discloses? Now it catches the gleam of the morning's first beam, In full glory reflected now shines in the stream: 'Tis the star-spangled banner, O long may it wave O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave. And where is that band who so vauntingly swore That the havoc of war and the battle's confusion, A home and a country, should leave us no more? Their blood has washed out their foul footsteps' pollution. No refuge could save the hireling and slave From the terror of flight, or the gloom of the grave: And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave, O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave. O thus be it ever, when freemen shall stand Between their loved homes and the war's desolation. Blest with vict'ry and peace, may the Heav'n rescued land Praise the Power that hath made and preserved us a nation! Then conquer we must, when our cause it is just, And this be our motto: 'In God is our trust.' And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave!

And that was before or after the protests.

Remember this is the Land of the ZFree.

And that freedom is for everyone.

A TASTE FOR THE EAST by Peter Nolan Smith

My first trip to the Orient was in 1990. My round-the-world ticket had many stops. One was Singapore. The Straits city was undergoing its metamorphosis from a colonial port to a gleaming metropolis of skyscrapers. Raffles was closed for renovations and I stayed at a cheap Chinese hotel in a decrepit godown. The walls climbed toward the ceiling without reaching their destination. A yard of wire covered the gap. The bedding was soiled by a thousand weary bodies and the languid fan spun with fatigue. I left the room and walked toward the harbor.

A rickshaw driver stopped me.

“You want ma.” His clothing was shredded by a decade of useless washes, his body was desiccated to bones wrapped in parchment, and his eyes shone with a dull want.

“Ma.” Horse in Chinese. The word had one meaning in New York City. “Where?”

“I know place.” His claw of a hand beckoned to accompany him.

Drugs were contraband in Singapore. The penalty for possession was death in the most grievous cases. A long prison sentence for anyone else foolish enough to challenge the system. Most arrests came from informers such as this rickshaw driver, who swore, “I not police.”

“I know.” Snitch maybe, but the appeal of opium was an old friend. I climbed into his vehicle and we traveled far from the towers of glass and steel. The streetlights dimmed in his neighborhood. Several doorways were populated by Indonesian transvestites. Others by Chinese whores. Men drank openly on the sidewalk in rebellion against the Singapore leader’s draconian measures for public misbehavior. The rickshaw braked with a whining screech.

“Here.” The driver looked over his shoulder to check for anything out of place. “My name Rami. This place good. Give $10.”

I handed over the money. We entered the battered house. The smell of opium greeted us. I tapped Rami and gave him another $10. “Half for you. Half for me.”

“You good man.” Rami smiled with two front teeth. The rest were brown as cigar butts.

An old woman of indistinguishable racial origins led us into a tiny cubicle. The furnishing were two wooden benches and a wax-covered stool. Sweat shadows marking the proper position for lying on them. Money passed hands and she shut the door. Rami produced tin foil, which he tore into two separate pieces.

“Sorry, no have pipe.”

“I know how to chase the dragon.” I opened my packet and dropped the black ball on the aluminum foil. Rami rolled two paper tubes. A candle was lit on the stool. Rami was an expert and I followed his lead.

“Good horse.”

Within minutes we were transported to another century before planes, telephones, and movies, when opium was king and I was its slave.

Years later I went back to find the opium den. A shopping mall stood in its place. It was selling nothing I wanted. Only fancy perfumes and expensive shirts. It was better that way for the rest of the world and I went to Raffles for a Gin Sling, looking for Rami every step of the way.

He had to be in the shadows somewhere.

Men like him never die.

Not if they know what is good for them.