tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-43257518616189415492024-03-13T20:31:07.570-07:00Fear of AgraphiaAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08917690356007779691noreply@blogger.comBlogger38125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4325751861618941549.post-2464186860427649552012-08-02T19:53:00.000-07:002012-08-02T20:00:12.921-07:00Starvation Draw<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<i><b>Starvation Draw </b></i></div>
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Vernor Tenney sat on the hilltop, absorbing the warmth of a rare sunny morning. For the first time that day the cold that he felt deep in his core subsided. He turned his back to the sun and let his black pea coat soak up the solar rays. As he rolled a rudimentary cigarette, he stopped to glance towards Starvation Draw, a billowing cloud of dust advanced towards the Greenleaf Mine. "Epi", he called into the shaft opening next to him "Someone is coming" At the bottom of the shaft, Epi stopped picking at the rock to look up "They come here, Boss?" he asked. Vernor peered out at the approaching line of dust, "No, to the Greenleaf" Epi chuckled and replied "No One comes here, Boss" and with that he continued to strike at the vein of fluorspar that they had hit upon. Vernor took a long drag on his cigarette before he replied "Fuck it, we'll have to walk over there and see if they have our supplies" As a crow flies, the Hilltop mine was just three miles from the Greenleaf mine. However, for a vehicle it was a long haul of rock strewn draws, wash outs and some quite scary switchbacks. Renfro who twice a week made the trip from town, had lost his nerve. The angle of the roadbed was such that it made his stomach queasy. After making the trip two weeks prior with a box of dynamite and drill bits, the rotund hardware store owner had put his foot down. <br />
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Vernor called down to Epi "By tomorrow we have to blast that rock" he said as he took the last drag, Epi yelled back "I think I pick some more today, Boss" Vernor grinned "Suit yourself hombre" Epi was wary of blasting, ever since McGill had blown himself up inside a sixty foot deep prospect shaft at Goat Ridge. Assigned the task of recovering McGill's remains, the experience had un-nerved both men. McGill an over sized Texan, had settled with Vernor and Epi for back wages owed by signing over the deeds to The Hilltop mine and two prospects. Anyhow, who was to say he hadn't, or who would ever know that it was Vernor who had signed McGill's name. While packing McGill's personal effects, Vernor had found the deeds inside an envelope. "Don't matter" Vernor had told Epi "He did owe us wages, that's a fact" Epi crossed himself "I can live with this" he told Vernor "God, he may not forget" Vernor tossed McGill's knapsack on the truck next to Texan's mangled corpse, his answer was expected "Ain't about God, it's about money owed, don't worry yourself Epi, I'm going into town to file these deeds. <br />
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The first bad omen was when the truck engine seized up near the river bed, a rock had ripped through the radiator. Vernor limped into town, and had barely settled into his seat at the Depot Cafe, when Renfro showed up with Deputy Meliton Baca in tow, an excitable Renfro exclaimed "Tex owed me money, I have papers to his vehicle right here" a weary Vernor looked up "You'll have to go fetch him and the truck" he told them "I just walked 4 miles into town" as they went out the door, he couldn't help but quip "Be careful, he hasn't been himself lately" Vernor's next stop was the courthouse, the clerk was a mouse of man named Duffy. He examined the papers, "Imagine that!, just a few days before he passed away" he said with a raised eyebrow "What are you implying" Vernor snapped defensively, "Nothing" said Duffy "Lucky You, if they prove productive" Vernor gave him a sour look, "Just file 'em" Duffy continued "The man had no living relatives did he?" Vernor strained to remain calm "I don't know" Duffy continued to probe "Did he also have a stake in the Gratten mine?" gruffly Vernor repeated "I don't know" Duffy picked up the deeds and studied the signatures "Was the man left handed? he asked, by now Vernor was besides himself but he tried not to show it "I know for a fact that nobody called him Lefty!" he glared at the clerk "May I finish my business, so I can get back to camp?" Duffy shrugged and brought down his stamp with authority "There it's all good and legal, Good Day Sir!" Vernor hitched a ride back to camp with Deputy Baca who was on his way to serve a warrant at the Valley Mine. For the first time since stumbling upon those deeds, Vernor felt at ease, he was now the proud owner of three mines and a pipe dream. He yawned, pulled down his hat and told Deputy Baca "Jefe, wake me up when we get get there."</div>
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<i><b>Looking down on Fluorite Camp/Greenleaf Mine from Fluorite Ridge</b></i></div>
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That was a year prior, and the riches had failed to materialize, the prospect shafts were barren, though for no good reason, Epi still worked them. The Hilltop was paying off, but at a laboriously slow rate. Although, located in the center of the Fluorite Mining District, the topography made it difficult to get in and out, "We might as well be on the moon" Vernor had remarked to Epi. Who broke out in laughter, for some reason Epi found this hilarious as he kept repeating "Moon" and chuckling all morning, until finally Vernor tossed a rock at him and yelled "Epi, you simple fuck, shut up already." After that, Vernor didn't dare use the word "moon" for fear of triggering another spasm of giggles from his partner. The routine was simple, get up at dawn, fix breakfast, climb up to the Hilltop and work all day. The only company they had was the hardscrabble miners who followed the foot trail up and over the ridge from Fluorite Camp to The Greenspar or Gratten mines further north. With one exception, Rodriguez, who worked a couple of shafts, north of the foot trail. He was a strange bird, didn't like anyone to look at him, not that he was hideously deformed or much different from anybody else. If by chance anyone got close enough to see him, he would quickly duck down, turn his back or walk behind some brush. He had made avoiding human contact into an art form, in some ways Vernor envied him, although for the most part, he would taunt Rodriguez about his strange behavior, "I see you god damn it" he would yell from atop the hill, sometimes he would stand there just to see how long Rodriguez would hold his position. Vernor would always give up before Rodriguez would break, "Strange god damn, son of a bitch" he would say. Vernor worked the winch on the hoist, when the bucket of ore reached the top, he pulled it in and dumped it, "Almost time to call Espinoza" he yelled down to Epi "We need to get paid, hombre" Epi stopped to rest and called back "The vein is done, Boss, now we have to blast." Vernor felt his stomach turn sour, "Come on up Epi, we'll hike over to Fluorite and get our supplies."<br />
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The Hilltop was eighty feet deep now, the men climbed in and out using a series of four 20 foot wooden ladders anchored to timber framing. The ladders were staggered across, Epi scrambled up the ladders, "You're pretty good at that, Epi, that's why you're lighting the fuses" as he reached the surface, Epi grinned "McGill, he wasn't so good" Vernor stifled a laugh "Damn right about that" the two then ambled down to their campsite and from there started up the trail to Fluorite Camp. A little ways up, Vernor quickly turned in time to see Rodriguez duck behind a bush, "I saw you, god damn it" he yelled, then grinned at Epi, who shook his head sadly "What?" asked Vernor "It's just fun" Epi kept his head down and kept walking up the trail. At the crest, Vernor sat down, "Let's roll a couple of smokes, Epi" they both sat there staring out at Starvation Draw, "See right there" Epi pointed to the north "That's where the Apaches killed my Grandfather" Vernor looked to where Epi was pointing, "They chased him from there to there" Epi's finger moved from northeast to northwest "They catch him...mala suerte" Vernor looked north, then he explained "That's the Pony Hills, I've seen graves out there, maybe your granpappy?" Epi shrugged, "They catch my uncle too and his son" Vernor looked puzzled "All at the same time?" he asked, "No different times" Epi said "Wagons too slow, Apaches too fast" Vernor couldn't help himself as he chortled "Hell, Epi your peoples were too damn slow" Epi took a long drag on his cigarette "Si, but the Apache are gone and we are still here, no?" Vernor stood up "Thank God, for that, let's get on with it, Epi"</div>
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<i><b>The Hilltop Prospects</b></i></div>
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They arrived to find Fluorite Camp in a flurry of activity, both the delivery driver for the Gem Grocery store and Renfro the hardware supplier were in camp. Also present was Espinoza, who made his living hauling ore from the outlying mines to the Peru Mill. He drove a truck he had purchased from the U.S. Army, after they had pulled out of Camp Furlough in Columbus. Espinoza was a hard case, he wore a dirty rag tied around his head, gypsy style, he kept a Bowie knife and a revolver on his person at all times. Rumor had it that he was a scout, translator and spy for Gen. Pershing during the Punitive Expedition, while others said he had done the same in France during the war. Either way he wasn't typical of the Mexicans who populated the camps or the county for that matter. Deputy Meliton Baca wasn't typical either, educated at a Catholic boarding school in El Paso, he had attended the Univ. of Notre Dame for one year, before homesickness brought him back to the Valley. Deputy Baca was at the camp serving a warrant for Mike Spungen, who was wanted for almost beating a man to death during a drunken brawl in town. The negotiations were delicate, Sheriff Gray, usually would send a white deputy to arrest a white man, but to test Baca's meddle, he had appointed him to the onerous task.<br />
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Vernor greeted Baca "Hey Jefe, what's new in the world?" Baca seemed distracted "I'm here to arrest Iron Mike for brawling" Vernor looked at the gathering of white miners near the pay window "Are they gonna let you do that?" he asked. "He's coming in on his own" answered Baca "I'm just waiting on him, if anything he respects the badge" Vernor felt tension in the air, as he walked past the white miners, one of them spat in his direction with the spittle landing just short of his boot, Vernor pulled his hat low and kept walking, "Can't fight them all" he muttered to himself. Once out of their sight, he relaxed, walking over to where Espinoza was parked, he called out "I got ore for you to haul, Espi, muy pronto!" Espinoza stared through him "I'll be there tomorrow morning" he replied, Vernor leaned against the hood of the truck "Works for me, that gives us time to pull up some more ore." Espinoza spat on the ground "Trouble is brewing my friend" Vernor followed Espinoza's gaze "That!, it ain't nothing, Iron Mike is turning himself in" Espinoza kept his arms crossed with one hand on each of his weapons "Damn!, you are wired too tight amigo" Vernor exclaimed, Espinoza grinned "You're probably right about that" adding "Hey tell Rodriguez to be ready" he spat again "He's one crazy hijo de la chingada" Vernor took his departure.<br />
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Vernor then ambled back over to Deputy Baca's truck, the miners had dispersed, Spungen was cuffed, shackled and sitting in the bed of the truck, he greeted Vernor "Mister Tenney! long time no see" Vernor cracked a smile "Wish these were better circumstances" Iron Mike grinned "Hell, Mel told me the guy won't die anytime soon" Vernor nodded "Here's hoping he lives a long and somewhat normal life" (from what Deputy Baca had told him the man was fucked up beyond repair) Though, there was no sense in telling that to Iron Mike before he was safely behind bars. Spungen flashed a gap toothed grin at Vernor "I hadn't seen you since our scrap at Old Hadley" Vernor rubbed his neck as he recalled the brawl "Sure, you nearly ripped my fucking head off" Iron Mike chortled with glee "It was a dilly!, ya' gave as much as you took Mr. Tenney" Vernor shook his head "That's not how I remember it" Iron Mike's mood suddenly turned sullen "It was the sulphur fumes at The Graphic mine, Vernie... my mind ain't been right ever since, please forgive me" Vernor lit a cigarette and passed it to Mike, "You are forgiven my son" As Deputy Baca passed by, Vernor stopped him "That son of a bitch is dangerous" Baca wiped his brow, "That's why his own people gave him up" With a look of distaste he added "He knows I'll put a bullet in his brain if he tries anything" Vernor leaned in "Are you sure?" Baca replied "Same as I would shoot a mad dog" Vernor started to say "That's not what I meant" but Baca cut him off "I know what you meant, I will shoot him and he knows it"</div>
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<i><b>Fluorite Ridge and the road leading from The Hilltop to The Greenspar & Gratten mines</b></i></div>
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Night had fallen by the time Vernor and Epi started back to their camp site. When they were back at the crest, Vernor called for another smoke break. Epi sat down and made a sign of the cross, a somewhat agitated Vernor said "Cut that out Epi, there ain't no diablos out here" Epi sat down "I forget you're not Catholic" Vernor lit his cigarette, even though they had worked together for over two years, Vernor had revealed little about himself to Epi. In turn, since he first met up with him at Cook Town, he knew almost nothing about Epi. Vernor exhaled " No Sir! I'm a jack Mormon" Epi's look gave away his confusion "I was raised as a Latter Day Saint, Epi, but it sure as hell didn't take" Epi still didn't understand "A Mormon, Epi, I was born in Mexico, the fucking Villistas ran us out of our homes" Epi caught on (sort of) "Villa!, he's no good, Boss?" Vernor raised his voice "Fuck No! God Damn, took our land, our farms, forced us across the border to Hachita" Epi interrupted "Mexico! you were born in Mexico, I was born here, but I'm the Mexican" Epi started laughing, Vernor snapped at him "Shut the fuck up Epi!, don't even start me on that." Mexico, Villa and Spanish had always been a sore point for Vernor. As a boy all the other white kids had teased him without mercy because he couldn't speak English. As a teenager working on ranches along the Alamo Hueco range, the white cowboys took to calling him Mex. At the Speer Ranch they even made him bunk with the Mexican vaqueros, he grew to loath his station in life. <br />
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In 1916 Vernor journeyed to Deming shortly after Villa's raid on Columbus, he lied about his age in order to enlist in the U.S. Army. After cowboying in the Boot heel country for two years, he thought it would be an easier way of life. However, his pronounced Spanish accent soon caught the attention of a group of soldiers, when they started to bully him, he cold cocked the biggest one, this earned him a beating and a night in jail. The next morning he went back home to Hachita, angry and dejected. Now as that memory passed from his mind, he shivered, "Fuck it's getting cold, Epi, let's move." They awoke at day break to a curtain of falling snow, the entire area was blanketed in white, "Oh, Hell Espinoza ain't gonna make it up here now" was Vernor's first reaction. As they sat in the canvas tent, drinking coffee and smoking, Vernor laid out the day's schedule "We'll hoist up the rest of the ore and then start drilling for the dynamite, with any luck we can blast tomorrow" Epi said nothing, he seemed tired, "Ok Boss" was his only reaction. They worked all day, by that evening they still hadn't finished drilling. The snow had stopped, Vernor and Epi sat by the fire, the whiteness of their surroundings was eerie, "Just like the moon" Epi remarked, but this time he didn't chuckle or giggle he just stared out into the darkness.</div>
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The first light of day found both men hard at work at The Hilltop mine, as they sat down for a smoke break, two Mexican miners came up the footpath, one called for Epi. Vernor glared down at them and then in disgust told Epi "As long as you're going down there, bring up a roll of fuse and a tool bucket" From his vantage point, Vernor could see that this was no social call, the conversation was serious and brief. As the two men left, Epi retreated into Vernor's supply tent. After rummaging around and not finding any rolls of fuse, he came upon a canvas bag with four rolls. Without much thought he grabbed one and placed it in the metal tool bucket that they would lower into the shaft. A good portion of their tools and supplies had been appropriated from Tex McGill's belongings over the protest of Lawrence Rasberry. "He owed us several weeks back wages, Lawrence, I'm taking his tools unless you aim to cover our wages" Vernor declared, Rasberry was exasperated "Tex owed Renfro all kinds of money, most of those supplies probably ain't been paid for" Vernor ignored him and kept loading the goods on Tex's truck "You'll have to answer to Renfro" screeched Rasberry, to which Vernor replied "Fuck Renfro" <br />
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Epi arrived back at The Hilltop, "What was that about?" Vernor inquired "Estrada over at the Lucky Mine, his baby boy died this morning" Epi replied. Vernor winced "Aww gee! probably dysentery, this ain't no place for children" Epi nodded in agreement. Vernor continued, "Remember Cook Town in '18?, I bet at least six kids died that summer and four more at Old Hadley" Epi secured the tools he had brought up "I should go see Estrada, he's my primo" Vernor grabbed the tool bucket, "Go ahead, Epi, I'll work this for a few hours more, we can blast tomorrow" The next morning, Vernor brought out the dynamite, with great care, they lowered themselves into the mine. Vernor prepared the loads and fuses "These are long fuses, Epi, you have plenty of time to scramble" Epi looked on without a word as Vernor tied three fuses together "Light them and go, Epi, that's what you do" Vernor looked at Epi, "You want me to do it?" Epi laughed "No, you too slow, Boss" Vernor felt a sense of relief to see Epi back to his normal self. "I hate blasting Epi" Vernor wiped his brow "We'll be able to buy a plunger soon and then we can blast at a safe distance" Epi said nothing as Vernor gathered up his tools "I'll climb up, when I get there, I'll signal you to light the fuses" Epi cupped his hands and blew on them "Con la gracia de dios" he said and then he crossed himself. "You told Rodriguez we're blasting, right?" Epi smiled "I told him this morning, Boss" Vernor started climbing his way out of the shaft, once on the surface he called down, "Light them up,Epi"<br />
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What happened next made Vernor's heart skip a beat "Boss, the fuse is fast" Epi yelled without panic "God Damn it, Epi, get the fuck out of there!" Vernor yelled back, Epi paused to look at the fuse "Boss, it's burning, muy rapido" Vernor felt a sense of panic "Epi, God Damn it, Climb, Climb!" For some strange reason Epi paused to gather the tool bucket, Vernor was besides himself "Leave the fucking bucket, get the fuck up the ladder!" "Madre de Dios" Epi exclaimed as he started to climb the first ladder, twenty feet up, forty feet up, sixty feet up, he glanced back down "Por el favor de Dios" he groaned, just twenty more feet to go, "God Damn it Epi, climb, God Damn it climb" Vernor kept yelling. Finally, Epi reached the top of the last ladder, he took a deep breath as though he had been under water, he grinned at Vernor who reached out for his hand. Then it came, a concussive force roared upwards from the shaft, the force flung Vernor away from the opening, as he fell backwards he saw Epi fly over him like a human cannonball. Vernor landed on his back and then instinctively curled into a fetal position, covering his head. A shower of rocks and splintered timber came raining down, one thought raced through his mind "Too much God Damn dynamite!" He closed his eyes to welcome sweet death.<br />
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He then had visions of his father who was once a farmer, busting rocks for a living, toiling away inside a mine. Of himself as a five year old helping his weary mother drag an iron bucket to the ore car, then chewing on some sweet cornbread while his mother caught her breath, he blacked out. A startled Vernor came to, he sprang up and then quickly dropped to one knee, "Sweet Mercy!" was his first reaction to still being alive, "Epi! are you ok" he coughed and gagged "Epi! answer me hombre!" Vernor stood up again, trying to clear his ringing head, then he saw Rodriguez standing at the bottom of the hill staring at him. "Rodriguez! Epi is hurt, ayudame!" Rodriguez bounded up the hill with an ease that even in his current state, impressed Vernor. He sprinted past Vernor to where Epi had landed, it seemed strange for Epi, a man who was always in constant motion, to be laying on the ground. Rodriguez turned Epi over and then made a sign of the cross, he was dead. Vernor dropped to both knees clutching his hands, he looked to the sky, dark clouds were coming in, there was another storm building up. Rodriguez motioned to Vernor, he rolled his hands as if wrapping a package, when Vernor didn't respond, Rodriguez sped back down to the tent and came back with a wool blanket, Vernor stood up and limped over to Epi's body "I'm Sorry, Compadre, I fucked up" He sat down on a rock, then he started to sob. </div>
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Later, Vernor and Rodriguez wrapped Epi in the blanket and carried him back down the hill for the last time. They laid him out on his cot, Vernor heated up some coffee, he offered some to Rodriguez, the two men then sat there drinking coffee without a sound. "You're a mute... ain't ya?" Vernor asked Rodriguez, who simply glared at the ground "I guess that explains alot" Vernor poked at the smoldering campfire. "piece of rock shot through Epi's skull, just like a goddamn bullet" He pulled his wool blanket tight around his shoulders in order to stifle a shudder. The next morning Vernor awoke to the sound of Rodriguez picking at the rocky ground a few feet from the foot trail. Still sore and hobbled, Vernor roused himself from his cot and joined him. The men dug for a better part of the day, interrupted only by an occasional miner passing along the trail "Pass the word along that my partner, was killed yesterday" Vernor asked of one man "He had friends around here, they'll want to know" late in the day they buried him, Vernor piled the rocks that Rodriguez had gathered over the grave, the finishing touch was a wooden cross on which he scrawled Epifanio Chacon, "Vaya con Dios, amigo" said Vernor as he drove the cross into the ground, then braced it with rocks. <br />
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The following day, Vernor gingerly climbed up to the Hilltop mine to inspect the wreckage, other than a pile of rubble and some busted timbers it was workable. He sat down to smoke a cigarette. Vernor watched as a group of Mexican miners walked along the trail, when they got to Epi's gravesite, they all made a sign of the cross and kept walking. "Well I'll be damned" thought Vernor "That's the perfect spot for Epi, every god fearing Catholic, who passes will cross himself in tribute" thought Vernor, "God Damn it, if Rodriguez didn't know what he was doing" he said to himself. Vernor closed his eyes and the events of the previous year or so came rushing back, it was January, Vernor and Epi were camped at the Greenspar, working deep in the bowels of that dark and cold mine. Every morning they climbed wooden ladders 200 feet into the ground and then they navigated their way through three different working levels, 1,000 feet of dangerous tunnels and shafts. The air was bad, the conditions were miserable and the pay was late. Vernor confronted Tex McGill about the wages, "Damn, Tex, we don't even have enough cash for tobacco and coffee" the big Texan sputtered "I can't advance you no more, you and that mex haven't produced enough ore to get paid yet" Vernor seethed with rage "That is bullshit! we need some god damn supplies" McGill knew he had pushed too far, for his size, the Texan did not like to fight and frankly Vernor scared him. Having seen him hold his own against the likes of Iron Mike Spungen and Bully Bob McGrath in fights, Tex did not want to scrap with Vernor. <br />
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"I tell you what, you go with me to Goat Ridge and help me clear some rubble after I blast and then we'll go into town and get your goods" McGill tried to sound sincere, "You better not be twisting me in the wind" Vernor snarled, "Oh i'm not" McGill said "Be ready to go in one hour" At the appointed time Vernor made his way to the wood frame shack that doubled as an office, he arrived unseen and unheard. As he stood by the window he could hear McGill raging in a loud voice "That sumofabitch, I don't owe him shit" McGill's foreman Lawrence Rasberry spoke "Ya gotta pay'em their wages, Tex, it's only right" McGill raised his voice "Screw him, he ain't no better than a greaser" Rasberry tried to reason "You gotta give 'em something to keep 'em working" McGill continued " I staked him his grub and his tools all on advance" McGill roared "Fuck 'em, I have a mind to just shoot the sumofabitch out there on Goat Ridge and say he attacked me" Rasberry raised an eyebrow "That's crazy talk, man" Tex laughed "That's right! I'm not one to fuck with" Vernor let McGill's words sink in, then he heard Tex say "Hell now I'm all worked up, I need to take a shit" Tex hurried off to the nearby outhouse. Vernor waited a second and then eased himself to the back of the building, opened the explosives locker and reached into a canvas bag and pulled out a roll of black fuse. Several weeks prior, McGill had tested several rolls of fuse and declared the ones in the canvas bag defective, "Those fuses burn too fast" he told Vernor, "Don't try using them underground, lessen you wanna get blowed up" Next, he walked over to McGill's truck, reached into his tool bucket took out a roll of fuse, tossed it into the brush and replaced it with the defective roll. <br />
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Vernor then leaned against the bumper as McGill came down the slope buckling his pants "It's about goddamntime" McGill yelled, Vernor looked at him "I'm not going" McGill stopped short "What?" Vernor repeated himself "I'm not going, I'll stay and help Epi load the ore buckets" McGill snorted "Suit yourself, but you'll get no supplies today, no sir!" As Vernor opened his eyes, he thought about what he had done. He took a deep breath, then he covered his face with his hands "Oh God! forgive me" Epi's words about God not forgetting rang in his ears. Vernor walked down off the hill, he started up the foot trail towards Fluorite Camp. At the crest Vernor sat down and rolled a cigarette, he sat there staring out across Starvation Draw. He imagined McGill's last moments, the Texan expecting to have at least 10 minutes to climb out, lit the fuse and then much like Epi found himself frozen with fascination at how fast it was burning, by the time he realized that his life was in danger, precious seconds had passed. He dropped his tool bucket and scrambled for the ladder, only to stumble and fall. Tex got back up and started to climb again, in his panic he missed a rung, he hung there frantically searching for a foothold when fear suddenly paralyzed him, a guttural moan rose from deep in his throat, which was followed by a thunderous roar as the explosives went off.</div>
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<i><b>The Hilltop Mine</b></i></div>
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"I'll surely burn in Hell for this" Vernor told himself, the thought of turning himself in to the law, came and went "What's the point?" he reasoned "It won't change anything" he rubbed his legs and then stood up "Hell!, I've been doing time and hard labor all my life" The Fluorite Mountain range is not big by Western standards. However it's most impressive feature is Anvil Mountain, Vernor stood on the neighboring mountain top staring at the flat topped summit when an idea came to him. He felt that in order to live with what he had done, he had to pay up. He knew what his penance would be, "A cross, a big cross atop of the Anvil." There were other much higher peaks in the Cooke's Range, but this was the site of Epi's descanso, his last resting place, this had been the center of his universe. Vernor hustled back to his camp, he found two lengths of lumber, four feet and six feet long, he started to chisel and drill, he then formed a cross and bolted the two pieces together. As he started to lift the cross up, Rodriguez suddenly appeared starling Vernor "God Damn! don't come up on me like that" Rodriguez motioned for Vernor to put the cross on his shoulder "No Sir! I'm carrying this, up there" he pointed at the Anvil, Rodriguez wagged his finger as if to say no "You can't talk, but you can hear, right?" Rodriguez nodded yes "So, get the fuck away from me" Rodriguez shook his head, he folded a burlap bag and put it on his shoulder. Vernor scratched his head, "Ok!.... Ok!, you can help me it get it there" Rodriguez smiled "But I carry it to the top, entiendes?"<br />
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It was a good two miles to the mountain, the pilgrims plodded along, after their first rest stop, Vernor accepted some of Rodriguez's burlap to cushion the load. by mid-day they arrived at the Gratten Mine, McGill's old foreman Lawrence Rasberry looked out his window at the strange sight. "Sweet Jesus on the Cross, what do we have here?" Vernor and Rodriguez stopped and put down the cross "It's a pilgrimage, you damn fool" Vernor explained "Where are you going with that?" Rasberry asked "To the top, to the very top" said Vernor, Rasberry let out a slow whistle, a few idle miners had gathered to take a look. One miner walked up to the cross "That's a sturdy cross, that is" Vernor sat down "Want me to bless it?" Vernor asked him "Why are you Catholic?" the miner answered "Aye, that I am" Vernor looked at him with suspicion "So bless it" he told the miner. The man reached into his pants as if to urinate, Vernor jumped up and kicked him hard in the upper thigh, the miner crumbled to the ground "That's enough of this funny business" he glared at the other miners standing around. "Anybody else feel a joke coming on?" nobody made a sound. Vernor picked up the cross, he waved off Rodriguez "From this point I carry it alone" <br />
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He started up the steep slope, pumped up with adrenaline and anger, his breathing grew harder and harder until finally he dropped to his knees. Rodriguez rushed up to help him "Get away from me" Vernor yelled, Rodriguez stopped, slowly Vernor got back up and started climbing again. The scene repeated itself countless times, with Vernor seemingly recreating the stations of the cross along the way. This went on for two agonizing hours, until finally the slope suddenly leveled off, Vernor had made it to the summit. He fell to the ground, gasping for air, his heart pounding hard, he rolled over and tried to throw up, but his stomach was empty. Rodriguez passed him a canvas water bag, between coughing fits, Vernor took several slow sips. After a while, he got his wind back and his head straight, Vernor sat up and looked around, the view was panoramic, Starvation Draw stretched out before them "Damn, it is beautiful up here" Rodriguez nodded his head in agreement. "Let's plant this cross, amigo" They carried it to the eastern most point of the flat top, jammed it into a crevice and braced it with rocks.</div>
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The cross would stand and weather the years, a silent witness to the comings and goings of the miners and cowboys passing below. The ore ran out, the mines shut down, the miners left and Fluorite Ridge, once a beehive of activity returned to its original state. Vernor Tenney left Starvation Draw a few weeks after planting the cross. One morning he simply walked down to Rodriguez's camp and handed him the deed to The Hilltop Mine. He returned to Hachita for a few months and then worked at a ranch in the Animas range before he drifted down to Cananea, Mexico where he worked for a mining company, his bilingual skills came in handy and he was made foreman and then a manager. He married a Mormon girl from Colonia Dublan and settled in to a normal and routine life. During World War II he returned to the states and went to work at a copper mine in Bisbee,Az. Vernor would often think of Epi Chacon and that fateful day. Once a week on Sunday afternoon he would climb a small hill near his home in Bisbee, where he would sit down, roll a cigarette and think back to those days. He kept the secret of Tex McGill, until he was nearly on his deathbed, he then revealed it to his son. "I killed a man" His son took in his words "I wanted to scare him" his son nodded "I never wanted to kill ol' Tex, he was just too damn slow" Vernor took in a long breath "I may have killed my own partner too, Epi was a good man, he trusted me, I let him down" the son took his hand "May God have mercy" Vernor grinned "That he may" then he gingerly turned onto his side to let the sun's rays coming in through the window hit his back.<br />
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In 2010 a weekend explorer, trudging up and down the slopes of Fluorite Ridge stumbled upon what was clearly a gravesite. As he wiped his brow and drank some water, he noticed the similarities between this grave and others he had found in the Cookes Range. "No doubt about it someone is buried there" he remarked, the stones that Vernor had placed to outline the grave were still there. "It needs a cross" to told himself, he climbed up the hill where he found an unsecured deep shaft, it was the Hilltop Mine, there was scattered timber and wood strewn around the opening. He picked up some pieces, took them home and fashioned a sturdy cross. The next weekend he returned and planted the cross, He then recited a short elegy he had written "To you my friend, you are not forgotten, you are not alone, though you rest for eternity in this desolate spot, at least one other soul knows of your existence" he stopped to gather his thoughts "As long as this cross stands whoever sees it will know that you lie here and if this cross should fall, someone else will eventually come along and stand it back up." He then climbed to the top of the hill, as he sat there looking down on the small valley below, he saw a large white owl near a cluster of open vertical shafts. Before he could grab his camera the owl quickly dove into one of the shafts. Laughing to himself he thought "I saw you, god damn it" He stood up to survey the area "No Sir! my friend, you are not alone" he said to no one, as he walked down the hill.</div>
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<br /></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08917690356007779691noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4325751861618941549.post-83591048457216229302012-04-08T10:31:00.000-07:002012-04-08T10:32:19.713-07:00Desolation Alley<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
Thanks go out to the editors at Things in Light for reminding me that April is National Poetry Month. Get your notepads and #2 pencils out and start writing, you have till the end of the month. Express Yourself!<br />
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I write poems the same way that old people fuck: slow, sloppy and infrequently. I posted several poems when I first started this blog, but I hastily took them down. It's with reluctance and a great deal of anguish, that I re-post. <br />
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Welcome to Desolation Alley, where we wallow in misery, death and despair... purely by choice, of course.<br />
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<b>"...the rest is silence"</b><br />
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The reaper's scythe grows dull from the harvest<br />
this business of death... it affords him no rest<br />
he reaps till they weep, yet they're not satisfied<br />
pobre de ti... pobre de ti<br />
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Death is not an emotion, it's an inevitable conclusion<br />
The emotional aspect is a human element<br />
for in death....<br />
to our limited knowledge, nothing is felt<br />
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The tallyman tallies our sins<br />
and sends us down the appropriate path<br />
The merchants of death stand in line with everyone else<br />
awaiting judgement for their foul deeds<br />
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Even stone cold killers believe themselves worthy<br />
of redemption in the face of God.<br />
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<b>Winchester House</b><br />
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I was born a ghost, these words I must say<br />
for on this earth I'm forced to stay.....<br />
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the voices you hear before you fall asleep<br />
are nothing to fear just ghosts on the creep<br />
whenever you wake with sweat on your brow<br />
don't worry it's just a ghost on the prowl<br />
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the ordinary things you cannot find<br />
the nagging thoughts that crowd your mind<br />
the sudden chills rolling down your spine<br />
of ghostly presence they are a sign<br />
<br />
a woman looks on, a rifle she's holding<br />
a silent witness to the scene unfolding<br />
since their life's light the weapon did douse<br />
they'll assemble enmasse at winchester house<br />
<br />
at her direction....<br />
an army of workmen cut and hammer all day<br />
in order to keep the ghostly avengers at bay<br />
<br />
unseen... unheard....<br />
a gathering of phantoms is summoned forth<br />
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the souls of men, set free of mortal binds<br />
forced to follow the Curve of the Earth<br />
with no line on the horizon<br />
and no horizontal departure<br />
they are borne of the northern lights<br />
conceived at the tropic of cancer<br />
always shrouded in veils of asher<br />
blowing over the plains of bonneville<br />
filling the great salt lake with tears<br />
drifting without rest or comfort<br />
forever seeking a ripple in time<br />
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<b>Razzle Dazzle Rose</b><br />
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i took a gun to a knife fight, so the story begins<br />
i shaved my head, so the heat could get in<br />
these dynamite walls crumbled right from the start<br />
she put a yankee bayonet in my violent heart<br />
a blowtorch bouquet from my razzle dazzle rose<br />
a furnace room lullaby from the great below<br />
Permanent daylight means vengeance is sleeping<br />
how am i supposed to feel again?<br />
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a bouncing betty from my razzle dazzle rose<br />
if you're paying attention, then you ought to know<br />
i pick all my friends so careful and slow<br />
if you're not on my list, then you ought to go<br />
how am i supposed to feel again?<br />
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there comes a red light morning, so vivid without warning<br />
a thousand yard stare from my razzle dazzle rose<br />
how much i love her, she'll never know<br />
with knives out i cut the rope from my heart<br />
the distance between us is only a start<br />
how am i supposed to feel again?<br />
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a camaro crawls into a california rolling stop<br />
i'm searching my memory, but nothing will pop<br />
i'm dialing for rides, but nobody picks up<br />
a bullet and a target for my Razzle Dazzle Rose<br />
how much she hates me, i'll never know<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08917690356007779691noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4325751861618941549.post-31019946508467908682012-04-07T19:04:00.001-07:002012-04-07T21:09:42.223-07:00Sh*t they say in Alburquerque<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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While doing some research, I Googled "Burqueños" mainly so I could copy
and paste it onto a page I was writing. That's the only way I know to
get the ñ onto a printed page. So what pops up, but a forum from Duke
City Fix, and let me tell you it didn't take long for me to realize why I
fucking hate that site. <br />
<br />
Right about now, someone, somewhere is thinking "Hey! I saw Dirt City
Chronicles listed on DCF's blog roll" yes it is and I'm also a member.
Let's just call it a lapse in judgement and move on. The post that
caught my eye was from some random guy named Zane. Here's what he
brought to the table, <br />
<br />
<i>"This may have been discussed on this site in the past, but what's with
calling people who live in Albuquerque "burquenos"? I'm a native New
Mexican and Albuquerque is my hometown, and I've spent most of my life
there. Growing up I never heard ANYONE say "burqueno". Same goes for
"burque," as in, "We sure have some beautiful sunsets here in burque."
To me these words are pretentious and silly. They seem to be used quite a
bit at Duke City Fix (and the Alibi). Is it considered hip to use these
terms?" </i><br />
<br />
First off, Zane... if you have to ask if something is hip then you're a
lost fucking cause. Zane is a native New Mexican who has lived in New
Mexico all his life and yet has never heard anyone and he means ANYONE!
use the terms 'Burque or "Burqueños" before? Zane, have you purposely
spent your entire life avoiding all contact with local Hispanics?
Seriously, at some point in your life, someone, spoke those words in
your presence. I mean, you do get out of the house, right?<br />
<br />
But, I don't really want to ridicule Zane, I want to educate him. The
use of these terms is not some recent trend started by The Weekly Alibi
or Duke City Fix (har har) The use goes back hundreds of years to
colonial New Mexico, Burque was derived from Albuquerque's original name
"Alburquerque" did you catch that Zane? I added an extra r to
Albuquerque. The city was named after The Duke of Alburquerque, not
Albuquerque. <br />
<br />
At some point after the stars and stripes were raised over New Mexico,
the r was dropped from Alburquerque. But, to New Mexico's Hispanics,
especially in the outlying villages, the locale was still known as
Alburque (over time this became El Burque, which was eventually
shortened to 'Burque.) It's not some silly or pretentious trend, it has
actual roots in New Mexico's Hispanic folk traditions and history. Pay
attention, Zane! that's why you didn't learn this in school.<br />
<br />
In Southern New Mexico, the use of Burque was spread by ex-cons
returning from prison stints up north (the same for Santa when referring
to Santa Fe, España when talking about Española) or by locals working
for Brown & Root on road construction crews along I-25 and I-40. The
first time I heard or used the term myself outside of New Mexico was in
1974, while I was enrolled in summer classes at Pitzer College in
Claremont, Ca.<br />
<br />
Several of my classmates were from Las Vegas, N.M. (they pronounced it
ElBurque, as one word) The Chicanos from Albuquerque would simply say
Burque. In 1978 when I was stationed at Travis AFB, Ca. I met up with
some New Mexicans from Bayard (pronounced Ba-yard by the locals) who
immediately told me "You must be from El Burque" I could go on with
endless examples, but even Zane must be getting it by now.<br />
<br />
The point I'm trying to make is that in 1974, in California the term
"Burque" was already in use. The terms Burque and "Burqueños" have been
in use as long as there have been New Mexicans. And as Zane should
know, because he's a native New Mexican, that goes back over 400 years.
Here's my advice to Zane, the next time you get bored, pick up a
history book, before you start talking out of your ass. Class is
dismissed!</div>
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By this time I guess you've figured out that Samara Alpern no longer has
your backs. I can't say that I know her personally, but I do know this
about her, she has a big heart. Too big for the state of New Mexico to
contain. "So she's goin' down to Mexico, where there ain't nobody gonna
tell her what to do" I wish her well, Samara has inspired me to write
more times then she'll ever know. <br />
<br />
The following letter was written to The Weekly Alibi, it was my response
to an article written by Samara. Even as I wrote it, I knew it would be
filed away in the recycle bin. So, I post it now as a tribute to Samara
Alpern. New Mexico's been here a long time and it will still be here
if Samara decides to return, let's just pray it's not called New Arizona
by then. <br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><b>"And then I'm gonna grind me a White Castle slider out of "Burque's sacred cow"</b></i></div>
<br />
Rest easy Alibi readers, Samara Alpern has your backs. So, you mopes are
free to move about the city without giving our ever growing drug
problem another thought. Samara has triggered the early warning system,
but the majority of "Burqueños" are deaf to its strident tones. The
Alibi does need a swift kick in the ass, it's refreshing to read
something (Samara Alpern) other than the fluffy, trendy scribbles that
make up any given issue of this "alternative" publication.<br />
<br />
Shit Burqueños Say? how about, Shit Burqueños put in their arms! While
it's not a trendy subject, it is trending. Meth and heroin (they
compliment one another) have ripped through our social fiber, like crack
through Compton. A government conspiracy?... no!, New Mexicans don't
need any help when it comes to self loathing and debauchery.<br />
<br />
Nero fiddled while Rome burned and that fanzine won't staple itself.
People are wrapped up in their own bubble boy orbits, caring and empathy
are becoming scarce commodities. Alternative is now defined as being
bland & selfish. I've recently run across several posts on FB that
rip the Alibi a new exit hole. I'm not sure what's eating at them
(something about Best of 'Burque and local bands) But it would probably
be wise not to ignore the rising swells of protest.<br />
<br />
I won't give you the gas face, but I will offer this advice, sticking a
colloquial Spanish phrase at the end of a sentence does not make you an
Hispanic writer, Adios cabrones!<br />
<br />
Ernest D. Aguirre<br />
<br />
Editor Emeritus, Fear of Agraphia & Dirt City Chronicles </div>
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08917690356007779691noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4325751861618941549.post-8366646512513837212012-02-26T09:00:00.000-08:002012-02-27T05:58:01.783-08:00Don't Rush Me, I'm Dying<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<i><b><br /></b></i></div>
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<i><b>"Conscience is the mirror of our souls"</b></i></div>
<br />
My life has been void of anything that could be described as carefree
since the age of eleven. A dark cloud of doubt having hung over my head
since that age. I found myself unable to apply rose colored tint or to
cast off a sense of gloom. Nevertheless, I threaded my way through life,
determined not to be a buzzkiller.<br />
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<br />
I had just spent eleven years working maintenance at a retirement
apartment complex, I had seen, smelled and endured every disagreeable
thing you could imagine. My self deprecating condition and generally sour
outlook had served me well on the job. <br />
<br />
While that place was advertised as a close knit community, all too often
it was the last stop as a tenant once told me "before the nursing home
or the mortuary." Most preferred dying to a nursing home, and when phone
calls and doorbells went unanswered, I was the point man sent in to
investigate.<br />
<br />
One man had been dead for at least seven days (thank God the air
conditioner was running the entire time) I caught the distinct smell of
death as soon as I opened the door. I turned to his niece and told her
"Stay here, this doesn't look good" <br />
<br />
He was laying face down in the bedroom, butt naked... all his bodily
fluids had drained into the carpet. His niece walked in behind me, we
both stared at the body, she broke the silence by saying, "His son came
by to see him two weeks ago and he turned him away."</div>
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<i><b><br /></b></i><br />
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<i><b>"For as one star another far exceeds, So souls in heaven are placed by their deeds"</b></i></div>
<br />
<br />
Bob Jones kept a motion activated bullfrog on his porch that would croak loudly whenever anyone approached his front door. For this reason I called him Froggy, he drove me to distraction with his questions whenever I worked on his apartment.<br />
<br />
Bob passed away in his sleep. A creature of habit, his neighbors quickly reported that he hadn't been seen nor his porch light turned off. (there was a casual understanding with tenants, that a porch light left on during the day was cause for investigation) We found him in bed, laying on his back, his eyes were closed, his final expression was one of peace and serenity.<br />
<br />
My boss felt for a pulse, there was none, she called 911 as I stood
vigil. Bob had been a tail gunner on a B-17 during World War II, I could
only imagine all the fleeting moments of terror he must have endured as
his squadron flew missions over Germany. In return, his reward was a
dignified and peaceful passing. <br />
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The one that broke my heart was the one that was least expected. Gladys, a diminutive woman slipped and fell while bathing, she was close enough to pull the cord to a panic alarm installed in all the bathrooms. I responded to the call and found her naked on the floor. <br />
<br />
Rushing to cover her I could hear her gasping for air, I tried to
comfort her while waiting for the ambulance. "It hurts so bad and I'm
scared" she spoke in a soft whisper. I tried to reassure her "Gladys,
help is on the way.. we've called for an ambulance" She asked for water,
I fed her sips from a paper cup that my boss had filled. <br />
<br />
"I'm so scared, I don't want to die" she moaned, I almost scoffed at her "You're not going to die, help is here." The paramedics had arrived. Gladys died three days later, from a broken hip... a broken hip! I hardly knew her but it was a soul crushing experience.<br />
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Ken Scales was a boastful, bullying, jackass of a Texan. He had got
together with a quiet woman named Billie. However, with Ken being so
abusive and manipulative, the relationship soured. Billie moved to
Oklahoma and Ken was left to mope around the apartment they once shared.
<br />
<br />
One morning his neighbor Peggy called me over, "Ken's been sniffing
around my backdoor at night" she said "He's trying to find himself
another gal" I laughed and told her "Good Luck with that", the feisty
woman sneered, "I'll shoot him in the ass, if he's not careful"<br />
<br />
The following day, Peggy called the office, no one had seen Ken exit his
apartment and his porch light was still on. I accompanied my boss to
Ken's apartment, when he didn't answer the door we let ourselves in. He
was laying on the bed, two pill bottles were on the night table, along
with a note and his wallet.<br />
<br />
He appeared to be dead, but was still warm and had a strong pulse. What
was really bizarre is that he was cradling an alarm clock in his arms.
As my boss started to dial 911, the alarm went off it was 8:15 am. The
sound of the alarm startled both of us, Cindy (my boss) let out a
scream. Ken did not respond, I removed the clock and shut off the alarm.<br />
<br />
As we waited for the ambulance, I picked up the note and read it, "I
cannot live without Billie, I don't want to be alone~ Ken S." I folded
the note and put it back on the table. "What an asshole" I thought to myself. Once the paramedics arrived, I exited the apartment. <br />
<br />
Peggy was outside supervising, "Is he Alive?" she asked, "Yep!" I
drawled, "Why did Cindy scream" Penny inquired, "An alarm clock,
went off" I told her, then without missing a beat she dryly added "Did
the sonofabitch wake up?" I snickered "He did, but I hit the snooze
button" Peggy grimaced "Smartass!" I heard her say as I turned to
leave.<br />
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<i><b> "For every moment of triumph, for every instance of beauty, many souls must be trampled"</b></i></div>
<br />
<br />
Often while waiting for Polly, I pondered in dull contemplation, the path my life had taken. I'm no angel of mercy yet death seemed perched on my shoulder like a fucking bloated albatross. My attempt at leaving that part of my life behind had brought me full circle. <br />
<br />
Polly was the first client I picked up. When I mentioned this to the guy training me, he wrinkled his nose and exclaimed "Oh man! she smells bad, that's a tough one to start out with." Just how bad could it be I thought to myself. It turns out that Polly lived thirteen miles out of town, in a travel trailer without any hot water. The only running water she had came from a garden hose stretched between her modest home and a nearby house.<br />
<br />
She was surrounded by an untold number of cats, several dogs and a dozen roosters and hens. My co-worker's warning was right on the money. I discreetly rolled my window down and then cracked a back window open to allow for a flow of fresh air. I soon caught on that if I opened the windows once Polly was in the car, she would protest. If I did it before I pulled up to her house, she didn't notice. <br />
<br />
I complained to my manager, but she advised me to "Get used to it, if we don't give her a ride another company will." Picking her up at 7a.m. became the bane of my existence. I would arrive at 6.45 sharp every time and then she would have wait fifteen minutes while she fed her animals. Invariably after dialysis she would ask me to stop by the grocery store. This meant another twenty minute wait, usually in the heat of the day.<br />
<br />
Polly was an excellent conversationalist, a skill that could instantly disarm my impatience. She had once lived a communal lifestyle in Glorieta and Santa Fe. Having raised poultry all her life, she was knowledgeable about all the different breeds which she loved to talk about. I knew that her condition and circumstances pained her, but through it all I never heard her complain or appear discouraged.</div>
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<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><b>"Life itself is but the shadow of death, and souls departed but the shadows of the living"</b></i></div>
<br />
Dispatch would always squeeze in as many riders as they could, which left precious time between pick-ups. On this day, I got a call to pick Polly up from dialysis at 4:00 p.m., which was much later than her usual return time. There had been complications and they had rushed her to hospital and then returned her to the dialysis center. For Polly it had been a long day.<br />
<br />
I helped her into the car, once I got on the road she asked if I could stop at the grocery store. "It'll only take a few minutes" she explained. I started to object, but immediately felt like a real shithead for doing so. When she returned I helped with her bags and then apologized for my impatience. She just smiled and said "Would you like an ice cream?" <br />
<br />
For a few minutes we traveled in silence. Then Polly spoke "Dialysis just buys us a little bit of time." I nodded my head. "We're just cheating death, is all" Pulling into the driveway, I saw her husband coming out to greet her. As Polly gathered her bags, she smiled and said "See you next time." My next two scheduled pick-ups were cancelled because Polly had been rushed to the emergency room overnight. <br />
<br />
Two weeks later I pulled in to the dialysis center and one of my co-workers asked if I had heard about Polly, which I hadn't. "She died last night" he said. Polly did have a knack for being right about things. I stayed on the job for two more months. Over that period of time two more of my dialysis clients passed away. It was disheartening.</div>
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08917690356007779691noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4325751861618941549.post-32046371064016374962012-02-03T06:20:00.000-08:002012-02-03T06:20:03.119-08:00~ And in Arcadia I Am ~<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I grew up on a farm in the irrigated plains of Southern New Mexico. A desert landscape, yanked from it's dry barren state and coaxed to produce cash crops. Though, if was not the paradisaical Arcadia of myth, it did have its splendor. </div>
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To this day... I ask myself if it was real. The memory of it still haunts me. It was a different time and another world. A setting straight from the pages of a Steinbeck novel, as if illustrated by the brushstrokes of a French realist. </div>
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The migrant workers appeared overnight, at least one hundred. They had arrived in a caravan of old cars and trucks. It was a disheveled and unwashed bunch, desperate looking men, tired women and sad eyed children.</div>
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<br /></div>
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They traveled in thirty day cycles as they followed the cotton harvest from California to Texas. In the Golden State they picked the Upland variety and when that ran out the flow of humanity moved east as the Pima bolls popped open in Arizona and New Mexico.</div>
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The single men were housed in dilapidated barracks, salvaged from a nearby Army Air Field. Those long buildings were a reminder of a time when an even larger number of workers would harvest the crops. Already an era had passed and a generation of workers vanished, to be replaced by the next. </div>
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<br /></div>
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The men with families lived in camper trailers or camped alongside their vehicles. A sense of gloom gathered in the air over the cotton fields as workers shouldered their long bags and plucked the cotton, one fluffy boll at a time. By the next season, machines would do the work, but for now time had stood still. </div>
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At times my father would drive a bus. In the morning he would swing over to the barracks and pick up the workers and deposit them at various fields. I would sit behind him, taking it all in. The men would board the bus, some cheerful others sullen, but without exception they would greet me with affection. I became a mascot of sorts.</div>
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On this day, there was a buzz of excitement. The men had kicked in for a raffle, there was a cash prize, a wrist watch and a clock radio. As chances were sold, the excitement built up. That day after work my dad hustled me to the barracks, I was the good luck charm selected to draw numbers out of a hat. </div>
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The cash prize winner rewarded me with a fifty cent piece, I was flush with joy. They had set up a boxing ring in the center of the barracks, several boxing matches were scheduled for later that night. I foolishly stepped into the ring with an older boy from town and suffered a bloody nose that bled for what seemed like an eternity. </div>
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The men chastised the boy and offered him a match with someone his own size. He started crying and couldn't apologize enough, but it was my fault, I had my guard down... lesson noted.</div>
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I've been living on borrowed time since I nearly stepped into the path of an oncoming car on a two lane road in the Gila Forest. I was about five years old, by a stroke of luck someone pulled me out of harm's way at the last possible instant.</div>
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I cheated death, a fact that I've never been able to ignore. I went about my childhood with the knowledge that somewhere another boy died in order to fill the quota for that day. It was my quick and easy ticket off this world and I missed it. </div>
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As a child, I caught the tail end of an era... The timing of my birth was perfect, by accident of said birth, I was too young for Vietnam. I enlisted in the armed forces after high school and waited for my generation's defining moment... it never came. </div>
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In frustration or relief, I drank and drugged my way through the terms of my enlistment before returning to civilian life, slightly worse for wear.</div>
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I won't die before I get old, I won't live fast and die hard, I will not leave a good looking corpse, nor will my passing be noted. They won't play taps or carefully fold the flag into a perfect triangle. I will transition from this life to another without fanfare. </div>
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A life spent in quiet desperation, humble, pensive and with few regrets is all that I'm entitled to and all that I've ever asked for. Life will come to pass as it has for countless generations. The fields are now fallow, the desert as it always has, is restoring the natural order. </div>
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</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08917690356007779691noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4325751861618941549.post-40259231908703042942012-01-17T17:23:00.000-08:002015-07-27T09:58:29.670-07:00The Oaktown Rotters<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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The Vertical Game</div>
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It's the same dream that has startled Mark Davis from his sleep for years. Mark is nine years old, he's in his room playing with G.I. Joes when his father Al Davis storms in. Al grabs Mark by the cuff of the neck and backhands him "Dolls!.... you're playing with dolls!" Mark starts to protest "They're action figures, Dad!" </div>
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Mr. Davis won't hear it, "They Are Dolls! Mark, fucking girly dress-up dolls and you boy are a sissy." Mark collapses on the floor sobbing, his father looms over him. Then Al regains his composure, combs his greasy black hair back with his hands and squats down next to Mark. </div>
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"Quick boy! If Plunkett takes the snap and it's third and long, the pocket is collapsing around him and his receivers are covered... what does he do?" Mark looks up at his father's ruddy face, he can almost detect a fleeting sign of acceptance "A shovel pass?" Mark sheepishly answers. </div>
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Al's rage erupts like a Pacific rim volcano, "A Motherfucking shovel Pass!" spittle sprays across the room. "A Shovel Pass!! Mark? NO!! he goes VERTICAL!, it's a vertical game, we always go DEEP!" the boy cowers next to his bed. "Get the Fuck out off my face!" Al bellows "Get the fuck out! I swear Hendricks got to your mother before I did, you are not my seed.... you shit eating pipsqueak" </div>
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At that point Mark wakes up, across from him at the board room table sits Hue Jackson. The Coach gives Mark that look, the one that says "I know you pissed the bed until you were fifteen" Mark braces himself for something to come flying through the air and strike him on the head, it doesn't happen. The Captain is dead and the cabin boy has assumed command.</div>
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Amy Trask is still droning on about trademarks and market share. "Yeah! we nailed Nation Burger's balls to the wall, that will teach them to fuck with us...." Mark starts to slip into his happy place when he catches Hue staring at him, only now his look says "I know you ain't had pussy since pussy had you" Mark looks away and then looks back, Hue's eyes are still locked onto him. </div>
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"Anyhoo... let's move on to bigger and better things" Ms. Trask flashes a shit eating grin "I would like to introduce our new general manager" she pauses for full effect "Reggie McKenzie!" a rhythmic applause builds around the table, Reggie is an imposing figure, he ambles in with the deliberate gait of a big man. He raises his right arm to call for silence </div>
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"I'm proud to be back home, once a Raider always a Raider!" he roars, the room fills with excitement and applause. He then sits down next to Mark Davis and pats him on the back. Mark's frown turns upside down. A look of consternation crosses Hue's face, his eyebrows pull together, he thinks to himself "What the fuck is going on here?" </div>
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Reggie clears his throat "This is the dawn of a new era, the mistakes of the past will not be repeated" Hue feels his pulse start to quicken "We move forward, with new ideas and a better way of doing things" looking straight at Hue Jackson, McKenzie declares "Raider Nation will rise again!" a raucous round of applause follows "Anything you want to add, Boss?" McKenzie tells Mark Davis.</div>
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Mark beams with purpose "Yes, can we have a horse gallop up and down the sidelines like the Texas Tech Red Raiders?" Suddenly Hue explodes out of his seat, he brings both of his fist down on the tabletop "A Horse?... A Motherfucking Horse!" the veins surrounding his forehead bulge out "I see what's going on, even a blind horse can smell water.... you.... you motherfuckers!" </div>
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Reggie clears his throat again, "In answer to Mr. Davis... no horses on the sideline" he then motions to a pair of burly security guards who have slipped in unnoticed "Please escort Mr. Jackson from the room" Hue shakes with rage, "You high yella motherfucker, I brought you in and you're putting me out?" Reggie looks up from his computer screen and in a calm voice explains "Hue, you are dismissed as head coach of the Raiders" </div>
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The guards grab hold of Jackson and quickly usher him out the door. "Muthafuckas!!" he yells "Muthafuckas!!" the sound of his voice echoes down the hallway. The heavy silence around the board room table is broken by Reggie McKenzie "I have a PowerPoint presentation, I want all of you to watch" </div>
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Amy Trask looks at him quizzically "Our computers don't have Windows Office" Without missing a beat Reggie continues "Do we have Open Source Office?" John Herrera, Al's old crony pipes in "I'll look into that immediately, Mr.McKenzie" Reggie closes his laptop and motions for Amy to continue.</div>
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Amy stands up, fixes her lapels and then gushes with excitement "Gentlemen, can you say Irwindale Raiders?" Reggie flashes a huge smile "Come on now!" Amy coaxes them on "Irwindale Raiders.... Irwindale Raiders.... Irwindale Raiders" Reggie turns to Mark and gives him a thunderous high five "God Damn it feels good to be a Raider again!" he yells as he takes in the scene.</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08917690356007779691noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4325751861618941549.post-66529905438783653112011-11-01T20:51:00.000-07:002011-11-02T05:37:30.408-07:00Faith No More<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Living in the borderlands has made me a casual observer of the Mexican crisis. I chronicle the ongoing troubles as a way to gain an understanding of a very real and dangerous situation right at our doorstep. I glean and condense the vast volumes of information available on the web into what I hope is a comprehensible and informative digest. What I do is fairly innocuous, it's merely a rehash of what ever is already out there. But, I'm cognizant of the fact, that in Mexico any type of reporting is fast becoming hazardous to the health of the reporters.</div>
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In Mexico the 1% who hold all the wealth also terrorize and murder the remaining 99%. The new Khmer Rouge lives right next door, and eventually the smell of the killing field will drift across the border. In this country we believe that an independent news media safeguards our democratic rights. What happens when that's no longer the case? Objective reporting in Mexico is on the endangered list. It's generally assumed that some reporters receive cash payment for altering or ignoring certain stories. In some cases cartel "spokesmen" show up at crime scenes and dictate the story they want printed to beat reporters. </div>
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With the absence of actual reporting or reliable information, Facebook & Twitter are now the primary sources of real news for many Mexican in areas under siege. Blogs have sprung up on both sides of the border, that chronicle the activities of both law enforcement & outlaws. The most notorious is "El Blog del Narco", the brainchild of two Mexican university students. Out of necessity they cloak themselves behind a shield of internet security measures. Though anonymous and well shielded, they cautiously avoid taking sides. Their lurid coverage is heavy with violent videos & gruesome photos, which doesn't detract from their excellent reporting.</div>
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The blog is in Spanish and if you try to use Google translator or their embedded translator all you get is a confusing, almost comical stream of fractured sentences. Tight security measures are a must, since the cartels have added a new sick twist to their arsenal of intimidation and fear. Now, they are going after those that criticize them on the social networks. Shutting down social media users by sowing terror is a new weapon in the cartel's arsenal. If web news sources can be forced to conform, then the criminal element can truly operate within a total information blackout. "El Blog del Narco" has been put on notice (although cartel killers also frequent the site)</div>
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The threat was made more real by the murder of 3 persons believed to have been targeted by their social media user names. A bodies of a young man and woman, showing signs of torture were hung from an overpass bridge in Nuevo Laredo. Narcomantas at the site warned that all "Internet busy bodies" would meet the same fate. The warning continued "We are on to you." Within a week the body of a young woman was found in the same area, her head was found propped up next to her lifeless body. "For those that don't want to believe" was scrawled on a placard along with her user name (La Nena de Laredo) for "Vivo y Redes" a popular online forum.</div>
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The very idea of narco cyber experts eavesdropping on forums and taking down users names is enough to scare the fuck out of everyone involved. Is it possible that the cartels have computer experts deciphering passwords & tracing Internet Protocol addresses? It's certainly not outside the realm of possibilities. In this case, those killed probably had their identities compromised by people they trusted or through cartel agents working for internet servers, who passed on the information. Either way it's an ominous escalation by cartels, who already have citizens in the grip of panic.</div>
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Blogs on this side of the border operate freely, nonetheless the writers for "Borderland Beat" (most of whom either live in Mexico or travel across the border) use pseudonyms. The blog has active correspondents stretching from the Pacific to the Gulf on both sides of the border. "Borderland Beat" is written in English. The reporters do more than just translate the language, they also delve into the mindset behind the madness. The reports are straight forward, not much different than what you would find in American newspapers. "Borderland Beat" provides news, profiles, cartel histories, crime scene photos, cartel produced videos and news reports that are unmatched anywhere on the web.</div>
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"Exiled" is an alternative news blog that started in Russia. It's founders Mark Ames and Matt Taibbi were forced into exile in the U.S. "Exiled" covers a wide range of topics, but when it comes to Mexico, correspondent Pancho Montana is the man. Pancho lives in Monterrey and has a ringside seat as the cartels trade body blows. Montana has an insider's knowledge of the cartels, he holds nothing back, while firing off slanderous broadsides aimed primarily at Los Zetas. He writes in a slightly skewed style that is a hybrid of Lester Bangs' bombastic prose and Tony Montana dialogue lines. He has a Mexican's love for obscene language, cynicism and whether by design or not... he's funny as hell.</div>
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Here's the links to these website, I warn you... the images are gruesome! If you want news without pictures that make you hurl your breakfast, stick with Reuters and The BBC. I would also recommend The El Paso Times, The Houston Chronicle & The Los Angeles Times (all offer superb coverage of the violence in Mexico) </div>
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<a href="http://www.borderlandbeat.com/">http://www.borderlandbeat.com/</a></div>
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<a href="http://exiledonline.com/">http://exiledonline.com/</a></div>
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<a href="http://elblogdelnarco.com/">http://elblogdelnarco.com/</a></div>
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08917690356007779691noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4325751861618941549.post-42598204623863097552011-10-28T20:43:00.000-07:002011-10-30T14:24:22.003-07:00The Scorched Earth<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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When we last left the sullen landscape of Mexico Lindo, Los Zetas were treating Tamaulipas like their own personal chew toy. For now, the battle for control of Mexico's Gulf coast has played out in favor of Los Zetas. Although, the demise of the Beltran/Leyva organization left a void, and everyone is rushing to fill it. This puts Mexico's second city, Guadalajara in the crosshairs of both Los Zetas & Chapo Guzman. Los Zetas have made preliminary strikes into Jalisco, and in turn Sinaloa has launched a campaign aimed at Los Zetas in Veracruz. This has ushered in a sharp and sickening increase in violence. Veracruz is a stronghold for Los Zetas who operate within the city and state of Veracruz with impunity. Recent allegations have surfaced showing that the former governor, who left office in 2010 had either by threat or greed turned control of the state over to Los Zetas. </div>
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Carrying out Guzman's ominous strategy is a group called The New Generation. They refer to themselves as "Los Mata Zetas", a tag that first appeared on narcomantas (drug banners) and YouTube videos. They made their presence felt by dumping the bodies of 35 alleged members of Los Zetas on a busy thoroughfare in Boca del Rio, an upscale suburb of Veracruz. Los Mata Zetas followed this up by killing 32 more Zeta associates, and scattering their bodies at various locales around the city of Veracruz. The dead men & women, were mostly street level dealers, "halcones" (lookouts, spies) a trip wire or early warning system. They are expendable frontline fodder and the ones most likely to catch a bullet. </div>
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It's believed that the brazen move by Chapo Guzman was to stall or discourage Los Zetas from moving in on lucrative drug routes. The two cartels have been swirling around Mexico like tornados, touching down in various cities and states to wreak havoc and destruction. All along it's been coming down to this, a showdown between Los Zetas and Chapo's Sinaloa cartel. Loyalty can be bought for a price. The Gulf Cartel & The Knights Templar (a quasi religous organization formed by a fracture within La Familia) have fallen in with Sinaloa. La Familia, now without its spiritual leader Nazario Moreno, also known as "El Mas Loco" is in dire straits and fighting for it's very survival. To this end they've made a pact with the devil (Los Zetas) </div>
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Nazario Moreno, who once authored his own bible, was a psychopathic zealot on a narco mission from God. He was killed in a shootout with the federales. While we're on the subject of madmen, The International Order of the Knights Templar, which is a charity organization, is disturbed that a drug cartel would appropriate their good name. Roberto Molinari, spokesman for that order in Mexico explained "The real Knights Templar has never had any link to criminal activities" he added "The danger is if the criminals hurt someone and their rivals are looking for revenge they might shoot one of our members. So we are like, 'Hey. Find yourself another name." They have every right to complain, although when you consider that is was the group that introduced beheadings and grenade attacks to Mexico, it would be wise to temper their complaints.</div>
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An alliance formed between Los Zetas & La Linea (the Juarez Cartel) will certainly re-ignite the smoldering conflict in Juarez. La Linea oversees Barrio Azteca, a prison/street gang with a strong presence on both side of the border. Los Aztecas have long carried out the dirty work for the Juarez Cartel and they are now joined by a group of cartel loyalist who call themselves "El Nuevo Cartel Juarez." This group operates as a paramilitary unit and is in charge of disrupting Chapo Guzman's organization in the plazas of Chihuahua. Their stated purpose is to expose ties between the Sinaloa Cartel and Calderon's government. Los Negros (a paramilitary squad who dress in black and travel in convoys of black vehicles) were once Chapo's enforcers. When the Beltran/Leyva cartel broke away from Sinaloa they switched sides, now one has to presume that they're on the payroll of Los Zetas. </div>
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Naturally, nothing goes without notice, and payback is swift. Just recently, the bodies of four men murdered in Juarez bore a narco message "Tell El Nuevo Cartel Juarez to keep recruiting." The new enforcers for Chapo Guzman are La Gente Nueva, who were on the frontline in Juarez and have now spread out into the interior. The G.N. controls The Mexicles & Artistas Asesinos (Artist Assassins, also known as Doblados) Since 2006 these two Juarez street gangs (unlike Barrio Azteca, they have few ties to the U.S.) have borne the brunt of La Linea's retaliatory strikes. A recent estimate put the number of cartel combatants in Juarez at 9,000, however, Like everything else in Mexico, the numbers are deceiving, policemen by day become sicarios by night, corrupt prison guards moonlight as hitmen. </div>
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The federal government seems to have lost its taste for the fight, it's either re-evaluating its strategy or simply waiting out the remainder of Calderon's term. Amid all the killing, Mexico is hosting The Pan-Am Games in Guadalajara. In order to accomplish this without any participating athletes falling victim to stray bullets, The Federales are mobilizing a massive security force to maintain calm in the city. They're doing this by pulling thousands of soldiers & Federal police from strife ridden cities in the north. It's assumed that once the games end, all bets are off and an unprecedented wave of violence will explode across Old Mexico. </div>
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</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08917690356007779691noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4325751861618941549.post-47657145108011882102011-10-09T13:51:00.000-07:002011-10-09T20:21:27.873-07:00Look Through any Window<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I'm going to cut across the grain with this, but don't get me wrong, I mourn the passing of Steve Jobs, just not with the same sense of sadness as Mac users. I never joined the cult of Macintosh, my preference for computers is utilitarian. They are after all simply appliances, in our household they are no different than televisions or radios. The first computers I ever owned were a trio of Tandys that I picked up at The Barrett House Thrift Store for $20 each. The lady was kind enough to toss in a box full of 5" floppys, some how-to books and a tangle of cables that resembled the nine heads of the Hydra.</div>
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I'm partial to HP or Compaq, my first operating system was Windows 95, which to me was mind blowing compared to the black & white screens on the Tandys. From there I quickly progressed through Windows 98, Windows 2000, XP, Vista and now Windows 7. Computers are like cars, some knuckleheads will argue all day over which is better Ford or Chevy (Ford is better) Some computer geeks will argue the merits of Apple over PC's, same thing! </div>
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All arguments aside, the goal is to get from point A to point B. Ford or Chevy will get you there, a Land Rover will get you there in style. However, we all arrive at the same place, no matter what mode of web browsing or transportation we use. When it's all said and done, we're all standing in line at some big box store, or on You Tube looking for music videos to post on Facebook. </div>
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I bought a used Macintosh computer for my niece once. (1996?) I couldn't even tell you what version it was, all I know is that we could not find any software for it. When we did find software, it was priced well above that of Windows. After a long search I finally found a printer, but ink cartridges ran $49 each. I found Mac to be tiresome and overpriced, we soon gravitated back towards Windows. Apple has always rubbed me the wrong way, their sales pitch has long boiled down to "Be a part of the cultural Illuminati, buy Apple."</div>
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That recent ad campaign that depicted Mac as a smug young hipster and Windows as a bumbling nerdy fuck-up really got on my nerves. I use Windows simply because it fits within my budget, I don't have a couple thousand dollars to buy a Mac and I don't need Apple to rub it in my face. What those ads really did was turn Windows into the underdog. That brand came off as the champion of the people making computing affordable and easier for the befuddled common man struggling to keep up with all this new technology. </div>
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To a person like myself, the bottom line is price and affordability. Apple priced itself (by design) out of most people's reach, to some that could be considered elitist. The I-pod was good, but the Sansa player can do what it does. The I-phone is great, but when you drop it into a swimming pool, it gets just as wet as any old Samsung. iTunes, when compared to Rhapsody, is tedious and invasive. The products Apple introduced are high end, the Rolls Royce of their respective markets, I just wish they had kept us po' folks in mind. </div>
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And so it goes, ultimately Steve Jobs' legacy will be well rounded and not just limited to the iMac or Macintosh. Music, movies (he founded Pixar) and the business world were changed forever due to his unrelenting drive towards innovation. His impact goes beyond just computers, he revolutionized the way the music industry sells music, he changed how Americans listen to and store music, and he changed how people around the world use the internet to communicate. </div>
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Steve Jobs was a private man, a demanding boss and a fierce competitor. He once said that Bill Gates would have been more of a visionary if he had dropped acid and gone off to an ashram, the way he did. Under his leadership, Apple became a world leader and helped make America great. He was without a doubt, an innovative genius and a great American.</div>
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08917690356007779691noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4325751861618941549.post-78129230942681259642011-10-08T19:23:00.000-07:002011-10-08T19:46:37.982-07:00Guns over Butter<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<b><i><span class="body">"I sure as hell wouldn't want to live in a society where the only people allowed guns are the police and the military."</span><br /><span class="bodybold">William S. Burroughs</span></i></b></div>
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<b>They say that Mexico has some of strictest gun laws in the world, yet everyone with bad intentions is armed to the teeth. Mexico is the poster child for every argument ever raised by the NRA. If you take firearms away from ordinary citizens then only criminals will have guns. That scenario doesn't always apply in Mexico where the distinction between outlaws and law enforcement does get blurred.</b></div>
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<b>El Presidente de Mexico likes to shake his finger at the great Satan to the north and cry foul. But, we are no more responsible for Mexico's love affair with firearms, death cult obsessions and brutish tendencies than they are of our love for getting high. We send Mexico guns and they send us marijuana, coca & chiva, and that is what passes for a Mexican standoff these days. </b></div>
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<b><i>"Ordinary citizens don't need guns, as their having guns doesn't serve the State."</i></b></div>
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<b>The calm of a late August morning was broken by the sound of helicopters taking off from the Deming airport. With doors open and legs & rifles poking out, the copters flew in a loop and landed less than 4 miles away. It was a glorious display of Homeland Security "cowboy up" law enforcement. Their target was the home of Rick & Terry Reese, who operate a business known as New Deal Shooting Sports.</b></div>
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<b>It was a splashy take down for the Border Task Force, they're great at making lots of noise, while getting minimal results from their investigations. The entire Reese family was already under custody, having been arrested without incident at their unopened Las Cruces gun shop earlier that morning. The only thing missing from the picture other than a perp walk was "Ride of the Valkyries" pouring out from speakers mounted on the helicopters.</b></div>
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<b>This impressive force, labeled "Bad Deal" touched down at the Reese family's fortified compound located south of Deming. The property site is off the grid, with electricity provided by power generators and water pumped up by a windmill. On site, officials discovered a weapons bunker under the gun shop along with a vast cache of arms and ammunition. Rick Reese an avowed survivalist has longed preached self sufficiency along with his anti-federalist rhetoric.</b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><b><i> At first whiff, entrapment smells just like victory</i></b></span></b></div>
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<b>Mr. & Mrs. Reese along with their sons Ryin & Remington had been targeted by federal authorities for a number of violations involving the illegal trafficking of firearms, money laundering and falsifying sales records. The Federal indictment alleges that Rick Reese, Terry Reese or more specifically Ryin and Remington sold numerous AK47 rifles, AR-15 rifles, a pair of .50 caliber rifles, several handguns and over 7000 rounds of ammo, to undercover agents or informants. </b></div>
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<b>The weapons were sold with the full knowledge that they would be smuggled into Mexico for use by drug cartels. A fact ignored by Luna County Tea Party hacks who are leading a grassroots effort to exonerate the family. Signs along Rockhound Road, where their home & business are located proclaim, "Bring The Reese Family Home!" A few people around these parts send clothing and food across the border, Rick Reese chose to send guns and bullets. </b></div>
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08917690356007779691noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4325751861618941549.post-90143617900428312012011-09-05T14:37:00.000-07:002011-09-05T17:58:23.172-07:00The Oxygen Thieves<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<i>Partly truth and partly fiction, this is a true tale, based on an actual murder that took place in Southern New Mexico. Any similarities with that case are intentional on my part. </i></div>
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<b>God Help... those who help themselves.... to the charity of their fellow man</b></div>
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Frenchy Dupree was a rough red haired French-Canadian, who had lost an arm in an industrial accident. He dragged his brood of semi-retarded offspring down from Michigan's Upper Peninsula to New Mexico, having heard that everything was cheaper in Mexico. At first it didn't dawn on him that he had missed the border by thirty miles, he just assumed that most Mexicans spoke English. He wound up staying because here he had found a peaceful burg populated with right minded citizens willing to help out their own kind.</div>
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Life in the Dupree household was anything but normal, the older girls had to fight off their father's sexual advances, while the boys suffered regular whippings with a barber's strap. Frenchy's handicap had not affected his libido, his ability to swing the strap and his uncanny knack for rolling and lighting cigarettes with one hand. (which he could do before his accident)</div>
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The Duprees were at the bottom of the totem pole, here they fell below most Mexicans and just above blacks on the economic ladder. In a town where white folks could get anything on credit, the Duprees were blacklisted everywhere except at Raspberry's. A mom & pop store run by a family of Okies, who like the Duprees had been headed somewhere else before they wound up here. On those rare occasions when Frenchy would go in to make a payment he would ask "So, my credit good?" Mrs. Raspberry would eye him with suspicion "Yeah, it's good for now" </div>
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Frenchy would light up a hand rolled smoke and put in his order "Gimme a loaf of bread, a jar of mayo and a pound of baloney" after taking a drag on his homespun coffin nail he would ask "You say my credit good?" Momma Raspberry had played this game before "It's good today, Frenchy" she answered. "Well then make that 2 loafs of bread and 2 pounds of baloney" which was as close as Frenchy ever got to being generous.</div>
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<b>See a penny pick it up... all day long you'll have good luck!</b></div>
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His wife was a pale wild haired woman who doted on her red-haired frowners. They were as miserable and unhappy a bunch as you would ever wish to see. The wildest playground fight I ever saw was between the Dupree siblings. Jimmy Dupree flanked as always by his brothers Joe and John was proudly displaying a shiny penny that he had acquired. He was going on about all the candy they were going to buy at Raspberry's when his sister Arlene came along grabbed it from him declaring "That's my penny you stole it from me"</div>
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Within minutes the entire clan was fighting tooth and nail. It was a battle royal, a cry went out across the playground."The Duprees are fighting." A large crowd of kids gathered to witness the astonishing sight of siblings trying to kill one another. Joe and John sided with Jimmy but Arlene was whipping all three, so they switched sides. Now Jimmy was getting pounded, and blood started to flow. Some of the kids watching got squeamish and ran off to call for a teacher to break up the ruckus.</div>
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Mrs. Pearson arrived, dragging Arlene off Jimmy while demanding to know "What are you fighting about?" some pipsqueak in the back yelled out "They're fighting over a penny" Mrs. Pearson's eyebrows went up "A penny?, Good Lord!... all this over a penny!" then she marched them to the principal's office. Joe Peters being a nice guy and a soft touch, promptly reached into his pocket and gave them each their own penny.</div>
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Butch Dupree, Frenchy's oldest son was nothing to be proud of. A mouth breathing vacant eyed punk with the thought process of a lizard. Butch had met up with Loreen Allen in the special education class while in jr.high school. They had been inseparable for four years, much to the consternation of Loreen's family. Together they walked the streets of town hand in hand. Stopping only to browse through the local dime stores, boosting whatever cheap crap they could when the clerks weren't looking.</div>
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Wayne Castle was the throwaway son of alcoholics, a borderline sociopath, rife with suicidal tendencies. Butch & Loreen tolerated Wayne simply because his reputation for violent action kept Butchie's tormentors; the town's chicano toughs and shitkicking stomps at bay. Not to mention that like any thug in training he needed a partner in crime. Butch had a heist in mind and he would need Wayne's help to pull it off. </div>
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While sitting at the counter of Rexall Drugstore, the trio of miscreants had met Mac Starr, a retired merchant marine who traveled around the southwest looking for love in all the wrong places. Starr made his first fatal mistake when he paid their tab. As was his custom, he peeled a few dollars off a roll he carried in his pocket. A detail that quickly drew the attention of the ever resourceful Butch.</div>
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When Mac cheerfully offered a ride in his brand new two seater MG Midget, Butch took him up on it. Once on the road, Mac wasted no time making a pass at Butch, who quickly deflected his advances. "Didn't mean to offend you" Mac quickly added, Butch lit a smoke and without showing any emotion replied "No offense, but I do know someone you might like."</div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><b>Always knew he would kill someone, just reckoned it would be his daddy</b></span></div>
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Lured to a secluded spot northwest of town by the promise of sex, Mac Starr drove himself into an ambush. He arrived to find Butch, Wayne & Loreen standing around a small campfire, drinking from the same bottle. Starr, wearing his Sinatra hat stepped out of his car and danced a happy jig. "The party can start now, I'm here" he crooned. His mood soured and the smile melted away when Wayne produced a rifle and aimed it his way. "You have got to be joking" Mac sputtered "Ain't no joke, faggot" Butch stammered excitedly "Give us all your money." </div>
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I won't spare you the gruesome details. In the process of robbing him at gun point, Starr was shot twice in the head and stabbed repeatedly. His body was stuffed into the trunk of a large sedan owned by Wade's mother. With Butch and Loreen leading the way in the larger vehicle, Wayne followed in the Midget. Their destination was a cluster of mine shafts at the northern edge of the Cooke's Range. An area Butch was familiar with, having accompanied his father on several fruitless prospecting expeditions. </div>
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The night was pitch black as all three of them heaved the old man's body into the hole. "Won't be enough" Butch told Loreen, so they gathered dry brush and tossed it in after him. Butch then emptied a five gallon metal can full of gasoline into the shaft. He stuffed an oily rag into the spout, lit it and threw it in. An eerie glow radiated from the bottom of the mine, black smoke started to rise up. Momentarily mesmerized by the pulsating light, Butch drawled: "That should do it" </div>
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At daybreak, the last thing rancher Larry Hays expected to see was a foreign sports car on a dirt road to nowhere. The vehicle had gone off the road and was stuck in sand. Larry approached with caution "What in the world are you doing out here at this time of day" he asked the young man sitting on the ground. Wayne Castle grinned "We got drunk, I got lost and my friends ditched me."</div>
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Larry Hays examined the British automobile, it had Nevada plates. "I'll say you're lost, it's a long way to Nevada from here" Larry was taking mental notes. Wade meekly asked "Can you pull my car out?" Larry looked under the car "Sure" he then went back to his truck to grab a tow chain, "You're going to ruin that vehicle driving it on these roads" he called out to Wayne, who didn't respond. </div>
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Despite appearances Mac Starr carried little cash with him. Butch and Loreen ransacked his motel room but found less than $20. Added to the $88 they had pulled from his pockets, their homicidal effort had barely netted them $100. That was the least of their problems, embers from the fire burning in the shaft had been blown onto the surrounding brush and there was now a full scale wildfire raging north of Montezuma Canyon. On top of that Wade's mother had called in her car as stolen and Wade had been pulled over by the state police who impounded the MG while they attempted to contact the registered owner: Mac Starr.</div>
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<b>Murder... and that's all she wrote</b></div>
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While putting out Butchie's unintentional brushfire, firefighters stumbled upon Mac's toasty tomb. The Sheriff's office was called out and the body retrieved (slightly singed but not roasted) A receipt in the front shirt pocket from the Skyline Motel was made out to Mac Starr. When word got back to the State Police, they immediately brought in Wayne Castle for questioning.</div>
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With Wayne sitting in a holding cell, Murphy's Law kicked him square in the nuts again. Mr. Larry Hays, having heard of the body found in the vicinity of his ranch, reported his strange encounter with Wayne Castle to investigators. At the same moment, city police found Ma Castle's missing sedan in the parking lot of the Safeway Supermarket. Detectives examined the trunk and interior of the vehicle, no effort had been made to clean up the now dried blood. </div>
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A bag boy told police that Butch Dupree had parked the vehicle there the night before and walked over to the Baker Hotel, a flophouse preferred by pensioners. Within an hour, both Butch and Loreen were in custody. The new age Bonnie & Clyde stonewalled detectives. Wayne was a different story, for all his reputation and macho bluster, he was afraid of authority figures.</div>
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Wayne quickly turned on Butch & Loreen, telling police that Butch in a rage over Starr's sexual advances had attacked him with a knife after which he told Wayne to shoot him at close range. He then went along with the couple, afraid that they would kill him. Wayne further stated that he got stuck in the sand while escaping from Butch and Loreen who were chasing after him with murderous intent.</div>
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<b>The hammer of justice shall come down with a cold, fist-clenching fury</b></div>
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Loreen's family hired an attorney and once a plea deal was worked out, she turned on Butch and Wayne. According to Loreen's account, Butch seething over Starr's advances, had grabbed the older man by the neck and stabbed him numerous times. When Mac fell to the ground, Wayne walked over and at point blank range shot him twice in the head. Loreen's testimony made it not a robbery gone wrong, but rather premeditated murder.</div>
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Butch Dupree never broke under questioning and didn't utter a single word in his own defense during the subsequent trial. A state police investigator called him "A tough fucking nut" The Assistant District Attorney stated that "Mr. Dupree has been preparing for this moment his entire life." Both Butch & Wayne were found guilty of first degree murder, Loreen received 3-5 yrs. for her part.</div>
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Once settled in to the state prison at Santa Fe, the diminutive Butch quickly gained a reputation for being hard and violent, it served him well. Wayne's testimony had branded him as a snitch, a role he continued behind bars, he spent most of his time in protective custody. Both survived the bloody prison riot of 1980 and were shipped off to correctional facilities outside of New Mexico. Eventually they were paroled and never heard from again. Loreen served three years and then just days after her release died of a drug overdose in El Paso. </div>
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The Dupree clan vanished from town soon after the trial, nobody knows where they went. Could be that Frenchy finally closed that last thirty miles between himself and Mexico. The last time I ran into any of the Duprees was just after Butch had been arrested. I walked into the men's room at the public library only to be greeted by the ungodly sight of Jimmy Dupree squatting over the lavatory defecating, John was doing the same in the urinal and Joe was taking a dump into a trashcan. They started laughing when Jimmy told me "You can use the toilet... we're not!" I exited to a chorus of howling laughter. I started to tell the librarian, but stopped myself, she would find out soon enough.</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08917690356007779691noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4325751861618941549.post-60801411801867439662011-08-31T19:37:00.000-07:002011-08-31T20:34:27.320-07:00The Beautiful Season<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<i><b>My entire childhood was a process designed to push me to manhood or kill me</b></i></div>
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It's not clear who spotted the cat first. Word of the sighting quickly spread to all the farms on the western slope of Red Mountain. It was a mountain lion (un gato montes) folks whispered, though in reality it turned out to be a rather large bobcat. The alarm was raised and all kids were ordered to stay inside and not stray into the fields or the mesquite bushes. </div>
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One morning, my father ordered me up at dawn, after breakfast we drove out into the fields. The fact that he brought a rifle with him was exciting, something was up. We drove to the edge of a remote irrigated field, my dad stopped the truck and in short order shot two jack rabbits (which he made me retrieve) after tying the hindlegs together he slung them on a fence post.</div>
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The two of us then retreated into the milo, (which was 4-5 feet high that time of year) we squated down and we waited.... and waited.... after an hour or so, my dad ended the stakeout. "Por aqui anda el gato" he assured me, as we examined a number of feline tracks in the damp earth. The big cat was near and we were about to spook him out. </div>
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Right about then I'm thinking we should just leave that old mountain lion alone. My father had other plans, he handed me a stick and had me walk along beating the sorghum stalks while he held the rifle ready to gun down the feline in mid-rush. We criss-crossed the field a few times to no avail, finally he called off the lion hunt. </div>
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A black ant had made its way up my trouser leg and on the way home it bit my testicles, I sat there in excrutiating pain without saying a word. Much to my relief, Dad let me stay home that afternoon. I took a fitful, fevered nap, my balls were on fire and I couldn't tell anyone, least of all my mother. Many years later, I ran into a fellow who had grown up on the farm next to us, he told me they had cornered and shot that bobcat. Somehow I felt cheated, that was our cat to kill.</div>
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<i><b>Eventually this need to drive me away, drove a wedge between us </b></i></div>
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The fields were watered by a network of cement lined irrigation ditches, which were fed from a reservoir (tank, tanque) Most of these tanks were lined with trees (weeping willows & alamos mostly) and populated by some of the biggest damn bullfrogs you could ever find. </div>
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The bullfrogs had a nasty habit of migrating into the irrigation ditches and then getting sucked into the pvc pipes watering the rows. It was determined that any bullfrog caught in a ditch should immediately be dispatched to meet his maker. Catching them was another problem, like I said... they were big and their legs kicked out like goddamn mules (so it seemed to a seven year old)</div>
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My dad had me strip to my underwear and jump into the ditch (about 3.5 feet deep) Then he told me to get the bullfrog. I reached for it and it kicked violently, I started to panic and tried to climb out of the ditch. "Get back in" my father yelled, which he emphasized by hitting me with a black pvc pipe. I thrashed into the water and grabbed the bullfrog again, it kicked away from me. The pvc pipe came down on my back, "Get the Bullfrog" my dad yelled, I tripped and went face first into the water. I came up gasping and spitting, "Get the bullfrog" I heard, followed by the sting of pvc. </div>
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This time I grabbed hold of the frog's legs and held on for dear life. I stood there holding it as it tried to break free. I had conquered my fear "I got him, I got him" I yelled out. My dad rushed over with a gunny sack. "Good" he said "now let's get some more" So it went, I never faulted him for being excessive, turning a goofy kid like me into a man was a tough job.</div>
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<i><b>He was unconventional, this was something I noticed about him when I was a child.</b></i></div>
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Alvino Aguirre was an extraordinary man, a composer of thoughts and letters, a connoisseur of a wide range of music and books. He was an urban man who spent most of his life in a small town, far too intelligent for the menial jobs he labored at his entire life. I knew him mostly as a farmer, he took pride in his work on the farm, even if he was just a farmhand. </div>
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I recall how he would point out the straightest neatest furrows and tell me "Those are mine" We would squat next to cotton plants as he peeled apart a cotton boll to show me how healthy and clean it was. He would measure the passage of time by the height of the cotton, "When it's this high, you'll start school", he reminded me, holding his hand about five feet off the ground.</div>
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My siblings all have their memories and stories about how they related to Alvino. The family being so large mandated that each child would forge their own relationship with him. All are unique, a few carry only pleasant memories and others grew up with mixed feelings. Some of us felt the sting of verbal and physical lashings, others didn't. </div>
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I grew up the only boy in a large family, because of that I bore the brunt of my father's expectations and disappointments. As men the dynamic between us was different from that of my sisters. I don't know what he expected from me... he never said. I do know this, that as an adult, I'm a mirror image of him in every way... for better or worse. </div>
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The last time I saw him he was already bedridden, wasting away from the cancer that would kill him. As I walked into the room he tried to cover himself, ashamed that I would see him in that condition "Aqui me tienen" he said, before he closed his eyes. I don't know what went through his mind: tractors, bullfrogs, bobcats, mountains?... The cotton was tall... fall was upon us and it was time for the harvest.</div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia, 'bookman old style', 'palatino linotype', 'book antiqua', palatino, 'trebuchet ms', helvetica, garamond, sans-serif, arial, verdana, 'avante garde', 'century gothic', 'comic sans ms', times, 'times new roman', serif;"><span style="font-family: georgia, 'bookman old style', 'palatino linotype', 'book antiqua', palatino, 'trebuchet ms', helvetica, garamond, sans-serif, arial, verdana, 'avante garde', 'century gothic', 'comic sans ms', times, 'times new roman', serif;"><br />"In the happiest of our childhood memories, our parents were happy, too." </span></span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08917690356007779691noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4325751861618941549.post-2210199891565091042011-08-15T21:33:00.000-07:002011-08-15T22:03:34.484-07:00Gas, Food, Lodging<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOCYHyCBbOm47jg6atG52aj_VvWLQl1dGCmXVmDXO5a8FjldtRd-A4DSGdctU-QWL-tNLyTC7nl9raRbjYX01GGwDafGNB8Ze8G9AdfV-i5KUItzZirVIJi0qDm5_sHdne0ouyfhvS75A/s1600/1+Deming+New+Mexico.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="324" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOCYHyCBbOm47jg6atG52aj_VvWLQl1dGCmXVmDXO5a8FjldtRd-A4DSGdctU-QWL-tNLyTC7nl9raRbjYX01GGwDafGNB8Ze8G9AdfV-i5KUItzZirVIJi0qDm5_sHdne0ouyfhvS75A/s640/1+Deming+New+Mexico.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;"><b>Gas, Food, Lodging was Allison Anders first solo project. She signed on as the director and wrote the screenplay herself, which is an adaptation of Richard Peck's novel "Don't Look and It Won't Hurt." The title of the movie refers to those omnipresent signs that direct travelers off the interstates and into travel plazas or truck stops. The highways cut through the heart of many small American towns, all dependent on a steady flow of traffic. Behind each sign, the drama of small town affairs is played out amongst the wax and wane of transitory travel and commerce.</b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><b><br />
</b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhP9aTiyxaoINutpiUafq2rEWeOXUxD79XnsHuTNVxiF5i5PdP-7phFSXQrmfH5vFNQ4_iPBsCNcTbvAQGjpvHsFiDesUrYj36DJ9yC2lNeDVG3mgjyqiQ3lpEl2erx119q2cLfKeaApoA/s1600/5155_poster_0_f.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhP9aTiyxaoINutpiUafq2rEWeOXUxD79XnsHuTNVxiF5i5PdP-7phFSXQrmfH5vFNQ4_iPBsCNcTbvAQGjpvHsFiDesUrYj36DJ9yC2lNeDVG3mgjyqiQ3lpEl2erx119q2cLfKeaApoA/s1600/5155_poster_0_f.jpg" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><b></b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><b>I would be a fan of Allison Anders, even if she had never set foot in this dust blown town. Anders an American film screenwriter and director, is perhaps best known for "Mi Vida Loca" a movie that takes an eyes wide open look at gang life in Los Angeles' Echo Park neighborhood (where Anders happened to reside when the film was made) It's a gangsta paradise tale of dope sliggin' Ernesto and his mini truck "Suavecito" as told by the women in his life. "Mi Vida Loca" was a success at the box office, but it would do even better in the rental stores, becoming an established Hispanic favorite with a cult like following. </b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><b>For Gas, Food, Lodging, Allison and her production team arrived in Deming in 1991 and started filming in and around town. Nora the character played by Brooke Adams is a truck stop waitress. Which made Deming's rundown and sleazy Truck Terminal the primary location for filming. The trailer park where Nora and her two daughters, Trudi (Ione Skye) and Shade (Fairuza Balk) live is located adjacent to the truck stop. Even in 1991, living there would've placed them at the bottom rung of the town's social and economic ladder. </b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><b><br />
</b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEght-L8KkzyW5BdmW-VjQmR_Ckh4DXZ74wtEm7paJFWWprK_rydRVU4Pf_m0zMZ7DddZ2gpdQ_hYlIRXhrn-g5f2fxTbHW32X11sXEN47oYh_ib6gM7Y-jiq9Cx4kMaN5KDRiO_48S1Fts/s1600/3283559604_8bd6a885ae.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="173" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEght-L8KkzyW5BdmW-VjQmR_Ckh4DXZ74wtEm7paJFWWprK_rydRVU4Pf_m0zMZ7DddZ2gpdQ_hYlIRXhrn-g5f2fxTbHW32X11sXEN47oYh_ib6gM7Y-jiq9Cx4kMaN5KDRiO_48S1Fts/s320/3283559604_8bd6a885ae.jpg" width="320" /></a></b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><b>The entire crew stayed at Deming's Holiday Inn, which was the only motel that could cater to the Hollywood folks. With a lounge/bar, a restaurant and room service, it was as close to luxury as they would get in this town. In researching this story I went there to see if after all these years I could dig up any dirt. There was one lady who started working there in 1990, that I spoke to. When I inquired about the film crew, the only thing she seemed to recall was that "The girl in The Waterboy stayed here" "Fairuza Balk?" I asked, in an attempt to jog her memory. She looked at me like I was speaking in a foreign language "I didn't know her name, but I took her room service calls, she was nice." That was the total extent of my research. </b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><b>Nora and her daughters live in a small town along I-10 in Southern New Mexico. There is no mention of Deming in the movie, because the name was changed to Laramie. In all actuality the story could take place in any part of the country. The fictional town in Peck's novel is named Claypitts, "The Pearl of the Prairie" and is within a couple hours drive of Chicago. Claypitts like Deming is on an Interstate. Peck's matriarch is a hostess and waitress at the Pull off Plaza, "How's that for real class?" her youngest daughter snidely remarks.</b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><b><br />
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</b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3prqNmYBce-oVOBn92HsmXd9lbq2krI337WCyUrJUsrEKF0kGdjFpf5EWAoACPNRWi1UVwIt6DkS3dVLyIeerDnM1iOs-202OanACn_ycBUMXfoumeTkz2ELsA2fY-MT1zbRBjq-ojsI/s1600/12995.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="210" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3prqNmYBce-oVOBn92HsmXd9lbq2krI337WCyUrJUsrEKF0kGdjFpf5EWAoACPNRWi1UVwIt6DkS3dVLyIeerDnM1iOs-202OanACn_ycBUMXfoumeTkz2ELsA2fY-MT1zbRBjq-ojsI/s320/12995.jpg" width="320" /></a></b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><b>The movie deals with the ongoing battle between Nora and her oldest daughter Trudi, who has almost no redeeming qualities, "I'm the dominant female in this house, you're both following my cycle." Trudi yells at her mother and sister. Shade escapes from the drama at home by watching old black & white Mexican melodramas at the town's nearly empty theater. Deming had such a theater once, The Luna. The English speaking (i.e. white or Hispanic) moviegoers went across the street to the Mimbres Theater (the scenes that show Shade in the theater were filmed there)</b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><b>Shade plots ways to get a man back into her mother's life, so they can live like a normal family. She unwittingly sets her mom up for a dinner date with the married man Nora had just broken up with. Shade describes him this way "I could tell he was no loser. He had on the clothes of a teamster and boots from Spain... or at least El Paso" Tony Lamas, no doubt. Nora takes Ray showing up at her door in stride, leading to this classic dialogue:</b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><b>Ray: What line of work are in, Ms. Evans?</b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><b>Nora: I'm a brain surgeon, Raymond</b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><b>Nora: How about you?</b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><b>Ray: I'm a grave digger myself and I'm digging my own as we speak....rapidly.</b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><b>Nora: That makes two things you do quick</b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><b>Heartbroken, Shade confides in her friend, Darius a flamboyant teenager, who she discovers is gay when she tries to seduce him. As Nora had predicted Trudi gets knocked up by some British rockhound, who seemingly bails on her (after having sex with her inside an abandoned mine..kinky!)</b><br />
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</b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b></b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><b>Trudi is quickly put on a bus to Dallas (a few Deming gals made that same journey) Nora then meets up with a cocky satellite installer named </b><b>Hamlet Humphrey, who after she rejects both his advances and sales pitch tells her "Maybe TV just ain't what you need, lady" </b><b>Shade is now on a quest to find her daddy, John Evans (James Brolin) After a chance meeting he gives her a ride home. Later he tells her "I ain't shit... but I'm your old man, darling. (typical way for Deming dads to introduce themselves to their kids) John is living with another woman now and Shade's subsequent visit is awkward. When Shade tells Nora that she's met up with her father, Nora responds "And he doesn't even bother to call us? He just stalks us like the coward he always was!" However, all is well that ends well. Shade hooks up with Javier (Jacob Vargas), the cholo who Trudi calls a wetback at the start of the movie. It turns out that Hamlet Humphrey did have what Nora needed (and he was right, it wasn't television)</b></div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"></span></b><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><b>Both Nora and Shade travel to be with Trudi when she has her baby, afterwards Shade asks Trudi if she'll return to Laramie, "Laramie's a shit hole" Trudi answers "There's nothing there, except a lot of bad memories" which also happens to be the new slogan used by The Deming Chamber of Commerce. Back in Dem...err! Laramie, Shade stumbles on the truth about Trudi's baby daddy. Seems the dumbass Brit, fell into a mine shaft and was killed. That's why he never returned to own up to his responsibilities. Shade decides not to tell Trudi, at least not right away. </b></span></b></span></b></div><b></b><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;"><b>Richard Peck is an adequate writer and Allison Anders is always an excellent screenwriter. Anders skillfully weaves the mundane everyday routine of life in a small New Mexico town into a tapestry of quiet (and not so quiet) desperation. </b></div><b> J. Mascis of Dinosaur Jr. provided some of the soundtrack music and also makes an appearance as 'The D.J. from L.A." who tries to force his way into Tanya's (Shade's other friend) house, and gets bitch slapped by John Evans, who shows up delivering liquor to underage girls, what a buzz kill. </b><br />
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</div></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08917690356007779691noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4325751861618941549.post-6071884085991337662011-08-08T16:37:00.000-07:002011-08-08T16:37:18.834-07:00You'll Always Walk Alone<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgd55gZA_1WQcundXuIyGyClj-oH_3hEUT0r-aJljUHP-kpz9kLNDa8qe5DNY-KZfwjh4GPRCkTMiuody-UPSx-nQIoRKEUtf3I8dwEYk3cY5ld5AWlXwbX-ZcjbEd6qSHzzOdvbXec5_8/s1600/HFC_DemingHeadlight13Oct1966.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="504" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgd55gZA_1WQcundXuIyGyClj-oH_3hEUT0r-aJljUHP-kpz9kLNDa8qe5DNY-KZfwjh4GPRCkTMiuody-UPSx-nQIoRKEUtf3I8dwEYk3cY5ld5AWlXwbX-ZcjbEd6qSHzzOdvbXec5_8/s640/HFC_DemingHeadlight13Oct1966.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />
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<div style="text-align: justify;"><b>I am a Catholic, lapsed...perhaps, disillusioned...maybe, but Catholic nonetheless. I was steeled into my unbending faith by the iron doctrine of Sister Rosalie. You've heard all the stereotypes of stern nuns rapping knuckles with rulers, pulling kids up the stairs by the ear, forced repetitions of the Hail Mary etc., Sister Rosalie embodied each and every stereotype. The good Sister was a tough Chicana from San Antonio, by devoting herself to Jesus Christ she spared some poor sap from a miserable marriage...no doubt. </b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><b>Sister Rosalie was quick to draw the sword in defense of her beliefs. After the reading of the holy rosary when my mother passed away, our landlord, who fancied himself a Pentecostal preacher went forward to offer a eulogy. It was touching and heartfelt, as I sat there crying Sister Rosalie slid into the seat behind me and hissed into my ear "Who is he? and who told him he could speak" I just shook my head as sobs convulsed through my thin frame. Sister Rosalie was livid, I feared she would lead me to the gates of hell (by the ear of course) </b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><b><br />
</b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4WQ8PczMNy3vZ7Z3YNTLHQQSLwq2cWadse9kwEmsMl9_atNKHGSf8Ke7BNyc3vx_P0PgvdZqAcwHs4KdUixxUIe7cLcsQPjsek2LXzTYO_raEvVlghcY883QHJjL14jxv2__ZomVl4BU/s1600/1970HolyFamilyChurch.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4WQ8PczMNy3vZ7Z3YNTLHQQSLwq2cWadse9kwEmsMl9_atNKHGSf8Ke7BNyc3vx_P0PgvdZqAcwHs4KdUixxUIe7cLcsQPjsek2LXzTYO_raEvVlghcY883QHJjL14jxv2__ZomVl4BU/s320/1970HolyFamilyChurch.jpg" width="206" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><b>It was Sister Rosalie that had brought us word of our mother's passing. She did so in a gentle and caring manner. The Sisters reassured us that we weren't going to be alone and somehow the pieces would fall back in place. You don't know if your faith is true, until you're tested. A long time ago, I figured out that the best way to stay devoted to my faith was to not attend mass...ever! This allowed me to keep a fresh perspective. I always suspected that there was something queer (no pun intended) about the priesthood, altar boys and celibacy. </b></div><div><div style="text-align: justify;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><b>Even as a kid, I knew that it wasn't natural. Then again by my own tally by the age of 10 I was already hopelessly doomed to hell. This really bothered me, so much so that I broached the subject to Sister Rosalie "Sister, how can I keep from going to hell?" I asked, "For starters" she said "Recite 100 Our Fathers and 100 Hail Marys" It was a small price to pay, especially since I lost count after a few minutes. </b></div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><b><div style="text-align: justify;">The Southwestern version of Jim Crow wasn't as heavy handed as that of the antebellum South. Deming's two Catholic churches were divided along racial lines. St. Anne's (for Hispanics) and Holy Family (for Anglos) since we lived closer to Holy Family that's where my dad sent us. Holy Family had been founded by Slovakian, Hungarian and German immigrants, who along with the odd Irish, preferred to keep their cathedral lily white. </div><div><br />
</div><div><div>That was starting to change, but it still meant going fist city with a few white kids. I wasn't a fighter, fisticuffs did not appeal to me. And yet it was a marathon beating dealt out to the city manager's son, that caused me to be tossed from the flock. Funny thing is, I don't remember why the fight started in the first place. It was racial of that I'm certain, but I hardly knew him. </div><div><br />
</div><div>The boy had nothing but he kept coming, he was built like a tank yet didn't land a single punch, he just bulled ahead. I peppered his face with punches, his buddies egged him on from the top of the basement stairs. I fell into a routine of jab..feint, cross.. feint, combination..feint, he kept charging at me. I grew tired of the game, but honor and pride were at stake, so I continued with the lesson plan.</div><div><br />
</div><div>Finally, like Morante del Pueblo it was time for the kill... I had mastered the bull. I reared back and landed a haymaker to his nose... the claret started to flow, his supporters groaned in unison and then vanished into the wind. His knees buckled, but HE KEPT COMING! Jesus Christ! jab..feint, cross..feint, combination.. feint. His blood was on my knuckles, his face was a red mask, to make matters worse he was wearing a white shirt. It was fucking gruesome, but like a good matador I had to see it through.</div><div><br />
</div><div>I reached way back for the kill shot.....then I heard an ungodly scream "MEEERCY BOY! WHAT HAVE YOU DAAWN!!" It was Sister Rosalie! I don't know if the blood made her scream or the fact that he was the son of a very influential man (His dad besides being City Manager, was a Major General in the New Mexico National Guard, politically connected and a friend of the Father) Either way I found myself in the shit, she clamped on to my ear and rudely dragged me up the stairs.... excommunicated, Deming style. I was to set foot in the old parish hall no more. Her last words to me: "Aguirre! you will never see the gates of heaven" </div><div><br />
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</div></div></b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>A tip o' the hat to the sons of Eire, </i></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>you hard headed bastards ye'</i></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>for you can beat on a boyo</i></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>till your arms grow weary </i></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>but the fight is not over</i></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>until the Irish say so!</i></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
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</div></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08917690356007779691noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4325751861618941549.post-84089892800059128112011-08-04T18:48:00.000-07:002011-08-04T19:22:37.140-07:00Nuestra Señora de las Sombras<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8dGm_GYbrg-sViHwIkCtGJu74lXbCFs2VvSOi3MNe1NEaXfXK4qeg2FXzQgJ6SeOny4VVuOOOG3D3UTlcNXOVASV64e_yyE8CfE-Vp4_ZeIcaA7_il8vvb43HzJSGxb7CDR9ThJl425M/s1600/gal__233_santamuerte1-450x674.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8dGm_GYbrg-sViHwIkCtGJu74lXbCFs2VvSOi3MNe1NEaXfXK4qeg2FXzQgJ6SeOny4VVuOOOG3D3UTlcNXOVASV64e_yyE8CfE-Vp4_ZeIcaA7_il8vvb43HzJSGxb7CDR9ThJl425M/s640/gal__233_santamuerte1-450x674.jpg" width="426" /></a></div><br />
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<div style="text-align: center;"><i> "Dios me cuida y ella me guia" (God protects me and she guides me)</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br />
</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="font-style: italic; text-align: justify;"><b>Death is not an emotion, it's an inevitable conclusion. The emotional aspect is a human element, for in death.. to our limited knowledge, nothing is felt. The tallyman tallies our sins and sends us down the appropriate path. The merchants of death stand in line with everyone else, awaiting judgement for their foul deeds. Even stone cold killers believe themselves worthy of redemption in the face of God. </b></div><div style="font-style: italic; text-align: justify;"><b><br />
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</b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMAYcdK_B30iiMoIQvLHg39q0Xber8-Y1I3z9vCOnK0vhEDCvENxq8XGMysU85fWU4WXZrfqX7roH2dMSrczc9wa3eyJuG4pg5jPixd4YPnsfyDPJWlRg-oQM8-qe_QuEGxoIZQdcvwZ8/s1600/300px-Jesus-Malverde-law-keep-away-court-case.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMAYcdK_B30iiMoIQvLHg39q0Xber8-Y1I3z9vCOnK0vhEDCvENxq8XGMysU85fWU4WXZrfqX7roH2dMSrczc9wa3eyJuG4pg5jPixd4YPnsfyDPJWlRg-oQM8-qe_QuEGxoIZQdcvwZ8/s1600/300px-Jesus-Malverde-law-keep-away-court-case.jpg" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><b></b></div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><b>Everyone, from the bosses down to the sicarios, wants the task accomplished successfully. To this end, they turn to the talisman with the most power to avert disaster. Jesus Malverde was Sinaloa's version of Robin Hood, a common man transformed into a common criminal by circumstances. Malverde shared his plunder and when he met his fate at the hands of the police in 1909, his story entered into legend. Over the years he's been adopted by the narcos as their patron saint. However, the times they-are-a-changing, one consecrated charm no longer does the trick. The need for an all encompassing patron started to grow. One that would serve both traffickers and addicts, saints and sinners, the wealthy and the poor.</b></div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><b><br />
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</b></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><b>The cult of La Nina Santa has spread like wildfire. From the bodegas of New York City to the liquor stores of Chicago and the swap meets of Phoenix, there she is. Across North America, Santa Muerte shadows Mexico's patron saint, La Virgen de Guadalupe. One represents rigid, unbending devotion, while the omniscience nature of the other forgives our human weaknesses.</b></div><div><b><br />
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<div style="text-align: justify;"><b>The Lady of the Shadows is bestowed offerings of money, flowers, brandy, rum and often a cigar is clenched between her teeth. People pray for protection, to win over lovers, winning lottery numbers, the death of an enemy, success in business or to move product across the border. Along the roadsides of war torn Tamaulipas and Chihuahua, shrines to La Flaca are quickly destroyed by the Army. Can't have folks getting worked up over false prophets and shamans, they might lose faith in their government.</b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><b><br />
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<b>In times of darkness a ray of sunshine leads to a shining path, however, if death is your only hope, then you're at the end of your rope. Standing tiptoes on a stool with a noose around their neck has become second nature to most Mexicans. Instead of condeming the organic rise of Santa Muerte, the powers that be should offer alternatives ... fuck! who am I kidding? It's Mexico. My best advice for La Raza... stock up on cigars and rum, Santa Muerte seems to favor them.</b><br />
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</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>The reaper's scythe grows dull from the harvest</i></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>this business of death... it affords him no rest</i></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>he reaps till they weep, yet they're not satisfied</i></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>pobre de ti... pobre de ti</i></b></div><br />
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</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08917690356007779691noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4325751861618941549.post-17132114271213990972011-07-26T19:35:00.000-07:002011-07-26T19:46:24.296-07:00The Great Firewall of China<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
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<div style="text-align: justify;"><b>The Soviets, with their Tonka truck technology could never bury us, all along the real threat came from the Chinese. In the early 1970's, Chinese engineers invented the internet and online chat rooms, recently a defector smuggled out transcripts of some of the first messages ever sent. These missives give us a rare glimpse behind The Great Firewall of China. In 1978, Mine Yor-Tung (Mao's nephew and head of Communications and Technology) defected to the U.S. and sold all Chinese computer secrets to Paul Allen & Bill Gates. He now makes his home in Corrales, where his neighbors know him as Mike. Meanwhile, The Russians are still tweaking their first desktop PC, which comes with a mid tower case made of pre-fab concrete. Nyet..I know what you're thinking, but it's lightweight concrete.</b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><b></b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><b>Mine: a suggestion for your book Chairman</b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><b>Title: The Pack</b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><b>The frontrunners wear haughty smirks on their faces, the middle of the pack grimaces with fierce determination, while those bringing up the rear display glowing smiles</b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><b>Mao: Bleh!!...lol... it needs more work</b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><b>Mao: I came up with this one</b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><b>Title: Glory Hounds</b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><b>The running dog lackeys of the imperial class, grow tired of kibble</b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><b>they chase rickashaws into cupboards, hoping to get just a nibble</b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><b>stupid mongrels </b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><b>they scratch at their master's door</b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><b>On their hind quarters they beg for more</b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><b>stupid mongrels</b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><b>Mao: What do you think Mine...funny--Yes? </b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><b>Mine: crickets....</b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><b>Mao: What?</b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><b>Mine: JK..Chairman....Funny-Yes!!!</b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><b>Mine: Yes..Yes..Yes (I'm bowing as I send this)</b></div><div><b><br />
</b></div><div><div><b>Mao: Hey Mine! get me the Gang of Four</b></div><div><b>Mine: Which Ones?</b></div><div><b>Mao: The first two albums... everything after that sucked ass..LMAO!!</b></div><div><b>Mao: Hey Mine!</b></div><div><b>Mine: What!!</b></div><div><b>Mao: Your mama so dumb, she thinks eggrolls come from chickens</b></div><div><b>Mine: Chairman...my mother is dead...you had her killed along with all the other capitalist roadsters when you took power!!</b></div><div><b>Mao: So...Sorry! Mr. Sensitive </b></div><div><b>Mine: thank you Chairman</b></div><div><b>Mao: thread killer </b></div><div><b>Mao: Hey Mine! ... All the tea in Formosa!!</b></div><div><b>Mine: lol</b></div><div><b>Mao: Hey Mine! Where's my little red book</b></div><div><b>Mine: Next to your bed Chairman</b></div><div><b>Mao: Have you read it?...huh...red it... </b></div><div><b>Mine: Good One and yes I have... : P</b></div></div><div><b><br />
</b></div><div><div><b>Mao: Hey Mine! The Taiwanese are very good at baseball, are we good at baseball?</b></div><div><b>Mine: We suck dick for skittles at baseball : ( </b></div><div><b>Mao: How about basketball?</b></div><div><b>Mine: lol... good one...</b></div><div><b>Mao: We are good in kung fu ... right?</b></div><div><b>Mine: Only movie stars in Hong Kong actually know kung fu </b></div><div><b>Mao: Is Bruce Lee Korean?</b></div><div><b>Mine: He's Chinese</b></div><div><b>Mao: cool : )</b></div><div><b>Mao: what are we good at?</b></div><div><b>Mine: ping-pong : )</b></div><div><b>Mao: That's it?</b></div><div><b>Mao: F**k Me : P</b></div></div><div><b><br />
</b></div><div><div><b>Mao: Hey Mine! have the Navy lob a few shells at Taiwan</b></div><div><b>Mine: Why?</b></div><div><b>Mao: Why Not!!!</b></div><div><b>Mine: LMAO!! XO (that's my o-face)</b></div><div><b>Mao: Hey Mine! My ass and Richard Nixon</b></div><div><b>Mine: What?</b></div><div><b>Mao: Can you tell the difference?</b></div><div><b>Mine: Frankly...I can't.... : )</b></div><div><b>Mao: Hey Mine! what's my favorite color?</b></div><div><b>Mine: Red</b></div><div><b>Mao: Yes it is! : ) </b></div></div><div><b><br />
</b></div><b>* Yes, I realize the Gang of Four (both the political clique and the band) didn't surface until after Mao's death.</b><br />
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</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08917690356007779691noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4325751861618941549.post-113736199509080232011-07-21T19:47:00.000-07:002011-07-21T19:53:50.848-07:00A Confederacy of Brutes<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhK3G_li4fR2-kmVbHQKc4e9wO2N6wQWMcdDns-dwXxaEduYvsTeg1DTm2Gb3gDlyvGWiczSD60dCk_ZinrKnrfqhn0IhQttyaAKoXduXh-fHNc9aNHtx2w13M1apbNNN-qpS0PkTTkl7w/s1600/69555205-bad-news.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="390" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhK3G_li4fR2-kmVbHQKc4e9wO2N6wQWMcdDns-dwXxaEduYvsTeg1DTm2Gb3gDlyvGWiczSD60dCk_ZinrKnrfqhn0IhQttyaAKoXduXh-fHNc9aNHtx2w13M1apbNNN-qpS0PkTTkl7w/s640/69555205-bad-news.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>Ericka Gandara is one of history's tragic figures, a diminutive woman born with more heart and courage than most men. When the police chief of Guadalupe, Chihuahua (across the US border from Fabens,Tx.) was found murdered with his head packed in an ice chest, the job suddenly became available. It came as no surprise that nobody wanted the job. The sole applicant, Ericka Gandara a 28 yr. old police radio dispatcher got the position by default. </b></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><b>Guadalupe is located in El Valle de Juarez, ground zero in the war between La Linea and Chapo Guzman. By the time she was sworn in, all eight of the town's policemen had either fled or been killed. Nobody would've thought any different of Ericka if she had walked away, but the $580 a month salary and a stubborn sense of pride kept her from doing so. </b></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGdWqZmCXtR84WK6KrJ_Hytu0vVZnNZBSnINn2f2h_rh5g_-ZV-uiAH3iGysmwzyjfinARpZYarkN230wvJH6A7qSjXa3hYJOmj0BSmwE8foGDvJ9Y-wHG45iKwyTWi4iCTkYSAs-NjHs/s1600/guadalupe_large__75313_zoom.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGdWqZmCXtR84WK6KrJ_Hytu0vVZnNZBSnINn2f2h_rh5g_-ZV-uiAH3iGysmwzyjfinARpZYarkN230wvJH6A7qSjXa3hYJOmj0BSmwE8foGDvJ9Y-wHG45iKwyTWi4iCTkYSAs-NjHs/s320/guadalupe_large__75313_zoom.jpg" width="256" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>Her family begged her to keep a low profile, but she didn't heed their advice, Ericka did newspaper interviews and was shown holding an AR-15, which she always kept on hand. Ericka as the sole law enforcement representative for the town of 9,000 residents, openly admitted to being frightened. However she was sworn to uphold the law, and she never veered off that track.</b></span></div><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>There's an image of Ericka Gandara that appeared in a newspaper. It shows her sitting on the edge of a desk next to her AR-15. She is wearing a purple fleece lined hoodie inscribed with a butterfly and the words "Los Angeles." She is flanked by pictures of the Virgin of Guadalupe, her right eye is bandaged. If this were a painting it would be titled "Woman Contemplating Her Fate"</b></span></div><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><b>During her six month tenure Ericka went about her business, she was not a real threat to either of the cartels. Nonetheless, on Dec. 23rd. 2010, at 6:00 a.m., ten armed men showed up at her home, they dragged her to an awaiting vehicle and then set the house on fire. Ten armed men to subdue one small woman, the AR-15 sat unused on her kitchen table.</b></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><b>It's difficult to contemplate how horrendous her last hours of life may have been. One can only hope that she was killed immediately after her abduction and not subjected to torture and abuse... One can only hope. Ericka Gandara's body was discovered a couple of months later, she was discreetly buried. Her remaining family members not wishing to draw attention from her killers. </b></span><br />
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</div><div style="text-align: justify;"></div><div style="text-align: justify;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5zc1ISWgSPIW6JpjxBhyphenhyphen-F9VlFfTh2JpD0nCtXZUuRLc0nbO5_fEV4iaGg55mu8dbWZLl2IIgMADhlGQK4ZDPKmoQxh8Ll50rLpHnVcbMsIsnzreXXEWWB0iAZHKTnOd-3hZ7s9XN8Fs/s1600/police+chief.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5zc1ISWgSPIW6JpjxBhyphenhyphen-F9VlFfTh2JpD0nCtXZUuRLc0nbO5_fEV4iaGg55mu8dbWZLl2IIgMADhlGQK4ZDPKmoQxh8Ll50rLpHnVcbMsIsnzreXXEWWB0iAZHKTnOd-3hZ7s9XN8Fs/s320/police+chief.jpg" width="231" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>Meoqui, Chihuahua was once a peaceful town, but now the troubles had reached this northern outpost. In 2009, forty deaths had been attributed to drug related violence in Meoqui. The trend continued well into in 2010, it was no mystery why none of the men wanted the job of police chief. Hermila Garcia-Quinones a 38 yr. old lawyer, took the dangerous job when nobody else would. </b></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><b>Known as "La Jefa" Hermila, had no previous experience in law enforcement. She was sworn in on Oct. 9th 2010 to head up a police force of 90 officers. When asked why she refused bodyguards or carried a weapon, Garcia-Quinones replied: "If you don't owe anything, you don't fear anything." A reasonable assumption when dealing with reasonable men.</b></span></div><br />
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<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>Hermila dressed well, she was good looking, educated, confident and headstrong. "La Jefa" was in charge, but she enjoyed reminding the men that she was indeed a lady. Garcia-Quinones felt that as a woman and by the force of her personality, she could walk the line between her department and Los Zetas, the dominant cartel in the area... she was wrong.</b></span></div><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><b>On Nov. 29th 2010 while on her way to work, Garcia-Quinones was ambushed by a convoy of gunmen and shot to death. A Chihuahua state spokesman described her assailants as "reportedly working for drug traffickers" another classic case of stating the obvious. Hermila held the job less than two months.</b></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><b>Hermila Garcia-Quinones was no less a tragic figure than Ericka Gandara. Both women were probably given a choice of silver or lead and both made fatal decisions. Hermila thought of herself as being in control, Ericka had no such notions. In the end, both died for sticking to their personal codes of honor and obligation.</b></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjShitls7F7jxL7C4Pl8e5PbuAJr_830kYvw2THGTnSzJl7chimiZ0TR5HxkHpLZEbzbz6uiKVzPDSPxh_Sz-qVTiaytGVZN84_yWnW1aDwNnAkEroAQZicwrCdfAAvJJk0Y41J48Ufglc/s1600/images.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjShitls7F7jxL7C4Pl8e5PbuAJr_830kYvw2THGTnSzJl7chimiZ0TR5HxkHpLZEbzbz6uiKVzPDSPxh_Sz-qVTiaytGVZN84_yWnW1aDwNnAkEroAQZicwrCdfAAvJJk0Y41J48Ufglc/s1600/images.jpg" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>This story will have a happy ending. Marisol Valles Garcia, a 20 yr. old criminology student volunteered for the job as police chief in Praxedis Guerrero, Chihuahua and lived to tell the tale.</b></span><span style="font-size: small;"><b> "The bravest woman in Mexico" as she came to be called, held the job for five months before death threats forced her to flee. Marisol fled Mexico before cartel killers could make their move, and is now seeking political asylum in the U.S. </b></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>Praxedis Guerrero a small town in El Valle de Juarez, is known as "one of the most violent towns in Mexico" Marisol's predecessor was tortured and then beheaded by sicarios, naturally nobody rushed in to replace him. Valles-Garcia a mother of one, took the position "I'm doing this for my people" she said "This is not for me, I'm tired of all the drug violence."</b></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><b>Upon taking the job, Marisol put out word that her office would police the community and not poke around in cartel business. That move bought her some time, but it wasn't long before death threats started to come in. Officers under her command reported that cartel sicarios were shadowing her every move. They advised Marisol to abandon her post and leave the town.</b></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4KAv7_cq-i2lryw78fM8dH5if4pA3ltogoV4o7WRMz69qPqnhBaJ3fxjPt-3Sbolyi_mBfJiz_lOywhOOGP1CPmRX6vs0t4MHhtX7TZk5CxECQmWxTonxqTdVzP-aovsCoHR1EF5alqc/s1600/marisol.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4KAv7_cq-i2lryw78fM8dH5if4pA3ltogoV4o7WRMz69qPqnhBaJ3fxjPt-3Sbolyi_mBfJiz_lOywhOOGP1CPmRX6vs0t4MHhtX7TZk5CxECQmWxTonxqTdVzP-aovsCoHR1EF5alqc/s320/marisol.jpg" width="231" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>Perhaps with the deaths of Hermila Garcia-Quinones and Ericka Gandara on her mind, Valles-Garcia grew wary. When several black vehicles with dark tinted windows parked directly across the street from her office, Marisol made her choice. Within a few hours she had picked up her 1 yr. old son and crossed into the United States. To gain asylum status, one has to prove a "well- founded fear of persecution" With two female police chiefs already murdered, it would seem that Marisol Valles-Garcia has a good argument for asylum. </b></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>Our mothers, sisters, wives, aunts, are the keystones that we build our lives around. A healthy society, is one that holds its women in reverence, one that protects its women and children. Once that basic principle of morality and obligation breaks down, the social structure is forever damaged. Nothing is sacred and no good deed goes unpunished in a land ruled by a confederacy of brutes.</b></span></div><br />
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</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08917690356007779691noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4325751861618941549.post-51995776453594746782011-07-19T19:14:00.000-07:002011-07-19T20:16:46.704-07:00A Broken World<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgnmrN3Ek63EOyLJuWHG-dbVTmHOuMPeG-02ZYLJTYNri7dL5-Upkg92EcIqXKO_ln4SzjeETF_cS25y3rtaQWLu_Juir_z7rFGVPyjCcULCzlqYihjwxeDFKiUytsYyCsT2tlrs9dSbk/s1600/monterrey.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="436" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgnmrN3Ek63EOyLJuWHG-dbVTmHOuMPeG-02ZYLJTYNri7dL5-Upkg92EcIqXKO_ln4SzjeETF_cS25y3rtaQWLu_Juir_z7rFGVPyjCcULCzlqYihjwxeDFKiUytsYyCsT2tlrs9dSbk/s640/monterrey.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>The industrious northern city of Monterrey has always been the one metropolis that the people of Mexico could point to proudly and say "Yes! this is who we are." When The Gulf Cartel aided by Los Zetas, fought off a hostile take-over bid by Chapo Guzman in 2005, Monterrey dodged a bullet. With the Gulf Cartel in charge, the city was relatively untouched and peaceful. However, the killing of a Zeta jefe in 2010, led to a split between the former partners and renewed violence. This time around, Monterrey would not be spared a bloodbath. </b></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><b>Los Zetas made Monterrey their base, and now The Gulf Cartel wants to dislodge them. Los Zetas are not only biting the hand that once fed them, but like any snake, they also want to devour the entire body. Before long, victims were hanging from overpasses, having been tortured, shot or in one particularly hideous case, burned alive. Los Zetas boldly post recruiting banners across highway bridges that state "Join Us! We Don't Eat Ramen" which apparently is what Mexican soldiers are fed on a regular basis. </b></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGcajUKWYPHIBrmkTKn-kRJ-B9xM6NqvMalR3M8Lz6FWAkXWS8WQihmi5-SVYTYiAc7ECuM06VSbqQKaEULHK9Z3-n59MDDQ-75hKHwdZ_NBovNansJg2_FRozgjMZ_-p5_NLIXE3EdtQ/s1600/air+pollution-monterrey.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGcajUKWYPHIBrmkTKn-kRJ-B9xM6NqvMalR3M8Lz6FWAkXWS8WQihmi5-SVYTYiAc7ECuM06VSbqQKaEULHK9Z3-n59MDDQ-75hKHwdZ_NBovNansJg2_FRozgjMZ_-p5_NLIXE3EdtQ/s320/air+pollution-monterrey.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-size: small;"> "As long as there are consumers and a critical mass of young people for these gangs to recruit, it's hard to imagine the number (of killings) will go down," said Jorge Domene, a spokesman for the state of Nuevo Leon. Mexican government officials excell at stating the obvious. In the meantime Mexico's drug cartels do battle like Godzilla & Mothra. Laying waste to one city after another. As was the case in Juarez, Nuevo Laredo and Tijuana, the killings will continue until there is a clear cut winner...no more...no less. </span></b><br />
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</div><div style="text-align: justify;"></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>Two years ago, Mexican poet and novelist, Javier Sicilia was awarded Mexico's top poetry prize for a poem that spoke of "The mystery of God in a broken world" Then, in March of 2011 his son, Juan, a university student and six of his friends were found, murdered execution style in Cuernavaca. By all accounts they were innocent victims, in the wrong place at the wrong time. This has become an all too common occurrence in Mexico, where simple gatherings to celebrate birthdays, weddings or just to blow off steam are invitations to a massacre.</b></span><br />
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</div><div style="text-align: justify;"></div><div style="text-align: justify;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji65UXBk3umEMs5HOpMzoBpjjkQAPWDAtsuKjGZ0oHrHIYdQi-3biy6CsiaqsDkljAD0eN0BeXpKSkdHLO2o00-VTJUaWWe0u2DDyfbKzBrwBnl64LXWLVw1_3bmdm7EA5VYaHJ6_lIRU/s1600/javier-sicilia-mexico-protestjpg-1719066fd27eb77c.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="272" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji65UXBk3umEMs5HOpMzoBpjjkQAPWDAtsuKjGZ0oHrHIYdQi-3biy6CsiaqsDkljAD0eN0BeXpKSkdHLO2o00-VTJUaWWe0u2DDyfbKzBrwBnl64LXWLVw1_3bmdm7EA5VYaHJ6_lIRU/s400/javier-sicilia-mexico-protestjpg-1719066fd27eb77c.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>Now with his own world shattered Javier Sicilia explains that "I still have my faith, but it has sunk into a deep, dark place." To honor his son he wrote a poem "The world is not worthy of words, they have been suffocated from the inside..." He then declared that the public had heard the last poem he would ever write: “Poetry doesn’t exist in me anymore.” Now, Sicilia leads marches under the banner of "Hasta la Madre!" which could be translated as "We have had enough." Still, the poet's marches and other protest efforts have had little effect, they are fighting raging forest fires with water guns. </b></span><br />
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<div style="text-align: center;"><i>The world is not worthy of words</i><br />
<i>they have been suffocated from the inside</i><br />
<i>as they suffocated you, as they tore apart your lungs ...</i><br />
<i>the pain does not leave me</i><br />
<i>all that remains is a world</i><br />
<i>through the silence of the righteous,</i><br />
<i>only through your silence and my silence, Juanelo.</i></div><div style="text-align: center;">Javier Sicilia: Ode to A Son</div></div><br />
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</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08917690356007779691noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4325751861618941549.post-43064794376263212542011-07-13T19:43:00.000-07:002011-07-13T19:50:45.727-07:00Soledad<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFBPwYb0-IPg5ydhWXk23qRyukrzaysrvB06LnbphWzA4huVN3geSrW6LvS1_aV1Q8Vnhks9aDIa9kTcAEm5LG1YQk-Nytrsb3_Jh2vZNCr0nzWWHuXtdohXBTAiBUdjNgABaUt5zfgG0/s1600/BeansUnderIrrigation.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="410" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFBPwYb0-IPg5ydhWXk23qRyukrzaysrvB06LnbphWzA4huVN3geSrW6LvS1_aV1Q8Vnhks9aDIa9kTcAEm5LG1YQk-Nytrsb3_Jh2vZNCr0nzWWHuXtdohXBTAiBUdjNgABaUt5zfgG0/s640/BeansUnderIrrigation.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>The furrows were so long and straight, that the distant ends seemed to disappear with the curvature of the earth. Wavy lines of reflected sunlight gave way to rampaging dust devils all of which gave the fields a hellish sense of isolation. A never changing scene, not much different from a painting hanging in a museum. </b></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>A crop duster cruised overhead, I came to envy the pilots, seemingly freed from the constraints of mortal men. Lucky bastards, they're getting away... A mile distant, the sight of a truck kicking up a plume of dust gave me pause. Who in the hell would think this was a good place for an eleven year old kid? This was my first summer job. While the spoiled youths of summer hung out in air conditioned gyms, practicing lay-up drills, I walked countless miles in the blazing heat. I would trudge my way down the rows, chopping and cutting. Out in the open the only shade you find is your shadow and it's always leaning away from you. </b></span><br />
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</div><div style="text-align: justify;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAYajPt-t7fjA2lgRhRcTRDaztnKKfv3bU1ROtY5Kq_D2Q6VuOlvJJEdkt47PvzXE02cSKevztLF6kmIuJGOMwxpiCp2qCMmO9zlYTJ7JHkNm_DhF0M12bCKhv4aIUxck-CloNigAxjpw/s1600/Mississippi+Cotton+Fields.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAYajPt-t7fjA2lgRhRcTRDaztnKKfv3bU1ROtY5Kq_D2Q6VuOlvJJEdkt47PvzXE02cSKevztLF6kmIuJGOMwxpiCp2qCMmO9zlYTJ7JHkNm_DhF0M12bCKhv4aIUxck-CloNigAxjpw/s320/Mississippi+Cotton+Fields.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-size: small;">I wasn't always alone, every now and then, the farmer's kids would join me, usually as punishment for something they'd done at home. We would talk non-stop, we would tease each other without mercy, we engaged in dirt clod fights and chased lizards across the rows. They also brought a transistor radio with them, silence was vanquished. The voice of KGRT's Steve Crosno resonated across the fields as did the music of The Dave Clark Five, Doug Sahm and Sam The Sham.</span></b></div><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>Not owning a watch, I learned to tell time by the sun.. I had twelve noon down to a few minutes. For lunch, the boss would drive by and take me to a nearby irrigation tank that had a cluster of weeping willows growing around it. I would eat my modest lunch, refill my canvas water bag and then sling rocks at bullfrogs until he came back for me. "Don't kill the bullfrogs" he would tell me "They keep the mosquitos down." After lunch his boys would leave for basketball practice or Little League games and I would be alone again. </b></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-size: small;">I kept my mind occupied by reconstructing the radio program from that morning. I also re-played baseball games and pro-wrestling matches from the night before, somehow finding a way to put myself in the action. After a while, I made-up my own radio stations, I became the dj, I came up with my own lyrics. Imaginary baseball teams and athletes came to life in my mind, it was the original fantasy league. </span></b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-size: small;">In the movie "Cabeza De Baca" which is about the travels of a Spanish explorer who finds himself shipwrecked along the Gulf Coast. There's a scene where he finds himself repeating a word in Spanish, over and over, as if the mechanics of speech were now foreign to him. I became prone to bouts of soliloquy, a subliminal response to the crushing silence. Funny thing is, once work was done I didn't feel like talking to anyone.</span></b><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-size: small;">I had always imagined that I would grow up to be a farmer. That my father and I, would drive tractors side by side. Together we would plow the long straight furrows, the kind that you could look back at with pride. In tandem we would hoist the PVC pipes, dropping one at the head of each row and in one swift motion starting a flow of water down the line. It wasn't to be, just like thousands of other farm families, we moved into town and I became a townie. The experience forged me into a better person, although, in a strange way I found the solitude of the furrows to be better company than the town kids.</span></b><br />
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</div>.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08917690356007779691noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4325751861618941549.post-78994068090041937032011-06-27T13:30:00.000-07:002011-06-27T17:27:21.153-07:00Border War!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9nHH7JWRwJWBWJFtLEVTODdZnzOH7aBn73PdJtlsejVYp59tmcLFSDPxTFwf7KOG_F91cZ9EvaI5jnKBznj6w9lEa_F-KdQUXpsn-myG4SNWtPrEgUTsrtrK9PBUmukIGczwEijjyH8A/s1600/23456299039200-26102928.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9nHH7JWRwJWBWJFtLEVTODdZnzOH7aBn73PdJtlsejVYp59tmcLFSDPxTFwf7KOG_F91cZ9EvaI5jnKBznj6w9lEa_F-KdQUXpsn-myG4SNWtPrEgUTsrtrK9PBUmukIGczwEijjyH8A/s640/23456299039200-26102928.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>Tim Howard is mad, the goalkeeper for the U.S. National Soccer squad was livid following their loss to Mexico in the Gold Cup final (4-2 after jumping out to a 2-0 advantage) He wasn't angry over his poor play in goal, nor was he angry at how his mates plodded up and down the pitch after Mexico tied the match at 2-2. Howard was angry because the post-game ceremonies were conducted in Spanish.</b></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>It may seem that Tim Howard's best days are behind him (as was the ball...four times) Howard is not prone to show tact or class in these situations, he has a long legacy of baiting opponents and their fans. Which is why Mexican fans, who know him well, greeted him with a loud chorus of "Culo" (Asshole) every time he touched the ball.</b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnuzStpIVoZu5yzksML-O7WAbsB6Sj1rX6a03nKueOS-WLmwq5mDklCktsUmNr0k4IQ0Q8mlOuYQFl_eKpKLeG8ipglEIXkVpfXmwqrnJT8HIHG3S9p0XiwMqR_0GYBOoiKkXc0lkYY8s/s1600/us-goalkeeper-tim-howard-tight-file-world-cup-injured-b454728173855af4_large.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="216" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnuzStpIVoZu5yzksML-O7WAbsB6Sj1rX6a03nKueOS-WLmwq5mDklCktsUmNr0k4IQ0Q8mlOuYQFl_eKpKLeG8ipglEIXkVpfXmwqrnJT8HIHG3S9p0XiwMqR_0GYBOoiKkXc0lkYY8s/s320/us-goalkeeper-tim-howard-tight-file-world-cup-injured-b454728173855af4_large.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>Whenever Mexico plays in Los Angeles or anywhere in the Southwest (even Chicago is considered home turf for the Mexican squad) it turns into a home game for them. For this reason games of importance like World Cup qualifiers are held at eastern venues. The Gold Cup finals are not that important, filling the stadium and making some cash, means giving up the home field advantage. </b></span></div><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>I think I know where Tim is coming from. Everybody remembers Radio Raheem from Spike Lee's "Do The Right Thing" and his crude admonishment to the poor Korean shopkeeper: "Speak English Motherfucker" Who hasn't repeated that line or heard someone repeat it? It has become a rally cry for proving how American you are, it affects everyone, African Americans, Whites and Hispanics. Does Tim Howard feel a need to prove that he is 100% American? Or is he an English First devotee, out to fight the good fight in the name of Shakespeare. </b></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJGIZF6BqKfQ_0WwQUxu8djAnwj7sv1s8_XCMxapGULMVvdvTaAoaR-0f_XCp3_L4f2bIyAqiPqhpP3bp-3ALxKaENkecDbPwvBqgFDjvp5_IbhgzQS1zEfhmESk3ioj3If4ggxw7XPNs/s1600/RadioRaheem.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJGIZF6BqKfQ_0WwQUxu8djAnwj7sv1s8_XCMxapGULMVvdvTaAoaR-0f_XCp3_L4f2bIyAqiPqhpP3bp-3ALxKaENkecDbPwvBqgFDjvp5_IbhgzQS1zEfhmESk3ioj3If4ggxw7XPNs/s1600/RadioRaheem.jpg" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><b>F<span style="font-size: small;">or a long time soccer in this country was the sport of rich europhiles, over the years it has changed, but those elitist roots are still evident. The U.S. soccer squad turns into the Ugly Americans whenever things go against them, and in international soccer, the Americans have long been the whipping boy. When asked why he was rooting against the U.S. squad, a Mexican fan, born in the U.S.A. replied: "We're not booing the country, we're booing the team" to which he added "There is a difference" Which is to say that the American team is not very likeable, historically the U.S. squad has never been one that Hispanic Americans can warm up to. </span></b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>Some of it goes back to the Bruce Arena era, who instilled in his squads an anti-Latino bias that still seems to linger. Bruce Arena reminded American players that Mexico always stands in line behind America. The players bought into it and went out and dominated the Mexican team for the duration of Arena's stay. This resulted in a shell shocked generation of Mexican players who were ridiculed for being afraid of "Los Gringos" The low point of that era was Mexico's 2-0 loss to the U.S. in the 2002 World Cup quarter finals.</b></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>The new generation of Mexican players is not afraid of the USA nor are Canada, Panama, Jamaica etc. Once that tide has turned, as the Mexicans found out, it's hard to reverse it. Eventually, you can turn it around, I would say bring back Bruce Arena, but he burned his bridges on the way out. Arena was the best coach the U.S. ever had, the one person who could've taken them to the next level. Bruce however proved to be boorish, racist and vulgar (when he wasn't acting totally bored, he would pick his teeth on camera and spit gigantic loogies onto the pitch) </b></span><br />
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</div><div style="text-align: justify;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzKKM2mk6yeX5dHu1BNENYzjUKipCubElrstwX7A1mEDGr9BnfPAHRK9pPXgL9-a-XctbhOPTXtIIaR5bomIlAokPHXTQ0M7Kgwenh-zHl-dHl4lC0GLzicgS1t6jPAqMaXky3ylBjvCc/s1600/_41799916_arena416.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="230" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzKKM2mk6yeX5dHu1BNENYzjUKipCubElrstwX7A1mEDGr9BnfPAHRK9pPXgL9-a-XctbhOPTXtIIaR5bomIlAokPHXTQ0M7Kgwenh-zHl-dHl4lC0GLzicgS1t6jPAqMaXky3ylBjvCc/s320/_41799916_arena416.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>Arena's biggest mistake was sticking the U.S. team with a boring style that mimicked the Euros. He refused to incorporate any elements of the Latin game, even though that style was dominating the world scene. Bob Bradley has stuck to the same formula with mixed results. Is it his fault that the U.S. Men's team still seems to be spinning its wheels?. No! he's made lemonade out of lemons, albeit without having much sugar to work with. This is a very ordinary group of players that Bradley has built his squad with, but the pool to draw from is stocked with less than stellar futbolistas.</b></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>Don't believe the hype, most Mexican-Americans are staunchly pro-American, some just prefer to root for a different team. And that's what it's all about in America, freedom of choice. Dodger-Giants, Raiders-Chargers, you pick your side and you don't have to explain your choice to anyone.</b></span><br />
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</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08917690356007779691noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4325751861618941549.post-30820432185281260062011-06-12T10:27:00.000-07:002011-06-12T11:12:42.639-07:00Proofing Tools<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4BGiu7H1j05LJHUf22b-mTU2W9f8u5PCK2M_DguOpkLdSkvvtd1UwHmK4RNIU425L_PUPYv1KPHLhpED1bWkyDBhcqecJSl6ZUKj5HqNxZK85Rd6ao5Yn52CluoOh0Q2MFZpnsS-oJ14/s1600/damned-bored.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4BGiu7H1j05LJHUf22b-mTU2W9f8u5PCK2M_DguOpkLdSkvvtd1UwHmK4RNIU425L_PUPYv1KPHLhpED1bWkyDBhcqecJSl6ZUKj5HqNxZK85Rd6ao5Yn52CluoOh0Q2MFZpnsS-oJ14/s400/damned-bored.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>Writing just like pimping, ain't easy, what with all the grammar rules, punctuation and proper sentence structure. I try and make up for what I don't know about writing by being an astute reader and observer. The rule of thumb in this country has always been, that the average adult reads at a 7th. grade level. Most newspapers and magazines format their content along this assumption. If you're thinking "damn are we that dumb!" Just remember that 7th graders are not as dumb as we once were, and in other countries the average is probably much lower. </b></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><b>I bought some software online that's supposed to help, Right Writer 6.0 is a grammar analysis tool, it checks your writing for basic errors: grammar, punctuation and spelling. You copy and paste whatever you've written onto the analysis page, you then get a summary page and suggestions on how to correct your errors. There is a scale that tells you how comprehensive your work is and at what grade level it will best be understood. </b></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><b>The goal is a 7th. grade level, so if you come in high, for lack of a better phrase, you have to dumb it down. Often, what happens is you wind up gutting what you've written until it falls into the desired level. This paragraph, according to Right Writer 6.0 could be read by anyone with a 6th grade reading level or higher. The descriptive index is normal, which means the use of adjectives and adverbs is normal. The jargon index is 0.0 meaning that it's not overly wordy. </b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvpGlQW20z76Ca3XMcJcfV6jHxNekPfOQKIlOolU7DWN6kjRGX85M_F8d4X8g-6r1IdZxGTPkUdqf9Am5qpw5FkAd7BldIlj_B7hIbfdfXSbjlVuM1Cw_4163bWoD8i7p_R4W10AA6NFc/s1600/tumbleweed-e1298782966217.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvpGlQW20z76Ca3XMcJcfV6jHxNekPfOQKIlOolU7DWN6kjRGX85M_F8d4X8g-6r1IdZxGTPkUdqf9Am5qpw5FkAd7BldIlj_B7hIbfdfXSbjlVuM1Cw_4163bWoD8i7p_R4W10AA6NFc/s320/tumbleweed-e1298782966217.jpg" width="208" /></a></div><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>Just for fun I started to copy and paste paragraphs from various popular authors and writers. The software found something wrong with everything I fed it, this included Pynchon, Vonnegut, Hunter Thompson, Hemingway and even Lester Bangs, who didn't do as poorly as you might imagine.. I haven't used the software in a while, It broke when I entered several paragraphs from Rudolfo Carillo's Infinity Report. Now it just flashes "analyzing" over and over. I say it's broken but it could be gaining artificial intelligence, if it does I'll have to kill it.</b></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><b>What I failed to see when I started my blog is that nobody likes to read anymore! I formatted my blog like a newspaper, text with pictures wrapped in text. Then as I followed other blogs I noticed that the style is to write short paragraphs with space between each one. Less text, fewer pictures, it does make for a fast, easy read and that counts with today's attention deficient masses (myself included!) I'll try it, new ways are often better ways.</b></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><b>It's a brave new world out there and those that don't change get left behind and I'm too far back as it is. I need to mosey down to the local community college and enroll in that Rhetoric and Composition class that I failed to take last year. I need professional help, I'm working on a short story and so far all I have is one run-on sentence that takes up 4 pages. Keep you pencils sharp, it's getting mighty dull around here! </b></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: separate; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; orphans: 2; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="text-align: left;"><span class="body" style="font-family: Verdana,Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: 10pt;">"Either write something worth reading or do something worth writing."</span><span class="bodybold" style="font-family: Verdana,Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; font-weight: bold;"> </span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: separate; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; orphans: 2; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="text-align: left;"><span class="bodybold" style="font-family: Verdana,Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; font-weight: bold;">Benjamin Franklin</span><br />
</span></span></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08917690356007779691noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4325751861618941549.post-39733571981077616232011-05-30T11:47:00.000-07:002011-05-30T17:29:56.470-07:00Memorial Day<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNnqff_QyEbwQpth2t_1MfaVZdTcZBmcXDAxG7jwPSzc8ccO9Xmcmab2zXbnUZshXaKZHuUODOdMk7JAhFx8u5JuBygvGJfvWbbjOPoxap4Ak6nsniEYDiwDeFTpaeD_0D51Ntwwqw5Zc/s1600/NM+Nat%2527l+Guard+Logo.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNnqff_QyEbwQpth2t_1MfaVZdTcZBmcXDAxG7jwPSzc8ccO9Xmcmab2zXbnUZshXaKZHuUODOdMk7JAhFx8u5JuBygvGJfvWbbjOPoxap4Ak6nsniEYDiwDeFTpaeD_0D51Ntwwqw5Zc/s320/NM+Nat%2527l+Guard+Logo.png" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Bob Dylan once asked: How many roads must a man walk down, Before you call him a man ?</i><br />
<i>Today we ask: How many times does a man go to war before you call him an American?</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><b>Since before we became a state, New Mexico's Hispanic soldiers have answered the call to duty, The New Mexico National Guard, which included a high percentage of Hispanics, suffered through the Bataan Death March. Then as POW's they were treated brutally and without humanity by their Japanese captors. Of the 2,000 or so New Mexico Guardsmen in the Phillipines when World War II started, barely half returned home. During the Korean and Vietnam Wars, New Mexico's Hispanic towns and villages sent thousands of young men to fight, paying a price that was way out of proportion with their populations. Over the course of recent American history, Hispanic citizens and soldiers alike, have done all that has been asked of them "Lest we forget, this day is set aside to remind us"</b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
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<div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">Memorial Day<br />
The call to duty is never refused, you need not ask, for we will fight<br />
if the flag falls pick it up, if the tide turns stand your ground<br />
until the guns grow silent and peace returns us to our homes<br />
white marble slabs mark the stone gardens<br />
mortal remains planted in their native soils<br />
look across yonder and always....always remember <br />
that the entry fee is paid for with blood and honor <br />
in service we stride into the fields of combat<br />
in battle only your brothers stand next to you<br />
and on his behalf, no sacrifice too small, no price too high<br />
in the eyes of our enemies there are no distinctions<br />
We are all Americans, they know of our willingness to fight<br />
America is great because her soldiers are great<br />
lest we forget, this day is set aside to remind us</span></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgejsci4PaF3oDm13bNG406MvMd5_zfCs3sB45XoHM89Nupe9EVbNcmsP0jIV_T8EkJteIvTx17WdqV-3Dwv63udOYKILGoznIxOPgvWzYN16zYwDFsIu0zzG7Z0LRce3FsFvC1oc-_v6U/s1600/vets.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="215" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgejsci4PaF3oDm13bNG406MvMd5_zfCs3sB45XoHM89Nupe9EVbNcmsP0jIV_T8EkJteIvTx17WdqV-3Dwv63udOYKILGoznIxOPgvWzYN16zYwDFsIu0zzG7Z0LRce3FsFvC1oc-_v6U/s320/vets.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></i></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08917690356007779691noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4325751861618941549.post-65501494394799154642011-05-27T18:59:00.000-07:002011-05-27T19:21:00.901-07:00Don't Panic!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguBQWmuCljjsd-xvssx3-iPukzdoawvhPHNPauLG791teBEiwuqQXh8pFaTxKzN8D04RJr4FllGm7upTV7si2JY1L6_y2P8hP22d7rGROjFkmaE6GfvToRWNmd9AS5c4I7qtrSNGnIgds/s1600/S9200005-UFO_The_Roswell_Incident_artwork_-SPL.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="419" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguBQWmuCljjsd-xvssx3-iPukzdoawvhPHNPauLG791teBEiwuqQXh8pFaTxKzN8D04RJr4FllGm7upTV7si2JY1L6_y2P8hP22d7rGROjFkmaE6GfvToRWNmd9AS5c4I7qtrSNGnIgds/s640/S9200005-UFO_The_Roswell_Incident_artwork_-SPL.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>Could it be that space aliens were playing a game of chicken over central New Mexico in 1947? A game that went terribly wrong with two spacecrafts colliding into each other, scattering debris from Corona to the Plains of St. Agustin. Although this purported UFO crash is closely linked with Roswell, N.M. none of the alleged crash sites were within 70 miles of Roswell. The Roswell Incident as it is now known, is back in the news with the release of Annie Jacobsen's book "Area 51" published by Little, Brown and Co. A review of the book by The New York Times states that her reporting of the top secret base is backed by "numbingly intensive documentation." Although it primarily deals with the mysterious Air Force base in Nevada, it's her controversial claim that the Roswell Incident was merely a hoax perpetrated by the Soviets that has UFO geeks spitting Red Bull all over their computer screens. Annie, you're fucking with my emotions here, the legend of space aliens crashing to earth in New Mexico, gave birth to "A story cherished by conspiracy theorists and not easily refuted." or so The New York Times states. That wild tale of alien voyagers spawned Roswell's numero uno cash cow; The Annual UFO Festival, which takes places the first weekend of July. Annie Jacobsen speculates that Soviet dictator Josef Stalin recruited Nazi physician Josef Mengele after World War II to produce "grotesque, child-size aviators" who would fly into the United States. Once discovered their very appearance was supposed to instill fear and panic much like Orson Welles' War of the Worlds. </b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYNHPhjfhtD0MeweBpbnYuZTHtq37WfupN00zMHPdZMrQ774xRv7wDcS1e9vUglyuGcd4XmtESIoeoUAu5BDalTrYfxxvOUtysltvAJv0ELdGHruNI_vFmMP1Y2i1mHiCXe6UGrBkrgMk/s1600/roswell1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYNHPhjfhtD0MeweBpbnYuZTHtq37WfupN00zMHPdZMrQ774xRv7wDcS1e9vUglyuGcd4XmtESIoeoUAu5BDalTrYfxxvOUtysltvAJv0ELdGHruNI_vFmMP1Y2i1mHiCXe6UGrBkrgMk/s320/roswell1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>It sounds crazy as a shithouse rat, so let's take a closer look, these mutants while physical deformed would need the mental capacity required to understand aeronautics. They would have to fly their crafts to the American Southwest, since the technology for self guided or remote controlled aircraft was in it's primitive stages in 1947. So, the Soviets couldn't just pack some peabrained science experiment into capsules, someone had to operate the craft with some expertise. I smell cowpies and I'm not the only one with a working bullshit detector around here. New Mexico's resident UFO expert (yes, we have one) Bill Lyne of Lamy,N.M. also doesn't like what he smells, but for different reasons. "They're just saying what I've been saying all along, that it was a hoax," he said. "But that Mengele stuff is a bunch of hogwash because Mengele was recruited by the CIA, and he was actually brought to Albuquerque." That's right, remember that creepy guy at the Edelweiss German American Club </b></span><span style="font-size: small;"><b> who went around telling all the young girls "My what pretty blue eyes you have" yeah that was him. Lyne goes on to say that the Roswell Incident was a hoax perpetrated by our own government and not the Soviets. Lyne also added that the alien remains recovered in New Mexico were rhesus monkeys, with all their hair shaved off, and their skin tinted green. Lyne's remarks seemed to set off a pissing contest between ufologists, Peter Davenport, who runs the National UFO Reporting Center crawled out of the woodwork to say: "If they (The Nazis) had that kind of technology, the Germans would have won the war," Clifford Clift of the Mutual UFO Network (I'm not making this stuff up) questioned why this would take place in the desert. "It is a stretch, one of my concerns is if they wanted to create panic, why in New Mexico and not New York where there are more people to panic?" I guess the Soviets didn't plan on lazy 'ol Mac Brazel ignoring the crash site for three weeks before reporting it to local authorities. That's no way to start a panic, ultimately there are too many holes in Annie's Soviet theory for it to be believable</b></span>.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1Yaq8zgcTuDVhvGiz4OI8NWzVfAs-QtWNc_InvNHb5pRLiPtCSPl7JgIarrsdFTV8mfZ6uTbA6DU9Ew57TrEi07u4NEpJo2devSECHj_ZzhIBElZH5Z22lxDrgfXEHhPBUDoUm26jftE/s1600/roswelldebris.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1Yaq8zgcTuDVhvGiz4OI8NWzVfAs-QtWNc_InvNHb5pRLiPtCSPl7JgIarrsdFTV8mfZ6uTbA6DU9Ew57TrEi07u4NEpJo2devSECHj_ZzhIBElZH5Z22lxDrgfXEHhPBUDoUm26jftE/s320/roswelldebris.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b> On June 14th, 1947 William "Mac" Brazel, the foreman for the Foster Ranch, located 70 miles north of Roswell, came upon a strange debris field near a water tank. Brazel would later describe it to the Roswell Daily Record as "A large area of bright wreckage made up of rubber strips, tinfoil, a rather tough paper and sticks." (Right there that should've set off all kinds of alarm bells. These aliens were capable of intergalactic travel, yet the only material available to build their space crafts was rubber, foil & sticks?) Brazel would return to the site on July 4th to gather up some of the material. With the nearest telephones 30 miles away in Corona, Brazel felt no urgent need to contact authorities. Following a timeline of events that transpired during that first week of July, 1947, Dan Wilmot of Roswell reported on July 2nd. 1947, that an object had passed overhead which Wilmot described as "like two inverted saucers faced mouth to mouth." On the morning of July 3rd. 1947, on the Plains of San Agustin, 150 miles west of Corona. Barney Barnett and a group of archaeologists supposedly stumbled upon an alien craft and its deceased occupants. Before they could report it, military personnel showed up and they were ushered out of the area. This would take us to July 6th. when Brazel met with Chaves County Sheriff Wilcox to report his find.</b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZg2BApgK3gUqPDxGfWdxfnSF-vmAZZ4YVx7weICmW8yRmM7ubfydpF2ejVTzI0krbw2gQ2M070YzYHk3iJAtwE7PR9_tTL5YwlfGrqQEGENn2XkKXDfob5BRgAblm2igawEbMGXca1bk/s1600/images.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZg2BApgK3gUqPDxGfWdxfnSF-vmAZZ4YVx7weICmW8yRmM7ubfydpF2ejVTzI0krbw2gQ2M070YzYHk3iJAtwE7PR9_tTL5YwlfGrqQEGENn2XkKXDfob5BRgAblm2igawEbMGXca1bk/s1600/images.jpg" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>If Brazel first discovered the debris on June 14th, what did Wilmot see, an alien search party? Could it be that what Barnett's group discovered was wreckage that had been undiscovered since June 14th or earlier? The symposium of theories seems to be that both Brazel's & Barnett's discoveries were the result of the same accident. On July 7th. Brazel accompanied by Sheriff Wilcox, Maj. Jesse Marcel and a G-man dressed in black, traveled to the Foster ranch to examine the debris field. The men would spend a couple of hours at the site before returning to Roswell AAF, later it was reported that a company of soldiers arrived in trucks to scour the site clean of all crash evidence. The first public reports of the incident came out on July 8th, when the now infamous press release was made available: <i>"The many rumors regarding the flying disc became a reality yesterday when the intelligence office of the 509th Bomb group of the Eighth Air Force, Roswell Army Air Field, was fortunate enough to gain possession of a disc through the cooperation of one of the local ranchers and the sheriff's office of Chaves County. The flying object landed on a ranch near Roswell sometime last week. Not having phone facilities, the rancher stored the disc until such time as he was able to contact the sheriff's office, who in turn notified Maj. Jesse A. Marcel of the 509th Bomb Group Intelligence Office. Action was immediately taken and the disc was picked up at the rancher's home. It was inspected at the Roswell Army Air Field and subsequently loaned by Major Marcel to higher headquarters." </i> By the following morning, the military was doing some heavy duty backpedaling. Under orders from Gen. Roger Ramey of The Eighth Air Force at Carswell AAF in Ft. Worth, Tx. another press release was issued accompanied with a photograph of Maj. Marcel holding pieces of the debris. This release identified the object as being a weather balloon and its kite, which was a radar reflector used to track the balloons from the ground. For all intents and purposes that was the end of the story, everyone at Roswell AAF including Brazel and Sheriff Wilcox shut their pie holes. </b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYsA49iTdAKLmk9C4A6d2-NdTIL1JtcBgCpXKXmKTEYc6ZjwKBTdb9vdn0nvDeXZLgt2dR7Q3pVYsX2m3xQ7i87NHKLCSYlL7D3Mtn2v_KtRdeh_khPZVl3Ps54MX99RpSggLXK7C7I5U/s1600/marcel1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYsA49iTdAKLmk9C4A6d2-NdTIL1JtcBgCpXKXmKTEYc6ZjwKBTdb9vdn0nvDeXZLgt2dR7Q3pVYsX2m3xQ7i87NHKLCSYlL7D3Mtn2v_KtRdeh_khPZVl3Ps54MX99RpSggLXK7C7I5U/s320/marcel1.jpg" width="237" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>On March 22nd, 1950, FBI Special Agent Guy Hottel issued a report to the Director of the Bureau which stated that the Air Force recovered three flying saucers and nine 3 feet tall human shaped bodies from the New Mexico crash sites. Which didn't seem to concern J. Edgar Hoover, as no action seems to have been taken. The story would lie dormant and forgotten even in Roswell until 1978, when physicist and ufologist Stanton Friedman interviewed Major Jesse Marcel who was involved with the original recovery of the debris in 1947. Maj. Marcel expressed his belief that the military had covered up the recovery of an alien spacecraft. His story spread through UFO circles, being featured in some UFO documentaries and The National Enquirer. This garnered national and worldwide attention for the Roswell incident, planting the seeds for a cottage industry that continues to thrive in Roswell to this day. Just like all those self styled ufologists, I have an opinion of what took place: 1. What Mac Brazel discovered was in fact a Project Mogul balloon array and its tracking kite. 2. Barney Barnett's report of finding alien corpses and wreckage was a hoax 3. All reports of alien autopsies<span id="goog_459766074"></span><span id="goog_459766075"></span>, mysterious nurses who vanished and requests for child size caskets are just part of the Roswell myth and legend. 4. Jesse Marcel tailored his recollection of actual events to meet his self serving needs. 5. Not one scrap of evidence of any kind has ever turned up. There are people who will go to their deathbeds or have already done so, believing it happened. It's just as well, because who the hell would want to attend a Project Mogul Balloon Crash Festival.? </b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxOowf2r-JiC0bjnsMNHNe2xG4XMTtpv-yrrpCOBCIigW1u6jPyEuc7gwAp63zogeCcJYp9DvegeuoRp5IAxe9h95u1oeNFg7ytuIGFu_BX_cay-k083tcVbWRvzaRNqcVshA9j03GiB0/s1600/roswell_agustinet.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxOowf2r-JiC0bjnsMNHNe2xG4XMTtpv-yrrpCOBCIigW1u6jPyEuc7gwAp63zogeCcJYp9DvegeuoRp5IAxe9h95u1oeNFg7ytuIGFu_BX_cay-k083tcVbWRvzaRNqcVshA9j03GiB0/s320/roswell_agustinet.jpg" width="259" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b><br />
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</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08917690356007779691noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4325751861618941549.post-19012299539116277722011-05-23T15:26:00.000-07:002011-05-23T15:32:18.839-07:00A Fool and His Gold Are Soon Departed<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIje2rOExRSnZlgRb-1oIwsswKehLDflBW5kgVFibIkhBaJgS23_UaGq0OiizWAOKs_0btufn_Gv4KNbxGqvzquoBYlH2jIeMkWPI2ZLfldcDxns29q5cLz8s3pRdrQzZUzQYBEZQl-_c/s1600/victorio-peak.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="497" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIje2rOExRSnZlgRb-1oIwsswKehLDflBW5kgVFibIkhBaJgS23_UaGq0OiizWAOKs_0btufn_Gv4KNbxGqvzquoBYlH2jIeMkWPI2ZLfldcDxns29q5cLz8s3pRdrQzZUzQYBEZQl-_c/s640/victorio-peak.jpg" width="640" /> </a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span class="fw_sanitized"><b>This is a fantastic tale of lost treasure, betrayal and ultimately murder. It involves skeletons staked to cavern floors </b><b>and tethered to cavern walls, skeletons stacked like cord wood, military cover-ups, mine openings blasted shut and never found again, off duty Airmen stumbling on a cache of gold bars and gold seekers buried alive (allegedly). All this over a mound of rock and dirt, barely 500ft. high. A hill that you could walk around and over twice before you got tired. That the murder took place is probably the only part of the Milton Ernest "Doc" Noss lore that is based on reality. Then again, the man who killed Noss, Charles Ryan was acquitted of all charges, thus according to the courts, not even a murder took place. </b><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1zkgsMh7Q2WmHy6ASLA97lSAD2jzqE8tO8FWNjjDb3m6SfYTO1eySYuJyTd2Vki2P6w6z1QbpleA0dScpXHhyRexbZwfHilajw9JRQphW7bTv3A6gHb4h_gl9EaVzcEXPBYQEnbBYIyYx/s1600/05_sign-330.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1zkgsMh7Q2WmHy6ASLA97lSAD2jzqE8tO8FWNjjDb3m6SfYTO1eySYuJyTd2Vki2P6w6z1QbpleA0dScpXHhyRexbZwfHilajw9JRQphW7bTv3A6gHb4h_gl9EaVzcEXPBYQEnbBYIyYx/s320/05_sign-330.jpg" width="264" /></a></div><b> </b><span class="fw_sanitized"><b>To say that this is a sad and sordid saga is a gross understatement. The lies started the day that Doc Noss allegedly dug up that rock to reveal a passage into Victorio Peak. According to Doc Noss he removed over 200 gold bars, jeweled swords, coins and a jewel adorned crown from the shaft, and stashed all of it in the nearby desert. Surely a find of that nature would have been hard to keep under wraps. In fact the entire Victorio Peak tale is full of things and objects that no one ever saw. No gold bars were ever produced, no one, other than Noss, Babe (his wife) and an inept mining engineer ever saw the shaft. We are expected to believe that Noss was able to control the urge to cash in on a king's ransom? Private ownership of gold was illegal at the time, but a man with access to that much gold (allegedly) would find a way to get that gold out of the country. The borders were wide open back in those days, he could have driven a truck load of gold into Mexico or Canada. He could have reported his find to the government and negotiated a finders fee. There were options that would have allowed him to live well for the rest of his life. Instead he chose to hide the treasure and live on the edge of poverty in Hot Springs, N.M.!</b></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw4MN1M5roYM52eIQn1wjpVIpSV0Sd-oZek2ia0AIUXdTNYBdViRZ4fOqrNxUagTZ7aNG0-lUKLZ_G81OP1K2X276BN8Du6AHFcxKCj7hUIIunxCrfGvl56_I1RVb9iA98mpqjZOcAd7Um/s1600/04_doc_and_babe-330.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw4MN1M5roYM52eIQn1wjpVIpSV0Sd-oZek2ia0AIUXdTNYBdViRZ4fOqrNxUagTZ7aNG0-lUKLZ_G81OP1K2X276BN8Du6AHFcxKCj7hUIIunxCrfGvl56_I1RVb9iA98mpqjZOcAd7Um/s400/04_doc_and_babe-330.jpg" width="256" /></a></div><span class="fw_sanitized"><b>That however is not why I think the entire story is bogus. Looking at it from a mining perspective, it doesn't stand up. Doc Noss entered through an opening about 30in. wide. He lowered himself 60ft. into the void before he got to the bottom. There he found another shaft, by his own calculations this shaft was 125' in length. He didn't mention using any ropes, so I assume it was an inclined shaft that sloped down into a natural cavern. Further into the earth he discovered another cavern, 300' to 400' underground. At that depth, without proper ventilation, lack of oxygen becomes a problem, This would make hauling gold bars to the surface quite a staggering task. Doc Noss may have been quite fit, he was after all a chiropractor (sneer) but that's a large order for anyone. It takes a stretch of the imagination to believe that Doc Noss pulled himself up (carrying gold bars that weighed 40lbs. each) countless times to the surface. Even if he was using a pulley and bucket with his wife working on the surface, he still had to haul the gold bars to the shaft. That's 400ft. under the earth in an oxygen starved environment. </b></span></span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><b>This leads to another reason that this s</b><b>tory is fraught with fraud. Why would gold be there in the first place?. The story of Padre LaRue hiding the wealth from his secret gold mines. Only to die at the hands of Spanish soldiers torturing him to reveal his secret, is absurd. Ditto for Victorio and his warriors hiding their plunder at the peak. Think about this, in order to transport that much gold to the site, a train of wagons and pack animals would be needed. Hundreds of men would have to accompany them, and even in colonial New Mexico, this wouldn't have gone unnoticed. As for Maximillian's gold, the same holds true, how were they going to transport that much gold and treasure from Mexico City across an international border, during wartime, without drawing attention. It's the stuff of fairy tales, and when it's said and done, that's all it was. What intrigues me is that so many people took Doc Noss and his wife at their word. Doc Noss was a grifter and a liar, he played his hand and it cost him his life. There never was any real gold, just a fool and his dreams of gold.</b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHJGojsWSWkxxPyZrxJd51JYaBtlGJPKDLy_5q1NQ7gVrk1dYSqy58hU5QKSSX4kaoPF9P0F-VadhFYvA4MYz5fyKFviwjxiPYoYp7ZXAI-oA6V0WMesq6a8QwnIv_JSSfQG6FxoRxLfE/s1600/Doc+Noss+Death.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHJGojsWSWkxxPyZrxJd51JYaBtlGJPKDLy_5q1NQ7gVrk1dYSqy58hU5QKSSX4kaoPF9P0F-VadhFYvA4MYz5fyKFviwjxiPYoYp7ZXAI-oA6V0WMesq6a8QwnIv_JSSfQG6FxoRxLfE/s400/Doc+Noss+Death.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i>This article was originally posted on Argonauts and 40 Niners </i></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08917690356007779691noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4325751861618941549.post-22426377252513964062011-05-19T19:46:00.000-07:002011-05-19T20:00:02.759-07:00We Sell Soul<div style="text-align: justify;"><i>I feel like a reporter for The Police Gazette, researching and writing this article was not easy. These were people you would never want to meet and they committed hideous acts of violence. How is it that two of the vilest cold blooded killers in the history of this state came from the same community? Poor Margaret Salcedo does not deserve to be mentioned with them, yet she became a victim in the same manner as Marie Parker, both were killed by monsters set loose on unsuspecting people.</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRXI7BytfN3D7gDMzcUwBwHg-RgJSHkTK0DdqmQ_YW7-vy4VZ3A8VSGzcKm2ph8DRR3exzd70u5YGxJZKuke6G8qvYPuMD7w8y8d2JHbvmwnwg3sFqk7RNDxdA4JeW-yzweW5bIxhaK9E/s1600/Truth+Consequences-500.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRXI7BytfN3D7gDMzcUwBwHg-RgJSHkTK0DdqmQ_YW7-vy4VZ3A8VSGzcKm2ph8DRR3exzd70u5YGxJZKuke6G8qvYPuMD7w8y8d2JHbvmwnwg3sFqk7RNDxdA4JeW-yzweW5bIxhaK9E/s640/Truth+Consequences-500.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>Before the Rio Grande was dammed, the sleepy little village of Las Palomas was known for its geothermal hot springs and not much else. With the establishment of a post office in 1914, the name was changed to Hot Springs, the completion of the dam in 1916 transformed this tranquil river valley into a mecca for vacationers, boaters and those seeking the regenerative healing powers of the natural springs. That would be the end of our story, but in 1950 the host of a popular radio show, Ralph Edwards found himself in need of a gimmick to celebrate the show's tenth anniversary, "I wish that some town in the United States liked and respected our show so much that it would like to change its name to 'Truth or Consequences.'" Except that it wasn't about respect, what Edwards wanted was for some podunk town to whore themselves out, Hot Springs was his kind of town. The nationwide search began and the village formerly know as Las Palomas quickly made its intentions known, " Here was an opportunity to advertise the city and its resources free of charge! Better still, no longer was our city to be confused with that "other one" in Arkansas" not that anyone was confusing this Hot Springs with the one where FDR played hide the hotdog. A special election was held, however enough residents opposed the idea that it forced a second election, this time the naysayers were browbeaten and the name change was approved. In return for selling their souls to Ralph Edwards, he broadcast his anniversary show live across the nation, from Hot..err! Truth or Consequences. Nobody can argue that it didn't work, 99.9% of what anybody knows about T or C, is a result of the name change. Edwards would return once a year for the Fiesta, he would wave and smile at the town folks, at times he would bring some minor Hollywood celebrity with him. But, the truth is, you fuck with the natural order of things and you suffer...the consequences. </b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZt894pP4jsurx0jw2fPnihyphenhyphenbbYDlKoDEfbtJHvOQB5TdYy2srq23IU-1FbwtLHSChnln0lPQJG0ecwcky3cm63KhHBnsuVXNUy0c9YnaDzNMoW1bUyNz2xioMnkimsb3eOicWAPOJUG8/s1600/ralph03_2_small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZt894pP4jsurx0jw2fPnihyphenhyphenbbYDlKoDEfbtJHvOQB5TdYy2srq23IU-1FbwtLHSChnln0lPQJG0ecwcky3cm63KhHBnsuVXNUy0c9YnaDzNMoW1bUyNz2xioMnkimsb3eOicWAPOJUG8/s320/ralph03_2_small.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>There is something slightly fucked up about the place, and whenever T or C has made headlines it's been for all the wrong reasons. The ill will that seems to plague the town may have started way back in 1937. That's when Milton "Doc" Noss a local chiropractor and scam artist first claimed to have found hundreds of gold bars in a shaft at Victorio Peak. That sordid affair set off a stink bomb around Hot Springs. Doc Noss was screwing with the town's karma and as John Lennon once said "Instant Karma's gonna get you, Gonna knock you right on the head" In 1949, an angry business partner did just that, shooting Milton "Doc" Noss dead in Hatch, N.M. during an argument. That mess was quickly swept under the rug and the focus returned to the town's cash cows, boating and tourism. Every Memorial Day, 4th of July and Labor Day, boaters flock to Elephant Butte Lake, overnight the population swells by 200,000. The crowd seems evenly divided between folks from Albuquerque and El Paso, they come equipped with all the latest water toys. The Texans are the worst, they take over 1-25 like it's a Texas farm road, speeding and passing people without even a courtesy attempt at a turn signal. Once they arrive at the lake they hog up every campsite and generally behave like assholes from El Paso (does anybody else remember Chinga Chavin?) Once the weekend is over they rush back to Texas leaving a trail of busted ass boat trailers strewn along the roadside. Not that Albuquerque boaters behave any better, but at least they're New Mexicans. Hot Springs has always been an anomaly, in the midst of a large Hispanic population, it is unrelentingly white, and it's not the farmers, ranchers or even Mormons that you find elsewhere in New Mexico. No, this is a different breed, they don't run cattle or farm, malfeasance flows in their veins, along with crystal meth. </b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzI-Uc0D1-Ls2dArLJnv5qCSGu0y1yMkHQpGMJHT4D9SWjon8HlcKzfC23SgLSnDf7OWh6opOC21BZs3cjY04eR4v_TU4ToZGMEuLGQ-BR0Kh-ja0Z2F-o0HQdCf6lv1zjpeDvqNXKIVM/s1600/hollywood+video.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzI-Uc0D1-Ls2dArLJnv5qCSGu0y1yMkHQpGMJHT4D9SWjon8HlcKzfC23SgLSnDf7OWh6opOC21BZs3cjY04eR4v_TU4ToZGMEuLGQ-BR0Kh-ja0Z2F-o0HQdCf6lv1zjpeDvqNXKIVM/s1600/hollywood+video.jpg" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>On March 3rd. 1996, Albuquerque residents awoke to reports of an act, so depraved and senseless that it defied understanding. Three night employees of Hollywood Video on San Mateo were found shot to death in the store. Each victim (two female, one male) had been shot three times in the head. The family of the young man killed reported that his grandparents had gone to pick him up from work and now they were missing. It wasn't long before their bodies were found in the East Mountains, they had each been shot nine times. Outrage swept through the Duke City, a reward of $100,000 was offered for any information leading to the killers. Authorities called it "an evil act by evil people" Holly Lawrence who lost her young cousin and her grandparents that night stated: "They didn't do it for the money, you don't rob a store for $1,800 and leave $3,000 behind, I think they just wanted to kill people" Within days APD got a break in the case when a man contacted them and claimed that his girlfriend Esther Beckley had admitted to taking part in the murders. Beckley was arrested and quickly led police to her accomplice, he was Shane Harrison an ex-con from T. or C., who had made his way to Albuquerque following his release from prison. He was a shithead going down the wrong path from an early age, a miscreant angry at the world. The story took a bizarre turn when it was discovered that Harrison had a membership card for that store, and was known to be a regular customer. However, the night before the murders, a young female employee had refused to unlock the front doors for him after closing time. She would later tell police that he stormed off in anger, that young lady remains convinced to this day that what he did was an act of revenge for not opening the door. Both Harrison and Beckley were sentenced to life for the murder of the grandparents, however, to the astonishment of the entire city the jury deadlocked on the killing of the three employees. Former D.A. Kari Brandenburg, under public pressure to convict, instead chose not to retry them, reasoning that both would spend their lives behind bars regardless. Shane Harrison was T. or C.'s psychopathic gift to the land of enchantment, but there was more evil brewing at the Hot Springs and Harrison's deeds would almost pale in comparison. </b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRUys4T-mLGJwNMNanOuujLYyCjH9_c8KMbmsixkVknLOd2iTX_-1o__qe-fGIv47UiW4bci4ATdmdDSGxPHvxm3QaR2ear07L7Z_I1j1Ks0Egn_Kz3GUOEF-M8OVzlmK-zUkFnbUYXHw/s1600/20090716-truth-or-consequences.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRUys4T-mLGJwNMNanOuujLYyCjH9_c8KMbmsixkVknLOd2iTX_-1o__qe-fGIv47UiW4bci4ATdmdDSGxPHvxm3QaR2ear07L7Z_I1j1Ks0Egn_Kz3GUOEF-M8OVzlmK-zUkFnbUYXHw/s320/20090716-truth-or-consequences.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>David Parker Ray a resident of Elephant Butte had devoted his adult life to being a sick twisted fuck. While he nurtured the outward appearance of an average sixty year old man, inside he was a perverted misogynist and sociopath. He might have got away with his sadistic crimes if not for the miraculous escape of Cynthia Vigil. Cindy Hendy a drifter from Seattle and Ray's girlfriend and accomplice, had lured Vigil to his house, once there she was held captive and brutally tortured by Ray with the help of Hendy. On March 22nd. 1999, with Ray gone from the house, Cynthia Vigil grabbed a key to the padlock of the chains holding her, Hendy had left the key on a nearby table. As Vigil tried to free herself, Hendy returned and the two struggled, Hendy smashed Vigil over the head with a lamp, but Cynthia persevered and removed the lock. She then armed herself with an ice pick and stabbed Hendy in the neck. Cynthia Vigil fled from the house naked with an iron collar padlocked around her neck and sought help from nearby houses. A few people turned their backs on her before she found a lady who took her in and called the police. For David Parker Ray the day of reckoning had finally arrived. As Criminal Investigators arrived at Ray's house it became clear that they had stumbled on something sinister. On his property, authorities found a sound proofed travel trailer that housed his "Toy Box" a room equipped with torture implements and devices that he used to inflict pain on his restrained female victims. Many were crafted by Ray, complete with diagrams and instructions, police also found an audio tape, that he used to taunt his semi-conscious victims after torturing them. </b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio6Bq-JEIU2hguTaon7jb8pRMkXDh9CreUw-Vw3Q6Sqpo16Xde9yJyvZyWXQbhORNmh4ZnGC0YnxT5Y1FGtJEWD-Q4_4eZwXaedj-_hjBUc59QxBa831bgE44yiWyHTHDCI5Bs-8aNSCc/s1600/evil_week_teaser_3_snap1275384627.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio6Bq-JEIU2hguTaon7jb8pRMkXDh9CreUw-Vw3Q6Sqpo16Xde9yJyvZyWXQbhORNmh4ZnGC0YnxT5Y1FGtJEWD-Q4_4eZwXaedj-_hjBUc59QxBa831bgE44yiWyHTHDCI5Bs-8aNSCc/s320/evil_week_teaser_3_snap1275384627.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>They came across a video of Ray torturing an unknown woman, A local woman came forward to tell police that she had been imprisoned and tortured by Ray. However, she wasn't the woman in the video, investigators began to wonder just how many victims were out there. The lady on the tape was eventually identified and played a key role in Ray's prosecution. The mounting evidence also connected Ray and Dennis Roy Yancy, a drifter who was known as Ray's disciple to a missing T. or C. woman, Marie Parker. Yancy would confess to strangling Parker, a single mother of two, while Ray took photos. Cindy Hendy, who had quickly turned state's evidence in return for a lighter sentence., told investigators that Glenda Ray (David's daughter), Dennis Yancy and herself would troll the local bars looking for potential victims at David Parker Ray's request. She would also claim that Ray told her that he killed at least 14 women and dumped their bodies in the lake. Information from Hendy allowed investigators to solve the murder of Billy Ray Bowers, who was David Parker Ray's boss when he lived in Phoenix. Bower's body had emerged from the lake in 1989 wrapped in a tarp. Until Ray's arrest, police had not been able to i.d. the body and had filed it away as an unsolved "John Doe" case. While in custody, David Parker Ray would claim that he committed one murder per year for 40 years, FBI agents working the case put the possible count at 60. Ray's first trial in Tierra Amarilla would end in a hung jury, he was retried in Lovington and convicted of abduction and sexual torture. He was sentenced to 223 years in prison, but would only serve 8 months, he died after suffering a heart attack while incarcerated at a state prison. </b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwvuwV8zDUSWir2snMI23evUn4YA32N2tkntp10LHAjyWo27ZP7GSD8gAIxPPCvIU8pYfhYAQuBXNkoBdZ60enyIY83601ZrM4uD9-Aavj2anHAALp7t50hVuQDOE30Nxe6K5d3W01yTM/s1600/27681613_640X360.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwvuwV8zDUSWir2snMI23evUn4YA32N2tkntp10LHAjyWo27ZP7GSD8gAIxPPCvIU8pYfhYAQuBXNkoBdZ60enyIY83601ZrM4uD9-Aavj2anHAALp7t50hVuQDOE30Nxe6K5d3W01yTM/s400/27681613_640X360.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>I wish there was nothing else to report, but bad things just seem to happen in T. or C. On Easter Sunday of this year, 48 year old Margaret Salcedo, while out walking was attacked in the street, by a pack of four pitbulls, who had escaped from a nearby yard. Salcedo desperately fumbled for her cellphone but dropped it when one of the dogs bit her arm. A man driving by, stopped to help her but was driven back to his car when the dogs turned on him. A police officer arrived within minutes, one dog attacked, forcing him to fire several shots wounding that dog and driving off the rest. The officer James Harrington, then assisted Salcedo who had suffered grievous wounds during the brief attack. Salcedo was rushed to the local hospital but succumbed to her injuries a few hours after the attack. Officer Harrington then followed a trail of blood to the home of John Hardiman, who was not at his residence at the time. Harrington found all four dogs on the property, he shot and killed one dog under the house (it was the same one he had wounded earlier) and Animal Control captured the other three canines. Margaret Salcedo who lived alone, did not own a car, she was known to walk everywhere she had to go. "The officer arrived on the scene in less than three minutes, but it must have felt like an eternity to the poor woman being attacked." stated T. or C. Police Chief Patrick Gallagher. Salcedo's brutal death sent shock waves through the community, T. or C. resident Elizabeth Stout said it best: "I think it's like living in the Middle Ages, where you hate to go outside because the wolves are going to eat your grandchildren." Authorities are trying to determine if criminal charges will be filed against John Hardiman.</b></span></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08917690356007779691noreply@blogger.com0