I'd like to call attention to the driver of the white Hybrid vehicle who arrived at the Chinatown/International District Branch of The Seattle Public Library going on five o'clock today, because it speaks to the professional deceit at the root of the The Seattle Times' brag to owning a Pulitzer for investigative journalism. The combination of character in the delivery and the conceit form a very sinister glance at a newspaper that promises to follow The Seattle Post-Intelligencer into oblivion, sooner, rather than later. Since several of the people at The Seattle Times seem both honest and capable in public relations, the unprintable aspects of its cartel make it harder to find endearing the man on the block hawking the Sunday for a quarter discount.
Before you tag me as churlish, I admit the Early Edition of the Sunday Paper on Saturday at the Libraries are FREE, but their purpose is to sustain interest and hopefully sell subscriptions. Since the last few weeks have found the driver arriving progressively later in the day, the newspapers, which used to disappear very rapidly, now often stand through the week untouched and every library employee knows why. The International District Branch is closed on Sunday.
A very friendly delivery man satisfied me that I was doing nothing wrong in taking two copies since I made a point of not keeping either for myself. It's just a routine I have taking them to two local bakeries where persons of my acquaintance who speak English as a second language, but cannot get away from their counters, enjoy them. This was not the same person. Had it been I wouldn't have even got off my question whether it was okay to take two for a few local bakers. I used to feel bad about it, since the papers are so popular on Saturday when they arrive on time and I didn't I couldn't even get one. I could take six of them when they arrive at 5:00 this way and it would be a favor to The Seattle Times.
Hanging around the library I spoke to the employees who showed me a schedule for all the different branches and were happy to give me one. I took a moment to star those closed Sunday while circling the ones that are open, reasoning that the delivery man might want to tell his supervisor and arrange deliveries around the method of having the branches closed on Sunday delivered to first:
Columbia Branch
Delridge Branch
Fremont Branch
Greenlake Branch
High Point Branch
International District/Chinatown Branch
Madrona-Sally Goldmark Branch
Magnolia Branch
Montlake Branch
NewHolly Branch
Northgate Branch
Queen Anne Branch
South Park Branch
University Branch
Wallingford Branch
The remaining twelve branches have Sunday Hours, meaning that newspapers delivered there late Saturday will still have all sorts of folks picking up the paper all day. The way this kid acted towards all of us, literally, who wanted to share this intelligence just to be friendly and helpful made me scribble as the first thing that came to my mind: Like you cared when you napalmed Vietnam.
All I wanted to tell this guy was to remember that if the papers aren't delivered earlier to the branches on Saturday that are closed Sunday it is more likely they will just sit there all week and end up in the trash. He acted like he was John Oates being asked for an autograph.
It's no wonder the Seattle PI went out of print. The word for this man was unprintable, and that is not all I have to say or direct at The Seattle Times concerning the matter. If you have such a blockhead about issues pertaining to the people you petition for subscriptions and attentions, what about the authenticity of your so-called Investigative Journalism? How should I know if the Pulitzer Prize now should have the credibility of a steroid homerun? All I know is what I see and connect with from the paper itself and the people onboard.
The newspaper business is not what it used to be and not only because of electronic editions and the competitions of people who don't work very hard on making sure that sharp eyes and sharp ears are after the truth. I've covered the politics of AIDS a long time, an absolutely dreadful, frightening, cruel development that does not factually discriminate, even by age, God help us, and the entire time I have been literally at war with the newspaper establishment who flat out went barking mad with abuse at me because they don't see fit to tell the slightest truth in the matter to anyone, ever.
A slogan went around about AIDS for a while SILENCE = DEATH but the people in charge of the Act Up lobby, Plague Mass, the Taliban Arts Council of the Gurdjieff Kluk in London, all of them have remained SILENT and sowed DEATH rather than say the first thing about what really has happened.
If words had meaning and the print media friendly to words having meaning, the slogan that would have been popular in the 80's would have been CYNICISM = DEATH, because there was nothing more telling surrounding the age of Reagan than the awful feeling that people were ants, a statement actually made to me, privately to my face by one of the Rockefeller children I met at Swarthmore College and when working in a Medical Library.
I also now know perfectly well what happened and what all went on. Adrian Belew, the loathsome, unsightly rock star who long strained my interest in my once favorite rock band, played his own little game of To Kill A Mockingbird. He used absolutely unspeakable sophistries to make mundane little matters like having a girlfriend or looking at porno into a makeover for the incredible and insane violence of those who released the virus, tilting at semantics, calling virginity proof of rape; mistreating me and mauling me to kingdom come. At his side the snide and sickening Moonunit Zappa creating a maelstrom Rosewood 911 attack predicated on the absolutely ridiculous idea that if I hadn't suffered a rejection hang up about Leslie Katz, a peer of mine who I dated, that I would have saved John Lennon! WHAT? May I ask you in all humility what in the earth is your mental problem?
Unlike the war in Central America, the war on America's Presses, the Brady bunch if you can stand the Aryan flavor of the glee club at work, opened, if you discount the attack on the grandson of Ward Moore of the St. Louis Post-Dispatch, with the shooting of James Brady. Within days, the fabled ticker tapes of the Associated Press went dead, were removed and direct, unchecked dispatches directly from The Pentagon began the wires that went right into newsprint, no byline necessary, no fact check, no review. Nobody cared at all. They were all of them cynical about it. Gone were the stringers listed in the back of Oriana Fallaci's Nothing and So Be It the account of struggling journalists who paid their own way to Vietnam. The Press is banned from reporting about Afghanistan where, by the way, Lou Leto, Director of Army Operations apparently enjoys gurgling about what he incited by spreading the rumor that I am a devil worshipper after a semester with me at Temple. Same Lou Leto, yes or no?
It's chilling and revealing that most insufferable of all the ideas at root in the legacy of the Reagan Menace is also the most laughable ~ the idea that as an extremely traumatized battered child I could have stopped them. The whole point of their slogan : THE NATURE OF REALITY was designed to make a farce of that claim. Hollywood built itself with slogans like: Beyond Yours Wildest Dreams! Well, it doesn't take one of the Zappa darlings to explain to you that the idea that little Jimmy Crary was somehow tied up by nebulous strands with the greatness of John Lennon was a little bit far out to be credited by a normal person who thought they had been singled out for abuse because personally hated, and that was while Lennon was alive and well (if he isn't top secretly the same now).
The magnitude of the hate is matched by the ingenuity of the cover up. There are reasons why such operations are illegal. When Mark Twain tried to embarass Theodore Roosevelt over the Phillipine War it was in the interest of our dignity. When Harry Truman fired Douglas MacArthur over his excesses in Korea, it was in the interest of Civilian Command. These issues rankled terrible among the morbid like Reagan and came to roost with the murder of JFK and Vietnam War, but it certainly did not stop there.
As if it could be anymore ridiculous that the Government of Washington would poison me for not accepting a role that they ridiculously alloted to a gradeschool child they proceed to crow that I, a disabled person, should care for the sick. As a quid pro quo. As though anyone in their right mind believes that Aaron Dixon is plotting to do anything but finish me off for fool's gold. As though anyone believes that the V.A. plans to have nurses do anything but spit on me, no matter what, on my death bed. They call this Gurdjieff education, the Pitless Heropass, raping deaf Jeannie, slashering Shannon Harps and giving a Pultizer to a crowd who sit around cybertypo~ing PU as a reminder of their support for those who threw an AIDS virus into the broth of cybersmut as their brand of abolitionism.
There are many reasons why such operations are illegal and it isn't just because the disabled have recovery needs of their own, but also because the obsession of supernatural leaders is what started Revolution No. 9 in Burma when they were on the brink of becoming a World Class Republic. Their despot and dictator lapsed into a trance and began demanding the Number 9 be painted everywhere for luck. He began killing anyone who did anything progressive and jailing intellectuals. Burma became a snake pit, a sort of Nixon mask that Reagan could wear on Halloween.
The power junkies in the bedlam of the lobby who tortured me wrote a script they called my assignment. They say my writing is fabulously valuable. Well who's isn't on the level that all mankind have the right to life? I don't happen to share Jon Voight's expressed view in the Odessa Files that a picture of Kennedy's skull with a signature from Old Blue Eyes is more valuable than the refreshing glimpse of his smile. They say they wrote my investigation? How please? By releasing a plague is how.
Beyond that my writing is my hard work, copyright James MacRyland Crary 2012
