Home, Sweet Home:

Dispatches from the Manchurian Candidate Factory: #36

A Kaleidoscope of Nausea, Horror and Malarkey

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20240902 Home, Sweet Home 36 Fun_v04

Κύριε, ἐλέησον. (Lord, have mercy.)

Midway?

Initially heading the wrong way, it took an act of insubordination verging on mutiny by one of the squadron leaders, Waldron by name, for some to head in what turned out to be the correct direction.

The planes his squadron flew had been obsolete since 1939.

There was no fighter escort to be had.

As was the quaint custom for torpedo planes, they went in low and slow, please.

A-and the fact that their torpedoes were known to be generally NFG doesn’t seem to have overly troubled them, neither.

I give you: Torpedo 8. <insert demented cackle>

Do

My own opinion (borrowing from Richard Wolin) regarding the stuff I write: “Anecdotally rich but analytically impoverished.” i.e., the view from the trenches	Start Date: 6-??-24, email Date:

Distribution: Book group, Addams [sic] Blvd./Cochran Ave. and Environs, FBI & Justice Dept.(by snail mail), Human Rights Watch, LAPD, Landlord, Others.

Purpose: To Ridicule Few. To Amuse Many. To Inform Startle All.	A reminder: because of frequent computer malfunctions, when I notice an egregious “printer’s devil,” I’ll bold it and add [sic].That’ll bitch it.

NB: This document is in the public domain. So long as name and content are unchanged, anyone may reproduce it at will. Bergendahl/Berg (as in Nuremberg) Hawkins, Los Angeles, West Addams [sic] District, USA, 2024

That a (Black or considered such) no-talent like me can even be thought worth bothering with by the US Government suggests an unhealthy, maybe even delusional, state of mind among These Princes Who Govern Us™. And so I say: “Bollocks!”

Part of my family’s trajectory, summarized: From (formal) slavery to (informal) slavery in three generations.

“There is nothing more difficult to take in hand, more perilous to conduct, or more uncertain in its success, than to take the lead in the introduction of a new order of things.”	― Machiavelli

“That night his father told his story. He spoke calmly and quietly. What he described could only be spoken about quietly; it could never be conveyed by tears or screams.”	― Life and Fate, Grossman

(1) Summary of Contents:

(1) A notice. I’ve decided, in the interest of clarity, to use a different font for the facts and the usual one for the usual malarkey (2) (3) (4) (5)

(2) The Kompromat Korner (Slight Return) or Les Ongles Douteux/Zéro de Conduite:

I’ve said I never betrayed anyone, well I’d like to correct that. Matt Moran(?) was kind and decent with me, yet I responded to a pass by his Brazilian wife. There’s a pattern here, the State likes to have decent people betray those who have shown them kindness.

Jolene Cox(?) got her number, never called.

Shredded some papers notebooks with customer receipts, several. Several years ago.

(3) Plumbing the Depths, (Pukka) Wanker that I Am:

(10-4-24) Small piles of excrement occasionally still dot the grass in our complex, proof the Excremental Vision™ (Credit Brown) is alive and well.

Episodes which raise certain psy and other questions. 1 John Zhou 2

(4) Errors, Corrections (Lost & Found), Clarifications and Amplifications (A new section in which I acknowledge, among others, prior mistakes):

Gentle Reader™, having, ― on more than one occasion, too ― had to weather your catty remarks on the obscurity of what I write, I’ve finally had enough! So, in my defense, I now say: the Geeerman (a fellow who has been known on occasion to possess the quality of Kadavergehorsamkeit, somewhat akin to the behavior of the walking dead. Wink-wink, nudge-nudge) does not generally consider something worth reading unless it’s almost impenetrable. So why should youse guys be any different... Eh? Sad that it took me until I was an old man to notice the humor in you lot.

(5) To my Landlord, AFJ Investment. One in an Occasional Series:

(10-7-24) Ms Anderson, you’ve not doubt heard of “pocket battleships,” ships which, without the size of the real thing, nevertheless pack a similar punch. In a parallel, I ask: What’s with the “Pocket Ghetto™” around here? By which I mean the atypical concentration of Black people in this circus you are pleased to call an apartment complex. A circus which is, moreover, in an overwhelmingly Hispanics neighborhood. A circus where the Black performers invariably behave badly and where much “intoxication” (of me) is practiced. Mebbe “Pocket Bantustan™” would, to amplify the slur, be better.

(10-10-24) Ms. Anderson: any complaints about the volume of music around here? Aside from about me, I mean. I’m curious.

(music5-24) On my complaint against AFJ for illegal rent increase of $53.64, case # SO302426 and previous ones. LAHD’s Stephanie Ramirez made a determination in my favor though she thought the reason was confusion on the part of AFJ about a duplicate charge, the particulars of which Ms. Ramirez did not elaborate on. Bollocks! This had dragged on since AFJ gave me a three-day notice on 3/6/23 which, on advice of LAHD, I paid before filing a complaint soon thereafter. A year and a half is apparently sufficient time for successive LAHD investigations by Maria Estrada, Stephanie Ramirez and associated LAHD Wheels of Karma™ to grind to completion… Now to look into whether I can get a refund for the $100 I spent on an independent termite report. Hey, you can’t blame me for feeling I’m on a roll here.

(6) The Cat Walks (Backward, Natch!):

A parallel with Colette Walczak’s predicament when she lived on Ashland: (1) Neighbor sweeping (2) Next door neighbors loud (3) Dog barking & told to “get back inside.” In her case it was the Guererros, the two Brits in the house next door along with their loud teenage daughter. I don’t need to detail the local cast.

They say extraordinary claims require extraordinary proof. Very well then, a few statements here I consider unshakable foundations of my POV:

Should I not falter, my remaining sister, Irene Hawkins of Florence, Italy may be in a position to compare notes with me. And that, in a public setting.

I’m sure of my sister Irene’s love for me, I’m equally sure Irene’s not entirely her own person and has not been for decades, this I can prove.

In the 600+ pages I’ve written, you will find neither lie nor exaggeration.

There was something tragic and sinister about a basically decent man, Robert Seidenstein.

Some people know a great deal more about me than I’ve ever said to anyone.

I’ve had far too many car accidents in far too little time (over a dozen in less than ten years) for these to be happenstance.

There were so many “meets cute” in my life that they cannot be ascribed to mere coincidence.

My frequent inability to transact simple business as I go about my day, wherever I am, cannot be put down to mere friction, as the military term goes.

The seriousness and frequency of odd symptoms in my computers and other electronics hint at a mysterious “spooky action at a distance” (Credit Einstein), the source of which I consider to be prime examples of Rumsfeld’s “unknown unknowns.”

The super-heated atmosphere in this apartment complex and surrounding neighborhood is not normal, as can be attested to by any fair-minded witness to the increasingly carnival-like scenes around here.

Most crimes committed against me are usually not properly carried out, without venal motive or, indeed, apparent motive of any sort.

The phenomena I call “sync” and “feedback” are a long-standing pattern, the result of, to me, unknown mechanisms. I can, however, reliably attest to their frequency; examples involve adults, children, dogs (but not, as yet, cats) and power tools or equipment.

My arrest at Santa Monica library in 1988 by Santa Monica police on felony charges, later reduced to misdemeanors, was arranged, from before start to after finish. Many, both before, during and after, collaborated to bring this about.

A bank account, belonging to Colette Walczak, over which I had control, was made to disappear.

Before a visit to Kaiser Permanente/Cadillac, I was drugged without my knowledge. There may be video, shot there, showing me under the influence.

At my second job, Teledyne Controls, two managers lured me to what was an attempted “meet cute” with the son-in-law of my former Pasadena landlady. This leads me to reinterpret the atmosphere there, of every subsequent job and of the Pasadena house where I lived for four years.

The “Infrastructure of Oppression” diagram included in my book, is an accurate though hopelessly obsolete depiction of the various toys floating around, toys available to the Gentlemen of the Security Organs. Toys we peasants must contend with as we struggle for a semblance of human dignity.

That so many tenants with mental problems, whether real or not is immaterial, would congregate in this apartment complex defies the law of averages.

That so many Blacks would gather in this apartment complex also defies both the law of averages and the ethnic makeup of this neighborhood.

The inventory of hard disks and cell phones gone bad I’ve accumulated. Of disks damaged, some in ways I’ve never heard of in over a decade of PC repair, may eventually, unequivocally, attest to the presence and actions of forces, mysterious and sophisticated, at work around me.

I suffer from a mysterious condition called stenosis of the spine. Mysterious because: (1) No cause ever adduced (2) No family history of such (3) No treatment option mentioned save surgery (4) The very word itself treated as a closely guarded secret by Kaiser Permanente personnel with only Bergman (not Terterov, the neurosurgeon) mentioning it once, almost in passing. And, what’s more, when I attempted to get “clarification” about this disturbing and mysterious affliction, I feel I was given the runaround. MRI imagery available a my web site.

About vaginismus… I categorically assert that my sister and I have never discussed sex. How is it, then, that I came to know of this affliction of hers? Ask the waiters at the Hop Li restaurant on Pico Boulevard in West Los Angeles. Why, you may ask, would I relate such things, making public intimate matters, and about my own sister, of all people? First, a practical reason: the statement is verifiable. Second, you would not be wide of the mark if, knowing what my life is and has been and what I’ve seen of the suffering of others, you assumed nothing, not my shame, not my own dignity nor that of anyone. No. Matter. How. Close. Can deter me from carrying out the watchword: Everything!

The USPS has twice engaged in fraud at my expense.

To my shame, in the early 2000s, an employee of the Social Security administration successfully prompted me to lie in my application for disability benefits (SSDI). A scan of my fraudulent application will be posted to my site.

The LAPD has lied to me and twice refused to arrest a neighbor by the name of Tyson [last unknown] after he attacked me both in my bungalow and on the sidewalk. This not the first time; there was another such incident at the Jet Propulsion Lab in La Cañada in the seventies.

AFJ Investments’ owner, Tiffany Anderson, has lied to me, for reasons unclear. I have written proof.

I’ve seen some people be ashamed of what they do to me.

A recent online search for a book at the LAPL turned up nothing. I had to contact a librarian at the central library who was able to locate the volume. The book: The Thirty Years War by C.V. Wedgwood.

I can document numerous instances (with bus serial numbers, times and places) of illegal, unexplainable and scandalous Los Angeles Metro, Santa Monica and Culver City bus service; service the likes of which I’ve never before encountered.

Given the above, though there other interpretations at hand and knowing that, in general, men are devils (or can be encouraged to behave as such), one could be forgiven for suspecting the US Government or elements of it to be at the bottom of this here mikhdal. Then there’s the clincher: Occam’s razor… Along similar lines, Snowden, the former CIA employee, having left his last employer under a cloud, shall we say, has charged that Facebook once conducted an experiment in which a subset of its slave base clientele was somehow manipulated into becoming angry. This from a company run by Sherrill Sandberg, the woman I like to call the CEO with the face of an angel...

My odd visit to TI headquarters in Texas while a technician at JPL, which, though I had a passing familiarity with the SPB9900, a microprocessor fabricated in I2L, a radiation-hard technology, was entirely unnecessary. On my return several days later, I was closely questioned by landlady Lorraine Griffith about the weather there. I’ve been wondering why.

At school in my freshman year, I was either seventeen or a newly minted eighteen year old, struggling to write my first piece of software, a Life game in 370 assembler, when a grad student, name unknown, offered to help, assistance I accepted with alacrity. Having, with much help, straightened out my code, I passed the class. My benefactor soon invited me for a meal at a nearby fast food joint. Some time later, an undergrad by the name of Jorg Gustavson, someone I’ve previously mentioned as having once, in a conversation with me, touched on the delights of kissing a man, took a moment to remind me, referring to this grad student, that “he really helped you out of a jam.” On another occasion my friend, Subhash Sharma, known to me as a bisexual or homosexual, said the grad student was gay. This anecdote reminds me of an illustrative French insult expression: “La franc-maçonnerie du trou de cul” (Sorry, no translation, this is, need I remind you Gentle Reader™, a strictly family-type publication). I quickly add that I’m in no way suggesting the US Government is a hotbed of freemasonry.

« On n’est pas des Anges » (Credit ben Errabeh, personal communication)

A second look (double take, more like) at life and ”situation” on Mesita Rd., Pasadena, my home after college for four years in the seventies.

The cast, a partial list in approximate order of appearance:

Me

Lorraine Griffith, landlady in her sixties, at one time wanted to be involved with me as did I. Once tested me to verify I’d really been to Texas on JPL business.

Kathy Evans, wife of Richard, once objected strenuously when I called her daughter “Kimber,” in front of her mother, a nickname I’d heard used

Richard Evans: Despondent, depressed, “Meet cute” in Santa Monica, arranged by Guy Pritchard + another Teledyne Controls manager. Once spoke of a practice at a factory in Taiwan where local management encouraged US-based inspectors to allow inventory count outside presence of inspector who was entertained elsewhere during inspection.

Richard Gruene, Caltech student in Aph, USC law school, job at IBM

Ahmed ben Errabeh, Lorraine Griffith once said she’d “run into” his ex-wife who’d said Ahmed could never return to Morocco. A tenant, source of the sub-title of this section and of the title of Section 19

Akram Abdallah Adada: Lebanese, visit to his school at Pomona, told of a schoolteacher he was dating, showed me a pic of her at beach.

Antoine Raad, Lebanese & girlfriend

French girl #3

French girl #2

Pasadena(?) judge Hogeboom & wife

French girl #1

Liisa Havola-Pitkaenen [spelling?]??mention?

Belkassem Jerry, Tunisian

Angelika Ohlendorf

Repika Parata (spelling?): “Kiwi girl”

Dolphin ambulance founder’s daughter

British judge Martyn Ward, on vacation with wife and two sons.

Occasional visitors: Young frenchman, name unknown, acquaintance of Ahmed, Kitaw Ejigu. Mansour Sabeti. Subhash Sharma, Tom Ellsberg, Sauppé. I.U.R., An underage girl, daughter of the gardener and cleaning lady. I molested her, several sons, daughters and in-laws of Lorraine Griffith.

“Meets cute” around then: Prof. Munger secy., Subhash Sharma, formerUS Army man (unknown name), IUR, Mansour Sabeti, R. Evans

Unsettling, isn’t it? Not only for the bare facts themselves but also because of the realization that some may have repeatedly tried to discourage me from going down that path. The one hard, unavoidable event in the four years I spent there, the “meet cute” with Richard Evans at Santa Monica beach, a year after I’d left his mother-in-law’s house, when linked to the contents of my book are enough for me to echo the characterization of the US Government as a criminal regime (Credit Chomsky).

(7) Running the Public Transit Gauntlet or “Prendere in Giro” (An Italian expression meaning to tease/take someone for a ride(?). In my case literally):

(10-6-24) Culver City #1 bus, ID ????, both east- and westbound at Costco, noticeably « jerky ,» making it harder for me to transcribe notes.

(8) Daffynitions (Section 8 stuff) With profuse apologies for the obscurity of it all. Oh, so sorry!:

Situational Negritude™, phrase: Now, Gentle Reader™, don’t you be gettin’ nervous, this here’s a well-defined term of an impeccable provenance. … <TELL>

Scripted kiddies, phrase: <DEFINE, add> Fer instance, today, catching a bus home, the stop went from deserted but one, to teeming with teenyboppers, with the accent on bopping, as it seems they were intent on copying the behavior of molecules animated by Brownian movement. With some of it inevitably occurring in my immediate vicinity. And, with the shrieks of delight(?) which ever accompany teenage girls, j’en suis resté abasourdi or should I say, un peu sourd (dit !).

Kampfmusik, n: A portmanteau word of obscure origin. It is thought to have originated…<RAN DRY ‘ERE>

Anchor Crazy, phrase: Derived from the real estate term: anchor tenant, ...

Gods, n: A Neolithic construct and delusion born of the agriculture era as elites began perceiving the merits of something called the Führerprinzip.

Beurling, proper name: In a departure, proper names not belonging in a dictionary, …Prompted by some woolgathering involving Father Joseph du Tremblay (best known as “the Grey Eminence,” another one of those Gott mit uns types), Mazarin and Richelieu. In which woolgathering I deplored the very existence of leaders of excellence and brilliance, finding the usual lot to be much safer to have around. This Beurling, a man (nicht Salonfähig, überhaupt nicht!) after my own heart. As a fighter pilot in WWII, he is reputed to have said: “There is nothing more restful than taking orders from idjits.” A-and so, his masters sent him off to die on Malta. Except that, on the carrier accompanying him accompanying him was a shipment of Spitfires. The rest is history. <FIX SELF-CONTRADICTS!!! REMOVE SOME???ALL???>

(9) The Eccentric Shaft™: Dubious Interactions with my Fellow Crazies. A-and me a Paranoid Schizophrenic, Too (Credit: Irene Hawkins, personal comm.):

There’s method to this madness, I daresay. « On fend le bois avec un coin en bois. »

(10-5-24) The strains of what I’ve more and more taken to calling “Kampfmusik für der Kampfmuzhik” aka “Thump and Hum” music (stuff I’ve never before in my life heard the likes of. Monotonous, repetitive sounds for extended lengths, possibly even looping at times) pour from Mrs. ‘Bell’s bungalow and elsewhere. While in the background, I hear Saint Bernard on the phone with his simply scintillating wit. That is to say, droning on in shaggy dog fashion for hours at a time, curious non sequiturs included. Tonight: a musical show featuring gospel music. On aurai cru que des agonisants chantaient. Un chœur d’agonisants, même. Mes pauvres voisins! Ceux qui, habitant plus près de cette pauvre femme (je parle de Mrs. ‘Bell) que moi, ont droit a de plus forte doses de ce vacarme. Bref, nessun dorma.

Mes jours se résument en ceci: à longueurs de journée, je suis en butte à des enfantillages. Vorkuta this isn’t.

(10) La Rubrique des Gueules Cassées (A Section on War-wounded):

There’s method to this madness, I daresay. « On fend le bois avec un coin en bois. »

(10-6-24) (1) Since not long after I began falling from bikes, my gait has been different, depending on whether I wear sandals or hiking boots (2) I don’t know if the scalp itch I sometimes feel is caused by what’s in my head or on it (Update 10-27-24: Found a head louse, red it was) (3) I may be a bit more unsteady on my feet (4) (10-16-24) I drop things more often. (5) Blood pressure elevated (153/94, 140/93) (6) Blood sugar measurements very high (115-167 lately) (Update 10-30-24) Back at a nurse’s station to have my BP rechecked, as had been suggested, I can report the following three results taken five minutes apart: (1) 144/81 (2) 126/74 (3) 115/74 (Update 11-1-24 Weight now down to 154.1lb. Haven’t been this light since the late nineties. With a new set oif blood suagr test strips from Kaiser pharmacy, my readings are back to a more usual range).

(10-29-24) I shouldn’t be left alone in the same room as anything small and salty. Really. As I try to get my weight down to a desired 145lb or so, I find I’m oscillating around the high 150s which, while commendable, is still ten pounds above target. The reason, I occasionally pig out of an evening, feasting on peanuts or pistachios and cheese washed down with kefir slush. Incorrigible! So much for my vaunted(?) will power.

Stumbled across a notice in which Casey Means, MD, lists luminaries in attendance at a conference on nutrition (HLTH, Las Vegas). I note, to my surprise, the name of Greg Adams, Chair & CEO, Kaiser Permanente, mentioned as an attendee.

I no longer have any of the intentional tremors which were brought on by twenty years of Abilify.

(11) The Quotable Other with “Tales of the Himmelfahrtkommando™”, i.e., My Poor Neighbors’ Antics:

(10-10-24) To-day, a treat (told in the style of a galéjade). The Comedians were in town, prompted, no doubt, by the (pressing) requirements of a certain Tonton, no doubt, but never mind him. You shoulda seen ‘em, Mrs. ‘Bell in Full Fishwife Flight™ wiv’ Saint Bernard dancing in attendance. … I, disposing of some wood … She begins yelling, screaming about what seemed at first to be Saint B.’s dog. … before morphing into the vengeful spirit so often on display these days. Laying into me, she was, about … something. Exactly what? … Saint B not to be outdone, after putting in his two cents before retreating to his never-lit living room, in an encore performance, came out again. Speaking to my back, he said: “I’ve called the police(?),” the Fire Department(?),” “he’s a thief,” “his wood, is a fire hazard,” “I just called them, it’s too late, you can’t do anything about it,” “I’ve had enough of this,” etc., etc, etc. … So, as I went about what I had been doing for the previous hour, I made sure to follow a cop’s advice: given within earshot of me: “Just ignore it.” On ne lésine pas sur les moyens, la, on peut pas dire… Bref, as neither police nor Fire Department were summoned, I can safely qualify this as yet another Tempest in a Chamberpot™ along the lines of previous efforts by Our Lady of the Perpetual Inspections™, landlord Tiffany Anderson. Stay tuned, though.

Let us hope the Saint is more successful in his endeavor to en gage the LAPD than I have been. Can anyone fail; to see the humor in this?

(10-20-24) Today. Mrs. ‘B. & the Saint. I was cutting wood on steps. She: “Something wrong with that man” He: “You need to get over here” “Fire hazard” “<TELL> … He may have better luck getting action from police and court system than I was, who knows.

… As in the admittedly benighted old days, when administrators of madhouses would charge visitors for the privilege of watching antics of the inmates.

(12) Les Casses et Déboires de l’Oncle Sam (the first implying the second) (Uncle Sam’s Robberies and (Other) Mishaps (Credit: Stowe)):

(10-11-24) Back from shopping at Costco, I was dismayed to find an egg, or rather, the lack of one, among the box of twenty four I’d bought. A small matter, you say? Neni ! For is it not said that: « Un œuf c’est un bœuf » ?

(10-3-24) The very day I forwarded a complaint, initially made to a Federal agency about City First Bank, to their employee Mario Ruiz, I was pleased to find $5 deposited to my account. This after an interminable series of back-and-forths since April. Mr. Ruiz having repeatedly requested a face-to-face meeting to, in his words, “address my issue.” Bollocks! I, unsure of the outcome of such a meeting, teppichfresser that I’m known to be (I’m also a former mental patient and, what’s more, of the Negro Persuasion™, thus of limited patience), preferred to handle this remotely. Voici comment, être rusé, cauteleux, sournois et chicanier (Credit Maupassant) que je suis, j’ai préféré saisir l’État. On ne sais jamais… And so I say: Thank you, my faith in humanity the bureaucracy: restored!

(10-12-24) Missing the roll of blue tape I’ve been using to repeatedly tape little flier strips to the sidewalk outside our complex. And when, after a few days, they’re removed, I merely replace the paper, making sure to leave the remnants of tape. A side-effect perhaps more

(10-30-24) Returning from a Kaiser visit to have my alarmingly high BP rechecked, I found the coffee I’d mostly ground but left in the grinder to mysteriously have been removed, or else I’m losing my mind (a possibility by no means to be excluded).

(13) Sassenach™ and His Yankee Damyankee Tricks:

I imagine that the Gentlemen of the Organs, having first bamboozled innocents, proceed to induce them to commit crimes before they, their new masters, holding these very crimes over their heads, use these to both silence and encourage the victims to commit still more crimes. With the justice and police systems themselves, I suspect, deeply complicit in this charade. Unless I’m delusional and deeply mistaken in what I’ve just said, there is then ample ground for me to adopt the following stance. If only to maintain credibility, I shouldn’t be seen having anything to do with these people, by which I mean anyone associated with the justice system in this place. Thus, as has also been said to me explicitly by none other than two, count ‘em, two MDs (“going to small claims court would be very expensive”), I must avoid any dealings with them. For the staff is surely animated, or is the word possessed, by the same spirit evident in Mrs ‘Bell, the Corn-fed Golem, Saint Bernard, the Lady Lurk, etc. And then there’s a practical reason. I must, at any cost, preserve my modest accomplishments. At any cost, you hear me? So, should it come to that, and to drive home the point as publicly as possible, I’m considering doing my usual passive-aggressive bit. I’d quietly explain to the judge what my reasons are before turning my back on the court. Facing the audience, I’ll then driving home the point by saying “On. M’a. Fait. Du. Tort” before raising my fist as I do whenever I see a police car drive by. You don’t agree, Gentle Reader™? Then lookup the stories of Elmer “Geronimo” “Ji-Jaga” Pratt or Vicki Morgan. They make for lamentable reading… In summary, I propose to treat them in the way I treat my neighbors as they carry out their madcap antics, and for the very same reasons. I’ll quietly ignore them for, to my mind, they are all reluctant robots.

The one-two punch. A thread running through some of Brother Cantinflas’ behavior, also that of neighbor across street. She: “You good boy.” Then: “Police no good.” And then, there’s the one where (1) I’m persuaded” to move out of my apt. in Glendale and back to Colette’s (2) I invest all my money + some from Subhash and, with larceny in my heart buy some bad stocks (3) I get arrested in SM and (4) Last but not least, loose most of it in the resultant commotion. Along these lines, yesterday at LATTC to pick up an email security device. Looking back, from the moment I stepped on the #37 until the grand finale when I was able to get the device (I’d been told by email it was available) there was a non-stop string of difficult moments. Moments reaching new highs when a young man, after loudly telling me to move, calmly walked over, took the offending(?) sign and my backpack, and kindly(?) put them in a place he felt would be appropriate. Whereupon, order restored, he presumably returned to Germany.

(10-22-24) Watching the credits of the film THX1138 roll, the phrase “sound montages” catches my eye. It nicely describes some of the atmosphere around me. Fer instance, today both Mrs. ‘Bell and the Saint, each inside his own bungalow, were both verbal, loud and active at the same time. He operating in his usual interminable shaggy dog mode while she carried on an, at times, vociferous, expletive-laced argument with … someone? Not an unusual occurrence, I concede, but still, the effect was striking. With this phrase, I suspect I may be scratching the surface of what may well be a veritable orchestration. Looks like the old bull (meaning me) still persists in carrying with him his own china shop.

This film, for some a cult classic, made in 1971 by Lucas, is the closest depiction to what I imagine my current life to be I’ve ever seen. I remember first seeing it in Germany; fascinated me, it did. I did not know then that this was for me a preview of coming attractions. Available for download from Archive.org.

(11-6-24) When I experience the volume of Mrs. ‘Bell’s “Kampfmuzik,” I confidently predict that I’m immunized against charges that my own music’s too loud.

(11-6-24) I had been considering making a small whiteboard out of some glass I have and, being a scavenger (got a v. nice Oster blender from the trash out back a few months ago). 2-3 days ago I saw Mrs. ‘Bell walk behind me and put a new-looking whiteboard by the trash bins. I later went back to measure it, considering taking it. Mrs. ‘Bell and Saint B. both having accused me of theft to the police who came to investigate, I was cautious. Also, Brother C. having some months ago, come to me quietly looking for a broom and pan I’d taken, again from the trash, under the mistaken belief it was being thrown away, also said as I walked by his bungalow, investigating the source of so much loud music lately, said, through his closed screen door: “What are you doing around here?” So, aware she’s a desperate creature, with the situation around here unclear, wary of ANY entanglements with ANY of the tenants, I wisely left the new whiteboard where it was. Now this! Tonight she was raving and ranting, pacing the walkway, even going out to the sidewalk, using very foul language, swearing I’d spend the night in jail for having walked toward the back, past her open door, through which music and shouts could be heard.

(14) Benelux: A Kushi, it’s True, but a Nice One:

Une descente de police ! (A police raid! That is to say, the police were here to-day)

(10-25-24) … <TELL> … The two, LAPD officers Arrellano and Balatas, ID 41236 and 40831, were nice; supportive, even. Classifying the events as an ”ongoing neighbor dispute” with incident # ???, they warned me to not speak to the two, Mrs. ‘Bell and the Saint. Needless to say, I need no encouragement in this and said so. Later adding (to myself): “No problem.” ― a phrase I so often hear around here. Though I believe the day went well, it was an interaction which, in the words of Solzhenitsyn, was “mine to loose and not to win.” (Update: 10-27-24) Outside on the front lawn where I spent several hours today I chanced to witness Tyson’s son, the one I’ve named the Tiny Terror™ have an attack of St. Vitus’ dance (Sydenham Chorea ― for the adept). Or was he merely tripping the light fantastic to music only this poor creature could hear? Later, he was joined by Saint Bernard, the two then held a conversation not ten feet from me. During their extended tour d’horizon mention was made of: (1) Someone stupid (2) A tenant likely forced to move out (3) Speculation on whether to a psych ward (4) Landlord Tiffany Anderson (5) Someone’s activities having been recorded (6) A person being negative and not neighborly (7) Loud music. However, with the stern warning of LAPD officer Arrellano still ringing in my ears, yr Friend and Humble Narr Narrator™ remained stumm durchaus! A caveat, however. Regardingh my performance. I note a touch of defensiveness on my part when accused of peering into windows, as though anyone would take the likes of Mrs. ‘Bell seriously...

A-and, should it come to that and the cops come for me, I’ve the perfect retort: “… wasn’t me, officer, it must have been my evil twin, Tylenol Hawkins.” All kidding aside, I judge my performance as disappointing because I was on the defensive. When Mrs. ‘Bell accused me of peering in her windows, I felt obligated to deny it and demonstrate the difference between what I was doing, walking down the walkway and pausing in front of her and other doors and what I felt she meant, putting my hands on the fence top and looking over. Unnecessary.

(15) Juegos de Manos, Juegos de Villanos:

(10-29-24) At LATTC to-day, a brazen attempt at getting me to move my things while picking up a device to allow me to finally check email w.o. Windows at the LATTC Administration Bldg. I say brazen as, till now, thefts and vandalism happen by dead of night or, at least, when my pack is turned. No more!

... <RTELL> And, when asked of a witness sitting nearby: “Didja see that?” cette pauvre femme s’est réfugiée dans le mutisme le plus complet… There were no arrests.

(16) Shooting Fish in a Barrel I am, a-and Getting Pretty Good at it, Too (e.g., Bus Driver’s Words: “We Don’t Need Your Mouth.” Had I Hit a Nerve?):

With the frequent suggestion to: “Go” ringing in my ears, a thought, expressed thusly: watch ”Coffin Dance (Official Music Video HD)” by DigoNeko, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j9V78UbdzWI.

(10-30-24) I’m putting together three packets for distribution, both at random and to selected individuals. They’ll be in the form of letter-sized envelopes. (1) An “Agitation-Propaganda Packet” (Agitprop in Bolshevik parlance) containing general information such as a PDF of the book, my newsletter, diagrams, links, my YouTube channel, etc. Including some hardcopy and a CD (2) A ”Health Packet” containing documents I once pieced together for a psychiatrist to review, my physical health. Text files and imagery mostly from Kaiser Permanente (3) A “General Packet,” brief summary of my current situation in a half-dozen sheets.

(17) Pics:

Figure 1: On 9-26-24: mail delivered but the uoutgoing (sic) not picked up. Figure 2: An increase in the frequency and severity of problems with both Saint Bernard and Mrs. ‘Bell force me to start documenting their increasingly flagrant misbehavior. Here, a can of oats I’d left by curb as a donation, thrown under my window with contents spilled on the grass.

(18) Beruf: Luftmensch (A new section in which I discuss progress. if any… on my projects):

(1) Finished the sauna base, about to build the walls. And, as is my wont, not even having finished this one, I’m starting to build the next generation but one. It will be (a) Bigger (b) Based on a “sauna for renters” idea with footprint reusable when not in use (c) Nicer looking (d) Designed with an eye to sales.

(2) Renewed interest in high intensity interval training (HIIT) prompted me to scavenge a bike from a nice man who owns bike stores.

(19) Le Batracien Désabusé:

Possibilities:

The “Daylight Nightmare” I’ve written about. In which I’m politely muzzled by being ignored; being left to live a lie, sort of.

The “Gambling Chip” in which my very continued existence/persistence is itself the desired goal; and where by my mere presence, pregnant with possibilities, gives continuing leverage to the “Friendlies,” tilting the scale in the desired direction.

The “Safe Pair of Hands,” in which I’m a quisling-lite. Here, my main job is to pour oil on troubled waters at such times as my masters require. With my characteristic niceness a sine qua non of whatever deal was long ago struck by the Establishment and the Bad Guys.

Something entirely unexpected, where what I’ve finally puzzled out amounts to moonshine of a pernicious(?) variety, i.e., “intoxication.”

As with a “Turnip,” being so low on the food chain, I never even find out who won. Things seem to continue as they have and me (along with the other full-blooded peasants), none the wiser. As with most struggles involving intelligence services.

The “Mahasamatman” option. I’m slated to be an honest-to-god revealer and destroyer of worlds, period. In which all that is asked of me are such facts as I can reliably relate.

With #6 the least likely, to my mind. After all, I’m the guy who considered calling his book: Confessions of a Virginia Nigger (I mean, really). As Caroline Lauer decades ago said (apropos someone else?): “I’m too weird to ride in cars.” Memo to self: “We have to be realistic,” Pétain! (Update 11-7-24) Just found out Trump won. Solidifying the sinking feeling that, for me, there will be no “Pumpkinification,” i.e., my day in court with the inevitable jail time; “Turnipification,” rather.

The fact that I’ve been able to significantly overcome my type 2 diabetes is proof that it is not necessarily, as commonly thought, a progressive disease, I’m a “proof of existence.” Yet no one, not even at my hospital, Kaiser Permanente, has taken notice. That this may have wider implications is disheartening...

You may have noticed that, having digested Valentine’s book The Hotel Tacloban (strangely available from the Los Angeles public library), my jeremiads now name the US Government, not the CIA. Valentine clearly says that it was a US Army lawyer who, two weeks after his liberation, with the soldier, now barely 20, hospitalized and recovering from the ill-treatment inflicted in a Japanese POW camp, began pressuring him to remain silent about what had happened.

Aghast at the antics of the Left and other Vietnam street-theater protesters, North Vietnamese officials insistently pressed visitors such as Jane Fonda and others to tone down their act. Could there be a lesson in this for the likes of me?

(20) Malice: Personal or Government? (A Section in which, dredging up grievances in the manner of Father I, among others, ask: Who?):

I’m thinking of devoting my next newsletter, HSH #37, entirely to this topic. Meaning to serve two purposes, I’ll: (1) List incidents in the last fifty years in which my assumptions of personal malice may have to change. (2) The list will be long enough and explicit enough for you, Gentle Reader™ to judge my current mental state. Let the chips fall where they may. Two birds wiv’ one stone, wot?

There’s method to this madness, I daresay. « On fend le bois avec un coin en bois. »(21) “Buck Rogers (jes’ an ordinary American wot keeps ‘is wits about ‘im) in the 21th Century!” (+ 35 years or so). A Tentative New Section on Some of the Various Gizmos, Gadgets, Methods and Special Effects I Encounter as I go about my Day. With all of it Dreamed up by the Good Folks in our Government and Faithfully Implemented by their Little People, i.e., Assorted Technical Coolies™ and Boffins:

To clarify this admittedly obscure heading <insert demented cackle>, see the opening minutes of Lucas’ THX1138. For an explanation of the parenthetic side comment, see my book. A central idea in this is the Polish concept of hokoos-pokoos, known in the better ZIP codes as mystification. Allow me to explain….

(22) Conclusions or (In the Immortal Words of Soul Brother #1 former president Obama) “The View from the Cheap Seats”:

To the fellas in our Organs of State Security™: Gentlemen, Gentlemen, how many times must I remind you: "Klotzen, nicht Kleckern!" (Credit Guderian).

Isolated as I am, I admittedly don’t get to see much but, when I look at the quality of the people “working” for the US Government, I wonder. They are ashamed of what they do for you, I see it. Then I ask myself, what sacrifice would I be willing to make? The answer: definitely more than these poor enslaved creatures, for they, of their own free will, would do nothing for you. I, at least, am definitely willing to continue making some small sacrifices. You can do everything with bayonets except sit on them. Nyah, nyah, nyah.

When a State, in its hideous strength, chooses to not only neglect its citizens’ welfare (see the state of things in Flint, Michigan, where succeeding decades have demonstrated the failure of the State in preventing the health of some of that city’s residents from sinking to third world levels) but actively undermines their freedom (see my own situation), going so far as to select, study then victimize them. In comparison, I’d say mainland China has done remarkably well by its people, considering the barbarism of its founding myths. On the whole, though, many states have not. They too, frequently suffer from bureaucratic cum corporate nosy parkerism (see Zuboff, The Age of Surveillance Capitalism). Or mebbe I just have van Creveldt’s The Rise and Decline of the State on the brain.

About Chariton’s book, We the Poisoned, something here doesn’t jibe. Given the parlous state of the area due solely to a decision to switch sources of the city’s water, it seems improbable that the Charles Stewart Mott foundation, identified as prime mover in this Aktion, would at the same time, as suspected (not without evidence) by residents, be gentrifying the city of Flint. Doesn’t make sense.

What happened to me over the last fifty years is practically a matter of doctrine, one might say. I suspect that, in select circles, this is and has been an open secret. See two previously mentioned anecdotes. One about a French uncle, the other involving Caltech professor Humphrey and industrialist Beckman. RHIP, indeed (Rank Hath Its Privileges). I merely wish to widen this “charmed circle,” a bit… And, if I’m correct, the problem is not limited to the US, though it does have features peculiar to this country. Which consideration naturally leads one to ask whether, as in certain South American countries, citizens here belong to one of two distinct categories: the torturables and the non-torturables.

A parallel: Between the preposterous, pointless(?) posturing of the Tiny Terror™ as he ambles by my bungalow, and that of the Gentlemen of the Organs State Security™ when I hear: “We’ll do it differently next time” or “Why don’t we do it anyway, just to say we did?” Sigh.

(23) Quotations from Chairman Miaou (Those of you with either a long memory or a guilty conscience will get the reference):

Though this fight is worth fighting, I vaguely suspect the “Friendlies” simply haven’t the right ammunition.

Quand l’État agit de cette façon et que ça se sait...

Should I even be seen talking to any official representatives (except for low-level cops, for we are on the same side and team) of this Schmatta Republic™?

The simple fact is that for the last fifty years, I’ve lived in a simulation. Period.

I’ve read Chariton’s We the Poisoned, on the Flint, Michigan water crisis. I reflect on the routine bamboozlement and resulting poisoning (lead, among other contaminants) of the people (including children) of that sad town, and on the culpability of responsible officials ― including at the Federal level. I’m sorely tempted to make another of my trademark glib statements. “We are all Flintstones (word used to refer to themselves by long-term residents), now. Or mebbe “Old Flinstonians,” or “Old Estonians” <insert demented cackle>, as opposed to “Old Etonians?” A-and aren’t I a damn clever Negro? Damn clever for a Negro, that is...

I remember reading a scurrilous comment in which a boy is advised by his father to always look at a White man’s back to check for a tail. After this week’s crescendo of demented performances by the Saint and Mrs. ‘Bell (both, by the way, mostly quiet as church mice since); with some shows carried out in view of witnesses, I now feel justified in making another, equally scurrilous but complementary, remark. I advise you, clean-limbed Americans, to always examine the heads of Black people whenever they are seen behaving badly. Look for an antenna (like Teletubbies); a-and while I’m at it, you are to never trust a smart Black.

Non, mais!

Thinking of the frenetic antics of Mrs. ‘Bell, I think back to a comment made by my sister Irene about Mrs. Renée Chaba: “What did you do to her?”

My dead sister, my parents: so many phantom limbs.

In spite of all the hullabaloo, the manipulation, the dishonesty, the noise, strange behavior and harassment around here, I can still say: Vorkuta this isn’t.

So where exactly do the Gentlemen of the Organs of State Security™ stand on the political spectrum? Former customer Eric Rice may, inadvertently, have provided a hint. Once explaining that someone has to take charge, otherwise “it’s like herding cats.” Understandable, as democracy is, like sex when done properly (according to Woody Allen), a messy business. Thus: the Party of the Fastidious™. A-and, accordingly, could their patron saint be Sainte Nitouche?

When I hear the Spanish word (of praise, is it?) cabrón! My considered retort shall henceforth be: “À cabrón, cabrón et demi.”

My last word in this latest kaleidoscope of nausea, horror and malarkey I call Dispatches from the Manchurian Candidate Factory #36:

To the young man, son of a Venice realtor, customer of mine in the nineties, who once exhorted his father: “Tell him, tell him!”

Thankyou!Thankyou!Thankyou!

(signed)

Bergendahl/Berg (as in Nuremberg) “Pukka Wanker” Hawkins

P.S. To my beloved sisters, Irene (upon whose enemies, confusion) and Colette Walczak (dead of cancer in 2018) and two other unfortunates as well, Mari Berg and Elmira Izmailova: May our wordless tears, yours and mine, eventually prove invincible.

There’s method to this madness, I daresay. « On fend le bois avec un coin en bois. »

P.P.S. On. M’a. Fait. Du. Tort.

P.P.P.S. By way of an “Address to the Nation,” (Credit Fichte) a word to Americans: If you hope to ever rid yourselves of the Yankster Yoke™: “Ya Gotta Have 和 (Wa)” (Credit Robert Whiting).

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2024-09-02T12:22:27.773071354