Friday, May 24, 2024

Uvalde school shooting massacre dimensional shift


    On the 2nd anniversary of the Uvalde, Texas school shooting massacre by a natural born domestic U.S citizen terrorist toting a high capacity magazine AR-15 designed to quickly kill as many people as possible, I watched CNN interview bereaved parents who lost their children that horrible day. I thought, in my spirit code, 2 is the number for Jesus in the Gospels, who said to let the little children come to him, for of such is the Kingdom of God. 

    The day before, a Birmingham tattoo artist juxtaposed a yellow rose bud tattoo over a Vagrant tattoo a Key West tattoo artist had put on my right shoulder in 2007, when it was vogue in Key West to call homeless people, “vagrants”.

    The yellow rosebud tattoo represents the yellow peace rosebud on my infant son’s simple oak casket, when I buried him on September 12, 1968 in the family plot at Elmwood cemetery, in Birmingham. Crib death (sudden infant death syndrome) took him. For me, it felt like he was murdered by some terrible agency. It felt like I was murdered by the same terrible agency.

   Watching CNN’s Uvalde school shooting massacre coverage the next morning, I thought owning such guns as the Uvalde shooter used, AR-15, really is about deranged men wanting to feel better about their peckers; and if women want such guns, it’s their penis envy. 

    I thought the U.S. Supreme Court never once considered the right of the citizens to bear arms in the 2nd Amendment is predicated on the need to have a well-regulated militia to preserve the free State, and there has been no well-regulated militia in America since the American Revolution.

Amendment 2 
A well regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed.

    I thought the National Rifle Association and the U.S. Supreme Court and the U.S. Congress and the state legislatures had unleashed the hounds from hell on America, which was never the Founding Fathers’ intention.

    I thought about the right wing Christian from Texas, U.S. Senator Ted Cruz, who defended the 2nd Amendment right of the Uvalde natural born domestic terrorist to have the AR-15 he used to slaughter all of those school children and two of their teachers. 

    I hoped Cruz has a chance someday in space and time to feel just like the parents of those slaughtered Uvalde school children feel today.

    I hoped every member of the NRA, and every member of the Supreme Court, and every member of Congress, and any state legislator, who shares Cruz's view gets to know how the parents of the slaughtered Uvalde school children feel today. 

    No, I do not want more school children to be slaughtered in their schools, but given how sacred owning guns designed solely to kill as many people as possible, as fast as possible, is in America, I see so other way to get gun nut lovers' attention.

    Now if my saying that causes anyone to think I am a horrible person, that I should be stuck dead by God’s lightning and die and burn in hell forever, consider that when I was writing The Golden Flake Clown’s Tale in 2022, free read at the internet library came to me from out of the blue that angels known in the Bible had initiated a new school shooting massacre protocol in America, as follows:

    When there is a school shooting, children whose souls have  not signed up for such a demonic experience are carried away by those angels and new souls come in who need to have that experience.

    If someone thinks I’m batshit crazy for saying that, in early 1994, this poem leaped out of me

Only fools rush in
where angels fear to tread,
but if there were no fools, 
who’d lead the angels?

    Right away, I started feeling something huge and wonderful trying to squeeze into me. I felt it physically and energetically. There were lots of teary and sublime moments, day after day, night after night, for two weeks. 

    I was in the habit of taking a long walk every morning. About two weeks into that experience, at the turnaround point in a morning walk, I felt the presence of angels around me.

    I heard, “This thing coming into you is your angel twin, all people have an angel twin, and yours will live out your life with you.”

    I thought, That’s neat.

    I heard, “By the way, this is your son.”

    My heart heaved, tears welled in my eyes, my knees buckled, I nearly fell to the ground.

    I stopped feeling something huge and wonderful trying to squeeze into me.
    I came to see that my son’s death had so unhinged me, that despite how hard I tired, I was unable to fit myself into the plans my father and mother and their parents had for me, nor into any plans I had for me. 

    I came to understand that my son opened my heart and set me on my journey.

    I hope the bereaved families of the massacred Uvalde school children, and the bereaved families of children massacred in other American schools, someday, somehow, have their own yellow rosebud experience.

the vagrant and the yellow rosebud

    Three days ago, the notion came to me to get a yellow rosebud tattoo juxtaposed over the vagrant tattoo I had gotten in Key West, in 2007, when it was vogue there to call homeless people “vagrants”, even though Jesus was the most famous vagrant in human history.

   A yellow peace rosebud was on my infant son’s simple oak casket, when I buried him on September 12, 1968 in the family plot at Elmwood cemetery, in Birmingham. 

    Crib death (sudden infant death syndrome) took him.

    I googled tattoo shops in Birmingham and called one that showed it was open. The young lady who answered the phone said, sorry, they now only do body piercings,  

    The next morning, I called Classic 13 in Birmingham and asked the young lady who answered the phone if they do tattoos? She said, yes. I asked if they accept walk-ins? She said, yes. I said I’d be there around dinner time. 

    I drove to a bridge club in Shelby County south of Birmingham, and played that ancient partnership game for several hours with some pretty interesting people. 

    After the game ended, I drove back to Birmingham, straight to Classic 13, where I saw a parking place in front and three well-tattooed men standing around chatting. 

    I parked my van and got out of it and walked over to the three well-tattooed me and asked if they were tattoo artists? They said, yes. I said I had called that morning about coming by to have a new tattoo put over an old Vagrant tat. I rolled up my polo shirt to expose the old tat on my right shoulder, and said I want a yellow peace rosebud put over the vagrant tat

    One of the men said, yeah, we can do it, and which of us do I want to do it? I said it looks to me like the Great Spirit arranged our meeting and I'll leave it up to you three to decide which of you will do it. He said, well, he will do it. I said my name is Sloan, and he said his name is Chip.

    Chip and I walked into the tattoo shop. Chris left me with a lady at the front desk and walked back to his studio to design the tattoo. 

    The lady gave me a form on which were maybe a dozen questions about medical conditions that ruled out getting a tattoo: HIV and types of Hepatitis were at the top of the list. I checked No for all of them. There were no questions about being crazy. 

     I paid the lady for the tattoo and two Classic 13 T-shirts.

    Chip walked back up front and showed me what he had drawn. I said okay, and we walked to his studio. I told him the history of the vagrant tattoo and the yellow rose bud, and that originally I had thought I would put a tropical flower over. the vagrant tattoo, but I never got around to it.

    Chip had me sit in chair and he rolled up the right sleeve on my polo shirt. I asked about how long it would take? He said about an hour and fifteen minutes. I said, let's do it.

    On the walls in Chip’s' studio were lots of tattoo art. 

    I asked him if he had a tattoo of the pirate saying, “The beatings will continue until morale improves”? 

    Chip said, no, but he could get it and put it onto my left shoulder. I said, perhaps, but let’s get this done today.

    Also on the walls of Chip’s studio was stuff about John Dillinger and Baby Face Nelson.  Chip said Dillinger and Nelson and others like them were latter day pirates. On a side platform was a Thompson submachine gun like the ones used in the St. Valentine’s Day massacre. 
    Chip said his Thompson was not operable, but was just art. 

    Chip said Thompson sold a lot of those submachine guns in Europe. Then, the U.S. Army wanted the submachine gun, but it had to be modified to shoot fewer bullets a minute. Chip said Thompson had a lot of those submachine guns in a warehouse and modified them and sold them to the Army.

    Chip and I talked about our respective times spent in the Florida Keys and Key West, and about how Key West is nothing like the rest of the Florida Keys.

    I told Chip that at one time there was a movie theater on Key West's Duval Street called The Strand, which now is a Walgreens Drug Store, and every afternoon The Strand had a matinee showing "Deep Throat” for the boys at the local navy base.

    Chip said, for real? I said, for real. He laughed.

    I told Chip that when I practiced law in the City Federal Building in Birmingham, the men in the law firm where I worked all walked down the street the Lyric Theater to watch "Deep Throat," so we know what was in it, if any of our men client's got caught by their wives in the Lyric Theater. Our legal secretaries were really pissed when we told them they couldn’t come with us, because someone had to be in the law office.

    Chip laughed.

    I didn't say anything about how I feel about submachine guns today, because Chip was holding the tattoo needle.

    Nor, after telling Chis that I am a writer, and I wrote many books and maybe 50,000 pages at blogs, what I wrote about, because Chip was holding the needle.

    Yes, the tattoo needle hurt, sometimes it hurt a lot, but I hung in there, and after about an hour and fifteen minutes, Chip said it was finished. 
    Chip already had wiped my shoulder several times with a sanitary hand napkin, and he did it again. 

    Chip told me to wash the new tattoo three times a day for three days with warm water and Dial soap, and to dry it off with a paper towel, which is far more sanitary than a bathroom towel or washcloth. He gave me two vials of antiseptic jell to spread over the tattoo after each washing.

    Chip said there was blood in the tattoo, but after the wounds healed in two weeks, the colors would be vibrant. Meanwhile, when the tattoo started itching, I could pat it, but not scratch it.

    I told him that the first tattoo had taken a long time healing, and I was worried that I would catch MRSA flesh-eating bacteria, which I’d already caught in Key West. 

    Chip said he knew about MRSA, it can form in old distilled water. I said the ocean around Key West and the Florida Keys is full of MRSA, and the local doctors treat it all the time, and the local divers know about it, but nobody tells the tourists, if they cut themselves shaving and go into the ocean, or if the cut themselves on coral, they can get MRSA and be fighting for their lives, because it has mutated and it hard to kill with antibiotics.
    I told Chip that a friend in the Florida Keys had told me to buy a jar of petroleum jelly and a bottle of red iodine at a drugstore, and to use a table knife to scoop a little of the jelly out of its jar and to fill the hole with the liquid iodine, to use the knife to mix the iodine into the petroleum jelly until the jelly was pink, and to put that concoction onto a MRSA lesion 4 times a day, until the lesion is gone.

    I told Chip that no bacteria can survive in iodine, and I had used that concoction several times to heal myself of MRSA, when I was Key West.

    I told Chip that when I published all of that about MRSA and the petroleum jelly and iodine cure at’s popular Coconut Telegraph public forum, I was ridiculed by other readers- until a woman wrote a post there, that she was going insane because of MRSA sores on her body, and she saw what I had posted and she used it and it saved her life and her sanity. After that, it was the sound of silence on the Coconut Telegraph. 

    I tipped Chip $50, and left.

    I washed the new tattoo in dial soap and water twice last night.

    Some years ago, I rescued a small aloe plant from a dark corner in a Home Depot garden shop and bought it home and repotted it into a much larger pot and set it on a table under the large east facing window in my apartment. The aloe plant loved being there, based on how large it became.

    I cut a fat leaf off the aloe plant and used the knife to split the leaf, and several times last night I slathered raw aloe jelly onto the new tattoo. I knew I would do that and do the Dial soap wash religiously.

    Why not? In the Gospels, Jesus's secret disciples Nicodemus and Joseph of Arimathea slathered a hundred weight of aloes and myrrh on Jesus's body, which they wrapped in linen cloth and put him in Joseph’s personal tomb, where Jesus then had a near death experience and return from the dead. Aloe is a powerful wound healer, myrrh increases white cell count to fight infection, and linen is a sterile bandage.

    I turned in that night thinking I would write a blog post about my personal history of being a vagrant in Key West, but a string of dreams convinced me that was not in the cards. 

    However, I will tell one thing what happened in 2001, as I stood in line with maybe 100 other homeless people one Sunday afternoon in Higgs Beach Park, waiting to be served a meal by Glad Tidings Tabernacle Church, which did that every Sunday afternoon.

    A young couple from the church, whom I had not seen before, told us, if we were saved by Jesus, we would ot be homeless. I said pretty loud, “What’s wrong with being homeless? Jesus was homeless! Every person in this line, but a Jewish man, has been saved several times by Jesus, and we are homeless.”

    A great hush fell over the gathering.

    While I was eating my meal, for which I was truly grateful, a young pastor named Mark walked over to me. I knew from talking with him before that he had come with his wife to the church from central Florida, thinking he would be its assistant pastor, but when he arrived, he was put in charge of the church’s homeless ministry.

    Mark asked me why I had said Jesus was homeless? I asked Mark if he read his Bible? Mark asked why I asked him that? I said, because in the Gospels, Jesus said he was homeless. 

    Mark asked where did Jesus say that in the Gospels? I said, when a man told Jesus that he wanted to follow him and Jesus told the man what that would be like: The foxes had their dens and the birds had their nests, but the Son of man had no place to lay his head.

    Mark said that passage didn’t mean Jesus was homeless. I said, of course that’s what the passage meant. Mark said, Jesus could have stayed with his mother. I asked, where does it say in the Gospels that Jesus ever stayed with his mother? I said, “In God’s eyes, we all are homeless."

    I knew from what Mark had told me about his life, that he was called by God into the ministry, and I told him that from time to time time, and that he would be pushed to his limits, if he stuck to that calling. I told him that again at a farewell dinner given for him at Glad Tidings Tabernacle Church.

    In my soul alchemy, Jesus is a great blacksmith, represented in this poem, in which he is the voice:

I am the blacksmith,
this storm is my forge,
you are my carbon gemsteel
I hammer into my blackdiamond lasersword
to forge lighting and thunder 
into gold and pearls
and to cut hail and sleet 
into diamonds and rainbows.

    Some years later, a dear friend told me that she had first met me when she and her sons were serving homeless people meals in Higgs Beach Park for Glad Tidings Tabernacle Church, and I had told her that she and her children needed to be very careful about that church.

    She was very attached to the church’s minister, and I kept telling her that she needed to be very careful with that church, especially for her children. 

    One day, she implored me to attend a service at Glad Tidings, because she was sure something would happen to cause me to feel differently about that church. I told her, okay, I would do it.

    The next Sunday, I rode my bicycle to Glad Tidings and sat in a rear pew. The minister stood up in front of the congregation and told them, “You are the choicest of the choicest of the chosen.” I got up and walked out of that church and emailed my friend what had happened, and told her that she was supposed to be there and hear it, but since she wasn’t, I did it for her.

    We ended up parting ways after I told her and her youngest son that they should steer clear of that church, and any church.

    How we met was stranger than fiction.

    I was living in a trailer on Little Torch Key in 2006. Some days, I drove down to Key West to hang out. I got into the habit of stopping at Key West to Marathon city transit bus stops and asking people I they wanted a ride into Key West? I was meeting interesting people in that way.

    Driving my Toyota Highlander down to Key West one day, I passed several young men and a young woman standing at the shuttle bus stop on Cudjoe Key and got an awful crick in the left side of my neck. I drove a few hundred yards and the crick got a lot worse. I turned around and headed back up US 1, wondering if I was supposed to give those kids a ride? I slowed down as I neared the bus stop and did a U-turn and pulled up beside them and asked them if they wanted a ride into Key West? They said yes, and piled in. The awful crick in my neck was gone.

    As we drove down to Key West, they asked me about myself and I told them a little bit, and that I had just gotten a novel published and there were copies in a box among them, and to take a few copies and spread it around. It was my novel Heavy Wait; A Strange Tale, which a street performer I met in Key West had inspired in 2001, when I was living on the street. They told me they worked for a woman, whom I might wish to meet, I told them to give her a copy of the novel. They said they would.

    A year passed. One day, I got an email from a woman, who said it was her kids I had picked up at the bus stop and she had read Heavy Wait and had loved it, and she had given it to her father in Kentucky to read, and he had loved it, and she had been trying to find me every since. I emailed back that we should meet for lunch at a restaurant on Cudjoe Key, and she met me there, where she told many grubby things about the sheriff department, in which her family was involved, and that’s how it began.

    it would take a new book to tell all of the stuff that Sandy and I got into in the Florida Keys, which was arranged by something a whole lot bigger and smarter than us. I wrote about some of my part of that in Heavy Wait’s sequel, Return of the Strange, which I wrote in 2003. Both novels now are free reads at the internet library,, which is funded and run by American colleges. I took a little poetic license, but Sandy's priceless, withering "A Time to Choose” poem, which begins on page 56, is verbatim.

    In 2016, as I recall, at the fabulous Harpoon Harry’s Diner in Key West, I gave a copy of Heavy Wait to Shirley Freeman, the grande dame of Key West. Her husband had been the county sheriff and she had been a county commissioner. About a month later at Harpoon Harry’s, Shirley told me that she had read it straight through in one night, she could not put it down. Maybe I should email her a link to Return of the Strange?

    At the cash register in Harpoon Harry’s is a sign, “In God we trust, all others must pay cash". Across from the cash register is an ATM machine.

Thursday, May 23, 2024

Unified Reich

    The gem below arrived in my Yahoo feed yesterday evening, and I could not help but pile on.

Mark Fiore's Cartoon Update

Yikes! 'Unified Reich?'

😬He keeps getting Nazi-er & Nazi-er...

MAY 22, 2024


Maybe it really was just an over-eager staffer who didn’t notice the “unified reich” part of the video shared on Trump’s Truth Social account.

But there are those other pesky words that Trump has said: warning of immigrants who are “poisoning the blood of our country” or “vermin” destroying the United States.

Never mind the slightly more coded words like “globalist,” “international bankers” and the ever-present “Soros” boogeyman.

Oh yeah, and there were Trump’s “very fine people on both sides” . . . except only one side was chanting, “Jews will not replace us.”

So for this cartoon, I figured it’s only a matter of time before Trump puts on an SS uniform and calls Joe Biden an anti-Semite.
Which will, once again, make for a busy day for Trump’s spokespeople.

The Defendant-in-Chief just can’t seem to help himself when it comes to Nazi terminology and big strong dictators.
In one of the most ingenious works of spin doctoring, campaign press secretary Caroline Leavitt pointed out that Trump couldn’t possibly have posted the “unified reich” video . . . he was too busy at his pornstar-hush-money-election-interference trial!
(This is one of those cartoons that really just write themselves. Just turn the floor over to the nutballs.)

Unfortunately, it looks like we’ll have to keep paying attention to what Donald Trump is saying or doing for at least the next several months. 
I don’t have a good feeling about this. 
In the meantime, we can share a laugh at his expense and let people know the consequences of a second Trump presidency.
Thanks so much for your support, I’ll see you back here shortly!

In case you missed it earlier, I posted a time-lapse drawing and commentary video earlier today . . .

Sloan Bashinsky 
Sloan’s Newsletter
Yikes!, is dead f-ing on the mark, Mark :-).
The guy who wants to be Commander-In-Chief again allows underlings to post stuff on his Truth Social account? For real? Shucks, every post at my Facebook page was put there by me, because I'm the only person who knows the top secret password. 
All in the same day context of The Great Pussy Grabber resting his case in New York City, without testifying, after saying he would testify, and daily shooting off his mouth to the media and on Truth Social about the trial, the judge, the witnesses, the jury, the prosecutors, and claiming President Biden sent the FBI to his Mar-a-Lago home to kill him and his wife and their son if necessary, to steal HIS classified documents from him, and Nikki Haley saying she will vote for Donald Trump, although when she was running for the Republican nominee against Trump, she said he was “unstable and unhinged”, which caused me to wonder if Trump had grabbed her pussy, or she had grabbed his pecker?
Recall when Trump and his father got busted by the State of New York for ethnic discrimination in their New York City apartment buildings.
Gander photos and film footage of the Charlottesville Confederate Monument removal protest and see the ocean of angry white people. Gander photos and film footage of Trump rallies and see the oceans of white people. Gander photos and film footage of the January 6, 2020 goose step riot and see that ocean ot white people.
Recall back when former Klu Klux Klan Imperial Wizard and Grand Dragon David Duke endorsed Trump in 2016, and when asked what he thought about that, Trump pretended he’d never heard of Duke and was quite a while saying, well maybe he didn’t want Duke’s endorsement.
Recall before Herr Donald Trump got it into this apprentice noggin’ to run for president, Vanity Fair published an article quoting Trump’s ex-wive Ivana, she said when she and Donald were married, he kept a book of Hitler’s speeches in a cabinet on his side of their bed and sometimes he read it at night.
Recall American news media asking 2016 president Donald Trump about that and he said, where did they hear that? But if he ever had such a book, he didn’t read it.
Recall telling American news media the book was given to him by a friend. 
I have a photo of the book, but I don’t see a way to post it here. The title is MY NEW ORDER. It’s easy to find using Google images.
Recall Trump bragging the German Chancellor Merkel told him that only one other political leader drew bigger crowds.
Recall, after learning that Vladimir seemed to have gotten himself elected president of Russia for life, President Trump said on national TV, I saw the news clip, that he liked that idea, president for life, but maybe he shouldn’t say it.
Earlier this week, Trump floated the idea of having three terms in the White House, then he said, well, he would not challenge the 22nd Amendment, but only wanted 4 more years in the White House. 
Don’t know where you live, Mark, but I live in Birmingham, Alabama, where I was born and raised. Birmingham is a blue city surrounded by MAGA counties.
I have regular dealings with MAGAs. They attend church. They worship Jesus. They remind me of Islamic jihadists. They view Democrats like right wing Mulsims view America.
I think Joe Biden and the Democrats are manifestations of the mythical Fukawy tribe, which was forever getting lost and gathering in a circle and sitting down and holding hands and closing their eyes and chanting, “Where in the fuck are we? Where in the fuck are we?”
I after graduating from the Alabama School of Law in Tuscaloosa, in 1968, clerked for a United States District Judge in Birmingham, who presided over ever federal criminal prosecution in north Alabama. 
I think Joe Biden and his son Hunter should be criminally prosecuted over how Hunter got rich off Ukraine while his father was Barack Obama’s vice president.
I think President Joe Biden should be prosecuted for war crimes for helping Israel obliterate Gaza.
However, Joe Biden and the Democrats do not remind me of Adolph Hitler and Nazi Germany, which Donald Trump and his MAGAs do.
America and the world should be so lucky as to have Donald Trump and Joe Biden debate and be struck dead by the same bolt of lighting?

    When Pigs fly?

    Don't American Blacks know that Stop the steal is code for Stolen by Blacks?

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