"Totally coup, yo."


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As The Beast went to press on Thursday, the National Hockey League held its annual meeting to discuss tactics for selling their un-watchable product to a blase nation of “Survivor” viewers. Rumored to be among the potential items on the table at the meeting was the prospect of the NHL intervening in the dire financial situation in Buffalo and the league even taking over control at HSBC Arena.

We at the Beast say, Great, whatever it takes. Let us examine some of the ramifications of there being NHL standards and guidelines imposed on Buffalo: Anyone in violation of the helmet rule, excepting of course those exempt through a “grandfather” clause, would be removed from the streets of civic activities. Now that may seem a difficult condition to accept, however, big, tough, fat, ugly bikers in like forty-six states have learned to live with the ignominy of wearing head protection, right alongside pantywaists like optometrists on $20,000 Harleys and alternative newspaper publishers zooming about on Bavarian cafe scooters.

Phil Esposito driving a zambonie
Phil Esposito driving a zamboni

Beer prices would rise dramatically from their now third-world levels, pricing many people, who have no business getting drunk enough to fuck and potentially procreate anyway, right out of the arena. Ridiculous, oversized, and exorbitantly priced “authentic” teamwear would be the only available clothing, but we would at least know where everyone’s allegiance stood.

In Buffalo now, as in much of the rest of the state, the penalty for icing could be up to a lifetime in prison. By NHL standards, icing results only in a do-over in the offender’s “zone.” So we would all have to watch our steps and mouths a bit more closely and the meek be damned.

The NHL has long been in the practice of expanding its interests in unlikely geographic areas like North Carolina and Phoenix, Arizona, while forsaking its loyal fan bases in places like Winnipeg, Manitoba, and Quebec City, Quebec. If they were to take that approach in Buffalo they may move the Albright-Knox Art Museum to Riverside, making room for some titty bars and OTBs along the Olmstead Crescent. Then maybe that fruity Shakespeare-in-the Park crew would fly the coop and we could put a long-needed thoroughbred racetrack in the center of the metropolitan area, Delaware Park. Who knows, if enough of those snoooty I-wish-Buffalo-were-Paris blowhards were to haul ass we might be able to attract some NASCAR/Winston Cup action to town and not have to drive over to Watkins Glen or out to Brooklyn, Michigan, and whereever the hell else all summer through.

There would certainly be drawbacks to an NHL-run city. There would be theme nights, ad infintium. Gordie Howe, Stan Makita, Guy Richard, Tim Horton in one long, grim death march… skateless, slipping and sliding around on makeshift patches of ice prepared for each’s appearance. You may wake some mornings, look out your window and see, maybe, Phil Esposito perched high upon the back of a slow-rolling Zamboni, wearing a strained but fatuous smile, pathetically waving toward the upper-floor windows of the houses on your street. That’s no way to start the day.

On the other hand we could all probably get used to a town where, when a guy gives you a bad check, you just knock his teeth out and are only given a two-minute minor. All personal injuries would be handled promptly by the league and would usually result in token fines and brief suspensions. Hell, unless Cellino & Barnes can make dentures, plates, bridges, and such, they would be out of business.

We all know the old joke–Q: Why do Canadians do it doggy-style? A: So they can both watch the hockey game.

The Beast would worry that our sometimes not-so-acute neighbors (to the North) may misconstrue the implications of the nature of our potential arrangement with the NHL and they, expecting a spirited round of four-checking and two-line passes, may position themselves ever so unsightily along the banks of the Niagara River, opposite our fair city, hoping to catch a glimpse of our nightly game.

Could we endure that visual? Would the children of our sexually repressed community understand the inherent beauty in the tender acts of our softer bordermates?

Desperate times call for desperate measures. We need to decide now if these times are desperate enough for us have our police force ride three to a car and surrender those cute little arm patches with the lighthouse and the boat for the more internationally recognized black-and-white “zebra” stripes.

Moreover, there are larger issues that loom. Will an NHL-controlled district mean the systematic exclusion of black people? Is that a loss we can bear? In that eventuality, would Luther Vandross or Ol’ Dirty Bastard even route their subsequent tours through Buffalo? Would an NHL regime mean the virtual extinction of Americans from our streets? Would packs of enigmatic Eastern Europeans control our passing lanes? Would statuesque Scandinavians be entrusted with our defensive schemes?

These are all questions that need closer examination as we await the developments that will ensue from the meetings yesterday.

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Why We Always Wight




By John Dolan

Why We Fight: Moral Clarity and the War on Terrorism
By William Bennett
Doubleday, 2002

Why We Fight

William Bennett, former Drug Tsar, specializes in teaching moral lessons of the nastier sort. His last book, The Death of Outrage, was a 200-page scolding of America for not being sufficiently scandalized by Clinton’s blow-job. Bennett’s own outrage never falters. He once denounced from the podium a child wearing a Bart Simpson T-shirt. Bennett’s first claim to fame was informing on his Harvard roommates for using pot. They went to prison to be raped, and Bill was instantly a made guy with the Nixonians, quoting and quoted by every other sclerotic Phalangist on the far-right Op-Ed list.

Why We Fight, his latest book-length scold, steals the title of WWII propaganda shorts, and claims the same purpose: steeling American resolve for the great battle with Osama. But a better title would be Why We Iz Wight–and anybody who doesn’t think so is just wong as wong can be.

These naysayers are the villains of the book: those “elite” Americans who won’t put flags in their windows. The “elites” Bennett names are always academics from snotty Bohemian trust-fund schools like Brown. God knows there’s nothing wrong with hating those people. I hate ‘em myself, and I have cause, real, personal cause far stronger than Bennett’s.

But let’s introduce a little reality here: a professor making $65,000 a year may be many things–a nuisance, a noisy pompous ass–but part of an “elite”? That’s a lie. Nobody with an income like that makes it into the American elite. And it’s not just a matter of money; American academics, by comparison with those of any other Western culture, are utterly excluded from political as well as economic power. The present Prime Minister of New Zealand is a former Sociology professor; half her advisors are academics too. You get that kind of crossover in many cultures–but never in America.

That’s why American academics sulk and whine about the regime so endlessly and boringly. Nobody even listens to their jilted grumbling–except rightwing propagandists like Bennett, who must subscribe to an online clipping service called “Obnoxious Remarks by Leftist Professors.” This dry old rhetorical dung is useful to him in the same way it was to the prairie pioneers: he uses it as fuel. After stringing together dozens of unpatriotic utterances by people like Susan Sontag (shit, is she still alive?) and Stanley Fish, Bennett spends the second half of the book reassuring the reader of the “superior goodness” of American culture.

By the way, that overloaded phrase “superior goodness” is typical of the appalling prose produced by this self-appointed cultural guardian. Redundancies are something of a specialty for Bennett, who informs us that our enemies may employ “fake facades.” For the most part, he wisely abstains from any attempt at humor; but when he gives in to, er, mirth, the results are painful–as when he says the US has been “…a mecca [sic], if I may be permitted, for [Muslims].” Droll, eh? His wit is matched only by his modesty; he describes the “sheer effrontery” of those who disagree with him, and reports in disbelief that one liberal had the nerve to disagree “to my face.”

Bennett’s purpose in writing this odd little book isn’t nearly as clear as he asserts. Why should it be necessary to convince patriotic Americans (the only sort likely to buy a Bennett book) to feel patriotic? But here’s Bennett, working away as hard as an Alabama cheerleader to whip the crowd into a red-white-and-blue grand-mal seizure.

To adapt another WWII slogan: Is this rant necessary? After all, humans quickly come to worship whatever little clique we form. As Brendan Behan said, most groups are “…very popular with themselves.” And if you were going to pick a nation which didn’t love itself sufficiently, would America be your first choice? Americans are nationalists to the core, far more than any other western people. But their patriotic fervor went far beyond normal levels after the WTC disaster, which led to a frenzy of hysterical patriotism: flags, anthems, the disgusting Kid Rock in red-white-and-blue videos….

Yet Bennett writes in worry and frustration, as if his readers were far too lukewarm and needed massive injections of staunch love of country. It’s as if all Bennett heard, in the roar of patriotic chants after September 11, were the scattered, frightened grumbles and half-hearted cavils of a few old professors. He constantly warns his readers that “We are under attack, and have been for some time.” And he doesn’t mean attacks of the WTC sort; he means attack from within, by seditious whisperers.

The question which interests me is this: is he just using the Leftie quotes to stir up his readers, or is he really so frightened that Americans will lose their nerve?

I suspect he really does fear this. And I think this strange partial deafness, in which only one’s enemies, only bad news, can be heard, is a fundamental characteristic of American right-wingers. Even when they’re winning by a landslide, they’re wretchedly unhappy, convinced that their enemies are only laying low, planning something terrible. Nixon’s paranoia was by no means a mere individual pathology; it’s the occupational disease of his span of the ideological spectrum. He was leading McGovern by the biggest margin ever recorded in a presidential election when his goons got busted at Watergate. All he had to do was coast, but he couldn’t see it; he felt only terror and vindictive rage.

That’s why the rightwing crazies loved having Reagan around to front for the cameras: because he was the only one who didn’t wear fear and hatred on his face. He simply lacked the attention span a paranoiac requires, and that vacancy made for a lovable canine smile.

Bennett is one of the bedrock nutcases; it’s never enough, for people like him. September 11, and the week that followed, were clearly bliss for him:

“In the wake of September 11, the doubts and questions that had only recently plagued Americans about their nation seemed to fade into insignificance. Good was distinguished from evil, truth from falsehood. We were firm, dedicated, unified. It was, in short, a moment of moral clarity….”

Do you hear the longing, the desperate nostalgia in that paragraph? If only there could be a mass slaughter every day! Then that “moral clarity” might last a bit longer, and give Mister Bennett the high he obviously craves. But the high never lasts. Sooner or later, people start arguing–and for all Bennett’s lip service to “democracy,” dissent is something that drives him into a genuinely pathological rage.

It’s unbearable to him that a handful of tenure-hungry jargon-mongers are saying snide things about America. Theirs are the only voices which really come through to him. To any sane listener, the sound of America after the attacks was one huge roar of outrage–but for Bennett, there is only “the Death of Outrage.” In the middle of an 80,000-seat stadium roaring out the anthem, Bennett would scan the crowd for the one or two cranks who refuse to rise from their seats–and he would follow them, collect their bitter grumbles, paste them together, and use them to make himself and his readers even angrier and more wretched, as he has here.

It’s madness, of course. But it’s a very adaptive madness. After all, Ladies and Gentlemen, who won the war? Bennett and his like are the true elite now. Their imaginary “liberal” enemies are a demoralized remnant, useful only to whip the victors into new kill frenzies.

This book is the rhetorical equivalent of a rock wielded by a paranoid schizophrenic. The imagined “enemy” has been ambushed, knocked down, battered to a pulp. He’s already dead, his head smashed–but the madman goes on battering the crushed skull, moaning, “Leave–me–aLONE! just–leave–me–aLONE!”

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Artvoice publisher Jamie Moses barged into our office waving a pool cue. And that was just the beginning.

By Matt Taibbi

It BreaksWe’re from out of town, so maybe we don’t know. Maybe Artvoice publisher Jamie Moses has actually done some good things for this city, and maybe he’s actually well-liked in some circles. If that’s the case, we apologize for not seeing the forest for the trees; our bad. We really don’t have any way of knowing better.

But our experience so far with one of Buffalo’s most prominent citizens has been so bizarre and improbable, and so bubbling over with sordid high comedy, that we felt that there was no way we could not go public with it. If you’re a loyal Artvoice reader, good luck and good health to you; you might want to skip this story.

But if you want to hear one of the weirdest tales of small-town megalomania since the Clintons left Little Rock, read on. This one is a doozie.

It all started exactly three Fridays ago, on the afternoon of May 30, on the QEW just east of Brantford. After three mostly sleepless and ultimately very drunken days, the BEAST staff had put the finishing touches on its first issue, and sent it to be printed. Three of us–Kevin McElwee, Masha Hedberg, and I–were on our way to Brantford’s Ricter Web publishing house to cut our new Canadian partners a check, and inspect the proofs.

We were about a half-hour away when Kevin’s cell phone rang. On the other end of the line was Scott Russell, the Ricter Web sales rep we’d dealt with throughout the week.

Scott had bad news.

Ricter Web, he explained, was also the printer for Buffalo’s Artvoice. And because they worked with Artvoice, he said, his company would be unable to publish our paper, if we were going to run material that was critical of their client. Specifically, he was referring to two articles on page 6 of our inaugural issue: “Artvoice Death Toll at 7,” which lampooned Artvoice for spending money on a color cover instead of on starving children abroad, and “Minor Celebrity Math,” which compared the gruesome face of publisher Jamie Moses to that of Nosferatu and Ivan Lendl, among others.

Just take out those articles, Scott said cheerily, and Ricter Web will be happy to print the BEAST.

Tchya, right. We at the BEAST may not be the best businesspeople, but we felt pretty sure that choosing a censor for a printer was probably not the soundest business strategy for a new newspaper. We told Scott that we’d take our business elsewhere, thank you very much.

A few minutes after turning around to go home, an unpleasant thought occurred to us, and I pulled over again to call Scott back with one final request.

“Listen,” I said, “I know I don’t need to tell you this, but we would like some assurances from you that you will not be distributing the proofs to our paper to anyone else. For a variety of reasons, we’d really rather that no one saw it until it was out on the streets. We particularly don’t want Artvoice to see it. You understand.”

Scott, who sounded on the phone like a standard-issue cubicle sales weasel, and later proved to be one, said he understood. “Of course, Matt, of course,” he said. “We follow strict confidentiality around here. Nothing to worry about. You can rely on us!”

I hung up. Ten minutes later, we got another call. It was our publisher Paul Fallon, back in Buffalo. Jamie Moses was in his office, waving a fax copy of our unpublished article in one hand, and in the other–a pool cue!

“Where’s the guy who wrote this?!” he was screaming. “I’m going to bash his head in!”

Welcome to Buffalo

A quick note: when we first arrived in Buffalo, friends warned us about Jamie Moses. “Jamie is going to fucking freak if you so much as mention him in print,” came a typical warning. “In fact, he’s going to freak even if you don’t mention him. You’d better be careful.”

Whatever, we thought. We’d just come from running a newspaper in the mafia capital of the world–Moscow–and as such had some experience in dealing with touchy characters. When you come from a place where assassinations of troublesome journalists are routine, it seems absurd to worry about the threat posed by a touchy-feely American publisher of an alternative newspaper called Artvoice–particularly one who spends his Wednesday evenings decked out in faded denim, playing covers of Dire Straits songs to single-digit bar audiences.

Besides, we thought. This is America, a free country. We have civilization and laws and stuff. If trouble comes, it’s not going to be from a guy with a name like “Ivan the Fork.” The worst thing that can happen here, we thought, is a letter from a lawyer–and we were willing to take our chances there.

In any case, if Monsieur Moses was going to go bonkers whether we went after him or not, we decided quickly that in that case, we might as well fire a shot across his bow. After all, it’s not as if there was no reason to. Even a brief exposure to Artvoice was sufficient to conclude that Moses’s paper represented more or less everything that’s wrong with what is called “alternative” journalism in America.

Most big American cities these days follow the Buffalo format when it comes to print news: on the one hand, you have a humorless and virulently conservative corporate daily, often owned by an out-of-towner (The Buffalo News), and on the other, you have an effete weekly tabloid with a funky color cover design that’s filled with all the film and music reviews you could ever want, a few desperate sex ads, and… not much else.

If you want to control the flow of information to the public while still maintaining the illusion of a free press, this is certainly the best way to do it: you make a staid, grossly biased corporate monster the only source of “hard” information, and then you identify as “alternative” one lonely well-written column by Michael Niman, surrounded by 100 pages of nightlife listings.

After ten or fifteen years of this arrangement, no one seems to think it’s strange anymore that the “alternative” newspaper appears to be aimed at some mystical personage who spends most of his time drinking gourmet coffees while fretting over new developments in the Oregon underground music scene, and who thinks performance art naturally deserves more ink space than NFL football. That person, of course, is none of us, but this just seems normal after a while.

The alternative publisher usually starts out as a right-thinking guy. He recycles, votes Democratic usually, pronounces “Nicaragua” with a close approximation of a Spanish accent. When he starts his paper, he usually does so with some vague idea of helping out “the cause,” whatever that is. But before you know it, he starts selling ads and making money. He’s standing at his cash machine one night with four hundred whole dollars in his hand, and he thinks to himself, “Hey, I can buy a lot of vintage clothing with this stuff.”

Next thing you know, he’s beefing up the money-making sections of his paper (i.e., the listings), thinning out the front parts, toning down his reviews a little here and there.

By the time he starts working stories about Yoga and Botox into his news cycle, the process is over, and Mr. Good Cause Recycler doesn’t stand for anything anymore but a market share. In a country where people are called human resources and what is called culture is really commerce , a newspaper that expresses nothing but a sales demographic is… meaningless.

We have enough meaninglessness in our lives. And if meaninglessness happens to look like a cross between Ivan Lendl and Nosferatu, you might as well say so. Why not? You’ve got to take your shots in this life when you can; it’s the only way to stay sane in an absurd world.

All the same, I was shocked to hear that Moses was in our office. This was something I was not prepared for, not even close. When Kevin handed me the phone, and I heard Paul Fallon on the other end of the line telling me he was handing the phone to Jamie, I experienced one of those rare moments when reality appears to dissolve at the edges. It was an utterly surreal scene, driving on a Canadian highway, awaiting the dread voice of an alternative tabloid assailant.

“Where are you?” came the voice on the other end of the line. It was an even, emotionless hiss.

“On my way back to Buffalo!” I blurted out.

There was a long pause. “When are you coming back?” Moses said, finally.

I make a mistake here in putting a question mark in the Moses quote. There was no verbal upturn at the end of his sentence. He was speaking in a completely even, psychotic monotone.

“When am I coming back to Buffalo? Later!” I said. Then, recovering myself, I added, “What the hell are you doing in our office?”

Moses said nothing for about eight seconds. Then, ignoring me, he repeated: “When exactly are you coming back to Buffalo?”

“Jesus Christ!” I said. “Listen, get out of our office or I’ll call the police!” No answer. Finally I told Moses to put Paul back on the line. He did. Paul and I agreed to call the police. From Paul’s description, Moses–who previously had been issuing Scooby-Doo villain threats like “I’m going to get you guys,” and, “You’re not going to get away with this,”–suddenly changed his attitude when police were called. He turned around and, pool cue in hand, quietly crept back down the corridor.

Significantly, in a literarily accurate act of foreshadowing, he lingered a little in the hallway before he left. This troubled Paul enough that he ended up walking down to the lobby of the Statler Towers a few minutes later, just to make sure Moses had left.

Injun JamieHe asked the Statler security guard–who incidentally had directed the weapon-wielding Moses directly to our office–if Moses had left. She said he hadn’t. Finally, after five minutes or so, Moses reached the first floor via the stairwell (our office, it is worth noting, is on the 16th floor). He lingered in the lobby for a minute, then went out the door. Paul followed after him, just to make sure he had left. When he spotted Paul, he turned around and approached him again.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m crazy like an Indian sometimes.”

Paul looked at him, thinking: An Indian? What the fuck is he talking about?

“You know,” Moses added, “I took on a bunch of bikers once.”

Paul said nothing, silently thinking to himself: “This small person is not entirely sane.”

The conversation petered out shortly after that. Moses zipped up his battle regalia (a leather biker jacket), hopped on his BMW bike, and zoomed off. Police arrived later, but Moses was long gone. We filed a complaint later that night.

Even with Moses out of the office, we still suddenly had a serious problem: no printer. The inaugural issue of the BEAST was in the can and ready to print, but we had no place to go–and more importantly, no place to go right away. You can’t just go to a Kinko’s to print a newspaper; the process takes time. And if one printer could be influenced to turn us away, so could others.

After five years of freely publishing in the Jeffersonian paradise of formerly communist Russia, we suddenly had to face the proposition that in First-Amendment-protected America, we might not be able to publish at all.

We thought we had the problem solved when we called Buffalo Newspress, the outfit that publishes Alt Press, among other things. A Newspress rep told us that Friday that he didn’t anticipate any problems, and that if we came in the following Monday afternoon, they could probably print the thing by Tuesday or Wednesday.

No such luck. At exactly nine a.m. on that Monday morning, a different Newspress rep, Todd Spalti, called us at home. He told Kevin that Newspress had “obtained some information” about us, and as such could not print our newspaper. I leave it to the reader to judge for himself exactly what happened there.

Personally, I was livid. I called Spalti back and demanded to know what had happened, and where this “information” had come from–not that I didn’t have a pretty good idea. A coward in the way that all business peons are, Spalti said that he couldn’t help me, that the decision came from the president of the company, etc. Naturally, the president of the company was not available to speak with me. When I asked what the name of this president was, Spalti hung up.

On our third try, we found a printer with no ties to Buffalo who took our business. I think it goes without saying that if that’s what it takes to put out a newspaper in this country–finding a printer geographically distant from your competitors–something is fairly twisted in Denmark.

On that same Monday that Newspress rejected us, a letter spilled out of Paul’s fax machine. It was from Jamie. Regarding the incident the previous Friday, he explained himself by saying that “I was in a rage and wanted only to ‘connect’ with the author of your Artvoice article.” Then he went on to threaten us with a lawsuit before moving on to the bizarre heart of his letter:

“Also, while we have nothing to do with the poetry appearing in Artvoice but merely donate that space to the Buffalo Literary Center, your writer is far from qualified to offer a critical opinion of anyone’s writing. Offering space to aspiring writers is meant to encourage their activity, and while your writer may think he’s being funny, he’s not. He’s just being mean.”

It was hard to imagine how a person last seen making an armed foray into an office shared by the NYCLU could believably call anyone “mean,” but whatever. Incidentally, I submit that anyone who reads poetry is qualified to criticize it, and that one does not need to have the literature degrees that we in fact have to see that the stuff in Artvoice makes Suzanne Somers seem like Lord Byron.

Jamie went on to complain that we had gone after him when there were more important issues in the city to worry about. “I suggest your employees actually do some research work and shake up the people and institutions who are responsible for the downward spiral this community is experiencing… You’re close enough to City Hall to spit on the building,” he wrote. “Why doesn’t your writer get off his large ass and waddle across the street for material?”

Note: a week and a half later, Jamie would send a mass e-mail to City Hall officials (as well as to the FBI and the State Department; more on this later) complaining about the BEAST. Among his complaints was our disrespectful treatment of those same people who were responsible for the proverbial “downward spiral this community is experiencing.” The BEAST, Moses complained to (among others) Mayor Masiello and Matt Brown, “thinks City Hall is only good for playing pranks on.”

After chiding Paul to keep an eye on who his “dogies” bite (Moses is apparently unaware that a “dogie” is a cow, not a dog), Jamie wrapped up his letter: “As far as I’m concerned, I’m happy to have another publication on the street, and I would even be happy to help. But not if your strategy is to diminish our efforts. That kind of strategy is typical of the Buffalo mentality that’s poisoned this city for too long.”

Again, a strange comment coming from someone who just bought out his last competitor, Blue Dog. And… “diminish our efforts”? What, is Artvoice a polio vaccination drive? Very weird stuff. We laughed and threw the letter aside, thinking the incident was over.

Three days later, the BEAST was printed and we began to distribute. On the way back from a distribution run, Kevin and one of the interns spotted Jamie angrily reading the BEAST in a pizza place just a half-block from my house.

Upon going inside to get a slice and observe the scene, the intern also noticed that the rest of the copies of our paper were in the restaurant’s trash can.

I walked to the pizza place to photograph this scene. Jamie was sitting by the window with a man who we later determined was his lawyer, LeRoi Johnson.

I took a few pictures of the two as they examined our paper before Jamie came outside, walked up to me, and knocked my camera to the ground.

“Don’t take my fucking picture!” he shouted.

I picked up the camera. “Let me try this again,” I said.

I raised the camera again for a close-up shot, and pressed the shoot button, but it was a no go; Jamie had knocked the battery out the first time.

Nonetheless, he knocked it out of my hand again.

“Don’t take my picture, you fucking asshole!” he shouted.

I picked up the camera again and regarded our competitor. Moses is about half my size, but for a variety of compelling reasons, I was very reluctant to get into a fight with him. I’ll say this for him, though. One look at that face saved me $4.25 I might have later spent at Blockbuster renting a Wes Craven movie. His is truly a face for the ages.

We exchanged a few more pleasantries before Jamie stormed back into the pizza place, ending that scene.

Fast forward about a week. It’s midnight on a Tuesday. I’m returning home from a funeral in Long Island. I drop my girlfriend off at the house, then drive off to park the car. Walking back I encounter, standing in the shadows very near to my house, Jamie Moses.

It occurs to me that this might be a coincidence. He might be visiting someone here; I’d heard from friends that there are Artvoice staffers among my neighbors. I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt, I thought. Just to be sure, though, I walk up to him and ask: “What are you doing here?”

He stares at me. “I don’t have to tell you what I’m doing here,” he says.

Well, he’s right about that, I thought. So I walk on and head home. However, it occurs to me suddenly that if this is a coincidence, and he doesn’t know where I live, it might be best not to fill him in. So I walk past my house a ways and turn around to see what he’s doing.

He’s still standing there. He hasn’t moved; he’s standing in the dark, under a tree, watching me.

This is too much. I walk back to him.

“Listen,” I said. “If you’re going to stand there all night, I’m going to assume that you’re surveilling my house, and I’m going to call the police again.”

Moses said nothing, put on his helmet, and walked off. He exited by crossing the street, passing through a gate in a house opposite mine, going through a rear gate in that yard, and jumping on his motorcycle in a back alley.

Another Phantom of the Opera exit. If I ever end up in court with this guy, I thought, he’s going to leave the witness stand through a ventilator shaft behind the judge.

You know the expression, “No one makes a better husband than a reformed rake?” Well, no one makes a meaner capitalist than an ex-hippie.

There are things that even John Ashcroft would be ashamed to try that your average tree-hugging lefty won’t hesitate to resort to. Specifically, he may try to imply that his competitor is a terrorist or a foreign agent, and invite various organs of the state intelligence apparatus to investigate.

On the day after I discovered Moses outside my house, word got back to us that Jamie had circulated an e-mail about our newspaper to a number of government officials in City Hall. It’s a remarkable letter, worth reprinting in its entirety. Incidentally, please excuse me for not correcting Jamie’s grammar: I only have a limited amount of time on this earth. In any case, here it is:

You may find this warning about the Beast publication worth reading. This is the paper who last week published a “prank” they played on Mayor Masiello by fraudulently posing as casting people from the “Sopranos.” Their internet announcement proclaims they intend to be the “meanest newspaper on American soil.” Their sister paper in Moscow, (which the Beast editor has co-edited for several years), eXile, has a front page of a soccer team kicking around the severed head of Wall Street Journal correspondent Daniel Pearl. They also have photos of the Columbine High murderers lying in a pool of blood with the caption “Klebold and Harris, keeping it real.” The eXile also just had a judgement filed against it for writing a disgusting article about a hockey players wife. Pavel Bure sued. In their Buffalo publication the Beast, the content more or less concludes all Buffalo women are sluts, pigs and whores, all the music sucks, everyone is fat and poorly dressed, Artvoice is boring [!], and City Hall is only good for playing pranks on… basically, their editorial strategy is to make anyone and everyone feel worthless…it’s a free country and I suppose that’s their privilege [eds. Note; note that Moses says "privilege" and not "right"]…however, the e-mail correspondence below suggests there must be something more evil at the root of this publication…the editor regularly posts intelligently written essays to a Russian e-mail newsletter on far ranging topics such as Russian oil exports, corporate fashion, etc.,, and has been published in the Nation. So this is not just some aggressive frat boys being obnoxious [Eds. Note: "This is...boys?" This guy writes for a living?]. They share offices with Alt and the A.C.L.U. in the Statler towers and list their publisher as Paul Fallon, son of Judge Fallon. However, the publisher of Alt phoned Artvoice even before their paper hit the streets trying to distance himself as quickly as possible from the publication and insisting that he wished he had never met Paul Fallon or these two guys from Moscow who are putting out the Beast.

Moses then attached a copy of an internet posting about the eXile written by one Peter Ekman. Ekman was a right-wing columnist in Moscow who is pissed at us because, after receiving a nasty letter from him, we published an ugly story about an incident in which he groped one of our secretaries in a bar.

The married Ekman subsequently tried to have the eXile banned from various newsgroups by describing us as a Neo-nazi organization. Proof of our Nazi sympathies came in the form of a spoof fashion piece we’d once run entitled “The eXile’s Third Reich Uniform of the Week,” in which a fictional gay fashion designer breathlessly reviewed the 1938 version of the Nazi Field Bishop uniform. The Moses letter contained these interesting allegations of neo-Nazism.

Moses was therefore simultaneously accusing us of being Nazis and of being “evil” because we wrote for the Nation and were connected with the ACLU. A Nazi Nation contributor from the ACLU; that’s a pretty tough sell. I can only imagine what reactions this inspired.

Now for the really funny part.

Here is a partial list of the people Moses sent this letter to: Anthony Masiello, Jim Pitts, Joel Giambra, Matt Brown. Local officials who should sympathize; logical choices.

Moses also sent the letter to a local FBI agent (whose name I am omitting), to the Department of State, and to the Justice Department. If we are Americans recently flown in from Russia who hang out with the ACLU and pick on Daniel Pearl, clearly we are terrorists and spies and warrant some attention.

There was one more address I left out. Moses sent the letter to secretary@state.gov. Guess whose e-mail that is?

Mailing List

Colin Powell’s. Moses sent a letter to Colin Powell about the BEAST. All because we said he looked like Nosferatu. I don’t have a better punchline than that. That’s where it stands now; see you next issue, folks. If there is a next issue, that is. We can only hope the Middle East keeps the General busy.


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Refuse the Breathalizer




Sports Crimewatch

Refuse the Breathalizer

JJune just wouldn’t be June without a Sebastian Janikowski DUI incident, and this year was no different. After his disastrous foray into the world of GHB and unwilling dates, the Foul Pole decided to go back to the bread and butter pleasures of vodka mixed with German performance cars and immediately hit paydirt. Janikowski was arraigned in Leon County Court in Tallahassee, FL on June 10 after being pulled over on May 18 for driving “erratically” in his maroon Mercedes. Police immediately issued a citation for the DUI, but declined to prosecute Janikowski for buying a maroon car. Law enforcement officials said records showed he had been cited for DUIs at least seven other times, including three times in Tallahassee. However, they made it clear that no favoritism was shown in the decision to let him keep his license. “Not only NFL stars, but ordinary people may drink and drive as much as they like here in Tallahassee,” one police spokesman said. “We just pull you over if we run out of beer ourselves.” Janikowski, who was oncearrested for attempting to bribe a policeman, reportedly had no liquor left in his vehicle at the time of the citation.

One of the problems with professional sports is that there’s no way to completely isolate the athletes from the general population. No doubt they’re working on it: vast practice facilities that come complete with whole artificial population centers… Fully automated discos and bars manned by robots, lots of papier mache parking meters and light poles to safely drive into, and a never-ending supply of real high school girls, red rubber balls strapped in their mouths, imported through a special loading dock at the edge of the territory. No other human interference would be necessary; even the record producers who arrive to offer rap album deals could be automated… That’s the way it ought to be, but not the way it is. In the real world, there’s no way to remove completely the extraneous human beings from the pro athlete’s existence. Case in point: the parking lot attendant.

Hardly a year goes by without a violent incident involving a pro athlete, a $90,000 vehicle with a dent, and a parking lot attendant who sooner or later surfaces on television with a cheap lawyer and a neck brace. Mike Tyson used to fill the yearly quota with admirable regularity, but this year the job fell to Chicago Bears wide receiver David Terrell. Terrell was arrested on June 13 on the classic sports charge of simple misdemeanor battery after he and two other men had a “disagreement” with a pair of Chicago parking lot attendants. Punches were thrown, and one attendant was struck in the face, although he stupidly declined even fictional medical treatment after the fight ended. The ACLU has yet to protest the exorbitant $100 bail set for Terrell after the incident.

Former boxing champion Pernell Whitaker earlier this month had some advice for young people who are considering experimentation with cocaine: don’t hide it in your wallet. The key with coke is to work up enough of a resistance that you can swallow your whole load if you have to. When police pull you over for driving into a light pole, toss the foil packet into your mouth. Then try to keep as cool as possible while they decide whether or not to make an arrest or issue a ticket. That’s the key moment right there, the difference between be able to keep doing tons of coke indefinitely and not being able to do any at all for at least the next 21 months. Whitaker screwed it up back in March. He only had a few more months to go before a previous cocaine charge would have been dropped when he was pulled over for a moving violation in Virginia Beach. While police were processing him for a four-day jail term on the traffic arrest, they found a packet of cocaine in his money roll. Now he’s looking at ten years if convicted for violating the terms of a previous drug sentence. “It has not been a good day for me,” Whitaker said after the hearing.

Finally, a story you’ve heard on the radio more often than a two-for-Tuesday double-shot of Aerosmith: Dwight Gooden arrested in Florida for driving with an open container of alcohol. In an unusual twist, Gooden appeared to not actually be drunk at the time of the arrest; police video showed him passing the field test with flying colors. Gooden’s attorney, Joseph Ficarrotta, jumped all over the tape and get the charge knocked down. “Law enforcement did the right thing and reduced the charge to reckless driving,” he said, stressing the words right and thing. The Doc almost got off this time, but the age-old unpaid previous unrelated traffic violation did him in, and he was sentenced to 21 hours of community autograph-signing. “I couldn’t find a stamp,” Doc explained.

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Charles Longley: Republican for Congress 2002




Charles Longley: Republican for Congress 2002

Charles Longley: Republican for Congress 2002

Charles LongleyYou can’t say the BEAST doesn’t take politics seriously. Truth be told, one of our own is running for Congress. We’ve known Charles Longley for years–he used to date one of the editor’s mothers, before she dumped him for a Belgian poet–and know him to be one of America’s great patriots. He’s a Republican, but we let that slide because he’s so sincere. In fact, we even plan to support him in the next election cycle, because we think America need more men like Chuck: honest, forthright, patriotic, and a little eccentric.

Last week, we let Chuck use our office late one night to do some campaign planning work. As usual, we left the tapes running on all the phones, a precaution we leave in place to keep our employees in line. When we came in the next morning, we found a surprise–Chuck had done some serious work the night before. Immediately we knew we had material for our next issue… But first, we knew we needed a little Q&A with the candidate:

Q:   Charles, you’re known in the Beast family as a kind of tragic hero, a Lone Ranger of Republicanism. You don’t have any backers for your campaign. What makes you think you can win?

A:   My media savvy.

Q:   What’s your strategy, exactly?

A:   In modern American politics, to have a legitimate chance at winning a seat in Congress, a candidate must make a positive impression through the mass media–be it television or print. Some people view this as our process’s greatest flaw, an aspect which necessarily causes each election to be a battle between two hedonistically wealthy talking heads who act as mere shills for their corporate backers.

Q:   But…

A:   But optimists, on the other hand, view the requisite pandering to media conglomerates as a potential positive: a way to communicate one’s vision of the Good Society to the public and, given the effort that must have gone into pre-television campaigns, a relatively easy means of scoring points with unsuspecting voters.

Q:   So which are you?

A:   I am an optimist. I have a vision and a plan for communicating it to the folks out there who don’t have the time to ask questions.

Q:   Anything concrete to that vision yet?

A:   (unnerved) No, not yet.

Yeah, sure you don’t, Chuck. In any case, here’s what our hero was up to in our office after hours. Is this man fit for office, or what? Somebody call James Carville!

8:43 pm, June 16

Receptionist:   Sheer Elegance Massage Parlor.

Charles:   (nervously) Hi, I’m interested in becoming a, uh, a “client.”

R:    Yeah.

C:    Yes, what are your, uh, what are you rates?

R:    It’s thirty for half and sixty for the hour. We’re open from eleven to nine. Our last booking for an appointment is eight-thirty. Ummm…

C:    Thirty dollars… for a half an hour. And that’s the smallest, uh, billing period I get a reservation for. That’s the shortest amount of time I could arrange.

R:    Well, the hour is sixty.

C:    That would be longer.

R:    Right. A half-hour.

C:    So the shortest is thirty.

R:    (straining to think of clearer explanation) Right. The half-hour is thirty, the hour is sixty.

C:    Right, I ask because I’m really only going to need, um, the service of your women for about, uhh… a few… only a couple minutes. Two or three minutes.

R:    Well, we don’t do that. You have to take the half-hour or the hour.

C:    Right, the interesting thing of it is-I don’t know if you’ve heard… of who I am before… (crazily fumbling) I’m, uh… I’m uh… I’m running for, uh, for Congress. (forgetting name) My name’s Charles Langley, um, and the reason I was interested in becoming a client of yours, the reason I would need one of your women, is for, uh, well, uh, a promotional, uh, event I’m trying to arrange.

R:    You mean for an outcall?

C:    Yes, it’s an outcall of sorts.

R:    Well we don’t do outcalls, so… you would have to call probably an escort service or somethin’.

C:    Well… uhh… th- the woman wouldn’t have to appear in any house. It would be on the public streets.

R:    (aghast) Pardon me?

C:    It… well, if I could present to you what I, what I had in mind. With the degradation of the current, uh, state of mind in America and the current “morale situation,” I was thinking that a hero is what people would want to vote for in Congress. America needs a certain heroism. I was hoping to stage an event in which I could, heroically, uh, save the life of one of your women.

R:    (laughing) Well, I don’t think…

C:    Don’t…

R:    …we’d be interested in that.

C:    We’ve arranged for a bus, a Metro NFTA bus, to be coming down Delaware Boulevard, right in front of Niagara square, in front of the city hall. The bus would look like it’s careening out of control. Possibly the bus driver would appear to be inebriated or, uh, drugged–he’s afflicted with one of the problems that affects so many inner-city dwellers these days. Your, uh, your woman would be walking out in front, I would step in front of the bus–the bus driver I’ve already contacted, he’s already in with this plan–I would step out in front and save the life of your woman. And then, um, hopefully a photographer or a media representative will be, uh, around to capture the moment. Really, it will capture what, uh, America needs right now: a sort of symbolic heroism, especially with the on-going War Against Terrorism that President Bush is, is trying to wage. There’s no woman in your, in your program that would be, uh, suitable for this purpose?

R:    Not, not that right now I could tell you, no.

C:    Well, is there any woman in your program that is familiar with the school vouchers, uh, idea? Any woman that could speak with any sort of articularity about welfare reform?

R:    Mmmm… no. Hm-mmm.

C:    (sighing) How much taxable income are your women making in a year? Are they concerned about the astounding rate of high income taxes, uh, in New York?

R:    Oh, everybody is.

C:    Everybody is? Oh, okay! I agree. This is one of my, uh, this is at the fore of my campaign platform. If we could establish a flat-rate tax system and–get a woman, a commoner, to speak about it, uh, to a media representative, after having just been heroically saved by Charles Longley–Chuck Longley, GOP Candidate for Congress from Erie County–if we could get one of these situations to occur, I think it would, I think it would really alter the paradigm of the New York tax system. There’s no woman in your house who could help me out in this situation?

R:    Mmmm… not right now, no.

C:    (hopeful) Tomorrow?

R:    Tomorrow.

C:    Would there be a woman tomorrow?

R:    Maybe you could call back tomorrow.

C:    Would there be, would there be, uh, a woman?

R:    There might be.

C:    There might be. Do you know who that might be?

R:    No, not at… no, not right now.

C:    You don’t have a…

R:    I’d have to talk to people first.

C:    Is there any of your women who attended a private school?

R:    (cluelessly) Uh, for election purposes?

C:    (baffled) For their… for high school. Did any of your women graduate from high school?

R:    (confidently) Yes.

C:    A private high school? A Catholic School? Maybe using a school voucher system?

R:    (actually trying to think of the correct answer) Mmmm… that one, I’d have to ask.

C:    Okay, because, again, the dilapidation of the public schools is something I’m trying to hit at this year. Uh… any of your women unionized? Does a union have a tight, firm hold, uh (realizing the blatant sexual overtone), a grip on, uh, on your industry?

R:    Well those are things that I need… to… talk with everybody here and see who’s… got what, (chuckling at her own ignorance), flexible…

C:    Are there any collective bargaining agreements? A sort of paralysis on the industry led by corrupt union forces?

R:    Mmmm… no.

C:    (condescendingly) None that… none that you would know about. (Deep, prolonged sigh.)

R:    (trying to be helpful) Maybe if you call tomorrow, I’ll have a little bit more to talk to you about.

C:    Okay, if you could just keep in mind, it’s Charles Longley.

R:    Okay.

C:    Republican Party Candidate for 2002. I have the primaries coming up, so if you could please help me out, uh with any woman who, uh, might be able to act as a sort of “damsel in distress.”

R:    Okay.

C:    Thank you.

R:    You’re welcome.

C:    Bye.

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Matt Taibbi

Remember that story about the mayhem at the Zoo a few weeks back? Imagine if it had been different…

Imagine that, instead of bending branches and launching lorikeets into the air, those notorious “underprivileged youths” had thrown a net over the whole branch, taken every lorikeet in the exhibit, and eaten them alive on the spot, gleefully spitting feathers into the air as they ate.

Then imagine that those same kids then go around the zoo and eat every single animal in the place. The slurping and smacking then lasts for three long years; huge piles of bones accumulate as meek zoo administration officials look on day after day after day. By the time police finally arrive to break it up, there are four or five kids there who each weigh fifteen thousand pounds, if not more.

The kids are so obese and engorged with rare species flesh that they are visible from observation towers at Niagara Falls. They’re so big that weather systems actually move around their huge, rippling bodies… When investigators get there, they politely tell the kids to leave, and the matter ends there: no arrests, no fines, nothing. When all’s said and done, there’s nothing left of the zoo but tumbleweeds, and all of Delaware Park is left submerged in massive piles of steaming human excrement. Try playing basketball in that.

Believe it or not, that story actually happened. It was called the Adelphia scandal. It should have made the actual zoo story look trivial. But you would never have known that from reading The Buffalo News.

Lesson #1 in how big corporate-owned media works in this country: When a bunch of poor black kids go nuts in a zoo, or trash a bunch of slum properties, you can expect a full nuclear response from your local daily. But when a gang of greedy white oligarchs pillages a multibillion-dollar company, wrecking not selected parts of one zoo, but the whole of your local economy… well, the response is a little different. In The News, the difference could have been expressed in a single pair of headlines–”Nigger Savages Attack Zoo” in the former case, and in the latter, “Adelphia Collapses and What a Shame: Rigas Family Heroically Braves Terrible Tragedy.”

The News jumped on the “Niggers Attack Zoo” story with both feet. In addition to Tom Buckham’s blistering May 29 news piece, “Mass Misbehavior Leaves Zoo a Mess,” the paper ran a good half-dozen angry editorials about the incident and a like number of outraged letters to the editor. The News never came right out and said that the vandals were mostly all black, but the articles were filled with transparent code words that made it pretty clear what it was talking about. My favorite was in Buckham’s piece–a little detail about the kind of alcoholic beverages that were being illegally consumed on the premises. He said that the violations included:

“…extensive littering of the grounds with beer and malt liquor containers sneaked through the gate in violation of the zoo’s ban on alcoholic beverages…”

When white readers in Amherst or Lackawanna see the words “Malt Liquor” in conjunction with vandalism, they know exactly what you’re talking about. Likewise, it was obvious enough what letter-writer Beth Kontrabecki was getting at when she wrote:

“This is what society has come to, folks. Respect and decorum are things of the past. Today, people can do what they want, when they want and almost always get away with it. I suppose we can thank our politically correct society for this uncivilized way of life.

“The Buffalo Zoo wanted to provide the opportunity to share its resources and activities with those in the lower-income bracket of Western New York. And now, due to the barbaric acts of some, those who couldn’t normally afford a day at the zoo may never have the chance to visit it again.

“These delinquents can’t pass a Regents exam, because they’re too busy going to the zoo and attempting to steal exotic birds, or urinating in the bushes. Who is to blame? For once, we really can’t blame the powers-that-be in City Hall or the federal government. “The blame lies solely with the parents. Of course, the parents will never own up to their poor child-raising tactics. They’ll blame it on the teachers, or in moments of desperation, racism, sexism, agism or any other “ism” they can manipulate as a scapegoat.”

I love it when upper-middle-class white people get angry. Worked up to the absolute summit of their passions, they still can never say what they mean. When they want desperately to say “Niggers from East Buffalo,” they instead have to say, “Those in the lower-income bracket of Western New York.” No wonder they’re so pissed off all the time. They have to use a Thesaurus to get nasty… their bedroom dialogues must sound like Dick Cavett reruns.

The News was a little more subtle than Mme. Kontrabecki. You had to read its editorials somewhat more closely to get the gist of its vilification of the zoo marauders. The June 3 house editorial, “Animal Behavior,” was a classic example.

That piece used a number of colorful terms to describe the zoo vandals, including “miscreants,” “cretins,” “animals,” and “herd of free-range idiots.” But although the newspaper theoretically speaks for the entire city, The News made it very clear that it was not describing a collective community failure here–instead of talking about how badly our children had behaved, it made it a point to talk about how their children had trashed our zoo:

“[The vandals] did more than abuse animals and zoo facilities–they abused a privilege, to the detriment of all of us.”

The News returned to the race theme just a day after this editorial, when it ran a front-page story on June 4 entitled, “Landlords Blame Tenants, Demand Accountability.” This story was a perfect follow-up to the “Niggers Wreck Zoo” piece; they moved a little East of Delaware Park for this one to make it “Niggers Wreck Rental Properties.”

Again, as in the zoo pieces, the paper never came out and said that it was talking mainly about black tenants and white landlords. But it threw in enough euphemisms to make it obvious, talking about “Buffalo’s blighted neighborhoods” and repeatedly referring to “bad tenants” who receive federal or county welfare assistance.

Of course, the tenants responsible for the “unchecked destruction” the paper describes (note how similar the language here is to that of the zoo pieces) are conspicuously absent from the actual article. The photos it ran, including one of an apartment overflowing with garbage and empty bottles, were both of apartments that no longer had anyone living in them.

Even in the article’s prose descriptions, the vilified residents are missing. In one deliciously heavyhanded passage, reporter Sandra Tan describes a bedroom of a ravaged apartment in which “a pristine Holy Bible sat beside a table of burnt marijuana stems.” Presumably the Bible’s pages should have been dog-eared and the marijuana unsmoked; in any case, there was no tenant there to explain the reasons for this blasphemy. As one housing lawyer I spoke to joked: “That couldn’t have been any of my tenants. They wouldn’t have left the stems.”

All in all, the paper extensively quoted four landlords in the piece, but not a single tenant. An article about tenants, without interviews with tenants. Even The New York Times would have too much shame to try something like that.

All of which would just be routinely offensive mainstream media stuff, were it not for the opposite response in The News to the Adelphia story. Informed that the corporate officers had looted Buffalo’s most prominent company for years on end, imperiling thousands of jobs, a downtown renewal plan, and even the beloved Sabres, The News never came close to calling the Rigas family “animals,” “miscreants,” “cretins,” or a “herd” of anything, much less “free-range idiots.”

Instead, the paper pulled on its hose and delivered to Buffalo the Rigas story in the form of a cruel Shakespearean tragedy, in which the kindly King Lear (John Rigas) was toppled from his lofty throne by heartless fate and a few regrettable but thoroughly understandable human frailties.

The most infuriating of the News Adelphia stories was the June 9 story by Lou Michel and Michael Beebe, “Rigas Sons Say Family Battered and Strong.” The lead to the story said it all:

“COUDERSPORT, Pa.–In their first public statements since the onset of their company’s financial crisis, the three sons of Adelphia founder John J. Rigas said in separate interviews with The Buffalo News that their family is working closely together to survive its troubles.

“It’s obviously a very hard time for us, but the family is holding up well,” said James P. Rigas, 44, the youngest of the three Rigas sons and Adelphia’s former executive vice president of strategic planning.

“Regardless of what comes out of this, the family unit will be stronger than ever,” he said. “We’ve always had a close family, and hard times draw you closer together.”

It takes some serious balls to try to convince readers that they should care how the Rigas family is “holding up” after being caught using Adelphia money to secure themselves a private golf course, among other things.

You notice that the paper didn’t track down any tenants to ask how they were “managing” after being thrown on the streets for dropping lit crack pipes on their couches. “Regardless of what comes out of this, the family unit will be stronger,” the story might have quoted the tenant as saying. “Right now, we’re living out of a shopping cart, robbing parked cars to pay for crack, but the experience is drawing our family closer together.”

The paper’s other Adelphia stories weren’t much better:

  • The May 28 sports piece, “Rigas Story Mixes Anger With Sadness,” describes the fallen John Rigas as a cross between the Pope and Tinkerbell, leading with a tale of the old man charming Miroslav Satan’s stick by rubbing it before a game in which Satan scored a key goal.
  • The June 2 piece, “Adelphia Probe May Lead to Charges Against Rigas,” played up the King Lear angle in the lead. “The idea of anyone accusing kindly, white-haired John J. Rigas of white-collar crime,” reporter Fred Williams wrote, “is unthinkable to many.”
  • The May 16 piece, “New Chief is No Stranger to Challenge” was a start-to-finish blowjob of new Adelphia CEO Erland Kailbourne, whom the paper described as a savior–despite the fact that he was on the board and presumably paying attention for all those years that the Rigases were pillaging the company.
  • The June 7 piece, “Leaks Add Volume to Adelphia Story,” basically blasted The Wall Street Journal for using unnamed sources to (a) whip the hair plugs off the News staff on the breaking-news coverage of Adelphia, and (b) smear the reputation of the Rigas family.
  • Two other stories, the May 25 “Reporting Depth Would Take a Big Hit if Empire Folded,” and the May 18 “A Blow to Western New York,” held faithfully to the doleful “Isn’t-this-a-shame” theme of the News Adelphia coverage. Again, a striking contrast to the “Let’s-lynch ‘em” tone of the zoo coverage.

There’s nothing new in any of this. When a poor person pisses on his own floor for whatever reason, he’s an animal who should be locked in a cage. But when a rich creep with kindly white hair steals billions of dollars and dooms thousands to unemployment, it’s just a darned shame.

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By Matt Taibbi


The BEAST will be keeping a full-season diary throughout the summer of the Batavia Muckdogs, a single-A farm club in the Philadelphia Phillies organization. Forget the big leagues. Forget the upcoming strike. This is sports the way it should be.

“God, I’m so fucking glad to be back here,” Mike Nacey says. He’s a youngish guy, around thirty, thin and with a red goatee and a baseball cap. He’s standing serenely at the beer booth like it’s his own personal barcalounger. It practically is. He lives around the corner from Dwyer Stadium in Batavia, home of the single-A Muckdogs, and has been coming to games for over twenty years. He’s run the full fan cycle; he worked the scoreboard when he was seven, now he works the brew stand. He’s seen it all here.

“John Elway’s first professional home run,” he says. “I was here. He hit it right out there to left.” Elway played for the Oneonta Yankees back in the early eighties. Another future football star had a cup of coffee with the Muckdogs a few years back, and Nacey remembers him, too. “Yeah, Ricky Williams was here, I remember him,” he says. “He was good. I kept waiting for him to have a play at the plate, so that he could wipe out the catcher. Never happened. He was fast, though. He stole some bases.”

Maybe things were different back in the days of the Polo grounds, but no one can possibly feel the way Nacey feels about Dwyer Stadium in a major league park these days. Dwyer park is his house, you can see it. Big league parks, with their luxury boxes and their impossibly complex leases and building deals, manifestly belong to nobody, not even the teams they house.

Muckdog ball is different. “Simple pleasures, man,” Nacey says, looking around. “That’s what it’s all about.”

This is probably what baseball was like way back when, when America fell in love with the game. The local ballpark was an extension of your front yard. The players were talented kids who toughed it out every night and made as much playing ball as you did pouring concrete or doing frame work, if not less. You could catch the manager hanging around the hot dog stand before the game and ask him how the new lefthander was coming along. And you cared who won because you knew these kids and felt like you were part of the team—not because they wore the same name as some dot on a map.

And the players are still damn good. They’re throwing one-hop strikes to home from deep right field every single time. They’re laying off sliders down and away. And they don’t have millions yet. They’re regular guys like us—only much better at baseball.

It’s the day before opening night. It has been rainy all afternoon and the tarp is on the infield. The team’s press guy has mud on his pant-legs from working the grounds. The opening-night starter, a promising 6’7″ Venezuelan named Erick Arteaga, is throwing heat off the bullpen mound. You can hear the ball popping in the catcher’s mitt all the way out in the parking lot. A few other players are long-tossing in left field, but most everybody else is already in the clubhouse. It’s pretty quiet out there.

Barthelemy, left, playing spades with three pitchers

The team has only been together for a few weeks. About half of the players were only just drafted, and three or four only signed a few days before. The guys are just getting to know each other. Inside the clubhouse, a brawny Florida St. infield prospect named Ryan Barthelemy is crossing vocational lines to play Spades with three pitchers. They’re useless when the conversation turns to bat trends.

“Hey, who else makes the maple bats?” he asks.

Bobby Korecky, a righthander from Michigan, winces in mild disgust. “We don’t know,” he says.

Beau Richardson, a lefthander from Tulane, points in a circle. “Pitchers,” he reminds us. Spades is a team game and he seems mildly annoyed that Barthelemy, his partner, is not paying full attention. Worse, Barthelemy is showing me his hand, which I make no sense of. I’m going to have to learn this game.

Ryan’s a genial, laid-back guy who I was told was one of the team’s best prospects. He doesn’t know it yet, but he’s going to be batting clean-up on opening day tomorrow. He’s only been with the squad a few days. I grew up playing catcher and as such can spot one from a hundred yards off—all catchers can, for some mysterious reason—but it isn’t until I see Barthelemy’s trunk-like forearms that I can tell he’s a first baseman. I ask him if he’s a Marlins fan, being from Florida.

“I’m an East coast fan,” he answers diplomatically.

The Muckdogs are a Phillies organization.

“How would you feel about playing in Philly?” I ask.

He doesn’t miss a beat. “I would feel outstanding about playing in Philly,” he says. “There’s no such thing as a bad big league destination.”

He asks me where I’m from. I tell him I’ve just moved back to the States from Russia. “Russia? Damn,” he says. “So you speak Russian?” I tell him I do.

“Well,” he says. “I’m trying to learn Spanish. I’m going to have to.” He points over at a Dominican pitcher named Carlos Cabrera, who’s standing over in a corner next to Arteaga, who’s just walked in. “These guys are going to teach me. Right?”

Cabrera turns his head, nods. They’ve got 78 games to get the language thing right. I make a note to get Cabrera to test Barthelemy’s Spanish before every issue.

Opening night. The hour before the game belongs to the people working the various concession stands and attractions inside the gate. There’s a reading center for kids, a table belonging to the local newspaper,

Rock: I got eighty balls last year

The Batavia Daily News, and a merchandise stand where I buy a Muckdogs dog bowl, a quality item, for five bucks. A 10th grader named Andy Rock is working the speed-pitch game; guess your speed on the radar gun, and win a free helmet. Andy’s making minimum wage, which is a promotion from his previous Muckdog profession; turning in foul balls for hamburgers.

“I got eighty last year,” he said. I lose the radar game and give him a dollar.

Hunting down foul balls is a big deal around here. It makes sense; fewer fans, just as many foul balls. Everyone you meet has his career numbers ready. Two kids named Nick and Steve, who are in a band together (“We’re the next Staind”) and are inside the gate here working an amusing gig in which a sign invites you to ask them for their worthless autographs, both have a good figure from last year.

“I got about a hundred,” Nick says.

Nacey has never turned his in for burgers. He’s got twenty years’ worth. “I’ve got a whole trash can full of them,” he says.

You can tell a foul ball is coming in this park even if you’re behind the stands. The announcer cues up an ad for a detail shop called Select Collision that features the sound of a baseball hitting your parked car. “Select Collision, Route 33, Batavia,” he says, as the ball flies over your head. “They’ll make your worries and dents disappear.”

The Muckdogs used to be the Batavia Clippers. Five years ago they changed their name. Local fans voted on the new title. The team is named after a nearby field that has a lot of muck in it; the vicious dog was apparently an afterthought. Before the game starts, there’s a strong smell of manure around the field, but by the second inning or so, it goes away.

The game is a heartbreaker. Arteaga pitches a gem; seven shutout innings, only one walk. The team is winning, 1-0, going into the ninth, but a series of defensive miscues lets the Jamestown Jammers tie it up in the last inning. After a close play at home that would have won it for the Muckdogs in extra innings is called an out, the Jammers come back in the twelfth and rough up Mexican reliever Maximo Reyes for two runs.

The crowd got ugly toward the end of the game. The blown home plate call clearly made the 62-degree evening feel a lot colder all of the sudden.

“Damn it, its freezing, the game goes on an extra hour, and we’re going to lose!” a fan shouted as Reyes gave up his second run.

A full inning after the blown call, a fan on the first base side was still giving it to the umpire. “That’s the jerk play of all time!” he shouted. “Of all time!”

Ryan had a rough night at the plate, although he drove in the only Muckdog run with a sacrifice fly. Other than that, he was 0 for 4 with four groundouts to second base, plus a booted foul popup in the ninth. I try to find him after the game, but instead run into Warren Brusstar, the former Phillies reliever, who’s in his first year as the Muckdogs’ pitching coach. He shrugs over the tough loss.

“It’s a learning experience for them,” he says. “They’ll get better.”

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Life Imitates… Sarcasm?


We at the BEAST have come to believe over time that there’s no better way to get through a rainy day than to fire off twenty or thirty corporate love letters. With even the world’s largest companies, you don’t have a vote, but you do always have an audience. That’s particularly true if you’re writing GM to tell them how well the thrust of their airbags feels on your face, or sending Virgin Airways a note thanking them for reducing the size of seats in coach, because there was “just too much damn foot room before.” Companies will tend to ignore all but the most urgently serious (read: potentially actionable) complaints, but they tend to accept as genuine even the most psychotic expressions of praise, and with surprising frequency will even write you back to thank you for the kind word.

That said, we’ve always believed that it’s worthwhile to send companies a little bad news every now and then, just to keep their customer service people on their toes. Nothing violent or threatening, mind you, just a tale or two of profound disappointment with their product… wives leaving because you’ve grown too fat on Pop Tarts… Jiffy corn kernels that produce green popcorn… family parrots killed when they walk into your toaster… That kind of thing. Usually, the letters you get in response are more than worth a good laugh; the most common reply is a kind of abject corporate apology that is the closest thing we have in America to the face-saving self-mutilation performed by shamed Yakuza.

Last week, however, this ploy backfired on us spectacularly when a complaint we sent to the General Mills cereal company turned out not to be absurd beyond the realm of possibility, as we thought, but… completely and utterly true. What we wrote to them about our tainted Wheaties may not have been art, but whatever it was, life certainly imitated it. This sure is a crazy world. Here’s that letter, plus the rest of the replies from our first installment of corporate fan mail:


Wheaties Dear General Mills,
I am writing to you to express my profound disappointment about an incident regarding your cereal, Wheaties.

A week ago, I purchased your cereal in a supermarket here in my home town of Buffalo, New York. I eat Wheaties because it has a hearty wheat taste, and enhances my sense of self-esteem by allowing me to experience vicariously the triumphs of professional athletes.

But on this occasion I opened my box to discover that it contained a booklet of anti-Semitic literature. The material was of the most grossly offensive kind, but contained no publisher or author information. I was left to conclude that it had been produced by your company.

As a Jew I am obviously deeply offended by this incident. Moreover, my young daughter was exposed to the booklet; as a result, I was forced to explain to her the realities of anti-Semitism far earlier than I had hoped. My wife and I had planned to wait several years before having this talk with her. We have even experienced marital problems and difficulties with shared intimacy as a result of this incident.

I hope that you will address this matter in a manner befitting your professional reputation. I await your reply/apology.

Morris Weinstein
Buffalo, New York

Dear Mr. Weinstein:
Thank you for contacting General Mills regarding the material you found in our Wheaties.

We regret to inform you that our food products have been used by a group in the New Jersey area as a vehicle to distribute literature. These flyers have been placed into ours as well as other manufacturer’s food packages at various grocery chains for the past several months.

General Mills is cooperating with New Jersey law enforcement agencies and other consumer product companies. Until this situation is taken care of, we extend our sincere apologies to those that this material is aimed as well as consumers who purchased product that this material was found in.

We would like to retrieve this pamphlet for our quality control department. A self-addressed stamped envelope will be sent to you for this purpose.

We apologize for the concern this has caused your family. In keeping with our quality guarantee a gift selection of coupons will also be sent to you.

Sue Fenwick
General Mills
Consumer Services


Red Lobster Dear Red Lobster,
First of all, let me just start by saying a great big THANK YOU for inventing and operating the BEST DAMN RESTAURANT ON THE PLANET! You people should run the entire country, as far as I’m concerned. I’ve been a devoted fan ever since my parents took me to your Springfield, PA, location for my 7th birthday. I’ve spent many a sleepless night all these many years wondering what it is about your establishment that I’m so drawn to, but I guess it’s just the seafood lover in me, as your inspiring TV adverts so succinctly put it.

In fact, I’ve recently been going back over my day planners and have determined that I have visited an exciting and inviting Red Lobster restaurant at least once per week for the past 14 years and 8 months! I don’t know if you keep track of such things, but do you have frequent diners Hall of Fame to honor the accomplishments of devoted RL diners such as myself? Perhaps you could also organize regional singles groups so that the biggest Red Lobster fans can meet other like-minded folk in their areas. That would be totally awesome.

Thanks again and KEEP UP THE GOOD WORK!!!

With very best wishes,
Kevin McElwee
Buffalo, NY

Dear Mr. McElwee,
Thank you for taking the time to contact us. Suggestions from our guests are taken very seriously, and I will be sharing your ideas.

Please be certain that Red Lobster takes suggestions from our guests very seriously, and the appropriate people will be notified of your recommendation. Again, thank you for taking the time to share your comments. Please do not hesitate to contact us, if we may be of further assistance.

Guest Relations


Tampax Dear Tampax,
I’m just writing to tell you that I think YOUR TAMPONS ARE GREAT! KEEP UP THE GOOD WORK!!!

I am a professional chef, and I think you should find more applications for your product (pardon the pun!)! I find that there are many uses for them in a kitchen, and I make all of my staff use them whenever they can!

That’s right—they call me Mr. Tampax around here!

I say—let ‘em!

Yours Sincerely,
Matt Taibbi
Executive Chef
The Buffalo Club

Well, Matt, that’s interesting and I appreciate your input. But Tampax tampons are designed for women for use during their menstrual period. This is the only use we recommend.

Thanks for writing.

USA Tampax Team


Sauder Dear Sauder Woodworking folk,
Thanks a bunch for making the easiest-to-assemble wooden furniture around! Never once have I opened up one of your products to find that a vital screw or bolt was missing, as happens so often with your competitors’ items. Whenever I need a piece of furniture to house my CD collection or to make hobbying interests more convenient, Sauder is the name I look to. In fact, if my first-born child (due in September) should be a boy, I intend to name him “Sauder.” However, Sauder is not a very good name for a girl, I think you would agree.

Please don’t ever stop doing those things you do,
Kevin McElwee
Buffalo, NY

Dear Mr. McElwee, Thank you for taking the time to write with your comments and compliments, we appreciate it.

Letters and e-mail such as yours puts a “smile” in our day!

Thank you again.

Tanya R. Howell


Connecticare Dear Connecticare,
I’m just writing to tell you how impressed I am with your company and to say KEEP UP THE GOOD WORK!!!

I think HMOs get a bad rap, and from what I hear of your company, it would be MORE THAN INAPPROPRIATE to lay the misdeeds of a few at good corporate feet such as yours. I definitely think that you are one of the top three HMOs in Connecticut!

I no longer have health insurance, but when I find a way to get it again, I plan on doing everything I can to make sure that I am covered by CONNECTICARE!

Thank you!
Matt Taibbi
Danbury, CT

Dear Mr. Taibbi:
Thank you for your recent positive feedback. ConnectiCare continually strives toward service excellence and a level of commitment to our Members that sets us apart from other health plans. We are particularly pleased to know when we’ve achieved that goal.

Please let us know if there is any way to be of further assistance. We can be reached via email through our website at www.connecticare.com or by calling toll-free 1-800-251-7722.

ConnectiCare Member Services

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Arabic Seek-a-Word




Arabic Seek-a-Word

We have a saying in the West: give a man a fish and he will eat for a day. But teach a man Western values, and he will get a job with a multinational company, possibly even incurring credit-card debt and declaring bankruptcy some day! With that in mind, we provide you, our backward Afghan brothers and sisters, this fun way to learn new, Western concepts that will open up a world of prosperity to you. First peruse the word list below, giving the Arabic equivalents of some concepts which you may at first find to be quite foreign. Exciting concepts such as “toilet paper” and “Viagra.” Once you’re comfortable with the Western terms, try to find them among the jumbled words at left. Remember: while in your primitive language, characters are read from right to left, in this “Seek-A-Word” puzzle, they may be read leftwards, rightwards, upwards, or downwards. Good luck!


democracy    democracy

relativism    relativism

Jesus    Jesus

soap    soap

toilet paper    toilet paper

blondes    blondes

Viagra    Viagra

progress    progress

disposable income    disposable income

usury    usury

pork    pork

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By John Dolan

Praying for America
By Dutch Sheets
Regal Books, 2001

There’s a scene in the fourth “Living Dead” movie, Day of the Dead, where they capture a zombie and pen him in a subterranean lab. They want to examine a specimen in order to understand this mindless cannibal breed that has taken over the United States.

It’s a haunting scene, deeply sad in the way those Romero films are. It turns out that you can’t teach a zombie much. “Bud” the zombie learns to answer a phone, but that’s about it. Beyond that, there’s not much to him but pus and fangs. Something almost human looks out of his eyes now and then, especially when he sees an Army uniform– Bud was a soldier once, and he still remembers to salute. But it turns out you can’t trust those flickering vestiges of humanity. The only way to deal with the beasts is to kill them all.

And that pretty much sums up the findings of my recent experiment in trying to understand the Christians. I thought it might be interesting to read an American Christian response to the WTC attacks, see what the drooling zombies who have taken over my country have to say about this calamity striking God’s favorite country. I picked Praying for America off the Amazon lists because it looked relatively literate. This glossy pamphlet is the work of one “Dutch Sheets.” (I know, I know: nobody could be named “Dutch Sheets;” it sounds more like the punchline to a pubescent joke– and in a sense, it is– but it’s also the name of the author, pastor of a church in Colorado Springs, Colorado.)

Praying for America wasn’t very literate, actually; Dutch has a prose style even a social scientist would be ashamed to own. But it was informative. Above all, I learned that the rightist American Christians have mutated, gotten a lot better organized than they used to be. Dutch says many times that he speaks for “the Church in America.” This confused me at first, because I was raised to think “the Church” meant the Vatican; the Protestants were a disorganized rabble, a chaos of feuding sects. But that was long ago. The Bible-thumpers got smart and formed up. When Dutch talks about “the Church in America,” he means it. They march in step now. Dutch doesn’t even bother naming the particular sect he fronts for, because the militant Protestants are a single body now, far more united and a thousand times more powerful than the senescent Church of Rome ever was.

The Christians snuck up on us. We used to laugh at them– and then suddenly they were on us, hordes of grinning zombies. I used to prate about Whitman and the cadences of the King James Bible, Pilgrim’s Progress and Horatio Alger, Jerry Lee Lewis and Jim Swaggart, the Evangelical tradition in American literature, Stonewall Jackson, dying, delirious, murmuring “Let us cross the river and rest in the shade of the trees….” I used to refuse to indulge in Christian-baiting at Berkeley because it was, as I used to say, “unsporting.”

All that seems like self-indulgent campy idiocy now. “Unsporting”? What does “sport” have to do with it? It’s Romero time: hole up on the roof of a mall with a hunting rifle and pick them off one by one… you have to get them in the head, remember. They don’t go down unless you hit them in the head.

And when you read their tracts, and find out what goes on in those heads– believe me, shooting them is a mercy.

Where to begin? Well, take a deep breath, hold your nose, and dive with me into the rotting insides of Praying for America. It’s a slick little pamphlet, with good graphics and a good sense of strategy. It borrows many technique from that venerable American literary genre, the salesman’s handbook– but that’s nothing new. American evangelists and pep-talking sales guys have always slipped easily between their respective callings (e.g., Norman Vincent Peale).

Dutch is fond of epithets sales guys love: “Are you a history maker?” he asks. Along with “history maker,” you might want to be “cause-minded,” a “boat rocker,” a “crossing-over guy,” or “a life-changer, a rearranger, a cause producer.” He wants us all to be “circumcised”– but as he explains to his wincing gentile audience, “Our circumcision in the new covenant is, of course, of the heart.” A circumcised heart– not sure I’d like that, actually. One snip and the room gets an arterial spraying.

In Dutch’s theology, God is a sort of travelling salesman, impregnating farmers’ daughters (of either gender) as the mood takes him. Using the laughably bad attempts at Classical etymology which are another feature of his rhetoric, he underlines the fact that he really does mean “penetration” when he talks of God’s way with us sinners:

“Because ‘abar’ is a transition word, it also means ‘to penetrate,’ as in penetrating territory, or even the human heart. [Note the repeated switch from genital to cardiac zone, as in 'circumcision' above.] And not trying to be overly dramatic or graphic, it is indeed a word used to designate the physical relations between a husband and wife that results in pregnancy [Sometimes, Dutch, they don't even have to be "husband and wife"!]. Yes, ‘abar’ does mean to impregnate.”

Now we know what Dutch means when he says, “Several months ago, God began to grip me….” These divine rapes are confessed with pride, of course; to be so “penetrated” is a point of honor with the devout. Like a great deal of American Evangelical discourse, it begs a medical, rather than theological interpretation. There’s a name for people who talk to god and feel Him gripping them: “schizophrenics.”

And the match between Evangelical theology and schizophrenic symptoms is perfect. When a word comes into Dutch’s head, it’s from God. Take “Shechem,” the name of some town mentioned in the Old Testament– the ramblings, in other words, of an unmedicated Levantine schizophrenic two millennia dead. This is how Dutch explains the way “Shechem” came into his head: “… During that… October evening, the Lord deeply impressed into my heart the thought, ‘I am calling this nation to Shechem.’”

“But Dutch,” you ask in that annoying way of yours, “how can we know it was a truly Divine inspiration?” Dutch has an answer ready for such doubters: “Since everything else I felt during that encounter with the Lord has proved to be very accurate, I have great confidence that this thought is accurate as well.” And if that doesn’t convince you, I don’t know what will.

So Dutch is not at all shy of passing on his neurotransmitter-depleted epiphanies. Every time he has a dream; every time a place-name or set of numbers comes into his head; every time there’s a coincidence in his daily schedule; he takes it as a sign of God’s direct intervention in his mental processes. Sometimes Dutch’s sense of God’s tinkering with his mind (using the term loosely) is so much like textbook schizophrenic reasoning that you’re amazed the guy’s still walking around. He spends three pages detailing the series of coincidences involving the number sequence “222″:

“It began on a cross-country flight. I noticed that my departure time was 2:22, I was seated in row number 22 and the total travel time was 2 hours and 22 minutes.”

Well, if that doesn’t smack of direct divine intervention in the flight schedule of one Dutch Sheets, D.D., I don’t know what does. The only thing that worries me is that 222 is exactly one-third of 666. So if Dutch buys three tickets, does the plane go down?

Laughable as it sounds, this sort of paranoiac drama gives you a sense of why Christianity appeals to so many lonely Americans. Unlike the Catholicism I knew, this religion makes the worshippers the center of the universe. God, no less, is manipulating your very flight-times to give you the word about Satchmo, or Shinbone, or whatever it was. The Protestants are nice that way: they coddle their worshippers, set them up with plain, chubby, equally devout dates, and bring food around– Protestant food, with lots of casseroles and marshmallow things– when they’re sick. They make you feel important, in a pitiful sort of way. The Catholics had a simpler attitude: “You owe the Church everything; the Church owes you nothing.” And they wonder what went wrong!

One thing that went wrong for the Catholics is very clear from Dutch’s tract: the militant Evangelicals stole the best bits from the Catholic agenda. Tops on the list is abortion. Thirty years ago, abortion was a Catholic obsession. The Protestants didn’t give a damn about it, and associated it with Rome’s mad drive to swamp the Anglo-Saxon lands in a tide of brown babies. But the Evangelicals grabbed the issue somewhere along the line. Dutch can’t shut up about it. It’s perfect: a guaranteed source of sin, at which he and his fellow pastors can rail forever, licking their chops as they get the calculators out to tote up the ever-rising total of dead babies which can be laid against the sinners’ tab: “We have now killed over 40 million babies in what was supposed to be their safe haven of nourishment….”

What hits you when you read these denunciations is that Dutch’s churchgoing people loathe America, if only so that they can redeem and love it once more. It’s the whore they can’t resist, and that bipolar orientation makes for them an endlessly exciting ride. It’s like marrying a cocktail waitress: at least you won’t be bored.

But no other American sins are invoked in these lists. None of the horrors perpetrated in SE Asia, Latin America, or for that matter Chicago, show up on the lists. America must be denounced and despised for her sins, but only from the inside; America, when juxtaposed to any other country on earth, is right, period. All America needs is a president who stands with “the Church.”

And that, finally, turned out to be what this odd little tract was about: the election of George W. Bush. Little anti-Clinton jibes pop up from the start: “And speaking of partying, our former president did a lot of it.” It infuriates Dutch that no divinely directed lightning bolt slithered under the presidential desk to zap the presidential dick, as it tickled the Mon’s uvula. “God is capable of dealing with… wicked, ungodly politicians,” Dutch says. “When he doesn’t, we need to ask why.”

Well, not to give away the plot, but it turns out God inflicted Clinton upon us because there was a curse on the nation. Something about those McDonald’s-like abortion figures: “Over 40 million fetuses hosed!” Or was Clinton the cause, rather than the effect, of the curse? It’s not always easy to follow the logic of these people, but at any rate: there was a curse, OK? And there was only one magical cure: electing George W. Bush.

So when “God shared his passion for America with [Dutch]” in October 2000– just before the election– he, or rather He, told Dutch to start a “prayer alert for the upcoming election.” I’ll let Dutch himself tell it from there:

“This alert ultimately went to millions of people, resulting in a great mobilization of prayer for God’s person to be placed in office…. And then, even when the election was finished, the identity of the next president had not yet been determined. The high level of spiritual warfare was very apparent… we desperately needed a president through whom God could work.”

And with whom God could deal. See, you thought that slimy Florida banana-republic vote-scamming was all about payoffs and lawyers, but it was actually “spiritual warfare.” Well, that’s why we need people like Dutch, to explain the higher implications of these things.

Luckily, God’s candidate won:

“At that pivotal moment in our nation’s history, God’s people made a choice to cross over. As a result, God gave us a sincere, humble man who loves God and through whom He [God, that is] can work to accomplish His purposes.” This walker-in-righteousness being, y’unnerstan’, one G. W. Bush. Dutch goes on to recount his trip to the Inaugural. It was a great occasion, he explains– it was literally the lifting of a curse which had been upon the land:

“I watched and heard [GWB] end his swearing-in by saying with great conviction, ‘So help me God.’ Upon the uttering of these words, one well-known minister in attendance was heard to say, ‘The curse is broken off of America.’”

This is where the dates get interesting. See, if God had gone and lifted the curse on America when GWB was inaugurated, how come those planes slammed into the towers only eight months later? Dutch wrote this tract while still strutting with pride over getting out the vote for his God-endorsed candidate. The inaugural was held on January 20, 2001. At that moment, according to the unnamed “well-known minister,” “the curse [was] broken off of America.” Now, leaving aside the minister’s somewhat demotic phrasing, let us do the math. After all, Dutch has taught us all to look out for those zany little numerological omens the puzzle-addicted Deity so frequently lobs into our schedules.

And Dutch has also taught us to think of God as the great Penetrator, who when the mood takes him impregnates his followers– male, female, or otherwise. Now, the Lord has put a great and terrible thought in my head. For lo, I realized that the Lord had counted the days, and the days between January 20, 2001 and September 11, 2001, that terrible day of wrath when the Curse was very definitely reimposed on America, amounted to eight months, the length of a (slightly preemie) pregnancy.

Yes, when God gripped America from behind on that Inaugural day, he begot a spirit of destruction; and that spirit was born on September 11, and it took the form of swarthy men with boxcutters, who rode in planes numbered 676– only TEN NUMBERS AWAY from the very number of the Beast!

And the 676 times two struck the two towers, and subtracted them from two to zero, and caused to be burnt many a believer.

But not nearly enough of them.

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