Why Is Bin Laden Still Alive - or - Deceit In D.C.

I have a friend who drives freight across the U.S.  He avoids the usual trucker lifestyle and can be found at truck stops only when fueling.  His is a lonely life, but he has a few buddies also driving freight, and they will meet for a meal when possible.  These meals provide an opportunity to share stories about their lives away from the road.

One day, my friend gets a call from his closest road buddy - we will call this buddy John.  John had been rather quiet the last few weeks, hesitant to discuss something that was bothering him.  One evening John called my friend, told him he was going to shut the truck down for the night because he could no longer concentrate, and asked my friend to meet him for dinner.

At dinner, John had something on his mind, but he took a while getting around to his story.  He spoke in low tones, careful not to be overheard, as he began to relate his last few weeks of stress to my friend....

John had a son serving in the war as a pilot stationed in Afghanistan.  John and his wife had received word that their son had been shot down in flight and the military had not been able to locate their son.  For weeks they waited for updates, with no further word coming from the U.S. government...

Finally, communication.  Not from the government, but from their son.  He explained that he had been shot down while flying a mission in Afghanistan.  He wandered for weeks through the mountains, until he eventually found his way to a U.S. camp and wandered in.  He was immediately isolated and debriefed...

While flying his mission, he had wandered into a no-fly zone.  He was shot down - by American troops.  Apparently, he had come too close to Bin Laden's actual location.  This was last year, during Bush's final months as President.  He told his parents that Bin Laden's location was known, but "they" did not want any attack on Bin Laden during Bush's term as president. 

Truth?  I have not seen my friend for a while, and so have not had the opportunity to ask the million questions that the story has left me with.  Fabricated?  Doubtful - over the years I have come to know John as a humble and reliable guy, he is a man of his word.

Regardless, I cannot help but wonder why a powerful and technologically advanced county like the U.S. is unable to locate Bin Laden - in fact I find it unlikely.  Intellectually I cannot help feeling that Americans and the rest of the world are being duped by a select cast of characters with dubious intentions.  One day this episode in U.S. history will be infamous for it's diabolical goings-on and the sordid persons who took part.

I think, too, that we are right where Bin Laden/al-Qaeda wants us ... in Afghanistan.  The Soviet Union and British military were defeated there.  In reality we are not hunting just one man, for his role is leadership for al-Qaeda and terrorism will not discontinue upon this lone man's death.

The American public has put their trust in it's government to deal with the terrorism subject.  We are losing our men and women while officials blame each other and meanwhile send more and more troops.  The U.S. in-fighting has compounded the basic premise to the point of incomprehensible blur. 

At what point will the American public cease placing their hope in elected persons and instead raise their collective voices and force our government's hand in re-assessing our priorities in our efforts to insure safety from terrorism? 

Blah, blah blah.

Therefore, I shall...

Rock on.

Dennis Cole, actor and father of Joe Cole, dies November 15, 2009

Dennis Cole, actor, died at a hospital in Fort Lauderdale, FL, on November 15, 2009.  He was 69 years old.  Cole was married to "Charlie's Angels" star Jaclyn Smith for a time. 

Cole guest-starred in numerous television roles from the 1960's to the 1990's.  He appeared in the daytime drama "The Young and the Restless" and many prime-time series, including "Bracken's World," "Bearcats!," "Medical Center," "Police Story," "Fantasy Island," "Trapper John, M.D.," "Murder, She Wrote" and "Charlie's Angels." It was on the set of that show that he met Jaclyn Smith.

Cole had one son, Joey (Joe), who was shot and killed during a robbery in Venice, Calif., in 1991. Dennis Cole began speaking out against violence on TV and worked less in the entertainment field, eventually becoming a real estate broker in Fort Lauderdale.

Joe Cole's best friend was Henry Rollins (singer in the punk band Black Flag), who went on to include the story of Joe's unsolved murder in many of Rollins' Spoken Word tours.  (Rollins was with Joe Cole when Cole was shot and killed).  Following is the heartfelt story of Joe's death as told by Rollins...

Rest In Peace, Dennis and Joe.

Respectfully, no blah, blah, blah here.

Therefore, I shall...

Rock on.

Fort Hood Shootings - or - Henry Rollins Did NOT Go On A Homicidal Rampage

Henry Rollins has again angered those that "already have their own truth" by calling attention to the pundits' premature verdict of terrorism in the Fort Hood shootings.  He has inspired a heated argument by writing his latest contribution to his Straight Talk Espresso column in Vanity Fair...an article he wrote in his "spare time" while roaming the streets of Sri Lanka and selflessly spreading goodwill - on his own dime - for this powerhouse is truly living 25-hour days and 8-day weeks.

The full article and heated comments can be found at VanityFair.com ...
The Boys Who Cried "Fort Hood Terrorist"

Dammit, Henry!  I can't get this face out of my mind every time I read the irrational spewing you inspire when you send out the call for honesty, fairness, and plain old righteousness. 

What could you have been thinking by calling out for a thorough investigation before determining Nidal Hasan's homicidal motives? You have once again set yourself up to be crucified by those who have already decided you are wrong just because your name is Henry Rollins.

Further anger has been instigated by Rollins' suggestion that this premature verdict is being slung by no less than an elected official - Senator Joe Lieberman.  Apparently, some Americans feel that other Americans are not so American after all if they do not blindly follow elected Americans' unsubstantiated opinions and/or suggestions...

To round third base and head for the home run, Mr. Rollins has suggested that along with any Muslim, terrorist, or personal unknown motive, perhaps a psychological aspect should be considered as well.  He argues for a rigorous and legitimate investigation, and cries foul for a premature terrorism verdict to be suggested to a gullible public who too often believe their elected officials would utter nothing less than absolute fact.

The subsequent public commentary seemingly subjects any contributors not jumping on the terrorist bandwagon to a barrage of ridicule and hatred.  Happily, the majority of contributors were open-minded and willing to wait for the critical investigation...

...how refreshing it is to read the truth...

...no one here is saying it was NOT terrorism ... a verdict derived from investigation is the fair and right thing to do...

...they're going to underestimate the publics ability to see them using tragedy to shill their agenda...

...There's way too much that isn't know to be jumping to any conclusions ... I don't know what to think when I see people swallowing this crap so eagerly...

...the military will perform an investigation, along with the FBI and they will have to do so while questionable politicians will interfere and make the job even more difficult...

...We ask only for truth by investigation, and in no way defend murder...


Partial quotes from "those that already have their own truth":

...take your head out of your arse for a second...

...you are allowing him the right to plead insanity at his trial...

...so typical of you and the left henry.Don't blame the killer ... With people like you and Obama "Supporting" the troops our soliders don't need enemies ... go screw yourself!

To suggest that wanting an unbiased and truthful investigation makes an American an enemy to our own soldiers is shameful.  Henry Rollins did not go on a homicidal rampage, Henry Rollins cried out for truth in the tragedy that happened upon our own soil.  Surely every American is most grateful for the freedom our soldiers are fighting for, and every American grieves for the lives lost and the devastated families that are left to carry on. 

Whether a psychiatric element had anything to do with Hasan's rampage or not, the fact still remains (as pointed out in Rollins' piece) that there have been at least seventy-five soldier suicides at Fort Hood alone since the Afghanistan War began in 2001.  How can there not be a question of how many of these lives could have been aided by accessible and adequate psychiatric care?  Additionally, how can a rigorous investigation into the recent massacre not include a detailed psychiatric examination along with any sort of personal/Muslim/terrorist examination?

Americans have a right and a responsibility to ask questions and expect a true assessment in every one of these Fort Hood incidents, and should be acutely concerned for each and every soldier on our other military bases here and across the world.

How tragic for us all that to speak out for fairness and righteousness one must be prepared to be ridiculed, hated, and considered an enemy.

Thank goodness for Henry Rollins and every other truth-seeker.  Better to be HATED than a HATER.

No blah, blah, blah here.

Therefore, I shall...

Rock on.

Passion - or - What REALLY Turns Me On

PASSION.

“They may forget what you said, but they will never forget how you made them feel.”  Carl W. Beuchner sums it all up in this one simple sentence. 

Passion drives me, even more than curiosity drives me.  For in the rare moments when my hyperactive mind is quieted and curiosity is momentarily idle, passion knows no such idleness.  Every thought, motion and spoken word is propelled forward in my life by passion.  It can be exhausting.

The definition of Passion:

–noun
1. any powerful or compelling emotion or feeling, as love or hate.

2. strong amorous feeling or desire; love; ardor.
3. strong sexual desire; lust.
4. an instance or experience of strong love or sexual desire.
5. a person toward whom one feels strong love or sexual desire.
6. a strong or extravagant fondness, enthusiasm, or desire for anything: a passion for music.
7. the object of such a fondness or desire: Accuracy became a passion with him.
8. an outburst of strong emotion or feeling: He suddenly broke into a passion of bitter words.
9. violent anger.
10. the state of being acted upon or affected by something external, esp. something alien to one's nature or one's customary behavior

The definition leaves one wanting for more.  Passion is not a manifestation that can well be described by words alone.  Truly, the written word "Passion" is perhaps much better understood when used by example:
 
“Tears are words the heart can't express”  
 
Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel :  "Nothing great in the world has ever been accomplished without passion.”
 
John Maxwell:  "A great leader's courage to fulfill his vision comes from passion, not position.”
 
Angela Monet:      “Those who danced were thought to be quite insane by those who could not hear the music.”
 
 

 
Joss Whedon:  “Passion, it lies in all of us, sleeping... waiting... and though unwanted... unbidden... it will stir... open its jaws and howl. It speaks to us... guides us... passion rules us all, and we obey. What other choice do we have? Passion is the source of our finest moments. The joy of love... the clarity of hatred... and the ecstasy of grief. It hurts sometimes more than we can bear. If we could live without passion maybe we'd know some kind of peace... but we would be hollow... Empty rooms shuttered and dank. Without passion we'd be truly dead.”
 
Federico Fellini:  “There is no end. There is no beginning. There is only the passion of life.”
 
Virgil:  “Your profession is not what brings home your paycheck. Your profession is what you were put on earth to do. With such passion and such intensity that it becomes spiritual in calling.”
 

I often toy around with the idea of trying my hand at photography, and creating a book all about passion through the eyes.  I am forever watching for interactions ... an elderly couple staring into each other's eyes upon both being humored or saddened by something - I just love that they have a history together and have become one.  Young schoolchildren staring into their teacher's eyes as they are told a captivating story.  A child in pain looking into a parent's eyes, and the parent looking back in pain upon the realization of a hurting little soul.  Anybody at the bedside of a dying parent.  Anybody discovery the death of a beloved soul.  Any animal staring into the eyes of their young one.  An audience captivated by whatever/whomever is in front of them.  A singer or musician lost in their music....

Which brings me to the main body of this post.  It seems to me that when I reflect on times and events in my life gone by, I always associate it with the music I was listening to at the time.  I have always become entranced when observing any artist in the throws of performance. 

When I think of life in gerneral, meaning MY life, I think of the following song forever playing in the background.  From Aerosmith:  Kings and Queens.  (I was not able to find a good performance video online, but the following serves well because it is the original recorded version.  The video is nothing more than the lyrics.) ....

Though I am a rocker at heart, I am open-minded to any music.  I think the following video is one of my favorite examples of an incredibly passionate performer - Michael Jackson.  I count my lucky stars for having been alive during this performer's lifetime.  For whatever people's opinions are about the man, he wore his passion on his sleeve.  The song is "Dirty Diana".  The song is about a persistant groupie.  I love the following story...According to Michael Jackson in an interview, this song was scheduled for a live 1988 performance at Wembley Stadium during the Bad World Tour; however, Jackson felt the song would be an insult to Princess Diana, who was in attendance, so he had it removed. Diana informed him the song was actually one of her personal favorites and he later went on to perform the song.

Slash.  Mm hm.  I am passionate about this guy way beyond his music, but whatever.  His contribution to multiple bands is legendary.  But his music stands alone, too... (Godfather Theme)

Henry Rollins.  I have only very recently discovered this incredible phenomenon, only to realize the world has known about him for decades.  His music is only one facet of his passion.  This man is passion embodied in flesh.  At this point I am unable to pen anything coherent about this boy, because I am enraptured by everything Rollins. GaGa. Tongue-tied.  I have no exposure to punk rock, but all else around me fades to black when I watch this guy perform.  Check out "Liar" and "Disconnect" after you've watched the following video which is a live performance at the Bizarre Fest 2000 (Germany).

Christina.  Pink.  Mya.  Lil' Kim. ...  Lady Marmalade

Alecia Keys.  Fallin'.

The Cult.  Wild Flower.

Kid Rock.  Bawitdaba.

Eve and Gwen Stefani.  Let Me Blow Ya Mind

Guns N' Roses.  Sweet Child O' Mine.

Blah, blah, blah.

Therefore, I shall....

Rock on.

Henry Rollins - What?...Who the?...What The hell?!?..Oh NO!

Okay.  Where do I start ?  Upon exiting my last post I was preparing myself for authoring my thoughts on an especially dispicable character of the first episode on Season Two of a new, fictional biker series - Sons of Anarchy.  I was prepared to devote one entire post in this blog to this solitary character, only because his portrayal had very much bothered my conscious thought long after the the episode was over.

I don't normally watch this sort of thing, but I have oddly found myself becoming more and more attached to this fictional drama.  You will just have to read my last post if you really need a more thorough explanation of why I am watching.  But be sure to pay attention in my previous post, to the part where I swear up and down that I am for the most part a strictly Discovery/History/Biography Channel Kind of Girl.

So.  I have found myself internalizing an incredible hatred for this one particular character.  I mean, for REAL!  For days, after the airing of the episode which was made dark by the portrayal of a realistic rape scene, the thought of this character consumed me with hatred that concerned me so much that I went so far as to access the Sons of Anarchy Website for cast information.  What kind of slimeball actor could so realistically portray such raunch?  He must be a lowlife that is a little too personally familiar with this scenario to portray such an absolutely believable character, perhaps one of the best on the show so far.  He disgusts me to the depths of my very being. 

This is SO absolutely not like me in any shape or form.  This is all fictional.  I have greatly more important things to do in the way of publishing to spare valuable time cruising the web for information on some Hollywood actor.  But something is driving me.  Why is that face haunting me?  Why am I letting some stupid fictional Hollywood garbage dig into my conscience like this?  WHO IS THAT MAN?!?

That's HIM!  He is a rapist!  And he has that steely look of someone who would be willing to do many other dispicable acts.  No kidding -  I actually feel a physical, stomach-hardening hatred for this character, and therefore for this Hollywood actor, too.  He is too real.  He knows too well what this character is really all about.  I have unfortunately at times found myself staring into the face of someone who repels me with every fiber of my being.  HE IS ONE OF THEM BECAUSE I KNOW HOW HE TRULY IS INSIDE, I am sure of it.  This picture embodies who this man really is!  I just know that he is bad, horrible, BAD.  My soul can feel it.

Aha!  The Sons of Anarchy cast link has given him away.  He has a name!  He is someone who is named Henry Rollins!  Before I can read the short biography that is associated with his printed name on the official Sons of Anarchy website, I have tabbed to a new window and begun a Google search before I read on.  Google Images would be a good place to start - shouldn't I know that face?  NO SHIT.  THIS is what immediately jumps off my computer screen at me...

Oh my!  That man is, FOR REAL, too horrible!  What?  Wait - is that a face of an evil man?  Could it be that this face, for me, possesses a fascinatingly interesting glimmer of an attitude with perhaps something to say?  Hm.  I am an intelligent and, I hope, a good person.  I know better to always keep an open mind as well as to take a look at things from perhaps a third-eye view.  Never judge without knowing, as so many have done to even my own self. 

From the Sons of Anarchy Website, link to Cast...
In describing Henry Rollins, the tendency is to try to squeeze as many labels as possible into a single sentence. "Rollins is many things," says the Washington Post, "diatribist, confessor, provocateur, humorist, even motivational speaker... his is an enthusiastic and engaging chatterer." Entertainment Weekly's list includes "Punk-rock icon. Spoken word poet. Actor. DJ. Is there anything this guy can't do?" TV Guide has more concisely called him a "Renaissance Man" - but if Henry Rollins could be reduced to a single word, that word would undoubtedly be "workaholic."


A man of words?  But words are an important part of my life, how could I not have heard of this Henry Rollins?  From John Steinbeck: "A man without words is a man without thought."  No way.  That would make Henry a thinking man.  I will bet he reads.  Who IS this guy?

A humorist?  Mark Twain has assured us: "Humor is mankind's greatest blessing." 
My father has taught us always to bless our lives with humor.  Now this guy is making my heart begin to race.

An enthusiastic and engaging chatterer!  Shivers are running down my spine.  An intelligent conversation.  Something I find myself longing for when day to day life sometimes leaves me wanting for - well, for - wanting for enthusiastic and engaging chatter.  I have got to find out what this enigma named Henry is chattering about! 

Renaissance Man? From Thomas W. Higginson: "Great men are rarely isolated mountain peaks; they are the summits of ranges."  This guy certainly seems to be a summit of ranges.  What is happening here?  I have some kind of "thing" where my life and it's lessons have frequently been touched and/or influenced by especially great and powerful souls - some were somehow physical fixtures in my personal life, some from afar.  This boy is afar.  Damn.  What is this new feeling now welling up in my formerly loathing depths? 


Oh no.  Looky here...

This guy is in actuality...pretty damn hot. 

But there's more...

You guessed it.  He is passionate in his work.  Mentally and physically.  Very physically, mm hm.  But a punk rocker?  That is so foreign from the music environment I have known, and I like to think that I have kept myself open to all genre of music.  Then again, persons are forever surprised that I am a thinking, intellectual biker, an environment that few others have known.  Being a biker is only one aspect of my person (and for the most part occupied so much of my life's pre- 40-something existance).  There is so much more to my life than my previous biker history.  Punk rocker.  I must remain open-minded and continue upon my quest to read about what makes this guy tick.  I must do a little checking around into this foreign punk world.  1961.  He's my age.  What road am I unwittingly embarking upon?  Why do I need to know?

Well.  This last image just makes me want to pull up a chair and and have a lean-into-each-other, enthusiastic and engaging chatter.  Why do I care?  Why can I NOT seem to be curious and curioser about this man?  Curiosity drives my life.  What is driving me about him?  I need to know who he is.  It's kinda starting to creep me out, this new need to know.  I have things to do.  I shall search on for a brief moment or two, until I have satisfied my self.

But who am I kidding.  Another intriguing image...

And now, I have arrived at YouTube.  Henry Rollins in the search box.  A whole new world is opening up before me.  I have immediately been floored by something titled Joe Cole, Parts I and II.  I am honestly, no shit, weeping.  I find myself needing to imbed these wondrous video clips into a very personal and emotional former post on this blog, a post that is devoted to a heinous murder and the unspeakable pain in the loss of a soul mate.  Henry's first spoken words to have reached me have reduced me to tears.  But in fact, my last statement is not a truth at all...for Henry Rollins' FIRST spoken words to have reached me were those that incited such an uncharacteristic, and deep, alarming loathing within me.

What invisible force or Greater Power is leading me down this unexplored path?   It is daunting to feel that a single person - a person who in no way is connected to my life nor has an inkling that I exist, is having such a grip upon my psyche.

Blah, blah, blah.

Therefore, I shall...

Rock on.

Sons Of Anarchy - or - I Can't Wait To See How Hollywood Has Imagined Themselves To Know The 1% Lifestyle

Sons of Anarchy...  Last year, the public heard about this new fictional (but based upon an actual 1% Club/s) program for months before the first show ever aired.  For myself, I am more a kind of Discovery/History/Biography Channel kind of girl.  But I was forever running across internet forums discussing this program and was personally being asked by more "independent bikers" my opinion of what I felt about the possibilities this fictional program may have to offer.

Well... NOT MUCH.  I am loathe to most any biker video media just because Hollywood has always had their own way of presenting real bikers, especially the 1%ers.  Hollywood has their own idea of what it's all about, and then there is the truth.  And to hell with them, because it is no one's business and they could just never understand.  I could not imagine a Club inviting any sort of Hollywood producer into the deep inner sanctums of a clubhouse.  Truly, things can happen in this lifestyle that the public would just never believe anyway. 

I knew of... a few local 1%ers who would be watching just for the sake of evaluating how wrong and impossibly screwed up Sons of Anarchy would surely be.  The first season was well into it's second or third episode before I finally sat down to have a look for myself.

Hm, well damn.  They are talking about church?!?  And they sort of have a good idea of the whole heirarchy thing.  There was even an actress playing an intelligent and strong character, and she was playing it well.  Not every chick in this program was a hoe.  What kind of show is this?

Of course I could find plenty to scowl at.  Those circles and rockers were a little too clean to have been worn by some of the decades-long members.  Throwing leathers down in the dirt once or twice to dirty them up does not cut it. 

The bikes were a little too new to be ridden by some of the older members whose bikes would have aged through the years along side their owners.  Where are some of the old choppers and rat bikes?  And I have never seen so many windshields in one place in my life - other than at the toy runs that the myriad of RUBs like to attend on warm weekend days, or a modern-day Harley showroom.  Shame on the props department for not having conducted better thought out research.

And... I was incredulous to watch a downright shootout involving an amazing amount of rounds fired - with barely a victim among either side.  I have lost souls who have died by only a shot or a few, and died by automatic weapons shootoutw that have taken out nearly every living soul who were on the receiving end.  Where the hell do these numerous shootouts happen that not a solitary citizen hears a ruckus in the distance and calls law enforcement to report it.  Cops do have a way of counting and then marking each and every bit of shots fired at a crime scene - they would need a larger force and an extra roll or two of labels to work some of those crime scenes.

And by the way, we don't talk to cops.  We don't wilfully visit them in their offices.  NOBODY rides on the back of a bike if it belongs to an old lady.  Plenty will try, but it's a deal breaker if he goes for it.  NO brother procreates with his brother's old lady.  It's not done.

So.  I find myself into Season Two, with all of Season One recorded on my DVR and only a button away.  I can't help myself - it has become one of the few times I will make a conscious effort to be at my television at a certain time on a certain day.  For a fictional show, I suppose I would have to say that this solitary biker drama is perhaps not so bad, and even entertaining. 

 

Speaking of Season Two...  New characters have been added this season, with some of them portraying members of a white separatist organization.  The first episode of this latest season is most disturbing, airing a very realistic rape by some especially unlikable characters.  As a woman, I found that I internalized my hatred for one masked perpetrator in particular. 

(Gasp) 

Blah, blah, blah. 

Therefore, I shall...

Rock on.

Corruption and Murder - or - How Henry Rollins Made Me Cry Today

I have been forever scarred by a murder in my life.  Sometimes I can talk about it, sometimes I cannot bear to say a word on the subject.

Today, at this moment, I find I cannot bear to relive the circumstances.  Perhaps I will feel differently sometime soon and enhance this post.  For now, I will allow other websites to tell my story.

A quick background is necessary, however.  My husband was murdered in a triple homicide, in a farmhouse belonging to his good friend (that friend died with him), in Preble County, Ohio, in 1987.  I was 1000 miles away with my children at my parent's home - we were spared our lives.  The subsequent investigation was the most confusing and bungled piece of work I have ever heard of. 

I am a city girl, and I live at the base of the magnificent Rocky Mountains.  The customs and ways of a small rural county in the farming state of Ohio was a galaxy away from anything I had ever known.  However, an investigation is an investigation, and things were just not adding up.  The triple homicide remained open as an unsolved crime. 

Years later, when our youngest daughter was immersed in journalism classes in college (she was one-year-old when her father died), she decided she was going to make some inquiries into the death of her father.  She discovered a local online community forum in  Preble County by doing an internet search, and promptly submitted a post stating that she was the child of one of the "Triple Victims" and would appreciate any information anyone might have. 

Hells Bells!  I can literally hear in my mind the Bell of Doom begin it's toll in the ACDC classic when I think of the moment that my darling daughter submitted that post.  It changed our lives forever, and I have yet to determine if it was for the better or worse.

Not only did Preble County citizens have information on the triple homicide, but they had information on at least five other deaths in the area.  And they ALL were widely believed to have been perpetrated by a Good Ole Boy network including county judges, prosecutors, investigators, sheriffs and more.  Perhaps half of the members of that online community forum shamelessly berated all members of the families of the deceased when they tried to pursue the requests for information in all of the other various cases of that area, claiming they were all Conspiracy Theorists.  Most terrifying of all, were citizens from far and wide that secretly provided horrible and incredible hard evidence that in fact the Good Ole Boy rumors were true.  There was even a Citizen's Task Force that had tried to amass an incredible amount of evidence and find safety in numbers.  Problem is, much of that original GOB network is still in service in that same county today.  Threats of harm and worse were received from the very officials that were accused

And so, this led to the families corresponding with each other and sharing information.  One family had successfully sued in federal court for official wrongdoing.  We were dealing with terrifying truths, hard evidence, but also some wild accusations.  Some families were getting more vocal and desperate than the others, which led to doubt of credibility toward us all. 

We then decided this information and body of evidence was too much for private citizens to handle, and we individually as well as collectively took what we had to the Department of Justice by way of the FBI.  I'll be damned, we approached these agencies the very year that the DOJ was in hearings for mismanagement.  Doubt of our claims having ever been read were confirmed by the large packets that were returned to us in the perfect order and shipping sequence that we had sent them.  With DOJ you pretty much have to be accepted the first time, it has to be under a whole new premise or with new undeniable evidence to have a chance at reconsideration.

The whole thing was exhausting.  It was sure something to see the members of the Good Ole Boy network sweat, though.  There was an incredible scuffle of removing paperwork and relocating evidence, all the while their actions being reported to us by insiders at the courthouse and administrative offices. 

They are guilty as hell and I suppose I shall have to accept what I personally now know as my own form of closure.  And I no doubt now have a file on myself with the FBI - if I didn't already have one before.  It's that biker associations thing, I'm sure. 

Three particular websites pretty much encompass the total of the cases there.  Please, PLEASE visit these sites.  We may be losing sight of hope, but I also try NEVER say never.

murder, Murder, MURDER in Preble County

What The Heck Is Going On In Preble County

Clear Billy Scott

Rest In Peace Donnie, Dave, Melinda, Lesa, Clayton, Woody, James, Gail, and the many others.  God Speed to Billy.

And how, might you ask, has Henry Rollins made me cry today? - as indicated in the second alternative of the title of this post...

Well, Henry Rollins has become my latest (and most out of control in quite a while) obsession.  And I mean OBSESSION.  But much, much more about Him in a soon-to-be-created future post.  This guy has my utter and full attention.  I am well into microscopically pouring over every single one of the 647,000 Google links they have on this punk rocker extraordinaire.  As you will soon read about, I have spent a shameful amount of hours dumbfounded as I watch the incredible amount of YouTube video on this guy.  I have literally lost days and days of my life discovering the wonder that is Henry.  He knocks my socks off.  Even I feel on the verge of speechlessness when I think of even beginning to write about him.

But today I have discovered a certain video in particular, and I have found it just as I prepared to write this current post on the death of a soulmate.  This just throws yet another aspect of Him at my already overwhelmed-by-Henry-Rollins fragile psyche. 

I have never, ever heard anyone so concisely put into words the depth of the loss of a beloved soul.  He makes my heart break for him, and for me, and for us all.  He has dared to put to word that which I have been too pained to ever consider vocalizing.  He makes me feel ashamed for not acknowleding that there ARE others out there who have experienced the searing pain of the loss of a half of one's self as I have, as many have.  I am not so alone, afterall... I have selfishly focused on my own despair, when I should have been reaching out to others who may be needing a hand to hold on to during their own new introduction to that same despair.  Henry Rollins makes me want to be a better person.  What the hell is up with that?  Who IS this guy?!?

Henry, you have gifted Joe Cole's memory with the highest of honor.  You keep a part of him alive as you keep him fresh in your memory and ours.  You have invited us to care about him and love him, too.  You are a true friend and most wondrous brother.  I am deeply sorry for the unbearable pain you will always carry with you.  And Henry, you rock!

Fess up...did Henry Rollins make YOU cry today, too?

No blah, blah, blah here.

Nevertheless, I shall...

Rock on.

Jay Dobyns Is A Criminal - or - Why The ATF Will Not Back One Of Their Own

Study this face.  Learn it.  A lowlife is nothing more than a lowlife, but a bad cop is the worst of all.  And I, especially, hate bad cops.  More about that in a later post.  Above is a lowlife, and below is a bad cop.  Or vice-versa.  Please meet Mr. Jay Dobyns.  Also known as JayBird the Babe ("In the biker world, I was a catch," he writes.)   Self-professed hero, widely-known f**k up (forgive me Daddy for resorting to weak language when surely there are words I could better use - but this one time I really doubt it). 

Perhaps it would be best to allow the internet itself to explain his worthlessness.  This is a troubled man and I am sorrowful for his family that he has time and again put in danger.  Read on...

Bits and pieces from Wikipedia (which I have no doubt that JayBird authored himself, for there is far more information out there on this guy than the hero-worshipping prose found on the page at Wikipedia...)

Wikipedia: Jay Dobyns

Jay Anthony Dobyns (born 1961), alias Jaybird, is a United States Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives (ATF) undercover agent who infiltrated the Hells Angels motorcycle club from 2001 to 2003. He was offered membership into the gang after faking the murder of a rival Mongols Motorcycle Club member and providing 'evidence' of the staged murder to Hells Angels leaders.


Dobyns became an ATF Agent in 1987. After only four days on duty he was taken hostage and shot through the chest.  (No shit!, say it ain't so!!!  Love it.)

Dobyns spent the majority of his ATF career working in varied undercover assignments within the U.S. developing undercover expertise in violent crime investigation, narcotics, firearms, gang infiltrations, home invasion robbery cases, and murder-for-hire investigations.

And so on and so on.  But then...a ripple on the world wide web that perhaps suggests there is more to the man than what he would have you believe.

From a site I have come to grow quite fond of (and greatly admire for it's literary thought and style)...
The Aging Rebel: No Angel
The new and improved America has no shame. Shame, to paraphrase a T.S. Eliot character, is now nothing but an obsolete response.



And, although this is still only February, the obvious winner of the Shameless Jackass of the Year Award for 2009 can already be named. We need look no further. Jay Dobyns is clearly a more shameless, self-dramatizing barrel of hogwash than either Bernie Madoff or the OctoMom.

And there is oh, so much more...

Dobyns Won’t Shut Up


No Angel: My Harrowing Undercover Journey To The Inner Circle Of The Hells Angels, published last week by Crown Books, is the fourth retelling of Jay Dobyns’ role in the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives’ (ATF) “Operation Black Biscuit.” The idea of Black Biscuit was to catch various members of the Hells Angels Motorcycle Club breaking the law.

And, naïve people, who mostly know the world from tasting and sniffing various flavors of Tha Newz, probably think that catching the Angels breaking the law is sort of like catching ducks in the act of quacking. But, Black Biscuit proved that not to be so.


So, people with their minds still stuck in the old, unimproved America might think that Dobyns’ many interesting adventures merit, like at the most…what… maybe just one book?


But, fact! Former ATF Agent Dobyns just won’t shut up! At least not until he gets his million dollars, or his ten million dollars, or whatever the going rate is for being a celebrity hero these days.

The above beloved Rebel is not going to give old Jay a break.  Go to the link to read the whole story, then browse the site for more sightings of the Bird scattered here and there.

And most certainly, the web provides much, much more...

Concerning a more recent incident, from BikerNews.org...
ATF Agent Jay Dobyns Says Feds "Abandoned" Him in Tucson House Fire Investigation
An undercover agent who infiltrated the Arizona Hells Angels basically called his federal superiors cowards this morning on NPR for not doing more to find out who burned down his Phoenix home last year.



Jay Dobyns, a University of Arizona grad who has been promoting his recently released book about his experiences, told Diane Rehm that while the U.S. Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives bills itself as the agency that deals with extreme violence, its agents have no interest in protecting their own. Still worried about the very real possibility that gangbangers will kill him or his family, Dobyns is also suing the federal government for $4 million.


The 23-year veteran agent was under federal protection, moving from place to place to avoid become a hitman's victim, when he tried to settle in a home in northwest Tucson. Last August, someone set fire to the back patio. The home burned to the ground, he told Rehm. (An Arizona Republic article from last year says the blaze consumed the rear of the home and caused $30,000 in damage). Dobyns, his wife and children got out safely.


The ATF dropped the ball on the fire investigation, Dobyns says, allowing someone to get away with trying to hurt him.

But then, just when it is already interesting enough...yet another twist in the arson event...

Once again from our beloved Rebel:
The Aging Rebel: Today in Jay Dobyns' World
Dobyns sued the ATF in 2006 and settled in September, 2007. But, then the ATF was late on its payments and subjected Dobyns to “internal affairs investigations … on over eleven different occasions.” So three months ago Dobyns sued the ATF again.



There was also a fire on Dobyns’ back porch last year that caused either $30,000 or $300,000 in damage to his home. Dobyns blames the fire on a Hells Angels assassin. Some law enforcement officials have accused Dobyns of setting the fire himself.


Dobyns, in turn, has countered by accusing the ATF of trying to kill him, by willfully and intentionally failing “to assess, react to, investigate and/or protect Dobyns and (his) family from credible threats of death and violence.”


I happen to have personal knowledge of some underhanded and quite illegal maneuvers Mr. Dobyns pulled while working undercover on the Sons of Silence investigation.  I have been assured by the very brother that Dobyns tried to set up that the federal court judge was on to old Jay, and proceeded accordingly with the trial at hand.

If you want to be a cop, then be a cop.  If you want to be a criminal, then be a criminal.  But be who you are.  Cops who are in reality criminals are the bottom of the barrel - they are lower than the scum I wipe off the bottom of my boot.

Blah, blah, blah.

Therefore, I shall...

Rock on.

Another (Medical) Thing - or - How I Lost My Words And The (Surprising) Road to Recovering Them

I had thought the title of this post should be Strokes Suck, but a recent brain MRI has confirmed that I have had no stroke at all.  I have been plagued with blood clots throughout my life, and a couple of good seizures had convinced me that clots were traveling to my brain and wreaking havoc.  It was the only explanation that I could think of why I would have a seizure - or a Transient Ischemic Attack - or whatever the hell had happened to me. 

I do not have a history of seizures.  I have had a couple bad ones, but don't know why.  At the age of seventeen I woke one morning, arose from my bed, and immediately hit the floor in unconsciousness.  I remember awakening and realizing my body was and had been violently shaking.  All I could do was somehow get back into my bed and fall into an exhausted sleep.  I remember the headache I had for days and the painful bites on my tongue.  My parents took me to my vascular specialist who determined that I had probably lost consciousness because of the sudden drop in pressure in my head when I stood up, due to poor circulation in one of my legs. 

I soon realized the incident was much more than we had thought.  I walked into my Chemistry class and realized I no longer had access to that part of my brain that stored all knowledge of the periodic table.  In my drafting class I had no idea where to begin, though I had a huge amount of drafting information I had carefully memorized.  I knew I still had this information, but I had no idea why I could not access it.  My grades in my final quarter of high school plummeted because of that one event.  I think my SAT grades came out at something like 1.34.

But I had a high IQ!  I had been pulled from classes and tested while still in grade school.  My parents were notified of the result, and someone had come to school to photograph me in my classroom.  I began noticing other deficits.  I had little tolerance for the more intense ultraviolet lights - they would throw my brain into an electrical headache of confusion.  On occasion I would be bowled over by a most disagreeable odor - an odor that was non-existant to everyone else around me.  And I could no longer accurately hear a conversation if there were other noises in the room.

Time went on and I learned to adapt to these minor inconveniences.  I never, ever thought this would happen to me again. 

Decades later, I was sitting at a bar in a friend's garage.  A bunch of us had gathered there after a large biker funeral.  I remember realizing that I could not feel my right arm or leg.  I remember perching upon my bar stool, holding my arm while trying to squeeze it for any sensation of feeling.  Suddenly I realized that everything I looked at had a yellowish green tint.  And I had this crazy surety that I was going to start having convulsions.  I do not know how long I sat there, but I do remember looking for a place to escape to, and my plan was to make it across the garage and out the back door.  I remember looking at all the motorcycles that were parked between me and that doorway, and I wondered if I could possibly make my way past them without knocking them all down in a domino effect.  Then, someone rolled up one of the large garage doors and bright light came flooding in - which signaled my own personal event to begin it's havoc in my brain.

I made it past the bikes and just beyond the doorway, where I stooped upon the ground and held myself up with my hands while long, slow convulsions overtook my body.  I remember by boyfriend being at my side, and not being able to speak to him while I convulsed while remaining conscious for perhaps the longest sixty seconds of my life.  A couple friends came over, and afterwards everyone busied themselves telling me that this funeral was so stressful because we were burying yet another great friend, and that I probably had neglected eating during these last few days of preparations.  Not wanting to disrupt the many activities that were awaiting us to complete this ritualistic burial, I went back to our activities and tried not to think about what had just happened. 

But deep inside I knew.  I knew that something very wrong had just happened, and that I probably should have insisted that I be taken to a hospital.  Almost immediately the headache came from the swelling of my brain, and lasted for many days.  Almost immediately, I found myself miscalculating the distance of a wall or object on my right, and running into them.  In the years following I must have broken the small toe of my right foot 40 times.  I simply could not correctly judge spatial aspects of anything on my right side.  I would bang into anyone walking with me on my right side. 

And worse, I often could not access knowledge - especially names and places.  I could be talking to someone I had known for most of my life, and could not for the life of me remember his/her name or why I knew them so well.  I had been an antiques dealer for twenty years, and suddenly had no access to knowledge I knew I possessed concerning provenance or manufacturer.  I was constantly misjudging the intent of people's spoken words. Finally, I could no longer access a good part of my vocabulary.  I could not remember correct spellings or the rules of punctuation and basic journalism.  I was in real personal trouble and at the same time losing my income.

I am known as someone who possesses eloquence of speech.  All my life, great minds have crossed my path and shared indescribable bits of valued wisdom with me.  I had learned to channel my anger and passions into cautious words of well thought out argument.  I had created my own publishing company because of the need to have my thoughts and concerns heard, and to bypass the censorship I would have encountered using other channels.  Through my own publishing company I was able to give voice to talented others who otherwise would not have been heard. 

I am a Discovery/History/Biography Channel kind of girl.  I naturally tuned in one day to a program on the miracles of the brain.  I was incredulous to see a brain surgeon who had suffered a stroke, and who had used her experience to have firsthand  knowledge about the loss of brain function that before she could only have knowledge of by way of her patients or medical literature.  It was fascinating - and just the message I was needing to receive.  This brilliant scientist attested to the severity of her brain malfunction while providing graphic MRIs and describing the loss of functions that directly corresponded to the side of the brain that sustained damage.  Then, she explained that certain brain transmitters were damaged for good, but that the brain had it's own way of creating new routes and transmissions.

But how did she do that?  No mention was made of how she accomplished creating those new routes.  I want, with every fiber of my being, to know how that is accomplished.  Yet another intensive workout on Google yielded little information.  Only that exercises have been created for use in training damaged brains to reroute themselves.  I considered contacting my local Stroke Association.  I spoke briefly with my doctor about these exercises, only to be told that they must basically be done soon after the cerebral accident.

I had been raised upon a healthy regimen of puzzles and thought-provoking games.  I became obsessed with exercising my brain by going back to those simple early lessons.  I found myself putting 1000-piece jigsaw puzzles together with my boyfriend's elderly parents.  I was forever finding crossword puzzles to complete - an impossible task when it was those very Names and Places that I no longer had access to.  And one day, I encountered my first Sudoku puzzle.

I did not need to read instructions - I am a reasonably intelligent person and should be able to figure out the gist of this new mind boggler.  Man, I racked my brain trying to figure out the point of these random numbers.  Those first few puzzles were a headache so major that I considered never looking at a Sudoku puzzle again.  But I enventually figured it out.  Then someone gave me a paperback book full of nothing but Sudoku puzzles.  I found a million times during the day when I would have a moment to pull that little book out and whip off an easy puzzle, or brainstorm to gain a little bit more progress on a hard puzzle.  My little book was nearly completed when I knew I should begin my search for a new book.  Then someone else turned me on to the puzzle books that find their ways to the local dollar stores.  I was buying five at a time and leaving them in certain places - my vehicle, by my bedside, next to the television remote control...

I spent six years searching for a way to reform my damaged brain, and I spent one year doing Sudoku puzzles and regaining much brain function that I had lost.  I no longer break my toe or wander into anyone walking upon my right side - weird, right?  I have access to a good portion of memory that had so recently been locked away.  My name recall is better, but not yet all there.  I guess I will have to relearn the rules of proper English and journalism, but I am getting by in the meantime.

Blah, blah, blah.

Therefore, I shall....

Rock on.