Punt

Blanston's not with us anymore--

But y'all can check here.

If You Were Wondering

why this blog disappeared (thanks for all the emails of concern; my lack of response is due to the fact I never look in there), 'twas merely a setting I tweaked when the Occupy Eugene protests Died With a Whimper about a year ago.  Since then, I simply haven't had anything to say that didn't reflect the learned helplessness and utter-distraction-by-trivia of society at large--

But sometimes, you just have to scream into the Abyss, even when, disconcertingly, it refuses to talk back.

So, onward.

Whew.

For a minute there, I thought the heir to the National Affairs Desk at Rolling Stone had lost the plot.

Thankfully, he snapped to.

Peace.

P.S. Occupy Eugene was shut down, as predicted, for "health and safety" reasons...the "national security" for the local governments to go all Big Brother on us.  So for now, I am focusing on shoring up the reserves so I can be in a position to move when the current gig ends unpredictably, but soon.

Wrong Again

Everyone hates a pessimist.

Despite my predictions, the Eugene City Council deadlocked 4-4 on whether to extend the permit for the Occupy camp until January 8.  The mayor broke the tie in favor of Occupy, and she is taking much heat in the local MSM, because of funds that will be used to help people, people who actually need the help, and not some whiner making six figures...the official poverty level reached 50 million and half of all Americans are officially poor.

Divide and Conquer still applies. 

Eugene continues to be one of the only cities where an Occupy camp is still up and running. But the practical folks, the folks who say Hey, but you promised us roads, make me want to down a hemlock nightcap and drive up into the mountains until convulsions toss me into an abyss--

More meetings have been called for next week, and I have a fair amount of analysis to do before then.

This type of activity makes it difficult to write, as the recent dearth of posts indicates--but I will get the next bit from this string posted soon--

Also--now seems a good time to repost one from last year, If I Disappear:

4.16.2010

If I Disappear...

...it could be because I went Mad for the Gale and Refused to Come In, and now I can't whine as my body slams against the cliffs in the towering Big Sur surf that drove Kerouac over, bits of brain and kelp and bone matter roiling about me in pinkish sea-foam...

Or maybe I got a little too close to The Man this time, right before they blew him to flaming bits, DMT or Salvinorin A or maybe the multiple concussions I sustained as a lad cutting off all access to any decent pre-frontal lobe sense of self-preservation--

Or perhaps I was stabbed and robbed whilst in an opium/hashish stupor in a thatched hut deep in a misty Myanmar jungle, strange animal and human cries falling dead and muffled as if on snow--

Or maybe--and this is my favorite, I think-- I was ripped to death by bear, by just being stupid, camping yet again in an off-limits section of Cascadia, getting stoned while I tossed out a pad and my bag and another pad for the dog, careful to stay above the incoming tide and build a small fire downwind, then just forgetting and sleeping next to nearly a pound of smoked salmon...

The point is, the scenarios above describe arguably unsavory and untimely ways to die.

But I'll take any of them over being tortured to death or hunted for sport on another human's say-so.

With a Whimper, I'm Afraid

Ah.  This will be how it ends.

For the first time since the Occupation kicked off here in Eugene, I contacted a local grizzled activist attorney. He's pretty much a dead-ringer for Jack Herer, and identically aligned.  We first met a decade ago in a face-off when he represented the organizer of the local Hemp Fest in a suit against various governments. Yesterday when I caught up with him he was on his way to hearings where, after the arguments against some hapless government lawyer, law enforcement personnel would be ordered by a judge to return the pot they'd illegally seized. 

Indeed--and I'm just remembering this now--being on the cop side of that Hemp Fest lawsuit is what finally pushed me over the edge in 2002.  The stark contrast between my heart and the way my head was ethically obligated to think was too much. And we'll return to that story in a minute.

The immediate point is that I occasionally call for his opinion because I've learned to trust it.  Representing The Rainbow Gathering in its various freedom-of-assembly disputes around the country, including Eugene, he was well-versed on the Eugene Sign Ordinance.

It's unconstitutional, both state and federal, he said without hesitation.  He detailed why with rapid-fire bullet points. Then--

But listen, Gurn, why are you even worried about the signs?  If you ask me, you are being set up to fail.

For the Dec 15th hearing?

Yeah.  I mean, c'mon, they won't grant an extension for the Occupy camp, not because of any hassles with signs--even if those are legit--but because of sanitation and safety issues.

Yeah, I've pointed that out several times, but as a legal committee day-tripper, it tends to fall on deaf ears.

Well, the sign issue won't matter when the camp is taken down.  Sanitation.  Safety.  It's the "national security" excuse for the new millennium.

So the inside word about building a permanent camp with a full-on kitchen, power, showers, restrooms and the rest is bullshit?

Yes, he said.  It's complete bullshit.  It has to be.

---------------------------------

Well.

That certainly took the wind out.  I'll still write the letter, in the event it's needed, but I feel like I have to sound the alarm, yet again, on the real issue. I will, when the other people working on this wake up...in about an hour.

Next--the Suit-and-Tied-to-Occupy narrative continues.

Tale of Two Cities Redux

If you believe the local MSM, Occupy Eugene faces a critical deadline on December 15, and two critical city councilor votes are oh-so-close to saying the Hell with it--

But at the internal Occupy meetings, word is that architects, contractors, permaculturalists and so on are coming forward and insisting to the City that a permanent encampment with full-time kitchen, showers and restrooms be erected on Skinner Butte.

In the meantime, certain First Amendment issues must be addressed, as the Eugene police keep threatening to cite protesters for putting up political signs and/or fining them $100 a pop--

So most of my work in the past several days has been completely behind the scenes, which is just as well.  Setting up this camp is a radical act--as is growing your own food.

Activism will continue, probably expanding into Occupy Foreclosed Homes and the like--

More, soon.

Peace.

After Standing

in the rain for seven hours last Thursday, all I can do is refer you to this brilliant bit from over twenty years ago by our man Dave Barry.

More, soon--when I can hold my head up without experiencing what Burroughs called a "vertiginous retching horror."

Peace.

I Used to Joke

 that I want to have Glenn Greenwald's children, a bit of hyperbolic praise for the clearest legal analysis of the USSA around.

 I didn't know he was gay when I said that.

Now, I just say Glenn Greenwald is God.

More Than 45 Hours Later

I'm still knackered--and this was a completely non-violent protest, though the rhetoric got a bit heated at times:

And this:

But mostly, they were just vocal, and good-natured, even while cuffed face down on concrete:

This one is sideways, but it did capture the arrestees rockin' the paddy wagon:

After the paddy wagon left, one protestor locked himself to Chase's door:

 

It's difficult to see, but the young man being arrested hunkers down for a second and tosses a set of keys toward the police-on-bicycles line.  After a brief scuffle, you'll see a female police officer approach a cop in the foreground and take something from him--the set of keys.

It was a long day, to be sure, and no one got hurt.  Certain folks were certainly pissed they couldn't access their bank, and  PR wise the local Occupy movement likely took a hit.

In terms of the success of the movement--real success--it must be said that no empire (and sweetjesusmotherfuck are we an Empire)--has ever survived its police and military turning against them.

Indeed, the Empire ceases to exist at the moment of critical mass mutiny by operational definition.

This will take awhile.  

For some of the best on the OWS itself, check The Rude Pundit's bits from last week.

-----------------------

More storytelling, full of lies and made up facts, soon.

Peace.

Seventeen Arrests

were made today as Occupy Eugene protesters shut down branches of Umpqua Bank (aka "Stumpqua" because it funds clearcutting), Bank of America, Wells Fargo and Chase, for at least a couple of hours apiece and Umpqua for the day.  Everyone was sprung and they and the non-arrested alike flooded the coffee shop across the street from the prison.

I'll post a bit more tomorrow,  but I will say I'm concerned that the protesters seemed intent on a bit more confrontational interaction with police, while my philiosophy, as I've stated before, is to Bring Them In.

Because, see, no empire has ever survived when its armies and police turned.

Peace.

Why Joe Paterno Ain't So Bad

Every child rapist and sadist be advised:

The U.S. government supports your right to rape and torture to spread democracy and freedom.  Rape with confidence and patriotism.

I'd also advise converting to Catholicism, where Ratzinger will go to bat for you, for the good of the church.

Of course, a member of the protected class of kiddie rapists will have to be trotted out and sacrificed from time to time.  

But, rest assured, the rape and torture will continue, heavily endorsed by the executive branches of the church and state.

Of course, silence is complicity, and Paterno may well be guilty of that.  What he allowed to happen is reprehensible.

What does that make us, who haven't moved to oust the torturer/rapists from power?

Occupy Eugene Will

have a march on the banks, and, I'm told, in solidarity with Egypt on November 17.

Many groups will attend, including flag waving anarchists (not a typo; they'll wave the Anarchist flag, which seems, you know, contradictory), sidearm-wearing Second Amendment types (open carry is legal in Oregon...it's that hidden, non-permitted gun that'll get you in trouble) as well as the regular Occupy campers, day-trippers, curious college kids (some on field trips with uber-hip sociology profs who would have had a class that included, say, touring with the Dead 20 years ago), some folks committed to getting arrested by chaining themselves to the bank doors, thereby shutting them down, and, I hope, a whole mess o' lawyers to deal with them.

We shall see.  They've gotten us all revved up before, for naught.

Oh yeah, and that prediction I had yesterday about various governments' lawyers coordinating their attack on Occupy?  Turns out I was right.

And another thing...I off-handedly mentioned Russ Feingold was in town last week, and wondered if he'd get heckled.

He did not.

For some reason, he hammered on the need to get corporate control out of government.

Feingold's big idea to accomplish this?  Re-elect Obama, so he can appoint a Supreme Court Justice who will overturn the Citizens United case.

There is no need to belabor the obvious point that Corporations now have sufficient control of the entirety of  government that no matter who sits in what position, the people will Not Be Served.

What can we expect?  To admit that the protesters deem him and his brethren (I lump in gluttonous hags like Feinstein and Pelosi with brethren, so as not to insult real women, my sisters) irrelevant is to invite the torch and pitchfork crowd to form, and they may not wait to be invited anyway--

Put another way,  even the cloistered house-slaves, mere millionaires who serve the truly elite hear the drumbeat of OWS, though they don't understand it yet.

Click to enlarge this video, a real eye-popping, never-to-be-forgotten explanation of what true wealth means in this ol' USA. 

Promise.

More, soon--including previously promised bits and one called "Why Joe Paterno Ain't So Bad."

Peace.

A Recharge

is in order.  More on that in a second.

Occupy Eugene continues, for now almost exclusively as a homeless encampment.  What this may mean is unclear, but my earlier suspicions--that at least some elements in the city are actively working to narc out Occupy for health and safety violations--are being confirmed by a sharp attorney who camps at the site. I haven't met him or her yet; s/he tells me via email that "Passers-by" frequently snap photos of garbage on the ground, people smoking pot (which is legal in Oregon so long as you ponied up for a hefty license fee, and physician exam, which effectively places medical marijuana out of reach of the poor), an unfortunate instance of local "Juggalos" (yes, the Deadheads-on-methedrine-and-STP followers of Insane Clown Posse) dealing out a bit of street justice to an accused thief in their midst, discarded needles (you would not believe the injectable drug abuse that happens here) and so on.  S/he tells me these are undercover.  Uniformed police also show up at the slightest provocation and start the conversations with something like "Looks like you've lost control of the camp."

Official cooperation notwithstanding, obviously, they are building their case, and if I know lawyers, they want to wrap this thing up before the holidays, which is roughly December 23rd or 18th this year, depending.  How they will try to achieve this anyone's guess, though one douchebag-owner-of-a-Starbucks has already lawyered up.

It's a bitter irony, really, that the most effective way to bring attention to homelessness (which is a rapidly growing problem and one which I currently escape by the barest of whiskers) is to camp in public spaces. Yet the Supreme Court may well rule that homeless camping can be banned in all public spaces for health and safety reasons.  Most homeless would then literally have nowhere to go.

So actual homeless people will once again be subject to arrest for being in the only place, by definition, that they CAN  BE--in public.

I suspect that the phone lines have been humming between State Attorneys' offices on How They Shall Challenge the Occupations in court.

Trust me.  We did this shit all the time with our competitors--when there was a big lawsuit against any of us that threatened the industry as a whole, we responded, as an industry.  Indeed, the three times I've authored amicus briefs to the SCOTUS was on behalf of the industry as a whole, not the specific client/slab-of-the-monolith my firm represented. I guaranfuckingtee the lot of them have decided to bring challenges to the Occupation in states where the federal courts will look less favorably on the First Amendment, to position the case better for an appeal to the SCOTUS in a few years.  The State Attorneys General are not an industry, per se, but they do benefit from advocating as a cohesive unit, and picking the right cases to bring.

I'm going to head to the hills today.  I'll pick up the narrative on how I became an occupy supporter tomorrow. Don't know when I'll get another chance this year to have a look at stuff like this:

All photographs are clickable to enlarge, BTW.

Peace.

The Shark Ethic: Listen

Irv, I said, a bit perplexed, I didn't serve any subpoenas on you guys, and don't have any cases that involve you, not even as experts.  So I have zero reason--

Irv wasn't buying it.  The distillery case.  We're their accountants.

Not mine.  Never heard of it. Who's suing you?

He named them.  It was a class action.

No, again.  I've never been involved in a class action. I mean, never, as in never even seen a pleading in one. This is peculiar.  It simply isn't me.

You're Gurn Blanston?

Sure.  There's two of us, but the other one is a software engineer--

Is this your Bar number?  He read it to me.

I'll be damned, it is.  But again, I have no idea what you're talking about. Is it signed?

Yes, and you're shitting me.

No, no. Look, this should be easy.  Just fax me a copy of what you have there, and I'll call you back and tell you I didn't issue it.  There's simply been a mistake.

I headed to the firm's mail room where the fax was already spitting out pages.  Chrissy was still on my heels, and I could feel her question, the benefit of having worked with her for years.  Secretaries are, in many ways, the most powerful people in the office, and a good one is literally worth more than your arm, at least the non-dominant one, according to most state workers' compensation schemes.

I haven't looked at them yet, I said, referring to the phone messages.  As I pulled pages from the tray, she said, simply, why is everyone calling about this subpoena?

I glanced over the document.  It was a pretty standard subpoena duces tecum targeted at the accounting firm for detailed financial records of a major local distiller--

But there were a couple of problems. The subpoena was technically flawless, and would require the lawyers and accountants over at Advanced to pore over reams of paper and electronic documents in a very short period of time.  If they failed to comply, such a subpoena allows the judge to sanction--by fining or jailing--attorneys who don't comply...it's a form of contempt of court.  Judges basically hate it when lawyers waste their time.

Technically flawless, but from a professional courtesy standpoint, it was a roundhouse slap to the face.  Attorneys know the official discovery schedule in a lawsuit is insanely tight, so both sides at least attempt to negotiate what will be handed over before essentially going nuclear with a subpoena.  The reason is simple:  attorneys see each other repeatedly over their careers, and they remember how you treat them.  Professional courtesy, and the rep you build with it, is worth more than your dominant arm and your secretary.

The other problem both amused and bemused me at first.  Someone had used my Bar number to file a pleading in a case that wasn't mine--and forged my signature at the bottom. I was pretty sure that was a felony and a tort, so somebody was going to jail, and somebody was going to pay.

The phone calls are all about this subpoena?  I waved the sheaf at her.

Yes, she said, all from different firms, but I've never heard--

Neither have I.  I have to talk to Jerry.

She nodded.  I gathered up the fax and the messages, and strode down to Jerry's office, a block away in another corner.

Look at this, I said, tossing the fax on his desk.  Some idiot forged my name on a bunch of subpoenas, like I wasn't gonna know. I'll sue them tomorrow.  I'd do it today, but I have to fly to Denver.

Jerry grinned hugely, and pushed his chair back from the document staring up at him from the blotter.

Oh, he said, with a dismissive wave.  That was me.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Next : From a Trusted Hand

(To view the previous post in this string, go here.)

Killer Green Tomato

photos now accompany the "Tangent" bit from a few days ago here.


The Shark Ethic cometh soon.

The FDIC is Bankrupt

and Bank of America did it, all by itself, by dumping that $75 Trillion of toxic derivatives on them.

For an in-depth analysis you won't find elsewhere, here's Catherine Austin Fitts, a reformed Bush I bureaucrat in a position to know.  She also discusses how student loans are designed to create defaults to maximize profits.

This awesome power--to lay a debt on us orders of magnitude greater than anything seen in the history of the planet--suffices, all by itself, to hit the streets, never mind torture, illegal wars, fascism that is no longer creeping but sprinting, illegal foreclosures, unemployment, record poverty and homelessness and soldier death-by-suicide...  

More, soon, after the literal and metaphorical fog burns off here in the Willamette Valley...

Peace.

Do You Mind

if I ask how it happened?

I knew what she meant, but I pretended not to hear over traffic as we waved signs.

Passing drivers honked, waved, and extended many peace signs to us.

I'm just curious, she said.  You said something like Corner-office-suit-and-tied to Occupy. That can't be a straight line.

Right, I nodded. It wasn't.

Want to tell me about it?

So there it was, a situation I'd dreaded for years in self-imposed isolation. A pretty woman inquires, and when I fill in the blanks--at least if I tell the truth-- she'll almost certainly flee. But she wants to hear it, even if she can't know my need to tell it to someone.

I hesitated only for a moment.

With no clear idea where I was heading or with how much truth, I held my 99 > 1 sign a little lower and stepped closer.

It began, I told her, as major life events often do: the telephone rang, although here it was ringing already as I walked into that corner office, followed closely by my secretary with a sheaf of pink phone messages, and who was clearly distressed, though I hadn't noticed that yet.

I accepted the messages with one hand and picked up the receiver with the other.

"Blanston."

The voice on the other end could not have been more pleasant.

"Blanston?  This is Irv Franklin, general counsel for Advanced Accounting.*  I have your subpoena here, and I had a couple of questions."

"Sure, Irv, but I didn't send--" but that's all I get out before he interrupts me.

"Just who the fuck do you think you are?"

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Next: The Shark Ethic
* Names of firms and persons changed at the insistence of the author's lawyers.

Heh.

Apparently, it's having an effect.

Tokyo is Toast

The MSM refuses to report on the gravity of the Fukushima disaster, which is the worst man-made accident in history:

Odds are good that Tokyo will be at least partially permanently evacuated.  Why would our media not report this?  Could it have anything to do with who owns them?

Oakland

cops just can't get enough of shooting non-violent protesters:

Or beating them, then denying them needed care, which is not even allowed in war:

Occupy Eugene is suffering from the effects of yet another move without sufficient infrastructure in place.  It is messy, chaotic, and treading heavily on the line the city will use to shut it down, if it chooses--Sanitation.

Part of the problem is that the conditions at the camp for so many are a step up: lighting, water, toilets, food, and freedom from police harassment for camping or having open alcohol in public. Another is a disconnect between day trippers like me and those on the ground most of the time--and what I'd have to describe as the Executives, who meet with the City, the police, the University, travel to other Occupy sites,  and who seldom go a day without shaving their face, or legs, as the case may be.

Former Senator Feingold speaks at 4 p.m. today.  Wonder if he'll get heckled.

Let Me Clarify

something.

That reckless driving I did for a decade was foolish, and I was lucky to have zero accidents. After moving to the northwest, I drove the same way, and quickly lost my license for a month, and I should have. 

But, damn, it was fun while it lasted.

The Tangent

ostensibly continues:

As an attorney for a large corporation with a lot of real estate extending throughout multiple city, county, state, federal and tribal jurisdictions, and a private, armed security force with arrest powers, I'd worked with lots of cops.  As an attorney practicing in a city and states where taxes and fees paid by lawyers provided a huge chunk of public workers' salaries, I could call any prosecutor on anything short of vehicular homicide and make it disappear (nolle prosequi) in an instant. This came in handy, as my work required frequent last-minute, high-stakes filings (before the internet, babies) that had to be driven to various courthouses late on the last day of the deadline. Thus, I'd been pulled over by police literally 112 times in ten years, in various jurisdictions, many of those at triple-digit speeds.

I had not a single conviction. Police knew the game and didn't want to waste time, either. Upon seeing multiple Bar membership cards tucked by my license, they might run a check to ensure I wasn't wanted, then let me go with yet another warning.

As my second wife noted: the only time I drove under the speed limit was on the way to see her parents.

I'd also been a county prosecutor for six months after losing the corporate gig, then represented the insurer of many city and county police forces for a few years in the Northwest, before crushing student debt and the moral tension inherent in zealous representation of the Praetorian Guard sparked a personal conflagration that rages to this day.

That story--how I became and remain a pauper refugee in my own country--will have to be told soon.  But not today.

Point is, I knew cops as clients, adversaries, witnesses and otherwise, and between me and the Mad drunk Dutchman who sat astride the controls of the KGT, and who tended to view traffic laws with a European playfulness that does not translate in America--it should definitely be me answering the questions.

His question hung there: You boys ever see the movie Thunderheart with Val Kilmer?

I reached over and switched off the engine.

"Yeah," I lied. "Of course."  Jens started to speak, then saw my face and thought better of it. Speeding, drunk, reckless, possession. The grappa.  The pot.  The pipe.  The tabs of X I hadn't heard about yet.

The Ranger folded his arms. The sunglasses made it impossible to tell where he was looking, what he might see.

"You know the scene where Levoi, the FBI agent played by Kilmer is pulled over by the Tribal cop played by Graham Greene?"

"Sure," I said, having no idea.  "I think so--"

The Ranger continued, deadpan.  "Levoi asks to see the radar, and Crow Horse tells him 'I don't need no radar.  The wind told me how fast you were going--'"

And just as we gave him what must have been astonished--if bleary--WTF are you talking about looks, he can't contain it any longer, and laughs, delighted--

"When I see a rooster tail of dust shooting 150 feet in the air, from two miles away--" he waited for our realization to dawn, then:

"I pretty much know you're exceeding ten miles an hour."  He walked back to the Explorer, tossed in his hat and climbed in after it.  "Slow it down, gentlemen."  He trundled off with a wave.

And that was that.

That Ranger, had he been so inclined, could have made life very difficult for us--me to prison, loss of professional license, and Jens to some ICE hellhole...

Sure, he knew we were speeding, driving recklessly, were probably drunk, high and holding, but we were literally in the middle of nowhere and hardly an actual threat, even to ourselves...

So, after tamping down our speeding, a Rules violation that we put in his (and his superiors') faces, he let the rest of it go.

Back in the present, the University of Oregon, its security, and the Eugene Police have assumed, for now, that same spirit of cooperation.

Across the country, more and more military and police are supporting the Occupiers.  Even the MSM admits it.

Like the cops at Burning Man, deep in their hearts,  many really do just want to join in.

We must encourage them to do so.

Peace.

P.S. The Dutchman has fled town for a week.  KGT pictures will go up eventually.  Hope they're good.

UPDATE:  A couple of pictures of the KGT:

A Tangent

Or so it will seem, at first.

It was late August, 2007, and The Killer Green Tomato was taking shape for the first time.  I sold my original ticket to Burning Man because I could not afford to go, to an achingly beautiful woman who  served only to remind me of what I'd be missing.  Then, a college pal with ties to someone setting up the Mermen camp came up with another ticket, and, horribly conflicted, I turned him down.

But other friends conspired, solving the cash issue, and there I was on the Playa 2 a.m. Sunday morning, watching flashes in the sky, the telltale signs not of lightning--but of massive bursts of flame.  It was sign, I'd learn soon, that this Burn would top everything prior except for, say, Krakatoa, in terms of pyrotechnics. (More on that, later, in a bit that we will call "Crack Propane.")

Jens was swigging grappa from a half-gallon Absolut bottle.  He plunked it down, a bit of the 185 proof sloshing out the top.  He twisted some wires together, and the Killer Green Tomato lit up for the first time.  Jens then turned the bolt he'd fashioned into a key.  It fired up immediately, of course.

The KGT was a truly dangerous Department of Mutant Vehicles-approved art car, which Jens built in his mechanical-graveyard-robbing, Frankenstein way. A Yamaha engine powered the single drive wheel, at the back of a triangular frame of welded t-posts.  Dune buggy balloon tires were mounted on the front, on a suspended steering rig topped with motorcycle handlebars in the center.  The wooden passenger platform was covered in thick carpets, velvet throw pillows, and a dome of shadecloth.  The entire thing was festooned with LEDs, and drew approving grins and whoops all evening long--

But it was 11 in the morning now, several days later, maybe Thursday. The odd nighttime beauty of the KGT silhouetted against multiple propane explosions was not on our minds.

Velocity was.

Jens was driving, screwing the throttle hard, towing me on my bike. At 11 a.m., heat from the cloudless sun already shot shimmering waves through the air, like spilled gasoline.  We were at least a mile away from the edge of the Playa, headed As Fast As Possible toward the Black Rock Mountains, which refused to get any closer.

It’s unclear how long the BLM Ranger had been following us in his black-glassed heavily sprung Explorer as we tore ass across the desert, me holding the right handlebar (and critical rear brake, as the front brake applied alone will dump you but hard, carving new and bloody emphasis into the term “faceplant") with one hand, and a water-ski rope in the other, whipsawing back and forth in a 10-meter arc, watching for the occasional yet dangerous swaths of soft dust hiding in the hardpan, which will dump you even harder.  

At the first short blast of the Ranger’s siren I leaned hard to the right until centripetal force pulled me even, and tossed the rope onto the platform behind Jens, who hadn't heard and didn't slow down.  Not satisfied, the Ranger hit the siren again, really laying it on, and Jens stopped, defeated, the dust overtaking us.   On the dry white desert floor interrupted by sudden black mountains, it looked like we’d been pulled over on the brightside of the moon.

The Ranger got out of the truck, lights still flashing, engine idling, eyes unreadable behind dark aviator shades.  He put on his hat, either out of protocol, or because he knew, like anyone who’s spent even a single day at Burning Man, that you simply don’t fuck with the sun in the Black Rock Desert, even for a minute. 

I tried playing dumb.  “He can’t tow me?” The Ranger shook his head, not obviously unfriendly.  “At ten miles an hour he can,” and walked to the front of the KGT.  Jens wore a full-length leather shooting jacket, shorts and sandals, and hadn’t shaved in several days. He resembled nothing so much as the quintessential child molester lurking just outside the playground.

I knew that under the Rules, we faced at minimum expulsion from the event, a heavy fine and loss of the KGT, and that’s if he didn’t find the marijuana and grappa on-board, barely concealed under very dusty velvet pillows.  BLM are feds, and to them, marijuana is always a crime; simple possession can net you a year. 

Given all of that, his first question caught us somewhat off-guard.

“You boys ever see the movie Thunderheart, with Val Kilmer?”  

 -----------------------------

Next post (within 24 hours):  I bring the tangent home, with links--and photos of the KGT.

Off to the Occupy camp now--

The Trap

I've recently grown fond of saying--in response to the inevitable "What do you do?" inquiry--the following:

I used to be a Professional Paranoid.  Now, I do it for free.

When I represented corporations and various city and county governments (or their liability carriers), I was always asked one question-- regardless of topic and in so many words:

Can we avoid paying a dime in lawsuits?

I would have looked into it--like I just did--and told them roughly* the following:

The Supreme Court of the United States has already held, very specifically, that a government may ban camping in its parks, so long as the ban has the purpose of preserving/protecting a public space for public use. However, the Supreme Court also stressed that the ban at one park--in the heart  Washington, DC--was permitted at least in part because the National Park Service allows camping elsewhere in the system.

As you know, the City of Eugene does not permit camping in any of its parks.  Thus, to avoid liability for violating the rights of free speech,  free assembly and of that to petition the government for redress of grievances, we recommend that the City permit camping in a designated area.  As can already be seen elsewhere in the country, camping protesters will eventually run afoul of safety and/or sanitation regulations, if not drug, property, and other criminal laws.


The City may then remove the protesters without significant exposure to liability, assuming, of course, the police don't misbehave.

While the City (and the local MSM) go on and on about how cooperative and supportive they are (at least as of 2 weeks ago), everything they've done up to this point is congruent with the above. 


The city is just as likely to be waiting us out, for a legal and politically advantageous way to shut the camp down, as they are to be actually supporting Occupy Eugene

Peace.

* "Roughly" 'cause there are other arguments the protesters could make to prove civil rights liability against the city, and I'm not tipping my hand--just stating the obvious.

My UO

peeps were apparently unreliable sources, because the University caved exactly as the City did last week, and now the Occupation itself is on campus...but only until Monday.

I went out to the quad outside of Knight Library (Nike: Little Hands Make Good Shoes) at 11:00 and not a creature was stirring, except one non-student drummer, the single point left from the circle, who assured me that he didn't need help if he got pinched.

"I've been in county plenty of times," he said, squinting over a Brit-style rocket. "It won't be long."

So next time it looks like a throwdown, I'm not going to say anything about it unless it passes appearances and bursts into reality.


The erratic sleep is taking its toll.  I've promised analysis, and analysis will come, but first, a towering coffee and LO duty at the millrace.

UPDATE 1

Washington's Blog has more--a LOT more--examples of various brutality against peaceful people--and the groundswell of support among police and military.  I was going to cover it, but they've already done their typical research blitzkrieg (if you'll forgive the word choice) that makes us mere mortals tremble in awe bordering on fear--

UPDATE 2

And the National General Strike is called.

Clear November 2nd, eh?