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A yearly repost: A Thanksgiving story of secret generosity

A yearly repost: A Thanksgiving story of secret generosity

Thanksgiving is upon us and I have been remiss in posting. So, I decided to drag out this 2010 column from the archives. It’s from a previous incarnation. I figured since most of my posts are negative and how people are dumbasses and asshats, it might be nice to post something positive. It’s a story that I had to write since it was a story that I think about every year since it originally happened, decades ago.

Update: This is all the more relevant since our country just elected a vile, nasty selfish man as our president.

________________________________________________________________________

Another year, another Thanksgiving and holiday season begins. Another year of having the burden of deciding whose food and liquor I can consume without lifting a finger to make any meaningful contribution.

It’s that time of the year when those “New Yorkers of the Week” loom large on NY1. Committing selfless acts, being generous and basically putting themselves out, not just at the holidays but all year long. Man, I hate those people. Don’t get me started on the “Student/Athlete of the Week.”

On top of all that, the City just released stats on how the use of food pantries and soup kitchens have spiked in the last year. Every borough has seen an increase since last year with Staten Island leading the way with a 100% increase.

But that’s not what I what I want to talk about. I want to talk about a few years…er… decades, back when I was a teen. I want to talk about Pinhead Bomberger.

My father owned a small grocery store in small town Pennsylvania. Each year around this time, he would personally make certain grocery deliveries. He made me go with him to help. The groceries were full meals for a family, all the fixin’s, turkey included. It was food for people who couldn’t afford it.

It was weird that the old man was making these deliveries personally. It was even weirder that he dragged me along. I asked on more than once occasion what the deal was, but he would always brush it off saying that it was someone who gave him money and a list of people and said to deliver the groceries.

To this day I can vividly recall the faces and emotions of those people, mostly single mothers, when we showed up at their doors with the food. They were sure there was some mistake. My dad assured them it wasn’t a mistake. When they asked who was responsible my dad would just say, “Santa Claus.” (It worked better when we did the Xmas deliveries, but what the hell?)

They were really thankful to get the food they otherwise wouldn’t have had for the holiday. I remember a few mothers, kids hanging on them, who got tears in their eyes.

Years later, while visiting at Christmas, I decided to ask my dad what that was all about. He said that since the guy was dead, there was no harm in spilling the beans.

This is where Pinhead Bomberger comes in. Bomberger was the German teacher at our high school. He was a real miserable prick. Everyone hated him. His unfortunate moniker “Pinhead” was due to his tiny head.

Dad said that one year Pinhead came to him with a list. It was a list of poor people, about a dozen or so. He wanted to buy them holiday dinners. My father was sworn to secrecy. Under no circumstances were these people to know where it came from. Dad didn’t know where he got the list. Then, as was his way, the old man decided to chip in and sweeten the deal. He added to Pinhead’s list and threw in more food.

Pinhead did that on Thanksgiving and Christmas until he died. The list was always different from year to year.

I asked why he made me go with him when he made those deliveries. He said it was a personal thing and he wanted to have me with him. He also wanted me to know how good I had it; to not take for granted my good fortune. Oh, by the way, did I mention dad was a Republican?

So, what do we take away from this? Is it that you never really know people? What made Pinhead do what he did? He knew he was hated. He could have easily made a big deal out of it, but he didn’t. He insisted on secrecy and the old man took that secret to the grave. I was the only one he told and it was only because I asked.

There are people like us who want to be liked, yet we probably haven’t done very much to help those less fortunate. And when we do it, we make sure people know it. It seems to me Pinhead was a real hero… a real human being.

And speaking of real… his real first name was Harry.

My dad’s secret mission in the Pacific in WWII

My dad’s secret mission in the Pacific in WWII

barneyatwarIt’s been 13 years since the old man died. He was typical of that generation where he never talked about WWII or any engagement.

But towards the end of his life he would make these cryptic references to the secret mission. Neither my brother nor I could pry any details out of him. One time, while waiting at the deli counter in a supermarket, out of the blue he said, “It was around this time we spent a week playing cat and mouse with a Jap sub.” * I asked him to elaborate and he just shrugged and said, “Nothing. Never mind.” He seemed distracted, lost in thought.

A few years after he died I was talking with my brother and he brought up the secret mission thing. I mentioned the supermarket incident and decided that I had to look into it. Off to the Google I went.

What I found was an article in the Cleveland Plain dealer from 2009 that stunned me. It was called John Wicinski of Garfield Heights was on a secret mission aboard the USS Tucson: A World at War

Wicinski, 87, of Garfield Heights, said he and fellow crewmen aboard the USS Tucson were told only that they were part of a secret mission. The details became obvious that night as the lone cruiser assumed the role of a battleship supposedly leading a naval task force in an attack on Japan.

They were out there with their asses hanging out.

The plan, as detailed in the U.S. Navy Cruiser Sailors Association newsletter last fall, was to have the Tucson break from the task force on its own and head for southern Japan, while the rest of the group actually sailed in the opposite direction to bombard Hokkaido and the Northern Honshu islands, which lay beyond the range of B-29 bombers.

A team of Navy tricksters aboard the Tucson would send out a flurry of radio dispatches that mimicked the communications of an entire task force, with ships talking to other vessels and aircraft. The hoaxers used scripts and even moved to different locations aboard the cruiser to obtain different background noises for their transmissions.

The hope was that the Japanese would monitor the broadcasts, assume an attack was imminent in southern Japan, and reposition their defenses accordingly.

The old man did say that one point they they were at general quarters for a week, which in miitary parlance means an announcement made aboard a naval warship to signal the crew to prepare for battle or imminent damage, but again, no details despite being pressed.

I contacted the U.S. Navy Cruiser Sailors Association to see if I could get a copy of that article since I was the son of someone who was on that boat. They graciously provided the article which you can read here. 

The old man’s boat was a light cruiser which accompanied battleships. He said it was like a floating ammo dump. Somewhere I have a copy of a letter Admiral Halsey sent to the fleet thaking them for “giving Tojo what for.”

That was that generation. He was told not to talk about it and he never did.

*The USS Indianapolis had just delivered the first atomic bomb to Tinian when it was attacked by a Japanese submarine. The cruiser sank in 12 minutes. Some 900 of its 1,196 crewmen survived the sinking, but only 316 were left by the sharks four days later for rescue.

 

Watkins Glen , my Woodstock

Watkins Glen , my Woodstock

From the archives, 2009

watkinsnewsOkay. So they had Woodstock. Whoop-de-do. That’s all we’re going to hear for the next week. I wasn’t allowed to go. I was only 13 years old. That was the concert for older kids. Then our time came. That time was July 28, 1973, in Watkins Glen.  Summer Jam, the forgotten bastard child of Woodstock.

It was a one day concert and featured only three bands, The Allman Brothers, The Band, and the Grateful  Dead.  Still, it was our time and what a time it was. We had more people than those losers at Woodstock. The Guinness Book of Records puts the total at 600,000. To this day it is the largest gathering of young degenerates in United States history.

It is unclear why Watkins Glen didn’t take its place alongside Woodstock and Altamont in the pantheon. It could be that by the time it happened, the war was winding down and there wasn’t such a sense of urgency like the one that hung over the Woodstock Nation. There was very little chance that we would be drafted unless Nixon decided to ramp up the fighting again, but that was unlikely.  There would be no Fish cheer here.

Maybe it was a transition from one era to another. If Altamont was the death of the Sixties, maybe Watkins Glen was the wake held by its younger siblings. Whatever it was, it was ours.

The morning of the day before the show, four of us strapped a tent to the top of a Corvair, packed that death trap with a cooler of ice, a carton of cigarettes, two hits of mescaline and five cases of beer. We figured we could buy the rest of the drugs we needed when we got there.

After we got about an hour away from the concert site, we ran into a massive traffic jam. We spent most of the day in that jam and it was sweltering. But it was a party atmosphere. You’d move a few feet and then stop for about 15 minutes. During that time, cars emptied out and people socialized with each other, trading drugs, buying drugs and doing drugs and cooling off with cold beer.

Many decided to ditch their cars on the side of the road and hoofed it to the concert site. Not us. We were going to get there and get a camping space.

When we finally made it to the entrance of the concert grounds, it quickly became apparent that the $10 tickets we bought wouldn’t be needed. There was no longer an entrance gate. In fact, there were no fences or gates or any kind.  Actually, there were,  but they had long since been trampled to the ground. As we inched our way onto the grounds we bought ourselves a quarter pound of pot and six hits of acid. That left us with just enough money for gas to get home.

We made it to the camping area and set up our tent.  So many people arrived the night before, the three bands did shortened sets, basically extended sound checks. People were just milling about, sharing what they had and just having a grand old-time. Everyone was wandering from campsite to campsite. Much to the organizers’ credit, they had an ample supply of cases of gallon jugs of water.

The day of the show, we got up, made some breakfast and prepared for our day. We pre-rolled dozens of joints for convenience sake and packed our “provisions” into our backpacks and cooler. I dropped one of the hits of mescaline and just in case, put a few hits of acid in my pocket and off we went to see how close we could get to the stage.

We wound up nowhere near the stage, but near two speaker towers so at least we could hear. The concert was a few hours away, so we had a great time with the people around us. It was a gigantic sea of stoned humanity. Yup, this was our Woodstock. It was hot and the sky was clear. We were having the time of our young lives. One big, burly, shirtless guy who said he was from Oakland kept doing a thumbs up and screaming. “Tunes are a big plus!” I figured he needed a hit of acid which he excitedly accepted. I decided that what the hell, I might as well do one, even though I was tripping on mescaline.

We watched as a skydiver floated erratically down toward the crowd, laden with orange smoke flares. Even in our drug induced haze we could tell something looked wrong. He looked limp and lifeless. We later learned he died from the flares.

The Dead did their three-hour or so set. Even the acid couldn’t make their endless noodling bearable. I had never seen the Dead before and I wasn’t planning on seeking them out any time in the future. Oakland was a huge Deadhead and was grooving big time. He thanked me again for the acid.  After the Dead and a slight delay as they changed the stage, The Band took their turn. In the middle of their set, the sky darkened and opened up. It seemed to be a given in that day and age that at any big outdoor rock show it was going to rain and rain hard.  We were soaked in a minute but it didn’t matter.

We decided to go back to the tent.  So there we were, four soaked and stoned  teenagers, in a tent and trying to figure out what to do. I decided we should eat something. I turned on the gas camping stove. I spaced out until someone said, “Maybe you should light the stove.” As I lit the match I saw God. I’ve never seen such a colorful,  massive flame in such a confined space.

We all sat in stunned silence for a few seconds until we recovered and someone said, “Man, that was pretty cool.” But we removed the stove from the tent anyway to avoid another “pretty cool” moment.

We heard The Band begin to play after the rain, but we decided to remain at the campsite and take a break.

It was dark when the Allman Brothers Band finally took the stage. Nobody wanted to go see them with me. They were too involved in their trips to physically motivate. So, alone I headed out with a bottle of whiskey and a jug of water. It seemed to take forever to get to the concert area. It was tough going since I was still tripping my brains out. The mescaline high had worn off and I was now in the midst of  the acid trip. It was slippery and muddy and I kept falling in the mud.

I finally arrived and was able to get almost near the stage. I was still damp and covered in mud. I started talking to a girl who turned out to be from Pittsburgh. She had a blanket wrapped around her and offered to share. We were both wrapped in the blanket, watching, drinking and smoking. She accepted a hit of acid.  At some point I must have decided I needed a nap because I woke up on the ground wrapped in Pittsburgh’s blanket.  I got up and apologized and she said not to worry. I looked like I needed the rest.

As it turned out I was out for the bulk of the three hour set. The good thing is that all three bands did a long encore together. After that, I bid goodbye to Pittsburgh and meandered back to our tent, which amazingly enough, in my incredibly stoned state, in the dark, I was able to find.  .

I awoke all fuzzy, blurry and out of focus. It was Sunday. We lingered in our post drug haze, smoked a couple hairy dogs, made some breakfast and waited for the bulk of the people to leave. We meandered out to the concert area and looked at the gigantic mess that was left behind. It was hard to believe that hundreds of thousand of people were there just one day before.

The ride home was painful and long. Even young, healthy, teenage brains and bodies have their limits. When I finally arrived home my parents were sitting in the kitchen. They looked at me and laughed. I took a shower and went to bed for a day.

I eventually fell out of touch with my Watkins Glen cohorts when I moved away.  I do know the kid who owned the Corvair joined the Army and was blown up at Fort Dix in the early 80s. He was part of a team that disarmed dud explosives on the practice range. One exploded unexpectedly and he was one of four who were killed. He was the one who was pretty much the straight one in our group of drug degenerates.

Farmer Yassir, National Lampoon

Farmer Yassir, National Lampoon

NL_LemmingsBear with me here. I loved the National Lampoon’s early 1970s Lemmings record. It was a take off on Woodstock.

My favorite part was “Farmer Yassir” and his line, “Long hair, short hair. What the hell’s the difference once the head’s blowed off.” The character was played by Gary Goodrow.

Fast forward to the early 2000s. I go into the Kettle of Fish in the West Village to see my pal Warren who was behind the stick. I walk to the far end of the bar. It was pretty crowded and noisy and all of a sudden, through the din I hear this voice. I say to Warren, “That’s Farmer Yassir!”

Warren looks at me incredulously and says, “Yeah. How much pot did you smoke in college? Yeah that’s Gary. You have to invite him down and make him say that line.” I just couldn’t. It was too weird. So he goes down and talks to him the next thing I know, Gary comes down and Warren introduces us. I shake his hand and say how it is a pleasure to meet him.

Warren says, “Go ahead, ask him to say it and buy him a beer.” And I said, “Could you please say that Farmer Yassir line?” He smiled and said it in that voice. “Long hair, short hair, what the hell’s the difference once the head’s blowed off.”

I have to say, it was a weird, but one of the greatest moments in my life. He wasn’t some large celebrity. He was someone who made an impact in my young years and was not a household name, but I knew who he was.

He passed away in 2014.

But I thought of him when Prince died. He gave many people much joy over decades and he was a hotshot. But Gary Goodrow loomed larger for me. It wasn’t a lifetime, it was one moment. One moment that affected me. Sure it was a silly moment, but it make me think those silly moments are the ones that stay with us.

 

Bernie Sanders, Fifth Columnist

Bernie Sanders, Fifth Columnist

“A fifth column is any group of people who undermine a larger group—such as a nation or a besieged city—from within, usually in favor of an enemy group or nation. The activities of a fifth column can be overt or clandestine.”

In this case it’s a political party.

Bernie Sanders has been an independent who caucuses with the Democratic party. When he decided to run for President, he asked the Democrats if he could run on their line. They said, sure, why not? They figured he was a long shot, so what the hell?

Why did he decide to run on the Democratic line? It was a pragmatic decision, probably the only one he ever made. He said himself that he could get more exposure  than by running as a third party independent. He was right.

Well, that decision backfired on the party and I think it even surprised Sanders himself the way his campaign took off.

Fast forward to now.  Sanders seems to be working to destroy the Democratic party. He is running a one man campaign and doing nothing to help elect like minded down ballot Democrats that will help him realize his so-called egalitarian vision.

All he has done is denigrate and call the Democrats corrupt. He is undermining the very party that can help elect like minded representatives.

 

Soured on Sanders

Soured on Sanders

I’ve always liked Bernie Sanders. I first became aware of him when he became Mayor of Burlington and I followed his career. I think he’s a good man with good ideas. So when he threw his atheist yarmulke in the ring for President, it was a foregone conclusion that no matter who else was running, he was the guy I was voting for.

Then I started listening to him and following the campaign. I never should have.

He’s too much of a one note Charlie. Any issue out his main message is given short shrift.  The red flags started waving at me during the Democratic debate after the Paris bombing. Every candidate devoted their opening statements to the bombing. Sanders mentioned it and moved on to his main message. I was stunned.

Time Magazine

Sanders said he was “shocked” and “disgusted” by the attacks, for which ISIS terrorists have claimed responsibility, and vowed that the U.S. would lead the world to “rid our planet of this barbarous organization.” But immediately thereafter shifted back to his domestic policy.

“I’m running for president because,” Sanders said, “what I hear is people’s concerned that the economy we have is a rigged economy.”

WTF?

In the beginning, even though he was anti-GMO, I wasn’t too concerned since I am not a one issue voter.  Then his campaign started gaining traction and he was giving Miss Gulch Clinton a run for her money.  That’s really when my support started to wobble big time. It made me start to really pay attention and what I saw I didn’t like very much.

First, there are his Berniebots. If what I read on the interwebs is a representative example of his supporters, then I feel sorry for him. They are such imbeciles and exude so much naivety and cluelessness, it’s astonishing.  I understand fervent support for your candidate, but these people act like cult members. It also makes me question the viability of his vision simply based on the imbeciles that populate his support base.

And their hatred for Clinton is way off the charts. I’ve never been a huge fan of hers and she has taken some positions and actions that I didn’t like, but I don’t think she is evil incarnate. Barney Frank was quoted on the site Politicsusa as saying. “All of the controversies that have dogged Clinton’s entire career are either dirty lies, whole-cloth creations, or convenient manipulations by the GOP.” They rightly opine

And now those GOP creations and manipulations are being embraced and propagated by many on the so-called Left; it leaves one to wonder who is really being dishonest and untrustworthy.

And Jesus H. Christ. God forbid you criticize anything Sanders or dare support Clinton. The wails of the righteously outraged will descend upon you. Comment boards on social media are littered with the accusations of shill and sell-out in response to anything critical of their infallible candidate. Oh and “in -the-tank.”

While I agree with most of Sanders’ agenda, much of it seems so old-time lefty and simplistic. Opponents give Clinton shit for her changing views over time. I like the fact that they changed for whatever reason. What bothers me is when views don’t change.

My views are basically the same as when I was young. But I’ve changed a lot since those days. There is a lot more nuance and less black and white. The fact that Sanders has never wavered in 50 years could be good thing, but it can also be a bad thing.

Times change and tactics and ideas have to change with those times. You can keep your core beliefs, but you should be able to modify those beliefs as times change. Now, when I hear Sanders, I hear the past, not the future. While I agree with much of what he proposes, I see him wanting those things in a retro way.

And now once again we go back to Frank, who I have always respected. (In fact, I voted for him during his first run for Congress.) Frank is most definitely not a fan of Sanders’ Wall Street stance and Slate asks what he thinks of his idea that the financial system is corrupt fundamentally and that we don’t want to merely make it slightly more stable

“Well if that’s the case it’s even dumber than I thought. The financial system is people lending money to other people so they can do things. I do think that he overstates it when he says, “they’re all corrupt.” It’s simply not true. And by the way, when it comes to specifics, the only specific I have heard is Glass-Steagall, which makes very little change in the finance system.

What Sanders basically says is, “They’re trying to bribe you.” Well what do they get for money? He shows nothing.

There have been a couple of cases of Republican senators trying to weaken the Dodd-Frank Act. Elizabeth Warren has been a much more successful defender of that bill than Sen. Sanders has been.

There was this complaint, “Oh she had contributions from Wall Street.” So did Barack Obama. So does almost every Democrat because you can’t unilaterally disarm.(my emphasis)

That last line is very important and it makes me question if he can win the general election if he gets the nod. Purity is a losing proposition. If he refuses to take the big money he’s toast. What good is purity of you can’t achieve your goals? You play the game as it’s currently structured.  You play by their rules and when you win you change the rules.

And that’s another thing,  just because you take the Devil’s corporate money doesn’t mean you have to do what he wants. It isn’t legally binding.  I say, take the money and run.

Is he helping the down ballots to help give us a majority? Nope. At least Clinton is doing that.

Sanders is running a selfish campaign and I was glad to read this by someone named Mari Brighe on a site called Bustle, which I just stumbled across. In a post titled The #BernieOrBust Movement Throws Marginalized People Under The Bus, Mari writes

The point is that if you’re happy to let a GOP candidate win the presidency because Sanders isn’t the Democratic candidate, you’re not nearly as progressive as you think you are, and you probably should examine your own social privilege. Progressive values are about equality and security for those who are struggling the most. Marginalized people in the U.S. simply cannot afford to live under a radical Republican president for next four to eight years. The LGBTQ community, people of color, undocumented workers, Muslims, people in poverty, and women would all suffer greatly under the administration of any of the GOP hopefuls. Bernie or Bust means we’re being thrown under the bus in the name of the white-male-dominated Sanders “revolution,” and we’re expected to be thankful for it.

I don’t know who my vote will go for in the NY State primary. Both have their negatives. A recent statement by a senior Sanders campaign advisor saying Greenpeace was the “gold standard” for analysis could be a deal breaker in my support for Sanders. The Greenpeace statement made me think that in picking his advisors he will surround himself with like-minded people who will only give him the advice he wants to hear. That, along with his support for useless naturopathic and other alt med treatments; his anti-nuke and anti-gmo stance, may tip the scales.

Clinton is pro-gmo, pro-nuke, along with support for renewable energy, but she is in the alt med camp somewhat.

It will be a game time decision.

Oh and finally, I used to really hate Hillary and then I saw this video. It gave me a new found respect for her. It was after  a fundraiser that was disrupted by Black Lives Matter. She agreed to meet with no press, and this is her off-script. What she said to these kids said to me that she knows the ropes and how to get things done. She gave these kids a good lesson in how to move their movement forward. The most relevant part starts at about 10:00. And at the end she give that nitwit what for.

 

From the archives: A Thanksgiving story of secret generosity

From the archives: A Thanksgiving story of secret generosity

I have to post this again because it looms large in my memory every holiday season.

———————-

Another year, another Thanksgiving and holiday season begins. Another year of having the burden of deciding whose food and liquor I can consume without lifting a finger to make any meaningful contribution.

It’s that time of the year when those “New Yorkers of the Week” loom large on NY1. Committing selfless acts, being generous and basically putting themselves out, not just at the holidays but all year long. Man, I hate those people. Don’t get me started on the “Student/Athlete of the Week.”

On top of all that, the City just released stats on how the use of food pantries and soup kitchens have spiked in the last year. Every borough has seen an increase since last year with Staten Island leading the way with a 100% increase.

But that’s not what I what I want to talk about. I want to talk about a few years…er… decades, back when I was a teen. I want to talk about Pinhead Bomberger.

My father owned a small grocery store in small town Pennsylvania. Each year around this time, he would personally make certain grocery deliveries. He made me go with him to help. The groceries were full meals for a family, all the fixin’s, turkey included. It was food for people who couldn’t afford it.

It was weird that the old man was making these deliveries personally. It was even weirder that he dragged me along. I asked on more than once occasion what the deal was, but he would always brush it off saying that it was someone who gave him money and a list of people and said to deliver the groceries.

To this day I can vividly recall the faces and emotions of those people, mostly single mothers, when we showed up at their doors with the food. They were sure there was some mistake. My dad assured them it wasn’t a mistake. When they asked who was responsible my dad would just say, “Santa Claus.” (It worked better when we did the Xmas deliveries, but what the hell?)

They were really thankful to get the food they otherwise wouldn’t have had for the holiday. I remember a few mothers, kids hanging on them, who got tears in their eyes.

Years later, while visiting at Christmas, I decided to ask my dad what that was all about. He said that since the guy was dead, there was no harm in spilling the beans.

This is where Pinhead Bomberger comes in. Bomberger was the German teacher at our high school. He was a real miserable prick. Everyone hated him. His unfortunate moniker “Pinhead” was due to his tiny head.

Dad said that one year Pinhead came to him with a list. It was a list of poor people, about a dozen or so. He wanted to buy them holiday dinners. My father was sworn to secrecy. Under no circumstances were these people to know where it came from. Dad didn’t know where he got the list. Then, as was his way, the old man decided to chip in and sweeten the deal. He added to Pinhead’s list and threw in more food.

Pinhead did that on Thanksgiving and Christmas until he died. The list was always different from year to year.

I asked why he made me go with him when he made those deliveries. He said it was a personal thing and he wanted to have me with him. He also wanted me to know how good I had it; to not take for granted my good fortune. Oh, by the way, did I mention dad was a Republican?

So, what do we take away from this? Is it that you never really know people? What made Pinhead do what he did? He knew he was hated. He could have easily made a big deal out of it, but he didn’t. He insisted on secrecy and the old man took that secret to the grave. I was the only one he told and it was only because I asked.

There are people like us who want to be liked, yet we probably haven’t done very much to help those less fortunate. And when we do it, we make sure people know it. It seems to me Pinhead was a real hero… a real human being.

And speaking of real… his real first name was Harry.

A quick apology

A quick apology

polarshame

 

Boy, did I get into hot water recently with this post, The Contrarian jerks his knee and regrets it. In a protracted Twitter imbroglio I got hammered by the people involved. The post was interpreted as a slam at women and that was not my intention.

Then the swell @julie_kelly2 took offense at my jocular use of the word “chicks.” So what did I do?  I drunkenly appended the post and channeled Donald Trump and wrote a very juvenile retort about crazy cat ladies. I have since removed it and am supremely embarrassed and I apologize profusely.

I was challenged to attend the event and took them up on their offer and was received warmly and had a genuinely good time.  I came away with a better understanding of what’s what. That doesn’t mean I’m 100% on board, but it did flesh out my knee jerk knee jerk

These days, I rarely get myself into a position where I have to wince, feel embarrassed and have to apologize. This was one of those times and it sucks big time. I thought I had banished those bastard emotions shame and embarrassment. I guess not.

In the next few days I will post about my experience in D.C. and expand and revise my remarks. In the meantime I want to say thanks for the invite.

Until then, to those who I offended, and you know who you are, accept my heartfelt apologies.

 

Thanks

Lying, hypocritical assholes

Lying, hypocritical assholes

So, I tweeted to GMWatch and GMOFreeUsa and asked them to stop being hypocritical assholes and release all their financial data. I also challenged them to go face to face in a public forum with those scientists they are libeling.

My tweets were deleted. There you go folks. They are nothing but full of shit internet thugs.

They don’t have the balls to go one on one with scientists or people like me, because they don’t have the science behind them.

GMWatch and others called Kevin Folta a liar. If you are going to make that kind accusation you should tell him to his face.

I issue the challenge again.  GMWatch, aka Claire Robinson, and the secret GMOFreeUsa. Release your financials and go toe to with the public scientists you libeled in a live public forum.

And you, Gary Ruskin. Do you have the balls to go face to face in a public forum with those you are trying to smear?

I don’t think any of you will.

 

 

 

The Belligerent Bullying of Public Scientist Dr. Kevin Folta

The Belligerent Bullying of Public Scientist Dr. Kevin Folta

There’s a guy, Jeff Holiday, whose videos I watch on the Youtubes. He’s a member of a GMO Facebook group I belong to. He’s a sciency type skeptic and one smart cookie except he has those nose things. I hate those. For some reason they creep me out, especially on women. Anyway, he did a video in which he hits the nail on head regarding the Dr.Kevin Folta ginned up controversy started by the microcephalic anti-gmo activists. I was going to write a follow-up to my last post, but he saved me the trouble and it’s probably better than I could have done. Enjoy and learn.

 

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