RICHARD DAWKINS, MILITANT ATHEIST by Steve Savage

"Once a year, 1000 remarkable people gather in Monterey, California to exchange something of incalculable value - their ideas. What happens there has never been shared until now."

One of the speakers, Oxford University's noted evolutionary biologist Richard Dawkins (photo), gave a devastating critique of religion that has made him a leading figure in the New Atheism.

Here is my reply to Mr. Dawkins:
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"Men believe what they cannot prove" - Kwai Chang Caine

Atheism is a belief, a conviction, not provable. "Does God exist? If He does not exist, then who is it that Atheists believe they deny? Science, in the language of Quantum Theory, says God does exist because "All things are possible." Mr. Dawkins is, of course, an absolutely brilliant man in this Realm of Relativity in which we all find ourselves and, as such, he pitches a very cogent, persuasive appeal for his opinions to those whom he considers espouse the belief that they are the Elite among us. His English accent, couched in pomposity and arrogance, doesn't hurt the presentation either. It's perfectly natural for parts to seek out their analogs within the structure of the Whole; the Law of Homogeneity at work, birds of a feather wanting to flock together. So the Draft call to enlist in the Army of Militant Atheism by Mr. Dawkins is quite understandable. My concern is that we are all here, on a Great Round Ball, smack dab in the middle of Zero and Infinity, not knowing who we are, where we came from, why we are here, and where we are going from here, if anywhere. While it is true that in our Realm of Relative Existence, some are relatively more intelligent than others; on the Level Playing Field in which we find ourselves, we are all absolutely as equally ignorant in our ability to come up with answers to the Eternal Questions. I have often wondered what would happen if, for one reason or another, the masses became convinced that there is no God. Would the poor and hungry turn upon the rich and satisfied? In the "Bhagavad Gita," the Song of God, Dharma asks of Yudisthira, "Of all the world's wonders, which is the most wonderful?" And Yudisthira replies: "That no man, though he sees others dying all about him, believes that he, himself, will not die." So unless Mr. Dawkins is an immortal, the time will come for him to stand before the Door that leads into the Great Unknown. He may very well find himself rapidly evolving from Militant Atheist to Agnostic, to Believer, to Repentant Metanoid. And, of course, he will be welcomed with open arms.

TROLLS AND TRIBULATIONS by Steve Savage "King of the Beasts"

Oh, I was a hard core gamer, there’s no denying that;
I played Trolls and Tribulations for hours where I sat.
Maddingly, frustratingly, I was on a Roll,
To conquer Level 7, Maze 5 the Final Goal.
My blood pressure rose, my anger flared,
Each time I failed the Level dared.
Years of play, gain by gain, I strived to improve my score;
Overcoming my sticking points, I hit Level 6, Maze 4.
I could feel the final victory; sense it coming my way;
But it was not to be in this lifetime, my reward for years of play.
A house fire took that from me; the game would be no more;
Gone were Trolls and Tribulations and my Commodore 64.

  Mozart Piano Sonata No. 16 in C Major K. 545 1st movement

CHESSMEN by Steve Savage "King of the Beasts"

CHESSMEN
by Steve Savage "King of the Beasts"

Those called “WE,” the mirrored image of His Immortal Name;
Rich and Poor, High and Low, are equally here to play His Game.
You are upon this Level, to be searched by the Triangled Eye,
To determine if you are a Son of Truth or a Son of the Evil Lie.
Each is assigned a Circumscribed Station ’til time to part the Square;
So Act upon the Plumb's the Rule, stay Upright, True and Fair.

"My Views" by Col. Charles F. Hurlbut

Col. Charles F. Hurlbut (photo), a retired U.S. Army Security Agency Provost Marshal, expresses his views concerning an ABC News Report of May 1, 2001, that has recently resurfaced. The Report said that documents, hidden for more than 40 years, exist which provide evidence that, in the early 1960s, America's top military leaders reportedly drafted plans to kill innocent people and commit acts of terrorism in U.S. cities to create public support for a war against Cuba. Code named Operation Northwoods, the plans reportedly included the possible assassination of Cuban émigrés, sinking boats of Cuban refugees on the high seas, hijacking planes, blowing up a U.S. ship, and even orchestrating violent terrorism in U.S. cities. America's top military brass even contemplated causing U.S. Military casualties, writing: "We could blow up a U.S. ship in Guantanamo Bay and blame Cuba," and, "casualty lists in U.S. newspapers would cause a helpful wave of national indignation.” The Joint Chiefs even proposed using the potential death of astronaut John Glenn during the first attempt to put an American into orbit as a false pretext for war with Cuba, the documents show. Conspiracy theorists are now relentlessly constructing a picture of a historical pattern of the sacrifice of our own people, orchestrated by the United States, to rally the American people to fight wars, citing the Maine, Lusitania, Pearl Harbor, Gulf of Tonkin, and 9-11. Because many of those making film documentaries about these events happen to be Liberals, some Conservative groups, believing that this is an attempt to discredit the current administration have labeled this as a Liberal Conspiracy. Most of us make the mistake of thinking that all our military leaders are paragons of virtue and equivocate their rank with the man, fallaciously assuming that they're all better men than most. It's not always easy to step outside the parameters of preconceived notions; particularly when inculcated with respect for authority. Col. Hurlbut’s very insightful and informative commentary, which follows, should be read and digested because it is both untainted by emotionalism, and free of prejudicial opinions.
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PRINCE GEORGE, VA, Col. Charles F. Hurlbut: "I don't see it as a Liberal conspiracy at all. If the documents in fact exist, they speak for themselves and all the efforts to refute them, or besmirch those who uncovered them, are meaningless. I spent a career in the Army, enjoyed it immensely and would do it again, but I, and most of those I knew, thought our mission was to deter war and, if unable to do so, defeat any adversary who would wage war against us: not provoke one.

Unfortunately, as our Vietnam experience demonstrated (false bombing reports, embezzlement by senior officers and NCOs, war crime cover-ups, etc., etc.) there are people in our military, probably always have been, of questionable moral character and judgment. But then why should the military be that much different than any other major institution in our society? However; I will say with complete confidence, and conviction, that the percentage of “bad apples” (people of low moral character) in our military is much lower than that of any other institution, including the judiciary. I believe it's both dangerous and naive to think that just because a man wears the uniform and has ascended to lofty rank that he's somehow a model of moral righteousness. Because of the enormous power that high ranking military people have, it's imperative that they be watched closely, and that’s one of the critical roles of Congress.

I don't believe the sinking of the Lusitania, the bombing of Pearl Harbor or the attack on 9-11, and the roles those incidents played in the conflicts with which they are associated, have ever been in serious dispute. The same; however, cannot be said for the sinking of the Maine or the Gulf of Tonkin Incident. Historical analysis seems to suggest that both were trumped up. It's bad enough when young lives are lost and bodies irrevocably shattered in just wars, but it’s unforgivable for them to be lost in conflicts that never should have occurred.

It's unfortunate that contemporary political discourse is so short on reason, civility and subtlety and dominated by crudeness and name calling. We desperately need, if we are to remain a healthy democracy, a well reasoned Conservative vs. Liberal debate on the important issues of the day; but that's not what we’re getting. Those on the right have sullied the name of conservatism by being ideologues and not true Conservatives. After all, I always thought that a basic tenet of conservatism was a limited role for
government and that government should stay out of our personal lives, but the current political right wants to use government to impose its agenda on everyone else. Quite frankly, I'm not sure what Liberals stand for these days; for they haven't publicly articulated their political philosophies for so long I don't know what they believe in. We need to begin solving our problems and challenges by doing what makes sense, and what the American people support, and not look at every issue through the prism of partisan politics."

JUST MY THOUGHTS by John Gonzalez

John Gonzalez (photo),gave this response to Charles Sullivan's controversial article: "What if they gave a War?" Sullivan is calling for Global Solidarity with working class people everywhere against what he perceives as a common enemy - Corporate Plutocracy.

About John:

John The Loan Guy is your choice when considering financing that dream home you've been thinking about, or when you want to re-finance the home you already own.

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JUST MY THOUGHTS

PACIFICA, CA: War is, in fact, a class confrontation. From time immemorial, war has torn at the fabric of society and kicked its heels at the oppressed. Sadly, it will continue to do so. It will continue to do so as long as there is a living being who believes that his faith, his ideology, his very existence is superior to another.

What if they gave a war and no one went? Who will be the first to say, “Not me!”? Will it be the "oppressor" or will it be the "oppressed?" Who will make that determination of right or wrong? Will the oppressor, who devalues life's existence while relegating others to the depths of despair, be the one to forego the very action that fills its belly? Or will it be the oppressed, whose souls are filled with the desire and the fire to burn through their despair and torment to regain their right to human dignity?

History has shown us many conflicts among men of good will and men whose ideologies are the crust covering a cauldron of despair. In modern times, we have seen the rise of Hitler who fed his fanaticism on the embers of societal discord; embers that gave way to the fires of hell; fires that consumed life’s treasured dignity and left as its trail the ash of hope, love and beauty.

Peace unfortunately is not the natural order of things. Peace is the order that is brought about by courageous souls who dare to say, “Enough!” “Enough of the oppression!” “Enough of the denial of the intellect that God has given mankind!”

As long as we have disharmony among men; as long as we harbor the thought that "man has an inalienable right to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness," then we must be willing to answer the call of Freedom. Freedom's call must beckon, and be answered to, by the souls of all would yearn for it. Freedom must not and should not be won solely on the backs of the underprivileged. The quest for freedom must be borne equally by all who would savor its sweetness.

While the quest for freedom must be an inherent responsibility of all, we must beware of those who would distort the truth to the benefit of their exclusivity. General Eisenhower warned of the military-industrial complex. And so we must not bind the fabric of our society solely with the threads of an institution beholden to corporate profits and greed. Instead our societal fabric should be held together by the threads of education, prosperity, hope, and dignity.

The military institution is an honorable one. It is in this institution that we place our faith and trust to safeguard our way of being. We must hold to the highest accountability those whom we entrust the moral and equitable use of this institution. As we are willing to wield the sword of might to the oppressor, we must also be willing to wield the shield of protection to the oppressed.

"THE DAY AMERICA'S FATHER DIED" by Steve Savage "King of the Beasts"

Thursday, April 12, 1945, sometime around 6 P.M., EST, it was announced that Franklin Delano Roosevelt had died at 3:45 P.M., EST, in Warm Springs, GA.

Though I was only 2 weeks into my 8th birthday, I remember that evening as clearly as though it were happening now. If the greatness of a president is measured in terms of how much he is loved by the people, I can't imagine anyone greater than FDR.

Because school was called off for Friday, April 13th, I reported to our local newspaper, The Long Branch Daily Record, to "hawk" a special morning edition outside Newberry's 5 & Dime on Broadway with the men who were either too old or physically or mentally unqualified to serve in the military. I paid my penny for my first paper which I would then sell for 2 cents. I checked the headlines to see what my "hawk" would be. The headlines read:

"Our Father Has Died."

I was unable, because of my extreme youth, to comprehend the unbelievable amount of anguish that held everyone in its grip. All about me, people were crying unashamedly, clinging to one another. Automobiles by the dozens were pulled over to the curbside, their drivers unable to negotiate the road through their tears. I sold more newspapers that Friday than all I had ever sold since I was 7 years old and first eligible to sell.

I don't know when the selling frenzy ended, or even if it had subsided, but it was nearly dark and time to go home. It was a strangely different world I experienced as I made the long trek home to 226 Edwards Avenue. My pockets were bulging with pennies; their bulk mimicking the weight of the grief that seemed to press down from some unseen place.

Flags everywhere were at half-mast. But what I remember most is the sound of deep sobs that surrounded me every step of the way, through a Valley of Tears, from Broadway to Seventh, to Joline, to home at Edwards Avenue where my heartbroken mother cried alone. I remember wishing that my father could be there to comfort her, but he was fulfilling his role in the Greatest Generation, serving with General Patton's 3rd Army in Europe.

"HELLO DOLLY" by Steve Savage "King of the Beasts"

HAZY REMEMBRANCES OF AN UNEXPLAINED POSSIBLE ABDUCTION

I awoke in a large stark room - no rugs, no furniture. Nothing! Across from where I was, was a large opening, an entrance into the room. I was in a reclining position on the floor, in the far corner. Everywhere in the room, there were ropes or lines, criss-crossing like a "3-D" laser security system in a Mission Impossible movie, except that they were tangible.

As I looked across the room, I saw what appeared to be a little girl, all alone, having difficulty climbing up from below, into the room, and onto the floor, from the large entrance. I don't know why but, as the father of six boys-only, I thought that she was my little girl. I started across the room climbing over and under the criss-crossed lines to get to her. I managed to reach her and picked her up in my arms.

I wanted to ask her where her mother, my wife, was. When I did, I saw that she wasn't a beautiful little girl at all, but some really ugly, strange, alien, doll-like looking thing, dressed in little girl's clothing. The hair on her head looked like a wig.

Somehow, she slipped out of my grasp and ran out the large opening, easily negotiating the crossed lines. I tried to follow but I couldn't move through the lines fast enough.

I am always in the same quandry in these experiences, totally disoriented, somehow lost in a humongous, super-colossal Hotel Portmeirion-like setting that has stairs leading to nowhere, a labyrinth, no way out, no matter how hard I try.

On this occasion, for the very first time, I walked down a hallway and came to someone sitting behind a kind of lectern, in front of a door, with a sign that said "EXIT" above it. I asked the girl[?] if this was the way out. She nodded affirmatively.

I went out the door, into the night. I couldn't believe the joy of freedom I was experiencing, breathing the freshness of the cool night air, immersed in a recognizable reality. Looking to my right I saw, in the distance below, a row of houses alongside a railroad track upon which I saw a Steam Engine pulling a line of railroad cars.

I thought about the trains in my recurrent dreams that never make connections, and also about the roads that never get me to "where I don't know where I want to go;" streets leading to "no way back" in paradoxically familiar, "unfamiliar cities." Somehow, I was on the rooftops of the houses, easily leaping, jumping, doing half-gainers, then falling, but never hitting the unseen ground below.

"That Ugly Little Three-Fingered Bastard" by Steve Savage "King of the Beasts"

THE LITTLE MAN WHO WASN'T THERE
(Harold Adamson / Bernie Hanighen)

Last night I saw upon the stair,
A little man who wasn't there.
He wasn't there again today;
Oh, how I wish he'd go away.
When I came home last night at three,
The man was waiting there for me.
But when I looked around the hall,
I couldn't see him there at all.
Go away, go away;
Don't you come back any more!
Go away, go away;
And please don't slam the door.....(SLAM!)
Last night I saw upon the stair,
A little man who wasn't there.
He wasn't there again today;
Oh, how I wish he'd go away.
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Jersey City, 1986. Though the house was completely dark, it began to glow with a light from above that penetrated the roof into the living space. That's when I saw the shadow of that "Ugly Little Three-Fingered Bastard," but only momentarily. At first, he was invisible. Perhaps because he was outside the Visible Light Spectrum. Maybe that's why, when he is seen, he's associated with the Rainbow, the prismatic manifestation of Visible Light. However, he did cast a shadow and moved very fast. The "Shadow" gave the appearance that he was wearing a hat of sorts. It resembled something worn by a Chinese Coolie. I sensed that he was at the crib of my infant son, and intuited that somehow, he was observing or modifying him in some way and that this was not the first time he had visited him. Not entirely clear on this. However, at age two, my son was able to read perfectly, having learned the alphabet on his own. By the way, the time of this occurrence is coincidental with an identical time and space appearance of an extraterrestrial presence reported by Whitley Streiber, author of "Communion." I don't know why I wasn't thinking as clearly as I should have - awestruck, maybe, perhaps restrained in some fashion. I tried to locate the "Ugly Little Three-Fingered Bastard," but he seemed to disappear into the woodwork at will; moving inter-dimensionally, like that Mr. Mxyzptlk from Superman comics. I felt like I could trap him and catch him because I could see where he went and there was no way out, but when I looked where he had to be, he was not there. Seeing the futility of all this, I went to bed. When I climbed into the bed, I felt a presence lying next to me. I quickly yanked the covers back and smiling at me, in a taunting manner, was the "Ugly Little Three-Fingered Bastard." At first, I thought he was a baby, the face seemed so familiar to me, that I had seen him before. He had a giant smile, no beard, and was bald. I had the strange feeling that I had interrupted what would have amounted to an alien sexual encounter. I tried to wake my wife but was unable to rouse her from what was clearly an anesthetized state. It was as though she were in a coma or trance, and oblivious to his presence or mine. I went to grab him, but "POOF!" He was gone!

"WE’LL BE PRIVATIZED BEFORE IT’S REALIZED WE’VE BEEN COMPROMISED" by Steve Savage "King of the Beasts"

With debt rising almost exponentially, Federal, State, and Local Governments are in dire straits to fund payrolls, healthcare and prescription programs, deficits, entitlements, pensions, shortfalls, and whatever names you can apply to their having to come up with the cash before the people drag out the guillotines. To get immediate cash, which will give current office holders a chance to cover short term expenses, and get the hell out before the long term cost is realized when the current attention span of the people expires; they’re turning to “PRIVATIZATION.”

This is kind of like throwing money out the window to the mob below and making tracks while they’re distracted and have not yet realized that there is no longer anyone at the window.

Despite the seemingly innocuous name of “Privatization,” we are about to witness further wholesale selling of Toll Roads, State Lotteries, Municipal Administrations, Prison Systems, our Military, any and all revenue producing systems, etc. to our biggest creditors, China and Japan. Because this would possibly be met with outrage, rioting, and violence by the American people, if publicly and openly transacted, “Front Men” for these acquisitors will be Australian and Spanish intermediary “Beards,” whose proximal Caucasian facade would be more tolerable than those of former enemies.

There’s even a good possibility that Hawaii, which is more Asian oriented than Occidental, will one day be officially acquired by the Japanese, who already own the islands de facto. Indeed, if it were put to a vote to the Hawaiian people today, you could start bringing out those pre-August 21, 1959, 49 Star Flags.

You can use you own imaginations as to what the consequences of these transactions will have upon our freedoms. GOOGLE “Privatization” "Toll Roads for Sale" "America for Sale" and follow your common sense.

“BEHOLD HE IS IN YOUR POWER; ONLY SPARE HIS LIFE” by Steve Savage "King of the Beasts"

"Who will help Me feed the Children who are hungry, sick, and lame?"
Asks the “Father of the Fatherless,” as those Innocents call His name.
“Let the Children come to Me,” He pleads, "for I love them so;"
"If you feed them; clothe them; kiss their tears; before you I’ll bow low."

"The Great JB" by Steve Savage "King of the Beasts"

The Great JB
by Steve Savage "King of the Beasts"

At 15:58 Standard Time, the Crew checked their watches to see,
If today’s Conductor would, indeed, be “The Great JB.”
In he strode, right on time, straight to the Sign-Up Sheet;
Covered all over from head to toe with Outside’s Ice and Sleet.
Assured that the "Cuts" were checked and marked to let the Drill begin,
He sternly cautioned the Brakeman, he was not to drop a Pin.
Pointing his Lamp toward the Baldwin, to announce the start of the Drill;
Relayed signal acknowledged by Horn Blast over the Hill.
Once the Engine started, there would be no second chance,
To regain the time advantage of that Drill planned in advance.
Counter-clockwise, he swung his Lamp, to bunch up all the Slack,
First Pin pulled, a Stop then thrown, freed Car rolled down the Track.
Quickly now, no time to lose, this Movement must not End;
Always forward without break, the "Cuts" rolled round the Bend.
The Cardinal Sin was to pass a Switch, 'cause backups cost Valuable Time;
But being the “Master Conductor;” JB stopped the Train on a Dime.
Hour after unrelenting hour, the Twelve Tracks of the Yard were Drilled;
Shuffled, reshuffled, crossed and doubled, until Car Sequence was Filled.
At 21:58 Standard Time, the phone rang in the Stiles Street Yard:
“It’s OK to pull the Houses,” said GM’s Security Guard.
The Switch was thrown from the “Ought;” putting the Engine on Track “A;”
Lit Flare in hand, the Flagman ran, to safeguard the Right of Way.
Vibrating, lurch-rumbling, screeching-wheels on the sanded rail;
The Baldwin began its thrice-time run upon that Iron Trail.
Standing on the Platform braving Wind and Snow;
JB and the Brakeman were getting ready for the "Show."
Timing the exact moment when House Door was open wide;
The Engineer braked the Baldwin, precisely Eight Feet inside.
Knuckles open, then coupled closed, JB leaped from Cab to Car;
Landing on the Narrow Catwalk that for others was too Far.
The Brakeman was running on the ground, to close the inter-car space;
As JB “Knocked-Off” Top-Hand-Brakes, in this furious Against-Time Race.
Forty cars down, inside the plant, JB leaped onto the final Box;
He gave the signal to slowly "Pull" so as to avoid the Sways and Rocks.
Faster and faster, the train pulled out, into the Dark, Cold Night;
A Curtain of Sleet and Icy Rain back-dropped in the Baldwin’s Light.
The Saw-Toothed Tread of the Catwalks, quickly veneered with Frozen Glaze;
Making for Slippery Footing as JB leaped through the translucent Haze.
Autos stopped by the Crossing-Train, sounded Horns and Flashed their Lights;
Applauding JB as he jumped moving cars atop those perilous heights.
As the Engine approached the Office, JB leaped down onto the Ground;
Staying in view of the Engineer, as his Lamp wound Round and Round.
The final signal given was to “Throw the Engine in the Hole,”
The long-standing record was broken; time to set a higher Goal.

DOWN by Steve Savage "King of the Beasts"

Deep below the waters at the bottom of the Sea;
To carry me ever deeper still, an elevator waits for me.
Descending into greater depths, beneath the Ocean Floor;
I listened to above-fading-sounds of the waters mighty roar.
Before my eyes were written, numbers upon a Wall;
Evenly marking from 10 to 1, the destination of my Fall.
Exiting from that tiny Room, I stood upon Top Stair;
First of a Mystical Thirteen Steps that led down to a Secret Lair.
Counting backward from 13 to 1, I stood before an Iron Gate;
Somehow I knew admittance was my Code of 3-2-8.
As I entered the Room, I glanced around to see what it was that’s there:
A Stage, a Desk, a Phone, some Files, Cabinets everywhere.
I was standing in the Command Center of the Primate in my care;
He was on the Stage before me, comfortably seated in his chair.
Across the Room was a Hieroglyphed Portal, message inscribed on Papyrus Reeds:
“Enter Ye to the Sacred Temple of Ancient Mysteries, Sects, and Creeds.”
I stepped inside upon the lighted Ramp that led downward from West to East;
Torches held on Great Stone Pillars by every Mythic Beast.
The Ramp turned right Ninety Degrees ever downward South;
Drawing me closer to what I feared was a ravenous Monster’s Mouth.
Once more the Ramp turned to the right, ninety degrees from South to West;
I somehow knew that this would be, my Last, my Final Test.
Straining to see what it was that lied beyond the Smoky Haze;
My Heart stood still, my breathing stopped, as I witnessed what was before my Gaze.
I fell to my knees upon the Checkered Pavement, the Floor beneath that Mighty Throne;
Upon Who sits the Ancient of Days; He who reigns Alone.
No words needed to be spoken; I knew what I was called to do;
To return to the World that’s soon to End so I may die with you.

"QUO VADIS" by Steve Savage "King of the Beasts"

Have ye continually sought answers in the Eternal Quest;
When ye entered into Motion from the Eternal Rest?
To truly know the Doctrine, ye must first set foot upon the Path,
The “Son of the Widow” trod before Thee; struck down by Ruffians’ Wrath.
Look ye beyond the Various Gates, doth yon Masons Light shine there still?
Have ye traveled long and traveled far even beyond the Brow of the Hill?
And when the time comes to knock upon the Door, the knock of that Secret Tap,
The Doorkeeper there will ask Thee, “Hast Thou studied the Map?”

COMING HOME by Steve Savage "King of the Beasts"

Three months into my 21st year, after a three-year Tour of Duty, I returned home from Kagnew Station, Asmara, Eritrea, Ethiopia, in disgrace; a whipped dog, tail between my legs.

The trip home from Fort Dix to Long Branch, New Jersey, was not an easy one. I didn't have one cent to my name. Not that it mattered; the "Joad-y Suit" I was wearing, probably made from an old Army Horse Blanket, had no pocket in which to put it if I had had one. The only possession I owned, at that moment, was clutched in my hand. It was an Army Issued "get-the-hell-out-of-here-and-don't-come-back" train ticket home.

Everything I owned in my life, right down to my shoes, was stolen from me before I left by those who had called me "friend."

Too ashamed to be seen sitting in one of the coaches, attired as I was in thick flannel, I rode the entire 70-mile trip, standing on the undulating platform of the vestibule, between the "see-sawing" cars.

I watched my life race backward, through the cinema of the open top half of the Dutch Door, through which passengers entered and exited the train. The soundtrack of this virtual movie, which could quite properly be titled "Despondency," was a cacophony of monotonous "clickety-clacks" crescendoed, every so often, by the nerve-ripping "Banshee" screeches of the brakes.

As the train approached the stop I dreaded most - mine; the Conductor began to call out, in mock Italian, as was customary, because of the large Italian population: "Long-a Branch! Long-a Branch! It's-a Long-a Branch, she's-a next!" As usual, all of the wealthy passengers who lived in the "Palaces" beyond the "Servants Stop," would laugh at the daily joke, mutter incoherent sentences, under their breath, generously punctuated with ethnic slurs, such as: "Dago" "Wop" "Ginzo" "Garbage Eaters," and other demeaning adjectival words, used in those times to describe Italians, then look to see who it was who would be departing the train.

On this day, the sole focal point of this repetitive play of glares and stares was me; a Welsh-Irish-English kid, grandson of former indentured servants to the world's wealthiest Jewish families, who lived and summered, like Royalty, in Deal, New Jersey.

I'm not exactly sure when "Long Branch" became "Long-a Branch." One day, without warning, we found ourselves living among thousands of transplanted olive-skinned Mediterraneans who grew their own grapes, made their own wine, forbid their children to play with the "Ereesh-Amedicans," placed religious statues in their yards, and spoke in a Neapolitan dialect which defied translation.

At age 17, I had tried to escape this pre-ordained existence of mediocrity and servitude by joining the Army and taking advantage of the promises of upward mobility that would be possible through the GI Bill, which was only days away from being discontinued. Now, even that little bit of hope was gone.

There were no bands to greet me, no crowds to hail a conquering hero, no friends or family to meet me and welcome me home. Instead, I took the first of 5,000 steps upon the "Path of Humiliation," and started to walk the two-mile gauntlet from the station to Joline Avenue, amid the pointing fingers, laughs, taunts, and jeers. I was oblivious to all of this because all that gripped my being, at that moment, was the thought of my last steps when I would have to stand before the man I most feared in my life - my Father.

FAST FORWARD 2022:

At 84, I am now 15 years beyond the age my father died. Although he never said he loved me or hugged me or kissed me, was out of my life during the war years, 1941-1945, which left me open to every kind of predator imaginable, and was the strictest disciplinarian of any father I have ever known, I miss just seeing him there and letting him know that someone he never suspected, loved him and admired all that he was, and was so proud that he was my Dad.

When he named me by his name, he must have had high hopes for me to achieve and accomplish the things that would have been rightfully his if circumstances had been different.

He never blamed me for dragging that name through the dirt and never judged me for the insane life I led. If ever there was a Prodigal Son I was it, and he was always the silent understanding father who allowed me to stumble and fall but was always there for me when the chips were really down.

I now know how much I must have wounded his feelings and how much he must have really loved me because I know how much I love my sons. He must have felt things he didn't know how to express when he looked at me, the way I look at my sons, the way they look at their children, my grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. I wish he were alive today to see that for whatever God-given reason, I am the father of the sons my father deserved to be his sons.

Thank You, Lord, for accepting me as the one to bear the Cross so that my Six Sons, my Six Points on the Star of Your Beloved, David, may wear the Crown.

SUPER BOWL SUNDAY by Steve Savage "King of the Beasts"

SUPER BOWL SUNDAY
by Steve Savage "King of the Beasts"

O’ the excitement, waiting for the game to start;
Mingling, joking, pounding heart.
People from everywhere are filling the stands;
The cheering, the praying, ever-present loyal fans.
They're here with all their being for their favorite teams,
Those brave Fearless Warriors who strive beyond our screams.
Listen to all the shouts and the banging of the drums,
A concert of sounds together, so much greater than their sums.
This is truly war drama - this cacophonous din;
Remove your masks; take off your cloaks, the clash will soon begin.
There’s something uniquely magical about this game;
We become what we were, we are not the same.
In an instant, we’re back to familiar distant lands
With no painted lines, rules, or stands.
As we look back through the timeless haze,
Our same Fearless Warriors are before our gaze.
The fears, the hopes, the cries, the cheers,
The agonies, the losses, the tears, still here.
But for love of our Fearless Warriors we had to change it all;
So we invented controlled battle and we called it FOOTBALL.
---------------------------
Image: https://coverthespread365.com/nfl-picks/new-england-patriots-vs-los-angeles-rams-2-3-2019-free-nfl-expert-picks-parlays-and-spread/

"ROCKY OF KAGNEW STATION" by Steve Savage "King of the Beasts"

REFEREE: Rich "OC" O'Conner, BOXERS: Gardiner vs. Hill

HOW WE HATED THEM; HOW THEY HATED US!

Kagnew Station, Asmara, Eritrea, Ethiopia, East Africa, of the 1950s was clearly divided between two opposing camps: The Guards and Operations. We hated one another! Why? We didn't know; it's just the way things always were. There was fierce competition in all things: softball, basketball, seating arrangements at the Oasis NCO Club; even standing in line outside Cathy's, Asmara's resident nymphomaniac.

In time, this competitive spirit, on both sides, began reducing itself to its lowest common denominator - Two Men - champions of the respective combative spirits of the Guards and "The Girls of Operations," as we guards would derisively call them.

Each side would have to choose a champion from among their ranks to represent them in a boxing match, to be held at the Oasis, to settle, once and for all, who would become the dominant faction of Kagnew Station - the "Alpha Male Guards" or "The Girls of Operations."

A boxing match had never been held before at Kagnew Station. It just wasn't the way things were done in an elitist branch of the military, such as the Army Security Agency. But, Necessity cannot be denied! A Championship Match had to be staged; there was nothing on heaven or earth that could prevent its inevitable occurrence.

In a process of distillation, both sides began eliminating potential contenders until, at last, each had discovered their Champion in their midst. Ultimately chosen to be Champion for the Guards was John Hill, a Guard who hailed from Mineola, New York.

John was an unusually well-physiqued, powerfully built, handsome in a John Derek sort of way, a young man of about 19 or 20 years of age. He was affectionately sobriqueted "Jack Palance" and/or "Punchy" by his friends.

"The Girls of Operations" also found their Champion from among their ranks.

Little was known about who he was, where he came from, what his fighting abilities were. He was a mystery to everyone. However, it was becoming more and more clear that he was a Ringer as the arrogance and officious attitudes of "The Girls" became even more demonstrative.

They believed they had blindly suckered us into something; that they had outsmarted us. They were drooling at the mouth in anticipation of the humiliating revenge their obviously very experienced Champion would exact upon the Guards.

We Guards became very apprehensive. Where was the sense of fairness in this thing? Instead of seeing our Champion as “kicking ass,” we now knew that our Champion was, in fact, the Underdog.

Knowing this, the officers of Kagnew Station were adamant that this Boxing Match between Hill and "Ringer" must NOT occur. It was against regulations; it violated every code of gentlemanly conduct; this barbarism was not to take place.

But Necessity would not be denied. No amount of resistance would deter either side from the resolution of their Will.

John Hill, to his credit, was imperturbable. While all about him his friends were panicking, he remained very calm and self-confident. He seemed to know something we didn't; he knew "John Hill."

Finally, it came to this: the event would be held at the Old Oasis NCO Club. There was to be no publicity surrounding the fight in order to keep crowds at a minimum. The fewer people that knew about this infraction of military decorum, the better. After endless pleadings, compromises, and assurances, what was so frustratingly awaited, finally arrived:

FIGHT NIGHT AT THE OASIS

Automobiles and Gharry Carts were parked along the streets leading to the Oasis for well over a mile. Lines of people of every ethnicity imaginable were jockeying for position to get inside the Oasis for the chance to witness the Big Showdown.

Inside, the Ring was set up on the Dance Floor. Every seat was taken; people were jammed packed on the stage, standing on tables; trying anything and everything to gain a viewing advantage. The cigarette and cigar smoke that filled the room was a carcinogenic miasma that only added to the excitement and anticipation that permeated the atmosphere and held all of us firmly in its grip; Guards on one side of the room, everyone else on the other.

Stationed outside was an Eritrean whose function it was to relay progress reports to the hundreds who could not gain entrance to the fight. The Referee, who was also the Announcer, called for calm among the drunken, screaming, profanity-shouting spectators.

After what seemed an eternity, a hush fell over the room as the Ref-Nouncer began to introduce the Fighters. Both looked evenly matched for height and weight, and in extremely good shape for the fight.

First introduced was the Ringer of Operations. The Guards went insane, cursing trilingually in English, Italian, and Eritrean: “Boo!” “Fuck you, you pieces of shit!” Get fucking lost, you fucking pansies!” “Bafongoola!” “Mange cozzo!” “Atti attawa!” “Eat my fucking ass!”

Oh, we were creative profaners without peer. We were soldiers, after all.

John Hill was introduced next. The cheers and foot-stomping from the Guards must have hit 7.9 on the Richter scale as we drowned out the pathetic “Boo’s” and “Raspberries” of “The Girls.” This went on without lull, hushed only by the Sound of the Bell signaling the start of

ROUND NUMBER ONE

Both fighters charged to the center of the Ring. The Ringer lived up to his name. He had that style and grace that revealed him to be exactly what he was - an experienced well-conditioned boxer. A sharp right jab caught John dead on the nose and snapped his head back.

Bloodied, it looked like it might be over for John before it began. His disbelieving, mouth-gaping cornermen looked for all the world like they were ready to throw in the towel.

Sensing the “kill” was at hand, “The Girls” were out of control, reeking of Schadenfreude. But John had a heart that was fighting for something none of us could really understand. He was fighting for John, the Inner John; he was not going to be denied his right to be his own man. He was possessed with an indomitable will to go forward, to overcome this adversary that dared to stand before him. This was no longer a Boxing Match; this was a Street Fight of the No Holds Barred kind. We began to see John for who he truly was: “John, the New York Kid!”

The fight quickly degraded into the only real fighting John ever knew - the  “Don’t come home, unless you’re either dead or a winner!” kind of fight, that was the “Street Law” imposed by New York fathers on their sons.

Oh, John was a Champion! There was no denying that. How we admired the courage of our Champion.

The unqualified, frantic and confused, Ref-Nouncer had lost control over what was taking place in the Ring, almost from the beginning.

The Spectators were hoarse from screaming, encouraging, pleading, praying, many were in tears.

After two eternal minutes, two agonizing minutes of bone-crushing body blows, blows violating every Rule the Marquis of Queensbury formulated to gentlemanize this barbaric sport of settlement of differences, the Bell mercifully rang, giving us Spectators a brief moment to collapse in our seats, catch our breaths, and lower our heartbeats.

The castigating internecine epithets had become silent as we all fearfully, anxiously awaited that most dreaded, terrifying of all sounds, the Ring of the Bell, signaling the start of

ROUND NUMBER TWO

It was horrible; it was wonderful; it was a brutally beautiful ballet of barbarism at its best. Boom! Boom! Boom! There was scarcely a space between the staccato sounds of sharp punches, snapping jabs, rib breaking hooks, jaw smashing uppercuts, head butts, vicious in-fighting, a non-stop exchange reminiscent of the eternal Battle for Dominance that has attended Mankind since the Dawn of Existence.

This was poetry manifest. These were the words that have never been spoken; the words that do not exist to describe the savage essence of what we truly are. Without warning, as quickly as Round Two had begun, the Bell Rang; the fury before us stopped, leaving us in stunned silence, unabashedly in awe at what we had just witnessed.

The Spectators now saw something in each of the Combatants that was ignored before the fight – Heart, Courage, Wills of Iron, the Balls to go out there before One and All and be the Men that others wish they could be, but were not, and never could be.

Something new had entered this arena, this Court of Violence. “The Girls of Operations,” those not in the Ring; the Guards, those not in the Ring, were realizing that they shared a common bond they didn’t know existed between them – RESPECT FOR THE HERO!

They all began to look at one another differently; their Collective Consciousness in a higher place. When the Bell sounded for its final knell, they melded into One Voice, One Spectator, cheering, applauding, praising, loving, those ordinary men who rose to greatness before our eyes, as they so courageously, now each seeing themselves in the Other, walked to the Center of the Ring, touched gloves, to begin the

THIRD AND FINAL ROUND

No one who was there that night will ever forget that Glorious Ending. It was pure Pandemonium exacerbated by its confinement to a 16 X 16 foot roped prison.

How could they continue taking and giving this extraordinary punishing effort?

Both fighters appeared renewed in spirit. It was obvious that neither one was willing to shrink back one iota. A Win by Decision was not an option. It was Knock Out or be Knocked Out!

Both fighters reached deep inside themselves to find that secret strength that only True Champions possess; that “I Will Not Quit!” “I Will Win No Matter What!” “My Last Will Be My Best!” “I Will Be Victorious!” kind of Strength.

The Spectators were spellbound by the unrelenting violence. They were as birds transfixed hypnotically by the seductive presence of the snake. Who could look away? How we all wanted to look away from this Horrific, Beautiful, Poetic, Macabre, Grand Guignol that was playing before us.

But we were its slaves. Blow after crushing blow, delivered by each fighter to the other, contorted their faces into grotesque masks of Pain. Their last would be their best. They were no longer who they were. They had become something new, something great, something magnificent; they had become more than men at this moment.

The dross of mere mortal existence was burned away in the Fire of this noblest of confrontations.

At last, exhausted, spiritual and physical tanks emptied, they collapsed in Brotherly embrace, sharing mutual respect reserved only for those who have walked the Path of Champions, as

THE ENDING BELL SOUNDED

As we awaited the decision, opinions as to the outcome were as numerous as the numbers of people in attendance. There could only be one decision.

IT WAS A DRAW!

But someone did win that fight that night. It was all of us at Kagnew Station. It was no longer “Us” and “Them.” It was now “We!” We became friends; we began to socialize with one another; we shared common interests; we began to really like one another’s company.

WE BECAME FRIENDS!

We learned something from our Champions, our representatives of dispute resolution: “It is possible to turn our enemies into friends and to turn our friends into brothers.”

Little did we, of the 1950’s era realize, then, that we were setting the stage for a New Kagnew Station that was coming; a wonderful new Kagnew Station, a more civilized Kagnew Station, a Kagnew Station upon which all of us now look back fondly, as an Island of Happy Memories set high among the Clouds in that unforgettable Garden Spot of East Africa.

ALL THINGS CHANGE AND WE CHANGE WITH THEM by Steve Savage "King of the Beasts"

ALL THINGS CHANGE AND WE CHANGE WITH THEM


I first lifeguarded at age 17 on Joline Avenue Beach, in the Summer of 1954.

Years later, in the 1960s, I became Long Branch's Chief Lifeguard and along with Dick Martin, Takanasee Beach Club Guard; Phil Huhn, Long Branch Beach Captain; Greg Farry, Beach Director, Bradley Beach, founded the Jersey Shore Lifesaving Association.

During my tenure, I witnessed a dramatic change in the integrity of our Ocean.

I remember, in the mid-1950s, there was an exquisitely-featured, darling girl of purest innocence, a LBHS classmate of mine, perhaps age 16 or 17, at the bloom of perfection in her beauty who, alone at night, would run down a long flight of wooden stairs to the unfootprinted sand below the bluffs, cast off her nightgown to stand naked upon the strand of the beach, where wave after wave would kiss the shore, then retreat back to an ocean sparkling with the diamonds of reflected stars.

How she must have delighted in the feel of the tiny sand crabs the waves left behind; they would scramble about her feet and tickle her toes, causing her to laugh that happy child's laugh that is the most beautiful of all music to God's ears; she would then joyously plunge, carefree, into the welcoming surf that was once our First Home.

Yesterday's dream has become today's nightmare. Now, when they report safe swimming conditions at the Jersey Shore, it's always announced in terms of "acceptable fecal content level." In other words, how much shit are you willing to swim in?

Who, in their right mind would eat any seafood caught or harvested in these waters, filled with raw sewage, rotting garbage, and deadly toxins from every kind of chemical company imaginable. We'll soon be gasping for air in direct proportion to the disappearance of Plankton, our primary source of oxygen, from our seas.

I have also personally witnessed in my lifetime the Shrewsbury River, my childhood playground, a river of beautiful crystal clear water, teeming with aquatic life of such vibrancy and health, transmogrify into a cesspool of putrefaction, that can no longer freeze over in winter.

The Norman Rockwellian joys of ice boating and ice skating at Branchport to Pleasure Bay, which once thrilled us as we played upon our real-life canvas, have been supplanted by filth, disease, sludge, grime, and muck.

The time has come to Pay the Piper for dishonoring our Great Mother. We never listened to the protests of the dolphins, whales, and other sentient mammals that inhabit our seas when they sacrificed themselves upon our shores in an effort to bring attention to what was being done to them.

Fools, believing they were assisting fellow mammals, drove those poor, sick and dying creatures back into the very poison from which they fled.

The world we once knew has changed and is currently undergoing a kind of mitosis, politically, economically, sociologically and most importantly, ecologically.

There is a feeling of helplessness, that there is nothing anyone can do about it.

In this realm of Quantum Non-Separability in which we inhabit and are inextricably bound up with one another, we believe that we can control events and circumstances before they go too far, when, in fact, there are anonymous Established Forces which have set us upon a "Deva Yama," i.e., a Path of No Return, beyond the Tipping Point, as it were.

We now find ourselves, standing on the bluffs above the "Plains of Kurukshetra," overlooking the place where the last Fight to the Death will take place. Warriors throughout the world are dividing into two camps in preparation for this Final Battle.

We have only two choices before us now: 1. To accept an ignominious, cowardly, Darfurian type death; the T.S. Eliotonian prediction that we will yield to the forces of extinction with a "whimper;" or 2. We can pick up the Sword and fight the noble and honorable fight of Warriors, where God's Will is glorified by Arjunian men of valor; those Dylan Thomasian noble knights who would rather "Rage against the Dying of the Light" than "go gentle into that good night."

LOCKER ROOM BEFORE THE GAME by Steve Savage "King of the Beasts"

LOCKER ROOM BEFORE THE GAME 

by Steve Savage "King of the Beasts"

C’mon Team! You know what you’ve got to do!
The only ones that can beat us are you and you and you.
The secret is in your practice because that’s the way you’ll play;
Commit well your mind and body and you’ll shine this Saturday.
Forget every game you’ve ever lost or ever won before;
What’s done is done and the past is passed, we cannot change the score.
Your teammate needs your encouragement now; he doesn’t need your blame;
‘Cause he’s the guy beside you when it’s time to play the game.
There’s more to pride than winning, more to character than cheers;
It’s putting yourself on the line and playing in spite of your fears.
Give your hand to your teammate; look him squarely in the eye;
Tell him that you won’t let him down, that you’ll never fail to try.
This is your time together; you’re the only ones playing these games;
Everyone else is on the sidelines; who’s going to remember their names?
But you will never forget one another, not for as long as you shall live.
Will your teammates say about you, “He gave all that he could give!”?

I BELIEVE THE IMPOSSIBLE IS POSSIBLE by Steve Savage "King of the Beasts"

I BELIEVE THE IMPOSSIBLE IS POSSIBLE
by Steve Savage "King of the Beasts"

I first saw him struggling against the wind and snow;
As I was driving down Brighton some years ago.
Never knew him; never knew his name;
Just some guy who was obviously lame.
The more I saw him, though we never spoke;
It was clearly evident he had suffered a stroke.
Face contorted; head to the side;
Fighting so bravely to improve his stride.
No matter the weather, he would take that walk;
We passed each other often now, but did not talk.
Day after day, week after week;
I so admired his courage, why did we not speak?
Brighton Bridge fell last winter’s big rain;
I never saw his struggles again.
This morning as I drove over the Ridge,
To cross the repaired Brighton Avenue Bridge,
I saw someone running the Uphill Mile;
He was waving at me with the biggest smile.
The closer he came, the more I could see,
That he was about to say something to me.
“Good Morning! How are you today, Jim?”
"My God," I thought, "It’s Him; it’s Him!"

FORGETTING, OUR GREAT SHAME; DENYING, OUR GREAT SIN.

THE FORGOTTEN MERCHANT MARINE
by Walter Drew

Over a half-century has passed and we've yet to be told.
About the men on the ships who carried more than their load.

The first Americans to die even before the war was declared,
Loving fathers and sons, hardly any were spared.

More seamen perished, more than any other branch it is said.
One seaman out of thirty-two gave his life and is now dead.

Yet children lost fathers and mothers lost sons.
Wives lost their husbands before the conflict was won.

No military honors were bestowed on these men.
No mention of heroism was ever told to their kin.

No parades or open arms met them back home.
Only ridicule and scorn and sarcasm the tone.

That dark cloud of disrespect still hangs and it looms.
It has taken over fifty years to try to heal these wounds.

Yet loved ones still mourn and the injured still ache.
They have given up wondering if this is some kind of mistake.

The scars still remain, the story is untold.
They ask not for themselves the honor to be bestowed.

They ask for their comrades who gave their lives to the ocean.
So their relatives at home can remember them with devotion.



THE LONELIEST DEAD
by M.C. Middlebrooks

They are the loneliest dead who rest beneath the waves
In graves unmarked, unknown. The bugle's soft farewell,

As taps say, "We remember", touches not their sleep.
Why should the forgotten listen to its poignant, haunting spell?

Where the white lines of crosses lie in ordered rows,
The fields are green and cherished, each cross bears a name,

Identifying valor and honoring its repose --
A land has pledged itself these dead shall live in fame.

But the long, slow convoys that grimly took
Their losses so that some might batter through

Sailed in quiet and secrecy; their dead may look
In vain for a salute from those who never knew.

Yet when the bugle blares the call for that last review,
And the great regiments sweep past the mighty dead,

Grouped round Washington, bearing flags that flew
On every battlefield where patriots' blood was shed.

Will the weary thousands in tattered dungarees
Hang back ignored as they have been so long?

No. Eyes that have seen their country driven nigh its knees
And led it back to victory can judge that silent throng.

They shall march to a tune that has the deep slow beat
Of waves on a rocky shore, their banner shall proudly bead

The legend, "We held the balance 'twixt victory and defeat,
But when our armies needed them, the goods were there."