A quick note to the Occupiers: what not to do

Back in the day, the Yippies taught me how to behave if I was arrested, which I wasn't. I was also taught how to avoid arrest, what to say and how to act. After studying the tales of Amanda Knox, the West Memphis Three, and Dr Conrad Murray (currently on trial in the death of Michael Jackson), I decided I needed to go over these points, especially since kids might be getting arrested in occupations all over the country.

As these cases point out, what starts out small could end up big, big, big. Never assume you are not a suspect in something else that you never heard of. Never assume that anything is "obvious"--nothing is. Never assume you could not be charged with something you didn't do, that such things are all in the movies. They aren't. Ask those three guys from Memphis, how it can play out.

Most important rule: Be polite to the cops. Do not insult them and call them flunkies taking orders, etc, as much as you might want to.

Keep in mind Orwell's society in ANIMAL FARM: the police were the dogs. Lots of people thought this was just his way of being mean and sarcastic, but really, he meant they were the guardians and watchDOGS of the state. As the late, great activists Ben Masel and Steve Conliff used to tell me: Remember, some dogs you can make friends with, and some you can't. Some are poodles and some are rottweilers. Learn the difference, immediately, as you would if you were trespassing in someone's yard. Because when you demonstrate against the state, you are perceived NOT as someone taking their own government into their own hands at long last, but as a trespasser going where you do not belong. It's wrong, and it's fascist, but it is nonetheless true in modern-day America. (Once again, the Founders spin madly in their graves.)

The rottweilers will be on the streets, the poodles will be behind the desks. Although the rottweilers choose the dangerous work, the poodles are the ones who often keep things running smoothly and make countless internal decisions. BE NICE TO THEM. They are working people, just as we are, worried about their pensions and retirement, just as we are. Many are in deep sympathies with the occupation. Do not antagonize them. Establish connection ASAP; if you are a New Yorker, talk about New York with the New York cop: "Where did you grow up? What neighborhood are you from?" As New Yorkers know, neighborhoods are important. Listen to them, did he say "How bout them Yankees?" to somebody, as he was booking you? You LOOOVE the Yankees. Yes, you do!

Does he have tattoos? Ask about them, show him yours, talk about them. If you have children, mention them, and if he mentions that he has children, chat about them.

From Occupy Together.



If you are a veteran, talk about this immediately (ideally, you should be wearing a button that announces this)... asking about his everyday-weaponry is a good intro to letting a police officer know this about you. If you are a Republican, try to stick this into the conversation too, "Wow, I didn't know they arrested Republicans!" and laugh about it. If you write a blog, say so: "This will be a hellacious story on my blog! Well, I wanted hits, now I'll get em!" (I know at least one person who believes this fact cut her loose; they didn't want to read about themselves.) If you do write a blog, segue into blogger mode at the time of arrest: get names of all arresting officers and their job descriptions, ask "Can I quote you on that?" Alternative newspapers had this role, back in the day. And I think it is likely very much the same today: They simply would rather not deal with you.

And finally, we get to Dr Murray, Amanda and the West Memphis Three. Study and learn from their mistakes.

Seriously. I hope I do not have to tell you not to start making out with your also-arrested significant-other in the police station, even if the whole police-inquisition thing makes you hot. DO NOT DO THIS. Amanda will back me up, I'm sure.

Do NOT call your girlfriends on the phone while you are in the police car. DO. NOT. DO. THIS. Turn off the phone and give the situation your full attention. Dr Murray NOW knows, they were listening to his sexy phone calls and ready to throw the book at him... but at the time, he just thought "Wow, what a mess!" The fact that he has so many girlfriends and so many kids, is now being used as evidence against him: See, he needed the money and so didn't challenge Michael Jackson's drug demands. It is doubtful the prosecution would even have formulated this line of prosecution, if he hadn't serially-phoned all his girlfriends (even in the ambulance, can you BELIEVE?) and attracted copious police attention in doing so. THEY CAN USE ANYTHING AGAINST YOU and it isn't simply what you say, but what you DO. Therefore, do as little as possible.

Damien Echols (of the West Memphis Three) recently talked about how his flip, heavy-metal teenage attitude made things worse for him, at the time of his arrest. If you dress like a goth (as he did), DO NOT DO THAT for your trial. Look like the most wholesome person in the world. Buy eyeglasses and look calm. I've written about how I had to put a rosary in my car to keep from getting run over or beat up (due to lefty bumper stickers) here in hyper-conservative upstate South Carolina. You might consider wearing a cross or a crucifix. (a cross in the south, a crucifix in New York)

Do not wear a t-shirt that is too incendiary, gross or insulting. If anything, I would counsel one that starts conversation. Some old-school demonstrators think it is always best to wear one associated with a group, since this makes you appear like a member of the group (even if you aren't) and thus protected. (An unaffiliated demonstrator is a sitting duck, DO NOT go in there alone or without back-up!) I have an Amnesty International shirt that I keep for just such occasions: AI members are the LAST people they want in their jail. Too much aggravation! I know it saved me on at least one occasion.

Most important: Do not be proud, lose the ego. This is not just about you. You are doing this for US; you are doing this for ME. You are representing all of us, the disenfranchised 99%.

I am proud of you, so please make me even more proud: please be careful and watch your backs. We need you here with us, whole and strong.

Good luck, and I love you. Namaste.

Rick Perry in Greenville

I initially went downtown to hear the local band Palmetto Swamp Congregation. They were just setting up, so I decided to walk on down to the park. In front of city hall, there was a good-sized mob, with [Texas Governor Rick] Perry signs held aloft. He's inside, talking to the mayor!--they burbled happily, as one unit.



I waited with the mob until he came out, and then I followed the mob down the street alongside copious TV cameras and curious onlookers.



From the brief display I saw? He has it sewn up. Even five months before the South Carolina Republican primary, I will give the primary to Perry. (And let me remind yall, she said modestly, I called it right the last time.) I have never seen such fawning in my life. Mayor Knox White was stuck to him like a proverbial dingleberry on Perry's derriere. (He is the one glommed onto Perry in all of these photos; photos #6 and 7 include Perry's wife, Anita.) People shook his hand and beamed approvingly at him. One man anointed him the next president in a loud, booming voice, and the mob murmured their assent.



One young woman, who identified as an Army wife, passed out a well-written critical assessment of Perry that she wrote herself (I exhorted her to start blogging!), and I grumbled at regular intervals to one of the photographers (who snorted derisively along with me), but I didn't see any other dissenters besides us three lone voices, crying in the wilderness.



It's pretty funny now, but when I was young, the Secret Service (and their many friends, imitators and rent-a-cops) used to land on me like they did Travis Bickle in Taxi Driver. They would walk right up to me and ask point blank, What are you doing here? (Aside: I also learned to give fictional answers from Travis.) They would dog my ass the minute I showed up anywhere; it must have been the way I looked. But now? They ignore me totally. I don't dress appreciably different than I used to, so what is it that makes them all ignore me? Age, it must be. Middle-aged women are deemed harmless. Look how close to him I got!



The way he stopped to mug with every dog and every kid was nauseating. Although he genuinely seems to like dogs, and as you can see, decided to stop at the Barkery Bistro (photo #4) to check out the doggie-retail bizness. See those mobs? (The second mob is in front of the Carolina Ale House.) The crowd loved him. (Aside: He's really short.)



Finally, thunder and lightning cracked, kaboom, and I chortled to onlookers that God was obviously mad at Rick... (yes, this is the cutting-edge political wit that has landed me my radio gig, yall!) ... and although I got one hearty laugh from a girl selling beer at the beer-booth in front of the Palmetto Swamp Congregation stage, the rest of the crowd was rather grim and didn't appreciate my theological commentary AT ALL.



The rain drowned out my band, but Rick was still going strong and glad-handing people as I left the scene in a downpour.

Dissing dogs

In my last thread, I was lectured once again, about how there was 'no evidence' against America's Sweetheart, Casey Anthony. I am really tired of hearing this uninformed, ignorant bullshit, so let's address the subject head-on.

Why don't people believe the dogs in this case? More to the point, why do they believe them 99% of the time, but in this case say the dogs' alerting makes no difference? As of course you all know (and if you don't, have no business commenting on the case), two different trained cadaver dogs alerted to Caylee's decomposed remains, in the same two spots, including Casey Anthony's car trunk, where the disgusting stench was coming from. (The stench, too, was testified to by 10 different witnesses, including the tow-yard operator, who presumably had no ax to grind.)

Why is this not "evidence"? I would convict on manslaughter based on this fact alone. Whose car is it? Who is Caylee's mama? Bam.

And in the last thread, I asked one commenter:

Are you willing to suspend all drug-convictions based on canine evidence? We are talking thousands and thousands of cases... you are saying ALL of these cases are compromised and/or false convictions, since you say these two separate dogs couldn't properly alert on Caylee's decomposed remains? Does this mean you believe ALL canine-related evidence is wrong or flawed? How many cases would you throw out, based on this opinion? You do know that some defendants, particularly in drug cases, have ONLY had canine evidence against them? I take it you think this is wrong, always? Or just sometimes? What is the criteria you use for canine evidence?

I am interested in what other people think.

If you think the dogs are 'lying' and alerting where they should not, why would you trust them to do anything else? How many of these convictions do you believe are compromised? How many of these cases should be thrown out entirely and the convictions overturned? Or is it just Caylee's remains that the dogs are wrong about? And why would they do that? These dogs had never made errors before, as their records made clear.

Would you suspend the usage of dogs in law enforcement totally, since you think they are 'lying'? Or did the dogs just have something against America's Sweetheart?

NOTE: As in the last thread, Casey-humpers will be dealt with most severely, be advised.

Random complaining

I don't like:

...people who live in apartments and insist upon owning gigantic dogs that can't be exercised on a damn patio, so they bark all day long from boredom.

...southerners who claim various pot-luck offerings are vegetarian, but when pressed, admit said vegetable was fried in bacon grease.

...people who say the radiation in Japan is waaaay over there, so don't you worry yourself over it. The earth doesn't turn and the air never blows and water all stays in one place, so there's no way radiation can spread... oh, wait.

...de-clawing kitties. DON'T DO THAT. And I have the torn-up couches to prove that I don't believe in it. But I can also attest that torn-up couches are a small price to pay for well-mannered, happy felines.

...the way Farmville is always trying to separate you from your credit card, to purchase much-ballyhooed "Farm Cash"--with which you can buy cartoon lakes and donkeys and other dopey shit you don't need... hey, it's just like REAL LIFE!

...And finally...(((drum roll))

Male "enhancement" ads, like the endless infomercial I am listening to right now, wherein a dynamite sex-supplement promises to make you BIGGER and BETTER. It's probably just L-Arginine, an amino acid that can be taken by itself in large doses; up to 3 grams safely. (Works on women too! :D ) And it's lots cheaper than these TV-boosted supplements, which likely include Yohimbe, something that can adversely affect men with hypertension. (The difference between simple L-Arginine and these hotshot supplements can be as much as 100 bucks, so buyer beware.) I also hate the Viagra commercials for using the legendary and fabulous song "Spoonful" in the ads. The not-so-subtle racism of using a well-known black blues song directed at suburban white men with nice cars (not to mention the comprehensive medical insurance that covers these pricey Rx drugs; some insurers don't) seems a little obvious: If you take Viagra/Cialis/etc, you will be as sexy as black men, seems to be the significance of the blues-man message. And then there is the additional subtlety of the title and concept: you only need a spoonful of Viagra.

But even without music, all the winky-winky stuff in the ads (any moment can turn into a Cialis moment!) is offensive and junior high school. Yes, we all know how we get horny just by hammering nails (think about the Freudian implications of that for a second) and hanging out with the mister, as he does his manly household tasks. And then, a knowing look is exchanged, pecks on the mouth, and they leave the room together, arm in arm. We all know that our sexual experiences are EXACTLY like that, now don't we? (((rolls eyes)))

I do appreciate that the women in the ads are the same age as the men. In fact, these ads might be the only place on TV that this is true! Mostly, hot new actresses are paired with older, non-hotties. (Think about LAW AND ORDER and the age disparities.. gray hair and such are standard, but the women are all young.) This is true in movies as well. What can we surmise from this?: That BigPharma is aware they should try to be realistic in these ads--no Lolitas anywhere. And besides, maybe that is intimidating to older men? Or do they (as I suspect) just find the idea silly? (All they want is some familiar intimacy with the wife, not the babysitter.)

The CARS in the ads, and the fact that Viagra now sponsors NASCAR, well, that shouldn't be surprising. PERFORMANCE is a big word in all advertising related to men: Stereos, cell phones, cars, musical instruments, razor blades, athletic shoes, all promise various wonderful levels of PERFORMANCE, a word you rarely hear in commercials for women's products.

Now, I wonder why that is.

Of dogs and men

:: Someone helpfully sent me this link, regarding my last post. The link proclaims that Uncle Cecil was dead wrong: hounds are uniformly regarded as dumb, listed among the dumbest breeds.

My first thought: there is even classism among ranking dogs! Breeds intended for low-class work like hunting are ranked lowest in intelligence. Guarding people, now that's important! Here we see a unique mix of both classism and speciesism at work.

Give me a good basset hound, bulldog (go black and red!), beagle or bloodhound any day of the week! Workers of the world unite! (Not into Afghan hounds, because the shedding is incredible. No offense to them, though, all the Afghan hounds I've met are very friendly and pleasant.)


:: Recommending Ethecofem, a feminist blog which is very fair to the guys. Probably too fair for my liking, but I enjoy the writers there, especially April.

I've been thinking lately, of how men are treated in sexist ways, and I came up with one: men are expected to be Mr Fixit. Whenever something goes wrong in a house or car (which is, sooner or later, bound to happen), men are expected to know how to Fix It, while us girls stand around with our thumbs up our asses, as we say here in the south. In fact, I think this phenomenon may be way WORSE in the south.

In the north, the question was, "Can your husband fix it?" while here in the south, it's more of a declaration: "Get your husband to fix it!"

He is no more of a Mr Fixit than I am a Ms Fixit, which is to say, not at all. He is considered more of a failure for this than I am, though, which goes without saying. Men are supposed to know how to fix cars, light fixtures, stuck windows and the like. They just learn by osmosis!

This is also deeply ableist, which also goes without saying. Whichever man doesn't learn to Fix Things, at least here among the working classes, is regarded as somewhat suspect.

A man who was close to me long ago, once told me he was embarrassed that he didn't particularly like sports, didn't keep up with the teams and scores and bowl games and World Serieses and such. He told me he thought this was a form of language among men that he never learned, that seems to transcend race, class, age and other differences.

Mr Daisy is very much into that language, so I have listened over the years, as he talks to strange men in strange places, How bout them dawgs? (see above reference to black and red) I've listened to delivery guys talk to white-collar supervisors, How bout them dawgs? I've heard doctors and patients, men of radically different classes, How bout them dawgs? Etc. It really is a language that men are expected to participate in, and a man is somewhat suspect (or regarded as standoffish, unfriendly and/or aloof) if he doesn't join in.

I am also reminded of that wonderful movie The Birdcage, wherein Robin Williams (Armand) tries to tutor Nathan Lane (Albert) in how to sound like a proper heterosexual man:

Armand: Al, you old son of a bitch! How ya doin? How do you feel about that call today? I mean the Dolphins! Fourth-and-three play on their 30 yard line with only 34 seconds to go!

Albert: How do you think I feel? Betrayed, bewildered...

Wrong response?

SC dog is smartest in the world!

At left: Chaser the wonder dog, photo by Ken Osburn of The Greenville News.


Mr Daisy's late Uncle Cecil had the ability to train dogs to do all kinds of tricks. He liked to hunt, so he preferred hounds, especially beagles. One beagle had been his favorite, the smartest dog in the world, he said. There was a large painted portrait of the late beagle on his wall. "I loved that dog," he would say wistfully, showing the picture to visitors.

The best trick the dog did (I regret I can't remember the pooch's name) was pick up lettered blocks BY LETTER. Uncle Cecil would keep the blocks in a little bag, and then spread them out on the floor as the dog sat obediently and waited. He would scatter and arrange the lettered wooden blocks, and then, tell the dog to pick up the letter....B!

And the dog did.

Everyone was amazed.

Uncle Cecil would gather up the blocks in the bag and do it over and over, spilling the blocks onto the floor as the dog watched. He would spread the blocks out carefully again, then...F! (He changed the letter each time, which was the really incredible thing.)

And the dog picked up F.

There was never any rhyme or reason to the letters chosen; it was never the same letter every time. People couldn't believe a dog was so smart. They came from miles around to see Uncle Cecil's ultra-smart dog.

Can you guess the trick?

I thought of Uncle Cecil's dog when I heard about Chaser, the smartest dog in upstate South Carolina, maybe the world. He will be profiled on the PBS show NOVA (on February 9th), since he has learned 1000+ words, more than any dog on record. He has over 1000 toys, all with different names, and when he is asked to fetch them by name, he does.

Okay, Uncle Cecil made me skeptical, so I will have to watch NOVA and see if this is for real.

From the GREENVILLE NEWS:

It’s a scientific record.

Chaser is top dog in the current issue of the scientific journal “Behavioural Processes,” as noted in the Christmas Day edition of “The New Scientist,” and will be featured in a Feb. 9 NOVA documentary on PBS television.

Soon after [retired Wofford College psychology professor John] Pilley brought Chaser home as an 8-week-old puppy, he read an article by German researchers about a border collie that could understand 200 words. Pilley took that as a challenge.

“Border collies, because of their history of listening to the master and keeping their eyes simultaneously on the herd, may be especially prepared to learn language,” Pilley said.

Pilley and Alliston Reid, a Wofford psychology professor, with the help of some students, began three years of research to gain new insight into the intellect of border collies.

“These dogs can understand,” Reid said. “If you own a dog, you know the dog has emotions and is an intelligent being.”

In controlled experiments, Chaser demonstrated that she could remember each of her 1,022 toys by name. With that number, the two psychologists — who had to write the name on each toy to remember them all — decided there probably was no upper limit to what Chaser could learn.

~*~

Here is the trick:

Uncle Cecil had no reason to put the blocks in a bag. Also, he would do the trick over and over, but only after putting the blocks in a bag and repeating the whole ritual. He never asked the dog to pick up two lettered blocks IN A ROW. Even so, no one ever guessed his secret.

He would carefully spread the blocks on the floor... and it was always the last block he touched.

Sometimes, Uncle Cecil would touch one just at the last second, almost as an "afterthought" to try and fool him, but the dog always did the trick correctly. He always knew which block he was supposed to pick up, but waited to be "told". Uncle Cecil would tell him to pick up the last one he touched (A! P! M!)--and only then, would he pick up the correct wooden block. The dog greatly enjoyed all the laughter, applause and attention, wagging his tail enthusiastically; he loved doing the blocks trick!

Nobody ever figured it out. Uncle Cecil did not tell the secret until after his beloved canine friend had passed on.

He said he could not bear to teach the trick to another dog.