Where Is Jane Fonda When You Need Her?

Shot down and captured in 1965.
Shot down and captured in 1965. Captain David Hrdlicker

 

Vietnam War – What’s Disgusting Is Our Government’s Inaction After 1975.

As our government argues about transgender toilets, we have some GIs from the Vietnam War unaccounted for.

It has been over forty years since the end of the Vietnam War and over 21,000 reports of American prisoners, missing and otherwise unaccounted for have been received by our government. Many of these reports document live American Prisoners of War remaining captive throughout Southeast Asia. According to news writer, Sidney Schanberg, there have been 1,600 firsthand live sightings of American
prisoners after the war.

A photograph was taken by a US spy satellite in 1988, fifteen years after the US had ended its involvement in the war. It showed etched into a rice paddy, an enormous sign that contained the words ‘USA’ as well as a highly classified code, a ‘Walking K’ which would have only been known to US servicemen. It was built to be seen from the air, the ‘USA’ figures measuring 37.5 feet wide and 12.5 feet long.

You can go to this website http://www.powhrdlicka.com/timeline/ to see the years of frustration the wife of a POW, Captain David Hrdlicka, has endured as she attempted to receive word on the fate of her husband,  a POW. He was  seen alive in a picture being led around by the Pathet Lao near Sam Neua, Laos. The last known National Archive document indicating that he was alive – 1990 according to his wife.

Due to the public’s demand to end the war, delayed release of the known POWs was not a risk that the administration decision makers were likely to take. No one informed the Congress or the American people that there were captives that had not been released from Southeast Asia and the country turned its back on the POWs in Laos. As the years passed from 1973, the fate of these individuals seemingly became less and less important. (Don Moody www.raven.org).

Schanberg said,”But behind the scenes, President Nixon accused Hanoi of not returning a multitude of prisoners. In a private message on Feb. 2, 1973, Nixon said U.S. records showed 317 prisoners in Laos alone. “It is inconceivable,” he wrote, “that only 10 of these men” were being returned.
Hanoi stonewalled and never added any men to its prisoner list. Yet just two months later, Nixon did an about-face and claimed proudly on national television, “all of our American POWs are on their way home.” He had to know he was telling a terrible lie.”  Sydney Schanberg won a Pulitzer Prize for his reporting on the war in Indochina.

American servicemen in Vietnam were called upon to operate in dangerous circumstances and they were prepared to be wounded, killed or captured. It’s doubtful they thought they could be abandoned by the country they so proudly served.

 

When Detroit Surrendered to a foreign army

Detroit IIDetroit

Detroit has the distinction of being a city with nothing left to plunder because its political leaders have already laid it to waste, as is apparent by looking at the decay and dissolution of the city. Well,  Detroit was plundered for the first time in the Siege of Detroit, also known as the Surrender of Detroit. This battle gave Detroit the distinction of being the only U.S. city to surrender to a foreign army. It happened when it went by the name of Fort Detroit and even that name didn’t save it from defeat because it suffered from extremely poor leadership, leadership that would rival its managers of the last fifty years. This surrender happened on August 16,1812, and a drunken sot by the name of General William Hull  ordered his troops to hold their fire while he was hunkering down in a shelter, safe from enemy fire. Unfortunately for Fort Detroit, the Shawnee Indians were lead by a very formidable leader by the name of Tecumseh, who also possessed much wisdom. He said, “So live your life that the fear of death can never enter your heart”. He also had a pretty good rapport with a British General by the name of Isaac Brock, who led his British troops from Canada to Detroit. If General Hull would have crawled out of his hole long enough to observe what was happening, he would have realized that he had twice as many troops as the Indians and British combined. Instead, he waved a white tablecloth as a sign of truce and sent officers out to “accept the best terms which could be obtained.” It was surrender!

So the question people have is, “why did we want it back?”

 

Oh, the Detroit Lions have never won a Super Bowl.

The Effects of PZP on Wild Horses

PZP’S ADVERSE EFFECTS On Wild Horses

This report was completed by Marybeth Devlin on December 24, 2015. Copyright Marybeth Devlin and Protect Mustangs 2015.

With all these facts done by reputable and qualified people… why does the BLM keep using it or is allowed to?
The fact that women can not administer this without being protected by cautionary clothing or their ovaries will no longer be of use (in plain language ) should make it unusable on our wild horses. Also not to be around or used by pregnant women is pretty scary. It affects the fetus. In horses, it is used on pregnant mares. The fillies can not reproduce. Joan Meeker

It was stated that ‘others (risks)included the potential to jump to other animals or even humans.’
For more about the antigen and its potential to shift between species http://press.gefree.org.nz/press/o08112004.htm

PZP — The Pesticide

Porcine zona pellucida (PZP aka ZonaStat-H or Native PZP) is an EPA-registered pesticide derived from the ovaries of slaughtered pigs. PZP is approved for use on wild horses “in areas where they have become a nuisance ….”

Some persons argue that, because PZP does not kill the mare, it is not really a “pesticide.” Actually, PZP does kill. Its use is associated with stillborn foals. In the long term, PZP will weaken a herd immunologically, which could swiftly lead to its extinction. So, yes, PZP is a real pesticide.

PZP’s True Mode-of-Action

So how does PZP really work? PZP tricks the immune system into waging war on the ovaries. ” Thus, PZP’s antibodies “work” not by blocking sperm attachment but by destroying the ovaries.

The manufacturer of PZP as well as Bureau of Land Management (BLM)  ignored or disregarded any information that was contrary to their personally-preferred but obsolete and false description of PZP’s mode-of-action.

PZP Manufacturer’s Own Research Found Markedly Depressed Estrogen Secretion

Despite personally discovering negative hormonal impacts 23 years ago, PZP’s manufacturer continued to cite misinformation regarding the product’s mode-of-action and endocrine-disruptor side-effects.

PZP’s Destructive Antibodies Are Transmitted via the Placenta and Mother’s Milk

It gets worse. PZP antibodies are transferred from mother to young via the placenta and milk. These findings were disclosed in 1981. PZP’s manufacturer must have known about this dangerous effect, and certainly BLM should have investigated on its own whether there was any risk to the unborn or the nursing foal. Yet, the manufacturer continued to insist that there was no danger to the foal, whether born or unborn. The BLM regularly administers PZP to pregnant and lactating mares, who transfer the destructive antibodies to their fetus, via the placenta, and to their foal, via mother’s milk.

Recall again the Pryor Mountain fillies. If their dams were injected with PZP while pregnant or nursing, such fillies will already have PZP antibodies cross-reacted with and bound to their zonae. Therefore, when those same fillies are injected at age 1½, it will be their second treatment, or potentially even their third. In fact, they could already have been sterilized in utero or while nursing, the treatment having been received prior to puberty.

 

Wyoming Territory

Near The Lakota Sioux Reservation Wyoming Territory 1871

The boy stopped on a smooth flat rock. He was barefooted and sweating, trying to catch his breath. He bent over gripping his waist, panting, looking into the darkness. A bullet slammed into the tree ahead of him. He heard the men coming. It didn’t take them long to catch up to him.

He had run from the river bank, following a trail he had taken many times before looking for elk. He hoped he would be able to double back without being seen. Now that it was dark, he was stumbling and afraid he may have lost his way. His feet and ankles were sore and bleeding and he wanted to lie down and sleep.  He had made his way into the mountains, climbing as he followed the winding path higher. In places, sections of the hillside fell away beneath his feet.

“I can’t stop yet,” he thought. “I have to get back to camp.”

Crashing into a rock, he lost his balance and hit the ground. He got up and kept running, straining to see obstacles ahead. He heard the men charging behind him. A second bullet whistled past his right shoulder.

Leaving the game trail, he began to zig zag and head away from the noise of the men following up the rocky incline.  He gained the ridge top and looked down at the mist filled ravine with vapor rising in jagged wisps, like steam from a boiling pot. The night was cloudless and the moon was high in the sky. Between him and his pursuers the bushes were a shadow of black and gray.  He saw the riders with their heads pressed to their horses’ necks as they tried to avoid the dense trees, dripping with vines obstructing their way. They had to dismount and scramble up the steep trail, leading their horses as they skittered and slid, gouging out the red earth and loose rock which fell dangerously when they set their hooves upon it. If they got closer, they surely would be able to see his silhouette as he fled.

He kept moving.  He scampered down the draw, snaking through the sage and pinion and coming out downstream along the bank of the river that ran past where he was camping with his mother and Grey Wolf.

When the scrub ended, he found himself forced into the open. He ran toward a buttress of rock that was a deeper shadow on the dark landscape. Upon reaching it, he sank to his knees behind a tree. His breath was rasping and he was aware of his thirst. He flattened out on the river bank and drank. It tasted sweet and cold. His eyes began to ache from drinking too fast.

Somewhere close by a twig snapped. His heart jumped. Scrambling up into a crouch, he fought to control his breathing. He heard a hushed exchange between two men. He stayed still.

“He’s got to be in here somewhere Rory”, one voice said, very close now.

The boy shut his eyes, willing the men away.

EXCERPT FROM A CENTURY OF DISHONOR (1881, by Helen Hunt Jackson)

These Indians were taken to Fort Robinson, Nebraska. Here they were confined as prisoners of war and held subject to the orders of the Department of the Interior. The department was informed of the Indians’ determination never to be taken back alive to Indian Territory. The army officers in charge reiterated these statements, and implored the department to permit them to remain in the North, but it was to no avail. Orders came—explicit, repeated, finally stern—insisting on the return of these Indians to their agency. The commanding officer at Fort Robinson has been censured severely for the course he pursued in his effort to carry out those orders. It is difficult to see what else he could have done, except to have resigned his post. He could not take three hundred Indians by sheer brute force and carry them hundreds of miles, especially when they were so desperate that they had broken up the iron stoves in their quarters, and wrought and twisted them into weapons with which to resist. He thought perhaps he could starve them into submission. He stopped the issue of food; he also stopped the issue of fuel to them. It was midwinter; the mercury froze in that month at Fort Robinson. At the end of two days, he asked the Indians to let their women and children come out that he might feed them. Not a woman would come out. On the night of the fourth day—or, according to some accounts, the sixth—these starving, freezing Indians broke prison, overpowered the guards, and fled, carrying their women and children with them. They held the pursuing troops at bay for several days; finally made a last stand in a deep ravine, and were shot down—men, women, and children together. Out of the whole band, there were left alive some fifty women and children and seven men, who, having been confined in another part of the fort, had not had the good fortune to share in this outbreak and meet their death in the ravine. These, with their wives and children, were sent to Fort Leavenworth to be put in prison; the men to be tried for murders committed in their skirmishes in Kansas on their way to the north. Red Cloud, a Sioux chief, came to Fort Robinson immediately after this massacre and entreated to be allowed to take the Cheyenne widows and orphans into his tribe to be cared for. The Government, therefore, kindly permitted twenty-two Cheyenne widows and thirty-two Cheyenne children—many of them orphans—to be received into the band of the Ogallala Sioux.

…there could be found nowhere in the melancholy record of the experiences of our Indians a more glaring instance of confused multiplication of injustices than this. The Cheyennes were pursued and slain for venturing to leave this very reservation, which, it appears, is not their reservation at all, and they have no legal right to it. Are there any words to fitly characterize such treatment as this from a great, powerful, rich nation, to a handful of helpless people?

 

 

 

Cauliflower; More Than An Ear

Mike Scanlon was a big man. He stood a little over six feet tall and weighed in at two hundred and five pounds, about five pounds heavier than when he was riding bulls and broncs on the rodeo circuit down in Texas over twenty years ago. Since he purchased this property just outside Tombstone Arizona, the town that is too tough to die, which he thought applied to him as well, and started ranching, he lost the extra twenty pounds he had put on around his waist sitting behind his desk in Hollywood. His hair was still a light sandy brown but was beginning to show gray along his temples. He was told it made him look distinguished. People around Tombstone had started calling him Big Mike and he liked it.
As his horse picked up a trot, he looked over at his son, Mike Jr., sitting on his Bay gelding next to him. It was hard for Big Mike to believe that his son was seventeen years old. It seemed like it was yesterday that he brought him home from the hospital, a red-faced squawking little runt. Everyone called him Little Mike. He wasn’t little anymore. He was nearly as big as his father. He had grown into a fine young man.

Max Fly’s Last Ride

 

MaxFly

I wrapped the leather strap around my wrist until it was good and tight. My hat was pulled down as far as it would go and I adjusted my chaps. I was known for my hat always being on my head at the end of my rides, something I was proud of.
It was 1937 and I was leading in points for the all-around cowboy award with only two more events to go before the end of the season. Barring any unforeseen accidents, I was a shoo-in to beat Mike Scanlon who had won the title three years running. I looked forward to getting the silver buckle, silver studded saddle and bridle as well as the nice check that was waiting for the winner. Saying nothing about a chance of crawling in the sack with that little rodeo queen from Austin who was sitting in the crowd today.
It was Austin Texas and it was hot. Austin is a rodeo town, a breeding ground for the rodeo, not just for animals, but for the men who ride them as well. I am an outsider, from Wisconsin and nobody from Wisconsin had won this title. I am going to be the first.
I wiggled my seat around on the back of the big two thousand pound Corrientes bull named Casper, squeezing his sides with my legs to let him know I am taking over today. The bull rolled his eyes back and looked up at me the best he could in the tight chute as if to say, “I’m ready for you. Everyone else thought they could stay on me for eight seconds but nobody has lasted more than two and you won’t be any different.”
What Casper didn’t know was that I had been studying him all season. Oh, he is one tough son of a bitch all right, but I noticed that every time he shot out of the chute, he turned to the right and dropped his head and gave one helluva twist then he would surprise everybody and turn back to the left; but I would be ready for it today; it didn’t take much to outsmart a dumb ol’ bull. Eight-seconds to fame. It doesn’t sound like much time but when you are on the back of a beast like this, it feels like an eternity.
I looked up and scanned the area in front of me. The little rodeo queen from Austin was sitting in the front row off to the left of the chute and next to her was former President Teddy Roosevelt and the famous Chief Quantah Parker, both big rodeo fans. I also noticed the three rodeo clowns standing behind the barrels in the middle of the arena chatting with one another. I looked down one last time and checked my wrap and smiled at Hap Schultz, my team roping partner and header, who was standing on the railing next to me.
“Give ‘em hell Max. It’s been one helluva season. One these damn Texans will never forget.”
I didn’t say anything, but turned toward the front of the chute and nodded to the boy at the gate. He slipped the latch and ol’ Casper burst out like someone had just put a hot poker up his ass.

Marquess of Queensberry Rules According To Max Fly and The Rocco Man In Blue Magic

cropped-Max-Fly-Private-I-Artwork-canstock0790836.jpg

Rocco’s Pub is located on the Northwest corner of North Avenue and Highway 100 in Wauwatosa, a suburb on the West side of Milwaukee. Dan Cirrocco opened the place fifteen years ago. We go back a few years. We met at the Milwaukee Turner’s, sort of a local boys club, located in downtown Milwaukee. It was started by two German immigrants, named Turner, around 1900, to provide a place for boys to learn gymnastics and the fine art of boxing. It was the birthplace of some pretty famous local pugilists. I have been in a lot of fights that didn’t have a positive ending. I was bullied and learned early on to stand up for myself. The only way I could do that was through fighting and most of those I ended up on the short end of the stick. So I joined the Turners.

Danny and I trained under a scarred up ex-professional fighter whose eyes bulged like a terrier. He had cauliflower ears and a busted up nose and went by the name of Mad Dog Coogan. Mad Dog wasn’t his birth name but his mind was scrambled and he couldn’t remember what it was, so he was always Mad Dog to everyone at the Milwaukee Turners.
George Orwell once said that by the age of fifty, every man has the face he deserves. So we assumed Mad Dog deserved to look like road kill.
Mad Dog told me I was a rubbish fighter due to my inexperience. He showed me some tricks that weren’t necessarily sanctioned under the Marquess of Queensbury rules. His pep talks during my fights went something like, “When you die you want to look dead. Not now!” He was an awesome motivator.

The Doctor’s Office

The gray-haired man appeared to be sleeping in a chair in the back of the room. His ball cap was pulled down, covering his eyes, dark dangerous eyes. He sat deadly still but remained alert, something he learned while in Viet Nam, in Cam Rahn Bay, a deep water bay, located in the province of Khánh Hòa, on the South China Sea where he caught some shrapnel in his right shoulder, shattering the bone. It never mended properly and the doctor’s at the Veteran’s Hospital broke it twice to reset it, hoping it would finally heal. It hadn’t.
He peered down at his hands. A slight tremor started in his left hand. This was his first episode of the day. He first noticed the tremors when he returned to the states in ’69. His nerves were damaged when the United States military started the strafing of the Viet Nam jungles with agent orange. He had been waiting twelve months to get into the local Veteran’s Hospital for treatment. They told him it would be another three months before they could get him in; before it was his turn. Be patient they said. They should try living with this excruciating pain and tremors every day. Then see how patient those fuckers would be. To top everything off, he was still dealing with the sweats and shakes from the bout of malaria he got over there.
They kept promising that things would get better at the VA Hospital, but, if anything, it got worse. Now the Nam vets are jockeying for time with the Gulf War vets. They keep piling up. Hell, he’ll be dead before he gets in to see one of the VA doctors.
His brother finally stepped in and got him an appointment with this doctor, a former classmate of his brother’s at Marquette University. Nerve damage wasn’t his specialty, broken bones were, but he said he would see him as a favor to his brother. The doctor promised to check him out and get him to the right specialists to deal with his injuries. The gray-haired man didn’t care who saw him, he just wanted some meds to stop the damn pain and the uncontrollable shaking.
The waiting area was filled with people wearing casts and braces on their hands, arms, feet and legs. An athletic young man, wearing an arm cast on his left arm up to his elbow looked nervous. He sat, guardedly watching everyone who walked through the glass doors that connected to the congested parking lot. The cars were mainly Lexus’, BMW’s, and Mercedes, bearing witness to the wealth in this community.
The people were trapped in the game of acquiring more accouterments then their neighbors. He saw it in the quality of their dress and in the sparkle of their diamonds, gold, and silver jewelry. It appeared people were getting more careless, the gray-haired man thought, as he assessed the people sitting by him. Along with their expensive jewelry, they were wearing Gucci shoes and carrying their Kate Spade Purses, all of which cost more than he made in the past year. The way they dressed communicated their wealth to everyone who saw them.
An extremely obese woman was dressed in slacks and a fox fur wrap. She wore an expensive necklace of diamonds and emeralds so large, they beg to be seen. She had a matching cocktail ring on her right hand and a diamond engagement ring that he estimated to be at least four karats on her left hand. Another middle-aged woman was adorned with gold; gold necklace and multiple gold bracelets running up her arms and rings filled with diamonds and rubies.