Freedom is a tough road to hoe. . . . . especially when you see some random idiot doing whatever that which inevitably stirs up some moral busybody to step in and shake their finger. Whether it's someone who stretches the good faith of a "no questions asked" return policy, or even the polite expectation of an "all-you-can-eat" buffet, or some filthy grub-eyed woman-- probably from either the Seattle or Portland area-- who openly confesses that she likes to go out and have abortions performed as frequently and joyously as possible, it's almost always enough to stir enough freaked ire to get the policy or right canceled for everyone else in a tightening net.

For every moral crusade there ever was, the authorities wink at the fervor and make a token movement "to stamp out vice" because they know there's no way to stop it. And the savvy leaders of the mob at least on some level know that there's never an incentive to totally "wipe out the monster" because then there would be no reason "to get out the vote" and keep them in power.

What is so laughable is when right-wing radio talk show hosts growl over a bone of cartoonish self-righteousness like a bulldog and say that "we must never negotiate with criminals and terrorists". Nonsense. We negotiate with the shadow-world all the time and do plenty of things that are not 100% "Lone Ranger" nor "completely Kosher". And the right-wing bully-boys call that "realism" when it plays to their advantage. That's politics, like "playing to the cheap seats" in a 1980's Mario Kassar/Andrew Vanja action film from "Carloco Pictures" starring either Arnold Schwarzenegger or Sylvester Stalone in some kind of militarist reductionist "buddy" fantasy that had lots of torture, gratuitous nudity, and memorable one-liners, Inevitably, enough to make Charles Bronson smile with a slight nod of recognition to a macho art form perfected in "The Death Wish" series that was what to the revenge fantasy to what pornography was to the lonely, awkward male and about as humorless as neoconservatism.

Yes, the left is ultimately full of well-meaning fools.

When it comes to "The West Memphis 3" case. . . . . the oft-told modern "Scottsboro Boys" martyrdom narrative about a couple of teenagers who 15 years ago were accused of the ritual satanic slaying of children down by the river where "bad characters" would light bonfires and shout at the stars. A couple of nebbish documentary film-makers shot a piteous, overwrought work that made it onto cable. These were the same film nerds who shot Metallica teetering on the brink of "Spinal Tap" creative degeneration because there was ultimately no one strong and sensible enough to step in "and lay down the law" as they brought in a meek-eyed, $30,000/month professional therapist on retainer who ultimately proved to be a blind, gorping mouth as much as any of the band's management or record company reps. Such is the world of arts & entertainment.

Throwing his slack, drooping muscle behind the cause was a character from the San Francisco punk rock community known as "Jello Biafra" who could honk on nasally and quite long-windedly with a lisp of what the significance of what his name stood for-- as if anyone really cared-- of how "Jello" was unfulfilling corporate food made by the patriarchal planet-rapers and how Biafra was a tiny, starving post-colonialist country drawn up by its Imperialist masters before it fell to in-fighting of non-aligned Third World revolutionary movements as they patted a Russian-made Kalishnikov and hopped wildly through the streets.

To further befuddle the forces of right-wing moral crusade, he was probably best remembered for "The Dead Kennedy's" 1985 album, "FrankenChrist" which featured mutilated biochemical penises frowning ominously across a stormy, tortured landscape by twisted post-Freudian surrealist, H.R. Giger who created the equally audience-squirming creature from the "Alien" series. He had been on the Parent Music Resource Council's (PMRC) shit-list, led by none other by Tipper Gore and the Washington Wives.

And not forgetting other punk rock Don Quixote's with addled, limping speech. Why, even throw in some liberal Hollywood celebrities as tone-deaf to the concerns of Red-State America as Allan Ginsberg would be at "a neck-tie" party in Lawrence, Kansas.

And then you had the boys themselves. . . . . such snertzy, pathetic losers you wanted to shoot them. One had a past, petty criminal record and was tentatively a seeker "of alternative faiths", being aimless and scatter-brained enough to have a giant pentagram-- or something like it-- tattooed on his chest. Another had been bored and ignorant and full of enough mischief to crack a dumb joke at a softball game that made light of the murders which a teenaged girl had overheard and dutifully reported to the police. And then there was the retarded boy who came down to the station to tell the police what he knew, but ended up having his story twisted around and being intimidated into signing a confession he didn't understand.

That is, so they could hand the mob somebody.

Funny thing how you always go after the friendless and defenseless. . . . . even though it was probably their responsibility not to be such an easy, inviting target. Ultimately, those who came to their defense did not understand "that heart of darkness", the power of the will, fascistically stoking the crowd, or setting fire to the Reichstag and blaming it on your enemies like either a gutturally-raving opportunist or a wrestling promoter whose ability to sense the audience's electric anticipation is like a gift from beyond the world we know.

When ultimately Winona's parents, with family in tow, had to flee Chile in 1973 because of the military overthrow of the socialist President when Augustus Pinochet took over and began the systematic slaughter of 30,000 spacey, grubby, fish-eyed leftists who should have known better than to have marched in the streets with pumping fists and tested his will.

Man is a beast of prey and to vote in elections, carrying on with your putrid version of left-wing slaughter, is do deny the laws of our violent world where force, or at least the threat thereof, maintains the peace and not high-minded principles. To get caught in the jaws of the system is regrettable, yet is "the law of life". And if Winona had been arrested for shoplifting in Saudi Arabia she would have hooks for hands.

Marriage is the punishment for such a crime in Cambodia. Well, come down here anytime. You're guilty of nothing except for stealin' my heart. Even if your family is kinda whacko. . . . .

But take heart! We're accepting here in the Midwest providing that you leave the Hare Krishnas, LSD brain-damage, and S.F. butt-fuckery over there. We may be primitive, but we're earnest as the day is long and on our state crest is an electric chair and a mushroom cloud.

And the state poet laureate, Michael "Lawless" Adams, drinking a beer in gold braid.

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"You want a-nuther song? Well I ain't plain' one mutherfuckin' note until someone comes up here and puts sum money in my god-damned tip-jar! You know I only came here for one purpose. . . . . to take yor fuckin' cash! Why, I could make more profit puttin' out my meth-head neighbor's asshole and ringin' a bell, hollerin' 'Man for sale! Man for sale!'

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(Rheeee of Crickets)

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