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Ft. Benning 1986 US Army Mortar School 🏫 Sunday 8:00 🕗 AM. Parade Field
”What the fuck is a field artillery officer doing at an infantry school?”
Asked the very frightening 34 year-old prior service Enlisted Special Forces First Lieutenant.
”How in the fuck is a Lieutenant 34 years old?”
“Vietnam 18, 1970. OCS 1984 32 years old at the age limit. Not eligible for Captain yet. You have no combat patch. You never been there, done that…”
“Well, you fucking anus-face, Lebanon 🇱🇧 1981, El Salvador 🇸🇻 Panama 🇵🇦 , so been there done that U.S. Navy you self-satisfied cunt. Fuck you.”
We got close. Jaw to jaw like real macho men. Captain Edwards jumped in.
”Really? Officers? Get at attention and shut your filthy mouths. I will not be embarrassed. I said stay at the position of attention. You will change into PT hear and meet me back here in 20 mikes. Are we clear?”
Shouted the SF Lieutenant.
”Aye aye Sir! I mean Yessir!”
I went back to Henry Hall to change. LT Blommo from Cameroon 🇨🇲 was there putting cooked rice 🍚 in an open bowl onto a shelf.
”Hey Botendaddy, What’s up? We should go into Columbus today to buy fixtures.”
”Sound good Blay, be back by Noon, I hope.”
I got changed into PTs and I went down the steps to my fate. I hated the SF guy. Arrogant anus. A fight was inevitable. I wasn’t afraid 😱 but yes, they can fight.
We met up with Captain Edwards. We stopped at the PX to get some coffee. We walked in silence for a while.
”Listen boys, you two need to check fire. It’s not a request. I don’t like or respect ✊ either one of you. But they want you at Escuela des Americas. One word from either of you idiots and you will be in Leavenworth for the next thirty years, I kid you not.”
We walked into the door 🚪 of a bland governmental building. An elevator took us to a deep underground complex. We were taken to a futuristic command center and then to a small office. Captain Edwards and the SF Lieutenant disappeared down a different passageway.
I sat ina chair in the dark office when suddenly a light came on and I was face to face with General Fraunifaisce!
The General was super lean and crazier than ever. He walked around my chair like a psychotic diseased alley cat 🐈.
”I stretch rectums! It’s what I do boy! I get my bony hands on a big, fat, muscular young Officer’s milky-white buttocks and I stretch anus with my massive man-tool! It’s what I do! I can almost taste the quivering man-anus! Ah the hot steam rising from a well-drilled tasty 😋 spermatozoa filled bowel!”
He inhaled erotically.
”Good to see you too Sir!”
”You did a fine job in Luxembourg 🇱🇺. Better than anyone thought. Those Washington Ivy Leaguers, don’t know shit. I personally asked for you after you did that mission in Central America. Ah the smell of it!”
The General was possibly the gayest man who ever existed in the history of gayness. He was gayer than gay. 🏳️🌈 I always got stuck with the crazy 😝 homo General.
He poured me an absinthe, a typical gay 🍸 drink.
”Listen son, we’ve got a new mission for you. There’s a ranch in Panama 🇵🇦 needs security. You and that other so-called Lieutenant will go on black ops. President Reagan asked for you personally… again. Something about your mom back in Sacramento at the Capitol Building. She handled the tough problems with bearded, shit-covered, Jew-Commie subversives.”
I sipped on the absinthe as we roaked Cubano cigars.
”These other assholes they don’t know shit. I know you don’t care what the OPLAN is because you don’t listen to briefings and you don’t read orders. At least you pretend to listen. I’ve never heard you argue even once. It’s because you are here for one big party.”
The General put his feet on his desk.
”General, you’d be bored to death if it weren’t for me. I get it. You need to get down to Balboa, but you have to cut back on the Man-raping. It’s like an addiction. I’ve got my own addiction: HOB’s Hot Old Broads. Not older sir, OLD! Ah the taste of it!”
We never did discuss the mission, because well, I just never cared.
”This is not a f@&king after-school Special, you will all smoke my f@&king weed. Pure Fayette County Kush, only the finest!”
Spake Revolutionary Blacquéz.
Gefragt (Pronounced guh-frock-Ed-Uh) the Caribbean Queen.
”I know weed ¥£&$&, and I know coffee, too, I’m Jamaican, you corny-ass Columbus, Ohio jive-ass melon 🍈 farmer 👨🌾.”
Shroake the CQ.
”If you So Jamaica 🇯🇲 girl, WTF are you doing in Pittsburgh? And I know coffee ☕️. You think 🤔 Ohio is backwater? Ohio is the core of American civilization! The home of honorary soul-brother Ulysses S Grant.”
Replied Revolutionary, stroking his goatee.
”OK, break it up, kids. Harmony over Discord.”
Ich hatte also gespräächte.
The ‘members’ of the Writer’s Workshop were assembled in a demonic 👿 coven-like black mass gathering at Blue Slide Park on top of Little Ridge.
”What is a Devil’s Triangle?”
Asked the Weird Foreign 🇳🇵 Doctor 👩⚕️ Chick 🐣.
”What is boofing?” 💨 💩
Asked The Voat Fat People Hate 😤 Verified Shitlady, grabbing the spliff (Pronounced Schuh-Plieeef).
”Boofing is when alcohol 🍷 is inhaled through the bleached anus to achieve rapid blood-alcohol 🍸 intoxication.”
Responded Big Chief Guyasuta.
”No, Boofing is when a West African Internet cafe person spoofs an IP address from Nigeria 🇳🇬 to rip off the elderly because his uncle is an Ambassador-Prince-Billionaire.”
“Nein, nein, nein, nein, nein! Feygelein! Feygelein! Feygelein! Boofing 💨 💩 is when a Social Justice rally against Zionist, (Pronounced zoy-Yo!-nisst) fascist, sexual imperialism is suddenly interrupted by big, gay muscle 💪 cops 🚓 and you get OH GOD YES! Beaten and Forcibly handcuffed!”
Said the Angry Online Social Justice Warrior Guy, grabbing the roach.
“A Devil’s Triangle is when, like an older girl about 50, like me, gets worked over and sexually eviscerated in every dripping, yummy 😋 orifice over and over again by like two young, muscular Latin guys, OH MY GOD, I CAN ALMOST FEEL IT!”
Shroaked the CEO 👩💼 Lady. Taking a long sensuous roak on the roach.
”You filthy old Simka!”
Responded the Professor 👩🏫. Snatching the wacky weed.
”It’s when two young, muscular guys are in a tiny sleeping berth in an Amtrack car and they f@&k the s&$t out of a still-hot 70 year old woman (look at my supple body, goddamn you, you red-hot muscular Botendaddy!) for like two hundred miles. OH YES!”
Everyone stared at the Professor.
”No, a Devil’s Triangle is when you have sausage, bacon 🥓 and ham grilled with 🍳 eggs at the Eat n’ Park on Murray Avenue at 3:00 A.M.”
”Do you like beer 🍺? Because I like beer. If you hate beer, you hate America! You shitty communist Botendaddy!”
Spake the ‘Swole Bro’
Just then, out of nowhere, Young, muscular *hot*mo 💪 cop 👮 came up and started humping Botendaddy’s leg.
”Listen YMHC, why you be rousting us?”
”Because there’s kids in the park, ye sensual bleached anus! Sure and begorrah! Faith be the luck O’ the Leprechaun 🍀! Ye can’t be smoking the ‘Dry Satan’ out here! There’s legalities and such. I HUMP YOUR MUSCULAR LEG, YE SEXY BOTENDADDY! Now move along, ye and yer evil 😈 sexy Wroiter’s Wherekshoppe!”
So we all walked up to Forbes Avenue and got lunch.
Extreme Top Secret COINTELPRO Facility, Langley Virginia 10 January 1961
John Foster Dulles sat next to outgoing Vice-President Richard Milhous Nixon and Extreme General of NORAD Curtis B. LeMay. It was a high tech computerized conference Room with recessed lighting, a huge electric wall map tracking nuclear bombers, subs and ‘bogies’. Everything was in black and white.
”Now the nation will be handed over to the Fornicators, Bolsheviks and deviants along with their Jewy bosses.”
”Let’s be careful, Mr. Vice President, only 63.75 percent of Jews are Marxist 19.25 are deviants and 11.5 percent are fornicators. Don’t worry, I’ll handle the Jews.”
Said the ghoulish, bespectacled, green-glowing Professor Kissinger from the shadows of the outer circle ⭕️.
”Hank, you wacky hebe, we could have worked well together if only that fucking JFK hadn’t stolen the goddamned election. I got inside scoop from Bebe Rebozo, that suave devil!”
Said Nixon, all dreamy-eyed.
”Listen up gentlemen. Here’s the plan. Deep inside Project Agile inside the bowels of the Gama Goat 🐐 Project we have created Project Botendaddy. The perfect triple spy 🕵️♂️.”
Said the demonic, creepy, red-glowing, satanic Dulles.
LeMay signaled to Kissinger, who darkened the lights. LeMay started the 16mm 1959 Bell 🛎 and Howell projector.
(Silent Film US Geological Survey Number 301-21.7 stroke 7: Project Botendaddy.)
”As you can see, a baby 👶 is born in America, shipped to Vladivostok, put with a non-Communist fishing family and raised until the age of 12 when he disappears at sea 🌊 . Then said baby is rescued by right-wing Eskimos, comes to America and is raised by a family of 🇷🇺 Russian speaking American agents. Then he spies for us, but they think he spies for them as a double agent.”
”That is the dumbest fucking idea I’ve ever heard in my life. No wonder we lost the goddamn election. Dulles, you fuckup, fuck you. Fuck you all. Hank, come with me let’s get a drink you German-Jewish, creepy, fornicating, Commie, homo.”
”Ja Herr Vice-President. I don’t trust the Dulles brothers. For all we know, they threw the election 🗳 to Jack.”
One Month later, same Room. JFK and RFK are sitting with LeMay and Dulles
”That was a good presentation!”
”Yeeees, beetuh than Claaam Chowdah!”
”Let’s do it! Said Bob McNamara.”
”I’ll sell it.”
Muttered LBJ under his breath as he entered the secret Get Smart elevator. A hand got into the door before he could leave. It was Dulles.
“Listen up country boy, we’ll handle these rum-running paddy mickey Irishmen. National Security is too important to left to those Papist prep-school low-lifes. You just do what you’re told, you fucking low-class redneck dirt-farmer and no one will get hurt. How’s little Linda Bird doing by the way.”
It was Allen Dulles. The creepiest man alive. LBJ heard the veiled threat. There was nothing he could do.
Dulles got off the elevator.
”That man is an asshole Mr. Lyndon.”
Said the elevator operator, Curtis St. John Flournoy.
It was 113 degrees Fahrenheit. Enough to bleach an anus in three minutes. Ft. Sill was the Wild West… a tree every quarter mile whether you needed one or not.
We sat on the spongy Buffalo grass under the lone tree on the parade field as a pair of training NCO’s gave the latest block of instruction.
”Listen up you shit-covered sexy National Gaaahdz! My name is Sergeant First Class Johnson and I am the Instructor for this four-hour block of instruction. This is my A.I., Sergeant Schmiied. This be the M561 Gama Goat and I be the Gama Goat driver! Task, Condition, Standard, Sirs!”
I was almost asleep. I was sweating uncontrollably in my starched-out BDU’s. The smell of diesel from the dilapidated Gamma Goat lingered in the super-heated air. I was a gold bar OCS sub-human National Guards Officer. No longer a Navy Petty Officer.
Everybody hates the Guard. They have hated the Guard since 1636 in Massachusetts when Pikeman John Smythe Williamson was caught asleep naked with a muscular male Indian after eating fried Beetus on duty. Williamson was tarred and feathered by a tribunal of angry Puritans.
Army training was incredibly boring. I was always tired. I never listened to a single word of training. I tried to care, but I couldn’t.
“Why is the Army obsessed with sleep deprivation? It is so stupid. The bad guys sleep. They are rested and we are always tired. WTF?”
I said out loud.
”You should shut your mouth. What do you know about it? You fucking prior-service Navy swabby, fruity former sailor-man.”
Said some uptight skinny anus of a Lieutenant.
”Maybe you should shut your mouth, you drooling anus-face, I wasn’t talking to you anyway. Mind your fucking business, you have enough problems to deal with from the look of it.”
”I’ll deal with you later.”
”You couldn’t deal with your own anus.”
”You two cunt-faces shut up. I’m not your goddamned babysitter. Learn about this goddamned Gamma Goat. I have a forked Artillery penis and I can split two anuses at once! I’m gonna make you stupid shitheads the first driver and assistant driver with a ton of High explosive rounds. Then we’ll see how chatty you girls are.”
Whispered Major Cowbienous inhaling erotically. He was our lead instructor. He was a Vietnam Vet. Was a Lieutenant with the New Hampshire National Guards Artillery when they were called up for Vietnam.
”You young twats with your namby-pamby sexy talk make the National Guards look bad. When we were in the ‘Nam, the so-called active duty, pot-smoking, heroin-shooting, anus-bleaching, fragging, deserting draftees and goat-fuckers had the nerve to defecate on my beloved National Guards. Fuck them active duties. Maybe if we had National Guards in force we’d have won the goddamned War. LBJ was a bleached anus.”
At the end of training day, I went for a run. I liked the sparse mountains. Ft. Sill had good sitelines.
So I took a walk through the woods from Utonic Manor and I ended up here:
We have nice things in our neighborhood, you dig?
I was walking with the Boten-Daughter through the grounds and the house at Fallingwater. Then we went down to the water’s edge at Ohiopyle.
The Boten-Daughter appreciates art and she creates art.
She once met Peter Max and they had a long conversation about his childhood in China.
She recently created a Peter Max inspired abstract design sketch that is nothing short of spectacular. She created a mindscape worthy of Vaughan Bodé. I would show it here, but I can’t display her work without permission.
I thought about the 25 years when the Kaufmann’s dwelt at Fallingwater. The quiet evenings, the parties with intimate guests. The House is so alive. The grounds so uncluttered and clean.
Then, I think of Utonic Manor, ancient, thick with a spiderweb of macabre vines, Old moss-covered stairwells and funereal gates, swampy woodlands and haunted dead trees.
If ye should travel up ancient Washington Road, to the ancient Countie of Fayette in the Free and Accepted Commonwealth of the Hon. Quaker Wm. Penn past a multitude of 18th Century White Stone cursive Mileposts ‘97 Miles to Wheeling’ take a turn and visit Frank Lloyd Weight’s Kentuck Knob and Fallingwater. Take a walk on the Rocks next to Ohiopyle.
It’s not terribly far from D.C., Baltimore, Philadelphia, if you have an extra day, you can get here from New York, Buffalo, Cleveland or Delaware, so if you happened to be in these very separate, isolated and fully independent United States 🇺🇸, take a drive down.
Forward and Shady Avenue, Squirrel Hill, July 1, 1970
Isidore Jesse Saint Ben-Levi walked out of the back door onto the tiny porch. He closed the old door behind him. The metal know was painted over a hundred times, with the latest coat of white paint revealing a pervious coat of pale green underneath. The door barely shut correctly. It had a weird little pane of glass above which could be adjusted by a long-broken knob.
It was typical July anyway: 90 degrees and windy. It was very green and very old in the rump of a backyard. Old garages, cracked pavement, weird rusty chemical-smelling contaminated industrial drums which served as garbage cans in this City and mezuzahs on the door post.
The one elderly neighbor’s yard was meticulously coiffed. The other was a rental duplex with maybe three families. Isidore’s House was also a duplex. A duplex. Two families under one roof. What an awful idea created by some cheapskate landlord.
He surveyed the yard to the left. Empty boxes from unpacking from the latest move, were stuffed into the giant pungent cans.
He wore jeans and a blue Yankees t-shirt. His hair was long and always unkempt. His Converse All-Stars were already sweaty.
Breakfast had been Honeycombs with milk. His father and mother were puttering around the house, unpacking, but he didn’t pay any attention to their business. His brother, Meerschaum Polonius did not join him, rather staying in his room reading a tattered Edgar Rice Burroughs paperback in near-darkness. His mother would always yell at him to turn on more light, but he never did.
His dad, Hervé was born in Weirton, but raised in Pittsburgh. Hervé’s father Ian was born in Allegheny City in 1900.
Ian’s father, Olivier was born in East St. Louis, but Olivier’s father Otto was born in Oakland Township next to Pittsburgh in 1874.
The rest of them were born in Squirrel Hill, going back to 1793 when Jean-David Ben-Levi, a 53 year old French Veteran of the American Revolution and « La guerre de Sept Ans » (what we would call the French and Indian War), settled his family, two sons, two daughters and several grandchildren in what is now the bluff at the tail end of Pocusset Street where it meets Schenley Park.
Hw first saw the City as it were when it was Ft. Duquesne. He was an 18 year old cannoneer from Lille serving under the ill-fated Colonel François-Marie Le Marchand de Lignery of New France.
Jean-David was fascinated by the little frontier outpost. He would explore on foot, crossing the creeks with his Indian friends and climbing the steep green ridges. His favorite place was the bluff above « Le Course de Quatre Bornes ».
The bluff now sits above the Greenfield bridge. The old street is now pedestrian only. It had been collapsing into Four Mile Run since 1800 any way. Beneath the bluff was the remnants of Old Salt Mine Road, destroyed in part by the Parkway East back in the 1920’s or so.
‘Salt Mine’ was the first road built by the white-eye. It meandered from the raft-crossing point at Monongahela River at Duck Hollow along the giant goose-neck of land back to the Monongahela River yet again where Second Avenue criss-crosses over Irvine Street at the base of giant flaming Steel Mills that ran along the river.
Isidore started to explore the neighborhood. He walked up Forward Avenue towards Beechwood. There was a Church called St. Philomena’s with a parochial school. He knew of Catholic Schools from New York City.
On the grounds, amongst the old massive trees was a girl about his age. She was blonde. Playing alone.
”Hi!” She Said with a wave. She had a peculiar accent.
”Hi.” Responded Isidore. She was the first person his age that he spoke to in the new city.
”Do you live around here!”
”What’s your name?”
”My name is Jesse.” He used his middle name as he was always embarrassed by the name Isidore.
”My name is Mary.”
”So you want to go for a walk with me? I’m exploring the neighborhood.”
”I don’t have permission to go, maybe tomorrow.”
The church wasn’t a place he belonged, so he crossed the street to an old gravel parking lot with a set of stairs and an old broken lime-green wrought iron fence.
He walked up the steps between two ancient, white stone storage sheds. At the top, was a small tennis court, a basketball court and a combination baseball/football field with an oiled dirt surface straight out of the roaring 20’s.
The Field was deserted except for a bespectacled old man, maybe in his late 70’s who was sitting on a bench. He was a distinguished-looking thin gentleman. He wore an old timey hat, like Connie Mack and he stared straight ahead as if he was watching a movie.
“Hello there, young man. I am Dr. Cornelius McTaggerty.”
Isidore stopped. He didn’t fear adults. This old man was strangely interesting and not at all threatening. The old man exuded knowledge and mystery.
”Hi. I’m Isidore.”
”Pleased to make your acquaintance, young master Isidore. May I tell you a story? I am afraid, as it were, that I have run out of time, and I must tell a story, lest it disappear into the fabric of time.”
“OK. That sounds kind of cool.”
Isidore perched on a dry, dilapidated water fountain. The ever-present mosquitoes still found him. He could hear them buzzing in his right ear.
Some baseball players appeared and their cleats clattered across the ill-maintained asphalt and broken, forgotten concrete as they walked towards the cramped urban ballfield.
“There is an old rumor that something is buried under Salt Mine Road. When the French evacuated Ft. Duquesne in November of 1758, they forgot that they had buried a payroll shipment of coins, silver plates from the officer’s mess and even a Fanion from the Regiment. under what is now Saline Street. Back then it was an Indian trail.”
“Sounds interesting to me, I collect coins. I’d like to find that.”
“No one had ever found the payroll or anything else, young man. I’ve been searching for it for seventy years since I was a boy your age. I had some clues which I put into a map and a little notebook. I came close, but I never found it. I think I know where it is, but how do you excavate without a permit?”
“Hmm might be fun to look for it. But someone could have found it decades ago, Sir.”
“Possibly, but neither I nor anyone else could ever share the story, or treasure hunters from all around the world would descend on the city with a grand public todo and beaten me to it. And if they didn’t find it, I would die with the reputation as a famous local crackpot. Some say it’s a legend. I’ve done my research, it’s no legend. You’ll see, it’s all in my notes.”
“Cool. Are there any other legends?”
“There are several other local legends:
the secret storage room under the Lions Club Ruins of Frick Park,
the hidden telephone of Mellon Estate,
the skeleton in the wall of Colfax School,
the top secret government spy lab in the Bell Telephone building on Pocusset Street,
and finally, the 1920’s speakeasy beneath Poli’s restaurant.
and the strangest of all, the Slentav Screen experiment in Schenley Park.
You’ll have to read about it… the Slentav screen designed by Dr. William Blake Hall and Professor Valarious Stephenson of Carnegie Tech.”
“Sounds kind of far-fetched, but it’s a good story. I’m so bored since we moved here that I need a quest. I read the Encyclopedia Britannica and the Almanac all the time.”
“Ha! Wait until you meet the Internet. Einstein believed that all things past and present leave a little trace behind. If you look really carefully you might just find it.”
”The quest for the Legends of Squirrel Hill. I like it. I can do it! Unless you are crazy. Because why me?”
“You will know in time. This was no chance meeting. Take this book. Your future self will thank you.”
Isidore looked at the thick old leather book. It had a little leather locking strap, with a brown bronze snap.
“How do I start, Doctor McTaggerty?”
“Start in the old collection of the Carnegie Library in Oakland in the third floor. Ask for Doctor Chaminade. But you dare not show this book to anyone else ever or others will get there first.”
“How do I contact you if I have a question?”
“I still have an office in the top rotunda of Hammerschlag Hall at Carnegie Tech. If I’m not there, leave a note about what date and time you can return and I will be there.”
Ingloruious Bastards is a typically trite Tarantino romp, this time across Nazi-Occupied France.
The only realistic scene is the opening Where Colonel Hand Landa interrogates Monsieur LaPedite. The film doesn’t really expose the real world violence of the Nazis.
Let’s be honest, the Communists weren’t much better with their Cheka and the Ukrainian Genocide and also let us not forget the Turkish Genocide of the Armenians.
The Nazis thus had two prime 20th Century examples from which to learn. And they learned well. If they got you, you were f@&ked. This wasn’t some Hollywood bullshit. They f@&ked you up.
They had ways of making you talk. And you did talk. And you died. You were not talking your way out of it. This was not Hogan’s Heroes.
But onto our topic. I love the Czechs. They are the refined, artistic, poetic, lyrical soul of the Slavs. The crown jewel of the Western Slavs is Praha.
Czechoslovakia, founded during a meeting in Pittsburgh of all places, back in 1918, was a tiny little country caught between giant powers for the umpteenth million time.
The Czech soul is at once fatalistic and hopeful. Contrast the Russians who are the hardened spiritual frontier, the Ukrainians the heartland, the Poles are the farmers and scientists, the Slovaks Old Central Europe torn between east and west. And then, the Czechs.
The writers epitomize the culture: Jaroslav Hasek – the Czech, Franz Kafka – the Jewish Bohemian. Who can forget the good soldier Sveik?
What a mystical place it is… beautiful cities, ancient overgrown cemeteries. Old libraries. Intricate churches. Catholics, Jews, Bohemians, Moravians, Slavs. A patchwork quilt of ethnicities.
Of course, the Philosopher Pareczenethy was a Czech. Born in Praha, murdered in Thereisenstadt. His utter disdain l for the violence of power. He died fearless.
And then the Czechs… the silly lyrical Czechs. But it was them. The Czechs… who killed the Butcher of Prague, the architect of the final solution, the evil Reinhard Heydrich. Not the sexy, muscular, unshaven Hollywood Americans, not the icy, methodical Brits, not the bold Russians. But, rather the tiny little Czechoslovak people. And they suffered for it greatly.
The Ethiopia of Europe. Sacrificed so a vicious bully wouldn’t hit the West. But you can’t negotiate with bullies. They only stall for time, then they beat the shit out of you anyway. Ask a Cherokee what good negotiation did for them?
The real Nazis played for keeps. Their philosophy was a typical cult of Armageddon. The Communist-Jewish conspiracy was going to kill them all like they did to the Romanovs, like they did to the Ukrainians, like they did to the Kulaks, like they did to the family of King Ludwig in Bavaria. They were coming for the German people. The British were foppish twits and their American friends were tools of the Jewish bankers and they were going to cover the earth with red paint and destroy western civilization, plunder its wealth and kill all non-believers and only the beloved Fuhrer could stop them.
But it was the Czechoslovak who struck the first and boldest blow against the Nazi cult of Armageddon.
Anthropoid is a movie about a tiny group of people and a dwindling resistance to a violent behemoth. It is metaphor for the souls of the Czechs. The two protagonists were a parable of the close cousins, the Czechs and the Slovaks and the short time they lived together and died together in the heart of a poisoned Europe.
The execution of Heydrich emboldened resistance movements in every occupied country. Like the example of the Ras Tafari, the Lion of Judah, King Selassie Hailie the I of Ethiopia who stood up alone against the fascism of Mussolini. Solzhenitsyn, Bonhoeffer, that’s what speaking truth to Power really looks like. It doesn’t end well. It’s not a Hollywood fantasy with an American happy ending.
Someone had to stand up and do something. And they did. Are you willing to die for your people? Are you willing to risk your family and everyone you love? That is the story of Czechoslovakia.
Inglorious Bastards is a silly fable. Anthropoid was real.
You know how it ends. But there is a story worth seeing.
Anthropoid Sean Ellis, Director, LD Productions 2016
The passing of Mac Miller showcased an interesting phenomenon.
One of the greatest urban neighborhoods in the entire United States with its own legends and its own history was put on the map by Mac Miller and also Wiz Khalifa.
The truth is… the death of Mac Miller was devastating for Squirrel Hill, Point Breeze, Pittsburgh and Allderdice High School.
The epic fortune of the rise of Wiz Khalifa and Mac Miller from Allderdice within five years of each other is nothing short of amazing. Will Squirrel Hill now fade away? I don’t know.
Every generation of kids had their own stories and experiences over the decades. I am going to try to bring this to life with a fictionalized account of one family. I will focus on real places and real events.
I’m not from Pittsburgh, but I ended up here at various times.
There have been a few Pittsburgh focused shows, maybe the most successful have been Mr. Rogers, Queer as Folk and This is Us, not to mention the recent discovery of the plays of August Wilson.
The story will cover 225 years of Squirrel Hill history told from the perspective of one family of Jewish Peddlers who showed up on the Allegheny Mountain frontier in the year 1793.
The Story is told through a group of friends who live in Squirrel Hill from 1970-2020. They find a portal in Schenley Park Created by a mad Carnegie Tech Professor, which portal allows them to move back and forward in time at will.
Heaven’s Gate, directed by Michael Cimino starring Kris Kristofferson, Jeff Bridges, Sam Waterston, Richard Mazur and some broads I’ve never heard of.I wanted to hate this movie. But I had never seen it.
It was sort of the nouveau-Western historical epic genre (Pronounced Jaaaahr).
It was kind of long. Too slow in parts. It was an art film. Music score was brilliant. Many great visuals. Had it come out ten years later, it probably would have been highly regarded and been heavily attended.
The topic, The Johnson County War, was mildly interesting.
It was a classic Hollywood mega-bomb: runaway costs, too much hype, out of control whiz kid Director and commercial failure. It was fun to make fun of for the critics. It became in a word: a meme.
It really was not that bad. Very long story short: Harvard Grad goes West becomes Federal Marshall, tries to stop ranchers from killing a hit list of immigrants who threatened their cattle 🐄 (true story… like WTF?) .
He then has to take on other Anglo-Saxons, whose values he questions. Christopher Walken is his conflicted nemesis. The Marshall falls in love with 😍 Balkan Woman Whorehouse Madame. She is killed. Then he goes back to his life of wealth in New England married to his old College Girlfriend.
My reviews are terse because no-one can read lots of impenetrable over-wrought bullshit.
This film deserved a better fate.
The Omen, Directed by Richard Donner, was the successor film to ‘The Exorcist’, essentially the DaVinci Code of the 1970’s.
Plot: evil devil’s spawn Damien, born of a jackal, switched at birth with murdered real baby 👶 of ambassador causes people to die and kill themselves, has to be ritually killed with knives procured from Israel 🇮🇱. Blah, blah, blah.
It was filmed like a cross between a soap opera and a 70’s made for TV 📺 movie. It was a schlock horror film of the worst quality. The acting was atrocious. Gregory Peck was too old for the role. Most of the characters were unattractive and creepy, but that may have been on purpose.
The horror scenes were too obvious, the lighting 💡 was too strong 💪 and often destroyed the mood of terror. Some of the scariest scenes were so bad that they were funny 😄.
It was an iconic film, yes. Barely watchable. Slightly boring. But a really shitty film at best. Horrible production quality.
‘Sanctus Spiritus! Sanctus Spiritus!’
Cool film. Must watch. Schlock horror iconic film.
Note: ‘kid 🧒 on bicycle 🚲 where Mom falls off balcony’ scene was totally copied by Kubrick in the Shining Big Wheel scene. Go see for yourself.