A Mac Crary Editorial: June 13, 2017


Once on TV I caught Little Richard. He was vibrant and bitterly contested that he was the best saying it many times with prepositions interspersed. For a moment it caused me to wonder if it were true that under the roof of his stage lights wasn’t immortality. The White Album, Pink Floyd’s Wish You Were Here, Zoso by Zep all seemed stacked up to defeat his exasperation, none of which to me at that age held a candle to King Crimson, Genesis and Roxy Music. His anger was memorable and made me question. If not immortal he was at least unforgettable.

I’ve seen many things. I am an interesting person. Folded in on my cloud from adjacent dimensions are points of departure and items of interest long in sentence worth pondering. One could collect me, item by item, fuming at what time forces being overlooked. As a student at Tacoma Community College I am to say the least a stalwart of scholarship. My shelves are spangled with A+ papers in a variety of subjects attained despite severe neurotrauma and near total deafness.

All of this is a government issue for exactly the reason that it hasn’t been made one but it will be if I have anything to say about it. This sounds hollow, impotent and futile, but at least is ablaze with the light of novelty. One can see without reading further that there is more to come. Beginnings can spoil things. Nothing recycles however. Cyclables come from initial manufacture. For those whom power is better than truth nothing here should even be told them, but let a thousand years pass and this letter will still be news.

Past readers have cautioned to ask me, “Loose Lips Sink Ships,” in the tone: don’t you realize? To which I find myself suppressing the mutter: what sort of ship would murder Martin Luther King?; because explanation being demanded by those who want to carry on as usual is just intended as a drain. The script, its record, is in my possession. You don’t want me talking that is really your problem. Do not seek to make it mine.

There is something distasteful about knowing and being able to prove beyond the shadow of a doubt such magnificent foils of the script as who killed John Fitzgerald Kennedy. It spoils the fun of the game in being hoodwinked and led down the gutter of opinion where anybody’s view is as good as anybody else’s since no amount of study, and review can arrive at an opinion more conclusive than the stupidest guess, which allows anyone with serious interest to be lured into contest and humiliation with so-called researchers, in place to guide those who are then misled. They’d like to tar and feather me for letting on. Obviously, since I remember and loved him as a child that doesn’t matter. The best yet was the woman who told me, “If he knew what happened he wouldn’t want you to tell for the good of America.”

The researchers don’t want me to tell because it spoils their game. This is a very serious allegation. I am not referring to anything rhetorical in calling the assassination mystery a planned game. Anyone who has seen the script knows that now. It is a game being watched carefully by assassins who have masqueraded for decades as researchers. The problem for them is that I have the Texas Schoolbook and even though they have tortured me senseless, viciously slandered me and shut down my computer from unidentified remote locations, the gig is up.

There are other things to say about what has been learned concerning the systematic assassination of key liberal leaders in the 60’s from a plan kept in something of a safe or time capsule all these years. The murders were spitefully used for a diversion from what could only be admitted more serious: the AIDS attack about which the deaths were made as a parable of sickening purpose, to lead what they claim are the damned. Our government has abandoned seriousness in favor of demented mirth in the matter. For this we have the British to thank. Even were I to have the power to conduct myself towards the worst criminals as they have conducted themselves towards an innocent and honest friend, I would balk. The vocabulary of ethics, words like scruples, they use while they void, in Orwellian false witness of character beyond derangement. To call actions as damaged and premeditated as their own forgivable is as insane as they are. The Beatles regard being caught red-handed in abomination as an annoying embarrassment.

Sometimes matters of significant complexity can profit from being simplified and carefully explained. Herbert Agar said that which renders our politics obscure in effect makes us dishonest. The lolling and extravagant wormtongue of Beatles sympathizers is the snake nest debating on behalf of those who started AIDS, cleverly calling failure to warn a landslide. It is relevant how the victims turned on me, sneering that I was notified in advance so why shouldn’t they go with the program for a laugh at my expense? As Paul McCartney crowed, “gonna get that boy.” McCartney’s grudge goes way back to a time before the Palace paved their way by a Capitol offense in Dealey Plaza with the guns of Oswald Mosley. My father Ry had met with them in an underground club, laughed at them, leaving their faces blue and their lips curling like foiled hags. He even knew they were destined for great fame. He’d seen it before. Their hiss: you think you’re better than us, has had impressive uses, especially among black Confederates in Pittsburgh.

When the killers first attacked me blindside with slaughtering blows as a child they made clear their target was American Freedom of Speech. Their goblin mouthed, “I heard you called me a name,” before brutally felling me from the direction that Wilkes felled Lincoln. I was a 12 year old scholar. I had never seen their maniac before. Many British tongues writhed seeking to make this crime appear heroic and brave. Perhaps it was by their standard.

A leader of the killers, someone Robert Fripp, of the medievalist turkey King Crimson, smoothly cunned aloud regarding the mandate by Plato that politics and music are intrinsically linked. The rabidness of the attack and the deafness they authored was meant as part of the suppression of American power. I was never to be able to challenge their mystique by methods in line with their chauvanist prowess in popular arts. Even those who did not know, insider wise, the depths of his depravity in Pittsburgh can hardly excuse cooperating in his kicking my dead father by his lies. His take, which the public could easily follow or learn, was dangerously tainted with bullshit from the rock industry and his own obscurantist bent; his hypocrisy so smothered in self-righteousness you can barely think about it. It evokes what John Dewey’s grandson Fred observed, that the lies we are told are so pernicious we can’t even understand them anymore, much less answer. My father’s work was too dedicated and sincere for a backstab by a prima donna whose art has admirably been described as a pissing contest in metal.

Blackout can do and did very serious injury that much is perfectly obvious and was intended, but even with the truth available to sleuth public the Beatles machine have a rabid gridlock over private sentiments in our society, presenting a perverse social problem, hegemonic pretenses by so-called liberators of our modern age, whose only claim to legitimacy is the fancy footwork by which they claim Social Darwinism for their mantle.

Only by lying about me and what happened to me could the Department of the Navy, who refused their duty to investigate what was done to my father, ward off the disgrace heaped upon them by the British assassins; yet the English were quick to cater to this public relations need in the services. Among the things they denied were:


1. The evidence of extremely brutal beatings.

2. The terrifying pedophile violence and hostage-taking.

3. The evidence of a nerve agent being used.

4. Being forced to use inhalants, gassed as a child.

5. The holocaust survivor network tied to Israeli extremists even causing problems there.

6. The willful cover-up of my disappearance by the elementary school where it took place.


It isn’t as if that isn’t enough, but it’s really just a taste. To allow and clemence the whole thing the vermin coiled, led by Peter Gabriel, to announce, in his high estate as a ripper hatter enthused by the murders he authored from his desk at Amnesty International, that the outcome conformed to a swift sociological theory, and proves a godlike hand has guided their mission of authority, variously referred to in their pot of poetry politics as: “Caspar” and “Luke 16”. Mongering misjudgment as the most vicious, mudslinging yellow journalist creep who ever strutted out to offend human decency, it was the only respect in which he didn’t complete leave us misledd by claiming the name of Ayn Rand to his benefit. She did have antagonists, but unlike the monsters who seethed that it was a crooked game of initiation into ethical struggle, she did it wanting it to stop, not to achieve bray by its victory. In every other respect he did nothing but misuse Ayn Rand’s name, as he brutalized me. Ayn Rand did not allow for the perverts who knock children unconscious to render them slaves.

While so mis-rendering his damaged ideas of social drama the British allowed the people who attacked us to claim that justice is on their side. Small wonder they have no need for fair play or due process in executing these matters of highest principle and celebrity. Gabriel’s celebrity among the victims went well for Paul McCartney. In Pittsburgh, an attorney who works for a very white corporate law firm, who surrounded me with his marijuana smoke in a trouble junior high situation, who manipulated me onto the set, and secured very astute Black administration eager to work with Gabriel in setting up lies about me, a man named Miles Kirshner, had a principle he would invoke about what was being done to me which he called: the too good principle. Can you imagine if such an idea were adopted everywhere? Some dignified person who makes life happy for everyone could be trounced simply for being attractive and dignified, with the legal resort calling it an act of scruples, necessary to the greater good. The idea holds sway in Pittsburgh where the black colleagues of Gabriel sneer openly, in front of witnesses, that queerbait has a way of making you hate him by the way he acts like he thinks he’s special. Doctors piled on, again, perfectly openly, making serious acts of malpractice, always as though saying: make him afraid of death, make him scared, make him die young so I can see it. It’s complicated for a child to be gifted, young and battered. The novelty of the manner in which the British made me both a symbol of the victims, splattering the school with the abortion they contracted by a corporate fiance who was on a mission of sabotage and attempted murder, targeting the head injury they secretly implanted, leading to a threat on the children of my family by the ripper murder of Shannon Harps, where I was given the Empty Set symbol as a black spot from the legendary underworld of London, and the manner in which I was also made a symbol by which the victims took revenge all hinged on this idea of a sufficiently valuable person to be used in symbolic effigy.

Their final thumbscrew was the macabre idea of Ultrahigh being like the Rev. Wright Brothers, demanding forgiveness have wings, so that everyone understand that truth is out of the question, and that it will only destroy those who utter it. Failure to warn, they leer, was just part of the fun.