A Mac Crary Editorial
June 10, 2017
In a film from Hollywood called A Few Good Men which likely you have seen, the star and antagonist says something to the effect that when the Marines go out to fight a war they can turn to the Navy and say, “thanks for the lift.” The sarcasm speaks to an underlying sentiment that is readily understood by the audience, who may even share in its belief that joining the Navy is a form of Imperial evasion, a service who prove their manhood by tormenting whales with sonar, but it speaks very ill of recognition about the past, and memory of the Pacific War. My purpose in this letter is to make it possible for you to engage an understanding of the triangle existing between status tensions in the Armed Forces, Hollywood presentation, and the condition of Navy recognition through the simple prism of a special collection directed to a son of the USS San Jacinto, never arriving at much open acknowledgment.
In our society the crass existence of ideology plays an elusive but significant role in rivalry between districts of assembly pertaining to the politics of the Armed Forces. If a Marine with a Purple Heart in some sort of rage beats an old lady from Syria to death who lives on the streets of San Francisco his medals won’t mean anything when Police arrest him. However, if a Marine is confronted in a bar by a Navy Seal who has insulted his honor and beats him to a pulp the idea that the insult crossed the line would provide an effective defense, at least in a significant segment of public opinion. This gets a little murkier when you look at a child being raised by a single mother who takes him to peace marches, concerts glamorizing the peace movement, finding him attacked blindside by an armed gang on his way to the Scholars Program in grade school. Children are impressionable, but the boy in question was also unrivaled ranking Naval nobility. Such a runt was resented, and taken as asking for it.
If the situation stopped there it would be possible to put down to human perversity and lament or laugh as the mood dictates, but you can’t evaluate it outside of the tragic combination of factors, injury, obscure records, exploitation, suppression and falsification that made this lifelong ordeal delectable to the perpetrators, as though the thrill in watching the Navy stand aside while tribute to Japan was exacted from a son of the San Jacinto was entirely worth the cost of a ticket to the theater, because the author of the blind side attack on Jimmy Crary is now proven to have originated in Japanese pornographic cinema, the notorious Neva Corporation, with allies in the NAACP of Pittsburgh and WQED Television, major embarrassing factors keeping investigation silent. It is very difficult to know whose character should most properly be being evaluated.
According to the special collection documents, the crime was hotwired into an assassination program. The men who kidnapped me bragged of stealing a Lincoln “Cont”. The letters of Gail Burstyn, an Israeli agent of Neva Corporation, spoke openly of murdering Martin Luther King as a function of leadership in the AIDS attack. There is something very Gen. Patton about the crusade, “If those punks are going to call themselves the same religion as us, then they should have to die to prove it.” Faced with this madness, you literally cannot evaluate the character of the American people at all without facing the enormity of the evidence that AIDS was quite simply that: an attack. Gail Burstyn was apparently not only a homophone: Gail Carolyn Burstyn, but an Anglanized play on Geli Raubal. Whether you believe that or not, several facts are perfectly brazen: the assassins used disbelief to attack again and again.
As a deaf child ensnared in anti-war sensibilities, I was cut off from the pack, a runt of the litter, disowned. The text of the special collection goes quite a bit further, and contains the idea of using embarrassment about me to stigmatize all the other victims as well. It renders the murder of President John Fitzgerald Kennedy as an Army/Navy game, and this fact is perfectly clear and cannot be denied by those honest enough to evaluate the text. Nowhere is this idea presented as treason, far to the contrary. It is written entirely as saleable patriotism.
There is a specific means by which we have arrived at this jeopardy. Our people have abandoned the idea that our legitimacy depends on our integrity, honesty and free exchange of ideas in a system of checks and balances. There seems nowhere to turn in a society where leers and scapegoating are so popular and secrecy is so prized that you are considered dangerous in principle if you confide in anyone about anything. It isn’t so much that the offices of administration don’t already know as that you might ask them to admit they know. That it lacks any sort of bravery is particularly curious in light of how muscular the attackers’ claims to superior manhood always have been. In real life, loyalty can sometimes simply be measured in making a phone call to the district police, despite fear of being called a snitch, or being turned in by a rogue officer to the local prison gang symbiosis at work in many power structures of our cities. There are lucrative law firms who advise and live by the credo that telling the truth is a loser and make sure it turns out that way.
The special collection is curiously written to compel trust in the authors despite being sleazy and wrong. There were many cold-blooded lies that came to light in the vicious text. Mysteriously deafened, cut off from the pack, beaten and gassed into a state of intellectual paralysis while still entering puberty, the little boy object, chosen for being from the Pacific Fleet at the time of the Little Boy bomb, was eventually forced in crawling destitution to apologize at the gate of the Dakota Mansion to Yoko Ono, who had managed to weaponize an impacted neuroplastic head trauma inflicted by Pitt’s neurobehavioralist Wm. Wattenmaker, for the purpose of public humiliation. Science gets a little tricky; so does the script about Lennon’s double and fantasy.
The firebrand in the movie who laughs at the Navy is confounded by a Naval attorney in an attempt by Hollywood to play feel good politics about our conscience during the blackout. Kennedy did have some black loyalists who in Pittsburgh, where this crime was witnessed, have increasingly become conscious of having sided with evil. I was variously raised to accept being tortured, called a jinx, a runt, queerbait and abused to this hour, but somehow the local celebrity darlings like Rusted Root, King Crimson, Peter Gabriel, Elizabeth Taylor and Ralph Proctor, all of whom knew about me, managed to have it that it was all the fault of Jimmy Crary. The lies they circulated through WQED with the help of Vince Eirene and his hatter friend Martin Sheen were so dangerously depraved that acceptance of them is literally death incarnate. You wouldn’t have thought the civilized world would side with entrapment operations aimed at a battered deaf child, or when found out for happening the legal system close ranks into methods of exclusion, a barrister refusal circuit, as if every lawyer in America had recused themselves to malicious gloating, promoting the sickening and abberant attitude about maniacal injustice acceptable as a political movement. Nobody entertained the idea of it as a doublecross in the least.
In the name of Obama’s Neo-Darwinian idea of a multi-racial survivor group, the attackers, clearly and demonstrably led by the Reagan machine, whose attache from the CVL-30 was in the air squad and clearly deemed a cut above the rest, someone Bush, knew that a nerve agent had been violently impacted in a hostage child who was prelingual and allowed the Japanese to target the head injury in the most criminal and cruel way that could possibly be imagined. They used theater tactics to arm a woman named Rosa who became engaged to be married to me for this dirty. Pitt, running a psychological operation, stood by their psychological services, Penny Crary, to the point of calling my father Ryland, a Distinguished Naval Veteran, Peace Corps Leader and Chair of Philosophy of Education, a paranoid schizophrenic and my testimony proof of genetic schizophrenia, while they knew about, and knew I didn’t know about, a terrorist impacted neuroplasm they were targeting through Mellon Bank, Rosa’s Restaurant as a symbol adjacent the Warhol Museum, for Yoko Ono, never once bothering about Gail Burstyn, the name on the script.
Ringo Starr very clearly believes his tyrannical leverage is higher than all other honors societies. What Yoko and Ringo did was not innocent of profoundly violent crime. New York media leader Lewis Lapham in braying contempt for what he banged on about as victim status had Cameron Brown’s gang ripper murder Shannon Harps in Seattle in contempt for any idea but their own sale of hate. Under the terms of this outrage even the Good Samaritanism of the Buddy Program is exposed as more mental cruelty from the stage masters of a sickening farce. Armed with prattle about an unruly fan, hatred for the papparazzi and the myth of Yoko Ono’s infallible art, like the disgusto film: Rape, the filmed the brutal rape of my deaf advocate Jeannie Tamburro for a secret war collection.
Peter Gabriel, as testified to by my school’s Honors Department, viciously mangled his statements about prior depravity by Ringo and his agent Richard Borden, which they were calling a Tang pretzel, whatever that means, in their Lizzie Borden nest of ripper hatters, where on Mt. Desert Island they staged an AIDS testing war game, shown and proven to have been predating appearance of the virus, and called it an Experience Park (in a letter of affirmation with the guilty to me) to build empathy with the victims. They seem to have lied about everything, entirely and all of it. Royal Society are occult in ways that American police simply cannot keep up with and they have adopted the shrug of if you can’t beat them, join them.
Rosa initiated her play conniving a vicious and eccentric maelstrom of hostilities targeting a prior invisible injury with the words, “I am too happy.” This was the beginning of a long, deranged ordeal where my right to the pursuit of happiness was brought under the guns of backwards speaking prisoner-government gang symbiosis originating in a Seattle Museum mafia whose sympathies were persuaded by an inner circle Queers from Her Majesty’s AIDS attack ARK construct of Royal celebrity acceptance practices. No one registers more hostility towards their victim than a frustrated slob who imagines their prey to blame for rejection by the Beatles, an idea the Beatles are only too ready to underwrite for their own ends of promoting sadism. Am I talking about myself or do I mean you?
Being in the grip of Ringo Starr means being punished for squawking in the name of being punished for not understanding. He sided with those who started AIDS but said it was in the name of Lennon. The intensity of the idolization directed at the Beatles transforms two-tongues and facelies into hypocrisy and paradox in the academic mind of their happy slave arsenal overawed by the razmataz of acid rock gaslighters.
Seattle as a culture tries not to endorse genocide (even when you are supposed to be sympathetic to one of our allies about it for some reason or another) and when they do endorse genocide they claim it is in the name and interest of the victims which of course is very curious but I guess it helps them to survive mentally, and gives them a sort of Obama fix job to salve some hard oversight sore spots.
You think I’m playing?
They went along with a different Milgram’s experiment. The experiment by Milgram was pop art and sold books. He got a batch of urbane people to shock someone stupid (over their protests) under his command after inviting them to participate in a voluntary experiment. This was far more sinister and sick. How far could foreign London, a partner in the release of AIDS, get Queer Seattle to go against innocent people by telling them it was in the spirit of Lennon acting through the will of Yoko Ono, while insisting that the secrecy of rock stars in the matter be respected by the press?
The thinking originated among Israelis in a place called Guerilla Theater at a camp called Kon-a-Kwee, outside Pittsburgh, indicative of the homophone spinning in the many gyrations of the Ivy League psychiatric spider web the Reagans wove. It isn’t coincidence that Patricia Fripp called on Jim Urban and others at Pitt News who glorified Reagan’s Iran-Contra mess in declaring the dis-Honor Society systematics set up as justified entrapment masonry on Mt. Desert Island, which is viewed by them (an AIDS testing war game, although proven to have be planned before appearance of the virus) as an act of regency and excellence in government. Prison camps were already networked through Nazi gang bosses for clean-up time. So we see from who Patricia is that Bowie was an indispensable ally to Reagan and that Obama knew his game, black power in return for cooperation. The joke’s on you. In this emergence of cunning and deplorable manipulation of crowd sentiment and media, the first blinkers fell away attesting to Beatles high crime, as Peter Gabriel from NASA sent a scurrilous alibi for Mt. Desert Island that held sway at the New York Times, who also knew in advance that AIDS was on the horizon. Zappa was already ready to publish disgruntled non-information until hysteria blew over to justify as impotent rage a theory of psychology and satisfaction for the victims, making up libels in the name of Lennon about me, who he adjudged must never be named. So much for timely warning. While Zappa lied for Reagan, more blinders fell away.
Does the truth vanish when the only person allowed to know it finally dies, like a snake swallowing its tail into infinity? Is the way such questions lance the script not surely indicative of one of the messages behind Tive’s chronic lying, malicious accusation and characterization of peers as “mental midgets”? Why does the American assembly cheer so inelegantly those who hold them in scorn and rub atrocity in their faces by way of super-charismatic celebrities employed by their corporation at SONY? Why do you punish those who only wanted to be accepted by you? The government thought it would be funny, wry and witty to take my wife away from me. That bedlam of cruelty made them happy. So much for civic dignity. There were more horrors in store. On the night they authored their most hideous abuse from the dreamworld, the elopement of Midori with Kasper, the sadist who brutally and maniacally kidnapped and tortured me as a child, I spent the evening summoning my faith singing the entire canvas of King Crimson songs I knew, and in the darkness of their fabric of super-study, they unleashed on a homeless man, their final accounting. The physical realities, homelessness, seizures from a still invisible neuroplasm, reliving kidnapping and terrible fear as a child on the freezing streets of Pittsburgh, John Schieffelbein I am sure remembers how funny it was to see me in jail from public shrieking in Iowa when Clinton followed Midori to Ames with a laugh from the darkness of voices impinging on the persona’s experience, a rape frame, twisted by foreign mania into a mind raped by neuro-amnesia. Castration lay in wait.
Ken Griffey, by the way, to me a nobody, was in those days thrilling Seattle, as I screamed in Des Moines, and Chris Arnberg helped himself to my former fiance. Solving the hidden issue of what Obama’s faction did to my poor pap, from the Iowa countryside to which I turned, is a handicap in getting it all across because while done with less extreme defacement of his grave to him, the effectiveness of the low-intensity backstab followed the same roster and agenda techniques of the holy war power, and the ace in the deck for Obama is the Jewish heritage of Gail Burstyn. Griffey was in his heyday when I was vomiting my life out on the streets of Des Moines, but his syndicate still has their open mic bullies challenging me with deranged, malicious distortions.
The simplest factual details are smothered by the sophisticated arguments the British unleash with response time ultimatums clocked by Yoko Ono’s museum mafia and prison gang symbiosis on the Federal level set to poison crime and murder of innocent bystanders for refusing to answer, by which they mean provide them recreational digest as getaway artists. They smother the specifics proving that Will Zell of Mt. Desert Island had prior knowledge of the AIDS war plan with sympathy for Leslie Katz, the starlet of their drama club presentation. The parochial savages agreed upon signifiers of which I am one, as the child of a humanist; a school of thought one of their leaders, Franklin Graham, called the greatest threat to America since communism, although he probably meant since democracy, which is all that humanism means. By brutal attack they forced me to accept broken laws as a child that I witnessed, relaying that I snitched whenever I turned to police or school administration. The reason they saw me as a laughingstock is because I loved King Crimson. This made King Crimson themselves hate me for how they could walk on me. My love meant nothing. King Crimson have been implicated for their prior involvement, with the ire of Frank Zappa ridiculing his fans as he mocked them with sleazy hatred, snickering aloud, “but you all love it, don’t you?” with sneers at their masochism.
The public see it as collective defense of their religion, playing victim after brutal assault on a minor. Full of tricks, the assassins drafted a traumatized child into an illegal war game in a lifelong mandatory refutation of criminally insane homework braying that they are due full credit for creating what they construe in self-service as a hero of dissent. Under no circumstances will they allow legal review that might reveal their informal Death Row, which gallops the narrative towards my father like racing thoughts.
What’s this about just one bullet in Pittsburgh? The key image of the film Deer Hunter. Did you notice how close Robert DeNiro played it to Obama in Kennedy Center on a public occasion? Martin Sheen played it just as close to me in Pittsburgh at my school, where his handmaiden Vince Eirene, drug varmint of Catholic Worker, brokered Katz’ rumors on my manhood and reputation. Sheen’s relationship of a doppleganger hue with Eirene is part of a crisis planning construct that attended military scandals around Oliver North like suspension of our Constitution, Desert Rescue, Ghorbanifar, Youssou N’dour, war on Nicaragua, Swimmer at Mellon Bank, Mt. Desert Island, the meaning of 444 days, Exocet missile sales to Iran via Israel and revelations held up by Miami Herald, where my maternal grandfather was once called the Fourth Estate’s secret weapon, all taking place in broadcast while allowing Westmoreland County administration at Pitt to duck the realities of Gail Burstyn, as they pretended to find their own letters for the Federal Emergency Management Agency conjob they’d prior scripted, all licky chops. DeNiro was close at hand.
The English manner of the combine in structure was to dispense soothsay and symbolic terrorism while playing a game of playing like they were on the side of the victims. They had Euro-queers, of course, on high, from the central planning division of the Ark, just as notorious and violent queers battered me in hostage as a child. AIDS was a weapon from perverts, the sort of Nazi sadists that surrounded Ernst Roehm. The exotic idea of a prince in an iron mask was a contribution of bondage pornographers in good with the FBI, who allowed this slipknot when I spoke out in the name of democratic values, a heresy they called it at the Post Gazette. Semper Fi induced the requested forgetfulness at the insistence of Daniel Inouye’s special gavel. National Security put the rabble to sleep again, condoning the mysterious elixir with the putrid choirs of long robe loyalty before the throne of the Union Jack.
Midori Goto, posturing, oh but he was petitioning me, made sure that every depraved invention was circulated, exaggerated and validated. What wouldn’t she say for a Japanese revenge endorsed by Hitler Reagan and Ringo Starr?
Such writing clearly isn’t art, it screams that a law has been broken and negligence roars, but it cannot be entirely satisfying as to its purpose either. Why? The reason is called mad words in Japanese, Kyogen, jabberwocky in foreign England, and word salad among the depressing metal heads in America, but the foundational sentiment is that voices of radio map overlaying the trickery are obscure advertisements which cause embarrassment and cringing much like pornography and legalized cannabis do in Seattle. The Beatles (always applause machine rock) knew and can mobilize laughter and gratitude anyway, while secretly carrying out mutilation abomination.
Frank Zappa made a show of non-information, while covering for the killers like Henry Wade, letting Youssou N’dour into the basement of the police department just as though Obama were Jack Ruby, while his minions in Pittsburgh, playing dad’s screams before Trinity’s might, said my being afraid proves me guilty. Moonunit and her munchkins got the story of Bill Wheeler claiming he committed infanticide of my son through the wires of Seattle Stranger to substantiate the crime of an unidentified registered nurse at Harborview in the cruel overture to the ripper hatter murder of Shannon Harps by psychiatric authorities playing the tune of minimum justified violence to the choir of Martin Luther King’s clemency for all.