Long Live the Social Revolution

On May 4, 1886, a bomb exploded at a Chicago labor rally, wounding dozens of policemen, seven of whom eventually died. A wave of mass hysteria swept the country, leading to a sensational trial that culminated in four controversial executions, and dealing a blow to the labor movement from which it would take decades to recover. Here is what Louis Lingg, one of the damned, said in Court between the conviction and Sentencing. His fate was grim. Days before his execution he lit a cigar in his jail cell. The cigar had a dynamite cap lodged inside. He blew off his head. It is still unclear if this most heinous end was a defiant suicide by a man who refused to be taken at the gallows or something far more sinister. The guards often gave him gifts.

Court of Justice! With the same irony with which you have regarded my efforts to win in this “free land of America,” a livelihood such as humankind is worthy to enjoy, do you now, after condemning me to death, concede me the liberty of making a final speech. I accept your concession; but it is only for the purpose of exposing the injustice, the calumnies and the outrages which have been heaped upon me.

You have accused me of murder, and convicted me: What proof have you brought that I am guilty?

In the first place, you have brought this fellow Seliger to testify against me. Him I have helped to make bombs, and you have further proven that with the assistance of another, I took those bombs to No. 58 Clybourn avenue, but what you have not proven—even with the assistance of your bought “squealer,” Seliger, who would appear to have acted such a prominent part in the affair—is that any of those bombs were taken to the haymarket.

A couple of chemists also, have been brought here as specialists, yet they could only state that the metal of which the haymarket bomb was made bore a certain resemblance to those bombs of mine, and your Mr. Ingham has vainly endeavored to deny that the bombs were quite different. He had to admit that there was a difference of a full half inch in their diameters, although he suppressed the fact that there was also a difference of a quarter of an inch in the thickness of the shell. This is the kind of evidence upon which you have convicted me.

It is not murder, however, of which you have convicted me. The judge has stated that much only this morning in his resume of the case, and Grinnell has repeatedly asserted that we were being tried not for murder, but for anarchy, so the condemnation is—that I am an anarchist!

What is anarchy? This is a subject which my comrades have explained with sufficient clearness, and it is unnecessary for me to go over it again. They have told you plainly enough what our aims are. The state’s attorney, however, has not given you that information. He has merely criticized and condemned, not the doctrines of anarchy, but our methods of giving them practical effect, and even here he has maintained a discreet silence as to the fact that those methods were forced upon us by the brutality of the police. Grinnell’s own proffered remedy for our grievances is the ballot and combination of trades unions, and Ingham has even avowed the desirability of a six-hour movement! But the fact is, that at every attempt to wield the ballot, at every endeavor to combine the efforts of workingmen, you have displayed the brutal violence of the police club, and this is why I have recommended rude force, to combat the ruder force of the police.

You have charged me with despising “law and order.”What does your “law and order” amount to? Its representatives are the police, and they have thieves in their ranks. Here sits Captain Schaack. He has himself admitted to me that my hat and books have been stolen from him in his office—stolen by policemen. These are your defenders of property rights! The detectives again, who arrested me, forced their way into my room like housebreakers, under false pretenses, giving the name of a carpenter, Lorenz, of Burlington street. They have sworn that I was alone in my room, therein perjuring themselves. You have not subpoenaed this lady, Mrs. Klein, who was present, and could have sworn that the aforesaid detectives broke into my room under false pretenses, and that their testimonies are perjured

But let us go further. In Schaack we have a captain of the police, and he also has perjured himself. He has sworn that I admitted to him being present at the Monday night meeting, whereas I distinctly informed him that I was at a carpenters' meeting at Zepf’s Hall. He has sworn again that I told him that I also learned to make bombs from Herr Most’s book. That also is a perjury.

Let us go still a step higher among these representatives of law and order. Grinnell and his associates have permitted perjury, and I say that they have done it knowingly. The proof has been adduced by my counsel, and with my own eyes I have seen Grinnell point out to Gilmer, eight days before he came upon the stand, the persons of the men whom he was to swear against.

While I, as I have stated above, believe in force for the sake of winning for myself and fellow-workmen a livelihood such as men ought to have, Grinnell, on the other hand, through his police and other rogues, has suborned perjury in order to murder seven men, of whom I am one. Grinnell had the pitiful courage here in the courtroom, where I could not defend myself, to call me a coward! The scoundrel! A fellow who has leagued himself with a parcel of base, hireling knaves, to bring me to the gallows. 

Why? For no earthly reason save a contemptible selfishness—a desire to 'rise in the world“—to ”make money," forsooth.

This wretch—who, by means of the perjuries of other wretches is going to murder seven men—is the fellow who calls me “coward”! And yet you blame me for despising such “defenders of the law” such unspeakable hypocrites!

Anarchy means no domination or authority of one man over another, yet you call that “disorder.” A system which advocates no such “order” as shall require the services of rogues and thieves to defend it you call “disorder.”

The Judge himself was forced to admit that the state’s attorney had not been able to connect me with the bombthrowing. The latter knows how to get around it, however. He charges me with being a “conspirator.” How does he prove it? Simply by declaring the International Working People’s Association to be a “conspiracy.” I was a member of that body, so he has the charge securely fastened on me. Excellent! Nothing is too difficult for the genius of a state’s attorney!

It is hardly incumbent upon me to review the relations which I occupy to my companions in misfortune. I can say truly and openly that I am not as intimate with my fellow prisoners as I am with Captain Schaack.

The universal misery, the ravages of the capitalistic hyena have brought us together in our agitation, not as persons, but as workers in the same cause. Such is the “conspiracy” of which you have convicted me.

I protest against the conviction, against the decision of the court. I do not recognize

your law, jumbled together as it is by the nobodies of bygone centuries, and I do not recognize the decision of the court. My own counsel have conclusively proven from the decisions of equally high courts that a new trial must be granted us. The state’s attorney quotes three times as many decisions from perhaps still higher courts to prove the opposite, and I am convinced that if, in another trial, these decisions should be supported by twenty-one volumes, they will adduce one hundred in support of the contrary, if it is anarchists who are to be tried. And not even under such a law—a law that a schoolboy must despise—not even by such methods have they been able to “legally” convict us.

They have suborned perjury to boot.

I tell you frankly and openly, I am for force. I have already told Captain Schaack, “if they use cannons against us, we shall use dynamite against them.” I repeat that I am the enemy of the “order”of today, and I repeat that, with all my powers, so long as breath remains in me, I shall combat it. I declare again, frankly and openly, that I am in favor of using force. I have told Captain Schaack, and I stand by it,“if you cannonade us, we shall dynamite you.” You laugh! Perhaps you think,“you’ll throw no more bombs”; but let me assure you I die happy on the gallows, so confident am I that the hundreds and thousands to whom I have spoken will remember my words; and when you shall have hanged us, then—mark my words—they will do the bombthrowing! In this hope do I say to you: I despise you. I despise your order, your laws, your force-propped authority. Hang me for it!

Source: Louis Ling, Address to the Court, Famous Speeches of the Chicago Anarchists (Chicago: 1912). Reprinted in Dave Roediger and Franklin Rosemont, eds., Haymarket Scrapbook (Chicago: Charles H. Kerr Publishing Company, 1986), 46–47.

The Trouble With Jacobson

  The plaque that hangs on the wall of Longfellow’s grocery store chain holds Jacobson’s likeness. The elder Jacobson looks as if he’s been caught a bit off-guard, as if his soul has been stolen, ripped from a seamless serenity and thrust into the spotlight. His face is like the before picture on some late night television infomercial: lumpy, sagging, and badly lit.

        He stares at us from under a checkered wool cap. His eyes alone tell a story, a story of idyllic times that are so distant now they seem almost fictional, like tales from a brightly colored children’s book.

In black lettering over a gold frame it reads: ‘Our Favorite Customer.’

         The three dimensional representation of Jacobson is hunched over a display rack. His weathered face inches away from a plum. There’s a head jerk and a kind of shiver and after a moment he’s back to contemplating the riddle of the plum.

          You see, Jacobson had just had a system reboot and they seemed to be happening with increasing frequency. To some, it appeared Jacobson was suffering from the early on-set of alzeimers. The truth was far from it. Jacobson’s memory was not in danger of slipping away into an irretrievable abyss but rather the vast weight of his innumerable experiences threatened to tax and twist his form until it was unrecognizable. In short, Jacobson was on the verge of another aberration, an episode so unprovoked, indiscriminate, random, and seething that to the unaccustomed observer it appeared to be anything other than what it was; part of Jacobson’s normal daily routine.

          At register number three, Skid is the personification of punk rock. He’s transmogrified the counter top into a drum kit. Turning ball point pens intended for customer credit card receipts, drop slips, and an array of other cashier related jobs, tasks, and responsibilities into beat sticks.

          Sneering he hits the register’s enter button like a high hat symbol. Ding. It opens and he slams it closed. Instantly bored he flips through a gossip rag and disinterested tosses it back upside down in the rack. His face pierced with a myriad of studs, loops, and bars lifts happy as a pre-occupied soccermom enters into Skid’s world, banging the cart.

          She's a former beauty contest finalist in her AYSO sweater, having put on a few pounds since then. She’s still a smoker.

          “ Hello Joshua,” Mrs. Robertson says superseding Skid’s sobriquet.

          “ Heeelllloo Mrs. Robertson, how are ya?” Skid asks becoming erect, standing up rigid that is.

          Mrs. Robertson’s response is tepid at best,“ Fine, fine, I’m doing fine. Is that forty weight motor oil?” As she points with her cell phone at Skid’s thirteen liberty spikes hair-doo.

          “ Egg-whites,” he corrects.

          She starts,“ Sharp. Well at least now I see your point…”

          “ It’s on my head,” he finishes with a smirk n’ wobble.

          “ Yes, that’s great. You know I’m kind of in a hurry today Joshua so…” 

          “ Please call me Skid.”

          “ No.” She replies.

          In a fluorescent grotto Jacobson growls holding the plum like a talisman. He’s sweating profusely.

His lips tremble. His speaks in a gruff raucous baritone voice reminiscent of God, “these used to be a pound for a nickel, a nickel!”

          His face glowing like chaotic embers from a freshly stoked fire the old man squishes the ripe plum in a wet purple supernova. Bearing his dentures in utter disdain, the plums' pulpy contents ooze between clenched fingers. 

          Speaking through grit teeth he gurgles, “What’s happened to the world?”

          Juan the bagboy, decisively distant, bags Mrs. Robertson’s products with care. Hands down he is a model of efficiency.

          Skid, groping her goods asks, “What’s with all this low carb junk Mrs. Robertson? I was under the impression that one of the perks of livin’ in the po-mo age was a selection of designer foods engineered for maximum flava, rich in sodium, nitrates, corn syrup, lard extracts, trygliceratebenzotine, yellow dye number seven…” Skid rambles while beep, beep, booping items across the laser scanner in the counter.

          Mrs. Robertson thumbs through the gossip rag and mumbles, “Yeah, well, you know.”

          Sensing her absence from the conversation Skid keeps going with vigor, “I mean who’s eating this stuff? All the nutritional information is measured out in milligrams; it’s more like the grocery store’s in the pharmacy. Who’s buying this stuff, Mr. Robertson? He isn’t going soft on ya is he? Cause if he is going soft, there’s this pill he can take, it’s this blue sh…”

          Digging in purse she looks up sternly.

          “Sherbert, two for one, can’t go wrong with that buy.”

Beep.

          “Hey gogurts, ten fer a buck, wow,” Skid continues.

Boop.

          Mrs. Robertson exhales loud and steady. While diving back into her purse she does a double take noticing Skid’s sleeves are missing.

          “Skid, where’s the rest of your shirt?”

          “The manager told me I shouldn't wear my identity on my sleeve.”

          “So you got rid of your sleeves?”

          “And my name tag.”

          Languishing in suspended animation suddenly Jacobson lets roar the cry of a grizzly bear with his chest puffed out and arms cocked back.

The fruit sit mocking him from a different era in a foreign tongue that only scallywags can decipher. And Jacobson was most definitely not a scallywag. He lashes out pummeling the peaches, pomegranates, and pears. The cardboard dam gives way and the pile of produce goes spilling causing Jacobson to go slip, slip, sliding stumbling bumbling, tip top tumbling down to the cold pulpy juice drenched concrete, like a poorly executed Russian folk dance. He lands with a great grunt.

          “Mahhhhh,” echoes through Longfellow’s grocery store.

          “What was that,” Mrs. Robertson exclaims.

Beep. Beep. Boop.

          “What was what,” asks Skid.

Boop. Boop. Beep. Beep.

          “That screaming?”

          “Oh I thought that was in my head, four hours of this a day can really get to ya. It was probably something to do with the air conditioner.”

          “Maaahhhhhh,” Jacobson lets out another howl.

          “There it is again!” Says Mrs. Robertson.

Beep. Boop. Beep.

          “There was what?”

Boop.

          Just then, Jacobson covered in a purple film goes barreling by knocking over a ketchup pyramid.

          Skid gestures with his thumb, “Oh him, don’t mind him, that’s only Jacobson.”

          “Who’s Jacobson?!”

          “He’s our most valued customer. Which means he throws alotta dough around the place.” With his head bent down, eyes looking up, and talking out of one side of his mouth like Dick Cheney he continues, “And I’m not talking about the stuff on isle seven.”

          Mrs. Robertson is startled by a loud crash!

          Skid gets on the intercom, “clean up on isle seven.”

          At night Jacobson would dream of infancy, of light particles performing a delicate dance in the brilliant shaft on sunlight emanating from a window plane. He dreams in grainy color of great big slobbering golden retrievers and birds that would sing from the telephone wires, and a warm teat to hide in.

          “Beans can’t lactate,” the old man shouts.

          Making an awful mess in the dairy section, Jacobson stomps on cartons of an alien and disturbing substance to him: soymilk. The show he puts on for the surrounding shoppers is so far off-Broadway it’s Topeka Kansas but, to his credit, it does have urban appeal.

          Wincing Mrs. Robertson glares in Jacobson’s direction and is genuinely concerned, that she won’t make it to her nail appointment that is.

          “Is he okay?” She asks.

Beep. Skid nods. Boop.

          “He doesn't look okay.”

Boop. Beep.

          He’s actually better than okay, he’s brand new. He’s like a jaguar,” Skid exclaims.

          As Mrs. Robertson slowly pushes in her cell phone antenna with her chin she comments, “Or a lion.”

          “I actually meant the luxury automobile which breaks down just as often. See ol’ Jacobson,” Skid thumbs at him,“ He’s got a team of specialists that work on em’; making upgrades, installing new parts, adjusting the timing, suspension, belts, cylinders, gaskets, brakes, steering, exhaust…”

          Mrs. Robertson’s pizza flavored chips swing back and forth like a pendulum or a race car staging the light, never quite reaching the laser scanner. Mrs. Robertson motions for him to close the gap and accomplish the boop but Skid is miles away babbling about car parts. Juan’s taken advantage of the line slow down to double bag her groceries. Finally Mrs. Robertson takes Skid’s hand and leads him through the red beam on the counter.

Boop.

          Skid scans and prattles on, “Guy’s on his eighth liver. Beep. And probably his tenth heart. Boop. He’s like a hundred and seven years old, but you’d have to carbon date em’ to be sure. Ol’ man Jacobson’s a stem cell posterboy.”

Boop. Beep. Boop. Beep. Beep.

          “Isn't implanting stem cells still illegal?” Mrs. Robertson inquires.

          “The law doesn’t mean nuthin’ when ya got Jacobson bucks,” Skid says, “The third world invites him with open arms.”

          “And open wallets,” Mrs. Robertson quips.

          “He’s been coming here since this place was a strawberry stand.” Skid explains, “He always pays fer anythang he breaks and with all the stuff he’s broken he practically owns the place.”

          “That’s great,” Mrs. Robertson says sarcastically. “Can you move any faster Joshua? I really got to go.”

          Rapping her fingers together and humming to the flaccid soft rock overhead Jane, the regional rep of Longfellow’s busy’s herself preparing today’s free samples: coconut shrimp with kiwi salsa, back for a limited time only pending FDA review. She waits on the microwave to complete its rapid vibration of molecules.

Bing.

          She removes the breaded low-cost delicacies with a certain Victorian elegance, spinning around to address the curious crowd.

          “Okay, who wants to be the first to try?”

          As the crowd draws closer drooling with anticipation in a response that would have made Pavlov proud, a shrill prehistoric bone-chilling cry rings out.

          In the grocery store’s bubble Dave, the security guard, slumbers in a wooden chair propped up against the wall. On a closed circuit TV different angles of Longfellow’s flicker in black and white. The ear piercing audible onslaught sends Dave ricocheting rumbling rocketing to the monitor where Jacobson is seen clawing his way to the front of the pack. Recognizing the familiar old man Dave sighs, slants his chair, and slinks back into it.

          With the power of a million stampeding wildebeests Jacobson flips up Jane’s tray of free samples summoning righteous indignation not seen since Jesus in the temple of the moneychangers. Coconut shrimp projectiles fly everywhere. Jane becomes unhinged and tries catching the tasty in-between meal snacks in mid-air. Unfortunately, Jane trips and lands face first in the kiwi salsa. Unfortunate for the worker’s comp. claim adjuster that is.

  With Dean Martin cool Skid scans the last of Mrs. Robertson’s purchases. 

Boop. Boop. Boop.

“How do ya wanna pay fer dat, Mrs. R?”

          “Check,” she says.

“Then I’m gonna have to see some ID.”

          Squinting and pursing her mouth, she folds her arms in protest, stonewalling Skid.

          Skid continues, “oh now ya wanna be friends huh?”

          Amused Skid glances over his shoulder and shudders.

“Incoming!” He yells and ducks.

          Mrs. Robertson remains unimpressed and rolls her eyes. Then seeing what Skid saw she hits the deck. An egg arches past hitting the divider wall with a splat!

          “Wow,” Skid rises cautiously one eye above the counter.

Blink.

          At times Jacobson’s existence seemed unbearable. Memories haunted him. One day blurred into the next. The prices changed but Jacobson did not. Just like tuna can logos that would change from a big lipped Caribbean fisherman, to a happy upright dolphin, and eventually settling on a serrated golden crest; in the same way Jacobson was a test of what the public would accept. The old man himself probably would have put an end to the stem cell implants a long time ago if it were not for his wife signing the medical forms like checks from a joint bank account.

          “This false idol must come down,” Jacobson rages while rocking an isle.

          Mrs. Robertson scribbles out the check while shaking her head.

          “This is really out of hand,” she unnecessarily editorializes, “Someone should really stop him!”

“Usually Mrs. Jacobson is here to pick ol’ Jacobson up about this time. That is if she’s not busy snoggin’ the gardener.”

Bang. Crash. Bang.

          Skid leans into the crane necked microphone and presses the button, “Clean up on isle twelve.”

          Two of Longfellow’s employees dart by, one with mop other with bucket.

          Jacobson succeeds in toppling the isle. A wind escapes him preceding a bombshell.

          Calmly Skid’s back on the PA, “Clean up on isle thirteen. Attention customers isle twelve is now isle thirteen. Please make note of the merger. Thank you and have a pleasant shopping experience.”

Click.

          Backtracking the cleaning crew dashes down an isle, dripping, listening for the next shatter.

          A lady behind Mrs. Robertson comes forward and pipes up, “What’s going on here, should I call the police?”

          The mustached manager pops in with a clipboard and speaks authoritatively, “No ma’am don’t mind him that’s only Jacobson.”

          Mrs. Robertson hands Skid the check remarking, “That’s beginning to be a theme around here.”

          A jarring thud turns everyone’s head in Jacobson’s general direction.

          With the stamina and endurance of an inflatable clown Jacobson bounces up, delivering a powerful,“ mah,” before taking a second charge at the cigarette case.

          Juan has temporarily moved to another register and is doing the work of ten men while the rest watch the unfolding spectacle. 

          Jacobson butts the cigarette case like a mountain goat. It falls backwards hitting the wall. The impact vibrates Jacobson’s plaque from its perch.

Ka-chee!

          “Thank you,” Mrs. Robertson says while hoisting herself up on the counter in a huff, tearing off her receipt.

          “Have a nice day,” Skid says with a distant expression and monotone voice. The others stare dumbfounded at Jacobson crumpled up on the floor like a discarded piece of trash.

          “I've cheated the clock. I want out of it. Out of here. Where’s Jacobson?” The old man speaks while lazily lifting a pricing gun to his forehead as Mrs. Robertson loco-motions out the sliding door.

          He pulls the trigger. 

Clack.

          In the plaque’s broken glass reflection Jacobson can now see he’s worth 99 cents, with inflation of course. He cries a little.

          The security guard, having witnessed the incident rushes to the front of the store where the rest of the employees and shoppers have gathered, arranging themselves in a half-circle. In walks Mr. Jacobson’s trophy wife and a distinguished looking gentleman in a chauffeur’s uniform.

          “Pookey what’s happened,” she says, “who’s responsible for this?”

          Clearing his throat the manager takes two steps forward and replies, “um, yes, well you see Mr. Jacobson had a lil’…”

          “Mr. Jacobson?!” She screams, “My husband’s name isn’t Jacobson, his name is Jacobson,” as she points to the chauffeur.

          Juan pauses his work and looks up.

          “My husband’s name is Longfellow,” Mrs. Longfellow states lucidly.

          Everyone’s jaws drop, Skid smirks and exclaims, “Hey for minimum wage this is almost worth it.”

Boop.

THROW 'EM IN JAIL !!!

A Serious Man

Along the Campaign trail I bumped into Steve Shoemaker; a notable character. He has been butting heads with the City for years now. Here's a recent article from the Easy Reader:

And here's a letter I wrote in response, which was published:

"The residents of Redondo Beach have had enough of this sort of bullying by

the idiot bureaucrats and monied interests entrenched in City Hall. I ran

for Mayor of Redondo Beach for precisely this reason, and I assure you that

the fight is long from over. The City wants Shoemaker to install special

bike racks to the tune of 500 dollars. I wonder where that money goes, and

what kind of backroom deal lead to these magic bike racks? And how are they

so much more superior to others? the simple answer is; follow the money.

Leave business owners, who actually bring revenue into the City, alone and

allow them to operate free of unnecessary restrictions. And ultimately

what does it even matter what bike racks are bolted to a sidewalk which

will soon be ripped up to make way for Centercal's version of Disneyland

now with 20 percent more Goofy."

But don't take it from me. Here's Shoemaker in his own words, talking about the treadmill the City has had him on...

Then again, I suppose society needs scapegoats.

A Diatribe

It was at some point during the last ice age, crammed in caves together for generations, that Homo erectus developed the ability to communicate beyond grunts, groans, and primal screams. Due to deprivation, hallucinations, and general boredom human beings discovered something called language. What started out as crude onomatopoeia- a buzz, hiss, or a clink- soon made a much bigger splash in the Verb Age. Associating words with objects gave way to associating words with ideas and, eventually, objectives. And it was in these words that men found power. As they began sharpening their words even more carefully than their spears, dundant became redundant.

The baffled cave dwellers called out to the infinite sky asking who had bestowed this marvelous gift of cognition upon them. The theologians were quick to reply, a deity who has thousands of names all of which are unutterable. At the same time early politicians advanced the art of rhetoric and confused language with jargon, semantics, and sloganeering. The tribal elders found themselves ousted in droves in favor of the ruthless and silver tongued. Empathy became pity.

In the interest of cohesion, control, and civilization a common language was established. And while some nomenclature was meticulously preserved and catalogued, other words were robbed of their authority and legitimacy through slang. Still others went searching for the perfect word, losing sight of the ideas behind those words.

And it seems, to some degree, we are all searching. Searching for a thing that cannot be attained. Human’s shoulder an unbearable burden, a Faustian bargain made with the devil in exchange for higher levels of consciousness. The more we know, the more we know we don’t know. This insatiable thirst leaves people silently screaming out for something that defies definition. A single moment-enhancing, life-affirming connection. A lasting impression that slows the idle wildling of father time. A great story to tell others.

At present there are thousands of languages and innumerable dialects, accents, and idioms, but this is not enough. Questions have become familiar and answers routine. The Tower of Babel has been replaced by the Tower of Good, How Are You?  

A Mediterranean Beach in Redondo?

Let's face it, Redondo is broke. Rather than making up for discrepancies in the City's bloated budget by turning Redondo's residents upside down and shaking out every last cent from their already threadbare pockets; let us find some truly innovative ways to generate revenue. A adult beach in Redondo is an idea whose time has come...

Most People Ask Why, I Ask Why Not?

Coleman's Message to the Youth: Fight! Resist! Endure!

    This week the Redondo Beach School Board voted, in a 3-2 decision, to allow drug sniffing dogs on campus at Redondo Union High School.
R U High Principal Nicole Wesley hiccuped, “I believe this will be a strong deterrent on campus if students see the dogs.” 

    Then Laura Emdee chimed in, “I didn’t think it was right to do it to the kids, but, we have a district committee and we gave them the task to look this over and if we aren’t going to take their recommendation, then what’s the point of having the committee?

    Ostensibly this is about the War on Drugs. Is it? Has there been one overdose? Is there really an epidemic? Or, as I suspect, this is just one more road sign on the path to adulthood that reads; we own you out right, and by the way, you have no rights. The Constitution is no longer taught in Civics Class. Try History. It's down the hall, next to the dogs sniffing lockers. Just like a Pier can double as a mall, High School is becoming a Maximum Security Day Care Center. If anything, it's a War on Youth. 

    When we were kids we had toys with sharp edges to play with. It wasn't the rounder Redondo of today, a less redundant Redondo. Welcome to Redondo Beach; the town that fun forgot. A big pat on the back and then back to bed for all of you. Our benevolent overlords passed a curfew ordinance when we were thirteen years old. Lights out by 10pm. We were right on the back of that wave and, as you can imagine, the arbitrary curfew didn't stick. We went out any way. Our mentality; so let me get this straight, a year ago, when were younger, we could stay out later? I mean, if the cops caught us we would have had our parents woken up but we wouldn't have gotten a ticket. Their experiment in social engineering failed. Bad wiring, faulty programming, I reckon. These kids today though... God help 'em.

I suppose some day we will all be sitting on our porches in curbed rocking chair reminiscing about the good old days; before the street cameras had guns.