Tuesday, April 1, 2008

Jon Turner: I am no longer the monster I once was ... Bush cannot say this..

Jon Turner went to Iraq with an Arabic phrase tattooed on his wrist.

It says ‘fuck you.’ “I got that because it was my choking hand. Anytime I felt the need to take out aggression, I would go ahead and use it."

MOTEL 6, Olympia, WA — Today I met with a few of the high priests of the Bigfoot research community.

Joe Beelart took me to Ray Crowe's house in Portland, and we had lunch with M.K. Davis and Don Monroe. Davis has done some extensive research on the Patterson-Gimlin film. He believes that not only is the film authentic, the creature is human, not ape.

Davis, from Mississippi, was in the area to speak at a meeting of the Western Bigfoot Society. While he was here, he also visited with Roger Patterson's widow in Yakima and Bob Gimlin, who lives south of Portland.

If you have not seen the video of the Winter Soldier hearings, here
they are

How can we go another day without having a national discussion about this? Discussion is not quite the word I'm looking for. How about screaming fucking cage match?

You ever hear those professional football announcers talking about how this team or that team plays "smash-mouth" football?

Oh, yeah? Really?

They must be tough mo-fo's.

Wonder what those smash-mouth guys are doing about standing nose to nose with those who are lying to them, killing in their name, stealing from them?

What sense does it make to fill out the day's To-Do list without putting "What About This Sending Our Kids To Murder People In Other Countries Thing?" in there somewhere between "Pick Up Milk," and "Drop Off Big Lebowski/OVERDUE!"

It makes no sense.

Shock & Awe.

They Shocked & Awed US with 9/11, then they bombed Iraq, and now, and now .... and now.


I've had a few days to hang. Yesterday I drove south to Salem, Oregon, from Portland, then east to Mill City for the afternoon.

Another old-home experience. Roger and Bob and I came out there in the '70s for our big adventure. We met the Huckabees. They fed us fresh-caught salmon and we smelled the wood that Lester was cutting in his shed to make shakes for his son's new home.

I then came out again later by myself in my dad's '59 Chevy with the wings, and with my dog, and a new cowboy hat I bought in Fort Collins on the way.

I worked for a few days in the hills, on a core-drilling team, me and another guy. We saw a mountain lion up close one morning on the drive up to work.

I saw the exit sign for Mt. Angel on the way. There is a monastery there, I know.

I went there on that second trip, with my dog, thought this is pretty cool, the big stone edifice. They said I couldn't keep my dog if I joined up, so I went home and joined the seminary in Saint Paul.

The North Santiam River flows through Mill City. You cross over an old steel bridge.

The town is small, about 1,500 population. It smells like rain and wood. I found a walking path up close to the mountains and took it, beating my sticks against the trees and howling, in order to call the Bigfoot to me.

That must not be how you do it.

I didn't see anything, but it was cool to finally be up there in the big woods where something actually might happen.

Bush was booed, loudly, as he threw out the first pitch at the Nationals game yesterday.

That's effing-great.


"I don't mean to sound bitter, cold, or cruel, but I am, so that's how
it comes out."

— Bill Hicks


Next time, get security to tackle him and handcuff him.

He is a criminal, a murderer.


He is.

He and his crew did 9/11. They lied in order to start a war and got young Americans killed and traumatized and turned into murderers as well.

The only way we stop the war, the coming war, and start to bring this country around, away from the waterfall, is to march George W. Bush into court.

And put the cuffs on behind his back. He is an asshole.

If there is a hell, George W. Bush will have his own box seat in one of the highest rings.

Burn Dubya burn.


— Mike


* This afternoon I was on Gorilla Radio, Vancouver, Canada, with Chris



April 2nd: Seattle, Revolution Books, 1833 Nagle Place.

7 p.m.


This is from Iowa Terror.

We are watching everyone except those we should be watching. The terrorists are in Washington, D.C.


Iowa Terror
by Mike Palecek

Chapter Four

Securing The Perimeter

Is this heaven?


From way up here it kinda does, maybe seem like that.

I am waaay up here.

Up here.

On the water tower!

Not on the water tower, on that walkway that goes around.

We've got one of those silver, pointed ones, not so big, not like the big, round white ones they have in Des Moines and Cedar Falls.

Ours depicts, at various times, the town name, the current graduating class, the current mayor's current girlfriend, and the current state of the local educational system via spelling acumen.

Well, I have been stationed here by the local city council to look for terrorists, for Jesus Iowa, maybe his gang. He might have a gang, that's some of the reports we've been getting.

I am scanning the perimeter.

Looking for The Iowa Terrorist, Jesus Iowa.

As well as any other terror types.

Hey, they gave me this cool pith helmet with netting, and a beeper. I get a beeper. I've tried it. It beeps.

And I've got this assistant, Jordan. He's going to be in fifth grade in the fall. He sends me up extra water on this pulley system he has fixed up ...

Anyway ...

Maybe I'm facing the wrong way, but what I see is Mrs. Van der VanDreesen pulling into the Hy Vee lot. She's been pulling in for most of the morning. There's a special on iceberg lettuce.

And I see Jarrod van de Boom. He's driving around in the cruiser, mostly watching me.

There's most of the city council coming out of coffee at Family Table. They're not really supposed to get together like that, makes people think they're planning, making decisions outside of meetings.

They're pointing up at me. Hey, guys.

There's the spire of Saint Judy's Catholic Church over in Creameryville, on the other side of the corn and soybeans and the river and the dump and the national guard armory.

There's lights on the ball field, the construction site for the new middle school next to the high school, the kids arranging the lawn chair display in the Pamida parking lot.

Some of our teams went to state last year.

The one-act play group got a gold medal in Ames. They always do. It's a tradition.

I can see apple pies cooling and blueberries ripening and I hear cardinals.

The noon whistle of the white picket fence factory is more of a toot.

And I can see how Jesus Iowa would want to ruin it all.


It's rumored that he hates us for our hand-sized bluegills and the smell of wood smoke and lawn leaves and he steals leaves.

As any good terrorist knows, the way to really stick it to freedom is to demolish icons.

Well, I'll keep my eyes peeled.

Is this a great country?

Or what?

That is the question.

Looking for the truth about America. It's become a cottage industry these days.

Most of us are in the habit of believing things — especially when they come from mainstream sources. We believe things mostly because we see them on TV, or because a "respected" expert or leader assures us they are true.

Geezuz, don't do that.

That's where we are, where we're heading, to the place where nobody believes anything coming out of Washington, D.C., printed in our major newspapers, seen on TV, heard on the radio, because we know it's all lies — the way the folks leaning on the bar in the Rusty Sickle in
downtown Moscow must have felt about each pronouncement that came from the Kremlin, Tass, Pravda.

Just shaking their heads, saying, what a bunch of lying sons of midgets and musk ox.

Show me the difference.

The only difference is that it is us, and it's now, and it's here — and we can't believe this is happening to us. And we will deny it is happening to us for the rest of our lives.

Remember those press conferences on TV where the director of Homeland Security stands up there with the director of the FBI?

They are sporting new "Look The Fuck Out" terror-orange hardhats and T-shirts and padded vests, with hip waders, and camo, waterproof hunting boots cut to the calf.

Duck calls sticking out of their back pockets.

That was leading up to the last presidential election.

They don't have those anymore. I wonder why.

We're getting ready to blow the fuck out of the Iranians — who are each and everyone born terrorists of course — and so now we have to have terrorists in a New York City airport.

Well ... to show that it makes perfect sense to kill the Iranians.

Time to re-Duct Tape your windows, dude.

We forget too easily.


Remember how George W. Bush came to power.

A coup d'etat.

He stole The Presidential Election.


Abetted by The Supreme Court and The Free Press.

We, some of us — I, suspect he and his junta engineered 911, murdered Paul Wellstone, lied about WMD.

The fuckers have secret prisons in Poland and Romania and Disneyland and they torture people.

All this for power.

Don't worry about a thing.

The perimeter is secure.

I'll let you know if I see anything.

Hasta los tacos.

And there is Lula Vander Zwaag.

I could see a lot more if I had some binos.


Heeey! Jordaaan!

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