Surveillance Pelicana Chapter Twenty-Eight: ‘Covering (Up) the 1988 Republican National Convention’




The entire book appears at this link with chapters added after appearing online:

Chapters 1-10:

Chapters 11-20:

Chapters 21-30:


IRS Inc. temporarily suspends operations.

Tyger turns  attention to the Republican National Convention

taking  place in August 1988 at the Louisiana Super home dome

Discussion of Republican tactics, strategies, and activities

taking place within the context of the Iran-Contra scandal,

the Reagan Administration, and historical perspective.



“Covering (up) the 1988 Republican National Convention”







No change in the weather. No change in the sea. No change in

the government. No change in you. No change in Tyger, naturally.

But, maybe the moon is in Aquarius. Something seems to be

changing all around us comrades and it is not a pretty sight.

Firstly, the Joe Fine experience has reached a summer

hiatus. Tyger returns the secret surveillance system to Dorothy,

who is about to deliver a baby. (Now, maybe that car seat can be

used for its intended purpose.)

“I’m scheduled to have a C-Section in about two weeks,”

Dorothy reports, “and with Joe Fine’s delicate condition, if you

know what I mean, we will probably shut down operations for a

while. If anything urgent comes up either Jack or Joe will give

you a holler.”

Yeah, Jack. Right. And Joe? Doubtful as well. Who knows what

strange shore Joe has washed upon by this late date of Monday

August 1, 1988.

But, comrades, you know what? Tyger gives not a whit at this

point. Something generally turns up to save the good soul and

kind spirit.

Maybe, detective work will resume when Dorothy



Chapter Twenty-Eight




leaves the hospital or Joe recovers some of his senses.

Besides, Tyger has laid in three months worth of savings. He

is well accustomed to the living on the edge lifestyle. Have no

fear, friends of the starving masses, Gloria Gaynor will


By heck become, sometimes it can even be fun for as

Bob Dylan says, when you

got nothing, you got nothing to lose.

Dylan ought to know a thing or two about that, baby boom

generation junkies. After all, his mind is somewhere beyond the

left field fence blowing in the wind.

Maybe the times they aren’t a’changing, but a final curious

chorus lurks just beyond the curtains of consciousness over the

right field wall, in this case. (Get ready to duck and cover.).

That is to say, comrades of higher politically correct

aspirations, the 1988 Republican National Convention is slated to

begin Monday August 15 at the home of the Saints and an infinite

series of tractor pulls and trade shows; that is to say,

again, hey, the Louisiana Super Home. For joy.

What an appropriate setting, comrades, the Big Fucking Easy,

Disneyland for adults, a place where crowd control tactics have

been honed to a fine art, run by political scoundrels who can be

bought by the easy tourist buck.

In short, the Republicans are guaranteed a non-threatening



Chapter Twenty-Eight




made for television gathering, more of a pep rally than an actual

discernment of the will of the people, even the people of their

own party. If it is a party, friends, why isn’t it fun?

The Repubs are crazy fools, true dat, but they are crazy

like foxes, sneaky like snakes in the garden.

They have no 1988 platform

walking the planks

except to say whatever sounds good to

a majority of voting citizens. And if the pollsters find

Americans opposed, they think nothing of abruptly switching


Tricky Dicky Nixon pioneered the first made for television

self-promotional media tactics. Then he blew the cookie store

with his politics of paranoia.

The “just win baby” generation learned its lesson after

Nixxon’s Watergate dirty tricks approach backfired due to

incredible personal incompetence. A new old generation of

scoundrels were ready to take greed and corruption to the limit

as soon as national repulsion at the subversion of Constitutional

principles under the Nixxon (expletive deleted) subsided.

(Besides, practically no one in the nation even knew

what was in the Constitution.)

The Repubs finally hit the jackpot with the know



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nothing ambitious fool Ray-Gun whose primary strength was as a

television sound bite figurehead. They were not about to

let a small concern like the public good stand in their way.

They are prepared to do whatever it takes to “just win

baby.” They go about their business taking the first logical

step, holding the convention in the most noncontroversial —

goronteed in Cajun patois — and television colorful sound bite

distracting site available.

Yes comrades, Third World Banana Republic? New

Orleans, the City that Care Forgot, the Big Easy, is God’s last

gift to the Repubs.

The Grand Old Party, literally, has no ideas except to lie

lie lie until the Democrats cry uncle. They have no vision for

the future except to keep the gravy train rolling rolling

rolling, until the poor and underclass — hell, they don’t vote

anyway — were ground into rawhide or co-opted.

Those who were not on the gravy train per se, can be

persuaded temporarily into becoming fellow travelers through the

cynical tactic of having them believe they will make a bundle if

they come along for the ride. They can be mesmerized by holding

as examples for public acclaim the very financiers and Wall

Street scum who were in the process of ripping off the people


Some of the financiers eventually were socked away for short



Chapter Twenty-Eight




spells at minimum security country club prisons

for such delightful frolics as insider trading and

pyramid financial schemes. Leading the pack,

looting savings and loan institutions,

bailed out through government intervention

from a Ray-Gun administration whose big domestic

political project was eliminating social safety nets

for the poor and disadvantaged.

Hosanna. Hosanna.

Ray-Gun going bonzo hosting

General Electric Theater

through Death Valley Days.



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Now his grate-est role.

Know nothing figure head of state.

Or so he testified at the Iran-Contra trials.

Ray-Gun couldn’t remember cabinet officials,

the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff,

and meeting, decision and policy,

except for invading Grenada.

As for the rest of the mess, a constant stream of

“Well, I don’t remember that.”

“It’s in the transcript sir.”

“Well, I must have said that then, if you say so.”

Or “Did I say that?”

Continuing, “I can’t remember any details

because I spent every day having my picture taken in photo opportunities

or giving speeches.”

That’s correct.  Ray-Gun estimated he participated in 40,000 photo sessions

during his presidency which came to about 15 a working day.



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In other words, that is all he did in the official

capacity of playing President.

(In a fitting footnote after Ray-Gun retired — but not

before suggesting that the Constitution be amended to allow the

president more than two terms because it wasn’t fair to limit the

office — he gave a speech of “reminiscences”

about his White House years when a presidential library of

his “papers” was dedicated.


Don’t even need nitrous on that one.

In any event, New Orleans is the perfect place for the end

of such an era. New Orleans had old world, almost European,

charm; a Potemkin village facade called the Vieux Carre; and

world class food to distract delegates and media.

All that and a world class Superdome facility cordoned off

around its perimeter with a 4,700 foot chain link fence,



Chapter Twenty-Eight




connected to the outside media liars

let 9,000 telephone lines buzz

into an infinite array of satellite transmitters.

No chance of dissent here. Employing Mardi Gras Krewe of

Krowd Kontrol KKK tac tics; the rent a Big Easy police

department was well trained, ready, and willing to handle any

dissent however unlikely in the City that Care Forgot.

Fat chance. New Orleans, home to an indigenous population

that was 70 percent black, 70 percent poor, and 70 percent

Democratic was dripping with apathy towards life in general, not

to mention ye olde Republican Convention.

Ho-hum, another contra intervention.

The local attitude is to let the Republicans have their fun,

drop some bucks around town, and leave the way they came. The

convention only lasts four days. Mardi Gras lasts five times that

with 20 times more visitors.

Give the suckers what they want

Tyger walks this planet moron during the first two weeks of

August. It is too hot even for the mangy mutts who lie all day

under trees not even bothering to go forth and fetch.



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Satisfied by the opiate of an endless series of Major League

baseball games to view, Tyger wanders aimlessly through the haze.

Reefer supplies are abundant. In fact,

marijuana is more available than ever due, no doubt, to the

imminent arrival of Republicans who will require their pot smoking

needs satisfied. Even as they double-talk the public with the

“just say no to drugs” party line.

Who smokes more or consumes more liquor than these

party animals? Hell, they are the only ones with enough money to

keep stocked with drugs although they prefer the more expensive

cocaine to marijuana.

Then, they package and sell the rest as cheap crack to the

poor before breaking down the crackhouse doors and arresting the

poor downtrodden scum. Quite a racket they have going.

Not to mention the facts later revealed that the great

“just say no to drugs” King Ray-Gun himself smoked reefer with

Nancy. Just check out Kitty Litter’s, er Kelly’s, expose’ look at

Ray-Gun White House follies including the parts about Ronny and

Nancy getting high while slacking by at the highest office.

Barbara Bush did, hiding the Kelley tome under another book cover.

And unlike some future presidential candidates claimed, Ray-Gun

inhaled. Maybe that explains his frequent memory lapses. The



Chapter Twenty-Eight




sucker was too high to remember.

And Nancy — the goodly wife elected by no one who ran the

nation during the Ray-Gun Administration’s early years until she

tired of time management restraints and passed the buck,

literally, to the likes of Baker, Casey, Schultz, Weinberger, and

Shrub — was a notorious pep pill popper, downer and alcohol

abuser, as well as child beater, according to daughter Patti

Davis in her memoirs.


So it goes and so it blows a gentle breeze hot as

hell but pleasant to contemplate.

Like the calm hours immediately preceding a violent

hurricane, so too darkening clouds begin to accumulate in the

southern sky.

News fake flakes issue oblique warnings.

Tangelo Schill and Garbage Hairnet, leading eyewitless

cover-up flake-news interruptions, begin self-promoting their

convention coverage. Trucks and vans unload the first vanguard of

national media liars and their fellow travelers. These mental



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giants flock like sheep to the more

infamous N’Awlins feeding troughs,

blocking up the better known traffic arteries.

Mindlessly wandering up and down

Bourbon Street, then appearing later

as some kind of talking head on the

national liars network extolling the charm

of quaint old New Orleans.

News pap accompanies pictures of large

southern mansions along St. Charles Avenue,

the Garden District, conveniently ignoring

squalid housing projects a few block over.

Legacy of slave quarters just behind massa’s mansions.

Political sound-bites reverberate through the day,

how quotas and entitlement programs created

by liberals were “unfair” to white people,

“discriminated” against better qualified applicants

like white people.



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Opening credits ended, time for the big shoe

to drop, Sunday August 14, 1988 and…


Welcome to the insane world of disorder descending

like a long Carnival parade on the poor but good souls of N’Awlins.

Greetings from the gates of hell.

Slimes-Picayune page one sums it up in a nutshell,

the kind that even Slimes pseudo-editors can store

in their squirrel-like little excuses for brains.

A picture of Ray- Gun smiling blankly with his thumb in the air no doubt,

one can imagine a more appropriate digit upraised above the caption,

“Here’s to George,” Right.

The funny thing is Ray-Gun does not even like Shrubby.

However, the Gipper is a team player and Shrub,

perhaps the most unpopular politician in America,

is somebody’s idea of the next president.

That is the only idea they have left.

Traffic is a bit more aggressive than usual on this



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sweltering summer afternoon. Taxis swarm like killer bees madly

descending on the airport to pick up the latest in arriving pod

people, like brooms whisking them Downtown. Conventioneers

grow exponentially by the arriving plane each few minutes


Driving around town yields no great surprises other than the

utter stupidity and, yes, pathetic countenance of the oppressing

class. Tyger had expected more, but apparently many of these evil

minions are not even from the real class of super-oppressors

Tyger imagined would be flocking to such a gathering.

These delegates, so-called, are more like the foot

soldiers, battle fodder of the high command generals.

These are the storm troopers, allowed to attend the irrelevant

convention to rubber stamp their leaders’ parking meters.

The actual command and control structure arrives silently at



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night transported by private aircraft and high roller

transportational devices at Lakefront Airport across town by the

shores of Lake Ponchartrain. The inmates overgoddamerrung the

asylum while supervising doctors smile maniacally in their air

conditioned super-delegate luxury rabble.

suites above the foolish

Repub subs are confined, for the most part, to the tourist-a

section of town stretching in an arc around Downtown and

through the French Quarter. A few delegations who don’t rate have

the distinct dishonor of rooming in suburbs like Metairie and

Kenner. But who cares about them anyway?

Tyger scours Downtown in his mother the car searching for

interesting anti-Repub demonstrators as if the 1968

Chicago convention might be duplicated in the Big Easy — and

finds none, nary a trace, natch. He returns home disappointed and

watches the Cubs battle the Braves.

After a bad day, finally a great game with something to

cheer about. Harry Caray’s Cubbies pull off a triple play yet

manage to lose the contest. Typical.

At 9 a.m.  Monday, August 15, 1988, the non-awaited

event officially begins at long last. And surprise surprise, grab an icee

from Time Saver and relax, comrades nobody cares.

The big news item is local eyewitless newsfake anchor

Garbage Hairnet being prevented from entering the convention



Chapter Twenty-Eight




floor because he is carrying a concealed handgun. (Guess he has

become a bit paranoid in his bad haircut old age.) He is angry

and decries the censorship of a free press. Yeah, right.

A so-called “March to the Superdome against CIA/Military

Intervention in Central & South America, Middle East, Africa,

Asia: vote with your feet in the streets,” event organized by the

National Convention Mobilization Coalition, Emergency Coalition

Against Martial Law, and Anarchists Against Republicans and

Democrats, is a big fat zero.

A group of maybe 50 persons make it to within four blocks of

the Superdome. They are easily turned away by New Orleans

policemen mounted on horseback. The, shall we say, protesters

leave like the sheep who are inside the Superdome. Bah bah bah.

And what it is, friends, going down inside the Superhome

proper? No less than

the official end of the Ray-Gun years

presided over by Mr. Anti-Karma himself, Ronny Bedtime For Bonzo

world Satanic leader.

A bizarre ritualistic self-suicide takes place as Ray-Gun

shoots himself in the foot, as usual, ending matters rather anticlimactically.

No great conclusion of an era address here. What

can one say about Rip Van Winkling away the previous eight years?

Ray-Gun gives a 44 minute speech amounting to a big fat nolo

contendere replete with the usual idiotic platitudes. Who are

this guy’s speech-writers anyway? They need better material.



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“Don’t expect me to be happy hearing

all this talk abut the twilight of my life,”

Ray-Gun reads off the teleprompter.

“Twilight? Not in America. Here, it’s

sunrise every day. Fresh now opportunities.

Dreams to build.”

If only. Same old speech.

“I don’t think the Big Easy  was ever

any bigger than it is tonight,” Ray-Gun says

exiting to cheering crowd of stage extras

waving pre-fab banners including “Four More Years”

and the ever-democratic sentiment of  “Ron for King.”

A lot of verbal abuse is heaped from the peanut gallery

on ever popular straw man Teddy Kennedy. They didn’t

like how the Hero of Chappaquidick made a July speech

at the Dem’s Atlanta convention asking “Where was George,”

during the Ray-Gun years. Check Iran-Contra testimony.

George was in there somewhere handling dirty tricks.



Chapter Twenty-Eight




The age of Ray-Gun ended. Thaaat’s aaaallll folks!

His porta-party hands the town over to Shrubbariffic.

Convention speculation exists merely to give the media

something to do between stuffing their faces with Cajun and

Creole delicacies. It centers around the choice of Shrubby’s

running mate since the nomination was locked up many years before.

Bill Macon, chairman of the Missouri Delegation, notes the

deep thinking behind that choice. “If the nominee wants an 800-

pound gorilla, I’m for an 800-pound gorilla,” he states proudly.

(Macon later outrages fellow delegates by casting his

presidential nominating vote for that well known candidate “The

Shadow” explaining “It was purely a matter of trying to inject a

little levity into the convention where the outcome had been preordained.”

Asked to explain who the Shadow was, Macon replies “a

mythical figure.” Hmm. Perhaps the vote makes sense after all.

Wasn’t Ray-Gun a mythical leader?)

Marilyn Quayle, the you-know-what-to-come, comments on the

Vice-Presidential prospects of her husband Dan Fail, an obscure

Indiana junior Senator, but more importantly for future reference

a Shrub golf partner.

“We’re not panting after it,” she utters. (Who does wear the

pants in the Fail family?)



Chapter Twenty-Eight




Asked about the historical precedents for Shrub’s policies

and Vice-Presidential nomination, U.S. Representative Newt

Gingrich from Georgia amplifies on the primate nature of

Repub sub politics.

“We’re a party that twice nominated a man who made movies

with chimpanzees. Why do you think that we would worry about

historical precedents?”

That about sums it up, Newt.

The few activists in town express displeasure at the lack of

local response. This shows that the left can be as stupid as the

right because if they knew anything, they would realize that

protests make no difference to the Repubs or the nation.

Television ratings are so low they fell off the Nielsen

chart. Who gives a shit about this big joke?

The only — effective? — protest of the day is staged at

the swanky Inter-continental Hotel off Poydras Street by six

members of the Church of the Green Frog who get in a fight with

Pat Robertson Christian fanatics.

The green frogs are arrested while the Robinson rabble goes



Chapter Twenty-Eight




about its business unaffected. Nothing like a fair fight friends,

can’t have that.

The next day brings the great Shrub entourage to town to

fill the vacuum left by the Ray-Gun train’s hasty late night

departure. Shrub lands at Belle Chasse Naval Station on the

West Bank, snarling city traffic for an hour with his motorcade.

Then, the president of vice turns up at Spanish Plaza where

Rex meets Proteus the night before Mardi Gras and springs his own

Carnival non-surprise, Dan Fail for vice-president. That way Shrub

can have a handy golf partner on standby for those days when it

is tough to rouse a foursome.

America is screwed without the foreplay. Shrub acquires, he

believes, an insurance policy. Who is going to shoot him when

Fail is next in line?

All is not well in the Superdome either as the convention

turns. Nothing to do with dissent and protests. Problem

with the sound system. Delegates on the floor can’t hear

any speeches. Aw shucks, bummer in the summer.

They will have to listen to the meaningless drivel while

watching television along with the other 20 million Americans who

are at least nominally viewing the show. That represents about 8

percent of the American nation.



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About 40 million Americans watch whatever else

they can find on television during convention hours.

Delegates who can’t hear the speeches are really missing something.

Governor Kean of New Jersey, keynote speaker, apparently comes to the podium

after a bad meal at the Burger King across Poydras Street from the Superdome.

“We offer poor Americans not the junk food of more big government,” e cries,

“but the full meal of good private-sector jobs.”

Yeah and elephants fly.

Other Day Two low-lights of the convention include the following:


1.Future terminator Arnold Schwartzenegger signs autographs at the National Rifle Association

lunch at the Fairmont Hotel. Is this guy a voter. Is he even a citizen?

2. CBS — newsman? — Ed Bradley talks his way into a Little Feat gig at Tipitina’s

thereby saving the $17.50 cover charge. Classy guy at a classy act. Simply

reeks of credibility and exquisite musical taste.

3. Don Defoe, who played “Mr. B” on the television show “Hazel” gets a

free pack of “Mr. B” napkins from the restaurant



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of the same name after he eats there. Quite an honor. Inquiring

minds want to know: Did he order cole slaw like Ray-Gun did when

he ate there?

4. A Salt Lake City television station comes up with the

brainstorm of persuading the mostly Mormon Utah Delegation to

walk down Bourbon Street so they can tape their reaction.

“We’re not exposed,” so to speak, “to that type of thing in

Utah,” notes alternate delegate Nancy P. Nesmith. “We didn’t even

look. We just walked down the center of the straight looking

straight ahead.”

Yeah, sure. Like you didn’t even sneak a peak at the

swinging legs at Big Daddy’s. Join the crowd, babe, and chill.

5. The Repubs ratify a platform. Say what?

6. And oh by the way, any dissenter who comes within four

blocks of the Superdome is arrested by N.O.P.D. utilizing Mardi

Gras tactics. The cops haul them away out of sight of Repubs

and scum media, as if either cared.

One woman is arrested for writing “register and vote” on a

wall. A group of Act-Up Aids activists are arrested for marching

in the direction of the Superdome.

Other dissenters are arrested for being beaten up by antiabortion

terrorists. The save a fetus while screw the child crowd goes free.

In fact, the Orleans Parish Prison is filled to the brim



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with dissenters. Magistrates working in the wee hours

of pre-dawn Wednesday

free prisoners on their own recognizance,

fining them for all the money

they have in their pockets, saying protesters

do not have to face any charges.

In other words, illegal arrests have been made

simply to remove perceived troublemakers

from public exposure. Once the photo opportunities have ended,

they are left to their own devices,

tired and hunry, for another day of fun in the sun.

Nice having a Third World Banana Republic

in your own national backyard for such a useful function

as a national irrelevant convention scandal.

No media mention of any protests. Except one feeble quote buried

beneath the obituary page inside the Slimes-Picayune

from one John Mason, who calls himself an activist poet.

“I’d like to thank the police for being here. And I’d like to thank the media.

Otherwise I wouldn’t have an audience. In fact, I don’t have any audience at all.

I think that’s a very accurate reflection of New Orleans activism.”



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Yeah Mason, maybe you can say you were misquoted given the

Slimes Picayune’s reputation for inaccuracy. On the other hand,

maybe you fell from another planet.

Thank the police, huh? You don’t get it, sir. New

Orleanians have seen the police tactics on an annual basis. They are

too smart to get themselves arrested for no reason

and to no purpose.

The cops are throwing strictly out-of-town convention

protesters in the Orleans Parish Hilton.

Tyger calls up the Village Voice telling a

theoretically politically correct editor what is happening.

“Why don’t you write anything about what really is taking

place?” Tyger asks. “I will send you the details.”

“No need to,” replies the thickly accented New Yawk new

squawk editor. “We’ve got plenty of reporters on the scene/

They have the story covered.”

Yeah, right.

Even the Village Voice has sold out to Ray-Gun Era bullshit



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jockeys and their own Peter Principle stupidity.

No, and you can look it up. There is not word boo about the

illegal mass arrests taking place even as the Repubs pay

fake homage on televised convention pack of lie speeches to the

American values of free speech they claim to defend. Not in the

so-called liberal Village Voice, nor anywhere.

But the Voice runs one hell of a special section about New

Orleans food, music, and apathetic lifestyles. They have it all

covered (up).

Thanks for nothing, fellows.

Sleep well. Tomorrow is another day of shame.

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