Surveillance Pelicana Chapter 28: ‘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. 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.

Tyger gives not a whit at this point. Something generally turns up to save

the good soul and kind spirit. Perhaps, detective work will resume



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when Dorothy 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 survive.

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 Aug. 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



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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. Should the pollsters find

Americans opposed, they think nothing of abruptly switching positions.

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 malfeasance. 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 blind.

Some of the financiers eventually were socked away for short



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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,

chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, and any 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 each 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”

the Constitution be amended to allow the president more than two terms

because it wasn’t fair to limit the office. Later, he gave a speech of “reminiscences”

about his White House years when a presidential library of his “papers” was dedicated.

Reminiscences? 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 tactics; 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 big

bucks around town, and leave the way they came. 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 got going.

Not to mention 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.

Unlike some future presidential candidates claimed, Ray-Gun

inhaled. Maybe that explains his frequent memory lapses.



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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.

Darn. 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, 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 “libs”

were “unfair” to white people, “discriminated” against better qualified white applicants.



Chapter Twenty-Eight




Opening credits ended, time for the big shoe to drop

Sunday August 14, 1988 and…YOU ARE THERE.

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 sweltering excuse for a summer



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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 unloading.

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 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 night,



Chapter Twenty-Eight




whisked to town by private aircraft and high roller transportation

devices at Lakefront Airport across town by the shores of

Lake Ponchartrain. Inmates over-goddamerrung 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 tourista

section of town stretching in an arc around Downtown 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, finding

none, nary a trace, natch. He returns home disappointed, watches

the Cubs battle the Braves. After a bad day, finally a great game with something

to good 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. Surprise surprise, grab an icee

from Time Saver, relax, comrades, nobody cares. The big news 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 dotage.) 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 easily are 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.



Chapter Twenty-Eight




“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 BS 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.”  Lots of verbal abuse

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




With that pap, the age of Ray-Gun dead-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.”

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?)



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Asked about the historical precedents for Shrub’s policies, and

vice-presidential nomination, U.S. Rep. 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?”

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 Robertson rabble



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

can’t have that. 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 inside 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,” he 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. Do 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 anti-abortion

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

In fact, the Orleans Parish Prison is filled to the brim with dissenters.



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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 nationally 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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