The entire book appears at this link with chapters added after appearing online:
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
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
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
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
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.
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.
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,
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.
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.
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
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.
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
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,
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
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.
“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.
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?)
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
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.
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:
- 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
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
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.
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.”
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
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.