Forgotten Victims of Sabrina Erdely and Rolling Stone

The University of Virginia rape hoax perpetrated by “journalist” Sabrina Erdely and Rolling Stone has gotten so thoroughly blown up that attention is beginning to be paid to earlier Erdely Rolling Stone rape stories.

One involved the Roman Catholic Archdiocese of Philadelphia.  To be fair, Erdely is not the only one taken in by incredible accusations by former altar boy “Billy Doe.”  (Again, why in sexual assault cases are the names of the accused dragged through the mud when the names of accusers are protected?  Either both should be protected before conviction or neither.  But I digress.)  Three priests and a teacher ended up in jail over Doe’s accusations.

And Erdely trumpeted said accusations as truth, doing great damage both to those accused and to the Archdiocese.

But as Ralph Cipriano has tirelessly documented, Doe’s accusations are literally incredible with important details of them changing and/or discredited.  With a WARNING that Cipriano does not make for easy reading, you may find out more here.

Actually, don’t go there.  After all, we should ignore such inconveniences as evidence and facts.  We should always “believe the victims” and, heck, let the lynch mobs have at the accused.  And if you don’t, you are evil opponents of the “narrative” as Leftist “journalists,” Feminazis, and assorted Catholic-bashers will remind you. 

Yes, “. . . to let fact checking define the narrative would be a huge mistake.”

And if that mentality creates victims . . . well they are soon forgotten . . . or dead, aren’t they?  The “narrative” is so much more important.

The Real Danger to Republicans

There’s been much wringing of hands among establishment Republicans that they must not go overboard in stopping Obama’s unconstitutional amnesty.  A government shutdown especially must be avoided.

And I concur that IF Obama can be stopped without a government shutdown, that is preferable.  But I doubt a shutdown would be such a political disaster for a number of reasons beyond the scope of this post.  A more grave danger to Republicans is being overlooked.

Most are underestimating the anger at Obama and at his unconstitutional tyrannical actions.  Look again at the November election results please.  And the Republican establishment does not get how fed up the conservative base of the party is with the wimpy enabling ways of Speaker Boehner et al.

So the real danger I see is that Congressional Republicans do little to stop Obama’s immigration action and yet again enable him.  Republican leaders are already indicating that is their direction.

If conservatives perceive the GOP House and Senate as wimpy on Obama, particularly in not stopping his royal immigration decree, and if the party then nominates an establishment centrist to be President in 2016, the GOP is done for in that election.  Even more conservatives will stay home than in 2012.  They have had enough with establishment Republicans already.

And – here is a really foolish bolder prediction – if it turns out to be Jeb Bush vs. Hillary Clinton in 2016, there will be a strong 3^rd Party or independent candidate for President. Bush vs. Clinton would open wide a political vacuum inviting another candidate.  Something a great many Americans can unite on from across the political spectrum is that they will not stomach another Bush vs. Clinton election.  If the establishment of both parties tries to feed us that, they will get vomit coming back at them.

I do think Hillary would be elected in such a scenario as Bill was in the Bush-Clinton-Perot race of 1992, but it will be with well under 45% of the vote.  Barely 40% is a strong possibility.  But the Democrat Party has already bought enough votes with your taxes that Hillary would prevail anyway.

You heard it here first.  You had better hit what passes for a tip jar around here hard if I’m right.

More IRS-White House Cover Up

This should be getting a lot of attention but it isn’t.

Less than a week after ’fessing up that it found some 2,500 documents potentially showing that the IRS shared taxpayer returns with the White House, the Obama administration has reversed course and won’t release the trove to a group suing for access.

So in all likelihood, what we have here is Obama’s IRS sharing tax returns with the Obama White House, which in itself is highly improper to say the least.  And it certainly fits into a pattern of the Obama Administration using the IRS to target political opponents.

And then the Obama Administration covers it up, of course

Didn’t we nearly impeach a Republican President for similar crimes?  And only his resignation prevented that?  Yes, attempting to use the IRS to go after political opponents was one of the alleged crimes of Richard Nixon.

But the Democrat Mainstream News Media pays more attention to a congressional staffer saying uncomplimentary things about Obama’s daughters – a lot more.  Priorities.

Heck, let’s be honest.  The “Mainstream” News Media is part of the Democrat cover-up and has been for years.

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I am more into pointing out the truth, even if it annoys and outrages as you may have noticed.  A few do appreciate that, and I’ve been asked if I have a tip jar.  I do not and have no plans to do so. 

But if you wish to show your appreciation in a tangible way, you may have noticed I have an Anglican Texan novel out, Pilot Point.  You are certainly free to purchase copies and give them to friends and family.  (And no, it is not a political novel at all.  So don’t worry about that.) And, although I am slightly biased on the subject, I do think you will find it a good and edifying read.

By the way, this is the last day you can buy a Kindle version of Pilot Point for $1.99.  You’re welcome.

Pilot Point Update

I hope I am not being a pest about this, but I want to be sure you good readers know that the opportunity to buy the Kindle version of my Anglican Texas novel Pilot Point for only $1.99 is in the final 32 hours and ends tomorrow Thursday night.  You have to admit that is quite inexpensive for a novel that, to my knowledge, is unique.  If you find another quality Anglican Texan novel out there for $1.99, buy it! 

A more modestly discounted paperback version of Pilot Point is available as well.

But if you still want to sample it first, I have posted excerpts here, here, and here.  I have to admit, I have not yet excerpted the most Anglican-flavored passages of the novel (although you will surely notice a wry echo of the Book of Common Prayer in the first excerpt).  Some I cannot reveal without spoilers, but perhaps I will remedy that in part in due time.

Thanks again for your patience as I try to get the word out.  That is not easy to do with literary fiction, but I’ll leave that topic for another time. Your support is appreciated.

Black Racism and Ferguson

Last year, with not a little hesitance, I ventured to suggest that Black racism may be the biggest race problem in American today.  Events surrounding Ferguson are proving me all too correct.

Yes, that is a rather bold assertion for a White Texan to make.  But allow me to turn this around.  Let us revisit a horrific aspect of White racism decades ago. (And I apologize if this makes unpleasant reading.) A racist stereotype had it that Black men were prone to have a predatory interest in White women.  Numerous Black men were jailed, executed, and, yes, lynched because many racist Whites assumed that a Black man accused of raping a White woman was guilty.  To get a conviction, one rarely needed more evidence than a mere accusation against a Black man of preying on a White woman. All-white juries took care of the rest.

And at times racist White mobs made sure “justice” was done even before a trial with lynchings.  Evidence, the rule of law, and due process were unnecessary obstacles to mob “justice”.

Fast forward to today.  There is a racist stereotype about that White cops are prone to be eager to shoot and kill Black male youth.  If a White policeman finds it necessary to shoot a Black man to defend himself or others, many Blacks assume that the policeman is at fault and guilty of a hate crime.  And that even if the evidence contradicts said assumption.

That is exactly what we have in the Ferguson controversy.  The grand jury examined the evidence with praiseworthy diligence.  Their findings made clear the evidence confirms Officer Wilson acted in self-defense.  The findings contradict the “Hands Up, Don’t Shoot” myth – yes, that’s what it is. The grand jury and the District Attorney went beyond the call of duty and beyond usual secretive practice to demonstrate that an indictment was not called for at all.

Yet one poll has a breathtaking 85% of Blacks disagreeing with the grand jury decision not to indict. They don’t want to be confused with the facts; they know the White cop is guilty (or at least should be dragged into a trial for murder).  And, yes, at least a few have made calls to take the law into their own hands and kill Officer Darren Wilson – Black lynch mobs if you will.

Is this attitude prevalent among many Blacks that much different than the racism prevalent among many Whites of decades past? 

(And I have to pause here to give kudos to those Blacks who are standing up and decrying such attitudes.  I also want to make clear that what I am decrying is not a skin color problem; it is a cultural problem.)

And back in the days when White racism was dominant in wide areas of the U. S., White public officials exploited and encouraged racism and racist stereotypes.  Today, some Black public officials are doing the same.  Black Congressmen perpetuating the false and disproven “Hands Up, Don’t Shoot” racist anti-police narrative on the House floor no less is a particularly despicable episode of this.

Worse, Barack Obama and his Attorney General Eric Holder have shown their racism in their conduct of justice.  Yes, that is a harsh charge.  But, again, let us turn around what they are doing.

Let’s say a Black man was accused of murder, but a state grand jury refused to indict, and, not only that, the district attorney publicly stated that the evidence contradicted the accusation.  If a White President and a White Attorney General then attempted to commit the moral equivalent of double jeopardy and looked into trumping up Federal charges against the Black man, would that not be a grave injustice?  And would there not be at least a suspicion of racism and of an attempt to politically exploit racism?

Switch the skin colors, and that is exactly what Obama and Holder are doing.

I could go on, but I contend that is it now Black racism that is the worst race problem in this country.  Ferguson is demonstrating that all too well.  And, with assistance from the current president, Black racism is major contributor to dividing the U. S. as it has not been since the 1960’s.

Drought, God’s Judgment and Providence, and Pilot Point

The dust of drought permeates my novel Pilot Point.  For drought permeated my life during the time I wrote it.

For the twelve of so years I lived near Pilot Point, I experienced at least two or three bad North Texas droughts.  I can testify they can drag a man down.  To see once green land turning to desert, to see your ponds turned to cracked, hard ground, and that with no relief in sight – that wears on a man, and it did on me.  And the times showers tease by coming near, but only raining on other people, makes it that much harder to endure.

It’s not for nothing that a frequent judgment in the Bible on fallen, sinful man is drought.  In fact, the drought of 2000 was one factor nudging this fallen sinner to move much closer to the Gulf.

Drought is an almost perfect metaphor for personal droughts in our lives, droughts of companionship, droughts of accomplishment, droughts of meaning.  When I wrote the first draft of Pilot Point, I was experiencing such a time in my personal life as I was struggling with being very single for years on end.

But God’s providence is always good.  I doubt I could have written Pilot Point well or at all without going through drought in North Texas and in my life.

In the following excerpt from Pilot Point, we see the boy Storm James and the old cowboy Bowie Smith work a cattle auction in the midst of a severe drought.

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But the rains never came.

         The showers were few and far apart. They came close enough only to torment. Or if one did hit, it gave so brief a rain, the ground was dry again in a day.

         The grass sprouted up, only to become a dull yellow. The trees budded, only to begin losing dry leaves once they were all out. Green faded to yellow. Yellow faded to brown.

         Spring, the promise of life, became death.

         Storm was walking up the highway to the sale barn. He wiped sweat from his brow and took a big breath. “It’s gonna be a hot one,” he said to himself. It was the first Saturday in June, and the early summer was already so hot, he didn’t bother even to stuff a shirt into his jeans when he left the house.

         Saturday mornings at the sale barn had became dustier again, and the cattle kept looking poorer. More of the cattle were a problem to move. But he looked forward to getting to the barn anyway, to end the long hot walk, but also to work the cow pens with Bowie as he always did.

         “Hey, Bowie,” he greeted when he finally got to the barn.

         “Hey.”

         Storm looked up and down the cow pens. “Dang. They’re all full. We have plenty of work to do out here today.”

         “Yep.”

         “That’s okay with me though. It beats working the alleys, especially with all the cattle that’ve been laying down in them.”

         “Is ever-body ready?” the megaphone sounded.

         “You were nearly late,” Bowie pointed out.

         “Yeah, well, I overslept.”

         “And I’m sure that has nothing to do with those girls that have begun liking you.”

         “That’s right, nothing at all.” The kid smirked.

         “Uh-huh. Well, watch out. They can get you into a lot of trouble, if you’re late to a sale, not to mention other kinds of trouble.”

         “I hear you.” Storm looked over at Bowie. He seemed different this morning. The old man was giving him a hard time as always, but not with his usual relish. He seemed a little subdued. He was not as both friendly and ornery as he always was.

         “Well, let’s move ‘em out.”

         After they moved out a pen and were waiting for the chutes to clear some, Bowie looked at him and chided, “Did those girls cause you to grow last night?”

         “Shush.” He was going through a growth spurt. His worn jeans were getting too short for him, no matter how low he wore them. His boots and shoes were always too tight. And life and the sale barn were maturing him as well. So now he seemed only a year or two short of the sixteen he claimed to be—although Bowie never let on to that in front of him.

         “Then your jeans must have shrunk since last week.”

         “Shut up.” Maybe he is himself today, Storm thought.

         But he wasn’t. Before long, Bowie became quiet again, downcast even, as they moved the cows out. Storm peered at him from time to time. His lined face was passionless; his eyes were distant. This was different than the Bowie he was used to.

         Storm decided to make some small talk to help him snap out of it. “Whew! Is it hot enough for you today?”

         “Yep.”

         “It sure is for me. Although I imagine we’ve seen worse.”

         Bowie didn’t respond. Storm tried to make more conversation.

         “What do you think is worse—hot like this or cold like we worked in winter?”

         “Don’t make much difference to me. I’m pretty used to both.”

         “I guess with your cowboying, you’ve pretty much seen it all.”

         “Yep.”

         Storm tried to keep the conversation going. “What do you think is the worst weather you’ve seen?”

         “Hell, I don’t know. This drought ranks right up there. Why don’t you quit yakking and open up that pen gate,” Bowie groused. So much for that idea, Storm thought as he ran to the gate.

         He gave up on cheering up Bowie. Neither of them said much the rest of the morning and noontime. They weren’t mad at each other. There just wasn’t much to say.

         Eventually, they got to the last pen.

         “This is different, having a pen full of longhorns.”

         “And they act different, too. They’re a little more ornery and a lot less fearful than other cattle. And they do have horns, so watch what you’re doing.”

         “I hear you.”

         “Plus there’s a bull in there.”

         Storm nodded. “Looks like someone’s selling off his whole longhorn herd.”

         “Looks like it. You open up the gate and let me do most of the moving.”

         So Storm opened the pen gate and watched as Bowie went in and moved them around and out. He knew longhorns were Bowie’s favorite breed, and he noticed that he moved them a little differently from other cattle. He always had a skilled hand, but he moved these with a more gentle and knowledgeable skill. He knew just the right amount of prodding to move the herd and exactly how each of them would react. And, their thicket of horns didn’t faze him at all.

         As Bowie was moving them, Storm thought he heard him quietly call a couple of them cow names. He sure does love longhorns, Storm smiled inwardly. In no time, the herd was down the alley, and he followed them and Bowie toward the chutes.

         Bowie just as skillfully moved them into the chutes. All Storm had to do was watch. Bowie closed the gate behind them and, still leaning on the gate, looked in at the longhorns. Storm walked up and leaned on the gate beside him. “Those longhorns sure are something, aren’t they?”

         “Yep,” Bowie said, staring into the chutes.

         “You sure do work ‘em good. I’d always be wondering if one of those horns was going to get me.” Bowie was quiet. A little uncomfortable, Storm added, “But I guess if you’re easy on them like you are, they’re pretty careful with their horns.”

         Bowie nodded weakly, but didn’t say anything. He just kept staring after the longhorns.

         Perplexed that Bowie was acting so strange, Storm looked at him. He just kept staring at the longhorns as they began to be moved into the sale arena. His expression was distant and mournful. Storm had never seen him like this.

         And at that moment, he understood.

         Looking steadily at Bowie, Storm said, “Those are your longhorns, aren’t they.”

         “Yes.”

         Storm kept looking at him a moment. He didn’t know what to say. So he said, “I’m sorry.”

         Bowie kept staring distantly down the emptying chutes. “There’s nothing you or anybody could have done.” He added, “If there was, I would’ve done it.” And, with that, he was silent again.

         Although Storm and Bowie worked together the rest of the sale, neither said much after the longhorns were gone.

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If you would like to read more, there are less then 60 hours left in the 100 Hour Kindle Countdown deal for Pilot Point.  You can get the Kindle version of my novel for only $1.99. But the price goes back up after the countdown goes to 0.

If you prefer a print copy, Amazon is selling it at a 10% discount at this time.

And don’t forget to like the Facebook page for Pilot Point if you haven’t yet done so.  Thanks.

An excerpt from Pilot Point – The Old South Café

Last month, I noted that most of my novel Pilot Point is set around 1990 when I was writing the first draft, and that much has changed since then, particularly the closing of the cattle sale barn just west of the town of Pilot Point.

Another setting that has changed is the Old South Café on south side of the town square.  I enjoyed their excellent burgers when I moved to the Pilot Point area in 1988, but the place closed well before I even finished the first draft of my novel. 

Even though I frequented the Café for two or three years at the most, I found it quite memorable.  The excellent burgers, the leaky ceiling, and, yes, being stared at the first time I ate there as the new guy in town all found their way into my novel.  Moreover, the Old South Café is where the key characters Clayton Hays and Bowie Smith meet.  Clayton had just moved to a rise outside the town of Pilot Point when . . .

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Three mornings later, the rest of his possessions and what little furniture he had came in on the moving van. Much of the load really wasn’t his; it was his family’s, kept in storage for years out in Monahans. Being the last surviving member of his family, the responsibility fell to him.

         Once the van was gone, he drove into town to check his P.O. box and get some lunch. He decided to try the Old South Cafe on the square. He walked into the diner on the long, weathered storefront and found a seat on the side of the room.

         He felt strange. He looked up and noticed that about half the room was staring at him. He looked aside then ran his hand across his face to make sure there wasn’t any shaving cream or anything on him. There wasn’t. Then he figured they were staring because he was new in town.

         The eyes went back to their lunches, and the woman who was running the place brought him a menu. She was pleasant, blond, and pretty in an earthy way, with light character lines from hard work. She went back into the kitchen to supervise the cooking then brought some food out and came back over to take his order.

         “What you want, hun?”

         While he was waiting for his lunch, he heard the distant rumble of thunder. He looked out the front and noticed it was getting darker. He looked around the plain modest room. There were twenty people in there at most, but that was just about all the room could handle. Most of them were men in their gimme caps and cowboy hats. A table in the middle of the room was making most of the noise. Wearing dusty cowboy hats and wearing dust and grime in general, the three men appeared to him to be cowhands.

         He watched them get their burger plates with beans and cut fries, and then he got his. He was judging his burger to be excellent when a sharp lightning strike hit to the north of the Square. He took a bite of his burger and a fork full of beans as he kept looking out front. It started pouring down outside.

         “Oh, oh,” a couple of the cowhands commented warily.

         Clayton wondered why the fall shower concerned them—they surely see much harsher weather than this.

         After about a minute, he found out.

         Water suddenly began dripping down from the ceiling—and it was raining in the middle of the room. Laughing, the three cowhands took their plates and moved out of the indoor rain.

         The oldest of them yelled toward the kitchen, “Linda, if we wanted to eat in the elements, we would have eaten on the job.”

         Linda, the woman in charge, came out. “Oh, hush up. If you weren’t complaining about the roof, you’d find something else to complain about.” She looked at the heavily raining ceiling then looked outside. “Why does it always rain at lunch?”

         “Quit yer bitchin’, woman,” with deadpan glee, he kept baiting her. “It hadn’t rained any time in weeks.”

         “You know, I do retain the right to refuse service.”

         “Yeah, yeah. Then who else would you mistreat?” He looked around for an empty, dry table. Seeing none, he turned to Clayton, who was watching the indoor downpour slack-jawed. “They’re kind of short on dry tables. Mind if we join you?”

         “Oh, no, not at all.”

         “Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Bowie Smith. And this is Kim Grayson.”

         “Hi there.” With a friendly, but thin smile, Kim extended his hand, and Clayton nodded and shook it. Kim was compact, but broadly built, with a full face that was expressive, yet always seemed to be holding back something.

         “And Mex Wilson.” He was called “Mex” because with his dark complexion, black mustache, and thin build, his friends swore he must have some Mexican blood. But he always good-naturedly denied it.

         “Howdy.”

         “I’m Clayton Hays.”

         “Nice to meet you.”

         They all then got back to eating. Clayton kept looking over at the indoor rain as he ate, but the hands were oblivious to it; it was nothing new.

         Clayton wasn’t the most talkative, approachable guy they had ever met; so the three hands went back to talking among themselves. “So, Mex,” Bowie interrogated, “are you going to be our third guy for poker? Kim and me are getting tired of staring at each other on Thursday nights.”

         “I wish I could, but between workin’, huntin’, fishin’, and everthang else, I’m already not around the house enough to please the wife. So I’d better pass on adding a poker night.”

         “The way she nags you when you’re home, she must be real pleased to have you there.” Bowie’s eyes had a light to them as he heckled Mex.

         “Well, you know how it goes.”

         “Yeah, I know how it goes. That’s why I’m a formerly married man.”

         “Now, Bowie, what would Jane do without Mex,” Kim contributed. “She wouldn’t have anyone to nag.”

         “That’s right,” Mex agreed.

         Bowie turned to Clayton, “Say, stranger, you wouldn’t happen to play some poker, would you?”

         He shrugged. “Every once in a while.”

         “Would your woman let you play poker on Thursday nights?”

         “I don’t have a woman.”

         “Hey, that’s perfect.” Bowie slapped the table. “You won’t have no woman bitchin’ at you when we take all your money. Would you join us, then?”

         Clayton smiled and thought a moment. “Sure.”

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         I hope you enjoyed that excerpt.  If you would like to read more, there are about 80 hours left in the 100 Hour Kindle Countdown deal for Pilot Point.  You can get the Kindle version of my novel for only $1.99! But the price goes back up after the countdown goes to 0.

         If you prefer a print copy (as I do), Amazon has extended their 30% off offer for another day. Use the promo code “HOLIDAY30” when you check out.  (Remember you can use this offer on only one book.)

         And please do "like" the Facebook page for Pilot Point if you haven’t yet done so.  Thanks.