Here’s an excerpt for an August 24, 2011, report from Bruni on Bourdain’s rant (bold is mine):

“Anthony Bourdain, the part-time chef and full-time celebrity, has a tongue on him. It’s the sharpest knife in his set. He has used it to carve up vegans, whom he called the “Hezbollah-like splinter faction” of vegetarians, and the culinary moralist Alice Waters, whose rigidity is “very Khmer Rouge.”

The latest to be slashed: Paula Deen. For the uninitiated, she’s the deep-fried doyenne of a fatty, buttery subgenre of putatively Southern cooking. And Bourdain, in an interviewwith TV Guide published last week, branded her an outright menace to America, scolding her for “telling an already obese nation that it’s O.K. to eat food that is killing us.”

To this he added a gratuitous schoolyard-crass putdown of Deen cuisine.

Which certainly isn’t my cup of lard. But it bothers me no more than his ill-timed elitism, which Deen nailed in her response.

“Not everybody can afford to pay $58 for prime rib or $650 for a bottle of wine,” she told The New York Post. “My friends and I cook for regular families who worry about feeding their kids and paying the bills.”

Put aside her one-with-the-masses pose, ludicrous in light of the millions she has made from television shows, cookbooks, cookware, mattresses and more. She’s otherwise 100 percent justified in assailing the culinary aristocracy, to which even a self-styled bad boy like Bourdain belongs, for an often selective, judgmental and unforgiving worldview.

And her retort exposes class tensions in the food world that sadly mirror those in society at large. You can almost imagine Bourdain and Deen as political candidates, a blue-state paternalist squaring off against a red-state populist over correct living versus liberty in all its artery-clogging, self-destructive glory.”

For added kick, he wrote: “When Deen fries a chicken, many of us balk. When the Manhattan chefs David Chang or Andrew Carmellini do, we grovel for reservations and swoon over the homey exhilaration of it all. Her strips of bacon, skirting pancakes, represent heedless gluttony. Chang’s dominoes of pork belly, swaddled in an Asian bun, signify high art.”

Fast forward to December 28, 2011, when Bruni’s own NYT took on Deen (as reported by Todd Starnes, Fox News):

“The New York Times has declared down home Southern cooking undignified in a story heaping praise on a new generation of Southern chefs while denigrating fried chicken, Cracker Barrel restaurants and renowned Georgia chef Paula Deen.

The food snobs at the Times attacked Miss Paula in the second sentence of their lengthy diatribe – calling her a “so-called queen of Southern food, who cooks with canned fruit and Crisco.”

The Times bemoaned the “hayseed image” of Southern cooking while praising “a new generation of chefs who have pushed Southern cooking into the vanguard of world cuisine.”

Starnes continued with autobiographical flavor:

“For the record, I happen to have a Cracker Barrel rocking chair in my office at the Fox News Corner of the World – along with several copies of Paula Deen’s cookbooks. That being said – I’m really not quite sure why The New York Times felt compelled to launch a broadside against the traditional cuisine of the Southern states.

I’ll take a Cracker Barrel Meat Loaf sandwich and a slice of their Double Chocolate Fudge Coca Cola Cake any day of the week — over the slop they serve at those five-star New York City restaurants.

Does The Old Gray Lady really want to pick a food fight with Alabama or Mississippi? There’s a reason why the Magnolia State is the plumpest in the nation — it’s called banana pudding.

In New York City, they eat boiled animal tongues. In the South we use our tongues for licking our fingers.

Southerners eat buttermilk biscuits and sip frosty glasses of sweet tea. New Yorkers nosh bagels and drink seltzer water.

New Yorkers eat fermented soy and tuna tartar – while folks in Tennessee eat fried catfish – with tarter sauce.

As an expatriated Southerner living in Brooklyn, I’ve come to realize that this quest to redefine Southern cuisine has taken root in the Big Apple. Chefs who couldn’t succeed in Dixie have moved north to ply their trade. It’s a movement called, “New Southern Cuisine.”

To be fair, I decided to visit one of those so-called “New Southern Cuisine” restaurants the other day. To their credit, they served sweet tea. But that’s about the only southern thing in the building.

The first item on the menu was “Black-eyed Pea Hummus.”

I threw up a little inside my mouth.

The waiter brought my iced tea and suggested I try something they called “Arugula Smear.”

I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to eat it or wipe it.

I paid for my sweet tea, went home and whipped up a batch of Miss Paula’s macaroni and cheese. And as I sat down at my table, I prayed this prayer:

“Dear Jesus, thank you for butter. Amen.”

Class warfare is not only for the political arena. It has now jumped into the culinary arena!

The irony, of course, is that Ms. Deen’s book, The Southern Cooking Bible, spent two weeks in December 2011 atop its very own best seller list! Revenge can be delicious, can’t it, Paula?

Here’s some background from Joe Pollak at Big GovernmentBlog:

“Osawatomie was the site of a historic battle between abolitionist John Brown and pro-slavery forces (who were backed by the Democrats of the age). Though Brown’s men were defeated, his audacious tactics earned him the nickname “Osawatomie.” Obama may have chosen deliberately to cast his struggle against “the rich” in the same emotive terms.

Obama alluded to Osawatomie in his autobiography, Dreams from My Father, in discussing his Kansas ancestors (p. 12):

…Kansas had entered the Union free only after a violent precursor to the Civil War, the battle in which John Brown’s sword tasted first blood…

Obama also cited John Brown as one of his historical inspirations in his second autobiography, The Audacity of Hope. In a passage that almost anticipates the radical themes of this week’s speech, he writes (p. 97):

The best I can do in the face of our history is remind myself that it has not always been the pragmatist, the voice of reason, or the force of compromise, that has created the conditions for liberty… It was the wild-eyed prophecies of John Brown, his willingness to spill blood and not just words on behalf of his visions, that helped force the issue of a nation half slave and half free.

Obama conspicuously neglected to mention Osawatomie’s history in his speech on Tuesday, but the town is clearly important to Obama’s personal identity, as well as to the way he understands his political destiny.”

Osawatomie plays another important part in Obama’s “political identity”. It was the name of a newspaper published by the Weather Underground, a domestic communist/anarchist group bent on terror in the early 1970s. Several deaths and many injuries were attributed to WU bombings. WU was headed by two close friends of Obama, Bill Ayers and Bernadine Dohrn. The same two people Obama claims to have started his political career in the living room of their home.

So, what did President Obama say on December 7 to the impressionable youths in his audience? An excerpt:

“Today, we’re still home to the world’s most productive workers. We’re still home to the world’s most innovative companies. But for most Americans, the basic bargain that made this country great has eroded. Long before the recession hit, hard work stopped paying off for too many people. Fewer and fewer of the folks who contributed to the success of our economy actually benefited from that success. Those at the very top grew wealthier from their incomes and their investments – wealthier than ever before. But everybody else struggled with costs that were growing and paycheques that weren’t – and too many families found themselves racking up more and more debt just to keep up.

Now, for many years, credit cards and home equity loans papered over this harsh reality. But in 2008, the house of cards collapsed. We all know the story by now: mortgages sold to people who couldn’t afford them, or even sometimes understand them. Banks and investors allowed to keep packaging the risk and selling it off. Huge bets – and huge bonuses – made with other people’s money on the line. Regulators who were supposed to warn us about the dangers of all this, but looked the other way or didn’t have the authority to look at all.

…But, Osawatomie, this is not just another political debate. This is the defining issue of our time. This is a make-or-break moment for the middle class, and for all those who are fighting to get into the middle class. Because what’s at stake is whether this will be a country where working people can earn enough to raise a family, build a modest savings, own a home, secure their retirement. Now, in the midst of this debate, there are some who seem to be suffering from a kind of collective amnesia. After all that’s happened, after the worst economic crisis, the worst financial crisis since the Great Depression, they want to return to the same practices that got us into this mess. In fact, they want to go back to the same policies that stacked the deck against middle-class Americans for way too many years. And their philosophy is simple: We are better off when everybody is left to fend for themselves and play by their own rules.

I am here to say they are wrong. I’m here in Kansas to reaffirm my deep conviction that we’re greater together than we are on our own. I believe that this country succeeds when everyone gets a fair shot, when everyone does their fair share, when everyone plays by the same rules. These aren’t Democratic values or Republican values. These aren’t 1% values or 99% values. They’re American values. And we have to reclaim them.”

Thus, old hippie values don’t die, they just get re-packaged for the next generation. Then, to be sure it doesn’t sound like re-wrapped policy ramblings, he evokes the memory of Teddy Roosevelt:

“And in 1910, Teddy Roosevelt came here to Osawatomie and he laid out his vision for what he called a New Nationalism. “Our country,” he said, “means nothing unless it means the triumph of a real democracy … of an economic system under which each man shall be guaranteed the opportunity to show the best that there is in him.”

Now, for this, Roosevelt was called a radical. He was called a socialist – even a communist. But today, we are a richer nation and a stronger democracy because of what he fought for in his last campaign: an eight-hour work day and a minimum wage for women, insurance for the unemployed and for the elderly, and those with disabilities; political reform and a progressive income tax.

Today, over 100 years later, our economy has gone through another transformation. Over the last few decades, huge advances in technology have allowed businesses to do more with less, and it’s made it easier for them to set up shop and hire workers anywhere they want in the world. And many of you know firsthand the painful disruptions this has caused for a lot of Americans.”

As usual, the president didn’t get it quite right. Teddy Roosevelt said it this way:

“If an American is to amount to anything he must rely upon himself, and not upon the State; he must take pride in his own work, instead of sitting idle to envy the luck of others. He must face life with resolute courage, win victory if he can, and accept defeat if he must, without seeking to place on his fellow man a responsibility which is not theirs.”

This is a far cry from Obama’s radical socialism.

The failures of socialism and communism are apparent to all except the president, Ayers, and their ilk. They long for a chaotic, third-world United States, no more “exceptional” than the Sudan.

I will do my best to defeat this president in the next election so Osawatomie thinking can be relegated to the political backwaters where it belongs, if anywhere.

Living in the Chicago area at that time, whatever Michael Jordan did made news. On the morning of September 11, 2001, Jordan had retired. That was the lead on Yahoo news, my home page at the time. I looked at the headline, shrugged, and went to work sorting the freshly printed resumes and considering who should be the fortunate companies to receive them. Severance was good until the end of October, so I didn’t feel any hard stress, but I knew I had to get some interviews in quickly if I was going to have a job by the holiday season.

Then, the phone rang…still a land line back then. It was my wife:

“Do you see what’s happening?” she asked urgently.

“Michael Jordan retired. So what?” was my off-handed reply.

“Don’t you have the TV on?”

“No. I’m looking for a job.”

“I know. I know. But a plane just flew into the World Trade Center in New York!”

“What?” I replied, like it was absurd. Then I refreshed my screen and Michael Jordan disappeared and the first shot of smoke bellowing out of the side of the WTC appeared.

“Just turn on the TV. I’ll call you later,” she said.

I did as instructed and the horror of that day began to unfold in front of me.

After the second plane hit, the phone rang again.

“Daddy, what’s going on? Are we safe?” It was my daughter’s urgent voice this time. It took a little while to assure her that whoever the perpetrators were, they weren’t looking to destroy a small college in southern Wisconsin.

“But we’re close to Chicago. Couldn’t they try to destroy Chicago?” The balance between girl and woman hung on that question. Yes, I agreed reluctantly, if they were so armed I suppose they could take out the Hancock or Sears Tower but, again, that’s quite a distance from her.

“What if it’s nuclear?” she finally asked.

“If it is, then it wipes out everything for a hundred and fifty miles in every direction, so all of us will be gone. I don’t see that happening. What I do see happening is you calming down, praying, and just staying put until we know more. How’s that?”

“Okay, Daddy. I love you.”

“I love you, too, kid. I’ll call you later.”

This story was likely replayed a million times simultaneously across the nation on that day.

In the days after, I took on substitute teaching. The job market in Chicago dried up and I finally landed in Virginia, not more than fifty miles from the Pentagon. My brother-in-law commented, “Everyone wants to get away from there and you’re moving there!” It was true and the horror would begin again with the emergence of the DC Sniper on the scene, hot on the heels of 9/11 it seemed.

Nevertheless, the tragedy of 9/11 didn’t hit me hard until I visited the site of the WTC in April 2007. I had traveled to new York City several times in 1999 and 2000 for work. I had lunched around the WTC and our New York hosts were always proud of that landmark. Rightfully so.

The April 2007 visit was my first since 2000. I was crushed beyond measure. Furious at the loss of life. It may have been the first time my son saw me cry. I was full of vengeance. I remember hearing myself say, to myself, I hope, “Kill them all! Kill all of them!” then sobbing all the more.

Again, this was likely not unusual for even the toughest New Yorker. But I found myself, in 2007, where New Yorkers might have been in 2001, with unhealed wounds and hate in my heart. They had moved on, in some measure. Me, living far away, I had suppressed my feelings and never revealed them until this visit.

Crying does good. It cleanses, really. I enjoyed the rest of the time in New York and I have been back a couple of times since then. After all the wrangling about what to do with the site, something new has finally been planted. It spits in the eye of terrorist who believe their jihad will endure. It will not. But, by the grace of the Lord God of Israel, the American spirit will.

At forty-eight years old, and not in top shape although by no means overweight, Nelson began to struggle as he approached Chicago Avenue. The traffic was beginning to pick up and he wondered if he would be late. He stopped before crossing and dug the cell phone from the left pocket of his jeans and checked the time. 4:51. He thought he could make it to his appointed destination on time. Still, what could this be about? He asked himself as he waited for a westbound car to pass on Chicago. As it approached nelson noticed it was decelerating, as if the driver was going to turn right and proceed north on Harlem. Instead, it was an Oak Park police car. It stopped, blocking Nelson’s attempt to cross.

The window of the Ford cruiser slide down nearly in silence. Nelson was afraid to duck down to the open window but then, he thought, if I’m going to die in Oak Park this morning, it might as well be here, so he squatted to see who was inside.

“Nelson?” the officer inquired.

“Uh, yes, officer. Is there some problem?” Nelson asked.

“Get in. You’re late,” the officer commanded. Nelson didn’t hesitate. He opened the door, slid into the passenger seat, unconsciously dragging the seat belt across his body and clicking it in place like it was an exclamation point.

The officer turned left and proceeded south on Harlem.

“Sgt. Jim Donlevy,” he offered. Nelson was surprised. He didn’t figure to hear a name. He felt the officer was just a cypher, a pawn in whatever game was afoot.

Donlevy looked across at Nelson and continued, “Let me answer the three questions that are running through your mind right now: Yes, you are in trouble. You crossed some people who not only want their money but they want answers. You will find them pleasant at first but not for long. No, I’m not going to kill you. I’m only delivering the precious cargo. I don’t know exactly what you did but I can assure you, when it comes to this, I don’t dare speculate if anyone ever sees you again. And, maybe you live to tell this story or not. As I mentioned, I have to be sure you show up, alive and in one piece, at the Dunkin’ Donuts just the other side of the L.”

“But…” Nelson began to protest, remembering that wasn’t the instructed destination.

“Things change quickly, Mr. Nelson. Don’t try to keep up. If you think you should be going somewhere else, well, forget that. The new plan is in play.”

They drove past Lake Street and the light was red and they sat under the L tracks as they came upon Circle Avenue on their right. There, brightly lit yet nearly worn out in appearance, was the Dunkin’ Donuts. Nelson thought he should make a move to get out. Maybe run, go back under the tracks and cut west on Central and escape into River Forest. It sounded brilliant. Then, Donlevy cut the daydream short.

“Don’t get brave. Wait for the light and I’ll drop you right next to the place. You wouldn’t make it from under the tracks,” the Sargent offered matter-of-factly.

“Three o’clock homeless guy. He ain’t homeless. If you happen to make it and round the corner into River Forest – a long shot I must add – then you’d be gunned down by a River Forest officer who happens to be at the right place at the right time.”

Nelson felt his chest tightening. The cruiser crossed Circle and Donlevy said, “This is your stop with a couple of minutes to spare. Here’s two bucks, get a coffee. You won’t be waiting long.” He pulled two singles from the small space between the police radio and the dashboard and offered a final, “Get out…now!”

Nelson took the money, disengaged the seat belt and found himself on the street just glaring at Donlevy’s cruiser it pulled away. Nelson turned and made his way into the coffee shop.

Jim Nelson was a Loop attorney. He collected some high-end clientele along with his share of high maintenance divorcees and bankrupt businessmen. He didn’t recall siphoning money out-right from any of his clients. Draining bank accounts with his fees, yes, but that was legal. All he could do for the short minutes he had left is go through his metal Rol-O-Dex to begin to piece together what he had done and to whom.

After he pressed through the door, a blast of coffee and sweet cake donuts hung in the air and made him a little nauseous. What he judged to be either a Pakistani or Indian woman stood behind the counter in the kind of near-excitement you’d see from a Jack Russell Terrier as she broke him away from the smell with, “Good morning, sir, and how may I help you today?”

Nelson attempted a smile. He knew he must have looked a little confused, maybe even taken aback by her question. She was no more than five-feet tall, very slim, and seemed to have had a cup of full strength coffee very recently.

“Yes. Black coffee. Large. That’s all. Thanks.”

The counter lady looked almost devastated at first but put her smile back on and asked,” Any cream or sugar?”

“No. Just black. Thanks,” was all Nelson could offer. As he waited for her to fill a cup, he looked to his right and saw just two patrons seated in the shop. One was a large black man with a CTA uniform. He had ear buds on and he appeared to be shuffling through a song list on a Blackberry. The other was a twenty-something he judged to be a burn-out, maybe an addict, or, at least, a left over from a previous night of celebration. They both looked harmless enough.

The counter woman delivered the coffee and nelson gave her the two dollars he received from Donlevy and off-handedly said, “”Keep the change,” and walked toward an empty table between the other two patrons. The counter woman shrugged and Nelson picked a chair to slide into, facing Harlem but with a view of Circle. CTA was behind him, out of view and he could almost smell the burn-out sitting a couple of table in front of him.

At first, Nelson closed his eyes and just drew in a deep breath of the hot coffee aroma. Then a second, before finally giving it a taste. It was very good. When he opened his eyes, CTA and burn out were seated directly in front of him. He nearly jumped back, but the chair only allowed a loud screech, which was easily missed as an L train and a Metra suburban commuter train seemed to pass by on cue at the same time on the elevated track across Circle.

“Did we startle you, Mr. Nelson?” the black man with the Delroy Lindo voice asked. “You know, we get that a lot,” he said nudging and winking at his partner, who was seated to his right. “You know, security is important to our client…YOUR client,” the burn out finally spoke, “So, keep cool and we’ll get the show on the road in a moment. In the meantime, do you have any idea what this is about, Mr. Nelson?”

Nelson looked at both of them and scooted his chair back to the table. “Your client is my client?” he asked with more than a little surprise in his voice.

“Sure is,” CTA offered. “Actually, it was our company who referred him to you. Divorce, bankruptcy, a real financial mess for the last two years. Ring any bells yet?”

Now Nelson’s mind was reeling. He was given the clues and this pair wanted to see if he could piece it together. He gave his best steel-eyed corporate attorney glare at them and demanded, “What is this about?”

After a moment of silence, CTA and burn out burst into laughter. They looked at each other, gave each other wide-eyed shrugs then turned back to Nelson and laughed some more. “Nelson, you missed your calling. You are a superb comedic talent!” CTA offered in mock praise.

Then burn out jumped in, “Alright, alright! If you can tell us where you were last night, give us the whole sequence of events from, say, six o’clock until you found yourself in an alley at about three forty-five this morning, and you don’t figure it out for yourself while you’re telling it, then, I’ll tell you who we work for. How’s that?”

CTA gave the burn out a light shove in disapproval but then turned to Nelson and said, “Talk! You’ve got two minutes.”

Nelson stammered at first as he tried to pull it all together. “Ah, at six I was finishing some notes on the Henry Cortez bankruptcy. I left the office about six thirty to walk over to the American Tap but it was too crowded with twenty-somethings. I decided to walk down to Harry Carey’s, not necessarily quieter n the bar that time of day but I figured I get a table and grab a bite in some peace before going back to the office.”

“Very mundane,” CTA observed.

“Yes, well, not two minutes after I was seated Kevin North came in. A criminal defense attorney I had not seen in years, but he got seated at the table next to me. I ordered a beer and those thick pork chops and minded my own business.”

“Until?” Burn out nudged.

“North came over to my table. Said he thought he remembered me and that we had a client in common: Hector Cortez. I asked, ‘Really, Hector in some sort of trouble?’ Not really expecting a straight answer. North said, ‘As a matter of fact, he is, or will be. He doesn’t know about it yet.’ So, I offered, ‘Has it anything to do with the bankruptcy? Is there something you need?’ He grabbed his drink, I think it was gin and tonic, from his table and brought it over and sat next to me. ‘Yes, there is,’ he says and pulls what appears to be a subpoena from his right inside suit pocket. ‘Take a look at this,’ he says. It was blurry so he brought it closer and it smelled of, I don’t know, ether or some kind of knock out gas. The next thing I know, I’m in an alley.”

“That’s quite a story,” CTA observed. “Still a lot of blanks to be filled in. You really expect us to believe a criminal defense attorney drugged you, in a public place, and you were able to walk out, or he was able to carry you out without a struggle and no one noticing. No 9-1-1 call? No screams from the wait staff or patrons?”

“As far as I remember. That’s how it went down,” Nelson said with all the confidence he could muster.

Burn out glared at CTA for a brief moment. Then a black SUV pulled up on Circle that caught his eye.

“Let me put this a gently as I can,” CTA began, “North and Cortez are dead and you killed them. We think you know this. But, right now, you have bigger fish to contend with,” and he pointed out the window to the SUV. “We’re just another link in the chain. Like I said, we’re a security layer. You could have made it without the ride in the SUV, but your story needs some fleshing out. We don’t do the wet work so get up and we’ll escort you out.”

Wet work? Nelson didn’t understand. North and Cortez dead. Both dead? He sure didn’t understand that and he couldn’t even be sure of his whereabouts between Harry Carey’s and the northwest side alley he found himself in. But, he didn’t need his University of Chicago law degree to smell a frame up. It was like that sweet smell of cake donuts when he hit the door coming into the coffee shop.

Before he could react, CTA grabbed Nelson’s right arm and brought him around the table where burn out grabbed his left arm and they escorted him out passed the growing line of “coffee only” commuters beginning to crowd the entrance.

“The cell phone,” CTA demanded. “Reach in your pocket and give me the cell phone.” Nelson fished around in his left pocket and pulled it out, noticing it was now 5:26 before passing it to CTA. They pressed through the entrance and onto Harlem and briskly walked around to Circle and the waiting SUV.

The back passenger side door of the SUV opened and a hand with a black cloth bag appeared and put it over Nelson’s head, which was being pushed toward the vehicle by CTA. The hand extended an envelope and CTA took it and handed it to burn out. CTA nodded, shoved Nelson into the SUV, slammed the door, and it turned right disappearing southbound on Harlem.

CTA and burn out walked west down Circle to a dark blue 1998 Oldsmobile 88 LS. Burn out opened the doors with the remote and the pair got in, burn out on the driver’s side and CTA on the passenger side.

“Payday!” CTA exclaimed.

“Indeed!” returned burn out. He took out a pocket knife and slid it across the top of the envelope. As soon as it was opened less than an inch, red paint sprayed over the money and CTA and burn out, both too close to avoid the surprise.

“What the hell?” Burn out yelled and almost reflexively turned the ignition key, as if he could drive away from the mess in a hurry. First, the car doors locked and the interior filled with smoke almost immediately. The pair began to yell, trying to open the doors, but as that failed and they were about to go for the windows, a muffled explosion occurred. Only a pedestrian walking right by the car at the time of explosion would have heard it clearly and noticed it. The sound of the L did its job of concealing whatever sound did manage to get out. All that was left inside the Oldsmobile were the charred remains of what looked like two men. The outside of the car was unscathed.

It would be two hours before a passer-by, with benefit of full morning light, could see the unbelievable sight and call 9-1-1.

without understanding your motivation, extinguishing your mirth.

When you see the windows and doors quake with your panicking

you begin to seriously consider the question of re-birth.

Renewal, for you, is a tool, not a jewel, you don’t measure its value,

instead you leverage it utility, sans nobility, and watch it bleed out.

The colors are always red nursing anger to your myopic point of view,

and you won’t take the time to listen to what we’re really all about.

That sin may not be original to you and me.

That sin may not send you directly to hell.

The tormented soul inside longs to be free.

That tormented soul inside is praying to get well.

Nation on nation are not wars of your choosing,

Stepping back you know how to weigh your consequences.

In the end you believe its not about winning or losing,

Its about the events and their sequence.

And you won’t stand still to hear the echoes in your ear

Coming back from a moment you’ve escaped with regret.

Not facing your demons but running from your fears

You know for a fact it will make you forget.

That sin may not be original to you and me.

That sin may not send you directly to hell.

Tormented, lamenting, you long to be free.

Tormented knowing they step around where you fell.

Angels of mercy you find no use for their consolation.

Angels of grace you will ignore as long as you live.

When your soul is barren in its desolation

Will you find the means to surrender and live?

That sin may not be original to you and me.

That sin may not send you directly to hell.

Your tortured soul searches for reprieve.

Your tortured soul is praying to get well.

Milluci had an affinity for brass knuckles. The damage he could do with them was less well-known but the pleasure he had doling out punishment with them pushed his adrenaline needle to the max.

So, here he was, waiting. Something that he did not like to do. And he especially did not like it at 5 in the morning. He could late-night alley cat with the best, but once asleep he would rather pass on the early morning jobs. That, he believed, was for the young guys who had something to prove. Yet, here he was, waiting, because the payday was too good.

He moved restlessly inside his Chrysler 300, trying to find a comfortable position. Dark tinted glass on all the 300′s windows would not let anyone know he was there, unless he moved around too much. He knew he was doing that now, but the wait was going on two hours and the target had yet to be seen.

His orders were simple: kill Arthur Roberts and be sure he will never be found. Sitting under the L on Van Buren facing west looking at Dearborn, running as a one-way north, he could barely catch a glimpse of the NYC Bar, which sat between Van Buren and Congress on Dearborn. At this time in the morning, he wouldn’t be looking for Roberts as a stray or left over from the night before, coming out of the bar. He was looking for Roberts to go in, to meet someone to do business Mullici’s boss did not want to see done.

Mullici never questioned his various bosses through the years. The less he knew, the better, he believed. No emotional entanglement. No mercy if any was pleaded for by his victim. He didn’t need to know why they needed to be punished or dead, he simply needed to know the payday. He could weigh the value and decide “yes” or “no” to the job. If he said no, it was a clear signal to his boss that risk-value proposition was too far out of whack to even consider.

Mulicci knew his bosses had over-reached from time to time. He would decline a job because he didn’t like the vibe. Then the bosses sent in the twenty-somethings, usually two when the job clearly needed only one, and then it became a blood-bath or worse, everyone survived. Then the chirping would begin and Mulicci was called to clean up the mess. Often he could and would for the right price, but even some were too hot for him. “I told you about this one,” was his tag line and his bosses knew it and expected it, “You think this is Romper Room? You get everybody dead. It’s stupid and it will cost you.”

The money never seemed to be the object for his bosses. “Shut up and get the job done. Half now, the balance when you come back. Just do it,” was the courtesy he was extended most frequently. He didn’t take it personal. Similarly, his bosses didn’t take it personal if he said, “I don’t need your money. Get one of your pussy bagmen to do it. Then fuckin’ come back to me when I can do it myself and get you results clean, see?” There was really no question and really no answer for it.

Finally, he saw a shadowy figure pass him on Dearborn walking south toward the NYC Bar. He checked his watch: 5:15 am. That’s pushing it on May 23. The sun may still be an hour from rising, but the city was already waking. The beep-beep-beep of early morning trash collectors already being heard from behind where Mullici was positioned.

He knew it was Roberts. Tall, thin, silver hair, with an athletic build. In great shape for a man in his mid-fifties. Probably still played soccer on the weekends, Mullici thought as he shook his head and began to focus. Mullici would never take him in a foot race so he had to be taken down quick, at the door, where he would stand waiting to be let in. Only he wouldn’t be let in.

The silencer was already on the 9mm in the passenger seat. He dropped the 300 into drive as Roberts approached the door to the NYC Bar. There was no traffic on Van Buren or Dearborn. Mullici pulled the 300 slowly to the left and turned onto Dearborn going south, against the one-way. He depressed the passenger window button and it glided down almost silently. As Roberts had positioned himself to tap on the door with the knuckle of his left index finger, Mullici stopped the 300 and said to Roberts, “Arthur, you’re looking for me.” Momentarily startled, Roberts looked at the door then stepped down to look at the man who summoned him through the 300′s open passenger side window. Mullici popped him twice, once in the forehead, once in the throat. He pressed the trunk release, got out of the car and walked around. Seeing no one come to the door, and certain that Roberts was dead, he dragged him over and lifted him to the lip of the trunk, pushed him in then arranged him in a fetal position and covered him with large blanket. He closed the trunk.

As he turned to make his way back into the driver’s side of the 300, there were two quick pops that came from his left. One hit Mullici clean on the left temple, dropping him immediately. The next hit him in the chest as his body turned away from the 300, like it had to do it. then he began to a slide down the trunk. He got off one shot but it wasn’t aimed and he would never know who had been watching him. A tall woman, with black gloves, searched Mullici’s pockets for the keys to the 300. Finding none, she went to the driver’s side door, which was still open, and saw the keys still hanging from the ignition. She got in and dropped it into drive. She heard Mulicci’s lifeless body slide off the car and hit the street. She slowly made her way to Congress, where she turned right to make her way to the Kennedy or Dan Ryan. She looked at her Gucci watch, it was 5:25am.

His head hurt. His first movement, recognizing he was lying with his faced turned to the right, was to take his left arm around to see if his left hand could feel anything unusual. Starting at the base of his neck, he ran his hand up and down, south to north, to the crown of his head. No bump or cut. Then, opening his hand, he gently examined his entire head. Nothing unusual.

Next, Nelson would try to get up. He was sore. He could feel his legs and back stiffen with the attempt to move. Rolling over on his stomach, wanting to right himself, but thinking it wouldn’t be a very good idea, he did it anyway.

Instantly, the vomit spewed forward. Nelson pushed himself up and away, leaning back to sit on the back of his feet. Breathing fast and shallow he reached for the handkerchief he carried in his right back pocket. It was still there as his scraped, blood-caked right hand gathered it up to wipe the remnant from his mouth. Why did vomiting always seem to make you feel better, he asked himself. Then, barely audible, he said, “Dammit!”

Looking around, he saw it was a neighborhood alley. He wasn’t left in an industrial or commercial district or worse, thrown into Lake Michigan or the Chicago River. He decided this quiet place was reasonably safe. Nelson began to wonder where he was, so he stood up to survey his surroundings. He could figure out why he was there later.

Stomach still queasy, Nelson made it to his feet. Finally looking at himself, he saw that his blue IZOD sports coat dirty and beyond repair and his matching blue IZOD collared shirt was still caked with gravel and grease. His blue jeans were not torn but they wouldn’t be worn again. He tried to focus down the alley ahead of him when he heard a car go by very close behind him. He wasn’t twenty-five feet from the street. Turning around then wobbling, he walked toward it. While it was still night, he looked to his right and could see the faint color of dawn crawling up the sky. He decided to go left, toward the darkness, and find a street sign that might give him a clue about his location.

“New England and Armitage?” Nelson posed the question to no one listening. Looking down he noticed his watch gone from his left wrist. Feeling the left back pocket of his jeans, his wallet was intact. Pulling it out, he looked inside to find all the credit cards and money gone, “$300…what was I thinking?” passed through his mind, but his driver’s license was still there. Small comfort but some comfort nonetheless.

Nelson noticed a bulge in his front left pocket for the first time. A cell phone. Checking the clip he always carried on his belt, on the right side, he felt the phone gone but the clip still attached. Reaching in his pocket, he retrieved the phone and noticed immediately it wasn’t his, but the time showed “4:10 am, Mon May 23″.

An icon on it indicated there was a message waiting to be heard. Nelson knew his cell phone service required a *86 to retrieve messages, but he couldn’t begin to guess what the password might be. He stared for a long moment at the phone, punched in *86 and waited for the password prompt, which followed in familiar fashion. He tried the code from his phone but that was rejected. He thought for a moment and decided to start at the beginning. He punched in four zeros.

“You have one unheard message,” the automated voice responded immediately, “First unheard message was sent at 3:45am today.” Then a moment of silence before a voice Nelson didn’t recognize began to speak to him.

“Jim. Suffice to say you are confused right now. First things first. Get to Harlem Avenue and walk down to the Oak Park L station. You don’t have any money and you’re a stranger in Galewood so I’d start now. I expect to see you there no later than 5am. Why’s that, you’re thinking, let’s just say you want to keep your family safe and you want to keep your name out of the papers. 5am, Oak Park L station on Harlem. I’ll be in the white SUV with Wisconsin plates on Westgate by Caribou Coffee.”

The automated voice began to speak, “To delete this message press 7…,” but Nelson didn’t listen to the rest. He closed the phone, returned it to his left front pocket and started jogging west.

steel strings and glue

worn pick guard and black as oil

slick nearly looks midnight blue

just an old guitar, decades old

likes me to raise her to my knee

or hang off my right shoulder

and she’ll sit there patiently

feels the season getting colder

as she silently goes out of tune

when I leave her for a time

but I’ll grab her up in June

and make her feel in her prime

they tell me its like golf

never gets old to swing and walk

I don’t worry for her loft

she likes to sing instead of talk

Rosewood and pearl

steel strings and glue

worn pick guard and black as oil

slick nearly looks midnight blue

just an old guitar, decades old

“Mr. Obama has had a decidedly uninspiring presidency, from a health care reform victory where the cure is probably worse than the disease, to a new third war, to a jobs situation still in the crapper, to issues of privacy, security, and TSA indignities.

“Only history will be able to tell whether President Obama’s moves after the 2009 financial crisis turned things around that would have otherwise led to another Great Depression. But we all have experienced the Great Recession and Obama-the-President is far more universally disappointing than Obama-the-Campaigner.”

Now, I can’t pretend to know if “techies”, young and old, are pre-disposed to supporting the President or not, but it seems odd to read these words from this corner of the known universe. Mr. Gerwitz concludes:

“Barack Obama’s a tough read. It’s honestly hard to tell whether he’s been good at his job or horrific. That’s his fault. Because while it’s very difficult to tangibly determine whether we’d have been better off with Mr. McCain than Mr. Obama these last few years, it’s absolutely clear that Barack Obama has dropped the ball when it comes to inspiring the world.

“And that, more than anything else, may well be Barack Obama’s most serious strategic mistake.”

Mr. Gerwitz’s indictment is not a whispered sentiment any longer. It’s out there. Conservatives and most Republicans have said and written these sorts of things long before a reasonable assessment could be made of this President. The same was true in the early Reagan presidency: liberals vilified him from the moment he took the oath of office. So, let’s cast off those we know oppose this President and his policies in favor of those voices which first fell in love with “Obama-the-Campaigner” and fell out of love with “Obama-as-President”.

Michael Gerson wrote in The Washington Post on April 11, 2011:

Nicholas Casey reported in The Wall Street Journal today that Mr. Gross has been sentenced to 15 years in a Cuban prison for “distributing Internet equipment on the island under a democracy-promotion program run by USAID.” A Cuban court held that was illegal because it aimed “to destroy the revolution.”

No. Stop laughing. I will write it again: Mr. Gross will be imprisoned for aiming “to destroy the revolution” in Cuba. Now, I have to ask…what revolution? I thought that took place in the 1950s. We’re at least six decades removed from any kind of “revolution” in Cuba. How can one man, selling “Internet equipment” single-handedly destroy a tyrant, dictator, and (against all objective evidence and truth) communist? We’ll get back to “Internet equipment” and revolution in a moment.

At this point, a word of thanks to Secretary of State Hillary Rodham Clinton. She rightly pointed out that if Cuba refrains from releasing Mr. Gross it will “decrease chance the US will push more conciliatory measures with Cuba in the near future.” This is a set-back. It is not permanent. It can be reversed if Cuba (read: the Castros) will be less bellicose about their failed “revolution”.

The Miami Herald clarified the issue on its Op-Ed page:

“The 15-year verdict handed down by a Cuban “court” against U.S. citizen Alan Gross is the deeply unjust result of events that bear no relationship to due process in an impartial legal system. Let’s call this cynical maneuver what it really is — blackmail.

The 61-year-old Mr. Gross is not a criminal of any sort. He’s a chess piece manipulated by the Cuban regime in the relentless war against its own people. The Castro brothers want to stop ordinary Cubans from obtaining the slightest bit of information from the outside world from any independent source. Punishing this envoy from a private U.S. company financed by a grant from the U.S. Agency for International Development is a convenient way to deter further efforts to circumvent Cuba’s extensive system of communications surveillance.

Satellite phones are increasingly common instruments used to make calls around the world. But not in the Orwellian world run by Fidel and Raúl Castro and their paranoid minions. In Cuba, a satellite phone like the one Mr. Gross is accused of carrying for use by the island’s tiny and impoverished Jewish community is deemed a dangerous weapon in an alleged “cyber war” being waged by the U.S. government to bolster a web of spies plotting to bring down the government.

In most any other country, a violation of customs regulations might result in a stiff fine and possible expulsion from the country. In Cuba, where the state controls all information outlets, violations that threaten the state’s hegemony are seen as crimes that endanger the security of the state.

The real target of this mock-judicial charade is the “pro-democracy” funding from USAID designed to promote Cuba’s budding civil society movement. People who can think for themselves, talk to each other and learn from each other without government intrusion represent a danger to the state’s tyrannical masters, which practice various forms of mind control designed to snuff out any kind of independent action.”

(Bold type is mine in the above quotation)

The Washington Post added:

“(Mr.) Gross, of Potomac (MD), had pleaded not guilty to the charges against him.

U.S. diplomats expressed dismay but not surprise at the length of the sentence, since prosecutors had sought 20 years. U.S. officials hope the Cuban government will release Gross soon on humanitarian grounds, as it has done with other jailed Americans.”

We can only hope.

Alternatively, Politics Daily‘s Bonnie Goldstein was more skeptical of Mr. Gross than us mere mortals. In a February 11, 2010 column, more than a year ago, she wrote:

“Although he entered the island on a tourist visa, Gross was not in Cuba for the exceptional bird watching. The 60-year-old family man, synagogue member, and former Obama supporter is a technology expert and federal vendor whose specialty is bringing satellite signals to remote locations. Though uninvited by his hosts, he was on Castro’s island as an “independent business and economic development consultant” to Development Alternatives, Inc., a State Department contractor that hired him under a $8.6 million contract from the Agency for International Development. Since his arrest, reporters have asked at State press briefings about Gross’ detention and his precise assignment in Cuba. Few details have been released other than he was there to assist “civil society organizations” to better communicate through technology.”

Ardently mistrustful of the USAID, and maybe rightly so, Ms. Goldstein continued:

“A 2006 audit and investigation by the GAO highlighted taxpayer monies used to purchase Godiva chocolates, Nintendo GameBoys and cashmere sweaters [from USAID funds]. An alleged embezzlement scheme by another grantee was discovered in 2008, leading a member of the House to challenge USAID’s annual program allocation, which had by then grown to $45 million per year. The agency agreed to more closely monitor its contractors, and soon after Alan Gross was hired via DAI to travel to Cuba.

Ms. Goldstein finishes off with this:

“Whether you call what Gross was distributing “cell phones and laptops” or “sophisticated satellite communications equipment” his humanitarian activities are considered by the Cuban government to be illegal. According to the nonprofit Center for Democracy in the Americas, Cuba’s penal code provides a prison term of three to eight years for someone who “participates in the distribution of financial . . . or other resources that come from the United States government, its agencies, subordinates, representatives, functionaries, or private entities.”"

So, as far as Ms. Goldstein is concerned, it appears, Mr. Gross is a criminal. He knew what he was getting into and, furthermore, he was associated with an agency not known for precision in its spending and accounting for its spending.

Thus, what is Mr. Gross?

Criminal? No.

Freedom-fighter? Hardly.

An intelligence agent? Not likely.

We have probably seen too many spy movies in the USA. Today, it is easier than ever to believe your benign neighbor is into some sort of sinister undertaking.

Mr. Gross is a convenient outlet for liberals to rail against this administration when they are impotent to do so on real issues.

What Alan Gross represents, more than anything, is what is STILL wrong with Cuba. If attempting to deliver free speech is a crime in Cuba, he will do the time. Cuba will do much worse in the long run.